[illustration: "you've made me some stories, mother!"] jewel's story book by clara louise burnham with illustrations new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america copyright by clara louise burnham all rights reserved _published october, _ _to the children who love jewel_ contents i. over the 'phone ii. the broker's office iii. the home-coming iv. on the veranda v. the lifted veil vi. the die is cast vii. mrs. evringham's gifts viii. the quest flower ix. the quest flower (continued) x. the apple woman's story xi. the golden dog xii. the talking doll xiii. a heroic offer xiv. robinson crusoe xv. st. valentine xvi. a morning ride xvii. the birthday xviii. true delight jewel's story book chapter i over the 'phone mrs. forbes, mr. evringham's housekeeper, answered the telephone one afternoon. she was just starting to climb to the second story and did not wish to be hindered, so her "hello" had a somewhat impatient brevity. "mrs. forbes?" "oh," with a total change of voice and face, "is that you, mr. evringham?" "please send jewel to the 'phone." "yes, sir." she laid down the receiver, and moving to the foot of the stairs called loudly, "jewel!" "drat the little lamb!" groaned the housekeeper, "if i was only sure she was up there; i've got to go up anyway. _jewel!_" louder. "ye--es!" came faintly from above, then a door opened. "is somebody calling me?" mrs. forbes began to climb the stairs deliberately while she spoke with energy. "hurry down, jewel. mr. evringham wants you on the 'phone." "goody, goody!" cried the child, her feet pattering on the thick carpet as she flew down one flight and then passed the housekeeper on the next. "perhaps he is coming out early to ride." "nothing would surprise me less," remarked mrs. forbes dryly as she mounted. jewel flitted to the telephone and picked up the receiver. "hello, grandpa, are you coming out?" she asked. "no, i thought perhaps you would like to come in." "in where? into new york?" "yes." "what are we going to do?" eagerly. mr. evringham, sitting at the desk in his private office, his head resting on his hand, moved and smiled. his mind pictured the expression on the face addressing him quite as distinctly as if no miles divided them. "well, we'll have dinner, for one thing. where shall it be? at the waldorf?" jewel had never heard the word. "do they have nesselrode pudding?" she asked, with keen interest. mrs. forbes had taken her in town one day and given her some at a restaurant. "perhaps so. you see i've heard from the steamship company, and they think that the boat will get in this evening." "oh, grandpa! grandpa! _grandpa!_" "softly, softly. don't break the 'phone. i hear you through the window." "when shall i come? oh, oh, oh!" "wait, jewel. don't be excited. listen. tell zeke to bring you in to my office on the three o'clock train." "yes, grandpa. oh, please wait a minute. do you think it would be too extravagant for me to wear my silk dress?" "no, let's be reckless and go the whole figure." "all right," tremulously. "good-by." "oh, grandpa, wait. can i bring anna belle?" but only silence remained. jewel hung up the receiver with a hand that was unsteady, and then ran through the house and out of doors, leaving every door open behind her in a manner which would have brought reproof from mrs. forbes, who had begun to be argus-eyed for flies. racing out to the barn, she appeared to 'zekiel in the harness room like a small whirlwind. "get on your best things, zeke," she cried, hopping up and down; "my father and mother are coming." "is this an india rubber girl?" inquired the coachman, pausing to look at her with a smile. "what train?" "three o'clock. you're going with me to new york. grandpa says so; to his office, and the boat's coming to-night. get ready quick, zeke, please. i'm going to wear my silk dress." "hold on, kid," for she was flying off. "i'm to go in town with you, am i? are you sure? i don't want to fix up till i make solomon look like thirty cents and then find out there's some misdeal." "grandpa wants you to bring me to his office, that's what he said," returned the child earnestly. "let's start real _soon_!" like a sprite she was back at the house and running upstairs, calling for mrs. forbes. the housekeeper appeared at the door of the front room, empty now for two days of mrs. evringham's trunks, and jewel with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes told her great news. mrs. forbes was instantly sympathetic. "come right upstairs and let me help you get ready. dear me, to-night! i wonder if they'll want any supper when they get here." "i don't know. i don't know!" sang jewel to a tune of her own improvising, as she skipped ahead. "i don't believe they will," mused mrs. forbes. "those customs take so much time. it seems a very queer thing to me, jewel, mr. evringham letting you come in at all. why, you'll very likely not get home till midnight." "won't it be the most _fun_!" cried the child, dancing to her closet and getting her checked silk dress. "i guess your flannel sailor suit will be the best, jewel." "grandpa said i might wear my silk. you see i'm going to dinner with him, and that's just like going to a party, and i ought to be very particular, don't you think so?" "well, don't sit down on anything dirty at the wharf. i expect you will," returned mrs. forbes with a resigned sigh, as she proceeded to unfasten jewel's tight, thick little braids. "just think what a short time we'll have to miss cousin eloise," said the child. "day before yesterday she went away, and now to-morrow my mother'll braid my hair." she gave an ecstatic sigh. "if that's all you wanted your cousin eloise for--to braid your hair--i guess i could get to do it as well as she did." "oh, i loved cousin eloise for everything and i always shall love her," responded the child quickly. "i only meant i didn't have to trouble you long with my hair." "i think i do it pretty well." "yes, indeed you do--just as _tight_. do you remember how much it troubled you when i first came? and now it's so much different!" "yes, there are a whole lot of things that are much different," replied mrs. forbes. "how long do you suppose you'll be staying with us now, jewel?" the child's face grew sober. "i don't know, because i don't know how long father and mother can stay." "you'll think about this room where you've lived so many weeks, when you get back to chicago." "yes, i shall think about it lots of times," said the little girl. "i knew it would be a lovely visit at grandpa's, and it has been." she glanced up in the mirror toward the housekeeper's face and saw that the woman's lips were working suspiciously and her eyes brimming over. "you won't be lonely, will you, mrs. forbes?" she asked; "because grandpa says you want to live with zeke in the barn this summer while he shuts up the house and goes off on his vacation." "oh, yes; it's all right, jewel, only it just came over me that in a week, or perhaps sooner, you'll be gone." "it's real kind of you to be glad to have me stay," said the child. "i try not to think about going away, because it does make me feel sorry every time. you know the soot blows all around in chicago and we haven't any yard, and when i think about all the sky and trees here, and the ravine, beside grandpa and you and zeke and essex maid--why i have to just say 'i _won't_ be sorry,' and then think about father and mother and star and all the nice things! i think star will like the park pretty well." jewel looked into space thoughtfully, and then shook her head. "i'm sure the morning we go i shall have to say: 'green pastures are before me' over and over." "what do you mean, child?" "why, you know the psalm: 'he maketh me to lie down in green pastures. he leadeth me beside the still waters'?" "yes." "well, in our hymnal there's the line of a hymn: 'green pastures are before me,' and mother and i used to say that line every morning when we woke up, to remind us that love was going to lead us all day." "i'd like to see your mother," said mrs. forbes after a pause. "you will, to-night," cried jewel, suddenly joyous again. "oh, mrs. forbes, do you think i could take anna belle to new york?" "what did mr. evringham say?" "he went away before i had a chance to ask him." jewel looked wistfully toward the chair where the doll sat by the window, toeing in, her sweet gaze fixed on the wall-paper. "she would enjoy it so!" added the little girl. "oh, it's a tiresome trip for children, such late hours," returned mrs. forbes persuasively. "beside," with an inspiration, "you'd like your hands free to help your mother carry her bags, wouldn't you?" "that's so," responded jewel. "anna belle would always give up anything for her grandma!" and as the housekeeper finished tying the hair bows, the little girl skipped over to the chair and knelt before the doll, explaining the situation to her with a joyous incoherence mingled with hugs and kisses from which the even-tempered anna belle emerged apparently dazed but docile. "come here and get your shoes on, jewel." "my best ones," returned the child. "oh, yes, the best of everything," said mrs. forbes good-humoredly; and indeed, when jewel was arrayed, she viewed herself in the mirror with satisfaction. zeke presented himself soon, fine in a new summer suit and hat, and mrs. forbes watched the pair as they walked down the driveway. "now, i can't let the grass grow under my feet," she muttered. "i expected to have till to-morrow night to get all the things done that mr. evringham told me to, but i guess i can get through." jewel and zeke had ample time for the train. indeed, the little girl's patience was somewhat tried before the big headlight came in view. she could not do such injustice to her silk dress and daisy-wreathed leghorn hat as to hop and skip, so she stood demurely with zeke on the station platform, and as they waited he regarded her happy expectant face. "remember the day you got here, kid?" he asked. "yes. isn't it a long time since you came and met me with dick, and he just whirled us home!" "sure it is. and now you're glad to be leaving us." "i am not, zeke!" "well, you look in the glass and see for yourself." just then the train came along and zeke swung the child up to the high step. the fact that she found a seat by the window added a ray to her shining eyes. her companion took the place beside her. "yes," he went on, as the train started, "it's kind of hard on the rest of us to have you so tickled over the prospect." "i'm only happy over father and mother," returned jewel. "pretty nice folks, are they?" jewel shook her head significantly. "you just wait and see," she replied with zest. "which one do you look like?" "like father. mother's much prettier than father." "a beauty, is she?" "n--o, i don't believe so. she isn't so pretty as cousin eloise, but then she's pretty." "that's probably the reason your grandfather likes to see you around--because you look like his side of the house." "well," jewel sighed, "i hope grandpa likes my nose. i don't." zeke laughed. "he seems able to put up with it. i expect there's going to be ructions around here the next week." "what's ructions?" "well, some folks might call it error. i don't know. mr. evringham's going to be pretty busy with his own nose. it's going to be put out of joint to-night. the green-eyed monster's going to get on the rampage, or i miss my guess." jewel looked up doubtfully. zeke was a joker, of course, being a man, but what was he driving at now? "what green-eyed monster?" she asked. "oh, the one that lives in folks' hearts and lays low part of the time," replied zeke. "do you mean jealousy; envy, hatred, or malice?" asked jewel so glibly that her companion stared. "great scott! what do you know about that outfit?" he asked. the child nodded wisely. "i know people believe in them sometimes; but you needn't think grandpa does, because he doesn't." "mr. evringham's all right," agreed zeke, "but he isn't going to be the only pebble any longer. your father and mother will be the whole thing now." the child was thoughtful a moment, then she began earnestly: "oh, i'm sure grandpa knows how it is about loving. the more people you love, the more you can love. i can love father and mother more because i've learned to love grandpa, and he can love them more too, because he has learned to love me." "humph! we'll see," remarked the other, smiling. "is error talking to you, zeke? are you laying laws on grandpa?" "well, if i am, i'll stop it mighty quick. you don't catch me taking any such liberties. whoa!" drawing on imaginary reins as the engine slackened at a station. jewel laughed, and from that time until they reached new york they chatted about her pony star, and other less important horses, and of the child's anticipation of showing her mother the joys of bel-air park. chapter ii the broker's office it was the first time jewel had visited her grandfather's office and she was impressed anew with his importance as she entered the stone building and ascended in the elevator to mysterious heights. arrived in an electric-lighted anteroom, zeke's request to see mr. evringham was met by a sharp-eyed young man who denied it with a cold, inquiring stare. then the glance of this factotum fell to jewel's uplifted, rose-tinted face and her trustful gaze fixed on his own. zeke twirled his hat slowly between his hands. "you just step into mr. evringham's office," he said quietly, "and tell him the young lady he invited has arrived." jewel wondered how this person, who had the privilege of being near her grandfather all day, could look so forbidding; but in her happy excitement she could not refrain from smiling at him under the nodding hat brim. "i'm going to dinner with him," she said softly, "and i _think_ we're going to have nesselrode pudding." the young man's eyes stared and then began to twinkle. "oh," he returned, "in that case"--then he turned and left the visitors. when he entered the sanctum of his employer he was smiling. mr. evringham did not look up at once. when he did, it was with a brief, "well?" "a young lady insists upon seeing you, sir." "kindly stop grinning, masterson, and tell her she must state her business." "she has done so, sir," but masterson did not stop grinning. "she looks like a summer girl, and i guess she is one." mr. evringham frowned at this unprecedented levity. "what is her business, briefly?" he asked curtly. "to eat nesselrode pudding, sir." the broker started. "ah!" he exclaimed, and though he still frowned, he reflected his junior's smile. "is there some one with her?" "a young man." "send them in, please." masterson obeyed and managed to linger until his curiosity was both appeased and heightened by seeing jewel run across the turkish rug and completely submerge the stately gray head beneath the brim of her hat. "well, i'll--be--everlastingly"--thought masterson, as he softly passed out and closed the door behind him. "even achilles could get it in the heel, but i'll swear i didn't believe the old man had a joint in his armor." zeke stood twisting his hat, and when his employer was allowed to come to the surface, he spoke respectfully:-- "mother said i was to bring word if you would like a late supper, sir." "tell mrs. forbes that it will be only something light, if anything. she need not prepare." jewel danced to the door with her escort as he went. "good-by, zeke," she said gayly. "thank you for bringing me." "good-by, jewel," he returned in subdued accents, and stumbling on the threshold, passed out with a furtive wave of his hat. the child returned and jumped into a chair by the desk, reserved for the selected visitors who succeeded in invading this precinct. "i suppose you aren't quite through," she said, fixing her host with a blissful gaze as he worked among a scattered pile of papers. "very nearly," he returned. he saw that she was near to bubbling over with ideas ready to pour out to him. he knew, too, that she would wait his time. it entertained him to watch her furtively as she gave herself to inspecting the furnishings of the room and the pictures on the wall, then looked down at the patent leather tips of her best shoes as they swung to and fro. at last she began to look at him more and more wistfully, and to view the furnishings of the large desk. it had a broad shelf at the top. suddenly jewel caught sight of a picture standing there in a square frame, and an irrepressible "oh!" escaped from her lips. she pressed her hands together and mr. evringham saw a deeper rose in her cheeks. he followed her eyes, and silently taking the picture from the desk placed it in her lap. she clasped it eagerly. it was a fine photograph of essex maid, her grandfather's mare. in a minute he spoke:-- "now i think i'm about through, jewel," he said, leaning back in his chair. "oh, grandpa, do these cost very much?" "why? do you want to have star sit for his picture?" "yes, it _would_ be nice to have a picture of star, wouldn't it! i never thought of that. i mean to ask mother if i can." the broker winced. "what i was thinking of was, could i have a picture of essex maid to take with me to chicago?" mr. evringham nodded. "i will get you one." he kept on nodding slightly, and jewel noted the expression of his eyes. her bright look began to cloud as her grandfather continued to gaze at her. "you'd like to have a picture of star to keep, wouldn't you?" she asked softly, her head falling a little to one side in loving recognition of his sadness. "yes," he answered, rather gruffly, "and i've been thinking for some weeks that there was a picture lacking on my desk here." "star's?" asked jewel. "no. yours. are there any pictures of you?" "no, only when i was a baby. you ought to see me. i was as _fat_!" "we'll have some photographs of you." "oh," jewel spoke wistfully, "i wish i was pretty." "then you wouldn't be an evringham." "why not? you are," returned the child, so spontaneously that slow color mounted to the broker's face, and he smiled. "i look like my mother's family, they say. at any rate,"--after a pause and scrutiny of her,--"it's your face, it's my jewel's face, that suits me and that i want to keep. if i can find somebody who can do it and not change you into some one else, i am going to have a little picture painted; a miniature, that i can carry in my pocket when essex maid and i are left alone." the brusque pain in his tone filled jewel's eyes, and her little hands clasped tighter the frame she held in her lap. "then you will give me one of you, too, grandpa?" "oh, child," he returned, rather hoarsely, "it's too late to be painting my leather countenance." "no one could paint it just as i know it," said jewel softly. "i know all the ways you look, grandpa,--when you're joking or when you're sorry, or happy, and they're all in here," she pressed one hand to her breast in a simple fervor that, with her moist eyes, compelled mr. evringham to swallow several times; "but i'd like one in my hand to show to people when i tell them about you." the broker looked away and fussed with an envelope. "grandpa," continued the child after a pause, "i've been thinking that there's one secret we've got to keep from father and mother." mr. evringham looked back at her. this was the most cheering word he had heard for some time. "it wouldn't be loving to let them know how sorry it makes us to say good-by, would it? i get such lumps in my throat when i think about not riding with you or having breakfast together. i do work over it and think how happy it will be to have father and mother again, and how love gives us everything we ought to have and everything like that; but i _have_--cried--twice, thinking about it! even anna belle is mortified the way i act. i know you feel sorry, too, and we've got to demonstrate over it; but it'll come so soon, and i guess i didn't begin to work in time. anyway, i was wondering if we couldn't just have a secret and manage not to say good-by to each other." the corners of the child's mouth were twitching down now, and she took out a small handkerchief and wiped her eyes. mr. evringham blew his nose violently, and crossing the office turned the key in the door. "i think that would be an excellent plan, jewel," he returned, rather thickly, but with an endeavor to speak heartily. "of course your confounded--i mean to say your--your parents will naturally expect you to follow their plans and"--he paused. "and it would be so unloving to let them think that i was sorry after they let me have such a beautiful visit, and if we can _just_--manage not to say good-by, everything will be so much easier." the broker stood looking at her while the plaintive voice made music for him. "i'm going to try to manage just that thing if it's in the books," he said, after waiting a little, and jewel, looking up at him with an april smile, saw that his eyes were wet. "you're so good, grandpa," she returned tremulously; "and i won't even kiss essex maid's neck--not the last morning." he sat down with fallen gaze, and jewel caught her lip with her teeth as she looked at him. then suddenly the leghorn hat was on the floor, daisy side down, while she climbed into his lap and her soft cheek buried itself under mr. evringham's ear. "how m-many m-miles off is chicago?" stammered the child, trying to repress her sobs, all happy considerations suddenly lost in the realization of her grandfather's lonely lot. "a good many more than it ought to be. don't cry, jewel." the broker's heart swelled within him as he pressed her to his breast. her sorrow filled him with tender elation, and he winked hard. "there isn't--isn't any sorrow--in mind, grandpa. shouldn't you--you think i'd--remember it? divine love always--always takes care--of us--and just because--i don't see how he's going--going to this time--i'm crying! oh, it's so--so naughty!" mr. evringham swallowed fast. he never had wondered so much as he did this minute just how obstinate or how docile those inconvenient and superfluous individuals--jewel's parents--would prove. he cleared his throat. "come, come," he said, and he kissed the warm pink rose of the child's cheek. "don't spoil those bright eyes just when you're going to have your picture taken. we're going to have the jolliest time you ever heard of!" jewel's little handkerchief was wet and mr. evringham put his own into her hand and they went into the lavatory where she used the wet corner of a towel while he told her about the photographer who had taken essex maid's picture and should take star's. then the cherished leghorn hat was rescued from its ignominy and replaced carefully on its owner's head. "but i never thought you meant to have my picture taken this afternoon," said jewel, her lips still somewhat tremulous. "i didn't until a minute ago, but i think we can find somebody who won't mind doing it late in the day." "yours too, then, grandpa.--oh, _yes_," and at last a smile beamed like the sun out of an april sky, "right on the same card with me!" "oh, no, no, jewel; no, no!" "yes, _please_, grandpa," earnestly, "do let's have one nice nose in the picture!" she lifted eyes veiled again with a threatening mist. "and you'll put your arm around me--and then i'll look at it"--her lip twitched. "yes, oh, yes, i--i think so," hastily. "we'll see, and then, after that--how much nesselrode pudding do you think you can eat? i tell you, jewel, we're going to have the time of our lives!" mr. evringham struck his hands together with such lively anticipation that the child's spirits rose. "yes," she responded, "and then after dinner, _what_?" she gazed at him. the broker tapped his forehead as if knocking at the door of memory. "father and mother!" she cried out, laughing and beginning to hop discreetly. "you forgot, grandpa, you forgot. your own little boy coming home and you forgot!" "well, that's a fact, jewel; that i suppose i had better remember. he is my own boy--and i don't know but i owe him something after all." chapter iii home-coming again jewel and her grandfather stood on the wharf where the great boats, ploughing their way through the mighty seas, come finally, each into its own place, as meekly as the horse seeks his stable. the last time they stood here they were strangers watching the departure of those whom now they waited, hand in hand, to greet. "jewel, you made me eat too much dinner," remarked mr. evringham. "i feel as if my jacket was buttoned, in spite of the long drive we've taken since. i went to my tailor this morning, and what do you think he told me?" "what? that you needed some new clothes?" "oh, he always tells me that. he told me that i was growing fat! there, young lady, what do you think of that?" "i think you are, too, grandpa," returned the child, viewing him critically. "well, you take it coolly. supposing i should lose my waist, and all your fault!" jewel drew in her chin and smiled at him. "supposing i go waddling about! eh?" she laughed. "but how would it be my fault?" she asked. "didn't you ever hear the saying 'laugh and grow fat'? how many times have you made me laugh since we left the office?" jewel began to tug on his hand as she jumped up and down. "oh, grandpa, do you think our pictures will be good?" "i think yours will." "not yours?" the hopping ceased. "oh, yes, excellent, probably. i haven't had one taken in so many years, how can i tell? but here's one day that they can't get away from us, jewel. this eighth of june has been a good day, hasn't it--and mind, you're not to tell about the pictures until we see how they come out." "yes, haven't we had _fun_? the be-_eau_tiful hotel, and the drive in the park, and the ride in the boats and"-- "speaking of boats, there it is now. they're coming," remarked mr. evringham. "who?" "mr. and mrs. henry thayer evringham," returned the broker dryly. "steady, jewel, steady now. it will be quite a while before you see them." the late twilight had faded and the june night begun, the wharf was dimly lighted and there was the usual crowd of customs officers, porters, and men and women waiting to see friends. all moved and changed like figures in a kaleidoscope before jewel's unwinking gaze; but the long minutes dragged by until at last her father and mother appeared among the passengers who came in procession down the steep incline from the boat. mr. evringham drew back a step as father, mother, and child clung to each other, kissing and murmuring with soft exclamations. harry extricated himself first and shook hands with his father. "awfully good of you to get us the courtesy of the port," he said heartily. "don't mention it," returned the broker, and julia released jewel and turned upon mr. evringham her grateful face. "but so many things are good of you," she said feelingly, as she held out her hand. "it will take us a long time to give thanks." "not at all, i assure you," responded the broker coldly, but his heart was hot within him. "if they have the presumption to thank me for taking care of jewel!" he was thinking as he dropped his daughter-in-law's hand. "what a human iceberg!" she thought. "how has jewel been able to take it so cheerfully? ah, the blessed, loving heart of a child!" meanwhile mr. evringham turned to his son and continued: "the courtesy of the port does shorten things up a bit, and i have a man from the customs waiting." harry followed him to see about the luggage, and mrs. evringham and jewel sat down on a pile of boxes to wait. the mother's arm was around the little girl, and jewel had one of the gloved hands in both her own. "oh," she exclaimed, suddenly starting up, "mrs. forbes thought i'd better wear my sailor suit instead of this, and she told me not to sit down on anything dirty." she carefully turned up the skirt of her little frock and seated herself again on a very brief petticoat. mrs. evringham smiled. "mrs. forbes is careful of you, isn't she?" she asked. her heart was in a tumult of happiness and also of curiosity as to her child's experiences in the last two months. jewel's letters had conveyed that she was content, and joy in her pony had been freely expressed. the mother's mental picture of the stiff, cold individual to whose doubtful mercies she had confided her child at such short notice had been softened by the references to him in jewel's letters; and it was with a shock of disappointment that she found herself repulsed now by the same unyielding personality, the same cold-eyed, unsmiling, fastidiously dressed figure, whose image had lingered in her memory. a dozen eager questions rose to her lips, but she repressed them. "jewel must have had a glimpse of the real man," she thought. "i must not cloud her perception." it did not occur to her, however, that the child could even now feel less than awe of the stern guardian with whom she had succeeded in living at peace, and who had, from time to time, bestowed upon her gifts. one of these mrs. evringham noticed now. "oh, that's your pretty watch!" she said. "yes," returned the child, "this is little faithful. isn't he a darling?" the mother smiled as she lifted the silver cherub. "you've named him?" she returned. "why, it is a beauty, jewel. how kind of your grandfather!" "yes, indeed. it was so i wouldn't stay in the ravine too long." "how is anna belle?" "dear anna belle!" exclaimed the little girl wistfully. "what a good time she would have had if i could have brought her! but you see i needed both my hands to help carry bags; and she understood about it and sent her love. she'll be sitting up waiting for you." mrs. evringham cast a look toward harry and his father. "i'm not sure"--she began, "i hardly think we shall go to bel-air to-night. how would you like to stay in at the hotel with us, and then we could go out to the house to-morrow and pack your trunk?" jewel looked very sober at this. "why, it would be pretty hard to wait, mother," she replied. "hotels are splendid. grandpa and i had dinner at one. it's named the waldorf and it has woods in it just like outdoors; but i thought you'd be in a hurry to see star and the ravine of happiness and zeke." "well, we'll wait," returned mrs. evringham vaguely. she was more than doubtful of an invitation to bel-air park even for one night; but harry must arrange it. "we'll see what father says," she added. "what a pretty locket, my girlie!" as she spoke she lifted a gold heart that hung on a slender gold chain around jewel's neck. "yes. cousin eloise gave me that when she went away. she has had it ever since she was as little as i am, and she said she left her heart with me. i'm so sorry you won't see cousin eloise." "so she and her mother have gone away. were they sorry to go? did mr. evringham--perhaps--think"--the speaker paused. she remembered jewel's letter about the situation. "no, they weren't sorry. they've gone to the seashore; but cousin eloise and i love each other very much, and her room is so empty now that i've had to keep remembering that you were coming and everything was happy. i guess cousin eloise is the prettiest girl in the whole world; and since she stopped being sorry we've had the most _fun_." "i wish i could see her!" returned mrs. evringham heartily. she longed to thank eloise for supplying the sunshine of love to her child while the grandfather was providing for her material wants. she looked at jewel now, a picture of health and contentment, her bits of small finery in watch and locket standing as symbols of the care and affection she had received. "divine love has been so kind to us, dearie," she said softly, as she pressed the child closer to her. "he has brought father and mother back across the ocean and has given you such loving friends while we were gone." in a future day mrs. evringham was to learn something of the inner history of the progress of this little pilgrim during her first days at bel-air; but the shadows had so entirely faded from jewel's consciousness that she could not have told it herself--not even such portions of it as she had once realized. "yes, indeed, i love bel-air and all the people. even aunt madge kissed me when she went away and said 'good-by, you queer little thing!'" "what did she mean?" asked mrs. evringham. "i don't know. i didn't tell grandpa, because i thought he might not like people calling me queer, but i asked zeke." "he's mr. evringham's coachman, isn't he?" "yes, and he's the nicest man, but he only told me that aunt madge had wheels. i asked him what kind of wheels, and he said he guessed they were rubber-tired, because she was always rubbering and she made people tired. you know zeke is such a joker, so i haven't found out yet what aunt madge meant, and it isn't any matter because"--jewel reached up and hugged her mother, "you've come home." here the two men approached. "no more time for spooning," said harry cheerfully. "we're going now, little girls." after all, there was nothing for jewel to carry. her father and grandfather had the dress-suit case and bags. mrs. evringham looked inquiringly at her husband, but he was gayly talking with jewel as the four walked out to the street. mr. evringham led the way to a carriage that was standing there. "this is ours," he said, opening the door. harry put the bags up beside the driver while his wife entered the vehicle, still in doubt as to their destination. jewel jumped in beside her. "you'd better move over, dear," said her mother quietly. "let mr. evringham ride forward." she was not surprised that jewel was ignorant of carriage etiquette. it was seldom that either of them had seen the inside of one. the broker heard the suggestion. "_place aux dames_," he said, briefly, and moved the child back with one hand. then he entered, harry jumped in beside him, slammed the door, and they rolled away. "if anna belle was here the whole family would be together," said jewel joyously. "i don't care which one i sit by. i love everybody in this carriage!" "you do, eh, rascal?" returned her father, putting his hand over in her silken lap and giving her a little shake. "where is the great and good anna belle?" "waiting for us. just think of it, all this time! grandpa, are we going home with you?" "what do you mean?" inquired the broker, and the tone of the curt question chilled the spine of his daughter-in-law. "were you thinking of spending the night in the ferry-house, perhaps?" "why, no, only mother said"-- mrs. evringham pressed the child's arm. "that was nothing, jewel; i simply didn't know what the plan was," she put in hastily. "oh, of course," went on the little girl. "mother didn't know aunt madge and cousin eloise were gone, and she didn't believe there'd be room. she doesn't know how big the house is, does she, grandpa?" an irresistible yawn seized the child, and in the middle of it her father leaned forward and chucked her under the chin. her jaws came together with a snap. "there! you spoiled that nice one!" she exclaimed, jumping up and laughing as she flung herself upon her big playmate, and a small scuffle ensued in which the wide leghorn hat brim sawed against mr. evringham's shoulder and neck in a manner that caused mrs. evringham's heart to leap toward her throat. how _could_ harry be so thoughtless! a street lamp showed the grim lines of the broker's averted face as he gazed stonily out to the street. "come here, jewel; sit still," said the mother, striving to pull the little girl back into her seat. harry was laughing and holding his agile assailant off as best he might, and at his wife's voice aided her efforts with a gentle push. jewel sank back on the cushion. "oh, what bores he thinks us. i know he does!" reflected julia, capturing her child in one arm and holding her close. to her surprise and even dismay, jewel spoke cheerfully after another yawn:-- "grandpa, how far is it to the ferry? how long, i mean?" "about fifteen minutes." "well, that's a good while. my eyes do feel as if they had sticks in them. don't you wish we could cross in a swan boat, grandpa?" "humph!" he responded. mrs. evringham gave the child a little squeeze intended to be repressive. jewel wriggled around a minute trying to get a comfortable position. "tell father and mother about central park and the swan boats, grandpa," she continued. "you tell them to-morrow, when you're not so sleepy," he replied. jewel took off her large hat, and nestling her head on her mother's shoulder, put an arm around her. "mother, mother!" she sighed happily, "are you really home?" "really, really," replied mrs. evringham, with a responsive squeeze. mr. evringham sat erect in silence, still gazing out the window with a forbidding expression. there were buttons on her mother's gown that rubbed jewel's cheek. she tried to avoid them for a minute and then sat up. "father, will you change places with me?" she asked sleepily. "i want to sit by grandpa." mrs. evringham's eyes widened, and in spite of her earnest "dearie!" the transfer was made and jewel crept under mr. evringham's arm, which closed naturally around her. she leaned against him and shut her eyes. "you mustn't go to sleep," he said. "i guess i shall," returned the child softly. "no, no. you mustn't. think of the lights crossing the ferry. you'll lose a lot if you're asleep. they're fine to see. we can't carry you and the luggage, too. brace up, now--come, come! i shouldn't think you were any older than anna belle." jewel laughed sleepily, and the broker held her hand in his while he pushed her upright. mr. and mrs. evringham looked on, the latter marveling at the child's nonchalance. now, for the first time, the host became talkative. "how many days have you to give us, harry?" he asked. "a couple, perhaps," replied the young man. "two days, father!" exclaimed jewel, in dismay, wide awake in an instant. "oh, that's a stingy visit," remarked mr. evringham. "not half long enough," added jewel. "there's so much for you to see." "oh, we can see a lot in two days," returned harry. "think of the little girls in chicago, jewel. they won't forgive me if i don't bring you home pretty soon." he leaned forward and took his child's free hand. "how do you suppose father has got along without his little girl all these weeks, eh, baby?" "it _is_ a long time since you went away," she returned, "but i was right in your room every night, and daytimes i played in your ravine. bel-air park is the beautifulest place in the whole world. two days isn't any time to stay there, father." "h'm, i'm glad you've been so happy." sincere feeling vibrated in the speaker's voice. "we don't know how to thank your grandpa, do we?" a street lamp showed jewel, as she turned and smiled up into the impassive face mr. evringham turned upon her. "you can safely leave that to her," said the broker briefly, but he did not remove his eyes from the upturned ones. "it is beyond me," thought mrs. evringham; "but love is a miracle-worker." the glowing lights of the ferry passed, jewel did go to sleep in the train. her father, unaware that he was trespassing, took her in his arms, and, tired out with all the excitement of the day and the lateness of the hour, the child instantly became unconscious; but by the time they reached home, the bustle of arrival and her interest in showing her parents about, aided her in waking to the situation. mrs. forbes stood ready to welcome the party. ten years had passed since harry evringham had stood in the home of his boyhood, and the housekeeper thought she perceived that he was moved by a contrite memory; but he spoke with bluff heartiness as he shook hands with her; and mrs. forbes looked with eager curiosity into the sweet face of mrs. evringham, as the latter greeted her and said something grateful concerning the housekeeper's kindness to jewel. "it's very little you have to thank me for, ma'am," replied mrs. forbes, charmed at once by the soft gaze of the dark eyes. the little cavalcade moved upstairs to the handsome rooms so lately vacated. they were brilliant with light and fragrant with roses. "how beautiful!" exclaimed mrs. evringham, while jewel hopped up and down, as wide awake as any little girl in town, delighted with the gala appearance of everything. mr. evringham looked critically into the face of his daughter-in-law. here was the woman to whom he owed jewel, and all that she was and all that she had taught him. her face was what he might have expected. it looked very charming now as the pretty eyes met his. she was well-dressed, too, and mr. evringham liked that. "i hope you will be very much at home here, julia," he said; and though he did not smile, it was certain that, whether from a sense of duty or not, he had taken pains to make their welcome a pleasant one. jewel had, evidently, no slightest fear of his cold reserve. with the child's hand in hers, julia took courage to reply warmly: "thank you, father, it is a joy to be here." she had called him "father," this elegant stranger, and her heart beat a little faster, but her husband's arm went around her. "america's all right, eh, julia?" "come in cousin eloise's room," cried jewel. "that's all lighted, too. are they going to have them both, grandpa?" she danced ahead, through a spacious white-tiled bathroom and into the adjoining apartment. there an unexpected sight met the child's eyes. in the rosy depths of a large chintz chair sat anna belle, loyally keeping her eyes open in spite of the hour. jewel rushed toward her. there were plenty of flowers scattered about in this room, also, and the child suddenly caught sight of her own toilet articles on the dresser. "my things are down here in cousin eloise's room, grandpa!" she cried, so surprised that she delayed picking up her doll. "why, why!" said mr. evringham, throwing open the door of the large closet and then opening a bureau drawer. within both receptacles were jewel's belongings, neatly arranged. "this is odd!" he added. "grandpa, grandpa!" cried the child, rushing at him and clasping her arms around his waist. "you're going to let me sleep down here by father and mother!" mr. evringham regarded her unsmilingly. jewel's parents both looked on, more than half expecting a snub to meet the energetic onslaught. "you won't object, will you?" he asked. jewel pulled him down and whispered something in his ear. the curious on-lookers saw the sweeping mustache curve in a smile as he straightened up again. as a matter of fact they were both curious to know what she had said to him. "you're whispering in company, jewel," remarked her father. "oh, please excuse me!" said the child. "i forgot to remember. here's anna belle, father." "my, my, my!" ejaculated harry evringham, coming forward. "how that child has grown!" chapter iv on the veranda what a luxurious, happy, sleepy time jewel had that night in the pretty rose-bower where her mother undressed her while her father and grandfather went back downstairs. it was very sweet to be helped and cuddled as if she were again a baby, and as she lay in bed and watched her mother setting the flowers in the bathroom and arranging everything, she tried to talk to her on some of the subjects that were uppermost in her mind. mrs. evringham came at last and lay down beside her. jewel nestled into the loving arms and kissed her cheek. "i'm too happy to go to sleep," she declared, then sighed, and instantly pretty room and pretty mother had disappeared. mrs. evringham lay there on the luxurious bed, the sleeping child in her arms, and her thoughts were rich with gratitude. her life had never been free from care: first as a young girl in her widowed mother's home, then as wife of the easy-going and unprincipled youth, whose desertion of her and her baby had filled her cup of bitterness, though she bravely struggled on. her mother had died; and soon afterward the light of christian science had dawned upon her path. strengthened by its support, she had grown into new health and courage, and life was beginning to blossom for her when her repentant husband returned. for a time his wayward habits were a care to her; but he was sincerely ashamed of himself, and the discovery of the development of character in the pretty girl whom he had left six years before roused his manhood. to her joy he began to take an interest in the faith which had wrought such changes in her, and after that she had no doubts of the outcome. from the moment when she obtained for him a business position, it became his ambition to take his rightful place in the world and to guard her from rough contact, and though as yet he still leaned upon her judgment, and she knew herself to be the earthly mainspring of all their business affairs, she knew, also, that his desire was right, and the knowledge sweetened her days. here in this home which was, to her unaccustomed eyes, palatial in its appointments, with her child again in her arms, she gave thanks for the joy of the present hour. a day or two of pleasure in these surroundings, and then she and harry would relieve mr. evringham of the care they had imposed upon him. he had borne it nobly, there was no doubt about that. he had even complicated existence by giving jewel a pony. how a pony would fit into the frugal, busy life of the chicago apartment, julia did not know; but her child's dearest wish had been gratified, and there was nothing to do but appreciate and enjoy the fact. after all, harry's father must have more paternal affection than her husband had ever given him credit for; for even on the most superficial acquaintance one could see that any adaptation of his life and tastes to those of a child would have to come with creaking difficulty to the stock broker, and the fact of jewel's ease with him told an eloquent story of how far mr. evringham must have constrained himself for harry's sake. her thoughts flowed on and had passed to business and all that awaited them in chicago, when her husband rejoined her. she rose from the bed as he came in, and hand in hand they stood and looked down at jewel, asleep. harry stooped and kissed the flushed cheek. "don't wake her, dear," said julia, smiling at the energy of the caress. "wake her? i don't believe a clap of thunder would have that effect. why, she and father have been painting the town; dining at the waldorf, driving in the park, riding in the swan boats, and then hanging around that dock. bless her little heart, i should think she'd sleep for twenty-four hours." "how wonderfully kind of him!" returned julia. "you need never tell me again, harry, that your father doesn't love you." "oh, loving hasn't been much in father's line, but we hope it will be," returned the young man as he slipped an arm around his wife. "do you remember the last time we stood watching jewel asleep? i do. it was in that beastly hotel the night before we sailed." "oh, harry!" julia buried her face a moment on his shoulder. "shall you ever forget our relief when her first letter came, showing that she was happy? do you remember the hornpipe you danced in our lodgings and how you shocked the landlady? your father may not _call_ it loving, but his care and thoughtfulness have expressed that and he can't help my loving _him_ forever and forever for being kind to jewel." harry gave his head a quick shake. "i'll be hanged if i can see how anybody could be unkind to her," he remarked. "oh, well, you've never been an elderly man, set in your ways and used to living alone. i'm sure it meant a great deal to him. think of his doing all that for her this afternoon." "oh, he had to pass the time somehow, and he couldn't very well refuse to let her come in to meet us. besides, she's on the eve of going away, and father likes to do the handsome thing. he was doing it for other people, though, when lawrence and i were kids. he never took us in any swan boats." "poor little boys!" murmured julia. "oh, not at all," returned harry, laughing rather sardonically. "we took ourselves in the swan boats and in a variety of other places not so picturesque. father's purse strings were always loose, and so long as we kept out of his way he didn't care what we did. nice old place, this, julia?" "oh, it's very fine. i had no idea how fine." her tone was somewhat awestruck. "i used to know, absolutely, that father was through with me, and that therefore i was through with bel-air; but i'm a new man," the speaker smiled down at his wife and pressed her closer to him, "and i've been telling father why, and how." "is that what you've been talking about?" "yes. he seemed interested to hear of my business and prospects and asked me a lot of questions; so, as i only began to live less than a year ago, i couldn't answer them without telling him who and what had set me on my feet." "oh, harry! you've really been talking about science?" "yes, my dear, and about you; and i tell you, he wasn't bored. when i'd let up a little he'd ask me another question; and at last he said, father did, 'well, i believe she'll make a man of you yet, harry!' not too complimentary, i admit, but i swallowed it and never flinched. i knew he wasn't going to see enough of you in two days to half know you, so i just thought i'd give him a few statistics, and they made an impression, i assure you. after that if he wanted to set me down a little it was no more than i deserved, and he was welcome." for a long moment the two looked into one another's eyes, then harry spoke in a subdued tone:-- "you've done a lot for me, julia; but the biggest thing of all, the thing that is most wonderful and that means the most to me, and for which i'd worship you through eternity if it was _all_ you'd done, is that you have taught me of christian science and shown me how it has guarded that child's love and respect for me, when i was forfeiting both every hour. i'll work to my last day, my girl, to show you my gratitude for that." "darling boy!" she murmured. next morning at rising time jewel was still wrapped in slumber. her parents looked at her before going downstairs. "do you know, i can't help feeling a bit relieved," laughed julia softly, "that she won't go down with us. the little thing is rather thoughtless with her grandfather, and though he has evidently schooled himself to endure her energetic ways, i can't help feeling a bit anxious all the time. he has borne it so well this long that i want to get her away before she breaks the camel's back. when do you think we can go, harry?" "to-morrow or next day. you might get things packed to-day. i really ought to go, but i don't want to seem in a hurry." "oh, yes, do let us go to-morrow," returned julia eagerly. the westminster clock on the stairs chimed as they passed down, and mr. evringham was waiting for them in the dining-room. as he said good-morning he looked beyond them, expectantly. mrs. forbes greeted them respectfully and indicated their seats. "where is jewel?" asked the host. "in dreamland. you couldn't waken her with a volley of artillery," returned harry cheerfully. "h'm," returned his father. they all took their places at the table and julia remarked on the charming outlook from the windows. "yes," returned the host. "i'm sorry i can't stay at home this morning and do the honors of the park. i shall leave that to harry and jewel. as we were rather late last night i didn't take my canter this morning. if you wish to have a turn on the mare, harry, zeke knows that the stables are in your hands. no one but myself rides essex maid, but i'll make a shining exception of you." "i appreciate the honor," returned harry lightly, but as a matter of fact he did not at all grasp its extent. "if you'd like to take your wife for a drive there's the spider. the child will want to show you her pony and will probably get you off on some excursion. tell her there is time enough and not to make you do two days' work in one." after breakfast the trio adjourned to the piazza and julia looked out on the thick, dewy grass and spreading trees. "i believe the park improves, father," said harry, smiling as he noted his wife's delight in the charming landscape. deep armchairs and tables, rugs and a wicker divan furnished a portion of the piazza. "how will little jewel like the apartment after this?" julia could not help asking herself the question mentally. she no longer wondered at the child's content here, even without the companionship of other children. it must be an unimaginative little maid who, supported by anna belle, could not weave a fairy-land in this fresh paradise. "won't you be seated?" said the broker, waving his hand toward the chairs. the others obeyed as he took his place. "let us know a little, now, what we are doing. what did i understand you to say, harry, is your limit for time?" "well, i ought, really, to go west to-morrow, father." mr. evringham nodded and turned his incisive glance upon his daughter-in-law. "and you, julia?" she smiled brightly at him. he observed that her complexion bore the sunlight well. "oh, jewel and i go with him, of course," she responded, confident that her reply would convey satisfaction. "h'm. indeed! now it seems to me that you would be the better for a vacation." "why! haven't i just had a trip to europe?" "yes, i should think you had. from all that harry tells me, i judge what with hunting up fashions and fabrics and corset-makers and all the rest of it, you have done the work, daily, of about two able-bodied men." "that's right," averred harry. "i was too much of a greenhorn to give her much assistance." "still, you understand your own end of the business, i take it," said his father, turning suddenly upon him. "yes, i do. i believe the firm will say i'm the square peg in the square hole." "then why not take a vacation, julia?" asked the broker again. "harry is doing splendidly," she returned gently, "but we can't live on the salary he gets now. he needs my help for a while, yet. i'm going to be a lady of leisure some day." the broker caught the glance of confidence she sent his boy. "i'm screwing up my courage now to strike them for more," said harry. "it frets me worse every day to see that girl delving away, and a great strapping, hulking chap like me not able to prevent it." his father looked gravely at the young wife. "let him begin now," he said. "he doesn't need your apron string any longer." "what do you mean?" asked julia, half timidly. "stay here with me a while and let harry go west. i will take you and jewel to the seashore." "hurray!" cried harry, his face radiant. "julia, why, you won't know yourself strolling on the sands with a parasol while your poor delicate husband is toiling and moiling away in the dingy city. good for you, father! you lift that pretty nose of hers up from the grindstone where she's held it so many years that she doesn't know anything different. hurray, julia!" in his enthusiasm the speaker rose and leaned over the chair of his astonished wife. "you wake up in the morning and read a novel instead of your appointment book for a while," he went on. "the chicago women's summer clothes are all made by this time, anyway. play lady for once and come back to me the color of mahogany. go ahead!" "why, harry, how can i? what would you do?" "i'm hanged if i don't show you what i'd do, and do it well, too," he returned. "but i ought to go home first," faltered the bewildered woman. "not a bit of it. i'll tackle the firm and the apartment, all right; and to be plain, we can't afford the needless car fare." "but, father," julia appealed to him, "is it right to make harry get on still longer without jewel?" "perfectly right. entirely so," rejoined the broker decidedly. "of course he doesn't realize how we feel about jewel," thought julia. here a large brown horse and brougham came around the driveway into sight. zeke's eyes turned curiously toward the guests, but he sat stiffly immovable. the broker rose. "i must go now or i shall miss my train. think it over. there's only one way to think about it. it is quite evidently the thing to do. the break has been made, and now is the time for julia to take her vacation before going into harness again. moreover, perhaps harry will get his raise and she won't have to go into harness. good-morning. i shall try to come out early. i hope you will make yourselves comfortable." mrs. evringham looked at zeke. he was the glass of fashion and the mould of form, but there was no indication in his smooth-shaven, wooden countenance of the comrade to whom jewel had referred in her fragmentary letters. "well, harry!" she exclaimed breathlessly, as the carriage rolled away. her expression elicited a hearty laugh from her husband. "i _never_ was so surprised. how unselfish he is! harry, is it possible that we don't know your father at _all_? think of his proposing to keep, still longer, a disturbing element like our lively little girl!" "oh, i've never believed he bothered himself very much about jewel," returned harry lightly. "you make a mountain out of that. all a child needs is a ten acre lot to let off steam in, and she's had it here. he knows you'll keep her out from under foot. let's accept this pleasure. he probably takes a lot of stock in you after all i told him last night. it's a relief to his pride and everything else that i'm not going to disgrace the name. he wants to do something for you. that's the whole thing in a nutshell; and you let him do it, julia." in an exuberance of spirits, aided by the fresh, inspiring morning, the speaker took his wife in his arms, as they stood there on the wide veranda, and hugged her heartily. "do you think i shall get over my awe of him?" she half laughed, but her tone was sincere. "i'm so unused to people who never smile and seem to be enduring me. oh, if you were only going to stay, too, harry, then it would be a vacation indeed!" "here, here! where are your principles? who's afraid now?" "but he's so stately and forbidding, and i shall feel such a responsibility of keeping jewel from troubling him." harry laughed again. "she seems entirely capable of paddling her own canoe. she didn't seem troubled by doubts or compunctions in the carriage last night; and up there in the bedroom when she flew at him! how was that for a case of _lèse majesté_? gad, at her age i'd sooner have tackled a lighted fuse! what do you suppose it was she whispered to him?" "i've no idea, and i must say i was curious enough to ask her while i was putting her to bed; but do you know, she wouldn't say!" the mother laughed. "she sidled about,--you know how she does when she is reluctant to speak, and seemed so embarrassed that i have to laugh when i think of it." "perhaps it concerned some surprise she has persuaded father to give us." "no, it couldn't be that, because she answered at last that she'd tell me when she was a young lady." they both laughed. "well," said harry, "she isn't afraid of him so you'd notice it; and you can give her a few pointers so she needn't get in father's way now that she has you again. he has evidently been mighty considerate of the little orphan." "how good he has been!" returned julia fervently. "if we could only go home with you, harry," she added wistfully, "while there's so much good feeling, and before anything happens to alter it!" "where are your principles?" asked harry again. "you know better than to think anything will happen to alter it." "yes, i do, i do; but i always have to meet my shyness of strangers, and it makes my heart beat to think of your going off and leaving me here. being tête-à-tête with your father is appalling, i must confess." "oh, well, it wouldn't do to slight his offer, and it will do you a world of good." "you'll have to send me my summer gowns." "i will." "dear me, am i really going to _do_ it?" asked julia incredulously. "certainly you are. we'd be imbecile not to accept such an opportunity." "then," she answered resignedly, "if it is fact and not a wild fancy, we have a lot of business to talk over, harry. let us make the most of our time while jewel is asleep." she led the way back to the chairs, and they were soon immersed in memoranda and discussion. chapter v the lifted veil at last their plans were reduced to order and harry placed the papers carefully in his pocket. "come in and let's have a look at the house, julia," he suggested. "it won't do to go to the stables without jewel." they entered the drawing-room and julia moved about admiring the pictures and carvings, and paused long before the oil portrait of a beautiful woman, conspicuously placed. "that's my grandmother," remarked harry. "isn't she stunning? that's the side of the family i didn't take after." while they still examined the portrait and the exquisite painting of its laces, jewel ran into the room and seized them from behind. "well, well, all dressed!" exclaimed her father as the two stooped to kiss her. "yes, but my hair isn't very nice," said the child, putting up her hand to her braids, "because i didn't want to be late to breakfast." her father's hearty laugh rang out. "lunch, do you mean?" "we're through breakfast long ago, dearie," said her mother. "no wonder you slept late. we wanted you to." "breakfast's all through!" exclaimed the child, and they were surprised at her dismay. "yes, but mrs. forbes will get you something," said her father. "but has grandpa gone?" asked the child. before they could reply the housekeeper passed the door and jewel ran to her. "has grandpa gone, mrs. forbes?" she repeated anxiously. "yes, indeed, it's after ten. come into the dining-room, jewel; sarah will give you your breakfast." "i'm not a bit hungry--yes, i am, a little--but what is grandpa's telephone number, mrs. forbes." "oh, now, you won't call him up, dear," said the housekeeper coaxingly. "come and eat your breakfast like a good girl." "yes, in just one minute i will. what is the number, please, mrs. forbes?" the housekeeper gave the number, and harry and julia drew nearer. "your grandpa is coming out early, jewel," said her father. "you'll see him in a few hours, and you can ask him whatever you wish to then." "she never has called mr. evringham up, sir," said the housekeeper. "he speaks to _her_ sometimes. you know, jewel, your grandfather doesn't like to be disturbed in his business and called to the 'phone unless it is something very important." "it is," returned the child, and she ran to the part of the hall where the instrument was situated. her mother and father followed, the former feeling that she ought to interfere, but the latter amused and curious. "my little girl," began julia, in protest, but harry put his hand on her arm and detained her. jewel was evidently filled with one idea and deaf to all else. with her usual energy she took down the receiver and made her request to the central office. harry drew his wife to where they could watch her absorbed, rosy face. her listening expression was anxiously intent. mrs. forbes also lingered at a little distance, enjoying the parents' interest and sharing it. "is that you, grandpa?" asked the sweet voice. "oh, well, i want to see mr. evringham." "what? no. i'm sorry, but nobody will do but grandpa. you tell him it's jewel, please." "what? i thought i _did_ speak plain. it's _jewel_; his little grandchild." the little girl smiled at the next response. "yes, i'm the very one that ate the nesselrode pudding," she said, and chuckled into the 'phone. by this time even julia had given up all thought of interfering, and was watching, curiously, the round head with its untidy blond hair. jewel spoke again. "i'm sorry i can't tell you the business, but it's _very_ important." evidently the earnestness of this declaration had an effect. after a minute more of waiting, the child's face lighted. "oh, grandpa, is that you?" "yes, i am. i'm _so_ sorry i slept too long!" "yes, i know you missed me, and now i have to eat my breakfast without you. why didn't you come and bring me downstairs?" "oh, but i _would_ have. did you feel very sorry when you got in the brougham, grandpa?" "i know it. did the ride seem _very_ long, all alone?" "yes, indeed. i felt so sorry inside when i found you'd gone, i had to hear you speak so as to get better so i could visit with mother and father." "yes, it _is_ a comfort. are you _sure_ you don't feel sorry now?" "well, but are you smiling, grandpa?" whatever the answer was to this, it made jewel's anxious brows relax and she laughed into the 'phone. "grandpa, you're such a joker! one smile won't make you any fatter," she protested. another listening silence, then:-- "you know the reason i feel the worst, don't you?" "why yes, you do. what we were talking about yesterday." the child sighed. "well, isn't it a comfort about eternity?" "yes, indeed, and i guess i'll kiss the 'phone now, grandpa. can you hear me?" "well, you do it, too, then. yes--yes--i hear it; and you'll come home early because you know--our secret?" "what? a lot of men waiting for you? all right. you know i love you just the same, even if i _did_ sleep, don't you?" "good-by, then, good-by." she hung up the receiver and turned a beaming face upon her dumbfounded parents. "now i'll have breakfast," she said cheerfully. "i'll only eat a little because we must go out and see star. you waited for me, didn't you?" pausing in sudden apprehension. "yes, indeed," replied harry, collecting himself. "we haven't been off the piazza." "goody. i'm so glad. i'll hurry." mrs. forbes followed the child as she bounded away, and the father and mother sank upon an old settle of flemish oak, gazing at one another. the veil having been completely lifted from their eyes, each was viewing recent circumstances in a new light. at last harry began to laugh in repressed fashion. "sold, and the money taken!" he ejaculated, softly smiting his knee. his wife smiled, too, but there was a mist in her eyes. "i smell a large mouse, julia. how is it with you?" "you mean my invitation?" "i mean that we come under the head of those things that can't be cured and must be endured." she nodded. "and that's why he wants to take me to the seashore." "yes, but all the same he's got to do it to carry his point. you get the fun just the same." the moisture that rose to harry's eyes was forced there by the effort to repress his mirth. "by jinks, the governor kissing the 'phone! i'll never get over that, never," and he exploded again. his wife laid her hand on his arm. "oh, harry, can't you see how touching it is?" "i'll sue him for alienating my daughter's affections. see if i don't. why, we're not in it at all. did you feel our insignificance when she found he'd gone? we've been blockheads, julia, blockheads." "we're certainly figureheads," she returned, rather ruefully. "i don't like to feel that your father has to pay such a price for the sake of keeping jewel a little longer." "'t won't hurt him a bit. it's a good joke on him. if he doesn't go ahead and take you now, i'll bring another suit against him for breach of promise." julia was looking thoughtfully into space. "i believe," she said, at last, "that we may find out that jewel has been a missionary here." "she's given father a brand new heart," returned harry promptly. "that's plain." "let us not say a word to the child about the plan for her and me to stay," said julia. "let us leave it all for mr. evringham." "all right; only he won't think you're much pleased with the idea." "i'm not," returned the other, smiling. "i'm a little dazed; but if he was the man he appeared to be the day we left jewel with him, and she has loved him into being a happier and better man, it may be a matter of duty for us not to deprive him of her at once. i'll try to resign myself to the rôle of necessary baggage, and even try to conceal from him the fact that i know my place." "oh, my girl, you'll have him captured in a week, and jewel will have a rival. you have the same knack she has for making the indifferent different." at this juncture the housekeeper came back into the hall. "well, mrs. forbes," said harry, rising, "that was rather amusing important business jewel had with my father." the housekeeper held up her hands and shook her head. "such lovers, sir," she responded. "such lovers! whatever he's going to do without her is more than i know." "why, it's a big change come over father, to be fond of children," returned the young man, openly perplexed. "_children!_" repeated the housekeeper. "if you suppose, mr. harry, that jewel is any common child, you must have had a wonderful experience." her impressive, almost solemn manner, sobered the father's mood. "what she is, is the result of what her mother has taught her," he returned. "not one of us wanted her when she came," said the housekeeper, looking from one to the other of the young couple standing before her. "not one person in the house was half civil to her." julia's hand tightened on her husband's arm. "i didn't want anybody troubling mr. evringham. people called him a hard, cold, selfish man; but i knew his trials, yes, mr. harry, you know i knew them. he was my employer and it was my business to make him comfortable, and i hated that dear little girl because i'd made up my mind that she'd upset him. well, jewel didn't know anything about hate, not enough to know it when she saw it. she just loved us all, through thick and thin, and you'll have to wait till you can read what the recording angel's set down, before you can have any full idea of what she's done for us. she's made a humble woman out of me, and i was the stiff-neckedest member of the congregation. there's my only child, zeke; she's persuaded him out of habits that were breaking up our lives. there was eloise evringham, without hope or god in the world. she gave her both, that little jewel did. then, most of all, she crept into mr. evringham's empty heart and filled it full, and made his whole life, as you might say, blossom again. that's what she's done, single handed, in two months, and she has no more conceit of her work than a ray of god's sunshine has when it's opening a flower bud." julia evringham's gaze was fixed intently upon the speaker, and she was unconscious that two tears rolled down her cheeks. "you've made us very happy, telling us this," she said, rather breathlessly, as the housekeeper paused. "and i should like to add, mrs. evringham," said mrs. forbes impressively, "that you'd better turn your attention to an orphan asylum and catch them as young as you can and train them up. what this old world wants is a whole crop of jewels." julia's smile was very sweet. "we may all have the pure child thought," she returned. mrs. forbes passed on upstairs. harry looked at his wife. he was winking fast. "well, this isn't any laughing matter, after all, julia." "no, it's a matter to make us very humble with joy and gratitude." as she spoke jewel bounded back into the hall and ran into her father's open arms. "a good breakfast, eh?" he asked tenderly. "yes, i didn't mean to be so long, but sarah said grandpa wanted me to eat a chop. now, _now_, we're going to see star!" "i'd better fix your hair first," remarked her mother. "oh, let her hair go till lunch time," said harry. "the horses won't care, will they, jewel?" he picked her up and set her on his shoulder and out they went to the clean, spacious stables. zeke pulled down his shirt-sleeves as he saw them coming. "this is my father and mother, zeke," cried the child, happily, and the coachman ducked his head with his most unprofessional grin. "jewel's got a great pony here," he said. "well, i should think so!" remarked harry, as he and his wife followed where the child led, to a box stall. "why, jewel, he's right out of a story!" said her mother, viewing the wavy locks and sweeping tail, as the pony turned eagerly to meet his mistress. jewel put her arms around his neck and buried her face for an instant in his mane. "i haven't anything for you, star, this time," she said, as the pretty creature nosed about her. "mother, do you see his star?" "indeed i do," replied mrs. evringham, examining the snowflake between the full, bright eyes. "he's the prettiest pony i ever saw, jewel. did your grandpa have him made to order?" zeke shrugged his gingham clad shoulders. "he would have, if he could, ma'am," he put in. mrs. evringham laughed. "well, he certainly didn't need to. oh, see that beautiful head!" for essex maid looked out to discover what all the disturbance was about. harry paused in his examination of the pony, to go over to the mare's stall. "whew, what a stunner!" he remarked. "mr. evringham said you were to ride her this morning, sir, if you liked. you'll be the first, beside him." zeke paused and with a comical gesture of his head indicated the child and then the mare. "it's been nip and tuck between them, sir; but i guess jewel's got the maid beat by now." harry laughed. "two blue ribbons, she's won, sir. she'll get another this autumn if he shows her." "i should think so. she's a raving beauty." as he spoke, harry smoothed the bright coat. "when are we going out, jewel?" "but we couldn't leave mother," returned the child, from her slippery perch on the pony's back. she had been thinking about it. "are you sure, zeke, that grandpa said father might ride essex maid?" "he told me so, himself," said harry, amused. jewel shook her head, much impressed. "then he loves you about the most of anybody," she remarked, with conviction. "don't think of me," said her mother. "you and father do just what you like. i can be happy just looking about this beautiful place." "oh, i know what," exclaimed jewel, with sudden brightness. "let's all go to the ravine of happiness before lunch time, and then wait for grandpa, and he can take mother in the phaeton, and father and i can ride horseback." "oh, i'm afraid your grandpa wouldn't like that," returned mrs. evringham quickly. zeke was standing near her. "he would if she said so, ma'am," he put in, in a low tone. julia smiled kindly upon him. harry tossed his head, amused. "it's a case, isn't it, zeke?" he remarked. "yes, sir," returned the coachman. "he comes when he's called, and will eat out of her hand, sir." harry laughed and went back to the pony's stall. "come on, then, jewel, come to my old stamping ground, the ravine." "and if her hair frightens the birds it's your fault," smiled julia, smoothing with both hands the little flaxen head. "the birds have seen me look a great deal worse than this, a great _deal_ worse," said jewel cheerfully. "perhaps they'll think her hair is a nest and sit down in it," suggested her father, as they moved away, the happy child between them, holding a hand of each. the little girl drew in her chin as she looked up at him. "oh, father, you're such a joker!" chapter vi the die is cast "oh, grandpa, we've had the most, _fun_!" cried jewel that afternoon as she ran down the veranda steps to meet the broker, getting out of the brougham. harry and julia were standing near the wicker chairs watching the welcome. they saw mr. evringham stoop to receive the child's embrace, and noted the attention he paid to her chatter as, after lifting his hat to them, he slowly advanced. "father and i played in the ravine the longest while. wasn't it a nice time, father?" "it certainly was a nice, wet time. i am one pair of shoes short, and shall have to travel to chicago in patent leathers." as julia rose she regarded her father-in-law with new eyes. all sense of responsibility had vanished, and her present passive rôle seemed delightful. "i know more about this beautiful place than when you went away," she said. "i feel as if i were at some picturesque resort. it doesn't seem at all as if work-a-day people might live here all the time." "i'm glad you like it," returned the broker, and his quick, curt manner of speech no longer startled her. "have you been driving?" "no, we preferred to have jewel plan our campaign, and she seemed to think that the driving part had better wait for you." the broker turned and looked down at the smooth head with billowy ribbon bows behind the ears. noting his expression, or lack of it, julia wondered, momentarily, if she might have dreamed the episode of kissing into the telephone. "what is your plan, jewel?" he asked. she balanced herself springily on her toes. "i thought two of us in the phaeton and two on horseback," she replied, with relish. "h'm. you in the phaeton and i on star, perhaps." "oh, grandpa, and your feet dragging in the road!" the child's laugh was a gush of merriment. the broker looked back at his daughter-in-law and handed her the large white package he was carrying. "with my compliments, madam." julia flushed prettily as she unwrapped the box. "oh, huyler's!" she exclaimed. "how delicious. thank you so much, father." jewel's eyes were big with admiration. "that's just the kind dr. ballard used to give cousin eloise," she said, sighing. "sometime i'll be grown up!" mr. evringham lifted her into his arms with a quick movement. "that's a far day, thank god," he murmured, his mustache against her hair; then lowering her until he could look into her face: "how have you arranged us, jewel? who drives and who rides?" "perhaps father would like to drive mother in the phaeton," said the child, again on her feet. harry smiled. "your last plan, i thought, was that i should ride the mare." "yes," returned jewel, with some embarrassment. "you won't look so nice as grandpa does on essex maid," she added, very gently, "but if it would be a _pleasure_ to you, father"-- her companions laughed so heartily that the child bored the toe of one shoe into the piazza, and well they knew the sign. "here," said her father hastily, "which of these delicious candies do you want, jewel? oh, how good they look! i tell you you'll have to be quick if you want any. i have only till to-morrow to eat them." "really to-morrow, father!" returned the child, pausing aghast. "to-morrow!" "yes, indeed." "to chicago, do you mean?" "to chicago." he nodded emphatically. jewel turned appealing eyes on her mother. "can't we help it?" she asked in a voice that broke. "i think not, dearie. business must come before pleasure, you know." her three companions looking at the child saw her swallow with an effort. she dropped the chocolate she had taken back into the box. a heroic smile came to her trembling lips as she lifted her eyes to the impassive face of the tall, handsome man beside her. "it's to-morrow, grandpa," she said softly, with a look that begged him to remember. he stooped until his gaze was on a level with hers. she did not touch him. all her forces were bent on self-control. "i have been asking your mother," said mr. evringham, "to stay here a while and take a vacation. hasn't she told you?" jewel shook her head mutely. "i think she will do it if you add your persuasion," continued the broker quietly. "she ought to have rest,--and of course you would stay too, to take care of her." a flash like sunlight illumined the child's tears. mr. evringham expected to feel her arms thrown around his neck. instead, she turned suddenly, and running to her father, jumped into his lap. "father, father," she said, "don't you want us to go with you?" harry cleared his throat. the little scene had moistened his eyes as well. "am i of any consequence?" he asked, with an effort at jocoseness. jewel clasped him close. "oh, father," earnestly, "you know you are; and the only reason i said you wouldn't look so nice on essex maid is that grandpa has beautiful riding clothes, and when he rides off he looks like a king in a procession. you couldn't look like a king in a procession in the clothes you wear to the store, could you, father?" "impossible, dearie." "but i want you to ride her if you'd like to, and i want mother and me to go to chicago with you if you're going to feel sorry." "you really do, eh?" jewel hesitated, then turned her head and held out her hand to mr. evringham, who took it. "if grandpa won't feel sorry," she answered. "oh, i don't know what i want. i wish i didn't love to be with so many people!" her little face, drawn with its problem, precipitated the broker's plans and made him reckless. he said to his son now, that which, in his carefully prepared programme, he had intended to say about three months hence, provided a nearer acquaintance with his daughter julia did not prove disappointing. "i suppose you are not devotedly attached to chicago, harry?" the young man looked up, surprised. "not exactly. so far she has treated me like a cross between a yellow dog and a step-child; but i shall be devoted enough if i ever succeed there." "don't succeed there," returned the broker curtly. "succeed here." harry shook his head. "oh, new york's beyond me. i have a foothold in chicago." "yes," returned the broker, who had the born and bred new yorker's contempt for the windy city. "yes, i know you've got your foot in it, but take it out." "great scott! you'd have me become a rolling stone again?" "no. i'll guarantee you a place where, if you don't gather moss, you'll even write your_self_ down as long-eared." harry's eyes brightened, and he straightened up, moving jewel to one side, the better to see his father. "do you mean it?" he asked eagerly. the broker nodded. "take your time to settle matters in chicago," he said. "if you show up here in september it will be early enough." the young man turned his eyes toward his wife and she met his smile with another. her heart was beating fast. this powerful man of whom, until this morning, she had stood in awe, was going to put a stop to the old life and lift their burdens. so much she perceived in a flash, and she knew it was for the sake of the little child whose cheeks were glowing like roses as she looked from one to another, taking in the happy promise involved in the words of the two men. "father, will you come back here?" she asked, breathing quickly. "i'd be mighty glad to, jewel," he replied. the child leaned toward the broker, to whose hand she still clung. starry lights were dancing in her eyes. "grandpa, are father and mother and i going to live with you--always?" she asked rapturously. "always--if you will, jewel." he certainly had not intended to say it until autumn leaves were falling, and he should have made certain that it was not putting his head into a noose; but the child's face rewarded him now a thousand-fold, and made the moment too sweet for regret. "didn't we _know_ that divine love would take care of us, grandpa?" she asked, with soft triumph. "we _did_ know it--even when i was crying, we knew it. didn't we?" the broker drank in her upturned glance and placed his other hand over the one that was clinging to him. chapter vii mrs. evringham's gifts when mrs. evringham opened her eyes the following morning, it was with a confused sense that some great change had taken place; and quickly came the realization that it was a happy change. as the transforming facts flowed in more clearly upon her consciousness, she covered her eyes quickly with her hand. "'green pastures are before me!'" she thought, and her heart grew warm with gratitude. her husband was asleep, and she arose and went softly to jewel's chamber, and carefully opened the door. to her amazement the bed was empty. its coverings were stripped down and the sweet morning breeze was flooding the spacious room. she returned to her own, wondering how late it might be. her husband stirred and opened his eyes, but before she could speak a ripple of distant laughter sounded on the air. she ran to the window and raised the shade. "oh, come, harry, quick!" she exclaimed, and, half asleep, he obeyed. there, riding down the driveway, they saw mr. evringham and jewel starting off for their morning canter. "how dear they look, how dear!" exclaimed julia. "father is stunning, for a fact," remarked harry, watching alertly. on yesterday's excursion he had ridden essex maid, after all; and he smiled with interest now, in the couple who were evidently talking to one another with the utmost zest as they finally disappeared at a canter among the trees. "it is ideal, it's perfectly ideal, harry." julia drew a long breath. "i was so surprised this morning, to waken and find it reality, after all." she looked with thoughtful eyes at her husband. "i wonder what my new work will be!" she added. "not talking about that already, i hope!" he answered, laughing. "i've an idea you will find occupation enough for one while, in learning to be idle. sit still now and look about you on the work accomplished." "what work?" "that i'm here and that you're here: that the action of truth has brought these wonders about." after breakfast the farewells were said. "you're happy, aren't you, father?" asked jewel doubtfully, as she clung about his neck. "never so happy, jewel," he answered. she turned to her grandfather. "when is father coming back again?" she asked. "as soon as he can," was the reply. "you don't want me until september, i believe," said the young man bluntly. he still retained the consciousness, half amused, half hurt, that his father considered him superfluous. "why, september is almost next winter," said jewel appealingly. mr. evringham looked his son full in the eyes and liked the direct way they met him. "the latchstring will be out from now on, harry i want you to feel that it is your latchstring as much as mine." his son did not speak, but the way the two men suddenly clasped hands gave jewel a very comforted sensation. "and you don't feel a bit sorry to be going alone to chicago?" she pursued, again centring her attention and embrace upon her father. "i tell you i was never so happy in my life," he responded, kissing her and setting her on her feet. "are you going to allow me to drive to the station in your place this morning?" "i'd let you do anything, father," returned jewel affectionately. it touched her little heart to see him go alone away from such a happy family circle, but her mother's good cheer was reassuring. they had scarcely had a minute alone together since mrs. evringham's arrival, and when the last wave had been sent toward the head leaning out of the brougham window, mother and child went up the broad staircase together, pausing before the tall clock whose chime had grown so familiar to jewel since that chilling day when mrs. forbes warned her not to touch it. "everything in this house is so fine, jewel," said the mother. "it must have seemed very strange to you at first." "it did. anna belle and i felt more at home out of doors, because you see god owned the woods, and he didn't care if we broke something, and mrs. forbes used to be so afraid; but it's all much different now," added the child. they went on up to the room where stood the small trunk which was all mrs. evringham had taken abroad for her personal belongings. to many children the moment of their mother's unpacking after a return from a trip is fraught with pleasant and eager anticipation of gifts. in this case it was different; for jewel had no previous journey of her mother's to remember, and her gifts had always been so small, with the shining exception of anna belle, that she made no calculations now concerning the steamer trunk, as she watched her mother take out its contents. each step mrs. evringham took on the rich carpet, each glance she cast at the park through the clear sheets of plate glass in the windows, each smooth-running drawer, each undreamed-of convenience in the closet with its electric light for dark days, impressed her afresh with a sense of wondering pleasure. the lady of her name who had so recently dwelt among these luxuries had accepted them fretfully, as no more than her due; the long glass which now reflected julia's radiant dark eyes lately gave back a countenance impressed with lines of care and discontent. "jewel, i feel like a queen here," said the happy woman softly. "i like beautiful things very much, but i never had them before in my life. come, darling, we must read the lesson." she closed the lid of the trunk. "yes, but wait till i get anna belle." the child ran into her own room and brought the doll. then she jumped into her mother's lap, for there was room for all three in the big chair by the window. some memory made the little girl lift her shoulders. "this was aunt madge's chair," she said. "she used to sit here in the prettiest lace wrapper--i was never in this room before except two or three times,"--jewel's awed tone changed,--"but now my own mother lives here! and cousin eloise would love to know it and to know that i have her room. i mean to write her about it." "you must take me upstairs pretty soon and let me see the chamber that was yours. oh, there is so much to see, jewel; shall we ever get to the end?" mrs. evringham's tone was joyous, as she hugged the child impulsively, and rested her cheek on the flaxen head. "darling," she went on softly, "think what divine love has done for mother, to bring her here! i've worked very hard, my little girl, and though love helped me all the time, and i was happy, i've had so much care, and almost never a day when i had leisure to stop and think about something else than my work. i expected to go right back to it now, with father, and i didn't worry, because god was leading me--but, dearie, when i woke up this morning"--she paused, and as jewel lifted her head, mother and child gazed into one another's eyes--"i said--you know what i said?" for answer the little girl smiled gladly and began to sing the familiar hymn. her mother joined an alto to the clear voice, in the manner that had been theirs for years, and fervently, now, they sang the words:-- "green pastures are before me, which yet i have not seen. bright skies will soon be o'er me, where darkest clouds have been. my hope i cannot measure, my path in life is free, my father has my treasure, and he will walk with me!" jewel looked joyous. "the green pastures were in bel-air park, weren't they?" she said, "and you hadn't seen them, had you?" "no," returned mrs. evringham gently, "and just now there is not a cloud in our bright sky." "father's gone away," returned jewel doubtfully. "only to get ready to come back. it is very wonderful, jewel." "yes, it is. i'm sure it makes god glad to see us so happy." "i'm sure it does; and the best of it is that father knows that it is love alone that brought this happiness, just as it brings all the real happiness that ever comes in the world. he sees that it is only what knowledge we have of god that made it possible for him to come back to what ought to be his, his father's welcome home! father sees that it is a demonstration of love, and that is more important than all; for anything that gives us a stronger grasp on the truth, and more understanding of its working, is of the greatest value to us." "didn't grandpa love father before?" asked jewel, in surprise. "yes, but father disappointed him and error crept in between them, so it was only when father began to understand the truth and ask god to help him, that the discord could disappear. isn't it beautiful that it has, jewel?" "i don't think discord is much, mother," declared the little girl. "of course it isn't," returned her mother. "it isn't anything." "when i first came, grandpa had so many things to make him sorry, and everybody else here was sorry--and now nobody is. even aunt madge was happy over the pretty clothes she had to go away with." "and she'll be happy over other things, some day," returned mrs. evringham, who had already gathered a tolerably clear idea of her sister-in-law. "eloise has learned how to help her." "oh, ye--es! _she_ isn't afraid of discord any more." "now we'll study the lesson, darling. think of having all the time we want for it!" after they had finished, mrs. evringham leaned back in the big chair and patted jewel's knee. opening the bag at her side she took out a small box and gave it to the child, who opened it eagerly. a bright little garnet ring reposed on the white velvet. "oh, oh, _oh_!" cried jewel, delighted. she put on the ring, which just fitted, and then hugged her mother before she looked at it again. "dear little anna belle, when you're a big girl"--she began, turning to the doll, but mrs. evringham interrupted. "wait a minute, jewel, here is anna belle's." she took out another box and, ah, what a charming necklace appeared, brilliant with gems which outshone completely the three little garnets. jewel jumped for joy when she had clasped it about the round neck. "oh, mother, mother!" she exclaimed, patting her mother's cheek, "you kept thinking about us every day, didn't you! kiss your grandma, dearie," which the proud and happy anna belle did with a fervor that threatened to damage mrs. evringham's front teeth. "i brought you something else, jewel," said the mother, with her arms around the child. "i did think of you every day, and on the ship going over, it was pretty hard, because i had never been away from my little girl and i didn't know just what she was doing, and i didn't even know the people she was with; so, partly to keep my thoughts from error, i began to--to make something for you." "oh, what was it?" asked jewel eagerly. "i didn't finish it going over, and i had no time to do so until we were on the steamer coming home again. then i was lighter hearted and happier, because i knew my little darling had found green pastures, but--i finished it. i don't know how much you will care for it." jewel questioned the dark eyes and smiling lips eagerly. "what is it, mother; a bag for my skates?" "no." "a--a handkerchief?" "no." "oh, tell me, mother, i can't wait." mrs. evringham put the little girl down from her lap and going to the trunk took from it the only article it still contained. it was a long, flat book with pasteboard covers tied at the back with little ribbons. as she again took her seat in the big chair, jewel leaned against its arm. "it's a scrap-book full of pictures," she said, with interest. for answer her mother turned the cover toward her so she could read the words lettered distinctly upon it. jewel's story book then mrs. evringham ran her finger along the edges of the volume and let the type-written pages flutter before its owner's delighted eyes. "you've made me some stories, mother!" cried jewel. one of the great pleasures and treats of her life had been those rare half hours when her busy mother had time to tell her a story. her eyes danced with delight. "oh, you're the _kindest_ mother!" she went on, "and you'll have time to read them to me now! anna belle, won't it be the most _fun_? oh, mother, we'll go to the ravine to read, won't we?" mrs. evringham's cheeks flushed and she laughed at the child's joy. "i hope they won't disappoint you," she said. "but you wrote them out of love. how can they?" returned the little girl quickly. "that's so, jewel; that's so, dear." chapter viii the quest flower the garden in the ravine had been put into fine order to exhibit to jewel's father and mother. fresh ferns had been planted around the still pond where anna belle's china dolls went swimming, and fresh moss banks had been constructed for their repose. the brook was beginning to lose the impetuosity of spring and now gurgled more quietly between its verdant banks. it delighted jewel that the place held as much charm for her mother as for herself, and that she listened with as hushed pleasure to the songs of birds in the treetops too high to be disturbed by the presence of dwellers on the ground. it was an ideal spot wherein to read aloud, and the early hours of that sunshiny afternoon found the three seated there by the brookside ready to begin the story book. "now i'll read the titles and you shall choose what one we will take first," said mrs. evringham. jewel's attention was as unwinking as anna belle's, as she listened to the names. "anna belle ought to have first choice because she's the youngest. then i'll have next, and you next. anna belle chooses the quest flower; because she loves flowers so and she can't imagine what that means." "very well," returned mrs. evringham, smiling and settling herself more comfortably against a tree trunk. "the little girl in this story loved them too;" and so saying, jewel's mother began to read aloud:-- the quest flower hazel wright learned to love her uncle dick badger very much during a visit he made at her mother's home in boston. she became well acquainted with him. he was always kind to her in his quiet way, and always had time to take her on his knee and listen to whatever she had to tell about her school or her plays, and even took an interest in her doll, ella. mrs. wright used to laugh and tell her brother that he was a wonderful old bachelor, and could give lessons to many a husband and father; upon which uncle dick responded that he had always been fond of assuming a virtue if he had it not; and hazel wondered if "assuming-a-virtue" were a little girl. at any rate, she loved uncle dick and wished he would live with them always; so it will be seen that when it was suddenly decided that hazel was to go home with him to the town where he lived, she was delighted. "father and i are called away on business, hazel," her mother said to her one day, "and we have been wondering what to do with you. uncle dick says he'll take you home with him if you would like to go." "oh, yes, i would," replied the little girl; for it was vacation and she wanted an outing. "uncle dick has a big yard, and ella and i can have fun there." "i'm sure you can. uncle dick's housekeeper, hannah, is a kind soul, and she knew me when i was as little as you are, and will take good care of you." the evening before hazel and her uncle were to leave, mrs. wright spoke to her brother in private. "it seems too bad not to be able to write aunt hazel that her namesake is coming," she said. "is she as bitter as ever?" "oh, yes. no change." "just think of it!" exclaimed mrs. wright. "she lives within a stone's throw of you, and yet can remain unforgiving so many years. let me see--it is eight; for hazel is ten years old, and i know she was two when the trouble about the property camp up; but you did right, dick, and some time aunt hazel must know it." "oh, i think she has lucid intervals when she knows it now," returned mr. badger; "but her pride won't let her admit it. if it amuses her, it doesn't hurt me for her to pass me on the street without a word or a look. when a thing like that has run along for years, it isn't easy to make any change." "oh, but it is so unchristian, so wrong," returned his sister. "if you only had a loving enough feeling, dick, it seems as if you might take her by storm." mr. badger smiled at some memory. "i tried once. she did the storming." he shrugged his shoulders. "i'm a man of peace. i decided to let her alone." mrs. wright shook her head. "well, i haven't told hazel anything about it. she knows she is named for my aunt; but she doesn't know where aunt hazel lives, and i wish you would warn hannah not to tell the child anything about her or the affair. you know we lay a great deal of stress on not voicing discord of my kind." "yes, i know," mr. badger smiled and nodded. 'your methods seem to have turned out a mighty nice little girl, and it's been a wonder to me ever since i came, to see you going about, such a different creature from what you used to be." "yes, i'm well and happy," returned mrs. wright, "and i long to have this trouble between you and aunt hazel at an end. i suppose hazel isn't likely to come in contact with her at all." "no, indeed; no more than if aunt hazel lived in kamschatka. she does, if it's cold enough there." "dear woman. she ignored the last two letters i wrote her, i suppose because i sided with you." "oh, certainly, that would be an unpardonable offense. hannah tells me she has a crippled child visiting her now, the daughter of some friends. hannah persists in keeping an eye on aunt hazel's affairs, and telling me about them. hannah will be pleased to have little hazel to make a pet of for a few weeks." he was right. the housekeeper was charmed. she did everything to make hazel feel at home in her uncle's house, and discovering that the little girl had a passion for flowers, let her make a garden bed of her own. hazel went with her uncle to buy plants for this, and she had great fun taking geraniums and pansies out of their pots and planting them in the soft brown earth of the round garden plot; and every day blue-eyed ella, her doll, sat by and watched hazel pick out every little green weed that had put its head up in the night. "you're only grass, dearie," she would say to one as she uprooted it, "and grass is all right most everywhere; but this is a garden, so run away." not very far down the street was a real garden, though, that gave hazel such joy to look at that she carried ella there every day when it didn't rain, and would have gone every day when it did, only hannah wouldn't let her. the owner of the garden, miss fletcher, at the window where she sat sewing, began to notice the little stranger at last; for the child stood outside the fence with her doll, and gazed and gazed so long each time, that the lady began to regard her with suspicion. "that young one is after my flowers, i'm afraid, flossie," she said one day to the pale little girl in the wheeled chair that stood near another window looking on the street. "i've noticed her ever so many times," returned flossie listlessly. "i never saw her until this week, and she's always alone." "well, i won't have her climbing on my fence!" exclaimed miss fletcher, half laying down her work and watching hazel's movements sharply through her spectacles. "there, she's grabbing hold of a picket now!" she exclaimed suddenly. "i'll see to her in quick order." she jumped up and hurried out of the room, and flossie's tired eyes watched her spare figure as she marched down the garden path. she didn't care if miss fletcher did send the strange child away. what difference could it make to a girl who had the whole world to walk around in, and who could take her doll and go and play in some other pleasant place? as hazel saw miss fletcher coming, she gazed at the unsmiling face looking out from hair drawn back in a tight knot; and miss fletcher, on her part, saw such winning eagerness in the smile that met her, that she modified the sharp reproof ready to spring forth. "get down off the fence, little girl," she said. "you oughtn't ever to hang by the pickets; you'll break one if you do." "oh, yes," returned hazel, getting down quickly. "i didn't think of that. i wanted so much to see if that lily-bud had opened, that looked as if it was going to, yesterday; and it has." "which one?" asked miss fletcher, looking around. "right there behind that second rosebush," replied hazel, holding ella tight with one arm while she pointed eagerly. "oh, yes." miss fletcher went over to the plant. "i think it is the loveliest of all," went on the little girl. "it makes me think of the quest flower." "what's that?" miss fletcher looked at the strange child curiously. "i never heard of it." "it's the perfect flower," returned hazel. "where did you ever see it?" "i never did, but i read about it." "where is it to be bought?" miss fletcher was really interested now, because flowers were her hobby. "in the story it says at the public garden; but i've been to the public garden in boston, and i never saw any i thought were as beautiful as yours." hazel was not trying to win miss fletcher's heart, but she had found the road to it. the care-lined face regarded her more closely than ever. "i don't remember you. i thought i knew all the children around here." "no 'm. i'm a visitor. i live in boston; and we have a flat and of course there isn't any yard, and i think your garden is perfectly beautiful. i come to see it every day, and it's fun to stand out here and count the smells." miss fletcher's face broke into a smile. it did really seem as if it cracked, because her lips had been set in such a tight line. "it ain't very often children like flowers unless they can pick them," she replied. "i can't sleep nights sometimes, wishing my garden wasn't so near the fence." the little girl smiled and pointed to a climbing rose that had strayed from its trellis, and one pink flower that was poking its pretty little face between the pickets. "see that one," she said. "i think it wanted to look up and down the street, don't you?" "and you didn't gather it," returned miss fletcher, looking at hazel approvingly. "well, now, for anybody fond of flowers as you are, i think that was real heroic." "she belongs to nice folks," she decided mentally. "oh, it was a tame flower," returned the child, "and that would have been error. if it had been a wild one i would have picked it." "error, eh?" returned miss fletcher, and again her thin lips parted in a smile. "well, i wish everybody felt that way." "uncle dick lets me have a garden," said hazel. "he let me buy geraniums and pansies and lemon verbena--i love that, don't you?" "yes. i've got a big plant of it back here. wouldn't you like to come in and see it?" "oh, thank you," returned hazel, her gray eyes sparkling; and miss fletcher felt quite a glow of pleasure in seeing the happiness she was conferring by the invitation. most of her friends took her garden as a matter of course; and smiled patronizingly at her devotion to it. in a minute the little girl had run to the gate in the white fence, and, entering, joined the mistress of the house, who stood beside the flourishing plants blooming in all their summer loveliness. for the next fifteen minutes neither of the two knew that time was flying. they talked and compared and smelled of this blossom and that, their unity of interest making their acquaintance grow at lightning speed. miss fletcher was more pleased than she had been for many a day, and as for hazel, when her hostess went down on her knees beside a verbena bed and began taking steel hairpins from her tightly knotted hair, to pin down the luxuriant plants that they might go on rooting and spread farther, the little girl felt that the climax of interest was reached. "i'm going to ask uncle dick," she said admiringly, "if i can't have some verbenas and a paper of hairpins." "dear me," returned miss fletcher, "i wish poor flossie took as much interest in the garden as you do." "'flossie' sounds like a kitten, returned hazel. "she's a little human kitten: a poor little afflicted girl who is making me a visit. you can see her sitting up there in the house, by the window." hazel looked up and caught a glimpse of a pale face. her eyes expressed her wonder. "who afflicted her?" she asked softly. "her heavenly father, for some wise purpose," was the response. "oh, it couldn't have been that!" returned the child, shocked. "you know god is love." "yes, i know," replied miss fletcher, turning to her visitor in surprise at so decided an answer from such a source; "but it isn't for us to question what his love is. it's very different from our poor mortal ideas. there's something the matter with poor flossie's back, and she can't walk. the doctors say it's nervous and perhaps she'll outgrow it; but i think she gets worse all the time." hazel watched the speaker with eyes full of trouble and perplexity. "dear me," she replied, "if you think god made her get that way, who do you think 's going to cure her?" "nobody, it seems. her people have spent more than they can afford, trying and trying. they've made themselves poor, but nobody's helped her so far." hazel's eyes swept over the roses and lilies and then back to miss fletcher's face. the lady was regarding her curiously. she saw that thoughts were hurrying through the mind of the little girl standing there with her doll in her arms. "you look as if you wanted to say something," she said at last. "i don't want to be impolite," returned hazel, hesitating. "well," returned miss fletcher dryly, "if you knew the amount of impoliteness that has been given to me in my time, you wouldn't hesitate about adding a little more. speak out and tell me what you are thinking." "i was thinking how wonderful and how nice it is that flowers will grow for everybody," said hazel, half reluctantly. "how's that?" demanded her new friend, in fresh surprise. "have you decided i don't deserve them?" "oh, you deserve them, of course," replied the child quickly; "but when you have such thoughts about god, it's a wonder his flowers can grow so beautifully in your yard." miss fletcher felt a warmth come into her cheeks. "well," she returned rather sharply, "i should like to know what sort of teaching you've had. you're a big enough girl to know that it's a christian's business to be resigned to the will of god. you don't happen to have seen many, sick folks, i guess--what is your name?" "hazel." "why, that's queer, so is mine; and it isn't a common one." "isn't that nice!" returned the child. "we're both named hazel and we both love flowers so much." "yes; that's quite a coincidence. now, why shouldn't flowers grow for me, i should like to know?" "why, you think god afflicted that little girl's back, and didn't let her walk. why, miss fletcher," the child's voice grew more earnest, "he wouldn't do it any more than i'd kneel down and break the stem of that lovely quest flower and let it hang there and wither." miss fletcher pushed up her spectacles and gazed down into the clear gray eyes. "does flossie think he would?" added hazel with soft amazement. "i suppose she does." "then does she say her prayers just the same?" "of course she does." "what a kind girl she must be!" exclaimed hazel earnestly. "why do you say that?" "because _i_ wouldn't pray to anybody that i believed kept me afflicted." miss fletcher started back. "why, child!" she exclaimed, "i should think you'd expect a thunderbolt. where do your folks go to church, for pity's sake?" "to the christian science church." "oh--h, that's what's the matter with you! some of flossie's relatives have heard about that, and they've been teasing her mother to try it. i'm sure i'd try anything that wasn't blasphemous." "what is blasphemous?" "why--why--anything that isn't respectful to god is blasphemous." "oh!" returned hazel. then she added softly, "i should think you were that, now." "what!" and miss fletcher seemed to tower above her visitor in her amazement. "oh--please excuse me. i didn't mean to be impolite; but if you'll just _try_, you'll find out what a mistake you and flossie have been making, and that god _wants_ to heal her." the two looked at one another for a silent half-minute, the little girl's heart beating faster under the grim gaze. "you might come and see her some day," suggested miss fletcher, at last. "she has a dull time of it, poor child. i've asked the children to come in, and they've all been very kind, but it's vacation, and a good many that i know have gone away." "i will," replied hazel. "doesn't she like to come out here where the flowers are?" "yes; it's been a little too cloudy and threatening to-day, but if it's clear to-morrow i'll wheel her out under the elm-tree, and she'd like a visit from you. are you staying far from here?" "no, uncle dick's is right on this street." "what's his last name?" "mr. badger," replied hazel, and she didn't notice the sudden stiffening that went through miss fletcher. "what is your last name?" asked the lady, in a changed voice. "wright." this time any one who had eyes for something beside the flowers might have seen miss fletcher start. color flew into her thin cheeks, and the eyes that stared at hazel's straw tam-o'-shanter grew dim. this was dear mabel badger's child; her little namesake, her own flesh and blood. her jaw felt rigid as she asked the next question. "have you ever spoken to your uncle dick about my garden?" "yes, indeed. that's why he let me make one; and every night he asks, 'well, how's miss fletcher's garden to-day,' and i tell him all about it" "and didn't he ever say anything to you about me?" "why, no;" the child looked up wonderingly. "he doesn't know you, does he?" "we used to know one another," returned miss fletcher stiffly. richard had certainly behaved very decently in this particular instance. at least he had told no lies. "hazel is such an unusual name," she went on, after a minute. "who were you named for?" "my mother's favorite aunt," returned the child. "where does she live?" "i don't know," replied hazel vaguely. "my mother was talking to me about her the evening before uncle dick and i left boston. she told me how much she loved aunt hazel; but that error had crept in, and they couldn't see each other just now, but that god would bring it all right some day. i have a lovely silver spoon she gave me when i was a baby." miss fletcher stooped to her border and cut a bunch of mignonette with the scissors that hung from her belt. "here's something for you to smell of as you walk home," she said, and hazel saw her new friend's hand tremble as she held out the flowers. "do you ever kiss strangers?" added the hostess as she rose to her feet. hazel held up her face and took hold of miss fletcher's arm as she kissed her. "i think you've been so kind to me," she said warmly. "i've had the best time!" "well, pick the climbing rose as you pass," returned miss fletcher. "it seems to want to see the world. let it go along with you; and don't forget to come to-morrow. i hope it will be pleasant." she stood still, the warm breeze ruffling the thin locks about her forehead, and watched the little girl trip along the walk. the child looked back and smiled as she stopped to pick the pink rose, and when she threw a kiss to miss fletcher, that lady found herself responding. she went into the house with a flush remaining in her cheeks. "how long you stayed, aunt hazel," said the little invalid fretfully as she entered. "i expect i did," returned miss fletcher, and there was a new life in her tone that flossie noticed. "who is that girl?" "her name is hazel wright, and she is living at the badgers'. she's as crazy about flowers as i am, so we had a lot to say. she gave me a lecture on religion, too;" an excited little laugh escaped between the speaker's lips. "she's a very unusual child; and she certainly has a look of the fletchers." "what? i thought you said her name was wright." "it is! my tongue slipped. she's coming to see you to-morrow, flossie. we must fix up your doll. i'll wash and iron her pink dress this very afternoon; for hazel has a beauty doll, herself. i think you'll like that little girl." that evening when uncle dick and hazel were at their supper, mr. badger questioned her as usual about her day. "i've had the most _fun_," she replied. "i've been to see miss fletcher, and she took me into her garden, and we smelled of all the flowers, and had the loveliest time!" hannah was standing behind the little girl's chair, and her eyes spoke volumes as she nodded significantly at her employer. "yes, sir, she told miss fletcher where she was visiting, and she gave her a bunch of mignonette and a rose to bring home." "yes," agreed hazel, "they're in a vase in the parlor now, and she asked me to come to-morrow to see an afflicted girl that's living with her. you know, uncle dick," hazel lifted her eyes to him earnestly, "you know how it says everywhere in the bible that anybody that's afflicted goes to god and he heals them; and what do you think! miss fletcher and that little flossie girl both believe god afflicted her and fixed her back so she can't walk!" mr. badger smiled as he met the wondering eyes. "that isn't christian science, is it?" he returned. "i'd rather never have a garden even like miss fletcher's than to think that," declared hazel, as she went on with her supper. "i feel so sorry for them!" "so you're going over to-morrow," said mr. badger. "what are you going to do; treat the little invalid?" "why, no indeed, not unless she asks me to." "why not?" "because it would be error; it's the worst kind of impoliteness to treat anybody that doesn't ask you to; but i've got to know every minute that her belief is a lie, and that god doesn't know anything about it." "i thought god knew everything," said mr. badger, regarding the child curiously. "he does, of course, everything that's going to last forever and ever: everything that's beautiful and good and strong. whatever god thinks about has _got_ to last." the child lifted her shoulders. "i'm glad he doesn't think about mistakes,--sickness, and everything like that, aren't you?" "i don't want sickness to last forever, i'm sure" returned mr. badger. the following day was clear and bright, and early in the afternoon hazel, dressed in a clean gingham frock, took her doll and walked up the street to miss fletcher's. the wheeled chair was already out under the elm-tree, and flossie was watching for her guest. miss fletcher was sitting near her, sewing, and waiting with concealed impatience for the appearance of the bright face under the straw tam-o'-shanter. as soon as hazel reached the corner of the fence and saw them there, she began to run, her eyes fixed eagerly on the white figure in the wheeled chair. the blue eyes that looked so tired regarded her curiously as she ran up the garden path and across the grass to the large, shady tree. hazel had never been close to a sick person, and something in flossie's appearance and the whiteness of her thin hands that clasped the doll in the gay pink dress brought a lump into the well child's throat and made her heart beat. "dear father, i want to help her!" she said under her breath, and miss fletcher noticed that she had no eyes for her, and saw the wondering pity in her face as she came straight up to the invalid's chair. "flossie wallace, this is hazel wright," she said, and flossie smiled a little under the love that leaped from hazel's eyes into hers. "i'm glad you brought your doll," said flossie. "ella goes everywhere i do," returned hazel. "what's your doll's name?" "bernice; i think bernice is a beautiful name," said flossie. "so do i," returned hazel. then the two children were silent a minute, looking at one another, uncertain how to go on. hazel was the first to speak. "isn't it lovely to live with this garden?" she asked. "yes, aunt hazel has nice flowers." "i have an aunt hazel, too," said the little visitor. "miss fletcher isn't my real aunt, but i call her that," remarked flossie. "and _you_ might do it, too," suggested miss fletcher, looking at hazel, to whom her heart warmed more and more in spite of the astonishing charges of the day before. "do you think i could call you aunt hazel?" asked the child, rather shyly. "for the sake of being cousin to my garden, you might. don't you think so?" "how is the quest flower to-day?" asked hazel. "which? oh, you mean the garden lily. there's another bud." "oh, may i look at it?" cried hazel, "and wouldn't you like to come too?" turning to flossie. "can't i roll your chair?" "yes, indeed," said miss fletcher, pleased. "it rolls very easily. give flossie your doll, too, and we'll all go and see the lily bud." hazel obeyed, and carefully pushing the light chair, they moved slowly toward the spot where the white chalices of the garden lilies poured forth their incense. "miss fletcher," cried hazel excitedly, dropping on her knees beside the bed, "that is going to be the most beautiful of all. when it is perfectly open the plant will be ready to take to the king." the little girl lifted her shoulders and looked up at her hostess, smiling. "what king is going to get my lily?" "the one who will send you on your quest." "what am i to go in quest of?" inquired miss fletcher, much entertained. "i don't know;" hazel shook her head. "every one's errand is different." "what is a quest?" asked flossie. "you tell her, hazel." "why, mother says it's a search for some treasure." "you must tell us this story about the quest flower some day," said miss fletcher. "i have the story of it here," returned hazel eagerly. "i've read it over and over again because i love it, and so mother put it in my trunk with my christian science books. i can bring it over and read it to you, if you want me to. you'd like it, i know, miss fletcher." "aunt hazel told me you were a christian scientist," said flossie. "i never saw one before, but people have talked to mother about it." "i could bring _those_ books over, too," replied hazel wistfully, "and we could read the lesson every day, and perhaps it would make you feel better." "i don't know what it's about," said flossie. "it's about making sick people well and sinful people good." "i'm sinful, too, part of the time," answered flossie. "sometimes i don't like to live, and i wish i didn't have to, and everybody says that's sinful." sudden tears started to miss fletcher's eyes, and as the little girls were looking at one another absorbedly, hazel standing close to the wheeled chair, she stole away, unobserved, to the house. "she ought to be cured," she said to herself excitedly. "she ought to be cured. there's that one more chance, anyway. i've got to where i'm ready to let the babes and sucklings have a try!" chapter ix the quest flower (_continued_) the next morning was rainy, and jewel and her grandfather visited the stable instead of taking their canter. "and what will you do this dismal day?" asked the broker of his daughter-in-law as they stood alone for a minute after breakfast, jewel having run upstairs to get anna belle for the drive to the station. "this happy day," she answered, lifting to him the radiant face that he was always mentally contrasting with madge. "the rain will give me a chance to look at the many treasures you have here, books and pictures." "h'm. you are musical, i know, for jewel has the voice of a lark. do you play the piano?" julia looked wistfully at the steinway grand. "ah, if i only could!" she returned. mr. evringham cleared his throat. "madam," he said, lowering his voice, "that child has a most amazing talent." "jewel's voice, do you mean?" "she'll sing, i'm sure of it," he replied, "but i mean for music in general. eloise is an accomplished pianist. she has one piece that jewel especially enjoyed, the old spring song of mendelssohn. probably you know it." julia shook her head. "i doubt it. i've heard very little good piano playing." "well, madam, that child has picked out the melody of that piece by herself," the broker lowered his voice to still deeper impressiveness. "as soon as we return in the autumn, we will have her begin lessons." julia's eyes met his gratefully. "a very remarkable talent. i am positive of it," he went on. "jewel," for here the child entered the room, "play the spring song for your mother, will you?" "now? zeke is out there, grandpa." "dick can stretch his legs a bit faster this morning. play it." so jewel set anna belle on a brocaded chair and going to the piano, played the melody of the spring song. she could perform only a few measures, but there were no false notes in the little chromatic passages, and her grandfather's eyes sought julia's in grave triumph. "a very marvelous gift," he managed to say to her again under his breath, as jewel at last ran ahead of him out to the porte cochère. julia's eyes grew dreamy as she watched the brougham drive off. how different was to be the future of her little girl from anything she had planned in her rosiest moments of hopefulness. the more she saw of mr. evringham's absorbed attachment to the child, the more grateful she was for the manner in which he had guarded jewel's simplicity, the self-restraint with which he had abstained from loading her with knickknacks or fine clothes. the child was not merely a pet with him. she was an individual, a character whose development he respected. "god keep her good!" prayed the mother. it was a charming place to continue the story, there in the large chintz chair by mrs. evringham's window. the raindrops pattered against the clear glass, the lawn grew greener, and the great trees beyond the gateway held their leaves up to the bath. "anna belle's pond will overflow, i think," said jewel, looking out the window musingly. "and how good for the ferns," remarked her mother. "yes, i'd like to be there, now," said the child. "oh, i think it's much cosier here. i love to hear the rain, too, don't you?" "yes, i do, and we'll have the story now, won't we, mother?" at this moment there was a knock at the door and zeke appeared with an armful of birch wood. "mr. evringham said it might be a little damp up here and i was to lay a fire." "oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed jewel. "mother, wouldn't you like to have a fire while we read?" mrs. evringham assented and zeke laid the sticks on the andirons and let jewel touch the lighted match to the little twigs. "i have the loveliest book, zeke," she said, when the flames leaped up. "my mother made it for me, and you shall read it if you want to." "yes, if zeke wants to," put in mrs. evringham, smiling, "but you'd better find out first if he does. this book was written for little girls with short braids." "oh, zeke and i like a great many of the same things," responded jewel earnestly. "that's so, little kid," replied the young coachman, "and as long as you're going to stay here, i'll read anything you say." "you see," explained jewel, when he had gone out and closed the door softly, "zeke said it made his nose tingle every time he thought of anybody else braiding star's tail, so he's just as glad as anything that we're not going away." the birch logs snapped merrily, and anna belle sat in jewel's lap watching the leaping flame, while mrs. evringham leaned back in her easy chair. the reading had been interrupted yesterday by the arrival of the hour when mrs. evringham had engaged to take a drive with her father-in-law. jewel accompanied them, riding star, and it was great entertainment to her mother to watch the child's good management of the pretty pony who showed by many shakes of the head and other antics that it had not been explained to his satisfaction why essex maid was left out of this good time. jewel turned to her mother. "we're all ready now, aren't we? do go on with the story. i told grandpa about it, driving to the station this morning, and what do you suppose he asked me?" the child drew in her chin. "he asked me if i thought flossie was going to get well!" mrs. evringham smiled. "well, we'll see," she replied, opening the story-book. "where were we?" "miss fletcher had just gone into the house and flossie had just said she was sinful. she wasn't to blame a bit!" "oh, yes, here it is," said mrs. evringham, and she began to read:-- * * * * * as hazel met flossie's look, her heart swelled and she wished her mother were here to take care of this little girl who had fallen into such a sad mistake. "i wish i knew how to tell you better, flossie, about god being love," she said; "but he is, and he didn't send you your trouble." "perhaps he didn't send it," returned flossie, "but he thinks it's good for me to have it or else he'd let the doctors cure me. i've had the kindest doctors you ever heard of, and they know everything about people's backs." "but god will cure you, himself," said hazel earnestly. a strange smile flitted over the sick child's lips. "oh, no, he won't. i asked him every night for a year, and over and over all day; but i never ask him now." "oh, flossie, i know what's the truth, but i don't know how to tell about it very well; but everything about you that seems not to be the image and likeness of god is a lie; and he doesn't see lies, and so he doesn't know these mistakes you're thinking; but he _does_ know the strong, well girl you really are, and he'll help _you_ to know it, too, when you begin to think right." the sincerity and earnestness in her visitor's tone brought a gleam of interest into flossie's eyes. "just think of being well and running around here with me, and think that god wants you to!" "oh, do you believe he does?" returned flossie doubtfully. "mother says it will do my soul good for me to be sick, if i can't get well." hazel shook her head violently. "you know when jesus was on earth? well, he never told anybody it was better for them to be sick. he healed everybody, _everybody_ that asked him, and he came to do the will of his father; so god's will doesn't change, and it's just the same now." there was a faint color in flossie's cheeks. "if i was sure god wanted me to get well, why then i'd know i would some time." "of course he does; but you didn't know how to ask him right." "do _you_?" asked flossie. hazel nodded. "yes; not so well as mother, but i do know a little, and if you want me to, i'll ask him for you." "well, of course i do," returned flossie, regarding her visitor with grave, wondering eyes. in a minute miss fletcher, watching the children through a window, beheld something that puzzled her. she saw hazel roll flossie's chair back under the elm-tree, and saw her sit down on the grass beside it and cover her eyes with both hands. "what game are they playing?" she asked herself; and she smiled, well pleased by the friendship that had begun. "i wish health was catching," she sighed. "little hazel's a picture. i wonder how long it'll be before she finds out who i am. i wonder what richard's idea is in not telling her." she moved about the house a few minutes, and then returned, curiously, to the window. to her surprise matters were exactly as she saw them last. flossie was, holding both dolls in the wheeled chair, and hazel was sitting under the tree, her hands over her eyes. a wave of amazement and amusement swept over miss fletcher, and she struck her hands together noiselessly. "i _do_ believe in my heart," she exclaimed, "that hazel wright is giving flossie one of those absent treatments they tell about! well, if i ever in all my born days!" there was no more work for miss fletcher after this, but a restless moving about the room until she saw hazel bound up from the ground. then she hurried out of the house and walked over to the tree. hazel skipped to meet her, her face all alight. "oh, miss fletcher, flossie wants to be healed by christian science. if my mother was only here she could turn to all the places in the bible where it tells about god being love and healing sickness." miss fletcher noted the new expression in the invalid's usually listless face, and the new light in her eyes. "i'll take my bible," she answered, "and a concordance. i'll bring them right now. you children go on playing and i'll find all the references i can, and flossie and i will read them after you've gone." miss fletcher brought her books out under the tree, and with pencil and paper made her notes while the children played with their dolls. "let's have them both your children, flossie," said hazel. "oh, yes," replied flossie, "and they'll both be sick, and you be the doctor and come and feel their pulses. aunt hazel has my doll's little medicine bottles in the house. she'll tell you where they are." hazel paused. "let's not play that," she returned, "because--it isn't fun to be sick and--you're going to be all done with sickness." "all right," returned flossie; but it had been her principal play with her doll, bernice, who had recovered from such a catalogue of ills that it reflected great credit on her medical man. "i'll be the maid," said hazel, "and you give me the directions and i'll take the children to drive and to dancing-school and everywhere you tell me." "and when they're naughty," returned flossie, "you bring them to me to spank, because i can't let my servants punish my children." hazel paused again. "let's play you're a christian scientist," she said, "and you have a christian science maid, then there won't be any spanking; because if error creeps in, you'll know how to handle it in mind." "oh!" returned flossie blankly. but hazel was fertile in ideas, and the play proceeded with spirit, owing to the lightning speed with which the maid changed to a coachman, and thence to a market-man or a gardener, according to the demands of the situation. miss fletcher, her spectacles well down on her nose, industriously searched out her references and made record of them, her eyes roving often to the white face that was fuller of interest than she had ever seen it. when four o'clock came, she went back to the house and returned with flossie's lap table, which she leaned against the tree trunk. this afternoon lunch for the invalid was always accomplished with much coaxing on miss fletcher's part, and great reluctance on flossie's. the little girl took no notice now of what was coming. she was too much engrossed in hazel's efforts to induce miss fletcher's maltese cat to allow bernice to take a ride on his back. but when the hostess returned from the house the second time, hazel gave an exclamation. miss fletcher was carrying a tray, and upon it was laid out a large doll's tea-set. it was of white china with gold bands, and when flossie saw hazel's admiration, she exclaimed too. "this was my tea-set when i was a little girl," said miss fletcher, "and i was always very choice of it. twenty years ago i had a niece your age, hazel, who used to think it was the best fun in the world to come to aunt hazel's and have lunch off her doll's tea-set. i used to tell her i was going to give it to _her_ little girl if she ever had one." both children exclaimed admiringly over the quaint shape of the bowl and pitchers, as miss fletcher deposited the tray on her sewing-table. "when i was a child we didn't smash up handsome toys the way children do nowadays. they weren't so easy to get." "and didn't your niece ever have a little girl?" asked flossie, beginning to think that in such a case perhaps these dear dishes might come to be her own. "yes, she did," replied miss fletcher kindly, and as she looked at the guest's interested little face her eyes were thoughtful. "i shall give them to her some day." "has she ever seen them?" asked hazel. "once. i thought you children must be hungry after your games, and you'd like a little lunch." this idea was so pleasing to hazel that flossie caught her enthusiasm. "you'll be the mistress and pour, flossie, and i'll be the waitress," she said. "won't it be the most _fun_! i suppose, ma'am, you'll like to have the children come to the table?" she added, with sudden respectfulness of tone. "yes," returned flossie, with elegant languor. "i think it teaches them good manners." and then the waitress forgot herself so far as to hop up and down; for miss fletcher, who had returned to the house, now reappeared bearing a tray of eatables and drinkables. what a good time the children had, with the sewing-table for a sideboard, and the lap-table fixed firmly across flossie's chair. "are you sure you aren't getting too tired, dear?" asked miss fletcher of her invalid, doubtfully. "wouldn't you rather the waitress poured?" but flossie declared she was feeling well, and hazel looked up eagerly into miss fletcher's eyes and said, "you know she can't get too tired unless we're doing wrong." "oh, indeed!" returned the hostess dryly. "then there's nothing to fear, for she's doing the rightest kind of right." when the table was set forth, two small plates heaped high with bread-and-butter sandwiches, a coffee-pot and milk-pitcher of beaten egg and milk, a tea-pot of grape juice, one dish of nuts and another of jelly, the waitress's eyes spoke so eloquently that flossie mercifully dismissed her on the spot, and invited a lady of her acquaintance to the feast, who immediately drew up a chair with eager alacrity. miss fletcher seated herself again and looked on with the utmost satisfaction, while the children laughed and ate, and when the sandwich plates and coffee-pot and tea-pot and milk-pitcher were all emptied, she replenished them from the well-furnished sideboard. "my, i wish i was aunt hazel's real little niece!" exclaimed flossie, enchanted with pouring from the delightful china. "so do i wish i was," said hazel, looking around at her hostess with a smile that was returned. when hazel sat down to supper at home that evening, she had plenty to tell of the delightful afternoon, which made mr. badger and hannah open their eyes to the widest, although she did not suspect how she was astonishing them. "i tell you," she added, in describing the luncheon, "we were careful not to break that little girl's dishes. oh, i wish you could see them. they're the most be-_au_tiful you ever saw. they're so big--big enough for a child's real ones that she could use herself." "i judge you did use them," said uncle dick. "well, i guess we did! miss fletcher--she wants me to call her aunt hazel, uncle dick!" the child looked up to observe the effect of this. he nodded. "do it, then. perhaps she'll forget and give you the dishes." hazel laughed. "well, anyway, she said flossie'd eaten as much as she usually did in two whole days. isn't it beautiful that she's going to get well?" "i wouldn't talk to her too much about it," returned mr. badger. "it would be cruel to disappoint her." this sort of response was new to hazel. she gazed at her uncle a minute. "that's error," she said at last. "god doesn't disappoint people. they'll get some grown-up scientist, but until they do, i'll declare the truth for flossie every day. she'll get well. you'll see. "i hope so," returned mr. badger quietly. old hannah gave her employer a wink over the child's head. "you might ask them to come here by your garden and have lunch some day, hazel. i'll fix things up real nice for you, even if we haven't got any baby dishes." "i'd love to," returned hazel, "and i expect they'd love to come. to-morrow i'm going to take the lesson over and read it with them, and i'm going to read them the 'quest flower,' too. it's a story that aunt hazel will just love. i think she has one in her yard." "well, mr. richard," said hannah, after their little visitor had gone to bed, "i see the end of one family feud." mr. badger smiled. "when miss fletcher consents to take lunch in my yard, i shall see it, too," he replied. the next day was pleasant, also, and when hazel appeared outside her aunt's fence, flossie was sitting under the tree and waved a hand to her. the white face looked pleased and almost eager, and miss fletcher called:-- "come along, hazel. i guess flossie got just tired enough yesterday. she slept last night the best she has since she came." "yes," added the little invalid, smiling as her new friend drew near, "the night seemed about five minutes long." "that's the way it does to me," returned hazel. she had her doll and some books in her arms, and miss fletcher took the latter from her. "h'm, h'm," she murmured, as she looked over the titles. "you have something about christian science here." "yes, i thought i'd read to-day's lesson to flossie before i treated her, and you'd let us take your bible." "i certainly will. i can tell you, hazel, flossie and i were surprised at the number of good verses and promises i read to her last evening. anybody ought to sleep well after them." hazel looked glad, and miss fletcher let her run into the house to bring the bible, for it was on the hall table in plain sight. while she was gone the hostess smoothed flossie's hair. "i can tell you, my dear child, that reading all those verses to you last night made me feel that we don't any of us live up to our lights very well. 'tisn't always a question of sick bodies, flossie." hazel came bounding back to the elm-tree, and sitting down near the wheeled chair, opened the bible and two of the books she had brought, and proceeded to read the lesson. had she been a few years older, she would not have attempted this without a word of explanation to two people to whom many of the terms of her religion were strange, but no doubts assailed her. the little white girl in the wheeled chair was going to get out of it and run around and be happy--that was all hazel knew, and she proceeded in the only way she knew of to bring it about. miss fletcher's thin lips parted as she listened to the sentences that the child read. she understood scarcely more than flossie of what they were hearing, excepting the bible verses, and these did not seem to bear on the case. it was hazel's perfectly unhesitating certainty of manner and voice which most impressed her, and when the child had finished she continued to stare at her unconsciously. "now," said hazel, returning her look, "i guess i'd better treat her before we begin to play." her hostess started. "oh!" she ejaculated, "then i suppose you'd rather be alone." "yes, it's easier," returned the little girl. miss fletcher, feeling rather embarrassed, gathered up her sewing and moved off to the house. "if i ever in all my born days!" she thought again. "what would flossie's mother say! well, that dear little girl's prayers can't do any harm, and if she isn't a smart young one i never saw one. she's fletcher clear through. i'd like to know what richard badger thinks of her. if she'd give _him_ a few absent treatments it might do him some good." miss fletcher's lips took their old grim line as she added this reflection, but she was not altogether comfortable. her nephew's action in withholding from hazel the fact that it was her aunt whom she was visiting daily could scarcely have other than a kindly motive; and that long list of bible references which she had read to flossie last evening had stirred her strangely. there was one, "he that loveth not, knoweth not god, for god is love," which had followed her to bed and occupied her thoughts for some time. now she went actively to work preparing the luncheon which she intended serving to the children later. "and i'd better fix enough for two laboring men," she thought, smiling. later, when she went back under the tree, her little guest skipped up to her. "oh, aunt hazel," she said, and the address softened the hostess's eyes, "won't you and flossie come to-morrow afternoon if it's pleasant, and have lunch beside my garden?" miss fletcher's face changed. this was a contingency that had not occurred to her. "oh, do say yes," persisted the child. "i want you to see my flowers, and flossie says she'd love to. i'll come up and wheel her down there." "flossie can go some day, yes," replied aunt hazel reluctantly; "but i don't visit much. i'm set in my ways." "hannah, uncle dick's housekeeper, suggested it herself," pursued hazel, thinking that perhaps her own invitation was not sufficient, "and i know uncle dick would be glad. you said," with sudden remembrance, "that you used to know him." miss fletcher's lips were their grimmest. "i've spanked him many a time," she replied deliberately. "spanked him!" repeated the child, staring in still amazement. the grim lips crept into a grimmer smile. "not very hard; not hard _enough_, i've thought a good many times since." hazel recovered her breath. "you knew him when he was little?" "i certainly did. no, child, don't ask me to go out of my tracks. you come here all you will, and if you'll be very careful you can wheel flossie up to your garden some day. come, now, are you going to read us that story? i see you brought it." "yes, i brought it," replied hazel, in a rather subdued voice. she saw that there was some trouble between this kind, new friend and her dear uncle dick, and the discovery astonished her. how could grown-up people not forgive one another? miss fletcher seated herself again with her sewing, and hazel took the little white book and sat down close by the wheeled chair where flossie was holding both the dolls. "do you like stories?" she asked. "yes, when they're not interesting," returned flossie; "but when mother brings a book and says it's very interesting, i know i shan't like it." hazel laughed. "well, hear this," she said, and began to read:-- * * * * * once there was a very rich man whose garden was his chief pride and joy. in all the country around, people knew about this wonderful garden, and many came from miles away to look at the rare trees and shrubs, and the beautiful vistas through which one could gain glimpses of blue water where idle swans floated and added their snowy beauty to the scene. but loveliest of all were the rare flowers, blossoming profusely and rejoicing every beholder. it was the ambition of the man's life to have the most beautiful garden in the world; and so many strangers as well as friends told him that it was so that he came to believe it and to be certain that no beauty could be added to his enchanting grounds. one evening, as he was strolling about the avenues, he strayed near the wall and suddenly became aware of a fragrance so sweet and strange that he started and looked about him to find its source. becoming more and more interested each moment, as he could find only such blossoms as were familiar to him, he at last perceived that the wonderful perfume floated in from the public way which ran just without the wall. instantly calling a servant he dispatched him to discover what might be the explanation of this delightful mystery. the servant sped and found a youth bearing a jar containing a plant crowned with a wondrous pure white flower which sent forth this sweetness. the servant endeavored to bring the bearer to his master, but the youth steadily refused; saying that, the plant being now in perfection, he was carrying it to the king, for in his possession it would never fade. the servant returning with this news, the owner of the garden hastened, himself, and overtook the young man. when his eyes beheld the wondrous plant, he demanded it at any price. "i cannot part with it to you," returned the youth, "but do you not know that at the public garden a bulb of this flower is free to all?" "i never heard of it," replied the man, with excitement, "but to grow it must be difficult. promise me to return and tend it for me until i possess a plant as beautiful as yours." "that would be useless," returned the youth, "for every man must tend his own; and as for me, the king will send me on a quest when he has received this flower, and i shall not return this way." his face was radiant as he proceeded on his road, and the rich man, filled with an exceeding longing, hastened to the public garden and made known his desire. he was given a bulb, and was told that the king provided it, but that when the plant was in flower it must be carried to him. the man agreed, and returning to his house, rejoicing, caused the bulb to be planted in a beautiful spot set apart for its reception. but, strangely, as time went on, his gardeners could not make this plant grow. the man sent out for experts, men with the greatest wisdom concerning the ways of flowers, but still the bulb rested passive. the man offered rewards, but in vain. his garden was still famous and praised for its beauty far and near; but it pleased him no longer. his heart ached with longing for the one perfect flower. one night he lay awake, mourning and restless, until he could bear it no more. he rose, the only waking figure in the sleeping castle, and went out upon a balcony. a flood of moonlight was turning his garden to silver, and suddenly a nightingale's sobbing song pulsed upon the air and filled his heart to bursting. wrapping his mantle about him, he descended a winding stair and walked to where, in the centre of the garden, reposed his buried hope. no one was by to witness the breaking down of his pride. he knelt, and swift tears fell upon the earth and moistened it. what wonder was this? he brushed away the blinding drops, the better to see, for a little green shoot appeared from the brown earth, and, with a leap of the heart, he perceived that his flower had begun to grow. every succeeding night, while all in the castle were sleeping, he descended to the garden and tended the plant. steadily it grew, and finally the bud appeared, and one fair day it burst into blossom and filled the whole garden with its perfume. the thought of parting with this treasure tugged at the man's very heartstrings. "the king has many, how many, who can tell! must i give up mine to him? not yet. not quite yet!" so he put off carrying away the perfect flower from one day to the next, till at last it fell and was no more worthy. ah, then what sadness possessed the man's soul! he vowed that he would never rest until he had brought another plant to perfection and given it to the king; for he realized, at last, that only by giving it, could its loveliness become perennial. yet he mourned his perfect flower, for it seemed to him no other would ever possess such beauty. so he set forth again to the public garden, but there a great shock awaited him. he found that no second bulb could be vouchsafed to any one. very sadly he retraced his steps and carefully covered the precious bulb, hoping that when the season of storm and frost was past, there might come to it renewed life. as soon as the spring began to spread green loveliness again across the landscape, the man turned, with a full heart, to the care and nurture of his hope. the winter of waiting had taught him many a lesson. he tended the plant now with his own hands, in the light of day and in the sight of all men. long he cherished it, and steadily it grew, and the man's thought grew with it. finally the bud appeared, increasing and beautifying daily, until, one morning, a divine fragrance spread beyond the farthest limits of that garden, for the flower had bloomed, spotless, fit for a holy gift; and the man looked upon it humbly and not as his own; but rejoiced in the day of its perfection that he might leave all else behind him, and, carrying it to the king, lay it at his feet and receive his bidding; and so go forth upon his joyous quest. * * * * * hazel closed the book. flossie was watching her attentively. miss fletcher had laid down her sewing and was wiping her spectacles. "did you like it?" asked hazel. "yes," replied flossie. "i wish i knew what that flower was." "mother says the blossom is consecration," replied hazel. "i forget what she said the bulb was. what do you think it was, aunt hazel?" "humility, perhaps," replied miss fletcher. "yes, that's just what she said! i remember now. oh, let's go and look at yours and see how the bud is to-day." hazel sprang up from the grass and carefully pushed flossie's chair to the flower-bed. "oh, aunt hazel, it's nearly out," she cried, and miss fletcher, who had remained behind still polishing her spectacles with hands that were not very steady, felt a little frightened leap of the heart. she wished the quest flower would be slower. the afternoon was as happy a one to the children as that of the day before. they greatly enjoyed the dainty lunch from the little tea-set. they had cocoa to-day instead of the beaten egg and milk; then, just before hazel went home, miss fletcher let her water the garden with a fascinating sprinkler that whirled and was always just about to deluge either the one who managed it or her companions. in the child's little hands it was a dangerous weapon, but miss fletcher very kindly and patiently helped her to use it, for she saw the pleasure she was bestowing. that night hazel had a still more joyous tale to tell of her happy day; and uncle dick went out doors with her after supper and watched her water her own garden bed and listened to her chatter with much satisfaction. "so miss fletcher doesn't care to come and lunch in my yard," he remarked. "no," returned hazel, pausing and regarding him. "she says she used to know you well enough to spank you, too." mr. badger laughed. "she certainly did." "then error must have crept in," said the little girl, "that she doesn't know you now." "i used to think it had, when she got after me." the child observed his laughing face wistfully, "she didn't know how to handle it in mind, did she?" "not much. a slipper was good enough for her." "well, i don't see what's the matter," said hazel. "'tisn't necessary, little one. you go on having a good time. everything will come out all right some day." as mr. badger spoke he little knew what activity was taking place in his aunt's thought. her heart had been touched by the surprising arrival and sympathy of her namesake, and her conscience had been awakened by the array of golden words from the bible which she had not studied much during late bitter years. the story of the quest flower, falling upon her softened heart, seemed to hold for her a special meaning. in the late twilight that evening she stood alone in her garden, and the opening chalice of the perfect lily shone up at her through the dusk. "only a couple of days, at most," she murmured, "not more than a couple of days--and humility was the root!" when it rained the following morning, flossie looked out the window rather disconsolately; but after dinner her face brightened, for she saw hazel coming up the street under an umbrella. tightly held in one arm were ella and a bundle of books and doll's clothes. miss fletcher welcomed the guest gladly, and, after disposing of her umbrella, left the children together and took her sewing upstairs where she sat at work by a window, frowning and smiling by turns at her own thoughts. occasionally she looked down furtively at her garden, where in plain view the quest flower drank in the warm rain and opened--opened! by this time flossie and hazel were great friends, and the expression of the former's face had changed even in three days, until one would forget to call her an afflicted child. they had the lesson and the treatment this afternoon, and then their plays, and when lunch time came the appetites of the pair did not seem to have been injured by their confinement to the house. when the time came for hazel to go it had ceased raining, and miss fletcher went with her to the gate. "oh, oh, aunt hazel--see the quest flower!" exclaimed the child. true, a lily, larger, fairer than all the rest, reared itself in stately purity in the centre of the bed. miss fletcher turned and looked at it with startled eyes and pressed her hand to her heart. "why can't the thing give a body time to make up her mind!" she murmured. "oh, to-morrow, _to-morrow_, aunt hazel, the sun will come out, and i know just how that lily will look. it will be fit to take to the king!" miss fletcher passed her arm around the child's shoulders. "i want you to stay to supper with us to-morrow night, dear. ask your uncle if you may." "thank you, i'd love to," returned the child, and was skipping off. "wait a minute." miss fletcher stooped and with her scissors cut a moss rose so full of sweetness that as she handed it to her guest, hazel hugged her. the following day was fresh and bright. flossie's best pink gown and hair ribbons made her look like a rose, herself, to hazel, as the little girl, very fine in a white frock and ribbons, came skipping up the street. miss fletcher stood watching them as her niece ran toward the wheeled chair. the lustre in flossie's eyes made her heart glad; but the visitor stopped short in the midst of the garden and clasped her hands. "oh, aunt hazel!" she cried, "the quest flower!" miss fletcher nodded and slowly drew near. the stately lily looked like a queen among her subjects. "yes, it is to-day," she said softly, "to-day." she could not settle to her sewing, but, leaving the children together for their work and play, walked up and down the garden paths. later she went into the house and upstairs and put on her best black silk dress. an unusual color came into her cheeks while she dressed. "the bulb was humility," she murmured over and over, under her breath. the afternoon was drawing to a close when miss fletcher at last moved out of doors and to the elm-tree. "i didn't bring you any lunch to-day," she said to the children, "because i want you to be hungry for a good supper." "can we have the dishes just the same?" asked flossie. "the owner is going to have them to-night," replied miss fletcher, and both the little girls regarded her flushed face with eager curiosity. "why, have you asked her?" they cried together. "yes." "does she know she's going to have the tea-set?" "no." "oh, what fun!" exclaimed flossie. "i didn't know she was in town." "yes, she is in town." miss fletcher turned to hazel and put her hand on the child's shoulder. "we must do everything we can to celebrate taking the flower to the king." only then the children noticed that aunt hazel had her bonnet on. "oh," cried the child, bewildered, "are you going to _do_ it?" miss fletcher met her radiant eyes thoughtfully. "if i should take the flower of consecration to the king, hazel, i know what would be the first errand he would give me to do. i am going to do it now. go on playing. i shan't be gone long." she moved away down the garden path and out of the gate. "what do you suppose it is?" asked flossie. "i don't know," returned hazel simply. "something right;" and then they took up their dolls again. miss fletcher did not return very soon. in fact, nearly an hour had slipped away before she came up the street, and then a man was with her. as they entered the gate hazel looked up. "uncle dick, uncle dick!" she cried gladly, jumping up and running to meet him. he and miss fletcher both looked very happy, as they all moved over to flossie's chair. mr. badger's kind eyes looked down into hers and he carried her into the house in his strong arms. hazel followed, rolling the chair and having many happy thoughts; but she did not understand even a little of the situation until they all went into the dining-room and flossie was carefully seated in the place the hostess indicated. the white and gold tea-set was not in front of flossie this time, but grouped about another place. hazel's quick eyes noted that there were four seats, but before she had time to speak of the expected child--happy owner of the tea-set--uncle dick spoke:-- "where do i go, aunt hazel?" the child's eyes widened at such familiarity. "why, uncle dick!" she ejaculated. he and the hostess both regarded her, smiling. "she is my aunt," he said; and then he lifted hazel into the chair before the pretty china. "i believe these are your dishes," he added. the child leaned back in her chair and looked from one to another. slowly, slowly, she understood. that was the aunt hazel who gave her the silver spoon. it had been aunt hazel all the time! she suddenly jumped down from her chair, and, running to miss fletcher, hugged her without a word. aunt hazel embraced her very tenderly. "yes, my lamb," she whispered, "error crept in, but it has crept out again, i hope forever;" and through the wide-open windows came the perfume of the quest flower: pure, strong, beautiful,--radiantly white in the evening glow. * * * * * before hazel went back to boston, flossie's mother came to miss fletcher's, and the change for the better in her little daughter filled her with wonder and joy. with new hope she followed the line of treatment suggested by a little girl, and by the time another summer came around, two happy children played again in aunt hazel's garden, both as free as the sweet air and sunshine, for divine love had made flossie "every whit whole." chapter x the apple woman's story jewel told her grandfather all about it that day while they were having their late afternoon ride. "and so the little girl got well," he commented. "yes, and could run and play and have the most _fun_!" returned jewel joyously. "and aunt hazel made it up with her nephew." "yes. why don't people know that all they have to do is to put on more love to one another? just supposing, grandpa, that you hadn't loved me so much when i first came." "h'm. it _is_ fortunate that i was such an affectionate old fellow!" "mother says we all have to tend the flower and carry it to the king before we're really happy. do you know it made us both think of the same thing when at last the man did it." "what was that?" "our hymn:-- 'my hope i cannot measure, my path in life is free, my father has my treasure and he will walk with me!' don't you begin to love mother very much, grandpa?" "she is charming." "of course she isn't your real relation, the way i am." "oh, come now. she's my daughter." jewel smiled at him doubtfully. "but so is aunt madge," she returned. "why, jewel, i'm surprised that any one who looks so tall as you do in a riding skirt shouldn't know more than that! mrs. harry evringham is _your_ mother." "i never thought of that," returned the child seriously. "why, so she is." "that brings her very close, very close, you see," said mr. evringham, and his reasoning was clear as daylight to jewel. at dinner that evening she was still further reassured. the child did not know that the maids in the house, having been scornfully informed by aunt madge of mrs. harry's business, were prepared to serve her grudgingly, and regard her visit as being merely on sufferance despite mrs. forbes's more optimistic view. but the spirit that looked out of mrs. evringham's dark eyes and dwelt in the curves of her lips came and saw and conquered. jewel had won the hearts of the household, and already its unanimous voice, after the glimpses it had had of her mother during two days, was that it was no wonder. even the signs of labor that appeared in julia's pricked fingers made the serenity of her happy face more charming to her father-in-law. she had jewel's own directness and simplicity, her appreciation and enjoyment of all beauty, the child's own atmosphere of unexacting love and gratitude. every half hour that mr. evringham spent with her lessened his regret at having burned his bridges behind him. "now, you mustn't be lonely here, julia," he said, that evening at dinner. "i have come to be known as something of a hermit by choice; but while madge and eloise lived with me, i fancy they had a good many callers, and they went out, to the mild degree that society smiles upon in the case of a recent widow and orphan. they were able to manage their own affairs; but you are a stranger in a strange land. if you desire society, give me a hint and i will get it for you." "oh, no, father!" replied julia, smiling. "there is nothing i desire less." "mother'll get acquainted with the people at church," said jewel, "and i know she'll love mr. and mrs. reeves. they're grandpa's friends, mother." "yes," remarked mr. evringham, busy with his dinner, "some of the best people in bel-air have gone over to this very strange religion of yours, julia. i shan't be quite so conspicuous in harboring two followers of the faith as i should have been a few years ago." "no, it is becoming quite respectable," returned julia, with twinkling eyes. "three, grandpa, you have three here," put in jewel. "you didn't count zeke." mrs. evringham looked up kindly at mrs. forbes, who stood by, as usual, in her neat gown and apron. "zeke is really in for it, eh, mrs. forbes?" mr. evringham asked the question without glancing up. "yes, sir, and i have no objection. i'm too grateful for the changes for the better in the boy. if jewel had persuaded him to be a fire worshiper i shouldn't have lifted my voice. i'd have said to myself, 'what's a little more fire here, so long as there'll be so much less hereafter.'" mrs. evringham laughed and the broker shook his head. "mrs. forbes, mrs. forbes, i'm afraid your orthodoxy is getting rickety," he said. "how about your own, father?" asked julia. "oh, i'm a passenger. you see, i know that jewel will ask at the heavenly gate if i can come in, and if they refuse, they won't get her, either. that makes me feel perfectly safe." jewel watched the speaker seriously. mr. evringham met her thoughtful eyes. "oh, they'll want you, jewel. don't you be afraid." "i'm not afraid. how could i be? but i was just wondering whether you didn't know that you'll have to do your own work, grandpa." he looked up quickly and met julia's shining eyes. "dear me," he responded, with an uncomfortable laugh. "don't i get out of it?" the next morning when jewel had driven back from the station, and she and her mother had studied the day's lesson, they returned to the ravine, taking the story book with them. before settling themselves to read, they counted the new wild flowers that had unfolded, and jewel sprinkled them and the ferns, from the brook. "did you ever see anybody look so pretty as anna belle does, in that necklace?" exclaimed jewel, fondly regarding her child, enthroned against the snowy trunk of a little birch-tree. "it isn't going to be your turn to choose the story this morning, dearie. here, i'll give you a daisy to play with." "wait, jewel, i think anna belle would rather see it growing until we go, don't you?" "would you, dearie? yes, she says she would; but when we go, we'll take the sweet little thing and let it have the fun of seeing grandpa's house and what we're all doing." "it seems such a pity, to me, to pick them and let them wither," said mrs. evringham. "why, i think they only seem to wither, mother," replied jewel hopefully. "a daisy is an idea of god, isn't it?" "yes, dear." "when one seems to wither and go out of sight, we only have to look around a little, and pretty soon we see the daisy idea again, standing just as white and bright as ever, because god's flowers don't fade." "that's so, jewel," returned the mother quietly. the child drew a long breath. "i've thought a lot about it, here in the ravine. at first i thought perhaps picking a violet might be just as much error as killing a bluebird; and then i remembered that we pick the flower for love, and it doesn't hurt it nor its little ones; but nobody ever killed a bird for love." mrs. evringham nodded. "now it's my turn to choose," began jewel, in a different tone, settling herself near the seat her mother had taken. mrs. evringham opened the book and again read over the titles of the stories. "let's hear 'the apple woman's story,'" said jewel, when she paused. her mother looked up. "do you remember good old chloe, who used to come every saturday to scrub for me? well, something she told me of an experience she once had, when she was a little girl, put the idea of this tale into my head; and i'll read you the apple woman's story franz and emilie and peter wenzel were little german children, born in america. their father was a teacher, and his children were alone with him except for the good old german woman, anna, who was cook and nurse too in the household. she tried to teach franz and emilie to be good children, and took great care of peter, the sturdy three-year-old boy, a fat, solemn baby, whose hugs were the greatest comfort his father had in the world. franz and emilie had learned german along with their english by hearing it spoken in the house, and it was a convenience at times, for instance, when they wished to say something before the colored apple woman which they did not care to have her understand; but the apple woman did not think they were polite when they used an unknown tongue before her. "go off fum here," she would say to them when they began to talk in german. "none o' that lingo round my stand. go off and learn manners." and when franz and emilie found she was in earnest they would ask her to forgive them in the politest english they were acquainted with; for they were very much attached to the clean, kind apple woman, whose stand was near their father's house. they admired her bright bandana headdress and thought her the most interesting person in the world. as for the apple woman, she had had so many unpleasant experiences with teasing children that she did not take franz and emilie into her favor all at once, but for some time accepted their pennies and gave them their apples when they came to buy, watching them suspiciously with her sharp eyes to make sure that they were not intending to play her any trick. but even before they had become regular customers she decided under her breath that they were "nice chillen;" and when she came to know them better her kind heart overflowed to them. one morning as they smiled and nodded to her on the way to school, she called out and beckoned. "apples for the little baskets?" "not to-day," answered emilie. she beckoned to them again with determination, and the children approached. "we forgot to brush our teeth last night," explained franz, "so we haven't any penny." "i forgot it," said emilie, "and franz didn't remind me, so we neither of us got it. that's the way anna makes us remember." "never you mind, honey, here's apples for love," replied the colored woman, holding up two rosy beauties. the children looked at one another and shook their heads. "thank you," said emilie, "but we can't. papa said the last time you gave them to us that if we ate your apples without paying for them we mustn't come to visit you any more." "now think o' that!" exclaimed the apple woman when the children had gone on. she was much touched and pleased to know that franz and emilie would rather come and sit and talk to her and listen to her stories than to eat her apples. she was right; they were nice children; but they had their naughty times, and good old anna was often greatly troubled by them. she felt her responsibility of the whole family very deeply, and tried to talk no more german. these children must grow up to be good americans, and she must not hold them back. it was very hard for the poor woman to remember always to speak english, and funny broken english it was; so that little peter, hearing it all the time, had a baby talk of his own that was very comical and different from other children. he talked about the "luckle horse" he played with, and the "boomps" he got when he fell down, and he was very brave and serious, as became a fat baby boy who had to take care of himself a great deal. anna was so busy cooking and mending for a family of five she was very glad of the hours when mr. wenzel worked at home at his desk and baby peter could stay in the same room with him and play with his toys. mr. wenzel was a kind father and longed as far as possible to fill the place of mother also to his children, who loved him dearly. to little peter he was all-powerful. a kiss from papa soothed the hardest "boomp" that his many tumbles gave him; but even peter realized that when papa was at his desk he was very busy indeed, and though any of the children might sit in the room with him, they must not speak unless it was absolutely necessary. emilie was now eight years old, and she might have helped her father and anna more than she did; but she never thought of this. she loved to read, especially fairy stories, and she often curled up on the sofa in her father's room and read while peter either played about the room with his toys, or went to papa's desk and stood with his round eyes fixed on mr. wenzel's face until the busy man would look up from his papers and ask: "what does my peter want?" especially did emilie fly to this refuge in papa's room after a quarrel with franz, and i'm sorry to say she had a great many. the apple woman found out that the little brother and sister were not always amiable. anna had confided in her; and then one day the children approached her stand contradicting each other, their voices growing louder and louder as they came, until at last franz made a face at emilie, giving her a push, and she, quick as a kitten, jumped forward and slapped him. what franz would have done after this i don't know, if the apple woman hadn't said, "chillen, chillen!" so loud that he stopped to look at her. "ah, listen at that fairy slap-back a-laughin'!" cried the apple woman. "the fairy flapjack?" asked franz, as he and his sister forgot their wrath and ran toward the stand. "_flapjack!_" repeated the apple woman with scorn, as the children nestled down, one each side of her. "yo' nice chillen pertendin' not to know yo' friends!" "what friends? what?" asked emilie eagerly. "the fairy slap-back. p'raps i didn't see her jest now, a-grinnin' over yo' shoulder." "is she anybody to be afraid of?" asked emilie, big-eyed. "to be sho' she is if you-all go makin' friends with her," returned the apple woman, with a knowing sidewise nod of her head. then drawing back from the children with an air of greatest surprise, "you two don't mean to come here tellin' me you ain't never heerd o' the error-fairies?" she asked. "never," they both replied together. "shoo!" exclaimed the apple woman. "if you ain't the poor igno'antest w'ite chillen that ever lived. why, if you ain't never heerd on 'em, yo're likely to be snapped up by 'em any day in the week as you was jest now." "oh, tell us. do tell us!" begged franz and emilie. "co'se i will, 'case 't ain't right for them mis'able creeturs to be hangin' around you all, and you not up to their capers. fust place they're called the error-fairies 'case they're all servants to a creetur named error. she's a cheat and a humbug, allers pertendin' somethin' or other, and she makes it her business to fight a great and good fairy named love. now love--oh, chillen, my pore tongue can't tell you of the beauty and goodness o' the fairy love! she's the messenger of a great king, and spends her whole time a-blessin' folks. her hair shines with the gold o' the sun; her eyes send out soft beams; her gown is w'ite, and when she moves 'tis as if forget-me-nots and violets was runnin' in little streams among its folds. ah, chillen," the apple woman shook her head, "she's the blessin' o' the world. her soft arms are stretched out to gather in and comfort every sorrowin' heart. "well, 'case she was so lovely an' the great king trusted her, error thought she'd try her hand; but she hadn't any king, error hadn't. there wa'n't nobody to stand for her or to send her on errands. she was a low-lifed, flabby creetur," the apple woman made a scornful grimace; "jest a misty-moisty nobody; nothin' to her. her gown was a cloud and she wa'n't no more 'n a shadder, herself, until she could git somebody to listen to her. when she did git somebody to listen to her, she'd begin to stiffen up and git some backbone and git awful sassy; so she crep' around whisperin' to folks that love was no good, and 'lowin' that she--that mis'able creetur--was the queen o' life. "some folks knowed better and told her so, right pine blank, an' then straight off she'd feel herself changin' back into a shadder, an' sail away as fast as she could to try it on somebody else. she was ugly to look at as a bad dream, but yet there was lots o' folks would pay 'tention to her, and after they'd listened once or twice, she kep' gittin' stronger and pearter, an' as she got stronger, they got weaker, and every day it was harder fer 'em to drive her off, even after they'd got sick of her. "then, even if she didn't have a king, she had slaves; oh, dozens and dozens of error-fairies, to do her will. creepin' shadders they was, too, till somebody listened to 'em and give 'em a backbone. there's--let me see"--the apple woman looked off to jog her memory--"there's laziness, selfishness, backbitin', cruelty--oh, i ain't got time to tell 'em all; an' not one mite o' harm in one of 'em, only for some silly mortal that listens and gives the creetur a backbone. they jest lop over an' melt away, the whole batch of 'em, when love comes near. she knows what no-account humbugs they are, you see; and they jest lop over an' melt away whenever even a little chile knows enough to say 'go off fum here, an' quit pesterin''!" franz and emilie stared at the apple woman and listened hard. their cheeks matched the apples. "what happened a minute ago to you-all? an error-creetur named slap-back whispered to you. 'quarrel!' says she. what'd you do? did you say 'go off, you triflin' vilyun'? "not a bit of it. you quarreled; an' slap-back kep' gittin' bigger and stronger and stiffer in the backbone while you was goin' it, an' at last up comes this little hand of emilie's. whack! that was the time slap-back couldn't hold in, an' she jest laughed an' laughed over yo' shoulder. ah, the little red eyes she had, and the wiry hair! and that other one, the fairy, love, she was pickin' up her w'ite gown with both hands an' flyin' off as if she had wings. of course you didn't notice her. you was too taken up with yo' friend." "but slap-back isn't our friend," declared emilie earnestly. the apple woman shook her head. "bless yo' heart, honey, it's mean to deny it now; but, disown her or not, she'll stick to you and pester you; and you'll find it out if ever you try to drive her off. you'll have as hard a time as little dinah did." "what happened to dinah?" asked franz, picking up the apple woman's clean towel and beginning to polish apples. "drop that, now, chile! yo' friend might cast her eye on it. i don't want to sell pizened apples." franz, crestfallen, obeyed, and glanced at emilie. they had never before found their assistance refused, and they both looked very sober. "little dinah was a chile lived 'way off down south 'mongst the cotton fields; and that good fairy watched over dinah,--love, so sweet to look at she'd make yo' heart sing. "dinah had a little brother, too, jest big enough to walk; an' a daddy that worked from mornin' till night to git hoe-cake 'nuff fer 'em all; and his ole mammy, she helped him, and made the fire, and swept the room, and dug in the garden, and milked the cow. she was a good woman, that ole mammy, an' 't was a great pity there wa'n't nobody to help 'er, an' she gittin' older every day." "why, there was dinah," suggested emilie. the apple woman stared at her with both hands raised. "dinah! lawsy massy, honey, the only thing that chile would do was look at pictur' books an' play with the other chillen. she wouldn't even so much as pick up baby mose when he tumbled down an' barked his shin. oh, but she was a triflin' lazy little nigger as ever you see." "and that's why the red-eyed fairy got hold of her," said franz, who was longing to hear something exciting. "'twas, partly," said the apple woman. "you see there's somethin' very strange about them fairies, love and the error-fairies. the error-fairies, they run after the folks that love themselves, and love can only come near them that loves other people. sounds queer, honey, but it's the truth; so, when dinah got to be a likely, big gal, and never thought whether the ole mammy was gittin' tired out, or tried to amuse little mose, or gave a thought o' pity to her pore daddy who was alone in the world, the fairy love got to feelin' as bad as any fairy could. "'do, dinah,'" she said, with her sweet mouth close to dinah's ear, 'do stop bein' so triflin', and stir yo'self to be some help in the house.' "'no,' says dinah, 'i like better to lay in the buttercups and look at pictur's,' says she. "'then,' says love, 'show mose the pictur's, too, and make him happy.' "'no,' says dinah, 'he's too little, an' he bothers me an' tears my book.' "'then,' says love, 'yo'd rather yo' tired daddy took care o' the chile after his hard day's work.' "'now yo're talkin',' says dinah. 'i shorely would. my daddy's strong.' "the tears came into love's eyes, she felt so down-hearted. 'yo' daddy needs comfort, dinah,' she says, 'an' yo're big enough to give it to him,' says she; 'an' look at the black smooches on my w'ite gown. they're all because o' you, dinah, that i've been friends with so faithful. i've got to leave you now, far enough so's my gown'll come w'ite; but if you call me i'll hear, honey, an' i'll come. good-by,' "'good riddance!' says dinah. 'i'm right down tired o' bein' lectured,' says she. 'now i can roll over in the buttercups an' sing, an' be happy an' do jest as i please.' "so dinah threw herself down in the long grass and, bing! she fell right atop of a wasp, and he was so scared at such capers he stung her in the cheek. whew! you could hear her 'way 'cross the cotton field! "her ole gran'mam comforted her, the good soul. 'never you mind, honey,' she says, 'i'll swaje it fer you.' "but every day dinah got mo' triflin'. she pintedly wouldn't wash the dishes, nor mind little mose; an' every time the hot fire o' temper ran over her, she could hear a voice in her ear--'give it to 'em good. that's the way to do it, dinah!' an' it kep' gittin' easier to be selfish an' to let her temper run away, an' the cabin got to be a mighty pore place jest on account o' dinah, who'd ought to ha' been its sunshine. "as for the fairy, love, dinah never heerd her voice, an' she never called to her, though there was never a minute when she didn't hate the sound o' that other voice that had come to be in her ears more 'n half the time. "one mornin' everything went wrong with dinah. her gran'mam was plum mis'able over her shif'less ways, an' she set her to sew a seam befo' she could step outside the do'. the needle was dull, the thread fell in knots. dinah's brow was mo' knotted up than the thread. her head felt hot. "'say you won't do it,' hissed the voice. "'i'll git thrashed if i do. gran'mam said so.' "'what do you care!' hissed the voice; and jest as the fairy slap-back was talkin' like this, up comes little mose to dinah, an' laughs an' pulls her work away. "then somethin' awful happened. dinah couldn't 'a' done it two weeks back; but it's the way with them that listens to that mis'able, low-lifed slap-back. jest as quick as a wink, that big gal, goin' on nine, slapped baby mose. he was that took back for a minute that he didn't cry; but the hateful voice laughed an' hissed an' laughed again. "good, dinah, good! now you'll ketch it!' "then over went little mose's lip, an' he wailed out, an' dinah clasped her naughty hands an' saw a face close to her--a bad one, with red eyes shinin'. she jumped away from it, for it made her cold to think she'd been havin' sech a playfeller all along. "'oh, love, y' ain't done fergit me, is yer? come back, love, _love_!' she called; then she dropped on her knees side o' mose an' called him her honey an' her lamb, an' she cried with him, an' pulled him into her lap, an' when the ole gran'mam come in from where she'd been feedin' the hens, they was both asleep." franz took a long breath, for the way the apple woman told a story always made him listen hard. "i guess that was the last of old slap-back with dinah," he remarked. the apple woman shook her head. "that's the worst of that fairy," she said. "love'll clar out when you tell 'er to, 'case she's quality, an' she's got manners; but slap-back ain't never had no raisin'. she hangs around, an' hangs around, an' is allers puttin' in her say jest as she was a few minutes ago with you and emilie in the road there. there's nothin' in this world tickles her like a chile actin' naughty, 'ceptin' it's two chillen scrappin'. now pore little dinah found she had to have all her wits about her to keep love near, an' make that ornery slap-back stay away. love was as willin', as willin' to stay as violets is to open in the springtime; but when dinah an' slap-back was both agin her, what could she do? an' dinah, she'd got so used to slap-back, an' that bodacious creetur had sech a way o' gittin' around the chile, sometimes, 'fore dinah knew it, she'd be listenin' to 'er ag'in; but dinah'd had one good scare an' she didn't mean to give in. jest now, too, her daddy fell sick. that good man, that lonely man, he'd had a mighty hard time of it, an' no chile to care or love 'im." "wait," interrupted emilie sternly. "if you are going to let dinah's father die, i'm going home." the apple woman showed the whites of her eyes in the astonished stare she gave her. "because"--emilie swallowed and then finished suddenly--"because it wouldn't be nice." the apple woman looked straight out over her stand. "well, he didn't, an' dinah made him mighty glad he got well, too; for she stopped buryin' her head in pictur' books, an' she did errands for gran'mam without whinin', an' she minded mose so her daddy had mo' peace when he come home tuckered out; an' when she'd got so she could smile at the boy in the next cabin, 'stead o' runnin' out her tongue at him, the fairy, love, could stay by without smoochin' her gown, an' slap-back had to melt away an' sail off to try her capers on some other chile." "but you needn't pretend you saw her with us," said franz uneasily. the apple woman nodded her red bandana wisely. "folks that lives outdoors the way i do, honey, sees mo' than you-all," she answered. emilie ran home ahead of her brother, and softly entered her father's room. he was at his desk, as was usual at this hour. his head leaned on his hand, and he was so deep in his work that he did not notice her quiet entrance. she curled up on the sofa in her usual attitude, but instead of reading she watched little peter on the floor building his block house. his chubby hands worked carefully until the crooked house grew tall, then in turning to find a last block he bumped his head on the corner of a chair. emilie watched him rub the hurt place in silence. then he got up on his fat legs and went to the desk, where he stood patiently, his round face very red and solemn, while he waited to gain his father's attention. at last the busy man became conscious of the child's presence, and, turning, looked down into the serious eyes. "i'm here wid a boomp," said peter. then after receiving the consolation of a hug and kiss he returned contentedly to his block house. emilie saw her father look after the child with a smile sad and tender. her heart beat faster as she lay in her corner. her father was lonely and hard worked, with no one to take pity on him. a veil seemed to drop from her eyes, even while they grew wet. "i don't believe i'm too old to change, even if i am going on nine," thought emilie. at that minute the block house fell in ruins, and peter, self-controlled though he was, looked toward the desk and began to whimper. "peter--baby," cried emilie softly, leaning forward and holding out the picture of a horse in her book. her father had turned with an involuntary sigh, and seeing peter trot toward the sofa and emilie receive him with open arms, went back to his papers with a relief that his little daughter saw. her breath came fast and she hugged the baby. something caught in her throat. "oh, papa, you don't know how many, _many_ times i'm going to do it," she said in the silence of her own full heart. and emilie kept that unspoken promise. chapter xi the golden dog "i think, after all, the ravine is the nicest place for stories," said jewel the next day. the sun had dried the soaked grass, and not only did the leaves look freshly polished from their bath, but the swollen brook seemed to be turning joyous little somersaults over its stones when mrs. evringham, jewel, and anna belle scrambled down to its bank. "i don't know that we ought to read a story every day," remarked mrs. evringham. "they won't last long at this rate." "when we finish we'll begin and read them all over again," returned jewel promptly. "oh, that's your plan, is it?" said mrs. evringham, laughing. jewel laughed too, for sheer happiness, though she saw nothing amusing about such an obviously good plan. "aren't we getting well acquainted, mother?" she asked, nestling close to her mother's side and forgetting anna belle, who at once lurched over, head downward, on the grass. "do you remember what a little time you used to have to hold me in your lap and hug me?" "yes, dearie. divine love is giving me so many blessings these days i only pray to bear them well," replied mrs. evringham. "why, i think it's just as _easy_ to bear blessings, mother," began jewel, and then she noticed her child's plight. "darling anna belle, what are you doing!" she exclaimed, picking up the doll and brushing her dress. "i shouldn't think you had any more backbone than an error-fairy! now don't look sorry, dearie, because to-day it's your turn to choose the story." anna belle, her eyes beaming from among her tumbled curls, at once turned happy and expectant, and when her hat had been straightened and her boa removed so that her necklace could gleam resplendently about her fair, round throat, she was seated against a tree-trunk and listened with all her ears to the titles mrs. evringham offered. after careful consideration, she made her choice, and mrs. evringham and jewel settling themselves comfortably, the former began to read aloud the tale of-- the golden dog if it had not been for the birds and brooks, the rabbits and squirrels, gabriel would have been a very lonely boy. his older brothers, william and henry, did not care for him, because he was so much younger than they, and, moreover, they said he was stupid. his father might take some interest in him when he grew bigger and stronger and could earn money; but money was the only thing gabriel's father cared for, and when the older brothers earned any they tried to keep it a secret from the father lest he should take it away from them. gabriel had a stepmother, but she was a sorry woman, too full of care to be companionable. so he sought his comrades among the wild things in the woods, to get away from the quarrels at home. he was a muscular, rosy-cheeked lad, and in the sports at school he could out-run and out-jump the other boys and was always good-natured with them; but even the children at the little country school did not like him very well, because the very things they enjoyed the most did not amuse him. he tried to explain to them that the birds were his friends, and therefore he could not rob their nests; but they laughed at him almost as much as when he tried to dissuade them from mocking old mother lemon, as they passed her cottage door on their way to and from school. she was an old cross-patch, of course, they told him, or else she would not live alone on the edge of a forest, with nobody but a cat and owls for company. "perhaps she would be glad to have some one better for company," gabriel replied. "go live with her, yourself, then, gabriel," said one of the boys tauntingly. "that's right! go leave your miser father, counting his gold all night while you are asleep, and too stingy to give you enough to eat, and go and be mother lemon's good little boy!" and then all the children laughed and hooted at gabriel, who walked up to the speaker and knocked him over on the grass with such apparent ease and such a calm face, that all the laughers grew silent from mere surprise. "you mustn't talk about my father to me," said gabriel, explaining. then he started for home, and the laughing began again, softly. "it was true," he thought, as he trudged along. things were getting worse at home, and sometimes he was hungry, for there was not too much on the table, and his big brothers fought for their share. as he neared mother lemon's cottage, with its thatched roof and tiny windows, he saw the old woman, in her short gown, tugging at the well-sweep. it seemed very hard for her to draw up the heavy bucket. instantly gabriel ran forward. "get out of here, now," cried the old woman, in a cracked voice, for she saw it was one of the school-children, and she was weary of their worrying tricks. "shan't i pull up the bucket for you?" asked gabriel. "ah, i know you. you want to splash me!" returned mother lemon, eying him warily; but the boy put his strong arm to the task, and the dripping bucket rose from the depths, while the little old woman withdrew to a safer distance. "show me where to put it and i will carry it into the house for you," said gabriel. "now bless your rosy cheeks, you're an honest lad," said mother lemon gratefully; but she took the precaution to walk behind him all the way, lest he should still be intending to play her some trick. when, however, he had entered the low door and filled the kettle and the pans, according to her directions, she smiled on him, and as she thanked him, she asked him his name. "gabriel," said the lad. "ah," she exclaimed, "you are the miser's boy." gabriel could not knock mother lemon down, so he only hung his head while his cheeks grew redder. "it isn't your fault, child, and by the time you are grown you will be rich. when that time comes, i pray you be kinder to me than your father is, for he oppresses the poor and makes me pay my last shilling for the rent of this hovel." "i would give the cottage to you if it were mine," returned gabriel, looking straight into her eyes with his honest gray ones; "but at present i am poorer than you." "in that case," said mother lemon, "i wish i had something worthy to reward you for your kindness to me. as i have not, here is a penny that you must keep to remember me by." and in spite of gabriel's protestations she took from her side-pocket a coin. "i cannot take it from you," protested the boy. "no one ever grew richer by refusing to give," returned mother lemon, and she tucked the penny inside gabriel's blouse and turned him out the door with her blessing; so that, being a peaceable boy of few words, he objected no longer, but moved along the road toward home, for it was nearly dinner time. he found his stepmother setting the table, and his father busily calculating with figures on a bit of paper. "get the water, gabriel, and be quick now," was his welcome from the sorry-faced woman. when he had done all she directed him, there was still a little time, for william and henry had not come in from the field. gabriel sat down near his father and, noting a rusty, dusty little book lying on the table, he picked it up. "what is this, father?" he asked, for there were few books in that house. the man looked up from his figuring and sneered. "it is called by some the book of life," he said. "as a matter of fact it would not bring two shillings." so saying he returned to his pleasant calculations and gabriel idly opened the book. his gaze widened, for the verse on which his eyes fell stood out from the others in tiny letters of flame. "_the love of money is the root of all evil_," he read. "father, father," he exclaimed, "what wonder is this? look!" the miser turned, impatient of a second interruption. "see the letters of fire!" "i see nothing. you grow stupider every day, gabriel." "but the letters burn, father," and then the boy read aloud the sentence which for him stood out so vividly on the page. they had a surprising effect upon his listener. the miser grew pale and then red with anger. he rose and, standing over the boy, frowned furiously. "i'll teach you to reprove your father," he cried. "get out of my house. no dinner for you to-day." the stepmother had heard what gabriel read, and well she knew the truth of those words. as the astonished boy gathered himself up and moved out the door, she went after him, calling in pretended sharpness; but when he came near, she whispered, "come to the back of the shed in five minutes," and when gabriel obeyed, later, he found there a thick piece of bread and a lump of cheese. these he took, hungrily, and ate them in the forest before returning to school. he had never felt so kindly toward school as this afternoon. were it not for what he learned there, he could not have read the words in the book of life; and although they had brought him into trouble, he would not have foregone the wonder of seeing the living, burning characters which his father could not perceive. he longed to open those dusty covers once again. on his way home that afternoon he met two boys teasing a small brown dog. its coat was stuck full of burrs and it tried in vain to escape from its tormentors. the boys stopped to let gabriel go by, for they had a wholesome respect for his strong right arm and they knew his love for animals. the trembling little dog looked at him in added fear. gabriel stood still. "will you give me that dog?" he asked. the boys backed away with their prize. "nothing for nothing," said the taller, who had the animal under his arm. "what'll you give us?" gabriel thought. never lived a boy with fewer possessions. ah! he suddenly remembered a whistle he had made yesterday. diving his hand into his pocket he brought it out and whistled a lively strain upon it. "this," he said, approaching. "i'll give you this." "that for one of us," replied the tall boy. "what for the other?" from the moment the dog heard gabriel's voice, its eyes had appealed to him. now it struggled to get free, and the big boy struck it. its cry sharpened gabriel's wits. "the other shall have a penny," he said, and drew mother lemon's coin out of his blouse. the big boy dropped the dog, and he and his companion struggled for the coin, each willing the other should have the whistle. gabriel lost no time in catching up the dog and making off with it. he did not stop running until he had reached a spot by the brookside, hidden amid sheltering trees. here he sat down and looked over the forlorn specimen in his lap. the dog was a rough, dingy object from its long ears to its tail. first of all, gabriel set to work to get out the burrs that stuck fast in the thick coat. this took a long time, but the little dog licked his hands gratefully now and then, showing that he understood, even if the operation was not always pleasant. "now, comrade," said gabriel, at last, "you'll have to stand a ducking." the dog's beautiful golden eyes looked at him trustfully, and gabriel, placing him in the brook, scrubbed him well, long ears and all, and then raced around with him in the warm air until he was dry. what a transformation was there! gabriel's eyes shone as he looked at his purchase. the dog's long hair, which had been a dingy brown, shone now like golden silk in the sunshine, and his eyes gleamed with the light of topazes as they fixed lovingly on gabriel's happy face; for gabriel _was_ happy, as every one is who sees love work what is called a miracle, but what is really not a miracle at all, but just one of the beautiful, happy changes for the better that follow on love, wherever she goes. the boy's lonely heart leaped at the idea that at last he had a companion. a despised little suffering dog had altered into a welcome playmate, too attractive, perhaps, to keep; for gabriel well knew that he would never be permitted to take the dog home; and any one finding him now in the woods could carry him into town and get a good price for him. "what shall i call you, little one?" asked the boy. "my word, but you are lively," for the dog was bounding about so that his ears flew and flapped around like yellow curls. "topaz, you shall be!" cried gabriel, suddenly realizing how gem-like were the creature's eyes; "and now listen to me!" to his amazement, as the boy said "listen," and raised his finger, topaz at once sat up on his hind legs with his dainty white forepaws hung in front of him. "whew!" and gabriel began whistling a little tune in his amazement, and the instant the dog heard the music he began to dance. what a sight was there! gabriel's eyes grew round as he saw topaz advance and retreat and twirl, occasionally nodding and tossing his head until his curls bobbed. he seemed to long, in his warm little dog's heart, to show gabriel that he had been worth saving. but the radiance died from the boy's face and he sank at last on the ground under a tree, looking very dejected. topaz bounded to his lap and gabriel pulled the long silky ears through his hands thoughtfully. "i thought i had found a companion," he said sadly. "bow-wow," responded topaz. "but you are a trick dog, worth nobody knows how much money, and i cannot keep you!" "bow-wow," said topaz. "to-morrow i must begin to try to find your master. meanwhile what am i to do with you?" the boy rose as he spoke and topaz showed plainly that there was no doubt in _his_ mind as to what should be done with him, for he meant to stick closely to gabriel's heel. the boy suddenly had an idea and began to trudge sturdily off in the direction of mother lemon's cottage, topaz following close. the memory of the latter's recent mishaps was too clear in his doggish mind to make him willing that a single bush should come between him and his protector. when they reached the little cottage, mother lemon sat spinning outside her low doorway. "welcome, my man," she said when she finally saw, by squinting into the sunlight, who it was that approached, "but drive off that dog." "look at him, mother lemon," said gabriel, rather sadly. "saw you ever one so handsome?" "looks are deceiving," returned the old woman, "and i have a cat." "i will see that he does not hurt your cat. i have to confess that i spent your penny for him, mother lemon." "then i have to confess that you are no worthy son of your father," returned the old woman, "for he would not have spent it for anything." "i know it was a keepsake," replied gabriel, "but the dog was in danger of his life and i had no other money to give for him." "you are a good-hearted lad," said mother lemon, going on with her spinning. "now take your dog away, for if my cat, tommy, should see him it might go hard with his golden locks." "alas, mother lemon, i have come to ask you to keep him for me." "la, la! i tell you i could not keep him any longer than until tommy laid eyes on him; neither have i any liking for dogs, myself, though that one, i must say, looks as if he had taken a bath in molten gold." "does he not!" returned gabriel. "when first i saw him some boys were misusing him and he seemed to be but a brown cur with a dingy, matted coat; and i could wish that he had turned out to be of no account, for the look in his eyes took hold upon my heart; but i rubbed him well in the brook, and now see the full, feathery tail and silky ears. he is a dog of high degree." "certain he is, lad," replied the old woman. "take him to the town and sell him to some lofty dame who has nothing better to do than brush his curls." "i would never sell him," said gabriel, regarding the dog wistfully. "he is lonely and so am i. we would stick together if we might." "what prevents? do you fear to take him home lest your father boil him down for his gold?" and mother lemon laughed as she spun. "no. my father, i know, would not give him one night's lodging, and in my perplexity i bethought me to ask you the favor," and gabriel's honest eyes looked so squarely at mother lemon that she stopped her wheel. "i cannot keep the dog," continued the boy, "and my heart is heavy." "your father is a curmudgeon," declared the old woman, for the more she looked at gabriel, the more she loved him. "what is it? would he grudge food for your pet?" "it is not that, but i cannot keep the dog in any case." "why not, pray?" for answer gabriel looked down into the topaz eyes whose regard had scarcely left his face during the interview. he held up his finger, and instantly the dog sat up. "'tis a trick dog!" exclaimed mother lemon. gabriel began to whistle, and the dance commenced. the old woman pressed her side as she laughed at the comical, pretty sight of the little dancer, the fluffy golden threads of whose silky coat gleamed in the sunlight. "your fortune is made," said mother lemon as gabriel ceased. "the dog will fetch a large price in the town, and because you are a good lad i will try to keep him for you until to-morrow, when you can go and sell him. if your father saw his tricks he would, himself, dispose of him and pocket the cash. i will shut him in an outhouse until you come again, and i only hope that he will not bark and vex tommy!" to the old woman's surprise gabriel looked sad. "but you see, mother lemon," he said soberly, "the dog already belongs to somebody." "la, la!" cried the old woman. "why, then, couldn't the somebody keep him?" "that i do not know; but to-morrow i set forth with him to find his owner." mother lemon nodded, and she saw the heaviness of the boy's heart because he must part with the golden dog. "'tis well that you leave him with me then, for your father would not permit that, any more than he would abate one farthing of my rent." gabriel went with her to the rickety shed where topaz was to spend the night, but the dog was loath to enter. he seemed to know that it meant parting with gabriel. the boy stooped down and talked to him, but topaz licked his face and sprang upon him beseechingly. when, finally, they closed the door with the dog within, the little fellow howled sorrowfully. "i'm sure he's hungry, mother lemon," said the boy, and a lump seemed to stick in his throat. "one bone perhaps you could give him?" "alas, i have none, gabriel. it is not often that tommy and i sit down to meat. he is now hunting mice in the fields or he would be lashing his tail at these strange sounds!" gabriel opened the door and, going back into the shed, spoke sternly to topaz, bidding him lie down. the dog obeyed, looking appealingly from the tops of his gem-like eyes, but when again the door was fastened, he kept an obedient silence. thanking mother lemon and promising to come early in the morning, gabriel sped home. his own hunger made his heart ache for the little dog, and when he entered the cottage he was glad to see that his stepmother was preparing the evening meal, while his father bent, as usual, over a shabby, ink-stained desk, absorbed in his endless calculations. gabriel's elder brothers were there, too, talking and laughing in an undertone. no one took any notice of gabriel, whose eye fell on the dusty, rusty book, and eagerly he picked it up, thinking to see if again he could find the wonder of the flaming words. as he opened it, several verses on the page before him gleamed into light. in mute wonder he read:-- "_and i will say to my soul, 'soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry._' "_but god said unto him, thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee: then whose shall those things be which thou hast provided?_' "_so is he that layeth up treasure for himself and is not rich toward god._" gabriel scarcely dared to lift his eyes toward his father, much less would he have offered to read to him again the flaming words. all through the supper time he thought of them and kept very still, for the others were unusually talkative, his father seeming in such excellent spirits that gabriel knew the figures on his desk had brought him satisfaction. "but if he did not oppress mother lemon," thought the boy, "he would be richer toward god." when the meal was over, gabriel took a piece of paper and went quietly to the back of the house where, in a box, was the refuse of the day's cooking. he found some bones and other scraps, and, running across the fields to mother lemon's, tiptoed to the low shed which held topaz, and, finding a wide crack, pushed the bones and scraps within. then he fled home and to bed, for he had always found that the earlier he closed his eyes, the shorter was the night. this time, however, when his sleepy lids opened, it was not to the light of day. a candle flame wavered above him and showed the face of his stepmother, bending down. "gabriel, gabriel," she whispered; then, as he would have replied, she hushed him with her finger on her lips. "i felt that i must warn you that your father is sorely vexed by the reproof you gave him to-day. he will send you out into the world, and i cannot prevent it; but in all that lies in my poor power, i will be your friend forever, gabriel, for you are a good boy. good-night, i must not stay longer," and a tear fell on the boy's cheek as she kissed him lightly, and then, with a breath, extinguished the candle and hastened noiselessly away. gabriel lay still, thinking busily for a while; but he was a fearless, innocent boy, and this threatened change in his fortunes could not keep him awake long. he soon fell asleep and slept soundly until the dawn. jumping out of bed then, he washed and dressed and went downstairs where his father awaited him. "gabriel," he said, "you do not grow brighter by remaining at home. i wish you to go out into the world and shift for yourself. when your fortune is made, you may return. as you go, however, i am willing to give you a small sum of money to use until you can obtain work." "i will obey you, father," returned the boy, "but as a last favor, i ask that, in place of the money, you give me the cottage where mother lemon lives." the man started and muttered: "he is even stupider than i believed him." "you may have it," he added aloud, after a wondering pause. "that--and this?" returned gabriel questioningly, taking up the book of life. his father scowled, for he remembered yesterday. "very well, if you like," he answered, with a bad grace. "then thank you, father, and i will trouble you no more." gabriel's stepmother could scarcely repress her tears as she gave the boy his breakfast and prepared him a package of bread and meat to carry on his journey. then she gave him a few pence, all she had, and he started off with her blessing. as gabriel went out into the fresh air, all nature was beautiful around him. there seemed no end to the blue sky, the wealth of sunshine, the generous foliage on the waving trees. the birds were singing joyously. all things breathed a blessing. gabriel wondered, as he walked along, about the god who, some one had once told him, made all things. it seemed to him that it could be only a loving being who created such beauty as surrounded him now. the little book was clasped in his hand. he suddenly remembered with relief that he was alone and could read it without fear. eagerly opening it, one verse, as before, flamed into brightness, and gabriel read:-- "_he that loveth not, knoweth not god; for god is love._" how wonderful! gabriel's heart swelled. god was love, then. he closed the book. for the first time god seemed real to him. the zephyrs that kissed his cheek and the sun that warmed him like a caress, seemed assuring him of the truth. the birds declared it in their songs. gabriel went down on his knees in the dewy grass and, dropping his bundle, clasped to his breast the book. "dear god," he said, "i am all alone and i have no one to love but topaz. he is a little dog and i must give him up because he doesn't belong to me. i know now that i shall love you and you will help me give topaz back, because my stepmother told me that you know everything, and she always told the truth." then gabriel arose and, taking the package of food, went on with a light heart until he came to mother lemon's cottage. even that poor shanty looked pleasant in the morning beams. the tall sunflowers near the door flaunted their colors in the light, and their cheerful faces seemed laughing at mother lemon as she came to the entrance and called anxiously to the approaching boy:-- "come quick, lad, hasten. my poor tommy is distracted, for your dog whines and threatens to dig his way out of his prison, and i will not answer for the consequences." indeed, the tortoise-shell cat was seated on the old woman's shoulder. the fur stood stiffly on his arched back, his tail was the size of two, and his eyes glowed. gabriel just glanced at the cat as it opened its mouth and hissed, then he gazed at mother lemon. "did you know there was a god?" he asked earnestly. "to be sure, lad," replied the old woman, surprised. "i've just learned about him in this wonderful book; the book of life is its name. saw you ever one like it?" the boy placed the rusty little volume in her hands. "ay, lad, many times." "does every one know it?" he asked incredulously. "most people do." "then why is not every one happy?" asked gabriel. "there is a god and he is love. do people believe it?" "ah," returned the old woman dryly, "that is a different thing." gabriel scarcely heard her. he opened his precious book. "there," he cried triumphantly, "see the living words:-- "'_nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of god which is in christ jesus our lord_.'" "h'm," said the old woman. "the print is too fine for my old eyes." "yes, perhaps 'tis for that that the letters flame like threads of fire. you see them?" "ahem!" returned mother lemon, for she saw no flaming letters, and she looked curiously at the boy's radiant face. moreover, tommy suddenly leaped from her shoulder to his. all signs of the cat's fear and anger had vanished, and as it rubbed its sleek fur against gabriel's cheek, it purred so loudly that mother lemon marveled. "had my father studied this book he might have been happy," continued the boy; "but he is offended with me and has sent me out into the world, and well i know that an unhappy heart drives him." "go back, boy, and make your peace with him," cried mother lemon excitedly, "or you will get nothing." "oh, i have received what i asked for. i asked to have this cottage, and he gave it to me, and i have come now to give it to you, mother lemon." "my lad!" exclaimed the amazed woman, and her eyes swam with sudden tears. "you will have no more rent to pay," said gabriel, stroking the cat. "and what is to become of you?" asked the woman, much moved. "i cannot go home," replied the boy quietly; "and in any case i have to give topaz, the dog, back to his owner. why do you weep, mother lemon? haven't i god to take care of me, and isn't he greater than all men?" "yes, lad. the good book says he is king of heaven and earth." "then if you believe it, why are you sad?" mother lemon dried her eyes, and at this moment they heard a great scratching on the door of the shed; for topaz had wakened from a nap and heard gabriel's voice. "ah, that i had never given you the penny!" wailed the old woman, "for then you would not have bought the yellow dog and gone away where i shall see you no more." gabriel's sober face smiled. "yes, you will see me again, mother lemon, when my fortune is made. you have god, too, you know." "ay, boy. i'm nearer him to-day than for many a long year. my blessing go with you wherever you are; and now let me have tommy, that he does not fly at your dancer, to whom i say good riddance. good-by, lad, good-by, and god bless you for your goodness and generosity to a lonely old creature!" so saying, mother lemon took the cat in her arms, and, going into the house, fastened the door and pulled down the windows, while gabriel went to the shed, and taking out the wooden staple released his prisoner. like a living nugget of gold the little dog leaped and capered about the boy, expressing his joy by the liveliest antics, barking meanwhile in a manner to set tommy's nerves on edge; but gabriel ran laughing before him into the forest, not stopping until they reached the brookside, where they both slaked their thirst. then he put the book of life carefully into his blouse, and opening the package gave topaz some of the bread and meat it contained. all the time there was a pain in gabriel's heart because topaz, by the morning light, was gayer, prettier, more loving than ever, and his clear eyes looked so trustfully into gabriel's that it was not easy to swallow the lump that rose in the boy's throat at the thought of parting with him. at last the package of food was again tied, and gabriel was ready to start. topaz stood expectantly before him, his eyes gleaming softly, the color of golden sand as it lies beneath sunlit water. the boy sat a moment watching the alert face which said as plainly as words: "whatever you are going to do, i am eager to do it, too." gabriel thoughtfully drew the silky ears through his hands. "god made you, too, topaz, and he knows i love you. if it please him, we shall not find your master this first day." then he jumped up and searched for a good stick. he tried the temper of a couple by whipping the air, and when he found one stiff enough, ran it through the string about the bundle and looked around for topaz. to his astonishment the dog had disappeared. he whistled, but there was no sign. gabriel's face grew blank, then flushed as the reason of the dog's flight flashed upon him. it forced tears into his eyes to think that any one could have struck the pretty creature, and that topaz could have suffered enough to distrust even him. he threw down stick and bundle and walked around anxiously, whistling from time to time. at last his quick eyes caught the gleam of golden color behind a bush. even topaz's fright could not take him far while a doubt remained; but he was crouching to the ground, and his eyes were appealing. gabriel threw himself down beside the little fellow, and for a minute his wet eyes were pressed to the silky fur, while he stroked his playmate. topaz licked his face, and the dog's fear fled forever. he followed gabriel back to the place where the bundle was dropped, and the boy patted him while he took up the stick and set it across his shoulder. topaz's ears flapped with joy as they started on their tramp. gabriel put away all thought of the future and frolicked with his playmate as they went along, throwing a stick which topaz would bring, and beg with short, sharp barks that the boy would throw once more, when he would race after it like a streak of sunshine, his golden curls flying. from time to time gabriel ran races with him, and no boy at school could beat gabriel at running, so topaz had a lively morning. by the time the sun was high in the heavens they were both hungry and glad to rest. they found the shade of a large tree, and there gabriel opened his package again, and when he tied it up it made a very small bundle on the end of the stick he carried over his shoulder. there was not so much running this afternoon. gabriel and topaz had come a long way, and toward evening they began to see the roofs of the town ahead of them. the dog no longer raced to right and left after butterfly and bird, but trotted sedately at the boy's heel, and after a time gabriel picked him up and carried him, for the thought came that perhaps topaz could earn them a place to sleep, and gabriel wished to rest the little legs that could be so nimble. it was nearly dusk when they reached a cultivated field and then a farmhouse. some children were playing in the yard, and when they saw a dusty boy turn in at the gate, they ran to the house crying that a beggar was coming. their mother came out from the door, and the expression of her face told plainly that she meant to drive the dusty couple away. gabriel set down the dog and took off his hat, and his clear eyes looked out of his grimy face. "i am not a beggar," he said simply. "i go to the town to return this dog to its master, but night is coming on, and we should like to sleep on the hay." "how do i know you are not a thief?" returned the woman. "it is not a very likely story that you are tramping way to town to give back a yellow dog." "he is a dog of high degree," declared gabriel, "and if you will let us sleep in your barn he will dance for you." upon this the children begged in chorus to see the dog dance, and the mother consented; so topaz, when he was bade, sat up, and then, as gabriel whistled, the dainty, dusty little white feet began to pirouette, and the children clapped their hands for joy and would have kept the dancer at his work until dark, but that gabriel would not have it so. "we have come far," he said. "let us rest now, and in the morning topaz will dance for you again." so all consented and escorted the strangers to the barn, where there was a clean, sweet hay-loft. the little dog remembered the night before, and whined under his breath and wagged his tail as he looked at gabriel, as if begging the boy not to leave him. gabriel understood, and patted the silky coat. it took him some minutes to get rid of the children, who wished to continue to caress and play with topaz; but at last they were gone and the two weary wanderers could lie down on the sweet hay. as topaz nestled into his arms gabriel felt very thankful to god for their long happy day. if the master should come to-morrow--well, the only thing to do was to give up his playfellow, and he should still be grateful for the day and night they had spent together. bright sunlight was streaming through the chinks of the rafters when the travelers awoke. sounds of men and horses leaving the barn died away, and then gabriel arose and shook himself. topaz jumped about in delight that another day had commenced. the boy looked at him wistfully. was this to be their last morning together? he felt the little book in his blouse and taking it out, opened it. it was dark in the barn, but, as ever, this wonderful book had a light of its own, and in tiny letters of flame there appeared this verse:-- "_for god hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power and of love and of a sound mind._" much comforted, gabriel put the dear book back in its hiding-place, and taking his small bundle, left the barn, the dog bounding after him. no sooner had the children of the house seen them coming than they ran forth to meet them, singing and whistling and crying upon topaz to dance, but the dog kept his golden eyes upon his master and noticed no one beside. the mother came to the door with a much pleasanter face than she had worn yesterday. "you may go to the pump yonder and wash yourself," she said; and gabriel obeyed gladly, wiping his face upon the grass that grew long and rank about the well. the clean face was such a good one that when the woman saw it she hushed the children. "be still until they have had some breakfast," she said, "then the dog will dance again." so gabriel and topaz had a comfortable meal which they enjoyed, and afterward the boy whistled and the dog danced with a good heart, and the children danced too, for very pleasure. they were all so happy that gabriel for the moment forgot his errand. "if you will sell your dog i will buy him," said the woman, at last, for the children had given her no peace when they lay down nor when they rose up, until she had promised to make this offer. gabriel looked at her frankly, and a shadow fell over his bright face. "alas, madam, he is not mine to sell." "where dwells his master, then?" "that i know not, for he had strayed and i found him and must restore him if i can." "'tis a fool's errand," said the woman, who liked the dog herself, and, moreover, saw that there was money in his nimble feet. "i will give you as many coppers as you can carry in your cap if you will leave him here and go your way and say nothing about it to any one." gabriel shook his head. "alas, madam, he is not mine," was all the woman could induce him to say, and she thought his sadness was at the thought of the cap full of pence which she believed he dared not accept for fear of getting into trouble. little she knew that if only the golden dog were gabriel's very own, no money could buy from the boy the one heart on earth that beat warmly for him, and the graceful, gay coat of flossy silk which he loved to caress; so the farmer's wife and children were obliged to let the couple go. gabriel had seen, the night before, a creek that wandered through the meadow, and before entering the town he ran to it and, pulling off his clothes, jumped in and took a good swim. barking with delight, topaz joined in this new frolic, splashing and swimming about like the jolly little water dog that he was. when, at last, they came out and were dried, and gabriel was dressed, they were a fresh looking pair that started out for the town. now gabriel was not so stupid as his brothers believed, and, as he said over to himself the verse he had read that morning in the barn, and looked at topaz, so winsomely shining after his bath, he began to see how unwise it would be to tell every one he met that he was searching for topaz's owner. there were people in the world, he knew, who would not scruple to pretend that such a pretty creature was their own, even if they had never seen him before; so gabriel determined to be very careful and to know that god would give him power and a sound mind, if he would not be afraid, as the book of life had said. now the two entered the town; but from the moment their feet struck the pavements, topaz's manner changed. he kept so close to gabriel that the boy often came near to stepping on him. "what ails you, little one?" asked gabriel, perplexed by his companion's strange actions. "don't you know that you are going home?" but topaz did not bark a reply. his feathery tail hung down. he looked at gabriel only from the tops of his eyes as he clung close to his heels, and he even seemed to the boy to tremble when they crossed the busy streets. "you mustn't be afraid, topaz," said gabriel stoutly. "no one likes a coward." but topaz only clung the closer, sometimes looking from left to right, fearfully. at last his actions were so strange that gabriel took him up under his arm. "perhaps if we meet his owner he can see him the better so," thought the boy, and he looked questioningly into the faces of men, women, and children as they passed him by. no one did more than stare at him after observing the beautiful head that looked out from under his arm. one good-natured man smiled in passing and said to gabriel: "going to the palace, i suppose." this remark astonished the boy very much, and he looked around after the man. now there had been some one following gabriel for the last five minutes, and when he looked around, this person, who was an organ-grinder, quickly turned his back and began grinding out a tune. at the first sound of it topaz started and trembled violently and snuggled so close to gabriel that the latter, who did not connect his action with the music, was dismayed. "topaz, what _is_ the matter?" he asked, and hurried along, thinking to find some park where he could sit down and try to discover what ailed his little playfellow. as he began to hurry, the organ-grinder's black eyes snapped, and he stopped playing and beckoned to a big officer of the law who stood near. "my dog has been stolen," he exclaimed. "come with me, after the thief. i will pay you." the big man obeyed and walked along, grumbling: "is the city full of stolen dogs, i wonder?" he muttered. "it is my dancing dog!" explained the organ-grinder. "the boy yonder is carrying him in his arms and running away. he will deny it, but i will pay you a silver coin. it is a week since i lost him." "stop, thief," roared the officer, beginning to run. the organ-grinder ran as well as he could with his heavy burden, and there began to be an excitement on the street, so that gabriel, hugging his dog, stopped to see what was the matter. what was his surprise to be confronted by the big officer and the black-eyed italian. "drop that dog!" ordered the officer gruffly. "not till i get a string around his neck," objected the organ-grinder, and produced a cord which he knotted about topaz's fluffy throat. then he pulled the dog away roughly. "is he yours?" cried gabriel, eyes and mouth open in astonishment. "no, it cannot be. he is afraid of you. oh, see!" "ho, this boy has stolen my whole living," said the organ-grinder, "and now he tries to claim my property." "do not believe him!" cried gabriel, appealing to the big officer. "it cannot be his. the dog loves me. let me show you." "stand off, stand off," ordered the organ-grinder, for a crowd had gathered. "would the dog dance for me if he were not mine? see!" he drew from his coat a little whip and struck the organ with a snap, at which topaz jumped. then he dropped the dog and began to grind, and the crowd saw the trembling animal raise itself to its hind legs and begin to dance. oh, the mincing little uncertain steps! no tossing of the yellow curls was here. gabriel's heart bounded hotly. did these people think they were seeing topaz dance? "oh, believe me, let me show you!" he cried, trying to come near; but the big officer pushed him away roughly. "can you pay your debts?" he said, coming close to the organ-grinder. the man stopped turning his crank and taking a silver coin handed it to the officer, but slyly, so that no one saw. then the big man turned to gabriel. "now be off from here!" he said sternly. "if you hang about a minute longer, into the lock-up you go!" gabriel, white and sorry, clasped his hands helplessly, and watched while the organ-grinder caught topaz up under his arm and made off with him, down a side street. the boy felt that he must pursue them. he turned his tearful gaze on the big officer. "i found that dog, sir," he said. "the more fool you, then, not to take it to the palace," returned the other. "it is gaudy enough to have perhaps pleased the princess, and the organ-grinder would have had to get another slave." so saying, the officer laughed and carelessly turned away. gabriel stood still, choking. it must be that the princess wished to buy a pet. ah, if he might even have parted with his little friend to her, how far better it would have been than this strange, wrong thing that had happened with such suddenness that the boy could scarcely get his breath for the way his heart beat. he pressed his hand to his streaming eyes, then, seeing that people were staring at him curiously, he stole away, walking blindly and stumbling over the rough pavement. at last he came to a place in a quiet street where a seat was built into a wall, and there he sat down and tried to think. in his despair the thought of the great king of heaven and earth came to him. "dear god," he murmured breathlessly, "what now? what did i wrong, that you did not take care of topaz and me?" the breeze in the treetops was his only answer; so after listening for a minute to the soothing sound, he took the book of life from his blouse and opened it. oh, wonderful were the words he saw. how they glowed and seemed to live upon the gray page. "_be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them; for the lord thy god, he it is that doth go with thee: he will not fail thee nor forsake thee_." gabriel caught his trembling lip between his teeth. he knew no one in this crowded city. he had no home, no friends, no money except the few coppers in his pocket. how, then, was help to come? "dear god," he whispered, "i have no one now in all the world but you. topaz is gone and i am grieved sore, for he is wretched. let me save him. i am not afraid, dear god, not afraid of anything. i trust you." comforted by a little blind hope that crept into his heart, the boy looked up; and the first thing that his swollen eyes rested upon was a large poster affixed to the opposite wall, with letters a foot high. "reward!" it said. "h.r.h. the princess has lost her golden dog. a full reward for his return to the palace!" gabriel's heart gave a great bound. what golden dog was there anywhere but topaz? the color that had fled from his cheeks came back. but would an organ-grinder dare claim for his own a dog that belonged to a princess of the country? and yet--and yet--the little dog's joy and light-heartedness with himself showed that he had been well treated by whomever taught him his pretty tricks. the organ-grinder did not treat him well, and who that really knew topaz would dream of taking a whip to force him to his work! gabriel, young as he was, saw that there was some mystery here, and beside, there had been the glowing words in the book of life, telling him again not to be afraid, and promising him that the greatest of all kings would not fail him or forsake him. he started up from the seat, but forced himself back and opened the small bundle of dry bread and meat; for there was no knowing when he should eat again. he took all that remained, and when he had swallowed the last crumbs, arose with a determined heart and hurried up the street. he asked the first man he met if he could direct him to the palace. the man shrugged his shoulders. "where is your yellow dog?" he asked. "i have none," returned gabriel, "but i have business at the palace." the man laughed down at the shabby figure of the country lad. "and don't know where it is? well, follow your nose. you are on the right road." gabriel sped along and he was indeed much nearer than he had supposed; for very soon he met a sorry-faced man with a yellow dog in his arm; then another; then another; and in fact he could trace his way to the palace by the procession of men, women, and children, all returning, and each one carrying a yellow dog and chattering or grumbling according to the height from which his hopes had been dashed. when gabriel reached the palace gates he saw that there were plenty more applicants waiting inside the grounds. the boy had never realized how many varying sizes and shades of yellow dogs there were in the world. the guard had received orders to deny entrance to no person who presented a gold-colored dog for examination, but gabriel was empty-handed and the guard frowned upon him. "i wish to see the princess," said the boy. "i dare say," replied the guard. "be off." "but i wish to tell her about a golden dog." "can't you see that we are half buried in golden dogs?" returned the guard crossly. "no, sir. i have seen none but yellow dogs since i drew near this place. i have a tale to tell the princess." the guard could not forbear laughing at this simplicity. "do you suppose ragamuffins like you approach her highness?" he returned. "a dog's tail is the only sort she is interested in to-day. see the chamberlain yonder. he is red with fatigue. he is choosing such of the lot as are worthy to be looked at by the princess, and should he see you demanding audience and with no dog to show, it will go hard with you. be off!" and the guard's gesture was one to be obeyed. gabriel withdrew quietly; but he was not daunted. the princess would, perhaps, grow weary and drive out. at any rate there was nothing to do except watch for her. he looked at the splendid palace and gardens and wondered if topaz had ever raced about there. then he wondered what the dog was doing now; but this thought must be put away, because it made gabriel's eyes misty, and he must watch, watch. at last his patient vigil was rewarded. a splendid coach drawn by milk-white horses appeared in the palace grounds. gabriel's heart beat fast. he knew he must act quickly and before any one could catch him; so he made his way cautiously to the shelter of a large, flowering shrub by the roadside. the coach approached and the iron gates were flung wide. gabriel plainly saw a young girl with troubled eyes sitting alone within, and on the seat opposite an older woman with her back to the horses. suddenly, while the carriage still moved slowly outside the gates that clanged behind it, gabriel started from his hiding-place and swiftly leaped to the step of the coach and looked straight into the young girl's eyes. "princess," he exclaimed breathlessly, "i know of a golden dog, and they will not let me"--but by this time the lady-in-waiting was screaming, and the guard, who recognized gabriel, rushed forth from the gate and, seizing him roughly, jerked the boy from the step. "unhand him instantly!" exclaimed the princess, her eyes flashing, for the look gabriel had given her had reached her heart. "stop the horses!" instantly the coach came to a standstill. "_i will not fail thee, nor forsake thee_," sounded in gabriel's ears amid the roaring in his head, as he found himself free. he did not wait for further invitation, but jumped back to the coach. "stop screaming, lady gertrude!" exclaimed the princess. "but the beggar's hands are on the satin, your highness!" exclaimed the lady-in-waiting, who had had a hard week and wished there was not a yellow dog in the world. "princess, hear me and you will be glad," declared gabriel. "i beg for nothing but to be heard. i believe i know where your dog is and that he suffers." no one could have seen and heard gabriel as he said this, without believing him. tears of excitement sprang to his gray eyes and a pang went through the heart of the princess. how many times she had wondered if her lost pet had found such love as she gave him! she at once ordered the door of the coach to be opened and that gabriel should enter. "your highness!" exclaimed lady gertrude, nearly fainting. "you may leave us if you please," said the princess, with a little smile; but lady gertrude held her smelling-salts to her nose and remained in the coach, which the princess ordered to be driven through a secluded wood-road. gabriel, sitting beside her on the fine satin cushion, told his story, from the moment when he found the dingy, brown dog in the hands of the teasing boys, to the moment when the organ-grinder bore him away. the hands of the princess were clasped tightly as she listened. "you called him topaz," she said, when the boy had finished. "i called him goldilocks. ah, if it should be the same! if it should!" "surely there are not two dogs in the world so beautiful," said gabriel. "that is what i say to myself," responded the princess. "had he been less wonderful, your highness, he would be safe now, for i should have kept him. he loved me," said gabriel simply. "you are an honest boy," replied the princess gratefully, "and i will make you glad of it whether topaz turns out to be goldilocks or not. but you say he danced with so much grace?" "yes, your highness, and tossed his head for glee till his curls waved merrily." "'tis the same!" cried the princess, in a transport. "his eyes _are_ like topazes. your name is the best. he shall have it. ah, he has slept in a shed and eaten cold scraps! my goldilocks!" "yes, your highness, and would be glad to do so still; for he fears his dark-browed master, and dances with such trembling you would not know him again." "ah, cruel boy, cease! take me to him at once. show my men the spot where you left him." "your highness must use great care, for if once the organ-grinder suspects that you are searching for him, no one will ever again see the golden dog; for the man will fear to be found with him." "you are right. i can send out men with orders to examine every hand-organ in the city." "if they were quiet enough it might be done, but i have a better plan." "you may speak," returned the princess. "when we are alone, your highness," said gabriel; and the lady-in-waiting was so amazed at such effrontery that she forgot to use her salts. "to the palace," ordered the princess. lady gertrude gave the order. "does your highness intend to take this--this person to the palace?" she inquired. "i do. he loves my dog, and therefore i would give more for his advice at this time than for that of the lord high chamberlain." "then i have nothing more to say," returned the lady gertrude, leaning back among the cushions; and this was cheering news to her companions. what was the astonishment of the guard to see the coach return, still carrying the rustic lad, who sat so composedly beside the princess, and dismounted with her at the palace steps. once within, nothing was too fine for gabriel. a gentleman-in-waiting was set to serve him in an apartment, which made the boy pinch himself to make sure he was not dreaming. when he had taken a perfumed bath and obediently put on the fine clothing that was provided for him, he was summoned to a splendid room where the princess awaited him, surrounded by her ladies. she was scarcely more than a child, herself, and the boy wondered how she liked to have so many critical personages about, to watch her every action. as he entered the room, every eye was turned upon him, and the lady gertrude, especially, put up her glass in wonder that this handsome lad with the serious, fearless eyes, who seemed so at ease in the silks and satins he now wore, could be the peasant who had jumped on the step of the coach. the princess looked upon him with favor and smiled. "we are ready now," she said, "to hear what plan you propose for the rescue of the golden dog." "then will your highness kindly ask these ladies to leave us?" returned gabriel. "ah, to be sure. i forgot your wish that the communication should be private." then the princess gave orders that every one should leave the room, and her companions obeyed reluctantly, the lady gertrude above all. she remained close to the outside of the closed door, ready to fly within at the slightest cry from her mistress; for the lady gertrude could not quite believe that a boy who had ever worn a calico shirt was a safe person to leave alone with royalty. for a few minutes there was only a low buzz of voices behind the closed door, then a merry laugh from the princess assailed lady gertrude's ears. it was the first time she had laughed since the disappearance of the golden dog. before gabriel slipped between the sheets that night in his luxurious chamber, he took the little brown book which had been folded away with his shabby clothing. his heart glowed with gratitude to god for the help he had received that day, and when he opened the page it was as if a loving voice spoke:-- "_thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee; because he trusteth in thee_." "dear god, i trust in thee!" he murmured; then he climbed into the soft bed and slept dreamlessly. the following morning, the king and queen having given consent to their daughter's request, two children drove out of the palace grounds in a plain black carriage. the coachman drove to a confectioner's near the centre of the town, where the horses stopped. a tall man in dark clothes, who was also in the carriage, stepped down first and handed out the girl, and afterward the boy jumped down. then the carriage rolled away. "remember," said the girl, turning to the tall man, "you are not to remain too near us." he bowed submissively, and in a minute more the girl and boy, plainly dressed, middle-class people, were looking in at the confectioner's window at a pink and white frosted castle that reared itself above a cake surrounded with bon-bons to make one's mouth water. "saw you ever anything so grand, your highness?" exclaimed gabriel, in awe. the princess laughed. her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled. this was the first time her little feet had ever touched a city street, and she loved the adventure. "find me topaz, and all the contents of this window shall be yours," she returned. "i shall not care to have anything until we do find him, your highness," replied gabriel simply. "you must not call me that. some one might hear you." "i know it. there is danger of it," declared gabriel; "but the gentleman who is to follow us said i should lose my head if i treated you familiarly." the princess laughed again. she was in a new world, like a bird whose cage door had been opened. "we need your head until we find topaz," she replied, "for you have clever ideas. nevertheless, my name is louise, and you may remember it if necessity arises. now where shall we go first?" "straight down this street," said the boy, leading the way. "i am expecting god will show us where to go," he added. his companion looked at him in surprise, and gabriel observed it. "don't you know about god?" he asked. "of course. who does not?" she returned briefly. "i did not," answered gabriel, "until i found the book of life. it speaks to me in words of flame. have you such a book?" "no. i will buy it from you," said the princess. "no one can do that," declared the boy, "for it is more precious than all beside. this morning i looked into it for guidance through the day, and the glowing words were sweet:-- "'_for he shall give his angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways_.'" gabriel smiled at the princess with such gladness that she gazed at him curiously. "you cannot refuse to sell me your book," she said at last, "for i can have your head taken off if i wish. i am the king's daughter." "god is greater than all kings," returned gabriel, "and he would not allow it. he helped me to get your attention yesterday, and to-day he is sending his angels with us to find topaz. the book of life is for every one, i believe. i am sure you can have one, too." here both the boy and girl started, for there came a metallic sound of music on the air. "be cautious, be very cautious," warned gabriel, and as the princess started to run, he caught her by the arm, a proceeding which horrified the tall man in dark clothes who was at some distance back, but had never taken his eyes from them. "you must not be too interested," added the boy, as excited as she. "a hand-organ is an every-day affair. we even hear them in the country at times." but they both followed the sound, veiling their eagerness as best they might. when they came in sight of the organ-grinder they both sighed, for he had no assistance from a little dog nor from any one else. the princess was for turning away impatiently. "wait," said gabriel, "we are interested in organ music." so he persuaded her to stand a minute, while her bright eyes roved in all directions; and the organ man saw a hope of coppers in the pair, for they were decently dressed and lingered in apparent pleasure. he kept his eyes upon them and at last held out his cap. the princess had plenty of pence in the bag at her side, placed there by the thoughtful gabriel in place of the handful of silver with which she had intended to reward street musicians. "you are one of the common people, your highness; or else you need have no hope of topaz," he had reminded her; so now the impatient girl tossed some coppers into the outstretched cap and hurried along as if they were wasting time. the next organ they found had, sitting upon it, a monkey dressed in red cap and jacket, and gabriel insisted on waiting to watch him, although the sight of his antics only swelled the princess's heart as she thought that somewhere topaz was being forced to such indignity. the little monkey did not seem to object, and gladly ran to his master with the coppers that gabriel dropped in his cap. the next organ-grinder they found had with him a little italian girl with a red silk handkerchief knotted about her head. she sang and played on a tambourine, and gabriel persuaded his companion to watch and listen for a few minutes. if only they could find topaz first, her royal highness, princess of the country, would ask nothing better than to roam freely about the streets, listening and gazing like any other young girl out for a holiday; but topaz was on her mind, and she was not accustomed to being forced to wait. "listen to me," murmured gabriel, as they moved on after making the little italian show her white teeth in pleasure at their gift. "do not frown. you must look pleased. it is the only way." so the princess put a restraint upon herself. with the next organ they met, she saw a yellow dog who wore a cap fastened under his chin, and sat up holding a cup in his teeth for pennies, and she set her lips in the effort to control herself. the dog had long ears and white paws. gabriel's own heart beat in his throat, but he grasped the woolen stuff of his companion's gown as the man began to play. it was not the man of yesterday, but that mattered not to gabriel. they waited till the tune was finished, the gaze of the princess devouring the dog meanwhile. then the little creature trotted up to them very prettily on his hind legs, offering his cup, and the children dropped into it coppers while they looked into the yellow eyes. "hi--oh--hi--oh"--and another tune broke into the one which their organ-grinder commenced. following the sound of the call, gabriel and the princess looked a little way off, across the street, and beheld a street musician grinding away and beckoning to them with his head, while his teeth gleamed in an attractive smile. "pay no attention to him," said the man with the yellow dog, grinding lustily, and making a frightful discord. "'tis pedro and his little brown beast. he seeks to draw my listeners away as if i had not the most intelligent dog in the universe, and, moreover, of the color which the princess has made fashionable. i doubt not if her highness saw my dog she would give me for him as many gold eagles as i have fingers on my hand; but he is not for the princess, who has joys enough without depriving the children on the street of their pleasures." the girl in the brown woolen gown was clasping her hands painfully together, and her heart was beating with hope; but gabriel shook his head at her, and she remained quiet. he had already seen that the dog was not topaz, although astonishingly like him in size and shape. pedro, across the street, kept drawing nearer, as he played and smiled and beckoned with his head. there trotted after him an unpromising little brown dog with limp tail and ears. the man, in his good-nature and success, looked very different from the organ-grinder of yesterday; and as he laughed aloud, the master of the yellow dog frowned and shouted something in italian back at him, before shouldering his organ and tramping away, his dog very glad to go on all fours again. pedro pulled off his hat, smiling at the lingering girl and boy. "he says you have given him all your coppers," he said. "i don't believe it; but in any case i will give you a tune." "you are letting him go," murmured the princess breathlessly, starting to run after the yellow dog. "saw you not 'twas not topaz?" asked gabriel, under cover of the lively tune, and again seizing a fold of the woolen gown, he held the girl in her place. "wait," he said aloud, with a show of interest, "i wish to hear the music." "let me go, my heart is sick," returned the princess, turning her head away. gabriel pretended to frown at her and pulled some pence from his pocket, at sight of which the organ-grinder's eyes brightened and he played harder than ever. "can you be strong, princess?" asked the boy distinctly. "don't look now, but topaz has come to us." the princess started, and instead of obeying, looked closely first at the dejected little brown dog and then up and down the street and behind her, but in vain. "if those pence are for me, my boy," said the organ-grinder, stopping his music, "you and your sister shall see my dog dance. he is the wonder of the world, although he is not much to look at. we cannot all be royal and own golden dogs." gabriel threw him the pennies, for he did not yet wish to come too near topaz, lest the little dog might see deeper than the respectable raiment in which his own brother would not have known him. the boy clapped his hands above his head; the organ-grinder thought it was for joy, but it was a signal agreed upon. a shrill whistle sounded on the air. the organ-grinder knew the sound and knew that it was intended to summon the officers of the law. he wondered what poor wretch was getting into trouble; but it was none of his business. he took a whip from within his coat, and with it struck the organ a violent snap. at the sound the little dog jumped. the princess noticed that gabriel's eyes were fixed on him, and wondered what he could be thinking of to confound this sorry-looking, dull-colored animal with her gay companion of the palace garden. the music began, the dog reared himself patiently upon his hind feet and stepped about so slowly that the organ-man growled at him and struck the organ again. then the dancer moved faster; but the ears did not fly and every motion was a jerk. nevertheless, the princess's heart had now begun to suffocate her. she recalled gabriel's story of washing off the brown color from the dingy fur in the brook, and her eyes swam with tears at the mere possibility that this might be the object of her search. she had just sense enough to keep still and leave everything to gabriel. here, too, approached the tall gentleman, followed by an officer of the law. gabriel saw at a glance that it was the same big fellow who had driven him away yesterday. the tall, dignified gentleman-in-waiting looked in disgust at the stiff little brown dancer. "this foolish peasant is but getting us into trouble," he thought, "but he will suffer for it." indeed, gabriel knew the law of the land; knew that if he accused the organ-grinder wrongfully he would be walked off to prison in his place; but gabriel had seen the brown dog's eyes. there were no doubts in his heart, which bounded so that it seemed as if it could hardly stay within his bosom. "come away, your highness," murmured the gentleman-in-waiting, in the princess's ear. "this is a farce." "stand back and wait," she replied sternly, and he obeyed. meanwhile the organ-grinder had observed the newcomers and was showing every tooth in his head at the prospect of a rich harvest of coppers. in a minute he ceased playing. the brown dog dropped to all fours, and his hopeless air sent a pang through the princess. the organ-grinder held out his cap. "i don't think much of your dog's dancing," said gabriel, looking him in the eye. "i could make him do better, myself." "it doesn't do to use the whip too much," replied the organ-grinder, but gabriel had already gone on his knees beside the dog and whispered to him. instantly the little creature went into a transport of delight. bounding to the boy's breast, it clung there so closely that gabriel gave up the experiment that he had intended of trying to show the organ-man how his slave could dance. rising, gabriel held the panting topaz in his arms. "i declare," he said aloud, "i declare this to be the princess's lost dog." the organ-grinder scowled and grew pale. "'tis a lie," he cried, "hers was a golden dog." "this is a golden dog," said gabriel. even the gentleman-in-waiting was impressed by the certainty of the boy's voice. the organ-grinder turned to the officer and shook his fist. "'tis that boy again!" he cried. "if this is the princess's dog, that boy stole him. as for me, i found the poor creature, friendless and lost, and i took pity on him." "why, then, did you stain his coat?" asked gabriel. the organ-grinder looked wildly up and down the street. for some reason he felt that a silver coin would not affect the officer of the law to-day. the gentleman-in-waiting pointed sternly at the culprit. "take him away," he said to the officer. "should this prove to be indeed the princess's dog, he has committed treason." and now the black carriage and spirited horses drove up. the three entered it with the dog and were whirled away. by noon it was rumored in that street that her royal highness, the princess of the land, had walked through it, dressed like one of the common people. within the carriage the princess was weeping tears of joy above her pet. "if it is you, goldilocks, if it is you!" she kept repeating; but the dog clung to the one who had recognized his topaz eyes in spite of everything. "he is not fit, yet, for your highness to touch," said gabriel, "but if you will give me one hour, i will show him to you unchanged." that afternoon there was rejoicing at the palace. all had felt the influence of the princess's grief, for she was the idol of the king and queen; and now, as topaz capered again, a living sunbeam, through corridor and garden, all had a word of praise for the peasant boy who had restored him to his home. at evening the princess received a message from gabriel and ordered that he be sent to her. in a minute he entered, dressed in the shabby garments in which he had leaped upon the coach step. in his hand he held a little rusty book, and his clear eyes looked steadily at the princess, with the honest light which had first made her listen to him. "i come to say farewell, your highness," he said. a line showed in her forehead. "what reward have they given you?" "none, your highness." "what have you in your hand?" "the book of life." "come nearer and let me see it." the ladies-in-waiting were, as usual, grouped near their mistress, and they stared curiously at the peasant boy. only topaz, who at his entrance had bounded from a satin cushion as golden as his flossy coat, leaped upon him with every sign of affection. gabriel approached and handed the book to the princess. she opened it and ran her eye over the gray pages. "i see no fiery letters," she said, and handed it back. the boy opened it. as usual a flaming verse arrested his eye. he pointed with his finger at the words and read aloud:-- "'_he shall call upon me and i will answer him: i will be with him in trouble: i will deliver him and honor him_.'" "'tis a fair promise," said the princess, "but i see no flaming letters." "i do, your highness," returned gabriel simply, and looking into his eyes she knew that he spoke the truth. she gazed at him curiously. "where go you now, and what do you do?" she asked, after a pause. "that i know not," replied gabriel, "but god will show me." "by means of that book?" "yes, your highness," and gabriel bowed his head and moved toward the door. topaz followed close at his heel. if gabriel were going for a walk, why, so much the better. he was going, too. the boy smiled rather sadly, for he knew the golden dog loved him, and there was no one else anywhere who cared whether he went or came. he stooped and, picking up the little creature, carried him to the princess. "you will have to hold him from following me, your highness." the girl took the dog, but he struggled and broke from her grasp, to leap once again upon his departing friend. "wait," said the princess, and rose. gabriel stood, all attention, and gazed at her, where she stood, smiling kindly upon him. "i promised a full reward to whomever returned me my dog. you have not yet received even the window-full of pink and white sweetmeats which i promised you this morning." gabriel smiled, too. "where is your home, gabriel, and why are you not returning there?" "i have no home. it is a long story, your highness, and would not interest you." "ah, but it does interest me," and the princess smiled more brightly than ever; "because if you have no home you can remain in our service." a light flashed into gabriel's sober face. "what happiness!" he exclaimed. no answer could have pleased the princess better than the pleasure in his eyes. "topaz is not willing you should leave him, and neither am i. when you are older, his majesty, my father, will look after your fortunes. for the present you shall be a page." "your highness!" protested the lady gertrude, "have you considered? the pages are of lofty birth. will it not go hard with the peasant? give him a purse and let him go." the princess answered but did not remove her gaze from the boy's flushed face, while topaz's cold little nose nestled in his down-dropped hand. "gabriel is my friend, be he prince or peasant," she said slowly, "and it will go hard with those who love him not." the young girl's eyes met gabriel's and then she smiled as light-heartedly as on this morning when she wore the woolen gown. "and now make topaz dance," she added, "the way he danced in the woods." the boy's happy glance dropped to the dog, and he raised his finger. with alacrity topaz sat up, and then gabriel began to whistle. how the court ladies murmured with soft laughter, for no one had ever seen such a pretty sight. not for any of them, not for the princess herself, had topaz danced as he danced to-day. "ah," murmured the princess, "how much more powerful than the whip is love!" when music and dancing had ceased, she smiled once more upon gabriel, whose happy heart was full. "go now," she said, "and learn of your new duties; but the chief one you have learned already. it is to be faithful!" chapter xii the talking doll mr. evringham's horseback rides in these days were apt to be accompanied by the stories, which jewel related to him with much enthusiasm while they cantered through wood-roads, and it is safe to say that the tales furnished full as much entertainment at second hand as they had at first. the golden dog had deeply impressed jewel's fancy, and when she finished relating the story, her face all alight, mr. evringham shook his head. "star is going to have his hands full, i can see," he remarked, restraining essex maid's longing for a gallop. "why, grandpa?" "to hold his own against that dog." jewel looked thoughtful. "i suppose it wouldn't be any use to try to teach star to dance, would it?" she asked. "oh, yes. ponies learn to dance. we shall have to go to a circus and let you see one; but how should you like it every time star heard a band or a hand-organ to have him get up on his hind legs and begin?" jewel laughed and patted her pony's glossy neck. "i guess i like star best the way he is," she replied, "but grandpa, did you ever _hear_ of such a darling dog?" "i confess i never did," admitted the broker. "i should think there was some trick star could learn," said jewel musingly. "why, of course there is. tell zeke you wish to teach star to shake hands. he'll help you." this idea pleased jewel very much, and in the fullness of time the feat was accomplished; but by the time the black pony had learned that he must lift his little hoof carefully and put it in his mistress's hand, before his lump of sugar was forthcoming, he wished, like the lady gertrude, that there had never been a yellow dog in the world. when next mrs. evringham, jewel, and anna belle settled in the ravine to the reading of a story, it was jewel's turn to choose. when her mother had finished naming the remaining titles, the child hesitated and lifted her eyebrows and shoulders as she gave the reader a meaning glance. mrs. evringham wondered what was in her mind, and, after a minute's thought, jewel turned to anna belle, sitting wide-eyed against a tree. "just excuse me one minute, dearie," she said; then, coming close to her mother's ear, she whispered:-- "is there anything in 'the talking doll' to hurt anna belle's feelings?" "no, i think she'd rather like it," returned mrs. evringham. "you see," whispered jewel, "she doesn't know she's a doll." "of course not," said mrs. evringham. jewel sat back: "i choose," she said aloud, "i choose 'the talking doll.'" as anna belle only maintained her usual amiable look of interest, mrs. evringham proceeded to read aloud as follows:-- * * * * * when gladys opened her eyes on her birthday morning, the sun was streaming across her room, all decorated in rose and white. it was the prettiest room any little girl could have, and everything about the child looked so bright, one would have expected her to laugh just for sympathy with the gay morning; but as she sat up in bed she yawned instead and her eyes gazed soberly at the dancing sunbeams. "ellen," she called, and a young woman came into the room. "oh, you're awake, miss gladys. isn't this a fine birthday mother nature's fixed up for you?" the pleasant maid helped the little girl to bathe and dress, and, as the toilet went on, tried to bring a cheerful look into gladys's face. "now what are you hoping your mother has for you?" she asked, at last. "i don't know," returned the child, very near a pout. "there isn't anything i want. i've been trying to think what i'd like to have, and i can't think of a thing." she said this in an injured tone, as if the whole world were being unkind to her. ellen shook her head. "you are a very unlucky child," she returned impressively. "i am not," retorted gladys, looking at ellen in astonishment. the idea that she, whom her father and mother watched from morning until night as their greatest treasure, could be called unlucky! she had never expressed a wish in her life that had not been gratified. "you mustn't say such things to me, ellen," added the child, vexed that her maid did not look sorry for having made such a blunder. ellen had taken care of her ever since she was born, and no one should know better what a happy, petted life she had led; but ellen only shook her head now; and when gladys was dressed she went down to the dining-room where her parents were waiting to give her a birthday greeting. they kissed her lovingly, and then her mother said:-- "well, what does my little girl want for her gift?" "what have you for me?" asked gladys, with only faint interest. she had closets and drawers full of toys and books and games, and she was like a person who has been feasted and feasted, and then is asked to sit down again at a loaded table. for answer her mother produced from behind a screen a beautiful doll. it was larger and finer than any that gladys had owned, and its parted, rosy lips showed pearly little teeth within. gladys looked at it without moving, but began to smile. then her mother put her hand about the doll's waist and it suddenly said: "ma-ma--pa-pa." "oh, if she can talk!" cried gladys, looking quite radiant for a minute, and running forward she took the doll in her arms. "her name is vera," said the mother, happy at having succeeded in pleasing her child. "here is something that your grandmother sent you, dear. isn't it a quaint old thing?" and gladys's mother showed her a heavy silver bowl with a cover. on the cover was engraved, "it is more blessed to give than to receive." "i don't know where your grandma found such an odd thing nor why she sent it to a little girl; but she says it will be an heirloom for you." gladys looked at the bowl and handled it curiously. the cover fitted so well and the silver was so bright she was rather pleased at having, such a grown-up possession. "it is evidently valuable," said her mother. "i will have it put with our silver." "no," returned gladys, and her manner was the willful one of a spoiled child. "i want it in my room. i like it." "oh, very well," answered her mother. "grandma will be glad that you are pleased." an excursion into the country had been planned for gladys to-day. she had some cousins there, a girl of her own age and a boy a little older. she had not seen faith and ernest for five years. their father and mother were away on a long visit now, so the children were living in the old farmhouse with an aunt of their father's to take care of them. gladys's mother thought it would be a pleasant change for her in the june weather, and it was an attractive idea to gladys to think of giving these country cousins a sight of her dainty self, her fine clothes, and perhaps she would take them one or two old toys that she liked the least; but the coming of vera put the toy idea completely out of her head. what would faith say to a doll who could talk! gladys was in haste now for the time to come to take the train; and as vera was well supplied with various costumes, the doll was soon arrayed, like her little mamma, in pretty summer street-dress and ready to start. gladys's father had a guest to-day, so his wife remained at home with him, and ellen took charge of the birthday excursion. driving to the station and during the hour's ride on the train, gladys was in gay spirits, chattering about her new doll and arranging its pretty clothes, and each time vera uttered her words, the child would laugh, and ellen laughed with her. gladys was a girl ten years old, but to the maid she was still a baby, and although ellen thought she saw the child's parents making mistakes with her every day, she, like them, was so relieved when gladys was good-natured that she joined heartily in the little girl's pleasure now over her birthday present. "won't faith's eyes open when she sees vera?" asked gladys gayly. "i expect they will," returned ellen. "what have you brought with you for her and her brother?" the child shrugged her shoulders. "nothing. i meant to but i forgot it, because i was so pleased with vera. isn't her hair sweet, ellen?" and gladys twisted the soft, golden locks around her fingers. "yes, but it would have been nice to bring something for those children. they don't have so much as you do." "of course not. i don't believe they have much of anything. you know they're poor. mother sends them money sometimes, so it's all right." and gladys poked the point of her finger within vera's rosy lips and touched her little white teeth. ellen shook her head and gladys saw it and pouted. "why didn't _you_ think of it, then, or mother?" she asked. "you won't have somebody to think for you all your life," returned ellen. "you'd better be beginning to think about other people yourself, gladys. what's that it said on your grandmother's silver bowl?" "oh, i don't know. something about giving and receiving." "yes. 'it is more blessed to give than to receive,' that's what it said," and ellen looked hard at her companion, though with a very soft gaze, too; for she loved this little girl because she had spent many a wakeful night and busy day for her. "yes, i remember," returned gladys. "grandma had that put on because she wanted me to know how much she would rather give me things than have people give things to her. anyway, ellen, if you are going to be cross on my birthday i wish mother had come with me, instead;" and a displeased cloud came over the little-girl's face, which ellen hastened to drive away by changing the subject. she knew her master and mistress would reprove her for annoying their idol. they always said, when their daughter was unusually naughty or selfish, "oh, gladys will outgrow all these things. we won't make much of them." by the time they reached the country station, gladys's spirits were quite restored and, carrying her doll, she left the train with ellen. faith and ernest were there to meet them. no wonder the children did not recognize each other, for they had been so young when last they met; and when gladys's curious eyes fell upon the country girl, she felt like a princess who comes to honor humble subjects with a visit. faith and ernest had never thought about being humble subjects. their rich relative who lived in some unknown place and sometimes sent their mother gifts of money and clothing had often roused their gratitude, and when she had written that their cousin gladys would like to visit the farm on her birthday, they at once set their wits to work to think how they could make her have a good time. they always had a good time themselves, and now that vacation had begun, the days seemed very full of fun and sunshine. they thought it must be hard to live in a city street as their mother had described, it to them, and even though she was away now and could not advise them, they felt as if they could make gladys enjoy herself. faith's hair was shingled as short as her brother's, and her gingham frock was clean and fresh. she watched each person descend from the train, and when a pretty girl with brown eyes and curls appeared, carrying a large doll, faith's bright gaze grew brighter, and she was delighted to find that it was gladys. she took it for granted that kind-faced ellen, so well dressed in black, was her aunt, and greeted her so, but gladys's brown eyes widened. "my mother couldn't come, for father needed her," she explained. "this is my maid, ellen." "oh," said faith, much impressed by such elegance. "we thought aunt helen was coming. ernest is holding the horse over here," and she led the way to a two-seated wagon where a twelve-year-old boy in striped shirt and old felt hat was waiting. faith made the introductions and then helped gladys and ellen into the back seat of the wagon, all unconscious of her cousin's wonder at the absence of silver mountings and broadcloth cushions. then faith climbed over the wheel into the seat beside her brother, and the horse started. she turned about so as to talk more easily with her guest. "what a beautiful doll!" she said admiringly. "yes," returned gladys, "this is my birthday, you know." "oh, then, is it new? i thought it was! hasn't she the prettiest clothes? have you named her yet?" "her name is vera. mother says it means true, or truth, or something like that." ernest turned half around to glance at the object of the girls' admiration; but he thought gladys herself a much more attractive creature than the doll. "i suppose your cousin gladys can't ask you to admire her doll much, master ernest," said ellen. she liked these rosy children at once, and the fresh, sunlit air that had painted their cheeks. "oh, it's pretty enough," returned ernest, turning back and clucking to the horse. gladys enjoyed faith's pleasure. she would not try to show off vera's supreme accomplishment in this rattlety-banging wagon. how it did jounce over occasional stones in the country road! [illustration: "i hear a sheep"] ellen smiled at her as the child took hold of her arm in fear of losing her balance. "that was a 'thank-ye-ma'am,'" she said, as the wagon suddenly bounded over a little hillock. "didn't you see what a pretty curtsy we all made?" but gladys thought it was rather uncomfortable and that ernest drove too fast, considering the state of the toads. "this wagon has such nice springs," said faith. she was eager to take vera into her own hands, but no wonder gladys liked to hold her when she had only had her such a short time. aunt martha was standing on the piazza to welcome the company when they arrived. she was an elderly woman with spectacles, and it had to be explained to her, also, that ellen was not gladys's mother. the maid was so well dressed in her quiet street suit that aunt martha groaned in spirit at first at the prospect of caring for a fashionable city servant; and it was a relief when the stranger looked up and said pleasantly: "i'm just ellen." there was an hour left before dinner, and faith and ernest carried gladys off to a place they called the grove. the farmhouse was painted in light yellow and white. it was built on a grassy slope, and at the foot of a gentle hill a pretty pond lay, and out from this flowed a brook. if one kept quite still he could hear the soft babble of the little stream even from the piazza. nearer by was a large elm-tree, so wide-spreading that the pair of baltimore orioles who hung their swaying nest on one limb scarcely had a bowing acquaintance with the robins who lived on the other side. the air was full of pleasant scents, and gladys followed her hosts willingly, far to the right side of the house, where a stone wall divided the grounds from a piece of woodland. her cousins bounded over the wall, and she tried to find a safe spot for her dainty, thin shoe, the large doll impeding her movements. "oh, let me take her!" cried faith eagerly, seeing her cousin's predicament; and as she carefully lifted the beautiful vera, she added: "help gladys over, ernest." ernest was very unused to girls who had to be helped, and he was rather awkward in trying to give his cousin assistance, but as gladys tetered on the unsteady stones, she grasped his strong shoulder and jumped down. "father and ernest cleared this grove out for us," explained faith. all the underbrush had been carried away and the straight, sweet-smelling pines rose from a carpet of dry needles. a hammock was swung between two trees. it was used more by the children's mother than by them, as they were too active to care for it; but gladys immediately ran toward it, her recovered doll in her arms, and seated herself in the netting. her cousins regarded her admiringly as she sat there pushing herself with her dainty shoe-tips. "i'll swing you," said ernest, and running to her side began with such a will that gladys cried out:-- "oh, not so hard, not so hard!" and the boy dropped his hands, abashed. now, while they were both standing before her, was a good time for gladys to give them her great surprise; so she put her hands about vera's waist, and at once "ma-ma--pa-pa" sounded in the still grove. ernest pricked up his ears. "i hear a sheep," he said, looking about. gladys flushed, but turning toward faith for appreciation, she made the doll repeat her accomplishment. "it's that dear vera!" cried faith, falling on her knees in the pine needles before gladys. "oh, make her do it again, gladys, please do!" her visitor smiled and complied, pleased with her country cousin's delight. "think of a doll that can talk!" cried faith. "i think she bleats," laughed ernest, and he mimicked vera's staccato tones. faith laughed, too, but gladys gave him a flash of her brown eyes. "a boy doesn't know anything about dolls," said faith. "i should think you'd be the happiest girl, gladys!" "i am," returned gladys complacently. "what sort of a doll have you, faith?" "rag, tag, and bobtail," laughed ernest. "now you keep still," said his sister. "i'll show you my dolls when we go to dinner, gladys. i don't play with them very much because ernest doesn't like to, and now it's vacation we're together a lot, you know; but i just love them, and if you were going to stay longer we'd have a lot of fun." faith looked so bright as she spoke, gladys wished she had brought something for her. she wasn't so sure about ernest. he was a nice-looking, strong boy, but he had made fun of vera. at present he was letting off some of his superfluous energy by climbing a tree. "look out for the pitch, ernest," said his sister warningly. "see, gladys, i have a horse out here," and faith went to where the low-growing limb of a pine sprang flexibly as she leaped upon it into an imaginary side-saddle. gladys smiled at her languidly, as she bounded gayly up and down. "i have a pony," returned gladys, rocking gently in her swinging cradle. "that must be splendid," said faith. "ernest rides our old tom bareback around the pasture sometimes, but i can't." very soon the children were called to dinner, and wonderfully good it tasted to gladys, who took note of cottage cheese, apple-butter, and doughnuts, and determined to order them at home the very next day. as they were all rising from the table, a telegraph boy drove up in a buggy, and a telegram was handed to ellen. her face showed surprise as she read it, and she looked at aunt martha. "could we stay here a few days?" she asked. "what is it, ellen?" demanded gladys. "your father's friend wants him and your mother to take a trip with him, and your mother thinks you might like to stay here a while. i'm to answer, and she will send some clothes and things." aunt martha had already learned to like good, sensible ellen, and she replied cordially; so a telegram went back by the messenger boy, and faith and gladys both jumped up and down with pleasure at the prolonging of the visit. ernest looked pleased, too. in spite of gladys's rather languid, helpless ways, he admired her very much; so the children scampered away, being left this time on a chair in the parlor. "do you like turtles?" asked faith of the guest. "i don't know," returned gladys. "didn't you ever see any?" asked ernest in astonishment. "i don't believe so." "then come on!" cried the boy, with a joyous whoop. "we'll go turtle-hunting." gladys skipped along with them until they reached the brook. "now ernest will walk on that side of the water," said faith, "and you and i will go on this." "but what are we going to do?" "watch for turtles. you'll see." ernest jumped across the brook. gladys walked along the soft grass behind faith, and the bubbling little stream swirled around its stones and gently bent its grasses as it ran through the meadow. in a minute faith's practiced eye caught sight of a dark object on a stone directly in front of them. it was a turtle sunning himself. his black shell was covered with bright golden spots, and his eyes were blinking slowly in the warm light. "quick, ernest!" cried faith, for it was on his side. he sprang forward, but not quickly enough. the turtle had only to give one vigorous push of his hind feet and, plump, he fell into the water. instantly the brook became muddy at that point, for mr. turtle knew that he must be a very busy fellow if he escaped from the eager children who were after him. he burrowed into the soft earth while ernest and faith threw themselves flat on their stomachs. gladys opened her brown eyes wide to see her cousins, their sleeves stripped up, plunging their hands blindly about hoping to trap their reluctant playfellow. ernest was successful, and bringing up the muddy turtle, soused him in the water until his golden spots gleamed again. "hurrah!" cried faith, "we have him. let me show him to gladys, please, ernest," and the boy put the turtle into the hand stretched across to him. as soon as the creature found that kicking and struggling did not do any good, it had drawn head, legs, and tail into its pretty shell house. faith put him into gladys's hand, but the little city girl cried out and dropped him on the grass. "oh, excuse me," laughed faith. "i thought you wanted to see it." "i do, but i don't believe i want to touch it." "why, they're the dearest, cleanest things," said faith, and picking up the turtle she showed her cousin its pretty under shell of cream color and black, and the round splashes of gold on its black back. "but i saw it kicking and scratching ernest, and putting its head way out," said gladys doubtfully, "and i don't like to hold it because it might put out all its legs and things again." faith laughed. "it only has four legs and a cunning little tail; and we know how to hold it so it can't scratch us, anyway; but it won't put out its head again until it thinks we've gone away, because this is an old one. see, the shell covers my hand all over. the littler ones are livelier and more willing to put out their heads. i don't believe we've had this one before, ernest," added faith, examining the creature. "we nearly always use the big ones for horses," she explained, "and then there's a gimlet hole through the shell." "who would do that?" exclaimed gladys, drawing back. "ernest. why!" observing her cousin's look of horror. "it doesn't hurt them. we wouldn't hurt them for anything. we just love them, and if they weren't geese they'd love us, too." "use them for horses? what do you mean?" "why, they draw my smallest dolls in lovely chariots." "oh," returned gladys. this sounded mysterious and interesting. she even took the clean, compact shell into her hands for a minute before faith gathered up her dress skirt and dropped the turtle into it, the three proceeding along the brook side, taking up their watch again. the warm, sunny day brought the turtles out, and the next one they saw was not larger than the palm of ernest's hand. it was swimming leisurely with the current. they all three saw it at once, but quick as faith was, the lively little creature was quicker. as she and ernest both darted upon it, it scrambled for her side and burrowed swiftly under the bank. this was the best stronghold for the turtle, and the children knew it. "i just can't lose him, i can't!" cried faith, and gladys wondered at the fearless energy with which she dived her hand into the mud, feeling around, unmindful which portion of the little animal she grasped if she only caught him; and catch him she did. with a squeal of delight she pulled out the turtle, who continued to swim vigorously, even when in mid air. "he's splendid and lively!" exclaimed faith. "you can see him go on the grass, gladys," and the little girl put the creature down, heading him away from the brook, and he made good time, thinking he was getting away from his captor. "you see, ernest harnesses them to a little pasteboard box, and i put in my smallest dolls and we have more _fun_;" but by this time the turtle realized that he was traveling inland, and turned around suddenly in the opposite direction. "no, no, pet!" cried faith gayly. "not yet," and she picked up the lively one. "see, you hold them this way;" she held the shell between her thumb and middle finger and the sharp little claws sawed the air in vain. "there, cunning," she added, looking into the turtle's bright eyes, "go see your auntie or uncle, or whoever it is," and she put it into her dress with the other one, and they walked on. "i hope we shall find a prince," said ernest, "gladys ought to see one of those." "yes, indeed," responded faith. "they're snapping turtles, really, and they grow bigger than these common ones; but they're so handsome and hard to find we call them princes. their shells are gray on top and smooth and polished, like satin; and then, underneath, oh, they're beautiful; sometimes plain ivory, and sometimes bright red; and they have lovely yellow and black splashes where the lower shell joins the upper. i wish you could see a baby turtle, gladys. once i found one no bigger than a quarter of a dollar. i don't believe it had ever been in the water." "i wish i could," returned gladys, with enthusiasm. "i wouldn't be a bit afraid of a little, _little_ one." "of course that one she found was just a common turtle, like these," said ernest, "but a baby prince is the thing we want." "yes, indeed," sighed faith ecstatically. "if i could just once find a baby prince with a red under shell, i don't know what i'd do! i'd be too happy for anything. i've hunted for one for two whole summers. the big ones do snap so that, though they're so handsome, you can't have much fun with them." the children walked on, gladys now quite in the spirit of the hunt. they found two more spotted turtles before they turned again to retrace their steps. now it proved that this was to be a red-letter day in the history of their turtle hunts, for on the way home they found the much sought baby prince. he had been in this world long enough to become a polished little creature, with all his points of beauty brought out; but not long enough to be suspicious and to make a wild scramble when he saw the children coming. faith's trained eyes fell first upon the tiny, dark object, sunning himself happily in all his baby innocence, and blinking at the lovely green world surrounding his shallow stone. her heart beat fast and she said to herself, "oh, i _know_ it's a common one!" she tiptoed swiftly nearer. it was not a common one. it was a prince! it _was_ a prince! she didn't know whether to laugh or cry, as, holding her skirt-bag of turtles with one hand, she lightly tiptoed forward, and, falling on her knees in front of the stone, gathered up the prince, just as he saw her and pushed with his tiny feet to slip off the rock into the brook. "oh, oh, _oh_!" was all she could say as she sat there, swaying herself back and forth, and holding the baby to her flushed cheek. "what is it? what?" cried ernest, jumping across the brook to her side. she smiled at him and gladys without a word, and held up her prize, showing the pretty red under shell, while the baby, very much astonished to find himself turned over in mid air, drew himself into his house. "oh, the cunning, _cunning_ thing!" cried gladys, her eyes flashing radiantly. "i'm so glad we found him!" gladys, like a good many beside herself, became fired with enthusiasm to possess whatever she saw to be precious in the sight of others. yesterday, had she seen the baby prince in some store she would not have thought of asking her mother to buy it for her; but to-day it had been captured, a little wild creature for which faith had been searching and hoping during two summers; and poor gladys had been so busy all her life wondering what people were going to get for her, and wondering whether she should like it very well when she had it, that now, instead of rejoicing that faith had such a pleasure, she began to feel a hot unrest and dissatisfaction in her breast. "he is a little beauty," she said, and then looked at her cousin and waited for her to present to her guest the baby turtle. "why didn't i see it first?" she thought, her heart beating fast, for faith showed no sign of giving up her treasure. "do you suppose we could find another?" she asked aloud, making her wistfulness very apparent as they again took up the march toward home. "well, i guess not," laughed ernest. "two of those in a day? i guess not. let me carry it for you, faith. you have to hold up your dress skirt." "oh, thank you, ernest, i don't mind, and he's _so_ cunning!" ernest kept on with the girls, now, on their side of the brook. it would be an anti-climax to catch any more turtles this afternoon. "if i could find one," said gladys, "i would carry it home for my aquarium." "oh, have you an aquarium?" asked faith with interest. "yes, a fine one. it has gold and silver fish and a number of little water creatures, and a grotto with plants growing around it." "how lovely it must be," said faith, and gladys saw her press her lips to the baby prince's polished back. "she's an awfully selfish girl," thought gladys. "i wouldn't treat company so for anything!" "you'll see the aquarium faith and i have," said ernest. "it's only a tub, but we get a good deal of fun out of it. it's our stable, too, you see. did you notice we caught one of our old horses to-day? let's see him, faith," and ernest poked among the turtles and brought out one with a little hole made carefully in the edge of his shell. "it seems very cruel to me," said gladys, with a superior air. "oh, it isn't," returned faith eagerly. "we'd rather hurt each other than the turtles, wouldn't we, ernest?" "i guess so," responded the boy, rather gruffly. he didn't wish gladys to think him too good. "it doesn't hurt them a bit," went on faith, "but you know turtles are lazy. they're all relations of the tortoise that raced with the hare in �sop's fable." her eyes sparkled at gladys, who smiled slightly. "and they aren't very fond of being horses, so we only keep them a day or two and then let them go back into the brook. i think that's about as much fun as anything, don't you, ernest?" "oh, i don't know," responded her brother, who was beginning to feel that all this turtle business was a rather youthful pastime for a member of a baseball team. "you see," went on faith, "we put the turtles on the grass only a foot or two away from the brook, and wait." "and we do have to wait," added ernest, "for they always retire within themselves and pull down the blind, as soon as we start off with them anywhere." "but we press a little on their backs," said faith, "and then they put out their noses, and when they smell the brook they begin to travel. it's such fun to see them dive in, _ker-chug_! then they scurry around and burrow in the mud, getting away from us, just as if we weren't willing they should. they are pretty silly, i must say," laughed faith, "and it's the hardest thing to make them understand that you love them; but," her tone changed tenderly as she held up the baby prince, "_you'll_ know i love you, won't you, dear, when i give you tiny little pieces of meat every day!" the cloud on gladys's face deepened. "come on, let's hustle and put the turtles away and go for a row. do you like to row, gladys?" asked ernest. "yes, i guess so," she responded, rather coldly. they ran up the hill to the side of the house where was a shallow tub of water with a rock in the middle, its top high and dry. there was also a floating shingle; so the steeds could swim or sun themselves just as suited their fancy. the upper edge of the tub was covered with tin so that sharp little claws could not find a way to climb out. "it's fun to see them go in," said faith, placing one on the rock and one on the shingle, where they rested at first without sign of life; but in a minute out came head and legs and, spurning the perches with their strong feet, plump the turtles went into the water and to the bottom, evidently convinced that they were outwitting their captors. "don't you want to choose one special one for yours, gladys? it's fun to name them," said faith. the visitor hesitated only a moment. "i choose the baby, then," she said. "you know i'm afraid of the big ones." ernest thought she was joking. it did not occur to him that any one who had seen faith's happiness in finding the prince could seriously think of taking it from her. "yes," he laughed, "i guess you and i won't get a chance at that one, gladys." faith's expression changed and her eyes grew thoughtful. "hurry up, girls," continued ernest, "come on, we won't have very much time." so the turtles, prince and all, were left disporting themselves in the tub, and the trio went down to the pond, where ernest untied his boat. faith jumped in, but gladys timorously placed her little foot upon the unsteady gunwale, and the children had to help her into the boat as they had done over the wall. "i wish i'd brought vera," she said when she was seated and ernest was pushing the boat off. "next time we will," replied faith. "i don't see why ernest couldn't go back for her now," said gladys. "i'm not used to walking so much and i'm too tired to go myself." "you want me to run up the hill after a _doll_!" asked the boy, laughing. he began to believe his pretty cousin was very fond of joking. "something might happen to her before you saw her," he added mischievously. the pond was a charming sheet of water. trees lined its edges in summer, and it was a great place for sport in winter. faith and ernest chattered to their cousin of all the coasting and skating, and their bright faces and jolly stories only increased the uncomfortable feeling that gladys had allowed to slip into her heart. her cousins had more fun than she did. it wasn't fair. she had no eyes for the pretty scenery about her, as ernest's strong arms sent the boat flying along. faith noticed her changed looks and for the first time wondered how it was going to seem to have gladys to take care of for--they couldn't tell how long; but she only tried the harder to bring back the bright look her cousin had worn at dinner time. in a few minutes gladys began to rock the boat from side to side. "don't do that, please," said ernest. there was a tone of command in his voice, and the spoiled child only rocked the harder. "none of that, i tell you, gladys," he said sharply. "please don't," added faith. but the error that gladys had let creep in was enjoying her cousin's anxiety, and she smiled teasingly as she went on rocking. she had condescended to come out to the farm, and she would let these country children see if they could order her about. ernest said no more, but he promptly turned the boat around and pulled for the shore. "what are you doing?" asked gladys. "going ashore." "i don't want to," she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing. "i want to go up there." she pointed to a spot in the distance. "i want to go around that corner and see what there is there." "not to-day," replied ernest, pulling sturdily. we won't look into gladys's heart and see what went on there then, because it is too unpleasant. "you see we're the crew," said faith, a little scared by her cousin's flashing eyes and crimson cheeks. "we have to do what ernest says. he knows a lot about boats, gladys, and it _is_ dangerous to rock. the pond is real deep." "i shall come out in the boat alone, then," declared gladys. "oh, no, you won't," remarked ernest, smiling. "people that rock boats need a keeper." faith's eyes besought him, "i'll take you out to-morrow if you'll promise to sit still," he went on; "but if anything happened to the boat, you see i couldn't save both of you, and i'd be likely to try to save faith; so you'd better go ashore now and think it over." gladys stared at him in utter amazement that any one could speak to her so. why had she ever come to the farm! however, she quickly put on a little air of indifference and only said:-- "how silly to be so afraid!" all she cared for now was to get to ellen and pour out her troubles, and she was quite silent while she jumped ashore, although the wavering boat made her clutch faith's hand hard. tender-hearted faith felt very sorry for her cousin, so she began talking about vera as they went up the hill saying how anxious she was to hear her speak again. "i'll never let you!" exclaimed that strong error that had taken possession of gladys, but her lips set tight and she was glad to see ellen come out on the piazza. as the children approached they saw that the maid had something bright in her hand, and that she was smiling. "well, gladys," she said, "your mother's sent a trunk, and this was with your clothes. what do you think of that? i expect your mother thought you might like to have it." gladys recognized the silver bowl with satisfaction. she was glad to have faith and ernest see the sort of things she was used to. "oh, it looks like a wishing bowl," cried faith in admiration. "it is a solid silver bowl that my grandmother sent me for my birthday," remarked gladys coolly, and she took it from ellen. "let's see what it says on it," said faith, and she read the inscription aloud. then she added: "it does look just like the wishing bowl in our story." "what was that?" asked gladys. "why, it was a bright, beautiful silver bowl with a cover, and all you had to do if you wanted something was to say:-- pretty little silver dish, give me, pray, my dearest wish; and then, when you took off the cover, whatever you had asked for was in the bowl!" gladys shrugged her shoulders. then she took hold of ellen's hand and drew her into the house and closed the door after them. faith and ernest did not attempt to follow. they sat down on the steps and looked at one another. "she's hopping, isn't she?" said ernest softly. "oh, dear," returned faith dejectedly, "and it all began with the baby prince." "what do you mean?" "she wants him for her aquarium." ernest paused a minute to think over his cousin's words and actions; then he broke out indignantly; "well, she won't get him." "i have hunted for him so long!" mourned faith, "and his shell is so red; but, ernest, didn't you notice what it said on that bowl?" "yes, i did; but gladys is a great baby and she isn't going to get everything. tell her you'll exchange the prince for that baa-ing doll of hers, if you like it. i tell you what, faith, i've had about enough of her after that boat business. if she's going to stay on here i shall go off with the fellows." meanwhile gladys had seized the beautiful vera and drawn ellen off upstairs to their room. the maid saw the signs of storm in her face, and her own grew troubled, for it was one thing to vex gladys and quite another to appease her. "i'm not going to stay here," announced the little girl, as soon as the door was closed, her breath coming fast. "faith and ernest are the most selfish, impolite children i ever saw!" ellen sighed, and, sitting down, drew the child into her lap. she continued excitedly: "we went turtle-hunting and found a lot of scrabbly things that i couldn't bear, but faith and ernest like them. then when we found a pretty little young one that i wouldn't be a bit afraid of, faith kept it for herself. just think, when i was company, and she had all the others beside. i'm just crazy to have it, and they're _very_ hard to find and we can't _ever_ find another. shouldn't you think she'd feel ashamed? then when, we went out in the boat, just because i moved around a little and made the boat rock, ernest brought us in when i didn't want to come a bit. i even _told_ him i didn't want to come in, because i wanted to see a part of the pond that looked pretty, but he brought us just the same. did you ever _hear_ of such impoliteness?" ellen had had too much experience with the little girl not to know that there was another side to this story; but she gathered gladys down in her arms with the curly head on her shoulder, and, while a few hot tears fell from the brown eyes, she rocked her, and it comforted the little girl's sore places to feel her nurse's love. "i'm glad ernest brought you in," said ellen, after a minute of silent rocking. "if anything happened to you, you know that would be the last of poor ellen. i could never go back to town." gladys gave a sob or two. "these children haven't nearly so much as you have," went on ellen quietly. "perhaps faith was as happy over the little turtle as you are over your talking doll. she hasn't any rich mother to give her things, you know." "they have _lots_ of things. they have a great deal more fun in winter than i do," returned gladys hotly. ellen patted her. "you have too much, gladys," she replied kindly. "when i said this morning that you were unlucky, you couldn't understand it; but perhaps this visit to the farm will make you see differently. there's such a thing as having too much, dear, and that sentence on your silver bowl is as true as true. now there's the supper bell. let me wash your face." gladys was deeply offended, but she was also hungry, and she began to wonder if there would be apple-butter and cottage cheese again. there was, and the little girl did full justice to the supper, especially to aunt martha's good bread and butter; but when the meal was over she refused to go out and romp on the lawn with her cousins. "gladys isn't used to so much running around," said ellen pleasantly to the other children. "i guess she's a pretty sleepy girl and will get into bed early." so when ellen had helped aunt martha with the supper dishes, gladys went upstairs with her, to go to bed. she was half undressed when some one knocked softly, and faith came into the room. the silver bowl stood on a table near the door, and the little girl paused to look at it and examine the wreath of roses around its edge. "i never saw one so handsome," she said. then she came forward. "i thought perhaps you'd let me see you undress vera," she added. "she is undressed," answered gladys shortly. "oh, yes!" faith went up to the bed where the doll lay in its nightdress. "may i make her speak once?" "no, i'm afraid you might hurt her," returned gladys shortly, and ellen gave her a reproachful look. gladys didn't care! how could a girl expect to be so selfish as faith, and then have everybody let her do just what she wanted to? faith drew back from the bed. "i wish you'd let me see you wish once on your bowl before i go away," she said. "how silly," returned gladys. "do you suppose i believe in such things? you can wish on it yourself, if you like." "oh, that wouldn't be any use," returned faith eagerly, "because it only works for the one it belongs to." "perhaps you wouldn't like to have me make a wish and get it," said gladys, thinking of the baby prince's lovely polished tints and bewitching little tail. "yes, i would. i'd _love_ to. do, gladys, do, and see what happens." gladys curved her lips scornfully, but the strong wish sprang in her thought, and with a careless movement she pulled off the silver cover. her mouth fell open and her eyes grew as big as possible; for she had wished for the prince, and there he was, creeping about in the bowl and lifting his little head in wonder at his surroundings. "why, faith!" was all she could say. "where did it come from?" "the brook, of course," returned faith, clapping her hands in delight at her cousin's amazement. "take him out and let's see whether he's red or plain ivory underneath." "will he scrabble?" asked gladys doubtfully. "no-o," laughed faith. so the little city girl took up the turtle and lo, he was as beautiful a red as the one of the afternoon. "isn't he lovely!" she exclaimed, not quite liking to look her cousin in the eyes. "where shall i put him for to-night?" "we'll put a little water in your wash-bowl, not much, for they are so smart about climbing out." ellen, also, was gazing at the royal infant. "he is a pretty little thing," she said, "but for pity's sake, faith, fix it so he won't get on to my bare feet!" later, when they were alone and ellen kissed gladys good-night, she looked closely into her eyes "now you're happier, i suppose," she said. "of course. won't he be cunning in my aquarium?" asked gladys, returning her look triumphantly. "yes." vera was in bed, also, and to please the child, ellen stooped and kissed the doll's forehead, too. "god be good," she said gently, "to the poor little girl who gets everything she wants!" a few minutes after the light was out and ellen had gone, gladys pulled vera nearer to her. "wasn't that a silly sort of thing for ellen to say?" she asked. "i don't think so," returned vera. gladys drew back. "did you answer me?" she said. "certainly i did." "then you really can talk!" exclaimed gladys joyfully. "at night i can," said vera. "oh, i'm so glad. i'm so glad!" and gladys hugged her. "i'm not so sure that you will be," returned vera coolly. "why not?" "because i have to speak the truth. you know my name is vera." "well, i should hope so. did you suppose i wouldn't want you to speak the truth?" gladys laughed. "yes. you don't hear it very often, and you may not like it." "why, what a thing to say!" "ellen tries, sometimes, but you won't listen." gladys kept still and her companion proceeded: "she knows all the toys and books and clothes and pets that you have at home, and she sees you forgetting all of them because faith has just one thing pretty enough for you to wish for." by this time gladys had found her tongue. "you're just as impolite as you can be, vera!" she exclaimed. "of course. you always think people are impolite who tell you the truth; but i explained to you that i have to. who was impolite when you rocked the boat, although ernest asked you not to?" "he was as silly as he could be to think there was any danger. don't you suppose i know enough not to rock it too far? and then think how impolite he was to say right out that he would save faith instead of me if we fell into the water. i can tell you my father would lock him up in prison if he didn't save me." "well, you aren't so precious to anybody else," returned vera. "why would people want a girl around who thinks only of herself and what she wants. i'm sure faith and ernest will draw a long breath when you get on the cars to go back." "oh, i don't believe they will," returned gladys, ready to cry. "what have you done to make them glad you came? you didn't bring them anything, although you knew they couldn't have many toys, and it was because you were so busy thinking how much lovelier your doll was than anything faith could have. then the minute faith found one nice thing"-- "don't say that again," interrupted gladys. "you've said it once." "you behaved so disagreeably that she had to give it to you." "you have no right to talk so. the prince came up from the brook, faith said so." "oh, she was playing a game with you and she knew you understood. it isn't pleasant to have to say such things to you, gladys, but i'm vera and i have to--i shouldn't think you could lift your head up and look faith and ernest in the face to-morrow morning. what must ernest think of you!" gladys's cheeks were very hot. "didn't you see how glad faith was when she gave--i mean when i found the prince in the bowl? i guess you haven't read what it says on that silver cover or you wouldn't talk so." "oh, yes, i have. that's truth, too, but you haven't found it out yet." "well, i wish i had brought them something," said gladys, after a little pause. "why," with a sudden thought, "there's the wishing-bowl. i'll get something for them right now!" she jumped out of bed, and striking a match, lighted the candle. vera followed her, and as gladys seated herself on one side of the little table that held the silver bowl, vera climbed into a chair on the other side. gladys looked into her eyes thoughtfully while she considered. she would give faith something so far finer than the baby prince that everybody would praise her for her generosity, and no one would remember that she had ever been selfish. ah, she knew what she would ask for! "for faith first," she said, addressing vera, then looking at the glinting bowl she silently made her wish, then with eager hand lifted off the cover. ah! ah! what did she behold! a charming little bird, whose plumage changed from purple to gold in the candle light, stood on a tiny golden stand at the bottom of the bowl. gladys lifted it out, and as soon as it stood on her hand, it began to warble wonderfully, turning its head from side to side like some she had seen in switzerland when she was there with her mother. "oh, vera, isn't it _sweet_!" she cried in delight. "beautiful!" returned vera, smiling and clapping her little hands. when the song ceased gladys looked thoughtful again. "i don't think it's a very appropriate present for faith," she said, "and i've always wanted one, but we could never find one so pretty in our stores." vera looked at her very soberly. "now you just stop staring at me like that, vera. i guess it's mine, and i have a right to keep it if i can think of something that would please faith better. now let me see. i must think of something for ernest. i'll just give him something so lovely that he'll wish he'd bitten his tongue before he spoke so to me in the boat." gladys set the singing bird in her lap, fixed her eyes on the bowl, and again decided on a wish. taking off the cover, a gold watch was seen reposing on the bottom of the bowl. "that's it, that's what i wished for!" she cried gladly, and she took out the little watch, which was a wonder. on its side was a fine engraving of boys and girls skating on a frozen pond. gladys's bright eyes caught sight of a tiny spring, which she touched, and instantly a fairy bell struck the hour and then told off the quarters and minutes. "oh, it's a repeater like uncle frank's!" she cried, "and so small, too! mother said i couldn't have one until i was grown up. won't she be surprised! i don't mean to tell her for ever so long where i got it." "i thought it was for ernest," remarked vera quietly. "why, vera," returned the child earnestly, "i should think you'd see that no boy ought to have a watch like that. if it was a different _kind_ i'd give it to him, of course." "yes, if it wasn't pretty and had nothing about it that you liked, you'd give it to him, i suppose; and if the bird couldn't sing, and had dark, broken feathers so that no child would care about it, you'd give it to faith, no doubt." gladys felt her face burn. she knew this was the truth, but oh, the entrancing bird, how could she see it belong to another? how could she endure to see ernest take from his pocket this watch and show people its wonders! "selfishness is a cruel thing," said vera. "it makes a person think she can have a good time being its slave until all of a sudden the person finds out that she has chains on that cannot be broken. you think you can't break that old law of selfishness that makes it misery to you to see another child have something that you haven't. poor, unhappy gladys!" "oh, but this bird, vera!" gladys looked down at the little warbler. what did she see! a shriveled, sorry, brown creature, its feathers broken. she lifted it anxiously. no song was there. its poor little beady eyes were dull. she dropped it in disgust and again picked up the watch. what had happened to it? the cover was brass, the picture was gone. pushing the spring had no effect. "oh, faith and ernest can have them now!" cried gladys. presto! in an instant bird and watch had regained every beauty they had lost, and twinkled and tinkled upon the astonished child's eyes and ears until she could have hugged them with delight; but suddenly great tears rolled from her eyes, for she had a new thought. "what does this mean, vera? will they only be beautiful for faith and ernest?" "you asked for them to enjoy the blessing of giving, you know, not to keep for yourself. beside, they showed a great truth when they grew dull." "how?" asked gladys tearfully. "that is the way they would look to you in a few months, after you grew tired of them; for it is the punishment of the selfish, spoiled child, that her possessions disgust her after a while. there is only one thing that lives, and remains bright, and brings us happiness,--that is thoughtful love for others. there's nothing else, gladys, there is nothing else. i am vera." "and i have none of it, none!" cried the unhappy child, and rising, she threw herself upon the bed, broken-hearted, and sobbed and sobbed. ellen heard her and came in from the next room. "what is it, my lamb, what is it?" she asked, approaching the bed anxiously. "oh, ellen, i can't tell you. i can never tell you!" wailed the child. "well, move over, dearie. i'll push vera along and there'll be room for us all. there, darling, come in ellen's arms and forget all about it." gladys cuddled close, and after a few more catches in her breath, she slept soundly. when she wakened, the sunlight was streaming through the plain room, gilding everything as it had done in her rose and white bower yesterday at home. ellen was moving about, all dressed. gladys turned over and looked at vera, pretty and innocent, her eyes closed and her lips parted over little white teeth. the child came close to the doll. the wonderful dream returned vividly. "your name is vera. you had to," she whispered, and closed her eyes. "how is the baby prince?" she asked, after a minute, jumping out of bed. "he's lively, but i expect he's as hungry as you are. what's he going to have?" "meat," replied gladys, looking admiringly at the pretty little creature. "i brought in my wash-bowl for your bath. i suppose princes can't be disturbed," said ellen. while she buttoned gladys's clothes, the little girl looked at the silver bowl, and the chairs where she and vera had sat last night in her dream. she even glanced about to see some sign of watch and bird, but could not find them. how busily her thoughts were working! sensible ellen said nothing of bad dreams; and by the time gladys went downstairs, her face looked interested and happy. after all, it wasn't as though there wasn't any god to help a person, and she had said a very fervent prayer, with her nose buried in vera's golden curls, before she jumped out of bed. she had the satin shell of the baby prince in her hand. he had drawn into it because he was very uncertain what was going to happen to him; but gladys knew. she said good-morning to her cousins so brightly that faith was pleased; but pretty as she looked, smiling, ernest saw the prince in her hand and was more offended with her than ever. "i want to thank you, faith," she said, "for letting the baby stay in my room all night. i had the most fun watching him while i was dressing." she put the little turtle into her cousin's hand. "oh, but i gave him to you," replied faith earnestly. "after you hunted for him for two summers, i couldn't be so mean as to take him. i'm just delighted you found him, faith," and gladys had a very happy moment then, for she found she _was_ happy. "let's give him some bits of meat." "she's all right," thought ernest, with a swift revulsion of feeling, and he was as embarrassed as he was astonished when his cousin turned suddenly to him:-- "if you'll take me in the boat again," she said, "i won't rock. i'm sorry i did." "it _is_ a fool trick," blurted out ernest, "but you're all right, gladys. i'll take you anywhere you want to go." ellen had heard this conversation. later in the morning she was alone for a minute with gladys, and the little girl said:-- "don't you think it would be nice, ellen, when we get home, to make up a box of pretty things and send to faith and ernest?" "i do, that," replied the surprised ellen. "i'm going to ask mother if i can't send them my music-box. they haven't any piano." "why, you couldn't get another, gladys." "i don't care," replied the child firmly. "it would be so nice for evenings and rainy days." she swallowed, because she had not grown tired of the music box. ellen put her hands on the little girl's brow and cheeks and remembered the sobbing in the night. "do you feel well, gladys?" she asked, with concern. this unnatural talk alarmed her. "i never felt any better," replied the child. "well, i wouldn't say anything to them about the music-box, dearie." gladys smiled. "i know. you think i'd be sorry after i let it go; but if i am i'll talk with vera." ellen laughed. "do you think it will always be enough for you to hear her say 'ma-ma, pa-pa?'" she asked. gladys smiled and looked affectionately at her good friend; but her lips closed tightly together. ellen knew all that vera did; but the nurse loved her still! the child was to have many a tussle with the hard mistress whose chains she had worn all her short life, but truth had spoken, and she had heard; and love was coming to help in setting her free. chapter xiii a heroic offer jewel told her grandfather the tale of the talking doll while they walked their horses through a favorite wood-road, mr. evringham keeping his eyes on the animated face of the story-teller. his own was entirely impassive, but he threw in an exclamation now and then to prove his undivided attention. "_you_ know it's more blessed to give than to receive, don't you, grandpa?" added jewel affectionately, as she finished; "because you're giving things to people all the time, and nobody but god can give you anything." "i don't know about that," returned the broker. "have you forgotten the yellow chicken you gave me?" "no," returned jewel seriously; "but i've never seen anything since that i thought you would care for." mr. evringham nodded. "i think," he said confidentially, "that you have given me something pretty nice in your mother. do you know, i'm very glad that she married into our family." "yes, indeed," replied jewel, "so am i. just supposing i had had some other grandpa!" the two shook their heads at one another gravely. there were some situations that could not be contemplated. "why do you suppose i can't find any turtles in my brook?" asked the child, after a short pause. "mother says perhaps they like meadows better than shady ravines." "perhaps they do; but," and the broker nodded knowingly, "there's another reason." "why, grandpa, why?" asked jewel eagerly. "oh, nature is such a neat housekeeper!" "why, turtles must be lovely and clean." "yes, i know; and if summer would just let the brook alone you might find a baby turtle for anna belle." "she'd love it. her eyes nearly popped out when mother was telling about it." "well, there it is, you see. now i'd be ashamed to have you see that brook in august, jewel." mr. evringham slapped the pommel of his saddle to emphasize the depth of his feelings. "why, what happens?" "dry--as--a--bone!" "it _is_?" "yes, indeed. we shan't have been long at the seashore when summer will have drained off every drop of water in that brook." "what for?" "house-cleaning, of course. i suppose she scrubs out and sweeps out the bed of that brook before she'll let a bit of water come in again." "well, she _is_ fussy," laughed jewel. "even mrs. forbes wouldn't do that." "i ask you," pursued mr. evringham, "what would the turtles do while the war was on?" "why, they couldn't live there, of course. well, we won't be here while the ravine is empty of the brook, will we, grandpa? i shouldn't like to see it." "no, we shall be where there's 'water, water everywhere.' even summer won't attempt to houseclean the bottom of the sea." jewel thought a minute. "i wish she wouldn't do that," she said wistfully; "because turtles would be fun, wouldn't they, grandpa?" mr. evringham regarded her quizzically. "i see what you want me to do," he replied. "you want me to give up wall street and become the owner of a menagerie, so you can have every animal that was ever heard of." jewel smiled and shook her head. "i don't believe i do yet. we'll have to wait till everybody loves to be good." "what has that to do with it?" "then the lions and tigers will be pleasant." "will they, indeed?" mr. evringham laughed. "all those good people won't shut them up in cages then, i fancy." "no, i don't believe they will," replied jewel. "but about those turtles," continued her grandfather. "how would you like it next spring for me to get some for you for the brook?" jewel's eyes sparkled. "wouldn't that be the most _fun_?" she returned,--"but then there's summer again," she added, sobering. "what's the reason that we couldn't drive with them to the nearest river before the brook ran dry?" "perhaps we could," replied jewel hopefully "doesn't mother tell the _nicest_ stories, grandpa?" "she certainly does; and some of the most wonderful you don't hear at all. she tells them to me after you have gone to bed." "then you ought to tell them to me," answered jewel, "just the way i tell mine to you." mr. evringham shook his head. "they probably wouldn't make you open your eyes as wide as i do mine; you're used to them. they're christian science stories. your mother has been treating my rheumatism, jewel. what do you think of that?" "oh, i'm glad," replied the child heartily, "because then you've asked her to." "how do you know i have?" "because she wouldn't treat you if you hadn't, and mother says when people are willing to ask for it, then that's the beginning of everything good for them. you know, grandpa," jewel leaned toward him lovingly and added softly, "you know even _you_ have to meet mortal mind." "i shouldn't wonder," responded the broker dryly. "and it's so proud, and hates to give up so," said jewel. "i'm an old dog," returned mr. evringham. "teaching me new tricks is going to be no joke, but your mother undertakes it cheerfully. i'm reading that book, 'science and health;' and she says i may have to read it through three times before i get the hang of it." "i don't believe you will, grandpa, because it's just as _plain_," said the child. "you'll help me, jewel?" "yes, indeed i will;" the little girl's face was radiant. "and won't mr. reeves be glad to see you coming to church with us?" "i don't know whether i shall ever make mr. reeves glad in that way or not. i'm doing this to try to understand something of what you and your mother are so sure of, and what has made a man of your father. more than that, if there is any eternity for us, i propose to stick to you through it, and it may be more convenient to study here than off in some dim no-man's-land in the hereafter. if i remain ignorant, who can tell but the power that is will whisk you away from me by and by." jewel gathered the speaker's meaning very well, and now she smiled at him with the look he loved best; all her heart in her eyes. "he wouldn't. god isn't anybody to be afraid of," she said. "why, it tells us all through the bible to fear god." "yes, of course it tells us to fear to trouble the one who loves us the best of all. just think how even you and i would fear to hurt one another, and god is keeping us _alive_ with _his_ love!" half an hour afterward their horses cantered up the drive toward the house. mrs. evringham was seated on the piazza, sewing. her husband had sent the summer wardrobe promptly, and she wore now a thin blue gown that looked charmingly comfortable. "genuine!" thought her father-in-law, as he came up the steps and met a smiling welcome from her clear eyes. he liked the simple manner in which she dressed her hair. he liked her complexion, and carriage, and voice. "i don't know but that you have the better part here on the piazza, it is so warm," he said, "but i have been thinking of you rather remorsefully this afternoon, julia. these excursions of jewel's and mine are growing to seem rather selfish. have you ever learned to ride?" "never, and i don't wish to. please believe how supremely content i am." "my carriages are small. it is so long since i've had a family. when we return i shall get one that will hold us all." "oh, yes, grandpa," cried jewel enthusiastically. "you and i on the front seat, driving, and mother and father on the back seat." "well, we have more than two months to decide how we shall sit. i fancy it will oftener be your father and mother in the phaeton and you and i on our noble steeds, eh, jewel?" "yes, i think so, too," she returned seriously. mr. evringham smiled slightly at his daughter. "the occasions when we differ are not numerous enough to mention," he remarked. "i hope it may always be so," she replied, going on with her work. "this looks like moving," observed the broker, wiping his forehead with his pocket-handkerchief and looking about on the still, green scene. "i think we had better plan to go to the shore next week." julia smiled and sighed. "very well, but any change seems as if it might be for the worse," she said. "then you've never tried summer in new jersey," he responded. "i hear you are a great story-teller, julia. if i should wear some large bows behind my ears, couldn't i come to some of these readings?" as no laugh from jewel greeted this sally, he looked down at her. she was gazing off wistfully. "what is it, jewel?" he asked. "i was wondering if it wouldn't seem a long time to essex maid and star without us!" "dear me, dear me, how little you do know those horses!" and the broker shook his head. "why, grandpa? will they like it?" "do you suppose for one minute that you could make them stay at home?" "are they going with us, grandpa?" jewel began to hop joyfully, but her habit interfered. "certainly. they naturally want to see what sort of bits and bridles are being worn at the seashore this year." "do you realize what unfashionable people you are proposing to take, yourself, father?" asked julia. she was visited by daily doubts in this regard. the broker returned her glance gravely. "have you ever seen jewel's silk dress?" he asked. the child beamed at him. "she _made_ it!" she announced triumphantly. "then you must know," said mr. evringham, "that it would save any social situation." julia laughed over her sewing. "my machine came to-day," she said. "i meant to make something a little fine, but if we go in a few days"-- "don't think of it," replied the host hastily. "you are both all right. i don't want you to see a needle. i'm sorry you are at it now." "but i like it. i really do." "i'm going to take you to the coolest place on long island, but not to the most fashionable." "that is good news," returned julia, "run along, jewel, and dress for dinner." "in one minute," put in mr. evringham. "she and i wish your opinion of something first." he disappeared for a moment into the house and came back with a flat package which jewel watched with curious eyes while he untied the string. silently he placed a photograph in his daughter's lap while the child leaned eagerly beside her. "why, why, how good!" exclaimed mrs. evringham, and jewel's eyes glistened. "isn't grandpa's nose just splendid!" she said fervently. "why, father, this picture will be a treasure," went on julia. color had risen in her face. the photograph showed jewel standing beside her grandfather seated, and her arm was about his neck. it was such a natural attitude that she had taken it while waiting for the photographer to be ready. the daisy-wreathed hat hung from her hand, and she had not known when the picture was taken. it was remarkably lifelike, and the broker regarded it with a satisfaction none the less keen because he let the others do all the talking. "and now we don't need it, grandpa," said the child. "oh, indeed we do!" exclaimed the mother; and jewel, catching her grandfather's eyes, lifted her shoulders. what did her mother know of their secret! mr. evringham smoothed his mustache. "no harm to have it, jewel," he replied, nodding at her. "no harm; a very good plan, in fact; for i suppose, even to oblige me, you can't refrain from growing up. and next we must get star's picture, with you on his back." "but you weren't on essex maid's," objected jewel. "we'll have it taken both ways, then. it's best always to be on the safe side." from this day on there was no more chance for jewel to hear a tale in the story book, until the move to the seashore was accomplished, for hot weather had evidently come to stay in bel-air park. mrs. evringham felt loath to leave its green, still loveliness and her large shady rooms; but the new jerseyite's heat panic had seized upon her father-in-law, and he pushed forward the preparations for flight. "i can't pity you for remaining here," julia said to mrs. forbes on the morning of departure. "no, ma'am, you don't need to," returned the housekeeper. "zeke and i are going off on trips, and we, calculate to have a pretty good time of it. i've been wanting to speak to you, mrs. evringham, about a business matter," continued mrs. forbes, her manner indicating that she had constrained herself to make an effort. "mr. evringham tells me you and mr. harry are to make your home with him. it's a good plan," emphatically, "as right as right can be; for what he would do without jewel isn't easy to think of; but it's given me a lot to consider. i won't be necessary here any more," the housekeeper tried to conceal what the statement cost her. she endeavored to continue, but could not, and julia saw that she did not trust her voice. "mr. evringham has not said that, i am sure," she returned. "no, and he never would; but that shouldn't prevent my doing right. you can take care of him and his house now, and i wanted to tell you that i see that, plainly, and am willing to go when you all come back. i shall have plenty of time this summer to turn around and make my plans. there's plenty of work in this world for willing hands to do, and i'm a long way off from being worn out yet." "i'm so glad you spoke about this before we left," replied mrs. evringham, smiling on the brave woman. "father has said nothing to me about it, and i am certain he would as soon dispense with one of the supports of the house as with you. we all want to be busy at something, and i have a glimmering idea of what my work is to be; and i think it is not housekeeping. i should be glad to have our coming disturb father's habits as little as possible, and certainly neither you or i should be the first to speak of any change." mrs. forbes bit her lip. "well," she returned, "you see i knew it would come hard on him to ask me to go, and i wanted you both to know that i'd see it reasonably." "it was good of you," said julia; "and that is all we ever need to be sure of--just that we are willing to be led, and then, while we look to god, everything will come right." the housekeeper drank in the sweet expression of the speaker's eyes, and smiled, a bit unsteadily. "of course i'd rather stay," she replied. "transplanting folks is as hard and risky as trees. you can't ever be sure they'll flourish in the new ground; but i want to do right. i've been reading some in zeke's book, 'science and health,' and there was one sentence just got hold of me:[ ] 'self-love is more opaque than a solid body. in patient obedience to a patient god, let us labor to dissolve with the universal solvent of love the adamant of error--self-will, self-justification, and self-love!' jewel's helped me to dissolve enough so i could face handing over the keys of this house to her mother. i'm not saying i could have offered them to everybody." [footnote : _s. and h._, page .] mrs. evringham smiled. "thank you. i hope it isn't your duty to give them, nor mine to take them. we'll leave all that to father. my idea is that he would send us all back to chicago rather than give you up--his right hand." mrs. forbes's face relaxed, and she breathed more freely than for many days. as she took her way out to the barn to report this conversation to zeke, her state of mind agreed with that of her employer when he declared his pleasure that julia had married into the family. chapter xiv robinson crusoe a long stretch of white, fine sandy beach, packed hard; an orderly procession of waves, each one breaking in seething, snowy foam that ran or crept after a child's bare feet as she skipped back and forth, playing with them; that was long island to jewel. of course there was a village and on its edge a dear, clean old farmhouse where they all lived, and in whose barn essex maid and star found stables. then there were rides every pleasant day, over cool, rolling country, and woods where one was as liable to find shells as flowers. there were wide, flat fields of grain, above which the moon sailed at night; each spot had its attraction, but the beach was the place where jewel found the greatest joy; and while mr. evringham, in the course of his life, had taken part to the full in the social activities of a summer resort where men are usually scarce and proportionately prized, it can be safely said that he now set out upon the most strenuous vacation of his entire career. it was his habit in moments of excitement or especial impressiveness to address his daughter-in-law as "madam," and on the second morning after their arrival, as she was sitting on the sand, viewing the great bottle-green rollers that marched unendingly landward, she noticed her father-in-law and jewel engaged in deep discussion, where they stood, between her and the water. mr. evringham had just come to the beach, and the incessant noise of the waves made eavesdropping impossible; but his gestures and jewel's replies roused her curiosity. the child's bathing-suit was dripping, and her pink toes were submerged by the rising tide, when her grandfather seized her hand and led her back to where her mother was sitting. "madam," he said, "this child mustn't overdo this business. she tells me she has been splashing about for some time, already." "and i'm not a bit cold, mother," declared jewel. "h'm. her hands are like frogs' paws, madam. i can see she is a perfect water-baby and will want to be in the waves continually. she says you are perfectly willing. then it is because you are ignorant. she should go in once a day, madam, once a day." "oh, grandpa!" protested jewel, "not even wade?" "we'll speak of that later; but put on your bathing-suit once a day only." mr. evringham looked down at the glowing face seriously. jewel lifted her wet shoulders and returned his look. "put it on in the morning, then, and keep it on all day?" she suggested, smiling. "at the proper hour," he went on, "the bathing master is here. then you will go in, and your mother, i hope." "and you, too, grandpa?" "yes, and i'll teach you to jump the waves. i taught your father in this very place when he was your age." "oh, goody!" jewel jumped up and down on the warm sand. "what fun it must have been to be your little boy!" she added. mr. evringham refrained from looking at his daughter-in-law. he suspected that she knew better. "look at all this white sand," he said. "this was put here for babies like you to play with. old ocean is too big a comrade for you." "i just love the foam," returned the child wistfully, "and, oh, grandpa," eagerly, "i tasted of it and it's as _salt_!" mr. evringham smiled, looking at his daughter. "yes," said julia. "jewel has gone into lake michigan once or twice, and i think she was very much surprised to find that the atlantic did not taste the same." "sit down here," said mr. evringham, "and i'll show you what your father used to like to do twenty-five years ago." jewel sat down, with much interest, and watched the speaker scoop out a shallow place in the sand and make a ring about it. "there, do you see these little hoppers?" julia was looking on, also. "aren't they cunning, jewel?" she exclaimed. "exactly like tiny lobsters." "only they're white instead of red," replied the child, and her grandfather smiled and caught one of the semi-transparent creatures. "lobsters are green when they're at home," he said. "it's only in our homes that they turn red." "really?" "yes. there are a number of things you have to learn, jewel. the ocean is a splendid playmate, but rough. that is one of the things for you to remember." "but i can wade, can't i? i want to build so many things that the water runs up into." "certainly, you can take off your shoes and stockings when it's warm enough, as it is this morning, if your mother is willing you should drabble your skirts; but keep your dress on and then you won't forget yourself." jewel leaned toward the speaker affectionately. "grandpa, you know i'm a pretty big girl. i'll be nine the first of september." "yes, i know that." "beside, you're going to be with me all the time," she went on. "h'm. well, now see these sand-fleas race." "oh, are they sand-fleas? just wait for anna belle." the child reached over to where the doll was gazing, fascinated, at the advancing, roaring breakers. her boa and plumed hat had evidently been put away from the moths. she wore a most becoming bathing costume of blue and white, and a coquettish silk handkerchief was knotted around her head. it was evident that, in common with some other summer girls, she did not intend to wet her fetching bathing-suit, and certainly it would be a risk to go into the water wearing the necklace that now sparkled in the summer sun. "come here, dearie, and see the baby lobsters," said jewel, holding her child carefully away from her own glistening wetness, and seating her against mrs. evringham's knee. "if lobsters could hop like this," said mr. evringham, "they would be shooting out of the ocean like dolphins. now you choose one, jewel, and we'll see which wins the race. we're going to place them in the middle of the ring, and watch which hops first outside the circle." jewel chuckled gleefully as she caught one. "oh, mother, aren't his eyes funny! he looks as _surprised_ all the time. now hop, dearie," she added, as she placed him beside the one mr. evringham had set down. "which do you guess, anna belle? she guesses grandpa's will beat." "well, i guess yours, jewel," said her mother; but scarcely were the words spoken when anna belle's prophecy was proved correct by the airy bound with which one of the fleas cleared the barrier while jewel's choice still remained transfixed. they all laughed except anna belle, who only smiled complacently. jewel leaned over her staring protégée. "if i only knew _what_ you were so surprised at, dearie, i'd explain it to you," she said. then she gently pushed the creature, and it sped, tardily, over the border. they pursued this game until the bathing-suit was dry; then mr. evringham yawned. "ah, this bright air makes me sleepy. haven't you something you can read to us, julia?" "yes, yes," cried jewel, "she brought the story-book." "but i didn't realize it would be so noisy. i could never read aloud against this roaring." "oh, we'll go back among the dunes. that's easy," returned mr. evringham. "you don't want to hear one of these little tales, father," said julia, flushing. "why, he just loves them," replied jewel earnestly. "i've told them all to him, and he's just as _interested_." mrs. evringham did not doubt this, and she and the broker exchanged a look of understanding, but he smiled. "i'll be very good if you'll let me come," he said. "i forgot the ribbon bows, but perhaps you'd let me qualify by holding anna belle. run and get into your clothes, jewel, and i'll find a nice place by that dune over yonder." fifteen minutes afterward the little party were comfortably ensconced in the shade of the sand hill whose sparse grasses grew tall about them. jewel began pulling on them. "you'll never pull those up," remarked mr. evringham. "i believe their roots go down to china. i've heard so." "anna belle and i will dig sometime and see," replied jewel, much interested. "there are only two stories left," said mrs. evringham, who was running over the pages of the book. "and let grandpa choose, won't you?" said jewel. "oh, yes," and the somewhat embarrassed author read the remaining titles. "i choose robinson crusoe, of course," announced mr. evringham. "this is an appropriate place to read that. i dare say by stretching our necks a little we could see his island." "well, this story is a true one," said julia. "it happened to the children of some friends of mine, who live about fifty miles from chicago." then she began to read as follows:-- robinson crusoe "i guess i shall like robinson crusoe, mamma!" exclaimed johnnie ford, rushing into his mother's room after school one day. "you would be an odd kind of boy if you did not," replied mrs. ford, "and yet you didn't seem much pleased when your father gave you the book on your birthday." "well, i didn't care much about it then, but fred king says it is the best story that ever was, and he ought to know; he rides to school in an automobile. say, when'll you read it to me? do it now, won't you?" "if what?" corrected mrs. ford. "oh, if you please. you know i always mean it." "no, dear, i don't think i will. a boy nine years old ought to be able to read robinson crusoe for himself." johnnie looked startled, and stood on one leg while he twisted the other around it. "if you have a pleasant object to work for, it will make it so much the easier to study," continued mrs. ford, as she handed johnnie the blue book with a gold picture pressed into its side. johnnie pouted and looked very cross. "it's a regular old trap," he said. [illustration: trudging along before him] "yes, dear, a trap to catch a student;" and pretty mrs. ford's low laugh was so contagious that johnnie marched out of the room, fearing he might smile in sympathy; but he soon found that leaving the room was not escaping from the fascinating crusoe. up to this time johnnie had never taken much interest in school-books beyond scribbling on their blank margins. was it really worth while, he wondered, "to buckle down" and learn to read? he knew just enough about the famous crusoe to make him wish to learn more, so he finally decided that it was worth while, if only to impress chips wood, his next-door neighbor and playmate, a boy a year younger than himself, whom johnnie patronized out of school hours. so he worked away until at last there came a proud day when he carried the blue and gold wonder book into chips' yard, and, seated beside his friend on the piazza step, began to read aloud the story of robinson crusoe. it would be hard to tell which pair of eyes grew widest and roundest as the tale unfolded, and when johnnie, one day, laid the book down, finished, two sighs of admiration floated away over mrs. wood's crocus bed. "chips, i'd rather be robinson crusoe than a king!" exclaimed johnnie. "so would i," responded chips. "let's play it." "but we can't both be crusoes. wouldn't you like to be friday?" asked johnnie insinuatingly, "he was so nice and black." "ye-yes," hesitated chips, who had great confidence in johnnie's judgment, but whose fancy had been taken by the high cap and leggings in the golden picture. "then i've got a plan," and johnnie leaned toward his friend's ear and whispered something under cover of his hand, that opened the younger boy's eyes wider than ever. "now you mustn't tell," added johnnie aloud, "'cause that wouldn't he like men a hit. promise not to, deed and double!" "deed and double!" echoed chips solemnly, for that was a very binding expression between him and johnnie. for several days following this, mrs. wood and mrs. ford were besieged by the boys to permit them to earn money; and mrs. ford, especially, was astonished at the way johnnie worked at clearing up the yard, and such other jobs as were not beyond his strength; but, inquire as she might into the motive of all this labor, she could only discover that chips and johnnie wished to buy a hen. "have you asked father if you might keep hens?" she inquired of johnnie, but he only shook his head mysteriously. chips' mother found him equally uncommunicative. she would stand at her window which overlooked the fords' back yard, and watch the boys throw kindling into the shed, or sweep the paths, and wonder greatly in her own mind. "bless their little hearts, what can it all be about?" she questioned, but she could not get at the truth. suddenly the children ceased asking for jobs, and announced that they had all the money they cared for. the day after this announcement was the first of april. when mr. ford came home to dinner that day, he missed johnnie. "i suppose some of his schoolmates have persuaded him to stay and share their lunch," explained mrs. ford. she had scarcely finished speaking when mrs. wood came in, inquiring for chips. "i have not seen him for two hours," she said, "and i cannot help feeling a little anxious, for the children have behaved so queerly lately." "i know," returned mrs. ford, beginning to look worried. "why, do you know, johnnie didn't play a trick on one of us this morning. i actually had to remind him that it was april fools' day." mr. ford laughed. "how woe-begone you both look! i think there is a very simple explanation of the boys' absence. chips probably went to school to meet johnnie, who has persuaded him to stay during the play hour. i will drive around there on my way to business and send chips home." the mothers welcomed this idea warmly; and in a short time mr. ford set out, but upon reaching the school was met with the word that johnnie had not been seen there at all that morning. then it was his turn to look anxious. he drove about, questioning every one, until he finally obtained a clue at the meat market where he dealt. "your little boy was in here this morning about half past ten, after a ham. he wouldn't have it charged; said 'twas for himself," said the market-man, laughing at the remembrance. "he didn't have quite enough money to pay for it, but i told him i guessed that would be all right, and off they went, him and the little wood boy, luggin' that ham most as big as they was." "then they were together. which way did they go?" "straight south, i know, 'cause i went to the door and watched 'em. you haven't lost 'em, have you?" "i hope not," and mr. ford sprang into his buggy, and drove off in the direction indicated, occasionally stopping to inquire if the children had been seen. to his great satisfaction he found it easy to trace them, thanks to the ham; and a little beyond the outskirts of the town he saw a promising speck ahead of him on the flat, white road. as he drew nearer, the speck widened and heightened into two little boys trudging along before him. his heart gave a thankful bound at sight of the dear little legs in their black stockings and knee breeches, and leaving his buggy by the side of the road, he walked rapidly forward and caught up with the boys, who turned and faced him as he approached. displeased as he was, mr. ford could hardly resist a hearty laugh at the comical appearance of the runaways. chips carried the big, heavy ham, and johnnie was keeping firm hold of a hen, who stretched her neck and looked very uncomfortable in her quarters under his arm. "why, father!" exclaimed johnnie, recovering from a short tussle with the poor hen, "how funny that you should be here." "no stranger than that you should be here, i think. where, if i have any right to ask, are you going?" "to lake michigan," replied johnnie composedly. "oh, i do wish this old hen would keep still!" "then you have fifty miles before you," said mr. lord. "yes, sir," replied johnnie, "but it would have been a thousand miles to the ocean, you know." "ha, ha, ha!" roared mr. ford, mystified, but unable to control himself any longer at sight of johnnie and the hen, and patient-faced chips clutching the ham. "i am glad you don't mind, father," said johnnie. "i thought it would be so nice for you and mother and mrs. wood not to have chips and me to worry about any more." "it was very thoughtful of you," replied mr. ford, remembering the anxious faces at home. "and what are you going to do at lake michigan?" "take a boat and go away and get wrecked on a desert island, like robinson crusoe," responded johnnie glibly, at the same time hitching the hen up higher under his arm. "and how about chips?" "oh, i'm man friday," chirped chips, his poor little face quite black enough for the character. "i am so sorry we had to tell you so soon," said johnnie. "we were keeping it a secret until we got to the lake; then we were going to send you a letter." mr. ford looked gravely into his son's grimy face. it was an honest face, and johnnie had always been a truthful boy, and just now seemed only troubled by the restless behavior of his hen; so the father rightly concluded that the blue and gold book had captivated him into the belief that what he and chips were doing was admirable and heroic. "what part is the hen going to play?" asked the gentleman. "is she going to help stock your island?" "oh, no, but we couldn't get along without her, because she's going to lay eggs along the way." "lay eggs?" "yes, for our lunch. at first we weren't going to take anything but the hen, but chips said he liked ham and eggs better'n anything, so we decided to take it." another pause; then mr. ford said: "you both look tired, haven't you had enough of it? i'm going home now." "no, no," asserted the boys. "and have you thought of your mothers, whom you didn't even kiss good-by?" johnnie stood on one leg and twisted the other foot around it, after his manner when troubled. "i thought you knew, johnnie, that nothing ever turns out right when you undertake it without first consulting mother." "i wish now i'd kissed mine good-by," observed friday thoughtfully. "come, we'll go back together," said mr. ford quietly, moving off as he spoke, "and we will see what mrs. wood and mother have to say on the subject." johnnie and chips followed slowly. "father," said the former emphatically, "i can't be happy without being wrecked, and i do hope mother won't object." his father made no reply to this, and three quarters of an hour afterward the children jumped out of the buggy into their mothers' arms, and as they still clung to their lunch, the ham and the hen came in for a share of the embracing, which the hen objected to seriously, never having been hugged before this eventful day. "never mind, mother," said johnnie patronizingly, "father'll tell you all about it while i go and put speckle in a safe place." so the boys went, and mr. ford seated himself in an armchair, and related the events of the afternoon to the ladies, adding some advice as to the manner of making the boys see the folly of their undertaking. mrs. wood and chips took tea at the fords' that evening, and the boys, once delivered from the necessity of keeping their secret, rattled on incessantly of their plans; talked so much and so fast, in fact, that their parents were not obliged to say anything, which was a great convenience, as they had nothing they wished to say just then. it had been a mild first of april, and after supper the little company sat out on the piazza for a time. "as johnnie and chips will be obliged to spend so many nights out of doors on their way to lake michigan, it will be an excellent plan to begin immediately," said mr. ford. "you'll like to spend the night out here, of course, boys. to be sure, it will be a good deal more comfortable than the road, still you can judge by it how such a life will suit you." johnnie looked at chips and chips looked at johnnie; for the exertions of the day had served to make the thought of their white beds very inviting; but mr. ford and the ladies talked on different subjects, and took no notice of them. at last the evening air grew uncomfortably cool, and the grown people rose to go in. "good-night, all," said mrs. wood, starting for home. chips watched her down to the gate. "aren't you going to kiss me good-night?" he called. "of course, if you want me to," she answered, turning back, "but you went away this morning without kissing me, you know." then she kissed him and went away; and in all his eight years of life little man friday had never felt so forlorn. johnnie held up his lips sturdily to bid his father and mother good-night. "i think we are going to have a thunder-storm, unseasonable as it will be," remarked mr. ford pleasantly, standing in the doorway. "well, i suppose you won't mind it. good luck to you, boys!" then the heavy front door closed. johnnie had never before realized what a clang it made when it was shut. the key turned with a squeaking noise, a bolt was pushed with a solid thud; all the windows came banging down, their locks were made fast, and johnnie and chips felt literally, figuratively, and every other way left out in the cold. there was an uncomfortable silence for a minute; then chips spoke. "your house is splendid and safe, isn't it, johnnie?" "yes, it is." "i wonder where we'd better lie down," pursued chips. "i'm sleepy. let's play we're crusoe and friday now." "oh, we can't," responded johnnie impatiently, "not with so many com--" he was going to say comforts, but changed his mind. the night was very dark, not a twinkling star peeped down at the children, and the naked branches of the climbing roses rattled against the pillars to which they were nailed, for the wind was rising. the boys sat down on the steps and chips edged closer to his companion. "i think it was queer actions in my mother," he said, "to leave me here without any shawl or pillow or anything." a little chill crept over johnnie's head from sleepiness and cold. "our mothers don't care what happens to us," he replied gloomily. the stillness of the house and the growing lateness of the hour combined to make him feel that if being wrecked was more uncomfortable than this, he could, after all, be happy without it. "what do you think?" broke in the shivering man friday. "mamma says ham isn't good to eat if it isn't cooked." "and that's the meanest old hen that ever lived!" returned crusoe. "she hasn't laid an egg since i got her." a distant rumble sounded in the air. "what's that?" asked chips. "well, i should think you'd know that's thunder," replied johnnie crossly. "oh, yes," said little chips meekly, "and we're going to get wet." they were both quiet for another minute, while the wind rose and swept by them. "i really think, johnnie," began chips apologetically, "that i'm not big enough to be a good man friday. i think to-morrow you'd better find somebody else." "no, indeed," replied johnnie feelingly. "i'd rather give up being wrecked than go off with any one but you. if you give up, i shall." the rain began to patter down. "if you don't like to get wet, chips, i'd just as lieves go and ring the bell as not," he added. a sudden sweep of wind nearly tipped the children over, for they had risen, undecidedly. "no," called chips stoutly, to be heard above the blast. "i'll be friday till to-morrow." his last word sounded like a shout, for the wind suddenly died. "what do you scream so for?" asked johnnie impatiently; but the storm had only paused, as it were to get ready, and now approached swiftly, gathering strength as it came. it swept across the piazza, taking the children's breath away and bending the tall maple in front of the house with such sudden fury that a branch snapped off; then the wind died in the distance with a rushing sound and the breaking tree was illumined by a flash of lightning. "i think, johnnie," said chips unsteadily, "that god wants us to go in the house." a peal of thunder roared. "i've just thought," replied johnnie, keeping his balance by clutching the younger boy as tightly as chips was clinging to him, "that perhaps it wasn't right for us to run off the way we did, without getting any advice." they strove with the wind only a few seconds more, then, with one accord, struggled to the door where one rang peal after peal at the bell, while the other pounded sturdily. johnnie didn't stop then to wonder how his father could get downstairs to open the door so quickly. mrs. ford, too, seemed to have been waiting for the pair of heroes, and she took them straight to johnnie's room, where she undressed them in silence and rolled them into bed. they said their prayers and were asleep in two minutes, while the storm howled outside. then, in some mysterious way, mrs. wood came into the room, and the three parents stood watching the unconscious children. "that's the last of one trial with those boys, i'm sure," said mr. ford, laughing, and he was right; for it was years before any one heard either johnnie or chips mention robinson crusoe or his man friday. chapter xv st. valentine after that day when, on the lee side of the sand-dune the evringham family read together the story of johnnie and chips, it was some time before the last tale in the story book was called for. the farmhouse where they boarded stood near a pond formed by the rushing in of the sea during some change in the sands of the beach, so here was still another water playmate for jewel. "i do hope," said mr. evringham meditatively, on the first morning that he and jewel stood together on its green bank, "i do hope that very particular housekeeper, nature, will let this pond alone until we go!" jewel looked up at his serious face with the lines between the eyes. "she wouldn't touch this great big pond, would she?" she asked. "ho! wouldn't she? well, i guess so." "but," suggested jewel, lifting her shoulders, "she's too busy in summer in the ravines and everywhere." "oh," mr. evringham nodded his head knowingly. "nature looks out for everything." "grandpa!" jewel's eyes were intent. "would she ask summer to touch this great big pond? what would she want to do it for?" "oh, more house-cleaning, i suppose." the child chuckled as she looked out across the blue waves, rippling in the wind and white-capped here and there, "when you know it's washed all the _time_, grandpa," she responded. "the waves are just scrubbing it now. can't you see?" "yes," the broker nodded gravely. "no doubt that is why she has to empty it so seldom. sometimes she lets it go a very long time; but then the day comes when she begins to think it over, and to calculate how much sediment and one thing and another there is in the bottom of that pond; and at last she says, 'come now, out it must go!'" "but how can she get it out, how?" asked jewel keenly interested. "the brooks are all running somewhere, but the pond doesn't. how can she dip it out? it would take summer's hottest sun a year!" "yes, indeed, nature is too clever to try that. the winds are her servants, you know, and they understand their business perfectly; so when she says 'that pond needs to be cleaned out,' they merely get up a storm some night after everybody's gone to bed. the people have seen the pond fine and full when the sun went down. all that night the wind howls and the windows rattle and the trees bend and switch around; and if those in the farmhouse, instead of being in bed, were over there on the beach," the speaker waved his hand toward the shining white sand, distant, but in plain sight, "they might see countless billows working for dear life to dig a trench through the hard sand. the wind sends one tremendous wave after another to help them, and as a great roller breaks and recedes, all the little crested waves scrabble with might and main, pulling at the softened sand, until, after hours of this labor, the cut is made completely through from sea to pond." mr. evringham looked down and met the unwinking gaze fixed upon him. "then why--why," asked jewel, "when the big rollers keep coming, doesn't the pond get filled fuller than ever?" the broker lifted his forefinger toward his face with a long drawn "ah-h! nature is much too clever for _that_. she may not have gone to college, but she understands engineering, all the same. all this is accomplished just at the right moment for the outgoing tide to pull at the pond with a mighty hand. well,"--pausing dramatically,--"you can imagine what happens when the deep cut is finished." "does the pond have to go, grandpa?" "it just does, and in a hurry!" "is it sorry, do you think?" asked jewel doubtfully. "we-ell, i don't know that i ever thought of that side of it; but you can imagine the feelings of the people in the farmhouse, who went to bed beside the ripples of a smiling little lake, and woke to find themselves near a great empty bog." jewel thought and sighed deeply. "well," she said, at last, "i hope nature will wait till we're gone. i love this pond." "indeed i hope so, too. there wouldn't be any pleasant side to it." jewel's thoughtful face brightened. "except for the little fishes and water-creatures that would rush out to sea. it's fun for _them_. mustn't they be surprised when that happens, grandpa?" "i should think so! do you suppose the wind gives them any warning, or any time to pack?" jewel laughed. "i don't know; but just think of rushing out into those great breakers, when you don't expect it, right from living so quietly in the pond!" "h'm. a good deal like going straight from bel-air park to wall street, i should think." jewel grew serious. "i think fish have the most _fun_," she said. "do you know, grandpa, i've decided that if i couldn't be your little grandchild, i'd rather be a lobster than anything." the broker threw up his head, laughing. "some children could combine the two," he replied, "but you can't." "what?" asked jewel. "nothing. why not be a fish, jewel? they're much more graceful." "but they can't creep around among the coral and peek into oyster shells at the pearls." "imagine a lobster peeking!" mr. evringham strained his eyes to their widest and stared at jewel, who shouted. "that's just the way the sand-fleas look," she exclaimed. "well," remarked the broker, recovering his ordinary expression, "you may as well remain a little girl, so far as that goes. you can creep around among the coral and peek at pearls at tiffany's." "what's tiffany's?" "something you will take more interest in when you're older." the broker shook his head. "the difference is that the lobster wouldn't care to wear the coral and pearls. an awful thought comes over me once in a while, jewel," he added, after a pause. the child looked up at him seriously. "it can be met," she answered quickly. he smiled. he understood her peculiar expressions in these days. "hardly, i think," he answered. "it is this: that you are going to grow up." jewel looked off at the blue water. "well," she replied at last hopefully, "you're grown up, you know, and perhaps you'll like me then just as much as i do you." he squeezed the little hand he held. "we'll hope so," he said. "and besides, grandpa," she went on, for she had heard him express the same dread before, "we'll be together every day, so perhaps you won't notice it. sometimes i've tried to see a flower open. i've known it was going to do it, and i've been just _bound_ i'd see it; and i've watched and watched, but i never could see when the leaves spread, no matter how much i tried, and yet it would get to be a rose, somehow. perhaps some day somebody'll say to you, 'why, jewel's a grown up lady, isn't she?' and you'll say, 'is she, really? why, i hadn't noticed it.'" "that's a comforting idea," returned mr. evringham briefly, his eyes resting on the upturned face. "so now, if the pond won't run away, we'll have the most _fun_," went on jewel, relieved. "they _said_ we could take this boat, grandpa, and have a row." she lifted her shoulders and smiled. "h'm. a row and a swim combined," returned the broker. "i'm surprised they've nothing better this year than that ramshackle boat. you'll have to bail if we go." "what's bail?" eagerly. "dipping out the water with a tin cup." "oh, that'll be fun. it'll be an adventure, grandpa, won't it?" "i hope not," earnestly, was the reply; but jewel was already sitting on the grass pulling off her shoes and stockings. she leaped nimbly into the wet boat, and mr. evringham stepped gingerly after her, seeking for dry spots for his canvas shoes. "i think," said the child joyfully, as they pushed off, "when the winds and waves notice us having so much fun, they'll let the pond alone, don't you?" "if they have any hearts at all," responded mr. evringham, bending to the oars. "oh, grandpa, you can tell stories like any thing!" exclaimed jewel admiringly. "it has been said before," rejoined the broker modestly. * * * * * when outdoor gayeties had to be dispensed with one day, on account of a thorough downpour of rain, the last story in jewel's book was called for. the little circle gathered in the big living-room; there was no question now as to whether mr. evringham should be present. "it is hobson's choice this time," said mrs. evringham, "so we'll all choose the story, won't we?" "let anna belle have the turn, though," replied jewel. "she chose the first one and she must have the last, because she doesn't have so much fun as the rest of us." she hugged the doll and kissed her cheeks comfortingly. it was too true that often of late anna belle did not accompany all the excursions, but she went to bed with jewel every night, and it was seldom that the child was too sleepy to take her into full confidence concerning the events of the day; and anna belle, being of a sedentary turn and given to day dreams, was apparently quite as well pleased. now mr. evringham settled in a big easy-chair; the reader took a small one by the window, and jewel sat on the rug before the fire, holding anna belle. "now we're off," said mr. evringham. "go to sleep if you like, father," remarked the author, smiling, and then she began to read the story entitled st. valentine there was a little buzz of interest in miss joslyn's room in the public school, one day in february, over the arrival of a new scholar. only a very little buzz, because the new-comer was a plain little girl as to face and dress, with big, wondering eyes, and a high-necked and long-sleeved gingham apron. "take this seat, alma," said miss joslyn; and the little girl obeyed, while ada singer, the scholar directly behind her, nudged her friend, lucy berry, and mimicked the stranger's surprised way of looking around the room. the first day in a new school is an ordeal to most children, but alma felt no fear or strangeness, and gazed about her, well pleased with her novel surroundings, and her innocent pleasure was a source of great amusement to ada. "isn't she queer-looking?" she asked of lucy, as at noon they perched on the window-sill in the dressing-room, where they always ate their lunch together. "yes, she has such big eyes," assented lucy. "who is she?" "why, her mother has just come to work in my father's factory. her father is dead, or in prison, or something." "oh, no!" exclaimed a voice, and looking down from their elevated seat the girls saw alma driscoll, a big tin dinner-pail in her hand, and her cheeks flushing. "my father went away because he was discouraged, but he is coming back." ada shrugged her shoulders and took a bite of jelly-cake. "what a delicate appetite you must have," she said, winking at lucy and looking at the big pail. "oh, it isn't full; the things don't fit very well," replied alma, taking off the cover and disclosing a little lunch at the bottom; "but it was all the pail we had." then she sat down on the floor of the dressing-room and took out a piece of bread and butter. "well, upon my word, if that isn't cool!" exclaimed ada, staring at the brown gingham figure. alma looked up mildly. she had come to the dressing-room on purpose to eat her lunch where she could look at lucy berry, who seemed beautiful to alma, with her brown eyes, red cheeks, and soft cashmere dress, and it never occurred to her that she could be in the way. ada turned to lucy with a curling lip. "i should hate to be a third party, shouldn't you?" she asked, so significantly that even alma couldn't help understanding her. tears started to the big eyes as the little girl dropped her bread back into the hollow depths of the pail, replaced the cover, and went away to find a solitary corner, with a sorer spot in her heart than she had ever known. "oh, why did you say that, ada?" exclaimed lucy, making a movement as if to slip down from the window-seat and follow. "don't you go one step after her, lucy berry," commanded ada. "my mother doesn't want me to associate with the children of the factory people. she'll find plenty of friends of her own kind." "but you hurt her feelings," protested lucy. "oh, no, i didn't," carelessly; "besides, if i did, she'll forget all about it. i had to let her know that she couldn't stay with us. do you want a stranger like that to hear everything we're saying?" "i feel as if i ought to go and find her and see if she has somebody to eat with." "very well, lucy. if you go with her, i can't go with you, that's all. you can take your choice." the final tone in ada's voice destroyed lucy's courage. the little girls were very fond of one another, and lucy was entirely under strong-willed ada's influence. ada was a most attractive little person. her father, the owner of the factory, was the richest man in town; and to play on ada's wonderful piano, where you had only to push with your feet to play the gayest music, or to ride with her in her automobile, were exciting joys to her friends. she always had money in her pocket, and boxes of candy for the entertainment of other children, and lucy was proud of her own position as ada's intimate friend. so when it came to making a choice between this brilliant companion and the gingham-clad daughter of a factory hand, lucy berry's courage and sympathy oozed away, and she sat back on the window-seat, while ada began talking about something else. this first school-day was alma driscoll's introduction into the world outside of her mother's love. she had never felt so lonely as when surrounded by all these girls, each of whom had her intimate friend, and among whom she was not wanted. she could not help feeling that she was different from the others, and day by day the wondering eyes grew shy and lonely; and she avoided the children out of school hours, bravely hiding from her mother that the gingham apron, which always hid her faded dress, seemed to her a badge of disgrace that separated her from her daintily dressed schoolmates. such was the state of affairs when st. valentine's day dawned. alma's two weeks of school had seemed a little eternity to her; but this day she could feel that there was something unusual in the air, and she could not help being affected by the pleasurable excitement afloat in the room. she knew what the big white box by the door was for, and when, after school, miss joslyn was appointed to uncover and distribute the valentines, alma found herself following the crowd, until, pressed close to lucy berry's side, she stood in the centre of the merry group about the teacher. while the dainty envelopes were being passed around her, a shade of wistfulness crept over the child's face, and her eager fingers crumpled the checked apron as though alma feared they might otherwise touch the beautiful valentines that shone so enticingly with red and blue, gold and silver. suddenly miss joslyn spoke her name,--alma driscoll; only she said "miss alma driscoll," and, yes, there was no mistake about it, she had read it off one of those vine-wreathed envelopes. "did you ever see such a goose!" exclaimed ada singer, as she watched the mixture of shyness and eagerness with which alma took her valentine and opened the envelope. poor little alma! how her heart beat as she unfolded her prize--and how it sank when she beheld the coarse, flaring picture of a sewing girl, with a disgusting rhyme printed beneath it. she dropped the valentine, a great sob of disappointment choked her, and bursting into tears, she pushed her way through the crowd and rushed from the schoolroom. "what is the meaning of that?" asked miss joslyn. for answer some one handed her the picture. the young lady glanced at it, then tore it in pieces as she looked sadly around on her scholars. "whoever sent this knows that alma's mother works in the factory," she said. "it makes me ashamed of my whole school to think there is one child in it cruel enough to do this thing;" then, amid the silent consternation of the scholars, miss joslyn rose, and leaving the half-emptied box, went home without another word. "what a fuss about nothing," said ada singer. "the idea of crying because you get a 'comic!' what else could alma driscoll expect?" lucy berry's cheeks had been growing redder all through this scene, and now she turned upon ada. "she has a right to expect a great deal else," she returned excitedly, "but we've all been so hateful to her it's a wonder if she did. i wish i'd been kind to her before," she continued, her heart aching with the remembrance of the little lonely figure, and the big, hollow dinner-pail; "but i'm going to be her friend now, always, and you can be friends with us or not, just as you please;" and turning from the astonished ada, lucy berry marched out of the schoolroom, fearing she should cry if she stayed, and sure that if there were any more beauties for her in the white box, her stanch friend, frank morse, would take care of them for her. among the valentines she had already received was one addressed in his handwriting, and she looked at it as she walked along. "it's the handsomest one i ever saw," she thought, lifting a rose here, and a group of cupids there, and reading the tender messages thus disclosed. "i know what i'll do!" she exclaimed aloud. "i'll send it to alma. frank won't care," and covering the valentine in its box, she started to run, and turned a corner at such speed that she bumped into somebody coming at equal or greater speed, from the opposite direction. a passer-by just then would have been amused to see a boy and girl sitting flat on the sidewalk, rubbing their heads and staring at one another. "lucy berry!" "frank morse!" "what's up?" "nothing. something's down, and it's me." "well, excuse me; but i guess you haven't seen any more stars than i have. i don't care anything for the fourth now, i've seen enough fireworks to last me a year." both children laughed. "you've got grit, lucy," added frank, jumping up and coming to help her. "most girls would have boo-hooed over that." "oh, i wouldn't," returned the little girl, springing to her feet. "i'm too excited." "well, what _is_ up?" persisted frank. "i skipped out of the side door to try to meet you." "well, you did," laughed lucy. "oh, frank, i don't know how i can laugh," she pursued, sobering. "i don't deserve to, ever again." "what is it? something about that driscoll kid? she was crying. i was back there and i didn't hear what miss joslyn said; but i saw her leave, and then you, and i thought _i_'d go to the fire, too, if there was one." "oh, there is," returned lucy, "right in here." she grasped the waist of her dress over where her heart was beating hard. frank morse was older than herself and ada, and she knew that he was one of the few of their friends whose good opinion ada cared for. to enlist him on alma's side would mean something. "is ada still there?" she added. "yes, she took charge of the valentine box after miss joslyn left." "oh, frank, do you suppose she could have sent alma the 'comic'?" genuine grief made lucy's voice unsteady. "supposing she did," returned frank stoutly. "is that what big-eyes was crying about? i hate people to be touchy and blubber over a thing like that." "you don't know. her mother works in the factory, and this was a horrid picture making fun of it. think of your own mother earning your living and being made fun of." "ada wouldn't do that," replied frank shortly. "what made you think of such a thing?" "it was error for me to say it," returned lucy, with a meek groan. "i've been doing error things ever since alma came to school. oh, frank, you're a christian scientist, too. you must help me to get things straight." "you don't need to be a christian scientist to see that it wasn't a square deal to send the kid that picture." "no, i know it; but when alma first came, ada said her mother didn't allow her to go with girls from the factory, and so i stopped trying to be kind to alma, because ada wouldn't like me if i did; and it's been such mesmerism, frank." the boy smiled. "do you remember the stories your mother used to tell us about the work of the error-fairies?" "indeed i do. my head's just been full of it the last fifteen minutes. i've done nothing for two weeks but give the error-fairies backbones, and i don't care what happens to me, or how much i'm punished, if i can only do right again." "who's going to punish you?" asked frank, not quite seeing the reason for so much feeling. "ada. we've always had so much fun, and now it's all over." "oh, i guess not. ada singer's all right." lucy didn't think so. she was convinced that her friend had done this last unkindness to alma, and it was the shock of that discovery that was causing a portion of her suffering now. frank and lucy talked for a few minutes longer, and it was agreed that the former should return to the school and get any other valentines that should be there for lucy and himself; then, as soon as it grew dark, they would run to the driscoll cottage with an offering. late that afternoon three mothers were called to interviews with three little girls. lucy berry surprised hers by rushing in where mrs. berry was seated, sewing. "oh!" exclaimed the little girl, "i'm so sorry all over, mother!" "then you must know why you can't be," returned mrs. berry, looking up at the flushed face and seeing something there that made her put aside her work. lucy usually considered herself too large to sit in her mother's lap, but now she did so, and flinging her arms around her neck, poured out the whole story. "to think that ada _could_ send it!" finished lucy, with one big sob. "be careful, be careful. you don't know that she did," replied mrs. berry. "'thou shalt not bear false witness.'" "oh, i do _hope_ she didn't," responded lucy, "but ada is stuck up. i've been seeing it more and more lately." "and how about the beam in my little girl's own eye?" asked mrs. berry gently. "haven't i been telling you all about it? i've been just as selfish and cowardly as i could be." lucy's voice was despairing. "i think there's a beam there still. i think you are angry with ada." "how can i help it? if it hadn't been for her i shouldn't have been so mean." "oh, lucy dear!" mrs. berry smiled over the head on her shoulder. "there is old adam again, blaming somebody else for his fall. have you forgotten that there is only one person you have the right to work with and change?" "i don't care," replied lucy hotly. "i've been calling evil good. i have. i've been calling ada good and sticking to her and letting her run me." "was it because of what you could get from her, or because of what you could do for her?" asked mrs. berry quietly. lucy was silent a minute, then she spoke: "she wanted me. she liked me better than anybody." "well, now you see what selfish attachments can turn into," returned mrs. berry. "do you remember the teaching about the worthlessness of mortal mind love? here are you and ada, yesterday thinking you love one another, and to-day at enmity." "i'm going with alma driscoll now, and i'm going to eat my lunch with her, and everything. i should think that was unselfish." "perhaps it will be. we'll see. isn't it a little comfort to you to think that it will be some punishment to ada to see you do it?" "i don't know," replied lucy, who was so honest that she hesitated. "well, then, think until you do know, and be very certain whether the thoughts that are stirring you so are all loving. you see, dearie, we're all so tempted, in times of excitement, to begin at the wrong end: tempted to begin with ourselves instead of with god. the all-loving creator of you and ada and alma has made three dear children, one just as precious to him as another. if the loveliness of his creation is hidden by something discordant, then we must work away at it; and one's own consciousness is the place where she has a right to work, and that helps all. it says in the bible 'when he giveth quietness who then can make trouble?' you can rest yourself with the thought of his great quietness now, and you will reflect it." mrs. berry paused and her rocking-chair swayed softly back and forth during a moment of silence. "you know enough about science," she went on, at last, "to be certain that weeks of an offended manner with ada would have no effect except to make her long to punish you. you know that love is reflected in love, and that its opposite is just as certain to be reflected unless one knows god's truth." "but you don't say anything at all about alma," said lucy. "she's the chief one." mrs. berry smiled. "no," she returned gently. "you are the chief one. just as soon as your thought is surely right, don't you know that your heavenly father is going to show you how to unravel this little snarl? you remember there isn't any personality to error, whether it tries to fasten on ada, or on you." lucy sat upright. her cheeks were still flushed, but her eyes had lost their excited light. "frank morse and i are going to take some pretty valentines to alma's as soon as it is dark," she said. "that will be pleasant. now let us read over the lesson for to-day again, and know what a joyous thing life is." "well, mother, will you go and see mrs. driscoll some time?" "certainly i will, sunday. i suppose she is too busy to see me other days." in the singer house another excited child had rushed home from school and sought and found her mother. mrs. singer had just reached a most interesting spot in the novel she was reading, when ada startled her by running into the room and slamming the door behind her. "mother, you know you don't want me to go with the factory people," she cried. "of course not. what's the matter?" returned mrs. singer briefly, keeping her finger between the leaves of her half-closed book. "why, lucy berry is angry with me, and i don't care. i shall never go with her again!" "dear me, ada. i should think you could settle these little differences without bothering me. what has the factory to do with it?" "why, there is a new girl at school, alma driscoll, and her mother works there; and she tried to come with lucy and me, and lucy would have let her, but i told her you wouldn't like it, and, anyway, of course we didn't want her. so to-day when the valentine box was opened, alma driscoll got a 'comic;' and she couldn't take a joke and cried and went home. i can't bear a cry-baby, anyway. and then miss joslyn made a fuss about it and _she_ went home, and after that lucy berry flared up at me and said she was going to be friends with alma after this, and _she_ went home. it just spoiled everybody's fun to have them act so silly. lucy got frank morse to bring out all his valentines and hers. i'll never go with her again, whether she goes with alma or not!" angry little sparks were shining in ada's eyes, and she evidently made great effort not to cry. "what was this comic valentine that made so much trouble?" "oh, something about a factory girl. you know the verses are always silly on those." "well, it wasn't very nice to send it to her before all the children, i must say. who do you suppose did it?" "no one ever tells who sends valentines," returned ada defiantly. "no one will ever know." "well, if the foolish child, whoever it was, only had known, she wasn't so smart or so unkind as she thought she was. mrs. driscoll isn't an ordinary factory hand. she is an assistant in the bookkeeping department." "well, they must be awfully poor, the way alma looks, anyway," returned ada. "i suppose they are poor. i happened to hear mr. knapp begging your father to let a mrs. driscoll have that position, and your father finally consented. i remember his telling how long the husband had been away trying for work, and what worthy people they were, old friends of his. they lived in some neighboring town; so when mrs. driscoll was offered this position they came here. they live"-- "oh, i know where they live," interrupted ada, "and i knew they were factory people anyway, and you wouldn't want me going with girls like alma." "i'd want you to be kind to her, of course," returned mrs. singer. "then she'd have stuck to us if i had been. i guess you've forgotten the way it is at school." mrs. singer sighed and opened her book wistfully. "you ought to be kind to everybody, ada," she said vaguely, "but i really think i shall have to take you out of the public school. it is such a mixed crowd there. i should have done it long ago, only your father thinks there is no such education." ada saw that in another minute her mother would be buried again in her story. "but what shall i do about frank and lucy?" she asked, half crying. "why, is frank in it, too?" "yes. i know lucy has been talking to him. he came back and got her valentines." "oh, pshaw! don't make a quarrel over it. just be polite to alma driscoll. they're perfectly respectable people. you don't need to avoid her. don't worry. lucy will soon get over her little excitement, and you may be sure she will be glad to make up with you and be more friendly than ever." mrs. singer began to read, and ada saw it was useless to pursue the subject. she left the room undecidedly, her lips pressed together. all right, let lucy befriend alma. she wouldn't _look_ at her, and they'd just see which would get tired of it first. this hard little determination seemed to give ada a good deal of comfort for the present, and she longed for to-morrow, to begin to show lucy berry what she had lost. meanwhile alma driscoll had hastened home to an empty cottage, where she threw herself on the calico-covered bed and gave way again to her hurt and sorrow, until she had cried herself to sleep. there her mother found her when she returned from work. mrs. driscoll had plenty of troubles of her own in these days, adjusting herself to her present situation and trying hard to fill the position which her old friend mr. knapp had found for her. alma knew this, and every evening when her mother came home from the factory she met her cheerfully, and had so far bravely refrained from telling of the trials at school, which were big ones to her, and which she often longed to pour out; but the sight of her mother's face always silenced her. she knew, young as she was, that her mother was finding life in the great school of the world as hard as she was in pretty miss joslyn's room; and so she kept still, but her eyes grew bigger, and her mother saw it. to-day when mrs. driscoll came in, she was surprised to find the house dark. she lighted the lamp and saw alma asleep on the bed. "poor little dear," she thought. "the hours must seem long between school and my coming home." she went around quietly, getting supper, and when it was ready she came again to the bed and kissed alma's cheek. "doesn't my little girl want anything to eat to-night?" she asked. alma turned and opened her eyes. "guess which it is," went on mrs. driscoll, smiling. "breakfast or supper." "oh, have you come?" alma sat up. she clasped her arms around her mother. "please don't make me go to school any more," she said, the big sob with which she went to sleep rising again in her throat. "why, what has happened, dear?" mrs. driscoll grew serious. "i don't want to tell you, mother, only please let me stay at home. i'll study just as hard." "you'd be lonely here all day, alma." "i want to be lonely," returned the little girl earnestly. mrs. driscoll looked very sober. "let's sit down at the table," she said, "for i have your boiled egg all ready." alma took her place opposite her mother. supper was usually the bright spot in the day, but this evening there seemed nothing but clouds. "i want to hear all about it, alma, but you'd better eat first," said mrs. driscoll, as she poured the tea. "it isn't anything very much," replied the little girl, torn between the longing for sympathy and unwillingness to give her mother pain; "only there aren't any lonely children in that school. everybody has some one she likes to play with." a pang of understanding went through the mother's heart, so tender that she forced a smile. "oh, my dearie," she said, "you remind me of the old song,-- 'every lassie has her laddie, nane, they say, have i, but all the lads, they smile on me, when comin' thro' the rye.' if my alma smiles on all the children, they'll all smile on her." alma shook her head. it was too great an undertaking to explain all those daily experiences of longing and disappointment to her mother. the child's throat grew so full of the sob that she could not swallow the nice egg. "this is valentine's day," she said, with an effort. "they had a box in school. everybody got pretty ones but me. they sent me a 'comic.'" she swallowed bravely between the sentences, but big tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed on the gingham apron. "well, wasn't it meant to make you laugh, dearie?" "n-no. it was--was a hateful one. i--i can't tell you." a line came in mrs. driscoll's forehead. her swift thought pictured the scene only too vividly. she swallowed, too. "silly pictures can't hurt us, alma," she said. "but please don't make me go back," returned the child earnestly. "i cried and ran away, and i know all the other children laughed, and, oh, mother, i _can't_ go back!" she was sobbing again, now, and trying to dry her tears with her apron. mrs. driscoll's lips pressed firmly together to keep from quivering. "mother," said alma brokenly, as soon as she could speak again, "when do you think father will come home?" for a minute the mother could not reply. the last letter she had received from her husband had sounded discouraged, and for six weeks now she had heard nothing. her anxiety was very great; but it made her position at the factory more than ever important, while it increased the difficulty of performing her work. "i can't tell, dearie," she answered low. "we must pray and wait." as she finished speaking there came a loud knock at the door. a very unusual sound this, for no one had yet called on them, except mr. knapp, once on business. "i'll go," said mrs. driscoll. "wipe your eyes, alma." to her surprise, when she opened the door no one was there. something white on the step caught her eye in the gloom. it was a box, and when she brought it to the light, she saw that it was addressed to miss alma driscoll. her heart was too sore to hand it to the child until she had made certain that its contents were not designed to hurt. one glimpse of the gold and red interior, however, made her clap on the cover again. she brought the box to the table and seated herself. "what's all this?" she asked, passing it to the child. "it seems to be for you. there was nobody there, but i found that on the step." alma's swollen eyes looked wonderingly at the box as she took off the cover and discovered the elaborate valentine. "my! what a beauty!" exclaimed her mother. the little girl lifted the red roses and looked at the verses. the catches kept coming in her throat and she smiled faintly. "who is this that hasn't any friend?" asked mrs. driscoll cheeringly. "somebody was sorry," returned alma. "i wish they didn't have to be sorry for me." "oh, you can't be sure. when i was a little girl all the best part of valentine's day was running around to the houses with them after dark. how do you know that this wasn't meant for you all day?" "because i remember it. miss joslyn handed it to lucy berry out of the school box. lucy is the prettiest"-- another loud knocking at the door interrupted. mrs. driscoll answered the call. a big white envelope lay on the step, and it was addressed to alma. this time the latter's smile was a little brighter as she took out a handsome card covered with garlands and swinging cupids and inscribed "to my valentine." "well, i never saw any prettier ones," said mrs. driscoll. "but they weren't bought for me," returned alma. when soon again a knocking sounded on the door and a third valentine appeared, blossoming with violets, above which butterflies hovered, mrs. driscoll leaned lovingly toward her little girl. "alma," she said. "i think you were mistaken in saying that _all_ the children laughed when you received that 'comic.' now," in a different tone, "let's have some fun! some child or children are giving you the very best they have. let's catch the next one who comes, and find out who your friends are!" "oh, no," returned alma, smiling, but shrinking shyly from the idea. "yes, indeed. we all used to try when i was little. i'm going to stand by the door and hold it open a bit and you see if i don't catch somebody." alma lifted her shoulders. she wasn't sure that she liked to have her mother try this; but mrs. driscoll went to the door, set it ajar in the dark, and stood beside it. she did not expect there would be any further greetings, and did this rather to amuse alma, who sat examining her three valentines with a tearful little smile; but it was a very short time before another knock sounded on the usually neglected door, and quick as a wink it opened and mrs. driscoll's hand flying out caught another hand. a little scream followed, and in a second she had drawn a young lady into the tiny hall. they couldn't see one another's faces very well in the gloom. "oh, i beg your pardon!" exclaimed mrs. driscoll, very much embarrassed. "i was trying to catch a valentine." "well, you did," laughed the stranger. "there's one on the step now, unless my skirt switched it off when i jumped. i didn't intend to come in this time, though i meant to return after i had done an errand; but now i'm here i'll stay a minute if it isn't too early." "if you'll excuse the table," returned mrs. driscoll "alma and i have a late tea." she stooped at the door and picked up a valentine from the edge of the step, and both women were smiling as they entered the room where alma was standing, flushed and wide-eyed, scarcely able to believe that she recognized the voice. sure enough, as the visitor came into the lamplight, the little girl saw that the valentine her mother had caught and brought in out of the dark was really miss joslyn. she could hardly believe her eyes as she looked at the merry, blushing face which she was wont to see so serious and watchful. all the pretty teacher's scholars admired her, but she had a dignity and strictness which gave them some awe of her, too, and it seemed wonderful to alma that this important person should be standing here and laughing with her mother, right in their own sitting-room. miss joslyn's bright eyes saw signs of tears in her pupil's face, and she also saw the handsome valentines strewn upon the table. "well, well, alma!" she exclaimed softly, "you have quite a show there!" "and here is another," said mrs. driscoll, handing the latest arrival to the little girl. alma smiled gratefully at her teacher as she opened the envelope and took out a dove in full flight, carrying a leaf in its beak. on the leaf was printed in gold letters the word _love_. "i was caught in the act, alma," laughed miss joslyn, "but i guess i am too old and slow to be running about at night with valentines." "i like it the best of all," replied the little girl. "it was bought for me," she added in her own thought, and she was right. twenty minutes ago the white dove had been reposing at a stationer's, with every prospect of remaining there until another valentine's day came around. "please sit down, miss joslyn," said mrs. driscoll. "well, just for a minute," replied the young lady, taking the offered chair, "but i wish you would finish your supper." "we had, really," replied mrs. driscoll, smiling, "or i shouldn't have been playing such a game by the door. you haven't been the giver of all these valentines, i suppose?" "oh, no, indeed. those are from some of the school children, no doubt. i've been trying to find an evening to come here for some time, but my work isn't done when school is out." "i'm sure it isn't," replied mrs. driscoll, while alma sat with her dove in her hands, watching the bright face that looked happy and at home in these unusual surroundings. it seemed so very strange to be close to miss joslyn, like this, where the teacher had no bell to touch and no directions to give. she looked at alma and spoke: "the public school is a little hard for new scholars at first," she said, "where they enter in the middle of a term. you are going to like it better after a while, alma." "i think she will, too," put in mrs. driscoll. "my hours are long at the factory and i have liked to think of alma as safe in school. does she do pretty well in her studies, miss joslyn?" "yes, i have no fault to find." the visitor smiled at alma. "you haven't become much acquainted yet," went on miss joslyn. "i have noticed that you eat your lunch alone. so do i. supposing you and i have it together for a while until you are more at home with the other scholars. i have another chair in my corner, and we'll have a cosy time." alma's heart beat fast. she had never heard that an invitation from royalty is equivalent to a command, but instantly all possibility of staying at home from school disappeared. the picture rose before her thought of miss joslyn as she always appeared at the long recess: her chair swung about until her profile only was visible, the white napkin on her desk, the book in her hand as she read and ate at one and the same time. little did alma suspect what it meant to the kind teacher to give up that precious half-hour of solitude; but miss joslyn saw the child's eyes grow bright at the dazzling prospect, and noted the color that covered even her forehead as she murmured thanks and looked over at her mother for sympathy. the young lady talked on for a few minutes and then said good-night, leaving an atmosphere of brightness behind her. "oh, mother, i don't know what all the children will say," said alma, clasping her hands together. "i'm going to eat lunch with miss joslyn!" "it's fine," responded mrs. driscoll, glad of the change in her little girl's expression, and wishing the ache at her own heart could be as easily comforted. "do you suppose valentine's day is over, dearie, or had i better stand by the door again?" "oh, they wouldn't send me any more!" replied alma, looking fondly at her dove. "i think lucy berry was so kind to give me her lovely things; but i'd like to give them back." "no, indeed, that wouldn't do," replied mrs. driscoll. "i'm going to stand there once more. perhaps i'll catch somebody else to prove to you that lucy isn't the only one thinking about you." mrs. driscoll returned quietly to her post, and alma could see her smiling face through the open door. alma had very much wanted to send valentines to a few children, herself; but five cents was all the spending money she could have, and she had bought with it one valentine which had been addressed to lucy berry in the school box. she was glad it had not come back to her to-night. that would have been hardest of all to bear. just as she was thinking this there did come another knock at the door. the child looked up eagerly, and swiftly again mrs. driscoll's hand flew out, and grasping a garment, pulled gently and firmly. "well, well, ma'am!" exclaimed a bass voice, and this time it was the hostess's turn to give a little cry, followed by a laugh, as a stout, elderly man with chin whiskers came deliberately in. she retreated. "oh, mr. knapp, please excuse me! i thought you were a valentine!" "nobody'd have me, ma'am. nobody'd have me. not a mite o' use to try to stick a pair o' cupid's wings on these shoulders. it would take an awful pair to fly me. well, come now," he added, with a broad, approving smile at the laughing mother and child, "i'm right down glad to see you playin' a game. i've thought, the last few days, you was lookin' kind o' peaked and down in the mouth; so, seein' as we found a letter for you that was somehow overlooked this afternoon, i decided i'd bring it along. might be fetchin' you a fortune, for all i knew." mrs. driscoll's smile vanished, and her eyes looked eagerly into the good-humored red face, as mr. knapp sought deliberately in his coat pocket and brought forth an envelope, at sight of which alma's mother flushed and paled. "you have a valentine, too!" cried the little girl. "yes, it is from father. won't you sit down, mr. knapp?" "no, no, i'll just run along and let you read your letter in peace. i know you want to, and i hope it brings good news. if it don't, you just remember it's always darkest before day. frank driscoll's bound to come out right side up. he's a good feller." so saying, the kind friend to this couple took his departure, and mrs. driscoll's eager fingers tore open the envelope. at the first four words, "it's all right, nettie," she crushed the paper against her happy eyes and then hugged alma. it _was_ all right. mr. driscoll had a position at last, and by the time summer should come he was sure they could be together again. after the letter had been read and re-read, the two washed and put away the supper dishes with light hearts, and the next morning mrs. driscoll went off smiling to the factory, leaving a rather excited little girl to finish the morning work and arrange the lunch in the tin pail which was to be opened beside miss joslyn's desk. there were two other excited children getting ready for school that morning. they had both slept on their troubles, but were very differently prepared to meet the day. ada singer's mental attitude was, "i'll never give in, and lucy berry will find it out." lucy felt comforted, but there remained now the great step of eating lunch with alma and being punished by ada in consequence. her heart fluttered at the thought; but she was going to try not to think of herself at all, but to do right and let the consequences take care of themselves. "there isn't any other way," her mother said to her at parting. "anything which you do in any other spirit has simply to be done over again some time." "not one error-fairy shall cheat me to-day," thought lucy stoutly, and then a disconcerting idea came to her: supposing alma shouldn't come to school at all! but alma was there. ada singer, too, wearing a charming new dress and with a head held up so stiffly that it couldn't turn to look at anybody. frank morse, from his seat at the back of the room, looked curiously from one to another of the three girls and shook his head at his book. at the first recess ada singer spoke to him as he was going out. "wait a minute, frank. it is so mild to-day, mother is coming for me after school with the auto. we're going to take a long spin. wouldn't you like to go?" "yes, indeed," replied frank; "but don't you want to take lucy in my place?" he was a little uncomfortable. "if i did i shouldn't ask you," returned ada coolly. "all right. thank you," said frank, but as he joined the boys on the playground he felt still more uncomfortable. lucy berry, as soon as the recess bell had sounded, had gone straight to alma. her cheeks were very red, and the brown eyes were full of kindness. alma looked up in shy pleasure at her, a little embarrassed because she didn't know whether to thank lucy for the valentines or not. the latter did not give her time to speak. she said: "i came to see if you won't eat your lunch with me to-day." alma colored. how full the world was of kind people! "i'd love to," she answered, "but i think ada wants to have you all alone and"-- "but i'd like it if you would," said lucy firmly, "because i want to get more acquainted. my mother is coming to see yours on sunday afternoon, too." "i'm real glad she is," replied alma, fairly basking in the light from lucy's eyes. "i'd love to eat lunch with you, but miss joslyn invited me to have it with her to-day." "oh!" lucy's gaze grew larger. "why, that's lovely!" she said, in an awed tone. they had very little more time for talk before the short recess was over. as the children took their way to their seats, alma was amazed to see ada singer pass lucy without a word, and even turn her head to avoid looking at her. the child had watched this close friendship so wistfully that she instantly saw there was trouble, and naturally thought of her invitation from lucy as connected with it. at the long recess, thoughts of this possible quarrel mingled with her pleasure in the visit with miss joslyn, who was a charming hostess. many a girl or boy came to peep into the forbidden schoolroom, when the report was circulated that alma driscoll was up on the platform laughing and talking with the teacher and eating lunch with her in the cosy corner. miss joslyn insisted on exchanging a part of her lunch for alma's, spreading the things together on the white napkin, and chatting so eagerly and gayly that the little girl's face beamed. she soon told the teacher about the good news that came after she left the night before, and miss joslyn was very sympathetic. "it's a pretty nice world, isn't it?" she asked, smiling. "yes'm, it's just a lovely world to-day, only--only there's one thing, miss joslyn." "what is it?" "i think lucy berry and ada singer have had a quarrel." "oh, the inseparables? i guess not," the teacher smiled. "yes'm. the worst is, i think it's about me. could i go out in the dressing-room to get my handkerchief, and see if they're on their usual window-sill?" "yes, indeed, if it will make you feel easier." so alma went out and soon returned. lucy and ada were not on their window-sill. each was sitting with a different group of girls. miss joslyn saw the serious discomfort this gave her little companion, and persuaded her away from the subject, returning to the congenial theme of mr. driscoll's new prospects. but as soon as recess was over, alma's thoughts went back to ada singer, for she felt certain that whatever had happened, ada was the one to be appeased. the child could not bear to think of being the cause of trouble coming to dear, kind lucy. when school was dismissed, ada singer, her head carried high, put on her things in the dressing-room within a few feet of lucy, but ignoring her presence. "i love her," thought lucy, "and she does love me. nothing can cheat either of us." ada went out without a look, and waited at the head of the stairs for frank morse. alma driscoll hastened up to her. ada drew away. alma needn't think that because she had shared miss joslyn's luncheon she would now be as good as anybody. "can i speak to you just one minute?" asked the little girl so eagerly, yet meekly, that ada turned to her; but now that she had gained attention, alma did not know how to proceed. she hesitated and clasped and unclasped her hands over the gingham apron. "please--please"--she stammered, "don't be cross with lucy. she felt sorry for me, but i'll never eat lunch with her,--truly." "you don't know what you're talking about," rejoined ada coldly. "yes, she does." it was frank morse's voice, and ada, turning quickly, saw him and lucy standing a few feet behind her. the four children were alone in the deserted hall. "here," went on frank bluntly, "i want you two girls to kiss and make up." ada blushed violently as she met lucy's questioning, wistful look. "are you coming down to the auto, frank?" she asked coolly. "mother will be waiting." "oh, come now, ada, be a good fellow. if you and lucy want to put on the gloves, i'll see fair play; but for pity's sake drop this icy look business. great scott, i'm glad i'm not a girl!" the genuine disgust in the boy's tone as he closed did disturb ada a little, and then lucy added at once, beseechingly: "oh, it's like a bad dream, ada, to have anything the matter between us!" "whose fault is it?" asked ada sharply. "why did you fly at me so yesterday?" both girls had forgotten alma who, like a soberly dressed, big-eyed little bird, was watching the proceedings in much distress. "you just the same as accused me of sending alma the 'comic,'" continued ada. "oh, _didn't_ you send it?" cried lucy, fairly springing at her friend in her relief. "i don't care what you do to me then! i deserve anything, for i really thought you did." her eloquent face and the love in her eyes broke down some determination in ada's proud little heart, and raised another, perhaps quite as proud, but at least with an element of nobility. she foresaw that the dishonesty was going to be more than she could bear. "i did send it," she said suddenly, with her chin up. then, ignoring frank and lucy's open-mouthed stares, she turned toward alma. "i sent you the 'comic,'" she went on. "i thought it would be fun, but it wasn't, and i'm sorry. i should like to have you forgive me." her tone was far from humble, but it was music to alma's ears. the little girl clasped her hands together. "oh, i do," she replied earnestly, "and it made everybody so kind! please don't feel bad about it. i got the loveliest valentines in the evening, and miss joslyn came to see us, and we had a letter from my father and he has a splendid place to work and--and everything!" ada breathed a little faster at the close of this breathless speech. alma's eagerness to ascribe even her father's good fortune to the sending of the 'comic' touched her. in her embarrassment she took another determination. "if you'll excuse me, frank," she said turning to him, "i think i'll take alma home in the auto, instead of you." "all right," returned the boy, his face flushed. "you're a brick, ada!" this praise from one who seldom praised gave ada secret elation, and made her resolve to deserve it. "good-by, lucy," was all she said, but the girls' eyes met, and lucy knew the trouble was over. as ada and alma went downstairs, lucy ran to the hall window, and frank followed. "don't let them see us," she said joyfully. so, very cautiously, the two peeped and saw the handsome automobile waiting. mrs. singer was sitting within and they saw ada say something to her; then alma, her thick coat over the gingham apron, and the large dinner-pail in her hand, climbed in, ada after her, and away they all went. lucy turned to frank with her face glowing. "it's all right now," she said. "when ada takes hold she never lets go; and now she's taken hold right!" chapter xvi a morning ride mrs. evringham's listeners thanked her, then discussed the story a few minutes. "i'd like to get acquainted with alma," said jewel, "and help be kind to her." "oh, she's going to have a very good time now," replied mr. evringham. "one can see that with half an eye. were there any almas where you went to school, jewel?" "no, there weren't. we didn't bring lunches and we went home in a 'bus." "jewel went to a very nice private school," said mrs. evringham. "her teachers were christian scientists and i made their dresses for them in payment." the logs were red in the fireplace now, and the roar of the wind-driven sea came from the beach. "well, we've a good school for her," replied mr. evringham, "and there'll be no dresses to make either." his daughter looked at him wistfully. "i'm very happy when i think of it," she answered, "for there is other work i would rather do." "i should think so, indeed. catering to the whims of a lot of silly women who don't know their own minds! it must be the very--yes, very unpleasant. yes, we have a fine school in bel-air. jewel, we're going to work you hard next winter. how shall you like that?" "my music lessons will be the most fun," returned jewel. "and dancing school beside." "oh, grandpa, i'll love that! i used to know girls who went, in chicago." "yes, i'm sure you will. you shall learn all the latest jigs and flings, too, that any of the children know. i think you ought to learn them quickly. you've been hopping up and down ever since i knew you." jewel exchanged a happy glance with her mother and clapped her hands at the joyful prospect. mrs. evringham looked wistfully at her father-in-law. "i hope you'll be willing i should do the work i want to, father." "what's that? writing books? perfectly willing, i assure you. i think you've made a very good start." mrs. evringham smiled. "no, not writing books. practicing christian science." "well, you do that all the time, don't you?" "i mean taking patients." "what!" mr. evringham straightened up in his chair and frowned at her incredulously. "anybody? tom, dick, and harry? you can't mean it!" his tone was so severe that jewel rose from her place on the rug and, climbing into his lap, rested her head on his breast. his hand closed on the soft little one unconsciously. "i suppose i don't understand you," he added, a shade more mildly. "not in your house, father," returned julia. she had been preparing in thought for this moment for days. "of course it wouldn't do to have strangers coming and going there." "nonsense, nonsense, my dear girl," brusquely, "put it out of your head at once. there is no need for you to do anything after this but bring up your child and keep your husband's shirt buttons in place." "i won't neglect either," replied julia quietly; "but mr. reeves says there is great need of practitioners in bel-air. you know where the reading-room is? there is a little room leading out of it that i could have." "for an office, do you mean? nonsense," exclaimed mr. evringham again. "harry wouldn't think of allowing it." julia smiled. "will you if he does?" "what shall i say to her, jewel?" the broker looked down into the serious face. "i suppose mother ought to do it," replied the child. "of course every one who knows how and has time wants to. you can see that, grandpa, because isn't your rheumatism better?" "yes. i like our resident physician very much; but we need her ourselves. i don't think i shall ever give my consent to such a thing." "oh, yes, you will, grandpa, if it's right." the flaxen head on his breast wagged wisely. "some morning you'll come downstairs and say: 'julia, i think you can go and get that office whenever you like.'" mrs. evringham pressed her handkerchief to her lips. the couple in the armchair were so absorbed in one another that they did not observe her, and the broker's face showed such surprise. "upon my word!" he exclaimed, after a minute. "upon my word!" "are you all through talking about that?" asked jewel, after a pause. "i am, certainly," replied mr. evringham. "and i," added his daughter. she was content that the seed was planted, and preferred not to press the subject. "well, then," continued jewel, "i was wondering, grandpa, if the cracks in that boat couldn't be stuffed up a little more so i wouldn't have to bail, and then i could learn how to row." "ho, these little hands row!" returned mr. evringham scoffingly. "why, i could, grandpa. i just know i could. it was fun to bail at first, but i'm getting a little tired of it now, and i love to be on the pond--oh, almost as much as on star!" mr. evringham's eyes shone with an unusually pleased expression. "is it possible!" he returned. "it's a water-baby we have here, a regular water-baby!" "yes, grandpa, when i know how to swim and row and sail--yes," chuckling at the expression of exaggerated surprise which her listener assumed, "and sail, too, i'll be so _happy_!" "oh, come now, an eight-year-old baby!" "i'll be nine in five weeks, nine years old." "well," mr. evringham sighed, "that's better than nineteen." "why, grandpa," earnestly, "you forget; perhaps you'll like me when i'm grown up." "it's possible," returned the broker. how the sun shone the next morning! the foam on the great rollers that still stormed the beach showed from the farmhouse windows in ever-changing, spreading masses of white. essex maid and star, after a day of ennui, were more than ready for a scamper between the rolling fields where already the goldenrod hinted that summer was passing. star had to stretch his pretty legs at a great rate, to keep up with the maid this morning, though her master moderated her transports. the more like birds they flew, the more jewel enjoyed it. she knew now how to get star's best speed, and the pony scarcely felt her weight, so lightly did she adapt herself to his every motion. with cheeks tingling in the fine salt air, the riders finally came to a walk in the quiet country road. "i've been looking up that boat business, jewel," said mr. evringham. "the thing is hardly worth fixing. it would take a good while, just at the time we want the boat, too." "well, then," returned the child, "we'll have to make it do. there are so many happinesses here, it isn't any matter if the boat isn't just right; but i was thinking, grandpa, if you wouldn't wear such nice shoes, i'd go barefooted, and then we could both sit on the same seat and let the water come in, while i use one oar and you the other; or"--her face suddenly glowing with a brilliant idea--"we could both wear our bathing-suits!" "yes," returned the broker, "i think if you were to row we might need them." the child laughed. "no, jewel, no; we'd better bathe when we bathe, and row when we row, and not mix them. you couldn't do anything with even one of those clumsy oars in that tub of a boat." as mr. evringham said this, he saw the disappointment in the little girl's face as she looked straight ahead, and noted, too, her effort to conquer it. "well, i do have so many happinesses," she replied. "it will be a grand sight at the beach this morning, with the sunlight on the stormy waves," said mr. evringham. "the water-baby will have to keep out of them, though." jewel lifted her shoulders and looked at him. "then we ought to row over, don't you think so?" "you're not willing to be a thorough-going land lubber, are you?" returned the broker. "no," jewel sighed. "i'd rather bail than keep off the pond. oh, but i forgot," with a sudden thought, "mother'd get wet if she rowed over and it would be too bad to make her walk through the fields alone." there was a little silence and then mr. evringham turned the horses into the homeward way. "i begin to feel as if breakfast would be acceptable, jewel. how is it with you?" "why, i could eat"--began the child hungrily, "i could eat"-- "eggs?" suggested the broker, as she paused to think of something sufficiently inedible. "almost," returned the child seriously. another pause, and then she continued. "grandpa, wouldn't it be nice if mother had somebody to play with, too, so we could go out in the boat whenever we wanted to?" "yes. why doesn't your father hurry up his affairs?" jewel looked at the broker. "he has. he thought it was error for him not to let the people there know that he was going to leave them after a while; so they began right off to try to find somebody else, and they have already." "eh?" asked the broker. "your father is through in chicago, then? when did you hear that?" "mother had the letter yesterday and she told me when i went to bed last night." "why, then he'll be coming right on." "we'd like to have him," returned jewel; "but mother wasn't sure how you would feel about it, to have father here so long before business commences." "why didn't she tell me last evening?" asked mr. evringham. "i _think_," returned jewel, "that she wanted father so _much_--and--and that she thought perhaps you wouldn't think it was best, and--well, i think she felt a little bashful. you know mother isn't your real relation, grandpa," the child's head fell to one side apologetically. mr. evringham stroked his mustache; but instantly he turned grave again. his eyes met jewel's. "i think, as you say, it would be rather a convenience to us if your mother had some one to play with, too. suppose we send for him, eh?" "oh, let's," cried the child joyfully. "done with you!" returned the broker, and he gave the rein to essex maid. star had suddenly so much ado to gallop along beside her, that jewel's laugh rang out merrily. when, a little later, the family met in the dining-room for breakfast, mr. evringham accosted his daughter cheerfully: "well, this is good news i hear about harry." julia flushed and met his eyes wistfully. the broker had never seen any resemblance in jewel to her until this moment; but it was precisely the child's expression that now returned his look. "it's my boy she wants, too," he thought. "by george, she shall have him." "i wasn't sure that you would think it was good news for harry to give up his position so soon, but there wasn't any other honest way," she replied. "the sooner the break is made, the better," returned mr. evringham. "i shall wire him to close up everything at once and join us as soon as he can." mother and child exchanged a happy look and jewel clapped her hands. "father's coming, father's coming!" she cried joyfully. the broker bent his brows upon her. "jewel, are you strictly honorable?" he asked. "i don't know," returned the little girl. "you said a few minutes ago that it was a playfellow for your mother that you wanted. your enthusiasm is unseemly." "oh, father's just splendid," said jewel. after breakfast the three repaired to a certain covered piazza where they always read the lesson for the day; then mr. evringham suggested that they go promptly to the beach to see the splendid show before the rollers regained their usual monotonous dignity. "jewel and i thought we would go over in the boat instead of through the fields, but that old tub is rather uninviting for a lady's clothes." "i think i will take the solitary saunter in preference," returned mrs. evringham. "you and jewel row over if you like." "no, we'd rather walk with you," said the child heroically. julia smiled. "i don't want you. there are birds and flowers." "well, come down and see us off, anyway," said mr. evringham; so the three moved over the grass toward the pond; two walking sedately and one skipping from sheer high spirits. as they drew near the little wharf the child's quick eyes perceived that there were two boats floating there, one each side of it. "see that, grandpa! there's some visitor around here," she said, running ahead of the others. a light, graceful boat rose and fell on the waves. it was golden brown within and without, and highly varnished. its four seats were furnished with wine-colored cushions. four slim oars lay along its bottom, and its rowlocks gleamed. best of all, a slender mast with snowy sail furled about it lay along the edge. "grandpa, p-_lease_ ask somebody whose it is and if we could get in just a minute!" begged jewel, in hushed excitement. "oh, they're all good neighbors about here. they won't mind, whoever it is," returned mr. evringham carelessly, and to the child's wonder and doubt he jumped aboard. "pretty neat outfit, isn't it?" he continued, as he stood a moment looking over the lines of the craft, and then lifted the mast. "oh, it'll sail, too, it'll sail, too!" cried jewel, hopping up and down. "oh, mother, did you ever _hear_ of such a pretty boat?" "never," replied mrs. evringham. "it must be that some one has come over from one of those fine homes across the pond." privately, she was a little surprised by the manner in which mr. evringham was making himself at home. he set the mast in its place and then, his arms akimbo, stood regarding jewel's tense, sun-browned countenance and sparkling eyes. "how would it be for me to go up to the house and see if we could get permission to take a little sail?" he asked. "oh, it would be splendid, grandpa," responded jewel, "but--but he might say no, and _could_ i get in just a minute first?" "yes, come on." the child waited for no second invitation, but sprang into the boat and examined its dry, shining floor and felt its buttoned cushions with admiring awe. "hello, see here," said mr. evringham, bending over the further side. "easy, now," for jewel had scrambled to see. he trimmed the boat while her flaxen head leaned eagerly over. beautifully painted in shining black letters she read the name jewel. the child lifted her head quickly and gazed at him, "grandpa, that almost couldn't--_happen_" she said, in amazement, catching her breath. he nodded. "there's one thing pretty certain, nature won't draw off the pond now that this has come to you." "me, _me_!" cried the child. her lips trembled and she turned a little pale under the tan as she remembered how the pony came. then her eyes, dark with excitement, suffused, and recklessly she flung herself upon the broker's neck while the boat rocked wildly. mr. evringham waved one hand toward his daughter while he seized the mast. "tell harry we left our love," he cried. "dear me, jewel, what are you _doing_!" called mrs. evringham. "it's mine, mother, it's mine," cried the child, lifting her head to shout it, and then ducking back into the broker's silk shirt front. "what do you mean?" asked mrs. evringham, coming gingerly out upon the wharf, which was such an unsteady old affair that she had remained on terra firma. "why, you see," responded mr. evringham, "the farmhouse boat wasn't so impossible for two old sea-dogs like jewel and me, but when it came to inviting her lady mother to go out with us, i saw that we must have something else. well, it seems as if jewel approved of this." he winked at his daughter over the flaxen head on his breast. "what a fortunate, fortunate girl!" exclaimed julia. "i can hardly wait to sit on one of those beautiful red cushions." "jewel will invite you pretty soon, i think," said mr. evringham. "i hope so, for one of my feet is turned in and she is standing on it, but i wouldn't have her get off until she is entirely ready." he could feel the child swallowing hard, and though she moved her little feet, she could not lift her face. "grandpa," she began, in an unsteady, muffled tone, "i didn't tease you too much about the old boat, did i?" "no,--no, child!" "shall you--shall you like this one, too?" "well, i should rather think so. i have to give all my shoes to the poor as it is. i've nothing left fit to put on but my riding-boots. how shall we go over to the beach this time, jewel, row or sail? your mother is waiting for you to ask her to get in." slowly the big bows behind the child's ears came down into their normal position. she kissed her grandfather fervently and then turned her flushed face and eyes toward her mother. "come in, so you can see the boat's name," she said, and her smile shone out like sunshine from an april sky. "give me your hand, then, dearie. you know i'm a poor city girl and haven't a very good balance." the name was duly examined, and mrs. evringham's "oh's" of wonder and admiration were long-drawn. "see the darling cushions, mother. you can wear your best clothes here. it's just like a parlor!" "a very narrow parlor, jewel. move carefully." mrs. evringham had seated herself in the stern. "perhaps i can help with the rudder," she added, taking hold of the lines. "just as the admiral says," returned the broker. "oh, grandpa, you'll have to be the admiral," said jewel excitedly. "i'll be the crew and"-- "and the owner," suggested mr. evringham. "yes! oh, mother, what _will_ father say!" "he'll say that you are a very happy, fortunate little girl, and that divine love is always showing your grandpa how to do kind things for you." the child's expression as she looked up at the admiral made him apprehend another rush. "steady, jewel, steady. remember we aren't wearing our bathing-suits. which are we going to do, row or sail?" "oh, _sail_," cried the child, "and it'll never be the first time again! _could_ you wait while i get anna belle?" "certainly." like a flash jewel sprang from the boat and fled up the wharf and lawn. mr. evringham smiled and shook his head at his daughter. "a creature of fire and dew," he said. "i don't know how to thank you for all your goodness to her," said julia simply. "it would offend me to be thanked for anything i did for jewel," he returned. "i understand. she is your own flesh and blood. but what i feel chiefly grateful for is the wisdom of your kindness. i believe you will never spoil her. i should rather we had remained poor and struggling than to have that." mr. evringham gave the speaker a direct look in which appeared a trace of humor. "i think i am slightly inclined," he returned, "to overlook the fact that you and harry have any rights in jewel which should be respected; but theoretically i do acknowledge them, and it is going to be my study not to spoil her. i have an idea that we couldn't," he added. "oh, yes, we could," returned julia, "very easily." "well, there aren't quite enough of us to try," said the broker. "i believe while we're waiting for jewel, i'll just step up to the house and get some one to send that telegram to harry." "oh, yes!" exclaimed julia eagerly; and in a minute she was left alone, swaying up and down on the lapping water, in the salt, sunny breeze, while the jewel pulled at the mooring as if eager to try its snowy wings; and happy were the grateful, prayerful thoughts that swelled her heart. chapter xvii the birthday one stormy evening harry evringham blew into the farmhouse, wet from his drive from the station, and was severally hugged, kissed, and shaken by the three who waited eagerly to receive him. the month that ensued was perhaps the happiest that had ever come into the lives of either of the quartette; certainly it was the happiest period to the married pair who had waited ten years for their wedding trip. the days were filled with rowing, sailing, swimming, riding, driving, picnics, walks, talks, and _dolce far niente_ evenings, when the wind was still and the moon silvered field and sea. the happy hours were winged, the goldenrod strewed the land with sunshine, and august slipped away. one morning when jewel awoke it was with a sensation that the day was important. she looked over at anna belle and shook her gently. "wake up, dearie," she said. "'green pastures are before me,' it's my birthday." but anna belle, who certainly looked very pretty in her sleep, and perhaps suspected it, seemed unable to overcome her drowsiness until jewel set her up against the pillow, when her eyes at once flew open and she appeared ready for sociability. "do you remember gladys on her birthday morning, dearie? she couldn't think of anything she wanted, and i'm almost like her. grandpa's given me my boat, that's his birthday present; and mother says she should think it was enough for ten birthdays, and so should i. poor grandpa! in ten birthdays i'll be nineteen, and then he says i'll have to cry on his shoulder instead of into his vest. but grandpa's such a joker! of course grown-up ladies hardly ever cry. if father and mother have anything for me, i'll be just delighted; but i can't think what i want. i have the darlingest pony in the world, and the dearest little faithful watch, and the best boat that was ever built, and i rowed father quite a long way yesterday all alone, and i didn't splash much, but he caught hold of the side of the boat and pretended he was afraid"--jewel's laughter gurgled forth at the remembrance--"he's such a joker; and i do understand the sail, too, but they won't let me do it alone yet. father says he can see in my eye that i should love to jibe. i don't even know what jibe is, so how could i do it?" jewel had proceeded so far in her confidences when the door of her room opened, and her father and mother came in in their bath-wrappers. "we thought we heard you improving anna belle's mind," said her father, taking her in his arms and kissing both her cheeks and chin, the tip of her nose and her forehead, and then carefully repeating the programme. "but that was ten!" cried jewel. "certainly. if you didn't have one to grow on, how would you get along?" then her pretty mother, her brown hair hanging in long braids, took her turn and kissed jewel's cheeks till they were pinker than ever. "many, many happy returns, my little darling," she said. "i didn't know you weren't going riding this morning." "yes, grandpa said he expected a man early on business, and he had to be here to see him. father could have gone with me," said jewel, looking at him reproachfully, where he sat on the side of the bed, "but when i asked him last night he said--i forget what he said." "merely that i didn't believe that horses liked such early dew." "oh, jewel!" laughed mrs. evringham, "your father is a lazy, sleepy boy. it's later than you think, dearie. hop up now and get ready for breakfast." they left her, and the little girl arose with great alacrity, for ever since she was a baby her birthday present had always been on the breakfast table. as soon as she was dressed, she put a blue cashmere wrapper on anna belle and carried her downstairs to the room where the evringham family had their meals, separate from the other inmates of the farmhouse. mr. evringham was standing by the window, reading the newspaper as he waited, and jewel ran to him and looked up with bright expectation. "h'm!" he said, not lifting his eyes from the print, "good-morning, jewel. essex maid and star would hardly speak to me when i was out there just now, they're so vexed at having to stay indoors this morning." the child did not reply, but continued to look up, smiling. "well," said the broker at last, dropping the paper. "well? what is it? i don't see anything very exciting. you haven't on your silk dress." "grandpa! it's my _birthday_." the broker slapped his leg with very apparent annoyance. "well, now, to think i should have to be told that!" jewel laughed and hopped a little as she looked toward the table. "do you see that bunch under the cloth at my place? that's my present. isn't it the most _fun_ not to know what it is?" mr. evringham took her up in his arms and weighed her up and down thoughtfully. "yes," he said, "i believe you are a little heavier than you were yesterday." the child laughed again. "now remember, jewel, you're to go slow on this birthday business. once in two or three years is all very well." "grandpa! people _have_ to have birthdays every year," she replied as he set her down, "but after they're about twenty or something like that, it's wrong to remember how old they are." "indeed?" the broker stroked his mustache. "ladies especially, i suppose." "oh, no," returned jewel seriously. "everybody. mother's just twenty years older than i am and that's so easy to remember, it's going to be hard to forget; but i've most forgotten how much older father is," and jewel looked up with an expression of determination that caused the broker to smile broadly. "i can understand your mother's being too self-respecting to pass thirty," he returned, "but just why your father shouldn't, i fail to understand." "why, it's error to be weak and wear spectacles and have things, isn't it?" asked jewel, with such swift earnestness that mr. evringham endeavored to compose his countenance. "have things?" he repeated. jewel's head fell to one side. "why, even you, grandpa," she said lovingly, "even you thought you had the rheumatism." "i was certainly under that impression." "but you never would have expected to have it when you were as young as father, would you?" "hardly." "well, then you see why it's wrong to make laws about growing old and to remember people's ages." "ah, i see what you mean. everybody thinking the wrong way and jumping on a fellow when he's down, as it were." at this moment jewel's father and mother entered the room, and she instantly forgot every other consideration in her interest as to what charming surprise might be bunched up under the tablecloth. "anna belle can hardly wait to see my present," she said, lifting her shoulders and smiling at her mother. "she ought to know one thing that's there, certainly," replied mrs. evringham mysteriously. jewel held the doll up in front of her. "have you given me something, dearie?" she asked tenderly. "i do hope you haven't been extravagant." then with an abrupt change of manner, she hopped up into her chair eagerly, and the others took their places. the very first package that jewel took out was marked--"with anna belle's love." it proved to be a pair of handsome white hair-ribbons, and the donor looked modestly away as jewel expressed her pleasure and kissed her blushing cheeks. next came a box marked with her father's name. upon opening it there was discovered a set of ermine furs for anna belle,--at least they were very white furs with very black tiny tails: collar and muff of a regal splendor, and any one who declined to call them ermine would prove himself a cold skeptic. jewel jounced up and down in her chair with delight. "winter's coming, you know, jewel, and bel-air park is a very swell place," said her father. "and perhaps i'll have a sled at christmas and draw anna belle on it," said the child joyously. "here, dearie, let's see how they fit," and on went the furs over the blue cashmere wrapper, making anna belle such a thing of beauty that jewel gazed at her entranced. the doll was left with her chubby hands in the ample muff and the sumptuous collar half eclipsing her golden curls, while the little girl dived under the cloth once more for the largest package of all. this was marked with her mother's love and contained handsome plaid material for a dress, with the silk to trim it, and a pair of kid gloves. jewel hopped down from her chair and kissed first her father and then her mother. "that'll be the loveliest dress!" she said, and she carried it to her grandfather to let him look closer and put his hand upon it. "well, well, you are having a nice birthday, jewel," he said. "yes," she replied, putting her arm around his neck and pressing her cheek to his. "we couldn't put the boat under the tablecloth, but i'm thinking about it, grandpa." after breakfast they all went out to the covered piazza to read the lesson. it was a fine, still morning. the pond rippled dreamily. the roar of the surf was subdued. from jewel's seat beside her grandfather she could see her namesake glinting in the sun and gracefully rising and falling on the waves in the gentle breeze. they had all taken comfortable positions and mrs. evringham was finding the places in the books. mr. evringham spoke quite loudly: "well, this is a fine morning, surely, fine." "it is that," agreed harry, stretching his long legs luxuriously. "if i felt any better i couldn't stand it." as he was speaking, a strange man in a checked suit came around the corner of the house. jewel's eyes grew larger and she straightened up. "oh, grandpa, look!" she said softly, and then jumped off the seat to see better. all the little company gazed with interest, for, accompanying the man, was the most superb specimen of a collie dog that they had ever seen. "it's a golden dog, grandpa," added jewel. the collie had evidently just been washed and brushed. his coat was, indeed, of a gleaming yellow. his paws were white, the tip of his tail was white, and his breast was snowy as the thick, soft foam of the breakers. a narrow strip of white descended between his eyes,--golden, intelligent eyes, with generations of trustworthiness in them. a silver collar nestled in the long hair about his neck, and altogether he looked like a prince among dogs. jewel clasped her hands beneath her chin and gazed at him with all her eyes. he was too splendid to be flown at in her usual manner with animals. "what a beauty!" ejaculated harry. "it _is_ a golden dog," said jewel's mother, looking almost as enthusiastic as the child. "what have you there?" asked mr. evringham of the man. "something pretty fine, it appears to me." "yes, sir, there's none finer," replied the man, glancing at the animal. "i called to see you on that little matter i wrote you of." "yes, yes; well, that will wait. we're interested in that fine collie of yours. we know something about golden dogs here, eh, jewel?" "but this dog couldn't dance, grandpa," said the child soberly, drawing nearer to the creature. "i should think not," remarked the man, smiling. "what would he be doing dancing? i've seen lions jump the rope in shows; but it never looked fitting, to me." "no," said jewel, "this dog ought not to dance;" and as the collie's golden eyes met hers, she drew nearer still in fascination, and he touched her outstretched hand curiously, with his cold nose. "oh, well, but we like accomplished dogs," said mr. evringham coldly. "who says this dog ain't accomplished?" returned the man, in an injured tone. "just stand back there a bit, young lady." jewel retreated and her grandfather put his hand over her shoulder. the man spoke to the dog, and at once the handsome creature sat up, tall and dignified, on his hind legs. the man only kept him there a few seconds; and then he put him through a variety of other performances. the golden dog shook hands when he was told, rolled over, jumped over a stick, and at last sat up again, and when the man took a bit of sugar from his pocket and balanced it on the creature's nose, he tossed it in the air, and, catching it neatly, swallowed it in a trice. jewel was giving subdued squeals of delight, and everybody was laughing with pleasure; for the decorative creature appeared to enjoy his own tricks. the man looked proudly around upon the company. "well," said mr. evringham to jewel, "he is a dog of high degree, like gabriel's, isn't he? but he's such a big fellow i think the organ-grinder wouldn't have such an easy time with _him_." at the broker's voice, the dog walked up to him and wagged his feathery tail. jewel's eager hands went out to touch him, but mr. evringham held her back. "he's a friendly fellow," he went on; then continued to the man, "would you like to sell him?" the question set the little girl's heart to beating fast. "i would, first rate," replied the man, grinning, "but the trouble is i've sold him once. i'm taking him to his owner now." "that's a handsome collar you have on him." "oh, yes, it's a good one all right," returned the man. "the dog is for a surprise present. the lady i'm taking him to is going to know him by his name." "let's have a look at it, jewel," said mr. evringham, and he took hold of the silver collar, a familiarity which seemed rather to please the golden dog, who began wagging his tail again, as he looked at mr. evringham trustingly. jewel bent over eagerly. a single name was engraved clearly on the smooth plate. "topaz!" she cried. "his name is topaz! grandpa, mother, the golden dog's name is topaz!" mrs. evringham held up both hands in amazement, while harry frowned incredulously. "did you ever hear of anything so wonderful, grandpa? how _can_ the lady know him by his name so well as we do?" the child was quite breathless. "what? do _you_ know the name?" asked the man. "supposing i'd hit on the right place already. just take a look under his throat. the owner's name is there." jewel fell on her knees, and while mr. evringham kept his hand on the dog's muzzle, she pushed aside the silky white fur. "evringham. bel-air park, new jersey," was what she read, engraved on the silver. she sat still for a minute, overcome, while a procession of ideas crowded after each other through the flaxen head. it was her birthday; grandpa couldn't get the boat under the tablecloth. this beautiful dog--this impossibly beautiful dog, was a surprise present. he was for her, to love and to play with; to see his tricks every day, to teach him to know her and to run to her when she called. if she was given the choice of the whole world on this sweet birthday morning, it seemed to her nothing could be so desirable as this live creature, this playmate, this prince among dogs. when she looked up the man in the checked suit had disappeared. she glanced at her father and mother. they were watching her smilingly and she understood that they had known. she looked around a little further and saw mr. evringham seated, his hand on the collie's neck, while the wagging, feathery tail expressed great contentment in the touch of a good friend. at the time the story of the golden dog had so captivated jewel's imagination, the broker began his search for one in real life. he had already been thinking that a dog would be a good companion for the fearless child's solitary hours in the woods. as soon as the collie was found, he directed that all the ordinary tricks should be taught it, and every day until he left new york he visited the creature, who remembered him so well that on the collie's arrival late last evening, he had feared its joyous barking out at the barn would waken jewel. she rose to her knees now, and, putting her arms around the dog's neck, pressed her radiant face against him. topaz pulled back, but mr. evringham patted him, and in an instant he was freed; for his little mistress jumped up and, climbing into her grandfather's lap, rested her head against his breast. "grandpa," she said, slowly and fervently, "i wonder if you do know how much i love you!" mr. evringham patted the collie's head, then took jewel's hand and placed it with his own on the sleek forehead. the golden eyes met his attentively. "you're to take care of her, topaz. do you understand?" he asked. the feathery tail waved harder. jewel gazed at the dog. "if anything could be too good to be true, he'd be it," she said slowly. mr. evringham's pleasure showed in his usually impassive face. "well, isn't it a good thing then that nothing is?" he replied, and he kissed her. chapter xviii true delight when evening came and put a period to that memorable birthday, topaz was a dog of experiences. if he was a happy discovery to jewel, she was none the less one to him. he was delighted to romp in the fields, where his coat vied with the goldenrod; or to scamper up and down the beach, barking excitedly, while his friends jumped or swam through the cool waves. jewel was eager that her horse and dog should become acquainted; so, when late in the afternoon essex maid and star were brought out at the customary hour, saddled and bridled, she performed an elaborate introduction between the jet-black picture pony and the prince among dogs. star arched his neck and shook his wavy mane as he gazed down at the golden dog with his full bright eyes. he had seen topaz before; for the collie had spent the night in the barn, making sunshine in a shady place as he romped about the man in the checked suit. "oh, grandpa!" laughed jewel, as star pawed the ground, "he looks at topaz just the way essex maid used to look at him when he first came. just as _scornful_!" she knelt down on the grass by the pony, in her riding skirt, and topaz instantly came near, hopefully. he had already learned that by sticking to her closely he was liable to have good sport; but this time business awaited him. mr. evringham watched the pony and dog, with the flaxen-haired child between them, and wished he had a kodak. "now, star and topaz, you're going to love one another," said jewel impressively. "shake hands, topaz." she held out her hand and the dog sat down and offered a white paw. "good fellow," said the child. "now i guess you're going to be surprised," she added, looking into his yellow eyes. she turned toward the pony, who was nosing her shoulder, not at all sure that he liked this rival. "shake hands, star," she ordered. it took the pony some time to make up his mind to do this. it usually did. he shook his mane and tossed his head; but jewel kept patting his slender leg and offering her hand, until, with much gentle pawing and lifting his little hoof higher and higher, he finally rested it in the child's hand, although looking away meanwhile, in mute protest. "good star! darling star!" she exclaimed, jumping up and hugging him. "there, topaz, what do you think of that?" she asked triumphantly. for answer the golden dog yawned profoundly, and mr. evringham and jewel laughed together. "such impoliteness!" cried the child. "you must excuse him if he is a little conceited," said the broker. "he knows star can't sit up and roll over and jump sticks." "oh, grandpa." jewel's face sobered, for this revived a little difference of opinion between them. "when are you going to let me jump fences?" "in a few more birthdays, jewel, a few more," he replied. she turned back to her pets. "i suppose," she said musingly, "it wouldn't be the least use to try to make them shake hands with each other." "i suppose not," returned the broker, and his shoulders shook. "oh, jewel, you certainly will make me lose my waist. here now, time is flying. mount." he lowered his hand, jewel stepped on it and was in her white saddle instantly. the collie barked with loud inquiry and plunged hopefully. in a minute the horses were off at a good pace. "come, topaz!" cried the child, and the golden dog scampered after them with a will. harry and julia took a sail in the "jewel" while the riders were away, otherwise the four had spent the entire day together; and after dinner they all strolled out of doors to watch the coming of twilight. jewel and her father began a romp on the grass with the dog, and mr. evringham and julia took seats on the piazza. the broker watched the group on the lawn in silence for a minute, and then he spoke. "i was very much impressed by the talk we had last evening, julia; more so even than by those that have gone before. harry really seems very intelligent on this subject of christian science." "he is making a conscientious study of it," returned julia. "you have met my questions and objections remarkably well," went on mr. evringham. "i am willing and glad to admit truth where i once was skeptical, and i hope to understand much more. one thing i must say, however, i do object to--it is this worship of mrs. eddy. i know you don't call it that, but what does it matter what you call it, when you all give her slavish obedience? i should like to take the truth she has presented and make it more impersonal than you do. what is the need of thinking about her at all?" julia smiled. "well, ordinary gratitude might come in there. most of us feel that she has led us to the living christ, and helped us to all we have attained of health and happiness; but one very general mistake that error makes use of to blind people is that mrs. eddy exacts this gratitude. how willing everybody is to admit that actions speak louder than words; and yet who of our opposers ever stop to think how mrs. eddy's retired, hard-working life proves the falsity of the charges brought against her. she does wish for our love and gratitude; but it is for our sakes, not hers. think of any of the great teachers from st. paul down to the present day. who could benefit by the truth voiced by any of them, while he nursed either contempt or criticism of the personality of the teacher?" "yes," returned mr. evringham, "there is strength in that consideration; but this blind following of any suggestion your leader makes looks to me too much like giving up your own rationality." julia regarded him seriously. "supposing you were one of a party who had, for long years, searched in vain for gold. you had tried mine after mine only to find you had not the ability to discriminate between the priceless and the worthless ore, or to discern the signs of promise that lead to rich discovery. now, supposing another prospector had proved, over and over again, that he did know the places where treasure was to be found. supposing he had demonstrated, over and over again, that his judgment and discernment never led him astray, and that reward followed his labor unfailingly. now, what if this wise prospector was willing to help you? supposing he stated that in certain places, and by certain ways, you could attain that for which you longed and had striven vainly. when his advice or directions came to you, from time to time, do you think you would be likely to stop to haggle or argue over them? no; i think you would hasten to follow his suggestions, as eagerly and as closely as you were able, and with a warmly grateful heart. would that prospector be forcing you? or doing you a kindness? what are the fruits of christian science? what are the results of the directions of this wise, loving leader who can come so close to god that he teaches her to help us to come, too. oh, father, this obstacle, this foolish argument, meets nearly every one in the path you are treading, and tries to turn him back. i do hope, for your sake, you will decline to give that very flabby error-fairy a backbone, or let it detain you longer. it is marvelous how, without one element of truth or reason, it seems able to hold back so many, and waste their precious time." mr. evringham was regarding the speaker with close attention. "you are a good special pleader," he said, when she paused. "it is easy to speak the truth," she answered. he nodded thoughtfully. "you have given me a new light on the situation. i see it now from an entirely new standpoint." here the trio on the lawn came running up the steps, father and child laughing and panting as hard as topaz, whose tongue and teeth were all in evidence in the gayety of his grin. harry threw himself into the hammock, and jewel sat on the floor beside topaz, who gazed at her from his wistful eyes, his head on the side. harry laughed. "jewel, he looks at you as if he were saying, 'really, now, you are a person after my own heart.'" "she is after his heart, too," said jewel's mother, "and i'm sure she'll win it." "he likes me already," declared the child. "don't you, topaz?" she asked tenderly, laying her flaxen head with its big bows against the gold of his coat. "oh, there ought to be one more story in my book," she added, "one for us to read right now and finish up my birthday." "why not have 'the golden dog' again?" suggested mr. evringham, from the comfortable big wicker chair in which he sat watching jewel and topaz. "that would be appropriate." "oh, yes," cried the little girl, looking at her mother. "oh, no," returned julia, smiling. "there ought to be a special fresh story for a birthday. we might make one now." "a new one, mother?" asked jewel, much pleased. "could you?" "no indeed, not alone; but if everybody helped"-- "oh, yes," cried jewel, with more enthusiasm than before. "grandpa begin because he's the oldest, then father, then mother, then--well, me, if i can think of anything." "it's very wrong of you, jewel," said the broker, "to remember that i'm the oldest, under these circumstances. what did you tell me this morning?" the child's head fell to the side and she leaned toward him. "i don't know how old you are," she replied gently; "and it doesn't make any difference." "then let's begin with the youngest," he suggested. "no," said his daughter, "i think jewel's plan is the best. you begin, father." she did not in the least expect that he would consent, but jewel, her hands resting on topaz's collar, was looking at the broker lovingly. "grandpa can do just anything," she declared. mr. evringham regarded her musingly. "i know only one story," he said at last, "and not very far into that one." "you don't have to know far," returned julia encouragingly, "for harry has to begin whenever you say so." "indeed!" put in her husband. "i pity you if you have to listen to me." "it's my birthday, you know, grandpa," urged jewel. "so i've understood," returned the broker. "well, just wait a minute till i hitch up pegasus." "great scott!" exclaimed his son. "you aren't in earnest, julia? you don't expect me to do anything like that right off the bat!" "certainly, i do," she replied, laughing. "oh, see here, i have an engagement. we're one, you know, and when it comes to authorship, you're the one." "hush," returned julia, "you're disturbing father's muse." but mr. evringham's ideas, whatever they were, seemed to be at hand. he settled back in his chair, his elbows on the arms and his finger-tips touching. all his audience immediately gave attention. even anna belle had a chair all to herself and fixed an inspiring gaze on the broker. it was to be hoped that her pride kept her cool, for, in spite of the quiet warmth of the september evening, she was enveloped in her new furs, with her hands tucked luxuriously in the large muff. "once upon a time," began mr. evringham, "there was an old man. no one had ever told him that it was error to grow old and infirm, and he sometimes felt about ninety, although he was rather younger. he lived in the valley of vain regret. the climate of that region has a bad effect on the heart, and his had shriveled up until it was quite small and mean, and hard and cold, at that. "the old man wasn't poor; he lived in a splendid castle and had plenty of servants to wait on him; but he was the loneliest of creatures. he wanted to be lonely. he didn't like anybody, and all he asked of people was that they stay away from him and only speak to him when he spoke to them, which wasn't very often, i assure you. you can easily see that people were willing to stay away from a cross-grained person like that. everybody in the neighborhood was afraid of him. they shivered when he came near, and ran off to get into the sunshine; so he was used to seeing visitors pass by the fine grounds of his castle with only a scared glance or two in that direction, and he wished it to be so. but he was very unhappy all the same. his dried-up heart gave him much discomfort, and then once he had read an old parchment that told of a far different land from vain regret. in that country was the castle of true delight, and many an hour the man spent in restless longing to know how he might find it; for--so he read--if a person could once pass within the portals of that palace, he would never again know sorrow or discontent, but one happy day would follow another in endless variety and satisfaction. "many a time the man mounted on a spirited horse and rode forth in search of this castle, and many different paths he took; but every night he came home discouraged, for no sign could he find of any hope or cheer in the whole valley of vain regret, and it seemed to him to hold him like a prisoner. "one day as he was strolling on the terrace before the castle, in bitter thought, a strange sight met his eyes. a little girl pushed open the great iron gates which he had thought were locked, and walked toward him. for a minute he was too much amazed at such daring to speak, and the little girl came forward, smiling as she caught his look. she had dark eyes and her brown hair curled in her neck. most people would have remarked her sweet expression; but the old man turned fierce at sight of her. "'be off,' he commanded angrily, and he pointed to the gate. "she did not cease smiling nor turn away, but came straight on. "the little dried heart in the old man's breast began to bounce about at a great rate in his anger. he turned to a servant who stood near holding in leash two great hounds. "'set the dogs on her,' he commanded; and though the servant was loath to obey, he dared not refuse, and set free the dogs who, at the master's word, bounded swiftly toward the child. "her loving look did not alter as she saw them coming and she held out her hands to them. when they reached her they licked the little hands with their tongues and bent their great heads to her caresses, and so she advanced to the man, walking between the hounds, a hand on the neck of each. "he stared at her dumfounded as she stood before him, her eyes smiling up into his. her garments were white and of a strange fashion. "'from whence come you?' he asked, when he could speak. "'from the heavenly country,' she answered. "'and what may be your name?' "'purity.' "'i ordered you out of my grounds!' exclaimed the old man. "'i did not hear it,' returned the child, unmoved. "'don't you fear the dogs?' "'what is fear?' asked purity, her eyes wondering. "'this is the land of vain regret,' said the man. 'be off!' "'this is a beautiful land,' returned the child. "for a moment her fearless obstinacy held him silent, then he thought he would voice the question that was always with him. "'have you ever heard, in your country, of the castle of true delight?' he asked. "'often,' replied the child. "'i wish to go there,' he declared eagerly. "'then why not?' returned purity. "'i cannot find the way.' "'that is a pity,' said the child. 'it is in my country.' "'and you have seen it?' "'oh, many times.' "'then you shall show me the way.' "'whenever you are ready,' returned purity. so saying, she passed him, still accompanied by the hounds, and walked up the steps of the castle and passed within and out of sight." * * * * * the story-teller paused. jewel had risen from her seat on the floor and come to sit on a wicker hassock at his feet, and topaz rapped with his tail as she moved. "i wish you'd been there, grandpa, to take care of that little girl," she said earnestly, her eyes fixed on his. "what happened next?" "ask your father," was the response. harry evringham rolled over in the hammock where he lay stretched, until he could see his daughter's face. she rose again and pulled her hassock close to him as he continued:-- "as purity passed into the house, the dogs whined, and the servant calling them, they ran back to him. the old man stood still, bewildered, for a minute; then he struck his hands together. "'it is true, then. even that child has seen it. i will go to her at once, and we will set forth.' "so the old man entered the castle, and gave orders that the child who had just come in should be found and brought to him. "the servants immediately flew to do his bidding, but no child could they find. "'lock the gates lest she escape,' ordered the master. 'she is here. find her, or off goes every one of your foolish heads.' "this was a terrible threat. you may be sure the servants ran hither and thither, and examined every nook and corner; but still no little girl could be found. the master scowled and fumed, but he considered that if he had his servants all beheaded, it would put him to serious inconvenience; so he only sat down and bit his thumbs, and began to try to think up some new way to search for the castle of true delight. "he felt sure the child had told the truth when saying she had beheld it. it was even in the country where she had her home. the man began to see that he had made a mistake not to treat the stranger more civilly. the very dogs that he kept to drive away intruders had been more hospitable than he. "all at once he had a bright thought. the roc, the oldest and wisest of all birds, lived at the top of the mountain which rose above his castle. "'she will tell me the way,' he said, 'for she knows the world from its very beginning.' "so he ordered that they should saddle and bridle his strongest steed, and up the mountain he rode for many a toilsome hour, until he came to where the roc lived among the clouds. "she listened civilly to the man's question. 'so you are weary of your life,' she said. 'many a pilgrim comes to me on the same quest, and i tell them all the same thing. the obstacles to getting away from the valley of vain regret are many, for there is but one road, and that has difficulties innumerable; but the thing that makes escape nearly impossible is the dragon that watches for travelers, and has so many eyes that two of them are always awake. there is one hope, however. if you will examine my wings and make yourself a similar pair, you can fly above the pitfalls and the dragon's nest, and so reach the palace safely.' "as she said this, the roc slowly stretched her great wings, and the man examined them eagerly, above and below. "'and in what direction do i fly?' he asked at last. "'toward the rising sun,' replied the roc; then her wings closed, her head drooped, and she fell asleep, and no further word could the man get from her. "he rode home, and for many weeks he labored and made others labor, to build an air-ship that should carry him out of the valley of vain regret. it was finished at last. it was cleverly fashioned, and had wings as broad as the roc's; but on the day when the man finally stepped within it and set it in motion, it carried him only a short distance outside the castle gates, and then sank to the boughs of a tall tree, and, try as he might, the air-ship could not be made to take a longer flight. "his poor shrunken heart fluttered with rage and disappointment. 'i will go to the wise hermit,' he said. so he went far through the woods to the hut of the wise hermit, and he told him the same gruesome things about the difficulties that beset the road out of the valley of vain regret, and said that one's only hope lay in tunneling beneath them. "so the old man hired a large number of miners, and, setting their faces eastward, they burrowed down into the earth, and blasted and dug a way which the man followed, a greater and greater eagerness possessing him with each step of progress; but just when his hopes were highest, the miners broke through into an underground cavern, bottomless and black, from which they all started back, barely in time to save themselves. it was impossible to go farther, and the whole company returned by the way they had come, and the miners were very glad to breathe the air of the upper world again; but the man's disappointment was bitter. "'it is of no use,' he said, when again he stood on the terrace in front of his castle. 'it is of no use to struggle. i am imprisoned for life in the valley of vain regret.'" * * * * * jewel's father paused. she had listened attentively. now she turned to her grandfather. "is that the way you think the story went, grandpa?" mr. evringham nodded. "i think it did," he replied. "then go on, please, father, because i like a lot of happiness in my stories, and i want that man to hurry up and know that--that error is cheating him." "your mother to the rescue, then," replied harry evringham, smiling. jewel turned to look at her mother, and, rising again, picked up her hassock and carried it to the steamer chair in which mrs. evringham was reclining. her mother looked into her serious eyes and nodded reassuringly as she began:-- * * * * * "as that sorry old man stood there on the terrace, things had never looked so black to him. he was so tired, so tired of hating. he longed for a thousand things, he knew not what, but he was sure they were to be found at the castle of true delight; but he was shut in! there was no way out. as he was thinking these despairing thoughts and looking about on the scenes which had grown hateful to him, he saw something that made him start. the great iron gates leading out of his grounds opened as once before, and a little girl in white garments came in and moved toward him. his heart leaped at the sight,--and it swelled a bit, too! "instead of ordering her off, he hurried toward her and, although he scowled in his eagerness, she smiled and lifted dark eyes that beamed lovingly. "'i cannot find my way to your country nor to the castle of true delight,' said the man, 'and i need you to show me. since you have found your road hither twice, surely you can go back again.' "'yes, easily,' replied purity, 'and since you know that you need me, you are ready, and the king welcomes all.' "'he will not like me,' said the sorry man, 'because nobody does.' "'i do,' replied the child; and at her tone the man's heart swelled a little more. "'there is water in my eyes,' he said, as if to himself. 'what does that mean?' "'it will make you see better,' replied the child. 'it is the kind of water that softens the heart, and that always improves the sight.' "'be it so, then. perhaps i can better see the way; but the road is full of perils innumerable, child. have you found some other path?' "'there is but one,' replied purity. "'so the roc said,' declared the man. 'how did you pass the dragon?' "the child looked up wonderingly. 'i saw no dragon,' she answered. "the man stared at her. 'there are pitfalls and obstacles innumerable,' he repeated, 'and an ever-wakeful dragon. you passed it in the night, perhaps, and were too small to be observed.' "'i saw none,' repeated the child. "'yet i will risk it!' exclaimed the man. 'rather death than this life. wait until i buckle on my sword and order our horses.' "he turned to go, but the child caught his hand. 'we need no horses,' she said, gently, 'and what would you with a sword?' "'for our defense.' "the child pressed his hand softly. 'those who win to true delight use only the sword of spirit,' she answered. "the man frowned at her, but even frowning he wondered. again came the swelling sensation within his breast, which he could not understand. "the child smiled upon him and started toward the heavy gates and the man followed. he wondered at himself, but he followed. "emerging into the woodland road, purity took a path too narrow and devious for a horse to tread, but the man saw that it led toward the rising sun. she seemed perfectly sure of her way, and occasionally turned to look sweetly on the pilgrim whose breast was beginning to quake at thought of the difficulties to come. no defense had he but his two hands, and no guide but this gentle, white-robed child in her ignorant fearlessness. indeed it was worse than being alone, for he must defend her as well as himself. she was so young and helpless, and she had looked love at him. with this thought the strange water stood again in his eyes and the narrow heart in his bosom swelled yet more. "the forest thickened and deepened. sharp thorns sprang forth and at last formed a network before the travelers. "'you will hurt yourself, purity!' cried the man. 'let me go first,' and pushing by the little child, he tried to break the thorny branches and force a way; but his hands were torn in vain; and seeing the hopelessness, after a long struggle, he turned sadly to his guide. "'i told you!' he said. "'yes,' she answered, and the light from her eyes shone upon the tangle. 'on this road, force will avail nothing; but there are a thousand helps for him who treads this path with me.' "as she spoke, an army of bright-eyed little squirrels came fleetly into the thicket and gnawed down thorns and briers before the pilgrims, until they emerged safely into an open field. "'a heart full of thanks, little ones,' called purity after them as they fled. "'why did they do that for us?' asked the astonished man. "'because they know i love them,' replied the child, and she moved forward lightly beside her companion. "they had walked for perhaps half an hour when a sound of rushing waters came to their ears, and they soon reached a broad river. there was no bridge and the current was deep and swift. "the man gazed at the roaring torrent in dismay. 'oh, child, behold the flood! even if i could build a raft, we should be carried out to sea, and no swimmer could stem that tide with you in his arms. how ever came you across by yourself?' "'love helped me,' answered purity. "'alas, it will not help me,' said the man. 'i know hate better.' "'but you are becoming acquainted with love, else you would not look on me so kindly,' returned the child. 'have faith and come to the shore.' she put her little hand in his and he held it close, and together they walked to the edge of the rushing river. suddenly its blackness was touched and twinkling with silver which grew each instant more compact and solid, and, without a moment's hesitation, purity stepped upon the silver path, drawing with her the man, who marveled to see that countless large fish, with their noses toward the current and their fins working vigorously, were offering their bodies as a buoyant bridge, over which the two passed safely. "'a thousand thanks, dear ones,' said purity, as they reached the farther bank; and instantly there was a breaking and twinkling of the silver, and the rushing water swallowed up the kindly fish. "the man, speechless with wonder, moved along beside his guide, and from time to time she sang a little song, and as she sang he could feel his heart swelling and there was a strange new happiness born in it, which seemed to answer her song though his lips were mute. "and then purity talked to him of her king and of the rich delights which were ever poured out to him who once found the path to the heavenly country; and the man listened quite eagerly and humbly and clung to purity as to his only hope. "when night fell he feared to close his eyes lest the child slip away from him; but she smiled at his fears. "'i can never leave you while you want me,' she answered; 'beside, i do not wish to, for i love you. do you forget that?' "at this the man lay down quite peacefully. his heart was full and soft, and the strange water that filled his eyes overflowed upon his cheeks. "in the morning they ate fruits and berries, and pursued their journey, and it was not long before another of the obstacles which the roc and the hermit had foretold threatened to end their pilgrimage. it was a chasm that fell away so steeply and was so deep and wide that, looking into the depths below, the man shuddered and started back. before he had time to utter his dismay, a large mountain deer appeared noiselessly before the travelers. the man started eagerly, but as the creature's bright, wild gaze met his, it vanished as silently and swiftly as it had come. "'ah, why was that?' exclaimed purity. 'felt you an unloving thought?' "''twas a fine deer. had i but possessed a bow and arrow, i could have taken it!' returned the man, with excitement. "'to what end?' asked purity, her wondering eyes sad. 'one does not gain the heavenly country by slaying. we must wait now, until love drives out all else.' "the repentant man hung his head and looked at the broad chasm. 'would that i had not willed to kill the creature,' he said, 'for i am loath to lose my own life, and it is less good than the deer's.' "purity smiled upon him and slid her hand into his, and again the deer bounded before them, followed this time by its mate. "the child fondled them. 'mount upon its back,' she said to the man, indicating the larger animal. he obeyed, though with trembling, while the smaller deer kneeled to the child and she took her seat. "then the creatures planted their feet unerringly and stepped to a lower jutting point of rock, from whence with flying leaps they bridged the chasm and scrambled to firm earth on the other side. "'our hearts' best thanks, loved ones,' said purity, as the deer bounded away. "the man was trembling. 'i have slain many of god's creatures for my pleasure,' he faltered. 'may he forgive me!' "'if you do so no more you will forgive yourself; but only so,' returned purity. "they moved along again and the man spoke earnestly and humbly of the wonders that had befallen them. "'to love, all things are possible,' returned the child; 'but to love only;' and her companion listened to all she said, with a full heart. "by noon that day, an inaccessible cliff stared the travelers in the face. its mighty crags bathed their feet in a deep pool, and up, up, for hundreds of feet, ran a smooth wall of rock in which no one might find a foothold. "the man stared at it in silence, and it seemed to frown back inexorably. his companion watched his face and read its mute hopelessness. "'have you still--_still_ no faith?' she asked. "'i cannot see how'--stammered the man. "'no, you cannot see how--but what does that matter?' asked the child. 'let us eat now,' and she sat down, and the man with her, and they ate of the fruits and nuts she had gathered along the way and carried in her white gown. "while they ate, a pair of great eagles circled slowly downward out of the blue sky, nor paused until they had alighted near the travelers. "'welcome, dear birds,' said purity. 'you know well the heavenly country, and we seek your help to get there, for we have no wings to fly above those rocky steeps.' "the eagles nestled their heads within her little hands, in token of obedience, and when she took her seat upon one, the man obeyed her sign and trusted himself upon the outstretched wings of the other. "up, up, soared the great birds, over the sullen pool, up the sheer rock. up, and still up, with sure and steady flight, until, circling once again, the eagles alighted gently upon a land strewn with flowers. "the man and his guide stood upon the green earth, and purity kissed her hands gratefully to the eagles as they circled away and out of sight. "'this is a beautiful country,' said the man, and he gathered a white flower. "'yes,' returned purity, smiling on him, 'you begin to see it now.'" * * * * * mrs. evringham paused. jewel's eyes were fixed on her unwinkingly. "go on, please, mother," she said. "i think i've told enough," replied mrs. evringham. "oh, but you finish it, mother. you can tell it just beautifully." "thank you, dear, but i think it is your turn." "yes, jewel," said her father, "it's up to you now." "but i don't think a little girl _can_ tell stories to grown-up people." "oh, yes, on her birthday she can," returned her father. "go on, we're all listening; no one asleep except topaz." jewel's grandfather had been watching her absorbed face all the time, between his half-closed lids. "i think they've left the hardest part of all to you, jewel," he said,--"to tell about the dragon." "oh, no-o," returned the child scornfully, "that part's easy." the broker raised his eyebrows. "indeed?" he returned. in honor of her birthday, jewel was arrayed in her silk dress. the white ribbons, anna belle's gift, were billowing out behind her ears. she presented the appearance, as she sat on the wicker hassock, of a person who had had little experience with dragons. "well," she said, after a pause, smiling at her grandfather and lifting her shoulders, "shall i try, then?" "by all means," returned the broker. so jewel folded her hands in her silken lap and began in her light, sweet voice:-- * * * * * "when the man looked around on the flowers and lovely trees and brooks, he said, 'this is a beautiful land.' "and purity answered: 'i'm glad that you see it is. you remember i told you it was.' "'it was the valley of vain regret we were talking about then,' said the man. 'if you had known more about it, you wouldn't have called _that_ beautiful.' "then the little girl smiled because she knew something nice that the man didn't know yet; but he was going to. "so they journeyed along and journeyed along through pleasant places, and while they walked, purity told the man about the great king--how loving he was and everything like that, and the man had hold of her hand and listened just as hard as he could, for he felt sure she was telling the truth; and it made him glad, and his heart that had been wizzled up just like a fig, had grown to be as big as--oh, as big as a watermelon, and it was full of nice feelings. "'i'm happy, purity,' he said to the little girl. "i'm glad,' she answered, and she squeezed his hand back again, because she loved him now as much as if he was her grandpa. "well, they went along, and along, and at last they came to some woods and a narrow path through them. the man was beginning to think they might need the squirrels again, when suddenly"--jewel paused and looked around on her auditors whose faces she could barely see in the gathering dusk,--"suddenly the man thought he saw the dragon he had heard so much about; and he shivered and hung back, but purity walked along and wondered what was the matter with him. "'there's the dragon!' he said, in the most _afraid_ voice, and he hung back on the girl's hand so hard that she couldn't move. "when she saw how he looked, she patted him. 'i don't see anything,' she said, 'only just lovely woods.' "'oh, purity, come back, come back, we can't go any farther!' said the man, and his eyes kept staring at something among the trees, close by. "'what do you see?' asked the little girl. "'a great red dragon with seven heads and ten horns!' answered the man, and he pulled on her again, to go back with him. "'dear me,' said purity, 'is that old make-believe thing ground here, trying to cheat you? i've heard about it.' "'it would make anybody afraid,' said the man. 'it has seven heads and it could eat us up with any one of them.' "'yes, it could, if it was there,' said purity, 'but there isn't any such thing, to _be_ there. the king of the country is all-powerful and he knows we're coming, and he _wants_ us to come. hasn't he taken care of us all the way and helped us over every hard place? shouldn't you think you'd _know_ by this time that we're being taken care of?' "'oh, dear!' said the man, 'i shall never see the heavenly country, nor the castle, nor know what true delight is; for no one could get by that dragon!' "purity felt bad because his face was the sorriest that you ever saw, and his voice sounded full of crying. so she put her arms around him. 'now don't you feel that way;' she said, 'everything is just as happy as it was before. there isn't any dragon there. tell me where you see him.' "so the man pointed to the foot of a great tree close by. "'all right,' said purity, 'i'll go and stand right in front of that tree until you get 'way out of the woods, and then i'll run and catch up with you.' "the man stooped down and put his arms around the girl just as lovingly as if she was his own little grandchild. "'i can't do that,' he said; 'i'd rather the dragon would eat me up than you. you run, purity, and i'll stay; and when he tries to catch you, i'll throw myself in front of him. but kiss me once, dear, because we've been very happy together.' "purity kissed him over and over again because she was so happy about his goodness, and she saw the tears in his eyes, that are the kind that make people see better. she _knew_ what the man was going to see when he stood up again." the story-teller paused a moment, but no one spoke, although she looked at each one questioningly; so she continued:-- "well, he was the most _surprised_ man when he got up and looked around. "'the dragon has gone!' he said. "'no, he hasn't,' said purity, and she just hopped up and down, she was so glad. 'he hasn't gone, because he wasn't there!' "'he _isn't_ there!' said the man, over and over. 'he _isn't_ there!' and he looked so happy--oh, as happy as if it was his birthday or something. "so they walked along out into the sunshine again, and sweeter flowers than ever were growing all around them, and a bird that was near began singing a new song that the man had never heard. "there was a lovely green mountain ahead of them now. 'purity,' said the man, for something suddenly came into his head, 'is this the heavenly country?' "'yes,' said purity, and she clapped her hands for joy because the man knew it was. "they walked along and the bird's notes were louder and sweeter. 'i _think_, said the man softly, 'i think he is singing the song of true delight.' "'he is,' said purity. "so, when they had walked a little farther still, they began to see a splendid castle at the foot of the mountain. "'oh,' said the man, just as happily as anything, 'is that home at _last_!' "'yes,' said purity, 'it is the castle of true delight.' "the man felt young and strong and he walked so fast the little girl had to skip along to keep up with him, and the bird flew around their heads and sang 'love, love, love; _true_ delight, _true_ delight,' just as _plain_." * * * * * jewel gave the bird-song realistically, then she unclasped her hands. "mother," she said, turning to mrs. evringham, "now you finish the story. will you?" "yes, indeed, i know the rest," returned mrs. evringham quietly, and she took up the thread:-- * * * * * "as the man and purity drew near to the great gates before the castle, these flew open of their own accord, and the travelers entered. drawing near the velvet green of the terraces, a curious familiarity in the fair scene suddenly impressed the man. he stared, then frowned, then smiled. a great light streamed across his mind. "'purity,' he asked slowly, 'is this my castle?' "'yes,' she answered, watching him with eyes full of happiness. "'and will you live with me here, my precious child?' "'always. the great king wills it so.' "'but what--where--where is the valley of vain regret?' "purity shook her head and her clear eyes smiled. 'there is no valley of vain regret,' she answered. "'but i lived in it,' said the man. "'yes, before you knew the king, our father. there is no vain regret for the king's child.' "'then i--i, too, am the king's child?' asked the man, his face amazed but radiant, for he began to understand a great many things. "'you, too,' returned purity, and she nestled to him and he held her close while the bird hovered above their heads and sang with clear sweetness, 'love, love, love; true delight, true, true, _true_ delight.'" * * * * * the story-teller ceased. jewel saw that the tale was finished. she jumped up from the hassock and clapped her hands. then she ran to mr. evringham and climbed into his lap. it was so dark now on the veranda that she could scarcely see his face. but he put his arms around her and gathered her to her customary resting place on his shoulder. "wasn't that _lovely_, grandpa? did you think your story was going to end that way?" he stroked her flaxen hair in silence for a few seconds before replying, then he answered, rather huskily:-- "i hoped it would, jewel." "_the books you like to read at the price you like to pay_" * * * * * _there are two sides to everything_-- --including the wrapper which covers every grosset & dunlap book. when you feel in the mood for a good romance, refer to the carefully selected list of modern fiction comprising most of the successes by prominent writers of the day which is printed on the back of every grosset & dunlap book wrapper. you will find more than five hundred titles to choose from--books for every mood and every taste and every pocket-book. _don't forget the other side, but in case the wrapper is lost, write to the publishers for a complete catalog._ * * * * * _there is a grosset & dunlap book for every mood and for every taste_ the christian home as it is in the sphere of nature and the church. showing the mission, duties, influences, habits, and responsibilities of home its education, government, and discipline; with hints on "match making," and the relation of parents to the marriage choice of their children; together with a consideration of the tests in the selection of a companion, etc. by rev. s. philips, a.m. published by gurdon bill, springfield, mass. h. c. johnson, detroit, mich. "sweet is the smile of home! the mutual look, when hearts are of each other sure; sweet all the joys that crowd the household nook, the haunt of all affections pure." preface. it is a fact conceded by all, that the constitution of the christian family, and its social and spiritual relations, are not as fully developed as they should be. in this age of extreme individualism, we have almost left out of view the mission of home as the first form of society, and the important bearing it has upon the formation of character. its interests are not appreciated; its duties and privileges are neglected; husbands and wives do not fully realize their moral relation to each other; parents are inclined to renounce their authority; and children, brought up in a state of domestic libertinism, neither respect nor obey their parents as they should. the idea of human character as a development from the nursery to the grave, is not realized. home as a preparation for both the state and the church, and its bearing, as such, upon the prosperity of both, are renounced as traditionary, and too old and stale to suit this age of mechanical progression and "young americanism." as a consequence, the influence of home is lost; the lambs of the flock are neglected, grow up in spiritual ignorance, and become a curse both to themselves and to their parents. the vice and infidelity which prevail to such an alarming extent in the present day, may be ascribed to parental neglect of the young. the desolating curse of heaven invariably accompanies neglect of domestic obligations and duties; it was this that constituted that dreadful degeneracy which preceded the coming of the messiah. the parents were alienated from the children, and the children from their parents. and the only way in which the jews could avert deserved and impending ruin, was by "turning the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers." we must adopt the same method. we need in the present day a deeper and more scriptural sense, both in the state and church, of the importance of the family, and of its position in the sphere of natural and religious life. the attention of the people should be directed to the nature, the influences, the responsibilities, the prerogatives, duties and blessings of the christian home. any work which contributes to this end is worthy of our high regard and subserves a noble purpose; for it is only when the details of home-life are given to the public, that proper interest in them will be developed, and we can hope for a better state of things in this first form of associated life. the following work is an humble contribution to this important cause. it is intended to excite interest in the religious elements of family life, and to show that the development of individual character and happiness in the church and state, in time and in eternity, starts with, and depends upon, home-training and nurture. the author, in presenting it to the public, is fully conscious of its many palpable imperfections; yet, as it is his first effort, and as it was prepared amid the multiplied perplexities and interruptions of his professional life, he confidently expects that it will be received with charitable consideration. it is now published as an introduction to a work on the historical development of home, to which his attention has for years been directed. if this unassuming volume should be instrumental in the saving of one family from ruin, we shall feel ourself fully compensated. the author. chambersburg, pa., . contents. preface chapter i. what is the christian home.--_section i.: home in the sphere of nature._--the power of home-association. inadequate ideas of home. home is a divine institute. its highest conception. definition of home. its two-fold aspect. as simply physical. as purely moral. home in the sphere of natural affection. home-love. home-ties. the angel-spirit of home. our nature demands home. home-sickness. conclusion. _section ii.: some in the sphere of the church_.--the heathen home. constituent elements of the christian home. marriage. husband and wife. parents and children. union of the members of a family. the christian home must be churchly. how we abuse it. examples of true homes. parental neglect. address to parents and children. home-meetings and greetings. chapter ii. the mission of the christian home.--the nature of this mission. david. joshua. it is two-fold. the temporal well-being of the members. how parents abuse this part of the home-mission. the eternal well-being of the members. extent of the home-mission. its importance and responsibility. seen in the vicarious character of home. the principle of moral reproduction. the visitation of parental iniquity upon the children. the guilt of unfaithfulness to this mission. qualifications for it. the law of equality in marriage. how parents may disqualify themselves for it. incentives to faithfulness. address to parents. chapter iii. family religion.--the christian home demands family religion. what is it? different from personal religion. co-existent with. home. essential to its constitution. its historical development from eden to the present age. its present neglect. what it includes. the example of our primitive fathers. the forms in which it is developed. the home-mission demands it. its necessity seen in the value of the soul. home without it. home with it. relations of home demand it. reply to excuses from it. defect of it now. reasons for this. it is implied in the marriage relation and obligation. motives to establish it. chapter iv. the relation of home to the church.--it must be churchly. this relation is vital and necessary, involving mutual dependence. relation of preparation. home completes itself in the church. it has power only in the sphere of the church. this relation involves duties and responsibilities. chapter v. home-influence.--home has power. this is either a curse or a blessing. what is home-influence? its character. its degree estimated from the force of first impressions. scripture testimony to it. its legitimate objects. how it acts in the formation of character. augustine. washington. john q. adams. bishop hall. dr. doddridge. dr. cumming. a mother won to christ by a daughter. its influence upon the state. napoleon. homes of the revolution. the spartan mother and home. its influence upon the church. its responsibility inferred. chapter vi. home as a stewardship.--what is a steward? home is a stewardship. parents. home-interests. identity of interest between the master and steward. mother of moses. character and responsibilities of this stewardship. the social prostitution of home. the principle of accountability this stewardship involves. the final settlement. chapter vii. responsibilities of the christian home.--these inferred from home-influence and stewardship. their measure. by the magnitude of home-interest. by the kind of influence upon the members. by the guilt and punishment of parental unfaithfulness. they are incentives to parental integrity. a family drama in two acts. filial responsibility. address to parents and children. chapter viii. the family bible.--the memories which cluster around it. the household interests it contains. the bible as a family record. as a home-inheritance. as the gift of a mother's love. an indispensable appendage to home. its adaptation to home. it should be used as the text-book of home-education. its abuse and neglect. chapter ix. infancy.--new eras in family history. the first-born. charm and interest of infancy. the infant as a member of home. its emblematic character. its helplessness. its prophetical character. the trust and responsibility involved. the mother's relation to infancy. address to parents. chapter x. home-dedication.--the hebrew mother and her child. reasons for dedication. dedication of children. abraham. offering of isaac. little samuel. david. typical character of old testament family offerings. benefits of home-dedication. duty of parents to devote their sons to the ministry. the unfaithfulness of parents to this duty. chapter xi. christian baptism.--the baptismal altar. it is the sacrament of home-dedication. infants are its true subjects. home demands it. infant baptism proven, by the child's need of salvation, by the idea and mission of christ, by the idea of the church, by the hereditary character of sin, by the relation of christian parents to their children, by the constitution of family life. enemies of infant baptism. why opposed to it. their sophistry. dr. a. carson. appeal to parents. duty and privilege of parents to have their children baptized. its neglect and abuse. how abused. the old landmarks. striking statistics. abuse by parents and children. chapter xii. christian names.--proper kind of names. law of correspondence and association. christian names. much in a name. naming a child should not be arbitrary. nebuchadnezzar. adam. the hebrews. woman. eve. cain. seth. samuel. dr. krummacher. names now given. the folly and evil of it. why we should give suitable names. why scriptural names. mary. instances of proper christian names. chapter xiii. home as a nursery.--idea of nursing. what a nursery is. the sense in which home is a nursery. character of the home-nursery. the mother's special sphere. relation of the nursery to the formation of character. the nursery is physical. sickly and immoral nurses. consequences. it is intellectual. its abuse. it is moral and spiritual. the ways in which the nursery is abused. boarding schools. chapter xiv. home-sympathy.--an argument against the neglect and abuse of the nursery. its natural elements. its definition and nature. the ancients. baptista porta. plato. middle ages. it is passive and active. its disease. good samaritan. rousseau. robespierre. its relation to natural affection. its relation to woman. its religious elements. christ. ruth. joseph. mother of samuel. peter. esther. paul. family of lazarus. its true pattern. its attractive power. unfaithfulness to its law. its highest element. chapter xv. family prayer.--its relation to home-sympathy. its necessity. its idea. dr. dwight's view. the duty to establish it proven. its neglect. excuses from family prayer. address to parents. chapter xvi. home-education.--_section i.: the character of home-education._ what is home-education. different kinds. it must be physical. intellectual. moral. the means. circumstances. temptation. example. training. habit. the feelings. conscience. motives. cardinal virtues. when it should begin. it must be religious. necessity of this. st. pierre. the mother as teacher. objections considered. encouragement to home-training. dr. doddridge. a pious minister. dr. dwight. young edwards. polycarp. timothy. john randolph. j.q. adams. daniel. the power of home-training in religion. _section ii.: the neglect and abuse of home-education._--popular prejudices exposed. dr. johnson. edmund burke. miss sedgwick. everett. robert hall. fruits of a neglected education. law of the icelanders. parents are responsible. crates. pleasure of teaching the young. thompson. abuse of it. fashionable boarding-schools. a hopeful young lady. how to ruin a son. duty of parents inferred. books. bartholin. home-training not isolated from church-training. must be churchly. chapter xvii. family habits.--their importance. their idea. different kinds. their formation. tobacco and liquor. evil and good habits. family prayer. omission of duty. their influence. rev. c.c. colton. a criminal in india. habit as the interpreter of character. its reproductive power. we are responsible for our habits. christian habits. habit of industry. rutherford. habits of perseverance and contentment. chapter xviii. home-government.--home is a little commonwealth. includes the legal principle. relation of parents to children. principle of home-government. parental authority threefold. schlegel. old roman law. a divine, inalienable right. extent of parental authority. false view of it. correlative relation between filial obedience and parental authority. character and extent of filial obedience. neglect and abuse of home-government. parental indulgence and despotism. the true medium. address to parents. chapter xix. home-discipline.--its idea. its necessity. false systems. discipline from the standpoint of law without love. its fruits. a quaint anecdote. the europeans. the arabs. discipline from the standpoint of love without law. examples. eli. david. its fruits. true christian discipline. chastisement. a model system. abraham. his children. when discipline should be introduced. when it should be administered. importance of parental co-operation. favoritism. relation of command to chastisement. the kind of rein and whip. when corporeal punishment should be used. dr. south. dr. bell. its adaptation to the real wants of the child. fidelity to threats and promises. examination of offenses. never chastise in anger. let your child know the object of discipline. chapter xx. home-example.--its idea and influence. the child is the moral reproduction of the parent. solomon. paul. shakspeare. dr. young. its necessity proven from its relation to precept--william jay; from its adaptation to the capacity and imitative disposition of the child. duty of parents to show a model example to the child. archbishop tillotson. motives to this duty. obstacles to the efficacy of good home-example. unequal marriages. jacob's marriage. zacharias and elizabeth. chapter xxi. the choice of pursuits.--duty of preparation for some useful occupation. this should be made in childhood. the part parents should take in this. duty of all persons to engage in some useful pursuit shown from the relation of the individual to the state, from the possibility of future misfortune, from the excessive prodigality of those who have been brought up in idleness. law of the athenians. what parents should consider in their selection of an occupation for their children. injudicious course of some parents. fruits of disobedience to the law of adaptation. social position. exigencies. but one pursuit. jack of all trades. loaferism. fruits of indolence. chapter xxii. the home-parlor.--its idea and relations to society. why we should hold it sacred. the most dangerous departments of home. duty of parents to instruct their children in reference to it. how far the christian parlor may conform to the laws and customs of fashion. adulteration of the christian home through indiscriminate association. the sad and demoralizing effects. address to parents. chapter xxiii. match-making.--_section i.: the relation of parents to the marriage choice of their children_.--the bridal hour. a home-crisis. the bride's farewell. have parents a right to take any part in the marriage choice of their children? this right proven from their relation to their children, from the inexperience of children, from sacred history. the patriarchal age. judaism. the christian church. the extent of this right. the duties it involves. moral control. coercive measures. improper parental interposition. its sad effects. persuasive measures. should parents banish and disinherit children for their marrying against their will? paley. _section ii.: false tests in the selection of a companion_.--the mere outward. how we determine unhappy matches. the manner of paying addresses. the habit of match-making. tricks of match-makers. the sad fruits. book match-makers. their auxiliaries. the evil. how parents may preserve their children. false influences. smitten. outward beauty. impulsive passion. falling in love at first sight. wealth. rank. english aristocracy. nepotism. snobbishness. _section iii.: true tests in the selection of a companion_.--judicious views of the nature and responsibilities of the marriage institution. our forefathers. reciprocal affection. paley. true love. adaptation of character and position. fitness of circumstances, means, and age. religious equality and adaptation. only in the lord. the sad effect of inequality. should persons marry outside of their own branch of the church? sin and curse of disobedience to the law of religious equality. duty of parents in reference to religious equality. all matches not made in heaven. law of moses. abraham. historical instances of the fruits of disobeying this law. reasonableness of the law. the primitive christians. sense of the christian church. address to christians. chapter xxiv. the children's patrimony.--the question this involves. not confined to wealth. a good character and occupation. true religion. how parents should proceed in the distribution of their property. why they should give only a competency. the rules to determine a competence. paley. what the law of competence forbids. penalties of its violation. history. impartiality. paley. the infatuation of many parents. chapter xxv. the promises of the christian home.--two kinds. divine promises to parents and children. those of punishment. law of reproduction. iniquity of the parents upon the children. promises of reward. in this life. john q. adams. in the life to come. god's fidelity to his promises. they are conditional. when they become absolute. popular objections. compatibility between promises and agencies. paul. moses. promises made by parents. chapter xxvi. the bereavements of home.--separation. bereavements diversified. reverses of fortune. death. first death. of husband and father. of a wife and mother. of children. of the infant. of the first-born. wisdom and goodness of god in bereavements. discipline. moral instruction. the dead and living still together. benefit. death of little children is a kindness to them. why. why christ became a little child. we should not wish them back. their death is a benefit to the living. communion of saints. ministering spirits. the spirit-world. a ministering child. a ministering mother. infant salvation. zuinlius. calvin. dr. junkin. newton. the hope of re-union in heaven. we should not murmur against god. this does not forbid godly sorrow and tears. meekly submit. chapter xxvii. the memories of home.--chief justice gibson. relation of memory to bereavement. memories are pleasing and painful. pleasing and pious memories. a mother's recollection. the pleasures of remembering the pious dead. irving. the saving influence of memory. painful memories. critical power of memory. mementoes of home. pictures. memorials. letters from home. seek pleasing memories. chapter xxviii. the antitype of the christian home.--typical relation between home and heaven. the christian's tent-home in its relation to heaven. the antitypical character of heaven. a comparative view of our earthly and our heavenly home. christ the center of heaven's joy and attraction. union between home and heaven. a conscious union of the members in heaven. family recognition and love in heaven. family greeting and joy in heaven. longings after heaven. conclusion. chapter i. what is the christian home? section i. home in the sphere of nature. "my home! the spirit of its love is breathing in every wind that plays across my track, from its white walls the very tendrils wreathing seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. there am i loved--there prayed for!--there my mother sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye, there my young sisters watch to greet their brother; soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly! and what is home? and where, but with the loving?" home! that name touches every fibre of the soul, and strikes every chord of the human heart as with angelic fingers. nothing but death can break its spell. what tender associations are linked with home! what pleasing images and deep emotions it awakens! it calls up the fondest memories of life, and opens in our nature the purest, deepest, richest gush of consecrated thought and feeling. "home! 'tis a blessed name! and they who rove, careless or scornful of its pleasant bonds, nor gather round them those linked soul to soul by nature's fondest ties,... but dream they're happy!" but what _is_ home,--home in the sphere of nature? it is not simply an ideal which feeds the fancy, nor the flimsy emotion of a sentimental heart. we should seek for its meaning, not in the flowery vales of imagination, but amid the sober realities of thought and of faith. home is not the mere dwelling place of our parents, and the theater upon which we played the part of merry childhood. it is not simply a habitation. this would identify it with the lion's lair and the eagle's nest. it is not the mere mechanical juxtaposition of so many human beings, herding together like animals in the den or stall. it is not mere conventionalism,--a human association made up of the nursery, the parlor, the outward of domestic life, resting upon some evanescent passion, some sensual impression and policy. these do not make up the idea of home. home is a divine institution, coeval and congenital with man. the first home was in eden; the last home will be in heaven. it is the first form of society, a little commonwealth in which we first lose our individualism and come to the consciousness of our relation to others. thus it is the foundation of all our relationships in life,--the preparation-state for our position in the state and in the church. it is the first form and development of the associating principle, the normal relation in which human character first unfolds itself. it is the first partnership of nature and of life; and when it involves "the communion of saints," it reaches its highest form of development. it is an organic unity of nature and of interest,--the moral center of all those educational influences which are exerted upon our inward being. the idea of the home-institution rests upon the true love of our moral nature, involving the marriage union of congenial souls, binding up into itself the whole of life, forming and moulding all its relations, and causing body, mind and spirit to partake of a common evolution. the loving soul is the central fact of home. in it the inner life of the members find their true complement, and enjoy a kind of community of consciousness. "home's not merely four square walls, though with pictures hung and gilded; home is where affection calls-- filled with shrines the heart hath builded." home may be viewed in a two-fold aspect, as simply physical, and as purely moral. the former comes finally to its full meaning and force only in the latter. they are interwoven; we cannot understand the one without the other; they are complements; and the complete idea of home as we find it in the sphere of nature, lies in the living union of both. by the physical idea of home, we mean, not only its outward, mechanical structure, made up of different parts and members, but that living whole or oneness into which these parts are bound up. hence it is not merely adventitious,--a corporation of individual interests, but that organic unity of natural life and interest in which the members are bound up. by the moral idea of home, we mean the union of the moral life and interests of its members. this explodes the infidel systems of fourierism, socialism, mormonism, and "woman's rights." these forms of agrarianism destroy the ethical idea and mission of home; for they are not only opposed to revelation and history, but violate the plainest maxims of natural affection. love is an essential element of home. without this we may have the form of a home, but not its spirit, its beating heart, its true motive power, and its sunshine. the inward stream would he gone, and home would not be the oneness of kindred souls. home-love is instinctive, and begets all those silken chords, those sweet harmonies, those tender sympathies and endearments which give to the family its magic power. this home-love is the mother of all home delights, yea, of all the love of life. we first draw love from our mother's breast, and it is love which ministers to our first wants. it flashes from parent to parent, and from parent to child, making-up the sunshine and the loveliness of domestic life. without it home would have no meaning. it engenders the "home-feeling" and the "home-sickness," and is the moral net-work of the home-existence and economy. it is stronger than death; it rises superior to adversity, and towers in sublime beauty above the niggardly selfishness of the world. misfortune cannot suppress it; enmity cannot alienate it; temptation cannot enslave it. it is the guardian angel of the nursery and the sick-bed; it gives an affectionate concord to the partnership of home-life and interest. circumstances cannot modify it; it ever remains the same, to sweeten existence, to purify the cup of life, to smooth our rugged pathway to the grave, and to melt into moral pliability the brittle nature of man. it is the ministering spirit of home, hovering in soothing caresses over the cradle and the death-beds of the household, and filling up the urn of all its sacred memories. but home demands not only such love, but ties, tender, strong, and sacred. these bind up the many in the one. they are the fibres of the home-life, and cannot be wrenched without causing the heart to bleed at every pore. death may dissect them and tear away the objects around which they entwine; and they will still live in the imperishable love which survives. from them proceed mutual devotions and confiding faith. they bind together in one all-expanding unity, the perogatives of the husband, and the subordination of the wife, the authority of the parent and the obedience of the child. "o, not the smile of other lands, though far and wide our feet may roam, can e'er untie the genial bands that knit our hearts to home!" the mother is the angel-spirit of home. her tender yearnings over the cradle of her infant babe, her guardian care of the child and youth, and her bosom companionship with the man of her love and choice, make her the personal center of the interests, the hopes and the happiness of the family. her love glows in her sympathies and reigns in all her thoughts and deeds. it never cools, never tires, never dreads, never sleeps, but ever glows and burns with increasing ardor, and with sweet and holy incense upon the altar of home-devotion. and even when she is gone to her last rest, the sainted mother in heaven sways a mightier influence over her wayward husband or child, than when she was present. her departed spirit still hovers over his affections, overshadows his path, and draws him by unseen cords to herself in heaven. our nature demands home. it is the first essential element of our social being. the whole social system rests upon it: body, mind and spirit are concerned in it. these cannot be complete out of the home-relations; there would be no proper equilibrium of life and character without the home feeling and influence. the heart, when bereaved and disappointed, naturally turns for refuge to home-life and sympathy. no spot is so attractive to the weary one; it is the heart's moral oasis; there is a mother's watchful love, and a father's sustaining influence; there is a husband's protection, and a wife's tender sympathy; there is the circle of loving brothers and sisters,--happy in each other's love. oh, what is life without these? a desolation!--a painful, glooming pilgrimage through "desert heaths and barren sands." but home gives to life its fertilizing dews, its budding hopes, and its blossoming joys. when far away in distant lands or upon the ocean's heaving breast, we pine away and become "home-sick;" no voice there like a mother's; no sympathy there like a wife's; no loved one there like a child; no resting place there like home; and we cry out, "home! sweet, sweet home!" thus our nature instinctively longs for the deep love and the true hearts of home. it has for our life more satisfaction than all the honors, and the riches and the luxuries of the world. we soon grow sick of these, and become sick for home, however humble it may be. its endearments are ever fresh, as if in the bursting joys of their first experience. they remain unforgotten in our memories and imperishable in our hearts. when friends become cold, society heartless, and adversity frowns darkly and heavily upon us, oh, it is then that we turn with fond assurance to home, where loved ones will weep as well as rejoice with us. "oh, the blessing of a home, where old and young mix kindly, the young unawed, the old unchilled, in unreserved communion! oh that refuge from the world, when a stricken son or daughter may seek with confidence of love, a father's hearth and heart; come unto me, my son, if men rebuke and mock thee, there always shall be one to bless,--for i am on thy side!" section ii. home in the sphere of the church. "a holy home, where those who sought the footprints of the lord, along the paths of pain, and care, and gloom, shall find the rest of heaven a rich reward." what is the _christian_ home? only in the sphere of christianity does the true idea of home become fully developed. home with the savage is but a herding, a servitude. even among many of the jews it was little better than a mahommedan seraglio. the most eminent of the heathen world degrade the family by making it the scene of lust, and introducing concubinage and polygamy. plato, one of the most enlightened of the heathen, had base conceptions of home, and abused its highest and holiest prerogatives by his ideas of polygamy. we find too that in the ethics of aristotle, the most lovely and sacred attributes of the family are totally discarded. the home which he holds up to view is unadorned with chastity and virtue. and sophocles follows in the same path, stripping home of all that is sacred and essential to its true constitution. and when we come down to the present age, and view this divine institute in the light of mormonism and socialism, who will say that here we have unfolded its true idea and sacred character? how different is the true christian home! here the marriage union is preserved "honorable," held sacred, and woman is raised to her true position. in the sphere of the christian church, home is brought fairly and completely into view. here it rises above the measure of natural affection, and temporal interest. it enters the sphere of supernatural faith, and becomes the adumbration of our home in heaven. the christian home is a true type of the church. "the husband is the head of the wife, as christ is of the church." the love of the family is self-denying and holy, like that between christ and his church. the children are "the heritage of the lord;" the parents are his stewards. like the church, the christian home has its ministry. yea, the church is in the home, as the mother is in her child. we cannot separate them; they are correlatives. the one demands the other. the christian home can have existence only in the sphere of the church. it is the vestibule of the church, bound to her by the bonds of christian marriage, of holy baptism, and of the communion of saints, leading to her in the course of moral development, and completing her life only in the church-consciousness. home is, therefore, a partnership of spiritual as well as of natural life. the members thereof dwell "as being heirs together of the grace of life." "heavenly mindedness," "the hidden man of the heart," and a "hope full of immortality," are the ornaments of the christian home. hers is "the incorruptibility of a meek and quiet spirit;" her members are "joint heirs of salvation;" they are "one," not only in nature, but "in christ." they enjoy a "communion in spirit," that their "joy might be full." "what god, therefore, hath joined together, let not man put asunder." such a home, being "right with god," must be "full of good fruits, without partiality and without hypocrisy." here the christian shows his real character. in the sphere of the church, the family reaches its highest excellence and its purest enjoyment. says the learned d'aubigne, "without the knowledge and the love of god, a family is but a collection of individuals who may have more or less of natural affection for one another; but the real bond,--the love of god our father, in jesus christ, our lord,--is wanting." we, therefore, abuse the idea of home when we divest it of the religious element. as the family is a divine institute and a type of the church and of heaven, it cannot be understood in its isolation from christianity; it must involve christian principles, duties, and interests; and embrace in its educational functions, a preparation, not only for the state, but also for the church. the church gives to home a sacred religious ministry, a spiritual calling, a divine mission; investing it with prophetic, priestly and kingly prerogatives, and laying it under religious responsibilities. this gives to the christian home its true meaning, and secures for its members-- "a sacred and home-felt delight, a sober certainty of waking bliss." such was the home of abraham, who "commanded his children and his household to keep the way of the lord, to do justice and judgment,"--of joshua, who with "his house served the lord,"--of david, who "returned to bless his household,"--of job, who "offered burnt-offering according to the number of his sons,"--of cornelius, who "feared god with all his house,"--of lydia, and crispus, and the jailor of philippi, who "believed in the lord with all their house." how many christian parents practically discard this attribute of home! while all their temporal interests cluster around their home, and their hearts are fondly wedded to it as their retreat from a cold and repulsive world, they never think perhaps that god is in their family, that he has instituted it, and given those cherished ones who "set like olive plants around their table." they are faithful to all natural duties, and make ample provision for the temporal wants of their offspring; the mother bends with untiring assiduity over the cradle of her babe, and ministers to all its wants, watching with delight every opening beauty of that bud of promise, and willingly sacrificing all for its good. with what rapture she catches its first lispings of mother! the father toils from year to year to secure it a fair patrimony, a finished education, and an honorable position in life. how unremittingly these parents watch over the sick-bed of their children and of each other; and oh, what burning tears gush forth as the utterance of their agonizing hearts, when death threatens to blight a single bud, or lay his cold hand upon a single member! this is all right, noble, and faithful to the natural elements of home. natural affection prompts it, and it is well. but if this is all; if christian parents and their children are governed only by the promptings of nature; if they are bound together by no spiritual ties and interests and hopes; if they are not prompted by faith to make provision for the soul, and for eternity; then we think they have not as yet realized the deepest and holiest significance of their home. the christian home demands the christian consciousness,--the sense of a spirit-world with all its obligations and interests and responsibilities. oh, is it not too often the case that even the christian mother, while she teaches her babe the accents of her own name, never thinks of teaching it to lisp the name of jesus,--never seeks to unfold its infant spirit,--never supplies it with spiritual food, nor directs its soul to the eternal world! in the same way the pious wife neglects her impenitent husband; and the pious husband, his reckless wife. there is too much such dereliction of duty in the homes of church members. our homes give us an interest in, and bind us by peculiar bonds to, the eternal world; those loved ones who have gone before us, look down from heaven upon those they have left behind; though absent from us in body, their spirits are still with us; and they come thronging upon glowing pinions, as ministering spirits, to our hearts. mother! that little babe that perished in your arms, hovers over thee now, and is the guardian angel of your heart and home. it meets thee still! and oh, how joyful will your home-meeting be in heaven! children! the spirit of your sainted mother lingers around your home to minister in holy things to thee. she has left you in body; she lies mouldering now in the humid earth; but she is with thee in spirit. your home, dwelling in the sphere of the church on earth, has a spiritual communion with the sainted ones of the church in heaven. thus, as the home-feeling can never he eradicated, so the home-meetings can never be broken up. even the dead are with us there; their seats may be empty, and their forms may no longer move before us; but their spirits meet with us, and imprint their ministrations upon our hearts. the dead and the living meet in home! "we are all here! father, mother, sister, brother, all who hold each other dear, each chair is filled, we're all at home! let gentle peace assert her power, and kind affection rule the hour-- we're all--all here! even they--the dead--though dead so dear, fond memory to her duty true, brings back their faded forms to view. how life-like through the mist of years, each well-remembered face appears; we hear their words, their smiles behold, they're round us as they were of old-- we are all here!" chapter ii. the mission of the christian home. "if in the family thou art the best, pray oft, and be mouth unto the rest; whom god hath made the heads of families, he hath made priests to offer sacrifice." the home is a divine institution, and includes the religious element, moving in the sphere of nature and of the church, then its calling must be of god; its mission is divine; it is designed to subserve a spiritual purpose; it has a soul-mission. this was the view of david when he "returned to _bless_ his household." to him his family was a church in miniature, and he its priest. thus too joshua felt that his service of god must include family worship. what then is the mission, of the christian home? it is two-fold,--the temporal and eternal well-being of its members. it is the mission of home to provide for the temporal well-being of its members. they are parts of one great whole. each must seek the welfare of all the rest. this involves obedience to the law of co-operation; and has special reference to that provision which the heads of families should make for the wants of those who are placed under their protection. as the parent sustains a physical, intellectual and moral relation to the child, it is his mission to provide for its physical, mental and moral wants. "he that provideth not for his own house hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel." natural affection will prompt to this. children are in a state of utter helplessness. the infant is at the mercy of the parent. instinct impels the parent to provide for its wants. even the brute does this. that it is a part, therefore, of the home mission to provide for the physical wants of the dependents there, is very evident. to refuse to fulfill it is a crime against nature. this part of the home-mission includes the education of the body, by properly unfolding and directing its powers, and providing it with appropriate nutriment, raiment and shelter. in a word, we should make proper provision for the development and maturity of the physical life of our children. this is the mission of the parent until the child is able to provide for itself. this, says blackstone, "is a principle of natural law;" and, in the language of puffendorf, is "an obligation laid on parents, not only by nature herself, but by their own proper act in bringing them into the world." the laws of the land also command it. the child has a legal claim upon the parent for physical sustenance and education. it is another part of the home-mission to provide for the intellectual wants and welfare of the child. children have mind as well as body. the former needs nourishment and training as well as the latter. hence it is as much the mission of the family to minister to the well-being of the mind of the child, as to that of its body. civil law enforces this. children have a legal as well as a natural claim to mental culture. in a word, it is the home-mission to provide for the child all things necessary to prepare it for a citizenship in the state. parents abuse this mission in two ways, either when they by their own indolence and dissipation compel their children to support them; or, on the other hand, when they become the willing slaves of their children, labor to amass a fortune for them, and, in the anticipation of that, permit them to grow up in ignorance, idleness, and prodigality, fit only to abuse and spend the fruit of parental servitude. in this way the misapplied provision made by parents often becomes a curse, not only to the members of the family, but to the state and church. another part of the home-mission is, the spiritual and eternal well-being of its members. this is seen in the typical character of the christian family. it is an emblem of the church and of heaven. according to this, parents are called to administer the means of grace to their household, to provide for soul as well as for body, to prepare the child for a true membership in the church, as well as for a citizenship in the state, to train for heaven as well as for earth. parents are "priests unto their families," and have the commission to act for them as faithful stewards of god in all things pertaining to their everlasting welfare. their souls, as well as their bodies, are committed to their trust, and god says to them,-- "go nurse them for the king of heaven, and he will pay thee hire." this is their great mission, and corresponds with the conception of the christian home as a spiritual nursery. the family is "god's husbandry;" and this implies a spiritual culture. as its members dwell as "being heirs together of the grace of life," it is the function of each to labor to make all the rest "fellow-citizens with the saints, and of the household of god." parents should provide for the religious wants of their children. mere physical maintenance and mental culture cannot supersede the necessity of spiritual training. children have a right to such training. this religious provision is twofold; their moral and spiritual faculties should be developed; and their moral nature supplied with appropriate nutriment. all the wants of their moral nature are to be faithfully provided for. the home-mission involves the business of education of body, of mind, and of spirit;--of preparation for the state, for the church, for eternity. it is this which makes it so sacred and responsible. strip the christian family of its mission as a nursery for the soul; wrest from the parents their high prerogative as stewards of god; and you heathenize home, yea, you brutalize it! tell me, what christian home can accomplish its holy mission, when the soul is neglected, when religion is left out of view, when training up for god is abandoned, when the church is repudiated, and eternity cast off? you may provide for the body and mind of your children; you may amass for them a fortune; you may give them an accomplished education; you may introduce them into the best society; you may establish them in the best business; you may fit them for an honorable and responsible position in life; you may be careful of their health and reputation; and you may caress them with all the tender ardor of the parental heart and hand; yet if you provide not for their souls; if you seek not their salvation; if you minister only to their temporal, and not to their eternal welfare, all will be vain, yea, a curse both to you and to them. husband and wife may love each other, and live together in all the peace and harmony of reciprocated affection; yet if the religious part of their home-mission remain unfulfilled, their family is divested of its noblest attraction; its greatest interests will fall into ruin; its highest destiny will not be attained; and soon its fruits will be entombed in oblivion; while their children, neglected and perishing, will look back upon that home with a bitterness of spirit which the world can neither soothe nor extract! how many such homes there are! even the homes of church members are too often reckless of their high vocation. their moral stewardship is neglected; their dedications, formal and heartless. no prayers are heard; no bible read; no instructions given; no pious examples set; no holy discipline exercised. their interests, their hopes and their enjoyments; their education, their labor and their rest, are all of the world,--worldly. the curse of god is upon such a home! the importance and responsibility of the home-mission may be seen in its vicarious character, and in its influence upon the members. the principle of moral reproduction is manifest in all the home-relations. what the parent does is reproduced, as it were, in the child, and will tell upon the generations that follow them. those close affinities by which all the members are allied, give to each a moulding influence over all the rest. the parents live, not for themselves alone, but for their children, and the consequence of such a life is also entailed upon their offspring. "the iniquity of the fathers shall be visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation." if the parent "sow to the flesh," the child, with him, "shall of the flesh reap corruption;" but if he "sow to the spirit," his offspring, with him, shall "of the spirit reap life everlasting." sacred and profane history proves and illustrates this great truth. did not god punish the first born of israel, because their fathers had sinned? and is it not a matter of daily observation that the wickedness of the parent is entailed upon the child? such is indeed the affinity between them that the child cannot, unless by some special interposition of providence, escape the curse of a parent's sin. "if one member suffer, all the members suffer with it." the guilt and condemnation of unfaithfulness to the home-mission may be inferred from its importance and responsibility. those who are unfaithful are guilty of "blood." we see the curse of such neglect in that deterioration of character which so rapidly succeeds parental delinquency. they must answer before god for the loss which the soul, the state, and the church sustain thereby. "it shall be more tolerable for sodom and gomorrah in the day of judgment than for them." the christian home should be qualified for this mission. there can be no such qualification, however, where the marriage alliance involves inequality--one of the parents a christian, the other not; for they cannot "dwell together as heirs of the grace of life," neither can they effectually dispense that grace to their offspring. when thus "the house is divided against itself, it must fall." "be ye not, therefore, unequally yoked together." if one draws heavenward and the other hellward, there will be a halting between baal and god, and the influence of the one will be counteracted by that of the other. what communion hath light with darkness? "what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? what part hath he that believeth with an infidel?" thus divided, their home will be unfit for its high vocation. hence parents, in their marriage alliance as well as in their individual character, should qualify themselves for the responsible mission of home. can the ungodly wife or husband fulfill this mission? can the irreligious parent bring up his offspring "in the nurture and admonition of the lord?" many parents disqualify themselves for their home-mission by devoting too much attention to society,--by spending more time abroad, at parties, theaters and masquerade balls, in gossiping and recreation, than at home with each other and with their children. they commit their children, with all the family interests, to nurses and servants. they regard their offspring as mere playthings to be dandled upon the knee, brought up like calves in the stall, and then turned out to shape their own destiny. this is a sad mistake! there is no substitute for home,--no transfer of a parent's commission, no adequate compensation for a parent's loss. none can effectually take the parent's place. their influence is overwhelming and absolute. "with what a kingly power their love might rule the fountains of the new-born mind!" not even the dark villainies which have disgraced humanity can neutralize it. gray-haired and demon guilt will weep in his dismal cell over the melting, soothing memories of home. their impressions are indelible, "like the deep borings into the flinty rock." to erase them we must remove every strata of their being. they give texture and coloring to the whole woof and web of the child's character. the mother especially preoeccupies the unwritten page of its being, and mingles with it in its cradle dreams, making thus a deathless impress upon its soul. "the mother in her office, holds the key of the soul; and she it is who stamps the coin of character, and makes the being who would be a savage but for her cares, a christian man!" what a folly and a sin, therefore, for christian parents to give over their holy mission to another, while they immerse themselves in the forbidden pleasures and recreations of the world! oh, if you are loving, faithful parents, you will love the society of your household more than the fashions and the fashionable resorts of the world; you will not substitute the "nurse" and the "boarding school" for the more efficient ministrations of the christian home. "if ye count society for past time,--what happier recreation than a nursling, its winning ways, its prattling tongue, its innocence and mirth? if ye count society for good,--how fair a field is here, to guide these souls to god, and multiply thyself in heaven!" "walk, therefore, worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called, with all lowliness and meekness." "magnify your office." be faithful to your home-mission. draw your pleasure from it. souls are committed to your trust and hang upon your hire. your regard for the temporal and eternal welfare of your children should prompt you to faithfulness to the holy mission of your family. you love your children, and desire their welfare and happiness. but do what you will for them, if you are unfaithful to their souls, you wrest from them the means of safety and of happiness; you aid in their misery in this and in the world to come. you are more cruel to them than was herod who slew the bodies of children. you murder their souls. he murdered the children of others; you murder your own; he employed others to do it for him; you do the work of slaughter yourself! if, then, you love your children; if their souls are committed to you; if your unfaithfulness to them may result in their ruin; if god blesses the holy mission of your home to their temporal and eternal welfare; if its fulfillment by you be "like words spoken in a whispering-gallery, which, will be heard at the distance of years, and echoed along the corridors of ages yet to come;" and if it will prove to them in life like the lone star to the mariner upon the dark and stormy sea,--should you not be faithful to your home-vocation! not only so, but your regard for your own comfort and happiness here and hereafter should impel you to this faithfulness. do you love yourself? do you regard your own comfort and welfare? would you avoid painful solicitude, bitter reflection, heart-burning remorse, dreadful foreboding? then be faithful to the home-mission. if you are, god will bless you for it through your children. what a comfort it will be to you to see them become christians, enter the church, and, at their side around the lord's table, hold communion with them in the joys of faith and in the anticipations of heaven! and should god remove them from you by death, you will be cheered amidst the agonies of separation by their dying consolation. the hope of a speedy reunion with them in heaven would afford a sweet solace to your bereaved heart. or should you be taken before them, what a comfort would they afford you in your last moments! with the glow of christian faith and hope, they would whisper to you the consolations of the gospel, and bless you for your faithfulness to them. and when you and they shall meet at the bar of god, they will rise up and call you blessed. but, on the other hand, should you neglect them; and, as a consequence, they grow up in wickedness and crime; oh, what a source of withering remorse they would cause you! no sin more heavily punishes the guilty, and mingles for him a more bitter cup, than the sin of parental neglect. what if after the lapse of a few years, your neglected child be taken from you, and consigned to the cold grave, think you not that when you meet it before the bar of god, it will rise up as a witness against you, and pour down its curses upon your head! but suppose that child grows up, unprovided for by you in its early life; and profligacy mark his pathway, and demon guilt throw its chains around him in the prison cell; and he trace back the beginning of his ruin to your unfaithfulness, oh, with what pungency would the reflection send the pang of remorse to your soul! "go ask that musing father, why yon grave so narrow, and so noteless, might not close without a tear?" because of the bitter and heart-stricken memories of a neglected, ruined child that slumbers there! or suppose that you die before your neglected children, think you not that the recollection of your past parental unfaithfulness will plant thorns in your pillow, and invest with deeper shades of horror your descent to the dark valley of death? and oh, when you meet them before the bar of the avenging judge, most fearful will be your interview with them. tell me, how will you dare to meet them there, when the voice of their blood will cry out from the hallowed ground of home against you! and then, eternity, oh, eternity! who shall bring out from the secrets of the eternal world, those awful maledictions which god has attached to parental unfaithfulness? provide, therefore, for your family as the lord commands. remember that if you do not, you "deny the faith and are worse than an infidel;" and in the day of judgment "it shall be more tolerable for sodom and gomorrah than for you." chapter iii. family religion. "lo! where yon cottage whitens through the green, the loveliest feature of a matchless scene; beneath its shading elm, with pious fear, an aged mother draws her children near, while from the holy word, with earnest air, she teaches them the privilege of prayer. look! how their infant eyes with rapture speak; mark the flushed lily on the dimpled cheek; their hearts are filled with gratitude and love, their hopes are centered in a world above!" the christian home demands a family religion. this makes it a "household of god." without this it is but a "den of thieves." it is "the one thing needful." what is "family religion?" it is not an exotic, but is indigenous to the christian home. it is not a "new measure," but an essential ingredient of the home-constitution,--coexistent with home itself. the first family "began to call upon the name of the lord;" the first parent acted as high-priest of god in his family. it is not individual piety as such, not simply closet devotion, but family service of god,--religion taken up in the home-consciousness and life. hence a family, and not simply a personal religion. such religion, we say, is as old as the church. we find it in eden, in the tents of the patriarchs and in the wilderness of the prophets. we find it in the tent of abraham in the plains of mamre, in the "house" of moses, in the "service" of joshua, in the "offerings" of job, and in the palace of david and solomon. it is also a prominent feature of the gospel economy. the commendation bestowed by paul upon timothy, was that "from a child" he enjoyed the "unfeigned faith" of his mother eunice and his grandmother lois. paul exhorts christians thus: "rule well your own houses; speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs." the same family religion was a prominent feature of the homes of the primitive christians. with them, every house was a sanctuary, and every parent a minister in holy things to its members. the bible was not only a parlor ornament, but a lamp to their feet and a guide to their path, used, meditated upon, prayed over. says turtullian of its members, "they are united in spirit and in flesh; they kneel down together; they pray and fast together; they teach, exhort and support each other with gentleness." how, alas! have christian homes degenerated since then in family piety! they received a reviving impulse in the reformation; yet even this was meteor-like, and seemed but the transient glow of some mere natural emotion. the fire which then flashed so brilliantly upon the altar of home, has now become taper-like and sepulchral; and the altar of family religion, like the altar of jehovah upon mt. carmel, has been demolished, and forsaken. only here and there do we find a christian home erect and surround a christian altar. parents seem now ashamed to serve the lord at home. they have neither time nor inclination. upon the subject of religion they maintain a bashful, sullen, wonderful silence before their families. they seem to be impressed with the strange idea that their wives and children put no confidence in their piety, (and may they not have reason for it?) and that it would, therefore, be vain for them to pray, or exhort their households. "many walk thus," says paul, "of whom i have told you often, and now tell you even weeping, that they are the enemies of the cross of christ!" upon them shall be answered the prayer of jeremiah, "oh lord, pour out thy fury upon the families that call not upon thy name!" thus, therefore, we see that the christian home demands a family religion. the private devotion of the individual can be no effectual substitute for it. "the parents pair their secret homage, and offer up to heaven the warm request, that he who stills the raven's clamorous nest, and decks the lily fair in flowery pride, would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, for them and for their little ones provide." family religion includes parental bible instruction, family prayer, and religious education, government, discipline and example. these involve the parent's position in his household as a prophet, priest, and king. "thou shalt teach my words diligently unto thy children, and talk of them when thou sittest in thy house." "daily let part of holy writ be read, let as the body, so the soul have bread. for look! how many souls in thy house be, with just as many souls god trusteth thee!" thus felt and acted our primitive fathers. by every winning art, they sought to fill their children with the knowledge of god's word. the entire range of nursery instruction and amusement was comprised in scripture pictures and hieroglyphics. they intermingled religion with all their home pursuits, and entwined it with their earliest and purest associations of childhood. if christian parents would follow their example now, in these days of parental delinquency, we would not behold so many of their children grow up in religious ignorance and indifference. the same may be said of the family altar and prayer. a prayerless family is an irreligious, godless family. says henry, "they who daily pray in their houses do well; they that not only pray, but read the scriptures, do better; but they do best of all, who not only pray and read the scriptures, but sing the praises of god." besides, the religion of home implies that we "command our children and household to keep the way of the lord,"--that we "bring them up in his nurture and admonition," and "train them up as he would have them go;" and that in things pertaining to their spiritual welfare we "go in and out" before them as their pattern and example, bidding them to "follow us even as we follow christ," and living in their midst as "the living epistles of christ, known and read" of them all. family religion must "show itself by its works" of christian charity and benevolence to the poor, the sick and the distressed. we should "lay by" a certain amount each year of what god bestows, for the support of the church and the propagation of the gospel. oh, how little do christians now give to these benevolent objects! a penurious, close-fisted, selfish home cannot be a religious household. family religion must be reproductive, must return to god as well as receive from him. but as these characteristic features of the christian home will be considered hereafter, we shall not enlarge upon them here. suffice it to say that the mission of home demands family religion. its interests cannot be secured without it. let our homes be divorced from piety, and they will become selfish, sensual, unsatisfactory, and unhappy. piety should always reign in our homes,--not only on the sabbath, but during the week; not only in sickness and adversity, but in health and prosperity. it must, if genuine, inspire and consecrate the minutest interests and employments of the household. it must appear in every scene and feeling and look, and in each heart, as the life, the light, the hope, and the joy of all the members. the necessity of family religion is seen in the value of the soul. the soul is the dearest treasure and the most responsible trust of home. what shall it profit the family if its members gain the whole world and lose their own souls? what would christian parents give in exchange for the souls of their little ones? is it not more important that they teach them to pray than to dance, to "seek the kingdom of heaven" than the enjoyment of "the pleasures of sin for a season?" oh, what is home without a title to, and personal meetness for, that kingdom? it is a moral waste; its members move in the putrid atmosphere of vitiated feeling and misdirected power. brutal passions become dominant; we hear the stern voice of parental despotism; we behold a scene of filial strife and insubordination; there is throughout a heart-blank. domestic life becomes clouded by a thousand crosses and disappointments; the solemn realities of the eternal world are cast into the shade; the home-conscience and feeling become stultified; the sense of moral duty distorted, and all the true interests of home appear in a haze. natural affection is debased, and love is prostituted to the base designs of self, and the entire family, with all its tender cords, ardent hopes, and promised interests, becomes engulfed in the vortex of criminal worldliness! but reverse the picture! see what home becomes with religion as its life and rule. human nature is there checked and moulded by the amiable spirit and lovely character of jesus. the mind is expanded, the heart softened, sentiments refined, passions subdued, hopes elevated, pursuits ennobled, the world cast into the shade, and heaven realized as the first prize. the great want of our intellectual and moral nature is here met, and home education becomes impregnated with the spirit and elements of our preparation for eternity. the relations of home demand family religion. these are relations of mutual dependence, involving such close affinity that the good or evil which befalls one member must in some degree extend to all the other members. they involve "helps." each member becomes an instrument in the salvation or damnation of the others. "for what knowest, o wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband? or how knowest thou, o man, whether thou shalt save thy wife?"-- cor. vii., . "if one member suffer, all the members suffer with it." they stimulate each other either to salvation or to ruin; and hence those children that go to ruin in consequence of parental unfaithfulness, will "curse the father that begat them, the womb that bare them," and the day they entered their home. many parents seek to excuse themselves from the practice of family religion, upon the ground that they have not the capacity nor the time. if so, you should not have married. but if you are christians, you have the capacity, and you will take the time. but some are ashamed to begin family religion. ashamed of what? of your piety? of your children? of the true glory and greatness of your home? then you are ashamed of jesus! you should rather blush that you have not begun this good work. the great defect of family religion in the present day is, that it is not educational. parents wait until their children have grown up, and established habits of sin, when they suppose that the efforts of some "protracted meeting" will compensate for their neglect in childhood. they overlook the command of god to teach them his words. the influence of this defect and delusion has been most destructive. many christian homes are now altogether destitute of religious appliances. if the angel that visited the homes of israel were to visit the christian homes of this age, would he not be tempted to say, as abraham said to abimelech, "surely the fear of god is not in this place!" one great reason, perhaps, why there are so many such homes is, that there are now so many irreligious marriages, where husband and wife are "unequally yoked together," one a believer and the other not. "how can two walk together except they be agreed?" can there be family religion when husband and wife are traveling to eternity in opposite roads? no! there will be hindrances instead of "helps." if they marry not "in the lord," religion will not be in their home. says the pious jay, "i am persuaded that it is very much owing to the prevalence of these indiscriminate and unhallowed connections, that we have fallen so far short of those men of god, who are gone before us, in the discharge of family worship, and in the training up of our households in the nurture and admonition of the lord." family religion is implied in the marriage relation and obligation. it is included in the necessities of our children, and in the covenant promises of god. the penalties of its neglect, and the rewards of our faithfulness to it, should prompt us to its establishment in our homes. its absence is a curse; its presence a blessing. it is a foretaste of heaven. like manna, it will feed our souls, quench our thirst, sweeten the cup of life, and shed a halo of glory and of gladness around our firesides. let yours, therefore, be the religious home; and then be sure that god will delight to dwell therein, and his blessing will descend, like the dews of heaven, upon it. your children shall "not be found begging bread," but shall be like "olive plants around your table,"--the "heritage of the lord." yours will be the home of love and harmony; it shall have the charter of family rights and privileges, the ward of family interests, the palladium of family hopes and happiness. your household piety will be the crowning attribute of your peaceful home,--the "crown of living stars" that shall adorn the night of its tribulation, and the pillar of cloud and of fire in its pilgrimage to a "better country." it shall strew the family threshold with the flowers of promise, and enshrine the memory of loved ones gone before, in all the fragrance of that "blessed hope" of reunion in heaven which looms up from a dying hour. it shall give to the infant soul its "perfect flowering," and expand it in all the fullness of a generous love and conscious blessedness, making it "lustrous in the livery of divine knowledge." and then in the dark hour of home separation and bereavement, when the question is put to thee, mourning parents, "is it well with the child? is it well with thee?" you can answer with joy, "it is well!" chapter iv. the relation of home to the church. the christian home sustains a direct relation to the church. this relation is similar to that which it sustains to the state. the nature and mission of home demand the church. the former is the adumbration of the latter. the one is in the other. "greet the church that is in thine house." the church was in the house of aquila and priscilla, in the tent of abraham, and in the palace of david. it must be in every christian home, and every christian home must be in the church. in a word, our families must be churchly. this relation is vital and necessary,--a relation of mutual dependence. the family is a preparation for the church, subordinate to it, and must, therefore, throw its influence in its favor, be moulded by it, and labor with direct reference to the church in the way of training up for membership in it. as the civil and political relations of home involve the duty of parents to train up their children for efficient citizenship in the state, so its moral and religious relations involve the duty of education for the church. hence the christian home is churchly in its spirit, religion, education, influence, and mission. family religion is an element of home, not only as a mere fact or principle in its subjective form, but in the form and force of the church. in its unchurchly form it is powerless. it must be experienced and administered in a churchly spirit and way, not as something detached from the organic embodiment of christianity. the relation of the church to the family forbids this. the church pervades all the forms of society. it includes the home and the state. it gives to each proper vitality, legitimate principles, proper direction, and a true destiny. but home is not only a preparation for the church, but completes itself in the church,--never out of the church. by the "mystery" of marriage and the sacrament of holy baptism, home and the church are bound up into each other by indissoluble bonds. the one receives the mark and superscription of the other; the one is the type or emblem of the other. the church, through her ordinances, ministry and means of grace, is brought directly "into the house," and operates there constantly as a spiritual leaven. it is the purpose of god that our homes be entrenched within the sacred enclosures of his church. the former, in its relation to the latter, is like "a wheel within a wheel,"--one of the parts which make up the great machinery of the kingdom of grace, operating harmoniously and in its place with all the rest, and for the same end. the former is built upon the latter,--receives her dedication and sanctity from it. they are correlatives. the one demands the other. hence they cannot be divorced. the individual passes over to the church through the christian home. the one is the step to the other. they have the same foundation. home is not erected upon a quicksand, but reared upon the same rock upon which the church is built. like the church, it rises superior to all the fluctuations of civil society, and will live and flourish in all its tender charities, in all its sweet enjoyments, and in all its moral force, in the humble cottage as well as in the costly palace, under the shadow of liberty as well as under the frowns of despotism, in every nation, age, and clime. like the church of which it is the type, it can never be made desolate; break it up on earth, and you find it in heaven. its nuptial union with the church is like that between the latter and christ. nothing can throw over our homes a higher sanctity, or invest them with greater beauty, or be to them a greater bulwark of strength, than the church. home is the nursery of the church. "those who are planted in the house of the lord shall flourish in the courts of our god, and shall bring forth fruit in old age." thus, therefore, we see that the relation between the christian home and the church is one of mutual dependence. the latter, as the highest form of religious association, demands the former, and the former looks to the latter as its completion. where the religion of the family does not move in the element of the church, it is at best but sentimentalism on the one hand, and rationalism on the other. it is a spurious pietism. to be genuine it must be moulded by the church. without this it is destitute of sterling principle, of a living-faith, of well-directed effort and lofty aims. the family which does not move in the element of the church is a perversion of the true purpose of god in its institution. it will afford no legitimate development of christian doctrine, and the whole scheme of its religion will rest for its execution upon unreliable agencies extraneous to home itself. hence we find that the piety of those families or individuals that isolate themselves from the church, is at best but ephemeral in its existence, contracted in spirit, moving and operating by mere impulse and irregular starts, and withal destitute of vitality and saving influence. a death-bed scene may awaken a transient and visionary sense of duty; adversity may startle the drowsy ear, and cause the parents to turn for the time to the souls of their children; but these continue only while the tear and the wound are fresh, and the apprehensions of the eternal world are moving in their terrible visions before them! the efficacy of the christian home, therefore, depends upon its true relation to the church. the members should be conscious of this. then both parents and children will appreciate the religious ministrations of home. then the former will not grow weary in well doing, but will have something to rest upon, something to look to; and the latter will love the church of their fathers, and venerate the family as its nursery. but the relation between the christian home and the church implies reciprocal obligations and duties. the former should not only exist under the patronage of the latter, but in the spirit of a true subordination. parents should teach and rule and appropriate the means of grace under the supervision of the church. they should take their household, with them to her public service, send their children to her schools, and in all respects bring them up in her nurture and admonition. thus the family should exist as the faithful daughter of the church; and as the latter in the wilderness "leaned upon her beloved," so the former should repose itself upon her who is "the mother of us all," and in whom, as the "body of christ," shall "all the families of the earth be blessed." as her loving and confiding daughter, the family should live under her government and discipline, listen to her maternal voice, and be led by her maternal hand. the minister in his pastoral functions, is the representative of the church in each of the families of his flock; and should, therefore, be received, loved, confided in and obeyed, as such. the home that repels his proffered ministrations in the name and according to the will of the church, throws off its allegiance to the latter, and through it, to christ,--her glorious head, and is hence unworthy of the name of christian home. the true christian home yearns after the church, loves to lean upon it, to look up to it, to consecrate all to it, to move and develop its interests in the sphere of the church, and to labor to complete itself in it. "for her my tears shall fall; for her my prayers ascend; to her my cares and toils be giv'n, till toils and cares shall end." chapter v. home influence. "by the soft green light in the woody glade, on the banks of moss, where thy childhood play'd; by the gathering round the winter hearth, when the twilight call'd unto household mirth, by the quiet hour when hearts unite in the parting prayer and the kind 'good night;' by the smiling eye and the loving tone, over thy life has the spell been thrown, and bless that gift, it hath gentle might, a guarding power and a guiding light!" the christian home has an influence which is stronger than death. it is a law to our hearts, and binds us with, a spell which neither time nor change can break. the darkest villainies which have disgraced humanity cannot neutralize it. gray-haired and demon guilt will make his dismal cell the sacred urn of tears wept over the memories of home; and these will soften and melt into penitence even the heart of adamant. [illustration: maternal influence] the home-influence is either a blessing or a curse, either for good or for evil. it cannot be neutral. in either case it is mighty, commencing with our birth, going with us through life, clinging to us in death, and reaching into the eternal world. it is that unitive power which arises out of the manifold relations and associations of domestic life. the specific influences of husband and wife, of parent and child, of brother and sister, of teacher and pupil, united and harmoniously blended, constitute the home-influence. from this we may infer the character of home-influence. it is great, silent, irresistible, and permanent. like the calm, deep stream, it moves on in silent, but overwhelming power. it strikes its roots deep into the human heart, and spreads its branches wide over our whole being. like the lily that braves the tempest, and "the alpine flower that leans its cheek on the bosom of eternal snows," it is exerted amid the wildest storms of life, and breathes a softening spell in our bosom even when a heartless world is freezing up the fountains of sympathy and love. it is governing, restraining, attracting and traditional. it holds the empire of the heart, and rules the life. it restrains the wayward passions of the child, and checks him in his mad career of ruin. "hold the little hands in prayer, teach the weak knees their kneeling, let him see thee speaking to thy god; he will not forget it afterward; when old and gray, will he feelingly remember a mother's tender piety, and the touching recollection of her prayers shall arrest the strong man in his sin!" home-influence is traditional. it passes down the current of life from one generation to another. its continuity is preserved from first to last. the homes of our forefathers rule us even now, and will pass from us to our children's children. hence it has been called the "fixed capital" of home. it keeps up a continuous stream of home-life and feeling and interest. hence the family likeness, moral as well as physical,--the family virtues and vices,--coming from the family root and rising into all the branches, and developing in all the elements of the family history. home-influence is attractive. it draws us to home, and throws a spell around our existence, which we have not the power to break. "the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd, the prayer at my mother's knee-- darken'd and troubled i come at last, thou home of my boyish glee!" home-influence may he estimated from the immense force of first impressions. it is the prerogative of home to make the first impression upon our nature, and to give that nature its first direction onward and upward. it uncovers the moral fountain, chooses its channel, and gives the stream its first impulse. it makes the "first stamp and sets the first seal" upon the plastic nature of the child. it gives the first tone to our desires, and furnishes ingredients that will either sweeten or embitter the whole cup of life. these impressions are indelible, and durable as life. compared with them, other impressions are like those made upon sand or wax. these are like "the deep borings into the flinty rock." to erase them we must remove every strata of our being. even the infidel lives under the holy influence of a pious mother's impressions. john randolph could never shake off the restraining influence of a little prayer his mother taught him when a child. it preserved him from the clutches of avowed infidelity. the promises of god bear testimony to the influence of the christian home. "when he grows old he will not depart from it!" history confirms and illustrates this. look at those scenes of intemperance and riot, of crime and of blood, which throw the mantle of infamy over human life! look at your prisons, your hospitals, and your gibbets; go to the gaming-table and the rum-shop. tell me, who are those that are there? what is their history? where did they come from? from the faithful christian home? had they pious fathers and mothers? did they go to these places under the holy influence of devout and faithful parents? no! and who are they that are dying without hope and without god? who are they that now throng the regions of the damned? those who were "trained up in the way they should go?" no! if they are, then the promises of god must fail. you may perhaps find a few such. but these are exceptions to a general law. the damning influence of their unfaithful home brought them there. could they but speak to us from their chambers of wo, we should hear them pouring out curses upon their parents, and ascribing the cause of their ruin to their neglect. on the other hand, could we but listen to the anthems of the redeemed in heaven, we should doubtless hear sentiments of gratitude for a mother's prayer and a father's counsel. let us now briefly advert to the objects of home-influence. it is exerted upon the members of home, especially upon the formation of their character and destiny. it moulds their character. the parents assimilate their children to themselves to such an extent that we can judge the former by the latter. lamartine says that, when he wants to know a woman's character, he ascertains it by an inspection of her home,--that he judges the daughter by the mother. his judgment rests upon the known influence the latter has over the former. it gives texture and coloring to the whole woof and web of character. it forms the head and the heart, moulds the affections, the will and the conscience, and throws around our entire nature the means and appliances of its development for good or for evil. every word, every incident, every look, every lesson of home, has its bearing upon our life. had one of these been omitted, our lives would perhaps be different. one prayer in our childhood, was perhaps the lever that raised us from ruin. one omission of parental duty may result in the destruction of the child. what an influence home exerts upon our faith! most of our convictions and opinions rest upon home-teaching and faith. a minister was once asked, "do you not believe christianity upon its evidences?" he replied, "no; i believe it because my mother taught me!" the same may be said of its influence upon our sympathies, and in the formation of habits. it draws us by magnetic power to home, and develops in us all that which is included in home-feeling and home-sickness. "i need but pluck yon garden flower, from where the wild weeds rise, to wake with strange and sudden power, a thousand sympathies!" in this respect how irresistible is the influence of a mother's love and kindness! her very name awakens the torpid streams of life, gives a fresh glow to the tablets of memory, and fills our hearts with a deep gush of consecrated feeling. our habits, too, are formed under the moulding power of home. the "tender twig" is there bent, the spirit shaped, principles implanted, and the whole character is formed until it becomes a habit. goodness or evil are there "resolved into necessity." who does not feel this influence of home upon all his habits of life? the gray-haired father who wails in his second infancy, feels the traces of his childhood-home in his spirit, desires and habits. ask the strong man in the prime of life, whether the most firm and reliable principles of his character were not the inheritance of the parental home. what an influence the teaching's and prayers of his mother monica had upon the whole character of the pious augustine! the sterling worth of washington is a testimony to the formative power of parental instruction. john quincy adams, even when his eloquence thundered through our legislative halls, and caused a nation to startle from her slumber, bent his aged form before god, and repeated the prayer of his childhood. "how often in old age," says bishop hall, "have i valued those divine passages of experimental divinity that i heard from the lips of a mother!" dr. doddridge ever lived under the influence of those scripture instructions his mother gave him from the dutch tiles of her fireside. he says, "these lessons were the instruments of my conversion." "generally," says dr. cumming, "when, there is a sarah in the house, there will be an isaac in the cradle; wherever there is a eunice teaching a timothy the scriptures from a child, there will be a timothy teaching the gospel to the rest of mankind." by the force of this same influence, the pious wife may win over to christ her ungodly husband, and the godly child may save the unbelieving parent. "well," said a mother one day weeping, "i will resist no longer! how can i bear to see my dear child love and read the scriptures, while i never look into the bible,--to see her retire and seek god, while i never pray,--to see her going to the lord's table, while his death is nothing to me! i know she is right, and i am wrong. i ought to have taught her; but i am sure she has taught me. how can i bear to see her joining the church of god, and leaving me behind--perhaps forever!" the christian home has its influence also upon the state. it forms the citizen, lays the foundation for civil and political character, prepares the social element and taste, and determines our national prosperity or adversity. we owe to the family, therefore, what we are as a nation as well as individuals. we trace this influence in the pulpit, on the rostrum, in the press, in our civil and political institutions. it is written upon the scroll of our national glory. the most illustrious statesmen, the most distinguished warriors, the most eloquent ministers, and the greatest benefactors of human kind, owe their greatness to the fostering influence of home. napoleon knew and felt this when he said, "what france wants is good mothers, and you may be sure then that france will have good sons." the homes of the american revolution made the men of the revolution. their influence reaches yet far into the inmost frame and constitution of our glorious republic. it controls the fountains of her power, forms the character of her citizens and statesmen, and shapes our destiny as a people. did not the spartan mother and her home give character to the spartan nation? her lessons to her child infused the iron nerve into the heart of that nation, and caused her sons, in the wild tumult of battle, "either to live behind their shields, or to die upon them!" her influence fired them with a patriotism which was stronger than death. had it been hallowed by the pure spirit and principles of christianity, what a power for good it would have been! but alas! the home of an aspasia had not the heart and ornaments of the christian family. though "the monuments of cornelia's virtues were the character of her children," yet these were not "the ornaments of a quiet spirit." had the central heart of the spartan home been that of the christian mother, the spartan nation would now perhaps adorn the brightest page of history. but the family, whether christian or heathen, exerts an overwhelming influence over the state. it is on the family altar that the fire of patriotism is first kindled, and often, too, by a mother's hand. "it hath led the freeman forth to stand in the mountain battles of his land; it hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas, to die on the hills of his own fresh breeze." the same, too, may be said of the influence of home on the church. it is the nursery of the church, lays the foundation of her membership, and conditions the character of her members. the most faithful of her ministers and members are those generally who have been trained up in the most faithful families. wherever there is the greatest number of such homes, there the church enjoys the greatest prosperity. what a fearful responsibility must rest, therefore upon the christian home! if its influence is for good or for evil, for weal or for woe, for heaven or for hell; if it is either a powerful emissary of satan for the soul's destruction, or an efficient agent of god for the soul's salvation, then how responsible are those who wield this influence! "upon thy heart is laid a spell, holy and precious--oh! guard it well!" are you not, christian parents, responsible to god for the exercise of such sovereign power over the character and well-being of your dear children? and will not the day soon come when you must "give an account of your stewardship?" oh! what if it be exerted for the ruin of your loved ones, and they "curse the day you begat them?" what if, in the day of final reckoning, you find your hands drenched in the blood of your offspring, and hear the voice of that blood cry out from the hallowed ground of home against you, saying, "how long, oh lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge our blood on them that dwell on earth?" oh see, then, that your influence be wielded for good. "for round the heart thy power hast spun a thousand dear mysterious ties; then take the heart thy charms have won, and nurse it for the skies!" chapter vi. home as a stewardship. "take this child away, and nurse it for me, and i will give thee thy wages."--exodus ii., . "for look, how many souls in thy house be, with just as many souls god trusteth thee!" the christian home is a stewardship. the parents are stewards of god. a steward is a servant of a particular kind, to whom the master commits a certain portion of his interest to be prosecuted in his name and by his authority, and according to his laws and regulations. the steward must act according to the will of his master, in his dealing with what is committed to his care. such was eliezer in the house of abraham; and such was joseph in the house of potiphar. one of the specific duties of a steward was to dispense portions of food to the different members of the household, to give servants their portion in due season, and to superintend the general interests of the master's household. in a religious sense, a steward is a minister of christ, whose duty is to dispense the provisions of the gospel, to preach its doctrines and to administer its ordinances. it is required of such that they be found faithful.-- cor., chap. iv. in its application to the christian home, it expresses its relation of subordination to god, and the kind of services which the former must render to the latter. the stewardship of home is that official character with which god has invested the family. in this sense the proprietorship of parents is from god. they are invested only with delegated authority. their home is held by them only in trust. it belongs to them in the same sense in which a household belongs to a steward. it is not at their absolute disposal. it is the "household of the lord," and they are to live and rule therein as the lord directs. they are to appropriate it and dispose of its interests according to the known law and will of their divine master, and in this sense, yield, with their whole household, a voluntary subordination to his authority. as a stewardship, god has entrusted the christian home with important interests. he has committed to her trust, body and soul, talents and means of grace. he has entrusted to the parents the training of their children both for time and for eternity. these children are the heritage of the lord; they are not at the absolute disposal of their parents; but merely entrusted to their care to be educated and dealt with according to the will of god. there is one great peculiarity in this stewardship of the christian family,--the absolute identity of interest between the master and the steward. the interest of the former is that also of the latter; and the latter, in promoting the interest of his lord, is but advancing his own welfare. such is the economy of the gospel, and it is this which makes the servitude of the christian so delightful. faithfulness to god is faithfulness to our own souls. parents who are thus faithful to god must be faithful to themselves and to their children. thus, then, the interest of god in our families is the welfare of all the members. when we act towards our children as god directs, we are but promoting their greatest welfare. this is one prominent feature of god's mercy towards us in all his dealings with us. he identifies his interest with the interest of his people. this is a powerful incentive to parental integrity, and is beautifully exemplified in the mother of moses. when the daughter of pharaoh said to her, "take this child and nurse it for me, and i will pay thee thy wages," was not the interest of the queen and the nurse the same? in nursing him for the queen, that devoted mother nursed him also for herself; and in doing this, she was also promoting the welfare of her son, and executing the will of god concerning him. this illustrates the principle of stewardship in the christian home. of every child, god says to its parent,-- "go nurse it for the king of heaven, and he will pay thee hire." here is the important trust; here, too, is the duty of the steward. it is a trust from god, and the nursing is for god. the child is a tender plant, an invaluable treasure, more priceless than gold, or pearls, or diamonds. your duty as a steward, is to nurse it, to cultivate it, to polish the lovely gem, to take care of it. and in doing this for god, are you not also doing it for the child,--yea, if you are christian parents,--for yourselves? will not even natural affection, as well as the discerning eye of faith, like that of the mother of moses, detect in this stewardship an identity between the interest of the master and that of the steward? it was not the simple compensation which stimulated the mother of moses to accede to the proposition of pharaoh's daughter. what cared she for the "hire," if she could but save her son! this was her great reward. thus the interest of the child should be the reward of the parent. god will, it is true, reward the faithful steward of the family; but he specially rewards and blesses parental faithfulness in making his purposes concerning home, identical with the parent's and the children's welfare. in this domestic stewardship, "like warp and woof, all interests are woven fast; locked in sympathy like the keys of an organ vast." "fear not, little flock; for it is your father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom. who, then, is that faithful and wise steward whom his lord shall make ruler over his household, to give them their portion of meat in due season? blessed is that servant whom his lord, when he cometh, shall find so doing. of a truth i say unto you, that he will make him ruler over all he hath. but and if that servant say in his heart, my lord delayeth his coming, and shall begin to beat the men-servants and maidens, and to eat and drink, and to be drunken; the lord of that servant will come in a day when he looketh not for him, and at an hour when he is not aware, and will cut him in sunder, and will appoint him his portion with the unbelievers. and that servant which knew his lord's will and prepared not himself, neither did according to his will, shall be beaten with many stripes." here, then, we have the character and duties of the steward in the christian home, the rewards of their faithfulness, and the penalties of their unfaithfulness. as the stewards of god, we must be faithful, giving the souls as well as the bodies of our children "their meat in due season;" we must not "waste the goods" of our lord, but be "blameless, not self-willed, not soon angry, not given to filthy lucre, but a lover of hospitality, sober, just, holy, temperate, holding fast the faithful word as we have been taught." as the faithful stewards of god, we should dedicate our household in all respects to him, and make it tributary to his glory. "seek ye first the kingdom of heaven, and all these things shall be added unto you." the unjust steward will first seek the world and the things of the world, its gold, its pleasures and its honors; and after that seek the kingdom of heaven. but this is reversing the order of procedure as prescribed by the master; it is running counter to his will, and, consequently, wasting his goods. but the greatest trust committed to parents is, the souls of their children; and hence their most responsible duty, as the stewards of god, is to attend to their salvation. you should "give them the bread of life in due season." it will be of no avail for you to inquire, "what shall they eat, and what shall they drink, and wherewithal shall they be clothed;" if you neglect this their highest interest and your greatest trust? "what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?" it is not the wealth, nor the magnificence of life which will make your home happy; these are but the outward and fleeting ornaments of the world, and are too often the gaudy drapery in which demon guilt and misery are clothed. "the cobwebbed cottage, with its ragged wall of mouldering mud, is royalty to me," if souls are there "fed upon the sincere milk of the word," and "trained up in the ways of the lord." the training of the soul for heaven is both the duty and the glory of our homes. what if parents lay up affluence here for their children, and secure for them all that the world calls interest, while they permit their souls to famish, and do nothing for their redemption! will not such parents be denounced in the day of judgment as unjust and unfaithful stewards? and yet alas! how many such christian parents there are who prostitute this highest interest of home either at the altar of mammon or of fashion! the precious time and talents with which god has entrusted them, they squander away in things of folly and of sin, leaving their children to grow up in spiritual ignorance and wickedness, while they resort to balls and theaters and masquerades, in pursuit of unhallowed amusement and pleasure. such are unnatural parents as well as unjust stewards, and their homes will ere long be made desolate. other parents prostitute the holy trust of home to money. they are "self-willed" stewards, "given to filthy lucre," who, for the sake of a few dollars, will "waste the goods" of their lord, make their homes a drudgery, and work their children like their horses, bring them up in ignorance, like "calves in the stall," and contract their whole existence, and all their capacities, desires and hopes, in the narrow compass of work and money. we would direct the attention of such parents to our last thought upon the stewardship of the christian home, (the practical view of which we shall consider in the next chapter,) viz., that it involves the principle of accountability. it implies a settlement, a time when the master and his steward shall meet together to close accounts. "give an account of thy stewardship; for thou mayest be no longer steward." that time will be when "the dead, both small and great, shall stand before god." then he will examine into your stewardship. he will ask you how you employed your talents, and to what purpose you appropriated those interests he committed to your trust; and whether you were faithful to those souls which "hung upon your hire;" whether you "nursed them for him," and whether you provided them with "their meat in due season." and if you can answer, "yea, lord, here are those talents which thou hast given me; behold i have gained for thee five other talents. here, lord, are those children whom thou hast given me; i have brought them up in thy nurture, and trained them in thy ways." your lord will then answer, "well done, thou good and faithful servant, thou hast been faithful over a few things; behold i will make thee ruler over many things; enter thou into the joy of thy lord!" but if you have been unfaithful as stewards, and have made your household unproductive for god, then you shall hear from his lips the dreadful denunciation, "thou wicked and slothful servant!" "take the talent from him, and cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness; there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth; for unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance; but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath!" chapter vii. responsibilities of the christian home. "what a holy charge is theirs!--with what a kingly power their love might rule the fountains of the new-born mind! warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow good seed before the world has sown its tares." from the potent influence and moral stewardship of the christian home, we may infer its responsibility. the former is the argument for the latter. the extent of the one is the measure of the other. "to whom much is given, of them much will be required." our responsibilities are thus commensurate with our abilities. if the latter are properly devoted, we have our reward; if not, our curse. god will hold us accountable for the achievements we make by the abilities he has given us. if he gives us a field to cultivate, seed to sow, plants to train up, then we are responsible for the harvest, just in proportion to our agency in its production. if there is not a harvest of the right kind, because we neglected to cultivate the soil, to sow the proper seed, and to train up the plants, then he will hold, us accountable, and "we shall not come out thence till we have paid the uttermost farthing." this is an evident gospel principle. who will doubt its application to the christian home? the family is such a field; the seed of good or evil the parents can sow therein; their children are young and tender plants, entrusted to their care; their mission from god is to "bring them up in his nurture" and to "train them in his ways." and where god gives the command, he also gives the power to obey. if, then, by their neglect, these tender plants are blighted, grow up in the crooked ways of folly and iniquity, and the leprosy of sin spread its dreadful infection over all the posterity of home; if, as a consequence of their unfaithfulness, the family becomes a moral desolation, and the anathemas of unnumbered souls in perdition, rise up in the day of judgment against them; or if, on the other hand, as the fruit of their faithful stewardship, blessings and testimonials of gratitude are now pouring forth from the sainted loved ones in glory, is it not plain that a responsibility rests upon the christian home, commensurate with, those abilities which god has given her, and with those interests he has entrusted to her care? let us look at the objective force of this. the family is responsible for the kind of influence she exerts upon her members look at this in its practical light. there is a family. god has given children to the parents. how fondly they cling to them, and look up to them for support and direction. they inherit from their parents a predisposition to evil or to good; they imitate them as their example, in all things, take their word as the law of life, and follow in their footsteps as the sure path to happiness. these parents are members of the church, and, as such, have dedicated their children to the lord at the altar of baptism, and there in the presence of god and a witnessing assembly, they vowed to bring them up in the nurture of their divine master, and to minister in spiritual things to their souls. yet in this home, no prayer is offered up, no bible instructions given, no holy example set, no christian government and discipline instituted, no religious interests promoted. but on the other hand, sin is overlooked, winked at, and the world alone sought. these children behold their parents toil day after day to provide for their natural life; they notice the interest they take in their health and education, and the self-denial with which they seek to secure for them a temporal competency. and from all this they quickly and very justly infer that their parents love their bodies and value this world, and by the force of filial imitation they soon learn to do the same, and with their parents, neglect their souls and kneel at the altars of mammon rather than bow in prayer before god. and thus they go on from one step in departure from god to another, until they die without hope and without salvation. tell me now, will not god hold these parents responsible for the ruin of their children? will not the "blood of their destruction rest upon them?" will not the "voice of that blood" cry out from their family against them? if, as a consequence of their negligence and of the unholy influence they exerted upon them, they become desperadoes in crime and villainy, and at last drench their hands in a brother's blood; and expiate their guilt upon the gibbet, and from there go down to the grave of infamy and to the hell of the murderer, will not their blood, "cry unto them," and will not the woes and anathemas of almighty god come in upon them like a flood? home-responsibility may be inferred from the relation of the family to god as a stewardship. we have seen that parents are stewards of god in their household, and that as such they are placed over their children, invested with delegated authority. god entrusts them to the care of their parents. their nature is pliable, fit for any impression, exposed to sin and ruin, entering upon a course of life which must terminate in eternal happiness or misery, with bodies to develop, minds to educate, hearts to mould, volitions to direct, habits to form, energies to rule, pursuits to follow, interests to secure, temptations to resist, trials to endure, souls to save! oh, how the parental heart must swell with emotions too big for utterance, when they contemplate these features of their important trust. what a mission this, to superintend the character and shape the destiny of such a being! such is the plastic power you exert upon it, that upon your guidance will hinge its weal or its woe; and yours, therefore, will be the lasting benefit or the lasting shame. what you are now doing for your children is incorporated with their very being, and will be as imperishable as their undying souls. as the stewards of god, your provision for them will be "either a savor of life unto life or a savor of death unto death." we have seen that god has given to you the ability and means of making them subservient to his glory; and hence from you he will require them as entrusted talents. if you have been unfaithful to them, your punishment will be in proportion to the wretchedness entailed upon your children. if, instead of the bread from heaven, you feed their souls with the husks of life, and lead them on by the opiates of bastard joys; if, "when they ask of you bread, you give them a stone, or for a fish, you give them a serpent," will it not be "more tolerable for sodom and gomorrah in the day of judgment than for you?" thus, therefore, you see, christian parents, how your responsibility is measured, by the magnitude of those interests committed to your care, by the kind of influence you exert over them, and by the enormity of that guilt and wo which are consequent upon your unfaithfulness. let this be an incentive to parental integrity. the day is rapidly approaching when you must give an account of your stewardship. oh, what, if in that day you behold your children "fit for the eternal burning," and remember that that fitness is but the impress of a parent's hand! though it is painful to lose a child here; bitter tears are shed; pungent agonies are felt; there are heart-burnings kindled over the grave of buried love. but oh, how much more agonizing it is to bend over the dying bed of an impenitent, ruined child! and especially if, in that terrible moment, he turns his eyes, wild with despair and ominous of curses, upon the parents, and ascribes his ruin to their neglect! let me ask you, would not this part of that sad drama add to your cup of bitterness, give a fearful emphasis to all your sighs, and burnings to your flooding tears? god would also speak to you, and say as he did to cain, "the voice of thy" children's "blood crieth unto me!" "and now thou art cursed from the earth which hath opened her mouth to receive thy" children's "blood from thy hand." but the scene would not close at the death-bed of your child; the second act would open at the bar of god. the maledictions of that ruined one would there be poured out with increased fury upon you. parents of my home on earth! i am lost--lost forever! soon i shall go where "the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched." had you, in the home of my childhood, but instructed me, and been as faithful to my soul as you were to my body, i might stand here with a palm of victory in my hand, a crown of glory on my head, the joy of the redeemed in my heart, and with hosannas of praise upon my lips, rise upward to the untold felicities of god's eternal throne! but you did not! you fed my body, but you starved my soul, and left it to perish forever! cursed, be the day in which you begat me, and the paps that gave me suck! cursed be the years that i lived under your roof,--cursed be you! oh, parents, such rebuke would leave an undying worm in your souls; and would cry unto you from the very depths of hell. this is no over-wrought picture. it is but the scripture prospectus of that terrible scene which shall be enacted "in the terrible and notable day of the lord," when every christian home shall be called to give an "account of her stewardship," and be dealt with "according to the deeds done in the body." and let me say too, that a similar and corresponding responsibility rests upon those children who enjoy the benefits of a faithful christian home. they must answer to god for every blessing there enjoyed. if they turn a deaf ear and a cold heart to all the entreaties of their parents, and resist those saving influences which are brought to bear upon them, and as a consequence, become outcasts from society and from heaven, then let me warn them that, every prayer they heard at the family altar, every lesson given, every admonition delivered, and every holy example set them, by their pious parents, will be ingredients in that bitter cup which it will take eternity for them to exhaust! oh, children of the christian home! think of this, and remember the responsibility of enjoying the precious benefits of a pious, faithful parent. they will be your weal or your woe,--your lasting glory or your lasting shame! and, ye parents, be faithful to those little ones that are growing up "like olive plants around your table," so that in the day of judgment, you may say with joy, in the full assurance of reward, "here are we, lord, and the children whom thou hast given us!" and your reward shall be, "well done, thou good and faithful servant! enter thou into the joy of thy lord!" chapter viii. the family bible. "what household thoughts around thee, as their shrine, cling reverently!--of anxious looks beguiled, my mother's eyes upon thy page divine, each day were bent; her accents, gravely mild, breathed out thy love; whilst i, a dreamy child, wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away, ... yet would the solemn word, at times, with kindlings of young wonder heard fall on my wakened spirit, there to be a seed not lost; for which in darker years, o, book of heaven! i pour with grateful tears, heart-blessings on the holy dead, and thee!" the family bible! what sweet and hallowed memories cling like tendrils around that book of books! how familiar its sacred pages! how often in the sunny days of childhood, we were fed from its manna by the maternal hand! it was our guide to the opening path of life, and a lamp to the feeble, faltering steps of youth. who can forget the family bible? it was the household oracle of our grandfathers and grandmothers,--of our dear parents. it bears the record of their venerated names; their birth, their baptism, their confirmation, their marriage, are here; and "though they are with the silent dead, here are they living still!" how joyfully they gathered around the cheerful hearth to read this book divine. how often their hearts drew consolation from its living springs! what a balm it has poured into bleeding and disconsolate hearts. it has irradiated with the glories of eternal day, the darkest chamber of their home. what brilliant hopes and promises it has hung around the parental heart! and here too are the names of our parents,--long since gathered with their fathers. here too are our names, and birth, and baptism, written by that parental hand, long since cold in death! "my father read this holy book to brothers, sisters dear; how calm was my poor mother's look, who loved god's word to hear. her angel-face--i see it yet! what thronging memories come? again that little group is met within the halls of home!" that old family bible! do we not love it? our names and our children's names are drawn from it. it is the message of our father in heaven. it is the link which connects our earthly with our heavenly home; and when we open its sacred page, we gaze upon words which our loved ones in heaven have whispered, and which dwell even now upon their sainted lips; and which when we utter them, there is joy in heaven! we would, therefore, say to the infidel, of this "family tree," as the returning child said to the woodsman, of the old tree which sheltered the slumbers and frolics of his childhood, "i'll protect it now." the old family bible! what an inheritance from a christian home! clasp it, child, to thy heart; it was the gift of a mother's love! it bears the impress of her hand; it is the memento of her devotedness to thee; and when just before her spirit took its flight to a better land, she gave it as a guide for her child to the same happy home: "my mother's hand this bible clasped; she, dying, gave it me!" and the spirit of that sainted mother shall still whisper to me through these sacred pages. in the light of this lamp i follow her to a better home. with this blessed chart i shall meet her in heaven. "with faltering lip and throbbing brow, i press it to my heart." every christian home has a family bible. it is found in the hut as well as in the palace. it is an indispensable appendage to home. without it the christian home would be in darkness; with it, she is a "light which shineth in darkness." it is the chart and compass of the parent and the child in their pilgrimage to a better home. "therein thy dim eyes will meet a cheering light; and silent words of mercy breathed from heaven, will be exhaled from the blest page into thy withered heart." like an ethereal principle of light and life, its blessed truths extend with electric force through all the avenues and elements of the home-existence, "giving music to language, elevation to thought, vitality to feeling, intensity to power, beauty and happiness." the bible is adapted to the christian home. it is the book for the family. it is the guardian of her interests, the exposition of her duties, her privileges, her hopes and her enjoyments. it exposes her errors, reveals her authority and government, sanctions her obedience, proclaims her promises, and points out her path to heaven. it makes sacred her marriages, furnishes names for her children, gives the sacrament of her dedication to god, and consecrates her bereavements. it is the fountain of her richest blessings, the source of her true consolation, and the ground of her brightest hope. it is, therefore, the book of home. she may have large and splendid libraries; history, poetry, philosophy, fiction, yea, all the works of classic greece and rome, may crowd upon her shelves; but of these she will soon grow wearied, and the dust of neglect will gather thick upon their gilded leaves; but of the bible the christian home can never become weary. its sufficiency for all her purposes will throw a garland of freshness around every page; its variety and manifoldness; its simplicity and beauty; its depth of thought and intensity of feeling, adapt it to every capacity and to every want, to every emergency and to every member, of the household. the little child and the old man, hoary with the frost of many winters, find an equal interest there. the rich and the poor, the learned and the ignorant, the high and the low, are alike enriched from its inexhaustible treasury. it is a book for the mind, the heart, the conscience, the will and the life. it suits the palace and the cottage, the afflicted and the prosperous, the living and the dying. it is a comfort to "the house of mourning," and a check to "the house of feasting." it "giveth seed to the sower, and bread to the eater." it is simple, yet grand; mysterious, yet plain; and though from god, it is nevertheless, within the comprehension of a little child. you may send your children to school to study other books, from which they may be educated for this world; but in this divine book they study the science of the eternal world. the family bible has given to the christian home that unmeasured superiority in all the dignities and decencies and enjoyments of life, over the home of the heathen. it has elevated woman, revealed her true mission, developed the true idea and sacredness of marriage and of the home-relationship; it has unfolded the holy mission of the mother, the responsibilities of the parent, and the blessings of the child. take this book from the family, and she will degenerate into a mere conventionalism, marriage into a "social contract;" the spirit of mother will depart; natural affection will sink to mere brute fondness, and what we now call home would become a den of sullen selfishness and barbaric lust! the bible should, therefore, be the text-book of home-education. where it is not, parents are recreant to their duty. it is the basis of all teaching, because it reveals "the truth, the way and the life," because it is god's testimony and message, and is "profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness," and was written "for our learning, that we, through patience and comfort of the scriptures, might have hope," and be made "wise unto salvation." "while thou wert teaching my lips to move and my heart to rise in prayer, i learned the way to a home above; and thou shalt meet me there!" its invaluable treasures, its manifoldness, its beautiful simplicity, its striking narrative, its startling history, its touches of home-life, its expansive views of human nature, of this life and of that which is to come, its poetry, eloquence, and soul-stirring sympathies and aspirations, make it the book for home-training. these features of its character will develop in beautiful harmony the whole nature of your child. do you wish to inspire them with song? what songs are like those of zion? do you wish them to come under the influence of eloquent oration? what orations so eloquent as those of the prophets, of christ, and of his apostles? do you desire to refine and elevate their souls with beauty and sublimity? here in these sacred pages is a beauty ever fresh, and a sublimity which towers in dazzling radiance far beyond the reach of human genius. this is evident from the fact that tributes of admiration have been paid to the bible by the most eminent poets, jurists, statesmen, and philosophers, such as milton, hale, boyle, newton and locke. erasmus and john locke betook themselves solely to the bible, after they had wandered through the gloomy maze of human erudition. neither grecian song nor roman eloquence; neither the waters of castalia, nor the fine-spun theorisms of scholastic philosophy, could satisfy their yearnings. but when they wandered amid the consecrated bowers of zion, and drank from siloah's brook, the thirst of their genius was quenched, and they took their seats with mary at the feet of jesus, and like little children, learned of him! even deists and infidels have yielded their tribute of praise. what says the infidel rosseau? hear him: "the majesty of the scriptures strikes me with astonishment. look at the volumes of the philosophers, with all their pomp, how contemptible do they appear in comparison with this! is it possible that a book at once so simple and sublime, can be the work, of men?" thus "learning and zeal, from age to age, have worshiped, loved, explored the page." how often is this precious book abused! in many would-be christian homes, it is used more for an ornament of fashion than for a lamp to the christian's path. we find the bible upon their parlor table, but how seldom in the family room! they make it a part of their fashionable furniture, to be looked at as a pretty, gilded thing. its golden clasps and beautiful binding make it an attractive appendage to the parlor. hence they buy the bible, but not the truth it contains. they place it upon the table as such; and indeed many do not even give it that prominence, but, yielding to the taste of fashion, place it under the parlor table, and there it rests, unmolested, untouched and unread even for years. in many professedly religious families this is their family bible! ah! it is not so heartsome as that well-marked and long-used old bible which lies upon the table of the nursery room, speaking of many year's service in family devotion! the other unused bible seems like a stranger to the home-heart, and lies in the parlor just to show their visiting friends that they have a bible! go into the nursery and other private apartments of that home, and you see no bible, while you behold piles of romance and filthy novels,--those exponents of a vitiated taste and a corrupt society, suited to destroy the young forever;--whose outward appearance indicates a studied perusal by both parents and children, and shows perhaps that they have been wept over; and whose inward substance must ever nauseate healthy reason, as well as poison the heart of youth, leading them from the sober realities of life into a world of nonentities. but upon the family bible you cannot trace the hand of diligent piety. it is shoved back into some part of the room, as a worthless thing, obsolete and superfluous. and see! it is not even kept in decent order. the dust of many day's neglect has gathered thick upon its lids. oh, christian parents, when you thus close up the wells of salvation by the trash of degenerate taste and vitiated morals, you are despising the testimonies of the lord, and leading your children step by step to the verge of destruction. you may buy them splendid, bibles, gilt and clasped with gold, and have their names labeled in golden letters upon its lid; but if the good old family bible is neglected, and the yellow covered literature of the day substituted in its stead; if you permit them to buy and read love-sick tales in preference to their bible, and they see you do the same, you are but making a mock of god's word, and must answer before him for your children's neglect of its sacred pages. let me, therefore, affectionately admonish you to be faithful to that precious book you call the family bible. read it to your children every day. from its sacred pages teach them the way to live and the way to die. let it be an opened, studied family chart to guide you and them in visions of untold glory to the many mansions of your father's offered home in heaven. it will soothe your sorrows, calm your fears, strengthen your faith, brighten your hopes, and throw around the graves of the loved and the cherished dead, the light and promise of reunion in heaven! "a drop of balm from this rich store, hath healed the broken heart once more. like angels round a dying bed, its truths a heavenly radiance shed; and hovering on celestial wings, breathe music from unnumbered strings." chapter ix. infancy. "a babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace and love; a resting place for innocence on earth; a link between angels and men; yet it is a talent of trust to be rendered back with interest; a delight, but redolent of care, honey sweet, but lacking not the bitter, for character groweth day by day, and all things aid it in unfolding, and the bent unto good or evil may be given, in the hours of infancy." the birth of each child constitutes a new era in the christian home, and multiplies its cares, its pleasures and its responsibilities. the first-born babe, like "the first gilt thing that wears the trembling pearls of spring," throws the rainbow colors of hope and joy over the bowers of home, and awakens in the bosom of parents, emotions and sympathies, new-born and never before experienced; cords in the heart, before untouched, now begin to thrill with new joy; sympathies, before unfelt, now swell the bosom. sleep on, thou little one, in thy "rosy mesh of infancy," in the first buddings of thy being! these hours of thy innocence are the happiest of thy life. thou art "the parent's transport and the parent's care." blessings are fondly poured upon thy head. rest thee there in thy little bed, thou happy emblem of the loved and pure in heaven! "visions sure of joy are gladdening his rest; and ah, who knows but waiting angels do converse in sleep with babes like this!" imparting to his infant soul unutterable things, whispering soft of bliss immortal given, and pouring into his new-born senses the dreams of opening heaven. what charms and momentous interests surround the cradle of infancy! when the first wailing of dependence reaches the listening ear, what new-born sympathies spring up in the parent's bosom! what a thrill of rapture the first soft smile of her babe sends to the mother's heart! it is this, the parents' likeness unsullied by their faults and cares; it is this, their living love in personal being,--their love breathing and smiling before them, lisping their names; it is this,--their new-born hope and care,--that gives to infancy such a charm, such a never-dying interest, and causes the parent to cling to it with such fond tenacity. "can a mother forget her sucking child?" never, while she claims a mother's heart! the couch of her babe is the depository of all those fond hopes and joys and cares and memories to which a mother's heart is sacred. the infant is the most interesting member of the christian home. it is the first budding of home-life, disclosing every day some new beauty, "the father's lustre and the mother's bloom," to gladden the hearts of the family. "as the dewy morning is more beautiful than the perfect day; as the opening bud is more lovely than the full blown flower, so is the joyous dawn of infant life more interesting than the calm monotony of riper years." it is the most interesting, because the purest, member of the household. it is the connecting link which binds home to its great antitype above. "ye stand nearest to god, ye little ones," nearer than those who have tasted the bitter cup of actual sin. they are the budding promises, the young loves, the precious plants of home; they are its sunshine, its progressive interest, its prophetic happiness, the first link in the chain of its perpetuity. like the purple hue of the wild heath, throwing its gay color over the rugged hill-side, they cast a magic polish over the spirit of the parent, causing the home-fireside to glow with new life and cheerfulness. infants are emblems of the loved and sainted ones in heaven. "of such is the kingdom of heaven." "except ye become as this little child, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven." this is based upon proper principles. the heart of the child is purely devotional and confidential. it is a helpless dependent upon the parent. it abdicates its self-will with joy; silently do the laws of home control it; its reverence and love are the melody of its being; its life is an exchange of obedience for protection. its path is chosen for it by the lamp of parental experience, and the calm pure light of a mother's love. how close it keeps to the heart that loves it, and to the hand that leads it! it looks without doubt or suspicion in the parent's eye, and makes the parent's home and interest its own. here is a picture of the true child of god in his tent-home on earth, and in his eternal home in heaven. for this they are given to us. as they are to us, their parents, so should we be to our father in heaven, and so are all those loved and sainted ones who have gone before us. "little children, flowers from heaven, strewn on earth by god's own hand, earnest emblems to us given, from, the fields of angel-land!" hence it was that jesus loved little children, took them in his arms, blessed them, and regarded them as "the lambs of his flock." "he shall gather the lambs with his arm." he gazed with pleasure into their sweet faces, invited their parents to bring them unto him, and held them up as the type of the spirit and character of the admitted, into heaven. and the aged john, having in view this typical character of children, addressed his followers as his little children! infants are helpless dependents upon others for subsistence and protection. if abandoned at their birth, their first breath would soon be succeeded by their last. hence they demand all the attention which maternal love and tenderness can bestow. they live like the tender bud or the opening blossom, exposed to the blight of a thousand fortuitous events. hence their existence is very precarious; in a moment they may sink like the frosted flower in its lovely blush. this may be said of the soul as well as of the body and mind. what an argument, therefore, we have here for parental diligence and promptness in duty to the eternal as well as to the temporal well-being of the child. the infant is the first prophecy of the man. it is the germ of manhood. it is the man in a state of involution. it is the undeveloped man. infancy is the twilight of life,--the first morning of an endless being, the age of germ and of mere sense. as the first dawn of spring is the season of the undeveloped harvest, so childhood is manhood in possibility. the infant is the vernal bud of life; it is a being of promise and of hope,--the prophecy of the future man. hence the age of education. the mother, in the nursery, is ever evolving into the strength of maturity those powers of her child which will be wielded for happiness or for misery. her babe is an "embryo angel, or an infant fiend." we behold in that fragile form, the bud of the strong man,--the possibility of one who may in a few years arouse with his thrilling eloquence a slumbering nation, or with the torch and sword of revolution, overturn empires and dethrone kings, or with his feet upon the walls of zion, and the words of life upon his lips, overthrow the strongholds of satan, and bring the rebel sinner in penitence to the feet of jesus. yea, we see in that wailing infant of a week, the outspringing of an immortal spirit which may soon hover on cherub-pinion around the throne of god, or perhaps, in a few years, sink to the regions of untold anguish. oh, it is this which gives to the cradle of infancy such a thrilling interest. the star of those new-born hopes, which hangs over it, will set in eternal night, or rise with increasing splendor, till it is lost in the full blaze of eternal day! infants are a great, a dangerous and responsible trust. they are the property of god,--"an heritage from the lord," given to their parents as a loan, a "talent of trust to be rendered back with interest." the infant is especially the mother's trust. "though first by thee it lived, on thee it smiled, yet not for thee existence must it hold, for god's it is, not thine!" given by its creator in trust to her, it is her task to bring it up for god. here especially do we see the holy mission of the mother. none but the mother's heart and love can give security for this trust. the father is unfit by nature for the delicate training of infancy. the mother's hand alone can smooth the infant's couch, and her voice alone can sing him to his rosy rest. her never-wearied love alone can watch beside him "till the last pale star had set," "while to the fullness of her heart's glad heavings his fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair waved softly to her breast." she is the ministering angel of infancy, and the priestess of the nursery of home. she sets the first seal, makes the first stamp, gives the first direction, supplies the first want, and soothes the first sorrow. to her is committed human life in its most helpless and dangerous state. touch it then with the rude hand of parental selfishness; let it grow up in a barren soil, amid noxious weeds, under the influence of unholy example; and the delicate tints of this blossom will soon fade; the blush of loveliness will soon give way to the blight of moral deformity. [illustration: teaching the scriptures. j. porter] hence every babe will be the parent's glory or the parent's shame, their weal or their woe. if entrusted to them, god will hold them responsible for its moral training. he will require it from them with interest. their trust involves the eternal happiness or misery of their child. the productions of art will perish; the sun will be blotted out, and all the glory and magnificence of the world will vanish away, but your babe will live forever. it will survive the wreck of nature, and either shine as a diadem in the redeemer's crown of glory, or dwell in the blackness and darkness of perdition forever. to you, christian parents, as the stewards of god, this precious being is entrusted. the care of its body, mind and spirit is committed to you; and its character and destiny in after life will be the fruit of your dealings with it. it looks to you for all things. it confides in you, draws its confidence from your protection, relies on your known love, takes you as the pattern of its life, imitates you as its example, learns from you as its teacher, is ruled by you as its governor, is measured by you as its model, feels satisfied with you as its sufficiency, and rests its all upon you as its all and in all. thus you are the very life and soul of its being, and hence in its maturity, it will be a fair exponent of your character. you are the center around which its life revolves, the circumference beyond which it never seeks to go. what, therefore, if you are unfit to move and act in its presence! what, if in its imitation of you, its life be a progressive departure from god! oh, what, if in the day of judgment, it be an outcast from heaven, and, as such, bear the impress of a parent's hand! god will then hold you accountable for every injury you may have done your child. begin, therefore, the work of training that infant, now, while its nature is pliable, susceptible, yet tenacious of first impressions. "with his mother's milk the young child drinketh education." what you now do for your child will be seen in all future ages. "scratch the green rind of a sapling, or wantonly twist it in the soil, the scarred and crooked oak will tell of thee for centuries to come." "it will not depart from the ways in which you train it." if, therefore, you would be a blessing to your child, and avert those terrible judgments of god which rest upon parental delinquency, begin now, while your infant is in the cradle, to sow the seeds of life. prune well the tender olive plants, and direct its evolving life in the way god would have it go. "soon as the playful innocent can prove a tear of pity or a smile of love," teach it to lisp the name of jesus and to walk in his commandments. but alas! how many christian parents are recreant to this duty! how many destroy their children by the over-indulgence of a misdirected love and sympathy, and by procrastinating the period of home-education. forgetful of the power of first impressions, they wait until their children are established in sin, and the seeds of evil are sown in their hearts. this is the reason why so many reckless and wicked children come out of christian homes. their parents permit their misdirected fondness to absorb all their thoughts and apprehensions of danger and responsibility. their love for the body and mind of their children seems to repel all love for, or interest in, their soul. the former they tenderly nurse, fondly caress, and zealously direct. but the soul of the infant is unhonored, unloved and uncared for. it is blighted in its first bursting of beauty. oh, cruel and unthinking parents! why will you thus abuse the loveliest and noblest part of your child? why make that babe of yours a mere plaything? if "out of the mouths of babes and sucklings god has perfected praise," then why not train them up to praise him? "take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for i say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my father which is in heaven." oh, you who are the nurse of infant innocence, have you ever thought of the deep curse that will attend your neglect of the babe which god has given you! have you, pious mother, as you pressed your child to your bosom, ever thought that it would one day be a witness for or against you? far better for thee and it that it were not born and you never revered as mother, than that you should nourish it for spiritual beggary here, and for the eternal burnings hereafter! oh, look upon that babe! it is the gift of god--given to thee, mother, to nurse for him. look upon that cherished one! see its smile of confidence turned to you! it is a frail and helpless bark on the tumultuous sea of life; it looks to you for direction,--for compass and for chart; your prayers for it will be heard; your hand can save it; the touch of your impressions will be a savor of life unto life, or of death unto death. "then take the heart thy charms have won, and nurse it for the skies!" chapter x. home dedication. "the rose was rich in bloom on sharon's plain, when a young mother with her first born thence went up to zion, for the boy was vowed unto the temple-service; by the hand she led him, and her silent soul, the while, oft as the dewy laughter of his eye met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think that aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers, to bring before her god!" beautiful thought, and thrice beautiful deed,--fresh from the pure fount of maternal piety! the hebrew mother consecrating her first-born child to the temple-service,--dedicating him to the god who gave him! what visions of unearthly glory must have been before her, as she led her little boy before the altar of the "king of kings!" happy mother! thou hast long since gone to thy great reward. and happy child! to be led by such a mother. ye are now together in that temple "not made with hands, eternal in the heavens," and with united voice swelling those anthems of glory which are poured from angelic lips and harps to him who sitteth upon the throne. what an example is this for the christian parent! god is the father of every home. from him cometh down every good and perfect gift; and hence to him should all the interests and the loved ones of the household, be dedicated. this is essential to the very conception of a christian home. but especially should the children be dedicated to the lord. that infant over which the mother bends and watches with such passionate fondness, is "an heritage of the lord," given to her only in trust, and will again be required from her. as soon as children are given they should be devoted to him; for "the flower, when offered in the bud, is no mean sacrifice." then and then only will parents properly respect and value their offspring, and deal with them as becometh the property of god. by withholding them, the parents become guilty of the deed of ananias and sapphira. like the hebrew mother, every christian parent will gratefully devote them to him, and rejoice that they have such a pure oblation to "bring before their god." "my child, my treasure, i have given thee up to him who gave thee me! ere yet thine eye rested with conscious love upon thy mother, long ere thy lips could gently sound her name, she gave thee up to god; she sought for thee one boon alone, that thou mightest he his child; his child sojourning on this distant land, his child above the blue and radiant sky, 'tis all i ask of thee, beloved one, still!" here is a dedication worthy of a christian mother. natural affection and human pride might lead the fond mother to dedicate her child at the altar of mammon, to gold, to fame, to magnificence, to the world. but no, every wish of the pious mother's heart is merged in one great wish and prayer, "that thou may'st be his child." the dedication of our children to the lord is one of the first acts of the religious ministry of home. all the means of grace will be of no avail without it. what will the acts of the gospel minister avail if they are not preceded by an offering of himself to the lord who has called him? his holy vocation demands such an offering. it is his voluntary response to and acceptance of his calling of god. thus with christian parents. what will baptism avail, so far as the parents are concerned, without this dedication of their children to him in whose name they are baptised? no more than the form apart from the spirit. it would be but a mockery of god. we have a beautiful example and illustration of this dedication, in the family of the faithful abraham. "by faith abraham, when he was tried, offered up isaac: and he that had received the promises offered up his only begotten son." we might at first view regard this act of his as an evidence of his want of parental sympathy and tenderness. but not so; it is rather an evidence of these. what he did was the prompting of a true faith, yielding implicit obedience to the lord, and offering as an obligation to him, what he loved most upon earth. had he not loved him so dearly, god would not have chosen him as a means of testing his father's religious fidelity. hence this oblation of his son was the best evidence of his supreme love to god, and that all he had was consecrated to his service. this act called for the subordination of natural affection to christian faith and love. "take now thine only son isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of moriah, and offer him there for a burnt offering!" what a startling command was this! how it must have stirred up the soul of that parent, and for the time caused a bitter conflict between natural affection and christian faith! "take thy son,"--had it been a slave, the command would not have been so stirring; but a son, an only son, the joy of his heart, and the pride and hope of his age,--the son he so much loved,--oh it was this that harrowed up such a revulsion in his soul, and, for the moment doubtless, caused him to shrink from the very thought of obedience. but the command was imperious,--it was from god; and though the parent shrunk from the deed, yet the faith of the faithful servant gained a signal triumph over all the protestations of natural affection, and silenced all its rising murmurs; for "abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with, him, and isaac his son, and clave the wood for the burnt offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which god had told him." there he built an altar, laid the wood in order, bound isaac, and laid him upon the wood on the altar. but when with uplifted sacrificial knife, he was about to slay his son, just at the point where god had the true test of his faith, a ministering angel stayed his hand, and prevented the bloody form in which he was about to offer his only son to god; "for now i know that thou fearest god, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son, from me!" he needed now but dedicate him in the moral sense to god. the case of samuel is another instance of the offering of children unto the lord. his mother had asked him of the lord, and vowed, as she prayed, to "give him unto the lord all the days of his life."-- sam. i., . her prayer was answered, and in obedience to her holy vow, she took him, when very young, with her to the temple, where she offered him up as an oblation to the lord. "for this child i prayed, and the lord hath given me my petition which i asked of him; therefore also have i lent him to the lord; as long as he liveth shall he be lent unto the lord!" david also consecrated all that he had to the lord,--his possessions as well as his children. when he built a house, he dedicated it to the lord, and prepared "a psalm and song at the dedication of the house." here in these examples of old testament family offerings to god, we have a type and illustration of the oblations of the christian home. the lord does not ask the christian parent, as he did abraham, to build an altar upon the summit of some lofty cliff, and there to thrust a sacrificial knife to the heart of his child, and offer his quivering flesh and bleeding body a burnt offering to him; but he commands him to bring his child to the altar of baptism in his church, and there dedicate his life, his talents, his all, as a living sacrifice "holy and acceptable unto god," vowing before witnessing angels and men that, as the steward of god and the representative of the child, he will hold it sacred, as the property of the lord, given to him only in trust; that he will consult and faithfully execute the will of the lord concerning the child, and that in all his relations to it, he will seek to make it subserve his purposes and reflect his glory. this is the most precious and acceptable oblation of the parent's heart and home,--more precious than gold or pearls, than rivers of blood, or streams of oil; and where there is a corresponding dedication of all that belongs to home, it promotes and preserves the highest privileges and the greatest well-being of the child. with the deep and sublime feelings of faith we should, therefore, take our little ones, in infancy, before the lord, as the free-will offering of the christian home; and in all subsequent periods of their life under the parental roof, we should eagerly watch, in each expanding faculty, in each growing inclination, in the bent of each tender thought, in the warm glow of each feeling and desire, for some indications of the will of god concerning their mission in this life. this leads us to remark finally, that, in the dedication of our children to the lord, we should have reference to the highest function within the calling of man, viz: the christian ministry; or in other words, we should offer our sons to god with the hope and prayer that he may call them to the work of the ministry, and every indication of his answer to our prayer, given in their mental and moral fitness, should encourage the parent to train them up with special reference to that sacred office. this, the state of the church and the many destitute and waste places of the earth, imperiously demand. like the hebrew mother, we should at least devote one of our sons to the temple-service, direct his attention to it, favor it by all our intercourse with him, and use all proper means for his preparation for it. and you may be assured that god will answer your prayer. your offering, if holy, will be acceptable. "even thus, of old, a babe was offered up-- young samuel, for the service of his temple; nor he refused the boon, but poured on him the anointing of all gifts and graces meet for his high office." but alas! how many parents refuse thus to yield their sons unto god! they will formally and outwardly dedicate their children to him in holy baptism; but afterwards obstruct their way to the ministry, yea, even discourage it for reasons the most worldly and infidel. they will remind them of its arduous duties and self-denials; they will remind them that it affords no money speculations, that the salary of ministers is so small, no wealth can be amassed by preaching, and besides, they will have to remove so far from home. and thus by urging such frivolous objections, they beget in their sons a prejudice against the ministry,--yea, a contempt for it. ah, if preaching were a money-making business; if it opened the door to luxury and affluence and worldly ease, then i am sure every parent would show the outward piety of dedicating his sons (and daughters too) to the ministry. here we see how natural affection, misdirected by the love of worldly gain, neutralizes the promptings of faith. had abraham lived under the same influence, he would not have obeyed the edict of god. it is because of the dominant spirit of worldliness in the christian home, that the laborers upon the walls of zion are inadequate to the great work to be done, that they are insufficient for the great harvest of souls. and this will ever continue so long as christian parents refuse to make an offering of their sons to god, and turn their homes into a den of thieves. such parental reservation of children for filthy lucre and the pleasures of sin for a season, involves a guilt which no redeeming attribute can mitigate. if god gave his only son to suffer and die upon the accursed tree, shall we, his professed followers, not give in turn our sons to him, to proclaim the glad news of a purchased and offered redemption? think of this, oh ye who profess to be the parents of a christian home, and have with the lip had your children dedicated to god in baptism! think that the gift of god has bought them with a price, and that as they belong to him, you rob god when you withhold them, and deal with them as your own property, leaving out of view the great law of stewardship. mistaken parents! methinks you would give your children to all save to god; you would devote them to any thing but religion. you fit them for this life, choose their occupation, labor to leave them a large inheritance, and rejoice when they rise to eminence in the world. but in all this, god, religion and eternity are cast into the shade; you act towards them as if god had no claim upon them, and you were under no obligations to meet that claim. think of this, ye who have been recreant to your duty,--ye who have not followed abraham to the mount of oblation, nor brought up your sons as an offered samuel. oh think, that god will demand of you these children, and that if they are not now devoted to the lord, you will not have them to return to him in the great day of final reckoning. may the momentous interests and responsibilities of that coming day bring you with your children around the altar of consecration, and constrain you there to say-- "i give thee to thy god--the god that gave thee, a well-spring of deep gladness to my heart! and precious as thou art, and pure as dew of hermon, he shall have thee, my own, my beautiful, my undefiled! and thou shalt be his child!" chapter xi. christian baptism. "water--of blest purity emblem--do we pour on thee; little one! regenerate be-- only by the crimson flood of the spotless, in the blood of the very son of god! father, son and holy ghost! take the feeble, take the lost, purchased once at calvary's cost!" what delightful associations cluster around the baptismal altar! how tenderly does the pious mother fold her babe to her yearning heart, as she devoutly approaches that consecrated spot, and there dedicates in and through this holy sacrament, the child of her love and hope, to him who gave it! what a holy charge she there assumes; what a sacred vow she there makes; what a solemn promise she there gives; what a momentous interest is entrusted to her there; what a weight of responsibility is there laid upon her! her charge is an infant soul; her vow is to be faithful to it; her promise is to train it up for god; and her's will be the lasting glory or the lasting shame! these very engagements and trusts elevate the pious parents; diffuse a tenderness and sympathy over all the domestic relations, and make better husbands, better wives, better parents, and better children, by the deep insight which is given to their faith in those mysterious relations and mutual obligations which bind them together. as the consecrated water falls upon the face of the devoted child, the parents feel the solemn vow sink deep into the soul, and realize the weight of that responsibility which god lays upon them. god commands us not only to dedicate our children to him, but to do so in the way he has appointed, viz., in and through christian baptism. in this way we bring our children into the church, and train them up in a churchly way. we bring them to god through the church. in their baptism we have, as it were, a confirmation of their dedication by "the mighty master's seal." it is the link which binds our children to the church, the rite of their initiation into the kingdom of christ, the sign and seal of their saving relation to the covenant of grace. by it they are solemnly set apart to the service of god, enrolled among the members of his kingdom, entitled to its privileges and guardian care, and placed in the appointed way of salvation and eternal life, receiving the seal and superscription of the son of god. this is indispensable to the demands of the christian faith. to deny that infants are thus included in the covenant of grace, destroys the purity and spiritual unity of the christian compact, and subverts the foundations and harmony of the christian home. it is revolting to the parent's faith to forbid his little ones the privilege of the church, and to treat them as aliens from the covenant of promise. does the gospel place them under such a ban of proscription? surely not! he who instituted the family relation had special regard to the family in all the appointments of his grace. his command is like that of noah, "come thou and all thy house into the ark." "the promise is unto you and your children." this is the comfort of the parent, that his children are planted by the ordinance of god into the soil of grace, where they may grow up as a tender plant in the likeness of his death, and be "like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that shall bring forth his fruit in his season; his leaf shall not wither, and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper." baptism in the christian home is eminently infant baptism. take this away, and you sever the strongest cord that binds church and home. as the jew was commanded to circumcise his child, and thus bring it into proper relations to the theocratical covenant, so the christian has a similar command from christ to bring his children, through the holy sacrament of baptism, to him. it is not our purpose to discuss the baptistic question. when we shall have thrown sufficient light upon it to convince the christian parent, that it is a duty to have little children dedicated to god in baptism, our plan shall be fully executed. we must either admit infant baptism, or deny that the christian covenant includes children, and that the parent is bound to dedicate them to god. hence the objection brought against infant baptism can, with equal propriety, be urged against circumcision; for the latter is the type of the former. in baptism christ places himself in true organic relations to the child, and thus opens up to it the sources from which alone the christian life can proceed and develop itself. the baptism of our children is grounded in their need of salvation at every age and stage of development. it is also based upon the very idea of christ himself; upon primitive christianity; upon the extent and compass of the christian covenant; and upon those vital relations which believing parents sustain to their offspring. it might be proven from the commission given by christ to his disciples to "preach the gospel to every creature;" from his language and conduct in reference to children; from the usage of the apostles and of the apostolic church. the idea and mission of christ himself, we think, would be a sufficient argument in favor of infant baptism. he included in his life the stage of childhood, and came to save the child as well as the man. his own infancy and childhood are securities for this. he entered into and passed through all the various states and stages of man's development on earth, and thus became adapted to the wants of every period of our life,--man's infancy as well as man's maturity. ireneus says, "christ jesus became a child to children, a youth to youth, and a man to man." the fact, too, that the blessings of the covenant of grace are extended to the children of believing parents, is sufficient to prove the validity of infant baptism. peter said on the day of pentecost, when he called upon his hearers to be baptized: "for the promise is to you, and your children, and all that are afar off, even as many as the lord our god shall call." thus his gospel excludes none, neither is it restricted to a certain age or capacity. as the child, as well as the man, fell and died in the first adam, so the child, as well as the man, can be made alive in the second adam. as infants, therefore, are subjects of grace, why not subjects also of baptism? as they are included in the covenant, why not enter it by the divinely constituted sacrament of initiation? as they are included in the plan of salvation, why not receive it in a churchly way? if christ is the saviour of infants, why not bring them to him through baptism? besides, the idea of following christ reaches its full meaning only through infant baptism. his own infancy, as we have already seen, is a warrant of this. without it he cannot penetrate and rule in every natural stage of human life. hence a denial of infant baptism is a subversion of the fundamentals of christian doctrine. the very constitution of the christian family, its unity and mission must be overthrown; for infant baptism is incorporated with the nature of christianity itself, with the conception and necessities of the individual christian life, and of the christian family life. and yet with the plainest teachings of the gospel before them, is it not strange that there are so many virulent enemies to infant baptism? their rejection of it seems to rest mainly upon the untenable position that baptism has meaning and force only when it is the fruit of an antecedent, self-conscious faith on the part of the subject, and that it is but the outward demonstration of a separate and prior participation of some inward grace. as infants have not a self-conscious faith, it is believed, therefore, that they are not, of course, fit subjects of baptism. there is a cunning sophistry in all this. it goes upon the supposition that faith necessarily demands the prior development of self-consciousness. it assumes that faith is bound to a particular age, and can be exercised only after the full and complete development of the logical consciousness, and is dependent upon it; it also assumes that this faith must necessarily be exercised by the subject of christian baptism. now this is all mere assumption. there is no scripture for it. in all this, the distinction is not made between faith in its first bud, and faith in its ripe fruit. the first may exist in the unconscious infant, just as undeveloped reason exists there; because natural powers do not generate supernatural faith. faith is the gift of god; and its existence does not depend upon any particular stage of mental development. the enemies of infant baptism can see nothing in baptism. they can see no objective force in that holy sacrament; but regard it as something merely external, extraneous, unproductive,--a mere unmeaning form in which a prior faith is pleased to express itself, as the conclusion of a work already accomplished. the great error here lies just in this, that they mistake it as an act of faith, whereas it is an act of christ. they think it is the formal rite through which they elect and receive christ; whereas it is the sacrament in which christ elects and receives them. if, in church worship, man placed himself in a relation to god, without god placing himself in a relation to man, then we might reject infant baptism. but this is not so. god, in baptism, places himself in a relation to the subject, receives the subject until it become a part of the organism of grace in its subjective and objective force, and is recognized as a member of the church of christ. now the falsity of the position assumed by the enemies of infant baptism lies just here, that only the subjective side of baptism is held up, while its objective, sacramental character is left altogether out of view. it reverses the relative positions of faith and baptism, making the former to take the place of the latter, and holding that any one dissociated with the church, can receive and exercise a true living faith, which overthrows the very idea of the church itself. it makes faith first, baptism second, entering the church third; whereas baptism comes before the conscious faith of the subject. if so, then why object to infant baptism? baptism is that sacrament by means of which the order of divine grace is continued. it generates faith, and its development is from authoritative, to free, personal faith. "what the personal election of christ was to the first circle of disciples, that baptism is for the successive church, the divine fact through which christ gives to his church its true and eternal beginning in the individual." if so, then is it not plain that baptism goes before the self-conscious faith of the subject? and if this church-founding sacrament brings your child into a living and saving relation to the church, then why deny it that baptism? dare you reverse the divine procedure which god has ordained for the salvation of his people? and if christ is related to the individual only through the general; if he is related to the members only through the body, and having fellowship with them only as the head of that body, then is it not plain that your children, in order to come to him as such, to be incorporated with him and related to him in a saving way, must come to him through the church,--must become a member of it, and that too in the manner and through the medium he has prescribed, viz., baptism? he who, for the reason, therefore, that children can have no self-conscious faith, refuses to have them baptized, but exposes his ignorance of the divine procedure of grace as developed in the church, of the true moral relation between parent and child, and of the scripture idea of the christian home. why not for the very same reason refuse to teach them, to have them pray, to bring them up to church service? yea, why not deny to them salvation itself? for the very same reason for which you reject infant baptism, you must also reject infant salvation; for faith is held up in the word of god as a qualification for salvation with more emphasis than as a qualification for baptism. hence if you say that infants cannot be baptized because incapable of faith, you must also say, by a parity of reasoning, that infants cannot be saved, because incapable of faith. this is a dilemma, and to avoid it, some enemies to infant baptism have even confessed that they see no hope for the salvation of children. thus dr. alexander carson says, "the gospel has nothing to do with infants. it is good news, but to infants it is no news at all. none can be saved by the gospel who do not believe it! consequently by the gospel no infants can be saved!" but if out of christ there is no salvation, then tell me, how will infants be saved? we have no answer from these enemies, yea, there is no answer! christian parents! what think you of this? when bending over the grave of a beloved child, with the cherished hope of meeting it in heaven, how would such intelligence as this startle you from your dream of reunion there, and cast a deep pall of desolation around your sorrowing hearts? does not the parent's faith forbid the intrusion of a doctrine so revolting as this? though you have been in your home, the divinely appointed representative of your child, and in its baptism exercised faith in its behalf, on the ground of those natural and moral relations which the lord has constituted between you and your child, yet in this startling dogma of the enemies of its baptism, you find a virtual denial of the existence of such moral relations and parental vicarage; yea, a denial of parental stewardship and of the religious ministry of the christian home. the revulsion with which the christian heart receives such a denial of infant baptism is at least a presumptive evidence against it. but we think enough has been said to lay the foundation of some practical comments upon the subject of christian baptism. if it is a fact that infants are proper subjects of baptism, then it is the duty of christian parents to have them baptized. it is not only a duty, but a delightful privilege, to consecrate them to god in a perpetual covenant never to be forgotten, regarding them as the members of the kingdom of christ, and so called to be god's children by adoption and grace. their baptism involves many parental duties and responsibilities. if it is both a sign and a seal of the covenant of grace, and a means of grace, so that the parent's faith, in their baptism, places the child in covenant relation to the incarnate word, through the life-giving spirit, then it is plain that the parent is bound to secure for the child those blessings which that baptism contemplates, and which hang upon the exercise of a receiving faith. this sacrament gives the child a churchly claim upon parental interposition in its behalf, in all things pertaining to its spiritual culture,--in a true religious training, in a proper direction in the use of the means of grace, in a holy christian example. here it is the parent's duty to represent the church, to act for the church in religious ministrations to the child, to be the steward of the church in the christian home, to rear up the child for a responsible membership. no parent, therefore, who neglects the baptism of the child, can have "the answer of a good conscience towards god." if we are satisfied to have our homes separate from the church; if we are satisfied with individualistic, disembodied, unassociated christianity,--a religion that owns no church, but which has its origin, root and maturity in the self-conscious activity of the individual, we may then neglect this duty. but in doing so, to be consistent, we must also discard the sister ordinance of the lord's supper, yea, all the churchly means of grace; yea, the church itself; for why repudiate one ordinance,--one idea of associated christianity, and not all the others? that baptism is greatly abused and neglected, none will deny. it is often abused by neglect of the proper time of its administration. the earliest period of infancy is the proper time; for then there will be a proper correspondence in time between the dedication and the baptism. in this we have an example from jewish circumcision. the pious jew took the infant when it was but eight days old, and had it circumcised. but many christian parents defer the baptism of their children until late childhood, while their vows of dedication are left in mere naked feeling and resolution, having no sacramental force and expression; and as a consequence will grow cold and indifferent. when parents thus delay having their children brought within the fold of god and the bosom of the church, they presume to be wiser than god, and oppose their own weak reason to his word and promises. baptism is often abused, also, by being used as a mere habit, an unmeaning form, without a proper sense of its significance, importance, duties and responsibilities. it is administered because others do the same,--because customary among most church members, and because perhaps it looks like an adherence to the outward of christianity and the church at least. when they have thus obeyed the law of habit, and girded themselves with the formula of parental duty, they feel they have done enough; and perhaps neither their children nor the vows they assumed at their baptism ever after recur to them as objects of specific duty. but we would remind such parents, that habit is not always duty, and our adherence to habit does not prove our sincerity and the truthfulness of our purpose. it does not always imply "the answer of a good conscience towards god." if having our children baptized is simple obedience to the law of habit, it is not the performance of a parental duty, but the abuse of a blessed privilege; there is in it all no living churchly expression of willing vows. in this way we only reach its outward form, and we do that, not because of its inherent worth, not because of a duty and privilege; but because we desire to cope with others, and decorate our religion in the popular dress of other people's habits. baptism is also abused by mistaking the object and design of its administration. why do many parents have their children baptized? because they wish to express their vows of dedication in that sacramental form and way which god has appointed? because they desire to bring them into the fold and bosom of the church, and place them in saving relations to the means of grace? alas, no! but too often because they make their baptism the mere occasion of giving them, in a formal, public way, their christian names. they christen their children to give them a name; and often with them this holy sacrament is as empty as the name. their baptism, in their view, is but the sealing and confirming the name they had before chosen for the child; and when this is done they have no more thought of the baptism. with them the baptism of their children is the ordinance of name-giving. before it takes place they are busied about getting a name from the most approved, and fashionable novels of the day. this takes the place of dedication. their prior thoughts are all absorbed in getting a strange, new-fangled name,--such an one as will carry you away by association to some love-sick tale, or remind you of the burning of rome, or some other deed which has disgraced humanity. and then as soon as this is done, they fix upon some auspicious occasion when either in the church or in the presence of a select company at home, (for children cry now-a-days too much to bring them to church) they have their pastor to baptize them. perhaps a great feast is prepared; godfathers and godmothers (if they have the warrant of some valuable presents) are chosen; and then in all the glare and parade of fashion, they have the ordinance administered. and what then is the first joyful cry of the fond parents, after the solemn ceremony is ended? why "now, dear, you have your name!" and this is the end,--yes, the finale of the vows there made before god,--the end of all until god shall call them to account! it requires but very little discrimination to see that in all this the nature, design, and obligations of christian baptism are left totally out of view. they do not here appreciate this ordinance as a channel for the communication of god's grace to their children. when baptized they do not regard them as having been received into gracious relation to god, as plants in the lord's vineyard, as having put on christ, and as having their ingrafting into him not only signified but sealed. thus being undervalued, it is, as a consequence, abused and neglected. the great neglect of christian baptism is doubtless owing to the low, unscriptural views of its nature and practical importance; for if they realized its relations to the plan of salvation, and its office in the appropriation of that salvation to their children, they would not permit them to grow up unbaptized, neither would they be recreant to the solemn duties which are binding upon the parent after its administration. but upon the subject of baptism itself, we have seen that there is great laxity of feeling and opinion. the spirit of our fathers upon this point is becoming so diluted that we can scarcely discern any longer a vestige of the good old landmarks of their sacramental character. instead of walking in them, christians are now falling a prey to a latitudinarian spirit of the most destructive kind. they are, in leaving these old landmarks, falling into the clutches of rationalism and radicalism, which will ere long leave their homes and their church "a wreck at random driven, without one glimpse of reason or of heaven!" even ministers themselves seem to grow indifferent to this wide-spread and growing evil. they hardly ever utter a word of warning from the pulpit against it. their members may be known by them to neglect the baptism of their children; and yet by their silence they wink at this dereliction; and when they have occasion to speak of this ordinance, many advert to it as a mere sign, as something only outward, not communicating an invisible grace, not as a seal of the new covenant, ingrafting into christ. no wonder when this holy sacrament is thus disparagingly spoken of, that christian parents will neglect it practically, as a redundancy in the church,--as a tradition coming in its last wailing cry from ages and forms departed,--as a church rite marked obsolete, as an old ceremonial savoring of old jewish shackles, embodying no substantial grace, and unfit for this age of railroad progression and gospel libertinism. will any one deny the extent of such a spirit in the church and homes of the present day? let him refer to church statistics, where he may receive some idea of the magnitude of this evil. in them we can see the extent to which parents have neglected the baptism of their children. we take from a note in the "mercersburg review" the following statistical items: "the presbytery of londonderry reports but one baptism to sixty-four communicants; the presbytery of buffalo city, the same; the presbytery of rochester city, one to forty-six; the presbytery of michigan, one to seventy-seven; the presbytery of columbus, one to thirty. in the presbytery of new brunswick, there are three churches which report thus: one reports three hundred and forty-three communicants, and three baptisms; another reports three hundred and forty communicants, and two baptisms. in philadelphia, one church reports three hundred and three communicants, and seven baptisms; another, two hundred and eighty-seven communicants, and one baptism." these statistics speak volumes. they tell us how christian parents neglect the baptism of their children, and also how the church winks at it. and from this neglect we can easily infer their indifference to it. if we refer to the statistics of all other churches, we shall witness a similar neglect. no branch of the church now is free from the imputation of such neglect. it is now difficult indeed, to induce parents to have their children baptized, because they think it is no use! "let them wait," say they, "till they grow up, and then they will know more about it!" this shows us where the parent stands, viz., in an unchurchly state, and radical to the very core. it shows us what that influence is, which is at work upon his mind. "he will know more about it!"--just as if that in religion is worthless until we know all about it. baptism then is not worth anything until the child understands all about it! in that parental utterance we hear the wildest shout of triumphant rationalism! but again, baptism is often abused by parental unfaithfulness to its obligations. in the baptism of their children, parents solemnly vow to bring them up in the nurture of the lord, to train them up in his holy ways, to teach them by precept and example, to pray for them and teach them the privilege of prayer. and yet how grossly are these solemn vows left unperformed, and even never thought of in all after life! perhaps the very opposite course is taken even on the day of baptism. parents! by this you endanger your own souls as well as the souls of your children. how will the memory of such neglected duty and privilege sink with deepening anguish in your souls, when you shall be called hence to answer to god for your parental stewardship! be not deceived; god is not mocked; neither will he hold you guiltless when you thus outrage his holy sacrament. baptism is often abused by the unfaithfulness of children to its privileges, influences and blessings. many children fight against these, prevent parents from performing their duties, and repel all the overtures of the christian home, all the offers of the spirit's baptism, abandoning the means of grace, refusing to assume the baptismal engagement taken for them by their parents; and thus, so far as they are concerned, undo and neutralize what their parents did for them. oh, ye baptized children,--ye to whom the holy ministry of home has been faithfully applied,--know ye not that the frowns of abused heaven are upon you, and that the memory of your rebellion against the prerogatives of the family, will constitute an ingredient in your cup of woe? the privilege of baptism lays you under solemn requisition. if unfaithful to it, it will be your condemnation, and add new fuel to the flame of a burning conscience. parents and children! be faithful to this holy ordinance of god. it is a solemn service. you should approach the baptismal font with a trembling step and a consecrated heart. and what a solemn moment it is, when you take your child away from that altar! there you gave it up to god,--dedicated it to his service; and there in turn he commits it to you in trust, saying to you as pharaoh's daughter said to the mother of moses, "take this child and nurse it for me, and i will pay thee thy wages," and you bore it away, as did that faithful mother, to bring it up for god. there you solemnly promised that in training that child, the will of god should be your will, and the law of all your conduct towards it. you can never forget that solemn transaction, and how you there vowed before witnessing men and angels that you would be faithful to the little one god has given you. what now has been the result? eternity will answer. chapter xii. christian names. "she named the child ichabod."-- samuel. "thus was the building left ridiculous, and the work confusion named." christian baptism suggests christian names. this introduces us to an important topic, viz., the kind of names christian parents should give to their children at their baptism. baptismal names are indeed an important item of the christian home. much more depends upon them than we are at first sight of the subject, disposed to grant. christianity eminently includes the great law of correspondence between its inward spirit and its outward form. its form and contents cannot be separated. the principle of fitness, it everywhere exhibits; and hence its nomenclature is the herald of its spirit and truth. the names that religion has given to her followers signify some principle of association between them. they were adopted to designate some fact in the history of the individual, or in his relation to the church. hence the names adopted for the children of the christian home should be the utterance of some fact or calling which belongs to that home. their name is one of the first things which children know, and hence it makes a deep impression upon them. and as our christian names are given to us at the time of our baptism, one would think that there is always a correspondence between the name and some fact or interest connected with the occasion. we should then receive a christian name, a name which does not bind us by the laws of association to what is evil either in the past or the present, but which indicates a relation to some precious boon involved in the dedication of the child to god. is this always so? by no means. it once was. it was so in the hebrew home and in the families of the apostolic age. but in this day of parental rage after new-fangled things and names, taken from works of fiction and novels of doubtful character, we find that parents care but very little about the baptismal name being the herald of a religious fact. "what is in a name?" was a question propounded by a poet. his answer was "nothing!" "that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." the principle here evolved is false. there is much in a name; and at the creation names were not mechanically given to things; but there was a vital correspondence between the name and the thing named. much depends upon the name. it exerts a potent influence for good, or for evil upon the bearer and upon all around him. primarily, a name supposed some correspondence between its meaning and the person who bore it. hence the name should not be arbitrary in its application, but should "link its fitness to idea," and with the person, run in parallel courses. "for mind is apt and quick to wed ideas and names together, nor stoppeth its perceptions to be curious of priorities." nebuchadnezzar, king of babylon, felt that practically there was much in a name, when he heathenized the names of the young hebrew captives. by this he thought to detach them from their hebrew associations. god was in each of their original names, and in this way they were reminded of their religion. but the names this chaldee king gave them were either social or alluded to the idolatry of babylon. their hebrew names were to them witnesses for god, mementoes of the faith of their fathers; hence the king, to destroy their influence, called daniel, belteshazzar, i.e. "the treasurer of the god bel;" hannaniah he called shadrach, i.e. "the messenger of the king;" mishael he called meshach, i.e. "the devotee of the goddess shesach." he showed his cunning in this, and a historical testimony to the potent influence of a name. by this same rule of correspondence, adam doubtless named, by order of his creator, the things of nature as they struck his senses. "he specified the partridge by her cry, and the forest prowler by his roving, the tree by its use, and the flower by its beauty, and everything according to its truth." the hebrews obeyed the same law in naming their children. with them there was a sacred importance attached to the giving of a name. for every chosen name they had a reason which involved the person's life, character or destiny. adam named the companion of his bosom, "woman because she was taken out of man." he called "his wife's name eve, because she was the mother of all living." eve called her first-born cain (possession) "because i have gotten a man from the lord." she called another son seth (appointed,) "for god hath appointed me another seed instead of abel, whom cain slew." samuel was so named because he was "asked of and sent to god." god himself often gave names to his people; and each name thus given, conveyed a promise, or taught some rule of life, or bore some divine memorial, or indicated some calling of the person named. says dr. krummacher on this point: "names were to the people like memoranda, and like the bells on the garments of the priests, reminding them of the lord and his government, and furnishing matter for a variety of salutary reflections. to the receivers of them they ministered consolation and strength, warning and encouragement; and to others they served to attract the attention and heart of god." this was right, and fully accorded with the economy of the hebrew home, and with the conception of language itself. would that the christian home followed her pious example! but christians now are too much under the influence of irreligious fashion. instead of giving their children those good old religious names which their fathers bore, and which are endeared to us by many hallowed associations, they now repudiate them with a sneer as too vulgar and tasteless. they are out of fashion, too common, don't lead us into a labyrinth of love-scrapes and scenes of refined iniquity, and are now only fit for a servant. hence instead of resorting to the bible for a name, these sentimental parents will pore over filthy novels, or catch at some foreign accent, to get a name which may have a fashionable sound, and a claim upon the prevailing taste of the times, and which may remind one of the battles of some ambitious general, or of the adventures of some love-sick swain, or of the tragic deeds of some fashionable libertine! and when such a name is found to suit the ear of fashion and of folly, it is applied to the child, and reiterated by the minister before the baptismal font; and as often as it is afterwards repeated it reminds one perhaps of deeds which put modesty to blush, and startle the ear of justice and humanity. what a burning shame is this to the christian home! the child who is cursed with such a name has ever before him the memorandum of his parent's folly, and as a recognized example, the character of him after whom he has been named. as often as he is hailed by it, he blushes to think that he has been called by pious parents after one who, perhaps, has turned many a home into desolation, and disgraced and blighted forever the fond hopes and joys of the young and old. have thoughts and associations like these no demoralizing influence? how can parents admonish their children against novel reading after they have taken their names from novels? the giving of christian names at the present time is indeed a ridiculous farce, an insult to christianity, and a representation of stoical infidelity before the baptismal altar. it is there an act of the babylonish king to heathenize the child. we might almost say that the folly has become a rage. the rage for new names especially,--names which do not adorn the sacred page, nor carry us back to the times and faith of our fathers, but which have gained notoriety in the world of fiction, and associate us with the lover's affrays and with the desperado's feats,--these are the names which christian parents too often seek with avidity for their children. if you were to judge their homes by these names, you would think yourself in a turkish seraglio, or amid the voluptuous scenes of a parisian court, or in the bosom of a heathen family. what, for instance, is there about such names as nero, caesar, pompey, punch, that would remind you that you were in a christian home? it is often disgusting, too, to see how some christian parents, who live in humble life, seek to ape, in their children, the empty sounding titles of the world. they only show their vanity and weakness, and often bring ridicule upon their children; for-- "to lend the low-born noble names, is to shed upon them ridicule and evil; yea, many weeds run rank in pride, if men have dubbed them cedars, and to herald common mediocrity with the noisy notes of fame, tendeth to its deeper scorn, as if it were to call the mole a mammoth." when we thus give our children names associated with battle-fields, empty titles, brilliant honors, and lucrative offices,--positions in life which they can never expect to reach, and which, if they did, would not do honor to the child of a christian family, we do them great injury; we fasten in them feelings the most disastrous, and draw out propensities unbecoming the child devoted to the lord, breeding in his soul a peevish repining at his station. alas! that christian homes should ever become so servile in their devotions to the rotten sentiments and flimsy interests of misguided and perverted fashion! her smile in your home is that of a harlot; her touch is the withering blight of corruption; her dominion is the desolation of family hopes and the extermination of those sacred prerogatives with which the lord has invested the christian fireside. the ball will take the place of prayer; novels will take the place of the bible; favorites will take the place of husbands and wives; and the children will regard their parents only as their masters. christian parents should, therefore, give suitable names to their children, that is, such names as will correspond with their state, character and relations to god,--names which do not suggest the idea of war, rapine, humbug, romance, and sensuality, but which are associated with the christian life and calling, and which serve as a true index to the spirit and character of the parental fireside. reason, as well as faith, will dictate such a choice; for "there is wisdom in calling a thing fitly; names should note particulars through a character obvious to all men, and worthy of their instant acceptation." our name is the first and the last possession at our disposal. it determines from the days of childhood our inclinations. it employs our attention through life, and even transports us beyond the grave. hence we should give appropriate names to our children,--such as will interest them, and neither be a reproach, on the one hand, nor reach to unattainable and unworthy heights, on the other; for the mind of your child will take a bias, from its name, to good or to evil. why not adopt scriptural names for them? are they not as beautiful as other names? they are. and is not their influence as salutary? it is. and are they not more suitable for the christian home than any other? they are. where is there a more lovely name than mary,--lovely in its utterance, and thrice lovely in the glowing memories which cluster around it, and in the hallowed home-associations it awakens in the christian heart, drawing us at once to the feet of jesus, where a mary sat in confiding pupilage, and sealed her instructions and gratitude with the tear-drop that glowed like early dew upon her dimpled cheek? would christian parents desire to give their children more beautiful names,--beautiful in the light of history and of heaven,--than that of benjamin, "son of the right hand;" of david, "dear, beloved;" of dionysius, "divinely touched;" of eleazar, "help of god;" of eli, "my offering;" of enoch, "dedicated;" of jacob, "my present;" of lemuel, "god is with them;" of nathan, "given, gift;" of nathaniel, "gift of god;" of samuel, "asked of god and sent of god," &c.? besides, there are names of distinguished christians, such as wilberforce, howard, page, martyn, paul, peter, john, fenelon, clement, baxter, &c.,--bright as dew-drops on the page of history, and as beautiful in their enunciation as any chosen from the world of heartless fashion,--as beautiful in sound, and infinitely more so in associations which bind them to deeds of humanity and christian love. the utterance of such names would be more becoming the christian home; because they aid in developing the purest, holiest and loftiest idea of its nature and calling. such names will bind your little ones to pure and holy persons and deeds, and will suit the book of life in which you hope to have them enrolled. "then, safe within a better home, where time and its titles are not found, god will give thee his new name, and write it on thy heart; a name, better than of sons, a name dearer than of daughters, a name of union, peace and praise, as numbered in thy god." chapter xiii. home as a nursery. "the ostrich, silliest of the feathered kind, and formed of god without a parent's mind, commits her eggs, incautious, to the dust, forgetful that the foot may crush the trust; and, while on public nurseries they rely, not knowing, and too oft not caring why, irrational in what they thus prefer no few, that would seem wise, resemble her." to nurse means to educate or draw out and direct what exists in a state of mere involution. it means to protect, to foster, to supply with appropriate food, to cause to grow or promote growth, to manage with a view to increase. thus greece was the nurse of the liberal arts; rome was the nurse of law. in horticulture, a shrub or tree is the nurse or protector of a young and tender plant. we are said to nurse our national resources. isaiah, in speaking of the coming messiah and the glory of his church, says, "thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side." "kings shall be thy nursing fathers, and their queens thy nursing mothers." the place or apartment appropriated to such nursing is called a nursery. thus a plantation of young trees is called a nursery. shakspeare calls padua the nursery of arts. we call a very bad place the nursery of thieves and rogues. dram-shops are the nurseries of intemperance. commerce is called the nursery of seamen. universities are the nurseries of the arts and sciences. the church on earth is called the nursery of the church in heaven. christian families are called the nurseries of the church on earth, because in the former its members are nursed and propagated for the purpose of being transplanted into the latter. in the same sense and for the same reason, the christian home is the nursery of the young,--of human nature in its normal state. and as home is the nursery of the state as well as of the church on earth and in heaven, we must see that it is a physical, intellectual and religious nursery. we shall briefly consider it in these aspects. indeed the christian home cannot be considered in a more interesting and responsible light. the little child, dedicated to god in holy baptism, is entirely helpless and dependent upon the ministrations of the nursery. there is the department of its first impressions, of its first directions, of its first intellectual and moral formation, of the first evolution of physical and moral life. there the child exists as but the germ of what is to be. it grows up under the fostering care and plastic power of the parents. god's commission to them in the nursery is, to bring up these germs of life, in his nurture admonition. "take the germ, and make it a bud of moral beauty. let the dews of knowledge, and the light of virtue, wake it in richest fragrance and in purest hues." the nursery is the department of home in which the mother fulfils her peculiar mission. this is her special sphere. none can effectually take her place there. she is the center of attraction, the guardian of the infant's destiny; and none like she, can overrule the unfolding life and character of the child. god has fitted her for the work of the nursery. here she reigns supreme, the arbitress of the everlasting weal or woe of untutored infancy. on her the fairest hopes of educated man depend, and in the exercise of her power there, she sways a nation's destiny, gives to the infant body and soul their beauty, their bias and their direction. she there possesses the immense force of first impressions. the soul of her child lies unveiled before her, and she makes the stamp of her own spirit and personality upon its pliable nature. she there engrafts it, as it were, into her own being, and from the combined elements of her own character, builds up and establishes the character of her offspring. hers will, therefore, be the glory or the shame. "then take the heart thy charms have won, and nurse it for the skies." the nursery is that department of home in which the formation of our character is begun. infancy demands the nursery. it is not full-formed and equipped for the battle of life. it lies in the cradle in a state of mere involution, and in the hands of its parents is altogether passive, and susceptible of impressions as wax before the sun. the germ of the man is there; but it has yet to be developed. its indwelling life must be nurtured with tender and assiduous care. it demands an influence suited to the expansion of its nature into bloom and maturity. it demands physical development, mental evolution, moral training, and spiritual elevation. in order to these it must live amidst the sweet and plastic socialities of maternal relationship. it must come under the fostering influence of a mother's heart, and be reared up by the tender touches of a mother's hand. this idea is embodied in home as a nursery. this is fourfold in its conception and relation to the child. the nursery is physical. this involves the means of keeping the child in health, and the appliances of a vigorous physical development. the christian mother, to this end, should make herself acquainted with the physiology of the infant body. many well-meaning mothers, from sheer ignorance, destroy the health of their children; and it is on this account perhaps that four-tenths of them die under five years of age. they should also consider the bearing of the body upon the mind and morals of their children. how often do ignorant and indolent parents, by giving their children over to the care of sickly and immoral nurses, ruin forever the health and souls of their offspring. much, then, depends upon the physical nurture of your child. if you would not injure its mind and soul, you must nurse its body with tender care and wisdom. a vital bond unites them; they reciprocally influence each other, and hence what affects the one must have a corresponding influence upon the other. neglect the body of your child; destroy its health either by extreme and fastidious care, or by a brutal neglect, and you at the same time do lasting injury to its mind and morals; for the body as the vehicle of mind and spirit, is used for spiritual ends, and should, therefore, be nurtured with direct reference to these. your child, in the nursery, is like the tender plant. the storm of passion and the chill of indifference and the oppression of parental tyranny should not be heard and felt there; for where the storm rages and coldness freezes and the hand of cruelty oppresses, we can have no beautiful and vigorous development of physical or moral powers. there will be a stinted and one-sided growth. at best it will be dwarfish, and tend to counteract the spontaneous outflow of mental and moral life. the tender plant, when, cramped and clogged by existing impediments, cannot spring up into beauteous maturity. neither can your child, when crammed with sweetmeats, and oppressed and screwed into monstrous contortions by the cruel inquisition of fashion and fashionable garments. in this way the misdirected love and cruel pride of mothers often destroy the health and beauty of their children. they cause a sickly and dwarfish growth by too much confinement and mental taxation, by a too rigid choice of diet, by daily, uncalled for decoctions of medicine, and by fitting the body in a dress as the chinese do their children's feet in shoes; in a word, by making the entire nursery life too artificial, and substituting the laws of art for those of nature. the result must be a delicate, artificial constitution, too fragile for the trials and duties of life. the body of your child has not the blooming, blushing form of nature, but the cold marble cast of a statue; and it imprints itself upon the disposition, the spirit, the mental faculties. it shows itself in peevishness, in imbecility, in such a passive, slavish subjection to the rules and interests of mere artificial life, as to admit no hope almost of spiritual progression. the nursery is also intellectual. the mind of your child is unfolding as well as its body; and hence the former, as well as the latter, demands the nursery. how much of the mental vigor and attainments of children depend upon the prudent management of the nursery. hence parents should "exert a prudent care to feed our infant minds with proper fare; and wisely store the nursery by degrees with wholesome learning, yet acquired with ease. and thus well-tutored only while we share a mother's lectures and a nurse's care." parents may abuse the minds of their children in the nursery, either by total neglect, or by immature education, by too early training and too close confinement to books at a very early age, thus taxing the mind beyond its capacities. this is often the case when children betray great precocity of intellect; and the pride of the parent seeks to gratify itself through the supposed gift of the child. in this way parents often reduce their children to hopeless mental imbecility. again, parents often injure the minds of their children by their misguided efforts to train the mind. even in training them to speak, how imprudent they are in calling words and giving ideas in mutilated language. it is just as easy to teach children to speak correctly, and to call all things by their proper names, as to abuse their vernacular tongue. such mutilations are impediments to the growth of the intellect. the child must afterwards be taught to undo what it was taught to do and say in the nursery. but as this subject will be fully considered in the chapter on home education, we shall refrain from further comment here. the nursery is moral and spiritual. the first moral and religious training of the child belongs to the nursery, and is the work of the mother. upon her personal exhibition of truth, justice, virtue, &c., depends the same moral elements in the character of her child. in the nursery we receive our first lessons in virtue or in vice, in honesty or dishonesty, in truth or in falsehood, in purity or in corruption. the full-grown man is the matured child morally as well as physically and intellectually. the same may be said of the spiritual formation and growth of the child. spiritual culture belongs eminently to the nursery. there the pious parent should begin the work of her child's salvation. from what we have now seen of the nursery, we may infer its very common abuse by christian parents in various ways. they abuse it either by forsaking its duties, or giving it over to nurses. the whole subject warns parents against giving over their children to dissolute nurses. what a blushing shame and disgrace to the very name of christian mother, it is for her to throw the whole care and responsibility of the nursery upon hired and irreligious servants. and why is this so often done? to relieve the mother from the trouble of her children, and afford her time and opportunity to mingle unfettered in the giddy whirl of fashionable dissipation. in circles of opulent society it would now be considered a drudgery and a disgrace for mothers to attend upon the duties of this responsible department of home. but the nurse cannot be a substitute for the mother. "then why resign into a stranger's hand a task so much within your own command, that god and nature, and your interest too seem with one voice to delegate to you?" the same may be said of boarding schools, to which many parents send their children to rid themselves of the trouble of training them up. they are sent there at the very age in which they mostly need the fostering care of a parent. there they soon become alienated from home, and lose the benefit of its influence; and there too they often contract habits and are filled with sentiments the most degenerating and corrupt. they grow up and enter society without any conscious relation to home, and as a consequence, regard society as a mere heartless conventionalism. to this part of the subject we shall, in another chapter, devote special attention. it demands the prayerful consideration of christian parents. "why hire a lodging in a house unknown, for one whose tenderest thoughts all hover round your own? this second weaning, needless as it is, how does it lacerate both your heart and his!" chapter xiv. home-sympathy. "sweet sensibility! thou keen delight! unprompted moral! sudden sense of right! perception exquisite! fair virtue's seed! thou quick precursor of the liberal deed! thou hasty conscience! reason's blushing morn! instinctive kindness, ere reflection's born! prompt sense of equity! to thee belongs the swift redress of unexamined wrongs! eager to serve, the cause perhaps untried, but always apt to choose the suffering side!" where shall we find a more exquisite picture of home-sympathy than this, from the pen of that truly pious woman, hannah more! we consider the home-sympathy as an argument against the neglect and abuse of the nursery. it is the instinctive impulse of the parent's heart to be faithful to the trust of home. what mother, prompted by such sympathy, can be recreant to the duties of her household? can she, keenly sensible to the danger of her children, anxious for their welfare, prompt to do them justice, eager to procure them interests and joys, yearning to alleviate their misfortunes, push them from her arms, and give them over to the care of unfeeling and immoral nurses? if among all the members of the christian home "there is a holy tenderness, a nameless sympathy, a fountain love,-- branched infinite from parents to children, from husband to wife, from child to child, that binds, supports, and sweetens human life," then the law of sympathy is the standard of faithfulness to the loved ones of home, and its violation is an abuse of the affections and faith of the heart. we shall now consider the natural and spiritual sympathy of home. what are the natural elements of home-sympathy? the original meaning of sympathy is "harmony of the affections." as such it is an instinctive element of human nature. "sympathy," says adams in his elements of christian science, "is a natural harmony by which, upon matters especially that concern the affections, one human being shall, under certain conditions, feel, feel in despite of all concealment of language, the real state of the other." it is, in a word, that law of our nature which makes the feeling of one become affected in the same way as are the feelings of another, so that, in obedience to this law, "we rejoice with them that rejoice, and weep with them that weep." in order to this the motive need not be the same in those in whom the feeling is the same; for that feeling engenders a feeling of its own kind in the other, independent of similar motive. home-sympathy is that primary power of the heart by which all the affections of one member are extended to all the other members. it awakens in each for all the others, those delicate sensibilities which impel to the most self-denying and benevolent acts. the parent who sympathizes with the child, will extend to it all the aids within a parent's ability. its nature is to yield more of itself to weeping than to rejoicing, to misery than to joy. the parent will exert more power and do more for the wretched child than for those of his children who are not in the same condition. he will leave the latter in their security, and seek the one lost sheep of his little flock. thus it exerts a sheltering influence against the dangers and miseries of human life. it is the law of home-preservation, written upon the heart, obeyed by the affections, and impelling each member to yield a voluntary devotion to the welfare of all the others. it is this which makes it one of the most lovely attributes of home. it is one of the golden chains that link its members together in close unity, making one heart of the many that are thus fused together, and blending into beautiful unison their specific feelings, and hopes and interests. it is, therefore, the law of oneness in the family, weaving together, like warp and woof, the existence of the members, and locking each heart into one great home-heart, "like the keys of an organ vast," so that if one heart be out of tune, the home-heart feels the painful jar, and gives forth discordant sounds. by it we are not only bound to our kindred, but to our friends, our nation, our race. it impels us to all our acts of benevolence even to an enemy. earth would be a dreary scene, and society would be a curse, if it did not reign in human nature. sympathy was a rich and interesting theme with the ancients. it entered into all their philosophy and religion, and gave rise to numerous fables. they believed that sympathy was a miraculous principle, and that it reigned in irrational and inanimate things. thus they thought that "two harps being tuned alike, and one being played, the chords of the other would follow the tune with a faint, sympathetic music." it was also believed that precious stones sympathized with certain persons, that the stars sympathized with men, that the efficacy of ointment depended upon sympathy, that "wounds could be healed at a distance by an ointment whose force depended upon sympathy, the ointment being smeared upon the weapon, not upon the wound." upon this belief many erroneous, superstitious and dangerous systems of philosophy and religion were established. the natural philosophy of baptista porta, or albertus magnus, was founded upon the principle of sympathy. plato applied this principle to marriage, and maintained that "marriage was the union of two souls that once, in their preexistent state, were one, and that sympathy urges them to union again, and sends them unconsciously seeking it over the world." in the middle ages it was maintained that two friends could be so moved with mutual sympathy as to have, under certain conditions, a true and perfect knowledge of one another's state, even when at a great distance apart. to the revival of this erroneous view of the law of sympathy may be ascribed the theories of mesmerism and spiritual rappings at the present day. home-sympathy, viewed as a feeling and a faculty, is twofold in its nature, viz., passive and active. as passive, it is the mere sense of harmony of feeling among all the members, producing the idea and feeling of the oneness of home. it makes a unity of affection, so that the temper, hopes and interests of each member have a living echo and response in all the others. it gives to home its unitive heart, preserves its vital coherence, fuses all the hearts together, makes each a thread in the web of home-being, where each finds its true measure, is inspired with the home-feeling when all is right, and oppressed with home-sickness when separated from it. but home-sympathy is also active. as such it is "the active power that one person has naturally of entering into the feelings of another, and being himself affected as that other is." each member of home has the power in his feelings of making the feelings of all the other members his own, though he may not have the causes of the feelings of the one with whom he sympathizes. thus one friend may feel the grief of another, actually and really, though he may not suffer the loss of that friend. he can make the emotion which that loss caused, his own. we may weep with the mother who pours her floods of anguish upon the grave of her child, though we may not have sustained the same loss. the husband weeps with his wife, though he may not be able to feel the pangs which penetrate her heart. the child can enter into the feelings of the parent, and be affected to tears or to joy by them. and thus the home-sympathy demands that all the emotions of home, whether joyful or painful, must affect all,--must vibrate from heart to heart. it involves the power of home-transference, by which, each member conveys to his own affections, all within home. it is thus the law of adaptation and assimilation, for the home-affections. in obedience to this law the hearts and interests of the members are bound up in beautiful harmony. the necessities of one are supplied by all. it is this which makes the members faithful to each other, and prompts them to deeds of disinterested love. it is, therefore, only when the home-sympathy, as a feeling and a faculty, is carried out and acted upon according to its instinctive impulses, that it becomes an effective agent of good. this, however, is not always done. often it is neutralized by not being permitted to express itself according to the laws of its own operation. many members have acute feelings and great powers of sympathy, but it exists in them only as feeling, only as a stimulus, a sentiment, and is, therefore, nothing but home-sentimentalism,--a disease of home-sympathy. thus, for instance, parents may weep over the wickedness of their children, and the pious wife may lament the impenitence of her husband; but if they go no further, their sympathy is really false, because it does not share in and feel the state of others, nor seek to alleviate their impending miseries. the home-sympathy is not simply the look of the priest and levite upon the half-dead traveler, but also the help of the good samaritan. its language is not only, "be ye clothed and fed," but also, "i will clothe and feed thee." the mere indulgence in the feeling of sympathy is but to harden the heart in the end. such were the sympathies of rosseau,--mere heart-stimuli, without legitimate deeds and objective force, existing only as a love-sick sentiment. and this was both the theme of his eloquence and the cause of his misery. such, too, were the sympathies of robespierre,--a mere ebullition of disembodied sentiment, borne up like a floating bubble upon muddy waters, and exploding upon the slightest depression. but, on the other hand, when home-sympathy is issued in faithful action as its emotions prompt, it becomes an efficient agent in the happiness and peace of the family. it not only gives eloquence to the tongue, tears to the eye, but faithfulness to the life. it serves as a key-note to the mind and heart, framing the home-energy, revealing to us our real state, and prompting, by the instinct of love, the means for our highest welfare. "how glows the joyous parent to descry, a guileless bosom true to sympathy! a long lost friend, or hapless child restored, smiles at his blazing hearth and social board; warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow, and virtue triumphs o'er remembered woe!" sympathy is excited and measured by the power of natural affection. in proportion to the strength of the latter will be the attractive power of the former. that soothing voice which calms the wailing-infant; that fond bosom from which the child draws its subsistence, and on which it pillows its weary head; that smile which throws a sunshine around its existence, and all those acts of kindness administered by the hand of love, draw the child instinctively to the parent's heart, and blend in sweetest union its very being with theirs. the principle of home-sympathy reigns in some degree in every household whose members have not sunk below the level of the brute. its nature demands that it be mutual. it should glow with peculiar warmth in the wife, the mother, and the sister; because it is a more prominent instinct of woman. it is an intuition of the mother's heart. "when pain and anguish wring the brow, a ministering angel thou!" who but she can smooth the pillow and soothe the anguish of the child of affliction? there is a tenderness in her nature, a softness in her touch, a lightness in her step, a soothing expression in her face, a tender beam in her eye, which man can never have, and which eminently fits her for the lead in home-sympathy. the want of it is a libel upon her sex. it is her prerogative,--the magic power she wields in the formation and reformation of character. but her sympathy should find response in the bosom of her husband, the father, the brother; for, if true, it must he mutual. their joys and their sorrows must be common. thus heart must answer to heart, and face. "the cruelty of that man," says j.a. james, "wants a name, and i know of none sufficiently emphatic, who denies his sympathy to a suffering woman, whose only sin is a broken constitution, and whose calamity is the result of her marriage." without such mutual sympathy, the members of the family would be cold and repulsive, and society would be deprived of its most lovely attributes; its members would lose the connecting link which brings them together, and its entire fabric would fall to pieces and degenerate into barbaric individualism. "had earth no sympathy, no tears would flow, in heart-felt sorrow, for another's woe; the joyous spirit then would weary roam, a stranger to the dear delights of home." we shall now consider briefly the religious elements of home-sympathy. these involve harmony of the spiritual affections, and a transfer to all the members, of the religious experience and enjoyment of each. as natural sympathy arises out of and is measured by natural affection, so spiritual sympathy is the product of faith and love. hence the latter is purer, more refined and efficient than the former. if the members of the family are the children of god, they will live together in the unity of the spirit as well as of natural affection. the sympathy of the pious portion will be interposed in behalf of the salvation of the impenitent members. there will be an identity of soul-interest. the pious mother will make the everlasting interests of her husband and child, her own; and will labor with the same assiduity to promote them as she does to promote her own salvation. she will thus enter into the spiritual emotions of her kindred, and bear them vicariously, making thus her religious sympathies the law of preservation to all the members of her household. the living stream of this sympathy is given by christ in his address to the weeping daughters of jerusalem: "daughters of jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children!" the following is also its living utterance: "my son, if thy heart be wise, my heart shall rejoice, even mine." we have also a beautiful exhibition of it in the touching history of ruth, in the life of joseph, and in the mother of samuel. peter describes it when he says, "be all of one mind, having compassion one of another; love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous." esther expresses it in the exclamation, "how can i endure to see the destruction of my kindred!" paul gives utterance to it when he says, "i would be accursed for my brethren and kindred's sake." jesus exemplifies it in his intercourse with the family of lazarus; he shows its emotion and its active charities when he stands on the grave of that friend, and weeps, and calls him from the dead. his sympathy for a lost world is the true pattern of home-sympathy. it was disinterested, superior to all selfishness, self-denying, active, and prompting him to do and suffer all that he did. it was not measured by the merits of the object after which it yearned. he sympathized with all, "for each he had a brother's interest in his heart." and its softening influence fell, like morning dew, upon the heart of adamant, melting it into contrition and love. "in every pang that rends the heart, the man of sorrows had a part; he sympathizes in our grief, and to the sufferer sends relief." see him bend over the bed of jairus's daughter; see him opening the eyes of the blind, healing the paralytic, comforting and feeding the poor widow, and cheering the bereaved and troubled heart. wherever he went he was "a brother born for them in adversity." see him on the cross, when weltering in blood and struggling with the pangs of a cruel death, he casts his languid eye upon his aged mother who is there weeping her pungent woes, and makes provision for her comfort. his sympathy now for all is the same. "none ever came unblest away; then, though all earthly ties be riven, smile, for thou hast a friend in heaven!" it is this sympathy which makes him a member of every christian home. and when the sympathy of its members is the reproduction of his, they will, like mary, sit in loving pupilage at his feet, each becoming the agent of blessings for all the rest. the wife will seek the salvation of her husband; the mother will labor with unwearied diligence for the redemption of her child. thus when home-sympathy is purified and developed by christian faith and love, it opens up the most elevated of all home-feeling and solicitude, and becomes the most effectual safeguard against impending ruin. no family can be true to its privileges and mission without it. it allures to the cross, leads all the members in the path of the sympathizing one, and prompts them to say, "entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest i will go, and where thou lodgest, i will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy god my god; where thou diest i will die, and there will i be buried; the lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me." what would the christian home be, therefore, without such sympathy? powerless, amoral desolation! we read in god's word, of men losing natural affection, and of mothers forgetting their sucking children. but these were worse than brutes. what shall we then say of christian parents being devoid of spiritual sympathy,--shedding no tear of anguish over their moral ruin, nor showing the least concern about their salvation? such parents do not rejoice even over the return of their children to god. they are a disgrace to the christian name, and bring infamy upon the christian home. some parents do not proceed quite so far. they indulge in the feeling of sympathy for their children; but alas! that feeling is never expressed in efforts to save them. it is all expended in vain and fruitless lamentations, and is, therefore, at best but a morbid sentimentalism,--but a cloak behind which are lurking parental hard-heartedness and religious apathy; proving plainly the great truth advanced by adams, in his elements of christian science, "that an indulgence in the feelings of sympathy without carrying them out to the relief of actual distress, produces hardness of heart to such a degree that the most pitiless and cruel, the most licentious and unnatural, and ungrateful conduct shall be joined with the most overflowing and deeply thrilling sentiment." let those parents who are ever lamenting the wickedness of their children, but do nothing to make them better, ponder well this sentiment, and see it in the grin, of their own hypocrisy, and the desolation of their injured home and children. let the other members, as well as the parents, take the timely warning. let the pious wife here see the character of her sympathy for her impenitent husband. and let each see that their pious sympathy "always issue forth in actions." let that sympathy give not only eloquence to the tongue, tears to your eye, and sighs to your heart, but also faithfulness to your life and holy calling. as the cry of hunger from your children, and their shivering cold in winter, prompt you to provide for their natural wants, so let their moral wants impel you to fidelity to their souls. all will be vain without this. the stern demands of a father's authority, and the formal teachings of a mother's lip, will fall like the frost of a winter's morning, upon their tender hearts,--only to sear and to harden and to freeze up the heart against god. for "he will not let love's work impart full solace, lest it steal the heart." but when pure and holy sympathy goes out, in its softening influence after the young;-- "then, feeling is diffused in every part, thrills in each nerve, and lives in all the heart." such sympathy has a saving influence upon both the parent and the child. it softens and refines the former, while it forms and allures the latter. the child fondly leans upon the parents, looks up to them for support and enjoyment, and is led by them in whatever path they choose. by its influence the feeling of natural and spiritual helplessness becomes developed in the child; the sense of dependence on a superior is awakened; and with these, all those feelings of confidence and veneration, which lay the foundation of religious affections, are unfolded. the parent's influence, both as to kind and degree, depends, therefore, upon the character of home-sympathy. if it is but natural, the parental influence will not extend beyond the worldly gain and temporal welfare of the child. the parent will exert no power over the soul. but if it be spiritual, and extend beyond the mere instincts of natural affection, it will expand the mind, and develop all the melting charities of our nature. it will pass with a new transferring and transforming power, from husband to wife, from parent to child, from kindred to kindred. wherever it finds its way; whatever fiber of the heart it may touch, it begets a new and holy affection, unites the energies, lightens the toils, soothes the sorrows, and exalts the hopes, of all the members. it reflects a softening luster from eye to eye, goes with electric flash from heart to heart, glows in its warmth throughout all its moral courses, accumulates the home-endearments, stimulates each member to religious exertions for all the rest, and lays the foundation in each heart for an unbroken home-communion of their sainted spirits in heaven! it cements them together in their tent-home, creating a sweet concord of hearts and hopes and joys; and then elevates them unitedly in fond anticipation of reunion in their eternal home. they blend their tears together over the grave of buried love, and enjoy the saintly sympathy of loved ones gone before them. this is its most lovely feature. tell me, is there not a bond of sympathy between jesus and his people here,--between loved ones in heaven and their pious kindred on earth? do not the tears of the christian home reflect the tears of jesus? these are to the heart like the dews of hermon,--like the dews that descended upon the mountains of zion. "no radiant pearl which crested fortune wears, no gem that, sparkling, hangs from beauty's ears, not the bright stars which night's blue arch adorn, nor rising sun that gilds the vernal morn, shine with such luster as the tear that breaks for others' woe, down virtue's lovely cheeks." is such, christian brother, the sympathy of your home? it will be a safeguard against the follies and the false interests of life. it will restrict the fashionable taste and sentiments of the age. it will teach wisdom to the pious mother, and be a sure defense against the dangers and indiscretions of the nursery and fashionable boarding school. under its influence, mothers will not trust the souls of their children to the guardianship of irreligious nurses, nor expose them to the perils of a corrupted and heartless fashion. they will deny themselves the ruinous pleasures of a gay and reckless association with the world; and with maternal solicitude, attend upon the opening of those buds of life which god has committed to them. the pious mother will wield her power over her children, by the force of this sympathy; for her's is the deepest, purest, and most saving of all home-sympathy: "earth may chill and sever other sympathies, and prove how weak all human bonds are--it may kill friendship, and crush hearts with them--but the thrill of the maternal breast must ever move in blest communion with her child, and fill even heaven itself with prayers and hymns of love!" chapter xv. family prayer. "hush! 'tis a holy hour,--the quiet room seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds a faint and starry radiance through the room and the sweet stillness, down on yon bright heads with all their clustering locks, untouched by care, and bowed, as flowers are bowed with night,--in prayer. gaze on, 'tis lovely--childhood's lip and cheek mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought!" home-sympathy will prompt to family devotion. the latter is the fruit of the former. a prayerless home is destitute of religious sympathy. the family demands prayer. its relation to god, its dependence and specific duties, involve devotion. communion with god constitutes a part of the intercourse and society of home. the necessity of family prayer arises out of the home-constitution and mission. family mercies and blessings; family dangers and weaknesses; family hopes and temptations,--all bespeak the importance of family worship. if you occupy the responsible station of a parent; if god has made you the head of a religious household, and you profess to stand and live on the lord's side, then, tell me, have you not by implication vowed to maintain regular family worship? besides, the benefits and privilege of prayer develop the obligation of the family to engage in it. is not every privilege a duty? and if it is a duty for individuals and congregations to pray, is it not, for a similar reason, the duty of the family to establish her altar of devotion? as a family we daily need and receive mercies, daily sin, are tempted and in danger every day; why not then as a family daily pray? but what is family prayer? it is not simply individual prayer, not the altar of the closet; but the home-altar, around which all the members gather morning and evening, as a family-unit, with one heart, one faith and one hope, to commune with god and supplicate his mercy. "in the devotion of this little assembly," says dr. dwight, "parents pray for their children, and children for their parents; the husband for the wife, and the wife for the husband; while brothers and sisters send up their requests to the throne of infinite mercy, to call down blessings on each other. who that wears the name of a man can be indifferent here? must not the venerable character of the parent, the peculiar tenderness of the conjugal union, the affectionate intimacy of the filial and fraternal relations; must not the nearest of relations long existing, the interchange of kindness long continued, and the oneness of interests long cemented,--all warm the heart, heighten the importance of every petition, and increase the fervor of every devotional effort?" what scene can be more lovely on earth, more like the heavenly home, and more pleasing to god, than that of a pious family kneeling with one accord around the home-altar, and uniting their supplications to their father in heaven! how sublime the act of those parents who thus pray for the blessing of god upon their household! how lovely the scene of a pious mother gathering her little ones around her at the bedside, and teaching them the privilege of prayer! and what a safeguard is this home-devotion, against all the machinations of satan! "our hearths are altars all; the prayers of hungry souls and poor, like armed angels at the door, our unseen foes appal!" it is this which makes home a type of heaven, the dwelling place of god. the family altar is heaven's threshold. and happy are those children who at that altar, have been consecrated by a father's blessing, baptized by a mother's tears, and borne up to heaven upon their joint petitions, as a voluntary thank-offering to god. the home that has honored god with an altar of devotion may well be called blessed. "child, amidst the flowers at play, while the red light fades away; mother, with thine earnest eye ever following silently; father, by the breeze of eve called thy warmest work to leave; pray!--ere yet the dark hours be, lift the heart and bend the knee." the duty thus to establish family prayer is imperative. it is a duty because god commands it, and the mission of home cannot be fulfilled without it. it is a duty because a privilege and a blessing, and the condition of parental efficiency in all other duties;--because the moral and spiritual growth of the child depends upon it. it is one of the most effectual means of grace. all the instructions, all the discipline and example, of the parent will be in vain without it. hence both natural affection and christian faith should suggest its establishment. parents are bound to do so by their covenant vows, by the obligations of baptism, by all the interests and hopes of their household. they have dedicated their children to god, and pledged themselves to educate them for him, and to train them up in his ways. tell me then, can you be faithful to these vows and obligations without family prayer? can you fulfil your covenant engagements, hope to receive your reward, and see your children grow up in the nurture of the lord's vineyard, without rearing up a family altar? the promised blessings of family prayer show that every faithful christian home must have its family altar. these are unspeakable. it is a sure defence against sin; it sanctifies the members, and throws a hallowed atmosphere around our household. the child will come under its restraining and saving influence. a mother's prayer will haunt the child, and draw it as if by magic power towards herself in heaven: "he might forget her melting prayer, while pleasure's pulses madly fly, but in the still, unbroken air, her gentle tones come stealing by,-- and years of sin and manhood flee, and leave him at his mother's knee!" it affords home security and happiness, removes family friction, and causes all the complicated wheels of the home-machinery to move on noiselessly and smoothly. it promotes union and harmony, expunges all selfishness, allays petulant feelings and turbulent passions, destroys peevishness of temper, and makes home-intercourse holy and delightful. it causes the members to reciprocate each other's affections, hushes the voice of recrimination, and exerts a softening and harmonizing influence over each heart. the dew of hermon falls upon the home where prayer is wont to be made. its members enjoy the good and the pleasantness of dwelling together in unity. it gives tone and intensity to their affections and sympathies: it throws a sunshine around their hopes and interests: it increases their happiness, and takes away the poignancy of their grief and sorrow. it availeth much, therefore, both for time and eternity. its voice has sent many a poor prodigal home to his father's house. its answer has often been, "this man was born there!" the child, kneeling beside the pious mother, and pouring forth its infant prayer to god, must attract the notice of the heavenly host, and receive into its soul the power of a new life. "who would not be an infant now, to breathe an infant's prayer? o manhood! could thy spirit kneel beside that sunny child, as fondly pray, and purely feel, with soul as undefiled. that moment would encircle thee, with light and love divine; thy gaze might dwell on deity, and heaven itself be thine." and yet the neglect of family prayer is a very general defect of the christian home. no home-duty has indeed been more grossly neglected and abused. some attend to it only occasionally; some only in times of affliction and distress, as if then only they needed to pray to god; some only on the sabbath, as if that were the only day to commune with him. some perform it only in a formal way, having the form without the spirit of prayer, as if god did not require the fervent, in order to the effectual, prayer that availeth much. as a general thing, at the present day, not more than three or four families out of a whole congregation, have established the family altar. the parents may engage in closet prayer, but their children are strangers to the fact. their devotions they seem zealous to conceal, as if they were ashamed of their piety. can this be right? is this the will of god? no! methinks if the parent is faithful to the duty of private prayer, he cannot omit the duty and privilege of family devotion. but why neglect family prayer? are you ashamed of your children? have you no time? then you are unworthy of a family, and should not profess to act towards them as the steward of god. think you that god will not answer and bless your prayers? what more could you do and hope for your children than to offer up supplications for them to god? "what could a mother's prayer, in all the wildest ecstacy of hope, ask for her darling like the bliss of heaven?" many seek by the most frivolous excuses, to justify their neglect of family prayer. some will urge the press of other duties, alleging that other engagements prevent it. this is false. god lays upon you no engagement that is designed to supersede the necessity of prayer. besides, you will find that you really waste more time than it would require for family devotion. and further, can you spend your time to better purpose than in family prayer? i think not. it is the best husbandry of time. says philip henry to his children, "prayer and provender hinder no man's journey." but another pleads incapacity. he has not the gift of speech, and cannot make an eloquent prayer. this is no excuse. prayer is the gift of the holy spirit; and if you have the spirit of prayer, you will find words for its utterance. besides, eloquence does not condition the efficacy of prayer. where there is a willing mind, it is accepted according to that a man hath, and not according to that he hath not. "when we of helps or hopes are quite bereaven, our humble prayers have entrance into heaven." we have the capacity to ask for what we earnestly desire and feel the need of. the anger of god will kindle against you for this excuse, as it kindled against moses for a similar one. when he called him to be his messenger to israel, moses said, as you do, "o my lord, i am not eloquent,--i am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue. and the lord said unto him, who hath made man's mouth? or, who maketh the dumb, or deaf, or the seeing, or the blind? have not i the lord? the anger of the lord was kindled against him." let me, therefore, urge upon you, christian parents, to make prayer a prominent element of your home. you should be a priest unto your family,--a leader in home-communion with god. your children have a right to expect this from you. if you are a church member, how strange and startling must be the enunciation in heaven, that you are a prayerless christian, and your home destitute of the altar! and do you think that, continuing thus, you will be admitted into that heavenly home where there is one unbroken voice of prayer and praise to god? do you not tremble at the prospect of those tremendous denunciations which the lord has uttered against those who neglect and abuse the privilege of prayer? "pour out thy fury upon the families that have not called upon thy name." oh then, make your home a house of prayer; lead your little flock in sweet communion with god. establish in them the habit of devotion: shape their consciences by prayer. in this way you shall secure for yourself and them the blessing of god: his smile shall ever rest upon your household: salvation shall be the heritage of your children; they will grow up in the divine life; and will live amid the blessing's of prayer, and be faithful to its requisitions: "hold the little hands in prayer, teach the weak knees their kneeling; let him see thee speaking to thy god; he will not forget it afterwards; when old and gray will he feelingly remember a mother's tender piety, and the touching recollection of her prayers shall arrest the strong man in his sin!" chapter xvi. home-education. section i. the character of home education. "scratch the green rind of a sapling, or wantonly twist it in the soil, the scarred and crooked oak will tell of thee for centuries to come; wherefore, though the voice of instruction waiteth for the ear of reason, yet with his mother's milk the young child drinketh education." we come now to consider one of the most important features of the christian home, viz., as a school for the education of character. this is important because of its vital bearing upon the interests of home. the parent is not only king and priest, but prophet in the family. it is the first school. we there receive a training for good or for evil. there is not a word, nor an emotion, nor an act, nor even a look there, which does not teach the child something. character is ever being framed and moulded there. every habit there formed, and every action there performed, imply a principle which shall enter as an element into the future character of the child. what is home-education? it is the physical, mental, moral, and religious development of the child. to educate means to draw out as well as to instil in. it means the evolution of our nature as well as the communication of facts and principles to us. the home training does not, therefore, consist of simple information, but is a nurture of body, mind and spirit. from this we may infer the frequent mistakes of parents, in substituting mere book-learning for a training up and nurture, dealing with their children as if they had no faculties, and making the entire education of their children mechanical and empirical. home training involves the development of all their faculties as a unit and in their living relation, causing the body to move right, the mind to think right, the heart to feel right, and the soul to love right; changing your children from creatures of mere impulse, prejudice and passion, to thinking, loving and reasoning beings. to educate them is to bring out their hidden powers, to form their character, and prepare them for their station in life. thus home-education means a drawing out and also a bringing up,--a training for man, and a bringing up for god; a training and nurture for the family, the state, and the church,--for time and for eternity. these must be done together; they involve but one process, and are conditioned by each other. we cannot separate a secular from a religious education, neither can we separate a training from a bringing up. while those faculties of the child which exist in a state of mere involution, are being developed, its nature must be supplied with appropriate food; and every element of its education must possess the plastic power of evolving and giving specific form to its future character and destiny. thus the parent, in teaching, must have a forming influence over the child; and his instructions must correspond in character, kind and extent, with the nature, wants, and destiny of the child. what are now the different kinds or parts of home-education? it must be physical. the child has a physical nature, physical wants, and is related to the material world; and should, therefore, receive a physical education. the object of this is to ensure that sound, vigorous frame of body which is not only a great blessing in itself, but an essential concomitant of a sound state and vigorous development of mind. it refers to the proper management of the health of the child, its diet, habits of exercise and recreation. parents should teach their children the nature of the body, its dangers, and bearing upon their future happiness. they should teach them to govern their appetite, and train them up to habits of exercise and early rising. this part of home-education begins in the nursery,--in the cradle, and is not complete till the body is brought to maturity in all its functions. neglect of it will result in physical imbecility, and often in mental derangement. the object secured by it is, the preservation of the health and constitution of the child. in this we see its importance. what is your wealth, your station, your influence, if through your neglect of your children, they are deprived of health, and grow up with the seeds of immature death springing up in their system? in the physical training of children due regard should be had to cleanliness, exercise, diet and dress. without this all will be vain. many parents keep them within doors, never let them enjoy the pure air, nor exercise the muscular system, keep their bodies cooped in clothing too small, and feasted upon a diet unwholesome; and as a consequence, they show a sickly growth, and become unfit either for the burdens or for the enjoyments of life. the importance of exercise in the open air, and abstemiousness in diet, is proven from the health of those nations that train their children in all the exercise of riding, leaping, running and fencing, and subject them from infancy to the most frugal diet. thus the perfect forms and vigorous health of the greeks, the romans and persians were the fruit of national attention paid to physical education. every home should have its suitable gymnasium. how many parents, by their violation of the laws of health, prostitute the strength of their children to profligacy and indolence. home-education must be intellectual. much of human character and happiness depends upon the education of the mind, both as respects the development of its faculties and the application of legitimate truth. the mind is the man. it is not, as locke declares, like a blank sheet of paper or a chest of drawers; but has an intuitional as well as a logical consciousness, innate ideas as well as capacities of receiving truth; while all its faculties involve a unity, and exist in the child in a state of involution; the abuse and neglect of one of which will have their bearing upon all the rest; and the mind without proper culture in its undeveloped state in the child, will show the symptoms of its abuse in the man. the character of the mind in the man will indicate the character of its education in the child. this education should begin properly with the first symptoms of consciousness. all the powers of the intellect should be unfolded. parents should be the principals in the mental training of their children. the manner and means of such training will be considered in another place. our purpose here is simply to state this as a part of home-training. from the important part which the mind acts in the great drama of human life and destiny, we think that no intelligent parent would presume to repudiate its education. home-education must be moral. the family should develop the moral nature of the child. the will should be educated; the sense of right and wrong trained; the emotions cultivated; the passions and desires ruled; the conscience and faith developed. the necessity of this is seen in the fact that our nature is fallen and perverted. the means of educating the moral nature of the child, are natural and revealed. both are of divine appointment. the former are those which lie within the circumference of our abilities, and will be of no avail without the latter, which are found in the scriptures and church. what are some of these means? . parents should place their children in circumstances calculated to form a good moral character. they should surround them with a moral atmosphere, that they may, with their first breath, inhale a pure moral being, and escape the contamination of evil. this has been called "the education of circumstances." much of character depends upon position and the circumstances in which we are placed. this is seen in the difference between those children who have enjoyed the true christian home, and those who have not. hence the first thing parents should consider in the moral training of their children is, the home in which they are to be trained. this home should afford them circumstances the most favorable to their moral culture. . they should remove all temptation. evil propensities are called forth by temptation; and a child loses the power to resist in proportion to the frequency of the temptation. hence the exposure of our children to temptation but educates and strengthens their propensities to evil. on the other hand, if we remove temptation, these propensities will not be called into activity, and will lose their tenacity. never allow your children to tamper with sin in any form; teach them how to resist temptation; inspire them with an abhorrence and a dread of all evil. in this way you prepare them for the reception and reproduction of moral truth. . another means of moral education is example. this has been styled the "education of example." this has more power than precept. the efficiency of this means is based upon the natural disposition of the child to imitate. children take their parents as the standard of all that is good, and will, therefore, follow them in evil as well as in good. hence the parent's example should be a correct model of sound morality. the child will be the moral counterpart of the parent. you can see the parent's home in the child. he is the moral daguerreotype of his parent. this but shows the importance of good example in his moral training. . but one of the most effectual means is, by moral training, by which we mean, to draw out and properly direct the moral faculties, and to habituate them to the exercise of moral principle. without this, all mechanical education will be fruitless. to call forth muscular power you must exercise the muscles. so you give the child moral stamina by developing its moral faculties, and establishing in them the habit of moral action. this training has its foundation in the law of habit. it is given, with its results, in the word of god. "train up a child," &c. also in the old maxim, "just as the twig is bent, the tree is inclined." "scratch the green rind of a sapling, or wantonly twist it in the soil, the scarred and crooked oak will tell of thee for centuries to come!" the power and pleasure of doing a thing depends much upon habit. our nature may become habituated to good or evil; we become passive in proportion to the habit. how important, then, that the moral powers of our children be trained up to principles and action until habits of good thought, feeling, and conduct, are established. then they will not depart from them; and their moral life will be spontaneous and a source of enjoyment. the feelings, appetites and instincts of children should be thus specially trained. according to dr. gall, there are two classes of feelings,--the selfish, yet necessary for the preservation of the individual; and the unselfish, or those which are directed to objects apart from self, yet liable to abuse and misdirection. both of these demand a home-training. the parent should give to each its true direction, restrain and harmonize them in their relations and respective spheres of activity, and bring them under law, and place before each its legitimate object and end. then, and then only, do they become laws of self-preservation. the natural appetites are subject to abuse, and when unrestrained, defeat the very ends of their existence. thus the appetite for food may be over-indulged through mistaken parental kindness, until habits of sensualism are established, and the child becomes a glutton, and finds the grave of infamy. how many children have been thus destroyed in soul and body by parental indulgence and neglect of their natural feelings and appetites. the feeling of cruelty, revenge, malice, falsehood, tale-bearing, dishonesty, vanity, &c., have, in the same way and by the same indulgence, been engendered in the children of christian parents. the same, too, may be said of the unselfish feelings. these have been called the moral sentiments; and upon their proper training depends the formation of a positive moral character. the conscience comes under this head. the parent should train that important faculty of the child. it should be taught to act from the standpoint of conscience, and to form the habit of conscientiousness in word and deed. this includes the training of the motives also, and of all the cardinal moral virtues, such as justice, honor, chastity, veneration, kindness, &c. "teach your children," says goodrich in his fireside education, "never to wound a person's feelings because he is poor, because he is deformed, because he is unfortunate, because he holds an humble station in life, because he is poorly clad, because he is weak in body and mind, because he is awkward, or because the god of nature has bestowed upon him a darker skin than theirs." this early education should commence as soon as the necessities of the child demand it. a child should be taught what is necessary for it to know and practice as soon as that necessity exists and the child is capable of learning. scripture sanctions this. our fathers did so. it was the injunction of moses to the children of israel: deut. vi., - . god commands you to break up the fallow ground and sow the good seed at the first dawn of the spring-life of your children, and then to pray for the "early and the latter rain," "teaching, with pious care, the dawning light of infant intellect to know the lord." home-education should be religious. as the child has a religious nature, religious wants, and a religious end to accomplish, it should receive from its parents a religious training. religion is educational. we are commanded to teach religion to our children. the admonition to "train up a child in the way he should go," and to "bring him up in the nurture and admonition of the lord," is a scripture sanction of religious education. nature and the bible are the text-books for such a training. the child should be taught natural and revealed religion. such education involves the development of the child's religious nature, and the diligent use of those means by which it may become an adopted child of god. education should be suited to the wants and the destination of the child. religion is its first want,--the one thing needful, the chief concern; and should, therefore, be the first object of attention in home-training. the fear and love of god should be the first lesson taught. this is the beginning of wisdom. teach your children to love him above father and mother, sister and brother. the child is capable of such ideas of god. children can possess the sentiment of god; and when this is instilled and developed as a rudiment of their character, they have a preparation for the grace of god. what is the mere secular, without such a religious education? it is education without its essence; for piety is the essence of all education. irreligious training is destructive,--a curse rather than a blessing,--only a training up to crime and to ruin. "the mildew of a cultivated, but depraved mind, blights whatever it falls upon." "religion," says dr. barrow, "is the only science, which is equally and indispensably necessary to men of every rank, every age, and every profession." "the end of learning," says milton, "is to repair the ruins of our first parents, by requiring to know god aright, and out of that knowledge, to love him, and to imitate him." we see, therefore, that religious training is the only true palladium of your children's happiness and destiny; and should be the great end of all home-teaching. tinge all their thoughts and feelings with a sense of eternity. train them up to build for another world. stamp the impress of a future life upon their tender hearts. beget in them longings after immortality. see that their designs extend beyond this world. as the spartan mother gave character to her nation by the instructions she gave her child, so you give character to your religion, your church, your home, by the spiritual culture of your offspring. let the jewels you give them be the virtues and the gifts of the holy ghost,--the ornaments of a meek and quiet spirit. "take the germ, and make it a bud of moral beauty. let the dews of knowledge and the light of virtue, wake it in richest fragrance and in purest hues." childhood is the period in which the principles of christianity can be the most effectually engrafted in our nature. its pliability at that period insures its free assimilation to the spirit and truth of religion. "would to god," says st. pierre, "i had preserved the sentiment of the existence of the supreme being, and of his principal attributes, as pure as i had it in my earliest years!" it is the heart more than the head that religion demands; and you can fill the young heart with sentiments of god better than if you wait till it grows hard as adamant in sin. you can elevate the soul of your child to god, and teach it to raise its little hands and voice in prayer to the most high. you can teach it this from the book of nature and of revelation,--from the daisies that spring up among the grass upon which it frolics, by the mellow fruits after which it longs, by the stars that shine in unclouded luster above it, and by the breezes which ruffle its silken curls, and bring perfume to its smiling face. to the mother especially, is committed the religious education of the child at home. she is eminently adapted, if herself a christian, for such a work. her love, her piety, which breathes in every word, in every look, makes her instructions effectual and pleasing. "'tis pleasing to be schooled by female lips and eyes, they smile so when one's right, and when one's wrong, they smile still more; and then there comes encouragement in the soft hand over the brow, perhaps even a chaste kiss-- i learned the little that i know by this." they can better reach and train the heart. religion is heart-wisdom. "my son, give me thy heart!" we may use the head as an avenue to the heart, yet nothing is done in the religion of our children until the heart be carried. it is only in that inner shrine that there can be deposited the wisdom that is from above, and only then will they be made wise unto salvation. and who is better able to storm and carry that inner citadel, and lead its subdued inmates to the cross, than the pious, tender-hearted, soliciting mother! some parents object to the religious training of their children, "because," say they, "there is danger of having their minds biased by some particular creed; they should be left, therefore, to themselves till they are capable of making a choice, and then let them choose their creed." this is all a miserable subterfuge, and in direct opposition to the explicit command of god and the whole tenor of the gospel plan of salvation. it goes upon the assumption that religion is but an opinion--a subscription to a certain creed, learning certain doctrines--a mere thing for the head. tell me, is it worse to bias their minds to a particular creed, than to let them grow up biased to the world, to the devil and all his works? is it all of home, religious culture to bias them to a particular creed? besides, is it not the right, yea, the duty of parents to bias their children in favor of the religious creed of the parental home? it shows, therefore, that those parents who, for this reason, object to religious training, have but little love for, and confidence in, their own creed, or they would not shrink from biasing their children to it. to encourage christian parents to give their children a good religious education, god has given them numerous examples, from both sacred and profane history, of conversion and eminent piety in the age of childhood, as the direct fruit of early parental instruction. look, for instance, at the child samuel worshiping the lord. look, too, at the case of moses and of david, of joseph and of john the baptist. dr. doddridge, we are told, "was brought up in the early knowledge of religion by his pious parents." his mother "taught him the history of the old and new testaments before he could read, by the assistance of some dutch tiles in the chimney of the room where they commonly sat; and her wise and pious reflections on the stories there represented were the means of making some good impressions on his heart, which never wore out." an eminently pious minister thus writes to his parents, confirming by his own blessed experience the early fruits of religious training: "i verily believe that had my religious training been confined to the gleanings of the sabbath school, instead of the steady enforcement of the mosaic arrangement at home by my parents, i might now be pursuing a far different course, and living for a far different end. many, very many times, as early in childhood as i can recollect, has the spirit of god convicted me of sin, as my father at home has taught me out of the scriptures, and i cannot easily forget that the same high-priest of the home-church once tore from me the hypocrite's hope. and that dear place had another to carry on the work; gentler but not weaker; and memory recalls a mother pressing her face close to mine as she often knelt with me before the mercy-seat. i will not cast reproach on any institution which has been productive of good to myself and to others, but with profound gratitude will say, home was the place of my spiritual nativity, and my parents were god's instruments in leading me to christ!" the eminent piety of dr. dwight stands on record as the fruit of a mother's faithful religious training; for "she taught him from the very dawn of reason to fear god and keep his commandments, and the impressions then made upon his mind in infancy, were never effaced." the mother of young edwards is another example of early piety as the fruit of religious home-culture. the aged polycarp, when under arrest during the persecution under marcus aurelius, in reply to the injunction of the pro-consul, "swear, curse christ, and i release thee!" exclaimed, "six and eighty years have i served him, and he has done me nothing but good; and how could i curse him, my lord and saviour?" thus showing himself to have been a christian at the early age of four years! it was through the instructions of his grandmother lois, and his mother eunice, that young timothy "knew from a child the holy scriptures, which made him wise unto salvation." and what an effectual antidote are such instructions against vice and temptation! how many have by them been arrested from the devouring jaws of infidelity and ruin! thus it was with john randolph, who said that in the days of the french revolution, when infidel reason took the place of god and the bible, and infidelity prowled unmolested throughout france, he would have become an infidel himself, had it not been for the remembrance of his childhood days, when his pious mother taught him to kneel by her side, and to say, "our father, who art in heaven!" thus, too, with the pious and learned j.q. adams, who daily repeated the little prayers his mother taught him when a child. thus, then, we see that parents are encouraged by the most brilliant examples of history, to teach their children religion at the home-fireside, "when thou liest down and risest up." oh, let the gentle courtesies and sweet endearments of home engrave the word and spirit of god upon their tender hearts. wait not until they are matured in rebellion, and sin lay beds of flinty rock over their hearts; but let them breathe from infancy the atmosphere of holiness, and drink from the living fountains of divine truth. see that your homes become their birth-place in the spiritual kingdom of christ. such religious training will be the guardian of their future life, and will fortify them against impending evil. what made daniel steadfast amidst all the efforts to heathenize him during his captivity in babylon? his early religious culture. it was the means of his preservation. the truth had been deeply engraven upon his heart when young, and nothing could ever efface it. his early home-impressions glowed there with pristine freshness and power amid all the terrors which surrounded him in the den and before the throne of his implacable foe. these home instructions may be silenced for a time, but never destroyed. they may be overshadowed, but not annihilated. says dr. cumming, "the words spoken by parents to their children in the privacy of home are like words spoken in a whispering-gallery, and will be clearly heard at the distance of years, and along the corridors of ages that are yet to come. they will prove like the lone star to the mariner upon a dark and stormy sea, associated with a mother's love, with a father's example, with the roof-tree beneath which they lived and loved, and will prove in after life to mould the man and enable him to adorn and improve the age in which he is placed." be faithful, therefore, in the spiritual culture of your children. give them "line upon line and precept upon precept, here a little and there a little." lead them on by degrees to christ until each indelible impression becomes an established habit. in the morning of their life sow the seed; and god will give the increase; and then in the day of judgment your children will rise up and call you blessed! section ii. neglect and abuse of home-education. "accomplishments have taken virtue's place, and wisdom falls before exterior grace; we slight the precious kernel of the stone, and toil to polish its rough coat alone. a just deportment, manners graced with ease, elegant phases, and figure formed to please, are qualities that seem to comprehend whatever parents, guardians, schools intend; hence all that interferes, and dares to clash with indolence and luxury, is trash!" home-education in all its parts is most sadly neglected and abused at the present day. many parents think that the office of teacher is not included in the parental character and mission. the neglect of home-training seems to arise out of an existing-prejudice against it. some think that education will unfit their children for industry,--will make them indolent and proud. they regard mental culture as an enemy to both industry and virtue. strange delusion! the mind is given to use, not to abuse; and its abuse is no argument against its proper use. god has given the mind, and intends it to be developed and cultivated. if, therefore, its training has made it indolent and dissipated, it only proves its education to be spurious. you might, by a parity of reasoning, blindfold the eye that it might not he covetous, or tie up the hand lest it pick a man's pocket, or hobble the feet lest they run into evil ways, as to keep the mind in ignorance lest it become wicked. besides, we find more real indolence and wickedness among the ignorant than among the educated; for man will be educated in something. if you do not educate your child in the truths of nature and religion, be assured he will become trained in falsehood and in the ways of satan. "uneducated mind is uneducated vice." a proper education is a divine alchemy which turns all the baser parts of man's nature into gold. without it all is discord and darkness within and without. besides, ignorance leads to misery because it leads to wickedness. dr. johnson was once asked, "who is the most miserable man?" he replied, "that man who cannot read on a rainy day!" it has well been said by edmund burke that "education is the cheap defense of nations." why? because it prevents vice, poverty, misery, and relieves the state of the support of paupers and criminals. "a good education," says miss sedgwick, "is a young man's best capital." says governor everett to parents, "sow the seed of instruction in your son's and daughter's minds. it will flourish when that over-arching heaven shall pass away like a scroll, and the eternal sun which lightens it, shall set in blood." says the rev. robert hall, "i am persuaded that the extreme profligacy, improvidence, and misery, which are so prevalent among the laboring classes in many countries, are chiefly to be ascribed to the want of education." what indeed can we look for but wretchedness and guilt from that child that has been left by its cruel parents to grow up "darkening in the deeper ignorance of mankind, with all its jealousies, and its narrow-mindedness, and its superstitions, and its penury of enjoyments, poor amid the intellectual and moral riches of the universe; blind in this splendid temple which god has lighted up, and famishing amid the profusions of omnipotence?" and, parents, let me ask you, if you thus neglect the proper education of your children, and as a consequence, such pauperism of estate, of mind, and of morals, come upon them, will you not have to answer for all this to god? "oh, woe for those who trample on the mind, that fearful thing! they know not what they do, nor what they deal with!" your children, thus neglected, will become victims to inordinate passion, without power to discern between reality and illusion, ignorant of what is true happiness, living for mere sense, with their moral nature enclosed in the iron mail of superstition, while the good seeds of truth sown upon their hearts "wither away, because they have no depth of earth." parents cannot, therefore, neglect the education of their children without incurring disgrace and guilt before god and man. they will meet a merited retribution both here and hereafter. the justice of this is forcibly illustrated in a law of the icelanders, which makes the court inquire, when a child is accursed, whether the parents have given the offender a good education? and if not, the court inflicts the punishment on the parents. this but expresses the higher law of god which holds parents responsible for the training of their children. listen to the threatening voice of god in history. crates, an ancient philosopher, used to say that if he could reach the highest eminence in the city, he would make this proclamation: "what mean ye, fellow-citizens, to be so anxious after wealth, but so indifferent to your children's education? it is like being solicitous about the shoe, but neglecting entirely the foot that is to wear it!" we would reiterate that proclamation in this age of superior intelligence. to the pious parent there is a pleasure in training the young and tender heart for god. what a beautiful tribute did thompson yield to this pleasure in the following lines: "delightful task! to rear the tender thought, to teach the young idea how to shoot, to pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, to breathe enlivening spirit, and to fix the generous purpose in the glowing breast!" but home-education, at the present day, is as much abused as it is neglected. the criminality of the former is perhaps greater than that of the latter. this may have more reference to the female than to the male portion of the family. the abuse here consists of the want of a training up to wisdom. we see this in what is called the fashionable, instead of the christian, education, received at some of our fashionable boarding schools. here the child is sent with no home-training whatever, to be trained up a fashionable doll, fit to be played with and dandled upon the arms of a whining and heartless society, with no preparation for companionship in life, destitute of substantial character, with undoctrinated feelings of aversion to religion, fit only for a puppet show in some gay and thoughtless circle; kneeling before fashion as her god, and giving her hand in marriage only to a golden and a gilded calf. according to this abuse of home-education, "a young maiden is kept in the nursery and the school room, like a ship on the stocks, while she is furbished with abundance of showy accomplishments, and is launched like the ship, looking taut and trim, but empty of everything that can make her useful." thus one great abuse of home-education is to substitute the boarding school for home-culture,--to send our children to such school at an age when they should he trained by and live under the direct influence of the parent. this generally ends in initiated profligacy, and alienation from home, while at best but a dunce after his course of training is ended. "would you your son should be a sot and a dunce, lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once? train him in public with a mob of boys, childish in mischief only and in noise." too often is it the case that the artifices and refinements of our fashionable boarding-schools, have a most withering influence upon body, mind and soul, enfeebling and distorting the body, producing depraved stomachs, whimsical nerves, peevish tempers, indolent minds, and depraved morals. they become but wrecks of what they were when they first entered the school. this has been called "the stiff and starched system of muslin education," and is the nursery of pale, sickly, listless, peevish children. but this is not the only abuse of home-education. even when the training is begun at home, the very idea of education is often abused, because inefficient, destitute of true moral elements, and partial both as to the mode and as to the substance of it. the true resources of life are not developed; there is no instruction given in the principles and conditions of temporal and eternal well-being; there is no discipline of the mind, or body or morals. but the great idea and aim of education with many parents now, is to teach the child to read and write and cipher as a means of making money and getting along in this world,--not, of course, to prevent them from cheating others, but others from cheating them. all is prostituted to money and business. character and happiness are left out of view. what have our schools now to do with the propensities, appetites, temperaments, habits and character of the pupils? and how are the parents who send their children to school to have them trained up with reference to these! all that is now looked at, is that learning which will fit the child for business. as a consequence most of our schools are a disgrace to the very name of education. more evil actually results from them than good. the mind and heart are injured,--the one but half trained; the other corrupted. mental and moral training are divorced; hence one-sided, and the very end of education defeated. the child has no incentive to a virtuous and a noble life, and sinks down to the groveling drudgery of money-making. it is educated for nature, but not for god,--for this, but not for the next life. if we would not abuse home-education we must not separate the moral from the mental,--the secular from the religious; for in doing so, we expose the child to rationalism and infidelity on the one hand, and to superstition and spiritualism on the other. this course is generally taken by parents when they educate their children for mere worldly utility and fashion, when they have not the welfare of the soul in view, and look only to the advantage of the body. the duty then of christian parents to give their children a true home-education may be seen from the consequences of its neglect and abuse on the one hand, and from its value and importance on the other. they should furnish them with all the necessary means, opportunities, and directions, of a christian education. give them proper books. "without books," says the quaint bartholin, "god is silent, justice dormant, science at a stand, philosophy lame, letters dumb, and all things involved in cimmerian darkness." bring them up to the habit of properly reading and studying these books. "a reading people will soon become a thinking people, and a thinking people must soon become a great people." every book you furnish your child, and which it reads with reflection is "like a cast of the weaver's shuttle, adding another thread to the indestructible web of existence." it will be worth more to him than all your hoarded gold and silver. make diligent use of those great auxiliaries to home-education, which the church has instituted, such as sabbath schools, bible classes and catechisation. home-education does not imply a system of parental training isolated from the educational ministrations of the church; but is churchly in its spirit and in all its parts, and should in all respects be connected with the church. home training is a duty you owe to the church. by virtue of your relation to her, she has the authority to demand of you such a training of your child; and by virtue of your relation to the child, he has a right to such an education, and can demand it from you. it stands on the basis of parental duty imposed on you by god himself. it is a prime necessity. it is your children's birthright, which they themselves cannot sell with impunity, for the pottage of gold or silver or pleasure: neither can you neglect or abuse it without guilt before god. it is, therefore, a duty which you cannot shake off, and which involves both for you and for your child, the most momentous consequences. christian parents! be faithful to this duty. magnify your office as a teacher; be faithful to your household as a school. diligently serve your children as the pupils that god has put under your care. educate them for him. teach them to "walk by faith, not by sight." cultivate in them a sense of the unseen world,--the feeling of the actual influence of the spirit of god, the guardianship of his holy angels, and of the communion of saints. teach them how to live and how to die; and by the force of your own holy example allure them to the cross, and lead them onward and upward in the living way of eternal life. you are encouraged to do so by the assurance of god that "when they grow old they will not depart from it." chapter xvii. family habits. "dost thou live, man, dost thou live, or only breathe and labor? art thou free, or enslaved to a routine, the daily machinery of habit? for one man is quickened into life, where thousands exist as in a torpor, feeding, toiling, sleeping, an insensate weary round; the plough, or the ledger, or the trade, with animal cares and indolence, make the mass of vital years a heavy lump unleavened." much of the character, usefulness and happiness of home depend upon home habits. no one is without habits, good or bad. they have much to do with our welfare here and hereafter. hence the importance of establishing proper habits. habit is a state of any thing, implying some continuance or permanence. it may be formed by nature or induced by extraneous circumstances. it is a settled disposition of the mind or body, involving an aptitude for the performance of certain actions, acquired by custom or frequent repetition. there are habits of the body, of the mind, of action; physical, mental, moral and religious habits. all these are included in the term home-habits. habit has been considered an "ultimate fact," that is, one of those qualities of life which are found to exist, and beyond which no investigation can be made. habit may be referred to the law of action which pervades all vital being. nature demands the repetition of vital action, and habit arises from this demand and from the manner in which it is supplied. it is the fruit of the operation of the law of repetition of action in all life. hence it is, that habit becomes a part of our very existence, and that the well-being and happiness of our existence depend so much upon it. the facility of action depends upon habit. in proportion as the actions of life become a habit, they will be easily performed, and performed with pleasure. the capacity to establish habits is the consequence of the power given us to promote our own welfare. this capacity is designed to bind us to that course of action which will accomplish the purposes of our existence. if rightly used, it is the guardian of our happiness; but if misused it will be our certain ruin. it will delight and fascinate until it subjugate our will, and lead us on, as in the case of the drunkard and the gambler, to infamy and to hell. home-habits are easily formed and established. some kind, either good or bad, are being established every day. they are often secretly and unconsciously formed. all the principles and rules of conduct there introduced become at once the nuclei of future habits. those increase in power and supremacy as they are formed. we see this in the use of tobacco and intoxicating drink. these are, at first, disagreeable, and the victim has the power of repelling and overcoming them; but soon the habit is formed, when their use becomes pleasant, and he is made a willing slave to them. the same may he said of the habits of industry, of study, of frugality, yea, of all the moral and religious acts of the christian. it is easy to form such habits in children. evil habits are more easily established, because we are naturally inclined to all evil; and when once formed, no parental interposition can break them up. hence the importance of an early training up to good. if parents but leave their children to their own ways, they will run into evil habits; for sin is an epidemic. profanity and falsehood and all other outrages against god will soon become the controlling habits of their lives. but when taken early, parents have complete power over their offspring. it is, therefore, a gross abuse of the christian home when parents become indifferent to the formation of habits. it is their duty to crush every evil habit in its incipient state. the forming of a good habit may not at first be congenial with our feelings. it may be irksome. but if we persevere in it, that which at first was painful and difficult will soon be a source of enjoyment. thus the habit of family prayer may at first be repulsive even to the christian parent; a feeling of delicacy and the sense of unworthiness may, at the family altar, repress the feelings of enjoyment experienced in the closet; but soon the habit of this devotion will be formed, when it will be enjoyed as an essential part of home. to abandon it would be like breaking up the tenderest ties which bind the members together. the same may be said of the omission of a duty. how easily can the christian form the habit of omitting family prayer or any other duty! every such omission but forms and increases the habit, until it gains an ascendancy over our sense of duty, and at last exhibits its sovereign power in our total abandonment of the duty. each omission has the power of reproducing itself in other and more frequent omissions. in this way christian homes insensibly become unfaithful to their high vocation, and degenerate finally into complete apathy and estrangement from god. that indulgence which the misguided sympathy of too many parents prompts to, and which does away with all parental restraint, is the cause of children coming under the curse of evil habits. in this way parents often contribute to the temporal and eternal ruin of their offspring. this indulgence is no evidence of tender love, but of parental infatuation. it shows a blind and unholy love,--a love which owns no law, which is governed by no sense of duty, and which excludes all discipline; and hence unlike the love of god, who "chastiseth every one whom he loveth and receiveth." the force and influence of home-habits will teach us the importance of establishing such only as receive the sanction of god. habits, as we have seen, are much more easily formed than broken. when once established they enslave us to them, and subject our character to their iron despotism. they become the channel through which our life flows. the stream of our existence first forms the channel, and then the channel rules, guides and controls the current of the stream. the deeper the channel is wrought, the greater is its moulding and controlling influence over the stream. thus our habits become our masters, and are the irrevocable rulers of our life. this is true of good, as well as of bad habits. we come into voluntary subjection to them, until we shrink from the first proposal to depart from them. "habit," says the rev. c.c. colton, "will reconcile us to everything but change, and even to change, if it recur not too quickly. milton, therefore, makes his hell an ice-house, as well as an oven, and freezes his devils at one period, but bakes them at another. the late sir george staunton informed, me, that he had visited a man in india, who had committed a murder, and in order not only to save his life, but what was of much more consequence, his caste, he submitted to the penalty imposed; this was, that he should sleep for seven years on a bedstead, without any mattress, the whole surface of which was studded with points of iron resembling nails, but not so sharp as to penetrate the flesh. sir george saw him in the fifth year of his probation, and his skin then was like the hide of a rhinoceros, but more callous. at that time, however, he could sleep comfortably on his bed of thorns, and remarked that at the expiration of the term of his sentence, he should most probably continue that system from choice, which he had been obliged to adopt from necessity." this illustrates the force of established habit, and the pliability of our nature in yielding a voluntary subjection to it. what is at first involuntary, painful, and a self-denial to us, wall when it passes into a habit, become agreeable, because the habit bends our nature to it, chains us down to it, infatuates the will, and thus becomes, as it were, a second nature. if so, it is very plain that our habits are either a blessing or a curse. when good they are a safeguard against evil, give stability to our character, and are the law of perseverance in well-doing. such habits in the christian home form, an irresistible bulwark against the intrusions of temptation and iniquity. but when they are bad, they chain us to evil, and impel us onward and downward to ruin. hence from his habits we can easily estimate the merit or demerit of a person, know all his weak points and idiosyncrasies, and what will be the probable termination of his existence. the same may be said of the habits of a family. they enter into its very constitution, rule and direct all its activities and interests. they cling to each member with more than magic power, and become interwoven with his very being; and by them we may easily ascertain the moral and spiritual strength of that family; we can tell whether the parents are faithful to their mission, and whether its members will be likely to pass over from the home of their childhood to the church of christ. who has not felt this power of habit? who has not wept over some habits which haunt him like an evil spirit; and rejoiced over others as a safeguard from sin and a propellor to good? is it not, therefore, a matter of momentous interest to the christian home, that it establish habits of the right kind and quality? it should never be forgotten by christian parents, and they cannot be too careful to impress it upon their children, that habit engenders habit,--has the power of reproducing itself, and begetting habits of its own kind, increasing according to the laws of growth, as it is thus reproduced. a habit in one member of a family may produce a like habit in all the other members. the habits of the husband may be engendered in the wife, and those of the parents, in their children. if so, then are we not responsible for our habits? and shall any other kind save christian habits, be found in the christian home? these we cannot give in detail. it is plain that those habits only are christian, which receive the sanction of god's word and spirit, and find a response in the christian faith and conscience. here, for instance, is a habit being formed,--habit of thought: is it pure? here is a habit of conversation: is it holy? here is a habit of action: is it godly? and if not, it does not belong to the christian home. see, then, ye members of the christian home, to the habits you are forming. form the habit of "doing all thing's decently and in order." let the work and duties of each day be done according to method. this is essential to success in your pursuits and aims. without this, your christian life may be blustering and stormy, but you will accomplish little, and will be as unstable as water. one duty will interfere with another. you may have family prayer and instruction to-day, but something will prevent it to-morrow. establish the habit of christian industry. be diligent; not slothful in business. industry must be the price of all you obtain. you must be instant in season. the christian home cannot be an indolent, idle home. whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might. press forward. it is said of rutherford that "such was his unwearied assiduity and diligence, that he seemed to pray constantly, to preach constantly, to catechise constantly, and to visit the sick, exhorting from house to house, to teach as much in the schools, and spend as much time with the students in fitting them for the ministry, as if he had been sequestered from all the world, and yet withal, to write as much as if he had been constantly shut up in his study." such should be the industry of each christian home. without it, temptation will beset the members. "a busy man is troubled with but one devil, but the idle man with a thousand." establish the habit also of perseverance in well-doing. "be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the lord." "be not weary in well-doing." let the strata of your home be made up of the immovable rock. he only that continueth unto the end shall be saved. having done all, stand! let your motto be, _perseverando vinces_. form the habit of contentment with your home and condition in life. "godliness with contentment is great gain." if your home is humble, and not adorned with the embellishments and luxuries of life, yet it may be holy, and hence, happy. avoid all castle-building. do not fancy a better home, and fall out with the one you enjoy. never permit the flimsy creations of a distorted imagination to gain an ascendancy over your reason and faith. live above all sentimentalism and day-dreaming; and in all the feelings and conduct of your household, submit to the guidance of a superintending providence, walking by faith and not by sight, assured that your present home is but probationary and preparatory to a better home in heaven. chapter xviii. home-government. "alas! for a thousand fathers, whose indulgent sloth hath emptied the vial of confusion over a thousand homes. alas! for the palaces and hovels, that might have been nurseries for heaven, by hot intestine broils blighted into schools for hell; none knoweth his place, yet all refuse to serve, none weareth the crown, yet all usurp the scepter; the mother, heart-stricken years agone, hath dropped into an early grave; the silent sisters long to leave a home they cannot love; the brothers, casting off restraint, follow their wayward wills." home is a little commonwealth jointly governed by the parents. it involves law. the mutual relation of parent and child implies authority on the one hand, and obedience on the other. this is the principle of all government. home is the first form of society. as such it must have a government. its institution implies the prerogatives of the parent and the subordination of the child. without this there would be no order, no harmony, no training for the state or the church; for-- "society is a chain of obligations, and its links support each other; the branch cannot but wither that is cut from the parent vine." the relation of the parent to the child is that of a superior to an inferior. the right of the parent is to command; the duty of the child is to obey. hence it is the relation of authority to subordination. this relation includes the principles of home-government. the parent is not the author of his authority. it is delegated to him. neither can he make arbitrary laws for home; these must be the laws of god. it is as much the duty of the parent to rule as it is for the child to be ruled. the principle of home-government is love,--love ruling and obeying according to law. these are exercised, as it were, by the instinct of natural affection as taken up and refined by the christian life and faith. this government implies reciprocity of right,--the right of the parent to govern and the right of the child to be governed. it is similar in its fundamentals to the government of the state and church. it involves the legislative, judicial and executive functions; its elements are law, authority, obedience, and penalties. the basis of its laws is the word of god. we may consider the whole subject under two general heads, viz., parental authority, and filial obedience. . parental authority is threefold, legislative, judicial and executive. the two latter we shall more fully consider under the head of home-discipline. the legislative authority of the parent is confined to the development of god's laws for the christian home. he cannot enact arbitrary laws. his authority is founded on his relation to his children as the author of their being; "yet it does not admit," says schlegel, "of being set forth and comprised in any exact and positive formularies." it does not, as in the old roman law, concede to the parent the power over the life of the child. this would not only violate the law of natural affection, but would be an amalgamation of the family and state. neither is the parental authority merely conventional, given to the parent by the state as a policy. it is no civil or political investiture, making the parent a delegated civil ruler; but comes from god as an in alienable right, and independent, as such, of the state. it does not, therefore, rest upon civil legislation, but has its foundation in human nature and the revealed law of god; neither can the state legislate upon it, except in cases where its exercise becomes an infringement upon the prerogatives of the state itself. parents are magistrates under god, and, as his stewards, cannot abdicate their authority, nor delegate it to another. neither can they be tyrants in the exercise of it. god has given to them the principles of home-legislation, the standard of judicial authority, and the rules of their executive power. god gives the law. the parent is only deputy governor,--steward, "bound to be faithful." hence the obligation of the child to obey the steward is as great as that to obey the master. "where the principal is silent, take heed that thou despise not the deputy." here, then, we have the extent of the parent's authority, and the spirit and manner in which it should be exercised. his power is grafted on the strength of another, and should not extend beyond it. its exercise should not run into despotism on the one hand, nor into indifferentism on the other. according to the vagaries of some religious sentimentalists and fanatics, it is supposed that religion supersedes the necessity of parental government. they think that such authority runs counter to the spirit and requisitions of the gospel. but this is asserted in the broad face of god's word. the promptings of such sentimentalism are to permit children to do as they please, and to bring them up under the influence of domestic libertinism. honor thy father and thy mother, is a command which explodes such a gaudy theory; and he who does not obey it, brutalizes human nature, dishonors god, subverts the principles of constitutional society, throws off allegiance to the prerogatives of a divinely constituted superior, and overthrows both church and state. hence the severe penalties attached, in the mosaic law, to disobedience of parental authority. "he that curseth his father or mother, shall surely be put to death." "the eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it." and hence also that affectionate obedience which joseph yielded to his aged father, and that profound veneration with which he kneeled before him to receive his dying blessing. . filial obedience is the correlative of parental authority. if parents have authority, children must yield obedience to it. this is not only necessary to home-government, but also to the proper formation of the character of the child. it must be trained up under law and authority to prepare it for citizenship in the state. this must be the obedience of confidence and love. it does not imply the subordination of the slave. as the father's authority is not that of the despot, so the obedience of the child is not that of the servile, trembling subject. it is not unnatural,--no infringement upon the rights and liberties of the child. his subordination to the parent is the law of his liberty. he is not free without it. the home in which filial obedience is not yielded to parental authority is "a marvel of permitted chaos," and will soon become desolate, a scene of anarchy and strife. the members live in a state of lawlessness, destitute of reciprocated affection,--the parent unhonored, the father and mother despised and cursed, and the child untrained, uncared for, lawless, and unfit for the state or the church. if, therefore, god has constituted governmental relations in the christian home, and invested the parent with authority over his children, who will deny the coordinate obligations of the child to yield reverence, submission and gratitude to the parent? "children, obey your parents in all thing's; for this is well pleasing unto the lord." this is called the first commandment with promise. it is one of promise both to the parent and the child. children are bound to obey their parents in all things, that is, in all things lawful and in accordance with the revealed will of god. the child is not bound to obey the parent's command to sin,--to lie, steal, or neglect the means of grace; because these are express violations of god's law; and in such instances the authority of god supersedes that of the parent. obey god rather than man. but, on the other hand, the obligation of the child is, to obey the parent in all things lawful and christian. where this is not done the christian home becomes a curse. what an evil is a refractory child! how often does the parental eye weep in bitterness over such a child! how often have such children brought their parents down in sorrow to the grave! let them think of this. let parents think of this before it is too late. let them think of the fearful criminality which is attached to parental indulgence and filial disobedience. we may neglect and abuse the home-government in two ways, either by over-indulgence, or by the iron rod of tyranny. when we make it lax in its restraints and requisitions, it becomes merely nominal, and its laws are never enforced and obeyed. often parents voluntarily relinquish their right and duty to rule their household; and as a consequence, their children abandon the duty of obedience, and grow up in a lawless state; or if they do command, they never execute their commands, but leave all to the discretion of their children. they violate their laws with impunity, until all influence over them is lost, and the child becomes master of the parent. the self-will of the former takes the place of the authority of the latter, until at last the home-government becomes a complete farce and mockery. such parents are always making laws and giving commands; but never enforce them; they complain that they cannot get their children to obey them; and this cannot is but the utterance and exponent of their unfaithfulness and disgrace. the opposite abuse of home-government is parental despotism,--ruling with a rod of iron, making slaves of children, acting the unfeeling and heartless tyrant over them, assuming towards them attitudes of hard task-masters, and making them obey from motives of trembling, fear and dread. there is no christianity in all this. it engenders in them the spirit of a slave; it roots out all confidence and love; their obedience becomes involuntary and mechanical. they shrink in silent dread from the presence of their parents, and long for the time when they can escape their galling yoke. the parental rod destroys the filial love and confidence. hence the obedience of the latter is servile; and home loses its tender affections and sympathies, and becomes to them a workhouse, a confinement; its restrictions are a yoke; its interests are repulsive, and all its natural affinities give way to complete alienation. the children of such homes, when grown up, are the most lawless and reckless, ready at once to pass over from extreme servitude to libertinism. the government of the christian home lies in a medium between these two extremes. it is mild, yet decisive, firm; not lawless, yet not despotic; but combines in proper order and harmony, the true elements of parental authority and filial subordination. love and fear harmonize; the child fears because he loves; and is prompted to obedience by both. "but give thy son his way, he will hate thee and scorn thee together." christian parents! be faithful to the government of your household. like abraham, command your household. without this, your children will be your curse and the curse of the state. wherever they go they will become the standard-bearer of the turbulent, and brandish the torch of discord, until at last, perhaps, they will die in a dungeon or upon the gibbet. and then the curse will recoil upon you. it will strike deep into your hearts. it will come to you in the darkness of unfulfilled promises and blighted hopes and injured affections and desolated homes and wounded spirits and disgraced names and infamous memories! and you, in the face of these, will go down with bleeding sorrow to the grave, and up to the bar of god with the blood of your children's destruction upon your skirts, its voice crying unto you from the grave of infamy and from the world of eternal retribution. you will then see the folly and the fruits of your diseased affection and misguided indulgence,-- "a kindness,--most unkind, that hath always spared the rod; a weak and numbing indecision in the mind that should be master; a foolish love, pregnant of hate, that never frowned on sin; a moral cowardice, that never dared command!" chapter xix. home-discipline. "in ancient days, there dwelt a sage called discipline, his eye was meek, and a smile played on his lips, and in his speech was heard paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. the occupation dearest to his heart was to encourage goodness. if e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, that one, among so many, overleaped the limits of control, his gentle eye grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke, his frown was full of terror, and his voice shook the delinquent with such fits of awe as left him not, till penitence had won lost favor back again, and closed the breach." discipline involves the judicial and executive functions of the home-government. it is the method of regulating and executing the principles and practice of government. it includes the rein and the rod, the treatment of offences against the laws of home, the execution of the parental authority by the imposition of proper restraints upon the child. it involves a reciprocity of duty,--the duty of the parent to correct, and the duty of the child to submit. god has given this discipline; he has invested the parent with power to execute it, and imposed upon the child the obligation to live submissively under it. all must admit the necessity of home-discipline. "it must needs be that offense come." there is a corresponding needs be in the proper treatment of these offenses when they do come. law implies penalties; and the proper character and execution of these are as essential to the true object and end of government as is the law itself. the former would he powerless without the latter. through the agency of home-discipline the proper fear and love of the child are developed in due proportion and brought into proper relations to each other, making the fear filial and the love reverential. there is, therefore, the same call for discipline in the family as there is in the state and the church. it is the condition of true harmony between, the parent and child. "the child that is used to constraint, feareth not more than he loveth; but give thy son his way, he will hate thee and scorn thee together." it is necessary because god commands it; and he commands it because it is indispensable to the security and well-being of the child, and, we might add, of the state and the church. "withhold not correction from the child; for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell. he that spareth his rod hateth his son; but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes." children are by nature depraved, and if left to themselves, will choose evil rather than good; hence, as foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child, the rod of correction must be used to drive them from it. he must be restrained, corrected, educated under law. in the language of cowper-- "plants raised with tenderness are seldom strong; man's coltish disposition asks the thong; and without discipline, the favorite child, like a neglected forester, runs wild." there are two false systems of home-discipline, viz., the despotism of discipline, or discipline from the standpoint of law without love; and the libertinism of discipline, or discipline from the standpoint of love without law. home-discipline from the standpoint of law without love, involves the principle of parental despotism. it is extreme legal severity, and consists in the treatment of children as if they were brutes, using no other mode of correction than that of direct corporeal punishment. this but hardens them, and begets a roughness of nature and spirit like the discipline under which they are brought up. many parents seek to justify such mechanical severity by the saying of solomon, "he that spareth the rod spoileth the child." but their interpretation of this does not show the wisdom of the wise man. they suppose the term rod, must mean the iron rod of the unfeeling and unloving despot. not so; god has a rod for all his children; but it is the rod of a compassionate father, and does not always inflict corporeal punishment. it is exercised because he loves them, not because he delights in revenge and in their misery. he uses it, not to have them obey him from fear of punishment, not to force them into a slavish service, and to cause them to shrink with trembling awe from his presence; but to correct their faults by drawing them to him in fond embrace, in grateful penitence and hopeful reformation, under the deep conviction that every stroke of his rod was the work of love, forcing from them a kiss for his rod, and a blessing for his hand, the utterance of a sanction for his deed, "it was good for me that i was afflicted!" this rod is very different, however, from that of the despot beneath whom the child crouches with trembling dread, and under the influence of whom he becomes, like the down-trodden subject, servile, brutish and rebellious. you will reap bitter fruits from such a discipline, which is but the exponent of the letter of the law without its spirit, and which has nothing for the child but the scowl and the frown and the cruel lash. you might as well seek to "gather grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles," as to reap from it a true reformation and religious training. your child will be trained to hate the law, to despise authority, and to regard his obedience as a compromise of true liberty. he will, therefore, seek liberty only in the usurpation of law and government. he will contemn love, because where it should have been disinterested, and shown in its greatest tenderness and purity,--in the parent's heart, it was abused and silenced. that discipline, therefore, which is ever magnifying trifles, finding fault, scolding and storming, and threatening and whipping, and falling upon the child, like the continual dropping of rain in a winter day, casts a withering gloom over home, makes it repulsive to the child, gives to the parent a forbidding aspect, until the children become provoked to wrath, and regard their home as a prison, their life as a slavery, and long for the time when they may leave home and parents forever. such discipline makes the reign of the parent a reign of terror. it reminds one of the laws of draco, written in blood. it produces in the child a broken spirit, a reckless desperation, a hardened contumacy, a deep and sullen melancholy, a mental and moral hardihood which prepares him for deeds of outrage upon law and humanity. it is unnatural, revolting to human nature, to beat and crush, as if with an iron rod, the tender child of our hearts and hopes. it extinguishes natural affection; and no subsequent kindness can rekindle the flame. the child becomes forever alienated, and bears the curse of its maltreatment upon its character and destiny. "ye parents, provoke not your children to anger, lest they should be discouraged." the following quaint anecdote is a good commentary upon such discipline: a blacksmith brought up his son, to whom he was very severe, to his own trade. the urchin was, nevertheless, an audacious dog. one day the old vulcan was attempting to harden a cold chisel which he had made of foreign steel, but could not succeed; "horsewhip it, father," exclaimed the youth, "if that will not harden it, nothing will!" nothing justifies such cruel discipline. it results in depravity of life. the most notorious criminals began their career under the lash of parental cruelty. if rods and stripes and cries and tears and cruel beating are the first lessons of life we are to learn, then we shall be educated in as well as by these. the europeans surpass all other nations in cruelty to their offspring. the arab is tender to his children, and rules them by kindness and caresses. he restrains them by the corrections of wisely exerted love. cruelty does not become the christian home. it is revolting to see a parent stand with a rod over his child, to make him read the bible or say his prayers. you cannot whip religion into a child. this is opposite to humanity and religion. home-discipline from the standpoint of love without law, is the second false system which we have mentioned, and involves the principle of parental libertinism. it does not consist so much in the want as in the neglect and abuse of discipline. the restraints may be sufficient, and the threats abundant, but they are never executed. when the children disobey, the parents may flounder and storm, loud and long, but all ends in words, in a storm of passion or whining complaint, and the child is thus encouraged to repeat the misconduct, feeling that his parents have no respect for their word. such a home becomes scolding, but not an orderly home. "discipline at length, o'erlooked and unemployed, grow sick and died, then study languished, emulation slept, and virtue fled. what was learned, if aught was learned in childhood, is forgot; and such expense as pinches parents blue, and mortifies the liberal hand of love, is squandered in pursuit of idle sports and vicious pleasures." parents, through their misguided sympathy, often connive at filial disobedience. their kindness is most unkind. their parental love issues forth as a mere burst of feeling, unguided by either reason or law. hence, their sentimental hearts become an asylum for filial delinquency and criminality. this is no proof of love, but the opposite; for "he that spareth the rod hateth his son; but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes." love will thus prompt the parent to chasten his son while there is hope. eli was an example of extreme parental indulgence. "his sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them not." it was the defect also of david's discipline, and the fruit of this defect caused him to cry out in bitter anguish, "oh absalom, my son, my son, would to god i had died for thee!" that parent who cannot restrain his children, does not bear rule in his house, and as a consequence, cannot bless his household. that parental tenderness which withholds the proper restraints of discipline from an erring child, is most cruel and ruinous. it is winking at his wayward temper, his licentious passions and growing habits of vice. and these, in their terrible maturity, will recoil upon the deluded parent, "biting like a serpent and stinging like an adder." nothing is more ruinous to a child and disastrous to the hopes and happiness of home, than such relaxation of discipline. "a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame." how many mothers have bitterly experienced this, and wept bitter tears over the memory of their degraded and wretched offspring! it is ruinous to the parent. he will both curse and despise thee. your unlawful indulgence, therefore, is infanticide. your cruel embraces are hugging your child to death. the sentiment of love should never crush the reason and violate the laws of love. do you permit your sick to die rather than to inflict the pain of giving them the medicine to cure? this would be madness. and yet you do a similar deed when you indulge your child in wickedness. he will grow up lawless, headstrong, rebellious; and these may lead him on to poverty, infamy, crime and perdition, ending thus in total shipwreck of character and soul. you thus make for society bad members, drunkards, blackguards, paupers, criminals; and furnish fuel for the eternal burnings. and will not the curse rest upon you? it is wonderful to what an extent this extreme indulgence prevails at the present day. many parents seem insensible even to the necessity of any discipline, and think it is an infringement upon the liberties of the child. mistaken parents! such views are opposed to the laws of god and man. by them you sow for yourselves and children the seeds of a future retribution. thus we see that there are two dangerous extremes or false systems of home-discipline, viz., the exercise of parental fondness and sympathy without parental authority, on the one hand, and the exercise of parental authority without proper sympathy, on the other. misguided sympathy and fondness will produce filial libertinism; and despotic authority will beget filial servility. true christian home-discipline lies in a medium between these. it involves the union of true parental sympathy and authority, of proper love and proper law; for affection, when not united to authority and law, degenerates into sentimental fondness; and authority and law, when, not tempered with love, degenerate into brutal tyranny, and produce inward servility and outward bondage. the parents who are, in discipline, prompted by the first, may be loved, but will not be respected. those who are ruled by the second, may be dreaded, but will not be loved. the first does violence to law, and ends in the insubordination of the child and the imbecility of the parent. the second does violence to love, makes duty a task, correction a corporeal punishment, the child a slave, the parent a despot, and ends consequently in the destruction of natural affection. hence, in home-discipline, true severity and true sympathy should unite and temper each other. without this the very ends proposed will be frustrated. true home-discipline repudiates the legal idea of punishment as much as of impunity. it lies in a medium between these, and involves the idea of christian correction or chastisement. we should correct, but not punish our children. correction is not the mere execution of legal penalties as such, but the fruit of christian love and concern for the child. it does not mean simple corporeal chastisement, but moral restraints. the impunity is the fruit of love without law; the corporeal punishment is the execution of law without love; christian correction is the interposition of love acting according to law in restraining the child. hence, true discipline is the correction of the child by the love of the parent, according to the laws of home-government. abraham instituted in his household a model system of home-discipline. "i know him," says god, "that he will command his children and his household after him, and they shall keep the ways of the lord to do justice and judgment." he was not a tyrant; his comrades did not bear the rough sternness of a despot, neither did his power wear the scowl of vengeance. but these bore the firmness and decision of love tempered and directed by the law of christian duty and responsibility. they showed his station as a father; they wore the exponent of his authority as a parent, whose love was a safeguard against tyranny on the one hand, and whose accountability to god was a security against anarchy, on the other. hence, his children respected his station, venerated his name, appreciated his love, confided in his sympathy, and yielded a voluntary obedience to his commands; for they discerned in them the blessing; and when offenses came, they bent in the spirit of loving submission and pupilage, under his rod of correction, and kissed it as the means of their reformation and culture. thus does home-discipline involve the firmness of parental authority united with the mildness of parental love. love should hold the reins and use the rod. then it will purify and elevate natural affection, and develop in the child a sense of proper fear, without either disrespectful familiarity or mechanical servitude. the efficiency of home-discipline depends upon its early introduction, upon the decision with which it is administered, upon its adaptation to the real wants of the child, and upon the manner in which it is applied. it should be commenced in due season, as soon as the child can understand its meaning and object. the child should be made to understand that he lives under authority and restraint. this will prepare him for a profitable correction when necessary. the great fault of many parents is that they begin too late to correct their children, and leave them until then in ignorance of its nature and intent. hence, the child will not appreciate the parent's motive, and will lack that pliability of spirit which is essential to reformation. "the sceptre," says james, in his family monitor, "should be seen by him before the rod; and an early, judicious and steady exhibition of the former, would render the latter almost unnecessary. he must be made to submit, and that while young, and then submission will become a habit; the reins must be felt by him early, and he will thus learn to obey them." home-discipline should be steady, uniform, consistent and reasonable. both parents and children should be guided by the dictates of reason and religion. it should not be administered by the caprice of passion, nor received in the spirit of insubordination. it should be prompted by a parent's heart, and inflicted by a parent's hand. convince the recreant child that you correct him from motives of love, and for his own good. let reason and love be at the bottom of every chastisement; let them hold the reins and guide the rod; and when the latter is used, let it be from necessity. lay no injunction upon your child without the ensurance of a compliance. your discipline should never involve impossibilities or uncertainties; neither should you permit your child to sport with your injunctions. every command should produce either obedience or correction. you should be firm in the infliction of a threatened chastisement, and faithful in the fulfilment of a promise to reward. many parents are always scolding, threatening and promising, but never execute and fulfil. as a consequence they run from one extreme of discipline to another. in home-discipline, parents should act harmoniously and cooperate with each other. they should be of one mind and of one heart, and equally bear the burden. the one should not oppose the discipline which the other is administering. this destroys its effect, and leaves the child in a state of indecision, leading to prejudice against one or the other of the parents. it too often happens that parents thus take opposite sides,--the father too severe perhaps, and the mother too indulgent. thus divided, their house must fall. nothing is more ruinous to the child than for the mother to counteract by soothing opiates, the admonitions of the father. children soon see this, and will as soon hate their father. when one parent thus holds the reins without the rod, and the other uses the rod without the reins, the very ends of discipline are frustrated. sometimes the child is given over to the mother exclusively till a certain age, when the father begins to act without the mother. this is wrong. a child is never too young to be ruled by the father, and never too old to come under the softening influence of the mother. discipline should be administered with impartiality. never make one child a favorite. favoritism and consequent indulgence, will produce prejudice against the other children. it will introduce dissension among them. this is unworthy the christian parent and his home. the history of jacob and joseph, as regards both the subject and the victim of parental favoritism, is a warning against such partiality. it produces, pride, envy, jealousy, family broils and strife, in which even the parents take a part, and by which the husband is often set against his wife, parents against children, and children against each other. correction is an essential element of true discipline. "the rod and the reproof give wisdom." there are two things in correction,--the reins and the whip, or the command and the chastisement. the one should not take the place of the other. the scepter must not be converted into a whip. if the reins are properly held and used, the whip need scarcely ever be required. if the child is timely and properly trained, commanded and chided, he will not require much chastisement,--perhaps no corporeal punishment. it is better to prevent crimes than to punish them; for prevention is more than cure. hence the first thing in discipline is timely and wholesome command. guide and train your child properly, and you need seldom resort to coercion. training and leading are better than forcing. by the former you establish a habit of systematic obedience which will soon become a pleasure to the child. by the latter you jade and vex and burden him. but when the reins will not do alone, then the whip must be resorted to. and the question at once arises, what kind of a whip? we answer, not such as you use to your horses and oxen in the team,--not the horse-whip. corporeal punishment should be used only as a last resort, when all other corrections have failed, when the child becomes an outlaw, and his reprobate heart can be reached only through the infliction of bodily pain. as a general thing it is even then unavailing, because too mechanical to produce permanent good, and not adapted to mental and moral reformation. sometimes, however, there is necessity in the use of this rod. "every child," says dr. south, "has some brute in it, and some man in it, and just in proportion to the brute we must whip it." when thus necessary we should not shrink from this kind of correction. "it is pusillanimity, as well as folly, to shrink from the crushing of the egg, but to wait composedly for the hatching of the viper." yet, on the other hand, in the language of dr. bell, "a maximum of attainment can be made only by a minimum of punishment." in the discipline of home, whether by guidance or by forcing, whether by the rein or the rod, much depends upon the manner in which it is administered. it should always be adapted to the peculiar character and offense of the child. you can restrain some children better by kind words and promises than by rough admonitions and threats. study, therefore, the peculiarities of your child, and prudently apportion the correction to the offense. if there are sincere penitence and confession, the correction should be purely moral. let the object of every correction be to produce penitence and reformation of heart as well as of conduct, and a hatred of the offense. always execute your threats and fulfill your promises at the time and on the occasion designated. threaten as little as possible, and be not hasty in your threats. treat your children as rational and moral beings: "be obeyed when thou commandest, but command not often; spare not, if thy word hath passed for punishment; let not thy child see thee humbled, nor learn to think thee false." always examine the offense before you punish. see whether it is of ignorance or not,--whether of the head or the heart,--whether intentional or accidental. examine his motives in committing the offense. if you find he merits correction, before you inflict it, lay before him the nature and enormity of the offense, wherein he disobeyed, the guilt of that disobedience, its consequences, and your duty to correct him for it. never correct in a state of anger. some correct only when they are in a violent passion. this is ruling from passion, not from principle. it is like administering medicine scalding hot, which rather burns than cures. be judicious and kind in all your discipline; otherwise you may engender in your child the very propensities and improprieties of action you desire to eradicate. a mild rebuke in the season of calmness, is better than a rod in the heat of passion. let your children know and see that all your discipline is for their own good,--to arrest them from danger and ruin, and to train them up in the way god would have them go. let your words and deeds show this in the form of parental kindness and sympathy and solicitude. this will do more than the angry look, the stormy threat, and the cruel lash. "by kindness the wolf and the zebra become docile as the spaniel and the horse; the kite feedeth with the starling under the law of kindness; that law shall tame the fiercest, bring down the battlements of pride, cherish the weak, control the strong, and win the fearful spirit. let thy carriage be the gentleness of love, not the stern front of tyranny." chapter xx. home-example. "example strikes all human hearts! a bad example more; more still a father's!" example has much to do with the interests of home. it plays an important part in the formation of character; and its influence is felt more than that of precept. our object in this chapter is to show the bearing of example upon the well-being of the christian home. example may be good or bad. its power arises out of the home-confidence and authority. children possess an imitative disposition. they look up to their parents as the pattern or model of their character, and conclude what they do is right and worthy of their imitation. hence the parental example may lead the child to happiness or to ruin. "lo! thou art a landmark on a hill; thy little ones copy thee in all things. show me a child undutiful, i shall know where to look for a foolish father; but how can that son reverence an example he dare not follow? should he imitate thee in thine evil? his scorn is thy rebuke." the power and influence of the home-example are incalculable. example is teaching by action. by it the child inherits the spirit and character of the parent. such is its influence that you can estimate the parent by the child. show me a child, polite, courteous, refined, moral and honorable in all his sentiments and conduct; and i will point you to a well-conducted nursery, to noble and high-minded parents, faithful to their offspring. theirs is a holy and a happy home; and the blessing of god rests upon it. but on the other hand, in the wayward, dissolute child i discern unfaithful parents who have no respect for religion, and who take no interest in the spiritual welfare of their children. thus the child is a living commentary upon its home and its parents. the fruits of the latter will be seen in the character of the former. the child is the moral reproduction of the parent. hence the pious parent is rewarded in his child, and the immoral parent is cursed in his child. whatsoever thou sowest in thy child, that shalt thou also reap. [illustration: sunshine of youth.] the precepts of home are unavailing unless enforced by a corresponding example. nothing is so forcible and encouraging as the "follow me." it proves sincerity and earnestness; and is adapted to the imitative capacity and disposition of the child. it is all-commanding and resistless. says solomon, "iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend." says paul "it is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth, or is offended, or is made weak." says shakspeare, "one drunkard loves another of the name." says dr. young-- "ambition fires ambition; love of gain strikes like a pestilence from breast to breast; riot, pride, perfidy, blue vapor's breath; and inhumanity is caught from man, from smiling man." if such is the influence of example, we must admit the necessity of a true christian example in the family. it is necessary because it is the condition of the efficacy of home-precepts. "during the minority of reason, imitation is the regent of the soul, and they who are least swayed by argument are most governed by example." we learn from example before we can speak. hence if we would have our children walk in the way of god's commandments, we must go before them; we must take the lead; we must exemplify in our action what we incorporate in our oral instructions; our light must shine not only upon, but before them; they must see our good works as well as hear our good precepts. said a man once to j.a. james, "i owe everything under god, to the eminent and consistent piety of my father. so thoroughly consistent was he, that i could find nothing in the smallest degree at variance with his character as a professor of religion. this kept its hold upon me." it was the means of his conversion to god. thus children readily discern any discrepancy between a parent's teaching and example. if we are professors of religion, and they see us worldly-minded, grasping after riches, pleasures and honors; the dupes of ungodly fashion, manifesting a malicious spirit, indolent, prayerless, and indifferent to their spiritual welfare, what do they infer but that we are hypocrites, and will our precepts then do them any good? no. "line upon line and precept upon precept" will be given to no purpose. hence the necessity of enforcing our precepts by christian deportment. speak in an angry tone before your child; and what will it avail for you to admonish him against anger? many parents express surprise that all they can say to their children does no good; they remain stubborn, self-willed and recreant. but if these parents will look at what they have done as well as said, they will perhaps be less surprised. they may find a solution of the problem in their own capricious disposition, turbulent passions and ungodly walk. the child will soon discard a parent's precepts when they are not enforced by a parent's example. hence that parent who ruins his own soul can do but little for the soul of his child. the blasphemer and sabbath-breaker is unfit to correct his child, for swearing and sabbath-breaking. he alone who doeth the truth can teach his children truth. he only who has good habits can teach his children good habits. "who loves," says william jay, "to take his meat from a leprous hand?" a drunkard will make a poor preacher of sobriety. a proud, passionate father is a wretched recommender of humility and meekness to his children. what those who are under his care, see, will more than counteract what they hear; and all his efforts will be rejected with the question, "thou that teachest another, teachest thou not thyself?" hence parents should say to their children, "be ye followers of me, even as i also am of christ." their example should include all their precepts. in this way they both hear and see religion in its living, moving and breathing form before them. they should thus go in and out before them, leading them step by step to heaven. "as a bird each fond endearment tries to tempt her new-fledged offspring to the skies, they tried each art, reproved each dull delay, allured to brighter worlds, and led the way!" it is also necessary because of its adaptation to the capacities and imitative disposition of children. they judge by the organs of sense, and by their perceptions of truth through externals. naked abstract truth does not sufficiently interest them. they are pleased with history, narrative, illustration, more than with philosophy. they are awake to the first and receive from them a lasting impression; while the impression made by the second is dreamy and ephemeral. they will never forget your example because it is adapted to their taste and capacity. long after they have forgotten your precepts upon the duty and privilege of prayer, will they remember your prayers; and long after the influence of the former has faded, will that of the latter rule and allure them to god. hence the necessity of a christian home-example. "if any have children or nephews, let them learn first to show piety at home." if such, then, are its influence and necessity, we can easily infer the duty of parents to show their children a christian example. if they form their character upon the approved model of their parents, then the duty to give them a christian model is very obvious. they will rather follow your ungodly example than obey your godly precepts. "to give children," says archbishop tillotson, "good instruction and a bad example, is but beckoning to them with the head to show them the way to heaven--while you take them by the hand to lead them in the way to hell." this duty is, therefore, enforced by the most powerful motives. the influence and benefit of a pious example; the promised rewards attending it; the deep curse that attends its absence; the misery which a bad example entails upon all the members of the christian household; and especially the fruits of both a good and bad example, in eternity,--all these considerations should prompt you to the faithful performance of this duty. if the members of your household may he ruined here by a bad example, what will be its consequences in the eternal world? "if men of good lives, who, by their virtuous actions, stir up others to noble and religious imitation, receive the greater glory after death as sin must needs confess; what may they feel in height of torment, and in weight of vengeance, not only they themselves not doing well, but set a light up to show men to hell?" we see a similar inducement to this duty in the blessings and rewards of a pious example. its blessings are unspeakable both here and hereafter. the temporal and eternal welfare of your home, the hope of meeting your children in heaven, and receiving there the promised reward of your stewardship, depend upon this duty. that family is happy as wall as holy, where the parents rear up their children under the fostering influence of a christian example. "behold his little ones around him! they bask in the sunshine of smile; and infant innocence and joy lighten these happy faces; he is holy, and they honor him; he is loving; and they love him; he is consistent, and they esteem him; he is firm, and they fear him. his house is the palace of peace; for the prince of peace is there. even so, from the bustle of life, he goeth to his well-ordered home." a serious obstacle to the efficacy of a good example is, the too frequent want of agreement in the example of the parents. that of the father often conflicts with and neutralizes that of the mother. they are not one in their example. this the children soon see, and disregard the good rather than the bad example. "how can two walk together except they he agreed?" the child cannot follow the pious father in the way of life, when the ungodly mother secretly and openly draws him back. operated upon by two opposite influences, he will move between them. we are here taught the imprudence, and we might add, sin, of pious persons forming a matrimonial alliance with wicked and ungodly persons. in the choice of a companion for life, we should consider an agreement in religious as well as in social character. how many unhappy matches and homes and children and parents have been made by disobedience to the divine precept, "be ye not unequally yoked with unbelievers?" isaac and rebecca showed their appreciation of this precept in the care they took to procure a pious wife for jacob. "i am weary of my life," says rebecca, "because of the daughters of heth; if jacob take a wife of the daughters of heth, such as these, what good shall my life do me?" this should be the solicitude of every christian parent. parents should possess unanimity of spirit and practice in making up and giving the home-example. they should walk unitedly, like zacharias and elizabeth, in all the ordinances and statutes of the lord blameless. chapter xxi the choice of pursuits. "for what then was i born? to fill the circling year with daily toil for daily bread, with sordid pains and pleasures? to walk this chequered world, alternate light and darkness, the day-dreams of deep thought followed by the night-dreams of fancy? to be one in a full procession?--to dig my kindred clay? to decorate the gallery of art? to clear a few acres of forest? for more than these, my soul, thy god hath lent thee life!" the choice of positions and pursuits in life is one important and responsible mission of home. children look up to their parents to aid them in this. they are to have them prepared for a useful citizenship in the state. life demands that each of us, in obedience to the law of self-preservation and of our relations to human society, prepare for some useful occupation, not only for a livelihood, but also for the benefit of the state. the duty and the interest of the parent are to bring up the child to such a pursuit as is best adapted to his circumstances and abilities. our character, success and happiness in life, depend upon our obedience to this law of adaptation. as such pursuits are chosen and prepared for, while under the guardian care of our parents, it is evident they should take an active part both in the choice and the preparation. they are responsible for these as far as their influence extends. it is their duty to afford their children aid in choosing and preparing for a useful and appropriate occupation, to fit them for the circumstances in which the providence of god may place them, and to educate them for an efficient citizenship in the state. this is but developing the principle of self-preservation in the child, and fitting him for a proper adherence to it in after life. the home prepares the individual for his legitimate position in the state as well as in the church; and this implies not only his education in the principles and practice of virtue and religion, but also in some useful and appropriate pursuit, by which he may meet the wants and prepare for the exigencies of life. to rear up your children therefore, in idleness and ignorance of any useful occupation, is not only doing great injustice to the child, but also to human society, subjecting her to expenditure and corruption in the support and influence of paupers and criminals. every child should learn some trade or profession in order to self-subsistence and to the prosperity and well-being of the state. hence it is a breach of moral obligation for parents, whether rich or poor, to permit their children to grow up in idleness and vagrancy. if they do so, and as a consequence, drag out an impoverished and miserable existence, struggling between the importunities of want and those precarious contingencies upon which its satisfaction is suspended; and in the hour of despair and urgent necessity, they resort to crime in order to meet their wants, or to dissipation in order to avert their wretchedness for a time, is it not plain that their parents are responsible to god for all their crime and misery? nothing will, therefore, justify them in their omission of this duty. no amount of inherited wealth; no dependence upon wealthy relatives; no honorable station in society, will excuse them from training up their children to some useful employment by which, if circumstances demand, they may secure a subsistence. and even if their legacy render it unnecessary to be followed in order to subsistence, it is a duty which is due to the state. no man can with impunity live in the state without some employment. this would be an infringement upon her rights and an abuse of her privileges. the individual, with all his wealth and talents, belongs to the state, and should, therefore, make such an appropriation of these as will be most conducive to its welfare. and besides, we know not what disastrous changes may take place in life. the parental legacy may soon be squandered by the child, and he be left without funds or friends; the emergencies of the future may increase beyond all anticipation; sickness and manifold adversities may soon sweep away all his inheritance. and then what will become of your child if he is ignorant of any pursuit in which to engage for a subsistence? besides, it is a matter of very common observation, that those who receive a large legacy and have been brought up in idleness, become prodigal in their expenditure, and squander their fortune by dissipation more rapidly than their parents amassed it by industry and frugality; and then, ignorant and helpless and profligate, they eke out a wretched existence in abject poverty, resorting to illegitimate means for a living, until the last fruits of their improper training may be seen in the state's prison or upon the gibbet. history will afford ample illustration of this. from it we may easily infer the duty of parental interposition. the athenians expressed their sense of this duty in the enactment of a law that, if parents did not qualify their children for securing a livelihood by having them learn some occupation, the child was not bound to make provision for the parent when old and necessitous. in the selection of an occupation for his children, the parent should consult their taste and talents and circumstances, and choose for them a pursuit adapted to these. if his child is better suited for a mechanical pursuit, he should direct his attention to it, and educate him for it. and thus in all respects he should obey the great law of correspondence between the taste and capacity of the child, and the occupation to be chosen for him. the violation of this law does great injury to the child and to society, inasmuch as it prevents his success and contentment, and floods the state with quacks and humbuggery. the parent should never compel the child to learn a trade or profession which he dislikes, and for which he shows no talents. many parents, through a false pride, force their children into a profession for which they have neither inclination nor capacity. while the parent has a right to interfere in the choice of a pursuit, his interference should not be arbitrary, neither should it run counter to the will of the child unless for special moral and religious reasons, or on account of inability to gratify him. however, this is often done. even though they acknowledge their unfitness for a profession, yet their misguided pride prompts them to drag their children into a calling which in after life they disgrace. some parents, on the other hand, through a penurious spirit, refuse to aid their sons in their preparation for a profession for which their talents eminently qualify them. they refuse to educate their sons for the ministry because it is not a lucrative calling, though they give evidence of both mental and moral adaptation for that holy office. others, through a blind zeal and a false pride, force their sons into this sacred calling. mistaken parents! rather let your children break stone upon the road, or dig in the earth, yea, rather let them beg their bread, than thrust them into an occupation to which god has not called them, and for which they have neither inclination nor talents, and in which they would, perhaps, not only ruin their own souls, but contribute to the damnation of others. "there are diversities of gifts and of operations." all are not called nor fitted for the ministry. children soon give indications of specific talents and suitableness for a calling in life. we should critically observe their early propensities. these will indicate their peculiar talents. unfit for and disliking an occupation, they will become unsettled, and dissatisfied, and at best will be but mimics and quacks. their business will make them sullen slaves. it is because of parental disobedience to this law of adaptation that we have so much humbuggery in the world at the present day. study, therefore, the infantile predilections of your children to particular employments. these will be an index to their providential calling, and should govern your choice for them. the social position of the child should also be considered. if possible, the character of his pursuits should not conflict with those social elements in which he has been reared up. it should not detract from his standing in society, nor disrupt his associations in life. many parents, for the sake of money, will refuse to educate and fit their children for sustaining the position they hold in society. they bring them up in ignorance, and devote them exclusively to mammon; and then when thrown upon their own resources they are qualified neither in manners nor in pursuit for a continuance in those peculiar relations to society which they at first sustained. the exigencies of the child should also be considered. if his home can afford him no patrimony, it is then more important to consider the lucrative character of the pursuit chosen, and also the demands of that social position he is to maintain in life. its profits should then be fully adequate to these demands, and suited to the emergencies which are peculiar to his circumstances. the capital required to engage in it, and its bearing upon the health of body and mind, should also be regarded. this is an important consideration, and not sufficiently attended to by parents. how many children are forced into employments which they have not the means of carrying on, and for which their state of health altogether unfits them! a pursuit involving sedentary habits does not suit a child whose state of health demands exercise. you should make choice of but one pursuit for your child, and discourage in him the american tendency to be "jack of all trades." one occupation, whatever it may be, whether trade or profession, if properly pursued, will demand all his energies, and give him no time to follow another; and besides, it will afford him an ample subsistence. there is much truth in the two old and quaint adages, "jack of all trades, and master of none;" "he has too many irons in the fire,--some of them must burn!" show your children the truth and application of these. but while this is one extreme, and detrimental to the interests of the child, its opposite extreme, viz., that of bringing up the child to no pursuit whatever, is still more injurious. we had better have too many irons in the fire than none at all. it is a base and cowardly desertion of duty to shrink from the task of human occupation. constituted as human society is, the members of it being mutually dependent upon each other for support, it is evident that our happiness materially depends upon the active concurrence of each individual in the general system of social well-being. he who withholds, therefore, his cooperation and stands aloof from all employment, destroys a link in that chain of things by which the fabric of society is kept together and preserved. he is unfaithful to those sacred obligations which arise out of our relations to the state and the church, and he abuses those inalienable rights with which god has invested the social compact. besides, he fails to meet those conditions upon which the vigorous development of individual life and character depends. indolence is no friend either to physical, mental or moral development. the body becomes imbecile, the spirit supine and sentimental, the morals vitiated, and the mind sinks into complete puerility. activity is a law of all life, and the condition of its healthy development and maturity. without it we resort to jejune amusement, and from amusement we are hurried on to dissipation, to the card table and dram shop; and from dissipation we sink to degradation, infamy and wretchedness. idleness is thus the fruitful mother of vice and misery. our lives cannot exist in a state of neutrality between active good and active evil. it is, therefore, the duty of the christian home to prepare her young members for some useful calling in life, not only as a means of subsistence, but also as a safeguard against the evils of idleness. chapter xxii. the home-parlor. "the foolish floatiness of vanity, and solemn trumperies of pride,-- harmful copings with the better, and empty-headed apings of the worse; vapid pleasures, the weariness of gaiety, the strife and bustle of the world; the hollowness of courtesies, and substance of deceits, idleness and pastime-- all these and many more alike, thick conveying fancies, flit in throngs about my theme, as honey-bees at even to their hives!" the christian home includes the parlor. this department we must give but a brief and passing notice. yet it is as important and responsible as the nursery. in it we have a view of the relations of home to society beyond it. the parlor is set apart for social communion with the world. much of momentous interest is involved in this relation. the choice of companions, the forming of attachments and matrimonial alliances, the establishment of social position and influence in life beyond the family,--these are all involved in the home-parlor. if we would, therefore, escape the shackles and contamination of corrupt society, we must hold the parlor sacred and give to it the air and bearing of at least a moral aristocracy. home is the first form of society. the law of love rules and reigns there. it is enthroned in the heart, and casts light around our existence. in that society we live above the trammels of artificial life. in its parlor the members merge with society beyond its sacred precincts. hence it is the most beautiful room; the best furniture is there; smiles adorn it; friends meet there; fashion meets there in her silks and jewels, with her circumstance and custom, her sympathies, antipathies and divers kinds of conversation; form and profession reign there; flatteries and hypocrisies intrude themselves there; pledges are given there; attachments and vows are made there; the mind and heart are impressed and moulded there; the cobweb lines of etiquette are drawn there; a panorama of social fascinations pass before the youthful eye there,--these make the parlor the most dangerous department of home. there the young receive their first introduction to society; there they see the world in all the brilliancy of outward life, in the pomp and pageantry of a vanity fair. all seems to them as a fairy dream, as a brilliant romance; their hearts are allured by these outward attractions; their imaginations are fed upon the unreal, and they learn to judge character by the external habiliments in which its reality is concealed. they estimate worth by the beauty of the face and form, by the cost of dress and the genuflections of the body. they form their notions of happiness from fashion, fortune and position. they become enslaved to love-sick novels and fashionable amusements. there, too, they make choice of companions; there they form matrimonial alliances; there their hearts are developed, their minds trained for social life, their affections directed, and influence brought to bear upon them, which will determine their weal or their woe. if such be the influence of the home-parlor, should it not be held sacred, and made to correspond, in all the uses for which it is set apart, with the spirit and character of a christian family; and should not its doors be effectually guarded against the intrusion of spurious and demoralizing elements of society? parents should teach their children all about the character, interests and deceptions of parlor-life. they should undeceive them in their natural proneness to judge people from the standpoint of character assumed in the parlor. they see the lamb there, but not the lion; the smile but not the frown; the affability of manner, but not the tyranny of spirit. they hear the language of flattery, but not the tongue of slander. they see no weak points, detect no evil temper and bad habits. there is an artificial screen behind which all that is revolting and dangerous is concealed. who would venture to judge a person by his mechanical movements in the parlor? many are there the very opposite to what they are elsewhere:-- "abroad too kind, at home 'tis steadfast hate, and one eternal tempest of debate. what foul eruptions from a look most meek! what thunders bursting from a dimpled cheek! such dead devotion, such zeal for crimes, such licensed ill, such masquerading times, such venal faiths, such misapplied applause, such flattered guilt, and such inverted laws!" one of the most dangerous periods of life is, when we leave the nursery and school, and enter the parlor. with what solicitude, therefore, should christian parents guard their parlors from social corruption. they should prepare their children for society, not only by teaching them its manners and customs, how to act in company, how to grace a party, and move with refined ease among companions there, but also by teaching them the dangers and corruptions which lurk in their midst and follow in the train of rustling silks and fashionable denouement. they should never permit their parlor to become the scene of fashionable tyranny. the christian parlor can be no depot for fashion. it should be sacred to god and to the church. it should be a true exponent of the social elements of christianity. it should not be a hermitage, a state of seclusion from the world; but should conform to fashion, yet so far only as the laws of a sanctified taste and refinement will admit. these laws exclude all compromise and amalgamation with the ungodly spirit and customs of the world. allegiance to the higher and better law of god will keep us from submission to the laws of a depraved taste and carnal desire. we must keep ourselves unspotted from the world. whenever we submit with scrupulous exactness to the laws of fashion; whenever we yield a servile complaisance to its forms and ceremonies, wink at its extremes and immoralities and absurd expenditures, seek its flatteries and indulge in its whims and caprices, by throwing open our parlors as the theatre of their denouement, and introducing our children to their actors and master-spirits, we prostitute our homes, our religion and those whom god has given us to train up for himself, to interests and pleasures the most unworthy the christian name and character. there is much danger now of the christian home becoming in this way slavishly bound to the influence and attractions of society beyond the pale of the church, until all relish for home-enjoyment is lost, and its members no longer seek and enjoy each other's association. they drain the cup of voluptuous pleasure to its dregs, and flee from home as jejune and supine. the husband leaves his wife, and seeks his company in fashionable saloons, at the card table or in halls of revelry. the wife leaves the society of her children, and in company with a bosom companion, seeks to throw off the tedium of home, at masquerade meetings, at the theater or in the ball-room, where "vice, once by modest nature chained, and legal ties, expatiates unrestrained; without thin decency held up to view, naked she stalks o'er law and gospel too!" the children follow their example; become disgusted with each other's company, and sacrifice their time and talents to a thousand little trifles and absurdities. taste becomes depraved, and loses all relish for rational enjoyment. the heart teems with idle fancies and vain imaginations. sentimentalism takes the place of religion; filthy literature and fashionable cards shove the family bible in some obscure nook of their parlor and their hearts. the hours devoted to family prayer are now spent in a giddy whirl of amusement and intoxicating pleasure, in the study of the latest fashions and of the newly-published love adventures of some nabob in the world of refined scoundrelism. the parental solicitude, once directed to the eternal welfare of the child, is now expended in match-making and setting out in the world. thus does the christian home often become adulterated with the world by its indiscriminate association with unfit social elements. that portion of society whose master-spirits are love-stricken poets, languishing girls, amorous grandmothers, and sap-headed fiction writers, is certainly unfit for a place in the parlor of the christian family. we should not permit the principles of common-sense decorum to give place to the lawless vagaries of fancy and the hollow-hearted forms of artificial life. under the gaudy drapery of smiles and flounces, of rustling silks and blandishments, there are hearts as brutish and stultified, and heads as brainless and incapable of gentle and moral emotion, and characters as selfish and ungenerous, as were ever concealed beneath the rags of poverty, or the uncouth manners and rough garb of the incarcerated villain! it is, therefore, beneath the dignity of the christian to permit his home to become in any way a prey to immoral and irreligious associations and influences. like the personal character of the christian, it should be kept unspotted from the world; and no spirit, no customs, no companions, opposed to religion, should be permitted to enter its sacred limits. heedless of this important requisition, parents may soon see their children depart from the ways in which they were trained in the nursery, and at last become a curse to them, and bring down their gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. here is indeed the great fault of many christian parents in the present day. they do not exert that guardian care they should over the social relations and interests of their children. they are too unscrupulous in their introduction to the world, and leave them in ignorance of its snares and deceptions. what results can they look for if they permit their parlor tables to become burdened with french novels, and their children to mingle in company whose influence is the most detrimental to the interests of pure and undefiled religion? can they reflect upon their daughters for forming improper attachments and alliances? can they wonder if their sons become desperadoes, and ridicule the religion of their parents? no! they permitted them to dally with the fangs of a viper which found a ready admittance into their parlor; and upon them, therefore, will rest the responsibility,--yea, the deep and eternal curse! woe unto thee, thou unfaithful parent; the voice of thy children's blood shall send up from the hallowed ground of home, one loud and penetrating cry to god for vengeance; and thou shalt be "beaten with many stripes." it will not only cry out against you, but cling to you! guard your parlor, therefore, from the corrupting influence of all immoral associations. be not carried away by the pomp and glare of refined and decorated wickedness. let not the ornaments and magnificence of mere outward life divert your attention from those hidden principles which prompt to action. in the choice of companions for your children in the parlor, look to the ornaments of the heart rather than to those of the body. be not allured by the parade of circumstance and position in life: be not carried away by that which may intoxicate for a moment, and then leave the heart in more wretchedness than before. ever remember that the future condition of your children, their domestic character and happiness, will depend upon the kind of company you admit in your parlor. this leads us to the consideration of the part christian parents should take in the marriage of their children. this we shall investigate in our next chapter under the head of "match-making." chapter xxiii. match-making. section i. the relation of parents to the marriage choice of their children. "youth longeth for a kindred spirit, and yet yearneth for a heart that can commune with his own; take heed that what charmeth thee is real, nor springeth of thine own imagination; and suffer not trifles to win thy love; for a wife is thine unto death!" one of the most affecting scenes of home-life is that of the bridal hour! though in one sense it is a scene of joy and festivity; yet in another, it is one of deep sadness. when all is adorned with flowers and smiles, and the parlor becomes the theater of conviviality and parade, even then hearts are oppressed with sorrow at the thought of that separation which is soon to take place. the bridal is a home-crisis. it is the breaking up of home-ties and communion, a separation from home scenes, a lopping off from the parent vine, an engrafting into a strange vine, and alas! too often, into a degenerate vine. as the youthful bride stands beside her affianced husband, to be wedded to him for life, and reflects that the short ceremonial of that occasion will tear her forever from the loved, objects and scenes of her childhood-home, what tears of bitter sorrow adorn the bridal cheek, and what pungent feelings are awakened by her last farewell! "'i leave thee, sister! we have played through many a joyous hour, where the silvery gleam of the olive shade hung dim o'er fount and bower.' "yes! i leave thee, sister, with all that we have enjoyed together; i leave thee in the memory of our childhood-haunts and song and prayer. we cannot be as we have been. i leave thee now, and all that has bound us together as one; and hereafter memory alone can hail thee, and will do so with her burning tear; therefore, kind sister, let me weep! "i leave thee, father! eve's bright moon, must now light other feet, with the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune, thy homeward steps to greet." "yes, i leave thee, father! i receive thy last blessing; no longer shall thy protecting hand guide me; no longer shall thy smile be music to my ear. i leave thee, oh, therefore, let me weep! "'mother! i leave thee! on thy breast, pouring out joy and woe; i have found that holy place of rest still changeless--yet i go!" "yes, i go from thee, mother! though you have watched over me in helpless infancy with all a mother's love and care, and 'lulled me with your strain;' and though earth may not afford me a love like yours; yet i go! oh, therefore, sweet mother, let me weep!" "'oh, friends regretted, scenes forever dear remembrance hails you with her burning tear; drooping she bends o'er pensive fancy's urn, to trace the hours which ne'er can return.'" if momentous interests' are involved in marriage, then, we think that parents should take an important part in the matrimonial alliances of their children. when they grow up, they naturally seek a companion for life. the making choice of that companion is a crisis in their history, and will determine their future interest and happiness. if separation from home is a great sacrifice, then we should look well to the grounds of our justification in making that sacrifice. we propose, under the head of "match-making," to consider the part which parents should take in the marriage of their children; and also the false and true standards of judgment both for parents and their children, in making the marriage choice and alliance. have parents a right to take any part in the marriage choice and alliance of their children? have they a right to interfere in any respect with the marriage of their children? that they do possess such a right, and are justified in the exercise of it within just and reasonable limits, is, we think, undisputed by any one acquainted with the word of god. it is one of the cardinal prerogatives and duties of the christian parent. his relation to his children invests him with it. the age and inexperience of the child, on the one hand; and the seductions of the world, on the other; imply it. children need counsel and admonition; and this is a needs be for the interposition of the parent's superior wisdom and greater experience. this right is plainly exemplified in sacred history. abraham interfered in isaac's selection of a companion. isaac and rebecca aided in the choice of a wife for jacob. and indeed throughout the patriarchal age, you find this right recognized and practiced. it was also acknowledged and exercised in all the subsequent ages of judaism, in the age of primitive christianity, and even down to the present time, in every true christian household. the right still exists, and receives the sanction of the church. the great dereliction of parents now is, that they do not exercise it; and of children, that they do not recognize it. "a wise son heareth his father's instructions." "the eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pluck it out, and the young eagles shall eat it." what now is the extent, and what are the duties of that right to interfere? this is a difficult question, and can receive but an imperfect answer. in infancy the authority of the parent is exercised without any reference to the will of the child, because reason is not yet developed. but when he reaches the age of personal accountability, the control of the parent is exercised on more liberal principles; and when, by age, he becomes a responsible citizen, the legal authority of the parent ceases. still he possesses moral authority, and has a right to exert a restraining influence over the child. this does not, of course, involve a right to compel him to yield to the parent's arbitrary will. he can exert but a moral control over him; and it is the child's duty to yield to this, so long as it is consistent with scripture and the maxims of sound reason and conscience. he should consult his parents, receive them into his confidence, and give priority to their judgment and counsels. parents have the right to use coercive measures to prevent an imprudent marriage by their children before they have arrived at age; for until they are of age they are both legally and morally under the authority and government of their parents, who are responsible for them. hence the child should recognize and submit to their authority. but this right to the use of coercive measures extends only to the prevention of unhappy marriages,--not to the forming of what the parents may regard happy alliances, against the will of the child. no parent has the right to compel a child under age to marry, because the marriage alliance implies the age and free choice of the child. but when the child reaches legal maturity, the coercive authority of the parent ceases. his interposition then should not involve coercive, but persuasive measures. then a mere mechanical prevention of an unhappy marriage would have no good moral effect, but would be productive of great evil, inasmuch as it not only involves parental despotism, but the restriction of a manifest and conceded right of the child. it would destroy the sense of personal dignity and responsibility. persuasive measures will then accomplish more than all the efforts of the parent to prevent an unhappy union, by threats of disinheritance and expulsion from home. in this way parents often extend their interference to most unreasonable extremes, and to the great detriment of the interests and happiness of their children; while at the same time they often bring disgrace and misery upon their own heads and home. they set themselves up as the choosers of companions for their children, presuming that they should passively submit to their selection whatever it may be. this is taking away the free moral agency of the child, making no account of his taste, judgment, or affections; and forming between him and the object thus chosen a mere outward union, with no inward affinity. in such cases it most generally happens that parents are prompted by sinister motives and a false pride, as that of wealth, honor, and social position. they do not consult the law of suitability, but that of availability. they think that wealth and family distinction will compensate for the absence of all moral and amiable qualities, that if outward circumstances are favorable, there need not be inward adaptation of character. hence they will dictate to their children, make their marriage alliance a mere business matter, and demand implicit obedience on the penalty of expulsion from the parental home, and disinheritance forever. they are thus willing to prostitute the domestic peace and happiness of their offspring to the gratification of their own sordid and inordinate lust for gain and empty distinction. who does not perceive and acknowledge the evil of such a course? it involves unfeeling despotism on the one hand, and a servile obedience on the other. the affections are abused; the idea and sacredness of marriage are left out of view; the conditions of domestic felicity are not met. all is supremely selfish; the power exercised is arbitrary; the submission is slavish and demoralizing; the obedience involuntary and degrading; and the result of it all is, an outrage against nature, against marriage, and against god. on the other hand, the interference of the parent should be persuasive, and the obedience of the child, voluntary. the parent should reason with and counsel the child; and seek by mild and affectionate means to secure obedience to his advice. and if the child then persist in his own course, the parent, we think, has discharged his duty, and the responsibility will rest upon the child. he should not expel and disinherit him, and thus add the hard-heartedness of the parent to the folly and perversity of the child. he should love him still, and seek by parental tenderness to alleviate the sad fruits of filial recklessness. parents should so train their children in the nursery and parlor, by instilling in them correct principles of judgment in the choice of a companion, as to secure them ever after from an imprudent choice. here is the place to begin. parents too often omit this duty, until alas, it is too late. we have now seen that the parent has no right to destroy the domestic happiness of a child by uniting him forcibly in wedlock to one for whom he has no true affection. on the other hand, the child should pay due deference to the parent's moral suasion, and seek, if possible, to follow his counsels. "a child," says paley, "who respects his parent's judgment, and is, as he ought to be, tender of their happiness, owes, at least, so much deference to their will, as to try fairly and faithfully, in one case, whether time and absence will not cool an affection which they disapprove. after a sincere but ineffectual endeavor by the child, to accommodate his inclination to his parent's pleasure, he ought not to suffer in his parent's affections, or in his fortunes. the parent, when he has reasonable proof of this, should acquiesce; at all events, the child is then at liberty to provide, for his own happiness." section ii. false tests in the selection of a companion for life. before we advert to some of those biblical principles upon which parents and children should proceed in the marriage choice, we shall take a negative view of the subject, and mention some of those false principles and considerations which have in the present day gained a fearful ascendancy over the better judgment of many professed christians. in the matter of marriage, too many are influenced by the pomp and parade of the mere outward. the glitter of gold, the smile of beauty, and the array of titled distinction and circumstance, act like a charm upon the feelings and sentiments of many well-meaning parents and children. but it is not all gold that glitters. we must not think that those are happy in their marriage union, because they are obsequious in their attentions to each other, and live together in splendor, overloaded with fashionable congratulations. we cannot determine the character of a marriage from its pomp and pageantry. we rather determine the many unhappy matches from the false principles upon which the parties acted in making choice of each other. what are some of these? we answer-- . the manner of paying addresses involves a false principle of procedure. these are either too long or too short, and paid in an improper spirit and manner. there are too much flirtation and romance connected with them. the religious element is not taken up and considered. they do not involve the true idea of preparation, but have an air of mere sentimentalism about them. the object in view is not fully seen. the most reprehensible motives and the most shocking thoughtlessness pervade them throughout. these addresses carry with them an air of trifling, a want of seriousness and frankness, which betrays the absence of all sense of responsibility, and of all proper views of the sacredness of marriage and of its momentous consequences both for time and for eternity. . the habit of match-making involves a false principle. this we see more fully among the higher classes of society. it is the work of designing and interested persons, who, for self-interest, intrude their unwelcome interposition. its whole procedure implies that marriage is simply a legal matter, a piece of business policy, a domestic speculation. it strikes out the great law of mutual, moral love, and personal adaptation. it makes marriage artificial, and apprehends it as only a mechanical copartnership of interest and life. it is sinister in spirit, and selfish in the end. many are prompted from motives of novelty to make matches among their friends. all their schemes tend to wrest from the parties interested all true judgment and dispassionate consideration. they are deceived by base misrepresentation, allured by over-wrought pictures of conjugal felicity, so that when the marriage is consummated, they soon find their golden dreams vanish away, and with them, their hopes and their happiness forever. but there are not only personal match-makers, in the form of tyrannical fathers, sentimental mothers, amorous grandmothers, and obsequious friends; but also book match-makers, in the form of love-sick tales and poetry, containing eugene-aram adventures, and scrapes of languishing girls with titled swains running off, calculated to heat the youthful imagination, distort the pictures of fancy, giving to marriage the air of a romantic adventure, and throwing over it a gaudy drapery, leading the young into a world of dreams and nonentities, where all is but a bubble of variegated colors and fantastic forms, which explodes before them as soon as it is touched by the finger of reality and experience. these are the most dangerous match-makers. their sister companions in this evil are, the ball-room, the giddy dance and masquerade, the fashionable wine-cup and the costly apparel. let me affectionately exhort the members of the christian home to keep all these at a distance. touch not, taste not, handle not! they will poison the spirit and the affections, and encircle you with a viper's coil from which there is no hope of escape. here parents have a right, and it is their duty, to interfere. they can do so effectually by not allowing such filthy match-making intruders to pass the threshold of their homes. what can you expect out an unhappy marriage, if you permit your sons and daughters to spend their time in converse with love-sick tales and languishing swains? they will become love-sick, too, and long for marriage with one who is like the hero of their last-read romance. perhaps they will not think their matrimonial debut sufficiently flavored with romantic essence, unless they run off with some self-constituted count, or at least with their papa's irish groom! . we might advert, finally, to some of those false influences which are frequently brought to bear upon the children's choice of a companion for life. the term smitten is here significant and deserves our serious consideration. it carries in its pregnant meaning the evidence of a spurious feeling, and a false foundation of love and union. be it remembered that there must always be something to smite one. we may be smitten by a scoundrel, or by something unworthy our affections. empty titles and mustaches often smite the susceptible young. sometimes the heart is smitten by a pretty face and form; and sometimes by a rod of gold. the simple fact that we are smitten is not enough; we should know who or what it is that smites us. when we are drawn to each other, it should be by a true cord, and by an influence which binds and cements for life. the influence of mere outward beauty is a false one. those who are smitten by it, and drawn thus into a matrimonial union by an interest which is but skin-deep, and which may fade like the morning flower, are allured by a dazzling meteor, by a mere bubble, beautifully formed and colored, but empty within. it may dazzle the eye, but it blinds us to all its blemishes and inward infirmities. it is deceptive. often beneath its gaudy veil there lies the viper, ready to poison all the sweets of home-life, and cause its victim to lament over his folly with bitter tears and heart-burning remorse. how soon may beauty fade; and what then, if it was the only basis of your marriage choice? the union which rested upon it must then be at least morally dissolved; and that which once flitted like an impersonated charm before your admiring eye, now becomes an object of disgust and a source of misery. to fall in love, therefore, with mere outward beauty is, to dandle with a doll, to fawn upon a picture, to rest your hopes upon a plaything, to pursue a phantom which, as soon as you embrace it, may vanish into nothing. look not to external beauty alone; but also to the ornaments of an inward spirit, of a noble mind, and an amiable and pious heart. "if," says the rev. h. harbaugh, "you will be foolish, follow the gilded butterfly of beauty, drive it a long chase; it will land you at last at some stagnant mud-pond of the highway." neither is impulsive passion a true basis of marriage. this is falling in love at first sight, which often proves to be a very dangerous and degrading fall,--a fall from the clouds to the clods, producing both humiliation and misery. it is indeed a fearful leap,--a leap without judgment or forethought; and, therefore, a leap in the dark. it is too precipitate, and shows the infatuation of the victim. falling in love is not always falling in the embraces of domestic felicity. such leaping is an act of intoxication. the drunkard, falling in the mire, often thinks that he is embracing his best friend, whereas it is but descending to fellowship with the swine. it is blind love, which is no love, but passion without reason. it is crazy, fitful, stormy, raising the feelings up to boiling point, and bringing the affections under the influence of the high-pressure system. consequently it is raving, frothy, of a mushroom growth, making mere bubbles, and completing its work in an evaporation of all that it operated upon, passing away like the morning cloud and the early dew. true love is very different. it is substantial, reasonable, moral, acting according to law, temperate in all things, keeping the heart from extremes, permanent, and based upon principle. passion, without love, may keep you in a state of pleasurable intoxication until the knot is tied, when you will soon get sober again, only to see, however, your folly and to contemplate the height from which you have fallen, and then, with the recklessness of sullen despair, to pass over into the opposite extreme of stoical indifference and misery. all emotions are transient, and hence no proper standard of judgment in the serious matter of a marriage choice. the heart, unguided by the head, is, in its emotions, like the flaming meteor that passes in its rapid, fiery train across the heavens. it flames only for a time, and soon passes away, leaving the heavens in greater darkness than before. neither is wealth a true basis for the marriage choice. "the love of money is the root of all evil;" and when it is the primary desideratum in marriage, it acts like a canker-worm upon domestic peace and happiness. with too many in this day of money-making, marriage is but a pecuniary speculation, a mere gold and silver affair; and their match-making is but a money-making, that is, money makes the match. many parents (but we don't call such christians,) sacrifice their children upon the altar of mammon, and prostitute their earthly and eternal happiness to their love of filthy lucre. fatal mistake! will money make your children happy? is it for money you have them led to the bridal altar? ah! that sordid dust may cover the grave of their fondest hopes and connubial felicity. wed not your children to mere dollars and cents. the hand that holds a purse and shakes it before you for your child, may hold also a dagger for both the child and the parent. "look not only for riches, lest thou be mated with misery." wealth is good in its place, and we should not object to it, other things being equal. but it never was nor can be good as an inducement to marry. what a miserable policy it is, to make it the test of a proper match! "do not make the metals of earth the cord of the marriage tie." they are too brittle in their nature to do so. they take to themselves wings and fly away. the fine gold becomes dim; their cords are like ropes of glass-sand,-- "like the spider's most attenuated thread, they break at every breeze." rank also is a false standard of judgment in the forming of a marriage alliance. many look only to position in society, make it everything, and think that acknowledged social distinction will compensate for the want of all other interests. while there should be a social adaptation of character, and while you should-- "be joined to thy equal in rank, or the foot of pride will kick at thee," yet there is nothing to justify marrying a person because of his or her social position. the evils of this may be seen in the first classes of english society, where rank is mechanical, and where law forbids a trespass upon its bastard prerogatives; and as a consequence, relatives intermarry, until their descendants have degenerated into complete physical and mental imbecility. such nepotism as this is replete with untold disaster both in the family and in the state. too many in our democratic country ape this, look to rank, and are blind to all things else. the fruits of this are seen in that codfish aristocracy which floats with self-inflated importance upon the troubled waters of society, causing too many of the little fish to float after them, until they land themselves in the deep and muddy waters of domestic ruin. section iii. true tests in the selection of a companion for life. having considered some of the false standards of judgment in the choice of a companion for life, we now revert to those true tests which are given us in the word of god. there we have the institution and true idea of marriage, and the principles upon which we should proceed in making the marriage choice. we are taught in the holy scriptures, the primary importance of judicious views of the nature and responsibilities of the marriage institution itself. we should apprehend it, not from its mere worldly standpoint, not as a simple legal alliance, not only as a scheme for temporal welfare and happiness, but as a divine institute, a religious alliance, involving moral responsibilities, and momentous consequences for eternity as well as for time, for soul as well as for body. we are commanded to look to its religious elements and duties; and to regard it with that solemnity of feeling which it truly demands. when the light of the bridal day throws upon the cheek its brightest colors, even then we should rejoice with trembling, and our joy and festivity should be only in the lord. "joy, serious and sublime, such as doth nerve the energies of prayer, should swell the bosom, when a maiden's hand, filled with life's dewy flowerets, girdeth on that harness which the ministry of death alone unlooseth, but whose fearful power may stamp the sentence of eternity." in the days of our forefathers, marriage was thus held sacred, as a divine institution, involving moral and religious duties and responsibilities; and their celebration of it was, therefore, a religious one. they realized its momentous import, and its bearing upon their future welfare. it was not, therefore, without heavings of deep moral emotion and the flow of tears as well as of joyful spirits, that they put the wedding garment on. "there are smiles and tears in that gathering band, where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand what trying thoughts in the bosom swell, as the bride bids parents and home farewell! kneel down by the side of the tearful fair, and strengthen the perilous hour with prayer!" true love in each, and reciprocated by each, must determine the marriage choice. the marriage of children should not be forced. mutual love is the basis of a proper union, because marriage is a voluntary compact. when parents, therefore, force their children into an alliance, they usurp their undoubted natural and religious rights. hence there should be no _must_, where there is no _will_, on the part of the child. that choice which is made upon any other than reciprocated affection, is an unreasonable and irreligious one. "parents have no right," says paley, "to urge their children upon marriage to which they are averse;" "add to this," says he, "that compulsion in marriage necessarily leads to prevarication; as the reluctant party promises an affection, which neither exists, nor is expected to take place." to proceed to marriage, therefore in the face of absolute dislike and revulsion, is irrational and sinful. as true, mutual love is the basis of marriage, so also should it be a standard of our judgment in the marriage choice. without it, neither beauty, wealth, nor rank will make home happy. true love should be such as is upheld in scripture. it is above mere passion. it never faileth. it is life-like and never dies out. it is an evergreen in the bosom of home. it has moral stamina, is regulated by moral law, has a moral end, contains moral principle, and rises superior to mere prudential considerations. it is more than mere feeling or emotion; it is not blind, but rational, and above deception, having its ground in our moral and religious nature. it extends to the whole person, to body, mind, and spirit, to the character as well as to the face and form. it is tempered with respect, yea, vitalized, purified, directed and elevated by true piety. such love alone will survive the charms and allurements of novelty, the fascinations of sense, the ravages of disease and time, and will receive the sanction of heaven. mutual adaption of character and position is another scripture standard of judgment. is that person suited for me? will that character make my home happy? could i be happy with such an one? are we congenial in spirit, sentiment, principle, cultivation, education, morals and religion? can we sympathize and work harmoniously together in mind and heart and will and taste? are we complemental to each other? these are questions of far greater importance than the question of wealth, of beauty, or of rank. fitness of circumstances, means, and age should be also considered. am i able to support a family? can i discharge the duties of a household? where there is ignorance of household duties, indolence, the want of any visible means of supporting a family, no trade, no education, no energy, and no prospects, there is no reason to think there can be a proper marriage. thus, then, mutual love, adaptation of character, of means, of circumstances, of position, and of age, should be considered, in the formation of a marriage alliance. but the standard of judgment to which the scriptures especially direct our attention is, that of religions equality, or spiritual adaptation. "be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers." the positive command here is, that christians should marry only in the lord. here is a test in the selection of a companion for life, from which neither parents nor children should ever depart. it evidently forbids a matrimonial union with those who have no sympathy with religion. we should make more account of religious equality than of equality of rank and wealth. is not true piety of more importance than education, affluence or social distinction? when husband and wife are unequally yoked together in soul and grace, their home must suffer spiritually as well as temporally. the performance of religious duties and the enjoyment of religious privileges, will be impossible. the unbeliever will discourage, oppose, and often ridicule, the pious efforts of the believer. partiality will be produced, and godliness will decline; for, says peter, unless we dwell as heirs together of the grace of life, our prayers will be hindered. the pious one cannot rule in such a home. thus divided and striving with each other, their house must fall. where one draws heavenward and the other hellward, opposite attractions will be presented, and the believer will find constant obstructions to growth in grace, to the discharge of parental duty, and to the cultivation of christian graces in the heart. how can the unbeliever return, like david, to bless his household? how can he bring up his children in the nurture and admonition of the lord? can he be the head of a christian home? and, tell me, does the true christian desire any other than a christian home? "how can two walk together, except they be agreed?" and are you, then, in your marriage, agreed to walk with the unbeliever in the broad road of sin and death? you are not, if you are a true christian! we see, therefore, the importance of a rigid adherence to the scripture standard, "be not unequally yoked, together with unbelievers." it is even desirable that husband and wife belong to the same branch of the church, that they may walk together on the sabbath to the house of god. there is indeed something repugnant to the feelings of a christian to see the husband go in one direction to worship, and the wife in another. they cannot be thus divided, without serious injury to the religious interests of their family, as well as of their own souls. it is impossible for them to train up their children successfully when they are separated by denominational differences. it is a matter of very common observation that when persons thus divided, marry, the one or the other suffers in religious interest. from these and other considerations, we think it is expedient to marry, if possible, within the pales of our own branch of the church. then, being agreed, they can walk together with one mind and one purpose. but how much more important that they be united in their pilgrim walk to eternity,--united in the lord jesus christ, by a common life and faith and hope! we believe that christians commit a sin when they violate this law of religious equality, and unite themselves in matrimony with those who pay no regard to religion. who can estimate the peril of that home in which one of its members is walking in the narrow way to heaven, while the other one is traveling in the broad road to perdition! whom, think you, will the children follow? let the sad experience of a thousand homes respond. let the blighted hopes and the unrequited affections of the pious wife, reply. let those children whose infamy and wretchedness have broken the devout mother's heart, or brought the gray hairs of the pious father down with sorrow to the grave, speak forth the answer. it will show the importance of the scripture rule before us, and will declare the sin of violating that rule. and does not, therefore, a terrible judgment accompany that indiscriminate matrimonial union with the unbelieving world, of which so many christians, in the present day, are guilty? parents encourage their pious children to marry unbelievers, though they are well aware that such unholy mixtures are expressly forbidden, and that spiritual harmony is essential to their happiness. "she is at liberty to be married to whom she will, only in the lord!" those who violate this cardinal law of marriage, must expect to suffer the penalties attached to it. history is the record of these. the disappointed hopes, and the miseries of unnumbered homes speak forth their execution. this great scripture law has its foundation in the very nature of marriage itself. if marriage involves the law of spiritual harmony; if, in the language of the roman law, it is "the union of a man and woman, constituting an united habitual course of life, never to be separated;" if it is a partnership of the whole life,--a mutual sharing in all rights, human and divine; if they are one flesh,--one in all the elements of their moral being, as christ and his church are one; if it is a mystery of man's being, antecedent to all human law; if, in a word, man and woman in marriage, are no more twain, but one flesh; and if the oneness of our nature is framed of the body, the soul, and the spirit, then is it not plain that when two persons marry, who possess no spiritual fitness for, or harmony with, each other, they violate the fundamental law of wedlock; and their marriage cannot meet the scripture conception of matrimonial union or oneness. there will be no adaptation of the whole nature for each other; they will not appreciate the sacred mysteriousness of marriage; instead of the moral and religious development of the spiritual nature, there will be the evolution of selfishness and sensuality as the leading motives of domestic life. we see, then, that the christian cannot with impunity, violate the scripture law, "be not unequally yoked with unbelievers." shall the christian parent and child disregard this prohibition of god? will you ridicule this fundamental principle of christian marriage? will the children of god not hesitate to marry the children of the devil? can these walk together, in domestic union and harmony? can saint and sinner be of one mind, one spirit, one life, one hope, one interest? can the children of the light and the children of darkness, opposite in character and in their apprehension of things, become flesh of each other's flesh, and by the force of their blended light and darkness shed, around their home-fireside the cheerfulness of a mutual love, of a common life and hope, and of a progressive spiritual work? parents! it is your right and duty to interfere when your children violate this law. bring them up from infancy to respect it. in the parlor, train them to appreciate its religious importance. show them that god will visit the iniquity of their departure from it, unto the third and fourth generation. you are stimulated to do so by the divine promise that when they grow old, they will not depart from it. such unequal matches are not made in heaven. "god's hand is over such matches, not in them." "what fellowship hath light with darkness?" if love, in christian marriages, is holy and includes the religious element, then it is evident that the christian alliance with, one between whom and himself there is no religious affinity whatever, is not only an outrage against the marriage institution, but also exposes his home to the curse of god, making it a babel of confusion and of moral antipathies. both the old and the new testaments give explicit testimony to the law of spiritual harmony in marriage. thus the law of moses forbid the children of israel to intermarry among heathen nations. "neither shalt thou make marriages with them; thy daughter thou shalt not give unto his son, nor his daughter shalt thou take unto thy son."--deut. vii., . abraham obeyed this law in the part he took in the marriage of his son isaac, as recorded in the twenty-fourth, chapter of genesis. his obedience was reproduced in isaac and rebecca, who manifested the same desire, and took the same care that jacob should take a wife from among the covenant people of god. see twenty-eighth chapter of genesis. the evil consequences of the violation of this law may be seen in the history of solomon,--i. kings, chap. ; also in the case mentioned in the th chap.; and in nehemiah, chap. . paul upholds this law when he exhorts the corinthians to marry "only in the lord." reason itself advocates this law. the true christian labors for heaven and walks in the path of the just; the unbelieving labor for earth, mind only the things of this world, and walk in the broad road to ruin. can these now walk together, live in harmony, when so widely different in spirit, in their aims and pursuits? "what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? what part hath he that believeth with an infidel? and what agreement hath the temple of god with idols? for ye are the temple of the living god; as god hath said, i will dwell in them; and i will be their god, and they shall be my people. wherefore come out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the lord, and touch not the unclean thing; and i will receive you, and will be a father unto you, and ye shall be my sons and daughters." the primitive christians developed this law in their families. they forbade marriage with jews, pagans, mohammedans, and ungodly persons. with them, piety was the first desideratum in marriage. the sense of the christian church has ever been against religious inequality in marriage. it has always been felt to be detrimental to personal piety and to the general interests of christianity. it limits and neutralizes the influence of the church, brings overwhelming temptations to lukewarmness in family religion, and is, in a word, in almost every instance, the fruitful cause of spiritual declension wherever it is practiced. let me, then, exhort you to marry only in the lord. such an union will be blessed. daughter of zion! marry such a man as will, like david, return to bless his household. son of the christian home! marry no woman who has not in her heart the casket of piety. make this your standard; and your home shall be a happy, as well as a holy home, and "in the blissful vision, each shall share as much of glory as his soul can bear!" chapter xxiv. the children's patrimony. "give me enough, saith wisdom; for he feareth to ask for more; and that by the sweat of my brow, addeth stout-hearted independence; give me enough, and not less; for want is leagued with the tempter; poverty shall make a man desperate, and hurry him ruthless into crime; give me enough, and not more, saving for the children of distress; wealth oftentimes killeth, where want but hindereth the budding." the children's patrimony is a vital subject. it involves the great question, what should christian parents leave to their children as a true inheritance from the christian home? we shall return but a very brief and general answer. the idea of the home-inheritance is generally confined to the amount of wealth which descends from the parent to the child. and this is indeed too often the only inheritance of which children can boast. many parents, who even claim to be christians, enslave both themselves and their families, to secure for their offspring a large pecuniary patrimony. they prostitute every thing else to this. and hence it often happens that the greatest money-inheritance becomes the children's greatest curse, running them into all the wild and immoral excesses of prodigality; and ending in abject poverty, licentiousness, and disgrace; or perhaps making them like their deluded parents, penurious, covetous, and contracted in all their views and sentiments. we think, therefore, that the children's patrimony should be more than gold and silver. this may pamper the body, but will afford no food for the mind and spirit. we do not mean by these remarks, that their patrimony should not include wealth. on the other hand, we believe that parents should make pecuniary provision for them, that they may not begin life totally destitute. but we mean, that when this is the only patrimony they receive, it often proves a curse, because it tends to destroy their sympathy with higher interests, exposes them to the uncertainties of wealth, and makes them dependent upon that alone. if it should elude their grasp, all is gone, and they become poor and helpless indeed. what, therefore, besides wealth, should be the children's patrimony from the christian home? we briefly answer. . a good character. this is more valuable than wealth; for a good name is rather to be chosen than great riches. this character should be physical, intellectual, and moral. give your children the boon of good health by a proper training to exercise and industry. transmit to them the patrimony of good physical habits by educating their bodies, and developing their material existence according to the principles of natural law. develop their intellectual faculties, and enrich them with, the treasures of knowledge. give character to their minds as well as to their bodies; and they will be blessed with an intellectual dowry which cannot be taken from them, and which will bring them an adequate recompense. give to your children the patrimony of good and just principles. train the heart to good morals; fill it with the treasures of virtue, of truth, of justice and of honor. give it moral stamina. educate the moral sense of your children. direct the unfolding powers of their conscience; in a word, develop their moral faculties, and supply them with appropriate nutriment; mould their will; cultivate their emotions; rule their desires and passions; and thus unfold their moral nature according to the rules of god's revealed law. such a character, involving a true and vigorous evolution of body, mind and spirit, is an effectual safeguard against the evils of prodigality, the disgrace of penuriousness, and the woes of vice and crime. their property may burn down, and they may he robbed of their gold; but neither the flame nor the robber can deprive them of their character; their intellectual and moral worth, is beyond the power of man to destroy; no enemy can rob them of those virtues which a well-developed mind and heart afford; they will be to them a standing capital to enrich them in all that is essential to human happiness. . a good occupation is another patrimony which should descend to the children of a christian home. bring up your children to some useful employment by which they may be able to make a comfortable living; and you thereby give them hundreds, and, perhaps, thousands of dollars per year; you give them a boon which cannot he taken from them. many parents, hoping to secure for their children a large pecuniary patrimony, will not permit them to learn either a trade or a profession; but let them grow up in indolence and ignorance, unable as well as unwilling, to be useful either to themselves or to others, living for no purpose, and unfit even to take care of what they leave. and when their wealth descends to them, they soon spend it all in a life of dissipation; so that in a few years they find themselves poor, and friendless, and ignorant of all means of a livelihood, without character, without home, without hope, a nuisance to society, a disgrace to their parents, a curse to themselves! but as we have already dwelt upon this subject in the chapter on the choice of pursuits, we shall not enlarge upon it here. . true religion is another inheritance which should descend to the children of the christian home. this is an undefiled and imperishable treasure, which does not become worthless at the grave, but which will continue to increase in preciousness as long as the ages of eternity shall roll on. if through the parent's pious agency, the child comes into possession of this invaluable blessing, there is given to him more than earthly treasure, more than pecuniary competency, more than a good name, or a fair reputation, or a high social position in this life; he receives a title to and personal meetness for, the undefiled and imperishable inheritance of heaven, composed of glittering crowns of glory, of unspeakable joys, and sweet communion with all the loved and cherished there. thus the fruits of a parent's labor for the salvation of his children constitute an infinitely more valuable patrimony than all the accumulated fruits of his industry in behalf of wealth. all the wealth, and rank, and reputation which may descend from parent to child, can not supersede the necessity of a spiritual patrimony. it is only, as we have seen in a former chapter, when you minister to the spiritual wants of your children and tinge all their thoughts and feelings with a sense of eternity; when your home is made a spiritual nursery; and you work for their eternal benefit, and thereby secure for them the fulfillment of those blessed promises which god has given concerning the children of believing parents, that you leave them a patrimony worthy the christian home. such a spiritual patrimony it is within the power of all christian parents to bestow. and without its enjoyment by your children, you fail to minister unto them as a faithful steward of god. you may minister to their bodies and minds; you may amass for them a fortune; you may give them an education; you may establish them in the most lucrative business; you may fit them for an honorable and responsible position; you may leave them the heritage of social and political influence; and you may caress them with all the passionate fondness of the parental heart and hand; yet, without the heritage of true piety,--of the true piety of the parent reproduced, in the heart and character of the child, all will be worse than vain, yea, a curse to both the parent and the children. having thus briefly pointed out some of the essential features of the children's patrimony, as physical, intellectual, moral, and spiritual, we shall now advert to the principles upon which parents should proceed in the distribution of their property to their children. they should not give them more than a competency. that they should lay by something for them is conceded by all. this is both a right and a duty. it is included in the obligation to provide for them; and he who does it not "hath denied the faith and is worse than an infidel." natural affection, as well as supernatural faith, stimulates the parent to provide thus for his offspring. but this does not demand a great fortune; but a simple competency, that is, just enough to meet their immediate wants and emergencies when they enter the world and begin business-life. this competence should correspond with the social position they occupied under the parental roof. it should not go beyond this; it should be just enough to meet the social and financial exigencies of the child. it should be measured also by the peculiar necessities of the child, by his health, abilities and circumstances. "a parent is justified," says paley in his moral and political philosophy, "in making a difference between his children according as they stand in greater or less need of the assistance of his fortune, in consequence of the difference of their age or sex, or of the situations in which they are placed, or the various success which they have met with." now the law of competence does not demand, yea, it forbids, more than a sufficiency to meet these peculiar exigencies of the child. those parents who seek for more, become parsimonious, unfaithful to the moral interests of their household, and indifferent to all legitimate objects of charity and benevolence. these are indeed but the necessary fruits of unfaithfulness to this law; for the course of god's providence indicates the impossibility of our faithfulness to the duty of christian beneficence, and at the same time lay up for our children more than a sufficiency. we find indeed, that in almost every instance in which parents have transcended the limits of competence, and thus raised their children above the necessity of doing anything themselves for a subsistence, god has cursed the act, and the canker of his displeasure has consumed this ill-saved property. that curse we see often in the prodigality and dissipation of the children. they walk in the slippery paths of sin, kneel at the altar of mammon, fare sumptuously every day, as prodigal in spending their fortune as their parents were penurious in amassing it, until at last they come to want, rush into crime, and end their unhappy life in the state's prison, or upon the gibbet. we see, therefore, that when parents give their children more than what they actually need, they place in their possession the instruments with which, they ruin themselves. history shows that the most wealthy men started out in the world with barely enough, and some, with, nothing; and that generally those who started with an independent fortune ended with less than they started, and many closed their earthly career in abject poverty and misery. besides, the man who made his fortune knows how to keep and expend it; and in point of happiness derived from property, "there is no comparison between a fortune which, a man acquires by well applied industry, or by a series of success in his business, and one found in his possession or received from another." let, therefore, the property you leave your children be just enough to meet the exigencies of their situations, and no more; for "wealth hath never given happiness, but often hastened misery; enough hath never caused misery, but often quickened happiness; enough is less than thy thought, o pampered creature of society, and he that hath more than enough, is a thief of the rights of his brother!" parents should be impartial in the distribution of their patrimony among their children. they should never give one more than another unless for very plausible and christian reasons, such as bad health, peculiar circumstances, of want, &c. they should have no pets, no favorites among them; and care more for one than for another, or indulge one more than another. neither should they withhold a dowry, from a child as a punishment, unless his crime and character are of such an execrable nature as to warrant the assurance that its bestowment would but enhance his misery. then indeed, it would be a blessing to withhold it. "a child's vices may be of that sort," says paley in his philosophy, "and his vicious habits so incorrigible, as to afford much the same reason for believing that he will waste or misemploy the fortune put into his power, as if he were mad or idiotish, in which, case a parent may treat him as a madman, or an idiot; that is, may deem it sufficient to provide for his support by an annuity equal to his wants and innocent enjoyments, and which he may be restrained from alienating. this seems to be the only case in which a disinherison, nearly absolute, is justifiable." neither should parents be capricious in the distribution of their property among their children. they have no right to withhold a dowry from children because they have married against their will, no more than they have a right, for this reason, to disown, them. this would be distributing their property upon the principle of revenge or reward. no parent has a right to indulge a preference founded on such an unreasonable and criminal feeling as revenge. neither has he a right to distribute his property from considerations of age, sex, merit, or situation. the idea of giving all to the eldest son to perpetuate family wealth, and distinction; or of giving; all to the sons, and withholding from the daughters; or of giving to those children only who were more obsequious in their adherence to their parent's tyrannical requisitions,--is unreasonable, unchristian, and against the generous dictates of natural affection. from this whole subject we may infer the infatuation of those parents who toil as the slave in the galley, to amass a large fortune for their children. to accomplish this object they become drudges all their life. they rise early and retire late, deny themselves even the ordinary comforts of life, expend all the time and strength of their manhood, make slaves of their wives and children, and live retired from all society, in order to lay up a fortune for their offspring. to this end they make all things subordinate and subservient; and, indeed, they so greatly neglect their children as to deprive them of even the capacity of enjoying intellectually or morally the patrimony they thus secure for them. they bring them up in gross ignorance of every thing save work: and money. they teach them close-fisted parsimony, and prepare them to lead a life as servile and infatuated as their own. miserable delusion! "what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" "o cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake the fool throws up his interest in both worlds; first starved in this, then damned in that to come!" chapter xxv. the promises of the christian home. "the promise is unto you, and to your children." acts ii., . "parent who plantedst in the joy of love, yet hast not gather'd fruit,--save rankling thorns, or sodom's bitter apples,--hast thou read heaven's promise to the seeker? thou may'st bring those o'er whose cradle thou didst watch with pride, and lay them at thy savior's feet, for lo! his shadow falling on the wayward soul, may give it holy health. and when thou kneel'st low at the pavement of sweet mercy's gate, beseeching for thine erring ones, unfold the passport of the king,--'ask, and receive! knock,--and it shall be opened!"' the promises of the christian home may be divided into two kinds, viz.: those which god has given to the family; and those which christian parents have made to god. god has not only laid his requisitions upon the christian home, but given his promises. every command is accompanied with a promise. these promises give color to all the hopes of home. when the dark cloud of tribulation overhangs the parent's heart; when the overwhelming storm of misfortune rages around his habitation, uprooting his hopes and demolishing his interests; when the ruthless hand of death tears from his embrace the wife of his bosom and the children of his love;--even in hours of bereavement like these, the promises of god dispel the gloom, and surround his home and his heart with the sunshine of peace and joy. his promises extend to both the parents and their offspring. "unto you, and unto your children," "i will pour my spirit on thy seed, and my blessing on thine offspring; and they shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the watercourses. one shall say, i am the lord's; and another shall call himself by the name of jacob; and another shall subscribe with his hand unto the lord, and surname himself by the name of israel." his promises extend to children's children; and whatever they may be for the parent, they are "visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation." now these divine promises are of two kinds,--the promise of punishment, and the promise of reward. he promises to punish the unfaithful parent, and to reward the faithful parent. he also promises to visit both the evil and the good of the parents upon their children. such is the constitution of the family, and such are the vital relations which the members sustain to each other, that by the law of natural and moral reproduction, the child is either blessed or cursed in the parent. what the parent does will run out in its legitimate consequences to the child, either as a malediction or as a benediction. we have divine promises to punish the unfaithful members of the christian home. if the parent becomes guilty of iniquity, it will be visited upon the children from generation to generation. there is no consideration which should more effectually restrain parents from unfaithfulness than this. let them become selfish, sensual, indolent, and dissipated, and soon these elements of iniquity will be transmitted to their offspring. what the parent sows, the child will reap. if the former sow to the flesh, the latter shall of the flesh reap corruption. thus, whatsoever the parent sows in the child he shall reap from the child. the promised curse of the parent's wickedness is deposited in the child so far as that wickedness affected the child's character. this is all based upon the great principle that the promises are unto you, and to your children. but while this great principle is ominous of terror to the ungodly, it is a pleasing theme to the pious and faithful. home is a stewardship; and if faithful to its high and holy vocation, it has a good reward for its labor of love. "if ye sow to the spirit ye shall of the spirit reap life everlasting." this promise of reward is "to you and to your children." "many souls shall be given for its hire." their children shall reap the reward of the faithfulness of the parents. of them it shall be said, "this is the seed which the lord hath blessed." faithful parents have thus a glorious recompense of reward. god shall reward thee openly. make your household a true nursery for the soul; and he will give thee thy wages. the blessing of the most high will descend like dew upon you and your children. and when they grow up to manhood, he will make them his agents in rewarding you. they will honor and comfort you in your declining years. they will not depart from the ways of the lord in which you trained them. though they may be in a distant land,--far from you and the cherished home of their childhood, yet they will obey your admonitions, gratefully remember your kindness; and their grateful obedience and remembrance will be your great reward from them. they will rise up and call you blessed. "though we dwell apart, thy loving words are with me evermore,-- thy precious loving words. thy hand, and heart. and earnest soul of love, are here impressed, for me, a dear memorial through all time. mother! i cannot recompense thy love, but thy reward is sure, for thou hast done thy duty perfectly, and we rise up and call thee blessed; and the lord shall give thy pious cares and labors rich reward." and when you descend to the grave and are gathered to your fathers, the assurance of fidelity to your home-trust, the prospect of meeting your children in heaven, and all the brilliant hopes that loom up before you, full of the light and glory of the eternal world, will furnish you a great recompense of reward. parents can rely upon these promises of god with the full assurance of faith; for his promises are yea and amen. let them but lay hold upon the promises, and act upon the conditions of their fulfillment, and then leave the rest to god. abraham and joshua, and david, acted upon this principle in their families. let the members of the christian home do the same, and the blessing of god will rest upon them. god promises to reward parents in this life. we find their fulfillment in the peace, the hopes, the interests, and the pleasures of the faithful household. the members are happy in each other's love, in each other's virtue, in each other's worth, in each other's hopes, in each other's interests, in each other's confidence, in each other's piety, in each other's fidelity, in each other's happiness. thus god shall reward thee openly. he has never said to the seed of jacob seek ye me in vain. "verily there is a reward for the righteous." "this is the seed which the lord hath blessed." the promised reward of faithful parents may be seen in their children. they are in the true christian home a precious heritage from the lord. thus a parent's faithfulness was rewarded in the piety of baxter, and doddridge, and watts. what a rich reward did elkanah and hannah receive by their training up samuel! and were not lois and eunice rewarded for their faithfulness to young timothy? what a glorious reward the mother of john q. adams received from god, in that great and good man! god blessed her fidelity, by making him worthy of such a mother. he himself was conscious that he was his mother's reward, as may be seen from the following anecdote of him. governor briggs of massachusetts, after reading with great interest the letters of john q. adam's mother, one day went over to his seat in congress, and said to him: "mr. adams, i have found out who made you!" "what do you mean?" said he. "i have been reading the letters of your mother," was the reply. with a flashing eye and glowing face, he started, and in his peculiar manner, said: "yes, briggs, all that is good in me, i owe to my mother!" but god promises to reward faithful parents in the life to come. their great reward is in heaven. the departure of every pious member of their home but increases the heavenly reward. the little child that dies in its mother's arms, and is borne up to the god who gave it, but increases by its sainted presence there, her joyful anticipations of the eternal reward. "and when, by father's lonely bed, you place me in the ground, and his green turf, with daisies spread, has also wrapt me round; rejoice to think, to you 'tis given, to have a ransomed child in heaven!" and oh, how glorious will be this reward when all the members shall meet again in heaven, recognize each other there, and unite their harps and voices in ascriptions of praise to god. there in that better home, where no separations take place, no trials are endured, no sorrows felt, no tears shed, they shall enjoy the complete fulfillment of divine promises. heaven, with its unfading treasures, with its golden streets, with its crowns of glory, with its unspeakable joys, with its river of life, and with its anthems of praise, will be their great recompense of the reward. how the anticipation of this should stimulate christian parents to increased fidelity; oh, what a happy meeting will that be, when husband and wife, parent and child, brother and sister, after many long years of separation, shall great each other in that glorious world, and feel that parting grief shall weep no more! "oh! when a mother meets on high, the child she lost in infancy; hath she not then for pains and fears, the day of woe, the watchful night, for all her sorrows, all her tears, an over-payment of delight?" with these gracious promises of reward sounding in their ears, christian parents should never despair; neither should they doubt for a moment the fidelity of god to all his promises. it is true that his promises are conditional, and their fulfillment depends upon the parent's performance of his part as the condition, yet to every duty he has attached a promise; and wherever he has made a promise for us, he has given us the ability to use the means of securing its fulfillment; and as soon as their conditions are thus met, they become absolute. "train up a child in the way he should go." here is the duty. "and when he grows old he will not depart from it." here is the promise. the condition is, that you discharge the duty. if you do so, the promise becomes absolute, and shall with certainty be divinely fulfilled in your child, though the time and manner of this fulfillment may not meet your expectations. but some may object to this position, and remind us that pious parents are known to have ungodly children who died in their sins. they may refer us to the case of absalom, and to the sons of eli. in reply we would state that this is begging the question. it is here taken for granted that these pious parents did fulfill the conditions attached to the above promises. this is a mere assumption; for absalom was not properly trained; and both he and the sons of levi, were ruined by the misguided fondness and extreme indulgence of their parents. and thus also does the foolish partiality of many pious parents prevent their fidelity to their children. we must not think that all pious parents are faithful to their duty to their children. the above objection, however, assumes this ground; and, therefore, it is not valid. it is often said that the children of ministers and pious parents are usually more wicked than other children. this is false. the opposite is true. we admit, some have bad children; but it is the fault of the parents; not because god does not fulfill his covenant promises to his people. his people, in these instances, do not meet the conditions upon which his promises are made absolute. we must not suppose that because a divine promise exists detached from expressed conditions, it will be fulfilled without the use of means. there is a manifest compatibility between the absolute promises of god and the use of the means in our power for their fulfillment. the promise to paul in the ship in which he was conveyed to rome, that none of the passengers should perish, was not incompatible with paul's declaration, "except these persons abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved." neither were the efforts of the mother of moses to save him, incompatible with the absolute promise of god that "this babe shall be saved, and be the deliverer of israel." what she did to preserve his life was accompanied with an active, confiding faith in the divine promise concerning him. and thus should faith in god's promises stimulate christian parents to zealous activity in the use of all those means which secure their fulfillment. the christian home should ever keep in lively remembrance the solemn promises made by her to god. in marriage, in holy baptism, she has made vows unto god, and he says to her, pay thy vows. "when thou shalt vow a vow unto the lord thy god, thou shalt not slack to pay it; for the lord thy god will surely require it of thee." these parental promises made to god regard themselves and their children; and their faithful fulfillment brings them within the glorious promise which god gave to abraham; for, says paul, "if ye be christ's, then are ye abraham's seed, and heirs according to the promise:" gal. iii., . christian parents: the promises of god shine forth as brilliantly now as over they did upon the pages of sacred history. they are as bright for you as they were for abraham and joshua, when they trembled in sublime eloquence upon the lips of god. let them, therefore, be not in vain. the promises are unto you, and to your children. and you in turn have promised god that you would bless your household, and be faithful to your children. hold, fast to these promises without wavering. hang all your hopes upon them. cling to them with the wrestling spirit of jacob. and remember that you cannot shake off your vows and promises made to god. he will sorely require it of thee. therefore pay thy vows unto the lord. god will reward you for so doing. "the mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed; but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the lord that hath mercy on thee:" isaiah liv., . [illustration: rural landscape.] chapter xxvi. the bereavements of the christian home.[a] [footnote a: in this chapter we have made free use of poetical quotations for the benefit of the afflicted.] "on, long ago those blessed days departed, we are reft, and scattered like the leaves of some fair rose, that fall off one by one upon the breeze, which bears them where it listeth. never more can they be gathered and become a rose. and we can be united never more a family on earth!" bereavement involves the providential discipline of home. in almost every household there have been sorrows and tears as well as joys and hopes. as the christian home is the depository of the highest interests and the purest pleasures, so it is the scene of sad bereavements and of the darkest trials. it may become as desolate as the home of job. the christian may, like the aged tree, be stripped of his clusters, his branches, all his summer glory, and sink down into a lonely and dreary existence. his home, which once rang with glad voices, may become silent and sad and hopeless. those hearts which once beat with life and love, may become still and cold; and all the earthly interests which clustered around his fireside may pass away like the dream of an hour! the members of home must separate. theirs is but a probationary state. their household is but a tent,--a tabernacle in the flesh, and all that it contains will pass away. the fondest ties will be broken; the brightest hopes will fade; all its joys are transient; its interests meteoric, and the fireside of cheerfulness will ere long become the scene of despondency. every swing of the pendulum of the clock tells that the time of its probation is becoming shorter and shorter, and that its members are approaching nearer and nearer the period of their separation. "there is no union here of hearts, that finds not here an end." alas! how soon this takes place! the joy of home would be perfect did not the thought of a speedy separation intrude. no sooner than the voice of childhood is changed, than separation begins to take place. some separate for another world; some are borne by the winds and waves to distant lands; others enter the deep forests of the west, and are heard of no more;-- "alas! the brother knows not now where fall the sister's tears! one haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone; for broken is the household chain,--the bright fire quenched and gone!" what melancholy feelings are awakened within at the sight of a deserted home, in which loved ones once met and lived and loved; but from which they have now wandered, each in the path pointed out by the guiding hand of providence. how beautifully does mrs. hemans portray this separation in the following admirable lines!-- "they grew in beauty side by side, they filled one home with glee; their graves are severed, far and wide, by mount, and stream, and sea. "the same fond mother bent at night o'er each fair sleeping brow; she had each folded flower in sight-- where are those dreamers now? "one midst the forests of the west by a dark stream is laid; the indian knows his place of rest far in the cedar shade. "the sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, he lies where pearls lie deep; he was the loved of all, yet none o'er his low bed may weep. "one sleeps where southern vines are dress'd, above the noble slain; he wrapped his colors round his breast, on a blood-red field of spain. "and one--o'er her the myrtle showers, its leaves by soft winds fanned; she faded midst italian flowers-- the last of that fair band. "and parted thus, they rest, who played beneath the same green tree; whose voices mingled as they prayed around one parent knee!" it is thus in almost every household. the members may be divided into two classes,--the present and the absent ones. who may not say of his family-- "we are not all here! some are away--the dead ones dear, who thronged with us this ancient hearth, and gave the hour of guiltless mirth. fate, with a stern, relentless hand, looked in and thinned our little band. some like a night-flash passed away, and some sank lingering day by day, the quiet graveyard--some lie there,-- we're not all here!" the bereavements of home are diversified. the reverses of fortune constitute an important class of family afflictions, causing the habits, customs, social privileges and advantages of home to be broken up and changed. many a family, which, in former days, enjoyed all the pleasures and privileges of wealth and social distinction, have now to struggle with cruel poverty, and receive from the world, scorn and ridicule and dishonor. but the greatest bereavement of home is, generally, death. they only, who have lived in the house of mourning, know what the sad bereavements are which death produces, and what deep and dark vacancies this last enemy leaves in the stricken heart of home. "the lips that used to bless you there, are silent with the dead." to-day we may visit the family. what a lovely scene it presents! the members are happy in each other's love, and each one resting his hopes upon all the rest. no cares perplex them; no sorrows corrode them; no trials distress them; no darkness overshadows them! what tender bonds unite them; what hopes cluster around each heart; what a depth of reciprocated affection we find in each bosom; and by what tender sympathy they are drawn to each other! but alas! in an hour of supposed security, that loving group is broken up by the intrusion of death, and some one or more carried from the bosom of love to the cold and cheerless grave. the curfew-bell speaks the solemn truth, and warns the members that "in the midst of life they are in death." where is the home that has not some memorial of departed ones,--a chair empty, a vacant seat at the table,--garments laid by,--ashes of the dead treasured up in the urn of memory! what sudden ravages does this ruthless foe of life, often make in the family! the members are often taken away, one by one in quick succession, until all of them are laid, side by side beneath the green sod. what a memorable epoch in the history of home is that, in which death finds his first entrance within its sacred enclosures, and with ruthless hand breaks the first link of a golden chain that creates its identity! we can never forget that event. it may he the first-born in the radiant beauty of youth, or the babe in the first bursting of life's budding loveliness, or a father in the midst of his anxious cares, or the mother who gave light and happiness to all around her. whoever it is, the first death makes a breach there which no subsequent bereavement can equal; new feelings are then awakened; a new order of associations is then commenced; hopes and fears are then aroused that never subside; and the mysterious web of family life receives the hue of a new and darker thread. what a sad bereavement is the death of the husband and father! children! there is the grave of your father! you have recently heard the clods of the valley groan upon his coffin. the parent stem from which, you grew and to which, you fondly clung, has been shattered by the lightning-stroke of death, and its terrible shock is now felt in every fiber of the wrenched and torn branches. yours is now a widowed and an orphaned home. the disconsolate members are left helpless and hopeless in the world; the widowed mother sits by the dying embers of her lonely cottage, overwhelmed with grief, and poor in everything but her children and her god. these orphans are turned out upon the cold charities of an unfriendly world, neglected and forlorn, having no one to care for them but a poor, broken-hearted mother, whose deathless faith points them to the bright spirit-world to which their sainted father has gone, where parting grief shall weep no more. but a greater bereavement even than this, is, the death of a wife and mother. ah! here is a bereavement which the child alone can fully feel. when the mother is laid upon the cold bier, and sleeps among the dead, the center of home-love and attraction is gone. what children are more desolate and more to be pitied than the motherless ones? she, who fed them from her gentle breast and sung sweet lullaby to soothe them into sleep,--she, who taught them to kneel in prayer at her side, and ministered to all their little wants, and sympathized with them in all their little troubles,--she has now been torn from them, leaving them a smitten flock indeed, and the light of her smile will never again be round their beds and paths. as the shades of night close in upon that smitten home, and the chime of the bell tells the hour in which the mother used to gather them around her for prayer, and sing them to their rosy rest, with what a stricken heart does the bereaved husband seek to perform this office of love in her stead; and as he gathers them for the first time around him, how fully does he feel that none can take a mother's place! "my sheltering arms can clasp you all, my poor deserted throng; cling as you used to cling to her who sings the angel's song. begin, sweet ones, the accustomed strain, come, warble loud and clear; alas, alas! you're weeping all, you're sobbing in my ear; good night; go, say the prayer she taught, beside your little bed. the lips that used to bless you there, are silent with the dead. a father's hand your course may guide amid the storms of life, his care protect those shrinking plants that dread the storm of strife; but who, upon your infant hearts, shall like that mother write? who touch the strings that rule the soul? dear smitten flock, good night!" who can forget a mother, or lose those impressions which her death made upon our deeply stricken hearts? none,--not even the wretch who has brutalized all the feelings of natural affection. the memory of a mother's death is as fadeless as the deep impress of a mother's love upon our hearts. as often as we resort to her grave we must leave behind the tribute of our tears. who can read the following beautiful lines of cowper, and--if the memory of a sainted mother is awakened by them,--not weep? "my mother! when i learned that thou wast dead, say, wast thou conscious of the tears i shed? hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, wretch even then, life's journey just begun! perhaps thou gay'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- ah, that maternal smile! it answers--yes! i heard the bell toll on the burial day, i saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, and, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew a long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! but was it such? it was. where thou art gone. adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. may i but meet thee on that peaceful shore, the parting word shall pass my lips no more!" the death of children is a great bereavement of home. behold that little blossom withered in its mother's arms! see those tears which flood her eyes as she bends in her deep grief over the grave of her cherished babe! go, fond parents, to that little mound, and weep! it is well to do so; it is well for thee in the twilight hour to steal around that hallowed spot, and pay the tribute of memory to your little one, in flooding tears. there beneath those blooming flowers which the hand of affection planted, it sweetly sleeps. it bids adieu to all the scenes and cares of life. it just began to taste the cup of life, and turned from its ingredients of commingled joy and sorrow, to a more peaceful clime. cold now is that little heart which once beat its warm pulses so near to thine; hushed is now that sweet voice that once breathed music to your soul. like the folding up of the rose, it passed away; that beautiful bud which bloomed and cheered your heart, was transplanted ere the storm beat upon it:-- "death found strange beauty on that polished brow, and dashed it out-- there was a tint of rose on cheek and lip. he touched the veins with ice, and the rose faded. forth from those blue eyes there spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence alone may wear. with ruthless haste he bound the silken fringes of those curtained lids forever. there had been a murmuring sound, with which the babe would claim its mother's ear, charming her even to tears. the spoiler set his seal of silence. but there beamed a smile so fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow, death gazed--and left it there. he dared not steal the signet-ring of heaven!" the death of such an infant is indeed a sore affliction, and causes the bleeding heart of the parent to cry out, "whose sorrow is like unto my sorrow!" unfeeling death! that thou shouldst thus blight the fair flowers and nip the unfolding buds of promise in the christian home! "death! thou dread looser of the dearest tie, was there no aged and no sick one nigh? no languid wretch who long'd, but long'd in vain, for thy cold hand to cool his fiery pain? and was the only victim thou couldst find, an infant in its mother's arms reclined?" thus it is that death often turns from the sickly to the healthy, from the decrepitude of age to the strong man in his prime, from the miserable wretch who longs for the grave to the smiling babe upon its mother's breast, and there in those "azure veins which steal like streams along a field of snow," he pours his putrefying breath, and leaves within that mother's arms nothing but loathsomeness and ruin! it was thus, bereaved parents, that he came within your peaceful home, and threw a cruel mockery over all your visions of delight, over all the joys and hopes and interests of your fireside, personifying their wreck in the cold and ghastly corpse of your child. all that is now left to you is, the memorials around you that once the pride of your heart was there;-- "the nursery shows thy pictured wall, thy bat, thy bow, thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball, but where art thou? a corner holds thine empty chair, thy playthings idly scattered there, but speak to us of our despair!" how sad and lonely especially is the mother who is called thus to weep the loss of her departed infant. oh, it is hard for her to give up that loved one whose smile and childish glee were the light and the hope of her heart. as she lays it in the cold, damp earth, and returns to her house of mourning, and there contemplates its empty cradle, and that silent nursery, once gladsome with its mirth, she feels the sinking weight of her desolation. no light, no luxury, no friend, can fill the place of her lost one. and especially if this lost one be the first-born,--the first bud of promise and of hope, how doubly painful is the bereavement. it makes our home as dark and desolate as was the hour when abraham with uplifted knife, was about to send death to the throbbing heart of his beloved isaac. nothing can supply the place of a first-born child; and home can never be what it was when the sweet voice of that first-born child was heard. the first green leaf of that household has faded; and though leaves may put forth, and other buds of promise may unfold, and bright faces may light up the home-hearth, and the sunshine of hope may play around the heart; but-- "they never can replace the bud our early fondness nurst, they may be lovely and beloved, but not like thee--the first!" your heart continues lonely and desolate; its strings are broken; its tenderest fibers wrenched; you continue to steal "beneath, the church-yard tree, where the grass grows green and wild," and there weep over the grave of your first maternal love; and like rachael, refuse to be comforted because he is not. your grief is natural, and only those who have lost their first-born can fully realize it:-- "young mother! what can feeble friendship say, to soothe the anguish of this mournful day? they, they alone, whose hearts like thine have bled, know how the living sorrow for the dead; i've felt it all,--alas! too well i know how vain all earthly power to hush thy woe! god cheer thee, childless mother! 'tis not given for man to ward the blow that falls from heaven. i've felt it all--as thou art feeling now; like thee, with stricken heart and aching brow, i've sat and watched by dying beauty's bed, and burning tears of hopeless anguish shed; i've gazed upon the sweet, but pallid face, and vainly tried some comfort there to trace; i've listened to the short and struggling breath; i've seen the cherub eye grow dim in death; like thee, i've veiled my head in speechless gloom, and laid my first-born in the silent tomb!" now in all these bereavements of the christian home we have developed the wisdom and goodness of god; and the consideration of this we commend to the bereaved as a great comfort. they are but the execution of god's merciful design concerning the family. pious parents can, therefore, bless the lord for these afflictions. it is often well for both you and your children that bereavements come. they come often as the ministers of grace. the tendency of home is to confine its supreme affections within itself, and not yield them unto god. parents often bestow upon their children all their love, and live for them alone. then god lays his rod upon them, takes their loved ones to his own arms, to show them the folly of using them as abusing them. if home had no such bereavements, eternity would be lost sight of; god would not be obeyed; souls would be neglected; natural affection would crush the higher incentives and restraints of faith; earthly interests would push from our hearts all spiritual concerns; and our tent-home in this vale of tears would be substituted for our heavenly home. we see, therefore, the benevolent wisdom of god in ordaining bereavements to arrest us from the control of unsanctified natural affection. when we see the flowers of our household withered and strewn around us; when that which we most tenderly loved and clung to, is taken from us in an unexpected hour, we begin to see the futility of living for earthly interests alone; and we turn from the lamented dead to be more faithful to the cherished and dependent living. let us, therefore, remember that in all our afflictions god has some merciful design, the execution of which will contribute to the temporal and eternal welfare of our home. he designs either to correct us if we do wrong, or to prevent us from doing wrong, or to test our christian fidelity, or to instruct us in the deep mysteries and meandering ways of human life, and keep before us the true idea of our homes and lives as a pilgrimage. nothing, save supernatural agencies, so effectually removes the moral film from our intellectual eye as the hand of bereavement. death is a great teacher. sources of pensive reflection and spiritual communion are opened, which none but death could unseal. a proper sense of the spirit-world is developed; life appears in its naked reality; heaven gains new attractions; eternity becomes a holier theme,--a more cheerful object of thought; the true relation of this to the life to come, is realized; and the presence of the world of the unseen enters more deeply into our moral consciousness. though our loved ones are gone, they are still with us in spirit; yea, they are ours still, in the best sense of possession; our relationship with them is not destroyed, but hallowed. though absent, they still live and love; and they come thronging as ministering spirits to our hearts; they hover near us, and commune with us. though death may separate us from them, it does not disunite us. your departed children, though separated from you in body, are still yours, are with you in spirit, and are members of your family. they represent your household in heaven, and are a promise that you will be there also. you are still their parents; you are still one family,--one in spirit, in faith, in hope, in promise, in christ. you still dwell together in the fond memories of home, and in the bright anticipation of a coming reunion in heaven. oh, with this view of death and with this hope of joining love's buried ones again, you can gather those that yet remain, and talk to them of those you put, cold and speechless, in their bed of clay; and while their bodies lie exposed to the winter's storm or to the summer's heat, you can point the living to that cheering promise which spans, as with an areole of glory, the graves of buried love; you can tell them they shall meet their departed kindred in a better home. oh, clasp this promise to your aching heart; treasure it up as a pearl of great price. your departed children are not lost to you; and their death to them is great gain. they are not lost, but only sent before. "the lord, has taken them away." with these views of death before you, and with the moral instructions they afford, you cannot but feel that your children, though absent from you in body, are with you in spirit,--are still living with you in your household, and are among that spirit-throng which ever press around you, to bear you up lest you dash your foot against a stone. such were the feelings of the christian father, as expressed in the following touching lines:-- "i cannot make him dead! when passing by his bed, so long watched over with parental care, my spirit and my eye seek it inquiringly, before the thought comes that--he is not there! "when at the day's calm close before we seek repose, i'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, whate'er i may be saying, i am, in spirit, praying for our boy's spirit, though--he is not there! "not there? where, then, is he? the form i used to see was but the raiment that he used to wear. the grave, that now doth press upon that cast-off dress, is but his wardrobe locked;--he is not there! "he lives! in all the past he lives; nor, to the last, of seeing him again will i despair; in dreams i see him now, and on his angel brow, i see it written, 'thou shalt see me there!' "yes, we all live to god! father, thy chastening rod so help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, that in the spirit-land, meeting at thy right hand, 'twill he our heaven to find that--he is there!" from this view of the educational principle involved in all our bereavements, we may easily infer that god designs to benefit us by them. there is an actual usefulness in all the bereavements of the christian home. they are but the discipline of a father's hand and the ministration of a father's love. though his face may wear a dark frown, or be hid behind the tempest-cloud, and his rod may be laid heavily upon you, yet you are not warranted to believe that no sweet is in the bitter cup you drink, that no light shines behind the cloud, or that no good dwells in the bursting storm around you. the present may indeed he dark; but the future will be bright and laden with a father's blessing. the smile will succeed the frown; the balm will follow the rod. the good seed will be sown after the deep furrows are made. "no chastening for the present seemeth joyous, but grievous, yet it worketh out a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory to them that are exercised thereby." the memory that lingers around the grave of our loved ones, is sad and tearful. the stricken heart heaves with emotions too big for utterance, when we hear no more the sound of their accustomed footsteps upon the threshold of our door. oh, the cup of bereavement is then bitter, its hour dark, and the pall of desolation hangs heavily around our hearts and homes. but this is only the dark side of bereavement. the eye which then weeps may fail at the time to behold through its tears, the quickening, softening, subduing and resuscitating power which dwells in the clouds of darkness and of storm; and the heart, wounded and bleeding, too often fails to realize the light and glory which loom up from the grave. but when we look upon the cold, pale face of the dead, in the light of a hopeful resurrection; when their silent forms move in the light of those saving influences which have been exerted upon us, we learn the necessity of bereavement; the mournful cypress will become more beautiful than the palm tree, and in view of its saving power over us, we can say, "it is good for us that we have been afflicted!" "the path of sorrow, and that path alone, leads to the land where sorrow is unknown. no traveler e'er reached that blest abode, who found not thorns and briers in his road. for he who knew what human hearts would prove, how slow to learn the dictates of his love; that, hard by nature and of stubborn will, a life of ease would make them, harder still; called for a cloud to darken all their years, and said, 'go, spend them in the vale of tears!'" who will not admit that it is an act of real kindness for god to remove little children from this world, and at once take them as his own in heaven? this is surely an act of his mercy, and for their benefit. it arrests them from the perils and tribulations of mature life; it makes their pilgrimage through this vale of tears, of short duration; they escape thereby the bitter cup of actual sin, and the mental and moral agonies of death. it is well with them. how true are the following beautiful verses on the death of children, from the pen of john. q. adams:-- "sure, to the mansions of the blest when infant innocence ascends, some angel brighter than the rest the spotless spirit's flight attends. on wings of ecstasy they rise, beyond where worlds material roll, till some fair sister of the skies, receives the unpolluted soul. there at the almighty father's hand, nearest the throne of living light, the choirs of infant seraphs stand, and dazzling shine, where all are bright!" christ became a little child, that little children might receive the crown of their age and be eternally saved. he took them in his arms, blessed them, and said, "of such is the kingdom of heaven." and we are told that "out of the mouths of babes and sucklings he has ordained strength." the sweetest hosannas before his throne, doubtless proceed from cherub-lips, and they glow nearest to the bright vision of the face of unveiled glory. "calm on the bosom of thy god, young spirits! rest thee now! even while with us thy footsteps trod, his seal was on thy brow." they stand before the throne in white robes, with palms in their hands, and crowns of glory on their heads, crying-out, "salvation to our god, which sitteth upon the throne, and unto the lamb!" tell me, does not this view dilate the parent's heart, and make him thankful that he has a sainted child in heaven? weep for those you have with you, who live under the shades of a moral death, who have entered upon a thorny pilgrimage, and are exposed to the ravages of sin; oh, weep for them!-- "but never be a tear-drop given to those that rest in yon blue heaven." the sainted dead of your home are more blessed than the pilgrim living. weep not, then, that they are gone. their early departure was to them great gain. had they been spared to grow up to manhood, you then might have to take up the lamentation of david, "would to god i had died for thee!" while they, in the culprit's cell, or on the dying couch of the hopeless impenitent, would respond to you in tones of deepening woe,-- "would i had died when young! how many burning tears, and wasted hopes and severed ties, had spared my after years!" would you, then, to gratify a parent's heart, awake that little slumberer from its peaceful repose, and recall its happy spirit from its realms of glory? there the light of heaven irradiates it; its visions are unclouded there; and from those battlements of uncreated glory it comes to thee on errands of love and mercy. would you, now, that this inhabitant of heaven should be degraded to earth again? would you remove him from those rivers of delight to this dry and thirsty land? would not this be cruel? when, therefore, your babe is taken from you, regard it as a kind deed of your heavenly father, and say, "even so it seemeth good in thy sight:" "pour not the voice of woe! shed not a burning tear when spirits from the cold earth go, too bright to linger here! unsullied let them pass into oblivion's tomb-- like snow-flakes melting in the sea when ripe with vestal bloom. then strew fresh flowers above the grave, and let the tall grass o'er it wave." but the death of little children is a great mercy, not only to themselves, but also to the living. those that remain behind are greatly benefited thereby. it exerts a sanctifying, elevating and alluring influence over them. as they pass in their bright pathway to heaven, they leave a blessing behind. god takes them in goodness to us. the interests of the parents are not different from, or opposed to, those of their offspring. the happiness of the latter is that of the former. if, therefore, their death is their blessing, it must be the parent's blessing also. "if love," says baxter, "teaches us to mourn with them that mourn, and rejoice with them that rejoice, then can we mourn for those of our children that are possessed of the highest everlasting happiness?" it is true, their sweet faces, unfurrowed by guilt or shame, we shall never more gaze upon; the sound of their happy lullaby we shall never again hear. they are gone now to the spirit-land. but a parent's care and solicitude are also gone. all alarm for their safety is gone; and you now rejoice in the assurance that they have gone to a higher and happier home; and can joyfully exclaim now with leigh richmond, "my child is a saint in glory!" his infant powers, so speedily paralyzed by the ruthless hand of death, are now expanding themselves amidst the untold glories of the heavenly world, and are enlisted now in ministering to his pilgrim kindred on earth. it is true, your children were a source of great joy to you here. insensibly did they entwine themselves around your heart, and with all the wild ecstasy of maternal love, you embraced them, as they attached themselves, like the slender vine, to you. they were indeed, the life and light of your home, and the deepest joy of your heart. but if they had lived, might they not also have been a source of the deepest sorrow and misery? might they not have drawn your souls from god and heaven, causing you to live alone for them, and bringing eventually your gray hairs down with sorrow to the grave? but you have watched at their dying couch, and seen them die; and in that death you have also seen the departure of all such fears and dangers. they are now transplanted to a more congenial clime, where they will bloom forever in unfading loveliness, and from which they will come on errands of ministering love to your household:-- "they come, on the wings of the morning they come, impatient to lead some poor wanderer home; some pilgrim to snatch from his stormy abode, and lay him to rest in the arms of his god!" one of the greatest blessings which the death of our pious kindred confers upon their bereaved friends is, that they hold a saving communion with them, and are ministering spirits sent to minister salvation and consolation unto them. "the saints on earth, and all the dead, but one communion make." they constitute our guardian angels; they witness our christian race; they commune with our spirits; they link us to the spirit-world; they impress us with its deep mysteries; they stimulate our religious life, and bear us up lest we dash our feet against the pebble which lies in our pathway to the mansions of the blest. the mother who bends in the deep anguish of her soul, over the little grave in which her infant slumbers, has in heaven a cherub spirit to minister to her. and oh, could the veil which wraps the spirit-world from our view, be now removed, and we permitted to catch a glimpse of the heavenly scene there displayed, we should doubtless behold on the threshold of that better home, an innumerable host witnessing with, intensity of interest, the scenes of human life; and no doubt to you, bereaved friend, the most conspicuous among that celestial throng, would be the sainted form of that dear one whose grave you often adorn with the warm tribute of memory's gushing tears. and oh, could you understand the relation in which that sainted one stands to you, you would doubtless be conscious that over and about you it hovers from day to day as your guardian spirit, watching all the details of your life, soothing the anguish of your troubled heart, and ministering unto you in holy things! "the spirits of the loved and departed are with us; and they tell us of the sky, a rest for the bereaved and broken-hearted, a house not made with hands, a home on high! they have gone from us, and the grave is strong! yet in night's silent watches they are near; their voices linger round us, as the song of the sweet skylark lingers on the ear." the whole dispensation of grace is like the ladder set up on earth, whose top reached heaven, and upon which jacob saw the angels ascending; and descending. as the christian pilgrim in his spiritual progression mounts each round of this ladder, he finds himself in the midst of a spirit-throng ascending and descending on errands of love and mercy to him; yea, the canopy of the sky seems lined with so great a cloud, of witnesses and ministering spirits; and among them we behold our sainted friends bidding us climb on to their lofty abodes; they beckon us to themselves; their voices animate us, as they steal down upon our spirits in solemn and beautiful cadence. "hark! heard ye not a sound sweeter than wild-bird's note, or minstrel's lay! i know that music well, for night and day i hear it echoing round. "it is the tuneful chime of spirit-voices!--'tis my infant band calling the mourner from this darkened land to joy's unclouded clime. "my beautiful, my blest! i see them there, by the great spirit's throne; with winning words, and fond beseeching tone, they woo me to my rest!" weeping mother! that little babe, whose spirit has been borne by angels to heaven, where it now glows in visions of loveliness around god's throne, comes often as a ministering spirit to thee, whispers peace and hope to thy disconsolate heart, and with its tiny hands bears thee up in thy dark and troubled path! and my dear bereaved young friend! that mother, who nursed you on her knee, who taught your infant lips to lisp the name of jesus, and amid whose prayers you have grown up to maturity,--that sainted mother over whose grave you have often wept in bitter anguish, hovers over you now with all the passionate fondness of a mother's love, guides and impresses you, attends you in all your walks, takes charge of you in all your steps; soothes you in your sorrows; and when burning with fever on the sick bed, fans you with angel wing and breath, and warms your chilled nerves with an angel's heart! now when we regard the departed of our homes in this light, shall we not admit that the death of those who go to heaven is a blessing, not only to them, but to those they leave behind! and especially when we remember that they return to us in spirit to minister to our wants even unto the smallest details of life, that they are our guardian angels, are with, us wherever we go, to warn and deliver us from temptation and clanger, to urge us in the path of duty, to smooth our pillow when thrown upon beds of languishing, and then, when the vital spark has fled, to convey us to the paradise of god,--oh, when we remember this, we say, shall we not rather bless god that he has afflicted us? though our hearts may be lonely, yet with this view of the departed ones of our home, we can feel that we are, nevertheless, not alone. "i am not quite alone. around me glide unnumbered beings of the unseen world;-- and one dear spirit hovering by my side, hath o'er my form its snow-white wings unfurled, it is a token that when death is nigh, it then will wait to hear my soul on high!" what afflicted heart will not respond with deep and grateful emotion, to the following beautiful address of a bereaved pilgrim to his sainted loved ones in heaven:-- "gone!--have ye all then gone,-- the good, the beautiful, the kind, the dear? passed to your glorious rest so swiftly on, and left me weeping here? "i gaze on your bright track; i hear your lessening voices as they go; have ye no sign, no solace to fling back to those who toil below? "oh! from that land of love, look ye not sometimes on this world of wo? think ye not, dear ones, in brighter bowers above, of those you left below? "surely ye note us here, though not as we appear to mortal view, and can we still, with all our stains, be dear to spirits pure as you? "is it a fair, fond thought, that you may still our friends and guardians be; and heaven's high ministry by you be wrought with objects low as we? "may we not secretly hope, that you around our path and bed may dwell? and shall not all, our blessings brighter drop from hands we loved so well? "shall we not feel you near in hours of danger, solitude, and pain, cheering the darkness, drying off the tear and turning loss to gain? "shall not your gentle voice break on temptation's dark and sullen mood, subdue our erring will, o'errule our choice, and win from ill to good? "oh, yes! to us, to us, a portion of your converse still be given! struggling affection still would hold us thus, nor yield you all to heaven! "lead our faint steps to god; be with us while the desert here we roam; teach us to tread the path which you have trod, to find with you our home!" what a comfort does this view of the pious dead afford the pious living. we commend it now to you. what consolation to the bereaved parents is the assurance that all infants are saved! this gives them "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." your infant has gone to heaven; for "of such is the kingdom of heaven." zuinlius was perhaps the first who proclaimed salvation for all who died in infancy. he based this doctrine, so comforting to the afflicted parent, upon the atonement of christ for all; and he believed that christ made provision for infants in this general atonement or redemption of human nature. this is the general belief now. calvin declared that "god adopts infants and washes them in the blood of his son," and that "they are regarded by christ as among his flock." dr. junkin says, "it is not inconsistent with any doctrine of the bible, that the souls of deceased infants go to heaven." newton says, "i hope you are both well reconciled to the death of your child. indeed, i cannot be sorry for the death of infants. how many storms do they escape! nor can i doubt, in my private judgment, that they are included in the election of grace." this is the opinion, too, of all evangelical branches of the christian church. if so, you have here a source of great consolation. "though it he hard to bid thy heart divide, and lay the gem of all thy love aside-- faith tells thee, and it tells thee not in vain, that thou shalt meet thy infant yet again." what, oh, what, if you had not the assurance of the salvation of all infants? what if your faith would tell you that all children who die before they can exercise faith would he lost or annihilated! then indeed you might well refuse to be comforted because they are not. but your child is not lost,--but only removed to a better home:-- "a treasure but removed, a bright bird parted for a clearer day-- yours still in heaven!" and yours to meet there! the hope of a glorious reunion with, departed friends in heaven, lifts the afflicted christian into regions of happiness never before enjoyed. and as he contemplates their better state, and, muses over the trials and sorrows of his pilgrim land, he longs to pass over the stream which divides that happy home from this. he is grateful to god that heaven has thus become doubly attractive by his bereavement, and that he can look forward with fond anticipation, to the time when he shall there become reunited with those who have gone before. "oh! i could weep with very gratitude that thou art saved-- thy soul forever saved. what though my heart should bleed at every pore--still thou art blessed. there is an hour, my precious innocent, when we shall meet again! oh! may we meet to separate no more. yes! i can smile, and sing with gratitude, and weep with joy, even while my heart is breaking!" we infer from the whole subject, that we should not murmur against god when afflicted, however great our bereavements may he. this does not, of course, forbid godly sorrow and tears. it is not inconsistent to weep; neither does sorrow for the dead, as such, imply a murmuring spirit. christ himself invited to tears when he wept over the grave of his friend lazarus. it is meet that we pay our tribute to departed kindred, in falling tears. these are not selfish; neither is the sorrow they express, a sin, nor an evidence of filial distrust, or of reluctant submission to the will of god. the unfeeling stoic may regard it such; but he outrages the generous impulses of humanity. undefiled religion does not aim to cancel natural affection. our piety, if genuine, will not make us guilty of crimes against nature, and prompt us to bend with apathy over the grave of buried, love. the mother of jesus wept her pungent woes beneath the cross; and the marys dropt the tear of sorrowing love and memory at the mouth of his sepulchre. and shall we refuse the tribute of sorrow to the memory of those dear ones who sleep beneath the sod? to do so would, but unchristianize the deep grief which bereavement awakens, and which true piety sanctifies; it would unhumanize the very constitution of home itself. to be christians, must the unnumbered memories of life be all without a tear? when we walk in the family grave-yard, and think of the loved who slumber there; when we open the family bible, and read, there the names of those who have gone before us, say, shall this awaken no slumbering grief, invite no warm, gushing tears, and not bear us back to scenes of tenderness and love? ah, no! the gospel encourages godly sorrow over the dead. we are permitted to sorrow, only not as those who have no hope, as not being cast down, and as not being disquieted within us. such godly sorrow is refreshing, and the tears it sheds are a balm to the wounded spirit. they refine our sentiments, and beget longings after a better country. the memory of bereaved affection is grief. in traversing the past, our thoughts glide along a procession of dear events arrested by the tomb; and we become sad and weep. but this is not inconsistent with a confiding faith in god, nor with a meek: resignation to his afflicting providence. faith was not designed to overpower a visible privation. when death enters our home we should feel pungently, though we have the faith of an angel, and weep before the smile of god. the evidences of faith, and the brilliant idealities of hope will hush the voice of murmur, and incite us to kiss the rod that is laid upon us. it is, therefore, a christian privilege to weep over the death of our departed kindred, yea, who can stifle the anguish of the heart when the tender flowers of home sink into the waxen form of death? when the flickering flame of infant life burns lower and weaker; when the death-glazed eye is closed, and the little bosom heaves no more, and that lovely form becomes cold as the grave, what parental heart can then remain unmoved, and what eye can then forbid a tear? not even the assurance of infant salvation and the hope of reunion in heaven, can prevent sorrow for the dead. "to think his child is blest above, to pray their parting grief, these, these may soothe, but death alone, can heal a father's grief." but this grief should never amount to dissatisfaction with god. though it is right to weep, it is wrong to murmur. many parents murmuringly mourn the loss of their children, and in wrestling with god to spare them, betray the want of a true submission to his will. it is sinful to murmur at the decrees of god. we have seen that they are wise, and all designed for our good. methinks if your dying babe could respond to your murmuring sighs and tears around its crib, it would thus reprove you:-- "nay, mother, fix not thus on me that streaming eye, and clasp not thus my freezing hand; for i must die. to him ye gave the opening bud, the early bloom; then grieve not that the ripened fruit he gathers home." but we should not only refrain from murmuring, but meekly submit to the providential afflictions of our home. we should remember that all the adversities of life are from the lord, and that when death invades our household, and crushes the fond hopes of our hearts, it is for some wise and good purpose. though we may not understand it here, where we look through a glass darkly; but eternity will reveal it. though the dying of a child is like tearing a limb from us; but remember god demands it. surrender it to him, therefore, with christian resignation. he does not demand it without a cause. it may offend thee, though it be a right hand or a right eye. let the branch be cut off. at the resurrection you shall see it again. give it up willingly; for it is the lord's will that you should. have the meek submission, to exclaim, "not my will, but thine be done!" whatever may be your pleas to the contrary, they are all selfish; when, you come to look at your bereavement, with the candid, discerning eye of faith, you cannot murmur; but will bend under the stroke with silent tears and with grateful submission. faith in god, the hope of reunion in heaven, and true christian love for the object taken from us, will effectually quell every uprising of complaint in our hearts:-- "my stricken heart to jesus yields love's deep devotion now, adores and blesses--while it bleeds-- his hand that strikes the blow. then fare thee well--a little while life's troubled dream is past; and i shall meet with thee, my child, in life--in bliss, at last!" chapter xxvii. the memories of home.[a] [footnote a: in this, as in the preceding chapter, we have introduced poetry, for the same reason.] "the home of my youth stands in silence and sadness: none that tasted its simple enjoyments are there, no longer its walls ring with glee and with gladness no strain of blithe melody breaks on the ear. * * * * * "why, memory, cling thus to life's jocund morning? why point to its treasures exhausted too soon? or tell that the buds of the heart at the dawning, were destined to wither and perish at noon? "on the past sadly musing, oh pause not a moment; could we live o'er again but one bright sunny day; 'twere better than ages of present enjoyment, in the memory of scenes that have long passed away. "but time ne'er retraces the footsteps he measures; in fancy alone with the past we can dwell; then take my last blessing, loved scene of young pleasures; dear home of my childhood--forever farewell!" chief justice gibson. the bereavements of home fill up the urn of memory with its most hallowed treasures. though these memories of the household have an alloy of sorrow and are the product of its adversities, yet there is no pleasure so delicate, so pure, so painful, so much longed after, as that which they afford. they bring to our hearts the purest essence of the past, and cause us to live it over again. they come over us like the "breath of the sweet south breathing over a bed of violets." when we revert to the happy scenes of our childhood, we live amid them in spirit again, and remembrance swells with many a proof of recollected love; sweet ideals of all that lived under the parental roof spring up within us, and pass before us in visions of delight; the home of the past becomes the home of the present. the things of that home are spiritualized and changed into the thoughts of home; we enjoy them again; and we live our life over again with those we loved the most. "why in age do we revert so fondly to the walks of childhood, but that there the soul discerns the dear memorial footsteps, unimpaired, of her own native vigor; thence can hear reverberations, and a choral song commingling with the incense that ascends, undaunted, towards the imperishable heavens, from her own lonely altar?" the memories of home are both pleasing and painful. when we leave the parental home for some distant land, how many pleasing recollections sweep over our spirits then. even when tossed to and fro upon the angry wave, far from our native land. "there comes a fond memory of home o'er the deep." the memory of departed worth is a kind of compensation for the loss we sustain. the pious mother's recollection of her sainted husband or child becomes the soother of her grief, and casts a pleasing light along her pathway, and awakens a new joy in her widowed heart. pious memories, when they reflect the hope of reunion in heaven, are like the radiant sky studded with brilliant stars, each shining through the clouds which move along the verge of the horizon. they sweep as gently over the troubled heart as the summer zephyr over the blushing rose, touching all the chords of holy feeling, making them vibrate sadly sweet, in blended tones, too sweet to last. "here a deeper and serener charm to all is given, and blessed memories of the faithful dead o'er wood and vale, and meadow-stream have shed the holy hues of heaven." how indelibly does memory paint the image of a departed child upon the mother's heart! no flight of years; no distance from the grave in which he slumbers, can erase the image. it will be ever fresh, and, with awakening power, mingle with her tears and glow in her fondest hopes. though time and distance and vicissitudes may calm her troubled heart, and cause her to settle down into tranquility of feeling; but these can never destroy the tenacity and vividness of her memory. even then those objects to which it fondly clings, become the theme of her holiest and her happiest thoughts; and she retains them with a passionate ardor, exceeded only by that with which she clung to the living child. her greatest pleasure is, to retire from the busy cares of the world, to some solitude where she may sit among flowers that remind her of the one that withered in her arms, and meditate upon him who slumbers beneath the clods of the valley. oh, these are sweet and precious moments to her; and the tears which are then drawn from the deep well-springs of reminiscence, are sacred to him with whom she in spirit there communes. there with, rapture she remembers "all his winning ways, his pretty, playful smiles, his joy, his ecstasy, his tricks, his mimicry, and all his little wiles; oh! these are recollections round mothers' hearts that cling-- that mingle with the tears and smiles of after years, with oft awakening!" memory links together the loved, ones of home though they be widely separated from each other, some on earth, and some in eternity. there is a mystic chain which binds them together, and brings them in spirit near to each other and infuses, as it were, with electric power, a realizing sense of each other, while their past life under the same roof, "like shadows o'er them sweep." in the light of memory their faded forms are vividly brought back to view; they see each other as when they rambled over their childhood haunts; and the echo of their playful mirth comes booming back in deep reverberations through their souls. in this respect the memory of the dead is a pleasure so deep and delicate, and withal so melancholy, yea, so painful, that the heart shrinks from its intensity. this we experience when we ramble through the family graveyard, and bring within the sweep of recollection our past communion with the loved who slumber there. there is a mysterious feeling awakened in our hearts,--a feeling of peculiar melancholy, which, combines two opposite emotions,--that of pleasure and that of pain. these seem to embrace each other, and their union in our hearts affords us a strange enjoyment. we enjoy the pain; the agony awakened by the remembrance of those who lie beneath the sod is pleasing to us. it is a bitter cup we love to drink; we love to keep open the wounds there inflicted. the sadness we then feel we dearly cherish; and we linger around these tombs as if bound to them by some mystic chord we could not break; we are loth to leave a spot in which are accumulated the fondest associations of early life. would the mother, if she could, forget the child that slumbers beneath the flower-crowned sod of the family cemetery? "where," in the beautiful language of irving, "is the child, that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved and he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals, would accept consolation that was to be bought by forgetfulness? and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud even over the bright hour of gayety, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry? no; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song; there is a recollection of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living!" how passionately we cling to those memories of a sainted mother, which crowd in rapid succession upon our minds! "weep not for her! her memory is the shrine of pleasing thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers, calm as on windless eve the sun's decline, sweet as the song of birds among the bowers." what a purifying and restraining influence does the memory of a pious parent's love, exert upon the wayward child! when he bends in mournful recollection over the grave of a sainted mother, how must every heart-string break, and with what remorse he reviews his past life of wickedness and filial disobedience. the memory of that mother's love and kindness to him, haunts him in all his revels, and draws him back, as if by magnetic force, from scenes of riot and of ruin. can he think of that mother's prayers and teachings and tears of solicitude, and not feel deeply, and often savingly, his own guilt and ingratitude? if there is a memory of home-life which allures him to heaven, it is the recollection of her love and pious efforts to save him. the child who lives in exile from his country and his home, is soothed in the midst of his cares and disappointments, by the stirring imagery of his far-distant friends and home. and oh, if he has been unfaithful to the ministrations of that home; if he has trodden under foot the proffered love of his parents, and repulsed all the overtures of their pious solicitude, will not the memory of their anguish haunt his soul, and plough deep furrows of remorse in his conscience? the sense of past filial ingratitude, and the recollection of a parent's injured love and disappointed hope, constitute one of the most powerful incentives to repentance and reformation. it was thus with the prodigal son. as soon as he came to himself, he remembered the dear home of his youth, the kind love of his father, and his own unworthiness and ingratitude; and this brought him to repentance and to the resolution to return to his father, confess his sin, and seek pardon. how many now, in thus looking back upon the home of their childhood, do not remember their abuse of parental love and kindness! "oh! in our stern manhood, when no ray of earlier sunshine glimmers on our way; when girt with sin and sorrow, and the toil of cares, which tear the bosom that they soil; oh! if there be in retrospection's chain one link that knits us with young dreams again-- one thought so sweet we scarcely dare to muse on all the hoarded raptures it reviews; which seems each instant, in its backward range, the heart to soften, and its ties to change, and every spring untouched for years to move, it is--the memory of a mother's love!" we see, therefore, that there are painful, as well as pleasant, memories of home. when the absent disobedient child remembers how he abused the privileges of the parental home, and brought the gray hairs of his parents down with sorrow to the grave, and turned that household into a desolation; when "pensive memory lingers o'er those scenes to be enjoyed no more, those scenes regretted ever," how dark and painful must be the shadows which then sweep over his penitent spirit! "if thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and penitent on the grave!" if we would avoid the agony of declining age, let us be faithful to our childhood-home. what must be the anguish of that wretch who has brought infamy upon it; how painful must be every recollection of it, when in the distance of years and of space, from its scenes and its loved ones, his remembrance hails them with its burning tear. "i am far from the home that gave me birth, a blight is on my name; it only brings to my father's hearth the memory of shame; yet, oh! do they think of me to-day, the loved ones lingering there; do they think of the outcast far away, and breathe for me a prayer? that early home i shall see no more, and i wish not there to go, for the happy past may nought restore-- the future is but woe. but 'twould be a balm to my heavy heart upon its dreary way, if i could think i have a part in the prayers of home to-day!" every thing within the memory of home will question our hearts whether we have been faithful to her parental ministry. every cherished association; every remembered object, and even the old scenes and objects around the homestead, will challenge our faithfulness. the trees under whose shade we frolicked and of whose fruit we ate; the streams that meandered through the meadow; the hills and groves over which we gamboled in the sunny days of childhood; the old oaken bucket and the old ancestral walls that yet stand as monuments of the past,--these will all question your fidelity to the training you received in their midst; and oh, if they assume, in the courts of memory, the attitude of witnesses against you; if nursery recollections speak of forgotten prayers and abandoned habits, what a deep and painful sense of guilt and ingratitude will this testimony develop in your bosom, and "darken'd and troubled you'll come at last, to the home of your boyish glee." how precious are the mementoes of home! memory needs such auxiliaries. that lock of silken hair which the mother holds with tearful contemplation, and wears as a precious relic, near her heart, what recollections of the buried one it awakens within her! "thou bringest fond memories of a gentle girl, like passing spirits in a summer night! oh, precious curl!" and that picture of a departed mother which the orphan child presses with holy reverence to her bosom! as she gazes upon those familiar features, and reads in them a mother's love and kindness, what scenes of home-life rise upon the troubled thought, and what echoes of love come through the lapse of years from the old homestead, touching all the fires of her soul, and causing them to thrill with plaintive sadness and with painful joy. what mementoes of a sad, yet pleasing memory are found in the chamber of bereavement, where death has done his work; the empty chair; the garments laid by; playthings idly scattered there;--these are pictures upon which the eye of memory rests with pensive meditation. and our letters from home! what sweet recollections they awaken as we read line after line; and what volumes of love they contain from those dear ones who now moulder in the narrow vaults of death! oh, how miserable must he be who has no recollections of home, who is not able to revert to the scenes of childhood, and amid whose cherished memories of life, the image of a mother does not glow! let us lay the foundation of a joyful, grateful memory. let us be faithful to home, that when we leave it, and when the members of it leave us, we may delight in all the memories which loom up from the scenes of home-life: "oh, friends regretted, scenes forever dear, remembrance hails you with her burning tear! drooping she bends o'er pensive fancy's urn, to trace the hours which never can return; yet with retrospection loves to dwell, and soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!" chapter xxviii. the antitype of the christian home. "oh, talk to me of heaven! i love to hear about my home above; for there doth many a loved one dwell in light and joy ineffable. "o! tell me how they shine and sing, while every harp rings echoing, and every glad and tearless eye beams like the bright sun gloriously. "tell me of that victorious palm, each hand in glory beareth; tell me of that celestial calm, each face in glory weareth!" the christian home on earth is but a type of his better home in heaven. the pious members feel the force of this. every thing within their earthly homes reminds them of that happy country which lies beyond the jordan. besides, they behold the impress of change upon every aspect of their home. all that is near and dear to them there is passing away. it is but the shadow of better things to come. and as the type bears some resemblance to that which it typifies, we may understand both by considering the relation they sustain to each other. we may gain a new view of the christian home by looking at it in the light of its typical relation to heaven; and we have a transporting view of our heavenly home when we contemplate it as the antitype of our home on earth. the christian home on earth is a tent-home, a tabernacle adapted to the pilgrim-life of god's people, set up in a dreary wilderness, designed to subserve the purposes of a few years, as a preparation for a better home. the christian, amid all his domestic enjoyments, does not realize that his home is his rest, but that it is only a probationary state, the foretaste and anticipation of the rest that remaineth for the people of god. it is but the emblem,--the shadow of his eternal home; and it is, therefore, unsatisfying; it does not meet all the wants of our nature; there is a yearning after a better state; the purest happiness it affords proceeds from the hopes and longings it begets, and the interests it is transferring to eternity, laying up, as it were, treasures in a better home. our home here, develops our wants, inflames our desires, excites our expectations, educates, and points us to the realities of which it is an emblem; but it does not fully satisfy our desires, it only increases their intensity. the pilgrim soul of the child of god pines and frets amid all "her sylvan scenes, and hill and dale and liquid lapse of murmuring streams." these afford him no satisfaction; they only develop in him the saving sense of earth's insufficiency; all the scenes of this wilderness state are but those of thorns, and desert heath, and barren sands; and he cries out in the midst of his happy home,--"this is not your rest!" our tent-home may include every earthly cup, and all the riches and honors of the world, yet it satisfies not, and the christian turns from it all to rest and expatiate in a life to come. every home here is baptized with tears and scarred with graves. its poverty is a burden, its riches are snares, its friends are taken from us; broken hearts agonized there; restlessness is tossed to and fro there; and disappointment reigns in every member there. hence in our wilderness-home we hunger and thirst, and pine for something more satisfying. we turn from the shadow to the reality; and realizing the insufficiency of home as a mere type, we turn with anxious hope to that which it typifies--our heavenly home. heaven is the antitype of the christian home. there the latter reaches its consummation, and reaps the rich harvest of its great reward. the father; the mother of us all; our brethren; our inheritance; our all sufficiency are there. yea, all that is included in the dear name of home, is treasured up there, for the child of god. in that better land he finds the reality of his home on earth; the latter is but the prophecy of the former:-- "there is my house and portion fair, my treasure and my heart are there, and my abiding home." that better home is radiant with light and love. there you shall not see through a glass darkly, but shall behold all things face to face. you shall not merely know in part, but even as you are known. there you shall realize in all its fulness what you dimly taste here. we have a hunger here which is not fully satisfied till in heaven we pluck the fruits of the tree of life. we have a thirst here which is not fully quenched till in heaven we drink of the waters of the river of life which flows fast by the throne of god. in our tent-home here, we eat and drink, but hunger and thirst again; we are healed, but we sicken again; we live in the light of truth, but darkness and clouds intervene; we are comforted by the spirit and by friends; but we sorrow and weep again. but in heaven "sighing grief shall weep no more;" and we "shall hunger no more, neither shall we thirst any more; and we shall not say i am sick; and there shall be no night, nor sorrow, nor tears, nor sighing, nor death; for the former things are passed away." love will then be perfect; there will be no heart-burnings and disappointments there. there you shall enjoy the honey without the sting, and the rose without the thorn. "earth hath no sorrows that heaven cannot heal." all care and toil, and tears, and orphanage, and widowhood, shall drop and disappear at the threshold of heaven. if our tent-home stirs up within us imperishable joys, by the power of anticipation and foretaste, what joy will not that better land afford? if the promise is so cheering, what must the fulfillment be! if the pursuit is so inspiring, what must the possession be! if our home on tabor, where we have but a distant view of home-life, affords us so much happiness, what must our home on the eternal throne of god be? there your intercourse with the loved ones of earth will not be clogged by pain and infirmities. your society there will be the most endearing, and with "a great multitude which no man could number, of all nations, and kindred, and people, and tongues, standing before the throne, clothed with white robes, and palms in their hands." you shall there hold fellowship with the fathers of a thousand generations, with the patriarchs, and prophets, and apostles, and martyrs, and reformers, and the "innumerable company of angels." with these you shall engage in the most delightful avocation. there will be no indolence there, as we often find in earthly homes; but all will be continually engaged. "they serve him day and night in his temple." there will be one unbroken worship, which will afford you rapturous delight. you shall be presented, before god's glory, with exceeding joy; for "in his presence is fullness of joy, and at his right hand are pleasures for evermore." these joys will be eternal,--forever and ever. that better home will never be dissolved, cannot be shaken, and your crown of glory there is a crown which fadeth not away. but this happiness and glory of heaven are not only eternal but progressive,--ever increasing. there is nothing stationary there with the saints; but their powers will ever expand and their glory increase. new songs will be ever bursting in new strains from the celestial choir; new discoveries and fresh exclamations of praise and gratitude will he continually made. here on earth they were "by nature the children of wrath, even as others;" they had their tribulations and often murmured at god's dealings with them. but there in that heavenly home they will understand the reason for all this. the deep mysteries of the christian life are now revealed, and they see that a father's chastisements are the work of a father's love, and worketh out for them that are exercised thereby, an "exceeding and eternal weight of glory." they now see that while in their tent-home they lived in the center of a grand system of natural, providential and spiritual things, all of which were working in beautiful harmony together for "the good of them that loved god and were the called according to his purpose;" and with rapturous gratitude they cry out, "marvelous are thy works, lord god almighty; just and true are all thy ways, o thou king of saints!" here, too, they will fully realize the wisdom of the christian home and life; they will now see how wise it was for them as a family, to serve the lord. in their earthly home, they "knew whom they believed, and were persuaded that he was able to keep that which they committed unto him against that day." they did this in the midst of fiery trials. they were unknown. the world, hated and despised them as she did their divine master. but they persevered unto the end; and now they "shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their father." we shall not there, as we do here, eat the bread of care and drink the waters of bitterness. here thunders spend their echoes and lightnings gleam in fierce wrath around our homes. there such sounds and storms never come. "no sickness there, no weary wasting of the frame away; no fearful shrinking from the midnight air; no dread of summer's bright and fervid ray. "no hidden grief, no wild and cheerless vision of despair; no vain petition for a swift relief, no tearful eye, no broken hearts are there "care has no home within that realm of ceaseless praise and song; its tossing billows break and melt in foam, far from the mansions of the spirit-throng. "the storm's black wing is never spread athwart celestial skies; its wailings blend not with the voice of spring, as some too tender floweret fades and dies." christ is the great center of heaven's glory and attraction. "whom have i in heaven but thee?" it would not be heaven if he were absent. its harps would become unstrung, and its voices would lose their tune. when eternity dawns upon our disembodied spirits, and the heavenly home appears in view, with its golden streets, and living temples, and crowns, and thrones, and joys, bursting on our sight; while seraphim and cherubim, and angels, and the sainted spirits of departed friends--our parents and children, and kindred, bend over its threshold to hail our entrance with songs and shouts of everlasting joy,--oh, what a glorious heritage will this be! but all this will fade into insignificance before the lamb on the throne. he will absorb all interest; and will be all and in all to its unfading treasures. oh, there is much in that celestial home to allure us there. its "fields arrayed in living green, and rivers of delight." its blood-washed throng, its crowns and peace, the angelic choir, our friends and relations,--perhaps a father and a mother, perhaps a husband or wife, perhaps a brother or a sister, or a child,--a lovely babe;--all these make heaven dear, and draw us there. they beckon us to themselves; they are waiting for us now, and on the glowing pinions of love they come thronging as ministering spirits, to our hearts. but what are all these attractions of that spirit-home, compared with jesus there as the crowning glory of them all! other things are stars and streamlets. he is the central sun,--the source of all. take him away, and all the brightness and the glory of that heavenly world would become shrouded in darkness and desolation. there is a living union between the christian's home on earth, and his home in heaven. christ represents our nature and advocates our cause there. the saints on earth and the inhabitants of heaven "but one communion make." the latter minister to the former. "are they not all ministering spirits, sent to minister unto them who shall be the heirs of salvation?" "oh! a mother's spirit hung o'er her last pledge of earthly love, and, while attending angel's sung, welcom'd her dear one home above. "gentle babe, i come for thee: i did come to bear thee home, far from mortal agony; come, then, gentle infant, come. "yes; while o'er thy mouldering dust falls the tear of earthly love, thou shalt live amidst the just, brighter life in heaven above." every thing good in our earthly home has its echo in heaven, and sweeps like the breath of god over the harps of the blessed. when the pious mother kneels with her child in prayer to god, it sends a thrill of new ecstasy into the bosom of the redeemed around his throne. when the child gives its heart to christ, each harp bursts forth with a new anthem of joy at the prospect of that accession to their happy band. and oh, what unspeakable joy must thrill the bosom of a sainted mother when the news of her child's conversion reaches her there!-- ... "a new harp is strung, and a new song is given to the breezes that float o'er the gardens of heaven." and there, too, sainted relations continually warn the impenitent members of the tent-home. "though dead they yet speak." "turn ye, turn ye; for why will ye die?" "the spirit and the bride say, come!" oh, regard those solemn admonitions which come to you from the spirit-world! with unearthly eloquence they urge you to "lay aside every weight and the sin that doth so easily beset you, and run the race set before you, looking unto jesus, the author and finisher of your faith." and oh, if you, in obedience to these angelic persuasives to piety, yield yourself unto the lord, all the arches of that eternal home will reverberate with the sound of jubilee over your salvation, until its echo from harp to harp shall be borne up to the throne of god. and as there is a living union of the christian's home on earth and in heaven, so also will there be a conscious union and recognition of the members of the christian home, when they enter that better land. when the tent-home is broken up, and its members take their place and enter upon their joys in the heavenly home, they will recognize each other, and exchange congratulations. the bonds of natural affection which bound them together here will bind them also there. they will possess the same home-feeling and sympathy; they will love each other as members of the same household; the parents will know and love their children as parents; and the children will feel towards their parents as children. thus in the clear light of that blessed land we shall see and know our kindred, and shall be recognized, and known by them. all family ties will be re-knit; all home-relationships will be restored; all the links of affection will be renewed. the babe that withered in your arms like a frost-stricken flower in winter, will come forth clad in redemption robes, to embrace you there; and one of your joys will be a conscious reunion with him:-- "we shall go home to our father's house: to our father's house in the skies, where the hope of our souls shall have no blight, our love no broken ties; we shall roam on the banks of the river of peace, and bathe in its blissful tide; and one of the joys of our heaven shall be, the little boy that died!" and that sainted mother of yours shall greet you there. in your earth-home, you and she were united in faith and love and hope; and in the morning of the resurrection you shall ascend together from the family grave-yard; and together bow in grateful adoration before the throne of god. and oh, what a glorious meeting in heaven that will be, when all the members of the christian household shall unitedly surround the marriage supper of the lamb! it will be joyful beyond conception. there they "shall meet at jesus' feet,--shall meet to part no more!" no one is absent. bright faces will meet there; bounding hearts will meet there; and on the banks of the river of life they will walk hand in hand, as they did unitedly in this vale of tears. "there is hereafter to be no separation in that family. no one is to lie down on a bed of pain. no one to wander away into temptation. no one to sink into the arms of death. never in heaven is that family to move along the slow procession, clad in the habiliments of woe, to consign one of its members to the tomb!"--rev. a. barnes. if heaven is our better home, where the members of christian families meet to part no more; if dreams cannot picture a world so fair; and if eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor human heart conceived, the felicity of its peaceful inhabitants, then we should greatly rejoice that our pious kindred have been taken there, and that we are blessed with the hope of reunion with them in that heavenly home:-- ... "if to christ, with faith sincere, your babe at death was given, the kindred tie that bound you here, though rent apart with many a tear, shall be renewed in heaven!" in our tent-home, we should cultivate spiritual longings after heaven, and live in the true hope and assurance of entering there. the soul of the christian, conscious of the emptiness of all things here, rests and expatiates in a life to come. in proportion to his preparation for it, and his nearness to it, will be the depth of his aspirations and the assurance of his hope. the widowed mother, who feels that part of her household is in heaven and that soon she will join them there, yearns with all the pining of home-sickness, for departure to the promised land, which is far better. "when shall my labors have an end, in joy and peace and thee!" even these hopes and longings after reunion with the departed in heaven, afford her joy, and open in her panting spirit a foretaste of unearthly bliss. to her aspiring faith all things look heavenward. the stars of the sky, and the flowers of the field smile their blessings upon her; and she welcomes death to break off her chains, to draw the bolts and bars, and open the prison doors of her house of clay, that her home-sick spirit may go up to that happier land where her possessions lie:-- "let me go! my heart is fainting 'neath its weight of sin and fears, and my wakeful eyes are failing with these ever-falling tears! for the morning i am sighing, while i earth's long vigils keep; here the loved are ever dying, and the loving live to weep! "let me go! i fain would follow, where i know their steps have passed-- far beyond life's heaving billows, finding home and heaven at last! while my exiled heart is pining to behold my father's face, they, in his own brightness shining, beckon me to that blest place! "let me go! i hear them calling, 'ho! thou weary one,--come home!' words which on mine ears are falling, wheresoever my footsteps roam, i can catch the far-off murmurs of life's river, sweet and low, calling, from earth's bitter waters, unto me--o let me go!" gentle reader! seek that better land. let your home be a preparation for, and a pilgrimage to, a home in heaven. you are now in the wilderness beset on every side by enemies. go forward! you are now in the deep vale,--in the low retreats of pilgrim life. "friend, go up higher!" "be thou faithful unto death, and you shall receive a crown of life." be patient in tribulation. the storms that swell around your pilgrim home will soon subside, and a cloudless sky will burst upon you; the winter gloom and desolation will soon pass away; and "sweet fields arrayed in living green and rivers of delight," will spread out themselves before your enraptured vision. remember that "the sufferings of the present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that shall be revealed in us." in a few years at most the conflict shall end, and sighing grief shall weep no more; the wormwood and the gall will be exchanged for the cup of salvation; the armor and the battle-field will be exchanged for the white garment, the crown and the throne. soon your typical homestead shall be exchanged for your antitypical home; and we shall unite in the home-song of everlasting joy,--the song of, "unto him that loved us and washed us in his own blood, to him be praise and glory and dominion forever!" let the hope of soon entering that happy home, stimulate you to increased ardor in the cause of your master. methinks, some who will read these pages, have snow-white locks and wrinkled brows and faded cheeks; and these tell you that soon your pilgrim journey will be ended, your tent-home dissolved, and your staff laid aside; and oh, if you have made god the strength of your heart and your portion forever, you shall welcome death with joy; yea, you will now be anxious to lay aside these garments of toil and conflict, and soar away to that better country, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. with holy pantings after god you will say, "come, lord jesus, come quickly!" "let me go! my feet are weary, in the desert where i roam. let me go! the way is dreary-- let the wanderer go home! i am weary of the darkness of these lonely, failing streams-- let me go where founts are flashing in the light of heaven's beams! "let me go! my soul is thirsting for those waters, bright, and clear, from the fount of glory bursting-- ah! why keep the pilgrim here? let me go! o, who would linger, fainting, fearing, and athirst, when before us lies a region where undying pleasures burst?" we have now enumerated some of the elements of the christian home--its constitution, its ministry, its trials, its joys, and its relation to a better home in heaven. but we have not exhausted this interesting subject; we have given but a very general and imperfect sketch. if this our first effort will contribute to the salvation of one soul, we shall be compensated; and should our encouragement justify it, we may continue the effort, in the preparation of a work on the historical development of the christian home. [illustration: "edith was busy taking their photographs". page .] little prudy's children jimmy, lucy, and all by sophie may author of "little prudy stories" "dotty dimple stories" "little prudy's flyaway series" "flaxie frizzle series" "the quinnebasset series" etc. boston lee and shepard publishers copyright, , by lee and shepard. _all rights reserved._ jimmy, lucy, and all. norwood press j.s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith norwood mass. u.s.a. contents chapter i. the tallyho ii. the first dinner iii. lucy's gold mine iv. "the knitting-woman" v. the air-castle vi. "grandma graymouse" vii. the zebra kitten viii. stealing a chimney ix. "chicken little" and joe x. the thief found xi. begging pardon xii. "the little schoolma'am's earthquake" xiii. nate's cave xiv. jimmy's good luck list of illustrations "edith was busy taking their photographs" "'it is perfectly awful!' said aunt lucy" edith painting the cherub for mrs. mcquilken "'james s. dunlee, will--you--forgive me?'" jimmy, lucy, and all i the tallyho "i never saw a gold mine in my life; and now i'm going to see one," cried lucy, skipping along in advance of the others. it was quite a large party; the whole dunlee family, with the two sanfords,--uncle james and aunt vi,--making ten in all, counting maggie, the maid. they had alighted from the cars at a way-station, and were walking along the platform toward the tallyho coach which was waiting for them. lucy was firmly impressed with the idea that they were starting for the gold mines. the truth was, they were on their way to an old mining-town high up in the cuyamaca mountains, called castle cliff; but there had been no gold there for a great many years. mr. dunlee was in rather poor health, and had been "ordered" to the mountains. the others were perfectly well and had not been "ordered" anywhere: they were going merely because they wanted to have a good time. "papa would be so lonesome without us children," said edith, "he needs us all for company." he was to have still more company. mr. and mrs. hale were coming to-morrow to join the party, bringing their little daughter barbara, lucy's dearest friend. they could not come to-day; there would have been hardly room for them in the tallyho. with all "the bonnie dunlees,"--as uncle james called the children,--and all the boxes, baskets, and bundles, the carriage was about as full as it could hold. it was seldom that the driver used this tallyho. he was quite choice of it, and generally drove an old stage, unless, as happened just now, he was taking a large party. it was a very gay tallyho, as yellow as the famous pumpkin coach of cinderella, only that the spokes of the wheels were striped off with scarlet. there were four white horses, and every horse sported two tiny american flags, one in each ear. "all aboard!" called out the driver, a brown-faced, broad-shouldered man, with a twinkle in his eye. "all aboard!" responded mr. sanford, echoed by jimmy-boy. whereupon crack went the driver's long whip, round went the red and yellow wheels, and off sped the white horses as freely as if they were thinking of lucy's gold mine and longing to show it to her, and didn't care how many miles they had to travel to reach it. but this was all lucy's fancy. they were thinking of oats, not gold mines. these bright horses knew they were not going very far up the mountain. they would soon stop to rest in a good stable, and other horses not so handsome would take their places. it was a very hard road, and grew harder and harder, and the driver always changed horses twice before he got to the end of the journey. as the tallyho rattled along, the older people in it fell to talking; and the children looked at the country they were passing, sang snatches of songs, and gave little exclamations of delight. edith threw one arm around her older sister katharine, saying:-- "o kyzie, aren't you glad you live in california? how sweet the air is, and how high the mountains look all around! when we were east last summer didn't you pity the people? only think, they never saw any lemons and oranges growing! they don't know much about roses either; they only have roses once a year." "that's true," replied kyzie. "let me button your gloves, edy, you'll be dropping them off." "see those butterflies! i'd be happy if bab was only in here," murmured a little voice from under lucy's hat. "bab didn't want to come with her papa and mamma; she wanted to come with _me_!" "now, lucy, don't be foolish," said edith. "where could we have put bab? there's not room enough in this coach, unless one of the rest of us had got out. you'll see bab to-morrow, and she'll be in castle cliff all summer; so you needn't complain." "_i_ wasn't complaining, no indeed! only i don't want to go down in the gold mine till bab comes. i s'pose they'll put us down in a bucket, won't they? i want uncle james to go with us." jimmy-boy laughed and threw himself about in quite a gale. he often found his little sister very amusing. "excuse me, lucy," said he; "but i do think you're very ignorant! that mine up there is all played out, and uncle james has told us so ever so many times. didn't you hear him? the shaft is more than half full of muddy water. i'd like to see you going down in a bucket!" "well, then, jimmy dunlee, what _shall_ we do at castle cliff?" "we've brought a tent with us, and for one thing i'm going to camp out," replied jimmy. "that's a grand thing, they say." "don't! there'll be something come and eat you up, sure as you live," said lucy, who had a vague notion that camping out was connected in some way with wild animals, such as coyotes and mountain lions. "poh! you don't know the least thing about castle cliff, lucy! and uncle james has talked and talked! tell me what he said, now do." uncle james was seated nearly opposite, for the two long seats of the tallyho faced each other. lucy spoke in a low tone, not wishing him to overhear. "he said we were going to board at a big house pretty near the old mine." "yes, mr. templeton's." "and he said somebody had a white spanish rabbit with reddish brown eyes and its mouth all a-quiver." "yes, i heard him say that about the rabbit. and what are those things that come and walk on top of the house in the morning?" "i know. they are woodpeckers. they tap on the roof, and the noise sounds like 'jacob, jacob, wake up, jacob!' uncle james says when strangers hear it they think somebody is calling, and they say, 'oh, yes, we're coming!' i shan't say that; i shall know it's woodpeckers. tell some more, jimmy." "yes" said eddo, leaving maggie and wedging himself between lucy and jimmy. "tell some more, jimmum!" "well, there's a post-office in town and there's a telephone, and mr. templeton has lots of things brought up to castle cliff from the city; so we shall have plenty to eat; chicken and ice-cream and things. that makes me think, i'm hungry. wouldn't they let us open a luncheon basket?" kyzie thought not; so jimmy went on telling lucy what he knew of castle cliff. "it's named for an air-castle there is up there; it's a thing they _call_ an air-castle anyway. a man built it in the hollow of some trees, away up, up, up. i'm going to climb up there to see it." "so'm i," said lucy. "ho, you can't climb worth a cent; you're only a girl!" "but she has an older brother; and sometimes older brothers are kind enough to help their little sisters," remarked kyzie, with a meaning smile toward jimmy; but jimmy was looking another way. "uncle james told a funny story about that air-castle," went on kyzie. "did you hear him tell of sitting up there one day and seeing a little toad help another toad--a lame one--up the trunk of the tree?" "no, i didn't hear," said lucy. "how did the toad do it?" "i'll let you all guess." "pushed him?" said edith. "no." "took him up pickaback," suggested lucy. "nothing of the sort. he just took his friend's lame foot in his mouth, and the two toads hopped along together! uncle james said it probably wasn't the first time, for they kept step as if they were used to it." "wasn't that cunning?" said edith. and jimmy remarked after a pause, "if lucy wants to go up to that castle, maybe i could steady her along; only there's bab. she'd have to go too. and i don't believe it's any place for girls!" the ride was a long one, forty miles at least. the passengers had dinner at a little inn, the elegant horses were placed in a stable; and the tallyho started again at one o'clock with a black horse, a sorrel horse, and two gray ones. the afternoon wore on. the horses climbed upward at every step; and though the journey was delightful, the passengers were growing rather tired. "wish i could sit on the seat with the king-ductor," besought little eddo, moving about uneasily. "that isn't a conductor, it's a driver. conductors are the men that go on the steam-cars,--the 'choo choo cars,'" explained jimmum. then in a lower tone, "they don't have any cars up at castle cliff, and i'm glad of it." lucy did not understand why he should be glad, and jimmy added in a lower tone:-- "because--don't you remember how some little folks used to act about steam-engines? they might do it again, you know." "yes, i 'member now. but that was a long time ago, jimmy. he wouldn't run after engines now." "who wouldn't?" inquired young master eddo, forgetting the "king-ductor" and turning about to face his elder brother. "who wouldn't run after the engine, jimmum?" "nobody--i mean _you_ wouldn't." "no, no, not me," assented eddo, shaking his flaxen head. and there the matter would have ended, if lucy had not added most unluckily: "'twas when you were only a baby that you did it, eddo. you said to the engine, 'come here, little choo choo, eddo won't hurt oo.' _you_ didn't know any better." "_'course_ i knew better," said eddo, shaking his head again, but this time with an air of bewilderment. "_i_ didn't say, 'come here, little choo choo.' no, no, not me!" "oh, but you did, darling," persisted lucy. "you were just a tiny bit of a boy. you stood right on the track, and the engine was coming, 'puff, puff,' and you said, 'come here, little choo choo, eddo won't hurt oo!'" "i didn't! oh! oh! oh! _when'd_ i say that? _did_ the engine hurt me? _where_ did it hurt me? say, jimmum, where did the engine hurt me?" putting his hand to his throat, to his ears, to his side. the more he thought of it, the worse he felt; till appalled by the idea of what he must have suffered he finally fell to sobbing in his mother's arms, and she soothed his imaginary woes with kisses and cookies. for the remainder of the journey he was in pretty good spirits and found much diversion in watching the gambols of the two dogs following the tallyho. one was a castle cliff dog, black and shaggy, named slam; the other, yellow and smooth, belonged to the "king-ductor" or driver, and was called bang. slam and bang often darted off for a race and eddo nearly gave them up for lost; but they always came back wagging their tails and capering about as if to say:-- "hello, eddo, we ran away just to scare you, and we'll do it again if we please!" it was a great day for dogs. ever so many dogs ran out to meet slam and bang. they always bit their ears for a "how d'ye do?" and then trotted along beside them just for company. eddo found it quite exciting. one was a mexican dog, without a particle of hair, but he did not seem to be in the least ashamed of his singular appearance. edith said it was an "empty country," and indeed there were few houses; but there must have been more dogs than houses, for the whole journey had a running accompaniment of "bow-wow-wows." the farther up hill the road wound the steeper it grew; and jimmy exclaimed more than once:-- "this coach is standing up straight on its hind feet, papa! just look! 'twill spill us all out backward!" but it did nothing of the sort. it took them straight to castle cliff, "nearly six thousand feet above the level of the sea," and there it stopped, before the front door of the hotel. it was about half-past five o'clock in the afternoon, and mr. templeton, who had been looking out for the tallyho, came down the steps to meet his guests. ii the first dinner mr. templeton's wife was just behind him. they both greeted the party as if they had all been old friends. the house, a large white one, stood as if in the act of climbing the hill. in front was a sloping lawn full of brilliant flowers, bordered with house-leek, or "old hen and chickens," a plant running over with pink blossoms. kyzie had not expected to see a garden like this on the mountain. at one side of the house, between two black oak trees, was a hammock, and near it a large stone trough, into which water dripped from a faucet. two birds, called red-hammers, were sipping the water with their bills, not at all disturbed by the arrival of strangers. it was a small settlement. the hotel, by far the largest house in castle cliff, looked down with a grand air upon the few cottages in sight. these tiny cottages were not at all pretty, and had no grass or lawns in front, but people from the city were keeping house in them for the summer; and besides there were tents scattered all about, full of "campers." as the "bonnie dunlees" and their elders entered the hotel, a merry voice called out:-- "a hearty welcome to you, my friends, and three cheers for castle cliff!" mr. and mrs. dunlee and the sanfords walked on smiling, and the children lingered awhile outside; but it was a full minute before any of them discovered that the cheery voice belonged to a parrot, whose cage swung from a tall sycamore overhead. "polly's pretty sociable," laughed mr. templeton. "do you like animals, young ladies? if so, please stand up here in a group, and you shall have another welcome." then he clapped his hands and called out "thistleblow!" and immediately a pretty red pony came frisking along and began to caper around the young people with regular dancing steps, making at the same time the most graceful salaams, pausing now and then to sway himself as if he were courtesying. it was a charming performance. the little creature had once belonged to a band of gypsies, who had given him a regular course of training. "he is trying to tell you how glad he is to see you," said mr. templeton, as the children shouted and clapped their hands. "oh, won't bab like it, though!" cried lucy. "seems as if i couldn't wait till to-morrow for bab to get here, for then the good times will begin." but for kyzie and edith and jimmy the good times had begun already. the five dunlees entered the house, little eddo clinging fast to jimmum's forefinger. they passed an old lady who sat on the veranda knitting. she gazed after them through her spectacles, and said to mr. templeton in a tone of inquiry:-- "boarders?" "yes," he replied, rubbing his chin, "and they have lots of jingle in 'em too; they're just the kind i like." "well, i hope they won't get into any mischief up here, that's all i've got to say. nobody wants to take children to board anyway, but you can't always seem to help it." and then the old lady turned to her knitting again; indeed her fingers had been flying all the while she talked. mr. templeton looked at her curiously, and wondered if she disliked children. "i'd as lief have 'em 'round the house as her birds and kittens anyway," he reflected; for she kept a magpie, three cats and a canary; and these pets had not been always agreeable guests at the hotel. it was now nearly six o'clock, and savory odors from the kitchen mingled with the balmy breath of the flowers stealing in from the lawn. the dunlee party had barely time for hasty toilets when the gong sounded for dinner. the templeton dining-room was large and held several tables. the dunlees had the longest of these, the one near the west window. there were twelve plates set, though only nine were needed to-night. the three extra plates had been placed there for the hale family, who were expected to-morrow. mrs. dunlee had told the landlord that she would like the hales at her table. "and bab will sit side o' me," said lucy. "oh, won't we be happy?" as the dunlees took their seats to-night and looked around the room they saw a droll sight. the old lady, who had been knitting on the veranda, was seated at a small table in one corner; and on each side of her in a chair sat a cat! one cat was a gray "coon," the other an angora; and both of them sat up as grave as judges, nibbling bits of cheese. mrs. mcquilken herself, dressed in a very odd style, was knitting again. she was a remarkably industrious woman, and as it would be perhaps three or four minutes before the soup came in, she could not bear to waste the time in idleness. her head-dress was odd enough. it was just a strip of white muslin wound around the head like an east indian puggaree. mrs. mcquilken had many outlandish fashions. she was the widow of a sea-captain and had been abroad most of her life. the children could hardly help staring at her. even after they had learned to know her pretty well they still wanted to stare; and not being able to remember her name they spoke of her as "the knitting-woman." "look, lucy," whispered jimmy; "there's a boy i know over there at that little table. it's nate pollard." he waved his hand toward him and nate waved in reply. at home jimmy had not known nate very well, for he was older than himself and in higher classes; but here among strangers jimmy-boy was glad to see a familiar face. mr. and mrs. pollard were with their son. perhaps they had all come for the summer. jimmy hoped so. there were two colored servants gliding about the room, and a pretty waiting-maid. "o dear, no cook from cathay," whispered kyzie to edith. "i don't know what you mean." "i mean i wanted a cook from cathay or cipango," went on kyzie, laughing behind her napkin. "i'm going to shake you," said edith, who suddenly bethought herself that cathay and cipango were the old names for china and japan. this had been part of her history lesson a few days ago. how kyzie did remember everything! at that moment the colored man from georgia stood at her elbow with a steaming plate of soup. lucy looked at him askance. why couldn't he have been a chinaman with a pigtail? she had told bab she was almost sure there would be a "china cook" at the mountains, and when he passed the soup he would say, "have soup-ee?" bab had been in europe and in maine and in california, but knew very little of chinamen and had often said she "wanted to eat china cooking." the dinner was excellent. eddo enjoyed it very much for a while; then his head began to nod over his plate, his spoon waved uncertainly in the air, and maggie had to be sent for to take him away from the table. the ride up the mountain had been so fatiguing that by eight o'clock all the dunlees, little and big, were glad to find themselves snugly in bed. they slept late, every one of them, and even the woodpeckers, tapping on the roof next morning, failed to arouse them with their "jacob, jacob, wake up, wake up, jacob!" after breakfast edith happened to leave the dining-room just behind mrs. mcquilken, who held her two cats cuddled up in her arms like babies, and was kissing their foreheads and calling them "mamma's precious darlings." as edith heard this she could not help smiling, and mrs. mcquilken paused in the entry a moment to say:-- "i guess you like cats." "i do, ma'am. oh, yes, very much." "that's right. i like to see children fond of animals. now, i've got a new kitty upstairs, a zebra kitty, that you'd be pleased with. it's a beauty, and _such_ a tail! come up to my room and see it if you want to. my room's number five. but don't you come now; i shall be busy an hour and a half. remember, an hour and a half." edith thanked her and ran to tell kyzie what the "knitting-woman" had been saying. "go get your kodak," said kyzie. "nate pollard is going to take us all out on an exploring expedition. you know he has been in castle cliff a whole week, and knows the places." "first thing i want to see is that mine," said lucy, as they all met outside the hotel. "the mine?" repeated kyzie, and looked at eddo. "i'm afraid it isn't quite safe to take little bits of people to such a place as that. do you think it is, nate?" "rather risky," replied nate. eddo had caught the words, "little bits of people," and his eyes opened wide. "what does _mine_ mean, jimmum?" "a great big hole, i guess. see here, eddo, let's go in the house and find maggie." "yes," chimed in edith, "let's go find maggie. there's a _beau_-tiful picture book in mamma's drawer. you just ask maggie and she'll show you the picture of those nice little guinea-pigs." though very young, eddo was acute enough to see through this little manoeuvre. it was not the first time the other children had tried to get him out of the way. they wanted to go to see a charming "great big hole" somewhere, and they thought he would fall into it and get hurt. they were always thinking such things--so stupid of them! they thought he used to run after "choo choos" and talk to them, when of course he never did it; 'twas some other little boy. "i want to go with jimmum," said he, stoutly. "you ought to not go 'thout me! _i_ shan't talk to that mine. _i_ shan't say, 'come, little mine, eddo won't hurt oo.' no, no, not me! i shan't say nuffin', and i shan't fall in the hole needer. so there! h'm! 'm! 'm!" it was not easy to resist his pleading. perhaps aunt vi saw how matters were, for she appeared just then, bearing the news that she and uncle james were going to drive, and would like to take one of the children. "and eddo is the one we want. he is so small that he can sit on the seat between us. aren't the rest of you willing to give him up just for this morning? he can go to walk with you another time." so they all said they would try to give him up, and he bounded away with aunt vi, his dear little face beaming with proud satisfaction. iii lucy's gold mine the other children strolled leisurely along toward a place that looked like a long strip of sand. "a sand beach," said kyzie. "no," said nate; "it isn't a beach and it isn't sand." "what _can_ you mean? what else is it, pray?" she stooped and took up a handful of something that certainly looked like sand. the others did the same. "what do you call that?" they all asked, as they sifted it through their fingers. nate smiled in a superior way. "well, i don't call it sand, because it isn't sand. i thought it was when i first saw it; i got cheated, same as you. but there's no sand to it; it's just _tailings_." "what in the world is tailings?" asked kyzie, taking up another handful and looking it over very carefully. strange if she, a girl in her teens, couldn't tell sand when she saw it! but she politely refrained from making any more remarks, and waited for nate to answer her question. he was an intelligent boy, between eleven and twelve. "well, tailings are just powdered rocks," said nate. "powdered rocks? who powdered them? what for?" asked edith. "why, the miners did it years ago. they ground up the rocks in the mine into powder just as fine as they could, and then washed the powder to get the gold out." "oh, i see," said edith. "so these tailings are what's left after the gold's washed out." "yes, they brought 'em and spread 'em 'round here to get rid of 'em i suppose." "is the gold all washed out, every bit?" asked jimmy. "seems as if i could see a little shine to it now." "well, they got out all they could. there may be a little dust of it left though. mr. templeton says the folks in 'frisco that own the mine think there's _some_ left, and the tailings ought to be sent to san diego and worked over." jimmy took up another handful. yes, there was a faint shine to it; it began to look precious. "well, there's a heap of it anyway. it goes ever so far down," said he, thrusting in a stick. "it's from ten to twelve feet deep," replied nate, proud of his knowledge; "and see how long and wide!" "_i_ don't see how they ever ground up rocks so fine," said kyzie. "exactly like sand. and it stretches out so far that you'd think 'twas a sand beach by the sea,--only there isn't any sea." "well, it's just as good as a beach anyway," said nate. "just as good for picnics and the like of that. when there's anything going on, they get out the brass band and have fireworks and bring chairs and benches and sit round here. i tell you it's great!" "there are lots of benches here now," remarked edith. "and what's that long wooden thing?" "that's a staging. that's where they have the brass band sit; that's where they send up the fireworks." "oh, i hope they'll have fireworks while we're here, and picnics." "of course they will. they're always having 'em. and i heard somebody say they're talking of a barbecue." edith clapped her hands. she did not know what a barbecue might be, but it sounded wild and jolly. "what a long stretch of mud-puddle right here by the tailings," said kyzie. nate laughed. "it _is_ a damp spot, that's a fact!" they all wondered what he was laughing at. "i guess there used to be water here once," said jimmy at a venture. "there's water here now standing round in spots. and,--why, it's _fishes_!" lucy stooped all of a sudden and picked up a dead fish. "ugh! i never caught a fish before!" but next moment she threw it away in disgust. "how did dead fishes ever get into this mud-puddle?" queried edith. "well, they used to live in it before it dried up," replied nate. "fact is, this is a _lake_!" everybody exclaimed in surprise; and kyzie said:-- "it doesn't seem possible; but then things are so queer up here that you can believe almost anything." "really it is a lake. it's all right in the winter, and swells tremendously then; but this is a dry year, you know, and it's all dried up." kyzie forgave the lake for drying up, but pitied the fishes. edith thought castle cliff was "a funny place anyway." "what little bits of houses! did they dry up too?" "oh, those are just the cabins and bunk-houses that were built for the miners, ever so long ago when the mine was going. fixed up into cottages now for summer boarders. do you want to see the mine?" they went around behind the shaft-house and beyond the old saw-mill. "o my senses!" cried edith, "is that the old gold mine, that monstrous great thing? isn't it horrid?" they all agreed that it was "perfectly awful and dreadful," and that it made you shudder to look into it; and that they were glad baby eddo was safely out of the way. the mine was a deep, irregular chasm, full of dirty water and rocks. it had a hungry, cruel look; you could almost fancy it was waiting in wicked glee to swallow up thoughtless little children. "it doesn't seem as if anybody could ever have dug for gold in that horrid ditch," exclaimed kyzie. "you'd better believe they did, though," said the young guide. "they used to get it out in nuggets, cart-loads of it." he was not quite sure of the nuggets, but liked the sound of the word. "yes, cart-loads of it. i tell you 'twas the richest mine in the whole cuyamaca mountains." "too bad the gold gave out," said kyzie, gazing regretfully into the watery depths. "but it didn't give out! why, there's gold enough left down there to buy up the whole united states! they lost the vein, that's all" "the vein? what's a vein?" asked edith. "well, you see," replied the guide, "gold goes along underground in streaks; they call it veins. the miners had to stop digging here because they lost track of the streak. but they'll find it again." "how do _you_ know?" asked jimmy-boy, who thought nate was putting on too many airs. "because mr. templeton said so. they've sent for colonel somebody from i--forget where. he's a splendid mining engineer, great for finding lost veins. he'll be here next week and bring a lot of men." "whoop-ee!" cried jimmy, "he'll find the vein and things, and we'll be having gold as plenty as blackberries!" "just what i was talking about yesterday when you laughed," broke in lucy. "i said i'd go down in a bucket; don't you know i did?" edith was gazing spellbound at the yawning chasm. "look at those rickety steps! the men will get killed! 'twill all cave in!" "no danger," said nate, "there are walls down there, stone walls, papa says, that keep it all safe." he meant "galleries," but had forgotten the word. "well, i don't care if there are five hundred stone walls, i guess the men could drown all the same!" said edith. "that water ought to be let out, nate pollard! if the colonel is coming next week why don't they let out the water this very day and give the place a chance to dry off." she spoke in a tone of the gravest anxiety, as if she understood the matter perfectly, and felt the whole care of the mine. indeed, the mine had become suddenly very interesting to all the children. it certainly looked like a rough, wild, frightful hole; nothing more than a hole; but if there were gold down there in "nuggets," why, that was quite another matter; it became at once an enchanted hole; it was as delightful as a fairy story. "i hope it's true that they've sent for that colonel," said kyzie. "of course it's true," replied nate, who did not like to have his word doubted. "i s'pose there are buckets 'round here. oh, aren't you glad we came to castle cliff?" said lucy, pirouetting around jimmy. "bab will be glad, too," she thought. for lucy never could look forward to any pleasure without wishing her darling "niece" to share it with her. "well, i guess we've seen everything there is to see," remarked nate, who had now told all he knew and was ready to go. while they still wandered about, talking of "tailings" and "nuggets," they were startled by the peal of a bell. "twelve o'clock! two minutes ahead of time though," said nate, taking from his pocket a handsome gold watch which jimmy had always admired. "what bell is that? where is it?" they all asked. "and what is it ringing for?" "it's on top of the schoolhouse and it's ringing for noon. 'twill ring again in the evening at nine o'clock. but i can tell 'em they ought to set it back two minutes." "a nine o'clock bell? why, that's a _curfew_ bell! how romantic!" cried kyzie. she had read of "the mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells," but had never heard it. "let's go to the schoolhouse." as luncheon at the templeton house would not be served for an hour yet, they kept on to the hollow where the schoolhouse stood. it was a small, unpainted building in the shade of three pine trees. "just wait a minute right here," said edith, the young artist, unstrapping her kodak. "i want a snap-shot at it. stand there by that tree, jimmum. put your foot out just so. i wish you were barefooted!" just then, as if they had overheard the wish, two little boys came running down the hill, and one of them was barefooted. moreover, when kyzie asked if they would stand for a picture, they consented at once. "my name's joseph rolfe," said the elder, twitching off his hat, "and his name,"--pointing to his companion with a chuckle,--"his name is chicken little." "no such a thing! now you quit!" retorted the younger lad in a choked voice, digging his toes into the dirt, "quit a-plaguing me! my name's henry small and you know it!" while edith was busy taking their photographs, kyzie thanked the urchins very pleasantly. they both gazed at her with admiration. "see here," said joe rolfe, twitching off his hat again very respectfully, "are you going to keep school in the schoolhouse? i wish you would!" at this remarkable speech jimmy and edith fell to laughing; but kyzie only blushed a little, and smiled. how very grown-up she must seem to joe if he could think of her as a teacher! she was now a tall girl of fourteen, with a fine strong face and an earnest manner. she was beginning to tire of being classed among little girls, and it was delightful to find herself looked upon for the first time in her life as a young lady. but she only said:-- "oh, no, joe, people don't teach school in summer! summer is vacation." "well, but they do sometimes," persisted joe; "there was a girl kep' this school last summer. she called it 'vacation school.' but we didn't like her; she licked like fury." "so she did," echoed chicken little, "licked and pulled ears. kep' a stick on the desk." and with these last words both the little boys took their leave, running up hill with great speed, as if they thought that standing for a picture had been a great waste of time. "that chicken boy is the biggest cry-baby," said nate. "the boys like to plague him to see him cry. joe rolfe has some sense." as the little party walked on, miss katharine turned her head more than once for another look at the schoolhouse. "wouldn't it be fun, edy, to teach school in there and ring that 'lin-lan-lone bell' to call in the scholars? i'd make you study botany harder'n you ever did before." "no, thank you, miss dunlee," replied edith, courtesying. "you'll not get me to worrying over botany. i studied it a month once, but when i go up in the mountains i go to have a good time." she pursed her pretty mouth as she spoke. her sister katharine was by far the best botanist in her class, and was always tearing up flowers in the most wasteful manner. worse than that, she expected edith to do the same thing and learn the hard names of the poor little withered pieces. "you don't love flowers as well as i do, kyzie, or you couldn't abuse them so!" this is what she often said to her learned sister after kyzie had made "a little preach" about the beauties of botany. as they entered the hotel for luncheon, kyzie was still thinking of the schoolhouse and the sweet-toned bell and the singular speech of joe rolfe, about wanting her for a teacher. what came of these thoughts you shall hear later on. "well, i declare, i forgot all about that zebra kitty," said edith. "what will the knitting-woman think of such actions?" iv the "knitting-woman" the "knitting-woman" met edith at the dining-room door after luncheon, and said to her rather sharply:-- "well, little girl, i thought you liked kittens?" "i do, mrs.--madam, i certainly do," replied edith feeling guilty and ashamed. "but nate pollard took us to see the gold mine and the schoolhouse and we've just got back." "oh, that's it! i thought 'twas very still around here--i missed the noise of the _boyoes_.--you don't know what i mean by boyoes," she added, smiling. "i picked up the word in ireland. i'm always picking up words. it means _boys_." "i understand; oh, yes." "well, 'twas a little trouble to me, your not coming when i expected you; but you may come this afternoon. i'll be ready in ten minutes." "yes, madam, thank you." edith ran to her mother laughing. "oh, mamma, she is the queerest woman! calls boys _boyoes_! i must go to see her kitten whether i want to or not--in just ten minutes! i wish i could take kyzie with me; would you dare?" "certainly not. katharine has not been invited. and don't make a long call, edith." "no, mamma, i'll not even sit down. i'll just look at the zebra kitty and come right away." mrs. dunlee smiled. if there were many pets at number five it was not likely that edith would hasten away. "remember, daughter, fifteen minutes is long enough for a call on an entire stranger. you don't wish to annoy mrs. mcquilken; but if you should happen to forget, you'll hear this little bell tinkle, and that will remind you to leave." number five was a very interesting room, about as full as it could hold of oddities from various countries, together with four cats, a canary, and a mocking-bird. "if you had come this morning you would have seen mag, that's the magpie," said mrs. mcquilken. "she's off now, pretty creature. she likes to be picking a fuss with the chickens." the good lady had been knitting, but she dropped her work into the large pocket of her black apron, and moved up an easy-chair for her guest. edith forgot to take it. her eyes were roving about the room, attracted by the curiosities, though she dared not ask a single question. "that nest on the wall looks odd to you, i dare say," said mrs. mcquilken. "the twigs are woven together so closely that it looks nice enough for a lady's work-bag, now doesn't it?" edith said she thought it did. "well, that's the magpie's nest. she laid seven eggs in it once. i keep it now for her to sleep in; it's mag's cot-bed." edith's eyes, still roving, espied a handsome kitty asleep on the lounge. it must be the zebra kitty because of its black and dove-colored stripes. most remarkable stripes, so regular and distinct, yet so softly shaded. the face was black, with whiskers snow-white. how odd! edith had never seen white whiskers on a kitten. and then the long, sweeping black tail! mrs. mcquilken watched the little girl's face and no longer doubted her fondness for kittens. "i call her zee for short. look at that now!" and mrs. mcquilken straightened out the tail which was coiled around zee's back. "oh, how beautifully long!" cried edith. "long? i should say so! there was a cat-show at los angeles last fall, and one cat took a prize for a tail not so long as this by three-quarters of an inch! and zee only six months old!" the kitty, wide awake by this time, was holding high revel with a ball of yarn which the tortoise-shell cat had purloined from her mistress's basket. "dear thing! oh, isn't she sweet?" said edith, dropping on her knees before the graceful creature. mrs. mcquilken enjoyed seeing the child go off into small raptures; edith was fast winning her heart. "does your mother like cats?" she suddenly inquired. "not particularly," replied edith, clapping her hands, as zee with a quick dash bore away the ball out of the very paws of the coon cat. "mamma thinks cats are cold-hearted," said she, hugging zee to her bosom. "she says they don't love anybody." "i deny it!" exclaimed mrs. mcquilken, indignantly. "tell your mother to make a study of cats and she'll know better." edith looked rather frightened. "yes'm, i'll tell her." "they have very deep feelings and folks ought to know it. now, listen, little girl. i had two maltese kittens once. they were sisters and loved each other better than any girl sisters _you_ ever saw. one of the kittens got caught in a trap and we had to kill her. and the other one went round mewing and couldn't be comforted. she pined away, that kitty did, and in three days she died. now i know that for a fact." "poor child!" said edith, much touched. "_she_ wasn't cold-hearted, i'll tell mamma about that." "well, if she doesn't like 'em perhaps it wouldn't do any good; but while you're about it you might tell her of two tortoise-shell cats i had. they were sisters too. whiff had four kittens and puff had one and lost it. and the way whiff comforted puff! she took her right home into her own basket and they brought up the four kittens together. wasn't that lovely?" "oh, wasn't it, though?" said edith. "cats have hearts, i always knew they did." "that shows you're a sensible little girl," returned the old lady approvingly. "but you haven't told me yet what your name is?" "edith dunlee." "i knew 'twas dunlee--that's a scotch name; but i didn't know about the edith. well, edith, so you've been to see the gold mine? pokerish place, isn't it? i hear they're going to bring down the engine from the big plant and try to start it up again." edith had no idea what she meant by the "big plant," so made no reply. mrs. mcquilken went back to the subject of cats. "did you know the egyptians used to worship cats? well, sometimes they did. and when their cats died they went into mourning for them." "how queer!" "it does seem so, but it's just as you look at it, edith. cats are a sight of company. i didn't care so much about them or about birds either when my husband was alive and my little children, but now--" again she paused, and this time she did not go on again. some one out of doors laughed; it was jimmy dunlee, and the mocking-bird took up the merry sound and echoed it to perfection. "doesn't that seem human?" cried mrs. mcquilken. and really it did. it was exactly the laugh of a human boy, though it came from the throat of a tiny bird. "my little boys, pitt and roscoe, liked to hear him do that," said mrs. mcquilken. edith observed that she did not say "my boyoes." "pitt, the one that died in japan, doted on the mocking-bird. the other boy, roscoe, was all bound up in the canary." "does the canary sing?" "yes, he's a grand singer. just you wait till he pipes up. you'll be surprised. but you remember what i was saying a little while ago about your mother? that zebra kitty--" before she could finish the sentence edith heard the warning tinkle of the tea-bell, and sprang up suddenly, exclaiming: "good-by, mrs.--good-by, _madam_, i must go now. you've been very kind, thank you. good-by." and out of the door and away she skipped, leaving her hostess, who had not heard the bell, to wonder at her haste. "she went like a shot off a shovel," said the good lady, taking up her knitting-work. "she seemed to be such a well-mannered little girl, too! what got into her all at once? she acted as if she was 'possessed of the fox.'" this is a common expression in japan, and naturally mrs. mcquilken had caught it up, as she had caught up other odd things in her travels. she was something of a mocking-bird in her way, was the captain's widow. "i've taken quite a fancy to edith," she added, "a minute more and i should have offered to give her the zebra kitty. but there, i shouldn't want to make a fuss in the family. that woman, her mother, to think of her talking so hard about cats! she doesn't _look_ like that kind of a woman. i'm surprised." edith ran back to her mother breathless. "oh, mamma, i was having such a good time! and she didn't appear to be 'annoyed,' she talked just as fast all the time! but the bell rang while she was saying something and i had to run." "had to run? i hope you were not abrupt, my child?" "oh, no, mamma, not at all. i said 'good-by' twice, and thanked her and told her she had been very kind. that wasn't abrupt, was it? but oh, that kitty's tail! i forget how many inches and a quarter longer than any other kitty's tail in this state! and they are not cold-hearted,--i mean cats,--i promised to tell you." here followed an account of the two cat-sisters, who loved each other better than girl-sisters. "and think of one of them dying of grief, the sweet thing! human people don't die of grief, do they, mamma?" "not often, edith. such instances have been known, but they are very rare." "well," struck in wee lucy, who had been listening to the touching story, "well, i guess some folks would! bab would die for grief of me, and i would die for grief of bab; we _said_ we would!" she made this absurd little speech with tears in her eyes; but kyzie and edith dared not laugh, for mamma's forefinger was raised. mamma never allowed them to ridicule the friendship of the two little girls, who had made believe for more than a year that they were "aunt" and "niece." the play might be rather foolish, but the love was very sweet and true. lucy had been thinking all day of barbara and longing for her arrival. a full hour before it was time for the stage she went a little way up the mountain with jimmy, and they took turns gazing down the winding, dusty road through a spy-glass. "i shan't wait here any longer. what's the use?" declared jimmy. "she's coming! she's coming! i saw her first!" was lucy's glad cry. and she ran down the mountain in haste, though the stage, a grayish green one, was just turning a curve at least a mile away. "well, you _have_ been parted a good while," said uncle james, as the two dear friends met and embraced on the coach steps; "a day and a half!" "i'd have 'most died if i'd waited any longer," said aunt lucy, putting her arm around her niece and leading her up the gravel path with the pink "old hen and chickens" on either side. the little girls were entirely unlike, and the contrast was pleasant to see. lucy was very fair, with light curling hair:-- "blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, her cheeks like the dawn of day, and her bosom white as the hawthorn buds that ope in the month of may." bab was quite as pretty, but in another way. she had brilliant dark eyes and straight dark hair with a satin gloss. she was half a head shorter than her "auntie," though their ages were about the same. people liked to see them together, for they were always sociable and happy, and loved each other "dearilee." "oh, bab," said wee lucy, "i had such a _loneness_ without you!" "i had a loneness too, auntie lucy. seemed as if the time never would go." and then the dark head and the fair head met again for more kisses, while both the mammas looked on and said, in low tones and with smiles, as they always did:-- "how sweet! now we shall hear them singing about the place like two little birds." this was tuesday. the days went on happily until thursday afternoon, when "the dunlee party," which always included the hales and sanfords, set forth up the mountain for a sight of the famous "air-castle." of course nate was with them, but this time not as a guide; the guide was uncle james. the road, though rather steep, was not a hard one. mr. dunlee had his alpenstock, and uncle james walked beside him, holding little eddo by the hand. bab and lucy, or "the little two," as aunt vi called them, were side by side as usual, and lucy had asked bab to repeat the story of "little bo-peep" in french, for nate wanted to hear it. bab could speak french remarkably well. "petit beau bouton a perde ses moutons, il ne sais pas que les a pris. o laissez les tranquille! ils se retournerons, chacun sa queue apres lui." mrs. dunlee and kyzie were just behind the children, and while bab was repeating the verse kyzie said in a low tone:-- "oh, mamma, let me walk with you all the way, please. there's something i want to talk about." she looked so earnest that mrs. dunlee wondered not a little what it was her eldest daughter had to say. v the air-castle "a vacation school, katharine? and pray what may that be?" kyzie's cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining. she held her mother's hand and talked fast, though plainly she did not feel quite at her ease. "why, mamma, you've certainly heard of vacation schools--summer schools? they're very common nowadays. in the summer, you know; so that college people can go to them, and business people." "ah! like the one at coronado beach? now i understand. but it didn't occur to me that my little daughter would know enough to teach college people!" "now, mamma, don't laugh at me! of course i mean children, the little ignorant children right around here," making a sweeping gesture toward the cottages and "bunk houses" that dotted the country lower down the mountain, "i know enough to teach little children, i should hope, mamma." "possibly!" mrs. dunlee's tone was so doubtful that her daughter felt crushed. "possibly you may know enough about books; but book-knowledge is not all that is required in a teacher. could you keep the children in order? would they obey you?" the little girl's head drooped a little. "let me see, you are only fourteen?" "fourteen last april, mamma. but everybody says, don't you know, that i'm very large for my age." she tried to speak bravely, but the look of quiet amusement on her listener's face made it rather hard for her to go on. "i suppose," said she, dropping her eyes again, "i suppose they don't know much here, mamma,--the families that live here all the time. some of the boys actually go barefooted." "so i have observed. a great saving of shoes." "and they had a school last summer," went on kyzie, resolutely. "a young girl taught it who boarded where we do. mr. templeton said she did it for fun." "indeed!" "but they didn't like her a bit. i could teach as well as she did anyway, mamma, for she just went around the room boxing their ears." "is it possible, katharine?" mrs. dunlee was serious enough now. "to box a child's ears is simply brutal!" "i knew you'd say so, mamma; but that was just what miss severance did. of course i wouldn't touch their ears any more than i would fly!" mrs. dunlee turned now and regarded her daughter attentively. "but how did you ever happen to take up this sudden fancy for teaching, dear? it's all new to me. what first made you think of it--at your age? can you tell?" "oh, mamma, i've been thinking about it, off and on, for a year. ever since i was at willowbrook last summer and heard grandma parlin talk about _her_ first school. why, don't you remember, she was just fourteen, she said, nearly three months younger than i am." mrs. dunlee understood it all now, and said to herself:-- "dear old grandma parlin! little did she imagine she was filling her great grand-daughter's head with mischievous notions!" they walked on a short way in silence. "but you must remember, katharine, that was seventy years ago. grandma parlin wouldn't advise a girl of fourteen to do in these days as she did then. schools are very different now." "yes, indeed, mamma, very, very different. isn't it too bad? i'd like to 'board 'round' the way grandma did, and rap on the window with a ferule, and 'choose sides' and all that! but there's one thing i could do!" exclaimed the little girl, brightening. "i could make the children 'toe the mark'; wouldn't that be fun? i mean stand in a line on a crack in the floor. how grandma would laugh! i'll write her all about it, and send her a photograph, bare feet and all." in her eagerness kyzie spoke as if the matter were all arranged and she could almost see the children "toeing the mark." "not so fast, my daughter. remember there are three points to be settled before we can discuss the matter seriously. first, would your papa consent? second, would your mamma consent? third, do the people of castle cliff want a summer school anyway?" "three points? i see, oh, yes," said kyzie, meekly. "but now, katharine, let us walk a little faster and join the others. and not a word more of this to-day." "what did keep you two so long?" asked edith, coming to meet them with a bright face. if her happy thoughts had not been dwelling on the zebra cat just presented her by the "knitting-woman," she would have observed at once that mamma and kyzie had been "talking secrets"; though she might not have suspected that this had anything to do with the vacation school. "do hurry along," she added. "i want to show you the funniest sight! i don't believe you've seen barbara hale, have you?" edith could hardly speak for laughing; and her mother and kyzie did not wonder when they beheld the figure that little bab had made of herself, by a new style of dressing her hair. the two little girls were, as i have told you, as different as possible, but had an intense desire to look "just alike"; and when they tried their best the result was very funny. i will mention here that lucy "despised" her own hair for not being straight like bab's, and had often tried to braid it down her back; but as the braid always came out and the ribbon came off, the attempt had been forbidden. now, however, as the children had left their city home and come to a place where everybody was "on holiday," the mammas decided that they might have a little more liberty. their dresses were off the same piece,--good, strong brown ones; their hats were alike; and, as for their hair, they were allowed to wear it as they pleased "just for this summer." "we'll look exactly alike up there in the mountains," the little souls had said to each other; and this was perhaps one reason why they had been so overjoyed at the prospect of going. [illustration] but to-day, ah! who would have dreamed that sweet little bab could become such a fright? she had done up her hair the night before on as many as twenty curl-papers. before starting for the air-castle she had taken out some of the papers and found--not ringlets, but wisps of very unruly hair. it would not curl any more than water will run up hill. she went to aunt lucy in her trouble to seek advice. aunt lucy looked her over with great care and then announced:-- "it is perfectly awful! don't take out any more papers, bab. let 'em be, so you can have something to stick the curls on to." and so it was done. the "curls," as lucy was pleased to call them, were drawn up and looped and twisted and fastened by hair-pins to the other curls left in the papers. the effect was most surprising. it made bab's head so much higher than usual that she was as tall now as auntie, and that in itself was a great gain. besides, this style, as lucy said, was the "pompy-doo," and very fashionable! if bab could have kept her hat on! but she couldn't, and the moment it came off they all cried out:-- "why-ee, barbara!" and turned away to laugh. if mrs. mcquilken had been there she would have said the child looked "as if she was possessed of the fox." "the little goosies! let them enjoy it!" whispered mrs. hale to mrs. dunlee. "but those topknots will have to come down before the child can go to the dinner-table." and then both the ladies laughed privately behind a large tree. the mountain air was doing them good, and they often had as merry times together as the young people. "hear the boyoes," cried edith, meaning jimmy and nate, who had now reached the air-castle and were shouting with all their might. the children ran, and so indeed did the older ones, for there was an excellent path all the way. "so that is the air-castle," exclaimed kyzie, when they were all within sight of it. "it's a real house, built right in the mountain." she was right. there happened to be a great crack right here in the rocky side of the mountain, and a cunning little house had been tucked into the crack. it was built of small stones. it had two real windows with glass panes, and a real door with a brass knocker, which the children declared was "too cute for anything." "the house is as strong as a fort," said uncle james. "do you observe it is walled all around with stones?" "do you know who built it?" asked aunt vi; "and why he built it?" "a rich mexican named bandini. he admired the view from the mountain, and i don't blame him, do you? he wanted a nice, quiet place where he could read and write; that was why he came here. he has been here every summer for years." "well," said mr. dunlee, "if you call this an air-castle i must say it is the most solid one i ever heard of! it doesn't look dreamy at all. why, an earthquake could hardly shake it." "the steps that lead up to it are not dreamy either," said mrs. dunlee. "real granite; and there's a large flag up there floating from the evergreen tree." the "boyoes" had already climbed the steps, and nate called down to mrs. dunlee, "it's the mexican flag!" but she had known that at a glance. the colors were red, white, and green, and the device was an eagle on a prickly pear with a snake in his mouth. "i wonder if there's anybody at home," said nate, and would have lifted the knocker if jimmy had not said, "wait for uncle james." jimmy thought as uncle james was the leader of the expedition he should be the one to do the knocking, or at any rate to tell them when to knock. nate himself had not thought of this. he was not so refined as jimmy, either by nature or by training. everybody had climbed the steps now. the older people were enjoying the magnificent view; but bab and lucy were looking for the two toads who had been seen going up to the castle together, the well toad taking the lame toad's foot in his mouth. "i wish they were both here," said uncle james, "for you would like to see them take that little journey." "and the mexican who built this air-castle," said aunt vi, "is he here this summer?" "no, he died last spring." "died?" echoed little eddo, who had heard that dying means "going up in the sky." "what made him die, mamma? didn't he like it down here?" then without waiting for a reply he added most tenderly and unexpectedly, "isn't it nice that _you're_ not dead, mamma?" "why do you think that, my son?" she asked, wondering what he would say. "oh, _be_-cause i _am_ so glad about it." and at this sweet little speech his mother caught him up in her arms and kissed him. how could she help it? "now," said uncle james, "let us see if we can enter the castle. 'open locks whoever knocks.' try it, boys." nate lifted the knocker and pounded with a will. there was no answer or sign of life. "let's see if this will help us," said uncle james, taking a key from his vest pocket:-- "for i'm the keeper of the keys, and i do whatever i please." the key actually fitted the lock, the door opened at once, and they all entered the castle. "mr. templeton lent me the key," explained mr. sanford. "he said the castle was as empty as a last year's bird's nest, but i thought we might like to take a look at it." "we do, oh, we do," said lucy. "isn't it queer? just two rooms and nothing in 'em at all! oh, bab, let's you and i bring some dishes up here and keep house! here's a cupboard right in the wall." "i guess it's mother hubbard's cupboard, it looks bare enough. just a table in the room and one old chair," exclaimed edith. "i'm glad we came in, though," said kyzie. "isn't it beautiful to stand in the door and look down, down, and see castle cliff right at your feet? and off there a city--why, what's that noise?" no one answered. the older people knew the sound: it was that of an angry rattlesnake out of doors shaking his rattle. mr. dunlee said:-- "stay in the house, please, you ladies, and keep the children here. james and i will go out and attend to this." he had an alpenstock, uncle james a cane. the ladies and mr, hale and the children watched the two gentlemen from the window,--all but little eddo, whose mother was playing bo-peep with him to prevent him from looking out. a handsome rattlesnake was winding his way up the mountain in pursuit of a tiny baby rabbit. the little "cotton-tail" was running for the castle as fast as he could, intending to hide in a hole under the door-stone. but he never would have reached the door-stone alive, poor little trembling creature, if mr. dunlee and uncle james had not come up just in time to finish the cruel snake with cane and alpenstock. bunny got away safe, without even stopping to say, "thank you." the snake wore seven rattles, of which he was very proud; but eddo had them next day for a plaything, and made as much noise with them as ever the snake had done; though eddo never knew where they came from. it had been a delightful day, and when the friends all met again at table they kept saying, "didn't we have a good time?" it was to be noticed that barbara's "topknots" had disappeared; and i am glad to say that she never wore her lovely hair "pompy-doo" again. kyzie's face was alight. in passing the door of her mother's room she had heard her father say, laughing:-- "what, our katharine? why, how that would amuse mr. templeton!" kyzie had hurried away for fear of listening; but now she kept thinking:-- "papa laughed. he always laughs when he is going to say 'yes.' he'll talk to mr. templeton, and i just know i shall have the school isn't it splendid?" vi "grandma graymouse" "hoopty-doo!" shouted jimmy, alighting on the piazza on all fours. "a little girl like that keep school!" "well, she is going to," returned edith, looking up from the picture she was drawing of a cherub in the clouds, "she's going to; and mr. templeton says the castle cliff people are as pleased as they can be." "i heard what he said," struck in nate. "he said they jumped at it like a dolphin at a silver spoon." "he's always talking about that dolphin and that silver spoon," laughed edith. "if i knew how a dolphin looks, i'd draw one and give it to him just for fun. but mamma, you don't expect me to go to school to that little girl; now do you?" "certainly not, edith; oh, no." "must _i_ go to grandmother graymouse?" whined jimmy, "she's only my sister. and i came up here to play." "play all you like, my son. no one will ask you to go school." "but _i_ really want to go," said nate. "i wouldn't miss it for anything. a girl's school like that will be larks. only four hours anyway, two in the forenoon and two in the afternoon. time enough left for play." "h'm, if that's all, let's go," cried jimmy. "we can leave off any time we get tired of it." kyzie heard this as she was crossing the hall. "why, boys," she said, "you don't live in castle cliff! it's the castle cliff children i'm going to teach--the little ones, you know." "but papa said if you'd show me about my arithmetic--" began nate. "perhaps i don't know so much as you do, nate. but if you go you'll be good, won't you--you and jimmy both?" she spoke with some concern. "for if you're naughty, the other boys will think they can be naughty too; and i shan't know what in the world to do with them." "oh, we'll sit up as straight as ninepins; we'll show 'em how city boys behave," said nate, making a bow to kyzie. he could be a perfect little gentleman when he chose. he liked to tease jimmy, younger than himself, but had always been polite to kyzie. still kyzie did not altogether like the thought of having a boy of twelve for a pupil. what if he should laugh at her behind his slate? here barbara and lucy appeared upon the veranda, holding edith's new kitty between them. "we're going. we'll sit together and cut out paper dolls and eat figs under the seat," declared lucy, never doubting that this would be pleasing news to the young teacher. before kyzie had time to say, "why, lucy!" little eddo ran up the steps to ask in haste:-- "where's lucy going? i fink i'll go too." kyzie could bear no more. she ran and hid in the hammock and cried. they all thought she was to have a sort of play-school; did they? they were going just for fun. she must talk to mamma. mamma thought the school was foolish business; but mamma always knew what ought to be done, and how to help do it. or if mamma ever felt puzzled, there was papa to go to,--papa, who could not possibly make a mistake. between them they would see that their eldest daughter was treated fairly. monday morning came. kyzie's courage had revived. eddo would be kept at home; lucy and bab had been informed that they were not to cut paper dolls, though they might write on their slates. all that they thought of just now, the dear "little two," was of dressing to "look exactly alike." as bab had learned once for all that her hair would not curl, she spent half an hour that morning braiding her auntie's ringlets down her back, and tying the cue with a pink ribbon like her own. but for all the little barber could do the flaxen cue would not lie flat. it was an old story, but very provoking. "oh dear," wailed lucy, "'most school-time and my hair is all _over_ my head!" it did look wild. you could almost fancy it was angry because it had not been allowed to curl after its own graceful fashion. the "little two" started off in good season, hoping not to be seen by eddo; but he espied them from the window, and they heard him calling till his baby voice was lost in the distance:-- "you ought to not leave me! you ought to not leave m-e-e!" "he wants to go everywhere big people go." "yes," responded bab. "such babies think they are as old as anybody. oh, see that mexican dog, how straight his tail stands up!" "like your hair," sighed lucy. "if my hair would only be straight like that!" and neither of them smiled at this droll remark. "but there's one thing we must remember, bab. i'm glad i thought of it. we must say, 'miss' to kyzie." "miss what?" "miss dunlee. if we forget it, she'll feel dreadfully." and then they began to hum a tune and keep step to the music. they often did this as they walked. kyzie had gone on before them. her father was with her, but she had the key in her hand and opened the schoolhouse door. they walked in together, and kyzie locked the door behind them, for several children were waiting about who must not enter till the bell rang. the schoolhouse floor was very clean; the new teacher herself had swept it. on the walls were large wreaths of holly, which had been left over from last christmas, when the sunday-school had had a celebration here. at one end of the room was a raised platform with a large desk on it. on the wall over the desk was a motto made of red pepper berries, only the words were so close together that you could not make them out unless you knew beforehand what they were. "that means, 'christ is risen,'" explained kyzie. "it looks dreadfully, but they didn't want it taken down, i'll make another by and by." there were blackboards on three sides of the room; quite clean they looked now. the desks and benches were rude ones of black oak, and had been hacked by jack-knives. kyzie regretted this, but supposed the boys had not been taught any better. there was only one chair in the room, a large armed chair for the little teacher, and it stood solemnly on the platform before the desk. "you see, papa, i've brought a big blank-book to write the names in. the pen and inkstand belong here. ahem, i begin to tremble," said she, and looked at her mother's watch which she wore in her belt. "it's five minutes of nine." "oh, you'll do famously," said mr. dunlee. "and now, daughter, i'll wish you good-by and the very best luck in the world." "good-by, papa," said kyzie, and locked the door after him. "i wish i'd asked him to stay till i called them in and took their names. papa is so dignified that it would have been a great help. my, i feel as if i weren't more than six years old!" she walked the floor, watch in hand. "fifty seconds of nine." she went to the bell-rope and pulled with both hands. it was quite needless to use so much force. the bell was directly over her head; and instead of the "mellow lin-lan-lone" she expected, it made a din so tremendous that it almost seemed as if the roof were about to fall upon her. at the same time there was a scrambling and pounding at the door. the children were trying to get in. "oh, miserable me, i've locked them out!" thought the little teacher in dismay. she hastened to the door and opened it, and they rushed in with a shout. this was an odd beginning; but kyzie said not a word. she remembered that she was now miss dunlee, so she threw back her shoulders and looked her straightest and tallest, and as much as possible like miss prince, her favorite teacher. she had intended all along to imitate miss prince--whenever she could think of it. only fourteen years old! well, what of that? grandma parlin had been only fourteen when she taught _her_ first school. keep a brave heart, katharine dunlee! joe rolfe walked in as stiffly as a wooden soldier. behind him came a few boys and girls, some of them with their fingers in their mouths. there were twelve in all. the last ones to enter were nate and jimmy, followed by aunt lucy and her niece arm in arm. "i wonder if nate is laughing at me for locking the door?" thought kyzie, not daring to look at him, as she waved her hands and said in a loud voice to be heard above the noise:-- "all please be seated." being seated was a work of time; and what a din it made! the children wandered about, trying one bench after another to see which they liked best. "you would think they were getting settled for life," whispered nate to jimmy. the "little two" chose a place near the west window and began at once to write on their slates. "i'm scared of miss dunlee," wrote aunt lucy. "stop making me laugh," replied the niece. when at last everybody was "settled for life," kyzie did not know what to do next. "what would miss prince do? why she would read in the bible. i forgot that." the new teacher took her stand on the platform behind the desk, opened her bible, and read aloud the twenty-third psalm. her voice shook, partly from fright, partly from trying so hard not to laugh. but she did not even smile--far from it. nate and jimmy who were watching her could have told you that. if she had been at a funeral she could hardly have looked more solemn. jimmy touched nate's foot under the bench; nate gave jimmy a shove; bab gazed hard at lucy's flaxen cue; lucy gazed straight at her thumb. after the reading "miss dunlee" walked about with her blank-book in one hand and her pen in the other to take down the children's names. "i'm joseph rolfe; don't you remember me?" said the boy with red hair. "and this boy next seat is chicken little." "no, i ain't either, i'm henry small," corrected the little fellow, ready to cry. kyzie shook her finger at both the boys and resolved that "joe should stop calling names, and henry should stop being such a cry-baby." annie farrell was a dear little girl in a blue and white gingham gown, and the new teacher loved her at once. dorothy pratt was little more than a baby, and when spoken to she put her apron to her eyes and wanted to go home. "she can't go home," said her older sister janey, "mamma's cookin' for company!" kyzie patted the baby's tangled hair and sent janey to get her some water. "i'll go," spoke up jack whiting, aged seven. "janey isn't big enough. besides the pail leaks." "i'm so glad edith isn't here," thought kyzie, "or we should both get to giggling. there, it's time now to call them out to read. let me see, where is the best crack in the floor for them to stand on? why didn't i bring a quarter of a dollar with a hole in it for a medal? oh, the medal will be for the spelling-class; that was what grandma parlin said." it seemed a "ling-long" forenoon, and the little teacher rejoiced when eleven o'clock came. the family at home looked at her curiously, and uncle james asked outright, "tell us, grandmother graymouse, how do the scholars behave?" "well, i suppose they behaved as well as they knew how; but oh, it makes me so hungry!" she could not say whether she liked teaching or not. "wait till friday night, uncle james, and then i'll tell you." "well said, grandmother graymouse! you couldn't have made a wiser remark. we'll ask no further questions till friday night." but when friday night came they were all thinking of something else, something quite out of the common; and "grandmother graymouse" and her school were forgotten. vii the zebra kitten it began with zee. by this time her young mistress had become very much attached to her; and so indeed had all the "dunlee party." even mrs. dunlee petted the kitten and said she was the most graceful creature she had ever seen, except, perhaps, the dancing horse, thistleblow. eddo loved her because "she hadn't any pins in her feet" and did not resent his rough handling. the "little two" loved her because she allowed them to play all sorts of games with her. they could make believe she was very ill and tuck her up in bed, and she would swallow meekly such medicine as alum with salt and water without even a mew. "she is so amiable," said edith. "and then that wonderful tail of hers, mamma! 'twould bring, i don't know how much money, at a cat fair. it's a regular _prize_ tail, you see!" an animal like this merited extra care. she was not to be put off like an everyday cat with saucers of milk and scraps of meat; she must have the choicest bits from the table. "mrs. mcquilken says the best-fed cats make the best mousers," said edith. "is that so, miss edith? then the mice here at castle cliff haven't long to live!" laughed good-natured mr. templeton, as he handed zee's little mistress a pitcher of excellent cream. edith was very grateful to mrs. mcquilken for this remarkable kitten. she had taken much pains with her pencil drawing of a cherub in the clouds, intending it as a present for the eccentric old lady. "do you suppose she'll like it, mamma? you know she's so odd that one never can tell." mrs. dunlee was sure the picture would be appreciated. the cherub's sweet face looked like eddo's, and the clouds lay about him very softly, leaving bare his pretty dimpled feet, and hands, and arms, and neck. on friday afternoon edith took the picture in her hand and knocked with a beating heart at the door of number five. "mrs. me--mcquilken," said she, in a timid voice, on entering the room, "you're so fond of pictures that i thought i'd bring you one i drew myself. i'm afraid it's not so very, very good; but i hope you'll like it just a little." [illustration] mrs. mcquilken was much surprised as well as gratified; and actually there were tears in her eyes as she took the offering from edith's hand. she was a lonely old body, and never expected much attention from any one, especially from children. "why, how kind of you, my dear! it's a beauty!" she exclaimed, gazing at the cherub through her spectacles. she was a good judge of pictures. "that face is well drawn, and the clouds are fleecy. did you really do it your own self--and for me? thank you, dear child!" edith blushed with pleasure. she had by no means counted on such praise. "i'll always be kind to old people after this," she thought. "i believe they care more about it than you think they do." but here they were interrupted by the very loud mewing of a cat out of doors. they both ran downstairs to see what it meant. "i do hope and trust it isn't my zee," cried edith in alarm. but it was. they did not see her at first; she was in the back yard behind the hotel. it seems a pan of clams had been left standing on the back door-step; and zee must have been frolicking about the pan, never dreaming any live creature was in it, when one of the clams, attracted by her black waving tail, had caught the tip of the tail in his mouth and was holding it fast! this was pretty severe. being only an ignorant bivalve, the clam did not know that what he had in his mouth was a very precious article, the "prize tail" of a beautiful cat. but having once taken hold of it, the clam was too obstinate to let go. poor zee jumped up and down, and ran around in circles, mewing with all her might. what had happened she did not know; she only knew some heavy thing was dragging at her tail and pinching it fearfully. every one in the back of the house was busy; no one but eddo heard zee's cries. he ran to the maid to ask "what made the kitty sing so sorry?" whenever she mewed he called it singing. the maid looked out then and threw down her mixing-spoon for laughing. it was an odd sight to see a cat prancing about, waving her plume-like tail with a clam at the end of it! nancy was sorry for the kitten, but did not know how in the world to get off the clam. "take an axe! take a hatchet!" cried mrs. mcquilken. and without waiting for nancy she seized a hatchet herself, split the shell of the clam, and let poor kitty free. when kyzie got home from school, mrs. mcquilken had just mended zee's bleeding member with a piece of court-plaster. all the boarders were grouped about on the lawn and veranda talking it over. mrs. dunlee held in her lap a very forlorn and crumpled little bundle of kitty; and edith and eddo were crying as if their hearts would break. "that beautiful, beautiful tail!" sobbed edith. "don't be unhappy about it, darling," said aunt vi, "it will heal in time." "i know 't will heal, auntie; but what i'm thinking of is, won't it be stiff? aren't you afraid 'twill lose the--the--_expression of the wiggle?_" no one even smiled at the question; everybody tried to comfort edith. and right in the midst of this trying scene another event occurred of a different sort, but far more serious. it was little wonder that nobody once thought of saying to kyzie:-- "well, grandma graymouse, you promised to tell us to-night how you like your school." the school was quite forgotten, and so was the injured kitten. it happened in this way: as soon as the kitten had been placed in a basket of cotton and seemed tolerably comfortable, jimmy and "the little two" went along the road as they often did to watch for the stage. "the colonel" might be coming now at almost any time, to find the lost vein of the gold mine, and they wanted to see him first of any one. lucy had her papa's watch fastened to the waist of her dress, and took great pleasure in seeing the hands move. this was not the first time she had been allowed to carry the watch, and she was very proud because papa had just said, "see how i trust my little girl." jimmy had uncle james's spy-glass. "nate thinks the colonel won't come till to-morrow; but i expect him to-night. let's go farther up," said jimmy-boy. they all climbed a little way and stood on a rock gazing down toward the dusty road. they could see the roofs of several houses, and lucy asked why there was so much wire on them. "oh, that's to hold the chimneys on," was jimmy's reply. "how queer!" "not queer at all. i've seen lots of chimneys tied on that way." bab doubted this, but lucy was proud to think how much jimmy knew. "six minutes past five," said she, looking at the watch again. "it takes these little hands just as long to go round this little face as it takes a clock's hands to go round a clock's face. how funny!" "not funny at all," said jimmy. "they're made that way. but be careful, lucy dunlee, or you'll drop that watch. i shouldn't have thought papa would have let you bring it up here. did you tell him where we were going?" "no, i never," replied lucy with a sudden prick of conscience. "i didn't know we'd go so far. 'twas you that spoke and said we'd go higher up." "well, you'd better let me take it, lucy. i'm older than you are, and i've got a little pocket, too, just the right size to hold it." lucy hesitated, not wishing to part with the watch, and not at all sure that it would be safer with jimmy than with herself. he was not a famous care-taker. "i don't see why you want to get it away when papa lent it to me and it's fastened on so tight. how do i know papa would be willing?" as she spoke, however, jimmy was fingering the little chain to see if he could undo the clasp which held it to her dress. "there, i don't believe you could have got it off, lucy, you didn't know how." "why, i never tried--papa fastened it on himself--oh, jimmy-boy, you will be so careful of it, now won't you?" for the watch lay in his hand, and she did not know how to get it back again. when he had set his heart on anything lucy usually gave up. barbara looked on in disapproval as the big brother put the watch in his pocket. it had long been jimmy's unspoken wish to have a watch of his very own like nate pollard and various other boys. how rich and handsome the short gold chain looked! what a bright spot it made as it dangled down his new jacket. he gazed at it admiringly, while bab and lucy took turns in looking through the spy-glass. "the stage is coming," they cried. then they all started and ran down the mountain; but as the stage drove up to the hotel no colonel alighted, or at least, no one who looked like a colonel. jimmy was playing with the short gold chain which made a bright spot on his jacket. he meant to restore the watch to its owner at dinner-time; but it was early, he was not going in yet. and there was nate pollard throwing up his cap and looking ready for a frolic. "i stump you to catch me!" said nate. "poh, i can catch you and not half try." jimmy-boy was agile, nate rather heavily built and clumsy. but if jimmy had suspected what a foolhardy project was in nate's mind he would have held back from the race. as it was, they both planted themselves against a tree, shouted, "one, two, three!" and off they started. no one was watching, no one remembered afterward which way they were going. viii stealing a chimney the "knitting-woman" sat knitting in her chamber that looked up the mountain side, and thinking how the zebra kitten had suffered from her enemy, the clam. mrs. mcquilken's own cats were most of them asleep; the blind canary was eating her supper of hemp-seed; and the noisy magpie had run off to chat with the dog and hens. the room seemed remarkably quiet. mrs. mcquilken narrowed two stitches and glanced out of the window. "mercy upon us!" she exclaimed, though there was not a soul to hear her. "mercy upon us, what are those boyoes doing atop of that house?" in her astonishment she actually dropped her knitting-work on the floor and rushed out of the room crying, "fire!" though there was not a spark of fire to be seen. the "boyoes" were nate and jimmy. nate had said to jimmy just as they started on the race:-- "you won't dare follow where i lead;" and jimmy, stung by the defiant tone, had answered:-- "poh, yes, i will! who's afraid?" never once suspecting that nate was going to climb the ridge-pole of a house! the house was a small cabin painted green, but there were people living in it, and nothing could be ruder than to storm it in this way, as both boys knew. "why, nate why, _nate_, what are you doing?" "ho, needn't come if you're scared," retorted nate. "who said i was scared? but i'm not your 'caddy,' i won't go another step," gasped jimmy. still he did not stop climbing. hadn't nate "stumped" him; and hadn't he "taken the stump," agreeing to follow his lead? besides, nate was already on the roof, and it was necessary to catch him at once. jimmy reached the roof easily enough and darted toward nate with both arms out-stretched. but by that time nate had turned around and begun to slide down another ridge-pole, shouting:-- "here, my caddy, here i am; catch me, caddy!" it was most exasperating. jimmy saw that he had been outwitted. on the solid earth, running a fair race, the chances were that he could have beaten nate. but was this a fair race? "no, i'll leave it out to anybody if it's fair! nate pollard is the meanest boy in california," thought angry jimmy, as he started to follow his leader down the ridge-pole. at this moment something hit him just below the knee and held him fast. in his haste he had not stopped to notice that the chimney was of the very sort he had just described to lucy--built of tiles and held on to the roof by wires. he was caught in these wires; and whenever he tried to move he found he was actually pulling the chimney after him! nate, safely landed on the ground, called back to him in triumph:-- "hello, jimmy-cum-jim! hello, my caddy! where are you? why don't you come along?" jimmy was coming as fast as he could. he lay face downward, sliding along toward the edge of the roof, and carrying with him that most undesirable chimney! what would become of him if he should fall head-first with the chimney on his back? it was a rough scramble; but he managed to turn over before he reached the ground--so that he landed on his feet. the chimney landed near him, a wreck. jimmy was unhurt except for a few scratches. but oh, it was dreadful to hear himself laughed at, not only by that mischievous nate, but by half a dozen other boys and a few grown people, who had collected on the spot; among them the landlord and mrs. mcquilken. not that any one could be blamed for laughing. jimmy was a comical object. in carrying away a chimney which did not belong to him, he had of course torn his clothes frightfully and left big pieces sticking on the broken wires of the roof. a more "raggety" boy never was seen. "wouldn't he make a good scarecrow?" said the landlord, shaking his sides. "jimmum, chimney, and all!" it was necessary to tear his clothes still more in order to get them free from the tangle of wires. as the poor young culprit crept unwillingly back to the hotel all the cats, dogs, donkeys, and chickens in castle cliff seemed to combine in a chorus of mewing, barking, braying, and cackling to inform the whole world that here was a boy who had stolen a chimney! what wretched little beggar was this coming to the house? no one thought of its being jimmy dunlee. "we caught this young rogue stealing a chimney," said mr. templeton. it seemed funny at first, and the dunlees and sanfords and hales all laughed heartily, till it occurred to them that the dear child had been in actual danger; and then they drew long breaths and shuddered, thinking how he might have pitched headlong to the ground and been crushed by the weight of the chimney. "but my little son," asked mrs. dunlee presently, when the child was once more respectably clad, and was walking down to dinner between herself and aunt vi, "but my little son, what could have possessed you to climb a roof? was that a nice thing to do?" "no, mamma, of course not. but 'twas all nate pollard's fault. nate stumped me to it and i took the stump." "what _do_ you mean?" "why, he said, 'you won't dare follow me,' and i said, 'yes, i would.' and i never mistrusted where he was going. who'd have thought of his climbing top of a house?" "why, jamie dunlee, you did not follow nate without knowing where he was going?" "yes, mamma; if i _had_ known i wouldn't have followed. but you see he had stumped me and i'd taken the stump, so i was _obliged_ to go!" "obliged to go!" repeated aunt vi, laughing, "isn't that characteristic of jimmy?" the little fellow felt guiltier than ever. when aunt vi used that word of five syllables it always meant that people had done very wrong, so he thought. "jamie," said his mother very seriously, "i am surprised that you should have promised to follow nate without knowing where he was going! and you never even asked him where he was going! is that the way you play, you boys?" "no, mamma, it isn't. nate makes you play his way because he's the oldest. he's just as mean! but i couldn't back out after i was stumped." "oh, fie! backing out is exactly the thing to do when a boy is trying to lead you into mischief! but we'll talk more of this by and by." as they entered the dining-room, jimmy squared his shoulders and would not look toward nate's table; and nate, who had been severely reproved by his parents, never once raised his eyes from his plate. no one felt very happy. jimmy's new suit was ruined; and mr. dunlee had already learned that it would cost ten dollars to restore the tile chimney. nor was this all. while jimmy was trying to console himself with ice-cream he suddenly thought of his father's watch! it must have dropped out of his pocket when he slid down the roof; but where, oh, where was it now? was it still on the ground, or had some one picked it up? joe rolfe had been there, so had chicken little and a dozen others. he must go and look for that watch, he must go this minute. "mamma," he murmured, pushing aside his saucer of ice-cream, "may i--may i be excused?" there was no answer; his mother had not heard him. "mamma," in a louder tone, "oh, mamma!" "what is it, my son?" seeing by his unhappy face that something was wrong, she nodded permission for him to leave the table; and at the same time arose and followed him into the hall. "dear child, what is the matter?" "papa's watch," he moaned. "i'm afraid somebody will steal it." as mrs. dunlee knew nothing whatever about the watch this sounded very strange. she wondered if jimmy had really been hurt by his fall and was out of his head. "why, my precious little boy," said she, taking his hot hand in hers. "papa's watch is safe in his vest pocket. nobody is going to steal it." jimmy looked immensely relieved. "oh, has he got it back again? i'm so glad! where did he find it?" "darling," said mrs. dunlee, now really alarmed. "come upstairs with mamma. does your head ache? i think it will be best for you to go right to bed." but jimmy persisted in talking about the watch. "where did papa find it? he let lucy have it; don't you know?" "no, i did not know." "and i took it away from lucy. i was afraid she'd lose it. and then,--oh, dear, oh, dear,--then i went and lost it myself!" mrs. dunlee understood it all now. jimmy's head was clear enough; he knew perfectly well what he was talking about. the watch was gone, a very valuable one. search must be made for it at once. without waiting to speak to her husband, mrs. dunlee put on her hat and went with jimmy up the hill. he limped a little from the bruise of his fall and she steadied him with her arm as they walked. ix "chicken little" and joe the man and woman who lived in the green cottage had gone to a neighbor's to stay till their chimney should be fastened on again. there was no one in sight. "here's the place where i went up," said jimmy, laying his hand on one of the ridge-poles. "and here's the place where i came down," pointing to another ridge-pole. mrs. dunlee was stooping and looking around carefully. there was not a tuft of grass or a clump of weeds behind which even a small article could be hidden, much less a large bright object like a gold watch. she took a wooden pencil from her pocket and scraped the earth with it; but only disturbed a few ants and beetles. if the watch had ever been dropped here, it certainly was not here now. she and jimmy turned and walked home in the twilight,--or as mrs. mcquilken called it, "the dimmets," and poor jimmy drew a cloud of gloom about him like a cloak. they looked on the ground at every step of the way. "there's a piece of chaparral over there. did you go through that?" asked mrs. dunlee. "no, i never, i'm sure i never. i walked in the road right straight along. oh, mamma, if i've lost that watch 'twill break my heart. but i'll pay papa for it, you see if i don't! i'll save every penny i get and put it together and pay papa!" mrs. dunlee did not reply for a moment; she took time to reflect. jimmy was a dear boy, but very heedless. he had done wrong in the first place to take the watch from lucy without his father's permission. he must be taught to respect other people's property and other people's rights. he must learn to think, and learn to be careful. here was a chance for a lesson. "jamie," said she at last, "i am glad you wish to atone for the wrong you have done; it shows a proper spirit. i agree with you that if the watch isn't found you ought to give papa what you can toward paying for it. that is no more than fair." "i want to, mamma, i just want to!" burst forth jimmy. "i wish i was little like eddo, before 'twas wrong for me to be naughty." his mother took him in her arms and kissed him, for he was so tired and miserable that he could not keep the tears back another moment. friday night passed and most of saturday; and though diligent search was made, the watch was not found. "poor papa!" said kyzie. "he doesn't say much; but how sober he looks! grandma dunlee gave him that watch, jimmy, when he was a young man; and he did love it so!" "i know it. oh, dear, how can he stand it?" responded jimmy, who had been deeply touched from the first by his father's forbearance. "mr, pollard punished nate dreadfully, you know; but here's papa dunlee, why, he hasn't even scolded!" papa dunlee was a wise man. he saw that his little son was suffering enough already; he was learning a hard lesson, and perhaps would learn it all the better for being left alone with his own conscience. on sunday afternoon the boy was very disconsolate, and mr. dunlee patted him on the head, saying:-- "maybe we'll find the watch yet, my son. and anyway, i know jimmum didn't mean to lose it." then he sat down to read, and jimmy gazed at him reverently. the sunshine about his head seemed almost like a halo, and the boy thought of the angels, and wondered if they could possibly be any better than papa! "papa is the best man! never was cross in his life. i should be cross as fury! i should shake _my_ boy all to pieces if he should carry off my gold watch and drop it in the sand!" monday morning came and the missing article did not appear. everybody looked troubled. edith walked about, carrying her lame kitten in a basket, and saying:-- "zee is getting better all the while, but how can i be happy when papa's watch is lost!" "who knows but i shall be the one to find it?" returned katharine with a mysterious smile, as she was leaving the house. "you forgot to tell us, and we forgot to ask you, how do you like your school?" said aunt vi. "oh, ever so much, auntie. i'm making it just as old-fashioned as i can. i'm going to write grandma parlin this week and ask her if what i do is old-fashioned enough. good-by." jimmy was waiting for her down the path. "what makes you think you'll find the watch, kyzie?" "oh, i don't know, myself, what i meant. i just said it for fun." "well, do you think joe rolfe has got it, or chicken little? that's what i want to know." "hush, jimmy! papa wouldn't allow you to speak names in that way. somebody stole it, i suppose, but we don't know who it was." still kyzie's face wore a stern look that morning. it was a thing not to be spoken of, but she had resolved to "keep an eye" on two or three of the boys, and see if there was anything peculiar in their appearance. should one of them blush or turn pale when spoken to, it would be a sure sign of guilt, and she should go home and announce with triumph to her father:-- "papa, i've found out the thief!" the scholars all appeared pretty much as usual; raising their hands very often to ask, "may i speak?" or, "may i have a drink of water?" the little teacher had always wished they would not do so, but how could she help it? it was "an old-fashioned school," perhaps that was why it was so noisy. whatever went wrong, kyzie always said to herself, "oh, it's just an old-fashioned school." nate pollard and jimmy sat to-day as far apart as possible, almost turning their backs upon each other. at the bottom of his heart nate was truly ashamed of himself, though he would not have owned it. there were five new scholars, and katharine wrote down their names with much pride. best of all, some of the children really seemed to be trying to get their lessons. she had never known joe rolfe to study like this. "is it because he is guilty?" thought the little teacher watching him from under her eyebrows. she walked along toward him so softly that he did not hear her footsteps. "joseph!" she exclaimed, suddenly. her voice startled him; he looked up in surprise. "i'm glad to see you studying, joseph." did he blush? his face was of a brownish red hue at any time, being much tanned; she could not be quite sure of the blush. but why did he look so sober? children generally smile when they are praised. she had been to bab and lucy and said, "how still you are, darlings!" and they had seemed delighted. next she tried chicken little. he certainly jumped when she spoke his name close to his ear, "henry." now why should he jump and seem so confused unless he knew he had done something wrong? she forgot that he was a very timid boy. "henry, what is the matter with you?" she asked, frowning severely. she had never frowned on him before, for she liked the little fellow, and was trying her best to "make a man of him." "what is the matter, henry?" by this time he was scared nearly out of his wits, and stole a side glance at her to see if she had a switch in her hand. "don't whip me," he pleaded in a trembling voice. "don't whip me, teacher; and i'll give you f-i-v-e thousand dollars!" as he offered this modest sum to save himself from her wrath, the little teacher nearly laughed aloud, henry did not know it, however; her face was hidden behind a book. "what made you think, you silly boy, that i was going to punish you?" she asked as soon as she could find her voice. "have you done something wicked?" she spoke in a low tone for his ear alone, but he writhed under it as if it had been a blow. "i--don'--know." "he is the thief," thought kyzie. "oh, henry, if you've done something wrong you must know it. tell me what it was." "i--can't!" she put her lips nearer his ear. "was it you and joseph rolfe together? perhaps you _both_ did something wicked?" "i--don'--know." "was it last friday?" "i--don'--know!" "will you tell me after school?" henry was unable to answer. worn out with contending emotions he put his head down on the seat and cried. this did not seem like innocence. joseph rolfe was looking on from across the aisle, as if he wished very much to know what she and henry were talking about. "i'll make them tell me the whole story, the wicked boys," thought kyzie, indignantly. "but i can't hurry about it; i must be very careful. i think i'll wait till to-morrow." so she calmed herself and called out her classes. katharine was a "golden girl," and had a strong sense of justice. she would say nothing yet to her father, for the boys might possibly be innocent; still she went home that afternoon feeling that she had almost made a discovery. "good evening, grandmother graymouse," said uncle james, as they were all seated on the veranda after dinner, "do i understand that you are hunting for a watch?" "i'm hunting for it, oh, yes," replied kyzie, trying not to look too triumphant; "but i haven't found it yet. just wait till to-morrow, uncle james." "i don't believe we'll wait another minute!" declared mr. sanford, looking around with a roguish smile. "i see the dunlee people are all here, jimmum, lucy, and all. attention, my friends! the thief has been found!" "what thief?" asked mrs. hale and mrs. dunlee. "why, _the_ thief! the one we're looking for! the one that stole the watch!" "do you really mean it?" asked the ladies again. "did he bring it back?" "come and see," said uncle james, leading the way upstairs. "of course it's joe rolfe," thought kyzie. "i suppose he was frightened by what i said to henry small." "is the thief in your room, uncle james?" said jimmy. "why didn't you put him in jail?" "ah, jimmum, do you think all thieves ought to go to jail? i once knew a little boy who stole a chimney right off a house; yet i never heard a word said about putting _him_ in jail! "but here we are at the chamber door. stand behind me, all of you, in single file." x the thief found "i don't know so much as i thought i did," said kyzie to herself. "joe rolfe wouldn't be in this room." for uncle james was knocking at the door of number five. "walk right in," said mrs. mcquilken, coming to meet her guests. she had her knitting in one hand. "come in, all of you. why, mr. templeton, are you here too? you wouldn't have taken me into your house if you'd known i was a thief; now would you, mr. templeton?" and laughing, she put her right hand in her apron pocket and drew out a gold watch and chain. "if this belongs to anybody present, let him step up and claim his property." mr. dunlee came forward in amazement, while jimmy gave a little squeal of delight. "this is mine, thank you, madam," said mr. dunlee, looking at the watch closely. it seemed very much battered. "dreadfully smashed up, isn't it, sir? i can't tell you how sorry i am." mr. dunlee shook it, and held it to his ear. "oh, it won't go," said mrs. mcquilken. "the inside seems worse off, if anything, than the outside. 'twill have to have new works." "very likely. but it is so precious to me, madam, that even in this condition i'm glad to get it back again. pray, where has it been?" "right here in this room. didn't you understand me to confess to stealing it? why, you're shaking your head as if you doubted my word." they were all laughing now, and the old lady's eyes twinkled with fun. "well, if i didn't steal it myself, one of my family did, so it amounts to the same thing. come out here, you unprincipled girl, and beg the gentleman's pardon," she added, kneeling and dragging forth from under the bed a beautiful bird. it was her own magpie, chattering and scolding. "now tell the gentleman who stole his watch? speak up loud and clear!" the bird flapped her wings, and cawed out very crossly:-- "mag! mag! mag!" "hear her! hear that!" cried her mistress. "so you did steal it, mag--i'm glad to hear you tell the truth for once in your life." "did she take the watch? did she really and truly?" cried the children in chorus. "to be sure she did, the bad girl. she has done such things before, and i have always found her out; but this time she was too sly for me. she went and put it in my mending-basket; and who would have thought of looking for it there?" mag tipped her head to one side saucily, and kept muttering to herself. "well, i happened to go to the basket this afternoon and take up a pair of stockings to mend. they felt amazingly heavy. there was a hard wad in them, and i wondered what it could be. i put in my hand and pulled out the watch. yes, 'twas tucked right into the stockings." "i wonder we didn't any of us mistrust her at the time of it," said mr. templeton; "those magpies are dreadful thieves." "well, i suppose you thought 'twas my business to take care of her, and it was. i'm ashamed of myself," said mrs. mcquilken. "i was looking out of the window when the boys shied over that roof, but my mind wasn't on jewelry then. all i thought of was to run and call for help." yes, and it was her screams which had aroused the whole neighborhood. "and at that very time my mag was roaming at large. no doubt she saw the watch the moment it fell; and to use your expression, mr. templeton, she jumped at it like a dolphin at a silver spoon." the landlord laughed. "but the mystery is," said he, "how she got back to the house without being seen. she must have been pretty spry." "o mag, mag, to think i never once thought to look after you!" exclaimed mrs. mcquilken, penitently. the bird was scolding all the while, and running about with short, jerky movements, trying her best to get out of the room; but the door was closed. "pretty thing," said edith. "what a shame she should be a thief!" "she is pretty, now isn't she?" returned her mistress, fondly. "my husband brought her from china. you don't often see a chinese magpie, with blue plumage,--cobalt blue." "she's a perfect oddity," said mrs. hale. "see those two centre tail-feathers, so very long, barred with black and tipped with white." "yes," said mr. dunlee, "and the red bill and red legs. she's a brilliant creature, mrs. mcquilken." "well, you'll try to forgive her, won't you, sir? i mean to bring her up as well as i know how; but what are you going to do with a girl that can't sense the ten commandments?" "what indeed!" laughed mr. dunlee. "you see she's naturally light-fingered. yes, you are, mag, you needn't deny it. those red claws of yours are just pickers and stealers." here edith called attention to mag's nest on the wall, and they all admired it; and mrs. mcquilken said the canary liked to have mag near him at night, he was apt to be lonesome. "i wish you'd come in the daytime," said she. "come any and all of you, and hear him sing. he does sing so sweetly, poor blind thing; it's as good as a sermon to hear him." on leaving mrs. mcquilken the children went to aunt vi's room and jimmy kept repeating joyously:-- "we've found the watch, we've found the watch!" "yes," said aunt vi; "but what a wreck it is! your papa will have to spend a deal of money in repairing it." "too bad!" said lucy, "i 'spect 'twould cost him cheaper to buy a new one." "'twouldn't cost him so much; that's what you mean," corrected jimmy. "but i'm going to pay for mending it anyway." "how can you?" asked kyzie. "all you have is just your tin box with silver in it." "well, but don't i keep having presents? and can't i ask folks to stop giving me toys and books and give me money? and they'll do it every time." "but that would be begging." jimmy's face fell. yes, on the whole it did seem like begging. he had not thought of that. "why can't it ever snow in this country?" he exclaimed suddenly. "then i could shovel it. that's the way boys make money 'back east'" then after a pause he burst forth again, "or, i might pick berries--if there were any berries!" "it's not so very easy for little boys to earn money; is it, dear?" said aunt vi, putting her arm around her young nephew and drawing him toward her. "but when they've done wrong--you still think you did wrong, don't you, jimmy?" "he knows he did," broke in lucy. "my papa lent me the watch." "she wasn't talking to you," remonstrated jimmy. "yes, auntie, i did wrong; but lucy needn't twit me of it! i won't be _characteristic_ any more as long as i live." aunt vi smiled and patted his head lovingly. "no, dear, i think you'll be more thoughtful in future. but now let us try to think what can be done to pay for the watch." "i'll let him have some of the money i get for teaching. i always meant to," said kyzie. "very kind of you," returned aunt vi; "but we'll not take it if we can help it, will we, jimmy? i've been thinking it over for some days, children; and a little plan has occurred to me. would you like to know what it is?" they all looked interested. if aunt vi had a plan, it was sure to be worth hearing. "it is this: mightn't we get up some entertainments,--good ones that would be worth paying for?" "and sell the tickets? oh, auntie, that's just the thing! that's capital!" cried edith and kyzie. "you'd do it beautifully." "i'm not so sure of that, girls. but we might join together and act a little play that i've been writing; that is, we might try. what have you to say, jimmy? could you help?" "i don't know. i can't speak pieces worth a cent," replied the boy, writhing and shuffling his feet. "look here!" he said, brightening. "don't you want some nails driven? i can do that first rate." aunt vi laughed and said nails might be needed in putting up a staging, and she was sure that he could use a hammer better than she could. jimmy-boy, much gratified, struck an attitude, and pounding his left palm with his thumb, repeated the rhyme:-- "drive the nail straight, boys, hit it on the head; work with your might, boys, ere the day has fled." "there, he can speak, i knew he could speak!" cried lucy, in admiration. it was settled that they were all to meet wednesday morning, and their mother with them, to talk over the matter. "that's great," said jimmy. the watch was found and the world looked bright once more. true, he was deeply in debt; but with such a grand helper as aunt vi he was sure the debt would very soon be paid. xi begging pardon next morning jimmy walked to school with "the little two," whistling as he went. lucy had tortured her hair into a "cue," and "the happy wind upon her played, blowing the ringlet from the braid." "i've got the snarling-est, flying-est hair," scolded she. "i never'll braid it again as long as i live; so there!" "good!" cried jimmy. "it has looked like fury ever since we came up here." here nate overtook the children. he had not been very social since the accident, but seemed now to want to talk. "how do you do, jimmy?" he said: and jimmy responded, "how d'ye do yourself?" the little girls ran on in advance, and jimmy would have joined them, but nate said:--- "hold on! what's your hurry?" jimmy turned then and saw that nate was scowling and twisting his watch-chain. "i've got something to say to you--i mean papa wants me to say something." "oh ho!" "i don't see any need of it, but papa says i must." jimmy waited, curious to hear what was coming. "papa says i jollied you the other day." "what's that?" "why, fooled you." "so you did, nate pollard, and 'twas awful mean." [illustration] "it wasn't either. what made you climb that ridge-pole? you needn't have done it just because i did. but papa says i've got to--to--ask your pardon." "h'm! i should think you'd better! tore my clothes to pieces. smashed a gold watch." "you hadn't any business taking that watch." there was a pause. "look here, jimmy dunlee, why don't you speak?" "haven't anything to say." "can't you say, 'i forgive you'?" "of course i can't. you never asked me." "well, i ask you now. james s. dunlee, will--you--forgive me?" "h'm! i suppose i'll have to," replied jimmy, firing a pebble at nothing in particular. "i forgive you all right because we've found the watch. if we hadn't found it, i wouldn't! but don't you 'jolly' me again, nate pollard, or you'll catch it!" this did not sound very forgiving; but neither had nate's remark sounded very penitent. nate smiled good-naturedly and seemed satisfied. the fact was, he and jimmy were both of them trying, after the manner of boys, to hide their real feelings. nate knew that his conduct had been very shabby and contemptible, and he was ashamed of it, but did not like to say so. jimmy, for his part, was glad to make up, but did not wish to seem too glad. then they each tried to think of something else to say. they were fully agreed that they had talked long enough about their foolish quarrel and would never allude to it again. "glad that watch has come," said nate. "so am i. it has come, but it won't _go_," said jimmy. and they laughed as if this were a great joke. next jimmy inquired about "the colonel," and nate asked: "what colonel? oh, you mean the mining engineer. he'll be here next week with his men." by this time the boys were feeling so friendly that jimmy asked nate to go with him before school next morning to see the knitting-woman's pets and hear the blind canary sing. "do you suppose the magpie will be there?" returned nate. "i want to catch her some time and wring her old neck." "wish you would," said jimmy. "hello, there's chicken little crying again. he's more of a baby than our eddo." henry was crying now because dave blake had called him a coward. so very, very unjust! he stood near the schoolhouse door, wiping his eyes on his checked apron and saying:-- "i'll go tell the teacher, dave blake!" "well, go along and tell her then. fie, for shame!" henry, a feeble, petted child, was always falling into trouble and always threatening to tell the teacher. kyzie considered him very tiresome; but to-day when he came to her with his tale of woe, she listened patiently, because she had done him a wrong and wished to atone for it. she had "really and truly" suspected this simple child of a crime! he would not take so much as a pin without leave; neither would joseph rolfe. yet in her heart she had been accusing these innocent children of stealing her father's watch! "miserable me!" thought kyzie. "i must be very good to both of them now, to make up for my dreadful injustice!" she went to joe and sweetly offered to lend him her knife to whittle his lead pencil. he looked surprised. he did not know she had ever wronged him in her heart. she wiped henry's eyes on her own pocket handkerchief. "poor little cry-baby!" thought she. "i told my mother i would try to make a man of him, and now i mean to begin." she walked part of the way home with him that afternoon. he considered it a great honor. she looked like a little girl, but her wish to help the child made her feel quite grown-up and very wise. "henry," said she, "how nice you look when you are not crying. why, now you're smiling, and you look like a darling!" he laughed. "there! laugh again. i want to tell you something, henry. you'd be a great deal happier if you didn't cry so much; do you know it?" "well, miss dunlee,"--kyzie liked extremely to be called miss dunlee,--"well, miss dunlee, you see, the boys keep a-plaguing me. and when they plague me i have to cry." "oh, fie, don't you do it! if i were a little black-eyed boy about your age i'd laugh, and i'd say to those boys: 'you needn't try to plague me; you just can't do it. the more you try, the more i'll laugh.'" henry's eyes opened wide in surprise, and he laughed before he knew it. "there! that's the way, henry. if you do that they'll stop right off. there's no fun in plaguing a little boy that laughs." henry laughed again and threw back his shoulders. why, this was something new. this wasn't the way his mamma talked to him. she always said, "mamma's boy is sick and mustn't be plagued." "another thing," went on the little girl, pleased to see that her words had had some effect; "whatever else you may do, henry, _don't_ 'run and tell,' do you suppose george washington ever crept along to his teacher, rubbing his eyes this way on his jacket sleeve, and said 'miss dunlee--ah, the boys have been a-making fun of me--ah! they called me names, they did!'" henry dropped his chin into his neck. "never mind! you're a good little boy, after all. _you_ wouldn't steal anything, would you, henry?" this sudden question was naturally rather startling. he had no answer ready. "oh, i know you wouldn't! but sometimes little _birds_ steal. did you hear that a magpie stole a watch the other day?" "yes, i heard." "well, here's some candy for you, henry." the boy held out his hand eagerly, though looking rather bewildered. was the candy given because george washington didn't "run and tell"? or because magpies steal watches? "now, good night, henry, and don't forget what: i've been saying to you." henry walked on, feeling somewhat ashamed, but enjoying the candy nevertheless. if his pretty teacher didn't want him to tell tales, he wouldn't do it any more. he would act just like george washington; and then how would the big boys feel? he did not forget his resolve. next morning when dave blake ran out his tongue at him and joe rolfe said, "got any chickens to sell?" he laughed with all his might, just to see how it would seem. both the boys stared; they didn't understand it. "hello, chicken little, what's the matter with you?" henry could see the eyes of his young teacher twinkling from between the slats of the window-blinds, and he spoke up with a courage quite unheard-of:-- "nothing's the matter with _me!_" "hear that chicken," cried joe rolfe. "he's beginning to crow!" henry felt the tears starting; but as miss katharine at that moment opened the blind far enough to shake her finger at him privately he thought better of it, and faltered out:-- "see here, boys, i like to be called chicken little first rate! say it again. say it fi-ive thousand times if you want to!" "oh, you're too willing," said joe. "we'll try it some other time when you get over being so willing!" the bell rang; it sounded to henry like a peal of joy. he walked in in triumph, and as he passed by the little teacher she patted him on the head. she did not need to wipe his eyes with her handkerchief, there were no tears to be seen. he was not a brave boy yet by any means, but he had made a beginning; yes, that very morning he had made a beginning. "don't you tease henry small any more, i don't like it at all," said katharine to joseph rolfe. and then she slipped a paper of choice candy into joe's hand, charging him "not to eat it in school, now remember." it was a queer thing to do; but then this was a queer school; and besides kyzie had her own reasons for thinking she ought to be very kind to joe. "how silly i was to suspect those little boys! i'm afraid i never shall have much judgment. still, on the whole, i believe i'm doing pretty well," thought she, looking proudly at henry small's bright face, and remembering too how mr. pollard had told her that very morning that his son nate was learning more arithmetic at her little school than he had ever learned in the city schools. "oh, i'm so glad," mused the little teacher. mrs. dunlee thought kyzie did not get time enough for play. and just now the little girl was unusually busy. they were talking at home of the new entertainment to be given for jimmy-boy's benefit, and she was to act a part in it as well as edith. it was "jimmy's play," but jimmy was not to appear in it at all. kyzie and edith together were to print the tickets with a pen. the white pasteboard had been cut into strips for this purpose; but as it was not decided yet whether the play would be enacted on the tailings or in the schoolhouse, the young printers had got no farther than to print these words very neatly at the bottom of the tickets: "admit the bearer." xii "the little schoolma'am's earthquake" there were only ten days in which to prepare for the play called "granny's quilting." the children met wednesday morning in aunt vi's room, all but bab, who was off riding. so unfortunate, lucy thought; for how could any plans be made without bab? the play was very old-fashioned, requiring four people, all clad in the style of one hundred and fifty years ago. uncle james would wear a gray wig and "small clothes" and personate "grandsir whalen"; kyzie dunlee, grandsir's old wife, in white cap, "short gown," and petticoat, was to be "granny whalen" of course. a grandson and granddaughter were needed for this aged couple. edith would make a lovely granddaughter and pretend to spin flax. who would play the grandson and shell the corn? jimmy thought nate pollard was just the one, he was "so good at speaking pieces." they decided to ask nate at once, and have that matter settled. aunt vi showed a collection of articles which "the knitting-woman" had kindly offered for their use; a three-legged light stand, two fiddle-backed chairs, and a very old hour-glass. "i should call it a pair of glasses," said edith, as they watched the sand drip slowly from one glass into the other. aunt vi said it took exactly an hour for it to drain out, and our forefathers used to tell the time of day by hour-glasses before clocks were invented. "what _are_ forefathers?" lucy asked edith. "oh, adam and eve and all those old people," was the careless reply. "and didn't they have any clocks?" "of course not. what do you suppose?" there was a knock at the door. nate had come to find jimmy and go with him to see the blind canary. "we were just talking about you," said aunt vi. "are you willing to be katharine's grandson in the play?" nate replied laughing that he would do whatever was wanted of him, and he could send home and get some knee-buckles and a cocked hat. aunt vi said "capital!" and gave jimmy a look which said, "everything seems to be going on famously for our new play." jimmy led the way to mrs. mcquilken's room, his face wreathed with smiles. "ah, good morning; how do you all do?" said the lady, meeting the children with courteous smiles. "i see you've brought your kitten, edith." "yes, ma'am; will you please look at her wounds again?" "they are pretty well healed, dear. i've never felt much concerned about zee's wounds. she makes believe half of her sufferings for the sake of being petted." "does she, though? i'm so glad." "yes; that 'prize tail' will soon be waving as proudly as ever. but i suppose you all came to see the canary. mag, you naughty girl," she added, turning to the magpie, "hide under the bed. they didn't come to see you. here, job, you are the one that's wanted." little job, the canary, was standing on the rug. he came forward now to greet his visitors, putting out a foot to feel his way, like a blind man with a cane. then he began to sing joyously. "don't you call that good music?" asked his mistress, knitting as she spoke. "he came from germany; there's where you get the best singers. some canaries won't sing before company and some won't sing alone; they are fussy,--i call it _pernickitty_. why, i had one with a voice like a flute; but i happened to buy some new wall-paper, and she didn't like the looks of it, and after that she never would sing a note." "are you in earnest?" asked kyzie. "yes, it's a fact. but job never was pernickitty, bless his little heart!" she brought a tiny bell and let him take it in his claws. "now, i'll go out of the room, and you all keep still and see if he'll ring to call me back." she went, closing the door after her. no one spoke. job moved his head from side to side, and, apparently making up his little mind that he was all alone, he shook the bell peal after peal. presently his mistress appeared. "did you think mamma had gone and left you, job darling? mamma can't stay away from her baby." the cooing tone pleased the little creature, and he sang again even more sweetly than before. "let me show you another of his tricks. you see this little gun? well, when he fires it off that will be the end of poor job!" the gun was about two inches long and as large around as a lead pencil. inside was a tiny spring; and when job's claw touched the spring the gun went off with a loud report. job fell over at once as if shot and lay perfectly still and stiff on the rug. lucy screamed out:--- "oh, i'm so sorry he is dead!" but next moment he roused himself and sat up and shook his feathers as if he relished the joke. the children had a delightful half hour with the captain's widow and her pets; only lucy could not be satisfied because bab was away. "too bad you went off riding yesterday," said she as they sat next morning playing with their dolls. "you never saw that blind canary that shoots himself, and comes to life and rings a bell." "but can't i see him sometime, auntie lucy?" "you can, oh, yes, and i'll go with you. but, bab, you ought to have heard our talk about the play! kyzie is going to be as much as a hundred years old, and i guess uncle james will be a hundred and fifty. and they've got a pair of old glasses with sand inside--the same kind that adam and eve used to have." "why-ee! did adam and eve wear glasses? 'tisn't in their pictures; _i_ never saw 'em with glasses on!" "no, no, i don't mean glasses _wear_! i said glasses with sand inside; _that's_ what uncle james has got. runs out every hour. sits on the table." "oh, i know what you mean, auntie! you mean an _hour-glass!_ grandpa hale has one and i've seen lots of 'em in france." lucy felt humbled. though pretending to be bab's aunt, she often found that her little niece knew more than she knew herself! "seems queer about adam and eve," said she, hastening to change the subject; "who do you s'pose took care of 'em when they were little babies?" "why, auntie lucy, there wasn't ever any _babiness_ about adam and eve! don't you remember, they stayed just exactly as they were made!" "yes, so they did. i forgot." lucy had made another mistake. this was not like a "truly auntie"; still it did not matter so very much, for bab never laughed at her and they loved each other "dearilee." "you know a great many things, don't you, bab? and _i_ keep forgetting 'em." "oh, i know all about the world and the garden of eden; _that's_ easy enough," replied the wise niece. and then they went back to their dolls. half an hour later kyzie dunlee was standing in the schoolhouse door with a group of children about her when nate pollard appeared. as he looked at her he remembered "jimmy's play," and the parts they were both to take in it; and the thought of little kyzie as his poor old grandmother seemed so funny to nate that he began to laugh and called out, "good morning, grandmother!" he meant no harm; but kyzie thought him very disrespectful to accost her in that way before the children, and she tossed her head without answering him. nate was angry. how polite he had always been to her, never telling her what a queer school she kept! and now that he had consented to be her grandson in jimmy's play, just to please her and the rest of the family, it did seem as if she needn't put on airs in this way! "ahem!" said he; "did you hear about that dreadful earthquake in san diego?" there had been a very slight one, but he was trying to tease her. "no, oh, no!" she replied, throwing up both hands. "when was it?" "last night. i'm afraid of 'em myself, and if we get one here to-day you needn't be surprised to see me cut and run right out of the schoolhouse." the children looked at him in alarm. kyzie could not allow this. "oh, you wouldn't do that!" said she, with another toss of the head. "before i'd run away from an earthquake! besides, what good would it do?" by afternoon the news had spread about among the children that there was to be a terrible earthquake that day. they huddled together like frightened lambs. the little teacher, wishing to reassure them, planted herself against the wall, and made what edith would have called a "little preach." she pointed out of the window to the clear sky and said she "could not see the least sign of an earthquake." but even if one should come they need not be afraid, for their heavenly father would take care of them. "and you mustn't think for a moment of running away! no, children, be quiet! look at me, _i_ am quiet. i wouldn't run away if there were fifty earthquakes!" strange to say, she had hardly spoken these words when the house began to shake! they all knew too well what it meant, that frightful rocking and rumbling; the ground was opening under their feet! kyzie, though she may have feared it vaguely all along, was taken entirely by surprise, and did--what do you think? as quick as a flash, without waiting for a second thought, she turned and jumped out of the window! next moment, remembering the children, she screamed for them to follow her, and they poured out of the house, some by the window, some by the door, all shrieking like mad. it was a wild scene,--the frantic teacher, the terrified children,--and kyzie will never cease to blush every time she recalls it. for there was no earthquake after all! it was only the new "colonel" and his men blasting a rock in the mine! of course this escapade of the young teacher amused the people of castle cliff immensely. they called it "the little schoolma'am's earthquake"; and the little schoolma'am heard of it and almost wished it had been a real earthquake and had swallowed her up. "oh, papa dunlee! oh, mamma dunlee!" she cried, her cheeks crimson, her eyelids swollen from weeping. "i keep finding out that i'm not half so much of a girl as i thought i was! what does make me do such ridiculous things?" "you are only very young, you dear child," replied her parents. they pitied her sincerely and did their best to console her. but they were wise people, and perhaps they knew that their eldest daughter needed to be humbled just a little. it was hard, very hard, yet sometimes it is the hard things which do us most good. "o mamma, don't ask me to go down to dinner. i can't, i can't!" "no indeed, darling, your dinner shall be sent up to you. what would you like?" "no matter what, mamma--i don't care for eating. i can't ever hold up my head any more. and as for going into that school again, i never, never, never will do it." "i think you will, my daughter," said mr. dunlee, quietly. "i think you'll go back and live this down and 'twill soon be all forgotten." "o papa, do you really, really think 'twill ever be forgotten? do you think so, mamma? a silly, disgraceful, foolish, outrageous, abominable,--there, i can't find words bad enough!" as her parents were leaving the room she revived a little and added:-- "remember, mamma, just soup and chicken and celery. but a full saucer of ice-cream. i hope 'twill be vanilla." xiii nate's cave the little teacher went back to her school the very next day. it was a hard thing, but she knew her parents desired it. her proud head was lowered; she could not meet the eyes of the children, who seemed to be trying their best not to laugh. at last she spoke:-- "i got frightened yesterday. i was not very brave; now was i? hark! the people in the mine are blasting rocks again, but we won't run away, will we?" they laughed, and she tried to laugh, too. then she called the classes into the floor; and no more did she ever say to the scholars about the earthquake. she helped nate in his arithmetic, and he treated her like a queen. he was coming to aunt vi's room that evening to show his knee-buckles and cocked hat and find out just what he was to do on the stage. kyzie wanted to see the cocked hat and felt interested in her own white cap which mrs. mcquilken was making. it was a good thing for katharine that she had "jimmy's play" to think of just now. it helped her through that long forenoon. after this the forenoons did not drag; school went on as usual, and kyzie was glad she had had the courage to go back and "live down" her foolish behavior. when they met in aunt vi's room that evening it was decided not to have "jimmy's play" on the tailings, for that was a place free to all. people would not buy tickets for an entertainment out of doors. "my tent is the thing," said uncle james, and so they all thought it was a large white one, and the children agreed to decorate it with evergreens. it would hold all the people who were likely to come and many more. during the week uncle james set up the tent not far from the hotel and in one corner of it built a staging. he did not mind taking trouble for his beloved namesake, james sanford dunlee. the stage was made to look like a room in an old-fashioned house. it had a make-believe door and window and a make-believe fireplace with andirons and wood and shovel and tongs. there was a rag rug on the floor, and on the three-legged stand stood the hour-glass with candles in iron candlesticks. the fiddle-backed chairs were there and two _hard_ "easy-chairs" and an old wooden "settle." lucy and bab said it looked "like somebody's house," and they wanted to go and live in it. on the saturday afternoon appointed the play had been well learned by the four actors. everything being ready, this cosy little sitting-room was now shut off from view by a calico curtain which was stretched across the stage by long strings run through brass rings. the play would begin at half-past two. jimmy was dressed neatly in his very best clothes. he had a roll of paper and a pencil in one of his pockets and during the play he meant to add up the number of people present and find out how much money had been taken. "but jimmy-boy, it won't be very much," said edith. "this is an empty town, and so queer too. something may happen at the last minute that will spoil the whole thing." she was right. something did happen which no one could have foreseen. for an "empty" town castle cliff was famous for events. as jimmy left the hotel just after luncheon he overtook nate pollard and joe rolfe standing near a big sand bank, talking together earnestly. "come on, jimmum," said nate; "we've got a spade for you. we're going to dig a cave in the side of this bank." "what's the use of a cave?" "why, for one thing, we can run into it in time of an earthquake." "that's so," said jimmy. "or we could stay in and be cave-dwellers." but as he took up the spade he chanced to look down at his new clothes. he had spoiled one nice suit already and had promised his mother he would be more careful of this one. "wait till i put on my old clothes, will you?" nate laughed and snapped his fingers. "we're in a hurry. i've got to be in the tent in half an hour. go along, you little dude! we'll dig the cave without you." the laugh cut jimmy to the heart. and he had been learning to like nate so well. a dude? not he! besides, what harm would dry sand do? it's "clean dirt." then all in a minute he thought of that wild journey on the roof. it had made a deeper impression upon him than any other event of his life. "poh! am i going to dig dirt in my best clothes just because nate pollard laughs at me? i don't 'take stumps' any more; there's no sense in it, so there!" and off he started, afraid to linger lest he should fall into temptation. jimmy might be heedless, no doubt he often was; but when he really stopped to think, he always respected his mother's wishes and always kept his word to her. this was the trait in jimmy which marked him off as a highly bred little fellow. for let me tell you, boys, respect for your elders is the first point of high breeding all the world over. jimmy sauntered on slowly toward the door of the tent. there were a great many benches inside, but it was not time yet for the audience to arrive. uncle james and katharine and edith were on the stage, and aunt vi was adding a few touches to edith's dress. "o dear," said grandmamma graymouse, "i hope i shan't forget my part. tell me, uncle james, do i look old enough?" "you look too old to be alive," he answered; "fifty years older than i do, certainly! mrs. mehitable whalen, are you my wife or my very great grandmamma?" "but where's nate pollard?" aunt vi asked. "i told him to come early to rehearse." "he said he'd be here in half an hour," said jimmy. "he's off playing." "i hope i shall not have to punish my young grandson," said uncle james, solemnly, as he began to peel a sycamore switch. uncle james's name was now "ichabod whalen," and he and "mehitable whalen," his wife, were such droll objects in their old-fashioned clothes that they could not look at each other without laughing. their absent grandson, "ezekiel whalen" (or nate pollard), was a fine specimen of a boy of ancient times, and aunt vi had been much pleased with the way in which he acted his part. but where was he? aunt vi and the grandparents grew impatient. it was now half-past two; people were flocking into the tent; but the curtain could not rise, for nothing was yet to be seen of young master "ezekiel whalen" and his small clothes and his cocked hat. the house was pretty well filled; really there were far more people than had been expected, jimmy, with pencil and paper in hand, was figuring up the grown people and children, and multiplying these numbers by twenty-five and by fifteen. when he found that the sum amounted to nearly nine dollars he almost whistled for joy. but all this while the audience was waiting. people looked around in surprise; the dunlee family grew more and more anxious. aunt lucy pinched bab and bab pinched aunt lucy. suddenly there were loud voices at the entrance of the tent. the tent curtain was pushed aside violently, and mr. templeton and mr. rolfe rushed in exclaiming:-- "two boys lost! all hands to the rescue!" the people were on their feet in a moment and there was a grand rush for the outside. the panic, so it was said afterward, was about equal to "the little schoolma'am's earthquake." xiv jimmy's good luck "it's the pollard and rolfe boys," explained mr. templeton. "ho! i know where _they_ are!" cried jimmy, "they're all right. they're only digging a cave in the side of a sand-bank." "show us where! run as fast as you can!" exclaimed mr. rolfe and mr. pollard. mr. pollard had been hunting for the last half-hour. he knew nate was deeply interested in "jimmy's play" and would not have kept away from the tent unless something unusual had happened. jimmy ran, followed by several men who could not possibly keep up with him. but when they all reached the sand-bank, where were the "cave-dwellers"? they had burrowed in the sand till completely out of sight! "hello! where are you"? screamed jimmy. there was no answer. in enlarging the cave they had loosened the very dry earth, and thus caused the roof over their heads to fall in upon them, actually burying them as far as their arm-pits! they tried to scream, but their muffled voices could not be heard. the "cave" looked like a great pile of sand and nothing more. nobody would have dreamed that there was any one inside it if it had not been for jimmy's story. "courage, boys, we're after you, we'll soon have you out!" said the men cheerily; though how could they tell whether the boys heard or not? indeed, how did they know the boys were still alive? two men went for shovels. the other men, not waiting for them to come back thrust their arms into the bank and scooped out the sand with their hands. the sand was loose and they worked very fast. before the shovels arrived a moan was heard. at any rate one of the boys was alive. and before long they had unearthed both the young prisoners and dragged them out of the cave. not a minute too soon, joe gasped for breath and looked wildly about; but nate lay perfectly still; it could hardly be seen at first that he breathed. his father and mother, the doctor and plenty of other people were ready and eager to help; but it was some time before he showed signs of life. when at last he opened his eyes the joy of his parents was something touching to witness. jimmy, who had been standing about with the other children, watching and waiting, caught his mother by the sleeve and whispered:-- "i should have been in there too, mamma, if it hadn't been for you!" "what do you mean, my son? in that cave? i never knew the boys were trying to make a cave. i did not forbid your digging in the sand, did i?" "no, mamma; but i knew you wouldn't want me to do it in these clothes--after all my actions! and i had promised to be more careful." mrs. dunlee smiled, but there were tears in her eyes. "how glad i am that my little boy respected his mother's wishes," said she, stooping to kiss his earnest face. she dared not think what might have happened if he had disregarded her wishes! it was a time of rejoicing. mr. templeton ordered out the brass band and the hindoo tam tam. the horse thistleblow seemed to think he must be wanted too, and came and danced in circles before the groups of happy people. "i could believe i was in some foreign country," said mrs. mcquilken, smiling under her east indian puggaree, as she had not been seen to smile before, and dropping a kiss on the cheek of her favorite edith. after dinner the dunlees met in aunt vi's room, and aunt vi observed that mrs. dunlee kept jimmy close by her side, looking at him in the way mothers look at good little sons, her eyes shining with happy love and pride. they were talking over "jimmy's play," which had not been played. the money must all be given back to the people who had sat and looked so long at that calico curtain. "we'll try 'granny's quilting' again next saturday," said aunt vi. they did try it again. there were no caves to dig this time, and young master "ezekiel whalen" was on the stage promptly at half-past one, eager to show his grandparents that he was a boy to be relied upon after all. the play was a remarkable success. all the "summer boarders and campers" came to it, and everybody said:-- "oh, do give us some more entertainments, mrs. sanford! let us have one every saturday." aunt vi, being the kindest soul in the world, promised to do what she could. she gave the play of the "pied piper of hamelin," with children for rats; and eddo was dressed as a mouse, and squealed so perfectly that edith's cat could hardly be restrained from rushing headlong upon the stage. later there were tableaux. edith wore red, white, and blue and was the goddess of liberty. jimmy was a cowboy with cartridge-belt and pistols. lucy and barbara were night and morning, with stars on their heads. mr. sanford was uncle jonathan. mr. hale was an indian chief. jimmy's debts were more than paid, and a happier boy was not to be found in the state of california. after this there were plenty of free entertainments on the tailings. at one of these, when the audience was watching a flight of rockets, katharine heard two women not far away talking together. one of them asked:-- "where's that little dunlee girl, the one that keeps the play-school?" "over there in the corner," replied the other, "she hasn't any hat on. she's sitting beside the girl with a cat in her lap." "oh, is that the one? so young as that? well, she's a good girl, yes, she is. i guess she _is_ a good girl," said the first speaker heartily. "my little henry thinks there's nothing like her. he never learned much of anything till he went to that play-school. he never behaved so well as he does now, never gave me so little trouble at home. she's a _good_ girl." a world of comfort fell on kyzie. young as she was and full of faults, she had really done a wee bit of good. "and they didn't say a word about my jumping out of the window," thought she, with deep satisfaction. "wait till i grow up, just wait till i grow up, and as true as i live i'll be something and do something in this world!" she did not say this aloud, you may be sure; but there was a look on her face of high resolve. uncle james had often said to aunt vi:-- "our katharine is very much in earnest. i know you agree with me that "little prudy's" eldest daughter is a golden girl!" the "play-school" closed a few days later, and it was henry small who received the medal for good spelling. he wasn't so much of a cry-baby nowadays and the boys had stopped calling him "chicken little." the dunlee party went home the last week in august, declaring they had had delightful times at castle cliff. "only i never went down that mine in a bucket," said lucy. "how could i when the men were blowing up rocks just like an earthquake?" "and i wanted to wait till they found that vein," said jimmy. a few days before they left, uncle james went hunting and shot a deer. i wish there were space to tell of the barbecue to which all the neighbors were invited a little later. as it is, my young readers are not likely to hear any more of the adventures of the "bonnie dunlees," either at home or abroad. but during their stay in the mountains that summer lucy begged aunt vi to write some stories, with the little friends, bab and lucy, for the heroines. "some 'once-upon-a-time stories,' auntie vi. make believe we two girls go all about among the fairies, just as alice did in wonderland; only there are two of us together, and we shall have a better time!" "oh, fie! how could i take real live little girls into the kingdom of the elves and gnomes and pixies? i shouldn't know how!" but she was so obliging as to try. the week before they left for home she had completed a book of "once-upon-a-time stories," which she read aloud to all the children as they clustered around her in the "air-castle." she called it "lucy in fairyland," though she meant bab just as much as lucy. if the little public would like to see this book it may be offered them by and by; together with the comments which were made upon each story by the whole dunlee family,--jimmy, wee lucy, and all. [illustration: little prudy series specimen illustration from "sister susie"] [illustration: little prudy series specimen illustration from "dotty dimple"] [illustration: little prudy series specimen illustration from "cousin grace"] [illustration: little prudy's children series specimen illustration from "wee lucy's secret"] note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) we ten or the story of the roses by barbara yechton author of "ingleside," "a matter of honor," "gentle-heart stories," "two knights-errant," "little saint hilary," "christine's inspiration" with illustrations by minna brown [illustration: "'oh, papa! _papa_! surely you are not going to _burn_ the _fetich_!'"] new york dodd, mead and company copyright, , by dodd, mead and co. all rights reserved. university press: john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. to my dear ones. _"thou hast done well thy part, if thou hast done thy best; as sure as i am god, i answer for the rest."_ contents. chapter page i. roses and roses ii. in the study iii. concerning a performance iv. and a fetich v. a fracas and an arrival vi. disposing of a fetich vii. new friends viii. a resolution ix. max's ward x. in the schoolroom xi. an afternoon reception xii. in the shadow xiii. through the shadow xiv. a mission of three xv. some minors xvi. and a major xvii. nora's secret xviii. experiences at endicott beach xix. his brother's keeper xx. a solemn promise xxi. through the slough of despond xxii. auf wiedersehen we ten, or the story of the roses. i. roses and roses. told by jack. when papa said positively that only phil could go to college, we all felt so badly for felix that we held a council in the schoolroom that very afternoon. at least, six of us did; the other four had been ruled out by felix, who declared that "kids were not allowed in council." paul and mädel didn't mind so much,--they're the twins, they're only seven years old; nor did alan,--he's the baby; but kathie was awfully mad: you see, she's nearly ten, and she does love to hear all that's going on. when she gets crying, there's no stopping her, and i tell you she made things pretty lively round that schoolroom for a little while. how she did howl! we were so afraid she'd start alan, and that the noise would reach papa's study; good-bye then to our council. we got provoked with kathie; it was so silly of her to stand there crying like a big baby, and keeping us back that way. first phil called out, "you just stop, this minute, kathie!" and then, when she kept right on, he threw the old sofa pillow at her, and told her to go smother herself; nora said, "horrid child!" in her most disgusted tone, and nannie and betty coaxed and coaxed, trying to quiet her. [illustration: "the schoolroom vixen."] but nothing had any effect until felix limped over to his easel. felix is lame,--dear old fee!--but my! isn't he clever! greek and latin are just as easy as--as--anything to him, and he writes stories and poems,--though nobody knows this 'cept us children and miss marston, and we wouldn't tell for the world,--and he paints the most _beautiful_ pictures you ever saw. well, as i was telling you, he limped over to his easel, and took up his brush. "just keep that charming expression on your face a few minutes longer, kathie," he said, "until i get it on canvas; and i'll paint your picture as the 'schoolroom vixen,' and send it to the academy. that's right, open your mouth _just_ a little wider--what a wonderful cavern!--hullo! why'd you stop crying? i'm not half through." that quieted my lady! you see she was afraid he was in earnest; and after nannie had wiped her eyes for her, and given her the last piece of chocolate in her box, off she went to the other end of the room, and began playing house with the twins and alan under the schoolroom table, as nicely as you please. then the council began. nannie said it was called to discuss "ways and means." i suppose by that she meant to see if there was any way that felix could go to college too; but, as usual, in a very little while everybody began to take "sides," and then, the first thing we knew, we were all talking at the same time, and just as loud as ever we could. that's a way we have,--all talking and nobody listening. what a din there was, until felix scrambled up on a chair and pounded on the floor with his cane, and shouted out louder than anybody else: "who _am_ i talking to? i _will_ be heard!" that made everybody laugh, and brought us back to business; but in a few minutes we were just as bad again. we're the greatest family for taking sides that you ever heard of, and we do get so excited over things! anybody that didn't know would surely think we were quarrelling, when really we'd just be having a discussion. i can't see where we got it from, for dear mamma was always just as sweet and gentle, and goodness knows papa doesn't say ten words in a day, and those in the very quietest voice. i can't explain it, but it's a fact all the same that we are a noisy family,--even nora. miss marston--she's our governess--says it's very vulgar to be noisy, and that we ought to be ashamed to be so boisterous; but nurse declares--and i think she's right--that the reason is 'cause "the whole kit an' crew" (she means us) "come just like steps, one after the other, an' one ain't got any more right to rule than the other." you see phil is seventeen and alan is five, and between them we eight come in; so we are "just like steps," as she says. [illustration: "playing house with the twins and alan under the schoolroom table."] perhaps i'd better tell you a little about each of us, so you'll understand as i go on: well, to begin, phil is a big strong fellow, and just as full of fun and mischief as he can stick; he just _loves_ to play practical jokes, but he isn't so fond of study, i can tell you, and that vexes papa, 'cause he's got it all laid out that phil's to be a lawyer. being the eldest, he seems to think he can order us children round as he pleases, and of course we won't stand it, and that makes trouble sometimes. but phil's generous; he'd give us anything he's got, particularly to felix, he thinks so much of him,--though of course he wouldn't say so,--so we get along pretty well with him. next come felix and nannie; they're twins too. i've told you 'most everything about fee already. he's awfully cross sometimes, when he isn't well, and, as nora says, he really orders us about more than phil does; but somehow we don't mind it, 'cause, with all his queerness, he's the life of the house, and he's got some ways that just make us love him dearly: mamma used to call him her "lovable crank." nannie is devoted to felix; they're always together. they're trying to teach themselves the violin, and she reads the same books and studies the same lessons as he does, to keep up with him; she's clever, too, now i tell you,--- i'd never get my greek and latin perfect if she didn't help me,--though she doesn't make any fuss over it. nannie is an awfully nice girl,--i don't know what we'd do without her; since mamma died, she's all the time looking after us children, and making things go smoothly. she doesn't "boss" us a bit, and yet, somehow, she gets us to do lots of things. she is real pretty, too,--her eyes are so brown and shiny. it's queer, but we don't any of us mind telling nannie when we get into scrapes; she talks to us at the time, and makes us feel sorry and ashamed, but she never makes us feel small while she's doing it, and we never hear of it again. but you wouldn't catch us doing that to nora! she comes next, you know, and she's really _very_ pretty, though we never tell her so, 'cause she's so stuck up already. felix puts her into lots of his pictures, and i heard max derwent say once that she was beautiful. max is papa's friend; he is a grown-up man, though he isn't as old as papa. he used to come here a lot, and we children like him first-rate; but now he's in europe. well, to come back to nora: she likes to be called eleanor, but we don't do it; she is so fussy and so very proper that felix has nick-named her miss prim, and we _do_ call her that. miss marston thinks nora is the best behaved of us all; and sometimes, when nannie is in papa's study, she lets her go in the drawing-room and entertain people that call. you should see the airs that nora puts on when she comes upstairs after these occasions; it's too killing for anything! we boys make lots of fun of her, but she doesn't care a jot. and yet, isn't it queer! with all her primness and fine airs, of us all, nora cares most for phil, and he's so untidy and rough; she almost runs her legs off waiting on him, and half the time he doesn't even say thank you! the next after nora is betty, our "long-legged tomboy," as felix calls her, 'cause she is so tall and so full of mischief. just to look at her you'd think she was as mild as a lamb; but in reality she's wilder than all of us boys put together. i've seen her slide down the banisters of three flights of stairs, one flight after the other, balancing papa's breakfast tray on one palm; and for warwhoops and the ability to make the most hideous faces, she goes ahead of anything i've ever heard or seen. she is as bad as phil for playing jokes, and when she gets in one of her wild moods, the only way miss marston can manage her is to threaten to take her to papa's study; that brings her to terms every time. for that matter, we none of us like to go there, though i'm sure papa never scolds, as some people's fathers do,--i almost wish he would sometimes; he just looks at us; but, all the same, we don't like to go to the study. i hope you won't think from what i've said that betty is a disagreeable girl, for she isn't at all; i'm really very fond of her, and we're together a great deal, because i am the next in age to her. she's awfully quick-tempered, and flies into a rage for almost nothing; but she's very honest, and she'll own up to a fault like a soldier. once in a while we have a falling out, but not often, 'cause i won't quarrel. nannie says that i give in sometimes when i oughtn't to,--she means when it isn't right to; i guess that's my fault, but i do hate to squabble with any one,--it's such a bother. i don't know what to tell you about myself, except that i'm not very bright at my books, though i love to read stories. it does seem so strange that we shouldn't all be smart, when papa, as everybody knows, is such a wonderfully clever man. i'm jack, or, rather,--to give my full name,--john minot rose. i think that's rather a nice name, but you can't think what fun the whole family make of it; they call me "a jack rose," and "jacqueminot," and "rosebud," and a "sweet-scented flower," and all sorts of absurd names. of course it's very silly of them. betty gets furious over it; but i don't really care, so what's the use of being angry. kathie comes next to me; she is a nice little girl, only she does love to tattle things, and that makes trouble sometimes. she's very gentle, and just as pretty as a picture, with her long light curls and pretty, big blue eyes; but my! isn't she obstinate! she doesn't fly into rages, like betty, but she keeps persisting and persisting till she carries her point, and when she once starts in crying, you may make up your mind she isn't going to stop in a hurry. but she doesn't mean to be naughty, i'm sure; and she's the most polite child, and so willing to do things for people! then come the other twins, paul and mädel. paul is a standing joke with us, he's so solemn; and yet he says such bright, funny things, in his slow way, that we have to laugh: we call him the "judge." mädel is a little darling, just as jolly and round and sweet as she can be; nurse says she's going to be a second nannie. we all make a great deal of her,--much more than we do of alan; for though he's the baby, he's so independent that he doesn't like to be petted. so now you know all about the roses; it does seem as if i'd been a long time telling about them, but you see there are such a lot of us. well, to go back to the council. fee was awfully cut up over his disappointment, and cranky too; but nobody minded what he said, until, all at once, nora got in a tantrum, and declared he was "acting _very_ mean to phil," that he needn't always expect to have things his own way, and that papa was perfectly right to give phil the first chance. that set fee off, and in about two minutes we were all mixed up in the fuss,--taking "sides," you know; that is, all but phil,--he just sat hunched up on the arm of the old sofa, swinging one of his long legs, and scowling, and chewing away on a piece of straw he'd pulled out of the whisk-broom, and he didn't say a word until nora turned on him, and asked him, very indignantly, how he could sit there and let felix bully her in that way. then all at once he seemed to get very mad and just pitched into fee. i don't remember what he said, and i'm glad that i don't, 'cause i _know_ phil didn't mean a word of it; but felix felt awfully hurt. he got two bright red spots on his cheeks, and he set his lips tight together, and when phil stopped to catch his breath, after an unusually long speech, he got up and pushed his chair back. "it is so pleasant to hear one's family's honest opinion of one's self," he remarked, in that sarcastic way he has. "i shall try to remember all that you've said," bowing to phil and nora, "and i shall endeavour to profit by it. and as long as i'm such a contemptible and useless member of the community, i'll relieve you of my company." his voice shook so he could hardly say the last words, and he started for the door, stumbling over the furniture as he went. between you and me, i think his eyes were full of tears, and that they blurred his glasses so he couldn't see,--did i tell you that felix is near-sighted? well, he is. "oh, phil, how _could_ you say such mean things to your own brother!" cried out nannie; and with that she flew after felix. that cooled phil down, and if he didn't turn on nora! "it's all your fault," he said angrily; "you just nagged me on to it. you're never happy unless you're quarrelling." this was pretty true, but i don't think it was at all nice of phil to say so, and i felt very sorry for nonie when she burst out crying. betty and i were trying to quiet her, when in walked miss marston, to know what all that loud noise and banging of doors meant. we didn't tell her about the _fracas_, 'cause, though she's pretty good in a way, she isn't at all the person one would want to tell things to. she carried the little ones off for their early dinner, and nora and betty too,--"to help," she said. but i stayed in the schoolroom. i knew if i went down stairs they'd just keep me trotting about waiting on them all, and that's such a nuisance! so i curled up on the sofa and read for a while. the fire was so bright, and everything was so cozy, that i did wish some of the others would come in and enjoy it. i was really pleased when major and whiskers came walking in and settled down near me. they're our dog and cat, and they're good playfellows with us; but they will fight with each other now and then. at first i enjoyed my story immensely; it was about a boy who was having the wildest kind of adventures among the indians. i wouldn't go through such exciting times for anything; but i enjoy reading about 'em, when i'm all safe and comfortable at home. well, when it grew too dark to read, i laid my book down and began to think, and presently it seemed as if a whole pack of indians were dancing like wild round me, in full war-paint and feathers, and nipping little pieces out of my arms and legs. i stood it as long as i could, and then i began to hit out at 'em. all at once one of the creatures commenced flourishing his tomahawk at me, getting nearer and nearer all the time. "i _have_ tried, but i can't get in," he said, grinning horribly, and the voice sounded just like phil's; "he's locked his door, and he won't even answer me,--he's madder than hornets." [illustration: "'why, _jack_!' said nannie."] "i'm sure you can't blame him: what you said was very unkind, phil; i didn't think it of you!" the voice was certainly nannie's; and yet there was that horrid old indian still nipping me. "i know it, nan; you needn't rub it in," groaned phil,--the indian. "but really, i didn't mean one word of it, and he ought to have known that. why, fee's got more brains than the whole crowd of us put together, and if only one of us can go to college, he ought to be that one. i've screwed up my courage, and i'm going to speak to father about it." "oh, phil, don't, please don't; it'll be no use. you know there is no changing papa when his mind is made up. better let things stand as they are until max gets home; it won't be very long, you know. and besides, i'm sure felix wouldn't let you give up college for him. but you're a dear, generous boy, to propose it." "no, i'm not; i'm a great clumsy, cantankerous animal. now if i could only talk as felix can, i wouldn't mind interviewing the _pater_ to-morrow; but just as sure as i undertake to say anything to him, i get so nervous and confused that i act like a fool, and that provokes him. he seems to paralyse me. but, all the same, i'm going to talk to him about this matter to-morrow, nannie,"--the indian's voice sank so low that i could hardly hear it; "i have a feeling that mother would want fee to go to college." i sat up and rubbed my arms that had gone to sleep, and looked around; i was still on the old sofa, and just a few feet away from me sat phil, on the edge of the schoolroom table, and nannie in a chair beside him. confused and only half awake as i was, my one idea was to slip away quietly and not let 'em know i'd heard what they had been saying, for i was sure they wouldn't like that. nannie says i ought to have spoken right out; but i do hate to make people feel uncomfortable. so i swung myself softly to my feet, and--landed hard on whiskers's tail! of course, after that, there was no hiding that i was there. poor whiskers gave a howl of pain, and, flying at major, boxed the solemn old doggie's ears, much to his surprise and wrath, and they had a free fight on the spot. "why, _jack_!" said nannie; and i got hot all over, for i just felt by her tone that she thought i'd been listening. "our jacqueminot, i declare!" cried phil. "you are a nice young rosebud, i must say, to be snooping around this way! come here, sir!" he made a dive for me, but i drew back. "i _didn't_ listen!" i called out. and then i remembered that i really had, only i thought it was the indians talking; and, dipping under his arm, i rushed out of the room as hard as i could go, before he could catch me. ii. in the study. told by jack. i thought very often of what phil had said, i couldn't help it; but i don't suppose i would ever have really understood what he meant if i hadn't heard something more the next day. poor me! it just seemed for those two days as if i did nothing but get into people's way and keep hearing things that they didn't want me to. this time it was partly betty's fault,--at least, she was what phil calls the "primary cause." i suppose it was because it was such a lovely day out-of-doors, that i couldn't seem to put my mind on my books at all, and when betty pulled two feather-tops out of her pocket, and offered me one, i took it very willingly, and we began to play on the sly. of course we got caught: my feather-top must needs fly away from the leg of the table, which was our mark, and stick itself into kathie's leg. i don't think it hurt her so very much, but she was startled, and didn't she howl! miss marston was all out of patience with me already, and when, soon after that, i made a mess of my latin, she got very angry, and walked me right down to the study. papa listened in dead silence to all she told him; then he just lifted his eyes from his writing, and pointed to a chair a good way from him: "sit there," he said, "and study your lesson, and don't disturb me." so i took my seat, and miss marston shut the door and went away. my! how quiet it was in that room! not a sound except a faint scrabbling noise now and then from the l behind the portière,--where some very old reference books are kept,--and papa's pen scratching across the paper, and even that stopped presently, and he began to read a book that lay open beside him. as he sat there reading, with sheets upon sheets of the fetich scattered all round him, i looked and looked at him; i don't know why it is, but somehow, when i'm anywhere alone with papa, i just have to keep looking at him instead of anything else. he's a tall man, and thin, and he stoops round his shoulders; he wears glasses, too, like felix, and he always looks as if he were thinking of something 'way off in his mind. nurse says she's sure he'd forget to eat, if the things weren't put right under his nose; you see that's because he's all the time thinking of books. oh, papa's awfully clever! [illustration: "playing feathertop."] after a while i found a lollipop in my pocket, and i began to suck it,--just for company, you know; and truly the room was so quiet i was afraid papa'd hear me swallow. every now and then there was that little scrabble behind the portière; i made up my mind papa must have some one there making references for him, and i wondered who. but just then came a quite loud knock at the study door, and before papa had finished saying "come!"--he never does say it right away,--the door flew open, and in bounced phil, as if he were in an awful hurry. he marched straight to papa's desk, and began, very quickly, "father, i'd like--" but papa just waved his hand at him, without looking up: "in a few minutes," he said, and went right on reading. you should have seen phil fidget: he stood on one foot, then on the other; he put his hands in his pockets and jingled the things he had there, till he remembered that papa doesn't like us to do that, then he took his hands out. he straightened up, and shook his coat collar into place, and he cleared his throat; but nothing had any effect until he accidentally knocked a book off the desk. then papa started, and peered up at him in the near-sighted way that felix does sometimes: "h'm, too bad!" he said, taking the book from phil; then he sighed, put his finger on the page of his book to mark the place, and said, in a resigned sort of way, "well, what is it you want?" and i tell you, phil didn't take long to come to the point; he pitched right in, in that quick, headlong way he has when he's awfully in earnest. "i want to ask you, father, please to let felix go to college in my place. as long as we can't both go, i think he ought to be the one. you know, sir, he's a thousand times cleverer than i am, and he'll be sure to do you twice the credit that i shall. i do wish you'd consider the change." "and what do _you_ propose to do in that case?" papa asked, peering up at him again. "go into business,--lots of fellows do at my age,--if i can get anything at all," answered phil, squaring his shoulders. papa sat and thought and thought for several minutes, without a word; then he said, in that quiet tone of voice that we children know always settles a question, "no, i prefer that the present arrangement should be carried out." then he began reading again. i thought phil would have gone, after that; but no, he got quite excited: "it isn't fair to felix," he cried, thumping his hand down on the desk with such force that the pages of the fetich just danced,--you'll hear more about the fetich by and by,--"indeed it isn't! he's got the most brains of the whole lot of us put together, and he _ought_ to have some advantages. and besides, sir, you know he was mother's boy." phil's voice shook so that a big lump came in my throat. "i'm sure she would want him to go to college; for her sake, let us change places." papa put up his hand quickly, and shielded his eyes from the light, and he didn't answer right away. "it was--her wish--that you should go," he said presently, stopping between the words. "because she expected there'd be money enough for us both," phil began eagerly; but all of a sudden the portière that hung over the l was pushed aside, and who should come limping up to them but felix! his eyes were shining, even through his glasses, and he didn't seem to mind papa one bit. "so that's what you're up to, is it?" he said to phil, "trying to give me your birthright!" by this time he'd reached phil's side, and he threw his arm right across phil's shoulders. "_dear_ old lion-heart!" he said,--how his voice did ring out! "and i thought you didn't care!" and papa just sat there and looked at them, without a word, from under his hand. now i suppose you think i was a very mean sort of a boy to sit there and take in all this that wasn't intended for me to hear; but really it wasn't my fault. you see, i was so surprised when phil walked in and began to talk like that, that i never thought of saying anything; but pretty soon i remembered, and i felt very uncomfortable. i got up then, and walked a few steps forward, but nobody noticed me. and when phil got so excited, i _couldn't_ get a word out. then felix came out, and i really got desperate,--i felt i _must_ let 'em know i was there; so i just called out twice, quite loud, "please, i'm here!" they all jumped, they were so surprised, and phil wheeled round on me in a minute. "that ubiquitous 'jack rose' _again_!" he exclaimed; and taking me by the collar,--that was really _very_ mean of phil,--he walked me very fast over to the door. then he opened the door, and said, "_skip!_" and gave me quite a hard shove into the hall, and shut the door again. i tell you what now, my feelings were awfully hurt; i just wished betty were there; i know she'd have given it to phil! "jack!" somebody called just then, and there was nannie seated in the niche at the head of the stairs. i ran up and squeezed in alongside of her, and she snuggled me up to her, and made me feel ever so much better. i told her the whole story, and somehow, by the time i got through, instead of being angry any more, i really felt sorry for the boys. "oh, nannie," i said, "i do wish fee _could_ go to college!" nannie caught my hand tight between her two palms. "jack," she said softly, "say our verse for the day, will you?" so i repeated it: "'i say unto you, that if two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my father which is in heaven. for where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am i in the midst of them.'" "that has comforted me all day," whispered nannie. "that's what we can do for felix: we can pray--you and i--that god will make a way for him to go to college. will you, jackie-boy?" "yes," i said presently; "but--but--perhaps, nannie, you'd better not say anything to betty about it, 'cause--well, you know she _might_ make fun of me." "oh, no, she won't," said nannie, "because you and i are the 'two,' jack, and she's the 'three'; she's praying for felix, too." well, i _was_ dumfounded,--betty, of all people! just then the study door opened, and phil and felix came out; phil had his arm over fee's shoulder, and he began helping him up the steps. i felt they'd want nannie to themselves,--and, besides, phil might just have said something to tease me again; so i ran up stairs alone, and left them to talk together. all this happened some weeks ago, and though phil has commenced college, no way has come yet for felix to go; but we "three" still keep on praying for it. iii. concerning a performance. told by nannie. so many and such unexpected things have happened lately that i scarcely know where to begin, or how to tell everything. the very first surprise was two letters that came for felix and me from our godmother, aunt lindsay. she is not really our aunt, though we call her so, and i'm named nancy after her; but she knew dear mamma when she was a girl, and she is the only person except mamma that we ever heard call papa "jack." aunt lindsay is quite an old lady, and she's very eccentric. she lives in a big old house in boston, and very seldom comes to new york; but twice a year, on our birthday and at christmas, she sends us a letter and a present,--generally a book,--and fee and i have to write and thank her. how we dread those letters! it was hard enough when we had mamma to talk them over with before we began them; but now it's a great deal worse, for miss marston does not help us in the least. she says we are quite old enough now to do them alone, and i suppose we are. but we can't express ourselves in the same way time after time, and it is so difficult to think of new things to say that are interesting and not frivolous,--for aunt lindsay wouldn't permit that. sometimes we really get low-spirited over our efforts, and i'd be ashamed to tell how many sheets of paper and envelopes are spoilt in the undertaking. once, in a fit of desperation, felix bought a "complete letter-writer," and we hunted through it; but there seemed to be nothing in it suitable for an occasion such as ours, and besides, the language used in the "letter-writer" was so very fine and unlike our former efforts that we were afraid aunt lindsay would, as phil vulgarly puts it, "smell a mice." so that had to be given up, and finally, after many and great struggles, with the help of the whole family, we would manage to write something that miss marston allowed us to send. on the principle that brevity is wit, some of these productions of ours are really remarkable. and now, though it was neither christmas nor our birthday, here came two letters from our godmother which would have to be answered. we groaned as we received them, and the family, even to kathie, gave us their sympathy,--phil suggesting that perhaps "the old lady" had sent us a whole library this time, which would of course call for a special expression of gratitude. think, then, how we felt when we opened the letters and found that our godmother wrote to tell us she had made arrangements for felix to take painting lessons for one term, and for me, violin lessons for the same length of time! to say we were astonished doesn't at all express our state of mind. the questions that occurred to us when we got over the first shock were, how could aunt lindsay have known just what would best please each of us, and why had she remembered us at this time of the year, which was no particular occasion? and then we thought of her kindness, and were _so_ ashamed! fee and i looked at each other, and though we didn't say it, the same thought came to us both,--that we would write her the nicest letter of thanks that we could compose, if it took every sheet of note-paper we owned. of course we read aunt lindsay's letter aloud,--that and talking them over is the best part of receiving letters,--and of course we all got very much excited over our unexpected good fortune. felix said right away that he would give nora lessons in drawing two afternoons in the week,--she really draws very nicely, and is so anxious to get on,--provided she'd promise not to "put on any airs or frills;" and i told fee i'd help him--in the same way--with his violin playing. then phil proposed, and the whole family approved, that we should on the following evening--which was papa's night at the archæological society--celebrate the happy event by what we call "a musical performance." though we are very fond of these "performances," we have not had one for quite a while, because some of us older ones haven't felt up to it; for, as fee truly says, "it really requires very good spirits indeed to make a festive occasion go off successfully." since that day in papa's study that jack has told about, nothing more has been said of fee's going to college,--though we all want it just as much as ever, and jack and i feel that it _will_ come,--and felix himself seems to have quite given up the idea. he laughs and jokes again in his old merry way, particularly when phil is at home; nora and he have made friends, and betty and jack have got over staring at fee with big round eyes of sympathy, and dear old phil no longer skulks in and out of the house as if he were ashamed of himself; now he tells us bits of his college experience, and--as of old--gets felix to help him with his studies. things look as if everybody was satisfied; but, though he never alludes to it, i know fee's heart is sore over his disappointment,--you see, he is my own twin, and, while i love all my brothers and sisters, felix is more dear to me than any one else in the whole wide world, and i understand him better than anybody else does. fee is not like the rest of us; in the first place, he is more delicate, and his lameness makes him very sensitive. then, too, though we all, from phil to alan, confide in him our troubles and pleasures, he rarely, if ever, opens his heart to any of us. and when we talk things over among ourselves, and so in a way help one another along, fee keeps his deepest feelings to himself. very often we children talk of dear mamma, particularly when we're together in the firelight sunday afternoons and evenings,--it's a comfort to us; but felix simply listens,--he never speaks of her, though he was mother's boy. but i know, all the same, that he misses her every day of his life, and that as long as he lives he'll never forget one tone of her voice, or one word she has said to him. fee used to have a dreadful temper; he'd say such cutting, sarcastic things! and when mamma would speak to him about it, he'd declare that he _couldn't_ help it, and that the sharp ugly words _would_ come. but now, since she's gone, he is so much better, and i'm sure that he's trying to control himself, because he remembers how grieved she used to be when he got into a rage. i don't mean to say that he has entirely gotten over it,--i don't suppose that will ever be; but he doesn't flash out as he used to, and sometimes when he is very angry, he sets his lips tight together, and limps out of the room just as fast as ever he can go, to keep the ugly words from being spoken. once in a great while, if i am alone in the schoolroom, he'll come and throw himself down on the old sofa beside me, and, putting his head in my lap, lay my hand over his eyes. i know then, as well as if he had told me, that he is thinking of dear mamma and longing for her; and such a rush of love comes into my heart for him that i think he must feel it in my very finger-tips as they touch him. he was more with mamma at the last than any of us, because he is so gentle and helpful in a sick-room; but when the end had come, and we children were standing about the bed, crying bitterly, with our arms around one another, i missed felix. from room to room i hunted, and at last i found him, huddled up in a heap on the floor of the old store-room at the top of the house. and never shall i forget the white, utterly wretched face that he turned on me, as i knelt down by him and put my arms round his neck. he held my shoulders with his two thin hands so tight that i could feel his finger-nails through my sleeves. "oh, nannie!" he said, in such a hoarse whisper i'd never have known it for fee's sweet voice, "if i could only _die_ this very night!" then he sank down, and lay there trembling from head to foot, and sobbing, sobbing! i pulled a quilt down from one of the shelves and threw it over him; then i sat on the floor and drew his head into my lap and just smoothed his forehead and hair for the longest while, without a word, until he quieted down. i felt, somehow, that he would rather not have me say anything. don't imagine, from what i've said, that fee is a dismal sort of person, for indeed he isn't; he's the merriest of us all, and the prime leader in all the mischief and fun that goes on; and just as soon as it was settled that we should have a performance, he began to plan what each person should do, and to arrange the programme. we always have a programme: it saves confusion and people's feelings getting hurt; for, of course, then one can only go on in one's turn and for the special part set down; otherwise, everybody would be on the stage at once, and there'd be no audience. the large closet in the schoolroom is our dressing-room on these occasions, and as we have no way of making a stage, the younger children, paul and mädel and alan,--kathie is too big for that now,--stand on a table near the closet and deliver their parts. felix makes up the funniest names for us on the programme, and we answer to them as readily as if we were in the habit of doing so every day. we were all very busy that afternoon and evening and the next afternoon preparing our parts for the performance; but, with all that, fee and i got our letters off to our godmother. i felt so truly grateful both for him and for myself, that i didn't have nearly as much trouble composing it as i had expected. but all day i was in a perfect fever to get up to the conservatory, where aunt lindsay had entered my name, and to make arrangements for taking my violin lessons. miss marston and i talked the matter over, and found that when all the little home duties and my regular studies were finished, there was but one hour that i could set aside regularly for my new work. for though i should only take two lessons a week, i should have to have time to practise, or i'd be able to make no progress at all. she said i might go up that afternoon; so right after school nora and i started out to the conservatory. i was very nervous, and my violin is not a very good one; phil says it's nothing but a fiddle, and that the old second-hand dealer from whom we bought them--fee has one, too,--cheated us. they certainly do squeak dreadfully, at times, when you least expect it; but then we didn't pay much for them,--you may know that, when we saved for them out of our allowance!--and, as nurse says, "if you want a good article, you've got to pay for it;" still, they're a great deal better than nothing. but to go back to my story: nora says that, considering how very nervous i was, and the poor instrument i had, she thinks i did fairly well. i love violin music! i can't express what a delight it is to me to play; and the prospect of being able to improve myself in it made me very happy. the professor that aunt lindsay wanted to be my teacher told us his classes were very full, and that the hour i named for wednesday and saturday afternoons was the only time he could give me; then he said something kind about my playing, that gave me a little confidence, and sent me home quite radiant. as i came out of the room which betty and i share, after putting away my things, nurse opened the nursery door and beckoned me in: "miss nannie," she said impressively, "i'm kinder worried 'bout your pa. he's never had no appetite to brag of; but for a week past he's been eatin' like a bird. mornin' after mornin' he ain't touched nothin' but his tea, an' i'm afraid something's wrong. i don't want to frighten you, my dear, but i thought by tellin' you, maybe you could find out if anything ails him, and get him to send for the doctor. i think he looks kinder bad, and--lors! child, if anything happened to him, what _would_ become o' you all!" i got very nervous, until i remembered how easily nurse gets alarmed; if the children feel the least under the weather, she is apt to imagine that they are going to be seriously ill. "no," i said, "i haven't noticed that he looks badly; but thank you, nursie, for telling me. i'll look closely at him this evening at dinner, and i'll try my best to find out if he isn't well." papa always has his breakfast and lunch in the study, and dines with us. we older ones think that he does this as a duty, for we are pretty sure that he doesn't enjoy it; you see, papa does not really care for children, and there is no grown person now for him to talk to,--except miss marston, and she is not very interesting. poor papa! he sits at the head of the table, but phil does the carving; and though very often he does not say a dozen words throughout the entire meal, yet even our daring betty is subdued into good behaviour by his presence. there is no reason for it that we know of,--papa has never forbidden our talking at table,--but somehow, since dear mamma has gone, we have very little conversation at dinner; though we make up for it at other meals, i assure you. i sit in mamma's place now, and this evening, as i looked carefully at papa across the long table, i could see that he did look thinner: there was a tired expression on his face, too, that troubled me. as i passed through the hall, about half an hour later, he stood there in overcoat and hat, putting on his gloves before starting out for a meeting of the archæological society; and when i asked, "papa, are you feeling well? really quite well?" he put on that bored expression that always makes me feel miles away from him. "well? oh, yes!" then he added, with more animation, "nannie, i wish you would get me that pamphlet that is lying on my desk. i nearly forgot it." [illustration: "alan made his bow."] he took the pamphlet when i brought it, and began fingering it aimlessly, giving me a disagreeable feeling of being in the way; and as i turned and ran up the stairs, he went into the drawing-room. he wasn't there but a minute or two,--before i reached the second floor i heard the front door close behind him,--and the next morning, when nora and i were dusting the drawing-room, we found the pamphlet on the floor before mamma's picture. after all, he had forgotten it. i ran on up to the schoolroom, and there everybody was in a great state of excitement, preparing for the performance, which was to begin and end early on account of the younger children. there was no attempt at costume, but we girls wore a ribbon--they belong to our "stage property"--tied from shoulder to waist, the boys carried a paper rose in their button-holes, and kathie and the twins and alan were decorated with huge paper-muslin sashes and fancy caps, so that we all presented quite a festive and unusual appearance. the chairs were ranged in rows; the invited guests--murray unsworth, and his cousin, helen vassah (they always come to our "festive occasions")--arrived; nurse, and hannah, our maid, came in and took their places at the back, cook stealing in a little later; a bell tinkled; alan walked out of the closet, was assisted to the table by felix,--who was master of ceremonies,--and made his bow to the audience with one hand on his heart and a trumpet in the other, and the performance began. [illustration: "violin duo, rendered by the world-renowned violinists, mlle. nanina and mons. felix."] the programme was elaborately printed in two or three colours, on heavy light-brown paper, and it was tacked up on the schoolroom wall in full view of all, so that each person would know when his or her turn had come, and could disappear in the dark closet,--no lights were allowed there for fear of fire,--to reappear immediately before the audience, amid a storm of applause. this is the way the programme read:-- "yankibus doodlum," trumpet solo by the infant prodigy, master alano enrico rosie. "eight white sheep," vocal duet, rendered with appropriate finger-play by the celebrated twin singers, fräulein mädel and herr paulus. "little white lily," charming vocal solo by the famous prima donna, mlle. kathé. "charge of the six hundred," favourite recitation by the distinguished elocutionist, prof. jacqueminot. extraordinary exhibition with indian clubs by the remarkable strong girl, signorina bettina, with piano accompaniment by signorina eleanora nonie. "serenade," gounod, violin duo, rendered by the world-renowned violinists, mlle. nanina and mons. felix. "le soupir," piano solo by the brilliant pianist, signorina eleanora nonie. { "swanee river." { "feniculi." { "good-night, ladies," college songs, with banjo accompaniment, by the wonderful tenor singer and banjoist, prof. philipo. curtain down! lights out! everything went off beautifully, from alan's opening bow to phil's parting obeisance, with two exceptions,--the small boy fell off the table and scraped his shin, and so had to be comforted, and kathie got so excited when she knew her turn was coming that she jumped up from her chair and raced round and round the schoolroom table, scuffing her feet on the floor and making her hand squeak on the wooden surface of the table, thereby interfering with the effect of fräulein mädel and herr paulus's vocal efforts. she was captured, however, and brought to reason and good behaviour by the threat of having her name crossed off the programme. with these two trifling exceptions, the performance was most creditable, the _artistes_ were warmly received and enthusiastically applauded,--in one or two instances they even applauded themselves. hastily manufactured bouquets of newspaper and paper-muslin were showered upon the stage, and when all was over nurse and cook surprised us by refreshments of cookies and lemonade, served on the schoolroom table. how we enjoyed it! not a cake was left, nor a drop of lemonade. nora was shocked, and i was so glad miss marston had not accepted our invitation to be present! when it was all over, and we were putting away the things, i told felix what nurse had said, and asked him if he had noticed that papa wasn't well. fee looked at me with reflective eyes for a moment or two. "yes," he said slowly, "come to think of it, the _pater_ _has_ looked rather seedy lately. and another thing," he added, "he hasn't let me make a single reference for him this whole week; and yesterday, when i went in somewhat abruptly, he was sitting at his desk with pages of the fetich before him, but not writing or reading, just resting his head on his hand. i don't think i've ever seen him do that before." again that horrid apprehension came over me. "oh, fee," i said nervously, "do you suppose he is ill,--that anything is going to happen to him? _do_ tell me frankly what you think!" felix bent over the stage property he was doing up, as he answered: "i've thought for some time past that he misses--mother--more than ever." then he walked off with his bundle. how utterly ashamed i felt! nurse had noticed how badly he looked; felix had, too,--and perhaps he had guessed the trouble truly; phil, even, might have seen it, and i, papa's eldest daughter, who had promised mamma to take care of him, had been too selfishly absorbed in my own affairs to even think of him! it was no comfort to tell myself that papa was hard to get at; i felt i had neglected him. "don't worry, twinnie," felix said, kindly, coming back to me. "you know care once killed a feline, in spite of his nine lives; so don't you go in for that sort of thing, or you'll get the worst of it. go to bed now, and have a good sleep; by daylight things will look very much brighter; and at any rate you have your violin lessons ahead of you, and the performance behind you,--two good things. good-night." iv. and a fetich. told by nannie. but my first thought in the morning was of papa, and i wondered what i ought to do for him; how i longed for dear mamma! if even max were home!--for he was a great favourite with papa, and might be able to persuade him to see dr. archard. though papa is so quiet and gentle, he is really a very difficult person to get to do things that he doesn't want to; and he never wants to have a physician for himself. i was feeling very blue, when something betty said reminded me of my violin lessons, and then the very thought made me more cheerful. betty and i room together, and nora and kathie have the next apartment; and what did nora and betty do but put their heads together while we were dressing to think of a place in the house where i might go to practise every afternoon without disturbing papa. one or the other of the girls practises every afternoon, and the combination of violin squeaks and piano exercises would, we knew, disturb papa very much. miss marston, we were sure, would not permit them to neglect their music,--nora is a fine musician, and betty would be if she'd only put the same interest into that that she does into some other things, such as indian clubs, and sliding down banisters, and playing practical jokes,--and we couldn't plan where my violin hour could best come in, when nora thought of the old store-room at the top of the house. that was a good idea, because, by closing the door and hanging a thick quilt over it, not much of my scraping would escape to mingle with the piano scale-running, and so annoy papa. the girls' arranging for me in this way quite cheered me up,--the question of practising having troubled me a good deal, for i knew a noise of that kind would seriously interfere with papa's writing, and delay still longer the completion of the fetich. years and years ago, before phil was born,--indeed, before mamma and papa were ever married,--papa began to write a book, and it is not yet finished, though there are pages and pages of it. of course it is _very_ deep and _very_ clever, for papa is a great scholar. max derwent says that if papa would only finish the book he thinks he knows of a publisher who would accept it at once; and that would be a great help to us, for papa has lost a lot of money this year, and we have to be _very_ economical. that is the reason fee can't go to college as well as phil; papa explained this to the boys that day in the study, after jack had been put out. dear jack! he is such a gentle, old-fashioned little fellow, it really seems as if he ought to have been the girl, and betty the boy. but, for all that max said, papa can't seem to get to the end of his work; he writes and re-writes, and keeps making changes all the time. sometimes i have wondered if he has worked over it so long that he hates to part with it. the title of this great piece of work is "the history of some ancient peoples," or something very like that,--it's about the egyptians and phoenicians and chaldeans; but among ourselves we children call it the fetich. long ago fee gave it that name, because he says it rules the house, and everything and everybody has to give way to it; and he isn't very far wrong, i'm sorry to say. ever since we older ones can remember, the fetich has engrossed papa's entire attention, and kept him so occupied that he has had no time for anything else,--not even for his children. in our own home we have to go quietly and soberly about as if in a stranger's house,--to creep softly through the halls and steal up the back stairs, and to subdue our voices when the natural childish impulse is to run gaily and speak out merrily. it has kept our father apart from us and made him almost a stranger to his children; and, as we look back, some of us grudge the hours of dear mamma's time that were spent each day in the study,--away from us,--reading and copying off the fetich, and helping and encouraging papa. dear, blessed mother! what a brave, loving spirit hers was! even to the last, when she was almost too weak to speak, she would have papa carry her to the study, and, lying there in the invalid-chair, she'd smile at him as he kept looking up at her from his writing. the very last talk we had together,--after she had been taken back to her room,--when we had spoken about the children and she had told me different little points about their dispositions, and some ways in which i might be able to help them after she had gone, she said very earnestly, "and always be very good to your father, nannie; he will be in sore need of comfort, for he will miss me more than any one else." "oh, mamma, mamma!" i cried, choking, "no one _could_ miss you more than we shall!" mamma stroked my hand softly as it lay on the bed beside her. "dear," she said presently, "i know my boys and girls will _never_ forget me, not even the very youngest, for they will hear of me from you older ones. oh, if it had been my father's will, how gladly would i have remained with you all! but you are all young; life and hope are strong within you, and you love one another. he--your father--is so different; he will grieve--alone--and grow farther and farther from human love and sympathy. nannie, dear little daughter, remember how very, _very_ happy he has made me all these years, and oh, be good to him, and very patient and loving when i am gone!" her very last look was given to papa; her last word was "jack!" [illustration: "i gave a very faint knock."] for a good while i did try to do things for him, and to let him see that i loved him; but i had a feeling all the time--as in the hall that night--that he didn't want me near him, and would rather not have me in the study: so gradually i gave up going there, except for a few minutes each morning to ask if he needed anything. but this morning dear mamma's words came back to me, and i felt very guilty as i ran up to the study after breakfast; i had tried faithfully to look after the brothers and sisters, but i had neglected papa; and i am afraid, in the lowness of my spirits, that i gave a very faint knock on the door. after waiting a minute or two, i opened the door, as no answer came, and stepped into the study. papa's breakfast, which had been sent up more than half an hour before, lay cold and untasted on his desk, and papa himself knelt on the hearth; there was no fire, and in the empty grate, laid criss-cross, were pages and pages of closely written manuscript. on the chair beside him, and on the floor, were more pages of manuscript in bundles. in my father's hand was a match, which he had just drawn and was about to apply to the papers. my heart gave a tremendous throb that seemed to send it right into my throat, and i sprang forward, crying out, "oh, papa! _papa!_ surely you are not going to _burn_ the _fetich_!" the match fell from papa's fingers, and he looked up at me with an expression that was half bewilderment, half relief. "eh! burn _what_?" he said. "i--i--mean--were you going to burn--your book?" i remembered in time that he did not know we called it the fetich. "oh, papa," i pleaded, "_why_ are you doing this? your wonderful book, that mamma was so proud of!" papa got up and sat in his chair, and the sadness of his face made me think of fee's that awful night; the tears came rushing to my eyes, and i knelt down and took his hand in my two and held it fast. he let me keep it, and peered earnestly at me for a few minutes in his near-sighted way. "it might as well be destroyed; i shall never finish it--_now_" he said presently, in a low voice, as if he were speaking to himself, and looking beyond me at the fetich in the grate. "she is no longer here to praise and encourage--my lifelong work,--a failure!" then, all at once, a daring idea came to me; and, without giving my courage time to cool, i said quickly: "papa! dear, dear papa,"--how my voice shook!--"_please_ let me help you with your work of an afternoon, something as mamma used to do!" i thought i saw a refusal in his face, and went on hastily: "i know quite a good deal of latin and greek, and i write a plain hand; i could copy for you, anyway, and i would be _very_ careful. will you? ah, _please_! i know she would like me to do it. and perhaps"--the words faltered--"perhaps she can see and hear us now; and if she can, i _know_ she will be glad to have me do this for you." papa gave an eager, startled glance around the room; then he drooped his head, and covered his face with the hand i wasn't holding, and for several minutes we didn't speak. presently he said slowly,--and the unsteadiness of his voice told me more than his words did,--"i suppose i could let you try; for i do need--some one. you might be useful to me, my dear, if you could come regularly to help me--every day; on that condition i will accept your offer, and thank you for it--" "i can--i will; _indeed_ i will!" i broke in. a look of relief came over papa's face, a faint little smile stirred his lips, and he gently patted my shoulder. "you are like your mother," he said; and turning up my chin he kissed me,--a light little kiss that just brushed my face, but i knew what it meant from him. then, as he stooped over and began to gather up the fetich, he added, in his usual voice: "these are some chapters that i've written lately, and become somewhat discouraged over. help me put them back in their place on my desk, nannie; and be careful to keep every page in its regular order." i did so, and listened attentively while he explained, with great care and insistence, what i should have to do, and how much time he would require me to spend in the study. it was not until i had left him, and was on my way to the schoolroom, that i remembered that the hours i had promised papa were those i had set aside for my violin lessons and practice. and then--i am sorry and ashamed, but i _couldn't_ help it--i ran swiftly away and hid in a corner by myself, and cried bitterly. it wasn't that i wished i hadn't made papa that offer, for i would have done it over again, even while i felt so badly; but, oh, how hard it was to give up my dear music! and i really didn't know what to do about my teacher and aunt lindsay. [illustration: "'i can--i will; _indeed_ i will!'"] but it all came right after a while; dear old felix came to the rescue, as he generally does, and offered to go to the conservatory and take the lessons for me, and then give them to me in the evenings in the old store-room,--that is, if aunt lindsay didn't object. of course i was thankful; for while fee does not love violin music as i do, he is very thorough, and would, i know, do his best for me. so i wrote and explained to aunt lindsay, and she did not object in the least; in fact, her letter was the nicest she has written us yet. and this is the way that things stand at present: papa is still writing the fetich, and i am helping him; evenings, fee and i have great times in the store-room, with the door closed and heavily muffled, giving and receiving music lessons, and practising with our squeaky violins,--we really do have lots of fun! and now to-day comes the good news from max that he will soon be home; he writes that he has a "surprise" for us, and of course we are all very curious. dear old fellow! it will be such a comfort to have him among us again! v. a fracas and an arrival. told by betty. of all people in the world, _jack_ has been in a fight! phil brought him in, and such a sight as he was! his nose bleeding, his coat torn, and a lump on his forehead as big as a hen's egg! "why," said phil, "i couldn't believe my eyes at first; but true it was, all the same,--there was our gentle 'rosebud' pommelling away at a fellow nearly twice his size! and what's more, when i pulled him off, and separated them, if my young man didn't fly at the other fellow again like a little cock sparrow! i could hardly get him home." "yes, and i'd do it again!" cried jack, ferociously, mopping his wounded nose with his handkerchief, while nannie rushed to get water and court-plaster. "what'd he do?" asked phil and fee and i, all together. we knew it must have been something very dreadful to rouse jack to such a pitch; for, as nurse says, he is one of the "most peaceablest children that ever lived." but he wouldn't tell. "never you mind," was all he'd say. by this time nannie had brought a basin of water and the other things, and when fee waved his arm and called out tragically, "gather round, gather round, fellow-citizens, and witness the dressing of this bleeding hero's wounds," we crowded so near that nannie declared we made her nervous. jack did look so funny, with a big bath-towel pinned round his shoulders, and the basin right up under his chin, so the water shouldn't get over his clothes! and of course, as we looked on, everybody had something to say. "tell you what, jack," said phil, "you could paint the town red now, and no mistake, just from your nose; _what_ an opportunity lost!" "and i shouldn't wonder if the bridge of that classic member were broken. oh the pity of it!" put in fee, in mock sympathy. "you'll be a sight to-morrow,--all black and blue," remarked nora, eyeing him critically. "i thought you were too much of a gentleman to fight on the street, jack,--just like a common rowdy!" "i'm glad you didn't get beaten," i said; "but my! won't miss marston give it to you to-morrow!" she was out this afternoon. "your nose is all swelling up!" announced judge, solemnly, and kathie murmured sympathetically, "_poor_ jack!" [illustration: "'gather round, gather round, fellow-citizens, and witness the dressing of this bleeding hero's wounds.'"] even nannie--and she isn't one bit a nagger--said, "oh, jackie, i'm _so_ ashamed of you! mamma wouldn't want her gentle boy to become a fighter." "yes, she _would_ so, if she knew what this fellow did," asserted jack, as positively as he could with the water pouring down over his mouth. "_what_ did he do?" we all shouted. "tell us, what _did_ he do, jack?" but jack got furious. "none of your business!" he roared; and twisting himself away from us, he dashed out of the room, nannie following after him, basin in hand, imploring him to let her finish dressing his nose. we really didn't mean to make him angry,--it's just a way we have of speaking out our minds to one another; but nannie felt very sorry,--she said we had teased jack. i felt sorry, too, when he told me all about it,--jack generally does tell me things,--after making me promise "truly and faithfully" that i would not say "one word about it to any single person we know." many a time since i've wished that i hadn't promised,--it isn't fair to jack himself; but he won't let me off. jack is really a _very_ odd boy. well, it seems that as felix passed along the street where jack and some of his friends were playing, one of the boys caught up a piece of straw, and twisting it across his nose like a pair of spectacles, limped after fee, mimicking his walk, and singing, "h'm-ha! hipperty hop!" jack clinched his hands tight while he was telling me. "betty," he said, "i got such a queer feeling inside; i just _swelled_ up, and if he'd been _three_ times as big, i'd have tackled him. i waited for fee to turn the corner,--you see i didn't want him to know what henderson was doing behind his back,--and _then_ didn't i just _go_ for him! i _tell_ you, i whacked him!" my blood fairly boiled to think that anybody could have been so contemptibly mean as to mock our dear old fee,--as if he didn't feel badly enough about being near-sighted and lame! i would like to have gone right out and thrashed henderson all over again; but, as jack very truly said, "that would only make a grand row, and then the whole thing'd be sure to get to fee's ears, and that's what we don't want." so i had to cool down. this was the reason jack wouldn't tell the others what the trouble was--and there felix himself had been teasing him! nor has he said one word to anybody but me about it, though he has been blamed and punished for fighting on the street, when, if he had only told, or let me tell for him, the true reason for his acting so, i'm sure everybody would have changed their mind at once; but he will not. this was very nice of jack,--he has some ways that really make me very fond of him; but he is also a very queer and provoking boy sometimes, as you will hear. the worst was to get through dinner that evening without papa's noticing. of course miss marston would be sure to tell him as soon as she knew, and of course jack would be punished; but he did want to put off the evil hour as long as possible. his seat at table is quite near to papa, but i come between, and i promised i'd lean as far forward as i could, all through the meal, so as to shield him. we got downstairs and settled in our places safely; but jack was as nervous as a cat. i really think he wouldn't have minded taking his dinner _under_ the table for that one occasion; and no wonder, for everybody, even to hannah, kept looking at him, and phil and felix kept passing him all sorts of things, with such unusual politeness as was enough to fluster anybody. still, everything went well until we came to dessert; it was cottage pudding,--jack's favourite,--and i suppose he got reckless, or forgot, in his enjoyment of it, and leaned a little too far forward, for presently papa said, very quietly, "betty, sit properly in your chair." of course i had to obey, and that brought poor jack into full view. a broad strip of white court-plaster across one's nose, and a big bruised lump on one's forehead _are_ rather conspicuous things, and, i tell you, papa did stare! but he didn't say a word. neither did jack speak, though he knew papa was looking at him; he just kept right on eating very fast. he said afterward he'd have eaten the whole pudding, had it been before him, for he was so nervous he didn't really know what he was doing; but he got redder and redder in the face, and presently he choked,--a regular snort! i immediately flew up and pounded him on the back; but papa made me sit down again, and as soon as jack had stopped coughing violently, he said, "leave the table, sir, and come to my study to-morrow morning at nine o'clock." i think, had we dared, we could all have roared with laughter as jack got up and walked out of the room; not because we didn't feel sorry for him, for we did,--i especially, knowing how it was he got into this scrape,--but he did look _so_ funny! i don't know why it is, but jack is a person that makes one laugh without his intending in the least to be funny; it's the way he does things. i can't begin to tell you how i urged jack to tell papa why it was he had gotten into that fight. i scolded, and coaxed, and talked, _and_ talked, but i _couldn't_ get him to say he would, nor to let me tell; in his way, i do believe he is as obstinate as kathie. even the next morning, when he stood at the study door, ready to knock, though his hands were as cold as ice, and he looked awfully scared, all he'd say to my repeated, "_do_ speak out like a man, and tell it, jack," was, "_perhaps_." i would like to have gone right in and told papa the whole matter myself, but you see i had promised; and besides, we are none of us very fond of going into the study,--though nannie is in there pretty often lately,--i'm sure i can't say why it is, for papa never scolds us violently: whatever he says is very quietly spoken, but i tell you every word goes home! the schoolroom bell rang while i was talking to jack; so of course i had to go, and it was fully half an hour before he walked in and took his place. his face was very red, even his ears, and he didn't look happy; but it wasn't until after school that i had a chance to ask him anything, and he wasn't very amiable then. he had a book,--some story of wild adventure and hair-breadth escape, and he hated to be interrupted. for all that jack is such a quiet, gentle sort of a boy, he likes to read the most exciting books, about fighting and shipwrecks and savages,--though i'm _sure_ if an indian should walk into the room, he'd fly into the remotest corner of the closet and hide,--and the hymns he loves the best are the ones that bring in about war and soldiers. you should hear him sing, "the son of god goes forth to war," in church! he positively shouts. so when i said, "well, jack, how'd you get along this morning?" he went right on turning over the leaves to find his place, and answered shortly:-- "oh, no play out-of-doors for a week, and a double dose of that vile latin, and a sound rating for getting into a row on the street,--that's all." "but didn't you tell him--" i began indignantly, but jack interrupted. "he didn't ask why i did it, and i didn't tell him," he said. "what a _silly_ you are!" i cried, i was _so_ mad! "that henderson ought to be told about and punished--now!" "henderson is a beast!" jack said severely; then, having come to his place in the story, he added: "now please go away, and don't bother me, betty; i want to read." he settled himself on the schoolroom sofa in his favourite position, with his back against the arm of the sofa, and his legs straight out along the seat, and began to read. i knew he'd get cranky if i said any more, so i went away. but for all that he called henderson names, what did jack do but go and make _friends_ with him just a day or two after he was allowed to go out! i was so provoked when i heard of it, that i fairly stormed at jack; he took it all in the meekest way, and when i finished up,--with a fine attempt at sarcasm,--"if _i'd_ been you, i would have snubbed such a mean boy for at least a _week_ longer," he grinned and said, "if you'd been i, you'd have done just as i did." then he added, in that old-fashioned, confidential way he has, "i couldn't help it, betty; you see the boys wouldn't have a thing to do with him, or let him join in any of the games, until i had forgiven him, and i just _couldn't_ stand seeing him hanging around and being snubbed." "oh, yes, you're very considerate for him; but _he_ will make fun of _your_ brother again to-morrow, if he feels like it," i said, still angry. "no, he _won't_" asserted jack, positively; "'cause i told him--not disagreeably, you know, but so he'd feel i was in earnest--that if he ever did, i'd just have to thrash him again. and he said, 'a-a-h, what d'you take me for? d'you s'pose i knew 'twas _your_ brother?' and that's a good deal from henderson, for he's an awfully rough boy. you know, betty, you've _got_ to make allowances for people, or you'd never get along with 'em. and, besides, he looks worse than i do," went on jack, feeling of his nose and forehead. "i really felt ashamed to think i'd hit him so hard, and,"--shuffling his feet, and looking very sheepish,--"well, you know, the golden rule is my motto for this year, and, as i thought to myself, what's the use of a motto, if you don't act up to it? so i just made friends with henderson. i knew you'd say i was silly to do it, but i don't care,--i feel better; i do hate to be mad with people!" and with that he walked off, before i could think of anything to say. a lot of things happened that week. to begin with, some new people moved into the house opposite us, that has been empty for so long. it's a small house,--nurse says it used to be a stable, and was turned into a dwelling-house since she has lived here,--set quite a good way back from the street, and with a low stoop to one side and a piazza off that. a tall iron railing, with an ornamental gate, encloses a front yard in which are some forlorn-looking shrubs, a rosebush or two, and a couple of scraggy altheas. workmen had been about the place for some time, putting everything in order, and of course we took the liveliest interest in all that went on, from the pruning of the shrubs to the carrying in of the furniture; and the day the new people moved in, miss marston could hardly keep us younger ones from the windows: indeed, for that matter, nora was just as curious as we were, for all she talks about "vulgar curiosity." they came in a carriage, and there were three of them,--a tall, black-bearded man, a little, fragile-looking lady, and a tall, lanky boy, perhaps as old as felix, with a rather nice face, who shouldered a satchel and the travelling-rugs, and brought up the rear of the procession to the house, with the end of a shawl trailing on the ground behind him. jack heard from henderson--who has become his shadow--that the gentleman has something to do with a newspaper, and that the boy goes to college, and phil saw him there the other day; but it wasn't until the following sunday, nearly a week after, that we heard their name and who they were,--and that came by way of a grand surprise. we were sitting round the schoolroom fire, talking and singing hymns, when the door opened, and who should come walking in but--max derwent! we _were_ surprised; for though he'd written to say he was coming, we didn't expect it would be so soon. dear old max! we were delighted to see him, and i do believe he was just as glad to see us. but just at first we couldn't any of us say very much; dear mamma was with us when max was here last! after a while, though, that feeling wore away, and i tell you our tongues did fly! max measured us all by the closet door, where he took our measurements before he went away, and he says we have grown wonderfully,--particularly nannie. he was so surprised when he first saw her, that he just held her hands and looked at her, until nannie said, "why, max, you haven't kissed me; aren't you glad to see me?" i think she felt a little hurt, for he'd kissed the rest of us,--even to phil and felix,--and nannie and he used to be such good friends. "why, nancy lee," max said, "you have grown such a tall young lady since i've been away, that i didn't know whether you'd still allow me the dear old privilege; indeed i will kiss you;" and with that he stooped,--max is tall,--and kissed her on her forehead, just where the parting of her hair begins. but max couldn't get over her being so grown, for he kept on gazing and gazing at nannie, and she did look sweet, sitting there in the firelight. nora is very pretty,--her features are so regular; but nannie has a _dear_ face: her brown eyes are big and shining, and her hair is so thick and pretty; it's light brown, and little locks of it get loose and curl up round her forehead and ears, and when she talks and laughs i think she's every bit as pretty as nora. somehow there's a look about nannie's face that makes you know you can trust her through and through; i tell you i'm awfully glad she's in the family; in fact, i don't know what we'd any of us do without her, from papa to alan. well, we told max every single thing that had happened--good, bad, and indifferent--since he went away, including, of course, about phil's going to college, and fee's not going, and about aunt lindsay's present to fee and nannie,--all talking together, and as loud as we pleased (we always do with max) until we came to the new people that had moved in across the way--and what do you suppose? max knows them! "they are the ervengs," he said, "and the boy's name is hilliard,--hilliard erveng. the father is a partner in a large boston publishing house that has just opened an agency here, and i shouldn't wonder if erveng were in charge of the agency by his taking a house in new york. that's the firm i thought would buy your father's book, if he'd only finish it; but from what he told me this afternoon, it's still a long way from completion." he glanced at nannie as he spoke, and she nodded her head sadly. "i used to know erveng; he was a classmate of mine," went on max, thoughtfully, wrinkling up his eyebrows at the fire. "i wonder how it would do to rake up the acquaintance again, and bring him over unexpectedly to call on the professor,"--papa's friends all call him professor rose,--"and surprise him into showing erveng the manuscript!" [illustration: "'the boy's name is hilliard erveng.'"] "oh, max, that would never, never do," cried nannie, quickly. "you know how averse papa is to showing his work to any one; he couldn't do it, i'm sure, and it might make him very angry." "and yet, if he _did_ show it, think what a benefit to you all it might be; for i am convinced the work is one that would be an acquisition to the reading public; and erveng would recognise that at once. think of what it means for all of you, nancy lee," urged max,--"college for felix, drawing lessons for nora, a fine violin for you, gymnasium for betty, a splendid military school for jack,"--here jack broke in rudely with, "_don't_ want any military school, this one's bad enough," and was silenced by phil's hand being laid suddenly and firmly over his mouth,--"and all sorts of good things for everybody, if only erveng sees the manuscript of the fetich" (max knows what we call it). nannie still looked dubious, but nora exclaimed: "i say, do it, max! it does seem a shame to have us suffering for things, and that manuscript just lying down there; and perhaps then papa would stir himself a little and finish it. i declare i would like to take some of the pages over and show them to mr. erveng myself!" we all knew that she wouldn't; but as she said the words, an idea popped into my head, such a splendid idea--at least i thought it was then--that i nearly giggled outright with delight, and i had positively to hold myself in to keep from telling it. happening to look up suddenly at phil, i caught him with a broad grin on _his_ face, and winking violently at felix, who winked back. that did not surprise me,--those two are always signalling to each other in that way; but when they both straightened their faces the instant i saw them, and assumed a very innocent expression, then i began to suspect that they were up to some mischief: little did i dream what it was, though! phil is a _fearful_ practical joker; you never know where he's going to break out. i'm pretty bad, but he is ever so much worse; and felix helps him every time. "what sort of a man _is_ mr. erveng?" asked felix, with an appearance of great interest. max laughed. "well, he used to be considered rather eccentric," he said. "i remember the fellows at college nick-named him 'old-woman erveng,' because--so they said--he had a large picture in his room of a fat old woman in a poke bonnet; and at the social gatherings to which he could be induced to go, he always devoted himself to the oldest and fattest ladies in the room, without noticing the young and pretty girls. _i_ thought he was rather a nice sort of fellow; what's the matter, betty, want any assistance?" what max said fitted in so well with the plan i had in my mind that--though i tried to keep it back--i had chuckled, and now they were all looking at me. "when elizabeth 'chortles' in that fashion you may be sure there's mischief in her mind," felix remarked, eyeing me severely. "out with it, miss." "or i'll have to garote you," put in phil, leaning over toward me with extended thumb and finger; but i skipped away and got beside max. "indeed, it's you and felix that are up to something," i retorted. "i can see it in your faces." "oh, tell us what your 'surprise' is, max," put in nannie, quickly. i think she wanted to turn the conversation, and so keep us from wrangling, this very first evening that max was with us. "why, i've brought back a ward," answered max. "his name is chadwick whitcombe. he went to-day from the steamer to stay a week or two with an old friend of his father's; then i shall bring him to see you, and i'm going to ask you _all_"--here max looked at each one of us--"to be nice and friendly to him, for poor chad is singularly alone: he has not a relative in the world. though he will come into a good deal of money by and by, the poor fellow has knocked about from place to place with his former guardian, who has just died, and he has had no home training at all. may i count on your being kind to him?" of course we all said yes,--couldn't help ourselves,--but i heard fee sing, under his breath, so it shouldn't reach max's ears:-- "here comes shad, looking very sad; we'll hit him with a pad, and make him glad!" and when i laughed, phil scowled at me, and muttered something about "giving him to betty to lick into shape." i couldn't say anything, for i was right close to max; but i made one of my worst faces at phil. soon after this, max went down to the study to spend the rest of the evening with papa. vi. disposing of a fetich. told by betty. i might as well tell you that my plan was to dress up, some afternoon that week, in one of nurse's gowns, and her bonnet and veil,--if i could possibly induce her to lend them all to me without having to tell why i wanted them,--and to go and call on mr. erveng in regard to the fetich. what i should say when i met him didn't trouble me; you see there was really only to tell him about the book, so he might make papa an offer for it; but what _did_ weigh upon me was how to get dressed up and out of the house without being caught: there are such a lot of us that somebody or other's sure to be hanging around all the time. for several days i couldn't get a chance: monday it rained; tuesday afternoon phil took paul to the dentist, and nurse went along,--judge is one of her pets; wednesday afternoon jack and a whole lot of boys played close to the house, and of course i couldn't walk right out before them,--it would have been just like jack to run up and say something, perhaps offer to assist my tottering steps down the stoop. but at last, on thursday, the coast seemed clear: nannie was in the study with papa, nora was practising, jack was on the schoolroom sofa reading, the children in the nursery, and phil and felix up in fee's room; i could hear a murmur of voices from there, and every now and then a burst of laughter. this was my opportunity. the door of nurse's room, which was next to the nursery, was open, and as i stole in, hoping she was there, that i might ask her, i saw her wardrobe door open, and hanging within easy reach a dress and shawl that would just serve my purpose. but her bonnet and veil were not in their usual place, which rather surprised me, for nurse is very particular with us about those things, and i had to hunt before i found even her oldest ones, in deadly fear all the time that i'd be caught in the act. you see, i made up my mind i'd borrow the things, and then tell her about it when i brought them back. flying into my room, i locked the door, and just "jumped" into those clothes, as the boys would say; and i did look so funny when i was dressed, that i had to laugh. in the first place, max had said mr. erveng liked fat old women; so i stuffed myself out to fill nurse's capacious gown to the best of my ability, with pillows and anything else i could lay my hands on; i think i must have measured yards and yards round when i was all finished. then i pinned my braid on the top of my head, put on nurse's bonnet, and dividing the veil so that one part hung down my back and the other part over my face, i was ready to start. i had slipped on a pair of old black woollen gloves that i found in the pocket of my new skirt, and, stealing cautiously down the stairs, i got out of the house without meeting any one. but i can't tell you how queer i felt in the street,--it seemed as if everybody looked at me, and as if they must suspect what i was up to. i forgot all about walking slowly, like an old woman, and fairly flew up the flagged path to the ervengs' stoop; and the ring i gave to the bell brought a small boy in buttons very quickly to the door. "i wish to see mr. erveng on business," i said, disguising my voice as well as i could. then, as he murmured something about "card,"--i had entirely forgotten that,--i pushed my way past him, saying, "it is something _very_ important, that i _know_ your master will be glad to hear." this seemed to satisfy him, and he ushered me into a room which looked to be half drawing-room, half study: there were in it a sofa, some fancy chairs, a set of well-filled eastlake book-shelves, and a desk almost as big as papa's. portières hung at the end of the room. i took a seat near one of the long windows opening on the balcony, and began to arrange in my mind what i would say to mr. erveng, when suddenly, glancing toward the gate, i saw some one open it and come slowly up the walk,--a stout, elderly female, dressed in a black gown, a black shawl, and a bonnet and veil, _precisely_ like the ones i had on! her veil was drawn closely over her face, she wore black woollen gloves, and held in one hand a black reticule--which i would have declared was nurse's--and in the other a clumsily folded umbrella. as i sat and stared at the advancing figure, i wondered if i were dreaming, and actually gave myself a pinch to assure myself i was awake. but who _could_ she be,--this double of mine? i wouldn't like to tell jack or any of the others, you know, but i would really not have been sorry to have been at home just then. at this moment the old lady entered the room. buttons closed the door, and we were left alone facing each other,--for i had got up when she came in,--and i must say the unknown seemed as much surprised as i was. then all at once she began to walk round and round me; and as i didn't want her to get behind me, i kept turning too,--just as if i'd been on a pivot; i believe i was fascinated by those big eyes glaring at me through the thick black veil. "betty! 'by all that's abominable!'" suddenly exclaimed my double; and _then_ i knew who it was. "_phil!_ you _mean_ thing!" i cried, intensely relieved; and darting forward i caught hold of his bonnet and veil. "hands off!" he called out, wriggling away; "an ye love me, spare me 'bunnit.'" then, as he got to a safe distance, and threw back his veil: "look here, old lady, if you lay violent hands on me again, i'll yell for help, and bring the house about your ears. _then_ you'll rue it." this provoked me. "you're the one will rue it," i said. "you've just spoilt the whole thing by spying on me and following me here--" "well, i like that!" phil interrupted. "it seems to me the shoe's on the other foot. what are _you_ doing here, in that outrageous costume, and in a stranger's house? whew! wouldn't there be a small circus if the _pater_ should see you! i'd feel sorry for you, i tell you. and what excuse do you propose to offer mr. erveng when he makes his appearance here, as he will in a few minutes?" sidling up to me, he nudged my elbow, and added persuasively: "'there _is_ a time for _dis_-appearing.' say, betty, my infant, one of us has _got_ to go, so i'd advise you to fly at once. buttons is out of the way, and in an excess of brotherly affection i'll escort you to the door myself. come--fly!" and he nudged me again. "no," i said obstinately, "i won't go; i was here first. i'm here, and here i'll remain." "oh, very well," said phil, in a resigned sort of tone, seating himself in a most unladylike attitude on a three-cornered chair. "then come sit on the edge of my chair, you little fairy, and we'll pose for the siamese twins." [illustration: "'come sit on the edge of my chair, you little fairy.'"] but i was so disappointed i was afraid i'd cry. i had hoped _so_ much from this interview with mr. erveng, and here was phil spoiling everything by his silliness. "i think you are simply _horrid_," i broke out, very crossly. "i just wish mr. erveng would come in and beat you, or turn you out, or _something_." "if the old man shows fight, i'll have his blood," cried phil, tragically, springing from his chair. "gore, _gore_! i _will_ have gore!" he did look _very_ funny, striding up and down the room and scraping his toes along the floor in our most approved "high tragedy" style, with nurse's shawl hanging over one shoulder, his bonnet crooked and almost off his head, and shaking the umbrella, held tight in a black-woollen-gloved fist, at an imaginary foe. angry as i was, i _had_ to laugh, and i don't know what next he mightn't have done--for phil never knows when to stop--had we not just then caught the sound of a distant footstep. phil didn't seem to mind, but i got so nervous that i didn't know what to do. "oh, _won't_ you go?" i cried in despair. "he'll think we are crazy! oh, where _am_ i to go?" "goodness only knows!" answered phil, trying to straighten his bonnet; then, glancing around the room, "there isn't a piece of furniture here large enough to hide your corpulent form," he said. "there he comes! _now_, i hope you're satisfied; you _wouldn't_ go when you could." sure enough, the footsteps were almost at the door. i looked frantically about. i would gladly have escaped through the window, and climbed over the balcony to the ground; but to put aside the delicate lace curtains and unlatch the sash would have taken more time than we had to spare. suddenly phil cried, "the _portières_, you dunce!" giving me a push in that direction, and like a flash i got behind them. i heard phil say "bother!" under his breath, as he stumbled over a footstool in his haste to get seated, then the door opened, and some one entered the room. provoked as i was with phil, i couldn't help hoping that his bonnet was straight, and that he had on his shawl, for his figure wasn't as good as mine. i heard a strange voice--mr. erveng's--say: "i'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but i am extremely busy. will you be kind enough to state your business as briefly as possible?" then phil began, imitating an old lady's voice to a nicety: "having heard that you publish a great many books, i thought you would like to know of a very clever--really _re_markable--work which is being written by a well-known scholar who lives in this street, and that perhaps you would call on him and make him an offer for it." i knew the moment i heard this speech that felix had made it up, and just coached phil; it was certainly better than what i had thought of. the portières behind which i had hid only covered a door, and, though i squeezed up as tight as i could, i was awfully afraid they would part and show me underneath. but, all the same, i couldn't resist peeping to see what was going on. phil had his back to me, but mr. erveng sat facing me in the swing-chair that was by his desk, and i noticed at once that he was the black-bearded man we'd seen the day the family moved in. i listened eagerly for mr. erveng's answer. he said very coolly: "it is not our custom to make an offer for a work of which we know nothing. manuscripts are generally submitted to us. what is the title of this 'remarkable work'?" i didn't like the way he said this, and i thought he looked very suspiciously at phil; but phil didn't seem to notice it, for he answered eagerly: "it's called the fe--'history of some ancient peoples,' and i've brought you a chapter or two to look at." here i heard a rustling, and peeping between the portières, what should i see but phil handing mr. erveng some _pages of the fetich_! i was so perfectly amazed that i had to stuff the portière into my mouth to keep from calling out; how _had_ phil ever got hold of those chapters without papa's knowledge? i knew nannie would never have helped him after what she had said on sunday to max, and how had phil _dared_ to bring them here! what would papa say if he should know what he had done,--indeed, what we had both done! oh, how sorry i was that i hadn't gone when phil urged me to. when i got over my surprise a little, and again looked through the portières, mr. erveng stood holding the fetich in his hands, and looking over the pages with a frown on his face. "this is curious," i heard him say. and then, suddenly, before i could guess what he was going to do, he crossed the room and drew my portières aside! at first i held on to them, with a desperate desire to lose myself in the scanty folds; but they were firmly withdrawn, and there i stood,--a fac-simile of the fat, black-robed, black-veiled person who sat on the three-cornered chair by mr. erveng's desk! "_whew!_" whistled phil, then tried to look as if he hadn't uttered a sound, while mr. erveng took hold of my arm and walked me over to where phil stood. "now," he said sternly, "i should like an explanation of this extraordinary behaviour." but not a word said either of us,--i couldn't, i was so frightened; i assure you i wished myself home! and while we stood there--mr. erveng waiting for an answer--the door opened, and the boy that max had said was hilliard erveng came into the room. "oh, i beg your pardon," he exclaimed, turning back, "i didn't know any one was with you." but his father called out to him, "stay here, hilliard!" then turning to us he said _very_ sternly, "i have reason to think that this manuscript"--he still held the fetich in his hand--"has been stolen from its rightful owner, of whom i have heard, and to whom i shall take pleasure in restoring his property. unless you both at once take off what i am convinced is a disguise, and offer a full and satisfactory explanation, i shall be under the painful necessity of calling in a policeman and giving you in charge." "oh, no! no! _no!_" i cried out. "we _didn't_ steal it--at least, it belongs to our father, and--" [illustration: "there we stood; a fine pair we must have looked!"] but phil strode over to my side. "hush, betty," he whispered; "i'll explain." sweeping off his bonnet and veil, he threw them--nurse's best sunday hat!--on a chair, and faced mr. erveng. you can't think how comical he looked, with his handsome boy's face and rumpled hair above that fat old woman's figure. and in a moment or two, i think, i must have looked almost as comical too; for before phil could begin, mr. erveng said, "i insist upon that person removing her bonnet and veil as well." so off went mine, and there we stood; a fine pair we must have looked! that boy hilliard gave a little giggle,--phil said afterwards he'd like to have "punched" him for it, and i felt awfully foolish,--but mr. erveng frowned. then phil began and told who we were, and how something that had been said by a friend of ours had given him, and me,--though neither knew about the other,--the idea of coming over and asking him, mr. erveng, to buy the fetich (of course phil called the fetich by its proper name), and thinking he might like to see some of the manuscript, he had got hold of two chapters and brought them along to show. "but why this absurd disguise, if all this is true?" asked mr. erveng of us, looking from one to the other. i began: "because ma--" but phil gave me a hard nudge of the elbow: "max mightn't like us to tell that," he mumbled, which ended my explanation. but i was determined to get in a few remarks: "papa doesn't know a thing about our doing this," i said very fast, for fear phil would interrupt again, "and we don't want him to. we just came here and told you about the fe--his book, because we were sure he'd never tell you, or let you see it, himself, and we thought if you knew of it, you would want to buy it from him, and that would make him finish it up,--papa's been _years_ writing that book,--and then felix could go to college and--" "_betty!_" broke in phil, in such a sharp, angry tone, and with such a red face, that i moved away from him. "that's where i've seen you,--at college," exclaimed the boy; he talks in a slow, deliberate way, something like judge. "they _do_ live across the way, father; i've seen him"--with a nod of his head at phil--"going in there." "ah, really, how kind of you to remember me!" cried phil, with sarcasm. "please let me have that manuscript, mr. erveng, and we will go home." "no," remarked mr. erveng, very decidedly. "there is something about the affair that i don't understand, and i shall not feel satisfied until i have restored this manuscript, which i know is valuable, to its owner, and found for myself that the story you have told me is true." "all right, then," phil cried recklessly. "come, betty, let's put on our 'bunnits' and go face the music." deeply mortified, we "dressed up" again, and went home under the escort of mr. erveng and his son. hannah opened the door, and how she did stare at the two fat, black-robed, closely veiled ladies who waddled past her into the drawing-room! hilliard did not come in with us, and when mr. erveng found that neither phil nor i would answer hannah's "please, what name shall i say?" he took a card out and gave it to her, saying, "ask mr. rose if he will be kind enough to let me see him for a few minutes." while we sat waiting, fee came limping down the stairs and looked in on us. "hullo!" he exclaimed in astonishment; "_two_ here? what's up?" then he saw the stranger and stopped. "oh, we've had a dandy time!" said phil, throwing back his veil, "and it isn't over yet. mr. erveng, allow me to introduce to you my brother, felix rose." while the introduction was going on, papa came into the room, and the expression of his face was something that can't be described when he found that the two ladies to whom he had bowed when he entered were indeed phil and i. mr. erveng stated the case as briefly as possible, making much more light of it than we had expected, and handed to papa the pages of the fetich that phil had brought to him. papa said very little, but his face grew quite pale, and he accompanied mr. erveng to the door, where they stood talking for a few minutes; then mr. erveng went away. fee had disappeared with our bonnets and veils,--we would willingly have divested ourselves of the other garments as well, but we knew he was not equal to the accumulation of pillows, shawls, and gowns which that would involve,--and we were sitting in dead silence when papa returned, and, opening the folding doors, motioned us to go into the study. nannie sat there writing; but the merry little laugh with which she greeted our entrance died quickly away as she guessed what we had been doing, and her low, "oh, phil, oh, betty, how _could_ you!" made me feel more ashamed than a scolding would have. papa put the two chapters of the fetich carefully away; then he took his seat at his desk and said, "now i wish to hear the meaning of this most extraordinary and unwarrantable behaviour." for an instant neither of us spoke; then, just as i opened my mouth, phil began. he made a very short story of it,--how, through max, we had heard of mr. erveng's being a publisher, and how the story about his liking fat old ladies had put the idea into our heads to dress up and call on him, and interest him in papa's book. papa frowned at us over his glasses. "what has mr. erveng to do with my book?" he asked, sternly. "and why did my son put my most cherished work into a stranger's hands without my knowledge?" "because--" began phil; then he got as red as a beet, and stood plucking at the skirt of nurse's gown without another word. i felt sorry for phil. i knew that, like me, he had done it in the interest of the whole family; so when papa said a little sharply, "i am waiting for an answer, philip," i said very quickly, "please don't be angry with phil, papa; we did it because we thought if mr. erveng knew of the fet--book, he'd want to buy it, and then perhaps you would finish it, and sell it for a lot of money, and then fee--um--eh--we could do lots of things." just then the study door opened, and in came felix, quite out of breath from hurrying up and down stairs. he saw phil's downcast face, and hastening forward, laid his hand on phil's shoulder, saying, "i deserve a full share of phil's scolding, father. betty evidently carried out her scheme without assistance, but i dressed phil, and helped him to get off without being seen. so i know, sir, that i ought to share his punishment." "i see; then this was a conspiracy to force me to finish my work and sell it," said papa, slowly, with a grieved, shocked look in his eyes; then, turning to nannie, he asked unsteadily: "are _you_ in it, too? margaret--your mother--used to urge me to--write slowly--but--perhaps i have lingered too long over it. i thank you," with a look at us, "for recalling me to my duty, though i think it would have been kinder to have spoken to me, rather than to have gone to a stranger in this way. i will finish the history--as soon--as i can." there was no anger in papa's voice, but a hurt tone that went right to my heart, and made me horribly ashamed, while nannie flew to his side and threw her arms around his neck. "don't take it to heart, dear papa," she pleaded, pressing her cheek against his face. "it was only thoughtlessness on their part; they _didn't_ mean to grieve you, i know they didn't. oh, boys, betty, speak up and assure papa of this." i began to cry out loud. i _despise_ crying, and i know papa hates it, but i simply _had_ to sob, or i would have choked. the boys felt badly, too. fee leaned on the desk and said, low and very earnestly, "i am _so_ ashamed of myself, father. and i know phil is, too." "i've made a great ass of myself," growled poor phil. "i wish, sir, that you'd give me a thrashing, as if i were a little shaver,--a sound one; i know i deserve it." but papa loosed nannie's arms from about his neck, and put her gently from him. "my dear," he said wearily, "i--i--wish you would make them all go; i want to be alone." * * * * * papa did not come down to dinner that evening, and we were a very subdued party, though nora tried to cheer phil up by telling him that she knew he had done what he had for the benefit of the whole family,--she didn't tell _me_ that! "yes," answered our eldest brother, gloomily, "it was my first attempt at that sort of philanthropy, and it'll be my last--stop staring at me, jack, or i'll throw a bread-pill at you." "is that what you call it, philip?" said miss marston, lifting her eyebrows. "it seems to me more like that love of practical joking and the self-will that your mother was so constantly warning you and betty against." "indeed, then, you're right, ma'am," put in nurse, who happened to be in the room, adding, with a pointed glance at me, "i wonder what the dear lady would 'a' said to this day's conductions!" and not one of us had a word to say in reply, for we well knew how grieved she would have been. vii. new friends. told by betty. "betty! _bet-ty!_" called nannie from the foot of the stairs, "tell jack that he's got just about three minutes more, as papa has started to put on his overcoat, and he does so dislike to have us late for church. do make him hurry!" but that, as i knew very well, was easier said than done, for jack hates to hurry. almost at the last minute, when we had gathered in the schoolroom to let miss marston see us before we started out with papa for church, it was discovered that jack's boots needed cleaning. so now he was up in the attic, brushing away at them, and singing with all his might,-- "thy gardens and thy goodly walks continually are green, where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers as nowhere else are seen. right through thy streets, with pleasing sound, the living waters flow; and on the banks on either side, the trees of life do grow." jack was just beginning the last line of this verse when nannie called to me; so i let him finish, then i shouted up the attic stairs, "jack, you've just got about two minutes and a half; papa has started to put on his overcoat. are you ready?" "most," jack answered; "i've got one more heel to do,"--as if he'd had a dozen or so! and he actually started on another verse of the hymn. i flew up the attic steps and gazed indignantly at him through the railings: "you are the most provoking boy i ever knew," i said, "and the biggest poke! i do believe you _love_ to be late. there's everybody down in the hall ready to start, and here you are loitering as if you had hours to spare." [illustration: "'betty! _bet-ty!_' called nannie."] "are you two coming, or are you not?" cried phil from the hall below. "the procession is ready to start, and woe to stragglers! if service began at twelve instead of eleven o'clock, jack, you'd still be late. come on, betty." "i declare, if you aren't all the greatest pack of naggers!" exclaimed jack, impatiently, throwing down the blacking brushes and snatching up his hat; then he raced after us down the stairs and brought up the rear as we filed out of the front door. there are always so many of us to go to church--all of us children (except alan, who goes to the children's service in the afternoon), and miss marston and papa--that we do make, as phil says, a regular procession as we walk down the avenue and across the park to the old brown church every sunday. i don't mind going in the procession, nor does jack,--unless he's _very_ late; but nora thinks it's horrid, and phil and felix always hang back for the very last, and try to look as if they didn't belong to us at all. nannie and mädel go with papa, kathie and paul with miss marston, and the rest of us straggle along as we like until we get to the church. it's brown and very large, and has a good deal of ivy growing all over it. it's the church where murray unsworth and helen vassah stood sponsors for their little cousin paul; they go there and their grandfather and grandmother. papa likes to sit away up front; so up the middle aisle we go,--oh, how the boys and nora hate this part!--and file into the first two pews. we are always early, and sometimes it does seem so long before service begins. jack and i sit at the upper end of the first pew, and i couldn't tell you how many times we have read the creed and commandments that are printed back of the chancel, and the memorials on each side. then we look out the hymns for the day, and read them all through. jack likes to do this; he has all sorts of odd ideas about them; for instance, he says that when he sings, "christian! dost thou see them on the holy ground, how the powers of darkness rage thy steps around? christian! up and smite them, counting gain but loss; in the strength that cometh by the holy cross," he somehow always thinks of the picture in papa's study of st. michael and the angel. he says he can see, right in his mind, the great beautiful angel of light triumphant in the strength of god, and under his feet the stormy evil face of the conquered lucifer. i've got so now that i too think of the picture when i sing the hymn, and of the hymn when i look at the picture. then in the other hymn, where it says, "finding, following, keeping, struggling, is he sure to bless? 'saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, answer, yes,'" jack says he sees--just like a picture--a steep hill up which a whole lot of people are striving, with all their might, to climb; they're poor and tired and sick and lame, but they struggle bravely on; and by the beautiful gates at the top of the hill stands one grand and white and shining, wearing a golden crown. he bends forward and takes hold of each tired traveller as soon as he is within reach, and helps him safe within the gates; and in the hands that do this are "wound-prints." jack always shuts his eyes and lowers his voice when he tells us about this thought of his; only nannie and i know of it, and while i am hearing about it i always feel quiet. how he _does_ enjoy singing! his little body seems to expand, and you'd be astonished at the noise that he can make. this particular sunday that i am telling you about my ears were fairly ringing as jack joined in the chorus of "onward, christian soldiers," and i wasn't sorry when phil leaned over from behind and whispered, "say, rosebud, you're not detailed to lead the choir, you know." even the choir-master looked at him; but, perfectly regardless of everything and everybody, jack sang through the five long verses, and sat down with the air of having thoroughly enjoyed himself. i made up my mind, though, that i'd say something about it on our way home; but just as we were coming down the church steps jack gave my arm a nudge. "there are your friends," he said, with a grin,--"the two of 'em; just see phil and felix scoot!" and when i turned quickly to see, who should it be but mr. erveng and hilliard! mr. erveng has been over to call on papa since that horrid afternoon that he escorted phil and me home; but hilliard didn't come with him, and we weren't sorry,--i mean phil and i,--for we both felt foolish about meeting him; we hadn't forgotten that giggle of his when we took off our bonnets and veils that day in his father's library, and i think we both felt that we didn't want to know him any better. mr. erveng and papa walked across the park together, talking, and as we all followed behind,--felix and phil were out of sight,--who should come up beside me and lift his hat but that hilliard! "may i walk with you part way home?" he asked, "i want to say something to you." he speaks slowly, deliberately, and has a way of half-closing his eyes when he's talking, that gives him a sleepy look,--though he can open them very wide too, sometimes; and he's sallow, and has lots of freckles. altogether, he isn't nearly as good-looking as our boys, or murray unsworth; still he has rather a nice face, and we've found out that he is just as gentle and nice as a girl to his mother,--i mean in waiting on her and doing things for her. but all the same, i don't know whether i like him or not; you see he's never had a sister, never been much with girls, and he's got such silly, prim ideas about them. well, to go back: when he asked that, i said, "oh, yes, i suppose so;" but jack says my tone wasn't very polite. i didn't mean to be impolite, but seeing him brought that horrid afternoon right to my mind, and i could just hear him giggle all over again; i assure you phil and i'll not try that sort of thing again,--not if the fetich never gets sold. and evidently that was in his mind, too; for he said, "i want to apologise for being so rude as to laugh that day in my father's office,"--that's the way he talks, so formal, as if he were as old as papa,--"and for guarding--" "we didn't think it was at all polite, i must say," i broke in. but he went right on; that's another of his ways,--if one interrupts him fifty times in a remark, he'll listen, but make no reply until he's finished what he started out to say. now i think that's provoking,--i wonder how he'd get on if he lived in our family!--and it makes the person that interrupts feel very small and nettled, too. "and for guarding you and your brother home, as if i doubted your word," he finished. well, now, do you know, i hadn't ever thought about that part,--his going along to guard us,--until he said this; and then, all at once, i felt very angry. "i think it _was_ very, _very_ rude of you," i said decidedly, "and i really wish you would go away and walk with your father, or by yourself--" "why, _betty_!" exclaimed jack, in surprise; then, leaning across me, he said politely, "_please_ don't think that betty is a rude girl, for indeed she isn't; but she is awfully quick-tempered, and when she gets mad she is apt to say lots of things that she doesn't mean. she is really quite a nice girl. i'm jack rose, her brother; so you see i ought to know." "so you should; i'm glad to meet you," hilliard said, shaking hands with jack. then he added to me: "i _do_ hope you and your brother will let us be friendly. i've told my mother about you both, and she wants so much to know you and your sisters. perhaps some of you would come over and see her? she is very much of an invalid, and is not able to go out, except for a drive now and then; but when she is well enough to see them, she enjoys having visitors." i was ashamed of having spoken so sharply, but i _didn't_ want to go and see mrs. erveng; so all i could say was, in a lame sort of way, "thank you; perhaps--if papa says we may." instead of letting the matter drop there, he must needs go on: "i have tried several times to speak to your brother,--at college, and once on the street,--but he seems to avoid me," he said. "i wanted to explain to him; i was afraid you might think my father was severe, but he really didn't beli--he didn't suppose--that is, the young people we've known--" he stopped, looking awfully red and embarrassed, then ended up with, "i'm afraid i'm making an awful muddle of it, but i'm really very sorry; i hope you and your brother will understand that." by "brother" i think he meant phil, but jack took it to himself. "of course, oh, certainly," he said, nudging my elbow to say likewise, and bobbing his head round my shoulder. but i wouldn't, for i understood, just as well as if hilliard'd said it, that he--they all--thought our coming over to his house, as we had done, to sell the fetich, was a very queer proceeding. miss marston had said that they must think me very unladylike. she so often tells me people think that of me that i've got used to it and don't mind; but i felt _very_ uncomfortable when it occurred to me that perhaps this boy and his father and mother thought so too. "why didn't you say right out that you thought my dressing up and coming over to your house that way was very queer and unladylike?" i demanded. "i know it's what you think." he opened his mouth to speak, but i went on quickly: "pooh! that's _nothing_ to what i _can_ do. i can slide down three flights of banisters without one swerve, and make worse faces than any one we know, and whistle, and brandish indian clubs, and fence and climb besides, and, oh! lots of other things that only boys do; why, i'm strong enough to be able to thrash jack--there _now_!" "i'd just like to see you try it!" put in jack, hastily, ruffling up; then, in an undertone, with a nudge of his elbow, "oh, come now, betty, _do_ behave yourself." but hilliard just looked at me--his eyes were wide enough open now--as if i were some strange kind of animal; he really looked shocked. i wondered what he would think of some of my performances at home, and i couldn't resist saying, "i suppose the girls that you know never do such things?" "not when they are as old or as tall as you are," he answered quietly. just then miss marston and the little ones and nannie and nora came up to us, so i introduced hilliard to them, and as soon as we saw that nora was talking to him, jack and i dropped behind and kept there. "betty," said jack, severely, as we turned away, "you are really a most provoking girl! i told that boy that you were nice, and you turned right round and acted _abominably_. what possessed you? i didn't hear him say one thing to make you angry." "jack," i answered, "sometimes you're as dense as a london fog. that boy is a conceited poke because he has no sister; and you'd be just like him if i weren't here to train you." "well, i declare!" exclaimed jack, indignantly. "talking about conceit,--where do you put yourself?" two hands came suddenly between us; a pleasant voice said, "let's talk about the sermon, and see which of us remembers most of it;" and there was max. he had been in church, he said, but stopping to speak to some one had detained him, and he was now going home to have dinner with us,--which meant a visit with papa after dinner, and then a nice long talk with us in the schoolroom. max is so nice about that; he never slights us. in fact, i think he spends more and more time with us, for he and nannie have started in to play violin and piano duets together, and he comes one week-evening to practise. he has lent her his violin,--a beauty!--and he takes the piano part. his ward--"the great shad," as phil and felix call him--has not yet arrived; but max told us this sunday, as we walked along, that he expected him to be in the city very soon, "and then," he said, "i shall bring him round to be introduced to you young people." when we reached our house, hilliard said good-bye, and ran across to his own gate; but max, mr. erveng,--max has been to call on the ervengs, and has renewed acquaintance with his college-mate,--and papa stood talking for a few minutes before they separated. as we entered our door, nannie was right behind me, and i heard her say to felix in a low voice, "look at papa as he stands between those two men; don't you think he looks _very_ old and worn?" "well, he's years older than they, isn't he?" asked fee, turning to look. i too craned my neck for a glimpse, but barely caught sight of the top of papa's hat over phil's shoulder. "not so many," nannie said; "he is eight years older than mr. erveng, and ten years older than max. not enough to show such a difference." "why, he looks twenty years older than either of them;" then, lowering his voice,--but i heard him,--felix added, "poor old _pater_! he seems to enjoy talking to mr. erveng; but do you know, nannie, i'm _awfully_ sorry we played that joke about the fetich. i fancy he hasn't been quite the same since." "no, he hasn't, and he's working desperately to get the book finished; he even works in the evening, when he used to read as a recreation. i hope he won't get ill." then the front door closed, and there was a general rush upstairs to take off coats and hats. i wasn't very happy the rest of that day; nannie's remark about papa, and what that disagreeable boy across the way had said, kept coming back and coming back to me, so that i really got quite unhappy over it, until i told nannie the whole thing that night, and then i began to feel better. though nannie always tells you right out if you've been wrong, she is also sure to say something to comfort you. i was in the schoolroom the next afternoon, practising, when suddenly the door flew open, and in bounced jack, in a state of wild excitement. "oh, think of it! _think_ of it, betty!" he exclaimed joyously, "i'm going to sing--to _sing_! just think of it!" "why, you've been doing that for a long time, haven't you?" i asked, with a lively recollection of what i had endured only yesterday. "oh, but this is different; it's to be in church,--i mean in the _choir_,--and i'm to be _paid_ for it!" "what! really?" i gasped in astonishment. "why, jack! _do_ tell me all about it!" [illustration: "'why, you've been doing that for a long time, haven't you?' i asked."] this he was only too delighted to do; but he was so excited that he could not sit still, and he kept walking backward and forward before me while he was speaking. "well, it was this way," he said; "just now, while i was playing in the yard, hannah said papa wanted to see me. of course i thought right away that something must be wrong, and i didn't feel very happy over it, i can tell you; but when i got to the study, there was papa with a big piece of news for me. mr. hawkins from our church had come to see him to ask if he would let me sing in the choir, and was waiting in the drawing-room for my answer! why, i'd have been glad to sing there for nothing, you know; but when papa went on, and said i would get fifty cents for each sunday that i sang, i was so delighted, betty, that i really couldn't say a word. but i guess papa knew by my face how overjoyed i was, for he patted my shoulder and said, 'well, then, you can go in the drawing-room and tell mr. hawkins that you will accept his offer, and be at rehearsal on friday evening;' and then he spoke about what an honour it was to be chosen to sing god's praises in his own house. i tell you what, betty, i'm going to try to be a very, _very_ good boy; now aren't you glad for me?" indeed i _was_ glad, and i told him so; and then what do you think he said? why, he came close to me, with his clasped hands behind his back, and rocked himself to and fro on his heels and toes; his eyes were shining with delight. "betty," he said, "i'm to get fifty cents a week at first, and more, mr. hawkins says, just as soon as i can read music readily. now i'm not going to spend one cent of it,--not a single penny. i'm going to save it up until i get a lot, and then,--what d'you think? i'm going to _send felix to college_! isn't that a splendid scheme? now isn't it? you see," he went on eagerly, "i've been praying for a way for fee to go,--you have, too, haven't you? and nannie,--and i think god has just answered our prayers by letting me get this." "yes; but won't it take an awfully long time at that rate to save enough to send fee?" i asked. "oh, not so _very_ long," jack replied cheerfully. in the exuberance of his joy he took hold of the schoolroom table and threw his heels in the air; he looked so funny that i could have roared with laughter,--jack is as clumsy as a cow! then all at once he remembered something, and coming over to me said, very impressively, "now, remember, betty, you're not to say one word about this to fee,--not a word; i sha'n't mention it to any one beside you, but nannie, and she wouldn't tell; and then, when we've got enough, we'll give it to fee, and tell him what it's for. hoopla!" and again he embraced the table and threw his heels in the air. viii. a resolution. told by betty. two or three days after this--after school hours--nannie came flying into the schoolroom, where we all were, and announced that some of us had been invited to take tea with the ervengs that afternoon. while we sat in surprised silence, she went rapidly on to explain: "such a nice little note to papa, written by mrs. erveng: this is one of her 'good days,' and she would like so much to make our acquaintance; would four of us come over and take tea, etc. hilliard brought the note just now, and papa told him that some of us would be happy to accept." she paused and looked mischievous as a groan broke from us. "i know you are all dying to hear who are to go," she said, "so i'll put you out of your suspense at once; phil--" "no, you don't! i haven't any 'bunnit,'" broke in phil. "you don't catch me going over there again in a hurry, i can tell you." "but you ought to go, phil, really you ought," nannie said. "you and betty ought to go over and apologise to mr. and mrs. erveng for the way in which you two goths invaded their house. fee, papa says you are to go, too," she added to her twin. "oh, but this is too bad of the _pater_!" exclaimed felix, colouring up; "he knows how i hate to go among strange people. i declare, i _won't_ go!" "go tell the governor so--go _now_, while you're in the humour for it," urged phil, with suspicious eagerness; "and--um--while you're about it, you know, just mention incidentally that those are my sentiments, too, will you?" "nonie, you're to lend grace to the entertainment," went on nannie, with twinkling eyes. "who, me? i?" exclaimed nora, quickly. "oh!" then, recovering herself the next minute, she said coolly, "well, i'm perfectly willing to go; for that matter" (with that superior air that does so provoke us), "some of us ought to have gone long ago, and called on the ervengs,--miss marston says so, too,--to apologise for and explain the, to say the least very peculiar, conduct of some other members of our family." and here she looked at me,--just as if phil were not more to blame than i in that horrid affair of the fetich! i made a face, and phil said: "oh, come, now, nora, we've heard that before; so do spare us the rest. who else is to be a victim, nancy?" "betty fills up the sum of the 'some,'" answered nannie; "papa thinks she certainly ought--" "i _won't_ go, i won't, i will not," i interrupted. "that boy is too conceited for anything, and i'm not going over there to be criticised,--so now! i don't want any of their old tea, and i'd just like to be ill or to hide away or something, so's not to go." "let's you and i run away," suggested phil, in a stage whisper behind his hand; then, striking an attitude, he extended his long arms: "come, fair damsel, come, we'll fly to other climes,--the attic or the cellar, _anywhere_, so it be not to the ervengs'." he made a sudden snatch at me, but i was prepared,--i know him of old!--and, dodging under his arm, darted round the table and soon put a wide distance between us. "then nobody's going," asserted jack; he sat on the edge of the schoolroom table, grinning and hugging his knees, which were drawn up to his chin. "not a one!" "no, _sir_!" "no, _indeed_!" answered phil, felix, and i, in one breath. "i do think you are all the rudest, most unmannerly creatures!" exclaimed nora, indignantly. "these people have been polite enough to invite us to their house, have taken the trouble to prepare for us, when really the attention should have come from us to them, and here you all act as if they had insulted us. positively, you are a most uncouth set. _i_ am very much pleased with mrs. erveng's invitation, and i am going, if no one else does. rude things!" she started for the door; but phil got before her, and salaamed to the floor. "what _would_ we do without you, o most noble and elegant eleanora!" he cried, as he bobbed up and down; and limping over, fee stared at her through and under and over his glasses. "friends," he exclaimed, turning to us and putting on an expression of intense astonishment, "allow me to call your attention to this remarkably healthy variety of a well-known plant, miss"--with a wave of his hand toward nora--"miss prim rose." "you think that's very smart, don't you?" nora said, getting red, and tossing her head. jack flew down from the table, and over to nora's side, calling out, "now you just stop teasing her, felix!" and phil threw an arm round her, and pulled her down on his lap, saying, "don't ruffle yourself over such trifles, old lady; keep cool!" i laughed, and nannie put in quickly, "nora is quite right: it _was_ our place, as old residents, to call first on the ervengs,--particularly under the fetich circumstances; and when they are kind enough to overlook our remissness, and invite us to visit them, we ought at least to appreciate the attention, not rail at it. anyway, it was papa who decided which of us should go. i would certainly have been included in the number had i not something to do for him this afternoon and evening; i would have liked to go. so do behave yourselves!" "nancy lee on etiquette," said felix, with a grimace, while nora struggled away from phil's encircling arm with a sharp, "of _course_ i am right!" and stalked out of the room, her nose in the air. now perhaps you think because we said all this that we didn't go to the ervengs'; well, we did, the whole four of us, and that very afternoon. though we fret and fume over things beforehand, we generally end by doing just as papa says about them. one reason for this is that, when it comes to the point, none of us are willing to tell him that we won't obey. papa's very gentle, but he expects us to do as he says, and dear mamma always made us mind; so, as i said, it generally ends by our following orders. still, sometimes it is a great satisfaction to "spunk up" beforehand, as phil calls it, and just speak out our minds in the bosom of our family. and after that,--it's the funniest thing! but do you know, we'll almost always turn right round and do just what we said we wouldn't do, as meek as lambs. i don't know if all large families are like this, but it's our way. well, to go back to the tea. nora was very glum on the way over,--she usually is when she's on her high horse,--but the boys seemed to be in great spirits, for they just giggled to the ervengs' very door, and barely had a straight face when buttons appeared. i fancied that he looked curiously at me, and i wondered uncomfortably if he knew that phil and i were the two fat old black-robed ladies he had admitted the other day. mr. erveng was out, for which phil and i weren't sorry; but hilliard met us in the hall and took us upstairs to his mother's sitting-room, where she was lying in an invalid's chair with a white shawl round her shoulders. she's very pretty,--hilliard isn't a bit like her,--but she looks very delicate and fragile; why, her hands are like _mites_, and she's very, _very_ gentle, and speaks in a low voice. she welcomed us very cordially, and said she thought it was so kind of us to come,--here i thought of our remarks at home, and didn't dare look at phil and fee,--and she and nora seemed to get on nicely. [illustration: "hilliard showing his microscope and his 'specimens.'"] very soon hilliard carried the boys off to show them his microscope and his "specimens," and what he called his home-gymnasium. i should have loved dearly to go, too, but nobody asked me; so there i had to sit primly on a chair and listen while mrs. erveng and nora talked of books and pictures and music and all sorts of things. and while they talked i looked around the room; nora said afterward that i stared at everything, until she was ashamed,--but what else was there for me to do? and it was such a pretty room! furnished in light blue, with touches of yellow here and there; some lovely pictures hung on the walls, a graceful bronze mercury stood on a pedestal between the curtains of one of the windows, growing plants were scattered about, and everywhere were books and flowers. it was all very sweet and lovely: it matched well with mrs. erveng, who looked daintiness itself lying back on her silken cushions, and i ought to have enjoyed it; but in some way or other it made me feel uncomfortably big and clumsy and overgrown, and i couldn't get over the feeling. nora, however, didn't seem to be troubled in this way; i couldn't but notice how pretty she looked, and how well she talked. you mustn't think that mrs. erveng slighted me, for she didn't,--she was very polite; but i had a feeling all the time that she just looked upon me as a great rough tomboy,--thinking of that horrid fetich affair! for she certainly didn't treat me as she did nora, and there are only fourteen months between us, if nora _is_ so tall, and acts so grown up. at home we make great fun of nora's airs and graces, and even that night phil nudged me, when no one was looking, and whispered, "do see the frills nonie's putting on!" but all the same i think both felix and he were very glad that she could carry off things so well. we had tea in the cosiest little room on the same floor, and we couldn't but notice how hilliard waited on his mother,--just like a girl would have done; indeed, he was very much more gentle and helpful than i could have been, i am afraid,--though fee used to be like that with mamma. after tea nora played; i was asked, too, but i could no more have got through a piece without breaking down than i could have flown. she didn't feel so, though, and did splendidly; she is really a fine pianist, miss marston says. after that we sang college songs, and about nine o'clock, or a little after, we four went home. "unfortunately, i am not able to return any visits," mrs. erveng said, when we were leaving, "but if you or your sisters will take pity on my loneliness, and come over to see me whenever you can spare an afternoon or evening, i shall consider it very friendly, and i shall be very glad to see you." she looked at nora, and nora answered very sweetly, "thank you for our pleasant evening, mrs. erveng; we shall be glad to come again." now i never would have thought of saying that! then we all bade good-night and went home. hilliard walked to our door with us, and as he shook hands for good-night he said to me, "i'm very glad you came over; mother and i enjoyed it. i hope you'll come again; you see we get very quiet sometimes, just she and father and i." i was surprised that he didn't say this to nora, for he had talked almost entirely to her,--very little to me during the evening; but i suppose he did it so i shouldn't feel slighted,--as if i cared! phil admits that he likes hilliard better than he did, and felix, who had a long talk with him, says "he's bright, and 'way up in the classics." well, he may be all that, but all the same i think he's a poke. i don't like him very much. i have a feeling that he went home and told his mother what i said about making faces and sliding down banisters, and that--with the fetich affair--she thinks i'm a great rough girl. i don't really care, you know, for i have other friends who like me and think i am nice,--murray and hope unsworth and helen vassah are always glad to have my company,--but still it _isn't_ comfortable, now that i'm growing older, to be treated as if i were a child. i didn't say much while nora and the boys were giving nannie an account of our evening,--they had enjoyed it; but later, when we were alone up in our room, it all came out. she said: "what's wrong, miss elizabeth?"--that's one of her pet names for me. "you look as sober as a judge; didn't you enjoy yourself this evening?" and then i told her all about it, though really there wasn't much to tell when we came to it, for mrs. erveng had been very polite and nice, and the boy had treated me politely, too. i was afraid nannie would think i was making a mountain out of a molehill, as nurse says. but that's one of the lovely things about nannie,--she understands just how things are, and so quickly. she came over and sat on the edge of the bed, and taking one of my hands in hers, kept smoothing it while she talked. "it means this, dear," she said, "that you are getting to be quite grown up, and that the time has come for you to put away rough, hoidenish ways, and to begin to be gentle and dignified, like the true lady that we all know you are at heart. you see we are accustomed to your ways, and while we may tease and scold one another here at home, we also make allowances for the different ones as an outsider would never do, because we love one another--see? mrs. erveng and hilliard simply know you as a tall girl who looks quite a young lady, and naturally they are surprised when you act like a tomboy. you know, betty, you are nearly as tall as nora; now just imagine her sliding down the banisters, wrestling with the boys, climbing the fence in the yard, hanging to the tops of the doors, and making the horrible faces that you do!" but my imagination couldn't picture such an impossibility as nora and i acting alike. "i couldn't--i _couldn't_ be like nora," i declared, sitting up in bed. "i know she's got nice manners and all that,"--i had never really thought so till that evening,--"but, oh! i _couldn't_ be as prim and--and--proper as she is--" here my voice began to shake, and i got so sorry for myself that the tears came. then nannie put her arms round me, and gave me a hug. "you needn't be like anybody but yourself," she said,--"the nicest, gentlest, and best part of yourself. give up one hoidenish way at a time; that will be easier than trying to do all at once, you know. suppose you begin by walking down the stairs to-morrow morning to breakfast, instead of sliding down on the banisters, as you usually do." "oh, but you don't _know_ how awfully hard that'll be to do," i said tearfully; "our banisters are so broad and smooth, and one goes so swiftly down them,--almost like flying--" "i don't suppose it will be easy to give up the habit," broke in nannie, wiping my eyes with her handkerchief; "but all the same, miss elizabeth, i am confident that if you really make up your mind to stop sliding, you'll do it. you can't keep up such a tomboyish trick all your life, and now is a good time to begin, _i_ think. dear mamma used to say that everybody had to have some responsibility or other; why not begin to take up yours now? helen vassah is only about six months older than you are, and here she has the responsibility of being little paul's godmother. and there's hope unsworth a little younger than you; you know how she helps her grandmother in her charitable work. they are certainly not 'prim or proper;' they are full of fun, yet they wouldn't either of them ever think of doing the rough things that you do,--now would they?" i had to admit that i knew they wouldn't. "then," said nannie, "don't you do them either. take yourself as your responsibility, and show us what you can accomplish in that line. will you, dearie?" she snuggled her head close up to mine on the pillow as she said this. "oh, _dear_!" i sighed, "i do wish jack had been i, and i'd been jack!" "even then you would have had to stop such childish tricks some time or other before you grew up. with all his larks, phil doesn't do them; and think of papa's coming down to breakfast on the banisters!" nannie and i had to laugh at the very thought. "well," i said presently, "perhaps i'll try; but that conceited boy'll think he's made me do it." "oh, no, he won't!" nannie said, in a tone of conviction that was very comforting. "if he does think now that you're inclined to be a hoiden, why, he'll soon change his mind, when he finds what a nice, sweet little lady you are from day to day. _don't_ look so dismal, miss elizabeth; there's lots of fun left for you!" "i'll try; but i _know_ i'll forget, time and again," i said, sighing heavily. "i don't think there'll be so very many slips," nannie answered cheerfully; "but if there should be, we'll just do as rip van winkle did,--'we won't count' them." "and will you promise not to tell anybody that i'm trying--not a single creature--not even felix or jack?" i asked anxiously. "i _will_ promise not to tell anybody--not a single creature--not even felix or jack," nannie replied, laughing. "does that satisfy you? now," she added, "i'm going to say my prayers here beside you, and i'm going to ask our lord to help you keep your word; you'll ask, too, won't you?" i nodded, and as she knelt down slipped my hand into hers; a few minutes after i was asleep. ix. max's ward. told by betty. no less than three birthdays in our family fell in the next week: first fee's and nannie's,--which i suppose i ought really to count as one, as they are twins,--and then nora's. as these birthdays _will_ always come together, and to avoid hurting people's feelings, as jack would say, we celebrate them alternately,--fee's and nannie's one year, and nora's the next; and this was nora's year. we had had several performances lately, so fee said he'd try to think of something else, if we'd all promise to do just as we were told. of course we promised; then he and phil invited the unsworths and helen vassah and that boy across the way,--i didn't want _him_, but all the others did, so he was asked. hope was at her grandma's, so she couldn't come; but murray and helen did, and, _of course_, hilliard. the birthday fell on a friday, and as papa is always at home on that evening, we were afraid he wouldn't allow us to celebrate it; but to our great joy he told nannie to tell us that we might have all the fun we wanted, as long as we behaved ourselves and kept the doors closed, so the noise would not escape. so right after school hours phil and felix took possession of the schoolroom, and after having got us to give them all our presents for nora, they locked themselves in. "we're going to have a bang-up entertainment, now, you'll see," felix said, just before he closed the door,--"something unique, unprecedented, etc.; and no one is to put even a nose into the banqueting hall"--with a wave of his hand over his shoulder--"until the doors are thrown open and the music strikes up. now remember--" "yes, and no snooping or hanging around either!" put in phil, standing on tip-toe to rest his chin on fee's crown and glare at us. then the door was locked. such a hammering and dragging about of furniture you never heard; and when every now and then phil would come out for something or other, fee would open the door very cautiously, as if afraid somebody'd see something, and shut and lock it with a bang when he re-entered. as you may imagine, our curiosity was excited to the highest pitch to know what we were going to have. then just before dinner jack came running in, in a great state of excitement; he had been to rehearsal, and had done so well in the piece he had to sing that mr. hawkins had really engaged him, at fifty cents a week, with the promise of more as he improved. jack was almost wild with delight. "isn't it fine! isn't it just jolly! you should have heard me sing; really, it didn't sound bad!" he exclaimed about twenty times; and the knowing looks and nudges and winks that he bestowed on me couldn't be counted. no amount of snubbing could repress him. it seemed to us as if dinner would never be over; but at last it came to an end, and jack and i and the younger children flew upstairs and stood waiting for the signal to enter the "banqueting hall." in a few minutes more up came nora, with helen and murray and hilliard. i was sure murray and helen would enjoy the "festive occasion," for they like the things that we do; but i didn't know how that boy would take it. he was very smiling, however; and i heard him tell nora, as he presented her with a lovely bunch of roses, that it was "very kind of her to allow him to be of the party." just then the schoolroom doors were thrown open, and the strains of the wedding march from lohengrin floated sweetly out to us from violin and piano. at the same moment phil appeared with a paper flower in his buttonhole, and arranged us in couples,--nora and he going first,--and so we marched into the schoolroom. i think perhaps i ought to describe the schoolroom to you, for it is playroom, sitting-room, schoolroom, and everything to us. it's on the top floor,--so that our noise sha'n't disturb papa,--and takes in the whole width of the house and half its length, making an immense room. there are some back rooms on this floor, and the large open space on each side of the stairs is what we call the attic. though almost everything in it is old and shabby, we do have royal times in the schoolroom, for it is our own, and out of study hours we can do there as we please. here are phil's banjo and his boxing-gloves, and a lot of what nurse calls his "rubbish"; fee's easel is in this corner, and a couple of forlorn, dirty old plaster casts which--unless he has a painting-fit on him--generally serve as hat-rests for phil and himself. pictures in various stages of completion stand about. here, too, are nannie's and fee's violins, resting against a pile of old music that max gave them before he went away. in the next corner, the other side of the low, deep-silled windows, hangs nora's china-shelf, on which are ranged what the boys call her lares and penates,--vases and pretty cups and saucers that have been given to her. here, too, are her plants, conspicuous among which is a graceful fan-leaved palm, known in the family as lady jane. these are the front corners; and between the windows stand our book-shelves,--they are in a clumsy, unsteady old case, that rocks from side to side if you touch it, and is only held together by the wall against which it leans. the shelves are rather short,--now and then a shelf slips off its notches and spills our library,--and they are so narrow that books constantly fall down behind, and lie there until house-cleaning or a sudden desire for one of those volumes brings them all to light, and they are restored to their places. one of the other--back--corners is mine; and here i have my "gymnasium,"--my indian clubs and dumb-bells; here, too, are my tennis racket (i love to play!) and two old walking-canes with which (when i can get him to do it) jack and i fence,--dear me! i wonder if i shall have to give _that_ up too, now that i have given that promise to nannie! then comes our sofa: it's an old-fashioned, chintz-covered affair, with a high back and high arms that stick straight out at each end, and it's dreadfully shabby now; but all the same there isn't one of us--except, perhaps, nora--that would be willing to exchange it for the handsomest piece of furniture that could be offered us. the times we've played house and shipwreck, and gone journeys on it, and romped and pranced all over it, can't be counted! this is jack's favourite place to sit and read; and under it, concealed from public view by the deep chintz flounce that runs around the front and sides of the sofa, are stored his treasures,--his books and stamp album, a queer-looking boat that he has been building for ages, and a toy steam engine with which he is always experimenting, but which, so far, absolutely refuses to "go." i have frequently offered to share my corner with jack, and i couldn't understand why he always refused, until one day i accidentally over-heard him speaking about it to nannie. "you see, nannie, betty means well," he said, "but she does hit out so with those clubs! i'd be sure to get hurt some time or other; and then, besides, she'd just own my things more than i would myself." of course this last part isn't really so, for he hasn't a thing that i'd care for; but still he sticks to the sofa. [illustration: "the 'queen of the revels.'"] kathie and the twins and alan have the other corner with their doll's house, a tail-less hobby horse, known both as the "palfrey" and the "charger," and blocks and toys without number. we've a piano in the schoolroom for practising, and in the middle of the floor is a large table, round which we sit in and out of school hours. this table has no cover; it is liberally besprinkled with ink stains, and adorned in many places with our initials, and with circles done in red ink,--goals for feather-top playing,--and pieces have been hacked out of the edges, trying the sharpness of sundry new knives. the old table is not at all ornamental, but we couldn't get on without it, and we older ones have quite an affection for our old jumbo. some pictures--three or four of them by felix--are hung up on the walls. and now you know how our schoolroom looks. but a grand transformation had taken place: all our stage property had been utilised; the pictures were draped with red, white, and blue paper muslin; the "statuary" and plants were arranged about the room with an eye to a fine effect; great bunches of paper flowers bloomed in every available place,--even on the gas fixtures! the large table was too heavy to be pushed aside, but it was covered with murray unsworth's big flag, which gave it quite a festive appearance; while the smaller table over in the corner, though partially concealed by the dining-room screen, gave tempting glimpses of "refreshments." nannie was at the piano, and beside her was fee, playing away on his violin with all his might. at the farther end of the room, on a dais, was miss marston's chair, covered with red paper muslin, and here, after we had promenaded several times round the room, phil seated nora, announcing her the "queen of the revels," which so struck jack's fancy that he gave his hand a little upward jerk, and shouted, "hurray for we!" and then, though of course we oughtn't to have done it, being for ourselves, you know, we every one joined in a "three times three" hurrah! kathie and the little ones got so excited that they fairly yelled, and we had some difficulty in quieting them. when order was restored, phil and felix brought from the closet a large clothes-basket, piled full of neatly tied-up parcels of all sizes, which they placed beside nora. fee then made a sign to phil. "begin!" he whispered. phil struck an attitude, with his hand on his heart, and began, "fair queen!" then stopped, looked astonished, put his hand to his forehead, gazed at the floor and the ceiling, then burst out with:-- "when these you see, fair maid, remember we; as we've remembered you, and given you your due." "_that_ isn't what you were to say, you goose!" exclaimed felix, wrathfully. "that isn't your speech!" "don't talk to me about your old set speeches, when a man can rise to an occasion like _that!_" remarked phil, loftily, straightening up and throwing back the lapels of his coat with a great air. "_poetry!_--d'ye mind that, mr. wegge? the genuine article, and at a moment's notice! at last i've struck my vocation." of course we laughed uproariously; we were in the mood for it, and would have laughed if some one had held up a finger at us. felix then made his speech, expressing our love and wishes for many, many (i believe there were six manys) happy returns of nora's birthday, and he began to hand her her presents, reading out the inscription on each as he did so, she opening them. the first was "nora, with love and birthday wishes from max," and when the wrapper was off, it proved to be a lovely print of von bodenhauser's madonna. max had given nannie a picture on her birthday, and nora was delighted to get one as well. next came smaller gifts from helen vassah, jack, felix, and nannie, and then felix fished up a large, rather bulky parcel, the inscription on which he read very distinctly: "dearest nora, with love from the 'twinsies,'"--that's the name we give to felix and nannie to distinguish them from the younger twins. "why!" exclaimed nora, in surprise, as she took the parcel on her lap, "you have both already given me something, you dear, generous creatures; i'm afraid you've been extravagant. and so nicely done up, too; thank you, thank you very much!" and she kissed them warmly. "oh, that's all right; don't speak of it," said felix, modestly, while nannie began wonderingly, "why, i didn't--" "ought to be something very fine," hastily interrupted phil, "_four_ wrappers!" the next minute there was a shout of laughter from us all as, after carefully unfolding the last paper, nora drew out nurse's work-basket, piled high with innumerable pairs of our stockings and socks which were waiting to be darned! i expected nora would have been provoked, but she only laughed as heartily as the rest of us. it was a fortunate thing she was in such a good humour, for three more times the boys played that joke on her before the basket was emptied. one was her own choicest cup and saucer, "with love from papa;" the next, the drawing-room feather-duster, "a token of appreciation from the family,"--nora _hates_ to dust! and the third, an unfinished sketch which she began months ago, and which was for phil when completed; this was "from her affectionate brother, philip." and they were so cleverly sandwiched in between the real birthday gifts that nora got caught each time, to our great enjoyment. after this we had games, and refreshments were served early on account of the little ones. as soon as they had said good-night we played more games, and then the boys began to get noisy; that's the worst with boys,--at least our boys,--just as soon as they begin to enjoy themselves, it seems as if they _must_ make a noise and get rough. ever since nannie and i had that talk, i've been trying my best to act like a young lady, and this evening i was particularly on my good behaviour; but, oh, it was tiresome! and i could see that the boys didn't know what to make of it,--murray unsworth asked if i didn't feel well, and fee looked very quizzically at me, though i pretended i didn't see him. i was so afraid he'd say something right before that boy! well, as it happened, all my pains went for nothing,--and just through fee's nonsense. murray and i were looking at phil's boxing-gloves,--phil was out of the room,--and as we talked, i slipped on one of the gloves, when felix came up behind me and took hold of my arm. "that's phil opening the door," he said quickly; "let's play a joke on him." and before i had the least idea of what he was going to do, fee had raised my arm and given the person who was entering such a whack on the shoulder with the boxing-glove as whirled him completely round, so that he got in the way of another person who was behind him, and nearly knocked him over. in a moment more we saw that the two persons were papa and a stranger,--a young man! there was an instant's awful pause, broken by a nervous little giggle from jack at the sight of phil--behind papa--with his hands clasped, his knees bent as if in abject terror, and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling. then, settling his glasses--which had been nearly knocked off--straight on his nose, papa looked around at us and asked, "is this the way you welcome your guests, nora?" adding, to me, "take off that glove, betty!" i got awfully red, i know; but before i could say anything felix stepped forward and explained, and nora advanced with a smile, saying, "we are very glad to see you, papa." then papa introduced the young man, and who should he be but max's ward, "the great shad," or, to give him his proper name, chadwick whitcombe! he had expected to meet max at our house, and had waited some time downstairs for him; then, as the evening wore on and max did not appear, papa had thought it best to himself bring him up and introduce him to us. of course we all looked at him,--and the more so that he isn't at all like what we had any of us expected. in the first place, though max says he's just nineteen, he acts as if he were years older than that, and altogether he is different to any of the boys we've ever known. he's not quite so tall as fee, though he wears very high heels on his boots; and his features are so delicate, his complexion so pink and white, that in spite of a tiny moustache, which he's very fond of caressing, he looks a great deal more like a girl than a boy. his hair is as yellow as mädel's; it's wavy like a girl's, and he wears it long and parted in the middle; and his eyes are large and very blue,--phil says they are "languishing," and he and felix have given him another nick-name of "lydia languish." he wore evening clothes, with a white flower in his buttonhole, and there were diamond studs in the bosom of his shirt, and a diamond ring on one of his fingers. when papa introduced him, he put his heels together and made us three very low and graceful bows, saying, in a voice just like a girl's, and with a smile that showed his white teeth, "i am _very_ happy to--aw--meet you!" [illustration: "'aw!'"] after looking at the presents, which, minus the jokes, were ranged on a table, and saying a few words, papa went away. i have an idea that he noticed the difference between this delicate dresden-china young man and our own fun-loving boys, and rather dreaded leaving the stranger to our devices; for at the door he laid his hand on phil's shoulder and said, "remember, no more jokes to-night, phil." and with a look of injured innocence that almost upset felix and me, phil answered, "why, no, sir, _certainly_ not." we were rather quiet at first after papa went away; then phil nudged nannie, with the whisper: "go talk to him; i don't know what to say to such a dude;" while felix chimed in, in the same low voice, "ask him if he puts his hair up in papers, nights,--or get betty to ask him." but i edged away quickly, and joined murray and helen at the other side of the room. i was determined i would get into no more mischief. but they needn't have troubled themselves,--chad didn't seem one bit embarrassed: he just drew a chair to nora's side and began talking to her as easily as if he had known her all his life; and in a little while nannie got the boys over to the piano and singing songs with rousing choruses, which they always enjoy. i think she did it this time, though, to divert their attention from the new-comer, for they were just ready to bubble over at the way he talked; even hilliard's sleepy eyes were twinkling with sly merriment. when chad talks he is, as murray puts it, "too awfully english, you know, for anything," though he was born and has lived most of his life in america; and he pronounces his words in the most affected way. altogether, he is awfully affected; you should see the air with which he flirts his handkerchief out of his pocket, his mincing steps, and the bored, you-can't-teach-me-anything expression of his face. "i've--aw--really been very busy since my return," he told nora, in that high-pitched, affected voice of his. "i've--aw--moved into bachelor quarters, and been--aw--having my apartments decorated and furnished. have my own ideahs, you know, and--aw--'m having 'em carried out--all in blue--effect will be--aw--really very fine. i've--aw--brought back pictures and bric-à-brac and--aw--curios of all descriptions, and now--aw--'ll turn 'em to good account. awful job, you know--expect to work like a slave--these--aw--so-called decorators over here have such abominable taste! but the effect will be unique--of that--aw--'m sure." "why, aren't you going to school--i mean college?" phil turned round in the middle of a chorus to ask bluntly. "i--aw--have no intention of it," answered chad, lounging off in his chair and stroking his baby moustache. "oh, i see: your education's finished," said phil, with that innocent expression on his face that we know means mischief; but before he could say another word, helen vassah cried out, "oh, phil, here's our favourite duet; you must sing it with me," and nannie struck up an unusually loud accompaniment. before the evening was over, we made up our minds that chad was the silliest, most conceited creature; he did nothing but talk of himself and his possessions, and in the most lordly way imaginable. no matter what subject was introduced, he'd go right back to the one thing that seemed to interest him,--himself. he lounged back in his chair and made not the slightest effort to join in the entertainment. in fact, nora was the only person he honoured with any notice; and while we all think him very unmannerly, she--would you believe it!--likes him. coming over later in the evening to the corner of the room where helen, fee, jack and i were, she said to helen, "isn't he nice? did you see the way he offered me his arm to the piano? so polite, and different from the generality of boys,--don't you think so?" "yes," helen said, with a smile, "he is quite unlike any of the boys we know; who _does_ he look like, nora? we all see a likeness, but can't think to whom." "oh, i know, i've got it, i know," cried jack, excitedly; "he looks (except that he hasn't got on knee-breeches and lace ruffles) just like that picture max gave you, felix,--don't you remember?--with a lace handkerchief in one hand and a snuff-box in the other. oh, you _know_,--the french marquis--" "you're right, jack,--so it is; he does look like 'monsieur le marquis,'" nora said, glancing at chad. "he _has_ an aristocratic face,--'monsieur le marquis.'" [illustration: "here is the sketch."] "monsieur le don_key_ would be a more suitable name," exclaimed fee, while helen, jack, and i laughed. "if you'd seen how absurd he looked when he clicked his heels together and offered you his arm, you would know mine is the title that best suits him. i declare i'll make a sketch of you both from memory; it was too rich to be lost." catching up a blank book, he began to sketch rapidly. nora turned away, laughing; but we three remained, looking over fee's shoulder, criticising and offering suggestions, until it was finished. here is the sketch: it's pretty good of nora, but of course it's a caricature of chad. about a quarter to ten the "party" broke up. chad was the first to go; as he rose to say good-night, i heard nannie whisper to phil: "phil, you'll have to see him out. fee can't go all the way downstairs and then up again,--it's too much for him,--and jack is too young; anyway, it is your place as the eldest." "little snob!" said phil, savagely. "i'd like to take him down by way of the banisters,--just give him one shove, and let him fly." "he _is_ a snob," admitted nannie, "but he is also max's ward, and that entitles him to some consideration from us; and remember, too, what max said,--that he has knocked about the world ever since he was a little fellow: that would account for much. you know, phil, we've had our home and one another and dear mamma; and besides, you wouldn't want to spoil nonie's birthday. do treat him civilly! will you?" "well, i'll try," phil answered, making a wry face; "but if he begins any of his 'aw--aw,' on the way down, i'll not answer for the consequences." bending low over nora's hand, chad murmured something of which we only heard "chawming evening--pleasure of meeting you--max again," then, bowing twice to the rest of the company, he took his departure. "i've enjoyed myself immensely," hilliard said, as he bade good-night; then he added to me, "i never knew before how interesting a large family could be,--you have such fun among yourselves; and i think it is so kind of you all to let me come over and share your good times." then murray and helen made their adieux, and all went away together. phil came racing back to the schoolroom after seeing them out. "well," he said breathlessly, taking a seat on the edge of the big table, "well, everything went off all right; quite a success, wasn't it? barring the great shad,--he was no addition to our party. i'm awfully sorry he's such a cad; for max's sake i'd have liked to be nice to him." "you are hard on him, phil," nora said. "he may be a little conceited, but i think he's not at all a bad fellow; now see if you don't like him better after you get to know him." "not at all a bad fellow!" repeated felix, sharply. "well, you may think so, but i don't. i agree with phil,--he _is_ a cad! did you see the expression of his face as he looked around our shabby old schoolroom, and took in the simple birthday refreshments? he didn't even take the trouble to hide his contempt for our poverty and childishness. you may think that's like a gentleman, but i do not." "he wouldn't touch the cake, and only took a glass of water," i volunteered at this point. "you here?" cried nora, wheeling round on me, "and jack? it's high time you two were in bed." then she went on: "our appetites are equal to anything; but not everybody dotes on home-made cookies and tough sponge cake. _i_ found max's ward a very polite young gentleman, a pleasant change from the rough, unmannerly boys one usually has to put up with. betty and jack, _are_ you going to bed, or not? why don't you speak to them, nannie?" "don't be cross to them," whispered nannie to her; "it's your birthday, you know. come, betty; come, jack, let's go off together. i'm tired and sleepy, too." rather unwillingly we bade good-night and went downstairs with nannie. as the schoolroom door closed behind us, i heard felix say, with a sharp insistence unusual to him, and bringing his hand down on the table to emphasise his words, "i _don't_ like that fellow! i _don't_ like him, and i wish he hadn't come here!" x. in the schoolroom. told by felix. "felix," said the _pater_, "your two elder sisters are to go with me on thursday afternoon to mrs. blackwood's reception, and i should like you to accompany us; phil went the last time--" he stopped abruptly, with a stifled sigh, and began hastily turning over the leaves of the book which lay open before him on his desk. i knew why he sighed; i remembered well who had been with him the last time he attended a reception at mrs. blackwood's; the awful, aching longing that i have so often to fight down has taught me something of what my father must suffer. if i could only have expressed what was in my heart! but all i could manage to get out was, "very well, sir," and my voice sounded so cold and indifferent that i was ashamed. i'm not afraid of the _pater_,--i can talk easily enough to him on ordinary subjects; but when it comes to anything about which i feel very deeply, nannie is the only person to whom i can bear to speak, now that _she_ is gone. and even to nannie i can't say much; i wish i could,--it would be a relief sometimes. i envy the others that they can talk of--mother; it is a comfort to me to listen, but it cuts me to the heart to even say her name. so this afternoon i sat quietly at nannie's table, and went on sorting the references i had been making for the fetich, until my father got up from his desk and began pacing up and down the study floor, with his hands clasped behind his back. his head was bent forward, and he had evidently entirely forgotten that i was in the room; for he sighed heavily several times, and then, with a sudden straightening of his whole body, as if in acute physical pain, he threw back his head, and a low, quivering "_a-a-h!_" that was like a groan, broke from his lips. an iron hand seemed clutching my throat, and i could hardly see for the blur across my eyes, as i crept out of the room and closed the door softly. i sat on the steps for a few moments, then--for i had forgotten my cane in the study--went slowly upstairs, and that gave me a chance to recover myself before i reached the schoolroom; though perhaps nannie noticed something unusual,--my twinnie's eyes are so sharp, and her heart is so tender,--for it seemed to me that her voice was very loving as she said, pushing forward our big old rocker as soon as i entered the room: "you naughty fee! you've come up without your cane; you must be tired. sit here and get rested." [illustration: "alan, on his fiery steed."] i _was_ tired,--unusually so,--and was glad to get into the chair. it was after school hours, and the clan was in full force. nora was seated at my easel, humming "a media noche," and trying to copy her birthday picture; betty and jack were fencing,--at least, betty was making furious lunges at jack, which he was mainly occupied in dodging, while every now and then a vehement protest was heard, such as, "now, betty, look out! that was my head," or, "that came within an inch of my nose--i _do_ wish you'd be careful!" kathie and the twins were playing house, holding lively conversations in a high key, while alan paid them repeated visits, prancing around the room, and to their door, on a broomstick, which was his fiery steed, and to control which required both voice and whip; nannie was hunting through our pile of violin music for a certain duet to play with max when he got home; and in the midst of all the noise phil lay on the sofa, his head nearly level with the seat, and his long legs extended over the arm, reading virgil aloud. that's his way of studying,--a most annoying one to a nervous person!--and, as the noise around him increases or decreases, so he raises or lowers his voice. as may be easily understood, there are times when he fairly roars. the news of the reception had preceded me, and as i came in phil reared his head in such a comical way to speak to me that betty instantly declared that he looked like a turtle. "so you're booked for the blackwood tea-fight," he said. "well, old man, my sympathy for you is only equalled by my thankfulness that i am not the victim. take my advice,--i've been there several times, you know, and you haven't,--fortify the inner man before you go. it's a very mild orgy,--a thimbleful of chocolate and one macaroon are all you'll get,--and coming between luncheon and dinner, i'm afraid you'll feel--as i did--as if you'd like to fall on the table and eat up all that's on it." his head fell back, and he resumed his reading, the book resting upright on his chest. "people are not supposed to gorge themselves at an afternoon reception," remarked nora, before i could get a word in. "it is--" "'a feast of reason and a flow of soul,'" finished nannie, smiling, "though i'm sure dear old mrs. blackwood would willingly have given you a pound or two of macaroons and a whole pitcher full of chocolate, had she known you were hungry." "oh, i'm not saying a word against her in particular; she's a first-rate old party," commenced phil, but he was instantly interrupted. "phil, you are positively vulgar," cried nora, in a tone of disgust. "don't speak of our dear old friend in that way, phil; it isn't nice," said nannie. "well, now, here's a queer thing," remarked phil, in an argumentative tone. "if i'd said mrs. blackwood was 'a host in herself,' it would have been considered a delicate compliment; and yet when i call her a 'party,' which certainly means a host, you two jump on me. there's no accounting for the eccentricities of the feminine character." then, as his head sank back, "i do believe somebody's been pulling the feathers out of this sofa pillow; there can't be two dozen left in it. i suppose betty's been making an indian head-dress for herself. just poke that history under my head, will you, jack? or i'll certainly get rush of blood to the brain. there, that's better! why so silent, most noble felix?" with a sidelong glance at me after settling himself. "art filled with fears for thursday's function?" usually i enjoy phil's nonsense, and talk as much of it as he does; but somehow i didn't feel in the mood for it this afternoon. one reason may have been because of the dreadfully tired feeling that had come over me since entering the schoolroom: it was really an effort for me to answer him; i felt as if i wanted only to be let alone, and i realised, without being able to control it, that my voice was very irritable as i said briefly, "one has got to be silent when you begin to gabble." phil reared his head again, and looked at me. "whew!" he whistled, "aren't we spicy this afternoon!" nannie immediately rushed into conversation. "mrs. blackwood wrote papa that she and mr. blackwood had just received some very rare old books from europe," she said, "among them a chaucer,--and beside that, a charming corot; so, fee, both you and papa will have something to enjoy, while nora and i are exchanging small-talk." "oh, that's why papa was so willing to go to the reception," nora remarked, with her usual brilliancy. "i might have known there was something like that about it." [illustration: "'fee, dear,' she said in an undertone, 'don't you feel well? tell me.'"] willing! i thought of what had happened in the study that afternoon--poor old _pater_! i felt like saying something sharp to miss nora, but it was actually too much trouble to speak; i was so tired, and the chair was so comfortable, that i did not want even to think of any exertion. by this time nannie had found her duet, and she came and stood by my chair, looking anxiously at me. "fee, dear," she said in an undertone, "don't you feel well? tell me." her fingers stole up and gently stroked the hair behind my ear. "tell me, fee," she pleaded. "i only want--to be let alone," i said, but not unkindly. i didn't mean to be disagreeable to her, and i think she understood,--she is so quick of comprehension! at this moment there was an outcry from one of the fencers. "if you aren't the meanest girl i know!" cried jack. "you don't seem to care how much you hurt a person. i won't play another minute, now, then!" and his stick rattled on the floor. "she's given me a horrid poke in the ribs," he said, coming over to nannie, with his hand pressed to his side. "i tell you now, it hurts; and she doesn't care a rap,--rough thing!" betty was laughing immoderately. "poor wounded warrior!" she mocked; "he's taken his 'death of danger' ever since we began. what a baby you are, jack! i'd just like to give you something to make a fuss about. ho, there! defend thyself, sir knight." she bore down on him with upraised stick, but jack dodged behind nannie. "now stop, i tell you, betty!" he cried sharply. "go away! i'm not playing; you're too disagreeable." "oh, come, miss elizabeth, do behave yourself," said nannie. but betty kept dancing around jack, and making thrusts at him. "hie thee hither, my squires," she called to the younger boys. "come on, sir paul, come on, sir alan, and we'll capture this recreant knight." "you ought to be sent to boarding-school, where you'd be _made_ to behave yourself!" "fair play, elizabeth; don't hurt our rosebud;" and "i'd just like to see 'em try it," came simultaneously from nora, phil, and jack. but the "squires" had no intention of interfering; they had pressing affairs of their own to look after. one of the dolls having suddenly developed a complication of diseases,--measles, scarlet fever, and whooping cough,--the heads of the household were after the doctor in hot haste. sir paul had mounted the "charger," and was urging him on at his highest speed, while sir alan came dashing toward us on his broomstick, thrashing his steed without mercy, and shouting, "gee up, horsie, _g-e-e_ up!" at the top of his voice. at this juncture the door opened, and in stepped nurse. "lors-a-me! bedlam let loose!" she exclaimed, putting up her hands and looking as surprised as if this noisy state of things were not of daily occurrence. "master felix, your pa'd like to see you 'bout some referumces,--or something like that. come, children, it's time to get ready for your dinner. oh, come now,--i ain't got no time to waste; to-morrow you c'n get the doctor--come!" as i sat up and took hold of the arms of the rocker, as a preliminary to rising, nannie said, coaxingly: "mayn't i go down and explain to papa about those references? you could tell me, you know, fee. then you could go to your room and lie down for a little while before dinner,--you look so tired." "i _am_ tired," i answered slowly, "awfully tired. and i really don't know why i should feel so. i've not done any more or as much as usual to-day. no, nan, i think i'll go down; but first i'll get ready for dinner, and that will spare another trip up and down the stairs. i'll go to bed early to-night, and that'll make me all right to-morrow." so saying, i stood up and took a step forward; just then alan, who had escaped from nurse and taken another gallop around the room, came kicking and prancing up on his restive steed. he rushed by with a great flourish, whirling the end of the broomstick as he got near me; nurse made a dive at him, and the next moment i was in a heap on the floor! i wasn't hurt, except for a sharp rap on one elbow, and my first impulse was to call out and reassure the family, for they were frightened; but though i could hear all that went on,--in a far-off way, as if i were in a dream,--to my great surprise i found that i could neither move nor speak, nor even open my eyes! like a flash, nannie was beside me on the floor, crying, "oh, _fee!_ are you hurt?" and trying to slip her little hands under my shoulder. nora and betty immediately began scolding alan, who protested vehemently, "i _didn't_ hit him; no, i _didn't_, truly i didn't." i heard jack's nervous demand, "oh, do, somebody, tell me what to do for him!" and phil's startled exclamation, "great cæsar's ghost!" and the thud with which his virgil fell on the floor. then i felt his strong arms under me, and i was lifted and laid on the sofa. "are you hurt, old fellow? are you, fee?" phil asked anxiously, bending over me. "mebbe he's faint like; open the window, master phil! children, _don't_ crowd round your brother so," said nurse. "there, now, fan him, an' i'll bring some water." as she turned away i heard her say,--nurse never can whisper,--"i don't like his looks; go tell your pa, master phil, an' ask him if you can run for the doctor." nannie's fingers tightened round my hand. "o-o-h, my _dear_!" she whispered. the quiver in her voice told me that she, too, had heard nurse's remark, and that she was frightened,--my little twinnie! i think she would willingly any time suffer pain to spare me. i longed to comfort her, to tell them all that i was not at all hurt, that i had no pain whatever,--even the backache, which is my almost daily companion, having left me since the fall,--yet the terrible languor which controlled me seemed almost too great to be overcome. then i thought of poor nannie, and the _pater_, and the doctor, and the beastly fussing and restrictions i'd have to endure, and with a desperate effort--for my tongue really felt heavy--i managed to get out, "i'm--not--hurt. don't--need--doctor." nannie gave a little gasp when i spoke, and catching my two hands in hers, kissed them. "you old humbug!" cried phil, gaily,--i could hear the note of relief in his voice; "i do believe you've been shamming to give us a scare. open your eyes this minute." and then i found that i could raise my lids and look at the dear faces gathered about me. "sure you feel all right, master felix?" nurse asked, eyeing me closely. "sure," i answered slowly; "only tired." "well, if it's only tired you are, the best place is bed, an' we'll not send for the doctor," she said; and i made no objection, though usually i hate to go to bed in the day-time. not having inherited the good physique of the family, i've spent more days in bed and on the sofa than i'd be willing to count, and i'm not anxious for more. still i would rather do that now than have the doctor sent for, so without demur i let phil carry me down to my room, and undress and put me to bed. what wouldn't i give to be as strong as he is! and he's gentle with it; sometimes he provokes me by the way he watches and takes care of me,--as if i were so fragile i'd go to pieces at a knock,--though in a way i like it, too, and he doesn't mean to rub it in. he has an idea that i care less for him than he does for me, because i am so unfortunately constituted that i can't express what i feel; but--if he only knew it--life to me wouldn't be worth the living without him and nannie,--dear old lion-heart! sometimes i wonder if he will always be as good to me, and care as much; i mean when he gets older, and goes more among people, and they find out what a fine fellow he is, and what jolly company. he declares now that i'm the good company; but _i_ know that my good spirits are more dependent on his than his on mine. in our studies i'm the quicker,--he doesn't love books as i do,--but he is so kindly and brave and bright and merry, that i'd defy anybody not to like him. but--though he thinks he is awfully sharp--phil is one of the kind that will be imposed upon; he's so honest and straightforward himself that he thinks everybody else is also, and i'm constantly afraid that some fellow or other that he doesn't see through'll get hold of him and get him into mischief. this was one of the reasons why i was so awfully disappointed at not going to college; phil and i've been together all our lives, and i hated mortally to have him go off alone and meet people, and make friends there that i would never know. he really needs me--my cooler judgment, i mean--just as much as i ever need his protecting strength. i'm almost sure that _she_ thought so, too, for whenever college was spoken of she would say, "you must go at the same time, felix, and help him;" and once she added, "help him in _everything_," and i understood what she meant. it won't always be so: i think that by and by, when phil gets to be a man, he'll have more judgment; and now it's only because he's so true himself, and so simple-hearted. i really believe i love him all the better for these traits, though sometimes, when i get provoked, i tell him that he is gullible, and a second dr. primrose. when i found that i couldn't possibly go to college, it was a great relief to know that murray unsworth was there, and that they'd be together. murray's an a fellow! but i must confess that so far phil hasn't changed at all; he depends on me and seems to like to be with me just as much as ever. and now comes along that snob chad. i _don't_ like that fellow, and i'll be furious if he gets intimate with phil. phil didn't like him at all at first, but i can see--though he won't admit it--that chad is worming himself into his good graces. he's found out that phil is first-rate company, and now he is trying to be very friendly. max was called out of town on the evening of nora's birthday, and he didn't get back for some time; but that has not prevented monsieur le don_key_ from coming here again and again. he had the assurance to send his card up to nora the second time he called,--for her to go down to the drawing-room and entertain him alone! just like his impudence! but of course miss marston would not let nora go, and instead, the _pater_ walked in, and squelched mr. "shad." we don't know what father said, but the next time chad appeared he found the schoolroom good enough for him; and now, as i said, he is trying to be very friendly with phil. i don't want him to get intimate with phil; i dread it, for i have a conviction he's not the sort of fellow that it will do anybody any good to know. from what he has told nora, it seems that chad's father was a miner who "struck a bonanza," as he expresses it, and made a great deal of money; then, just as he was ready to enjoy the fortune, he and his wife were killed in a railroad disaster, leaving chad, who was the only child, to the guardianship of a fellow miner--another "bonanza" man--and max, whose only acquaintance with mr. whitcomb, by the way, had been in successfully conducting a law case for him. the other guardian took the boy all over the united states, and then to europe, letting him, i fancy, do as he pleased,--study or not as suited his own will,--with the result that chad is an ignorant, vulgar, conceited cad, with the merest veneering of refinement, who cares for no one but himself, and whose sole standard for everything and every one is that of money. when the other guardian died, of course max had to assume the charge of chad,--who'll not be of age for nearly two years,--though i should think he must be a serious trial, for max is so thoroughly nice himself, so honourable and clever and refined, that this affected, snobbish little dresden-china-young-man, as betty calls him, must jar on him in every way, though perhaps chad is on his best behaviour with his guardian. chad affects to be quite a man of the world, talks a great deal about his "bachelor quarters" and the theatres; he drinks and smokes, and i've heard him swear; he considers all this the proper thing for young fellows of our age, and more than once he has sneered at phil and me as "behind the times." he calls murray "the innocent," though i've snubbed him for it pretty sharply, and whenever he gets a chance, he makes fun of hilliard's slow ways, when old hill is worth a dozen or two of such blowers as he. i almost wish murray'd give the bediamonded cad a thrashing,--only that the fellow's not worth his touching. phil and i neither drink nor smoke; we've never spoken about it to each other, but we know that our--mother--would not have liked us to do any of these things, so we let them alone. i think chad knows that i've no liking for him,--to put it mildly,--and that he returns the compliment. i try not to quarrel with him; in fact,--though it goes awfully against the grain,--i make an effort to be civil, so as to see, hear, and know all that goes on between himself and phil, and to be able to guard phil from him without phil's knowing it. i've said a few things to warn phil; but i had to be careful, for he's such an old quixote that, if he thought i was particularly down on chad, he'd begin to take up the cudgels for him. but he _sha'n't_ get hold of phil, i declare he sha'n't,--not as long as i am here. i wish to goodness he hadn't ever come near us! nannie is the only one to whom i've said anything of my fear, and she laughs it away. she says phil is the last person in the world to fall in with a fellow like chad; but i'm not so sure of that, for chad can be entertaining enough when he chooses to be, telling of his life in california and the wild west, and in europe. i know he has invited phil to come to his rooms, and twice he has taken him off for a long walk. phil _loves_ to walk, with long, swinging strides, that, try to keep up as i may, wear me out before we've gone many blocks, even with the support of his arm. so there i can't be with him. _she_ used to say that it was best to recognise one's limitations, and to respect them: i recognise mine only too well,--i've _got_ to; but instead of respecting, i abhor them, and am always striving to get beyond them. with all the strength of soul that is in me i try to be patient and contented--to accept myself; but now that she has gone, only god and i know the miserable failure i make of it day after day. i want to do so much; i want to amount to something in the world, to have advantages for study and improvement, and to fit myself to mix with wise men by and by,--clever men and scholars,--and to hold my own among them. i could do it, i feel i could, if only i had the opportunity for study, and the health to improve it; this isn't conceit,--_she_ knew that,--but a cool, calm gauging of the sort of ability that i know i have. we--she and i--used to plan great things that i was to do when i went to college; when i finished college, and went into the world, i was to become a famous lawyer,--"good, wise, and great, my son felix," she used to say, with a look in her eyes that always stirred me to more and better efforts. she helped me in every way, and it was a delight to learn, in spite of the drawback of ill-health. but now all is changed: she is gone, there is no prospect whatever of my getting to college, and somehow, lately, this miserable old back of mine seems to be getting to be a wetter and wetter blanket than ever on my ambition. ah, if i but had a physique like phil's! she used to say, "remember always, felix, that your fine mind is a gift from god, a responsibility given you by him." oh, why, then, did he not give me a body to match? all things are possible to him; he could have done so. when i was a little fellow i used to pray most earnestly that god would let me outgrow this lameness and be strong like other boys; but we had a talk about it,--just before she went away,--and ever since then i have asked only to be patient and contented. but with all the trying, it is _very_ hard to say truthfully that i am thankful for my creation. i have never spoken of this to nannie, but perhaps, with that quick intuition which makes her such a blessing to us, she guesses it; for only last sunday, in church, when we came to that part in the general thanksgiving, she snuggled closer to me as we knelt, and gave my hand a quick, warm little squeeze, as if to tell me that she was glad of my "creation and preservation." nannie comforts me more than i can ever express to her; she has many a time given me courage when my spirits were at a very low ebb. xi. an afternoon reception. told by felix. though i felt all right the next day, to please nurse i did not get up; but on wednesday i did. at first my legs were very shaky, even for me: my cane was not enough; i had to hold on to the furniture besides to make my way about the room. but gradually that wore away, and by afternoon i was quite as well as usual; so on thursday we went to the reception in the order first planned. the blackwoods live in a large old house, and by the time we got there--we were rather late--the parlours were quite crowded. i think the _pater_ was a little nervous as we went up the palm-lined staircase; he hates an affair of this kind, and only the rare editions and a strong dislike to hurting the feelings of his old friends could have induced him to attend it. he kept nannie close beside him, nora and i following behind. mrs. blackwood is a fine-looking old lady, with beautiful white hair, which she wears turned straight off her face; she gave us a warm welcome, and after walking father through the rooms, and introducing him to a number of people,--not one of whom he would have recognised five minutes after!--and after showing us the corot, which is a _beauty!_ she led the way to the library. it was a cosy room, for all it was so large. the walls were lined with books; a desk stood near one of the windows; some tables--on which were books, photos, and several handsome glass and china bowls filled with flowers--and a variety of comfortable chairs were scattered about; in a space between the book-shelves, and thrown into bold relief by the dark portière behind it, was an exquisite marble laocoön, and in the bay-window the beautiful venus de milo. [illustration: "in the bay-window."] i should have enjoyed staying there, but we'd only been in a short while when mrs. blackwood's daughter came and carried us younger ones off to the drawing-room again. in vain nannie and i politely protested that we should rather stay in the library; mrs. endicott was not to be resisted. "your father and my mother enjoy looking at books more than anything else," she said pleasantly, as we made our reluctant way back; "but i know that young people like to be where there are life and gaiety,--and you haven't even had a cup of chocolate. come this way, and i'll introduce you to miss devereaux." she piloted us rapidly through the crowd to the upper end of the room, where at a table sat a young lady pouring chocolate, to whom she introduced us. taking my "thimbleful" of chocolate, i retreated to a corner where i could sit and sip and take observations unobserved. to begin with, i could not but notice the difference in my two sisters. nannie had found a place on a lounge near the tea-table, and was gazing about her with the deepest interest,--her brown eyes all a-shine, the faintest ripple of a smile stirring her lips; to my eyes she looked very sweet! nora stood, cup in hand, sipping her chocolate, and chatting as easily to miss devereaux and the different ones who came up as if she were in the habit of going to afternoon receptions every day in the week. i saw people look and look again at her, and it didn't surprise me, for nora is a stunner, and no mistake. as phil says, she carries herself as if she owned the whole earth, and she is self-possessed to a degree that is a constant surprise to us. if she weren't always so dead sure that she is right and everybody else wrong, we'd all think a great deal more of her; but as she is, one feels it a positive duty to snub her sometimes. we are proud of nora's beauty, but she's the very last one we'd any of us go to for comfort or in a strait,--why, betty'd be better, for all she's so fly-away and blunt. miss devereaux was handsome, too: she was large and statuesque, with beautifully moulded throat and arms, and hair which rippled like that of my poor old plaster juno at home,--in fact, she suggested to my mind some greek goddess dressed up in silk and lace; i quite enjoyed looking at her, and would have liked to make a sketch of her. but she wasn't as nice as she looked; in her way she was as snobbish as is chad. a tall, very richly dressed woman was brought up and introduced; she wore enormous diamond ear-rings, and her manner was even more condescending than that of the young goddess herself. she pulled forward a chair, completely barring the way to the table, and, seating herself, stirred her chocolate languidly. miss devereaux was all attention; she offered almost everything on the table, and listened with the deepest interest while the diamond lady talked loudly and impressively of _her_ last afternoon reception,--the distinguished people who were present, and what the music and refreshments cost. then, suddenly remembering that she was "due at one of 'mrs. judge' somebody's receptions,--they were always _alagant_ affairs,"--the diamond lady put down her cup, from which she had barely taken a sip or two, and with a bow, and what phil calls "a galvanised smile," sailed off to parts unknown. "such a charming woman!" murmured the goddess to nannie. before nannie could answer, there was a new claimant for refreshments,--a slender, rather spare little woman this time, dressed in a severely plain black gown; her hair was parted and pulled tightly away from her face; her bonnet was a good deal plainer and uglier than anything that nurse has ever had,--and she has rather distinguished herself in that line. this little woman was evidently not used to receptions and young goddesses. she seated herself on the extreme edge of the chair the diamond lady had just vacated, and after taking off her gloves, and laying them across her lap, she accepted her chocolate and cake with a deprecating air, as if apologising for the trouble she was causing. "oh, thank you, _thank_ you," she said gratefully; "you are _very_ kind." the young goddess gave her a haughty stare, and then assumed a bored expression that i could see made the poor little woman nervous. she stirred her chocolate violently, and drank half of the cupful at a draught; then, evidently considering it her duty to make conversation, she remarked, "didn't we have an interesting address yesterday at the missions house?" she glanced at miss devereaux as she spoke. "ah--indeed!" answered that young person, with another haughty glare that almost overcame the little woman. she got very red, and in her agitation drained her cup, and sat holding it. she looked thoroughly uncomfortable. i'm not fond of addressing strangers, but i couldn't stand that sort of treatment any longer, and got on my feet with the desperate intention of immediately starting a lively conversation with this particular stranger, without regard to miss devereaux. but nannie was ahead of me; bending forward, she said in her friendliest tone,--and nancy's friendliest tone is worth hearing, i tell you,--"i read of it in the papers; it must have been _very_ interesting." the little woman's look of gratitude was positively pathetic. [illustration: "'it must have been _very_ interesting.'"] "yes, it was, _very_ fine!" she said,--bending forward, and jerking her sentences out nervously,--"so many people, and such splendid speakers! i wish mrs. blackwood'd been there!" then, waxing confidential, she went on in a lower key: "she and i used to be girls together,--ages ago. then her folks took her to europe to finish her education,--some people set such store by foreign education! we didn't meet again--though i heard of her off and on--till here, lately, when i came to new york to live. of course--for old times' sake--i looked her up and called,--handsome house, isn't it? seems like some people have everything,"--with a short sigh that sounded almost like a snort,--"but i must say tilly isn't a bit stuck up over it,--never was. say, who's _she_?" a quick sidelong motion of eyes and thumb in miss devereaux's direction gave point to this last question. "i think her name--" began nannie, but she was interrupted by a loud crash which seemed to come from one of the adjoining rooms. in an instant my twin was on her feet: "oh, _felix_!" she cried breathlessly, "that came from the library! papa has knocked over something!" the _pater_ has an absent-minded way of upsetting things, and nannie's tone carried conviction with it; so, as fast as i could, i followed in her wake as she threaded her way swiftly through the crowded room. nora raised her eyebrows with an air of mock resignation. "no use our _all_ going," she said in an undertone as i went past her, and resumed her conversation with the gentleman to whom she had been talking. some people had collected in the doorway of the library by the time i got there, and i was delayed a minute or two in getting into the room; then i saw, at one glance, that our worst fears were realised. there stood my father, minus his spectacles, peering about him with a most anxious, bewildered expression on his face,--i was struck with how ill he looked! and around him on the polished floor lay the fragments of one of the doulton bowls! the small table on which it had stood was-overturned, flowers were scattered in every direction, and among the ruins shone my father's glasses, broken in several pieces. nannie went straight to the _pater's_ side and took his hand. "felix and i are here, papa; what can we do for you?" she said. the colour was in her face; i know she felt embarrassed, but her voice was quite calm. my father screwed up his eyes in a vain attempt to see the extent of the mischief: "i--i think--i think, my dear, that i've broken something," he said. at which very obvious statement there was a sound of smothered laughter at the door. nannie's colour deepened, and i believe i muttered something about finding mrs. blackwood; to tell the truth, i was so rattled--between sympathy for the _pater_ and embarrassment at the accident--that i hardly knew what i was saying, but my father caught at it. "yes, yes," he said nervously, "i must speak to our hostess; i must apologise for my awkwardness. ask mrs. blackwood if she will be kind enough to step here, felix--or stay, i will go to her." "i'll find mrs. blackwood for you," volunteered one of the bystanders; but at that moment the little crowd at the door parted and in came mrs. blackwood, and who should be behind her but _max_! i was delighted to see him. i felt that we were all right then, for max always knows what to do; and i think nannie felt as relieved as i did, for she gave a glad little cry as she held out her hand. then she turned as red as a rose,--i suppose she suddenly realised how many people were looking at her; but evidently max didn't mind them in the least, for he held on to nannie's hand, and smiled, and looked at her just as kindly as if we were at home,--max likes us all, but nannie has always been his favourite. in the mean time mrs. blackwood was trying, with exquisite tact, to make my father feel less uncomfortable. "it was the most absurd place to put a bowl of flowers," she asserted cheerfully, "on so slight a table, and so near the book-shelves. i've always declared that an accident would occur; now i can say, 'i told you so!' and that's such a satisfaction to a woman, you know." she laughed merrily, but the _pater_ still looked troubled. "it was a great piece of carelessness on my part," he repeated mournfully, for about the fifth time. "i stood looking over a volume i had taken from the shelf,--that, i am thankful to know, has not been injured" (with a hasty glance at the book still tightly clasped in his left hand),--"and becoming interested, i presume i forgot where i was, and--and leaned too heavily against the table. it gave way, and--this ruin is the result! i--i--cannot express to you how i regret the accident." "_don't_ be troubled over it, dear friend, _please_ don't," mrs. blackwood urged. "nothing is broken but the bowl, and that may have been cracked before,--it seems to me that one of them was; let us rather rejoice that you were not hurt by your fall, for _that_ would indeed have been a serious matter. now i'm sure you want to resume looking over that 'abbé marité;' isn't it quaint? and perhaps among mr. blackwood's glasses we may be able to find a pair that would suit your eyes for the nonce. i know how perfectly lost one feels without one's 'second eyes.' shall we make the selection? come, felix and nannie,--you, too, max,--and help us get the right focus. oh, please don't speak of going, mr. rose." chatting pleasantly to divert my father's mind from the accident, mrs. blackwood led us into her husband's smoking-room, where from his collection of spectacles and eyeglasses my father made a selection which enabled him to finish the "abbé," and soon after that to get home with some degree of comfort. there were no more _contretemps_ that afternoon, i am thankful to say; max went home and dined with us. he was in fine spirits,--so glad to get home again, he said,--and made even the _pater_ smile over a description of what he calls his "adventures in the far west." with the exception of a short visit in the study, he spent the evening with us in the schoolroom, hearing all that has happened to us since he went away, and playing violin and piano duets with nannie and me. i intended to have had a talk with max about chad, but there was no opportunity on this evening; and besides, he looked so pleased when nora said she thought that chad was "nice"--and she claims to be so _very_ fastidious! i can't understand it--that i concluded i'd wait until another time to air my opinion. i noticed that phil didn't say anything for or against chad: all the same, _i_ shall speak, just as soon as i can get max alone; for, if he doesn't know it already, he ought to be told the sort of individual his ward is. as far as i'm personally concerned, i'd put up with the fellow rather than trouble max, but i've got to think of phil. after max had taken his departure, and betty and jack had been walked off to bed, we four older ones sat talking for a few minutes. phil, as usual, sat on the edge of the schoolroom table. "well, you three gay and festive creatures," he said, with a comprehensive wave of his hand toward us, "what's your true and honest opinion of the afternoon's tea-fight, politely termed 'reception'? you needn't all speak at once, you know." "thanks awfully for the information," laughed nora, making him a very graceful and sweeping bow. "well, except for the unhappy _quart d'heure_ that papa gave us, i enjoyed the reception immensely. oh, i'd _love_ to be out in society," she said, with sparkling eyes, "and meet lots of people, and go to balls and receptions and all those affairs every day of my life. that's what _i_ call living,--not this stupid, humdrum school life; and i 'll have them all, too, some day, see if i don't," she ended, with a toss of her head and a little conscious laugh. nora knows she's pretty; that's one of the things that spoil her. phil eyed her severely, wrinkling up his brows. "eleanor, my love," he remarked, with his most fatherly air, "i beg that you will bear in mind the fable of the unwise canine who lost his piece of meat by trying to catch its larger reflection in the stream, and endeavour to profit thereby. no charge made for that good advice. now, nancy, let's hear from you." nannie hesitated a little. "why--i think i enjoyed it," she said slowly; "yes, i did." "what! _did_ you?" i exclaimed in surprise. "you mean to say you enjoyed sitting on that lounge and seeing miss devereaux snub that unfortunate little woman in the hideous bonnet?" "well, no, not that part," admitted nannie. "and did you enjoy the _pater's_ smashing the doulton bowl?" "oh, no, of _course_ not," nannie returned, somewhat indignantly. "then where did the enjoyment come in?" i persisted. "i can't tell you why, or when, or how, but i enjoyed it," was nannie's reply; and then, "without rhyme or reason," as nurse says, she blushed a vivid red. "do look at her!" teased phil. "why, nancy, it isn't against the law to have enjoyed yourself. what're you blushing for?" "i'm sure i don't know," my twinnie answered, with such a look of perplexity in her sweet, honest eyes that we had to laugh. whereupon she blushed rosier than ever, even to her ears and her pretty throat, and running over to me, hid her flushed face on my shoulder. "please stop teasing, fee," she whispered. now if anybody was teasing just then phil was in it, and i started to tell her so; but phil interrupted: "one more county to be heard from," he declared, "and that's you, most noble felix. are you, like nora, hankering after the unattainable in the shape of daily receptions?" "can't say that i'm devoured with a desire that way," i confessed with a grin. "i wouldn't go over this afternoon's experience for a farm! as they say in the novels, my feelings can be better imagined than described when i walked into the blackwoods' library and saw the _pater_ standing in the midst of the shattered vase _à la_ marius in the ruins of carthage. had i but owned a genii, we'd have been whisked out of that room and home in about two seconds. no, on calm reflection, i forswear receptions for the future." "hullo!" exclaimed phil, suddenly, "i say,--come to think of it,--how d'you suppose the _blackwoods_ enjoyed the orgy?" we looked at each other. "_i_ said i enjoyed myself," asserted nora, with a superior and very virtuous air. "it's the least one can do when people go to the trouble and expense of entertaining one." nannie sat up and looked contrite. "_poor_ mrs. blackwood!" she said; "doulton is her favourite china, and that bowl _was_ a beauty!" "i guess they got the worst of it," i said to phil. "i shouldn't wonder if they had," he answered with a nod. "moral: don't give afternoon receptions. let's be off to bed. good-night, all." xii. in the shadow. told by jack. felix and i were together in his room; he was helping me with my latin--that vile latin, how i despise it!--when we heard some one calling from the hall two flights below. "why, that sounds like nannie's voice!" felix said, starting from his chair. "i wonder what's up?" we heard plainly enough when we got in the hall, for nannie was calling, in a loud, frightened way, "felix! phil, jack! somebody!--_anybody!_" "all right! here we are! what's the matter?" felix answered, making for the steps as fast as he could go. "oh, pshaw! i've left my cane in the room; get it for me, jack, and catch up to me on the stairs." i dashed into fee's room, snatched up the cane, and was out again in time to hear nannie say, excitedly: "tell nurse to come right down to the study, felix, and send jack flying for dr. archard; papa is _very_ ill, i am afraid. oh, be quick, _quick!_" "great scott!" exclaimed fee. i knew by his voice that he was awfully frightened. then suddenly he slid down in a sitting position on one of the steps. i thought he must have stumbled; but before i could say anything, or even get to him, he called out, "all right, nan! nurse will be there in a minute," adding impatiently to me: "what are you gaping at? get on your hat--it's on the hat rack--and rush for dr. archard as fast as you can. tell him father's very ill, and to come at _once_. step lively, jack!" "but nurse--" i hesitated. "shall i tell her first?" "do as you've been told," fee said sharply. "i'll see to that; do you suppose i'm _utterly_ useless? _start!_" he gave me a little push on the shoulder as he spoke, and i tell you i just flew down those steps and out into the street. i ran every step of the way, and caught dr. archard just as he was stepping into his carriage to go somewhere. he looked very serious when he heard my message. "i'm not surprised," he said; "i've been expecting a break-down in that quarter for some time." then he made me jump into the carriage with him, and we drove rapidly round to the house. there we found everybody very much excited. the study door stood open, and from the hall i could see papa lying on the lounge, with his eyes closed, and looking very white. nurse was rubbing his feet, nannie his hands, and miss marston stood by his head fanning him. [illustration: "i could see papa lying on the lounge."] felix and phil were not around, but i tell you the younger children were; nurse and miss marston not being there to keep them upstairs, they had all collected in the hall, and refused flatly to go to the nursery. for fear of the noise they might raise, nora couldn't very well make them obey; but after the doctor came, she and betty half coaxed, half drove them into the drawing-room, and tried to keep them there. it was hard work to do this, though, for every now and then paul or alan, or even kathie--_she_ ought to have known better--would sneak out "to see what was going on." then betty'd fly out too, and as quietly as possible catch and haul back the runaway. i think both nora and betty would like to have had me come in there too,--nora said as much,--but i pretended i didn't hear; _i_ didn't want to be shut up, and anyway, as i thought, somebody ought to be on hand to run errands in case anything was needed. so i just stayed where i was. "oh, i am so _thankful_ you have come!" nannie exclaimed, as the doctor walked in. but, except for a nod, he didn't notice her; he laid his fingers on papa's pulse, then in a minute or so knelt down and put his ear to papa's chest. i was watching him so intently that i didn't know phil had come in until i heard nora--she was standing in the hall and holding the drawing-room doors shut--say, in a low tone, "hush! don't make a noise; papa is ill. dr. archard's here--in the study." "what's the matter?" phil asked, opening his eyes in a startled sort of way, and looking very serious. "why, he complained to nannie of feeling queer, and then suddenly fainted away; and since then he has gone from one fainting fit into another. isn't it strange? i don't think he has ever done such a thing as faint in his life before." "he's been working like a slave over that beastly old fetich," phil said irritably, "as if he was _bound_ to get it finished." i knew he was cross because he was scared about papa, and sorry for him; but nora didn't seem to guess that,--she doesn't see through things like that as nannie does,--and now she just put up her eyebrows as if surprised, and said, "why, isn't that what you all wanted,--to have the fetich finished?" phil got red in the face, and he made a step nearer the drawing-room door. "that was a mean speech, nora," he said in a low, angry voice. _i_ think it was mean, too; but perhaps it was because she felt badly about papa that nora spoke so,--as nurse says, different people have different ways of showing their feelings,--for she put out her hand and commenced, quickly, "i didn't mean to hurt--" but while she was speaking, nannie came out of the study. "oh, phil," she said, as soon as she saw him, "come right in here, won't you? the doctor says we must get papa to bed as quickly as possible, and you can help us." phil flung his books on the hat-rack table, and followed her into the room at once, and they shut the study door. it opened again, though, in a minute or two, and out came miss marston, just in time to catch alan as he rushed along the hall, away from betty, who was in hot pursuit. "what are _you_ doing down here?" demanded miss marston, severely. "they're all here," alan paused to explain, rather defiantly, whereupon betty pounced on him. miss marston held a hot-water bottle in her hand; she was on her way to the kitchen, but she stopped to speak to the children,--for at the sound of her voice nora had opened the drawing-room doors, and kathie, paul, and mädel had tumbled out into the hall in a body. "this will never do," miss marston said, "racing about the halls while your father is so ill! can't you find something for them to do, nora? take them to the nursery, or the schoolroom, and give each--" i didn't wait to hear the rest. i was afraid she'd see me, and remember that old latin, so i scooted up the back stairs as hard as i could go; you see she wouldn't have taken into account that i was waiting down there in case i was wanted for an errand. it was as i got up near fee's room that i began to wonder where he was, and why he hadn't been downstairs with the rest of us; he must have wanted to know how papa was, i thought. i looked in the schoolroom, but he wasn't there,--the place had a deserted appearance! then i ran down again and peeped into his room, and just think! there, flat on the floor, with his feet barely inside the doorway, lay felix! i was so astonished and so scared--it's a serious matter for fee to fall, you know (he hasn't really been himself, i mean not as strong, since that day in the schoolroom, when alan upset him)--that when i cried out, "oh, _fee!_ did you fall? have you hurt yourself?" and knelt down by him, i hardly knew what i was saying or doing. [illustration: "'oh, _fee!_ did you fall? have you hurt yourself?'"] "shut the door," felix said; he spoke slowly, as if he were very tired. his face looked badly, too,--pale, and with black rings under his eyes away below his glasses. and there was something in the way he lay there--a limpness and helplessness--that somehow frightened me, and made me feel right away as if i ought to call nurse or somebody. but i know fee likes to have people do as he tells them, so first i shut the door tight, then i came back and knelt down by him again. "hadn't i better help you up, fee?" i asked, "or shall i call"--i was going to say "nannie or phil," but remembered they were helping papa, and ended up with "somebody?" but felix only said, "how's father? tell me about him." he listened to all i could tell about papa; then, when i had finished, he threw his arms wide apart on the floor with a groan, and rolled his head impatiently from side to side. i just _longed_ to do something for him,--dear old fee! "don't you want to get up?" i asked again, in as coaxing a way as i could. "i could help you, you know, fee; the floor is so hard for your back." then he told me. "jack," he said, in a tired, hopeless voice that made a lump fly into my throat, "i'm in a pretty bad fix, i'm afraid; my poor old back and my legs have given out. i got a very queer feeling that time i sat down so suddenly on the steps, and after you'd gone 'twas all i could do to brace up and drag myself to this floor to call nurse. then i crawled in here, and barely got inside the door when i collapsed. my legs gave way entirely, and down i tumbled just where you see me now." he threw his arms out again, and twisted one of his hands in the fringe of the rug on which he was lying; then presently he went on: "do you know why i'm still lying here? do you know why, jack? because"--his voice shook so he had to stop for a minute--"because, from my waist down, i can't move my body at all. unless somebody helps me, i'll have to lie here all night; _i'm perfectly helpless_!" i'd been swallowing and swallowing while fee was talking, but now i couldn't stand it any longer; i felt awfully unhappy, and i just _had_ to let the tears come. "it's that fall that's done it," i said, trying to wipe away the tears that came rushing down,--it's so _girlie_ to cry!--"the day alan upset you in the schoolroom! oh, fee, _do_ let me call somebody to help you! phil's downstairs, you know; oh, and the doctor,--please, _please_ let me ask _him_ to come up! oh, mayn't i?" felix put out his hand and patted my knee in a way that reminded me of nannie; he doesn't usually do those things. "don't cry, jackie-boy," he said very gently, "and don't blame alan,--i don't believe he touched me that day; i believe now that that was an attack similar to this, only not so severe. what'll the _next_ one be!" his voice began shaking again, but he went right on: "now i want you to help me keep this thing quiet,--i was hoping you'd be the one to find me,--so that nannie and the others won't have it to add to their anxiety while the _pater_ is ill. i'm afraid he's in a bad way; i don't like the doctor's sounding his heart,--that looks as if he suspected trouble there. he has been working like a slave ever since--oh, what _beasts_ we were to get up that fetich joke! poor old _pater_!" felix folded his arms across his eyes and lay perfectly quiet; i _think_ i saw a tear run down the side of his face to his ear, but i won't be sure. that just brought that horrid lump right back into my throat, but i was determined i wouldn't break down again; so i got up, and taking a pillow from the bed, brought it over to slip under fee's head,--the floor was _so_ hard you know. this roused him. "you're not very big, rosebud, but perhaps you can help me to get to bed," he said, trying to speak as if nothing had happened. "i may feel better after i'm there; who knows but this attack may wear off in a day or two, as the other did." he spoke so cheerfully that i began to feel better, too, and i flew around and did just as he told me. first i pulled his bed right close up to where fee lay,--it's very light,--then i made a rope of his worsted afghan, and passing it round the farthest bedpost, gave the ends to him; then, as he pulled himself up, i pushed him with all my might, and by and by he got on the bed. it was awfully hard to do, though, for the bed was on casters, and would slip away from us; but after a good while we succeeded. "there, i feel a little better already!" he said, after i'd got him undressed. "that floor _was_ hard, and i was there some time; yes, i do feel a little better." he took hold of the railing at the head of the bed and pulled himself a little higher on the pillows. "perhaps you'll be all right again in a few days, same as the last time," i suggested. fee's face brightened up. "that's so,--perhaps i shall," he said. "why, jack, you're almost as good a comforter as nannie!" then he took my hand as if he were going to shake hands, and holding it tight, went on with, "now, jack, i want you to promise me that you'll not speak about this attack of mine to _anybody_. as you say, i'll possibly--probably--be all over it in a few days, and there's too much sickness and trouble in the house already, without my adding to it. promise me, jack!" he gave my hand a little shake as he spoke. but i hesitated; for, though now he seemed better, i couldn't get out of my mind how _awfully_ he had looked when i first found him,--and fee isn't strong like the rest of us. but he shook my hand again two or three times, saying impatiently, "why don't you promise? there's no harm in doing what i ask; think how worried and anxious phil and nannie are about papa!" "yes, presently," we heard phil's voice say at the door at that very moment. "promise! _promise!_" repeated felix, almost fiercely, and i got so nervous--phil was coming right into the room--that i said, "all right, i promise," almost before i knew what i was saying. i got a frightened sort of feeling the moment the words were out of my mouth, that made me just wish i hadn't said them. "hullo! in bed? what's up?" asked phil in surprise, as he walked up to fee. "i wondered where you were." then, without waiting for an answer, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and went on, in an excited tone of voice, "did you hear about the _pater_? i tell you we've had our hands full downstairs; i'm afraid he's"--here phil stopped and cleared his throat--"he's pretty low down. dr. archard as much as admitted it when i asked him to tell me the truth. it's that fetich! he has been working over it like a galley slave, because--" phil stopped again. he and felix looked at each other; then, starting up, phil walked over to the other side of the room, and stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at fee's picture of the good shepherd which hangs on the wall there, and which he had seen scores of times before. "who's going to take care of father?" felix asked presently, and that brought phil back to his bedside. "the doctor is going to send us a trained nurse this afternoon," he said; "but in the mean while nannie and nurse are with him. every time he became conscious he asked for nannie or spoke her name, and seemed easier when she was near him; once or twice he called her 'margaret'!" we were quiet for a moment or two,--that was dear mamma's name,--then phil began again: "the nurse that's coming is a woman, and very efficient, i believe. of course she'll have to have a certain amount of rest every day, and at those times somebody will have to take her place; so i'm going to try to be home early afternoons,--nannie can't do everything, you know,--and sit with the _pater_ while the nurse takes her nap. i thought perhaps we could alternate, you and i,--you're so splendid in a sick room; but i suppose i'll be as awkward as the proverbial bull in the china shop. i generally get rattled when i undertake to do anything for father, and am sure to do just what i shouldn't; so i'm not sorry you're going to be there for a change, old man." he threw his arm across fee's poor helpless legs as he spoke, and gave one of them a little squeeze. fee hesitated. "i'm afraid i can't begin right away," he said slowly; "i'm not up to the mark just now, and it would be best not to depend on me for anything for at least--a week. then, if i can, you may be sure i'll willingly take my part of the nursing." "why, you're not ill, are you?" exclaimed phil. "you were all right this morning when i went out. it's just to sit in the room, you know; you could read there, i suppose, if you wanted to." felix coloured up at phil's tone. "you know very well i'm not one of the sort to shirk,--i would do anything for the _pater_," he said quickly, "and just as soon as i can i'll take my full share in looking after and nursing him; but, as i told you, i don't feel quite up to it just now. i'm going to keep quiet for a few days,--a week, perhaps." fee was trying to speak in his usual way, but there was something in his voice when he said that "perhaps" that made me just long to tell phil right out what the trouble was. as it was, maybe phil noticed something, for he eyed fee sharply as he asked, rather anxiously: "look here, felix, is there anything you're keeping back? come to notice, you do look rather white about the gills; do you feel ill, old fellow?" i thought everything would come out then, for i knew fee wouldn't lie about it; and so it would, i'm pretty sure, if paul and alan hadn't come bouncing into the room, and nora behind them. the boys flew to fee's bedside. "oh, fee, _don't_ let her get us!" "oh, fee, _do_ let us stay with you!" they cried at the same moment, while alan added saucily, "she just thinks we b'long to her!" "they're the _rudest_ children i ever knew!" exclaimed nora, angrily,--just as if she knew all the children in the world! "they don't know what the word, 'obedience' means. come straight upstairs this minute,--both of you!" she made a dive for them, but the boys were too quick for her. alan ducked under fee's bed, and came up on the other side with a triumphant chuckle, while paul rolled right over fee's legs and landed on the floor, where phil grabbed him. "can't you behave yourselves, you young rascals?" demanded phil, sternly, giving paul's arm a shake, and catching alan by the collar. "just walk straight upstairs, and do as your sister tells you. stop your noise this minute,--do you hear me?" but instead they both roared the louder, at the same time pulling and tugging to get away. "she's just _horrid_!" asserted alan, trying to wriggle out of phil's grasp. "i just wish she'd go an' live in some other house, and never come back;" while between his sobs judge drawled out pertly: "she thinks she can treat us like anything 'cause nurse isn't here to take our part. she won't let us do one single thing, an' she's just as cross as an old cat--so _now_!" "i am, eh?" cried nora, indignantly. "well, like it or not, you will have to obey me. go upstairs at once,--both of you! _make_ them go, phil!" i felt awfully sorry for them,--you see i know nora is a nagger, she tries it on me sometimes; but they _were_ making a horrible din. fee looked very white; he lay with one arm folded over his eyes; and to make matters worse, in walked betty. "kathie has started crying, and i can't stop her," she announced, as she got in the doorway. "i'm afraid mädel will be off in a few minutes, too, if we don't quiet kathie; hadn't i better call nannie?" "who is taking my name in vain?" said a voice that we were all glad to hear, and there was nannie herself, smiling at us over betty's shoulder. xiii. through the shadow. told by jack. well, it was astonishing how things quieted down after that. phil let go the boys, and with a shout of delight they rushed up to nannie, and just threw themselves on her; with an arm round each, she went straight to fee's side: "why, felix, are you ill? my dear, is it your back again?" as she spoke she laid her hand on his forehead, and then stroked his hair back. "yes," fee said wearily, closing his eyes; "my back--and the _noise_!" "come, boys, we'll go up to the nursery and get ready for dinner. nurse has to stay with poor papa, so i'm going to give you your dinner; and of course i want my little knights to be on their best behaviour for the occasion." nannie drew them, still hanging on to her, toward the door. "oh, yes, and _do_ stop kathie, if you can," put in betty. "mädel accidentally rocked the charger on kathie's pet doll's head and smashed it, and she's just _howled_ ever since. do listen!" sure enough, we could all hear a long, mournful wail; then another and another; if there's one thing kathie does well, it's crying. "what! esmeralda dorothea? poor kathie!" said nannie; "i don't wonder she feels badly. come, boys, we'll go up and see if we can comfort her." the boys looked quite jubilant! holding on to nannie's hand, alan threw a defiant glance at nora as he passed her, and judge quoted in his slow, droll way: "'my _dear_ dolly's dead! she died of a hole in her head!'" "instead of petting those boys, nannie, you ought to punish them well, or give them a good scolding!" cried nora. "they have both been exceedingly rude and disobedient to me." nannie looked grieved, and the boys immediately began making excuses, which nannie heard in silence. when they had finished, she said: "we are going upstairs to get ready for dinner, nonie; but after that, when we are all sweet and clean, these two little men will, i am sure, come to you and ask you to overlook this afternoon's behaviour. i can't think that they really meant to be rude or disobedient to sister nora." nora tossed her head, but said nothing until nannie had gone upstairs; then she remarked: "it's outrageous the way nannie spoils the children; did you see the impertinent look alan gave me as he went by? you will see they won't apologise,--i know they won't;" and then she, too, walked out of the room. but they did apologise, all the same, and very soon after, too. "like oil on troubled waters! what a blessing that nannie belongs to this family!" phil said, when we three were alone again. "ay, thank god for her!" answered felix, fervently; and i felt like saying so too. really, i don't know what we'd do without nannie to keep the peace. it isn't that we don't love one another, for we do, dearly, and we just _love_ to be together, too; but somehow, somebody or other's sure to get into a discussion, or a fuss, or a regular quarrel, if nannie isn't on hand to smooth things down. i don't know how it is, but she can get us to do things that we wouldn't do for any one else, and it isn't because she coaxes, for she doesn't always; sometimes she speaks right square out, and doesn't mince matters either,--but even then we don't mind. i mean it doesn't hurt as it would from somebody else. felix says it's because she has tact, and betty says it's because she loves us an awful lot. _i_ think perhaps it's both. [illustration: "'these two little men will, i am sure, come to you and ask you to overlook this afternoon's behaviour.'"] well, those next two weeks were just _awful_! seems now as if they'd been a tremendous long nightmare. there was fee in bed upstairs he didn't get up or stand on his feet for nearly ten days,--he couldn't, you know, his legs wouldn't hold him up, though i rubbed and rubbed them every night till i was so tired, i felt as if i'd drop. of course i didn't let fee know how tired i got over it, 'cause then he wouldn't have let me rub 'em so long, and i did want to do it thoroughly. at first fee hadn't a bit of feeling in his legs; but gradually it came back, and at last one afternoon he managed to stand on his feet, holding on to me and the furniture,--his cane wasn't any good at all at first,--and i tell you he used to press hard, though he didn't know it. you see he was anxious to be all right as soon as he possibly could, 'cause the others began to think 'twas queer he stayed in bed so long if it was nothing but his back, and he didn't want them to know what the trouble was; and besides, he felt all the time that he should be up and helping take care of papa: there was a good deal to do, though the nurse was there, for the doctor said papa shouldn't be left alone for even a minute. so they were all very busy and anxious, or they would certainly have noticed what a long time i stayed in fee's room every afternoon, and perhaps have suspected something. phil was the one fee said he was most afraid would find out, but he was a good deal in papa's room in the afternoons, and evenings he was studying, 'cause his exams, were coming on, though sometimes he went for long walks with chad. chad was very often at the house at this time, but he never went in to see fee; and after the first or second time i didn't tell fee, for he doesn't like chad, and i could see he didn't want phil and chad to be together without his being there too. we don't any of us care very much for chad,--not half or even a quarter as much as we do for hilliard; even betty has to admit that, for all she makes such fun of hill's slow ways. you see chad puts on such silly airs, pretending he's a grown-up man, when really he's only a boy,--he's only a year older than phil. and then he talks so much about his money, and wears _diamonds_,--rings and pins and buttons,--fancy! as betty says, nice men and boys don't wear diamonds like that. betty is awfully rude to chad sometimes; she calls him monsieur le don_key_, and dresden-china-young man, and laughs at him almost to his face. i should think he'd get mad, but he just ignores her. in fact, the only one he shows any attention to is nora; he's all the time bringing her flowers, and talking to her in his affected way, and lately he has begun to be very friendly with phil, though i'm not sure that phil cares very much in return,--he's so short with chad sometimes. but, dear me! all this isn't what i started to say; i was telling you about those awful nightmare weeks. well, to go back, there was fee in bed upstairs, just as brave-hearted as he could be, but getting thinner and paler every day; and there was papa in the extension--he's slept down there ever since dear mamma died--in bed too, and desperately ill. the doctor came two and three and four times a day, and the house was kept as still as could be; we just stole through the halls, and scurried up the stairs like so many mice, so's not to make any noise, and because the constant muttering that we could hear from the sick-room made us feel so badly,--at least it did us older ones, the younger children didn't understand. papa doesn't usually say very much; but now he was out of his head, and he just talked the whole time, and loud, so one couldn't help hearing what he said. 'twas about the fetich; he called it "my book," and scolded himself because he couldn't work faster on it, so's to sell it. i tell you what, that just broke betty and phil all up! then he'd seem to forget that, and begin about walking in the country with mamma, through fields full of flowers and trees and "babbling brooks,"--that's what he called 'em, and quoted poetry about them all. he never once spoke of us; it was always "margaret, margaret!" sometimes in a glad voice, as if he were very happy, and sometimes in a sad, wailing sort of way, that brought a great lump into our throats. nannie had to be in papa's room most all of every day,--the nurse said he got very restless when she wasn't around,--and as he kept getting worse and worse, she was in there lots of nights, too. her lessons, and all the other things, had to just go, and we hardly saw her except for a little while now and then, when she ran up to sit with felix and tell him about how papa was getting on. after a while she began to look a little pale, and her eyes got real big and bright; but she never once said she was tired, and it never occurred to any of us--you see we were all worked up over papa--until one day max spoke of it to felix: he said nannie was just killing herself, and got so sort of excited over it--max isn't one of the excitable kind--that fee started in to worry about nannie. it was when he had just begun to walk about a little, and he was wild to go right down and take nannie's place in the sick-room. but he couldn't, you know; why, 'twas as much as he could do to barely stand on his feet and get round holding on to the furniture. then, when he realised that, he got disheartened, and called himself a "useless hulk," and all sorts of horrid names, and was just as cranky as he could be; but i felt so sorry for him that i didn't mind. poor old fee! well, from day to day papa got more and more ill; the fever kept right on and he was awfully weak, and at last he fell into a stupor. that day dr. archard hardly left our house for even an hour, and the other physicians just went in and out all the time. max was there, too,--he almost lived at our house those weeks, taking all the night watching they'd let him, and doing all he could for papa and us,--and about seven o'clock that evening he came up to the schoolroom, where we older ones were. dr. archard had told phil, and he had told us, that a change would come very soon,--papa would either pass from that stupor into a sleep which might save his life, or he would go away from us, as our dear mother had gone. no one of us was allowed to stay in the sick-room but nannie, and she had promised to let us know the minute the change came; so we five and max were waiting in the schoolroom, longing and yet just dreading what nannie might have to tell us. it was a glorious afternoon: the sun had just gone down, and from where we sat--close together--we could see through the windows the sky, all rose-colour and gold, with long streaks here and there of the most exquisite pale blue and green; and soft, white, fleecy clouds that kept changing their shape every minute. when i was little and heard that anybody we knew was dead, i used to sit in one of our schoolroom windows and watch the sunset, to see the angels taking the soul up to heaven,--- i thought that was the way it went up; i could almost always make out the shape of an angel in the clouds, and i'd watch with all my eyes till every speck of it had melted away, before i'd be willing to leave the window. of course i really know better than that now, but this afternoon as we all sat there so sad and forlorn, looking at the skies, there came in the clouds the shape of a most beautiful large angel, all soft white, and with rosy, outspread wings, and i couldn't help wondering if god was sending an angel for papa's soul, or if he would let mamma come for it--she loved him so dearly! betty saw the angel, too, for she nudged my elbow and whispered softly, "oh, jack, look!" just then we heard a step outside, the door flew open, and nannie came in; her face was pale, but her eyes were wide opened and shining, and when she spoke her voice rang out joyfully: "oh, my dears, my dears!" she cried, stretching out her arms to us, "god is good to us,--papa is asleep! he will live!" then, before anybody could say a word, she got very white, and threw out her hand for the back of fee's chair; phil sprang to catch her, but like a flash max was before him. taking nannie right up in his arms, as if she'd been a little child, max went over and laid her on the sofa, then knelt down by her, and began rubbing one of her hands. phil flew for nurse, nora for a fan, betty for water, and i caught up nannie's other hand and began rubbing it, though i could scarcely reach it from where i stood almost behind max. i could hear fee's chair scraping the floor as he hitched himself along toward us. max stopped rubbing and began smoothing the loose, curly pieces of nannie's hair off her forehead. "dear little nancy lee!" i heard him say; and then, "my brave little--" i lost that word, for nannie opened her eyes just then, and looked up at him with a far-off, wondering look; then the lids fell again, and she lay perfectly still, while max and i rubbed away at her hands. in a minute or two the others came trooping in with nurse and the things they'd gone for, and pretty soon nannie was much better. she sat up and looked at us with a smile that just lighted up her whole face,--i think nannie is so pretty! "what a goose i was to faint!" she said, "when we have such _good_ news! oh, isn't it splendid, _splendid_! that papa will get well!" then in a minute--before we knew what she was about--she was kneeling by felix, with her arms round his neck, crying and sobbing as if her heart would break. and what d'you think! in about two minutes more, if we weren't every one of us crying, too! i don't mean out loud, you know,--though nora and betty did,--but all the same we all knew we were doing it. phil laid his arms on the schoolroom table and buried his face in them, fee put his face down in nannie's neck, and i was just _busy_ wiping away the tears that would come pouring down; nurse threw her apron over her face and went out in the hall, and max walked to the window and stood there clearing his throat. and yet we were all _very_, _very_ glad and happy; queer, wasn't it? xiv. a mission of three. told by jack. that was the turning-point, for after that papa began to get better; but my! so slowly: why, it was days and days, nannie said, before she could really see any improvement, he was so dreadfully weak. after a while, though, he began to take nourishment, then to notice things and to say a few words to nannie, and one day he asked the doctor how long 'twould be before he could get at his writing again. the evening that nannie came upstairs and told us about his asking the doctor this, we held a council. the "kids" were in bed, and miss marston was in her own room, so we had the schoolroom to ourselves; and in about five minutes after nannie got through telling us, we were all quite worked up and all talking at once. you see we didn't want papa to begin working again on the fetich as he had done, for dr. archard had said right out that that was what made him ill; and yet we didn't see, either, how we could prevent it. "let's steal the fetich and bury it in the cellar," proposed betty, after a good deal'd been said; "then he _couldn't_ work at it, for it wouldn't be there, you know." her eyes sparkled,--i think she'd have liked no better fun than carrying off the fetich; but phil immediately snubbed her. "talk sense, or leave the council," he said so crossly that nannie put in, "why, _phil_!" and betty made a horrible face at him. then fee spoke up: "say, how would it do for us, we three,--you, phil, and betty and i,--to tell the _pater_ how mean we feel about that beastly joke, and then run through the potential mood in the way of beseeching, imploring, exhorting him not to slave over his work in the future as he's been doing in the past months. i have a fancy that mr. erveng has really made him an offer for the book when completed--" "i'm pretty sure he has, from something mrs. erveng said the other day," broke in nora, with a slow nod of her head. "well," went on felix, in an i-told-you-so tone of voice, "and i suppose the _pater_ thinks we're watching and measuring his progress like so many hungry hawks, just ready to swoop down and devour him--_ach_!" he threw out his hands with a gesture of disgust that somehow made us all feel ashamed, though we weren't all in it, you know. "that isn't a bad plan," said nora, presently. "in fact, i think it is good; only, instead of three of you going at papa about it, why not let one speak for all? he would be just as likely to listen to one as to three, and it wouldn't tire him so much,--that's _my_ opinion. what do you think, nannie?" nannie shook her head dubiously; she was lying on the sofa looking awfully tired. "i'm not sure that it'll do any good," she answered; "i'm afraid papa has made up his mind to do just so much work, and he likes to carry out his intentions, you know. but i'd speak all the same," she added, "for i think he felt dreadfully cut up over that fetich affair, and this will show him, anyhow, that you all care more for him--his well-being, i mean--than for the money the book might bring in. i fancy he has been doubtful of that sometimes. and i agree with nora that it would be better for one to speak for the three. he is getting stronger now, and whoever is to be spokesman might, perhaps, go in to see him for a few minutes some afternoon this week. who is it to be,--phil?" "don't ask me to do it!" exclaimed phil; "_don't_--if you want the affair to be a success. i feel mortally ashamed of my share in that joke, and i agree with felix that _somebody_ ought to speak to the _pater_ about working so hard, and almost killing himself; but i warn you that the whole thing will be a dead failure if i have the doing of it. in the first place, he looks so wretchedly now that i can't even look at him without feeling like breaking down; and with all that, if i undertook to say to him what i'd have to, why, i'm convinced i'd get rattled,--make an ass of myself, in fact,--and do no good whatever,--for that sort of thing always makes him mad. that's just the truth,--'tisn't that i want to shirk. why don't you do it, old fellow?" (throwing his arm across fee's shoulders), "you always know what to say, and can do it better than i." but fee didn't seem willing either; _i_ think the chief reason was because he was afraid of the steps,--it's as much as he can do to get up the one short flight from his floor to the schoolroom, and he gets awfully nervous and cranky over even that short distance; but of course the others didn't know that, and he didn't want them to know, and i couldn't say anything, so everybody was very much surprised: even nannie opened her eyes when, after a good deal of urging, he said sharply, "i am _not_ going to do it, and that settles it!" i was afraid there'd be a fuss, so i sung out quickly, "why don't _you_ do it, betty? you're always saying you're equal to anything." well, if you had seen her face, and felt the punch she gave my shoulder! i declare betty ought surely to've been a boy; she's entirely too strong for a girl, and rough. i will say, though, that she's been better lately; but still she breaks out every now and then, and then she hits out, perfectly regardless of whether she hurts people or not. she just glared at me. "_me!_ _i!_ _i_ go into papa's room and make a speech to him!" she exclaimed so loudly that phil reminded her she needn't roar, as none of us were deaf. "why, i couldn't, i simply _couldn't_! i'm just as bad as phil in a sick-room,--you all know i am; i'd tumble over the chairs, or knock things off the table, or fall on the bed, or something horrid, and papa'd have me put out. then i'm sure matters would be worse than they are now. 'tisn't that i'm _afraid_,"--with a withering glance at me,--"and i _do_ feel awfully sorry about papa; but all the same, i don't want to be the one to speak to him about the fetich,--i don't think it's my place: how much attention do you suppose he would pay to what _i_'d say?" she fanned herself vigorously, then added, in a milder tone, "why not let felix draw up a petition, and we could all sign it; then--eh--" with another withering glance--"_jack_ could take it in to papa!" "you're a fine set!" mocked nora; "all _very_ sorry, _very_ penitent, all seeing what should be done, but no one willing to do it. you are as bad as the rats who decided in council that a bell should be placed on the neck of their enemy, the cat, so that they should always have warning of her approach; but when it came to deciding on who was to do the deed, not one was brave enough." "i suppose you think, as nora does, that we're a pretty mean set?" felix said to nannie; he ignored nora's remark, though phil made a dash for her with the laughing threat, "just let me catch you, miss nora!" nannie sat up and pushed her hair off her forehead; she looked pale and languid, and when she spoke, her voice sounded tired. "no," she said, "i don't think you are any of you mean; but i am disappointed: i like people to have the courage of their convictions, and particularly you, fee." "that's right, give it to us, nancy,--we deserve it!" shouted phil, coming back in triumph with nora; but felix coloured up, and, leaning over, laid his hand on nannie's arm. "perhaps if you--" he began eagerly, but he didn't say the rest, for max and hilliard came in just then, and nannie got up to speak to them. that was on a tuesday evening, and the next afternoon, as i was going through the hall, miss appleton came out of the sick-room and asked if i would sit with papa for a short time, while she went to the basement to make some nourishment or something or other. "there is nothing to do but to sit somewhere about the room, within range of your father's sight," she said, as i hesitated a little,--not that i minded, but you see i was rather nervous for fear i might be asked to do things that i didn't know how to. "i won't be long, and i don't think he will need anything until i return." [illustration: "miss appleton ... asked if i would sit with papa for a short time."] nannie was lying down with a headache, and nurse, miss marston, and the others were away upstairs; phil had not yet come home; so i said, "very well," and walked in. papa was lying in bed, and he did look awful!--white and thin! he put out his hand as i went up to the bed, and said with a little smile, "why, it is jack! how do you do, my dear?" then he drew me down and kissed me. i would _love_ to have told him how very, _very_ glad i was that he was better, but i choked up so i couldn't get out a word. i just stood there hanging on to his hand, until he drew it away and said, "take a seat until the nurse returns." miss appleton had told me to sit where papa could see me, so i took a chair that somebody had left standing near the foot of the bed, and in full view of him. it was very quiet in the room after that; papa lay with his eyes closed, and i could see how badly he looked. he was very pale,--kind of a greyish white,--his eyes were sunk 'way in, and there were quite big hollows in his temples and his cheeks. i wondered if he knew that he had nearly died, and that we had prayed for him in church; then i thought of the figure of the angel that we'd seen in the clouds that afternoon in the schoolroom, and of the beautiful city--"o mother dear, jerusalem"--where everything is lovely and everybody so happy, and i wondered again if papa were sorry or glad that he was going to get better. you see he would have had dear mamma there, and been with the king "in his felicity;" but then he wouldn't have had the fetich or his books! suddenly papa opened his eyes and looked at me. "jack," he said, "suppose you take another seat,--over there behind the curtain. i will call you if i need anything." he told nannie afterward--and she told me, so i shouldn't do it again--that i'd "stared him out of countenance." i was awfully sorry; i wouldn't have done such a rude thing for the world, you know,--i didn't even know i was doing it; but, as i've told you before, when i'm alone with papa, i somehow just _have_ to look and look at him. i'd hardly taken my seat behind the curtain when the door opened and fee came slowly in. he leaned heavily on his cane and caught on to the different pieces of furniture to help him make his way to papa's bedside. they just clasped hands, and for a minute neither of them said a word; then felix began: "oh, sir, i thank god that you are spared,"--his voice shook so he had to stop. papa said gently: "more reference-making for you, my lad; i am evidently to be allowed to finish my work." and then fee began again. he didn't say a great deal, and it was in a low tone,--a little slow, too, at first, as if he were holding himself in,--but there was something in his voice that made my heart swell up in me as it did that day i thrashed henderson. it's a queer feeling; it makes one feel as if one could easily do things that would be quite impossible at any other time. "i hope i'll not tire or agitate you, sir," fee said, "but i feel i must tell you, for phil, betty, and myself, how _utterly_ ashamed we are of that miserable, heartless joke we got off some months ago,--going to mr. erveng about your book; no, father, _please_ let me go on,--this ought to have been said long ago! we earnestly ask your forgiveness for that, sir; the remembrance of it has lain very heavy on our hearts in these last anxious weeks--" he stopped; i guess there was a lump in his throat,--_i_ know what that is! and presently papa said, very gently: "that did hurt me, felix; but i have forgiven it. it may be that the experience was needed. i am afraid that i forgot i owed it to my children to finish and make use of my work." "no, _no_!" exclaimed felix, vehemently. "_don't_ feel that way, father; oh, _please_ don't! we hope you won't ever work on it again as you have been working,--to run yourself down, to make yourself ill. we beg, we implore that you will take better care of yourself. let the book go; _never_ finish it; what do we care for it, compared to having you with us strong and well once more! oh, sir, if you really do forgive us, if you really do believe in the love of your children, promise us that you will not work as you've been doing lately!" he waited a minute or two; then, as papa said nothing, he cried out sharply: "we are--_her_--children, sir; for _her_ sake do as we ask!" "why do you want this--why do you want me to live?" papa asked slowly. "_why?_ because we love you!" exclaimed fee, in surprise. and then i heard papa say, "my _son_!" in _such_ a tender voice; and then,--after a while,--"i am under a contract to finish my book, and i must do it; but i will endeavour to work less arduously, and to look more after my health." here i think fee must have kissed him,--it sounded so. "i shall have good news for the others," he said. "you know, sir, phil and betty feel as keenly about this as i do, but, for fear it would tire you, it was thought best for only one of us to speak to you about the matter. you don't feel any worse for our talk,--do you, father?" he said this anxiously, but papa said no, it hadn't done him any harm; still, he added, felix had better go, and so he did in a few minutes. i felt so sorry when i thought of all the steps he'd have to climb to the schoolroom; i wondered how he'd ever get up them. well, after that i think papa had a nap; anyway, he was very quiet. it was pretty stupid for me behind that curtain, and i was just wishing for about the tenth time that miss appleton would put in an appearance, when the door opened suddenly, and who should come walking in but phil! he went straight up to papa, and began rather loud, and in a quick, excited sort of way,--i could tell he was awfully nervous,--"how d'you feel to-day, sir?" then, before papa had time to answer, he went on: "we were talking things over last evening, and--and we--well, sir, we--that is, felix, betty, and i--feel that we're at the bottom of this illness of yours, through our getting up the scheme about the fet--your book, you know--in going to mr. erveng. it was the cheekiest thing on our part! i deserve to be kicked for that, sir,--i know i do. and we're afraid--we think--you're just killing yourself! i'm a blundering idiot at talking, i know, so i might's well cut it short. what i want to say is this: we'd rather have you living, sir, and the--history--_never_ finished, than have it finished, with no end of money, and you dead. oh, father, if you could know how we felt that night when your life hung in the balance!" he broke right down with a great sob. then everything was so quiet again that i looked round the portière; phil knelt by the bedside with his face buried in the bed-clothes, and papa's hand was resting on his head. i let the curtain fall. i felt, perhaps, they'd rather i didn't look at them. then presently papa said quite cheerfully, "it will be all right, phil: i think i am going to get well, and i shall try to take better care of myself; so you will, i hope, have no further occasion to be troubled about my health. i appreciate your speaking frankly to me, as you have done. now, perhaps, you had better go; i am a little tired." phil shook hands with papa and started to go, but paused half-way to the door. "this is for felix and betty, as well as for myself, father," he said pleadingly. "they feel just as badly as i do about you, but we thought 'twas best for one to speak for the three; and i being the eldest,--you understand?" "yes," papa said gently, "i understand." as the door closed behind phil, papa called me. "jack," he said, in a weak voice, "it seems to me that miss appleton is gone a good while; perhaps you had better give me something,--i think i am tired." my! didn't i get nervous! there was nothing on the table but bottles and a medicine glass; i didn't know any more than the man in the moon what to give him, and i didn't like to ask him. i was pretty sure he didn't know; and besides, he had shut his eyes. i caught up one of the bottles and uncorked and smelled it without in the least knowing what i intended doing next. how i did wish the nurse would come! just then some one came into the room, and when i turned quickly, expecting to see miss appleton, who was it but _betty_! well, i was so surprised, i nearly dropped the bottle. but she didn't even look at me; she just marched up to papa and began talking. she stood a little distance from the bed,--she said afterward she was afraid to go nearer for fear she'd shake the bed, or fall on it,--with her hands behind her back, and she just rattled off what she had to say as if she'd been "primed," as phil calls it. without even a "how d'you do?" she plunged into her subject. that's betty all over; she always goes right to the point. "papa," she said earnestly, "i'm awfully--that is, _very_, _very_ sorry we went to mr. erveng that time about your book, without first speaking to you about it. we're all _very_ sorry,--phil, felix, and i,--and just as ashamed as we can be. we've worried dreadfully over it, and about you, and it was simply _awful_ when we thought you were going to die! we didn't acknowledge it to one another, but if you had died, i know we three'd have felt as if we had as much as killed you" (here betty's voice dropped to almost a whisper; i thought perhaps she was going to cry, but she didn't, she just went on louder); "for we are sure you never would have hurried so with--your book--if we hadn't played that mean joke. you see, papa, we're _so_ afraid you'll--you'll--die, or be ill, or something else dreadful if you don't stop working so hard,--like a galley slave, as phil says. and i've come to ask you, for phil, felix, and myself, to let the hateful old book go, and just get well and strong again; will you?" "but if the history is completed, it can be sold, and thus bring in the money that is so much needed in the family." betty eyed papa; i think she wasn't sure whether he was in sarcasm or earnest. "oh," she said, "we did think it would be nice to have enough money to send fee to college, but we don't want it any more,--at least, not if it's to come by your being ill--or--or--oh, papa, dear, we're all so _very_ glad and thankful that you are going to get well." she took his hand up carefully and kissed it. "i think that now i am glad, too, betty," said papa; "much more so than i ever expected to be." "and you won't work so hard again, will you?" asked betty, anxiously. "you see, papa, i'm to get you to promise that; that's what i've come for. we talked the matter over last evening, and phil would have come to speak to you about it, but he said you looked so wretchedly--and so you do--that just to look at you made him break down, and he was afraid he'd get rattled and make an a--a mess of it. then felix, he couldn't come, because, well, because--i guess he felt badly, too, about your being ill. so i thought _i'd_ better come down and have a talk with you, though i must say i was afraid i might do something awkward,--i'm so _stupid_ in a sick-room; but so far all's right, isn't it? the boys don't know i've come,--i thought i'd surprise them; and so i will, with the good news: you'll promise, won't you, papa?" "yes," papa said, "i promise." then betty flew at him and kissed him, and then papa told her she'd better go. it was only just as she got to the door that she spied me. "hullo! you here?" she exclaimed in astonishment,--adding, in a lower tone, "what're you laughing at?" then, as i didn't answer, she walked out. "jack," called papa, "are there anymore of them to come? do you suppose they are crazy?" then he added to himself, "i wonder if any one else in the world has such children as i have?" we looked at each other for a minute or two (papa's eyes were bright, and his mouth was kind of smiley, and i was, i know, on a broad grin), and then we both laughed,--papa quietly, as he always does; but i cackled right out, i _couldn't_ help it. at this moment in came miss appleton with papa's nourishment, and right behind her nannie. "oh, how bright you look!" nannie exclaimed with delight, as she came up to him; "that last medicine has certainly done you good." "yes, i think it has," papa said, with a quizzical glance at me. "it was a new and unexpected kind; nannie, my dear,--i have had a visitation." xv. some minors. told by jack. instead of going in the country early, as usual, this year we just hung on and hung on until the weather was quite warm, waiting for papa to get strong enough to stand the journey. it seemed to us as if he were an awful while getting well: long after he was able to be dressed, he had to lie on the lounge for the greater part of every day,--the least exertion used him up; and as for his work, dr. archard said he wasn't to even _think_ of touching it. but at last--after changing the date several times--a day was set for us to start. we were all delighted; we _love_ to be at the cottage. you see we have no lessons then, 'cause miss marston goes away for her holidays, and we can be out of doors all day long if we choose; papa doesn't mind as long as we're in time for meals and looking clean and decent. there's a lovely cove near our house,--it isn't deep or dangerous,--and there we go boating and swimming; then there's fishing and crabbing, and drives about the country in the big, rattly depot-wagon behind pegasus,--that's our horse, but he's an awful old slow-poke,--and rides on our donkey, g. w. l. spry. oh, i tell you now, it's all just _splendid_! we always hate to go back to the city. perhaps you think our donkey has a queer name. most people do until we explain. well, his real name is george washington lafayette spry,--so the man said from whom papa bought him,--but that was such a mouthful to say that fee shortened it to g. w. l. spry, and i do believe the "baste," as cook calls him, knows it just as well as the other name,--any way, he answers to it just as readily. he _is_ pretty spry when he gets started, but the thing is to start him. [illustration: "g. w. l. spry."] well, to go back, we were delighted at the prospect of getting away, and we all worked like beavers helping to get ready. miss marston and the girls and phil packed,--his college closed ever so long ago,--fee directed things generally, and addressed and put on tags, and we children ran errands. almost everything was ready; in fact, some of the furniture had gone,--there're such a lot of us that we have to take a pile of stuff,--when two unexpected things happened that just knocked the whole plan to pieces. for a good while max had been urging and urging papa to go to his place in the adirondacks; he said his mother was there, and she was first-rate at taking care of sick people, and that she'd be awfully glad to see nannie, too, who, max declared, needed the change as much as ever papa did. but papa refused, and it was settled that we were all to go to the cottage, when suddenly dr. archard turns round and says that mountain, not sea air was what papa should have, and insisted so on it that at last papa gave in and accepted max's invitation for nannie and himself. so then it was arranged that papa, nannie, and max were to go to the mountains, and we to the cottage with miss marston,--they going one day, and we the next. [illustration: "we all worked like beavers."] that was the first set-back, and the next one was ten times worse. just as papa was being helped down the steps to the carriage, what should come but a telegram for miss marston from her aunt in canada, asking her to come right on. well, that just upset _our_ going in the country! phil and felix told papa they could manage things, and get us safely to the cottage,--and i'm sure they'd have done it as well as ever miss marston could, for she's awfully fussy and afraid of things happening; but no, papa wouldn't hear of it, though max declared he thought 'twould be all right. felix took it quietly, but phil got kind of huffy, and said papa must think he was about two years old, from the way he treated him. i tell you, for a little while there nannie had her hands full,--what with trying to smooth him down, and to keep papa from getting nervous and worked up over the matter. well, after a lot of talking, and papa losing one train, it was arranged that we should remain in the city with nurse until we heard from miss marston, and knew how long she'd be likely to stay in canada. if only a short time,--say ten days,--we were to wait for her return and go under her care to the cottage; but if she'd be gone several weeks, then phil, felix, and nurse would take us to the country. as soon as this was settled, papa, nannie, and max went off, and a little later miss marston started for her train. besides being worried about her aunt, miss marston felt real sorry at leaving us so hurriedly, and she gave no end of directions to nora and betty, to say nothing of nurse. nora didn't seem to mind this, but nurse sniffed--she always does that when she doesn't like what people are telling her--and betty got impatient; you see nannie'd been drilling betty, too,--telling her to be nice to nora, and to help with the little ones, and all that,--and i guess she'd got tired of being told things. "i know just how phil feels about papa's snubbing," she said to me. "some people never seem to realise that we're growing up. why, if papa and miss marston should live until we were eighty and ninety years old, i do believe, jack, that they'd still treat us as if we were infants,--like the story max told us of the man a hundred and ten years old, who whipped his eighty-year-old son and set him in a corner because he'd been 'naughty'! it's too provoking! and as to being '_nice_' to nora, i feel it in my bones that she and i will have a falling out the very first thing; she'll put on such airs that i'll not be able to stand her!" but as it turned out, there was something else in store for betty; that same evening over came mr. erveng and hilliard with an invitation from mrs. erveng for betty to go to their country home, near boston, and spend a month with them. mr. erveng had met papa in the railroad station that day, and got his consent for betty to accept the invitation. so all she had to do was to pack a trunk and be ready to leave with them the next morning,--they would call for her. i felt awfully sorry betty was going: though there are so many of us, you've no idea what a gap it makes in the family when even one is away; and, with all her roughness and tormenting ways, betty is real nice, too. i didn't actually know what i'd do with both nannie and her away. i couldn't help wishing that the ervengs had asked nora instead of betty, and i know betty wished so, too, for you never saw a madder person than she was when she came upstairs to help nurse pack her trunk: you see she didn't dare make any objections, as long as papa had given his consent, but she didn't want to go one step, and she just let us know it. "i'll have to be on my company manners the whole livelong time, and i simply _loathe_ that," she fumed. "mrs. erveng won't let me play with hilliard, i'm sure she won't, 'that's so unladylike!'"--mimicking mrs. erveng's slow, gentle voice,--"and i never know what to talk to _her_ about. i suppose i'll have to sit up and twirl my thumbs, like a regular miss prim, from morning to night. why didn't they ask _you_?" wheeling round on nora. "you and mrs. erveng seem to be such fine friends, and you suit her better than i do. i always feel as if she looked upon me as a clumsy, overgrown hoiden, an uncouth sort of animal." "i couldn't very well be spared from home just now," answered nora, calmly, with her little superior air; "and any way, i presume mrs. erveng asked the one she wanted,--people generally claim that privilege." so far was all right; but she must needs go on, and, as phil says, "put her foot in it." "i really hope you'll behave yourself nicely, betty," she continued, "for only the other day i heard mrs. erveng say that she thought you had improved wonderfully lately; _do_ keep up to that reputation." betty was furious! "no, _really_? how _very_ kind of her!" she burst out scornfully. "the idea of her criticising me,--and to you! you ought to be ashamed not to stand up for your own sister to strangers! indeed, i'll do just as i please; _i'm_ not afraid of mrs. erveng! i'll slide down every banister, if i feel like it, and swing on the doors, too, and make the most horrible faces; you see if i don't come home before the month is out!" "leave their house standing, elizabeth,--just for decency's sake, you know," advised phil. we were all laughing, and what does nora do but pitch into me for it. "can't you find anything better to do, jack, than encouraging betty to be rude and unladylike?" she commenced sharply; but just then hannah came, asking for something, and, with a great air of importance, nora went off with her. but if nora didn't understand how betty felt, i did. of course the ervengs meant it kindly asking her; but _i_ wouldn't have wanted to go off alone visiting people that were almost strangers,--for that's what mr. and mrs. erveng are to us, though we do know hilliard so well,--and i just said so to her, and gave her my best feather-top. as i told her, she might play it times when she was alone in her own room, to keep up her spirits. i'd have given her something nicer, but all my things were packed up, except my locomotive, and i knew she wouldn't care for _that_,--she's always making fun of it. betty's one of the kind that just hate to cry where people can see them, so she went away without the least fuss--though i know her heart was full--when the ervengs called for her the next morning. hilliard was as merry as a lark. "it's so good of you to come," he said, beaming on betty when he met her on the steps. "we are going to take the very best care of you, and help you to enjoy yourself immensely; i only wish all the others were coming with us, too,"--with a glance at us (the whole family had crowded out on the stoop to see betty off). "we don't want to; we'd rather go to the cottage," sung out alan. nora had to hush him up. hilliard was just as nice as he could be, putting betty into the carriage, and looking after her things,--i hadn't thought he could be so polite; but betty was very cool and snippy, and the last sight i got of her, as the carriage turned the corner, she was sitting bolt upright, looking as stiff as a poker. i felt sorry for betty, and i felt sorry for the ervengs, too,--at least for hilliard. i can't think why betty doesn't like him better. we were awfully lonely and unsettled for a few days,--it seemed so queer to have nora in nannie's place, and phil at the head of the table; to hear nora giving orders, and for phil to have to see to shutting up the house nights. somehow it made us feel grown-up,--it was such a responsibility, you know; and at first we were all very quiet, and so polite to one another that nurse declared she "wouldn't 'a' known we was the same fam'ly." felix and phil were as dignified as could be, and the little ones went to bed without a murmur, and obeyed nora like so many lambs. but it didn't last,--it couldn't, you know, for we weren't really happy, acting that way; and pretty soon we began to be just as we usually were,--only a little more so, as we boys say. you see nobody was really head, though nora and phil both pretended they were,--we didn't count nurse,--and each person just wanted to do as he or she pleased, and of course that made lots of fusses. phil did a lot of talking, and ordered people around a good deal, but nobody minded him very much. nora had her hands full with the children; they were awfully hard to manage, particularly kathie,--her feelings get hurt so easily. nora said that nurse spoiled them, and in a sort of way took their part against her, while nurse said nora was too fond of "ordering," and that she nagged them; so there were rumpuses there sometimes. i read over all my favourite books that weren't packed up, and worked on my steam engine, and went about to see what the others were doing; but i tried not to be mixed up in any of the rows. fee got a fit of painting,--he wanted nora to pose for him for antigone, but she wouldn't; and he played his violin any time during the day that he liked,--you see there wasn't anybody there to mind the noise. that was in the day; in the evenings we--nora and we three boys--sat on the stoop, it was _so_ warm indoors. the unsworths and vassahs and 'most all the people we knew were out of town, and chad whitcombe was the only person that came round to see us. when he found we hadn't gone to the country, he'd make his appearance every evening, and sit with us on the stoop. at first he stayed the whole evening, and was so pleasant and chatty i could hardly believe 'twas chad; of course he was affected,--he always is,--but still he was real interesting, telling about places he'd been to, and some of the queer people he'd met in his travels. after a while, though, he began to stay for about half the evening, then he'd ask phil to take a walk with him, and away they would go; and sometimes phil wouldn't get back very early either. well, felix stood it for a few times without saying anything,--he always has precious little to do with chad; but one evening when chad stood up and asked, "take a stroll--aw--will you, phil?" and phil rose to go, fee got quickly on his feet. "just let me get my cane, and i'll come, too," he said. i was looking at chad just then, and i could see he didn't like it; but phil answered at once, "all right, old fellow; come on!" and fee went. i was alone on the stoop when the boys got back,--chad wasn't with them. nora was playing the piano in the drawing-room, and phil went in to speak to her; but felix sat down on the step beside me with his back against the railing. as the light from the hall lamp fell on him, i could see how white and tired he looked. i couldn't help saying something about it. "you do look awfully used up, fee," i said; "i guess you've been walking too far. whatever made you do it? you know you can't stand that sort of thing." of course i didn't say this crossly,--fee isn't at all the sort of person that one would say cross things to,--but you see i knew just how miserable he'd been, and that he wasn't well yet, by any means. he pretended to be quite well, but i noticed that he sat down lots of times, instead of standing, as he used to, and that it was still an effort for him to go up and down stairs. when i said that about his being tired, he pushed his straw hat back off his face, and i could see his hair lying wet and dark on his white forehead. "i _am_ dead tired," he said, wearily. "i tell you, jack, the ascent to the third floor seems a formidable undertaking to-night." then he added abruptly, "_why_ did i do it? because i'm _determined_"--he brought his clinched hand down on the stoop--"that that scalawag sha'n't get hold of phil. i suppose my miserable old back'll take its revenge to-morrow; but i don't care,--i'd do it again and again, if i couldn't keep them apart any other way." just then phil's voice came to us through the open drawing-room window. "it's a lovely night," he was saying to nora; "i don't feel a bit like going to bed,--i think i'll go out again for a little while. you needn't wait up for me, nonie, and i'll see to the shutting up of the house when i come in; don't let fee bother about it,--he looks tired." with a quick exclamation, felix caught hold of the railing of the stoop, and dragging himself to his feet, limped into the parlour. "it's an age since we've sung any of our duets, phil," he called; "let's have some now. nora, play 'o wert thou in the cauld blast,'--that's one of our favourites." and in a minute or two they were singing away with all their might. but presently phil came out with his hat on, and behind him felix. "still here, jack? it's getting pretty late!" fee said. then to phil, "i guess it's too late for another tramp to-night, philippus; come on, let's go upstairs." he was trying to speak off-hand, but i could hear in his voice the eagerness he was trying to keep back. perhaps phil heard it, too, and suspected something, for he answered very shortly, "i'm going out; i'm not an infant to be put to bed at eight o'clock." and with that he jammed his hat tighter on his head, ran down the stoop, and was soon out of sight. felix sat down on one of the hall chairs, and leaned his head on his hand in such a sad, tired way that i felt as if i'd have liked to pitch right into phil. i darted in from the stoop and put my hand on fee's shoulder. "fee," i whispered,--i didn't want nora to hear,--"can i do anything to help? shall i run after him and _make_ him come back?" felix looked up at me; his lips were set tight together, and there was a stern expression on his face that made him look like papa. "'twould take a bigger man than you are to do that, jack," he said, with a faint smile, adding slowly, "but i'll tell you what you _can_ do,--you can keep mum about this; and now help me upstairs, like a good boy: i'm almost too tired to put one foot after the other." then, as he rose and slowly straightened himself up, he said, "after all, phil's only gone for a walk, you know, jack; he'll be home pretty soon, you may depend." but i had a feeling that he said this to make himself believe it as well as me. fee _was_ awfully used up; i could hardly get him up the steps. nora would certainly have heard the noise we made if she hadn't been so interested in her music. phil did not come in very early; in fact, i think it was late. i room with him, you know, and it seemed as if i'd been asleep a good while when his shutting of our door woke me up. of course i turned over and looked at him; i'm sure there wasn't anything in that to make a person mad, though perhaps i did stare a little, for phil had a queer expression on his face,--jolly, and yet sort of ashamed, too. his face was quite red, and his eyes looked glassy. he leaned against the closed door, with his hat on the back of his head, and just scowled at me. "what're you staring at, i'd like to know?" he said roughly. "without exception, you're the most inquisitive youngster! you _must_ have your finger in every pie. just turn yourself right over to the wall and go to sleep this minute; i _won't_ have you spying on me!" now i usually give in to phil, and i do hate to get into rows with people, but i couldn't stand that; i just sat straight up in bed and spoke out. "i'm _not_ inquisitive," i said, "and i'm _not_ spying on you, either. i wouldn't do such a mean thing, and you know it." "oh, hush up, and go to sleep! you talk entirely too much," phil answered back, and taking off his hat, he threw it at me. the hat didn't touch me,--it barely fell on the edge of the bed,--but it seemed to me as if i couldn't have felt worse if it had struck me; you see my feelings were so hurt. phil likes to order people, and he's rough, too, sometimes. we know him so well, though, that i don't usually mind; but this evening he was awfully disagreeable,--so bullying that i couldn't help feeling hurt and mad. i felt just like saying something back,--something sharp,--but i knew that would only make more words, and there was felix in the next room,--i didn't want him to be waked up and hear how phil was going on; it wouldn't have done any good, you see, and would only have made fee unhappy. so i just swallowed down what i was going to say, and bouncing over on my pillow, i turned my face to the wall, away from phil. but i couldn't go to sleep,--you know one can't at a minute's notice,--and i couldn't help hearing what he was doing about the room. i heard a clinking noise, as if he were putting silver money down on the bureau; then, while he was unlacing his boots and dropping them with a thud on the floor, he began to whistle softly, "o wert thou in the cauld blast." i suppose that reminded him of something he wanted to say, for presently he called out, "say, rosebud--_rose_bud!" i just _wouldn't_ answer,--after his treating me that way! what did he do then but lean over the footboard and shake me by the heel. "turn over," he said; "i want to talk to you,--d'you hear me?" and he shook my heel again. i jerked my foot away. "i wish you wouldn't bother me," i answered; "i'm trying to go to sleep." "oh, i see,--on your dig." phil laughed and pulled my toe. "well, you provoked me, staring at me with those owly eyes of yours; but now i want to speak to you about felix." i still felt sore over the way he'd acted, but as long as it was fee he wanted to talk about, i thought i'd better listen; so i turned over again and looked at phil. "see here, what's the matter with felix?" as he spoke, phil went over and threw himself into a chair, where he could see me. "he's never been very much of a walker, but seems to me that he's worse than ever at it lately. why, last evening--this evening i mean" (he gave me a funny look)--"we hadn't gone three blocks before he began to drag, and took hold of my arm; he hung on it, too, i can tell you. we didn't go very far, not nearly as far as we used to last winter; and i'd have made it still shorter, for i could see he was most awfully used up, but fee wouldn't give in,--you know he can be obstinate. and when he came into the drawing-room to sing, he looked wretched,--white as a ghost! since i've been home, i've noticed, in a good many little ways, that he doesn't do as much as he used to,--in the way of moving around; yet, when i speak to him 'bout it, he either--puts me off, or turns--cranky; i can't get a thing--out--of--him." phil's voice had been getting slower and slower, and almost before he finished the last word he was _asleep_. i thought he was making believe at first,--he's such a tease,--but i soon found out that he wasn't. well, i _was_ astonished; for a minute i couldn't say a word; i just lay there and looked at him. then i remembered how late it was, and called him,--not loud, though, for fear of waking felix. "phil, _phil_, aren't you coming to bed? it's awfully late." "oh, let me _alone_," he muttered sleepily; then presently he roused up and began to talk real crossly, but in the same slow voice, and with his eyes shut: "i'm not a _child_--and i'm not going--to be treated--like one--you needn't--think so--i'm a _man_--all--the fellows--do it--'tisn't--any harm--" his head drooped and he was off again. i had got awfully nervous when he first began, i mean about felix; you see fee hadn't given me back my promise not to speak of his attack when papa was so ill, so i couldn't have told phil, and i shouldn't have known what to say. oh, that promise! that _miserable_ promise! if only i had _never_ made it! well, as i said, i was thankful i didn't have to answer phil; but when he acted so queerly, i didn't like that either, and jumping out of bed, i went at him, and just talked and coaxed and pulled at him, until at last i got him to get up and undress and go to bed. * * * * * phil was as cross as a bear the next morning; he said he had a headache, and didn't get up until late. he lay in bed with his face to the wall, and just snapped up everybody that spoke to him; when i took him up some tea and toast,--that was all he'd take,--he turned on me. "i suppose you've told them about last night," he said sharply, "and you've all had a grand pow-wow over me!" "indeed, i _haven't_" i answered; "i haven't said one single word about it to anybody; we've got other things to talk of, i can tell you, besides your being such a sleepy-head." perhaps this was a little snippy, but i couldn't help it,--just as if i couldn't keep a thing to myself. you see i didn't understand then what it all meant. phil looked straight at me for a minute, and it seemed to me there was a kind of sorry expression came in his face; then he laughed. "great head! keep on being mum!" he said, in that teasing way of his, nodding at me. "now, mr. moses primrose, suppose you set that tray down and vacate the apartment--shut the door." but i could see that he wasn't sorry i hadn't spoken of it; i've wondered sometimes, since, whether things would have been different if i had told felix the whole business. well, he was a little pleasanter for a while; but when a telegram came later in the day from miss marston, saying she'd be back in ten days to take us to the cottage, phil got all off again, and scolded like everything. he said it was a burning shame for us to have to stay in the city and just _stew_, waiting for miss marston to "escort" us to the cottage, when he and felix could have taken us there long ago; that he wanted to go in the country _right away_; that papa'd made a big mistake in keeping us back, and that he'd find it out when 'twas too late,--and all that sort of talk. felix and nora did their best to cool him down, but it was no use,--the nicer they were, the more disagreeable he grew; and at last they got provoked and left him to himself. "i wish nannie were here," fee said, as we stood on the landing together, outside phil's door; "perhaps she could do something with him." "i just wish she were," i agreed dolefully; and if nora didn't get miffed because we said that! i can tell you it wasn't a bit pleasant at home those days. as fee said, "everybody seemed to be disgruntled," and there wasn't a thing to do but wander around; i missed betty awfully, she's such a splendid person for keeping up one's spirits. toward afternoon, phil came downstairs, and after dinner we sat on the stoop; he was still rather grumpy, though we pretended not to notice it. presently chad came along and took a seat beside us; but at first i don't think anybody, except, perhaps, nora, paid him much attention. felix had been very quiet all day, and now he sat with his elbows on his knees, and his hands holding up his face, a far-off look in his eyes, and not saying a word until about half-past eight, when chad leaned over, and in a low voice asked phil to go for a walk. phil's answer sounded like, "had enough of it;" and before chad could say anything more, fee began to talk to him. i was surprised, for felix doesn't usually talk to chad; but to-night, all at once, he seemed to have a friendly fit. he started chad talking of his travels; then he got phil into the conversation, and then nora, and he just kept them all going; he was so bright himself, and funny, and entertaining, that the evening fairly flew by. we were all amazed when ten o'clock struck; soon after that chad bid good-night, and we shut up the house and went to bed. 'most always phil stops in fee's room for a few minutes: he didn't this evening, though; he just called out,--a little gruffly,--"good-night, old man!" and marched right into his own room. but i went in. fee was sitting on the edge of his bed; he looked almost as tired as he had the night before, though now his eyes were bright and his cheeks red. he turned quickly to me. "did you think i was wound up to-night?" he asked. then, before i could answer, "but i kept them--i kept them both, jack; they didn't go walking to-night,--at least, phil didn't, and that's the main point. why, i could go on talking till morning." he got up and limped restlessly about, then stopped near me. "what'll we do to-morrow evening?" he said, "and the next, and the next?--there are _ten_ more, you know. we'll _have_ to think of something, that's all; it'll not be easy, but we'll have to do it. i'm afraid"--fee spoke slowly, shaking his head--"i'm afraid the _pater_ _has_ made a mistake, a big mistake. now if nannie were only here--what an owl you look, rosebud! come, off to bed with you!" he threw his arm across my shoulder and gave me a little squeeze, then pushed me out of the room and shut the door. i have an idea that he didn't sleep very well that night, for the next morning _he_, too, looked like a owl, in the way of eyes. xvi. and a major. told by jack. the next day phil was more like himself,--almost as usual, at least during the first part of the day; after that, everybody got into such a state of excitement that we forgot all about his mood,--i guess he forgot it himself. as i've told you, kathie and the little ones weren't behaving at all nicely. you see the trouble was they wanted their own way, and nora wanted hers, and nurse wanted hers too; and some days things went all wrong in the nursery. nora'd declare that _she_ was mistress as long as nannie wasn't at home, and that the children _should_ obey her; then nurse would get huffy and call the little ones her "pets" and her "poor darlin's," and of course that made them feel as if they were being dreadfully abused. i think nora did nag some, and perhaps she ordered people a little more than she need have done, but that's her way of doing things; she didn't mean in the least to be disagreeable, and the children were certainly _very_ provoking. it seemed to me as if they were forever in mischief, and my! weren't they pert! and sometimes they wouldn't mind at all. once or twice i tried to see if i could help things, but i just got into trouble both times, and only made matters worse, so i thought i'd better leave 'em alone. well, on this particular morning, nurse woke feeling so ill that she couldn't get up at all; so nora had to see to dressing the children and giving them their breakfast. mädel was good,--she's a dear little creature!--but the boys were wild for mischief, and just as saucy and self-willed as they could be, and, worst of all, kathie got into one of her crying moods. she cried all the time she was dressing, and all through breakfast,--a kind of whining cry that just wears on a person. phil called her niobe, and declared that if she didn't look out, she'd float away on her tears; fee threatened to put her in a picture, just as she looked; i coaxed and promised her one or two of my things, and nora scolded: nothing had any effect, kathie just wept straight on. she _is_ awfully trying when she gets in these moods, but i guess she can't always help it,--at least nannie thinks so,--and perhaps if nora had been patient just a little while longer, the storm would have blown over. but all at once nora lost her temper, and catching kathie by the arm, she walked her wailing from the room. well, in just about one minute more, paul and mädel and alan were off too, roaring like everything. "_o-o-h!_ we _want_ kathie! we _w-a-n-t_ kathie! _o-o-o-h!_ bring back _kath-i-e_!" well, you'd have thought they never expected to lay eyes on kathie again! [illustration: "where we found kathie."] i coaxed and talked and talked till my throat fairly ached, telling 'em funny things to divert their attention,--the way i've heard nannie and betty do; fee began just as loud as he could (to drown their noise and make them listen) about the trojan horse,--they like that story; and phil offered them everything that there was on the table if they'd _only_ stop yelling; he declared the neighbours would be coming in to see what we were doing to them. but at last they quieted down, and let me take them upstairs to the nursery, where we found kathie seated upon a chair, and still weeping. on account of nurse's being ill, there were a good many things for nora to do,--i could see she had her hands full,--so i stayed in the schoolroom and looked after the children to help her. by and by kathie stopped crying--i guess there were no more tears left to come--and began to join in the games i started. usually she's very penitent after one of these fits of temper, but this time she seemed more sulky than anything else; and she was such a sight that i felt sorry for her. kathie's very fair,--she's a real pretty little girl when she's in a good humour,--and now, from crying so much, and rubbing her eyes, they were all swollen and red; the red marks went 'way down on her cheeks; and her nose was all red and swollen, too: you'd hardly have known her for the same child. after awhile--i'd set them playing house, and things seemed quiet--i got out one of my books, and, fixing myself comfortably on the sofa, began to read. but presently something--a sort of stillness in the room--made me look up; the children were under the schoolroom table with their heads close together, and they were whispering. kathie was weeping again, but very softly; mädel had one arm around her, and was wiping kathie's tears away with her pinafore; paul was showing them something which i couldn't see,--he had his back to me,--and alan sat on his heels, grinning, and gazing at judge with wide-open, admiring eyes. just at this moment nora opened the door and called me; you should have seen those four jump! and the way judge hurried what he had in his hand out of sight! but i didn't suspect anything; i didn't dream of what they were up to. "jack," said nora, when i got out in the hall, "phil has gone out to see to something for me, and i can't send fee, so i wish you would go round to dr. archard's and ask him to call and see nurse as soon as possible. she won't let me do a thing for her, and yet she's groaning, and says she feels _dreadfully_; she may be very ill, for all i know." there was such an anxious look on nora's face that i tried to cheer her up. "don't worry, nonie," i said; "you know nurse gets scared awfully easy. if she has a finger-ache, she thinks she's dreadfully ill, and wants the doctor." "well, perhaps she'll feel better after she has seen him," nora said. "between kathie and her i've had a pretty hard morning; i'm doing my very best, but nobody seems to think so." she gave her head a proud toss, but i could see there were tears in her eyes. i didn't know what to say, so i just patted her hand, and then got my hat and went for the doctor. it was a lovely day, and i didn't suppose there was any need for me to hurry back, so i took a walk, and didn't get home for a good while after leaving my message at the doctor's. before i had time to ring the bell, nora opened the front door; she looked very much excited, and asked breathlessly, "did you meet them? have you seen them?" of course i didn't understand. "meet whom? what d'you mean?" i asked in surprise. "the children. then they are _lost!_" answered nora, and she sat down on a chair in the hall and burst out crying. then out came phil and felix from the drawing-room, where they had been with nora, and i heard the whole story. it seems that soon after i left for the doctor's, judge went down stairs and asked cook for some gingerbread,--"enough for the four of us," he said,--and some time later, when nora went up to the schoolroom to see what the children were doing, not one of them was there, nor could they be found in the house. nora flew to tell felix and phil, and in the hurried search from garret to cellar which everybody made,--except nurse, she wasn't told anything of it,--it was found that the children's every-day hats were gone. of course, as soon as i heard that, i remembered the whispering under the schoolroom table, and i felt at once that the children had run away. i just wished i had told nora about it, or that i had come right back from the doctor's; i might have prevented their going. [illustration: "nora tore it open."] while i was telling nora and the boys what i thought about the matter, hannah came flying into the drawing-room,--she was so excited, she forgot to knock. she held a cocked-hat note in her hand,--kathie is great on cocked-hat notes and paper lamplighters. "oh, miss nora! it's meself that's just found this on the flure mostly under the big sarytogy thrunk,--the one that's open," she cried, almost out of breath from her rush down the steps. "nora" was scrawled in kathie's handwriting on the outside of the note. in an instant nora tore it open, but she passed it right over to phil. "read it,--i can't," she said in a shaky voice. so he did. the note was very short and the spelling was funny, though we didn't think of that until afterward; this is what was in it: "we are not goging to stay here to be treted like this so we have run away we are goging to nannie becaws she tretes us good. i have token my new parrasole for the sun goodby we have jugs bank with us kathie." poor nonie! that just broke her all up! she cried and cried! "i _didn't_ ill-treat them; i was trying to do my _very_ best for them. if i _was_ cross, i didn't mean it,--and they _had_ to be made to mind," she kept saying between her sobs. "and now they've gone off in this dreadful way! oh, _suppose_ some tramp should get hold of them--or they should be run over or hurt--or--we--should--_never_ see them again! oh--_oh!_ what shall i say to papa and nannie!" "oh, shure, miss nora, you don't mane to say the darlints is ralely _lost_!" exclaimed hannah, and with that _she_ began to bawl; phil had to send her right down stairs, and warn her against letting nurse know. then we tried to comfort nora. "you've done your level best, and nobody can do any more than that," phil said, drawing nora to him, and pressing her face down hard on his shoulder, while he patted her cheek. "cheer up, nonie, old girl, they are no more lost than i am; you see if we don't walk them home in no time,--young rascals! they ought to be well punished for giving us such a scare." "yes, we'll probably find them in the park, regaling themselves with the good things that 'jugs bank' has afforded," remarked fee, trying to speak cheerfully. "we're going right out to look for them. come, jack, get on your hat and go along too; i'm ready." as he spoke, he stuck his hat on and stood up. "shall we go separately?" i asked, dropping nora's hand,--i'd been patting it. "indeed we _will_ go separately," answered phil, emphatically. "here, nora, sit down; and we will have a plan, and stick to it, too," he added, "or we'll all three be sure to think of the same scheme, travel over the same ground, and arrive at the same conclusion. there's been rather an epidemic of that sort of thing in this family lately,--the '_three_ souls with but a single thought, three wills that work as one,' business. yes, sir, we'll have a plan. fee, you go to the little parks, and some way down the avenue; jack, you go up the avenue, and through as many of the cross streets as you can get in; and i'll go east and west, across the _tracks_"--as the word slipped out he gave a quick look at nora; we knew he was thinking of those dreadful cable cars: but fortunately she didn't seem to have heard. so off we started, after making nora promise she'd stay at home and wait for us to bring her news. we separated at our corner; but i'd only gone a block or two when i thought of something that sent me flying back to the house. i slipped in the basement way, and up the back stairs to the nursery, where i hunted out an old glove of kathie's; then down i went to the yard and loosed major, and he and i started out as fast as we could go. once or twice in the country, when the children had strayed too far on the beach, by showing major something they'd worn, and telling him to "find 'em!" he had led phil and me right to them. i had remembered this, and now as we walked up the avenue i kept showing kathie's glove to the dear old doggie, and telling him, "find kathie, major, find her! find her, old boy!" and it did seem as if he understood--major's an awfully bright dog--by the way he wagged his tail and went with his nose to the ground smelling the pavement. he went pretty straight for nearly a block up the avenue, then he got bothered by the people passing up and down so continually, and he began to whine and run aimlessly about; i could hardly make him go on; and when i took him in the cross streets, he wasn't any good at all. i felt real discouraged. but just as soon as we turned into twenty-third street, i could see that he'd struck something; for though he did a lot of zigzagging over the pavement, he went ahead all the time: i tell you, i was right at his tail at every turn. when we came opposite to where madison avenue begins, if major didn't cross over and strike off into the park. presently he gave a short, quick bark, and tore down a path. i fairly _flew_ after him; up one path and down another we went like mad, until we came to the fountain, and there, in the shade of a big tree, just as cool and unconcerned as you please, were the runaways! kathie was seated off on one end of the bench, with her new parasol open over her head, putting on all sorts of airs, while she gave orders to paul and mädel, who were setting out some forlorn-looking fruit on the other end of the bench; alan was walking backward and forward dragging his express waggon after him. "why, it's _major_!" cried alan, as the old doggie bounced on him and licked his face. "and _jack_! hullo!" sang out paul, turning round and seeing me. "oh, _lawks_!" exclaimed mädel,--she'd caught that expression from nurse, who always says it when she's frightened or excited,--and with that she scrambled up on the bench and threw her arms round kathie's neck with such force that she knocked the parasol out of her hand, and it slipped down over their heads and hid their faces. [illustration: "and there, just as cool and unconcerned as you please, were the runaways."] of course i was thankful to see them, _very_ thankful; but at the same time i must say i was provoked, too, at the cool way in which they were taking things, when we'd been so frightened about them. "you mean little animals!" i said, giving paul's shoulder a shake. "there's poor nonie at home crying her eyes out about you, and here're you all _enjoying_ yourselves! what d'you mean by behaving like this?" instead of being sorry, if they didn't get saucy right away,--at least the boys did. judge jerked himself away from me. "if anybody's going to punish us, _i'm not_ coming home," he drawled, planting his feet wide apart on the asphalt pavement, and looking me square in the eye. "nor me!" chimed in alan, defiantly. the parasol was lifted a little, and mädel peeped out. "will nora make us go to bed right away?" she asked anxiously; "before we get any dinner?" up went the parasol altogether, and kathie slipped to the ground. "oh, jack, is everybody awfully mad? and what'll they do to us?" she said, and she looked just ready to begin weeping again. "'cause if they are, we'd rather stay here; we've got things to eat--" "yes, we've got lots of things," broke in alan; "see," pointing to the miserable-looking fruit on the end of the bench, "all that! judge bought it; we couldn't get the bank open, but the fruitman took it,--he said he didn't mind,--an' let us have all these things for it; wasn't he kind? we're going to have a party." well, for a few minutes i didn't know what to do,--i mean how to get them to go home without a fuss. i could see that paul and alan were just ready for mischief; if they started to run in different directions, i couldn't catch both, and there were those dangerous cable cars not very far away. suppose the boys should rush across broadway and get run over! i suppose i could have called a policeman, and got him to take us all home, but i knew that'd make a terrible fuss; kathie and mädel would howl,--they're awfully afraid of "p'leecemen," as alan calls them, and i really don't care very much for them myself. at last i got desperate. "see here, children," i said, "i've been sent to find you if i could, and to bring you home, and i've _got_ to do it, you know. if you'd seen how worried everybody was, and how poor nonie cried for fear some tramp had got hold of you--" "i just guess not!" broke in judge, defiantly; but all the same he glanced quickly over his shoulder, and drew a little nearer to me. "--or for fear you'd get hurt, or have no place to sleep in, you'd want to go straight home this minute. you know this park's all very well for the day-time; but when night comes, and it gets dark, what'll you do? the policemen may turn you out, and where will you all go _then_? nannie is miles and _miles_ away from here by the cars, and how're children like you ever going to get to her without money or anything? and even if it were so you could get to her, what do you suppose nannie'd say when she found you had all _run away from home_?" i said all this very seriously,--i tell you i felt serious,--and the minute i stopped speaking mädel slipped from the bench and slid her little hand into mine. "_i'm_ going home," she declared. "perhaps i will, too, if nora won't punish us," said kathie, undecidedly. "i don't know if she'll punish you or not," i said; "but even if she should, isn't that better than staying here all the time, and having no dinner,--cook's made a lovely shortcake for dessert,--and no beds to sleep in, and never coming home at all again?" kathie caught hold of my hand. "i'm ready," she said; "let's go now." "coming, boys?" i asked carelessly. "oh, i s'pose we'll _have_ to," answered paul, sulkily, kicking the leg of the bench; "and there's my money all gone!" i was wild to get them home, but i had to wait as patiently as i could while the boys piled the horrid old fruit into the express wagon--they wouldn't have left it for anything--and harnessed major to it with pieces of twine they had in their pockets; then we started. we passed the fruitman that had cheated judge, and phil said afterwards that i ought to have stopped and made him give up the bank,--there were nearly two dollars in it, besides the value of the bank itself, and he had given the children about ten or fifteen cents' worth of miserable stuff for it,--but i do hate to fight people, and besides, i was in a hurry to get home, so i didn't notice him at all. we went along in pretty good spirits--major at the head of the procession--until we got near home; then kathie asked once or twice, rather nervously, "what do you suppose nora'll do to us, jack?" and the boys began to lag behind a little. as we turned off the avenue, into our street, two people came down our stoop--we live near the corner--and came toward us. one of them was an old lady, and i knew at once that i'd seen her before, though i couldn't remember where. she was a little old lady, and she stooped a good deal; her nose was long and hooked, and she had a turn-up chin like in the pictures of punch that we have at home. kathie saw the likeness, too, for she pulled my elbow and whispered: "oh, jack, doesn't she look like punch? perhaps she's his wife." the other woman was stout, and she helped the old lady along,--i think she was a maid. as we got near them, the old lady fumbled for her eyeglasses, put them on, and looked sharply at us. "yes, yes, looks like his father!" we heard her say; then, "have we time, sanders? i should like to speak to them." "indeed, mum, we haven't time to stop," replied sanders; "we've barely time to catch the boat." then they got into the hansom that was standing at the curb, and were driven away. hannah opened the door, and the yell of joy that she gave when she saw the children brought nora flying to meet us. i couldn't help noticing how bright and happy nora looked, very different from when we had left her, an hour or so before; and the way she met the children was also a surprise to me. i knew she'd be glad to see them safe, but i thought surely she would have given them a good scolding, too, or punished them in some way; they deserved it, and i know they expected it. but she met them as sweetly and affectionately as even nannie could have; she gave them something to eat,--it was long past our lunch hour,--and then she walked them into the study and gave them a tremendous talking to. i don't know whether it was the unexpected way in which she treated them, or the talking to, or what, but they came out of the study looking very subdued, and they certainly behaved better for the rest of the time before we went in the country. and nora was different, too, for that time; she scarcely nagged, and she was more gentle,--so perhaps their running away taught her a lesson as well. in the mean time--while nora and the children were in the study--felix came in, all tired out, and a little while later phil; and weren't they indignant, though, with those youngsters when they found they were safe and sound! all that afternoon nora seemed very happy; we could hear her singing as she went up and down stairs and about the house, looking after nurse and the children. it was the same all through dinner-time,--she just bubbled over with fun, and it was the pleasantest meal we'd had since the family broke up. now nora isn't often like this,--in fact, very seldom; and to-day we supposed it was because she was so glad the children had been found; as phil said, 'twas almost worth while losing the youngsters--as long's we'd found them again--to have nora so bright and pleasant. his ill humour had all disappeared, and he and nora just kept us laughing with their funny sayings. but fee was rather quiet; his tramp after the children had tired him, and i guess, too, that he was thinking of the evening, and wondering how he could keep phil from going off with chad. after dinner i went out to feed major; i tell you, we all think him the wisest old doggie in new york! and i gave him the biggest dinner any dog could eat. just as i was coming through the hall to go on the stoop where phil and felix were sitting, nora ran down the steps and stood at the open front door. "come in the drawing-room, boys; i have something particular to tell you," she said. "come right away; better close the front door,--it's a long story." fee got up slowly, but phil hesitated. "i wonder if chad will be round?" he said. "oh, not to-night," answered nora, quickly. "why, didn't you hear him say last evening that he was going out of town for two or three days?" fee's face lighted up, and he opened his big eyes at me,--i know he was delighted; and it seemed to me that phil's surprised "no! is _that_ so?" did not sound very sorry. "oh, hurry in, _do_!" nora said impatiently. "i've kept the secret all the afternoon,--until we had a chance to talk quietly together,--and now it is just burning my lips to get out. come, jack, you, too." xvii. nora's secret. told by jack. of course that brought us into the drawing-room in double-quick time. fee threw himself full-length on a lounge; phil sat on a chair with his face to the back, which he hugged with both arms; i took the next chair,--the biggest in the room; and pulling over the piano stool, nora seated herself on that, and swung from side to side as she spoke to the different ones. for a minute she just sat and smiled at us without a word, until phil said: "well, fire away! we're all ears." "who do you think has been here to-day?" began nora. phil rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, and he and felix both answered very solemnly, and at the same moment:-- "the tsar!" "the president!" "_don't_ be silly!" said nora, with dignity; then, "i suppose i might as well tell you at once, for you never could guess,--_aunt lindsay!_" "no!" "jinks!" "we _saw_ her!" exclaimed felix, phil, and i. "yes," said nora, swinging herself slowly from side to side, and enjoying our surprise. "and what do you suppose she came for?" then, interrupting herself, "but there! i'll begin at the very beginning; that will be the best. well, i had just told dr. archard good-bye--by the way, he says nurse will be all right by to-morrow--and come in here for a minute, when the bell rang, and hannah ushered an old lady into the room. of course i knew at once that it was aunt lindsay, though i hadn't seen her for a long time; and i welcomed her as warmly as i could, feeling as i did about the children,--i didn't tell her anything about them, though,--and asked her to take off her things. but she said she could only stay a very short time, and asked to see 'nancy' and felix. "she sat in the chair you are in, jack,"--nora turned to me,--"and as she's very small, she looked about as lost in it as you do. when i said that felix was out, and nannie away in the adirondacks with papa, she looked _so_ disappointed. 'i knew your father was there,' she said, 'but he did not mention that nancy was with him. and so felix is out! h'm, sorry for that. good children, good children, both of them!'" "doesn't know you, old man, does she?" put in phil; and then he and felix grinned. "well," continued nora, "she said she couldn't stay for lunch, but i got her to loosen her bonnet strings and take a cup of tea and some crackers. while she sipped her tea she said: 'i am _en route_ for my usual summer resort, and have come a good deal out of my way to see my godchildren. it is a disappointment not to meet them; but if nancy is with her sick father, she is doing her duty.' then she asked about you, fee; your health particularly. after i had told her that you were as well as usual, and as fond of study as ever, then she told me what she had come on from boston for. felix, she knows all about your disappointment in not going to college last fall,--who do you suppose could have told her?--and she says--" nora stopped and looked at us with a teasing smile. fee was sitting up, and we were all leaning forward, eager for the rest of the story. "oh, _go_ on!" cried fee, quickly. "yes, out with it!" chimed in phil. "she says," went on nora, slowly, lingering over each word, "that you are to prepare yourself for examination to enter columbia in the fall, and she will see you through the college course. these are her very words: 'tell felix that his father has consented that i shall have the great pleasure and happiness of putting him through college. i wanted to do it last fall, but jack would not listen to it then. tell the boy that i shall enjoy doing this, and that he will hear from me about the last of august.' oh, felix, isn't it _splendid_?" [illustration: "'he will hear from me about the last of august.'"] "perfectly immense--_immense!_" exclaimed phil, landing on his feet in great excitement. "why, it's the _jolliest_, the _very_ best, the _finest_ piece of good news that i could hear--simply _huge!_ _blessed_ old dame! she's given me _the_ wish of my heart! hurrah, old chappie! after all we'll be at college together! _oo-h-ie!_" and he threw his arms right round felix and just hugged him. fee's eyes were wide open, and so bright! they shone right through his glasses; he leaned forward and looked anxiously from one to the other of us, his hands opening and shutting nervously on his knees as he spoke. "are you _sure_ about this?" he asked wistfully; "because i've dreamed this sort of thing sometimes, and--and--the awakening always upsets me for a day or two." "why, _certainly_ we're sure!" cried nora. "_dead sure!_" answered phil, emphatically; and nora added reproachfully: "why, felix! aren't you glad? i thought you'd be delighted." "_glad?_" echoed fee, "_glad?_ why, i'm--" his voice failed, and turning hurriedly from us, he buried his face in the sofa cushions. all this time i hadn't said a word; i really couldn't. you see, ever since i've been a choir boy, i've saved all the money that's been paid me for singing, so's to get enough to send fee to college. betty didn't think much of my scheme: she said 'twould take such a long while before i could get even half the amount; but still i kept on saving for it,--i haven't spent a penny of my salary,--and you've no idea how full the bank was, and _heavy!_ i've just hugged the little iron box sometimes, when i thought of what that money would do for fee; and for a few minutes after i heard nora's story i was so disappointed that i _couldn't_ congratulate him. then, all at once, it came over me like a rush how mean i was to want felix to wait such a long time for me to do this for him, when, through aunt lindsay's kindness, he could go to college right away. i got awfully ashamed, and going quickly over to fee's side, i knelt down by him and threw my arm over his shoulder. "fee," i said,--he still had his face in the cushions,--"i'm _very_, _very_, _very_ glad you are to go to college this fall,--_really_ and _truly_ i am, fee." i didn't see anything funny about this, but phil and nora began to laugh, and, sitting up, felix said, smiling, "why, i know you are, jacqueminot; i never doubted it for a moment. and by and by, when phil and i are staid old seniors, your turn will come,--we'll see to that." then, looking round at us, he went on, speaking rapidly, excitedly: "_at last_ it has come, and when i least expected it--when i had given up all hope. i can hardly believe it! _now_ i shall go in for the hardest sort of hard work, for i've great things to accomplish. don't think i'm conceited, but i'm going to try for _all_ the honours that a fellow can; and i'll get them, too--i'll get them; i _must!_ i promised--_her_--" he broke off abruptly and turned away, then presently added in a lighter tone: "i must write to my twinnie to-night,--how delighted she will be! oh, i tell you, you don't any of you know what this is to me!--but there, i _can't_ talk of it. let's have some fun. what shall we do to celebrate the occasion? play something lively, nora; we'll have a _musicale_." he stood up, and as nora ran to the piano and struck up a waltz, phil caught fee round the waist and danced off with him. but before they had turned twice round, fee was in a chair, holding on to his back, and laughing at phil's grumbling protest. "i never was much on dancing, you know," he said. "here, take rosebud; he'll trip the light fantastic toe with you as long as you like." so phil finished the waltz with me, but i didn't enjoy it; phil is so tall, and he grips a person so tight, that half the time my feet were clear off the floor and sticking straight out; and he went so fast that i got dizzy. well, we had a _jolly_ evening. after the dance, fee didn't move about very much, but he was just as funny and bright as he could be; nora was nicer, too, than i've ever known her; and as for phil, he was perfectly wild with good spirits. he danced,--alone when he couldn't get anybody for a partner,--and sang, and talked, and joked, and kept us in a roar of laughter until bedtime. "well," said nora, as we stood together by the drawing-room door for a few minutes before going upstairs, "i thought this morning that this was going to be a black day,--one of the days when everything goes wrong,--and yet see how pleasantly it has ended." "it has been a great day for me," said fee, slowly. "i don't mind telling you people, now, that that disappointment in the fall took the heart and interest all out of my studies; but now"--he straightened himself up, and his voice rang out--"_now_ i have hope again, and courage, and you'll see what i can do. thanks don't express my feelings; i'm more than thankful to aunt lindsay!" "so 'm i," i piped up, and i meant that; i was beginning to feel better about it. "thankful, more thankful, most thankful," phil said, pointing his finger at nora, then at me, then at felix; "and here am i, the 'thankfullest' of all." there was a break in his voice that surprised us; and to cover it up, he began some more of his nonsense. "high time for us--the _pater's_ little infants--to be a-bed," he said, laughing. "come, mr. boffin, make your adieux and prepare to leave "'the gay, the gay and festive scene; the halls, the halls of dazzling light.'" and suddenly, catching fee in his arms, he ran lightly up the stairs with him, calling back to us: "'good-night, ladies! good-night, ladies! good-night, ladies! i'm going to leave you now!'" xviii. experiences at endicott beach. told by betty. nora insisted that it was "exceedingly kind" of the ervengs, and "a compliment" to me, and all that sort of thing, to invite me to spend a month with them at their country place. well, perhaps she was right: nora is _always_ right,--in her own estimation; all the same, i didn't want to go one step, and i am afraid i was rather disagreeable about it. you see i had been looking forward to going to the cottage with the others; and having to start off for an entirely different place at only a few hours' notice quite upset me. at the cottage, nannie takes charge while miss marston is away for her holidays, and she lets us amuse ourselves in our own way, as long as we are punctual at meals,--papa insists on that,--and don't get into mischief. one can wear one's oldest clothes, and just _live_ out of doors; what with driving old pegasus, and riding g. w. l. spry, and boating, fishing, crabbing, wading, and playing in the sand, we do have the jolliest times! now, instead of all this fun and freedom, i was to be packed off to visit people that i didn't know very well, and didn't care a jot about. of course i knew hilliard _pretty_ well,--he's been at the house often enough! i didn't mind him much, though he is provokingly slow, and so--well, _queer_, for i could speak my mind right out to him if i felt like it; but it seemed to me that mr. erveng must always remember that silly escapade of mine whenever he looked at me, and i was sure that mrs. erveng regarded me as a rough, overgrown tomboy. somehow, when i am with her i feel dreadfully awkward,--all hands, and feet, and voice; though these things don't trouble me in the least with any one else. i did wish that she had invited nora to visit her instead of me. when i saw my old blue flannel laid with the things to go to the cottage, and only my best gowns put into the trunk i was to take to the ervengs', it suddenly rushed over me that i would have to be on my company manners for a whole month! and i got so mad that it would have been a relief to just _roar_,--the way kathie does. nannie was away, and the others didn't seem to understand how i felt; in fact, nora aggravated me by scolding, and saying i ought to feel highly delighted, when i knew that deep down in her heart she was only too thankful that _she_ hadn't been asked. jack was the only person that sympathised with me,--dear old jackie-boy! i'm beginning to think that there is a good deal to jack, for all he's so girlie. [illustration: "in the drawing-room car."] the ervengs called for me the morning after papa and nannie had gone to the mountains,--right after breakfast,--and i can assure you it was dreadfully hard to keep back the tears when i was telling the family good-bye; and when i was seated in the carriage, right under mr. and mrs. erveng's eyes, i got the most insane desire to scream out loud, or burst the door open and jump out: i had to sit up very straight and set my lips tight together, to keep from doing it. that feeling wore off, though, by the time we got settled in the drawing-room car, and i was three seats from mrs. erveng,--i managed that,--with mr. erveng and hilliard between us. it was a marvel to me the way those two waited on mrs. erveng; in watching them do it i forgot about myself. her chair must be at just such an angle, her footstool in just such a position, and the cushions at her back just so many, and most carefully arranged; and if she stirred, they were all attention immediately. and they were like that the whole month that i was at endicott beach, though it seemed to me sometimes that she was very exacting. now with us, though we love one another dearly, and, as phil says, would go through fire and water for one another if need be, particularly if any one were ill, still we're not willing to be imposed on _all_ the time, and we do keep the different ones up to the mark, and stand up for our individual rights,--we've _got_ to where there are so many. but the ervengs aren't in the least like us; and i think that, in some ways, hilliard is the very oddest boy i've _ever_ known. to begin with, he is so literal,--away ahead of nora; he took so many things seriously that i said in joke that at first i didn't know what to make of him. i used to get _so_ provoked! he doesn't understand the sort of "chaffing" that we do so much at home, and he is slow to get an idea; but once it's fixed in his mind, you needn't think he's going to change,--it's there for the rest of his natural life. he could no more change his opinion about things as i do than he could fly. perhaps he thinks i'm frivolous and "uncouth,"--as nora sometimes says i am. well, let him; who cares? _i_ think _he_ is a regular old poke, though he is better than i thought at first; but you'll hear all about it. of course hilliard was polite, and all that, when he came to our house, but i didn't always see him; in fact, i used to keep out of the way on purpose, many a time: so i didn't really know what sort of a boy he was until i went to stay at the beach. well, as soon as mrs. erveng was comfortably settled, hilliard came over to me with a big soft cushion in his hand. "may i put this at your back?" he asked. "it's a tiresome journey to boston, and we've got quite a ride after that to reach endicott beach; so let me make you as comfortable as possible." now if he had come up and simply put the cushion on the back of my chair, the way phil, or felix, or jack would have done, i wouldn't have minded at all,--i like cushions; but to stand there holding it, waiting for me to give him permission, struck me as being very silly. i knew he expected me to say yes, and instead of that i found myself saying, "no, i thank you,"--i could hear that my tone was snippy,--"i can get on very comfortably without a cushion." our boys, or max, or even murray unsworth would have said, "oh, come now, betty!" and just slipped the cushion behind me, and i'd have enjoyed it, and made no more fuss. but not so this individual. he looked helplessly at me for a minute, then laid the cushion down on his mother's travelling satchel; and there it reclined until we reached boston. 'twas the same way with getting me things to eat. with all the excitement that morning, i had very little appetite for breakfast, so by lunch time i was _very_ hungry; and when mrs. erveng opened her box of sandwiches, i felt as if i could have eaten every one in it,--but of course i didn't. they were delicious; but, oh, so small and thin! mr. erveng did not take any,--he never takes a mid-day meal. mrs. erveng ate two, trifling with the second one as if tired of it. i ate three,--when a _dozen_ would not have been too many! hilliard disposed of four, and then went out to get his mother a cup of tea,--i suspect he had something more to eat in the restaurant. he asked, in a tone as if he meant it, "mayn't i bring you a cup of tea?" but i despise tea, so i answered, "no, i thank you," for the second time. mr. and mrs. erveng were talking to an acquaintance who had come up, and actually hilliard hadn't the sense to offer me anything else, and i _couldn't_ ask. having sisters is certainly a great thing for a boy, as i've told jack scores of times; why, for all that he is so shy, jack could have taken twice as good care of a girl as hilliard did of me, just because he has had me to train him. presently mrs. erveng passed the lunch box over to me. "_do_ take another sandwich, betty," she said kindly, "and some cake." but by this time no one else in the car was eating, and i didn't want to be the only person,--i hate to have people stare at me while i'm eating,--so i refused. the open box remained by me for some time,--'twas all i could do to keep from putting out my hand for a sandwich; then the porter came by, and mr. erveng handed it to him to take away. hilliard talked to me as we flew along, in his deliberate, grown-up way, but pleasantly; if i had not been so hungry and homesick, i might have been interested. but by and by the hunger wore off, and by the time we reached endicott beach i had a raving headache; but i said nothing about it until after dinner, for mrs. erveng was so tired out that she had to be looked after and got to bed the very first thing, and that made a little fuss, though her maid dillon, who had come on the day before, was there to assist her. the house is very prettily furnished and arranged,--almost as prettily but more simply than mrs. erveng's rooms in new york. after dinner hilliard showed me a little of the place, which is _very_ pretty, and quite unlike anywhere else that i have been. there's a queer scraggly old garden at the back of the house, and in front a splendid view of the beach, with the ocean rolling up great booming waves. before very long i got to like endicott beach very much; but this first afternoon, though the sunset was most gorgeous, i felt so miserable that i could take interest in nothing. oh, how i longed for home! presently hilliard said, "i'm afraid you are dreadfully tired,--you look so pale. i should have waited until to-morrow to show you the place; i have been inconsiderate--" "i have a headache," i broke in shortly; then all at once my lips began to tremble. "i wish i were at home!" i found myself exclaiming; and then the tears came pouring down my face. "oh, i am so sorry! so _very_ sorry! what can i do for you?" began hilliard. "oh! mayn't i--" i was so mortified that i got very mad; i hate to cry, any way, and above all before this stiff wooden boy! i threw my hands over my face, and turning my back on him, started for the house, walking as fast as i could, stumbling sometimes on the uneven beach. but hilliard followed close behind me. "i'm _so_ sorry!" he repeated. "why didn't you let me know sooner? may i--" i got so provoked that i wheeled round suddenly on him,--i think i startled him. "oh, _do_ stop _asking_ people if you 'may' or 'mayn't do things for them,"--i'm afraid that here i mimicked his tone of voice. "_do_ the things first, and then ask,--if you must. i declare, you don't know the very first thing about taking care of a girl; why, our paul could do better." hilliard stood stock still and stared at me; his sleepy eyes were wide open, and there was such a bewildered expression on his face that it just set me off laughing, in spite of the tears on my cheeks, and my headache. "i am exceedingly sorry if i have neglected--" he began stiffly; but before he could say any more i turned and fled. i fancied i heard his footsteps behind me, and i fairly flew along the beach, into the house, and up to my room, where i began undressing as quickly as i could. but before i was ready for bed, mrs. erveng's maid brought a message from her mistress. she was so sorry to hear that i was not well; was there nothing that she could do for me? "please say that i am going to bed; that will cure my headache quicker than anything else," i called through the keyhole, instead of opening the door. i had a feeling that the ervengs would think me a crank; but i had got to that pitch that afternoon where i didn't care what anybody thought of me. then dillon went away, and i got into bed. but i couldn't sleep for ever so long: you see the sun had not yet set, and i'm not used to going to sleep in broad daylight; besides, i was very unhappy. as i lay there looking at the brilliant colours of the sky, i thought over what i had said to hilliard, and the oftener i went over it, the more uncomfortable i got; for i began to see that i'd been very rude--to insult the people i was visiting! i wondered if hilliard had told his mother what i said; and what she thought of me? would she send me home? i had declared to nora that i would behave so badly as to be sent home before the visit was over, but i had not really meant it. i got all worked up over the horrid affair, and if i had had then enough money to pay my expenses to new york, i really think i should have been tempted to climb out of the window, or make my escape in some way or other,--i dreaded so having to face the ervengs in the morning. after a long while i fell asleep, and dreamed that mr. and mrs. erveng were holding me fast, while hilliard stuffed sandwiches down my throat. but by the next morning my headache was gone, and the sunshine and beautiful view from my window made me feel a new person, though i still dreaded meeting the ervengs. usually i dress quickly, but this morning i just dawdled, to put off the evil moment as long as possible. it seemed so strange not to have nannie, or miss marston, or nora, or any one to tell me what to say or do; i really felt lost without dear old nannie. i would have been delighted to see her that morning,--we have such nice talks at home while we are dressing! before i left home, nora said particularly, "now, betty, _do_ remember that your ginghams are for the mornings and your thinner gowns for the afternoons. don't put on the first frock that comes to your hand, regardless of whether it is flannel, gingham, or _organdi_. you know you haven't a great many clothes, so _please_, i beg of you, for the reputation of the family, take care of them, or you will not have a decent thing to wear two weeks after you get to the ervengs'." i was provoked at her for saying this, but i could not resent it very much, for--though i love pretty things as well as anybody does--somehow accidents _are_ always happening to my clothes. nurse says it's because i am too heedless to think about what i have on, and perhaps it is: yet, when i remember, and try to be careful, i'm simply _miserable_; and it does seem too silly to make one's self uncomfortable for clothes,--so i generally forget. but this morning i looked carefully over the ginghams that dillon had unpacked and hung in the closet in my room, and finally, taking down the one i considered the prettiest, i put it on; i wished afterward that i had chosen the plainest and ugliest. as i said, i was taking as much time as possible over my dressing, when i happened to think that breakfast might be ready, and the ervengs waiting for me,--papa says "to be late at meals, particularly when visiting, is _extremely_ ill-bred;" then i rushed through the rest of my toilet, and raced down the stairs, not thinking of mrs. erveng's headache until i reached the foot of the steps. i was relieved to find no one in the parlour, or in the room across the hall, where the table was set for breakfast. but as i stepped out on the broad front piazza, hilliard rose from the hammock in which he had been lying, and came forward with such a pleasant "good-morning!" that i felt surprised and ashamed. "how is your head?" he asked, adding, "it must be better, i fancy,--you look so much brighter than you did yesterday." i could feel my face getting warm; i hate to apologise to people, but i knew that i ought to do it here. "that headache made me cross, and i was homesick," i answered, speaking as fast as i could to get it all over with quickly. "i am sorry i spoke so rudely--" but hilliard broke in quickly,--for him. "don't say that; please don't ever speak of it again," he said earnestly. "it's for _me_ to apologise; i must have deserved what you said, or i know you would not have said it." [illustration: "betty."] well, i _was_ taken aback! that was a new view of the case. at first i thought he might be in sarcasm; but no, he was in earnest, saying the words in his slow, deliberate way, with his eyes half shut. i couldn't help wishing that the family had been there to hear; but i decided that i would certainly tell them of it,--you see i don't often get such a compliment. i would like to have made a polite speech to him, but what was there to say?--it still remained that he _hadn't_ taken good care of me. and while this thought was going through my brain, i heard myself say, "did you tell your mother what i said to you?" now i had no more idea of asking hilliard that--though i did want to know--than i had of flying; my mouth opened, and the words just came out without the least volition on my part,--in fact, i was perfectly astonished to hear them. more than once this has happened at home; phil teases me about it, and fee calls me mrs. malaprop, because--that's the trouble--these speeches are almost always just the things i shouldn't have said. i'm sure i don't know what i am to do to prevent it. my face actually burnt,--it must have been as red as a beet. "i didn't mean to ask you that," i blurted out. while i was speaking, hilliard was saying, "why, certainly not; i simply mentioned that you had a headache," in such a surprised voice that i felt more uncomfortable than ever: but wasn't it nice of him not to tell? i just rushed into talk about the scenery as fast as i could go. from where we stood we could see the wild, rugged coast for miles,--the huge, bare brown rocks standing like so many grim sentinels guarding the spaces of shining white sand, which here and there sloped gently to the water's edge; the sea gulls resting, tiny white specks, against the dark rocks, or circling in flocks above them; the dark blue ocean, dotted with steamers and sailing-vessels and sparkling and dancing in the morning light, rolling up great white-crested waves that dashed on the rocks and threw up a cloud of foaming spray, and broke on the beach with a dull booming noise; and over all was the warm, glorious summer sunshine. as i looked and looked, all the disagreeableness slipped away, and it was _splendid_ just to be alive. i thought of felix, and how much he would enjoy all this beauty. we all think so much of the scenery at the cottage, and really it is nothing compared with this. there the beach is smooth and nice, but it hasn't a rock on it; and the water--it's the sound, you know--just creeps up on it with a soft lapping sound very different to the roar and magnificence of the ocean. i was so surprised and delighted that first morning that i spoke out warmly. "oh!" i cried, "isn't it _beautiful_! oh, it is grand! fascinating!--i could watch those waves all day!" hilliard's face lighted up. "i thought you would like it," he said. "you should see it in a storm,--it is magnificent! but it is terrible, too,"--he gave a little shudder. "i love the ocean, but i am afraid of it; it is treacherous." "afraid!" i looked at him in surprise,--the idea of a big strong boy as he is being _afraid_ of the water! i opened my mouth to exclaim, "well, _i'm_ not afraid!" then remembered my unlucky remark of a few minutes before and said instead, and in a much milder tone, "after breakfast i'm going to explore those rocks, and get as near to the ocean as i can--" "don't attempt to do any climbing alone," broke in hilliard, more positively than he usually speaks; "the rocks are very slippery, and you know nothing about the tides. people have been caught on those rocks and cut off--drowned--by the incoming tide, before they could reach the shore, or be rescued. i shall be very glad to go with you whenever--" "good-morning!" mr. erveng said, appearing in the doorway behind us; "will you young people come in and have some breakfast?" breakfast was served in a room that looked out on the garden; and everything was very nice, though quite different from our breakfasts at home. mrs. erveng was not down,--i found afterward that she always took her breakfast in her own room,--and hilliard sat in his mother's place and poured the tea. i was thankful that mr. erveng hadn't asked me to do it; but it did look so _queer_ to see a boy doing such a thing,--so like a "miss nancy," as phil would say. mr. erveng and hilliard talked a good deal about things that were going on in the world, and about books, and places they had been to. i was perfectly surprised at the way mr. erveng asked hilliard's opinion, and listened to his remarks,--i couldn't imagine papa's doing such a thing with any of us, not even with felix; and when i said anything, they both acted as if it were really worth listening to,--which is another thing that never happens in our family! and yet, on the other hand, mr. erveng goes off to boston in the mornings without even saying good-bye to mrs. erveng or hilliard,--they never know by what train he is coming home; and in the whole month i visited them i never once saw hilliard and his mother kiss each other. now at home papa always tells some one of us when he is going out, and about when he will return; and if we children go anywhere, the whole family is sure to know of it; and quite often we kiss one another good-bye, and always at night. nora often tells us that it isn't "good form" to do this; and sometimes, when she's in an airish mood, she calls us "a pack of kissers,"--as if that were something dreadful. still, all the same, i'm _glad_ that we're that sort of a family; and i am more than ever glad since i've been staying with the ervengs. hilliard and i were just starting for the beach that morning, when dillon came out on the piazza with a message. "mr. hilliard," she said, "your mother would like to speak to you." so off he went with, "excuse me; i'll be back in a few minutes," to me. but instead, presently back came dillon with another message: "mrs. erveng asks, will you please to excuse mr. hilliard; she would like him to do something for her for a while." so off i went for my walk, alone. i strolled down to the beach and sat in the shade of a big rock and looked at the waves,--watching them coming in and going out, and making up all sorts of thoughts about them. but after a while i got tired of that, and began wondering what they were all doing at home without nannie, or miss marston, or papa; and then i felt so lonely and homesick that i just _had_ to get up and walk about. and then i got into trouble,--i don't know another girl that gets into scrapes as i do! there were lots of little coves about the beach,--the water in them was just as clear as crystal; and as i stepped from rock to rock, bending down to look into the depths, what should i do but slip,--the rocks _are_ slippery,--and land in the middle of a cove, up to my waist in water! there was nothing to do but to scramble out,--the rocks ran too far out into the ocean to think of walking round them,--and i can assure you it was no easy thing to accomplish with my wet skirts clinging to me. i scratched my hands, and scraped my shoes, and got my sleeves and the whole front of my nice gingham stained with the green slimy moss that covered the rocks. but at last i got out; then came the walk up the beach to the house,--there was no other way of getting there,--and you may imagine my feelings when, half-way up, i discovered that mrs. erveng was seated on the piazza in her invalid's chair. i saw her put her _lorgnette_ to her eyes; i imagined i heard her say to hilliard, who was arranging a cushion back of her head, "who _is_ that extraordinary looking creature coming up the beach?" and i _longed_ to just burrow in the sand and get out of her sight. hilliard came running to meet me. "you've fallen into the water--you are wet! i hope you're not hurt?" he exclaimed, as he reached me. it was on the tip of my tongue to answer sharply, "i _have_ fallen into the water; did you expect me to be dry?" it was such a _silly_ speech of his! but i was afraid of mrs. erveng, so i just said carelessly,--as if i were in the habit of tumbling into the ocean with all my clothes on every day in the week,--"oh, i just slipped off one of the rocks; i got my feet wet." and there i was, mind you, wet almost to my waist, and such a figure! any one of our boys--even jack, and he is pretty dense sometimes--would have seen the joke, and we'd have had a hearty laugh, anyway, out of the situation; but not a smile appeared on hilliard's face. either he didn't see the fun at all, or else he was too deadly polite to laugh. if he had even said roughly, "didn't i _tell_ you not to go there!" i wouldn't have minded it as much as his "how unfortunate!" and his helpless look. i was afraid to say anything for fear i'd be rude again, so we walked up to the piazza in solemn silence. "good morning!" mrs. erveng said pleasantly, as i laboured up the steps. "an accident? i am so glad you are not hurt! hilliard should have warned you about those slippery rocks--oh, he did--i see. dillon will help you change your things; ring for her, hilliard. too bad, betty, to spoil that pretty frock." well, i changed my wet clothes, and for the rest of that day i was as meek as a lamb. i sat down, and got up, and answered, and talked to the ervengs as nearly in nora's manner as i could imitate. perhaps they liked it, but i didn't; i was having the pokiest kind of a time, and i was so homesick that i cried myself to sleep again that night. mind you, i wouldn't have our boys and nora know this for a kingdom! the next few days were more agreeable; the people from the other cottages on the beach came to call on mrs. erveng, and while she was entertaining them, hilliard and i went for walks or sat on the sands. as i've told you before, he isn't at all a wonderful sort of boy,--except for queerness,--and he always _will_ be a poke; but sometimes he's rather nice, and he is certainly polite. he knows the beach well,--he ought to, he's been here nearly every summer of his life, and he is eighteen years old,--and he showed me everything there was to see. there were no more accidents under his guidance; and no wonder,--he is caution itself. there was only one part of the beach that he did not take me, and that was where a tall pointed rock stood, that was separated from the others by a rather wide strip of sand. i thought it looked interesting; i could see what looked in the distance like the arched entrance to a cave in the side of the rock. i would like to have gone to look at it, but every time i proposed it, hilliard turned the conversation. "some day we'll investigate it," he said at last; "but don't ever go over there alone,--it is a dangerous place." according to him, the whole beach was dangerous; so i made up my mind that i would "investigate" for myself at the first opportunity that offered. while we rested on the sands, hilliard would read aloud to me,--he likes to read aloud. neither phil nor i care as much for books as do the others in the family; but to be polite, i did not tell hilliard that i am not fond of being read to; to me it always seems so slow. at first i used to look at the ocean and make up thoughts about it, so that i hardly heard any of what he was reading; but after a while i began to listen, and then, really, i got quite interested. we were sitting in the shade of the rocks one very warm afternoon,--hilliard was reading aloud,--when there came a sudden peal of thunder, and presently a flash of lightning. "oh, we're going to have a storm!" i exclaimed. "i am so glad! now i can see the ocean in a storm,--you said it was magnificent then. why, what are you doing?" "we must get in the house as quickly as possible." hilliard rose to his feet as he spoke, and began hastily gathering up the books and cushions, and the big sun umbrella. "but the rain hasn't come yet, and i _do_ want to watch the water,--see, it's beginning to get white-caps," i said. "we can reach the house in a few minutes." as i spoke there was another flash of lightning and a long roll of thunder, but neither was severe. to my great astonishment hilliard shrank back against the rock, and shielded his face with the cushion he held in his hand; i could see that he was very pale. "oh, come, _come_!" he begged; "oh, let us get to the house at once!" "what!" i flashed out scornfully, "are you _afraid_ of a thunder storm?" he didn't answer; he just stood there flattening himself against the rock, his face deadly white, his eyes almost closed, and his lips set tight together. i got _so_ angry! i _despise_ a coward! had jack done that, i thought to myself, i'd have been tempted to thrash him to put some spirit and pluck into him; and here was this great big overgrown boy--! "why don't you run away to the house?" i broke out sharply. "i can take care of myself; _i'm_ not afraid of a little thunder." he put up his hand in a deprecating way, as if asking me to hush. then, as a nearer peal reverberated among the rocks, and another flash lighted up the now leaden-coloured sky, he sprang forward and caught hold of my arm, with a sharp cry of "_come! come!_" wheeling me round suddenly, he ran toward the house, carrying me along with him with such force and swiftness--though i resisted--that in a few minutes we were on the piazza, and then in the hall, with the heavy outer door swung shut. we were barely under cover when the rain pelted down, and the thunder and lightning grew more loud and vivid. hilliard leaned breathlessly against the hat-rack table,--i could see that he was trembling. i stood and looked at him,--i suppose it was rude, but i couldn't help it; you see i had never met such a kind of boy before. mrs. erveng had spent part of the day on the beach, and had come to the house about an hour before to take her afternoon nap. now we heard her voice from the floor above us. "hilliard! hilliard, my son!" she called; there was something in her voice--a sort of tenderness--that i had never noticed before. "come here to me; come!" and he went, without a glance at me, lifting his feet heavily from step to step, with drooping head and a shamed, miserable expression on his pale face. in about an hour's time the storm was all over, and that afternoon we had a gorgeous sunset; but mr. erveng and i were the only ones who sat on the piazza to enjoy it. neither mrs. erveng nor hilliard appeared again that day. mr. erveng took me for a walk along the beach, and did his best to entertain me: but i had a feeling that i was in the way--that he would rather have been upstairs with his wife and son, or that perhaps if i had not been there they would have come down. i thought of them all at home,--phil and fee with their fun and merry speeches, and jack, and the little ones, and nora; there is always something or other going on, and i would have given almost anything to be back once more among them. i was so unhappy this afternoon that i actually deliberated whether i had the courage to do something desperate,--make faces at mr. erveng, or race upstairs and interview mrs. erveng, or call hilliard names out loud,--_anything_, so that they would send me home. but after a while i concluded i wouldn't try any of these desperate remedies; not that i minded what they'd say at home (teasing, i mean), but papa would want to know the whole affair,--he has got to think a good deal of mr. erveng,--and besides, somehow, though she's so gentle and refined, mrs. erveng isn't at all the sort of person that one could do those things to. so i said nothing, though i thought a great deal; and i went to bed before nine o'clock thoroughly disgusted with the ervengs. hilliard was at breakfast the next morning, just as stiff and prim and proper as ever,--it almost seemed as if what had happened in the storm must be a dream. but later on, when we were on the piazza, he spoke of it to me. "i feel that i should explain to you that i have a nervous dread of a thunder storm," he said, in that proper, grown-up way in which he speaks, but getting very red. "it completely upsets me at the time; i am afraid you think me a coward--" he broke off abruptly. "if it is nervousness, why don't you do something for it?--go to a physician and get cured?" i answered shortly; it seemed to me so silly--"so girlie," as jack says--to try to turn his behaviour off on _nervousness_. "i _am_ under a physician's care," he said eagerly; "and he says if i could only once--" but just then the carriage that had taken mr. erveng to the train drove up to the door, and with an exclamation of pleasure hilliard started forward to meet the lady and young girl who were getting out of it. they were mrs. endicott and her daughter alice, relatives of the ervengs, and they had come to stay with them while some repairs were being made to their own house, which was farther along the beach. it was _such_ a relief to see a girl again; and she turned out to be just as nice as she could be. she and hilliard are cousins, but she isn't at all like him in any way. in the first place, she is splendid looking,--tall and strong, and the picture of health, with the most beautiful colour in her cheeks; and she is so jolly and full of fun that we got on famously together. alice is a little over sixteen,--just one year older than i am,--and she has travelled almost everywhere with her parents (she's the only child, you see), all over america and in europe. but she doesn't put on any airs about it; in fact, instead of talking of her travels, as i would ask her to do, she'd beg, actually coax me to tell her about my brothers and sisters, and the times we have at home,--it seems hilliard has written her about us. she said she had never known such a large family, and she wanted me to describe each one, from phil down to alan. on warm mornings we would sit on the beach in the shade of the rocks, and when hilliard wasn't reading to us, somehow the conversation always got round to the family. hilliard thinks a good deal of our boys, and he talked to alice about them; he told her of our entertainment on nora's birthday, and our "performances," and she seemed to enjoy hearing of it all. she asked questions, too, and said she felt as if she really knew us all. mrs. endicott was almost as nice as alice, and so _kind_! why, almost every day she got up some amusement for us,--driving, or walking, or a picnic, or something. i really began to enjoy myself very much,--only that i didn't hear often enough from home. nora's notes were very short,--just scraps; she said she was too busy to write more; and jack never has shone as a letter writer. he'd say, "nora had a circus with the 'kids' to-day,--will tell you about it when you come home;" or, "something splendid has happened for fee,--you shall have full particulars when you get back," and other things like that. provoking boy! when i was longing to hear everything. after the endicotts came, i enjoyed myself so well that the time flew by, and almost before i knew it the last day but one of my visit at the beach had come. that afternoon, instead of going with mrs. endicott, alice, and hilliard, to see how the repairs were getting on at their cottage, i decided to remain at home. thinking it over afterward, i could not have explained why i did not care to go; i didn't even remember the excuse i made. it could not have been the heat,--though it was extremely warm,--for a little while after they had gone i dressed for dinner, and started for a stroll along the beach. [illustration: "on warm mornings we would sit on the beach."] i walked slowly on and on, enjoying the beauty of the scenery, until i suddenly discovered that i was directly opposite the large rock which hilliard and i were to have "investigated" some day, but to which he had never taken me. i knew we could not do it the next day, for mr. endicott had invited us to spend it on his steam yacht, and the day after that i was to leave for home; so i made up my mind that that afternoon was my opportunity. carefully gathering up my skirts,--i had on my best white gown,--i picked my way over the rocks and stepped down on the wide strip of sand which divided this rock from the others. i noticed that the beach sloped downward to the rock; but in my heedlessness i did not notice that the sand was slightly damp. on reaching the rock, i found that what had looked at a distance like an arched entrance to a cave was really some irregular steps cut out of its surface, and which led to a narrow shelf, or ledge, a little more than half-way up the tall, solid-looking mass of stone. i knew that the view from that height must be fine, and i _love_ to climb; so i determined to get up to that ledge. it was not very easy,--the steps were slippery and rather far apart, and then, too, my dress bothered me, i was so afraid i would soil or tear it,--so i was a little tired and warm by the time i reached the top. but the view from there was _beautiful!_ one had a clear sweep of the beach, except that smaller portion which lay behind the big rock. the shelf on which i sat, with my feet resting on the step below, was a little rounded, something of a horseshoe shape, and with the rock to lean back against i was quite comfortable. i wondered again and again why hilliard had avoided showing me this place, and enjoyed every detail of the view to my heart's content,--the grand, rugged outline of the beach, the exquisite colours of the sky and water, and the crafts that went sailing and purring past. i wondered where they were all going, and made up destinations for them. then i began counting them, so as to tell alice at dinner; i got up to twenty-eight, and then--i must have fallen asleep. how long i slept i don't know, but i woke with a great start, conscious of some loud, unusual noise, and that something cool had fallen on my face; and for a moment what i saw turned my heart sick with terror. everything was changed since last i had looked at it. the sky, so blue and clear then, was now covered with heavy black clouds, across which shot vivid flashes of lightning, and there were deep, fierce growls of thunder. the shining sands that i had crossed so easily but a while before had disappeared; the ocean, which had then been so far away, now covered them, and was on a level with the step on which my feet rested. the blueness of the water had gone,--it was lead-coloured, to match the sky,--and great angry, white-crested, curling waves came rolling in, tumbling over and over each other in a mad race to dash themselves against the rock on which i sat, throwing up each time a heavy shower of white, foamy spray. it was the touch of this spray on my face that had wakened me; and to my horror, the water was dancing and gurgling at my very feet! in a flash i realised that i was in great danger,--entirely cut off from the land, and on a rock that was under water at high tide! "oh, it can't be! it _can't_ be!" i cried aloud, standing up and looking wildly around; and as i did so, a big wave broke over my feet. with a scream i scrambled back on the ledge, and stood there, clinging to the jagged points of the rock, while i called for help at the top of my voice. i shouted, and shrieked, and yelled, until i was hoarse, and the cries were driven back into my throat by the wind; but all that answered me was the roar of the storm and the screams of the sea gulls as they flew by. as the wind lulled for a minute or two, i managed to drag off the skirt of my gown and wave it, hoping to attract the attention of some passing vessel,--a long range of rocks cut off any view of the cottages on the beach,--but the next wild gust tore it out of my grasp. the water kept rising,--it was bubbling and foaming over my ankles; the waves were lashing themselves higher and higher, the rain coming down in sheets, the wind howling and raging,--i was afraid it would blow me off the ledge! and never in all my life have i heard or seen such thunder and lightning! at first i was all confused,--i was so startled that i could think of nothing but that i was going to be drowned; but after a while i quieted down, and then i remembered that i could swim. many a swimming match had jack and i had at the cottage,--i should have said that i was a very good swimmer; but that was in still water, not in this terrible, cruel ocean. i made up my mind to throw myself off the ledge and strike out for the shore,--three times i thought i would, and each time shrank back and clung the closer to the rock. at last i had to admit to myself that i was _afraid!_ i, betty rose, who had always boasted that i was not afraid of anything, had to own to myself that i had not the courage to even attempt to struggle with those waves! my courage seemed all gone. i was afraid--_deadly_ afraid--of the waves; i screamed as each one struck me higher and higher, and i hid my face from the lightning. oh, it was awful! _awful!_ by and by i began to think; i still felt the rain and waves, and shrunk from the lightning, but not as i had at first, for i was thinking thoughts that had never come to me before in all my life. i could see right before me the faces of papa, and my dear brothers and sisters,--oh, how i loved them! and i should never be with them again! how they would miss me! and yet how many, _many_ times had i been disagreeable, and commanding, and unkind! i loved them, but i had spoken sharply, and teased, and grumbled when i had had little services to do for them; now there would be no more opportunities. i wished that i had done differently! then my thoughts flew off to mrs. erveng,--how surly and disagreeable i had behaved to her! not once had i offered her the slightest attention; instead, i had got out of her way at every chance. i had called this being very sincere, honest, above deceit; but it did not seem like that to me now. and there was hilliard,--i had laughed at him, been rude to him, despised him for being a coward, i was _so_ sure of my own courage; and what was i _now?_ i was ashamed--_ashamed!_ oh, how my heart ached! then i began saying my prayers. the water was up to my waist now; it came with such force that it swayed me from side to side, and beat me against the rock to which i still clung. my fingers were cramped by my tight grip; the next wave, or perhaps the next to that, would sweep me off--away--to death! i prayed from my very heart, with all my strength and soul, and it seemed as if the other things--the waves, the storm, the terrible death--grew fainter; a feeling came to me that i was speaking right into god's ear--that he was very near to me. somewhere out of the roar and awfulness of the storm came a human voice,--a cry: "_betty! betty! hold on! hold on! i can save you--only hold on!_" and when i opened my eyes, there was a boat coming nearer and nearer, dancing on the top of the waves like a cockle shell, and in it was hilliard! "i can't--come--too--close," he shouted. "jump--with--the--next--wave." i understood; and with the next receding wave i leaped into the water,--a wild plunge, scarcely seeing where i was going. but hilliard's hands caught me and hauled me into the boat, where i sank down, and lay huddled up, confused, and trembling so that i couldn't speak. hilliard threw something over me,--the rain was coming down in torrents,--and then he pulled with all his might for the shore. presently my senses began to come back; i knew what a terrible strain it must be to row in such a storm,--though fortunately the tide was with us,--and he had come out in it for me. i felt i ought to take my share of the work. "i--can--row. let--me--take--an--oar," i said slowly, sitting up. "not an oar,--i need both," hilliard answered decidedly; then he added persuasively, "be a good girl, betty, and just keep in the bottom of the boat." i saw that he was rowing in his shirt sleeves,--his coat was over me,--and his hat was gone; the rain was pouring down on his bare head. his face was very pale and set,--stern looking,--and the veins in his forehead were standing out like cords as he strained every nerve at the oars. "i'm going for one of the coves," he shouted to me presently, "where i can run her aground." again and again we were tossed back by the receding waves; but at last we shot into the cove, and i heard the keel grating on the rocky beach. in an instant hilliard was overboard, and had pulled the boat up on the sand, out of reach of the highest wave. as he helped me on to the beach, i looked up in his white face, and such a sense of what he had endured for me rushed over me that i couldn't get the words out fast enough. i threw my hands out and caught hold of his shoulders: "oh, hilliard erveng, you _are_ a brave boy!" i cried out, choking up. "you are no coward; you are brave--_brave!_ and i have been a mean, contemptible, conceited, stuck-up girl." i think i shook him a little; i was in such earnest that i hardly knew what i was doing. the rain had plastered hilliard's hair flat to his head, and washed it into funny little points on his forehead, and there were raindrops pouring down his face; but his mouth was smiling, and his eyes were wide open and shining. he laid his hands over mine as they rested on his shoulders. "thank god for to-day, betty, _thank_ god!" he said, in a glad, excited way. "he has saved your life, and i am no longer a coward; i am no longer afraid--see!" as the lightning flashed over us he lifted his head and faced it, with lips that quivered a little, but also with unflinching eyes. "doctor emmons always said that i would be cured of my dread could i but face one thunder storm throughout," he added, still with that joyous ring in his voice. "and now i've done it! i've done it; i am _free!_" "oh! i am so _glad!_ so _very_ thankful!" i began, and then broke down and burst into a violent fit of crying. i couldn't stop crying, though i _did_ try hard to control my tears; and my knees shook so that i could hardly walk. hilliard almost carried me along until we met jim the coachman and mr. erveng on the beach. mr. erveng had just got home, and heard that hilliard and i were out in the storm. then between them they got me to the house, where mrs. erveng and alice and her mother were anxiously waiting for us. how glad they were to see us! and how they all kissed and hugged me! mrs. erveng took me right into her arms. everybody began talking at once. i heard alice say, "as soon as we missed you, and dillon said she had seen you walking toward that part of the beach, hilliard declared you were on the rock,--he seemed to guess it. and he was off for the boat like a flash,--he wouldn't even wait for jim; he said every minute was precious--" i lost the rest; a horrid rushing noise came in my ears, everything got black before me, and i fainted, for the very first time in my life. * * * * * it is now nearly a week since all this happened, and to-morrow i am going home--to the cottage. i was so stiff and tired from the beating of the waves that mrs. erveng kept me in bed for several days, and telegraphed the family not to expect me until thursday; otherwise neither hilliard nor i have suffered from our drenching in that awful storm. mrs. endicott and alice are going as far as new york with me, and there phil will meet me and take me home. i shall be _very_ glad to be with my own dear ones again,--it seems an age since i saw them; and i long to talk to nannie, and tell her everything. still, _now_, i'm not sorry that i came here. i think that i shall never forget my visit to endicott beach. xix. his brother's keeper. told by jack. nora was playing a sweet, wild hungarian melody on the piano, the boys were on the stoop talking to chad,--every now and then the sound of their voices came in through the open windows,--and i sat under the drawing-room chandelier reading. presently chad came in, and, leaning on the piano, began talking to nora in a low tone; and without stopping her music, she talked back, in the same tone of voice. [illustration: "without stopping her music, she talked back, in the same tone of voice."] the story i was reading was a , and i'd got to a _very_ thrilling place, where the boy comes face to face with an infuriated tiger, when i heard something said outside that just took all the interest out of my book. phil was speaking sharply,--i wondered nora and chad didn't hear him. "what's the _matter_ with you?" he flared out. "i declare, you're getting as fussy as an old cat! i won't stand the way you're watching me, and you've just got to drop it. i'm not a _baby_, to be tied to anybody's apron-strings! i'll go and come as i please." i didn't hear what fee said to this, but phil's answer to it was quite loud: "yes, i _am_ going,--to-night, and to-morrow night, and any other night i please. the _idea_ of a fellow of my age not being able to go out for a walk without asking your permission!" [illustration: "the story i was reading was a ."] "when you talk like that you are downright silly!" broke in felix. i could tell by his voice he was trying hard to control his temper. "'tisn't the going out that anybody objects to; it's the person you're going with. you know very well, phil, that he isn't the sort of fellow to do you any good. i sized him up the very first time we saw him, and i still hold to my opinion,--he's a _b-a-d_ lot." "_a-c-h!_ you make me tired!" exclaimed phil,--that's a favourite expression of his when he's cornered,--and leaning in through the window, he called, "see here, chad; any time to-night!" "yes, a'm coming," chad called back, and bidding nora good-night, he went out; a minute after i heard their steps as phil and he ran down the stoop and passed by the drawing-room windows. laying my book down quietly and very quickly, i ran out on the stoop. fee sat there with his elbows on his knees, and his chin resting on his clasped hands, staring at nothing. dropping down beside him, i slipped my hand in his arm and squeezed it to me. "i heard phil," i said. "i'm awfully sorry he _would_ go." "yes," fee answered, but in a way that i knew he wasn't thinking of what he was saying. we sat quiet for a little while, then felix turned suddenly and laid his hand on my knee. "jack," he said earnestly, "i've made up my mind about something that's been bothering me since last night. what i'm going to do may turn out right, it may turn out wrong,--god only knows; but it seems right to me, and i'm going to try it. i dread it, though,--just _dread_ it. if i hadn't promised--" he broke off abruptly, and turned his head away. i wanted to say something to him, but i couldn't think of a _thing_. in a minute felix began again. "tell me honestly, jack," he said, "do you think that phil cares as much for me as he used to,--i mean before that fellow chad came?" "why, fee!" i exclaimed, "_of course_ he loves you just as well; i _know_ he does,--we all love you _dearly_!" do you know, it just hurt me to have him think phil could let a person like chad come between them. of course, as nurse says, we have our ups and downs; we get mad with one another sometimes, and all that, you know; but still we do love one another dearly, and we'd stand up for the different ones like everything, if need be. we've always been very proud of fee,--he's so clever, you see; but since that night that i'm going to tell you about, i just think my brother felix is the noblest, bravest, truest boy in the world! i've always loved fee very dearly; but now,--well, now i have a feeling that i would be willing to give my life for him. poor old fee! when i said that so positively about phil's caring, i could see fee was pleased; his face brightened up. "well, perhaps he does," he said. "he's been very cranky lately, and sharp to me,--in fact to everybody; but i have a feeling that that's because he isn't really satisfied with the way he's acting. i tell you, jack, phil's a good fellow,"--fee pounded his hand down on his knee as he spoke; "it isn't easy for him to do wrong. and he isn't up to chad's tricks, or the set he's got him into. they've flattered phil first, and that has turned his head; and then they've laughed at him for not doing the things they do, and that's nettled him,--until they've got him all their way. i know what they are,--i can see through their cunning; but phil isn't so sharp. there are people in this world, jack, so contemptible and wicked that they hate to have anybody better than they are themselves, and chad and his crowd belong to that class. if i'd been able to go about with phil as i used to, they'd _never_ have had the chance to get hold of him. and as it is, now that i've found out their game, i'm going to stop the whole business, and bring phil to his senses. he's too fine a fellow for those rascals to spoil. i'll stop it--i'll stop it, no matter _what_ it costs me!" oh, how often i've thought of those words since that dreadful night! and yet, i have a feeling that even if he had known, he would have gone--i tell you, there isn't another boy in all the world like our felix! fee's voice was shaking, and he got on his feet as if he were going to start that very minute; but before i could say anything he began again: "i've got a plan,--not a very good one, i must confess, but it's the best i can think of, and it may work; that is, if phil has as much of the old feeling for me as you think, jack: i'm building a good deal on that,--i hope i won't get left. he may turn obstinate,--you know he _can_ be a very donkey sometimes; and i suppose he'll get furiously mad. well, i'll have to stand that,--if only he doesn't blaze out at me before those cads; _that_ would cut me _awfully_. but that i'll have to risk; he's worth it. now, jack, i want you to help me,--to go somewhere with me, i mean. i'm sorry to have to ask this, for it's no place for a youngster like you; but i think you're one of the kind that won't be hurt by such things, rosebud,"--putting his hand on my arm,--"and i'm so unsteady on my feet that i am afraid i really couldn't get along alone. get your hat--and my cane." in a minute i had both, and we went down the stoop together. at the foot of the steps fee stopped, and taking off his hat, began pushing his hair back off his forehead. i could see he was nervous. "suppose this _shouldn't_ be the right thing that i'm going to do; suppose it should make matters worse," he said undecidedly, almost irritably. "now, if nannie were here--i haven't a creature to advise me!" "_i_ think you're doing right, fee," i began. i didn't remember until afterward that i really didn't know what his plan was; but i don't think he heard what i said, for he went on in a low tone, as if he were talking to himself: "suppose he gets furiously angry, and pitches into me before those low fellows,--you never know what phil's going to say when he gets mad,--and _will not_ come home with me, what'll i do _then_? it's a risk. and if this plan fails, i don't know what else to do. had i better just let things drift along as they are until we get in the country, and then speak to him? i _dread_ a row before that crowd; they'd just set him up against me. and yet--a week more of nights to come home as he did last night, and the night before that--_ought_ i to let that go on? what would _she_ say to do?" he stood with his head bent, thinking,--his hat and cane in one hand, and holding on to the stone newel-post with the other. and as we waited the gay strains of nora's waltz came to us through the windows; since that night i just hate to hear her play that piece. presently felix looked up at me with the faintest little smile. "i came pretty near asking you to write me down a coward, jack," he said; "but i'm all right again. now for your part of this affair: if phil will come back with me, as i hope, you'll have to make your way home alone, without letting him know of your being there. try and manage it. if he gets ugly, and will _not_ leave that crowd, why, then we--you and i--'ll have to travel back as we went. you must judge for yourself, rosebud, whether to go, or to stay for me; i'll have enough to do, you know, to manage phil. apart from that, have as little to do in the matter as possible; ask no questions, speak to no one, and see and hear no more than you can help. all right?" "yes," i answered quickly, "and i only wish i could do more for you, fee." felix put his hand on my shoulder for a rest, as he usually did when we walked together. "you've been a real comfort to me, jack, since nannie went away," he said. i tell you that meant _lots_ from him, and i knew it; i just put up my hand and squeezed fee's fingers as they rested on my coat; then we started off. on fee's account we walked very slowly; but after a while we came to a house with a very low stoop,--just a step or two from the ground. there were handsome glass doors to the vestibule, and the rather small hall was brilliantly lighted up. i fancied that the man who opened the door looked at me as if he thought i had no business there; but felix marched right by him and stepped into the elevator, and of course i followed. "mr. whitcombe," said fee; and then i knew that we were in the apartment house where chad has his "bachelor quarters." "turn to your left," said the elevator man, as he let us out. we did so, and just as we got opposite the door with the big silver knob and old bronze knocker that chad had told us he brought from europe, it opened, and some one came out. well, truly, he didn't look any older than fifteen,--two years older than i am, mind you,--but if he didn't have on a long-tailed evening coat, an awfully high stand-up collar, and a tall silk hat! you can't think what a queer figure he was,--like a caricature. before he could shut the door, felix lifted his hat, and then put out his hand quickly. "allow me," he said politely; and the next moment we were in chad's hall, with his front door closed behind us. at the other end of this hall was a room very brightly lighted; the portière was pushed almost entirely aside, and we could see some young fellows seated round a table. nearly all had cigars or cigarettes in their mouths,--phil, too; the room was just thick with smoke, and they were playing cards. "sit where they can't see you," fee whispered to me; "and if you find phil will go home with me, just slide out without letting him know of your being here. oh, jack, if i can _only_ succeed!" he gave my hand a little squeeze--though it was a warm evening, his fingers were cold--and then walked up the hall and stood in the doorway of chad's room. "hullo! _you!_ oh--aw--come in--aw--glad to see you! take a chair," chad said, in a tone of voice that told he was taken all aback; while phil was so startled that he dropped his cigarette and called out roughly, "what the mischief are _you_ doing here?" of course they all looked at felix; but he answered carelessly, "oh, i thought i'd accept a long-standing invitation,"--with a little bow toward chad,--"and drop in for a while." "oh, certainly, certainly--aw--glad to see you!" exclaimed chad. "who's with you?" demanded phil; but fee didn't answer him: he just went forward and took the place that one of the fellows made between himself and phil. and then chad began introducing felix to the others. from where i sat on the hat-rack settle,--it was the most shielded place in the hall, and near the door,--i had a full view of the people sitting on one side of the table, and particularly of felix and phil, who were almost directly under the glare of the light. fee's face was as white as marble, except a red spot on each cheek, and there was a delicate look about his eyes and temples, and round his mouth, that i hadn't noticed before. somehow his fine, regular features and splendid, broad white forehead made me think of the head of the young augustus that the unsworths have. but phil certainly didn't look like any marble statue; his face was very red and cross, and he was scowling until his eyebrows made a thick black line above his eyes. he was disagreeable, too,--rough and quarrelsome, something like that night when he came home so late, and hurt my feelings. when, in reply to an invitation from chad, felix said he would join the game, phil sung out in a kind of ordering tone, "what's the sense of spoiling the fun for everybody? you know nothing about cards; why don't you look on?" "because i prefer playing," answered fee, smiling; "it's the quickest and surest way of learning, i believe,"--with a glance round the company. "what are the stakes?" he drew a handful of money from his pocket, and laid it before him on the table. "don't make an ass of yourself, felix!" phil exclaimed angrily, laying a hand right over the little pile of silver. "we're not fooling here; we're playing in dead earnest, and you will lose every cent of your money." some of the fellows snickered, and one called out sharply, "look out what you're saying, rose." i saw the red spots on fee's cheeks grow brighter. "i _am going_ to play," he said quietly, but looking phil steadily in the eyes; "so please don't interfere." "evidently you've never learned that 'consistency is a jewel'!" phil retorted with a sneer. i suppose he was thinking of what fee had said that evening on the stoop. but felix only answered good-naturedly, "oh, yes, i have; that used to be one of our copy-book axioms," and then they all began to play. well, phil's face was a study,--it grew blacker and blacker as the game went on, and fee kept losing; and he got very disagreeable,--trying to chaff felix, almost as if he wanted to make him mad. but fee just turned it off as pleasantly as he could. those fellows made it ever so much harder, though; they got off the _silliest_ speeches, and then roared with laughter over them, as if they were jokes. and, in a sly kind of way, they egged phil on to quarrel with fee,--laughing at all his speeches, and pretending that they thought phil was afraid of felix. and chad joined in, i could hear his affected laugh and drawl above all the others; i felt how that must cut fee! there were some decanters and glasses on a side table, and every now and then chad urged his friends to drink, and he would get up and wait on them. felix refused every time, and phil did too at first, until those common fellows began to twit him about it,--as much as saying that he was afraid to take anything 'cause fee would "go home and tell on him." what did phil do then--the silly fellow! 'twas just what they wanted--but snatch up a glass and swallow down a lot of that vile stuff! well, i was so _mad_ with phil! i'd have liked to go right in and punch him. felix never said a word ('twouldn't have done the least good,--phil can be like a mule sometimes); he just sat there with his lips pressed tight together, looking down at the cards he held in his hands. after that phil's face got awfully red, and how his tongue did run! real ugly things he said, too, and perfectly regardless who he said them to. and those fellows got _very_ boisterous, and began again trying to tease our boys. i was _so_ afraid there'd be a row; and there surely would have been, if felix hadn't just worked as he did to prevent it. i tell you now, it was awfully hard to sit out there in that hall and hear those fellows carrying on against my brothers,--you see i was so near i couldn't help it, i just _had_ to hear everything,--and not be able to take their part. fee kept getting whiter and whiter, the spots on his cheeks redder and redder; and by and by such a tired look came in his face that i got real worked up. i felt as if i _must_ go in and just pitch right into those fellows. almost before i knew it, i'd got up and gone a step or two in the hall, when suddenly phil dashed his cards down on the table, and got on his feet. "i'm going home!" he declared. "are you coming?" turning to felix. "you sha'n't go!" "oh, _don't_ go!" "you've _got_ to finish the game," several called out. but phil just repeated doggedly, "i'm going home! are you coming or not, felix?" this was just what fee wanted,--i knew how glad and thankful he must feel. but all he said was, "yes, i'll go with you, if our host will excuse us," rising as he spoke and nodding his head toward chad. those unmannerly things burst out laughing, as if this were a great joke; and with a smothered exclamation, phil started for the door, knocking over a chair as he went. well, if you had seen me scoot down that hall and out of the door! i simply _flew_, and barely got round the corner in the shadow, when phil and felix came along. phil looked like a thundercloud, and instead of leaning on his arm, fee just had hold of a piece of phil's sleeve. they marched along in dead silence, and got into the elevator. i hung around a little, until i was sure they were out of the way, then i went down; the elevator man looked harder than ever at me,--i suppose he wondered why i hadn't gone with fee,--but i pretended i didn't notice. i'd never been out very late alone before, and at first it seemed queer; but i hurried, so that i soon forgot all about that. you see i wanted to get home before the boys did, and yet i had to look out that i didn't run across them. i hadn't thought of the time at chad's; but we must have been there a good while, for when i got to the house the drawing-room windows were closed, and so was the front door. i don't know what i'd have done if cook hadn't come to close the basement door just as i got to our stoop, and i slipped in that way. "master _jack_!" she cried out, holding up her hands in horror; "a little b'y like you out late's this! what'd your pa say to such doin's, an' miss marston? an' there's miss nora gone to bed, thinkin' it's safe an' aslape ye are." "oh, hush, cook! it's _all_ right. don't say anything; please don't," i said softly; then i let her go upstairs ahead of me. the drawing-room was all dark, and the light in the hall was turned down low. the house was very quiet,--everybody had gone to bed; and after thinking it over, i made up my mind i'd wait downstairs and let the boys in before they could ring,--i forgot that phil had taken possession of papa's latch-key, and was using it. i sat on the steps listening, and what d'you think? i must have fallen asleep, for the first thing i knew there were phil and felix in the hall, and phil was closing the front door. "oh, i see,--as usual, our gentle rosebud's to the front," exclaimed phil, still keeping his hand on the knob of the door; "all right, then he can help you upstairs," and he turned as if to go out. "what!" fee cried out in a sharp, startled voice, "you are _never_ going back to that crowd!" "that's just what i _am_ going to do," answered phil; his voice sounded thick and gruff. "shall i give your love?" felix caught him by the arm. "_don't_ go, phil," he pleaded; "_don't_ go back to-night, _please_ don't. we've had enough of them for one evening. come, let's go upstairs. won't you? i have a good reason for what i'm asking, and i'll explain to-morrow." phil came a step or two forward, shaking fee's hand off. "look here!" he said sharply, "this thing might's well be settled right here, and once for all. i'm a man, not a child, i'll have you to understand, and i'm not going to be controlled by you. just remember that, and don't try any more of your little games on me, as you have to-night, for i _will not_ stand 'em! the idea of your coming up there among those fellows and making such an ass of yourself--" "the asinine part of this evening's performance belongs to you and your friends, not to me," broke in felix, hotly,--phil's tone was _so_ insolent. "and there are a few things that _you_ might as well understand, too," he went on more calmly. "if you continue to go to chad's, i shall go, too; if you make those fellows your boon companions, they shall be mine as well; if you continue to drink and gamble, as you've been doing lately, and to-night, i will drink and gamble, too. i mean every word i am saying, phil. it may go against the grain at first to associate with such cads as chad and his crowd; but perhaps that'll wear away in time, and i may come to enjoy what i now abhor. as these low pleasures have fascinated you, so they may fascinate me." "if you _ever_ put your foot in chad whitcombe's house again, i'll make him turn you out," cried phil, in a rage, shaking his finger at felix. "why, you donkey! less than three months of that sort of life'd use you up completely. i'll fix you, if you ever undertake to try it; i'll go straight to the _pater_,--i swear i will." "no need to do that, old fellow," fee said, in _such_ a loving voice! "just drop that set you've got into, and be your own upright, honourable self again, and you shall never hear another word of such talk out of me. but," he added earnestly, "i _cannot_, i will not stand seeing you, my brother, my chum, our mother's son"--fee's voice shook--"going all wrong, without lifting a finger to save you. why, phil, i'd give my very life, if need be, to keep you from becoming a drunkard and a gambler. _don't_ go back to those fellows to-night, dear old boy; for--for _her_ sake, _don't_ go!" felix was pleading with his whole heart in his voice, looking eagerly, entreatingly up at phil, and holding out his hands to him. my throat was just filling up as fee spoke,--i could almost have cried; and i'm sure phil was touched, too, but he tried not to let us see it. he sort of scuffled his feet on the marble tiling of the hall, and cleared his throat in the most indifferent way, looking up at the gas fixture. "perhaps i will drop them by and by," he said carelessly, "but i can't just yet,--in fact, i don't want to just yet; i have a reason. and that reminds me--i _must_ go back to-night. now don't get _silly_ over me, felix; there's no danger whatever of my becoming a drunkard or a gambler,--nice opinion of me you must have!--and i'm quite equal to taking care of myself. as i've told you several times before, i'm a man now, not a child, and i will _not_ have you or anybody running round after me. just remember that!" as he spoke, he turned deliberately to go out. then fee did a foolish thing; he ought to have known phil better, but he was so awfully disappointed that i guess he forgot. in about one second--i don't know how he _ever_ got there so quickly--he had limped to the door, and planted himself with his back against it. his face was just as _white_! and his lips were set tight together, and he held his head up in the air, looking phil square in the eye. a horrid nervous feeling came over me,--i just _felt_ there was going to be trouble. i stood up on the steps quickly, and called out, "oh, boys, _don't_ quarrel! oh, please, _please_ don't quarrel!" but phil was talking, and i don't believe they even heard me. "get away from that door,--i'm going out!" phil commanded. not a word answered fee; he just stood there, his eyes shining steadily up at phil through his glasses. "do you hear me?" phil said savagely. "get--out--of--the--way. i don't want to hurt you, but i am _determined_ to go out. come,--move!" he stepped nearer felix, with a peremptory wave of his hand, and glowered at him. but fee didn't flinch. "no," he said quietly, but in just as positive a tone as phil's, "i will _not_ move." then, suddenly, a sweet, quick smile flashed over his face, and he threw his hands out on phil's shoulders as he stood before him, saying, in that winning way of his, "i'm not a bit afraid of _your_ ever hurting me, old lion-heart." i heard every word distinctly, but phil didn't; in his rage he only caught the first part of what fee said, and with a sharp, angry exclamation he shoved felix violently aside, and, hastily opening the door, stepped into the vestibule. fee was so completely taken by surprise--poor old fee!--that he lost his balance, swung to one side with the force of phil's elbow, striking his back against the sharp edge of the hall chair, and fell to the floor. i can't tell you the awful feeling that came over me when i saw fee lying there; i got _wild_! i dashed down those steps and into the vestibule before phil had had time to even turn the handle of the outer door, and, locking my hands tight round his arm, i tried to drag him back into the hall. "come back," i cried out; "come back--oh, come back!" "hullo! what's happened to you,--crazy?" demanded phil, giving his arm a shake; but i hung on with all my weight. and then i said something about felix; i don't remember now what it was,--i hardly knew what i was saying,--but, with a sharp cry, phil threw me from him and rushed back into the hall. when i got to him, phil was kneeling by felix, with his hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. "fee, _fee_!" he exclaimed breathlessly, "what's the matter? are you hurt? are you, fee? oh, _tell_ me!" but fee didn't answer; he just lay there, his face half resting on the arm he had thrown out in falling; his glasses had tumbled off, and his eyes were closed. in an instant phil had rolled him over on his back on the hall rug, and i slipped my arm under his head. fee looked _dreadfully_,--white as death, with big black shadows under his eyes; and such a sad, pitiful expression about his mouth that i burst out crying. "oh, hush, hush!" phil cried eagerly; "he's coming to himself. oh, thank god! stop your crying, jack,--you'll frighten him." but he was mistaken; fee wasn't coming to,--he lay there white and perfectly still. oh, how we worked over him! we took off his necktie and collar, we poured water on his forehead, and fanned him, and rubbed his hands and feet with hands that were as cold as his own, and trembling. and phil kept saying, "oh, jack, he'll soon be better,--don't you think so? _don't_ you, jack? oh, surely, such a _little_ fall couldn't be serious! he _couldn't_ have struck himself on that chair,--see, it's entirely out of his way," with such a piteous pleading in his eyes and voice that i hadn't the heart to contradict him. nothing that we did had any effect; fee still lay unconscious, and there was a pinched look about his features, a limp heaviness about his body, that struck terror to our hearts. "oh, isn't this _awful_!" i sobbed. then all at once i thought of that day i found felix lying on the floor,--could this be an attack like that, only worse? his words, "what'll the _next_ one be!" flashed into my mind, and i burst out eagerly, "oh, phil, call somebody--go for the doctor--quick, quick, oh, do be _quick_! the doctor will know what to do--he can help him--call nurse--oh, call _somebody_!" but phil suddenly dropped felix's hand that he'd been rubbing, and bending down laid his ear on fee's chest over his heart. i shall never forget the awful horror that was in his white face when he lifted it and looked at me across fee's body. "jack," he said in a slow, shrill whisper, that just went through my ears like a knife, "jack, it's no use; fee is--" but i screamed out before he could say that dreadful word,--a loud scream that rang through the house and woke the people up. in a confused sort of way--as if i had dreamed it--i remember that nora came flying down the stairs in her dressing-gown and bare feet, and nurse hurrying behind her, both crying out in a frightened way,--something like, "oh, _lawkes_! what _have_ them boys been doin'?" and, "oh, boys, _boys_! what _is_ the matter?" but phil's answer stands out clear,--i can hear it every time i let myself think of that awful night. he had pushed me aside, and was sitting on the floor with fee's body gathered in his arms, fee's face lying against his shoulder. he looked up at nora; his dry, white lips could hardly utter the words. "fee is dead," he said; "i have killed felix!" xx. a solemn promise. told by jack. for a little while there was a dreadful commotion down there in the hall. hannah and cook had come, too, by this time, and everybody was crying, and rushing about, and all talking at once,--telling everybody else what to do. poor nonie was awfully frightened; at first she couldn't do a thing but cry, and i was just as bad,--i'd got to that pitch that i didn't care who saw my tears. but nurse kept her head splendidly; generally she gets all worked up over the least little sickness, but this time she kept cool, and told us what to do. "don't talk so foolish, master phil!" she exclaimed sharply, when phil said that awful thing about fee. "ain't you ashamed of yourself,--frightening your sister that way! he ain't no more dead 'n you are." well, if you'd seen the look of hope that flashed into phil's face! "oh, nurse!" he gasped, "do you _honestly_ think so? but he isn't breathing,--i can't feel his heart beat." "that's 'cause he's in a swoond," nurse answered briskly. "here, lay him down flat. now rub his feet--_hard_; hannah, slap his palms,--that'll start up a cirkilation. here, miss nora, fan your brother. cook, fill them hot-water bottles; if the water in the biler ain't hot 'nough, start your fire _immejiate_. master jack, you run for the doctor; an' if he can't come," she added, dropping her voice so that only i heard her, "get another. don't you come back here without _somebody_. an' be quick's you can." that told me that she wasn't as sure about fee as she pretended to be, and the hope that had come up in my heart died right out. my eyes got so blinded with tears that i just had to grope for my hat; but as i was opening the outer door, i heard something that brought me in again in double quick time. it was a cry from phil,--a shout of joy: "he _is_ breathing! oh, he's _breathing_! his eyes are opening!" sure enough, they were. slowly the heavy lids raised, and fee's near-sighted eyes looked blankly up at phil. "don't you know me, old fellow?" phil asked with a break in his voice, bending eagerly over felix. a sweet little smile flickered over fee's lips. "phil," he said faintly; and then, with what we could all see was a great effort, he raised his hand slowly and let it fall heavily on phil's hand. poor phil! that broke him down completely. catching fee's face between his two hands, he kissed him warmly two or three times, and then, dropping his head down on fee's shoulder, burst into a storm of sobs. "oh, come, come! this'll _never_ do!" cried nurse, bustling forward. "come, master phil, this ain't any time for sich behaviour,"--mind you, she was wiping the corners of her own eyes! "now we must get him up to his own room soon's possible; _then_ we can make him comfort'ble. can you carry him up? me and hannah can help." "i can do it alone," phil said quickly, beginning to gather fee into his arms. but i tell you it was hard work getting him up, he was such a dead weight! fee knew phil was making a desperate effort to lift him, and he tried, poor fellow, to help all he could. when at last phil stood erect, with him in his arms, nurse raised fee's hands and joined them back of phil's neck. "now clasp your hands tight, master felix," she said, "and that'll take some of your weight off your brother." fee's hands were actually resting one on the other, and i saw his fingers move feebly, trying to take hold of one another. then he said in a slow, frightened whisper, "i--can't--make--them--hold!" and his arms slipped down, one of them swinging helplessly by his side, until nurse laid it in his lap. "never mind, don't worry about that, fee; i can get you up," phil said cheerfully. "why, don't you remember i took you almost up to your room the other night?" nora and i looked at each other. i know we were both thinking of the same thing,--that happy evening when we heard of aunt lindsay's plan for fee, and when phil had picked felix up and run so gaily up the stairs with him, singing. was it possible that was only three or four evenings ago! it seemed _years_. "run for the doctor, master jack--_don't_ loiter," nurse said, as she fell in with the procession that was moving so slowly up the stairs; phil was going one step at a time, and sometimes sliding himself along against the banister to rest the weight he was carrying. i rushed out and up to dr. archard's as fast as i could go. the streets through which i went were very lonely,--i scarcely met a creature,--but i didn't mind; in fact, the stillness, and the stars shining so clear and bright in the quiet sky, seemed to do me good. i knew who was up there above those shining stars; i thought of the poor lame man that he had healed long ago, and as i raced along, i just _prayed_ that he would help our fee. dr. archard was away, out of town, the sleepy boy who answered the bell told me; but dr. gordon, his assistant, was in,--would he do? i didn't know him at all,--he'd come since papa's illness; but of course i said yes, and in a few minutes the doctor was ready and we started. he had a nice face,--he was years younger than dr. archard,--and as we hurried toward home and began talking of felix, i suddenly made up my mind that i would tell him about the attack fee had had when papa was so ill. that promise of mine not to speak of it had always worried me, and now, all at once, a feeling came over me that i just _ought_ to tell dr. gordon everything about it,--and i did. he asked a lot of questions, and when i finished he said gravely, "you have done very right in telling me of this; the knowledge of this former attack and his symptoms will help me in treating your brother's case." "is it the same trouble?" i asked eagerly. "certain symptoms which you have described point that way," he answered; "but of course i can say nothing until i have seen and examined him." "could such an accident"--i'd told him that fee had struck his back against a chair and then fallen--"do anybody--_harm_?" my heart was thumping as i put the question. "under some circumstances, serious harm," the doctor said. and just then--before i could say anything more--we came to our stoop, and there was hannah holding the door open for us to go in. * * * * * the doctor turned every one out of fee's room but phil and nurse; and he was in there an awful long time. and while nonie and i sat on the upper stairs waiting for news, what did i do but fall _asleep_! and i didn't wake up until the next morning, when i found myself in my own bed. it seems that phil had undressed and put me to bed, though i didn't remember a thing about it. i felt dreadfully ashamed to have gone to sleep without hearing how fee was, but you see i was so dead tired, that i suppose i really _couldn't_ keep awake. did you ever wake up in the morning with a strange sort of feeling as if there was a weight on your heart, and then remember that something dreadful had happened the night before? well, then you know just how i felt the morning after fee got hurt. for a moment or two i tried to make myself believe it was all a bad dream; but there sat phil on the edge of our bed, and the sight of his wretched white face brought back the whole thing only too plainly. "oh! how is fee?" i exclaimed, sitting up in bed. "what does the doctor say about him?" phil's elbow was resting on his knee, his chin in his palm. "the doctor says," he answered, with, oh! such a look of misery in his tired eyes, "that felix is not in danger of death, but it looks now as if he _might not be able to walk again_!" [illustration: "there sat phil on the edge of our bed."] "oh, phil, _phil_!" i cried out; then i sat and stared at him, and wondered if i were really awake, or if this were some dreadful dream. "his back was weak from the start," went on phil, drearily, "and probably would have been to the end of his life; but at least he would have been able to get around--to go to college--to enter a profession. now all that is over and done with. isn't it _awful_!" "oh, but that can't be true," i broke in eagerly. "why, phil, fee was in a dreadful way that last attack, i told the doctor about it,"--phil nodded; "he couldn't stand on his feet at all,--and yet he got better. oh, he may now; he may, phil, only with a longer time! see?" "i thought of that when gordon told me what you had told him, and i begged for some hope of that sort,--begged as i wouldn't now for my own life, jack." phil's voice got so unsteady that he had to stop for a minute. "after a good deal of talking and pleading," he went on presently, "i got him to admit that there _is_ a bare chance, on account of his being so young, that fee _may_ get around again, in a sort of a way; but it's too slim to be counted on, and it could only be after a long time,--two or three years or longer. dr. archard'll be in town to-morrow, and they will consult; but gordon says he's had cases of this kind before, and knows the symptoms well. i think he would have given us hope if he could. you see fee isn't strong; oh, if it had _only_ been _i_!--great, uncouth, ugly brute that i am!" phil struck his hand so fiercely on the bed that the springs just bounced me up and down. "fee's feet and legs are utterly useless," he began again; "his spine is so weak he can't sit up. even his fingers are affected,--he can't close them on anything; he's lost his grip. and he may lie in this condition for years; he may _never_ recover from it. oh, think of that, jack!" phil broke out excitedly; "_think_ of it! our fee, with his splendid, clever mind, with all his bright hopes and ambitions, with the certainty of going to college so near at hand,--to have to lie there, day in and day out, a helpless, useless creature! and brought to it by _my_ doing,--his own brother! _oh_!" he drew his knee up, and folding his arms round it, laid his face down with a moan. i slipped over to his side and threw my arm across his shoulder. "phil, dear," i said, to comfort him, "try and not think of that part; i'm sure fee wouldn't want you to. you know he had that other attack--and--perhaps this would have come any way--" but phil interrupted, looking at me with those miserable, hollow eyes. "not like this," he said. "dr. gordon told me himself that the blow fee got was what did the mischief this time; with medical care he might have got over those other attacks. gordon didn't dream that i was the infuriated drunken brute who flung him against that chair. drunken! i think i must have been possessed by a _devil_! that _i_ should have raised my hand against fee,--the brother i love so dearly, my chum, my comrade, mother's boy, of whom she was so tender! oh, _god_! shall i have to carry this awful remorse all the rest of my life!" his voice broke in a kind of a wail, and he threw his clinched hands up over his head. "oh, phil, _dear_ phil! oh, _please_ don't," i begged. "oh, fee _wouldn't_ want you to talk like this." "i know he wouldn't. god bless him!" phil answered in a quieter tone, dropping his arms by his sides. "oh, jack, it cuts me up awfully to see him lying there so cheerful and serene when he knows that what's happened has just spoiled his whole life--" "oh, _does_ he know?" i exclaimed. "he insisted on knowing, and bore it like a soldier. when i broke down he smiled at me, actually _smiled_, jack, with, 'why, old fellow, it isn't so bad--as all that'--_o-oh_!" phil choked up, and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face deep in the pillows, that fee in the next room might not hear his sobs. * * * * * that was a miserable day. dr. archard came quite early, and after the consultation we heard that, in the main, he agreed with dr. gordon. "still," he said to nora and me, as he was going, "felix _may_ surprise us all by recovering much faster and more fully than we expect. the thing is to get him out of town _just_ as soon as we can, and in the mean time to follow directions and keep him quiet and cheerful. phil seems to have taken charge of the boy, and i do believe he's going to develop into a nurse. i'll send you round a _masseur_, and i'll write to your father, so he'll not be alarmed. keep up your spirits, and your roses, my dear," patting nora's cheek. then he got into his carriage and drove away. because the doctor said that about keeping fee quiet, no one but phil or nurse was allowed in his room all day. but late in the afternoon nurse let me take something up to him,--she had to see to the children's dinner, or something or other downstairs; she said if phil were with him i wasn't to stay. i knocked, but not very hard,--my hands were pretty full; and then, as nobody answered, i opened the door softly, and went in. fee was lying sort of hunched up among the pillows, which weren't any whiter than his face. oh! _didn't_ he look delicate! he had on his glasses again, and now his eyes were shining through them, and there was a very sweet expression on his lips. phil was sitting on the edge of the bed, talking in a low, unsteady voice: "i didn't really care for them," he was saying, "and there were times when i fairly loathed them; but somehow they got round me, and--i began to go there regularly. they drank and gambled; they said all young fellows did it, and they laughed at me when i objected. i held out for a good while,--then one night i gave in. i was a fool; i dreaded their ridicule. there were times, though, when i was _disgusted_ with myself. then i began to win at cards, and--well--i thought i'd save the money for a purpose; though in my heart i knew full well that--the--the--the person i was saving for wouldn't touch a penny got that way. well, then something happened that made that money i was saving quite unnecessary, and then i just played to lose. i wanted those fellows to have their money back; after that i thought i'd cut loose from 'em. that was the reason i wanted to go back to chad's that night,--was it _only_ last night? it seems like _years_ ago!" phil dropped his face down in his hands for a minute; then he went on: "i started out this morning and gave each of the fellows his money back. they didn't want to take it,--they think me a crazy loon; but i insisted. i've got beyond caring for their opinion. and now, fee, the rest of my life belongs to you; you've paid an awful price for it, old fellow,--i'm not worth it. think of your college course--your profession--all the things we planned! i'm not worth it!" phil's voice failed, but he cleared his throat quickly, and spoke out clearly and solemnly. "felix," he said, "i will _never_ play cards again as long as i live; and i will _never_ drink another drop of liquor,--so help me god." he raised his hand as he spoke, as if registering the oath. then he bent over and buried his face in the bed-clothes. slowly fee's poor helpless hand went out and fell on phil's head. "what is all the rest compared with _this_," he said, oh, so tenderly! then, with a little unsteady laugh, "philippus, i always said there wasn't a mean bone in your body." and then phil threw his arms round felix and kissed him. i laid what i had brought down on the table, and went quickly away, shutting the door a little hard that they might know somebody'd gone out. i should have left just as soon as i found they were talking,--i know i should,--but it seemed as if phil's words just held me there. i've told phil and felix all about it since then, and they say they don't mind my having heard; but between what i felt for them both, and for my having done such a mean thing as to listen to what wasn't meant for me to hear, i was a pretty miserable boy that afternoon. i flew upstairs to the schoolroom, and throwing myself down on the old sofa i just had a good cry. it seems as if i were an awful cry-baby those days; but how could a person help it, with such dreadful things happening? well, i hadn't been there very long when in came nora and opened the windows to let in the lovely afternoon light, and of course then i got up. i guess i must have been a forlorn-looking object, for nora smoothed my hair back off my forehead and kissed me,--she doesn't often do those things. "i'm going to write to nannie," she said, laying some note-paper on the schoolroom table. "it is the first minute i've had in which to do it; perhaps,"--slowly,--"if she had been here, all this trouble might not have happened. why don't you send betty a few lines, jack? you know she will want to hear of fee; but don't frighten her about him." so i thought i would write betty,--i owed her a letter. after all, she wasn't having at all a bad time with the ervengs; in fact, i fancy she was enjoying herself, though she was careful not to say so. nora and i were sitting at the same table, but far apart, and i'd just called out and asked her if there were two l's in wonderful--i was writing about fee--when the schoolroom door opened, and in walked chad whitcombe! as usual, he looked a regular dandy, and he held a bunch of roses in his hand. he came forward with his hand out and smiling: "i've--aw--just called in for a minute," he said. "i thought--aw--you might care for these flowers--" but nora rose quickly from her chair, pushing it a little from her, and putting her hands behind her back, she faced him with her head up in the air. my! how handsome she looked,--like a queen, or something grand like that! "i thank you for your polite intention," she said very stiffly and proudly, "but hereafter i prefer to have neither flowers nor visits from you." well, you should have seen chad's face! he'd been stroking his moustache, but now, positively, he stood staring at nora with his mouth open, he was so astonished. "wha--what's wrong?" he stammered. "what've i done?" then nora gave it to him; she didn't mince matters,--truly, she made me think of betty. "what have you done?" she repeated, opening her grey eyes at him. "oh! only acted as i have never known any one calling himself a gentleman to act. mr. whitcombe,"--with a toss of her head equal to anything betty could have done,--"i will _not_ have the acquaintance of a man who drinks and gambles." then _i_ was the one to be astonished; i didn't dream nora knew anything about that part. phil must have told her that day. [illustration: "'hereafter i prefer to have neither flowers nor visits from you.'"] "and who not only does those dreadful things himself," went on nora, "but inveigles others into doing them, too. the idea of coming here among us as a friend, and then leading phil off,--trying to ruin his life!" nonie's cheeks were scarlet; she was getting madder and madder with every word she said. "why, that isn't gambling; we just play for small amounts," exclaimed chad, eagerly, forgetting his affectation, and speaking just like anybody. "all the fellows do it; why, i've played cards and drunk liquor since i was twelve years old. it hasn't hurt me." "no?" said nora, coldly. "we don't agree on that point;" then, curling her lip in a disgusted way: "what an unfortunate, neglected little boy you must have been. if jack should do either of those low, wicked things, i should consider a sound thrashing entirely too mild treatment for him. and allow me to tell you that _all_ the young fellows we know are _not_ after your kind: they neither drink, nor play cards; and yet, strange to say,--that is, from your point of view,--they are extremely manly." "i'm sorry, you know; but i didn't suppose you'd mind--so much," chad began, in the meekest sort of tone. "you always seemed to understand lots of things that the others didn't, and--" but nora interrupted: "i made allowances for you," she said, with her little superior air, "knowing that you had lost your parents as a little boy, and that you had had so little--now i will say _no_--home training. besides, i thought, perhaps"--she hesitated, then went on--"that perhaps the others were a little hard on you; it seemed rather unjust, simply because you were--well--different from ourselves. but i didn't imagine for one moment that you were this sort of a person. it isn't honourable to do those things,--don't you know that? it is low and wicked." "i only wanted phil to have a good time; i never thought he was such a baby he'd get any harm," exclaimed chad, a little sulkily, getting awfully red, even to his ears. "and as to felix, he came of his own free will. it's he that has told you all this, and set you up against me. felix doesn't like me, and he hasn't taken any pains to hide it. i don't see why he came up there last night, if he thinks we're so wicked." "i will tell you why," cried nora; "he came in the hope that seeing _him_ there would shame phil, and induce him to get out of such a set. and it _has_ gotten him out,--though not in the way that fee expected. when i think of all that has happened since you and phil went out together last evening,--of all the trouble you have brought on us,--i really wish you would go away; i prefer to have nothing more to say to you." she made a motion of her hand as if dismissing him, but chad never moved. he just stood there, holding the roses upside down, and looking very gloomy. "you're _awfully_ down on me," he said presently; then, "and a'm awfully sorry. ah wish you'd forgive me!" in _such_ a beseeching sort of tone that i could have laughed right out. but nonie didn't laugh, or even smile; she just answered, a little more kindly than before: "it's not a question of _my_ forgiving you that will set the matter right; the thing is to give up that way of living. surely there are plenty of other ways of amusing yourself,--nice honourable ways that belong to a gentleman. then--people--would be able to respect as well as like you. i wonder that max has let this sort of thing go on." "oh, he doesn't know," chad said, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the door, as if he thought max might be there, ready to walk in on him. "_tell_ him," advised nora,--she just loves to advise people,--"and get him to help you. you could study for college, or--go into business, if you preferred that." chad was looking intently at her; suddenly he threw the roses on the schoolroom table,--with such force that they slid across and fell on the floor on the other side,--and made a step or two toward nora, with his hands extended, exclaiming eagerly, "oh, nora, if i thought that _you_ cared--" but like a flash nora got behind her chair, putting it between herself and chad. "don't say _another_ word!" she broke in imperiously, standing very straight, and looking proudly at him over the back of the chair. "jack, pick up those flowers and return them to mr. whitcombe, and then open the door for him." chad was so startled that he jumped,--you see he hadn't noticed that i was there,--and didn't he look foolish! and _blush_! why, his face actually got mahogany colour. he snatched the poor roses from me and just bolted through that schoolroom door. well, i had to laugh; and when i turned back into the room, after seeing him to the head of the stairs, i said, "i'm just _glad_ you gave it to him, nonie!" "there is nothing for you to laugh at, jack," nora said sharply, turning on me. "remember you are only a little boy, and this is none of your affair." with that she picked up her writing materials and walked off. aren't girls the _funniest_! xxi. through the slough of despond. told by jack. the man to massage felix came the next day; but, except for the time he was there, phil took entire charge of fee. he had always declared he wasn't of any use in a sick-room, but now he seemed to get on very well; you can't think how kind and gentle he was! for one thing, fee wasn't hard to suit, and that helped things a great deal. if phil made a mistake, or did something awkwardly, fee just turned it off in a joking way. he was very white and languid, but not at all sad; in fact, he kept our spirits up with his funny sayings. we all thought it was amazing; nurse said he was "a born angel," and now and then i saw phil look wistfully at fee, as if wondering how he _could_ be so brave. and felix, when he caught phil's eye, would give a roguish little smile, and say something so merry that we had to laugh. the only part that troubled me was that phil stuck so closely to fee that nobody else got a chance to do anything for him. i just longed to go in and sit with fee a while, but the doctor didn't want more than one to be with him at a time; and what with nora, and nurse, and phil, i didn't get any chance at all until about the third day that fee'd been ill. a telegram came that morning from miss marston, saying she was on the way home, and would arrive early in the afternoon, and that we would start for the cottage the next day,--she didn't know about fee; we'd been so upset that nobody had thought of writing her. well, that threw nora into what phil calls "a state of mind," and she and nurse began getting things together and packing 'em. i just hate packing times; you have to keep running up and down stairs carrying things, and all that, and you don't have a minute to yourself for reading. but of course i had to help, and i was busy in the nursery handing things to nurse off a shelf, when phil came to the door with his hat on. he looked brighter than he had for some time. "jack," he said, "will you sit with felix for a while? i have to go out; but i'll be back as soon as i can." of course i was only too glad, and i went right to fee's room. he looked tired, and those circles under his eyes were very big and dark; but he smiled at me, and chatted for a few minutes. then presently, after phil'd gone, he said: "would you mind taking a seat over there in the window, jack? i want to do a little quiet thinking. there's a nice book on the table; take it. phil said he wouldn't be away long." [illustration: "packing times."] i was disappointed,--i wanted to talk with him; but i took the book and went over to the window. it was a capital story, and i soon got interested in it. i don't know how long i'd read--i was enjoying the story so much--when i heard a queer, smothered sound, and it came from the direction of felix. in a minute i was by his side, exclaiming, "why, what's the matter, fee?" he had slipped down in the bed, and while his poor helpless legs still lay stretched straight out, he'd twisted the upper part of his body so that he was now lying a little on his side, hugging one of the pillows, and with his face buried in it. his shoulders were shaking, and when he raised his head to answer me, i saw the tears were streaming down his cheeks. "shut the door--_quick_!" he cried, gasping between the words. "lock it--pile the furniture against it--don't let a creature in--oh, _don't_ let them see me!" i flew to the door and locked it; and by the time i got back to the bed, fee seemed to have lost all control over himself. he twisted and twitched, rolling his head restlessly from side to side,--one minute throwing his arms out wildly as far as they could reach, the next snatching at the pillows or the bed-clothes, and trying to stuff them into his mouth. and all the time he kept making that horrible sharp gasping noise,--as if he were almost losing his breath. i was _dreadfully_ scared at first,--that _felix_, of all people, should act this way! i got goose-flesh all over, and just stood there staring at fee, and that seemed only to make him worse. "don't stare at me like that. oh, don't, don't, _don't_!" he cried out. "i can't help this--really--i can't, i _can't_! oh, if i could only _scream_ without the others hearing me!" he threw his head back and beat the pillows with his outstretched arms. then, somehow, i began to understand: a great lump came in my throat, and taking hold of one of fee's cold, clammy hands, i commenced stroking and patting it without a word. his fingers were twitching so i could hardly hold them, and he talked very fast,--almost as if he couldn't stop himself. "don't tell them of this, jack," he begged, in that sharp gasping voice, "_don't_ tell them! they wouldn't understand--they'd worry--and poor phil would be wretched. i know what this is to him,--poor old fellow! i see the misery in his face from day to day, and i've tried--so hard--to keep everything in--and be cheerful--so he shouldn't guess--until i thought i _should_ go _mad_! oh, think of what this _means_ to me, jack! college, profession, hopes, ambitions--gone _forever_--nothing left but to lie here--for the rest of my life--a useless hulk--a cumberer of the ground. only seventeen, jack, and i may live to be eighty--like _this_! never to go about--never to walk again. oh, if i might _die_!"--his voice got shrill,--"if god would _only_ let me die! i've always been a poor useless creature,--and now, _now_, of what good am i in the world? nothing but a burden and a care. oh, how shall i ever, _ever_ endure it!" i was so nervous that i began shaking inside, and i had to speak very slowly to keep my voice from shaking too. "don't talk so foolishly, fee," i said,--but not unkindly, you know. "why, i don't know what we'd all do without you,--having you to ask things of, and to tell us what to do. i know papa depends on you an awful lot; and miss marston said the day she went away that she wouldn't've gone if she hadn't known you would be here to look after us and keep things straight; and what _would_ nannie do without you? talk about being of no use,--just think what you've saved phil from!" "i _am_ thankful for that," broke in felix, "most _thankful_! i don't regret what i did that night, jack. i'd do it again if need be, even knowing that it must end like _this_,"--with a despairing motion of his hand toward his helpless legs. then he added eagerly, breathlessly, "don't ever tell phil about this morning, jack,--that i feel so terribly about the accident. don't tell him,--'twould break his heart. i hope he'll _never_ know. i pretended to be cheerful, i laughed and talked to cheer him up, but my heart grew heavier and heavier, and my head felt as if it were being wound up; i was afraid i'd go mad and tell the whole thing out. oh, jack, it's those dreary days, those endless years of uselessness that terrify me. oh, help me to be strong! oh, jack, help me! _help_ me!" his arms began to fly about again; he had thrown off his glasses, and his big hollow eyes stared at me with a wild, beseeching expression in them. "i'm so afraid--i'll scream out--and then they'll all hear me--and know," he gasped. "oh, give me something, _quick_--oh, do something for me before i lose entire control of myself." i flew to the table and got him some water; i didn't know what else to do, and he wouldn't let me call anybody,--even just speaking of it made him wild. then i fanned him, and knelt by the bed stroking one of his hands. but nothing seemed to help him. and then--god must have put the thought into my mind--i said suddenly, "fee, dear, i'm going to sing to you;" and before he could say no, i began. at first i could hardly keep my voice steady,--on account of that horrid, inward shaking,--but i went right on, and gradually it got better. i sang very softly and went from one hymn to the other, just as they came to my mind: first, "o mother dear, jerusalem,"--i love that old hymn!--then, "and now we fight the battle, but then shall win the crown;" and then, "the son of god goes forth to war." that's one of fee's favourites, and he sobbed right out when i sang,-- "'who best can drink his cup of woe, triumphant over pain; who patient bears his cross below,-- he follows in his train.'" but i kept on,--really, i felt as if i couldn't stop,--and when i got to the last line of "for all the saints who from their labours rest," fee whispered, "sing those verses again, jack." i knew which he meant; so i sang:-- "'thou wast their rock, their fortress, and their might; thou, lord, their captain in the well-fought fight; thou, in the darkness drear, the one true light. alleluia! "o may thy soldiers, faithful, true, and bold, fight as the saints who nobly fought of old, and win, with them, the victor's crown of gold. alleluia! * * * * * "and when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, steals on the ear the distant triumph-song, and hearts are brave again, and arms are strong. alleluia!'" fee lay quiet when i finished. he was still twitching, and tears were slipping down his cheeks from under his closed lids; but he no longer made that dreadful gasping sound, and there was a beautiful expression on his mouth,--so sweet and patient. "i've not been a soldier 'faithful, true, and bold,'" he said sadly, "but a miserable coward. ah! how we must weary god with our grumblings and complainings, our broken resolutions and weaknesses. i prayed with all my heart and strength for phil, that he might be saved from that crowd. and now that god has granted my prayer, i bewail his way of doing it. i was willing then to say, 'at any cost to myself,' and here i am shrinking from the share he has given me! dreading the pain and loneliness. a faithless soldier, jack,--not worthy to be called a soldier." "oh! not faithless," i put in eagerly; "indeed, fee, you're _not_ faithless. even if you do shrink from this--this trouble--it's only just here between us; you are going to be brave over it,--you know you are. _going_ to be! why, fee, i think you _are_ the _bravest_ boy! the truest, noblest--" i had to stop; that lump was just swelling up in my throat. "no," fee said mournfully, drawing his breath in as kathie does hers sometimes when she's been crying for a long while; "no, jack, i'm not really brave,--not yet! i'm going to bear this only because i must--because i _can't_ escape it. perhaps, by and by, strength may come to endure the trial more patiently; but now--i _dread_ it. i would _fly_ from it if i could; i would _die_ rather than face those awful years of helplessness! see what a poor creature your 'brave boy' is, jack." his lips were quivering, and he folded one arm over his eyes. then all at once there came back to me a talk which mamma and i once had, and i thought perhaps 'twould comfort poor felix, so i tried to tell him as well as i could. "fee, dear," i said, holding his hand tight in mine, and snuggling my head close up to his on the pillow, so i could whisper, "once, when mamma and i were talking, she said always to remember that god knows it's awfully hard for people to bear suffering and trouble; and that he always helps them and makes allowances for them, because he's our father, and for the sake of his own dear son, who had to go through so much trouble here on earth. "and _he_ knows, too, fee,--jesus knows _just_ how you feel about this; don't you remember how he prayed that last night in gethsemane that--if god would--he might not have to go through the awful trial of the cross? he meant to carry it right through, you know, all the time,--that's what he came on earth for; he meant to do every single thing that god had given him to do, and just as _bravely_! but, all the same, he felt, too, how _awfully_ hard 'twas going to be, and just for a little while beforehand he _dreaded_ it,--just as you dread the years that'll have to pass before you can be well. see? "and he knows your heart, fee; he knows that you're going to be just as _brave_ and _patient_ as you can be, and he'll help you every time. nannie and i'll ask him for you--and betty--and poor old phil--all of us. and dear mamma's up there, too; perhaps she's asking him to comfort you and make you strong. i feel as if she must be doing it,--she loved you so!" fee drew his hand out of mine, and raising his arm, touched my cheek softly with his feeble fingers, and for a few minutes we neither of us said a word. then there came a knock at the door; i scrambled to my feet, and going over, turned the key. somebody brushed quickly by me with the swish of a girl's dress, and there was nannie in the middle of the room! she ran toward felix with her arms out, her brown eyes shining with love. "oh, my darling!" she cried out, "my _dear_!" i heard fee's glad, breathless exclamation, "my _twinnie_!" then phil's arm went over my shoulders and drew me into the hall, and phil's voice said softly in my ear, "come, rosebud, let's leave them alone for a while." xxii. auf wiedersehen. told by jack. miss marston arrived that afternoon, and the next day we started, bag and baggage, for the cottage. and here we've been for nearly three months; in a week or two more we'll be thinking of going back to the city. dr. gordon came up with us, and he and phil did all they could to make the journey easier for felix. but he was dreadfully used up by the time we got him to the house, and for days no one but phil and nannie were allowed in his room. papa came a few days after we did, looking ever so much better than when he went away, and he settled down to work at once. betty's here, too. from what she lets out now and then, i'm pretty sure she's had a real good time; but, do you know, she _won't_ acknowledge it. still, i notice she doesn't make such fun of hilliard as she used to; and i will say betty's improving. she doesn't romp and tear about so much, nor flare out at people so often, and of course that makes her much more comfortable to live with. i'm ever so glad she's here; if she hadn't been, i'm afraid i'd have had an awfully stupid time this summer. you see betty and i are in the middle; we come between the big and the little ones in the family, and we 'most always go together on that account. [illustration: "out of doors."] nannie's had her hands full, what with helping papa with the fetich, and doing all sorts of things for her twin. nora's looked after phil and cheered him up when he got blue about felix, and phil has just devoted himself to fee. he's with him almost the whole time, and you can't think how gentle and considerate phil is these days. fee is out of doors a great deal; phil carries him out on fine days, and lays him on his bamboo lounge under the big maples; and there you're sure to find the whole family gathered, some time or other, every day that he is there. it seems as if we love fee more and more dearly every day,--he's so bright and merry and sweet, and he tries _so_ hard to be patient and make the best of things. of course he has times--what he calls his "dark days"--when his courage sinks, and he gets cranky and sarcastic; but they don't come as often as at first. and we all make allowances, for we know there isn't one of us that in his place would be as unselfish and helpful. we go to him with everything,--even papa has got in the way of sitting and talking with fee; anyway, it seems as if papa were more with us now than he used to be, and he's ever so much nicer,--more like other people's fathers are, you know! felix has got back the use of his fingers since we've been in the country; he can paint or play his violin for a little while at a time, but his legs are still useless. the doctor, though, declares he can see a slight improvement in them. he says now that perhaps--after several years--fee may be able to get around on crutches! betty and i felt awfully disappointed when we heard this,--we've been so sure fee would get perfectly well; but fee himself was very happy over it. "once let me assume the perpendicular, even on crutches," he said, smiling at phil, who sat sadly beside him, "and you see if, after a while, these old pegs don't come up to their duty bravely. i may yet dance at your wedding, philippus." max comes up to the cottage quite often, and stays from saturday to monday. he's just as nice and kind as he can be,--why, he doesn't seem to mind one bit going off on jolly long drives in the old depot-wagon, or on larks, with only nannie and us children; and he's teaching mädel how to manage g. w. l. spry and make him go, without being thrown off. phil and felix and max had a long talk together the first time max came up, and i have an idea 'twas about chad, for max looked very grave. i don't know what he did about it, but the other day i heard him tell nora that chad had positively made up his mind to go into business. "he says he has broken loose from a very bad set he was in," max said, "and seems very much in earnest to make the best of himself,--which is, of course, a great relief to me. i hope his good resolutions will amount to something." "perhaps they will," nora answered, rather indifferently, but her cheeks got real red. i shouldn't wonder if she thought chad'd done it because she advised him to. we have a way this summer, on sunday afternoons, of all sitting with felix under the maple-trees, talking, and singing our chants and hymns there instead of in the parlour. we were all there--the whole ten of us--one afternoon, when papa came across the lawn and sat down in the basket-chair that phil rushed off and got him. we'd just finished singing, "o mother dear, jerusalem," fee accompanying us on his violin, and we didn't begin anything else, for there was a queer--sort of excited--look on papa's face that somehow made us think he had something to tell us. and sure enough he had. "my children," he said presently, and his voice wasn't as quiet and even as it usually is, "i have this to tell you,--that last night i finished my life work; my history is completed!" the fetich finished! we just looked at each other with wide-open eyes. then nannie knelt down by papa's chair and kissed him warmly, and phil, who was sitting on the edge of fee's lounge, leaned over and shook hands with papa in a kind of grown-up, manly way. "allow me to congratulate you, sir," fee said earnestly, with shining eyes. "it is a great piece of work, and your children are _very_ proud of it and of you." the rest of us didn't know what to say, so we just sat and looked at papa. "i began it years ago," papa said after a minute or two, in a dreamy voice, as if talking more to himself than to us, and looking away at the sunset with a sad, far-off expression in his eyes, "_years_ ago; just after i met--margaret. but for her encouragement--her loving help--her perfect faith in my ability--it could never have been accomplished. now it is finished--i am here alone--and she--is far away--at peace!" papa's lips were working; he put his hand up quickly and shielded his eyes from us. we were all very still; we older ones felt very sad. and then, soft and low--almost like an angel's voice--there came from fee's violin the sweet strains of handel's "largo." the music rose and fell a bar or two, and then nannie and nora and phil sang together very softly:-- "the souls of the righteous are in the hand of god. there shall no sorrow touch them. in the sight of the unwise they seemed to die; but they are in peace, for so he giveth his beloved sleep." sappers and miners, by george manville fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ this must be one of manville fenn's very best books. the suspense is totally gripping, right to the very end. normally fenn places his moments of terror at the very end of a chapter, so that this book with chapters must have quite a few of them. when preparing this book for publication on the web, the editor was truly sorry when the work ended, so greatly had he enjoyed every moment of it. the action takes place in cornwall, in and around an old tin-mine, possibly dating back to roman and phoenician days, for these people obtained much of the tin they needed to make bronze, from cornwall, and many of the mines are still there, with many miles of workings, often going out far beneath the sea. you should enjoy reading or listening to this book very much--as much, i hope, as the editor of it has done. ________________________________________________________________________ sappers and miners, by george manville fenn. chapter one. bass for breakfast. "have some more bass, gwyn?" "please, father." "you should not speak with your mouth full, my dear," said mrs pendarve, quietly. "no, mother; but i didn't like to keep father waiting." "and between the two stools you came to the ground, eh?" said colonel pendarve, smiling. "never mind; hold your plate. lucky for us, my dear, that we have only one boy. this fellow eats enough for three." "well, but, father, we were down by the boat at daybreak, and the sea air makes one so hungry." "say ravenous or wolfish, my boy. but go on. it certainly is a delicious fish, and dolly has cooked it to a turn. they were rising fairly, then?" "yes, father; we rowed right out to the race, off the point, and for ever so long we didn't see a fish and sat there with our rods ready." gwyn talked away, but with his mouth rather full of fried bass and freshly-baked bread all the same. "and of course it was of no use to try till a shoal began to feed." "not a bit, father,--and joe said we might as well come back; but when the sun rose they were breaking all round us, and for half-an-hour we kept hooking them at nearly every throw. come and see the rest of my catch; they're such beauties, as bright as salmon." "that's right, but don't let any of them be wasted. keep what you want, mamma, dear, and give the others away. what did you use--a big fly?" "no, father, those tiny spoon-baits. they come at them with a rush. then they left off biting all at once, and--some more coffee, please, mother--and we rowed back home, and met captain hardock on the pier." "ah, did you?" "yes, father; and we gave him two pairs of fine ones, and he said they looked as bright as newly-run tin." "humph! yes, that man thinks of nothing else but tin." "and he began about it again this morning, father," said gwyn, eagerly. "indeed!" said colonel pendarve; and gwyn's mother looked up inquiringly from behind the silver coffee-urn. "yes, father," said gwyn, helping himself to more fresh, yellow cornish butter and honey. "he said what a pity it was that you did not adventure over the old ydoll mine and make yourself a rich man, instead of letting it lie wasting on your estate." "my estate!" said the colonel, smiling at his wife--"a few score acres of moorland and rock on the cornish coast!" "but he says, father, he is sure that the old mine is very rich." "and that i am very poor, gwyn, and that it would be nice for me to make a place for a mining captain out of work." "but you will not attempt anything of the kind, my dear," said mrs pendarve, anxiously. "i don't think, so, my dear. we have no money to spare for speculating, and i don't think an old indian cavalry officer on half-pay is quite the man to attempt such a thing." "but old hardock said you were, father, and that you and major jollivet ought to form a little company of your own, and that he knows he could make the mine pay wonderfully." "yes," said the colonel, drily, "that's exactly what he would say, but i don't think much of his judgment. i should be bad enough, but jollivet, with his wound breaking out when he is not down with touches of his old jungle fever, would be ten times worse. all the same, though, i have no doubt that the old mine is rich." "but arthur, my dear," protested mrs pendarve, "think of how much money has been--" "thrown down mines, my dear?" said the colonel, smiling. "yes i do, and i don't think our peaceful retired life is going to be disturbed by anything a mining adventurer may say." "but it would be interesting, father," said gwyn. "very, my boy," said his father, smiling. "it would give you and joe jollivet--" "old joe jolly-wet," said gwyn to himself. "a fine opportunity for trying to break your necks--" "oh, my dear!" cried mrs pendarve. "getting drowned in some unfathomable hole full of water." "arthur!" protested mrs pendarve. "losing yourself in some of the mazy recesses of the ancient workings." "really, my dear!" began mrs pendarve; but the colonel went on-- "or getting crushed to death by some fall of the mine roofing that has been tottering ready to fall perhaps for hundreds of years." "pray don't talk like that, my dear," said mrs pendarve, piteously. "he doesn't mean it, mother," said gwyn, laughing. "father's only saying it to frighten me. but really, father, do you think the mine is so very old?" "i have no doubt of it, my boy. it is certainly as old as the roman occupation, and i should not be surprised if it proved to be as early as the time when the phoenicians traded here for tin." "but i thought it was only stream tin that they got. i read it somewhere." "no doubt, my boy, they searched the surface for tin; but suppose you had been a sturdy fellow from tyre or sidon, instead of a tiresome, idle, mischievous young nuisance of an english boy--" "not quite so bad as that, am i, mother?" said gwyn, laughing. "that you are not, my dear," said mrs pendarve, "though i must own that you do worry me a great deal sometimes by being so daring with your boating, climbing and swimming." "oh, but i do take care--i do, really," said gwyn, reaching out to lay his hand upon his mother's arm. "yes, just as much as any other thoughtless, reckless young dog would," grumbled the colonel. "i'm always expecting to have one of the fishermen or miners come here with a head or an arm or a leg, and say he picked it up somewhere, and does it belong to my son?" "really, arthur, you are too bad," began mrs pendarve. "he's only teasing you, ma, dear," cried gwyn, laughing. "but i say, father, what were you going to say about my being a tyre and sidonian?" "eh? oh! that if you found tin in some gully on the surface, wouldn't you dig down to find it where it was richer?" "can't dig through granite," said gwyn. "well, chip out the stone, and by degrees form a deep mine." "yes, i suppose i should, father." "of course it's impossible to prove how old the mine is, but it is in all probability very ancient." "but it's only a deep hole, is it, father?" "i cannot say. i never heard of its being explored; but there it is." "i've explored it sometimes by sending a big stone down, so as to hear it rumble and echo." "yes, and i daresay hundreds of mischievous boys before you have done the same." "why was it called the ydoll mine, father?" "i cannot say, gwyn. some old celtic name, or a corruption. it has always been called so, as far as i could trace when i bought the land; and there it is, and there let it remain in peace." "if you please, my dear," said mrs pendarve. "will you have some more coffee and bread and butter, gwyn?" the boy shook his head, for there are limits even to a seaside appetite. "wonderful!" said the colonel. "what is, my dear?" said mrs pendarve. "gwyn has had enough for once. oh, and, by the way, i have had quite enough of that dog. if ever i find him scratching and tearing my garden about again, i'll pepper him with shot." the boy smiled and looked at his mother. "oh, you may laugh, sir, at your foolish, indulgent father. i don't know what i could have been about to let you keep him. what do you want with a great collie?" "he's such a companion, father; and see how clever he is after rabbits!" "matter of opinion," said the colonel. "i don't suppose the rabbits think so. well, mind this: i will not have him tearing about among my young fruit trees." chapter two. a deep investigation. breakfast ended, gwyn went straight off to the yard with half a fish and some bread; but before he came in sight, there was the rattle of a chain, a burst of barking, and a handsome collie dog, with long silky ears and a magnificent frill of thick hair about his neck, stood upon hind-legs at the full extent of the chain, and tried hard to strangle himself with his collar. then there was a burst of frantic yelps and whines, a kind of dance was performed as the boy approached with the dog's breakfast, and then there was peace over the devouring of the bread, which was eaten in bits thrown at him from a couple of yards away, and caught without fail. after this performance the fish was placed in a pan; and as the dog bent down to eat, gwyn pulled his ears, thumped his back, sat astride it and talked to the animal. "you're going to be shot at if you go into the garden again, grip; so look out, old chap. do you hear?" the dog was too busy over the fish, but wagged his tail. "i'm to keep you chained up more, but we'll have some games over the moor yet--rabbits!" the fish was forgotten, and the dog threw up his head and barked. "there, go on with your breakfast, stupid! i'm off." "how-ow!" whined the dog, dismally, and he kept it up, straining at his chain till the boy was out of sight, when the animal stood with an ear cocked up and his head on one side, listening intently till the steps died out, before resuming his breakfast of fish. gwyn was off back to the house, where he fetched his basket from the larder and carried it into the hall. "here, father--mother--come and have a look!" he cried; and upon their joining him, he began to spread out his catch, so as to have an exhibition of the silvery bass--the brilliant, salmon-shaped fish whose sharp back fins proved to a certainty that they were a kind of sea perch. they were duly examined and praised: and when they had been divided into presents for their neighbours in the little cornish fishing port, the colonel, who had, after long and arduous service in the east, hung up his sword to take to spade and trowel, went off to see to his nectarines, peaches, pears, grapes and figs in his well-walled garden facing the south, and running down to the rocky shores of the safe inlet of ydoll brea, his son gwyn following to help--so it was called. the boy, a sturdy, frank-looking lad, helped his father a great deal in the garden, but not after the ordinary working fashion. that fell to the lot of ebenezer gelch, a one-eyed cornishman, who was strangely imbued with the belief that he was the finest gardener in the west of england, and held up his head very high in consequence. gwyn helped his father, as he did that morning, by following him out into the sunny slope, and keeping close behind. the colonel stopped before a carefully-trained tree, where the great pears hung down from a trellis erected against the hot granite rock, and stood admiring them. "nearly ripe, father?" asked gwyn. "no, my boy, not nearly," said the colonel, softly raising one in his hand. "they may hang more than a month yet. we shall beat the jersey folk this year." "yes, father," said gwyn, and he followed to where the colonel stopped before a peach tree, and stooped to pick up a downy red-cheeked fellow which had fallen during the night. "not fully grown, gwyn, but it's a very fine one," said the colonel. "yes father--a beauty. shall i take it in?" "no, not good enough. eat it, my boy." gwyn did not need any further telling, and the peach disappeared, the stone being sent flying into the sea. a little farther on, a golden tawny jefferson plum was taken from a tree, for the wasps had carved a little hole in the side, and this was handed to the boy and eaten. a nectarine which had begun to shrink came next; and from the hottest corner of the garden a good-tempered looking fig, which seemed to have opened a laughing mouth as if full, and rejoicing in its ripeness. after this a rosy apple or two and several bon chretien pears, richly yellow, were picked up and transferred to the boy's pocket, and the garden was made tidy once more, evidently to the owner's satisfaction. certainly to that of his son, who was most diligent in disposing of the fruit in this way. then the colonel sauntered into the little sloping vinery where the purple and amber grapes were hanging, and gwyn thrust in his head; but as there were no berries to be eaten, and it was very hot, he drew back and went up the slope toward the wall at the top, carefully peeling one of the pears with a fishy pocket-knife. he was in the act of throwing a long curl of peel over the wall when a sun-browned face appeared as if on purpose to receive it, and started back. then there was a scrambling noise from the other side, as the face disappeared very suddenly, and gwyn burst out laughing. "hurt yourself?" he cried. there was the sound of scrambling, and the face re-appeared. "what did you do that for?" cried the owner. "to get rid of the peel, stupid." "well, you might have chucked a pear instead." "all right--catch." a pear was thrown, dexterously caught, and the newcomer immediately took a magnificent bite out of it. "oh! beauty!" he cried; and then, as he began to munch, he glanced down at the pit he had excavated with his keen teeth right to the core. "er! yah!" he cried, spitting out the piece. "why, it's all maggoty!" and he threw the pear back with excellent aim; but it was deftly caught, and returned in a way that would have won praise at cricket. joe's aim was excellent, too; but when a boy is supporting himself by resting his elbows on the coping of a high stone-wall, he is in no position for fielding either a pear or a ball. so the pear struck him full on the front of the straw hat he wore, and down he went with a rush, while gwyn ran to the front of the wall, climbed up quickly, and looked over into the lane, laughing boisterously. "got it that time, joey," he cried. "all right, i'll serve you out for it. give us another pear." the request was attended to, the fruit being hurled down, but it was cleverly caught. "why this is maggoty, too." "well, i didn't put the maggots there; cut the bad out. the dropped ones are all like that." "go and pick me a fresh one, then." "not ripe, and father does not like me to pick them. that's a beauty." "humph--'tain't bad. but i say, come on." "what are you going to do?" "do?--why, didn't you say we'd go and have a good look at the old mine?" "oh, ah; so i did. i forgot." "come on, then. old hardock made my mouth water talking about it as he did this morning." "but we should want a rope, shouldn't we?" "yes. let's get jem trevor to lend us one out of his boat." "all right. i'll come round." "why not jump down?" gwyn gave a sharp look up and down the lane, but no one was in sight, and he lightly threw his legs over, and dropped down beside his companion. "don't want any of the boys to see that there's a way over here," he said, "or we shall be having thieves. i say, joe, father's been talking about the old mine at breakfast." "then you told him what captain hardock said. i told my father, too." "what did he say?" joe jollivet laughed. "well, what are you grinning at? why don't you speak?" "because you're such a peppery chap, and i don't want a row." "who's going to make a row? what did the major say?" "sha'n't tell you." "who wants you to? it was something disrespectful of my father, and he has no business to. my father's his superior officer." "that he isn't. your father was cavalry, and my father foot." "and that makes it worse," said gwyn, hotly. "cavalry's higher than infantry, and a major isn't so high as a colonel.--what did he say?" "oh, never mind. come on." "i know what he said; and it's just like the major. just because his wounds come out bad sometimes, he thinks he has a right to say what he likes. i believe he said my father was a fool." "that he didn't," cried joe, sharply; "he said he'd be a fool, if he put any money in a mine." "there, i knew it, and it's regularly insulting," cried gwyn, with his face flushing and eyes sparkling. "i shall just go and tell major jollivet that my father--" "oh, i say, what a chap you are!" cried joe, wrinkling up his rather plump face. "you're never happy without you're making a row about something. why don't you punch my head?" "i would for two pins." "there, that's more like you. what have i done? i didn't say it." "no, but your father did, and it's all the same." "oh! is it? i don't see that. i couldn't help it." "yes, you could. it all came of your chattering. see if i go fishing with you again!" "go it!" "i mean to; and i shall walk straight up to cam maen, and tell the major what i think of him. i won't have my father called a fool by a jolly old foot-soldier, and so i'll tell him." "yes, do," said joe. "he's got a touch of fever this morning, and can't help himself; so now's your chance. but if you do go and worry him, you've got to have it out with me afterwards, and so i tell you." "oh, have i? you want me to give you another good licking?" "i don't care if you do. i won't stand still and have my father bullied by old ydoll, gwyn." gwyn turned upon him fiercely, but the sight of his companion's face calmed his anger on the instant. "it's all right, joe," he said; "i like to hear anyone sticking up for his father or his mother." "i haven't got a mother to stick up for; but my father's ill and weak, and if you--" "don't i keep on telling you i'm not going, you stupid old jolly-wet-'un. come on. didn't we two say, after the last fight, when we shook hands, that we would never fight again?" "yes; then why do you begin it?" "who's beginning it? get out, and let's go and have a look at the mine. let's stick to what we said: fight any of the fisher-lads, and help one another. now, then, let's go on to the old mine, and see if we can get down. pst! here's hardock." for at the corner of the stone-walled lane, whose left side skirted the colonel's property, which extended for half-a-mile along by the sea, the estate having been bought a bargain for the simple reason that its many acres grew scarcely anything but furze, heather and rag-wort, the rest being bare, storm-weathered granite, they came suddenly upon a dry-looking brown-faced man with a coil of rope worn across his chest like an alpine guide. he was seated on the low wall dotted with pink stone-crop and golden and grey lichens, chewing something, the brown stain at the corner of his lips suggesting that the something was tobacco; and he turned his head slowly toward them, and spoke in a harsh grating voice, as they came up. "going to the old mine?" he said. "i thought you would, after what i told you this morning. i'll go with you." "did you bring that rope on purpose?" said gwyn, quickly. "o' course, my son. you couldn't look at the gashly place without." gwyn glanced at joe, and the latter laughed, while the mining captain displayed his brown teeth. "right, aren't it?" he said. "didn't tell the colonel what i said, i s'pose?" "yes, i did," cried gwyn; "and he as good as said it was all nonsense." "maybe it be, and maybe it ban't," said the man, quietly. "you two come along with me and have a look. i've brought a hammer with me, too; and i say, let's chip off a bit or two of the stuff, and see what it's like. if it's good, your father may like to work it. if it's poor, we sha'n't be no worse off than we was before, shall we?" "no, of course not," said gwyn, "what do you say, joe--shall we go?" "of course," was the reply; and they trudged on together for about a hundred yards, and then climbed over the loose stone-wall, and then up a rugged slope dotted with gigantic fragments of granite. a stone's throw or so on their left was the edge of the uneven cliff, which went down sheer to the sea; and all about them the great masses towered up, and their path lay anywhere in and out among tall rocks wreathed with bramble and made difficult with gorse. but they were used to such scrambles, and, the mining captain leading, they struggled on with the gulls floating overhead, starting a cormorant from his perch, and sending a couple of red-legged choughs dashing over the rough edge to seek refuge among the rocks on the face of the cliff. it was a glorious morning, the sea of a rich bright blue, and here and there silvery patches told where some shoal of fish was playing at the surface or demolishing fry. there was not a house to be seen, and the place was wild and chaotic in the extreme, but no one alluded to its ruggedness, all being intent upon the object of their quest, which they soon after came upon in the upper part of a deep gully, on one side of which there was a rough quadrangular wall of piled-up stones, looking like the foundations of a hut which had fallen to ruin; and here they paused. "now, look here," said the man; "that place don't look anything; but your father, young pendarve, has got a fortune in it, and i want to see what it's like. so what do you say to going down with my hammer and bringing up a few chips?" "why don't you go?" said gwyn. "'cause you two couldn't pull me up again. it's a job for a boy." "then let's send down joe jollivet. he isn't worth much if we lose him." "oh, i say," began the boy in dismay; but he read the twinkle in his companion's eye, and laughed. "i wouldn't mind going down. is the rope strong?" "strong?" said the mining captain. "think i should have brought it if it warn't? hold a schooner." "shall i go down, gwyn?" the lad addressed did not answer for a few moments, but stood leaning over the rocky wall, gazing down into a square pit cut through the stone, the wall having been placed there for protection in case four or two-legged creatures passed that way. "but look here," said joe; "would it be safe?" "safe, lad? do you think i'd let you go if it warn't? how could i face all your fathers and mothers after?" "but are you sure you could hold me if i went," said joe, who began to look anxious. "feel here," said the man, rolling up his sleeves. "there's muscle! there's bone! that's something like a man's arm, aren't it? hold you? half-a-dozen on you. man either." joe drew a deep sigh. "i'll go," he said. "no, you won't," cried gwyn, fiercely. "it's my father's place, and i ought to go." "but i wouldn't mind, ydoll," said joe, excitedly. "i know that, but i'll go first, and you help sam hardock." "ay, you help me, my lad. i know'd he'd have the pluck to go down." "you're sure of the rope, sam?" "sure? there, don't you go down if you're afraid." "who feels afraid?" cried gwyn, hotly. "there, how's it to be? throw the rope down and slide?" "no, no," growled the man. "loop and sit in it?" "nay; i'm too fearful over you, my lad. but do you mean it?" "mean it? yes, of course," said the boy, flushing. "then, here you have it. i just make a knot like this about your chesty, so as it don't grow tight and can't slip. that's your sort. how's that?" as he spoke, he quickly fastened the end of the rope about the boy's breast, tested the knot and then lifted gwyn by it. "now, if you stick the hammer in your waistband, and have hold of the rope above your head with one hand to ease the strain, you'll go down like a cork, only keep yourself clear of the side." "mind and don't turn and roast, ydoll," cried joe; "but you'd better let me go." "next time. ready?" said gwyn. "ay." "then over i go." as if fearing to hesitate, the boy got over the low wall and stood on the narrow edge of the old, crumbling, fern-hung shaft, and the next moment he was being lowered down, joe turning a little faint from excitement as the upturned face disappeared, and he watched the rope glide through the man's bony hands. "how far are you going to let him down?" he said, anxiously. "far as he likes, my lad. till he comes to paying ore. you see that the rings o' rope run clear, and keep it right for me to run out. he's tidy heavy for such a little 'un, though." joe seized the coil, and made the rope run free, keeping spasmodically a tight hold of it the while, in case the man should let it slip. and so some sixty feet were allowed to run out, with gwyn keeping on cheerily shouting, "all right!" from time to time. it was instantaneous. suddenly the mining captain started back and blundered against joe, completely knocking him over. a wild shriek arose from the old shaft, sounding hollow, awful and strange, and the rope, which had either parted or come undone from the boy's chest, was swinging slackly to and fro in the great black pit. chapter three. at agony point. _plosh_! there is no combination of letters that will more clearly express the horrible, echoing, hollow sound which, after what seemed to be a long interval, but which was almost momentary, rose out of the ancient shaft, followed by strange and sickening splashings and a faint, panting noise. then all was still; and joe and the mining captain, who had been absolutely paralysed for the time being, stood gazing wildly in each other's face. that, too, was almost momentary, and, with a despairing cry, joe jollivet dashed at the low wall and began to climb over it, dislodging one of the stones, which fell inward, and then plunged down into the pit just as hardock seized the boy by the waist to drag him back. "what are you going to do?" roared the man, and the splash and roar of the fallen stone also came rushing out of the mouth. "do?" cried joe, hysterically; "try and save him." "but you can't do it that way, boy," panted the man, whose voice sounded as if he had been running till he was breathless. "i must--i must!" cried joe, struggling to get free. "oh, gwyn, gwyn, gwyn!" "hold still, will you?" bawled hardock. "chucking yourself down won't save him." "then let me down by the rope." "nay; it's parted once, and you'd be drowned too." "i don't care! i don't care!" cried joe, wildly. "i must go down to him. let go, will you?" and he struggled fiercely to get free. but the man's strength was double his, and he tore the boy from the wall, threw him down on his back, and placed a foot on his breast to hold him as he rapidly ran out the rest of the rope, till only about a yard remained, and then he released him. "now, you keep quiet," he growled. "you're mad--that's what you are!" joe rose to his feet, awed by the man's manner, and grasping now the fact that he was about to take the only steps that seemed available to save his companion. for hardock hurried to the other side of the opening, where the wall had been built close to the edge, and there was no space between, so that he could, in leaning over the wall, gaze straight down the shaft. and then he began jerking the rope; and as he did so they could faintly hear indications of its touching the water far below. "d'yer hear, there?" he shouted. "lay holt o' the rope. can't you see it?" as he spoke, he jerked the stout line and sent a wave along it, making it splash in the water far below; but the faint, whispering and smacking sounds were all the answer, and joe burst out with a piteous cry,-- "he's drowned! he's drowned! or he's holding on somewhere waiting for me to go down and save him. pull up the rope, quick! no; fasten it, and i'll slide down." "nay, nay; you keep quiet," growled the man, whose face was now of a sickly pallor. "how'm i to hear what he says, if you keep on making that row?" "what--he says?" faltered joe. "then you can hear him shout?" "you be quiet. ahoy! below there! ketch holt o' the rope. none o' your games to frighten us. i know. now, then, ketch holt and make it fast round yer." joe stood there with his face ghastly, and his eyes starting, as, with his hands behind his ears, he strained to catch the faintest sound which came up as through a great whispering tube; but all he could hear was the splashing of the rope, and a deep low musical dripping sound of falling water. "d'yer hear there!" roared hardock, now savagely. "it arn't right of yer, youngster. shout something to let's know where yer are." "he's dead--he's dead!" wailed joe. "let me go down and try and get him out." "will you be quiet!" roared the man, fiercely. "d'yer want to stop me when i'm trying to save him?" "no, no, i want to help." "then be quiet. you only muddles me, and stops me from thinking what's best to do. below there! pendarve, ahoy! ketch holt o' the rope, i tell yer!" but he called in vain--there was no reply; and though he agitated the rope again and again, there was no other sound. "there, now, let me go down. i must--i will go down, sam." "there's a good two hundred feet on it, and it's gone right down into the water," growled the man thoughtfully. "it's him playing tricks with us, arn't it?" "playing tricks! who's mad now?" cried joe. "will you pull up that rope?" for answer the man jerked it again and again, then pulled up a few fathoms, and let them drop again with a splash. "now, then, do you hear that?" he cried. "if yer don't ketch holt we'll haul it all up, and leave yer." "oh, sam, sam, sam," cried joe, "let me go down. do you hear me? if you don't, i'll jump." "will you be quiet?" roared the man, fiercely. "you just stay where you are, or i'll tie yer neck and heels with the rope. think i want to go back and say there's two on yer drownded. stop where yer are." "but we can't stand without doing something. oh, gwyn, gwyn! how can i go and tell mrs pendarve what's happened?" "and how can i?" cried the man, angrily. "what d'yer both mean, coming tempting on me to let yer down. what's the colonel going to say to me?" "then you do think he's drowned?" cried joe, piteously. "who's to help thinking he is?" said the man, gruffly, and he wiped the thick perspiration from his brow. "they all did say it was a onlucky mine, but i wouldn't believe 'em." "gwyn! gwyn! gwyn!" shouted joe, as he leaned over the wall and gazed down, but there were only hollow reverberations in reply. "it's no good, my lad," said hardock, bitterly. "who'd ha' thought of that rope failing as it did? good sound rope as it be." "but you are not going to give up, and do nothing?" cried joe, frantically. "what is us to do then?" said the man, with a groan. "let me down, i tell you." "nay; it would be too bad, i won't do that." "then go down yourself." "how? can you hold me, and haul me up? that's madder still. he's gone, my lad, he's gone; and we can't do nothing to help him." "run, run for help. i'll stay here and hold the rope. he may be insensible and catch hold of it yet." "ay, he may," said the man, meaningly; "but folk don't do that sort o' thing, my lad. nay; it's o' no use to struggle over it. he's a dead and goner, and you and me's got to face it." "face it!" groaned joe, letting his head go down on the top of the wall. "face it! how can i ever face mrs pendarve again?" "ah! and how can i face the colonel, his father. i can't do it, my lad, ydoll churchtown's been a happy enough home for me, and i've allus made a living in it, but it's all over now. i must be off at once." "to get help?" cried joe, raising his ghastly face from where it rested upon the weathered stone, and looking more ghastly now from the blood which had started from a slight cut on his brow. "nay; i've done all i could do here for young gwyn--all as a man can do. i've got to take care o' myself now, and be off somewheres, for the colonel'll put it all on to me." "go! run away!" cried joe. "oh, you wouldn't be such a coward! here, quick! try again.--gwyn, old chap! the rope--the rope. oh, do try and catch hold," he shouted down the pit. but there was no reply; and wild now with frantic horror, the boy seized the rope and began to climb over the wall. "ah! none o' that!" roared hardock, grasping his arms; and now there was a desperate struggle which could only have the one result--the mastery of the boy. for at last hardock lifted him from the ground and threw him on his back amongst the heath, and held him down. "it's no good to fight, young 'un," he said breathlessly. "you're strong, but my muscles is hardest. i don't say nought again' you, though yer did hit me right in the mouth with your fist. i like it, for it shows your pluck, and that you'd do anything to try and save your mate. lie still. it's of no use, yer know. i could hold down a couple of yer. there, steady. can't yer see i should be letting yer go to your death, too, my lad, and have to hear what the major said as well as the colonel. not as i should, for i should be off; and then it would mean prison, and they'd say i murdered you both, for there wouldn't be no witness on my trial, but the rope, and mebbe they'd give me that for my share, and hang me. there, will yer be quiet if i let yer sit up?" "yes, yes," said the boy, with a groan of despair. "and yer see as i can't do nothing more, and you can't neither." "i--i don't know, sam," groaned the boy, as he lay weak and panting on his back in the purple-blossomed heath. "no, no, i can't see it. i must do something to try and save him." "but yer can't, lad," said the man, bitterly. "there arn't nothing to be done. it's a gashly business; but it wouldn't make no better of it if i let you chuck yourself away, too. there, now you're getting sensible." joe lay with his eyes closed in the hot sunshine, glad of the darkness to shut out the horror of the scene around him; for the bright blue sky, with the soft-winged grey gulls floating round and round above their heads, and the far-spreading silver and sapphire sea, were dominated by the mouth of the horrible pit, from which with strained senses he kept on expecting to hear the faint cries of his companion for help. but all was very still, save the soft, low hum of the bees busily probing the heath bells for honey in the beautiful, wild stretch of granite moorland, and the black darkness was for the unhappy boy alone. for the knowledge was forced upon him that he could do no more. he felt that after the first minute gwyn's position must have been hopeless, and he lay there perfectly still now in his despair, when hardock rose slowly, and began to haul in the line, hand over hand, coiling it in rings the while, which rings lay there in the hot sunshine, dry enough till quite a hundred-and-fifty feet had been drawn on, and then it came up dripping wet fully fifty feet more, the mining captain drawing it tightly through his hands to get rid of the moisture. "bad job--bad job!" he groaned, "parted close to the end--close to the end--close to the end--well, i'll be hanged!" he began in a low, muttering way, quite to himself, and ended with a loud ejaculation which made joe sit up suddenly and stare. "what is it?" he cried wildly. "hear him?" "hear him? no, my lad, nor we aren't likely to. but look at that." he held out the wet end of the rope, showing how it was neatly bound with copper-wire to keep it from fraying out and unlaying. "well," said joe, "what is it?" "can't yer see, boy?" "the rope's end? yes." "can't yer see it aren't broke?" "yes, of course. why, it did not part, sam!" cried joe, excitedly. "nay; it did not part." "then it came untied," cried joe, frantically. "oh, sam!" chapter four. joe hears a cry. "here, what's the good o' your shouting at me like that, my lad? think things aren't bad enough for me without that?" cried the man, in an ill-used tone. "you did not tie it properly." "yes, i did, lad, so don't go saying such a word as that. i made that rope fast round him quite proper." "no, or it wouldn't have come untied. and you boasted as you did! why, you've murdered him. oh, sam, sam, sam!" "will you be quiet?" cried the man, who was trembling visibly. "don't you turn again' me. you were in the business, too. you helped, my lad; and if i murdered him, you were as bad as me." "it's too cruel--too cruel!" groaned joe. "and you turning again' me like that!" cried hardock. "you shouldn't run back from your mate in a job, my lad," said the man, excitedly. "i tied him up in the reg'lar, proper knot, and you calls me a murderer. just what his father would say to me if i give him a chance. it's a shame!" "we trusted you, both of us, because you were a man, and we thought you knew what was right!" "and so i did know what was right, and did what was right; that there rope wouldn't have never come undone if he hadn't touched it. he must have got fiddling it about and undone it hissen. it warn't no doing o' mine!" "shame! oh, you miserable coward!" cried joe, starting to his feet now in his indignant anger. "mizzable coward! oh, come, i like that!" cried hardock. "who's a coward?" "why, you are; and you feel your guilt. look at you shivering, and white as you are." "well, aren't it enough to make any man shiver and look white, knowing as that poor lad's lying dead at the bottom of that big hole?" joe groaned, and took hold of the rope's end. "how could he have undone the knot, swinging as he was in the air? you know well enough it was not properly tied." "but it was!" cried hardock, indignantly. "i tied it carefully mysen, just as i should have done if i'd been going down." "don't use that knot again, then," said joe, bitterly. "i wish--oh! how i wish you had let me go down instead." "what?" cried the man. "why, you'd ha' been drowned i'stead o' he." "i wish i had been. it would have been better than having to go to the colonel to tell him--i can't do it!" cried the boy, passionately. "i can't do it!" "then come along o' me, my lad." "where?" "i d'know. somewheres where they don't know about it. we can't stay here and face it. it's too horrid. you can't face the colonel and his lady. ah! they're quite right; the mine is an unlucky one, and i wish i'd never spoke about it; but it seemed a pity for such a good working to go to waste. but they all say it's unlucky, and full o' all kinds o' wicked, strange critters, ghosts and goblins, and gashly things that live underground to keep people from getting the treasure. i used to laugh to myself and say it was all tomfoolery, and old women's tales; but it's true enough, as i know now, to my sorrow." "how do you know?" cried joe, angrily. "by him going. it warn't he as undid the rope--it was one o' they critters, as a lesson to us not to 'tempt to go down. i see it all clear enough now." "bah!" cried joe, fiercely, "such idiotic nonsense! let me tie the rope round myself, and i'll go down and try and find him. i don't believe in all that talk about the mine being haunted. i've heard it before." "course you have, my lad. but let you go down? nay, that i won't. poor young gwyn pendarve's drownded, same as lots of poor fellows as went out healthy and strong in their fishing-boats have been drownded, and never come back no more. it's very horrid, but it's very true. he aren't the first by a long chalk, and he won't be the last by a many. it's done, and it can't be undone. but it's a sad job." "let me go down, sam," pleaded joe, humbly now. "nay, i'm too much of a mizzable coward, my lad. i don't want to leave you and lose you." "but you wouldn't," cried the boy. "i should tie the knot too tight." "i don't know as yer could tie a better knot than i could, master joe jollivet. and even if yer could, yer wouldn't be able to make my hands feel strong enough to hold yer." "i'm not afraid of that; and he must be brought out." "i don't know, my lad, i don't know. if he is to be, it'll want a lot o' men with long ropes, and lanterns to courage 'em up; but it strikes me that when they know what's happened, yer won't find a man in ydoll cove as will risk going down. they all know about the horrors in the mine, and they won't venter. i didn't believe it, but i do now. there, the rope's coiled up, and i may as well go." "to get help? yes, go at once," cried joe, excitedly; "i'll stay." "nay, yer won't, my lad. i'm not going to leave yer. i don't want to know afterward as yer chucked yerself down that hole, despairing like. you're going away with me." "i'm going to stay till help comes to get poor gwyn out." hardock shook his head. "go and tell them what's happened." "i dursent," said the man, with a shiver. "you go at once." "what! and tell the colonel his boy's dead? that i won't, my lad. he'd be ready to kill me." "go to my father, and tell him. he'll break the news to colonel pendarve; and you go on then to the village, to collect men and ropes." "they wouldn't come." "oh, have you no feeling in you, at such a time?" cried joe. "you are only thinking about yourself. you must--you shall go on. what's that?" the boy started and stood staring wildly at his companion, for a faintly-heard cry reached their ears, and hardock's face grew mottled, sallow, white, red and brown. "sea-bird," he said at last hoarsely, after they had waited for a few moments, listening for a repetition of the cry. "i never heard a sea-bird call like that," said joe, in a husky whisper. "it wasn't a gull, nor a shag, nor a curlew." "nay, it warn't none o' they," said hardock, in a whisper. "i know all the sea-fowl cries. i thought it was one o' they big black-backed gulls, but it warn't that." "can you make out what it was, then?" "yes; it was something we don't understand, making joy because some one as it don't like has been drownded." the boy felt too much startled and excited to pause and ridicule his companion's superstitious notions, and he took a few steps quickly to the rough, square wall, from a faint hope that the sound might have come from there; but as he touched the wall, a strong grip was on his shoulder. "no, yer don't," growled hardock. "you keep back." "but that cry!" panted joe. "it didn't come from there. it was sea way." "yes; there it is again!" sounding more faint and distant, the strange cry floated from away to their left, and a strange thrill ran through joe jollivet, as he yielded to the man's hand, and suffered himself to be drawn right away from the mouth of the hole. "yes, i heard it," said hardock, in a low tremulous voice, and with a look of awe, which accorded ill with the man's muscular figure. "don't you know what it was?" "no; do you? could it be gwyn calling for help?" the man nodded his head and spoke in a low mysterious whisper, as if afraid of being overheard. "i dunno about calling for help, my lad; but it was him." "but where--where?" cried joe, wildly. "out yonder. we couldn't see 'em, but they must ha' come sweeping out of the pit there, and gone right off with him, like a flock of birds, right away out to sea." "oh, you fool!" cried joe. "it's horrible to listen to you great big fishermen and miners with your old women's tales. if it's gwyn calling, he must be somewhere near, i know. there's another shaft somewhere, and he's calling up that. come and see." "there aren't no other shaft, my lad," said the man, mysteriously. "it's what i say. you'll know better some day, and begin to believe when you've seen and heard as much as me. there's things and critters about these cliffs sometimes of a night, and in a storm, as makes your hair stand on end to hear 'em calling to one another. why, i've knowed the times when--" "there it is again," cried joe, excitedly. "ahoy!" he yelled. "where are you?" there was no answer, and the boy stood staring about him with every sense strained, listening intently; but no further sound was heard, and the man laid his hand upon the boy's arm. "come away, lad," he whispered, "afore ill comes to us. didn't you hear?" "i heard the cry." "nay, i meant that there whispering noise as seemed to come up out o' the pit. let's go while we're safe." "nonsense! what is there to be afraid of?" cried joe, impatiently. "listen!" "i don't know what there is to be afraid of, my lad; but there's something unked about, and the gashly thing's given me the creeps. come away." "ah, there! why, it's towards the cliffs. a cry!" joe shouted, for, very softly, but perfectly distinct, there was a peculiar distant wailing cry. "it's all right, sam. he's alive somewhere, and he's calling to us for help." chapter five. fishing for a boy. sam hardock looked at the boy with a mingling of horror and pity on his countenance. "what yer talking about?" he cried. "can't yer understand as it means trouble? someone's deloodering of yer away so as you may be drownded, too." but joe jollivet hardly heard him in his excitement. he was convinced that he had heard gwyn calling for aid, and he dashed off in search of his comrade. he felt that it was useless, but he stepped back to the mouth of the ancient mine, and shouted down it once, but without response, and then started to climb out of the gully in which he stood, mounting laboriously over the rugged granite masses which lay about, tangling and scratching himself among the brambles, and at last standing high up on the slope to gaze round and shout. "what's the good o' that?" cried hardock, who was following him. "come back." for answer joe gazed round about him, wondering whether by any possibility there was another opening into the mine hidden by bramble and heath. he had been all over the place with gwyn scores of times, and the walled-in mouth was familiar enough; and from the cliff edge to the mighty blocks piled up here and there he and gwyn had climbed and crawled, hunting adders and lizards among the heath, chased rabbits to their holes in the few sandy patches, and foraged for sea-birds' eggs on the granite ledges and, by the help of a rope, over on the face of the cliffs. but never once had they come upon any opening save the one down into the old mine. "but there must be--there must be," muttered joe, with a feeling of relief, "and i've got to find it. it's blocked up with stones, and the blackberries have grown all over it. there!--all right. ahoy! coming." for the faint halloa came now very distinctly. "are you comin' back?" shouted hardock. "don't stand hollering there in that mad way." "he's here--he's here--somewhere," shouted back joe, excitedly, and he waved to his companion to come on. "yah! stuff!" growled hardock; but he followed up the side of the gully, while joe went on away from the sea to where a wall of rock rose up some twenty feet and ran onward for seventy or eighty. joe came back hurriedly after a few moments and met hardock. "well, where is he?" said the latter. "i don't know," panted the boy; "somewhere underneath. i keep hearing him." "you keep hearing o' them," said the man, with a look full of the superstition to which he was a victim. "ahoy!" came faintly from behind them. "now, then," cried joe, excitedly; "he's up there." he turned and ran up toward the wall of rock once more, followed more deliberately by hardock, who hung the coil of rope on his shoulder. "well, where is he?" said the man, as he reached the spot where joe was hunting about among the great pieces of stone. "i don't know, but there must be another opening here." hardock shook his head mysteriously. "but you heard him shout." "i heerd a voice," said the man; and as he spoke there came a querulous chorus from the gulls that were floating in the air close to the edge of the cliff. "no, no, it was not a gull," cried joe. "i did not say it weer," replied hardock. "you can think what you like, but i only says, `wheer is he?'" "he must be somewhere here," cried joe; and he climbed about in all directions for some time, and only gave up when he felt how impossible it was that his comrade could be anywhere near. "theer, come on down, my lad," said hardock at last. "it's impossible for anyone to be here. there aren't a hole big enough to hide a rabbit, let alone a boy." they descended slowly toward the lower part of the slope, near the cliff edge. here joe stopped short, for faintly, but perfectly distinct, came the words, "joe, ahoy!" and certainly from behind him. "there, i knew he was up there!" cried the lad, excitedly; "come back. i was sure of it." he scrambled back as fast as he could, and hardock followed him, frowning, and stood looking on, while his companion searched once more in every possible direction without avail. "ahoy, gwyn. y-doll!" he shouted through his hands. "where are you?" there was no reply, and after more searching and shouting, and with the man's superstitious notions beginning to affect him, joe stopped and gazed blankly in his face. "well, d'yer begin to believe me now, my lad?" whispered hardock. "i can't help--" began the lad; and then he burst out with an emphatic. "no, it's all nonsense! gwyn must be here. ahoy, ydoll! where are you?" his voice died away, and in obedience to an order from the man, joe began to descend the rugged slope again towards the green strip, which ran along near the cliff edge. "it's of no use fighting again' it, my lad," said hardock, solemnly; "they're a-mocking of you, and you might go on hunting all day long and couldn't find nought. let's go; we aren't safe here." "i won't go," cried the boy, "and i won't believe what you think is possible. gwyn's somewhere about here. now, think. where is there that we haven't searched?" "nowheres," whispered hardock, and in spite of the bright sunshine around them he kept on nervously glancing here and there. "why, if you go on like that in the middle of the day, sam," cried the boy, angrily, "what would you do if it was dark?" "dark! you don't know a man in ydoll cove as would come up here after dark, my lad. it would be more than his life was worth, he'd tell you. why, there's not only them in the old mine, but the cliffs swarm with them things as goes raging about whenever there's a storm. i never used to believe in them, but i do now." "and i don't," said joe, "and you won't frighten me. it's poor old gwyn we heard shouting, and there must be an opening somewhere down into the mine." "wheer is it, then?" whispered the man. "you've been all over here times enough, and so have i, but i never found no hole 'cept the one big one down." "no, i never saw one, but there must be. there!" for a faint hail came again from the wall of rock behind them. "gwyn, ahoy!" cried joe as loudly as he could. "ahoy!" came back steadily. "why, it's an echo," cried joe, excitedly. "ahoy! ahoy!" "oy--oy!" came back from the wall, and directly after, much more faintly--"oy--help!" "oh, what fools--what idiots!" cried joe, excitedly; and certain now of where his comrade was, he went quickly down the slope to the cliff edge and looked over down towards where the sea eddied among the fallen rocks three hundred feet below, and shouted,--"gwyn!--gwyn!" his voice seemed lost there; but as he listened there came faintly a reply in the one appealing cry--"help!" but it was away to his right, where the rocks rose up rugged and broken. where he stood the grass ran right to the edge, but there the granite looked as if it had been built up with large blocks into a mighty overhanging bastion, which rose up fully fifty feet higher; and it was evident that gwyn had worked his way somewhere out to the cliff face far below this mass. "why there must be an adit," cried hardock, in a tone full of wonder. "i never knowed of that." [note; an adit is a horizontal shaft driven in from the cliff.] "yes, and he's safe--he's safe?" cried joe; and his manliness all departed in his wild excitement, for he burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing. he mastered his emotion though, directly, and shouted,-- "hold on! coming," in the hope of being heard. he was heard, for, faintly heard from below to their right, came the former appealing word-- "help!" "all right," he yelled. "now, sam, can i get down there?" "you'll get to the bottom afore you know it," replied the man. "no." "then you must lower me with the rope." "what, and one o' my knots!" said the man, maliciously. "oh, don't talk," cried joe, "but come on. we must get along to where it's right over him, and then i'll go down. but did you ever see a hole along here?" "nay--never!" "come on." joe led the way inland, and then had to clamber over block after block of tumbled together granite for some fifty yards, when he turned to begin mounting to the hog-back-like ridge which ran out to the great bastion which overhung the sea. it was an awkward climb--not dangerous, but difficult. joe's heart was in his work though; and, free now from superstitious dread, hardock toiled after him, keeping up so that he was at his shoulder when the boy lay down on his chest and looked over the edge. for a few moments he could see nothing but ledge and jutting block, whitened by the sea-birds which here brought up their young in peace, for even the reckless boys had looked upon it as too hazardous to descend. the sea far below was just creaming among the rocks which peered above the water, and ran out in a reef causing a dangerous race; but though joe searched the whole cliff face below him for nearly a minute he could see nothing, and at last he shouted with all his might and had a lesson in the feebleness of the human voice in that vast expanse. "ahoy!" "ahoy!" came up from below as faintly as the cry which evoked it. "i can't see him," said hardock, shading his eyes as he peered down. "no; he must be under one of the blocks that jut out." "ay and all hings over, or he'd ha' climbed up. now, my lad, what's to be done? will you go down?" "yes, of course; but knot me fast this time, sam." "ay, my lad, i will. you trust me." "i will, sam," said the boy, calmly. then he strained outwards, put both hands, trumpet fashion, to his lips, and shouted,-- "ahoy! coming down.--hardock, look! i can see him." "eh? where? i can't see nought." "there, nearly straight under us, about half-way down--look!" "no; i can't see him. can you?" "yes; only his hand. it's like a speck. he's waving it to us. there, i can just see a bit of his arm, too." "i got it now. yes, i can see it. he must be at the mouth of an adit where they threw out their waste stuff to be washed away by the sea." "ahoy! rope!" those two words came up plainly now, and joe answered through his closed hands. "all--right--coming down!--now, sam, quick. make me fast, and lower away." "no! rope!" came up from below. "says you aren't to go down," cried hardock, excitedly. "and why should yer? i'll drop the rope, and you can help me haul him up. he'll make it fast enough, i know." as he spoke the man rose up, threw the ring of rope on the rock by his side, set the end free, made a knot in it, and gave it to joe to hold while, after a little examination to make sure that it would uncoil easily, he raised the ring, stood back a couple of yards, swung the coil to and fro horizontally on a level with his left shoulder and then launched it seaward with a vigorous throw, making a snatch directly after at the end close to where joe held on with both hands. away went the rope with the rings gracefully uncoiling and straightening out as the stout hemp writhed like some long thin serpent, opening out more and more, till, far away below them, they saw it hang down, swaying to and fro like a pendulum. "not long enough," cried joe, sadly. "good two hundred foot, my lad; nigh upon five-and-thirty fathom; p'raps he'll climb to it. can you see the end?" "no--no," said joe; "it hangs over beyond that block that sticks out?" "and it's below that he's a-lying, aren't it?" "i don't know--i think so. it's of no use. i must slide down to him. ah, stop a minute, let's give it a swing to and fro. perhaps he can't see it. hurrah! i've got a bite." "nay!" cried hardock, excitedly. "yes, it's all right. feel." but there was no need, for at that moment there was a most unmistakable tug. chapter six. at an awkward corner. "hurrah!" yelled joe, half mad with excitement. "it is long enough, and he has got it. he was trying if it was safe." "hooroar!" shouted hardock, hoarsely, for he was as excited as the boy. "hold tight, my lad; don't let him pull it out of your hands. but he won't, for i've got it, too. why, it's all right, young jollivet, and the old mine goblins had nothing to do with it, after all. we'll soon have him up." "yes, we'll soon have him up," cried joe, hysterically, and he burst into a strange laugh. "i say, how he frightened us, though!" and in those moments of relief from the tension they had felt, it seemed like nothing that the lad was two hundred feet down the terrible precipice, about to swing at the end of the rope which had played him so false but a short time before. "he's making the line fast round him, sam. i can feel it quiver and jerk. shout down to him to be sure and tie the knots tight." "nay, nay, you let him be. he don't want no flurrying. trust him for that. he knows how to make himself fast." "think so?" said joe, hoarsely; and he felt the hands which held the rope grow wet. "nay, don't want no thinking, my lad. he'll manage all right." "he has," cried joe, excitedly. "do you feel? he's signalling for us to haul him up." for three sharp tugs were given at the rope. "ay, that means all right," said hardock. "now you hold on tight." "i can't haul him all alone." "nay, not you. nobody wants you to try; i only want you to hold while i get ready. it wouldn't do to let one end go loose, would it?" as he spoke hardock relinquished his hold of the rope, and began to strip off his jacket. "what are you going to do? you're not going down, sam?" "you wait a bit: you'll see," said the man; and he folded his coat into a large pad, which he laid over the edge of the rock. "now you lay the rope on that, my lad, and give me the end. that's the way; now it won't be cut." "when we haul it over the rock? no; i see." "but we aren't going to haul it over the rock," said hardock, nodding his head. "i'll show you a way worth two of that." he took the end and pulled it over, and made a loop, leaving just enough free line for the purpose; and slipping it over one shoulder and across his breast diagonally, he stood ready. meanwhile jerk after jerk was given to the rope, each signal which reached joe's hands making him thrill with eagerness. "there, he must be ready now," growled hardock. "ready? yes," cried the boy, impatiently. "then you are going to walk away with the rope?" "ay, that's it; draw steadily as i go right along the hog's back. all right. look out," he shouted as the word "haul!" reached their ears. "there, you stand fast, my lad, ready to help him when he comes up to the edge. now then--off!" hardock, who stood with his back now to the cliff edge, started off at a slow steady walk inland, and joe dropped upon his breast and craned his neck over the edge of the precipice to watch the block below which hid his comrade from his sight. but not for many moments now. all at once gwyn's head appeared, then his chest, and his arms were busy as he seemed to be helping himself over the rock; and the next minute, as hardock steadily walked away, the boy was hanging clear of the rock face, swinging to and fro and slowly turning round, suggesting that the layers of the rope were beginning to untwist. to use a familiar expression, joe's heart felt as if it were in his mouth, and he trembled with apprehension, dreading lest the rope should come untwisted or the hemp give way, the result of either of these accidents being that gwyn must fall headlong on to the sea-washed rocks below. consequently, joe's eyes were constantly turning from the ascending figure to the rough pad over which the rope glided, and back again, while his heart kept on beating with a slow, heavy throb which was almost suffocating. the distance to ascend was very short under the circumstances, but to both boys, as they found when they afterwards compared notes, it seemed to be interminable, and it is doubtful which of the two suffered the more--joe, as he gazed down with strained eyes and his vacant hands longing to seize the rope, or gwyn, as he hung with elbows squared, fists clenched on the knot of the rope to ensure its remaining fast, and his head thrown back and face gazing up at his comrade when he slowly turned breast inward, at the sky when he turned back to the rocky wall. so short a distance for hardock to continue--his tramp less than two hundred feet--and yet it seemed so great, for every nerve was on the strain, and no one spoke a word. it was in joe's heart to keep on saying encouraging words to gwyn, and to utter warnings to hardock, and advice as to going slow or fast, but not a word would come. he could only stare down at the upturned face or at the bare head to which the wet hair clung close. but all the time gwyn was steadily rising, and in a few seconds more joe felt that he would have to act--catching hold of his comrade by the rope about his chest and helping him over the edge into safety. "will he never come?" groaned joe, softly. "oh, make haste, hardock, make haste." he turned to look round once to see the strained rope and hardock bending forward like some animal drawing a load, and the rope looked so thin that he shivered. then, as it did not part, he felt a pang of dread, for he felt that the risk for his comrade was doubled by the feet that he was dependent upon two knots now instead of one, the slipping of either meaning certain death. the moisture in joe's hands grew more dense, and the great drops gathered upon his forehead, ran together and glided down his nose with a horrible tickling sensation; and as he now gazed down once more at gwyn's hard, fixed, upturned face and straining eyes, his own grew dim so that he could only see through a mist, while a strange, paralysing feeling began to creep through him, so that he knew that he would not be able to help. and all the time gwyn rose higher and higher, till he was not ten feet below the edge, and now the horrible, numbing chill which pervaded joe's being was chased away, for he found that he was suddenly called upon to act--to do something to help. for the action of the rope had told upon the jacket laid there to soften the friction, and it began to travel slowly from the edge, keeping time with the rope, which now ground over the edge, and, to joe's horror, looked as if it were fraying. bending down, he seized the pad and tried to thrust it back in its place, but soon found that this was impossible, and, before he could devise some plan, the knot in front of gwyn's breast reached the edge, and a greater call was made upon him for help. the inaction had passed away, and he shouted to hardock to stop. "keep it tight!" he roared; and he went down on his knees, leaned over, caught hold of the loop on either side close beneath gwyn's arms, and essayed to lift him over the edge on to the rocky platform. it was a bitter lesson in his want of power, for, partly from his position there on the extreme edge of the terrible precipice, partly from its being a task for a muscular man, he found out he could not stir gwyn in the least, only hold him tighter against the rock, pressing the great knot of the rope into the boy's chest. "up with him, lad!" shouted hardock from where he stood straining the rope tight. "up with him--right over on to the rock!" joe's eyes dilated and he gazed horror-stricken into the eyes of his comrade, who hung there perfectly inert, while just overhead three great grey gulls wheeled round and round, uttering their screams, and looking as if they expected that the next minute the boy would have fallen headlong on to the stones beneath. "come, look sharp!" shouted hardock; "this rope cuts. up with him quick!" "can--can you get hold of anything and--and help?" panted joe at last, hoarsely. gwyn stared at him as if he had heard him speak, but did not quite comprehend what he said. "quick, ydoll! do you hear! do something to help. get hold." this seemed to rouse the boy, who slowly loosened his hold of the rope, and then, with a quick spasmodic action, caught hold of the collar of joe's jacket on either side. "now--your feet," said joe, in a harsh whisper. "try and find foothold." "can you--hold?" said gwyn, faintly. "yes, i'll try," was the reply, and gwyn's toes were heard scraping over the rock again and again, but without result, and joe uttered a piteous groan. "can't you do it?" cried hardock from the other end. "why, it's as easy as easy. up with him." "no--no! can't move!" cried joe, frantically. "hold tight of him then till i come," cried the man, and joe uttered a piercing shriek, for the rope went down with a jerk which drew him forward upon his chest as his hands were torn from their hold, and he clutched wildly at the rock on either side to save himself from going down. just then one of the gulls swooped close to his head and uttered its strange querulous cry. chapter seven. sam hardock laughs. joe jollivet must have gone over the cliff in another instant headlong down to destruction, for only one thing could have saved him, and in all probability the sudden jerk of his snatching at his comrade would have taken him, too. but as it happened samuel hardock--"the captain," as he was generally called in ydoll cove--saw the mistake he had made, and did that one special thing. turning suddenly, he stepped quickly back, tightening the line again, drawing gwyn close up to the sharp edge of the cliff once more; and as in his agony joe clutched at the moving cord, and clung to it with all his might, he too was drawn back from the edge. "that was near," muttered hardock. "what's best to be done?" fortunately the man could be cool and matter-of-fact in the face of real danger, though, as he had shown, he was a superstitious coward when it was something purely imaginary; and he did at once the very best thing under the circumstances. "put heart into 'em by making 'em wild," he muttered, and he burst into a hearty fit of laughter. "yah!" he cried. "nice pair o' soft-roed 'uns you two are! why, you aren't got no more muscle than a pair o' jelly-fishes. there, get, your breath, master joe, and have another try; and you see if you can't make another out of it, colonel. you're all right if you've made that knot good. i could hold you for a week standing up, and when i get tired i can lie down. now--hard, hard! i thought you meant to dive off the cliff, you, master joe." the latter had risen to his knees with his wet hair clinging to his brow; and for a moment he felt disposed to rage out something furiously at the grinning speaker. but he refrained, and turned to get a fresh grip of gwyn, who seemed to have recovered somewhat, too. "he's a beast!" cried joe, angrily, for the anger was working in the right direction. hardock began again,-- "rope cut, master gwyn?" he cried. "s'pose it does, though. well, when you two are ready, just say. i've got him tight enough. but, hark ye, here; can you tell what i say?" "yes," cried joe, in a choking voice. "that's right. well, first thing you do, my lad, you try and ease the rope over the edge. it checks you like, don't you see? stretch your arms well over, colonel, and get your fingers in a crack and find a place for your toes, while young joe jollivet eases the knot over. take it coolly. there's nothing to mind. i've got yer, yer know. ready?" "yes. now, ydoll, old chap," whispered joe, "can you do what he says and find foothold?" there was a peculiar staring look in the boy's eyes, but he began to search about with his toes; and almost at once found a crack that he had passed over before, forced in the end of one boot, and, reaching over, he gripped the rope with both hands. "get tight hold of my collar," he whispered rather faintly. "can you do it kneeling?" "no power," said joe, huskily, "i must stand." he rose to his feet, gripping the collar as he was told, gazing there into gwyn's eyes, for he dared not look down beyond him into the dizzy depth. "now," said gwyn, "when you're ready, i'll try and raise myself a bit, and you throw yourself back." "wait a moment," panted joe. then he shouted, "now i am--all together!" "right! hauley hoi!" came back, and with one effort gwyn curved his body, forcing his breast clear of the edge, joined his strength to that of his comrade in the effort to rise, and the next moment joe was on his back with gwyn being dragged over him. then came an interval of inaction, for the three actors in the perilous scene lay prone upon the rough surface of the cliff, hardock having thrown himself upon his face. "oh, gwyn, old chap!--oh, gwyn," groaned joe. "hah! yes; it was near," sighed the rescued boy, as he slowly rose to a sitting posture, and began to unfasten the rope. "i thought i was gone." "it was horrid--horrid--horrid!" groaned joe. "and i couldn't do anything." he rose slowly, wiping his brow, which was dripping with perspiration, and the two boys sat there in the sunshine gazing at one another for a few minutes as if quite unconscious of the presence of hardock at the end of the rope, where he lay spread-eagled among the heath. then gwyn slowly held out his hand, which was gripped excitedly by joe, who seized it with a loud sob. "thank ye, jolly-wet," said gwyn, quietly. "i felt so queer seeing you try so hard." "you felt--about me? ah, you don't know what i felt about you. ugh! i could kick you! frightening me twice over like that! i don't know which was worst--when you went down or when you came up." "going down was worst," said gwyn, quietly. "but have a kick if you like; i don't feel as if i could hit back." "then i'll wait till you can," said joe, with a faint smile. "oh, dear, how my heart does keep on beating!" he turned with hand pressing his side and looked toward hardock, for the man had moved, and he, too, sat up and began searching in his pockets. and then, to the great disgust of the two boys, they saw him slowly bring out a short pipe and a brass tobacco-box, and then deliberately fill the former, take out his matches, strike a light, and begin to smoke. "look at that," cried joe, viciously. "yes; i'm looking," said gwyn, slowly, and speaking as if he were utterly exhausted. "i feel as if i wish i were strong enough to go and knock him over." "for laughing at us when we were in such a horrible fix? yes; so do i. he's an old beast; and when you feel better we'll go and tell him so." "let's go now," said gwyn, rising stiffly. "i say, i feel wet and cold, and sore all over." joe rose with more alacrity and clenched his fists, his teeth showing a little between his tightened lips. "why, jolly," said gwyn, gravely, "you look as if you'd knocked the skin off your temper." "that's just how i do feel," cried the boy--"regularly raw. i want to have a row with old sammy hardock. it's all his fault, our getting into such trouble; and first he stands there laughing at us when we were nearly gone, and now he sits there as if it hadn't mattered a bit, and begins to smoke. i never hated anyone that i know of, but i do hate him now. he's a beast." "well, you said that before," said gwyn, slowly; and he shivered. "i say, jolly, isn't it rum that when you're wet, if you stand in the sun, you feel cold?" "then let's go and give it to old hardock; that'll warm you up. i feel red hot now." gwyn began to rub his chest softly, where the rope had cut into him, and the boys walked together to where hardock sat with his back to them, smoking. the man did not hear them coming till they were close to him, when he started round suddenly, and faced them, letting the pipe drop from between his lips. the resentment bubbling up in both of the boys died out on the instant, as they saw the drawn, ghastly face before them. "ah, my lads! ah, my dear lads!" groaned the man; "that's about the nighest thing i ever see; but, thank goodness, you're all safe and sound. would you two mind shaking hands?" the boys stared at him, then at each other and back. "why, sam!" said gwyn, huskily. "yes; it's me, my lad," he replied, with a groan, "what there is left on me. i've been trying a pipe, but it aren't done me no good, not a bit. i seem to see young jollivet there going head first over the cliff; and the mortal shiver it did send through me was something as i never felt afore." "why, you laughed at us!" said joe, with his resentment flashing up again. "laughed at yer? course i did. what was i to do? if i'd ha' told yer both you was in danger, wouldn't it ha' frightened you so as you'd ha' been too froze up to help yourselves?" "no; i don't think so," cried joe. "don't yer? well, i'm sure on it. i couldn't do anything but hold on to the rope, and no one could ha' saved you but yourselves." "but you shouldn't have laughed," said gwyn, gravely. "what was i to do then, colonel? it was the only thing likely to spur you up. i thought it would make you both wild like, and think you warn't in such a queer strait, and it did." the boys exchanged glances. "yes," continued hardock, as he shook hands solemnly with both, "there was nobody to help you, my lads, but yourselves, and i made you do that; but talk about giving a man a turn--oh, dear! oh, dear! and now my pipe's gone right out." "light it again, then, sam," said gwyn, quietly, as he stooped stiffly to pick up the fallen pipe, and hand it to its owner. "thank ye, my lad, thank ye; but i don't feel in the humour for no pipes to-day, i'm just as if i've had a very gashly turn." "but you might have tied the rope round me better, sam," said gwyn. "ay, i might, my lad, but somehow i didn't. are you hurt much?" "only sore, with the rope cutting me." "nay, but i mean when you fell down the shaft. did you hit yourself again' the sides?" "no. it was very horrible, though. one moment i was turning slowly round and round and the next i was losing all the light; the rope slipped from round me and i was going down, down into the darkness. it was as if it lasted ever so long. then there was a splash, the water was roaring in my ears, and i felt as if i were being dragged down lower and lower, till all at once my head shot up again. i never once felt as if i was coming up." "how queer!" exclaimed joe, who stood listening with his face all wrinkled over. "didn't you feel, when you'd got as low as you went, that you were going up again?" "no, not in the least. it was all confused like and strange, and i hardly knew anything till i was at the surface, and then i began to strike out, and swam along the sides of the slimy stones, trying to get a grip of them, but my hands kept slipping off." "but you didn't halloa!" said joe. "no," continued gwyn, still speaking in the same grave, subdued way, as if still suffering from the shock of all he had gone through. "i didn't shout; i felt stunned like, as if i'd been hit on the head." "you must have been," cried joe. "you hit yourself against the side." "no, if i had it would have killed me. i can't explain it. perhaps it was striking on the water." "nonsense; water's too soft to hurt you. but go on; what did you do then?" "i hardly know, only that i kept on striking out, thinking how horribly dark it must be and wondering whether there were any live things to come at me; and then i hit my knee against the stones at the bottom." "but you said it was deep." "so it was in the shaft, but i must have swum into a passage where it was quite shallow; and almost directly after i'd hit my knee my hands touched the stones and i crawled out into the dark, and went on and on, feeling afraid to go back because of the water." "but why didn't you shout to us?" cried joe, excitedly. "i don't know. i suppose i couldn't. it was like being in a dream, and i felt obliged to go crawling on. then all of a sudden i began to feel better, for i could see a faint light, and this made me try to stand up, but i couldn't without hitting my head. but i could walk stooping like, and i went on toward the pale light, which was almost like a star. directly after, i was there looking out of a square place like a window, trying to find a way up or a way down, but the rocks stood out overhead, and they were quite straight down below me, so i could do nothing but shout, and i began to think no one would come. every now and then i could hear voices, but when i called my voice seemed to float out to sea. there, you know the rest. but that's an adit, isn't it, sam hardock?" "ay, my lad, and lucky for you it was there. you see, the water must run off by it out to sea when the top rises so high. but i never knew there was an opening from seaward into the mine. being right up there, nobody could see it. why it must be 'underd and fifty feet above the shore." "it looked more," said gwyn, with a shudder. "there, i say, hadn't you better get home and change your things, my lad? you're pretty wet still. if you take my advice, you'll go off as fast as you can." "yes," said joe, "you'd better. but we haven't done much to examine the mine." "eh?" cried hardock, "i think we have. found out that there's an adit for getting rid of the water and the spoil. not bad for one day's work." chapter eight. the mine fever. "you'll have to tell them at home, ydoll," said joe as they reached the rough stone-wall which enclosed the colonel's estate. "what shall you say?" "oh, just what happened," replied gwyn; "but the job is how to begin. it's making the start." "pst! look out!" whispered joe. "here is your father." "good-morning, hardock," said the colonel, coming upon the group suddenly. "i hope you haven't been filling my boy's head with more stuff about mining. why, halloa, gwyn; how did you get in that state? where's your cap?" "down the mine-shaft, father," replied the lad; and he found no difficulty about beginning. in a few minutes the colonel knew all. "most reckless--most imprudent," he cried. "you ought to have known better, sir, than to lead these boys into such a terrible position; and how dare you, sir--how dare you begin examining my property without my permission!" "well you see, colonel," began hardock, "i thought--be doing you good, like, and as a neighbour--" "a neighbour, indeed! confounded insolence! be off, sir! how dare you! never you show yourself upon my land again. there, you, gwyn, come home at once and change your clothes; and as for you, jollivet, you give my compliments to your father and tell him i say he ought to give you a good thrashing, and if he feels too ill to do it, let him send you down to me, and i will. now, gwyn; right face. march!" the colonel led off his son, and hardock and joe stood looking at each other. "made him a bit waxy," said the miner; "but he'll come round to my way of thinking yet; and it strikes me that he'll be ordering me on to his land again, when he knows all. i say, young jollivet, mean to go down to him to be thrashed with the young colonel?" "oh, he wouldn't thrash me," said joe, quietly. "i know the colonel better than that. i feel all stretched and aching like. i wish he hadn't taken gwyn home, though." "i don't feel quite square myself, lad," said the mining captain; "but you see if the colonel don't go looking at the mine." hardock's prophecy was soon fulfilled, for that evening the colonel was rowing in his boat with his son, who had a mackerel line trailing astern, and when they came opposite to the great buttress the colonel lay on his oars, and let his boat rise and fall on the clear swell. "now, then; whereabouts is the mouth of the adit?" "i can't quite make it out from down here, father," replied gwyn. "yes i can; there it is, only it doesn't look like an opening, only a dark shadowy part of the cliff. no one could tell it was a passage in, without being up there." "quite right; they could not," said the colonel, thoughtfully. "and you were drawn up from there, and right over the top of the cliff?" "yes, father." "horribly dangerous, boy--hideous. there, your mother knows something about it, but she must never be shown how frightful a risk you ran. come, let's get back." gwyn only caught one fish that evening, and his father was very thoughtful and quiet when they returned. "here, gwyn," he said next morning; "come along with me, i want to have a look at the old pit-shaft, and the bit of cliff over which you were drawn." "yes, father," said gwyn, and he led the way over their own ground; but before they reached the dwarf mine wall, he was conscious of the fact that they were observed; for, at the turn of the lane, hardock's oilskin cap could be seen as if the man were watching there, and the next moment joe jollivet's straw hat was visible by his side. gwyn felt disposed to point out that they were not alone; but the next moment his father began talking about the slow progress made by the belt of pines he had planted between there and the house, so as to take off something of the barrenness of the place. "want of shelter, gwyn," he said; "the great winds from the west catch them too much. i'm afraid they will always be stunted. still, they would hide the mine buildings." "the mine buildings, father?" said the boy, looking at his father inquiringly. "yes; i mean if i were to be tempted into doing anything of the kind-- opening the mine again. seems a pity, if it does contain wealth, to let it lie there useless. money's money, my boy." "but you don't want money, father, do you?" said gwyn. the colonel stopped short, and faced round to gaze in his son's face before bursting into a merry fit of laughter. "have i said something very stupid, father?" "no, not stupid--only shown me how inexperienced you are in the matters of everyday life, gwyn. my dear boy, i never knew an officer on half-pay who did not want money." "but i thought you had enough." "enough, boy? someone among our clever writers once said that enough was always a little more than a man possessed." "but you will not begin mining, father?" "i don't know, my boy. let's have a look at the place. here have we been these ten years, and i know no more about this hole than i did when i came. i know it is an old mine-shaft half full of water, just like a dozen more about the district, and i should have gone on knowing no more about it if that man had not begun talking, and shown me, by the great interest he takes in the place, that he thinks it must be rich. be rather a nice thing to grow rich, my boy, and have plenty to start you well in the world." "but i don't want starting well in the world, father; it's nice enough as it is." "what, you idle, young dog! do you expect to pass all your life fishing, bathing, and bird's-nesting here?" "no, father; but--" "`no, father; but--' humph! here's the place, then. dear me, how very unsafe that stone-wall is. a strong man could push it down the shaft in half-an-hour." as he spoke the colonel strode up to the piled-up stones, and looked over into the fern-fringed pit. "ugh! horrible! pitch one of those stones down, boy." gwyn took a piece of the loose granite, raised it over his head with both hands, and threw it from him with force enough to make it strike the opposite side of the shaft, from which it rebounded, and then went on down, down, into the darkness for some moments before there was a dull splash, which came echoing out of the mouth, followed by a strange swishing as the water rose and fell against the sides. "horrible, indeed!" muttered the colonel. then aloud: "and you let them lower you down by a rope, it came undone, and you fell headlong into that water down below, rose, swam to the side and then crept along a horizontal passage to where it opened out on the sea yonder?" "yes, father," said the boy, recalling his sensations as his father spoke. "bless my heart!" exclaimed the colonel. "well, gwyn, you're a queer sort of boy. not very clever, and you give me a good deal of anxiety as to how you are going to turn out. but one thing is very evident--with all your faults, you are not a coward." "oh, yes, i am, father," said gwyn, shaking his head. "you don't know what a fright i was in." "fright! enough to frighten anybody. i've faced fire times enough, my boy, and had to gallop helter-skelter with a handful of brave fellows against a thousand or more enemies who were thirsting for our blood! but i dared not have gone down that pit hanging at the end of a rope. no, gwyn, my boy, you are no coward. there, show me now where you were drawn up." gwyn led the way to the foot of the granite ridge, fully expecting to hear his father say that he could not climb up there; but, to his surprise, the colonel mounted actively enough, and walked along the rugged top to where it ended in the great buttress, and there he stood at the very edge gazing down. "where were you, gwyn?" he said at last; and the boy pointed out the projection beneath which the adit opened out. "to be sure. yes, i couldn't quite make it out," said the colonel, coolly, as he turned away; but gwyn noticed that he took out his handkerchief to pass it over his forehead, and then wiped the insides of his hands as if they were damp. "let's go back by the road," said the colonel, after shading his eyes and taking a look round; "but i want to pass the mouth of the mine." upon reaching the latter, the colonel drew a hammer from his pocket, and after routing out a few grey pieces of stone from where they lay beneath the furze bushes, he cracked and chipped several, till one which looked red in the new cleavage, and was studded with little blackish-purple, glistening grains, took his fancy. "carry this home for me, gwyn," he said. "i wonder whether that piece ever came out of the mine?" "i think all that large sloping bank covered with bushes and brambles came out of the mine some time, father," said the boy. "it seems to have been all raised up round about the mouth there." "eh? you think so?" "yes, father; and as the pieces thrown out grew higher, they seem to have built up the mouth of the mine with big blocks to keep the stones from rolling in. i noticed that when i was being let down. the ferns have taken root in the joints. lower down, fifteen or twenty feet, the hole seems to have been cut through the solid rock." "humph! you kept your eyes open, then?" crossing the wall where the lane ran along by the side of the colonel's property, they turned homeward, and in a few minutes gwyn caught sight of joe jollivet's cap gliding in and out among the furze bushes, as he made his way in the direction of his own house, apparently not intending to be seen. but a few hundred yards farther along the lane there was some one who evidently did intend to be seen, in the shape of sam hardock, who rose from where he was sitting on a grey-lichened block, and touched his hat. "that's a nice specimen you've got there, master pendarve," he said, eyeing the block the boy carried. "it's a very heavy one, sam," replied gwyn; and his father strode on, but stopped short and turned back frowning, unable, in spite of his annoyance, to restrain his curiosity. "here, you hardock," he cried, tapping the block his son carried, with his cane. "what is it? what stone do you call that?" "quartz, sir," said the man, examining the piece, "and a very fine specimen." "eh? good for breaking up to repair the roads with, eh?" "no, sir; bad for that; soon go to powder. but it would be fine to crush and smelt." "eh? what for?" "what for, sir?" said the man with a laugh; "why, that bit o' stone's half tin. i dunno where you got it, o' course; but if it came from the spoil bank of that old mine, it just proves what i thought." "tin? are you sure?" "sure, sir? yes," said the man, laughing. "i ought to know tin when i see it. if it comes out of the old ydoll mine, you've only got to set men at work to go down and blast it out, sir, and in a very short time you'll be a rich man." "come along, gwyn," said the colonel, hastily; "it's time we got back. hang the fellow!" he muttered, "he has given me the mining fever, and badly, too, i fear." chapter nine. doctor joe. "oh, dear! oh, dear! what a life! what a state of misery to be in!" "shall i turn the pillow over, father?" said joe to major jollivet, who was lying on the couch drawn before the window, so that he could have a good view of the sea. "no," shouted the major, whose face was contracted by pain; and he shivered as he spoke although his forehead was covered with perspiration. "why do you want to worry me by turning the pillow?" "because it will be nice and cool on the other side." "get out. be off with you directly, sir. can't you see i'm shivering with cold? oh, dear: who would have jungle fever?" "i wouldn't father," said the boy; and in spite of the words just spoken, he softly thrust his arm under his father's neck, raised his head, and then turned and punched the pillow, smoothed it, and let the major's head down again. "how dah you, sir!" cried the sufferer, fiercely. "did i not tell you, sir, that i did not want it done? did i not order you to quit the room, sir? am i not your superior officer, sir? and you dared to disobey me, sir, because i am on the sick list. how dah you, sir! how dah you, sir! if you were in a regiment, sir, it would mean court-martial, sir, and--oh, dear me!" "that's cooler and more comfortable, father, isn't it?" said joe, calmly enough, and without seeming to pay the slightest attention to the fierce tirade of angry words directed against him. "yes," sighed the major, "that's cooler and more comfortable; but," he cried, turning angry again and beginning to draw out and point his great fierce moustache with his long thin fingers, "i will not have you disobey my orders, sir. you're as bad as your poor mother used to be-- taking command of the regiment, and dictating and disobeying me as if i were not fit to manage my own affairs. how dah you, sir, i say--how dah you!" joe leaned over his father in the most imperturbable way, screwed up his mouth as if he were whistling, and drew out the major's clean handkerchief from his breast-pocket, shook it, and then gently dabbed the moist forehead. "don't! leave off, sir!" roared the major. "how dah you, sir! i will not be treated in this way as if i were a helpless infant. joseph, you scoundrel, you shall leave home at once, and go to an army tutor. i will not have these mutinous ways in the house." joe smiled faintly, screwed up his lips a little more, turned the handkerchief, gave the forehead a light wipe over by way of a polish, and then lowered it. "want to blow your nose, dad?" he said. "no, sir, i do not want to blow my nose; and if i did i could blow it myself. oh, dear! oh, dear. this pain--this pain!" joe thrust the handkerchief back, and laid his palm on his father's forehead. "not quite so hot, dad," he said. "how dah you, sir! it's your rank mutinous obstinacy that makes you say so. take away that nasty hot paw." joe went to the mantelpiece, took a large square bottle of eau-de-cologne, removed the stopper, and once more drew out his father's pocket-handkerchief, moistened it with the scent, and softly applied it to the sufferer's forehead. "confound you!" cried the major. "will you leave me alone, sir, or am i to get up and fetch my cane to you?" "what do they make eau-de-cologne of, father?" said joe, coolly. "does it come from a spring like all those nasty mineral waters you take?" "it's insufferable!" panted the major. "time you had a drink, father," said joe, quietly. "it is not, sir. i take that medicine at eleven o'clock, military time. it wants quite half-an-hour to that yet. you want to be off to play with that idle young scoundrel of pendarve's, i suppose; but i wish you to stay here till it is eleven. do you hear that, sir? you disobey me if you dare." "five minutes past eleven now, dad," said joe, after a glance at the clock over the chimney-piece. "it's not, sir," cried the major, turning his head quickly to look for himself, and then wincing from pain. "that clock's wrong. it's a wretched cheap fraud, and never did keep time. fast! nearly an hour fast!" "said it was the best timekeeper in cornwall only yesterday," said joe to himself, as he went to a side table on which stood a couple of bottles, a glass, and water-jug. here the boy busied himself for a few moments, with his father frowning and watching him angrily, and looking, in spite of his pain-distorted countenance, pallid look and sunken cheeks, a fine, handsome, middle-aged man. the next minute joe was coming back with a tumbler in his hand, and stirring it with a little glass rod. "here you are, dad. shall i hoist you up while you tip it off?" "no, sir; i can sit up. how much quinine did you put in?" "usual dose, father." "ho! how much lemon juice?" "wineglass full, and filled up with spring water." major jollivet made an effort to sit up, but sank back again with a groan. joe might have smiled, but he did not. he could justly have said triumphantly: "there, i knew you could not manage it!" but he calmly drew a chair to the side of the couch, stood the glass within reach of his father's hand, and then went behind his head, forced his arm under the pillow, lowered his brow so that he could butt like a ram, and slowly and steadily raised the invalid's shoulders, keeping him upright till the draught had been taken and the glass set down. "bah! horrible! bitter as gall." "lower away!" said joe; and he drew softly back till the pillow was in its old place, and the major uttered a sigh of relief. "i say, dad, you're getting better," said joe, as he took away chair and glass after brushing his disordered hair from his forehead. "how dah you, sir!" cried the major, "when i'm in such a state of prostration!" joe laid his hand on the patient's forehead again, and nodded. "head's getting wet and cool, dad. you'll be right as a trivet again soon." "worse than your poor mother--worse than your poor mother. you haven't a bit of feeling, boy. it's abominable." joe took a sprayer, thrust it into the neck of the scent bottle, and blew an odorous vapour about the sufferer's head. "will you put that tomfool thing away, sir! you're never happy unless you're playing with it." "i say," cried joe, still without seeming to pay the slightest heed to his father's words--"what do you think, dad?" "think, sir? how can i think of anything but this wretched jungle fever. oh, my bones, my bones!" "colonel pendarve's going to open the old ydoll mine." "eh? what?" cried the major, turning his head sharply. "say that again." "captain hardock got talking to me and gwyn about it, and gwyn told his father." "told him what?" "sam hardock said he was sure that there was plenty of tin in it, and that it was a pity for it to be there, and when the colonel might make a fortune out of it." "and--and what did pendarve say?" cried the major, excitedly. "said it was all nonsense, i believe. then sam hardock took me--me and gwyn--to have a look, and ydoll went down." "look here, sir, i will not have you call gwyn pendarve by that idiotic nickname." "no, father. when he was half down the rope came undone, and he went down plash." "killed?" cried the major, excitedly. "oh, no, father, there was plenty of water, and he got out through a passage on to the cliffs, and sam and i had to pull him up again." "what mad recklessness!" "he wasn't hurt, father, only got very wet; and since then the colonel has been to have a look at the place and had a talk or two with sam hardock, and ydoll--" "what!" cried the major, fiercely. "gwyn thinks his father is going to have machinery down, and the mine pumped out." "madness! going to throw all his money away. he sha'n't do it. i won't have it. what does mrs pendarve say?" "gwyn says she doesn't like it at all." "i should think not, sir. it means ruin spelt with a big letter. why can't he be contented with his half-pay?" "i dunno, father. i suppose he feels as if he'd like more." "yes, and get less. you never knew me tempted by these wretched mining schemes, did you, sir?" "no, father." "the man's mad. got a bee in his bonnet. going to ruin his son's prospects in life. he sha'n't do it. how can he be so absurd! i'll go to him as soon as i can move." "feel a little easier, father?" said joe, going to the head of the couch, and pressing his hand upon his father's brow again. "yes, much easier, my boy," said the invalid, placing his hand upon his son's, and holding it down for a few moments. "feels cooler, doesn't it?" "ever so much, dad, and not so damp." "yes, i feel like a new man again. thank you, joe--thank you, my boy. haven't been fretful, have i?" "oh, just a little, father, of course. who could help it?" "i was afraid i had been, joe. but, as you say, who could help it? didn't say anything very cross to you, did i?" "oh, no, nothing to signify, dad. but, i say, i am glad you're better." "thank you, my boy, thank you," said the major, drawing his boy's hand down to his lips and kissing it. "just like your poor, dear mother, so calm and patient with me when i am suffering. joe, my boy, you will have to be a doctor." "i? oh, no, father. i must be a soldier, same as you've been, and gwyn is going to be." "but i meant a military surgeon," said the major. "wouldn't do, father. why, if i were to tell ydoll--i mean gwyn--that i was going to be a doctor, he would crow over me horribly, and i should never hear the end of it. he'd christen me jalap or rhubarb, or something of that sort." "ah, well, we shall see, and--who's that coming up to the door?" joe looked out from the window, and came back directly. "the colonel, dad. shall i go and let him in?" "yes, fetch him in, and stop here and give me a hint now and then if i get a little irritable. what you have told me makes me feel rather cross, and i shall have to give him a bit of my mind. i can't let him go and waste his money like that." joe hurried out to the front hall, and found that gwyn had accompanied his father, the former having been hidden by the shrubs as they came up to the door. chapter ten. finding an intruder. "well, old man; on the sick list?" began the colonel, shaking hands warmly with his friend. "what's the last bulletin?" "bad, bad," said the major, sharply. "just heard that a man i respected is going to make a fool of himself." "eh? what?" said the colonel, flushing. "who's been chattering about-- ahem! are you alluding to the mine on my property, major jollivet?" "no, sir," said the major, sitting up, "i was speaking about the hole by the cliff that was dug by a pack of greedy noodles who were not satisfied with their incomes, and i felt that i should not like to see an old friend of mine go shovelling his money down into it, and breaking his wife's heart." "then it was like your--ahem, ahem!" coughed the colonel, checking himself. "no, no; don't go away, boys," for gwyn was stealing out, followed by joe. "no, don't you boys go," cried the major; "it will be a lesson for you both." "father been very bad, joe?" said the colonel. "very bad, indeed, sir," said the boy. "silence, sir!" cried the major. "nothing of the sort. don't exaggerate, joe." "no, father." "he doesn't, dick. you've had a nasty touch this morning, or you wouldn't have spoken to me like that." "i couldn't help it, old man," said the major, warmly. "but surely you will never be so mad as to go pumping out that old place." "h'm! i don't know about mad. be useful to make a little money for the sake of the boy." "very bad to lose a great deal for the sake of the boy." "nothing venture, nothing win, dick. i'm beginning to think that it would be worth while to put some money in the venture, and i came up this morning to make you the first offer of joining in." "and throwing away my bit of money, too. no, sir, not if i know it. i'm not quite such an idiot as that." "you mean as i am," said the colonel, quietly. "i did not say so," retorted the major. "i should not dream of insulting an old friend by using such language." "no, but you would think it all the same," cried the colonel. "now, look here, jollivet; you and i have enough to live upon comfortably." "quite." "but there's nothing left to start these two young dogs well in life; now is there?" "well--er--rum--er--no; there is not much, pendarve, certainly." "that's what i have been thinking, and though the idle, reckless young dogs do not deserve it--do you hear, you two? i say you don't deserve it." "joe doesn't," said gwyn, with a mischievous grin at his companion. "no, not at all," said joe. "i'm nearly as bad as gwyn." "ah, you're a nice pair," said the colonel. "but we, as fathers, must, i suppose, give you both a good preparation for the army--eh, jollivet?" "yes, of course that must be done," said the major. "exactly! well, i've been thinking a great deal about it this last day or two, and i have quite come to the conclusion that i must do something." "well, do something," said the major, testily; "don't go and fling your money down a mine." "but there are mines and mines, jollivet, old fellow. if i were asked to join in some company to buy a mine or open a new one, i should of course hesitate; but in this case i have one of my own, one that is undoubtedly very ancient, and must have had a great deal of tin or copper or both in it." "no doubt, and it was all dug out and sold long enough ago. the old people had the oyster, and you've got the shell." "i don't know so much about that, sir," said the colonel, earnestly. "i brought home a piece of old ore that was dug out, and it's very rich in tin. there's plenty of room down below for there to be an enormous amount, and as the only outlay will be for machinery for pumping and raising the ore, i have made up my mind to start a company of the owners to work that mine." "and lose all your money." "i hope not. the mine is already sunk, and i believe when it is pumped dry we shall find that there are drifts with plenty of ore in them, waiting to be worked--plenty to pay well for the getting." "and if there turns out to be none at all?" "well, that's the very worst way of looking at it. if it turns out as bad as that, i shall have spent so many hundred pounds in new pumping machinery, and have it to sell for what it will fetch to some fresh company." "but you would only get half the value." "if i got half the value, i should be satisfied. then the loss would not be so very severe." "severe enough to make you repent it to the last day of your life," said the major, shortly. "i hope not. money is not worth so much repentance." "but you talk as if you really meant to do this, pendarve," said the major, warmly. "i do. i have quite made up my mind." gwyn looked at his father, with his eyes flashing with excitement. "my dear pendarve, i implore you not to do so for that boy's sake," cried the major. "it is for his sake i am going to venture upon what seems to me a very safe piece of business." "no, no; a wild-goose chase, sir." "mining is not so reckless as that, if carried out on business principles, my dear jollivet." "there, we shall never agree. but in the name of all that is sensible, why did you come to me?" "partly because you are my oldest friend, and one in whom i should confide any important business." "and partly," cried the major, warmly, "because you thought i should be weak enough to join you." "quite right, all but the question of weakness," said the colonel. "absurd! there, i am obliged to speak plainly; i could never dream of such a thing." "i don't want you to dream," said the colonel, smiling; "i want you to act--to join me; and upon this basis: i will find the mine, and half the money for the machinery, if you will find the other half." "it would be folly. look at the money we know to have been lost on mines." "yes, in companies, and over very doubtful affairs. in this case we have the proof of mining having been carried on. we have the mine, and we should not have to share profits with a number of shareholders." "nor losses neither," said the major, testily. "nor the losses neither," assented the colonel. "then we live on the spot and could oversee matters." "bah! what do we know about mines? i could manage a regiment, not a hole underground." "we could soon learn, my dear boy," said the colonel; "and it would be very interesting to have such an occupation. i have felt for years past that you and i have been wasting time. no occupation whatever, nothing to do but think about our ailments. it's rusting, jollivet--it's rusting out; and i'm sure that if we both worked hard, we should be healthier and better men." "humph! well, there is something in that. but, no, no, no, i'm not going to be tempted to spend money that ought some day to come to joe." "oh, i don't mind, father, if it's going to do you good," cried the boy, eagerly. "i should like for you to have a mine." "shall i have any money some day, father?" said gwyn. "i suppose so, my boy, what i leave when i die," said the colonel, frowning. "oh, then, i'll give it to go into the mine, father," cried gwyn; and the stern look passed off the colonel's face. he nodded, and looked pleased. "think of the anxiety that such a venture would bring," said the major. "i have thought of it, and also of the anxieties and worries which come to a man who has nothing to do. look here, jollivet, i firmly believe in this adventure, and i should very much like it if you would join me, for i feel that it would do you good, and that we should get on well together." "oh, yes, i've no doubt about that," said the major, "and if you really do make up your mind to venture, i don't say that i will not lend you some money if you need it." "thank you, i know that you would, jollivet; but i don't want to take it in that way. think it over for a few days, and see how you feel about it." "no, i can give you my answer now without any hesitation. it is quite out of the question, pendarve. even if it were a gold mine, i should say--" "don't decide rashly, old fellow," said the colonel. "a few days ago i should have answered you in the same way, if you had come and proposed the thing; but since i have thought it over, i have quite changed my mind. do the same, and let me hear how you have concluded to act at the end of a week." "but i tell you, my dear sir--" "yes; tell me at the end of a week," said the colonel, smiling. "what do you think of these fellows beginning to investigate the mine for themselves? there, gwyn, you need not stay for me if you want a run with joe: i'll walk home alone." "father is not well enough to be left," said joe. "yes, yes, my boy," cried the major; "i don't want to make a prisoner of you. go and have a run with gwyn, by all means." the boys required no second permission, but were off at once, their fathers hearing the beat of their feet on the road directly after. "where have they gone?" said the major, turning on his couch. "over to the mouth of the mine, for certain," said the colonel. he was quite right. there was no proposal made by either of the boys, but as soon as they were outside the gate, they started off together at a rapid trot, making straight for the colonel's land, springing over the stone-wall, and threading their way amongst stones and bushes, till they were compelled by the rough ground to go more slowly. "makes one want to see more of what it's like," said joe. "yes; i didn't know father was thinking about it so seriously. why, it'll be splendid, joe. i say; you'll have to go down the mine first this time." "yes, i suppose so, but not your way." "hist!" whispered gwyn, as they drew near. "what does that mean?" "what? i don't see anything." gwyn ducked down behind one of the great, grey weathered lumps of granite, and signed to his companion to follow his example. this was done on the instant, and then joe looked inquiringly in his face. "something wrong," whispered gwyn. "trespassers. got to know that father means to work the mine." gwyn raised his head slowly, so as to peer over the block of granite, and plainly made out a hand and arm working about at the side of the low protection wall of the old mine. "sam hardock," whispered joe, who had followed his example. "what's he doing? measuring the depth?" "'tisn't sam," whispered gwyn, "it's someone else--stranger, i think. then the mine must be valuable or he wouldn't be there. what shall we do?" "he has no business there. it's on your father's property, perhaps it'll be ours, too," whispered joe. "i say, ydoll, we're not going to stand that; let's go and collar him." "agreed!" said gwyn, excitedly. "we've right on our side. come on." chapter eleven. fighting the enemy. gwyn pendarve's "come on!" was loyally responded to by joe jollivet, and the two lads made a hurried charge down the slope at the interloper so busy about the old mine-shaft. now, if you take two dogs out for a walk in the country, unless they are particularly well-behaved, spiritless animals, as soon as they see sheep, cow, or bullock grazing, they will make a furious dash, and if the grazing creature runs, they will have a most enjoyable hunt. but if the quarry stands fast and makes a show of attacking in turn, the probabilities are that the dogs will slacken speed, stop short a few yards away, give vent to their opinions upon the unnatural behaviour of the animal in barks, lower their triumphantly waving tails, and come back at a gentle trot, stopping at times, though, to turn their heads and make a few more remarks in dog language. truth to tell, when gwyn and joe made their charge, they fully expected to see the man leaning over the old wall start off and run; but, as it happened, he did not, but stood up, turned, and faced them, looking a big, sour-faced, truculent fellow, who scowled at them and stood his ground. whatever their inclinations might have been for the moment, not being dogs, and each having his prestige to keep up in his companion's eyes, gwyn and joe certainly stopped; but they did not turn, but stood firm, noting that the man had a large reel of sea-fishing line evidently of goodly length. "hullo!" he said, hoarsely. "what's for you?" "what are you doing here?" cried gwyn. "what's that to you?" "everything. do you know you are trespassing?" "no. am i?" "yes, of course." "thank ye for telling me. good-morning." gwyn stared, and then looked at joe. for, instead of going at once, the man turned his back and drew upon his line, whose end--evidently weighted--was hanging down the shaft; but instead of continuing to draw it out, he let it run down again rapidly from a reel. "here, stop that," cried gwyn. "what are you doing?" the man turned upon them, scowling. "hullo!" he said; "aren't you gone? what are you waiting for?" "to know what you're doing on our property." "your property!" said the man, scornfully. "can't you see what i'm doing? fishing." "fishing?" cried joe, who felt staggered, and began wondering whether there might be any underground communication with the sea, through which some of the huge eels of the rocky cove might have made their way. "yes, fishing," growled the man. "don't make that row, because i've got one at me. be off!" "nonsense!" cried gwyn, sharply. "there are no fish there." "how do you know, youngster?" said the man. "ever tried?" "no," replied gwyn; "but i do know that there are no fish in a hole like that." "ho! you're precious cunning. but never you mind, my young sharpshooter. you be off while your shoes are good." "how dare you order me to go!" cried gwyn, flushing. "i told you this was my father's property." "no, you didn't," said the man, after giving a glance round. "you said it was yours. consequently you must be a liar, for you tells two tales. now be off, and don't bother me." joe looked inquiringly at gwyn, and the silent question meant, "hadn't we better go and fetch your father?" but gwyn felt upon his mettle, and he cried angrily,-- "no, it's you who'll have to be off. you're on private grounds, and it's all nonsense about fishing. i know what you are about." "oh, do you?" said the man, sneeringly, as he looked sidewise at the lad, but went on busily all the same with his long line. "well, what am i about, young clever shaver, if i'm not fishing?" "you're trespassing, as i told you; and whoever you are, you've no right to be doing that." "anybody's got a right to fish." "yes, in the sea, but not on private grounds; so now be off at once." "and suppose i say i won't," said the man, menacingly. "but you won't now you're told. be off, please, at once; we can't have you doing that." "why, you're never going to interfere with a stranger who's trying to ketch a few podnoddles," said the man, grinning. "no, but i will with a stranger who has come spying and measuring that mine; so be off at once, and no more nonsense." "let's fetch the colonel," whispered joe. "yah! go and fetch your grandmother," snarled the man. "look here, both of you, i didn't interfere with you; don't you come interfering with me, my lads, because i'm one of the sort who turns ugly when he's meddled with." gwyn hesitated for a few moments, and then stepped close up, clapped his hand on the man's shoulder, and pointed toward the wall. "come!" he cried; "that's the way, and don't you come here again." the man turned upon him with a wild-beast-like snarl. "do you want me to pitch you down that hole?" he cried. "no, and you daren't do it," cried gwyn, whose temper rose at this. "now, then, will you go?" for answer the man swung round fiercely, bringing his right arm across gwyn's chest and sending him staggering back for a yard or two. "come on, gwyn, let's fetch the colonel." gwyn's blood was up. he felt not the slightest inclination to run for help, but, big as the man was, he sprang forward with such energy that, in his surprise, the fellow gave way for the moment, and gwyn seized the opportunity to make a snatch at the great reel he held, wrenched it from his hand, and threw it to joe, who caught it as cleverly as if it had been a cricket ball. "run round the other side, joe, and drag it out. run off with it. never mind me." joe obeyed on the instant, and, making for the other side, he dashed off up the side of the gully, dragging the line after him, and was some yards away before the man recovered from his surprise. "oh, that's your game, is it?" he cried savagely. "i'll 'tend to you directly, my lad," and he made to pass gwyn, who tried to stop him, but received a thrust which sent him backward on the heath, while the man started to follow joe. but gwyn's life on the rocky coast had made him as active as a cat, and as the fellow was passing he thrust out one leg, tripped him, and his adversary went down with a crash, while, before he could rise, gwyn was upon him trying to hold him down. the boy was strong for his years, and, gripping his adversary by the collar with both hands, he drove his knees into the man's ribs, and held on. for some moments the advantage of position was on his side, but it was like trying to ride a mad bull. for the man heaved and twisted, and gwyn had hard work to maintain his place as long as he did. this was till the man gave a tremendous writhe, sending his rider over sidewise, and then dashing after joe, who was running as hard as he could go, trailing the line after him. joe had a good start, and the advantage of being light and accustomed to make his way among the heath and stones; but he soon found that the weight at the end of the line kept on catching in the rough growth; and as he tore on, he saw that the fierce-looking fellow was in full pursuit. if he had dropped the line, he could easily have got away, but gwyn had thrown that reel to him, and told him to run with it; and setting his teeth he ran on, jerking the weight free again and again, till all at once in one of the bounds it made after a heavy drag, it struck against a small post-like piece of granite which stuck up out of the ground, swung round and clasped it, as the bolas of a south-american indian twine round the legs of a running animal, and the sudden jerk threw the boy down. he was up again directly, and turned to run and untwist the line, but it was only to rush into the man's arms, and be thrown, when with a foot upon his chest the fellow began to try and tear the line from his hands. but joe's blood was up now, and he held on with all his might, turning himself over so as to get the reel beneath his chest. "gwyn! gwyn! help!" he shouted. "all right!" came from behind him, and his comrade, who had been in pursuit, pitched heavily on to the man's back, when a trio in struggling commenced, the boys holding on with stubborn determination, and their enemy beginning to strike out savagely with fist and elbow. it was only a question of minutes, and then the boys would have been completely mastered. in fact, it had reached the pitch when the man had them both at his mercy and was kneeling between them, holding each by the throat, and forcing them back on the heather, when there was a loud whistle, the sound of a heavy blow, and the fellow uttered a savage yell as he sprang up and turned upon a fresh adversary. but _whish! crash_! the sounds were repeated, followed by a savage shout, and the man beat a retreat. for colonel pendarve had come panting up at the sight of the struggle, and, bringing to bear his old cavalry officer's skill, delivered three slashing sabre cuts with his heavy cane, the first from the right, the second from the left shoulder, putting the enemy thoroughly to rout. for the man left the trophies of the fight in the boys' hands, made for the road, and disappeared over the wall. chapter twelve. the major has strange symptoms. "whatever is the meaning of all this?" panted the colonel, as major jollivet came up more slowly, looking weak and pale, but urged on by his excitement, to their side. gwyn blurted out something incoherent, for he was too much exhausted to speak plainly, and stared confusedly at his father. "what?" cried the latter; "i can't understand you. here, joe jollivet, what have you to say?" "blurr--blurr--bline!" babbled joe. "splendid cuts, pendarve. the grand old form," panted major jollivet. "you--you--you--sent--sent--the blood--der--der--dancing through--in--my veins." "yes, i flatter myself, he had them home," said the colonel, smiling with satisfaction. "regular old pursuing practice. lucky for him it was not the steel. but what is it all about? who is the fellow? was he trying to rob you?" "no--you, father," stuttered gwyn. "c-caught him--mum--measuring the mine. took away--his line." "what? you boys did?" joe nodded, still too breathless to speak, and not feeling disposed to utter incoherent sounds again. "yes--father--joe's got it." "ha! ha! ha!" laughed the colonel. "it seems to me that you've both got it. do you know that your nose is bleeding, sir?" gwyn gave that organ the aboriginal wipe, drawing the back of his hand across his face, looked at it and saw that it was covered with blood. "no--didn't know, father," he said, taking out his handkerchief now. "yes, it does bleed." "bleed, yes! why, you have had a regular fight, then?" "running fight, seemingly," said the major, grimly. "tut--tut--tut! what a disreputable pair of young blackguards they look." "never mind," said the colonel, suavely. "they did quite right to attack the enemy, even if he was in greater force. but i don't quite understand it, gwyn. did he say he was measuring the mine?" "no, father; but we saw him doing it." "but how could he know anything about it? the man was a stranger to me." "i never saw him before, father?" "humph!" ejaculated the colonel, turning to the major, "i'm glad i brought you out to have a look. pretty good proof that someone believes the old mine to be valuable, eh?" "yes, or a trick to make it seem so." "pooh! impossible! it might be if someone wanted to sell the mine; but it is not for sale, and not likely to be. so you found him measuring-- sounding, i suppose you mean?" "yes, sir," said joe. "here's the line, and it seems to have knots in it to show the depth." for the boy was busily reeling up the loose cord, and walking back toward where the leaden weight had twined it round the piece of granite. joe set this free, and it proved to be a regular fishing sinker. "but what did the fellow say to give you an excuse for attacking him as you did?" "said he was fishing, father," replied gwyn; "but that was only his insolence." "might have been stupid enough to think he could fish there," said the major. "no; he meant to find out something about the place. it is being talked about the--" "yes, a good deal," said the major, significantly. "well, as you have brought me here to see it, you may as well show me the hole." by this time the line was all wound up, and the colonel led the way back to the mine, where, just as they reached the rough stone-wall, gwyn ran forward and picked up a common memorandum book, which had fallen, to lie half-hidden amongst the heath. a roughly pointed lead pencil was between the leaves, which opened to show that the owner had been making notes; but that he was not accustomed to the work was evident from the spelling, the first entry reading as follows:-- "_dounter warter fathom_." the second,-- "_dounter botm fathom an narf_." the third entry was,-- "_lot warter in thole as mus be pumpt out_." then came a series of hieroglyphics which puzzled gwyn; and, after a long trial, he handed the book to his father, who looked at it for some time, and then shook his head, as he passed it to the major. "i'm not scholar enough for this, jollivet," he said. "will you have a try?" "no; i haven't brought my glasses. here, joe, what does this say?" joe, who had been all eagerness to begin, caught at the book, and tried to decipher the roughly-written words, but got on no better than the rest. "let me try again," cried gwyn. "no, no; i haven't done yet," said joe; "but it looks all rubbish. no one can make this out." "spell it over," said his father, and the boy began. "h-o-r-s-i-m-s-p-o-o-t-e-t-y-de-b-i-t-h-e-t-o-p-e." "what does that spell? it's all one word." "read it again," said gwyn, excitedly; and joe repeated the letters. "i know. can't you see?" cried gwyn, laughing. joe shook his head, and the two old officers looked nonplussed. "what is it, gwyn?" said his father. "speak out, if you know." "ore seems pretty tidy by the top." "no; nonsense!" cried the colonel. "it is, father," said gwyn. "you read it over again, joe." the letters were once more repeated, and the major exclaimed,-- "that's it, sure enough." "then there must be something in it," cried colonel pendarve. "the place is being talked about, and this fellow, who is evidently experienced in such matters, has been sent on to act as a spy. but how does he know about the depth?" "line's all knotted in six-feet lengths, sir," said joe. "then i'm much obliged to him for taking the measures; but let's try for ourselves. you would like to see the depth tried, jollivet." "i? no, certainly not. why should i?" cried the major, testily. "because i presume you will take some interest in seeing me succeed if i go on with the venture." "oh! well, yes, of course. going to try now?" "i am," replied the colonel. "will you boys let down the leaden sinker? be careful, mind. will you hold the reel, joe? and then gwyn can count the knots as the line runs down." "all right, sir," cried joe; and the major took his place by the wall to look on while, after stationing themselves, gwyn counted three knots, so as to get a little loose line, then took tight hold and pitched the lead from him, letting the stout cord run between his finger and thumb, and counting aloud as it went down, stopping at thirty by tightening his grasp on the line. "he's wrong, father; thirty fathoms, and there's no water yet." "try a little lower, boy." the line began to run again, and there was a faint plash before half of another fathom had been reeled off. "not so very far out," said the major, as gwyn went on counting and the reel turned steadily on, joe turning one finger into a brake, and checking the spool so that it would not give out the line too fast. on went the counting, the words coming mechanically from gwyn's lips as he thought all the while about his terrible fall, and wondered how deep down he had gone beneath the black water. "forty-seven--forty-eight--forty-nine--fifty," counted gwyn. "bottom?" cried the colonel. "no, father; he must have let it catch on some ledge or piece that stuck out. look, the lead's going steadily on. he said forty-nine: i've counted fifty, and there it goes--fifty-one--fifty-two," and to the surprise of all, the line ran out till another twenty fathoms had passed off the reel. "seventy fathoms, father. that's bottom," said gwyn, hauling up and letting the line run again with the same result. "hah, yes," said the colonel; "and that means so many thousand gallons more water to be pumped out. but try again. jerk the lead, and let it shoot down. perhaps you have not quite sounded the bottom yet." gwyn obeyed, and the result was again the same. "seventy fathoms. well, that is not deep compared to some of the mines; but it proves that there must have been profitable work going on for the people, whoever they were, to have gone on cutting through the hard stone. a tremendous task, jollivet." "hang it, yes, i suppose so. well, there is nothing more to be done or seen, is there?" "not at present. only to reel up the line our visitor has been so obliging as to lend us." "wind away, joe," cried gwyn; "and i'll let the string pass through my fingers, so as to wring off some of the water." the boys began to gather in the sounding-cord, and the major stood peering down over the wall into the black depths and poking at a loose stone on the top of the wall with his cane. "seems rather childish," he said suddenly; "but should you mind, pendarve, if i dislodged this stone and let it fall down the shaft?" "mind? certainly not. go on. here, shall i do it?" "no. i should prefer doing it myself," said the major; and standing his cane against the wall, he took hold of the stone and stood it upon the edge. "stop!" cried the colonel as he noted that the under part of the stone glistened, as granite will. "what's the matter?" "that piece of stone," said the colonel, excitedly. "why, man, look; it is rich in tin ore." "that blackish-purple glittering stuff?" "yes; those are tin grains. but there, it does not matter. throw it in. we can have it sent up again when the mine is pumped out. in with it." the major raised the stone with both hands face high and threw it from him, while all watched him, and then stood waiting for the heavy hollow-sounding splash which followed, with the lapping of the water against the sides. "it is strange," said the major, "what a peculiar fascination a place like this exercises over me, pendarve. i feel just as if i could leap down into--" as he spoke, he leaned over the low wall as if drawn toward the place, and his son turned ghastly white and uttered a faint cry. chapter thirteen. the compact sealed. "no, no, my boy, don't be alarmed," said the major, turning to smile at his son. "it is only that i am a little nervous and impressionable from my illness. but it is strange how a depth attracts, and how necessary it is for boys to be careful and master themselves when tempted to do things that are risky. upon my word, i marvel at the daring of you fellows in running such a risk as you did the other day." "it was not joe, sir," interposed gwyn. "i went down." "but i'll be bound to say my boy was ready to offer." the pair of actors in the trouble glanced at each other, and joe's cheeks grew red again. "take my advice," said the major, "as boy or man never do anything risky unless it is for some good reason. one has no right to go into danger unless it is as an act of duty." "quite right," said the colonel; "that's what i tell gwyn; but boys have such terribly short memories. there, we may as well go back; but you had better wash your face at the first pool, gwyn. you look horrible. i can't have you go home in that condition." "no; he would frighten mrs pendarve out of her senses," said the major. "well, i've seen the wonderful mine, and it looks just like what it is: a big square hole, with plenty of room to throw down money enough to ruin the queen. but you were right, pendarve: the fresh air and the exertion have done me good. i must go back, though, now; the fever makes me weak." that evening the colonel had a long talk with his son, for he had come to the conclusion that they had not heard the end of the man's visit to the mine. "it seems to me, gwyn," he said, "that something must have been known about the place and caused this amateurish kind of inspection." "i've been thinking so, too, father," said gwyn. "sam hardock must have been talking about it to different people, and praised it so that someone wants to begin mining." they had come to the right conclusion, for the very next day a dog-cart was driven to the cove, stopped at the colonel's gate, and a little fussy-looking gentleman, with sharp eyes, a snub nose, and grey hair, which seemed to have a habit of standing out in pointed tufts, came up to the door, knocked, and sent in his card. "mr lester dix, solicitor, plymouth," said the colonel, reading the card, as he and gwyn were busy over a work on military manoeuvres. "i don't know any mr dix. show him in." "shall i go, father?" "no, i think not, my boy. i don't suppose it is anything important, unless it is someone come to claim damages for the assault you committed on the man at the mine, and for confiscating the reel and line." "oh, it would not be that, would it, father?" cried gwyn, anxiously. "and besides--" "he began it, eh? well, we shall see. you had better stay." the visitor was shown it, and entered with so smiling a countenance that at first gwyn felt better; but a suspicion came over him directly after that the smile might mean a masking of the real attack. for gwyn's education was growing decidedly military, his father devoting a great deal of time to reading works on fortification and army matters. but he was soon set at rest, for, after a few preliminary words of apology for the call, with some remarks on the fineness of the morning, and the pleasant drive over from the station, the visitor plunged at once into the object of his visit. "the fact is, colonel pendarve, my professional business lies a great deal with mining companies, and one of those for whom i act have been for some time looking out for a spot here on the west coast, where they could exploit, so to speak, the land, and try with the newer machinery some of the old neglected workings. now, i am instructed that you have on your estate one of these disused mines, and my company, for whom i act, are willing to run the risk of trying if anything can be made of it with the modern appliances. you see i am quite frank with you, sir. in other words, they are desirous of becoming the purchasers of your little estate here at a good advance upon the sum for which you purchased it." "indeed?" said the colonel, smiling. "yes, sir; and i will not conceal from you the fact that they will be quite willing to agree to what would really be a most advantageous thing for you." "then the old mine must be very valuable," said gwyn, excitedly. "eh?" ejaculated the visitor, turning his eyes sharply upon the boy. "oh dear me, no, my dear young friend. that does not follow. it might turn out to be, of course; but mining is a terribly speculative, risky business, and the probabilities are that this mine--let me see, ydoll, i think, is the old name, and eh, young gentleman, not badly named? been lying idle for a very long time, i suppose? eh? you'll excuse the joke. we may lose very heavily in this one, while we gain on others. but, of course, colonel pendarve, that is not my affair. my instructions, to be brief, are to ascertain whether you will sell, and, if you will take a reasonable price, to close with you at once." "i wish father would ask him how he knows about the mine," thought gwyn. "may i ask how you became aware of the existence of this place, sir?" asked the colonel. "maps and plans, sir. i have pretty well every property marked out all through the country; picturesque and geological features all set down. quite a study, young gentleman. you have a nice place here colonel pendarve, but you must find it bleak, and i think i may venture to say this is an opportunity for parting with it most profitably." "i suppose so, sir," said the colonel, "for your clients would not be, i presume, particular about a few hundreds to obtain possession?" "well," replied the lawyer, smiling, "without committing myself, i think i may say that your wishes within reason would be met, sir, upon pecuniary points." "well that sounds satisfactory," said the colonel, "but i have grown attached to the place, and so has my son." "oh, yes, father," said gwyn, eagerly. "i don't want to go." "plenty of more beautiful places to be had, my dear sir," said the lawyer, "by the man who has money." "i have improved the house, too, a great deal lately." "so i should suppose, sir," said the lawyer; "but we should consider all that in the purchase money." "and i have made my little garden one of the most productive in the county." "all of which we will take into consideration, my dear sir. now, not to take up your time, what do you say? i have a plan in my pocket of the estate, and i am quite prepared to come to terms at once." "but is not this very sudden?" said the colonel, smiling. "well, perhaps so, my dear sir; but i always advise the companies who intrust me with their affairs to be business-like and prompt. let us have none of the law's delays, my dear sir, i say. it means waste of time; and as time is money, it is a waste of hard cash. now, sir, you, as a military man, know the value of decision." "i hope so," said the colonel, who looked amused. "well, in plain english, sir, will you sell?" "in plain english, mr dix," said the colonel, promptly, "`no.'" "take time, my dear sir, take time," said the lawyer. "don't, let me implore you, throw away a good chance. name your terms." "i have no terms to propose, sir. i like my house here, and i shall not part with it at any price.--yes, dolly? what is it?" for the maid had tapped and entered, looking very round-eyed and surprised. "another gentleman to see you, sir." "indeed? you will not mind, mr dix?" "oh, by no means, my dear sir. but one moment, please. why not close with my proposal? come, my dear sir, to be plain, i will take the place at your own terms." "you will not take the place at any terms, sir," said the colonel, decisively. "dolly, show the other gentleman in. but did he give you his card?" "no, sir; said he'd like to speak to you himself." "show him in, then." "hah!" ejaculated the lawyer; "but you will alter your mind, colonel pendarve?" "i hope not." "but if you do, you will give me the first offer?" "i will make no promises, sir," replied the colonel. at that moment a reddish-haired, sour-looking man was shown in, and he nodded shortly to the lawyer. "you here?" he said. "yes, my dear brownson, i am here. business, my dear sir, business. you really do not mean to say that you have come on the same mission as i." "i beg pardon, colonel pendarve," said the fresh visitor. "i was not aware that mr dix here proposed visiting you. can i have the pleasure of a few words on business of great importance?" "certainly," said the colonel, who now looked very much amused; "but may i ask if it is concerning the purchase of the mine?" "to be frank, sir, yes, it is. on the behalf of a client, but--but you don't mean that i am too late?" there was a look of misery in the newcomer's face that was comical, and before the colonel could speak, he went on:-- "don't be rash, sir, pray don't be rash. you cannot have closed yet, and i am here prepared, not merely to negotiate, but to come to the most advantageous terms for you." mr dix chuckled, rubbed his hands, and gave the newcomer a look which seemed to sting him to the core. "i need hardly say, gentlemen," said the colonel, "that this visit has taken me quite by surprise. i did not expect these sudden offers from what seem to me to be rival companies." "hardly rival companies, sir; but i must say that mr dix has taken a very unfair advantage of me, after we had agreed to a truce." "yes, one which i knew you would break, brownson," said dix; "and so i came on first. now, colonel pendarve you will come to terms with me." "no, sir," said the colonel, fiercely, "nor with your friend here. my mind is quite made up. i do not know to which party the visit of a spy is due, but you may take these words as final; i shall certainly not sell this little estate to either of you, nor," he added, after a pause, "to anyone else. what, another?" he cried, as dolly re-appeared at the door. "no, sir, it's only major jollivet, sir. but he says, if you're engaged, he'll call again." "show him in," cried the colonel. "ah, there he goes. call him back, gwyn." the boy flew to the window, and, in answer to his call, the major came back, and entered. "oh, i didn't wish to interrupt you, pendarve, but i wanted to have a few words with you on business. eh? yes. very much better. i shall be all right for a few months now." "let me introduce you," said the colonel. "this is mr dix, solicitor, of plymouth, and mr brownson, also a solicitor, i presume, of the same town. my old friend and brother officer, major jollivet." bows were exchanged, and the visitors scowled at each other. "jollivet, these two gentlemen, who represent different companies as clients, have come over to make me a very advantageous offer for this little estate." "indeed!" said the major, starting. "what for?" "they wish to reopen the mine, and are ready to give me my own price." "certainly," said mr dix. "yes, certainly," said mr brownson, "with, gentlemen, the addition of a royalty on our part on all the metal smelted. come, dix, that's trumps." "yes, sir, but this is the ace. colonel pendarve, i will guarantee you double the royalty mr brownson offers," said dix. "come, that's business, gentlemen," said the colonel, smiling, while gwyn's face was scarlet with excitement. "now, jollivet, as the man whom i always consult on business matters, and irrespective of anything i may have said to these gentlemen, what would you advise me to do?" "ah," exclaimed mr dix, rubbing his hands, "what would you advise him to do, general?" "major, sir, major," said the old officer, shortly. "yes, major jollivet," said mr brownson, "what would you advise him to do? surely to take our fair and liberal offer. we are very old established, and shall carry that old mine to a triumphant success. what would you advise?" "oh, major jollivet, don't advise him to sell," whispered gwyn. "silence, sir! how dah you interfere!" cried the major. "pendarve, if this boy speaks again, send him away." "oh, he will not hurt," said the colonel. "now, what do you say?" "ahem!" coughed the major, and then he took out an india bandanna silk handkerchief, and blew his nose with a blast like that of a trumpet heralding a charge. "i say, gentlemen, that my old friend, colonel pendarve, and i, are very much obliged to you for your offer, which is one that we refuse without the smallest hesitation." "i will increase my offer, gentlemen; i did not know that colonel pendarve had a partner," said mr dix. "i will double mine, gentlemen," cried brownson. "gwyn," said the colonel. "never mind the licence; you had better jump on the table and play auctioneer." "by all means," cried dix, "and knock it down to the highest bidder." "no!" roared the major. "keep your place, boy. out of the question. the mine is not for sale. colonel pendarve and i are going to carry it on ourselves." "what!" cried the two lawyers in a breath. "jollivet and pendarve of the ydoll mine," cried the colonel, excitedly. "that's it, the other way on," said the major. "your own proposal; do you hold to it? i came to ask you if you would, before i knew these people were here. now, then, what do you say?" "jollivet and pendarve." "pendarve and jollivet, or i won't play," cried the major. "as you wish," said the colonel, "there's my hand and seal." "and mine," cried the major, seizing the hand extended to him. "don't, don't say that, gentlemen," cried dix, wildly, "it may mean ruin to you both." "and destruction," cried brownson. "very well," said the major. "we're old soldiers, we'll face all as we've often faced death. pen, old man, for the sake of the boys." "for the sake of the boys," cried the colonel. and the next minute the two mining companies' agents were bowed out, while gwyn leaped on a chair to shout "hurrah!" just as the french window was darkened, and a voice cried,-- "is father here?" joe was not long before he heard the news. chapter fourteen. a suspicion of evil. the result of the morning's work was that sam hardock received a message from the colonel, delivered by gwyn, and the man rubbed his hands gleefully. "i thought he couldn't refuse such a chance," cried hardock. "it's a big fortune for him." "i hope so," said gwyn. "but how came those people at plymouth to hear about it?" "i dunno, sir. but they got hold of the gashly news somehow." "you did not send them word, of course?" "me? not i, sir." "but how could that man have heard of it, and come over to sound the mine and examine the place?" "what man?" cried hardock, anxiously. gwyn explained, and, in answer to questions, the lad gave a pretty good description of his awkward adversary. hardock struck his fist upon the table. "that's the chap! i often wondered who he was. been hanging about here these two months past." "then you did tell him." "me, master gwyn? not a bit of it. i'm too close." "then you must have talked about it to other people, and he picked up what you said. but there, come along. he will not get it now." "he must have been sent by someone out plymouth way, that's for certain, sir. but come along. i want to hear what the colonel has to say." "and the major, too." "why, he's not in it, sir, is he?" "of course. he will be my father's partner." hardock whistled, and was very silent all the way up to the house by ydoll cove. he was talkative enough, though, when he came away, but in a very mysterious fashion. "it's all right, mr gwyn," he whispered. "going to be a very big thing. i mustn't talk about it; but you're like one of us, and i may tell you. i'm off to truro this afternoon to talk to an old friend of mine--engineer, and a very big man on working mines. he'll advise on the best kind of pump to have." the engineer came, examined the shaft, gave his opinions, and in a week's time masons were at work setting up an engine-house, ready for the steam machinery that was to come round by ship from liverpool; and in a short time the wild slope at the top of the great cliffs was invaded by quite a colony of workmen. the masons' hammers were constantly chipping as they laboriously went on building and raising a platform above the mouth of the shaft, while, whenever a few rich pieces of ore, after possibly lying there many hundred years, were turned up, they were solemnly conveyed to the two old officers for examination. here the two boys were soon in their element, and began working away with a great deal of enthusiasm in a small, corrugated iron shed which had been erected in the garden, and dignified by the name of laboratory. for, to the boys' great delight, a model furnace had been made, with bellows, and a supply of charcoal was always ready. there was a great cast-iron mortar fitted on a concrete stand, crucibles of various sizes, and the place looked quite ship-shape. both the old officers worked hard at assaying the ore brought from about the mouth of the pit, dug no one knew when, and though they spent a good deal of time, they were very soon superseded by gwyn and joe. hardock gave them a little instruction; everything about the work was interesting and fresh; and in a few weeks they were able to roughly declare how much pure metal could be obtained from a ton of the quartz which they broke up in the great mortar, powdering, and washing and drying, and then smelting in one of the plumbago crucibles of the laboratory. "there's no telling yet what we may find in that mine, joe," said gwyn; "only we don't know enough chemistry to find out." "it's metallurgy, father says," said joe, correcting him. "never mind; it's chemistry all the same; and we must read more about it, and try experiments. why, we might get gold and silver." "what, out of a tin mine?" said joe, derisively. "well, why not? i don't know about the gold, but we may, perhaps. sam hardock said there were some specks in one bit of quartz he brought up." "but we shouldn't want specks; we should want lumps." "there's sure to be silver." "why?" said joe. "because there's lead, and i was reading with father about how much silver you can get by purifying the lead. it's going to be a wonderful business." "hope so," said joe; "but they're a precious long while getting the machinery together, and my father says the cost is awful." "can't get a great pump in a mine ready to work like you can one in a back kitchen," said gwyn. "see what an awkward job it is fitting the platforms for the tubing. i think they're doing wonders, seeing what a lot there is to get ready. sam says, though, that he believes they'll begin pumping next month." but next month came round, and they did not begin pumping, for the simple reason that the machinery was not ready. still it was in fair progress, and an arrangement was fixed so that, when the beam began to rise and fall, the water would be sent gushing into the adit by which gwyn had made his escape on that adventurous day; and as this little gully had a gentle slope towards the sea, the water would be easily got rid of by its own natural flow. the boys were at the mouth of the shaft on one particular day, and as the news had been spread that the first steps for drying the mine were to be taken, half the people from the little village had sauntered up, many of them being fisherfolk, and plenty of solemn conversation went on, more than one weather-beaten old sage giving it as his opinion that no good would come of it, for there was something wicked and queer about this old mine, and they all opined that it ought not to have been touched. gwyn noticed the head-shakings, and nudged joe. "talking about the goblins in the mine," he answered. "i say, if there are any, they'll come rushing up the big tube like the tadpoles did in the garden pump when it was first made." just then joe caught hold of his companion's arm, and pinched it. "hullo!" cried gwyn. "hush! don't talk--don't look till i tell you which way. i've just seen him." "seen whom?" said gwyn, wonderingly. "that big chap who was measuring the pit. he's over yonder with about a dozen more men. what does it mean?" "mischief," said gwyn, huskily. "quick! let's go and warn my father." "what about? he may only have come up to see." "i don't know," said gwyn, excitedly. "someone who wanted to get the mine must have sent them up first of all, and, as they couldn't get it, i'm afraid they've turned spiteful, and may try to do us harm. what would they do, do you think?" "try and damage the machinery, perhaps," said joe. "yes, that's it. we must warn father, and keep an eye on those fellows, or there's no knowing what they may do. where are they now?" "can't see them," said joe, after a glance round. "they must have gone." "yes, but where? not to the engine-house, surely. why, they might upset the whole thing, and do no end of mischief if they liked. come on, and let's make sure that they are not there, and then tell sam hardock to keep watch." joe had another look round the now thoroughly transformed place, with its engine-house, sheds, and scaffold and wheel over the built-up shaft, but he saw nothing, and said so. still gwyn was not satisfied, for a peculiar feeling of dread oppressed him. "it isn't easy to see for the people and the buildings--ah, there's father; let's go and tell him what we think." it was quite time: for the hero of the measuring and another sour-looking fellow were making their way round to where the two boilers were beginning to be charged with steam, and what was worse for all concerned, no one paid any heed to their movements, which were furtive and strange, suggesting that they had not come for the purpose of doing good, while their opportunities for doing a serious ill were ample; but gwyn had just grasped that fact. chapter fifteen. in the engine-house. the boys hardly spoke as they made their way towards the engine-house, from whence came a loud hissing noise, and on hearing this, joe exclaimed excitedly,-- "he's there." for answer gwyn ran to the door, and entered, hardly knowing what he was about to do, but with the feeling that this man was a natural enemy, whom it was his duty to attack; and, like a true comrade, joe followed closely at his heels. the hissing noise increased as they approached the door; and, fully alive as he was to the danger of meddling with steam, gwyn's heart began to beat a little faster, for he felt that they were too late; that the mischief had been done, the steam was escaping, and that if they entered the house, it might be at the expense of a terrible scalding. all else was silent, and as they reached the doorway of the place, the shrill, shrieking noise was piercing, and made their words difficult to hear. "he has broken something, or turned on the steam, so that it may escape, joe," said gwyn. "shall we go in and try to put it right?" "if we must. but where's the engine-driver?--where's the stoker?" gwyn looked round, to see that the people were crowding about the shaft where the great pump was to be set in motion and where work-people were busy still trying to get it ready. hammers were clinking, spanners and screw wrenches rattling on nuts, and the work in progress was being patiently watched, the engine-house and boilers being for the time unnoticed. "perhaps he's here, after all," said gwyn at last, with a gasp. "shall we go in?" joe hesitated while you might have counted ten, and he looked despairingly round, as if in the hope of seeing something that would check him and render the venture unnecessary, for there was the sound as of a thousand snakes hissing wildly, and to one unused to the behaviour of engine boilers all this seemed preliminary to a terrible explosion, with possible death for those who went inside. "yes, we must go in," said the boy at last; and as gwyn made one effort to summon his courage, and dashed through the door, he followed. the noise was now almost deafening, and at a glance they saw that the steam was escaping furiously from the two long boilers at the end farthest from where they stood, but the new bright engine, with its cylinders, pistons, rods, cranks, driving-wheel, governor, and eccentric, seemed to be perfectly safe. "he has been in and driven a pickaxe into each of the boilers," cried joe. "they'll blow up together. shall we run?" the boy's words were almost drowned by the fierce hissing, which was now mingled with a deep bass formed by a loud humming, throbbing sound such as might be made by a brobdingnagian tea-kettle, just upon ready for use. then came loud cracking and spitting sounds, and the dull roar of big fires. but the man of whom they were in search was invisible, and gwyn walked quickly round to the other side of the engine and looked sharply down that side of the long building. joe followed. it was darker here, and the steam which filled the open roof, and was passing out of a louvre, hung lower, so that the far end was seen through a mist. "not here," said gwyn. "think we could stop the steam escaping?" "don't know," shouted back joe. "sha'n't we be scalded to death?" "let's go and try." that was enough for joe, who felt as if he would have given anything for the power to rush out, but seemed held there by his companion's example. "go on, then," he panted out; and gwyn had taken a couple of steps into the hot vapour, his heart throbbing violently with the great dread of ignorance, when, beyond the mist which was looking light in front of the door at the far end, there was a heavy, quick step. they could see a dark, shadowy figure, which looked of gigantic proportions through the hanging steam, and heard the crackling and crushing of coal under its feet, as it descended the stone steps into the stoke hole. this was followed by the rattling of an iron bar, quickly used, the rattle and clang of an iron door being thrown open, when a sudden glare of brilliant light turned the cloud of steam from grey to ruddy gold. "hullo! there," shouted a voice, evidently from the door by which the boys had entered; and in an instant there was a rush of feet, the crackling of the coal on the granite steps, and they saw the dark shadow once more, as it darted out through the far door. at the same instant there were heavy steps going along on the other side of the boilers to the stoke hole, a loud exclamation heard above the hissing and shrieking of the steam. then came the crackling of the coal dust, the rattle of an iron implement, the furnace was closed with a clang, and the steam between the boys and the far door changed back to grey once more. the next instant, as they went on, they were face to face with the big bluff engine-driver, who shouted at them. "oh! it's you two young gents is it? well, all i've got to say is that if you're to come here meddling and playing your larks, someone else may tend the bylers, for i won't." "we haven't done anything," cried gwyn, hotly. "what!" roared the man, "when i come and ketched you fooling about with that furnace door! do you know that you might have made the fire rage away if you got stoking hard, and perhaps blow up the whole place. there's too much pressure on now." "will you let me speak!" cried gwyn angrily. "we came in because something was wrong, and no one near to see to the steam." "yes, there now; i only just went to that clumsy lot at the pump, to see if they meant to start it to-day, because, if they didn't soon, i should have to damp down. twelve o'clock, they said, and as i told sam hardock, there was i ready for them, but i s'pose he means twelve o'clock to-morrow. and when i comes back, i find you young gents playing the fool. d'yer want a big burst?" "no," cried gwyn, who had striven twice to stop the indignant flow of words. "i tell you we came in because something was wrong--to try and stop--" "wrong? yes, you meddling with the furnace." "we did not, i tell you." "what? well, if you young gents can't tell a good slumper, i'm a dutchman. why, i heard you at the furnace door, and as soon as i shouted, i hears you both roosh up the steps. then i came round, and here you are. better say you didn't leave the door open." "i do say so," shouted gwyn, who had hard work to make himself heard above the steam. "oh, all right, then. you're the governors' sons. burst the bylers if you like; they aren't mine." "will you listen?" cried gwyn. "why, i am a-listening, aren't i?" cried the man. "all right, it warn't you, then, and it must ha' been one o' they big cornish tom-cats." "don't talk like a donkey," cried gwyn, who had lost his temper now. "i tell you we came in because something was wrong." "very," said the man. "the steam was hissing horribly, as you hear it now. aren't you going to try and stop it?" "stop it?" said the man. "what for? want me to blow the place up?" "of course not; but i want you to stop up those holes." "you don't know what you're talking about, squire, or else it's to throw me off the scent." "i know the steam's escaping horribly." "yes; all waste, through them not finishing that pump." "then try and stop it." "stop it? don't i tell you there's too much pressure on as it is?" "it's the safety valves open, ydoll," said joe, with his lips to his companion's ear. "oh!" ejaculated gwyn, as he grasped the truth. "i thought something was wrong." "i know something was wrong, and without thinking, young squire," said the man. "but you take my advice, and don't you meddle with anything here again." "i have told you we did not touch anything; but i suppose it's no use to talk to you," said gwyn, warmly. "no, sir, not a bit," replied the man, gruffly; "and i shall speak to the governors about you two coming meddling." "and i shall speak to my father about your not being here taking care of the engines," said gwyn, as a parting shot. "if you had been at your duty, no one would have had a chance to meddle. so we will see what he says." chapter sixteen. an attack of heroes. "that was a topper for him, ydoll," said joe, as they stood outside. "phew! what a hot, stuffy place it is!" "we were the first there, joe," said gwyn, who had not heard his companion's words. "but what was he going to do?" "who going to do--that chap?" "yes. i'm sure he meant mischief of some kind. i'll speak to father. he won't interfere with the people coming to-day, because it's like a sight, this beginning: but afterwards he'll have to give orders for no one but the work-people to be about." "hullo, what's this?" cried joe. for a shout arose, and a man stood forward from the crowd, making signals. "i know: they want the steam turned on." gwyn stepped back to the mouth of the temporary engine-house, told the driver, and he connected a band with the shaft; this started another long band, and the power was communicated to the pump, with the result that a huge wheel began to turn, a massive rod was set in motion, and a burst of cheers arose; for, with a steady, heavy, clanking sound, the first gallons of water were raised, to fall gushing into the cistern-like box, and then begin to flow steadily along the adit; the boys, after a glance or two down the deep shaft, now one intricacy of upright ladder and platform, hurrying off to where a series of ladders had been affixed to the face of the cliff, down which they went, to reach a strongly-built platform at the mouth of the adit. it was rather different from the spot on which gwyn had knelt a few months before, waiting for help to come and rescue him from his perilous position, and he thought of it, as he descended the carefully-secured ladders, connected with the rock face by means of strong iron stanchions. "i say, joe," he cried, as they descended, "better than hanging at the end of a rope. why, it's safe as safe." "so long as you don't let go," was the reply from above him. "well, don't you let go, or you'll be knocking me off. i say, i wonder what the birds think of it all." "don't seem to mind it much," replied joe. "but i suppose we sha'n't leave these ladders here when the mine-shaft is all right." "no, because we shall go along the adit, that way. father says sam hardock wants the gallery widened a little, so that a tramway can be laid down, and then he'll run trucks along it, and tilt all the rubbish into the sea." "yes, young gentlemen, that's the way," said a voice below them. "so you're coming down to have a look?" "i say, sam, you startled me," cried gwyn. "well, how does the pump work?" "splendidly, sir; here's a regular stream of water coming along, and running into the sea like a cascade, as they call it. only ten more steps, sir. that's it! mind how you come there. none too much room. we must have a strong rail all round here, or there'll be some accident. two more steps, mr joe. that's the way! now then, sir, don't this look business-like?" the boys were standing now on the platform, whose struts were sloping to the rock below, and through an opening between them and the mouth of the adit the water came running out, bright and clear, to plunge down the face of the cliff in a volume, which promised well for draining the mine. "why, it won't take long to empty the place at this rate," cried joe, as he knelt upon the platform and gazed down at the falling water, which dropped sheer for about twenty feet, then struck the rock, glanced off, and fell the rest of the way in a broken sheet of foam, which rapidly changed into a heavy rain. "no, sir, it won't take very long," said hardock. "a few weeks, i suppose; because, as it lowers, we shall have to put down fresh machinery to reach it, and so on, right to the sumph at the bottom." "oh, not a few weeks," said gwyn, in a tone of doubt. "well, say months, then, sir. nobody can tell. if you gave me a plan of the mine on paper, with the number and size of the galleries, i could tell you pretty exactly; but, of course, we don't know. there may be miles of workings at different levels; and, on the other hand, there may be not-- only the shaft, and that we can soon master." "but suppose that there's a hole into it from the sea," said joe, looking up from where he knelt, with a droll look of inquiry in his eyes. "why, then we shall want more pumps, and a fresh place to put the water in," cried gwyn, laughing. "rather too big a job for you, that, sam hardock." "oh, i don't know, sir. we might p'r'aps find out where the gashly hole was, and put a big cork in it. but let's try first and see. what do you say to coming through to the shaft, and having a look whether the water's beginning to lower?" "but we shall get out feet so wet." "bah! what's a drop o' water, my lad, when there's a big bit o' business on? have off your shoes and stockings, then. i've got a light." "will you come, joe?" "of course, if you're going," said the boy, sturdily, as if it were a matter beyond question. "but you haven't told sam about the engine-house." "what about it?" said the man, anxiously. "what!" he continued, on hearing what they had noticed. "that's bad, my lads, that's bad, and they mean mischief. but i don't see what harm he could have done to the fire, only burnt himself--and sarve him right. wanted to see, perhaps, how our bylers was set. i know that chap, though--met him more than once, when i've been here and there in different towns, talking to folk of a night over a pipe--when i was looking for work, you know. one of those chaps, he seemed to be, as is always hanging about with both ears wide open to see what they can ketch. i fancy he had something to do with the two gents as came over to buy the mine. i aren't sure, but i think that's it." "i feel quite sure," said gwyn, emphatically. "very well, then, sir; what we've got to do is to keep him off our premises, so that he don't get picking up our notions of working the old mine. he's after something, or he wouldn't be here to-day. regular old mining hand, he is; and i daresay he was squinting over our machinery, and he wants to see the pumping come to naught. just please him. but look at this; isn't it fine?" he pointed to the steady stream of clear water rushing toward them, and falling downward, glittering in the sunshine. "ready to go in with me?" for answer the two boys took off their boots and socks, and stood them in a niche in the rock, while hardock passed in through the mouth of the adit; and directly after he had disappeared in the darkness, he re-appeared in the midst of a glow of light produced by a lanthorn he had placed behind a piece of rock. "come on, my lads," he cried, and the two boys stepped in, with the cold water gurgling about their feet, and stooping to avoid striking their heads against the roof of the low gallery. "one o' the first things i mean to have done is to set the men to cut a gully along here for the water to run in, for i daresay we shall always have to keep the pump going. then the water can keep to itself, and we shall have a dry place for the trucks to run along." "but this place won't be used much," said gwyn, as he followed the man, and kept on thinking about his strange feelings, as he crept along there in the darkness toward the light, after his terrible fall. "i don't know so much about that, my lad. don't you see, it will be splendid for getting rid of our rubbish? the trucks can be tilted, and away it will go; but what's to prevent us from loading ships with ore out below there in fine weather? but we shall see." it was a strange experience to pass out of the brilliant sunshine into the black, cold tunnel through the rock, with the water bubbling about their feet, and a creepy, gurgling whispering sound coming toward them in company with a heavy dull clanking, as the huge pump worked steadily on. try how they would to be firm, and forcing themselves to fall back upon the knowledge of what was taking place, there was still the feeling that this little stream of water was only the advance guard of a deluge, and that at any moment it might increase to a rushing flood, which would sweep them away, dashing them out headlong from the mouth of the gallery to fall into the sea. but there in front was the black outline of hardock's stooping figure, with the lanthorn held before him, and making the water flash and sparkle, while from time to time the man held up the lanthorn, and pointed to a glittering appearance in the roof, or on the walls. "ore," he said, with a chuckle. "i didn't come to your father, master gwyn, with empty hands, did i? well, i'm glad he woke up to what it's all worth. here we are." he stopped short, for they had come to the shaft, and his light showed up the strong beams and wet iron ties which held the machinery in place. there were a couple of men here, too, with lanthorns hanging from what seemed to be a cross-beam. on their right, was a wet-looking ladder, whose rounds glistened, and this ran up into darkness, where a great beam had been fixed, with a square hole where the top of the ladder rested, the light from above being almost entirely cut off. the men said something to hardock, but their words were almost inaudible in the rattle and clank of the great pump, and the wash and rush of the water as it was drawn into a huge trough, and rushed from it into the adit. hardock gave them a nod in reply, and then signed to the boys as he swung his lanthorn. "come and look here," he shouted; and, with their bare feet slipping on the wet planks that were just loosely laid across the beams fitted into the old holes, cut no one knew when, in the sides of the shaft, they went down to where hardock dropped on his knees and held the lanthorn through an opening, so that the light was reflected from the water, whose level was about a foot below where they now stood. "see that?" he shouted, so as to make his voice heard. "what, the water?" cried gwyn. "yes." "no, no; my mark that i made in the wall with a pick?" "oh, yes; the granite looks quite white," said gwyn, as he looked at the roughly-cut notch some six inches long. "how far is the water below it?" cried hardock. "about seven inches, eh, joe?" "nearly eight." "then you may go up and tell your father the good news. he'll like to hear it from you. tell him that we've lowered the water seven inches since the pump started, and if nothing goes wrong, we shall soon be making a stage lower down." "but what should go wrong?" cried joe, who looked full of excitement. "a hundred things, my lad. machinery's a ticklish thing, and as for a mine, you never know what's going to happen from one hour to another. go on, up with you both, my lads; it's news they'll be glad to hear, and you ought to be proud to take it." "we are," cried gwyn, heartily. "it's splendid, sam. you have done well." "tidy, my lad, tidy. will you go up the ladder here?" "no," said gwyn, "we've left our shoes and stockings outside." "very well; go that way, then." "yes," said joe, "it's better than going up the shaft; the ladders look so wet, and the water drops upon you. i saw it dripping yesterday. come on." he stepped into the adit, and gwyn followed. "don't want a light, i s'pose?" said hardock. "oh, no; we shall see the sunshine directly," said gwyn; and the two boys retraced their wet steps, soon caught sight of the light shining in, and made their way out to the platform, where they sat down in the sunshine to wipe their feet with their handkerchiefs, and then put on socks and boots, each giving his feet a stamp as he rose erect. "isn't the water cold! my feet are like ice," said joe. "they'll soon get warm climbing up these ladders," said gwyn. "but steady! don't jump about; this platform doesn't seem any too safe. i'll ask father to have the stout rail put round. shall i go first?" "no; you came down first," said joe. "my turn now. but i say, i'd a deal rather go up and down in a bucket. what a height it seems." "well, make it less," said gwyn. "up with you! don't stand looking at it. i want to be at the top." "so do i," said joe, as he stood holding on by one of the rounds of the ladder, they two and the platform looking wonderfully small on the face of that immense cliff; the platform bearing a striking resemblance to some little bracket nailed against a wall, and occupied by two sparrows. then, uttering a low sigh, joe began to mount steadily, and as soon as he was a dozen feet up, gwyn followed him. "it doesn't do to look upwards, does it?" said joe, suddenly, when they had been climbing for about half-a-minute. "well, don't think about it, then. and don't talk. you want all your breath for a job like this." joe was silent, and the only sounds heard were the scraping of their boots on the wooden spells, and the crying of the gulls squabbling over some wave-tossed weed far below. then, all at once, when he was about half-way up, joe suddenly stopped short, but gwyn did not notice it till his cap was within a few inches of the other's boots. "well, go on," he cried cheerily. "what's the matter--out of breath?" "no." "eh? what is it--what's the matter?" said gwyn, for he was startled by the tone in which the word was uttered. "i--i don't know," came back in a hoarse whisper, which sent a shudder through gwyn, as he involuntarily glanced down at the awful depth beneath him. "it's the cold water, i think. one of my feet has gone dead, and the other's getting numb. gwyn! gwyn! here, quick! i don't know what i'm--quick!--help! i'm going to fall!" chapter seventeen. gwyn shows his mettle. too much horrified for the moment even to speak, gwyn grasped the sides of the ladder with spasmodic strength; his eyes dilated, his jaw dropped, and he clung there completely paralysed. then his mental balance came back as suddenly as he had lost it, and feeling once more the strong, healthy lad he was, it came to him like a flash that it was impossible that joe jollivet, his companion in hundreds of rock-climbing expeditions--where they had successfully made their way along places which would have given onlookers what is known as "the creeps,"--could be in the danger he described, and with a merry laugh, he cried,-- "get out! go on, you old humbug, or i'll get a pin out of my waistcoat and give you the spur." there was no response. "do you hear, old jolly-wet? i say, you know, this isn't the sort of place for playing larks. wait till we're up, and i'll give you such a warming!" then the chill of horror came back, for joe said in a whisper, whose tones swept away all possibility of his playing tricks,-- "i'm not larking. i can't stir." "i tell you you are larking," cried gwyn, fiercely. "such nonsense! go on up, or i'll drive a pin into you right up to the head." the cold chill increased now, and gwyn shuddered, for joe said faintly,-- "do, please; it might give me strength." the vain hope that it might be all a trick was gone, and gwyn was face to face with the horror of their position. he too looked down, and there was the platform, with the water splashing and glittering in the sunshine as it struck upon the rock; and he knew that no help could come from that direction, for hardock was at the pump in the shaft. he looked up to the edge of the cliff, but no one was there, for the people were all gathered about the top of the mine, and were not likely to come and look over and see their position. if help was to come to the boy above him, that help must come from where he stood; and, with the recollection of his own peril when he was being hauled up by the rope, forcing itself upon him, he began to act with a feeling of desperation which was ready to rob him of such nerve as he possessed. a clear and prompt action was necessary, as he knew only too well, and, setting his teeth hard together, he went on up without a word, step by step, as he leaned back to the full stretch of his arms, and reached to where he could just force his feet, one on either side of his companion's, the spell of the ladder just affording sufficient width, and then pressing joe close against the rounds with his heavily-throbbing breast, he held on in silence for a few moments, trying to speak, but no words would come. meanwhile, joe remained silent and rigid, as if half insensible; and gwyn's brain was active, though his tongue was silent, battling as he was with the question what to do. "oh, if those gulls would only keep away!" he groaned to himself, for at least a dozen came softly swooping about them, and one so close that the boy felt the waft of the air set in motion by its wings. then the throbbing and fluttering at his heart grew less painful, and the power to speak returned. with a strong endeavour to be calm and easy, he forced himself to treat the position jauntily. "there you are, old chap," he cried; "friend in need's a friend indeed. i could hold you on like that for a month--five minutes," he added to himself. then aloud once more. "feel better?" there was no reply. "do you hear, stupid--feel better?" a low sigh--almost a groan--was the only answer, and gwyn's teeth grated together. "here, you, joe," he said firmly. "i know you can hear what i say, so listen. you don't want for us both to go down, i know, so you've got to throw off the horrible feeling that's come over you, and do what i say. i'm going to hold you up like this for five minutes to get your wind, and then you've got to start and go up round by round. you can't fall because i shall follow you, keeping like this, and holding you on till you're better. you can hear all that, you know." joe bent his head, and a peculiar quivering, catching sigh escaped his lips. "it's all nonsense; you want to give up over climbing a ladder such as we could run up. 'tisn't like being on the rocks with nothing to hold on by, now, is it? let's see; we're half of the way up, and we can soon do it, so say when you feel ready, and then up you go!" but after a guess at the space of time named, joe showed no inclination to say he was ready, and stood there, pressed against the ladder, breathing very feebly, and gwyn began to be attacked once more by the chill of dread. he fought it back in his desperation, and in a tone which surprised himself, he cried,-- "now, then! time's up! go on!" to his intense delight, his energy seemed to be communicated to his companion; and as he hung back a little, joe reached with one hand, got a fresh hold there with the other, and, raising his right foot, drew himself slowly and cautiously up, to stand on the next spell. "cheerily ho!" sang out gwyn, as he followed. "i knew, i knew you could do it. now then! don't stop to get cold. up you go before i get out that pin." joe slowly and laboriously began again, and reached the next step, but gwyn felt no increase of hope, for he could tell how feeble and nerveless the boy was. but he went on talking lightly, as he followed and let the poor fellow feel the support of his breast. "that's your sort. nine inches higher. two nine inches more--a foot and a half. but, i say, no games; don't start off with a run and leave me behind. you'd better let me go with you, in case your foot gives-- gives way again." that repetition of the word gives was caused by a peculiar catching of gwyn's breath. "i say," he continued, as they paused, "this is ever so much better than going up those wet ladders in the shaft. i shall never like that way. don't you remember looking down the shaft of that mine, where the hot, steamy mist came up, and the rounds of the ladder were all slippery with the grease that dropped from the men's candles stuck in their caps? i do. i said it would be like going down ladders of ice, and that you'd never catch me on them. our way won't be hot and steamy like that was, because there'll always be a draught of fresh sea air running up from the adit. now then, up you go again! i begin to want my dinner." joe did not stir, and gwyn's face turned ghastly, while his mouth opened ready for the utterance of a wild cry for help. but the cry did not escape, for gwyn's teeth closed with a snap. he felt that it would result in adding to his companion's despair. he was once more master of himself. "now then!" he cried; "i don't want to use that pin. go on, old lazybones." the energy was transferred again, and joe slowly struggled up another step, closely followed by gwyn, and then remained motionless and silent. "you stop and let yourself get cold again," cried gwyn, resolutely now. "begin once more, and don't stop. you needn't mind, old chap. i've got you as tight as tight. now then, can't you feel how safe you are? off with you! i shall always be ready to give you a nip and hold you on. now then, off!" but there was no response. "do you hear! this isn't the place to go to sleep, joe! wake up! go on! never mind your feet being numb. go on pulling yourself up with your hands. i'll give you a shove to help." no reply; no movement; and but for the spasmodic way in which the boy clung with his hands, as if involuntarily, like a bird or a bat clings in its sleep, he might have been pronounced perfectly helpless. "now, once more, are you going to begin?" cried gwyn, shouting fiercely. "do you hear?" still no reply, and in spite of appeal, threat, and at last a blow delivered heavily upon his shoulder, joe did not stir, and gwyn felt that their case was desperate indeed. each time he had forced his companion to make an effort it was as if the result was due to the energy he had communicated from his own body; but now he felt in his despair as if a reverse action were taking place, and his companion's want of nerve and inertia were being communicated to him; for the chilly feeling of despair was on the increase, and he knew now that poor joe was beyond helping himself. "what can i do?" he thought, as he once more forced himself to the point of thinking and acting. to get his companion up by his own force was impossible. even if he could have carried the weight up the ladder, it would have been impossible to get a good hold and retain it, and he already felt himself growing weak from horror. what to do? it would have been easy enough to climb over his companion and save his own life; but how could he ever look major jollivet or his father in the eyes again? the momentary thought was dismissed on the instant as being cowardly and unworthy of an english lad. but what to do? if he could have left him for a few minutes, he could have either gone up or gone down, and shouted for help; but he knew perfectly well that the moment he left the boy to himself, he would fall headlong. "what shall i do? what shall i do?" he groaned aloud, and a querulous cry from one of the gulls still floating around them came as if in reply. "oh, if i only had a gun," he cried angrily. "get out, you beasts! who's going to fall!" then he uttered a cry for help, and another, and another; but the shouts sounded feeble, and were lost in space, while more and more it was forced upon him that joe was now insensible from fear and despair, his nerve completely gone. what could he do? there seemed to be nothing but to hold on till joe fell, and then for his father's sake, he must try and save himself. "oh, if i only had a piece of rope," he muttered; but he had not so much as a piece of string. there was his silk neckerchief; that was something, and joe was wearing one, too, exactly like it; for the boys had a habit of dressing the same. it was something to do--something to occupy his thoughts for a few moments, and, setting one hand free, he passed it round the side of the ladder, leaned toward it, as he forced it toward his neck; his fingers seized the knot--a sailor's slip-knot--and the next minute the handkerchief was loose in his hands. a few more long moments, and he had taken his companion's from his neck. then came the knotting together, a task which needed the service of both hands, and for a time he hesitated about setting the second free. free he could not make it, but by clinging round the sides of the ladder with both arms, he brought his hands together, and with the skill taught him by the cornish fishermen, he soon, without the help of his eyes, had the two handkerchiefs securely joined in a knot that would not slip, and was now possessed with a twisted silken cord about five feet long. but how slight! still it was of silk, and it was his only chance unless help came; and of that there seemed to be not the slightest hope. he twisted the silk round and round in his hands for some seconds after the fashion that he and joe had observed when making a snood for their fishing lines, and then passing one end round the spell that was on a level with joe's throat, he drew till both ends were of a length, and then tied the silken cord tightly to the piece of stout, strong oak, letting the ends hang down. joe's hands were grasping the sides of the ladder--how feebly gwyn did not know till he tried to move the left, when it gave way at once, and would have fallen to his side but for his own strong grasp. holding it firmly, he passed it round the left side of the ladder, placing it along the spell, and then passing one of the silken ends round the wrist, he drew it tight to the spell and kept it there, while he loosened the boy's right-hand, passed that round the other side, so that wrist rested upon wrist, and the next minute the handkerchief was slipped round it, and drawn tightly, binding both together. they were safely held so long as he kept up a tension upon the end of the silk; and this with great effort he was able to do with his left hand, while, working in the opposite way, he passed the second end round the two wrists once, dragged it as hard as he could, and then tied the first portion of a simple knot. then he dragged again and again, bringing his teeth to bear in holding the shorter end of the handkerchief, while he tugged and tugged till the silk cut into the boy's flesh, and his wrists were dragged firmly down upon the spell. there the second portion of the knot was tied; and, feeling that joe could not slip, he bound the longer end round again twice, brought the first end to meet it, and once again tied as hard as he could. breathless with the exertion of holding on by his crooked arms while he worked, and with the perspiration streaming down his face, he stood there panting for a few moments, holding on tightly, and peering through the spells to make sure that his knots were secure, and the silken cord sufficiently tight to stay joe's wrists from being dragged through. then he tried the fastening again, satisfying himself that joe was as safe as hands could make him, and that his arms could not possibly be dragged away from the spell to which they were tied, even if his feet slipped from the round below. satisfied at this, gwyn's heart gave a throb of satisfaction. "you can't fall, joe," he said. "i don't want to leave you, but i must go for help." there was no reply. "can you hear what i say?" cried gwyn. still no reply; and, feeling that he might safely leave him, gwyn hesitated for a moment or two as to whether he should go up or down. the latter seemed to be the quicker way, and, after descending a step or two, he threw arms and legs round the sides of the ladder, and let himself slide to the platform. here he stood for a moment to look up and see joe hanging as he had left him. then, stooping down, he entered the adit, out of which the clanging sound of the huge pump went on volleying, while the water kept up its hissing and rushing sound. "hardock!" he shouted, with his hands to his lips, and the cry reverberated in the narrow passage; but, though he shouted again and again, his voice did not penetrate, for the sound of the pumping and rushing of water, and the boy had to make his way right to where hardock was anxiously watching the working of the machinery; and as gwyn reached him, he was once more holding his lanthorn down to see how much the water had fallen. the man gave a violent start as a hand was laid upon his shoulder. "come back!" shouted hardock, to make himself heard, and he gazed wonderingly at the boy, whose face was ghastly. "here, don't you go and say young master joe has fallen." gwyn placed his lips to the foreman's ear. "can't fall yet. send word--ropes--top of ladder at once. danger." hardock waited to hear no more, but dragged at the wire which formed the rough temporary signal to the engine-house, and the great beam of the pump stopped its work at once, when the silence was profound, save for a murmur high up over them at the mouth of the shaft. "what is it there?" came in a familiar voice, which sounded dull and strange as it was echoed from the dripping walls. "help!" shouted gwyn. "long ropes to the head of the outside ladders." "right!" came back. "what's wrong?" came down then in another voice. "joe jollivet--danger," shouted gwyn, stepping back to reply. "now, come on!" he cried to hardock; and he led the way along the adit from which, short as had been the time since the pump ceased working, the water had run off. no more was said as they hurried along as fast as the sloping position necessary allowed; and on stepping out on to the platform, gwyn looked up in fear and trembling, lest the silken cord should have given way, and fully anticipating that the ladder would be vacant. hardock uttered a groan, but gwyn had already begun to climb. "what are you going to do, lad?" shouted the man, excitedly. "go up and hold him on." "no, no; i'm stronger than you." but gwyn was already making his way up as fast as he could, and hardock, after a momentary hesitation, followed. before they were half way, voices at the top were heard. "hold tight!" shouted the colonel, in his fierce military fashion. "rope!" then an order was heard, and a great coil of rope was thrown out, so that it might fall clear of the climbers, whizzed away from the rock with the rings opening out, and directly after, was hanging beside the ladder right to the platform. there was a clever brain at work on the top of the cliff, for, as gwyn climbed the ladder, the rope was hauled in so as to keep the end close to his hands; and, seeing this, the boy uttered a sigh of relief, and climbed on, feeling that there was hope of saving his comrade now. "shall i send someone down?" shouted the colonel, who was evidently in command at the top. "no. we'll do it," cried gwyn, breathlessly. "all right, joe. we're here." there was no response from above him, and at every step gwyn felt as if his legs were turning to lead, and a nightmare-like sensation came over him of being obliged to keep on always clambering a tremendous ladder without ever reaching to where joe was bound. and all this in the very brief space of time before he reached to where he had tied the insensible lad. gwyn uttered a sigh like a groan as he touched joe's feet. then, without hesitating, he went higher, till he was on a level, with his feet resting on the same spell, fully expecting moment by moment, as he ascended, that the silk would give way and joe's fall dash them both down. and, as at last he thrust his arms through the ladder on either side of the boy's neck and then spread them out, so as to secure them both tightly pressed against the spells, his head began to swim, and he felt that he could do no more. his position saved him, for in those moments he could not have clung there by his hands, his helplessness was too great. but this was all momentary, and he was recalled to himself by the voice of hardock. "i say, lad, hope this ladder's strong enough for all three. now, then; what's next? will you tie the rope round him and cast him free?" gwyn made no reply. his lips parted, and he strove to speak, but not a word would come. "d'yer hear?" said hardock. "i say, will you make the rope fast round him?" "below there!" came from above. "make the rope fast round joe's chest-- tight knots, mind, and send him up first. be smart!" "all right, sir," shouted back hardock, as he took hold of the rope swinging close to his hand. "now, then, master gwyn, don't stand there such a gashly while thinking about it. lay hold and knot it round him. they'll soon draw him away from under you." gwyn uttered an inarticulate sound, but only wedged his arms out more firmly. "ready?" came from above in the colonel's voice. "no, nothing like," roared hardock. "hold hard. now, my lad, look alive. don't think about it, but get hold of the rope, and draw it round his chest. mind and not tie him to the ladder. steady, for it's all of a quiver now." still gwyn made no sign. "hi! what's come to you?" growled hardock. "are you asleep, below there?" shouted the colonel. "hold fast, and i'll send someone down." "nay, nay!" yelled hardock, "the ladder won't bear another. i'll get it done directly. now, master gwyn, pull yourself together, and make this rope fast. d'yer hear?" "yes," gasped the boy at last. "wait a minute and i'll try." "wait a minute and you'll try," growled the man. "we shall all be down directly. my word! what is the use o' boys. hi! hold fast and i'll try and get up above you and tie the rope myself." "no, no!" cried gwyn, frantically. "you can't climb over us." "but i must, lad, i aren't going to get round inside and try it that way. i aren't a boy now." "no, don't try that," panted gwyn, breathlessly. "you'd pull us off. i'm coming round again. i'll try soon, but i don't seem to have any breath." "hi! below there! what are you about?" shouted the colonel. "make that rope fast." "yes, sir; yes, sir; directly," yelled hardock. "you, must wait." "make it fast round jollivet," shouted the colonel. "all right, sir. now, master gwyn, you hear what your guv'nor says?" "yes, i hear, sam," panted the lad; "and i'm trying to do it. i'll begin as soon as ever i can, but i feel that if i let go, joe would come down on you. he has no strength left in him, and--and i'm not much better." "and you'll let go, too," growled the man to himself, "and if you do, it's all over with me." then aloud: "hold tight, my lad; i'm coming up." chapter eighteen. an ignominious ascent. "am i to send someone down?" cried the colonel, angrily. "no, father," shouted gwyn, his father's voice seeming to give him new force. "the ladder won't bear four." "then make fast that knot, sir. quick, at once!" "yes, father," said the boy, as a thrill of energy ran through him, and he felt as if he could once more do something toward relieving himself from the strange feeling of inertia which had fettered every sense. "you get up higher," growled hardock, "and hold on, my lad." "no. keep where you are," cried gwyn, whose voice now sounded firm. "if i leave him, he'll go." "nay, you go on; i'll take care o' that," said hardock. "up with you!" "keep down, i say," cried gwyn, fiercely. "are you ready?" shouted the colonel. "in another minute, father," cried gwyn; and, drawing out one arm, he made a snatch at the rope, drew it from hardock's hand, and then hauled it higher by using his teeth as well as his right-hand. "better let me come, my lad." "no," said gwyn, shortly. "ready?" came from above. "not quite, father. i'll say when." that last demand gave the final fillip to the lad's nerves, and, taking tightly hold of the spell above joe's head with both hands, he raised his own legs till they came level with joe's loins, and bestriding him as if on horseback, he crooked his legs and ankles round the sides of the ladder, held on by forcing his toes round a spell, and then, with his hands free, he hung back, and quickly knotted the rope about joe's chest. "steady, my lad! be ready to take hold," said hardock, whose face was now streaming with perspiration, and his hands wet, as he looked up at the perilous position of gwyn. then, obeying a sudden thought, he loosened one hand, snatched off his cap, threw it down, and took three steps up the ladder, raising himself so that he could force his head beneath the lad, with the result that he gave him plenty of support, relieving him of a great deal of the strain on his muscles, for during the next minute he was, as it were, seated upon the mining captain's head. "that's better," panted gwyn. "make a good knot, lad," growled hardock; and all was perfectly silent at the edge of the cliff above them, for every movement was being attentively watched. "hah!" sighed gwyn, as he tightened the last knot. "quite safe?" asked hardock. "yes, quite." "what next?" "get down!" "are you right?" "yes." hardock yielded very slowly for a while, and then stopped and raised himself again. "what yer doing?" "getting out my knife. he's lashed to the spell." "oh!" gwyn's hands were dripping wet, and, as he tried to force his right into his pocket, he had a hard struggle, for it stuck to the lining, the strain of his position helping to resist its passage. but at last he forced it in, to find to his horror that the knife was not in that pocket, and he had a terrible job to drag out his hand. "can't get at my knife," he panted. "all right; have mine," was growled, and hardock took out and opened his own. "here you are." the boy blindly lowered his hand for the knife, and not a whisper was heard in those critical moments. for every movement was scanned, and the colonel was lying on his chest, straining his eyes, as he waited to give the order to haul up. gwyn gripped the knife, a sharp-pointed spanish blade, and raised it, bending forward now, so as to look over joe's shoulder to see where to cut. his intention was to thrust the point in between the silken cord and the boy's wrists; but he found it impossible without having both hands, and there was nothing for it but to saw right down. this he began to do just beneath the knots, hoping that the last part would yield before the knife could touch the boy's skin. "take care, my lad," growled hardock. "yes; i'm trying not to cut him," panted gwyn. "nay, i mean when you're through. hold tight yourself." "yes, i'll try." "tell 'em to make the rope quite taut." "haul and hold fast," cried gwyn. "right!" came promptly from above, and a heavy strain was felt. "i--tied it--so tight," muttered gwyn, as he sawed away. "ay, and his weight. steady, my lad, steady!" "hah! that's through," cried gwyn. "be ready to haul." "right!" came from above. "shall i get lower?" said hardock. "yes!--no! the other knot holds him," panted gwyn; and he had to begin cutting again; but this time he found that by laying the blade of the knife flat against the spell, he could force the point beneath the handkerchief. "now, steady, sam," he said, "i'm going to have one big cut, and then hold on." "all right, my lad. i'll support you all i can, but you must hold tight." the strain on the rope was firm and steady, as gwyn drew a deep breath, forced the knife point steadily through beneath the silk, raised the edge of the blade a little more and a little more, and then, in an agony of despair, just as he was about to give one bold thrust, he let go, and snatched at the ladder side. for all at once there was a sharp, scraping sound. the silk, which had been strained like a fiddle-string over a bridge, parted on the edge of the keen knife, and, as joe's arms dropped quite nerveless and inert, down went the knife, and gwyn felt that he was going after. for in those brief moments he seemed to be falling fast. but he was not moving; it was joe being drawn upward, and the next minute gwyn was clinging with his breast now on the spells of the ladder, against which he was being pressed, hardock, with a rapid movement, having forced himself up so as to occupy the same position as gwyn had so lately held with respect to joe. "he's all right--if your knots hold," said hardock, softly. "how is it with you, my lad?" "out of breath, that's all. i can't look, though, now, sam. watch and see if he goes up all right." "no need, my lad," said the man, bitterly. "we should soon know if he came down. come, hold up your chin, and show your pluck. there's nothing to mind now. why, you're all of a tremble." "yes; it isn't that i feel frightened now," said the boy; "but all the muscles in my legs and arms are as if they were trembling and jerking." "'nough to make 'em," growled hardock. "never mind, the rope'll soon be down again--yes, they've got him, and they're letting another down. i'll soon have you fast and send you up." "no, you won't, sam," said gwyn, who was rapidly recovering his balance. "i haven't forgotten the last knot you made round me." "well, well! i do call that mean," growled the man. "you comes and fetches me to help, and i has to chuck my cap away; then you chucks my best knife down after it; and now you chucks that there in my teeth. i do call it a gashly shame." "never mind. i don't want the rope at all," said gwyn. "there, slacken your hold. i'm going to climb up." "nay; better have the rope, my lad." "i don't want the rope. i'm tired and hot, but i can climb up." "gwyn!" came at that moment. "yes, father." "just sarves you right," growled hardock. "take some of the gashly conceit out of you, my lad. now, then, i'm going to tie you up." "no; i shall do it myself," said gwyn, making a snatch at the line lowered down. "now, get out of my way." "oh, very well; but don't blame me if you fall." "no fear, sam." "nay, there's no fear, my lad; but i hope we're not going to have no more o' this sort o' thing. there's the pumping stopped and everything out o' gear, but it's always the way when there's boys about. i never could understand what use they were, on'y to get in mischief and upset the work. we sha'n't get much tin out o' ydoll mine if you two's going to hang about, i know that much. now, then, the rope aren't safe." "yes, it is," said gwyn, who had made a loop and passed it over his head and arms. "i'm not going to swing. i'm going to walk up." "ready, my lad?" cried the colonel. "yes, father; but i'll climb up, please. you can have the rope hauled on as i come." "come on, then," cried the colonel. "yes, father, coming." "hor, hor!" laughed hardock, derisively, as he drew back to the full extent of his arms so as to set gwyn free. "up you goes, my lad, led just like a puppy-dog at the end of a string. mind you don't fall." "if it wasn't so dangerous for you, i'd kick you, sam," said gwyn. "kick away, then, my lad; 'taint the first time i've been on a ladder by a few thousand times. my hands and feet grows to a ladder, like, and holds on. you won't knock me off. but i say!" "what is it?" said gwyn, who was steadily ascending, with the rope held fairly taut from above. "you'll pay for a new hat for me?" "oh, yes, of course." "and another knife, better than the one you pitched overboard?" "oh, we can come round in a boat and find that when the tide's down." "rocks are never bare when the tide's down here, my lad. there's always six fathom o' water close below here; so you wouldn't ha' been broken up if you'd falled; but you might ha' been drownded. that were a five-shilling knife." "all right, sam, i'll buy you another," shouted gwyn, who was some distance up now. "thank ye. before you go, though," said sam hardock. "go? go where?" "off to school, my lad; i'm going to 'tishion your two fathers to send you both right away, for i can't have you playing no more of your pranks in my mine, and so i tell you." gwyn made no reply, but he went steadily up, while, on casting a glance below, he saw that the mine captain was making his way as steadily down; but he thought a good deal, and a great deal more afterwards, for, on reaching the top of the cliff, there lay joe on the short grass, looking ghastly pale, and his father, with joe's, ready to seize him by the arm and draw him into safety. "there must be no more of this," said the colonel, sternly. "you two boys are not fit to be trusted in these dangerous places. now, go home at once." the little crowd attracted by the accident had begun to cheer wildly, but the congratulatory sound did gwyn no good. he did not feel a bit like the hero of an adventure, one who had done brave deeds, but a very ordinary schoolboy sort of personage, who was being corrected for a fault, and he felt very miserable as he turned to joe. "are you coming home, too?" "yes. i suppose so," said joe, dismally. there was another cheer, and the boys felt as if they could not face the crowd, till an angry flush came upon gwyn's cheeks; for there stood, right in the front, the big, swarthy fellow who had been caught plumbing the depth of the mine, and he was grinning widely at them both. "ugh!" thought gwyn, "how i should like to punch that chap's head. here, joe, let's tell our fathers that this fellow is hanging about here." "no," said joe, dismally. "i feel as if i didn't mind about anything now. my father looked at me as if i'd been doing it all on purpose to annoy him. let's go home." chapter nineteen. a brutal threat. gwyn did not see joe for a whole week, and he did not go over to the mine, for the colonel had called him into his room the next morning, and had a very long, serious talk with him, and this was the end of his lesson,-- "of course, i meant you to go and read for the army, gwyn, my lad, but this mine has quite upset my plans, and i can't say yet what i shall do about you. it will seem strange for one of our family to take to such a life, but a man can do his duty in the great fight of life as well whether he's a mine owner or a soldier. he has his men to keep in hand, to win their confidence, and make them follow him, and to set them a good example, gwyn. but i can't say anything for certain. it's all a speculation, and i never shut my eyes to the fact that it may turn out a failure. if it does, we can go back to the old plans." "yes, father," said the boy, rather dolefully, for his father had stopped as if waiting for him to speak. "but if it turns out a successful, honest venture, you'll have to go on with it, and be my right-hand man. you'll have to learn to manage, therefore, better than ever i shall, for you'll begin young. so we'll take up the study of it a bit, gwyn, and you shall thoroughly learn what is necessary in geology, and metallurgy and chemistry. if matters come to the worst, you won't make any the worse officer for knowing such matters as these. it's a fine thing, knowledge. nobody can take that away from you, and the more you use it the richer you get. it never wastes." "no, father," said gwyn, who began to feel an intense desire now to go on with his reading about the wars of europe, and the various campaigns of the british army, while the military text-book, which it had been his father's delight to examine him in, suddenly seemed to have grown anything but dry. "begin reading up about the various minerals that accompany tin ore in quartz, for one thing, and we'll begin upon that text-book, dealing with the various methods of smelting and reducing ores, especially those portions about lead ore, and extracting the silver that is found with it." "yes, father," said gwyn, quietly; and the boy set his teeth, wrinkled his brow, and looked hard, for colonel pendarve treated his son in a very military fashion. he was kindness and gentleness itself, but his laws were like those of the medes and persians done into plain english. but the whole week had passed, and mrs pendarve took him to task one morning. "come, gwyn," she said, "i am quite sure your father does not wish you to mope over your books, and give up going out to your old amusements." "doesn't he, mother?" said the boy, drearily. "of course not. what has become of joe jollivet? he has not been near you." "in the black books, too, i suppose," said gwyn, bitterly. "major's been giving it to him." "gwyn, i will not have you talk like that," said his mother. "you boys both deserve being taken to task for your reckless folly. you forget entirely the agony you caused me when i heard of what had taken place." "i didn't want to cause you agony, mother," pleaded the boy. "i know that, my dear, but you have been growing far too reckless of late. now be sensible, and go on as if there had been no trouble between your father and you. i wish it. try and grasp the spirit in which your father's reproofs were given." "all right, mother, i will," said gwyn; and his face brightened up once more. the consequence was that he went out into the yard, and unchained the dog, with very great difficulty, for the poor beast was nearly mad with excitement directly it realised the fact that it was going out with its master for a run; and as soon as they entered the lane, set off straight for the major's gates, stopping every now and then to look round, and to see if gwyn was going there. but half-way up the hill gwyn turned off on to the rough granite moorland, and grip had to come back a hundred yards to the place where his master had turned off, and dashed after him. it didn't matter to the dog, for there was some imaginary thing to hunt wherever they went; and as soon as he saw that he was on the right track, he began hunting most perseveringly. for gwyn did not want to go to the major's. he felt that he would like to see joe and have a good long talk with him, as well as compare notes; but if he had gone to the house, he would have had to see the major, and that gentleman would doubtless have something to say that would not be pleasant to him--perhaps blame him for joe getting into difficulties. no, he did not want to go to the major's. "like having to take another dose," he said to himself, and he went on toward the old circle of granite stones which had been set up some long time back, before men began to write the history of their deeds. it lay about a mile from the cove, high up on the windy common among the furze bushes, and was a capital place for a good think. for you could climb up on the top of the highest stone, look right out to sea, and count the great vessels going up and down channel, far away on the glittering waters--large liners which left behind them long, thin clouds of smoke; stately ships with all sail set; trim yachts; and the red-sailed fishing fleet returning from their cruise round the coast, where the best places for shooting their nets were to be found. it was quite a climb up to the old stones, which were not seen from that side till you were close upon them, for they stood in a saucer-like hollow in the highest part of the ridge, and beyond, there was one of the deep gullies with which that part of cornwall was scored--lovely spots, along which short rivulets made their way from the high ground down to the sea. grip knew well enough now where his master was making for, and dashed forward as if certain that that mysterious object which he was always hunting had hidden itself away among the stones, and soon after a tremendous barking was heard. "rabbit," muttered gwyn; and for a few moments he felt disposed to begin running and join the dog in the chase. but he did not, for, in spite of being out there on the breezy upland, where all was bright and sunny, he felt dull and disheartened. things were not as he could wish, for he had just begun to feel old enough to bear upon the rein when it was drawn tight, and to long to have the bit in his teeth and do what he liked. the colonel had been pleasant enough that morning, but he had not invited him to go to the mine; and it felt like a want of trust in him. so gwyn felt in no humour for sport of any kind; he did not care to look out at the ships, and speculate upon what port they were bound for; he picked up no stones to send spinning at the grey gulls; did not see that the gorse was wonderfully full of flower; and did not even smell the wild thyme as he crushed it beneath his feet. there were hundreds of tiny blue and copper butterflies flitting about, and a great hawk was havering overhead; but everything seemed as if his mind was out of taste and the objects he generally loved were flavourless. all he felt disposed to do was to turn himself into a young modern ascetic, prick his legs well in going through the furze, and then take a little bark off his shins in climbing twenty feet up on to the great monolith, and there sit and grump. "bother the dog, what a row he's making!" he muttered. "i wish i hadn't brought him." then his lips parted to shout to grip to be quiet, but he did not utter the words, for he stopped short just as he neared the first stone of the circle, on hearing the dog begin to bark furiously again, and a savage voice roar loudly,-- "get out, or i'll crush your head with this stone!" chapter twenty. a doubtful acquaintance. gwyn recognised the voice, and knew what was the matter, and his first aim was to make a rush to protect his dog from the crushing blow which would probably be given him with one of the many weather-worn fragments of granite lying about among the great monoliths. but he was just where he could not make such a rush, for it would have been into a dense bed of gorse as high as himself, and forming a _chevaux de frise_ of millions of sharp thorns. the next best plan was to shout loudly, "you hurt my dog if you dare--" though the man might dare, and cast the stone all the same. but gwyn did neither of these things, for another familiar voice rose from beyond the furze, crying loudly,-- "you let that dog alone! you touch him and i'll set him to worry you. once he gets his teeth into you, he won't let go. here, grip! come to heel!" "well done, joe!" muttered gwyn, who felt that his dog was safe; and he ran to the end of the bank of prickly growth, where there was an opening, and suddenly appeared upon the scene. it was all just as he had pictured; there was joe jollivet, with grip close to his legs, barking angrily and making short rushes, and there, a few yards away, stood the big, swarthy stranger who had been caught at the mine mouth, and whom gwyn believed to have tampered with the furnace door, now standing with a big stone of eight or ten pounds' weight, ready to hurl at the dog if attacked. "here, you put down that stone," cried gwyn, angrily. "how dare you threaten my dog!" "stone aren't yours," said the man, tauntingly. "this ground don't belong to you. keep your mongrel cur quiet." "my dog wouldn't interfere with you if you let it alone." "oh, it's your dog, is it?" said the man. "well, take him home and chain him up. i don't want to flatten his head, but i jolly soon will if he comes at me." "he couldn't hit grip," said joe, maliciously, as he bent down to pat and encourage the dog. "set him at the fellow--he has no business here." "what!" cried the fellow, who looked a man of three or four-and-thirty, but talked like a boy of their own age. "much right here as you have. you let me alone, and i'll let you alone. what business have you to set your beastly dog at me?" "who set him at you?" cried joe. "he only barked at you--he saw you were a stranger--and you picked up a stone, and that, of course, made him mad." "so would you pick up a stone, if a savage dog came at you. look at him now, showing his sharp teeth. on'y wish i had his head screwed up in a carpenter's bench. i'd jolly soon get the pinchers and nip 'em all out. he wouldn't have no more toothache while i knew him." "there, you be off," said gwyn, "while your shoes are good." "don't wear shoes, young 'un. mine's boots." "you're after no good hanging about here." "er--think i want to steal your guv'nor's pears off the wall, now, don't yer?" "how do you know we've got pears on our wall?" "looked over and see," said the man, grinning. "yes, that's it; you're a regular spy, looking for what you can steal," cried joe. "be off!" "sha'n't. much right here, i tell you, as you have. but i like folks to talk about stealing! who nipped off with my fishing line and sinker? you give 'em back to me." "no; they're confiscated, same as poachers' nets," said gwyn. "who sent you here?" "sent me here? sent myself." "what for?" "wants a job. i'm mining, and i heared you was going to open the old mine. think your guv'nors'll take me on?" "you put down that stone before you ask questions," said gwyn. "you shut up your dog's mouth, then. i don't want to kill him, but i aren't going to have him stick his teeth into me." "the dog won't hurt you if you don't threaten him. throw away that stone." "there you are, then; but i warn you, if he comes at me, i'll let him have my boot, and if he does get it, he won't have any more head." "quiet, grip!" said gwyn, as the man threw away the stone, and the dog whined and said, "don't talk to me like that; this fellow isn't to be trusted; make me drive him away." at least not in words, for the dog spoke with his eyes, which seemed to suggest that this course should be taken. "who are you, and where do you come from?" said gwyn, looking at the man suspiciously. "truro. all sorts o' places wherever there's mines open and--work." "and you heard that this one was going to be opened?" "yes, that's just what i did hear." "then why did you come spying about the place?" "never came spying about; only wanted to know how deep she was. i don't like mines as is two hundred fathom deep. too hot enough, and such a long way up and down. takes all the steam out of you. will your guv'nors give me a job?" "go to the office and ask them; that's the best way," said gwyn, looking at the man suspiciously, as he took off his cap, and began to smooth it round and round. "well, p'r'aps that won't be a bad way," said the fellow. "but you two won't say anything again' me, will you, 'cause of that row we had when you smugged my line and sinker?" "i don't think i shall say any more than what happened," replied gwyn. "'cause it was all over a row, now, warn't it? of course, a chap gets his monkey up a bit when it comes to a fight. that's nat'ral, ar'n't it?" gwyn nodded, and felt as if he did not like the look of the man at all; but at the same time he was ready to own that there might be a good deal of prejudice in the matter. "wouldn't like to go and say a good word for me, would you?" said the man. "of course, i should not like to," said gwyn, laughing. "how can i go and speak for a man whom i only know through our having two rows with him. that isn't natural, is it?" "no, i s'pose not," said the man, frankly. "well, i'll go myself. i say, i am a wunner to work." "you'd better tell colonel pendarve so," said gwyn, smiling. "think so? well, i will, and good luck to me. but, i say, hadn't you two better make your dog friends with me?" "no," said gwyn, promptly. "grip will know fast enough whether he ought to be friends with you or no." "would he? is he clever enough for that?" "oh, yes," said gwyn; "he knows an honest man when he sees him, doesn't he, joe?" "to be sure he does." "think o' that, now," said the man. "all right, then. don't you two go again' me. i'll start for the office at once." "here, what's your name?" "dinass--thomas dinass," said the man, with a laugh, "but i'm mostly called tom. that all?" "yes, that's all," said gwyn, shortly; and the man turned to go, with the result that grip made a rush after him, and the man faced round and held up his boot. "come here, sir! come back!" shouted gwyn; and the dog obeyed at once, but muttering protests the while, as if not considering such an interruption justifiable. then all three stood watching till the man had disappeared, the dog uttering an angry whine from time to time, as if still dissatisfied. at last the two boys, who had met now for the first time since the adventure on the ladder, turned to gaze in each other's eyes, and ended in exchanging a short nod. "going up?" said gwyn at last. "yes; i came on purpose, and found grip here." "so did i come on purpose," said gwyn. "wanted a good think. lead on." joe went to the tallest of the old stones, and began to climb--no easy task, but one to which he seemed to be accustomed; and after a little difficulty, he obtained foothold, and then, getting a hand well on either side of one of the weather-worn angles, he drew himself higher and higher, and finally perched himself on the top. before he was half up, gwyn began to follow, without a thought of danger, though he did say, "hold tight; don't come down on my head." up he went skilfully enough, but before he was at the top, grip uttered a few sharp barks, raised his ears, became excited, and jumped at the monolith, to scramble up a few feet, drop, and, learning no wisdom from failure, scramble up again and again, and fall back. then, as he saw his master reach the top, he threw back his head, opened his jaws, and uttered a most doleful, long-drawn howl, as full of misery and disappointment as a dog could give vent to. "quiet, will you!" cried gwyn, and the dog answered with a sharp bark, to which he added another dismal, long-drawn howl. "do you hear!" cried gwyn; "don't make that row. lie down!" there was another howl. "do you want me to throw stones at you?" cried gwyn, fiercely. doubtless the dog did not, for he had an intense aversion to being pelted; but, as if quite aware of the fact that there were no stones to cast, he threw his head up higher than ever, and put all his force into a dismal howl, that was unutterably mournful and strange. "you wretch! be quiet! lie down!" cried gwyn; but the more he shouted the louder the dog howled, while he kept on making ineffectual efforts to mount the stone. "let him be; never mind. he'll soon get tired. want to talk." the boys settled themselves in uncomfortable positions on the narrow top, where the felspar crystals stood out at uncomfortable angles, and those of quartz were sharper still, and prepared for their long confab. as a matter of course, they would have been ten times as comfortable on the short turf just beyond the furze; but then, that would have been quite easy, and there would have been no excitement, or call upon their skill and energy. there was nothing to be gained by climbing up the stone--nothing to see, nothing to find out; but there was the inclination to satisfy that commonplace form of excelsiorism which tempts so many to try and get to the top. so the boys sat there, thoughtfully gazing out to sea, while the dog, after a good many howls, gave it up for a bad job, curled himself into an ottoman, hid his nose under his bushy collie tail, and went to sleep. some minutes elapsed before either of the boys spoke, and when one did, it was with his eyes fixed upon the warm, brown sails of a fishing-lugger, miles away. it was gwyn who commenced, and just as if they had been conversing on the subject for some time,-- "major very angry?" joe nodded. "awfully. said, knowing what a state of health he was in, it wasn't fair for me to go on trying to break my neck, for i was very useful to him when he had his bad fever fits--that it wasn't pleasant for him to stop at home, expecting to have me brought back in bits." "he didn't say that, did he?" "yes, he did--bits that couldn't be put together again; and that, if this was the result of having you for a companion, i had better give you up." gwyn drew a deep breath, and kicked his heels together with a loud clack. then there was a long pause. "well," said gwyn, at last; "are you going to give me up?" joe did not make a direct answer, but proposed a question himself. "what did the colonel say?" "just about the same as your father did; only he didn't bring in about the fever, nor he didn't say anything about my being brought home in bits. said that i was a great nuisance, and he wondered how it was that i could not amuse myself like other boys did." "so we do," said joe, sharply. "i never knew of a boy yet who didn't get into a scrape sometimes." gwyn grunted, and frowned more deeply. "said it was disgraceful for me to run risks, and cause my mother no end of anxiety, and--" "well, go on: what a time you are!" cried joe, for gwyn suddenly paused. "what else did he say?" "oh, something you wouldn't like to hear." "yes, i should. tell me what it was." gwyn took out his knife, and began to pick with the point at a large crystal of pinkish felspar, which stood partly out of the huge block of granite. "i say, go on. what an aggravating chap you are!" gwyn went on picking. "i say, do you want me to shove you off the top here?" "no; and you couldn't, if i did." "oh, couldn't i?--you'd see. but i say, go on, ydoll; tell us all about it. i did tell you what my father said." "said he supposed it was from associating with such a boy as you; for he was sure that i was too well-meaning a lad to do such things without being prompted." "oh, my! what a shame!" cried joe. "it was too bad." "well, i didn't want to tell you, only you bothered me till i did speak." "of course. isn't it better to know than have any one thinking such things of you without knowing. but i say, though, it is too bad; i couldn't help turning like i did. it came on all at once, and i couldn't stir." "he didn't mean about that so much. he bullied me for not taking care of you, and stopping you from going up the ladder." "did he? why, you couldn't help it." "he talked as if he supposed i could, and said if we went out again together, i had better take grip's collar and chain, put the collar round your neck, and lead you." "oh i say! just as if i was a monkey." "no; father meant a dog, or a puppy." joe gave himself a sudden twist round to face his companion, flushing with anger the while, and as the space on the top of the stone was very small, he nearly slipped off, and had to make a snatch at gwyn to save himself from an ugly fall. "there!" cried gwyn, "you're at it again. you've made up your mind to break your neck, or something else." "it was all your fault," cried joe, "saying things like that. i don't believe your father said anything of the kind. it was just to annoy me." "what, do you suppose i wanted to go home with fresh trouble to talk about?" "no, but it's your nasty, bantering, chaffing way. colonel pendarve wouldn't have spoken about me like that." gwyn laughed. "i suppose he didn't say i had better give you up as a companion--" "did he?" "if i was always getting into some scrape or another." "no; but i say, ydoll, did he?" "something of the kind. he said it was getting time for me to be thinking of something else beside tops and marbles." "well, so we do. whoever thinks about tops and marbles now? why, i haven't touched such a thing for two years." "so i suppose you and i will have to part," continued gwyn. joe glanced at him sidewise. "it's no use for us to be companions if it means always getting into scapes at home." joe began to whistle. his face became perfectly smooth, and he watched his companion, as he picked away at the crystal, while gwyn looked puzzled. "i say, you'll break the point of your knife directly," said joe. "well, suppose i do?" "be a pity. it's a good knife." "well, you won't see it when it's broken if we're going to part." "of course not; and you could get to the big grindstone they've set up under that shed for the men to grind their picks. soon give it a fresh point. i say, how jolly that is--only to put on the band over the wheel shaft from the engine, and the stone goes spinning round! i tried it one day on my knife. it was splendid." "you seem precious glad that we've got to part," said gwyn. "not a bit of it. it's all gammon." "eh? what is?" "talking about separating. it doesn't mean anything. i know better than that. come, let's talk sense." "that's what i have been doing," said gwyn, stiffly. "not you; been bantering all the time. they didn't mean it, and you didn't mean it. we're to be partners over the mine some of these days, ydoll, when we grow up, and they're tired of it. i say, though, i don't think i shall like having that tom dinass here." "no," said gwyn, thoughtfully. "he looks as if he could bite. think what he said about getting work was all true?" "i suppose so. seems reasonable. i don't like to disbelieve people when they speak out plainly to you." "no," said gwyn, thoughtfully. "if they've told you a crammer at some time, it makes all the difference, and you don't feel disposed to believe them again. perhaps it's all right, and when he's taken on, he may turn out a very good sort of fellow." "yes; we shall have to chance it. i say, though, ydoll, we must be more careful for the future about not getting into scrapes together." "won't matter if we're not to be companions any more. we can't get into any, can we?" "gammon! they didn't mean it, i tell you. we've only got to mind." "and we begin by getting up here, and running the risk of breaking our legs or wings." "well, it was stupid, certainly," said joe, thoughtfully. "but then, you see, we were so used to climbing up it that it came quite natural." "father says one has got to think about being a man now, and setting to work to understand the mining." "yes," said joe, with a sigh; "that's what my father said. seems rather hard to have to give up all our old games and excursions." "then don't let's give them up," said gwyn, quickly. "they don't want us to, i know--only to work hard sometimes. there, let's get down and go and see how they're getting on at the mine." "shall we?" said joe, doubtingly. "yes. why not? we needn't do anything risky. i haven't been there since the day the pump was started. have you?" "no; haven't been near it." "then come on!" gwyn set the example of descending by lowering his legs over the side, gripping the angle with his knees, and let himself down cleverly, joe following directly after; while grip, who had uncurled himself, bounded away before them full of excitement. a week had resulted in a good deal of work being done by the many men employed; the roughly-made office had been advanced sufficiently for the two old officers to take possession, and spend a good deal of time in consultation with hardock, who was at work from daylight to dusk, superintending, and was evidently most eager for the success of the mine. the tall granite shaft was smoking away, and the puffs of steam and the whirring, buzzing noises told that the engine was fully at work, while a dull heavy _clank, clank_, came to the boys from the mouth of the shaft. the first person almost that they set eyes upon was hardock, who came bustling out of the building over the mouth of the shaft, and stopped short to stare. then, giving his leg a heavy slap, his face expanded into a grin of welcome. "there you are, then, both of you at last. why, where have you been all this time?" "oh, busy at home," said gwyn, evasively. "come to knock up an accident of some kind!" said the man, with the grin on his face expanding. "no, i haven't," said gwyn, shortly. "you, then?" cried hardock, turning to joe, who coloured like a girl. "ah, well, we won't quarrel now you have come, my lads: but the colonel made my ears sing a bit the other day for not looking more sharply after you both. well, aren't you going to ask how the mine is?" "yes," said gwyn, glad to change the subject. "got all the water out?" "nay, my lad, nor nothing like all." "then you never will," said joe. "depend upon it, there's a way in somewhere from the sea, and that's why the old place was forsaken." "sounds reasonable," said hardock, "'specially as the bits of ore we've come across are so rich." "yes, that's it," said gwyn. "what a pity, though. how far have you got down?" "oh, a long way, my lad, and laid open the mouths of two galleries. wonderful sight of water we've pumped out. don't seem to get much farther now." "no, and you never will," said joe again, excitedly. "i'm sorry, though. father will be so disappointed." "what makes you say that there's a way in from the sea?" said hardock, quietly. "because the shaft's so near. it's a very bad job, though." "but look ye here," said hardock, laying his hand on gwyn's shoulder, "as you have come, tell me this: how should you try to find out whether it was sea-water we were pumping out?" "why, by tasting it, of course," said gwyn. "it would be quite salt." "of course!" said hardock, with a chuckle, "that's what i did do." "and was it salt?" asked joe. "no, it warn't. it was fresh, all fresh; only it warn't good enough to make tea." "why?" asked gwyn. "'cause you could taste the copper in it quite strong. we shall get the water out, my lads, in time; but it's a big mine, and goodness knows how far the galleries run. strikes me that your guv'nors are going to be rich men and--hullo! what's he been doing there?" the boys turned, on seeing the direction of the mine captain's gaze, and they saw tom dinass's back, as he stood, cap in hand, talking to someone inside the office door--someone proving to be the colonel. "been to ask to be taken on to work at the mine," said gwyn. "but that won't do, my lads," cried hardock, excitedly. "we want to be all friends here, and he belongs to the enemy. they can't take him on! it would mean trouble, as sure as you're both there. oh, they wouldn't engage he." hardock said no more, for dinass had seen them as he turned from the office door, and came toward them at once. "are you?" he said to hardock, without the `how'; and the captain nodded in a sulky way. "what do you want here?" he said. "just whatever you like, captain. i'm an old hand, and ready for anything. the guv'nors have took me on, and i'm come to work." chapter twenty one. sam hardock disapproves. _clank, clank_! and _wash, wash_! the great pump worked and the water came up clear and bright, to rush along the channel cut in the floor of the adit and pour from the end like a feathery waterfall into the sea, the spray being carried like a shower of rain for far enough on a breezy day. but there seemed to be no end to it, and the proprietors began to look anxious. still hardock's face was always cheery. "only because she's so big underground, and there's such a lot to get out, you see, my lads. she's right enough. why, that water's been collecting from perhaps long before i was born. we shall get her dry some day." but dinass, who somehow always seemed to be near when the boys were about the mine, looked solemn, and as soon as hardock's back was turned he gave gwyn a significant wink. "i only hope he's right," said the man. "then you don't know he is?" said joe, sharply. "i don't say nothing, young gents, nothing at all; but that pump's been going long enough now to empty any mine, and yet, if you both go and look at the water, you'll see it's coming as fast as ever and just as clear." "because they haven't got to the bottom of it yet," said gwyn. "it aren't that, young gentleman," said dinass, mysteriously. "of course it aren't my business, but if the mine belonged to me i should begin to get uncomfortable." "why?" asked joe. "because i should be thinking that the old folks who digged this mine had to come up it in a hurry one day." "why?--because there were bogies and goblins in it?" "no, sir, because they broke through one day into an underground river; and you can't never pump dry a place like that. but there, i don't know, gentlemen--that's only what i think." the man went about his work, over which he was so assiduous that even hardock could not complain, and the latter soon after encountered the lads. "don't say dinass told us," whispered gwyn. "sam hates him badly enough as it is. let him think that it's our own idea." "not got to the bottom of the water yet, then?" said gwyn. "no, sir--not yet, not yet," replied the captain, blandly; "and it won't come any the quicker for you joking me about it." "but aren't you beginning to lose heart?" "lose heart? wouldn't do to lose heart over a mine, sir. no, no; man who digs in the earth for metals mustn't lose heart." "but we're not digging, only pumping." "but we might begin in one of these galleries nearly any time, sir. i've been down, and i've seen better stuff than they're getting in some of the mines, i can tell you, sir. but we'd better have the water well under first." "but suppose you are never going to get it under?" "eh? no, i don't s'pose anything of the kind. it's fresh water, and we must soon bottom it." "but suppose it's an underground river, sam?" said joe, sharply. "underground river, my lad? then that will be a fine chance for you two. i should be for getting my tackle ready, and going fishing as soon as the water's low enough. who knows what you might ketch?" "nothing to laugh at, sam," said gwyn, sternly. "if there should prove to be an underground stream, you'll never pump the mine dry." "never, sir, and i shouldn't like to try; but," the man continued with a twinkle of the eye, "the steam-engine will. that's the beauty of these things--they never get tired. here's the guv'nors." colonel pendarve came up with the major, both looking very serious, and evidently troubled by the slow progress over the water. "been down the shaft, hardock?" said the former. "yes, sir; just come up." "any better news?" said the major, quickly. "no, sir; it's just about the same. couldn't be better." "not be better, man! the anxiety is terrible." "oh, no, sir," said hardock; "that's only because you worry yourself over it. water's been steadily sinking ever since we began to pump." "but so slowly--so slowly, man." "yes, sir, but there's the wonder of it. place is bigger than we expected." "then the water is falling, hardock?" said the colonel. "yes, sir, steady and sure; and whenever the pump has been stopped, the water hasn't risen, which is the best sign of all." "yes; we must have patience, jollivet, and wait." "yes, sir," put in hardock; "and if i might make so bold as to speak i wouldn't engage anyone else for the present. when the mine's dry it will be time enough." "no; better get recruits while we can," said the colonel. "but you have ideas on paying wages, sir, and i fancy i know the best sort of men we want." "ah, you don't like the man dinass," said the colonel. "no, sir, i don't; not at all." "but you said he worked well and knew his business." "yes, sir; but i don't like him none the more." "petty jealousy, my man, because you did not have a word in the business. come along, major, and let's see how the pump's getting on." "jealousy," grunted hardock; "just as if i'd be jealous of a chap like that. what yer laughing at, mr gwyn?" "you, sam. why, you're as jealous of dinass as you can be." "think so, sir? what do you say, mr joe jollivet?" "didn't say anything, but i thought so. you're afraid of his taking your place as foreman or captain." "me?" cried the man, indignantly. "'fraid of an odd-job sort of a chap, took on like out of charity, being able to take my place? come, i do like that, master joe. what do you think of it, mr gwyn?" "think joe jollivet's right," said gwyn, hotly; and hardock turned upon him angrily,-- "well, aren't it enough to make me, sir. here was i out of work through mine after mine being advertised, and none of 'em a bit of good. and what do i do but sit down and puzzle and think out what could be done, till i hit upon ydoll and went up and examined it, and looked at bits of stuff that i found on the bank and round about the mouth, till i was sure as sure that it was a good thing that had never been properly worked, or they wouldn't have pitched away the good ore they did. though what could you expect from people ever so long ago who had no proper machinery to do things with; and the more i work here the more i'm sure of there being heaps of good stuff to be got. well, what do i do? talks to you young gents about it, don't i? and then your fathers laugh at it all, and i'm regularly upset till they took the idea up. then i set to and got the place in going order, and it's bound to be a very big thing, and all my doing, as you may say; and then up comes mr dinass to shove his nose in like the thin edge of a wedge. how would you both like it if it was you?" "well, i shouldn't like it at all," said gwyn. "of course, you wouldn't, sir, nor mr joe neither; and i just tell mr tom dinass this: so long as he goes on and does his work, well and good--i sha'n't quarrel with him; but if he comes any underhanded games and tries to get me out of my place, i'll go round the mine with him." "you'll do what?" cried joe. "see how deep the mine is with him, sir, and try how he likes that." sam hardock gave the lads a very meaning nod and walked away, leaving the pair looking inquiringly at each other. "he'd better mind what he's about," said joe. "that tom dinass is an ugly customer if he's put out." "yes, but it's all talk," said gwyn. "people don't pitch one another down mines; and besides, you couldn't pitch anyone down our mine on account of the platforms. why, you couldn't drop more than fifteen or twenty feet anywhere." "no, but it would be very ugly if those two were to quarrel and fight." chapter twenty two. a mental kink. the time went on, with the carpenters and engineers hard at work. as fast as the water was lowered enough, fresh platforms were placed across the shaft. after a little consideration and conference with hardock, it was decided not to let the men go up and down the mine by means of ladders on account of the labour and loss of time, but to erect one of the peculiar beams used in some mines, the platforms being at equal distances favouring the arrangement. the boys were present at the consultation, and when it was over they went off for a stroll, grip following in a great state of excitement, and proceeding to stalk the gulls whenever he saw any searching for spoil on the grassy down at the top of the cliffs. but the dog had no success. the gulls always saw him coming, and let him creep pretty near before giving a few hops with outstretched wings, and then sailing away just above his head, leaving him snapping angrily and making his futile bounds. after a time the boys threw themselves on the grass at the top of one of the highest cliffs, from whence they could look down through the transparent sea at the purply depths, or at the pale-green shallows, where the sand had drifted, or again, at where all the seaweed was of a rich golden brown. it was a lovely day, and in the offing the tints on the sea were glorious, but the boys had no eyes for anything then. so to speak, they were looking back at the meeting which had just taken place at colonel pendarve's. "father looked very serious about these lift things," said gwyn, at last. "enough to make him; it's nothing but pay, pay, pay. i want to see them get to work and make money. it will be skilly and bread for us if the mine fails." "'tisn't going to fail. don't be a coward. see what a grand thing this new apparatus will be." "will it?" said joe. "i don't understand it a bit." "why, it's easy enough." "i can understand about a bucket or a cage, let up and down by a rope running over a wheel, but this seems to me to be stupid." "nonsense! it's you who are stupid. can't you see that a great beam is to go from the top to the bottom of the mine?" "that's nonsense. where are they going to get one long enough?" "can't they join a lot together till it is long enough, old wisdom teeth? of course, it will have to be made in bits, and put together." "well, what then?" cried joe. "what then? sam hardock and the engineer explained it simply enough. the beam is to have a little standing-place on it at every eighteen feet." "yes, i understand that, and it's to be attached to an engine lever which will raise it eighteen feet, and then lower it eighteen feet." "of course. well, what's the good of pretending you did not understand?" "i didn't pretend; i don't understand." gwyn laughed. "you are a fellow! there'll be a ledge for a man to stand on, all down the beam from top to bottom exactly opposite the regular platform." "yes, i understand that." "well, then, what is it you don't understand?" cried gwyn, smiling. "how it works." "why, you said you did just now. oh, i say, jolly-wet, what a foggy old chap you are. you said as plain as could be, that the beam rose and fell eighteen feet." "oh, yes, i said that, but i don't understand about the men." "well, you are a rum one, joe. is it real, or are you making believe?" "real. now, suppose it was us who wanted to go down." "well, suppose it was us." "what do we do?" "why, we--" "no, no, let me finish. i say, what do we do? we step on the ledge attached to the beam?" "of course we do, only one at a time." "very well, then, one at a time. then down goes the beam eighteen feet to the next platform." "yes, and then up it rises again eighteen feet, and most likely there'd be a man on every ledge, from top to bottom." "well, what's the good of that?" "good? why, so that the men can ride up or down when they're tired, and do away with the ladders." "isn't that absurd? i'm sure my father never meant to put a lot of money into this thing so as to give the men a ride up and down on a patent see-saw." "oh i say, joe, what a chap you are! what have you got in your head?" "this old see-saw that hardock and the engineer want us to have, of course." "well, can't you see how good it will be?" "no, i can't, nor you neither." "but don't you see it sends the men all down eighteen feet into the mine?" "of course i can. never mind the men. suppose it's me, and i step on. it sends me down eighteen feet." "yes, at one stride, and then comes up again; can't you see that?" "of course, i can. it comes up again, and brings me up with it, ready to go down again. why, it's no good. it will be only like a jolly old up-and-down." gwyn stared at his companion. "what are you talking about?" he said, but in a less confident tone. "you know, this gimcrack thing that was to do so much. why the idea's all wrong. don't you see?" gwyn stared at his companion again. "nonsense!" he cried, "it's all right. there'll be a man step on to it at every platform, and then down he'll go." "of course, and when he has gone down eighteen or twenty feet, up he'll come again. it sounds very pretty, but it's all a muddle. it's just like the story of the man who wanted to go to america, so he went up in a balloon and stayed there for hours and waited till the world had turned round enough, so as to come down in america." "oh, but this is all right; they explained it exactly to my father, and i saw it all plainly enough then: it was as clear as could be," said gwyn, thoughtfully. "a man stepped on and went down." "yes, and the beam rose and he came up again." gwyn scratched his head and looked regularly puzzled, and the more he tried to see the plan clearly, the more confused he grew. "here, i can't make it out now," he said at last. "of course you can't, my lad; it's all wrong." "but if it is, there will be a terrible loss." "to be sure there will." "let's go and talk to my father about it." "or mine," said joe. "our place is nearest, or perhaps father's in the office," cried gwyn, excitedly. "mind, i don't say you're right, because i seemed to see it all so clearly, though it has all turned misty and stupid like now." "i know how it was," said joe. "sam hardock had got the idea in his head, and he explained it all so that it seemed right; but it isn't, and the more i think about it, the more i wonder that no one saw what a muddle it was before." "gammon!" cried gwyn, springing up, and the two lads started back toward the mine; but they were not destined to reach it then, for they had not gone above a hundred yards along by the edge of the cliff, when they came upon dinass seated with his back to a rock, smoking his pipe and gazing out to sea between his half-closed eyelids. "hallo!" shouted gwyn; "what are you doing here?" "smoking," said the man, coolly. "well, i can see that," cried gwyn. "how is it you are not at work?" "'cause a man can't go on for ever without stopping. man aren't a clock, as only wants winding up once a week; must have rest sometimes." "well, you have the night for rest," said gwyn, sharply. "sometimes," said dinass; "but i was working the pump all last night." "oh, then you're off work to-day?" "that's so, young gentleman, and getting warm again in the sun. it was precious cold down there in the night, and i got wet right through to my backbone. i'm only just beginning to get a bit dried now." "look here, ydoll," said joe, sharply; "he'll have been talking to sam hardock about it, i know. here, tom dinass, what about that hobby up-and-down thing sam hardock wants to have in the mine?" "'stead of ladders? well, what about it?" "it's all nonsense, isn't it?" "well, i shouldn't call it nonsense," said the man, thoughtfully, as he took his pipe out of his mouth and sat thinking. "what do you call it, then?" said joe. "mellancolly, sir, that's what i call it--mellancolly." "because it won't work?" cried joe. "but it would work, wouldn't it?" said gwyn. "oh, yes, sir, it would work," said the man, "because the engine would pump it up and down." "of course it would," said joe; "but what's the use of having a thing that pumps up and down, unless it's to bring up water?" "ay, but this is a thing as pumps men up and down," said dinass. "gammon! it's impossible." dinass looked at him in astonishment. "no, it aren't," he said gruffly. "i've been pumped up and down one times enough, so i ought to know." "you have?" said gwyn, eagerly. "ay, over redruth way." "there, then it is right," cried gwyn. "i knew it was. what an old jolly wet blanket you are, joe!" "but it can't be right," cried joe, stubbornly. "here you get on a bit of a shelf and stand there and the beam goes down twenty feet." "nay, it don't," said dinass, interrupting; "only twelve foot." "well it's all the same--it might be twenty feet, mightn't it?" "i s'pose so, sir. ones i've seen only goes twelve foot at a jog." "twelve feet, then; and then it jigs up again," cried joe. "ay, just like a pump. man-engines they call 'em," said dinass; "but i have heard 'em called farkuns." [note: _fahr-kunst_. first used in the harz mountain mines.] "then you've seen more than one?" cried gwyn. "more than one, sir! i should think i have!" "and they do go well?" "oh, yes, sir, they go well enough after a fashion." "can't," cried joe. "but they do, sir," said dinass. "i've seen 'em and gone down deep mines on 'em." "now you didn't--you went down twelve feet," said joe, more stubbornly than ever. "yes, sir, twelve foot at a time." "and then came up twelve feet." "that's right, sir." "then what's the good of them if they only give you a ride up and down twelve feet?" "to take you to the bottom." "but they can't," cried joe. "i dunno about can't!" said the man, gruffly; "all i know is that they do take 'em up or down whenever you like, and saves a lot of time, besides being (i will say that for 'em) a regular rest." "what, through just stepping on a shelf of the beam and stopping there?" "who said anything about stopping there?" cried the man, roughly. "you steps on to the shelf and down goes the beam twelve foot, and you steps off on to a bit o' platform. up goes the beam and brings the next shelf level with you, and on you gets to that. down you go another twelve foot, or another twenty-four. steps off, up comes the next shelf, and you steps on. down she goes again, and you steps on and off, and on and off, going down twelve foot at a time, till you're at the bottom, or where you want to be part of the way down at one of the galleries." "of course," cried gwyn, triumphantly. "i knew it was german, all right, only i got a bit foggy over it when you said it wasn't." "but--" "i knew there was something. we forgot about stepping off and letting the beam rise." joe scratched his head. "don't you see now?" cried gwyn. "beginning to: not quite," said joe, still in the same confused way. then, with a start, he gave his leg a hearty slap. "why, of course," he cried, "i see it all clearly enough now. you step on and go down, and then step on and go up, and then you step on--and step on. oh, i say, how is it the thing does work after all?" "why you--" began gwyn, roaring with laughter the while, but joe interrupted him. "no, no; i've got it all right now. i see clearly enough. but it is puzzling. what an obstinate old block you were, ydoll." "eh? oh, come, i like that," cried gwyn. "why you--" then seeing the mirthful look on his companion's face he clapped him on the shoulder. "you did stick to it, though, that it wouldn't go, and no mistake." "well, i couldn't see it anyhow. it was a regular puzzle," said joe, frankly. "but i say, tom dinass, what made you call these man-engines melancholy things?" "'cause of the mischief they doos, sir. i do hope you won't have one here." "why? what mischief do they do?" cried gwyn. "kills the poor lads sometimes. lad doesn't step on or off at the right time, and he gets chopped between the step and the platform. it's awful then. 'bliged to be so very careful." "man who goes down a mine ought to be very careful." "o' course, sir; but they things are horrid bad. i don't like 'em." "but they can't be so dangerous as ladders, or going down in a bucket at the end of a string or chain; you might fall, or the chain might break. such things do happen," said gwyn. "ay, sir, they do sometimes; but i don't like a farkun. accident's an accident, and you must have some; but these are horrid, and we shall be having some accident with that dog of yours if we don't mind." "accident?" said gwyn. "what do you mean?" "he'll be a-biting me, and i shall have to go into horspittle." "oh, he won't hurt you," cried gwyn. "don't know so much about that, sir," said the man, grinning. "i should say if he did bite he would hurt me a deal. must have a precious nice pair o' legs, or he wouldn't keep smelling 'em as he does, and then stand licking his jaws." "i tell you he won't hurt you," cried gwyn. "here, grip--come away." the dog looked up at his master, and passed his tongue about his lower jaw. "look at that, sir," said dinass, laughing; but there was a peculiar look in his eyes. "strikes me as he'd eat cold meat any day without pickles." "i'll take care he sha'n't bite your legs, with or without pickles," said gwyn, laughing. "come along, joe, and let's go and have a talk to sam hardock about the--what did he call it--far--far--what?" "i don't know," replied joe; "but somehow i wish master tom dinass hadn't been taken on." "going to have a man-engine, are they?" muttered dinass, as he sat watching the two lads from the corners of his eyes. "seems to me that things have gone pretty nigh far enough, and they'll have to be stopped. won't eat my legs with or without pickles, won't he? no, he won't if i know it. getting pretty nigh all the water out too. well, i daresay there'll be enough of it to drown that dog." chapter twenty three. grip takes an interest. "now, joe, this ought to be a big day," said gwyn, one bright morning. "father's all in a fidget, and he looked as queer at breakfast as if he hadn't slept all night." "wasn't any as if," replied joe; "my father says he didn't sleep a wink for thinking about the mine." "oh, but people often say they haven't slept a wink when they've been snoring all the night. see how the fellows used to say it at worksop. i never believed them." "but when father says it you may believe him, for when he has fits of the old jungle fever come back, i'm obliged to give him his doses to make him sleep." "well i woke ever so many times wondering whether it was time to get up. once the moon was shining over the sea, and it was lovely. it would have been a time to have gone off to pen ree rocks congering." "ugh, the beasts!" exclaimed joe. "but, i say, what a thing it will be if the place turns out no good after all this trouble and expense." "don't talk about it," said gwyn. "but sam says it's right enough." "and tom dinass shakes his head and says--as if he didn't believe it could be--that he hopes it may turn out all right, but he doubts it." "tom dinass is a miserable old frog croaker. sam knows. he says there's no doubt about it. the mine's rich, and it must have been worked in the old days in their rough way, without proper machinery, till the water got the better of them, and they had to give it up." "i hope it is so," said joe, with a sigh. "but, i say, what about going down?" "your father won't go down." "oh, yes, he will. he says he shall go in the skep if your father does." "oh, my father will go, of course; but he said i'd better not go till the mine was more dry, and the man-engine had been made and fitted." "hurrah! glad of it!" "what do you mean by that?" cried gwyn, angrily. "what i say! i don't see why you should be allowed to go, and me stay up at grass." "humph! just the place for you," said gwyn. "and what do you mean by that?" cried joe, angrily in turn. "proper place for a donkey where there's plenty of grass." "ah, now you've got one of your nasty disagreeable fits on. just like a cornishman--i mean boy." "better be a cornish chap than a frenchy." "frenchy! we've been long enough in england to be english now," cried joe. "but it's too hard for us not to go." "regular shame!" said gwyn. "i've been longing for this day so as to have a regular examination. it must be a wonderful place, joe. quite a maze." "oh, i don't know," said joe, superciliously; "just a long hole, and when you've seen one bit you've seen all." "that's what the fox said to the grapes," said gwyn, with a laugh. "no, he didn't; he said they were sour." "never mind; it's just your way. the place will be wonderful. there are sure to be plenty of crystals and stalactites and wonderful caverns and places. oh, i do wish we were going down." "i don't know that i do now--the place will be horribly damp." "fox again." "look here, gwyn pendarve, if you wish to quarrel, say so, and i'll go somewhere else." "but i don't want to quarrel, joseph jollivet, esquire," said gwyn, imitating the other's stilted way of speaking. "what's the good of quarrelling with you?" joe picked up a stone and threw it as far as he could, so as to get rid of some of his irritability; and grip, who had been sitting watching the boys, wondering what was the matter, went off helter-skelter, found the stone, and brought it back crackling against his sharp white teeth, dropped it at joe's feet, and began to dance about and make leaps from the ground, barking, as if saying, "throw it again--throw it again!" "lie down, you old stupid!" cried gwyn. "let him have a run," said joe, picking up the stone and jerking it as far as he could over the short grassy down, the dog tearing off again. "ugh! look at your hand," said gwyn, "all wet with the dog's `serlimer,' as the showman called it." "oh, that's clean enough," said joe; but he gave his hand a rub on the grass all the same. the dog came back panting, and joe picked up the stone to give it another jerk, but, looking round for a fresh direction in which to throw it, he dropped the piece of granite. "come on!" he shouted, as he started off; "they're going to the shaft." gwyn glanced in the direction of the mine, and started after joe, raced up to him, and they ran along to the building over the mouth, getting there just at the same time as the colonel and major jollivet, the dog coming frantically behind. "well, boys," cried the colonel, "here we are, you see. wish us luck." "of course i do, father," said gwyn. "but you'd better let us come, too." "no, no, no, no," said the colonel, "better wait a bit. besides, you are not dressed for it. we are, you see." he smilingly drew attention to their shooting caps and boots and long mackintoshes. "yes," said the major, laughing, "we're ready for a wet campaign." gwyn was not in the habit of arguing with his father, whose quietest words always carried with them a military decision which meant a great deal, so he was silent, and contented himself with a glance at joe, who took his cue from him and remained quiet. several of the men were there standing about the square iron-bound box attached by a wire rope to a wheel overhead, and known as the skep, which, with another, would be the conveyances of the ore that was to be found, from deep down in the mine to the surface, or, as the miners termed it, to grass; and until the man-engine was finished this was the ordinary way up and down. there was sam hardock, muffled up in flannel garments, and wearing a leather cap like a helmet, with a brim, in front of which was his feather represented by a thick tallow candle. he was armed with a stout pick in his belt, and the colonel and major both carried large geological hammers. tom dinass was there, too, in charge with the engineer of the skep, to ensure a safe descent. then there were lanthorns, and hardock, in addition, bore by a strap over his shoulder what looked like a large cartouche box, but its contents were to re-load the lanthorns, being thick tallow candles. "got plenty of matches, hardock?" said gwyn, eagerly. "oh yes, sir, two tin boxes full." "we have each a supply of wax matches, too, my boy," said the colonel. "all ready, i think," he continued, turning to the major, who nodded, and then said to him in a low tone of voice, overheard by the boys in addition to him for whom it was addressed,-- "if anybody had told me six months ago that i should do this, i should have called him mad." "never mind, old fellow," said the colonel, laughingly; "better than vegetating as we were, and doing nothing. it sets my old blood dancing in my veins again to have something like an adventure. well," he said aloud, "we may as well make a start. by the way, have you any lunch to take down?" "oh, yes," said the major, tapping a sandwich-box in his coat pocket; "too old a campaigner to forget my rations." "right," said the colonel, tapping his own breast. "well, boys, if we get lost and don't come up again by some time next week, you will have to organise a search-party, and come down and find us." "better let us come with you, father, to take care of you both." the colonel laughed, and shook his head. "now, major," he cried, "forward!" the major stepped into the great wooden bucket, the colonel followed, and then sam hardock took his place beside them. "all ready!" cried the colonel. "now, hardock, give the word." the mining captain obeyed, there was a sharp, clicking noise, as the engineer touched the brake, and the wheel overhead began to revolve; then the skep dropped quickly and silently down through the square hole in the rough plank floor formed over the great open shaft, the pump being now still. then, all at once, as the boys caught at the stout railing about the opening and looked down, the lanthorns taken began to glow softly and grew brighter for a time; then the light decreased, growing more and more feeble till it was almost invisible, and gwyn drew a deep breath and looked up at the revolving wheel. "seems precious venturesome, doesn't it?" observed joe. "not half so bad as going down with a rope round you, and feeling it coming undone," said gwyn. "no, but you did have water to fall into," said joe. "if the wire rope breaks, they'll fall on the stone bottom and be smashed." "ah, yes," said dinass, in solemn tones. "be a sad business that." "will you be quiet, tom dinass!" cried gwyn, irritably. "you're always croaking about the mine." "nay, sir, not me," replied the man. "it were mr joe here as begun talking about the rope breaking and their coming down squelch." "well, don't let anybody talk about such things," said gwyn, who spoke as if he had been running hard. "nearly down now, aren't they?" "about half, sir," said the engineer. "oh, i don't want to talk," said dinass; "only one can't help thinking it's queer work for two gents to do. it's a job for chaps like me. howsoever, i hope they won't come to no harm." grip growled at something, as if, in fact, he were resenting the man's words, but it might have only been that he was being troubled by the flea which he had several times that morning tried to scratch out of his thick coat. "you'd better not let them come to harm. i say, mind they don't come down bang at the bottom," said gwyn, after what seemed to be a long time. "he'll see to that, sir," said the man, nodding his head in the direction of the engineer. "yes, young gentlemen, that's all right. i've got the depth to an inch, and they'll come down as if on to a spring." "i say, how deep it seems," said joe, who also was rather breathless. "deep, sir!" said dinass, with a laugh; "you don't call this deep? why, it's nothing to some of the pits out saint just way--is it, mate?" "nothing at all," said the engineer. "this is a baby." "rather an old baby," said gwyn, smiling. "why, this must be the oldest mine in cornwall." "dessay it is, sir," said the man; and he checked the wheel as he spoke, just as an empty skep of the same size as that which had descended made its appearance and came to a standstill. "right!" came up from below, in a hollow whisper, and gwyn drew a deep breath. "you two ought to have gone with 'em," said dinass, "and had a look round." "oh, don't bother," cried gwyn, petulantly. "i suppose we shall have our turn." "no offence meant, sir," said the man. "better let me go down with you. dessay i can show you a lot about the mine." "i suppose it will be all one long passage from the bottom," said joe. "not it, sir," said dinass, holding out his bare arm, and spreading his fingers. "it'll go like that. lode runs along for a bit like my wrist, and then spreads out like my fingers here, or more like the root of a tree, and they pick along there to get the stuff where it runs richest. but you'll see. we don't know yet; but, judging from the water pumped out, this mine must wander a very long way. there's no knowing how far." "i say, how long will they stop down?" said joe. "oh, i don't know," replied gwyn. "hours, i daresay." "plenty of time for you young gents to take a boat and have half-a-day with the bass. there's been lots jumping out of the water against ydoll point. i should say they'd be well on the feed." "that's likely!" said gwyn. "you don't suppose we shall leave here till they come up?" "oh, i didn't know, sir. makes no difference to me; only it'll be rather dull waiting." grip uttered a low, uneasy growl again, and looked up at his master, and then went to the opening and peeped down. "like us to send him down in the skep, sir?" said dinass, grinning. "better not, p'r'aps, as he might lose his way." "no fear of grip losing his way--eh, joe?" joe shook his head. "he'd find his way back from anywhere if he had walked over the ground. wouldn't you, grip?" the dog gave a sharp bark as he turned his head, and then looked down again, whining and uneasy. "what's the matter, old boy?" said gwyn. "it's all right, old man, they've gone down. will you go with me?" the dog uttered a volley of barks, then turned to dinass and growled. "quiet, sir!" cried gwyn. "look here, tom dinass, you must tease him, or he wouldn't be so disagreeable to you." "me? me tease him, sir! not me." "well, take my advice," said gwyn, "don't. he's a splendid dog to his friends; so you make good friends with him as soon as you can." chapter twenty four. anxious times. an hour glided by and not a sound was heard from below. then another hour, and the boys began to grow impatient. "why, the place must be very big," said gwyn, after straining over the rail and looking down for some time. "shall i shout?" "couldn't do no harm," said dinass; and gwyn hailed several times, and then gave place to joe, who was beginning to look uncomfortable. but the second series of shouting produced nothing but a dull smothered echo, and the lad spoke quite hoarsely when he turned to gwyn, who was looking angrily at dinass and the engineer, both of whom sat coolly enough close to the skep shaft, waiting the signal to lift. "think there's anything wrong?" said joe in a whisper to the engineer. "oh, no, the place is big. see what a while it took to pump it out." "but there may be deep holes here and there, and it would be horrible if they had slipped down one." "they wouldn't all slip down a hole. if one did, the others would come for help. no; they're thoroughly exploring the place and chipping off specimens. i daresay they'll bring up quite a load." "i hope so," said joe, solemnly, and gwyn, who felt very uncomfortable, tried to cheer him up, but in a low voice, so that the others should not hear. "i say, how strange it is that if anyone doesn't come back when you expect him you are sure to think he has met with an accident." "i don't, if they've only gone out," said joe, with a shiver. "this isn't like that. this place seems to me now quite awful." "pooh! i say, i believe you'd go down and look for them if you might." "yes," said joe, quickly; "i shouldn't like to, but i would." "i wonder what it's like down below--all long, narrow passages roughly-cut through the rock," said gwyn; "they wouldn't cut so carefully as they do now." "no, as they say, the old people would only cut where the lode of ore ran, of course. but i hope there's nothing wrong." "of course you do; so do i. what's the good of fidgeting." joe did not say what was the good of fidgeting, but he fidgeted all the same; and gwyn noted, as the time went on, that his companion looked quite hollow-cheeked, while at the same time he felt a peculiar sinking sensation that was very much like dread; and at last, as over two hours and a-half had passed, he began to feel that something ought to be done. joe not only felt, but said so, and frowned angrily as he spoke. "it's too bad," he said; "those two sit there as coolly and contentedly as if nothing could be the matter. i say, dinass," he cried aloud, "do you think there is anything wrong?" "no, sir," said the man, coolly, "i don't. they're only having a good long prowl. you'll hear 'em shout to be taken up directly." but the boys did not feel satisfied, and hung about the opening, growing more and more uneasy, though gwyn kept the best face on the matter. "don't you fidget," he said, "father was only joking, of course, about time; but he knew they'd be down a long while, and he meant to be. they're all right." "they're not all right," said joe, quickly. "they can't be, or we should have heard from them. they've either fallen down some hole, or the roof has come down and crushed them, or they've lost their way in some wild out-of-the-way part of the mine. let's call for volunteers, and go down and search for them." "hush! be quiet! don't be hysterical," whispered gwyn; "there's no need to call for volunteers. i feel sure i know what it means; this old mine must be very big, perhaps winds about for miles in all directions; and they're only having a good long hunt now they are down. they'd laugh at us if we were to send volunteers." "send volunteers down!" said joe. "well, lead them then. wait a bit and see." "they've been overcome by choke-damp." "nonsense! that's only in coal pits. don't let these two see what a fright we're in." "don't see that you're in any fright," said joe, bitterly. "you take it coolly enough." "outside," said gwyn; "perhaps i feel as much as you do, only i don't show it. joe, i wouldn't have my mother know about this for all the world--it would frighten her to death; and if we get talking about volunteers going down, someone is sure to go and tell her that we're in trouble, and she'll come on." "but we must do something; they may be dying for want of help." "don't," whispered gwyn, angrily; "you're as bad as a girl; try and think about how they are situated. perhaps there are miles of passages below there, and they would be hours wandering about. of course they go slowly." "couldn't be miles of passages," said joe, piteously. "think the mine's very big, dinass?" said gwyn, quietly. "oh, yes, sir, bigger than i thought for." "some mines are very far to the end, aren't they?" "miles," said the man calmly, and gwyn gave his companion a nudge. "i've been in some of 'em myself. why, i know of one long 'un--an adit as goes from mine to mine to get rid of the pumpings--and it's somewhere about thirty miles." "hear that, joe?" whispered gwyn. "yes, i hear," said the lad, breathlessly. "i don't say there's anything of the kind here, of course; but i know one place where there's more than sixty miles o' workings, and it would take some time to go all over that, wouldn't it?" the boys were silent, and the engineer went on. "oh yes, that's right enough," he said; "and to my mind it's rather bad for any folk strange to go down a mine they know nothing about." joe started violently. "you see it's all noo to 'em," continued the engineer, "and they may wander away into places they know nothing about, and never find their way out again." "gwyn!" groaned joe. "hush! be quiet!" was whispered back. "i have heard of such things." "but that was in deserted mines," said gwyn, sharply. "yes, i believe it was in deserted mines, now you say so, sir." "of course it was, joe, where nobody knew that they had gone down." "how could they have gone down without anyone knowing?" cried joe. "there must have been someone to let them down." "nay, they might have been venturesome and gone down by ladders, same as the old ones used to be from sollar to sollar." "what's a sollar?" said gwyn, more for the sake of saying something than from a desire to know. "what you calls platforms or floors," said dinass. "well, i will say one thing; i do hope the guv'nors haven't lost their way." "of course, mate," said the engineer; "so do i; but if i was you young gents, i should begin to feel a little uncomfortable about them below." "we are horribly," cried joe, wildly. "exactly so, sir, for you see it must be getting on for four hours since they started." "nay, not so much as that," cried dinass. "i didn't say it was, mate--i only said it was getting on for four hours. there mayn't be nothing wrong, but there may be; and there wouldn't be no harm in doing something now. what do you say to getting some of the lads to go? they was talking about it when i went outside, as i told mate dinass here--didn't i, my son?" "ay, you did--what do you say, mr gwyn?" "it is time to act," cried joe, excitedly. "yes," said gwyn, as he drew a deep breath, "we must do something. get lanthorns and candles." "shall i call to some of the men, sir," said dinass, "and hear what they say?" the answer came from the doorway, where three or four heads appeared, and one of the owners said: "i say, mates, aren't it time we heerd something about them as is gone down?" "yes," said gwyn, firmly; "we're going down to see. will you come with me, joe?" the boy's lips parted, though no words came; but he put out his hand and gripped his companion's fast. "get lights, some of you, quick!" cried gwyn; and a murmur was heard outside, a murmur that increased till it was a loud cheer; and then, distinctly from outside, a voice was heard to say,-- "hear that, mates? the young masters are going down." and as if to endorse this, grip, who had suddenly grown excited, burst into a loud bark. chapter twenty five. true to the core. "do you mean it, master gwyn?" said dinass, sharply. "mean it? of course. you'll come with us and help." the man's mouth opened widely, and he stared for a few moments before he spoke,-- "help to get lanthorns and candles, sir? yes, of course." "come down with us," said gwyn, sharply. "you can't let us go alone." "not let you go alone, sir," growled the man, surlily. "well, you see--" "yes, we see," cried gwyn, "you have been used to mines, we have not." "much used to this one as i am, sir. i don't know no more about it than you do." "'course you don't, matey," said the engineer, "but you can't say you won't go with 'em to look for the guv'nors and our mate." "can't i? yes, i can," cried dinass, fiercely; "easy; i won't go-- there!" "yah!" came in a fierce growl from the men outside. "ah, but you don't mean it," cried the engineer. "yes, i do," cried dinass. "don't you be so precious handy sending people where they don't want to go. why don't you go yourself?" "how can i go?" said the engineer, sharply. "my dooty's here. can you manage the skep and rope?" "how do i know till i try?" growled dinass. "try? why, you'd be doing some mischief. i've no right to leave my work while anyone's down, and i won't leave it; but i'd go if i was free." "tom dinass will go," said joe. "you can't leave us in the lurch like this." "'course not: it's his gammon," cried a man at the opening into the shed-like place. "you'll go, mate." "ay, he'll go," rose in chorus. "no, he won't," said dinass, angrily. "i get five-and-twenty shilling a week for working here, not for going to chuck away my life." "gahn!" shouted a man. "your life aren't worth more nor no one else's. who are you?" "never you mind who i am," growled dinass, "i aren't going to chuck away my life, and so i tell you." "who wants you to chuck away your life? go on down, like a man," said the engineer. "you go yourself; i'll take care of the engines," cried dinass. "that will do," said gwyn, quietly. "let us have candles, please, quick." "oh, you're not going down alone, young gen'lemen," said the man at the doorway who had spoken the most. "some on us'll go with you if he won't, but the guv'nors made him second like to master hardock, and he ought to go, and he will, too, or we'll make him." "oh, will you?" cried dinass, fiercely; "and how will you make me?" "why, if you don't go down like a man along with the young masters, we'll tie you neck and crop, and stuff you in the skep, and two more of us'll come, too, and make you go first. what do you say to that?" "say you daren't," cried dinass. "what do you say, lads?" cried the man. "oh, we'll make him go," came in chorus. by this time, as dinass stood there angry and defiant, the engineer had produced a candle-box and lit a couple of lanthorns, when gwyn and joe each took one, and stepped into the empty skep, followed by grip, who curled up by their feet. "can't go like that, young gents. them caps won't do. here, come out. who'll lend young masters hats?" a couple of the strong leathern hats were eagerly offered, but only one would fit, and a fresh selection had to be made. "better have flannel jackets, sir," said the engineer to gwyn. "no, no, we can't wait for anything else. come, joe. now let us down." he raised the iron rail which protected the hole, and again stepped into the skep, followed by joe, lanthorn in hand, and with the candle-box slung from his shoulder. "now, tom dinass," cried the engineer, "i'm with you." "nay, i don't go this time," was the surly reply, as dinass looked sharply round at the men who had crowded into the shed, and in response to a meaning nod from the engineer began to edge nearer to him. "are you quite ready, joe? lower away," cried gwyn. "wait a minute, sir," said the engineer, "you aren't quite ready. now, then, dinass, be a man." "oh, i'm man enough," said the miner, taking out his pipe and tobacco, "but i don't go down this time, i tell you." "yes, you do," said the man who had spoken. "ready?" "nay," cried dinass, thrusting back his pipe and pouch and catching up a miner's pick, which he swung round his head; "keep back, you cowards. you're afraid to go yourselves, and you want to force me. keep off, or i'll do someone a mischief. there isn't one of you as dare tackle me like a man." "oh, yes, there is," cried the first speaker; "any of us would. now, once more, will you go down with the young gentlemen?" "go yourself. no!" "oh, i'd go, but it's your job. you're made next to master sam hardock, so just show that you're worth the job." "lower away there," cried dinass, "and let the boys go down theirselves." "not me," said the engineer. "right," said the leader of the men. "now, tom dinass, this time settles it: will you go down?" "no!" "then here goes to make you." the man dashed at dinass, who struck at him with the pick, but the handle was cleverly caught, the tool wrested from his grasp and thrown on the floor, while, before the striker could recover himself, he was seized, there was a short struggle, and his opponent, who was a clever cornish wrestler, gave him what is termed the cross-buttock, lifted him from the ground, and laid him heavily on his back. the men raised a frantic cheer of delight, which jarred terribly on the two boys in their anxious state, though all the same they could not help feeling satisfied at seeing dinass prostrated and lying helpless with the miner's foot upon his chest. "let him get up," said gwyn; "we'd sooner go alone than with him; but if you'll come with us i should be glad." "i'd come with you, sir, or any on us would--" "ay, ay," chorused the men. "but we feel, as miners, that when a man's got his dooty to do, he must do it. so master tom dinass here must go by fair means or foul." "i'll go," cried dinass. "set o' cowards--ten or a dozen on you again' one." "nay, there was only one again' you with bare hands and without a pick. you go down, mate, and when you come up t'others'll see fair, and i'll show you whether i'm a coward." "don't i tell you i'll go?" growled dinass. "let me get up." "do you mean it? no games, or it'll be the worse for you," said the miner, sternly. "i said i'd go with them," growled dinass. "i aren't afraid, but i warn't engaged to do this sort of thing." "you'll go, then?" "are you deaf? yersss!" roared dinass; and as the miner took his foot from the prostrate man's chest another moved to the doorway to guard against retreat. but if dinass had any intention of breaking away he did not show it. he rose to his feet, shook himself, and picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, put it on, took it off again, glanced round for one he considered suitable, snatched it from its wearer's head, put it on his own and pitched the one he had worn to the miner he had robbed, and then stepped into the skep. "there you are," he said. "now, then, lower away;" and as he spoke he stooped down quickly seized the dog by the collar, and swung him out of the skep. "don't! don't do that," cried gwyn. "let the dog come." but his words were too late; the rail was clapped down, the engineer had seized the handle; there was a clang, a sharp blow upon a gong, and it seemed to the boys that the floor they had just left had suddenly shot up to the ceiling. then it gave place to a glow of light dotted with heads, and amidst a low murmur of voices there rose the furious barking of a dog. directly after, they were conscious of the singular sensation that is felt when in a swing and descending after the rise, but in a greatly intensified way. then the glow overhead grew fainter and smaller, and the lanthorns they held seemed to burn more brightly, while a peculiar whishing, dripping noise made itself heard, telling of water oozing from some seam. "for we always are so jolly, oh! so jolly, oh!" sang dinass in a harsh, discordant voice. "how do you like this, youngsters?" neither of the boys answered, but the same thought came to them both--"that their companion was singing to make a show of his courage." "i didn't want to fight," continued dinass; "but i could have knocked that fellow harry vores into the middle of next week if i'd liked. i'd have come down, too, without any fuss if they'd asked me properly; but i'm not going to be bullied and driven, so i tell 'em." still neither gwyn nor joe spoke, but stood listening to the dripping water, and wondering at the easy way in which the skep went down past platform and beam, whose presence was only shown by the gleam of the wet wood as the lanthorns passed. and still down and down for what seemed to be an interminable length of time. they knew that they must have passed the openings of several horizontal galleries, but they saw no signs of them, as they stood drawing their breath hard, till all at once the skep stopped, and dinass shouted boisterously,-- "here we are; bottom. give's hold o' one o' them lanthorns, or we shall be in the sumph." he snatched the lanthorn joe carried, held it down, and stepped off the skep. "it's all right," he said; "there's some planking here." the two boys followed, and looked down into the black thick water of the sumph, a great tank into which the drainings of the mine ran ready for being pumped up; and now gwyn held up his light to try and penetrate the gloom, but could only dimly trace the entrance of what appeared to be a huge, arch-roofed tunnel, and as they stepped over the rough wet granite beneath it, dinass placed a hand to the side of his mouth and uttered a stentorian hail, which went echoing and rolling along before them, to be answered quite plainly from somewhere at a distance. a load fell from gwyn's breast, and he uttered a sigh of relief. "it's all right, joe," he said. "there they are, but some distance in. come on." he led the way, joe followed, and dinass came last with the other lanthorn; and in a few minutes the great archway contracted and grew lower and lower, till it very nearly met their heads, and the sides of the place were so near that they could in places have been touched by the extended hands. "hold hard a moment," said dinass, after they had gone on a short distance; and as the boys turned to him wonderingly, he continued, "this here's the main lead of course, but it's sure to begin striking out directly right and left like the roots of a tree. what you've got to do's to keep to the main lead, and not go turning off either side. it's not very easy, because they're often as big as one another. that's what i wanted to say to you as one thing to mind. t'other's to keep a sharp look-out for ways downward to lower leads. there would be no railings left round here, 'cause the wood'll all have rotted away. i'd keep your light low down, and if you see a place like a square well don't step into it. you won't break your neck, 'cause it will be quite full of water, for the pumping hasn't reached down there, but you might be drowned, for it aren't likely i'm coming down after you." "i'll take care," said gwyn, with his voice sounding husky; and joe nodded, with his eyes looking wild and dilated. "that's all i wanted to say," said dinass, "so on you go." "give another shout," said gwyn, "and let them know we're here." "what for?" said the man, roughly. "you heard what i said--to let them know we're here. they answered before, but i suppose voices travel a long way." "sometimes," said the man, with a strange laugh. "shout, then; your voice is louder than ours," said gwyn. "what's the good o' shouting? they're miles away somewhere." "no, no, you heard them answer." "no i didn't," said the man, contemptuously; "that was only eckers." "what?" cried gwyn, with his heart seeming to stand still. "eckers. hark here." he put his hand to his mouth, and proved the truth of his words. "sam!" "_sam_!" very softly. "har!" "_har_!" "dock!" "_dock_!"--the echo coming some moments after the calls in a peculiar weird way. "sam 'ardock!" shouted dinass then, with a loudness and suddenness which made the boys start. "_dock_!" came back from evidently a great distance, giving such an idea of mystery and depth that the boys could hardly repress a shudder. "only eckers," said the man; "and as old sam hardock would say, `it's a gashly great unked place,' but i think there's some tin in it. look there and there!" he held up the lanthorn he carried close to the roof, which sparkled with little purply-black grains running in company with a reddish bloom, as if from rouge, amongst the bright quartz of the tunnel. "oh, never mind the tin," cried joe. "pray, pray go on; we're losing time." "yes, make haste," said gwyn. "we'd better keep straight along here, and stop and shout at every opening or turning." "yes, that will be right," said joe. "only do keep on. my father is so weak from his illnesses, that i'm afraid he has broken down. i ought not to have let him come." the words seemed strangely incongruous, and made gwyn glance at his companion; but it was the tender nurse speaking, who had so often waited upon the major through his campaign-born illnesses, and there was no call for mirth. onward they went along the rugged tunnel, which wound and zigzagged in all directions, the course of the ancient miners having been governed by the track of the lode of tin; and soon after they came to where a vein had run off to their left, and been laboriously cut out with chisel, hammer, and pick. they shouted till the echoes they raised whispered and died away in the distance; but there was nothing to induce them to stay, and they went on again, to pause directly after by an opening on their right, where they again shouted in turn till they were hoarse, and once more went on to find branch after branch running from the main trunk, if main trunk it was; but all efforts were vain, and an hour must have gone by, nearly a quarter of which, at the last, had been here and there along the rugged gallery, without encountering a branch which showed where another vein had been followed. it was very warm, and the slippery moisture of the place produced a feeling of depression that was fast ripening into despair. at first they had talked a good deal concerning the probabilities of the exploring party coming out into the main trunk from one of the branches they had passed, but, as gwyn said, they dared not reckon upon this, and must keep on now they were there. and at last they went trudging on almost in silence, the tramping of their feet and the quaint echoes being all that was heard, while three black shadows followed after them along the rugged floor, like three more explorers watching to see which way they went. all at once the silence was broken by joe, who cried in a sharp, angry way,-- "stop! your candle's going out." gwyn stopped without turning, opened the door of the lanthorn, and uttered an ejaculation. "quite true," he said; "burned right down. i'll put in another candle." the box was opened, a fresh one taken out, its loose wick burned and blown off in sparks, and then it was lit and stuck in the molten grease of the socket. "you had better have another candle in yours, dinass," said joe; and he watched gwyn's actions impatiently, while the lad carefully trimmed the wick, and waited till the grease of the socket cooled enough to hold the fresh candle firm. "now," said joe, "you ought to give another good shout here before we start again." there was no reply. "well, did you hear what was said?" cried gwyn, closing and fastening his lanthorn. still there was no answer. "here, tom dinass," cried gwyn, raising his lanthorn, as he turned to look back; "why don't you do what you're told?" his answer was a sudden snatch at his arm by joe, who clung to it in a fierce way. "what's the matter? aren't you well? oh, i say, you must hold up now. here, tom dinass." "gone!" gasped joe, in a low whisper, full of horror. "gone? nonsense! he was here just now." "no. it's ever so long since he spoke to us. gwyn, he has gone back and left us." "left us? what, alone here!" faltered gwyn, as the grey, sparkling roof seemed to revolve before his eyes. "yes, alone here, gwyn! ydoll, old chap, it's horrible. can we ever find our way back?" chapter twenty six. to the bitter end. if ever an awful silence fell upon two unfortunate beings, it was upon those lads, deep down in the strange mazes of the ancient mine. for some moments neither could speak, but each stood gazing at his companion, with the two shadows strangely mingled upon the rugged, faintly-glittering wall. joe was the first to speak again, for his passionately-uttered question was not answered. "he warned us to beware of the holes and places, and he must have slipped down one." "not he," said gwyn, bitterly, as he stood scowling into the darkness. "he warned us when he was making up his mind to hang back and leave us. a miserable coward!" "you think that?" "i'm sure of it. a sneak! a miserable hound! oh, how could anyone who calls himself a man act like this!" "perhaps he is close at hand after all. let's try," cried joe, and he uttered a long piercing hail, again and again, but with no other result than to raise the solemn echoes, which sounded awe-inspiring, and so startling, that the lad ceased, and gazed piteously at his companion. "feel scared, joe?" said gwyn at last. joe nodded. "so do i. it's very cowardly, of course, but the place is so creepy and strange." "yes; let's get back. we can't do any more, can we?" gwyn made no reply, but stood with his brows knit, staring straight before him into the darkness beyond the dim halo cast by the lanthorn. "why don't you speak? say something," cried joe, half hysterically; but, though gwyn's lips moved, no sounds came. "gwyn!" cried joe again, "say something. what's the good of us two being mates if we don't try to help each other?" "i was trying to help you," said gwyn at last, in a strange voice he hardly knew as his own; "but i was thinking so much i couldn't speak--i couldn't get out a word." "well, think aloud. keep talking, or i shall go mad." "with fright?" said gwyn, slowly. "i don't know what it is, but i feel as if i can't bear it. say something." "well, that's just how i feel, and i want to get over it, but i can't." there was another pause, and then, as if in a rage with himself, gwyn burst out,-- "we're not babies just woke up in the dark, and ready to call for our mothers to help us." "i called for mine to help me, though you could not hear," said joe, simply; and his words sounded so strangely impressive that gwyn uttered a sound like a gasp. "what is there to be afraid of?" he cried passionately. "we ought to be savagely angry, and ready to feel that we could half kill that cowardly hound for forsaking us like this. i know what you feel, joe; that we must hurry back as fast as we can to the foot of the shaft, and shout to them to haul us out." "but do you really think tom dinass has sneaked away?" "i'm sure he has, out of spite because he was forced to come; and when we got back he would be one of the first to grin and sneer at us. i want to run back as fast as i can, but you'll stand by me, won't you?" "of course i will." "i know that, old chap. well, what did we come for?" "you know; to try and find them." "yes, and i'm getting better now. i couldn't help feeling scared. we're alone here, but we won't give up. we've got to find them somehow, and we will. i sha'n't turn back, for mother's sake. how could i go and tell her i came down to try and find them, and was afraid to go on in the dark!" "do you mean it?" said joe, whose face was of a ghastly white. "yes; and you won't turn like you did on the ladder?" "no." "there was something to be afraid of then, but there isn't now." "no," said joe, with a gasp. "we've got a light and can avoid any pit-holes; the water has all been pumped out, and there are only the pools we passed here and there. nothing can hurt us here, for the roof won't fall; it's too strong, cut all through the rock as it is." "yes, but if we go on and lose ourselves as they have done--" "well, we must find our way again; and if we can't we must wait till somebody comes." "here! alone?" "we sha'n't be alone, because we're together." "but do you think anyone would come?" "do you think all those men would stop hanging about the mouth, knowing we're lost, and not come and help us? i don't." "no. englishmen wouldn't do that," said joe, slowly. "let's go on. i'm not so scared now, but it is very horrible and lonely. suppose the light went out." "well, we'd strike a match, and start another candle." "ah, you've got some matches then?" "yes; a whole box. no, i haven't; not one." "ydoll!" cried joe in a despairing voice. "but we've got plenty of candles, and we'll take care to keep them alight. now then, if we stand still we shall lose heart again. ready?" "yes." "come on, then;" and, setting his teeth and holding the lanthorn well above his eyes, gwyn led the way further into the solemn darkness of the newly dried-out mine. chapter twenty seven. reversal of position. the afternoon had glided by, and evening was approaching fast, as the men gathered about the mouth of the mine sat and chatted over the place and its prospects. work had been suspended for the greater part of the day, to allow the owners to make an inspection, and the men held quite a discussion meeting as to how matters would prove. some were of opinion that they would have perhaps a few weeks' work, and then be dismissed; but among those who took the opposite view was harry vores, the miner who had behaved so well that day. "i don't think it will be so," he said. "this is a gashly old mine; and depend upon it when it was worked they didn't get half out of it. i begin to think that we shall soon find a lot; more men will be wanted; and i hope it will be so, for the pluck these two gentlemen have shown. we want a few more good mines to be going in the country, for things have been bad enough lately." others took his side, and as the time went on and there was no signal from the bottom of the shaft, that was discussed as well. "oh, they'll be all right," said harry vores. "the place is bigger than we thought; but we ought to have known, seeing what a sight of water was pumped out. they've only gone farther than they expected, and we shall be having them all up in a bunch directly." he had hardly uttered these words when the gong arranged for signalling gave three tings, and the engineer responded by standing by to hoist. another signal was sent up, and the wheel began to revolve, the wire rope tightened, and the empty skep descended. "won't bring 'em all up at once, will you, mate?" said harry vores. "no; two lots," said the engineer; and the men all eagerly gathered round the place to see the explorers of a mine which had not been entered probably for hundreds of years when they came up, and to learn what report they would have to give of the prospects of the place. the rope ran over the wheel almost silently, for the work had been well done; and as they were waiting, grip, who had passed the greater part of his time watching the place where he had seen his master disappear, grew more and more excited. he kept on bursting into loud fits of barking till the ascending skep appeared, when he bounded away among the men, barking, snarling and growling savagely, for the only occupant of the skep was dinass. "hullo!" cried vores, as the man stepped out, muddy and wet, with his cheeks reddened by the minerals which had discoloured his hands, and looking as if he had rubbed his face from time to time. "hullo, to you," he said sourly; and he sat down at once upon a rough bench, with the water slowly dripping from his legs and boots. "where are the young guv'nors? lie down, dog!" "young guv'nors?" said dinass, looking wonderingly round as he slowly took the lanthorn from where it swung from his waist by a strap. "yes, where are they?" cried vores. "how should i know?" growled dinass. "aren't they up here?" "here? no; we haven't seen them since they went down with you," cried vores. "more aren't i, hardly; i thought they'd come up again." "come up again!" cried the miner, as a low murmur arose from the men around. "you don't mean to say that you've come up and left them two poor boys in the lurch!" "lurch be hanged!" cried dinass, fiercely, and now subsiding with a groin, as it he were in pain. "it's them left me in the lurch. they started a game on me; i saw 'em whispering together, but i didn't think it meant anything till we'd got some ways in, and my candle wanted a bit o' snuffing to make it burn; so i kneels down and opens the lanthorn, and it took a bit o' time, for i wetted my thumb and finger to snuff it, and the wick spluttered after, and the light went out. course i had my box o' matches, but it took ever so long to light the damp wick. at last, though, i got it to burn, but it went out again; and i turns to them, where they was waiting for me when i see 'em last. `give's a fresh candle, sir,' i says, `for this here one won't burn.' but there was no answer. so i spoke louder, never thinking they was playing me any larks, but there was no answer; and i shouted, and there was no answer; and last of all i regularly got the horrors on me, for i was all alone." "well?" said vores, scornfully, "what then?" "oh, then i begun wandering about in the dark banks and lanes, shouting and hollering, and going half mad. it's a horrid place, and i must have gone about for miles before i found my way back to the sumph, and nearly fell into it. but haven't they come up again?" "no," said vores, who had stepped up and opened the lanthorn as the man went on talking. "but how was it, when your candle wouldn't light again, that it's all burnt down in the socket?" "oh, i did get it to light at last of all," said dinass; "but i had to burn all my matches first, and hadn't one left for a pipe." "but you said you went about all in the dark." "yes, that was afterwards, and it soon burned out." "soon burned out!" cried vores, fiercely. "look here, mates; this fellow's a stranger here, and i don't know why he should have been set over us, for he's a liar, that's what he is. he didn't want to go down, and as soon as he could he hung back, and let those two poor boys go on all by themselves." "what!" cried dinass, as a murmur arose; "it's you that's the liar;" and he rose scowling. "dessay i am," said vores as fiercely; "but i'm a honest sort of liar, if i am, and not a coward and a sneak, am i, lads?" "nay, that you aren't, harry vores," cried another miner. "we'll all say that." "ay! shame, shame!" cried the miners. "i'll lay a halfpenny he's been waiting at the bottom of the shaft all the time, and then come up." "get out of the way," roared vores, "this is men's work, not cowards'. here, lads, come on, we must go and fetch those boys up at once." he gave dinass a heavy thrust with his hand as he spoke, and the man staggered back against grip, who retaliated by seizing him by the leg of the trousers and hanging on till he was kicked away. but this incident was hardly noticed, for the men were busily arming themselves with lanthorns and candles ready for the descent. "four of us'll be enough," said vores, every man present having come forward to descend. "perhaps tom dinass, esquire, would like to go too, though. if so, we can make room for him." there was a roar of laughter at this, and dinass glared round at the men, as he stood holding one leg resting on the bench, as if it had been badly bitten by the dog. "ready?" cried vores. "ay, ay," was answered. "come on, then, and let's get the boys up. dessay they've found their fathers before now." vores stepped to the skep and laid his hand on the rail just as the last lanthorn was lit and snapped to, when there was the sharp ting on the gong again--the signal from below--and the men gave a hearty cheer. "give another, my lads," cried vores; and instead of taking their places in the empty skep, the men stood round and saw it descend, while they watched the other portion of the endless wire rope beginning to ascend steadily with its burden. "i wouldn't stand in your boots for a week's wage, my lad," said vores, banteringly, as he looked to where dinass stood, still resting his leg on the bench and holding it. "you mind your own business," he growled. "ay, to be sure, mate; but when a brother workman's in trouble it is one's business to help him. you're in trouble now. like a man to run and get a doctor to see to that hole the dog made in your trousers?" there was a roar of laughter. "don't grin, mates," said vores; "they're nearly a new pair, and there's a hole made in the leg. he thinks it's in his skin." there was another roar of laughter which made dinass look viciously round, his eyes lighting sharply on the dog, which had gone close up to the opening where the skep would rise, and kept on whining anxiously. "smells his master," said vores; and the dog then uttered a sharp bark as the top of the skep appeared with the link and iron bands attached to the wire rope. then, to the surprise of all, colonel pendarve, the major, and sam hardock stepped wearily out, their trousers wet, their mackintoshes and flannels discoloured, and their faces wet with perspiration. "here you are, then, gentlemen," said vores; "we thought you were lost. the young gents are waiting to come up, i s'pose." "young gents?--waiting to come up?" cried the colonel, who had just looked round with a disappointed air at not seeing his son waiting. "what do you mean?" "we all got tired o' waiting, and scared at your being so long, sir; and the young gents went down with tom dinass to seek for you." "what? i don't understand you," cried the colonel, excitedly. "dinass is here." "yes, sir, he come up," said vores; "but--the young gents are down still." "my son--my son--down that place!" cried the colonel, while the major uttered a groan. "yes, sir, and we were just going down to search for 'em when you come up." "horrible!" groaned the major. "the place is a dreadful maze," cried the colonel; "we were lost, and have had terrible work to find our way up. you're quite exhausted, jollivet. stay here. now, my lads; volunteers: who'll come down?" "all on us, sir," said vores, sturdily; "they've got to be found." "thank you," cried the colonel, excitedly; and the look of exhaustion died out of his face. "but you, dinass--they say you went down with them. why are you here?" "'cause they give me the slip, sir. for a lark, i suppose." "when they were in great anxiety about their fathers?" cried the colonel, scornfully. "do you dare to tell me such a lie as that? explain yourself at once. quickly, for i have no time to spare." it was the stern officer speaking now, with his eyes flashing; and literally cowed by the colonel's manner, and in dead silence, dinass blundered through his narrative again, but with the addition of a little invention about the way in which his young companions had behaved. "bah!" roared the colonel at last; "that will do. i see you turned poltroon and shrank back, to leave them to go on by themselves. man, man! if you hadn't the honest british pluck in you to go, why didn't you stay up?" "'cause he funked it at fust, sir," said vores; "but then, being second after sam hardock, we said it was his dooty, and made him go!" "bah! he is of no use now. hah! you have candles ready, i see. how many will the skep take?" "six on us, sir," said vores. "follow me, then, some of you," said the colonel. "hardock, you're fagged out, and had better stay." "what! and leave them boys down there lost, sir?" cried hardock, sharply. "not me." "then head a second party; i'll go on with five." "right you are, sir," said hardock. "down with you, then; and we'll soon be after you. will someone give me a tin o' water?" two men started up to supply his wants, as the colonel and his party stepped into the skep to stand closely packed--too closely for grip to find footing; and as the great bucket descended, the dog threw up his muzzle and uttered a dismal howl. "quickly as you can," shouted the colonel, as the skep went down; but the engineer shook his head. "nay," he said to the remaining men present; "none o' that, my lads: slow and steady's my motter for this job. one reg'lar rate and no other." in due time the other skep came to the surface, and hardock, with a lump of bread in his hand and a fresh supply of candles and matches, stepped in, to be followed by five more, ready to dare anything in the search for the two lads; but once more poor grip was left behind howling dismally, while tom dinass nursed his leg and glared at him with an evil eye. chapter twenty eight. down in the depths. "you lead with the lanthorn, hardock," said the colonel, as the man and his companions stepped out of the second skep and had to wade knee-deep for a few yards from the bottom of the shaft, the road lying low beneath the high, cavernous entrance to the mine, at one side of which a tiny stream of clear water was trickling. there the bottom began to rise at the same rate as the roof grew lower; and soon they were, if not on dry land, walking over a floor of damp, slimy rock. "keep straight on, sir?" said the captain. "yes, right on. they would not have entered the side gallery, or we should have met them as we came out." the first side gallery, a turning off to the left, was reached, and, but for the fact that the colonel's party had strayed into that part by accident, it would have been passed unseen, as it was by the boys and dinass, for the entrance was so like the rock on either side, and it turned off at such an acute angle, that it might have been passed a hundred times without its existence being known. the men were very silent, but they kept on raising their lanthorns and glancing at the roof and sides as they tramped on behind the colonel. "there's good stuff here," whispered vores to his nearest companion. "yes, i've been noticing," was the reply. "it's a fine mine, and there's ore enough to keep any number of us going without travelling far." "yes," said vores. "worked as they used to do it in the old days, when they only got out the richest stuff." just then hardock stopped, and, upon the others closing up, they found themselves at an opening on the right--one which struck right back, and, like the other, almost invisible to anyone passing with a dim light. "shall we give a good shout here, sir?" said hardock. "yes," was the reply; and the men hailed as with one voice, sending a volume of sound rolling and echoing down the passage of the main road and along its tributary. then all stood silent, listening to the echoes which died away in the distance, making some of the experienced miners, accustomed as they were to such underground journeys, shiver and look strange. "vasty place, mate," whispered vores to hardock, after they had all hailed again and listened vainly for a reply. "vasty?" said hardock. "ay! the gashly place is like a great net, and seems to have no end." "forward," said the colonel. "no, stop. we have plenty of candles, have we not?" "yes, sir, heaps," was the reply. "light one, then, and stick it in a crevice of the rock here at the corner." while the man was busily executing the order, the colonel took out his pocket-book, wrote largely on a leaf, "gone in search of you. wait till we return," and tore it out to place it close to the candle where the light could shine on the white scrap of paper. then on they went again, with the experienced miners talking to one another in whispers, as with wondering eyes they took note of the value of the traces they kept on seeing in the rugged walls of the main gallery they traversed--tokens hardly heeded by the two boys in their anxiety to gain tidings of their fathers. "it's going to be a grand place, my son," whispered vores; "and only to think of it, for such a mine to have lain untouched ever since the time of our great-great-gaffers--great-great-great-great, ever so many great-gaffers, and nobody thinking it worth trying." "ay, but there must have been some reason," said the other. "bah! old women's tales about goblin sprites and things that live underground. we never saw anything uglier than ourselves, though, did we, all the years we worked in mines?" "nay, i never did," said the man who walked beside vores; "but still there's no knowing what may be, my lad, and it seems better to hold one's tongue when one's going along in the dark in just such a place as strange things might be living in." hardock stopped where another branch went off at a sharp angle, his experienced eyes accustomed to mines and dense darkness, making them plain directly; and here another shout was sent volleying down between the wet gleaming walls, to echo and vibrate in a way which sounded awful; but when the men shouted again the echoes died away into whispers, and then rose again more wildly, but only to die finally into silence. without waiting for an order, hardock lit and fixed another candle against the glittering wall of the mine passage, the colonel wrote on a slip of paper, and this too was placed where it must be seen; but the colonel hesitated as if about to alter the wording. "no," he said, "i dare not tell them to make for the sumph, they might lose their way. you feel sure that you can bring us back by here, hardock?" the man was silent for a few moments, and then he spoke in a husky voice. "no, sir," he said, "i can't say i am. i think i can, but i thought so this morning. the place is all a puzzle of confusion, and it's so big. next time we come down i'll have a pail of paint and a brush, and paint arrows pointing to the foot of the shaft at every turn. but i'll try my best." "ay, we'll all try, sir," said harry vores. "forward!" cried the colonel, abruptly; and once more they went on till all at once, after leaving candle after candle burning, they reached a part where the main lode seemed to have suddenly broken up into half-a-dozen, each running in a different direction, and spreading widely, the two outer going off at very obtuse angles. here they paused, unconscious of the fact that they had passed the spot, only a couple of hundred yards back, where the boys had made their heroic resolve to go on. "let me see," said the colonel, excitedly; "it was the third passage from the left that we took this morning." hardock raised his lanthorn and stared vacantly in his employer's face. "no, sir, no," he cried breathlessly; "the third coming from the right." "no, no, you are wrong. the third from the left; i counted them this morning--six of these branches. why, hardock, there are seven of them now." "yes, sir, seven, and that one running from the right-hand one makes eight. i did not see those two this morning by our one lanthorn. there are--yes--eight." "what are we all to do? my head is growing hopelessly confused." he gazed piteously at hardock, who seemed to be in a like hopeless plight, suffering as they both were from exhaustion. "i--i'm not sure, sir, now. we went in and out of so many galleries, all ending just the same, that i'm afraid i've lost count." "oh, hardock! hardock!" groaned the colonel, "this is horrible. we must not break down, man. try and think; oh, try and think. remember that those two boys are lost, and they are wandering helplessly in search of us. they will go on and on into the farther recesses of this awful place, and lie down at last to die--giving their lives for ours. there, there, i am babbling like some idiot. forward, my men; there is no time to lose. we must find them." "yes, sir; we must find them," cried hardock; "which passage shall we take?" "stop a moment," said the colonel, in a voice which seemed to have suddenly grown feeble; and he signed to the mining captain to light a candle and place it where they stood, while he tremblingly wrote on another leaf of his pocket-book,-- "make for the pit-shaft." he tore out the leaf, and the men noticed how his hand trembled; and he stood waiting for it to be taken by hardock, who had sunk on his knees and was holding the candle sidewise, so that a little of the grease might drip into a crack where he meant to stick the candle close to the side. hardock groaned as he rose and took the paper, staggering as he stooped again to place it by the candle. but he recovered his steadiness again directly, and looked, to the colonel for orders. "which branch, sir?" he said. "the largest," said the colonel in a hollow voice; "it is the most likely because it goes nearly straight. forward then." they obeyed in silence, and for another couple of hours they went on, finding the gallery they had taken branch and branch again and again; but though they sent shout after shout, there was no reply but those given by the echoes, and they went on again, still leaving burning candles at each division of the way. then all at once, as the colonel was writing his directions on the pocket-book leaf, vores saw the pencil drop from his hand; the book followed, and he reeled and would have fallen had not the miner caught him and lowered him gently to the rocky floor. "i knew it, i knew it," groaned hardock. "he was dead beat when we got back, for we've had an awful day. it's only been his spirit which has kept him up. and now i'm dead beat, too, for i had to almost carry the major when we were nearly back. it's like killing him to rouse him to go on again. harry vores, you're a man who can think and help when one's in trouble. there's miles and miles of this place, and the more we go on the more tangled up it gets. which way are we going now:-- east, west, north, or south? of course, nobody knows." "what's that?" cried vores, for a low deep murmur came upon their ears, and was repeated time after time. "i know; water falling a long way off. then that's how it was so much had to be pumped out." "yes," said hardock; "that's water, sure enough. i thought i heard it this morning. but look here, what shall, we do--carry the colonel forward or go back?" there was no reply; but the murmur, as of water falling heavily at a great distance, came once more to their ears. chapter twenty nine. the position darkens. "isn't a flood coming to sweep us away, is it?" said vores, in a low voice full of the awe he felt. "nay, that's no flood," said hardock. "there'll be no flood, lads, that i can't master with my pumping gear. now, look here, all of you; i want to try and find those boys, but we can't carry the guv'nor farther in. what do you all say?" the men gathered round him, a weird-looking company with their lanthorns, turned to vores as their spokesman, and the latter took off his hat and wiped his streaming brow. "and i want to find those two poor lads," he said; "but i want to go back, for it's turrerble work searching a place that you don't know, and in which you seem to lose your way. it's just madness to go on carrying the guv'nor with us; and the captain here is dead beat, so it's nonsense to let him go on." "then what must we do?" said hardock, who looked quite exhausted. "'vide into two parties," said vores. "one, headed by sam hardock, 'll take the guv'nor back to grass; t'other party, all volunteers, 'll choose a leader and go on searching till a fresh gang comes down and brings some grub for 'em. that's all i can say. if some 'un 'll make a better plan i'd be glad to hear it and follow it out." there was a dead silence, during which every man thought of the frank lads, who had won the hearts of those who knew them, but no one spoke. "well, boys," said hardock at last, "has anyone anything to say? as for me, i don't feel like sneaking out of it; i think i'll be for leading the search-party if anyone volunteers." "oh, some on us'll volunteer," said one of the men. "i don't feel like going home to my supper and bed--to can't eat, and to can't sleep for thinking of those two merry lads as i've often gone out to fish with and shared their dinner with 'em. not me. i'll volunteer." "same here, my lads," said vores; "i'm with you. that's two of us. anyone else say the word?" "ay!--ay!--ay!" quite a chorus of `ays' broke out as the miners volunteered to a man. "well done," cried vores, "that's hearty; i feel just as if i'd had a good meal, and was fresh as a daisy. but we can't all stay. sam hardock, how many do you want to help carry the guv'nor back?" "three twos," said hardock, "for i'm no use yet. i can only just carry myself." "that's seven then, so pick your men and we'll stay, five of us, and find the lads somehow." "i say that harry vores leads us," said the man who had first volunteered. "hear, hear!" was chorused, and a few minutes only elapsed before hardock had chosen his party and turned to raise the colonel, to go back. "what's limpet-shells and sand doing down here?" said vores, as he held a lanthorn to light the men. "forsils," said hardock, glancing at a couple vores had picked up. "nay, they aren't stony shells," said vores. "i know; they used to eat 'em, and they're some the old chaps as did the mining brought down for dinner." "ready?" said hardock. "ay, ay," cried the men, who had made what children call a dandy chair with their hands, and supported the colonel, whose arms were placed about their necks. "then as he says, and i wish i could hear him say it now, `forward!'" the men started, and hardock turned to vores. "seems like acting tom dinassy, my lad," he said bitterly. "i don't feel as if i could go." "do you want to get up a row?" said vores, sourly. "be off and look after the guv'nor; don't stop putting us chaps out of heart and making us think you jealous of me doing your work." hardock held out his hand to his fellow-workman. "thank ye, my lad," he said. "go on, then, and take care. i've kept just enough candle to last us to the shaft foot; don't go farther than you can find your way out." "we're going to find those two boys," said vores through his set teeth. "by-and-by, if we don't come back, you send a fresh shift, and let 'em bring us some prog and some blankets; but i'm hoping you'll find them up at grass when you get there. now off you go, and so do we." they parted without another word, and the next minute the dim light of the lanthorns borne by the men were dying away in two directions--the party bearing the colonel progressing slowly till he recovered himself somewhat and ordered them to stop. "nay, sir, there's no need," said hardock; "we keep on taking you in three shifts, and can go on for long enough." "thank you, my lads, thank you," said the colonel; "but i am better now. anxiety and fatigue were too much for me. i'm stronger, and can walk." "nay, sir, you can better ride." "if i am overdone again i will ask you to carry me," said the colonel. "i am not a wounded man, my lads; only at the heart," he added bitterly to himself. "how am i to face his mother if he is not found?" they set him down, and he walked on slowly for a few hundred yards; but after that one of the men saw him display a disposition to rest, and in his rough way offered his arm. "may help you a bit, sir, like a walking stick," said the man, with a smile. "thank you, my lad. god bless you for your kindness," said the colonel as he took the man's arm; and they went on again for some time till far ahead there was the faint gleam of a light reflected from the wet granite rock, and the colonel uttered a cry-- "ah! quick! quick! my poor boys! at last! at last!" he hastened his steps, and the men exchanged glances and then looked at hardock, expecting him to speak. but hardock felt choking, and remained silent as they went on, till, turning about an angle in the zigzagging gallery, they came suddenly upon a nearly burned-out candle stuck against the wall, and beneath it, plainly to be seen, one of the leaves of the colonel's pocket-book. it was some moments before the old officer spoke, for the finding of the light confused him. "why, what's this?" he said, in an agitated voice; "you have taken some turning by mistake, and worked round to the way we came. then very likely my poor boys have done the same, and found their way out by now." no one spoke. "don't you think so, my lads?" still no one answered; and now he began to grasp the truth. "why, what's this?" he cried angrily. "surely you men have not dared-- have not been such cowards--as to turn back! halt!" the last word was uttered in so commanding a tone of voice that the little party stopped as one man. "hardock! explain yourself, sir. did you dare to change the arrangements during my temporary indisposition?" "beg your pardon, sir, you were completely beat out, and we felt that we must carry you back to the shaft." "what insolence!" roared the colonel. "right about face. forward once more. but," he added bitterly, "if any man among you is too cowardly to help me, he can go back." he turned and strode off into the darkness, and hardock followed just in time to catch him as he reeled and snatched at the side of the gallery to save himself from falling. "you can't do it, sir, you can't do it," said hardock, with his voice full of the rough sympathy he felt. "we did it all for the best. we'd have carried you farther in, but it seemed like so much madness, and so we decided. part's gone on with harry vores, and we're going to send in another shift as soon as we get back." the colonel looked at him despairingly, for he knew that the man's words were true, and that it would be impossible to go on. "we did what we thought were right, sir," continued hardock; "and it's quite likely that the young gents have got safely back by now." the colonel made no reply, but suffered himself to be led back to where the men were waiting, and then, growing more helpless minute by minute, he was conducted, after a long and toilsome task, which included several pauses to rest, to the foot of the shaft. the water had increased till it was nearly knee-deep when they waded to where the skep was waiting, and the colonel was half fainting from exhaustion; but the feeling that the boys might be safely back revived him somewhat, and he strove hard to maintain his composure as they all stepped in, the signal was given, and they began to rise. but he was hanging heavily upon the arm of one of the men before the mouth of the shaft was reached, and he looked dazed and confused, feeling as if in a dream, when the engineer cried,-- "well, found 'em?" "then they've not come back?" said hardock. the colonel heard no more, but just as his senses left him he was conscious of a trembling hand being thrust into his, and a voice saying,-- "our poor lads, pendarve; can nothing more be done?" something more could be done, for the work-people about the place-- carpenters, smiths and miners--volunteered freely enough; and in the course of the night two more gangs went down, and vores and his party gave them such advice as they could, after returning utterly wearied out; but it became more and more evident that the lads had either fallen down some smaller shaft, as yet undiscovered, in one of the side drifts of the mine, or wandered right away--how far none could tell until the place had been thoroughly explored. and at this time anxious watchers in the shed over the mouth of the mine had been recruited by the coming of one who said little, her pale, drawn face telling its own tale of her sufferings as she sat there, ready to start at every sound, and spring up excitedly whenever the signal was given for the skep to be raised. but there was no news, and she always shrank back again, to seat herself in a corner of the shed, as if desirous of being alone, and to avoid listening to the words of comfort others were eager to utter. "not a word, jollivet, not a word," whispered the colonel once during the horrors of that long-drawn night. "she has not spoken, but her eyes are so full of reproach, and they seem to keep on asking me why i could not be content without plunging into all the excitement and trouble connected with this mine." the major groaned. "don't you look at me like that," said the colonel, appealingly. "i am doing everything i can; and as soon as i can stir, i will head a party to go right on as far as the mine extends." chapter thirty. in darkness. gwyn pendarve opened his eyes, feeling sore and in grievous pain. a sharp point seemed to be running into his side, and he was hurting his neck, while one shoulder felt as if it had become set, so that, though it ached terribly, he could not move. he did not know how it was or why it was, for all was confused and strange; and he lay trying to puzzle out clearly why caer point light should be revolving so quickly, now flashing up brightly, and now sinking again till all was nearly dark. it seemed very strange, for he had often looked out to sea on dark nights, over to where the great lighthouse stood up on the jagger rock ten miles away, seeing the light increase till it seemed like a comet, whose long, well-defined tail slowly swept round over the sea till it was hidden by the back of the lanthorn, and he waited till it flashed out again; but it had never given him pains in the body before, neither could he recall that it smelt so nasty, just like burnt mutton-chops. that was the strangest part of it, for he remembered when the fishermen sailed over there with them so that they could have some conger fishing off the rocks, the light keepers took them round, and among other things showed them the store-room in the lower part of the building, where the great drums of crystal oil for trimming the lamps were lifted into the tank. yes, of course they burned paraffin oil in the great optical lanthorn; but though it was tremendously hot there, when the light was in full play, there was scarcely any odour, while now it smelt of burnt mutton fat. gwyn could not make it out. there, in the far distance, was the light, now flashing out brightly, now dying; out into darkness, smelling horribly, making him very hot, and giving him all those aching pains from which he was suffering. there was another problem, too, that he had to solve; why was it that a lighthouse lanthorn ten miles away on a dark night should make him so hot that the perspiration stood out all over his face, and the collar of his shirt was soaked? why was it?--why was it? he puzzled and puzzled in a muddled way, but seemed to get no nearer the solution. there was the light still coming and going and smelling badly, and making him so hot that he felt as if he could not breathe. then the solution came like a flash, which lit up his mind just as all was black darkness; and in spite of the agony he felt as soon as he moved, he started up into a sitting posture, and then made for the light. for he knew now that it was not the lighthouse lanthorn on jagger rock ten miles away, but the common lanthorn he had brought down into the mine some time before, and set about ten feet off, where it could not be kicked over when they turned over in their sleep--the sleep into which he had plunged at once as if into a stupor. it was from this stupor that he had now awakened to turn from the sultry heat of the mine, chilled to the heart with horror, for the fresh candle he had lit had burned down into the socket, and was giving the final flickers before going out, and they had not a match to strike and light another. stretching out his trembling hands, he felt in the black darkness for the lanthorn, touched it after two or three ineffectual trials, and snatched it back, feeling his fingers burnt, just as the light gave a final flare, the jar of his touch upon the lanthorn being sufficient to quench the tiny flame. in the horror of the moment gwyn uttered a loud cry, and the result was a quick movement close at hand, followed by a voice saying,-- "yes, father, all right. i'll get up and fetch it. is the pain so bad?" gwyn tried to speak, but no words came. "did you call, father?" there was perfect silence in the stifling place, and joe jollivet spoke again, drowsily now. "must have dreamt it. but--hallo--oh, my back! what ever's the matter with it, and--here! hallo! what does it all mean? i must have been walking in my sleep." "oh, joe, joe!" cried his companion. "ydoll! you there? i say--what--what--where are we?" "don't you understand?--where we lay down when we could get no farther." there was the sound of some one drawing a long gasping breath, and then silence again, till joe spoke in a piteous voice. "i was dreaming that father was taken ill in the night, and he called me. oh, ydoll, old chap, my head feels so queer. then we haven't found them? i don't feel as if i could recollect anything. it's all black like. we came down to find them, didn't we?" "yes," said gwyn, "and walked till you stumbled and fell." "i did? yes, i recollect now. i was regularly beaten. we came such a long way for hours and hours. then we've both been to sleep?" "i suppose so." "but why is it so dark?" "the candle i set up burned out." "well, light another. you have some more." "what am i to light one with?" groaned gwyn. "oh! i'd forgotten," cried joe, piteously, "you've no matches." "no, i've no matches." "but you had some, i know--you had a box; feel in your pockets again." there was a faint rustling sound as in obedience to his companion's imperative words, gwyn felt in each pocket vainly, and then uttered a sigh like a groan. "no, no, no!" he cried, "there is a hole in my pocket, and the box must have gone through." "oh," cried joe, angrily; "how could i be such a fool as to trust you to carry them?" "you mean how could you be such a fool as to come without a box yourself," said gwyn, bitterly. "yes, that's it, i suppose. here, i know--we must strike a light from the rock with the backs of our knives." "what for?" said gwyn, bitterly. "where are the tinder and matches?" joe uttered a sigh, and they both relapsed into silence once more. "what are we to do?" said joe, at last. "it is horrible, horrible to be in this black darkness. say something, ydoll--we can't lie down here and die." "we can't go on in the black darkness," said gwyn, bitterly. "we must feel our way." "and suppose we come to some hole and go down?" joe drew his breath sharply through his teeth as he winced at the horrible idea. "better lie down again and go to sleep," said gwyn, despondently. "we can do no more." "lie down till they come with lights and find us?" "yes," said gwyn, who gathered courage from these words of hope. "it's of no use to give up. father must have found his way out by this time. sam hardock knows so much about mines; he is sure not to be lost for long." "but if they don't find us? i'm so faint and hungry now i don't know what to do." "yes, i suppose what i feel is being hungry," sighed gwyn, "but we mustn't think about it. i say, how far do you think we wandered about yesterday?" "miles and miles and miles," said joe, dismally; "and for nothing at all but to lose ourselves. but i say, ydoll, it wasn't yesterday. we couldn't have slept long." "i felt as if i slept all night." "but we couldn't; because we only slept as long as our candle burned." "of course not. how stupid! but i'm so done up that my head doesn't seem as if it would go; let's lie down and go to sleep till they find us." "and perhaps that will be never. someone will find our bones, perhaps." "ha, ha!" cried gwyn, bursting into a mocking laugh. "we're a nice pair of miserable cowards! i did think you had more pluck in you, joe." "that's what i thought about you, ydoll." "so did i," said gwyn, frankly; "and all the time i'm as great a coward as you are. i say, though, doesn't it show a fellow up when he gets into trouble? can't show me up in the dark, though, can it?" "oh, i don't know; i only know i feel horribly miserable. let's go to sleep and forget it all." "sha'n't," shouted gwyn, making an effort over himself. "i won't be such a jolly miserable coward, and you sha'n't neither. we'll do something." "ay, it's all very well to talk, but what can we do?--cooey?" "no good, or i'd cooey loud enough to bring some of the stones down. i say, though, isn't it wonderful how solid it all is--no stones falling from the roof." "how could they fall when there are none to fall? isn't it all cut through the solid rock?" "humph! yes, i suppose so; but we have found scarcely anything to fall over." "no," said joe, sarcastically, "it's a lovely place. i wish the beastly old mine had been burnt before we had anything to do with it." "oh, i say, what a plucked 'un you are, joey. breaking down over a bit of trouble. i feel ever so much better now, for i'm sure the dad has found his way out." "i was thinking about my father." "well, so was i. my father wouldn't go out without yours. they're too good old chums to forsake one another; and you see if before long they don't both come with a lot of men carrying baskets--cold roast chicken, slices of ham, bread and butter, and a kettle and wood to light the fire and make some tea." "i say! don't, don't, don't," cried joe. "i was bad enough before, now you're making me feel savagely hungry. but i say, ydoll, do you really think they've got out?" "i'm sure of it." "and not lost themselves so that they won't be found till it's too late?" "get out! too late? they'll be all right, and so shall we; we're only lost for a bit in the dark, and we don't mind a bit. i don't now. i feel as plucky as a gamecock. and i say, joe." "well?" "tom dinass?" "what about him?--a beast!" "what we're going to do when we see the sneak again. i say, it won't be the first time we've had a set-to with him." "oh, i should like to--" "ah!" gwyn uttered a wild cry, as if something from out of the darkness had seized him; and as the cry went echoing down the long zigzag passage in which they were, joe uttered a gasp, and in spite of his desire to stand by his friend, dashed off from the unknown danger by which they were beset. chapter thirty one. gwyn gives it up. there came a dull sound out of the darkness, as if joe had struck against the wall of the mine; but he gave vent to no exclamation, and gwyn cried to him to stop. "where are you? don't run off like that, joe!--joe! where are you?" "here," said the lad, hoarsely. "what is it? what has hurt you?" "hurt me? i thought something had hurt you. what made you rush off?" "you shouted. what was it?" "enough to make me shout. where are you?" guided by their voices, the lads approached till they were close together. "now what was it?" panted joe, who was still trembling from the nervous alarm and shock. "give me your hand." joe obeyed shrinkingly, and felt it passed along the skirt of his companion's jacket. "feel it?" "yes, i feel something inside the lining. what is it--a box?" "yes, the matches. they got through the hole into the lining. wait till i get them out." this was only achieved with the help of a knife. "ah!" ejaculated the boy, as he at last dragged out the box, struck a match, and held it over his head to see where the candle-box had been laid; and then by quick manipulation he managed to get a wick well alight before the tiny deal splint was extinct. in his excitement and delight, joe clapped his hands as the candle was forced into the empty socket, and the lanthorn door closed. "oh, what a beautiful thing light is!" he cried. "and what a horrible thing darkness, at a time like this! there, one feels better, and quite rested. let's go on, and we may come to them at any time now." joe said nothing, for fear of damping his companion's spirits; but he knew that they were not rested--that they would soon be forced to stop; and as he gazed right away before them, and tried to pierce the gloom beyond the circle of light shed by the candle, the hopeless nature of their quest forced itself upon him more and more. but gwyn's spirits seemed to be now unnaturally high, and as they went on following the narrowed tunnels, and passing along such branches as seemed to be the most likely from their size, he held up the lanthorn to point out that the ore seemed to have been cut out for ten or twenty feet above their heads in a slanting direction. in another place he paused to look into a narrow passage that seemed to have been only just commenced, for there was glittering ore at the end, and the marks of picks or hammers, looking as if they had been lately made. "there's nothing to mind, joe," he said; "only i do want to get back to the shaft now." "then why not turn?" "we did, ever so long ago. don't you remember seeing that beginning of a passage as we came along?" "i remember stopping to look into two niches like this one but they were ever so far back, and we are still going on into the depths of the mine." "no, no; we took a turn off to the left soon after i lit the fresh candle, and we must be getting back towards the entrance." joe said nothing, but he felt sure that he was right; and they went on again till at the end of another lane gwyn stopped short. "i say, i felt sure we were going back. do you really believe that we are going farther in?" "i felt sure that we were a little while ago, but i am not so sure now, for one gets confused." "yes, confused," said gwyn, sadly. "we seem to have been constantly following turnings leading in all directions, and they're all alike, and go on and on. aren't you getting tired?" "horribly; but we mustn't think of that. let's notice what we see, so as to have something to tell them when we get home." "well, that's soon done; the walls are nearly all alike, and the passages run in veins, one of which the people who used to work here followed until they had got out all the ore, and then they opened others." "but the ore seems to be richer in some places than in others." "yes, and the walls seem wetter in some places than in others; and sometimes one crushes shells beneath one's feet, and there's quantities of sand." "but how far should you think we are now from the entrance?" "i don't know. miles and miles." "oh, that's exaggeration, for we've come along so slowly; and being tired makes you feel that it is a long way." they went on and on, at last, as if in a dream, following the winding and zigzagging passages, and speaking more and more seldom, till at last they found themselves in a place which they certainly had not seen before, for the mine suddenly opened out into a wide irregular hall, supported here and there by rugged pillars left by the miners; and now confusion grew doubly confused, for, as they went slowly around over the rugged, well-worn floor, and in and out among the pillars, they could dimly see that passages and shafts went from all sides. the roof sparkled as the light was held up, and they could note that in places the marks of the miners' picks and hammers still remained. roughly speaking, the place was about a hundred feet across, and the floor in the centre was piled up into a hillock, as if the ore that had been brought from the passages around had been thrown in a heap--for that it was ore, and apparently rich in quality, they were now learned enough in metallurgy to know. gwyn had a fancy that, this being a central position, if the party they sought were still in the mine they would be somewhere here; and he made joe start by hailing loudly, but raised so strange a volley of echoes that he refrained from repeating his cry, preferring to wait and listen for the answer which did not come. "it's of no use," he said; "let's turn back; they must have got out by now." "yes, i hope so; but what an awfully big place it is. i say, though, where was it we came in--by that passage, wasn't it?" gwyn looked in the direction pointed out, but felt certain that it was not correct. at the same time, though, he fully realised that he was quite at fault, for at least a dozen of the low tunnels opened upon this rugged, pillared hall, so exactly alike, and they had wandered about so much since they entered, and began to thread their way in and out among the pillars, that he stared blankly at joe in his weariness, and muttered despairingly,-- "i give it up." chapter thirty two. a novel nightmare. from that hour they both "gave it up"--in other words, resigned themselves in a hopeless weary way to their fate, and went on in an automatic fashion, resting, tramping on again over patches of sand and clean hard places where the rock had been worn smooth. the pangs of hunger attacked them more and more, and then came maddening thirst which they assuaged by drinking from one of the clear pools lying in depressions, the water tasting sweet and pure. from time to time the candles were renewed in the lanthorn, and the rate at which they burned was marked with feverish earnestness; and at last, in their dread of a serious calamity, it was arranged that one should watch while the other slept. in this way they would be sure of not being missed by a body of searchers who might come by and, hearing no sound, pass in ignorance of their position. gwyn kept the first watch, joe having completely broken down and begun to reel from side to side of the passage they were struggling along in a hopeless way; and when gwyn caught his arm to save him from falling, he turned and smiled at him feebly. "legs won't go any longer," he said gently; and, sinking upon his knees, he lay down on the bare rock, placed his hand under his face as he uttered a low sigh, and gwyn said quietly,-- "that's right; have a nap, and then we'll go on again." there was no reply, and gwyn bent over him and held the lanthorn to his face. "how soon anyone goes to sleep!" he said softly. "seems to be all in a moment." the boy stood looking down at his companion for a few moments, and then turned with the light to inspect their position. they were in a curve of one of the galleries formed by the extraction of the veins of tin ore, and there was little to see but the ruddy-tinted walls, sparkling roof, and dusty floor. a faint dripping noise showed him where water was falling from the roof, and in the rock a basin of some inches in depth was worn, from which he refreshed himself, and then felt better as he walked on for a hundred yards in a feeble, weary way, to find that which gave him a little hope, for the gallery suddenly began to run upward, and came to an end. "but it may only be the end of this part," muttered gwyn; "there are others which go on i suppose, but one can't get any farther here, and that's something." he walked back to where joe lay sleeping heavily, after convincing himself of the reason why the turning had come to an end where it did, for the vein had run upward, gradually growing thinner till, at some thirty feet up, as far as he could make out by his dim light, the men had ceased working, probably from the supply not being worth their trouble. joe was muttering in his sleep when gwyn reached his side, but for a time his words were unintelligible. then quite plainly he said,-- "be good for you, father. the mine will give you something to do, and then you won't have time to think so much of your old wounds." "and if he has got out safely and they never find us, this will be like a new wound for the poor old major to think about," mused gwyn. "how dreadful it is, and how helpless we seem! it's always the same; gallery after gallery, just alike, and that's why it's so puzzling. i wonder whether any of the old miners were ever lost here and starved to death." the thought was so horribly suggestive that the perspiration came out in great drops on the boy's face, and he glanced quickly to right and left, even holding up his lanthorn, fancying for the moment that he might catch sight of some dried-up traces of the poor unfortunates who had struggled on for days, as they had, and then sunk down to rise no more. "how horrible!" he muttered; "and how can joe lie there sleeping, when perhaps our fate may be like theirs?" but he had unconsciously started another train of thought which set him calculating, and took his attention from the imaginary horrors which had troubled him. "wandered about for days and days," he mused. "it seems like it, but that's impossible. it can't be much more than one, or we couldn't have kept on. we should have been starved to death. we couldn't have lived on water." he wiped his wet brow, and it seemed to him that the gallery they were in was not so stifling and hot, unless it was that he had grown weaker. still one thing was certain; he could breathe more freely. "getting used to it," he thought; and, putting down the lanthorn, he seated himself with his back close to the wall. joe slept heavily, and the lad looked at him enviously. "i couldn't sleep so peaceably as that," he said half aloud. "how can a fellow sleep when he doesn't know but what his father may be dying close by from starvation and weakness. it seems too bad." gwyn opened the lanthorn and found that the candle was half burned down, and for a moment he thought of setting up another in its place, for fear he should go to sleep and it should burn out. "be such a pity," he said, "we don't want light while we're asleep; only to wake up here in this horrible place is enough to drive anybody mad." then he closed the lanthorn again. "i sha'n't go to sleep," he muttered. "in too much trouble." and he began thinking in a sore, dreary way of his mother seated at home waiting for news of his father and of him. "it'll nearly kill her," he said. "but she'll like it for me to have come here in search of poor dad. it would have been so cowardly if i hadn't come, and she would have felt ashamed of me. yes, she'll like my dying like this." he paused, for his thoughts made him ponder. "we can't be going to die," he said to himself, "or we shouldn't be taking it all so easily and be so quiet and calm. if we felt that we really were going to die, we should be half mad with horror, and run shrieking about till we dropped in a fit. no," he said softly, "it isn't like that. people on board ship, when they know it's going to sink, all behave quite calmly and patiently. there was that ship that was being burned with the soldiers on board. they all stood up before their officers, waiting for the end, and went down at last like men. but i don't feel despairing like, and as if we were going to die." then he began to think of his peaceful home life, and of the days at school till about a year ago, when he had come home to study military matters with his father and major jollivet, prior to being sent to one of the military colleges in about a year's time. "and now this mining has altered everything," mused gwyn, "and--" he started violently, sprang up, and looked about him, for his name had been uttered loudly close to his ear. but all was still now, and a curious creepy sensation ran through him and made him shiver with apprehension--a strange, superstitious kind of apprehension, as if something invisible were close to him. "what a cowardly donkey!" he muttered, for his name was uttered again, and plainly enough it came from joe. "talking in his sleep; and i was ready to fancy it was something `no canny.' why i must have been dropping off to sleep, too, and it startled me into wakefulness. this won't do. sentries must not sleep at their posts." he began to do what the soldiers call "sentry go." but in a few minutes he grew so weary and hot that he was glad to stop by his sleeping companion, and stand looking down at him lying so peacefully there with his head upon his hand. "just as if he were in a feather bed and with a soft pillow under his cheek. wish i could lie down and have a nap for half-an-hour. i will, and then he can have another." gwyn bent down to waken his companion, who just then burst out with a merry laugh. "oh, i say, father, you shouldn't," he said. "just as if i didn't take care. it isn't--" "isn't what, joe?" said gwyn, softly. "the wrong bottle. you're always thinking i give you the wrong medicine, and saying it tastes different. hah!" he ended with a long deep sigh of content, and lay perfectly silent. "i can't wake him," muttered gwyn; and with a weary groan he seated himself once more, supporting his back against the side of the gallery, for he was too weak and tired to stand, and in an instant he was out in the bright sunshine, with the water making the boat he was in dance and the sail flap, as he glided along out of the cave into the open sea. then with a violent start he was awake again, drawing himself up and fighting hard against terrible odds, for nature said that he was completely exhausted, and must rest. and as he set his teeth and stared hard at the faintly glittering wall opposite, where the great vein of milk-white quartz was spangled with grains of tin, his head bowed down and dropped forward till his chin touched his chest. again he sprang up, to prop his head back against the rock, but it had been hacked away so that it curved over and seemed to join nature in her efforts to master him and force him to sleep, bending down his head and sending it in the old direction, so that his brow seemed heavier than lead, and he bent it lower and lower, while once more he was out on the glittering waters of the sea, the boat bounding rapidly along and all trouble at an end. for the darkness of the cavernous mine was gone, with all its weary horrors--there was nothing to mind, nothing to do, but sink lower and lower in the boat, and rest. hard--angular--stony? the granite chipped by hammer and pick felt like the softest down, as gwyn swayed slowly over to his left, his shoulders rubbing against the wall and his half-braced muscles involuntarily acting in obedience to his will to keep him upright, so that he did not fall, but gently subsided till he was lying prone close to the lanthorn, which shed its faint yellowish light and cast dim shadows which, there in that gloomy spot, looked like a couple of graves newly banked up to mark the spots where the two lads had lain down to die or to be found and live, whichever fate ordained. joe must have slept for what was guessed to be a couple of hours; but they had passed, and he still slept on, with his rest growing more and more sweet and restful, while for gwyn there was nothing but profound silence and vacancy. he did not dream--only plunged deeper and deeper into the stupor till six hours had passed away, and then the dream came. a terrible wild dream of being somewhere in great danger--a place from which there was no escape from a dangerous wolf-like beast, which had followed him for hours, and was slowly hunting him down. and every moment the vision grew more real, and the fierce beast came closer and closer in spite of his efforts to escape--mad, frantic efforts--while every limb was like lead, and held him back so that he might be the monster's prey. he felt that it was a delusion, and that he must soon wake and find relief; but when he did, the relief did not come for the horrors of the dream were continued in the reality, and his lips parted to utter a wild cry; but lips, tongue, and throat were all parched and dry, and he lay there in an agony which seemed maddening. there was no question now of where he was, for though it was intensely dark he knew well enough, for he had awakened into full consciousness with every sense unnaturally sharpened, and making things clear. his limbs were like lead still, but it was not from nightmare, for they were numbed and helpless. there was the unpleasant odour of the burnt-out candle, and the sickly smoke hanging about him, as if the light had but lately gone out, and he could hear joe's stertorous breathing as if he too were in trouble; and simultaneously with it came the knowledge that, after all, the cavernous place out of which the water had been drained was inhabited by strange beasts, one of which had attacked him. for the moment he was ready to explain it as a form of nightmare, but it was too real. it was the hard stern reality itself. there was the weight upon his chest, but not the heavy inert mass of a hideous dream, but that of some creature full of palpitating life extended upon him. he could feel the motion as it breathed, the heavy pulsations of its heart, and, worst horror of all, the hot breath from its panting jaws not many inches from his brow. chapter thirty three. man's good friend. gwyn tried hard to cry aloud to his companion for help--to make an effort for life; but for what seemed to him to be a long space of time he could not stir. at last, though, when he could bear the horror no longer, and just as the creature moved as if gathering its legs beneath it like some cat about to spring, the boy made a sudden heave, and threw the beast from his chest, at the same time struggling to rise and make for where he felt that joe was lying; but with a strange, hollow cry the animal sprang at him with such force that he was driven backwards, while the creature regained its position upon his chest, and gwyn lay back half paralysed. but not from fear. astonishment and delight had that effect, and, weak and prostrated as he was for some moments, he could not speak. at last one word escaped from his lips, and in an instant--_throb, throb, throb, throb_--there was a heavy beating on his ribs, a joyous whining sound greeted his ears, and a cold nose and wet tongue were playing about his face. "oh, grip! grip! grip!" he sobbed out at last, half hysterical with excitement; and seizing the dog by the neck he held him fast, while grip burst now into a frantic paroxysm of barking. "you good old dog, then you have found us," cried gwyn, as he sat up now and held on tightly to the dog's collar, for fear he should be left again. "why, there must be someone with him! here, grip, grip, old chap, your master! where is he, then?" there was another frantic burst of barking, and joe's voice was heard out of the darkness. "what's that? what does it mean? hi! ydoll, are you there?" "yes, yes. here's grip! and--and--they must be--oh, joe, joe, i can't--" what it was that gwyn pendarve could not do was never heard, for he pressed his lips together and clenched his teeth to keep back all sound. he had no longer any control over himself, and in those anguished moments he felt, as he afterwards declared to himself, that he was acting like a girl. joe was nearly as bad, but it was in the darkness and there was no one to witness their emotion, as he too kept silence, fearing to hear even his own voice; so that grip had the whole of the conversation to himself--a repetition that at another time would have been monotonous, but which now sounded musical in the extreme. at last gwyn recovered his equanimity to some extent, and, taking out the matches, struck one, but the moisture of his fingers prevented it from igniting, and he had to try two more before he could get anything but soft phosphorescent streaks on the box; and as the damp matches were thrown down, grip sniffed at them and whined loudly. then one flashed out brilliantly, lighting up the darkness, was watched excitedly, and began to blaze up and transfer its illuminating powers to the one candle the boys had left, one which was directly after safely sheltered by the glass of the lanthorn. at this point the joy of the dog was unbounded, and was shown in leaps, bounds and frantic barking, accompanied by rushes and sham worryings of his master's legs; and when driven off, he favoured joe in the same way. "only to think of it," cried joe, "that dog following us and running us down in the dark! how could he have done it? i never heard that dogs could see in the dark like cats." "they can't," said gwyn, going down on his knees to give the dog a hug. "a jolly old chap--they see with their noses; don't you, old grip?" "_whuf_!" cried the dog; and he made a frantic effort to lick his master's face. "it's wonderful!" cried joe, excitedly. "yes, makes a fellow wish he had a nose like a dog. why, jolly, we could have found our way out, then." "don't see it," said joe, who was in a peculiarly excited state, which made him ready to laugh or cry at the slightest provocation. "don't see it! of course you don't. couldn't we have smelt our way out by our own track, same as he did? but bother all that. why, jolly, if i could only feel sure that the dads were safe out, i shouldn't care a bit." "no; i shouldn't either. oh, i say, isn't it a relief?" "yes, and so i feel all right. they're out: i'm sure of it." "how do you know?" "by grip being here." "that doesn't prove it." "yes it does. i know! father said, `i'll send grip down; he'll find them.'" "well, it does sound likely; but i say, ydoll, isn't it queer?" "what, being here?" "no; while i was so miserable and feeling as i did, i was only faint; now i feel so hungry i could eat anything." "same here," said gwyn; "but it's all right; they're out; father sent grip--didn't he, grip?" the dog barked loudly and leaped up at him. "there, hear him? he understands," cried gwyn; but joe shook his head. "i don't know," he said. "the dog found us right enough, but that doesn't prove that he'll find his way back." "he'd better," said gwyn with mock earnestness; "if he doesn't we'll eat him. do you hear, sir?" the dog barked again. "it's all right," said gwyn, merrily. "now then, pack up, and let's go home--do you hear, grip?" the dog threw up his head and barked loudly. "ready, joe?" "ready--of course." "come on, then. now, grip, old fellow, lead the way. go home!" the dog barked again, and trotted in the opposite direction to which they had expected, making for the partly driven gallery where the roof ran up, showing how the lode of tin had ascended; and when he reached the blank end beginning to bark loudly. "come back, stupid!" cried gwyn; "we found that out ourselves. that's the end of the mine. all right. now, lead the way home." but the dog barked again loudly; and it was not until gwyn followed to the end and seized his collar that he gave up. "now then, off with you, but don't go too fast. forward! quick march!" the lad had straddled across the dog, holding him between his knees, with head pointed as he believed in the direction of the shaft; and at the last sound he unloosed him from the grip of his knees, and the dog started steadily off, and they followed, but in a few minutes had to take to running, for, after looking back several times to see if he was followed, grip increased his pace, and directly after disappeared in the darkness beyond the glow shed by the lanthorn. "you've done it now," cried joe. "why didn't you make your handkerchief fast to his collar? he's gone home." "think so?" said gwyn, blankly. "yes; that's certain enough; and we're just as badly off as ever." "no," said gwyn, in a tone full of confidence; "grip found us, and he'll come back again for certain." "but we shall have to stop where we are, perhaps for another day or two." "oh, no, he will not be long," said gwyn; but there was less confidence in his tones, and he stopped short, and began to call and whistle, with the sounds echoing loudly along the tunnel-like place; but for some moments all was silent, and joe gave vent to a groan. "oh, why did you let him go, ydoll? it was madness." "well," said the lad, bitterly, "you were as bad as i--you never said a word about holding him." "no, i never thought of it," said joe, with a sigh. "but how horrid, after thinking we were all right!" "yet it is disappointing," said gwyn, gloomily; "but he'll soon come back when he finds that we are not following him; and even if he went right back to them, they'd send him in again." "i don't believe they did send him in," said joe, despairingly. "they must. he couldn't have climbed down the ladders or got into the skep of his own accord, and, if he had, they wouldn't have let him down. they sent him, i'm sure." "no, i'm afraid not," said joe, piteously; "they didn't send him." "how do you know?" "because if they had, they would have done what people always do under such circumstances--written a note, and tied it to the dog's collar. he had no note tied to his collar, i'm sure." "no, i didn't see or feel any," said gwyn, thoughtfully. "no; we should have been sure to see it if he had one; so, for certain, the dog came of his own will, and i don't think it's likely he'll come again. he may or he may not." gwyn did not feel as if he could combat this idea, for joe's notion that a note would have been tied to the dog's collar--a note with a few encouraging words--seemed very probable; so he remained silent, listening intently for the faintest sound. but the silence was more terrible than ever, and, saving the musical dash of water from time to time, and an occasional rustle as of a few grains of earth or sand trickling down from the walls, all was still. "hear him coming back?" said gwyn, at last, very dismally. "no, but there is something i keep hearing. can't you?" "i? no," said gwyn, quickly. "what can you hear?--footsteps?" "oh, no; not that. it's a humming, rolling kind of noise, very, very faint; and i can't always hear it. i'm not sure it is anything but a kind of singing in my ears. there, i can hear it now. can you?" gwyn listened intently. "no. perhaps it is only fancy. listen again. oh, that dog must come back." joe sat down, with the lanthorn beside him. "oh, don't give up like that!" cried gwyn. "let's make a fresh start, and try and find our way out." "it's impossible--we can't without help." "don't i always tell you that a chap oughtn't to wait to be helped, but try to help himself?" "yes, you often preach," said joe, dismally. "yes, and try too. why, i--ah! hear that?" cried gwyn, excitedly. "no," said joe, after a pause. "don't be so stupid! you can--listen!" they held their breath, and plainly now came the barking of a dog. "there!" cried gwyn. "here, here, here!" and he whistled before listening again, when there was the pattering of the dog's nails on the rocky floor, and almost directly after grip bounded up to them. "ah, we mustn't have any more of that, old fellow," cried gwyn, seizing the dog's collar, and patting him. "get on, you old rascal; can't you see we've only got two legs apiece to your four?" the dog strained to be off again, barking excitedly; but gwyn held on while their neckerchiefs were tied together, and then fastened to the dog's collar. "now, then, forward once more. come on, joe, you must carry the lanthorn and walk by his head. steady, stupid! we can't run. walk, will you? now, then, forward for home." the dog barked and went off panting, with his tongue out and glistening in the light as the red end was curled, and he strained hard, as if bound to drag as much as he could behind him, while the boys' spirits steadily rose as their confidence in the dog's knowledge of the way back began to increase. chapter thirty four. too eager by half. "think the candle will last, jolly?" said gwyn, after they had progressed for some time and the lanthorn door was opened. "plenty--yes," said joe. "wish i knew there was enough and to spare," said gwyn. "why?" "because i'd have a bite off the end. i'm so faint and hungry, it's quite horrible." "horrid!" exclaimed joe. "not it. nothing's horrid when you're starving. but i don't suppose it's very far as the crow flies." "crows don't fly in tin mines," said joe, who was in better spirits now. "well, then, in a straight line." "i don't believe there's a straight line in the place." "i say, don't chop logic, jolly, and don't--i say, look here, grip, steady! don't pull a fellow's arm off!" interpolated gwyn, for the dog tugged heavily at the neckerchiefs. "look here, joe, old chap, do talk gently to me, for i'm so hungry that i feel quite vicious, and just as if i could bite. ah, would you get away! steady, sir! we want to get home as badly as you do--for `hoozza! we're homeward bound--bound; hoozza, we're homeward bound!'" sang the boy wildly. "don't you holloa till you're out of the wood." "i wasn't holloaing," cried gwyn, with hysterical merriment. "i was singing, only you've no ear for music." "not for such music as that. hark at the echoes!--they sound just like howls." "all right, but don't talk about getting out of the wood when we're like moles underground." "who's chopping logic now?" "oh, anybody. steady, grip, slow march." "does he pull so hard?" "horribly; but i don't mind--it shows he knows his way." grip barked and dragged at the improvised leash as if determined to hasten their pace. "it's just like the greyhounds do over the coursing. but pull away, old chap! i say, though, isn't it hot now?" "yes, i'm bathed in perspiration. we must be very deep down." "oh, no, it's just about on a level; sometimes we go down, and sometimes up." _splash, splash, splash_, and then the dog's progress seemed to be checked, as the boys followed into a pool of water which filled all the tunnel to the sides. "stop!" cried joe, as he waded to his knees. "why? what for?" "because we're going wrong." "so i thought; but grip ought to know." "he can't, because we never came along here." "no; but that proves he's right, for we never came along here, and we always lost ourselves." "but it's getting deeper, and there's no knowing how deep it will be." "never mind; we must wade." joe went on, and the water was soon up to their waists, while the dog swam on. "i'm sure grip's going wrong," said joe, excitedly, as the light of the lanthorn gleamed from the surface of what was now a narrow canal. "get on. grip knows." "he can't. it's impossible that he could have scented us over water." "yes, so it is," said gwyn, anxiously; and he stopped, naturally checking the dog, who began to splash and to howl and bark angrily. "well, we must go on now. perhaps it's the way he came." "couldn't be, because he was not wet." "well, i am right over my waist," said gwyn. "shall we go on? we can swim if it gets deeper." "i say, let's try it a little farther." and holding the light well up, they waded on, with the water growing deeper, till it reached their chests and soon after their chins. "now then--go back or swim?" asked gwyn. "oh, go on; grip must know. i suppose the floor has gone down a good deal here." "can you keep the lanthorn out of the water? if you can't we must not go on; because it would be too horrible to swim here in the dark, and i don't know whether i could keep on with only one hand swimming and holding grip with the other." "he'd tow you along," said joe. "halt! hold the light higher," shouted gwyn, and his words reverberated strangely. _grate, grate, scratch_, came a strange sound. "do you hear what i say?" cried gwyn, excitedly. "i can't, i can't--there isn't room." "then give it to me," said gwyn, fiercely, from where he stood a few yards now in advance of his companion. "how am i to see what i'm doing?--and i know you'll have it in the water directly." "don't i tell you i can't?" cried joe, wildly. "can't you see there isn't room? i'm holding it close up to the roof now." and at a glance gwyn saw that the roof was so low where they were that the gallery was nearly filled by the water. "oh, hang the dog!" cried gwyn, desperately. "quiet, sir! come back!" for with the water steadily deepening it seemed madness to let the animal lure them on into what appeared to be certain death. "yes, yes, come back," panted joe; "it's horrible. here, grip, grip, grip! here, here, here!" but the dog only whined and swam on, and then began to beat the water wildly as if he were drowning, for in his excitement and dread, gwyn had now begun to haul upon the leash, dragging the dog partly under water in his efforts to get hold of its collar. it was no easy task; for as the dog rose again, it was evidently frightened by its immersion beneath the surface, and began barking, whining, and struggling to escape from its master's grasp. "what is it? what are you doing?" cried joe, as he held the light close to the roof. "doing? can't you see the dog's half mad. quiet, grip! what is it! hold still, will you?" but this seemed to be the last thing the poor beast was disposed to do; for the tie, drag under the surface, and the seizure by the collar were all suggestive to its benighted intellect of death by drowning; and just as gwyn, chin-deep in the water now and hardly able from his natural buoyancy to keep his footing, was backing towards the light, holding by the collar with both hands, the dog gathered itself together with its hind-legs resting against its master's breast, and made a tremendous bound as if for life. gwyn had had some experience of the muscular power in a collie dog, but never till that moment did he fully realise what strength a desperate animal does possess; for that bound sent the dog forward and him backward; and completely off his balance, his head went down, his legs rose from his buoyancy in the water, and as he made a desperate effort to regain his feet, there came a sharp drag at the neckerchief he had twisted round his hand, and he was dragged under in turn and towed along for some moments before he could get his head above the surface of the black water again. then, obeying his natural instinct, he struck out and began to swim, feeling himself drawn steadily along by the dog farther and farther from the light which gleamed from the water, and into the black darkness and the unknown depths. chapter thirty five. the help at last. joe uttered a groan, and began to wade after his companion, scraping the lanthorn against the roof from time to time in his agitation. he would have called to gwyn to come back, but he could not find the words. he felt, though, that he must follow to help him, and began to wonder whether he could keep the light above water with one hand as he swam; and he prepared to try, for he felt that he must strike out as soon as the water touched his chin. then he paused, for from out of the darkness, and loud above the splashing, came gwyn's angry words to the dog. "you wretch! come back!" he roared. "wait till i get out of this, and i'll give you such a licking as will make your coat rougher than ever. come back, will you!" grip made no sign of hearing, but swam on with all his might, and as he swam with one hand, gwyn kept on lowering his feet to try for the bottom; but the dog's swimming was so energetic that the boy lost his balance again and again, and had a lesson in a man's helplessness in the water. at last, and just when a feeling of dread was beginning to freeze his nerves, gwyn, on lowering his legs, touched the rock, and giving an angry drag at the kerchiefs to check the dog, he regained his feet, and found the water little above his waist. "it's all right," he panted. "come on, joe; the floor dips down there, and you're nearly in the deepest part, i think. i don't suppose you'll have to swim. i shouldn't if this wretch of a dog had not pulled me over." joe waded on very slowly and cautiously, finding his companion's words quite correct, and that, after just keeping his mouth above water, the level sank during the next few paces to his chin, then to his chest, and soon after to his waist, after which he easily reached his dripping companion. "nice mess, isn't it?" said gwyn. "i wish old sam hardock was in it-- pretending that the mine was pumped out. will you be quiet, grip? there, get on! it's all right if we're going in the proper direction;" and then, after wading on about a couple of hundred yards with the water still falling, grip was able to walk, and uttering a joyous bark, he splashed along for a little way, and then stopped short, and gave himself a regular canine water-distributing shake which made him seem as if about to throw off his skin. "look at that," cried gwyn now. "only just wet above one's shoes." another fifty yards and they were upon the dry rocky floor, which they liberally bedewed with the water which trickled from their clothes as they were hurried on by the dog, who strained more than ever at his leash. "it must be a good sign for him to tug like this," said gwyn. "yes; he seems to know the way. it's of no use to try and stop him, for we know that we were all wrong, and perhaps he's right." "yes; look at him," said gwyn; "there can't be a doubt about it. see how he tugs to get along." "yes; and now i think of it," said joe, eagerly, "we haven't come through that hall-like place with the pillars all about." "haven't come to it yet, perhaps." joe shook his head, and gave his companion a meaning look. "it isn't that," he said. "we've come quite a different way." "well, it doesn't matter," said gwyn, so long as we get to the foot of the shaft; "and i shall be very glad, for, wet, tired, and hungry, it's very horrible being here." they went on, led by the dog like two blind beggars gwyn said, as he tried to look cheerfully upon their position, when he received another mental check, for joe cried suddenly, "stop a moment, for there's something wrong with this candle;" and a shudder worse than that which had attacked the boy when the water first rose to his breast ran through his nerves. joe opened the door of the lanthorn with a jerk, and the candle, which had fallen over on one side and was smoking the glass, dropped out on to the rocky floor; but gwyn stooped quickly and saved it from becoming extinct, while the dog uttered an impatient bark and dragged at the leash again. and it was always so as they proceeded, that the boys' strength, which had flickered up at the hope of rescue brought by the dog, rapidly burned down now like the candle, which quickly approached its end; while the dog seemed to be untiring and toiled and tugged away, as if trying to draw his master onward. they spoke less and less, and dragged their feet, and grew more helpless, till at the end of a couple of hours joe suddenly said,-- "it's of no use, ydoll; i can go no farther, and he's only taking us more into the mine. there isn't a bit of it we've passed before." "never mind; we must trust him now," said gwyn, sadly; "we can't go back." "no, but we oughtn't to have trusted him at all. we ought to have felt that we knew better than a dog." "stop! what are you going to do?" cried gwyn, angrily. "this," said joe; and he let himself sink down on the rocky floor, and laid his head on his hand. "no, no; get up! you sha'n't turn coward like this. get up, i say!" "i--can't," said joe. "i'm dead beat. you go on, and if grip takes you out try and find me again. if you can't, tell father i did my best." "i won't; i sha'n't," cried gwyn, furiously. "think i'm going to leave you?" "yes. save yourself." "you get up," cried gwyn; and stooping down, he caught one of his companion's arms, dragged at it with a heavy jerk, and found that he had miscalculated his strength, for he sank upon his knees, felt as if the lanthorn was gliding round him, and then subsided close by where joe lay, while just then the dog gave a furious tug at the leash, freed itself, and dashed off into the darkness, barking apparently with delight. "it's of no good, joe; i'm as bad as you," said gwyn, slowly; "i can't get up again." "never mind, ydoll; we have done our duty, old chap, as the dads said we ought to as soldiers' sons. we have, haven't we?" "no, not quite," cried gwyn. "let's have one more try--i will, and you shall." he made an effort to rise, but sank back and nearly fainted, but recovered himself to feel that joe had got hold of his hand, and he uttered a piteous sigh. "light's going out, jolly, and if they don't find us soon our lights'll go out, too. i wouldn't care so much if it wasn't for the mater, because it will nearly kill her," he continued drearily. "she's ever so fond of me, though i've alway been doing things to upset her. father won't mind so much, because he'll say i died like a man doing my duty." "how will they know that?" mused joe, whose eyes were half-closed. "let's write it down on paper." gwyn was silent for a few moments as he lay thinking, but at last he spoke. "no," he said; "that would be like what father calls blowing your own trumpet. he used to say to me that if he had gone about praising himself and telling people that he was a great soldier and had done all kinds of brave deeds, he would have been made a general before now; but he wouldn't. `if they can't find out i've done my duty, and served my queen as i should, let it be,' he said. and that's what we ought to do when we've fought well. if they don't find out that we've done what we should, it doesn't much matter; let it go. i'm tired out and faint, as you are, and--so's the candle, joe. there, it has gone out." joe uttered a low, long, weary sigh, as, after dancing up and down two or three times, the light suddenly went out. "frightened?" said gwyn, gently, as the black darkness closed them in. "no, only sleepy," was the reply. "good-night." "good-night," said gwyn, softly; and the next minute they were sleeping calmly, with their breath coming and going gently, and the dripping of water from somewhere close at hand sounding like the beating of the pendulum of some great clock. once more the loud barking of a dog, long after the boys had lain down to rest, and grip was dragging first at gwyn, then at joe, seizing their jackets in his teeth and tugging and shaking at them, but with no greater effect than to make gwyn utter a weary sigh. the dog barked again and tugged at him, but, finding his efforts of no avail, he stood with his paws resting on his master's breast, threw up his head, and uttered a dismal long-drawn howl which went echoing along the passages, and a faint shout was heard from far away. the dog sprang from where he stood, ran a few yards, and stood barking furiously before running back to where gwyn lay, when he seized and shook him again, and howled, ending by giving three or four licks at his face. then he threw up his head once more, and sent forth another prolonged, dismal howl. this was answered by a faintly-heard whistle, and the dog barked loudly over and over again, till a voice nearer now called his name. all this was repeated till a gleam was seen on the wall, and now the dog grew frantic in his barking, running to and fro, and finally, as voices were faintly heard, and the gleaming of lights grew plainer, he crouched down with his head resting on gwyn's breast, panting heavily as if tired out. "here, grip! grip! grip! where are you?" rang out in the colonel's voice; and the dog answered with a single bark, repeated at intervals till the lights grew plainer, shadows appeared on the walls, there was the trampling of feet, and a voice said,-- "hold up, sir; he must be close at hand. the dog keeps in one place, so he must have found them. here, here, here!" there was a long whistle, but the dog did not leave his place, only gave a sharp bark; and the next minute lights were being held over the major and colonel pendarve, as they knelt beside their sons, trying all they knew to bring them back to their senses. their efforts were not without effect, for after a time gwyn opened his eyes, stared blankly at the light, and said feebly,-- "don't! let me go to sleep." shortly after the two boys were being carefully carried in a semi-unconscious state by the willing hands of the search-party, through the bewildering mazes of the old mine, with grip trotting on in front as if he were in command; and in this way the foot of the shaft was reached and they were safely taken to grass. chapter thirty six. grip's antipathy. "i really think you ought to stay in, gwyn," said mrs pendarve, anxiously. "oh, i'll stay in if you like, mother," said the boy, patting the hand that was laid upon his arm, and looking affectionately in his mother's eyes; "but don't you think it would be all nonsense?" "yes," said the colonel, firmly, as he looked up from the work he was reading. "he's quite well, my dear." "no, no, my love; he's too pale to be well." "fancy, my dear; but perhaps he may be. describe your symptoms, gwyn, my boy." "haven't got any to describe, father," said gwyn, merrily. "well, then, to satisfy your mother, how do you feel?" "ashamed of myself, father, for having had the doctor." "exactly. he's quite well, my dear. it was bad for him, of course; but a strong, healthy boy does not take long to recover from a long walk and some enforced abstinence--there, you can go, gwyn, and--" "yes, father?" said the boy, for the colonel paused. "there's young jollivet coming over the hill, so major jollivet and i would feel greatly obliged if you two lads did not get into another scrape for some time to come." "oh, i say," cried gwyn, "i do call that too bad. isn't it, mother? father lets the major take him down and get lost in the mine--" "nothing of the kind, sir. we found our way back--you did not." "and then when we go down," continued gwyn, without heeding his father's words, "to try and find them, father calls it getting into a scrape." "ah, well, never mind what i called it," said the colonel, smiling; "but be careful, please. we don't want any more exploring." gwyn went off, met joe, and they made for a favourite place on the cliff where they could look down on the sea and the sailing gulls to have a chat about their late adventure, this being their first meeting since they were carried home from the mine. "you're all right, aren't you, ydoll?" said joe. "never felt better in my life, only i don't feel as if i could sit still here. let's go to the mine." "to go down? no, thank you--not to-day." "who wants to go down. i mean to have a talk to sam and the men. i want to hear more about it. oh, i say, though, it's too bad to have left old grip chained up. let's go and fetch him and, after we've been to the mine, give him a good run over the down and along the cliff." "yes," said joe, quietly; and gwyn led the way back toward the house by the cove. "that dog ought to have a golden collar," said gwyn. "no; i tell you what--he shall have one made of the first tin that is smelted." "too soft; it would bend," said joe. "very well, then, we'll have some copper put with it to make it hard, and turn it to bronze." "what's the good? dogs don't want ornaments. he'd be a deal happier with his old leather strap." "i don't care; he shall have one of bronze." he told grip this when he reached the yard, and the dog rushed toward them, standing on his hind-legs and straining against his collar at the full extent of his chain till he was unfastened, when he went half mad with excitement till they were out of the grounds and on their way toward the mine. then as he trotted on before them straight for the buildings they heard the panting of the engine, and came in sight of the smoke. for the pump was steadily at work again, clearing out the water which had begun to gather, consequent upon the enforced inaction. sam hardock caught sight of them before they reached the mine, and came to meet them, smiling largely. "how are you, gentlemen?--how are you?" he cried. "not much the worse, then, from your trip underground?" "oh, no, sam, we're right enough," said gwyn; "but i say, i can't understand about our only being in the mine two days. it seemed to me like a week." "fortnight," said joe, correcting him. "well, fortnight, then." "ay, it would," said hardock, looking serious now. "i mind being shut up in one of the truro mines by a fall; and we were only there about thirty hours, but it seemed to me just like thirty days." "but hasn't there been a mistake? we must have been there more than forty-eight hours." "no, my lad; that was the time, and quite long enough, too; but i'm afraid it would have been twice as long if it hadn't been for this dog. it was a fine idea to send him down to try and find you." "a splendid idea! who's was it?" "oh, never mind about that," said hardock, stooping down to pat the dog in the most friendly way. "someone said after we'd got back along of your father, mr gwyn, that the dog was more likely to find you than anyone; but just then the colonel ordered a fresh search, and a party went down, and then another, and another, for there was no stopping; they hunted for you well. but at last him who proposed the dog said he was sure that was the way to go to work; and then at last the colonel says, `well, hardock,' he says, `i believe you're right. try the dog!'" "then it was you who proposed it," said gwyn, catching the miner's arm. "me? was it? well, perhaps it was," said hardock; "but lor' a mussy, i was all in such a flurry over the business i don't half recollect. sort o' idee it was harry vores. maybe it was." "no, it wasn't," said gwyn; "i'm sure it was you, sam. now, wasn't it?" he caught the man's hand in his, and there was a dim look in his eyes which went straight to the miner's heart, and he said huskily-- "well, s'pose it was, master gwyn, wouldn't you ha' been ready to jump at anything as a last sort o' chance, when there was two lads lost away down in a place like that? why, i'd ha' done anything, let alone depending on a dog. it warn't as if i didn't want to go myself: i did go till i dropped and couldn't do no more, and begun to wish i'd never said a word about the gashly old mine." "well, don't go on like that," cried gwyn, laughing, as he warmly shook the mine captain's hand, while joe caught hold of the other and held on. "here, hi, don't you two go on like that," cried the man; "what's the good o' making such a fuss. it was the dog saved your lives, not me, my lads; and do leave off, please. you're making me feel like a fool." "no, we're not; we're trying to make you feel that we're grateful for what you did, sam," said gwyn. "why, of course, i know that," said the man, with his voice sounding husky and strange; "but don't you see what you're doing, both of you?" "yes; shaking hands," said joe. "nay; pumping my arms up and down till you've made the water come. look here, if, if my eyes aren't quite wet. ah!" hardock gave himself a shake, as if to get rid of his feeling of weakness, and then indulged in one of his broadest smiles. "there," he said, "it's all over now; but my word, me and harry vores-- ay, and every man-jack of us--did feel bad. for, as i says to harry, i says, it warn't as if it had been two rough chaps like us reg'lar mining lads. it was our trade; but for you two young gents, not yet growed up, to come to such an end was more than we could bear. but we did try, lot after lot of us. it warn't for want o' trying that we didn't find you. wonderful place, though, aren't it?" "horrible!" said joe. "oh, i don't know, sir; not horrible," said the man in a tone that was half-reproachful; "it's wonderful, i call it, and ten times as big as i expected." "so big and dangerous that it will be no good," said joe. "what!" cried hardock, laughing. "did you look about you when you were down there?" "as much as we could for the darkness." "and so did i, sir," said the man, with a chuckle. "of course, most when i was wandering about with your fathers. no good because it's so big? wait a bit, and you'll see. why, i shall begin to make a regular map plan of that place below. it will take months and months perhaps, but we shall explore a bit at a time, and mark the roads and drifts with arrows, and we shall all get more and more used to it." "one could hardly get used to such a place as a tin mine, sam," said gwyn. "oh, yes, we could, sir, and we shall. but i see you didn't make the use of your eyes that i did, or you'd have more to say." "what do you mean?" cried gwyn. "didn't you see how rough all the mining had been?" "well, yes." "and don't you see what that means?" "no." "then i'll tell you, both of you--there's ore there enough to make your fathers the richest gentlemen in these parts; and there isn't a company in cornwall as wouldn't do anything to get it. new-fashioned machinery will do what the old miners couldn't manage, and we won't have any more losing our way. there, i'm busy; so good-bye, and good luck to you both. some day, when you grow to be men, you'll thank me for what i've done, for i've about made you both." "that means we're both going to be very rich some day," said gwyn; "but it doesn't matter. come on, and let's give old grip a jolly good run. come on, old dog." grip did not come, but led off; and they made for the edge of the cliff, which ran along, on an average, three hundred feet above where the waves beat at their feet, but they had not gone far before joe, who had glanced back, said quickly,-- "what's tom dinass following us for out here?" gwyn glanced back, too. "not following us," he said quickly; "he's making for the bend of the rock yonder." "yes," said joe; "but that's where he knows we shall have to pass. what does he mean? he must have seen us at the mine and followed." "i don't know," said gwyn, thoughtfully; and a peculiar feeling of uneasiness attacked him. "but never mind; let's go on, or he'll think we're afraid of him." "i am," said joe, frankly. "well, then, if you are, you mustn't show it. come on. quiet, grip." for though the man was several hundred yards away, grip had caught sight of him, set up all the thick hair about his neck, and uttered a low, deep growl. chapter thirty seven. gwyn's error. all at once, as the boys went along near the cliff edge, they found that dinass had disappeared, and joe expressed himself as being relieved. "went back beyond that ridge of rocks, i suppose," said gwyn; "but i certainly thought he wanted to cut us off for some reason. well, it's a good job he has gone." but a little later they found that dinass had not gone, for all the while grip had had an eye on his movements and had acted after the manner of a dog. for, after about five minutes, there was a sharp barking heard as the boys trudged on. "why, where's grip?" said gwyn. "i thought he was here." the barking was repeated, and the dog was seen close to the edge of the cliff a hundred yards away, barking at something below him. "what's he found?" said joe. "oh, it's only at the gulls lower down. there's that shelf where it looks as if the granite had slipped down a little way. let's see what he is about." the dog kept up his barking, and the boys walked up, to find no gull below, but tom dinass seated in a nook smoking his pipe, with a couple of ominous-looking pieces of stone within reach of his hand, both evidently intended for grip's special benefit should he attack, which he refrained from doing. "mornin', gentlemen," said the man. "wish you'd keep that dawg chained up when you come to the mine; you see he don't like me." "he won't hurt you if you don't tease him," said gwyn. "come to heel, grip." the dog uttered a remonstrant growl, but obeyed, and dinass drew himself back against the cliff. "safer down here," he said. "yes, you are safer there," said gwyn. "good-morning." "one minute, sir, please. don't go away yet; i want just a word with you." "yes, what is it?" said gwyn, shortly, while joe gazed from the man to the depths below, troubled the while by some confused notion that he meant mischief. "only just a word or two, mr gwyn, sir," said the man in a humble manner, which accorded badly with his fierce, truculent appearance; and for the moment the lad addressed thought that he meant treachery, and he, joe, could not help glancing at the precipice so close at hand. "you see, i'm an unlucky sort of fellow, and somehow make people think wrong things about me. you and me got wrong first time you see me; but i didn't mean no harm, and things got better till the other day over the bit o' fuss about going down." "when you behaved like a cur and left us to take our chance. quiet, grip?" "look at that now!" cried dinass, appealing to nobody--"even him turning again' me. why, i ought to say as you two young gents went and forsook me down the old pit. sure as goodness, i thought you both did it as a lark. why, it warn't in me to do such a thing; and if you'd only waited a few minutes till i'd got my candle right, i'd perhaps ha' been able to save you from being lost. anyhow i would ha' tried." "do you expect us to believe that you did not sneak back and leave us?" said gwyn. "well, as young gents, i do hope you will, sir. why, i'd sooner have cut my head off than do such a thing. forsake yer! why i was half mad when i found you'd gone on, and i run and shouted here and there till i was hoarse as a crow; and when i found i was reg'lar lost there, i can't tell you what i felt. that's a true word, sir; i never was so scared in my life." "ah, well, perhaps we'd better say no more about it, dinass." "tom dinass, sir. don't speak as if you was out with me, too." "we both thought you had left us in the lurch; but if you say you did not, why, we are, bound to believe you." "_bah_!" said grip, in a growl full of disgust. "quiet, sir!" "ay, even that dawg don't take to me," said dinass, in an ill-used tone. "but there, i don't care now you young gents believe me." "all right; good-morning," said gwyn, shortly. "come along, joe." "nay, nay, don't go away like that, mr gwyn, you'll think better of me soon, when you aren't so sore about it. for i put it to you, sir, as a gentleman as knows what the mine is, and to you, too, master joe jollivet, you both know--aren't it a place where a man can lose himself quickly?" "well, yes, of course," said gwyn. "exactly; well, i lost myself same as you did; and because i warn't with you, everybody's again me--sam hardock and harry vores, and all the men, even the engine tenter; and that aren't the worst of it." "what is, then?" said joe. "why this, sir," said the man, earnestly: "they've made a bad report of me to the guv'nors just when i was getting on and settling down to a good job in what seems like to be a rich mine with regular work, and i'm under notice to leave." "serve you right for being such a sneak," said joe, angrily. "oh, master joe, you are hard on a man; but you'll try and believe me, sir. i did work hard to find you both." "i daresay we're wrong, joe," said gwyn; and the dog uttered another growl which sounded wonderfully like the word "_bah_!" "yes, sir, wrong you are; and seeing how scarce work is, and so many mines not going, you won't mind putting a word in for me to the colonel and the major." "what for? what about?" said gwyn, sharply. "your character?" "nay, sir, i don't want no character. sam hardock says the mine's rich, and i want to stay on. you say the right word to the colonel, and he'll keep me on." "i don't feel as if i could, dinass," said gwyn, thoughtfully. "not just this minute, sir," said the man, humbly; "but if you think about it, and how hard it is for a man to lose his bread for a thing like that, you'll feel different about it. do try, sir, please. i'm a useful man, and you'll want me; and i'll never forget it if you do." "well," said gwyn, "i'll think about it; but if i do ask my father, he may not listen to me." "oh, yes, he will, sir; he'd do anything you asked him; and so would yours, master joe. do, please, gentlemen, and very thankful i'll be." "come along, joe," said gwyn. "and you will speak a word for me, sir--both of you?" "i'll see," said joe; and with grip trotting softly behind them, the two lads hurried off. "you won't ask for him to stay, ydoll?" said joe, earnestly, as soon as they were out of earshot. "why not? perhaps we're misjudging him after all." "but i never liked him," said joe. "well i didn't, and i don't; but that's no reason why we should be unfair. he isn't a pleasant fellow, and nobody seems to take to him; i believe he is right about all the men being set against him." "well, then, it's right for him to go." "oh, i say, jolly, don't be hard and unfair on a fellow. one ought to stick up for the weaker side. let's go and see if father's in the office." "and you are going to speak for him?" "yes; and so are you;" and gwyn led the way to the new mine buildings where the carpenters and masons were still busy, passing the shaft where the pump was steadily at work, but going very slowly, for there was very little water to keep down. as the boys approached the doorway they saw hardock come out and go on to the mine, while on entering they found the colonel and the major examining a rough statement drawn up by the captain who had just left. "well, boys," said major jollivet, "have you come in to hear about it?" "no," said gwyn, staring; "about what, sir?" "the venture, my boy. hardock reports that the mine is very rich in ore, and that we have entered upon a very good speculation." "yes, that is so, gwyn," said his father; "and we are going to begin work in real earnest now--i mean, begin raising ore; and we must engage more men. well; you were going to say something." "yes, father," said gwyn, rushing into his subject at once. "we have just seen dinass." "yes," said the colonel, frowning; "he goes in about ten days, and we want someone in his place. what about him?" "he has been telling us about his trouble--that he is dismissed." "he need not worry you about it, boy. he should have behaved better." "yes; rank cowardice," said joe's father, shortly. "no, major; he has been explaining how it was to us, and he tells me it was all accidental. he says we left him behind, and that he searched for us for long enough afterwards, till he was quite lost. it is an awkward place to miss your way in." "yes, you boys ought to know that," said the colonel. "then this man has been getting hold of you to petition to stay?" "yes, father; he asked us to speak for him." "well, and are you going to?" said the major. "yes, sir; i should like you and my father to give him another trial." "but you don't like the man, gwyn," said the colonel. "no, father--not at all; but i don't like to be prejudiced." "and you, joe," said the major, "don't you want to be prejudiced?" "no, father; ydoll here has put it so that i'm ready to back him up. dinass says he wants to get on, and doesn't like the idea of leaving a good rich mine." "humph!" said the colonel. "we don't want to dismiss men--we want to engage them. what do you say, jollivet; shall we give him another trial?" "i think so," said the major. "he's a big, strong, well set up fellow. pity to drum a man out of the regiment who may be useful." "yes," said the colonel, sharply. "well, gwyn, perhaps we have been too hard on him. he is not popular with the other men, but he may turn out all right, and we can't afford to dismiss a willing worker; so you may tell him that, at the interposition of you two boys, we will cancel the dismissal, and he can stay on." "and tell him, boys," said the major, "that he is to do your recommendation credit." "yes, of course," came in duet, and the boys hurried out to look for dinass and tell him their news. "thank ye, my lads," he said, smiling grimly. "i'll stay, and won't forget it." that night dinass wrote a letter to somebody he knew--an ill-spelt letter in a clumsy, schoolboyish hand; but it contained the information that the old mine was rich beyond belief, and that he was beginning to see his way. gwyn did not know it then, but he had committed one of the great errors of his life. chapter thirty eight. sam hardock brings news. time went on, and at the end of a year ydoll mine was in working order, with a good staff, the best of machinery for raising the ore, a man-engine for the work-people's ascent and descent, a battery of stamps to keep up an incessant rattle as the heavily-laden piles crushed the pieces of quartz, and in addition a solid-looking building with its furnaces for smelting the tin. they were busy days there, and gwyn and his companion found little time for their old pursuits--egging, rabbiting and fishing--save occasionally when, by way of a change, they would spend an evening on the rocky point which formed one of the protecting arms of ydoll cove, trying with pike rods, large winches and plenty of line, for the bass which played in silvery shoals in the swift race formed at the point by the meeting of two currents, and often having a little exciting sport in landing the swift-swimming, perch-finned fish. for the fishing was too good off that part of the cornish coast to be neglected, and the colonel made allusions to the old proverb about all work and no play making jack a dull boy. one afternoon gwyn loosened grip for a run, to the dog's great delight, and, after seeking out joe, who had been at home for days attending on his father, who was troubled with one of his old fits--joe called them fits of the jungle demon--the boys went down to the mine, grip trotting behind them, save when some rustle to right or left attracted him for a frantic hunt to discover the cause. at the mine tom dinass was found, looking very sour and grim, for he was still not the best of friends with his fellow-workmen; but as he was one of the most steady in his devotion to his work he stood well with the owners. gwyn caught sight of him first, and dinass saw him at the same moment, but, instead of coming forward, he pretended to have something to do elsewhere, and went off into the smelting-house. "what has he gone off like that for?" said gwyn; and the boys followed just in time to hear some blows being struck in the gloomy place where a fierce fire was roaring and sending thin pencils of light through cracks in the furnace door. the next minute some pieces of hard burned clay crumbled beneath the blows, and there was a dazzling stream of molten metal poured out, to run along channels made in the floor to form flat, squarish ingots of tin, and display the colours of the rainbow, intensified to a brilliancy that was almost more than the eye could bear. "please father when he hears of the casting," said joe. "so much money has been laid out that he likes to hear of anything that will bring a return." "well, there's plenty of return coming in now," said gwyn. "we've got one of the richest mines in cornwall. here, tom dinass! what's he mean by sneaking away? here, tom dinass!" "want me, sir?" said the man, looking from one to the other suspiciously as he came up, his face shining in the wonderful glow shed by the molten tin. "yes, of course. didn't you see us coming to you before?" "me, sir? no, i didn't know as you wanted me," and he seemed to draw himself up for defence. "well, we do," said gwyn. "we want to have out the seine to-night; the tide will fit, and there have been mullet about." "oh, that's it, sir," said the man, who seemed much relieved. "here, keep off with you," he growled, "my legs aren't roast meat." "come here, grip!" cried gwyn. "to heel, sir! i wish you two would be better friends." "'taren't my fault, sir; it's grip. he's always nasty again' me." "well, never mind the dog. what time will you be off duty to-night?" "five, sir." "that will do. see that the net is ready. i'll speak to the others. we'll be down there at five--no, half-past, because of tea." "i'll be there, sir," said dinass; and the boys went off, with the man watching them till the door swung close after them. "nay, my legs aren't roast meat, but," he continued, as he glanced towards the molten metal still glowing, "it would soon be roast dog if i had my chance." meanwhile the boys went on to continue their preparations, and then hurried home for their meal; then for the first time gwyn thought of grip, and whistled to him to come and be tied up, but the dog did not come. "smelt a rabbit somewhere," said gwyn, and thought no more about the dog. in due time dinass appeared down by the sandy cove, and after the long seine had been carefully laid in the stern of the boat, and the end lines left in charge of a couple of miners on one of the points, the boat was rowed straight out, with gwyn paying out the net with its lead line and cork line running over a roller in the stern. then at a certain distance the boat was steered so as to turn round to the right, and rowed in a curve, with the net still being paid out, till the rocks on the other side by the race were reached, and the sandy cove shut in by a wall of net, kept stretched by the leads at the bottom and the line of corks at the top. at this point the boys landed with their trousers tucked up to the highest extent, jackets off, and arms bare as their legs, to start inland dragging the lines, the men on the other point starting at the same time, and bringing the dot-like row of corks to a rounder curve as the strain on the ropes grew heavier. tom dinass now started for the point at the head of the cove to run the boat well ashore, and then go to the help of the boys as they toiled steadily on, stepping cautiously over the rocks, which were slippery with reddish-yellow fucus, till the broken part gave place to the heavy, well-rounded boulders which rattled and rumbled over one another in times of storms. then the boulders gave place to shingle, which was rather better for the fishers, and lastly to the fine level sand over which the seine was to be dragged. but this took some time and no little labour, for it was slow, hard work, full of the excitement of speculation; for the net, after enclosing so wide an area, might come in full of fish, or with nothing but long heavy strands of floating weed torn by the waves from the rocks perhaps miles away. experience and hints given by the blue-shirted bronzed fishers of the cove had taught the boys when was the best time for shooting the seine, however, so they generally were pretty successful; and as the net was drawn inland the bobbing of the line of corks and sundry flashes told that fish of some kind had been enclosed, when the excitement began. it was a bright scene that summer's evening, when the sea was empurpled by the reflections of the gorgeous western sky, the smoke from the smelting-house looking like a golden feather. but neither gwyn nor joe had eyes for the beauties of nature which surrounded the nook where their fathers had made their home, for the excitement of the seine drawing was gaining in intensity. dinass, after running up the boat by the help of a couple of the men who had strolled down to see, was hurrying to pass the boys and wade out with an oar over his shoulder behind the line of corks, ready to splash and beat the water should there, by any chance, be a shoal of mullet within--no unlikely event, for these fish swam up with the tide to feed upon the scraps and odds and ends which came from the village down the little streamlet. and often enough their habit was, when enclosed, to play follow-my-leader, and leap the cork line and get out again to sea. it was well that the precaution was taken, for upon this occasion a little shoal had been drawn in, to swim about peaceably enough for a time; but when the water shallowed, and their leader found that the wall of net was in its way, a frantic rush was made, and dinass brought down his oar with a tremendous splash, making them dart in another direction; but there the top and bottom of the net were drawing together, forming a bag into which the shoal passed, and their effort to shoot out of the water was frustrated. again they appeared at the surface, but the splashing of the oar checked them; and this happened over and over, till their chance was gone, and, mingled with the other fish enclosed, they swam wildly about, seeking now for a hole or a way beneath the line of leads. the fish sought in vain; and as the ends of the net were drawn in more and more, dinass waded behind about the centre of the great bag, taking hold of the cork line and helping it along till the sandy beach was neared, and relieving some of the strain, till slowly and steadily the seine was drawn right up with its load, after cleanly sweeping up everything which had been enclosed, this being a great deal more than was wanted. for the contents of the net were curious; and as the cork line was drawn back flat on the sands, there was plenty of work for the men to pick off the net the masses of tangled fucus and bladder-wrack which had come up with the tide. jelly-fish--great transparent discs with their strangely-coloured tentacles--were there by the dozen; pieces of floating wood, scraps of rope and canvas, and a couple of the curious squids with their suckers and staring eyes. all these were thrown off rapidly upon the sands right and left, and then the baskets were brought into play for the gathering of the spoil, while, scurrying away over net and sand, and making rapidly for the water, dozens of small crabs kept escaping from among the flapping fish, strangely grotesque in their actions, as they ran along sidewise, flourishing their pincers threateningly aloft. in its small way it proved to be a fortunate haul, including as it did the whole of the little shoal of grey mullet, some three dozen, in their silvery scale armour, and running some three or four pounds weight each. then there was nearly a score of the vermilion-and-orange-dyed red mullet, brilliant little fellows; a few small-sized mackerel; a few gurnard, a basketful of little flat fish, and a number of small fry, which had to be dealt with gingerly, for among them were several of the poisonous little weevels, whose sharp back fins and spines make dangerous wounds. at last all were gathered up; and after giving orders for the seine to be carefully shaken clear and spread out to dry upon the downs, the two lads proceeded to select a sufficiency of the red and grey mullet for home use, and a brace for sam hardock, and then made a distribution of the rest, the men from the mine having gathered to look on and receive. gwyn and joe took a handle each of their rough basket, and began to trudge up the cliff path, stopping about half-way to look down at the people below. "i say, how tom dinass enjoys a job of this kind," said gwyn, as he turned over their captives in the basket, and noted how rapidly their lovely colours began to fade. "yes, better than mining," said joe, thoughtfully. "i say, why is he so precious fond of hunting about among the rocks at low-water?" "i don't know. is he?" "yes. i've watched him from my window several times. i can just look over that rocky stretch that's laid bare by the tide." "why, you can't see much from there," said gwyn. "yes i can. i've got father's field-glass up, and i can see him quite plain. i saw him yesterday morning just at daylight. i'd been in father's room to give him his medicine, for his fever has been threatening to come back." "trying to find a lobster or a crab or two." "people don't go lobstering with a hammer." "expected to find a conger, then, and wanted the hammer to knock it down." joe laughed. "you've got to hit a conger before you can knock it down. not easy with a hammer." "well, what was he doing?" "oh, i don't know, unless he was chipping the stones to try whether a vein of tin runs up there." "well, it may," said gwyn, thoughtfully. "why shouldn't it?" "i don't know why it shouldn't, but it isn't likely." "why not, when the mine runs right under there." "what? nonsense!" "it does. i was down that part with sam hardock one day when the wind was blowing hard, and sam could hear the waves beat and the big boulders rumble tumbling after as they fell back." "how horrid!" said joe, looking at his companion with his face drawn in accord with his words. "why didn't you tell me?" "forgot all about it afterwards; never remembered it once till you began to talk like this." "but how strange!" said joe. "oh, i don't see why it should be strange. the old folks found a rich vein, and when they did they followed it up wherever it went; and that's, of course, why it's such a rambling old place. but that's what old dinass is after. he thinks that if he can find a new vein, he'll get a reward." "what a game if he finds one running out through the rocks!" "i don't see how it's going to be a game." "don't you? why, to find that he has discovered what already belongs to us; for of course the foreshore's ours, and even if it wasn't he couldn't go digging down there for ore." "why?" "because, for one thing, the waves wouldn't let him; and for another, we shouldn't allow him to dig a hole down into our mine. there, come on, and let's take them some fish; and i want to get on my dry clothes. what are you thinking about?" "eh?" "i said what are you thinking about?" "tom dinass." "not a very pleasant subject either. i get to like him less and less, and it's my opinion that if he gets half a chance he'll be doing something." "hallo!" "oh, here you are, master gwyn." "yes; what's the matter, sam?" "you'll know quite soon enough, sir. come on up to the mine. harry vores has just gone back there. it was him brought me the news." chapter thirty nine. grip's bad luck. "why don't you speak?" cried gwyn, angrily. "has there been an accident? surely father hasn't gone down!" "oh, the colonel's all right, sir," said hardock, genially. "the gov'nor hasn't gone and lost himself." "but there has been an accident, sam," cried joe. "nor the major aren't gone down neither, sir," said the man. "here, let me carry that fish basket. didn't remember me with a couple o' mullet, did you?" "yes, two of those are for you, sam; but do speak out? what is wrong?" "something as you won't like, sir. your dog grip's gone down the mine." "what for? thinks we're there? well, that's nothing; he'll soon find his way up. why did they let him go down?" "couldn't help it, sir," said the man, slowly. "what--he would go? i did miss him, joe, when i went home. i remember now, we didn't see him after we went to the mine. he must have missed us, and then thought we had gone down." "sets one thinking of being lost and his coming after us," said joe, slowly. "well, he can't lose his way." "but how do you know he went down, sam?" asked gwyn, as they approached the mine. "harry vores heerd him." "what, barking?" "'owlin'." "oh, at the bottom of the shaft. dull because no one was down. then why did you suggest that there was an accident? you gave me quite a turn." "'cause there was an accident, sir," said hardock, quietly; and he led the way into the great shed over the pit mouth, where all was very still. gwyn saw at a glance that something serious had happened to the dog, which was lying on a roughly-made bed composed of a miner's flannel coat placed on the floor, beside which harry vores was kneeling; and as soon as the dog heard steps he raised his head, turned his eyes pitifully upon his master, and uttered a doleful howl. "why, grip, old chap, what have you been doing?" cried gwyn, excitedly. "don't torment him, sir," said vores; "he's badly hurt." "where? oh, grip! grip!" cried gwyn, as he laid his hand on the dog's head, while the poor beast whined dolefully, and made an effort to lick the hand that caressed him, as he gazed up at his master as if asking for sympathy and help. "both his fore-legs are broken, sir, and i'm afraid he's got nipped across the loins as well." "nay, nay, nay, harry," growled hardock; "not him. if he had been he wouldn't have yowled till you heerd him." "nipped?" said gwyn. "then it wasn't a fall?" "nay, sir; harry vores and me thinks he must ha' missed you, and thought you'd gone down the mine, and waited his chance and jumped on to the up-and-down to go down himself." "oh, but the dog wouldn't have had sense enough to do that." "i dunno, sir. grip's got a wonderful lot o' sense of his own! 'member how he found you two young gents in the mine! well, he's seen how the men step on and off the up-and-down, and he'd know how to do it. he must, you know." "but some of the men would know," said gwyn. "dessay they do, sir, but they're all off work now, and we don't know who did. well, he must have had a hunt for you, and not smelling you, come back to the foot o' the shaft, and began to mount last thing, till he were close to the top, and then made a slip and got nipped. that's how we think it was--eh, harry?" "yes, sir; that's all i can make of it," said vores. "i was coming by here when the men were all up, and the engine was stopped, and i heard a yowling, and last of all made out that it was down the shaft here; and i fetched master hardock and we got the engine started, and i went and found the poor dog four steps down, just ready to lick my hand, but he couldn't wag his tail, and that's what makes me think he's nipped." but just then grip moved his tail feebly, a mere ghost of a wag. "there!" cried hardock, triumphantly; "see that? why, if he'd been caught across the lines he'd have never wagged his tail again." "poor old grip," said gwyn, tenderly; "that must have been it. he tried too much. caught while coming up. here, let's look at your paw." the boy tenderly took hold of the dog's right paw, and he whined with pain, but made no resistance, only looked appealingly at his masters to let them examine the left leg. "oh, there's no doubt about it, joe; both legs have been crushed." joe drew a low, hissing breath through his teeth. "it's 'most a wonder as both legs warn't chopped right off," said vores. "better for him, pore chap, if they had been." "hadn't we better put him out of his misery, sir?" said hardock. "out of his misery!" cried gwyn, indignantly. "i should like to put you out of your misery." "nay, you don't mean that, sir," said the captain, with a chuckle. "kill my dog!" cried gwyn. "you'll take his legs right off, won't you, sir, with a sharp knife?" said vores. "no, i won't," cried gwyn, fiercely. "better for him, sir," said vores. "they'd heal up then." "but you can't give a dog a pair of wooden legs, matey," said hardock, solemnly. "if you cuts off his front legs, you'd have to cut off his hind-legs to match. well, he'd only be like one o' them turnspitty dogs then; and it always seems to me a turnspitty to let such cripply things live." "we must take him home, joe," said gwyn, who did not seem to heed the words uttered by the men. "yes," said joe. "poor old chap!" and he bent down to softly stroke the dog's head. "better do it here, master gwyn," said hardock. "we'll take him into the engine-house to the wood block. i know where the chopper's kept." "what!" cried gwyn, in horror. "oh, you wretch!" "nay, sir, not me. it's the kindest thing you can do to him. you needn't come. harry vores'll hold him to the block, and i'll take off all four legs clean at one stroke and make a neat job of it, so as the wounds can heal." gwyn leaped to his feet, seized the basket from where it had been placed upon the floor, tilted it upside down, so that the fish flew out over to one side of the shed, and turned sharply to joe,--"catch hold!" he said, as he let the great basket down; and setting the example, he took hold of one end of the flannel couch on which poor grip lay. joe took the other, and together they lifted the dog carefully into the basket, where he subsided without a whine, his eyes seeming to say,-- "master knows best." "i'll carry him to the house, mr gwyn, sir," said vores. "no, thank you," said the boy, shortly; "we can manage." "didn't mean to offend you, sir," said the man, apologetically. "wanted to do what was best." "ay, sir, that we did," said hardock. "i'm afeard if you get binding up his legs, they'll go all mortificatory and drop off; and a clear cut's better than that, for if his legs mortify like, he'll die. if they're ampitated, he'll bleed a bit, but he'll soon get well." "thank you both," said gwyn, quietly. "i know you did not mean harm, but we can manage to get him right, i think. come along, joe." they lifted the basket, one at each end, swinging the dog between them, and started off, grip whining softly, but not attempting to move. "shall we bring on the fish, sir?" shouted hardock. "bother the fish!" cried gwyn. "no; take it yourselves." chapter forty. a bit of surgery. "oh, gwyn, my dear boy," cried mrs pendarve, who was picking flowers for the supper-table as the boys came up to the gate, "what is the matter?" "grip's legs broken," said the boy, abruptly. "where's father?" "in the vinery, my dear. what are you going to do? let me see if--" "no, no, mother, we'll manage," said gwyn; "come along, joe." they hurried down the garden, and up to where the sloping glass structure stood against the wall, from out of which came the sound of the colonel's manly voice, as he trolled out a warlike ditty in french, with a chorus of "marchons! marchons!" and at every word grapeshot fell to the ground, for the colonel, in spite of the suggestions of war, was peacefully engaged, being seated on the top of a pair of steps thinning out the grapes which hung from the roof. "here, father, quick!" cried gwyn, as they entered the vinery. "eh? hullo! what's the matter?" "grip's been on the man-engine and got his fore-legs crushed." "dear me! poor old dog!" said the colonel, descending from the ladder and sticking his long scissors like a dagger through the bottom button-hole of his coat. "then we must play the part of surgeon, my boy. not the first time, joe. clap the lid on the tank." the wooden cover was placed upon the galvanised-iron soft-water tank, and poor grip, who looked wistfully up in the colonel's eyes, was lifted out and laid carefully upon the top, while the colonel took off his coat and turned up his sleeves in the most business-like manner. "i remember out at bongay wandoon, boys, after a sharp fight with a lot of fanatical ghazis, who came up as i was alone with my company, we had ten poor fellows cut and hacked about and no surgeon within a couple of hundred miles, which meant up there in the mountains at least a week before we could get help. it was all so unexpected, no fighting being supposed to be possible, that i was regularly taken by surprise when the wretches had been driven off, and i found myself there with the ten poor fellows on my hands. i was only a young captain then, and i felt regularly knocked over; but, fortunately, i'd a good sergeant, and we went over to my lieutenant, who had been one of the first to go down. but he wouldn't have a cut touched till the men had been seen to. i'm afraid my surgery was a very bungling affair, but the sergeant and i did our best, and we didn't lose a patient. our surgeon made sad fun of it all when he saw what we had done, and he snarled and found fault, and abused me to his heart's content; but some time after he came and begged my pardon, and shook hands, and asked me to let him show me all he could in case i should ever be in such a fix again. consequently, i often used to go and help him when we had men cut down. i liked learning, and it pleased the men, too, and taught me skill. poor old dog, then; no snapping. the poor fellow's legs are regularly crushed, as if he had been hit with an iron bar used like a scythe." "crushed in the man-engine, father," said gwyn. "ah, yes, that must have done it. well, gwyn, my boy, a doctor would say here in a case like this--`amputation. i can't save the limbs.'" "oh, father, it is so horrible!" "yes, my boy, but you want to save the poor fellow's life." "can't anything be done, sir?" said joe. "humph! well, we might try," said the colonel, as he tenderly manipulated the dog's legs, the animal only whining softly, and seeming to understand that he was being properly treated. "yes, we will try. here, joe jollivet, go and ask mrs pendarve to give you about half-a-dozen yards of linen for a bandage, and bring back a big needle and thick thread." "yes, sir," and joe hurried out; but soon poked his head in again. "don't get it all done, sir, till i've come back. i want to see." "can't till you come, boy. off with you. now, gwyn, fill the watering-pot. i'll lift the lid of the tank." the pot was filled and the dog placed back again. "now fetch that bag of plaster-of-paris from the tool-house," said the colonel. this was soon done, and a portion of the white cement poured out into a flower-pot. "is that good healing stuff, father?" asked gwyn. "no, but it will help. wait a bit, and you'll see," said the colonel; and he once more softly felt the dog's crushed and splintered legs, shaking his head gravely the while. "don't you think you can save his legs, father?" asked gwyn. "i'm very much in doubt, my boy," said the colonel, knitting his brows; but dogs have so much healthy life in them, and heal up so rapidly, that we'll try. now, then, how long is that boy going to be with those bandages? oh, here he is. gwyn opened the door, and joe hurried in. "hah! that will do," said the colonel; and cutting off two pieces a yard long, he thrust them into the watering-pot, soaked them, wrung them out, and then rolled both in the flower-pot amongst the plaster-of-paris. then washing his hands, he took one of the injured legs, laid the broken bones in as good order as he could; and as gwyn held the bandage ready, the leg was placed in it and bound round and round and drawn tight, the dog not so much as uttering a whimper, while after a few turns, the limp lump seemed to grow firmer. then the bandaging was continued till all the wet linen was used, when the colonel well covered the moist material with dry plaster, which was rapidly absorbed; and taking a piece of the dry bandage, thoroughly bound up the limb, threaded the big needle, and sewed the end of the linen firmly, and then the dog was turned right over for the other leg to be attacked. "well, he is a good, patient beast," said gwyn, proudly. "but you don't think he's dying, do you, father?" he added anxiously. "speak to him, and try," said the colonel. gwyn spoke, and the dog responded by tapping the cistern lid with his tail very softly, and then whined piteously, for the colonel in placing the splintered bones as straight as he could was inflicting a great deal of pain. "can't help it, canis, my friend," said the colonel. "if you are to get better i want it to be with straight legs, and not to have you a miserable odd-legged cripple. there, i shall soon be done. that bandage is too dry, gwyn; moisten it again. wring it out. that's right; now dip it in the plaster." "what's that for, sir?" said joe, who was looking on eagerly. "what do you think?" replied the colonel. "now, gwyn, right under, and hold it like a hammock while i lay the leg in. i'm obliged to hold it firmly to keep the bones in their places. now, right over and tighten it. that's it. round again. now go on. round and round. well done. now i'll finish. well," he continued, as he took the ends of the bandage and braced the dog's leg firmly, "why do i use this nasty white plaster, joe?" "because it will set hard and stiff round the broken leg." "good boy," said the colonel, smiling, "take him up; gwyn didn't see that." "yes i did, father; but i didn't like to bother you and speak." "then stop where you are, boy. keep down, joe; he behaved the better of the two. you are both right; the plaster and the linen will mould themselves as they dry to the shape of the dog's legs, and if we can keep him from trying to walk and breaking the moulds, nature may do the rest. at all events, we will try. when the linen is firm, i'll bind splints of wood to them as well, so as to strengthen the plaster, though it is naturally very firm." "it will be a job to keep him quiet, father," said gwyn. "i'm afraid so, my boy. not, however, till the plaster sets; that cannot take very long, and we shall have to hold him down if it's necessary; but i don't think it will be. poor fellow, he'll very likely go to sleep." as he spoke, the colonel was busily employed finishing the bandaging, and when this was done he stood thinking, while the dog lay quiet enough, blinking at those who had been operating upon him. "we might secure his legs somehow," said the colonel, thoughtfully; "for all our success depends upon the next hour." but grip solved the difficulty by stretching himself out on one side with his bandaged legs together, and, closing his eyes, went off fast asleep, with the boys watching him--the colonel having gone into the house, for it had turned too dark for him to go on grape-thinning long before the canine surgery was at an end. chapter forty one. a man's pursuits. the boys watched beside the dog till past ten o'clock, when the colonel came in and examined the bandages. "set quite hard," he said, "and he's sleeping fast enough. nature always seems kind to injured animals. they curl up and go to sleep till they're better." "then you think he'll get better, sir?" said joe. "can't say, my boy; but you had better be off home to bed." "yes, sir," said joe. "coming part of the way with me, gwyn?" gwyn glanced at his father before saying yes, for he expected to hear an objection. but the colonel's attention was fixed upon the dog. "let him sleep," he said; "he'll be all right here till morning." "but if he stirs, he may fall off the cistern and hurt himself again, father." "no fear, my boy. i don't suppose he will attempt to move all night. there, off with you, gwyn, if you are going part of the way." the boys followed the colonel out of the vinery, the door was shut, and the ascending lane leading to the major's house was soon reached, and then the rugged down. "precious dark," said gwyn; but there was no answer. "sleep, jolly?" said gwyn, after a few moments. "eh? no; i was thinking. i say, though, how precious dark it is;" for they could not see a dozen yards. "yes, but what were you thinking about?" "the dog." "oh, yes, of course, so was i; but what about him?" said gwyn, sharply. "how he got hurt?" "chopped in the man-engine. you heard." "yes, but i don't believe it." "here's a miserable unbeliever," said gwyn, mockingly. "how did he get hurt, then?" "someone did it." "oh, nonsense! it isn't likely. the machine did it, same as it would you or me if we weren't careful." "but that wasn't how poor old grip was hurt." "how then?" "i feel sure he was hurt with an iron bar." "why, who would hurt him in that brutal way?" "someone who hated him." "gammon!" "very well--gammon, then. but when did we see him last?" "last? last? oh, i know; when we went to the smelting-house to find tom dinass." "well, we left him behind there. the door must have swung-to and shut him in." "then you think tom dinass did it." "yes, i do." "then i say it's all prejudice. tom's turning out a thoroughly good fellow. see how willing he was over the fishing, and how he helped us this evening. you're always picking holes in tom dinass's coat. what's that?" a peculiar loud sneeze rang out suddenly from across the rough moorland to their right, where the blocks of granite lay thick. "tom dinass," said joe, in a whisper; and he stepped quickly behind a block of stone, gwyn involuntarily following him. "that's his way of sneezing," whispered joe. "what's he doing over here to-night?" the boys stood there perfectly silent; and directly after there was a faint rustling, and the figure of a man was seen upon the higher ground against the skyline for a minute or so, as he passed them, crossing their track, and apparently making for the cliffs. their view was indistinct, but the man seemed to be carrying something over his shoulder. then he was gone. "going congering," said gwyn. "he's making for the way down the rocks, so as to get to the point." "he wouldn't go congering to-night," said joe. "we gave him as much fish as he'd want." "going for the sport of the thing." "down that dangerous way in the dark?" "i daresay he knows it all right, and it saves him from going round by the fishermen's cottages--half-a-mile or more." "'tisn't that," said joe. "what an obstinate old mule you are, jolly," cried gwyn, impatiently; "you don't like tom dinass, and everything he does makes you suspicious." "well, do you like him?" "no; but i don't always go pecking at him and accusing him of smashing dogs' legs with iron stoking-bars. it wouldn't be a man who would do that; he'd be a regular monster." "let's go and see what he's after," said joe. "what, late like this in the dark?" "yes; you're not afraid are you? i want to know what he's about. i'm sure he's doing something queer." "i'm not afraid to go anywhere where you go," said gwyn, stoutly; "but of all the suspicious old women that ever were, you're getting about the worst." "come along, then." "all right," said gwyn; "but if he finds us watching him throwing out a conger-line, he'll break our legs with an iron bar and pitch us off the cliff." "yes, you may laugh," said joe, thoughtfully, "but i'm sure tom dinass is playing some game." "let's go and play with him, then. only make haste, because i must get back." joe led the way cautiously off to their left, in and out among the stones and patches of furze and bramble, till they neared the edge of the cliff, when they went more and more cautiously, till a jagged piece of crag stood up, showing where the precipice began; and to the left of this was the rather perilous way by which an active man could get down to the mass of tumbled rocks at the cliff foot, and from there walk right out on the western point which sheltered the cove from the fierce wind and waves. "all nonsense, jolly," whispered gwyn after they had stood for a few moments gazing down at where the waves broke softly with a phosphorescent light. "i won't go." but as the boy spoke there was a loud clink from far below, as if an iron bar had struck against a stone, and the lad's heart began to beat hard with excitement. then all was silent again for nearly five minutes, and the darkness, the faint, pale, lambent light shed by the waves, and the silence, produced a strange shrinking sensation that was almost painful. "shall we go down?" said joe, in a whisper. "and break our necks? no, thank you. there, come back, he has only gone to set a line for conger." "hist!" whispered joe, for at that moment, plainly heard, there came up to where they stood a peculiar thumping sound, as of a mason working with a tamping-iron upon stone. "now," whispered joe. "what does he mean by that?" chapter forty two. mining matters. the boys stayed there some time listening to the clinking sound, and then, feeling obliged to go, they hurried away. "tell you what," said gwyn, as they parted at last, "we'll wait till he has gone down the mine to-morrow morning, and then either go by the cliff or round by the cove head, and see what he has been about. i say it's a conger-line, and we may find one on." "perhaps so," said joe, thoughtfully. "ydoll, old chap, i don't like tom dinass." "nor i, neither. but what's the matter now?" "i'm afraid he broke poor grip's legs." "what? nonsense! he wouldn't be such a brute. no man would." "well, i hope not; but i can't help thinking sometimes that he did. you see, the smelting-house door might have swung-to and shut him in with dinass and he might have flown at him, and dinass might have struck at him with one of the stoking-irons and broken his legs, and then been afraid and thrown him down the mine." "and pigs might fly, but they're very unlikely birds." "well, we shall see," said joe; and he hurried home to find his father asleep, while gwyn, before going in, went on tiptoe to the vinery and crept in, to hear the dog snoring. satisfied with this, he walked round the house fully prepared to receive a scolding for being so long, and feeling disposed to take refuge in the excuse that he had been to see the dog; but no lights were visible, everyone having retired to rest, the leaving of doors unfastened not being considered a matter of much moment at that secluded place. so gwyn crept to bed unheard, and had no need to make a shuffling excuse, and slept late the next morning, to find at breakfast time his father had been out to the dog. "how is he? oh, better than i expected to find him? he is not disposed to eat, only to sleep--and the best thing for him. the bandages are as hard as stone. storm coming, i think, my dear." "we must not complain," said mrs pendarve. "we have had lovely weather." "i don't complain, and should not unless the waves washed up into the mine, and gave us a week's pumping; but we should want monsters for that." the colonel was right, for there was nearly a month's bad weather, during which the waves came thundering in all along the coast, and no fishing-boats went out; and as no opportunity occurred for getting down to the point, which was a wild chaos of foam, the strange behaviour of tom dinass was forgotten. there were busy days, too, in the mine, stolen from those passed in superintending the tremendous output of tin ore. the men worked below and above, and the colonel and major shook hands as they congratulated themselves upon their adventure, it being evident now that a year of such prosperity would nearly, if not quite, recoup them for their outlay in machinery, they having started without the terribly expensive task of sinking the mine through the rock. all that they had had to do was to pump out the first excavation, and then begin raising rich tin ore for crushing, washing, and smelting. the stolen days were devoted to making explorations and mapping out the mine. there were no more goings astray, for gallery after gallery was marked in paint or whitewash with arrows, so that by degrees most of the intricacies, which formed a gigantic network, were followed and marked, and in these explorations abundant proof was given of the enormous wealth waiting to be quarried out. there was no wonder felt now that those who had gone down first should have lost themselves. "wonder to me is, mr gwyn," said hardock one day, "that we any on us come up again alive." so they kept on exploring, and, well furnished with lights, the lads found the great hall with its pillars of quartz veined with tin, and strange passages going in different directions, far less horrible now. there was the gallery which dipped down too, one which they found their way to now from both ends. it looked gloomy and strange, with the whispering sounds of falling water and the reflections from the candles on the shining black surface; but knowledge had robbed it of its horrors. "go through it again?" said gwyn, as they stood looking along it; "to be sure i would, only i don't want to get wet through for nothing. when we did wade through, sam, one was always expecting to put one's foot in a shaft or in a well, and go down, never to come up again." "ay, that would make you feel squirmy, sir." "it did," said gwyn, laughing. "but, i say, wasn't grip a splendid old fellow? and how he knew! fancy his swimming right along here!" "ay, he is a dog," said sam. "how is he, sir?" "oh, he'll soon be out again; but father wants to keep him chained up till his bones are properly grown together." "he'll have to run dot and go one, i suppose, sir?" "what, lame?" cried gwyn. "very little, i think. we can't tell yet, because his legs are stiff with so much bandaging. i say, sam, you fall down the shaft and break your legs, and we'll put 'em in plaster for you." "no thank ye, sir," said the man, grinning, as he stopped to snuff his candle with nature's own snuffers. "i never had no taste for breaking bones. now, then, we'll go round by a bit i come to one day, if you don't mind a long walk back. take us another two hours, but the floor's even, and i want to have a look at it." "what sort of a place is it?" said gwyn; "anything worth seeing?" "not much to see, sir, only it's one of the spots where the old miners left off after going along to the west. strikes me it's quite the end that way. and i want to make sure that we've found one end of the old pit." "does the place seem worn out?" said joe, who had been listening in silence. "that's it, sir. lode seems to have grown a bit narrower, and run up edge-wise like." "why, we went there," said joe, eagerly. "don't you remember, ydoll?" "yes, i remember now. i'd forgotten it, though. i say! hark; you can hear quite a murmuring if you put your ear against the wall." "yes, sir, you can hear it plainly enough in several places." "don't you remember, ydoll, how we heard it when we were wet?" "now you talk about it, i do, of course," said gwyn; "but, somehow, being down here as we were, i seemed to be stunned, and it has always been hard work to recollect all we went through. i'd forgotten lots of these galleries and pools and roofs, just as one forgets a dream, while, going through them again, they all seem to come back fresh and i know them as well as can be. but what makes this faint rumbling, sam? is it one of the little trucks rumbling along in the distance?" "no, sir," said hardock, with a chuckle. "what do you say it is, master joe?" the lad listened in silence for a few moments, and then said slowly,-- "well, if i didn't know that it was impossible, i should say that we were listening to the waves breaking on the shore." "it aren't impossible, sir, and that's what you're doing," said hardock; and the boys started as if to make for the foot of the shaft. "what's the matter," said hardock, chuckling. "'fraid of its bursting through?" "i don't know--yes," said gwyn. "what's to prevent it?" "solid rock overhead, sir. it's lasted long enough, so i don't see much to fear." "but it sounds so horrible," cried joe, who suddenly found that the gallery in which they were standing felt suffocatingly hot. "oh, it's nothing when you're used to it. there's other mines bein' worked right under the sea. there's no danger so long as we don't cut a hole through to let the water in; and we sha'n't do that." "but how thick is the rock over our heads?" "can't say, sir, but thick enough." "but is it just over our heads here?" "well, i should say it warn't, sir; but i can't quite tell, because it's so deceiving. i've tried over and over to make it out, but one time it sounds loudest along there, another time in one of the other galleries. it's just as it happens. sound's a very curious thing, as i've often noticed down a mine, for i've listened to the men driving holes in the rock to load for a blast, and it's quite wonderful how you hear it sometimes in a gallery ever so far off, and how little when you're close to. come along. no fear of the water coming in, or i'd soon say let's get to grass." the boys did not feel much relieved, but they would not show their anxiety, and followed the mining captain with the pulsation of their hearts feeling a good deal heavier; and they went on for nearly an hour before they reached the spot familiar to them, one which recalled the difficulty they had had with grip when he ran up the passage, and stood barking at the end, as if eager to show them that it was a _cul-de-sac_. hardock went right to the end, and spent some time examining the place before speaking. then he began to point out the marks made by picks, hammers, and chisels, some of which were so high up that he declared that the miners must have had short ladders or platforms. "ladders, i should say," he muttered; "and the mining must have been stopped for some reason, because the lode aren't broken off. there's plenty of ore up there if we wanted it, and maybe we shall some day, but not just yet. there's enough to be got to make your fathers rich men without going very far from the shaft foot; and all this shows me that it must have been very, very long ago, when people only got out the richest of the stuff, and left those who came after 'em to scrape all the rest. there, i think that will do for to-day." the boys thought so, too, though they left this part rather reluctantly, for it was cooler, but the idea of going along through galleries which extended beneath the sea was anything but reassuring. that evening the major came over to the cottage with his son, and the long visit of the boys underground during the day formed one of the topics chatted over, the major seeming quite concerned. "i had no idea of this," he said. "highly dangerous. you had not been told, pendarve, of course." "no," said the colonel, smiling, "i had not been told; but i shrewdly suspected that this was the case, especially after hearing the faint murmuring sound in places." "but we shall be having some catastrophe," cried the major--"the water breaking in." the colonel smiled. "i don't think we need fear that. the galleries are all arch-roofed and cut through the solid rock, and, as far as i have seen, there has not been a single place where the curves have failed. if they have not broken in from the pressure of the millions of tons of rock overhead, why should they from the pressure of the water?" "oh, but a leak might commence from filtration, and gradually increase in size," said the major. "possibly, my dear boy," replied the colonel; "but water works slowly through stone, and for the next hundred years i don't think any leakage could take place that we should not master with our pumping gear. oh, absurd! there is no danger. just try and think out how long this mine has been worked. i am quite ready to believe that it was left us by the ancient britons who supplied the phoenicians." "may be, we cannot tell," said the major, warmly; "but you cannot deny that we found the mine full of water." "no, and i grant that if we leave it alone for a hundred years it will be full again." "from the sea?" "no; from filtration through the rock. the water we pumped out was fresh, not salt. there, my dear jollivet, pray don't raise a bugbear that might scare the men and make them nervous. they are bad enough with what they fancy about goblins and evil spirits haunting the mine. even hardock can't quite divest himself of the idea that there is danger from gentry of that kind. don't introduce water-sprites as well." the subject dropped; but that night, impressed as they had been by what they had heard, and partly from partaking too liberally of a late supper, both gwyn and joe had dreams about the sea breaking into and flooding the mine, gwyn dreaming in addition that he behaved in a very gallant way. for he seemed to find the hole through which the water passed in, and stopped it by thrusting in his arm, which stuck fast, and, try how he would, he could not extricate it, but stood there with the water gradually stifling him, and preventing him from calling aloud for help. the heat and darkness at last rescued him from his perilous position-- that is to say, he awoke to find himself lying upon his back with his face beneath the clothes; and these being thrown off, he saw that the morning sunshine was flooding the bedroom, and the memory of the troublous dream rapidly died away. chapter forty three. after a lapse. "that makes the fourth," said colonel pendarve, tossing a letter across to his son in the office one morning when the mine was in full work; "four proposals from mr dix, and i have had three at intervals from that other legal luminary, brownson. seven applications to buy the mine in two years, gwyn. yes, it will be two years next week since we began mining, and in those two years you and joe jollivet have grown to be almost men--quite men in some respects, though you don't shave yet." "yes, i do, father," said gwyn, smiling. "humph!" ejaculated the colonel, "then it's an utter waste of time. there, answer that letter and say emphatically no." the colonel left the office, and gwyn read the letter. "look here, joe," he said; and joe jollivet, who had climbed up to six feet in the past two years, slowly rose from his table at the other side of the office, unfolding himself, as it were, like a carpenter's double-hinged rule, and crossed to where gwyn was seated with his table covered with correspondence. joe read the letter, and threw it back. "well," he said, "it's a pity they don't sell it; but it's the old story: father says `no,' as he has started mining and it pays, he shall go on, so that i may succeed him." "and colonel pendarve, ex-officer of cavalry and now half-proprietor of ydoll mine, says precisely the same on behalf of his fine, noble, handsome son gwyn. look here, joe, why don't you drop it, and swell out the other way?" "going to begin that poor stuff again?" said joe, sourly. "you make me. i declare i believe you've grown another inch in the night. what a jolly old cucumber you are! you'll have to go on your knees next time you go down the mine." "you answer your letter, and then i want to talk to you." "what about?" "i'll tell you directly you've written your letter. get one piece of business out of your way at a time." "dear me; how methodical we are," said gwyn; but he began writing his answer, while, instead of going back to his table, joe crossed to the hearthrug, where grip was lying curled up asleep, and bending down slowly he patted the dog's head and rubbed his ears, receiving an intelligent look in return, while the curly feathery tail rapped the rug. "there you are, mr lawyer dix, esquire," said gwyn, after dashing off the reply; "now, don't bother us any more, for we are not going to sell--hi! grip, old man, rabbits!" the dog sprang to his feet uttered a sharp bark, and ran to the door before realising that it meant nothing; and then, without the sign of a limp, walked slowly back and lay down growling. "ha, ha!" laughed gwyn; "says `you're not going to humbug me again like that,' as plain as a dog can speak." "well, it's too bad," said joe. "think of the boy who cried `wolf.' some day when you want him he won't come." "oh, yes, he will; grip knows me. come here, old man." the dog sprang to him, rose on his hind-legs, and put his fore-paws on his master's hands. "only a game, was it, grippy? you understand your master, don't you?" the dog gave a joyous bark. "there; says he does." "don't fool about, i want to talk to you," said joe, sternly. "all right, old lively. how was the governor this morning? you look as if you'd taken some of his physic by mistake. now, grip, how are your poor legs?" "_ahow-w-ow_!" howled the dog, throwing up his muzzle and making a most dismal sound. "feel the change in the weather?" a bark. "do you, now? but they are quite strong again, aren't they?" "_how-how-ow-ow_" yelped the dog. "here, what made you begin talking about that?" "what? his broken legs?" "yes." "pride, i suppose, in our cure. or nonsense, just to tease the dog. he always begins to howl when i talk about his legs. don't you, grip? poor old cripple, then." "ahow!" yelped the dog. "why did you ask?" "because it seemed curious. i say, gwyn, i believe i did that man an injustice." "what man an injustice?" said gwyn, who was pretending to tie the dog's long silky ears in a knot across his eyes. "tom dinass." the dog bounded from where he stood on his hind-legs resting on his master's knees, and burst into a furious fit of barking. "hark at him!" cried gwyn. "talk about dogs being intelligent animals? it's wonderful. he never liked the fellow. hi! tom dinass there. did he break your legs, grip?" the dog barked furiously, and ended with a savage growl. "just like we are," said gwyn, "like some people, and hate others. i begin to think you were right, joe, and he did do it." "oh, no--impossible!" "well, it doesn't matter. he's gone." "no, he has not," said joe, quietly. "he has been hanging about here ever since he left six months ago." "what! i've never seen him." "i have, and he has spoken to me over and over again." "why, you never told me." "no, but i thought a good deal about it." "what did he say to you?" "that it was very hard for a man who had done his best for the mine to be turned away all of a sudden just because sam hardock and the fellows hated him." "he wouldn't have been turned away for that. but as father said, when a man strikes his superior officer he must be punished, or there would be no discipline in a corps." "i daresay sam hardock exasperated him first." "well, you often exasperate me, jolly, but i don't take up a miner's hammer and knock you down." "no," said joe, thinking in a pensive way; "you're a good patient fellow. but he said it was very hard for a man to be thrown out of work for six months for getting in a bit of temper." "bit of temper, indeed! i should think it was! i tell you it was murderous! why don't he go and get taken on at some other mine? there are plenty in cornwall, and he's a good workman. let him go where he isn't known, and not hang about here." "he says he has tried, and he wants to come back." "and you and me to put up a petition for him!" "yes, that's it." "then we just won't--will we, grip? we don't want any tom dinass here, do we?" the dog growled furiously. "don't set the dog against him, ydoll. i did accuse him of having done that, but he looked at me in a horrified way, and said i couldn't know what i was saying, to charge him with such a thing. he said he'd sooner cut his hand off than injure a dog like that." "and we don't believe him, do we, grip? why, you've quite changed your colours, jolly. you used to be all against him, and now you're all for, and it's i who go against him." "but you don't want to be unjust, ydoll?" "not a bit of it. i'm going to be always as just as justice. there, let's get to work again. i've a lot of letters to write." "one minute, ydoll. i want you to oblige me in something." "if it's to borrow tuppence, i can't." "don't be stupid. i've spoken to father about tom dinass." the dog growled furiously. "there, you've set him off. quiet, sir!" cried gwyn. "it's your doing. you worry the dog into barking like that. but look here; father said he did not like to see men idle, and that dinass had been well punished, and he would consent if the colonel agreed. so i want you to help me." "i can't, jolly, really." "yes you can, and you must," said joe, glancing uneasily towards the door. "for i told him he might come and see the colonel; and if we ask him, i'm sure he'll give way. say you'll help me." "i can't, old man." "yes, you can, and will. let's be forgiving. i told him he might come and see you and talk to you as he did to me, and it's just his time. yes; there he is." for there was a step at the outside, and joe went quickly to the door. "come in, tom," said joe. the man, looking very much tattered and very humble, came in, hat in hand. "mornin', sir," he said softly. then his eyes seemed to lash fire, and with a savage look he threw out his arms, for with one furious growl the dog leaped at him, and fastened upon the roll of cotton neckerchief which was wrapped about his throat. chapter forty four. tom dinass shows his teeth. gwyn sprang from his seat, dashed at the dog, and caught him by the collar. "grip! down!" he roared. "let go--let--go!" he dragged at the furious beast, while dinass wrenched himself away. then there was a struggle, and gwyn roared out,-- "open the door, joe. quick! i can't hold him." the door was flung open, and, with the dog fighting desperately to get free, gwyn hung on to the collar, passed quickly, and dragged the dog after him right out of the office; then swung him round and round, turning himself as on a pivot, let go, and the animal went flying, while, before he could regain his feet, gwyn had darted inside and banged-to the door, standing against it panting. "i don't think you need want to come back here, master tom dinass," he cried. _bang_! the dog had dashed himself at the door, and now stood barking furiously till his master ran to the window and opened it. "go home, sir!" he roared; but the dog barked and bayed at him, raised his feet to the sill, and would have sprung in, had not gwyn nearly closed the sash. "go home, sir!" he shouted again; and after a few more furiously given orders, the dog's anger burned less fiercely. he began to whine as if protesting, and finally, on receiving a blow from a walking cane thrust through the long slit between sash and window-sill, he uttered a piteous yelp, lowered his tail, and went off home. "don't seem to take to me somehow, mr gwyn, sir," said the man. "the chaps used to set him again' me." "are you hurt?" "no, i aren't hurt, but i wonder he didn't get it. puts a man's monkey up and makes him forget whose dorg it is." "look here, tom dinass," said gwyn, quickly. "did you ever forget whose dog he was, and ill-use him?" "me, mr gwyn, sir? now is it likely?" protested the man. "yes; very likely; he flew at you. did you hurt him that time when he was found down the man-engine?" "why, that's what mr joe jollivet said, sir, ever so long ago, and i telled him i'd sooner have cut off my right-hand. 'taren't likely as i'd do such a thing to a good young master's dog." "now, no cant, sir, because i don't believe in it. look here, you'd better go somewhere else and get work." "can't, sir," said the man, bluntly; "and as for the dog, if you'll let me come back and tell him it's friends he'll soon get used to me again. i seem to belong to this mine, and i couldn't be happy nowheres else. don't say you won't speak for a poor fellow, mr gwyn, sir. you know i always did my work, and i was always ready to row or pull at the net or do anything you young gen'lemen wanted me to do. it's hard; sir--it is hard not to have a good word said for a poor man out o' work. i know i hit at sam hardock, but any man would after the way he come at me." "we're not going to argue that," said gwyn, firmly; "perhaps there were faults on both sides; but i must say that i think you had better get work somewhere else." "no good to try, sir. some o' the mines aren't paying, and some on 'em's not working at all. ydoll's in full fettle, and you want more men. ask the guv'nors to take me on again, sir." "yes, do, gwyn," said joe. "it must be very hard for a man to want work, and find that no one will give him a job." "hard, sir? that aren't the word for it. makes a man feel as if he'd like to jump off the cliff, so as to be out of his misery. do ask 'em, sir, and i'll never forget it. if i did wrong, i've paid dear for it. but no one can say i didn't work hard to do good to the mine." "well, i'll ask my father when he comes back to the office." "won't you ask him now, sir?" "i don't know where he is. and as for you, i should advise you not to go near my dog; i don't want to hear that he has bitten you." "oh, he won't bite me, sir, if you tell him not. we shall soon make friends. do ask soon, and let me stop about to hear, and get out of my misery." "you will not have to stop long, tom dinass," said gwyn, as a step outside was heard--the regular martial tread of the old soldier, who seemed to be so much out of place amongst all the mining business. "yes; here comes the colonel," said joe, quickly; and he went and opened the door to admit the stiff, upright, old officer. "thank you, jollivet," he said. "hallo! what does this man want?" "he has come with his humble petition, father, backed up by joe jollivet and by me, for him to be taken on again at the mine." "no," said the colonel, frowning; "it's impossible, my boy." "beg pardon, sir, don't say that," said the man. "i have said it, my man," said the colonel, firmly. "but you'll think better of it, sir. i'll work hard for you." "no," said the colonel; "you had a fair chance here for doing well, and you failed. the men would be ready to strike if i took you on again." "oh, but you've no call to listen to what a lot of men says." "i am bound to in a certain way, my man. you made yourself universally unpopular among them, and all that culminated in your savage assault upon the captain. why, my good fellow, many a man has gone into penal servitude for less than that." "yes, sir, i know i hit him; but they was all again' me." "i cannot go into that," said the colonel. "give him a trial, father," said gwyn, in answer to joe's appealing look. "do, sir. i've been out o' work a long time, and it's precious hard." "go right away, and try somewhere else, my lad." "i have, sir," said dinass, imploringly. "i served you well, sir, and i will again." "i have no fault to find with your working, my man, but i cannot re-engage you." "do, sir; it's for your good. do take me on, sir. i want to do what's right. it is for your good, sir, indeed." the colonel shook his head. "no; i cannot alter my decision, my man," said the colonel. "do as i said: go right away and get work; but i know it is hard upon a man to be out of work and penniless. you are a good hand, and ought not to be without a job for long, so in remembrance of what you did--" "you'll take me on, sir? i tell you it's for your good." "no," said the colonel, sternly. "gwyn, give this man a sovereign for his present necessities, and for the next few weeks, while he is seeking work, he can apply here for help, and you can pay him a pound a week. that will do." "better do what i said, sir," said dinass, with a grim look, "i warn you." "i said that will do, sir," cried the colonel, firmly. "gwyn, my boy, pay him and let him go." joe's chin dropped upon his chest, and he rested his hand upon the back of the nearest chair. then he started and looked at the door wonderingly, for, scowling savagely, tom dinass stuck on his hat very much sidewise, and, without pausing to receive the money, strode out of the place and went right away. "specimen of sturdy british independence," said the colonel, sternly. "i'm sorry, but he is not a man to have about the place. he is dangerous; and when it comes to covert threats of what he would do if not engaged, one feels that help is out of the question. be the better for me if i engage him--means all the worse for me if i do not. there, it is not worth troubling about; but if he comes back for the money, when he has cooled down, let him have it." "yes, father," said gwyn, and he went on with his letters, but somehow, from time to time the thought of the man's fierce manner came back to him, and he could not help thinking how unpleasant a man dinass could be if he set himself up for an enemy. chapter forty five. crystal, but not clear. tom dinass did not come back for the money colonel pendarve had ordered to be paid him, but he started off the very next day, as if he had shaken the ydoll dust from off his feet, and made for the plymouth road. the news was brought to sam hardock at the mine by harry vores, and sam chuckled and rubbed his hands as he went and told the two lads. "gone, and jolly go with him, mr gwyn, sir. we're well quit of him. i was going to warn you to keep grip always with you, for i have heared say that he swore he'd have that dog's life; but perhaps it was all bounce. anyhow he's gone, and i'm sure i for one shall feel a bit relieved to be without him." gwyn said very little, but he thought a great deal for a few minutes about how much better it would have been if sam hardock had treated dinass with a little more amiability. he quite forgot all about the matter for three days, and then he had fresh news, for sam hardock came to him chuckling again. "it's all right, sir," he said. "what is--the pumping?" "tchah!--that's all right, of course, sir; i mean about tom dinass. harry vores' wife has just come back from staying at plymouth, and she saw tom dinass there. he won't come back here. do you know, sir, i've got a sort o' suspicion that he broke grip's legs." "eh! why do you think that?" said gwyn, starting. "did anybody suggest such a thing?" "no, sir; but he always hated the dog, and he might have done it, you know." "oh, yes, and so might you," said gwyn, testily. "me, sir?" "yes, or anybody else. let it rest, sam. grip's legs are quite well again." "that's what you may call snubbing a chap," said hardock to himself as he went away. "well, he needn't have been quite so chuff with a man; i only meant--well, i am blessed!" sam hardock said "blessed," but he looked and felt as if it were the very opposite; and he hurried back to the office where gwyn had just been joined by joe, who had been back home to see how his father was getting on, for he was suffering from another of his fits. hardock thrust his head in at the door, and without preface groaned out,-- "you'd better go and chain that there dog up, sir," and he nodded to where the animal he alluded to had made himself comfortable on the rug. "grip? why?" said gwyn. "he's back again, sir." "who is?" said gwyn, though he felt that he knew. "tom dinass, sir. talk about bad shillings coming back--why, he's worse than a bad sixpence." "then it was him i saw crossing the moor toward the druid stones," said joe. "then why didn't you say so?" cried gwyn, sourly. "because i wasn't sure." "never sure of anything, since you've grown so tall," grumbled gwyn. "no, i sha'n't chain up grip; and i tell him what it is--i'm not going to interfere if the dog goes at him again, for he must have done something bad, or grip wouldn't be so fierce." the dog pricked up his ears on hearing his name, and gave the rug a few taps with his tail. "he never so much as growls at any of the other men. pretty state of things if one can't have one's dog about because some man hates him. pooh! i know, joe." "know what?" "he hasn't got a job yet, and he's coming for the money father said he was to have till he got an engagement." "did the guv'nor say that, sir?" cried hardock. "yes." "then tom dinass won't never get no engagements, but set up for a gentleman, and i think i shall do the same, for work and me aren't the best of friends." "get out!" said gwyn, laughing; "why, you're never happy unless you are at work--is he, joe?" "no, he's a regular nuisance. always wanting to do something else, and stop late in the mine wasting the candles." "what a shame, mr joe!" said hardock, grinning. "it's quite true, sam," cried gwyn. "done all that painting up of arrows on the walls near the water gallery?" "not quite, sir; i'm going to have a good long day at it on friday." "friday's an unlucky day," said joe. "not it, sir, when you want to get a job done. and i say, mr gwyn, come down with me. there's a long drift you've never seen yet, where there's some cracks and hollows chock full of the finest crystals i ever see." "crystals?" cried gwyn. "in a new gallery?" said joe, excitedly. "well, you may call it a new gallery if you like, sir," said sam, with a chuckle; "i calls it the oldest drift i was ever in." "i should like to see that," said joe. "come down then, sir, but aren't it a bit strange that you've taken to like going down of late." "no; i like going down now, for it's all strange and interesting in the unexplored parts, when one can go down comfortably and not feel afraid of being lost." "nay, but you might be still, sir," said the captain, wagging his head. "there's a sight of bits yet that would puzzle you, just as they would me. i have got a deal marked with directions, though, sir, and i sha'n't be quite at rest till i've done all. then you gents'll come down on friday?" "yes," said gwyn, "and i'll bring a basket and hammer and chisel. are they fine crystals?" "just the finest i've ever seen, sir; some of 'em's quite of a golden-black colour like peat water." "but i don't want to come down all that way and find that someone has been and chipped them off." "chipped 'em off, sir, when i gave orders that they weren't to be touched!" said the captain, fiercely. "there aren't a man as would dare to do it 'cept tom dinass, and he's gone. leastwise, he was gone, and has come back. they're all right, sir; and i tell you what, if i were you gen'lemen, i'd bring down a basket o' something to eat, for you'll be down most of the day, and it wouldn't be amiss if you brought some o' that rhubarb and magneshy wire to light up in the crystal bit, for the roof runs up wonderful high--it's natural and never been cut like. regular cave." "we'll come, sam. this is going to be interesting, joe. we won't forget the rhubarb wire neither." "that's right, sir. what do you say to d'rectly after breakfast--say nine o'clock, if it's not too soon for you, friday--day after to-morrow?" "we'll be there, sam. all right down below?" "never more regular, sir. she's dry as a bone, and the stuff they're getting's richer than ever. only to think of it! what a job i had to get the colonel to start! i say, mr gwyn, sir, when he's made his fortune, and you've made yours, i shall expect a pension like the guv'nor's giving tom dinass." "all right, sam. i'll see that you have it." "thankye, sir," said the mining captain, in all seriousness, and he left the office. no sooner was he gone than gwyn turned to his companion. "i say, joe," he said; "you'd better not come." "why not?" "you've grown too much lately; you'll be taking all the skin off the top of your head, and grow bald before your time." "get out!" said joe, good-humouredly; "didn't you hear him say that the roof was too high to see with a candle?" "oh, of course," cried gwyn. "then you'd better come. there must be about room enough in a place like that." joe laughed merrily; and then with a serious look,-- "i say, though," he cried, "i really would keep grip tied up for a bit." "i sha'n't, not for all the tom dinasses between here and van diemen's land. i will keep him with me, though; i don't want my lord to be bitten. wonder whether that fellow will come soon for his money. we'll shut grip in the inner office, for we don't want another scene." chapter forty six. a dog's opinion. but tom dinass did not go to the office for his promised money, neither was he seen by anyone; and gwyn began to doubt the truth of the report till it was confirmed by harry vores, who stated that his "missus" saw the man go into a lawyer's office, and that there was the name on the brass plate, "dix." this recalled the visit they had had from a man of that name. "perhaps he is dealing with mines, and can give people work," thought gwyn; and then the matter passed out of his mind. friday morning came, and directly after breakfast the two young fellows met, gwyn provided with a basket of provender, his hammer, chisel and some magnesium ribbon, while joe had brought an extra-powerful oil lanthorn. "ready?" "yes; i've told father i shall be late," said joe. "so have i, and my mother, too. seen anything of tom dinass? no?" "but--oh, i say!" "well, say it," cried gwyn. "what about grip?" "quite well, thank you for your kind inquiries, but he says he feels the cold a little in his legs." "don't fool," said joe, testily. "you're not going to leave the dog?" "why not?" "tom dinass." gwyn whistled. "soon put that right," he said. "we'll take him with us. he'll enjoy the run." there was no doubt about that, for the dog was frantic with delight, and as soon as he was unchained he raced before them to the mouth of the pit, as readily as if he understood where they were going. sam hardock was waiting, and he rubbed his nose on seeing the dog. "i did advise you, sir, to keep him chained up while there's danger about," he grumbled. "won't be any danger down below, sam," said gwyn cheerily. "what? eh? you mean to take him with us? oh, i see. but won't he get chopped going down?" "not if i carry him." "nay, sir," said the man, seriously, "you mustn't venture on that." "well, i'm going to take him down," said gwyn. "i know," said joe, eagerly; "send him down in the skep." "ay, ye might do that, sir," said hardock, nodding. "would he stop, sir?" "if i tell him," said gwyn; and, an empty skep being hooked on just then, the engineer grinned as gwyn went to it and bade the dog jump in. grip obeyed on the instant, and then, as his master did not follow, he whined, and made as if to leap out. "lie down, sir. going down. wait for us at the bottom." the dog couched, and the engineer asked if he'd stay. "oh, yes, he'll stay," said gwyn. then, obeying a sudden impulse, he took his basket, and placed it beside the dog at the bottom of the iron skep. "watch it, grip!" he cried, and the dog growled. "he wouldn't leave that." "till every morsel's devoured," said joe. then click went the break, a bell rang, and the skep descended, while the little party stepped one by one on to the man-engine, and began to descend by jumps and steps off, lower and lower, till in due time the bottom was reached, where grip sat watching the basket just inside the great archway, the skep he had descended in having been placed on wheels, and run off into the depths of the mine, while a full one had taken its place and gone up. then the party started off with their candles and the big lamp, first along by the tram line, after sam hardock had peered into a big, empty sumph, and then on and on, past where many men were busy chipping, hammering, and tamping the rock to force out masses of ore, while, before they had gone half-a-mile, there was a tremendous volley of echoes, which seemed as if they would never cease, and the party received what almost seemed a blow, so heavy was the concussion. but neither gwyn nor joe started, and the dog, who had gone ahead, merely came trotting back to look at his master, and then bounded off again into the darkness, as if certain that there was a cat somewhere ahead which ought to be hunted out of the mine. familiarity had bred contempt; and fully aware that the noise was only the firing of a shot to dislodge some of the ore for shovelling into the iron skeps, they went on without a word. they must have been a couple of miles from the shaft, every turn of the way being marked with a whitewash arrow, when hardock stopped to trim his light, and his example was followed by his companions, the result of their halting being that grip came trotting back out of the darkness to look up inquiringly, and then, satisfied with his examination, he bounded off again to find that imaginary cat. he soon came rushing back, though, on finding that he was not followed; for, after turning to give his companions a meaning nod, hardock suddenly turned down a narrow opening which joined the gallery they were following at a sharp angle, and then went on, nearly doubling back over the ground they had traversed before. then came a series of zigzags, and these were so confusing that at the end of a few hundred yards neither gwyn nor joe could have told the direction in which they were going. "never been here before, gen'lemen?" said hardock, with a grin. "no; this is quite fresh," said gwyn, consulting a pocket compass. "leads west then." "sometimes, sir; but it jiggers about all sorts of ways. ah, there's a deal of the mine yet that we haven't seen." "rises a little, too," said joe. "yes, sir; slopes up just a little--easy grajent, as the big engineers call it." "but you said it was natural, and not cut out by following a vein," said gwyn. "there are chisel-marks all along here." "hav'n't got to the place i mean yet, sir. good half-mile on." "and farther from the shaft?" "well, no, sir, because it bears away to the right, and i've found a road round to beyond that big centre place with the bits that support the roof." "well, go on then," said gwyn; "one gets tired of always going along these passages." "oughtn't to, sir, with all these signs of branches of tin lode--i don't." "but one can have too much tin, sam," said joe, laughing; and they went steadily on along the narrow passage, which grew more straight, till there was only just room for them to walk in single file. "been getting thin here, gen'lemen," said hardock; "sign the ore was getting to an end. look, there's where it branched off, and there, and there, going off to nothing like the roots of a tree. now, just about a hundred yards farther, and you'll see a difference." but it proved to be quite three hundred, and the way had grown painfully narrow and stiflingly hot; when all at once grip began to bark loudly, and the noise, instead of sounding smothered and dull, echoed as if he were in a spacious place. so it proved, for the narrow passage suddenly ceased and the party stepped out into a wide chasm, whose walls and roof were invisible, and the air felt comparatively cool and pleasant. "there you are, mr gwyn, sir," said hardock, as he stood holding up his light, but vainly, for it showed nothing beyond the halo which it shed. "i call this a bit o' nature, sir. you won't find any marks on the walls here." "i can't even see the walls," said joe. "here, grip, where are you?" the dog barked in answer some distance away, and then came scampering back. "oh, here's one side, sir," said hardock, taking a few steps to his left, and once more holding up his light against a rugged mass of granite veined with white quartz, and glistening as if studded with gems. "how beautiful!" cried joe. "let's throw a light on the subject," said gwyn, merrily. "open your lanthorn, joe;" and as this was done he lit the end of a piece of magnesium ribbon, which burned with a brilliant white light and sent up a cloud of white fumes to rise slowly above their heads. the light brightened the place for a minute, and in that brief interval the two friends feasted their eyes upon the crystal-hung roof and walls of the lovely grotto, whose sides rose to about forty feet above their heads, and then joined in a correct curve that was nearly as regular as if it had been the work of some human architect. a hundred feet away the roof sank till it was only two or three yards above the irregular floor, and the place narrowed in proportion, while where they stood the walls were some fifty feet apart. then the ribbon gave one flash, and was dropped on the floor, to be succeeded by a black darkness, out of which the lanthorns shed what seemed to be three dim sparks. "what do you think of it, gen'lemen?" said hardock, from out of the black darkness. "grand! lovely! beautiful! i never saw anything like it," cried gwyn. "why, it must be the most valuable part of the mine," cried joe. hardock chuckled. "it's just the part, sir, as is worth nothing except for show," he said. "it's very pretty, but there isn't an ounce o' tin to a ton o' working here, sir, and--" his words were checked by a faintly-heard muffled roar, which was followed by a puff of moist air and the customary whispering sound of echoes; but before they had died away grip set up his ears, passed right away into the darkness, and barked with all his might. "quiet, sir!" cried gwyn; but the dog barked the louder. "kick him, ydoll; it's deafening," cried joe. "didn't that shot sound rather rum to you?" said hardock. "oh, i don't know," replied gwyn, who was slow to take alarm. "sounded like a shot and the echoes." "nay; that's what it didn't sound like," said hardock, scratching his head. "it was sharper and shorter like, and we didn't ought to hear it like that all this distance away." "isn't the roof of the mine fallen in, is it?" said gwyn, maliciously, as he watched the effect of his words on his companions. "you, grip, if you don't be quiet, i'll rub your head against the rough wall." "nay, this roof'll never fall in, sir," said hardock, thoughtfully. "more it's pushed the tighter it grows." "well, let's get some of the crystals," said gwyn; "though it does seem a pity to break the walls of such a lovely place. but we must have some. be quiet, grip!" "let's have some lunch first," said joe. "nay, gen'lemen," said hardock, whose face looked clay-coloured in the feeble light. "i don't think we'll stop for no crystals, nor no lunch, to-day, for, i don't want to scare you, but i feel sure that there's something very wrong." "wrong! what can be wrong?" cried gwyn, quickly. "that's more than i can say, sir," replied the man; "but we've just heard something as we didn't ought to hear; and if you've any doubt about it, look at that dog." "you're not alarmed at the barking of a dog?" cried gwyn, contemptuously. "no, no, not a bit; but dogs have a way of knowing things that beats us. he's barking at something he knows is wrong, and it's that which makes me feel scared though i don't know what it is." chapter forty seven. for life. "what nonsense!" cried gwyn, laughing. "don't you be scared by trifles, joe. there's nothing wrong, is there, grip?" the dog threw up his head, gazed pleadingly at his master, and then made for the farther opening. "no, no, not that way," cried joe. "yes, sir, we'll try that way please; it works round by the wet drive, and the big pillared hall, as you called it." "but look here, sam, are you serious?" said joe; "or are you making this fuss to frighten us?" "you never knowed me try to do such a thing as that, sir," said the man, sternly. "p'raps i'm wrong, and i hope i am; but all the same i should be glad for us to get to the foot of the shaft again." "why not go to where the men are at work?" suggested gwyn; "they'd know." "we shall take them in our way, sir; and we won't lose any time please." "i should like to light up the place once more before we go." "no, no, sir. you can do that when you come again." "very well," said gwyn, who did not feel in the least alarmed, but who could see the great drops standing on the mining captain's face. "lead on, then. where's grip?" the dog was gone. "here! hi! grip! grip!" cried gwyn. there was a faint bark from a distance, and gwyn called again, but there was no further response. "he knows it's wrong, sir," said hardock, solemnly, "so let's hurry after him." "go on, then," said joe; and gwyn reluctantly followed them through the grotto, and then along a natural crack in the rock, which was painful for walking, being all on a slope. but this soon came to an end, and they found themselves in another grotto, but with a low-arched roof and wanting in the crystallisations of the first. "you have been all along here, sam?" said gwyn, suddenly. for answer hardock took a few steps forward, and held up his lanthorn to display a roughly-brushed white arrow on the wall pointing forward. "you can always tell where we've been now, sir," said the man. "this bends in and out for nearly a quarter of a mile; now it's caverns, now it's cracks, and then we come again upon old workings which lead off by what i call one of the mine endings. after that we get to the big hall, and that low wet gallery; i know my way right through now." "but it's all a scare," said gwyn, banteringly. "i hope so, sir, but i feel unked like, and as if something's very wrong." "think of old grip playing the sneak," said joe, as they finally cleared the grotto-like cracks, and came upon flooring better for walking. "nay, sir, he's no sneak. he's only gone to see what's the matter." "without a light?" cried gwyn. "he wants no light, sir. his eyes are not like ours. would you mind walking a little faster?" "no; lead on, and we'll keep up. but how long will it take us to get to the foot of the shaft?" "two hours, sir." "so long as that?" "every minute of it, sir--if we get there at all," said the man to himself. and now they walked on at a good steady rate, only pausing once to trim their lights, and at last came to a turn familiar to both the lads, for it was the beginning of the passage where they had had the scare from having to pass through water, but at the end farthest from that which they had come by in the early part of the day. "won't go through here, sam?" said gwyn. "much the nighest, sir; but we don't want to be soaked. would you mind going a little way down here?" "not i," said gwyn; and the man led on, joe following without a word. "don't look like that, jolly," whispered gwyn. "i suppose everyone gets scared at some time in a place like this. it's sam's turn now. hallo!" "can't go any farther, sir," said hardock, huskily. "the water's right up to here, and farther on it must reach the roof." gwyn needed no telling, for the reflection of their lights was glancing from the floor, and he knew perfectly well that no water ought to be there. a chill ran through him--a sensation such as he would have experienced had he suddenly plunged neck deep in the icy water, and he turned a look full of agony at joe, who caught at his arm. "the sea has broken in--the sea has broken in!" he cried; and quick as lightning gwyn bent down, scooped up some of the black-looking water, and held it to his lips. it was unmistakably brackish. "it can't have broke in, my lads--it can't," cried hardock. "come on, and let's go round by the pillar place and get to the men as quick as we can. there must be some spring burst out; but they'll set the pumps at work as soon as they know, and soon pull it down again. come on." with their hearts beating heavily from excitement, the two lads followed the captain as he hurried back along the gallery to the spot where they had turned down; and then, as fast as they could go, they made for the pillared hall, expecting to find some of the men close by; but when they reached it, there being no sign of water, there was not a soul visible. there was proof, though, that it was not long since there were men there, for the ends of two candles were still burning where they had been stuck against the wall; tools were lying here and there, and a couple of half-filled skeps were standing on the low four-wheeled trucks waiting to be run along the little tramway to the shaft. no one said so, but each saw for certain that there must have been a sudden alarm, and the men had fled. "come on," said hardock, hoarsely; but his heart was sinking, and gwyn knew that there was a gradual descent toward the bottom of the shaft. but they walked rapidly on for fully half-an-hour before they came to the first trace of water, and it was startling when they did. the gallery they were in entered the next--a lower one--at right-angles; and as they reached that end dry-footed, their lights gleamed from the face of running water which was gliding rapidly by in a regular stream of a few inches deep. it was joe who stooped quickly down now to scoop up some of the water and taste it, which he did in silence. "salt?" cried gwyn, sharply. there was no reply, and the lad followed his companion's example and tasted the water. "salt, sir?" said hardock. "as the sea," said gwyn, with a groan. "hah! good dog then. here, here, here! grip, grip, grip!" for there had been a faint barking in the distance, but the noise ceased. "can we go round any way?" said gwyn. "no, sir; we must face it," said hardock; "and as quick as we can, for it gets lower and lower, and the water sets this way fast, so it must be rising. ready, sir?" "yes." "then come on." hardock stepped down into the rapid stream, which was ankle-deep, the others followed, and they splashed rapidly along, to hear the barking again directly; and soon after grip, who must have been swimming, came bounding and splashing along, barking joyously to meet them again, and barking more loudly as he found that his master was making for the way from which he had come. "can't help it, old fellow. when it gets too bad for you, i must carry you," muttered gwyn, as they hurried along; their progress gradually becoming more painful, for the water soon became knee-deep, and the stream harder to stem. but they toiled on till it was up to their waists, and so swift that it began to threaten to sweep them away; so, after a few minutes' progression in this way, with the water growing yet deeper, hardock stopped at a corner round which the water came with a rush. "it's downhill here, gen'lemen, all the way to the shaft, and even if we could face it, the water must be five-foot deep in another ten minutes, and round the next turn it'll be six, and beyond that the passage must be full." "then we must swim to the foot of the shaft," said gwyn, excitedly. "a shoal of seals couldn't do it, sir," said the man, gruffly. "come back, sir!" he roared, for, as if to prove his words, the dog made a sudden dash, freed himself from gwyn's grasp, and plunged forward to swim, but was swept back directly, and would have been borne right away if gwyn had not snatched at his thick coat as he passed, and held him. "but we must make for the shaft," cried joe, passionately. "we can't sir! it's suicide! we couldn't swim, and just a bit farther on, i tell you, the place must be full to the roof. why, there must be eight or ten foot o' water in the shaft." "then are we lost?" cried joe. "a fellow's never lost as long as he can make a fight for it," said gwyn, sharply. "now, then, sam, what's to be done--go back?" "yes, sir, fast as we can, and make for the highest part of the mine." "where is that?" "the water will show us," said hardock. "i pray it may only be a bit of an underground pool burst to flood us; and they'll pump and master it before it does us any harm." "no, no," groaned joe; "we've heard it beating overhead before, and the sea has burst in. we're lost--we're lost!" "then if the sea has bursted in," cried hardock, fiercely, "it's that fellow tom dinass's doing. he's a spite against us all, and it's to flood and ruin the mine." "don't be unreasonable, sam," began gwyn, but he stopped short, for, like a flash, came the recollection of their seeing the man go down towards the point at low-water, where they had heard him hammering in the dark. did that mean anything? was it a preparation for blowing in the rock over one of the passages that ran beneath the sea? it seemed to be impossible as he thought it, but there was the fact of the flood rising and driving them onward, the waters pressing behind them as they waded on, but getting shallower very slowly, till, by degrees, they were wading knee-deep and after a time grip could be set down. but that the waters were rising fast they had ample proof, for whenever they stopped, the stream was rushing by them onward, as if hastening to fill up every gallery in the mine. "the water will show us the highest part," hardock had said; and they went on and on deeper and farther into the recesses of the place, but with the swift stream seeming to chase them, refusing to be left behind, but ever writhing about and leaping at their legs as if to drag them down. grip splashed along beside or in front, whenever they were in a shallow enough part, and swam when he could not find bottom; but at last he began to show signs of weariness by getting close up to his master, and whining. "catch hold of my lanthorn, joe," cried gwyn. "what are you going to do?" "what i should do for you if you felt that you could go no farther; what you would do for me. we've brought him down here to be safe from tom dinass, and thrown him into the danger we wanted to avoid. here, come on, grip, old chap." to the surprise of his companions, gwyn knelt down in the water, turning his back to the dog and bending as low as he could, when the intelligent beast, perhaps from memories of old games they had had together, swam close up and began to scramble up on his master's shoulders. then gwyn caught at the dog's fore-legs, dragged them over, and rose to his feet, carrying the dog pick-a-pack fashion, grip settling down quietly enough and straining his muzzle over as far as he could reach. hardock said nothing, but tramped on again, taking the lead with one lanthorn, joe bringing up the rear with the others, having one in each hand, while the light was reflected brightly from the surface of the water. at first the mining captain seemed to be working with a purpose in view; but, after being compelled to turn back times out of number through finding the water deepening in the different passages he followed, he grew bewildered, and at last came to a standstill knee-deep in a part that was wider than ordinary. "i think this part will do," he said, looking helplessly from one to the other. "not for long, sam." "yes, sir," said the captain, feebly; "the water isn't rising here." "it must be pouring into the mine like a cataract. look how it's rushing along here, and i can feel it creeping slowly up my legs." "yes, sir, i'm afraid you are right. i've been thinking for some time that we couldn't do any more." "whereabouts are we now?" "i'm not quite sure, sir; but if we go on a bit farther you'll find one of my arrows on the wall." "come on, then," cried gwyn, "you lead again with the light. no, grip, old chap, i can carry you,"--for the dog had made a bit of a struggle to get down. he subsided, though, directly, nestling his muzzle close to his master's cheek, and they went on, splash, splash, through the water till they reached one of the turnings. "don't seem to be any arrow here, sir," said hardock, holding up his light. "can't have been washed out, because the water hasn't been high enough." "but you said you had put an arrow at every turn," cried gwyn. "every turning i come to, sir; but i'm sure now; i was in a bit of a doubt before--i haven't been along here. it's all fresh." "turn back then," said gwyn. "but the water's running this way, sir, and it must be shallower farther on." "how do we know that?" cried gwyn; "this stream may be rushing on to fill deeper places." and as if to prove the truth of his theory, the water ran gurgling, swirling, and eddying about their legs, but evidently rising. "yes, sir, how do we know that?" said the man, who was rapidly growing more dazed and helpless. "i don't kinder feel to know what's best to be done with the water coming on like that. no pumping would ever get the better of this, and--and--" he said no more, but leaned his arm against the side and rested his head upon it. "oh, come, that won't do, sam," cried gwyn; "we must help one another." "yes, sir, of course; but wouldn't one of you two young gents like to take the lead? you, mr joe jollivet--you haven't had a turn, and you've got two lights." "what's the use of me trying to lead?" said joe, bitterly, "i feel as helpless as you do--just as if i could sit down and cry like a great girl." "needn't do that, jolly," said gwyn, bitterly; "there's salt water enough here. i'm sure it's three inches deeper than it was. hark!" they stood fast, listening to the strange murmuring noise that came whispering along. "it's the water running," said joe, in awestricken tones. "yes, it's the water dripping, and running along by the walls. why, there must be hundreds of streams." "and you're standing talking like that," cried joe, angrily. "we know all about the streams. do something." gwyn stood frowning for a few moments. "you lead on now," he said, "and try again. i'll come close behind you." "but it gets deeper this way." "perhaps only for a short distance, and then it may rise. go on." joe started at once, for he felt, as if he must obey, but before they had gone a hundred yards the water had risen to gwyn's waist. "back again," he said; "it gets deeper and deeper." "then it's all over with us, gen'lemen," said hardock. "tom dinass has got his revenge against us, and it's time to begin saying our prayers." "time to begin saying our prayers!" cried gwyn, angrily. "i've been saying mine ever since we knew the worst. it's time we began to work, and try our best to save our lives. now, joe, on again the other way, and take the first turning off to the left." joe obeyed, and they struggled back amidst the whispering and gurgling sounds which came from out of the darkness, before and behind; while now, to fully prove what was wrong, they noticed the peculiar odour of the sea-water when impregnated with seaweed in a state of decay, and directly after gwyn had called attention to the fact joe uttered a cry. "what is it?" said gwyn anxiously. "don't drown the lights." "something--an eel, i think--clinging round my leg." "eel wouldn't cling round your leg; he'd hold on by his teeth. see what it is." "long strands of bladder-wrack," said joe, after cautiously raising one leg from the water. "no mistake about the sea bursting in," said gwyn. "why, of course, it has done so before. don't you remember finding sand and sea-shells in some of the passages?" no one spoke; and finding that the efforts he had, at no little cost to himself, made to divert his companions' attention from their terrible danger were vain, he too remained nearly always silent, listening shudderingly to the wash, wash of the water as they tramped through it, and he thought of the time coming when it would rise higher and higher still. gwyn could think no more in that way, for the horror that attacked him at the thought that it meant they must all soon die. once the idea came to him that he was watching his companions struggling vainly in the black water; but, making a desperate effort, he forced himself to think only of the task they had in hand, and just then he shouted to joe to turn off to the left, for another opening appeared, and the lad was going past it with his head bent down. joe turned off mechanically, his long, lank figure looking strange in the extreme; and as he swung the lanthorns in each hand, grotesque shadows of his tall body were thrown on the wall on either side, and sometimes over the gleaming water which rushed by them, swift in places as a mill-race. and still the water grew deeper, and no more arrows pointed faintly from the wall. the water was more than waist-deep now, and the chill feeling of despair was growing rapidly upon all. the lads did not speak, though they felt their position keenly enough, but hardock uttered a groan from time to time, and at last stopped short. "don't do that," cried gwyn, flashing into anger for a moment; but the man's piteous reply disarmed him, and he felt as despairing. "must, sir--i must," groaned the man; "i can't do any more. you've been very kind to me, master gwyn, and i'd like to shake hands with you first, and say good-bye. there--there's nothing for it but to give up, and let the water carry you away, as it keeps trying to do. we've done all that man can do; there's no hope of getting out of the mine, so let's get out of our misery at once." chapter forty eight. in dire peril. for a few moments, in his misery and despair, gwyn felt disposed to succumb, and he looked piteously at joe, who stood drooping and bent, with the bottoms of the lanthorns touching the water. then the natural spirit that was in him came to the front, and with an angry shout he cried,-- "here, you, sir, keep those lights up out of the water. don't want us to be in the dark, do you?" there is so much influence in one person's vitality, and the way in which an order is given, that joe started as if he had had an electric current passed through him. he stood as straight up as he could for the roof, and looked sharply at gwyn, as if for orders. at the same time the dog began to bark, and struggled to get free. "oh, very well," said gwyn, letting go of the dog's legs; "but you'll soon want to get back." down went grip with a tremendous splash, and disappeared; but he rose again directly, and began to swim away with the stream and was soon out of sight. "oh, joe, joe, what have i done!" cried gwyn. "he'll be drowned--he'll be drowned!" "ay, sir, and so shall we before an hour's gone by," said hardock, gloomily. "i can't help it--i must save him," cried gwyn; and snatching one of the lanthorns from joe, he waded off after the swimming dog. "we can't stop here by ourselves, sam," cried joe. "come along." hardock uttered a groan. "i don't want to die, master joe jollivet--i don't want to die," he said pitifully. "well, who does?" cried joe, angrily. "what's my father going to do without me when he's ill. come on. they'll be finding the way out, and leaving us here." "nay, master gwyn wouldn't do that," groaned hardock. "he'd come back for us." gwyn's pursuit of the dog had done one thing; it had started his companions into action, and they, too, waded with the stream pressing them along, till away in the distance they caught sight of the light gwyn bore, shining like a faint spark in the darkness or reflected in a pale shimmering ray from the hurrying water. for how long they neither of them knew, they followed on till gwyn's light became stationary; and just then hardock raised his, and uttered an exclamation. "i know where we are now," he cried, as he raised his lanthorn and pointed to one of his white arrows. "it looks different with the place half full of water, but we're close to that dead end that runs up." just then they heard the barking of the dog. "and that's where he has got to," continued hardock. "how did he come to think of going there?" "ahoy--oy--oy--oy!" came halloaing from gwyn, who had long been aware from their lights that his companions were following him. they answered, and dragged their weary way along, for the water still deepened, and in his impatience gwyn came back to meet them. "come along quickly," he cried; "the dog has gone into that short gallery which rises up. did you hear him barking?" "yes." "just as if he had found a rabbit. he leaped up on the dry part at once, and if we follow there is plenty of room for us as well." "beyond the water?" panted joe. "yes. at the far end." trembling with eagerness, they splashed through the now familiar way, conscious of the fact that a current of air was setting in the same direction--a foul hot wind, evidently caused by the water filling up the lower portions of the mine, and driving out the air; but no one mentioned it then. the entrance of the place they sought was reached, and they were waist-deep, the water sweeping and swirling by with such force that, as gwyn entered, lanthorn in hand, and joe was about to follow, a little wave like an imitation of the bore which rushes up some rivers, came sweeping along and nearly took him off his feet, while hardock, with a cry to his companions to look out, clung to the corner. gwyn turned in time to see joe tottering, and caught at his arm, giving him a sharp snatch which dragged him in through the low archway where the water, though deep, was eddying round like a whirlpool. then together they extended their hands to hardock and he was dragged in. "runs along there now like a mill-race," panted the man. "how did you manage, mr gwyn?" "it was only going steadily when i followed grip, and he swam in easy enough." "must be coming in faster," groaned hardock. "oh, my lads, my lads, say your prayers now, and put in a word for me; for i haven't been the man i ought to have been, and i know it now we're shut up in this gashly place." "don't, don't talk like that," cried gwyn, wildly. "i must, my lad, for the water's rising faster, and in a few minutes we shall be drowned." "then come on with the stream and let's find a higher place," cried joe. "nay, we aren't got strength enough to go on. better stay where we are." "hi! grip! grip! grip!" cried gwyn, holding up the lanthorn and wading farther in, but there was no answering bark. "come along, sam," said joe, hoarsely, as he opened his lanthorn door to let the water he had got in, drain out. "here, look, it's shallower where he is." "ay, it do rise, you see," groaned hardock, who was now completely unmanned. "come on!" shouted gwyn; "it isn't up to my knees here." they followed till, toward the dead end where the old miners had ceased working in the far back past, the lode had narrowed and run up into a flattened crevice, up which gwyn began to clamber. "follow me," he said; "i'm quite clear of the water. it's a natural crack. there has been no picking here, and it comes up at a steep slope." he climbed on, the others following him; and he called to the dog again, but there was still no reply. "are you clear of the water?" he cried. "yes, sir, four foot above it," said hardock, who came last, "but it's rising fast." "i say," cried gwyn, wildly, "is there a way out here?" "nay, sir, this is only a blind lead. what is it up where you are?" "like a flattened-out hole with the rock all covered with tiny crystals. there must be a way up to the surface here; don't you feel how the wind comes by us?" "yes; my light flickers, but it burns dull," said joe. "ay, and it will come sharper yet," said hardock; "the water's driving it all before it. don't you feel how hot it is?" "yes." "maybe it'll suffocate us before the water comes." "grip! grip! grip!" shouted gwyn; and then, after waiting, he made his companions' hearts beat by crying back to them loudly, "i don't care, there is a way out here." "can't be, sir." "but grip has gone through." "nay, sir, he's wedged himself up, and he's dead, as we shall soon be." "oh, joe, joe!" roared gwyn, passionately; "kick out behind at that miserable, croaking old woman. there is a way out, for i can feel the hot air rushing up by me." "ah!" groaned hardock, "it's very well for you young gents up there; but i'm at the bottom, and the water's creeping up after me. to think after all these years o' mining i should live to be drowned in a crack like this!" just then a loud rustling and scrambling noise was heard. "what is it, ydoll? what are you doing?" "there's a big stone here, wedged across the slope, or i could get higher. it's loose, and i think i can--hah!" the lad uttered an exultant shout, for with a loud rattle the flat block gave way, and came rattling and sliding down. "got it!" cried gwyn. "i'm passing it under me. come close, joe, and catch hold, as it reaches my feet." joe climbed a little higher, by forcing his knees against the wall of the crack facing him, and, reaching up, he got hold of the block and lowered it, till, fearing that if he let go, it might injure hardock, he bade him come higher and pass it beneath him. "nay, nay, let me be," groaned hardock; "it's all over now. i'm spent." "let it fall on him to rouse him up," shouted gwyn.--"you, sam, lay hold of that stone." the man roused himself, and, climbing higher over the ragged, sharp, prickly crystals, reached up and took hold of the stone, passed it under him, and it fell away down for a few feet, and then there was a sullen splash. the light showed gwyn plainly enough that they were in a spot where a vein of some mineral, probably soapstone, had in the course of ages dissolved away; and, convinced that the dog had found his way to some higher cavern, and in the hope that he might find room enough to force his way after, he scrambled and climbed upward, foot by foot, pausing every now and then to shout back to his companions to follow. there was plenty of room to right and left; the difficulty was to find the widest parts of the crack, whose sides were exactly alike, as if the bed-rock had once split apart, and pressure, if applied, would have made them join together exactly again. and this engendered the gruesome thought that if that happened now they would be crushed out flat. there was plenty of air, too, for it rushed by now in a strong current which made the flame of the candle in the lanthorn he pushed on before him flutter and threaten to go out. for the air was terribly impure, as shown by the dim blue flame of the candles, and so enervating that the perspiration streamed from the lad's face, and a strange, dull, sleepy feeling came over him, which he tried desperately to keep off. roughly speaking, the crack ascended at an angle of about fifty degrees, turning and zigzagging after the fashion of a flash of lightning, the greatest difficulty being to pass the angles. but gwyn toiled on, finding that the great thing he dreaded--the closing-in of the sides--did not occur, but trembling in the narrowest parts on account of one who was to follow. "joe will easily manage it," he said to himself; "but sam will stick." "time enough to think of that," he muttered, "if he does." "can you get higher?" panted joe, after they had been creeping slowly along for some time. "yes, yes; but there's an awkward turn just here. all right, it's wider on my left. hurrah! i've got into quite a big part. come on!" joe climbed on, pushing his lanthorn before him, till it was suddenly taken and drawn up, when, looking above him with a start, he saw his friend's face looking down upon him, surrounded by a pale, bluish glow of light. "want a hand?" cried gwyn. "no; i can do it," was the reply, and joe climbed beyond an angle to find himself in a sloping, flattened cave, whose roof was about four feet above his head; how far it extended the darkness beyond the lanthorn concealed. "come on, sam," cried gwyn, as he looked down the slope he had ascended expecting to see the man's face just below; but it was not visible, and, saving the hissing of the hot wind and the strange gurgling of rushing water, there was not a sound. "he's dead!" cried joe, wildly. "no, no; don't say that," whispered gwyn. "it's too horrible just when we are going to escape;" and, without pausing, he lowered himself over the angle of the rock and began to descend. "hold the light over," he said. "ah, mind, or you'll have it out." for the candle flickered in the steady draught which came rushing up from below, and it had to be drawn partly back for shelter. "sam!" cried gwyn, as he descended; but there was no reply, and the dread grew within the lad's breast as he went on down into the darkness. "i shall be obliged to come back for the light," he shouted. "i can see nothing down here. how far is he back?" "i don't know," said joe, despairingly. "i thought he was close behind me. shall i come down with the lanthorn?" "yes, you must, part of the way--to help me. no, i can just touch his lanthorn with my foot--here he is!" "all right?" faltered joe. "i think so," replied gwyn, slowly. "here, sam hardock, what's the matter?--why don't you come on?" "it's of no good," said the man, feebly; "i'm done, i tell you. why can't you let me die in peace?" "because you've got to help us out of this place?" "i? help you?" "yes; it's your duty. you've no right to lie like that, giving up everything." "i'm so weak and sleepy," protested the man. "so was i, but i fought it all down. now then, climb up to where he is." "i--i can't, mr gwyn; and, besides, it's too narrow for me." "how do you know till you try? come: up with you at once." "must i, mr gwyn, sir?" "yes, of course; so get up and try." sam hardock groaned, and began to creep slowly up the steep slope, gwyn leading the way; but at the end of a minute the man subsided. "it's of no use, sir; i can't do it. i haven't the strength of a rat." "keep on; it will come," cried gwyn. "keep on, sir, and try. you must get to the top, where joe jollivet is." "no, no; let me die in quiet." "very well; when i have got you into a good dry place. you can't die in peace with the cold black water creeping over you." "n-no," said hardock, with a shiver. "come on, then, at once," cried gwyn; and, unable to resist the imperious way in which he was ordered, the poor fellow began to struggle up the narrow rift, while gwyn, keeping his fears to himself, trembled lest the place should prove too strait. twice over hardock came to a stand; but at a word from gwyn he made fresh efforts, the way in which the lad showed him the road encouraging him somewhat; till at last, panting and exhausted, he dragged himself beyond the last angle, and rolled over upon the stony slope where joe had been holding his lanthorn over the dark passage, and looking down. "we can go no farther till he's rested," whispered gwyn. "no; but look how the water's rising. how long will it be before it reaches up to here?" gwyn shook his head, and listened to the murmur of the rising flood, which sounded soft and distant; but the rush of wind grew louder, sweeping up the cavity with the loud whistling sound of a tempest. gwyn rose to his knees, trimmed his light, and said less breathlessly now,-- "let sam rest a bit, while we try and find how grip went." and he held up the light and shaded his eyes. there was no need of a painted white arrow to point the way, for the whistling wind could be felt now by extending a hand from where they lay in shelter; and as soon as gwyn began to creep on all-fours towards the upper portion of the sloping cavity in which they lay, the fierce current of air pressed against him as the water had when he was wading a short time before. "better keep the lanthorn back in shelter," said gwyn, hastily; "it makes mine gutter down terribly." he handed joe the ring, and once more went on to find the wide opening they had reached rapidly contract till once more it resembled the jagged passage through which they had forced themselves. the slope was greater, though, and the way soon became a chimney-like climb, changing directions again and again, while in the darkness the wind whistled and shrieked by him furiously, coming with so much force that it felt as if it was impelling him forward. and still he went on climbing along the tunnel-like place till further progress was checked by something in front; and with the wind now tearing by him with a roar, he felt above and below the obstacle, finding room to pass his arm beyond it readily; but further progress was impossible, the passage being completely choked by the block of stone which must have slid down from above. chapter forty nine. sam hardock at his worst. gwyn tugged and strained at the block, hoping to dislodge it as he had the former one; but his efforts were vain, and at last, with his fingers sore and the perspiration streaming down his face, he backed down the steep chimney-like place, satisfied that grip must have made his way through the narrow aperture beneath one corner of the block, where the wind rushed up, but perfectly convinced that without the aid of tools or gunpowder no human being could force a way, while the very idea of gunpowder suggested the explosion causing the tumbling down of the rock around to bury them alive. "well," said joe, looking up at him anxiously, with his face showing clearly by the open door of his lanthorn, "can we get farther?" gwyn felt as if he could not reply, and remained silent. "you might as well tell me the worst." "i'm going to try again," said gwyn, hoarsely, and he glanced at hardock, who was lying prone on the rock with his face buried in his hands. "the way's blocked up." "then we shall have to lie here till the water comes gurgling up to fill this place and drown us, if we are not smothered before." "we can't be smothered in a place where there is so much air." "i don't know," said joe, thoughtfully--his feeling of despair seeming to have deadened the agony he had felt; "i've been thinking it out while you were grovelling up there like a rat, and i think that the air will soon be all driven out of the mine by the water. ugh! hark at it now. how it comes bubbling and racing up there! if you put your head over the edge of the rock there, it's fit to blow you away, and it smells horribly. but can't you get any farther up?" "no, not a foot. go up and try yourself." "no," said joe, slowly. "a bit ago i felt as if i could do anything to get out of this horrible place; but now i'm fagged, like sam hardock there, and don't seem to mind much about it, except when i think of father." "don't talk like that," cried gwyn, passionately, "i can't bear it. here, we must do something; it's so cowardly to lie down and die without trying to get out. you go up there, and perhaps you will do better than i did." "no; you tried, and you're cleverer than i am." "no, i'm not. you try. you shall try," cried gwyn, with energy. "go up at once. stop; let's put up a fresh candle." "it's of no use; you can't--i've been trying." "joe! don't say there are no more candles." "wasn't going to. there's one, but the wick's soaked and it won't burn." gwyn snatched at the candle, examined the blackened end and sodden wick, and then turned it upside down, holding the bottom end close to the flame of his own light and letting the grease drip away till fresh wick was exposed and gradually began to burn. "i should never have thought of doing that," said joe, calmly, as he lay on his chest resting his chin upon his hands. "there," cried gwyn, sticking up the fresh candle in the tin sconce, and waiting till the fat around it had congealed. "now you go on up, and see what you can do. keep the door side of the lanthorn away from the wind." "must i go?" said joe, dolefully. "yes, if you want to see the poor major again." "ah!" sighed joe, and taking the lanthorn, he crawled up to where gwyn had been, while the latter searched eagerly round to try and find out some other opening. but, saving that by which they had come, and up which the whistling, roaring and gurgling increased in intensity, and sounded as if some writhing mass of subterranean creatures were fighting their way through the dark passage to escape from the flood, there was not the smallest crack, and he turned again to where joe was passing out of sight, his boot soles alone visible as he slowly crawled up the narrow chimney-like place. then they disappeared, and gwyn turned to where hardock was lying on his face. "sam," he said. there was no reply. "sam!" he cried, angrily now; and the man slowly raised his face and gazed at him reproachfully. "might let me die in peace," he groaned. "you rouse up, and try and help us," said gwyn, firmly; and his will being the stronger, the man began to raise himself slowly into a sitting position, shuddering as he listened to the furious hurricane of sounds which came up the narrow rift. "it's only a noise, sam," said gwyn. "i say, there has never been any mining done up here, has there?" "never, sir. it's all natural rock. look at the crystals." "that's what i thought. but look up there at joe." "eh? where's mr joe jollivet?" "clambering up that hole where grip must have gone. he must have got up to the surface." hardock shook his head. "why not?" continued gwyn, eagerly. "the wind rushes up there." "ay, but wind will go where even a mouse couldn't." "but if grip hadn't got up there, he'd have come back." "if he could, sir--if he could. but don't, don't ask me questions; i'm all mazed like, and can't think or do anything. i only want to go to sleep, sir, out of it all, never to have any more of this horror and trouble." "look here, sam," continued gwyn; "this noise of the wind coming up means the water filling up the passages and driving it out, doesn't it?" "i s'pose so, sir." "how long will it be before the mine is quite full of water?" "who knows, sir? tends on how big the hole is. maybe hours, for it's a vasty place--miles of workings." "then the water won't come up to us till the passages are all full." "no, sir, and maybe not come to us at all. we may be too high." "too high? of course. if we're above sea-level now, it won't reach us." "no, sir. you see the mouth of the mine's quite two hundred feet above sea-level, the workings are all below." "then we may escape yet?" "escape, sir?" said hardock, despairingly. "how?" "grip has gone up to grass." "ay, perhaps he has escaped," said hardock, dismally. "and if he has, do you think he will not bring us help? why, it may come any time." "yes, to the hole he got out of; and it'll take five years to dig down through the solid rock to get us out. nay, master gwyn, you may give it up. we're as good as dead." a faint sound, half groan, half cry, arrested them; and gwyn hurried to the crack up which joe jollivet had crawled. "what is it? can you get by?" "no, no," came back faintly, the words being half drowned by the noise of the wind; "stuck fast." "oh, why did he grow so long and awkward!" muttered gwyn. "here, joe, turn round a bit and try and come back on your side." "been trying hard, and i can't come back." gwyn's heart sank, and he hesitated for a few moments, till the piteous word "help!" reached his ears, when he crept into the hole, leaving his lanthorn burning outside, sheltered from the current of air which rushed to the outlet, and began to crawl up as fast as he could. "help!" came again. "coming. you must turn." "can't, i tell you. oh, ydoll, old fellow, it's all over now i--ah!" then there was a wild cry that petrified gwyn, just as he was nearing the place where joe had managed to wedge himself, for it might have meant anything. then came relief, for joe cried exultantly-- "my arm wedged round the block of stone; i've got it out." it was gwyn's turn to cry "ah!" now, in the relief he felt; and for a few minutes he lay listening to the peculiar rustling noise beyond him, unable to stir. but he was brought to himself by a kick on the crown of his head, and began to back away from his companion's feet as fast as he could, getting out at last to find sam hardock kneeling by the hole, lanthorn in hand, looking utterly despondent. "it's no good, my lad," he said, with a groan. "what's the use o' punishing yourself in this way? you ought to know when you're beat." "that's what englishmen never know, sam," cried gwyn. "ay, so they say, sir--so they say; but we are beat now." the appearance of joe's boots put an end to their conversation; and a few minutes after he turned his face to them, looking ghastly in the feeble light of the lanthorns. "thought i was going to die caught fast in there," he said, with a sob, "oh, ydoll, it was horrible. you can't think how bad." "lie down for a bit and rest," said gwyn, gently, for the poor fellow was quite hysterical from what he had gone through; and without a word he obeyed, lying perfectly still save when a shudder shook him from head to foot, and he clung fast to gwyn's hand. "do you think you could do any good by trying?" said gwyn at last. "me, sir?" said sam. "no; i'm too big. i should get stuck fast." "no, there's room enough. he got himself fixed by wedging his arm in beyond the stone." "yes, that was it," sighed joe; and, to the surprise of both, hardock picked up his lanthorn, crawled to the hole, thrust it in and followed, while the two lads lay listening to the rustling sounds he made, half drowned by the shrieking and whistling of the wind. in about a quarter-of-an-hour he backed out, drawing his light after him. "it's of no use, my lads," he said; "we may shake hands now, for we've done all that we can do. i've been trying hard at that stone, but it's wedged in fast. a shot o' powder might drive it out, but our hands aren't powder nor dinnymite neither, and we may give it up." no one spoke, and they lay there utterly exhausted in mind and body, hour after hour, while their clothes began slowly to dry upon their bodies. the rush of wind and the gurgle of water went on as if it were boiling violently; and something like sleep overtook them, for they did not move. but from time to time gwyn bent over one or the other of the lanthorns to see to the candles, his one great dread being now lest they should sink into a deep stupor, and come to, finding that they were in the dark. then suddenly, after lying down for some time trying to imagine that it was all some terrible dream, there was a quick, short bark; and unable to bear this, the lad uttered a wild cry, and then, from the terrible tension being taken so suddenly from off his nerves, he burst into a hysterical fit of laughter. the next minute grip was licking at his face, following it up by the same endearment bestowed upon the other two, and then bursting into a prolonged fit of barking. chapter fifty. news from grass. "ydoll! ydoll! look! look!" cried joe, suddenly. "here, grip! grip! quick!" but gwyn had seen and caught at the dog's collar as soon as joe had shouted to him; and as rapidly as his trembling fingers would allow, he untied the string which bound a white packet to the ring in the dog's collar. it was a note written in pencil, the words large, and easy to see; but they seemed to sail round before the lad's eyes, and minutes had elapsed before he could read in his father's bold hand:-- "try and keep a good heart. grip has shown us the way, and, please god, we'll reach you before many hours have passed. tie a handkerchief to the dog's collar if you get this, and are all well. send him back at once. "arthur pendarve." a strange sobbing sound escaped from gwyn's lips as with trembling hands he tied his pocket-handkerchief tightly to the dog's collar. "now, grip!" he cried in a husky voice which did not sound like his own; and the dog, who was standing panting, with his tongue out and curled up at the tip, uttered an eager bark. "home! home!" cried gwyn; and the dog made for the hole, dashed in, and disappeared, while his master crept away into the darkness of the lowest part of the long, sloping grotto-like place, and half-an-hour must have passed before he joined the others and lay down close to the hole where grip had disappeared. they had no idea of how the time passed, and they could not speak, for their hearts were too full. words did not come till they heard a fresh barking, and the dog came scuffling out of the opening into the light, this time with the colonel's flask tied to his collar, and stood panting while it was untied. it was one of the large flat leather-covered bottles with a silver screw top and silver cup, which slipped on the bottom; and now, for the first time awaking to the fact that he was in a fainting condition, gwyn slipped off the cup, unscrewed the top, and poured out some of the contents of the bottle, handing the vessel to hardock, who shook his head. "nay, sir," he said, "i'll wait till we get out; i'm a tot'ler." gwyn handed the silver cup to joe, who tasted it. "eggs and milk," he cried, and drank the contents with avidity before returning the cup. "now, sam," said gwyn, refilling it. "ay, i don't mind that, sir," said hardock; "and i was thinking i was a bit too particklar when it was sent to save our lives. hah! that's good," he added, as he drained the last drop. "sorry i can't wash it out for you, sir. shall i go down to the water?" "no, no, i don't mind drinking after you," said gwyn, as he tremblingly poured out his portion, which was less than the others had taken; and he, too, drank the most grateful draught he had ever had, while the dog, who had couched, placed his head on the lad's knee and looked up at him with all a dog's reverence and affection for his master. but there was no note this time. the flask was re-fastened to the dog's collar, and he was sent back; and then the prisoners lay listening to the rushing and gurgling of the air and water, wondering how long it would take to reach them, for hardock had been down to find that it had ascended the cavity for some distance; but he expressed his belief that it would be hours before it would hurt them, and the consequence was that, heartened by the prospect of escape, utterly exhausted mentally and bodily as they were, nature came to their aid, and they all dropped off into a deep sleep. gwyn was the first to awaken many hours later, to find all in darkness, and fight alone through the strange feeling of confusion in which he was. but once more grip came to his help; for no sooner had his master begun to move than he burst out barking loudly. this woke the others, equally confused and startled at being in the darkness, while the noise of the wind roaring through the cavity sounded appalling. gwyn's first effort to light a match was a failure, but the second, within the shelter of a lanthorn, succeeded, and a fresh candle was finally lit. by this they found that grip was the bearer of another note, and in addition a packet, which upon being opened was found to contain a card and a pencil. the note was very brief, stating tersely that efforts were being made to enlarge the way through which the dog had come up, and asking for information regarding their state. this was furnished as well as the circumstances would allow, joe holding the light, while, after placing the card on the smoothest place he could find, gwyn wrote the answer--the principal point he emphasised being that they were safe so far; but the water was rising, and they had nearly come to the end of their candles. but even as he wrote there was a cheering sound heard through the whistling of the wind--a sharp, clear clink as of hammer and chisel upon stone. "hark! do you hear?" cried joe, wildly; "they are coming down to us. oh work, work hard, before the water rises." he shouted this in a wildly frantic way, and then watched eagerly while gwyn tied the card in a handkerchief and secured it to the dog's collar, grip going off directly, as if he quite understood the business now. this done, joe and hardock lay down close to the orifice and listened to the clinking of the hammers, trying the while to imagine what kind of passage existed beyond the wedge-like block of stone, and calculating how long it would be before they were rescued. but that was all imagination, too, for there was nothing to base their calculations upon. meanwhile gwyn was more matter-of-fact; for he took the lanthorn and descended to where the water had risen, and there, clinging with one hand, he held the light down, to gaze with a feeling of awe at the bubbling surface, which was in a violent state of agitation, looking as if it were boiling. every now and then it was heaved up and then fell back with a splash. gwyn's object in descending the sharp slope had been to make a mark upon the rock with his knife just at the level of the water, and then try and scratch other marks at about a foot apart, so as to descend again and see how much higher the water had risen. but this seemed to be impossible, for the level was always changing, the water running up several feet at times and then descending, playing up and down evidently as the pressure of the confined air increased or sank. still he made some marks, and then returned to the others to join them in listening. but this proved weary work, for it was only now and then that they could hear the sound of the hammer, for the current of air seemed to bear it away; while, when by chance the sounds did reach their ears they were most tantalising, at one time seeming very near, and at others so faint that they felt that the work going on must be very distant. the dog came back with food and lights and stayed with them, now trotting to the opening to bark at the sounds; and at times standing at the edge of the lower cavity to bark fiercely at those from below, his ears and the thick wolf frill about his neck being blown about by the fierce current of air. and so the time went on, first one and then the other descending to find that the water was steadily rising, and after each examination there was a thrill of dread as the looker-on asked himself, would they win the race? how long was it? was it night, now, or day? questions, these, which they could not answer, and at last, with their miserable state of despondency increasing, they lay half-stupefied, listening for the help which, as the hours wore slowly by, seemed as if it would never come. the end was unexpected when it did arrive, after what, in its long-drawn agony, seemed like a week. gwyn had sent a message by the dog imploring for news, for he said the water was very close to them now, as it was lapping the top of the cavity, and every now and then brimming over and slowly filling the bottom of the sloping cavern. all at once, heard plainly above the rush of the air and apparently close at hand, there was the loud striking of hammers upon stone. gwyn thrust his head into the opening at once, and shouted, his heart bounding as a hollow-sounding cheer came back from just the other side of the wedge. "who is it?" cried gwyn, with the despondency which had chilled him taking flight. "vores," came back. then--"look here, sir! i can't break through this stone. i've no room to move and strike a blow. how far can you get away from it?" "about sixty feet," said gwyn, after a few moments' thought. "any place where you can shelter from flying stones?" "oh, yes, several." "then i'm going back for a cartridge, and i shall put it under the stone, light a slow fuse and get away. it must be blasted." "but you'll blow the roof down and stop the way." "no fear of that, sir. if i do, it will only be in pieces that we can get rid of this end, you that. it must be done, there's no other chance." "is there plenty of room out your way?" "sometimes. here and there it's a close fit to get through. i've been nearly fast more than once. now, then, i'm going." "must you go?" said gwyn, mournfully. "yes, but i'll soon be back. keep a good heart, and we'll have you out now." "is my father there?" "yes, sir, and the major, and your mother, too." gwyn's emotion choked his utterance for a time. then he spoke, but no answer came, and the feeling of loneliness and despair that came over him was horrible. he backed out and repeated the conversation, joe giving a faint cheer, and hardock shaking his head. "he may bury us alive," he said, "but the smoke and damp can't hurt us, for this wind will sweep it all out at once. how long will he be?" it seemed quite an hour before gwyn, who had crept right up the hole till he could touch the stone, heard any sound, and then it came all at once, when he was beginning to lose all hope again. the sound was the tap of a hammer upon stone, so near that he felt the jar. "mr gwyn, sir," came from close by. "yes, here." "i've got the cartridge, and i'm going to wedge it under the stone, but it's going to be a hard job to light the match in this strong wind. now, you go back, and when you're all safe i'll do my work and get safe, too, for it will be like a great cannon going off at both ends at once. how long will it take you?" "two minutes," said gwyn. "i'll count two hundred, and then begin." gwyn shuffled back, gave his news, and the trio of prisoners crept behind angles of the cavern, gwyn taking the light; and then they waited what seemed to be an hour, with the conclusion growing that vores had been unable to light the fuse, and had gone back. "sam!" shouted gwyn at last. "ay, ay, sir." "you both stay where you are; i'm going to crawl up to the mouth of the hole, and speak to vores." "nay, stay where you are," cried hardock. "it may be an hour before the charge is fired. we don't know what trouble he has to get it to--" a deafening roar broke hardock's speech in two; and to gwyn it seemed as if he had received a violent blow on both ears at once. then in a dull, distant way he heard pieces of stone rattling, and there was perfect silence; the wind had ceased to roar and whistle, and gwyn began to struggle, for he felt as if a hand had suddenly clutched his throat, and he knew he was suffocating. the next moment there was a rush and roar again; the air that had been compressed and driven back rebounded, as it were, rushing through the open cavity, and gwyn felt that he could breathe again. "where are you?" cried hardock; and now gwyn realised that the explosion had put out the light. "here. where's joe jollivet?" "i'm here," panted the lad. "i couldn't breathe for a bit. think the block's blown away?" "i'm going to feel," replied gwyn. "here!" he cried, excitedly, "the floor's covered with pieces of broken stone; but i can't find my way. yes, all right; i can feel the way in." "mind you don't get wedged in with the bits, my lad," cried hardock, excitedly. "here, let me go first." "no," said gwyn, "i--" his next words were not heard, for his head and shoulders were in the cavity and his voice was swept on before him ere he could say, as he intended, "i shall soon be back." but there was no risk of getting himself wedged, for the explosion had swept everything before it; and he crept on and on, till his heart gave a bound, for he realised that he must have passed the spot where the stone had wedged up the orifice, and the way to life and light was open. "ahoy!" he shouted with all his might; and "ahoy!" came from a distance, for the wind, which was whistling by him, drove the answer back. but in another minute, as he extended his hand to feel his way along, he touched something warm in the darkness, and his hand was seized. that warm grasp, which meant so much to the lad, acted upon him like the discharging rod of the electrician upon a leyden jar; in an instant his energy seemed to have left him, and he lay prone in the narrow way, only half-conscious of being very slowly dragged over rough stone for some time before the dizzy, helpless sensation passed off, and he struggled slightly. "let go!" he cried. "i must go back and tell them." "no, my lad, i'll do that," said a familiar voice. "there's room to pass here. think you can go on crawling up now?" "yes--yes, i'm all right. did i faint?" "i suppose so, sir. wait a moment." there was a moment's pause, and then gwyn heard the words bellowed out, "all clear! got to them! coming now." there was a murmur at a distance, and then vores spoke again,-- "i'm coming by you now. are the others strong enough to crawl?" "yes," said gwyn, faintly, for his heart was beating strangely now just when he felt that he ought to be at his strongest and best. "you, there, ydoll?" came loudly. "yes; all right," cried gwyn. "where's sam hardock?" "crawling up after me," came more loudly. "then i must go back," said vores. "p'raps i'd better lead, mr gwyn." "yes, yes, go on, and we'll follow," said gwyn, more faintly; and he felt the man pass him again, there being just room. "must go very slowly," said vores, "because there's no room to turn for another fifty yards or so. going backward takes time. now, then, come on, all on you." once more gwyn's dizzy feeling came back, but he struggled on, conscious that his rescuer's face was close to his--so close that at times their hands touched. then, after what seemed to be a long nightmare journey, the man's words sounded clearer on his ears. "it's wider here. goes zigzagging along with one or two close nips, and then we're out to the crack in the cliff." gwyn did not reply. he felt that if he spoke his words would be wild and incoherent, and that all his strength was required to crawl along this terrible crevice in the rock. he was conscious of a hand touching his foot from time to time, and of hearing voices, and of passing over loose, small pieces of shattered rock which might have resulted from the explosion. at last, after what seemed to be a terrible distance, a voice said, "out of the way, dog," and directly after a cold wet nose touched his brow, and there was a snuffing sound at his ear, followed by a joyous barking. then gradually all grew more dense and dark in his brain, and the next thing he remembered was being touched by hands, and feeling the contraction of a rope about his chest followed by a burst of cheering which seemed to take place far away down in the mine; for the roaring and whistling of the wind had ceased, so that he could hear distinctly that hurrahing; and then he heard nothing, for, strong in spirit while the danger lasted, that energy was all used now, and of what took place gwyn pendarve knew no more. chapter fifty one. in the light. "yes, what is it? who's there?" "oh, gwyn, my boy, my boy!" came piteously; and two soft arms raised him from his pillow to hold him to a throbbing breast, while passionate lips pressed warm kisses on his face. "mother! you! what's the matter? ah, i remember. you there, father? where's joe? where's poor old sam hardock?" "joe jollivet's in the next room, sleeping soundly; sam hardock's at harry vores' cottage getting right fast." "and tom dinass? where is he?" cried gwyn. "dinass? great heavens! is he somewhere in the mine?" "no," said gwyn, frowning. "i only want to know where he is." "never mind about him," said the colonel. gwyn nodded his head and became very thoughtful. "there, you had better lie in bed to-day, and the effects of your terrible experience will pass off. we have suffered agonies since the alarm was given." "did the lads all escape?" "every man," said the colonel; "but some of the last up were nearly drowned, for the water had risen to their necks at the foot of the shaft when they reached the man-engine." "grip came and told you where we were?" said gwyn, after a pause. "yes, and led us to the opening up which he had come." "where was it, father?" "in the face of the cliff--a mile away." "what, overlooking the sea?" "yes, my boy, and the air was rushing out of it with tremendous force. it was a mere crack, and took a long time to open sufficiently for a man to pass in. but there, don't talk about it. we have passed through as terrible an experience as you, and it has nearly killed the major." gwyn passed the greater part of the next twenty-four hours in sleep, and then woke up, and was very little the worse. he rose and went to joe, who snatched at his hand, and then nearly broke down; but, mastering his emotion, he too insisted upon getting up; and soon after the two lads went on to the major's, where the old officer was lying back in an easy-chair. "hah!" he cried, as he grasped the boys' hands; "now i shall be able to get better. this has nearly killed me, joe, my boy; but i've been coming round ever since they found you." "tell us how it all was, father," said joe, as he sat holding the major's hand in his. "colonel pendarve always put me off when i asked him, and told me to wait." "i'm ready to do the same, my boy, for it has been very horrible. but, thank heaven, only one life has been lost!" "has one man been drowned?" cried gwyn, excitedly. "i thought everyone was saved." "one man is missing, gwyn--that man dinass. they say he was hanging about the mine that day, and he has not been seen since, and i'm afraid he went down unnoticed. oh, dear; i wish we had not engaged in this wild scheme; but it is too late to repent, and the poor fellow will never be found." "not when the mine is pumped out again, father?" said joe. "pumped out? that will never be, my boy. the water must have broken into one of the workings which ran beneath the sea, and unless the breach could be found and stopped it would be impossible." "don't leave me for very long," said the major, after they had sat with him some time; "but go for a bit--it will do you good." the two lads went straight away to the mine, where the engineer was busy cleaning portions of the machinery, but ready enough to leave off and talk to them. "want to get my engines in good order, sir, so that they'll sell well, for they'll never be wanted again. nay, sir, that mine'll never be pumped out any more. sea's broke in somewhere beyond low-water mark. it's all over now." "do you think tom dinass was below?" said gwyn. "yes, poor fellow. he's a man i never liked; but there, he never liked me. no one saw him go down, but he's never been seen since." they left the silent mine--only so short a time back a complete hive of industry--and went on to harry vores' cottage, where the owner was busy gardening, and sam hardock was seated in the doorway sunning himself, but ready to try and rise on seeing the two lads, though he sank back with a groan. "how are you, gen'lemen? how are you?" he cried cheerily. "very glad to see you both about; i can't manage it yet. water's got in my legs; but the sun's drying it out, and as soon as i can walk i'm going to see about that bit of business. you know." "there drop it, sam, old man," said vores, who had left his gardening to come up and shake hands. "glad to see you gentlemen. been down by the mine? looks sad, don't it, not to have the smoke rising and the stamps rattling?" "don't you interrupt," said hardock. "i want to talk to the young masters about him. have you told the guv'nors what i said about tom dinass?" "'course they haven't," said vores. "he's got a crotchet in his head, gentlemen, that poor tom dinass made a hole, and let in the sea-water." "crotchet? ah, i know, and so do they. i say he did it out o' spite." "how?" said vores, with a grim smile at the visitors. "i don't say how," replied hardock; "but if we knew we should find he sunk dinnymite somehow and fired it over one of the old workings." "struck a match and held it under water, eh?" "don't you talk about what you don't understand," said hardock, sternly. "you ask the young gentlemen here if shots can't be fired under water with 'lectric shocks, or pulling a wire that will break bottles of acid and some kinds of salts." "well, if tom dinass did that," said vores, sharply, "i hope he blew himself up as well; but it's all a crank of yours, old man. tom dinass never did that. let the poor fellow alone where he lies, somewhere at the bottom of the mine." "ah, you'll see," said hardock--"you give my dooty to your fathers, young gentlemen, and tell them i'd be glad to see them if they'd look in on me. i'd come up to them, as in dooty bound, but my legs won't go. i s'pose it's rheumatiz. i want to hear what they'll say." "do you think the mine can be pumped dry again, sam?" said gwyn, suddenly, "so as to get to work once more?" "do i think i could dive down among the breakers with a ginger-beer cork and a bit o' wire, and stop up the hole? no, i don't, sir. that mine-- the richest nearly in all cornwall--is dead, and killed by one man out o' spite." vores caught gwyn's eye, gave him a peculiar look, and tapped his forehead; but hardock caught the movement. "oh no, i arn't, harry vores. i'm no more cracked than you are; but i won't quarrel, for you and your wife have been very good to me, and you did a brave thing when you come down that hole and got us out." "yah!" cried vores, "such stuff. why, anyone would have done it. you would for me. there, i don't mean you're mad--only that you've got that crook in your mind about tom dinass. well, it's a blessing the poor fellow had neither wife nor child to break their hearts about him." chapter fifty two. the general wind-up. the days wore on, and the colonel and major shook their heads at sam hardock when he made his accusation as to the cause of the catastrophe; while the captain went about afterward in an aggrieved way, for he could get no one to believe in his ideas. the colonel and his partner took the advice of an expert, and in a short time it was announced that no effort would be made to pump the mine dry, a few hours' trial by way of test proving that the water could not be lowered an inch. the work-people were all liberally paid off, and began to disperse, finding work at different mines; and after several consultations, the colonel and his old brother officer being quite of the same mind, an interview was held with a well-known auctioneer, and the whole of the machinery was announced for sale. just about this period, without saying anything at home, gwyn and joe, who had passed a good deal of time beneath the cliffs at low-water, to try and find out anything suggestive of an attempt being made to destroy the mine by an explosive--finding nothing, however, but a few places where the rocks had been chipped down by the point--determined to examine the spot from which they had escaped by the help of vores. the latter being consulted, expressed his willingness to go, and sam hardock was asked to accompany them, but he shook his head. "no," he said, "my legs are all right again; but there aren't nothing to be got by it, and i should advise you all not to go." but another actor in the late adventures expressed his willingness to be of the party, and tore off at full speed one morning when, well provided with candles, matches and magnesium wire, they started off, following the edge of the cliff, till, about a mile west of the mine, grip seemed to take a plunge into the sea and disappear. "knows his way again," said vores, laughing; and upon the spot where the dog had disappeared being reached, a way down for some forty or fifty feet was found, close by which a narrow opening, with the debris lying about as the pieces had been chipped, met the eye. on approaching this, grip made his appearance, barking loudly, and then turned and went in again. "will you go first, sir?" said vores; and gwyn led, candles being lit as soon as they were a little way in. they followed the descent for the most part on all-fours, and lastly by creeping and pushing the lanthorns on in front, till at last the long, low, sloping cavern was reached where so terrible a time had been passed. the floor was littered with broken stones, the result of the shot that was fired, and for a few moments gwyn knelt there listening, expecting to hear the hiss and roar of the wind dislodged by the pressure of the water; but the only sound heard was the rustling and panting of those who were following; and as soon as joe was out they went together to the descent into the mine. here there was no way down farther than about twenty feet; then the water lay calm, smooth and black. "it was higher than this when we were here, joe," exclaimed gwyn. "yes, right over the floor." "pressed up by the confined air, perhaps, gentlemen," said vores; and with this explanation they had to be content. "but about how high above the sea are we here, vores?" said gwyn. "no height at all, sir. according to my calculation, as we came down, we are about sea-level, and the mine must be full." they returned, bringing a few crystals as mementoes of their adventure; and that evening, when the major was at the cove house, gwyn was about to bring the specimens out and relate where they had been that day, when the servant announced the comma of two visitors, and messrs. dix and brownson, the solicitors, who seemed to be now on the most friendly terms, were shown in. their visit was soon explained. they had seen the announcement, they said, of the sale, and they thought it, would be a pity to remove all the machinery, as it was in position for carrying out the working of the mine. finally, they were there for the purpose of making the colonel a liberal offer for the estate, house, mine, machinery, everything, as it stood. mr dix was the chief speaker; and when he had finished, and stood smilingly expectant that the colonel would jump at the offer, he was somewhat taken aback by the reply,-- "but i do not want to sell my estate. this has been my home, sir, for years." "but as you wish to sell the machinery, my dear sir," said mr dix, "surely you would not mind parting with the mine now?" "indeed, but i should," said the colonel. "then you will try and clear it, and commence work again?" "never, sir," said the colonel, emphatically. "surely, then, you would not hinder others from adventuring upon what may prove a failure, but who are still willing to try?" "indeed, but i would, sir," said the colonel. "the machinery will be sold for what it will fetch, and then i shall return to my old, calm, peaceful life." "but, my dear sir," began mr brownson. "pray do not argue the matter, sir," said the colonel, and at last the two solicitors went disappointed away. but in the three weeks which elapsed before the auction, four more applications were made, still without result, and then came the sale, months of work, and at last the whole of the appliances of the mine that could be got at were swept away. it was about three months later that, one evening, the major sat at a round table over which colonel pendarve presided, with divers books before him and a carefully-drawn-up balance-sheet, which he proceeded to read; mrs pendarve, gwyn and joe jollivet being the other listeners. it was full of details, vouchers for all of which were in the books. but major jollivet stopped him. "look here, pendarve," he said; "the weather is going to change, or i have one of my fever fits coming on, so i don't want to be bothered. look here, i joined you in this speculation, and it has turned out unfortunate. i trust you in every way, and i know that everything you have done is for the best. so just tell me in plain figures what is the amount of the deficit, and i will draw you a cheque for one-half. if it's too big a pull, joe, you will have to go to work, and i into a smaller house. now, then, please let me know the worst." "glad you take it so well," said the colonel, frowning, and coughing to clear his voice, while mrs pendarve looked very anxious, and the lads exchanged glances. "ahem!" coughed the colonel again. "well, sir, in spite of the very favourable returns made by the mine, our expenses in commencing, for machinery, and the months of barren preparation, we are only--" "will you tell me the worst?" cried the major, angrily. "i will," said the colonel; "the worst is, that after all we have paid and received, we now have standing in the bank the sum of twelve hundred pounds odd, which, being divided by two, means just over six hundred pounds apiece." "loss?" cried the major. "gain," said the colonel. "we worked the mine for the boys, so that money will just do for their preparation for the army, for they're fitter for soldiers than miners after all." the major had risen to his feet, and stood with his lips trembling. "am i dreaming?" he said. "no, my dear old friend; very wide awake." "then i have not lost?" "no; gained enough to pay well for joe's education, and i stand just the same. now, boys, a good training with an army coach, and then sandhurst. what do you say?" "hurrah!" cried the boys in a breath; and when they repeated it their fathers joined in. about a month later grip was loose in the garden, and seeing some one approach, gwyn rushed at the dog, seized him by the collar, and chained him up before turning back to meet--tom dinass, who was coming up to the house. "you here--alive?" cried gwyn. "seems like it, sir," said the man, grinning. "that there dorg's as nasty and savage as ever. guv'nor in?" "yes, i'm here, sir," said the colonel, who had seen the man approach. "then you were not drowned in the mine?" "oh, no, i warn't drowned in the mine." "well, what is your business?" "would you mind taking me in where we sha'n't be heard?" "no, sir; you can speak out here. i don't suppose you have anything to say that my son may not hear." "oh, very well, then, sir, it's this here. old dix--loyer dix--sent me here, ever so long ago, to spy out and report on your mine, and i did; and both dix and loyer brownson, as they're partners now, finding it a likely spec, wanted to buy it, but you wouldn't sell, and worked it yourself." "well, sir, what of that?" "oh, only that they were disappointed, and they became friends after, and sent me here to get took on and report everything." "ah, i see," said the colonel, quietly; "a spy in the camp." "yes, sir," said the man, grinning. "and you reported everything to them?" "yes, sir, o' course; they paid me to, and so i did." "and took our money, too!" said gwyn, indignantly. "oh, but i worked for that, mr gwyn, sir, and worked hard." "exactly," said the colonel, smiling; and seeing that it was apparently taken as a good joke, dinass grinned widely. "then they got more and more disappointed as they found out what a prize they'd let slip through their fingers; and at last got so wild that, when i went to report to 'em one sunday, they asked me if i couldn't do something to spoil your game." "on a sunday, eh?" said the colonel. "oh, yes, it was on a sunday, sir. so i said i'd try and think it out; and at last i did, and went and told 'em i thought i could let the water in and spoil the mine, and then they'd be able to buy it cheap." "and what did they say?" "oh, they both coughed and rubbed their hands, and said it would be too shocking a thing to do, and that i should be bringing myself under the law, and all on in that way, pretending like to make me feel that they didn't want me to do it, but egging me on all the time." "ah, i see," said the colonel, while gwyn's teeth gritted together with rage. "i wasn't going to shilly-shally, so i ast 'em downright if i should do it, and `oh, dear no,' says they, they couldn't think of such a thing; and little dix says, `of course, as we promised, if we had succeeded in buying the mine for our company through your reports we should have given you the situation of captain of the working and a hundred pounds; but we couldn't think of encouraging such criminal ideas as those you 'mulgated. let me see,' he says, `it was to be a hundred pounds, warn't it?' "`yes,' i says, `it was.' "`exactly,' he says, `but we haven't got the mine, so we wish you good-morning,' which was like renewing the offer in an underhanded way. so i come back and did it." "how?" burst in gwyn. "easy enough, sir. found out where the highest gallery ran, stuck a big tin o' stuff over it, and set it off with a little 'lectric machine on the rocks. i knowed everybody would soon get out." "oh!" ejaculated gwyn. "be quiet, my boy. very clever and ingenious, mr dinass; and we thought you were drowned." "me, sir? no, i knew a trick worth two of that." "but may i ask why you have come to me now after ruining our property?" "why, because they've chucked me over, sir. they say i insult them by thinking they would ever do such a thing. that was when i went and asked 'em for my money. last thing was, when i told 'em it was their doing, and they set me at it, they said i were trying to blackmail 'em-- that they never thought i meant such a thing, and that if i warn't off they'd hand me over to the police." "exactly like them," said the colonel. "yes, sir, just like 'em. i call it mean, and i told 'em so, and that if they threatened me i'd speak out and let people know the truth. and i says at last, `i give you a month to think over it; and if you don't give me my hundred pounds then, i shall blow the whole business, and how do you like that?'" "and what did mr dix say?" "`brownson,' he says, `send for a policeman at once.'" "yes, just what he would say," said the colonel, while gwyn wished fervently he had not tied up grip. "yes, sir, that's what he said; but i give 'em rope, and i've been again and again; and last time they let me see that all the blame should be on me and none on them, for no one would believe that loyers like them could do wrong, while everyone would think bad of me. last of all they ordered me off, and after thinking it over a bit i've come to you, sir." "what for?" said the colonel. "why, for you to go to law with them for spoiling your mine. you've only got to start it, and i'll come and swear to it all, and you can get them transported. don't you be afraid, sir; i'll come and speak out, and then--" "i'm to give you a hundred pounds, i suppose?" "well, sir," said the man, grinning, "i must have it out o' some one. but don't you be afraid; i'll bring it home to 'em sharp. now what do you say?" "this," cried the colonel; "i'm too old, and my son is too young, to horsewhip such a scoundrel as you are. be off my premises at once, sir; and if you dare to come here again, old as i am, or young as he is, we'll try." "what?" cried dinass, in a bullying tone. "gwyn, my boy," said the colonel, calmly, "go and unloose grip." the words acted like magic, and they never saw tom dinass again, for in consultation with his old partner and friend it was decided that nothing was to be gained by a prosecution. the mining was over, they were as happy without it, and life was not long enough to punish scoundrels who had lost already in their nefarious game. "but, oh!" cried gwyn, "i only wish he had stopped till i had let loose grip." the end. in honour's cause, by george manville fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ this book is set in the court of george the first, a hanoverian king who was not very popular. to make himself feel more comfortable he had introduced into his court a number of german people, and also dutch ones. the hero of the story is -year old frank gowan, who is a page in the ante-room of the prince of wales, the king's eldest son. his father is an officer in the king's guard. another page is andrew, whose father is pro-jacobite, as andrew is himself. one evening a german baron deliberately insults frank's father, and a duel ensues, in which the german is very badly wounded, but eventually recovers. however, frank's father, who is very loyal to the king, is sentenced to be kicked out of his regiment, and to leave the country. the rest of the book is a series of searches for frank's father, sir robert gowan, roof-top escapes, working out who are the spies, and who the heroes in disguise. most of the action takes place in the palace, in the park which is still adjacent (and a very pretty part of london), and in a house in a street just the other side of the park from saint james's palace. as always with this author there are a number of close shaves. nh ________________________________________________________________________ in honour's cause, by george manville fenn. chapter one. two young courtiers. "ha--ha--ha--ha!" a regular ringing, hearty, merry laugh--just such an outburst of mirth as a strong, healthy boy of sixteen, in the full, bright, happy time of youth, and without a trouble on his mind, can give vent to when he sees something that thoroughly tickles his fancy. just at the same time the heavy london clouds which had been hanging all the morning over the park opened a little to show the blue sky, and a broad ray of sunshine struck in through the anteroom window and lit up the gloomy, handsome chamber. between them--the laugh and the sunshine--they completely transformed the place, as the lad who laughed threw himself into a chair, and then jumped up again in a hurry to make sure that he had not snapped in two the sword he wore in awkward fashion behind him. the lad's companion, who seemed to be about a couple of years older, faced round suddenly from the other end of the room, glanced sharply at one of the doors, and then said hurriedly: "i say, you mustn't laugh like that here." "it isn't broken," said he who had helped to make the solemn place look more cheerful. "what, your sword? lucky for you. i told you to take care how you carried it. easy enough when you are used to one." the speaker laid his left hand lightly on the hilt of his own, pressed it down a little, and stood in a stiff, deportment-taught attitude, as if asking the other to study him as a model. "but you mustn't burst out into guffaws like that in the palace." "seems as if you mustn't do anything you like here," said the younger lad. "wish i was back at winchester." "pooh, schoolboy! i shall have enough to do before i make anything of you." "you never will. i'm sick of it already: no games, no runs down by the river or over the fields; nothing to do but dress up in these things, and stand like an image all day. i feel just like a pet monkey in a cage." "and look it," said the other contemptuously. "what!" said the boy, flushing up to the temples, as he took a step toward the speaker, and with flashing eyes looked him up and down. "well, if you come to that, so do you, with your broad skirts, salt-box pockets, lace, and tied-up hair. see what thin legs you've got too!" "you insolent--no, i didn't mean that;" and an angry look gave place to a smile. "lay your feathers down, master frank gowan, and don't draw master frank gowan, and don't draw your skewer; that's high treason in the king's palace. you mustn't laugh here when you're on duty. if there's any fighting to be done, they call in the guard; and if any one wants to quarrel, he must go somewhere else." "i don't want to quarrel," said the boy, rather sulkily. "you did a moment ago, for all your hackles were sticking up like a gamecock's." "well, i don't now, drew," said the boy, smiling frankly; "but the place is all so stiff and formal and dull, and i can't help wanting to be back in the country. i used to think one was tied down there at the school, but that was free liberty to this." "oh, you young barbarian! school and the country! right enough for boys." "well, we're boys." the other coughed slightly, took a measured pace or two right and left, and gave a furtive glance at his handsome, effeminate face and slight form in the glass. then he said, rather haughtily: "you are, of course; but i should have thought that you might have begun to look upon me as a man." "oh, i will, if you like," said the other, smiling,--"a very young one, though. of course you're ever so much older than i am. but there, i'm going to try and like it; and i like you, forbes, for being so good to me. i'm not such a fool as not to know that i'm a sort of un-licked cub, and you will go on telling me what i ought, to do and what i oughtn't. i can play games as well as most fellows my age; but all this stiff, starchy court etiquette sickens me." "yes," said his companion, with a look of disgust on his face; "miserable, clumsy dutch etiquette. as different from the grand, graceful style of the old _regime_ and of saint germains as chalk is from cheese." "i say," said the younger of the pair merrily, after imitating his companion's glances at the doors, "you must not talk like that here." "talk like what?" said the elder haughtily. "calling things dutch, and about saint germains. i say, isn't that high treason?" "pooh!--well, yes, i suppose you're right. your turn now. but we won't quarrel, franky." "then, don't call me that," said the boy sharply; "frank, if you like. i did begin calling you drew. it's shorter and better than andrew. i say, i am ever so much obliged to you." "don't mention it. i promised sir robert i would look after you." "yes, my father told me." "and i like lady gowan. she's as nice as she is handsome. my mother was something like her." "then she must have been one of the dearest, sweetest, and best ladies that ever lived," cried the boy warmly. "thank ye, frank," said the youth, smiling and laying his arm in rather an affected manner upon the speaker's shoulder, as he crossed his legs and again posed himself with his left hand upon his sword hilt. but there was no affectation in the tone of the thanks expressed; in fact, there was a peculiar quiver in his voice and a slight huskiness of which he was self-conscious, and he hurriedly continued: "oh yes, i like you. i did at first; you seemed so fresh and daisy-like amongst all this heavy dutch formality. i'll tell you everything; and if you can't have the country, i'll see that you do have some fun. we'll go out together, and you must see my father. he's a fine, dashing officer; he ought to have had a good command given him. i say, frank, he's great friends with sir robert." "is he? my father never said so." "mine did; but--er--i think there are reasons just now why they don't want it to be known. you see your father's in the king's guards." "yes." "well, and mine isn't. he is not very fond of the house of brunswick." "i say, mind what you are saying." "of course. i shouldn't say it to any one else. but, i say, what made you burst put into that roar of laughter about nothing?" "it wasn't about nothing," said frank, with a mirthful look in his eyes. "what was it then? see anything out of the window?" "oh no; it was in this room." "well, what was it?" "oh, never mind." "here, i thought we were going to be great friends." "of course." "then friends must confide in one another. why don't you speak?" "i don't want to offend you." "come, out with it." "well, i was laughing at you." "why?" "to see you admiring yourself in the glass there." andrew forbes made an angry gesture, but laughed it off. "well, the prince's pages are expected to look well," he said. "you always look well without. but i wish you wouldn't do that sort of thing; it makes you seem so girlish." there was another angry gesture. "i can't help my looks." "there, now, you're put out again." "no, not a bit," said the youth hastily. "i say, though, you don't think much of the king, do you?" "oh yes," said frank thoughtfully; "of course." "why?" "why? well, because he's the king, of course. don't you?" "no! i don't think anything of him. he's only a poor german prince, brought over by the whigs. i always feel ready to laugh in his face." "i say," cried frank, looking at his companion in horror, "do you know what you are saying?" "oh yes; and i don't think a great deal of the prince. my father got me here; but i don't feel in my place, and i'm not going to sacrifice myself, even if i am one of the pages. i believe in the stuarts, and i always shall." "this is more treasonable than what you said before." "well, it's the truth." "perhaps it is. i say, you're a head taller than i am." "yes, i know that." "but you don't seem to know that if you talk like that you'll soon be the same height." "what, you think my principles will keep me standing still, while yours make you grow tall?" "no. i think if it gets known you'll grow short all in a moment." "they'll chop my head off? pooh! i'm not afraid. you won't blab." "but you've no business to be here." "oh yes, i have. plenty think as i do. you will one of these days." "never! what, go against the king!" "this german usurper you mean. oh, you'll come over to our side." "what, with my father in the king's guards, and my mother one of the princess's ladies of the bed-chamber! nice thing for a man to have a son who turned traitor." "what a red-hot whig you are, frank! you're too young and too fresh to london and the court to understand these things. he's king because a few whigs brought him over here. if you were to go about london, you'd find every one nearly on the other side." "i don't believe it." "come for a few walks with me, and i'll take you where you can hear people talking about it." "i don't want to hear people talk treason, and i can't get away." "oh yes, you can; i'll manage it. don't you want to go out?" "yes; but not to hear people talk as you say. they must be only the scum who say such things." "better be the scum which rises than the dregs which sink to the bottom. come, i know you'd like a run." "i'll go with you in the evening, and try and catch some of the fish in that lake." "what, the king's carp! ha--ha! you want old bigwig to give you five pounds." "old bigwig--who's he?" "you know; the king." "sh!" "pooh! no one can hear." "but what do you mean about the five pounds?" "didn't you hear? they say he wrote to some one in hanover saying that he could not understand the english, for when he came to the palace they told him it was his, and when he looked out of the window he saw a park with a long canal in it, and they told him that was his too. then next day the ranger sent him a big brace of carp out of it, and when they told him he was to behave like a prince and give the messenger five guineas, he was astonished. oh, he isn't a bit like a king." "i say, do be quiet. i don't want you to get into trouble." "of course you don't," said the lad merrily. "but you mustn't think of going fishing now. hark! there are the guards." he hurried to the window, through which the trampling of horses and jingling of spurs could be heard, and directly after the leaders of a long line of horse came along between the rows of trees, the men gay in their scarlet and gold, their accoutrements glittering in the sunshine. "look well, don't they?" said andrew forbes. "they ought to have given my father a command like that. if he had a few regiments of horse, and as many of foot, he'd soon make things different for old england." "i say, do be quiet, drew. you'll be getting in trouble, i know you will. why can't you let things rest." "because i'm a royalist." "no, you're not; you're a jacobite. i say, why do they call them jacobites? what jacob is it who leads them?" "and you just fresh from winchester! where's your latin?" "oh, i see," cried the boy: "jacobus--james." "that's right; you may go up. i wish i was an officer in the guards." "behave yourself then, and some day the prince may get you a commission." "not he. perhaps i shall have one without. well, you'll go with me this evening?" "oh, i don't know." "that means you would if you could. well, i'll manage it. and i'll soon show you what the people in london think about the king." "sh! some one coming." the two lads darted from the window as one of the doors was thrown open, and an attendant made an announcement which resulted in the pages going to the other end to open the farther door and draw back to allow the prince and princess with a little following of ladies to pass through, one of the last of the group turning to smile at frank gowan and kiss her hand. the boy turned to his companion, looking flushed and proud as the door was closed after the retiring party. "how handsome the princess looked!" he said. "hush!" said forbes. "pretty well. not half so nice as your mother; you ought to be proud of her, frank." "i am," said the boy. "but what a pity!" "what's a pity?" "that she should be in the princess's train." "a pity! why the princess makes her quite a friend." "more pity still. well, we shall be off duty soon, and then i'll get leave for us to go." "i don't think i want to now." "well i do, and you'd better come and take care of me, or perhaps i shall get into a scrape." "no, you will not. you only talk as you do to banter me." "think so?" said andrew, with a peculiar smile. "well, we shall see. but you'll come?" "yes," said frank readily, "to keep you from getting into a scrape." chapter two. signs of the times. the water in the canal looked ruddy golden in the light glowing in the west, as the two pages passed through the courtyard along beneath the arches, where the soldiers on guard saluted them, and reached the long mall planted with trees. "halt! one can breathe here," said frank, with his eyes brightening. "come along; let's have a run." "quiet, quiet! what a wild young colt you are!--this isn't the country." "no; but it looks like a good makeshift!" cried frank. "who's disloyal now? nice way to speak of his majesty's park! i say, you're short enough as it is." "no, i'm not. i'm a very fair height for my age. it's you who are too long." "never mind that; but it's my turn to talk. suppose you get cut shorter for saying disloyal things under the window of the palace." "stuff! rubbish!" "is it? they give it to the people they call rebels pretty hard for as trifling things," said andrew, flushing a little. "they flogged three soldiers to death the other day for wearing oak apples in their caps." "what? why did they wear oak apples in their caps?" "because it was king charles's day; and they've fined and imprisoned and hung people for all kinds of what they call rebellious practices." "then you'd better be careful, master drew," said frank merrily. "i say, my legs feel as if they were full of pins and needles, with standing about so much doing nothing. it's glorious out here. come along; i'll race you to the end of this row of trees." "with the people who may be at the windows watching us! where's your dignity?" "have none. they wouldn't know it was us. we're not dressed up now, and we look like any one else." "i hope not," said andrew, drawing himself up. frank laughed, and his companion looked nettled. "it is nothing to laugh at. do you suppose i want to be taken for one of the mob?" "of course i don't. but, i say, look. i saw a fish rise with a regular flop. that must be a carp. they are fond of leaping out of the water with a splash. i say, this isn't a lake, is it? looks like a river." "oh, i don't know--yes, i do. some one said it's part of a stream that comes down from out beyond tyburn way, where they hang the people." "ugh! horrid! but look here, the water seems beautifully clear. let's get up to-morrow morning and have a bathe. i'll swim you across there and back." "tchah! i say, frank, what a little savage you are!" "didn't know there was anything savage in being fond of swimming." "well, i did. a man isn't a fish." "no," said frank, laughing; "he's flesh." "you know, now you belong to the prince's household, and live in the king's palace, you must forget all these boyish follies." "oh dear!" sighed frank. "we've got to support the dignity of the establishment as gentlemen in the prince's train. it wants it badly enough, with all these sausage-eating vans and vons and herrs. we must do it while things are in this state for the sake of old england." "i wish i had never come here," said frank dismally. "no, i don't," he added cheerfully. "i am close to my mother, and i see father sometimes. i say, didn't he look well at the head of his company yesterday?" "splendid!" cried andrew warmly. "here, cheer up, young one; you'll soon get to like it; and one of these days we'll both be marching at the heads of our companies." "think so?" cried frank eagerly. "i'm sure of it. of course i like our uniform, and thousands of fellows would give their ears to be pages at the palace; but you don't suppose i mean to keep on being a sort of lapdog in the anteroom. no. wait a bit. there'll be grand times by-and-by. we must be like the rest of the best people, looking forward to the turn of the tide." frank glanced quickly at the tall, handsome lad at his side, and quickened his pace and lengthened his stride to keep up with him, for he had drawn himself up and held his head back as if influenced by thoughts beyond the present. but he slackened down directly. "no need to make ourselves hot," he said. "you'd like to run, you little savage; but it won't do now. let the mob do that. look! that's lord ronald's carriage. quick! do as i do." he doffed his hat to the occupant of the clumsy vehicle, frank following his example; and they were responded to by a handsome, portly man with a bow and smile. "i say," said frank, "how stupid a man looks in a great wig like that." "bah! it is ridiculous. pretty fashion these dutchmen have brought in." "dutchmen! what dutchmen?" "oh, never mind, innocence," said andrew, with a half laugh. "just think of how handsome the gentlemen of the stuart time looked in their doublets, buff boots, long natural hair, and lace. this fashion is disgusting. here's old granthill coming now," he continued, as the trampling of horses made him glance back. "don't turn round; don't see him." "very well," said frank with a laugh; "but whoever he is, i don't suppose he'll mind whether i bow or not." "whoever he is!" cried andrew contemptuously. "i say, don't you know that he is one of the king's ministers?" "no," said frank thoughtfully. "oh yes, i do; i remember now. of course. but i've never thought about these things. he's the gentleman, isn't he, that they say is unpopular?" "well, you are partly right. he is unpopular; but i don't look upon him as a gentleman. hark! hear that?" he shouted excitedly, as he looked eagerly toward where the first carriage had passed round the curve ahead of him on its way toward westminster. "yes, there's something to see. i know; it must be the soldiers. come along; i want to see them." "no, it isn't the soldiers; it's the people cheering lord ronald on his way to the parliament house. they like him. every one does. he knows my father, and yours too. he knows me. didn't you see him smile? i'll introduce you to him first time there's a levee." "no, i say, don't," said frank, flushing. "he'd laugh at me." "so do i now. but this won't do, frank; you mustn't be so modest." the second carriage which had passed them rolled on round the curve in the track of the first and disappeared, frank noticing that many of the promenaders turned their heads to look after it. then his attention was taken up by his companion's words. "look here," he cried; "i want to show you fleet street." "fleet street," said frank,--"fleet street. isn't that where temple bar is?" "well done, countryman! quite right." "then i don't want to see it." "why?" said andrew, turning to him in surprise at the change which had come over his companion, who spoke in a sharp, decided way. "because i read about the two traitors' heads being stuck up there on temple bar, and it seems so horrible and barbarous." "so it is, frank," whispered andrew, grasping his companion's arm. "it's horrible and cowardly. it's brutal; and--and--i can't find words bad enough for the act of insulting the dead bodies of brave men after they've executed them. but never mind; it will be different some day. there, i always knew i should like you, young one. you've got the right stuff in you for making a brave, true gentleman; and--and i hope i have." "i'm sure you have," cried frank warmly. "then we will not pass under the old city gate, with its horrible, grinning heads: but i must take you to fleet street; so we'll go to westminster stairs and have a boat--it will be nice on the river." "yes, glorious on an evening like this," cried frank excitedly; "and, i say, we can go round by queen anne street." "what for? it's out of the way." "well, only along by the park side; i want to look up at our windows." "but your mother's at the palace." "father might be at home; he often sits at one of the windows looking over the park." "come along then," cried andrew mockingly; "the good little boy shall be taken where he can see his father and mother, and--hark! listen! hear that?" he cried excitedly. "yes. what can it be?" "the people hooting and yelling at granthill. they're mobbing his carriage. run, run! i must see that." andrew forbes trotted off, forgetting all his dignity as one of the princess's pages, and heedless now in his excitement of what any of the well-dressed promenaders might think; while, laughing to himself the while, frank kept step with him, running easily and looking quite cool when the tall, overgrown lad at his side, who was unused to outdoor exercise, dropped into a walk panting heavily. "too late!" he said, in a tone of vexation. "there the carriage goes, through storey's gate. look at the crowd after it. they'll hoot him till the soldiers stop them. come along, frank; we shall see a fight, and perhaps some one will be killed." chapter three. getting into hot water. the excitement of his companion was now communicated to frank gowan, and as fast as they could walk they hurried on toward the gate at the corner of the park, passing knot after knot of people talking about the scene which had taken place. but the boy did not forget to look eagerly in the direction of the row of goodly houses standing back behind the trees, and facing on to the park, before they turned out through the gate and found themselves in the tail of the crowd hurrying on toward palace ward. the crowd grew more dense till they reached the end of the street with the open space in front, where it was impossible to go farther. "let's try and get round," whispered andrew. "do you hear? they're fighting!" being young and active, they soon managed to get round to where they anticipated obtaining a view of the proceedings; but there was nothing to see but a surging crowd, for the most part well-dressed, but leavened by the mob, and this was broken up from time to time by the passing of carriages whose horses were forced to walk. "oh, if we could only get close up!" said andrew impatiently. "hark at the shouting and yelling. they are fighting with the soldiers now." "no, no, not yet, youngster," said a well-dressed man close by them; "it's only men's canes and fists. the whigs are getting the worst of it; so you two boys had better go while your heads are whole." "what do you mean?" "oh, i know a whig when i see one, my lad." "do you mean that as an insult, sir?" said andrew haughtily. "no," said the gentleman, smiling; "only as a bit of advice." "because if you did--" said andrew, laying his hand upon his sword. "you would send your friends to me, boy, and then i should not fight. nonsense, my lad. there, off with your friend while your shoes are good, and don't raise your voice, or some one will find out that you are from the palace. then the news would run like wild fire, and you ought to know by this time what a cowardly london mob will do. they nearly tore sir marland granthill out of his carriage just now. there, if i am not on your side, i speak as a friend." before andrew could make any retort, and just as frank was tugging at his arm to get him away, they were separated from the stranger by a rush in the crowd, which forced them up into a doorway, from whose step they saw, one after the other, no less than six men borne along insensible and bleeding from wounds upon the head, while their clothes were nearly torn from their backs. then the shouting and yelling began to subside, and the two lads were forced to go with the stream, till an opportunity came for them to dive down a side street and reach the river stairs, where they took a wherry and were rowed east. "i should like to know who that man was," said andrew, after a long silence, during which they went gliding along with the falling tide. "he spoke very well," said frank. "yes; but he took me for a whig," said the youth indignantly. "but, i say, what was it all about?" "oh, you'll soon learn that," replied andrew. "is there often fighting like this going on in the streets?" "every day somewhere." "but why?" said frank anxiously. "surely you know! because the whigs have brought in a king that the people do not like. there, don't talk about it any more now. i want to sit still and think." frank respected his companion's silence, and thankful at having escaped from the heat and pressure of the crowd, he sat gazing at the moving panorama on either side, enjoying the novelty of his position. his musings upon what he saw were interrupted by his companion, who repeated his former words suddenly in a low, thoughtful voice, but one full of annoyance, as if the words were rankling in his memory. "he took me for a whig." then, catching sight of his companion's eyes watching him wonderingly: "what say?" he cried. "did you speak?" "no; you did." "no, i said nothing." frank smiled. "yes, you said again that the man in the crowd took you for a whig." "did i? well, i was thinking aloud then." "where to, sir?" asked the waterman, as he sent the boat gliding along past the gardens of the temple, "london bridge?" "no; blackfriars." a few minutes later they landed at the stairs, and, apparently quite at home in the place, andrew led his companion in and out among the gloomy-looking streets and lanes of the old alsatian district, and out into the continuation of what might very well be called high street, london. "here we are," he said, as he directed their steps toward one of the narrow courts which ran north from the main thoroughfare; but upon reaching the end, where a knot of excitable-looking men were talking loudly upon some subject which evidently interested them deeply, one of the loudest speakers suddenly ceased his harangue and directed the attention of his companions to the two lads. the result was that all faced round and stared at them offensively, bringing the colour into andrew's cheeks and making frank feel uncomfortable. "let's go straight on," said the former; and drawing himself up, he walked straight toward the group, which extended right across the rough pavement and into the road, so that any one who wanted to pass along would be compelled to make a circuit by stepping down first into the dirty gutter. "keep close to me; don't give way," whispered andrew; and he kept on right in the face of the staring little crowd, till he was brought to a standstill, not a man offering to budge. "will you allow us to pass?" said andrew haughtily. "plenty o' room in the road," shouted the man who had been speaking. "aren't you going up the court?" "i do not choose to go into the muddy road, sir, because you and your party take upon yourselves to block up the public way," retorted andrew, giving the man so fierce a look that for a moment or two he was somewhat abashed, and his companions, influenced by the stronger will of one who was in the right, began to make way for the well-dressed pair. but the first man found his tongue directly. "here, clear the road!" he cried banteringly. "make way, you dirty blackguards, for my lords. lie down, some of you, and let 'em walk over you. lost your way, my lords? why didn't you come in your carriages, with horse soldiers before and behind? but it's no use to-day; the lord mayor's gone out to dinner with his wife." a roar of coarse laughter followed this sally, which increased as another man shouted in imitation of military commands: "heads up; draw skewers; right forward; ma-rr-rr-ch!" "scum!" said andrew contemptuously, as they left the little crowd behind. "is the city always like this?" said frank, whose face now was as red as his companion's. "yes, now," said andrew bitterly. "that's a specimen of a whig mob." "nonsense!" cried frank, rather warmly; "don't be so prejudiced. how can you tell that they are whigs?" "by the way in which they jumped at a chance to insult gentlemen. horse soldiers indeed! draw swords! oh! i should like to be at the head of a troop, to give the order and chase the dirty ruffians out of the street, and make my men thrash them with the flats of their blades till they went down on their knees in the mud and howled for mercy." "what a furious fire-eater you are, drew," cried frank, recovering his equanimity. "we ought to have stepped out into the road." "for a set of jeering ruffians like that!" cried andrew. "no. they hate to see a gentleman go by. london is getting disgraceful now." "never mind. there, i've seen enough of it. let's get down to the river again, and take a boat; it's much pleasanter than being in this noisy, crowded place." "not yet. we've a better right here than a mob like that. it would be running away." "why, how would they know?" said frank merrily. "i should know, and feel as if i had disgraced myself," replied andrew haughtily. "besides, i wanted to see a gentleman." "what, up that court?" said frank, looking curiously at his companion. "yes, a gentleman up that court. there are plenty of gentlemen, and noblemen, too, driven nowadays to live in worse places than that, and hide about in holes and corners." "oh, i say, don't be so cross because a lot of idlers would not make way." "it isn't that," said the youth. "it half maddens me sometimes." "then don't think about it. you are always talking about politics. i don't understand much about them, but it seems to me that if people obey the laws they can live happily enough." "poor frank!" said andrew mockingly. "but never mind. you have got everything to learn. this way." the boy was thinking that he did not want to learn "everything" if the studies were to make him as irritable and peppery as his companion, when the imperative order to turn came upon him by surprise, and he followed andrew, who had suddenly turned into a narrower court than the one for which he had first made, and out of the roaring street into comparative silence. "where are you going?" "this way. we can get round by the back. i want to see my friend." the court was only a few feet wide, and the occupants of the opposing houses could easily have carried on a conversation from the open windows; but these occupants seemed to be too busy, for in the glimpses he obtained as they passed, frank caught sight of workmen in paper caps and dirty white aprons, and boys hurrying to and fro, carrying packets of paper. but he had not much opportunity for noticing what business was being carried on, for they soon reached the end of the court, where a fresh group of men were standing listening to a speaker holding forth from an open window, and the lad fully expected a similar scene to that which had taken place in the main street. but people made way here, and andrew, apparently quite at home, turned to the left along a very dirty lane, plunged into another court, and in and out two or three times in silence, along what seemed to the boy fresh from quaint old winchester a perfect maze. "i say, drew," he said at last, "you must have been here before." "i? oh yes! i know london pretty well. now down here." he plunged sharply now round a corner and into the wide court he had at first made for, but now from its northern end. so quick and sudden was the movement made that the two lads, before they could realise the fact, found themselves in another crowd, which filled this court from end to end. the people composing it were principally of the rough class they had seen grouped at the lower part, but fully half were workmen in their shirt sleeves, many of them with faces blackened by their occupation, while a smaller portion was well-dressed, and kept on moving about and talking earnestly to the people around. "too late," said andrew, half to himself. "yes; we shall have to go round and reach the street farther along," said frank quietly. "we don't want to push through there." "but it's here i want to see my friend." "does he live in this place?" "no; but he is sure to be there--in that house." the lad nodded at a goodly sized mansion about half-way down the court; and even from where they stood they could make out that the place was crowded, and that something exciting was going on, the crowd in the court outside being evidently listeners, trying to catch what was said within, the murmurs of which reached the two lads' ears. all at once there was a loud outburst of cheering, shouting, and clapping of hands, as if at the conclusion of a speech; and this was responded to by a roar of yells, hoots, and derisive cries from the court. "oh! too late--too late," muttered andrew. "silence, you miserable crew!" but where heard his words passed unnoticed, those around evidently taking them as being addressed to the people in the great tavern. "let's get away--quickly, while we can," said frank, with his lips close to his companion's ear; but the lad shook him off angrily, and then uttered a cry of rage, for at that moment there was a loud crash and splintering of glass, the mob in the court, evidently under the direction of the well-dressed men, hurling stones, decayed vegetables, and rubbish of all kinds in at the windows of the tavern. this was responded to by shouts of defiance and a rain of pots, glasses, and pails of water; and even the pails themselves were hurled down upon the heads of the people in the court, while a long oaken settle which came clattering down fell crosswise, the end coming within a few inches of a man's head. "oh, do let's go!" frank very naturally said, gripping andrew's arm hard. but the lad seemed to have suddenly gone crazy with excitement, shouting and gesticulating with the rest, directing his words, which sounded like menaces, at the people crowding at the window of the house. at this the mob cheered, and, as if in answer to his orders, made a rush for the door, surging in, armed for the most part with sticks, and as if to carry the place by assault. "i can't go and leave him," thought frank; and directly after--as he looked up the court toward the end by which they had entered, and down from which they had been borne until they were nearly opposite the house--"if i wanted to," he muttered, as he saw how they were wedged in and swayed here and there by the crowd. the noise increased, the crowd beginning to cheer loudly, as crowds will when excited by the chance to commit mischief, and frank remained ignorant of the reasons which impelled them on, as he watched the exciting scene. the sound of blows, yells of defiance, and the angry, increasing roar of those contending within the house, set his heart beating wildly. for a few minutes, when he found himself shut in by the people around, a feeling of dread came over him, mingled with despair at his helplessness, and he would have given anything to be able to escape from his position; but as he saw man after man come stumbling out bruised and bleeding, and heard the cries of rage uttered by those who hemmed him in, the feeling of fear gave place to indignation, and this was soon followed by an angry desire to help those who, amidst the cheers of their fellows, pressed forward to take the place of those who were beaten back. it was at this moment that he saw two well-dressed men waving swords above their heads, and, white now with rage, andrew turned to him. "the cowards--the dogs!" he whispered. "frank lad, you will be man enough to help?" "yes, yes," panted the boy huskily, with a sensation akin to that which he had felt when hurt in his last school fight, when, reckless from pain, he had dashed at a tyrannical fellow-pupil who was planting blow after blow upon him almost as he pleased. "draw your sword then, and follow me." frank made a struggle to wrench himself free, but it was in vain. "i can't!" he panted. "my arms are pinned down to my side." "so are mine," groaned andrew. "i can hardly breathe." a furious yell of rage arose from fifty throats, and the two lads saw the attacking party come tumbling one over the other out of the tavern, driven back by the defenders, who charged bravely out after them, armed with stick and sword; and almost before the two lads could realise their position they found themselves being carried along in the human stream well out of reach of the blows being showered down by the rallying party from the house, who literally drove their enemies before them, at first step by step, striking back in their own defence, rendered desperate by their position, then giving up and seeking refuge in flight, when with a rush their companions gave way more and more in front. for a few minutes the heat and pressure were suffocating, and as frank and his companion were twisted round and borne backward, the former felt a peculiar sensation of giddy faintness, the walls swam round, the shouting sounded distant, and he was only half-conscious when, in company with those around, he was shot out of the narrow entrance of the court; and then the terrible pressure ceased. chapter four. frank's eyes begin to open. everything else seemed to the boy to cease at the same time, till he became conscious of feeling cold and wet, and heard a voice speaking: "and him quite a boy too. i wonder what his mother would say.--here, drink this, my dear; and don't you never go amongst the crazy, quarrelsome wretches again. i don't know what we're coming to with their fighting in the streets. it isn't safe to go out, that it isn't. drink it all, my dear; you'll feel better then. i always feel faint myself if i get in a crowd." frank had heard every word, with a peculiar dreamy feeling that he ought to listen and know who the boy was so addressed. then he became conscious that it was he who was drinking from a mug of water held to his lips; and, opening his eyes, he looked up into a pleasant, homely face bending over him in an open doorway, upon whose step he was sitting, half leaning against the doorpost, half against the woman who was kneeling at his side. "ah, that's better," said the woman. "now you take my advice; you go straight home. you're not a man yet, and don't want to mix yourself up with people fighting about who ought to be king. just as if it matters to such as us. as i often tell my husband, he'd a deal better attend to getting his living, and not go listening to people argifying whether it's to be the king on the other side of the water or on this. i say, give me peace and--you feel better, don't you?" "yes, thank you," said frank, making an effort to rise; but the moment he tried the ground seemed to heave up beneath him. "you're not quite right yet, my dear; sit still a little longer. and you too with a sword by your side, just as if you wanted to fight. i call it shocking, that i do." "but i am much better," said frank, ignoring the woman's remarks. "i can walk now. but did you see my friend?" "your friend? was it one of those rough-looking fellows who came running down with you between 'em, and half a dozen more hunting them, and they pushed you in here and ran on?" "oh no. my friend is a--ah! there he is. drew! drew!" looking white and strange, andrew forbes was coming hurriedly down the narrow lane, when he heard his name pronounced, and looking round he caught sight of his companion, and hurried to his side. "oh, here you are!" he panted. "i've been looking for you everywhere. i was afraid they had taken you to the watch-house. i couldn't keep by you; i was regularly dragged away." "were you hurt?" cried frank excitedly. "felt as if my ribs were all crushed in. but what about you?" "i suppose i turned faint," said frank. "i didn't know anything till i found myself here, and this lady giving me water." "oh, i'm not a lady, my dear," said the woman, smiling,--"only a laundress as does for some of the gentlemen in the temple. there now, you both go home; for i can see that you don't belong to this part of the town. i dare say, if the truth was known, he brought you here." frank was silent, but he glanced up at andrew, who was carefully rearranging his dress and brushing his cocked hat. "i thought as much," said the woman. "he's bigger, and he ought to have known better than to get into such a shameful disturbance.--what's that?--lor' bless me, no, my dear! why should i take a mark for a mug of cold water? put it in your pocket, my dear; you'll want it to buy cakes and apples. i don't want to be paid for doing a christian act." "then thank you very much," said frank warmly, offering his hand. "oh! if you will," said the woman, "i don't mind. it isn't the first time i've shook hands with a gentleman." the woman turned, smiling with pleasure, as if to repeat the performance with andrew forbes; but as she caught sight of his frowning countenance her hand fell to her side, and she dropped the youth a formal curtsey. "thank you for helping my friend," he said. "you're quite welkum, young man," said the woman tartly. "and if you'll take my advice, you won't bring him into these parts again, where they're doing nothing else but swash-buckling from morning to night. the broken heads i've seen this year is quite awful, and--" andrew forbes did not wait to hear the rest, but passed his arm through that of frank, and walked with him swiftly down the narrow lane toward the water-side. "you're not much hurt, are you?" "oh no. it was the heat and being squeezed so." "don't say you were frightened, lad!" cried andrew. "i was at first; but when i saw the people being knocked about so, i felt as if i wanted to help." "that's right. you've got the right stuff in you. but wasn't it glorious?" "glorious?" "yes!" cried andrew excitedly. "it was brave and gallant to a degree. the cowardly brutes were three times as many as the others." "oh no; the other side was the stronger, and they ought to have whipped." "nonsense! you don't know what you are talking about," said andrew warmly. "the miserable brutes were five or six times as strong, and the brave fellows drove them like a flock of sheep right out of the court, and scattered them in the street like chaff. oh, it made up for everything!" frank put his hand to his head. "i don't quite understand it," he said. "my head feels swimming and queer yet. i thought the people in the house were the weaker--i mean those who dashed out shouting, `down with the dutchmen!'" "of course," cried andrew; "that's what i'm saying. it was very horrible to be situated as we were." "yes, horrible," said frank quietly. "not able to so much as draw one's sword." "too much squeezed together." "yes," said andrew, with his face flushed warmly. "i did cry out and shout to them to come on; but one was so helpless and mixed-up-like that people could hardly tell which side they belonged to." "no," said frank drily; "it was hard." he looked meaningly at his companion as he spoke; but andrew's eyes were gazing straight before him, and he was seeing right into the future. "did you see your friend you wanted to speak to?" said frank, as they reached the river-side. "see him? yes, fighting like a hero; but i couldn't get near him. never mind; another time will do. i little thought i should come to the city to-day to see such a victory. it all shows how things are working." "going to ride back by boat?" said frank, as if to change the conversation. "oh yes; we can't go along fleet street and the strand. the streets will be full of constables, and soldiers out too i dare say. they're busy making arrests i know; and if we were to go along there, as likely as not there'd be some spy or one of the beaten side ready to point us out as having been in it." they reached the stairs, took their place in a wherry, and as they leaned back and the waterman tugged at his oars, against tide now, frank said thoughtfully: "i say, what would have happened if somebody had pointed us out?" "we should have been locked up of course, and been taken before the magistrate to-morrow. then it would all have come out about our being there, and--ha--ha--ha!--the prince would have had vacancies for two more pages.--i shouldn't have cared." "i should," said frank quickly, as he saw in imagination the pained faces of father and mother. "well, of course, so should i. don't take any notice of what i said. besides, we can be so useful as we are." "how?" said frank thoughtfully. "it always seems to me that we are but a couple of ornaments, and of no use at all." "ah! wait," said andrew quietly. then, as if feeling that he had been in his excitement letting his tongue run far too fast, he turned to his companion, and said gently: "you are the son of a gallant officer and a beautiful lady, and i know you would not say a word that would injure a friend." "i hope not," said frank, rather huskily. "i'm sure you would not, or i should not have spoken out as i have. but don't take any notice; you see, a man can't help talking politics at a time like this. well, when will you come to the city again?" "never, if i can help it," said frank shortly; and that night in bed he lay sleepless for hours, thinking of his companion's words, and grasping pretty clearly that king george the first had a personage in his palace who was utterly unworthy of trust. "and it's such a pity," said the boy, with a sigh. "i like andrew forbes, though he is a bit conceited and a dandy; but it seems as if i ought to speak to somebody about what i know. my father--my mother? there is no one else i should like to trust with such a secret. but he has left it to my honour, and i feel pulled both ways. what ought i to do?" he fell asleep at last with that question unanswered, and when he awoke the next morning the thought repeated itself with stronger force than before, "why, he must be at heart a traitor to the king!" and once more in dire perplexity frank gowan asked himself that question, "what shall i do?" chapter five. the officer of the guards. it would not take much guessing to arrive at the course taken by frank gowan. he cudgelled his brains well, being in a kind of mental balance, which one day went down in favour of making a clean breast of all he knew to his mother; the next day up went that side, for he felt quite indignant with himself. here, he argued, was he, frank gowan, freshly appointed one of the prince's pages, a most honourable position for a youth of his years, and with splendid prospects before him, cut off from his old school friendships, and enjoying a new one with a handsome, well-born lad, whom, in spite of many little failings at which he laughed, he thoroughly admired for his dash, courage, and knowledge of the world embraced by the court. this lad had completely taken him under his wing, made him proud by the preference he showed for his companionship, and ready to display his warm admiration for his new friend by making him the confidant of his secret desires; and what was he, the trusted friend, about to do? play traitor, and betray his confidence. but, then, was not andrew forbes seeking to play traitor to the king? "that's only talk and vanity," said the boy to himself. "he has done nothing traitorous; but if i go and talk to any one, i shall have done something--something cruelly treacherous, which must end in the poor fellow being sent away from the court in disgrace, perhaps to a severe punishment." he turned cold at the thought. "they hang or behead people for high treason," he thought; "and suppose drew were to be punished like that, how should i feel afterward? i should never forgive myself. besides, how could i go and worry my mother about such a business as this? it is not women's work, and it would only make her unhappy." but he felt that he might go to his father, and confide the matter to him, asking him on his honour not to do anything likely to injure drew. but he could not go and confide in his father, who was generally with his regiment, and they only met on rare occasions. by chance he caught sight of him on duty at the palace with the guard, but he could not speak to him then. at other times he was at his barrack quarters, and rarely at his town house across the park in queen anne street. this place was generally only occupied by the servants, lady gowan having apartments in the palace. hence frank felt that it would be very difficult to see his father and confide in him, and he grew more at ease in consequence. it was the way out of a difficulty most dear to many of us--to wit, letting things drift to settle themselves. and so matters went on for some days. frank had been constantly in company with andrew forbes, and his admiration for the handsome lad grew into a hearty friendship, which was as warmly returned. "he can't help knowing he is good-looking," thought frank, "and that makes him a bit conceited; but it will soon wear off. i shall joke him out of it. and he knows so much. he is so manly. he makes me feel like an awkward schoolboy beside him." frank knitted his brow a little over these thoughts, but he brightened up with a laugh directly. "i think i could startle him, though," he said half aloud, "if i had him down at winchester." it was one bright morning at the palace, where he was standing at the anteroom window just after the regular morning military display, and he had hardly thought this when a couple of hands were passed over his eyes, and he was held fast. "i know who it is," he said, "though you don't think it. it's you, drew." "how did you know?" said that individual merrily. "because you have hands like a girl's, and no lady here would have done it." "bah! hands like a girl's indeed! i shall have to lick you into a better shape, bear. you grow too insolent." "very well; why don't you begin?" said frank merrily. "because i don't choose. look here, young one; i want you to come out with me for a bit this afternoon." "no, thank you," replied the boy, shaking his head. "i don't want to go and see mad politicians quarrel and fight in the city, and get nearly squeezed to death." "who wants you to? it's only to go for a walk." "that was going for a walk." "afraid of getting your long hair taken out of curl?" said andrew banteringly. "no; that would curl up again; but i don't want to have my clothes torn off my back." "you won't get them torn off this afternoon. i want you to come in the park there, down by the water-side. you'll like that, savage." "yes, of course. can we fish?" "no, that wouldn't do; but i tell you what: you can take some bread with you and feed the ducks." "take some bread with me and feed the ducks!" cried the boy contemptuously. "well, that's what i'm going to do. then you won't come?" "yes, i will, drew, if i can get away. of course i will. oh, mother, you there?" lady gowan had just entered the room, and came up toward the window, smiling, and looking proud, happy, and almost too young to be the mother of the stout, manly-looking boy who hurried to meet her; and court etiquette did not hinder a loving exchange of kisses. she shook hands directly after with andrew forbes. "i am afraid that you two find it very dull here sometimes," she said. "well, yes, lady gowan," said the youth, "i often do. i'm not like frank here, with his friends at court." "but i have so few opportunities for seeing him, mr forbes. after a few weeks, though, i shall be at home yonder, and then you must come and spend as much time there as you can with frank." andrew bowed and smiled, and said something about being glad. "frank dear," said lady gowan, "i have had a letter from your father this morning, and i have written an answer. he wants to see you for a little while. he is at home for a couple of days. you can take the note across." "yes," cried frank, flushing with pleasure; but the next moment he turned to andrew with an apologetic look. "what is the matter?" said lady gowan. "am i interrupting some plans?" "oh, nothing, nothing, lady gowan," said andrew, warmly. "i was going out with drew, mother; but we can go another time. he will not mind." "but it was only this afternoon." "oh!" cried lady gowan, "he will be back in an hour or so. i am glad that you were going out, my boy; it will make a little change for you. and i am very glad, mr forbes, that he has found so kind a companion." andrew played the courtier to such perfection, that as soon as she had passed out of the room with her son lady gowan laughed merrily. "in confidence, frank," she said, "and not to hurt mr forbes's feelings, do not imitate his little bits of courtly etiquette. they partake too much of the dancing-master. i like to see my boy natural and manly. there, quick to your father, with my dear love, and tell him i am longing for his leave, when we can have, i hope, a couple of months in hampshire." "hah!" ejaculated frank, as he hurried across the park; "a couple of months in hampshire. i wonder how long it will be?" ten minutes later he was going up two steps at a time to the room affected by his father in the spacious house in queen anne street, where, as soon as he threw open the door, he caught sight of the lightly built but vigorous and active-looking officer in scarlet, seated at the window overlooking the park, deep in a formidable-looking letter. "ah, frank, my dear boy," he cried, hurriedly thrusting the letter into his breast, "this is good. what, an answer already? you lucky young dog, to have the best woman in the world for a mother. bless her!" he cried, kissing the letter and placing it with the other; "i'll read that when you are gone. not come to stay, i suppose?" "no, father," cried the boy, whose eyes flashed with excitement as they took in every portion of the officer in turn. "i've only come to bring the note; mother said you wished to see me." "of course, my boy, so as to have a few words. i just catch a glimpse of you now and then, but it's only a nod." "and i do often long so to come to you," cried frank, with his arm upon his father's shoulder. "that's right, boy," said sir robert, smiling and taking his hands; "but it wouldn't do for the captain of the guard to be hugging his boy before everybody, eh? we men must be men, and do all that sort of thing with a nod or a look. as long as we understand each other, my boy, that's enough, eh?" "yes, father, of course." "but bravo, frank; you're growing and putting on muscle. by george, yes! arms are getting hard, and--good--fine depth of chest for your age. don't, because you are the prince's page, grow into a dandy macaroni milk-sop, all scent, silk, long curls, and pomatum. i want you to grow into a man, fit for a soldier to fight for his king." "and that's what i want to do, father," said the lad proudly. "of course you do; and so you will. you are altering wonderfully, boy. why, hallo! i say," cried the captain, with mock seriousness, as he held his son sidewise and gazed at his profile against the light. "what's the matter, father?" cried frank, startled. "keep your head still, sir; i want to look. yes, it's a fact--very young and tender, but there it is; it's coming up fast. why, frank boy, you'll soon have to shave." "what nonsense!" cried the boy, reddening partly at being laughed at, but quite as much with satisfaction. "it's no nonsense, you young dog. there's your moustache coming, and no mistake. why, if i had a magnifying-glass, i could see it quite plainly." "i say, father, don't; i can't stop long, and--and--that teases one." "then i won't banter you, boy," cried sir robert, clapping him heartily on the shoulder; "but, i say, you know: it's too bad of you, sir. i don't like it." "what is, father? what have i done?" "oh i suppose you can't help it; but it's too bad of you to grow so fast, and make your mother look an old woman." "that she doesn't, father," cried the boy. "why, she's the youngest-looking and most beautiful lady at court." "so she is, my boy--so she is. heaven bless her!" "and as for you, father, you talk about looking old, and about me growing big and manly; i shall never grow into such a fine, handsome officer as you." "why, you wicked, parasitical, young court flatterer!" cried sir robert; "you're getting spoiled and sycophantish already." "i'm not, father!" cried the boy, flushing; "it's quite true, every word of it. everybody says what a noble-looking couple you are." "do they, my boy?" said the father more gently, and there was a trace of emotion in his tone. "but there's not much couple in it, living apart like this. ah, well, we have our duty to do, and mine is cut out for me. but never mind the looks, frank, my boy, and the gay uniform; it's the man i want you to grow into. but all the same, sir, nature is nature. look there." "what, at grandfather's portrait?" "yes, boy. you will not need to have yours painted, and i have not had mine taken for the same reason. is it like me?" "yes, father. if you were dressed the same, it would be exactly like you." "in twenty years' time it will do for you." frank laughed. "but i say yes, sir," cried sir robert. "why, in sixteen years' time, if i could have stood still, we two would be as much alike as a couple of peas. but in sixteen years perhaps i shall be in my grave." "father!" "well, i'm a soldier, my boy; and soldiers have to run risks more than other men." "oh, but you won't; you're too big and brave." "ha--ha--ha! flattering again. why, frank, i sometimes think i'm a coward." "you! a coward! i should like to hear any one say so." "a good many will perhaps, boy. but there, never mind that; and perhaps after all you had better not follow my profession." "what! not be a soldier!" "yes. do you really wish to be?" "why of course, father; i don't want to be a palace lapdog all my life." "bravo, frank! well said!" cried the father heartily. "well, you come of a military family, and i dare say i can get you a commission when the beard really does grow so that it can be seen without an optic glass." "oh, i say, father, you're beginning to tease again. i say, do get up and walk across the room." "eh? what for?" "i want to look at you." sir robert smiled and shook his head. then, slowly rising, he drew himself up in military fashion, and marched slowly across the room and back, with his broad-skirted scarlet and gold uniform coat, white breeches, and high boots, and hand resting upon his sword hilt, and looking the beau ideal of an officer of the king's guards. "there, have i been weak enough, frank?" he said, stopping in front of his son, and laying his hands affectionately upon his shoulders. "all show, my boy. when you've worn it as long as i have, you will think as little of it; but it is quite natural for it to attract a boy like you. but now sit down and tell me a little about how you spend your time. i find that you have quite taken up with andrew forbes. his father promised me that the lad should try and be companionable to you. forbes is an old friend of mine still, though he is in disgrace at court. how do you get on with andrew? like him?" "oh, very much, father." "well, don't like him too much, my boy. lads of your age are rather too ready to make idols of showy fellows a year or two older, and look up to them and imitate them, when too often the idol is not of such good stuff as the worshipper. so you like him?" "yes, father." "kind and helpful to you?" "oh, very." "well, what is it?" "what is what, father?" "that cloudy look on your face. why, frank, i've looked at you so often that i can read it quite plainly. why, you've been quarrelling with andrew forbes!" "oh no, father; we're the best of friends." "then what is it, frank? you are keeping something back." sir robert spoke almost sternly, and the son shrank from gazing in the fine, bold, questioning eyes. "i knew it," said sir robert. "what is it, boy? speak out." it was the firm officer talking now, and frank felt his breath come shorter as his heart increased the speed of its pulsations. "well, sir, i am waiting. why don't you answer?" "i can't, father." "can't? i thought my boy always trusted his father, as he trusts his son. there, out with it, frank. the old saying, my lad. the truth may be blamed, but can never be shamed. what is it--some scrape? there, let's have it, and get it over. always come to me, my boy. we are none of us perfect, so let there be no false shame. if you have done wrong, come to me and tell me like a man. if it means punishment, that will not be one hundredth part as painful to you as keeping it back and forfeiting my confidence in my dear wife's boy." "oh, i would come. i have wanted to come to you about this, but i felt that i could not." "why?" "because it would be dishonourable." "perhaps that is only your opinion, frank. would it not be better for me to give you my opinion?" the boy hesitated for a moment. then quickly: "i gave my word, father." "to whom?" "andrew forbes." "not to speak of whatever it is?" "yes, father." sir robert gowan sat looking stern and silent for a few moments as if thinking deeply. "frank boy," he said at last. "i am a man of some experience; you are a mere boy fresh from a country school, and now holding a post which may expose you to many temptations. i, then, as your father, whose desire is to watch over you and help you to grow into a brave and good man, hold that it would not be dishonourable for you to confide in me in every way. it can be no dishonour for you to trust me." "then i will tell you, father;" and the boy hastily laid bare his breast, telling of his adventures with andrew forbes, and how great a source of anxiety they had proved to be. "hah!" said sir robert, after sitting with knitted brows looking curiously at his son and hearing him to the end. "well, i am very glad that you have spoken, my boy, and i think it will be right for you to stand your ground, and be ready to laugh at master andrew and his political associations. it is what people call disloyal and treasonable on one side; on the other, it is considered noble and right. but you need not trouble your head about that. andrew forbes is after all a mere boy, very enthusiastic, and led away perhaps by thoughts of the prince living in exile instead of sitting on the throne of england. but you don't want to touch politics for the next ten years. it would be better for many if they never touched them at all. there, i am glad you have told me." "so am i now, father. but you will not speak about it all, so as to get drew in disgrace?" "i give you my word i will not, frank. oh, nonsense! it is froth-- fluff; a chivalrous boy's fancy and sympathy for one he thinks is oppressed. no, frank, no words of mine will do drew forbes any harm; but as for you--" "yes, father." "do all you can to help him and hold him back. it would be a pity for him to suffer through being rash. they might treat it all as a boy's nonsense--no, it would mean disgrace. keep him from it if you can." "i, father! he is so much older than i am, and i looked up to him." "proof of what i said, frank," cried sir robert, clapping his son upon the shoulder. "he is a bright, showy lad; but you carry more ballast than he. brag's a good dog, you know, but holdfast's a better. now, then, i think you ought to be going back. good-bye, my boy. i look to you to be your mother's protector more and more. perhaps in the future i may be absent. but you must go now, for i have an important letter to write. my dear love to your mother, and come to me again whenever you have a chance." sir robert went down to the garden door with his son, and let him out that way into the park. "mind," he said at parting. "keep away from political mobs." "i will," said frank to himself, as he turned back. "well, it will be all right going with drew this afternoon, as it is only to feed the ducks." chapter six. frank feeds the ducks. something very nearly akin to a guilty feeling troubled frank upon meeting his fellow-page that afternoon; but his father's promise, in conjunction with his words respecting andrew's actions being merely those of an enthusiastic boy, helped to modify the trouble he felt, and in a few minutes it passed off. for andrew began by asking how his friend's father was, and praising him. "i always liked your father, frank," he said; "but he's far too good for where he is. well, we're off duty till the evening. ready for our run?" "oh yes, i'm ready," said frank, laughing; "but you won't run unless somebody's carriage is being mobbed. you could go fast enough then." "well, of course i can run if i like. come along." "where's the bread?" asked frank. "bread? what bread? are you hungry already?" "no, no; the bread you talked about." "the bread i talked about? what nonsense! i never said anything about bread that i can remember." "well, you said we were going to feed the ducks." "oh-h-oh!" ejaculated andrew; and he then burst into a hearty fit of laughter. "of course: so i did. i didn't think of it. well, perhaps we had better take some. ring the bell, and ask one of the footmen to bring you some." frank thought it strange that his companion, after proposing that they should go and feed the ducks, had forgotten all about the bread. however, he said no more, but rang, and asked the servant to get him a couple of slices. the man stared, but withdrew, and came back directly. "i beg your pardon, sir," he said; "but did you wish me to bring the bread here?" "certainly. be quick, please. we are waiting to go out." the man withdrew for the second time, and the lads waited chatting together till andrew grew impatient. "ring again," he cried. "have they sent to have a loaf baked? it's getting late. let's start. never mind the bread." "oh, let's have it now it's ordered. how are we to feed the ducks without?" "throw them some stones," said andrew mockingly. "come along. we'll look at other people feeding them--if there are any. look here; it's twenty minutes by that clock since you gave the order." at that moment another footman opened the door, and held it back for one of his fellows to enter bearing a tray covered with a cloth, on which were a loaf, a butter-dish, knives, plates, glasses, and a decanter of water. "oh, what nonsense!" cried andrew impatiently. "there, cut a slice, frank, put it in your pocket, and come along, or we shall be late." "i did not know that ducks had particular hours for being fed," thought the boy, as he cut into the loaf, and then hacked off two slices instead of one, the two men-servants standing respectfully back and looking on, both being too well-trained to smile, as frank thrust one slice into his pocket and offered the other to andrew. "oh, i don't want it," he said impatiently. "better take it," cried frank. "i shan't give you any of mine." andrew hesitated for a moment, and then snatched a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped the slice in it, and thrust the handkerchief back. "perhaps i had better take one too," he said aloud; and then to his companion as they went out: "makes one look so ridiculous and childish before the servants. they'll go chattering about it all over the place." "let them," said frank coolly. "i don't see anything to be ashamed of." "no," said andrew, with something like a sneer, "you don't; but you will some day. there, let's make haste." it did not strike the lad that his companion's manner was peculiar, only that he felt it to be rather an undignified proceeding; but he said nothing, and accommodating his stride to andrew's long one, they crossed the courtyard, went out into the park, and came in sight of the water glittering in the sun. "there's a good place," said frank. "plenty of ducks close in." "oh, there's a better place round on the other side," said andrew hastily. "let's go there." "anywhere you like," said frank, "so long as we're out here on the fresh grass again. what a treat it is to be among the green trees!" "much better than the country, eh?" "oh no; but it does very well. i say, i wish we might fish." "oh, we'll go fishing some day. walk faster; we're late." "fast as you like. what do you say to a run? you can run, you say, when you like." "oh no, we needn't run; only walk fast." "or the ducks will be impatient," said frank, laughing. "yes, or the ducks may be impatient," said andrew to himself, as he led on toward the end of the ornamental water nearest to where buckingham palace now stands, and bore off to the left; and when some distance back along the farther shore of the lake and nearly opposite to saint james's palace, he said suddenly: "look, frank, there is some one beforehand;" and he pointed to where a gentleman stood by the edge of the water shooting bits of biscuit with his thumb and finger some distance out, apparently for the sake of seeing the ducks race after them, some aiding themselves with their wings, and then paddling back for more. the two lads walked up to where the gentleman was standing, and as he heard them approach he turned quickly, and frank saw that he was a pale, slight, thin-faced, youngish-looking man who might be forty. "ah, andrew," he said, "you here; how are you? you have not come to feed the ducks?" "oh yes, i have," said andrew, giving the stranger a peculiar look; "and i've brought a friend with me. let me introduce him. mr frank gowan, captain sir robert gowan's son, and my fellow-servant with his royal highness. frank, this happens to be a friend of mine--mr george selby." "i am very glad to meet any friend of andrew forbes," said the stranger, raising his hat with a most formal bow. "i know sir robert slightly." as he replaced his hat and smiled pleasantly to the salute frank gave in return, he took a biscuit from his pocket, and began to break it in very small pieces, when, apparently without any idea of its looking childish, andrew took out his piece of bread, and after a moment's hesitation frank did the same, the ducks in his majesty's "canal," as he termed it, benefiting largely by the result. "any news?" said andrew, after this had been going on for some minutes, and as he spoke he turned his head and looked fixedly at mr selby. "no, nothing whatever; everything is as dull as can be," was the reply, and the fixed look was returned. there seemed to be nothing in these words of an exciting nature, and frank was intent upon a race between two green-headed drakes for a piece of crust which he had jerked out to a considerable distance; but all the same andrew forbes drew a deep breath, and his face flushed up. then he glanced sharply at frank, and looked relieved to find how his attention was diverted. "er--er--it is strange what a little news there is stirring nowadays," he said, huskily. "yes, very, is it not?" replied their new companion; "but i should have thought that you gentlemen, living as you do in the very centre of london life, would have had plenty to amuse you." "oh no," said andrew, with a forced laugh. "ours is a terrible humdrum life at the palace, so bad that gowan there is always wanting to go out into the country to find sport, and as he cannot and i cannot, we are glad to come out here and feed the ducks." "well," said the stranger gravely, jerking out a fresh piece of biscuit, "it is a nice, calm, and agreeable diversion. i like to come here for the purpose on wednesday and friday afternoons about this time. it is harmless, forbes." "very," said the youth, with another glance at frank; but he was breaking a piece of crust for another throw, and another meaning look passed between the two, forbes seeming to question the stranger with his eyes, and to receive for answer an almost imperceptible nod. "yes, i like feeding the ducks," said selby. "one acquires a good deal of natural history knowledge thereby, and also enjoys the pleasure of making new and pleasant friends." this was directed at frank, who felt uncomfortable, and made another bow, it being the proper thing to do, as his new acquaintance--he did not mentally call him friend--dropped a piece of biscuit, to be seized by a very fat duck, which had found racing a failure, and succeeded best by coming out of the water, to snap up the fragments which dropped at the distributors' feet. as the piece of biscuit fell, the stranger formally and in a very french fashion raised his cocked hat again. "and so you find the court life dull, mr gowan," he said. "yes," said the boy, colouring. "you see, i have not long left winchester and my school friends. miss the ga--sports; but andrew forbes has been very friendly to me," he added heartily. "of course you feel dull coming among strangers; but never fear, mr gowan, you will have many and valuable friends i hope, your humble servant among the number. it must be dull, though, at this court. now at saint--" "that's my last piece of bread, selby," said andrew hastily. "give me a bit of biscuit." "certainly, if i have one left," was the smiling reply, with another almost imperceptible nod. "yes, here is the last. of course you must find it dull, and we have not seen you lately at the club, my dear fellow. by the way, why not bring mr gowan with you next time?" "oh, he would hardly care to come. he does not care for politics, eh, frank?" "i don't understand them," said the boy quietly. "you soon will now you are resident in town, mr gowan; and i hope you will favour us by accompanying your friend forbes. only a little gathering of gentlemen, young, clever, and i hope enthusiastic. you will come?" "i--that is--" "say yes, frank, and don't be so precious modest. he will bring up a bit of country now and then. but he is fast growing into a man of town." "what nonsense, drew!" cried the boy quickly. "yes, what nonsense!" said the new acquaintance, smiling. "believe me, mr gowan, we do not talk of town at our little social club. i shall look forward to seeing you there as my guest. what do you say to monday?" "i say yes for both of us," said andrew quickly. "i am very glad. there, my last biscuit has gone, so till monday evening i will say good-bye--_au revoir_." "stick to the english, selby," said andrew sharply. "french is not fashionable at saint james's." "you are quite right, my dear forbes. good-bye, mr gowan. it is a pleasure to shake your father's son by the hand. till monday then, my dear forbes;" and with a more courtly bow than ever, the gentleman stalked slowly away, with one hand raising a laced handkerchief to his face, the other resting upon his sword hilt. "glad we met him," said andrew quickly, and he looked unusually excited. "one of the best of men. you will like him, frank." "but you should not have been so ready to accept a stranger's invitation for me." "pooh! he isn't a stranger. he'll be grateful to you for going. big family the selbys, and he'll be very rich some day. wonderful how fond he is, though, of feeding the ducks." "yes, he seems to be," said frank; and he accompanied his companion as the latter strolled on now along the bank after finishing the distribution of bread to the feathered fowl by sending nearly a whole biscuit skimming and making ducks and drakes on the surface of the water; but the living ducks and drakes soon ended that performance and followed the pair in vain. for andrew forbes had suddenly become very thoughtful; while his companion also had his fit of musing, which ended in his saying to himself: "i wish i was as clever as they are. it almost seemed as if they meant something more than they said. it comes from living in london i suppose, and perhaps some day i shall get to be as sharp and quick as they are. perhaps, though, it is all nonsense, and they meant nothing. but i wish drew had not said we'd go. i'm not a man, and what do i want at a club? i don't know anything that they'd want to know, living as i do shut up in the palace." but there frank gowan was wrong, for what went on at saint james's palace in the early days of the eighteenth century was of a great deal of interest to some people outside, and he never forgot the feeding of the ducks. chapter seven. how frank gowan grew one year older in one day. "i seem to have so many things to worry me," thought frank. "any one would think that in a place like this without lessons or studies there would be no unpleasantries; but as soon as i've got the better of one, another comes to worry me." this was in consequence of the invitation for the following monday. his mind was pretty well at ease about his confidential talk with his father; but he was nervous and uncomfortable about the visit to the club, and several times over he was on the point of getting leave to go across to sir robert to ask his opinion as to whether he ought to go. "i can't go and bother my mother about such a thing as that," he mused. "i ought to be old enough now to be able to decide which is right and which is wrong. drew thinks and talks like a man, while it seems to me that i'm almost a child compared to him. "well, let's try. ought i to go, or ought i not? there can't be any harm to me in going. there may be some friends of drew's whom i shan't like; but if there are i needn't go again. it's childish, when i want to become more manly, to shrink from going into society, like a great girl.--i'll go. if there's any harm in it, the harm is likely to be to drew, and--yes, of course; i could save him from getting into trouble. "then i ought to go," he said to himself decisively, and he felt at ease, troubling himself little more about the matter, but going through his extremely easy duties of waiting in the anteroom, bearing letters and messages from one part of the palace to the other, and generally looking courtly as a royal page. then the monday came, with andrew forbes in the highest of spirits, and ready to chat about the country, his friend's life at winchester, and to make plans for running down to see them when his father and mother went out of town. "i don't believe you'd like it if you did come," said frank. "oh yes, i should. why not?" "because you'd find some of the lanes muddy, and the edges of the roads full of brambles. you wouldn't care to see the bird's and squirrels and hedgehogs, nor the fish in the river, nor the rabbits and hares." "why, those are all things that i am dying to see in their natural places. i wish you would not think i am such a macaroni. why, after the way in which you have gone on about the country, isn't it natural that i should want to see more of it?" he kept on in this strain to such an extent that, instead of convincing his companion, he overdid it, and set him wondering. "i don't understand him a bit," he said to himself; "and i wish he wouldn't keep on calling me my dear fellow and slapping me on the back. i never saw him so wild and excitable before." the lad's musings were interrupted to his great disgust by andrew coming behind him with the very act and words which had annoyed him. for he started and turned angrily upon receiving a sounding slap between the shoulders. "why, frank, my dear fellow," cried andrew, "what ails you? hallo! eyes flashing lightning and brow heavy with thunder. has the gentle, shepherd-like swain from the country got a temper of his own?" "of course i have," cried the boy angrily. "why don't you let it lie quiet, and not wake it up by doing that!" "is the temper like a surly dog, then?" cried andrew, laughing mockingly. "will it bite?" "yes, if you tease it too much," snapped out frank. "oh, horrible! you alarm me!" cried andrew, bounding away in mock dread. "don't be a fool!" cried frank angrily; and the tone and gesture which accompanied the request sobered andrew in a moment, though his eyes looked his surprise that the boy whom he patronised with something very much like contempt could be roused up into showing so much strength of mind. "what's the matter, frank boy?" he said quietly; "eaten something that hasn't agreed with you?" "no," said the boy sharply. "i haven't eaten it--i can't swallow it." "eh? what do you mean? what is it?" "you," said frank shortly. "oh!" said andrew, raising his eyebrows a little and staring at him hard; "and pray how is it you can't swallow me?" "because you will keep going on in this wild, stupid way, and treating me as if i were some stupid boy whom you meant to make your butt." "what, to-day?" "yes, and yesterday, and the day before that, and last week, and--and ever since i've been here." "then why didn't you tell me of it if i did, like a gentleman should, and not call me a fool?" "i didn't; i said don't be a fool." "same thing. you insulted me." "well, you've insulted me dozens of times." "and amongst gentlemen, sir," continued andrew haughtily, and ignoring the other's words, "these things mean a meeting. gentlemen don't wear swords for nothing. they have their honour to defend. do you understand?" "oh yes, i understand," said frank warmly. "i haven't been behind the trees in the big field at winchester a dozen times perhaps without knowing what that means." "pish!" said andrew contemptuously; "schoolboys' squabbles settled with fists. black eyes, bruised knuckles, and cut lips." "well, schoolboys don't wear swords," cried frank, who was by no means quelled. "i learned fencing, and i dare say i could use mine properly. i've fenced with my father in the holidays many a time." "then i shall send a friend to you, sir," said andrew fiercely. "you mean an enemy," said frank grimly. "a friend, sir--a friend," said andrew haughtily; "and you can name your own." "no, i can't, and i shouldn't make such a fool of myself," cried frank defiantly. "you are very free, sir, with your fools," cried andrew. "such language as this is not fitted for the anteroom in the palace." "i suppose i may call myself a fool if i like." "when you are alone, sir, if you think proper, but not in my presence. perhaps you will have the goodness to name your friend now; it will save time and trouble." frank looked at his companion sharply. "then you mean to fight?" "yes, sir, i mean to chastise this insolence." "they wouldn't let us cross swords within the palace grounds." "pooh! no paltry excuses and evasions, sir," cried andrew, in whose thin cheeks a couple of red spots appeared. "of course we could not hold a meeting here. but there is the park. i see, though. big words, and now the dog that was going to bite is putting his tail between his legs, and is ready to run away." "is he?" said frank sharply, and a curiously stubborn look came into his face. "don't you be too sure of that. but, anyhow, i'm not going to cross swords with you in real earnest." "i thought so. you are afraid that i should pink you." "who's afraid?" "bah!" cried andrew contemptuously. "you are." "oh, am i?" growled frank. "look here; i'm sure my father wouldn't like me to fight you with swords, whether you pinked me as you call it, or i wounded you." "pish! frank gowan, you are a poltroon." "perhaps so; but look here, andrew forbes, you've often made me want to hit you when you've been so bounceable and patronising. now, we were going to see your friend to-night--" "we are going to see my friend to-night, sir. even if gentlemen have an affair, they keep their words." "if they can, and are fit to show themselves. i'm not going to that place with you this evening, though i had got leave to go out. you can go afterwards if you like; but if you'll come anywhere you like, where we shan't be stopped, i'll try and show you, big as you are, that i'm not a coward." "very well. i dare say we can find a place. but your sword is shorter than mine. you must wear my other one." "rubbish! i'm not going to fight with swords!" cried frank. "what! you mean pistols?" "i mean fists." in honour's cause. "pah! like schoolboys or people in the mob." "i shan't fight with anything else," said frank stubbornly. "you shall, sir. now, then, name your friend." "can't; he wouldn't go. he's such a hot, peppery fellow too." "then he is as big a coward as you are." "look here," said frank, almost in a whisper. "i don't know so much as you do about what we ought to do here, but i suppose it means a lot of trouble; and if it does i can't help it, but if you call me a coward again i'll hit you straight in the face." "coward then!" cried andrew, in a sharp whisper. "now hit me, if you dare." as he spoke he drew himself up to his full height, threw out his chest, and folded his arms behind him. quick as thought frank doubled his fist, and as he drew back his arm raised his firm white knuckles to a level with his shoulder, and then reason checked him, and he stood looking darkly into his fellow-page's eyes. "i knew it," cried the latter--"a coward; and your friend is worse than you, or you wouldn't have chosen him." "oh! don't you abuse him," said frank, with his face brightening; and his eyes shone with the mirth which had suddenly taken the place of his anger. "what! do you dare to mock me?" cried andrew. "no; only it seemed so comic. you know, i've only had one friend since i've been here. how could i ask you?" for a _few_ moments andrew stood gazing at him, as if hardly knowing how to parry this verbal thrust, and then the look which had accompanied it did its work. "i say," he said, in an altered tone, "this is very absurd." "yes, isn't it?" said frank. "i never thought we two were going to have such a row." "but you called me a fool." "didn't! but you did call me a coward. ha--ha! and yourself too. but, i say, drew, you don't think i'm a coward, do you?" andrew made no reply. "because i don't think i am," continued frank. "i always hated to have to fight down yonder. and as soon as we began i always felt afraid of hurting the boy i fought with; but directly he hit out and hurt me i forgot everything, and i used to go on hammering away till i dropped, and had to give in because he was too much for me, and i hadn't strength to go on hammering any more. but somehow," he added thoughtfully, and with simple sincerity in his tones, "i never even then felt as if i was beaten, though of course i was." "but you used to beat sometimes?" said andrew quietly. "oh yes, often; i generally used to win. i've got such a hard head and such bony knuckles. but, i say, you don't think i should be afraid to fight, do you?" "i'm sure you wouldn't be," cried andrew, with animation, "and--and, there i beg your pardon for treating you as i have and for calling you a coward. it was a lie, frank, and--will you shake hands?" there was a rapid movement, and this time the boy's fist flew out, but opened as it went and grasped the thin white hand extended toward him. "i say, don't please; you hurt," said andrew, screwing up his face. "oh, i beg your pardon," cried the boy. "i didn't mean to grip so hard. i say, though, is it as the officers say to the soldiers?" "what do you mean?" said andrew wonderingly. "as you were?" "of course. i'm sure our fathers never quarrelled and fought, and i swear we never will." "that's right," cried frank. "and i never felt as if i liked you half so much as i do now. why, frank, old fellow, you seem as if you had suddenly grown a year older since we began to quarrel." "do i?" said the boy, laughing. "i am glad. no, i don't think i am. but, i say, we mustn't quarrel often then, for i shall grow old too soon." "i said we'd never quarrel again," said andrew seriously; "and somehow you are really a good deal older than i have thought. but, i say, we must go and meet mr selby to-night." "oh yes, of course; and i shall always stand by and stop you in case you turn peppery to any one else, and stop you from righting him." "if it was in a right cause you would not." "i shouldn't?" "no; i believe you would help me, and be ready to draw on my behalf." frank turned to the speaker with a thoughtful, far-off look in his eyes, as if he were gazing along the vista of the future at something happening far away. "i hope that will never come," he said quietly, "for when i used to fight with my fists, as i said, i always forgot what i was about. how would it be if i held a drawn sword?" "you would use it as a gentleman, a soldier, and a man of honour should," said andrew warmly. "should i?" said frank sadly. "yes, i am sure you would." chapter eight. the traitors' heads. "where is mr selby's club?" asked frank, as they started that afternoon to keep their appointment. "you be patient, and i'll show you," replied andrew. "but we are not going by water, are we?" "to be sure we are. it's the pleasantest way, and we avoid the crowded streets. i am to introduce you, so i must be guide." this silenced frank, who sank back in his seat when they stepped into a wherry without hearing the order given to the waterman; and once more his attention was taken up by the busy river scene, which so engrossed his thoughts that he started in surprise on finding that they were approaching the stairs where they had landed upon their last visit, but he made no remark aloud. "i did not know it was in the city," he said, however, to himself; and when they landed, and andrew began to make his way toward fleet street, his suspicion was aroused. "is the club anywhere near that court where there was the fight?" he said suddenly. "eh? oh yes, very near! this is the part of london where all the wits, beaux, and clever men meet for conversation. you learn more in one night listening than you do in a month's reading. you'll like it, i promise you." frank was silent, and in spite of his companion's promise felt a little doubtful. "have you known mr selby very long?" he asked. "depends upon what you call long." "do you like him?" "oh yes, he's a splendid fellow. so are his friends splendid fellows. you'll like them too. thorough gentlemen. most of them of good birth." frank was silent again; but he was becoming very observant now, as he noticed that, though they were going by a different way, they were tending toward the scene of their adventure, and the fight rose vividly before his imagination. but all was perfectly quiet and orderly around. there were plenty of people about, but all apparently engaged in business matters, though all disposed to turn and look after the well-dressed youths, who seemed foreign to their surroundings. it was a relief to frank to find that there were no signs of an idling crowd, and he was congratulating himself upon that fact when, after increasing his pace as if annoyed at being noticed, andrew said sharply: "walk a bit faster. how the oafs do stare!" "why, drew!" cried frank, suddenly checking himself, as his companion, who had led him to the spot from the opposite side, suddenly turned into the court where they had been wedged in the crowd. "what is it?" said his companion impatiently. "come along, quick!" "but this is the place where they were fighting." "of course; i know it is. what of it? they're not fighting now." as he spoke he was glancing rapidly up and down the court, and with his arm well through that of frank he urged him on toward the door of the large house. frank was annoyed at having, as he felt, been deceived as to their destination, and ready to hang back. but he felt that it would seem cowardly, and that andrew's silence had been from a feeling that if he had said where they were coming he would have met with a refusal, while the next moment the boy found himself in the passage of the house. a burly man, in a big snuff-coloured coat, confronted them, arranging a very curly wig as he came, but smiled, bowed, and drew back to allow the visitors to pass; and with a supercilious nod andrew led on, apparently quite familiar with the place, and turned up a broad, well-worn staircase, quite half of whose balusters were perfectly new and unpainted, evidently replacing those broken out for weapons during the fight. the sight of these and their suggestions did not increase frank's desire to be there, but he went on up. "for this time only," he said to himself; "but i'm not going to let him cheat me again." a buzz of voices issued from a partly opened door on the first floor, and andrew walked straight in without hesitation, frank finding himself in the presence of about twenty gentlemen, standing at one end of a long room, along whose sides were arranged small tables laid for dinner. the conversation stopped on the instant, and every eye was turned toward the new-comers, who doffed their hats with the customary formal bows, when, to the great relief of frank, one gentleman detached himself from the group and came to meet them. "how are you, mr selby?" said andrew loudly. "the happier for seeing you keep your engagement," said their friend the feeder of ducks, smiling. "mr gowan, i am delighted to find my prayer has not been vain. let me introduce you to our friends here of the club. we look upon this as a home, where we are all perfectly at our ease; and we wish our visitors--our neophytes--to feel the same. gentlemen, let me introduce my guest, mr frank gowan. i think some of you have heard his father's--sir robert gowan's--name." there was a warm murmur of assent, and to a man the party assembled pressed forward to bid the visitors welcome. so pleasantly warm was the reception given to him, and so genuine the efforts made to set him at his ease, that the lad's feeling of diffidence and confusion soon began to pass away, and with it the feeling of uneasiness; for the boy felt that these gentlemen could not have been of the party engaged in the riot, and he had nearly persuaded himself that, as this was evidently a public tavern, quite another class of people had occupied the room on his previous visit to the place, only he could not make this explanation fit with andrew's excitement and desire to join in the fight. but he had little time for thought. his bland and pleasant-spoken host took up too much of his attention, chatting fluently about the most matter-of-fact occurrences, political business being entirely excluded, and cleverly drawing the lads out in turn to talk about themselves and their aspirations, so ably, indeed, that before the agreeable little dinner served to these three at a table close to the window was half over, frank found that he was relating some of his country life and school adventures to his host, and that the gentlemen at the tables on either side were listening. the knowledge that he was being overheard acted as an extinguisher to the light of the boy's oratory, and he stopped short. "well?" said his host, with a pleasant smile; while andrew leaned back, apparently quite satisfied with the impression his companion was making. "pray go on. you drew the great trout close to the river-bank. don't say you lost it after all." "oh no, i caught it," said frank, colouring; "but i am talking too much." "my dear boy," said mr selby, "believe me, your fresh, young experiences are delightful to us weary men of the town. cannot you feel how they revive our recollections of our own boyish days? there, pray don't think we are tired of anecdotes like this. forbes here used to be fond of the country; but he has grown such a lover of town life and the court that he hardly mentions it now." he went on playfully bantering andrew, till quite a little passage of give-and-take ensued, which made frank think of what a strange mixture of clever, vain boy and thoughtful man his fellow-page seemed to be, while his own heart sank as he began to make comparisons, and he felt how thoroughly young he seemed to be amongst the clever men by whom he was surrounded. but all the time his ears were active, and he listened for remarks that would endorse his suspicions of the principles of the members. still, not a word reached him save such as strengthened andrew's assurance that mr selby was one of a party of clever men who liked to meet for social intercourse. the fight must have been with other people who occupied the room, he thought, and in all probability had nothing to do with this club at all. the evening passed rapidly away, and before frank realised that it was near the time when they ought to be back at saint james's mr selby turned to him. "we are early birds here," he said; "so pray excuse what i am about to say, and believe that i am delighted to have made your acquaintance, one which is the beginning, i feel, of a life friendship. gentlemen," he said, rising, "it is time to part till our next meeting. hands round, please, and then adieu." he turned to frank, and held out his hand with a smile. "our little parting ceremony," he said. the boy involuntarily held out his, ready to say good-bye; but it was clasped warmly by selby in his left and retained, while andrew with a quick, eager look took his other. frank stared, for the rest, who had increased by degrees to nearly forty, all joined hands till they had formed a ring facing inward. what did it mean? for a moment the boy felt ready to snatch his hands away; but as he thought of so doing, he felt the clasp on either side grow firmer, and in a clear, low voice their host said: "across the water." "across the water," was echoed in a low, deep murmur by every one but frank. then hand ceased to clasp hand, people began to leave, and mr selby went quickly to the other end of the room. "all over," said andrew, in a quick whisper. "now then off, or we shall get into trouble for being late." "yes, let's go," said frank, in a bewildered way; and he went downstairs with his companion, and out into the cool, pleasant night air of the street. "we shall have to walk," said andrew, "so step out." frank obeyed in silence, and nothing more was said till, without thinking of where they were, they saw temple bar before them. "what did they mean by that?" said frank suddenly. "by what?" "joining hands together and saying `across the water.'" "oh, nothing. a way of saying good-bye if you live in surrey." "don't treat me as if i were a child," cried frank passionately. "i'm sure it meant more than that." "well, suppose it does, what then?" "what then? why, you have been tricking and deceiving me. just too as it seemed that we were going to be the best of friends." "nonsense! we are the best of friends, tied more tightly than ever to stand by each other to the end." "then there is something in all this?" "of course there is. you knew there was when we agreed to come." "i did not!" cried frank indignantly; "or if i thought that there might be, i felt that it was only a little foolish enthusiasm on your part, and that mr selby was only a casual friend." "oh no; he is one of my best friends." "drew, i shall never forgive you. it was mean and cruel to take me there in ignorance of what these men were." "very nice gentlemanly fellows, and you looked as if you enjoyed their society." "i see it all clearly enough now," continued frank excitedly, and without heeding; "they are jacobites." "not the only ones in london, if they are." "and `across the water' means that man--the pretender." "hush! don't call people names," said andrew, in a warning whisper. "you never know who is next you in the street." "i don't care who hears me. it is the truth." "don't you be peppery now. why, you were all amiability till we came away." "because i could not think that there was anything in it. i could not believe you would play me such a trick." "all things are fair in love and war," said andrew. "it is a base piece of deception, and i'll never trust you again." "oh yes, you will, always. you'll like them more and more every time you go." "i go there again? never!" "oh yes, you will, often, because we all like you, and you are just the boy to grow into the man we want. i had no sooner mentioned your name to mr selby than he said, `yes, he must join us, of course.'" "join you? why, you are a band of conspirators." "silence, i tell you! that man in front heard you and turned his head." "i don't care." "then i must make you. look here, frank, whatever we are, you are the same." "i!" cried the boy in horror. "of course. this is twice you have come to our club, and there is not a man there to-night who does not look upon you as our new brother." "then they must be undeceived." "impossible! you have joined hands with us, and breathed our prayer for him across the water." "i did not; i never opened my lips." "you seemed to; anyhow, you clasped hands with us, and that is enough." "i refuse to have any dealings with your club, and for your sake as well as mine i shall acquaint my father with everything that has taken place." "that would not matter," said andrew coolly. "but you will not. i introduced you to mr selby, who had come on purpose to see you." "then that feeding ducks was a design?" "of course it was; the spies and the guard might interfere with a stranger hanging about at the water-side, but they can have nothing to say to a man feeding the ducks." "oh, what base treachery and deception! but i will not be tricked like this. it was the act of a traitor." "it was the act of a friend to save you in the troubles that are to come." "i don't care what you say. i will clear myself from even a suspicion of being an enemy of the king." "you are a friend of the king," said andrew, tightening his hold of his companion's arm; "and you cannot draw back now." "i can, and will. why can i not? who is to prevent me?" "every man you saw there to-night--every man of the thousand who was not there. frank boy, ours is a great and just cause, and the sentence on the man who has joined us and then turns traitor--" "i have not joined." "you have, and i am your voucher. you are one of us now." "and if i go back, what then?" cried frank contemptuously. "the sentence is death." "bah! nonsense! but let me tell you this, that the sentence really is death for him who, being the king's servant, turns traitor. who stands worse to-night, you or i?--oh!" ejaculated the boy quickly, and with a sharp ring of horror in his tones; "look there!" the moon was shining brightly now, full upon the grim-looking old city gateway, and frank gowan stood where he had stopped short, as if paralysed by the sight before him. "yes, i know," said andrew coolly, as he looked up; "i have seen them before. traitors' heads." chapter nine. frank has a bad night. "i wish i had a better head," sighed frank, as he lay in bed that night; "it seems to get thicker and thicker, and as if every time i tried to think out what is the best thing to do it got everything in a knot." he turned over, and lay hot and uncomfortable for a few minutes, and then perhaps for the hundredth time he turned over again, found his pillow comfortless, and jumped up into a sitting position, to punch and bang it about for some minutes, before returning it to its place, lying down, and finding it as bad as ever. "it's of no use," he groaned; "i shall never get a wink of sleep to-night. i wish i could get up and dress, and go for a walk out there in the cool by the side of the water; but as soon as i got outside i should be challenged by the guard. i don't know the password, and i should be arrested and marched off to the guardroom. even if i could get down there by the canal, i should feel no better, for i should be thinking of nothing else but feeding the ducks." this thought made him twist and writhe in the bed to such an extent that the clothes refused to submit to the rough treatment, and glided off to seek peace and quietness upon the floor. the pleasant coolness was gratifying for a few minutes; but the boy's love of order put an end to his lying uncovered, and he sprang out of bed, dragged the truant clothing back, remade his bed extremely badly, and once more lay down. the occupation relieved him for a while, and he began to hope that he would go to sleep; but the very fact of his endeavouring to lose consciousness made him more wakeful, and he lay with wide-open eyes, going over the events of the evening, till he got into a passion with andrew forbes, with mr george selby, and most of all with himself. "how could i be such an idiot as to go? i ought to have known better. i might have been sure, after what i had seen, that there was something wrong. but then," he groaned, "i did fancy something was wrong, and i went to try and keep drew out of mischief. oh, what an unlucky fellow i am! "it's of no use," was his next thought. "i shall never do any good here, only keep on getting into trouble. why, if this were to be known, it would bring disgrace on my father and mother, and they would have to leave court--father would perhaps lose his commission." he sprang up again in horror at the very thought of this, drew up his knees, and passed his arms round them, to sit for long enough packed up with his chin upon his knees somewhat after the fashion of a peruvian mummy. "it's horrible," he groaned to himself--"horrible, that's what it is. and this is being what mother calls a good son. they'll be nice and proud of me when they know. "ah-h-h-ah! there goes that wretched old clock over the gateway again! it can't be five minutes since it chimed before. it seems to have been chiming ever since i came to bed. what time is it, i wonder? bah! three-quarters past. three-quarters past what? oh dear, how thirsty i am! and i've had three glasses of water since i came to bed. going to feed the ducks! oh, i wish i'd said i'd go out and fight with drew, and pinked him as he calls it. he wouldn't have been able to lead me into this scrape. but more likely he would have pinked me. well, and a precious good thing too. it would have been all right, and i couldn't then have gone. "phew! how hot it is. my skin seems to prickle and tingle, as if somebody had been playing tricks with the bed; and all this time i believe that miserable dandy drew is snoring away, and not troubling a bit. there, if it isn't chiming again! it can't be a quarter of an hour since i heard it last. ting, tang. last quarter. well, go on; four quarters, and then strike, and i shall know what time it is. what! a quarter past? well, a quarter past what? oh, that clock's wrong. it chimed three-quarters just now. it can't have chimed the four quarters since, and struck the hour; it's impossible. i'm sure it must be wrong." he threw himself down again in despair, feeling as if sleep were farther off than ever. "oh dear!" he moaned; "drew told me i seemed a year older after that row. i feel another year older since then; and if it goes on like this, i shall be like an old man by morning. but there, i'm not going to give up in this cowardly way. i'll show master drew that i'm not such a boy as he thinks for. it's all nonsense! just because i went and dined there with him and his friend, and was then led into standing up with them and joining hands, i'm to be considered as having joined them, and become a jacobite! why, it's childish; and as to his threats of what they would do if i ran back, i don't care, i won't believe it. i'm not such a baby. death indeed! i've only just begun to live. "ugh! it was very ugly, very shocking to see those heads stuck up there over temple bar; and yet drew took it as coolly as could be. why, it was he who ought to have been frightened, not i. and i'm not frightened--i won't be frightened. i won't say anything; but i'm not going there again. no, i won't speak--unless they do threaten me. then i must tell all. but only wait till morning, and i'll have it out with master drew. not quite so much of a schoolboy as he thinks me. "there'll be no sleep for me to-night," he said at last, in a resigned way. "well, it's perhaps so much the better. i have been able to think out what i mean to do, and now i'll just try and arrange what i shall say to drew in the morning; and, after that, i'll get up and dress, and have a long read. i do wonder, though, what time it is." he then lay wondering and waiting for the clock to chime again, but he did not hear it chime its next quarter, for now that he had made up his mind not to go to sleep, sleep came to him with one of those sudden seizures which drop us in an instant into the oblivion which gives rest and refreshment to the wearied body and brain. then, all at once, as he lay with his eyes closed, he did hear it plainly. "ah, at last!" he cried,--"first quarter, second quarter, third quarter, fourth quarter. now, then, i shall know what time it is." the clock struck, and he counted--nine. then he listened for more, opened his eyes, and stared in amazement at the light streaming through the shuttered windows, and leaped out of bed. "why," he cried, "it's breakfast-time! i must have been asleep after all." then he stood looking back into yesterday, for the evening's proceedings came to him with a flash. "a jacobite!" he said aloud; "and those heads upon the top of the gate!" chapter ten. in the horns of a dilemma. it was a bright morning; but now it seemed to frank gowan that the world had suddenly turned back. andrew forbes met him in the most friendly way after breakfast. he was almost affectionate in his greeting. "didn't dream about the traitors' heads on temple bar, did you?" "no," said frank coldly. "i lay awake and thought about them." "ugh!" ejaculated andrew, with a shudder. "what gruesome things to take to bed with you. i didn't; i was so tired that i went off directly and slept like a top." frank looked at him in disgust. "hallo! what's the matter?" cried his fellow-page. "not well?" "i was wondering whether you had any conscience." "i say, hark at the serious old man!" cried andrew merrily. "whatever made you ask that?" "because it seemed impossible you could have one, to treat it all so lightly after taking me there last night." "i don't see how you can call it that. you were invited, and you went with me." "that's a contemptible piece of shuffling," cried frank. andrew flushed up and frowned. "pooh!" he said, laughing it off. "you are tired and cross this morning. what a fellow you are for wanting to quarrel! but we can't do that, now we're brethren." "no, we are not," said frank hotly. "i'll have nothing to do with the miserable business." "colt kicking on first feeling his harness," said andrew merrily. "never mind, frank; you'll soon get used to it." "never." "and it's a grand harness to wear. i say, what's the good of making a fuss about it? you'll thank me one of these days." "then you have no conscience," cried frank sternly. "why, frank, old boy, you make me feel quite young beside you. what a serious old man you've grown into! but if you will have it out about conscience," he continued warmly, after a glance at each of the doors opening out of the room in which they were, "i'll tell you this: my conscience would not let me, any more than would the consciences of thousands more, settle down to being ruled over by a german prince, invited here by a party of scheming politicians, to the exclusion of the rightful heir to the throne. what do you say to that?" "only this," said frank: "that you and i have nothing to do with such things as who ought to be king or who ought not. we're the prince's servants, and we are bound to do our duty to him and his father. if we go on as you propose, we become conspirators and traitors." "oh, i say, what a sermon; what a lot about nothing! people don't study these things in war and politics. i'm for the simple right or wrong of things. i say it's wrong for king george the first to be on the throne, so i shall not stick at trifles in fighting for the right." "well, if you talk like that in a place where they say that walls have ears, you'll soon save me the trouble and pain of speaking." "there was no one to hear but you, and you're safe," said andrew, laughing. "brothers don't betray brothers, for one thing; and you know what i told you last night. if you were to betray us, your life would not be safe for a day." "pish!" "oh, you take it that way, do you? you think you are safe because you are here in the palace, surrounded by guards. now, i'll tell you something that you don't know. you believe that i am the only one here who is ready to throw up his hat and draw his sword for the king." "yes, and i'm right." "only ignorant, frank, my boy. now listen. we jacobites have people everywhere ready to strike when the time comes. here in this palace we have ladies and gentlemen forced to keep silence for the present, but who will be in ecstasies as soon as they know the good news mr selby gave me last night. why, the king's and prince's households contain some of our staunchest people; and if you like to go lower, there are plenty of us even among the royal guards. now, what do you say to that?" "it can't be true." "very well; i shan't quarrel with your ignorance. but look here, frank; take my advice: don't you do anything foolish, for so sure as you betray any secret you possess there will be hundreds of hands against you--yes, boy as you are, and unimportant as you think yourself. if you breathe a word, it is not merely against me, but against the safety of scores here; and to save themselves one or the other will send his sword through you at the first opportunity, wipe it, put it back in its sheath, and walk away. no one would be the wiser, and poor frank gowan, of whom his mother and father are so proud, would lie dead, while i should have lost the friend for whom i care more than for any one i ever met." "you don't; it isn't true," cried frank. "if it were, you would not have led me into this scrape." "yes, i should. i tell you that you will thank me some day." "for making me a traitor?" "nonsense! who can be a traitor who fights for his rightful king? there, let's leave it now. you have been brought into the right way, and you are ready to fight against it because you don't see the truth yet; but it will all come out, and--very soon." "what?" cried frank, for there was a meaning look to accompany the latter words. "i'm not going to repeat what i said; but you will soon see." "then i must speak out at once. i shrank from it for fear of troubling my mother; but now you force me to." "don't, frank. i shouldn't like to see you hurt." "whether i'm hurt or whether i'm not is nothing to you." "yes, it is. i have told you why. i couldn't bear to see you struck down." "i don't believe that i should be." "i do, and i don't want you to risk it, for one thing. for the other, i don't want to be arrested, and to have my head chopped off, for you couldn't speak without getting me into trouble." frank stared at him with his purpose beginning to waver. "i might get off easily, being what they would call a mere boy. but i don't know; perhaps they would think that, as i was in a particular position in the palace, they ought to make an example of me." he laughed lightly as he threw himself into a seat by the window. "i've no one to care about me except the dad, and a little more trouble wouldn't hurt him very much. perhaps he'd be proud because i died for the king. i say, would you like to know why i am such a steady follower of him across the water?" frank didn't speak, but his eyes said yes. "because i found how my poor father was wrong-treated. he's free, but he's little better than a prisoner. he's looked upon as a traitor, and i'm kept here principally as a sort of hostage to make him keep quiet. that's it, and they'll shorten me for certain if they find anything out. poor old dad, though; i dare say he'll be sorry, for he likes me in his way." the trampling of horses was heard in the distance, and andrew turned sharply. "here they come again. how bright and gay they look this morning! ah! i should have liked to live and be an officer in a regiment like that, ready to fight for my king; but i suppose i am not to be tall enough," he added, with a mocking laugh. "wonder whether they'll stick my head on temple bar. now, frank, here's your chance; come and shout to the nearest officer--`stop and arrest a traitor!' well, why don't you? he will hear you if you holloa well." frank made no reply. "oh," cried andrew, "you are letting your chance go by. well, perhaps it's better, and it will give me time to send a message to warn the dear old dad. no, that wouldn't do, because he would at once settle that it was your doing, and then--well, i should have signed your death-warrant, franky. it would be all over with us both, and pretty soon. you first, though, for our people wouldn't stop for a trial. i say: feel afraid? somehow i don't. perhaps that will come later on. sure to, i suppose; for it must be very horrible to have to die when one is so young, and with so many things to do. going?" "yes," said frank gravely, as he turned away. "good-bye, then. perhaps we shan't see each other again." a peculiar thrill ran through frank, and his heart gave one great throb. but he did not turn round. he went out of the room, to go somewhere to be alone--to try to think quietly out what he ought to do, and to solve the problem which would have been a hard one for a much older head, though at that moment it seemed to the boy as if he had suddenly grown very old, and that the present was separated from his happy boyish days by a tremendous space. chapter eleven. another invitation. several days passed, and at each fresh meeting andrew forbes looked at his fellow-page inquiringly, as if asking whether he had spoken out yet; but the lad's manner was sufficient to show that he had not, though frank was very cool and distant when they were alone. then andrew began to banter his companion. "head's all right yet," he said one morning, laughing; and he gave it a slow twirl round like a ball in a socket. "feels a bit loose sometimes; not at all a pleasant sensation. you're all right still, i see. felt a bit nervous about you, though, once or twice." frank frowned slightly; but andrew went on. "i noticed one of us trying the point of his sword; and twice over after dark i saw men watching this window, and that made me think that you must have spoken, especially as i saw lady--well, never mind names-- examining something she had drawn out of the bosom of her dress. she slipped it back as soon as she saw me, but i feel certain that it was a sort of bodkin or stiletto. `that's meant for poor frank,' i said to myself; for, you know, in history women have often done work of that kind. but, there, you don't seem to have any holes in you; so i suppose you are all right for the present." "how can you joke about so serious a matter?" cried frank. "because i want to put an end to this miserable pique between us," cried andrew warmly. "it's absurd, and i hate it. i thought we were to be always friends. i can't bear it, frank, for i do like you." "it was your doing," said the lad coldly. "no. it was the wretched state our country is in that did it all." "you always get the better of me in arguments," said frank, "so i am not going to fight with you in that way. but i know i am right." "and i know that i am right," cried andrew. "i shall not, as i said before, try to argue with you. we could never agree." "no; it wants some one else to judge between us, and i'll tell you who's the man." "i don't see how we can speak about our troubles." "no need to," said andrew. "he'll know all about it. let's leave it to old father time. he proves all things. but, i say, frank, don't be obstinate. there's a meeting of the friends the day after to-morrow. you'll come with me if we can get away?" "i shall do all i can to stop you from going!" cried frank. "by betraying me?" "no; i can't do that. i promised to be your friend; and though it may be my duty, i couldn't do such a treacherous thing." "as if i didn't know," said andrew, laying his arm on the lad's shoulder. "do you think i would have been so open if i had not been sure of you? there, you will come?" "never again." "never's a long time, frank. come." "once more, no!" "to take care of me, and keep me from being too rash." "i can't betray you and your friends," said frank sadly; "but i can do all that is possible to save you from a great danger." "and so can i you. i'm right." "no; i am right." "you think so now; but i know you will come round. in the meantime, thank you, frank. i knew, i say, that you would be staunch; but i'll tell you this: a word now from you would mean the breaking up of that party in the city, and, unless i could warn them in time, the seizure and perhaps death of many friends, and amongst them of one whom i love. i told him everything about you, and of our friendship, and it was he who bade me to bring you out in the park there, so that he might see you first, and judge for himself whether he should like you to join us." "you mean mr george selby?" "yes, i mean mr george selby," said andrew, with a peculiar smile and emphasis on his words. "it was a very risky thing for him to come here close to the palace with so many spies about; but throwing biscuits to the ducks was throwing dust in the people's eyes as well." "yes. i felt that it was a trick," said frank sadly. "obliged to stoop to tricks now, my lad. well, he was delighted with you, and told me how glad he was for me to have such a friend. he says you must be of us, frank, so that in the good times ahead you may be one of the friends of the rightful king. you'll like mr george selby." "i hate him," said frank warmly, "for leading you astray, and for trying to lead me in the same evil way." "tchut! some one coming." the "some one" proved to be the prince with a train of gentlemen, nearly all of whom were germans, and they passed through the anteroom on their way out. "see that tall, light-haired fellow?" said andrew, as soon as they were alone again. "the german baron?" "yes, the one in uniform." "yes. he's the baron steinberg, a colonel in the hanoverian guards." "that's the man. he came over on saturday. well, i hate him." "why? because he's a german?" "pooh! i shouldn't hate a man because he was a foreigner. i hate him because he's an overbearing bully, who looks down on everything english. he quite insulted me yesterday, and i nearly drew upon him. but i didn't." "what did he do?" "put his hand upon my shoulder, and pushed me aside. `out of the way, booby!' he said in german. a rude boor!" "oh, it was his rough way, perhaps. you mustn't take any notice of that." "mustn't i?" exclaimed andrew. "we shall see. that isn't all. i hate him for another thing." "you're a queer fellow, drew. i think you divide the world into two sets--those you hate and those you love." "and a good division too. but these german fellows want teaching a lesson, and somebody will be teaching it if they don't mend. oh! i hate that fellow, and so ought you to." "why? because he is a german?" "not for that. i'll tell you. i didn't see you yesterday, or i'd have told you then. you were in the big reception-room?" "when my father was on duty with his company of the guards?" "yes, and your mother was in the princess's train." "yes, and i didn't get one chance to speak to her." "well, that fellow did; he spoke to her twice, and i saw him staring at her insolently nearly all the time the princess and her ladies were there." "well?" "that is all," said andrew shortly. "they'll be at her drawing-room this afternoon, and if i were you i should go and stop near lady gowan as much as i could." "i should like to," said frank, looking at his friend wonderingly; "but of course i can't go where i like." a few minutes later one of the servants brought in a note and handed it to frank, who opened it eagerly. "no answer," he said to the man; and then he turned to his companion. "read," he said. "from my father." "`come and dine at the mess this evening, and bring andrew forbes,'" read the lad, and he flushed with pleasure. "of course you will not come," said frank mockingly. "you could not be comfortable with such a loyal party." "with such a host as captain sir robert gowan!" cried andrew. "oh yes, i could. i like him." he smiled rather meaningly, and then the conversation turned upon the treat to come, both lads being enthusiastic about everything connected with the military. this was broken into by the same servant entering with another note. "my turn now, frank," said andrew merrily; "but who's going to write to me?" to his annoyance, as he turned to take the note, the man handed it to frank and left the antechamber. "well, you seem to be somebody," cried andrew, who now looked nettled. "from my mother," said frank, after glancing through the missive. "lucky you; mother and father both here. my poor father nowhere, hiding about like a thief. talk about friends at court!" "it does seem hard for you," said frank. "see what she says." "h'm! `so sorry not to be able to speak to you yesterday. come to my rooms for an hour before the reception this afternoon. i long to see you, my dear boy.'" andrew handed back the letter with a sigh. "lucky you, frank. i say, don't repeat what i said about yesterday." "of course not." "that's right. men talk about things when they are alone which would frighten ladies. she might get thinking that i should get up a quarrel with that steinberg." "i'm sure my mother wouldn't think anything of the sort," said frank, smiling at his friend's conceit. "oh, i don't know," said andrew importantly. "yes i do, though. it was a rather stupid remark. but i wish i were you, frank," he continued, with a genuine unspoiled boyish light coming into his eyes, which looked wistful and longing. "perhaps, if i had a mother and father here in the court, i should be as loyal as you are." "of course you would be. well, they like you. you're coming to dine with my father to-night, and i wish i could take you with me to see my mother early this afternoon." "do you--do you really, frank?" cried the lad eagerly. "of course i do; you know i always say what i mean." "then thank you," cried the lad warmly; "that's almost as good as going." "i'll ask her to invite you next time. hallo! where are you off to?" "only to my room for a bit." "what for? anything the matter?" "matter? pish! well, yes. i'm thinking i'd better be off, for fear, instead of my converting you, you'll be taking advantage of my weakness, offering me a share in sir robert and lady gowan for a bribe, and converting me." "i wish i could," said frank to himself, as his companion hurried out of the room. "why not? suppose i were to take my mother into my confidence, and ask her to try and win him away from what is sure to end in a great trouble!" chapter twelve. the trouble grows. frank was thinking in this strain when he went to his mother's rooms in the palace soon after, and her maid showed him at once to where she was sitting reading, having dressed for the princess's reception in good time, so as to be free to receive her son. "oh!" ejaculated the maid, as she was just about to leave the room; and there was a look of dismay in her countenance. "what is it?" cried lady gowan, turning sharply with her son clasped in her arms. "your dress, my lady--the lace. it will be crushed flat." "oh," said lady gowan, with a merry laugh, "never mind that. come in an hour and set all straight again." "yes, my lady," said the maid; and mother and son were left alone. "as if we cared for satins and laces, frank darling, at a time like this. my own dear boy," she whispered, as she kissed him again and again, holding his face between her white hands and gazing at him proudly. "there, i'm crushing your curls." "go on," said frank; "crush away. you can brush them for me before i go--like you used to when i was home for the holidays." "in the dear old times, frank darling," cried lady gowan, "when we did not have to look at each other from a distance. but never mind; we shall soon go down into the country for a month or two, away from this weary, formal court, and then we'll have a happy time." frank gazed proudly at his mother again and again during that little happy interview, which seemed all sunshine as he looked back upon it from among the clouds of the troubles which so soon came; and he thought how young and girlish and beautiful she appeared. "the most beautiful lady at the court," he told himself, "as well as the sweetest and the best." time after time the words he wished to speak rose to his lips, for the longing to make her his confidante over the jacobite difficulty was intense. but somehow at the critical moments he either shrank from fear of causing her trouble and anxiety, or else felt that he ought not to run the risk of bringing andrew into trouble after what had passed. he knew that lady gowan would not injure the mistaken lad; but still there was the risk of danger following. besides, he had to some extent confided in his father, and would probably say more; so that if it was right that lady gowan should know, his father would speak. she gave him very little chance for making confidences till just at the end of the hour she had set apart for him, when the maid appeared to repair the disorder which she alone could see, but was dismissed at once. "another ten minutes by the clock, and then mr frank will be going." the maid withdrew. "oh, how time flies, my darling!" said the lady. "and i had so many more things to say to you, so much advice to give to my dearest boy. but i am proud to have you here, frank. your father's so much away from me, that it is nice to feel that i have my big, brave son to protect me." frank coloured, and thought of his companion's words. "it reconciles me more to being here, my boy," she continued; "for you see it means your advancement as well. but these are very anxious, troublous times for both your father and me. and you are going to dine with him at the mess this evening. well, you are very young, and i want to keep you still a boy; but, heigh-ho! you are growing fast, and will soon be a man. so be careful and grow into the brave, honourable, loyal gentleman i wish you to be." "i will try so hard," he said eagerly; and once more he longed to speak out, but she gave him no time, though at the last moment he would hardly have spoken. as it was, he stood feeling as if he were very guilty while she held his hand. "of course, my dear," she said, "you are too young to have taken any interest in the political troubles of the time; but i want you to understand that it's the happiest thing for england to be as it is, and i want you as you grow older to be very careful not to be led away by discontented men who may want to plunge the country into war by bringing forward another whom they wish to make king." "mother!" began frank excitedly. "don't interrupt me, dear. in a few minutes you must go. whatever feelings your father and i may at one time have had, we are now fixed in our determination to support those who are now our rulers. the prince has been very kind to us, and the princess has become my dearest friend. i believe she loves me, frank, and i want her to find that my boy will prove one of her truest and best followers. i want you to grow up to be either a great soldier or statesman." "i shall be a soldier like my father," said frank proudly. "we shall see, frank," said lady gowan, smiling. "you are too young yet to decide. wait a little--bide a wee, as they say in the north country. now you must go; but you will promise me to be careful and avoid all who might try to lead you away. think that your course is marked out for you--the way to become a true, loyal gentleman." "i promise, mother," said the lad firmly. "of course you do, my boy," said lady gowan proudly. "there, kiss me and go. i have to play butterfly in the court sunshine for a while; but how glad shall i be to get away from it all to our dear old country home." "and so shall i, mother," cried frank, with his eyes sparkling. "for a holiday, frank. life is not to be all play, my boy; and recollect that play comes the sweeter after good work done. there, i had you here for a pleasant chat, and i have done nothing but give you lessons on being loyal to your king; but we are separated so much, i have so few opportunities for talking to you, that i am obliged to give you a little serious advice." "go on talking to me like that, mother," said the boy, clinging to her. "i like to hear you." "and you always will, won't you, frank?" "of course," he said proudly. "one word frank, dear, and then you must go. do you know why i have spoken like this? no, i will not make a question of it, but tell you at once. andrew forbes"--frank started and changed colour--"is your very close companion, and with all his vanity and little weaknesses, he is still a gallant lad and a gentleman. poor boy! he is very strangely placed here at the court, an attendant on the prince and princess, while his father is known to be a staunch adherent of the pretender--a jacobite. he was your father's closest friend, and i knew his poor wife--andrew's mother--well. it was very sad her dying so young, and leaving her motherless boy to the tender mercies of a hard world just when dissensions led his father to take the other side. the princess knows everything about him, and it was at my request that he was placed here, where i could try and watch over him. now, naturally enough, andrew has leanings toward his father's side; but he must be taught to grow more and more staunch to the king, and i want you, who are his closest companion, to carefully avoid letting him influence you, while you try hard to wean him from every folly, so that, though he is older in some things, he may learn the right way from my calm, grave, steady boy." "but, mother--" "yes," she said, smiling; "i can guess what you are about to say. go, dearest. no: not another word.--yes, i am ready now." this to her maid, who was standing in the doorway, looking very severe; and frank was hurried out to return to his own quarters. chapter thirteen. a very bad dinner. "and i could have told her so easily then," thought frank, as he went away feeling proud and pleased, and yet more troubled than ever. "wean andrew from his ideas? i wonder whether i could. of course i shall try hard; and if i succeeded, what a thing to have done! i'm not going to think which side is right or wrong. we're the king's servants, and have nothing to do with such matters. drew has been trying to get me over to their side. now i'm going to make him come to ours, in spite of all the mr george selbys in london." that afternoon the princess's reception-rooms were crowded by a brilliant assemblage of court ladies and gentlemen, many of whom were in uniform; and there was plenty to take the attention of a lad fresh from the country, without troubling himself about political matters. he saw his father, but not to speak to. the latter gave him a quick look and a nod, though, which the boy interpreted to mean, "don't forget this evening." "just as if i am likely to," thought frank, as he gazed proudly after the handsome, manly-looking officer. he had a glimpse or two of his mother, who was in close attendance upon the princess, and with a natural feeling of pride the lad thought to himself that his father and mother were the most royal-looking couple there. at last he found himself close to andrew forbes, who eagerly joined him, their duties having till now kept them separate. "isn't it horrible?" said andrew, with a look of disgust in his flushed face. "horrible! i thought it the grandest sight i have ever seen. what do you mean by horrible?" "this guttural chattering of the people. why, you can hardly hear an english word spoken. it's all double dutch, till i feel as if my teeth were set on edge." "nonsense! good chance to learn german." "i'd rather learn hottentot. look too what a lot of fat, muffin-faced women there are, and stupid, smoky, sour-kraut-eating men. to my mind there are only two people worth looking at, and they are your father and mother." frank, who had felt irritated at his companion's persistent carping, began to glow, for he felt that his companion's words were genuine. "yes, they do look well, don't they?" "splendid. i do like your mother, frank." "well, she likes you." "h'm. i don't know," said the lad dubiously. "but i do," said frank quickly. "she told me so only this afternoon." "what! here, tell me what she said." "that she knew your mother so well, and that it was sad about her dying so young, and that she felt, as i took it, something the same toward you as she did toward me." "did--did she talk like that, frank?" said andrew, with his lower lip quivering a little. "yes; and told me she hoped i should always be a good friend to you, and keep you out of mischief." "stuff!" cried andrew. "i'm sure she did not say that." "she did," said frank warmly. "not in those words, perhaps; but that was what she meant." andrew laughed derisively. "why, i'm a couple of years nearly older than you." "so she said; but she spoke as if she thought that i could influence you." "bless her!" said andrew warmly. "i feel as proud of her as you do, frank, only i'm sorry for her to be here amongst all these miserable german people. look, there's that stuck-up, conceited baron brokenstone, or whatever his name is. a common german adventurer, that's what he is; and yet he's received here at court." "well, he's one of the king's hanoverian generals." "i should like to meet him under one of our generals," said andrew. "i consider it an insult for a fellow like that to be speaking to your mother--our mother, frank, if she talks about me like that. i hate him, and feel as if i should like to go and hit him across the face with my glove." "what for? oh, i say, drew, what a hot-headed fellow you are." "it isn't my head, franky; it's my heart. it seems to burn when i see these insolent dutch officers lording it here, and smiling in their half-contemptuous, half-insulting way at our english ladies. ugh! i wonder your father doesn't stop it. look at him yonder, standing as if he were made of stone. i shall tell him what i think to-night." "you would never be so foolish and insulting," said frank warmly. "he would be angry." "no, i suppose i must not," said andrew gloomily. "he would say it was the impertinence of a boy." they had to separate directly after, and a few minutes later frank saw his father crossing the room toward the door. frank was nearest, and by a quick movement reached it first, and stepped outside so as to get a word or two from him as he came out. but sir robert was stopped on his way, and some minutes elapsed before frank saw the manly, upright figure emerge from the gaily dressed crowd which filled the anteroom, and stride toward him, but evidently without noticing his presence. "father," he whispered. sir robert turned upon him a fierce, angry face, his eyes flashing, and lips moving as if he were talking to himself. but the stern looks softened to a smile as he recognised his son, and he spoke hurriedly: "don't stop me, my boy; i'm not fit to talk to you now. oh, absurd!" "is anything the matter, father?" said frank anxiously, as he laid his hand on his father's arm. "matter? oh, nothing, boy. just a trifle put out. the rooms are very hot. there, i must go. don't forget to-night, you and young forbes." he nodded and strode on, leaving his son wondering; for he had never seen such a look before upon his father's face. he thought no more of it then, for his attention was taken up by the coming of the princess with her ladies, the reception being at an end; while soon after andrew forbes joined him, and began questioning him again about lady gowan, and what she had said about his dead mother, ending by turning frank's attention from the emotion he could hardly hide by saying banteringly: "you'll have to be very strict with me, frank, or you'll have a great deal of trouble to make me a good boy." "i shall manage it," said frank, with a laugh; and not very long after they were on their way to the guards' messroom, both trying to appear cool and unconcerned, but each feeling nervous at the idea of dining with the officers. sir robert was there, looking rather flushed and excited, as he stood talking to a brother-officer in the large room set apart for the guards; but his face lit up with a pleasant smile as the boys entered, and he greeted them warmly, and introduced them to the officer with him. "makes one feel old, murray," he said, "to have a couple of great fellows like these for sons." "sons? i thought that--" began the officer. "oh, about this fellow," said sir robert merrily. "oh yes, he's forbes's boy; but lady gowan and i seem to have adopted him like. sort of step-parents to him--eh, andrew?" "i wish i could quite feel that, sir robert," said andrew warmly. "well, quite feel it then, my lad," said sir robert, clapping him on the shoulder. "it rests with you.--think frank here will ever be man enough for a soldier, murray?" "man enough? of course," said the officer addressed. "we must get them both commissions as soon as they're old enough. forbes might begin now." "h'm! ha!" said sir robert, giving the lad a dry look. "andrew forbes will have to wait a bit." then, seeing the blood come into the lad's face at the remark which meant so much: "he's going to wait for frank here.--well, isn't it nearly dinner-time?--hungry, boys?" "er--no, sir," said andrew. "frank is," said sir robert, smiling at his son. "can't help it, father," said the boy frankly. "i always am." "and a capital sign too, my lad," said the officer addressed as murray. "there's nothing like a fine healthy appetite in a boy. it means making bone and muscle, and growing. oh yes, he'll be as big as you are, gowan. make a finer man, i'll be bound." "don't look like it," said sir robert merrily; "why, the boy's blushing like a great girl." the conversation was ended by the entrance of several other officers, who all welcomed the two lads warmly, and seemed pleased to do all they could to set at their ease the son and _protege_ of the most popular officer in the regiment. captain murray, his father's friend, was chatting with frank, when he suddenly said: "here are the rest of the guests." six german officers entered the room, and frank started and turned to glance at his father, and then at andrew, whom he found looking in his direction; but sir robert had advanced with the elderly colonel of the regiment, and captain murray rose as well. "i shall have to play interpreter," he said, smiling. "come along, and the colonel will introduce you two, or i will. they don't speak any english; and if you two do not, your father and i are the only men present who know german." the introductions followed, and feeling very uncomfortable all the while, frank and his companion were in due course made known to baron steinberg, count von baumhof, and to the four other guests, whose names he did not catch; and then, by the help of captain murray and sir robert, a difficult conversation was carried on, the german officers assuming a haughty, condescending manner towards the guardsmen, who were most warm in their welcome. at the end of a few minutes captain murray returned to where the two lads were standing, leaving sir robert trying his best to comprehend the visitors, and translating their words to the colonel and his brother-officers. "rather an unthankful task," said the captain, smiling. "these germans treat us as if they had conquered the country, and we were their servants. never mind; i suppose it is their nature to." "yes," said andrew warmly; "they make my blood boil. i know i am only a boy; but that was no reason why they should insult frank gowan here and me with their sneering, contemptuous looks." "never mind, my lad. i noticed it. show them, both of you, that you are english gentlemen, and know how to treat strangers and guests." "yes, yes, of course," said frank hastily. "they will be more civil after dinner. ah, and there it is." for the door was thrown open, one of the servants announced the dinner, and the colonel led off with baron steinberg, after saying a few words to sir robert, who came directly to his brother-officer. "the colonel wishes the places to be changed, murray," he said, "so that you and i can be closer to the head of the table on either side, to do the talking with the visitors. i wish you would take my boy here on your left. forbes, my lad, you come and sit with me." andrew had begun to look a little glum at being set on one side on account of the german officers; but at sir robert's last words he brightened up a little, and they followed into the messroom, which was decorated with the regimental colours; the hall looked gay with its fine display of plate, glass, flowers, and fruit, and the band was playing in a room just beyond. the scene drove away all the little unpleasantry, and the dinner proceeded, with the colonel and his officers doing their best to entertain their guests, but only seeming to succeed with the two pages of honour, to whom everything was, in its novelty, thoroughly delightful. the german officers, though noblemen and gentlemen, gave their hosts a very poor example of good breeding, being all through exceedingly haughty and overbearing, and treating the attempts of sir robert and captain murray to act as their interpreters to the colonel and the other officers with a contempt that was most galling; and more than once frank saw his father, who was opposite, bite his lip and look across at captain murray, who, after one of these glances, whispered to frank: "your dad's getting nettled, my lad, and i find it very consoling." "why?" said frank, who felt annoyed with himself for enjoying the evening so much. "why? because i was fancying that i must have a very hasty temper for minding what has been taking place. do you know any german at all?" "very little," said frank quickly. "what a pity! you could have said something to this stolid gentleman on my right. he seems to think i am a waiter." "i thought he was very rude several times." "well, yes, i suppose we must call it rude. the poor old colonel yonder is in misery; he does hardly anything but wipe his forehead. does not young forbes speak german?" "no, he hates it," said frank hastily. "enough to make him," muttered the captain. "but never mind; you must both come and dine with us another time, when we are all englishmen present. this is a dreary business; but we must make the best of it." he turned to say something courteous to the heavy, silent officer on his right, but it was coldly received, and after a few words the german turned to converse with one of his fellow-countrymen, others joined in, and the colonel looked more troubled and chagrined than ever. the dinner went slowly on; and at last, with the conversation principally carried on by the german guests, who were on more than one occasion almost insolent to their entertainers, the dessert was commenced, several of the officers drawing their chairs closer, and a young ensign, who looked very little older than frank, whispered to him: "i heard your father say that you were coming into the army." "yes, i hope to," replied the lad. "then you set to at once to study german. we shall be having everything german soon." "then i shall not join," said andrew across the table; and the officer on his right laughed. sir robert and captain murray were too much occupied now to pay any attention to their young guests, who found the officers below them eager to make up for this, and they began chatting freely, so that this was the pleasantest part of the evening. but at the upper part of the table matters were getting more strained. the colonel and his friends, whom he had placed with the foreign guests, after trying hard all through to make themselves agreeable and to entertain the visitors, had received so many rebuffs that they became cold and silent, while the germans grew more and more loud in their remarks across the table to each other. many of these remarks were broad allusions to the country in which they were and its people, and the annoyance he felt was plainly marked on sir robert's brow in deeply cut parallel lines. ignoring their hosts, the visitors now began to cut jokes about what they had seen, and from a word here and there which, thanks to his mother, frank was able to grasp, they were growing less and less particular about what they said. baron steinberg had had a great deal to say in a haughtily contemptuous manner, and frank noticed that whenever he spoke his friends listened to him with a certain amount of deference, as if he were the most important man present. he noted, too, that when the baron was speaking his father looked more and more stern, but whenever it fell to his lot to interpret something said by the colonel he was most studiously courteous to the guest. frank had grown interested in an anecdote being related for his and andrew's benefit by one of the young officers below, and as it was being told very humorously his back was half turned to the upper part of the table, and he was leaning forward so as not to miss a word. at the same time, though, he was half-conscious that the baron on the colonel's right was talking loudly, and saying something which greatly amused his compatriots, when all at once sir robert gowan sprang to his feet, and captain murray cried across the table to him: "gowan! for heaven's sake take no notice." frank's heart began to throb violently, as he saw his father dart a fierce look at his brother-officer, and then take a couple of strides up the side of the table to where the baron sat on the colonel's right. "gowan, what is the matter?" cried the colonel. "what has he said?" "i'll interpret afterwards, sir," said sir robert, in a deep, hoarse voice, "when we are alone;" then fiercely to the baron in german: "take back those words, sir. it is an insult--a lie!" the baron sprang to his feet, his example being followed by his brother-officers, and, leaning forward, he seemed about to strike, but with a brutally contemptuous laugh he bent down, caught up his glass, and threw it and its contents in sir robert's face. every one had risen now, and captain murray made a rush to reach the other side; but before he was half-way there, frank had seen his father dart forward, there was the sound of a heavy blow, and the german baron fell back with his chair, the crash resounding through the room, but only to be drowned by the fierce roar of voices, as the german officers clapped their hands to their swordless sides, and then made a rush to seize sir robert. the colonel could not speak a word of german, but his looks and gestures sufficed as he sprang before them. "keep back, gentlemen!" he said; "i am in ignorance of the cause of all this." "a most gross insult, sir!" cried captain murray angrily. "silence, sir!" cried the colonel. "these gentlemen were _my_ guests, and whatever was said captain sir robert gowan has committed an unpardonable breach of social duty. to your quarters, sir, without a word." "right, colonel," replied sir robert quietly, as he stood pale and stern, returning the vindictive looks of the german guests, who would have attacked him but for the action taken by his brother-officers. what took place afterward was confused to frank by the giddy excitement in his brain; but he was conscious of seeing the baron assisted to a chair, and then talking in savage anger to his compatriots, while at the other end of the room there was another knot where the younger officers and captain murray were with sir robert. "it was a mad thing to do, gowan," cried the former. "flesh and blood could not bear it, lad," replied frank's father. "mad? what would you have done if in the presence of your son those words had been uttered?" "as you did, old lad," cried captain murray, with his face flushing, "and then stamped my heel upon his face." there was a low murmur of satisfaction from the young officers around. "hah!" said sir robert, "i thought so." then with a quiet smile he caught andrew's and frank's hands: "so sorry, my dear boys, to have spoiled your evening. go now.--murray, old lad, see them off, and then come to my quarters." "oh, sir robert," whispered andrew, clinging to his hand, and speaking in a low, passionate voice, "i am glad. that did me good." "what! you understood his words?" "i? no." "that's right! go now, frank boy. one moment, my lad. you are suddenly called upon to act like a man." "yes, father! what do you want me to do?" "keep silence, my lad. not a word about this must reach your mother's ears." "come, frank, my lad," said captain murray gently. "you are better away from here." the words seemed to come from a distance, but the lad started and followed the captain outside, where the young officers gathered about him, eager to shake hands and tell him that they were all so glad; but he hardly heard them, and it was in a strangely confused way that he parted from captain murray, who said that he could go no farther, as he wanted to hurry back to sir robert. then the two lads were alone. "what does it all mean, drew?" cried frank passionately. "oh, i must go back. it's cowardly to come away from my father now." "you can't go to him. he'll be under arrest." "arrest!" cried frank. "yes, for certain. but don't look like that, lad. it's glorious--it's grand." "but arrest? he said it was an insult. they can't punish him for that." "punishment? pooh! what does that matter? every gentleman in the army will shout for him, and the men throw up their caps. oh, it's grand-- it's grand! and they'll meet, of course; and sir robert must--he shall--he will too. he'll run the miserable german through." "what? fight! my father fight--with him?" "yes, as sure as we should have done after such a row at school." "but--with swords?" "officers don't fight with fists." "oh!" cried frank wildly; "then that's what he meant when he said that my mother must not know." chapter fourteen. frank's dreadful dawn. frank gowan lay awake for hours that night with his brain in a wild state of excitement. the scene at the dinner, the angry face of his father as he stood defying the baron's friends after striking the german down, the colonel's stern interference, and his orders for sir robert to go to his quarters--all troubled him in turn; then there was the idea of his father being under arrest, and the possibility of his receiving some punishment, all repeating themselves in a way which drove back every prospect of sleep, weary as the lad was; while worst of all, there was andrew forbes's remark about an encounter to come, and the possible results. it was too horrible. suppose sir robert should be killed by the fierce-looking baron! frank turned cold, and the perspiration came in drops upon his temples as he thought of his mother. he sat up in bed, feeling that he ought to go to his father and beg of him to escape anywhere so as to avoid such a terrible fate. but the next minute his thoughts came in a less confusing way, and he knew that he could not at that late hour get to his father's side, and that even if he could his ideas were childish. his father would smile at him, and tell him that they were impossible--that no man of honour could fly so as to avoid facing his difficulties, for it would be a contemptible, cowardly act, impossible for him to commit. "i know--i know," groaned the boy, as he flung himself down once more. "i couldn't have run away to escape from a fight at school. it would have been impossible. why didn't i learn german instead of idling about as i have! if i had i should have known what the baron said. what could it have been?" the hours crept sluggishly by, and sleep still avoided him. not that he wished to sleep, for he wanted to think; and he thought too much, lying gazing at his window till there was a very faint suggestion of the coming day; when, leaving his bed, he drew the curtain a little on one side, to see that the stars were growing paler, and low down in the east a soft, pearly greyness in the sky just over the black-looking trees of the park. it was cold at that early hour, and he shivered and crept back to bed, thinking that his mother in the apartments of the ladies of honour was no doubt sleeping peacefully, in utter ignorance of the terrible time of trouble to come; and then once more he lay down to think, as others have in their time, how weak and helpless he was in his desires to avert the impending calamity. "no wonder i can't sleep," he muttered; and the next moment he slept. for nature is inexorable when the human frame needs rest, or men would not sleep peacefully in the full knowledge that it must be their last repose on earth. five minutes after, his door was softly opened, a figure glided through the gloom to his bedside, and bent over him, like a dimly seen shadow, to catch him by the shoulder. "frank! frank! here, quick! wake up!" the lad sprang back into wakefulness as suddenly as if a trigger had been touched, and all the drowsiness with which he was now charged had been let off. "yes; what's the matter? who's there?" "hush! don't make a noise. jump up, and dress." "drew?" "yes. be quick!" "but what's the matter?" "i couldn't sleep, so i got up and dressed, and opened my window to stand looking out at the stars, till just now i heard a door across the courtyard open, and three men in cloaks came out." "officers' patrol--going to visit the sentries." "no; your father, captain murray, and some one else. i think it was the doctor; he is short and stout." "then father's going to escape," said frank, in an excited whisper. "escape! bah!" replied andrew, in a tone full of disgust. "how could he as a gentleman? can't you see what it means? they're going to a meeting." "a meeting?" faltered frank. "oh, how dull you are! yes, a meeting; they're going to fight!" frank, who had leisurely obeyed his companion's command to get up and dress, now began to hurry his clothes on rapidly, while andrew went on: "i don't know how they've managed it, because your father was under arrest; but i suppose the officers felt that there must be a meeting, and they have quietly arranged it with the germans. of course it's all on the sly. make haste." "yes. i shan't be a minute. you have warned the guard of course?" "done what?" said andrew. "given the alarm," panted frank. "i say, are you mad, or are you still asleep? what do you mean?" "mad! asleep! do you think i don't know what i'm saying?" "i'm sure you don't." "do you think i want my father to be killed?" "do you think your father wants to be branded as a coward? don't be such a foolish schoolboy. you are among men now. i wish i hadn't come and woke you. they'll be getting it over too before i'm there." he made a movement toward the door, but frank seized him by the arm. "no, no; don't go without me," he whispered imploringly. "why not? you'd better go to bed again. you're just like a great girl." "i must go with you, drew. i'm afraid i didn't hardly know what i was saying; but it seems so cold-blooded to know that one's own father is going to a fight that may mean death, and not interfere to stop it." "interfere to stop it--may mean death! i hope it does to some one," whispered andrew fiercely. "there, let go; i can't stop any longer." "you're not going without me. there, i'm ready now." "but i can't take you to try and interfere. i thought you'd like me to tell you." "yes, i do. i must come, and--and i won't say or do anything that isn't right." "i can't trust you," said andrew hastily. "it was a mistake to come and tell you. there, let go." "you are not going without me!" cried frank, fiercely now; and he grasped his companion's arm so firmly that the lad winced. "come on, then," he said; and, with his breath coming thick and short, frank followed his companion downstairs and out of the door of the old house in the palace precincts, into the long, low colonnade. they closed the door softly, and ran together across the courtyard in the dim light, but were challenged directly after by a sentry. "hush! don't stop us," whispered andrew. "you know who we are--two of the royal pages." "can't pass," said the man sternly. "but we must," said frank, in an agonised whisper. "here, take this." "can't pass," said the man; "'gainst orders. you must come to the guardroom." but he took the coin frank handed to him, and slipped it into his pocket. "we want to go to the meeting--the fight," whispered andrew now. "we won't own that you let us go by." "swear it," said the man. "yes, of course. honour of gentlemen." "well, i dunno," said the man. "yes, you do. which way did they go when they passed the gate?" "couldn't see," said the man; "too dark. i thought it was one of them games. my mate yonder'll know, only he won't let you go by without the password." "oh yes, he will," said andrew excitedly. "come on." "mind, i never see you go by," said the man. "of course you didn't," said andrew; "and i can't see you; it's too dark yet." they set off running, and the next minute were at the gate opening on to the park, where another sentry challenged them. "i'm mr frank gowan, captain sir robert gowan's son, and this is mr andrew forbes, prince's page." "yes, i know you, young gentlemen; but where's the password?" "oh, i don't know," said andrew impatiently. "don't stop us, or they'll get it over before we're there. look here; come to our rooms any time to-day, and ask for us. we'll give you a guinea to let us go." "i dursn't," said the man, in a whisper. "which way did they go?" said frank, trembling now with anxiety. "strite acrost under the trees there. they've gone to the bit of a wood down by the water." "yes; that's a retired spot," panted andrew. "here, let's go on." "can't, sir, and i darn't. it's a jewel, aren't it?" "yes, a duel." "well, i'm not going to be flogged or shot for the sake of a guinea, young gentlemen, and i won't. but if you two makes a roosh by while i go into my sentry-box, it aren't no fault o' mine." he turned from them, marched to his little upright box, and entered it, while before he could turn the two lads were dashing through the gate, and directly after were beneath the trees. it was rapidly growing lighter now; but the boys saw nothing of the lovely pearly dawn and the soft wreaths of mist which floated over the water. the birds were beginning to chirp and whistle, and as they ran on blackbird after blackbird started from the low shrubs, uttering the chinking alarm note, and flew onward like a velvet streak on the soft morning glow. in a minute or so they had reached the water-side, and stopped to listen; but they could hear nothing but the gabbling and quacking of the water-fowl. "too late--too late!" groaned frank. "which way shall we go?" "left," said andrew shortly. "sure to go farther away." they started again, running now on the grass, and as they went on step for step: "mayn't have begun yet," panted andrew. "sure to take time preparing first.--there, hark!" for from beneath a clump of trees, a couple of hundred yards in front, there was an indistinct sound which might have meant anything. this the boys attributed to the grinding together of swords, and hurried on. before they had gone twenty yards, though, it stopped; and as all remained silent after they had gone on a short distance farther, the pair stopped, too, and listened. "going wrong," said frank despairingly. "no. right," whispered andrew, grasping his companion's arm; for a low voice in amongst the trees gave what sounded like an order, and directly after there was a sharp click as of steel striking against steel, followed by a grating, grinding sound, as of blade passing over blade. frank made a rush forward over the wet grass, disengaging his arm as he did so; but andrew bounded after him, and flung his arms about his shoulders. "stop!" he whispered. "you're not going on if you are going to interfere." "let go!" said frank, in a choking voice. "i'm not going to interfere. i am going to try and act like a man." "honour?" "honour!" and once more they ran on, to reach the trees and thread their way through to where a couple of groups of gentlemen stood in a grassy opening, looking on while two others, stripped to shirt and breeches, were at thrust and parry, as if the world must be rid of one of them before they had done. as frank saw that one was his father--slight, well-knit, and agile--and the other--heavy, massively built, and powerful--the baron steinberg, the desire was strong to rush between them; but the power was wanting, and he stood as if fixed to the spot, staring with starting eyes at the rapid exchanges made, for each was a good swordsman, well skilled in attack and defence, while the blades, as they grated edge to edge and played here and there, flashed in the morning light; and as if in utter mockery of the scene, a bird uttered its sweet song to the coming day. there were moments when, as the german's blade flashed dangerously near sir robert's breast, frank longed to close his eyes, but they were fixed, and with shuddering emotion he followed every movement, feeling a pang as a deadly thrust was delivered, drawing breath again as he saw it parried. for quite a minute the baron kept up a fierce attack in this, the second encounter since they had begun, but every thrust was turned aside, and at last, as if by one consent, the combatants drew back a step or two with their breasts heaving, and, without taking their eyes off each other, stood carefully re-rolling up their shirt sleeves over their white muscular arms. and now a low whispering went on among the officers, german and english, who were present, and andrew said softly in frank's ear: "don't move--don't make a sign. it might unsettle sir robert if he knew you were here." frank felt that this was true, and with his heart beating as if it would break from his chest he stood watching his father, noting that his breathing was growing more easy, and that he was, though his face was wet with perspiration, less exhausted than his adversary, whose face appeared drawn with hate and rage as he glared at the english captain. suddenly captain murray broke the silence by saying aloud to the german officers: "we are of opinion, gentlemen, that only one more encounter, the third, should take place. this should decide." "tell them not to interfere," said steinberg fiercely, but without taking his eyes off his adversary. then in french, with a very peculiar accent, he cried, "_en garde_!" and stepped forward to cross swords with sir robert once more. the latter advanced at the same moment, and the blades clicked and grated slightly, as their holders stood motionless, ready to attack or defend as the case might be. for nearly half a minute they stood motionless, eye fixed on eye, each ready to bring to bear his utmost skill, for, from the first the german had fought with a vindictive rage which plainly showed that he was determined to disable, if he did not slay, his adversary; while, enraged as he had been, there was, after some hours of sleep, no such desire on the part of sir robert. he desired to wound his enemy, but that was all; and as he at the first engagement realised the german's intentions, he fought cautiously, confining himself principally to defence, save when he was driven, for his own safety, to retaliate. the seconds and those who had come as friends, at the expense of a breach of discipline and the consequences which might follow, had grasped this from the first; and though he had great faith in his friend's skill, captain murray had been longing for an opportunity to interfere and end the encounter. none had presented itself, and the german officers had so coldly refused to listen to any attempt at mediation that there was nothing for it but to let matters take their course. and now, as the adversaries stood motionless with their blades crossed, sir robert's friends felt to a man, as skilled fencers, that the time had arrived for him to take the initiative, press his adversary home, and end the duel by wounding him. but sir robert still stood on his guard, the feeling in his breast being--in spite of the terrible provocation he had received--that he had done wrong in striking his colonel's guest, and he kept cool and clear-headed, resolved not to attack. then, all at once, by an almost imperceptible movement of the wrist, the baron made his sword blade play about his enemy's, laying himself open to attack, to tempt his adversary to begin. twice over he placed himself at so great a disadvantage that it would have been easy for sir robert to have delivered dangerous thrusts; but the opportunities were declined, for the english captain's mind was made up, and frank heard an impatient word from murray's lips, while andrew uttered a loud sigh. then, quick as lightning, the baron resumed his old tactics, sending in thrust after thrust with all the skill he could command. his blade quivered and bent, and seemed to lick that of sir robert like a lambent tongue of fire; and frank felt ready to choke, as he, with andrew, unable to control their excitement, crept nearer and nearer to the actors in the terrible life drama, till they were close behind captain murray and the other english officers, hearing their hard breathing and the short, sharp gasps they uttered as some fierce thrust was made which seemed to have gone home. but no: giving way very slightly, in spite of the fashion in which he was pressed by the german, sir robert turned every thrust aside; and had he taken advantage of his opportunities, he could have again and again laid the baron at his feet, but not in the way he wished, for his desire now was to inflict such a wound as would merely place his enemy _hors de combat_. a murmur now arose amongst the englishmen, for the affair was becoming murderous on one side. but the german officers looked on stolidly, each with his left hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, as if ready to resent any interference with the principals in a deadly way. there was no hope of combination there to end the encounter, and once more captain murray and his friends waited for sir robert to terminate the fight, as they now felt that he could at any time. for, enraged by the way in which he was being baffled by the superior skill of his adversary, the baron's attack was growing wild as well as fierce; and, savagely determined to end all by a furious onslaught, he made a series of quick feints, letting his point play about sir robert's breast, and then, quick as lightning, lunged with such terrible force that frank uttered a faint cry. his father heard it, and though he parried that thrust, it was so nervously that he was partly off his guard with that which followed, the result being that a red line suddenly sprang into sight from just above his wrist, nearly to his elbow, and from which the blood began to flow. a cry of "halt!" came from captain murray and his friends, and this was answered by a guttural roar from the baron, while, as the former, as second, stepped forward to beat down the adversaries' swords, the german officers at once drew their weapons, not to support the baron's second, but as a menace. it was all almost momentary, and while it went on the baron, inspired by the sight of the blood, pressed forward, thrusting rapidly, feeling that the day was his own. but that strong british arm, though wounded, grasped the hilt of sir robert's blade as rigidly as if it were of the same metal; and as the baron lunged for what he intended for his final thrust, he thoroughly achieved his object, but not exactly as he meant. his sword point was within an inch of sir robert's side, when a quick beat in octave sent it spinning from his hand, while at the same instant, and before the flying sword had reached the ground, sir robert's blade had passed completely through his adversary's body. the german officers rushed forward, not to assist their fallen leader, but, sword in hand, evidently to avenge his fall, so taking the englishmen by surprise that, save sir robert's second, neither had time to draw. it would have gone hard with them, but, to the surprise of all, there was a short, sharp order, and an officer and a dozen of the guards dashed out of the clump of trees which sheltered the duellists, to arrest the whole party for brawling within the palace precincts. chapter fifteen. the conqueror. the german party blustered, but the officer in command of the guards had no hesitation in forcing them to submit. they threatened, but the fixed bayonets presented at their breasts, and the disposition shown by the sturdy englishmen who bore them to use them on the instant that an order was given, ended in a surrender. as the baron fell, the feeling of horror which attacked frank passed away, and, handkerchief in hand, he sprang to his father's side, binding it tightly round the wound, and following it up by the application of a scarf from his neck. "ah, frank lad," said sir robert, as if it were quite a matter of course that his son should help him; and he held up his arm, so that the wound could be bound while he spoke to captain murray. "it was an accident," he said excitedly. "i swear that i was only on my defence." "we saw," said the captain quietly. "he regularly forced himself on your blade." "how is he, doctor?" said sir robert excitedly. "bad," replied the surgeon, who was kneeling beside the fallen man, while his disarmed companions looked fiercely on. "don't worry yourself about it, gowan," said one of sir robert's brother-officers; "the brute fought like a savage, and tried his best to kill you." "i'd have given ten years of my life sooner than it should have happened.--that will do, boy." "bad job, gowan," said the officer who had arrested them. "the colonel was very wild as soon as he knew that you had broken arrest and come to this meeting, and it will go hard with you, murray, and you others." "oh, we were spectators like the boys here," said one of the officers. "yes, it's a bad job," said captain murray; "but a man must stand by his friend. never mind, gowan, old fellow; if they cashier us, we must offer our swords elsewhere. i say," he continued, turning to the captain of the guard, "you are not going to arrest these boys?" "the two pages? no; absurd. they found out that there was an affair on, and came to see. got over the wall, i suppose. i should have done the same. i can't see them. now, doctor, as soon as you say the word, my men shall carry our german friend on their muskets. how is he?" "as i said before--bad," replied the surgeon sternly. "better send two men for a litter. he must be taken carefully." "then i'll leave two men with you while i take my prisoners to the guard-house. fall in, gentlemen, please. you boys get back to your quarters. now, messieurs--meinherrs, i mean--you are my prisoners. vorwarts! march!" "aren't you faint, father?" whispered frank, who took sir robert's uninjured arm. "only sick, boy--heartsick more than anything. frank, your mother must know, and if she waits she will get a garbled account. go to her as soon as you get to the palace, and tell her everything--the simple truth. i am not hurt much--only a flesh wound, which will soon heal." "and if she asks me why you fought, father," whispered frank, "what am i to say?" sir robert frowned heavily, and turned sharply to gaze in his son's eyes. "frank boy," he said, "you are beginning trouble early; but you must try and think and act like a man. when i go, your place is at your mother's side." "when you go, father?" "yes, i shall have to go, boy. tell her i fought as a man should for the honour of those i love. now say no more; i am a bit faint, and i want to think." the strange procession moved in toward the gates, the german officers talking angrily together, and paying little heed to their fellow-prisoners, save that one of them darted a malignant glance at sir robert gowan, which made andrew turn upon him sharply with an angry scowl, looking the officer up and down so fiercely that he moved menacingly toward the lad; but the guardsman at his side raised his arm and stepped between them. just then the boys' eyes met, and frank, who was still supporting his father, gave his friend a grateful look. when the guard-house was reached, it was just sunrise, upon as lovely a morning as ever broke; and it contrasted strangely with the aspect of the men who had been out for so sinister a design. frank felt something of the kind as the door was opened to admit his father, one accustomed to command, and now ready to enter as a prisoner; but he had very little time then for private thought, for the colonel suddenly appeared, and without a glance at sir robert said sharply: "well?" "too late to stop it, sir," reported the officer in command. "captain sir robert gowan wounded in the arm." "baron steinberg?" "the doctor is with him, sir. a litter is to be sent at once." "but--surely not--" "no, not dead, sir; but run through the body." "tut, tut, tut!" ejaculated the colonel; and he turned now to sir robert with words of reproach on his lips, but the fixed look of pain and despair upon his officer's features disarmed him, and he signed to the prisoner to enter. "what shall i do now, father?" said frank. "let me fetch another doctor." "nonsense, boy. only a flesh wound. go back to the park at once; i want to hear what news there is." "of the baron, father?" "yes; make haste. i must know how he is." frank gave a quick, short nod, pressed his father's hand, and hurried out, to find andrew, whom he had forgotten for the moment, walking up and down in front of a knot of soldiers, looking as fretful as a trapped wolf in a cage. "they wouldn't let me come in," he said impatiently. "i only got in because i was supporting my father," said frank quickly. "come along; i'm going to see how the baron is. has the litter gone?" "no; there are the men coming with it now." the two lads set off running, andrew's ill-humour passing off in action, and he chatted quite cheerily as they made for the park. "your father was splendid, frank!" he cried. "i was proud of him. what a lesson for those haughty sausage-eaters!" "but it is a terrible business, drew." "stuff! only an affair of honour. of course it may be serious for your father if the baron dies: but he won't die. some of his hot blood let out. do him good, and let all these hanoverians see what stuff the english have in them. don't you fidget. why, every one in the guards will be delighted. i know i am. wouldn't have missed that fight for anything." "you don't ask how my father's wound is." "no, and he would not want me to. nasty, shallow cut, that's all. here we are." they trotted into the opening where the greensward was all trampled and stamped by the combatants' feet, and found the doctor kneeling by his patient just as they had left him, and the two grenadiers with grounded arms standing with their hands resting on the muzzles of their pieces. "hallo! young men," cried the doctor, rising and stepping to them. "is that litter going to be all day?" "they're bringing it, sir," said frank; "we ran on first. how is he now?" frank looked at the white face before him with its contracted features and ghastly aspect about the pinched-in lips. "about as bad as he can be, my lad. a man can't have a sharp piece of steel run through his chest without feeling a bit uncomfortable. lesson for you, my boys. you see what duelling really is. you'll neither of you quarrel and go out after this." "why not?" said andrew sharply. "i should, and so would frank gowan, if we were insulted by a foreigner." "bah!" cried the doctor testily. "nice language for a boy like you." "please tell me, sir," said frank anxiously. "will he get better?" "why do you want to know, you young dog?" said the doctor, turning upon him sharply. "no business here at all, either of you." "my father is so anxious to know. i want to run back and tell him." "oh, that's it!" said the doctor gruffly. "no business to have broken out to fight; but i suppose i must tell him. go back and say that the baron has got a hole in his chest and another in his back, and his life is trying to slip out of one of them; but i've got them stopped, and that before his life managed to pop out. lucky for him that i was here; and i'm very glad, tell your father, that it has turned out as it has, for i stood all through the ugly business, expecting every moment that he would go down wounded to the death." "yes, i'll tell him," said frank hurriedly. "don't rush off like that, boy. how should you like to be a surgeon?" "not at all, sir." "and quite right," said the doctor, taking out his box, and helping himself to a liberal pinch of snuff. "nice job for a man like me to have to do all i can to save the life of a savage who did all he could to murder one of my greatest friends. there, run back and tell him to make his mind easy about my lord here. i won't let him die, and as soon as i can i'll come and see to his arm." the boys ran off again, passing the litter directly; but when they reached the guard-house, the sentry refused to let them pass, and summoned another of the guards, who took in a message to the captain who made the arrest. he came to the door directly, and learned what they wanted. "i can't admit you," he said. "the colonel's orders have been very strict. i'll go and set your father's mind at rest, for of course he'll be glad that he did not kill his adversary." the captain nodded in a friendly way, and went back. "he can't help himself, frank," said andrew. "don't mind about it. and there won't be any punishment. the king and the prince will storm and shout a bit in dutch, and then it will all blow over. your father's too great a favourite with the troops for there to be any bother, and the bigwigs know how pleased every one will be that the dutchman got the worst of it. i say, look; it's only half-past five now!" "what: not later than that!" cried frank in astonishment, for he would have been less surprised if he had heard that it was midday. "here they come," whispered andrew; and, turning quickly, frank saw the soldiers bearing in the wounded baron, with the doctor by his side, and they waited till they saw the litter borne in to the guardroom, and the door was shut. "i say, who would have thought of this when we were going over to the messroom yesterday evening? what shall we do now--go back to bed?" "to bed!" said frank reproachfully. "no. i have the worst to come." "what, are you going to challenge one of the germans? i'll second you." "don't be so flippant. there, good-bye for the present." "good-bye be hanged! you're in trouble, and i'm going to stick to you like a man." "yes, i know you will, drew; but let me go alone now." "what for? where are you going? you're not going to be so stupid as to begin petitioning, and all that sort of nonsense, to get your father off?" "no," said frank, with his lower lip quivering; "he'll fight his own battle. i've got a message from him for my mother, and i have to break the news to her." andrew forbes uttered a low, soft whistle, and nodded his head. "before she gets some muddled story, not half true. i say, tell her not to be frightened and upset. sir robert shan't come to harm. why, we could raise all london if they were to be queer to him. but take my word for it, they won't be." frank hardly heard his last words, for they were now in the calm, retired quadrangle of the palace, one side of which was devoted to the apartments of the ladies in attendance upon the queen and princess, and the lad went straight to the door leading to his mother's rooms, and rang. chapter sixteen. frank has a painful task. for the moment frank gowan forgot that it was only half-past five, and after waiting a reasonable time he rang again. but all was still in the court, which lay in the shade, while the great red-brick clock tower was beginning to glow in the sunshine. there were some pigeons on one of the roofs preening their plumes, and a few sparrows chirping here and there, while every window visible from where the boy stood was whitened by the drawn-down blinds. he rang again and waited, but all was as silent as if the place were uninhabited, and the whistling of wings as half a dozen pigeons suddenly flew down to begin stalking about as if in search of food sounded startling. "too soon," thought frank; and going a little way along, he seated himself upon a dumpy stone post, to wait patiently till such time as the palace servants were astir. and there in the silence his thoughts went back to his adventures that morning, and the scene, which seemed to have been enacted days and days ago, came vividly before his eyes, while he thrilled once more with the feeling of mingled horror and excitement, as he seemed to stand again close behind captain murray, expecting moment by moment to see his father succumb to the german's savage attack. there it all was, as clear as if it were still going on, right to the moment when the baron missed his desperate thrust and literally fell upon his adversary's point. "it was horrid, horrid, horrid," muttered the lad with a shiver; and he tried to divert his mind by thinking of how he should relate just a sufficiency of the encounter to his mother, and no more. "yes," he said to himself. "i'll just tell her that they fought, that father was scratched by the baron's sword, and then the baron was badly wounded in return. "that will do," he said, feeling perfectly satisfied; "i'll tell her just in this way." but as he came to this determination, doubt began to creep in and ask him whether he could relate the trouble so coolly and easily when his mother's clear eyes were watching him closely and searching for every scrap of truth; and then he began to think it possible that he might fail, and stand before her feeling guilty of keeping a great deal back. "i know i shall grow confused, and that she will not believe that poor father's arm was only scratched, and she'll think at once that it is a serious wound, and that the baron is dead." he turned so hot at this that he rose quickly, and walked along all four sides of the quadrangle to cool himself before going to the door once more and giving a sharp ring. "are the servants going to lie in bed all day?" he said peevishly. "they ought to be down before this." but the ring meeting with no response, he sat down again to try and think out what the consequences of the events of the morning would be. here, however, he found himself confronted by a thick, black veil, which shut out the future. it was easy enough to read the past, but to imagine what was to come was beyond him. at last, when quite an hour had passed, he grew impatient, and rang sharply this time, to hear a window opened somewhere at the top of the house; and when he looked up, it was to see a head thrust forth and rapidly withdrawn. five minutes or so afterward he heard the shooting of bolts and the rattling down of a chain, the door was opened, and a pretty-looking maidservant, with sleep still in her eyes, confronted him ill-humouredly. "how late you are!" cried frank. "no, sir; please, it's you who are so early. we didn't go to bed till past one." "is lady gowan up yet?" "lor' bless you, sir, no! why--oh, i beg your pardon, i'm sure, sir. i didn't know you at first; it's her ladyship's son, isn't it?" "yes, of course. i want to see her directly." "but you can't, sir. she won't be down this two hours." "go and tell my mother i am here, and that i want to see her on important business." "very well, sir; but i know i shall get into trouble for disturbing her," said the maid ill-humouredly. "she was with the princess till ever so late." the girl went upstairs, leaving frank waiting in the narrow passage of the place, and at the end of a few minutes she returned. "her ladyship says, sir, you are to come into her little boudoir and wait; she'll dress, and come down in a few minutes." frank followed the maid to the little room, and stood waiting, for he could not sit down in his anxiety. he felt hot and cold, and as if he would have given anything to have hurried away, but there was nothing for it but to screw up his courage and face the matter. "she'll be half an hour yet," he muttered, "and that will give me time to grow cool; then i can talk to her." he was wrong; for at the end of five minutes there was the rustling of garments, and lady gowan entered, in a loose morning gown, looking startled at being woke up by such a message. "why, frank, my darling boy, what is it?" she cried, as the boy shrank from her eyes when she embraced him affectionately. "you are ill! no; in trouble! i can see it in your eyes. look up at me, my boy, and be in nature what you are by name. you were right to come to me. there, sit down by my side, and let it be always so--boy or man, let me always be your _confidante_, and i will forgive you and advise you if i can." frank was silent, but he clung to her, trembling. "speak to me, dear," she said, drawing him to her and kissing his forehead; "it cannot be anything very dreadful--only some escapade." his lips parted, but no words would come, and he shivered at the thought of undeceiving her. "come, come, dear," she whispered, "there is no one to hear you but i; and am i not your mother?" "yes, but--" that was all. he could say no more. "frank, my boy, why do you hesitate?" she whispered, as she passed her soft, warm hand over his forehead, which was wet and cold. "come, speak out like a brave lad. a boy of your age should be manly, and if he has done wrong own to it, and be ready to bear the reproof or punishment he has earned. come, let me help you." "you help me?" he gasped. "yes, i think i can. you dined at the mess last night; your face is flushed and feverish, your head is hot, and your hands wet and cold. phoebe tells me that in her sleep she heard you ringing at the bell soon after five. is this so?" "yes," he said with his eyes and a quick nod of the head. "hah! and am i right in saying that you have had scarcely any or no sleep during the night?" he nodded again quickly, and felt as if it would be impossible to try and set his mother right. "hah! i am angry with you. i feel that i ought to be. there has been some escapade. your father would have watched over you while he was there. it must have been afterwards--andrew forbes and some of the wild young officers. yes, i see it now; and i never warned you against such a peril, though it is real enough, i fear." "oh, mother, mother!" groaned the boy in agony. "i knew it," she said sternly; "they have led you away to some card- or dice-playing, and you have lost. now you are fully awake to your folly." the boy made a brave effort to speak out, but still no words would come. "well," said lady gowan, taking his hand to hold it firmly between her own. but he was still silent. "i am angry, and cruelly disappointed in you, frank," she said sternly. "but your repentance has been quick, and you have done what is right. there, i will forgive you, on your solemn promise that you will not again sin like this. i will give you the money to pay the miserable debt, and if i have not enough i will get it, even if i have to sell my diamonds." she looked at him as it expecting now a burst of repentant thanks; but he remained speechless, and a feeling of resentment against him rose in lady gowan's breast, as she felt that this was not the return the boy should have made to her gentle reproof, her offer to free him from his difficulty, and her eyes flashed upon him angrily. "oh, mother!" he cried, "don't look at me like that." "i must, frank," she said, loosing his hand, "you are not meeting me in this matter as you should." "no, no," he cried, finding his tongue now, and catching her hands in his, as he sank on his knees before her. "don't shrink from me, though it does seem so cruel of me." "more cruel, my boy, than you think," she said, as she resigned her hands to him lovingly once more. "speak out to me, then. it is what i fear?" "oh no, no, mother darling," he groaned. "i must speak now. it is far worse than that." "worse!" she cried, with a startled look in her eyes. "some quarrel?" he bowed his head, partly in assent, partly to escape her piercing look. "and you are no longer a schoolboy--you wear a sword. oh, frank, frank! you--andrew forbes." he shook his head and bowed it down. then he raised it firmly and proudly, and met his mother's eyes gazing wildly at him now, as she tried to release her hands, but as he held them tightly, pressed them with her own against her throbbing breast. "he told me to come to you as a man and break the news." "he--your father--told you--to break the news. ah, i see it all. a quarrel--and they have fought--but he bade you come. then he lives!" "yes, yes, mother dear. he is wounded, but very slightly in the arm." lady gowan uttered a low, piteous cry, and sank upon her knees beside her son, with her lips moving quickly for some moments, as he supported her where they knelt together. "wounded--dangerously?" she moaned. "no, no; believe me, mother, slightly in his sword arm. he walked back with me." "to his quarters?" "no. he was arrested." "ah!" ejaculated lady gowan. "arrested--why?" frank hastily explained. "oh the horror of these meetings! but this man, your father struck him? but why?" frank repeated his father's message, and lady gowan looked bewildered. "i cannot understand," she said. "these german officers are favourites of the king, and the baron must have cruelly insulted your father, or he, who is so brave and strong and gentle, would never have done this. they are proud and overbearing, and i know treat our english officers with contempt. yes, it must have been from that. when was it?" "at daybreak." "where?" "just yonder in the park." "and your father took you?" said lady gowan, with a look of horror. "no, no, mother; he did not know i was there till it was just over, and he told me how it was." "yes, i see." "i was horrified and frightened when drew came and told me. i could not keep away." "no," she said softly, "of course not. i should have gone myself had i known. but your good, brave father wounded, and the man who insulted him escaped unhurt!" "no, no, mother; he is--" "frank! not dead?" she cried in horror, for the boy stopped. "no, no; but very dangerously wounded. the soldiers carried him back on a litter, but the doctor says that he will live." once more, while she knelt there, lady gowan's lips moved as her eyes closed, and she bent down her head above her son's shoulder. at last she raised it, and said, firmly: "we must be brave over this terrible misfortune, frank dear. but tell me; do i know the worst?" "yes, yes, mother; i meant to keep a great deal back, and i can't look in your eyes, and say anything that is not perfectly true." "and never will, my son," she cried, with a wildly hysterical burst of tears, which she checked in a few moments. "there, your mother is very weak, you see, dear; but i am going to be strong now. then that explains the sternness of the arrest. let us look the matter in the face. your father struck this german nobleman, the guest of the regiment. they fought this morning, and the cause of the trouble is badly hurt. the king and the prince will be furious. they will look upon it as a mutinous attack upon one of their favourites. yes, i must see the princess at once. i will go to her chamber now; so leave me, my boy, and wait. i will write to you, and i must try and get a note to your father. there, go, my own brave boy, and be comforted. the trouble may not be so great after all, for we have a friend who loves us both--the princess, and she will help me in my sore distress. there, go, my boy; she must have the news from me, as your father contrived that it should come to me. i can go to her chamber at any time, for she has told me again and again that she looks upon me as her dearest friend." the next minute frank was crossing the quadrangle on his way back, feeling relieved of much of his burden; but before he reached the quarters occupied by the royal pages, andrew forbes stood before him. "at last!" he said. "i've been waiting here ever since. how does she take it?" "bravely," said frank, with a proud look. "she has just gone in to tell the princess." "and she will get sir robert out of the scrape if she can. but it won't do, frank," said andrew, shaking his head. "she'll be very kind to your mother, but you may as well know the worst. she can't; for his majesty will have something to say about his baron. your father might as well have hit the king himself." chapter seventeen. the king's decree. "any fresh news?" "no. have you any?" "not much; but i've seen the doctor again this morning." "you told me yesterday that he said you were not to dare to come to him any more." "yesterday! why, that was four days ago." "nonsense! that would have been before the duel." "i say, frank, are you going out of your mind?" "i don't know," said the boy wearily. "my head's muddled with want of sleep." "muddled? i should think it is. why, it's a week to-day since that glorious fight in the park." "glorious?" "yes. i wish our officers would challenge all the german officers, fight them, and wound them, and send them out of the country." "don't talk nonsense. talk about the doctor. he did tell you not to come any more." "yes; he said he wouldn't be bothered by a pack of boys." "yes; he said the same to me every time i went." "every time! have you been there much?" "about four times a day." "no wonder he was snappish to me, then." "i suppose it has been tiresome, and he has called me all sorts of names, and said i worried his life out; but he always ended by smiling and shaking hands." "you haven't been this morning of course?" "yes, i have." "well?" "he says father's arm is going on well; but the baron is very bad." "serve him right." "but i want him to get well." "oh, he'll get well some day. he's such a big, thick fellow, that it's a long wound from front to back, and takes time. be a lesson to him. i say, how's lady gowan?" "very miserable and low-spirited." "humph!" ejaculated andrew; and he glanced in a curious, furtive way at his companion. "i say, i thought the princess was to speak to the king, and get your father pardoned." "she did speak to him, and the prince has too." "well?" "we don't know any more yet. i suppose my father is kept under arrest so as to punish him." "yes," said andrew, with a strange hesitation, which took frank's attention. "why did you say `_yes_' like that?" he cried, with his dull, listless manner passing off, and a keen, eager look in his eyes. "did i say `_yes_' like that?" "you know you did. what is it you are keeping back, drew?" "i say, don't talk like that," said andrew petulantly. "i never saw such a fellow as you are. here, only the other day you looked up to me in everything, and i tried to teach you how to behave like a young man of the world in courtly society." "yes, you did, and i am greatly obliged; but--" "seems like it," said andrew sharply. "then all at once you set up your hackles, and show fight like a young cockerel, and begin bouncing over me--i mean trying to; and it won't do, young gowan. i'm your senior." "yes, yes, i know," cried frank angrily; "but this is all talk, just for the sake of saying something to put me off. now speak out; what is it you're keeping back?" "there you go again, bully gowan! here, i say, you know i'm not going to stand this. you keep your place." "don't, don't, drew, when i'm in such trouble!" cried frank appealingly. "ah! that's better. now you've dropped into your place again, boy." "you have something fresh--some great trouble--and you are hiding it from me." "well, how can i help it?" said andrew. "you're bad enough as it is, and i don't want to make matters worse." "but that's what you are doing. why don't you speak?" "because you'll go and tell dear lady gowan, and it will half kill her." "what!" cried frank, springing at his companion, and catching him by the shoulder. "and i look upon her as if she was my mother as well as yours, and i'd cut off my hand sooner than hurt her feelings more." "i knew there was something fresh," cried frank excitedly; "and, whatever it is, i must tell her, drew. i promised her that i'd be quite open, and keep nothing from her." "there, i knew i was right. how can i help keeping it back? and don't, frank lad. i say, how strong you are. you're ragging my collar about. i shan't be fit to be seen." "then why don't you speak? it's cruel, horrible," cried frank hoarsely. "because it comes so hard, old lad. i feel just as you told me you felt when you had to go and tell lady gowan that morning." "yes, yes, i know; but do--do speak! you've tortured me enough." "i've just seen captain murray." "ah!" "he was coming out of the colonel's quarters." "well? be quick--oh, do be quick!" "i ran to him, and he took me into his room and told me." "yes--told you--what?" "he said he was very sorry for you and lady gowan, but the king was as hard as a rock. the prince had been at him, and the princess too; but he would hardly listen to them, and the most he would do was--it seems that steinberg is a very old favourite." "oh, i knew all that long ago! why do you break off in that tantalising way?" "there is to be no regular court-martial, such as was to have been as soon as the doctor said sir robert could bear it." "yes, yes." "oh, it's no, no, frank. he's to be dismissed from his regiment." "i was afraid so," cried frank. "but to exchange into another. what regiment is he to go in?" andrew was silent. "well, go on! why don't you speak?" cried frank wildly. "i asked you what regiment he was to go in." "no regiment at all. he's dismissed from the king's service, and he is to leave the country. if he comes back, he is to be severely punished." "oh, they could not punish him more severely," cried frank, with an angry stamp of the foot. "yes, they could. his majesty"--andrew forbes said the two last words with bitter irony in his tones--"might order his execution." "then we are all to go away," said frank, frowning. "i don't know about that," replied andrew. "but it's a good thing for your father." "what! a good thing?" "yes; to get out of the service of such a miserable usurper. if it were not for the terrible upset to lady gowan, i should be ready to congratulate her." "that will do," said frank sharply. "don't get introducing your principles here." "our principles," whispered andrew, with a meaning look. "your principles," continued frank, with emphasis. "i'm in no temper for that, and i don't want to quarrel. i must go and tell her as soon as i'm off duty. she'll be ready to hate the sight of me for always bringing her bad news." but before the boy was relieved from his daily duties in the anteroom, a note was brought to him from lady gowan confirming andrew's words. in fact, frank's mother had known the worst over-night. but there was other news in the letter which told the lad that his father was to leave london that evening, that he was to accompany his mother to see him for a farewell interview, and that she wished him to be ready to go with her at seven o'clock. frank read the letter twice, and felt puzzled. he read it again, and sought out his friend. "been to see lady gowan?" andrew asked. "no; read this." the lad took the letter, shrugged his shoulders as he read it, and handed it back. "that's plain enough," he said bitterly. "do you think so? i don't. i can't make out the end." "you are to call for lady gowan, and take her to sir robert's quarters." "no, no, i mean about a farewell visit." "well, isn't that plain?" "but we shall go too." "i don't think so. your mother is the princess's friend, and she does not wish to lose her. you will both have to stay." "impossible!" cried frank excitedly. "well, we shall see," said andrew meaningly. that evening frank took his mother, closely veiled, to sir robert's quarters, where he had been ever since the duel, with a sentry beneath his window, another stationed at his door. the pass lady gowan bore admitted them at once, and the next minute they were in sir robert's room, to find him looking pale and stern, busily finishing with his servant the preparations for an immediate start. the man was dismissed, and father, mother, and son were alone. lady gowan was the first to speak. "you know the orders that have been given, robert?" she said. "yes; i travel with a strong escort to harwich, where i am to take ship and cross." "of course we are going with you, robert," said lady gowan. sir robert was silent for a few moments, and frank stood watching him anxiously, eager to hear his reply. "no," he said at last. "i am driven out of the country, and it would not be right to take you with me now." "robert!" cried lady gowan. "hush!" he said appealingly. "i have much to bear now; don't add to my burden. at present i have no plans. i do not even know where i shall direct my steps. i am to be shipped off to ostend. it would be madness to take you from here yet. the princess is your friend, and i understand that the prince is well-disposed toward me. you must stay here for the present." "but i am sure that her royal highness will wish me to leave her service now." "and i am not," said sir robert. "for the present i wish you to stay." lady gowan bent down and kissed his hand in obedience to her husband's wishes. "but you will take me with you, father?" cried frank. "you, my boy? no. you cannot leave your mother. she and i both look to you to fill my place till the happier days come, when i can return to england. you hear me, frank?" a protest was on the lad's lips; but there was a stern decision in sir robert's eyes and tones which silenced it, and with quivering lip he stood listening to his father's instructions, till there was a tap at the door, and an officer appeared to announce that the visitors must leave. "very well," said sir robert quietly, and the officer withdrew. "oh, father!" cried frank, "let me go and ask for another hour." "no, my boy," said sir robert, firmly. "it is better so. why should we try to prolong pain? good-bye, frank, till we meet again. you must be a man now, young as you are. i leave your mother in your care." his farewell to lady gowan was very brief, and then at his wish she tore herself away, and with her veil drawn-down to hide her emotion, she hurried out, resting on frank's arm; while he, in spite of his father's recent words, was half choked as he felt how his mother was sobbing. "don't speak to me, dear," she whispered, as they reached her apartments. "i cannot bear it. i feel as if we were forsaking your father in the time of his greatest need." it was painful to leave her suffering; but there was a feeling of desire urging the lad away, and he hurried out, finding andrew faithfully waiting at the door, and ready to press his hand in sympathy. "it's terribly hard, lad," he said. "oh, dear; what a wicked world it is! but you are coming to see him go?" frank nodded--he could not trust himself to speak--and they started back for sir robert's quarters. they were none too soon; for already a couple of coaches were at the door, and a military guard was drawn up, keeping back a little crowd, the wind of the approaching departure having got abroad. the lads noticed that fully half were soldiers; but they had little time for making observations, for already sir robert was at the door, and the next minute he had stepped into the first coach, the second, standing back, being filled with guards, one being beside the coachman on the box, and two others standing behind. an officer and two soldiers followed sir robert. the door was banged to as frank and andrew dashed forward, and forced their way past the sentries who kept back the crowd. it required little effort, for as soon as the guards recognised them they gave place, and enabled them to run beside the coach for a little way, waving their hands to the banished man. sir robert saw them, and leaned forward, and his face appeared at the window, when, as if influenced by one spirit, the soldiers uttered a tremendous cheer, the rest joined in, and the next minute the boys stood panting outside in front of the clock tower, with the carriages disappearing on their way east. "oh, frank, frank!" cried andrew excitedly, "is this free england? if we had only known--if we had only known." frank's heart was too full for speech, and, hardly heeding his companion's words, he stood gazing after the two coaches, feeling lower in spirits than he ever had before in his life. "we ought to have known that the soldiers and the people were all upon his side. a little brave effort, with some one to lead them, and we could have rescued him. the men would have carried everything before them." "rather curious expressions of opinion for one of the royal pages, young gentleman," said a stern voice. "captain murray!" cried andrew, who was thoroughly startled to find his words taken up so promptly by some one behind him. "yes, my lad, captain murray. i am glad, gowan, that such words did not fall from you, though in your case they would have been more excusable." "perhaps, sir," cried frank, in his loyalty to his friend, though truthfully enough, "it was because i could not speak. i wish i had helped to do it, though." "hah! yes, brave and manly, but weak and foolish, my boy. recollect what and where you are, and that whispers spoken in the precincts of the palace often have echoes which magnify them and cause those who uttered them much harm." "i'm not sorry i spoke," said andrew hotly. "it has been horribly unjust to sir robert gowan." "suppose we discuss that shut in between four walls which have no ears, my lad. but let me ask you this, my hot-blooded young friend--suppose you had roused the soldiers into rising and rescuing sir robert gowan, what then?" "it would have been a very gallant thing, sir," said andrew haughtily. "of course, very brave and dashing, but a recklessly impulsive act. what would have followed?" captain murray turned from andrew to frank, and the latter saw by the dim lamplight that the words were addressed more particularly to him. "we should have set him free." "no. you might have rescued him from his guards; but he would have been no more free than he is now. he could not have stayed in england, but would have had to make for the coast, and escape to france or holland in some smuggler's boat. you see he would have been just where he is now. but it is more probable that you would not have secured him, for the guard would at the first attempt have been called upon to fire, and many lives would have been sacrificed for nothing." "i thought you were sir robert gowan's friend, sir," said andrew bitterly. "so i am, boy; but i am the king's servant, sworn to obey and defend him. his majesty's commands were that sir robert should leave his service, and seek a home out of england. it is our duty to obey. and now listen to me, mr andrew forbes, and you too, frank gowan; and if i speak sternly, remember it is from a desire to advise my old comrade's son and his companion for the best. a still tongue maketh a wise head. but i am not going to preach at you; and it is better that you should take it to heart--you in particular, andrew forbes, for you occupy a peculiar position here. your father is a proscribed rebel." "you dare to say that of my father!" cried the lad, laying his hand upon his sword. "yes, you foolish lad. let that hilt alone. keep your sword for your enemies, not for your friends, even if they tell you unpleasant truths. your tongue, my lad, runs too freely, and will get you sooner or later into trouble. men have been punished for much less than you have said, even to losing their lives." "is this what a king's officer should do?" cried andrew, who was white with anger,--"play the part of a spy?" "silly, hot-headed boy," said captain murray. "i saw you both, and came up to speak to my old friend's son, when i could not help hearing what your enemies would call traitorous remarks. frank, my lad, you are the younger in years, but you have the older head, and you must not be led away by this hot-blooded fellow. there, come both of you to my quarters." "frank, i'm going to my room," said andrew, ignoring the captain's words. "no, you are coming with us," said captain murray. "frank, my lad, your father asked me to give an eye to you, and bade me tell you that if you were ever in any difficulty you were to come to me for help. remember that please, for i will help robert gowan's son in every way i can." the friendly feeling he had already had for his father's companion all came back on the instant, and frank held out his hand. "hah, that's right, boy. you have your father's eye for a friend. come along, and let's have a quiet chat. i want company to-night, for this business makes one low-spirited. come along, hotspur." "do you mean to continue insulting me, sir?" said andrew sharply. "i? no. there, you are put out because i spoke so plainly. look here, forbes, i should not like to see you arrested and dismissed from your service for uttering treasonable words, and you will be one of these days. it is being talked about in the palace, but fortunately only by your friends. come, it is only a few steps, and we may as well talk sitting down." the lad was on the point of declining coldly; but the officer's extended hand and genial smile disarmed him, and there was something so attractive in his manner that, unable to resist, he allowed captain murray to pass an arm through his and march both lads to his quarters. "hah! this is better," he said, as he placed chairs for his visitors. "poor old gowan! i wish he were with us. why, frank, my lad, what a series of adventures in a short time! only the other night, and we were all sitting comfortably at dinner. how soon a storm springs up. heard the last about our german friend?" "enemy," muttered andrew. "well, enemy if you like. i saw the doctor just before i caught sight of you, and he told me--" "not dead?" said frank wildly. "no. he has made a sudden change for the better. the doctor says he has the constitution of an ox, and that has pulled him through." "ugh!" ejaculated andrew; and frank spoke hastily to cover his companion's rudeness. "how long do you think my father will have to be away?" "till his. majesty dies, or, if he is fortunate, till your mother and the princess have won over his royal highness to do battle with his father on your father's behalf." "but do you think he is likely to succeed?" "i hope so, my lad. the king may give way. it will not be from friendly feeling, or a desire to do a kind action--what do you call it?--an act of clemency." "he'll never pardon sir robert!" cried andrew, bringing his fist down upon the table heavily. "i think he will," said captain murray; "for his majesty is a keen man of the world, a good soldier, and a good judge of soldiers. i think that out of policy, and the knowledge that he is very unpopular, he may think it wise to pardon a gallant officer, and to bring him back into the ranks of the men whom he can trust." "yes, yes," cried frank excitedly; and his eyes brightened as he treasured up words, every one of which would, he felt sure, gladden his mother's heart. "hadn't you better get up and see if any one is listening at the door, captain murray?" said andrew sarcastically. "because my words sound treasonable, my lad?" "yes, and may be magnified by the echoes of the palace walls, sir." the big, frank officer sank back in his chair, and laughed merrily. "you're a queer fellow, forbes--a clever fellow--with a splendid memory; but--there, don't feel insulted--you must have been meant for a woman: you have such a sharp, spiteful tongue. no, no, no--sit still. you must take as well as give. do you two ever fall out, frank? he's as hot as pepper." "yes, often," said frank, smiling; "but we soon make it up again, for he's about the bravest and best fellow i ever knew." as frank spoke, he reached over and gripped his friend's arm warmly. "you don't know how good and kind and helpful he has been in all this trouble." "i believe it," said captain murray, smiling. "he's a lucky fellow too, for he has won a good friend. you hear, hotspur? a good friend in frank here, who is the very spit of his father, one of the bravest, truest soldiers that ever lived." these words were said in a way which made frank feel a little choky, and turned the tide of andrew forbes's anger, which now ebbed rapidly away. "you'll come to me, my lads, both of you, if you want help?" said the captain, at their parting an hour later. "yes, of course," cried frank eagerly; but andrew forbes was silent. "and you, andrew lad. gowan asked me to be a friend to you too; for he said that lady gowan liked you, and that it was a hard position for a lad like you to be placed in, and he is right." "did sir robert say that, sir?" said the lad huskily. "yes, when we said good-bye." "yes, i will come to you, sir--when i can." the last words were to himself, and he was silent for some time as they walked back to their quarters. "i wish i hadn't such a sharp temper, frank," he said at last. "but it is a queer position, and the harness galls me. i can't help it. i ought to go away." chapter eighteen. the doctor makes a suggestion and frank is startled. "your mother must be a favourite with the princess, and no mistake," said andrew one morning, "or after that business of your father's you would never be allowed to stay." "if you come to that," said frank in retort, "if one half of what i know about were to get abroad, where would you be?" "perhaps in two pieces, with the top bit carefully preserved, as a warning to treasonable people--so called." "i don't think that," said frank gravely; "for they would not go to such lengths with a mere boy." "who are you calling a mere boy?" "you," replied frank coolly. "you are quite as young as i am in some things, though you are so much older in others." "perhaps so," said andrew rather haughtily. "anyhow, i don't feel in the least afraid of my principles being known. you can't tell tales, being one of us." "i--am--not--and--never--will--be!" said frank, dividing his words as if there were a comma between each pair, and speaking with tremendous emphasis. "oh, all right," said andrew, with a merry laugh. "i should like to hear you say that to mr george selby." "i'd say it plainly to him and the whole of the members of his club," said frank hotly. "not you. wouldn't dare. come with me on friday and say it." "i? no. let them come to me if they want it said." "they don't. they've got you, and they'll keep you." "time will prove that, drew. i'm very glad, though, that you have given up going." "given up what?" "going to those dangerous meetings; and, i say, give up being so fond of staring at yourself in the glass. i never did see such a vain coxcomb of a fellow." "h-r-r-ur!" growled andrew, as he swung round fiercely upon his fellow-page. "oh, if i had not made up my mind that i wouldn't quarrel with a brother! ah! you may laugh; but you'll repent it one of these days." the lad clenched his fist as he spoke; but he was met by such a good-tempered smile that he turned away again more angry than ever. "i can't hit you--i won't hit you!" he gasped. "i know that," cried frank. "you can't hit a fellow who is fighting hard to make you sensible. i say, who is this mr george selby?" "never you mind." "but i do mind. i want to know." "well, a great friend of him over the water." "how came you to get acquainted with him first?" "you wait, and you'll know." "don't tell me without you like; but he's a dangerous friend, and i'm very glad you've given up seeing him." "are you?" said andrew, with a curious smile. "why, i've seen him again and again." "you have!" cried frank, in astonishment. "when?" "oh, at different times. last evening, for instance, in the park, while you were with your mother. he came to feed the ducks." "you won't be happy till you are sent away in disgrace." "that's very true, franky; but i don't think i shall feel the disgrace. what would you say, too, if i told you that i have been three times to the city?" "impossible!" "oh no; these things are not impossible to one who wants to do them." "oh, drew, drew!" cried frank. "there, don't you pity me. you are the one to be pitied." "i say, hadn't we better talk about something else?" "yes. has lady gowan heard from sir robert?" frank shook his head gloomily. "what, not written yet?" "no." "then they're stopping his letters!" cried andrew. frank started violently. "that's it. just the mean thing that these people would do. i'm sure your father would not have let all this time pass without sending news." "oh, they would not do that!" cried frank. "he is waiting till he is settled down, and then we shall go and join him." "you will not," said andrew. "they'll keep you both here, as you'll see. but, i say, hadn't we better talk about something else?" "if you like," said frank coldly. "well, then, i haven't heard, for i haven't seen captain murray or the doctor. what news have you heard of steinberg?" "he's getting better, and going home to hanover as soon as he can bear to travel." "that's good news," cried andrew. "i wish he'd take the king and his court with him." frank gave him an angry look, then a sharp glance round to see if his companion's words had been heard, and the latter burst out laughing. "poor old frank!" he said merrily. "there, i won't tease you by saying all these disloyal things. but, i say, your acts give the lie to your words. you're as true to us as steel. come, don't be cross." this sort of skirmishing went on often enough, for the two lads were always at work trying to undermine each other's principles; but they dropped into the habit of leaving off at the right time, so as to avoid quarrelling, and the days glided on in the regular routine of the court. but a great change had taken place in one who so short a time before was a mere schoolboy, and lady gowan could not help remarking it in the rather rare occasions when she had her son alone, and talked to him and made him the repository of her troubles. "i could not bear all this, frank," she said one day, "if it were not for the princess's kindness. some day we shall have your father forgiven, and he will be back." "but some day is so long coming, mother. why don't we go to him?" "because he wishes us to stay here, and he will not expose me to the miseries and uncertainties of the life he is leading." "but we would not mind," cried frank. "no, we would not mind; but we must do that which he wishes, my dear." this was three months after sir robert's enforced departure from the court, and when andrew forbes's words respecting the communications sent by sir robert being stopped had long proved to be unjust. "is he still in france?" asked frank. "yes, still there," said lady gowan, with a sigh. "and we can't join him. don't you think, if you tried again, the princess might succeed in getting him recalled?" "i have tried till i dare try no more, for fear of disgusting one who has proved herself my great friend by my importunity. we must be content with knowing that some day your father will be recalled, and then all will be well again." lady gowan did not explain to her son by what means she had letters from her husband, and once when he asked her point-blank she did not speak out, and he did not dare to press the matter. and still the time went on. baron steinberg was declared by the doctor well enough to take his journey; and one day, to frank's relief, andrew met him with the news that the german noble had taken his departure. "i saw him go," said andrew; "and, as he came out to the carriage, looking as thin as a herring, i couldn't help smiling, for all the bounce seemed to be gone out of him, and he was walking with a stick." "poor wretch!" said frank. "nonsense! got what he deserved. some of these foreign officers seem to think that they wear swords and learn to use them for nothing else but to enable them to play the part of bullies and insult better men, force them to a fight, and then kill them. i'm only too glad one of them has had his lesson." "but it's very horrible," said frank thoughtfully. "of course it is," said andrew, purposely misunderstanding him. "he'd have killed your father with as little compunction as he would a rat." "yes, i'm afraid so," said frank, with a shiver. "but he won't be so ready to insult people next time; and next time will be a long way off, i know. but, i say, it's sickening, that it is." "what is?" "the fuss made over a fellow like that. baron indeed! he's only a foreign mercenary; and here is your poor father sent out of the country, while my lord has apartments set aside for him in the palace, and he's petted and pampered, and now at last he goes off in one of the king's carriages with an escort." "oh, well, as far as he is concerned, it does not matter." "oh, but it does. i say it's shameful that such preference should be shown to foreigners. if matters go on like this, there'll be no old england left; we shall be all living in a bit of germany." "well, he has gone," said frank; "so let it rest." "i can't, i tell you; it makes my blood boil." "go and drink some cold water to cool it." "bah! you'll never make a good outspoken englishman, frank." "perhaps not. i shall never make a quarrelsome one," said frank quietly. "what! oh, i like that! why, you're the most quarrelsome fellow i ever met. i wonder we haven't had our affair in the park before now. if it hadn't been for my forbearance we should." frank stared at his companion in astonishment, for it was quite evident that he was speaking sincerely. "come along," said andrew. "where?" "out in the park, where we can breathe the fresh air. i feel stifled in these close rooms, breathing the air of a corrupt court." "no, thank you," said frank. "what? you won't come?" "no, thank you." "why? we're quite free this morning." "i'm afraid." "what, that i shall challenge you to fight somewhere among the trees?" "no; i don't want to go and feed the ducks." "there, what did i say?" cried andrew. "you really are about as quarrelsome a fellow as ever lived. no, no; i don't mean that. come on, frank, old lad; i do want a breather this morning. i'll do anything you like--run races if you wish." "will mr george selby be out there on the look-out for you?" "no," said andrew, with a gloomy look. "poor fellow! i wish he would. honour bright, we shan't meet any one i sympathise with there." "very well then, i'll come." "hurrah!" cried andrew eagerly. "it is stuffy and close in here. i did hope that we should have been down at the old house by this time." "yes, that holiday got knocked on the head. has lady gowan heard from your father again?" "hush!" "oh, very well; i'll whisper. but there are no spies here." "mother hasn't heard now for some time, and she's growing very uneasy. she has been getting worse and worse. oh, what a miserable business it is! i wish we were with him." "yes, i wish we were; for if matters go on like this much longer, i shall run away. here, what do you say, frank? i'm sick of being a palace poodle. let's go and seek adventures while we're searching for your father." "seek nonsense!" said frank testily. "life isn't like what we read in books." "oh yes, it is--a deal more than you think. let's go; it would be glorious." "nonsense! even if i wanted to, how could i? you know what my father said--that i was to stay and protect my mother." "she'd be safe enough where she is, and she'd glory in her son being so brave as to go in search of his father." "no, she would think it was cowardly of me to forsake her, whatever she might say; and if i went off in that way, after the kind treatment we have received from the prince and princess, it would make my poor mother's position worse than ever." "i don't believe that the prince and princess would mind it a bit. for i will say that for him--he isn't such a bad fellow; and i nearly like her. he isn't so very easy, frank, i can tell you. he's pretty nearly a prisoner. the king won't let him go and live away, because he's afraid he'd grow popular, and things would be worse than they are. look how the people are talking, and how daring they are getting." "are they?" "oh yes. there'll be trouble soon. come on." "mind, i trust to your honour, drew." "of course. then you won't come off with me?" "no--i--will not." andrew laughed. "i say, though," he said, as they went past the quarters the baron had occupied, "it was rather comic to see that cripple go. just before he got into the carriage, he turned to thank the doctor, and he caught sight of me." "what! did he recognise you?" "i don't think so; but i was laughing--well no, smiling--and he smiled back, and bowed to me, thinking, i suppose, that i was there to say good-bye to him. he little knew, what i was thinking. well, good riddance. but the doctor--" "eh?" said a sharp voice, and the gentleman named stepped out of one of the dark doorways they were passing in the low colonnade. "want to see me, my lads?" "n-no," stammered andrew, thoroughly taken aback. "we--were talking about you starting the baron off." "oh, i see," said the doctor, smiling. "of course, i saw you there. yes, he's gone. hah! yes! that was a very peculiar wound, young gentlemen; and i honestly believe that not one in a hundred in my profession could have saved his life. i worked very hard over his case, and he went off, without so much as giving me a little souvenir--a pin or a ring, or a trifle of that kind--seal, for instance." "what could you expect from one of those germans, sir?" said andrew contemptuously. "yes, what indeed!" said the doctor, taking snuff, and looking curiously at frank. "bad habit this, young man. don't you follow my example. dirty habit, eh? but, i say, young fellow," he added, turning to andrew, "a still tongue maketh a wise head. wise man wouldn't shout under the palace windows such sentiments as those, holding the german nation up to contempt. there, a nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse. here, gowan, what's the last news?" "i don't know of any, sir." "come, come! i'm a friend of his. you needn't be so close with me. i mean about your father." "i have none, sir." "eh? don't you know where he is?" "no, sir," said frank sadly. "humph! pity!" said the doctor, taking a fresh pinch of snuff. "because, if you had known, you might have written to tell him that i've cured the baron, and sent him away. yes, i worked very hard over his case. many's the night i sat up with him, so that he shouldn't, slip through my fingers. for it would have been so much worse for your father if he had." "yes, horrible," said frank. "i say, you ought to get him back now. have a try." "but what can i do, sir?" cried frank eagerly. "oh, i don't know. no use to ask me, boy. politics are not in my way. if you like to come to me with a broken bone, or a cut, or a hole in you anywhere, i'm your man, and i'll try and set you right. or if you want a dose of good strong physic, i'll mix you up something that will make you smack your lips and shout for sugar. but that other sort of thing is quite out of my way. what do you say to our all signing a round robin, and sending it into the king? for we all want gowan back." "yes, sir--capital!" cried frank; but andrew smiled contemptuously. "or look here. you're a boy--smart lad too, with plenty of brains," continued the doctor, who had noticed andrew's sneer; "sensible sort of boy--not a dandy, gilded vane, like forbes here. ah! don't you look at me like that, sir, or next time you're sick i'll give you such a dose as shall make you smile the other way." "come along, frank," said the lad angrily. "you wait a minute. i haven't done with him yet. look here, boy," he continued, clapping frank on the shoulder; "there's nothing a man and a father likes better than a good, natural, straightforward, manly sort of boy. i don't mean a fellow who spends half his time scenting himself, brushing his hair to make it curl, and looking at himself in the glass.--here, hallo! what's the matter with you, forbes? i didn't say you did. pavement warm? cat on hot bricks is nothing to you." andrew tightened his lips, and the doctor went on. "look here, gowan; i tell you what i'd do if i were you. i should just wait for my chance--you'll get plenty--and then i should go right in front of the king, dump myself down on one knee, and when he asks you what you want, tell him bluntly, like a manly boy should, to forgive your father, who is as brave an officer as ever cried `forward!' to a company of soldiers." "bah!" ejaculated andrew. "bo!" cried the doctor. "good-looking gander! what do you know about it?--you ask him. as the offended king, he may feel ready to say _no_; but as the man and father, he'll very likely be ready to say _yes_." "oh, i never thought of that!" cried frank excitedly. "then think about it now, my boy. that's my prescription for a very sore case. you do it and win; and if your mother doesn't think she's got the best son in the world, i'm a dutchman, and we've got plenty without." "oh, thank you, thank you, doctor!" cried frank. "wish you luck, boy. do that, and you may be as proud as a peacock afterward--proud as andrew forbes here, and that's saying a deal." the doctor nodded to them both, took a fresh pinch of snuff loudly, and went off. "bah!" growled andrew, as he went off at a great rate toward the park. "ridiculous! how can an english gentleman advise such a degrading course. go down on your knees to that dutchman, and beg!" "i'd go down on my face to him, drew," cried frank excitedly. "you won't follow out his advice?" "i will, and when everybody is there," cried frank. "he's right, and i believe that the king will." andrew was silent for some minutes, and they walked on, inadvertently going down by the water-side, and directing their steps to the clump of trees where the duel had taken place. they passed over the ground in silence, each picturing the scene, and then went slowly on, so as to pass round the end of the canal--for such it was in those days--and return by the other side. andrew was the first to break the silence, frank being plunged in deep thought over the doctor's advice. "you ought to be very proud of your father, frank," he said. "i am," was the laconic reply. "my father, when i told him, said he behaved most gallantly, but that he ought to have killed his man." "your father!" cried frank, staring. "why, when did you see your father?" "can't people write?" said andrew hastily; and he looked slightly confused. "i did learn how to read and write," he added, with a forced laugh. frank was silent for a few moments. "i say," he said at last, "doesn't it seem strange that we should be both like this--each with his father obliged to keep abroad?" "very," said andrew drily, and he glanced sidewise at his companion; but frank was thinking with his brow all in lines, till they came round opposite to the house overlooking the park, where he stopped to gaze up at the windows. "poor old place looks dismal," said andrew, "with its shutters to and blinds drawn-down. i wonder your mother doesn't let it." "what, our house?" cried frank, flushing. "oh, they wouldn't do that." "seems a pity for such a nice place to be empty. but there is some one in it of course?" "only our old housekeeper and a maid. come along; it makes me feel miserable to look at the place." "but doesn't your mother go there now?" "no; she has not been since--since--" he did not finish his sentence, for a curious sensation of huskiness affected his throat, and he felt determined now to follow out the doctor's suggestion, so that there might be some one to take interest in the old town house again. he took a step or two, and then waited, for andrew appeared to be attracted more than repelled by the gloomy aspect of the blank-looking place, and then, all at once, frank's heart seemed to stand still, and a stifling sense of suffocation to affect him, so that it was some moments before he could speak, and then it was in a tone of voice that startled his companion. "come away!" cried frank angrily, and with singular haste. "don't stop there staring at the windows; it looks so absurd." andrew made no reply then, but walked sharply off with his companion till they were some hundred yards away. "don't be cross with me, franky," he said gently. "it isn't my fault, and you ought to know. i feel it as much as you do. i always liked sir robert, and you know how much i care for lady gowan." frank turned to him warmly. "yes, i know you do," he said, with a wild and wistful look in his eyes; and his lips parted as if he were eager to say something particular to his companion. "there, don't take on about it. things seem all out of joint with us all; but they'll come right some day. and don't you take any notice of me. i feel sometimes as if i'd turned sour, and as if everything was wrong, and i was curdled. i can't help it. perhaps the doctor's right. you do as he said, and ask the king boldly. for some things i should like to see sir robert back." frank made a quick gesture as if to speak out, but andrew checked him with a laugh. "oh, i mean it," he said. "i'd rather he joined us." frank gave an indignant start. "there, there! don't be cross. i won't say any more. you ask the king. he's only a man, if he is a king; and if he doesn't grant your petition, i shall hate him ten times as much as i do now. why, what a fellow you are! you're all of a tremble, and your face is quite white." "is it?" said frank, with a strange little gasp. "yes; either thinking about that petition, or the sight of your poor, dismal old house, or both of them, have regularly upset you. come along, and don't think about them. i must say this, though, for i want to be honest: if i were placed as you are, with a father who had stood so high in george's service, i think perhaps i should be ready to do what the doctor said for the sake of my mother if she was alive." again frank gave his companion that wistful look, and his lips parted, but no words came; and they went on down by the water-side, without noticing that a shabby-looking man was slouching along behind them, throwing himself down upon the grass, as if idling away the time. and all the while that the two lads were in the park he kept them in sight, sometimes close at hand, sometimes distant, but always ready to follow them when they went on. frank noticed it at last, as they were standing by the water's edge, and whispered his suspicions that they were being watched. "who by? that ragged-looking fellow yonder?" "yes; don't take any notice." "no, i'm not going to," said andrew, stooping to pick up a stone and send it flying over the water. "spy, perhaps. well, we're not feeding the ducks to-day. he's a spy for a crown. well, let him spy. the place is full of them. i've a good mind to lead him a good round, and disappoint him. no, i will not; it might lead to our being arrested for doing nothing, and what would be the good of doing that?" the man did his work well, for he kept them in sight without seeming to be looking at them once, till they went back to the palace, where they parted for a time, and andrew said to himself: "i wish i had not talked as i did about his father and mother. poor old fellow; how he was upset!" chapter nineteen. it was not fancy. andrew forbes would have felt more compunction had he seen frank when he was alone; for the lad hurried to his room, where he stood trembling with agitation and thinking of what he should do. his first thought was to go to his mother; but he knew that he could not see her at that hour, and even if it had been possible, he shrank from telling her, partly from dread of the state of agitation in which his news would plunge her, partly from the thought that he might have been mistaken--that fancy had had a great deal to do with it. "but i'll put that to the test as soon as it's dark, if i can get away unseen," he said to himself; and then he walked up and down his room, wondering whether andrew had seen anything--coming to the conclusion at last that if he had he would have spoken out at once. then came another vein of thought to trouble him, and he was mentally tossed about as to whether he ought not to have confided in his companion. then again he tortured himself as to whether he ought not to go at once to captain murray and confide in him. question after question arose till his head felt dizzy, and he was so confused that he was afraid to go and join his companion at the evening meal. but at last his common sense told him that all this worry of thought was due to the cowardly desire to get help, when, under the circumstances, he knew that he ought to have sufficient manliness to act and prove whether what he had seen was fancy or the reality. if it proved to be real-- he trembled at the thought; but making a brave effort, he well bathed his aching temples with cold water, and went down to the evening meal, made a show of eating, and then excused himself on the plea of a very bad headache, got up, and was leaving the room, when, to his horror, andrew joined him. "here," he said, "i don't like to see you in this way. i helped to give you this headache. let's go and have a walk up and down the courtyard." "no, don't you come," said frank, so earnestly that andrew gave way and drew back. "very well," he said. "go and lie down for a bit; you'll be better then." frank made as if to go to his room, but took his hat and cloak and slipped out, forcing himself to cross the courtyard calmly and walk carelessly by the sentries, turning off directly after in the opposite direction to that in which he wished to go, and without seeming to pay any attention kept his eyes travelling in all directions in search of the man they had seen in the afternoon. but he was nowhere visible, and to make more sure the lad took off his hat to fan himself, the evening being warm, and in so doing purposely dropped his glove, so that in stooping to recover it he could give a good look to the rear to see whether he was followed. but there was no one suspicious-looking in sight, and, taking advantage of the darkness of the soft, warm evening, he began to walk more sharply, going through the park till he was opposite to the house, and after glancing to right and left, to make sure that he was not observed, he began to examine it carefully. those to right and left had several windows illumined, but his old london home was all in complete darkness, though he felt that if he went round to the street front he would see a light in the housekeeper's room. dark, everywhere dark; no gleam showing anywhere, not even at the window upon which his eyes had last rested when he was there that afternoon. "fancy," he thought; and he breathed more freely. "yes, it must have been fancy." "no, it was not fancy!" and his heart began to throb violently, his breath came short, and he looked wildly to right and left, and then walked across the road to stand beneath the trees to make sure that no one was watching from there. but he was quite alone as far as he could see, and he ran lightly back to the railings, wild with excitement now, and stood gazing across the little garden at that back window which was heavily curtained; but right up in the left-hand corner there was a faint glow, which he soon proved to himself could not be a reflection on the glass from outside. then he was right; and, panting now as if he had been running heavily, he went round into the street, reached the front of the house, where, as he had expected, he could see low down the faintly illumined blind of the housekeeper's room, and then rang gently. he waited, and there was no response; and he rang again, but the time passed again; minutes--more probably moments--elapsed before he heard a window opened softly overhead. "what is it?" said a woman's voice. "come down and open the door, berry," said the boy quickly. "you, master frank?" "yes; make haste." "is--is any one with you?" said the woman in a whisper, "because i don't like opening the door after dark." "no, i'm quite alone. make haste." the woman did not stop to close the window, and the next minute frank heard the bolts drawn softly back, the key turned, and as the door was being opened he stepped forward, but only to stop short on the step, for the housekeeper had not removed the chain. "what is it, my dear?" she said. she had not brought a light, and frank could dimly see her face at the narrow opening. "what is it?" cried frank impatiently. "take down the chain, and let me in. don't keep me standing here." "but her ladyship gave me strict orders, my dear, that i wasn't to admit any one after dark, for there are so many wicked people about." "did my father tell you not to admit me?" whispered frank, with his face close to the narrow slit. "what! before he went abroad, my dear?" faltered the woman. "no, no--yesterday, to-day--whenever he came back." "sir robert, my dear?" whispered the woman, with her voice trembling. "don't be so stupid. i must--i will see him. i saw his face at the window this afternoon." "oh, my dear, my dear!" stammered the woman. "there, take down the chain, berry." "i--i don't think i ought, my dear. stop a minute, and i'll go and ask him." "no, no. let me go up at once. you'll be quite right in letting me." the woman uttered a gasp, closed the door, and softly unhooked the chain, after which she opened the door just sufficiently for the boy to pass in, and closed and fastened it again. the hall was dark as could be, save for a faint gleam from the fanlight; but frank could have gone blindfold, and dashing over the marble floor to the foot of the staircase, he bounded up two steps at a time, reached the door of the back room, beneath which shone a line of light, and turned the handle sharply. as he did so, there was a dull sound within, and the light was extinguished. "open the door, father," whispered the boy, with his lips to the keyhole. "it is i--frank." there was the dull tremor of a heavy step crossing the floor, the door was unlocked, and the boy sprang forward in the darkness, the door was closed and relocked, and he was clasped in a pair of strong arms. "oh, dad, dad, dad!" cried the lad, in a panting whisper. "my own boy! then you saw me this afternoon?" "yes, just a faint glimpse of you. oh, father, father, it wasn't safe for you to come back!" "no, not very, my boy; but i couldn't stop away any longer. how is the dear one?" "quite well--only she looks thin and pale, father. she's fretting so because you are away." "hah!" ejaculated sir robert, in a long-drawn sigh. "i felt that she must be, and that helped to draw me back. heaven bless her!--frank lad, as you have found me out--but stop, did you tell her you had seen me?" "i haven't seen her since, father; and if i had, i shouldn't have dared. what would she think?" "bullets and bayonets, or worse, my boy. quite right; spoken like the brave, thoughtful lad you are growing. but it's very hard, frank. don't you think you could manage to bring her over here--say this time to-morrow evening?" "yes, father, easily," said frank. "my boy. oh, if you knew how i long to see her again!" "yes, father," said frank bitterly, "i could bring her, but for what?-- to see you arrested for coming back. it would be madness. there are spies everywhere. i had to be so careful to get round here without being followed." sir robert groaned as he stood there in the darkness, holding his son by his arms in a firm grip. "i can't help it, father. i must tell you the truth," cried the boy passionately. "yes, you are quite right, boy, and i'm weak and foolish to have proposed such a thing. but it's hard, my lad--very, very hard." "don't i know, father?" "yes, yes, boy. but tell me, does she talk about me to you much?" "she talks of nothing else, father. but listen; i'm going to petition the king myself. i'm going to kneel to him, and beg him to give you leave to return." "you are, my boy?" "yes, father," cried frank excitedly, "directly i get a chance." "no, frank, don't do that," said sir robert, rather sternly. "you don't wish me to, father?" sir robert drew a deep breath, and then hoarsely: "no. i desire that you do not. your mother has through the princess prayed and prayed in vain. no, frank, you shall not do that." "very well, father," said the boy drearily. "hist! some one!" whispered sir robert; and frank turned sharply to see light gleaming beneath the door, and his father stepped away from him, and something on the table grated softly as it was taken up. then a soft voice said: "wouldn't you like a light, sir robert? i saw yours was out." "yes," came from close to where frank stood with his hands turning wet in the darkness, and then he felt his father brush by him, the door was unlocked, and the housekeeper's white face was seen lit up by the candle she carried. "thank you, berry," said sir robert; and he took the candle and relocked the door after the woman. the light dazzled frank for a few minutes, and then he was gazing wonderingly in his father's face, to see that it was thin and careworn, while the lines in his forehead were deepened. his sword and pistols lay upon the table close to some sheets of paper, the inkstand showing that he had been writing when he was interrupted by his visitor; and the boy noticed, too, that there was a heavy cloak over a chair back, and the curtains were very closely drawn. "don't look so smart as in the old days, frank, eh?" said sir robert, with a sad smile. "you look like my father," said the boy firmly. "and you like my son," cried sir robert, patting the boy's head. "then you really would not like me to venture to ask the king, father?" sir robert pointed to a chair close by his own, and they sat down, the father still retaining his boy's hand. "no, frank," he said gravely. "i should not now. it is too late." "but it would mean bringing you back, father." "i am not a clever man, frank lad," said sir robert. "i am fair as a soldier, and i know my duties pretty well; but when we get into the maze of politics and social matters, i am afraid that i am very stupid. here, however, i seem to see in a dim sort of way that such a thing as you propose would be only weak and romantic. it sounds very nice, but it would only be raising your hopes and--stop. does your mother know that you think of doing this?" "oh no, father; the doctor only just suggested it--now that steinberg has recovered." "very good of the doctor, and i am deeply in his debt for saving that wretched german baron's life. not pleasant to have known that you had killed a man in a quarrel, frank." "horrible, father!" said the boy emphatically. "yes, horrible, lad. but the doctor is a better man at wounds than he is at giving counsel. no, frank, under any circumstances it would not have done. king george is too hard and matter-of-fact a man of the world to be stirred by my boy's appeal. his german folk would look upon it as weakness, and would be offended. he cannot afford to offend the german people, for he has no real english friends, and between the two stools he'd be afraid of coming to the ground. no, you shall not humble yourself to do this; and," he said firmly, "it is too late." there was something so commanding in the way these last words were said that frank drew a deep sigh of regret, and the hopeful vision faded away behind the cloud his father drew over it. but the minutes were precious, and he could not afford time to regret the dashing of his hopes, when he had him for whose benefit they were designed sitting there holding his hand. "then you are going to stay here now, father?" he said. "here? no, frank. it is only a temporary hiding-place. i shall be off to-morrow." "where to, father?" "humph! don't know for certain, my boy. as you say, the place swarms with spies, and though i have had to give up my gay uniform, plenty of people know my face, and i don't even feel now that they are not hunting me down." "but if they did, what would happen?" "a fight, frank--don't tell your mother this; she suffers enough. i can't afford to be captured, and--you know what they do with the poor wretches they take?" frank shivered, and glanced at his father's sword and pistols. "loaded, father?" he said in a whisper. "yes, boy." "and is your sword sharp?" "as sharp as the cutler could make it. and i know how to use it, frank; but a man who carries a sword--if he is a man--is like a bee with its sting; he will not use it save at the last extremity. you must remember that with yours." "yes, father. but do think again; we are both so unhappy there at the court." "what, in the midst of luxury and show!" said sir robert banteringly. "pah! what is the use of all that when we know that you are driven away and dare not show your face? oh, do think again. can't you let us come and join you?" "it is impossible, my boy. don't press me. i have too many troubles as it is. look here, frank; you are growing fast into a man, and you must try to help me as you did just now when i turned weak and foolish. the intense longing to see your mother was too much for me, but i have mastered it. you two are safe and well-cared for at the palace, where the princess is your mother's friend. i am nobody now, and what i do will not count as regards your mother and you. so try and be content, and stay." "but you, father? surely the king will forgive you soon." "never, boy," said sir robert sternly. "so be careful. a hint dropped of my whereabouts would give your mother intense suffering and dread for my life; so she must not know." "but your friends, father? captain murray--the doctor. every one likes you." "they must not know, so be cautious. i feel quite a young man, frank, and don't want to have my life shortened, nor my body neither," he added, with a grim smile. "oh, father!" cried the boy, with a shudder. "we must look the worst in the face, frank. by my return here my life is forfeit, and the king's people would be justified in shooting me down." "oh, but, father, this is horrible." "not to a soldier, frank," said sir robert, smiling. "soldiers get used to being shot at, and they don't mind so much, because they know how hard it is for any one to hit a mark. there, you are warned now, so let's talk of pleasanter things." "yes, of course, father; but i may come and see you again often?" "if you wish to see me taken." frank shuddered again. "no. this must be your only visit. i am glad you have come; but i can't afford to indulge in good things now." "you are going to stay in england, father?" cried frank anxiously. "i don't know." "what are you going to do?" "that i cannot tell either, my boy; and if i did know, for your mother's and your peace of mind i would not tell you." "that isn't trusting me, father," said frank gloomily. "and that is not trusting me, frank--to know what is best." "oh, but i do trust you, father. now tell me," cried the boy eagerly, "what shall i do to help you?" "stay where you are patiently, and watch over and help your mother." "is that all, father?" said the boy, in a disappointed tone of voice. "all? is it not enough to be trusted to keep my secret, the knowledge which means your father's life, boy, and to have the guardianship of the truest and best woman who ever lived--your mother? and you ask `is that all?'" "don't be angry with me, father. i am very young and stupid. i will be as contented as i can; only it is so hard to know that you are in danger, and to be doing nothing to help you." "you will be doing a great deal to help me, for you will be giving me rest of mind--and i want it badly enough. there, now you had better go. you may be asked for, and you can't make the excuse that you have been to see your father." "no," sighed frank. "but i shall see you again soon?" "perhaps. i may come here sometimes. an extra hole is useful to a hunted animal, frank; but don't question me, my boy, even if i seem mysterious. as your father, i can tell you nothing." frank sighed and clung to his father's arm. "there, i'll run one risk. you may come here sometimes. it will not look suspicious for you to visit your mother's empty house." "my father's empty house," said the boy. "no, your mother's. your father is an exile, an outcast, without any rights in england. i am dead in the eyes of the law, frank, and when you come of age you can reign in my stead. why, boy, if you liked to make a stand for it, they would, i dare say, tell you that you are now sir frank gowan." he looked so merrily in his son's face, that the boy joined in his mirth. "you must go now, my boy. i have work that will take me all night. but if you do come here in the hope of seeing me--" "i shall not come," said the boy firmly. "why?" "because, to please myself, i will not do anything to make your position dangerous." "well said, frank; but come now and then for my pleasure, and if i am not here, do this." he rose and walked to a portrait framed in the wainscotting over a side table, pointed to one little oval nut in the carving, twisted it slightly, and the picture swung forward, showing a shallow closet behind fitted with shelves, and in which were swords and pistols, with flasks of powder and pouches of ball. "you can look in there; and if i have been, you will find a letter, written for you and your mother, by a mr cross to apparently nobody. i am mr cross, frank. there. try if you can open it." he closed the picture door, and the boy tried, and opened and shut the panel easily, noting at the same time how ingeniously the carving tallied with portions on the other side of the framing. "now, then, sharp and short like a soldier, frank. heaven bless and protect you and your mother, who must not know i have been here. good-bye!" "good-bye, father," cried the boy in a choking voice as he clung to the strong, firm man, who pressed him to his breast, and then snatched himself away, and caught up sword and pistol from the table. for there was a sharp, impatient knocking on the panel of the door, and sir robert whispered: "we have stayed too long!" chapter twenty. lady gowan at bay. obeying the impulse of the moment, frank snatched the remaining pistol from the table, and drew his sword, seeing his father nod approval, as he stretched out his hand to extinguish the light; but before he had dashed it out, the knocking was repeated, and they heard a well-known voice. "robert--robert! open quickly, dearest. it is i." "ah!" cried frank, with his heart giving a tremendous bound, while sir robert unlocked and flung open the door, and clasped his wife to his breast. lady gowan was half swooning and speechless from excitement; but, making a brave effort, she recovered herself, and panted out as she struggled to free herself from her husband's firm arms: "quick! not a moment to lose. escape for your life." "what! they know?" "yes. the princess came to my room to warn me. the spies have traced you here; information has been given at the palace. the king has been told, and the princess bade me try to save your life before the guard came to arrest you." "hah! sharp work for us, frank lad. well, i have seen and kissed you, darling. now i must try and save your husband's life." as he spoke he buckled on his sword belt, thrust his pistols in his pockets, frank handing him the second, and took up his hat and the heavy cloak from where they lay. "good-bye, darling. frank knows how i can get a letter to you through him." "yes, yes; but you are killing me, robert; for pity's sake, fly!" "my own! yes," he whispered, as he folded lady gowan in his arms again. "ah!" cried frank wildly, for a heavy series of blows from the front-door knocker resounded through the house. "too late!" cried lady gowan wildly, as frank dashed out of the door to the front room to peer through the window. he was back in a few moments, to find his mother clinging to his father, ghastly with the horrible dread which had attacked her. "soldiers--a dozen at least in front!" panted frank. there was another loud knocking at the street door. "quick, father, out by that window. you can drop from the balcony." "yes, my boy, easily." "then get over the railing and cross the park. go straight through by the palace. no one would think you likely to take that way." "good advice, boy. out with the candle. that's right." lady gowan blew out the light, and frank quickly drew the heavy curtain aside, and uttered a groan, for the garden was full of armed men, dimly seen in the gloom amid the shrubs. "trapped, frank," said sir robert quietly, the danger having made the soldier cool. lady gowan uttered a faint, despairing cry. "hush, dear!" said sir robert firmly. "be a woman--my wife. i may escape yet. see berry, and keep her from opening the door, no matter what they say or do." "yes, yes," said lady gowan excitedly; "but, robert, what will you do?" "escape, if you help me. now be calm. let them break in, and when they do face them. you were alarmed, and did not know what evil was abroad. you need no excuse for refusing to have your house--and it is your house--opened to a riotous party of drunken soldiers for aught you know. now go down. do anything you can to gain time for me. heaven bless you, darling, till we meet again!" lady gowan's answer was to hurry out on the staircase, where the place was echoing to the resounding knocks and orders to open in the king's name. she was just in time to seize the old housekeeper by the arm, while a hysterical crying came from the maid below. "oh, my lady, my lady! they're going to break in. i was about to unfasten the door." "silence! touch it at your peril," cried lady gowan imperatively. "let them break in if they dare. go below to that foolish, sobbing girl, and stay there keeping her quiet." "but they'll break down the door, my lady." "let them," said lady gowan coolly. but she started as one of the narrow side windows was shivered by the butt of a musket, and the fragments of glass fell inside with a tinkling sound. "that's right; now reach in and shoot back the bolts." a hand and arm were thrust in through the hammered iron scroll work which covered the glass in the place of iron bars across the narrow window for protection, rendering it impossible for a man to creep past. but the arm came freely right up to its owner's shoulder, and in the gloom could be seen feeling about, the hand strained here and there to reach bolt, bar, or lock. vainly enough, for they were far out of reach; and at last, after several more angry orders, it was withdrawn. "try the other window!" cried the voice of the officer in command. "quick, men; don't shilly-shally. use your butts." _crash_, _crash_ and _tinkle_, _tinkle_ went the broken glass as it fell upon the marble floor beyond the mat; but the hole made was not in the best place, and there was another crash as the butt of a musket was driven through higher up, and simultaneously there was the loud report of the piece used as a battering-ram. "what are you doing?" roared the officer. "went off, sir." "went off, idiot! you must have touched the trigger." "no, sir. both hands hold of the barrel." "silence, sir! how dare you!" roared the officer--"how dare you! any one hurt, sergeant?" "no, sir; bullet went too high; but it's gone through a window opposite." proof came of the truth of the man's word, for a window on the other side of the street was thrown open, and a voice shouted angrily: "hallo there! what are you doing? want to shoot people?" "go in, and shut your window!" cried the officer, in an authoritative tone. "yes, that's all very well," cried the voice; "but you've no right to--" "silence, sir! in the king's name!" roared the officer. "here, four rear rank face about, make ready, present!" there was a shuffling sound, and the ring of muskets being brought up to the shoulder; but before the command _fire_! could be uttered, even if it had been intended, the window opposite was banged down, and a laugh arose. "now then there," said the officer to the man who had thrust in his arm on the other side of the door, "can you reach?" there was no reply for a time, while the man strained and reached out up and down, his hand making a peculiar whispering sound as it passed over the panelled woodwork between the door and window. "can't reach, sir." "here, let me try." a faint light appeared at the window for a few moments, and then there was a chinking sound as it was darkened again, and lady gowan, as she stood panting there, dimly made out that a sword was thrust through, an arm followed, and she could hear the blade ring and scrape as it was used to feel for the fastenings, clicking loudly against the ironwork and the chain which hung at the side ready for hanging across the door, to pass over a spiral hook on the other side. this went on for a few minutes, when, as with an angry exclamation the officer who had thrust his arm through paused to rest, lady gowan stepped forward out of the darkness, went close to the door, bent down, and caught the ring at the end of the hanging chain, and raised it to hook it across and fasten it to secure the door. she hardly made a sound with foot or dress; but as she drew the chain tight it chinked against the hook, and the officer heard her. "ha!" he shouted, with his face to the broken glass. "i see you there. open this door, or--" _click_, _click_ went the chain into its place, and, raising the blade of his sword, the officer made a sweeping blow at the brave woman, which struck her on the shoulder as she drew back. "now," he roared, "will you open?" the answer was a faint rustling, as lady gowan drew back into the dark part of the hall, fortunately unhurt, for the arm which wielded the sword was the left, and thoroughly crippled by its owner's position. "lucky for you i didn't give point," he muttered. then aloud: "once more, in the king's name, open this door!" "i'd die first," said lady gowan to herself; and she stood close to the foot of the great staircase listening, and hardly daring to breathe, as she strained her ears to catch some sound of what might be going on upstairs, her wildly dilated eyes fixed the while on the slips of windows on either side of the door. but from within the house all she could hear was a low sobbing from the housekeeper's room below, and the murmur of her old servant's voice as she tried to calm the hysterical girl who was nearly crazy with terror. but her attention was taken up directly by the voices outside, which came plainly to her through the broken windows. "well?" said the officer sharply; and she knew by the reply that one of the men must have climbed the iron railings and been down into the area. "both windows covered with big iron bars, sir, and the door seems a reg'lar thick 'un." "how long will they be getting back, sergeant, with the hammer and crowbars?" "'nother ten minutes or quarter-hour, sir." "bah! well, run round to the back, and tell them to keep a sharp look-out. see that the men are well awake at the end of the street, and keep two more ready back and front to stop every one who comes out of the houses in case he tries to escape by the roof." "yes, sir." "if any one appears on the roof, and does not surrender, fire." the sergeant's heavy paces were heard going along the pavement, every step seeming to crush down lady gowan's heart, as her head swam, and in imagination she saw the flash of the soldiers' muskets, and then heard the heavy fall of one for whom she would have gladly died. her hand went out to catch at the bottom pillar of the balustrade, and she stood swaying to and fro in the darkness, struggling hard to master the terrible sensation of faintness which came over her. it soon passed off, for the thought came to her that she must be firm. she was doing nothing to help her husband; but he had bidden her keep watch there over that door, and guard it against danger from within, and as a soldier's wife she would have died sooner than neglect the duty with which he had intrusted her. for how did she know what pressure might be brought to bear upon the weak woman below? the soldiery had been into the area, where there were only the glass windows between, and a broken pane would form an easy way for passage of threats. if bidden to open in the king's name, what might they not do? ah, she must guard against that, and with her nerves newly strung, she stood listening for a few moments to the buzz of voices outside, and then, feeling that it was impossible for danger to assail them without warning from the front door, she went to the head of the stairs which led down into the basement. "in the king's name!" she said softly. "robert is my king, and i can obey none other." she was herself again now--the quick, eager, brave woman, ready to do anything to save her husband's life; and gliding down the stairs she silently passed the open door of the housekeeper's room, where she could hear the servant girl sobbing, and the old housekeeper trying to comfort her and then to comfort herself. the next minute, quite unheard, she was at the end of the stone passage where the big, heavy door opened into the area, and began passing her hand over bolt, bar, and lock, to find all fast; and with a sigh of relief she was in the act of softly drawing out the big key, when a movement outside told her that a sentry had been placed at that door, and that the man must have heard the movement of the key. this made her pause, with her heart throbbing wildly; but in a minute or so she recovered herself, and almost by hairbreadths drew the great key slowly out with scarcely another sound, and crept back along the passage once more, past the open doorway through which the light streamed, and then up the stairs, and back to her former position in the dark hall, feeling confident now that no one could pass into the house from below unheard. the voices of the soldiers came to her, and an angry inquiry or two from the officer, who was getting out of patience. "have they gone to the smith's to get the things made?" he cried angrily. "well, sir, you see, it aren't like muskets, or swords, or ammunition," said the sergeant. "we don't want pioneering tools every day." "but they ought to be ready for use at a moment's notice." "so they are," grumbled the sergeant to himself; "but you've got to get to 'em first." and now it appeared to lady gowan that an hour passed slowly away, without news of what was passing upstairs, and her agony seemed to be more than she could bear. every sense had been on the strain, as she stood in trembling expectancy of hearing a shot fired--a shot that she knew would be at the life of her boy's father; but the sluggish minutes crawled on, and still all was silent above, while outside she was constantly hearing little things which showed how thoroughly the soldiery were on the alert. she had not heard the officer speak for some time, and she divined that he must have gone round to the back of the house, where it faced the open park; but he would, she was sure, return soon, to give directions to the men who arrived with the tools for breaking in the door; and when this was done, if sir robert had not found a way to escape, there would be bloodshed. her husband would never surrender while he could grasp a sword, and frank would be certain to draw in his father's defence, and then-- then lady gowan felt, as it were, an icy stab, which passed with a shock right through her; for the thought suggested itself how easy it would be for the soldiers to get a short ladder into the garden front of the house, rear it against the balcony outside the drawing-room window, and force their way in there. no bars would trouble them, and the shutters would give but little resistance. why had she not thought of that before? and as she thoroughly grasped this weakness of their little fort in the rear she turned cold with horror, for there was a faint sound on the staircase behind her, and as at the same moment she heard the loud steps of approaching men on the pavement outside a hand made a quick clutch from the darkness behind at her arm. chapter twenty one. for dear life. "now, frank, my boy," said sir robert, as the door closed on lady gowan, "they have us in front, and they have us in the rear. a fox, they say, always has two holes to the earth. a man is obliged to have a third way of escape if his enemies are too many for him, and i don't want to fight with the king's men for other reasons than that they belong to my old regiment." "shall i light the candle again, father?" "no, it will take too long, and i can do what i want in the dark. i've a rope here." frank heard his father unlock a cabinet, and his heart beat hopefully, when the next minute his father bade him "take hold," and he felt a thin, soft coil of rope passed into his hands. he needed no telling what was to follow, for he grasped the idea at once, and followed his father out of the room without a word. they paused on the staircase for a few moments, and heard the shivering of the glass and the stern summons for the door to be opened; and then sir robert laid his hand upon his son's shoulder. "seems cowardly, frank, to try to escape, and leave a woman to bear the brunt of the encounter; but i must play the fugitive now. i can't afford to surrender; the risks are too great. come on. your mother must not be disappointed after what she has done, and have to see me marched off." frank was astounded at his father's coolness, but he said nothing, and followed him quickly to the top of the house to where there was a trap-door in the ceiling over the passage leading to one of the attics. without telling, frank bent down and raised the light steps which were on one side of the passage, passed his arm through the coil of rope, went up the steps, and pushed open the trap-door, which fell back, leaving an opening for him to pass through into the false roof. sir robert followed, and a door formed like a dormer window in the slope of the roof was unbolted ready for him to step out on to the narrow leads. "now, frank lad, give me the rope," said sir robert in a low voice. "then follow me along by the parapet. we need not crawl, for it will hide us from the soldiers if we lean inward and keep one hand on the sloping slates." "yes, i understand," said frank; "you mean to go along the roofs right to the end." "yes: right." "and fasten the rope round a chimney stack?" "that's quite right too; and now listen. i shall not be able to talk to you out there. as soon as i am down, don't stop to untie the rope; it will be too tight from my weight. cut it, and draw it up again quickly, then get back as you came, shut the door after you, and take down the steps before you join your mother. but you must do something with the rope." "hide it?" said frank. "it would be found, and i don't want you or your mother to have the credit of helping me to escape." "burn it in the kitchen fire?" "there will not be time. they will search the house. i cannot propose a way, only do something with it. now good-bye." "good-bye?" faltered frank. "yes, while i can speak to you. quick! a soldier's good-bye. that will do; now out after me." sir robert's "good-bye" was a firm grip of his son's hand, and then he crept out on to the roof; frank followed him, his heart throbbing with excitement; and as he stepped out he could hear voices down below in the garden beneath the drawing-room windows. frank shivered a little, for he felt sure that they would be seen against the sky, in spite of their precaution of leaning toward the sloping roof, and he fully expected to hear the report of muskets; but the shiver was more due to excitement than fear. "they would not be able to hit us on a night like this, while we are moving," he said to himself; and with a strange feeling of wild exhilaration, he followed the dark figure before him, climbing across the low walls which separated house from house, and finding it easy enough to walk along in the narrow path-like space of leaded roof, which extended from the bottom of the slate slope to the low parapet with its stone coping, beyond which nothing was visible but the tops of the trees in the park. they must have passed over the roofs of twenty houses before sir robert stopped; and, as frank crept up close to him, he put his lips to the boy's ear. "it's a drop of ten feet to the next house," he said. "must go down from here." a sensation of dread did now attack frank, as he thought of the descent of a heavy man by the frail rope. if it had been he who was to go down, it would have been different, and he would have felt no hesitation. catching at his father's arm, he whispered: "are you sure that it will bear you?" "certain." "but the chimney stack?" whispered frank, as he could dimly make out that his father was uncoiling the rope, and he could see no place that would be suitable. "hist! this is better." sir robert was now kneeling down, and after being puzzled for a few moments, frank then made out that his father was passing one end of the rope through an opening at the corner of the parapet where the rain-water ran through a leaded shoot into the upright leaden stack-pipe which ran down the house and carried it into the drain. frank dimly made out that he knotted the rope carefully, and tried it by pulling hard twice over, before throwing a few yards over the parapet and letting the rest run through his hands till it was all down. his next movement puzzled the boy, but he grasped the meaning directly after. they were at an angle now, and sir robert was carefully testing the stone coping, to see if it were tight in its place and the pieces held together by the iron clamps kept in their places by the running in of molten lead. apparently satisfied, he turned quickly to where frank stood, now trembling, grasped his hand, and whispered: "have you a knife?" "yes, father." "cut the rope, and get back as soon as you can. don't wait to listen whether i elude the men." "no, father." sir robert stood holding his son's hand for a few moments, and listening to the murmur of voices at the back of his house, where the soldiers were talking rather excitedly. "for liberty and life, frank!" whispered sir robert then; and with the perspiration standing in great drops on the boy's face, he saw his father grasp the rope knotted so tightly from the hole by the lead on which he stood over the stone coping, throw back his cloak, and then lay himself flat on the parapet, and carefully lower his feet as he held on by the stone. from that he lowered himself, and, partly supported by the top of the leaden stack-pipe, he slowly changed his right hand to the loop of the rope; then softly gliding by the wide-open head of the pipe, he began to descend with the rope well twined round his right leg, and held to the calf of his heavy boot by the edge of his left boot sole. "if the rope should break or come undone!" thought the boy, as he turned cold and dropped upon his knees to reach over and grip the knot with both hands, while his lips moved as he muttered a prayer, feeling the thin cord quiver and jerk as if it were a strange nerve which connected him with his father, who was below there somewhere in the darkness--jar, thrill, and make a humming noise like the string of some huge bass instrument, but so faint that it would have been inaudible at any other time. but he could hear plainly enough, without any exaltation of his senses, that the soldiers were talking earnestly not a hundred yards away, their voices rising clearly to where the boy knelt. how long was it that he could feel that vibration of the cord which thrilled through him right to his toes, and made his hair feel as if it were being lifted from his scalp? ten minutes--five minutes--a quarter of an hour? not many seconds, and then it stopped; and the horror of feeling it suddenly slacken and hearing a heavy crashing fall did not assail the anxious boy, though he had fully expected it. the vibration ceased, and there was a quick, warning shake, which frank interpreted to mean a signal for him to remember his orders, and hasten back to the house. he would have liked to lean over, listening and straining his sight to follow the further movements of his father; but sir robert had, unconsciously to both, gradually disciplined his son into a prompt, soldierly way of instantly obeying orders, and directly that wave had passed up to him, frank's knife was out, and the rope, after a good deal of sawing, was cut through, the knife replaced, and the cord was rapidly drawn up, and laid down on the leads in a loose coil. he bent over then for a moment or two and listened, but all was still just below. there was no alarm such as he had dreaded, no shouting and firing of shots; and gathering up the rope, he hurried back along the narrow leads, using the same precaution of leaning inward, passed from house to house quickly, and kept on asking himself what he should do to hide the rope. no idea came, and he had nearly reached home before it flashed across his brain, and he drew a breath of relief. there was a hiding-place just before him, at the top of the low ridge of the house two doors away from his own. a low chimney was smoking steadily, and without pausing to think whether it was wise or no he crept up the slates, reached the ridge, grasped the side of the chimney stack, and stood upright, finding that he could just reach the top of the smoking pot. that was enough. the next minute he had the end of the rope passed in; and resting his wrists on the top of the pot, he drew and drew, rather slowly at first, but more and more rapidly as the descending end gained weight, and at last sufficed to run it down, and then it was gone. he slid down the slates, and, feeling relieved of an incubus, he reached their own house, glided in at the dormer, shut and bolted the door, descended through the trap, drawing it over him, went down the steps, laid them in their place, and, lastly, wondering whether he had soiled his hands with the black on the top of the house, he ran rapidly downstairs. as he ran he could hear the heavy tramp of the soldiers in the street at the front, and when he reached the lower flights dimly made out the figure of his mother standing at the bottom step, and stretched out his hand and caught her arm. lady gowan uttered a cry of horror, and sprang forward into the hall, facing round to meet her invisible enemy; but she uttered a faint sigh of relief as her arm was caught again, and she heard the familiar voice whisper: "hush! hush! mother." "ah!" she whispered back. "your father?" frank's answer was drowned by a thunderous blow delivered with a sledge-hammer upon the door close to the lock, and this was followed by another and another, which raised echoes up the staircase, and brought a series of hysterical shrieks from the housekeeper's room. but lady gowan paid no heed to either. she caught her son by the arms, and drew him farther from the door, placed her lips to his ear, and whispered in an agonised tone: "your father?--speak!" "got down safe, and gone," whispered back frank; and as his mother clung to him a strange thrill of elation ran through his nerves, making him feel that he was engaged in an adventure full of delirious joy. he felt that he must shout and cheer to get rid of the intense excitement which made his blood bubble in his veins, and he was ready for any mad display in what was like playing some wonderful game, in which, after a desperate struggle, his side was winning. "let them hammer and bang down the door, mother. the idiots! they are giving him time to get safe away. oh the fools, the fools! shall i go and speak to them?" "no, no," whispered lady gowan, speaking with her lips once more to her boy's ear, for the noise made was deafening. "let them take time to break in, and then we must parley with them, and let them suspect us and make a regular search. they will waste nearly an hour, frank." "of course they will," cried the boy joyously; "but, i say, mother, we're not going to put up with this, you know; i'm not going to have you insulted by these people breaking into the house. i shall show fight." "no, no, don't do anything imprudent, frank. we must assume that we took them for a ruffianly mob who tried to break in." "but they said, `in the king's name,' mother," said the boy dubiously. "and we would not believe them, my boy. frank, frank, it is horrible to incite you to prevaricate and dally with the truth, but it is to save your father's life. be silent. on my head be the sin, and i will speak and bear it." the crashing of the woodwork went on beneath the blows, and the murmur that rose like a low, deep accompaniment outside told that a crowd had collected, and were being kept back by the soldiery. "this way, frank," cried lady gowan; and she drew her son after her to the head of the basement steps, where she called aloud to the housekeeper, who came hurrying up, candle in hand, to where mother and son stood. the old woman looked ghastly, and frank could hear a strange sobbing from below, in spite of the noise at the front, which was partly deadened from where they stood. "master, my lady?" cried the woman wildly. "safe--escaped, berry," said lady gowan, in a voice full of exultation. "safe--escaped, my lady!" cried the woman, with the light of exultation rising now in her countenance. "then let them batter the house down, the wretches. i don't care now." "but, berry, listen. sir robert is out of their reach by now; but they must not know that he has been here." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed the woman wildly; "they won't get anything out of me. what! me tell 'em that my dear young master, whom i nursed when he wasn't half the size of master frank--tell 'em he has been here! i'd sooner have my tongue cut out." "but the girl--the girl?" "what her, my lady?" said the housekeeper contemptuously. "oh, they'll get nothing out of her to-night but shrieks, and nothing now, for she's shruck herself hoarse and speechless." "ah!" sighed lady gowan, "then now i can feel at rest. come up, frank." she led the way to the staircase, and hurried on to the drawing-room, with the massive front door being broken piecemeal by the heavy sledge-hammer; but each chain and bolt still held, and there was no way in yet but for light and noise, so that, before they gave way, frank had time to get a light and ignite the candles in two sets of branches in the drawing-room which they had entered and then fastened the door. this done, he turned in surprise to see that his mother had thrown back her hood, rearranged her hair, and was standing there before him flushed, but proud and perfectly calm. "oh, mother!" he cried, stepping up to her and kissing her. "i can't help it. drew is right. i am so proud of you." "are you?" she said, smiling, as she returned his kiss, and her look said that the pride was reciprocal. they gazed in each other's eyes for a few moments, as if deaf to the sounds below-stairs, which told that the soldiers had at last gained an entrance. then a change came over lady gowan's face, her upper lip curled, and a look of haughty scorn shone from her eyes. "they are coming up, my boy," she cried. "leave me to speak." for answer frank drew his sword, caught up the silver branch with its three candles from the table, and took a couple of strides in front of his mother toward the door, as it was dashed open, when, sword in hand, followed by half a dozen men with fixed bayonets, the officer in command rushed in. chapter twenty two. saved! "here, how dare you!" shouted frank angrily; and, in utter astonishment, the officer stopped short, and lowered the sword he had fully expected to use, while the men threw up their bayonets and stood fast. "i don't know you, but you belong to the guards, i suppose, and--" "silence, frank! let me speak," said lady gowan, without a tremor in her voice. "then you are not an armed mob of rioters. pray, what does this outrage mean?" "i ask your pardon, lady gowan," said the young officer, recovering himself; "it is a painful act of duty." "to break into my house, sir!" said lady gowan haughtily, while her son felt more than ever that he was engaged in some madly exciting game. "i was refused entrance, after repeatedly demanding it in the king's name." "in the king's name!" cried lady gowan scornfully. "how were i, my son, or my servants to know that this was not the excuse made by one of the riotous jacobite bands to obtain entrance and plunder my home?" "i cannot help fulfilling my duty, lady gowan," said the young officer respectfully. "i must proceed to the arrest." "arrest?" cried lady gowan hurriedly. "oh, frank! but surely--ah, i will speak to the princess. such a trivial act--a thoughtless boy. arrest him for absenting himself without leave--to meet his mother--at his own home?" "your ladyship must be trifling with me," said the officer sternly, "and i cannot be played with. information was brought to the palace that sir robert gowan is here, and at all costs my orders are to arrest him. i beg that you will tell him to surrender at once." "go back to those who sent you, sir, and tell them that sir robert gowan is not here." "then where is he, madam?" "you have no right to question me, sir," said lady gowan haughtily; "but, to end this interview, i will answer your question. i do not know." "your ladyship tells me that?" cried the officer quickly. "i refuse to be questioned by you, sir," said lady gowan with dignity. "you are in the king's guards; you have a duty to perform. i am helpless at this moment. pray do it, and go. but i insist, in the name of the lady whom i have the honour to serve, that you do not go without leaving a proper guard to protect this house from pillage by the mob outside." the officer looked puzzled and confused for a moment or two, and then he spoke again sharply. "i am bound to take your ladyship's word," he said; "but you know!" he cried, turning suddenly upon frank, and so fiercely intended as to throw him off his guard. "come, sir; it is of no use to prevaricate. where is sir robert?" but frank was as firm as his mother, and he met the young officer's eyes without flinching. "where is my father?" he said quietly. "i don't know, and if i did i wouldn't tell you." a flush of anger suffused the young guardsman's face; but the boy's manner touched him home, and the anger passed away in a laugh. "well," he said, "that's not a bad answer. unfortunately, young gentleman, i can't be satisfied with it.--lady gowan, i regret having this duty placed in my hands to carry out, but i must perform it. i am compelled to disbelieve you and your son, and search the house." "do your duty then, sir," said lady gowan coldly; "but i cannot stay here to submit to the insult. i insist upon my house being protected." "my men are at the door, madam, and no one will be allowed to pass. i answer for the place being safe." "thank you, sir," said lady gowan courteously. "i do not blame you for all this. i presume my son and i can pass your men?" "of course, madam," said the officer; and his manner changed, for these words impressed him more than any denial that sir robert was there. "i thank you for going, though," he said, recovering his composure. "you relieve me from the painful duty of arresting sir robert in your presence." lady gowan smiled, and drew her hood over her head. "come, frank," she said; "see me back to the palace; you will not need your sword." the officer took up the silver branch frank had set down, and as the boy returned his sword to its sheath, and his mother took his arm, the officer preceded them, and lit them down the stairs, where lady gowan stopped in the splinter-strewn hall to speak to the housekeeper. "see, berry," she said quietly, "that this gentleman and his men have every opportunity for searching the house. a rumour has been carried to the palace that sir robert is here. when they have done, men will be placed as sentries to guard the place. in the morning send for the workmen to see that a new door is placed there, and to do first what is necessary to board this one up." "yes, my lady," said the housekeeper quietly. the next minute lady gowan and her son passed out of the house with a corporal and four men to escort them back to the palace, the crowd making way for the armed men, while the officer returned to the hall, and looked at the sergeant fixedly. "gone?" said the officer. "yes, sir. bird's flown," replied the sergeant. "well, search from top to bottom, from cellar to leads. that's the way he must have gone." "if it wasn't a false alarm, sir," said the man respectfully. "i never had much faith in any spies." "be on your guard; he may be here," said the officer. "now search." the sergeant went off promptly with his men, muttering to himself: "and nobody's better pleased than me. nicely we should have been groaned at if we had found him. that is, if we had taken him; but he'd have fought like the man he is. well, i'm glad he's gone." "i saved, frank, saved!" whispered lady gowan, as they parted on reaching the palace. "yes, mother, saved. oh, don't look like that!" she kissed him hurriedly, and entered her apartment, to hurry thence to the princess's chamber; while frank made for his own, with his head feeling as if it were full of buzzing sounds, and ready to ask himself if all that he had gone through was not part of a feverish dream. chapter twenty three. more about the ducks. the news was all over the palace the next morning; but before meeting andrew forbes, frank hurried to his mother's apartments, to find her dressed, but lying down, her maid saying that she was very ill, but that she would see mr gowan. "i thought you would come, my boy," said lady gowan, embracing him. "oh, my darling, what a horrible night! tell me again all about your father's escape." "you're not well enough, mother," said the boy bluntly. "it will only agitate you more. isn't it enough that i helped him to get safe away without any accident?" "yes, yes, you are right," said lady gowan. "but how rash, how mad of him to come! frank, remember that you must not breathe a word about how it was that i was able to warn him." "i see," said frank; "it would make mischief." "and this has undone all that i was trying to do. he might have been forgiven in time; now we shall have to wait perhaps for years." "then don't let's wait, mother. he says that we should have to suffer terribly if we shared his lot with him. but who cares? i shouldn't a bit, and i'm sure you wouldn't mind." "i, my boy?" cried lady gowan passionately. "i'd gladly lead the humblest life with him, so that we could be at peace." "very well, then; let's go." lady gowan shook her head. "we must respect your father's wishes, frank," she said sadly. "no; we must stay as we are till we are ordered to leave here, or your father bids us come." "there," said the boy, "i was right. you must not talk about it any more; it only makes you cry. never mind what happened last night. he has got safely away." "but if he should venture again, my boy," sobbed lady gowan. "never mind about _ifs_, mother. of course he longed to see us, and he ran the risk, so as to be near. i should have done the same, if i had been like he is. there, now you lie still and read all day. he won't run any more risks, so as not to frighten you. i must go now." lady gowan clung to her son for a few minutes, and then he hurried away, to find andrew forbes in the courtyard. "ah, i was right!" he said. "i went to your rooms, thinking i should catch you; but you were up and off. i thought this would be where you had come. but, i say, i thought we were friends." "well, so we are." "don't seem like it, for you to go and have a jolly night of adventures like that, and leave me out in the cold." "i couldn't help it, drew," said frank apologetically. "yes, you could. i smell a rat now. i thought you turned very queer when we were by your house yesterday. then you saw him at one of the windows?" frank looked at him frowningly, and then nodded his head. "and never told me! well, this is being a friend! i would have trusted you. but, i say, it was grand. i've just seen captain murray and the doctor. they were together in the captain's room. they wouldn't say so, of course, but they were delighted to hear he got away, though they say they wouldn't wonder if you were dismissed." "i don't care, if my mother has to leave too." "ah! but the princess wouldn't let her go. i say, how do you feel now?" "very miserable," said frank sadly. "nonsense! you mean not so precious loyal as you were." "if you are going to begin about that business again, i am going," said frank coldly. "i've done. i'm satisfied. you'll be as eager on the other side some day, frank; and i like you all the better for being so staunch as you are. as my father says, it makes you the better worth winning." "when did your father say that?" cried frank sharply. "never mind. perhaps he wrote it to me. you can't expect me to be quite open with you if you're not with me. but, i say," cried the lad enthusiastically, "it's grand!" "what is?" "for us to be both with our fathers banished. why, frank, it's like making heroes of us." "making geese of us! what nonsense!" "just as you like; but i shall feel what i please. i never did see such a fellow as you are, though. you have no more romance in you than a big drum. but, i say, tell us all about it." with a little pressing frank told him all, the narrative being given, in an undertone, and after a faithful promise of secrecy, on one of the benches under a tree in the park, while andrew sat with his fingers interlaced and nipped between his knees, flushed of face, his eyes flashing, and his teeth set. "oh," he cried at last, "i wish i had been there, and it had come to a fight." "what good would that have done?" said frank. "oh, i don't know; but what a night! it was glorious! and to think that all the while i was moping alone over a stupid book, while you were enjoying yourself like that." "enjoying myself!" cried frank scornfully. "yes, enjoying yourself. there, with your sword out, defending your beautiful mother from the guards, after saving your father's life, and keeping the castle--house, i mean--against the men who were battering down the gate--door." "well," said frank drily, "if i have no more romance in me than there is in a big drum, you have." "i should think i have!" cried the lad, whose handsome, effeminate face was scarlet with his excitement. "why, you cold-blooded, stony-hearted old countryman, can't you see that you were doing man's work, and having glorious adventures?" "no; only that it was very horrible," said frank, with his brow all in lines. "bah! i don't believe you felt like that. what a chance! what a time to have! all the luck coming to you, and i'm obliged to lead the life of a palace lapdog, when i want to be a soldier fighting for my king." "wait till you get older," said frank. "i wanted to be a man last night." "why, you were a man. it was splendid!" cried andrew enthusiastically. "i wasn't a man, and it wasn't splendid," said frank sadly. "i felt all right then; but when i woke this morning, i seemed to see myself standing there in our drawing-room, with my sword in one hand and the big silver candlestick in the other, and i felt that i must have looked very ridiculous, and that the young officer and the men with him must have laughed at me." "er-r-err!" growled andrew; "i haven't patience with you, franky. you're too modest by half--modest as a great girl. no, you're not; no girl could have behaved like you did. i only wish i had had the chance to be there. ridiculous indeed! very ridiculous to help your father to escape as you did, 'pon my honour. oh yes, very ridiculous! i want to be as ridiculous as that every day of my life; and if it isn't playing the man--" "yes, that's it," said frank gloomily,--"playing the man, when one's only a boy." "bah! hold your tongue, stupid. you don't know yet what you did do. but, i say, that was ridiculous, if you like." "what was?" said frank, starting. "climbing up the roof to hide the rope, and stuffing it down the next-door chimney. i say: i wonder what the people thought." frank smiled now. "well, that does seem comic." "it was glorious. but they'll never know. they'll think the sweeps must have left it when the chimney was last swept. but i suppose you've heard about lieutenant brayley's report?" "no, not a word. i went as soon as i was dressed to see how my mother was." "oh, i heard from murray. he reported that it was a false alarm, and that sir robert could not have been there, for he had the house well watched back and front, and all the approaches to the houses adjoining. oh, i do enjoy getting the better of the other side. and, i say, every one's delighted that he escaped, if he was there; but i hope he won't get taken. tell him to mind, franky, for every place swarms with spies, and that it's next to impossible to get out of the country. oh, i wouldn't have him taken for all the world." "thank ye," said frank warmly; "but how am i to tell him that?" andrew turned and gave his companion a peculiar smiling look. "of course," he said merrily, "how can you tell him? he did not tell you how to write to him--oh, no; nor where to find the letters he sent to you. oh, no; he wouldn't do that. not at all likely, is it?" frank turned white. "how did you know that?" he said hoarsely. "because i'm rowing in the same boat, franky. why, of course he did. now, didn't he?" the boy nodded. "so did my father, of course. there, i'm going to thoroughly trust you, if you don't me. i'd trust you with anything, because i can feel that you couldn't go wrong. i don't want you to tell me where your father told you to write, or what name he is going to take, or how you are to get his letters, for of course he couldn't write to the palace. but he told you how to communicate with him, i do know, frank. it was a matter of course with your father like that. i say, what do you think of a tin box in a hollow tree in the park, where you can bury it in the touchwood when you go to feed the ducks?" "that would be a good way of course," said frank; "but no, it isn't like that." "what, for you and your father? who said it was? i meant for me and mine." "what! feed the ducks! drew!" cried frank excitedly. "yes; what's the matter?" "feed the ducks?" "yes, feed the ducks!" "you don't mean to tell me that--that--" "mr george selby is my father? of course i do." "oh!" ejaculated frank in astonishment. "isn't it fine?" cried andrew. "he comes and feeds the ducks--his majesty king george's ducks--and the precious spies stand and watch him; and sometimes he has a chance to see me, and sometimes he hasn't, and then he leaves a note for me in the old tree, for he says it's the only pleasure he has in his solitary exiled life." "oh, drew!" cried frank warmly. "yes, poor old chap. i'm not worth thinking about so much, only i suppose i'm something like what poor mother was, and he likes it, or he wouldn't leave all his plots and plans for getting poor james francis on the throne to come risking arrest. they'd make short work of him, frank, if they knew--head shorter. i shall tell him i've told you. but i know what he'll say." "that you were much to blame," said frank eagerly. "not he. he'll trust you, as i do. he likes you, frank. he told me he liked you all the better for being so true to your principles, and that he was very glad to find that i had made friends with you. there, now you can tell me as much as you like. nothing at all, if you think proper; but i shall trust you as much as you'll let me, my lad. there, it's time to go in. i want to hear more about what they're doing. as they know that your father has been seen, they'll be more strict than ever. but let's go round by your old house." "no, no," said frank, with a shudder. "better go.--come, don't shiver like that. you were a man last night; be one now." "come along then," said frank firmly; and they walked sharply round by the end of the canal, and back along the opposite side toward westminster, passing several people on the way, early as the hour was. "don't seem to notice any one," said andrew; "and walk carelessly and openly, just as if you were going--as we are--to look at your old house where the adventure was." "why?" "because several of the people we pass will be spies. i don't want to put you all in a fidget; but neither you nor your mother will be able to stir now without being watched." "do you think so?" said frank, who felt startled. "sure of it. there, that's doing just what i told you not to do, opening your mouth like a bumpkin for the flies to jump down your throat, and making your eyes look dark all round like two burnt holes in a blanket. come along. you mustn't mind anything now. i don't: i'm used to it. let 'em see that you don't care a rush, and that they may watch you as much as they please. now don't say anything to me, only walk by me, and we'll go by the park front of your place. i want to have a quiet stare at the tops of the houses and at the corner where your father slipped down the rope." frank obeyed his companion, and they walked on, seeing no one in particular, save an elderly man with a very bad cough, who stopped from time to time to rest upon his crutch-handled stick, and indulge in a long burst of coughing, interspersing it with a great many "oh dears!" and groans. they left him behind, as they passed the last tall house, where frank shuddered as he saw the upright leaden stack, the hole in the parapet, where the rope was tied, and the garden beneath. the boy turned hot as he went over the whole adventure again and thought the same thoughts. then he glanced sharply through the iron railings in search of footmarks, but saw none, for andrew uttered a warning "take care," and he looked straight before him again as he went out by the park gate, and turned back and through the streets till they reached the front of the house, where men were nailing up boards, and a couple of soldiers stood on duty, marching up and down, as if some royal personage were within. frank glanced at the workmen, and would have increased his pace, but andrew had hold of his arm and kept him back. "don't hurry," he said quietly; and then lightly to one of the sentries, "got some prisoners inside, my man?" the sentry grinned, and gave his head a side wise nod toward frank. "ask this young gentleman, sir; he knows." frank flushed scarlet, as he turned sharply to the man, whom he now recognised as one of the guards who entered the drawing-room with the officer. "ah, to be sure," said andrew coolly; and nodding carelessly, he went on and out by the gate into the park at the end of the street, where the old man they had previously seen was holding on by the railings coughing violently. "poor old gentleman!" said andrew sarcastically, but loud enough for him to hear; "he seems to be suffering a good deal from that cough." the man bent his head lower till his brow rested on the hand which held on by the railings, and coughed more than ever. "you needn't have made remarks about him," whispered frank. "i'm afraid he heard what you said." "i meant him to hear," said andrew loudly; and he stopped and looked back directly. "a miserable, contemptible impostor. i could cure his wretched cough in two minutes with that stick he leans on." the man started as if he had received a blow, and raised his head to glare fiercely at the youth, who was looking him superciliously up and down. "look at him, frank," continued andrew; "did you ever see such a miserable, hangdog-looking cur?" frank felt in agony, and gripped his companion by the arm. "did you mean that to insult me, boy?" said the man angrily. "done it without the stick," said andrew, not appearing to notice the man's words. "you see a good lash from the tongue was enough. now, can you imagine it possible that any one could sink so low as to earn his living by watching his fellow-creatures, spying their every act, and then betraying them for the sake of a few dirty shillings, to send them to prison or to the gibbet? there can be nothing on earth so base as a thing like this. why, a footpad is a nobleman compared to him." "you insolent young puppy!" cried the man; and entirely forgetful of his infirmity, he took three or four paces toward them, with his stick raised to strike. frank's hand darted to his sword, but andrew did not stir. he stood with his lids half closed and his lips compressed, staring firmly at his would-be assailant, never flinching for a moment, nor removing his eyes from those which literally glowed with anger. "the cough's gone, frank, and the disguise might as well go with it. he is not an invalid, but one of the vile, treacherous ruffians in the pay of the government. let your blade alone; he daren't strike, for fear of having a sword through his miserable carcass. he was dressed as a sailor the other day, and he looked as if he had never had a foot at sea. he has been hanging about the park for the past month. pah! look at the contemptible worm." the miserable spy and informer, who had remained with his stick raised, turned white with passion, as he stood listening to the lad's scathing words, and had either of the boys flinched he might have struck at them. as it was, he uttered a fierce imprecation, let the point of his stick drop to the ground, and turned away to hobble for a few steps, and, as if from habit, began to cough; but andrew burst into a bitter laugh, and with a fierce oath the man turned again and shook his stick at him before ceasing his cough and walking sharply away, erect and vigorous as any. "well," said andrew, "do you think i insulted him too much?" "why, he is an impostor!" "pah! london swarms with his kind. they have sent many a good, true, and innocent man to tyburn for the sake of blood-money--men whose only fault was that they believed james francis to be our rightful king. frank," cried the lad passionately, "i can't tell you how i loathe the reptiles. i knew that wretch directly; my father pointed him out to me as one to beware of. if he knew what we do, he would send my dear, brave father to the scaffold, and he is trying hard to send yours. where's your pity for the poor invalid now?" "oh!" ejaculated frank excitedly, "can such things be true?" "true? why was he dogging us this morning? i can't be sure, of course; but as likely as not it was upon his information that your poor father was almost taken last night, and your mother nearly broken-hearted this morning. why, frank, i never saw you look so fierce before. it's all nonsense about my being two years older than you. you've overtaken and passed me, lad. i'm getting quite afraid of you." "oh, don't banter me now, drew. i can't bear it." "it's only my spiteful tongue, frank. i don't banter you at heart. i'm in earnest. only a short time ago i used to think i was as old as a man, and it was trouble about my father made me so. now i can't help seeing how trouble is altering you too. don't mind what i say, but i must say it. some day you'll begin to think that i am not so much to blame for talking as i do about our royal master." frank drew a long, deep breath, and felt as if it might after all be possible. "there, that's enough for one morning," cried andrew merrily. "we're only boys after all, even if i am such a queer fish. let's be boys again now. what do you say? i'll race you round the end of the canal, and see who can get in first to breakfast." "no," said frank; "i want to walk back quietly and think." "and i don't mean to let you. there, we've had trouble enough before breakfast. let's put it aside, and if we can get away go and see the horse guards parade, and then listen to the band and see some of the drilling. i want to learn all i can about an officer's duty, so as not to be like a raw recruit when i get my commission, if i ever do. i say: hungry?" "i? no." "then you must be. make a good breakfast, lad. sir robert's safe enough by now, and he'll be more cautious in future about coming amongst his majesty's springes and mantraps. look yonder; there's captain murray. who's that with him?" "the doctor." "so it is. let's go and talk to them." "no; let them go by before we start for the gate. i feel as if every one will be knowing about last night, and want to question me. i wish i could go away till it has all blown over." "but you can't, frank; and you must face it out like a man. i say--" "well?" "you're not likely to see the king, and if you did it's a chance if he'd know who you are; but you're sure to see the prince, and i am a bit anxious to know whether he'll take any notice about what his page did last night, and if he does, what he'll say." "i'm pretty well sure to see him this afternoon," said frank gloomily; "and if he questions me i can't tell him a lie. what shall i say?" "i'll tell you," said andrew merrily. "yes? what?" "say nothing. he can't make you speak." "then he'll be angry, and it will be fresh trouble for my mother." "i don't believe he will be," said andrew. "well, don't spoil your breakfast about something which may never happen. wait and see. the worst he could do would be to have you dismissed; and if he does he'll dismiss me too, for i shan't stop here, frank, unless my father says i must." chapter twenty four. with prince and princess. frank thought over his companion's proposals for spending such time as they could get away from duty, and soon after breakfast said what he thought. "every one seems to know about it," he said mournfully. "it's wonderful what an excitement it has caused." "not a bit. every one knows lady gowan and her son, and how sir robert was sent out of the country on account of that duel in the park; so of course they talk about it." "but wherever we go we shall be meeting people who will want to question me." "yes," said andrew quietly. "i've been thinking the same. it's a great nuisance, for i wanted to go soldiering to-day." "there's nothing to prevent you going." "yes, there is--you. i'm not going without you go too." "but, drew--" "there, don't say any more about it," said the lad warmly. "i know. it wouldn't be pleasant for you to go, so you stay in, and we'll read or talk." "but i don't like to force you to give up." "not going to force me. i'm going to stay because i like it, and keep you company, and stop people from talking to you." frank said little, but he thought a great deal, and the most about how, in spite of his old belief that he should never thoroughly care for his fellow-page, the tie of sympathy between them from the similarity of their positions was growing stronger every day. as it happened they did not lose much, for they found that they would have to be a good deal on duty, and the consequence was that much of the early part of the day was spent in the antechamber to help usher in quite a long string of gentlemen, who wished for an audience with the prince. in the afternoon, just as frank was longing for his freedom so that he might go and inquire how lady gowan was, he received a sharp nudge from andrew, and turned quickly, to find that a knot of ladies had entered the room, and naturally his first glance was to see if his mother was with them. but he did not see her, his eyes lighting instead upon the princess, who was on her way to join her husband. the blood rose to frank's cheeks as he saw that her royal highness was looking at him intently, and his confusion increased as she smiled pleasantly at him in passing. instead of hurrying forward to open the door for her as usual, he stood in his place as if frozen, and the duty fell to andrew, who joined him as soon as the last lady had passed through the door and the curtain was let fall. "i say, frank," said the lad merrily, "she didn't seem very cross with you. lucky to be you, with your mother a favourite. you're all right, and i don't suppose you'll hear another word about the business. it's a good thing sometimes to be a boy." but andrew proved to be wrong, and within the next hour or so; for the last of the audience--reckless officers praying for promotion and gentlemen asking the prince's support as they sought for place--had gone, when a servant entered the anteroom, and took frank's breath away by saying that the prince wished to speak with him directly. "it's all over with you, frank," whispered andrew; "leave me a lock of your hair, and you may as well give me your sword for a keepsake. you'll never want it again." these bantering words did not quell the boy's alarm, but he had no time for thought; he had to go, and, drawing himself up and trying to put on a firm mien, he went to the door, drew aside the curtain, knocked, and entered. the prince was busy at a table covered with papers, the princess sat near him in the opening of one of the windows, and her ladies were at the other end of the room beyond earshot. the boy grasped all this as he moved toward the table, and then stood waiting respectfully for his royal highness to speak. but some minutes elapsed, during which the boy's heart beat heavily, and he stood watching the prince, as he kept on dipping his pen in the ink and signed some of the papers by him, and drew the pen across others. frank would have given anything for a look of encouragement from the princess; but she sat with her face still turned away, reading. at last! the prince looked up sharply, as if he had just become aware of the boy's presence, and said in rather imperfect english: "well, my boy!" frank, who had felt so manly the previous night and that morning, was the schoolboy again, completely taken aback, and for a few moments stood staring blankly at the inquiring eyes before him. then, as the prince raised his brows as if about to say, "why don't you speak?" the boy said hurriedly: "your royal highness sent for me." "sent for you? no--oh yes, i remember. well, sir, what excuse have you to make for yourself?" "none, your highness," said the boy firmly. "humph! defiant and obstinate?" frank shook his head. he could not trust himself to speak. "hah! that's better," said the prince. "well, what have you to say in excuse for your conduct, before i order you to quit my service?" "nothing, your highness." "humph! very wise of you, sir. i hate lying excuses." frank darted a quick glance in the direction of the princess, in the hope that she would intercede for him, as he saw himself sent off in disgrace, separated from the mother whom his father had bidden him to watch over and protect. the idea was horrible, and with his hands turning moist in the palms, and the dew gathering in fine drops about his temples, he felt ready to promise anything to ensure his stay at the palace. "i may tell you what i have heard from the officer in charge of the guard last night--everything which took place. what am i to think of one of my servants standing with his sword drawn to resist his majesty's officer in the execution of his duty?" "it was to defend my mother, sir," said frank firmly. "oh! well, that is what a son should do, and that is some excuse. a lady i respect, and whom the princess esteems. but this is very serious at a time like this, when his majesty is surrounded by enemies; and there must be no more such acts as this, mr gowan. if you were a man, i should not have spoken as i do; you would have been dealt with by others. but as you are a mere thoughtless boy, ready to act on the impulse of the moment, and as, for your mother's sake, the princess has interceded for you, i am disposed to look over it." "thank your royal highness," cried frank, drawing a long, deep breath, full of relief. "now you may go back to your duties, and remember this: you are very young, and have good prospects before you. you are my servant now you are a boy; i hope you will be my servant still when you grow up to be a man. i shall want men whom i can trust--men to whom i can say `protect me,' and who will do it." "yes, your highness, and i will," cried frank eagerly, as he took a couple of steps forward. "so would my father, your highness. he is a fine, brave, true soldier, and--" "he has a son who believes in him. well?" "he was forced to fight, your highness. you would not have believed in him as a soldier if he had refused, and it is so cruel and hard that he should have been sent away. pray--pray ask the king to forgive him now." "humph! you are a very plain-spoken young gentleman," said the prince sternly. "you draw your sword to protect your mother, and now i suppose if your father is not pardoned you will turn rebel and draw it again to protect him." "your royal highness has no right to think such a thing of me," said the boy, flushing warmly. "i was taught that i was to do my duty here." "and very good teaching too, sir; but boys are very ready to forget what they are taught; and princes and kings have a right to think and say what they please." "i beg your royal highness's pardon. you said you wanted faithful servants, and a truer and better man than my father never lived." "here, how old are you, young fellow?" "seventeen, your highness." "and you are arguing like a man of seven-and-forty. well, it is a fine thing for a boy to be able to speak like that of his father, and i will not quarrel with you for being so plain. but look here, my boy: i am not the king." "but your royal highness will be some day," said frank excitedly, for he had the wild belief that he was going to carry the day. "humph! perhaps, boy; but that is a bad argument to use. there, i will be plain with you. it does not rest with me to pardon your father." "but his majesty--" began the boy excitedly. "i cannot ask his majesty, boy," said the prince sternly. "i am very angry to find that one of my attendants was mixed up with last night's troubles; but, as i told you, at the intercession of the princess, i am disposed to look over it, if you promise me that in future you will be more careful, and do your duty as my servant should." "i will, your highness.--but my poor father?" "must wait until his majesty is disposed to pardon his offence. go." the prince waved his hand toward the door, and then for a moment or two he looked startled, for in a quick, impulsive way the boy darted forward and caught the raised hand. the sudden movement startled the princess too, and she sprang from her chair; but the look of alarm passed from her eyes as she saw the boy bending down to kiss the prince's hand, and as he let it fall she held out her own. frank saw the movement, and the next instant he was down on one knee, kissing it, and rose to give the princess a smile full of gratitude. at that moment he felt his shoulder heavily grasped by the prince. "good lad!" he said. "go to your duties. i see i shall have in you a servant i can trust." frank did not know how he got out of the room, for his head was in a whirl, and he did not thoroughly come to himself till he had been seated for some time by his mother's couch and had told her all that had passed. but somehow lady gowan did not look happy, and when she parted from her son there was a wistful look in her eyes which told of a greater trouble than that of which the boy was aware. "of course," said andrew forbes, when he had drawn the full account of the boy's experiences from him; "but you need not be so precious enthusiastic over it. you had done nothing, though plenty of people get hung nowadays for that." "but he was very kind and nice to me." "kind and nice!" said andrew, with a sneer. "that was his artfulness. he wants to make all the friends he can against a rainy day--his rainy day. he's thinking of being king; but he won't be. i do know that." frank gave him an angry look, and turned away; but his companion caught his arm. "don't go, frank; that was only one of my snarls. i'm not so generous and ready to believe in people as you are." frank remembered his companion's position and his confidence about his father, and turned back. "i can't bear to hear you talk like that." "slipped out," said andrew hurriedly. "there, then, it's all right again for you. but there's no mistake about your having a good friend in the princess." chapter twenty five. frank boils over. there seemed to be a good deal of excitement about the court one day; people were whispering together, and twice over, as frank was approaching, he noted that they either ceased talking or turned their backs upon him and walked away. but he took no further notice of it then, for his mind was very full of his father, of whom he had not heard for some time. his mother had seemed terribly troubled and anxious when he had met her, but he shrank from asking her the cause, feeling that his father's long silence was telling upon her; and in the hope of getting news he went again and again to the house in queen anne street, ascended to the drawing-room, and opened the picture-panelled closet door. but it was for nothing. the housekeeper had told him that sir robert had not been; but thinking that his father could have let himself in unknown to the old servant, frank clung to the hope that he might have been, deposited a letter, and gone again, possibly in the night. in every visit, though, he was disappointed, but contented himself by thinking that his father had acted wisely, and felt that it was not safe to come for fear that he might be watched. it was nearly a week since he had been to the house, and he was longing for an opportunity to go again, but opportunity had not served, and he came to the conclusion that he would slip off that very afternoon, after exacting a promise from andrew forbes that he would keep in the anteroom ready to attend to any little duty which might require the presence of one of the pages. to his surprise, though, andrew was nowhere to be seen. to have inquired after him would only have served to draw attention to his absence, so he contented himself with waiting patiently, but minute by minute he grew more anxious, feeling convinced that something must have occurred. "whatever has happened?" he said to himself at last, as he saw officers begin to arrive and be ushered into the prince's room; but why, there was no chance for him to know, as there was no one to whom he could apply for information, and at last he sat alone in the great blank saloon, fidgeting as if he were upon thorns, and inventing all manner of absurd reasons to account for his companion's absence. "i know," he said to himself at last; "he has noticed that there is something on the way, and gone out to try and pick up news. he'll be here directly." but he was wrong. andrew did not come, and several little things occurred to show him that there was undue excitement about the place. at last his suspense came to an end, as he sat alone, for andrew appeared looking flushed and excited, glanced sharply round as soon as he was inside the door, caught sight of his friend, and half ran to join him. "oh, here you are, then, at last!" cried frank. "at last," said the lad. "yes; where have you been--news-hunting?" "yes," he whispered excitedly; "news-hunting, and i ran it down." "what is it? there are three officers with the prince, and i heard some one say that a messenger was to be despatched to bring the king back to town." "did you hear that?" cried andrew excitedly. "yes." "ah!" ejaculated andrew. "what is it? a riot?" "yes, a very big riot, lad; a very, very big one. now we shall see." "it doesn't seem likely for it to be _we_," said frank sarcastically. "why don't you out with it, and tell me what's the matter?" "oh, two things; but haven't you heard?" "of course not, or i shouldn't be begging and praying of you to speak." "i found a letter from the dad, that's one thing, and he told me what i find the place is ringing with." "something about bells?" said frank, laughing. "yes, if you like," said andrew wildly. "the tocsin. war, my lad, war!" "what! with france?" "no; england. at last. the king has landed." "i say, are you going mad?" "yes, with excitement. frank, the game has begun, and we must throw up everything now, and join hands with the good men and true who are going to save our country." "bah! you've got one of your fits on again," cried frank contemptuously; "what a gunpowder fizgig you are!" "look here!" said andrew, in an angry whisper; "this is no time for boyish folly. we must be men. the crisis has come, and this miserable sham reign is pretty well at an end." "the prince is in yonder," said frank warningly. "prince!" said drew contemptuously; "i know no prince but james francis stuart. now, listen; there must be no shilly-shallying on your part; we want every true patriot to draw the sword for his country." "ah well, i'm not what you call a true patriot, and so i shan't draw mine." "bah!" ejaculated drew. "and bah!" cried frank. "don't you play the fool,--unless you want some one to hear you," he continued, in a warning whisper. "what do i care? i have had great news from my father, and the time has at last come when we must strike for freedom." "are you mad? do you know where you are?" cried frank, catching him by the arm. "not mad, and i know perfectly where i am. look here, frank; there must be no more nonsense. i tell you the time has come to strike. our friends have landed, or are about to land. there is going to be a complete revolution, and before many hours the house of hanover will be a thing of the past, and the rightful monarch of the house of stuart will be on the throne." "then you are mad," said frank, with another uneasy glance at the curtained door beyond where they stood, "or you would never talk like this." "i shall talk how i please now," cried the lad excitedly. "let them do their worst. i feel ready to wait till the prince comes out, and then draw my sword and shout, `god save king james the third!'" "no, you are not. you would not so insult one who has always behaved well to you." "bah! i am nobody. i don't count. how have he and his behaved to my poor father and to yours? frank, i know i'm wildly excited, and feel intoxicated by the joyful news; but i know what i am talking about, and i will not have you behave in this miserable, cold-blooded way, when our fathers are just about to receive their freedom and come back to their rights." "it's no use to argue with you when you're in this state," said frank coldly; "but i won't sit here and have you say things which may lead to your being punished. i should be a poor sort of friend if i did." "pah! have you no warm blood in you, that you sit there as cool as a frog when i bring you such glorious news?" "it isn't glorious," said frank. "it means horrible bloodshed, ruin, and disaster to hundreds or thousands of misguided men." "misguided! do you know what you are talking about?" "yes, perfectly." "have you no feeling for your father and mother's sufferings?" "leave my father and mother out of the question, please." "i can't. i know you're not a coward, frank; but you're like a stupid, stubborn blood-horse that wants the whip or spur to make him go. when he does begin, there's no holding him." "then don't you begin to use whip or spur, drew, in case." "but i will. i must now. it is for your good. i'm not going to stand by and see you and your mother crushed in the toppling-down ruins of this falling house. do you hear me? the time has come, and we want every one of our friends, young and old, to strike a good bold blow for liberty." "let your friends be as mad as they like," said frank angrily. "i'm not going to stand by either and see drew forbes go to destruction." "bah!--to victory. there, no more arguing. you are one of us, and you must come out of your shell now, and take your place." "i'm not one of you," said frank sturdily, and too warm now to think of the danger of speaking aloud; "i was tricked into saying something or joining in while others said it, and i am not a jacobite, and i never will be!" "i tell you that you are one." "have it so if you like; but it's in name only, and i'll show you that i am not in deed. you talked about crying before the prince, `god save king james!' god save king george! there!" he spoke out loudly now, but repented the next moment, for fear that he should have dared his companion to execute his threat. "coward!" cried andrew. "the miserable german usurper who has banished your father!" "you said that you knew i was not a coward." "then i retract it. you are if you try to hang back now." "call me what you like, i'll have nothing to do with it. they don't want boys." "they do--every one; and you must come and fight." "indeed!" "yes, or be punished as a traitor." "let them come and punish me, then," said frank hotly. "i wear a sword, and i know how to use it." "then come and use it like a man. come, frank. don't pretend that you are going to show the white feather." "i don't." "it is monstrous!" panted the lad, who was wildly excited by his enthusiasm. "i want you--my friend--to stand by me now at a critical time, and you treat me like this. i can't understand it when you know that your father is a staunch supporter of the royal cause." "of course i do. what's that got to do with it? do you think because he has been sent away that he would forget his oath to the king?" "i said the royal cause, not the usurper's." "it is false. my father is still in the king's service, waiting for his recall." "your father is my father's friend, as i am yours, and he is now holding a high command in king james's army." "it's not true, drew; it's one of your tricks to get me to go with you, and do what i faithfully promised i never would do. you know it's false. high in command in king james's army! why, he has no army, so it can't be true." "i tell you, it is true. my father and yours are both generals." "look here," said frank, turning and speaking now in an angry whisper, "you're going too far, drew. i don't want to quarrel--i hate to quarrel. perhaps i am like a stubborn horse; but i did warn you not to use the whip or spur, and you will keep on doing it. please let it drop. you're making me feel hot, and when i feel like that my head goes queer, and i hit out and keep on hitting, and feel sorry for it afterwards. i always did at school, and i should feel ten times as sorry if i hit you. now you sit down, and hold your tongue before you're heard and get into a terrible scrape." "sit down! at a time like this!" cried the lad. "oh, will nothing stir you? are you such a cowardly cur that you are going to hide yourself among the german petticoats about the palace? i tell you, it is true: general sir robert gowan throws up his hat for the king." "cowardly cur yourself!" cried frank, whose rage had been bubbling up to boiling-point for the last ten minutes and now burst forth. "miserable traitor! i thought better of you!" cried andrew bitterly. "pah! friends! you are not worth the notice of a gentleman. out of the way, you wretched cur!" he struck frank sharply across the face with his glove, as he stepped forward to pass, and quick as lightning the boy replied with a blow full in the cheek, which sent him staggering back, so that he would have fallen had it not been for the wall. in an instant court rules and regulations were forgotten. the boys knew that they wore swords, and these flashed from their scabbards, ornaments no longer, and the next moment they crossed, the blades gritted together, thrust and parry followed, and each showed that the instructions he had received were not in vain. what would have been the result cannot be told, save that it would have been bitter repentance for the one who had sent his blade home; but before any mischief had been done in the furious encounter, the doors at either end of the anteroom were opened, and the prince and the officers from the audience chamber with the guards from the staircase landing rushed in, the former narrowly escaping a thrust from andrew's sword, as with his own weapon he beat down the boys'. "how dare you!" he cried. "now!" cried andrew defiantly to frank, as he stood quivering with rage--"now is your time. speak out; tell the whole truth." "yes, the whole truth," said the prince sternly. "what does this brawl mean?" frank did not hesitate for a moment. "it was my fault, your royal highness," he cried, panting. "we quarrelled; i lost my temper and struck him." "who dared to draw?" thundered the prince. "we both drew together, your royal highness," cried frank hurriedly, for fear that andrew should be beforehand with him; "but i think i was almost the first." "you insolent young dogs!" cried the prince; "how dare you brawl and fight here!--take away their swords; such boys are not fit to be trusted with weapons. as for you, sir," he said, turning fiercely on frank, "like father like son, as you english people say. and you, sir--you are older," he cried to andrew. "there, take them away, and keep them till i have decided how they shall be punished.--come back to my room, gentlemen. such an interruption is a disgrace to the court." he turned and walked toward the door, followed by the three officers, one of whom on entering looked back at the lads and smiled, as if he did not think that much harm had been done. but neither of the lads saw, for andrew was whispering maliciously to frank: "you dared not speak. you knew how i should be avenged." "yes, i dared; but i wasn't going to be such a coward," cried frank sharply. "ah, stop that!" cried the officer who held the boys' swords, and had just given orders to his men to take their places in front and rear of his prisoners. "do you want to begin again? hang it all! wait till you get to the guardroom, if you must fight." "don't speak to me like that!" cried andrew fiercely. "it is not the custom to insult prisoners, i believe." "forward! march!" said the officer; and then, to frank's annoyance, as well as that of andrew, he saw that the officer was laughing at them, and that the men were having hard work to keep their countenances. five minutes later they had been marched down the staircase, across the courtyard, to the entrance of the guardroom, where, to frank's great mortification, the first person he saw was captain murray. "hallo! what's this?" he cried. "prisoners? what have you lads been about?" "fighting," said frank sullenly, andrew compressing his lips and staring haughtily before him, as if he felt proud, of his position. "fighting! with fists?" cried captain murray. "oh no," said the officer of the guard; "quite correctly. here are their skewers." "but surely not anywhere here?" "oh yes," said the officer mirthfully; "up in the anteroom, right under the prince's nose." "tut--tut--tut!" ejaculated captain murray, half angry, half amused. "the prince came between them, and the tall cock nearly sent his spur through him," continued the officer. "i s'pose this means the tower and the block, doesn't it, murray? or shall we have the job to shoot 'em before breakfast to-morrow morning?" "if i were only free," cried andrew, turning fiercely on the officer, "you would not dare to insult me then." "then i'm very glad you are not. i say, why in the name of wonder are you not in the service, my young fire-eater? you are not in your right place as a page." "because--because--" "stop! that will do, young man," said captain murray sternly. "let him be," he continued to his brother-officer. "the lad is beside himself with passion." "oh, i've done; but are they to be put together? they'll be at each other's throats again." "no, they will not," said captain murray. "frank, give me your word as your father's son that this quarrel is quite at an end." "oh yes, i've done," said the boy quickly. "and you, mr forbes?" "no," cried andrew fiercely. "i shall make no promises. and as for you, frank gowan, i repeat what i said to you: every word is true." "you think it is," said frank quietly, "or you wouldn't have said it. but it isn't true. it couldn't be." "that will do, young gentlemen," said captain murray sternly. "i should have thought you could have cooled down now. now, mr forbes, will you give me your word that you will behave to your fellow-prisoner like a gentleman, and save me the unpleasant duty of placing you in the cell." "yes. come, drew," said frank appealingly. "we were both wrong. i'll answer for him, captain murray." "well, one can't quarrel if the other will not. you can both have my room while you are under arrest. place a sentry at their door," and turning to his brother-officer, and, giving frank a nod, as he looked at him sadly and sternly, captain murray walked away. a few minutes later the key of the door was turned upon them, and they heard one of the guard placed on sentry duty outside. chapter twenty six. "what did he say?" frank threw himself into a chair, and andrew forbes began to walk up and down like a newly caged wild beast. frank thought of the last time he was in that room, and of captain murray's advice to him; then of the quarrel, and his companion's mad words against his father. from that, with a bound, his thoughts went to his mother. what would she think when she heard--as she would surely hear in a few minutes--about the encounter? he felt ready to groan in his misery, for the trouble seemed to have suddenly increased. andrew did not speak or even glance at him; and fully a quarter of an hour passed before frank had decided as to the course he ought to pursue. once he had made up his mind he acted, and, rising from his chair, he waited until his fellow-prisoner was coming toward him in his wearisome walk, and held out his hand. "will you shake hands, drew?" he said. the lad stopped on the instant, and his face lit up with eagerness. "yes," he cried, "if you'll stand by me like a man." "what do you mean?" "escape with me. get out of the window as soon as it is dark, and make a dash for it. let them fire; they would not hit us in the dark, and we could soon reach the friends and be safe." "run away and join your friends?" said frank quietly. "yes! we should be placed in the army at once, as soon as they knew who we were. come, you repent of what you said, and you will be faithful to the cause?" "won't you shake hands without that?" "no, i cannot. i am ready to forgive everything you said or did to me; but i cannot forgive such an act as desertion in the hour of england's great need. shake hands." "can't," said frank sadly; and he thrust his hands into his pockets, walked to the window, and stood looking out into the courtyard. no word was spoken for some time, and no sound broke the stillness that seemed to have fallen upon the place, save an occasional weary yawn from the soldier stationed outside the door and the tramp of the nearest sentry, while andrew very silently still imitated the action of a newly caged wild animal. at last he stopped suddenly. "have you thought that over?" he said. "no," replied frank. "doesn't want thinking over. my mind was made up before." "and you will take the consequences?" "hang the consequences!" cried frank angrily. "what is your rightful monarch, or your pretender, or whatever he is, to me? i don't understand your politics, and i don't want to. i've only one thing to think about. my father told me that, as far as i could, i was to stand by and watch over my mother in his absence, and i wouldn't forsake my post for all the kings and queens in the world; so there!" "then i suppose if i try to escape you will give the alarm and betray me?" "i don't care what you suppose. but i shouldn't be such a sneak. i wish you would go, and not bother me. you've no business here, and it would be better if you were away; but i don't suppose you will do much good if you do go." "oh!" ejaculated andrew, as if letting off so much indignant steam; "and this is friendship!" "i don't care what you say now. your ideas are wider and bigger than mine, i suppose. i'm a more common sort of fellow, with only room in my head to think about what i've been taught and told to do. perhaps you're right, but i don't see it." "i can't give you up without one more try," said andrew, standing before him with his brow all in lines. "you say your father told you to stay and watch over your mother?" "yes; and i will." "but since then he has changed his opinions; he is on our side now, and i cannot but think that he would wish you to try and strike one blow for his--bah!" andrew turned away in bitter contempt and rage, for strong in his determination not to be stung into a fresh quarrel, the boy he addressed, as soon as he heard his companion begin to reiterate his assertion that sir robert gowan had gone over to the pretender's side, turned slowly away, and, with his elbows once more resting on the window-sill, thrust a finger into each ear, and stopped them tight. so effectually was this done, that he started round angrily on feeling a hand laid upon his shoulder. "it's of no use, drew, i won't--oh, it's you, captain murray!" "yes, my lad. has he been saying things you don't like?" frank nodded. "well, that's one way of showing you don't want to listen. your mother wishes to see you, and you can go to her." "ah!" cried the boy eagerly. "give me your word as a gentleman that you will go to her and return at once, and i will let you cross to lady gowan's apartments without an escort." "escort, sir?" said frank wonderingly. "well, without a corporal and a file of men as guard." "oh, of course i'll come back," said the boy, smiling. "i'm not going to run away." "go, then, at once." captain murray walked with him to the door, made a sign to the sentry, who drew back to stand at attention, and the boy began to descend. "how long may i stay, sir?" he asked. "as long as lady gowan wishes; but be back before dark." "poor old drew!" thought frank, as he hurried across to the courtyard upon which his mother's apartments opened; "it's a deal worse for him than it is for me. but he's half mad with his rightful-king ideas, and ready to say or do anything to help them on. but to say such a thing as that about my father! oh!" he was ushered at once into his mother's presence, but she did not hear the door open or close; and as she lay on a couch, with her head turned so that her face was buried in her hands, he thought she was asleep. "mother," he said softly, as he bent over her. lady gowan sprang up at once; but instead of holding out her arms to him as he was about to drop on his knees before her, her wet eyes flashed angrily, and she spoke in a voice full of bitter reproach. "i have just heard from the princess that my son, whom i trusted in these troublous times to be my stay and help, has been brawling disgracefully during his duties at the court." "brawling disgracefully" made the boy wince, and a curious, stubborn look began to cloud his face. "her royal highness tells me that you actually so far forgot yourself as to draw upon young forbes, that you were half mad with passion, and that some terrible mischief would have happened if the prince, who heard the clashing from his room of audience, had not rushed in, and at great risk to himself beaten down the swords. that is what i have been told, and that you are both placed under arrest. is it all true?" "yes, mother," said the lad bluntly; and he set his teeth for the encounter that was to come. "is this the conduct i ought to expect from my son, after all my care and teaching--to let his lowest passions get the better of him, so that, but for the interference of the prince, he might have stained his sword with the blood of the youth he calls his friend?" "it might have been the other way, mother," said the boy bluntly. "yes; and had you so little love, so little respect for your mother's feelings, that you could risk such a thing? i have been prostrated enough by what has happened. suppose, instead, the news had been brought to me that in a senseless brawl my son had been badly wounded-- or slain?" "senseless brawl" made the boy wince again. "it would have been very horrible, mother," he said, in a low voice. "it would have killed me. why was it? what was the cause?" "oh, it was an affair of honour, mother," said frank evasively. "an affair of honour!" cried lady gowan scornfully; "a boy like you daring to speak to me like that! honour, sir! where is the honour? it comes of boys like you two, little better than children, being allowed to carry weapons. do you not know that it is an honour to a gentleman to wear a sword, because it is supposed that he would be the last to draw it, save in some terrible emergency for his defence or to preserve another's life, and not at the first hasty word spoken? had you no consideration for me? could you not see how painful my position is at the court, that you must give me this fresh trouble to bear?" "yes, mother; you know how i think of you. i couldn't help it." "shame! could not help it! is this the result of your education--you, growing toward manhood--my son to tell me this unblushingly, to give me this pitiful excuse--you could not help it? why was it, sir?" "well, mother, we quarrelled. drew is so hot-tempered and passionate." "and you are perfectly innocent, and free from all such attributes, i suppose, sir," cried lady gowan sarcastically. "oh no, i'm not, mother," said the lad bluntly, as he felt he would give anything to get away. "i've got a nasty, passionate temper; but i'm all right if it isn't roused and drew will keep on till he rouses it." "pitiful! worse and worse!" cried lady gowan. "all this arose, i suppose, out of some contemptible piece of banter or teasing. he said something to you, then, that you did not like?" "yes," said frank eagerly, "that was it." "and pray what did he say?" "say--oh--er--he said--oh, it was nothing much." "speak out--the truth, sir," cried lady gowan, fixing her eyes upon her son's. "oh, he said--something i did not like, mother." "what was it, sir? i insist upon knowing." "oh, it was nothing much." "let me be the judge of that, sir. i, as your mother, would be only too glad to find that you had some little excuse for such conduct." "and then," continued frank hurriedly, "i got put out, and--and i called him a liar." "what was it he said?" "and then he struck me over the face with his glove, mother, and i couldn't stand that, and i hit out, and sent him staggering against the wall." "why?--what for?" insisted lady gowan. "and in a moment he whipped out his sword and attacked me, and of course i had to draw, or he would have run me through." "is that true, sir--andrew forbes drew on you first?" "of course it's true, mother," said the lad proudly. "did i ever tell you a lie?" "never, my boy," said lady gowan firmly. "it has been my proud boast to myself that i could trust my son in everything." "then why did you ask me in that doubting way if it was true?" "because my son is prevaricating with me, and speaking in a strange, evasive way. he never spoke to me like that before. do you think me blind, frank? do you think that i, upon whom your tiny eyes first opened--your mother, who has watched you with all a mother's love from your birth, cannot read every change in your countenance? do you think i cannot see that you are fighting hard to keep something back?--you, whom i have always been so proud to think were as frank by nature as you are by name? come, be honest with me. you are hiding something from me?" "yes, mother," cried the lad, throwing back his head and speaking defiantly now, "i am." "then tell me what it is at once. i am your mother, from whom nothing should be hid. if the matter is one for which you feel shame, if it is some wrong-doing, the more reason that you should come to me, my boy, and confide in me, that i may take you once again to my heart, and kneel with you, that we may together pray for forgiveness and the strength to be given to save you from such another sin." "mother," cried the boy passionately, "i have not sinned in this!" "ah!--then what is it?" "i cannot tell you." "frank, if ever there was a time when mother and son should be firmly tied in mutual confidence, it is now. i have no one to cling to but you, and you hold me at a distance like this." "yes, yes; but i cannot tell you." "you think so, my boy; but don't keep it from me." "mother," cried frank wildly, "i must!" "you shall not, my boy. i will know." "i cannot tell you." he held out his hands to her imploringly, but she drew back from him, and her eyes seemed to draw the truth he strove so hard to keep hidden from his unwilling lips. "there, then!" he cried passionately; "i bore it as long as i could: because he insulted my father--it was to defend his honour that i struck him, and we fought." "you drew to defend your father's honour," said lady gowan hoarsely; and her face looked drawn and her lips white. "yes, that was it. is it so childish of me to say that i could not help that?" "no," said lady gowan, in a painful whisper. "how did he insult your father? what did he say?" "must i tell you?" "yes." frank drew a long, deep, sobbing breath, and his voice sounded broken and strange, as he said in a low, passionate voice: "he dared to insult my father--he said he was false to the king--that he had broken his oath as a soldier--that he was a miserable rebel and jacobite, and had gone over to the pretender's side." "oh!" ejaculated lady gowan, shrinking back into the corner of the couch, and covering her face with her hands. "mother, forgive me!" cried the lad, throwing himself upon his knees, and trying to draw her hands from her face. "i could not speak. it seemed so horrible to have to tell you such a cruel slander as that. i could not help it. i should have struck at anybody who said it, even if it had been the prince himself." lady gowan let her son draw her hands from her white, drawn face, and sat back gazing wildly in his eyes. "oh, mother!" he cried piteously, "can you think this a sin? don't look at me like that." she uttered a passionate cry, clasped him to her breast, and let her face sink upon his shoulder, sobbing painfully the while. "i knew what pain it would give you, dear," he whispered, with his lips to her ear; "but you made me tell you. i was obliged to fight him. father would have been ashamed of me, and called me a miserable coward, if i had not stood up for him as i did." "then--then--he said that of your father?" faltered lady gowan, with her convulsed face still hidden. "yes." "and you denied it, frank." "of course," cried the lad proudly; "and then we fought, and i did not know what was happening till the prince came and struck down our swords." lady gowan raised her piteous-looking face, pressed her son back from her, and rose from the couch. "go now, my boy," she said, in a low, agonised voice. "back to prison?" he said. "but tell me first that you are not so angry with me. i can't feel that i was so wrong." "no, no, my boy--no, i cannot blame you," sighed lady gowan. "and you forgive me, mother?" "forgive you? oh, my own, true, brave lad, it is not your fault, but that of these terrible times. go now, i can bear no more." "say that once again," whispered frank, clinging to her. "i cannot speak, my darling. i am suffering more than i can tell you. there, leave me, dearest. i want to be alone, to think and pray for help in this terrible time of affliction. frank, i am nearly broken-hearted." "and i have been the cause," he said sadly. "you? oh no, no, my own, brave, true boy. i never felt prouder of you than i do now. go back. i must think. then i will see the princess. the prince is not so very angry with you, and he will forgive you when he knows the truth." "and you, mother?" "i?" cried the poor woman passionately. "heaven help me! i do not feel that i have anything to forgive." lady gowan embraced her son once more, and stood looking after him as he descended the stairs, while frank walked over to his prison with head erect and a flush of pride in his cheeks. "there," he muttered, as he passed the sentry, "let them say or do what they like; i don't care now." chapter twenty seven. the breach widens. andrew started from his seat as frank entered the room and the door was closed and locked behind him; but, seeing who it was, he sat down again with his face averted. "shall i tell him?" thought frank. "no; it would be like triumphing over him to show him i have found out that he has been trying to cheat me into going off." the boy felt so satisfied and at ease that he was more and more unwilling to hurt his fellow-prisoner's feelings, and after a while he spoke. "i suppose they'll give us something to eat," he said. andrew looked up at him in astonishment, but only to frown the next moment and turn his head away again. frank went to the window and stood looking out, one corner commanding a view of the park; and after watching the people come and go for some time, he suddenly turned to his companion: "here are the horse guards coming, drew. want to see them?" "no. will you have the goodness to leave me in peace?" "no," said frank quietly. "how can i? we're shut up together here perhaps for ever so long, and we can't keep up that miserable quarrel now. hadn't we better shake hands?" "what do you suppose i'm made of?" said andrew fiercely. "same stuff as i am," replied frank almost as sharply; "and as i've shown myself ready to forgive and forget what has happened, you ought to do the same." but it was of no use. try how he would to draw andrew into conversation, the latter refused to speak; and at last the boy gave up in despair, and began to look about the captain's room for something out of which he could drag some amusement. this last he had to extract from one of the books on a shelf; but it proved dry and uninteresting, though it is doubtful whether one of the most cheery nature would have held his attention long. for he had so much to think about that his mind refused to grasp the meaning of the different sentences, and one minute he was wondering whether his father would venture to the house, the next he was going over the scene of the quarrel in the antechamber. then he thought sadly about his interview with his mother, but only to feel elated and happy, though it was mingled with sorrow at having given her so much pain. a little resentment began to spring up, too, against andrew, as the true cause of it all, but it did not last; he felt far too much at rest for that, and the anger gave way to pity for the high-spirited, excitable lad seated there in the deepest dejection, and he began to wish now that he had not called him a liar and struck him. "i shall go melancholy mad," muttered frank at last, "if they keep us shut up long, and drew goes on like this. but i wonder whether there will really be a rising against the king?" curiosity made him try to be communicative, and he turned to his silent companion. "think there really will be any fighting?" he said. andrew turned to him sharply. "why do you ask?" he said. "simple reason: because i want to know." "you have some other reason." "because i want to send word to the prince that you are a rebel, and intend to go and join the pretender's followers, of course," said frank sarcastically. "don't be so spiteful, drew. we can't live here like this. why don't you let bygones be bygones?" "what interest can it be to you?" said andrew, ignoring the latter part of his fellow-prisoner's remark. "do you suppose such a rising can take place without its being of interest to every one? there, we won't talk about it unless you like. look here, i can't sit still doing nothing; it gives me pins and needles in my hands and feet. i'll ring and ask captain murray to let us have a draught board if you'll play." "pish!" cried andrew contemptuously; and frank sighed and gave up again, to take refuge in staring out of the window for some time. then his tongue refused to be quiet, and he cried to his silent companion: "there is something going on for certain. i've counted twelve officers go by since i've been standing here." there was no heed paid to his remark, and at last the boy drew a breath full of relief, for he heard steps on the stairs, the sentry's piece rattled, and then the key turned in the lock, and captain murray entered, looking very stern. "frank gowan," he said, "you give me your _parole d'honneur_ that you will not do anything foolish in the way of attempting to escape?" "oh yes, of course, sir," said the boy. "i don't want to escape." "that's right. and you, andrew forbes?" "no; i shall make no promises," was the reply. "don't be foolish, my lad. you ought to have cooled down by this time. give me your word: it will make your position bearable, and mine easy." "i shall give no promises," said andrew haughtily. "i have been arrested, and brought here a prisoner, and i shall act as a prisoner would." "try to escape? don't attempt to do anything so foolish, my lad. i will speak out like a friend to you. there has been some important news brought to the palace; the guard has been quadrupled in number, double sentries have been placed, and they would fire at any one attempting to pass the gates without the word to-night. now, give me your promise." "i--will--not," said andrew, speaking firmly, and meeting the captain's eyes without shrinking. "don't be so foolish, drew," whispered frank. "i shall do as i think best," was the reply. "you are at liberty to do the same, sir." "very well," said captain murray, interrupting them. "perhaps you will be more sensible and manly after a night's rest. i did not expect to find a lad of your years behaving like a spiteful girl." andrew's eyes flashed at him; but the captain paid no heed, and went on: "i have spoken to the colonel, frank, and for your father's sake he will be glad to see you at the mess table this evening. you are free of it while you are under arrest. i will come for you in half an hour. by the way, i have told my man to come to you for instructions about getting your kit from your room. you will use him while you are a prisoner." "oh, thank you, captain murray," cried the boy eagerly. "pray make use of my servant, mr forbes, and order him to fetch what you require." andrew bowed coldly, and the captain left the room, his servant tapping at the door directly after, and entering to receive his orders from frank. "now, drew," he said at last, "tell him what to fetch for you." "i do not require anything," said the youth coldly. "yes, look here. there is a little desk on the table in my room; bring me that." "hadn't you better give in, and make the best of things?" said frank, as soon as they were alone. "had you not better leave me to myself, frank gowan?" said andrew coldly. "we are no longer friends, but enemies." "no, we can't be that," cried frank. "come; once more, shake hands." andrew looked at him for a few moments fixedly, and then said slowly: "come, that's better." "on the day when your king george is humbled to the dust, and you are, with all here, a helpless prisoner. i'll shake hands and forgive you then." "not till then?" cried frank, flushing. "not till then." "which means that we are never to be friends again, drew. nonsense! you are still angry. captain murray is right." "that i speak like a spiteful girl!" cried the lad sharply. "no, i did not mean that," said frank quietly; "but if i had meant it, i should not have been very far from right. i hope that you will think differently after a night's rest. come, think differently now, and give up all those mad thoughts which have done nothing but make us fall out. it isn't too late. captain murray is trying to make things pleasant for us; tell him when he comes that you'll dine with him." andrew made an angry gesture, and frank shrugged his shoulders, went into the adjoining room to wash his hands, and came back just as the tramp of soldiers was heard outside, the order was given for them to halt, and then followed their heavy footsteps on the stairs. the next minute captain murray entered the room. "ready, bloodthirsty prisoner?" he said, smiling. "yes, sir, quite," replied frank; while andrew sat at the other end of the room with his back to them. frank glanced in his fellow-prisoner's direction, and then turned back to the captain, and his lips moved quickly as he made a gesture in andrew's direction. the captain read his meaning, nodded, walked up to the lad, and touched him on the shoulder, making him start to his feet. "life's very short, andrew forbes," he said quietly, "and soldiers are obliged to look upon it as shorter for them than for other men. it isn't long enough to nurse quarrels or bear malice. i think i have heard you say that you hope to be a soldier some day." "yes, i do," said the lad, with a meaning which the captain could not grasp. "very well, then; act now like a frank soldier to another who says to you, try and forget this trouble, and help every one to make it easier for you. there's care enough coming, my lad; and i may tell you that the prince has enough to think about without troubling himself any more over the mad prank of two high-spirited boys. there, i'll wait for you; go into my room, and wash your hands and smooth your face. i venture to say that you will both get a wigging to-morrow, and then be told to go back to your duties." andrew did not budge, and the captain's face grew more stern. "come on, drew," cried frank; but the lad turned away. "yes, come along," cried the captain; "a good dinner will do you both good, and make you ready to laugh at your morning's quarrel. do you hear?" there was no reply. "you are not acting like a hero, my lad," said the captain, smiling once more. still there was no reply. "very well, sir; you refuse your parole, and i can say no more. i have my duty to do, and i cannot offer you my hospitality here. you are still under arrest." he walked to the door, threw it open, made a sign, and a corporal and two guardsmen marched in. "take this gentleman to the guardroom," he said. "your officer has his instructions concerning him." "oh, drew!" whispered frank; but the lad drew himself up, and took a few steps forward, placing himself between the guards, and kept step with them as they marched out and down the stairs. the next minute their steps were heard on the paving-stones without, and frank darted to the window, to stand gazing out, feeling half choked with sorrow for his friend. a touch on the arm made him remember that captain murray was waiting. "it's a pity, frank," he said; "but i did all i could. he's a bit too high-spirited, my lad. the best thing for him will be the army; the discipline would do him good." frank longed to speak, but he felt that his lips were sealed. "well, we must not let a bit of hot temper spoil our dinner, my lad. by the way, what news of your father?" "none, sir," said the boy sadly, though the thought of what andrew forbes had said made him wince. "humph!" said captain murray, looking at the boy curiously. "there, i don't want to pump you. tell him next time you write that there will be a grand night at the mess when he comes back to his old place. now, then, we shall be late." "would you mind excusing me, sir?" said frank. "yes, very much. nonsense! you must be quite hungry by now." "no: i was; but it's all gone." "hah!" said the captain, gripping him by the shoulder; "you're your father's own boy, frank. i like that, but i can't have it. you accepted the invitation, and i want you, my lad. never mind andrew forbes; he only requires time to cool down. he'll be ready to shake hands in the morning. come, or we shall get in disgrace for being late." frank was marched off to the messroom; but he felt as if every mouthful would choke him, and that he would have given anything to have gone and shared andrew forbes's confinement, even if he had only received hard words for his pains. chapter twenty eight. a night alarm. it was very plain to frank that the officers did not look upon his offence in a very serious light, for the younger men received him with a cheer, and the elders with a smile, as they shook hands, while the doctor came and clapped him on the shoulder. "hallo, young fire-eater!" he cried; "when are you coming to stay?" "to stay, sir?" said the boy, feeling puzzled. "yes, with your commission. we've lost your father. we must have you to take his place." "no, sir," said frank, flushing. "i don't want to take my father's place. i want to see him back in it." "well said!" cried the colonel; "what we all want. but get to be a bit more of a man, and then coax the prince to give you a commission. i think we can make room for robert gowan's son in the corps, gentlemen?" there was a chorus of assent at this; and the colonel went on: "come and sit by me, my lad. we can find a chair for you and your guest, murray, at this end. why, you're not fit for a page, my lad; they want soft, smooth, girlish fellows for that sort of thing. a young firebrand like you, ready to whip out his sword and use it, is the stuff for a soldier." frank wished the old officer would hold his tongue, and not draw attention to him, for every one at the table was listening, and captain murray sat smiling with grim satisfaction. but the colonel went on: "very glad to see you here this evening, my boy. why, i hear that you are quite a favourite with the prince." "it does not seem like it, sir," said frank, who was beginning to feel irritated. "i am a prisoner." there was a laugh at this, which ran rippling down the table. "not bad quarters for a prisoner, eh, gentlemen?" said the colonel. "pooh! my lad, you are only under arrest; and we are very glad you are, for it gives us the opportunity of having the company of robert gowan's son." frank flushed with pleasure to find how warmly his father's name was received; and the colonel went on: "don't you trouble your head about being under arrest, boy. the prince was obliged to have you marched off. it wouldn't do for him to have every young spark drawing and getting up a fight in the palace. by the way, what was the quarrel about? you struck young forbes?" "yes, sir." "well, of course he would draw upon you; but how came you to strike him?" the boy hesitated; but the colonel's keen eyes were fixed upon him so steadfastly, that he felt that he must speak and clear himself of the suspicion of being a mere quarrelsome schoolboy, and he said firmly: "he said insulting things about my father, sir." there was a chorus of approval at this; and as soon as there was silence, the colonel looked smilingly round the table: "i think we might forgive this desperate young culprit for committing that heinous offence, gentlemen. what do you say?" there was a merry laugh at this; and the colonel turned to the lad. "we all forgive you, mr gowan. it is unanimous. now, i think we are a little hard upon you; so pray go on with your dinner." "i don't think his arrest will last long, sir," said captain murray, after a while. "pooh! no: i'm afraid not," said the colonel; "and we shall lose our young friend's company. the prince is a good soldier himself, even if he is a german. gowan will hear no more of it, i should say; and i don't want to raise his hopes unduly, but on the strength of this rising, when we want all good supporters of his majesty in their places, i should say that the occasion will be made one for sending word to captain sir robert gowan to come back to his company." frank flushed again, and looked at captain murray, who smiled and nodded. "by the way, murray," said the colonel, "why did you not bring the other young desperado to dinner?" the captain shrugged his shoulders. "a bit sulky," he said. "feels himself ill-used." "oh!" ejaculated the colonel; and seeing frank's troubled face, he changed the conversation, beginning to talk about the news of a rising in the north, where certain officers were reported to have landed, and where the pretender, james francis, was expected to place himself at their head, and march for london. "a foolish, mad project, i say, gentlemen," exclaimed the colonel; "and whatever my principles may have been, i am a staunch servant of his majesty king george the first, and the enemy of all who try and disturb the peace of the realm." a burst of applause followed these words; and the conversation became general, giving frank the opportunity for thinking over the colonel's words, and of what a triumph it would be for his father to return and take up his old position. "poor old drew!" he said to himself, with a sigh. "what would he think if he heard them talking about its being a mad project?" then he went on thinking about how miserable his old companion must be in the guardroom, watched by sentries; and as he kept on eating for form's sake, every mouthful seemed to go against him, and he wished the dinner was over. for, in addition to these thoughts, others terribly painful would keep troubling him, the place being full of sad memories. he recalled that he was sitting in the very seat occupied by the german baron upon that unlucky evening; and the whole scene of the angry encounter came vividly back, even to the words that were spoken. the natural sequence to this was his being called by andrew forbes in the dull grey of the early morning to go and witness that terrible sword fight in the park; and he could hardly repress a shudder as he seemed to see the german's blade flashing and playing about his father's breast, till the two thrusts were delivered, one of which nearly brought the baron's career to a close. nothing could have been kinder than the treatment the young guest received from the officers; but nothing could have been more painful to the lad, and again and again he wished himself away as the dinner dragged its slow length along, and he sat there feeling lonely, occupied toward the end almost entirely with thoughts of his father, andrew's false charge about him being generally uppermost, and raising the indignant colour to his cheeks. "i wonder where he is now," he thought, "and what he is doing?" then once more about what delight his mother would feel if the colonel's ideas came to pass, and sir robert came back in triumph. "oh, it's too good to be true," thought the boy; but he clung to the hope all the same. the only time when he was relieved from the pressure of his sad thoughts was when the conversation around grew animated respecting the probabilities of the country being devastated by civil war; but even then it made his heart ache on andrew forbes's account, as he heard the quiet contempt with which the elder officers treated the pretender's prospects, the colonel especially speaking strongly on the subject. "no," he said, "england will never rise in favour of such a monarch as that. it is a mad business, that will never win support. the poor fellow had better settle down quietly to his life in france. the reign of the stuarts is quite at an end." "poor old drew," thought frank. "i wish he could have heard that; but he would not have believed if he had." then the officers went on talking of the possibility of their regiment being called upon for active service, and the boy could not help a feeling of wonder at the eager hopes they expressed of having to take part in that which would probably result in several of those present losing their lives or being badly wounded. "i wonder whether i shall be as careless about my life when i am grown-up and a soldier?" he thought. the regular dinner had long been over, and the members of the mess had been sitting longer than usual, the probability of the regiment going into active service having supplied them with so much food for discussion that the hour was getting late, and the young guest had several times over felt an intense longing to ask permission to leave the table, his intention being to get captain murray to let him join andrew forbes. but he felt that as a guest he could not do this, and must wait till the colonel rose. he was thinking all this impatiently for the last time, feeling wearied out after so terribly exciting a day as he had passed through, when the colonel and all present suddenly sprang to their feet; for a shot rang out from close at hand, followed by a loud, warning cry, as if from a sentry; then, before any one could reach the door to run out and see what was wrong, there was another shot, and again another, followed by a faint and distant cry. chapter twenty nine. a watch night. "what is it--an attack?" "quick, gentlemen!" cried the colonel; "every man to his quarters." he had hardly spoken before a bugle rang out; and as frank was hurried out with the rest into the courtyard, it was to see, by the dim light of the clouded moon and the feeble oil lamps, that the guard had turned out, and the tramp of feet announced that the rest of the men gathered for the defence of the palace and its occupants were rapidly hurrying out of their quarters, to form up in one or other of the yards. frank felt that he was out of place; but in his interest and excitement he followed captain murray like his shadow, and in very few minutes knew that no attack had been made upon the palace, but that the cause of the alarm was from within, and his heart sank like lead as the captain said to him: "poor lad! he must be half crazy to do such a thing. come with me." frank followed him, and the next minute they met, coming from the gate on the park side, a group of soldiers, marching with fixed bayonets toward the guardroom, two of the men within bearing a stretcher, on which lay andrew forbes, apparently lifeless. for the lad had been mad enough to make a dash for his liberty, in spite of knowing what would follow, the result being that the sentry by the guardroom had challenged him to stop, and as he ran on fired. this spread the alarm, and the second sentry toward the gate had followed his comrade's example as he caught a glimpse of the flying figure, while the third sentry outside the gate, standing in full readiness, also caught sight of the lad as he dashed out and was running to reach the trees of the park. this shot was either better aimed, or the unfortunate youth literally leaped into the line of fire, for as the sentry drew trigger, just as the lad passed between two of the trees, drew uttered a sharp cry of agony and fell headlong to the earth. "poor lad! poor lad!" muttered captain murray; and he made a sign to the soldiers not to interfere, as frank pressed forward to catch his friend's hand. then aloud, "where is the doctor?" "here, of course," said that gentleman sharply from just behind them. "always am where i'm wanted, eh? look sharp, and take him to the guardroom." "no, no--to my quarters," said captain murray quickly. "tut--tut--tut! what were they about to let him go?" in a few minutes the wounded lad was lying on captain murray's bed, with the colonel, captain murray, and two or three more of the officers present, and frank by the bedside, for when the colonel said to the lad, "you had better go," the doctor interfered, giving frank a peculiar cock of the eye as he said, "no, don't send him away; he can help." frank darted a grateful look at the surgeon, and prepared to busy himself in undressing the sufferer. "no, no; don't do that now--only worry him. i can see what's wrong, and get at it." the position of the injury was plain enough to see from the blood on the lad's sleeve, and the doctor did not hesitate for a moment; but, taking out a keen knife from a little case in his pocket, he slit the sleeve from cuff to shoulder, and then served the deeply stained shirt sleeve the same. "dangerous?" said the colonel anxiously. "pooh! no," said the doctor contemptuously. "nice clean cut. just as if it had been done with a knife," as he examined the boy's thin, white left arm. "you ought to give that sentry a stripe, colonel, for his clever shooting. hah! yes, clean cut for two inches, and then buried itself below the skin. not enough powder, or it would have gone through instead of stopping in here. no need for any probing or searching. here we are." as he spoke he made a slight cut with his keen knife through the white skin, where a little lump of a bluish tint could be seen, pressed with his thumbs on either side, and the bullet came out like a round button through a button-hole, and rolled on to the bed. "better save that for him, gowan," said the doctor cheerfully. "he'll like to keep it as a curiosity. stopped its chance of festering and worrying him and making him feverish. now we'll have just a stitch here and a stitch there, and keep the lips of the wound together." as he spoke he took a needle and silk from his case, just as if he had brought them expecting that they would be wanted, took some lint from one pocket, a roll of bandage from another, and in an incredibly short time had the wound bound up. "likely to be serious?" said captain murray. "what, this, sir? pooh! not much worse than a cut finger. smart a bit. poor, weak, girlish sort of a fellow; feeble pulse. good thing he had fainted, and didn't know what i was doing. well, squire, how are you?" andrew forbes lay perfectly still, ghastly pale, and with his eyes closely shut, till the doctor pressed up first one lid and then the other, frowning slightly the while. "can i get anything for you, doctor?" said captain murray. "eh? oh no! he'll be all right. feels sick, and in a bit of pain. let him lie there and go to sleep." "but he is fainting. oughtn't you to give him something, or to bathe his face?" "look here!" cried the doctor testily, "i don't come interfering and crying `fours about,' or `by your right,' or anything of that kind, when you are at the head of your company, do i?" "of course not." "then don't you interfere when i'm in command over one of my gang. i've told you he's all right. i ought to know." "oh yes; let the doctor alone, murray," said the colonel. "there, i'm heartily glad that matters are no worse. foolish fellow to attempt such a wild trick. you will want a nurse for him, doctor." "nurse! for that? pooh! nonsense! i'm very glad he was so considerate as not to disturb me over my dinner. i shouldn't have liked that, squire gowan. didn't do it out of spite because he was not asked to dinner, did he?" "pish! no; he was asked," said captain murray. "yes; you wanted to say something, gowan?" "only that i will have a mattress on the floor, sir, and stay with him." "not necessary, boy," said the doctor sharply. "let him be with his friend, doctor," said captain murray. "friend, sir? i thought they were deadly enemies, trying hard to give me a job this morning to fit their pieces together again. i don't want to stop him from spoiling his night's rest if he likes; but if he stays, won't they begin barking and biting again?" "not much fear of that--eh, frank? there, stay with your friend. i'm in hopes that you will do him more good than the doctor." "oh, very well," said that gentleman. "then you don't think there is anything to be alarmed about?" said frank anxiously. "pooh! no; not a bit more than if you had cut your finger with a sharp knife. now, if the bullet had gone in there, or there, or there, or into his thick young head," said the doctor, making pokes at the lad's body as he lay on the bed, "we should have some excuse for being anxious; but a boy who has had his arm scratched by a bullet! the idea is absurd. i say, colonel, are boys of any good whatever in the world?" "oh yes, some of them," said the colonel, smiling and giving frank a kindly nod. "good night, my lad. there will be no need for you to sit up, i think." "not a bit, gowan," said the doctor quietly. "don't fidget, boy. he'll be all right." frank looked at him dubiously. "i mean it, my lad," he said, in quite a different tone of voice. "you may trust me. good night." he shook hands warmly with the boy, and all but captain murray left the chamber, talking about the scare that the shots had created in the palace. "i hear they thought the pretender had dropped in," said the doctor jocosely. then the door was shut, and the sound cut off. "i'll leave you now, frank, my lad," said captain murray. "take one of the pillows, and lie down in the next room on the couch. there's an extra blanket at the foot of the bed. i will speak to my servant to be on the alert, and to come if you ring. don't scruple to do so, if you think there is the slightest need, and he will fetch the doctor at once. you will lie down?" "if you think i may," said frank, as he walked with him to the door of the sitting-room, beyond earshot of the occupant of the bed. "i am sure you may, my boy. the doctor only confirmed my own impression, and i feel sure he would know at a glance." "but drew seems quite insensible, sir." "yes--seems," said captain murray. "there, trust the doctor. i do implicitly. i think he proved his knowledge in the way he saved baron steinberg's life. good night. you will have to be locked in; but the sentry will have the key, and you can communicate with him as well as ring, so you need not feel lonely. there, once more, good night." the captain passed out, and frank caught sight of a tall sentinel on the landing before the door was closed and locked, the boy standing pale and thoughtful for some moments, listening to the retiring steps of his father's old friend, before crossing the room, and entering the chamber, which looked dim and solemn by the light of the two candles upon the dressing table. he took up one of these, and went to the bedside, to stand gazing down at andrew's drawn face and bandaged arm, his brown hair lying loose upon the pillow, and making his face look the whiter by contrast. "in much pain, drew?" he said softly; but there was no reply. "can i do anything for you?" still no reply, and the impression gathered strength in the boy's mind that his companion could hear what he said but felt too bitter to reply. this idea grew so strong, that at last he said gently: "don't be angry with me, drew. it is very sad and unfortunate, and i want to try and help you bear it patiently. would you like me to do anything for you? talk to you--read to you; or would you like me to write to your father, and tell him of what has happened?" but, say what he would, andrew forbes made no sign, and lay perfectly still--so still, that in his anxiety frank stretched out his hand to touch the boy's forehead and hands, which were of a pleasant temperature. "he is too much put out to speak," thought frank; "and i don't wonder. he must feel cruelly disappointed at his failure to escape; but i'm glad he has not got away; for it would have been horrible for him to have gone and joined the poor foolish enthusiasts who have landed in the north." he stood gazing sadly down at the wounded lad for some minutes, and then softly took the extra pillow and blanket from the bed, carried them to the little couch in the next room, returned for the candles, and, after holding them over the patient for a few minutes, he went back quietly to the sitting-room, placed them on the table, took a book, and sat down to read. he sat down to read, but he hardly read a line, for the scenes of the past twenty-four hours came between his eyes and the print, and at the end of a quarter of an hour he wearily pushed the book aside, took up one of the candles, and looked in the chamber to see how andrew appeared to be. apparently he had not moved; but now, as the boy was going to ask him again if he could do anything for him, he heard the breath coming and going as if he were sleeping calmly; and feeling that this was the very best thing that could happen to him, he went softly back to his seat, and once more drew the book to his side. but no; the most interesting work ever written would not have taken his attention, and he sat listening for the breathing in the next room, then to the movements of the sentry outside as he moved from time to time, changing feet, or taking a step or two up and down as far as the size of the landing would allow. then came a weary yawn, and the clock chimed and struck twelve, while, before it had finished, the sounds of other clocks striking became mingled with it, and frank listened to the strange jangle, one which he might have heard hundreds of times, but which had never impressed him so before. at last silence, broken only by the pacings of other sentries; and once more came from the landing a weary yawn, which was infectious, for in spite of his troubles frank yawned too, and felt startled. "i can't be sleepy," he said to himself; "who could at such a time?" and to prove to himself that such a thing was impossible, and show his thorough wakefulness, he rose, and once more walked into the chamber, looked at the wounded lad, apparently sleeping calmly, and returned to his seat to read. and now it suddenly dawned upon him that, in spite of his desire to be thoroughly wakeful, nature was showing him that he could not go through all the past excitement without feeling the effects, for, as he bent firmly over his book to read, he found himself suddenly reading something else--some strange, confused matter about the house in queen anne street, and the broken door. then he started up perfectly wakeful, after nodding so low that his face touched the book. "how absurd!" he muttered; and he rose and walked up and down the room. the sentry heard him, and began to pace the landing. frank returned to his seat, looked at the book, and went off instantly fast asleep, and almost immediately woke up again with a start. "oh, this won't do," he muttered. "i can't--i won't sleep." the next minute he was fast, but again he woke up with a start. "it's of no use," he muttered; "i must give way to it for a few minutes. i'll lie down, and perhaps that will take it off, and i shall be quite right for the rest of the night." very unwillingly, but of necessity, for he felt that he was almost asleep as he moved about, he rose, took up the blanket from the couch, threw it round him like a cloak, punched up the pillow, and lay down. "there!" he said to himself; "that's it. i don't feel so sleepy this way; it's resting oneself by lying down. i believe i could read now, and know what i am reading. how ridiculous it makes one feel to be so horribly sleepy! some people, they say, can lie down and determine to wake up in an hour, or two hours, or just when they like. well, i'd do that--i mean i'd try to do that--if i were going to sleep; but i won't sleep. i'll lie here resting for a bit, and then get up again, and go and see how drew is. it would be brutal to go off soundly, with him lying in that state. how quiet it all seems when one is lying down! it's as if one could hear better. yes, i can hear drew breathing quite plain; and how that sentry does keep on yawning! sentries must get very sleepy sometimes when on duty in the night, and it's a terribly severe punishment for one who does sleep at his post. well, i'm a sentry at my post to watch over poor drew, and i should deserve to be very severely punished if i slept; not that i should be punished, except by my own conscience." he lay perfectly wakeful now, looking at the candles, which both wanted snuffing badly, and making up his mind to snuff them; but he began thinking of his father, then wondering once more where he could be, and feeling proud of the way in which the officers talked about him. "if the king would only pardon him!" he thought, "how--i must get up and snuff those candles; if i don't, that great black, mushroom-like bit of burnt wick will be tumbling off and burning in the grease, and be what they call a thief in the candle. how it does grow bigger and bigger!" and it did grow bigger and bigger, and fell into the tiny cup of molten grease--for in those days the king's officers were not supplied with wax candles for their rooms--and it did form a thief, and made the candle gutter down, while the other slowly burned away into the socket, and made a very unpleasant odour in the room, as first one and then the other rose and fell with a wanton-looking, dancing flame, which finally dropped down and rose no more, sending up a tiny column of smoke instead. then the sentry was relieved, and so was frank, for, utterly worn out, he was sleeping heavily, with nature hard at work repairing the waste of the day, and so soundly that he did not know of the reverse of circumstances, and that andrew forbes had risen to enter the outer room, and look in, even coming close to his side, as if to see why it was he did not keep watch over him and come and see him from time to time. history perhaps was repeating itself: the mountain would not go to mahomet, so mahomet had to go to the mountain. chapter thirty. a strange awakening. there is not much room in a bird's head for brains; but it has plenty of thinking power all the same, and one of the first things a bird thinks out is when he is safe or when he is in danger. as a consequence of this, we have at the present day quite a colony of that shyest of wild birds, the one which will puzzle the owner of a gun to get within range--the wood-pigeon, calmly settled down in saint james's park, and feeding upon the grass, not many yards away from the thousands of busy or loitering londoners going to and fro across the enclosure, which the birds have found out is sacred to bird-dom, a place where no gun is ever fired save on festival days, and though the guns then are big and manipulated by artillerymen, the charges fired are only blank. but saint james's park from its earliest enclosure was always a place for birds--even the name survives on one side of the walk devoted by charles the second to his birdcages, where choice specimens were kept; so that a hundred and eighty years ago, when the country was much closer to the old palace than it is now, there was nothing surprising in the _chink_, _chink_ of the blackbird and the loud musical song of thrush and lark awakening a sleeper there somewhere about sunrise. and to a boy who loved the country sights and sounds, and whose happiest days had been spent in sunny hampshire, it was very pleasant to lie there in a half-roused, half-dreamy state listening to the bird notes floating in upon the cool air through an open window, even if the lark's note did come from a cage whose occupant fluttered its wings and pretended to fly as it gazed upward from where it rested upon a freshly cut turf. the sweet notes set frank gowan thinking of the broad marshy fields down by the river, bordered with sedge, reed, and butter-bur, where the clear waters raced along, and the trout could be seen waiting for the breakfast swept down by the stream--where the marsh marigolds studded the banks with their golden chalices, the purple loosestrife grew in brilliant beds of colour, and the creamy meadow-sweet perfumed the morning air. far more delightful to him than any palace, more musical than the choicest military band, it all sent a restful sense of joy through his frame, the more invigorating that the window was wide, and the odour of the burned-down candles had passed away. he lay imbibing the sweet sounds and freshness through ear and nostril; but for a time his eyes remained fast closed. then, at a loud thrilling burst from the lark's cage in the courtyard, both eyes opened, and he lay staring up at the whitewashed ceiling, covered with cracks, and looking like the map of nowhere in wonderland. for the lark sang very sweetly to charm the wished-for mate, which never came, and frank smiled and gradually lowered his eyes so that they were fixed upon the uncurtained window till the lark finished its lay. then, and then only, did he begin to think in the way a boy muses when his senses grow more and more awake. first of all he began to wonder why it was that the window was wide-open--not that it mattered, for the air was very cool and sweet; then why it was his bedroom looked so strange; then why it was that the blanket was close up to his face without the sheet; and, lastly, he sat up feeling that horrible sense of depression which comes over us like a cloud when there has been trouble on the previous day--trouble which has been forgotten. for a moment or two he felt that he must be dreaming. but no, he was dressed, this was captain murray's room, there was the door open leading into the chamber where andrew forbes lay, and yes--then it all came with crushing force--he lay wounded after that mad attempt to escape, while the friend who had offered to sit with him and watch had calmly lain down and gone to sleep. "oh, it is monstrous!" panted the boy, as he threw the blanket aside, and stepped softly, and trembling with excitement, toward the chamber. for now the dread came that something might have happened during the night, in despite of the doctor's calm way of treating the injury. the idea was so terrible that, as he reached the door, he stopped short, and turned a ghastly white, not daring to look in. but recalling now that he had heard his friend's breathing quite plainly over-night, he listened with every nerve on the strain. not a sound, till the lark burst forth again. he hesitated no longer, but, full of shame and self-reproach for that which he could not help, he stepped softly into the room, and then stood still, staring hard at the bed, and at a blood-stained handkerchief lying where it had been thrown upon the floor. for a few moments the lad did not stir--he was perfectly stunned; and then he began to look slowly round the room for an explanation. the bed was without tenant. had captain murray, or some other officer, come with a guard while he slept and taken the prisoner away? then the truth came like a flash:-- the window in the next room--it was open! he darted back and ran to the window to thrust out his head and look down. yes, it was easy enough; he could himself have got out, hung by his hands, and dropped upon the pavement, which would not have been above eight feet from the soles of his boots as he hung. but the wound! how could a lad who was badly wounded in the arm manage to perform such a feat? he must have been half wild, delirious from fever, to have done such a thing. no. fresh thoughts came fast now. it stood to reason that if drew had been half wild with delirium he must have been roused; and he now recalled how coolly the doctor had taken the injury, and captain murray's half-contemptuous manner, which he had thought unfeeling. then, too, it was strange that drew should have lain as he did, with his eyes tightly closed, just as if he were perfectly insensible, and never making the slightest sign when he had spoken to him. for a few minutes frank battled with the notion; but it grew stronger and stronger, and at last he was convinced. "then he was shamming," he muttered indignantly, "pretending to be worse than he really was, so as to throw people off their guard, and then try again to escape." once more he tried to prove himself to be in the wrong and thoroughly unjust to the wounded lad; but facts are stubborn things, and one after the other they rose up, trifles in themselves, but gaining strength as the array increased, and at last a bitter feeling of anger filled the boy's breast, as he felt perfectly convinced of the truth that drew had lain there waiting till he was asleep, and then, in spite of his wound, had crept out of the window, dropped, and gone. but how could he? the sentries had stopped him before; why did they not do so at the second attempt? and besides, there was the sentry just outside the door. why had not he heard? frank went to the window again, and looked out, to find that it was not deemed necessary to place a guard over the guardroom and the officers' quarters, save that there was one man at the main doorway, and this was beyond an angle from where he stood, while the next sentries were in the courtyard to his left, and the stable-yard, to his right. so that, covered by the darkness, it was comparatively an easy task to drop down unnoticed, though afterwards it was quite a different thing. "then he has gone!" said frank softly; and he shrank away from the window, to stand thinking about how the lad could have managed to get away unseen by the sentries. thoughts came faster than ever; and he, as it were, put himself in his companion's position, and unconsciously enacted almost exactly what had taken place. for frank mentally went through what he would have done under the circumstances if he had been a prisoner who wished to get away. he would have waited till all was still, and when the sentry at the door was pacing up and down, and his footsteps on the stone landing would help to dull any noise he made, he would slip out of the window, drop on to his toes, and then go down on all fours, and creep along close to the wall beneath the windows, right for the piazza-like place, and along beneath the arches, making not for either of the entrance gates, but for the private garden. there he would be stopped by the wall; but there was a corner there with a set of iron spikes pointing downward to keep people from climbing over, but which to an active lad offered good foot-and hand-hold, by means of which he felt that he could easily get to the top. from there he could drop down, go right across the garden to the outer wall, which divided it from the park, and get on that somewhere by the help of one of the trees. once on the top, he could choose his place, and crawl to it like a cat. then all he had to do was to lower himself by his hands, and drop down, to be free to walk straight away, and take refuge with his friends. "oh, i could get out as easily as possible, if i wanted to," muttered frank. "poor drew! what's to become of him now?" frank stood thinking still, and saw it all more and more plainly. drew would know where his father was, and go and join him. and then? frank shuddered, for he seemed to see ruin and misery, and the destruction of all prospects for his friend; and, in spite of the indignation he felt against him for his deceit, his heart softened, and he muttered, as he turned to go once more into the bed-chamber: "poor old drew! i did like him so much, after all." as the boy entered the bedroom something caught his eye on the dressing table, and he looked at it wonderingly. it was the book he had been reading in the other room; the book, he knew, was there on the table when he lay down. could he have taken it into the bed-chamber? no, he was sure he had not. besides, there was a pen laid upon it, and it was open at the fly-leaf. frank panted with excitement, for there, written in his friend's hand, were the words: "_good-bye, old frank. we'll shake hands some day, when i come back in triumph. i can't forget you, though we did fall out so much. you'll be wiser some day. i can't write more; my wound hurts so much. i'm going to escape. if they shoot me, never mind; i shall have died like a man, crying, `god save king james_!' "_drew f_." the tears rose to frank's eyes, and he did not feel ashamed of them, as he closed the book and thrust it into his pocket. "poor old drew!" he said softly; "he believes he is doing right, and it is, after all, what his father taught him. my father taught me differently, so we can't agree." what should he do? he must speak out, and it could make no difference now, for drew must be safe away. he did not like to summon the sentry, and he shrank too, for he felt that he might be accused of aiding in the escape; but while he was thinking he heard steps crossing the open space in front, and glancing through the chamber window, he saw captain murray and the doctor coming toward the place. the next minute their steps were on the stairs, the sentry challenged, the key rattled in the door, and the doctor entered first, to say jocularly as frank advanced from the chamber: "morning, gowan. wounded man's not dead, i hope." chapter thirty one. in more hot water. frank gazed sharply at the doctor, but remained silent, his countenance being so fixed and strange that captain murray took alarm. "hang it, frank lad, what's the matter? why don't you speak?" he did not wait to hear the boy's answer, but rushed at once into his bed-chamber and returned directly. "here, what is the meaning of this?" he cried. "where is young forbes?" "gone, sir," said frank, finding his voice. "gone? what do you mean?" "i sat up watching him till i could not keep my eyes open. then i lay down, and when i awoke this morning the window was open, and he had escaped." "impossible!" cried captain murray angrily. "humph! i don't know so much about that, murray," said the doctor, after indulging in a grunt. "the young rascal was gammoning us last night, pretending to be so bad." "but there was no deceit about the wound." "not a bit, man; but he was making far more fuss about it than was real. it was only a clean cut, especially where i divided the skin and let out the ball. by george! though, the young rascal could bear a bit of pain." "but do you mean to tell me that he could escape alone with a wound like that to disable his arm?" "oh yes. it would hurt him terribly; but a lad with plenty of courage would grin and bear that, and get away all the same. i'm glad of it." "what! glad the prisoner has escaped?" "oh, i don't mean that," said the doctor. "i mean glad he had so much stuff in him. it was a clever bit of acting, and shows that he must have the nerve of a strong man. i beg his pardon, for last night i thought him as weak as a girl for making so much fuss over a mere scratch. it was all sham, that insensibility. i knew in a moment--you remember i said so to you when we went away." the captain nodded. "but i thought it was the weak, vain, young coxcomb making believe so as to pose as a hero who was suffering horribly." "but once more," cried captain murray warmly, "do you mean to tell me that, with one arm disabled, that boy could have managed to escape from the window without help?" "to be sure i do. give him a pretty good sharp, cutting pain while he was using his arm. did you hear him cry out, gowan?" "no, sir," said frank sharply; and he turned angrily upon the captain: "you said something very harsh about drew forbes not being able to get away without help. you don't think i helped him to get away?" "yes, i do, boy," said the captain, with soldierly bluntness. "i think you must have known he wanted to escape, and that you helped him to get out of the window; and i consider it a miserably contemptible return for the kindness of your father's old friend." "it is not true, captain murray," cried frank hotly. "you have no right to doubt my word. doctor, i assure you i did not know till i woke this morning, when i was utterly astonished." "and ran to the door, and gave notice to the sentry," said captain murray coldly. "no, i did not do that. i see now that i ought to have done so, and i was hesitating about it when you both came. but i had only just found it out then." "and i suppose i shall be called to account for letting him go," said the captain bitterly. "why didn't you go with him? were you afraid?" "oh, come, come, murray," cried the doctor reproachfully; "don't talk so to the boy. he's speaking the truth, i'll vouch for it. afraid? rob gowan's boy afraid? pooh! he's made of the wrong sort of stuff." "yes, sir," cried the boy, in a voice hoarse with emotion, "i was afraid,--not last night, for i did not know he was going; but when he begged and prayed of me to run away with him, and join the people rising for the pretender, i was afraid to go and disgrace my mother and father--and myself." "well done! well said, frank, my lad!" cried the doctor, taking him by one hand to begin patting him on the back. "that's a knock down for you, murray. now, sir, you've got to apologise to our young friend here--beg his pardon like a man." "if i have misjudged him, i beg his pardon humbly--like a man," said captain murray coldly. "i hope i have; but i cannot help thinking that he must have been aware of his companion's flight. mr gowan, your parole is at an end, sir. you will keep closely to these rooms." "bah!" cried the doctor; "why don't you say you are going to have him locked up in the black hole. murray, i'm ashamed of you. it's bile, sir, bile, and i must give you a dose." "i am going now, doctor," said the captain coldly. "which means i am to come away, if i don't want to be locked up too. very well, i have nothing to do here. there, shake hands, frank. don't you mind all this. he believes this now; but he'll soon see that he is wrong, and come back and shake hands. your father knew how to choose his friends when he chose captain murray. he's angry, and, more than that, he's hurt, because he thinks you have deceived him; but you have not, my lad. doctors can see much farther into a fellow than a soldier can, and both of your windows are as wide-open and clear as crystal. there, it will be all right." he gave the boy's shoulder a good, warm, friendly grip, and followed the captain out of the room. the door was locked, some orders were given to the sentry, frank heard the descending steps, and after standing gazing hard at the closed door for some minutes he dropped into the chair by the table, the one in which he had had such a struggle to keep awake. then he placed his arms before him, and let his head go down upon them, feeling hot, bitter, and indignant against captain murray, and as if he were the most unhappy personage in the whole world. a quarter of an hour must have passed before he started up again with a proud look in his eyes. "let him--let everybody think so if they like," he said aloud. "i don't care. she'll believe me, i know she will. oh! if i could only go to her and tell her; but i can't. no," he cried, in an exultant tone; "she knows me better and i know she'll come to me." chapter thirty two. a big wigging. "i won't show that i mind," thought frank; and in a matter-of-fact way he went into the bedroom, and made quite a spiteful use of the captain's dressing table and washstand, removing all traces of having passed the night in his clothes, and he had just ended and changed his shoes, which had been brought there, when the outer door was unlocked, and the captain's servant came in to tidy up the place. the servant was ready to talk; but frank was in no talking humour, and went and stood looking out of the window till the man had gone, when the boy came away, and began to imitate andrew forbes's caged-animal-like walk up and down the room, in which health-giving exercise to a prisoner he was still occupied when there were more steps below--the tramp of soldiers, the guard was changed, and frank felt a strong desire to look out of the window to see if another sentry was placed there; but he felt too proud. it would be weak and boyish, he thought; so he began walking up and down again, till once more the door was unlocked, and the captain's servant entered, bearing a breakfast tray, and left again. "just as if i could eat breakfast after going through all this!" he said sadly. "i'm sure i can't eat a bit." but after a few minutes, when he tried, he found that he could, and became so absorbed in the meal and his thoughts that he blushed like a girl with shame to see what a clearance he had made. the tray was fetched away, and the morning passed slowly in the expectation that lady gowan would come; but midday had arrived without so much as a message, and frank's heart was sinking again, when he once more heard steps, and upon the door being opened, captain murray appeared. "he has come to say he believes me," thought the boy, as his heart leapt; but it sank again upon his meeting his visitor's eyes, for the captain looked more stern and cold than ever, and his manner communicated itself to the boy. "you will come with me, gowan," said the captain sternly. "where to?" was upon the boy's lips; but he bit the words back, and swallowed them. he would not have spoken them and humbled himself then for anything, and rising and taking his hat, he walked out and across the courtyard, wondering where he was being taken, for he had half expected that it was to the guardroom to be imprisoned more closely. but a minute showed him that the growing resentment was unnecessary, for he was not apparently to submit to that indignity; and now the blood began to flush up into his temples, for he grasped without having had to ask where his destination was to be. in fact, the captain marched him to the foot of the great staircase, past the guard, and into the long anteroom, where he spoke to one of the attendants, who went straight to the door at the end leading into the prince's audience chamber. and now for a few moments the captain's manner changed, and he bent his head down to whisper hastily: "the prince has sent for you, boy, to question you himself. for heaven's sake speak out frankly the simple truth. i cannot tell you how much depends upon it. recollect this: your mother's future is at stake, and--" the attendant reappeared, came to him, and said respectfully: "his royal highness will see you at once." there was no time for the captain to say more--no opportunity offered for frank to make any indignant retort concerning the truth. for the curtain was held back, the door opened, and captain murray led the way in, slowly followed by his prisoner, who advanced firmly enough toward where the prince sat, his royal highness turning his eyes upon him at once with a most portentous frown. "well, sir," he said at once, "so i find that i have fresh bad news of you. you are beginning early in life. not content with what has passed, you have now turned traitor." the prince's looks, if correctly read, seemed to intimate that he expected the boy to drop on his knees and piteously cry for pardon; but to the surprise of both present he cried indignantly: "it is not true, your royal highness." "eh? what, sir? how dare you speak to me like this?" cried the prince. "i have heard everything about this morning's and last night's business, and i find that i have been showing kindness to a young viper of a traitor, who is in direct communication with the enemy, and playing the spy on all my movements so as to send news." "it is not true, your highness!" cried the boy warmly. "you have been deceived. just as if i would do such a thing as that!" "do you mean to pretend that this young forbes, your friend and companion, is not in correspondence with the enemy?" "no, your royal highness," said the lad sadly. "you knew it?" "yes." "then, as my servant, why did you not inform me, sir?" "because i was your servant, sir, and not a spy," said the boy proudly. "very fine language, upon my honour!" cried the prince. "but you are friends with him; and last night, after his first failure, you helped him to escape." "i did not, sir!" cried the boy passionately. "words, words, sir," said the prince; "even your friend here, captain murray, feels that you did." "and it is most unjust of him, sir!" cried the boy. "don't speak so bluntly to me," said the prince sternly. "now attend. you say you did not help him?" "yes, your royal highness." "mind this. i know all the circumstances. give me some proof that you knew nothing of his escape." "i can't, sir," cried the boy passionately. "i was asleep, and when i woke he was gone." "weak, weak, sir. now look here; you say you are my servant, and want me to believe in you. be quite open with me; tell me all you know, and for your mother's sake i will deal leniently with you. what do you know about this rising and the enemy's plans?" "nothing, your highness." "what! and you were hand and glove with these people. that wretched boy must have escaped to go straight to his father and acquaint him with everything he knows. what reason have i to think you would not do the same?" "i!" cried the boy indignantly; "i could not do such a thing. ah!" he cried, with a look of joy, making his white face flush and grow animated. "your royal highness asked me for some proof;" and he lugged at something in his pocket, with which, as he let his hands fall, one had come in contact. "what have you there, sir?" "a book, your highness," panted the boy; "but it won't come out. hah! that's it. look, look! i found that on the table when i woke this morning. see what he has written here." frank was thinking nothing about royalty or court etiquette in his excitement. he dragged out the book, opened the cover, went close up to the prince, and banged it down before him, pointing to the words, which the prince took and read before turning his fierce gaze upon the lad's glowing face. "there!" cried the boy, "that proves it. you must see now, sir. he cheated me. i thought he was very bad. but you see he was well enough to go. that shows how he wanted me to join him, and i wouldn't. oh, don't say you can't see!" "yes, i can see," said the prince, without taking his eyes off him. "did you know of this, captain murray?" "i? no, your royal highness. it is fresh to me." "read." captain murray took the book, read the scrap of writing, and, forgetting the prince's presence, he held out his hands to his brother-officer's son. "oh, frank, my boy!" he cried, "forgive me for doubting your word." "oh yes, i forgive you!" cried the lad, seizing and clinging to his hands. "i knew you'd find out the truth. i don't mind now." "humph!" ejaculated the prince, looking on gravely, but with his face softening a little. "the boy's honest enough, sir. but you occupy a very curious position, young gentleman, a very curious position, and everything naturally looked very black against you." "did it, your highness? yes, i suppose so." "then you had been quarrelling with that wretched young traitor about joining the--the enemy?" said the prince. frank winced at "wretched young traitor"; but he answered firmly: "yes, sir; we were always quarrelling about it, but i hoped to get him to think right at last." "and failed, eh?" said the prince, with a smile. "yes, sir." "and pray, was it about this business that you fought out yonder?" "it had something to do with it, sir," said frank, flushing up. "he said--" frank stopped short, looking sadly confused, and grew more so as he found the questioner had fixed his eyes, full now of suspicion, upon him. "well, what did he say, sir?" frank was silent, and hung his head. "do you hear me, sir?" "must i speak, captain murray?" said the boy appealingly. "yes, the simple truth." "he said, your royal highness, that my father had joined the enemy, and was a general in the rebel army, and i struck him for daring to utter such a lie--and then we fought." "why?" said the prince sternly, "for telling you the truth?" "the truth, sir!" cried the boy indignantly. "don't say you believe that of my father, sir. there is not a more faithful officer in the king's service." "your father is not in the king's service, but holds a high command with the rebels, boy." "no, sir, no!" cried the lad passionately; "it is not true." at that moment, when he had not heard the rustling of a dress, a soft hand was laid upon frank's shoulder, and, turning sharply, he saw that it was the princess who had approached and now looked pityingly in his face, and then turned to the prince. "don't be angry with him," she said gently; "it is very brave of him to speak like this, and terrible for him, poor boy, to know the truth." "no, no, your highness, it is not true!" cried frank wildly; and he caught and kissed, and then clung to the princess's hand. "my poor boy!" she said tenderly. "no, no; don't you believe it, madam!" he cried. "it is not--it can't be true. some enemy has told you this." "no," said the princess gently, "no enemy, my boy. it was told me by one who knows too well. i had it from your mother's lips." frank gazed at her blankly, and his eyes then grew full of reproach, as they seemed to say, "how can you, who are her friend, believe such a thing?" "there boy," said the prince, interposing; "come here." frank turned to him, and his eyes flashed. "don't look like that," continued the prince. "i am not angry with you now. i believe you, and i like your brave, honest way in defending your father. but you see how all this is true." "no!" cried the boy firmly. "your royal highness and the princess have been deceived. some one has brought a lying report to my poor mother, who ought to have been the last to believe it. i cannot and will not think it is true." "very well," said the prince quietly. "you can go on believing that it is not. i wish, my boy, i could. there, you can go back to your duties. you will not go over to the enemy, i see." the boy looked at the speaker as if about to make some angry speech; but his emotions strangled him, and, forgetting all etiquette, he turned and hurried from the room. "look after him, captain murray," said the prince quietly; "true gold is too valuable to be lost." the captain bowed, and hurried into the antechamber; but frank had gone, one of the gentlemen in attendance saying that he had rushed through the chamber as if he had been half mad, and leaped down the stairs three or four at a time. "gone straight to his mother," thought the captain; and he went on down the staircase, frowning and sad, for he was sick at heart about the news he had that morning learned of his old friend. chapter thirty three. frank's faith. frank went straight to his mother's apartments. "i don't think my lady is well enough to see you to-day, sir," said her woman. "tell her i must see her," cried the boy passionately; and a few minutes after, looking very white and strange, lady gowan entered the room. she looked inquiringly in the boy's eyes, and a faint sob escaped her lips as she caught him in her arms, kissed him passionately, and then laid her head upon his shoulder, while for some minutes she sobbed so violently that the boy dared not speak, but tried to caress her into calmness once more. "oh, frank, frank!" she sighed at last; and he held her more tightly to his breast. "i was obliged to come, mother," he said; "and now that i have come i dare not speak." "yes, speak, dear, speak; say anything to me now," she sighed. "but it seems so cruel, mother, while you are ill like this!" "speak, dear, speak. i ought to have sent to you before; but i was so heart-broken, so cowardly and weak, that i dared not confess it even to my own child." "mother," cried the boy passionately, "it is not true." lady gowan heaved a piteous sigh. "the prince sent for me, thinking i helped drew forbes to escape." "ah! he has escaped?" "yes, gone to join his father with the rebels; but the prince believes me now. he asked me first if i were going to join my father with the rebels too." "and--and--what did you say?" faltered lady gowan. "i?" cried the boy proudly. "i told him that he had no more faithful servant living than my father, though he was dismissed from the guards." lady gowan uttered a weary sigh once more. "oh, mother!" cried frank, "shame on you to believe this miserable lie! how can you be so weak!" "ah, frank, frank, frank!" she sighed wearily. "it seems too horrible to imagine that you could so readily think such a thing. the prince believes it, and the princess too, and she said the news came from you." "yes, dear, i was obliged to tell her. frank, my boy, i knew it when i saw you last--when i was in such trouble, and spoke so angrily to you. i could not, oh, i could not tell you then." "no. i am very glad you could not, mother," said the boy firmly. "you cannot, and you shall not, believe it. can't you see that it is impossible? there, don't speak to me; don't think about it any more. you are weak and ill, and that makes you ready to think things which you would laugh at as absurd at another time. oh, i wish i had said what i ought to have said to the prince," he cried excitedly. "i did not think of it then." "what--what would you have said?" cried lady gowan, raising her pale, drawn face to gaze in her son's eyes. "that he could soon prove my father's truth by sending him orders to come back and take his place in the regiment." "ah!" sighed lady gowan; and she let her head fall once more upon her son's shoulder. frank started impatiently. "oh!" he cried, "and you will go on believing it. there, i can't be angry with you now, you are so ill; but try and believe the truth, mother. father is the king's servant, and he would not--he could not break his oaths. there, you will see the truth when you get better; and you must, you must get better now. it was this news which made you so ill?" "yes, my boy, yes," she said, in a faint whisper; "and i blame myself for not going with him. if i had been by his side, he would not have changed." "he has not changed, mother," said the lad firmly. "but how did you get the news?" "it came through andrew forbes's father--mr george selby, as he calls himself now. he sent it to--to one of the gentlemen in the palace. i must not mention names." "ha--ha--ha!" laughed frank scornfully. "i thought it was some miserable, hatched-up lie. mr george selby has been playing a contemptible, spy-like part, trying to gain over people in the palace. he and his party tried to get me to join them." "you, my boy?" cried lady gowan, in wonder; "and you did not tell me." "no; conspiracies are not for women to know anything about," said the boy, talking grandly. "but i did tell my father." "yes; and what did he say?" "almost nothing. i forget now, mother. treated it with contempt. there, i must go now." "back under arrest?" "arrest? no, dear. i am the prince's page, and he knows now that i am no rebel. i am to go back to my duties as if nothing had happened." lady gowan uttered a sigh full of relief. "but i'm going to prove first of all how terribly wrong you have been, mother, in believing this miserable scandal. it is because my poor father is down, and everybody is ready to trample upon him. but we'll show them yet. you must be brave, mother, and look and speak as if now you did not believe a word about the story. do as i will do: go back to your place with the princess, and hold up your head proudly." "no, no, no, my boy; i have been praying the princess to let us both go away from the court, for that our position here was horrible." "ah! and what did she say?" cried frank excitedly. "that it was impossible; that we were not to blame, and that i was more her friend than ever." "oh, i do love the princess!" cried the boy enthusiastically. "there, you see, she does not at heart believe the miserable tale. no, you shall not go away, mother; it would be like owning that it was true. be brave and good and full of faith. father said i was to defend you while he was away, and i'm going to--against yourself while you are weak and ill. oh, what lots of things you've taught me about trying to be brave and upright and true; now i'm going to try and show you that i will. we cannot leave the court; it would be dishonouring father. good-bye till to-morrow. oh, mother, how old all this makes me feel." "my own boy!" "yes, but i don't feel a bit like a boy now, mother. it's just as if i had been here for years. there, once more kiss me--good-bye!" "my darling! but what are you going to do?" "something to show you that father has been slandered. good-bye! to-morrow i shall make you laugh for joy." and tearing himself away from his mother's clinging arms, the boy hurried out, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard, full of the plan now in his mind. chapter thirty four. a stirring encounter. more sentries were about the palace, and the guardroom was full of soldiers, but no one interfered with the prince's page, who went straight to the gates, and without the slightest attempt at concealment walked across to the banks of the canal, along by its edge to the end, passed round, and made for his father's house. twice over he saw men whom his ready imagination suggested as belonging to the corps of spies who kept the comers and goers from the palace under observation, but he would not notice them. "let them watch if they like. i'm doing something i'm proud of, and not ashamed." in this spirit he made for the house, and reached it, to find that the battered door had been replaced by a new one, which looked bright and glistening in its coats of fresh paint. he knocked and rang boldly, and as he waited he glanced carelessly to right and left, to see that one of the men he had passed in the park had followed, and was sauntering slowly along in his direction. "how miserably ashamed of himself a fellow like that must feel!" he thought. at that moment there was the rattling of a chain inside, and the door was opened as far as the links would allow. "oh, it's you, master francis," said the housekeeper, whose scared and troubled face began to beam with a smile; and directly after he was admitted, and the door closed and fastened once more. frank confined his words to friendly inquiries as to the old servant's health, and she hesitated after replying, as if expecting that he would begin to question her; but he went on upstairs, and shut himself in the gloomy-looking room overlooking the park. then, obeying his first impulse, he walked to the window to throw back the shutters. "no. wouldn't do," he said to himself. "there is sure to be some one watching the house from the back, and it would show them that i came straight here for some particular reason. i can manage in the dark." it was not quite dark to one who well knew the place; and with beating heart he went across to the picture, and, familiar now with the ingenious mechanism, he pressed the fastening, and then stood still, with the picture turned so that the closet stood open before him. he hesitated, for though he was so full of hope that he felt quite certain that there would be some communication from his father, he did not like to put it to the test for fear of disappointment. that he felt--after his brave defence of his father, and his belief that he would be able to find a letter which would sweep away all doubt and prove to his mother that she was wrong--would be almost unbearable, and so he waited for quite two minutes. "oh, what a coward i am," he muttered at last; and running his hand along the bottom shelf, he felt for the letter he hoped to find. his heart sank, for there was nothing there, and he hesitated once more, feeling that half his chance was gone. but there was the upper shelf, and once more with beating heart he began to pass his hand over it very slowly, and the next moment he touched a packet, which began to glide along the shelf. then he started back, thrust to the canvas-covered panel and fastened it almost in one movement, turning as he did so to face the door, which was slowly opened, and a dimly seen figure stepped forward, to stand gazing in. "why didn't i lock the door after me?" thought the boy, who was half wild now with excitement and dread, as he tried to make out by the few rays which struck across from the shutters who the man could be. that was too hard; but it seemed from the attitude that his back was half turned to him, and that he was trying to see what was going on in the room. the next moment he had proof that he was right, for the dimly seen figure softly turned and gazed straight at where he stood. "he must see me," thought the boy; and in his excitement he felt that he must take the aggressive, and began the attack. "who are you? what are you doing here?" he cried sharply. "a thief?" "oh no, young gentleman," said a voice. "what are you doing here?" for answer frank stepped quickly to the window and threw open one of the shutters, the light flashing in and showing him the face of the man he had passed in the park, the man who had followed him into the street, and seen him enter the house. "oh, i see," said frank contemptuously,--"a spy." "a gentleman in the king's service, boy, holding his majesty's warrant, and doing his duty. why have you come here?" "why have i come to my own house? go back out of here directly. how came the housekeeper to let you in?" "she did not, my good boy," said the man quietly; "and she did not put up the chain." "then how did you get in, sir?" "with my key of course--into _your_ house." "oh, this is insufferable!" panted frank. "while my father is away it is my house. i am his representative, and i don't believe his majesty would warrant a miserable spy to use false keys to get into people's homes." "you have a sharp tongue for a boy," said the man coolly; "but i must know why you have come, all the same." "watch and spy, and find out then, you miserable, contemptible hound!" cried frank in a rage--with the man for coming, and with himself for not having taken better precautions. for it was maddening. there was the letter waiting for him; he had touched it; and now he could not get at it for this man, who would not let him quit his sight, and perhaps after he was gone would search until he found it. the man looked hard at him for a few moments, but not menacingly. it was in the fashion of a man who was accustomed to be snubbed, bullied, and otherwise insulted, but did not mind these things in the least, so long as he could achieve his ends. he made frank turn cold, though, with dread, for he began to look round the room, noticing everything in turn in search of the reason for the boy's visit, for naturally he felt certain that there was some special reason, and he meant to find it out. frank stood watching him for a while, and then, as the man did not walk straight at the picture, and begin to try if he could find anything behind, the boy began to pluck up courage, and, drawing a long breath by way of preparation, he said, as he stepped forward: "now, sir, i don't feel disposed to leave you here while i go upstairs to my old room, so have the goodness to leave." "when you do, mr gowan--not before." "what!" cried frank fiercely; and he clapped his hand to where his sword should hang, but it had not been returned to him by the officer who arrested him, and he coloured with rage and annoyance. "ah, you have no sword," said the man coolly. "just as well, for you would not be able to use it. at the least attempt at violence, one call from this whistle would bring help to the back and front of the house, and you would be arrested. i presume you do not want to be in prison again?" "what do you know about my being arrested?" "there is not much that i do not know," said the man, with a laugh. "it is of no use to kick, my good sir. i only wish you to understand that violence will do no good." "bah!" ejaculated frank angrily; and he walked straight out of the room on to the landing, trying to bang the door behind him; but the man caught it, and came out quickly and quietly after him. "what shall i do?" thought frank; and for a moment he was disposed to descend and leave the house, but he felt that he could not without first gaining possession of the letter. it would be impossible to bear the strain, especially with the accompaniment of the dread of its being discovered and placing information which might prove disastrous to his father in the hands of a spy. the next minute his mind was made up. he determined to weary out the man if he could, while he on his part went up to his own old bedroom, which he used to occupy when he came home from school while his father and mother were in town. he would go up to it, and sit down and read if he could. the man should not come in there, of that he was determined; and he felt that he must risk the fellow's searching the place they had left. "for if he has a key, he could come in at any time, and hunt about the place. but how did he get a key to fit the door?" frank thought for a few moments, and then it was plain enough: he had obtained it from the people who made the new door to the house. "i must get the letter before i go," thought the boy now, "so as to send word to father that he must not venture to come again, because the place is so closely watched; and i must tell him of this piece of miserable intrusion." he took a few steps down, and the man followed; but before the landing was reached, he turned sharply round, and began to ascend rapidly. the man still followed close to his elbow, and in this way the second floor was reached, where the door of frank's bedroom lay a little to the right. the last time he was up there he was in company with his father in the dark, on the night of the escape, and a faint thrill of excitement ran through him as he recalled all that had passed. he turned sharply to the spy, and said indignantly: "look here, fellow, this is my bedroom;" and he pointed to the door. "yes, i know," said the man coolly; "but it's a long time since you slept there." "and what's that to you? go down. you are not coming in there." "i have the warrant of his majesty's minister to go where i please on secret service, sir," said the man blandly; "and you, as one of the prince's household, dare not try to stop me." "oh!" ejaculated the boy fiercely; and seizing the door knob he turned it quickly, meaning to rush in, bang the door in the fellow's face, and lock him out. "let him do his worst," thought frank, who was now beside himself with rage; but he did not carry out his plan, for the door did not yield. it was locked, and as he rattled the knob his fingers rubbed against the handle of the key. perhaps it was the friction against the steel which sent a flash of intelligence to his brain; but whether or no the flash darted there, and lit up that which the moment before was very dark with something akin to despair. he rattled the handle to and fro several times; and uttering an ejaculation full of anger, he threw himself heavily against the door, but it did not of course yield. "pooh!" he cried; and letting go of the door knob, he seized the handle of the key, and dragged and dragged at it, making it grate and rattle among the wards, each moment growing more excited, and ended by snatching his hand away, and stamping furiously on the floor. "don't stand staring there, idiot!" he cried, with a flash of anger. "can't you see that key won't turn?" "not if you drag at it like that," said the man, smiling blandly. "that is good for locksmiths, not for locks;" and stepping calmly forward, he took hold of the key, turned it slowly so that the bolt shot back with a sharp snap; then, turning the knob, he opened the door, walked into the little bedroom, and stood back a little, holding it so that there was room for frank to pass in. "bah!" ejaculated frank savagely; and he stepped in, raising his right hand, and making a quick menacing gesture, as if to strike the man a heavy blow across the face. taken thoroughly by surprise by frank's feint, the spy made a step back, when, quick as thought, the boy seized the handle, drew it to him, banging the door and turning the key, and stood panting outside, his enemy shut safely within. "here, open this door!" cried the man; and he began to thump heavily upon the panels. "quick! before i break it down." "break it down," cried the boy tauntingly. "how clever for a spy to walk into a trap like that." there was a moment's silence, and then--as if long coming--something which resembled the echo of frank's angry stamp on the floor was heard, followed by a heavy bump. the man had thrown himself against the door. "he won't break out in a hurry," muttered the boy; and he ran to the staircase, and in familiar old fashion seized the rail, threw himself half over, and let himself slide down the polished mahogany to the first floor, where he rushed in, closed and locked the door of the room, hurried excitedly to the picture door of the closet, the portrait of his ancestor seeming to his excited fancy to smile approval, and, as he applied his hand to the fastening, he heard faintly a noise overhead. the next moment a chill ran through him, for the window of his bedroom had evidently been thrown open, and a clear, shrill whistle twice repeated rang out. "that means help," thought frank, and he hesitated; but it was now or never, he felt, and opening the closet, he snatched the desired letter from the shelf, thrust it into his breast, and closed the closet once more. the whistle was sounded again, and a fresh thought assailed the boy. "they'll seize me, search me, and take the letter away. what shall i do?" he ran to the window in time to see a strange man climb the rails, and drop into the garden, run toward the house, stoop down, and pick up something. "the key that opens the front door," cried frank in despair. "he must have thrown it out." for a moment or two he stood helpless, unable to move; then, recalling the fact that the man would have to run round to the front door, he darted out of the room, bounded down the staircase, reached the hall door, and with hands trembling from the great excitement in which he was, he slipped the top and bottom bolts. "hah!" he ejaculated; "the key won't open them." then, darting to the top of the stairs leading down to the housekeeper's room, he ran almost into the old servant's arms. "oh, master frank, was that you whistling, sir?" she cried. "no; that man upstairs." "what man upstairs, my dear?" "hush! don't stop me. have you a fire there?" "yes, my dear; it is very chilly down in that stone-floored room, that i am obliged to have one lit." "that's right. go away; i want to be there alone. and listen, berry; i have bolted the front door. if any one knocks, don't go." "oh, my dear, don't say people are coming to break it down again!" "never you mind if they are. get out of my way." there was the rattling of a key faintly heard, and then _bang, bang, bang_, and the ringing of the bell. "they've come," said frank. "but never mind; i'll let them in before they break it." there was a faint squeal from the kitchen just then. "oh!" cried the housekeeper wildly, "that girl will be going into fits again." "let her," said frank. "stop! is the area door fastened?" "oh yes, my dear. i always keep that locked." frank stopped to hear no more, but ran into the housekeeper's room, whose window, well-barred, looked up a green slope toward the park. there was a folding screen standing near the fire, a luxury affected by the old housekeeper, who used it to ward off draughts, which came through the window sashes, and the boy opened this a little to make sure that he was not seen by any one who might come and stare in. then, standing in its shelter, he tore the letter from his breast pocket, broke the seal, opened it with trembling fingers, and began to read, with eyes beginning to dilate and a choking sensation rising in his breast. for it was true, then--the charge was correct. andrew forbes's words had not been an insult, the prince had told the simple fact. "oh, the shame of it!" panted the boy, as he read and re-read the words couched in the most affectionate strain, telling him not to think ill of the father who loved him dearly, and begged of him to remember that father's position, hopeless of being able to return from his exile, knowing that his life was forfeit, treated as if he were an enemy. so that in despair he had yielded to the pressure put upon him by old friends, and joined them in the bold attempt to place the crown upon the head of the rightful heir. "whatever happens, my boy, i leave your mother to you as your care." frank's hands were cold and his forehead wet as he read these last words, and the affectionate, loving way in which his father concluded his letter, the last information being that he was in england, and had gone north to join friends who would shortly be marching on london. "burn this, the last letter i shall be able to leave for you, unless we triumph. then we shall meet again." "`burn this,'" said frank, in a strange, husky whisper. "yes, i meant to burn this;" and in a curious, unemotional way, looking white and wan the while, he dropped the letter in the fire, and stood watching it as it blazed up till the flame drew near the great red wax seal bearing his father's crest. this melted till the crest was blurred out, the wax ran and blazed, and in a few moments there was only a black, crumpled patch of tinder, over and about which a host of tiny sparks seemed to be chasing each other till all was soft and grey. "i needn't have burned it," said the boy, in a low, pained voice. "what does it matter now?" he stood looking old and strange as he spoke. it did not seem a boy's face turned to the fire, but that of an effeminate young man in some great suffering, as he said again, in a voice which startled him and made him shiver: "what does it matter now?" he turned his head and listened then, before stooping to take up the poker and scatter the grey patch of ashes that still showed letters and words; for he appeared to have suddenly awakened to the fact that the thundering of the knocker was still going on and the bell pealing. "hah!" he sighed; "i must go back and tell her i was wrong. poor mother, what she must feel!" he moved slowly toward the door of the room, and then encountered the housekeeper standing at the foot of the stairs. "oh, my dear, my dear!" she moaned; "what shall we do? i heard them send for hammers to break in again." "they will not, berry," he said quietly. "i will go up and let them in." "oh, my dear!" cried the woman, forgetting the noise at the front door. "don't speak like that. what is the matter? you're white as ashes." "matter?" he said, looking at the old woman wistfully. "matter--ashes-- yes, ashes. i can't tell you, berry. i'm ill. i feel as if--as if--" he did not finish the sentence aloud, but to himself, and he said: "as if my father i loved so were dead." he walked quietly upstairs now into the hall, where there was the buzzing of voices coming in from the street, where people were collecting, and he distinctly heard some one say: "here they come." it did not seem to him to matter who was coming; and he walked quietly to the door, shot back the bolts, and threw it open, for half a dozen men to make a dash forward to enter; but the boy stood firmly in the opening, with his face flushing once more, and looking more like his old self. "well," he cried haughtily. "what is it?" "mr bagot--mr bagot! where is he?" "bagot? do you mean the spy who insulted me?" at the word "spy" there was an angry groan from the gathering crowd, and the men began to press forward. "the fellow insulted me," said frank loudly, "and i locked him in one of the upstairs rooms." "hooray!" came from the crowd. "well done, youngster!" and then there was a menacing hooting. "go and fetch him down," continued frank. "yah! spies!" came from the mob, and the men on the step gladly obeyed the order to go upstairs, and rushed into the house. "shall we fetch 'em out, sir," cried a big, burly-looking fellow, "and take and pitch 'em in the river?" "no; leave the miserable wretches alone," said the boy haughtily. "don't touch them, if they go quietly away." "hooray!" shouted the crowd; and then all waited till bagot came hurriedly down, white with anger, followed by his men, and seized frank by the shoulder. "you're my prisoner, sir." "stand off!" cried the lad fiercely; and he wrenched himself free, just as the mob, headed by the burly man, dashed forward. "you put a finger on him again, and we'll hang the lot of you to the nearest lamps!" roared the man fiercely; and the party crowded together, while frank seized the opportunity to close the door. "look here, fellow," he said haughtily. "i am going back to the palace. you can follow, and ask if you are to arrest me there." then turning to the crowd: "thank you, all of you; but they will not dare to touch me, and if you wish me well don't hurt these men." "ur-r-ur!" growled the crowd. "look here, you," cried frank, turning to the leader of the little riot. "i ask you to see that no harm is done to them." "then they had better run for it, squire," cried the man. "if they're here in a minute, i won't answer for what happens." "then let your lads see me safely back to my quarters," said the boy, as a happy thought; and starting off, the crowd followed him cheering to the palace gates, where they were stopped by the sentries; and they cheered him loudly once more as he walked slowly by the soldiery. "arrested again!" said frank softly. "well, if i can only go and see her first, it does not matter now." chapter thirty five. frank asks leave to go. "yes," said lady gowan sadly, after her meeting with her son, "it is terrible; but after all my teaching, telling you of your duty to be loyal to those whom we serve and who have been such friends to us, i could not nerve myself to tell you the dreadful truth. you are right, my boy. more than ever now we are out of place here; we must go." "yes, mother," said the boy gravely, "we must go." "let me read the letter, frank." "read it, mother? i have repeated every word. it wanted no learning. i knew it when i had read it once." "yes; but i must read your father's letter to you myself." "how could i keep it?" he said, almost fiercely. "i expected to be arrested and searched. it is burned." lady gowan uttered a weary sigh, and clung to her boy's hand. "going, dear?" she said; "so soon?" "yes, mother; i have so much to do. i can't stay now. perhaps i shall be a prisoner again after this business, and coming back here protected by a riotous crowd." "no, no, dear; the prince, however stern his father may be, is just, and he will not punish you." "i don't know," said the boy drearily. "i want to do something before i am stopped;" and he hurried away, looking older and more careworn than ever, to go at once to the officers' quarters, intending to see captain murray; but the first person he met was the doctor, who caught him by the arm, and almost dragged him into his room. "sit down there," he cried sharply, as he scanned the boy with his searching gaze. "don't stop me, sir, please," said frank appealingly. "i am very busy. do you want me?" "no; but you look as if you want me." "no, sir--no." "but i say you do. don't contradict me. think i don't know what i'm saying? you do want me. a boy of your years has no business to look like that. what have you been doing? why, your pulse is galloping nineteen to the dozen, and your head's as hot as fire. you've been eating too much, you voracious young wolf. it's liver and bile. all right, my fine fellow! pill hydrarg, to-night, and to-morrow morning a delicious goblet before breakfast--sulph mag, tinct sennae, ditto calumba. that will set you right." frank looked at him for a moment piteously, and then burst into a strange laugh. "eh, hallo!" cried the doctor; "don't laugh in that maniacal way, boy. have i got hold of the pig by the wrong tail? bah! i mean the wrong tail by the pig. nonsense! nonsense! i mean the wrong pig by--oh, i see now. why, frank, my boy, of course. ah, poor lad! poor lad! murray has been telling me. well, it's a bad job, and i shouldn't have thought it of rob gowan. but there, i don't know: _humanum est errare_. not so much erroring in it either. circumstances alter cases, and i dare say that if i were kicked out of the army, and i had a chance to be made chief surgeon to the forces of you know whom, i should accept the post." the boy's head sank down upon his hands, and he did not seem to hear the doctor's words. "poor lad!" he continued; "it's a very sad affair, and i'm very sorry for you. i always liked your father, and i never disliked you, which is saying a deal, for i hate boys as a rule. confounded young monkeys, and no good whatever, except to get into mischief. there, i see now--ought to have seen it with half an eye. there, there, there, my lad; don't take on about it. cheer up! you're amongst friends who like you, and the sun will come out again, even if it does get behind the black clouds sometimes." he patted the boy's shoulder, and stroked his back, meaning, old bachelor as he was, to be very tender and fatherly; but it was clumsily done, for the doctor had never served his time to playing at being father, and begun by practising on babies. hence he only irritated the boy. "he talks to me and pats me as if i were a dog," said frank to himself; and he would have manifested his annoyance in some way to one who was doing his best, when fortunately there was a sharp rap at the door, and a familiar voice cried: "may i come in, doctor?" "no, sir, no. i'm particularly engaged. oh, it's you, murray!--mind his coming in, gowan?" "oh no; i want to see him!" cried the boy, springing up. "come in!" shouted the doctor. "you here, frank?" said the captain, holding out his hands, in which the boy sadly placed his own, but withdrew them quickly. "yes, of course he is," said the doctor testily. "came to see his friends. in trouble, and wants comforting." "yes," said captain murray quietly, as he laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder. "then you know the truth now, frank?" "yes, sir," said the boy humbly. "i was coming to apologise to you, when the doctor met me and drew me in here." "yes; looked so ill. thought i'd got a job to tinker him up; but he only wants a bit of comforting, to show him he's amongst friends." "you were coming to do what, boy?" said the captain, as soon as he could get in a word,--"apologise?" "yes, sir; i was very obstinate and rude to you." "yes, thank goodness, my lad!" cried the captain, holding the boy by both shoulders now, as he hung his head. "look up. apologise! why, frank, you made me feel very proud of my old friend's son. i always liked you, boy; but never half so well as when you spoke out as you did to the prince. so you know all now?" "yes," said the boy bitterly. "how?" "my father has written to me telling me it is true." "hah! well, it's a bad job, my lad; but we will not judge him. robert gowan must have suffered bitterly, and been in despair of ever coming back, before he changed his colours. but we can't see why, and how things are. i want no apology, frank, only for you to come to me as your father's old friend." frank looked at him wonderingly. "come with me, boy." frank looked at him still, but his eyes were wistful now and full of question. "i want you to come with me to the prince." "yes, sir," said frank gravely. "i want to beg for an audience before i go." "before you go, frank?" "yes, sir. of course we cannot stay here now." "humph! ah, yes, i see what you mean," said the captain quietly. "well, come. you are half a soldier, frank, and the prince is a soldier, i want you to come and speak out to him, and apologise as you did to me--like a man." "yes, sir," replied frank, "that is what i wished to do." "then forward!" cried the captain. "let's make our charge, even if we are repulsed." "good-bye, and thank you, doctor," said frank. "what for? pooh! nonsense, my lad; that's all right. and, i say, people generally come and see me when they want something, physic or plasters, or to have bullet holes stopped up, or arms and legs sewn on again. don't you wait for anything of that sort, boy; you come sometimes for a friendly bit of chat." frank smiled gratefully, but shook his head as he followed captain murray out into the stable-yard. "come along, frank; there's nothing like making a bold advance, and getting a trouble over. we may not be able to get an audience with so many officers coming and going; but i'll send in my name." frank followed him into the anteroom, the place looking strange to him, and seeming as if it were a year since he had been there last, a fancy assisted by the fact that some five-and-twenty officers, whose faces were strange, stood waiting their turns when captain murray sent in his name by a gentleman in attendance. but, bad as the prospect looked, they did not have long to wait, for, at the end of about a quarter of an hour, the attendant came out, passing over all those who looked up eagerly ready to answer to their names, and walked to where captain murray was seated talking in a low voice to frank. "his royal highness will see you at once, gentlemen." frank did not feel in the slightest degree nervous as he entered, but followed the captain with his head erect, ready to speak out and say that for which he had come, when the prince condescended to hear; but he took no notice of the boy at first, raising his head at last from his writing, and saying: "well, captain murray, what news?" "none, your royal highness," said the soldier bluffly. "i have only come to bring frank gowan, your page, before you." "eh? oh yes. the boy who was so impudent, and told me i was no speaker of the truth." "i beg your royal highness's pardon." "and you ought, boy. what more have you to say?" "that i was wrong, sir. i believed it could not be true. i have found out since that it was as you said." "hah! you ought always to believe what a royal personage says--eh, murray?" the captain bowed, and smiled grimly. "don't agree with me," said the prince sharply. "well, boy, you are very sorry, eh?" "yes, your royal highness, i am very sorry," said frank firmly. "i know better now, and i apologise to you." the prince, moving himself round in his chair, frowning to hide a feeling of amusement, stared hard at the lad as if to look him down, and frowned in all seriousness as he found the boy looked him full in the eyes without a quiver of the lid. "humph! so you, my page, consider it your duty to come and apologise to me for doubting my word?" "yes, your highness, and to ask your forgiveness." "and suppose i refuse to give it to so bold and impudent a boy, what then?" and he gazed hard once more in the lad's flushing face. "i should be very, very sorry, sir; for you and the princess have been very good and kind to my poor mother and me." "yes, yes," said the prince, "too kind, perhaps, to have such a return as--" he stopped short as he saw a spasm contract the boy's features. "but there," he continued, "you are not to blame, and i do forgive you, boy. i liked the bold, brave way in which you showed your belief in your father." captain murray darted a quick glance at his young companion, as much as to say, "i told you so." "go on, my boy, as you have begun, and you will make a firm, strong, trustworthy man; and, goodness knows, we want them badly enough. there, i will not say any more--yes, i will one word, my boy. i am sorry that your father was not recalled some time back. he was a brave soldier, for whom i felt respect." frank could bear no more, and he bent his head to conceal the workings of his face. "there, take him away, murray, and keep him under your eye. there's good stuff in the boy, and we must get him a commission as soon as he is old enough." "no, your highness," said frank, recovering himself. "eh? what?" "i came to beg your royal highness's pardon, and to ask your permission for my mother and me to leave the royal service at once. we both feel that it is not the place for us now." "humph!" ejaculated the prince, frowning; "and i think differently. take him away, murray; the boy is hurt--wounded now.--that will do, gowan; go. no: i refuse absolutely. the princess does not wish lady gowan to leave; and _i_ want _you_." "there!" cried captain murray, as they crossed the courtyard on their way back to the officers' quarters; "it is what i expected of the prince. you can't leave us unless you run away, frank; and you've proved yourself too much of a gentleman for that. you see, everybody wants you here." frank could not trust himself to speak, for he was, in spite of his troubles, some years short of manhood and manhood's strength. chapter thirty six. the worst news. next morning frank rose in his old quarters, firmly determined to keep to his decision. it was very kind and generous of the prince, he felt; but his position would be intolerable, and his mother would not be able to bear an existence fraught with so much misery; and, full of the intention to see her and beg her to prevail on the princess to let them leave, he waited his time. but it did not come that day. he had to return to his duties in the prince's anteroom, and at such times as he was free he found that his mother was engaged with her royal mistress. the next day found him more determined than ever; but another, a greater, and more unexpected obstacle was in the way. he went to his mother's apartments, to find that, worn out with sorrow and anxiety, she had taken to her bed, and the princess's physician had seen her and ordered complete rest, and that she should be kept free from every anxiety. "how can i go now!" thought the boy; "and how can she be kept free from anxiety!" it was impossible in both cases, while with the latter every scrap of news would certainly be brought to her, for the palace hummed with the excitement of the troubles in the north; and as the day glided by there came the news that the earl of mar had set up the standard of the stuarts in scotland, and proclaimed prince james king of great britain; but the pretender himself remained in france, waiting for the promised assistance of the french government, which was slow in coming. still the scottish nobles worked hard in the prince's cause, and by degrees the earl of mar collected an army of ten thousand fighting men, including the staunch highlanders, who readily assumed claymore and target at the gathering of the clans. it was over the english rising that frank was the more deeply interested, and he eagerly hungered for every scrap of news which was brought to the palace, captain murray hearing nearly everything, and readily responding to the boy's questions, though he always shook his head and protested that it would do harm and unsettle him. "you'd better shut up your ears, frank lad, and go on with your duties," he said one day. "but tell me first, what is the last news about lady gowan?" "ill, very ill," said the boy wearily. "all this is killing her." "then the bad news ought to be kept from her." "bad news!" gasped frank. "is it then so bad?" "of course; isn't it all bad?" "oh!" ejaculated the boy; "i thought there was something fresh-- something terrible. but how can the news be kept from her? the princess goes and sits with her every day, and then tells her everything. she learns more than i do, and gets it sooner; but i can't go and ask her, for i always feel as if it were cruel and torturing her to make her speak about our great trouble while she is so ill. now, tell me all you know." "it is not much, boy. the duke of argyle is busy; he is now appointed to the command of the king's forces in scotland, and some troops are being landed from ireland to join his clans." "yes, yes; but in england?" cried the boy. "my father is not in scotland. it is about what is going on in england that i want to know." it was always the same, and by degrees, as the days went by, frank learned that his father had, with other gentlemen, joined the earl of derwentwater, and that they were threatening newcastle. it seemed an age before the next tidings came, and frank's heart sank, while those in the palace were holding high festival, for the pretender's little army there had been beaten off, and was in retreat through cumberland on the way to lancashire. a little later came news that in the boy's secret heart made him rejoice and brought gloom into the palace. for it soon leaked out that the county militias had been assembled hastily to check the pretender's forces, but only to be put to flight and scattered in all directions. then despatch after despatch reached the palace from the north, all containing bad news. the rebels had marched on, carrying everything before them till they neared preston in triumph. "then they'll go on increasing in strength," whispered frank, as he sat with captain murray on the evening of the receipt of that news, "and march right on to london!" "want them to?" said the captain drily. "yes--no--no--yes--i don't know." "nice loyal sort of a servant the prince has got," said the captain. "don't talk to me like that, captain murray," said the boy passionately. "i feel that i hate for the rebels to succeed; but how can i help wishing my father success?" "no, you cannot," said the captain quietly. "but he will not succeed, my lad. he and the others are in command of a mere rabble of undisciplined men, and before long on their march they will be met by some of the king's forces sent to intercept them." "yes, yes," cried the boy, with his cheeks flushing, "and then?" "what is likely to happen in spite of the training of the leaders? the undrilled men cannot stand against regular troops, even if they are enthusiastic. no: disaster must come sooner or later, and then there is only one chance for us, frank." "for us? i thought you said that the king's troops would win." "yes, and they will. i as a soldier feel that it must be so. we shall win; but i say there is only one chance for us as friends--a quick escape for your father to the coast and taking refuge in france. we must not have him taken, frank, come what may." "thank you, captain murray," said the boy, laying his hand on his friend's sleeve. "you have made me happier than i have felt for days." "and it sounds very disloyal, my boy; but i can't help my heart turning to my old friend to wish him safe out of the rout." "then you think it will be a rout?" panted frank. "it must be sooner or later. they may gain a few little advantages by surprise, or the cowardice of the troops; but those successes can't last, and when the defeat comes it will be the greater, and mean a complete end to a mad scheme." "but the prince must be with them by this time, sir." "the pretender? no; he is still in france without coming forward, and leaving the misguided men who would place him on the throne to be slaughtered for aught he seems to care." captain murray proved to be a true prophet, for he had spoken on the basis of his experience of what properly trained men could do against troops hastily collected, and badly armed men whose discipline was of the rudest description. sooner even than the captain had anticipated the news came in a despatch brought from the north of england. the pretender's forces, under lords derwentwater, kenmuir, and nithsdale, were encountered by the king's troops; and before the two bodies joined battle a summons was sent to the rebel army calling upon the men to lay down their arms or be attacked without mercy. the pretender's generals tried to treat the summons to surrender with contempt, laughed at it, and bade their followers to stand fast and the victory would be theirs. but, in spite of the exhortations of their officers, the sight of the king's regular troops drawn up in battle array proved too much for the raw forces. probably they were wearied with marching and the many difficulties they had had to encounter. their enthusiasm leaked out, life seemed far preferable to death, and they surrendered at discretion. there was feasting and rejoicing at saint james's that night, when the news came of the bloodless victory; while in one of the apartments mother and son were shut up alone in the agony of their misery and despair, for whatever might be the fate of the common people of the pretender's army, the action of the king toward all who opposed him was known to be of merciless severity. the leaders of the rebellion could expect but one fate--death by the executioner. "but, mother, mother! oh, don't give way to despair like that," cried frank. "we have heard so little yet. father would fight to the last before he would fly; but when all was over he would be too clever for the enemy, and escape in safety to the coast." "no," said lady gowan, in tones which startled her son. "your father, frank, would never desert the men he had led. it would be to victory or death. it was not to victory they marched that day." "but his name is not mentioned in the despatch." "no," said lady gowan sadly. "nor is that of colonel forbes." "ah!" cried frank; "and poor drew, he would be there." at last he was compelled to quit the poor, suffering woman; but before going to his own chamber, he went over to the officers' quarters, to try and see captain murray. there was a light in his room, and the sound of voices in earnest conversation; and frank was turning back, to go and sit alone in his despair, when he recognised the doctor's tones, and he knocked and entered. the eager conversation stopped on the instant, as the two occupants of the room saw the boy's anxious, white face looking inquiringly from one to the other. "come in and sit down," said captain murray, in a voice which told of his emotion; "sit down, my boy." frank obeyed in silence, trying hard to read the captain's thoughts. "you have come from your mother?" "yes; she is very ill." "she has heard of the disaster, then?" "yes. the princess went and broke it to her as gently as she could." "and she told you?" "yes; she sent for me as soon as she heard." "poor lady!" said the captain. "amen to that," said the doctor huskily; and he pulled out his snuff-box, and took three pinches in succession, making himself sneeze violently as an excuse for taking out his great red-and-yellow silk handkerchief and using it to a great extent. "hah!" he said at last, as he looked across at frank, with his eyes quite wet; "and poor old robert gowan! rebel, they call him; but we here, frank, can only look upon him more as brother than friend." "but," cried the boy passionately, "there is hope for him yet. he is not taken, in spite of what my mother said. he would have escaped to the coast, and made again for france." "what did your mother say?" asked captain murray, looking at the boy fixedly. "my mother say? that my father would never forsake the men whom he was leading to victory or death." "yes; she was right, frank, my lad. he would never turn his back on his men to save himself." "of course not, till the day was hopelessly lost." "not when the day was hopelessly lost," said captain murray, so sternly that frank took alarm. "why do you speak to me like that?" he cried, rising from his seat. "his name was not in the despatch. ah! you have heard. there is something worse behind. oh, captain murray, don't say that he was killed." "i say," said that officer sadly, "it were better that he had been killed--that he had died leading his men, as a brave officer should die." "then he did not," cried frank, with a hoarse sigh of relief. "no, he escaped that." "and to liberty?" "no, my boy, no," said the doctor, uttering a groan. "but i tell you that his name was not in the despatch. he couldn't have been taken prisoner." there was silence in the room, and the candles for want of snuffing were very dim. "why don't you speak to me?" cried frank passionately. "am i such a boy that you treat me as a child?" "my poor lad! you must know the truth," said captain murray gently. "your father's and colonel forbes's names are both in the despatch as prisoners." "no, no, no!" cried frank wildly. "the princess--" "kept the worst news back, to try and spare your poor mother pain. it is as i always feared." "then you are right," moaned frank; and he uttered a piteous cry. "yes, it would have been better if he had died." for the headsman's axe seemed to be glimmering in the black darkness ahead, and he shuddered as he recalled once more what he had seen on temple bar. chapter thirty seven. under the dark cloud. there was no waiting for news now. despatch succeeded despatch rapidly, and the occupants of the palace were made familiar with the proceedings in the north; and as frank heard more and more of the disastrous tidings he was in agony, and at last announced to captain murray that he could bear it all no longer. "i must go and join my father," he said one day. "it is cruel and cowardly to stay here in the midst of all this luxury and rejoicing, while he is being dragged up to london like a criminal." "have you told lady gowan of your intentions?" said the captain quietly. "told her? no!" cried frank excitedly. "why, in her state it would half kill her." "and if you break away from here and go to join your father, it would quite kill her." frank looked at him aghast, and the captain went on: "we must practise common sense, frank, and not act madly at a time like this." "is it to act madly to go and help one's father in his great trouble?" "no; you must help him, but in the best way." "that is the best way," said the boy hotly. "no. what would you do?" "go straight to him and try and make his lot more bearable. think how glad he would be to see me." "of course he would, and then he would blame you for leaving your mother's side when she is sick and suffering." "but this is such a terrible time of need. i must go to him; but i wanted to be straightforward and tell you first." "good lad." "think what a terrible position mine is, captain murray." "i do, boy, constantly; but i must, as your friend and your father's, look at the position sensibly." "oh, you are so cold and calculating, when my father's life is at stake." "yes. i don't want you to do anything that would injure him." "i--injure him!" "yes, boy." "but i only want to be by his side." "well, to do that you would run away from here, for the prince would not let you go." "no, he will not. i asked him." "you did?" "yes, two days ago." "then if you go without leave, you will make a good friend angry." "perhaps so; but i cannot stay away." "you must, boy, for it would be injuring your father; and, look here, if you went, you could not get near the prisoners. those who have them in charge would not let you pass." "but i would get a permission from the king." "rubbish, boy! he would not listen to you. he might as a man be ready to pardon your father; but as king he would feel that he could not. no; i must speak plainly to you: his majesty will deal sternly with the prisoners, to make an example for his enemies, and show them the folly of attempting to shake his position on the throne." "oh, captain murray! captain murray!" cried the boy. "look here, frank lad. your journey to meet the prisoners would be an utter waste of energy, and you would most likely miss them, for to avoid the possibility of attempts at rescue their escort would probably take all kinds of byways and be constantly changing their route." "but i should have tried to help my father, even if i failed." "don't run the risk of failure, boy," said the captain earnestly. "our only hopes lie in the prince and princess. the prince would, i feel sure, spare your father's life if he could, for the sake of his wife's friend. but he is not king, only a subject like ourselves, and he will be governed by his father and his father's ministers. now you see that you must not alienate our only hope by doing rash things." frank looked at him in despair. "now do you see why i oppose you?" "yes, yes," said the boy despondently. "oh, how i wish i were wise!" "there is only one way to grow wise, frank: learn--think and calculate before you make a step. now, look here, my boy. the prince has plenty of good points in his character. he likes you; and he shall be appealed to through your mother and the princess. now, promise me that you will do nothing rashly, and that you will give up this project." "should i be right in giving it up?" "yes," said the captain emphatically. "but what will my father think? i shall seem to be forsaking him in his great trouble." "he will think you are doing your duty, and are trying hard to save his life. come, don't be down-hearted, for we are all at work. there is our regiment to count upon yet--the king's own guards, who will, to a man, join in a prayer to his majesty to spare the life of the most popular officer in the corps." "ah! yes," cried frank. "i don't want even to hint at mutiny; but the king at a time like this would think twice before refusing the prayer of the best regiment in his service." "oh, captain murray!" cried the lad excitedly. "i will promise everything. i will go by your advice." "that's right, my lad; my head is a little older than yours, you know. now, go back to your duties, and let the prince see that his page is waiting hopefully and patiently to see how he will help him. go to your mother, too, all you can, and tell her, to cheer her up, that we are all hard at work, and that no stone shall be left unturned to save sir robert's life." frank caught the captain's hands in his, and stood holding them for a few moments before hurrying out of the room. then more news came of each day's march, and of the slow approach of the prisoners--the leaders only, the rest being imprisoned in cheshire and lancashire to await their fate. it was hard work, but frank kept his word, trying to be more energetic than ever over his duties, and finding that he was not passing unnoticed, for every morning the prince gave him a quiet look of recognition, or a friendly nod, but never once spoke. the most painful part of his life in those days was in his visits to his mother. these were agony to him, feeling as he did more and more how utterly insignificant and helpless he was; but he had one satisfaction to keep him going and make him look forward longingly for the next meeting--paradoxical as it may sound--so as to suffer more agony and despair, for he could plainly see that his mother clung to him now as her only stay, and that she was happiest when he was with her, and begged and prayed of him to come back to her as soon as he possibly could, now that she was so weak and ill. "i believe, my darling," she whispered one evening, "that i should have died if you had not been here." "yes, my lad," said the princess's physician to him as well; "you must be with lady gowan as much as you can. her illness is mental, and you can do more for her now than i can. ha--ha! i shall have to resign my post to you." "yes," said the boy to himself, "captain murray is quite right;" and he went straight to his friend's quarters, as he often did, to give him an account of his mother's state. "yes, sir," he said; "you were quite right: it would have killed her if i had gone away." "come, you are beginning to believe in me, frank. now i have some news for you." "about drew forbes?" cried frank eagerly. "no; i have made all the inquiries i can, but i can hear nothing of the poor fellow. his father is with yours; but the lad seems to have dropped out of sight, and i have my fears." "oh, don't say that," cried frank excitedly; "he was so young." "yes," said the captain grimly; "but in a fight young and old run equal chances, while in the exposure and suffering of forced marches the young and untried fare worse than the old and seasoned. drew forbes was a weak, girlish fellow, all brain and no muscle. i am in hopes, though, that he may have broken down, and be lying sick at some cottage or farmhouse." "hopes!" cried frank. "yes, he may get well with rest. better than being well and strong, and on his way to suffer by the rope or axe." frank shuddered. "now then," cried the captain sharply, to change the conversation; "you found my advice good?" "yes, yes," said frank. "then take some more. look here, frank; the doctor and i were talking about you last night, and he is growing very anxious. he said the blade was wearing out the scabbard, and that you were making an old man of yourself." "not a young one yet," said the boy, smiling sadly. "never mind that. you'll grow old soon enough. he says what i think, that you never go out, and that you will break down." "oh, absurd! i don't want exercise." for answer the captain clapped him on the shoulder, and twisted him round. "look at your white face in the glass, my boy. don't risk illness. you will want all your strength directly in the fight for life to come. your father will, in all probability, reach london to-morrow." "ah!" cried frank excitedly. "yes; we had news this morning by the messenger who brought the royal despatches. the colonel had a brief letter. get leave to go out to-morrow, and come with me." "yes, where?" "we'll try and meet the escort, and see your father, even if we cannot speak." "oh!" ejaculated frank; and, utterly worn out with anxiety and want of proper food, he reeled, a deathly feeling of sickness seized him, and his eyes closed. when he opened them again he was lying upon the captain's couch, with his temples and hair wet, and he looked wonderingly in the face of his father's friend. "better?" "yes; what is it? oh my head! the room's going round." "drink," said the captain. "that's better. it will soon go off." "but why did i turn like that?" "from weakness, lad. shall i send for the doctor?" "no, no," cried frank, struggling up into a sitting position. "i'm better now. how stupid of me!" "nature telling you she has been neglected, my lad. you have not eaten much lately?" "i couldn't." "nor slept well?" "horribly. i could only lie and think." "and you have not been outside the walls?" "no; i have felt ashamed to be seen, and as if people would look at me and say, `his father is one of the prisoners.'" "all signs of weakness, as the doctor would say. now you want to be strong enough to go with me to-morrow--mounted?" "of course." "then try and do something to make yourself fit. i shouldn't perhaps be able to catch you as i did just now if you fainted on horseback, and in a london crowd; for we should be under the wing of the troops sent to meet the prisoners coming in." "i shall be all right, sir," said the boy firmly. "go and have a walk in the fresh air, then, now." "must i?" said frank dismally. "if you wish to go with me." "where shall i go, then?" "anywhere; go and have a turn in the park." "what, go and walk up and down there, where people may know me!" "yes, let them. don't take any notice. try and amuse yourself. be a boy again, or a man if you like, and do as charles the second used to do: go and feed the ducks. well, what's the matter? there's no harm in feeding ducks, is there?" "oh no," said the boy confusedly; "i'll go;" and he hurried out. chapter thirty eight. feeding the ducks again. "go and feed the ducks," said frank to himself, as he obtained some biscuits, and, in his readiness to obey his elder's wishes, went slowly toward the water-side; "how little he knows what a deal that means;" and, almost unconsciously, he strolled on down to the side of the canal, thinking of mr george selby and drew, and of the various incidents connected with his walks out there, which, with the duel, seemed in his disturbed state of mind to have taken place years--instead of months-- ago, when he was a boy. he went slowly on, forgetting all about the biscuits, till he noticed that several of the water-fowl were swimming along, a few feet from the bank, and watching him with inquiring eyes. he stopped short, turned to face the water, which was sparkling brightly in the sunshine, and taking a biscuit out of his capacious "salt-box pocket," he began to break it in little bits and throw them to the birds. "ah, what a deal has happened since we were here doing this that day," thought the boy; and his mind went back to his first meeting with drew's father, the invitation to the dinner, and the scene that evening in the tavern. "please give me a bit, good gentleman," said a whining voice at his elbow. "i'm so hungry, please, sir. arn't had nothing since yes'day morning, sir." frank turned sharply, to see that a ragged-looking street boy, whom he had passed lying apparently asleep on the grass a few minutes before, was standing close by, hugging himself with his arms, and holding his rags as if to keep them from slipping off his shoulders. he wore a dismally battered cocked hat which was a size too large for him, and came down to his ears over his closely cropped hair. his shirt was dirty and ragged, and his breeches and shoes were of the most dilapidated character, the latter showing, through the gaping orifices in front, his dirty, mud-encrusted toes. frank saw all this at a glance; but the poor fellow's face took his attention most, for it was pitiable, thin, and careworn, and would have been white but for the dirt with which it was smudged. frank looked at him with sovereign contempt. "so hungry that you can't stoop down by the water's edge to wash your filthy face and hands, eh?" "wash, sir?" said the lad piteously; "what's the good? don't matter for such as me. you don't know." "miserable wretch!" thought frank; "what a horribly degraded state for a poor fellow to be in." then aloud: "here, which will you have--the biscuit or this?" he held out a coin that would have bought many biscuits in one hand, the broken piece in the other. "biscuit, please, gentleman," whined the lad. "i am so hungry, you don't know." "take both," said frank; and they were snatched from his hands. "oh, thank you, gentleman," whined the lad, as some one passed. "you don't know what trouble is;" and he began to devour the biscuit ravenously. "not know what trouble is!" cried frank scornfully. "do you think fine clothes will keep that out? oh, i don't know that i wouldn't change places with you, after all." "poor old laddie!" said the youth, looking at him in a peculiar way, and with his voice seeming changed by the biscuit in his mouth; "and i thought he was enjoying himself, and feeding the ducks, and not caring a bit." "what!" exclaimed frank wildly. "don't you know me, frank?" "drew!" "then the disguise is as right as can be. keep still. nonsense! don't try to shake hands. stand at a distance. there's no knowing who may be watching you. give me another biscuit. i am hungry, really. there, go on feeding the ducks. how useful they are. sort of co-conspirators, innocent as they look. i'll sit down behind you as if watching you, and i can talk when there's no one near." frank obeyed with his face working, and drew forbes threw himself on the grass once more. "drew, old fellow, you make me feel sick." "what, because i look such a dirty wretch?" "no, no. i'm ill and faint, and it's horrible to see you like this." "yes; not much of a macaroni now." "we--we were afraid you were dead." "no; but i had a narrow squeak for my life. i and two more officers escaped and rode for london. i only got here yesterday, dressed like this, hoping to see you; but you did not come out." "no; this is the first time i have been here since you left. how is the wound?" "oh, pooh! that's well enough. bit stiff, that's all. i say, is it all real?" "what?" "me being here dressed like this." "oh, it's horrible." "not it. better than being chopped short, or hung. i am glad you've come. i want to talk to you about your father and mine. they'll be in town to-morrow, i should say." "yes, i know. tell me, what are you going to do?" "do? we're going to raise the mob, have a big riot, and rescue them. i want to know what you can do to help." "we are trying to help in another way," said frank excitedly. "how?" "petitioning the king through the prince." "no good," said drew shortly. "there's no mercy to be had. our way is the best." "but tell me: you are in a terrible state--you want money." "no. we've plenty, and plenty of friends in town here. don't think we're beaten, my good fellow." frank's supply of biscuit came to an end, and to keep up appearances he began to delude the ducks by throwing in pebbles. "there's one of those spy fellows coming, frank," said drew suddenly. "don't look round, or take any notice." frank's heart began to beat, as he thrust his hand into his pocket, for his fingers to come in contact with one little fragment of biscuit passed over before, and, waiting till he heard steps close behind him, he threw the piece out some distance, and stood watching the rush made by the water-fowl, one conveying the bit off in triumph. frank searched in vain for more, and he was regretting that he had been so liberal in his use of the provender, and racking his brains for a means of keeping up the conversation without risk to his companion, when about half a biscuit fell at his feet, and he seized it eagerly. "he's pretty well out of hearing, frank; but speak low. i don't want to be taken. you'd better move on a bit, and stop again. i'll go off the other way after that spy, and work round and come back. you go and sit down a little way from the bushes yonder, and i'll creep in behind, and lie there, so as to talk to you. got a book?" "no," said frank sadly. "haven't you a pocket-book?" "oh yes." "well, that will do. take it out after you've sat down, and pretend to make a sketch of the trees across the water." "ah, i shouldn't have thought of that." "you would if you had been hunted as i have. there, don't look round. i'm off." "but if we don't meet again, drew? i want to do something to help you." "then do as i have told you," said the lad sharply; and he shuffled away, limping slightly, while, after standing as if watching the water-fowl for about ten minutes, and wondering the while whether he was being watched, frank strolled on very slowly in the opposite direction, making for a clump of trees and bushes about a couple of hundred yards away, feeling that this must be right, and upon reaching the end, going on about half its length, and then carelessly seating himself on the grass about ten feet from the nearest bush. after a short time, passed in wondering whether drew would be able to get hidden behind him unseen, he took out his pocket-book and pencil, and with trembling fingers began to sketch. fortunately he had taken lessons at the big hampshire school, and often received help from his mother, who was clever with her pencil, so that to give colour to his position there he went on drawing, a tiny reproduction of the landscape across the water slowly growing up beneath his pencil-point. but it was done almost unconsciously, for he was trembling with dread lest his object there should be divined and result in andrew being captured, now that a stricter watch than ever was kept about the surroundings of the palace. one moment he felt strong in the belief that no one could penetrate his old companion's disguise; the next he was shuddering in dread of what the consequences would be, and wishing that drew had not come. at the same time he was touched to the heart at the lad running such a risk when he had escaped to safety among his london friends. for drew had evidently assumed this pitiful disguise on purpose to come and see him. there could be no other object than that of trying to see his friend. would he be able to speak to him again? "i say, they're keeping a sharp look-out, franky," came from behind in a sharp whisper, making him start violently. "don't do that. go on sketching," whispered drew; and frank devoted himself at once to his book. "that fellow went on, and began talking to another. i saw him, but i don't think he saw me. i say, i shall have to go soon." "yes, yes; i want you to stay, drew, but pray, pray escape!" "why?" "because i wouldn't for worlds have you taken." there was a few moments' pause, and then drew spoke huskily. "thank ye," he said. "i was obliged to come and see you again. i wanted to tell you that i'm sorry i didn't shake hands with you, frank." "ah!--i'll slip back to where you are and shake hands now," cried the boy excitedly. "no, no; pray don't move. it's too risky; i don't want to be caught. i must be with those who are going to rescue my father and yours to-morrow.--think that you are shaking hands with me. now, there's my hand, old lad. that's right. yes, i can believe we have hold again. perhaps i shall never see you again, franky; perhaps i shall be taken. if i am, please think that i always looked upon you as a brother, and upon lady gowan as if i were her son." "yes, drew, yes, drew," whispered frank in a choking voice, as he bent over his open book. "give my love to dear lady gowan, and tell her how i feel for her in her great trouble." "yes, yes, i will," whispered frank, as he shaded away vigorously at his sketch, but making some curious hatchings. "tell her that there'll be a hundred good, true men making an effort to save sir robert to-morrow, and we'll do it. i'd like you to come and help, but you mustn't. it would be too mad." "no. i'll come," whispered the boy excitedly. "no, you will not come," said drew. "you can't, for you don't know when and where it will be." "then tell me," whispered frank, with his face very close to his paper. "i'd die first, old lad," came back. "lady gowan has suffered enough from what has happened. she shan't have another trouble through me. i tried to get you away; but i'm sorry now, for her sake. you stop and take care of her. your father said--" "yes, what did he say?" "he told me it was his only comfort in his troubles to feel that his son was at his mother's side." "ah!" sighed frank; and then he uttered a warning, "hist! some one coming;" and he gazed across the water and went on sketching, for he had suddenly become aware of some one coming from his left over the grass, and he trembled lest his words should have been heard, for every one now seemed likely to be a spy. it was hard work to keep from looking up, and to appear engrossed with his task; but he mastered the desire, even when he was conscious of the fresh-comer being close at hand, his shadow cast over the paper, and he knew that he was passing between him and the clump of shrubs. then whoever it was paused, and frank felt that he was looking down at the drawing, while the boy's heart went on thumping heavily. "he must have heard me speaking," he thought; and then he gave a violent start and looked up, for a voice said: "well done, young gentleman. quite an artist, i see." the speaker's face was strange, and he had keen, searching eyes, which seemed as if they were reading the boy's inmost thoughts as he faltered: "oh no, only a little bit of a sketch." then he started again, for there was the sound of a blow delivered by a stick, a sharp cry, a scuffle, and drew bounded out from the bushes, followed by frank's old enemy whom he had trapped at the house. but drew would have escaped if it had not been for the stranger, who, acting in collusion with bagot, caught the lad by the arm and held him. frank had sprung to his feet, to stand white and trembling, and drew sword ready to interfere on behalf of his old companion, who, however, began to act his part admirably. "don't you hit me," he whined; "don't you hit me." "you young whelp!" cried bagot. "what are you doing here?" "i dunno," whined drew. "must go somewheres. only came to lie down and have a snooze." "a lie, sir, a lie. i've had my eye upon you for hours. i saw you here last night." "that you didn't, sir. it was too cold, and i went away 'fore eight o'clock." "lucky for you that you did, or you'd have found yourself in the round house." "don't you hit me; don't you hit me," cried drew, writhing. "i'll cut you to pieces," snarled bagot. "i watched him," he continued to the man who held the lad in a firm grip in spite of his struggles to get away. "he was sneaking up to this young gentleman, begging and trying to pick his pocket." "that i wasn't," whined drew. "i was orfle 'ungry, and he was pitching away cake things to the ducks. i only arksed for a bit because i was so 'ungry--didn't i, sir?" "yes," said frank hoarsely. "i gave him a biscuit." "then what's this?" said the man who held him, wrenching open drew's hand, in spite of a great show of resistance, and seizing a shilling. "you managed to rob him, then." "no, no," said frank. "i gave him the money." that disarmed suspicion. "but he'd sneaked round behind you. i watched him, and found him here where he had crawled, and lay pretending to be asleep. i wager you had not seen him." "no," said frank sharply. "i had not seen him since he came up to beg;" and the boy drew a breath of relief, for he had shivered with the dread that the man was going to ask him if he knew that drew was there. "better take your shilling back, sir," said the man. "i? no," said frank proudly. "let the poor, shivering wretch go. he wants it badly enough." "then thank your stars the young gentleman speaks for you," said bagot sharply. "off with you, and don't you show your face this way again." "don't you hit me then," whimpered drew. "don't you hit me;" and he limped off, repeating the words as he went, while frank stood looking after him, feeling as if he could not stir a step. "that was a clever trick of yours, young gentleman," said bagot, with a broad grin. "but i don't bear any malice. king's service, sir. you see, i can take care of you as well as watch." "yes. thank you," said frank coldly; and with a sigh of relief he tore the leaf bearing the sketch out of his pocket-book, and then turned cold, for he felt that he had made a false move. the other man was watching him. "spoiled my sketch," he said, with a half laugh. "made me start so that my pencil went right across it." fortunately this was quite true, and it carried conviction. "don't tear it up, sir," said the second man respectfully. "i should like to take that home to please my little girl. she'd know the place. she often comes to feed the ducks." the man was human, then, after all, even if he was a spy, and frank's heart softened to him a little as he gave him the sketch. "thank ye, sir," said the man, who looked pleased; and the lad stopped and listened to him, feeling that it was giving drew time to get away. "i can tell her i saw a young gentleman drawing it. she's quite clever with her pencil, sir; but she can't, of course, touch this." frank hesitated for a few moments as to which way he should go, inclination drawing him after his friend; but wisdom suggested the other direction, and he strolled off without looking back till he could do so in safety, making the excuse of throwing in the remains of the biscuit drew had returned to the ducks. he had been longing intensely to look back before and see if the men were following his friend; but to his great relief he found that they were not very far from where he now stood. then he walked quietly back toward the palace gates with his head beginning to buzz with excitement at the news he had heard. "they're going to rescue him to-morrow," he thought. "ought i to tell captain murray? no; impossible. he might feel that it was his duty to warn the king. it would be giving him a task to fight against duty and friendship. i dare not even tell my mother, for fear the excitement might do her harm. no, i must keep it to myself, and i shall be there--i shall be there." he did not see where he was going, for in his imagination he was on horseback, looking on at a mighty, seething crowd making a bold rush at the cavalry escort round some carriages. but he was brought to himself directly after by a bluff voice saying: "don't run over me, frank, my lad. but that's right; the walk has brought some colour into your cheeks." the colour deepened, as the speaker went on: "i've arranged for a quiet horse to be ready with mine, my lad, and i have a good hint or two as to where we ought to go so as to be in the route. it will not be till close on dusk, though." "oh, if i could tell exactly the way they will come, and the time, and let drew know, it might mean saving my father's life," thought frank. "i must tell captain murray then. "no, it would not do," he mused; "for if i did, he would not move an inch. how to get the news, and go and find drew! but where? ah! i might hear of him from some one at the tavern where they have that club." "why, frank lad, what are you thinking about?" said the captain. "i've been talking to you for ever so long, and you don't answer." "oh, captain murray," said the boy sadly, "you must know." "yes, my lad," said the captain sadly, "of course i know." chapter thirty nine. at the last moment. there was not much sleep for the boy that night, for he was in the horns of a terrible dilemma. what should he do? he turned from side to side of his bed, trying to argue the matter out, till his father's fate, his duty to the king and prince, the natural desire to help, his love for his mother, captain murray and his duty to the king and friendship for his brother-officer and companion, were jumbled up in an inextricable tangle with drew forbes and the attempt at rescue. "oh!" he groaned, as day broke and found him still tossing restlessly upon his pillow; "i often used to tell poor drew that he was going mad. i feel as if i were already gone, for my head won't work. i can't think straight, just too when i want to be perfectly clear, and able to make my plans." it would have prostrated a cleverer and more calculating brain than frank's--one of those wonderful minds which can see an intricate game of chess right forward, the player's own and his adversary's moves in attack or defence--to have calmly mapped out the proper course for the lad through the rocks, shoals, and quicksands which beset his path. as it happened, all his mental struggles proved to be in vain; for, as is frequently the case in life, the maze of difficulties shaped themselves into a broad, even path, along which the boy travelled till the exciting times were past. to begin with, nature knew when the brain would bear no more; and just at sunrise, when frank had tried to nerve himself for a fresh struggle by plunging face and a good portion of his head into cold water previous to having a good brisk rub, and then lain down to think out his difficulty once more, unconsciously choosing the best attitude for clear thought, a calm and restful sensation stole over him. one moment he was gazing at the bright light stealing in beside his blind; the next he was in profound mental darkness, wrapped in a deep, restful slumber, which lasted till nearly ten o'clock, when he was aroused by a knocking at his door, and leaped out of bed, confused and puzzled, unable for a few moments to collect his thoughts into a focus and grasp what it meant. "yes," he said at last. "what is it?" "will you make haste and go across to lady gowan's apartments, sir?" said a voice. "she has been very ill all night, and wishes to see you." "oh!" groaned frank to himself. then aloud: "yes; come over directly." he began to dress rapidly, with all the troubles of the night magnified and made worse by the mental lens of reproach through which he was looking at his conduct. "how can i be such a miserable, thoughtless wretch!" he thought. "how could i neglect everything which might have helped to save my poor father for the sake of grovelling here, and all the time my mother ill, perhaps dying, while i slept, not seeming to care a bit!" he had a few minutes of hard time beneath the unsparing lashes he mentally applied to himself as he was dressing; and then, ready to sink beneath his load of care, and feeling the while that he ought to have obtained from captain murray the route the prisoners would take, and then have found drew forbes and told him, so as to render the attempt at rescue easier, he hurried across the first court, and then into the lesser one to his mother's apartments. "the doctor's with her, sir," whispered the maid. "how is she now?" asked frank. "dreadfully bad, sir. pray make haste to her; she asked for you again when the doctor came." frank hurried up, to find the quiet physician who attended her and a nurse in the room, while the patient lay with her eyes looking dim, and two hectic spots in her thin cheeks, gazing anxiously at the door. a faint smile of recognition came upon her lips, and she raised one hand to her son, and laid it upon his head as he sank upon his knees by the bedside. "oh, mother darling!" he whispered, in a choking voice, "forgive me for not coming before." she half closed her eyes, and made a movement of the lips for him to kiss her. then her eyes closed, as she breathed a weary sigh. frank turned in horror to the physician, who bent down and whispered to him. "don't be alarmed; it is sleep. she has, i find, been in a terribly excited state, and i have been compelled to administer a strong sedative. she will be calmer when she wakes. sleep is everything now." "you are not deceiving me, sir?" whispered frank. "no. that is the simple truth," replied the physician, very firmly. "your mother may wake at any time; but i hope many hours will first elapse. i find that she has expressed an intense longing for you to come to her side, and, as you saw, she recognised you." "oh yes, she knew me," said frank eagerly. "but pray tell me--she is not dying?" "lady gowan is in a very serious condition," replied the doctor; "but i hope she will recover, and--" "yes, yes; pray speak out to me, sir," pleaded the boy. "her ailment is almost entirely mental; and if the news can be brought to her that the king will show mercy to her husband, i believe that her recovery would be certain." "then you think i ought to go at once and try to save my father?" "no," said the physician gravely. "i know all the circumstances of the case. you can do no good by going. leave that to your friends--those high in position. your place is here. whenever lady gowan wakes, she must find you at her bedside. there, i will leave you now. absolute quiet, mind. sleep is the great thing. i will come in again in about three hours. the nurse knows what to do." the physician went out silently, and frank seated himself by his mother's pillow, to hold the thin hand which feebly clung to his and watch her, thinking the while of how his difficulties had been solved by these last orders, which bound him there like the endorsement of his father's commands to stay by and watch over his mother. he could think clearly now, and see that much of that which he had desired to do was impossible. even if he had set one duty aside, that to the prince, his master, and let his love for and desire to save his father carry all before them, he could see plainly enough that it was not likely that he would have found drew forbes. a visit to the tavern club would certainly have resulted in finding that the occupants were dispersed and the place watched by spies. then, even if he had found drew, wherever he and his friends were hiding, it was not likely that they would have altered their plans for any information which he could give them. everything would have been fixed as they thought best, and no change would have been made. clearer still came the thought that he had no information to give them further than that the prisoners would probably be brought into london that evening, which way captain murray might know, but he would never depart from his duty so far as to supply the information that it might be conveyed to the king's enemies. he was too loyal for that, gladly as he would strive to save his friend. it was then with a feeling of relief that frank sat there by his mother's bed, holding her hand, and thinking that he could do no more, while upon the nurse whispering to him that she would be in the next room if wanted, and leaving him alone, he once more sank upon his knees to rest his head against the bed, and prayed long and fervently in no tutored words, but in those which gushed naturally and simply from his breast, that the lives of those he loved might be spared and the terrible tribulation of the present times might pass away. hour after hour passed, and the nurse came in and out softly from time to time, nodding to the watcher and smiling her satisfaction at finding her patient still plunged in a sleep, which, as the day went on, grew more and more profound. then when alone frank's thoughts went wandering away along the great north road by which the prisoners must be slowly approaching london, to find their fate. and at such times his thoughts were busy about his mother's friends. what were they doing to try and save his father? then his thoughts went like a flash to his meeting with drew the day before; and his words came full of hope, and sent a feeling of elation through him. the rebels were not beaten, as drew had said, and there was no doubt about their making a brave effort to rescue the prisoners before they were shut up in gaol. and in imagination frank built up what would in all probability be done. small parties of the jacobites would form in different places, and with arms hidden gradually converge upon some chosen spot which the prisoners with their escort must pass. then at a given signal an attack would be made. the escort would be of course very strong; but the jacobites would be stronger, and in all probability the mob, always ready for a disturbance, would feel sympathy with the unfortunate prisoners, and help the attacking party, or at least join in checking the guards, resenting their forcing their horses through the crowd which would have gathered; so that the prospects looked very bright in that direction, and the boy felt more and more hopeful. twice over the servant came to the door to tell the watcher that first breakfast, and then lunch, was waiting for him in the room below; but he would not leave the bedside, taking from sheer necessity what was brought to him, and then resuming his watch. the physician came at the end of three hours as he had promised, but stayed only a few minutes. "exactly what i wished," he said. "go on watching and keeping her quiet, and don't be alarmed if she sleeps for many hours yet. i will come in again this afternoon." frank resumed his seat by the bed, and then hastily pencilled a few lines to captain murray, telling him that it would be impossible to leave the bedside, and sent the note across by the servant, who brought a reply back. it was very curt and abrupt. "of course. i see your position. sorry, for i should have liked him to see you." the note stung frank to the quick. "he thinks i am trying to excuse myself, when i would give the world to go with him," he muttered. a glance at the pale face upon the pillow took off some of the bitterness, though, and he resumed his watch while the hours glided by. at four the physician came again. "not awake?" he said; and he touched his patient's pulse lightly, and then softly raised one of lady gowan's eyelids, and examined the pupil. "nature is helping us, mr gowan," he said softly. "but she ought to have awoke by now, sir?" "i expected that she would have done so; but nothing could be better. she is extremely weak, and if she could sleep like this till to-morrow her brain would be rested from the terrible anxiety from which she is suffering. i will look in once more this evening." frank was alone again with his charge, and another hour passed, during which the lad dwelt upon the plans that had been made, and calculated that captain murray must be about starting on his mission to meet the escort bringing in the prisoners. and as this idea came to him, frank sat with his head resting upon his hands, his elbows upon his knees, trying hard to master the bitter sense of disappointment that afflicted him. "and he will be looking from the carriage window to right and left, trying to make out whether i am there!" he groaned. "oh, it seems cruel--cruel! and he will not know why i have not come." but one gleam of hope came here. captain murray might find an opportunity to speak with the prisoner, and he would tell him that his son was watching by his suffering mother. "he will know why i have not come then," frank said softly; and after an impatient glance at the clock, he began again to think of drew and his plans for the rescue. but now, in the face of the precautions which would be taken, this seemed to be a wildly chimerical scheme, one which was not likely to succeed, and he shook his head sadly as a feeling of despair began to close him in like a dark cloud. he was at his worst, feeling more and more hopeless, as he sat there, with his face buried in his fingers, when a hand was lightly placed upon his head, and starting up it was to find that his mother was awake, and gazing wistfully at him. he bent over her, and her arms clasped his neck. "my boy! my boy!" she said faintly; and she drew him to her breast, to hold him there for some moments before saying quickly: "have i slept long, dear?" "yes, ever since morning, mother." "what time is it?" "about half-past five." "all that time?" she said excitedly. "he must be near now. frank, my boy, the prisoners were to reach london soon after dark." "yes, mother, i know," he said, looking at her wistfully, as he held her hand now to his cheek. "is there any news?" "no, mother, none." "oh," she moaned, "this terrible suspense! frank, my darling, you must not stay here. have you been with me all the time i have been asleep?" "yes, mother, all. you asked for me." "yes, my darling, in my selfishness; but you ought to go and get the latest tidings. frank, it is your duty to be there when your father reaches this weary city. he ought not to be looking in vain for one of those he loves. you must go at once. do you hear me? it is your duty." "the doctor said it was my duty to watch by you," said frank, with his heart beating fast, as he wondered whether captain murray had gone. "with me? oh, what am i, if your being where he could see you, if only for a moment, would give him comfort in his sore distress!" "i was going, mother," whispered the boy excitedly. "captain murray was going to let me be with him, and he as an officer would have been able to take me right up to the escort." "then why are you here? oh, go--go at once!" "i was to stay with you, mother, so that you might see me when you awoke," he said huskily, the intense longing to go struggling with the desire to stay. "yes, yes, and i have seen you; but i am nothing if we can contrive to give him rest. go, then, at once." "but you are not fit to be left." "i shall not be left," she said firmly. "quick, frank. you are increasing my agony every moment that you stay. oh, my boy, pray, pray go, and then come back and tell me that you have seen him. go. take no refusal; fight for a position near him if you cannot get there by praying, and tell him how we are suffering for his sake--how we love him, and are striving to save him. oh, and i keep you while i am talking, and he must be very near! quick! kiss me once and go, and i will lie here and pray that you may succeed." "you wish it--you command me to go, mother?" he panted. "yes, yes, my boy," she cried eagerly; and he bent down over her, pressed his lips to hers, and darted to the door. "nurse, nurse!" he said hoarsely, "come and stay with my mother." then to himself as he rushed down the stairs: "too late--too late! he must have gone." chapter forty. on the great north road. the heavy, leaden feeling of despair and disappointment increased as frank gowan ran across the courtyard, feeling that it was useless to expect to find captain murray, but making for his quarters in the faint hope that he might have been detained, and cudgelling his brains as he ran, to try and find a means of learning the route that the escort would take, so that he might even then try and intercept the prisoners' carriages. but no idea, not the faintest gleam of a way out of his difficulty helped him; and he felt ready to fling himself down in his misery and despair, as he reached the officers' quarters. it was like a mockery to him in his agony to see the sentry, who recognised him, draw himself up, and present arms to his old captain's son, and it checked the question he would have asked the man as to when captain murray had passed, for he could not speak. "i must see if he is here," he thought, as he ran up the stairs to the room which had been his prison; and turning the handle of the door, he rushed in and uttered a groan, for the room was, as he had anticipated, empty. but the bedroom door was closed, and he darted to that and flung it open. "gone! gone! gone!" he groaned. "what shall i do? will they take him to the tower?" he knew that there was no saying what might be the destination of the prisoners; but he rushed back to the staircase, meaning to go straight to the tower by some means, and then he stopped short and uttered a half hysterical cry, for there was captain murray ascending the stairs. "not gone?" he cried. "no; but i am just off. i wish you could have gone with me, frank. it would have done your poor father good." "i am going. she wishes it, and sends me." "hah! quick, then. back to your room." "oh, i'm ready," cried the boy. "nonsense! we are going to ride. your boots and sword, boy. i'll lend you a military cloak." "but it will be losing time," panted frank. "it will be gaining it, my boy. you cannot go through a london mob like that. you are going to ride with soldiers, and you must not look like a page at a levee. quick!" "you will wait for me?" "of course." frank ran to his rooms, drew on his high horseman's boots, buckled on his sword, which had been returned to him, and ran back to where captain murray was waiting for him with a cloak over his arm. "no spurs?" he said. "never mind. you will have a well-trained horse. i have got passes for two, frank; and, as it happens, i know the officer of the horse guards who is in command of the detachment going to meet the escort, so that we can get close up to the prisoners. let's see: you do ride?" "oh yes; my father taught me long ago, anything--bare-backed often enough." "good. i am glad, boy. it was sorry work going without you. but i know why it was. walk quickly; no time to lose." he hurried his companion to the stables of the horse guards, where a couple of the men were waiting, and a horse was ready saddled. "quick!" he said to the men. "i shall want the second charger, after all." it was rapidly growing dark, and one man lit a lanthorn, while the other clapped the bit between the teeth of a handsome black horse, turned the docile creature in its stall, and then slipped on a heavy military saddle with its high-peak holsters and curb-bit. five minutes after they were mounted and making for charing cross. "which way are we going?" asked frank, whose excitement increased to a feeling of wild exhilaration, as he felt the beautifully elastic creature between his knees, with a sensation of participating in its strength, and being where he would have a hundred times the chance of getting to speak to his father. "up north," said the captain abruptly. "north? why not east? they will take him to the tower." "no. steady horse. walk, walk! hold yours in, boy. we must go at a slow pace till we get to the top of the lane." the horses settled down to their walk, almost keeping pace for pace, as the captain said quietly: "i have got all the information i required. no, they will not take the prisoners to the tower, but to newgate." "newgate?" cried frank; "why, that is where the thieves and murderers go." "yes," said the captain abruptly. "look here, frank. they are not to reach the prison till nine, so we have plenty of time to get some distance out. they will come in by the north road, and i don't think we can miss them." "why risk passing them?" said frank. "because, if we intercept the escort on the great north road somewhere beyond highgate, you will be able to ride back near the carriage in which your father is, and, even if you cannot speak to him, you will see him, and be seen." "but it will be horrible; i shall look like one of the soldiers guarding him to his cell." "never mind what you look like, so long as your father sees that he is not forgotten by those who love him." the captain ceased speaking, and their horses picked their way over the stones, their hoofs clattering loudly, and making the people they passed turn to stare after the two military-looking cavaliers in cocked hat and horseman's cloak, and with the lower parts of their scabbards seen below to show that they were well armed. saint martin's church clock pointed to seven as they rode by; and then, well acquainted with the way, the captain made for the north-east, breaking into a trot as they reached the open street where the traffic was small, frank's well-trained horse keeping step with its stable companion; and by the shortest cuts that could be made they reached islington without seeing a sign of any unusual excitement, so well had the secret been kept of the coming of the prisoners that night. "not much sign of a crowd to meet them, frank," said the captain, as they went now at a steady trot along the upper road. "pretty good proof that we are in time." "why, what is a good sign?" asked frank. "so few people about. if the prisoners and their escort had passed, half islington would have been out gossiping at their doors." "suppose they have come some other way?" "not likely. this was to be their route, and at half-past eight two troops of horse guards will march up the road to meet the escort at islington. that will bring out the crowd." frank winced as if he had suddenly felt the prick of a knife, so sharp was the spasm which ran through him. for the moment he had quite forgotten the prospect of an attempt at rescue; now the mention of the soldiery coming to meet the unhappy prisoners and strengthen the escort brought all back, and with it the questioning thought: "would drew's friends make the venture when so strong a force would be there?" "no--yes--no--yes," his heart seemed to beat; then the rattle of the horses' hoofs took it up--no, yes, no, yes; and now it seemed to be the time to tell captain murray of the attempt that was to be made, or rather that was planned. "and if i tell him he will feel that it is his duty as a soldier to warn the officer in command of the escort, and he will take them at a sharp trot round by some other way. oh, i can't tell him! it would be like robbing my father of his last chance." frank felt more and more that his lips were sealed; and as to the danger which murray would incur--well, he was a soldier well mounted, and he must run the risk. "as i shall," thought frank. "it will be no worse for him than for me. it is not as if i were going to try and save myself. i'll stand by him, weak boy as i am. or no; shall i not be escaping with my father?" he shook his head the next moment, and felt that he could not be of the rescuing party. he must still be the prince's page, and return to the palace to bear his mother the news of the escape. "for he will--he must escape," thought the boy. "drew's friends will be out in force to-night, and i shall be able to go back and tell her that he is safe." as they rode on through the pleasant dark night frank thought more of the peril into which his companion was going, and hesitated about telling him, so that he might be warned; but again he shrank from speaking, for fear that it might mean disaster to drew's projects. "and he has his father to save as well as mine. i can't warn him," he concluded. "i run the risk as well as he." he felt better satisfied the next minute, as he glanced sidewise at the bold, manly bearing of the captain, mounted on the splendid, well-trained charger. "captain murray can take care of himself," he thought; and the feelings which were shut within his breast grew into a sensation of excitement that was almost pleasurable. "quite countrified out here, frank," said the captain suddenly, as the road began to ascend; and after passing highbury the houses grew scarce, being for the most part citizens' mansions. "don't be down-hearted, my lad. the law is very curious. it is a strong castle for our defence, but full of loopholes by which a man may escape." "escape?" cried frank excitedly. "you think he may escape?" "i hope so, and i'd give something now if my oaths were not taken, and i could do something in the way of striking a blow for your father's liberty." for a few minutes the boy felt eagerly ready to confess all he knew; but the words which had raised the desire served also to check it. "if my oaths were not taken," captain murray had said; and he was the very soul of honour, and would not break his allegiance to his king. "my father did," thought the boy sadly. then he brightened. "no," he thought, "the king broke it, and set him free by banishing him from his service." "how do you get on with your horse, lad?--walk." the horses changed their pace at the word. the hill was getting steep. "oh, i get on capitally. it's like sitting in an easy-chair. i haven't been on a horse for a year." "then you learned to ride well, frank. find the advantage of having your boots, though. fancy a ride like this in silk stockings and shoes!--you ought to go into the cavalry some day." frank sighed. "bah! don't look at the future as being all black, boy. stick to hope, the lady who carries the anchor. one never knows what may turn up." "no, one never knows what may turn up," cried the boy excitedly; and then he checked himself in dread lest his companion should read his thoughts respecting the rescue. but the captain's next words set him at rest. "that's right, my lad. try and keep a stout heart. steep hill this. do you know where we are?" "only that we are on the great north road." "yes. when we are on the top of this hill, we shall be in the village of highgate; and if it was daylight, we could see all london if we looked back, and the country right away if we looked forward. i propose to stop at the top of the hill and wait." "yes," said frank eagerly. "perhaps go on for a quarter of a mile, so as to be where we are not observed." the horses were kept at a walking pace till the village was reached, and here a gate was stretched across, and a man came out to take the toll, frank noticing that he examined them keenly by the light of a lanthorn. "any one passed lately--horsemen and carriages?" said the captain quietly. the man chuckled. "yes, a couple of your kidney," said the man. "you're too late." a pang shot through frank, and he leaned forward. "too late? what do you mean, sir?" cried the captain sharply; and, as he spoke, he threw back his horseman's cloak, showing his uniform slightly. "oh, i beg your worships' pardon. i took you for gentlemen of the road." "what, highwaymen?" "yes, sir. a couple of them went by not ten minutes ago. but i don't suppose they'll try to stop you. they don't like catching tartars. be as well to have your pistols handy, though." "thank you for the hint," said the captain, and they rode on. "what do you say, frank?" said the captain. "shall we go any farther? it would be an awkward experience for you if we were stopped by highwaymen. shall we stop?" "oh, we cannot stop to think about men like that," said frank excitedly. "not afraid, then?" "i'm afraid we shall not meet the prisoners," said the boy sadly. "forward, then. but unfasten the cover of your holsters. you will find loaded pistols there, and can take one out if we are stopped--i mean if any one tries to stop us. but," he added grimly, "i don't think any one will." at another time it would have set the boy trembling with excitement; but his mind was too full of the object of their expedition, and as the horses paced on the warning about the gentlemen who infested the main roads in those days was forgotten, so that a few minutes later it came as a surprise to the boy when a couple of horsemen suddenly appeared from beneath a clump of trees by the roadside, came into the middle of the road, and barred their way. "realm?" said one of the men sharply. "keep off, or i fire," cried captain murray. the two mounted men reined back on the instant, and, pistol in hand, the captain and frank went on at a walk. "i don't think--nay, i'm sure--that those men are not on the road, frank," said the captain quietly. "that was a password. _realm_. can they be friends of the prisoners sent forward as scouts?" "do you think so?" said frank. "yes," replied the captain thoughtfully; "and if they are, we are quite right. the prisoners have not passed, and i should not wonder if there were an attempt made to rescue them before they reach town." frank's head began to buzz, and he nipped his horse so tightly that the animal broke into a trot. "steady! walk," cried the captain; and the next minute he drew rein, to sit peering forward into the darkness, listening for the tramp of horses, which ought to have been heard for a mile or two upon so still a night. "can't hear them," he said in a disappointed tone. "but we will not go any farther." at that moment frank's horse uttered a loud challenging neigh, which was answered from about a hundred yards off, and this was followed by another, and another farther away still. "there they are," said the captain, "halting for a rest to the horses before trotting down. forward!" they advanced again; but had not gone far before figures were dimly seen in the road, and directly after a stern voice bade them halt. the captain replied with a few brief words, and they rode forward, to find themselves facing a vedette of dragoons, a couple of whom escorted them to where, upon an open space, in the middle of which was a pond, a strong body of cavalry was halted, the greater part of the men dismounted; but about twenty men were mounted, and sat with drawn swords, surrounding a couple of carriages, each with four horses-- artillery teams--and the drivers in their places ready to start at a moment's notice. chapter forty one. the attempt at rescue. frank's eyes took all this in, and then turned dim with the emotion he felt, and for a few moments everything seemed to swim round him. his horse, however, needed no guiding; it kept pace with its companion, and the lad's emotional feeling passed off as he found himself in presence of the officer in command of the escort and his subordinates, a warm greeting taking place between captain murray and the principal officer, an old friend. "don't seem regular, murray; but with this note from the prince, i suppose i shall be held clear if you have come to help the prisoners escape," said the officer lightly. "escape!" said captain murray sharply. "no, no; nonsense, old fellow," said the dragoon officer merrily. "of course i was bantering you." "yes, i know," said captain murray quickly; "but we were stopped by a couple of mounted men a quarter of a mile back." "highway men?" "i thought so at first; but they challenged us for a password." "well! these fellows work hand and glove." "no," said captain murray, "i feel sure they were scouts, ridden forward to get touch with you, and then go back and give warning." "what for? whom to? you don't think it means an attempt to rescue?" "i do," said murray firmly. "thanks for the warning, old fellow," said the officer through his teeth. "well, mine are picked men, and my instructions are that a strong detachment will be sent out to meet us, and vedettes planted all along the road, to fall in behind us as we pass. pity too. what madness!" frank's heart sank as he heard every word, while his attention was divided between the two dark carriages with their windows drawn up, and he sat wondering which held his father. "yes, madness," said the captain sadly. "i shall be very glad when my job's at an end," said the dragoon officer. "it's miserable work." "horrible!" replied murray; and then he turned to frank. "hold my rein for a few moments," he said; and, dismounting, he walked away with the officers, to stand talking for a few minutes, while, as frank sat holding his companion's horse, and watching the well-guarded carriages, a distant neigh and the stamping of horses told of a strong detachment guarding the rear. "if i only dared ride up to the carriages," thought the boy; and he felt that he did dare, only that it would be useless, for without permission the dragoons would not let him pass. but a light broke through the mental darkness of despair directly, for murray came back with the officer in command, a stern, severe-looking man, but whose harsh, commanding voice softened a little as he laid one hand on the horse's neck, and held out his other to the rider. "i did not know who you were, mr gowan. my old friend, captain murray, has just told me. shake hands, my lad. i am glad to know the brave son of a gallant soldier. don't think hardly of me for doing my duty sternly as a military man should. i ought perhaps to send you both back," he continued in a low tone; "but if you and captain murray like to ride by the door of the first carriage, you can, and i will instruct the officer and men not to hinder any reasonable amount of conversation that may be held." "god bless you!" whispered frank, in a choking voice. "oh, don't say anything, my boy. only give me your word, not as a soldier, but as a soldier's son, that you will do nothing to help either of the prisoners to escape." "yes, i give you my word," said frank quickly. he would have given anything to be near his father and speak to him for a few minutes. "that will do.--murray, we shall go on at a sharp trot; but you are both well mounted, i see." then he said in an undertone: "i don't believe they will venture anything when they see how strong we are. if the rascals do, i shall make a dash, standing at nothing; but at the first threatenings get the boy away. my instructions are that the prisoners are not to escape--_alive_!" "i understand," said captain murray; and he mounted his horse. the next minute an order was given in a low tone; it was passed on, and the men sprang to their saddles. then another order, "draw swords!" there was a single note from a trumpet; and as frank and captain murray sat ready, the officer in command led them himself, and placed one at each door of the first carriage, a dragoon easing off to right and left to make place for them. frank's hand was on the glass directly, and the window was let down. "father!" he cried in a low, deep voice, which was nearly drowned by the trampling, crashing of wheels, and jingle of accoutrements, but heard within; and it was answered by a faint cry of astonishment, and the rattle of fetters, as two hands linked together appeared at the window. "frank, my dear boy! you here?" the boy could not answer, but leaned over toward the carriage with his hand grasped between his father's. "hah! this is a welcome home!" cried sir robert cheerily. "gentlemen, my son." "there's captain murray at the other window," gasped out frank at last. "ah! more good news," said sir robert. "murray, my dear old fellow, this is good of you." the prisoner's voice sounded husky, as he turned his head to the right in the darkness. "i can't shake hands even if you wished to, for we are doubly fettered now." "gowan, i'm glad to meet you again," said the captain hoarsely. "god bless you, old friend! i know you are. i see now; you brought frank here to meet me. like you, old fellow. there, i cannot talk to you. but you know what i feel." "yes. talk to your boy," cried murray. "quick, while you can. the order to trot will come directly." "yes. thanks," said sir robert; and he turned back to his son, who clung to his hands. "quick, frank boy. your mother--well?" "very, very ill. heart-broken." "hah!" groaned sir robert. "but, father, these handcuffs? surely you are not--" "yes, yes. i'm a dangerous fellow now, my boy. we are all chained hand and foot like the worst of criminals, my friends and i." "oh!" groaned frank. "bah! only iron," said sir robert bitterly. "never mind them now. tell me of your mother. are you still at the palace?" "yes; the princess--the prince--will not hear of our leaving, and--" then a note from a trumpet rang out, the horses sprang forward at a sharp trot, and the dragoon on frank's left changed his sword to his left hand, so as to place his right on the rein of the boy's charger, though it was hardly needed, the well-trained horse bearing off a little to avoid injury from the wheel, but keeping level with the window, so that from time to time, though conversation was impossible, father and son managed to bridge the space between them and touch hands. it was fortunate for the lad that he was mounted upon a trained cavalry charger, for he had nothing to do but keep his seat, his mount settling down at once to the steady military trot side by side with the horse next to it, and keeping well in its distance behind the horse in front, so that the rider was able to devote all his attention to the occupant of the carriage, who leaned forward with his head framed in the darkness of the window, as if pictured in the sight of his son, possibly for the last time, for in those hours sir robert gowan had not the slightest doubt as to what his fate would be. on his side, frank sat in his saddle watching his father's dimly seen face, but ready to start and glance in any direction from which a fresh sound was heard. the first time was on reaching the turnpike gate, where the toll-taker seemed disposed to hesitate about letting the advance guard pass. the result was an outcry, which sent frank's heart with a leap toward his lips, for he felt certain that the attack had commenced. but the foremost men dismounted, seized the gate, lifted it off its hook hinges, and cast it aside, the troops and carriages thundered through, and made the people of highgate village come trooping out in wonder to see what this invasion of their quiet meant. then the descent of the hill commenced, with the heavy old-fashioned carriages swaying on their c-springs; but no slackening of speed took place, and the artillerymen hurried their horses along, as if the load they drew were some heavy gun or a waggon full of ammunition. twice over frank gazed at the foremost carriage in alarm, so nearly was it upset in one of the ruts of the ill-kept road; but the rate at which they were going saved it, and they thundered along without accident to where the gradient grew less steep. there was very little traffic on the road at that time of the night, and not many people about, while before those who were startled by the noise of the passing troops had time to come out the prisoners had gone by. holloway and highbury were passed, and islington reached, but no sign of an attempt at rescue caught frank's anxious eyes; neither was there any appearance of fresh troops till the head of the escort turned down the road which entered the city at the west end of cheapside. but here the boy started, for they passed between two outposts, a couple of dragoons facing them on either side of the road, sitting like statues till the whole of the escort had passed, when they turned in after it, four abreast, and brought up the rear, but some distance in front of the rear guard. at the end of another fifty yards two more couples were seen, and at the end of every similar interval four more dragoons turned in at the rear, strengthening the escort, while it was evident that they had previously cleared the road of all vehicles, turning them into the neighbouring ways, so that the cortege was enabled to continue its progress at the same steady military trot as they had commenced with on leaving highgate. again and again frank, now growing breathless, had hoped that the walking pace would once more be renewed, so as to afford him a chance to speak to his father; but he wished in vain, for, except at two sharp turnings, the whole body of dragoons swept along at the sharp trot, and without change, saving that as london was neared the men flanking the carriages were doubled. but though no sign of rescue caught frank's eyes, he saw that the stationing of the dragoons to keep the way and the turning of the traffic out of the road had had their effect; for at every step the collection of people along the sides and at the windows increased, till, when the road changed to a busy london street, there was quite a crowd lining the sides. "there will be no rescue," sighed the lad; and he turned from sweeping the sides of the street to gaze sadly at his father, whose face he could now see pretty plainly, as they passed one of the dismal street lamps which pretended in those days to light the way. he could see that, brief as the time had been since he last saw his father, his countenance had sadly altered. there was a stern, careworn look in his eyes, and he looked older, and as if he had been exposed to terrible hardships. he noted too that he did not seem to have had the opportunity given him of attending to his person, but had been treated with the greatest of severity. the lad's gloomy musings on the aspect of the face which beamed lovingly upon him, the eyes seeming to say, "don't be down-hearted, boy!" were suddenly brought to an end by a check in their progress, for the advance guard, from being a hundred yards ahead, had by degrees shortened the space to fifty, twenty, and ten yards, and finally was only the front of the column. but still they had advanced at a trot, and the officer in command sent orders twice over for the vanguard to increase their distance. "tell him i can't," said the officer in front. "it can only be done by riding over the people." and now the men stationed to keep the way had utterly failed, the people having crowded in from the side streets north of saint martin's-le-grand till the pairs of dragoons were hemmed in, and in spite of several encounters with the crowd they were forced to remain stationary. the check that came was the announcement that the trot could no longer be continued, and, perforce, the escort advanced at a walk; while, as frank glanced round for a moment, it suddenly struck him that, save at the windows of the houses, there was not a woman to be seen, the crowd consisting of sturdy-looking men. the lad had no eyes for the crowd, though. the relapse into a walk had given him the opportunity for grasping his father's hand again, and sir robert said to him hurriedly: "my dearest love to your mother, frank lad. tell her, whatever happens, i have but one thought, and that it is for her, that we may meet in happier times." "meet in happier times" rang through frank like a death-knell, for he grasped what his father meant, and tried to speak some words of comfort, but they would not come. even if they had, they would have been drowned by a tremendous cheer which arose from the crowd and went rolling onward. "the wretches!" muttered frank; and he turned to look round, with his eyes flashing his indignation. then, as the cheer went rolling away forward, he repeated his words aloud, unconscious that they would be heard. "the wretches! it is not a sight." "they're a-cheering of 'em, sir," said the dragoon at his elbow, "not hooting 'em, poor fellows!" frank darted a grateful look in the man's eyes, and his heart leaped with excitement as the light flashed upon him. it was a manoeuvre, and there would be an attempt to rescue, after all. "i believe we're in for a row, sir," continued the man, leaning over to him and speaking in a low voice. "strikes me the best thing for you to do would be to step into the carriage to your friend before the fight begins: i'll hold your horse." "i!" said frank sharply. "i wouldn't be such a cur." "well said, youngster. then you try and stick by me. we shall be in the thick of it, and nobody shall hurt you if i can help it." "do--do you think, then, that there will be trouble?" "yes, for some of us, sir," said the man. "they mean to try and get the prisoners, and the attack will be here." frank was unconscious of a movement behind him, till a horseman forced his way in between him and the dragoon, and captain murray said sharply: "try and ease off, my man." "not to be done, sir," replied the dragoon. "there's going to be an attempt at rescue, frank," whispered the captain. "shake hands with your father before we are forced away." at that moment word was passed along from the rear, running from man to man as they still kept on at a slow walk: "flats of your swords; drive them back." the next minute, just as a fresh cheer was being started, the trumpet rang out behind "trot!" and the men put spurs to their horses, and dashed on, driving a road through the crowd; and, amidst a savage yelling and hooting which took the place of the hearty cheer for the prisoners, the escort literally forced their way for another fifty yards, the men in advance striking to right and left with the flats of their heavy cavalry swords. but it was soon evident that they were slackening speed, and the trumpet rang out again, but with an uncertain sound, for it was nearly drowned by the angry yelling which arose. the command was _gallop_, but the execution of the order was _walk_, and a minute later the whole escort came to a stand, literally wedged in, with the frightened horses standing shivering and snorting, only one here and there trying to rear and plunge. "we're caught, frank lad. think of nothing but keeping your seat. take out a pistol, and point it at the first man who tries to drag you from your horse. ah! i thought so." orders were passed along now to the dragoons to defend themselves, for efforts were being made to drag some of the outside men from their horses. blades flashed on high, cut and point were given, and amidst howlings and savage execrations blood began to flow. and now, as if by magic, sticks and swords appeared among the crowd; men who had forced their way under the horses' necks, or crept under them, appeared everywhere; and amidst a deafening roar, as the seething mass swayed here and there, frank caught sight of two men busy just before him, doing something with knives. one of the dragoons noticed it too, and he leaned forward to make a thrust at one of the two; but as he bent over his horse's neck a cudgel was raised, fell heavily across the back of his neck, and he dropped forward, and was only saved from falling by a comrade's help. "they've cut the traces," said captain murray hoarsely. "it's an organised attempt." as he spoke men were rising amongst them; and, before frank could realise how it happened, a dozen filled up the little spaces about the carriage, while moment by moment the dragoons were being rendered more helpless. the blows they rained down were parried with swords; they were dragged from their horses; and, in several cases, helped by their fellows, men climbed up behind them, and pinioned their arms. organised indeed it seemed to be, for while the greater part of the rioters devoted their attention to rendering the great escort helpless, others kept on forcing their way till they had surrounded the carriages, trusting to their companions to ward off the blows directed at them, but in too many cases in vain. frank tried his best to remain near his father, but he was perfectly helpless, and had to go as his horse was slowly forced along, till he was several yards away from the carriage door, at which he could still see the prisoner watching him as if thinking only of the safety of his boy, while the captain was still farther away, using his pistol to keep off attempts made to dismount him. all attempts at combination were getting useless now for the troops, and it was every man for himself; but the mob did not seem vindictive only when some dragoon struck mercilessly at those who hemmed him in, when the result rapidly followed that he was dragged from his horse and trampled underfoot. sir robert was now shut out from his son's gaze by several men forcing themselves to the carriage door, and frank was rising in his stirrups to try and catch another glimpse of him, when in the wild swaying about of the crowd his horse was forced nearer to captain murray, an eddy sending the captain fortunately back to him, so that their horses made an effort, and came side by side once more, snorting and trembling with fear. "the men are helpless, frank lad," said the captain, with his lips to the lad's ear. "they can do nothing more. they are literally wedged in." "my father?" panted frank. "it will be a rescue, my lad." an exultant roar rose now from the dense mass of people which filled the wide street, and, separated from each other, as well as from their officers, the dragoons ceased to use their swords, while the men round them who held them fast wedged waved their sticks and hats, cheering madly. "told you so, sir," shouted some one close behind them; and frank turned, to see a dragoon, capless and bleeding from a cut on his forehead, sitting calmly enough on his horse. "can't do any more, sir," said the man, in answer to a frown from captain murray. "they've got my sword. it's the same with all of us. we couldn't move." the cheering went on, and in the midst of it the carriages began to move, dragged by the crowd, for there was not a soldier within a dozen yards. the clumsy vehicles were being dragged by hand, and the horses led away toward a side street, while the cheering grew more lusty than ever, and then changed into a yell of execration. "what does that mean?" said captain murray excitedly. "i don't know," said frank, having hard work to make himself heard. "let's try and get to the carriage." "impossible, my lad," said captain murray. "great heavens! what a gehenna!" the yelling rose louder than ever from the direction of cheapside, and directly after the cause was known, for a heavy, ringing volley rang out clear and sharp above the roar of the crowd, and went on reverberating from side to side of the street. hardly had it died away when another rattling volley came from the other direction; and in answer to an inquiring look from frank, captain murray placed his lips to the boy's ear. "the foot guards," he cried; "the mob is between two fires." the pressure was now terrible, the crowd yielding to the attack from both directions, and yells, wild cries, and groans rose in one horrible mingling, as for a few minutes the seething mass of people were driven together in the centre formed by the carriages; and from where he sat, gazing wildly at the chaos of tossing arms and wild faces, whose owners seemed now to be thinking of nothing but struggling for their lives, frank could see men climbing over their fellows' heads, dashing in windows, and seeking safety by climbing into the houses, whose occupants in many cases reached down to drag people up out of the writhing mass beneath. in half a dozen places streams could be seen setting into the side streets; and mingled with the attacking party, dragoons of the escort, perfectly helpless, were pressed slowly along, and in every instance with one, sometimes with two men mounted behind them. frank caught these things at a glance, while his and the captain's mounts were being slowly forced farther away from the carriages, which were once more stationary, jammed in by the densest portion of the crowd. and now, without a thought of his own safety, the boy's heart began to beat high, for not a single dragoon was near the prisoners, and some strange movement was evidently taking place there, but what, it was some moments before he could see. it seemed to him that several people there had been injured, and that those between him and the first carriage had been crushed to death, while the crowd were passing the bodies over their heads face upward toward the narrow side street up which an effort had been made to drag the carriages. as far as he could make out by the lamplight, that was it evidently, and so strangely interested was the lad, so fascinated by the sight, that he paid no heed to a couple more volleys fired to right and left. for the moment he hardly knew why he was watching this. then it came home to him as he twice over saw a gleam as of metal on one of the bodies which floated as it were over a forest of hands and glided onward toward and up the side street. "look, boy! do you see?" said captain murray, with his lips close to the lad's ear. "they have dragged the prisoners out, and are passing them over the heads of the crowd." frank nodded his head sharply without turning to the speaker, for he could not remove his eyes from the scene till the last fettered figure had passed from his sight. and now at length the awful pressure began to relax, for the half-dozen streams were setting steadily out of the main street, while in several spots where dragoons had sat wedged in singly two had drifted together. then there were threes and fours, and soon after a little body of about twenty had coalesced, stood in something like order, and were able to make a stand. right away toward cheapside there was now visible beneath a faint cloud of smoke, which looked ruddy in the torch- and lamplight, a glittering line above the heads of the still dense crowd, and frank grasped the fact that they were bayonets. then turning in the other direction he saw, far up the street toward islington, another glittering line, showing that a second body of infantry barred the way. and now once more came the sound of firing, and frank's heart resumed its wild beating, for it came rolling down the side street nearly opposite to him, that up which he had seen the prisoners passed, and he knew that troops must be guarding the end. this was plain enough, for the steady stream passing up it grew slower, then stopped; there was a tremendous shouting and yelling, and the human tide came slowly rolling back, then faster and faster, till it set right across the main street, and joined one going off in the opposite direction. soon after, to the boy's horror, he caught sight of one of the prisoners being borne along over the heads of the returning crowd; then of another and another. and now, as the two lines of dimly seen bayonets drew nearer in both directions, there was once more the sound of the trumpet; and in half a dozen places the dragoons began to form up, and, minute by minute growing stronger in the power to move, swords were seen to flash, and they forced their way through the stream, cutting it right across, and hemming in the portion of the crowd over whose heads the perfectly helpless prisoners were being borne. this manoeuvre having been executed, the rest proved simple. knot after knot of the dragoons forced their way up to what had become their rallying-point, the foot guards were steadily advancing up and down the main street toward the carriages, and another company was steadily driving the people back along the side street up which the prisoners had been borne. "a brave attempt, frank," said captain murray; "but they have failed. come along;" and, dizzy with excitement, the boy felt his horse begin to move beneath him toward the escort which formed a crescent round the carriages in double rank, through which they passed slowly the men of the crowd they had entrapped, till some forty or fifty only remained, whose retreat was cut off by the bristling line of bayonets drawn across the side street down which they had come. frank had no eyes for the scene behind him, now shown by the light of many smoky torches,--the roadway littered with hats, sticks, and torn garments, trampled people lying here and there, others who had been borne and laid down close to the houses, whose occupants were now coming out to render the assistance badly enough needed, for even here many were wounded and bleeding from sword cuts: of the ghastly traces of the firing, of course, nothing was visible there. he did not heed either the state of the dragoons, who had not escaped scot free, many of them being injured by sword and cudgel; some had been dragged from their horses and trampled; others stood behind the double line, separated from their mounts, which had gone on with the crowd; most of them were hatless, while several had had their uniforms torn from their backs. frank had no eyes for all this; his attention was too fully taken up by the proceedings near the carriages, where the fettered and handcuffed prisoners--five--were being passed in by men of the foot guards, who then formed up round the vehicles, toward which the two teams of horses were now brought back, the men roughly knotting together the cut traces, and fastening them ready for a fresh start toward the prison. "one of the prisoners has been carried off, frank," whispered captain murray then; and in a weak voice the lad said: "my father?" "no, my lad; he is in the second carriage now." the next minute orders were given, and the dragoons advanced to clear the way for the carriages, now surrounded by the bristling bayonets of half a regiment of foot guards, who refused passage to captain murray and the boy, so that they had to be content with riding in front of the rear guard of dragoons. and now once more the yelling of the crowd arose from the direction of cheapside, where the mob had again gathered strongly; but no mercy was shown. the heavy mass of dragoons that formed the advance guard had received their orders to clear the way, and, finding a determined opposition, the trumpet rang out once more, and they advanced at a gallop, trampling down all before them for a few minutes till the crowd broke and ran. the way was clear enough as at a double the grenadiers came up, and passed round the angle at newgate street, the escort driving the mob before it; and the wide space at the west end of the old bailey was reached. this was packed with troops, who had preserved an opening for the carriages, and into it the grenadiers marched, and formed up round the massive prison gates. and now frank made an effort, with captain murray's assistance, to get to the carriage door again for one short farewell. but in the hurry and excitement of the time, the pass from the palace and the military uniform the captain wore went for nothing, the dense mass of grenadiers stood firm, and very few minutes sufficed for the prisoners to be passed in and the gates closed. a strong force of infantry was stationed within and without, for the authorities dreaded an attack upon the prison; and the regiment of dragoons that had been detailed to meet the escort and guard the road to islington patrolled the approaches, while the rest marched off to their quarters amidst the hooting and yelling of the crowd. captain murray turned off at once into a side street, and rode beside frank for some distance, respecting in silence his young companion's grief, hardly a word passing till they reached the guards' stables and left their horses, which looked, by the light of the men's lanthorns, as if they had passed through a river. then the pair hurried across the park, feeling half-stunned by their adventure, frank so entirely, exhausted that he would have gladly availed himself of his friend's arm. but he fought hard, and just as the clock was striking twelve he made his way to his mother's room, wondering whether he was to be called upon to face some fresh grief. but he found lady gowan lying awake, and ready to stretch out her hands to him. "you saw him, frank?" she whispered; and the disorder of his appearance escaped her notice. "yes, mother; i rode beside him, and he spoke to me." "yes, yes; what did he say?" cried lady gowan. frank delivered his father's loving message, and his mother's eyes closed. "yes," she said softly, "to meet again in happier times." then, unclosing her eyes again, she moaned out, "oh, frank, frank, my boy, my boy!" and he forgot his own weakness and suffering in his efforts to perform the sacred duty which had fallen to his lot. chapter forty two. after the failure. that next morning, after a long sleep, the result of exhaustion, frank gowan awoke with the horrors of the previous night seeming to have grown so that they could no longer be borne. he hurried across to his mother's apartments, to find from the nurse that she was sleeping, and must not of course be disturbed; so he went over to captain murray, who received him warmly. "better, my lad?" he said. "better?" cried frank reproachfully. "i mean rested. frank lad, we had a narrow escape of our lives last night. i hear already that about fifty dragoons were more or less injured." "and how many of the people?" said frank bitterly. "that will never be known, my boy. it is very horrible when orders are given to fire upon a crowd. many fell, i'm afraid. but there, don't look so down-hearted." "have you heard who was the prisoner that escaped?" "yes. they have not taken him again yet; but i don't think he will be able to get right away." "not if he can reach the coast?" said frank. "ah! he might then. there, frank lad, i want to be true to my duty-- don't tell upon me--but i can't help feeling that we had bad luck last night, or some one we know might have been the lucky man." frank caught at his hand and held it. "if i were the king, i'd pack the prisoners off to france," continued captain murray. "i don't like taking revenge on conquered enemies." "ah, now you make me feel as if i can speak openly to you," cried frank. "tell me, do you think there is still any hope of an escape?" "there always is, my lad. one thing is very evident, and that is that your father and his companions have plenty of friends in london who are ready to risk their lives to save them. come, don't be down-hearted; we must hope for the best. they have to be tried yet. a dozen things may happen. besides, your father was not one of the leaders of the rebellion. what's the matter with your arm?" "my arm? oh, i don't know. it's so stiff and painful i can hardly lift it. yes, i remember now. some one in the crowd struck me with a heavy stick. i did not feel it so much then; it was only numbed." "you had better let the doctor see it." "oh no," replied frank. "i have too many other troubles to think about. captain murray, what shall i do? i must see my father. give me your advice, or come with me to ask permission of the prince." the captain sat frowning for a few moments, and then rose. "yes," he said abruptly; "come." frank sprang after him as he moved toward the door, and in a few minutes they were in the antechamber, where a knot of officers were discussing the proceedings of the previous night, but ceased upon their attention being directed to the son of one of the prisoners. the captain sent in his name as soon as he could; but his efforts to gain an audience were not so successful as upon previous occasions. there were many waiting, and the prince made no exception in captain murray's favour. the order of precedence was rigidly adhered to, and hours had passed away before the attendant came to where frank and the captain were seated waiting. "his royal highness will see you, sir," said the gentleman-in-waiting. frank sprang to his feet as the captain rose, and moved toward the curtained door. "i am sorry," said the attendant, with a commiserating look, "but his royal highness expressly said that captain murray was to come alone." frank's lips parted as a look of anguish came into his pale face, and he turned his appealing eyes to the captain, who shook his head sadly. "i will beg him to see you, my boy," he whispered. "i look to his seeing you to get his consent." frank sank back into his seat, and turned his face to the window to hide it from those present, and seemed to them to be gazing out at the gay show of troops under arms and filling the courtyard; but, as he sat, he saw only the interior of the prince's room, with captain murray appealing on his behalf: all else was non-existent. he had not moved, he had not heard the low buzz of eager conversation that went on, new-comers being unaware of his presence. fortunate it was that he was deaf to all that was said, for the fate of the prisoners lodged like ordinary malefactors the previous night in newgate was eagerly discussed, and his father's name was mentioned by several in connection with the axe. he was still sitting in the same vacant way when, at the end of half an hour, a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and the captain's voice said in a low tone, "come." "he will see me?" cried frank, rising quickly. "hush! keep your sorrow to yourself, as an englishman should," whispered the captain. "the room is full of people." "but he will see me?" "no. come away," said the captain quietly. frank gave him a defiant look; then turned away and walked straight toward the curtained door, which the attendant was about to open to admit another gentleman to the prince's presence. before he was half-way there the captain's strong grasp was upon his shoulder. "what are you going to do, boy?" he said sternly. "see the prince myself. he must--he shall give me leave to go." "do you wish to destroy the last chance? frank, for your mother's sake!" "no; don't make me struggle before all these people to get free," said the boy firmly; but as he spoke the captain's last words stood out before him in their real significance. "for your mother's sake!" he turned back without another word, and walked with his companion out of the room and down into the courtyard without a word. "take me somewhere," he said, in a strange, dazed way. "my head feels confused. i hardly know what i am saying." captain murray drew the boy's hand through his arm, and made as if to lead him to his quarters; but it meant passing crowded-together troops, and, altering his mind, he walked with him sharply out into the park, till they reached a secluded place where there was a seat. "sit down, boy." "yes," said frank obediently. "now tell me, please." "i was in there long, but there is little to tell you, boy," said the captain, in a harsh, brusque way to conceal the agony of disappointment he felt. "i appealed again and again to the prince to give me an order to admit us to the prison, but he sternly refused me, and i have angered him terribly by my obstinate return to the assault. frank boy, it is like this. the prince told me that, before your father joined the pretender, he had made a direct appeal, at his wife's wish, for your father's pardon, and been refused. he says that now, after this open act of rebellion, it is impossible for him to appeal again. that the king is furious because one of the most important prisoners has been allowed to escape--there is a rumour that it was prince james francis himself--and that it would be madness to ask for any permission. men who rebel against their lawful sovereign have no wives or children; they are outlaws without rights. that it is sad for those who love them, but that they must suffer, as they have made others suffer by causing so much blood to be shed." "he said those cruel words?" said frank, with his eyes flashing. "yes," said the captain sadly. "knowing what my poor mother suffers, and my despair?" "he was angry, and spoke more hardly than he meant, my boy. there is another thing too; the prince and his majesty are not on friendly terms. i hear that they have quarrelled, and that they parted in great anger. frank, you must wait and hope." "wait and hope--wait and hope!" said frank bitterly. "is that the way a son should seek to comfort his father, and try to save his life? sit still, and do nothing but wait and hope! oh, it is of no use! i cannot bear it. i will not stay chained up in this dreadful place. i cannot, i will not serve either the prince or king who would hurry my father to the block." "stop! think what you are saying, boy. what rash thing are you going to do?" "rash? nothing can be rash at such a time. i am going to try and save my father." "once more, boy--your mother, have you forgotten her?" "no," said the lad firmly; "but i should be forgetting her if i made no effort, but sat still and let things drift." captain murray sighed, and rose from his seat. "frank," he said gravely, "i never had a brother, but for years now your father seemed to fill a brother's place with me, and i tell you as a man that there is nothing i would not do to save his life. i am a simple soldier; i know my duties well, and if the need arose i could go and face death with the rest, feeling that it was the right thing to do; but i am not clever, i am no statesman--not one of those who can argue and fence--unless," he said bitterly, "it is with my sword. i looked upon you as a mere boy, but over this you are more the man than i. you master me. i cannot do more than defend myself. still, i think i am advising you rightly when i beg and pray of you to do nothing rash. don't take any step, i say once more, that will embitter the prince against you. i will go now. stay here for a while till you grow calmer, and then come to my quarters. i feel that i only irritate you, and must seem weak and cowardly to you. you will be better alone. i, too, shall be better alone. i want to try and think, and it is hard work this morning, for i am in terrible pain. one of my ribs was broken last night in that crowd, and at times i am sick and faint." frank heard his words, but did not seem to grasp them, and sat back in his seat with his chin resting upon his breast as the captain walked slowly away. had he looked after him, he would have seen that twice over he stopped to lean for a few minutes against a tree. but the boy neither looked up nor stirred. he sat for some time as if completely stunned, till he heard steps approaching, and then, with an impatient movement, he turned a little in his seat, so as to hide his face from whoever it was coming by. the next moment a familiar voice said distinctly behind him: "don't look up--don't move or speak. be at your father's house at four this afternoon, holding the door ajar till i slip in." "drew!" ejaculated frank, in a sharp whisper, as he obeyed the order, thrilling the while as if with new life infused through his veins; and his eyes followed the tall, slight figure of a jaunty-looking young man, dressed in the height of fashion, walking along as if proud of his bearing and the gold-headed, clouded cane he flourished as he promenaded the park. drew forbes, whose life would probably be forfeit in those wild times if he were recognised by either of the spies who haunted the palace precincts--drew, wearing no disguise, though changed in aspect by his hair being so closely cropped behind! what his appearance might be face to face frank could not tell. chapter forty three. a meeting between friends. "`be at your father's house at four this afternoon, holding the door ajar till i slip in,'" said frank, repeating his old companion's words, trembling with excitement the while, as he watched till the figure had disappeared, when a feeling of resentment sent the hot blood to his temples. "no. i will not go. it only means more trouble. oh, how much of it all is due to him!" "no," he said a few minutes later. "that is unjust. he must have been with the people who attempted the rescue last night. i will go. he is brave and true, after all. yes, it is to help again to save my father, and i will be there." it was like a fillip to him, and a few minutes after he rose, and went back to the palace, passing several officials whom he knew, all saluting him in a kindly way, as if full of sympathy, but not attempting to speak. his goal was his mother's room, and to his surprise he found her evidently anxiously expecting him, but very calm and resigned in her manner. "frank dear," she said gently, "i feel as if it is almost heartless of me to seem so, but i am better. i will not despair, my own boy, for i feel so restful. it is as if something told me that our prayers would be heard." "and with him lying in irons in that dreadful gaol," thought frank, with a momentary feeling of resentment--momentary, for it passed away, and he sat with her, telling her, at her urgent prayer, of all the proceedings of the past night, as well as of his ill-success that morning. he had prayed of her not to press him, but she insisted, and it was to find that, in place of sending her into a fit of despondent weeping, she spoke afterwards quite calmly. "yes," she said gently, as she raised his hand to her cheek and held it there; "all these things are the plans of men, kings, and princes, with their armies. but how insignificant it all seems compared with the greatness of the power which rules all. frank dearest, we cannot--we must not despair." he looked at her wonderingly, and with his heart very sore; but somehow she seemed to influence him, the future did not look quite so solidly black as it had that morning, and he felt ready to tell her of his encounter with drew. but fearing to raise her hopes unduly on so slender a basis he refrained, and stayed with her till the time was approaching for his visit to the house across the park. then he left her wondering at the feeling of lightness that came over him, and not attributing it to the fact that he had something to do--something which called his faculties into action to scheme and contrive the meeting without being baffled by those who dogged the steps of every one about the place. hope was inspiring him too again, and he refrained from going near captain murray, setting quite at nought all thought of his duties at the palace, and waiting in his room watching the clock till he felt that it was time to go. he sat for a few moments longer, trying to come to a conclusion which would be the better plan--to go carefully to the house after taking every precaution against being seen, or to go boldly without once looking back. the latter was the plan he determined to adopt; but to throw dust in the eyes of any watcher, he placed a couple of books under one arm, and determined to bring three or four different ones back, so as to make it appear that he had been to change some works in his father's library. whether any spy was upon his track or no he could not tell, for, following out his plan, he went straight away to the house, thundered loudly at the door, and dragged at the bell. the old housekeeper admitted him with her old precautions, and eagerly asked after her ladyship's health. her next question, whether he had heard from sir robert, convinced the lad that, living her quiet, secluded life, she was in perfect ignorance of the stirring events of the past two or three weeks, and he refrained from enlightening her. "now, berry," he said, "go down and stay there till i call you up again." "oh, my dear young master!" said the old woman, beginning to sob. "why, what's the matter, berry?" he cried. "oh, my dear, my dear!" she sobbed, with her apron to her eyes; "it's glad i am to see you when you come, but i do wish you'd stay away." "stay away! why?" "because it only means fresh trouble whenever you come over here. i don't care for myself a bit, my dear; but as soon as i see your bonny face, i begin to quake, for i know it means spies and soldiers coming after you and i expect to see you marched off to the tower, and brought back with your head chopped off and put up along with the traitors. don't do it, my dear; don't do it." "don't do what?" cried frank impatiently. "don't go running dreadful risks, my dear, and meddling with such matters. let 'em have which king they like, and quarrel and fight about it; but don't you have anything to do with it at all." "and don't you try to interfere with matters you can't understand, you dear old berry," cried the lad, kissing her affectionately. "ah! that's like the dear little curly-headed boy who used to come and kiss me, and ask me to melt lumps of sugar in the wax candle to make him candy drops. i often think now, master frank, that you have forgotten your poor old nurse. ah! i remember when you had the measles so badly, and your poor dear little face was red and dreadful--" "yes, yes, berry; but i am so busy now. i expect some one to come." "not the soldiers, my dear?" "no, no, no!" "nor those dreadful spies?" "i hope not, berry. you go down, please, at once, and wait till i call you up." "yes, my dear, yes," said the woman sadly. "you're master now poor dear sir robert is away. i'll go; but pray, pray be careful. it would kill me, my dear." "kill you?" cried frank. "what would?" "i should--yes, i would do that!--i should crawl somehow as far as the city to have one look at your poor dear head sticking on a spike, and then i should creep down a side street, and lay my head on a doorstep, and die." "no, you shan't!" cried frank, laughing in spite of his excitement, as he hurried the weeping old woman to the top of the basement stairs. "i'll come here properly, with my head upon my shoulders. there, there; go down and wait. i don't think anything will happen to-day to frighten you. never mind; if any one comes i'll open the door." "oh, my dear, i can't let you do that," remonstrated the old woman. "what would my lady say?" "that old berry was a dear, good, obedient housekeeper, who always did what she was told." "ah!" sighed the old lady, with a piteous smile; "you always did coax and get the better of me, master frank; and many's the time i've made you ill by indulging you with pudding and cakes that you begged for. yes, i'll go down, my dear; but i'll come the moment you call or ring." frank stood watching her till she reached the foot of the stairs, and then started and ran across the hall in his excitement, for a clock was striking, and he had hardly let down the chain and unfastened the door to hold it ajar, when there was a step outside, it was pushed open, and drew forbes glided in, and thrust it to. "frank, old lad!" he cried excitedly, as the chain was replaced; and he seized his companion by the shoulders, and shook him. "oh, i am glad to see you again." "and i you," cried the lad, as full of excitement. "hah! these are queer times. i am fit to touch now. did you ever see such a miserable, dirty beggar as i was that day in the park?" "don't talk about that, drew," cried frank; "come upstairs." "yes, we may as well sit down, for i'm nearly run off my legs. i say, did you get hurt in the crowd?" "a little," said frank eagerly. "were you there?" drew did not reply till they were in the room on the first floor looking over the park; and then he threw himself full length on one of the couches, while frank closed and locked the door. "not laziness, old lad--fagged, and must rest when i can. was i there? of course i was. but oh, what a mess we made of it! everything was well thought out; but you were too strong for us. we should have got them all away if they had not trapped us with the foot guards. some soldier must have planned it all. our fellows fought like lions till they began firing volleys and drove all before them with fixed bayonets. poor dear old frank! i am sorry for you." "and i'm as sorry for you," said the boy sadly, as he pressed the thin, white, girlish hand which held his. "sorry for me?" said drew sharply. "i'm all right." "then your father was not one of the prisoners?" said frank eagerly. "not with them? didn't you see him there?" "no; i only saw that two other gentlemen were in the carriage with my father. i only had eyes for him." "that's natural enough," said drew; "i hardly saw your father till we got them all out of the carriages, chained hand and foot. oh, what miserable, cowardly tyranny! gentlemen, prisoners of war, treated like thieves and murderers! poor fellows! they could do nothing to help themselves." "but you rescued one," said frank. "is he safe?" "safe as safe," cried drew joyously. "ah!" said frank with a sigh, "you are very loyal to your prince." "i don't know so much about that, old lad. he does not turn out well." "not grateful to you all for saving him, while the others were recaptured and cast in gaol!" drew sat up suddenly. "i say, what are you talking about?" he cried. "about your rescuing and carrying off the prince to safety." "nonsense! he was safe enough before. didn't i say he does not turn out well?" "yes; but you rescued him last night: i heard it at the palace this morning." "stuff! he kept himself safe enough over the water without showing his face." "then who was it you saved?" "who was it? why, my dear old dad, of course. we nearly lost him, for a great tall guardsman had got hold of him by the fetter ring round his waist, only i made him let go. i hope i haven't killed him, frank," added the lad between his teeth; "but i had a sword in my hand--and i used it." "oh, i am glad you have saved your father, drew." "and i am sorry we did not save yours, frank. perhaps if you had been helping us you might have done as i did, and he too might have been where your king's people couldn't touch him. "there, i did not mean to say that," continued drew, after a short pause. "it isn't kind and straight to you. i won't reproach you, franky; for i can't help feeling that you are, as father says, the soul of honour. he said i was to tell you how proud he felt that you were my best friend--we are friends still, frank?" "of course." "but i have said some nasty things to you, old lad." "i can't remember things like that," said frank sadly; "only that when you did not talk of the other side we were very jolly together." "and i couldn't help it," said drew earnestly. "i know it." "well, i didn't come here to talk about that." "no, it's all past. let's talk about the future." "yes; how's dear lady gowan?" "how can she be, drew?" said frank wearily. the tears started to drew's eyes, which filled, as he caught his friend's hands in his, and the next moment the big drops began trickling down. "there," he said quietly, "i'm crying like a great girl. i can't help it when i think about her. i always was a weak, passionate, hysterical sort of fellow, frank, and i'm worse than ever now with all this strain. but you tell her when you go back that there are some thousands of good men and true now in london who will not stop till they have saved dear sir robert, and the other brave leaders who are shut up in that wretched prison." "ah!" sighed frank; "if they only could!" "but we will," cried drew excitedly. "well, your father is safe," said frank bitterly. "i suppose he will leave the country now?" "what, and forsake his friends?" cried drew proudly. "you don't know my father yet. no; he says he will not stir till your father is safe; and we'll have them out yet, if we have to burn the prison first." frank looked at him wildly. "but there are more ways of killing a cat than hanging it, lad," continued drew with a laugh, as he dashed away the last of his hysterical tears. "i look a nice sort of a hero, don't i? but i came to tell you not to be down-hearted, for there are plenty of brains at work." "and i must help!" cried frank excitedly. "no; you leave it to the older heads. i should like to help too; but my father says that i am to leave it to him. he has a plan. and now i am coming to what i came principally for." "then you have something else to say?" "yes. is your mother still so very ill?" "yes, very." "that is bad; but ill or no, she must make an effort." "oh, she is making every effort to get my father spared," cried frank bitterly. "i suppose so," said drew. "but look here; your poor father is suffering horribly." "as if i did not know that!" cried frank. "and my father says that lady gowan must get a permit to allow her to go and see him in prison." "yes, of course," cried frank excitedly. "go back then now, and tell her to get leave; the princess will--must get that for her. they can't refuse it." "no, they dare not!" said frank, whose pale face was now quivering with emotion. "when would she go?" "as soon as possible--to-day if she could." "to-morrow would be better," said drew quietly. "she would go in her carriage, of course." "oh no; she would go in one of the royal carriages--the one used by the ladies of honour." "of course. i did not see that." "i shall go with her," said frank. "no; she must go to him alone. you saw sir robert yesterday. my father thought of that. he said it would be better." "i'll do anything he thinks best." "then go back now, and tell her to be calm, and to try all she can to be strong enough to see the princess and get the permission." "yes, i'll go directly," said frank. "but you? i don't want you to run any risks." "and i don't want to. may i stay here till dark?" "of course." "then call up your housekeeper, and tell her that i am to come and go here just as if i belonged to the place." frank hesitated for a moment, and then said, "yes, of course." "i'll tell you why, frank, my lad," said drew quickly. "when your mother leaves the palace to go to newgate, she must call here first." "here first! why?" "to see me. i shall be here with a very important message from my father to yours. tell lady gowan she must come, for it may mean the saving of your father's life." "but--" "don't raise obstacles, lad," cried drew angrily. "is there anything so strange in her telling the servants to drive to her own house and calling here first?" "then it is to take files and ropes," whispered frank. "it is to do nothing of the sort," said drew sharply. "such plans would be childish. lady gowan will not be asked to do anything to help her husband to escape. it can't be done that way, frank. now, then, you are man enough to think for her in this emergency. tell her what to do, and she will cling to you and follow your advice. will you do this?" "will i do it!" cried the lad. "is there anything i would not do to spare her pain?" "that's good. come here, and meet her afterwards." "yes, of course." "give her plenty of time first. now ring for your old lady, and tell her i am to stay and do as i like. and, i say, frank, i'm starving. i have eaten nothing to-day." "oh!" ejaculated the lad. "well, that will please her." "i must have a key to come and go." "you shall do what you please, only pray be careful. don't get yourself arrested." "not if i can help it, lad. now, be of good heart; we shall save your father yet. it may not be till after his trial." "his trial?" "of course. they'll all be tried and condemned; but we will have them away, and perhaps james francis on the throne even yet." frank looked at him searchingly, when drew lay down again, as if something was on his mind that he could not clearly grasp; but he said nothing, and rang the bell, which was answered directly by the old housekeeper. "mrs berry," said frank, "my friend here--" "mr andrew forbes, sir, yes." "hi! hush! what are you talking about?" cried drew, starting up angrily. "i'm not here, my good woman. do you want to send me to prison?" "oh dear me, oh dear me!" cried the poor woman excitedly. "what have i done now?" "nothing, nothing, berry," said frank hastily, "only it must not be known that mr forbes is here. you must not mention his name again." "very well, sir," said the woman sadly; and she gave her young master a reproachful look. "my friend will have the front-door key, and stay here or come and go as often as he likes." "very well, sir. you are master now," said the housekeeper sadly. "he will be here to meet my mother, who will probably come over to-morrow." "oh, my dear master frank!" cried the woman, brightening up. "that is good news." "so do all you can for my friend. he wants breakfast or lunch at once. he's faint and hungry." "oh, i'll get something ready directly, sir." "and you will be silent and discreet, berry." "you may trust me, sir; and i'll do my best to make your friend comfortable. will he sleep here to-night?" "if he wishes, berry." "certainly, sir;" and the housekeeper hurried away. "that's right," said drew quietly. "i don't think any one saw me come. now you be off, and don't fail to send lady gowan to comfort your poor father in his distress." they parted directly after, and frank hurried back, and went straight to his mother's apartments. chapter forty four. the prison pass. "oh, my boy!" cried lady gowan, "how long you have been without coming to me." frank looked at her in surprise, as she rose from the couch on which she had been lying--dressed. "yes, yes, dear, i feel stronger now. have you any news? where have you been?" "home," said frank, watching her intently. "i have seen drew forbes." "yes, yes; has he any news?" "he has seen his father, and says that you are not to lose hope." "all words, words!" sighed lady gowan, wringing her hands. "and that it is your duty to go and see my father in prison." "as if we needed to be told that," cried lady gowan scornfully. "i am going to him directly i can get permission." "you are?" cried frank excitedly. "of course. the princess has been here to see me, and she has promised that if i am well enough i shall have an order to see your father in his prison to-morrow." "oh!" cried frank excitedly, "that is good news. i had come to beg you to appeal to the princess. mother dearest, the forbeses are our friends, but you must not speak about them to a soul." "i, my boy?" cried lady gowan, clinging to him, and speaking passionately; "i can speak of no one--think of no one but your father now." "but you must, mother. it is important. they have promised to help my father to escape." "frank!--no, no; it is impossible. oh, my dear boy, you must not join in any plot. you must not--yes, yes, it is your duty to try and save his life, come what may," cried lady gowan. "hush, mother! pray be calm," whispered frank. "now listen. you will not be asked to do anything but this." "yes, yes. what, dear?" she said, in a sharp whisper. "no: wait a moment." she made an effort to regain her composure, and at last succeeded. "don't think ill of me, my boy," she said. "i wished to be--i have tried to be--loyal to those who have been our truest friends; but your father's life is at stake, and i can only think now of saving him. speak out--tell me what they wish." "i hardly know, mother; but they only ask this: that you convey an important message from andrew's father to mine." "is that all?" sighed lady gowan. "you must drive over to our house when you leave here to-morrow; go in, and you will find drew waiting there." "drew forbes waiting at our house?" said lady gowan in astonishment. "yes; he will have the message from his father for you to bear, and you must not fail, for it may mean the ruining of his hopes." "i--i do not understand, my dear," sighed lady gowan; "but i will do anything now. i would die that i might save his life." "but will you be able to go, mother? you are so weak." "the thought that i shall see him and bear him news that may save his life will give me strength, frank. yes, i will go." frank felt astonished at the change which had come over her, and sat answering her questions about his proceedings on the previous night, for, in her thirst to know everything, she made him repeat himself again and again; but he could not help noticing that all the while she was keenly on the alert, listening to every sound, and at last starting up as her attendant entered the room with a letter. "hah!" she cried, snatching it from the woman's hands. "and the nurse says, my lady, may she come in now?" "no, no; i cannot see her. go!" cried lady gowan imperiously; and she tore open the letter, as the woman left the room. "hah! see, see, frank! it is an order signed by the king himself. with the princess's dear love and condolence. heaven bless her! but oh! look!" frank took the order and read it quickly. it was for lady gowan, alone and unattended, to be admitted to the prisoner's cell for one hour only on the following day. "i must write and appeal again, my boy. you must be with me." "no, mother," said frank sadly. "i was with my father last night. this visit should be for you alone." she looked at him half resentfully, and then drew him to her breast. before he left her he once more drew from her the promise that she would fulfil the instructions he gave her, and call in queen anne street, go up, see drew forbes, and take the message from his father. "i don't understand it," said the lad to himself, as he left his mother's apartments; "but it must mean something respecting my father's prospects of escape--some instructions perhaps. oh, everything must give way now to saving his life." then thinking and thinking till his brain began to swim, he went to his own room, feeling utterly exhausted, but unable to find rest. in the morning he ran round, and found that the doctor was with his mother; and as the great physician came out he shook hands with the lad. "yes?" he said smiling; "you wish to know whether i think lady gowan will be able to go and pay that visit this afternoon? most certainly. her illness is principally from anxiety, and i have no hesitation in saying that she would be worse if i forbade her leaving her apartments. i will be here to see her in the evening after her return." frank entered his mother's room to find her wonderfully calm, but there was a peculiarly wild look of excitement in her eyes; and as the lad gazed inquiringly at her, she said softly: "have no fear, dear. i shall be strong enough to bear it. you will come, and see me start! the carriage will be here at two." "and you will go round home first?" said frank softly. "yes," she cried, with the excited look in her eyes seeming to grow more intense. "but, my boy, my boy, if i could only have you with me! frank dear, we must save him. but do you think that these people can and will help him?" "i feel sure, mother," replied frank. "take the message drew brings to you, and see what my father says." "yes," she said thoughtfully. "i feel that they will help, for these people are staunch to each other. they helped the pretender to escape." "it was not the pretender, mother," whispered frank; "it was drew's father. and he has vowed that he will not leave england and seek safety until my father is safe." "then heaven bless him!" cried lady gowan, passionately. "i had my doubts as to whether it would be wise to bear his message to your father, but i am contented now. leave me, my dearest boy. i want strength to bear the interview this afternoon, and the doctor told me that, unless i rested till the last moment, i should not have enough to carry me through. but you will be here?" "i will be here," he said tenderly; and once more they parted, frank going across to captain murray, and telling him of his mother's visit. "it is too much for her to bear," he said sadly. "surely she has not the strength!" "you don't know my mother's determination," said the boy proudly. "oh yes, she will go." "heaven give her the fortitude to bear the shock!" muttered the captain. "can i do anything--see her there?" he asked. "no, no," said frank hastily. "she must go alone. the carriage will take her and wait. but you; how is the side?" "oh, i have no time to think about a little pain, my boy. frank, we are all trying what we can do by a petition to his majesty. the colonel will present it when it is ready. he must--he shall show mercy this time; so cheer up, boy. no man in the army has so many friends as your father, and the king will see this by the names attached to our prayer." but these words gave little encouragement, and frank felt that in his heart he had more faith in some bold attempt made by his father's friends. he thought, moreover, from drew's manner, that there must be something more in progress than he divined, and going back to his duties--which he did or left undone without question now--he waited impatiently for the afternoon. but never had the hours dragged along so slowly, and it seemed a complete day when, at a few minutes before two, he went round to his mother's apartments, and found one of the private carriages with the servants in plain liveries waiting at the door. on ascending to his mother's room, he found her seated there, dressed almost wholly in black, and with a thick veil held in her hand. she was very pale and stern; but her face lit up as the boy crossed to her, and took her cold, damp hands in his. "there," she said tenderly, "you see how calm i am." "yes; but if i could only go with you, mother!" he said. "yes; if you could only go with me, my boy! but it is impossible. no, not impossible, for you will be with me in spirit all the time. i take your love to your father--and--ah!" her eyes closed, and she seemed on the point of fainting, but, struggling desperately against the weakness, she mastered it and rose. "take me down to the carriage, frank," she said firmly. "it is the waiting which makes me weak. once in action, i shall go on to the end. you will be here to meet me on my return? it will be more than two hours--perhaps three. there, you see i am firm now." he could not speak, and he felt her press heavily upon his arm, as he led her downstairs and handed her into the carriage. then for the first time a thought struck him. "mother," he whispered, as he leaned forward into the carriage. "you ought not to go alone. some lady--" "hush! not a word to weaken me now. i ought to go alone," she said firmly. "i could not take another there. i could not bear her presence with me. it is better so. tell the men to drive to queen anne street first." the door was closed sharply, he gave the servants their instructions, and then stood watching the carriage as it crossed the courtyard. but as it disappeared he felt that the excitement was more than he could bear, and, in place of going back to the prince's antechamber, he hurried out into the park, to try and cool his heated brain. chapter forty five. captain murray's news. the walk in the cool air beneath the trees seemed to have the opposite effect to that intended, for the boy's head was burning, and his busy imagination kept on forming pictures of what had passed and was passing then. he saw his mother get out of the carriage at their own door, that weak, sorrow-bent form in black, and enter, the carriage waiting for her return. he followed her up the broad staircase into the half-darkened drawing-room, where drew was waiting to give her the important message from his father. "yes," thought the boy; "it will be a letter of instructions what he is to do, for they have, i feel certain now, made some plan for his escape. but what?" then, with everything in his waking dream, he saw his mother descend and leave the house again, enter the carriage, the steps were rattled up, the door closed, and he followed it in imagination along the crowded streets to the dismal front of newgate, where, with vivid clearness, he saw her enter the gloomy door and disappear. "i can't bear it," he groaned, as he threw himself on the grass; "i can't bear it. i feel as if i shall go mad." at last the hot, beating sensation in his head grew less painful, for the vivid pictures had ceased to form themselves as he mentally saw his mother enter the prison, and in a dull, heavy, despairing fashion he reclined there, waiting until fully two hours should have passed away before he attempted to return to his mother's apartment to await her return. the time went slowly now, and he lay thinking of the meeting that must be taking place, till, feeling that if he lay longer there he should excite attention, he rose and walked slowly on, meaning to go right round the park, carrying out his original intention of trying to grow calm. he went slowly on, so as to pass the time, for he felt that it would be unbearable to go back to his mother's room, and perhaps have the nurse and maid fidgeting in and out. the result was that he almost crept along thinking, but in a different strain, for there were no more vivid pictures, his brain from the reaction seeming drowsy and sluggish. half unconscious now of the progress of time, he sauntered on till the sight of the back of their house roused the desire to go and see if drew were still there; and, hurrying now, he made his way round to the front, knocked, heard the chain put up, and as it was opened saw the old housekeeper peering out suspiciously. the next minute he was in the hall, with the old woman looking at him anxiously. "did my mother come?" he said hoarsely. "poor dear lady! yes, my dear, looking so bent and strange she could hardly speak to me; and when she lifted her veil i was shocked to see how thin and pale she was." "yes, yes; but did she go up and see--" "mr friend? yes, my dear, and stayed talking to him for quite half an hour before she came down. she did not ring first; but i saw her from the window almost tottering, and leaning on the footman's arm. he had quite to help her into the carriage. oh, my dear, is all this trouble never to have an end?" "don't talk to me, berry; but please go down. i am going up to see my friend. he is in the drawing-room, i suppose?" "oh yes, my dear. he has been in and out when i have not known, and i heard him talking to himself last night. poor young man! he seems in trouble too." "yes, yes. go down now," said frank hastily; and as the old woman descended, he sprang up the stairs, and turned the handle of the drawing-room door. but it was locked. he knocked sharply. "open the door," he said, with his lips to the keyhole. "it is i-- frank." the key was turned, and he stepped in quickly, to stand numbed with surprise; for lady gowan, looking ghastly white, stood before him, without bonnet or cloak. "well?" she cried; "tell me quick!" and her voice sounded hoarse and strange. "you here!" stammered frank. "oh, i see. oh, mother, mother, and you have been too ill to go." "no, no. don't question me," she said wildly. "i can't bear it. only tell me, boy--the truth--the truth!" "you are ill," he cried. "here, let me help you to the couch. lie down, dear. the doctor must be fetched." "frank!" she cried, "do you wish to drive me mad? don't keep it back. i am not ill. your father! has he escaped?" it was some minutes before he could compel his mother to believe that he knew nothing, and grasped from her incoherent explanations that, when she had reached the house two hours before, she had come up to the drawing-room and found drew impatiently waiting there. he had then given her his father's message of hope for his dear friend's safety, and his assurance that a couple of thousand friends would save him. moreover, the lad unfolded the plan they had made. it was simple enough, and possible from its daring, for at the sight of the king's order the authorities of the prison would be off their guard. lady gowan was to give up dress, bonnet, and cloak, furnish drew with the royal mandate, leave him to complete the disguise by means of false hair, and thus play the part of the heart-broken, weeping wife. thus disguised, he was to go down to the carriage, be helped in, and driven to the prison. there he was to stay the full time, and in the interval to exchange dresses with the prisoner, who, cloaked and veiled, bent with suffering and grief, was to present himself at the door when the steps of the gaolers were heard, and suffer himself to be assisted back to the carriage and driven off. "yes, but then--then--" cried frank wildly. "oh, it is madness; it could not succeed!" "don't, don't say that, my boy," wailed lady gowan. "i must, mother, i must," cried the boy passionately. "why did he not confide in me? i could have told him what i dared not tell you." "yes, yes, what?" cried lady gowan. "tell me now. i can--i will bear it." "my poor father was fettered hand and foot. it was impossible for him to escape." there was a painful silence, which was broken at last by lady gowan, who laid her hands with a deprecating gesture upon her son's breast. "don't blame me, frank," she whispered. "i was in despair. i snatched at the proposal, thinking it might do some good, when my heart was yearning to be at your father's side. you cannot think what i suffered." "blame you?" cried frank. "oh, how could i, mother? but i must leave you now." "leave me! at a time like this?" "yes, you must bear it, mother. i will come back as soon as possible; but drew--the carriage? even if he succeeded in deceiving the gaolers and people, what has happened since?" "yes, you must go," said lady gowan, as she fought hard to be firm. "go, get some news, my boy, and come back to me, even if it is to tell me the worst. remember that i am in an agony of suspense that is killing me." frank hurried out, feeling as if it was all some terrible dream, and on reaching the street he directed his steps east, to make his way to the great prison. but he turned back before he had gone many yards. "no," he thought; "everything must be over there, and i could not get any news. they would not listen to me." he walked hurriedly along, turning into the park, and another idea came to him: the royal stables, he would go and see if the carriage had returned. if it had, he could learn from the servants all that had occurred. he broke into a run, and was three parts of the way back to the stable-yard, seeing nothing before him, when his progress was checked by a strong arm thrown across his chest. "don't stop me!" he shouted.--"you, captain murray!" "yes, i was in search of you. have you heard?" "heard? heard what?" panted the boy. "your father has escaped." frank turned sharply to dash off; but captain murray's strong hand grasped his arm. "stop!" he cried. "i cannot run after you; i'll walk fast. my side is bad." "don't stop me," cried frank piteously. "i must, boy. it is madness to be running about like this. don't bring suspicion upon you, and get yourself arrested--and separated from your mother when she wants you most." "hah!" ejaculated frank; and he fell into step with his father's old comrade. "i will not ask you where you are going; but i suppose in search of your mother." "yes; she is at home." "what? my poor boy! no. the news is now running through the palace like wildfire. she went to visit your father in newgate this afternoon, as you know. i don't wish to ask what complicity you had in the plot." "none," cried frank excitedly. "i am glad of it, though anything was excusable for you at such a time. on reaching the prison she was supported in by the servants and gaolers. she stayed there nearly an hour, and, as the people there supposed, she was carried back to the carriage in a chair, half fainting." "ah!" ejaculated frank, who was trembling in every limb. "the servants say that the carriage was being driven back quickly by the shortest cuts, so as to avoid the main thoroughfares, when in one of the quiet streets by soho three horsemen stopped the way, and seized the reins as the coachman drew up to avoid an accident. a carriage which had been following came up, and half a dozen men sprang from it--one from the box, two from behind, and the rest from inside. the footmen were hustled away, and threatened with drawn swords by four of the attacking party, while the others opened the door, as one of them says, to abduct lady gowan, but the other declares that it was a man in disguise who sprang out and then into the other carriage, which was driven off, all taking place quickly and before any alarm could be given. the startled men then came on to state what had occurred; but almost at the same time the tidings came from the prison that lady gowan remained behind, and that it was sir robert whom they had helped away." "oh!" groaned frank, giddy with excitement. "come faster, or i must run. she is dying to know. i must go and tell her he is safe." "you cannot, you foolish boy," cried the captain, half angrily. "do you suppose they would admit you to the prison now?" "prison!" cried frank wildly. "did i not tell you that she was close here--at our own house." "what! when did you see her?" "not a quarter of an hour ago." captain murray uttered a gasp. "my poor lad!" he groaned. "poor rob--poor lady gowan! then it is all a miserable concoction, frank. he has not escaped." "yes, yes," cried the lad wildly. "you don't understand. it was drew forbes who went--my mother's cloak and veil." "what! and your mother is safe at home?" "yes, yes," cried frank. "don't you see?" the captain burst into a wild, strange laugh, and stood with his face white from agony and his hand pressed upon his side. "run," he whispered; "i am crippled. i can go no farther. tell her at once. they will get him out of the country safely now. oh, frank boy, what glorious news!" frank hardly heard the last words, but dashed off to where he found his mother kneeling by the couch in the darkened room, her face buried in her hands. but she heard his step, and sprang up, her face so ghastly that it frightened him as he shouted aloud: "safe, mother!--escaped!" "ah!" she cried, in a low, deep sigh full of thankfulness; and she fell upon her knees with her hands clasped together and her head bent low upon her breast, just as the clouds that had been hanging heavily all the day opened out; and where the shutters were partly thrown back a broad band of golden light shot into the room and bathed the kneeling figure offering up her prayer of thankfulness for her husband's life, while frank knelt there by her side. it was about an hour later, when mother and son were seated together, calm and pale after the terrible excitement, talking of their future--of what was to happen next, and what would be their punishment and that of the brave, high-spirited lad who was now a prisoner--that berry tapped softly at the door. "a letter, my lady," she said, "for master frank;" and as she came timidly forward, the old woman's eyes looked red and swollen with weeping. "for me, berry?" cried frank wonderingly. "why, nurse, you've been crying." "i'm heart-broken, master frank, to see all this trouble." "then go and mend it," cried the lad excitedly. "the trouble's over. it's all right now." "ah! and may i bring your ladyship a dish of tay?" "yes, and quickly," said frank tearing open the letter. "mother!" he cried excitedly, "it's from drew." it was badly written, and in a wild strain of forced mirth. "just a line, countryman," he wrote. "this is to be delivered when all's over, and dear old sir robert is safe away. tell my dear lady gowan i'm doing this as i would have done it for my own mother, and did not tell you because you're such a jealous old chap, and would have wanted to go yourself. i say, don't tell her this. i don't believe they'll do anything to me, because they'll look upon me as a boy, and i'm reckoning upon its being the grandest piece of fun i ever had. if they do chop me short off, i leave you my curse if you don't take down my head off the spike they'll stick it on, at the top of temple bar, out of spite because they could not get sir robert's. good-bye, old usurper worshipper. i can't help liking you, all the same. try and get my sword, and wear it for the sake of crack-brained drew." "poor old drew!" groaned frank, in a broken voice. "oh, mother, i was not to let you see all this." "not see it?" said lady gowan softly; and her tears fell fast upon the letter, as she pressed it to her lips. "yes, frank, you would have done the same. but no; they will not--they dare not punish him. the whole nation would rise against those who took vengeance upon the brave act of the gallant boy." that evening the problem of their future was partly solved by another letter brought by hand from the palace. it was from the princess, and very brief: "i cannot blame you for what you have done, for my heart has been with you through all your trouble. at present you and your son must remain away. some day i hope we shall meet again. "always your friend." chapter forty six. au revoir. about a fortnight after the events related in the last chapter a little scene took place on board a fishing lugger, lying swinging to a buoy in one of the rocky coves of the cornish coast. a small boat hung behind, in which, dimly seen in the gloom of a soft dark night, sat a sturdy-looking man, four others being seated in the lugger, ready to cast off and hoist the two sails, while, quite aft on the little piece of deck, beneath which there was a cabin, stood four figures in cloaks. "all ready, master," said one of the men in a singsong tone. "tide's just right, and the wind's springing up. we ought to go." "in one minute," said one of the gentlemen in cloaks; and then he turned to lay his hands upon the shoulders of the figure nearest to him: "yes, we must get it over, frank. good-bye, god bless you, boy! we are thoroughly safe now; but i feel like a coward in escaping." "no, gowan," said the gentleman behind him. "we can do no more. if they are to be saved, our friends will do everything that can be done. remember they wish us gone." "yes; but situated as i am it is mad to go. you have your son, thanks to the efforts of the prince and princess. i have to leave all behind. frank boy, will you let me go alone? will you not come with me, even if it is to be a wanderer in some distant land?" frank uttered a half-strangled cry, and clung to his father's hands. "yes, father," he said, in a broken voice; "i cannot leave you. i'll go with you, and share your lot." "god bless you, my boy!" cried the captain, folding him in his arms. "there," he said the next minute, in decisive tones, "we must be men. no; i only said that to try if you were my own true lad. go back; your place is at your mother's side. your career is marked out. i will not try to drag you from those who are your friends. the happy old days may come for us all again, when this miserable political struggling is at an end. frank," he whispered, "who knows what is in the future for us all?" then quite cheerfully: "good-bye, lad. i'll write soon. get back as quickly as you can. say good-bye to colonel forbes and drew." "good-bye--good-bye!" cried frank quickly, as he shook hands, and then was hurried into the little boat, his father leaning over from the lugger to hold his hand till the last. that last soon came, for the rope was slipped from the ring of the buoy as one of the sails was hoisted, the lugger careened as the canvas caught the wind, and the hands were suddenly snatched apart. the second sail followed, and the lugger seemed to melt away into the gloom, as the boat softly rose and fell upon the black water fifty yards from the rocky shore. "good-bye!" came from out of the darkness, and again, "good-bye!" in the voices of colonel forbes and his son drew. lastly, and very faintly heard, sir robert gowan's voice floated over the heaving sea: "_au revoir_!" history tells of the stern punishment meted out to the leaders of the rebellion--saving to lord nithsdale, who escaped, as sir robert had, in women's clothes--of the disastrous fights in scotland, and the many condemned to death or sent as little better than slaves to the american colonies. but it does not tell how years after, at the earnest prayer of the gallant young officer in the prince's favourite regiment, sir robert gowan was recalled from exile to take his place in the army at a time when the old pretender's cause was dead, and drew forbes and his father were distinguished officers in the service of the king of france. the end. naughty miss bunny. [illustration: the butler surprises bunny.] naughty miss bunny a story for little children. by clara mulholland author of "the little bog-trotters," &c. [illustration: logo] london blackie & son, limited, old bailey, e.c. glasgow and dublin contents. chap. page i. only for fun, ii. pleasant news for bunny, iii. bunny gets up early, iv. bunny gets a fright, v. the little indian, vi. bunny forgets again, vii. in miss kerr's room, viii. bunny tries to show off, ix. miss kerr promises a prize, x. on oliver's mount, xi. was it cruel? xii. the fireworks, xiii. quiet times, xiv. bunny's improvement. home again, illustrations. page the butler surprises bunny, _frontispiece_ bunny welcomes her father, francis saves bunny, [illustration: chapter decoration.] naughty miss bunny. chapter i. only for fun. "how nice!" cried bunny. "mama has sent for miss kerr, so i can do exactly as i like for a little while. i am very glad papa brought us up here, for it is so pretty and so cool, and these gardens are so lovely;" and she gazed about her at the garden and the lawn and then at the distant sea that lay just beyond them, sparkling and dancing in the sunshine. "if i had no governess," continued the little girl, "and no lessons, and no nasty nurse to say, 'sit still, miss bunny,' and 'don't make dirty your frock, miss bunny,' i think i should be jolly--yes, that's papa's word, jolly. but, oh dear, big people are so happy, for they can do what they like, but _chindrel_ must do everything they are told." and quite forgetting her pretty white frock and dainty sash, and the many orders she had received not on any account to soil them, she lay back comfortably upon the grass. bunny, whose real name was ethel dashwood, was six years old, and was one of the spoilt "_chindrel_," as she called children. if she had had brothers and sisters, very likely bunny would have been kept in better order, but as she was quite alone no one could bear to correct her, and so she became very hard to manage indeed. her papa indulged her, and thought she could do nothing wrong, whilst her mama was so delicate that she was very seldom able to look after her little girl, and left her to the care of a kind-hearted, but foolish old nurse, who allowed her to have her own way in everything and never for an instant thought of finding fault with her. this was all very well so long as bunny was no more than a baby, but when she came to be six years old mr. dashwood suddenly found that her little girl was much too naughty, so she resolved to make a change in the nursery, that would, she hoped, have a good effect in every way. first of all old nurse was sent away, and a trim french maid, with a quick sharp manner, was engaged to take her place. bunny was sorry to part with nurse, who had always been kind to her, but sophie was so amusing, spoke such funny english, and sang such merry songs that the little girl soon ceased to fret, and became quite pleased with her new maid. the change of nurses bunny bore in a quiet way that surprised everyone in the house; but when her mother told her that she had arranged with a young lady to come and live with them and be her governess, the little girl burst into a passion, and stamping her foot declared she would have no one to teach her, that she would say no lessons, and that her mama was very unkind to think of such a thing. mrs. dashwood was greatly shocked, and unable to understand such naughtiness, rang the bell and ordered sophie to take the child away, and bunny was carried off weeping bitterly. but this fit of anger only made her mama more anxious to have some one to look after her daughter, and in a few days the governess arrived, and bunny was set down to learn to read and write. this was a great change for the neglected child, and had her teacher been a sensible person bunny would doubtless have become a good little girl in time. but unfortunately the governess was very foolish, and thought it much easier to allow her pupil to have her own way than to take the trouble to make her do what was right, and so instead of doing the child good she did her harm, and bunny became more and more naughty every day. this was in june, and as london grew very hot and dusty, mrs. dashwood declared they must all go away to the country, and her husband, who wished them to have a nice holiday, went off at once and took a beautiful house at scarborough. bunny was enchanted, and made up her mind to have great fun at the seaside, and as the very day before they left town, her governess was obliged to leave in a great hurry on account of a death in her family, the little girl made up her mind that she was going to have perfect freedom to do exactly what she liked and to play every day upon the sea-beach. sophie did not trouble her much except when she was cross, and so bunny set off to scarborough in very high spirits. the house her papa had taken for them was a pretty rambling old place, standing on a height just above the sea, and surrounded by spreading trees and large gardens full of sweet-scented flowers. a most charming spot indeed, and to the little girl from hot dusty london it seemed a perfect paradise. the first days in the country passed away very happily, and bunny was not as wild as might have been expected by those who knew her, when one day, as she ran through the hall, she stopped in astonishment before a large trunk, and cried out to the butler, who was standing near, "who does that belong to, ashton? has a visitor come to stay with us?" "a visitor, miss? no, a new governess, miss--she's just gone in to speak to your mama;" and he hurried away to his pantry. "nasty thing!" cried bunny, stamping her foot and growing very red and angry. just when i thought i was going to be happy all by myself! but i'll be so naughty, and so troublesome, that she'll soon go away. i'll be ten times as hard to manage as i was before. she'll not get hold of me to-night any way, and scampering off into the garden she hid herself among the trees. but the new governess, miss kerr, was a very different person from the last, and resolved to do her best to make her little pupil a good well-behaved child. she was a kind, warm-hearted girl, who had a great many small brothers and sisters of her own, and she never doubted that in a short time bunny would become as good and obedient as they were. she soon found, however, that the task was not as easy as she had fancied, and when she had been a few days at holly lodge she began to fear that it would be a very long time before her lectures and advice would have the smallest effect upon the wayward little child. she had now been a whole week in charge of the girl, and she feared that bunny would never learn to love her. about half an hour before our story begins, bunny and her governess had been seated on the lawn together. mrs. dashwood sent to ask miss kerr to go to her for a few moments, and that young lady had hastened into the house, leaving her little charge upon the grass with her book. "do not stir from here till i return, bunny," she said; "you can go over that little lesson again, and i shall not be long." but as time went on and she did not return the child grew restless, and feeling very tired of sitting still, began to look about to see what there was for her to do. "governesses are great bothers," she grumbled to herself as she rolled about on the grass. "and now as miss kerr does not seem to be coming back, i think i will have a climb up that tree--it looks so easy i'm sure i could go up ever so high. there's nobody looking, so i'll just see if i can go right away up--as high as that little bird up there." bunny was very quick in her movements, and a minute later her white frock and blue sash were fluttering about among the leaves and branches of a fine old tree that grew in the middle of the lawn. "oh, dear! how lovely it would be to be a bird--cheep, cheep! if i only had wings i should just feel like one this minute, perched up so high," she said with a merry laugh, as she jumped and wriggled about on the branch. but she quite forgot that the nursery window overlooked the lawn, and that sophie was sure to be sitting there at her work. in a moment, however, this fact was recalled to her mind by the sound of a wild shriek from the terrified maid. "mademoiselle! miss bunny, you want to kill yourself, or tear your sweet frock. ah! naughty child, get down this instants, or i will tell monsieur your papa." this was the one threat that had any power to move miss bunny, so down she scrambled and ran away as fast as she could over the grass. there was still no sign of miss kerr, so the child wandered about, wondering what was keeping her governess, and wishing she had something to do, when all at once her eyes fell on a beautiful rose-tree, almost weighed down with the quantity of its flowers, and she flew at it in delight and began to pull off the lovely blossoms and pin one of them into the front of her frock. but like most foolish children she broke them off so short that there was no stalk left with which to fasten them, and so the poor rose fell upon the ground, and the little girl impatiently snatched at another and dragged it ruthlessly from the branch. this went on for some time, and would probably have gone on until not a flower remained upon the bush, had not sophie again made herself heard from the nursery window. "miss bunny, how can you derange the beautiful roses?" she cried indignantly. "there will be not one left to give to your papa when he comes home, and you know he loves those sweet flowers so much." "oh, i am so sorry," cried bunny. "but there are some dear little buds, and i will just leave them for papa. who knows perhaps they may be roses by to-morrow evening!" and away she flitted like a white-winged butterfly in search of some other sweet flowers that she might make her own, without fear of further interruption from sharp-tongued sophie. at last, when she had such a large bouquet that her little hands could scarcely hold it, she wearied of her occupation, and stepping softly to the drawing-room window, she peeped in just to see what miss kerr and her mama could be doing that kept them shut up there for so long together. "i'll take mama these flowers," she said to herself, "and i am sure they will make her headache better. i'll just tap gently at the window and miss kerr will let me in, and i'll be so good and quiet that mama will not mind me being with her while she talks." bunny waited for some minutes, hoping to be admitted to the room, but no notice was taken of her knocking--for the ladies were too much absorbed in their own affairs to trouble themselves about her. mrs. dashwood lay on the sofa, and her face had a flushed anxious expression, as she listened to miss kerr, who was seated on a stool by her side, and seemed to be talking very earnestly, but her voice was low, and as the window was shut bunny could not hear a word she said. "oh dear, what a lot miss kerr has got to say!" cried the little girl impatiently. "she seems as if she had forgotten all about me. i am tired of being out here all alone, so i'll just run in and play with my dollies." now the nearest way into the house was up a flight of steps and in by the dining-room window, which was like a large glass door, and always lay open in the most tempting manner possible. so up these steps went miss bunny, her hands full of flowers and her mind bent on mischief, if she could only meet with anything to do that would amuse her and give her some fun. [illustration: the butler surprises bunny.] the room into which she stepped was a very pretty one. it was very nearly round, with many high windows looking out upon the pleasant grounds and blue sparkling sea. upon the walls were pictures of fine thoroughbred horses, some of them with their little foals beside them, others with a surly-looking old dog or a tiny kitten, their favourite stable companion and friend. bunny loved these pictures and had given the horses pet names of her own, by which she insisted on calling them, although their own well-known names were printed under them, for they were all horses that had won a great number of races during their lives, and so had become celebrated. the round table in the middle of the room was laid ready for dinner, and looked very inviting with its prettily arranged flowers, handsome silver, and shining glass. "dear me, how nice it all looks!" said bunny, as she marched round the table on tip-toe. "one, two, three, four places. why, it must be for company. well, i hope there will be somebody nice to talk to me. i must get sophie to put on my pretty new frock. but oh, dear, what fun it would be just to put a tiny, little drop of water into every glass! wouldn't old ashton wonder--just when he thinks everything is nice for dinner? i will! i'll do it! it will be such fun! oh, i'd like to see his face; won't he be horribly angry?" throwing her flowers on the floor, bunny sprang to the side-board, and seizing a water-jug she climbed up on each chair in turn and poured a few drops of water into every glass all round the dinner-table. just as she came to the last wine-glass and held the jug ready to let the water fall into it, the door opened suddenly and the solemn-looking old butler entered the room. "miss bunny!" he exclaimed, and he looked so stern and angry that the little girl felt frightened, and dropping the jug, scrambled off the chair, seized her flowers, and ran out of his sight as fast as she could. "i only did it for fun, ashton," she called back from the door. "it is clean water, so it won't do any harm." "harm, indeed!" grumbled ashton; "just as i thought i had everything done until dinner time. now i must begin and rub up all this glass again;" and he began at once to remove the glasses from the table. "little himp that she is, that miss bunny! a perfect himp, and if i had the governessing of her for sometime i'd--i'd--bah! there's that bell again! some folks is in a mighty hurry," and full of anger and indignation against the little girl whom he could not punish for her naughty trick, ashton hurried to the hall door, longing for something upon which he could vent his wrath. bunny was skipping merrily in the hall, and the pretty roses that she had gathered with so much pleasure lay scattered on the ground. this sight did not tend to put the butler in a better temper, but he made no remark, and passing by the little girl without a word he opened the hall door with a jerk. a poor boy with a thin pinched face stood upon the step. "if you please, sir, will you give me a bit of bread, for i am very hungry?" he said in an imploring voice, as he gazed up into the butler's face. "there's nothing for you. how dare you come here with your wretched lies?" cried ashton fiercely, and he shut the door with a bang. "that's not true, ashton," cried bunny darting forward and opening the door again. "wait, little boy, and i will get you something!" and before the astonished butler knew where he was, she had rushed into the dining-room, and came back carrying a large loaf and a pat of butter that she had found upon the side-board. "you must not give that away, miss bunny," cried the man; "that is in my charge, and i cannot allow you to give it to a beggar;" and he tried to drag the bread from her hands. "you nasty man! i will give it to him if i like," she screamed. "my papa always lets me do what i like, and you are only a servant--and i will give it;" and she struggled to get away from him. "i only put the water in your glasses for fun--but i'm very glad i did it--and i wish i had put dirty water in--and i wish--let me go--i'll tell papa, and he'll be very angry and--" "bunny," said a soft reproachful voice, "my dear child, what is the matter?" and miss kerr laid her hand gently upon the little girl's shoulder. "that nasty ashton won't let me give this loaf to a poor boy who is there begging," cried bunny; "he's very hungry and i want--" "ashton is quite right, bunny," said miss kerr gently; "give him back the loaf, dear. it is not yours, so you have no right to give it away. have you no money of your own to give the boy?" "no, i have not," cried bunny bursting into tears, "and i am sure papa would not mind my giving the loaf away--he never does. ashton's a nasty, cross old thing;" and she flung the loaf on the floor. "ashton is only doing his duty, bunny, and you must not speak in that way." "well, i wish he wouldn't do his duty then," sobbed the little girl; "it's a great shame of him to do his duty, when i tell him not." "come, now, dear, dry your eyes and give this to the poor boy," said miss kerr kindly; "see, i will lend you threepence to give to him, and when your papa gives you some pocket-money you can repay me. the boy will like the money better than the bread, i daresay, and you will feel that you are giving something that is really your own." "oh, thank you, thank you!" cried bunny with delight, her tears drying up in an instant. "you are good! you are kind!" and throwing her arms round miss kerr's neck she kissed her over and over again; then seizing the pennies she flew to the door, and handing them to the boy said in a subdued voice: "here, boy, a good lady gave me these pennies for you. i am a greedy little girl and spend all my own money on sweets, but i'll save up and pay miss kerr back very soon." "that is enough, bunny," said the governess, taking the child by the hand. "i have something to tell you, dear, so come with me now." "very well, i will come," answered bunny quite meekly, and shutting the door, she followed miss kerr down the hall. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter ii. pleasant news for bunny. "and now, bunny," said miss kerr, as she led the little girl into the library and took her on her knee, "i am afraid you have been a very naughty child. i do not like to scold you, you know, but when children are told to stay in one place they should do so, and not run about all over the house in the way you seem to have been doing." "but you were so long away," replied bunny, "and i was tired sitting there all by myself. sophie kept screaming at me not to touch the flowers, so i had nothing to do." "and what about the lesson? did you learn that?" "no, i didn't, it was so stupid," said bunny, "i got quite tired of it, and all the letters went wrong, so i thought i would go to the nursery and play with my toys, and then when i went into the dining-room there was nobody there, and i thought it would be great fun to tease old ashton, so i jumped on the chairs and poured water into all the glasses, and he was so angry; and oh it was fun to see his face when he cried out, 'miss bunny!'" and carried away with delight at the recollection of her naughty trick, the little girl clapped her hands and laughed long and merrily. "but, my dear child, do you not know that that was extremely naughty conduct?" said miss kerr gravely. "it is very wicked to make anyone angry, and it was very unkind of you to play such a trick upon ashton. how would you like if he were to spoil your toys or break your dolls for you?" "oh, i shouldn't like it at all," answered bunny; "i'd be awfully cross, and i'd get papa to send him away. that would be a good way to punish him, i know." "well, bunny, you think you could punish him but he has no way of punishing you, so you should always be very careful not to annoy or trouble him. besides, my child, we should never do anything to other people that we know we would not like them to do to us. god wishes us to be good and kind to everyone about us, remember, and to be unkind is to disobey him." "oh, then, i'm very sorry that i was so naughty," cried bunny, "for sophie told me this morning that god has been good and kind to me always, for she says he gave me all the nice things i have, and my papa and mama, so i should not like to vex him when he has been so kind to me." "if my little bunny will just remember that, whenever she feels inclined to be naughty she will soon find it easy to be good, and she will be a much happier child, for then she will know that she is pleasing god who has been good to her." "oh, i will try, dear miss kerr, indeed i will," said the little girl; "i'll be good and kind to god, and you, and papa, and mama, because you are all so good to me;" and she laid her soft cheek against miss kerr's face. "that is right, darling," said the governess with a smile; "and now that i have given you a little lecture, and you have promised to be good, i have a piece of news to tell you that will, i am sure, give you great pleasure;" and she smoothed the child's fair hair with her hand. "good news! oh, dear miss kerr, do tell me what it is," cried the little girl eagerly. "well, i have been having a long talk with your mama, bunny, and--" "oh, yes, i know that. i saw you talk, talk, talk, only i couldn't hear what you were saying, because the window was shut." "no, i suppose not, dear, but listen. your mama says you have an uncle in india who has a little son of seven years old--" "oh, i know that, miss kerr! why, that's no news! of course i know about uncle jim and cousin mervyn. i never saw them though, but still i know they are in india, an awfully hot place it is, sophie says." "yes, so it is. but would you like to see this cousin mervyn, do you think?" "oh, i'd just love to see him--but is he black? sophie says the people in those countries are black. oh, i shouldn't like a black cousin, miss kerr, indeed i should not," cried bunny in a piteous voice. "you little goose, he's not black at all," cried miss kerr, laughing at the little girl's look of consternation; "i have never seen him, but his papa is supposed to be like your mama, so i daresay he will have fair hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks something very like your own." "oh, i'm glad he is like that, for indeed i could not bear a black cousin. once i had a black doll given to me for a present, and i screamed and screamed till nurse put it away out of the nursery." "it is certainly very lucky that your cousin is not black, for it would never do to scream at him, would it?" said miss kerr, "for he has arrived in london and is coming here with your papa to-morrow evening." "oh, i am glad! oh, i am glad!" sang bunny, dancing round the room on the points of her toes. "what fun it will be to have a little cousin to play with! will he stay long, miss kerr?" "yes, a long time, bunny," answered the governess. "it is too hot in india for him to stay there any longer--indeed they think he has stayed there too long already, and your mama has promised to take care of him until he is old enough to go to school." "oh, that will be a nice long visit," said the little girl; "he'll be staying with us just as if it was home, and he was my own brother." "yes, dear, just so. he will be like your brother, i am sure; and he is to have his lessons with you. i am to teach you both." "yes, and i'll lend him my pony and i'll let him play with my kittens. and oh, miss kerr, i'll give him tea out of my own little tea-set; and we'll have such fun." "yes, dear, it will be very nice, and i hope that little bunny will be a good child and not make her cousin naughty and teach him mischievous tricks." "oh, i'll be good, indeed, dear miss kerr. i won't want to be naughty so much when i have someone to play with, for it's always when i feel lonely that i want to play tricks on people." "is that so really, you poor mite? well, you will not be lonely any more, bunny, and i hope you will try hard and learn to read soon. when children can read they do not want a companion so much, because they can read pretty stories about other children and so amuse themselves for hours together." "oh, i don't want to read stories one bit," said bunny with a pout. "sophie and mama read lots of stories to me, so it doesn't matter whether i can read them for myself or not." "and what will you do when you grow up, bunny? don't you think you would feel very much ashamed if you could not read when you had grown to be a tall lady?" "oh, no one would ever know, for i am sure people never ask grown-up ladies if they can read. do they, now? no one ever asks you or mama if you know how to read." "no, people never ask us if we can read, certainly, bunny," answered miss kerr laughing, "but they would soon find out if we did not, i can tell you. people who cannot read seldom learn those things that everyone should know, and so they are ignorant and stupid. surely you would not like mervyn to beat you at his lessons, would you?" "oh, but he's older than me," said bunny, "and, of course, he knows a great deal more than me, and----" "than _i_, bunny, say he is older than _i_ am," corrected miss kerr. "yes, he is older, but i do not think he knows more than you do. his papa says he has never been taught anything but his letters, and he can hardly speak english." "oh, dear! does he only speak french then?" said bunny with a look of alarm. "no, hindustanee. that is the indian language, you know, and as he always had a native nurse he does not know english very perfectly. but we will soon teach him, won't we, dear?" "oh, yes, it will be fun, and i'll try very hard to learn to read well before he does! it will be nice to have a cousin, won't it? i wonder what he's like. but i'm sure he'll be nice. i know he will. don't you think he'll be nice, miss kerr?" "yes, dear, i think it is very likely, but you will know all about him to-morrow." "oh, i wish to-morrow would come, quick, quick!" cried bunny; "the days and the hours go over so slowly, and i do want to see that little indian." "poor little boy! i daresay he will be very tired and shy when he arrives. it is a sad thing to leave father and friends and come among strangers, bunny," said miss kerr, and there were tears in her eyes as she gazed out over the garden. "dear miss kerr, why should you feel sorry for mervyn? i'm so glad that he is coming here," said bunny softly, and she put her little hand into miss kerr's. "why should you cry for him? we will be very kind to him, you and i, and papa and mama." "yes, darling, of course," answered miss kerr stroking the little hand. "but i was not thinking of mervyn, but of someone i know, who had to leave her dear home, her father and mother, and brothers and sisters, to go be governess to a wild little girl, who did not care to learn her lessons and did not love her at all." "why, that's like me and you! but i do love you; oh, i do love you!" cried the child, and she flung her arms round miss kerr's neck. "you are so good and kind, and i am sorry you had to leave your little brothers and sisters, and i won't be wild, and i'll love you very much." "if you do, bunny, you will make me very happy, and i think you will soon be a very good little girl," and miss kerr kissed the eager face over and over again. "but run away now and get ready for tea. i have some letters to write for the post, and i shall just have time if you run off at once." "very well," said bunny jumping off miss kerr's knee. "i must go to tell sophie the news." and away she ran, calling, "sophie, sophie," as she went up the stairs. "she has a good little heart, and will become a fine character in time, if she is properly managed," said miss kerr to herself as the child left the room. "but she has been terribly spoilt and neglected. if the boy from india is as great a pickle as miss bunny, i shall have my hands very full indeed," and with something between a sigh and a laugh, miss kerr seated herself at the table and began to write her letters. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter iii. bunny gets up early. for a long time after she went to bed that night, bunny could not go to sleep, and lay tossing about from side to side, wishing over and over again that it was morning, that she might get up and put all her toys and books in order, so that they should look as nice as possible when she came to show them to the new cousin. at last she dropped off into a sound sleep, and did not wake again until the sun was shining brightly into her room. she jumped up and looked about to see if sophie had gone to get her bath ready. but the maid lay fast asleep in her bed at the other side of the room, and poor bunny felt sure she would not get up for a very long time yet. she felt ready to cry at the thoughts of lying there for so long doing nothing, whilst the sun was shining so brightly over the sea and dancing so merrily up and down the nursery walls. suddenly, however, a happy idea presented itself to her mind, and she sprang out of her crib with a soft well-pleased little laugh. "it will be such fun," she whispered to herself, "and sophie will get such a start when she sees the crib empty! but i must go about very gently or she might wake up and send me back to bed." so the little girl slipped very quietly about the room, and struggled bravely with buttons and tapes, as she did her best to dress herself without the assistance of her maid. "they're all upside down and tied in big knots," she said ruefully, "but sophie will just have to do them all over again when she gets up. oh, dear, where are my boots, i wonder? i can't see them anywhere about. well, i must go out in these, i suppose;" and sitting down on the floor she put on a pair of dainty queen anne shoes, with satin bows and steel stars, that she had worn the evening before when she went down to the drawing-room to see her mama. at this moment sophie turned round with a loud snore, and bunny gave a start of alarm, as she looked quickly towards the bed. if sophie awoke and saw what she was doing, all her fun would surely be spoiled, and she would be sent back to her crib in disgrace. very cautiously then she got up off the floor, seized her hat that lay on the chest of drawers, and opening the door as softly as possible, flew along the corridor and away down the stairs. not a servant was to be seen about, for it was not yet seven o'clock, and so bunny passed on without any interruption into the dining-room, and stood on tip-toe at the side-board looking anxiously to see if there was anything there for her to eat. but there was not even a crust to be seen. "nasty old ashton!" she cried, "he might have left a few pieces of bread for me; but he wouldn't, i'm sure, even if he had known i was coming. i must get something for my dear pony, now that i am up, so i'll go off to the larder and see what i can find there." so away went bunny in high glee at her clever thought; but when she arrived at the larder door she found it locked, and she was about to turn away sad and disappointed when a sudden jingling of keys was heard in the passage, the kitchen door opened, and mrs. brown, the cook, appeared upon the scene. "miss bunny, dear, what brings you here at such an hour? and law but you are dressed queer! but, indeed, them frenchies are little good with their new-fangled ways. it's nurse that used to dress you smart, deary, and as for sophie, she beats all;" and the good woman held up her hands in dismay at the child's untidy appearance. "oh, sophie didn't dress me at all!" cried bunny. "she doesn't even know i'm up, for she's fast asleep. but i was so tired lying there listening to sophie snoring that i thought i would get up and go out. i want to take my pony a piece of bread, so please give me some for him and some for myself, mrs. brown, for i'm very hungry." "bless your heart, of course i will," cried the good-natured woman, as she unlocked the door, and cutting two large slices of bread and butter, handed them to the little girl. "oh, thank you," said bunny; "frisk will like this, i am sure. good morning, mrs. brown, and mind you don't tell sophie where i am, if she comes to look for me." "don't be afraid, deary, i won't give her any news of you. i don't admire her and her stuck-up french airs, so she won't get much out of me." but bunny did not wait to hear the end of the good woman's speech against poor sophie; she had got all she wanted, so away she ran to pay her morning visit to her little pony. when frisk heard the stable door opening and a footstep approaching his stall, he whisked his tail and twisted his head as well as he could, to see who was coming to visit him at such an early hour. and when he found it was his little mistress, and heard her voice at his ear he neighed with delight, and rubbed his velvety nose up and down her frock. "dear old frisk," she cried, patting his neck, "there's a little cousin coming all the way from india to stay with us. sophie is not glad, but i am, and miss kerr is, and you must be glad too, old man. and he's not black at all, frisk, oh, no, and it is very, very silly of you to think so, sir. you must be good to him, dear little pony, and give him nice rides, and then he'll love you, just as i do, and we'll all be friends together. so now eat this, little frisk," she continued, and breaking off a piece of the bread, she held it up to the pony's nose. but suddenly bunny gave a little shriek, and drew her hand quickly away; for without intending it, frisk had actually bitten his kind little mistress. the bread she offered him was so small, and his mouth was so big, that the child's fingers got rather far in among his teeth, and when frisk's white grinders came down upon the dainty offered him, they met rather sharply upon poor bunny's thumb. the skin was slightly cut, and as a little stream of blood ran down her finger the child grew frightened and began to cry. "oh, frisk, frisk, why did you bite? i never thought you would do such a thing," she cried reproachfully. "i never, never knew you do such a thing before;" and sinking down on the straw by his side, she tried to stop the blood by rolling her finger tightly up in the corner of her pinafore. "just when i wanted to tell the new cousin that you were a good, kind pony, you go and bite me--oh dear, oh dear, i am very sorry, frisk, i am indeed." but in spite of the little girl's sorrowful lecture, frisk did not in the least know that he had done anything wrong, and poking his soft nose into bunny's lap, he carried off the remaining piece of bread and ate it with much relish. "you artful old thing," cried bunny, delighted with his cleverness, and smiling through her tears, "if you hadn't bit me i'd have said you were the best and dearest little pony alive;" and forgetting her anger at him for hurting her, she jumped up and patted and kissed his soft silky nose. "where is mademoiselle bunny? ah! that child will be the death of me. jean, have you seen meess bunny anywhere about?" cried sophie, just outside the stable door; and the little girl knew that her hour was come and that she was going to get a good scolding. "oh, miss bunny is in there, talking to frisk, mamzelle sophie," answered the groom. "little naughty one! ah, these english children are so dreadful!" cried sophie, and in a moment bunny was dragged out from her seat on the straw and carried away to the nursery. "oh!" she screamed as soon as they were inside the door, "what is that i see on your dress, mademoiselle? blood, i declare! oh, what will your mama say? she will send away that beast of a pony i am sure, and then you will not make such early walks to the stable." "oh, sophie, sophie, don't tell! don't tell!" cried bunny, "frisk did not mean to hurt me i am sure, and it's nearly well now. look, it has stopped bleeding already, so don't tell mama, pray don't," and the little girl raised her eyes full of tears to the maid's face. "well, i won't tell if you will promise me never to slip out of your bed and away out of the house again as you have done just now." "oh, i never will, i never will, sophie!" cried bunny, "but do say you won't tell. i couldn't bear to see frisk sent away." "well, well, don't cry any more," said sophie good-naturedly. "be a good enfant, and i will say not anything about it." "oh! you dear, darling sophie, i'll be so good, so good!" cried the little girl, "i'll be so good that you'll never have to scold me any more." "ma foi, what a change that will be!" cried sophie, "if you get so good as all that i will send for the doctor." "for the doctor!" exclaimed bunny in surprise. "why would you send for him?" "good gracious, mademoiselle, because i will surely think you are ill if you get to be an angel like that; but i am very certain i shall have to scold you many times before this evening comes." "very likely, sophie, but still i'm good now," said bunny with a merry little laugh, and as the maid gave the last touch to her hair, the last pull to her sash, she ran out of the nursery and away to her mama with whom she always had her breakfast. bunny was in a wild state of excitement all that day, and sophie and miss kerr found it very hard to keep her in order and prevent her disturbing her mama, who was not well, and could not bear much noise. "oh, dear, how long the day is! how long the day is!" she cried over and over again. "i don't think evening will ever come, miss kerr, i don't, indeed." "it will come fast enough, bunny dear, if you will only have patience. try and forget that you are expecting anything to happen." "i wish i could! i wish i could! but i do so wish to see what mervyn is like." "you impatient little goose, do try and think of something else and time will go over much faster. but i tell you what, bun," said miss kerr, when they had finished their early dinner, "we will go and take a good run on the sands and that will pass the afternoon very nicely for us." "but they might come when we are away, and that would be dreadful." "no, they won't, because they can't," said miss kerr with a smile. "the train does not come in until seven, and it is only three now, so you see we have plenty of time for a nice walk." [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter iv. bunny gets a fright. "do be quick, sophie," cried bunny as she rushed into the nursery after her walk upon the sands, "miss kerr says it is half-past five, and papa and mervyn will be here at seven, so do be quick and dress me as fast as ever you can, for i want to be down in the hall, ready to jump out at them the minute they come to the door." "indeed," said sophie without moving from her chair at the window. "what haste we are in, certainly. but you may just keep still, miss bunny, for i am not going to touch you for one half hour. what is the use for me to dress you now, when long before seven you would be so black as a sweep again, i know." "oh, what a bother!" cried bunny, stamping her foot and flinging her pretty white hat upon the floor. "you are a nasty thing, and i wish you had not come to be my maid at all, for you never do anything i ask you to do. i wish dear old nurse was back with me again, she used to be so nice, and always did whatever i wanted." "old nurse was an old silly," answered sophie, stitching away at her work. "she neg-lect you and make you so naughty, and it is for me to keep you in order and make you good." "well, i won't be kept in order, and i won't be made good--not one bit," cried bunny bursting into tears. "it's very unkind of you not to dress me in time to see my papa, and he'll be very angry with you." [illustration: bunny welcomes her father.] "come, miss bunny, don't be a silly baby," said sophie, "i'll dress you soon enough, do not fear that. you had so much best go and make tidy that doll's house, for the little cousin will be ashamed to see it in so much of disorder." "i don't want to tidy my doll's house, and i don't care whether mervyn likes it or not, not a bit!" said bunny, and taking off one little glove she threw it into the very furthest corner of the room, and then rolling the other into a ball she threw it at sophie's head as she sat bending over her work. but the maid did not take the slightest notice of the young lady, and without another word went quietly on with her sewing. when bunny saw that sophie was really determined not to dress her for some time, she sat down on the floor in silence, and leaning her head up against the side of her crib, kicked about for some minutes in a very ill-tempered way indeed. after a while she grew tired of this conduct, which to her great surprise did not seem to make sophie the least bit angry, and not knowing what to do with herself she sat staring about the room with a very sulky expression on her little face. but by degrees the tears dried up, the cross look disappeared, and jumping suddenly to her feet, she trotted off to the other end of the room. pulling open the wide door of the doll's house, she set to work very industriously to put it in order. she brushed the carpets, dusted the chairs, shook out the dolls' dresses and set them out in the drawing-room as if they were waiting to receive their visitors. "now it's tidy, sophie," she cried with a bright little smile. "mervyn will think it a very nice doll's house. won't he?" "yes, my dear enfant, i am sure he will," said sophie kindly, "and now as you have been good and quiet for so long, i will begin to dress you if you like." "oh, that is a dear good sophie. i am so afraid that i shall not be ready when papa comes." "you will be ready, never fear," said sophie, and taking off the child's frock, she began to wash her face and hands. "you hurt, sophie, you hurt," cried bunny pettishly, as the maid combed out her long fair hair. "bah, no i don't hurt you, mademoiselle, except when you pull your head aside. but in truth it is hard to comb your hair properly when you move and fidget about. you are very difficult to manage to-day." "i tell you, you do hurt me--you pull as hard as anything," cried bunny growing very red. "very well, miss, if you are in such humour," cried sophie, "you may just stand there till you get back to your temper again. i'm going into the next room to get your frock, and i hope that when i come back you will be quiet and let me dress your hair like a little lady," and the maid flounced out of the nursery, leaving bunny standing before the glass in her short white petticoat, with one shoe off and the other on, her hair hanging in disorder about her shoulders, and her face puckered up in dismay at sophie's sudden and unexpected departure. "oh, why was i so cross about my hair?" she cried. "papa and mervyn will be here directly, and just look at the state i am in. what shall i do? what shall i do? sophie, i'll be good. do come back, and get me ready to go down." but sophie did not answer, nor did she return, and poor bunny sat down on the edge of her crib, and in spite of all the efforts she made to keep them back, the big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. suddenly the sound of wheels was heard upon the gravel below, and brushing away her tears, the little girl started to her feet and ran over to the window. a cab covered with luggage was coming in at the big gate, and in a minute she saw her papa nodding gaily up to his little bunny, with a bright well-pleased smile upon his dear face. without a moment's thought as to the state she was in, or of what her papa or the little boy from india might think of her in such a condition, bunny dropped the blind, and with a joyful cry of "papa, papa, my own dear papa," she rushed out of the nursery and away down the stairs. "my little darling! my sweet little bun," exclaimed mr. dashwood, as the small wild-looking figure came running along the hall and jumped into his arms. "why, dear, why did you come out of the nursery before you were dressed?" he said, as he smoothed back the ruffled hair and kissed the hot cheeks of the excited child. "you are in a strange state to receive visitors, bunny dear, and i am afraid cousin mervyn will be shocked at my wild girl, for he is a very tidy little man, i can tell you. mervyn, this is your cousin ethel, commonly called bunny, i hope you will be very good friends," and he put out his hand to a pale gentle-looking boy of about seven years old, who was clinging shyly to the skirts of an indian ayah, as though afraid to let her go from beside him for an instant. when bunny raised her head from her papa's shoulder to look at her new cousin, her eyes suddenly lighted upon the grinning black face of the strange foreign-looking woman, and with one wild yell of terror she turned away, and buried her little face in her father's coat. "oh, send that dreadful thing away!" she cried, "i'm not half so naughty as i used to be! and i have promised miss kerr to be so good! oh, papa, papa, don't give your little bunny to that dreadful black woman." "my darling, that is mervyn's nurse, and he loves her very dearly. see how he clings to her and begs her to stay with him! just look how kind she is to him!" "oh, no, no, papa, she's a bogie, i am sure," cried the child, clinging to him more nervously than ever. "sophie always tells me a bogie will come for me if i am naughty, and i was naughty just now because sophie pulled my hair, and i was cross, and cried and stamped my foot and--" "my poor foolish little girl, she is not a bogie, but a good kind woman--her face is black, but she can't help that. it was very wrong of sophie to frighten you about bogies, very wrong--there is no such thing in the world." "ah, monsieur, monsieur, i'm so sorry meess bunny has been so naughty to run down to you in such a state," cried sophie running into the hall with a very angry look on her face. "i just left her for a minute to get her frock, and when i came back she was gone." "oh, sophie, sophie, don't scold me, please," cried bunny, "i'll go back to the nursery, and let you dress me now. oh, take me away quick, for if i see that dreadful face, i shall scream again, i know i shall;" and with one little hand over her eyes that she might not see the terrible creature again, bunny flung herself into sophie's arms and was carried off upstairs to have her toilet completed for dinner. "poor little monkey!" said mr. dashwood laughing, "i never thought she would be so easily frightened. ashton, take the nurse down to the housekeeper's room, and tell the servants to look after her, and give her her dinner. come, mervyn, my little man, i want to take you to see your aunt." "yes, uncle," answered the little boy in a shy nervous voice, and looking up into the ayah's face to see what she wished him to do. "go at once," she said in hindustanee, and then mervyn went up to his uncle, and putting his little hand into his, allowed him to lead him down the passage to the drawing-room. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter v. the little indian. mrs dashwood lay on the sofa in the drawing-room, and miss kerr sat beside her reading aloud. the two children, bunny and mervyn, were seated side by side upon a large white woolly rug in the bow-window, and they whispered together in very low tones lest they should disturb the ladies by their noise. bunny was nursing a pretty black kitten, with a red ribbon round its neck, whilst mervyn sat with his little hands clasped over his knees, looking out at the blue sparkling sea, with a well-pleased expression on his thin pale face. "what a lovely cool place england is!" he whispered; "it feels so comfortable and nice here, and that sea is so beautiful to look at." "yes, to look at," answered bunny, nodding her head; "but, oh! mervyn, wouldn't you feel afraid to go into it, and have your face stuck right under the water, and held there till you had no breath, and--" "oh, that would be horrible!" cried mervyn with a frightened look; "my papa would be angry if i were put into the sea in that way. oh! i will write and tell him if--" "well, i know he wrote to say that bathing would be very good for you," said bunny, "and mama told miss kerr this very morning she was sure it would be. but i tell you, mervyn, it's only sophie that is so rough and nasty. one day i went to bathe with miss kerr, and it was lovely! she told me when she was going to dip me, and she let me play at the edge, and i took dolly in and i dipped her, and it was such fun." "well, then, i will ask miss kerr always to bathe me," replied mervyn; "i should die, i am sure, if i were pushed under the water and could not get my breath." "oh! i was often and often pushed down that way by sophie, and i didn't die at all; but i kicked and screamed most dreadfully," cried bunny; "but then, mama says i am very strong, and sophie said last night that you were a misserble creature, so thin and white." "sophie is very rude!" exclaimed mervyn with a slight flush; "i am not a miserable creature; i can't help being white; everyone is in india, because it's so hot." "that is funny!" cried the little girl, "for sophie said all indians were black, and i thought you would have a little black face like pussy here, only miss kerr told me you would be as white as me; but you're whiter, much whiter," and she laid her small plump pink hand on mervyn's thin white one. "i don't like your sophie," cried mervyn impatiently; "she talks in such a queer way, and she's not half so nice as my dear old indian nurse. i do wish she had been able to stay in england with me." "oh, i think she was a horrid fright!" cried bunny, "with her nasty black face and her dreadful flappy wild dress, and i'm sure nobody could understand a word she said." "i could," said mervyn with a sigh, "and i liked talking hindustanee much better than english." "but it sounds so silly!" cried bunny; "i think it's a great pity people shouldn't always speak english everywhere, for that would be so plain and easy." "well, i would much rather everyone would speak hindustanee, for that would be much nicer." "oh, dear! i don't think so," said bunny; "and i think you speak english very well." "do you?" said mervyn, smiling; "papa did not; and do you know, i can't always think of the right words for things." "oh! just ask me and i will tell you," replied bunny jauntily, "for i never have to think for my words at all." "bunny, dear," said mrs. dashwood from her sofa, "i think you have nursed that kitten quite long enough; the poor little thing looks very tired. put it into its basket like a good child." "very well, mama," answered bunny, and, jumping up, she ran over to a corner of the room where stood a pretty round basket, which was always used as a snug bed for miss puss. bunny dropped her pet gently in upon the soft cushion, and after much stroking and tucking up, she stole away on tip-toe to her mother's side. but pussy was in a playful mood, and as soon as the little girl's back was turned she sprang lightly out of her bed and went scampering gaily round the room. "naughty, naughty puss!" cried bunny laughing, and off she went in pursuit of the runaway. "bunny, dear bunny, i can't bear that noise," cried mrs. dashwood, as her little daughter tumbled over a footstool and knocked down a chair. "i can't bear it indeed, dear child, so i think you had better go out. sophie will take you for a walk, as i want miss kerr to read to me." "oh, mama! i like miss kerr much better than sophie," cried bunny, "and so does mervyn. do let miss kerr come." "but, bunny, dear," said miss kerr, "you would not like poor mama to have no one to read to her, would you? it is so dull for her all day on the sofa by herself. you would not ask me to leave her, would you?" "oh! no, no, dear, darling mama, i will not ask miss kerr to come, not for a minute!" cried bunny as, kneeling beside the sofa, she threw her arms round her mother's neck and kissed her vehemently. "i could not bear to think of you being lonely, mamey dear. but do let us stay here now, and go out in the afternoon with miss kerr. mervyn can't bear sophie." "i am sorry for that, my little man," said mrs. dashwood, drawing the boy towards her; "sophie is sharp and quick, but she is very good-natured, i think, so i hope you will try and like her." "oh! yes, aunt," answered mervyn, flushing, "i only meant that i would rather have my own dear nurse, and that i was very sorry she had been sent away to india again." "she was not sent away, dear," answered mrs. dashwood; "she went by her own wish. she was fond of you, mervyn, but she did not like to live in england, so she hurried back to india as soon as she could. it will be better for you to learn english well, and try to pick up a little french from sophie, than to be always talking with an indian, my child. but the first thing you have to do, mervyn, is to get fat and rosy like bunny here. and you must grow tall, dear boy, for you are very, very small for your age; you must grow as fast as you can or this little girl will soon be the tallest," and mrs. dashwood pinched her daughter's plump cheek. "oh! but mama, dear, he can't make himself grow," remarked bunny, as she stood up to measure herself with her cousin. "he has not got a key to wind up the works of himself, so he must just wait small till he begins to grow big." "you are sharp enough, miss pert," said her mother, laughing. "i wish you would learn to be more steady and to remember what is said to you." "oh! i can remember," cried bunny gaily; "i've got a splendid memory, haven't i, miss kerr?" "yes, i think you have, dear," said miss kerr gravely; "but i am afraid you do not always remember at the right time. eh! bunny?" "no, i don't," said the little girl, hanging her head; "i quite forgot when i got up and went to feed frisk. but i don't think god minded that much; it was not much harm." "god is always displeased at disobedience, bunny," said mrs. dashwood very seriously. "the first thing god expects of a little child is that she should be obedient, and so my bunny must try and remember things that she is not allowed to do, and then be very careful not to do them." "yes, mama, i will try," said bunny in a subdued voice. "that is right, dear, and i hope little mervyn will do the same." "yes, aunt, i will indeed; papa told me to be very good until he came home, and i mean to be," he said, drawing himself up in a determined manner. "well, then, i am sure you will do bunny good and help her to remember. but now run away like good children and tell sophie to take you out for a walk. it is a lovely morning, and a run on the sands will give you an appetite for your dinner." "very well, mama," cried bunny gaily, and away she darted out of the room singing and shouting at the top of her voice. "good morning, aunt," said mervyn gently, and he followed his little cousin in a slow dignified manner, turning quietly to shut the drawing-room door behind him. "what a harum-scarum that bunny is!" said mrs. dashwood with a sigh. "it is very hard to make an impression on her." "yes, it is certainly, at least for more than a few minutes at a time," answered miss kerr; "she is always so ready to be good, no matter what she has done, that it is not easy to scold her much. but she is a good-hearted child, and i am sure in a short time you will see a great change in her." "i hope so, indeed," said mrs. dashwood, "for she is a constant worry at present and extremely hard to manage." [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter vi. bunny forgets again. out of the gate and down the road went the two little cousins hand in hand, whilst close behind them walked sophie, holding up a big umbrella, and carrying a yellow-covered novel under her arm. on they went; the little ones laughing and talking pleasantly together, until they came to the entrance of the spa, a gay promenade which the fashionables of the place were in the habit of frequenting in the morning to inhale the sea breezes, listen to sweet music and meet their friends. sophie liked the spa, for there she saw much to delight and amuse her, whilst on the sands she always felt dull and weary. but bunny's ideas and those of her maid were not at all the same, for the little girl loved the sands, and could spend hours there digging and building castles of all shapes and sizes. every day there was an angry dispute between the nurse and child as to where they should spend their time between breakfast and dinner; sometimes one came off victorious and sometimes the other. this morning, as usual, bunny was quite determined to go on the sands, and sophie was equally resolved to go down to the spa. "mama said we were to go on the sands, sophie, and i hate that old spa," cried bunny, making a rush towards the steps that led down to the sands; "i've got my spade, and so has mervyn, and it's very unkind of you not to come there when it looks so nice and we both want to go." "you'll just please to come where i tell you, mademoiselle," said sophie, making a dive at the little girl, and dragging her through the turnstile and on to the bridge that led into the cliff grounds. "don't you think you go to play any of your bad tricks on me. it is enough difficult minding two of you in here without running all over the sands for you." "never mind, bunny," said mervyn gently, as they walked along together, "miss kerr will come on the sands with us after dinner, perhaps, and then we will have fine fun." "yes, indeed," answered the little girl with a toss of her head, and speaking in a loud voice so that the maid might hear her; "miss kerr always does what i ask her to do, but sophie is a regular cross-patch." "sit down here, mademoiselle, and try to behave like a lady," cried sophie, as she seated herself upon a bench at the top of the cliff, overlooking the promenade and sea. "oh, i don't want to sit down, i want to walk," cried bunny tearfully; "why, we have just come out." "of course you want to do exactly what i tell you not to do," said sophie angrily; "sit down, both of you, when i tell you," and she lifted first one and then the other, and placed them very roughly upon the bench. in a few minutes a friend of sophie's approached them, and after some pressing she took a seat beside the maid, and the two children were pushed away by themselves to the other end of the bench. "how long an age it is since i've seen you, kitty!" cried sophie, smiling pleasantly upon the new-comer. "yes, it is a long time," answered her friend, "and i've lots of news for you. i've heard of a place--but it might be dangerous to say much just now," and she glanced at the children. "oh, they will not pay attention," cried sophie, "but it's easy to get rid of them if you like. meess bunny, you can run and play up and down for a little with your cousin. but do not go very far." "that is nice!" exclaimed bunny gaily; "thank you, sophie, very much," and jumping off the seat, she took mervyn by the hand and dragged him away for a race down the hill. "what is that, bunny? what is that?" cried mervyn suddenly, and he pointed his finger towards the far end of the spa. "it's like a train, at least one carriage of a train, and it's running so fast up the side of the cliff, and, oh dear! i declare there is another one just the same coming down past it." "that is the lift, mervyn; doesn't it look very funny hanging all down like that? do you know, i went in it once with papa and it was lovely. it went along so smooth and so fast." "i would like so much to go in it," said mervyn, "i wonder if uncle will take me some day." "yes, i am sure he will, and me too," cried bunny, skipping gaily along. "but i tell you what, mervyn, wouldn't it be fun to go off now, all by ourselves." "now!" exclaimed mervyn in surprise, "and what would sophie say?" "oh, she will never know," said bunny. "we'll go up in the lift and run down those paths among the trees ever so fast, and get back to her before she knows we have gone away at all. she always has so much to say to that friend of hers." "yes, but don't you have to pay to go up in the lift?" asked mervyn, "and i have no money. have you?" "of course we must pay, but it's only a penny each, i know," answered bunny, "and i have got twopence in my pocket that papa gave me this morning. i was going to give it to miss kerr, but i won't now." "to miss kerr! why should you give her your money?" "oh, that's a secret of mine. but i don't mind telling you, mervyn, only you must not tell anyone, will you now? promise you won't, like a good boy." "i promise," answered mervyn earnestly; "i would not tell anyone for the world." "well, one day miss kerr lent me three pennies to give to a poor boy, and i said i would pay her back very soon." "then i would not spend the pennies," said mervyn decidedly; "keep them, bunny, and give them to miss kerr when we go home." "oh, no; i would much rather go in the lift," cried bunny. "miss kerr won't mind, for she said i need not be in a hurry to pay it." "still i think it would be better," began mervyn solemnly, "to pay miss--" "oh, bother! never mind thinking, but come along, or we will not have time to go up in the lift before sophie wants to go home for her dinner." "i should like to go up in it very much," said mervyn weakly, and casting longing looks at the distant lift, "but, indeed, bunny--" "oh, you are silly!" cried the little girl. "come on quick or we sha'n't have time," and grasping his hand, she hurried him down the steps, with just one backward glance to make sure that sophie was still safe upon her bench. the maid's face was turned away towards her friend, who seemed to be telling a very interesting story; they were both completely occupied and quite unaware of what was going on about them. "we shall have plenty of time!" said bunny growing bold at the sight of the back of sophie's head. "so come along, mervyn, and see what the lift is like." there was a great crowd of ladies and gentlemen walking up and down the promenade, and it took the children a long time to make their way as far as the band-stand, and even then they were at some distance from the wonderful lift that had attracted the little stranger so much. as they hurried along, pushing their way right and left through the people, the band began to play the "blue danube waltzes," and mervyn stopped short in delight. "oh, what a lovely waltz!" he cried. "bunny dear, do let us stay here and listen to it. i'd much rather hear the music than go up in the lift, i would, indeed." "oh! no, no," cried bunny, "i'm tired of that old band, it's a stupid old thing! we can come and listen to it to-morrow if you like; but do come on now, you can't think how nice it is flying up the cliff in the lift; besides, i am quite sure that we sha'n't get a chance to go another day." "oh, very well, if you want to go so much; but really, bunny, i would far rather stay and hear the music," said mervyn, "i would indeed." "bother the music! do come, like a good boy," cried the little girl impatiently, and catching him by the hand she dragged him away through the gate that led to the lift. there was a great crowd of people of all kinds waiting to go up in the lift, for it was getting near luncheon hour at the hotels, and many were anxious to be in good time for that pleasant meal. our little friends, bunny and mervyn, were so small that they were a good deal knocked about by the crowd, and the lift went off several times before they managed to push themselves anywhere near the front. at last the conductor noticed the two mites, and stepping forward in a kindly way, he took them by the hand, helped them into the carriage, and seating them side by side, remarked with a smile: "you're a funny pair to be sure! where is your nurse?" "she's on the spa, at least on a bench just at the top of the steps," said bunny gaily as she arranged her short skirts about her on the seat. "my cousin is a stranger here, so i have brought him to see what the lift is like." "indeed!" said the man with a laugh. "what a kind little lady you are to be sure;" and then, as the carriage was full, he banged the door and away they went. "isn't it nice, mervyn? aren't you glad i brought you?" asked bunny in a patronizing tone. "it is much nicer in here than sitting up on that bench. isn't it?" "yes, i suppose it is," answered mervyn doubtfully, "but oh, bunny, i don't much like it! i have a sort of feeling as if i were in a ship, and it makes me giddy to look out--indeed it does." "don't look out then," said bunny decisively. "but really, mervyn, i think it's lovely--it's so--oh, dear what is that?" she cried in alarm, as with a harsh grating noise the lift they were in, came to a sudden stand-still, and the descending one shot quickly past them. "something gone wrong, i expect," grumbled an old gentleman beside her; "ah, they have to let us go down again! what an awful nuisance!" "oh, please, sir, is there going to be an accident?" cried bunny in a voice of terror, and growing very pale. "my cousin is just come from india, and i am sure he will be frightened," and she put her little arm round mervyn as if to protect him from danger. "no, no, there is not going to be any accident, my little girl," answered the old gentleman with a kind smile. "don't be afraid, we'll go up again in a minute; but i must say the small cousin from india doesn't look half so much frightened as you do," and he patted her on the back. "there, now, off we go, you see, and we'll be at the top in a minute." "oh, i am so glad we are out of that horrid thing! and, bunny, i am sure we should never have gone into it," cried mervyn, as they at last stepped out of the lift and ran quickly along the cliff towards the entrance to the spa grounds. "just think, there might have been an accident and we might have been killed! oh, it would have been so dreadful if such a thing had happened." "yes, it would," answered bunny, "and sophie will be angry, for we have been away such a long time. and oh, mervyn, now i remember, mama told me that i should never leave my nurse when i was out with her, and i quite forgot, and there, i have been disobedient again! i am so sorry." "oh, bunny, bunny! why don't you try and remember?" cried mervyn reproachfully, "and we promised aunt to be so good just before we came out," and tears of sorrow stood in the little boy's eyes. "never mind, mervyn, dear," said bunny kissing him, "it was my fault. don't cry--you were not naughty at all. it was all because i forgot again. oh, dear, i am afraid miss kerr will be angry with me. but come along quick, there is sophie. see, she is looking about everywhere for us." the two children trotted along at a brisk pace down the steep winding path that led through the pretty ornamental grounds with which the cliff, overhanging the spa, was tastefully laid out. the trees were high and shady, so the little creatures were not visible from below as they ran quickly on their way. but soon they came to a part where there was not even a bush to hide them from view, and as sophie walked up and down in despair, her eyes wandering about wildly in every direction, she suddenly caught sight of bunny's white hat and blue sash, and with a shriek of rage, she bounded up the path, and taking hold of them by the shoulders shook them angrily as she cried in a hoarse voice: "ah, you wicked bad ones, i thought you were lost! i thought the kidnappers had taken you away for ever." "oh, we are too big for that!" cried bunny, "and you need not be in such a rage, sophie, we only went up in the lift, as mervyn wanted to see what it was like;" and she walked past the maid with a scornful toss of her little head. "i am very sorry, sophie, indeed i am," said mervyn gently; "i did not know we had so far to go. i am sorry you thought we were lost." "ah! much i care whether you are sorry or not," cried the angry maid. "it will be like mademoiselle bunny's sorrow--it will last one minute--and then off to some more naughty things," and with a push and a slap sophie drove the two children on before her, over the bridge and away home to holly lodge. "and now," she cried as they reached the hall door, "i will march you both up to miss kerr, and see what she will do with you. some punishment should be given to you, and i don't know what to do." "oh, very well!" said bunny, "we'll go and tell miss kerr ourselves. you need not come with us, we don't want you at all. come along, mervyn;" and taking the little boy by the hand, she dragged him up the stairs after her. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter vii. in miss kerr's room. when the two children reached miss kerr's bed-room, they found the door shut, and feeling quite certain that she was there, they knocked gently, and then stood very still upon the mat, expecting every moment to hear her voice calling to them to go in. "dear miss kerr," said bunny at last, as, growing impatient at the delay, she put her little mouth to the key-hole and tried very hard to make herself heard within the room, "mervyn and i want to tell you something, so please, please, open the door and let us in." but to her surprise she received no answer, and becoming more and more cross and impatient, she rattled the handle as noisily as possible in order to attract miss kerr's attention. "i can't make out why she doesn't speak to us," said mervyn in a whisper. "i think she must be asleep." "asleep!" exclaimed bunny indignantly. "she isn't a baby, and she isn't ill, so why should she be asleep at this time of the day?" "well, in india people sleep in the day when they're not a bit ill, just because it's hot--so why shouldn't they here?" "what a lot of sillies they must be in india then!" cried bunny contemptuously. "why, i have not been asleep in the day for years--not since i was quite small," and she rattled away more noisily than ever at the door-handle. "miss kerr is not there, children," said a housemaid who passed along the passage at that moment, "she has been in the drawing-room all the morning." "has she?" said bunny, "oh, then, i tell you what, mervyn, we'll just go in and wait for her. she will be sure to come up in a few minutes to wash her hands before dinner, and then we'll tell her." "oh, but there is sophie calling to us to get ready ourselves. she will be awfully angry if we don't go," said mervyn. "listen how she is screaming." "never mind her, the nasty, cross old thing!" cried bunny, opening the bed-room door. "come in, mervyn, come in! there is sophie--do be quick, or she will catch us and drag us off with her--and then she'll tell miss kerr before we do. come in, come in," and once more she hurried her cousin along with her, against his own will and inclination. "but, bunny, i do think we ought to go to sophie, i do indeed," said mervyn; "listen, she is asking the housemaid if she has seen us anywhere. and oh, she is coming here to look for us--she will be awfully cross! do let us go into the nursery quietly and take off our things and get ready for dinner." "well, you are a silly, mervyn! that would spoil all the fun. but i know what i'll do--i'll lock the door, and then sophie will not be able to get us. i can easily open it for miss kerr when she comes up," cried bunny; and before mervyn could say a word to prevent her, the little girl turned the key in the lock, and, clapping her hands with delight, danced up and down the room singing at the top of her voice: "what a good plan! what a good plan! and the dinner is in the frying pan!" "indeed, then i wish it was here," grumbled mervyn, "i'm awfully hungry, and it would be much better to go down to dinner now, and tell miss kerr afterwards, or at dinner-time, bunny, indeed it would." "yes, and let sophie hear her scolding us," cried the little girl. "i am hungry too, i can tell you, mervyn; but miss kerr won't be long, i am sure. hasn't she got a pretty room? and doesn't the sea and the bridge look nice from the window?" "well enough," answered mervyn crossly, as he rolled about in an arm-chair that stood away in the furthest corner. "but oh, it is silly to be sticking up here when the dinner is ready down-stairs--oh, i smell it, and it does smell nice! and i am so hungry, and it's very stupid of you to keep me shut up here." "well, i thought you were sorry and wanted to tell miss kerr so," said bunny complacently, as she shook out her frock and admired herself in the long glass. "it's very greedy to talk so much about your dinner." "is it?" grumbled mervyn. "well, i don't care! i'm sure you're just as bad twisting about and looking at yourself in the glass, for that's being vain, and i'd rather be greedy than vain, so i would, bunny." "would you? oh, that's because you're a boy. boys are greedy, but it's vulgar to be greedy--sophie says it is, but it's different to be vain, i--" "mademoiselle bunny, come out this minute. ah, what a little naughty one you are! and that cousin of yours he is a wicked bad boy--he leads you into the mischiefs of all kinds. come out, i say, the dinner is ready and miss kerr is waiting for you;" and sophie rattled the handle and hammered at the door till the whole passage was filled with the noise and the other servants came running from all parts of the house to see what could be the matter. "what is wrong, sophie?" asked miss kerr, as she too hurried upstairs wondering what was going on in the corridor. "why are you making such a dreadful noise?" "ah! ma foi! noise, miss kerr! what can i do but make a noise, when those two children have locked themselves into your room, and will not come out for their dinner. is it then a wonder that i make a noise?" and she began once more to bang the door as if she would like to break it in. "that was miss kerr's voice, bunny," whispered mervyn; "do open the door and let us go out to her now." "is it really? i only heard sophie. miss kerr," she called, "are you there?" "yes, bunny, i am here. come out, child, come to your dinner. you must be starving, both of you." "yes, we are," answered bunny, "and we will go out if you will send sophie away. mervyn and i want to tell you something." "ah! what a naughty child!" cried sophie. "meess kerr, they have both been so very difficult, so wicked! they have run away, they have gone in the lift, they have just escaped being seized by kidnappers and--" "that's a great story, sophie," cried bunny through the door, "for there was not a single kidnapper near us; was there, mervyn?" "no, there wasn't," said mervyn, "not one, sophie, there wasn't really." "now!" shouted bunny triumphantly, "you see you are quite wrong, sophie." "open the door, bunny, this minute," said miss kerr decidedly, "i am surprised that you should behave in such a naughty way, just when i thought you were going to be a good girl." "i'll open it now, indeed i will," cried bunny, "and please, please don't be angry with us. we are so sorry we ran away from sophie, indeed we are, and that is the reason we came up here, just to tell you so." all the time the child was talking she was also working away at the key, trying her very best to open the door. but no matter how she turned or pulled it, round it would not go, and at last, hot and tired with so many violent efforts, she begged mervyn to try if he could make it turn. "no, bunny, i can't," said the boy sadly, after working patiently at the key for some time. "it's no use, i can't do it at all." "oh dear, oh dear!" cried bunny in a miserable voice, "what shall we do? miss kerr, dear, we can't open the door, it's locked quite fast." "take the key out of the lock and push it under the door, and i will try and open it from this side," said miss kerr; "it was really very naughty of you to lock yourselves up in such a way. but be quick and give me the key." after a good deal of pulling and tugging, bunny at last managed to get the key out of the lock, and kneeling on the floor she tried with all the strength of her tiny hands to push it out under the door. but the key was too large or the door fitted too closely, and the little girl gave a cry of alarm as she found that it was quite impossible to get it out into the passage. "oh, mervyn, dear, it won't go out! oh! miss kerr, what shall we do?" she cried, bursting into tears; "if we can't open the door what shall we do?" "and i am so hungry," said mervyn in a doleful tone. "how nasty it will be to be stuck in here for ever! oh, pray open the door! oh! pray open the door, miss kerr." "throw the key out of the window, bunny," said miss kerr, "and i will go round and pick it up, and let you out in a minute." "oh! the window is shut. the window is shut," cried the two children in despair, "and we cannot reach to open it. what shall we do? what shall we do?" "good gracious!" exclaimed miss kerr, "who can have shut the window?" "i am sorry to say i did, miss," said the housemaid. "the wind was so strong upon the window that was open, that i shut it, intending to open the middle one, but i forgot all about it when i was leaving the room." "it is extremely awkward, and has helped to give the poor children a great fright," said miss kerr. "go and bring me the keys of all the doors, sarah, and i will try if any of them will fit the lock. don't be uneasy, bunny; don't cry, little mervyn. we will get you out some way or other, you may be quite sure, so don't be afraid. i have sent for some keys to try if they will open the door, so don't fret. ah! here they are." one after the other the keys were taken and tried, but not one was of the slightest use. one was too large, and another too small, and miss kerr felt really grieved for the poor little prisoners, whose sobs were distinctly heard through the door. "what can i do?" she said. "it is really very hard on them to be shut in there for such a long, long time! and they are so hungry too." "send for a man to pick the lock, miss," said sarah. "ashton will get some one from one of the shops." "but that will take such a time!" cried miss kerr; "it is a long way to the town, and the children want their dinner so badly. no, i must think of some quicker plan than that. ah, now i know one!" she exclaimed with a sudden smile; "it is a pity, but it can't be helped! bunny, dear, will you take the poker, break a pane of glass with it, and throw the key out upon the grass. be very careful not to cut your fingers." "i'll do it!" cried mervyn, jumping up out of the chair, where he had been rolling about disconsolately. "i'd just like to break a window, and i'm taller than you, bunny; do let me, like a good girl." "no, no; miss kerr told me to do it," cried bunny, "and i should like to break a pane too;" and seizing the poker she sent it crash through the glass. "oh, what fun! what a rare smash!" exclaimed mervyn in delight. "i will throw the key out;" and he darted across the room, picked up the key, and flung it with all his strength at the window. but he did not aim straight, and instead of flying into the garden the key merely shattered the glass a little more, and fell back again on to the floor. "you stupid boy! what a bad shot!" cried bunny, and taking it up between her finger and thumb she stepped on a chair, and dropped it down cleverly upon the grass, just at miss kerr's feet. "that is right," said the governess with a smile, as she stooped to pick up the key; "and now don't you think it would be a good punishment for all your naughtiness to keep you both locked up there for the rest of the afternoon?" "oh, no, no, pray do not do that, miss kerr, we are so sorry and so hungry!" and the two little faces, as they were pressed against the window, looked so utterly miserable and woebegone, that the kind-hearted governess could not bear to carry out her threat of punishment, but hurried away as fast as possible to let the poor children out. when the door was at last opened and they were told to come forth, mervyn hung back and did not dare to raise his eyes to miss kerr's face. bunny, on the contrary, greeted her with a cry of joy, and springing into her arms, kissed her heartily over and over again. "i'm so glad to get out! i'm so glad to get out! oh, i was afraid we should have to stay in here all day by ourselves." "well, i hope this will be a lesson to you never to shut yourself into a room again, bunny," said miss kerr severely. "it was a very foolish thing to do, and i cannot say that i am very sorry that you got a little fright, for i really think you deserved to suffer something for your naughtiness. but tell me, little man," she said to mervyn, "are you not glad to get out too? you don't look so cheerful over it as bunny does." "i am very glad to get out. but i--i--wanted to tell you," he said with much difficulty, and clasping his little hands tightly together. "i want--to tell you--that i am very sorry i was disobedient and ran away from sophie." "i am glad to hear you say you are sorry, dear," answered miss kerr. "i am sure you mean it mervyn, and that i may trust you not to be disobedient again." "yes, you may trust me, indeed you may," the boy cried with a bright smile, "i will really try to be good, and make bunny remember if i can." "naughty little bun! why do you always forget as you do?" said miss kerr gently. "i did think you were going to be good to-day, and just see how you have disappointed me!" "i'm very sorry," murmured bunny, hanging her head. "i did want to be good, and i promise you i won't be naughty again. i'll always stay as close up to sophie as ever i can when we go out, i will indeed." "very well, then, i will not say any more about the matter. run away now, like good children, and get ready for dinner. and bunny, dear, if sophie is a little cross, be gentle and polite with her, for you have tormented and tried her temper very much, you know." "oh, i will be ever so nice and kind to her, dear, dear miss kerr," cried bunny as she gave the governess a bear-like hug and another loving kiss. "i'll be awfully polite;" and laughing merrily she jumped off her perch on miss kerr's knee, and ran down the passage to the nursery, waving her hat and singing at the top of her voice. "poor little giddy-pate!" said miss kerr with a sigh. "i wonder how long she will keep all those splendid promises. but why don't you go off and get ready for dinner too, mervyn?" she asked in surprise as she saw the little boy lingering at the door in a shy uncertain manner. "run along, dear, at once." "will you--give me a kiss?" said mervyn with a deep blush. "i want to know that you have really forgiven me." "of course i have, dear boy," answered miss kerr, and she put her arm round him and kissed him affectionately. "i have quite forgiven you, mervyn, and i feel sure that you are going to be a very good boy." "i am going to try very hard to be good," replied the boy solemnly, "and as bunny is so small perhaps i may make her do the same." "very likely, mervyn, dear, for good example is sure to have a strong effect upon little bunny, who is more thoughtless than really naughty. but run off now, dear, and get your hands washed as quickly as possible. the dinner will not be fit to eat if we keep it waiting any longer." "that is true," said mervyn with a bright happy smile. "we have kept it waiting a dreadfully long time, and we are all just dying with hunger, i'm sure;" and he too went off singing to the nursery. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter viii. bunny tries to show off. for some time after this there was a marked improvement in little bunny's behaviour, and everyone in the house was delighted with the change, and rejoiced over it in a very open manner. "it is perfectly wonderful!" said mrs. dashwood; "our little troublesome is becoming quite a well-behaved young person. i feel very grateful to you, miss kerr, for i believe it is all owing to your tender care and kind good-nature that the child is improving so much." "i don't think i have so much to do with the change as little mervyn," answered miss kerr with a smile. "i have lectured poor bunny very often, it is true, but i think a good obedient little friend does a child more real good than all the scoldings and lectures in the world." "yes, i daresay it is an excellent thing," replied mrs. dashwood; "but still i think your lectures and sermons have improved my poor darling a great deal. she was very ignorant when you came to look after her." "yes, she was," said miss kerr; "she did not know much, poor child, and what was worse, did not care to learn anything. but lately she has begun to get on very nicely. and there, again, you see it is mervyn who has done her good, for her whole ambition is to do everything better than he does it." "the little rogue!" exclaimed mrs. dashwood laughing. "well, it is a good thing to have found a way to make her work. where is she now, i wonder?" "mr. dashwood took her off with him to the stables. mervyn went too, as it seems there is a pleasant surprise awaiting them there. they both went off laden with bread for frisk." "i think i can guess what the surprise is," said mrs. dashwood with a smile; "i--" "oh, mama, mama! we are glad! we are glad!" cried bunny bursting suddenly into the room, followed by mervyn with a radiant look of happiness on his little white face. "what do you think? guess what has happened. just guess what papa has given mervyn." "dear aunt, it was so kind of uncle to buy me such a--" "let her guess--let her guess, mervyn. don't tell her what he bought you. miss kerr, what did papa buy for him? something living, something with a tail, something with a nose, a dear velvety nose and a soft silky coat," cried bunny, as she danced up and down the drawing-room in high glee. "a kitten," said miss kerr gravely. "a kitten! oh, the idea!" exclaimed bunny, "as if people bought kittens." "something far nicer!" said mervyn in a voice full of pleasure. "i'll tell her, bunny, something to ride--" "no, no, don't tell, don't tell!" cried the little girl, laying her hand quickly over his mouth. "mama, guess, guess." "a pony, bun, a little brown pony," said mrs. dashwood, smiling brightly upon the eager excited children. "you dear clever mamey, that's just what it is," exclaimed bunny, giving her mother an affectionate hug. "and mervyn's so pleased, and i am so glad, and oh, it will be so nice going out to ride together!" and jumping up sideways on the arm of the sofa the little girl began to work herself about as if she were really on frisk's back and trotting along a country road. "my dear bunny, please don't," cried mrs. dashwood, as she felt the sofa upon which she was lying, shaken up and down by the child's vigorous antics. "please don't, dear, you hurt me very much." "oh, i am so sorry!" cried bunny bounding quickly down from her perch, and holding her face up for a pardoning kiss. "but won't it be nice, mama? frisk is so glad to have a friend in the stable with him, and it will be fun for me to have mervyn to ride with." "yes, it will be very nice, dear. but, bunny, you talk so much that mervyn never gets saying a word. tell me, my dear, do you really like your pony?" "oh, yes, aunt, i am delighted with him, he is so pretty. it was very good of uncle to buy him for me." "and you will not be afraid to ride him, i hope," she said with a smile. "no, i think not, at least not if we go along quietly. but bunny says she will make frisk go awfully fast, and then my pony will run after him, and that she is sure i shall be frightened and hold on by the mane and--" "bunny, bunny, you must not say such naughty things," cried mrs. dashwood shaking her finger at the mischievous child. "but don't mind her, mervyn. she does not ride at all so splendidly herself. the groom or her papa always holds frisk by a leading rein, so it would be quite impossible for her to go on as fast as she likes; so do not mind her." "oh, i don't feel a bit afraid if some one holds my pony by a rein," said mervyn bravely; "not one bit; i think it will be lovely riding along together." "that is right," said mrs. dashwood. "i am sure you will be a clever horseman, for your papa was when he was a boy." "and so he is now, aunt. he has a beautiful horse, and he looks splendid on it when he goes off to ride," cried mervyn, smiling brightly at the recollection; "i used to think he looked grander than any of the other officers." "poor little man," said his aunt gently, as she smoothed back the hair from his brow. "you are very fond of your papa, mervyn, and do you know, i think you will be like him when you grow big and strong." "i want to be like him in every way," said mervyn, "and i mean to be an officer when i grow up." "and go away to that nasty, hot india," cried bunny; "oh, i'd be so lonely if you went away again--please don't, mervyn, please don't." "what is mervyn not to do, my little woman?" asked mr. dashwood, who entered the room at this moment. "he's not to go back to india again, because i should be so lonely without him," cried bunny catching hold of her papa's hand and laying her little cheek against it; "you won't let him go, papa, will you, dear?" "no, indeed, i couldn't think of such a thing. but i am sure he won't want to go when he hears that his papa is coming home for christmas; eh, my boy?" "that is good news, uncle," cried mervyn joyfully; "i never thought he would come so soon. not much fear of my wanting to go to india when he comes home." "so i thought," said mr. dashwood. "and now, children, when are we to have our first ride?" "now, now; to-day, to-day," cried bunny; "dear papa, let us go off at once!" "very well, my dear. i thought you would like to go soon, so i told john to get the ponies and horses ready in half an hour. you had better run and get on your habit--that is, if miss kerr will let you both off with your afternoon lessons. what do you think, miss kerr, do they deserve a ride?" "yes, i think they do, for they have both been very good," answered the governess with a smile; "besides, i really don't think they look studiously inclined--they are very much excited." "i couldn't learn a lesson if i tried ever so," cried bunny, "i really couldn't, so i am glad you are going to let us off. good-bye, miss kerr; good-bye, mama i sha'n't be long, papa, dear;" and away she flew in breathless haste to the nursery. sophie had received a message informing her that her young lady was going out for a ride, and when bunny went up to be dressed she found her pretty brown habit and neat felt hat laid all ready for her on the bed. "that is a dear good sophie," she cried, and she was in such good humour that she allowed the maid to brush her hair and put on her habit without uttering a single cross word or complaint. "thank you very much, that will do nicely," she said politely, as sophie put the last finishing touch to her curls; then taking her little whip with the pretty silver top from the maid's hand, she gathered up her skirts and ran quickly down to the hall-door. "what a pleasure it is to dress her when she is so good and polite as that!" said sophie to herself as she watched the little figure running away from her down the passage. "what a pity it is that children are so often naughty and troublesome!" when bunny arrived in the hall she found her papa and mervyn quite ready to start for their ride. "oh, how nice brownie looks!" cried the little girl in delight, as her cousin was lifted on to his new pony; "but i don't think he is as handsome as you, old frisk. is he, papa?" "i don't know, i am sure, dear," answered her papa, laughing; "but i suppose you like frisk best because he is your own." "yes, i suppose i do," said bunny, and placing her little foot on her papa's hand she sprang nimbly to her saddle. "good-bye, miss kerr, good-bye." mr. dashwood mounted his horse, the groom jumped on his, and the whole party rode gaily up the avenue and out of the gate. "i declare mervyn sits very well, papa," said bunny in a patronizing manner, as she looked back at her cousin, who was following them with the servant. "yes, of course he sits well; why shouldn't he?" asked mr. dashwood; "he wants a few lessons and then he will ride very well, i am sure." "yes, i daresay," said bunny; "but he never rode before, you know, except just little short rides on frisk, and he'd be awfully afraid to go without the leading rein, i know." "yes, and quite right too," said her father; "it's only children who ride very well who should be allowed to go without a leading rein, and especially on a country road. supposing the pony took it into his head to bolt--what do you think would happen then?" "oh, he could be pulled up quite tight by his rein. i wouldn't be a bit afraid to ride all by myself." "wouldn't you, indeed, miss vanity. well, i would rather not trust you," said mr. dashwood laughing; "i think it is very likely you would find master frisk rather too much for you without a leading rein, my dear child." "no, i shouldn't," answered bunny, bending over her pony and patting his neck; "frisk and i are such friends he would be sure to do what i told him. wouldn't you, friskie?" "don't trust him or your own power too much, miss bunny," replied her father with a smile. "but who is that coming down the road towards us? i think i ought to know him." "why, papa, it's mr. davis, that nice old gentleman who gave me the box of sweets; don't you remember? i'm sure it is." "yes, so it is," said mr. dashwood; "what sharp eyes you have, little woman! you and mervyn had better ride on with john, as i want to say a word to mr. davis." "very well, papa, but don't be long, pray," said the little girl; "it's so much nicer talking to you than to john." "no, i sha'n't be very long, dear. good morning, mr. davis," said mr. dashwood to a tall fine-looking old gentleman who at this moment rode up to them on a beautiful chestnut horse; "i am very glad to see you. this little girl of mine knew you a long way off." "ha! miss bunny and i are great friends," answered mr. davis with a smile, as he bent forward to shake her warmly by the hand. "those pretty eyes of yours are a deal sharper than mine, my dear, for i had not the faintest idea who it was that was coming along the road. but i am glad i met you, dashwood, as i want to say a few words to you about--" and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "very well," said mr. dashwood; "i'll send these little people on with the groom, and ride down the road a short way with you. john," he called to the servant, "take miss bunny's rein and go on up the hill with the children, turn in at lady edith's drive, and i will overtake you in a few minutes." "yes, sir," said the groom, touching his hat respectfully, and riding forward he took the rein from his master's hand. "ride quietly along and i will be back to you very soon, bunny," said mr. dashwood, and then he turned his horse round and walked it leisurely down the road again with mr. davis. "oh, what a pretty place!" cried mervyn, as the riding party trotted along through a gate and into a cool shady avenue, with tall stately trees growing closely together on every side. "this is lady edith's drive," said bunny; "i think it is the prettiest place about scarborough. it is so cool and pleasant, and then it is so quiet." "why is it called lady edith's drive?" asked mervyn. "i don't know," answered bunny. "do you, john?" "well, no, miss," said john; "i can't exactly say as i do. i suppose some lady edith used to drive here very often." "i suppose so, indeed," said bunny, laughing merrily at this explanation. "i don't think that tells us much, john," said mervyn; "anyone might know that." "yes, sir, very likely, sir," replied the groom; "but i never asks no questions. if i'm told a place is called by a name, i never asks why or wherefore, but just takes it as the name that it's to be called by." "well, i think you are very foolish then," said mervyn; "i like asking questions, and it's a very good way to learn about things, i can tell you." "i daresay it is, sir, for a young gentleman like you, sir. but you see the people about me don't know no more nor i do, so what's the use of asking them what's this an' what's that, an' showin' them i don't know nothin' myself." "i never thought of that," said mervyn, "but i don't think it matters about showing that you don't know. miss kerr says no one should be ashamed to ask a question about a thing they don't understand." "john, john," cried bunny suddenly as she pulled very hard at the leading rein in order to attract the groom's attention, "i want to ask you something. stoop down that i may whisper it into your ear." the man did as she requested; but when he had heard what she wanted him to do he shook his head in a very determined manner, saying, "i couldn't on no account, miss. your pa would be as angry as anything." "no, he wouldn't, john. i told him i could manage frisk myself, and he only laughed. do let me--just for a few minutes. i'll go along quite quietly, you'll see i will. i want to show mervyn that i can ride better than he does, and that i am not afraid to go without a leading rein." "well, it's very quiet here, so i suppose it could not be much harm," said the man, yielding a little at her pleading voice; "i really don't think it could be any harm;" and he turned in his saddle and looked carefully up and down the drive. "harm!" exclaimed bunny, "of course it could do no harm. oh! pray take off the rein, john," and she looked up into his face in a most imploring manner. "well, you are a funny little lady, to be sure," he answered with a good-natured laugh, and, bending forward, he unfastened the leading rein and put it into his pocket. "thank you, john," said the child, sitting up proudly on her pony. "it feels ever so much nicer without it; it's so silly to be always led along by a rein like a baby. mervyn, i am riding all by myself. wouldn't you like to ride without a leading rein?" she shouted across at her cousin, who was trotting along quietly at the other side of the groom; "it's twice as nice to feel that you can go just as you like." "i feel just as nice as i am, bunny, thank you," said mervyn; "i would rather have the rein, thank you." "i can't hear what you say, so i think i'll go round beside you, mervyn," she cried gaily; and, raising her whip, she brought it down heavily upon poor frisk's back, and tried to make him go round beside brownie. but frisk was not accustomed to such treatment, and tossed his head and whisked up his tail, but absolutely refused to go to the other side of john's horse, no matter what she did to him. "you naughty pony," she cried, "you must do what i tell you," and she tugged violently at his mouth, and gave him another sharp blow with her whip. this was more than the pony could bear; and before his little mistress knew where she was, he pricked up his ears, and with an angry toss of his head galloped away down the road as fast as he could. "stop, miss bunny, for goodness sake stop," shouted the groom; "you must not go so fast; come back here at once." [illustration: francis saves bunny.] "i can't stop--i can't!" shrieked the little girl in a voice of terror. "oh! he's running away--he's running away;" and, completely overcome with fright, poor bunny dropped her reins, and, catching hold of the pony's mane, held on to him with all her strength. "what a fool i was to let her go!" cried the groom; "what on earth will my master say to me? goodness, the silly child has let go her reins; she'll be off--she'll be off;" and, spurring up his horse, he rode after the runaway, hoping to overtake him and put a stop to his mad race. but the noise of the horses as they clattered down the road after him seemed only to excite master frisk, and on he went faster than ever. as the pony reached the end of the drive, and poor little bunny had become so weak and faint from terror that she was in great danger of being thrown to the ground, a young lad of about sixteen jumped up from the grass where he had been seated, and, dashing forward, seized frisk by the head and brought him to a sudden stand-still. "poor little girl," said the boy kindly, as he lifted bunny from her saddle and laid her gently on the grass. "what a fright you have had! how did this beggar come to run away? he looks quiet enough." "i whipped him," answered bunny in a shaky voice; "and oh! i thought i was going to fall," and she put her hand to her head as if she still felt giddy. "you were certainly very nearly off," said the boy; "but what a fool that groom of yours was to let a kid like you ride without a leading rein; he shouldn't have done such a thing." "oh! but i begged him so hard that he let me go," said bunny; "he didn't want to let me, and--" "miss bunny, i'm ashamed of you," cried john, riding up beside her. "you promised you'd ride quite quiet beside me, and you broke your word. i'm very thankful to you, sir, i'm sure," he continued, turning to the young stranger. "in another minute this little lady might have been thrown on her head and been killed on the spot." "oh, dear! oh, dear! it wasn't my fault," cried bunny, bursting into tears; "i only mean't to go round beside mervyn, and frisk ran away and--" "don't cry, dear," said the strange lad kindly; "you must not say another word to her, my man," he continued, turning to the groom; "she is rather shaken with her fright, and it's best to leave her alone. take hold of this pony and i will go and get your young lady some fresh water; that will do her good." "very well, sir," said john, pulling the leading rein once more from his pocket, and fastening it on to frisk's bridle with an angry jerk. "it's not my place to scold, miss bunny, but a young lady should keep her word, and not get a servant into trouble." "but i didn't mean to break my word, john, indeed i didn't," sobbed bunny. "oh! why did papa leave us? oh, dear! oh, dear!" "drink this, you poor little mite," said her new friend as he held a flask full of fresh water to her lips. "it will do you ever so much good. i will bathe your face for you, and then you will see how comfortable you will feel, but you must not cry any more." "thank you so much," said bunny, drinking off the water; "it is very cool and nice." "yes," the boy answered, "it is very refreshing, but this will do you more good, i am sure;" and, removing her hat, he took a neatly-folded, perfectly clean handkerchief from his pocket, shook it out, and, dipping it into the water, bathed the child's face as tenderly as a girl might have done. "you are very kind," said bunny, as she raised her big blue eyes to his face; "you are a nice good boy," and she raised her face to give him a kiss. "that's right," he said smiling; "you are beginning to look more cheerful," and, stooping, he kissed her gently on the forehead. at this moment the sound of horses' feet was heard coming along the road, and mr. dashwood soon appeared, riding quickly towards them. "what is the matter?" he cried in alarm, as, drawing up sharply, he sprang from his horse and rushed to his little girl's side. "oh! papa, papa!" cried the child, running into her father's arms, "your poor bunny was nearly killed, only this nice boy stopped frisk and took me off his back." "my poor darling!" cried mr. dashwood, lifting her gently from the ground, and smoothing back her ruffled hair, "i am very thankful to god that you are not hurt. thank you, too, my lad, for your kind and ready assistance," he said to the young stranger, grasping him warmly by the hand, "and now tell me, sir," he cried with a stern look, as he turned to the groom, "how it is that the child whom i left in your care came to be in such danger." "if you please, sir, miss bunny asked--" began john very nervously. "yes, papa, i--it was all my fault," interrupted the little girl; "don't scold john. i wanted to show mervyn that i could ride better than he does, and as i could not do so properly with john holding me by the rein, i begged him to let me go, and i promised to ride quietly; but i whipped frisk, and he ran off so fast that i got frightened, and--" "it was very wrong of you, john, to allow the child to ride without a rein, and i am really angry and vexed that you should not have taken more care of her when she was left in your charge." "indeed, sir, i am very sorry, and it shall never happen again," said john. "i hope not," said mr. dashwood; "and as for you, bunny, i am very much surprised that you should have been so naughty. you know i told you you could not manage frisk without a leading rein." "yes, i know you did, dear papa," said bunny, as she rubbed her little face up and down against her father's cheek, "but don't scold us any more. we are all very sorry, aren't we, john?" "very, miss," answered the groom; "i'd rather have died than let any harm come to you, an' i hope master will forgive me for lettin' you have your own way about the rein." "i forgive you this time, john," said mr. dashwood; "but remember for the future you are to keep miss bunny well to your side when you take her out to ride on her pony." "yes, sir, surely i will," answered the man earnestly; "i will never do what miss bunny asks me to do again, never while i live." "and now, my dear fellow," said mr. dashwood, turning to the young stranger and shaking him once more by the hand, "i cannot tell you how grateful i feel to you. may i be permitted to ask your name?" "my name is francis collins; but indeed i did not do much," the boy answered modestly. "you have done me a very great service, master francis, and one that i can never repay you," said mr. dashwood earnestly. "do you live anywhere about here?" "no, sir; i live in london," replied the lad; "my father is in india with his regiment, and i am staying up here for a time with my aunt." "is your father a captain? and is he in india now?" asked mervyn shyly. "yes, little man," answered young collins with a smile, "he is a captain in the th, and is now stationed at jublepoore." "why, captain collins is papa's great friend, and of course he was my friend too; and mrs. collins was so good and kind to me. oh, i did love her so much!" cried mervyn, looking up into the lad's face. "are you the frank she used to talk to me about?" "yes, i am the frank, her only child," said the boy sadly; "poor mother! it's a whole year and a half since i saw her last;" and tears came into his eyes as he spoke. "i have often heard my brother-in-law speak of your father, my dear boy, and i am very glad to have made your acquaintance," said mr. dashwood as he seated his little daughter upon her pony. "where are you staying?" "i am living with my aunt at a quiet hotel on the west cliff." "i am very glad to hear it," said mr. dashwood, "for you will be able to come over and see us. our name is dashwood, and we are staying at holly lodge, a house standing in its own grounds and facing the sea, yonder on the south cliff. anyone will point it out to you; so be sure and pay us a visit some day soon." "yes, thank you, i certainly will," the boy replied with a bright smile; "i must have a talk with this little chap, mr. dashwood, and find out all i can about my father and mother from him. by the by i suppose you are the mervyn hastings she told me she missed so much." "yes, i am mervyn hastings; and oh, did she miss me?" cried the little fellow eagerly. "most dreadfully! and i don't wonder, for you seem to be a capital little fellow," said frank collins, patting mervyn on the shoulder. "come over and lunch at the children's dinner to-morrow at two o'clock, and then you and mervyn can have a long talk together," said mr. dashwood as he sprang to his horse. "it is rather late now, so these youngsters must get home as quickly as they can. remember we shall all be delighted to see you, if you can spare time for visiting." "oh, do come, do come," said mervyn, earnestly. "mama will be so glad to see you," cried bunny, "so do come, please." "thank you all very much," answered the lad brightly; "i will be sure to be at holly lodge by two o'clock. good-bye, mr. dashwood; good-bye, miss bunny; good-bye, little mervyn;" and frank lifted his hat politely as the riding party turned and rode away from him down the drive towards scarborough. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter ix. miss kerr promises a prize. the next morning was very wet, and as it was quite impossible for the children to go out, miss kerr insisted on their going into the library to learn their lessons. bunny pouted and declared that her papa did not wish them to sit still all day over their books, and that it would be much nicer to run about the house and play at "hide and seek." "yes, it would be pleasanter for you, bunny," said miss kerr, "but you forget that 'hide and seek' is a very noisy game, and that your mama's head is aching so much that she could not bear the noise you would be sure to make. come now, be good children, and try to learn your lessons as well as you possibly can." "i hate lessons! and so does mervyn," cried the little girl in a cross voice. "don't you, mervyn?" "no, i don't," answered the boy; "i will go if you like, miss kerr, for i want to learn how to write soon, that i may be able to send papa a letter." "you are a good boy, mervyn," said the governess with a smile as she took him by the hand, "and i promise you that i will soon let you write a little letter to your papa. come, bun, dear, you are not going to be naughty, i am sure. come along and we'll have such a nice quiet morning over our books;" and she held out her other hand to the little girl. "well, if i am good, will you read us a story after we have said our lessons?" bargained miss bunny; "i just love to hear you read stories." "yes, i will read you a very nice story if you are good, and i have a pretty box of chocolate here that i will give to the child who studies the hardest and keeps silence the longest." "oh, how nice! oh, how jolly!" cried bunny, clapping her hands in delight. "i'll learn my lessons awfully hard;" and away she ran down the passage to the library, pulled her spelling-book out of the drawer, and perching herself on a chair at the table began to shout out the words at the top of her voice. "my dear bunny, how do you think mervyn can learn his lessons if you scream yours out in that way?" said miss kerr laughing; "repeat those words quietly to yourself whilst i show your cousin what he is to do." "i don't know very much, miss kerr," said mervyn shyly as he took the book from her hand; "papa says i am a dreadful dunce, but i only began to learn last year." "never mind that, my dear boy. if you give your attention to your book and feel anxious to learn, you will soon get on. spell over these words for me and let me see what you can do." mervyn did as he was told, and with much difficulty he managed to spell down half a column of very easy words. "oh, i can do better than that! i can do better than that!" cried bunny, wriggling about on her chair; "why, i could spell those words in a minute. listen--h-o-u-s-e, d-a-y, m-o-u-s-e." "hush! bunny, i cannot allow you to go on like that," said miss kerr gravely; "you have learned those words over and over again, so of course you know them well. now, mervyn, go and read them over by yourself and i will hear you say them without the book in a few minutes. bunny, come and say your lesson." the little girl slipped off her chair and came slowly across the room to miss kerr. "be quick, bun, stir yourself," cried the governess; "i want to hear how beautifully you can spell words that you have never seen before; come along." but bunny still hung back with an obstinate look on her little face, that showed plainly how very unwilling she was to do as she was told. "come, dear child, be quick, you are wasting all my time;" and miss kerr held out her hand for the spelling-book. bunny handed it to her, and then dragging one foot slowly after the other, she at last stood by miss kerr's side. "take your finger out of your mouth, bunny," said the governess, as she laid the book before the child and pointed to the place. "now begin, b--" "if you please, miss kerr," said ashton, opening the door. "mrs. dashwood wants to see you very particular, miss, in the drawing-room. she said as she wouldn't keep you long, but you was to go to her at once." "very well, i will go now, ashton," said miss kerr; "and now, children, i hope you will be good while i am away. bunny, you can go over those words by yourself. see here is the box of chocolate. i will put it in the middle of the table so that you may see what you have to work for;" and placing a pretty cardboard box upon a pile of books so that the children might see the gay picture on the lid, she smiled kindly upon them both, and hurried out of the room. for a few moments after they were left alone the little people were very silent and quiet; but soon bunny raised her head, yawned noisily, and pushing her book away began to amuse herself by looking about the room. "i shall get the prize," said mervyn, "you are not learning your lesson, you know." "no more are you," cried bunny; "i'll learn mine up in a minute when miss kerr comes back, and you're as slow as an old snail at yours;" and again she began to mimic his voice and manner of spelling. "you're very rude," cried mervyn, getting red, "and i'll just tell miss kerr when she comes back." "tell-tale! tell-tale!" sang bunny; "much i care! if i know my lesson best i'll get the chocolate and i won't give you one bit." "you're a greedy thing! but you won't get it. i know my lesson splendidly, and you don't know yours at all, so i am sure to get the prize, i can tell you." "ha, how grand you are, to be sure!" screamed bunny, and stretching out her hand she tried to pull the chocolate box towards her. "you sha'n't touch it! you sha'n't touch it!" shouted mervyn; "it isn't yours, so just leave it alone." "it isn't yours either," cried bunny with flaming cheeks, and she fastened her little fingers more firmly than ever round the box. "i am sure to get it, so i shall keep it beside me till miss kerr comes back." "no, you sha'n't," answered mervyn in an angry voice, and jumping up on his chair he sprawled over the table and tried to drag the box from bunny's hand. "you nasty boy, let go! i'll tell miss kerr! i'll tell mama! you're a coward! you're a horrid--" "who's going to be tell-tale now?" shrieked the boy. "give it to me, i say, give it to me," and he gave a vigorous pull at the box. but the cardboard of which the chocolate box was composed was not strong enough to stand such pulling, and before the naughty children knew where they were it suddenly gave way and came to pieces in their hands. the beautiful prize was completely destroyed, and its whole contents were strewn all over the place. "now, see what you have done!" cried bunny, bursting into tears; "you have broken the box--oh dear, oh dear, you cross, nasty, greedy boy, i--" "i didn't do it," said mervyn, but his voice was low and shaky, for all his anger disappeared when he saw the pretty box torn to pieces and the chocolate creams lying scattered about all over the table and floor. "yes, you did! if you hadn't pulled so hard it would have been all right," said bunny tearfully. "oh, what will miss kerr say? i think i'll run away to the nursery and hide. i shall be afraid to let her see me--" "that would be cowardly," answered mervyn; "i'm very sorry i pulled the box, and i'll stay here and tell her so;" and he went down on his knees and began to gather up the sweetmeats and put them into a sheet of paper. "don't eat any, mervyn," said bunny, "they look awfully nice, but--" "eat them!" exclaimed the boy indignantly, "i should think not indeed! i am not so mean as that; i wouldn't--" "mean--is it mean?" cried bunny, rubbing her mouth; "oh, i didn't know, and i just took one--but miss kerr won't mind." "well, you are nasty! you tell me not to eat them, and then you go and take some yourself. go away, i won't speak to you or be friends with you any more; you're a mean--" "oh, mervyn, mervyn, i'm so sorry! i'm so sorry!" cried bunny, flinging herself on her knees beside her cousin. "i didn't want to take the chocolate cream, but it looked so nice, and i just longed to take it and--" "children! what are you doing?" cried miss kerr in astonishment as her eyes fell upon the two kneeling figures and she heard bunny's miserable tone of voice; "why are you on the floor? come back to the table at once." "bunny," whispered mervyn, "we must tell miss kerr now what we have done;" and springing to his feet he caught the little girl by the hand and dragged her over to the other side of the room, where the governess had seated herself, ready to begin lessons again. "we have been very naughty," he began, looking down at the floor; "we didn't learn our lessons--and--we--broke--the box--and spilt all the chocolates--but we are very sorry, indeed we are," and he raised his blue eyes full of tears to miss kerr's face. "yes, we are very sorry--and--i eat a chocolate cream--but mervyn didn't because it was mean," cried bunny, and then, overcome with grief, she buried her face in her pinafore and sobbed aloud. "i cannot tell you how much surprised and shocked i feel at such conduct," said miss kerr gravely. "i really thought i could trust you for a few minutes alone. mervyn, i am very much grieved to think that you could behave in such a naughty way. bunny is wild and giddy, but i thought you were going to show her a good example, by being good and gentle yourself." "yes, and i wanted to," said mervyn, "but she called me names and then i got cross, and then--i--" "yes, and i got cross too," cried bunny, putting down her pinafore for a minute. "i was angry and--" "and i am afraid you both forgot that god was looking at you, and that he was greatly displeased at you for giving way to your wicked passions in such a manner. how did you come to be so naughty? mervyn, what began it all?" the tears were rolling down the little boy's cheeks, but he dried them with his handkerchief, and choking back those that were still ready to flow, he tried to tell the story of the torn chocolate box as well as he could. "well, i am glad you have told me all about it," said miss kerr, gently, "and as you both seem so sorry for your conduct, i suppose i must forgive you. but remember, dear children, that you must tell god that you are sorry, and ask him to forgive you. pray to him that he may help you to overcome your tempers and become good, gentle little children. i will not scold you any more, and you have punished yourselves by breaking the box and spilling the sweetmeats, for now i cannot allow you to have any of them." "oh, i don't mind that!" cried mervyn quickly. "if you will forgive me for being naughty, i don't want any sweets." "i do forgive you, mervyn, but don't forget what i told you. say a prayer to-night before you go to bed and ask god's forgiveness and help." "yes, i will, i will," cried the boy, "and i will try and be ever so good all day to make up for being so naughty this morning." "and i'll be good too," said bunny; "i am sorry you won't give us any sweets, for they look so nice, but still i--" "you won't ask for any! that is right, dear. i know you like sweets, bun, but i must punish you a little, you know, so i can't give you any to-day. come, now, i forgive you both, so let us go back to our lessons at once; and i hope you will do your best to show me that you are truly sorry, by working very hard for the next two hours." "yes, yes, we will, indeed," cried the children together, and off they ran to get their books. "that is right! that looks like real work," said miss kerr, as she wrapped up the chocolate creams in paper, and locked them away in a drawer. "come, bunny, bring your book to me, dear." bunny opened her spelling-book briskly, mervyn began to read his lesson attentively, and perfect peace reigned once more. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter x. on oliver's mount. the lessons were over about half-past one, and as they had been well learned and quickly said, miss kerr was really pleased with the children, and rewarded them for their industry and attention by reading a pretty story, that interested and amused them very much. this kept them pleasantly occupied until nearly two o'clock, and then they ran off to the nursery in high spirits, to get themselves washed and dressed for their early dinner. "i am so sorry, miss kerr," said bunny, as she took her seat at the dinner-table, "i'm really dreadfully sorry that nice boy we saw yesterday has not come to have lunch with us as he promised he would." "yes, dear, so am i, for i should like very much to see him," answered miss kerr, "but i daresay the rain kept him from coming." "but it's not raining one drop now," said mervyn, "and i declare, there is the sun coming out; i do wish he would come." "oh, but it's wet under-foot, mervyn," remarked bunny wisely, "and it's a bad thing to get your feet wet--sophie screams fearfully at me if i put my toe out, even long after the rain has stopped." "yes, when you go in your thin shoes, of course," cried mervyn; "but big boys like frank collins are not afraid of wetting their feet. are they, miss kerr?" "no, i don't think they are, dear," answered the governess, laughing, "i know my brothers run out in all kinds of weather." "come in, my boy! here they are at their dinner," said mr. dashwood, opening the door at this moment, and entering the room with young collins. "miss kerr, this is our young friend who so bravely saved poor bunny yesterday," he added as he presented frank to the governess. "i am very glad to see you, master collins, and these children have been longing for you to come," said miss kerr; "it was very brave of you to stop the pony." "brave! not at all, miss kerr," answered frank with a bright honest smile that won the lady's heart at once. "i don't think the pony was really running away, and if this little girl," and he patted bunny on the head, "had not been frightened, but had sat up properly and kept a good hold of her reins, she would have been all right." "oh! bunny, bunny, you little coward," cried miss kerr, "and so, after all, it was you who held on by the mane, and not mervyn, as you so gaily told him he would do yesterday." "did she tell him that?" asked frank as he took a seat at the table beside mervyn. "well, i think this little chap would be the bravest of the two in real danger. he would not be so rash, perhaps, but i think he would keep cool and not lose his head as she did." "oh, but i was frightened," sighed bunny. "i was sure frisk was running away;" and she looked so very tearful that her papa kindly changed the conversation by asking his young guest how he liked staying at scarborough. "are there many nice walks about?" asked mr. dashwood, when they had all finished their lunch and were preparing to leave the table. "i mean short walks within easy distance, where these little folks could go, for instance?" "yes, there's the old castle," said frank, "on the west cliff, then there's the people's park in the valley, which of course you all know well, and oliver's mount, which i think the nicest walk of any." "oliver's mount! oh, that is a nice place," said bunny, who had quite recovered her gay spirits again. "sophie says she went up there one day with some friends, and she had buns and lemonade and all kinds of things, in a little house, a funny small house, she says, that is up there on the top. do take us up oliver's mount, like a dear good papa." "yes, i know the little house sophie means," said frank; "it is only a small shed, you can just see it from the window, look, there it is, right away up on the top of the mount." "it looks a great height, certainly," said mr. dashwood. "i wonder if these little ones could manage to go such a long way." "oh! yes, we could, we could," cried the children together. "very well, then, i suppose we had better set off at once," said mr. dashwood; "you have no objection to my taking these small people, miss kerr?" "not the slightest," she replied. "i was going to send them with sophie, but i am sure they will enjoy going with you much better. mrs. dashwood is not well enough to go out, so i intend to read to her the best part of the afternoon." "i am glad to hear that, for i was afraid she might feel dull if we set off for a long walk," said mr. dashwood. "well, run away, children, and get ready; the sooner we start the better." "it will be a long way for their little legs if we go right to the top," said frank doubtfully. "mervyn doesn't look very strong, and bunny's legs are very short." "indeed they are not," cried bunny indignantly. "i can walk splendidly; can't i, miss kerr?" "yes, dear, you are a very good walker for your age and size." "there, do you hear that?" cried bunny, jumping off her chair and throwing her arms round her father's neck. "do take us, do take us, dear darling old papa." "you little rogue!" cried mr. dashwood, "i do believe you could coax the birds off the bushes." "no, papa, indeed i couldn't," answered bunny gravely; "i often tried, but they would not come; and i tried to put salt on their tails too, but they flew away and--" "you dear little goose, that was a great shame; they must have been very rude birds indeed, my poor bun," said mr. dashwood with a hearty laugh at the child's simplicity. "you have coaxed me anyway, dear. i will take you to oliver's mount; and i have thought of a plan that will save your short legs and mervyn's weak ones a good deal." "a plan! oh! what is it? you dear, darling papa," she cried joyfully. "no, i won't tell you, little one. run off and get dressed, and you will see what it is when you come back. away you go!--both of you. be quick, or frank and i will not wait for you." bunny and mervyn were both very curious to know what this wonderful plan of mr. dashwood's could be, and chattered away about it as they were being dressed by sophie. "to the top of oliver's mount!" cried the maid, holding up her hands in astonishment when the children told her where they were going. "gracious! is it that monsieur your papa knows how far it is? you will both be too tired to return home to-night." "then we shall sleep in that little house at the top, among the buns and the lemonade," said mervyn. "that would be fine fun, wouldn't it, bunny?" "i don't know about that," replied the little girl. "but do not be frightened, sophie; papa has a fine plan, so we sha'n't be one bit tired. come on, mervyn," and, laughing merrily, the two children ran off together down-stairs. "papa, papa! where is your plan?" cried bunny, as they met her father and young collins in the hall. "we do so want to know what your wonderful plan can be." "here it is, then, my dear," said mr. dashwood, and he threw open the door, and displayed two steady-looking old donkeys standing ready saddled at the gate. "you are to ride one of those fellows, and mervyn the other. that is my plan; isn't it a good one?" "capital! capital! what fun! what fun!" cried the children, clapping their hands in delight. "but, papa, the donkeys will never go up the mountain," exclaimed bunny suddenly; "sophie says there is a big stile to get over, so how will they manage that?" "we won't ask them to go over the stile," said frank collins, as he lifted the little girl and seated her comfortably on the saddle. "they will carry you up the road to the foot of the mount, and then we will leave them there to rest and eat some grass, while we go on our rambles up to the top." "wasn't it a capital plan of papa's, mervyn, to get us these donkeys?" asked bunny, as she and her cousin jogged quietly along the road on the steady old animals. "these are such nice well-behaved creatures, and don't run away in a hurry like master frisk." "no, i should think not," answered mervyn laughing. "why, just look at this fellow," he cried as his donkey came to a sudden stand-still in the middle of the road. "what can we do to make him go on? here, boy, please make him move a little," he shouted to the donkey-boy, who was loitering behind talking to a comrade. "hey up!" screamed the lad, running up quietly from behind, and bringing his stick down heavily on the poor brute's back; "hey up, teddy!" and away trotted the donkey at a rapid pace up the hill. when bunny's charger saw his companion starting off so gaily, he pricked up his ears and followed him as fast as ever he could. "your plan was a capital one, uncle," said mervyn, as he and bunny jumped off their donkeys and prepared themselves to climb over the stile and begin their walk up the mount together. "i suppose you feel as fresh as a couple of daisies, and not at all shaken?" said frank collins. "come along and we'll have a race to the very top;" and away he ran nimbly up the side of the hill. bunny and mervyn struggled bravely after him, and they went so fast that they soon left mr. dashwood behind them, for he declared that he was too old to run, and that he would follow them at his leisure. the grass was very slippery after the rain, and the mount was very steep, and so, although the children went as fast as their little legs could carry them, yet they could not keep up with their young friend, who soon appeared a long way above them, waving a handkerchief, and cheering and shouting at the top of his voice. but at last they all reached the highest part of the mount, and, puffing and panting after their fearful exertions, they seated themselves upon a bench and gazed about them in delight. "isn't it jolly up here, mr. dashwood?" said frank. "i think it would be worth climbing ever so much higher to see such a sight, don't you?" "yes, indeed i do," answered mr. dashwood; "and the air is very fine; it feels so fresh and strong. that is the old castle away over there, i suppose." "yes; and doesn't the old part of the town, with its queer red brick houses and narrow streets, look pretty? and look at the bay in front of it, with its ships and barges. doesn't it all look lovely in the sunlight?" "yes, frank, it does look pretty," cried mervyn; "and isn't the sea a beautiful blue colour?" "and don't our donkeys look funny little gray fellows, away down there on the road?" cried bunny. "oh, dear! they do look far away." "bunny would rather look at her donkey than all the beauties of the country," said mr. dashwood with a smile, as he took his little girl upon his knee. "but these youngsters must not be defrauded of their cakes and lemonade, frank. would you mind going into that wonderful shop to see if you can get some?" "oh! they have lots of good things in there, i know," answered frank. "i hope you will be able to eat a good supply, bunny?" "yes, i feel able to eat several cakes," cried bunny; "thank you, dear papa, for thinking of them. i do love buns and lemonade. don't you, mervyn?" "yes, bunny, very much," replied her cousin. "i am afraid i shall get scolded for letting you have them," said mr. dashwood, as frank appeared, carrying an armful of cakes and buns, and followed by a man with glasses and bottles of lemonade. "if you eat all these you won't be able to take anything at tea, and then miss kerr will be so dreadfully angry." "oh! never mind, papa, dear," cried bunny; "cakes and lemonade are just as good as tea, but i will eat as much as ever i can when i go home, and then no one will scold you." "that's a good, kind little woman," said her father laughing; "but finish up those cakes now as fast as you can, for i want to get back to the club for an hour before dinner." "i will just put this in my pocket for the donkey-boy, papa," said the little girl, holding up a bun which she could not manage to eat; "he was very good, and made the donkeys go so well." "i think we will go round by the road, frank," said mr. dashwood, rising from the bench; "it is not quite so steep as the mount, and is very little longer." "very well; i daresay it will be the best way to return; it will be a variety anyway," said frank. "mervyn, will you walk with me? i want to talk to you about india and all our friends there." "yes, yes," said the little boy, "that is the very thing i should like." "but our donkeys--oh! are we not going home on our donkeys?" cried bunny. "of course we are, you little grumbler," said her father. "we are only going to walk round by the road to them instead of tumbling pell-mell down the hill again. come along with me, and let these two boys talk over their affairs together." then, taking his little girl by the hand, mr. dashwood walked quickly away with her down the hilly road. frank and mervyn followed them slowly arm-in-arm, and the elder boy, with a look of yearning love in his eyes, asked his small friend many anxious questions about the dear father and mother whom he had not seen for such a long time. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter xi. was it cruel? one lovely afternoon towards the end of september mrs. dashwood and miss kerr sat together on the lawn in front of the house. they were stitching away at some pretty clothes, that were evidently intended for a large wax doll, with golden ringlets and blue eyes, that lay on a table that stood between them on the grass. mrs. dashwood looked pale and delicate still, but there was a well-pleased smile upon her sweet face as she sat enjoying the sea breezes. she was comfortably propped up with pillows in a large wicker chair, and her thin white fingers were busily engaged on her dainty work. the fresh country air had done her great service, and she was full of the hope that she should soon return quite strong and well to town. bunny lay curled up in another big chair, and although she knew very well that the pretty doll was intended for her, she looked very cross and did not seem to notice what was going on about her. "why don't you go and play, bunny?" said miss kerr looking up from her work. "i do not like to see you tumbling about there with such a cross look on your face. go and get a book--or will you have a needle and thread and try to do some sewing?" "no, thank you," answered bunny, "i hate books and i can't sew." "but you might learn, dear," said her mother gently. "it is a great pleasure to be able to sew, bunny. i quite enjoy doing my piece of work after being obliged to lie on the sofa for such a long time." "i don't want to learn to sew," cried bunny. "i want to have a game. i am tired sitting here, mama. oh, i do wish mervyn and frank would be quick and come back." "well, my dear bunny, they will soon be here," said miss kerr. "they promised to be back at three and it wants a quarter to three now, so you won't have very long to wait." "oh! i'm so glad!" cried bunny; "i've spent such a nasty dull day without them." "well, really now!" said her mother laughing; "that's a kind thing to say. i thought my little girl liked being with me." "oh! yes, mama, so i do," answered bunny quickly; "but mervyn has been away such a long time, and i do want him to come back and have a good game with me. he stayed to lunch with frank up there at the hotel, and miss kerr wouldn't let me go, and oh, dear! i have been so lonely all day." "poor little girl!" said her mother, "but miss kerr was quite right not to let you go, bunny; frank will have quite enough to do to manage mervyn. you are very hard to keep in order, for you are very wild and--" "oh! i'm not a bit wild now, mama; i'm as quiet as a lamb--i am indeed." "bunny, bunny, where are you, i say?--where are you?" called mervyn, running up the garden walk and across the lawn. "here i am, mervyn, and oh! i am so glad you have come back," and the little girl rushed forward eagerly to meet her cousin. "but where is frank? i thought he was coming back with you." "yes, so he is. he will be here in a minute; and he has something for you, bunny." "something for me, mervyn; oh! what is it?" she cried; "do tell me what it is." "he'll tell you himself--he'll tell you himself," answered mervyn, and going down on the grass, he tumbled heels over head two or three times in succession. "you tiresome boy," cried his cousin, "do get up and tell me what frank has for me, and where he got it, and--" "go and ask frank himself--there he is," shouted mervyn, starting quickly to his feet again, as young collins appeared suddenly at the top of the flight of steps that led from the drawing-room into the garden. his hands were both behind his back, and he laughed merrily when he saw bunny's face of excitement and curiosity as she ran across the lawn to meet him. "you dear good frank, mervyn says you have something for me," she cried; "do tell me what it is. i do so want to know." "a bird, bunny; a young thrush," said frank gaily, as he drew a small cage from behind his back and held it up to the little girl. "i put him in here because it was the only thing i could find; but i will get you a proper big cage for him to-morrow." "oh! never mind the cage; but let me see the bird," cried bunny. "he is rather frightened just now, bun, but i think he will soon sit up and begin to sing; and thrushes do sing beautifully." "he is a dear little fellow! a perfect darling! but where did you get him, frank?" asked bunny in delight, as she danced joyfully round her new treasure. "did you manage to put salt on his tail?" "he hasn't got a tail, bunny," answered frank, laughing; "he is so young that he hasn't got one yet. i caught him quite easily in the hotel garden." "mama, miss kerr, look at the lovely bird frank has brought me," cried bunny, running back to her mother's chair. "a bird, frank?" said mrs. dashwood, looking into the cage in surprise. "what a pity it was to catch him and put him in prison, poor little creature; he looks dreadfully frightened." "in prison, mama!" cried bunny indignantly. "why, it's a lovely cage; and see, he has water, and hard-boiled egg, and bread sopped in water, and--" "yes, dear, i see all those things, but still he is in prison, bunny," said mrs. dashwood gently, "and i think it would have been much kinder to have left him to fly about the woods and sing his sweet songs in happy freedom." "i am afraid he will never sing again," said miss kerr as frank placed the cage on the table beside her; "he looks as if he were going to die, i think; just see how he has gathered himself up into a ball, and his eyes are shut." "oh! i hope he won't die," cried frank; "i am sorry i caught him, mrs. dashwood. shall i let him fly away again?" "no, you sha'n't, frank; he is my bird, and you must not let him fly away," cried bunny; "i want to keep him." "but, bunny, your mama thinks he would be glad to get away, so i would rather let him go. do say i may send him off." "no, no, frank, you sha'n't; i want him; he's mine now," answered the little girl in an angry voice; "i will have him and keep him;" and making a dive across the table she seized the cage and ran away with it down the garden. "bunny! bunny! come back this minute," cried her mother and miss kerr together. "i'll soon bring her back!" exclaimed frank, and off he went after the runaway. when bunny heard footsteps behind her she turned her head to see who it was that was following her, and as she ran along without looking where she was going, her foot came against a stone, and down she went, cage and all, upon the gravelled path. "oh, you cruel big boy!" she cried, bursting into tears. "why did you come after me and make me fall in that way? i'll never speak to you again--never;" and, gathering herself up from the ground, she began to rub her knees, and brush the dust and sand off her frock. "now, don't be silly, bunny," said frank, as he picked up the cage. "you are not a bit hurt--but, look here! i believe you have killed the poor bird." "oh! no, frank, dear! oh! i didn't do that!" sobbed the little girl, coming forward and looking wistfully into the cage. "yes, i am afraid he is dead. he was very much frightened before," said frank sadly, "and the shock of the fall, and all the water and things falling on him have killed him. i am so sorry. i wish, now, i had left him to sing happily in the garden, mrs. dashwood," he said, going back to where the ladies sat together, carrying the poor dead thrush in his hand. "you were quite right; it was a great pity to take the poor bird and put him in a cage. i will never catch a young bird again--never." "poor little creature! i thought it would not live long," said miss kerr; "but, bunny, you were very naughty to run away with it in that way; i am sure the fall helped to kill the thrush." "i didn't mean to kill it!" cried bunny in a choking voice. "oh! mama, i am so sorry!" and she flung herself on the ground beside her mother's chair, and buried her face in her lap. "never mind, bunny, dear," whispered mervyn softly, as he stole up and put his arm round her neck. "don't cry, dear; i am sure it would have died very soon anyway. wouldn't it, miss kerr?" "yes, dear, i think it would," said the governess gently. "but what are you going to do with the thrush, frank?" "oh! i suppose i must bury it," answered frank; "i wish i had a pretty box to put it in." "i have one, i have one," cried bunny, jumping quickly to her feet, and running off towards the house, mopping up her tears as she went along. "i've got a dear little one that will just do, frank." "we must have a solemn funeral," said young collins. "who will write an epitaph to put at the head of his grave?" "an epee--what, frank?" asked mervyn, with a puzzled look on his little face. "what do you mean?" "an epitaph, you little simple indian; do you not know what that means?" "no," said mervyn gravely, "i don't think people in india ever have such things." "don't they indeed! bunny, what is an epitaph?" asked frank, laughing merrily as he took a pretty bon-bon box from the little girl's hand. "i don't know, i'm sure," said bunny; "i never heard of such a thing. what is it yourself?" "well, you are a clever pair! why, it's something written on a tombstone," cried frank, and, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket, he scribbled a few words, and then proceeded to read them aloud. "listen and learn what an epitaph is, my friends:-- "beneath there lies a little thrush, who should have sung on many a bush." "capital!" said miss kerr, laughing merrily at this brilliant production. "why, you are a regular poet!" "it is very good indeed, frank," said mrs. dashwood with a bright smile. "now, mervyn, i hope you know what an epitaph is?" "yes, i think so," said mervyn slowly; "but no one says bush like thrush. it doesn't sound at all right." "hallo! young indian, are you going to find fault with my pronunciation? isn't it splendid, miss bun, bun?" "i'm not bun, bun, and i think mervyn is quite right," answered the little girl with a toss of her head. "it sounds very funny, and all that, but it isn't the proper way to say the word, i know." "of course not, little miss wisehead, but we are allowed to say all kinds of things in poetry," said frank grandly; "and i can tell you it's jolly convenient when a fellow wants a rhyme. but now that we have decided this knotty point, let us go and look for a nice place where we can bury the little fellow;" and, having placed the thrush in the box, he went off to look for a suitable burying-place. "put him in my little garden," cried bunny eagerly. "there are lovely flowers there, and we can make him such a nice grave." "where is your garden, monkey?" said frank. "i did not know you had such a thing." "yes, i have; at least i call it mine," answered bunny, skipping gaily along. "it's a dear little flower-bed down there by the sun-dial, and it will be such a pretty place for the poor dead bird. do bury him there, frank." "very well; what pleases you pleases me," and off they went to bunny's garden. very carefully frank dug up the earth, and, having placed the bird within the grave, he filled it in neatly, took a lovely geranium from a neighbouring flower-bed, and planted it just over the poor songster's head. "we must water it," cried bunny, "or it will not grow," and away she rushed to the tool-house. here she found the gardener's watering-pot, and, unfortunately for them all, it was more than half-full of water. "this will make the flowers grow beautifully," she cried; and before the boys had time to speak or stop her hand, she tilted up the heavy pot and sent the water flying all over their feet and legs. "oh! bunny, bunny! just see what you have done," exclaimed mervyn, beginning to cry as he felt the cold water soaking in through his stockings and shoes. "oh, dear! what shall i do?" "you little mischief!" cried frank, shaking himself. "what on earth made you do that?" "oh! i wanted the flower to grow," said bunny, bursting into tears, "and i did not mean to wet you and mervyn at all; and look at my own pinafore and frock. oh, dear! what will sophie say?" "sophie will say you are a naughty, wicked little creature," cried the maid, darting out suddenly from behind a tree. "come in this minute and get your things changed. monsieur mervyn, go to the nursery at once." "i won't go! i won't go a bit!" cried bunny, stamping her foot angrily. "the sun will dry me in a minute, and i won't go with you; so there!" "come along, bunny, like a good girl," said mervyn, "let us run fast and see who will get up to the nursery first," and away he went up the path as fast as he could. "i won't go, sophie. i want to stay with frank," cried bunny once more, as she caught the boy's hand and held on to it tightly. "you ought to go, dear, indeed you ought," said frank. "see, mervyn has gone, and you know you should always do what sophie tells you." "no, i won't; she's a nasty thing! and it's twice as nice out here, so i won't go one bit." "your mama and miss kerr have returned to the house, and you must come in and get changed your dress, mademoiselle." "i won't! i won't," shrieked bunny, clinging more closely to frank, and turning her back upon her nurse in a most impertinent manner. "we shall see if you do not, you bad, naughty child," cried sophie in an angry voice, and running forward she seized the little girl in her arms, and carried her off screaming and kicking into the house. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter xii. the fireworks. a little before seven o'clock that evening the children stood at the drawing-room window. all traces of the recent struggle in the garden had been removed, and in the neat little girl in the dainty cream lace and muslin frock, with its fluttering pink ribbons, few persons would have recognized the small fury that sophie had carried off wriggling and crying to the nursery a few hours before. but miss bunny had already forgotten that such a scene had ever taken place, and was making very merry over a big blue-bottle fly that she and mervyn were doing their best to catch as it walked up and down the window-pane. frank collins sat at the piano playing some very lively tunes, and from time to time bunny would pause in her pursuit of the fly and dance lightly over the floor in time to the music. "papa, papa," she cried, as mr. dashwood entered the room with his wife upon his arm, "doesn't frank make lovely tunes?" "i don't know, dear," answered her father. "frank does not seem anxious to let me hear his music, for he has stopped short the moment i appeared." "i am afraid mrs. dashwood would not care for my music," answered frank modestly. "i only play from ear." "oh, frank, how can you say such a thing!" cried bunny indignantly. "why, mama, he plays just like miss kerr does. he plays away up in the treble with two hands, and then he plays pum, pum, pum away down in the bass; oh, it is most beautiful! do play again, frank." "no, dear, not now," said frank. "i'll play for you another time, but don't ask me now;" and he hopped the little girl up on his knee. "well, then, ask--you know what," whispered bunny mysteriously. "you know you said you would--you promised." "oh, yes, of course; i very nearly forgot," said frank, "and i suppose sophie will soon be carrying you off to bed, it's nearly half-past seven." "yes, she will, unless you ask that, and papa and mama say, yes." "mrs. dashwood," said frank, "it's a gala night, as they call it, on the spa, and there are to be fireworks, so will you let these little people stay up for them? please do." "what! to go out in the night air and into the crowd?" asked mrs. dashwood in a horrified voice. "my dear frank, i could not think of allowing such a thing. it is quite impossible!" "of course it is, mrs. dashwood," answered frank. "but i did not mean them to go out at all, i--" "oh, no, dear mama," cried bunny eagerly, "frank does not want us to go out, but to sit up and see them from miss kerr's window, that is all." "bunny, come here, dear, i want to have a talk with you," said her mother gravely, and guessing that she was going to receive a scolding for her naughty conduct in the garden, the child stole slowly over the floor, and at last stood in rather a shamefaced manner beside her mother's chair. "do you think, bunny, that a little girl who screamed and kicked as you did when sophie took you in out of the garden, deserves to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks?" "no, mama," answered bunny in a low voice, and two large tears trickled down her cheeks and fell on her mother's hand. "auntie, dear, don't scold poor bunny, for she is very sorry she was naughty, and she begged sophie's pardon before we came down." "well, i am glad to hear that, mervyn," said mrs. dashwood, "and i hope bunny is sorry; but i don't think she should be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks, she cannot expect it." "why, mama, what is all this about?" said mr. dashwood, coming over and putting his arm round his little daughter. "why are you scolding poor bunny so much?" "because i was naughty, papa," said bunny, creeping up very close to him. "but i am very sorry, and i promise to be good." "oh, well, don't scold her any more, dear," said her papa, stroking the little golden head, "she can't do more than promise to be a good child." "and do forgive her, and let her stay up to see the fireworks," whispered mervyn, "it would be such fun!" "what is that you are saying, mervyn? what dreadful plot are you hatching over there?" cried mr. dashwood, "why, the fireworks don't go off until nine, and your bedtime is at half-past seven, isn't it?" "yes, i know it is, uncle, but we're not a bit sleepy, and we never saw any fireworks, and this is the last gala night before we leave scarborough, and--" "my dear mervyn, what a string of reasons!" cried his uncle laughing; "after such a list, i think we must surely grant your request. that is, if mama will forgive this poor culprit, and allow her to stay up." "well, as she is sorry, and as mervyn says it is the last night, perhaps--" "that's right! that's right!" said her husband, "and now let us go in to dinner. this animated discussion has given me quite an appetite." and as ashton at this moment threw open the door, and announced that dinner was served, mr. dashwood offered his arm to his wife, and led her away to the dining-room. "what fun! what fun! to be allowed to stay up to see the fireworks," cried bunny, and catching hold of frank's arm she hurried him off after her papa and mama. "now, you must sit quiet, children," said mrs. dashwood; "if you make a noise i shall have to send you away to the nursery." "we'll be as quiet as mice," said bunny, and pulling mervyn down on a large woolly mat in the middle window, she began to whisper joyfully about the treat that was in store for them before the evening was over. the first part of the dinner seemed rather long to the two little ones in their corner, but when at last the dessert was placed on the table, and bunny was seated at her papa's elbow, and mervyn between his aunt and his dear friend frank, they all became so merry together, that the fireworks were for the time completely forgotten. "oh, papa, i heard such a funny noise just now," cried bunny suddenly, "what can it be? listen, there it is again--whizz--whizz--" "it's the first rocket, i'm sure!" exclaimed frank, dropping the nut-crackers, "let us go off to a window somewhere, for i am sure the fireworks are going to begin." "how jolly!" cried mervyn. "aunt, may we run up to miss kerr's room?" "can't we see them from here?" asked mr. dashwood, pulling up the blind and looking out. "what a beautiful dark night it is! better stay here, chicks, i think. see, there goes another rocket!" "oh, that is lovely!" cried bunny, clapping her hands. "but, papa, dear, we can see them much better from miss kerr's room, she has such a nice balcony, and she promised to let us go up to it if mama would allow us." "very well, then, away you go," said her father; "but be quick, or you will lose all the fun." "be sure and wrap yourselves up, dear children, if you go out into the balcony," said mrs. dashwood. "the night air is very sharp." "oh, yes, mama, we will make ourselves as warm as toast," cried bunny gaily. "come, frank, do come up to the balcony with us." "all right, little woman, jump upon my back and we'll run a race with mervyn." very much delighted at such an invitation, bunny sprang from a chair on to frank's back, and away they went galloping madly after mervyn, up the stairs and along the passage to miss kerr's room. there they found sophie waiting for them, heavily laden with cloaks and shawls in which she insisted on wrapping them up till they were nearly smothered, and shrieked wildly for just one little space through which they might manage to breathe. "very well, you will all catch your deaths of colds," cried sophie. "miss bunny, you will want the doctor to-morrow, i am quite sure;" and she flounced out of the room and banged the door after her. "good riddance to bad rubbish!" cried frank, laughing, as he released poor mervyn's face from the thick shawl in which the maid had rolled him up. "she's an awful scold that sophie." "but she's jolly kind to us sometimes," said mervyn stoutly; "and we torment her dreadfully, don't we, bunny?" "yes, we do indeed," answered the little girl; "and she doesn't always scold, master frank." "goodness me! don't be so indignant," cried frank. "i meant no offence. i daresay sophie is a regular angel." "she's not quite that," said miss kerr as she opened the window and let the young people out upon the balcony. "but i am glad to hear the children stand up for her, for, as mervyn says, they do torment her, and still she is very good-natured and kind to them on the whole." "yes, indeed she is," said mervyn; "but oh! just look at that, isn't it exquisite?" "lovely!" cried frank. "it's a regular shower of golden hail! but i think i like the roman candles best. look, bunny, there's one--see--those two stars--watch how they change colour--first they're red--then blue--then--" "oh, yes, yes," cried bunny dancing about. "there they go, right away over the sea! what lovely things fireworks are!" "it is a pity we could not have gone down on the spa to see the set pieces," said frank. "i believe they are most beautiful. but then the crowd is something dreadful." "do they send the fireworks up from the spa?" asked mervyn; "they look just as if they were coming from the road up there in front of the crown hotel." "no, they are sent from a place just over the spa, up among the trees there, but a long way below the hotel." "oh dear! there goes a splendid rocket," cried mervyn, "and doesn't it make a lovely noise?" "oh! i can't bear the noise," said bunny, putting her fingers in her ears, "it makes me jump." "now that is really charming!" said miss kerr, as the whole bay with its ships and boats was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant crimson light. "how lovely everything looks in that soft, rich colour!" "oh! and i declare you can see oliver's mount and the dear little cake shop," cried bunny. "and, mervyn, i wonder where our old donkeys are to-night," and she peered away out in the direction of the sands where the poor animals usually spent their days. "at home in their beds, my dear," said miss kerr laughing, "and that's where small people like you should be; it must be near ten o'clock." "oh! not yet, not yet," cried the children; "we must stay and see the last of the fireworks!" "that is the last now, i'm sure," said frank. "that thick yellow light comes from the grand finale, which we cannot see--ha! there goes another rocket. hurrah! the whole thing is at an end." "very well, my dears, you must say good-night," said miss kerr; "your poor little eyes are positively blinking with sleep, bunny, dear." "no, they're not," said the little girl, "but they feel funny and won't go quite straight." "are you getting a squint, then?" said frank. "come along, old lady, a few hours' sleep will make them go straight enough;" and putting one arm round bunny and the other round mervyn, he marched them off to the nursery, where he deposited them one after the other on their little beds. the children were really quite tired out with excitement, and the fatigue of sitting up to such an unusually late hour; so when frank left them for the night, they did not utter a word or make a complaint. they said their prayers, were undressed at once, and, laying their weary heads upon their pillows, were soon fast asleep. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter xiii. quiet times. it is to be hoped that you see some improvement in bunny's behaviour since you first made her acquaintance, though she was very naughty on the day when the poor thrush was killed. at all events she had been trying to be good, and when she failed, or forgot her good resolutions she was so willing to confess her faults, and was so truly sorry for them, that miss kerr and mama, and even sophie, were always ready to forgive her. miss kerr had quite won bunny's heart by her constant love and gentleness, so that the child could not bear to give her pain. this made bunny more thoughtful, and she soon learned to check her outbreaks of temper and to keep out of mischief. mervyn, who was growing tall and strong, was very much in earnest when he had promised to try to be docile and obedient. he did not forget that should he meet his dear mother and father in london they would ask him whether he had kept his word, and he would not have told them a falsehood even if he had been ever so naughty, for he was a truthful boy, and not at all a coward. mervyn often helped bunny to remember her promises too; and it seemed as though after the night when they had seen the display of fireworks they had both made up their minds to go on steadily with their lessons every morning. miss kerr was delighted, and sophie had really very little to do, for all the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening also, they were out on the sands, or on the hills, or seated in the garden. the reason of this was, that as mr. dashwood had given them notice that the holiday was coming to an end, they had implored their friend frank collins to come often to see them, and as he loved mervyn and could talk to him about his dear father and mother, and listen to his descriptions of life in madras and calcutta, he used to come every day to take the children out. of this mr. dashwood was very glad, for he was pleased that such a nice manly boy as frank should give up so much time to these two young ones, and used to laugh at miss kerr and tell her that they learnt more from their young tutor frank collins than they did from their governess. miss kerr often made one of the party when they went out together and she used to like to listen to frank too. he had been to a large school, and was now only waiting for his parents to return from india before going to another. he had read a great many books, and could remember several stories and accounts of voyages and discoveries. the children would sit under a tree or inside an old boat on the beach and listen to him as he told them of the adventures of sailors and travellers; or sometimes they went with him for a ramble in the country, and he could show them the different kinds of trees and wild flowers, and point out where the various birds built their nests. mervyn was quite surprised one day when a lark sprang suddenly from a field of long grass and went soaring up and up in the clear sunshine till it looked only like a speck, and at last could scarcely be seen, but yet all the time kept trilling and singing its beautiful song. as it sung it floated away to some distance from the place from which it rose, and then suddenly it seemed to sink from the air and to drop amidst the grass again. "wherever has it gone to?" said bunny; "there are no trees here, and where can its nest be?" "its nest is on the ground, in the long grass of the field," said frank. "oh then, it has just dropped into it," cried mervyn; "couldn't we go and see?" "you wouldn't find it except you could trace the way to the spot where the bird first rose," said frank. "directly the artful fellow heard us coming he sprang out and started his song so that he might lead us away from the spot where the nest is, and now he has dropped in the grass a long way off to lead us still further away." "oh _do_ let us go and look for it!" said bunny. "i think we'd better not," said mervyn; "remember the thrush, bunny, and we might kill some of the little birds." "quite right, mervyn," said frank collins; "we should very likely step upon it or frighten the hen bird so much that she would leave the nest. it would be like somebody coming and driving us away from home, you know. when i was as young as you are, i used to rob the nests of their eggs, but i have left off doing so now, and even if you should ever collect eggs you should only take one from a nest and contrive not to frighten the birds. but there are young larks and not eggs in this nest, so we will let them alone to grow strong and fly out into the sunshine and sing under the blue sky, won't we, bunny?" you may well believe that the children thought the last part of their holiday was the pleasantest of all; for beside frank they had found another playmate, a great friend of his. his name was captain, and he was a grand, black, curly, newfoundland dog. such a fine fellow was seldom to be seen, and he learnt to lie down in a patch of grass on the hill, just at the place where he could watch for bunny and mervyn when they went out for their afternoon walk. he would pretend to be asleep, and when they came quite close to him would spring up and begin to leap about, leading the way to the sands, and barking or rolling over and over till frank or mervyn threw a stick as far as ever they could into the sea that he might dash in after it and fetch it out. captain was a splendid swimmer, and had once jumped into the sea from the end of a pier after a little girl who had fallen into the water. the child would have been drowned, but captain seized her by the frock and held her up till a boat could put out and fetch her, and then the brave fellow turned and swam ashore. [illustration: chapter decoration.] chapter xiv. bunny's improvement. home again. the time had arrived when the holiday at scarborough was to come to an end. the last evening was spent on the cliff. it was while they were all sitting on the hillside looking out to sea that frank began to talk to them about "lighthouses," those tall buildings, having a strong lantern at the top, the bright light from which can be seen far out at sea, so that sailors may know to what part of the coast they are going, and may steer their ships in such a direction as to avoid danger, or guide them into a place of safety. then miss kerr told them a story about a lighthouse, and how a brave and thoughtful little girl was able to save a great ship from being dashed to pieces on the rocks. this lighthouse was at a very dangerous part of the coast, and every day the lamps had to be cleaned and fresh oil put in them, and the great metal "reflectors" that were behind the lamps and threw the light far out to sea had to be burnished. the little girl was the child of the keeper of the lighthouse, and he often took her with him to stay there. he had a companion, for in lighthouses there are mostly two men; but one day this companion slipped off the ladder up which he had to climb to light the lamps in the great lantern, and broke his leg. at the same time he struck his head and became insensible, and so the father of the little girl was obliged to leave her and to fetch a doctor. he meant to come back very soon, but the doctor was out, and in trying to find him he was away for many hours, and by the time he could get down to his boat a great storm had come on, and the waves were breaking over the shore so that he could not put out to sea again. night was coming on, and the poor fellow paced the beach and wondered what was to be done, for it would soon be time for the lamps to be lighted, and there was nobody in the lighthouse but the helpless man and his little girl. the sailors and fishermen all came round, but it would have been a desperate venture to put out a boat in such a storm, and with the great waves roaring and leaping on a long sharp ridge of rocks quite close to where the lighthouse stood, nobody could have expected to reach it alive. at last, just as the night was coming on, the poor fellow prepared to risk his life rather than leave the ships that might be far off at sea without a guide or a warning; but six strong men dragged a large boat down to the edge of the shore where the waves were lowest, and agreed to share his danger. their hands were on the boat ready to push her in and then scramble to their places; an old fisherman was in his seat ready to steer, when he suddenly gave a shout and pointed towards the lighthouse. there from the lantern high above the roaring waves shone the brilliant beams of the lamps, and with a hearty cheer the brave fellows drew the boat back, and shading their eyes with their hands stared as though they had never seen the familiar light before. all night long they watched, till at break of day the storm abated, the sea grew still, and far far away they could see a great three-masted ship rolling and tossing, with one of her sails blown to rags, but still keeping off the shore. the pilot had seen the lights, and so knowing how to steer had kept her away from the rocky reefs where she might have been dashed to pieces. it was not till the sun rose high and they were able to go out in their boats that the men on shore could take the doctor to the lighthouse, and then they found the little girl kneeling beside the injured man and feeding him with some cold tea which had been left in the teapot. he had come to his senses, and had tried to crawl to the ladder, when he heard her voice singing softly right up in the lantern. he contrived to drag himself along the floor of the room, and could just see a gleam from one of the lamps coming through the chinks of the wood-work. the child, when she found her father did not return, had grown afraid; but her great fear was that the lamps would not be lighted, and as the place grew dark she made up her mind to try to light them herself. she had seen her father clean the lamps, and had been with him up the ladder, holding his strong hand; and she knew too where the match was kept, for she had been shown everything about the place while she was there on those long days alone with her father till the other man came on duty in the evening. so up she went, softly singing a hymn to herself, and after steadying herself by one of the iron rods that supported the lantern, put the lighted match to the wick, and was so startled to see the great yellow glare that shone from the reflector that she nearly lost her balance. when she reached the bottom of the ladder she found her friend looking at her quite wide awake; but he could do nothing to help her, except by telling her how to manage the light, and also how to move up there in the great glass lantern of the lighthouse, so that she might reach each lamp in turn. when her father came up the steep stair, followed by a dozen of his comrades, she gave a cry of delight and was in his arms in a moment; and she was soon made such a pet of by the men there that they all wanted her to accept knives, and rings, and pocket combs, and even tobacco-boxes, because they had nothing else to offer her; but she had her father and that was quite enough for her, and as he held her to his breast she could feel his tears fall upon her head, and yet he was as brave as any man who lived upon that coast. "however could she do it?" said bunny, who had earnestly listened to this story. "she forgot all about herself, bunny, and thought only of other people and of the duty that was straight before her," said frank gently. bunny remained very serious all the rest of the evening; perhaps the story of the child lighting the lamps reminded her of the trick she had played poor old ashton when she poured water into his wine-glasses. but as we have seen already, bunny was improving, and her mama was indeed delighted to notice the change, and quite shared her sorrow that they were so soon to leave for london. a day or two before they had begun to pack up mr. dashwood brought the children glorious news. frank collins was to go to london and stay with them till the arrival of his mother, who was on her voyage home and would be in england in a few days. then he was to go to school, and perhaps mervyn would some day be sent to the same school, but of course in a lower class. this last part of it was not very cheering for poor bunny, and she was ready to cry; but she looked at miss kerr's kind gentle face and saw the look of joy in mervyn's eyes, and so she choked back her tears, and presently when mervyn said softly, "of course i can't help being glad, bunny, but i shall never be anything but sorry to be parted from you;" she was ready to say, "and i shall be awfully sorry, mervyn dear, but then when the holidays come we shall both know so much more, and--and--" here poor bunny broke down and hid her face in her pinafore. but the next day she had recovered her spirits, and she and mervyn were talking over their future plans, for it would be some months before her cousin would know enough to enter even the lowest form. but one chief reason for their rapid recovery of spirits was that it would be a whole month or more before frank himself could begin his studies, and there were promises of visits to the zoological gardens, the great palm house at kew, the old tower of london, and other places which would remind them of the stories they had heard, and of the books which they had yet to learn to read. they had all these things to talk about when they found themselves in the train that was to carry them home, and were so full of plans and expectations that they were many miles upon the journey before they remembered that they had not waved a good-bye to their old friend oliver's mount, or thought of the sorrow of leaving scarborough for smoky, noisy, old london. the end. the inglises, by margaret murray robertson. ________________________________________________________________________ margaret robertson generally wrote about rather religion-minded people, and this is no exception. the women in her stories tend to moan on a good bit, and this book is also no exception to that. having said that, don't say i didn't warn you. however, like all novels of the second half of the nineteenth century, they are about a bygone age, and things were different then. for that reason it is worth reading books of that period if you want to know more about how people lived in those days. one very big difference was illness. nowadays, you go to the doctor, and very probably he or she will be able to cure you. in those days you either died or were confined to your bed for a long time. if you died but had been responsible for income coming into the house, in many cases that stopped, too. the women-folk and the children would be left without support. no wonder they moaned a lot, and turned to religion, to comfort themselves. it is hard for us to realise what huge progress has been made in social reforms. reading this book, and others of that period (this book was published in ) will teach a lot about how lucky we are to live in the present age, despite all its other faults. ________________________________________________________________________ the inglises, by margaret murray robertson. chapter one. in the large and irregular township of gourlay, there are two villages, gourlay centre and gourlay corner. the reverend mr inglis lived in the largest and prettiest of the two, but he preached in both. he preached also in another part of the town, called the north gore. a good many of the gore people used to attend church in one or other of the two villages; but some of them would never have heard the gospel preached from one year's end to the other, if the minister had not gone to them. so, though the way was long and the roads rough at the best of seasons, mr inglis went often to hold service in the little red school-house there. it was not far on in november, but the night was as hard a night to be out in as though it were the depth of winter, mrs inglis thought, as the wind dashed the rain and sleet against the window out of which she and her son david were trying to look. they could see nothing, however, for the night was very dark. even the village lights were but dimly visible through the storm, which grew thicker every moment; with less of rain and more of snow, and the moaning of the wind among the trees made it impossible for them to hear any other sound. "i ought to have gone with him, mamma," said the boy, at last. "perhaps so, dear. but papa thought it not best, as this is frank's last night here." "it is quite time he were at home, mamma, even though the roads are bad." "yes; he must have been detained. we will not wait any longer. we will have prayers, and let the children go to bed; he will be very tired when he gets home." "how the wind blows! we could not hear the wagon even if he were quite near. shall i go to the gate and wait?" "no, dear, better not. only be ready with the lantern when he comes." they stood waiting a little longer, and then david opened the door and looked out. "it will be awful on hardscrabble to-night, mamma," said he, as he came back to her side. "yes," said his mother, with a sigh, and then they were for a long time silent. she was thinking how the wind would find its way through the long-worn great coat of her husband, and how unfit he was to bear the bitter cold. david was thinking how the rain, that had been falling so heavily all the afternoon, must have gullied out the road down the north side of hardscrabble hill, and hoping that old don would prove himself sure-footed in the darkness. "i wish i had gone with him," said he, again. "let us go to the children," said his mother. the room in which the children were gathered was bright with fire-light--a picture of comfort in contrast with the dark and stormy night out upon which these two had been looking. the mother shivered a little as she drew near the fire. "sit here, mamma." "no, sit here; this is the best place." the eagerness was like to grow to clamour. "hush! children," said the mother; "it is time for prayers. we will not wait for papa, because he will be very tired and cold. no, letty, you need not get the books, there has been enough reading for the little ones to-night. we will sing `jesus, lover of my soul,' and then david will read the chapter." "oh! yes, mamma, `jesus, lover;' i like that best," said little mary, laying her head down on her mother's shoulder, and her little shrill voice joined with the others all through, though she could hardly speak the words plainly. "that's for papa," said she, when they reached the end of the last line, "while the tempest still is high." the children laughed, but the mother kissed her fondly, saying softly: "yes, love; but let us sing on to the end." it was very sweet singing, and very earnest. even their cousin, francis oswald, whose singing in general was of a very different kind, joined in it, to its great improvement, and to the delight of the rest. then david read the chapter, and then they all knelt down and the mother prayed. "not just with her lips, but with all her heart, as if she really believed in the good of it," thought francis oswald to himself. "of course we all believe in it in a general way," he went on thinking, as he rose from his knees and sat down, not on a chair, but on the rug before the fire; "of course, we all believe in it, but not just as aunt mary does. she seems to be seeing the hand that holds the thing she is asking for, and she asks as if she was sure she was going to get it, too. she hasn't a great deal of what people generally are most anxious to have," he went on, letting his eyes wander round the fire-lighted room, "but then she is content with what she has, and that makes all the difference. `a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesses,' she told me the other day, and i suppose she believes _that_, too, and not just in the general way in which we all believe the things that are in the bible. fancy aunt ellen and my sister louisa being contented in a room like this!" it was a very pleasant room, too, the lad thought, though they might not like it, and though there was not an article in it which was in itself beautiful. it was a large, square room, with an alcove in which stood a bed. before the bed was a piece of carpet, which did not extend very far over the grey painted floor, and in the corner was a child's cot. the furniture was all of the plainest, not matching either in style or in material, but looking very much as if it had been purchased piece by piece, at different times and places, as the means of the owners had permitted. the whole was as unlike as possible to the beautifully furnished room in which the greater part of the boy's evenings had been passed, but it was a great deal pleasanter in his eyes at the moment. "i have had jolly times here, better than i shall have at home, unless they let me read again--which i don't believe they will, though i am so much better. i am very glad i came. i like uncle and aunt inglis. there is no `make believe' about them; and the youngsters are not a bad lot, take them all together." he sat upon the rug with his hands clasped behind his head, letting his thoughts run upon many things. david had gone to the window, and was gazing out into the stormy night again, and his brother jem sat with his face bent close over his book, reading by the fire-light. not a word was spoken for a long time. violet laid the sleeping little mary in her cot, and when her mother came in, she said: "don't you think, mamma, that perhaps papa may stay all night at the gore? it is so stormy." "no, dear; he said he would be home. something must have detained him longer than usual. what are you thinking about so earnestly francis?" "since you went up-stairs? oh! about lots of things. about the chapter david was reading, for one thing." the chapter david had read was the tenth of numbers--one not very likely to interest young readers, except the last few verses. it was the way with the inglises, at morning and evening worship, to read straight on through the bible, not passing over any chapter because it might not seem very interesting or instructive. at other times they might pick and choose the chapters they read and talked about, but at worship time they read straight on, and in so doing fell on many a word of wonderful beauty, which the pickers and choosers might easily overlook. the last few verses of the chapter read that night were one of these, and quite new to one of the listeners, at least. it was moses' invitation to hobab to go with the lord's people to the promised land. "i wonder whether the old chap went," said frank, after a pause. "what are you laughing at, jem?" "he thinks that is not a respectful way to speak of a bible person, i suppose," said violet. "about the chapter david was reading," said jem, mimicking his cousin's tone and manner. "that is for mamma. you don't expect me to swallow that. give mamma the result of your meditations, like a good boy." "i said i was thinking of the chapter, for one thing," said frank, not at all angry, though he reddened a little. "i was thinking, besides, whether that was a proper book for you to be reading to-night, `the swiss family,' is it not?" "sold," cried jem, triumphantly; "it is the `pilgrim's progress.'" "you have read that before," said violet. "lots of times. it will bear it. but what about hobab, frank? much you care about the old chap, don't you? davie, come here and listen to frank." "if you would only give frank a chance to speak," said his mother, smiling. "did hobab go, do you think, aunt?" asked frank. "he refused to go," said jem. "don't you remember he said, `i will not go, but i will depart into my own land, and to my kindred?'" "yes; but that was before moses said, `thou mayest be to us instead of eyes, forasmuch as thou knowest how we are to encamp in this wilderness.' you see, he had a chance of some adventures; that might tempt him. do you think he went, aunt?" "i cannot tell; afterwards we hear of heber the kenite, who was of the children of hobab; and his wife took the part of the israelites, when she slew sisera. but whether he went with the people at that time, we do not hear. very likely he did. i can understand how the people's need of him as a guide, or a guard, might have seemed to him a better reason for casting in his lot with the people, than even the promise that moses gave him, `come with us and we will do thee good.'" "that is to say, mamma, he would rather have a chance to help others, than the prospect of a good time for himself. that is not the way with people generally," said jem, shaking his head gravely. "it is not said that it was the way with hobab," said his mother; "but i am inclined to think, with francis, that perhaps it might have been so." "he must have been a brave man and a good man, or moses would not have wanted him," said david. "and if he went for the sake of a home in the promised land, he must have been disappointed. he did not get there for forty years, if he got there at all," said jem. "but if he went for the fighting he may have had a good time in the wilderness, for there must have been many alarms, and a battle now and then," said frank. "but, mamma," said violet, earnestly, "they had the pillar of cloud, and the pillar of fire, and the angel of the covenant going before. why should we suppose they needed the help of hobab?" "god helps them that help themselves, letty, dear," said jem. "gently, jem," said his mother; "speak reverently, my boy. yes, letty, they were miraculously guarded and guided; but we do not see that they were allowed to fold their hands and do nothing. god fought for them, and they fought for themselves. and as for hobab, he must have been a good and brave man, as david says, and so the chances are he went with the people, thinking less of what he could get for himself than of what he could do for others, as is the way with good and brave men." "like the people we read about in books," said jem. "yes; and like some of the people we meet in real life," said his mother, smiling. "the men who even in the eyes of the world are the best and bravest, are the men who have forgotten themselves and their own transitory interests to live or die for the sake of others." "like moses, when he pleaded that the people might not be destroyed, even though the lord said he would make him the father of a great nation," said david. "like paul," said violet, "who `counted not his life dear to him,' and who was willing `to spend and be spent,' though the more abundantly he loved the people, the less he was loved." "like leonidas with his three hundred heroes." "like curtius, who leapt into the gulf." "like william tell and john howard." "like a great many missionaries," said violet. and a great many more were mentioned. "but, aunt," said frank, "you said like a great many people we meet in real life. i don't believe i know a single man like that--one who forgets himself, and lives for others. tell me one." "papa," said david, softly. his mother smiled. "it seems to me that all true christians ought to be like that--men who do not live to please themselves--who desire most of all to do god's work among their fellow-men," said she, gravely. frank drew a long breath. "then i am afraid i don't know many christians, aunt inglis." "my boy, perhaps you are not a good judge, and i daresay you have never thought much about the matter." "no, i have not. but now that i do think of it, i cannot call to mind any one--scarcely any one who would answer to that description. it seems to me that most men seem to mind their own interests pretty well. there is uncle inglis, to be sure--but then he is a minister, and doing good is his business, you know." "frank," said jem, as his mother did not answer immediately, "do you know that papa might have been a banker, and a rich man now, like your father? his uncle offered him the chance first, but he had made up his mind to be a minister. his uncle was very angry, wasn't he, mamma?" but his mother had no wish that the conversation should be pursued in that direction, so she said, "yes, frank, it is his business to do god's work in the world, but no more than it is yours and mine, in one sense." "mine!" echoed frank, with a whistle of astonishment, which jem echoed. "yours, surely, my dear boy, and yours, jem; and your responsibility is not lessened by the fact that you may be conscious that you are refusing that personal consecration which alone can fit you for god's service, or make such service acceptable." there was nothing answered to this, and mrs inglis added, "and being consecrated to god's service, we do his work well, when we do well the duty he has appointed us, however humble it may be." "but to come back to hobab, mamma," said jem, in a little while. "after all, do you really think it was a desire to do god's work in helping the people that made him go with them, if he did go? perhaps he thought of the fighting and the possible adventures, as frank says." "we have no means of knowing, except that it does not seem to have been so much with the thought of his being a protector, that moses asked him, as of his being a guide. `thou mayest be to us instead of eyes,' said he." "yes," said jem, hesitatingly, "i suppose so; but it must have been something to him to think of leading such a host." "but he would not have led the host," said david. "yet it must have been a grand thing to follow such a leader as moses." "aunt mary," said frank, "if there is something for us all to do in the world, as you say, i, for one, would much rather think of it as a place to fight in than to work in." "the same here," said jem. "well, so it is," said mrs inglis. "`in the world's broad field of battle.' don't you remember, davie?" "yes, i remember, `be a hero in the strife,'" said david. "and paul bids timothy, `fight the good fight of faith;' and in another place he says, `that thou mayest war a good warfare;' which is better authority than your poet, violet." "yes, and when he was an old man--paul, i mean--he said, `i have fought the good fight; i have finished the course; i have kept the faith.'" "and is there not something about armour?" asked frank, who was not very sure of his bible knowledge. "yes. `put ye on the whole armour of god, that ye may be able to stand in the evil day, and having done all to stand.' that is paul, too." "yes," said jem, slowly. "that was to be put on against the wiles of the devil. `ye wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers; against the rulers of the darkness of this world; against spiritual wickedness in high places.'" frank uttered an exclamation. "they needed armour, i think." "not more than we do now, my boy. we have the same enemies," said his aunt. it was her way at such times to let the conversation flow on according to the pleasure of the young people, only she put in a word now and then as it was needed for counsel or restraint. "it sounds awful, don't it?" said jem, who was always amused when his cousin received as a new thought something that the rest of them had been familiar with all their lives. "and that isn't all. what is that about `the law in our members warring against the law in our minds?' what with one thing and what with another, you stand a chance to get fighting enough." his mother put her hand on his arm. "but, mamma, this thought of life's being a battle-field, makes one afraid," said violet. "it need not, dear, one who takes `the whole armour.'" "but what is the armour?" said frank. "i don't understand." violet opened the bible and read that part of the sixth chapter of ephesians where the armour is spoken of; and the boys discussed it piece by piece. david, who had scarcely spoken before, had most to say now, telling the others about the weapons and the armour used by the ancients, and about their mode of carrying on war. for david had been reading latin and greek with his father for a good while, and the rest listened with interest. they wandered away from the subject sometimes, or rather in the interest with which they discussed the deeds of ancient warriors, they were in danger of forgetting "the whole armour," and the weapons which are "not carnal but spiritual," and the warfare they were to wage by means of these, till a word from the mother brought them back again. "`and having done all to stand,'" said frank, in a pause that came in a little while. "that does not seem much to do." "it is a great deal," said his aunt. "the army that encamps on the battle-field after the battle, is the conquering army. to stand is victory." "yes, i see," said frank. "it means victory to stand firm when an assault is made, but they who would be `good soldiers of jesus christ' have more to do than that. his banner must be carried to wave over all the nations. the world must be subdued to him. and when it is said, `be strong,' it means be strong for conquest as well as for defence." and then, seeing that the boys were moved to eager listening, mrs inglis put aside her anxious thoughts about her husband, and went on to speak of the honour and glory of being permitted to fight under him who was promised as a "leader and commander to the people"--and in such a cause--that the powers of darkness might be overthrown, the slaves of sin set free, and his throne set up who is to "reign in righteousness." though the conflict might be fierce and long, how certain the victory! how high the reward at last! yes, and before the last. one had not to wait till the last. how wonderful it was, she said, and how sweet to believe, that not one in all the numberless host, who were "enduring hardness as good soldiers of jesus christ," but was known to him, and beloved by him; known even by name; watched over and cared for; guided and strengthened; never forgotten, never overlooked. "safe through life, victorious in death, through him that loved them, and gave himself for them," added the mother, and then she paused, partly because these wonderful thoughts, and the eager eyes fastened on hers, made it not easy to continue, and, partly, because she would fain put into as few words as might be, her hopes and desires for the lad who was going so soon to leave them. "francis," said she, softly, "would it not be something grand to be one of such an army, fighting under such a leader?" "yes, aunt mary, if one only knew the way." "one can always offer one's self as his soldier." "yes, if one is fit." "but one can never make one's self fit. _he_ undertakes all that. offer yourself to be his. give yourself to him. he will appoint you your place in the host, and make you strong to stand, patient to endure, valiant to fight, and he will ensure the victory, and give you the triumph at the end. think of all this, francis, dear boy! it is a grand thing to be a soldier of the lord." "yes, aunt mary," said frank, gravely. then they were all silent for a long time. indeed, there was not a word spoken till mr inglis' voice was heard at the door. jem ran out to hold old don till david brought the lantern, and both boys spent a good while in making the horse comfortable after his long pull over the hills. mrs inglis went to the other room to attend to her husband, and violet followed her, and frank was left alone to think over the words that he had heard. he did think of them seriously, then and afterwards.--he never quite forgot them, though he did not act upon them and offer himself for a "good soldier of jesus christ" for a long time after that. in a little while mr inglis came in and sat down beside him, but after the first minute or two he was quite silent, busy with his own thoughts it seemed, and frank said nothing either, but wondered what his uncle's thoughts might be. the discomfort of cold and wind and of the long drive through sleet and rain, had nothing to do with them, the boy said to himself, as, with his hand screening his weak eyes from the light and heat of the fire, he watched his changing face. it was a very good face to watch. it was thin and pale, and the hair had worn away a little from the temples, making the prominent forehead almost too high and broad for the cheeks beneath. its expression was usually grave and thoughtful, but to-night there was a brightness on it which fixed the boy's gaze; and the eyes, too often sunken and heavy after a day of labour, shone to-night with a light at once so peaceful and so triumphant, that frank could not but wonder. in a little while violet came in, and she saw it too. "has anything happened, papa?" asked she, softly. he turned his eyes to her, but did not speak. he had heard her voice but not her question, and she did not repeat it, but came and sat down on a low stool at his feet. "are you very tired, papa?" she asked at last. "not more so than usual. indeed, i have hardly thought of it to-night, or of the cold and the sleet and the long drive, that have moved my little girl's compassion. but it is pleasant to be safe home again, and to find all well." "but what kept you so long, papa?" said jem, coming in with the lantern in his hand. "was it don's fault? didn't he do his duty, poor old don?" "no. i was sent for to see timothy bent. that was what detained me so long." "poor old tim!" said violet, softly. "`poor old tim' no longer, violet, my child. it is well with timothy bent now, beyond all fear." "has he gone, papa?" "yes, he is safe home at last. the long struggle is over, and he has gotten the victory." the boys looked at one another, thinking of the words that had been spoken to them a little while ago. "it is timothy bent, mamma," said violet, as her mother came in. "he is dead." "is he gone?" said her mother, sitting down. "did he suffer much? were you with him at the last?" "yes, he suffered," said mr inglis, a momentary look of pain passing over his face. "but that is all past now forever." "did he know you?" "yes, he knew me. he spoke of the time when i took him up at the corner, and brought him home to you. he said that was the beginning." there was a pause. "the beginning of what?" whispered frank to violet. "the beginning of a new life to poor tim," said violet. "the beginning of the glory revealed to him to-day," said mr inglis. "it is wonderful! i cannot tell you how wonderful it seemed to me to-night to see him as he looked on the face of death. we speak about needing faith in walking through dark places, but we need it more to help us to bear the light that shines on the death-bed of a saved and sanctified sinner. how glorious! how wonderful! for a moment it seemed to me beyond belief. now with us in that poor room, sick and suffering, and sometimes afraid, even; then, in the twinkling of an eye, in the very presence of his lord--and like him--with joy unspeakable and full of glory! does it not seem almost past belief? `thanks be to god, who giveth us the victory through our lord jesus christ!'" there was silence for a good while after that, and then david first, and afterwards the others, answered the mother's look by rising and saying softly, "good-night," and then they went away. chapter two. "papa does not feel it to-night," said jem, as they went up-stairs; "but he'll be tired enough to-morrow, when he has time to think about it. and so poor old tim has gone!" "`poor old tim, no longer,' as your father said," said frank, gravely. "it does seem almost beyond belief, doesn't it?" "what?" asked jem. but frank did not answer him directly. "i wonder what battles old tim had to fight," said he. "your father said he had gotten the victory." "oh! just the battles that other people have to fight with the world, the flesh, and the devil, and a hard time he has had, too, poor old chap," said jem. "jem," said david, "i think old tim bent was the very happiest old man we knew." "well, perhaps he was, after a fashion; but i am sure he had trouble, of one kind or another--sickness, poverty, and his people not very kind to him--tired of him, at any rate. however, that don't matter to him now." "he has gotten the victory," repeated frank. the words seemed to have a charm for him. "it is wonderful, isn't it?" all this was said as the boys were undressing to go to bed. there were two beds in the room they occupied, the brothers had one, and frank had the other. after the lamp was blown out, david reminded the others that they must be up early in the morning, and that the sooner they were asleep, the readier they would be to rise when the right time came; so there was nothing said for a good while. then frank spoke: "what was all that you said about your father's being a banker and a rich man? are you asleep already, jem?" jem had been very near it. "who? papa? oh! yes, he might have been; but you see he chose `the better part.' i sometimes wonder whether he's ever sorry." "jem," said david, "it's not right--to speak in that way, i mean. and as for papa's being sorry--not to-night, at any rate," added david, with a sound that was like a sob in his voice. "and why not to-night? ah! i understand. it was through him that old tim got the victory;" and both the boys were surprised to see him suddenly sit up in bed in the dark; and after a long silence he repeated, as if to himself, "i should think not to-night, indeed!" and then he lay down again. "papa has never been sorry--never for a single moment," said david. "he has helped a great many besides old tim to win the victory. and besides, i dare say, he has had as much real enjoyment in his life as if he had been a rich man like your father. he is not sorry, at any rate, nor mamma." "oh! that is all very well to say," interposed jem; "i dare say he is not sorry that he is a minister, but i say it is a shame that ministers should always be poor men--as they always are!" "oh! well. people can't have everything," said david. "you've got to be very contented, all at once," said jem, laughing. "you have said as much about it as ever i have, and more, too. don't you remember when the hunters went away to m--, to school, and you and violet couldn't go? you wanted to go, didn't you?" "nonsense, jem. i never thought of such a thing seriously. why, it would have taken more than the whole of papa's salary to send us both!" "but that is just what i said. why should not papa be able to send you, as well as ned hunter's father to send him?" "it comes to the same thing," said david, loftily. "i know more latin and greek, too, than ned hunter, though he has been at m--; and as for violet--people can't have everything." "and you have grown humble as well as contented, it seems," said jem; "just as if you didn't care! you'll care when mamma has to send debby away, and keep violet at home from school, because she can't get papa a new great coat, and pay debby's wages, too. you may say what you like, but i wish i were rich; and i mean to be, one of these days." "but it is all nonsense about debby, jem. however, mamma would not wish us to discuss it now, and we had better go to sleep." but, though there was nothing more said, none of them went to sleep very soon, and they all had a great many serious thoughts as they lay in silence in the dark. the brothers had often had serious thoughts before; but to francis they came almost for the first time--or rather, for the first time he found it difficult to put them away. he had been brought up very differently from david and jem. he was the son of a rich man, and the claims of business had left their father little time to devote to the instruction of his children. the claims of society had left as little to his mother--she was dead now--and, except at church on sundays, he had rarely heard a word to remind him that there was anything in the world of more importance than the getting of wealth and the pursuit of pleasure, till he came to visit the inglises. he had been ill before that, and threatened with serious trouble in his eyes, and the doctor had said that he must have change of air, and that he must not be allowed to look at a book for a long time. mr inglis had been at his father's house about that time, and had asked him to let the boy go home with him, to make the acquaintance of his young people, and he had been very glad to let him go. mr inglis was not frank's uncle, though he called him so; he was only his father's cousin, and there had never been any intimacy between the families, so francis had been a stranger to them all before he came to gourlay. but he soon made friends with them all. the simple, natural way of life in the minister's house suited him well, and his visit had been lengthened out to four months, instead of four weeks, as was at first intended; and now, as he lay thinking, he was saying to himself that he was very sorry to go. this last night he seemed to see more clearly than ever he had seen before what made the difference between their manner of life here in his uncle's house, and the life they lived at home. it was a difference altogether in favour of their life here, though here they were poor, and at home they were rich. the difference went deeper than outward circumstances, and must reach beyond them--beyond all the chances and changes time might bring. and then he thought about all his aunt had said about "the good fight" and "the whole armour," the great leader, and the sure victory at last. but strangely enough, and foolishly enough it seemed to him, his very last thought was about debby's going away; and before he had satisfactorily computed the number of weeks' wages it would take to make the sum which would probably be enough to purchase an overcoat, he fell asleep, and carried on the computation in his dreams. the next morning was not a very pleasant one to travel in. it was cloudy and cold, and the ground was covered with snow. mr inglis had intended to take frank on the first stage of his journey--that was to the railway station in d--, a town eleven miles away. but, as jem had foretold, the weariness which he had scarcely felt when he first came home, was all the worse now because of that, and he had taken cold besides; so david and jem were to take his place in conveying their cousin on the journey. the good-byes were all said, and the boys set off. they did not mind the cold, or the snow, or the threatening rain, but were well pleased with the prospect of a few more hours together. the roads were bad, and their progress was slow; but that mattered little, as they had the day before them, and plenty to say to one another to pass the time. they discussed trees and fruits, and things in general, after the fashion of boys, and then the last stories of hunters and trappers they had read; and in some way which it would not be easy to trace, they came round to hobab and the battles he might have fought, and then to "the whole armour" and the warfare in which it was intended to aid them who wore it. "i wish i understood it all better," said frank. "i suppose the bible means something when it speaks about the warfare, and the armour, and all that; but then one would not think so, just to see the way people live, and good people too." "one can't tell by just seeing the outside of people's lives," said david. "the outside of people's lives!" repeated frank. "why, what else can we see?" "i mean you are thinking of something quite different from mamma's idea of battles, and warfare, and all that. she was not speaking about anything that all the world, or people generally, would admire, or even see." "but you spoke of your father, david, and i can understand how he in a certain way may be said to be fighting the battles of the lord. he preaches against sin, and bad people oppose him, and he stands up for his master; and when he does good to people, wins them over to god's side, he may be said to make a conquest--to gain a victory, as he did when he rescued poor tim. i can understand why he should be called a soldier, and how his way of doing things may be called fighting; and that may be the way with ministers generally, i suppose; but as for other people, they ought to be the same, as the bible says so; but i don't see that they are, for all that. do you, jem?" "it depends on what you mean by fighting," said jem. "but whatever it is, it is something that can be seen," said frank impatiently, "and what i mean is that i don't see it." "but then the people you know most about mayn't be among the fighting men, even if you were a good judge of fighting," said jem. "your eyes mayn't be the best, you know." "well, lend me your eyes, then, and don't mind the people i know. take the people _you_ know, your father's right hand men, who ought to be among the soldiers, if there are any. there is mr strong and old penn, and the man who draws the mill logs. and all the people, women as well as men, ought to be wearing the armour and using the weapons. there is your friend, miss bethia, davie; is she a warrior, too?" "aunt bethia certainly is," said jem decidedly. "she is not afraid of-- well, of principalities and powers, i tell _you_. don't she fight great--eh, davie?" "aunt bethia is a very good woman, and it depends on what you call fighting," said david, dubiously. "yes, miss bethia is a soldier. and as for old mr penn, i've seen him fight very hard to keep awake in meeting," said jem, laughing. "it is easy enough to make fun of it, but aunt mary was in earnest. don't you know about it, davie?" "about these people fighting, do you mean? well, i once heard papa say that mr strong's life was for many years a constant fight. and he said, too, that he was using the right weapons, and that he would doubtless win the victory. so you see there is one of them a soldier," said david. "it must be a different kind of warfare from your father's," said frank. "i wonder what mr strong fights for?" "but i think he is fighting the very same battle, only in a different way." "well," said frank, "what about it?" "oh! i don't know that i can tell much about it. it used to be a very bad neighbourhood where old strong lives, and the neighbours used to bother him awfully. and that wasn't the worst. he has a very bad temper naturally, and he got into trouble all round when he first lived there. and one day he heard some of them laughing at him and his religion, saying there was no difference between christians and other people. and they didn't stop there, but scoffed at the name of our lord, and at the bible. it all happened down at hunt's mills, and they didn't know that mr strong was there; and when he rose up from the corner where he had been sitting all the time, and came forward among them, they were astonished, and thought they were going to have great fun. but they didn't that time. mr hunt told papa all about it. he just looked at them and said: `god forgive you for speaking lightly that blessed name, and god forgive me for giving you the occasion.' and then he just turned and walked away. "after that it didn't matter what they said or did to him, he wouldn't take his own part. they say that for more than a year he didn't speak a word to a man in the neighbourhood where he lives; he couldn't trust himself. but he got a chance to do a good turn once in a while, that told better than words. once he turned some stray cattle out of john jarvis's grain, and built up the fences when there was no one at jarvis's house to do it. that wouldn't have been much--any good neighbour would have done as much as that, you know. but it had happened the day before that the jarvis's boys had left down the bars of his back pasture, and all his young cattle had passed most of the night in his own wheat. it was not a place that the boys needed to go to, and it looked very much as if they had done it on purpose. they must have felt mean when they came home and saw old strong building up their fence." then jem took up the word. "and once, some of those fellows took off the nut from his wagon, as it was standing at the store door, and the wheel came off just as he was going down the hill by the bridge; and if it hadn't been that his old jerry is as steady as a rock the old man would have been pitched into the river." "the village people took that up, and wanted him to prosecute them. but he wouldn't," said david. "it was a regular case of `turning the other cheek.' everybody wondered, knowing old strong's temper." "and once they sheared old jerry's mane and tail," said jem. "and they say old strong cried like a baby when he saw him. he wouldn't have anything done about it; but he said he'd be even with them some time. and he was even with one of them. one day when he was in the hayfield, job steele came running over to tell him that his little girl had fallen in the barn and broken her arm and hurt her head, and he begged him to let him have jerry to ride, for the doctor. then mr strong looked him right in the face, and said he, `no, i can't let you have him. you don't know how to treat dumb beasts. i'll go myself for the doctor.' and sure enough, he unyoked his oxen from the cart, though it was saturday and looked like rain, and his hay was all ready to be taken in, and went to the pasture for jerry, and rode to the village himself, and let the doctor have his horse, and walked home." "and did he know that it was job steele who had ill-treated his horse," asked frank. "he never said so to anybody; and job never acknowledged it. but other people said so, and job once told papa that mr strong's way of doing `good for evil,' was the first thing that made him think that there must be something in religion; and mr steele is a changed character now." "and how did it all end with mr strong?" asked frank, much interested. "oh, it isn't ended yet," said david. "mr strong is fighting against his bad temper as hard as ever. it has ended as far as his trouble with his neighbours is concerned. he made them see there is something in religion more than they thought, as job steele said, and there is no more trouble among them. but the old man must have had some pretty hard battles with himself, before it came to that." "and so old mr strong is a soldier, anyway," said frank. "yes, and a conqueror," said jem. "don't you remember, `he that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.'" "yes," said david, thoughtfully. "mr strong is a soldier, and, frank, he is fighting the very same battle that papa is fighting--for the honour of christ. it is that they are all fighting for in one way or other. it is that that makes it warring a good warfare, you know." "no," said frank, "i am afraid i don't know much about it. tell me, davie." "oh, i don't pretend to know much about it, either," said david, with a look at jem. but jem shrugged his shoulders. "you should have asked papa," said he. "go ahead, davie," said frank. "well," said david, with some hesitation, "it is supposed that all christians are like their masters--more or less. he was `holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners;' and that is not an easy thing for any man or boy to be, and so all have to fight with themselves, and the world--" "and with the devil," said jem. "the principalities and powers, you know." "i suppose so, but we don't know much about that, only the end of it all is that they may become like christ--so that they may make him known to the world." "i've heard papa speak about it," said jem. "yes, it is one of papa's favourite themes. i have often heard him," said david. and then they went back to the discussion of old mr strong again, and then of others; and there was scarcely one of their acquaintances but they discussed in the new character of a soldier. sometimes they went quite away from the subject, and sometimes they said very foolish things. it is not to be supposed that boys like them would judge very justly, or discuss very charitably the character of people with the outside of whose lives they were alone acquainted, and besides, as david at last gravely acknowledged they could not understand all that was implied in "warring a good warfare," not being soldiers themselves. there was silence for a good while after this, and then they went on again, saying a good many things that could hardly be called wise; but the conclusion to which they came was right and true in the main. it was against `the world, the flesh, and the devil' that christians were to fight, and victory meant to become like christ, and to win over others to be like him, too. that was victory here, and afterwards there would be glory, and the crown of righteousness that paul spoke about, in heaven. they were all very grave by the time they got thus far. "nothing else in the world seems worth while in comparison, when one really thinks about it," said david. "the only wonder is that there are not more soldiers, and that they are not more in earnest," said frank. "all may be soldiers of christ jesus," said david, softly. "even boys?" said frank. "papa says so. boys like you and me and jem. papa was a soldier in the army of the lord, long before he was my age. he told me all about it one day," said david, with a break in his voice. "and he said the sooner we enlist the better `soldiers' we would be, and the more we would accomplish for him." "yes," said frank, "if one only knew the way." "it is all in the bible, frank," said david. "yes, i suppose so. it is a wonder you have not become a `soldier' long ago, david. how glad your mother would be. it is the _only_ thing, she thinks." all this last was said while jem had gone to ask at a farm-house door whether they had not taken the wrong turning up above, and nothing more was said when he came back. indeed, there was not time. the next turn brought the station in sight, and they saw the train and heard the whistle, and had only time for hurried good-byes before frank took his place. jem and davie stood for a little while looking after the train that bore their friend away so rapidly, and then they turned rather disconsolately to retrace their steps over the muddy roads in the direction of home. chapter three. if any one had suddenly asked david inglis to tell him what had been the very happiest moments during all the fourteen happy years of his life, he would probably have gone back in thought to the day, when on the banks of a clear stream among the hills, his very first success as a fisherman had come to him. or the remembrance of certain signal triumphs on the cricket ground, or at base-ball, might have come to his mind. but that would only have been in answer to a sudden question. if he had had time to think, he would have said, and truly too, that the very happiest hours of all his life had been passed in their old wagon at his father's side. so when he found, next day, that instead of sitting down to his lessons in a corner of the study, he was to drive his father over to the bass neighbourhood, to attend old mr bent's funeral, you may be sure he was well pleased. not that he objected to books as a general thing, or that any part of his pleasure rose out of a good chance to shirk his daily lessons. quite the contrary. books and lessons were by no means ignored between him and his father at such times. almost oftener than anything else, books and lessons came into their discussions. but a lesson from a printed page, not very well understood, and learned on compulsion, is one thing, and seldom a pleasant thing to any one concerned. but lessons explained and illustrated by his father as they went slowly through fields and woods together, were very pleasant matters to david. even the latin grammar, over whose tedious pages so many boys have yawned and trifled from generation to generation, even declensions and conjugations, and rules of syntax, and other matters which, as a general thing, are such hopeless mysteries to boys of nine or ten, were made matters of interest to david when his father took them in hand. and when it came to other subjects--subjects to be examined and illustrated by means of the natural objects around them--the rocks and stones, the grass and flowers and trees--the worms that creep, and the birds that fly--the treasures of the earth beneath, and the wonders of the heavens above, there was no thought of lesson or labour then. it was pure pleasure to david, and to his father, too. yes, david was a very happy boy at such times, and knew it--a circumstance which does not always accompany to a boy, the possession of such opportunities and advantages. for david firmly believed in his father as one of the best and wisest of living men. this may have been a mistake on his part, but, if so, his father being, what he was--a good man and true--it was a mistake which did him no harm but good, and it was a mistake which has never been set right to david. so that day was a day to be marked with a white stone. don got a more energetic rubbing down, and an additional measure of oats, on the strength of the pleasant prospect, for david was groom, and gardener, and errand boy, and whatever else his mother needed him to be when his younger brothers were at school, and all the arrangements about his father's going away might be safely trusted to him. it was a beautiful day. the only traces that remained of the premature winter that had threatened them on sunday night, were the long stretches of snow that lingered under the shadows of the wayside trees and fences, and lay in patches in the hollows of the broken pastures. the leafless landscape, so dreary under falling rain or leaden skies, shone and sparkled under sunshine so warm and bright, that david thought the day as fine as a day could be, and gave no regrets to the faded glories of summer. they set out early, for though the day was fine, the roads were not, and even with the best of roads, old don took his frequent journeys in a leisurely and dignified manner, which neither the minister nor david cared to interfere with unless they were pressed for time. they were not to go to the house where old tim had died, for that was on another road, and farther away than the red school-house where the funeral services were to be held, but the school-house was full seven miles from home, and they would need nearly two full hours for the journey. david soon found that these hours must be passed in silence. his father was occupied with his own thoughts, and by many signs which his son had learned to interpret, it was evident that he was thinking over what he was going to say to the people that day, and not a word was spoken till they came in sight of the school-house. on both sides of the road along the fences, many horses and wagons were fastened, and a great many people were standing in groups about the door. "there will be a great crowd to hear you to-day, papa," said david, as they drew near. "yes," said his father. "god give me a word to speak to some poor soul to-day." he went in and the people flocked in after him, and when david, having tied old don to his place by the fence, went in also, it was all that he could do to find standing-room for a while, there were so many there. the plain coffin, without pall or covering, was placed before the desk upon a table, and seated near to it were the few relatives of the dead. next to them were a number of very old people some of whom could look back over all old tim's life, then the friends and neighbours generally, all very grave and attentive as mr inglis rose to speak. there were some there who probably had not heard the gospel preached for years, some who, except on such an occasion, had not for all that time, heard the bible read or a prayer offered. "no wonder that papa wishes to have just the right word to say to them," thought david, as he looked round on them all. and he had just the right word for them, and for david, too, and for all the world. for he set before them "the glorious gospel of the blessed god." he said little of the dead, only that he was a sinner saved by grace; and then he set forth the glory of that wondrous grace to the living. "victory through our lord jesus christ" was his theme--victory over sin, the world, death. the gospel of christ full, free, sufficient, was clearly set before the people that day. david listened, as he was rather apt to listen to his father's sermons, not for himself but for others. he heard all that was said, and laid it up in his mind, that he might be able to tell it to his mother at home, as she generally expected him to do; but, at the same time, he was thinking how all that his father was saying would seem to this or the other man or woman in the congregation who did not often hear his voice. there was less wonder that he should do that to-day because there were a great many strangers there, and for the most part they were listening attentively. in the little pauses that came now and then, "you might have heard a pin fall," david said afterwards to his mother, and the boy felt proud that his father should speak so well, and that all the people should be compelled, as it were, to listen so earnestly. this was only for a minute, however. he was ashamed of the thought almost immediately. for what did it matter whether the people thought well of his father or not? and then he tried to make himself believe that he was only glad for their sakes, that, listening so attentively to truths so important, they might get good. and then he thought what a grand thing it would be, and how happy it would make his father, if from this very day some of these careless people should begin a new life, and if the old school-house should be crowded every sunday to hear his words. but it never came into his mind until the very end, that all that his father was saying was just as much for him as for any one there. all through the sermon ran the idea of the christian life being a warfare, and the christian a soldier, fighting under a divine leader; and when, at the close, he spoke of the victory, how certain it was, how complete, how satisfying beyond all that heart of man could conceive, david forgot to wonder what all the people might be thinking, so grand and wonderful it seemed. so when a word or two was added about the utter loss and ruin that must overtake all who were not on the side of the divine leader, in the great army which he led, it touched him, too. it was like a nail fastened in a sure place. it could not be pushed aside, or shaken off, as had happened so many times when fitting words had been spoken in his hearing before. they were for him, too, as well as for the rest--more than for the rest, he said to himself, and they would not be put away. as was the custom in these country places at that time, there was a long pause after the sermon was over. the coffin was opened, and one after another went up and looked on the face of the dead, and it seemed to david that they would never be done with it, and he rose at last and went out of doors to wait for his father there. it was but a few steps to the grave-yard, and the people stood only a minute or two round the open grave. then there was a prayer offered, and poor old tim was left to his rest. "`poor old tim,' no longer," said david to himself, when they were fairly started on their homeward way again. "happy tim, i ought to say. i wonder what he is doing now! he is one of `the spirits of just men made perfect' by this time. i wonder how it seems to him up there," said david, looking far up into the blue above him. "it does seem past belief. i can't think of him but as a lame old man with a crutch, and there he is, up among the best of them, singing with a will, as he used to sing here, only with no drawbacks. it _is_ wonderful. think of old tim singing with john, and paul, and with king david himself. it is queer to think of it!" he had a good while to think of it, for his father was silent and preoccupied still. it had often happened before, that his father being busy with his own thoughts, david had to be content with silence, and with such amusement as he could get from the sights and sounds about him, and he had never found that very hard. but he had not been so much with him of late because of frank's visit, and he had so looked forward to the enjoyment he was to have to-day, that he could not help feeling a little aggrieved when half their way home had been accomplished without a word. "papa," said he, at last, "i wish frank had been here to-day--to hear your sermon, i mean." "i did not know that frank had an especial taste for sermons," said his father, smiling. "well, no, i don't think he has; but he would have liked that one--about the christian warfare, because we have been speaking about it lately." and then he went on to tell about the reading on sunday night, and about hobab and all that had been said about the "good warfare" and "the whole armour," and how interested frank had been. he told a little, too, about their conversation on the way to the station, and mr inglis could not but smile at their making "soldiers" of all the neighbours, and at their way of illustrating the idea to themselves. by and by david added: "i wish frank had heard what you said to-day about victory. it would have come in so well after the talk about the `soldiers' and fighting. he would have liked to hear about the victory." "yes," said his father, gravely; "it is pleasanter to hear of the victory than the conflict, but the conflict must come first, davie, my boy." "yes, papa, i know." "and, my boy, the first step to becoming a `soldier' is the enrolling of the name. and you know who said `he that is not for me is against me.' think what it would be to be found on the other side on the day when even death itself `shall be swallowed up in victory.'" david made no answer. it was not mr inglis's way to speak often in this manner to his children. he did not make every solemn circumstance in life the occasion for a personal lesson or warning to them, till they "had got used to it," as children say, and so heard it without heeding. so david could not just listen to his father's words, and let them slip out of his mind again as words of course. he could not put them aside, nor could he say, as some boys might have said at such a time, that he wished to be a soldier of christ and that he meant to try. for in his heart he was not sure that he wished to be a soldier of christ in the sense his father meant, and though he had sometimes said to himself that he meant to be one, it was sometime in the future--a good while in the future, and he would have been mocking himself and his father, too, if he had told him that he longed to enrol his name. so he sat beside him without a word. they had come by this time to the highest point of the road leading to gourlay centre, at least the highest point where the valley through which the gourlay river flowed could be seen; and of his own accord old don stood still to rest. he always did so at this point, and not altogether for his own pleasure, for mr inglis and david were hardly ever so pressed for time but that they were willing to linger a minute or two to look down on the valley and the hills beyond. the two villages could be seen, and the bridge, and a great many fine fields lying round the scattered farm-houses, and, beyond these, miles and miles of unbroken forest. david might travel through many lands and see no fairer landscape, but it did not please him to-night. there was no sunshine on it to-night, and he said to himself that it always needed sunshine. the grey clouds had gathered again, and lay in piled-up masses veiling the west, and the november wind came sweeping over the hills cold and keen. mr inglis shivered, and wrapped his coat closely about him, and david touched don impatiently. the drive had been rather a failure, he thought, and they might as well be getting home. but he had time for a good many troubled thoughts before they reached the bridge over the gourlay. "to enrol one's name." he had not done that, and that was the very first step towards becoming a soldier. "he that is not for me is against me." he did not like that at all. he would have liked to explain that so as to make it mean something else. he would have liked to make himself believe that there was some middle ground. "he that is not against me is for me." in one place it said that, and he liked it much better. he tried to persuade himself that he was not against christ. no, certainly he was not against him. but was he for him in the sense his father meant--in the sense that his father was for him, and his mother, and a good many others that came into his mind? had he deliberately enrolled his name as one of the great army whom christ would lead to victory? but then how could he do this? he could not do it, he said to himself. it was god's work to convert the soul, and had not his father said within the hour, "it is god that giveth the victory?" had he not said that salvation was all of grace from beginning to end--that it was a gift--"god's gift." what more could be said? but david knew in his heart that a great deal more could be said. he knew great as this gift was--full and free as it was, he had never asked for it--never really desired it. he desired to be saved from the consequences of sin, as who does not? but he did not long to be saved from sin itself and its power in the heart, as they must be whom god saves. he did not feel that he needed this. if he was not "for christ" in the sense his father and mother were for him, still the thought came back--surely he was _not_ against him; even though it might not be pleasant for him to think of giving up all for christ--to "take up his cross and follow him," still he was not "against him." oh! if there only were some other way! if people could enlist in a real army, and march away to fight real battles, as men used to do in the times when they fought for the cross and the possession of the holy sepulchre! "or, rather, as they seemed to be fighting for them," said david, with a sigh, for he knew that pride and envy and the lust for power, too often reigned in the hearts of them who in those days had christ's name and honour on their lips; and that the cause of the cross was made the means to the winning of unworthy ends. still, if one could only engage sincerely in some great cause with all their hearts, and labour and strive for it for christ's sake, it would be an easier way, he thought. or if he could have lived in the times of persecution, or in the times when christian men fought at once for civil and religious freedom! oh! that would have been grand! he would have sought no middle course then. he would have fought, and suffered, and conquered like a hero in such days as those. of course such days could never come back again, but if they could! and then he let his mind wander away in dreams, as to how if such times ever were to come back again, he would be strong and wise, and courageous for the right--how he would stand by his father, and shield his mother, and be a defence and protection to all who were weak or afraid. bad men should fear him, good men should honour--his name should be a watchword to those who were on the lord's side. it would never do to write down all the foolish thoughts that david had on his way home that afternoon. he knew that they were foolish, and worse than foolish, when he came out of them with a start as old don made his accustomed little demonstration of energy and speed as they came to the little hill by the bridge, not far from home. he knew that they were foolish, and he could not help glancing up into his father's face with a little confusion, as if he had known his thoughts all the time. "are you tired, papa?--and cold?" asked he. "i am a little cold. but here we are at home. it is always good to get home again." "yes," said david, springing down. "i am glad to get home." he had a feeling of relief which he was not willing to acknowledge even to himself. he could put away troubled thoughts now. indeed they went away of themselves without an effort, the moment jem hailed him from the house. they came again, however, when the children being all in bed, and his father not come down from the study, his mother asked him about old tim's funeral, and the people who were there, and what his father had said to them. he told her about it, and surprised her and himself too, by the clearness and accuracy with which he went over the whole address. he grew quite eager about it, and told her how the people listened, and how "you might have heard a pin fall" in the little pauses that came now and then. and when he had done, he said to her as he had said to his father: "i wish frank had been there to hear all that papa said about victory," and then, remembering how his father had answered him, his troubled thoughts came back again, and his face grew grave. "but it was good for you to hear it, davie," said his mother. "yes," said david, uneasily, thinking she was going to say more. but she did not, and he did not linger much longer down-stairs. he said he was tired and sleepy with his long drive in the cold, and he would go to bed. so carrying them with him, he went up-stairs, where jem was sleeping quite too soundly to be wakened for a talk, and they stayed with him till he went to sleep, which was not for a long time. they were all gone in the morning, however. a night's sleep and a morning brilliant with sunshine are quite enough to put painful thoughts out of the mind of a boy of fourteen--for the time, at least, and david had no more trouble with his, till miss bethia barnes, coming to visit them one afternoon, asked him about mr bent's funeral and the bearers and mourners, and about his father's text and sermon, and then they came back to him again. chapter four. miss bethia barnes was a plain and rather peculiar single woman, a good deal past middle age, who lived by herself in a little house about half way between the two village's. she was generally called aunt bethia by the neighbours, but she had not gained the title as some old ladies do, because of the general loving-kindness of their nature. she was a good woman and very useful, but she was not always very agreeable. to do just exactly right at all times, and in all circumstances, was the first wish of her heart; the second wish of her heart was, that everybody else should do so likewise, and she had fallen into the belief, that she was not only responsible for her own well-being and well-doing, but for that of all with whom she came in contact. of course it is right that each individual in a community should do what may be done to help all the rest to be good and happy. but people cannot be made good and happy against their own will, and miss bethia's advances in that direction were too often made in a way which first of all excited the opposition of the person she intended to benefit. this was almost always the case where the young people of the village were concerned. those who had known her long and well, did not heed her plain and sharp speaking, because of her kindly intentions, and it was known besides that her sharpest words were generally forerunners of her kindest deeds. but the young people did not so readily take these things into consideration, and she was by no means a favourite with them. so it is not surprising, that when she made her appearance one afternoon at the minister's house, david, who was there alone with little mary, was not very well pleased to see her. little mary was pleased. even aunt bethia had only sweet words for the pet and baby; and happily the child's pretty welcome, and then her delight over the little cake of maple sugar that miss bethia had brought her, occupied that lady's attention till david had time to smooth his face again. it helped him a little to think that his father and mother being away from home, their visitor might not stay long. he was mistaken, however. "i heard your father and mother had gone over to mrs spry's; but i had made my calculations for a visit here just now, and i thought i'd come. they'll be coming home to-night, i expect?" added she, as she untied her bonnet, and prepared herself to enjoy her visit. "yes," said david, hesitating. "they are coming home to-night--i think." he spoke rather doubtfully. he knew they had intended to come home, but it seemed to him just as if something would certainly happen to detain them if miss bethia were to stay. and besides it came into his mind that if she doubted about the time of their return, she would go and visit somewhere else in the village, and come back another time. that would be a much better plan, he thought, with a rueful glance at the book he had intended to enjoy all the afternoon. but miss bethia had quite other thoughts. "well, it can't be helped. they'll be home to-morrow if they don't come to-night; and i can have a visit with you and violet. i shall admire to!" said miss bethia, reassuringly, as a doubtful look passed over david's face. "violet is at school," said he, "and all the rest." "best place for them," said miss bethia. "where is debby?" "she has gone home for a day or two. her sister is sick." "she is coming back, is she? i heard your mother was going to try and get along without her this winter. that won't pay. `penny wise and pound foolish' that would be," said miss bethia. david said nothing to this. "better pay debby stone, and board her, too, than pay the doctor. ambition ain't strength. home-work, and sewing-machine, and parish visiting--that's burning the candle at both ends. that don't _ever_ pay." "mamma knows best what to do," said david, with some offence in his voice. "she knows better than you, i presume," said the visitor. "ah! yes. she knows well enough what is best. but the trouble is, folks can't always do what they know is best. we've got to do the best we can in _this_ world--and there's none of us too wise to make mistakes, at that. she got the washing done and the clothes sprinkled before she went, did she? pretty well for debby, so early in the week. letty ought to calculate to do this ironing for her mother. hadn't you better put on the flats and have them ready by the time she gets home from school?" "mamma said nothing about it," said david. "no, it ain't likely. but that makes no difference. letty ought to know without being told. put the flats on to heat, and i'll make a beginning. we'll have just as good a visit." david laughed. he could not help it. "a good visit," said he to himself. aloud he said something about its being too much trouble for miss bethia. "trouble for a friend is the best kind of pleasure," said she. "and don't you worry. your mother's clothes will bear to be looked at. patches ain't a sin these days, but the contrary. step a little spryer, can't you! we can visit all the same." it was miss bethia's way to take the reins in her own hand wherever she was, and david could not have prevented her if he had tried, which he did not. he could only do as he was bidden. in a much shorter time than debby would have taken, david thought, all preliminary arrangements were made, and miss bethia was busy at work. little mary stood on a stool at the end of the table, and gravely imitated her movements with a little iron of her own. "now this is what i call a kind of pleasant," said miss bethia. "now let's have a good visit before the children come home." "shall i read to you?" said david, a little at a loss as to what might be expected from him in the way of entertainment. "well--no. i can read to myself at home, and i would rather talk if you had just as lief." and she did talk on every imaginable subject, with very little pause, till she came round at last to old mr bent's death. "i'd have given considerable to have gone to the funeral," said she. "i've known timothy bent for over forty years, and i'd have liked to see the last of him. i thought of coming up to ask your papa if he wouldn't take me over when he went, but i thought perhaps your mamma would want to go. did she?" no, david said; he had driven his father over. "your papa preached, did he?" and then followed a great many questions about the funeral, and the mourners, and the bearers, and then about the text and the sermon. and then she added a hope that he "realised" the value of the privileges he enjoyed above others in having so many opportunities to hear his father preach. and when she said this, david knew that she was going to give him the "serious talking to" which she always felt it her duty to give faithfully to the young people of the families where she visited. they always expected it. davie and jem used to compare notes about these "talks," and used to boast to one another about the methods they took to prevent, or interrupt, or answer them, as the case might be. but when miss bethia spoke about mr bent and the funeral, it brought back the sermon and what his father had said to him on his way home, and all the troubled thoughts that had come to him afterwards. so instead of shrugging his shoulders, and making believe very busy with something else, as he had often done under miss bethia's threatening lectures, he sat looking out of the window with so grave a face, that she in her turn, made a little pause, of surprise, and watched him as she went on with her work. "yes," she went on in a little, "it is a great privilege you have, and that was a solemn occasion, a very solemn occasion--but you did not tell me the text." david told her the text and a good part of the sermon, too. he told it so well, and grew so interested and animated as he went on, that in a little miss bethia set down the flat-iron, and seated herself to listen. jem came in before he was through. "well! well! i feel just as if i had been to meeting," said miss bethia. "well done, davie!" said jem. "isn't our davie a smart boy, aunt bethia? i wish frank could have heard that." "yes, so i told papa," said david, gravely. "it is a great responsibility to have such privileges as you have, boys--" began miss bethia. "as davie has, you mean, miss bethia," said jem. "he goes with papa almost always--" "and as you have, too. take care that you don't neglect them, so that they may not rise up in judgment against you some day--" but miss bethia was obliged to interrupt herself to shake hands with violet, who came in with her little brother and sister. jem laughed at the blank look in his sister's face. "miss bethia has commenced your ironing for you," said he. "yes--i see. you shouldn't have troubled yourself about it, miss bethia." "i guess i know pretty well by this time what i should do, and what i should let alone," said miss bethia, sharply, not pleased with the look on violet's face, or the heartiness of her greeting. "it was your mother i was thinking of. i expect the heft of debby's work will fall on her." "debby will be back to-morrow or next day, i hope," said violet. "but it was very kind of you to do it, miss bethia, and i will begin in a minute." "you had better go to work and get supper ready, and get that out of the way; and by that time the starched clothes will be done, and you can do the rest. i expect the children want their supper by this time," said miss bethia. "yes, i dare say it would be better." violet was very good-tempered, and did not feel inclined to resent miss bethia's tone of command. and besides, she knew it would do no good to resent it, so she went away to put aside her books, and her out-of-door's dress, and miss bethia turned her attention to the boys again. "yes, that was a solemn sermon, boys, and, david, i am glad to see that you must have paid good attention to remember it so well. i hope it may do you good, and all who heard it." "our davie won't make a bad preacher himself, will he, miss bethia?" said jem. "he has about made up his mind to it now." "his making up his mind don't amount to much, one way or the other," said miss bethia. "boys' minds are soon made up, but they ain't apt to stay made up--not to anything but foolishness. that's my belief, and i've seen a good many boys at one time and another." "but that's not the way with our davie," said jem. "you wouldn't find many boys that would remember a sermon so well, and repeat it so well as he does. now would you, aunt bethia?" "nonsense, jem, that's enough," said davie. "he's chaffing, aunt bethia." "he's entirely welcome," said miss bethia, smiling grimly. "though i don't see anything funny in the idea of david's being a minister, or you either, for that matter." "funny! no. anything but funny! a very serious matter that would be," said jem. "we couldn't afford to have so many ministers in the family, miss bethia. i am not going to be a minister. i am going to make a lot of money and be a rich man, and then i'll buy a house for papa, and send davie's boys to college." they all laughed. "you may laugh, but you'll see," said jem. "i am not going to be a minister. hard work and poor pay. i have seen too much of that, miss bethia." he was "chaffing" her. miss bethia knew it quite well, and though she had said he was entirely welcome, it made her angry because she could not see the joke, and because she thought it was not respectful nor polite on jem's part to joke with her, as indeed it was not. and besides this was a sore subject with miss bethia--the poverty of ministers. she had at one time or another spent a great many of her valuable words on those who were supposed to be influential in the guidance of parish affairs, with a design to prove that their affairs were not managed as they ought to be. there was no reason in the world, but shiftlessness and sinful indifference, to prevent all being made and kept straight between the minister and people as regarded salary and support, she declared, and it was a shame that a man like their minister should find himself pressed or hampered, in providing the comforts-- sometimes the necessaries of life--for his family. that was putting it strong, the authorities thought and said, but miss bethia never would allow that it was too strong, and she never tired of putting it. "the labourer is worthy of his hire." "they that serve the temple must live by the temple." and with a house to keep up and his children to clothe and feed, no wonder that mr inglis might be troubled many a time when he thought of how they were to be educated, and of what was to become of them in case he should be taken away. there was no theme on which miss bethia was so eloquent as this, and she was eloquent on most themes. she never tired of this one, and answered all excuses and expostulations with a force and sharpness that, as a general thing, silenced, if they did not convince. whether she helped her cause by this assertion of its claims, is a question. she took great credit for her faithfulness in the matter, at any rate, and as she had not in the past, so she had made up her mind that she should not in the future be found wanting in this respect. but it was one thing to tell her neighbours their duty with regard to their minister, and it was quite another thing to listen to a lad like jem making disparaging remarks as to a minister's possessions and prospects. "hard work and poor pay," said jem, and she felt very much like resenting his words, as a reflection on the people of whom she was one. jem needed putting down. "your pa wouldn't say so. he ain't one to wish to serve two masters. he ain't a mammon worshipper," said miss bethia, solemnly. "no!" said jem, opening his eyes very wide. "and i don't intend to be one either. i intend to make a good living, and perhaps become a rich man." "don't, jem," said violet, softly. she meant "don't vex miss bethia," as jem very well knew, but he only laughed and said: "don't do what? become a rich man? or a worshipper of mammon? don't be silly, letty." "jem's going to be a blacksmith," said edward. "you needn't laugh. he put a shoe on mr strong's old jerry the other day. i saw him do it." "pooh," said jem. "that's nothing. anybody could do that. i am going to make a steam-engine some day." "you're a smart boy, if we are to believe you," said miss bethia. "did mr strong know that the blacksmith let you meddle with his horse's shoes? i should like to have seen his face when he heard it." "one must begin with somebody's horse, you know. and peter munro said he couldn't have done it better himself," said jem, triumphantly. "peter munro knows about horseshoes, and that's about all he does know. he ought to know that you might be about better business than hanging about his shop, learning no good." "horseshoes no good!" said jem, laughing. "jem, dear!" pleaded violet. "but it's dreadful to hear miss bethia speak disrespectfully of horseshoes," said jem. "i think there's something more to be expected from your father's son than horseshoes," said miss bethia. "but horseshoes may do for a beginning," said david. "and by and by, perhaps, it may be engines, and railways; who knows?" "and good horseshoes are better than bad sermons, and they pay better than good ones," said jem. "and i'm bound to be a rich man. you'll see, miss bethia." then he went on to tell of the wonderful things that were to happen when he became a rich man. old don was to be superannuated, and his father was to have a new horse, and a new fur coat to wear when the weather was cold. his mother and violet were to have untold splendours in the way of dress, and the children as well. davie was to go to college, and there should be a new bell to the church, and a new fence to the grave-yard, and miss bethia was to have a silk gown of any colour she liked, and a knocker to her front door. there was a great deal of fun and laughter, in which even miss bethia joined, and when violet called them to tea, jem whispered to david that they had escaped her serious lecture for that time. after tea, they all went again to the kitchen, which, indeed, was as pleasant as many parlours, and while violet washed the tea-dishes, miss bethia went on with the ironing, and the boys went on with their lessons. just as they were all beginning to wonder what could be delaying the return home of their father and mother, there came a messenger to say that they had been obliged to go much farther than mr spry's, to see a sick person, and that as they might not be home that night, the children were not to wait for them past their usual time of going to bed. there were exclamations of disappointment from the younger ones, and little mary, who was getting sleepy and a little cross, began to cry. "i had a presentiment that we should not see them to-night," said david, taking his little sister on his lap to comfort her. "never mind, polly. mamma will be home in the morning, and we must be able to tell her that we have all been good, and that nobody has cried or been cross, but quite the contrary." "i wish your mother knew that i had happened along. it would have set her mind at rest about you all," said miss bethia. the young people were not so sure of that, but there would have been no use in saying so. "oh! mamma knows we can get on nicely for one night. but she will be sorry to miss your visit, miss bethia," said violet. "she won't miss it. i shall have a visit with her when she gets home. and now hadn't you better put the children to bed before you set down?" but the children, except little mary, were in the habit of putting themselves to bed, and were not expected to do so till eight o'clock, as they declared with sufficient decision. so nothing more was said about it. if it had been any other child but little mary. miss bethia would have counselled summary measures with her, and she would have been sent to bed at once. as it was the little lady had her own way for a while, and kept her eyes wide open, while david comforted her for the absence of mamma. he played with her and told her stories, and by and by undressed her gently, kissing her hands and her little bare feet, and murmuring such tender words, that baby grew good and sweet, and forgot that there was any one in the world she loved better than davie. as for miss bethia, as she watched them she was wondering whether it could be the rough, thoughtless schoolboy, to whom she had so often considered it her duty to administer both instruction and reproof. she was not, as a general thing, very tolerant of boys. she intended to do her duty by the boys of her acquaintance in the matter of rebuke and correction, and in the matter of patience and forbearance as well, and these things covered the whole ground, as far as her relations with boys were concerned. and so when she saw david kissing his little sister's hands and feet, and heard him softly prompting her in her "good words" as the eyelids fell over the sleepy little eyes, she experienced quite a new sensation. she looked upon a boy with entire approval. he had pleased her in the afternoon, when he had told her so much about his father's sermon. but she had hardly been conscious of her pleasure then, because of the earnestness of her desire to impress him and his brother with a sense of their responsibility as to the use they made of their privileges and opportunities. it came back to her mind, however, as she sat watching him and his little sister, and she acknowledged to herself that she was pleased, and that david was not a common boy. david would never have guessed her thoughts by the first words she spoke. "put her to bed," said she. "she'll take cold." "yes, i will," said david, but he did not move to do it. "miss bethia," said he in a little, "if wee polly were to die to-night and go to heaven, do you suppose she would always stay a little child as she is now?" miss bethia set down her flat-irons and looked at him in surprise. "what on earth put that into your head?" said she, hastily. "look at her," said david. "it doesn't seem as though she could be any sweeter even in heaven, does it?" violet came and knelt down beside her brother. "is she not a precious darling?" said she, kissing her softly. "it isn't much we know about how folks will look in heaven," said miss bethia, gravely. "no," said david. "only that we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is." "if we ever get there," said miss bethia. "yes, if we ever get there," said david. "but if our little polly were to die to-night, she would be sure to get there, and what i would like to know is, whether she would always be little polly there, so that when the rest of us get there, too, we should know her at once without being told." "she would have a new name given her," said violet. "yes, and a crown and a harp, and a white robe, and wings, perhaps. but she might have all that and be our little polly still. i wonder how it will be. what do you think, miss bethia?" "i haven't thought about it. i don't seem to remember that there is anything said about it in the bible. and there is no other way of knowing anything about it--as i see." "no. still one cannot but think of these things. don't you remember, violet? "not as child shall we again behold her, but when with rapture wild. in our embraces we again enfold her, she will not be a child." "yes." violet remembered the words, and added: "but a fair maiden in our father's mansion." "i don't like to think that may be the way." "but that ain't in the bible," said miss bethia. "no," said david. "and i like best the idea of there being little children there. of course there are children now, because they are going there every day. but if they grow up there--afterwards, when the end comes, there will be no little children." "how you talk!" said aunt bethia. "i don't more than half believe that it's right for you to follow out such notions. if the bible don't say any thing about it, it is a sign it's something we needn't worry about, for we don't need to know it." "no, we don't need to worry about it," said david. "but one cannot help having such thoughts in their minds sometimes." there was nothing more said for some time. violet still knelt by her brother's side, and the eyes of both were resting on the baby's lovely face. it was miss bethia who spoke first. "i was a twin. my sister died when she was three years old. i remember how she looked as well as i remember my mother's face, and she didn't die till i was over forty. i should know her in a minute if i were to see her. it would seem queer to see us together--twins so--wouldn't it?--she a child and me an old woman," said miss bethia, with something like a sob in her voice. "it will be all in her favour--the difference, i mean." "`whom the gods love die young,'" said david. "but that is a pagan sentiment. papa said, the other day, that victory must mean more to the man who has gone through the war, than to him who has hardly had time to strike a blow. even before the victory it must be grand, he said, to be able to say like paul, `i have fought the good fight; i have kept the faith.' and, perhaps, miss bethia, your crown may be brighter than your little sister's, after all." "it will owe none of its brightness to me," said miss bethia, with sudden humility. "and i don't suppose i shall begrudge the brightness of other folks' crowns when i get there, if i ever do." in the pause that followed, david went and laid the baby in her cot, and when he returned the children came with him, and the talk went on. they all had something to say about what they should see and do, and the people they should meet with when they got there. but it would not bear repeating, all that they said, and they fell in a little while into talk of other things, and jem, as his way was, made the little ones laugh at his funny sayings, and even violet smiled sometimes. but david was very grave and quiet, and miss bethia, for a good while, did not seem to hear a word, or to notice what was going on. but by and by something was said about the lessons of the next day, and she roused herself up enough to drop her accustomed words about "privileges and responsibilities," and then went on to tell how different every thing had been in her young days, and before she knew it she was giving them her own history. there was not much to tell. that is, there had been few incidents in her life, but a great deal of hard work, many trials and disappointments--and many blessings as well. "and," said aunt bethia, "if i were to undertake, i couldn't always tell you which was which. for sometimes the things i wished most for, and worked hardest to get, didn't amount to but very little when i got them. and the things i was most afraid of went clear out of sight, or turned right round into blessings, as soon as i came near enough to touch them. and i tell you, children, there is nothing in the world that it's worth while being afraid of but sin. you can't be too much afraid of that. it is a solemn thing to live in the world, especially such times as these. but there's no good talking. each one must learn for himself; and it seems as though folks would need to live one life, just to teach them how to live. i don't suppose there's any thing i could say to you that would make much difference. talk don't seem to amount to much, any way." "i am sure you must have seen a great deal in your life, miss bethia, and might tell us a great many things to do us good," said violet, but she did not speak very enthusiastically, for she was not very fond of miss bethia's good advice any more than her brothers; and little jessie got them happily out of the difficulty, by asking: "what did you use to do when you were a little girl, aunt bethia?" "pretty much what other little girls did. we lived down in new hampshire, then, and what ever made father come away up here for, is more than i can tell. i had a hard time after we came up here. i helped father and the boys to clear up our farm. i used to burn brush, and make sugar, and plant potatoes and corn, and spin and knit. i kept school twenty-one seasons, off and on. i didn't know much, but a little went a great way in those days. i used to teach six days in the week, and make out a full week's spinning or weaving, as well. i was strong and smart then, and ambitious to make a living and more. after a while, my brothers moved out west, and i had to stay at home with father and mother, and pretty soon mother died. i have been on the old place ever since. it is ten years since father died. i've stayed there alone most of the time since, and i suppose i shall till my time comes. and children, i've found out that life don't amount to much, except as it is spent as a time of preparation--and for the chance it gives you to do good to your neighbours; and it ain't a great while since i knew that, only as i heard folks say it. it ain't much i've done of it." there was nothing said for a minute or two, and then ned made them all laugh by asking, gravely: "miss bethia, are you very rich?" miss bethia laughed, too. "why, yes; i suppose i may say i am rich. i've got all i shall ever want to spend, and more, too. i've got all i want, and that's more than most folks who are called rich can say. and i have earned all i've got. but it ain't what one has got, so much as what one has done, that makes life pleasant to look back upon." "it is pleasant to have plenty of money, too, however," said jem. "and people can do good with their money," said violet. "yes, that is true; but money don't stand for everything, even to do good with. money won't stand instead of a life spent in god's service. money, even to do good with, is a poor thing compared with that. money won't go a great ways in the making of happiness, without something else." "would you like to live your life over again, miss bethia?" asked violet. "no--i shouldn't. not unless i could live it a great deal better. and i know myself too well by this time to suppose i should do that. it wouldn't pay, i don't believe. but oh! children, it is a grand thing to be young, to have your whole life before you to give to the lord. you can't begin too young. boys, and you, too, violet--you have great privileges and responsibilities." this was miss bethia's favourite way of putting their duty before them. she had said this about "privilege and responsibility" two or three times to-night already, as the boys knew she would. it had come to be a by-word among them. but even jem did not smile this time, she was so much in earnest, and violet and david looked very grave. "`fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life.' that's what you've got to do. `take the whole armour of god,' and fight his battles." the boys looked at each other, remembering all that had been said about this of late. "your father said right. it is a grand thing to come to the end of life and be able to say, `i have fought the good fight; i have kept the faith.'" "like mr great heart in the pilgrim's progress," said ned. "yes. sometimes it's lions, and sometimes it's giants, but it's fighting all the way through, and god gives the victory. yes," continued miss bethia, after a pause, "it's fighting all the way through, and it don't so much matter how it looks to other folks. horseshoes or sermons, it don't matter, so that it is done to the lord. your father, he is a standard-bearer; and your mother, she helps the lord's cause by helping him, and so she fights the good fight, too. there's enough for all to do, and the sooner you begin, the more you can do, and the better it will be--and i'm sure it's time these children were in bed now." yes, it was more than time, as all acknowledged, but they did not go very willingly for all that. "obedience is the first duty of a soldier, ned, boy," said jem. "if we could only know that we were soldiers," said david, gravely; and then he added to himself, "the very first thing is to enrol one's name." "i wonder all the girls don't like aunt bethia more," said jessie, when violet came up to take her candle in a little. "i'm sure she's nice-- sometimes." "yes, she is always very good, and to-night she is pleasant," said violet. "and i'm not at all sorry that she came, though mamma is away. good-night, dear, and pleasant dreams." upon the whole, miss bethia's visit was a success. mr and mrs inglis came home next day to find her and little mary in possession of the house. david was waiting to receive them at the gate, and all the others had gone to school. violet had proposed to stay at home to entertain their guest, but this miss bethia would not hear of. the baby and she were quite equal to the entertainment of one another, to say nothing of david, upon whom miss bethia was evidently beginning to look with eyes of favour. they had not got tired of one another when mamma came to the rescue, and nothing mattered much either to david or his little sister when mamma was at hand. mr inglis was almost ill with a cold; too ill to care to go to his study and his books that day, but not too ill to lie on the sofa and talk with--or rather listen to, miss bethia. this was a great pleasure to her, for she had a deep respect for the minister, and indeed, the respect was mutual. so they discussed parish matters a little; and all the wonderful things that were happening in the world, they discussed a good deal. there was a new book, too, which miss bethia had got--a very interesting book to read, but of whose orthodoxy she could not be quite sure till she had discussed it with the minister. there were new thoughts in it, and old thoughts clothed in unfamiliar language, and she wanted his help in comparing it with the only standard of truth in the opinion of both. so the first day was successful, and so were all the other days of her visit, though in a different way. there were no signs of debby's return, but mrs inglis had, in the course of her married life, been too often left to her own resources to make this a matter of much consequence for a few days. the house was as orderly, and the meals were as regular; and though some things in the usual routine were left undone because of debby's absence and miss bethia's presence in the house, still everything went smoothly, and all the more so that miss bethia, who had had a varied experience in the way of long visits, knew just when to sit still and seem to see nothing, and when to put forth a helping hand. her visits, as a general thing, were not without some drawbacks, and if mrs inglis had had her choice, she would have preferred that this one should have taken place when debby's presence in the kitchen would have left her free to attend to her guest. but this was a visit altogether pleasant. there was not even the little jarring and uncomfortableness, rather apt to arise out of her interest in the children, and her efforts in their behalf. not that she neglected them or their affairs. david, of whom she saw most, had a feeling that her eye was upon him whenever he was in the house, but her observation was more silent than usual, and even when she took him to task, as she did more than once, he did not for some reason or other, feel inclined to resent her sharp little speeches as he had sometimes done. she did not overlook him by any means, but asked a great many questions about his books, and lessons, and amusements, and about when he was going to college, and about what he was to be afterwards, and behind his back praised him to his mother as a sensible, well-behaved boy, which, of course, pleased his mother, and made david himself laugh heartily when he heard of it. still, though her visit had been most agreeable, it was pleasant to be alone again, when it came to an end, and little jessie expressed what the others only thought when she said: "it's nice to have miss bethia come once in a while, and it's nice to have her go away, too." debby did not come back, but everything went on as nearly as possible as usual in her absence. they hoped to have her again, by and by, so no effort was made to supply her place. if she could not come back, violet would possibly have to stay at home after the christmas holidays to help in the house, and in the meantime, david did what "a sensible, well-behaved boy" might be expected to do, to supply her place. and that was a great deal. david was a manly boy, and he was none the less manly that he did a great many things for his mother, that boys are not generally supposed to like to do. what those things were, need not be told, lest boys not so sensible, should call his manliness in question, and so lose their interest in him. indeed, it must be confessed that, sensible boy as he was, david himself had some doubts as to the manliness of some of the work that fell to him to do about this time, and did not care that his morning's occupations should be alluded to often, before jem and ned. but he had no doubt as to the help and comfort he was to his mother during these days, when she needed both even more than he knew. it is a manly thing in a boy to be his mother's "right hand," and david was that, and more than that, during these happy days, when they were so much alone together. for they were happy days to them all. in spite of work and weariness, and anxiety, and a sudden sharp dread of something else harder to bear than these, that came now and then to one at least of the household, they were very happy days to them all. chapter five. winter came early this year. even before november was out, the sleigh-bells were merrily ringing through all the country, and during december more snow fell than had fallen during that month at any time within the memory of "the oldest inhabitant." and after the snow came the wind, tossing it hither and thither, and piling up mountainous drifts in the hollows through which the north gore road passed, before it crossed hardscrabble hill. it piled it up on hardscrabble, too, and on all the hills, so that even if mr inglis had been quite well, he could hardly have made it the busiest season of the year in the way of visiting his parishioners, as it was his custom to do. for usually, at this time, the farmers may enjoy something besides work, the busy season being over; and usually, too, the new farms and back settlements are easy of access, when the ground is frozen and just enough of snow has fallen to cover the roughness of the way. but this year, too much snow had fallen, so that for weeks, there were in some places, no roads at all; and over others, what with the drifts, and what with the difficulty in the sleighs passing one another where the roads were narrow, it would not have been pleasant, or even safe, to go. mr inglis would have tried it, doubtless, if he had been quite well, but the cold he had taken on the stormy night when old mr bent died, had never quite left him. he did not call himself ill, though his nights were restless, and his days languid, and if the weather had been fine, he would have gone out as usual; but the snow that had fallen, and was still falling, and the wind that roared and whistled, as it piled it up in the hollows and on the hill-sides, helped to make him content to stay at home and rest. it was rest he needed. he was not ill--only tired, so tired that he did not care during this time of leisure, to pursue the studies that he loved so well, and, for the most part, david read to him. these were happy days to david. generally in the quiet afternoons, when the children were at school, they were down-stairs in mamma's room, and mamma listened to the reading, too, with little mary playing out and in of the room beside them. but on the long evenings they usually sat up-stairs in the study, with mamma coming up to see them only now and then. sometimes there was no reading, and david went on with his lessons as usual, while his father lay on the sofa with closed eyes, thinking over the wonderful truths he wished to speak to the people when the sabbath came round again. sometimes when the children, and even the mother, weary with the day's cares and labours, had gone to rest, david sat with his father far into the night. a prey to the restless wakefulness which, for the time, seems worse to bear than positive illness, mr inglis dreaded his bed, and david was only too glad to be allowed to sit with him. sometimes he read to him, but oftener they talked, and david heard a great many things about his father's life, that he never would have heard but for this time. his father told him about his early home, and his brothers and sisters, and their youthful joys and sorrows--how dearly they had loved one another, and how he had mourned their loss. he told him about his mamma in her girlhood, as she was when he first knew her, how they had loved one another, and how she had blessed all his life till now, and nothing that his father told him filled david's heart with such wonder and pleasure, as did this. and when he added, one night, that to him--her first-born son--his mother must always trust, as her strength and "right hand," he could only find voice to say "of course, papa," for the joyful throbbing of his heart. david used to tell violet and jem some things that his father spoke about, at such times, but this he never told. he mused over it often in the dark, with smiles and happy tears upon his face, and told himself that his mother's strength and "right hand," he would ever be, but it never came into his mind that the time might be drawing near which was to give significance to his father's words. and so the last weeks of the year passed slowly away. mr inglis preached on sunday as usual, every sunday at the village, and every alternate sunday at the mills and at north gore. he was quite able to do it, he thought, and though he had restless nights and languid days still, he called himself much better at the beginning of the year, and everything went on as usual in the house. in the village there began to be whispers that it was time for the annual "donation visit" to the minister's family, and certain worthy and wise people, upon whom much of the prosperity of the town was supposed to depend, laid their heads together to consult as to how this visit might be made successful in every respect--a visit to be remembered beyond all other visits, for the pleasure and profit it was to bring. but before this--before the old year had come to an end, something else had happened--something that was considered a great event in the inglis family. they had had several letters from frank oswald since his going home, but one day there came a parcel as well, and this, when opened, was found to contain a good many things which were to be accepted by the young inglises as christmas gifts. these were very nice, and very satisfactory, as a general thing, but they need not be specified. that which gave more satisfaction to each than all the other things put together, was marked, "with frank's love to aunt mary." and if he had searched through all the city for a gift, he could have found nothing that would have pleased her half so well. for added to her pleasure in receiving was the better pleasure of giving. the present was what she had been wishing for two or three winters past--a fur coat for her husband. it was not a very handsome coat. that is, it was not one of those costly garments, which sometimes rich men purchase and wear, quite as much for appearance as for comfort. it was the best of its kind, however; well made and impervious to the cold, if a coat could be made so; and when papa put it on and buttoned it round him, there were many exclamations of admiration and delight. "we need not be afraid of hardscrabble winds any more, papa," said david. "i should think not. `blow winds and crack your cheeks,'" said jem, laughing. little mary was more than half inclined to be afraid of her papa in his unaccustomed garb, but ned laughed at her, and made her look at violet, who was passing her hand over the soft fur, caressing it as if she loved it; and jessie made them all laugh by telling them that when she became a rich woman, she meant to send a fur coat to all the ministers. it is possible that some young people, and even some people not young, may smile, and be a little contemptuous over the idea of so much interest and delight in so small a matter. it can only be said of them, that there are some things happening every day in the world, that such people don't know of, and cannot be supposed to understand. that a good woman should have to plan and wait one season, and then another, for the garment much desired--absolutely necessary for the health and comfort of her husband, need not surprise any one. it has happened to other than ministers' wives many a time, i suppose. i know it has happened to some of _them_. it happened once, certainly, in the experience of mrs inglis, and her delight in frank's present was as real, though not so freely expressed, as was that of her children. it came with less of drawback than usually comes with the receiving of such a present. it came from one whom they believed quite able to give it, and from one whom they knew to be speaking the thought of his heart, when he said that the pleasure of his son frank--whose present he wished it to be considered--was greater in giving it than theirs could possibly be in receiving it. then there were thanks for their kindness to his boy, and hopes expressed that the two families would come to know more of each other in the future than had seemed possible in the past, and, altogether, it was a nice letter to send and to receive in the circumstances. but few pleasures are quite unmixed in this world. even while mrs inglis was rejoicing over her husband's future comfort, and the removal of her own anxiety with regard to it, she could not but say to herself, as she watched his flushed face and languid movements, "if it had only come a little sooner!" but she did not spoil the enjoyment of the rest by uttering her thoughts. indeed, she was displeased with herself, calling herself unthankful and unduly anxious, and sought with earnestness to put them out of her mind. there was something else in the letter sent by mr oswald, which, for the present, the father and mother did not think it necessary to discuss with the children. this was the offer made to them for david, of the situation as junior clerk in the bank of which mr oswald was managing director. there was no immediate necessity of deciding about the matter, as the place would not be vacant till spring, and the father and mother determined to take time to look at the matter in all its lights, before they said anything about it to david. he was already nearly fitted to enter the university, and they hoped that some time or other, means would be found to send him there; but he was too young to enter at once, and, also, he was too young and boyish-looking, to hope for a long time yet to be able to earn means to help himself, as so many students are able to do, by teaching in the public schools. so it seemed likely that this situation might be the very thing they could wish for him for the next few years. however, there were many things to be considered with regard to it. it might unsettle him from his eager pursuit of his studies, and from the cheerful doing of his other duties, were anything to be said about his leaving home just now. so they were silent, and the old year went out, and the new year came in, and everything went on as usual, till the time for the donation visit drew near. donation visits ought to be pleasant occasions to all concerned, for we have the very highest authority as to the blessedness of giving, and only mean and churlish natures will refuse to accept graciously what is graciously bestowed. that they often fail to be so, arises less frequently from the lack of "graciousness" on the part of either pastor or people, than from the fact that the principle on which they are often undertaken is a mistaken one--the design to thus supplement some acknowledged deficiency in the matter of the minister's salary. it often happens that the people regard as a gift, what their pastor and his family accept as their right, and thus both parties are defrauded of the mutual benefits which are the result of obligations cheerfully conferred and gratefully received. the parish of gourlay was very much like other parishes, in regard to these matters. they were not a rich people. the salary of their minister was moderately liberal, considering their means, but it was scant enough considering the requirements of the minister's family. it was not very regularly, nor very promptly paid; still, in one form or other, the stipulated amount generally found its way to the minister's house in the course of the year. so that the donation visit was not made for the purpose of making up a deficiency in the salary agreed on, but rather as an acknowledgment on the part of some of the people that the salary agreed upon was not sufficient, and as a token of good-will on the part of all. if it had occurred to the people to put their expression of good-will in the form of increased salary, it would doubtless have been more agreeable to mr inglis. still, he knew that more could be done on an occasion of this kind, with less inconvenience to that part of the people who were most liberal, than could be done in the legitimate way of annual subscriptions, and he had, on the whole, sufficient confidence in their kindly feeling to prevent any very painful sense of obligation in receiving their gifts, and no expression of any such feeling was ever permitted to mar the enjoyment of the occasion, as far as the people were concerned. in short, the minister and his wife had come to consider the annual donation visit, as one of those circumstances in life out of which pain or pleasure may be gotten, according as they are made the worst or the best of by those most concerned; and as they had been making the best of them for a good many years now, they were justified in looking forward to a reasonable amount of enjoyment from this one. as for the children, they did not think of anything but enjoyment in connection with it. to them the overturning of all things in the house, up-stairs and down, which was considered a necessary part of the preparations, was great fun. some overturning was absolutely necessary for the entertainment of about a third more people than the house could conveniently hold. so there was the putting aside all brittle articles, the shoving of tables and bureaus into corners, the taking down of beds, and the arranging of seats over all the house. for all the house must be thrown open, and the result was confusion, certainly not so delightful to the mother as to the children. the prospect of the crowd was delightful to them, too, and so were the possibilities in the way of presents. besides the staples, butter, cheese, flannel, oats, and indian meal, there was a possibility of something particular and personal to every one of them--chickens, or mittens, or even a book. once jem had got a jack-knife, and david a year of "the youth's companion." last year violet had got a new dress from mrs smith, and jem a pair of boots. very good boots they had been--they were not bad yet, but the thought of them was not altogether agreeable to jem. however nice the boots, the being reminded of the gift by master smith, and that before all the boys at school, and more than once, was not at all nice; and jem had to look back with mingled shame and triumph on a slight passage of arms that had been intended to put an end to that sort of thing on master smith's part. there was no danger, he thought, of getting any more boots from mrs smith, and all the people were not like her and her son. out of this trouble about the boots had arisen in jem's mind some serious misgivings as to the entire desirableness of donation visits. david and violet had had them before, but they were not so ready to speak of these things as jem was; or rather as jem would have been if his conscience had been quite clear as regarded the matter of master smith. "there would be no good in troubling mamma with it," said jem, and so there had been no exciting of one another by foolish talking; and, indeed, their misgivings had neither been of a depth nor of a nature to spoil the prospect of the visit to them. great fun was anticipated as usual. debby, though her sister was by no means well yet, came back to assist in the general confusion. "there shall be no talk of `allowances' this time," said debby; and cellar and garret, pantry, cupboard, and closet, were all put through such a process of purifying and arranging, that not the neatest house-keeper in gourlay could have the least chance or excuse for hinting that any "allowances" were needed. debby's honour as a house-keeper was at stake, to say nothing of the honour of mrs inglis. "it seems as natural as possible to get back to the old spot," said debby; "and i wish to goodness sister serepta would get well, or do something else. i mean, i wish she would go and stay to uncle jason's, or have aunt myra come and stay with her. i'm thankful your ma's got along so far, without any of those shiftless simmses or martins in to help her. but she's looking a kind of used up, ain't she? and it beats all how your pa's cold hangs on, don't it?" "oh! papa is much better," said david, eagerly, "and mamma is quite well. she is tired, but now you are here, she just lets things go, and rests. she knows it will be all right." "that's so," said debby, "and she can't do better." and, indeed, she could not. her affairs were in good hands. debby was "as smart as a trap," and capable of anything in the way of house-keeping duties. and though not blessed with the mildest temper-- people "as smart as traps" seldom are--she had the faculty of adapting herself to circumstances, and of identifying herself with the family in which she lived, in a way that stood in stead of a good deal. she was quite too smart for the patient endurance of the whims of a nervous invalid, and found positive refreshment in the present bustle and hurry, and was inclined not only to be agreeable, but confidential on the occasion. "it's to be hoped it will amount to something this time," said she. "all this fuss and worry ought not to go for nothing, that's a fact. it would suit better all round, if they'd pay your pa at first, and have done with it. i don't believe in presents myself--not till folks' debts are paid at any rate," said debby, looking at the subject from the minister's family's point of view. "but i ain't going to begin on that. miss bethia--she's been letting in the light on some folks' mind, but as this visit has got to be, i only hope we'll get enough to pay us for our trouble; and i wish it were well over." the eventful evening came at last. it would be quite impossible to give here a full and clear account of all that was said and done, and given and received that night. it was a very successful visit, whether considered socially, or with reference to the results in the way of donations. afterwards--a good while afterwards--they all used to think and speak of it as a delightful visit indeed. it was not without its little drawbacks, but on the whole, it was a delightful visit even at the time, and afterwards all drawbacks were forgotten. jem had a little encounter with mrs smith, which he did not enjoy much at the moment, but which did not spoil the remembrance of it to him. she did not seem to resent his conduct about the boots. on the contrary, she placed him under still further obligations to her by presenting him with the "makings" of a jacket, which jem accepted shamefacedly, but still gratefully enough, quite forgetting the dignified resolution he had confided to david, to decline all further favours from her with thanks. david enjoyed the evening for the same reasons that all the rest enjoyed it, and so did violet, and for another reason besides. for the very first time, she was spoken to, and treated as if she were a grown-up young lady, and a little girl no longer. this was delightful to violet, who, though she was nearly sixteen, was small of her age, and had always been one of the children like all the rest. it was old mrs kerr, from the gore corner, who spoke to her about it first. "a great help you must be to your mother with the house-keeping, and with the children and all," said that nice old lady. "it's a fine thing to have a grown-up daughter in the house. only the chances are you'll just go and leave her, as mine have done." violet smiled, and blushed, and was conscience-stricken, not at the thought of going away to leave her mother one day, as mrs kerr's daughters had done, but because she knew she had never really been much help to her mother either at the sewing or the house-keeping--not half so much as davie had been since debby went away. for letty was very fond of her books, and, indeed, her duty as well as her inclination had encouraged her devotion to them, at least until lately; but she was inclined to confess her faults to the old lady, lest she should think of her what was not true. "never mind. it will come in good time. and there's small blame to you for liking the books best, since you're your father's child, as well as your mother's," said mrs kerr, kindly. "and, indeed, they say folk can make hard work at the books, as well as at other things, and there's no fear of you, with your mother to teach you the other things, and you growing so womanly and big withal." it was a very successful visit in every way. there never had been so many people present on such an occasion before; there never had been so many nice things brought and eaten. the coffee was good, and so was the tea, and the singing. the young people had a good time together, and so had the old people. the donations were of greater value than usual, and when he presented the money part of it to mr inglis, mr spry made a speech, which would have been very good "if he had known when he had done, and stopped," debby said, and the rest thought it was not bad as it was. and the minister certainly made a good speech when he received it. he did not use many words in thanking the people for their gifts, but they were just the right words, and "touched the spot," debby said to miss bethia, who agreed. and then he went on to say what proved to these two, and to them all, that there was something for which he cared more than he cared for what they had to give. and they all remembered afterwards, though no one missed them at the time, that the few playful words that he was wont to address to the young men and maidens of the congregation on such occasions, were not spoken, but the words he did speak to them were such as some of them will never forget while they live. it was all over at last, and the tired household was left to rest, and they awoke to a comfortless house next day. the boys helped to take out the boards and benches that had been used as seats, and to move back to their places the furniture that had been removed, and then the children went to school. violet offered to stay at home and help to arrange the house, but debby declared herself equal to the clearing up, and was not complimentary in her remarks as to her skill and ability in such matters, so letty, nothing loth, went away with the rest. it was an uncomfortable day. mr inglis had taken more cold, at least his cough was worse, and he stayed up-stairs in his study, and david was glad when the time came that he could stay there too. however, there came order out of the confusion at last. it was a good job well over, debby declared, and all agreed with her. "i hate to go as bad as you hate to have me," said she, in answer to letty's lamentations over her departure. "i don't know but your mother had better have one of those shiftless simmses than nobody at all. there's considerable many steps to be taken in this house, as nobody knows better than me; and i hadn't the responsibility of mother's meetings, and worrying over your pa, as she has. if i were you, i'd take right hold and help, and never mind about going to school, and examination, and such, for your ma's got more than she ought to do. i must try and doctor serepta up, so as to get back again, or there'll be something to pay. well, good-bye! i'll be down next week, if i can fix it so, to see how you're getting along." letty stood looking after her disconsolately. to stay at home from school, and give up all thoughts of prizes at the coming examination, were among the last things she would like to do, to say nothing of the distasteful housework. still, if her mother needed her, she ought to do it, and she made up her mind to do it cheerfully if it must be. but she did not need to do it. it was of more importance that she should get on with her studies, so as to be ready to do her duty as a teacher by and by, than that she should help at home just now, her mother thought, and so for a few weeks longer, everything went on as before. david helped his mother still, doing with skill and success a great many things which at first he had not liked to do at all. he did not get on with his studies as he would have wished, partly because he had less time than usual, and partly because his father was less able to interest himself in what he was doing. david sometimes grumbled a little to jem about it, because he feared he should not find himself so far before ned hunter at the end of the year, as he wished to be; and once he said something of the kind to his mother. but that was a very small matter, in her opinion. "for after all, davie, my boy, the greek, and latin, and mathematics you are so eager for, are chiefly valuable to you as a means of discipline-- as a means of preparing you for the work that is before you in the world. and i am not sure but that the discipline of little cares and uncongenial work that has come upon you this winter, may answer the purpose quite as well. at any rate, the wish to get on with your studies for the sake of excelling ned hunter, is not very creditable." "no, mamma. but still i think it is worth something to be able to keep up with one who has had so much money spent on him, at the best schools, and i here at home all the time. don't you think so, mamma?" "well!--perhaps so. but the advantages are not all on ned's side. your father's help and interest in all you have been doing, has been worth more to you than any school could have been." "that's true, mamma," said davie, heartily. "and it is not like having lessons--tasks, i mean--to study with papa. it is pure pleasure. and that is more than ned can say, i am afraid," added he, laughing. "and, besides, i don't think these things would have troubled you much under any circumstances; and, as i said before, the self-denial you have had to exercise, may be better for you than even success in your studies would be." "self-denial, mamma! why, i think we have had a very happy winter, so far!" "indeed, we have! even with some things that we might have wished different. and, davie, you must not think you have been losing time. a boy cannot be losing time, who is being a comfort to his father and mother. and self-denial is a better thing to learn even than greek. if you live long, you will have more use for the one than for the other, i have no doubt." david laughed, and blushed with pleasure at his mother's words. "i am glad that you think so--i mean that i have been a comfort. but as for the self-denial, i don't believe any of the boys have had a better time than i have had this winter. if papa were only well! but he is better now, mamma?" "yes; i hope so. if it were may instead of january, i should not be afraid." "have you been afraid, mamma? are you afraid?" asked david, startled. "no--not really afraid, only anxious, and, indeed, i am becoming less so every day." and there seemed less cause. wrapped in his wonderful coat of fur and driven by david, the minister went here and there among his people, just as usual, and had a great deal of satisfaction in it, and was not more tired at such times than he had often been before. he preached on sunday always at the village, and generally at his other stations as well, and david might well say these were happy days. yes, they were happy days, and long to be remembered, because of the sorrowful days that came after them. not but that the sorrowful days were happy days, too, in one sense; at least, they were days which neither david nor his mother would be willing ever to forget. young people do not like to hear of sorrowful days, and sometimes think and say, that at least all such should be left out of books. i should say so, too, if they could also be kept out of one's life, but sorrowful days will not be kept away by trying to forget them. and besides, life itself would not be better by their being left out, for out of such have come, to many a one, the best and most enduring of blessings. it does not need any words of mine to prove that god does not send them in anger to his people, but in love. we have his own word for that, repeated again and again. and if we did but know it, there are many days to which we look forward--which we hail with joyful welcome, of which we have more cause to be afraid, than of the days of trouble that are sent us by god. chapter six. february came in with wind and rain--a sudden thaw, levelling the great drifts, and sending down through all the hollows swift rushes of snow-water to cover the ice on the river--to break it up in some places, to fill the channel full till all the meadows above the millpond were quite overflowed. it did not last long. it cleared the third night, and so sudden and sharp was the coming of the cold, that not a murmur of water was to be heard where it had rushed in torrents the day before, and the millpond, and the meadows above, lay in the sunshine like a sheet of molten silver. in this sudden change, mr inglis took cold. it had been like that all winter. his illness had been very severe, but just as he seemed ready to throw it off and be himself again, he always seemed to take more cold, and went back again. it was very trying--very discouraging. this was what david and jem were saying to one another one afternoon, as they took their way down to the mill-dam where many of their companions had gone before them. it quite spoiled david's pleasure to think about it, and even jem looked grave as they went on together. however, there are few troubles that a pair of skates, and a mile, more or less, of shining ice, have not power to banish, for a time, at least, from the minds of boys of twelve and fourteen; and so when they came home, and their mother met them at the door, telling jem that he was to go and ask dr gore to come up again, it gave them both a new shock of pain, and david asked, "is papa worse, mamma?" with such a sinking of the heart, as he had never felt before. "not seriously worse, i hope," said his mother. "still the doctor may as well come up. it will be safest." just a little fresh cold, the doctor said, and mr inglis must take care of himself for a few days. the remedies which he prescribed had the desired effect. in a day or two he was as well as usual; but on sunday, when he was nearly through with the morning service, his voice failed so utterly that his last words were lost to all. of course there was no possibility of his going to the gore in the afternoon. he could only rest at home, hoping and believing that he would be well in a little while. indeed, the thought of the disappointment to the congregation who would assemble in the afternoon, was more in his thoughts than any future danger to himself. there need be no disappointment--at least, the people need not be made to wait; and david and jem were sent to tell them that their father was not able to come, and that they were to read a sermon, and mr spry was to conduct the service as he had sometimes done before. they took with them a sermon chosen by their father; but mr spry was not there, nor mr fiske, nor any one who thought himself capable of reading it as it ought to be read. "suppose you give them miss bethia's sermon, davie," said jem, laughing. "don't, jem," said david, huskily. something rising in his throat would hardly let him say it, for the remembrance of old tim, and that fair day, and of his father's face, and voice, and words, came back upon him with a rush, and the tears must have come if he had spoken another word. "is there no one here that can read? papa will be disappointed," said he, in a little. no. there seemed to be no one. one old gentleman had not brought his glasses; another could not read distinctly, because of the loss of his front teeth; no one there was in the habit of reading aloud. "suppose you read it, david? you will do it first-rate," said old mr wood. "we'll manage the rest." david looked grave. "go ahead, davie," said jem. "what would papa say?" said david. "he would be pleased, of course. why not?" said jem, promptly. so when the singing and prayers were over, some one spoke to him again, and he rose and opened the book with a feeling that he was dreaming, and that he would wake up by and by, and laugh at it all. it was like a dream all through. he read very well, or the people thought he did; he read slowly and earnestly, without looking up, and happily forgot that jem was there, or he might have found it difficult to keep from wondering how he was taking it, and from looking up to see. but jem had the same dreamy feeling on him, too. it seemed so strange to be there without his father, and to be listening to davie's voice; and nothing was farther from his mind than that there was anything amusing in it all. for sitting there, with his head leaning on his hands, a very terrible thought came to jem. what if he were never to hear his father's voice in this place again? what if he were never to be well?--what if he were going to die! he was angry with himself in a minute. it was a very foolish thought, he said; wrong even, it seemed to him. nothing was going to happen to his father. he was not very ill. he would be all right again in a day or two. jem was indignant with himself because of his thoughts; and roused himself, and by and by began to take notice how attentively all the people were listening, and thought how he would tell them all about it at home, and how pleased his father and mother would be. he did not try to listen, himself, but mused on from one thing to another, till he quite forgot his painful thoughts, and in a little the book was closed and david sat down. they hurried away as quickly as they could, but not before they had to repeat over and over again to the many who crowded round them to inquire, that their father was not ill, at least not worse than he had been, only he had taken cold and was hoarse and not able to speak--that was all. but the thought that perhaps it might not be all, lay heavy on their hearts all the way home, and made their drive a silent one. it never came into jem's mind to banter davie about the new dignity of his office as reader, as at first he had intended to do, or, indeed, to say anything at all, till they were nearly home. as for david, he was going over and over the very same things that had filled his mind when he drove his father from old tim's funeral--"a good soldier of jesus christ," and all that was implied in the name, and his father's words about "the enrolling of one's name;" and he said to himself that he would give a great deal to be sure that his name was enrolled, forgetting that the whole world could not be enough to buy what god had promised to him freely--a name and a place among his people. "i hope we shall find papa better," said jem, as old don took his usual energetic start on the hill near the bridge. "oh! he is sure to be better," said david. but he did not feel at all sure of it, and he could not force himself to do anything for old don's comfort till he should see what was going on in the house. the glimpse he got when he went in was re-assuring. violet was laying the table for tea, and singing softly to herself as she went through the house. his father and mother were in the sitting-room with the rest of the children, and they were both smiling at one of little polly's wise speeches as he went in. "well, davie, you are home again safely," said his mother. "all right, mamma. i will tell you all about it in a minute," said david. "all right," he repeated, as he went out again to jem, lifting a load from his heart, and from his own, too, with the word. but was it really "all right?" their father's face said it plainly, they thought, when they went in, and their mother's face said it, too, with a difference. a weight was lifted from jem's heart, and his spirits rose to such a happy pitch that, sunday as it was, and in his father's presence, he could hardly keep himself within quiet bounds, as he told them about the afternoon, and how david had read so well, and what all the people had said. david's heart was lightened, too, but he watched the look on his mother's face, and noticed that she hardly spoke a word--not even to check jem, when the laughter of the children and letty grew too frequent, and a little noisy, as they sat together before the lamp was lighted. "it is all right, i hope," said he, a little doubtfully. "it would be all right for papa, whichever way it were to end--and for mamma, too,-- in one sense--and for all of us," added he, with a vague idea of the propriety of submission to god's will under any circumstances. "but papa is not worse--i think he is not worse, and it will be all right by and by when summer comes again." but he still watched his mother's face, and waited anxiously for her word to confirm his hope. it _was_ all right, because nothing which is god's will can be otherwise to those who put their trust in him. but it was not all right in the sense that david was determined to hope. though he found them sitting so calmly there when he came home that night, and though the evening passed so peacefully away, with the children singing and reading as usual, and the father and mother taking interest in it all, they had experienced a great shock while the boys were away. gradually, but very plainly, the doctor had for the first time spoken of danger. absolute rest for the next three months could alone avert it. the evidence of disease was not very decided, but the utter prostration of the whole system, was, in a sense, worse than positive disease. to be attacked with serious illness now, or even to be over-fatigued might be fatal to him. it was not dr gore who spoke in this way, but a friend of his who was visiting him, and whom he had brought to see his patient. he was a friend of the minister, too, and deeply interested in his case, and so spoke plainly. though dr gore regretted the abruptness of his friend's communication, and would fain have softened it for their sakes, he could not dissent from it. but both spoke of ultimate recovery provided three months of rest--absolute rest, as far as public duty was concerned, were secured. or it would be better still, if, for the three trying months that were before him, he could go away to a milder climate, or even if he could get any decided change, provided he could have rest with it. the husband and wife listened in silence, at the first moment not without a feeling of dismay. to go away for a change was utterly impossible, they put that thought from them at once. to stay at home in perfect rest, seemed almost impossible, too. they looked at one another in silence. what could be said? "we will put it all out of our thoughts for to-day, love," said mr inglis, in his painful whisper, when they were left alone. "at least we will not speak of it to one another. we must not distrust his loving care of us, dear, even now." they did not speak of it to one another, but each apart spoke of it to him who hears no sorrowful cry of his children unmoved. he did not lift the cloud that gloomed so darkly over them. he did not by a sudden light from heaven show them a way by which they were to be led out of the darkness, but in it he made them to feel his presence. "fear not, for i am with thee. be not dismayed, for i am thy god!" and lo! "the darkness was light about them!" so when the boys came home the father's face said plainly what both heart and lip could also say, "it is all right." and the mother's said it, too, with a difference. of course, all that the doctors had said was not told to the children. indeed the father and mother did not speak much about it to each other for a good many days. mr inglis rested, and in a few days called himself nearly well again, and but for the doctor's absolute prohibition, would have betaken himself to his parish work as usual. it was not easy for him to submit to inactivity, for many reasons that need not be told, and when the first sabbath of enforced silence came round, it found him in sore trouble, _knowing_, indeed, where to betake himself, but _feeling_ the refuge very far away. that night he first spoke to david of the danger that threatened him. they were sitting together in the twilight. the mother and the rest were down-stairs at the usual sunday reading and singing, which the father had not felt quite able to bear, and now and then the sound of their voices came up to break the stillness that had fallen on these two. david had been reading, but the light had failed him, and he sat very quiet, thinking that his father had fallen asleep. but he had not. "davie," said he, at last, "what do you think is the very hardest duty that a soldier may be called to do?" david was silent a minute, partly from surprise at the question, and partly because he had been thinking of all that his father had been suffering on that sorrowful silent day, and he was not quite sure whether he could find a voice to say anything. for at morning worship, the father had quite broken down, and the children had been awed and startled by the sight of his sudden tears. all day long david had thought about it, and sitting there beside him his heart had filled full of love and reverent sympathy, which he never could have spoken, even if it had come into his mind to try. but when his father asked him that question, he answered, after a little pause: "not the fighting, papa, and not the marching. i think perhaps the very hardest thing would be to stand aside and wait, while the battle is going on." "ay, lad! you are right there," said his father, with a sigh. "though why you should look on it in that way, i do not quite see." "i was thinking of you, papa," said david, very softly; and in a little he added: "this has been a very sad day to you, papa." "and i have not been giving you a lesson of trust and cheerful obedience, i am afraid. yes, this has been a sad, silent day, davie, lad. but the worst is over. i trust the worst is over now." david answered nothing to this, but came closer, and leaned over the arm of the sofa on which his father lay, and by and by his father said: "my boy, it is a grand thing to be a soldier of jesus christ, willing and obedient. and whether it is marching or fighting, or only waiting, our commander cannot make a mistake. it ought to content us to know that, davie, lad." "yes, papa," said david. "yes," added his father, in a little. "it is a wonderful thing to belong to the great army of the lord. there is nothing else worth a thought in comparison with that. it is to fight for right against wrong, for christ and the souls of men, against the devil--with the world for a battle ground, with weapons `mighty through god to the pulling down of strongholds'--under a leader divine, invincible, and with victory sure. what is there beyond this? what is there besides?" he was silent, but david said nothing, and in a little while he went on again: "but we are poor creatures, davie, for all that. we grow weary with our marching; turned aside from our chosen paths, we stumble and are dismayed, as though defeat had overtaken us; we sit athirst beside our broken cisterns, and sicken in prisons of our own making, believing ourselves forgotten. and all the time, our leader, looking on, has patience with us--loves us even, holds us up, and leads us safe through all, and gives us the victory at the end. `thanks be to god who giveth us the victory!'" said mr inglis, and in a minute he repeated the words again. then he lay still for a long time, so long that it grew dark, except for the light of the new moon, and david, kneeling at the head of the sofa, never moved, thinking that his father slumbered now, or had forgotten him. but by and by he spoke again: "when i was young, just beginning the conflict, i remember saying to myself, if god will give me twenty years in which to fight his battles, i will be content. the twenty years are almost over now. ah! how little i have gained for him from the enemy! yet i may have to lay down my armour now, just as you are ready to put it on, davie, my son." "papa! i am not worthy--" said david, with a sob. "worthy? no. it is a gift he will give you--as the crown and the palm of the worthiest will be his free gift at last. not worthy, lad, but willing, i trust." "papa--i cannot tell. i am afraid--" he drew nearer, kneeling still, and laid his face upon his father's shoulder. "of what are you afraid, davie? there is nothing you need fear, except delay. you cannot come to him too soon. david, when you were the child of an hour only, i gave you up to god to be his always. i asked him to make you a special messenger of his to sinful men. his minister. that may be if he wills. i cannot tell. but i do know that he will that you should be one of his `good soldiers.'" there was a long silence, for it tired him to speak, and david said nothing. by and by his father said: "how can i leave your mother to your care, unless i know you safe among those whom god guides? but you must give yourself to him. your mother will need you, my boy, but you may fight well the battles of the lord, even while working with your hands for daily bread. and for the rest, the way will open before you. i am not afraid." "papa," said david, raising himself up to look into his father's face, "why are you saying all this to me to-night?" "i am saying it to you because you are your mother's first-born son, and must be her staff and stay always. and to-night is a good time to say it." "but, papa," said the boy with difficulty, "it is not because you think you are going to die? does mamma know?" "i do not know, my son. death has seemed very near to me to-day. and it has been often in your mother's thoughts of late, i do not doubt. my boy! it is a solemn thing to feel that death may be drawing near. but i am not afraid. i think i have no cause to be afraid." he raised himself up and looked into the boy's face with a smile, as he repeated: "david--i have no cause to fear--since jesus died." "no, papa," said david, faintly. "but mamma--and--all of us." "yes, it will be sad to leave you, and it will be sad for you to be left. but i am not afraid. `leave thy fatherless children; i will preserve them alive, and let thy widow trust in me.' he has said it, and he will bring it to pass. the promise is more to me, to-night, than untold wealth could be. and davie, i leave them to your care. you must take my place with them, and comfort your mother, and care for your brothers and sisters. and david you must be a better soldier than i have ever been." david threw himself forward with a cry. "oh papa! how can i? how can i? i am afraid, and i do not even know that my name is enrolled, and that is the very first--" "my boy! but you may know. have you ever given yourself to our great leader? have you asked him to enrol your name? ask him now. do not i love you? his love is greater far than mine!" there had been moments during that day when the lord had seemed very far away from his servant, but he felt him to be very near him now, as he poured out his heart in prayer for his son. he did not use many words, and they were faintly and feebly uttered, but who shall doubt but they reached the ear of the lord waiting to hear and answer. but they brought no comfort to david that night. indeed he hardly heard them. there was only room in his heart for one thought. "death may be drawing near!" his father had said, and beyond that he could not look. it was too terrible to believe. he would not believe it. he would not have it so. by and by when there came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, he slipped unseen out of the room, and then out of the house, and seeking some place where he might be alone, he went up into the loft above old don's crib, and lay down upon the hay, and wept and sobbed his heart out there. he prayed, too, asking again for the blessing which his father had asked for him; and for his father's life. he prayed earnestly, with strong crying and tears; but in his heart he knew that he cared more for his father's life and health than for the better blessing, and though he wept all his tears out, he arose uncomforted. the house was still and dark when he went in. his mother had thought that he had gone to bed, and jem that he was sitting in the study as he often did, and he was fast asleep when david lay down beside him, and no one knew the pain and dread that was in his heart that night. but when he rose in the morning, and went down-stairs, and heard the cheerful noise of the children, and saw his mother going about her work as she always did, all that had happened last night seemed to him like a dream. by and by his father came among them, no graver than in other days, and quite as well as he had been for a long time, and everything went on as usual all day, and for a good many days. nobody seemed afraid. his mother was watchful, and perhaps a little more silent than usual, but that was all. as for his father, the worst must have been past that night, as he had said, for there was no cloud over him now. he was cheerful always--even merry, sometimes, when he amused himself with little polly and the rest. he was very gentle with them all, more so than usual, perhaps, and david noticed that he had violet and jem alone with him in the study now and then. once when this happened with jem, david did not see him again all day, and afterwards--a long time afterwards--jem told him that he had spent that afternoon in the hay-loft above old don's crib. at such times he used to wonder whether their father spoke to them as he had spoken to him that night, when he told him how "death might be drawing near." but they never spoke to one another about it. and, indeed, it was not difficult during those cheerful quiet days, to put such thoughts out of their minds. the people came and went, looking grave sometimes, but not as though they had any particular cause for fear. the minister went out almost every fine day with david or his mother, or with jem if it was saturday, for the children were growing almost jealous of one another, as to opportunities for doing things for papa, and jem must have his turn, too. how kind all the people were! surely there never was anything like it before, the children thought. some among them whom they had not much liked, and some whom they had hardly known, came out in a wonderful way with kind words and kinder deeds, and if kindness and thoughtfulness, and love that was almost reverence, would have made him well, he would soon have been in his old place among them again. his place on sunday was supplied as often as possible from abroad, and when it could not be, the people managed as well as they could, and that was better than usual, for all hearts were softened and touched by the sorrow that had come on them as a people, and nothing was allowed to trouble or annoy the minister that could be prevented by them. they would have liked him to go away as the doctor had advised, and the means would have been provided to accomplish it, but the minister would not hear of being sent away. he felt, he said, that he would have a better chance for recovery at home. not that there was any chance in that, according to his thought. it was all ordered, and it would all be well, whichever way it was to end, and he was best and happiest at home. and so the time passed on, and then, and afterwards, no one ever thought or spoke of these days but as happy days. and yet, in the secret heart of every one of them, of the mother and the children, and of the kind people that came and went, there was a half-conscious waiting for something that was drawing near. it was a hope, sometimes, and sometimes it was a dread. the neighbours put it into words, and the hopeful spoke of returning health and strength, and of the lessons of faith and love they should learn by and by, through the experience of the minister in the sick room; and those who were not hopeful, spoke of other lessons they might have to learn through other means. but in the house they only waited, speaking no word of what the end might be. at last there came a day, when no words were needed, to tell what messenger of the king was on his way. the hushed voices of the children, the silence in the house, told it too plainly. the laboured breathing of the sick man, the feverish hand, the wandering eye, were visible tokens that death was drawing near. the change came suddenly. they were not prepared for it, they said. but there are some things for which we cannot make ourselves ready, till we feel ourselves shuddering under the blow. ah! well. he was ready, and the rest mattered little. even the mother said that to herself and to him, with the sobbing of their children in her ears. she did not sob nor cry out in her pain, but kept her face calm and smiling for him till the very last. and because, with his laboured breathing, and the pain which held him fast, he could not say to her that which was in his heart, she said it all to him--how they had loved one another, and how god had cared for them always, and how happy they had been, and how, even in the parting that was before them, god's time was best, and she was not afraid. and she was _not_ afraid! looking into those triumphant eyes, glad with the brightness of something that she could not see, how could she be afraid? "for neither life nor death, nor principalities nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of god, which is in christ jesus our lord," she murmured, comforting him with her words. he was dying! he was leaving her and their children alone, with god's promise between them and poverty, and nothing else. nothing else! is not that enough? think of it! god's promise! "i am not afraid!" she said the words over and over again. "why should i be afraid? there are things far worse than poverty to bear. `our bread shall be given us, and our water sure.' i might be afraid for our children without you, had they the temptations of wealth to struggle with. their father's memory will be better to them than lands or gold. put it all out of your thoughts, dear love. i am not afraid." afterwards the doubt might come--the care, the anxiety, the painful reckoning of ways and means, to her who knew that the roof that covered them and the daily bread of her children, depended on the dear life now ebbing so fast away. but now, seeing--not heaven's light, indeed, but the reflection of its glory on his face, she no more feared life than he feared death, now drawing so near. the children came in, at times, and looked with sad, appealing eyes from one face to the other to find comfort, and seeing her so sweet and calm and strong, went out to whisper to one another that mamma was not afraid. all through these last days of suffering the dying father never heard the voice of weeping, or saw a token of fear or pain. just once, at the very first, seeing the sign of the coming change on his father's face, david's heart failed him, and he leaned, for a moment, faint and sick upon his mother's shoulder. but it never happened again till the end was near. seeing his mother, he grew calm and strong, trying to stand firm in this time or trouble that she might have him to lean on when the time of weakness should come. the others came and went, but david never left his mother's side. and she watched and waited, and took needful rest that she might keep calm and strong to the very end; and the dying eyes never rested on her face but they read there, "god is good, and i am not afraid." and so the time wore on till the last night came. they did not know it was the last night; and the mother lay down within call, for an hour or two, and david watched alone. will he ever forget those hours, so awful yet so sweet? "it is `the last evening,' davie, lad!" said his father, in gasps, between his hard-drawn breaths. "strong, but not invincible! say something to me, dear." "`he, also, himself likewise took part of the same, that through death he might destroy him that hath the power of death--.'" david paused. "go on, dear," said his father. "`and deliver them who through fear of death were all their life-time subject to bondage.'" "i am not--afraid! tell me more." "`i have fought a good fight, i have finished my course, i have kept the faith. henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day, and not to me only, but to all them also that love his appearing.'" "his gift, dear boy, his gift! say something more." "`in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us--'" went on david, but he had no power to add another word, and his father murmured on: "loved us! wonderful!--wonderful! and gave--himself--for us." and then he seemed to slumber for awhile, and when he awoke david was not sure that he knew him, for his mind seemed wandering, and he spoke as if he were addressing many people, lifting his hand now and then as if to give emphasis to his words. but his utterance was laboured and difficult, and david only caught a word here and there. "a good fight"--"the whole armour"--"more than conquerors." once he said, suddenly: "are you one of them, davie? and are you to stand in my place and take up the weapons that i must lay down?" david felt that he knew him then, and he answered: "papa, with god's help, i will." and then there came over his father's face a smile, oh! so radiant and so sweet, and he said: "kiss me, davie!" and then he murmured a word or two--"thanks!" and "victory!" and these were the very last words that david heard his father utter; for, when he raised himself up again, his mother was beside him, and the look on her face, made bright to meet the dying eyes, was more than he could bear. "lie down a little, davie. you are quite worn out," said she, softly, soothing him with hand and voice. but he could not go away. he sat down on the floor, and laid his face on the pillow of little mary's deserted cot, and by and by his mother came and covered him with a shawl, and he must have fallen asleep, for when he looked up again there were others in the room, and his mother's hand was laid on his father's closed eyes. of the awe and stillness that filled the house for the next three days of waiting, few words need be spoken. "i must have three days for my husband, and then all my life shall be for my children," said their mother. "davie, you and letty must help one another and comfort the little ones." so for the most part she was left alone, and david and letty did what they could to comfort the rest, through that sorrowful time. the neighbours were very kind. they would have taken the little ones away for awhile, but they did not want to go, and david and violet said to one another it was right that even the little ones should have these days to remember afterwards. how long the days of waiting seemed! sudden bursts of crying from the little ones broke now and then the stillness too heavy to be borne, and even violet sometimes gave way to bitter weeping. but they thought of their mother, and comforted one another as well as they could; and david stood between her closed door and all that could disturb her in her sorrow, with a patient quiet at which they all wondered. just once it failed him. some one came, with a trailing mass of black garments, which it was thought necessary for her to see, and violet said so to her brother, very gently, and with many tears. but david threw up his hands with a cry. "what does it matter, letty? what can mamma care for all that now? she shall not be troubled." and she was not. even miss bethia could not bring herself to put aside the words of the boy who lay sobbing in the dark, outside his mother's door. "he's right," said she. "it don't matter the least in the world. there don't anything seem to matter much. she sha'n't be worried. let it go," said miss bethia, with a break in her sharp voice. "it'll fit, i dare say, well enough--and if it don't, you can fix it afterwards. let it go now." but david came down, humble and sorry, in a little while. "i beg your pardon, miss bethia," said he. "i don't suppose mamma would have cared, and you might have gone in. only--" his voice failed him. "don't worry a mite about it," said miss bethia, with unwonted gentleness. "it don't matter--and it is to you your mother must look now." but this was more than david could bear. shaking himself free from her detaining hand, he rushed away out of sight--out of the house--to the hay-loft, the only place where he could hope to be alone. and he was not alone there; for the first thing he heard when the sound of his own sobbing would let him hear anything, was the voice of some one crying by his side. "is it you, jem?" asked he, softly. "yes, davie." and though they lay there a long time in the darkness, they did not speak another word till they went into the house again. but there is no use dwelling on all these sorrowful days. the last one came, and they all went to the church together, and then to the grave. standing on the withered grass, from which the spring sunshine was beginning to melt the winter snow, they listened to the saddest sound that can fall on children's ears, the fall of the clods on their father's coffin-lid, and then they went back to the empty house to begin life all over again without their father's care. chapter seven. mr oswald, frank's father, came home with them. he had been written to when mr inglis died, and had reached gourlay the day before the funeral, but he had not stayed at their house, and they had hardly seen him till now. they were not likely to see much of him yet, for he was a man with much business and many cares, and almost the first words he said when he came into the house, were, that he must leave for home that night, or at the latest the next morning. "and that means whatever you want to say to me, must be said at once, and the sooner the better," said miss bethia, as she took mrs inglis's heavy crape bonnet and laid it carefully in one of the deep drawers of the bureau in her room. "i haven't the least doubt but i know what he ought to say, and what she ought to say, better than they know themselves. but that's nothing. it ain't the right one that's put in the right spot, not more than once in ten times--at least it don't look like it," added she, with an uncomfortable feeling that if any one were to know her thoughts he might accuse her of casting some reflections on the providential arrangement of affairs. "they don't realise that i could help them any, and it will suit better if i leave them. so i'll see if i can't help debby about getting tea." there was not much said for a time, however. mrs inglis evidently made a great effort to say something, and asked about frank and the family generally, and then said something about his journey, and then about the sudden breaking-up of the winter roads. mr oswald felt it to be cruel to make her speak at all, and turned to the children. "which is davie?" asked he, in a little. david rose and came forward. "i thought you had been older. frank seemed to speak as if you were almost a man," said he, holding out his hand. "i am past fourteen," said david. "and are you ready for the university, as frank thought, or is that a mistake of his, too?" "yes," said david. "i am almost ready." "oh! he was ready long ago," said jem, coming to the rescue. "frank said he was reading the same books that his brother read in the second year." "indeed!" said mr oswald, smiling at his eagerness. "and you are jem? you are neither of you such giants as i gathered from frank, but perhaps the mistake was mine. but when one hears of horse-shoeing and homer-- you know one thinks of young men." "and this is violet, only we call her letty; and this is ned, and i am jessie, and this is wee polly," said jessie, a sturdy little maiden of eight, looking with her honest grey eyes straight into mr oswald's face. he acknowledged her introduction by shaking hands with each as she named them. "i find i have made another mistake," said he. "i thought letty was a little girl who always stood at the head of her class, and who could run races with her brothers, and gather nuts, and be as nice as a boy. that was frank's idea." "and so she can," said ned. "and so she is," said jem. "that was so long ago," said violet, in confusion. it seemed ages ago to all the children. "and violet has grown a great deal since then," said jem. "and are frank's eyes better?" "they are no worse. we hope they are better, but he cannot use them with pleasure, poor fellow." and so they went on talking together, till they were called to tea. miss bethia was quite right. he did not in the least know how to begin to say what he knew must be said before he went away. after tea, the younger children went to bed, and miss bethia betook herself to the kitchen and debby, thinking, to herself, it would be well for all concerned if it should fall to her to straighten out things after all; for mr oswald had been walking up and down the room in silence for the last half-hour, "looking as black as thunder," miss bethia said, in confidence, to debby, and no one else had spoken a word. it was a very painful half-hour to mr oswald. he had only begun his walk when it seemed to him impossible that he could sit and look at the pale, patient face and drooping figure of the widow a single moment more. for he was in a great strait. he was in almost the saddest position that a man not guilty of positive wrong can occupy. he was a poor man, supposed to be rich. for years, his income had scarcely sufficed for the expenses of his family; for the last year it had not sufficed. it was necessary for the success of his business, or, he supposed, it was necessary that he should be considered a rich man; and he had harassed himself and strained every nerve to keep up appearances, and now he was saying to himself that this new claim upon him could not possibly be met. he was not a hard man, though he had sometimes been called so. at this moment, his heart was very tender over the widow and her children; and it was the thought that, in strict justice, he had no right to do for them as he wished to do, that gave him so much pain. waiting would not make it better, however, and in a little while he came and sat down by mrs inglis, and said: "it seems cruel that i should expect you to speak about--anything to-night. but, indeed, it is quite necessary that i should return home to-morrow, and i might be able to advise you, if you would tell me your plans." but, as yet, mrs inglis had no plans. "it came so suddenly," said she, speaking with difficulty; "and--you are very kind." "will you tell me just how your affairs stand? unless there is some one else who can do it better, i will gladly help you in your arrangements for the future." there was no one else, and it was not at all difficult to tell him the state of their affairs. they were not at all involved. there were no debts. the rent of the house was paid till the next autumn; there were some arrears of salary, and mrs inglis had a claim on a minister's widow's fund in connection with the branch of the church to which her husband had belonged, but the sum mentioned as the possible annual amount she would receive was so small, that, in mr oswald's mind, it counted for nothing. and that was all! mr oswald was amazed. "was there not something done at one time--about insuring your husband's life?" asked he, gently. "yes; a good many years ago. he could not manage it then--nor since. our income has never been large." and she named the sum. mr oswald rose suddenly, and began his walk about the room again. it was incredible! a scholar and a gentleman like his cousin to rest contented all these years with such a pittance! he knew that he had been earnest and full of zeal in the cause to which he had devoted his life--more than content. valuing money for the sake of what it could do, he had yet envied no man who had more than fell to his lot. he must have known that his children must be left penniless! how could he have borne it? "and how should i leave mine, if i were to die to-night?" said mr oswald to himself, with a groan. "i who have lived a life so different." he came and sat down again. but what could he say? mrs inglis spoke first. "i have made no plans as yet. there has been no time. but i am not afraid. the way will open before us." "yes, you must have good courage. and you will tell me in what way i can be of use to you." "you are very kind," said mrs inglis, speaking quickly. "you may be sure i shall gladly avail myself of your advice. i am not afraid. my boys are strong and willing to work. we love one another, and there are worse things than poverty." "and, for the present, you will remain here at any rate. in a few weeks i shall see you again; and, in the meantime, you must permit me to supply anything you may require." "you are very kind. you may be quite sure we shall apply to you if it be necessary. just now it is not; and when we have had time to consider our plans, we shall write to you--if you cannot come." mrs inglis paused; and, perhaps, becoming conscious that she had spoken with unnecessary decision, she added, gently: "you are very kind. i believe you are a true friend, and that you will do what you can to enable us to help ourselves. that will be the best-- the only way to aid us effectually. with my two brave boys and god's blessing, i don't think i need fear." she spoke, looking, with a smile, at her sons, who were leaning over her chair. somehow her smile moved mr oswald more than her tears could have done, and he said nothing for a minute or two. there was nothing clearer than that she did not intend to lay the burden of her cares on him or anyone. but what could a delicate woman, unused to battle with the world, do to keep the wolf from the door, let her courage be ever so high? "will you promise me one thing?" said he, rising to prepare to go. "will you promise me to let me know how i can help you--when your plans are made--either by advice or by money? i have a right. your husband was my relative as well as my friend." "i promise faithfully you shall be the first person to whom i shall apply in any strait," said mrs inglis, rising also, and offering her hand. "and what did your husband think of my proposal to take his son into my office?" "he thought well of it, as he wrote to you. but nothing has been said about it yet. can you give us a little time still? and i will write. believe me, i am very grateful for your kindness." "if you will only give me an opportunity to be kind. certainly, i can wait. a month hence will be time enough to decide." and then, when he had bidden them all good-bye, he went away. "what did he mean by a situation, mamma?" asked jem. "is it for davie? did papa know?" but mrs inglis could enter into no particulars that night. she had kept up to the end of her strength. "i am very tired. i will tell you all about it another day. we must have patience, and do nothing rashly. the way will open before us. i am not afraid." all the sadness of the next few weeks need not be told. they who have suffered the same loss, and lived through the first sorrowful days of bereavement, will know how it was with the mother and her children, and they who have not could never be made to understand. anxieties as to the future could not but press on the heart of the mother, but they could scarcely be said to deepen her sadness. she was not really afraid. she knew they would not be forsaken--that their father's god would have them in his keeping. but the thought of parting from them-- of sending any of them away--was very hard to bear. if she could have seen it possible to stay in gourlay, she would have had fewer misgivings; but there was nothing in gourlay she could do to help to keep her children together. there was no room in so small a place for any but the public schools, long established, and, at present, prosperous; and teaching seemed the only thing in which she could engage with even moderate hopes of success. if "a multitude of counsellors" could have helped her, she would have been helped. every one had something to say, which proved that the earnest desire of all was that she should stay in gourlay; but no one was so happy as to suggest a way in which she could do so without involving some measure of dependence on the kindness of friends; and though this might do for a little while, it could not do long, and they would have to go at last. still she was in no haste to go, or very eager to make plans for the future. "the way will open before us! i am not afraid!" was the end of many an anxious discussion during these days; and thought of sending david away from her, gave her more real pain through them all than did the consideration of what might befall them in the future; for david was going away to be junior clerk in the bank of singleton, at a salary which seemed very large to him. it was more than a third of what his father's salary had been when it was at the best. there would not be much left for his mother and the rest by the time he had clothed and kept himself; but it was a beginning, and david was glad to begin, jem would fain have done something, too, but his mother justly felt that the next six months at school would be of greater value to him than all he would be likely to earn, and he was to stay at home for the present. but the mother did not have to send david away alone. the way, for which she had so patiently and confidently waited, opened to them sooner than she had dared to hope. it did not open very brightly. an opportunity to let their house to one of the new railway people made her think first of the possibility of getting away at once; and various circumstances, which need not be told, induced her to look to the town of singleton as their future place of residence. david was to be there for a year, at least, and they could all be together, and his salary would do something toward keeping the house, and, in a place like singleton, there might be more chance for getting for herself and violet such employment as might suit them than they could have in gourlay. it was not without some doubts and fears that this arrangement was decided upon; but there seemed nothing better to do, and delay would make departure none the easier. but the doubts and fears came only now and then--the faith in god was abiding; and if she was sorrowful in those days, it was with a sorrow which rose from no distrust of him who had been her confidence all her life-long. she knew that help would come when it was needed, and that he would be her confidence to the end. towards the end of april, they had a visit from a gentleman, who announced himself as mr caldwell, senior clerk in the bank where david was to be junior. he had come to transact business at the quarries, several miles beyond gourlay, and had called at the request of mr oswald, and also because he wished to make the acquaintance of the inglis family, especially of david, whom he expected soon to have under his immediate care. he had known mr inglis when he was a boy, having been then in the employment of his uncle. the children had heard of him often, and their mother had seen him more than once in the earlier years of her married life, and they were not long in becoming friendly. he was a small, dark man, slow of speech, and with some amusing peculiarities of manner, but, evidently, kindly-disposed toward them all. his first intention had been to go on to the quarries that night, but he changed his mind before he had been long in the house, and accepted mrs inglis's invitation to stay to tea; and soon, to her own surprise, the mother found herself telling their plans to a very attentive listener. he looked grave, when he heard of their determination to leave gourlay, and go and live in singleton. it was a warm, bright afternoon, and they were sitting on the gallery in front of the house. the snow was nearly all gone; a soft green was just beginning to make itself visible over the fields and along the roadsides, and buds, purple and green and brown, were showing themselves on the door-yard trees. the boys were amusing themselves by putting in order the walks and flower-borders in the garden, where there were already many budding things, and the whole scene was a very pleasant one to look on. "singleton is very different from this place," said he. "you will never like to live there." but there are many things that people must endure when they cannot like them; and there seemed to be no better way, as he acknowledged, when he had heard all. he entered with kindly interest into all their plans, and it was arranged that, when david went to singleton, he should go directly to his house, and, between them, no doubt, a suitable house for the family would be found. and mrs inglis thanked god for the new friend he had raised up for them, and took courage. the next day, mr caldwell went to the quarries, and david and jem went with him, or rather, it should be said, mr caldwell went with the boys, for they had old don and the wagon, and made a very pleasant day of it, going one way and coming home the other, for the sake of showing the stranger as much of the beautiful country as possible in so short a time. they all enjoyed the drive and the view of the country, and mr caldwell enjoyed something besides. he was a quiet man, saying very little, and what he did say came out so deliberately that any one else would have said it in half the time. but he was a good listener, and had the faculty of making other people talk, and the boys had a great deal to say to him and to one another. unconsciously they yielded to the influence of the sweet spring air and the sunshine, and the new sights that were around them, and the sadness that had lain so heavily on them since their father's death lightened, they grew eager and communicative, and, in boyish fashion, did the honours of the country to their new friend with interest and delight. not that they grew thoughtless or seemed to forget. their father's name was often on their lips,--on jem's, at least,--david did not seem to find it so easy to utter. they had both been at the quarries before with their father, and jem had a great deal to say about what he had heard then, and at other times, about the stones and rocks, the formations and strata; and he always ended with "that was what papa said, eh, davie?" as though that was final, and there could be no dissent; and david said, "yes, jem," or, perhaps, only nodded his head gravely. he never enlarged or went into particulars as jem did; and when once they were fairly on their way home, jem had it all to do, for they came home by the north gore road, over which david had gone so many, many times; and even jem grew grave as he pointed out this farm and that, as belonging to "one of our people;" and the grave-yard on the hill, and the red school-house "where papa used to preach." and when they came to the top of the hill that looks down on the river, and the meadows, and the two villages, they were both silent, for old don stood still of his own accord, and david, muttering something about "a buckle and a strap," sprang out to put them right, and was a long time about it, mr caldwell thought. "we will let the poor old fellow rest a minute," said jem, softly; and david stood with his face turned away, and his arm thrown over old don's neck. there was not much said after that, but they all agreed that they had had a very pleasant day; and mr caldwell said to mrs inglis, in his slow way, that he had enjoyed the drive, and the sight of the fine country, and the quarries, but he had enjoyed the company of her two boys a great deal more than all. and you may be sure it was a pleasure to her to hear him say it. chapter eight. the breaking-up of what has been a happy home, is not an easy or pleasant thing under any circumstances. it involves confusion and fatigue, and a certain amount of pain, even when there is an immediate prospect of a better one. and when there is no such prospect, it is very sad, indeed. the happy remembrances that come with the gathering together, and looking over of the numberless things, useless and precious, that will, in the course of years, accumulate in a house, change to regrets and forebodings, and the future seems all the more gloomy because of the brightness of the past. there were few things in mrs inglis's house of great value; but everything was precious to her, because of some association it had with her husband and their past life; and how sad all this was to her, could never be told. the children were excited at the prospect of change. singleton was a large place to them, which none of them, except david and violet, had ever seen. so they amused one another, fancying what they would see and do, and what sort of a life they should live there, and made a holiday of the overturning that was taking place. but there was to the mother no pleasing uncertainty with regard to the kind of life they were to live in the new home to which they were going. there might be care, and labour, and loneliness, and, it was possible, things harder to bear; and, knowing all this, no wonder the thought of the safe and happy days they were leaving behind them was sometimes more than she could bear. but, happily, there was not much time for the indulgence of regretful thoughts. there were too many things to be decided and done for that. there were not many valuable things in the house, but there were a great many things of one kind and another. what was to be taken? what to be left? where were they all to be bestowed? these questions, and the perplexities arising out of them, were never for a long time together suffered to be out of the mother's thoughts; and busy tongues suggesting plans, and busy hands helping or hindering to carry them out, filled every pause. the very worst day of all, was the day when, having trusted jem to drive the little ones a few miles down the river to pay a farewell visit, mrs inglis, with david and violet, went into the study to take down her husband's books. and yet that day had such an ending, as to teach the widow still another lesson of grateful trust. it was a long time before they came to the books. papers, magazines, pamphlets--all such things as will, in the course of years, find a place on the shelves or in the drawers of one who interests himself in all that is going on in the world--had accumulated in the study; and all these had to be moved and assorted, for keeping, or destroying, or giving away. sermons and manuscripts, hitherto never touched but by the hand that had written them, had to be disturbed; old letters--some from the living and some from the dead--were taken from the secret places where they had lain for years, and over every one of these mrs inglis lingered with love and pain unspeakable. "never mind, davie! take no notice, violet, love!" she said, once or twice, when a sudden cry or a gush of tears startled them; and so very few words were spoken all day. the two children sat near her, folding, arranging and putting aside the papers as she bade them, when they had passed through her hands. "wouldn't it have been better to put them together and pack them up without trying to arrange them, mamma?" said david, at last, as his mother paused to press her hands on her aching temples. "perhaps it would have been better. but it must have been done some time; and it is nearly over now." "and the books? must we wait for another day? we have not many days now, mamma!" "not many! still, i think, we must wait. i have done all i am able to do to-day. yes, i know you and violet could do it; but i would like to help, and we will wait till to-morrow." "and, besides, mamma," said letty, from the window, "here is miss bethia coming up the street. and, mamma, dear, shouldn't you go and lie down now, and i could tell her that you have a headache, and that you ought not to be disturbed?" but mrs inglis could hardly have accomplished that, even if she had tried at once, for almost before violet had done speaking, miss bethia was upon them. her greetings were brief and abrupt, as usual; and then she said: "well! there! i _was_ in hopes to see this place once more before everything was pulled to pieces!" and she surveyed the disordered room with discontented eyes. "been looking them over to see what you can leave behind or burn up, haven't you? and you can't make up your mind to part with one of them. i know pretty well how _that_ is. the books ain't disturbed yet, thank goodness! are you going to take parson grantly's offer, and let him have some of them?" mrs inglis shook her head. "perhaps i ought," said she. "and yet i cannot make up my mind to do it." "no! of course, not! not to him, anyhow! do you suppose he'd ever read them? no! he only wants them to set up on his shelf to look at. if they've got to go, let them go to some one that'll get the good of them, for goodness sake! well! there! i believe i'm getting profane about it!" said miss bethia catching the look of astonishment on david's face. "but what i want to say is, what in all the world should you want to go and break it up for? there ain't many libraries like that in this part of the world." and, indeed, there was not. the only point at which mr inglis had painfully felt his poverty, was his library. he was a lover of books, and had the desire, which is like a fire in the bones of the earnest student, to get possession of the best books of the time as they came from the press. all his economy in other things had reference to this. any overplus at the year's end, any unexpected addition to their means, sooner or later found its way into the booksellers' hands. but neither overplus nor unexpected addition were of frequent occurrence in the family history of the inglises; and from among the best of the booksellers' treasures only the very best found their way to the minister's study except as transitory visitors. still, in the course of years, a good many of these had been gathered, and he had, besides, inherited a valuable library, as far as it went, both in theology and in general literature; and once or twice, in the course of his life, it had been his happy fortune to have to thank some good rich man for a gift of books better than gold. so miss bethia was right in saying that there were in the country few libraries like the one on which she stood gazing with regretful admiration. "_i_ can't make it seem right to do it," continued she gravely. "just think of the book he thought so much of lying round on common folks' shelves and tables? why! he used to touch the very outsides of them as if they felt good to his hands." "i remember. i have seen him," said david. "and so have i," said violet. "if you were going to sell them all together, so as not to break it up, it would be different," said miss bethia. "but i could not do that, even if i wished. mr grantly only wants a small number of them, a list of which he left when he was here." "the best-looking ones on the outside, i suppose. he could tell something about them, it's likely, by looking at the names on the title-page," said miss bethia, scornfully. "but, miss bethia, why should you think he would not care for the books for themselves, and read them, too?" asked violet, smiling. "mr grantly is a great scholar, they say." "oh, well, child, i dare say! there are books enough. he needn't want your pa's. but, mrs inglis," said miss bethia, impressively, "i wonder you haven't thought of keeping them for david. it won't be a great while before he'll want just such a library. they won't eat anything." "it will be a long time, i am afraid," said david's mother. "and i am not sure that it would not be best to dispose of them,--some of them, at least,--for we are very poor, and i scarcely know whether we shall have a place to put them. they may have to be packed up in boxes, and of that i cannot bear to think." "no. it ain't pleasant," said miss bethia, meditatively. "it ain't pleasant to think about." then rising, she added, speaking rapidly and eagerly, "sell them to _me_, mrs inglis. i'll take good care of them, and keep them together." mrs inglis looked at her in astonishment. the children laughed, and david said: "do you want them to read, miss bethia? or is it only for the outside, or the names on the first page, like mr grantly?" "never you mind. i want to keep them together; and i expect i shall read some in them. mrs inglis, i'll give you five hundred dollars down for that book-case, just as it stands. i know it's worth more than that, a great deal; but the chances are not in favour of your getting more here. come, what do you say?" if miss bethia had proposed to buy the church, or the grave-yard, or the village common, or all of them together, it would not have surprised her listeners more. "miss bethia," said mrs inglis, gently, "i thank you. you are thinking of the good the money would do to my children." "no, mrs inglis, i ain't--not that alone. and that wasn't my _first_ thought either. i want the books for a reason i have." "but what could you do with them, miss bethia?" asked violet. "do with them? i could have the book-case put up in my square room, or i could send them to the new theological school i've heard tell they're starting, if i wanted to. there's a good many things i could do with them, i guess, if it comes to that." "but, aunt bethia, five hundred dollars is a large sum," said david. "it ain't all they're worth. if your ma thinks so, she can take less," said miss bethia, prudently. "o, i've got it--if that's what you mean-- and enough more where that came from! some, at any rate." david looked at her, smiling and puzzled. "i've got it--and i want the books," said miss bethia. "what do you say, mrs inglis?" "miss bethia, i cannot thank you enough for your kind thoughts toward me and my children. but it would not be right to take your money, even if i could bear to part with my husband's books. it would be a gift from you to us." "no, it wouldn't. it would cost me something to part with my money, i don't deny; but not more--not so much as it would cost you to part with your books. and we would be about even there. and i would take first-rate care of them--and be glad to." mrs inglis sat thinking in silence for a minute or two. "miss bethia, you are very kind. will you let me leave the books awhile in your care? it is quite possible we may have no place in which to keep them safely. children, if miss bethia is willing, shall we leave papa's precious books a little while with her?" "i shouldn't feel willing to get the good of your books for nothing." mrs inglis smiled. "you would take care of them." miss bethia hesitated, meditating deeply. "there would be a risk. what if my house were to take fire and burn down? what should i have to show for your books, then?" "but the risk would not be greater with you than with me, nor so great. still, of course, i would not wish to urge you." "i should like to have them, first-rate, if i could have them just in the way i want to--risk or no risk." violet and david laughed; even mrs inglis smiled. that was so exactly what was generally asserted with regard to miss bethia. she must have things in just the way she wanted them, or she would not have them at all. "we could fix it as easy as not, all round, if you would only take my way," said she, with a little vexation. they all sat thinking in silence for a little. "see here! i've just thought of a plan," said she, suddenly. "let me take the books to take care of, and you needn't take the five hundred dollars unless you want to. let it be in mr slight's hands, and while i have the books you will have the interest. i don't suppose you know it, but he had that much of me when he built his new tannery, eight years ago, and he has paid me regular ten per cent, ever since. it looks like usury, don't it? but he says it's worth that to him; and i'm sure, if it is, he's welcome to it. now, if you'll take that while i have the books, i'll call it even--risk or no risk; and you can give it up and have the books when you want them. i call that fair. don't you?" did ever so extraordinary a proposal come from so unexpected a quarter? the mother and children looked at one another in astonishment. "miss bethia," said mrs inglis, gravely, "that is a large sum of money." "well--that's according as folks look at it. but don't let us worry any more about it. there is no better way to fix it that i know of than that." mrs inglis did not know how to answer her. "mrs inglis," said miss bethia, solemnly, "i never thought you was a difficult woman to get along with before." "but, miss bethia," said violet, "mamma knows that you wish to do this for our sakes and not at all for your own." "no she doesn't, neither! and what about it, any way? it's my own, every cent." "miss bethia," said david, "are you very rich?" miss bethia gave a laugh, which sounded like a sob. "yes; i'm rich, if it comes to that! i've got more than ever i'll spend, and nobody has got any claim on me--no blood relation except cousin ira barnes's folks--and they're all better off than i be, or they think so. bless you! i can let your ma have it as well as not, even if i wasn't going to have the books, which i am, i hope." "miss bethia, i don't know what to say to you," said mrs inglis. "well, don't say anything, then. it seems to me you owe it to your husband's memory to keep the books together. for my part, i don't see how you can think of refusing my offer, as you can't take them with you." "to care for the books--yes--" "see here, david!" said miss bethia, "what do you say about it? you are a boy of sense. tell your ma there's no good being so contrary--i mean--i don't know what i mean, exactly," added she. "i shall have to think it over a spell." david turned his eyes toward his mother in wonder--in utter perplexity, but said nothing. "there! i'll have to tell it after all; and i hope it won't just spoil my pleasure in it; but i shouldn't wonder. the money ain't mine--hasn't been for quite a spell. i set it apart to pay david's expenses at college; so it's his, or yours till he's of age, if you're a mind to claim it. your husband knew all about it." "my husband!" repeated mrs inglis. "yes; and now i shouldn't wonder if i had spoiled it to you, too. i told him i was going to give it for that. as like as not he didn't believe me," said miss bethia, with a sob. "i've had my feelings considerably hurt, one way and another, this afternoon. there wouldn't any of you have been so surprised if any one else had wanted to do you a kindness--if you will have that it's a kindness. i know some folks have got to think i'm stingy and mean, because--" "aunt bethia," said david, taking her hand in both his, "that is not what we think here." "no, indeed! we have never thought that," said violet, kissing her. then david kissed her, too, reddening a little, as boys will who only kiss their mothers when they go to bed, or their very little sisters. "miss bethia," said mrs inglis, "my husband always looked upon you as a true friend. i do not doubt but that your kindness in this matter comforted him at the last." "well, then, it's settled--no more need be said. if i were to die to-night, it would be found in my will all straight. and you wouldn't refuse to take it if i were dead, would you? why should you now? unless you grudge me the pleasure of seeing it. oh! i've got enough more to keep me--if that's what you mean--if i should live for forty years, which ain't likely." so what could mrs inglis do but press her hand, murmuring thanks in the name of her children and her husband. miss bethia's spirits rose. "and you'll have to be a good boy, david, and adorn the doctrine of your saviour, so as to fill your father's place." "miss bethia, i can never do that. i am not good at all." "well, i don't suppose you are. but grace abounds, and you can have it for the asking." "but, miss bethia, if you mean this because--you expect me to be a minister, like papa, i am not sure, and you may be disappointed--and then--" "there ain't much one _can_ be sure of in this world," said miss bethia, with a sigh. "but i can wait. you are young--there's time enough. if the lord wants you for his service, he'll have you, and no mistake. there's the money, at any rate. your mother will want you for the next five years, and you'll see your way clearer by that time, i expect." "and do you mean that the money is to be mine--for the university-- whether i am to be a minister or not? i want to understand, miss bethia." "well, it was with the view of your being a minister, like your father, that i first thought of it, i don't deny," said miss bethia, gravely. "but it's yours any way, as soon as your mother thinks best to let you have it. if the lord don't want you for his minister, i'm very sure _i_ don't. if he wants you, he'll have you; and that's as good a way to leave it as any." there was nothing more to be said, and miss bethia had her way after all. and a very good way it was. "and we'll just tell the neighbours that i am to take care of the books till you know where you are to put them--folks take notice of everything so. that'll be enough to say. and, david, you must make out a list of them,--two, indeed,--one to leave with me and one to take, and i'll see to all the rest." and so it was settled. the book-case and the books were never moved. they stand in the study still, and are likely to do so for a good while to come. this is as good a place as any to tell of miss bethia's good fortune. she was disposed, at first, to think her fortune anything but good; for it took out of her hands the house that had been her home for the last thirty years of her life--where she had watched by the death-bed of father, mother, sister. it destroyed the little twenty-acre farm, which, in old times, she had sowed and planted and reaped with her own hands, bringing to nothing the improvements which had been the chief interest of her life in later years; for, in spite of her determined resistance, the great railway company had its way, as great companies usually do, and laid their plans, and carried them out, for making the gourlay station there. so the hills were levelled, and the hollows filled up; the fences and farming implements, and the house itself, carried out of the way, and all the ancient landmarks utterly removed. "just as if there wasn't enough waste land in the country, but they must take the home of a solitary old woman to put their depots, and their engines, and their great wood-piles on," said miss bethia, making a martyr of herself. but, of course, she was well paid for it all, and, to her neighbours, was an object of envy rather than of pity; for it could not easily be understood by people generally, how the breaking-up of her house seemed to miss bethia like the breaking-up of all things, and that she felt like a person lost, and friendless, and helpless for a little while. but there, was a bright side to the matter, she was, by and by, willing to acknowledge. she knew too well the value of money--had worked too hard for all she had, not to feel some come complacency in the handsome sum lodged in the bank in her name by the obnoxious company. it is a great thing to have money, most people think, and miss bethia might have had a home in any house in gourlay that summer if she chose. but she knew that would not suit anybody concerned long; so, when it was suggested to her that she should purchase the house which the departure of mrs inglis and her children left vacant, she considered the matter first, and then accomplished it. it was too large for her, of course, but she let part of it to debby stone, who brought her invalid sister there, and earned the living of both by working as a tailoress. miss bethia did something at that, too, and lived as sparingly as she had always done, and showed such shrewdness in investing her money, and such firmness in exacting all that was her due, that some people, who would have liked to have a voice in the management of her affairs, called her hard, and a screw, and wondered that an old woman like her should care so much for what she took so little good of. but miss bethia took a great deal of good out of her money, or out of the use she made of it, and meant to make of it; and a great many people in gourlay, and out of it, knew that she was neither hard nor a screw. and the book-case still stood up-stairs, and miss bethia took excellent care of the books, keeping the curtains drawn and the room dark, except when she had visitors. then the light was let in, and she grew eloquent over the books and the minister, and the good he had done her in past days; but no one ever heard from her lips how the books came to be left in her care, or what was to become of them at last. chapter nine. may has come again, and the inglises had been living a whole year in singleton; or, rather, they had been living in a queer little house just out of singleton. the house itself was well enough, and the place had been a pretty place once; but miss bethia's enemies--the great railway company--had been at work on it, and about it, and they had changed a pretty field of meadow-land, a garden and an orchard, into a desolate-looking place, indeed. there was no depot or engine-house in the immediate neighbourhood, but the railway itself came so close to it, and rose so high above it, that the engine-driver might almost have looked down the cottage chimney as he passed. just beyond the town of singleton, the highway was crossed by the railway, and, in one of the acute angles which the intersection made, the little house stood. on the side of the house, most distant from the crossing, were two bridges (one on the railway and the other on the high road), both so high and so strong as to seem quite out of place over the tiny stream that, for the greater part of the year, ran beneath them. it was a large stream at some seasons, however, and so was the single river into which it fell; and the water from the single sometimes set back under the bridges and over the low land till the house seemed to stand on an island. the single river could not be seen from the house, although it was so near, because the railway hid it, and all else in that direction, except the summit of a distant mountain, behind which, at midsummer-time, the sun went down. from the other side, the road was seen, and a broken field, over which a new street or two had been laid out, and a few dull-looking houses built; and to the right of these streets lay the town. it was not a pretty place, but it had its advantages. it was a far better home to which to bring country-bred children than any which could have been found within their means in the town. they could not hesitate between it and the others which they went to see; and, as mr oswald had something to do with the railway company, into whose hands it had fallen, it was easily secured. there were no neighbours very near, and there was a bit of garden-ground--the three-cornered piece between the house and the crossing, and a strip of grass, and a hedge of willows and alders on the other side, on the edge of the little stream between the two bridges, and there was no comparison between the house and any of the high and narrow brick tenements with doors opening right upon the dusty street. and so the mother and the children came to make a new home there, and they succeeded. it was a happy home. not in quite the same way that their home in gourlay had been happy. no place could ever be quite like that again; but when the first year came to an end, and the mother looked back over all the way by which they had been led, she felt that she had much cause for gratitude and some cause for joy. the children had, in the main, been good and happy; they had had all the necessaries and some of the comforts of life; they had had no severe illness among them, and they had been able to keep out of debt. to some young people, all this may not seem very much in the way of happiness, but, to mrs inglis, it seemed much, and to the children too. mrs inglis had not opened a school. the house was too small for that, and it was not situated in a part of the town where there were likely to be many pupils. she had taught three or four little girls along with her own children, but the number had not increased. during the first six months of their stay in singleton, violet had been house-keeper. the change had not been altogether pleasant for her, but she had submitted to it cheerfully, and it had done her good. she had become helpful and womanly in a way that would have delighted old mrs kerr's heart to see. to her mother and her brothers she was "one of the children" still, but strangers were beginning to look upon her as a grown-up young lady, a good many years older than david or jem. to jem, for whom his mother had feared most, the change had been altogether advantageous. he had come to singleton with the avowed intention of going regularly to school, as his mother wished, for six months, and then he was going to seek his fortune. but six months passed, and the year came to an end, and jem was still a pupil in the school of mr anstruther--a man among a thousand, jem thought. he was a great mathematician, at any rate, and had a kind heart, and took interest and pleasure in the progress of one who, like himself, went to his work with a will, as jem certainly did in these days. jem's wish to please his mother brought him this reward, that he came to take great pleasure in his work, and all the more that he knew he was laying a good foundation for success in the profession which he had chosen, and in which he meant to excel. for jem was going to be an engineer, and work with his hands and his head too; and though he had no more chances of shoeing horses now, he had, through a friend of his, many a good chance of handling iron, both hot and cold, in the great engine-house at the other side of the town. so jem had made great advance toward manliness since they had come to singleton. greater than david had made, some of the gourlay people thought, who saw both the lads about this time. even his mother thought so for a while. at least she thought that jem had changed more than davie, and more for the better. to be sure, there had been more need, for davie had always been a sensible, well-behaved lad, and even the most charitable and kindly-disposed among the neighbours could not always say that of jem. davie was sensible and well-behaved still, but there was none of the children about whom the mother had at first so many anxious thoughts as about david. to none of them had the father's death changed everything so much as to him. not that he had loved his father more than the others, but for the last year or two he had been more with him. both his work and his recreation had been enjoyed with him, and all the good seemed gone from everything to him since his father died. his new work in singleton was well done, and cheerfully, and the knowledge that he was for the time the chief bread-winner of the family, would have made him do any work cheerfully. but it was not congenial or satisfying work. for a time he had no well defined duty, but did what was to be done at the bidding of any one in the office, and often he was left irritable and exhausted after a day, over which he could look back with no pleasure because of anything that he had accomplished. he could not fall back for recreation on his books, as his mother suggested. he tried it oftener than she knew, but the very sight of the familiar pages, over which he used to ponder with such interest, brought back the "study," and the old happy days, and his father's face and voice, and made him sick with longing for them all. there was no comfort to be got from his books at this time. nor from anything else. the interest in which the little ones took in their new home and their new companions, jem's enthusiasm over his new master and his school work, violet's triumphs in her little house-keeping successes, filled him with wonder which was not always free from anger and contempt. even his mother's gentle cheerfulness was all read wrong by davie. he said to himself that his father had been more to him than to the other children, and that he missed him more than they, but he could not say this of his mother; and daily seeing her patient sweetness, her constant care to turn the bright side of their changed life to her children, it seemed to him almost like indifference--like a willingness to forget. he hated himself for the thought, and shrunk from his mother's eye, lest she should see it and hate him too. but all this did not last very long. it must have come to an end soon, in one way or other, for youth grows impatient of sorrow, and lays it down at last, and thanks to his mother's watchful care, it ended well for david. he had no hay-loft to which he could betake himself in these days when he wished to be alone; but when he felt irritable and impatient, and could not help showing it among his brothers and sisters, he used to go out through the strip of grass and the willows into the dry bed of the shrunken stream that flowed beneath the two bridges, and sitting down on the large stones of which the abutment of the railroad bridge was made, have it out with himself by the bank of the river alone. and here his mother found him sitting one night, dull and moody, throwing sticks and stones into the water at his feet. she came upon him before he was aware. "mamma! you here? how did you come? on the track?" "no; i followed you round by the willows and below the bridge. how quiet it is here!" the high embankment of the railway on one side, and the river on the other, shut in the spot where david sat, and made it solitary enough to suit him in his moodiest moments, and his mother saw that he did not look half glad at her coming. but she took no notice. the great stones that made the edge of the abutment were arranged like steps of stairs, and she sat down a step or two above him. "did the sun set clear? or were there clouds enough about to make a picture to-night?" asked she, after a little. "yes, it was clear, i think. at least not very cloudy. i hardly noticed," said davie, confusedly. "i wish we could see the sun set from the house." "yes, it is very pretty sometimes. when the days were at the longest, the sun set behind the highest part of the mountain just in a line with that tall elm on the other side of the river. it sets far to the left now." "yes, the summer is wearing on," said his mother. and so they went on talking of different things for a little while, and then there was silence. "mamma," said david, by and by, "are you not afraid of taking cold? it is almost dark." "no. i have my thick shawl." and moving down a step, she so arranged it that it fell over david too. "ah! never mind me. i am not so delicate as all that, mamma," said david, laughing, but he did not throw the shawl off, but rather drew a little nearer, and leaned on her lap. "see the evening star, mamma. i always think--" david stopped suddenly. "of papa," said his mother, softly. "yes, and of the many, many times we have seen it together. we always used to look for it coming home. sometimes he saw it first, and sometimes i did; and oh! mamma, there don't seem to be any good in anything now," said he, with a breaking voice. instead of speaking, his mother passed her hand gently over his hair. "will it ever seem the same, mamma?" "never the same, davie! never the same! we shall never see his face, nor hear his voice, nor clasp his hand again. we shall never wait for his coming home in all the years that are before us. it will never, never be the same." "mamma! how can you bear it?" "it was god's will, and it is well with him, and i shall see him again," said his mother, brokenly. but when she spoke in a minute her voice was clear and firm as ever. "it will never be the same to any of us again. but you are wrong in one thing. all the good has not gone out of life because of our loss." "it seems so to me, mamma." "but it is not so. we have our work in the world just as before, and you have your preparation for it." "but i cannot make myself care for anything as i used to do." "there must be something wrong then, davie, my boy." "everything is wrong, i think, mamma." "if _one_ thing is wrong, nothing can be right, david," said his mother, stooping down and kissing him softly. "what did your father wish first for his son?" "that i should be a good soldier of jesus christ. i know that, mamma." "and you have been forgetting this? that hast not changed, davie." "no, mamma--but--i am so good for nothing. you don't know--" "yes, i know. but then it is not one's worth that is to be considered, dear. the more worthless and helpless we are, the more we need to be made his who is worthy. and davie, what do we owe to `him who loved us, and gave himself for us?'" "ourselves, mamma, our life, our love--" "and have you given him these?" "i don't know, mamma." "and are you content not to know?" "i am not content--but how am i to know, mamma," said david, rising and kneeling down on the broad stone beside her. "may i tell you something? it was that night--at the very last--papa asked me if i was ready to put on the armour he was laying down; and i said yes; and, mamma, i meant it. i wished to do so, oh, so much!--but everything has been so miserable since then--" "and don't you wish it still, my son?" "mamma, i know there is nothing else that, is any good, but i cannot make myself care for it as i did then." "david," said his mother, "do you love jesus?" "yes, mamma, indeed i love him. i know him to be worthy of my love." "and you desire to be his servant to honour him, and do his will?" "yes, mamma, if i only knew the way." "david, it was his will that papa should be taken from us; but you are angry at our loss." "angry! oh, mamma!" "you are not submissive under his will. you fail to have confidence in his love, or his wisdom, or in his care for you. you think that in taking him he has made a mistake or been unkind." "i know i am all wrong, mamma." "david, my boy, perhaps it is this which is standing between you and a full consecration to his service." and then she spoke to him of his father, and of his work, and how blessed he had been in it, and of the rest and reward to which he had gone. "a little sooner than we would have chosen for our own sakes, davie, but not too soon for him, or for his master." a great deal more she said to him of the life that lay before him, and how he might help her and his brothers and sisters. then she spoke of his work for christ, and of his preparation for it, and how hopeful-- nay, how sure she was, that happy and useful days were before him--all the more happy and useful because of the sorrow he had been passing through. "as one whom his mother comforteth," came into david's mind as he listened. "and it is i who ought to be comforting you, mamma. i know i am all wrong--" said he, with tears. "we will comfort one another. and indeed, it is my best comfort to comfort you. and, davie, my love, we will begin anew." there was more said after that--of the work that lay ready at his hand, of how he was to take out his books again, lest he should fall back on his studies, and do discredit to his father's teaching, and of how he was to help his brothers and sisters, especially violet and jem. "only, mamma, i think they have been getting on very well without me all this time," said davie, ruefully. "not so well as they will with you, however," said his mother. "everything will go better now." everything did go better after that with david. his troubles were not over. his books gave him pain rather than pleasure, for a while, and it needed a struggle for him to interest himself in the plans and pursuits of jem, and even of violet. but he did not grow moody over his failures, and by and by there came to be some good in life to him again, and his mother's heart was set at rest about him, for she began to hope that it was well with david in the best sense now. during the first summer they saw very little of the oswalds. they lived quite at the other end of the town, in a house very different from the "bridge house," as their cottage was called, and for the greater part of the summer, the young people of the family had been away from home. but in the autumn it was so arranged that violet at least, was to see a great deal of some of them. mr oswald had six children, four daughters and two sons. his eldest daughter ame had been mistress of the house since her return from school, at the time of her mother's death. this had happened several years ago. she was twenty-four years of age, very clever and fond of society. she was engaged to be married, but she did not intend to leave home immediately, from which indeed she could not easily have been spared. they had much company always, and she had a great deal to do in entertaining them, and led a very busy and, as she thought, a very useful life in her father's house. the next in age was philip, but he was not at home. he was in his last year at m-- university, and was to be home in the spring. selina came next. she was one year younger than violet, and would fain have considered herself a grown-up young lady, and her education finished, if her father and sister had agreed. then came frank, who was not very strong, and whose eyes were still weak, and then charlotte and sarah, girls of ten and twelve. it was to teach these two that violet was to go to mr oswald's house. mrs inglis felt that the proposal had been made by mr oswald quite as much with the thought of helping them as of benefiting his children, who had before this time gone to a day-school in the neighbourhood. but she did not refuse to let violet go on that account. she believed her to be fitted for the work. she knew her to be gentle and affectionate, yet firm and conscientious, that she would be faithful in the performance of her duties towards the little girls, and that they would be the gainers in the end by the arrangement. and so it proved. the first intention was that violet should return home every night, but as the season advanced and the weather broke, the distance was found to be too great, and besides, violet's slumbering ambition was awakened by the proposal that she should share in the german and french lessons which selina received from professor olendorf, and so she stayed in the house with her pupils, only going home on friday night to spend the sunday there. she had very little share in the gay doings for which miss oswald was ambitious that her father's house should be distinguished. for miss oswald had strong opinions as to the propriety of young girls like violet and selina keeping themselves to their lessons and their practising, and leading a quiet life, and so had her father. even if he had not, it is likely that miss oswald's opinion would have decided the matter. as it was, selina became content to stay at home in violet's company when her sister went out, and violet was more than content. she enjoyed her work both of teaching and learning, and the winter passed happily and profitably away. of course she was missed at home, but not painfully so. there were no pupils for her mother to teach in the winter. ned went to school, and there was only jessie to teach, and a good many of the lessons she received was in the way of household work, and she soon began to take pride and pleasure in it as violet had done before. and so the winter passed quietly and happily to them all. there was need for constant carefulness, for rigid economy even, but want never came near them. how to make the most of their small means, was a subject at this time much in mrs inglis's thoughts. how to obtain the necessary amount of the simplest and most wholesome food, at the smallest cost, was a problem solved over and over again, with greater or less satisfaction, according to the circumstances at the moment. there was a certain amount of care and anxiety involved, but there was pleasure too, and all the more that they knew the exact amount of their means, and what they had "to come and go" upon. they had some pleasant surprises in the shape of kind gifts of remembrance from gourlay friends, gladly given and gladly received, less because of present necessities than because of old friendship. want! no, it never came near them--never even threatened to come near them. when the winter was over, they could look back to what jem called "a tight spot" or two in the matter of boots and firewood, but on nothing very serious after all. the boots and the firewood were the worst things. no one can tell till she has really tried, how much beyond the natural turn of existence almost any garment may be made to last and wear to preserve an appearance of respectability by a judicious and persevering use of needle and thread. but boots, especially boys' boots, are unmanageable in a woman's hands, and, indeed, in any hands beyond a certain stage of dilapidation; and every one knows, that whatever else may be old, and patched, and shabby, good boots are absolutely indispensable to the keeping up of an appearance of respectability, and, indeed, one may say, with some difference, to the keeping of a lad's self-respect. the boots were matters of serious consideration. as to the firewood, there is a great difference as to the comfort to be got out of the same quantity of firewood, depending on the manner in which it is used, but even with the utmost care and economy, it will consume away, and in a country where during seven months of the year fires are needed, a great deal must consume away. even more than the consideration given to the boots, the wood had to be considered, and it was all the more a matter of difficulty, as economy in that direction was a new necessity. boots had always been a serious matter to the inglises, but wood had been plentiful at gourlay. however, there were boots enough, and wood enough, and to spare, and things that were vexing to endure, were only amusing to look back upon, and when spring came, none of the inglises looked back on the winter with regret, or forward to the summer with dread, and so their first year in singleton came happily to an end. chapter ten. it was saturday afternoon and a holiday with the schoolboys, of course. it was a holiday to them all, for mrs inglis and violet were out of doors too, sitting on the gallery in the sunshine, and davie was coming home. he was at the moment crossing the bridge at a great pace, and so eager to be among them, that instead of going soberly round by the gate, as he was accustomed to do, he took jem's fashion and swung himself first over the side of the bridge, and then over the fence into the garden. they might well look surprised, and all the more so that it was high water, and he had to scramble along the unsteady fence and through the willows before he could get to the grass dry shod. "well done, davie! you are growing young again," said jem. david sat down on the steps at his mother's feet laughing and breathless. "is it a half holiday?" asked his mother. "yes; frank came to the bank and begged mr caldwell to let me go out in the boat with him and his brother this afternoon." "and he was willing to let you go, i suppose?" "yes; he was not quite sure about the boat, and he said i must come first and ask you, mamma." "a long walk and a short sail. it won't pay, davie," said jem. "you would not have cared, would you, mamma?" "but i must have come at any rate to change my clothes. we shall very likely get wet." "how very prudent!" said jem. "very proper," said his mother. "well, be quick, or you'll keep them waiting. it is well to be you," said jem. "i wish the high and mighty phil oswald would ask me to sail with him." "perhaps he may; he is bringing the boat here. mamma, i have some good news." the children gathered round to listen. "that is why you came jumping over the fence, instead of coming round by the gate," said ned. "violet knows it!" said jessie; "look at her face." "no, i don't know it. i might, perhaps, guess it." it was no very wonderful news. only that mr caldwell had reminded david that he had that day been a year in the office, and that next year his salary was to be raised. not much. it did not seem a great sum even to ned and jessie. but it was worth a great deal more than the mere money value, because it implied that david was getting to understand his work, and that his employer knew it, and had confidence in him. the mother said something like this to him and to them all, and she was very much pleased. "our davie will be a rich man some day!" said jem. "i thought i was to be the rich man of the family, but it don't look like it now." "it will be a while first," said david. "you will be a banker," said ned. "i am afraid i ought to be gardener this afternoon," said david, looking round on the garden. "no use. the water is rising. we shall be flooded yet," said jem. "there is no time lost yet," said his mother. "it is better that we should be a little late, than that the water should cover the earth after the seeds are sown." the broad, shallow channel at the end of the garden was full, and the willows that fringed the bit of green grass were far out into the water. the water almost touched the bridge across the road, and filled the hollow along the embankment. "and, besides, you are going to sail," said jem. "i think it would be quite as pleasant to stay here." they were all sitting on the little gallery before the house. it must have been a charming place once, when the river could be seen from it, and the pretty view beyond. at present, nothing could be seen on that side but the high embankment, and the few rods of garden-ground. on the other side were the willows, already green and beautiful, and some early-budding shrubs and the grass. then there was the water, flowing down between the two bridges, and, over all, the blue sky and the sweet spring air. it was a charming place still, or it seemed so to david and them all. the garden-beds had already been made, and a great many green things were springing here and there, and, on a rugged old apple-tree and on some plum and cherry trees, the buds were beginning to show themselves. the children were eager to be at work, but, for the present, that was not to be thought of. however, there was much to be said about the garden, and about the seeds which were to be sown, and jessie was eager about a plan for covering the high embankment with squash-vines and scarlet-runners. fred wanted to keep bees, and ducks if they could have them, but bees certainly; and amid the happy clamour which their voices made there came a shout, and, from under the railway bridge from the river, a boat was seen advancing. "here we are at last!" called out frank oswald; "and it looks very much as if here we must stay. we cannot get any further, phil." the inglis children were soon as near the boat as the willows and the water would permit. there seemed to be no way of getting the boat to the bank, for the willows were far out into the water, and through them it could not be forced. "you'll have to land on the other side and go round by the bridge," said jem. they were not using oars. that would have been impossible in a channel so narrow. they were pushing the boat through the water by means of a long pole, but it was not very easily managed, because of the shallowness of the water and the bushes that grew on the margin. "jem is right; we must go to the other side," said frank. "not i," said his brother, as he planted his pole firmly on the bank, measuring the distance with his eye. then throwing himself forward with a sudden spring, he was over the willows and over the water beyond, landing safely on the nicely-prepared onion-bed. "well done!" cried jem. "not at all well done," said frank, who had only saved himself from being overturned into the water by grasping a branch near him. philip only laughed, as he shook hands with mrs inglis and violet. "take my place in the boat and have a row on the river," said he, as he sat down on the steps near them. "i have had enough of it for awhile." jem was nothing loth, but he looked at his mother for permission. "is it quite safe, do you think?" asked she hesitating. "oh! quite safe. frank understands all about it; and so does jem, i dare say." "mamma!" entreated ned. "and mamma!" entreated jessie. on the gourlay river the boys had paddled about at their own pleasure, and their mother was not inclined to be unreasonably anxious about them. she knew it would be a great delight to them all to be permitted to go. "but there is not room for all; and mr oswald will not care to be troubled with so many children." "let them go with the boys--there is no danger, and i will wait here," said philip. "only you must promise to come back within a reasonable time, jem." "all right!" said jem. "i promise. come along violet. there is room for you, and polly too." but mr philip thought there was not room for all, and mrs inglis would not trust little mary with them, so they went without them. this was mr philip's first visit to the bridge house. mrs inglis had seen him at church, and david had seen him a good many times at the bank. he had been at home a week or two, and violet had, of course, seen him every day. david had acknowledged that he did not like him very much, and jem called him "a swell," and spoke contemptuously of his fine clothes and fine manners. violet had taken his part, and said he was just like other people. he was very kind to his little sisters, she said. there had been a good deal said about him in one way or another, and mrs inglis regarded him with curiosity and interest. he was a good-looking lad, with a pleasant face and manner. "just like other people," did not quite do him justice. mrs inglis could not help thinking jem's idea of "a swell" did not suit him certainly. he was not "fine," on the present occasion, either in dress or manners. david had said very little about about him, but he had not approved of him, and, seeing the young man now so frank and friendly, she could not but wonder why. they did not go into the house, and by and by they all crossed the garden and went up on the railway track to watch the boat; and, being a little behind the others, leading little mary between them, his mother asked david what was the reason of his dislike. "dislike! mamma," said david, in surprise. "i don't dislike him. i don't know him very well. he has had very little to say to me. why should you think that i dislike him?" "perhaps dislike is too strong a word. but i fancied that you did not quite approve of him, david." "approve of him! well--he is not one of us--of our kind of people, i mean. he does not look at things as we do. i don't dislike him, mamma, but i don't care about him." "which means he doesn't care about you?" said his mother, smiling. david laughed. "he certainly does not. he is much too great a man to have anything to say to me. but i don't think that is the reason that i don't `approve' of him, as you say. he is not in earnest about anything. he is extravagant--he spends a great deal of money foolishly. but i ought not to speak of that. mr caldwell told me, and he seemed quite as well pleased that we should have little to say to one another. he said frank was the better companion for jem and me." "i dare say that is true," said his mother. but all this did not prevent the young people from having a very pleasant afternoon together. the boat came back after "a reasonable time," and then the others went for a sail, and david acknowledged that mr philip was in earnest about his rowing, at any rate, and permitted himself to admire his activity and skill. when the boat was brought in among the willows again, it was almost dark. "suppose we leave it here?" said frank. "it will be quite safe, and we can send for it on monday." "it would not be a bad place to leave it here altogether," said his brother. jem was delighted with the idea, and said so; but david gave his mother a doubtful look. "come in to tea," said she, "and you can decide about it afterwards." the oswalds had not dined, but they did not refuse the invitation, as, for a single minute, violet hoped they might. the simple arrangements of her mother's table were not at all like those which miss oswald considered necessary in her father's house, but they were faultless in their way, and violet was ashamed of her shame almost as soon as she was conscious of it. "aunt mary," said frank, after they were seated at the table, "won't you ask me to spend the afternoon here to-morrow? i like your sundays." mrs inglis did not answer for a moment, but jem answered for her. "all right, frank! come straight from church. your father will let you, won't he?" "if aunt mary were to ask me, he would. i am not sure, otherwise," said frank. "what do you say, aunt mary?" philip looked at him in astonishment. "never mind, phil," said frank. "aunt mary and i understand." "we are old friends," said mrs inglis, smiling. "i think he is very bold," said his brother. "what if i were to insist on being invited in that persistent way?" "that would be quite different," said frank. "you are a stranger. i was often here last winter. i am one of the children when i am here. aunt mary does not make a stranger of me." "but, frank," said jessie, "david is away now on sunday afternoon, and violet and jem. and, perhaps, mamma will let us all go, and go herself, if there are any more children." "where?" asked frank. "at sunday-school--down on muddy lane. mr caldwell's sunday-school." "old caldwell!" said frank. "that's the way, is it? how do you like it, davie?" "sunday-school is not a new thing to us, you know," said david. "but it is a new thing for you to be a teacher," said jem. "oh! he likes it. davie's a great man on sunday, down in muddy lane." "nonsense, jem!" "i went once," said jessie, "and it is very nice. letty sings, and the children sing too. and one of the girls broke letty's parasol--" and mrs inglis's attention being occupied for the moment, jessie gave other particulars of the school, quite unmindful of her sister's attempts to stop her. ned had something to tell, too, and entered into minute particulars about a wager between two of the boys, as to whether mr caldwell wore a wig or not, and the means they took to ascertain the truth about it. "they must be rather stupid not to know that," said frank. "do you like it?" asked philip of violet. "yes, indeed! i like it very much. but i don't like ned's telling tales out of school, nor jessie, either." "but mine are not bad tales. i like it too," said jessie. "but i should think it would be very unpleasant. and what is the good of it? muddy lane of all places!" said philip, making an astonished face. "that shows that you don't know aunt mary and her children," said frank, laughing. "you would never ask what is the good, if you did." "i know, of course, there must be good to the children, but i should think it would be decidedly unpleasant for you. muddy lane cannot be a nice place at any time, and now that the warm weather is coming--" "you don't suppose violet is one of the people who is afraid of a little dust, or bad odours, and all that, do you?" asked frank. "she rather likes it--self-denial and all that," said jem. "and as for davie--" "nonsense, jem! self-denial indeed! there is very little of that," said david. "you know better than that, if frank does not." "and old caldwell, of all people in the world," said philip, laughing; "i did not suppose he could speak to any one younger than fifty--except davie. what can he have to say to children, i wonder?" "oh, he has enough to say. you ought to hear him," said jem. "thank you. i'll come and hear him--to-morrow, perhaps." "mr caldwell did not like the new hymn-book at first," said jessie. "but the children like them, and letty teaches them to sing, and it is very nice. i hope we can go to-morrow." "i hope so," said mr philip. "but you don't care about such things, do you?" asked jessie. "i ought to care, ought i not?" "yes; but you ought not just to make believe care." mr philip laughed a little. "there is no make believe about it. i shall like to go to-morrow very much." they were all away from the table by this time, and frank sat down with david on the window seat. he put his arm round his shoulder, boyish fashion, and laid his head down upon it. "is it military duty you are doing, davie, down in muddy lane?" said he, softly. all the talk that had been going on had put david out a good deal, and he did not answer for a minute. it seemed to him that a great deal had been made of a little matter, and he was not well pleased. "don't you remember about the `armour,'" said frank. "don't frank?" said david. it hurt him to think that frank should make a jest of that. "indeed i am not jesting, davie. that is one way of fighting the good fight--is it not? and i want to have a good long talk about it again." "with mamma, you mean." "yes, and with you. don't you remember hobab and old tim?" david did not answer in words, and both the boys sat silent, while the others grew eager in discussing quite other things. it was growing dark, and philip decided that it would be better to leave the boat and walk home. then something was said about future sails, and then philip told them of a friend of his who was going to be one of a party who were to explore the country far west. he was going to try and persuade his father to let him join it. it was an exploring company, but a good many were to join it for the sake of the hunting and fishing, and the adventures that might fall in their way. they were to be away for months, perhaps for the whole summer, and a great deal of enjoyment was anticipated. jem listened intently. "that would just suit me, mamma," said he, with a sigh. "i dare say it would be pleasant for a while," said she, smiling. "it would hardly suit you to lose a summer out of your life, jem," said david, sharply. jem whistled. "you are there! are you, david? no, that wouldn't suit me, exactly." "lose a year out of his life! what can you mean?" said mr philip, in astonishment. "what would come out of such a summer, except just the pleasure of it?" said david. "well! there would be a great deal of pleasure. what else would you have?" david made no answer. "davie means that there is something besides one's pleasure to be considered in this world," said frank. "david means that jem can find pleasure and profit without going so far for them," said mrs inglis. "david is a young prig," said mr philip to himself, and as they were going home he said it to his brother in decided terms. "that's your idea of it, is it?" said frank. "you know just about as much of davie and aunt mary, and that sort of people, as i know about the emperor of china. i know there _is_ such a person, and that is all i do know." philip laughed. "it is never too late to learn, and if they have no objection, i mean to know them better." "they are not your kind of people," said frank, decidedly. "you mean they are very good and religious and all. i am not a heathen or a turk, frank, my boy." "i could never make you understand the difference," said frank, gravely. "never make you understand!" said philip, mimicking his voice and manner. "i think i can understand them pretty well without your help. don't trouble yourself. they are just like other people. it is true that mrs inglis looks just as much of a lady in her plain gown and in that shabby room as she could in any of the fine drawing-rooms, and that is more than could be said of some of the ladies i know. she is a good woman, too, i am sure. as for davie, he is a young prig--though he is good, too, i dare say. violet is a little modest flower. they are very nice, all of them, but they are not beyond my powers of comprehension, i fancy, frank, lad." "all right, if you think so," said frank. philip was amused and a little vexed at his brother's persistency. "do you know them, frank,--`understand' them, as you call it?" "i know they are very different from us, and from all the people we know most about, and i think i know what makes the difference, though i don't quite understand it. you would know what i mean if you had seen mr inglis and knew the kind of life he lived." "i have seen, and i know what his character was. he was an unworldly sort of man, i believe." "he did not live for his own pleasure," said frank, gravely. "he wasn't his own. he lived to serve his master. i can't tell you. you should speak to davie or violet about him, or to aunt mary." "well, so i will, some day," said philip. frank made no reply. in the meantime mr philip was being just as freely discussed by the young people they had left. jem was delighted with their new friend. he was a fine fellow, not at all "swell," as he had supposed. jem grew enthusiastic over his friendliness, his boat, his rowing, and hoped he might come often. so did the little ones. "david does not like him," said violet. "i liked him this afternoon well enough," said david. "yes, he was nice this afternoon; but he is not always nice with his sisters. he is good to the little ones," said violet. "i dare say his sisters are not very good to him. i can easily believe it," said jem. "he is not like the people we have been taught to admire," said david. "he always thinks of himself first," said violet. "and he is not really in earnest about anything." "mamma, listen to davie and letty speaking evil of their neighbours," said jem. "not speaking evil, i hope," said mrs inglis, "but still not speaking with charity, i am afraid." "i was not speaking evil of him, mamma," said violet. "i only meant that he does not care for anything very much, except to amuse himself. i think he is rather foolish, but i would not speak evil of him." "see that you don't, then," said jem. "he made himself very agreeable this afternoon, that is all we need say," said mrs inglis. "we are not likely to see very much of him in future." nothing more was said at that time. they saw a good deal of both brothers during the next few weeks. but they saw nothing for a good while that inclined either violet or davie to change their opinion of the elder one. the next day frank came home with them from church. he was the only one of the family at church that day, for it had rained in the morning, and they were not very regular churchgoers at the best of times. "papa said i might go home with you, if aunt mary asked me," said frank, as he joined them at the door. "come on, then," said jem. "mamma doesn't approve of sunday visiting, as a general thing, but you are one of ourselves by this time. mamma, ask frank to come." mrs inglis smiled. "come and read with the children, frank," said she. frank was only too happy to go. he did not go to the sunday-school with the others, but chose to stay at home with mrs inglis and little mary. but the first person the others saw when they came to muddy lane was mr philip, waiting for them at the corner, as though it were the most natural and proper thing in the world for him to be there. "i came to hear what your friend mr caldwell has to say to-day, jem," said he. "all right!" said jem. "he will have something appropriate to say about sabbath-breaking, i dare say." "i am sure i don't know why," said philip, laughing. "he'll tell you why," said jem. david did not say it was all right, nor think it. indeed, it proved to his mind to be all wrong, for mr caldwell did not make his appearance at all. "to think of his failing to-day, of all days," said david. they waited for him a long time, till the children became restless and impatient. "we ought to begin, davie," said violet. "yes. i wouldn't mind if we were by ourselves." "why should you mind now? go ahead, davie. if he laughs, i'll knock him down," said jem. it was very foolish in violet to laugh, and very wrong, too, she knew; but she could not help it. jem's idea of the way to keep order was so absurd. david did not laugh. he looked anxious, and at a loss, and a little indignant at his sister's amusement. "i beg your pardon, davie. let us just go on us usual," she entreated. "why should you mind?" and so they did go on. they sung a hymn very well; at least, they sung with a great deal of spirit. there were some clear, sweet voices among the children, and they all seemed to enjoy singing so much it could not be otherwise than agreeable to those who were listening, and violet did her best. then david, very reverently, but not very firmly, took mr caldwell's duty upon himself, and offered a few words of prayer; and then the children repeated together the lord's prayer, and after that everything went well enough. david and violet took their usual places, with their classes round them, and jem suggested to mr philip that he should take mr caldwell's rough-looking boys in hand "and give them a talk." "hear them repeat their verses, and tell them a story. you can do it as well as mr c. shall i tell them that you are the new minister?" "thank you. i will introduce myself. i ought to be able to say something to these young rascals. i hope they won't find me out." he seemed to get on very well. jem would have liked to get rid of the three little fellows for whom he was responsible, so as to hear what he was saying. the boys liked it, evidently; at least they listened with great interest; and one would have thought that mr philip was quite accustomed to the work, he did it so easily. the boys laughed more than once, and grew eager and a little noisy; but their teacher was perfectly grave and proper, and did not give jem the shadow of an excuse for wishing to "knock him down." he congratulated him when it was all over. "yes; i flatter myself it was the right man in the right place this time," said mr philip. "you didn't think i could do as well as old caldwell, did you." jem shrugged his shoulders. "yes, you could do it, once in a way, after a fashion, at any rate." but though jem spoke so coldly to philip himself, he was enthusiastic in his praises of him when they were giving their mother the history of the afternoon after frank had gone home. "he can do anything, i think," said he. "he was not at a loss for a moment. i believe, if he had been put to it, he could have done the whole business as well as davie did, and he did it very well." david said nothing, but violet repeated her opinion as to their new friend's want of earnestness. "if it had been the most foolish thing in the world, he would have done it just as well, and just as willingly, if he had thought it was expected of him to do it." "are you not a little severe on him?" said her mother. "no, mamma; i don't mean to be severe. he would think it a great compliment paid to him, though you don't think it nice. he does not look seriously at life. he amuses himself with everything. just compare him with our davie." david had gone out before she said this. "nonsense! letty. our davie is a boy still, and mr philip is a man. he has completed the course at the university, you know quite well." "our davie is far more manly than he, for all that. and so are you, jem. davie is worth two of him." "a great deal more than two of him to us, letty," said her mother, laughing. "still, i am inclined to think with jem, that you are a little hard on him." "yes, she does not like him," said jem. "and it is odd, too, for he likes her, and you, mamma, and all of us." "oh! yes; i dare say he does. we amuse him for the moment. i know him better than you do, jem. i have seen him every day for a fortnight, you know. i like him very well, but i don't think he is reliable. he is not in earnest," repeated violet, solemnly. "and sunday-school teaching is not a proper thing to amuse one's self with. it would spoil all the pleasure of it to have him come there always. however, there is no danger. he will find something else to amuse him." violet was right, as far as philip's coming to muddy lane was concerned. he did not make his appearance there again for a very long time after that sunday. but, having nothing better to do, he seemed quite inclined to cultivate the acquaintance of the young inglises, and came to the bridge house a good deal. once or twice he brought his little sisters and violet down in the boat to tea, and several times he came there after having been down the river fishing. once or twice david, coming home earlier than the others, found him sitting quietly with his mother and little mary, to all appearance perfectly satisfied with the entertainment he was receiving; and his entertainers seemed satisfied too. david began to consider these frequent visits as an infliction to be borne patiently, and violet adhered to her first opinion; but, with jem and the children, he was a great favourite. even the mother was inclined to make excuses for his faults, and was very kind to him when he came. the mother knew more about him than the rest did, for he told her a great deal about himself and his past life during the quiet afternoons he passed with her and little mary. and having seen more, and suffered more, she was inclined to have more patience with his weaknesses than they. it had been understood all along, that, as soon as philip's course at the university was over, he was to take his place in his father's office, and to give all his time and thoughts to his father's business. he had never been quite pleased with the idea, and had all along hoped that something might happen to render unnecessary a step so distasteful to him. nothing had happened, and he was inclined to fancy that he was making a sacrifice to his father's business and his father's desire for wealth, and to claim sympathy because of this. "and would you be a great help to your father?" asked mrs inglis, one day, when he had got thus far. "i don't know. i am sure i don't think so, hating business as i do. but he must think so, or he would not be so bent on my coming to the office and tying myself down. it will come to that, i dare say," said he, with a sigh. mrs inglis smiled. "is it not possible that he may wish it for your sake rather than his own? and how do you know that you hate business? you have never given it a fair trial, have you?" "no, i have not tried it steadily," said he, answering her last question first. "but then one can tell what one does not like without trying it very long. i dare say my father thinks it would be a good thing for me to fix myself at the bank. but a man must judge for himself before he submits to be tied down for life." "but is it not possible that it is the tying down which is distasteful? and every man must submit to be tied down to something. what would you like to do better." "oh! almost anything. i should like the profession of the law better." and then he added, after a little, "i should like it better for one thing. i need not enter an office till the autumn." "i am afraid it is the tying down that is the trouble, after all," said she. "no, i assure you--not altogether--though, i acknowledge, it would be a fine thing to let business slide--to have nothing at all to do." "i do not agree with you. i think it would be the very worst thing that could happen to you to have nothing to do," said mrs inglis, gravely. "to me, especially, do you mean? well, i don't quite mean that; but i think mr caldwell was right when he told my father that, if he had meant me for business, he should have put me to it long ago." "do you mean that you regret having been sent to the university?" "i mean that i should have been fit for my work by this time, and, probably, content with it. a university is not needed there." "you must not be angry with me if i say you are talking foolishly," said mrs inglis, "and, indeed, ungratefully, when you say that. do you mean that your education will be a disadvantage to you?" "no; except by making business distasteful to me. i mean, it has given me other interests and other tastes--something beyond the desire to make money." "doubtless, that was your father's intention--to make you an intelligent man as well as a banker--not a mere money-maker. and his wish ought to decide you to give the business of his office a fair trial, since you do not seem to have a preference for any other." "i have a very decided preference for a trip across the country. don't look grave, aunt mary. these are my holidays. by and by will be time to settle down to work." "i thought you were no longer a schoolboy?" "no, i am not; but i should like to go--to the red river, perhaps. it would be a fine trip for davie in his vacation, too, and its cost would be little--comparatively." "davie does not expect a vacation--or only a week or two." "davie is quite a steady old gentleman," said philip. mrs inglis smiled. "i don't suppose you mean that quite as a compliment to my boy. i am very glad it is true, nevertheless." "you don't suppose i would venture to say anything not complimentary to your boy to you, do you? or that i would wish to say it to any one? but he _does_ take life so seriously. he is so dreadfully in earnest. one would think that davie was years and years older than i am." "yes, in some things." "but, aunt mary, such precocious sobriety and wisdom are unnatural and unwholesome. davie is too wise and grave for his years." "he is not too wise to do very foolish things sometimes; and he is the merriest among the children at home, though we don't hear his voice quite so often as jem's. and you must remember that davie's experience has been very different from yours." "yes, aunt mary, i know. frank has told me how happy you all were, and how davie was always so much with his father. it must have been very terrible for you all." "and, philip, davie has tried to take his father's place among us. davie is our bread-winner, in a measure. we have had many cares and anxieties together. no wonder that he seems to you to be grave and older than his years." "aunt mary, what an idle, good-for-nothing fellow you must think me," said philip, putting down little mary, who had been sitting on his knee, and standing before his aunt. "not good-for-nothing, certainly. perhaps, a little idle and thoughtless. there is time for improvement and--room. let us hope you will know your own mind soon, which you certainly do not now." "let us hope so," said philip, with a sigh. "here comes davie! now, observe him! he will not look in the least glad to see me." "where are all the rest?" said davie, coming in. "davie, do you know, i have been persuading your mother to let you go with me to the red river," said philip. "wouldn't you like it?" "it is very good of you. yes, i dare say i would like it. what does mamma say?" "she thinks you are too useful a man to be spared so long. what would mr caldwell do without you?" "when are you coming to help him?" said david. "after i come home in the autumn. i cannot bring myself to davie's standard of steadiness all at once, aunt mary. i must have a little time." "there is none to lose," said mrs inglis gravely. chapter eleven. about this time it was announced to the world in general, that miss oswald's marriage was to take place immediately. her friends thought she had been very kind and considerate to stay with her father and her brothers and sisters so long. miss oswald was a discreet young lady, and knew how to manage her own affairs to her own satisfaction. perhaps the knowledge that her own establishment must be in a different style from that of her father's, helped her considerateness a little, and made her more willing to continue at home. however that might be, when her father set before her certain reasons for economy in household matters, for decided retrenchment indeed, she very considerately suggested that her aunt livy would be a very suitable person to see her father's wishes in this direction carried out, and advised that she should be sent for, and then she set about her own preparations. with these, of course, no one at the bridge house had anything to do, except violet. but for the glimpses that she had behind the scenes, she might have been a little dazzled and unsettled by the gaiety and splendour in the midst of which she found herself. for miss oswald's arrangements were on the grandest scale. everything that she considered "proper" on the occasion, she exacted to the uttermost, with no thoughts of necessary economy. there were fine clothes, fine presents, a fine wedding breakfast, and the proper number of fine brides-maids, of whom violet was one. even the wise and sensible letty was not above a feeling of girlish delight in being prettily dressed and admired as one of the gay company; but the knowledge that she was only chosen at the last minute to supply the place of a young lady whose illness had disarranged miss oswald's plans, and a few other drawbacks, kept her from being unduly elated with the honour and pleasure, and she was very glad when it was all over, and so was everybody concerned. so miss oswald went away. mrs mavor and miss livy came to the big house to reign in her stead, and all in it were beginning to settle down to a quiet and happy summer again. but trouble came first. scarlet fever had broken out in the neighbourhood of the bridge house, and in other parts of the town, and first little polly took it, and then jessie and ned, and violet came home to help her mother to nurse them. they were not very ill--that is, the fever did not run very high, and at no time did the doctor suppose them to be in danger, but there was much anxiety and fatigue in taking care of them. the weather was very hot, too, and the bridge house stood too low to catch the infrequent breeze, and though they were soon able to be up and even to be out of doors, the children did not get strong. in the meantime both charlotte and sarah oswald had taken the disease, and mr oswald himself came to the bridge house to entreat that violet might be permitted to come to them. their sister selina had gone away after the wedding to visit in a distant city, and as she had never had the disease, her father did not like to send for her to come home. the children did not take to their aunt. it had been possible to get on when they were very ill, but when they began to be better they were peevish and fretful, and aunt livy could not please them, and nothing would do but violet must come to them again. it did not seem possible that she could leave home, but david was to be spared as much as possible to help with the little ones, and so she went. but between her anxiety for the children at home, and her weariness with the little oswalds, she had rather a hard time of it. frank helped her for a while, but he was not very well, and was threatened with the old trouble in his eyes, so that he was not a very cheerful companion, either for her or the children. mr philip had commenced an irregular sort of attendance at the bank, but he had a good deal of time still at his disposal, and kindly bestowed a share of it on his little sisters. "philip could be very nice when he liked," they agreed, and he very often "liked" about this time. he went sometimes to the bridge house, too, and was as popular as ever among the little people there. they were not getting well very fast. charlotte and sarah were up and out in the garden, and able to amuse themselves with their dolls and their games, when violet, going home one day, found jessie and ned languid and fretful, and poor wee polly lying limp and white in her cot. her mother looked worn and anxious, david came home with a headache, and jem was the only one among them whose health and spirits were in a satisfactory condition. "i cannot stay to-night, mamma, because they expect me back," said violet. "but i shall come home to-morrow. they don't need me half as much as you do, and i must come. you are sick yourself, mamma." "no, i am tired, that is all; and the weather is so warm. don't come till the children are well. it is your proper place there, and even you cannot help us here while the weather is so warm." it was very hot and close, and violet fancied that from the low fields beyond, where there was water still standing, a sickly odour came. "no wonder they don't get strong," said she. mr oswald had spoken in the morning about sending his little girls to the country, or to the seaside. the doctor had suggested this as the best thing that could be done for them. violet thought of their large house, with its many rooms, and of the garden in which it stood, and looked at her little sisters and brothers growing so pale and languid in the close air, which there was no hope of changing, with a feeling very like envy or discontent rising in her heart. "mamma," said she, "it is a dreadful thing to be poor;" and then she told of the plan for sending the oswalds away for change of air, and how they were already well and strong in comparison to their own poor darlings, and then she said, again, "it is a dreadful thing to be so poor." "we are not so poor as we might be?" said her mother, gravely. "think how it would have been if we had lost one of them, dear. god has been very good to us, and we must not be so ungrateful as to murmur because we have not all that others have, or all that we might wish for." "i know it, mamma. but look at these pale cheeks. poor wee polly! she is only a shadow of our baby. if we could only send her to gourlay for a little while." "do you think her looking so poorly? i think it is the heat that is keeping them all so languid. don't look so miserable. if it is necessary for them to go to the country, we shall manage to send them in some way. but we are quite in the country here, and when we have had rain the air will be changed, and the heat may be less, and then they will all be better." "have you made any plan about going to the country?" asked violet, eagerly. "no, my dear. i trust it will not be necessary. it could not be easily managed," said mrs inglis, with a sigh. "if we were only not quite so poor," said violet. "i say, letty, don't you think mamma has trouble enough without your bother?" said jem, sharply, as his mother went out of the room. violet looked at him in astonishment. "if we were only not quite so poor!" repeated jem, in the doleful tone she had used. "you have said that three times within half an hour. you had better stay up at the big house, if that is all the good you can do by coming home." "that will do, jem! don't spoil your sermon by making it too long," said david, laughing. "sermon! no, i leave that to you, davie. but what is the use of being so dismal? and it isn't a bit like letty." "but, jem, it is true. the children look so ill, and if they could only get a change of air--" "and don't you suppose mamma knows all that better than you can tell her? what is the good of telling her? she has been looking all day for you to come and cheer us up and brighten us a little, and now that you have come you are as dismal as--i don't know what. you have been having too easy times lately, and can't bear hardness," said jem, severely. "have i?" said violet, with an uncertain little laugh. "softly, jem, lad!" said his mother, who had come in again. "i think she has been having a rather hard time, only it will not do her much good to tell her so." "i dare say jem is right, mamma, and i am cross." "not cross, letty, only dismal, which is a great deal worse, i think," said jem. "well, i won't be dismal any more to-night, if i can help it. davie, take polly, and, mamma, lie down on the sofa and rest while i make the tea. jem, you shall help me by making up the fire. we will all have tea to-night, because i am a visitor." "all right!" said jem. "anything to please all round; and the hot tea will cool us nicely, won't it?" "it will refresh us at any rate." and so the little cloud passed away, and violet's cheerfulness lasted through the rest of the visit, and up to the moment that she bade jem good-bye at mr oswald's gate. it did not last much longer, however. it was nearly dark, and mr oswald and his sister and frank were sitting on the lawn to catch the faint breeze that was stirring among the chestnut trees. "i thought you were not coming home to-night," said miss livy, in an aggrieved tone. "i was detained," said violet. "how are the children?" "they are in bed at last. you should not have told them that you would be home before their bed-time, unless you had intended to come. however, they are in bed now. pray don't go and disturb them again. philip had to go to them at last. he is up-stairs now. they are dreadfully spoiled." violet dropped down in the nearest chair. "how are the children at home?" asked mr oswald, kindly. "they are--not better." "i hope they are not spoiled," said frank, laughing. "did they cry when you came away, violet?" "they were rather fretful. they are not strong." "you are not very well yourself, to-night," said mr oswald. "the change will do you as much good as any of them." "i am quite well," said violet. "we have been speaking about sending the girls to the country for a change of air," went on mr oswald. "will you go with them? betsey will go too, of course, but they will scarcely be happy without you, and the change will do you good." "thank you. you are very kind. but the children need me at home. i could not think of leaving mamma while they are so poorly to go away for pleasure." "it would not be quite all pleasure, i fancy," said mr philip. "they are asleep at last. it cannot be a very easy thing to keep them amused all day, as they are just now." "they are quite spoiled," said aunt livy. "oh! no. not quite. they are good little things in general, as children go. you can't judge now, aunt," said philip. "miss inglis, are you not a little dismal to-night?" "so jem told me. i am tired. i think i shall say good-night and go up-stairs." "it should be settled at once about the children, where they are to go, and who is to go with them," said aunt livy. "there is no haste," said mr oswald. "perhaps the children at home may be better able to spare you in a day or two, miss violet." "thank you. it would be very pleasant, but--" "why not send all together?" said philip. "ned and jessie and wee polly, with charlotte and sarah? i dare say they would all be better of a change, poor little souls!" "i dare say they can do without it, thank you," said violet, stiffly. "for what? my suggestion? they would like it, i am sure." "people cannot get all they like in this world." "violet," said frank, solemnly, "i believe you are cross." "i am almost afraid i am," said violet, laughing uneasily. "for the first time in your life. something dreadful must have happened at the bridge house to-day!" "no; nothing happened." "the children are not better, that is what is the matter," said philip; "though it ought not to make you cross, only sorry. depend on it, it is change they want," said philip, with the air of a doctor. "it is worth thinking about; and it would be very nice if they could all go together, with you to take care of them," said mr oswald. "very nice for our little girls, i mean. think of it, and speak to your mother." "thank you; i will," said violet. "much they know about it," said she to herself, as she went up-stairs in the dark. "an extra orange or a cup of strawberries for the little darlings has to be considered in our house, and they speak of change as coolly as possible. and i didn't know better than to trouble mamma with just such foolish talk. we must try and have mamma and polly go to gourlay for a week or two. june not half over, and how shall we ever get through the two not months! oh, dear! i am so tired!" violet was so tired in the morning that she slept late, and a good many things had happened next morning before she came down-stairs. when she opened the dining-room door she thought, for a minute, she must be sleeping still and dreaming; for, instead of the usual decorous breakfast-table, aunt livy seemed to be presiding at a large children's party. everybody laughed at her astonished face, and little mary held out her arms to be taken. "my precious wee polly! have you got a pair of wings?" said she, clasping and kissing her little sister. "we are to stay all day, if we are good. you are to tell mamma how we behave," said jessie. "we came in a carriage, with mr philip and jem." violet looked a little anxiously from aunt livy to mr oswald, and saw nothing to make her doubt the children's welcome. mr oswald smiled; miss livy nodded. "they seem very well-behaved children," said she. "not at all spoiled." "we haven't been here long," said jessie, gravely. "but we are going to be good, letty. we promised mamma." and they were very good, considering all things. still, it was a fatiguing day to violet. she followed them out and she followed them in; and when they grew tired, and their little legs and their tempers failed, she beguiled them into the wide gallery, shaded by vines, and told them stories, and comforted them with toys and picture-books and something nice to eat. it would have been a better day, as far as the visitors were concerned, if there had been less to see and to admire. but the great house and garden were beautiful and wonderful to their unaccustomed eyes, and they had tired themselves so utterly that they grew fretful and out of sorts, and were glad when it came night and time to go home; and so was violet. the next day they came they were stronger and better, but they needed constant attention, lest mischief should happen among them; and, on the third morning, violet was not sorry to hear the rain pattering on the window. not that she would have minded ten times the trouble for herself, so that the children were the better for it, but it was as well not to try miss livy's forbearance too far. miss livy had had very little to do with children since she was a child herself, and that little led her decidedly to agree with the generally-received opinion that the children of the present day are not so well brought up as children used to be. this opinion did not make her more patient with them, but rather less so; and so violet was not sorry for the rain that kept her little sisters at home. at breakfast, the subject of sending the little girls, charlotte and sarah, to the country for awhile was again brought up by their aunt, and, in the afternoon, violet, at mr oswald's request, went home to speak to her mother about it; but she had fully determined beforehand how the matter was to be decided, as far as she was concerned. however, everything was put out of her mind by the surprise that awaited her; for, at the bridge house, they were entertaining an angel unawares, in the person of miss bethia barnes. and was not violet glad to see her? so glad that she put her arms round her neck and kissed her, and then laughed and then cried a little, not quite knowing what she did. "it is good to see you, aunt bethia," said she. "you are the only one of the family who looks better for singleton," said miss bethia, regarding her with pleased wonder. miss bethia had considered violet a little girl when she left singleton; but she was a little girl no longer, but a young woman, and a very pretty young woman, too, miss bethia acknowledged. if violet had not been so glad to see her, and shown it so plainly as to disarm her, she must, even at the first moment, have uttered some word of counsel or warning, for to be pretty, and not aware of it, or vain of it, was a state of things that she could not believe in. however, she reserved her advice for a future occasion, and, in the meantime, drew her own conclusions from the brightening of the mother's face at the coming of her eldest daughter, and from the eager way in which little mary clung to her, and the others claimed her attention. "you must stay at home to-night, letty," said jem. "may i, mamma? i am to be sent for later; but may i not send a message that miss bethia has come, and that you cannot spare me?" "but i can spare you all the better that miss bethia is here," said her mother, smiling. "yes, i know mamma; but i want to stay so much." "you would not think it polite in her to go away to-night? now, would you? aunt bethia," said jem. "politeness ain't the only thing to think of," said miss bethia. "violet is not quite at our disposal just now," said mrs inglis; "and i am afraid you will be missed up there, dear, by the children. they have had the fever, too, poor little things, and their sister is away, and they hardly know this aunt yet, and violet has charge of them. they are fond of violet." "oh, yes! they are all fond of violet up there; but so are we," said jem. "let her stay, mamma." "and how do you like earning your living?" asked miss bethia. violet laughed. "oh, i like it. when did you come, miss bethia? you are not looking very well." "i haven't been well--had a sharp turn of rheumatism. i had some business, and i came yesterday." "and how are all the gourlay people? and you live in our house now. how strange it must seem! and what a shame that your old place is spoiled!" "i thought so at the time, but it might have been worse." and then violet had a great many questions to ask, and listened with many exclamations of wonder and pleasure to all that she heard; and miss bethia, pleased with the interest she displayed, made no pause till ned called out that young mr oswald was driving davie over the bridge, and that now violet would have to go. "mamma," said violet, "i have not told you why i came yet. mr oswald sent me, and i cannot tell it all at once. let me stay till after tea, and jem can take me home." "all right," said jem. "i have no objections, if nobody else has none." there was a little pleasant confusion after mr philip and david came in, two or three speaking at once, and all eager to be heard, and then mr philip was introduced to the visitor. there was no mistaking the look she bent upon him. it was searching and critical, admiring, but not altogether approving. "you have never been out gourlay way?" said she. "no, i never have, as yet." "he did not know what nice people the gourlay people are, or he would have been," said jem. "i expect so," said miss bethia. "it ain't too late to go yet." "thank you, miss barnes. i shall be happy to accept your kind invitation," said philip. in the meantime, violet had been telling her mother of mr oswald's proposal. it was a matter of too great importance to be dismissed with a single word of refusal, as violet would have liked, and time must be taken to consider it. "violet is not going with you, mr philip," said jessie. "she is going to stay and take tea with miss bethia." "i am sorry you should have had the trouble of coming round this way for nothing, mr philip," said mrs inglis. "we want violet a little while to-night. miss barnes does not know how soon she may go, and violet thinks she can be spared to-night, perhaps." "of course, she can be spared. and it was no trouble, but a pleasure, to come round. shall i come back again?" "pray, do not. jem will go with me. i shall like the walk." "all right!" said jem. "i consider myself responsible for her. she will be up there at the proper time." "all right!" said philip cheerfully. "aunt mary, you might ask me to have tea too." "you haven't had your dinner yet," said jessie. "and you could not keep your horse standing so long," said ned. "and, besides, i am not to be invited," said philip, laughing. they all watched him and his fine horse as they went over the bridge and along the street. then violet said: "now, mamma, you are to sit down and i am to get tea. i can do all quite well." and, so tying on an apron over her dress, she made herself very busy for the next half-hour, passing in and out, pausing to listen or put in her word now and then, sometimes claiming help from jem or davie in some household matter to which she put her hand. at last, with an air of pride and pleasure that miss bethia thought pretty to see, she called them to tea. "you have got to be quite a house-keeper," said miss bethia, as they sat down to the table. "hasn't she?" said jem and davie in a breath. "i mean to be, at any rate," said violet, nodding and laughing gaily. "i like it a great deal better than teaching children, only, you know, it doesn't pay quite so well." "i guess it will, in the long run," said miss barnes. "i am going to be house-keeper for the next two months. sarah and charlotte are to have no lessons for that time, and betsey can take care of them in the country quite as well as i--better, indeed. mamma needs me at home. don't you think so, davie? i can find enough to do at home; can't i?" "but, as you say, it wouldn't pay so well." "in one way, perhaps, it wouldn't, but in another way it would. but mamma doesn't say anything," added violet, disconsolately. "we must sleep upon it, mamma thinks," said jem. "we need not be in haste to decide upon it for a day or two," said mrs inglis. "i am afraid we must, mamma. the sooner the better, mr oswald says; and that is why i came to-day." "i wish you would come and keep house for me. i am getting tired of it," said miss bethia. "i should like it well--with mamma and the children." "of course, that is understood," said miss bethia. "and you could take these others with you, couldn't you? and what their father would pay for them would help your house-keeping." "miss bethia spoke as coolly as if she had been speaking about the stirring up of a johnny cake," jem said. violet looked eagerly from her to her mother. there was a little stir and murmur of excitement went round the table, but all awaited for their mother to speak. but she said nothing, and miss bethia went on, not at all as if she were saying anything to surprise anybody, but just as she would have told any piece of news. "i've thought of it considerable. serepta stone has concluded to go away to a water-cure place in the states. if debby should conclude to go to another place, i shouldn't care about staying in that big house alone. i can let it next fall, i expect. but this summer, mrs inglis, if you say so, you can have the house as well as not. it won't cost you a cent, and it won't be a cent's loss to me. and i don't see why that won't suit pretty well all round." a chorus of "ohs," and "ahs," and "dear mammas," went round the table. "it wouldn't cost more than living here," said david. "not so much," said miss bethia. "and i am sure mr oswald would be delighted to have charlotte and sarah go, mamma," said violet. "he would pay you the same as he'd pay to them at the other place, and he might be sure he would get the worth of his money," said miss bethia. "and i would keep house, and save you the trouble, mamma," said violet. "you and debby stone," said miss bethia, who seemed to consider that it was as much her affair as theirs, and so put in her word between the others. "davie, you'll have to lend me your fishing rod, to take to gourlay with me," said ned. "bless the child! there's fishing rods enough," said miss bethia. "it's mamma's turn to speak now," said jessie. and "yes, mamma!" and "oh! dear mamma!" were repeated again, eagerly. there would be no use in telling all that mrs inglis said, or all that miss bethia and the rest said. it was not quite decided that night that they were to pass a part of the summer in gourlay, but it looked so much like it that violet held a little private jubilation with little polly, as she undressed her for bed, before she went away, promising her, with many kisses and sweet words, that she would be rosy and strong, and as brown as a berry before she should see the bridge house again. before she was done with it, jem called out. "it is time to be going, letty, if i am to be responsible for you at the big house." "perhaps if you wait, mr philip will come for you. he said he would," said jessie. "and, just at the minute, he meant it, but we won't put him to the trouble, even if he remembers, which is doubtful," said violet. "come, jem, i am ready." "he seems a pretty likely young man, don't he?--young mr oswald, i mean," said miss bethia. the question was not addressed to any one in particular. jem looked at letty, and letty looked at davie, and they all laughed merrily. "likely," in miss bethia's vocabulary, meant well-intentioned, agreeable, promising, all in a moderate degree, and the description fell so far short of mr philip's idea of himself and his merits, and indeed of their idea of him that they could not help it. "he seems to be a pleasant-spoken youth, and good-natured," said miss bethia. "oh, yes! he is very good-natured," said violet. everybody had something to say in his praise. the little ones were quite enthusiastic. jem said he was "smart" as well as good-natured, and david, though he said less, acknowledged that he was very clever, and added mr caldwell's opinion, that mr philip had all his father's talent for business, and would do well if he were really in earnest about it, and would settle down to it. several instances of his kindness to the children and to his own little sisters were repeated, and mrs inglis spoke warmly in his praise. "only, mamma," said violet, with some hesitation, "all these things are agreeable to himself. he does such things because he likes to do them." "and ain't that to be put to his credit," said miss bethia. "it is well when one does right things and likes to do them, ain't it?" "yes; but people ought to do right things because they are right, and not just because they are pleasant. if very different things were agreeable to him, he would do them all the same." "stuff, letty! with your buts and your ifs. mr phil, is just like other people. it is only you and davie that have such high-flown notions about right and wrong, and duty, and all that." "our ideas of `duty and all that' are just like other people's, jem, i think," said david. "they are just like miss bethia's, at any rate, and mamma's." "and like jem's own ideas, though not like mr philip's" said violet. "violet means that if he had to choose between what is right and what is pleasant, the chances are he would choose to do what is pleasant," said davie. "he would not wait to choose," said violet, gravely. "he would just do what was pleasant without at all thinking about the other." "mamma, do you call that charitable?" said jem. "i think violet means--and davie--that his actions are, as a general thing, guided and governed by impulse rather than by principle," said mrs inglis; "and you know, jem, the same reliance cannot be placed on such a person as on--" "on a steady old rock, like mr caldwell or our davie," said jem. "yes, i know; still i like phil." "so we all like him," said violet. "but, as mamma says, we do not rely on him. he likes us and our ways, and our admiration of him, and he likes to come here and talk with mamma, and get good advice, and all that. but he likes to go to other places, and to talk with other people, who are as different from mamma as darkness is from daylight. he is so careless and good-tempered that anything pleases him for the moment. he has no stability. one cannot help liking him, but one cannot respect him." everybody looked surprised. jem whistled. "why don't you tell him so? it might do him good." "it wouldn't change his nature," said violet, loftily. and then she bade them all good-night, and she and jem went away, and miss bethia improved the occasion. "i expect that his nature has got to be changed before he amounts to much that is good. i hope, david, you will not let this frivolous young man lead you away from the right path." mrs inglis had gone out of the room, and david prepared himself for what he knew would come sooner or later, miss bethia's never-failing good advice. "you are none too wise to be drawn away by a pleasant-spoken, careless youth like that. his company might easily become a snare to you, and to jem too." "oh! he has very little to say to me, miss bethia. he is older than jem or i. he likes to talk to mamma, and you mustn't think ill of him from what was said to-night." "i suppose the trouble is in his bringing up," said miss bethia. "from all i hear, i should fear that his father hasn't a realising sense of the importance of religion for himself or his family, and what can be expected of his son?" david did not like the turn the conversation had taken, and he did not like the next better. "there is a great responsibility resting on you, david, with regard to the people among whom your lot is cast. it is to be hoped they'll be led to think more, and not less, of the master you serve from your walk and conversation." david made no answer. "david," said miss bethia, "have you been living a christian life since you came here? such a life as would have given comfort to your father, if he had been here to see it? have you been keeping your armour bright, david?" "i have been trying, miss bethia," said david. "well, it is something to have been trying. it is something not to be led away. but have you been content with that? you have a battle to fight--a work to do in just the spot you stand in, and if you are faithful, you may help that unstable youth to stand on firmer ground than his feet have found yet." david shook his head. "you don't know me, miss bethia, nor him, or you would not say that." "your father would have made it his business to do him good." "but i am not like my father, very far from that." "well, your father was nothing by himself. you are bound to do the same work, and you can have the same help. and it will pay in the long run. oh, yes! it will pay!" "i have been telling david that he may do that pleasant-spoken youth much good, if he is faithful to him and to himself," added she, as mrs inglis came into the room. "and i have been telling miss bethia that she does not know me, or him, or she wouldn't say that, mamma," said david. "she must know you by this time, i think, davie," said his mother, smiling. "i used to know him pretty well, and he seems to be getting along pretty much so. i don't know as i see any change for the worse in him. he has had great privileges, and he has great responsibility." "yes," said his mother, gravely; "and i quite agree with you, miss bethia, he may do mr philip good by a diligent and faithful performance of his daily duties, if in no other way. he has done so already." "oh, mamma!" said david, "miss bethia will think you are growing vain." "no, i sha'n't. but he must be faithful in word as well as in deed. oh! i guess he'll get along pretty well--david, i mean, not young mr oswald." jem came home while they were still talking. "mamma," said he, as he followed his mother out of the room, "we saw philip going into dick's saloon as we were going up the street and violet said he'd be just as pleased and just as popular there as in our own home among the children, and she said he was as weak as water. that is all she knows! violet is hard on phil." "she cannot think it right for him to spend his evenings in such a place," said his mother. "but he sees no harm in it, and i don't suppose there is much." "i should think it great harm for one of my boys," said his mother, gravely. "all right, mamma!" said jem. "but, then, as miss barnes says, our bringing up has been different." chapter twelve. when it was fairly decided that miss bethia's pleasant plan for the summer was possible, there was little time lost in preparation. miss bethia went away at once, to have all things ready for their coming, and in a few days mrs inglis and violet and the children followed. the little oswalds went with them, and jem and possibly frank oswald were to follow when their holidays commenced. whether david was to go or not, was to be decided later, but he did not let the uncertainty with regard to his own prospects of pleasure interfere with his in all that the others were to enjoy. he helped cheerfully in all the arrangements for their departure, and made light of his mother's anxiety and doubts as to the comfort of those who were to be left behind. but when they were gone, and jem and david left in the deserted house alone, they were neither of them very cheerful for a while. they were quite alone, for mrs lacy, the neighbour whom mrs inglis had engaged to care for their comfort, had a home of her own and little children to care for, and could only be there a part of the day. the unwonted silence of the house pressed heavily upon their spirits. "it's queer, too," said jem, who had been promising himself great enjoyment of the quiet time so that he might the better prepare for the school examinations that were coming on. "i used to think the children bothered with their noise and their chatter, but the stillness is ten, times more distracting, i think." david nodded assent. "they will be in gourlay long ago," said he. "i wonder how it will seem to mamma to go back again." jem looked grave. "it won't be all pleasure to her, i am afraid." "no; she will have many things to remember; but i think she would rather have gone to gourlay than anywhere else. i wish i could have gone with her." "yes; but she has violet and the children; and mamma is not one to fret or be unhappy." "she will not be unhappy; but all the same it will be a sorrowful thing for her to go there now." "yes; but i am glad she is there; and i hope i may be there, too, before the summer is over." jem's examinations passed off with great credit to himself; but he did not have the pleasure of telling his triumph, or showing his prizes to his mother and the children till after their return to singleton; for jem did not go to gourlay, but in quite another direction. when an offer was made to him, through one of his friends at the great engine-house, to accompany a skillful machinist to a distant part of the country where he was to superintend the setting up of some valuable machinery in a manufacturing establishment, he gave a few regretful thoughts to his mother and gourlay, and the long anticipated delights of boating and fishing; but it did not take him long to decide to go. indeed, by the time his mother's consent reached him, his preparations were far advanced, and he was as eager to be gone as though the sole object of the trip had been pleasure, and not the hard work which had been offered him. but, besides the work, there was the wages, which, to jem seemed magnificent, and there was the prospect of seeing new sights far from home; so he went away in great spirits, and david was left alone. he was not in great spirits. jem had left him no earlier than he must have done had it been to join his mother and the children in gourlay. but, somehow, when he thought of his brother out in the wonderful, strange world, about which they had so often spoken and dreamed, david had to struggle against a feeling which, indulged, might very easily have changed to discontent or envy of his brother's happier fortune. happier fortune, indeed! how foolish his thoughts were! david laughed at himself when he called up the figure of jem, with bared arms and blackened face, busy amidst the smoke and dust of some great work-shop, going here and there--doing this and that at the bidding of his master. a very hard working world jem would no doubt find it; and, as he thought about him, david made believe content, and congratulated himself on the quiet and leisure which the summer evenings were bringing, and made plans for doing great things in the way of reading and study while they lasted. but they were very dull days and evenings. the silence in the house grew more oppressive to him than even jem had found it. the long summer evenings often found him listless and dull over the books that had been so precious to him when he had only stolen moments to bestow on them. there had been something said at first about his going to the oswald's to stay, when the time came when he should be alone in the house. mr philip had proposed it at the time when they were making arrangements for the going away of his little sisters. but the invitation had not been repeated. mr philip had gone away long before jem. he had, at the last moment, joined an exploring party who were going--not, indeed, to red river, but far away into the woods. mr oswald had forgotten the invitation, or had never known of it, perhaps, and david went home to the deserted house not very willingly sometimes, and, with a vague impatience of the monotony of the days, wished for something to happen to break it. before jem had been gone a week, something did happen. indeed, it had happened a good while before, but it only came to david's knowledge at that time. mr caldwell had just returned from one of his frequent business journeys, and one night david lingered beyond the usual hour that he might see him and walk down the street with him as far as their way lay in the same direction; and it was while they were going towards home together that mr caldwell told him of something very unpleasant that had occurred in the office. a small sum of money had been missed, and the circumstances connected with its loss led mr caldwell to believe that it had been taken by some one belonging to the office. mr caldwell could not give his reasons for this opinion, nor did he say much about it, but he questioned david closely about those who had been coming and going, and seemed troubled and annoyed about the affair. david was troubled, too, and tried to recall anything that might throw light upon the painful matter. but he did not succeed. the circumstances, as david learned them then and afterwards, were these: mr oswald, as treasurer for one of the benevolent societies of the town, had, on a certain day of the preceding month, received a sum of money, part of which could not be found or accounted for. the rest of the sum paid into his hands was found in that compartment of his private safe allotted to the papers of the society. a receipt for the whole sum was in the hands of the person who had paid the money, and an entry in the society's books corresponded to the sum named in this receipt. mr oswald was certain that he had not made use of any part of it, because such was never his custom. the accounts of the society were kept quite distinct from all others, and all arrangements with regard to them were made by mr oswald himself. it did not make the loss a matter of less importance that the sum missed was small. nor did it make mr oswald and mr caldwell less anxious to discover what had become of it. the loss had not been discovered until some time after it had taken place, when the quarterly making up of the society's accounts had been taken in hand, and mr oswald could not remember much about the circumstances. the date of the receipt showed the time. the person who paid the money remembered that part of it had been in small silver coins, made up in packets, and this was the part that had disappeared. all this was not told by mr caldwell that first afternoon. it came to david's knowledge, little by little, as it was found out. the matter was not, at first, discussed by the clerks in the office. mr caldwell had asked david not to speak of it to them, or to any one. when mr caldwell told him that nothing had been said to them of the loss, he thought it was strange; but it never came into his mind that the reason was that mr oswald feared that he was the person guilty, and wished to keep it from the knowledge of the rest. but, as time went on, he began to notice a change in mr oswald's manner toward him. he had never said many words to him in the course of the day. it was not his way with those in his employment, except with mr caldwell. he said less than ever to him now, but david fancied that he was more watchful of him, that he took more note of his comings and goings, and that his manner was more peremptory and less friendly when he gave him directions as to his work for the day. mr caldwell did not remain long in singleton at this time, and having no one to speak to about the mysterious affair of the missing money, david, after a day or two, began to think less about it than he might otherwise have done. once he ventured to speak to mr oswald about it. "have you heard anything about the lost money, sir?" said he, one night, when there were only they two in the office. mr oswald answered him so briefly and sharply that david was startled, changing colour and looking at him in astonishment. "no, i have not. have _you_ anything to tell me about it? the sooner the better," said mr oswald. "i know only what mr caldwell has told me," said david. "you may go," said mr oswald. and david went away, very much surprised both at his words and his manner. he did not think long about it, but every day he became more certain that all was not right between them. he had no one to speak to, which made it worse. he could not write to his mother or even to violet, because there was nothing to tell. mr oswald was sharp and short in his manner of speaking to him, that was all, and he had never said much to him at any time. no; there was nothing to tell. but he could not help being unhappy. the time seemed very long. the weather became very warm. all that he had to do out of the office was done languidly, and he began to wish for the time of his mother's return. he received little pleasure from his books, but he faithfully gave the allotted time to them, and got, it is to be hoped, some profit. he made himself busy in the garden, too, and gave little dick lacy his accustomed lesson in writing and book-keeping as regularly as usual. but, through all his work and all his amusements, he carried with him a sense of discomfort. he never could forget that all was not right between him and his master, though he could not guess the reason. he seemed to see him oftener than usual these days. he sometimes overtook him on his way home; and, once or twice, when he was working in the garden, he saw him cross the bridge and pass the house. once he came at night to the house about some business, which, he said, had been forgotten. david was mortified and vexed, because he had not heard him knock, and because, when he entered, he found him lying asleep with his head on his greek dictionary, and he answered the questions put to him stupidly enough; but he saw that business was only a pretence. next day, kind, but foolish mrs lacy told him that mr oswald had been at her house asking all manner of questions about him; what he did, and where he went, and how he passed his time; and though david was surprised, and not very well pleased to hear it, it was not because he thought mr oswald had begun to doubt him. indeed, it came into his mind, that, perhaps, he was going to be asked at last to pass a few days at the big house with frank, who had returned home not at all well. he was, for a moment, quite certain of this, when he carried in the letters in the morning, for mr oswald's manner was much kinder, and he spoke to him just as he used to do. but he did not ask him, and frank did not come down to see him at the bank, as david hoped he might. that night, mr caldwell returned to singleton. he did not arrive till after the bank was closed, but he came down to see david before he went home. the first words he spoke to him were concerning the lost money; and, how it came about, david could never very well remember. whether the accusation was made in words, or whether he caught the idea of suspicion in his friend's hesitating words and anxious looks, he did not know, nor did he know in what words he answered him. it was as if some one had struck him a heavy blow, and then he heard mr caldwell's voice, saying: "have patience, david. you are not the first one that has been falsely accused. anger never helped any one through trouble yet. what would your mother say?" his mother! david uttered a cry in which there was both anger and pain. was his mother to hear her son accused as a thief? "david," said his friend solemnly, "it is at a time like this that our trust in god stands us in stead. there is nothing to be dismayed at, if you are innocent." "if!" said david, with a gasp. "ay! `if!' your mother herself might say as much as that. and you have not said that the charge is a false one yet." "i did not think i should need to say so to you!" "but you see, my lad, i am not speaking for myself. i was bidden ask you the question point blank, and i must give your answer to him that sent me. my word is another matter. you must answer to him." "to mr oswald, i suppose? why should he suspect me? has he been suspecting me all these weeks? was that the reason he wished nothing said about it in the office?" "that was kindly meant, at any rate; and you needna' let your eyes flash on me," said mr caldwell, severely. "don't you think it has caused him much unhappiness to be obliged to suspect you?" "but why should he suspect _me_?" "there seemed to be no one else. but he must speak for himself. i have nothing to say for him. i have only to carry him your answer." "i will answer him myself," said david, rising, as though he were going at once to do it. but he only walked to the window and stood looking out. "david," said mr caldwell, "put away your books, and come home with me." "no, i cannot do that," said david, shortly. he did not turn round to answer, and there was not another word spoken for a while. by and by mr caldwell rose, and said, in his slow way: "david, my lad, the only thing that you have to do in this matter is to see that you bear it well. the accusation will give but small concern to your mother, in comparison with the knowledge that her son has been indulging in an angry and unchristian spirit." and then he went away. he did not go very far, however. it was getting late, and, in the gathering darkness, and the unaccustomed silence of the place, the house seemed very dreary and forsaken to him, and he turned back before he reached the gate. "david," said he kindly, opening the door, "come away home with me." but david only answered as he had done before. "no, i cannot do that." he said it in a gentler tone, however, and added: "no, i thank you, mr caldwell, i would rather not." "it will be dreary work staying here with your sore and angry heart. you need not be alone, however. you don't need me to tell you where you are to take all this trouble to. you may honour _him_ by bearing it well," said his friend. "bear it well!" no, he did not do that; at least, he did not at first. when mr caldwell had gone, and david had shut the doors and windows to keep out the rain that was beginning to fall, the tears, which he had kept back with difficulty when his friend was there, gushed out in a flood. and they were not the kind of tears that relieve and refresh. there was anger in them, and a sense of shame made them hot and bitter as they fell. he had wild thoughts of going that very night to mr oswald to answer his terrible question, and to tell him that he would never enter his office again; for, even to be questioned and suspected, seemed, to him, to bring dishonour, and his sense of justice made him eager to defend himself at whatever cost. but night brought wiser counsels; and david knew, as mr caldwell had said, where to betake himself with his trouble; and the morning found him in quite another mind. as for mr caldwell, he did not wait till morning to carry his answer to mr oswald. he did not even go home first to his own house, though he had not been there for a fortnight. "for who knows," said he to himself, "what that foolish lad may go and say in his anger, and mr oswald must hear what i have to say first, or it may end badly for all concerned." he found mr oswald sitting in the dining-room alone, and, after a few words concerning the business which had called him away during the last few weeks, he told him of his visit to david, and spoke with decision as to the impossibility of the lad's having any knowledge of the lost money. "it seems impossible, certainly," said mr oswald; "and yet how can its disappearance be accounted for? it must have been taken from the table or from the safe on the very day it was brought to me, or i must have seen it at night. there can be no doubt it was brought to me on that day, and there can be no doubt it was after all the others, except young inglis and yourself were gone. i was out, i remember, when it was time to go home. when i came in, there was no one in the outer office. you had sent david out, you said. he came in before i left--" and he went over the whole affair again, saying it was not the loss of the money that vexed him. though the loss had been ten times as great, it would have been nothing in comparison with the vexation caused by the loss of confidence in those whom he employed. "for some one must have taken the money, even if david inglis be not guilty." here they were both startled by a voice from the other end of the room. "david inglis, papa! what can you mean?" and frank came hurriedly forward, stumbling against the furniture as he shaded his eyes from the light. "my boy! are you here? what would the doctor say? you should have been in bed long ago." "but, papa, what is it that is lost? you never could blame davie, papa. you could not think davie could take money, mr caldwell?" "no, i know david inglis better," said mr caldwell, quietly. "and, papa, you don't think ill of davie? you would not if you knew him. papa! you have not accused him? oh! what will aunt mary think?" cried the boy in great distress. "papa, how could you do it?" mr oswald was asking himself the same question. the only thing he could say was that there was no one else, which seemed a foolish thing to say in the face of such perfect confidence as these two had in david. but he could not go over the whole matter again, and so he told frank it was something in which he was not at all to meddle, and in his discomfort and annoyance he spoke sharply to the boy, and sent him away. "but i shall go to davie the first thing in the morning, papa. i would not believe such a thing of davie, though a hundred men declared it. i would sooner believe it of--of mr caldwell," said frank, excitedly. "be quiet, frank," said his father; but mr caldwell laughed a little and patted the boy on the shoulder as he passed, and then he, too, said good-night and went away. and mr oswald was not left in a very pleasant frame of mind, that is certain. true to his determination to see david, frank reached the bank next morning before his father. he reached it before david, too, and he would have gone on to meet him, had it not been that the bright sunshine which had followed the rain had dazzled his poor eyes and made him dizzy, and he was glad to cover his face and to lie down on the sofa in his father's office for a while. he lay still after his father came in, and only moved when he heard david's voice saying-- "mr caldwell told me you wished to see me, sir." then frank started up and came feeling his way towards his friend. "he does not mean it, davie!" he cried. "papa knows you never could have done such a thing. don't be angry, old fellow." and then he put out his hand to clasp david's, and missed it partly because of their natural dimness and partly because of the tears that rushed to them. david regarded him in dismay. "are they so bad as that, frank? are they worse again?" said david, forgetting his own trouble in the heavier trouble of his friend. they were bad enough, and there was more wrong with the boy besides his eyes. he was ill and weak, and he burst out crying, with his head on david's shoulder, but his tears were not for himself. "you were wrong to come out to-day, frank," said his father, surprised and perplexed at his sudden break-down; "you must go home immediately." "papa, tell davie that you do not believe he took the money," cried the boy. "he _could_ not do it, papa." "indeed, i did not, sir," said david. "i know nothing about the matter except what mr caldwell has told me. you may believe me, sir." "i do not know what to believe," said mr oswald. "it seems unlikely that you should be tempted to do so foolish and wrong a thing. but i have been deceived many a time. who could have taken it?" "it was not i," said david, quietly, and while he said it he was conscious of a feeling of thankfulness that he had not seen mr oswald in the first angry moment after he had known of his suspicion. an angry denial, he felt now, would have availed little. "papa, begin at the beginning and tell davie all about it. perhaps he will think of something you have forgotten--something that may help you to find out where the money has gone," said frank, earnestly. but mr oswald would do nothing of the sort. he was tired and perplexed with the matter, and he had come to the determination to pay the lost money, and wait till time should throw light on the circumstances of its loss, or until the guilty person should betray himself. "you must go, frank. you are not fit to be here," said he. "i want to hear you tell davie that you don't believe he is a thief." a thief! that is a very ugly word, and david winced as it was spoken. mr oswald winced too. "money has been taken from this room, and until the manner of its disappearance be discovered, all who had access to the place must, in a sense, be open to suspicion. let us hope that the guilty person will be found out, and in the meantime, let nothing more be said about it." "but why did you not tell me at once that you suspected me?" said david, in some excitement. "it was not a pleasant thing to tell." "no, but it is not pleasanter to hear it now. there is less chance that the guilty person may be traced now, than if the loss had been declared at once. and must i lie under the suspicion always? i do not think you have been just to me." "that will do. the less said the better," said mr oswald. "frank, you must go home." "you will not go away, davie?" said frank. "not if i may stay. where could i go?" said david. "you will stay, of course. let us hope the truth about this unpleasant business may come out at last. we must all be uncomfortable until it does." "if you had only spoken to david about it sooner," said frank, again. but mr oswald would neither say nor hear more. entreated by frank, however, he asked david to go and stay at his house, till his mother returned home. but david refused to go even for a day, and no entreaties of frank could move him. "i don't wonder that you will not come," said frank. "i don't blame you for refusing. and oh! what will aunt mary think of us all?" "she will know that _you_ are all right, frank," said david, trying to look cheerful as he bade his friend good-bye at the door. he did not succeed very well, nor did frank; and david, thinking of it afterwards, was by no means sure that he had been right in refusing to go to stay with him for a while, and thinking of his friend's troubles did him some good, in that it gave him less time to think of his own. but he could not make up his mind to go to mr oswald's house, and he did not see frank again for a good while after that. chapter thirteen. david had rather a hard time for the next few days. a great trouble had fallen on him. he could have borne anything else better he sometimes thought. his good name was in danger, for even a false accusation must leave a stain on it, he thought. every day that passed made it less likely that the mysterious matter of the lost money could be cleared up, and until this happened, mr oswald would never perfectly trust him again; and david said to himself, sometimes sadly and sometimes angrily, that he could not stay where he was not trusted. nor was it likely that mr oswald would wish him to stay. they might have to leave the bridge house and singleton, and where could they go? of course a constant indulgence in such thoughts and fears was very foolish on david's part, and almost always he knew it to be foolish. he knew that all this trouble had not fallen on him by chance, and that out of it some good must come. he said to himself that he had been growing proud of his good name, of being his mother's right hand, and of having the confidence of mr oswald, and perhaps this had been permitted to happen to him to remind him that he must be watchful and humble, and that he could do nothing good of himself. gradually david came to see how right mr caldwell had been when he said that it was a very great matter how he bore his trial, and he grew ashamed of his anger and impatience and distrust. just as if the lord who loved him, and whom he loved, were not caring for him all this time! just as though this were a matter that could not be committed to his care--trusted altogether to him! yes, he acknowledged himself very foolish and wrong. a great many times every day he asked that his good name might be cleared from the stain that seemed to rest on it; but as often he asked, that whether it was to be so or not, he might have grace and strength given to bear his trouble well. he did bear it pretty well, mr caldwell thought, and he watched him closely through these days. mr oswald thought so, top, and wondered a little. he could not really believe david inglis to be guilty of theft, but it seemed strange to him that he should be so cheerful and patient under a false accusation. the only way in which he showed that he resented his suspicion, was by being firm in continuing to refuse the invitation to his house, which he again renewed. frank told his father that he did not wonder at the refusal; he tried all the same to shake david's resolution, but he did not succeed. david did not think he bore his trial well. in his heart, he was angry and desponding often. and, oh! how he wanted his mother! it would not have been half so bad if she had been at home, he thought, and yet he could not bring himself to write to her about it. when it should be made clear where the lost money had gone--so clear that even mr oswald would not have a doubtful thought, then he would tell his mother, and get the sympathy which would be so ready and so sweet. it would spoil her happy summer to know that he was in trouble, he thought, and, besides, he could not bear that she should know that any one had dared to speak of him as dishonest. this was foolish, too, but he could not tell her till afterwards. his mother was not quite at ease about him. she knew he was in trouble. she had gathered that from the changed tone of his weekly letter, and an inadvertent word, now and then, led her to believe that there was something more the matter than the loneliness to which he confessed after jem went away. so, when an opportunity occurred for violet to go to singleton for a day or two, she was very glad that she should go, to see how davie was getting on, and to give him an account of their manner of life in gourlay. and when david came home one night, to find violet making tea instead of mrs lacy, was he not glad to see her! he was more glad to see her than he would have been to see his mother. he knew he never could have talked half an hour with his mother without telling her all that was in his heart, and he could keep it from violet. at least, so he said to himself. but when tea was over, and violet had told him all they were doing at gourlay, and all they were enjoying there, she began to ask him questions in return, and, before he knew it, he was telling all the sad story of the last few weeks, and was looking with wonder at his sister's astonished and indignant face. for astonishment was violet's first feeling--astonishment that such a thing could have happened to davie, and for a little, it was stronger even than her indignation. "and haven't you the least idea what may have become of the money, davie? don't you have any suspicion of any one?" asked she, after she had said a good many angry words that need not be repeated. "have they not been trying to discover something?" "they have been trying, i suppose." "and what do _you_ think, davie? there must be some clue, surely." but david was silent. "you do suspect some one?" said violet, eagerly. "no," said he, slowly; "i have no sufficient reason for suspecting any one." "tell _me_, davie." "no; i have no right to tell my suspicions, or to suspect any one. it came into my head one night; but i know it is foolish and wrong, and i have nothing to tell." "when did it happen?" asked violet, after a little. david could not tell her the exact time. he had never been told the date of the receipt which mr oswald had given; but he thought it could not have been very long after his mother went away, though he had not heard of the loss till after jem had gone. violet went here and there putting things to rights in the room, and said nothing for a good while. by and by she came and leaned over the chair in which david was sitting, and asked: "david, when did philip oswald go away?" david turned round and looked at her uneasily. "a good while ago. soon after you all went away to gourlay. no, violet--don't say it," said he, eagerly, as he met her look. "he could not do it. why should he? he has all the money he wants. and, besides, he _could_ not do such a thing." "david," said violet, gravely, "was it philip that you were thinking about?" "don't, violet! it came into my mind--i couldn't help that, but it is wrong to speak of it. it could not have been he." "i don't know. it does not seem possible. he is foolish and frivolous--and not to be relied on; but i do not think he would do such a thing as--take money--unless--" "violet! don't speak of it. a false accusation is a terrible thing." "i am not accusing him. there does not seem to be a sufficient motive for such an act. the sum was so small--and then--" "dear violet!" said david, in great distress, "don't speak of it any more." "well, i will not--but mr oswald accused you. you are a great deal better than i am, davie," said his sister, softly. david laughed an uncertain laugh. "that is all you know about it," said he. when violet went up next day to speak to miss oswald about the little girls, the first word that frank said to her was: "has davie told you? oh! violet, what will aunt mary think of papa?" but violet could not trust herself to speak of davie's trouble to him. she was too angry with his father; and, besides, she was too startled by frank's pale looks to be able to think, for the moment, of any one but him. "are you ill, frank? are your eyes worse? what have you been doing to them?" for frank had dropped his head down on his hands again. "yes, they are worse. i was out in the rain, and caught cold. i was not strong enough to go, i suppose. phil, sent me back with some people who were coming down. he would have come himself, but, of course, i couldn't let him." "you would have done better to come to gourlay with us," said violet. "yes, even without jem or davie. i wish i had gone." "come with me to-morrow," said violet, earnestly. "mamma will be very glad to see you." but frank shook his head sadly. "i cannot, violet. i should be ashamed to look aunt mary in the face-- after--" "you need not, frank. mamma will know. and you don't suppose that anything they say can really hurt our davie?" "no; not in the end. but--there's no use in talking." "i am not afraid!" said violet. "and mamma will not fret about it; i am sure of that?" there was nothing more said for some time, and then violet asked: "where is your brother now?" "he must be far across the country by this time. he was enjoying the trip very much when i left him." "and when will he be home?" "i don't know. not for a good while yet. why are you asking?" frank raised himself up, and peered with his dim eyes into violet's face. "why are you asking?" he repeated. but violet did not answer him. as she looked at his poor, pale face, the tears started in her eyes. "frank, dear boy, you must come home with me. you want mamma again. she will do you more good than the doctor." "violet, tell me one thing! does davie blame phil--about the missing money, i mean. tell me!" "davie blame your brother! why should you say so? davie would be shocked at such a question from you. what reason could he have to blame philip?" but violet was very glad that he did not pursue the subject, for she was afraid to let him know all her thoughts about davie's trouble. she did not give him an opportunity to return to the subject. she wished very much for frank's sake that he should return to gourlay with her, and she hastened to propose the plan to his aunt. miss oswald was, by no means, disposed to hinder him, though she doubted if his father would let him go. she was not very much accustomed to the society of young people, and she had been at a loss what to do with the boy, who, though not very ill, was disinclined, and, indeed, unable to amuse himself, or to enter into any of the plans which were made for his pleasure, so she promised to speak to his father, and to have his things ready should he be permitted to go. violet took care to avoid being alone with frank while she stayed in the house, and nothing more was said about philip. it was all arranged as violet desired it might be. mr oswald made no serious objections to his son's going to gourlay. frank himself objected, but the prospect of going with violet was too pleasant to make his refusal very firm, and the thought of the loneliness of his own home decided him to go. "violet," said david, when the time came to say good-bye, "you must not tell mamma about all this vexation. it would only make her unhappy, and do no good." but violet would not promise. "i cannot, davie. i cannot keep anything from mamma when she wishes to know it; and she will be sure to ask everything about you. but you need not be afraid. mamma will not fret. she will know that it will all be right in the end." and the "end" of david's trouble, as far as the missing money was concerned, was nearer than either of them thought when they bade each other good-bye. he had a few days more of anxiety and discomfort, in the midst of which came a letter from his mother, which made it seem to him a very small trouble indeed. he read it over and over again, and laughed at himself for supposing that he was acting wisely in keeping the knowledge of all that was making him so unhappy from his mother. "mamma always knows just what to say and how to say it," said he to himself; "and, of course, she is not going to fret about a matter which is sure to come right in the end." and so the days that followed were better days, though the hot weather, and the close confinement in the office through the day, and the loneliness of the deserted house at home, were beginning to tell on him, and he was by no means well. he did his best to do well all that was given him to do, but the days were long and dull and the evenings lonely, and he began to count the days that must pass before they should all come home. there was something going on in the town one afternoon, a cricket match or a match at football, and all the clerks had left the bank at the earliest possible moment, intent on seeing all that was to be seen of it. david would have gone with, the rest, but mr caldwell, who was at the moment engaged with mr oswald in his private room, had asked him to remain till he came out to him again. david waited, not caring that he lost the amusement that the others sought, not caring very much for anything just at that moment, for he was tired and getting a little unhappy again, and very much ashamed of himself because of it. for when he had read his mother's letter only the other day, he had taken all the comfort of her cheerful, trustful words, and acknowledged how foolish and wrong it had been for him to let mr oswald's doubts and suspicions dismay him. he had said then that it was all past now, and that he could wait god's time for the clearing of his name, without being unhappy or afraid again. and now here he was wondering anxiously whether mr oswald and mr caldwell were speaking about the lost money, and whether any thing more was known that he had not heard. he was tired waiting, and wanted to go home, and yet the thought of the empty house and the long dull evening was not pleasant, and he was saying to himself that it did not matter whether he stayed or went, when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice said-- "well, davie, my boy, have you been standing here ever since i went away?" david turned and saw philip oswald. in his surprise, and because of the many thoughts that came upon him at the sight of him, he did not utter a word. he forgot to take the hand which philip held out to him. "have you, davie? i declare you look as if you had not seen the light of the sun for a month! what is the matter with you, davie?" he might well ask it, for david had grown very pale, and his heart was beating fast. in spite of his judgment, he had, since his talk with violet, associated philip with the thought of the lost money, and now as he looked at his frank, handsome face, he said how impossible it was that he should have taken it, or that he should know anything about it. no, philip oswald could not help him out of his trouble. "when did you come, philip?" said he. "i should scarcely have known you, if you hadn't spoken." philip had changed more than seemed possible in two months' time. he was brown with the sun and much more manly-looking. he even seemed to david to have grown taller in these two months. "i have improved, haven't i? i can't say as much for you. what is the trouble, davie?" philip laid his hand on his shoulder again, and brought his laughing brown face close to david's. but david drew himself away. he hated himself for the feeling of anger and envy that rose in his heart as he looked at philip. why should life be so easy to him? why should the summer have passed so differently to them? at the moment he was very miserable, tired of his trouble and of his laborious life, faithless and afraid. so he withdrew from the young man's touch, and turned away saying nothing. "is it as bad as that? can't i help you? frank seemed to think i might, though i could not make out from his letter what was the trouble or how i could help you out of it. is it about money, davie? have you got into a scrape at last?" "a scrape!" repeated david. "no you cannot help me, i am afraid. i should be sorry to trouble you." "trouble! nonsense! i have come a fortnight sooner than i wanted to come, because of frank's letter. he seemed to think i could put you through. what has my father to do with it? halloo! here is old caldwell. must it be kept dark, davie?" david made him no answer. unconsciously he had been looking forward to the time of philip's coming home, with hope that in some way or other light might be thrown on the matter that had darkened all the summer to him, but philip evidently knew nothing of it, and all must be as before. if he could have got away without being questioned, he would have gone, for he was by no means sure that he might not disgrace himself by breaking into angry words, or even into tears. he certainly must have done one or other if he had tried to speak, but he did not need to answer. "so you have come home!" said mr caldwell, as he came forward. "you have not been in haste." "i beg your pardon. i _have_ been in haste. i did not intend to come home for ten days yet, if i had been allowed to have my own way about it." "and what hindered you? matters of importance, doubtless." "you may be sure of that. has my father gone home? i will just see him a minute, and then i'll go home with you, davie," said philip, turning towards his father's door. "david has important business with me," added he, looking over his shoulder with his hand on the door-handle. david shook his head. "your father will tell you all about it," said he, hoarsely. philip whistled and came back again. "that is the way, is it?" "or i will tell you," said mr caldwell, gravely. "young man, what did your brother frank say to you in the letter he wrote to you a while ago?" philip looked at him in surprise. "what is that to you, sir? he said--i don't very well know what he said. it was a mysterious epistle altogether, and so blurred and blotted that i could hardly read it. but i made out that davie was in trouble, and that i was expected home to bring him through." searching through his many pockets, he at last found his brother's letter and held it out to david. "perhaps you can make it out," said he. blurred and blotted it was, and the lines were crooked, and in some places they ran into each other, and david did not wonder that philip could not read it very well. he saw his own name in it and violet's, and he knew of course that what frank had to say was about the lost money, but he could see also that the story was only hinted at, and the letter was altogether so vague and indefinite, that it might well seem mysterious to philip. "can you make it out?" philip asked. "i know what he means, though perhaps i should not have found it out from this. your father will tell you, or mr caldwell." "all right! fire away, and the sooner the better, for i am tired. if i can help you out of the scrape, i will." "that is to be seen yet," said mr caldwell. then he told the story of the lost money, using as few words as possible, as was his way. he only told the facts of the case, how the money had been brought to mr oswald and its receipt acknowledged by him, and how a part of it had never been found or accounted for, and how mr oswald had first suspected, and then openly accused david inglis of having taken it. he did not express any opinion as to whether mr oswald was right or wrong, nor offer any suggestion as to what might have become of the missing money, and one might not have thought from his way of telling it, that he was particularly interested in the matter. but he never removed his eyes from mr philip's face, and his last words were-- "and it seems your brother thought you might have some knowledge of the matter. is that what he says in his letter?" philip's face was well worth looking at as the story went on. at first he whistled and looked amused, but his amusement changed to surprise, and then to consternation, as mr caldwell proceeded. when he ceased speaking he exclaimed without heeding his question-- "what could my father mean? to blame davie, of all people!" "there was no one else, he thought," said david. "no one else!" repeated philip. "nonsense! there was mr caldwell and all the rest of them in the office, and there was _me_. i took the money." "if you had acknowledged it a little sooner, it would have been a wiser thing for yourself, and it would have saved your father much vexation, and a deal of unhappiness to david inglis and the rest of them," said mr caldwell, severely. "you had best tell your father about it now," added he, as mr oswald came out of his room. "acknowledge it! of course, i acknowledge it. papa, did you not get the note i left on your table for you the day i went away?" "the note!" repeated his father. "i got no note from you." "david, my man," whispered mr caldwell, "do you mind the word that says, `he shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday?' the lord doesna forget." the story as they gathered it from philip's explanations and exclamations was this: he had come to the office to see his father directly from the train that had brought him home from c--. he had not found him in, but he had written a note to explain that through some change of plan the company of explorers were to set out immediately, and that he must return to c-- without a moment's delay, in order that all arrangements might be completed by the time that the boat sailed. he was almost sure he had acknowledged taking the small rolls of silver that were on the table; he was quite sure that he had left the full value in paper money in exchange. there could be no mistake about it, and he had never doubted but his father had received it. "and, papa! the absurdity of suspecting davie," said philip, not very respectfully, when his story was done. "and now the matter lies between him and you," said his father. "for the money is not forthcoming. you may have neglected to leave it after all." but philip was certain as to that point. he had enclosed it with his note and closed the envelope, leaving it on an open ledger that was lying on the table. there could be no mistake about that. "and we are just where we were before," said mr caldwell. "but don't be cast down, david. there must be a way out of this." "but nothing astonishes me so much as that my father should have doubted davie. that was too absurd, you know. if i had been you, davie, i would have cut the whole concern," said philip. "there would have been much wisdom in that," said mr caldwell dryly. "there is no fear of david inglis." david said nothing. he stood folding and unfolding the letter that philip had given him, struck dumb by the thought that nothing had really been discovered of the missing money, and that the suspicion of mr oswald might still rest on him "i wonder you did not think of me, father," went on philip. "frank did, i dare say, though i could not make out what he meant. but the money must be somewhere. let us have a look." he went into his father's room, and the others followed. philip looked about as though he expected everything might be as he left it two months ago. there were loose papers on the table, and some letters and account-books. the morning paper was there, and mr oswald's hat and cane, and that was all. "the big book lay just here," said philip. "i laid my note on it, so that it need not be overlooked." "there are more big books in the office than one," said mr caldwell, crossing the room to a large safe, of which the doors were still standing open. one by one he lifted the large account-books that were not often disturbed, and turned over the leaves slowly, to see whether any paper might have been shut in them. as soon as philip understood what he was doing, he gave himself to the same work with a great deal more energy and interest than mr caldwell displayed. but it was mr caldwell who came upon that for which they were looking--philip's note to his father--safe between the pages of a great ledger, which looked as though it might not have been opened for years. "i mind well; i was referring back to moses cramp's account of past years on the very day that brought us all our trouble. and now, david inglis, your trial is over for this time," and he handed the note to mr oswald. "provided mr philip has made no mistake," added he, cautiously, as the note was opened. the interest with which david looked on may be imagined. it took mr oswald a good while to read the note; at least, it was a good while before he laid it down, and mr caldwell, claiming mr philip's help, set about putting the big books in their places again. david never thought of offering to help. "it has been a very unfortunate mistake," said mr oswald, at last. "all's well that ends well," said his son lightly. "i am very sorry that you should have been made unhappy about it, david. i might have known that _you_ were not to blame, but there seemed to be no one else. i beg your pardon sincerely," said mr oswald. "i am very glad it is all right, sir," said david, quietly. "i should like to know one thing," said philip. "how came frank to write to me? he must have thought i was the thief--the young rascal. did you think so, davie?" "no," said david, "i never thought you took it. i don't know what frank thought. i never spoke to him about it, nor to any one," added david, after a moment's hesitation. "well! never mind. i'll sift that matter by and by. come up to the house with me, davie. i am very sorry for all the pain you have had about this business. come home with me to-night." "no; i am going home by myself. i have a headache. you were not to blame." "yes, he was to blame," said mr oswald. "it was a very unbusiness-like way of doing things, and it might have ended badly for all concerned." "it has been bad enough all through for david inglis. mr philip, if you wish to make amends to him, you should offer to take his place and let him go to the country to amuse himself with the rest for a few days." philip opened his eyes. "i am afraid i could not fill david's place in the office," said he. "i am afraid of that, too. but you would be better than nobody, and we would have patience with you. and david must go for awhile, whether you take his place or no." "yes," assented mr oswald, rather absently. "he might as well have a holiday now as any time. and, philip, i expect you to take your own place in the office after this regularly." philip shrugged his shoulders, when his father was not looking to see. "i'll give it a trial," said he. "and can i go to-morrow, mr caldwell?" said david. "i have no preparations to make, and i should like to take them by surprise." "by all means. i should like to go with you and see it," said philip. "but, i suppose, that would hardly do--just at present." david bade them good-night, and went down the street with mr caldwell. "i am much obliged to you, sir. i am very glad to get away from the office for awhile, to say nothing of going to gourlay and seeing them all." david's eyes sparkled at the thought. "well! you have borne your trouble not so ill," said mr caldwell; "and you may tell your mother i said so." david laughed; but he looked grave in a moment. "i don't think you would say i bore it well, if you knew all the angry thoughts i had. but i am very glad and thankful now, and i am sure mamma will thank you for all your kindness. i know now you never thought me capable of doing so wrong a thing." "we are all poor creatures, david, my man. there is no saying what we mightna' do if we were left to ourselves. be thankful and humble, and pray for grace to keep in the right way; and mind that yon young man's eyes are upon you, and that you are, in a measure, responsible for his well-doing or his ill-doing, for awhile, at least; and may the lord guide you," said mr caldwell, solemnly, and then he went away. david stood gazing after him with astonished eyes. "i responsible for him! that can hardly be. i am nothing to him. i wonder what mamma would say? i shall have nothing to do with him for awhile, at least. i like frank much the best. oh! isn't it good to be going home!" david had one thing to do with philip oswald before he went away. he came to the station with a parcel which he wished him to take to his little sisters, and to see him off. he was merry and good-humoured, though he pretended to be dreadfully afraid of not being able to fill david's place in the office to the satisfaction of mr caldwell. "if aunt mary will ask me, i will come to gourlay and spend some sunday with you," said he. "i have a settlement to make with master frank. i did not think that he and violet would have called me a dishonest person, even to clear you. i am very angry with them both." he did not look very angry, for he said it with laughing lips. but david was shocked. "violet never thought that of you. she only said that--that--" "well! what did she say?" demanded philip. "she said it was quite impossible," went on david. "she said there was no motive--i mean--she said you were foolish, and frivolous, and thought first of your own pleasure--but--" there was not time for another word, if david would not lose the train. he was indignant with himself. why could he not have kept silence for two minutes longer? and yet, as he caught a glimpse of philip's astonished face as the train swept past him on the platform, he could not help laughing a little, and hoping that the truth might do him good. for it was true, and philip did not hear unpleasant truths too often for his welfare. "at any rate, i am not going to vex myself about it now," said david. and he was quite right. chapter fourteen. and were they not glad to see david in gourlay? almost always something happens to mar, a little, the pleasure of a surprise that has been planned beforehand; but nothing happened to mar david's. he travelled to gourlay in a late train; and as he went up the familiar road, and saw the lights gleaming through the trees, as he had seen them so often in the old days, a great many thoughts crowded upon him, and, if the truth must be told, there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, too, when he opened the door and went in among them. they were all there. even little polly, by some happy chance, was up at the unusual hour. was there ever music so sweet, as the glad cry that greeted him? there were tears on more cheeks than david's; but his mother did not ask if his trouble was over; she knew by his face,-- though it was wet,--that he was at peace with himself, and troubles from without, do not hurt much, when the heart's peace is undisturbed. the words that rose to violet's lips were kept back, as she looked from her mother's face to david's. but frank could see nobody's face, and his own was very pale and anxious, as he listened to the happy tumult of voices around him. "has philip come home?" asked he, after a little. "did he get my letter? is it all right, davie?" david laughed. "oh, yes! it's all right. he got your letter, but i am afraid he couldn't read it very well. it brought him home a fortnight sooner than he meant to come, however." "and is it all right?" asked frank, anxiously. "all right! only i am afraid he will be sorry he came, for he has taken my place in the office for ten days at least, and he will be very sick of it before that time is over. oh, yes! it is all right as right can be. mamma, you were right. i need never have fretted, about it at all. but philip has something to say to you, frank, and to violet," added david, laughing a little at the remembrance of his last glimpse of philip's astonished face. but there was no more said then. of course, the story of david's troubled summer was all told afterwards, to his mother first, and then to frank and violet. it was told to his mother before he slept, when she went to say "good-night" and take his lamp, as she used to do, long ago, in that very room. if david had had to tell the story of mr oswald's suspicions, before philip's return had proved their injustice, he might have grown angry as he went on with it, and indulged in bitter words, as he had sometimes indulged in bitter thoughts. he had no temptation now to do this, and he did not seek to conceal from her how angry he had been at first, and how faithless and unhappy afterwards. he ended by giving mr caldwell's message to her, "that he had borne his trouble not so ill," and his mother agreed with mr caldwell, though she said less than she felt with regard to the whole matter. "you should have written to me, davie," said she. "i wished you were there a thousand times, mamma, but i thought it would only make you unhappy to know about my trouble, since you couldn't help it. and for a long time there was nothing to tell. when i got your letter, after violet came, i was sorry i hadn't told you before." there was a good deal more said before mrs inglis went down-stairs, but not much more about this matter. sitting in the dark, with now and then a quiver in her voice, and tears on her cheeks, the mother told her son how it had been with her since they parted. the coming back to the old home and to her husband's grave had not been altogether sorrowful. indeed, after the very first, it had been more joyful than sorrowful. "the memory of the just is blessed." "they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them." how clear this had been made to her during these days! the results of her husband's teaching and influence and example were visible now, as they had not been in former days. that which then had been as the hidden seed, or the shooting germ, had in some lives sprung up to blossom, or bear fruit an hundred fold. she told david of one and another who had spoken to her of his father, blessing his memory, because of what he had done for them and theirs, in the service of his master, and then she said-- "it is the only true and worthy life, davie--a life of work for the master. is it to be yours, my boy?" "yes, mamma. in one way or another, it is to be mine. whether it is to be as papa's was, i cannot tell." "that may come, dear. it is so blessed to feel that our times are in his hands. it would be great happiness to know that my son might give himself to the work of preaching the gospel as his father did. but that must be as god wills. you may be his soldier and servant, whatever may be your calling; but we gave you to his work as soon as he gave you to us, and i pray god you may yet stand in your father's place." "a soldier of christ--to gird on the armour that my father has laid down," said david, softly. "i _do_ wish it, mamma, if only it might be. but it must be a long time first." "who knows? and it does not matter whether the time may be long or sort, if it is god's time. and all your life till it comes may be made a preparation." it was not often that mrs inglis spoke on this subject to her son. she had not done so more than once or twice since his father died. but it was, as she told him, the cherished wish of her heart, and the burden of her prayers for him that he should live and die in the work that had been his father's. the fulfillment of her hope did not seem very near, or possible, but david was young and she could wait, and, in the meantime, it was her pleasure and her duty to encourage him. afterwards, when david looked back on this time, it was of his mother and these quiet talks with her that he always thought. not that these two had much of these pleasant weeks to themselves or many opportunities to indulge in conversation which all could not share. once they went to the north gore together, and oh, how vividly came back to david the many times which during the last year of his father's life he had gone there with him! the memories awakened were sad, but they were sweet, for all the bitterness had gone out of his grief for his father, and he told his mother many things about those drives, and of all his father had said, and of the thoughts and feelings his words had stirred in his heart. and she had some things to tell as well. once they lingered behind the others on their way home from church, and turned aside into the grave-yard for a little while. the moonlight was brightening in the east, and the evening star shone clear in the west, and in the soft uncertain light, the white grave-stones, and the waving trees, and the whole place looked strangely beautiful and peaceful to the boy's eyes. there were not many words spoken. there was no need of many words between these two. in the heart of the widow, as she sat there in the spot dearest to her on earth, because of the precious dust it held, was no forgetfulness of past sorrow, but there was that perfect submission to god's will, which is the highest and most enduring happiness. there was trust for the future, such as left no room for doubt or for discouragement; and so there was peace for the present, which is better than happiness. she did not speak of all this to david, but he knew by many tokens what was passing in her heart, and he shared both the sadness and the gladness of the peaceful hour. there was a great deal of enjoyment of another kind crowded into the time of david's stay in gourlay. there was only one thing to regret, and that was the absence of jem. there were few familiar faces or places that he did not see. sometimes frank went with him, and sometimes violet, and sometimes they all went together, but neither frank nor violet quite filled jem's place to his brother. though david had generally been regarded as much wiser and steadier than his brother, when they lived in gourlay, they had had enough interests and amusements and tastes in common to make david miss him and regret him at every turn. and he missed him and wished for him all the more that he himself was regarded and treated by the people now as a man of business and a person of consideration. of course, he could not object to the respect and deference shown to him in this character, but they were sometimes embarrassing, and sometimes they interfered with his plans for passing his much prized holiday. jem would have made all things right, david thought, and it would have been far more agreeable to follow his leadership in the way of seeking amusement, as he used to do, than to have to sustain his reputation for gravity and steadiness among his elders. still they all enjoyed these weeks thoroughly, though not in the way they would have done in jem's company. miss bethia was paying a visit to a friend in a neighbouring town when david first came to gourlay, which was upon the whole a circumstance not to be regretted, he thought, as they had a few days to themselves just at first. he was very glad to see her, when she came, however, and she was as glad to see him. of course, she manifested her interest in him in the old way, by giving him good advice, and reminding him of his privileges, but to his mother she very decidedly signified her approval of him, and her satisfaction in regard to his walk and conversation generally, and spoke of his future profession--of his entering upon his father's work, as if it were a settled matter accepted by them all. but david was shy of responding to her expressions of interest on this subject. it was one thing to speak to his mother of his hopes, and quite another to listen to miss bethia's plans and suggestions, especially as she did not confine the discussion to themselves, but claimed the sympathy and congratulations of friends and neighbours, in view of his future work and usefulness. they did not fall out about it, however, and there was one matter of interest and discussion which they enjoyed entirely. this was the minister's much valued library. it was to be david's at some future time. that was quite settled, and in the meantime it had to be looked over and dusted and re-arranged, or rather arranged exactly as it had been left, and david handled the books "just as his father used to do," miss bethia said, "just as if he liked the feel of them in his hands," which he doubtless did. he liked them altogether, and no day of that happy month passed without at least one hour passed in the quiet of his father's study. david's coming home was especially good for frank. he had been more anxious and unhappy about david's affairs than he had confessed, and about philip's possible share in them--more anxious than he was able to believe possible, after he had talked it all over with david and violet. that he had been really afraid that philip had done any wrong, he would not allow to himself. to the others he never spoke of what his fears had been. but it was a great relief and satisfaction that it was all past, and no one worse for it, and as far as frank was concerned, there was nothing to interfere with the enjoyment of the days as they passed. there had been one thing very terrible to him before he came to gourlay to tell it to aunt mary--the fear of blindness. it had been all the worse for him at home, because he never spoke of his fears there--no one could bear to think of anything so sad, and fears brooded over in silence increase in power. but he could speak of it to mrs inglis, and the mere telling his fears had done something to allay them. mrs inglis's judicious words did more. it was foolish and wrong, she said, to go half way to meet so great a trouble. and since the physicians all declared that only time and an improved state of health were needed to restore perfectly his sight, to wait patiently and hopefully was his duty. it was easier for him to do so than it had been at home, and something better than patient waiting, better even than the hope of fully restored sight, came to frank as the summer days went on. he and david enjoyed much, after the manner of lads of their age, in the agreeable circumstances in which they were placed; but their chief enjoyment was of a kind which lads of their age do not usually prize very much. david was boyish in many ways still, but the discipline of the last two years had wrought well with him, and frank saw a great difference in him in one respect, at least. he had always been thoughtful, and he had always been earnest in the grave discussions into which they had sometimes fallen during his first visit, but there was this difference in him now, frank saw. he spoke now, not doubtfully and wistfully as they all used to do, about "the whole armour" and the christian's "weapons" and "warfare," but with firmness and assurance, as of something with which he had to do; and, though he said little about himself at such times, it gradually became clear to frank that david was no longer his own--that his name had been enrolled among the names of those whose honour and glory it is that they are the soldiers of the lord jesus. it sometimes happens that young persons who have been carelessly brought up, or whose religious teaching has been merely formal, have less hesitation in speaking about personal religion than others who have had their consciences, if not their hearts, touched by the earnest and loving appeals of those who watch for their souls as they who must give account. and so, when david, sometimes unconsciously, and sometimes with intention, made it clear to him how the aim and purpose of his life were changed, and how he longed and meant to live in future as the servant and soldier of christ, frank listened and questioned with interest. and when david went further, and ventured on a gentle word or two of entreaty or counsel to him personally, he not only listened patiently, but responded frankly to all. and it was not always david who was first to turn the conversation to serious subjects. frank had never forgotten the lessons learned during his first visit. he had often, in his own mind, compared the life his father was living with the life mr inglis had lived, and he did not think his father's life was the wisest or the happiest. "labour for that which satisfieth not," told best the story of his father's life to him. he had thought that often during the last year, for he knew a little of his sister's exacting demands, of his brother's careless expenditure, and of the anxieties which troubled his father's days and nights because of them, and because of other things. and now, when in gourlay he heard of the fruit already gathered and still to gather from the good seed sown in past years by the minister, he thought it still the more. even for this life, the minister had had the best portion. true, he had lived and died a poor man; but, to frank, it seemed that more was to be enjoyed in such poverty than ever his father had enjoyed from his wealth. frank had many unhappy thoughts about his father and the rest, and some about himself. for himself and for them he desired nothing so much as that they might all learn the secret of perfect contentment which mr inglis had known, which made mrs inglis cheerful and not afraid, though there was little between her and utter poverty--the secret which david knew and violet. and so, when david, in his not very assured way, spoke to him of the true riches, and of how they were to be obtained, he was more than willing to listen, and pleased and surprised his friend by his eagerness to learn. it was with no design or expectation of teaching on david's part, but it happened because they both cared about those things, that whenever they were alone together--on their way to or from any of their many visiting-places, or in the fields or woods, or while sailing on the river, the conversation almost always turned on graver matters than young lads usually care to discuss. it was often the same when violet was with them or the mother, and frank had reason to remember this time; for out of all these earnest talks and happy influences, there sprang up in his heart a strong desire to be, as they were, a follower of christ-- a wish to give himself to him and to his service--to be his in life and his in death. and by and by the desire was granted. he who never refuses to receive those who come to him in sincerity, received him, and henceforth he and david were more than friends--they were brothers, by a bond stronger than that of blood, being joined in heart to him, of whom it is said, "he is not ashamed to call" his people "brethren." philip did not come to gourlay, though an invitation was sent him by mrs inglis, and accepted by him. he was very busy in the office in david's absence, he wrote, but he would avail himself of the first leisure to come to them. he did not come, however, and they could only suppose that he was too useful in the office to be spared. they were very sorry, of course, for his sake and theirs, but the days passed happily with them. the time to leave came only too soon. mrs inglis decided that it would be better for them all to return to singleton together, as the autumn days were becoming short, and it was time to be thinking of winter arrangements in many things. the last night came. it was not a night like the last one of frank's former visit; but frank was reminded of that night all the same. instead of the rain, and wind, and sleet, that had made that night so dismal without, and the lights and the fire so pleasant within, there was a cloudless sky, flooded with the light of the harvest moon, and the air was so still that it did not stir the leaves of the trees beneath which they lingered. and yet frank was in some way reminded of the night when they read about hobab, and waited so long for mr inglis to come home. david must have been reminded of it, too, for, by and by, they heard him speaking to miss bethia of old tim, and about his going with his father when he preached his funeral sermon at the north gore. "and an excellent sermon it was," said miss bethia. "don't you remember telling me about it that night when i was helping letty to do the week's ironing when debby was away?" "yes," said david, laughing a little, "i remember it quite well." but, he added, gravely in a minute, "i think that must have been the very last time my father preached when he was quite well." "i am afraid he was not quite well then," said miss bethia, "though the sermon was good enough to have been his last. the night you repeated it to me was the first time i thought you had better be a minister. you might tell it over now, if you haven't forgotten it." david said to himself that he would be past remembering most things when he should forget what his father had said that day, and all that grew out of it. but he did not tell miss bethia so. he would not speak of the sermon, however--he would not go over it as a mere trial of memory; and, besides, it was not to be supposed that the children would listen patiently on this last night, when there was so much to be said. so, after that, the talk was mostly left to the little ones, and wandered away in various directions. sometimes it was guided past week-day subjects by the mother, and sometimes it was gently checked, but, for the most part, this was not needed. the feeling that it was the last night was on them, and they were very quiet and a little sad. miss bethia was sad, too, and said little. she did not so far forget her duty as to omit her usual words of caution and counsel to each and all; but she did not mete it with her usual decision, and very nearly broke down in the middle of it. "aunt bethia, why don't you come home with us?" said polly. "mamma, why don't you ask aunt bethia to come home and stay with us till next summer?" "where should we put her? there is no room in our house," said the practical jessie, before her mother could answer. "that's so," said miss bethia. "old as i have got to be, there ain't room for me in anybody's house but my own. i guess debby and i will have to get along the best way we can till next summer, and then you must all come back again." "we don't know what may happen before next year," said jessie. "and it is no good making plans so far ahead," said ned. "and we shall hope to see miss bethia before summer, and then we can make our plans. our house is not very large, aunt bethia, but there will always be room enough in it for such a friend as you have been to us all." "and you have promised to come, aunt bethia," said violet. "if all is well," said miss bethia, gravely. "but we are poor creatures, at the best, as i don't need to tell you; and i don't feel as if i could count on much time or strength for my part. but it ain't best to worry." "we have had a good time here this summer, whether we come again or not," said sarah oswald. "i would like to stay here all winter, if violet would stay too. it would be a great deal pleasanter than going back to aunt livy." "only it is not quite the right thing to say so, sally," said frank. "it would be pleasant to stay for some things," said violet. "but i am glad we are going home now. we shall come again in the summer, if aunt bethia will have us." "you are glad you came, mamma?" said david. "very glad. it has been a happy summer to us all. the leaving you alone was the only thing to be regretted; but i don't think you are really the worse for being left." "no," said david, with a long breath. "but i am very glad we are all going home together. i only wish aunt bethia was not going to be left behind." in her heart miss bethia knew that it was quite as well for all concerned that she was to be left behind, still it pleased her to hear david's wish. she had had a pleasant summer as well as the rest; but she was not so strong as she used to be, and needed quiet. "debby and i will tough it out together through the winter," said she; "and, like as not, those of us who are spared will have to make all their plans all over again. it will be all right, whichever way it is." violet and david looked at miss bethia and at each other in surprise, not so much at her words, as at her manner of saying them. she looked as though it needed an effort to speak calmly, and she was very pale; and when she put up her hands to gather her shawl closer about her, they both noticed that they were trembling and uncertain. "miss bethia is growing old," whispered david. "and there is something more the matter with her than she will acknowledge, i am afraid," said violet. "it is time to go into the house. the dew is beginning to fall. come, children," said the mother, rising. david and violet came last with miss bethia. she smiled, well pleased, when, with boyish gallantry, david offered her his arm. "i've gone alone all my life," said she, "and now i am most at the end of it. i've taken a great many steps, too, at one time and another, but they don't seem to amount to much to look back upon." "and you have a good many more to take, i hope," said violet, hardly knowing how to answer her. but miss bethia shook her head. "it ain't likely. but the next six months seem longer to look forward to than a great many years do to look back upon. it is all right, anyhow. and, children, if i should never see you again--i want you to remember to consider your mother always. you must never forget her." "no," said david, wondering a little at her earnestness. "and, david, and you too, violet, don't you get to thinking too much about property. it is a good thing to have, i'll allow, but it ain't the best thing by considerable. some get to love it, by having too much, and some by having too little; but it ain't a satisfying portion any way that it can be fixed, and the love of it makes one forget everything else. and be sure and be good children to your mother, if i shouldn't ever see you again. i don't suppose i need to tell you so; but it's about as good a thing to say for a last word as any, except this--follow the lord always, and keep your armour bright." they answered her gravely and earnestly, as she seemed to expect, but it was with no thought that they were listening to her last words. they would see her, doubtless, many a time again; and they said so to her, as she repeated them in the morning when it was time to go. but violet never saw her again; david saw her, when she was almost past words, and then she could only, with labouring breath, repeat the very same to him. it would have been a very sorrowful leave-taking if the children could have known that it was their last "good-bye" to miss bethia. but it never came into the minds of any of them that the next time they saw the pleasant house in gourlay, she would be sleeping by their father's side in the grave-yard over the hill. chapter fifteen. the next winter passed at the bridge house very much as former winters had done. violet was in her old place at mr oswald's. it was much quieter there than it had ever been before, for selina was spending the winter with her sister, and mr philip had gone to a situation in the city of m--, his father hoping that the stricter and more constant attention to his duties, that would be required from him there, would tell better in his business education than irregular work in the office at home could be supposed to do. frank's eyes were better, but he was not permitted to use them much yet. it was part of violet's duty to read to him, and a judicious selection of a course of historical reading made the winter pleasant and profitable to both. jem was at school no longer. there is no royal road to the attainment of knowledge and skill in the profession he had chosen, even when the means and appliances of wealth are at one's disposal; and, having no money, there was nothing for jem but to work with his hands as well as his head, and so he was adding his quota to the clamour made all day in the great engine-house at the other side of the town. indeed, he worked a good deal more with his hands than his head for a time, and it needed some persuasion on his mother's part, and the exercise of some authority to keep him, during a reasonable time, every evening at his books. for jem was a little unsettled by the new circumstances in which he found himself. his friendly ways and bright good temper made him popular among his fellow-workmen, and his popularity and his love of fun, together, the more exposed him to the power of temptations inseparable from the place, and but for his mother's kindness and firmness, judiciously mingled, it might have gone ill with jem that winter. but he settled down after a little, and, with mr anstruther's help, devoted himself as zealously as ever to those branches of study absolutely necessary to advancement in the profession of an engineer. it was rather an anxious winter to mrs inglis on jem's account, but it was, on the whole, a satisfactory winter to look back on, as far as he was concerned. affairs were not going on so smoothly in the bank as they used to do. there were changes there. one clerk was removed to another branch of the concern, and the services of another were dispensed with altogether. david gained a step or two in consequence, and worked hard in acquiring the knowledge necessary for a right performance of his higher duties. mr oswald was away often, and did not seem to be in good health or spirits when he was at home. in spring, he resigned his office of acting director of the bank, and another was appointed in his place. mr caldwell, who had come into the bank with him, left with him--not because his services were no longer required there, but because mr oswald needed him, and he chose to give his services to him. for there were signs of coming trouble to the oswalds. it began to be whispered in the town that the affairs of mr oswald were not in a prosperous condition, and that the resignation of his position in the bank had not been voluntary on his part, but demanded of him by those who were responsible for the successful carrying on of its affairs. not that anything had gone wrong as yet, but he was extensively engaged in other business, and had other interests. he had to do with the quarries, and with lumbering affairs, and he had had something to do with the building of a railway, and had not prospered in all these things; and it could not be doubted that trouble was before him. there had been some anxiety lest david's place in the bank might not be permanent in the midst of so many changes, but no change was made in his case, and except that his work was somewhat different, and that more responsibility rested on him with regard to some matters, all went on as before. he missed mr oswald's face in the inner office, and he greatly missed the comings and goings of mr caldwell; but all went on in the bank with the same system and order as it had ever done. but troubles were thickening around the oswalds. mrs mavor was ill and selina was sent for to be with her. mr philip lost his situation in m--, and came home. rumours had reached david, before this time, that his manner of life had not been satisfactory to his employers or to his friends, and jem had heard more than david about him. except to their mother, neither of them had spoken of this, but no one seemed surprised at his return. before his return, mr oswald had been taken very ill, and his inability to attend to his business involved it in difficulties, which threatened to hasten the unhappy crisis, which even mr caldwell acknowledged must have come sooner or later on him. there was trouble in the house, it may well be supposed. violet had many cares, for miss oswald was entirely occupied with her brother in his illness, and frank devoted himself to his father in a way that was a help and a comfort to them all. as for mr philip, it was very difficult to believe that it could have come to this pass with his father. it seemed impossible to him that, after so many years of successful business-life, his father should be in danger of being left penniless; and he insisted to frank and david, and even to mr caldwell, that there must have been mismanagement--probably dishonesty--on the part of some of those with whom he held business relations; and that this unhappy illness had been taken advantage of to bring matters to the painful crisis they had reached. so fully was he convinced of this, that it was, with difficulty, he could be prevented from applying to his father to obtain information with regard to certain affairs. but the doctor was imperative as to his not being disturbed by allusions to business now, or for some time to come. "it might cost his life or his reason, dr ward says," repeated frank. "and even if he could be spoken to, it would do no good while he is unable to leave his room or even his bed. we must wait patiently. i don't suppose it will make any real difference in the end." even frank knew more about his father's affairs than philip did. "if i had only staid in the office, instead of going to m-- last year," said he. "i don't suppose it would have made much difference. you would have known something about the books, perhaps, and papa might not have had to pay out so much money for you. i don't know, though. it is easy enough to spend money anywhere." philip walked about impatiently. "what i have spent is not a drop in the bucket," said he. but the thought of the money he had spent and the money he owed made him very miserable. "you know best about that," said frank. "here is something that mr caldwell left to-day. it is addressed to papa, so he opened it, but he found that it is meant for you. i am very glad papa did not see it." philip glanced at the paper his brother put in his hand. "have you examined it?" asked he, sharply. "i looked at the sum total, not at the items." "well! a gentleman must spend something on such things, if he is in society." "if he have it of his own to spend, you mean. i don't see the necessity. i'll venture to say that some of these items did not make you more like a gentleman, but less," said frank. "that is for me to decide," said philip, angrily. "i don't know that. however, you'll have to consult mr caldwell about it--the paying of it, i mean. though the chances are, he will neither be able nor inclined to help you." "it is no great affair, anyway." "the helping you? or the sum total? it is more than half of david inglis's yearly salary, and aunt mary has only that to keep house for them all--at least, she can't have much besides. it depends on how you look at a sum of money, whether it seems large or small." philip had no answer ready. he walked about the room angry and miserable. frank went on: "if you had not lost your situation, you might have paid it yourself, in time, i suppose. as it is you will have to fail too, or your creditor must make up his mind to wait. are there more of them?" frank asked the question coolly, as though it were a trifling matter they were discussing, and his manner throughout the whole discussion seemed intended, philip thought, to exasperate him. "and it is not like frank, the least in the world," said he to himself, as he uttered an exclamation at his words. "however," repeated frank, "it is only a drop in the bucket, as you say." philip stood still and looked at him, vexation and astonishment struggling with some other feeling, showing in his face. "frank," said he, "it isn't like you to hit a fellow when he is down." "you need not be so very far down. i would not be down, if i were like you and could do anything," said frank, with something like a sob in his voice. "it is precious little i can do, even if i knew what were needed." "talk with mr caldwell." "mr caldwell! the thought of him gives me a chill; and i don't suppose he would talk with me. he hasn't a very high opinion of me,--in the way of business, or in any way." "he'd talk with you fast enough, if you would talk reasonably. try him. he wants some one to go to q-- about the timber that has been lying there some weeks now. papa spoke about it too. it would have paid well, if he had been able to attend to the sale of it himself. but he has not perfect confidence in donnelly the agent, and the time is passing. it must be sold soon, and mr caldwell can't be everywhere. i told him to send davie inglis, but he must not take him from the bank he thinks; and, besides he is so young and so boyish-looking. you would do quite as well, i dare say. at any rate, you would be better than no one." philip looked as though he thought he was being "hit" again, but he said nothing. "one thing is certain," continued frank, "if you are going to do any good in our present fix, you can only do it by knuckling down to old caldwell. nobody knows so much about papa's affairs as he does." whether philip "knuckled down" to mr caldwell or not, he never told frank, but he did tell him that he was going in a day or two to q--, to make arrangements for the sale of timber accumulated there for ship-building purposes, or for exportation. he did not know much about the matter and did not speak very hopefully. the sting of it was that he might have known if he had done as his father had had a right to expect him to do. however, mr caldwell sent him away none the less willingly because of his low spirits. "you will do better than nobody," said he, as frank had said before. "you can have an eye on the books and on all the papers. don't let donnelly be too much for you." it would not do to enter into all the particulars of philip's first business venture. it is enough to say, he was successful in circumstances where failure would not have been surprising; and the very first time he saw his father after he was a little better, he had the satisfaction of hearing mr caldwell telling him of the successful termination of the sale of the timber. he had the greater satisfaction of prompting that slow-spoken gentleman where his memory or his information failed, and of giving all details to his father, who was both relieved and pleased with the turn this affair had taken. but success in this his first independent attempt at doing business could not avert the troubles that had been long hanging over his father. if mr oswald had been in perfect health, it might have been different. with time granted to continue his business relations, or even to settle up his own affairs, he might have been able to give every man his own. but his health came very slowly back, and affairs in the meantime wrought to a crisis. philip strove hard to obtain time, and pledged himself to the full payment of all his father's liabilities within a limited period. even mr caldwell was influenced by his earnestness and hopefulness, and by the good sense and business ability manifested by him in several transactions with which he had had to do, and joined with him in representing mr oswald's affairs to be in such a condition that care and time, and close attention alone were needed to set them right, and to satisfy all just claims at last. but philip was young and inexperienced, and those of his father's creditors who knew him best, knew nothing in his past life to give them confidence either in his principles or his judgment, and they could not be induced to yield to him in this matter. so it only remained for mr oswald to give up all that he possessed, to satisfy as far as possible all just demands. it was a very bitter experience for him to pass through, but he was in a state of health too weak and broken fully to realise all that it involved. for the time it was worse for his sons than for him. frank devoted himself all the more earnestly to his father's care and comfort, and his doing so made this time of trouble more endurable for both. philip saw little of his father. his place was to act for him wherever he could do so, so as to spare him as much as possible the details of the painful business. it was a very miserable time to him. he made up his mind to get away as soon as possible to california or british columbia, or anywhere else, so that it was far enough away. but he did not go. he did far better than that would have been. he staid at home, not very willingly, still he staid, and tried to do his duty as he had never tried before, and there were times when it was not easy to do. mr caldwell, as one in whom the creditors had perfect confidence, both as to his conscientiousness and his knowledge of affairs, was appointed by them to settle up mr oswald's business, and with their permission philip oswald was requested to act as his assistant for the time. it was not the thing he would have chosen for himself, but if he had gone away now, it must have been without his father's consent, and if he staid at home it was absolutely necessary that he should earn money for the payment of his own debts. there was nothing better offered for his acceptance, and mr caldwell's terms were such as even philip considered liberal. "though i know quite well he would much rather have had davie inglis," said he to frank, when it was quite settled that he was to stay. "i don't believe he thinks i shall be much good. however, i must take it and make the best of it." "you are quite wrong. davie wouldn't suit him half so well as you in this business, though of course he has perfect confidence in davie, and you have to be tried yet. but he knows you will make it a point of honour to do your best in the circumstances." "if these people in m-- had not been such fools as to force matters on, there might have been some inducement to do one's best in straightening out things. and it would have been better for them and for us too. i wish i were a thousand miles away from it all." "no, you don't, unless you could take the rest, of us out of it too. for my part, i think you have a grand opportunity to exercise courage and patience, and to win honour and glory as a true hero. just you go down and speak to aunt mary and violet about it." "i think i see myself doing it!" said philip, as though it were a thing utterly impossible and not to be considered for a moment. however, before many days were over, he found himself at the bridge house, enjoying mrs inglis's kindly sympathy, and the delighted welcome of the children, more than he would have imagined possible. he had seen very little of any of them for a long time, and was ashamed of his defection, conscious as he was of the cause. it was not comfortable for him to talk with mrs inglis, or to share in the pursuits and amusements of her young people, with the consciousness of wrong-doing upon him. wrong-doing according to _their_ standard of right and wrong, he meant, of course. according to _his_ standard, there were many things he could do, and many things he could leave undone, quite innocently, of which they would not approve. several of such questionable incidents had occurred in his manner of life about the time of their return from gourlay last year, and he had kept away from them. he had been too busy since his coming back from m-- to see much of any of his friends, and this was his first visit to the bridge house for a long time. "why did you not come before?" said little mary. "i have been very busy. are you glad to see me now?" "yes, very glad, and so is mamma and all of us. i want to show you something." and the child went on to make confidences about her own personal affairs, into which mr philip entered with sufficient interest, as his manner was. he had only time for a word or two with the mother before jem and david came in. "your father is really improving, i am glad to hear," said mrs inglis when the children left them. philip's face clouded. "is he better? it hardly seems to me that he gains at all. he is very much discouraged about himself." "frank thinks him better. it is a great relief to him, he says, that you are here." "i ought never to have gone away," said philip, sighing. "but your father wished it, did he not? perhaps it would have been better had you been here. however, you are here now. frank says he begun to improve the very day you consented to assist mr caldwell in the settlement of his affairs." philip hung his head. "don't be hard on me, aunt mary." "am i hard on you? i am sure i don't know how. that is frank's idea of the matter." "aunt mary! if you only knew what a good-for-nothing fellow i have been! i am sure i cannot see why my father should have confidence in me." "in whom should he have confidence, if not in you?" said mrs inglis, smiling. philip had nothing to answer. a feeling of shame, painful but wholesome, kept him silent. even according to his own idea of right, he had been undutiful in his conduct to his father. he had accepted all from him, he had exacted much, and he had given little in return, except the careless respect to his wishes in little things, which he could not have refused to any one in whose house he was a guest. they had been on friendly terms enough, as a general thing, but there had been some passages between them which he did not like to remember. that his father should have had any satisfaction in him or his doings, except indeed in the case of the transaction of the timber at q--, was not a very likely thing. the very supposition went deeper than any reproaches could have gone and filled him with pain and regret. "frank is a good fellow, but he does not know everything," said he, dolefully. "i think he must know about your father, however, he is with him so constantly, and he says he is better. it will be some time before he is able for business again, i am afraid. in the meantime he has perfect confidence in mr caldwell and in you, which must be a comfort to him." philip shook his head. "aunt mary, the business is no longer his, and what we are doing is for the benefit of others. he has lost everything." "he has not lost everything, i think," said mrs inglis, smiling, "while he has you and frank and your sisters. he would not say so." philip rose and came and stood before her. "mrs inglis, i cannot bear that you should think of me as you do. it makes me feel like a deceiver. i have not been a good son to my father. i am not like your davie." mrs inglis smiled as though she would have said, "there are not many like my davie." but she looked grave in a minute and said-- "there is one thing in which you differ. davie is an avowed servant of the lord jesus christ. he professes to desire to live no longer to himself, but to him." "and you think that is everything, aunt mary?" "i think it is the chief thing." "well, i am not like that. i am very far from that." "but this ought to be the chief thing for you as well as for david, ought it not?" "i have not thought about it, aunt mary." "you have not taken time. you have fallen on easy days hitherto. it would have been difficult to convince you that, to be a servant of god, a follower of the lord jesus is the chief thing--the only thing, while each day brought with it enough to satisfy you. this trouble, which has come upon you all, may have been needed--to make you think about it." philip answered nothing, but sat gazing at the clouds, or at the leaves which rustled at the window, with his cheek upon his hand. there is a time to keep silence and a time to speak, and mrs inglis could not be sure on which of these she had fallen. she longed to say just the right word to him, but hitherto her words had fallen like water on the rock, which, in the first gleam of sunshine, disappears. he always listened, grave or smiling, as the occasion seemed to demand. he listened with eagerness, pleased at her interest in him, pleased to be treated like one of the children, to be praised or chidden, and, for all that she could see, as well pleased with the one as with the other. as she sat watching him in silence, mrs inglis thought of violet's complaint against him. "he is not in earnest. he cares only for his own pleasure." "ah! well! the master knows how to deal with him, though i do not," she said to herself. aloud, she said, "you must not suppose that i mean that religion is for a time of trouble, more than for a time of prosperity. it is the chief thing always--the only thing. but, in a time of trouble, our need of something beyond what is in ourselves, or in the world, is brought home to us. philip, dear lad, it is a wonderful thing to be a soldier and servant of the lord jesus. it is a service which satisfies--which ennobles. all else may fail us, or fetter us, or lead us astray. but, belonging to christ--being one with him--nothing can harm us truly. are you to lose all this, philip? letting it pass by you--not _thinking_ about it?" she had no time to add more, nor had he time to answer her, even if he could have found the words. for first david came in, and then jem, all black and dirty from the forge, and, proud of it, evidently. his greeting was rather noisy, after the free-and-easy manner which jem affected about this time. david's greeting was quiet enough, but a great deal more frank and friendly, than his greetings of philip had usually been, his mother was pleased to see. jem made a pretence of astonishment at the sight of him, meaning that he might very well have come to see his mother sooner; but david fell into eager discussion of some matter interesting to both, and then jem went away to beautify himself, as he called the washing off the marks of his day's work. when tea-time came, philip hesitated about accepting mrs inglis's invitation to remain. "you may as well," said ned; "for i saw violet up-town and i told her you were here, so they will be sure not to wait." so he staid, and made good his place among them after his long absence. something had been said in the early spring about mrs inglis and the children going to spend the summer in gourlay again. but there was not the same necessity for a change that there had been last year, and the matter was not at once decided. while mrs inglis hesitated, there came tidings that decided it for her. there came, from miss bethia, a letter, written evidently with labour and difficulty. she had been poorly, "off and on by spells," she said, all winter; and now, what she had long feared, had become evident to all her friends. a terrible and painful disease had fastened upon her, which must sooner or later prove fatal. "later," she feared it might be; for, through long months, which grew into years before they were over, she had nursed her mother in the same disease, praying daily that the end might come. "i am not afraid of the end," she wrote; "but remembering my poor mother's sufferings, i _am_ afraid of what must come before the end. it would help pass the time to have you and the children here this summer; but it might not be the best thing for them or you, and you must judge. i should like to see david, but there will be time enough, for i am afraid the end is a long way off. i am a poor creetur not to feel that the lord knows best what i can bear. it don't seem as though i could suffer much more than i used to, seeing my mother's suffering. and i _know_ the lord is kind and pitiful, though i sometimes forget." mrs inglis's answer to this letter was to go to gourlay without loss of time. at the first sight of miss bethia, she did not think her so very ill. she thought her fears had magnified her danger to herself. but she changed her opinion when she had been there a day or two. the angel of death was drawing near, and all that made his coming terrible was that he came so slowly. at times she suffered terribly, and her sufferings must increase before the end. the coming of the children was not to be thought of, mrs inglis could see. she would fain have staid to nurse her, but this could not be while they needed her at home. she promised to return if she were needed, and begged to be sent for if she could be a comfort to her. all that care and good nursing could do to alleviate her suffering, miss bethia had. debby stone was still with her, and debby's sister serepta, whose health had much improved during the year. the neighbours were very kind and considerate, and mrs inglis felt that all that could be done for her would be done cheerfully and well. so she went home; but through the summer they heard often how it was with their old friend. but first one thing and then another hindered mrs inglis from going to see her till september had well begun. then there came a hasty summons for david and his mother, for there were signs and tokens that the coming of the king's messenger was to be "sooner," and not "later," as she had feared. so violet came home because they could not tell how long the mother might have to stay, and their departure was hastened. but the king's messenger had come before them. they saw his presence in the changed face of their friend. they did not need her whispered assurance, that she need not have been afraid--that it was well with her, and the end was come. "david," she said, brokenly, as her slow, sobbing breath came and went, "you'll care for your mother always, i know; and you must follow the lord, and keep your armour bright." she fell into a troubled sleep, and waking, said the same words over again, only with more difficult utterance. she spoke to his mother now and then in her painful whisper, sending messages to violet and jem and all the rest; and once she asked her if she had a message for the minister, whom she was sure so soon to see. but the only words that david heard her speak were these, and he answered: "i will try, aunt bethia;" but he had not voice for more. it was like a dream to him to be there in the very room where he had watched that last night with his father. it seemed to be that night again, so vividly did it all come back. "mamma," he whispered, "can you bear it?" by and by they went up-stairs, and into the study, which was still kept as they had left it two years ago. "mamma," said david, again, "it is like a dream. nothing in the whole world seems worth a thought--standing where we stood just now." "except to keep one's armour bright, my david," said his mother. "happy miss bethia! she will soon be done with all her trouble now." they watched that night and the next day, scarcely knowing whether she recognised them, or whether she were conscious of what seemed terrible suffering to those who were looking on; and then the end came. it was all like a dream to david, the coming and going of the neighbours, the hush and pause that came at last, the whispered arrangements, the moving to and fro, and then the silence in the house. he seemed to be living over the last days of his father's life, so well remembered--living them over for his mother, too, with the same sick feeling that he could not help or comfort her, or bear her trouble for her, or lighten it. and yet, seeing her there so calm and peaceful in every word and deed; so gentle, and helpful, and cheerful, he knew that she was helped and comforted, and that it was not all sorrow that the memory of the other death-bed stirred. when he went out into the air again, he came to himself, and the dazed, dreamy feeling went away. it was their good and kind old friend who had gone to her rest, and it would be wrong to regret her. there were many who would remember her with respect and gratitude, and none more than he and his mother and the children at home. but her death would leave no great gap, that could never be filled as his father's had done. she had been very kind to them of late years, and they would miss her; and then--it suddenly came into david's mind about his father's books, and about the sum that had three times been paid to his mother since they had been in miss bethia's care. he was ashamed because of it; but he could not help wondering whether it would be paid still, or whether they would take the books away or leave them where they were. he did not like to speak to his mother. it seemed selfish and ungrateful to think about it even; but he could not keep it out of his mind. there was another day of waiting, and then the dead was carried away to her long home. there were none of her blood to follow her thither. the place of mourners was given to mrs inglis and david, and then followed debby and her sister. a great many people followed them; all the towns-folk joined in doing honour to miss bethia's memory, and a few old friends dropped over her a tear of affection and regret. but there was no bitter weeping--no painful sense of loss in any heart because she had gone. david sat in the church, and walked to the grave, and came back again to the empty house, with the same strange, bewildered sense upon him of having been through it all before. it clung to him still, as one after another of the neighbours came dropping in. he sat among them, and heard their eager whispers, and saw their curious and expectant looks, and vaguely wondered what else was going to happen that they were waiting to see. debby and her sister were in the other room, seemingly making preparations for tea; and once debby came and looked in at the door, with a motion as if she were counting to see how many places might be needed, and by and by serepta came and looked, too, and david got very tired of it all. his mother had gone up-stairs when she first came in, and he went in search of her. "mamma, i wish we could have gone home to-night," said he, when, in answer to his knock, she had opened the door. "it was late, dear, and mr bethune said he would like to see me before we went away." "about the books, mamma? i wish i knew about them." "you will know soon. i have no doubt they will be yours, as miss bethia intimated before we left them here. there may be some condition." "i wonder what all the people are waiting for? are you not very tired, mamma? debby is getting tea ready." debby came in at the moment to make the same announcement. "tea is ready now," said she. "i'd as lief get tea for the whole town once in a while as not. but it ain't this tea they're waiting for, and if i was them i'd go." "what are they waiting for?" asked david. "don't you know? oh, i suppose it's to show good-will. folks generally do at such times. but i'll ring the tea-bell, and that'll scare some of them home may be. some of them'll have to wait till the second table, if they all stay, that's one thing. and i hope they'll think they've heard enough to pay them before they go." they did not hear very much, certainly. mr bethune from singleton was there, but the interest of the occasion was not in his hands. deacon spry had it all his own way, and opened and read with great deliberation a paper which had been committed to him. it was not miss bethia's will, as every one hoped it might be, but it was a paper written by her hand, signifying that her will, which was in mr bethune's keeping, was to be opened just a year from the day of her death. in the meantime deborah stone was to live in her house and take care of it and what property there was about it. her clothes and bedding were in part for debby, and the rest to be divided among certain persons named. mrs inglis was requested to leave her late husband's library where it was for one year, unless she should see some good reason for taking it away. and that was all. everybody looked surprised, except debby, who had known the contents of the paper from miss bethia. "i suppose it'll be mr bethune's business to look up bethia's relations within the year. folks generally _do_ leave their property to their relations, even if they don't know much about them. but i rather expected she'd do something for the cause among us," said deacon spry, in a slightly aggrieved tone. "i thought she'd at least new paint the meeting house," said sam jones. "or put a new fence round the grave-yard." "well! may be she has! we'll see when the year's out." "no, folks most always leave their property to their own relations. they seem nearest, come toward the end." "i don't suppose she's left a great deal besides the house, anyway. i wonder just how much debby stone knows?" it was not pleasant to listen to all this. debby had nothing to tell, not knowing anything; nor mr bethune, though he doubtless knew all. so there was nothing better to do than just wait till the right time came. "i suppose we may count upon the books, mamma, or she would not have asked you to leave them here?" said david. "yes, i think so. she never called them hers, you know. she will have explained it to mr bethune, i suppose. i think you may count on the books." chapter sixteen. another year passed quietly over the inglis household. jem and david both did good service, each in his special calling, and made some progress in other things besides. david kept the plan of his life steadily before him, but this year did not, to all appearance, bring its fulfillment any nearer. it did not seem impossible to him that their life should go on in the same quiet routine, without break or change, for a long time, nor did this seem impossible to his mother. there was this difference in their thoughts, however. while davie, with the impatience of youth, grew anxious now and then, as though the sowing time were passing with no seed being put in, his mother knew that there was nothing lost to his future work as yet, that the discipline of early care and self-denial, the constant and willing giving of himself to work, which in itself was not congenial, was a better preparation than he knew. she felt that if the master had a special work for him to do, he would provide a way for special preparation, and that his time was best. david knew this too, and was on the whole content to look forward a good way yet, for the change that must come, when his wish with regard to this one thing should be granted. he was more than content. life went very quietly and happily with them this year, and it was a profitable time in many ways. jem's work agreed with him, it seemed, for he was growing tall and strong. his gay and careless temper brought him into some difficulties this year, and being at that age when a young lad making his own way is apt to become tenacious about little things which concern his dignity, and impatient of the open exercise of restraint acknowledged to be lawful and right, he needed to be gently and carefully managed. but happily this uncomfortable period did not last long with jem. he grew manly in character as well as in appearance, and grew more, rather than less, open to home influence as he grew older. david's fair face and quiet manner gave jem an appearance of advantage over him as far as manliness was concerned, and strangers often took jem to be the eldest of the brothers. jem himself, in a laughing way, claimed to be beyond him in a knowledge of the world--on its hard side-- and made merry pretence and promise of advising and protecting him in certain supposed circumstances of difficulty or danger. but in his heart he deferred to his brother, as in all things far wiser and better than he. as to david's plans and their carrying out, jem saw neither doubt nor difficulty. in a few years--not very distinctly specified--jem was to become the head and bread-winner of the house, and david was to go his own way to honour and usefulness. jem was still to be the rich man of the family, though the time and manner of winning his wealth he could not make very clear; and david laughed and accepted his freedom from care and his brother's gifts very gratefully, and professed to have no scruples as to his future claims upon him. when mr oswald's household was broken up, violet returned home. but happily an opportunity occurred for her to obtain what she had long secretly coveted, a chance to improve herself, in some branches of study, under better masters than singleton could afford. she passed the greater part of the year as pupil-teacher in a superior school in m--, and returned home in the end of june. the year was of great advantage to her in many ways, though the children at home could not see it. she "was just the same as ever," they said, which was a high compliment, though not intended as such. she had not changed, but she had made advances in several directions her mother was pleased to discover. her return was a great pleasure to her brothers, but jem was critical now and then, and spoke of "airs and graces," and "fine manners," as though she were not quite innocent of those on occasion. david was indignant, but violet laughed at them both, and proved that whatever change had come to her manners, none had come to her temper, "which was a blessing," jem acknowledged. mr oswald's household was broken up about the time of miss bethia's death. selina remained with her sister, and the little girls went with their aunt to her former home. mr oswald had been induced to take the sea voyage, and the entire rest from business, which his physicians declared absolutely necessary to his entire restoration to health. frank accompanied him to england, where they both remained during the year. his health had improved, and there was some expectation that they would return at the close of the summer. his house had been sold, and was now used as a hospital for the poor and sick of the town. the extensive grounds around it had been cut up by the opening of several new streets in that direction, and one could scarcely have recognised the place that used to be so beautiful in the eyes of the inglis children. however, the only oswald left in singleton took the sale of the house, in which he had been born and brought up, very philosophically. the opening of the new streets had increased the value of the land immensely, and under the careful hands of mr caldwell, that and all other property belonging to mr oswald was being so disposed of that his creditors had a good prospect of losing nothing by him. philip oswald still asserted, that but for the faint-heartedness which illness had brought upon his father, and the untimely pressure of the creditors because of it, there needed have been no failure. he asserted it indignantly enough some-times, but he did not regret the disposal of the house or the spoiling of the beautiful grounds as he might have been supposed to do. the sudden change in the circumstances of the family had not hurt philip. the year's discipline of constant employment, and limited expenditure, had done him good, and, as he himself declared to jem and david, not before it was time. the boyish follies which had clung to him as a young man, because of the easy times on which he had fallen, must have grown into something worse than folly before long, and but for the chance of wholesome hard work which had been provided for him, and his earnest desire to work out the best possible result for his father's good name, he might have gone to ruin in one way or other. but these things, with the help of other influences, had kept him from evil, and encouraged him to good, and there were high hopes for philip still. he had not been in singleton all the year, but here and there and everywhere, at the bidding of the cautious, but laborious and judicious, caldwell, who had daily increasing confidence in his business capacity, and did not hesitate to make the utmost use of his youthful strength. when he was in singleton, his home was in mr caldwell's house. he had gone there for a day or two, till other arrangements could be made. but no other arrangements were needed. he stayed there more contentedly than he could at the beginning of the year have supposed possible, and it grew less a matter of self-denial to mr and mrs caldwell to have him there as time went on. he had a second home in the house of mrs inglis; and this other good had come to him out of his father's troubles, and the way he had taken to help them, that he made a friend of david inglis. he had supposed himself friendly enough with him before, but he knew nothing about him. that is to say, he knew nothing about that which made david so different from himself, so different from most of the young men with whom he had had to do. "in one thing he is different," mrs inglis had said, "he is a servant of god. he professes to wish to live no longer to himself." with this in his thought, he watched david at home and abroad, at first only curiously, but afterwards with other feelings. david was shy of him for a time, and kept the position of "mere lad," which philip had at first given him, long after his friendship was sought on other terms. but they learned to know each other in a little, and they did each other good. mrs inglis saw clearly how well it was for david to have some one more ready and better fitted to share his pleasures and interests than jem, because of his different tastes and pursuits, could possibly do. and she saw also that david's influence could not fail to have a salutary effect on his friend, and she encouraged their intercourse, and did all in her power to make it profitable to them both. violet and the children spent a month in gourlay; but mrs inglis, not liking to leave david and jem alone, only went for a day or two. they returned early in august. mr oswald and frank were expected soon. mr philip's spirits did not rise as the time of their coming drew near. he dreaded for his father the coming back to find no home awaiting him. he consulted with mrs inglis as to the preparations he should make for him; but, when it was talked over among them, it was found that he did not know enough about his father's future plans to make it possible for him to make arrangements for more than a day or two. he did not even know whether he was to remain in singleton. he did not even know whether he should remain in singleton himself. he could decide nothing till they came. he was altogether too anxious and troubled, mrs inglis told him; he had not been like himself for some time. "well, it ought to be all the more agreeable to the rest because of that," said he, laughing. "it has not been. and you must let me say that i think you are troubling yourself more than enough with regard to the coming of your father." "but it is about myself, partly, you know." "well, i think the trouble is uncalled for in either case. it will not be so bad for your father as you fear." "do you know what is the news in town to-day, philip?" asked jem. "that you and old caldwell are going into the produce business together. a queer team you would make!" "we have drawn very well together for the last year," said philip. jem shrugged his shoulders, and made a grimace. "singleton might suit mr caldwell to do business in, but i wouldn't fix myself in singleton if i were you." "nonsense, jem," said david. "there is no better place than singleton for that business, everybody knows." "and, besides, philip is well-known here," said mrs inglis. "i am not sure that it is a better place for me because of that, aunt mary; but it is as good a place as any, i suppose, in which to begin with a small capital." "pooh! about capital! the only men in the country worth their salt began life without a dollar. which of us has capital? and we are all bound to be rich men before we die," said jem. "yes, i dare say. if i were a boy of fifteen, i might say the same," said philip, with a sigh. "hear him! you would think him fifty, at least. and if you mean me," said jem loftily, "i am nearly seventeen. i only wish i were twenty-three, with the world before me." they all laughed at his energy. "there is no hurry, jem. you will need all the years that are before you. violet, put away your work, and play, and the children will sing." violet rose and opened the piano, and there was no more said at that time. while the children were singing, david went out, and, in a little, called philip from the window. philip rose and went out also, and they passed down the garden together. by and by they had enough of music, and violet shut the piano, and sat down beside the window with her work again. jem had the grace to wait till the children went out, and then he said: "mamma, you said i was to tell you the next time, and here it is. you must have noticed yourself--violet's manner, i mean. philip noticed it, i could see. she was as stiff and dignified as mrs mavor herself. i wouldn't put on airs with phil, when he is down as he is to-night, if i were you." violet looked from him to her mother in astonishment. "do you know what he means, mamma?" "you don't need mamma to tell you." "tell me, then, jem. what did i say or do?" "you didn't say or do anything. you were stiff and stupid. mamma must have seen it." "no, jem, i did not. if you mean that violet's manner to mr philip is not the same as to you and davie--why, you know, it can't quite be that." "no, because violet made up her mind long ago that philip oswald was a foolish young man--`not in earnest,' as she used to say. letty can't bear people that are not quite perfect," said jem. letty laughed, and so did her mother. "thank you, jem. that is as much as saying that i consider myself quite perfect." "oh! you may laugh," said jem, loftily; "but if phil, hasn't proved himself steady enough by this time, i don't know what you would have! there are not many would have staid it out, under old caldwell, and have done as he has done. to say nothing about the business not being a very pleasant one." "he has improved very much," said mrs inglis. "and, now, when he and davie are such friends," went on jem, who did not know when he had said enough. "i think if davie approves of him, that ought to be enough for violet." "quite enough, i acknowledge, jem," said violet. "i wonder where davie has gone;" and she rose and went to the door as if to see. she did not find him, if she looked for him, for david and philip, after walking up and down the railway track for some time, went down to david's favourite seat on the stones of the abutment of the bridge close by the water. they were silent for some time after they went there. david sat gazing at the bright clouds that lingered after the sunset, while his friend moved up and down and flung stones into the water. by and by he sat down by david's side, saying-- "and so i am all at sea again." "i don't see why you should be `at sea again,' as you call it," said david. "mr caldwell's offer was made without any reference to me, and my refusal can make no real difference." "it will make all the difference in the world to me." "philip, promise me one thing. don't decide till your father comes and frank. i don't know when i was so glad. see how pleased your father will be." "nonsense, davie! it is no such great thing as all that--a partnership with old caldwell." "hear what your father will say. i can't say how fine a thing it will be to be his partner, but your father will think it a high compliment that he should have wished it. it will be good for you--and for him too. i don't know which i congratulate most." david was growing enthusiastic. "it would do, i think, if you were coming with us. a clerkship now, and a partnership afterwards. there is no hope of making you change your mind, davie?" "would you wish me to change my mind, philip?" said david laying his arm over his friend's shoulder, in a way that would have satisfied violet of his interest and affection. "i don't know. i am not sure. i don't understand it." "yes, you do, philip--or you will sometime. i mean, you will understand why this should be the best thing for me to do. you cannot quite understand all i feel about it, because you never knew my father." "tell me about him," said philip. "it is not what i could tell you that would make you understand. but-- we speak about aspirations and ambitions, philip; but if i had my choice what i should do, or what i should be, i should choose the life, and work, and character of my father." david's voice faltered. "since when has that been your choice?" asked philip. "always! i mean, always since he died. and, before that, he was my ideal of wisdom and goodness, though i did not particularly wish or try to be like him then?" "and it was his wish that you should choose his profession, and live his life, and do his work?" "he wished it,--yes. and now i wish it, not merely because of his wish, but because--i love my lord and master, and because i wish to honour him as his soldier and servant--" david did not find it easy to say all this to philip, and there was silence for a minute or two. "but haven't you been losing time?" said philip. "no. mamma does not think so. time should try a decision so important, she thinks. i am young yet, and i have been keeping up my reading pretty well. and, besides, she thinks the care, and the steady work, and our life altogether,--having to manage with just enough, you know,-- has been good discipline for me, and a sort of preparation." "i see! and when is the other sort of preparation to begin?" "i don't know. the way will open, mamma always says. when we came here first, mamma and violet meant to keep a school; but, after violet went to teach your sisters, we could get on without it, and it was so much better for us to have mamma all to ourselves. she may think of it again, and violet is better able to help her now." "it is a slave's life." "no; i don't think mamma objects to it on that ground. but there is no haste about it. i always remember what mamma said to me once--`if your master has a special work for you to do, he will provide the means for special preparation.'" "what a wonderful woman your mother is!" said philip. david laughed, such a happy laugh. "is she? she does not think so." "i wonder if she would be on my side if i were to tell her all about old caldwell's plans, and how much good you could do with us--and a future partnership, and all that. why, davie, you might, when you are a rich man, educate any number of ministers. wouldn't that do as well as to be one yourself?" "that will be something for you to do. no; i don't think mamma would be on your side." "but you are her bread-winner, as i have heard her say. how can she spare you?" "and i shall always be so while she needs me. i can wait a long time patiently, i think. but i cannot give it up now. it would be `looking back,' after putting my hand to the plough." they were silent for a good while, and then philip said: "tell me about your father." david doubted whether he had anything new to tell, for, as they had come to care more for each other's company, he had often spoken to philip of his father. but if he had nothing new to tell, he told it all over in a new way--a way that made philip wonder. he told him all that i have told you, and more,--of his father's life and work--how wise and strong he was--how loving and beloved. he told him of his love for his master, of his zeal for his service. he told him of his own lessons with him, of how he used to go with him to the north gore and other places, and of what he used to say, and how happy the days used to be. he told him of his last days, and how, when it came to the end, he was so joyful for himself and so little afraid for them, though he was going to leave them alone and poor--how sure he was that god would care for them and keep them safe until they all should meet again. sometimes he spoke with breaking voice, and sometimes, though it had grown dark by this time, philip could see that his cheeks flushed and his eyes shone as he went on, till he came to the very last, and then he said: "he told me then, at the very last--even after he had spoken about mamma, that i was to take up the armour that he was laying down. and, god helping me, so i will," said david, with a sob, laying down his face, to hide his tears, on the shoulder of his friend. but, in a little, he raised it again, and said, quietly: "i couldn't go back after that, philip." "no," said philip; and he said nothing more for a long time, nor did david. philip spoke first: "and so it must be `good-bye,' davie?" "good-bye?" repeated david. "i don't understand?" "you are to take one way and i another; so we part company." david was silent from astonishment. "as our fathers did," said philip. "they were friends once, as we are, davie, but their paths divided, as ours must, i fear." "it need not be so." "it is curious to think of it," went on philip. "if my father were to die to-night, he would leave his children as poor as your father left his when he died. not that it would matter; but then my father has lost his whole life, too. no, davie, i fear the end will be that we must go different ways." "dear philip," said david, standing before him, and speaking with much earnestness, "there is only one thing that can separate us--your serving one master and i another; and that need not be. your work may be as much for him as mine. philip, dear friend--is he your lord and master, as he is mine?" philip shook his head. "i do not know. i fear not, davie. what am i saying? i know he is not. i have never done a stroke of work for him, or for any one at his bidding, or for his sake, and that is the whole truth, davie." "but that is not to be the end! his soldier and servant! there is nothing in all the world to be compared with that! have you offered yourself to him? will you not offer yourself to him? oh, philip! there is nothing else." "davie," said philip, hoarsely, "you don't begin to know what a bad fellow i have been." "no; nor do you. but he knows, and the worse you are the more you need to come to him. have you never asked him to forgive you and take you for his own? it is for him to do it. ask him now!" david threw his arms round the neck of his friend. it was a sudden act, boyish and impulsive--not at all like david. philip was much moved. "ask him, davie," said he, huskily. kneeling beside him on the stone, david did ask him, using simple words and few--such words as philip never forgot--words that he uttered in his own heart many a time afterwards, and not in vain. they lingered a good while, but there was not much said between them after that, and when david went into the house, where his mother and violet were waiting for him, he told them that philip had gone home. by and by he said: "the story jem heard was true, mamma. mr caldwell wants philip to become his partner in a new business. it seems he has saved something, and he is willing to put his capital against philip's youth and energy and business talents. it will be very good for philip and for mr caldwell too." "it shows great confidence on mr caldwell's part," said mrs inglis. "yes; but, mamma, you said it as if you were surprised, as if his confidence might be misplaced." "i am surprised, dear, but the other idea i did not mean to convey. my surprise was because of mr caldwell's well-known deliberation and caution." "yes; the offer, even if it go no further, is a feather in phil's cap," said jem. "but mr caldwell is a shrewd old gentleman, though he be a little slow. he knows what he is about." "you look as though you expected to be contradicted, jem," said violet, laughing. "is philip pleased with the prospect? will the thing go on?" asked mrs inglis. "i think so. i hope so. it will be decided when mr oswald returns. philip would have liked me to go with them--into their service, i mean, with the prospect of something better by and by." "and what did you say to him?" asked his mother. "of course you refused?" said violet. "i don't know about that," said jem. "davie had better think twice before he refuses such an offer. but davie never did appreciate philip." david laughed at jem, and answered his mother. "i told him all about it, mamma. he was disappointed, but he understood, i think." there was no more said that night. jem would gladly have entered into a discussion of the subject, but david did not stay to listen, and violet would not respond, and what he had to say would not have been the best thing to say to his mother, so he kept his opinion for the hearing of philip against the time he should see him again. when philip came, which was not for a day or two, the first words he said to mrs inglis were-- "i think you ought to be a very happy woman, aunt mary." "i think so too. but what has given you new light on the subject?" asked mrs inglis, smiling. "and you ought all to be very happy children," said philip, lifting little mary, who was not so very little now, to his knee. "and so we are," said violet. "and you ought to be very good, too." "and so we are," said jem. "well, then, no more need be said on the subject at present, except that i wish that i were one of you." "tell us about the new partnership," said jem. "it is not to be spoken of yet. it is a secret." "davie told us," said violet. "oh, i don't mean it is to be a secret here! but it is not to be decided till my father comes home. though i suppose he will let me do as i like." "if you are quite sure that you know what you would like." "i am quite sure i know what _i_ would like, but i am not to have _that_, it seems." "is it davie?" said violet. "but you don't mean that you would like him to change his mind and his plans, i hope?" "it would be selfish, wouldn't it, and wrong? no, upon the whole i wouldn't like davie to be different, or to do differently. but i should like to be more like him." "but you are pretty good now, aren't you," said mary. "davie is very fond of you and mamma and all of us. i suppose you are not quite so good as our davie." they all laughed. "i will try to be good, indeed i will, polly," said philip. "well that is right," said mary. "you should speak to mamma. she would help you." "yes, i think she would. i mean to speak to her." and so they chatted on till david came in. philip had made good a place among them. it was quite clear that they all liked him, as little polly had said. they had always liked him from the very first, but he was more worthy of their liking now. mr oswald and frank came home in due time. there was nothing in mr oswald's plans for his son to prevent the carrying out of the plan for the new partnership, as proposed by mr caldwell. he was greatly pleased with the compliment to his son, which mr caldwell's proposal implied, and entered into the discussion of preliminaries with great, interest. as for himself he had returned home with no design of engaging immediately in business, except the business of an insurance company of which he had been made the agent. he was to wait for a year or two at least. frank, whose health and eyesight were quite restored, was offered the place in the new business, which philip would so gladly have given to david. of course he was as yet not so well qualified to perform the duties of the position as david would have been, but he possessed some qualities likely to insure success that david did not have, and he had that which was the source and secret of david's goodness, so firmly believed in by little mary and them all. he was learning to live, not to himself, but to his master--to do his will and make known his name, and in all things to honour him in the eyes of the world, and so he had also david's secret of peace. but for a time he had little to do, as the new firm was not publicly announced till later in the year, and in the meantime he accepted mrs inglis's invitation, and made himself one of the children of the bridge house, to his great pleasure and theirs. chapter seventeen. one morning as mr philip sat at breakfast reading the paper, as was his custom, he heard mr caldwell say-- "this is the twenty-second of september." "the days and nights are of equal length," said mrs caldwell. "dear! dear! how soon the days will be drawing in!" "this day last year miss bethia barnes died." "well, she was a good body. i trust she went to a better place." "and to-day her will is to be read," went on mr caldwell. "is it indeed? had she much property? she was a decent saving body. and who is to get it? not that you can know, however, till the will is opened." "i know, having been consulted about the making of it; but that is neither here nor there at the present moment. what i mean to say is this: being one of the executors of that will, i shall have to be in mr bethune's office this morning, and so, mr philip, you will need to attend to the business we were speaking of last night yourself, in case i should be detained beyond my time." "all right!" said philip, looking up from his paper. "and you were consulted about the making of the poor body's will, were you?" said mrs caldwell, who was by no means so silent a member of the family as her husband. "and you were made executor, and all--and you never mentioned it. not that _that_ is a matter for surprise, however," added she, reconsidering the subject. "i dare say he will be ready to tell us all about it by dinner time, though no mortal power could make him open his lips this morning. well, i hope whoever gets the money will get the good of it, though why they should have been kept out of it a whole year, i cannot see. i hope that was not by your advice. but dear! dear! money often does more harm than good, for all so hard as we strive for it." "it will do good this time--there is no fear," said mr caldwell, rising. "it has not been striven for, nor expected, and there is not too much of it just for comfort, and--it will open the way." the last words struck philip as familiar, and looking up he caught the eye of mr caldwell, who nodded and smiled, as though he ought to understand the whole matter by this time. "there need be no more waiting now," said he, but whether he meant for himself or for mr philip, or for some one else, he did not say. "all right!" said philip, at a venture; and though he heard no more of the matter, and was too busy all day to give it a thought, he was not surprised, when he went, at night, to the bridge house, to hear that there was news awaiting him; but he was a little surprised at the nature of the news. it was violet who told him. the children were gone out, and david was, for the moment, in his mother's room, and only frank was with violet when philip came in. for this time she was quite free from the "proper" and "dignified" air of which jem used to accuse her where philip was concerned. she was smiling and eager when, prompted by frank, she told him there was something he would like to hear. "it is about davie, isn't it?" said philip. "davie is miss bethia's heir?" but it was not davie. davie had his father's library and the five hundred dollars which miss bethia had offered for it as well, to do what he liked with; there were some legacies to relatives, "to remember her by," miss bethia had written, and there was something to debby stone. but the house and garden in gourlay, and all else that had been miss bethia's, she had bequeathed unconditionally to mrs inglis. it was not a large property, but it was a good deal more than miss bethia could have been supposed to possess, considering her way of life. it was not quite independence to mrs inglis and her children, but it would be a great help toward it. "and," said violet, with a smile and a sigh, "it opens the way to davie." "yes; that is what mr caldwell said this morning. but you don't seem so delighted as he was at the thought." "i am very glad for davie. but it will be a sad breaking-up for the rest of us to have him go away. and it will be at once, i suppose, if, at this late day, arrangements can be made for his going this year to the university." "but the sooner the better, i should think, violet," said frank, cheerfully. "yes--the sooner the better for him; but think of mamma and the rest of us. however, i know it is very foolish to look at that side of the matter, and, indeed, i am very glad." "and, besides, if you go to m-- you will see him often," said frank. "we shall be rather dismal without you both, i am afraid." "dismal enough!" echoed mr philip. "and if you all go to gourlay to live, as miss bethia seemed to think you would, what will become of us?" "what, indeed!" said philip. "that is the plan, is it? it is cruel of aunt mary, and i shall tell her so." "we have made no plans as yet. i hope it will be all for the best. we have been very happy here. it could not have lasted much longer for davie. he is very glad, and so is mamma; and, i suppose, we shall all be glad, when we have time to think about it." philip was not so sure of that, nor frank either, as far as their going away to gourlay was concerned. but mamma was glad and davie. there was no doubt of that, philip saw, as soon as they appeared. they were rather silent for a time, and philip saw, what he had never seen before in all his intercourse with her, the traces of tears on mrs inglis's face. he was not sure that there was not the shine of tears in david's eyes too. his congratulations were given very quietly, and as quietly received. "but i am afraid it is the beginning of bad days to us, aunt mary, if we have to say good-bye to you all." "it would be bad days for us, too, if that were to happen; but i hope nothing so sad as that is to follow our good fortune." "good-bye!" exclaimed frank. "that is the last thing we shall think of, aunt mary. but, i suppose, we shall lose davie for awhile. eh, davie?" "i shall be away for awhile, if you call that losing me; but i shall be home soon, and often." "it happened just at the right time, didn't it?" said ned. "just as davie is ready to go to college." "davie has been ready for that any time these three years; and what i wonder is, that mamma did not hear of this at once," said jem. "this is the right time, i think," said mrs inglis. "i am very glad it did not happen this time last year," said philip. "why?" said violet. "i will tell you another time," said philip. "after all, mamma, money is a very good thing to have," said ned, after there had been more discussion of miss bethia's will, and all that was to be done in consequence of it. "a very good thing, in certain circumstances." "but, mamma, you have always spoken as if it did not matter whether we had money or not--much money, i mean. and now see how pleased everybody is because miss bethia gave her's to you. i don't think anything ever happened before that pleased every one of us so well." "i cannot say that for myself," said his mother. "and there is not _much_ money of it," said frank. "and everybody is glad because of davie," said jessie. "i think miss bethia meant it for davie to go to college and be a minister like papa, and that is why mamma is so glad, and all of us." "nonsense! miss bethia meant it for mamma and all of us. she would have said it was for davie, if she had meant it for him. do you think miss bethia meant it for you, davie? do you, mamma?" said ned, as he saw a smile exchanged between them. "she meant it for mamma, of course," said david. "davie," said his mother, "read miss bethia's letter to philip and the children." david looked at his mother, and round on the rest, then back again to his mother, a little surprise and hesitation showing in his face. "do you think so, mamma?" said he, colouring. "they will like to hear it, and i shall like them to hear it. shall i read it for you?" said his mother, smiling. david rose and went into his mother's room, and came back with the letter in his hand. giving it to her without a word, he sat down in a corner where the light could not fall on his face. mrs inglis opened the letter and read: "dear david inglis,--it is a solemn thing to sit down and write a letter which is not to be opened till the hand that holds the pen is cold in death; and so i feel at this time. but i want you to know all about it, and i must put it in as few words as possible. i will begin at the beginning. "i never had much hope of your father after that first hard cold he took about the time that timothy bent died. i worried about him all winter, for i couldn't make it seem right that his life and usefulness should be broken off short, just when it seemed he had got ready to do the most good. i would have put it right, in my way, if i could have done it. but it was not the lord's way, and i had to give it up. it never was easy for me to give up my own way, even to the lord. but he is long-suffering and slow to anger; and by and by he showed me how i might help make up your father's loss to the church and the world. "but i wasn't in any hurry about it, because i didn't know just how it would be with you, and whether you would keep your armour bright, and stand in the day of trial. so i waited, and went to singleton, and talked with mr caldwell, and came home feeling pretty well; and all the more when i heard from your mother how she and you felt about your taking up your father's work. still i was not in any hurry, for i thought you were not losing your time. you seemed to be learning, what many a minister gets into trouble for not knowing, how business is done, and how far a little money may be made to go. and i thought, if it were just a notion of yours to be a minister, because you had thought so much of your father, and to please your mother, you would find it out pretty soon, and get into other business. but i knew, if the lord had called you to the work, you wouldn't be tired waiting, and you weren't losing time. "well, i have thought of it, and planned for it considerable, one way and another; and, lately, i have begun to think that i shall not have much more time for planning or doing either. this summer, i have seemed to see my way clear. there are not many women in the world like your mother, i can tell you, david; and she will know how to go to work better than i can tell her. so i have made up my mind to leave what i have got to her. the time you have been working to keep the family together has not been lost, so far. but, when your mother don't need you, you will be free to help yourself. i thought first i would leave you money enough to take you through college, and all that; but, as far as i have had a chance to judge, those who have had to work hard to get an education, have come out best in the end. your mother will know what to do, as one thing follows another in your life, better than i could put it down on paper. she'll help you all you need, i am not afraid; and if the lord shouldn't have called you to his work after all, i would rather your mother had the property i have worked for than that you should have it to put into other business. i hope it will come all round right in the end. "there is a good deal more i wanted to say to you, but i don't seem to know just how to put it down on paper as i want to, so i shall not try. when you read this, i shall be where your father is; and i pray the lord to lead you in the way you should go, and make you a faithful minister of his word, as he was. amen." there was nothing said for several minutes, after she had ceased reading; then she only said: "and so, now, children, you see what it was that our old friend wished." "mr caldwell must have known it all along," said philip. "well, he told me there was not much chance of davie's accepting my offer. i should think not!" "are you sorry?" asked violet. "i am not sure. i must think about it." "i sha'n't seem to care so much about being a rich man now," said jem, "since davie is provided for." "there are plenty more of us, jem," said ned. "and mamma, too," went on jem dolefully. "if miss bethia had given it all to davie, i might have done for mamma." they all laughed at jem's trouble, and they grew eager and a little noisy and foolish after that, laughing and making impossible plans, as though miss bethia's money had been countless. david said nothing, and mrs inglis said little, and the confusion did not last long, for, beneath all their lightness, there was among the children a deeper and graver feeling than they wished to show, and they grew quiet in a little while. there were no plans made that night, however; but, by degrees, it was made plain to mrs inglis what it was best for them to do. david went almost immediately to m--, and was admitted into the university, passing the examinations for the second year; and violet went back to her place in mrs lancaster's school. mrs inglis decided to remain in singleton for the winter, partly for jem's sake, and partly that ned might still have the benefit of school. frank was also to be with them. mr oswald was not to be in singleton constantly, and miss oswald was to remain at her own home all winter, and the little girls were to remain with her. so frank took david's place, though he did not quite fill it, and mr philip came and went almost as often as when the others were at home. his visits were for the pleasure of all, and for his own profit; and when the time came that they were to say "good-bye" for a little while, it was spoken by mrs inglis with feelings far different from those she would have had a year ago; for she knew that the discipline of changed circumstances, of care, and of hard work that had fallen upon him, had strengthened him in many ways; and, better still, she could not but hope that the influence and teaching to which he had so willingly submitted during the last year and more, had wrought in him for good, and that now he was being taught by him who teacheth to profit, and guided by him in the right way. jem had an opportunity to play at being "head of the house" for once; and it was, by no means, all play, for the care and responsibility of acting for his mother in all that pertained to making necessary arrangements, to the disposal of such things as they did not care to take with them, and to the removal of such things as they wished to keep, fell on him. he did his work well and cheerfully, though with a little unnecessary energy, and he would gladly have staid to settle them all in gourlay. but he was needed for his legitimate work; and amid much cause for gratitude, mrs inglis had this cause for anxiety, that jem must henceforth be removed from the constant happy influence of home life, and left to prove the strength and worth of his principles among strangers. if he had been more afraid for himself, it is likely his mother would have been less afraid for him. but there was no help for it. it is the mother's "common lot." "the young birds cannot always stay in the parent nest, mother, dear," said jem; "and i must go as the rest do. but i shall come home for a week in the summer, if it be a possible thing; and, in the meantime, i am not going to forget my mother, i hope." "nor your mother's god, i trust, dear jem," said mrs inglis, as she let him go. who could tell all the labour and pains bestowed on the arrangement and adornment of the house they had never ceased to love? david came home early in may, and did his part. ten times a day jessie wished for violet to help with her willing and skillful hands. they had debby for all that required strength. she had fallen very easily into her old place, and was to stay in it, everybody hoped. sarah and charlotte oswald were to form part of their family for the next year, and violet's work was to be to teach them and her sisters, and two little orphan girls who had been committed by their guardian to mrs inglis's care. but violet's work was not to be begun till september, and after the house was in perfect order, ready to receive expected visitors, there were two months for happy leisure before that time came. violet and jem were coming home together, and sarah and charlotte were expected at the same time. jem was to stay for ten days only. by dint of some planning on their part, and much kindness on the part of mr caldwell, philip and frank were to have their holiday together, and they were to accompany the rest to gourlay. at first it was intended to make their coming a surprise, but mindful of certain possible contingencies in debby's department, violet overruled this, and the people at home were permitted to have the pleasure of expecting and preparing for them, as well as the pleasure of receiving them, and wonderful things were accomplished to that end. the last night had come. the children had gone away to the woods to get some sprigs from a beautiful vine, without which jessie did not consider her floral decorations perfect, and mrs inglis and david were awaiting them alone. they were in the garden, which was a very pretty place, and never prettier than on that evening, david thought. ned's gardening was a great improvement on his of the old days, he willingly acknowledged. indeed, since their coming back to gourlay, ned had given himself to the arranging and keeping of the garden, in a way that proved the possession of true artistic taste, and also of that which is as rare, and as necessary to success in gardening and in other things--great perseverance. his success was wonderful, and all the more so that for the last few years the flower-garden, at least, had been allowed to take its own way as to growing and blossoming, and bade fair when they came to be a thicket of balsam, peonies, hollyhocks, and other hardy village favourites. but ned saw great possibilities of beauty in it, compared with the three-cornered morsel that had been the source of so much enjoyment in singleton, and having taken philip into his confidence, there came from time to time seeds, roots, plants and cuttings to his heart's content. he had determined to have the whole in perfect order by the time of the coming of violet and the rest, and by dint of constant labour on his part, and the little help he got from david or any one else who could be coaxed into his service for the time, he had succeeded wonderfully, considering all things. it was perfect in neatness, and it was rich in flowers that had never opened under a gourlay sun till now. it was to be a surprise to violet and jem, and looking at it with their eyes, david exclaimed again and again in admiration of its order and beauty. "but they won't see it to-night, unless they come soon," said he. "however, it will look all the better with the morning sun upon it. does it seem like home to you, mamma?--the old home?" "yes--with a difference," said his mother. "ah, yes! but you are glad to be here, mamma? you would rather have your home in gourlay than anywhere else?" "yes, i am glad our home is here. god has been very good to us, davie." "mamma, it is wonderful! if our choice had been given us, we could not have desired anything different." his mother smiled. "god's way is best, and this will seem more like home than any other place could seem to those who must go away. i cannot expect to keep my children always." "any place would be home to us where you were, mamma. but i am glad you are here--and you don't grudge us to our work in the world?" "no, truly. that would be worse than ungrateful. may god give you all his work to do, and a will and strength to do it!" "and you will have the children a long time yet; and violet--" david hesitated and looked at his mother with momentary embarrassment. "only mamma," added he, "i am afraid philip wants violet." mrs inglis started. "has he told you so, davie?" said she, anxiously. "no--not quite--not exactly. but i think--i know you wouldn't be grieved, mamma? philip is just what you would like him to be now. philip is a true christian gentleman. i expect great things from philip. and mamma, you can never surely mean that you are surprised." "not altogether surprised, perhaps. but--we will not speak of it, davie, until--" "until philip does. well, i don't think that will be very long. but, mamma, i cannot bear that you should be unhappy because of this." "unhappy? no, not unhappy! but--i could never make you understand. we will not speak about it." they went on in silence along the walk till they came to the garden gate, and there they lingered for a while. "mamma," said david, "do you remember one night, a very stormy night, when you and i watched for papa's coming home? i don't know why i should always think of that night more than of many others, unless it was almost the last time he ventured forth to meet the storm. i think you were afraid even then, mamma?" "i remember. yes, i was afraid." david stood silent beside her. the voices of the children on their homeward way came through the stillness. in a minute they could see them, moving in and out among the long shadows, which the last gleam of sunshine made, their hands and laps filled with flowers and trailing green--a very pretty picture. the mother stood watching them in silence till they drew near. then the face she turned to david was bright with both smiles and tears. "david," she said, "when i remember your father's life and death, and how gently we have been dealt with since then, how wisely guided, how strongly guarded, and how the way has opened before us, my heart fills full and my lips would fain sing praises. i do not think there can come into my life anything to make me afraid any more." david's answer was in words not his own: "thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee, because he trusteth in thee." the end. the little clown by thomas cobb author of 'the bountiful lady,' 'cooper's first term,' etc. london: grant richards _contents_ . _how it began_ . _jimmy goes to london_ . _at aunt selina's_ . _aunt selina at home_ . _at the railway station_ . _the journey_ . _jimmy is taken into custody_ . _jimmy runs away_ . _the circus_ . _on the road_ . _jimmy runs away again_ . _jimmy sleeps in a windmill_ . _the last_ the little clown chapter i how it began jimmy was nearly eight years of age when these strange things happened to him. his full name was james orchardson sinclair wilmot, and he had been at miss lawson's small school at ramsgate since he was six. there were only five boys besides himself, and miss roberts was the only governess besides miss lawson. the half-term had just passed, and they did not expect to go home for the christmas holidays for another four or five weeks, until one day miss lawson became very ill, and her sister, miss rosina, was sent for. it was on friday that miss rosina told the boys that she had written to their parents and that they would all be sent home on tuesday, and no doubt jimmy might have felt as glad as the rest if he had had a home to be sent to. but the fact was that he had never seen his father or mother--or at least he had no recollection of them. and he had never seen his sister winnie, who was born in the west indies. one of the boys had told jimmy she must be a little black girl, and jimmy did not quite know whether to believe him or not. when he was two years of age, his father and mother left england, and although that was nearly six years ago, they had not been back since. jimmy had lived with his aunt ellen at chesterham until he came to school, but afterwards his holidays were spent with another uncle and aunt in london. his mother wrote to him every month, nice long letters, which jimmy always answered, although he did not always know quite what to say to her. but last month there had come no letter, and the month before that mrs. wilmot had said something about seeing jimmy soon. when he heard the other boys talk about their fathers and mothers and sisters it seemed strange that he did not know what his own were like. for you cannot always tell what a person is like from her photograph; and although his mother looked young and pretty in hers, jimmy did not know whether she was tall or short or dark or fair, but sometimes, especially after the gas was turned out at night, he felt that he should very much like to know. on monday evening, whilst jimmy was sitting at the desk in the school-room sticking some postage-stamps in his album, he was told to go to the drawing-room, where he found miss rosina sitting beside a large fire. 'is your name wilmot?' she asked, for she had not learnt all the boys' names yet. 'james orchardson sinclair wilmot,' he answered. 'a long name for such a small boy,' said miss rosina. 'it is very strange,' she continued, 'that all the boys' parents have answered my letters but yours.' 'mine couldn't answer,' said jimmy. 'why not?' asked miss rosina. 'because they live such a long way off.' 'i remember,' said miss rosina; 'it was to your uncle that i wrote. i asked him to send someone to meet you at victoria station at one o'clock to-morrow. but he has not answered my letter, and it is very inconvenient.' 'is it?' asked jimmy solemnly, with his eyes fixed on her face. 'why, of course it is,' said miss rosina. 'suppose i don't have a letter before you start to-morrow morning! i shall not know whether any one is coming to meet you or not. and what would miss roberts do with you in that case?' 'i don't know,' answered jimmy, beginning to look rather anxious. 'i'm sure i don't know either,' said miss rosina. 'but,' she added, 'i trust i may hear from your uncle before you start to-morrow morning.' 'i hope you will,' cried jimmy; and he went back to the school-room wondering what would happen to him if his uncle henry did not write. whilst the other boys were saying what wonderful things they intended to do during the holidays, he wished that his father and mother were in england the same as theirs. he could not go to sleep very early that night for thinking of to-morrow, and when the bell rang at seven o'clock the next morning he dressed quickly and came downstairs first to look for miss rosina. 'please, have you had a letter from uncle henry yet?' he asked. 'no, i am sorry to say i have not,' was the answer. 'i cannot understand it at all. i am sure i don't know what is to be done with you.' 'couldn't i stay here?' cried jimmy. 'certainly not,' said miss rosina. 'why not?' asked jimmy, who always liked to have a reason for everything. 'because miss lawson is not going to keep a school any more. but,' exclaimed miss rosina, 'go to your breakfast, and i will speak to you again afterwards.' chapter ii jimmy goes to london as he sat at breakfast jimmy saw a large railway van stop at the door, with a porter sitting on the board behind. the driver climbed down from his high seat in front, and the two men began to carry out the boxes. jimmy saw his clothes-box carried out, then his play-box, so that he knew that he was to go to london with the rest, although miss rosina had not heard from his uncle. 'jimmy,' said miss roberts after breakfast, 'miss rosina wants to see you in the drawing-room. you must go at once.' so he went to the drawing-room, tapped at the door, and was told to enter. 'it is very annoying that your uncle has not answered my letter,' said miss rosina, looking as angry as if jimmy were to blame for it. 'he couldn't answer if he didn't get it,' cried jimmy. 'of course not,' said miss rosina, 'but i sincerely hope he did get it.' 'so do i,' answered jimmy. 'perhaps he will send to meet you although he has not written to say so,' said miss rosina. 'perhaps he will,' replied jimmy thoughtfully. 'but,' miss rosina continued, 'if he doesn't send to meet you, miss roberts must take you to his house in brook street in a cab.' 'only suppose he isn't there!' exclaimed jimmy. 'at all events the servants will be there.' 'only suppose they're not!' 'surely,' said miss rosina, 'they would not leave the house without any one in it!' 'if uncle henry and aunt mary have gone to france they might.' 'do they often go to france?' asked miss rosina. 'they go sometimes,' said jimmy, 'because aunt mary writes to me, and i've got the stamps in my album. and then they leave the house empty and shut the shutters and put newspapers in all the windows, you know.' whilst jimmy stood on the hearth-rug, miss rosina sat in an arm-chair staring seriously at the fire. 'have you any other relations in london?' she asked, a few moments later. 'no,' said jimmy. 'think, now,' she continued. 'are you sure there is nobody?' 'at least,' cried jimmy, 'there's only aunt selina.' 'where does your aunt selina live?' asked miss rosina, looking a great deal more pleased than jimmy felt. he put his small hands together behind his back, and took a step closer. 'please,' he said, 'i--i don't want to go to aunt selina's.' 'tell me where she lives,' answered miss rosina. 'i think it's somewhere called gloucester place,' said jimmy;' but, please, i'd rather not go.' 'you silly child! you must go somewhere!' 'yes, i know,' said jimmy, 'but i'd rather not go to aunt selina's.' 'what is her number in gloucester place?' asked miss rosina. 'i don't know the number,' cried jimmy much more cheerfully, because he thought that as he did not know the number, miss rosina could not very well send him to the house. 'what is your aunt's name? is it wilmot?' miss rosina asked. 'no, it isn't wilmot,' said jimmy. 'do you know what it is?' she demanded, and jimmy began to wish he didn't know; but aunt selina always wrote on his birthday, although it wasn't much use as she never sent him a present. 'her name's morton,' he answered. 'mrs. morton or miss morton?' 'miss morton, because she's never been married,' said jimmy. 'very well then,' was the answer, 'if nobody comes to meet you at victoria station, miss roberts will take you in a cab to brook street, and if your uncle henry is not there----' 'i hope he will be!' cried jimmy. 'so do i,' miss rosina continued, 'because miss roberts will not have much time to spare. she will take you to brook street; but if the house is empty, then she will go on to miss morton's in gloucester place.' 'but how can she if she doesn't know the number?' said jimmy. 'miss roberts will easily be able to find your aunt's house,' was the answer. 'oh!' cried jimmy in a disappointed tone, and then he was sent back to the other boys. when it was time to start to the railway station miss rosina went on first in a fly to take the tickets, and they found her waiting for them on the platform. they all got into a carriage, and jimmy sat next to miss roberts, who asked him soon after the train started, why he looked so miserable. 'i do hope that uncle henry will send some one to meet me,' he answered. 'i hope so too,' said miss roberts, who was much younger than miss rosina, 'because i have to travel to the north of england, and it is a very long journey. i shall only just have time to drive to the other station to catch my train.' 'but suppose you don't catch it?' asked jimmy. 'that would be extremely inconvenient,' she explained, 'because i should either have to travel all night or else to sleep at an hotel in london. but i hope your uncle will come to meet you.' long before the train reached london, jimmy began to look anxiously out at the window. presently it stopped on a bridge over the thames, and a man came to collect the tickets, and soon after the train moved on again jimmy saw that he was at victoria. the door was opened, and all the other boys jumped out, and whilst they were shaking hands with their fathers and mothers jimmy stood alone on the platform. he looked wistfully at every face in the small crowd, but he did not know one of them, and it was plain that nobody had been sent to meet him. he followed miss roberts towards the luggage van and saw his own boxes taken out with the rest, and then one by one the boys got into cabs and were driven away, and jimmy began to feel more miserable than ever. his boxes stood beside miss roberts's, and she looked up and down the platform almost as anxiously as the boy, for she was in a great hurry to go. 'well, jimmy,' she said, 'nobody seems to have come for you.' 'no,' answered jimmy. 'it is really very annoying!' cried miss roberts, looking at her watch. 'perhaps uncle henry has made a mistake in the time,' said jimmy. 'i think the best thing we can do is to take a cab to brook street,' was the answer. 'mightn't we wait just a little longer?' he asked. 'no,' said miss roberts, 'we have lost quite enough time already. hi! cab!' she exclaimed, and a four-wheeled cab was driven up beside the boxes. then a porter lifted these, one by one, and put them on top of the cab. 'get in,' said miss roberts, and with a last glance along the platform, jimmy entered the cab and sat down. then miss roberts stepped in also, the old cab-horse started, and jimmy was driven out of the gloomy railway station. 'i hope uncle henry will be at home,' he said presently. 'so do i,' answered miss roberts. 'i have not a minute to spare.' 'perhaps you won't have time to take me to aunt selina's!' exclaimed jimmy. 'what do you suppose i am to do with you then?' she asked. 'i don't know,' he said; 'only i don't want to go there!' 'i am sure i don't want to have to take you there,' was the answer, as the cab passed hyde park. jimmy had been the same way every holiday since he had gone to miss lawson's school, so that he knew he was drawing near to brook street. as the cab turned the corner, he put his head out at the window and looked anxiously for his uncle's house. 'oh!' he cried, drawing it in again. 'what is the matter?' asked miss roberts. 'i believe the shutters are up,' said jimmy. chapter iii at aunt selina's jimmy was quite right. miss roberts leaned forward to put her head out at the window on his side of the cab, and she saw that every shutter was shut, and that there was a sheet of newspaper in each window. 'what a nuisance!' she exclaimed, sitting down again as the horse stopped. the cabman got down to open the door, and jimmy jumped out, on to the pavement. 'i daresay they've gone to france,' he said, as she followed him. 'still there may be some one left in the house,' answered miss roberts. 'i don't suppose there is,' said jimmy, looking as if he were going to cry. 'at all events i will ring the bell,' she answered, and miss roberts pulled the bell. jimmy heard it ring quite distinctly, but nobody came to open the door. 'do ring again,' he said, and once more miss roberts pulled the bell. then a policeman came along the street, and she went to meet him. 'do you know whether this house is empty?' she asked. 'been empty the last fortnight,' said the policeman. 'thank you,' said miss roberts. and then she turned to jimmy: 'go back into the cab,' she continued, and very unwillingly he took his seat again. 'gloucester place, cabman,' she said, with her hand on the door. 'what number?' asked the cabman. 'we--we don't know the number,' cried jimmy, putting his head out. 'stop at a shop on the way,' said miss roberts as she entered the cab and sat down; 'if i waste any more time i shall lose my train.' 'but suppose aunt selina isn't at home either?' exclaimed jimmy, as the horse started once more. 'in that case i don't know what is to become of you,' said miss roberts. 'because she may have gone to france with uncle henry!' jimmy suggested. 'we will not imagine anything of the kind, if you please!' 'no,' said jimmy, 'but suppose she has gone to france, you know.' as he spoke, the cab stopped before a large grocer's shop, and without losing a moment miss roberts stepped out of the cab, followed by jimmy. 'will you kindly let me look at a directory?' she asked; and the tall young man behind the counter said-- 'certainly, miss.' he brought the thickest red book which jimmy had ever seen, and miss roberts opened it at once. 'miss selina morton--is that your aunt's name?' she asked, looking round at jimmy. 'ye--es,' he answered sorrowfully, for he guessed that she had found out the number. 'come along then,' said miss roberts, and jimmy walked slowly towards the door. 'thank you, i am very much obliged,' she continued, smiling at the shopman; but jimmy did not feel in the least obliged to him. miss roberts told the cabman the number, and when the horse started again she turned cheerfully to the boy-- 'we shall soon be there now!' she said. 'i wish we shouldn't,' answered jimmy. 'don't you like your aunt selina?' asked miss roberts. 'not at all,' said jimmy. 'why don't you like her?' asked miss roberts. 'you ought to like an aunt, you know.' 'i don't know why, only i don't,' was the answer. it did not take many minutes to drive to gloucester place, and although jimmy did not know what would happen to him if aunt selina was out of town, still he almost hoped she had gone to france. but the shutters were not shut at this house, although each of the blinds was drawn exactly a quarter of the way down. jimmy saw a large tortoise-shell cat lying on one of the window sills, whilst a black cat watched it from inside the room. 'if they do not keep us long at the door,' said miss roberts, as she rang the bell, 'i can manage just to catch my train.' it was past two o'clock, and jimmy thought he could smell something like hot meat. he supposed that if he stayed at aunt selina's he should have some dinner, and that would be a good thing at any rate. the door was opened by a tall, thin butler, who looked very solemn and important. he did not stand quite upright, and he had gray whiskers and a bald head. if he had not opened the door, so that jimmy knew he was the butler, he might have been mistaken for a clergyman. 'is miss morton at home?' asked miss roberts. 'no, miss,' said the butler; and he stared at jimmy first and then at the boxes on the cab. 'how extremely annoying!' cried miss roberts. 'can you tell me how long she will be?' 'i don't think miss morton will return before half-past three,' said the butler, whose name was jones. 'miss morton has gone out to luncheon, miss.' 'this is her nephew,' answered miss roberts. 'good-morning, sir,' said jones, rubbing his hands. 'good-morning,' said jimmy. 'i have brought him from miss lawson's school at ramsgate,' miss roberts explained, whilst jimmy stared into the butler's face. 'i don't fancy miss morton expected him,' said jones. 'no,' cried jimmy, 'she didn't.' 'miss lawson is so ill,' miss roberts continued, 'that all the boys have been sent home. i took master wilmot to his uncle's house in brook street, but it was shut up. so i have brought him here.' 'i don't know what miss morton will say----' miss roberts looked at her watch and interrupted the butler before he had time to finish his sentence. he spoke rather slowly and required a long time to say anything. 'i am not going back to ramsgate,' said miss roberts, 'but i have no doubt miss rosina will write to miss morton.' 'i beg pardon,' answered jones, 'but i don't think miss morton would like you to leave the young gentleman here.' 'i--i don't want to be left,' cried jimmy. 'miss morton is not particular fond of young gentlemen,' said the butler. 'cabman,' exclaimed miss roberts in a greater hurry than ever, 'carry in the boxes. the two smaller boxes, please.' jimmy stood on the doorstep, and jones stood just inside the hall, and miss roberts held her watch in her right hand, whilst the cabman got off his seat and took down the trunks. 'please be quick,' she said, 'or i shall miss my train after all.' the butler stroked his chin as the cabman carried the clothes-box into the house and put it down near the dining-room door; then he brought in the play-box, and after that he wiped his forehead with a large red handkerchief and climbed up to his seat again. 'good-bye,' said miss roberts, putting away her watch and taking jimmy's hand. 'i wish you would take me too,' answered jimmy rather tearfully. 'i can't do that,' she said, 'and i am sure you will be very happy with your aunt.' jimmy felt quite sure he shouldn't be happy, and he certainly did not look very happy as miss roberts was driven away in the cab; and when he saw it turn the corner, he felt more lonely than he had ever felt before. 'well, this is a nice kettle of fish,' said the butler. 'is it?' asked jimmy, not understanding in the least what he meant. 'i wonder what miss morton will say about it?' cried jones. 'what do you think she'll say?' asked jimmy, staring up at the butler's face. 'well,' was the answer, 'you had better come indoors, anyhow,' and jimmy entered the house and stood leaning against his clothes-box, whilst jones shut the street door. 'step this way, sir,' said jones; but although he took jimmy to the dining-room, unfortunately there was no sign of dinner. he saw the black cat still sitting on a chair watching the tortoise-shell cat outside the window, and on the hearth-rug lay a tabby one, with its head on the fender, fast asleep. 'you had better sit here until miss morton comes home,' said the butler. 'do you think she'll be very long?' asked jimmy. 'about half-past three,' was the answer, and jones opened the coal-box to put some more coal on the fire as he spoke. 'because i haven't had any dinner at all,' said jimmy. 'oh, you haven't, haven't you?' cried jones, as he stood holding the coal shovel. 'no,' said jimmy, 'and i'm rather hungry.' 'well, i don't know what miss morton'll say about you,' was the answer. 'so,' he added, as he put away the shovel, 'you think you'd like something to eat?' 'i'm sure i should--very much,' cried jimmy. the butler went away, but he soon came back with a folded white cloth in his hands. whilst jimmy kneeled down on the hearth-rug rubbing the head of the tabby cat, jones laid the cloth, and then he went away again and returned with a plate of hot roast-beef and yorkshire pudding and potatoes and cauliflower. he placed a chair with its back to the fire, and told jimmy to ring when he was ready for some apple-tart. when jimmy was alone eating his dinner and enjoying it very much, he began to think it might not be so bad to stay at aunt selina's after all. the black cat came from the chair by the window and meowed on one side of him, and the tabby cat meowed on the other, and jimmy fed them both whilst he fed himself. when his plate was quite empty, he rang the bell and jones brought him a large piece of apple-tart, with a brown jug of cream. then presently the butler took away the things, and jimmy sat down in an arm-chair by the fire with one of the cats on each knee. every few minutes he looked over his shoulder to see whether aunt selina was coming, and by and by the bell rang. jimmy rose from his chair and the cats jumped to the floor, and, going close to the window, he saw his aunt's tall, thin figure on the doorstep. chapter iv aunt selina at home miss morton had been to lunch with a friend, and she naturally expected to find her house exactly the same as she had left it. she was a lady who always liked to find things exactly the same as she left them; she did not care for fresh faces or fresh places, and she certainly did not care to see two boxes in her hall. miss morton was a little short-sighted, but the moment that she entered the house she noticed something unusual. so she stopped just within the door before the butler could shut it and put on her double eye-glasses, and then she stared in astonishment at jimmy's boxes. 'what are those?' she asked. 'boxes, miss,' was the answer. 'please don't be stupid,' said miss morton. 'i beg pardon,' replied the butler. 'i see quite distinctly that they are boxes,' she said. 'what i wish to know is, whom the boxes belong to.' 'to master wilmot,' said the butler. miss morton gave such a violent start that her eye-glasses fell from her nose. 'master wilmot!' she exclaimed. 'yes, miss.' 'you do not mean to tell me that the boy is here!' 'he's been here since about two o'clock,' said the butler. 'surely he did not come alone?' cried miss morton. 'no, miss.' 'who brought him?' 'a young lady who seemed to be his governess,' the butler explained. 'she said that miss lawson was ill, and that she'd sent all the young gentlemen home.' 'this is certainly not his home,' said miss morton. 'no, miss,' answered jones. 'i told the young lady you wouldn't be best pleased, but she insisted on leaving him.' 'where is master wilmot?' asked miss morton. 'in the dining-room,' was the answer, and the butler opened the door. miss morton had spoken rather loudly, quite loudly enough for jimmy to overhear every word she had said. it made him feel uncomfortable, and as the door opened he stood with his back to the window, with his hands in his jacket pockets, waiting until his aunt selina entered the room, and the butler shut the door after her. she put on her eye-glasses again, and it seemed a long time before either she or jimmy spoke. she moved her head as if she were looking at him all over from top to toes. jimmy began to feel more uncomfortable than ever, and at last he thought he really must say something. 'good-morning,' he cried. 'why did the people send you here?' asked aunt selina. 'you see,' said jimmy, 'aunt mary and uncle henry were out and the house was shut up.' 'i always said it was foolish to travel at this time of year,' was the answer. 'so miss roberts brought me here,' said jimmy. 'well,' exclaimed aunt selina, 'i am sure i don't know what is to be done with you.' 'i didn't want to come,' answered jimmy. 'don't be rude,' said his aunt. 'now you are here, i suppose i must keep you for to-night. but there is no accommodation here for boys.' 'i had a very nice dinner, though,' said jimmy. 'have you washed your face?' she asked suddenly. 'no,' he answered, for washing his face was a thing he never felt anxious about. miss morton walked to the bell and rang it. a few moments later the butler re-entered the room, standing with one hand on the door. 'jones,' she said, 'take master wilmot to the spare bedroom to wash his face; and give him a comb and brush to do his hair.' jones took jimmy upstairs to a large bedroom, and poured some water into a basin. then he brought a clean towel, and showed jimmy where to find the soap and the comb and brush. the butler then left him alone, and the boy took off his jacket and dipped his hands in the water. when he thought his hands were clean enough, he washed a round place on his face, and having wiped this nearly dry, he went to the looking-glass and brushed the front of his hair where he had made it wet. when he had put his coat on again he wondered whether he ought to wait for the butler or to go downstairs alone; but as jones did not come back, jimmy opened the door and went down. he saw miss morton sitting in an arm-chair, and now that she had taken off her bonnet and veil he thought she looked more severe than ever. 'come here, james,' she said, as he stood near the door. no one else had ever called him james. 'when did you hear from your mother?' she asked. 'i didn't have a letter last month,' he answered. 'i asked when you did have a letter,' said aunt selina,--'not when you didn't have one.' 'i think it was about two months ago,' said jimmy. 'did she say anything about coming home?' asked aunt selina. 'she said i might see her soon,' cried jimmy. 'i do hope i shall.' 'very likely you will,' said his aunt, 'although your mother has not written to me for six months.' 'then how do you know?' asked jimmy. 'because she wrote to your aunt ellen at chesterham, and your aunt ellen wrote to me. i should not be surprised if your father and mother were on their way home now. they may arrive in england quite soon.' 'it would be nice,' said jimmy, and he began to laugh. 'will they come here?' he asked. 'certainly not,' was the answer. 'i have no accommodation for visitors.' 'there's the spare bedroom,' cried jimmy. 'i have no doubt,' said aunt selina, 'that they will go to aunt ellen's at chesterham----' 'couldn't i go to aunt ellen's?' asked jimmy eagerly. 'and pray who is to take you?' demanded miss morton. 'why, couldn't i go alone?' said jimmy. miss morton did not answer, but she put on her eye-glasses again, and looked jimmy up and down from head to foot. 'ring the bell,' she said, and when he had rung the bell and the butler had come, aunt selina told him to send hannah. jimmy stood on the hearth-rug--whilst the black cat rubbed its back against his leg--wondering who hannah might be. when she came, he saw that she was one of the servants, with a red, kind-looking face; and aunt selina told her to take him away and to give him some tea. when they were outside the door hannah took his hand, and he felt that he liked having his hand taken, and she led him downstairs to a small room near the kitchen where she gave him such a tea as he had never had before. there were cake and jam, and hot scones, and buttered toast, and although it was not very long since dinner, jimmy ate a good meal. he told hannah all about his father and mother and winnie, and how that miss morton had said perhaps they were on their way home; and he told her he hoped that his aunt would send him to chesterham. 'because,' he said, 'i know i could go all right alone.' hannah put an arm round him and kissed him, but jimmy did not much like being kissed; still he felt lonely this afternoon, and he did not mind it so much as he would have done sometimes, especially if any of his schoolfellows had been there. 'now,' said hannah presently, 'i think you had better go back to miss morton.' 'must i?' asked jimmy. 'because i like being here best.' but she led him back to the dining-room, and as soon as he entered the door aunt selina asked what time he went to bed. 'eight o'clock at school,' he answered, 'but when i am at aunt mary's she always lets me stay till half-past.' 'aunt mary always spoils you,' said miss morton. 'sit down,' she added, and jimmy took a chair on the opposite side of the fire-place. 'i suppose you don't remember your mother,' she said. 'no,' answered jimmy. 'shall you be glad to see her?' asked aunt selina. 'yes, very glad,' said jimmy. 'shan't you?' he asked, looking into his aunt's face. 'of course i shall be pleased to see my sister,' was the answer. 'and i shall be glad to see winnie, too,' said jimmy. but aunt selina's words had put a fresh idea into his mind. he seemed never to have realised until now that the mother whom he had never seen, although he had thought about her so much, was his aunt selina's sister. he thought that sisters must surely be very much alike; but if his mother was like her sister, why, jimmy did not feel certain it would be nice to have her home again after all. he forgot that he was staring at his aunt until she asked him what he was looking at. 'is my mother as old as you?' he asked. 'i cannot say they teach politeness at miss lawson's,' aunt selina answered. 'but is she?' asked jimmy, for it seemed very important that he should know at once. 'your mother is a few years younger than i am,' said his aunt, 'but she would be very angry with you for asking such a question.' 'can she be angry?' asked jimmy. 'she will be very angry indeed when you are naughty,' said miss morton. for a few minutes jimmy sat staring into the fire. 'is--is she like you?' he asked. 'she is not quite so tall.' 'but is she like you?' asked jimmy. 'we used to be considered very much alike,' was the answer, and jimmy felt inclined to cry. then aunt selina said it was his bed-time, and he came close to her and kissed her cheek. 'am i to go to aunt ellen's?' he asked. 'i shall not tell you until to-morrow morning,' said aunt selina; and jimmy fell asleep in the large spare room wondering whether he should go to-morrow to chesterham or not. chapter v at the railway station when jimmy awoke the next morning he found that hannah was drawing up his blind. the sun-light fell into the room, and the smoke rose from the can of hot water on the wash-stand. 'you must get up at once,' said hannah, 'or you will be late for breakfast, and miss morton won't like that.' he would have liked to lie in the warm bed a little longer, and when at last he jumped out he felt rather cold. jimmy was not used to dressing himself quite without help, for at school miss roberts had always come to tie his necktie and button his collar. he found it difficult to button it this morning with his cold little fingers; and as for the necktie, it was not tied quite so nicely as it might have been. still he was ready when he heard a bell ring, and he ran downstairs two steps at a time, and almost ran against aunt selina at the bottom. she looked more stiff and severe in the morning than she had looked last night, and not at all the sort of person you would like to run against. 'good-morning,' said jimmy, as she entered the dining-room. she shook hands with jimmy and her hand felt very cold; but when once he was seated at the table the coffee was nice and hot, and so were the eggs and bacon, and jimmy had no time to think of anything else just yet. but just as he was wondering whether he should ask for another rasher of bacon, his aunt spoke to him. 'when you have _quite_ finished,' she said, 'i wish to speak to you,' and after that he did not like to ask for any more. so jimmy pushed back his chair, and his aunt selina rose from hers and went to stand by the fire. 'i did not wish to tell you last night for fear of exciting you and keeping you awake,' she said, 'but i wrote to your aunt ellen while you were having tea.' 'oh, thank you, i'm glad of that,' answered jimmy. 'i told her i should send you to chesterham by the half-past twelve train,' miss morton explained, 'and i asked her to meet you at the station.' 'hurray,' cried jimmy, 'then i am to go this morning.' 'it is not quite certain yet,' was the answer. 'i asked your aunt ellen to send me a telegram if she could receive you. if the telegram arrives before twelve, you will go by the half-past twelve train.' 'but suppose it doesn't come?' said jimmy. 'i sincerely trust it will,' was the answer. 'so do i,' cried jimmy. 'i have ordered a packet of sandwiches to be prepared,' said miss morton. 'ham or beef?' asked jimmy. 'ham--do you like ham?' 'oh yes, when there's no mustard,' said jimmy. 'i told jones not to have any mustard put on them,' answered his aunt; 'and,' she continued, 'if you go to-day i shall give you half-a-crown.' 'shan't i have the half-crown if i don't go to-day?' asked jimmy eagerly. 'i hope you will go,' she said. 'but you must not spend it in waste.' 'i won't,' cried jimmy. 'i don't suppose you will stay with your aunt ellen long,' said miss morton, 'because there is no doubt your father and mother will soon be in england, and then they will be able to look after you. now,' she added, 'if you think you can keep still and not fidget, you may sit down by the window and watch for the telegram.' jimmy lifted the tabby cat off the chair, and took it on his knees as he sat down. while he sat stroking the cat he really did not feel much doubt about the telegram. he wanted it to come so much that he felt sure it would come soon, and surely enough it arrived before eleven o'clock. jimmy rose from his chair as jones brought it into the room on a tray, and the tabby cat dug its claws into his jacket and clung to him, so that jimmy found it rather difficult to put it down. he did not take his eyes from miss morton's face all the time she was reading the telegram. 'it is extremely fortunate i wrote yesterday,' she exclaimed. 'am i to go?' asked jimmy eagerly. 'yes,' she answered, 'and who do you think will meet you at chesterham station?' 'not mother!' cried jimmy, very excitedly. 'your father and mother,' said miss morton. 'and winnie?' 'they are not likely to take a child to meet you,' she answered. 'they arrived only last night, and if they had not received my letter they would have gone to ramsgate to-day. as it is they will meet you at the station, and they think it will be quite safe for you to travel alone if i see you safely in the train.' 'shall you?' asked jimmy. 'i shall send jones,' was the answer. 'what time does the train get to chesterham?' asked jimmy. 'at four o'clock,' she said; and then she took out her purse and found two shillings and a sixpence, which she gave to jimmy. 'where will you put them?' she asked. 'i've got a purse, too,' he answered, and he put his hand in his jacket pocket and brought out a piece of string, a crumpled handkerchief, a knife, and last of all a small purse. in this he put the two shillings and the sixpence, and then he could think of nothing but the joy of seeing his mother and father. he stood by the window watching the passers-by and wondering whether his mother was like any of them, and at least he hoped that she might not be so very much like his aunt selina. he went in search of hannah and told her all about the telegram. he longed for the time to come to start for the station, and when he saw his boxes being taken out to the cab, he danced about the hall in a manner which made miss morton feel very pleased he was going. he put on his overcoat, and held open the pocket whilst hannah forced in the large packet of sandwiches, and although they bulged out a good deal jimmy did not mind that at all. he shook hands with his aunt and entered the cab, and jones stepped in after him. 'my father and mother are going to meet me at chesterham,' said jimmy as soon as the horse started. he talked of them all the way to the railway station--not the same station at which he had arrived with miss roberts yesterday, but a much larger and a rather dirtier looking one, with a great glass roof. but before jimmy reached that part of it, he went with jones to take his ticket. 'you are to put it in your purse,' said the butler, 'and mind you don't lose it.' 'i shan't lose it,' answered jimmy, taking out his purse, and as he put the ticket away he looked to make sure that the half-crown was all right. 'now,' said the butler, 'we'll go and find the train.' it was not very difficult to find the train for chesterham, because it was waiting all ready at the platform; but when they got to the train it took jones a long time to find jimmy a suitable first-class compartment. at last he stopped at one which contained an old gentleman and two ladies. the old gentleman was sitting next to the door, reading a newspaper, and he did not look at all glad when jimmy sat down opposite to him. 'i think you'll do now,' said jones. 'very nicely, thank you,' answered jimmy, as the butler stood by the door, but he was beginning to feel just a little nervous. you must remember he was not quite eight years of age; he was only a small boy, and he had never travelled quite alone before. he felt sure he should like travelling alone, and in fact he did not much mind how he travelled so that his mother met him at the end of his journey. still, now that he had taken his seat and the butler was going away in a few minutes, jimmy began to feel a little nervous. 'got your sandwiches?' asked jones, with a hand on the door. 'yes, i've got them,' answered jimmy, feeling them to make certain. 'i've never seen them before, you know,' jimmy added. 'what, the sandwiches?' asked jones. 'no, my father and mother,' said jimmy. 'they're going to meet me.' 'oh, i see,' answered the butler, and he ought to have understood, for jimmy had told him a great many times since they left aunt selina's house. 'you're just going to start,' jones added. 'good-bye,' cried jimmy, and he put his hand out of the window and the butler shook it. 'good-bye, sir,' he answered, and jimmy felt quite sorry when jones let go his hand. but the train was beginning to move; the butler stepped back and took out his pocket-handkerchief and waved it, but it was to dry his eyes that jimmy took out his; for when the train glided away and he could not see jones any more jimmy felt very much alone, especially as the old gentleman opposite kept lowering his paper and looking down at his trousers and then frowning at him. chapter vi the journey for the first quarter of an hour after the train started jimmy was contented to gaze out of the window, but presently, growing tired of doing that, he turned to look at the two ladies at the farther end of the compartment. as jimmy moved in his seat, his boots touched the old gentleman's black trousers. laying aside his newspaper the old gentleman leaned forward to look at them, and then he brushed off the mud. a few moments later jimmy's boots touched his trousers again, and the old gentleman began to cough. 'i should feel greatly obliged,' he said in a loud voice, 'if you would not make a door-mat of my legs.' 'i beg your pardon,' answered jimmy, and he tucked his feet as far under his seat as they would go. 'you should be more careful,' said the old gentleman, and then one of the ladies suggested that jimmy should sit by her side. 'i wanted to look out at the window,' he answered. 'well, you can look out at my window,' she said, and so jimmy went to the other end of the compartment, and she gave him her seat; and for an hour or more the train went on its way, stopping at one or two stations, until presently it came to a standstill again. 'where is this?' asked one of the ladies. the other looked out at the window and said-- 'meresleigh.' 'we ought not to stop here,' answered her friend. at the other end of the compartment the old gentleman let down his window: 'hi, hi! guard, guard!' he cried, and the guard came to the door. 'why are we stopping here?' asked the old gentleman. 'something's gone wrong with the engine, sir.' 'how long shall we stay?' asked the gentleman. 'maybe a quarter of an hour, sir,' said the guard. 'we've got to wait for a fresh engine, but it won't be long.' 'we may as well get out,' cried one of the ladies, and as soon as they had left the carriage the old gentleman also stepped on to the platform, and jimmy did not see why he should not do the same. so he got out, and seeing a small crowd near the engine he walked along the platform towards it. the engine-driver stood with an oil-can in one hand talking to the station-master, but there being nothing interesting to see, jimmy began to look about the large station. it was then that he began to feel hungry. his feet were very cold, and the wind blew along the platform, so that jimmy turned up his overcoat collar as he stamped about to get warm. as he walked up and down he noticed a good many people going in and out at a door, and looking in he saw that it led to the refreshment room. now, jimmy had two shillings and a sixpence in his purse, and had no doubt that lemonade could be bought at the counter where a good many persons were standing. feeling a little shy, he went to the counter, and presently succeeded in making one of the young women behind it see him. 'what do you want?' she asked. 'a bottle of lemonade--have you got any ginger-beer?' asked jimmy. 'which do you want?' said the young woman. jimmy could not make up his mind for a few moments, but he stood thinking with his hands in his pockets. 'is it stone-bottle ginger-beer?' he asked. 'yes,' was the answer. 'i think i'll have lemonade,' cried jimmy, and she turned away impatiently to get the bottle. it was rather cold, but still jimmy enjoyed his lemonade very much, and before he had half finished it, he put his sixpence on the counter. he thought it was a little dear at fourpence, and he looked sorry when he received only twopence change. then he emptied his glass, and went outside again, thinking he would eat his ham-sandwiches. but the wind blew colder than ever, and seeing another open door a little farther along the platform jimmy cautiously peeped in. the large room was quite empty, and an enormous fire was burning in the grate. he thought it would be far pleasanter to sit down to eat his sandwiches comfortably beside the fire than to eat them whilst he walked about the cold, windy platform. before he entered the room he looked towards the train, which still stood where it had stopped. there was quite a small crowd near the engine, and whilst some persons had re-entered their carriages, others walked up and down in front of theirs. pushing back the door of the waiting-room, jimmy went to the farther end, and sat down on a bench close to the fire. then he tugged the sandwiches out of his pocket, untied the string, and began to eat them. he did not stop until the last was finished, and by that time he began to feel remarkably comfortable and rather sleepy. he made up his mind that he would not on any account close his eyes, but they felt so heavy that they really would not keep open; his chin dropped on to his chest, and in a few moments he was sound asleep. then for some time all the busy life of the great railway station went on: trains arrived, stopped, and started again; other trains whistled as they dashed past without stopping; porters hurried hither and thither with piles of luggage, and still a small dark-haired boy sat on the bench in the waiting-room, unconscious of all that was happening. presently jimmy awoke. he opened his eyes and began to rub them, thinking at first that the bell which he heard was rung to call the boys at miss lawson's school. but when he looked around him, he soon discovered that he was not in the school dormitory, and then as he became more wide-awake he remembered where he really was and began to fear that he had slept too long and missed his train. starting up in a hurry, jimmy ran out to the platform, and there to his great joy he saw a train standing exactly where he had left one. a good many people were waiting by the doors, but jimmy looked in vain for the two ladies and the old gentleman. 'take your seats!' cried a porter, 'just going on;' so that, afraid of being left behind, jimmy jumped into a carriage close at hand. it happened to be empty, but he did not mind that, and he was only just in time, for the next minute a whistle blew and the train began to move. it had not long started, before he noticed that the afternoon had become much darker; he did not possess a watch, but as far as he could tell it must be very nearly tea-time. however, he supposed that it could not be long now before he arrived at chesterham, and he began to look forward more eagerly than ever to seeing his father and mother on the platform. the train went on, stopping at several stations, and at each one jimmy looked out at the window and tried to read the name on the lamps. but he felt no fear about going too far, because he knew that the train stopped altogether when it reached chesterham. it seemed a long time reaching there, however, much longer than he had imagined; but at last it came to a standstill, and, looking through the window, jimmy saw that many more persons got out than usual. he leaned back in his seat, feeling tired and cold, and waiting for the train to go on again, when presently a porter stopped at the window. 'all change here!' he said. 'but i don't want to change,' answered jimmy. 'this isn't chesterham, is it?' for he had read the name of barstead on one of the lamps. 'chesterham!' cried the porter, 'i should say not. chesterham is fifty miles away on another line. this is barstead. and if you don't want to stay all night on the siding the best thing you can do is to get out.' chapter vii jimmy is taken into custody jimmy stared at the porter in great astonishment. his eyes and his mouth were opened very widely, and he felt extremely frightened. he rose from the seat and stepped out on to the dark platform. 'i want to go to chesterham,' he said. 'well, you can't go to chesterham to-night,' was the answer. 'where's your ticket?' jimmy felt in his pocket for his purse, and opening it took out his ticket. 'you'd better come to speak to the station-master,' said the porter; and jimmy, feeling more frightened than ever, followed him to a small room, where a tall red-bearded man sat writing at a table which seemed to be covered all over with papers. when jimmy entered with the porter the station-master rose and stood with his back to the fire, whilst the porter began to explain. 'you can't get to chesterham without going back to meresleigh,' said the station-master presently. 'chesterham is on a different line, and there is no train to-night.' 'then what am i to do?' asked jimmy, turning very pale. 'that's just what i should like to know!' was the answer. 'but you can't get back to meresleigh until to-morrow morning, that's certain.' 'but where shall i sleep?' cried jimmy. 'how was it you got out of the train at meresleigh?' asked the station-master. 'you see,' faltered jimmy nervously, 'there was an accident to the engine and we all got out.' 'then why didn't you get in again?' 'i did,' said jimmy. 'you didn't get into the right train,' answered the station-master, 'or you wouldn't be here. tell me just what you did, now.' 'why,' jimmy explained, 'i went into the waiting-room to eat my sandwiches and then i fell asleep.' 'how long were you asleep?' 'i don't know. it didn't seem very long. when i woke i went on to the platform and saw a train waiting just in the same place, and i thought it was the same train.' 'well, it wasn't,' said the station-master. 'whilst you were asleep the chesterham train must have started, and the train you got into was the barstead train, which is more than an hour later. a nice mistake you've made.' at this jimmy put his sleeve to his face and began to cry. he really couldn't help it, he felt very tired, very cold, very miserable, and very frightened. he could not imagine what would happen to him, where he should spend the night, or how he should ever reach chesterham. he thought of his father and mother going to meet the train and finding no jimmy there, and he felt far more miserable than he had ever felt in his life before. the station-master began to ask him questions, and amongst others where his friends in chesterham lived. jimmy did not know the exact address, but he told the station-master his aunt's name, and he said that would most likely be enough for a telegram. 'i shall send a telegram at once to say you're all safe here,' he said; 'and then to-morrow morning we must send you on.' 'but how about to-night?' cried jimmy. 'where am i to sleep?' 'i must think about that,' was the answer; and then there was a good deal of noise as if another train had arrived, and the station-master left his room in a great hurry. he was a very busy man and had very little time to look after boys who went to sleep in waiting-rooms and missed their trains. at the same time he did not intend jimmy to be left without a roof over his head. so he saw the train start again, and then he sent for coote. coote was tall and extremely fat, with an extraordinarily large red face, and small eyes. he was dressed as a policeman, but he did not really belong to the police. he was employed by the railway company to look after persons who did not behave themselves properly, and certainly his appearance was enough to frighten them. but the station-master knew him to be a respectable man, with a wife and children of his own, and a clean cottage about half a mile from the station. so he thought that coote would be the very man to take charge of jimmy until the next morning. he explained what had happened, and coote said he would take the boy home with him. 'i'll see he's well looked after,' he said, 'and i'll bring him in time to catch the . train to meresleigh in the morning.' 'you'll find him in my office,' answered the station-master, and to the office coote went accordingly. now, if he had acted sensibly in the matter he would have spared jimmy a good deal of unpleasantness, and jimmy's father and mother much anxiety. but coote was fond of what he called a 'joke,' and instead of telling the boy that he was going to take him home and give him a bed and some supper, he opened the office-door, put his great red face into the room, and stared hard at jimmy. jimmy was already so much upset that very little was required to frighten him still more. when he saw the face, with a policeman's helmet above it, he drew back farther against the wall. 'none o' your nonsense now, you just come along with me!' cried coote, speaking in a very deep voice, and looking very fierce. 'i--i don't want to come,' answered jimmy. 'never mind what you want,' said coote, 'you just come along with me.' 'where--where to?' asked jimmy. 'ah, you'll see where to,' was the answer. 'come along now. no nonsense.' very unwillingly jimmy accompanied coote along the platform and out into the street. it was quite dark and very cold, as the boy trotted along by the policeman's side, looking up timidly into his red face. 'nice sort of boy you are and no mistake,' said coote, 'travelling over the company's line without a ticket. do you know what's done to them as travels without a ticket?' 'what?' faltered jimmy. 'ah, you wait a few minutes, and you'll see fast enough,' said coote. what with his policeman's uniform, his red cheeks, his great size, jimmy felt more and more afraid, and he really believed that he was going to be locked up because he had travelled in the wrong train. instead of that the man was thinking what he should do to make the boy more comfortable. he naturally supposed that jimmy's friends would reward him, and as it seemed likely that mrs. coote might not have anything especially tempting for supper he determined to buy something on the way home. after walking along several quiet streets they came to one which was much busier. there were brilliant lights in the shop windows, and in front of one of the brightest coote stopped. chapter viii jimmy runs away it was a ham and beef shop, and in jimmy's cold and hungry condition the meat pies and sausages and hams in the window looked very tempting. 'you just wait here a few moments,' said coote, as he came to a standstill, 'and mind it's no use your thinking o' running away, because i can run too.' with that he entered the ham and beef shop, leaving jimmy outside alone on the pavement. perhaps jimmy would never have thought of running away if the man had not suggested it; but he was so frightened that he felt it would be better to do anything rather than go with the policeman. you know that sometimes a boy does not stay to consider what is really the best, and jimmy did not stay to think now. whilst he saw coote talking to the shopman in the white apron, through the window, he suddenly turned to make a dash across the road. 'look out!' cried a man, and jimmy only just escaped being run over by a one-horse omnibus. he dodged the horse, however, and running towards the opposite pavement, he knocked against an old woman with a basket. the basket grazed his left arm, and to judge by what she said he must have hurt the woman a good deal. but jimmy did not wait to hear all she had to say; he only thought of getting away from coote, and ran on and on without the slightest notion where he was going. up one street and down another the boy ran, often looking behind to see whether he was being followed, and at last stopping altogether, simply because he could not run any farther. he sat down on the kerb-stone, and then he saw for the first time that it had begun to rain quite fast. it was a great relief to know that coote must have taken a wrong direction, for if the policeman had taken the right one he would have caught jimmy by this time. still he did not intend to sit there many minutes in case coote should be following him after all, so a few minutes later jimmy got up again and walked on quickly. he felt very miserable; it must be past his usual bed-time, and yet he had nowhere to sleep. he wished he were safely at chesterham; and he made up his mind that he would never fall asleep in a waiting-room again as long as he lived. until now jimmy had been making his way along streets, but very soon he saw that there were houses only on one side of the way. he had in fact come to what looked, as well as he could see in the dark, like a small common, with furze bushes growing on it, and a pond by the roadside. but a little farther on, jimmy fancied he heard a band playing, and then he saw what appeared to be an enormous tent, and there were lights burning near, and curious shadowy things which he could not make out at all. jimmy was always an inquisitive boy, and now he almost forgot his troubles in his wish to find out what was happening on the common. so he walked towards the large round tent, and the band sounded more loudly every moment. by one part of the tent stood a cart, and in this a man was shouting at the top of his voice. and around the cart a crowd had gathered, chiefly of rather shabbily-dressed people, and one or two of them stepped out every minute or so and went inside an opening in the tent, where a stout woman stood to take their money. near the cart was a large picture, and jimmy stared at it with a great deal of interest. the picture represented a lion and a clown, and the clown's head was inside the lion's mouth; whilst a little way off a very small clown, of about jimmy's own age, stood laughing. jimmy had always an immense liking for lions, and also for clowns, and when they both came together and the head of the one happened to be in the mouth of the other, the temptation was almost more than he could resist. 'now, ladies and gentlemen, walk up, walk up!' cried the man in the cart. 'all the wonders of the world now on view. now's the time, the very last night; walk up, ladies and gentlemen, walk up.' jimmy thought that he really might do worse than to walk up. for one thing he would be able to sit down inside the tent, and for another he could take shelter from the rain, which now was falling fast. he put his hand into his pocket to feel for his purse, and recollected that he had still two shillings and twopence left out of aunt selina's half-crown. 'how much is it?' he asked, going towards the stout woman at the opening. 'well,' she answered, 'you can go in for twopence, and you can have a first-class seat for sixpence. but if you ask me, a young gent like you'd sooner pay a shilling.' 'yes, i think i should,' said jimmy proudly; and, taking out a shilling, he gave it to the woman and at once entered the tent. there were so few persons in the best seats that a great many of those in the cheaper ones turned to look at jimmy as he walked in. but jimmy was quite unaware of this, for no sooner had he sat down than he began to laugh as if he had not a trouble in the world. he forgot that he had nowhere to sleep, he forgot the red-faced policeman, he even forgot that he ought to be at chesterham. it was the clown who made jimmy laugh. he was a little man with a tall, pointed white felt hat like a dunce's cap; he wore the usual clown's dress, and generally kept his hands in his pockets as if he were a school-boy. a girl in a green velvet riding-habit had just finished a wonderful performance on horseback, and after she had kissed her hands to the people a good many times, she jumped off the horse, which began to trot round the ring alone. the clown was evidently trying to repeat her performance on his own account, but each time he tried to mount the horse it trotted faster, and the clown always fell on his back in the sawdust. nothing could be more comical than the way he got up, as if he were hurt very much indeed, and rubbed himself; unless, indeed, it was his alarm when the two elephants were brought into the ring and he jumped over the barrier close to jimmy in the front seats. jimmy felt a little disappointed not to see the clown put his head into the lion's mouth, but then there were plenty of things to make up for this; and besides, jimmy was beginning to feel really very sleepy again, when the band played 'rule britannia' out of tune, and all the people rose to leave the tent. as it became empty, jimmy began to feel very wretched again. he wondered where he should sleep, and he could hear that it was raining faster than ever outside. why shouldn't he wait until everybody else had gone and then lie down on one of the seats and sleep where he was? of course he had never slept in such a place before, and he did not much like the idea of sleeping there now, but then he had nowhere else to go, and at any rate it would be better than going outside in the rain. so jimmy made up his mind to stay where he was, and he would have been lying down and perhaps asleep in another moment, for he was very tired, when he saw the clown enter the tent. he had taken off his pointed hat, and had put on a long loose overcoat over his clown's dress. as he had been laughing or making fun all the time he was in the ring, jimmy thought that he never did anything else; but the clown looked quite solemn now, and the paint on his face had become smudged after getting wet outside in the rain. 'hullo!' he exclaimed on seeing jimmy. 'what are you doing here?' 'nothing,' answered the boy. 'suppose you do it outside!' 'but i shall get so wet outside,' said jimmy. 'lor! where's your nurse?' asked the clown. 'i haven't got one,' cried jimmy, a little indignantly. 'i go to school.' 'be quick then and go,' said the clown. 'but i've nowhere to go,' answered jimmy sadly, 'and i don't know where anybody is.' 'mean to say they've gone away and left you?' asked the clown. 'they haven't been here.' 'oh, so you came to the show by yourself?' said the clown. 'yes,' replied jimmy. 'well,' was the answer, 'you're a nice young party'; and the clown sat down on the barrier. 'come now,' he said, 'suppose you tell us all about it.' so, in a very sleepy voice, jimmy began to tell the clown his story. he told him how he had fallen asleep in the waiting-room, and where he had been going to; but he did not say anything about coote, because he felt afraid that the clown might send for the policeman, who would, after all, put him into prison for travelling in the wrong train. chapter ix the circus the clown listened to the story very attentively, but jimmy gaped a great deal while he told it. by the time he finished he could scarcely keep his eyes open. 'you seem a bit sleepy,' said the clown. 'i'm hungry, too,' answered jimmy. 'well, you can't sleep here,' said the clown, 'and you don't see much to eat, do you?' 'no, there isn't much to eat,' jimmy admitted. 'but,' he added, 'i don't see why i couldn't sleep here.' 'because the tent's going to be taken down,' said the clown. 'we've been here three days, and we're going on somewhere else.' jimmy looked disappointed. he rather liked the clown; at all events he liked him a great deal better than coote, and he did not feel at all afraid of him. 'just you come along with me,' said the clown, 'and i'll see what i can do for you. here, jump over! that's right,' he added, as jimmy climbed over the barrier which separated the seats from the ring in which the performance had taken place. 'you come with me,' said the clown, 'and we'll soon see whether we can't find you something to eat and a place to lie down in.' they left the tent, and outside the clown stopped to speak to the man who had shouted from the cart and to the stout woman who had taken the money. they often glanced at jimmy while they talked, so that he guessed they were talking about him. 'all right,' said the man, 'do as you like; it's no business of mine'; and then the clown came back to jimmy and they walked away from the tent together. they seemed to be walking in and out amongst a number of curious-looking carts and ornamental cars, the colour of gold, with pictures on their sides. there were several vans too, like small houses on wheels, with windows and curtains painted on them, such as jimmy had often seen at ramsgate, with men selling brooms and baskets, walking by the horses. there were no men selling brooms or baskets here, although they all seemed to be very busy: some being dressed just as they had left the ring, and others leading cream-coloured and piebald horses, instead of going to bed, as jimmy thought it was time to do. 'come along,' said the clown, as the boy seemed inclined to stop to look on. 'where are we going?' asked jimmy. 'you'll see,' was the answer. 'but where is it?' asked jimmy. 'where i live,' said the clown. 'oh, we're going to your house,' cried jimmy, feeling pleased at the chance of entering a house again, for it seemed a very long time since he had left aunt selina's. 'well,' said the clown, 'it's a sort of house. you might call it a house on wheels, and you wouldn't be far out.' suddenly jimmy seized the clown's arm and gave a jump. 'what's that?' he exclaimed. 'don't be frightened,' said the clown. 'only what is it?' asked jimmy, with a shaky voice. 'he won't hurt you,' was the answer. 'it's only old billy, the lion.' jimmy heard him roar as if he were only a yard or two away, and he felt rather alarmed, until they had left his cage farther behind. 'is that the lion who had your head in his mouth?' asked jimmy. 'well,' said the clown, 'it isn't in his mouth now, is it?' 'i didn't see the little clown,' exclaimed jimmy, and the clown stared down at the ground. 'no,' he answered, as if he felt rather miserable, 'we shan't see him again ever.' then they stopped at the back of one of the vans, and jimmy saw that there was a light inside it. 'up you get,' said the clown, and jimmy scrambled up a pair of wide steps which put him in mind of a bathing-machine. the door seemed to be made in halves, and whilst the lower part was shut the upper part was open. through this jimmy could see inside the van, and it looked exactly like a small room, only rather dirty and untidy. as jimmy stood on the steps staring into the van, with the clown close behind him, a girl came out from what seemed to be a second room behind the first. she had yellow hair, and her face looked very white; but although she must have changed her dress, jimmy felt certain she was the same girl who had worn the green velvet riding-habit. 'hullo!' she cried, seeing jimmy, but not seeing her father. 'what do you want?' 'all right, nan, all right,' said the clown, and he put an arm in front of jimmy to push open the door. whilst jimmy felt glad to find shelter from the rain, the clown went to the back room, which must have been extremely small, and carried on a conversation with the girl whom he called nan. jimmy felt certain he was telling her all about himself. presently they both came out again, and nan went to a shelf and brought some rather fat bacon and bread, and a knife and fork with black handles. there were two beds--one in the back part of the van and one in the front. jimmy sat down on the one in the front to eat his supper, and before he had finished nan gave him a mug of tea, which made him feel much warmer, although it did not taste very pleasant. the clown had gone away again, and jimmy wondered why there was such a noise outside the van. 'they're only putting the horses in,' said nan, when he questioned her. 'i should have thought they would be taking them out at this time of night,' answered jimmy. 'we always travel at night,' she explained, 'and then we're ready for the performance in the daytime.' 'but when do you go to sleep?' asked jimmy. 'when we get a chance,' she said. 'but the best thing you can do's to go to sleep now. suppose you lie down in there,' and she pointed to the room which was boarded off behind. 'whose bed is it?' he asked. 'father's, when he gets time to lie in it,' was the answer. 'but he can't if i'm there,' said jimmy. 'he's got a lot to do before he thinks of bed,' exclaimed nan. 'he's got to see to the horses. but i'll lie down as soon as we start, and presently father and i'll change places.' chapter x on the road it all seemed very strange to jimmy, and he would not have felt very much surprised if he had suddenly awakened to find himself back in the dormitory at miss lawson's, and all his adventures a dream. the bed did not look very clean, and jimmy thought at first that he should not care to lie down on it. he felt too tired to waste much time, however, and he did not even take off his clothes, but lay down just as he was, and in half a minute he fell fast asleep. and though the horse was put between the shafts, and there was a loud shouting as the long line of carts and vans began to move, jimmy did not open his eyes for some time. he might not have opened them even then if nan, who had also been asleep, had not risen and opened the door and let in a whiff of cold air. as jimmy sat up in the dark and rubbed his eyes, he thought at first that he must be in a boat, because whatever he might be in, it rolled about from side to side. remembering presently where he really was, he got off the bed, and peeped into the other half of the van. seeing that nan was not there, he went to the door, the upper half of which she had left open. the rain had quite left off, and the night was very beautiful. a great many stars shone in the sky; jimmy had never looked out so late before, he had never seen the heavens such a dark blue nor the stars so large and bright. it was four o'clock in the morning, the air felt very cold, and he could see that they were going slowly along a country road. about a yard from the back of his own van, a grey horse jogged along between the shafts of another van, with a rough brown pony tied beside it. feeling curious to see as much as he could, jimmy opened the door, and climbed carefully down the steps. then he ran to the side of the road, although he always took care to keep close to the clown's van. in front he saw ever so many carts and vans, and behind there were as many more. there were horses in groups of five or six, and men walking sleepily along by the hedge. now and then the lion roared, but not very loudly; now and then one of the men spoke to his horses; now and then a match was struck to light a pipe. but for the most part it seemed strangely silent as the long line wound slowly along the country road. for a good while jimmy scarcely heard a sound, but presently, after he had been in the road a few minutes, he did hear something, and that was the clown's voice. 'hullo,' it said, 'what are you doing out here? just you get inside again'; and jimmy scampered away and ran up the steps and lay down on the bed. he was soon asleep again, and when he re-opened his eyes it was broad daylight. he found that the caravan had come to a standstill, but when he looked out at the door everything seemed as quiet as when they were on the march. it was not so quiet inside the house, for the clown lay on the bed which nan had occupied earlier, and he was snoring loudly. jimmy wondered where nan had gone, but whilst he stood shivering by the door he saw her carrying a wooden pail full of water. 'is that for me to wash in?' asked jimmy, for he was surprised to find that there were no basins and towels in the van. 'not it,' answered nan. 'that's to make some tea for breakfast.' he watched whilst she brought out three pieces of iron like walking-sticks, tied together at the ends and forming a tripod. having stuck the other ends in the ground, nan collected some sticks, and heaping these together, she soon made a good fire. 'can i warm my hands?' asked jimmy; and leaving the van, he crouched down to hold his small hands over the blaze. then nan hung a kettle over the fire and stood watching whilst it boiled. and men and women gradually came out of the other vans, which stood about anyhow, and they all looked very sleepy and rather dirty, especially the children who soon began to collect round jimmy as if he were the most extraordinary thing in the caravan. if he had felt less cold and hungry jimmy might have enjoyed it all, for there was certainly a great deal to see. they seemed to have stopped on another common, but there were small houses not very far away. the worst of it was that wherever he went he was followed by a small crowd of children who made loud remarks about him. still he wandered in and out amongst the vans, and stopped a long time before the cage which contained the lion. the lion was lying down licking his fore-paws, but he left off to stare at jimmy, who quickly drew farther away from the cage. a little farther he met two elephants, a big one and a little one, with three men who were taking them down to a pond to drink. jimmy saw some comical-looking monkeys too; and what interested him almost more than anything were the men who had already begun to fix the large tent in an open space. it looked rather odd at present, because they had only fixed the centre pole, and the canvas hung loosely in the shape of the cap which the clown had worn last night. on returning to the van, still followed by the boys, jimmy saw the clown sitting on the steps eating an enormous piece of bread and cheese, and drinking hot tea out of a mug. 'come along,' said the clown, 'come and have some breakfast'; and jimmy sat down on the muddy ground, and nan gave him another mug and a thick slice of bread; but jimmy was by this time so hungry that he could have eaten anything. still he felt very anxious to hear how he was to reach chesterham without meeting coote again. 'i _should_ like to see my father and mother to-day,' he said, as he ate his breakfast. 'not to-day,' answered the clown, 'but it won't be long, so don't you worry yourself. we're working that way, and we're going to have a performance there.' 'at chesterham!' cried jimmy, feeling extremely relieved. 'you'll be there before the end of the week,' said the clown; 'and i should think your father would come down handsome.' now jimmy began to feel quite contented again, and there was so much to look at that he forgot everything else. when he was at school at ramsgate he had seen a circus going in a procession through the town, and now nan told him that this circus was going in a procession, and that it would start at half-past twelve. everybody seemed very busy making ready for it, men were attending to the horses, and the gilded chariots were being prepared, and presently nan began to dress. 'what are you going to be?' asked jimmy, as she took a bright-looking helmet from under her bed. 'don't you know?' she answered. 'why, i'm britannia.' a little later she left the van with the helmet on her head, and a large thing which looked like a pitchfork in one hand. in the other she carried a shield, and her white dress had flags all over it. by this time one of the gilded chariots had been made very high; it seemed to be almost as high as a house, and on the top was a seat. nan climbed up to this seat and sat down, and then a black man led billy the lion out of his cage with a chain round his neck, and it was funny to see the lion climb up to the place where nan was sitting and quietly lie down by her side. the clown was standing on a white horse, with a long pair of reins driving another white horse; but the black man who had led the lion drove eight horses, and then there was a band, in red, and two elephants, and everybody in the circus except some of the children and a few women formed a part of the long procession. chapter xi jimmy runs away again now, jimmy thought that he also would like to be in the procession. he would have liked to dress up as nan had done, although perhaps he would not have cared to sit quite so close to the lion. they seemed to have forgotten all about him, and he was left to do just as he liked. so what he did was to walk beside the procession into the town, and then to run on ahead to find a good place to see it pass. he got back to the van long before nan and her father, and being quite alone, he began to look about him. hanging on a peg, he saw a lot of old clothes, which seemed rather interesting, especially one suit that must have belonged to the little clown. jimmy looked at the dress again and again. there were long things like socks, of a dirty white colour, with a kind of flowery pattern in red along the sides. then he saw what looked like a very short and baggy pair of light red and blue knickerbockers, and also the jacket of light red and blue too, with curious loose sleeves. he would very much have liked to put them all on just to see how he looked in them, only that he felt afraid that nan or her father might return before he had time to take them off again. no sooner did they come back than they began to prepare for the evening performance, and still everybody seemed too busy to give many thoughts to jimmy. 'whose is that little clown's suit?' he asked, while nan was busy about the van. 'ah,' she answered, 'that was my little brother's,' and she spoke so unhappily that he did not like to say any more about it. but jimmy wanted more and more to try the suit on himself only just for a few moments, and he thought it could not possibly do any harm. presently nan, who had taken off britannia's dress, put on her green velvet riding-habit, and jimmy could hear the band playing close by, and he guessed that the performance was soon going to begin. 'you can go to bed whenever you like,' said nan, before she left the van. 'thank you,' he answered, and when she had gone he stood at the door looking out into the darkness. he could see the flaming naphtha lamps, and hear the music and a loud clapping inside the great tent, and now they seemed all so busy that it might be a good time to put on the little clown's dress. first of all jimmy shut the upper part of the door, so that nobody who happened to look that way could see inside the van. he took down the clothes from the peg, and removed his own jacket and waistcoat and knickerbockers as quickly as possible. then he found that he must take off his boots and stockings, and he sat down on the floor of the van to draw on those with the pattern on each side. they did not go on very easily, but he managed it at last, and then it was a simple matter to put on the loose knickerbockers and the jacket. as his feet felt cold, he put on his own boots again, and then he stood on a chair without a back to take down the piece of broken looking-glass which he had seen nan use that day. he could not get a very good view of himself, but he could see that his face was much dirtier than it had ever been before in his life, and this was not to be wondered at, because he had not washed it since he left his aunt selina's yesterday morning. and yesterday morning seemed a very long time ago. he stood in the middle of the van, trying to look at himself in the glass, when suddenly it fell from his hand and broke, and jimmy gave a violent jump. for to his great alarm he heard distinctly the voice of coote, the railway policeman, just outside the van. now coote had been greatly astonished last night, on coming out of the ham and beef shop, to see no sign of jimmy. he had spent two hours looking for him, and then he gave him up as a bad job. when he told the station-master what had happened, he was ordered to do nothing else until he found the boy again, and so coote had spent the whole day searching for him. and coote's instructions were, on finding the boy, to take him direct to his aunt's house at chesterham. coote, after looking all over barstead, thought that perhaps jimmy had gone away with the circus people, so he took a train and followed them. but jimmy felt as much afraid as ever; he made sure that if coote caught him he would be locked up in prison. thinking that the policeman was coming into the van, he looked about for a place to hide himself, and at last he made up his mind to crawl under the bed. it was not at all easy, because the bed was close to the floor; but still, jimmy managed it at last, and lay quite still on the floor, expecting every moment that coote would enter. then he remembered that he had left his own clothes on the floor, so that if coote saw them he would guess that their owner was hiding. jimmy felt that he would do anything to get safely away, and he lay on the floor scarcely daring to breathe, until coote's voice sounded farther off. crawling out from under the bed again, presently, without stopping to think, jimmy opened the door of the van, ran down the steps, and on putting his feet to the grass, he at once dodged round the van and set off at a run away from the tent. he ran and ran until he was quite out of breath. he seemed to have reached a country lane; it was very quiet and dark, and the stars shone in the sky. jimmy sat down by the wayside, feeling very hot and tired, and then he remembered that he was wearing the clown's clothes. he remembered also that he had left all his money and his knife behind him; but still he did not think of going back, because if he went back he would be certain to fall into the hands of coote. no, he would not go back; what he would do was to make his way to chesterham. it could not be very far, for the clown had said he should be there in a few days, although the caravan travelled slowly. why shouldn't he walk to his aunt's house, and then he would see his mother and father, who no doubt would look surprised to see him dressed as a clown. if his mother was really like aunt selina she might be very angry, but then he hoped she wasn't like his aunt, and, at all events, jimmy thought she could not be angry with him just the first time she saw him. but, then, he might not be in the right road for chesterham, and he did not wish to lose his way, because he had no money to buy anything to eat, and already he was beginning to feel hungry. the sooner he got along the better, so he rose from his seat beside the road and walked on in the hope of seeing some one who could tell him the way. he walked rather slowly, but still he went a few miles, passing a cottage with lights in the windows now and then, but not liking to knock at the door. but presently he felt so tired that he made up his mind to knock at the next. when he came to it he walked up to the garden gate, but then his courage failed. he stood leaning against the gate, hoping that some of the people whose voices he could hear might come out; but presently the windows became dark, and jimmy guessed that, instead of coming out, the people in the cottage had gone to bed. now that he knew it must be very late, jimmy began to feel a little afraid. it seemed very dull and lonely, and he longed to meet somebody, never mind who it was. there was only one thing which seemed to be moving, and that was a windmill standing on a slight hill a little way from the road. it seemed very curious to watch the sails going round in the darkness, but jimmy could see them rise and fall, because they looked black against the blue sky. the mill was so near that he could hear the noise of the sails as they went round, it sounded like a very loud humming-top, and there were one or two patches of light to be seen in the mill. jimmy thought that perhaps he might be able to lie down near to it, although the difficulty was to get to it. but when he had walked on a little farther, he saw a dark-looking lane on his right hand, and after stopping to think a little, he walked along it. with every step he took the humming sounded louder, but presently jimmy stopped suddenly. chapter xii jimmy sleeps in a windmill 'hullo!' said a voice close in front of him, and looking up jimmy saw a man smoking a pipe. of course it was too dark for him to see anything very distinctly, but still his eyes had become used to the darkness, and he could see more than you would imagine. 'what are you after?' asked the man. 'please i was looking for somewhere to sleep,' answered jimmy. 'well, you're a rum sort of youngster,' said the man. 'here, come along o' me.' jimmy followed him along a path which led to the mill, and as they drew near to it the great sails seemed to swish through the air in a rather alarming manner. the man opened a door and jimmy looked in. the floor was all white with flour, and dozens of sacks stood against the walls. the man also looked nearly as white as the floor, and he began to smile as the light fell upon jimmy. but the boy did not feel at all inclined to smile. 'why,' he asked, 'you look as if you've come from a circus?' 'i have,' answered jimmy, feeling quite stupid from sleepiness. 'run away?' said the man. 'have you?' 'yes,' answered jimmy, gaping. 'got nowhere to sleep?' asked the miller. 'no,' was the answer. 'hungry?' asked the miller. 'i only want to go to sleep,' said jimmy, gaping again. 'come in here,' said the man, and without losing a moment, jimmy followed him into the mill. there the man threw two or three sacks on to the floor, and told jimmy to lie down. there seemed to be a great noise at first, but jimmy shut his eyes and soon fell sound asleep, too sound asleep even to dream of coote or the clown. he was awakened by the miller's kicking one of the sacks on which he lay, and looking about to see where he was, jimmy saw that it was broad daylight, and that the sun was shining brightly. 'now, then, off with you,' cried the miller, 'before i get into trouble.' 'what time is it, please?' asked jimmy sleepily, as he stood upright. 'it'll soon be six o'clock,' was the answer. jimmy thought it was a great deal too early to get up, and he felt so tired that he would very much have liked to lie down again, but he did not say so. 'here, take this,' said the man, and he put twopence into jimmy's hand. 'mind they don't catch you,' he added. 'please can you tell me the way to chesterham?' asked jimmy. 'chesterham's a long way,' answered the miller; 'but you've got to get to sandham first. go back into the road and keep to your left. when you get to sandham ask for chesterham.' 'thank you,' said jimmy, and with the twopence held tightly in his hand he walked along the lane until he reached the road. it was a beautiful morning, but jimmy could do nothing but gape; his feet felt very heavy, and he wished that he had never put on the clown's clothes and left his own behind. still he made sure that he should be able to reach chesterham some day, and presently he passed a church and an inn and several small houses and poor-looking shops. with the twopence in his hand he looked in at the shop windows wondering what he should buy for breakfast, and seeing a card in one of them which said that lemonade was a penny a bottle, jimmy determined to buy some of that. the woman who served him looked very much astonished, and she called another woman to look at him too. but jimmy stood drinking the cool, sweet lemonade, and thought it was the nicest thing he had ever tasted. as he stood drinking it his eyes fell on some cakes of chocolate cream. 'how much are those?' he asked. 'two a penny,' said the woman. 'i'll have two, please,' said jimmy, and he began to eat them as soon as he left the shop. but he was glad to leave the village behind, because everybody he met stared at him and he did not like it. three boys and a girl followed him some distance along the road, no doubt expecting that he was really and truly a clown, and would do some tumbling and make them laugh. but at last they grew tired of following him, and they stopped and began to call him names, and one boy threw a stone at him, but jimmy felt far too miserable to throw one back. chocolate creams and lemonade are very nice things, but they don't make a very good breakfast. the morning seemed very long, and presently jimmy sat down by a hedge and fell asleep. he awoke feeling more hungry than ever, and no one was in sight but a man on a hay cart. but it happened that the cart was going towards sandham, and jimmy waited until it came up, and then he climbed up behind and hung with one leg over the tailboard and got a long ride for nothing. he might have ridden all the way to sandham, only that the carter turned round in a rather bad temper and hit jimmy with his whip, so that he jumped down more quickly than he had climbed up. he guessed that he was near the town, because there were houses by the roadside, and passing carts, and even an omnibus. if jimmy had had any more money he would have got into the omnibus; as he had none he was compelled to walk on. it was quite late in the afternoon when he entered sandham, and he had eaten nothing since the chocolate creams. he was annoyed to find that a number of children were following him again, and as he went farther into the town they crowded round in a ring, so that jimmy was brought to a standstill. he felt very uncomfortable standing there, with dozens of children and a few grown-up persons round him. they cried out to him to 'go on,' and this was just what jimmy would have liked to do. he felt so miserable that he put an arm to his eyes and began to cry, and then the crowd began to laugh, for they thought he was going to begin to do something to amuse them at last. but when they saw he did nothing funny as a clown ought to do, but only kept on crying, they began to jeer at him, and one boy came near as if he would hit him. jimmy took down his arm then, and the two boys, one dressed in rags and the other in the dirty clown's dress, stood staring at each other with their small fists doubled, when jimmy felt some one take hold of his arm, and looking round he saw a rather tall, dark-haired lady, with a pretty-looking face. her hand was on his arm, and her eyes wore a very curious expression, almost as if she were going to cry also, just to keep jimmy company. but from the moment that jimmy looked at her face he felt that things would be better with him. 'come with me, dear,' she whispered, and taking his hand in her own she led him out of the crowd. 'where to?' asked jimmy, wondering why she held his hand so tightly. 'i think the best thing to do will be to put you to bed,' she answered. 'yes,' said jimmy, 'i should like to go to bed--to a real bed, you know--not sacks.' 'you shall go into a real bed,' she answered. 'i think i should like to have something to eat first,' he cried. 'oh yes, you shall have something to eat,' she said. if a good many persons had stopped to stare at jimmy when he was alone, many more stared now to see a dirty-faced, poor little clown being led away by a nicely-dressed lady. but the fact was that jimmy did not care what they thought. they might stare as much as they liked, and it did not make any difference. he felt that he was all right at last, although he did not in the least know who his friend could be. but he felt that she _was_ a friend, and that was the great thing; he felt that whatever she did would be pleasant and good, and that she was going to give him something nice to eat and a comfortable bed to sleep in. somehow he did not feel at all surprised, only extremely tired, so that he could scarcely keep his eyes open. things that happened did not seem quite real, it was almost like a dream. the lady stopped in front of a house where lodgings were let, although jimmy knew nothing about that. the door was opened by a pleasant, rosy-cheeked woman in a cotton dress. 'well, i _am_ glad!' she cried; and jimmy wondered, but only for a moment, what she had to be glad about. 'i think some hot soup will be the best thing,' said the lady, 'and then we will put him to bed.' 'what do you think about a bath?' asked the landlady. 'the bath will do to-morrow,' was the answer. 'just some soup and then bed. and i shall want you to send a telegram to the post office.' 'you're not going to send a telegram to the policeman,' exclaimed jimmy; but as the landlady left the room to see about the soup, the lady placed her arm round him and drew him towards her. jimmy thought that most ladies would not have liked to draw him close, because he really looked a dirty little object, but this lady did not seem to mind at all. suddenly she held him farther away from her, and looked strangely into his face. 'what is your name?' she asked. 'james--orchardson--sinclair--wilmot,' said jimmy with a gape between the words. then she pressed him closer still, and kissed his face again and again, and for once jimmy rather liked being kissed. perhaps it was because he had felt so tired and lonely; but whatever the reason may have been, he did not try to draw away, but nestled down in her arms and felt more comfortable than he had felt for ever so long. it was not long before the landlady came back with a plate of hot soup, and jimmy sat in a chair by the table and the lady broke some bread and dipped it in, and jimmy almost fell asleep as he fed himself. still he enjoyed the soup, and when it was finished she took him up in her arms and carried him to another room where there were two beds. she stood jimmy down, and he leaned against the smaller bed with his eyes shut whilst she took off the clown's dress, and the last thing he recollected was her face very close to his own before he fell sound asleep. chapter xiii the last it was quite late when jimmy opened his eyes the next morning, and a few minutes afterwards he was sitting up in bed, wondering how much he had dreamed and how much was real. had he actually got into the wrong train, and run away from a policeman, and travelled in the van, and put on the little clown's clothes, and then run away again? had he really done all these strange things or had he only dreamed them? but if he had dreamed them, where was he? and if they were real, where had the clown's dress gone to? as jimmy sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, he hoped that he had not been dreaming; because if it had been only a dream, why, then, he had only dreamed of the lady also, and he felt that he very much wished her to be real. why, she was real! for there she stood smiling at the open door, with a tray covered with a white cloth in her hand, and on it a large cup of hot bread and milk, and two eggs. 'i am glad!' said jimmy. 'what are you glad about?' she asked, as she placed the tray on his bed. 'that you're quite real,' he answered. 'well,' she said, 'your breakfast is real too, and the best thing you can do is to eat it.' jimmy began at once. he began with the bread and milk, and the lady sat at the foot of the bed watching him. 'where am i going after breakfast?' he asked. 'into a nice hot bath,' she said. 'but after that?' 'how should you like to go to see your father?' she asked. 'do you know him?' asked jimmy, laying down his spoon in his astonishment. 'very well indeed.' 'and my mother too?' 'yes, and winnie too.' 'is she like aunt selina?' asked jimmy, as the lady began to take the top off his egg. 'do you mean winnie?' she said. 'no, my mother. because aunt selina said they were like each other, but i hope they're not.' 'well, no,' answered the lady, 'i really don't think your mother is very much like aunt selina.' 'do you think she'll be very cross?' he asked. 'i don't think so. why should she be cross?' as she spoke she took away the empty cup and gave jimmy the egg. she cut a slice of bread and butter into fingers, and he dipped them into the egg and ate it that way. 'this _is_ a nice egg,' said jimmy. 'but,' he continued, 'i thought perhaps she'd be cross because i got into the wrong train.' 'why did you run away from the policeman?' asked the lady. 'because he said he should lock me up.' 'but he was only joking, you know.' 'was he?' asked jimmy, opening his eyes very widely. 'that's all,' was the answer, and jimmy looked thoughtful for a few minutes. 'i don't think i like policemen who joke,' he said solemnly. 'then,' asked the lady, 'why did you run away from the circus? you seem to be very fond of running away.' 'i shan't run away from you,' said jimmy. 'only i heard the policeman's voice outside the van and i thought i'd better.' 'well,' she answered, 'if you had not run away you would have found your mother much sooner.' 'i do hope she isn't like aunt selina,' he said wistfully. 'what should you wish her to be like?' asked the lady. 'why, like you, of course,' he cried, and then he was very much surprised to see the lady lean forward and throw her arms about him and to feel her kissing him again and again. and when she left off her eyes were wet. 'why did you do that?' asked jimmy. 'she _is_ like me, you darling!' said the lady. 'my mother?' cried jimmy. 'you dear, foolish boy, i am your mother,' she said. 'oh,' said jimmy, and it was quite a long time before he was able to say anything else. a few moments later mrs. wilmot rang the bell, and a servant carried a large bath into the room, then she went away and came back with a can of very hot water, and then she went away again to fetch a brown-paper parcel. mrs. wilmot opened the parcel at once, and jimmy sat up in bed and looked on. he saw her take out a suit of brown clothes, a shirt, and all sorts of things, so that he should have everything new. then he got out of bed, and had such a washing and scrubbing as he had never had before. he was washed from head to foot, and dressed in the new clothes, and when he looked in the glass he saw himself just as he had been before he left miss lawson's school at ramsgate. 'now,' said mrs. wilmot, 'i think you may as well come to see your father and winnie.' 'are they here?' he asked. 'oh yes,' she explained, 'i sent to tell them last night, and they arrived early this morning. not both together, because we left winnie with aunt ellen at chesterham, whilst father went to look for you one way and i went another.' 'then you were really looking for me?' cried jimmy. 'why, of course we were,' she answered. 'we knew you were walking about the country dressed as a little clown. but come,' she said, 'because your father is anxious to see you.' 'i should like to see him too,' said jimmy. 'i hope he's as nice as you are,' he cried as they left the bedroom. 'he is ever so much nicer,' was the quiet answer. 'i don't think he could be,' said jimmy, as his mother turned the handle. then he remembered what the boys had said at school. 'winnie isn't really black, is she?' he asked. 'black!' cried his mother; 'she is just the dearest little girl in the world.' 'i'm glad of that,' said jimmy, and then he entered the room and saw a tall man with a fair moustache standing in front of the fire, and, seated on his shoulder, was one of the prettiest little girls jimmy had ever seen. 'there he is!' she cried. 'there's my brother. put me down, please.' 'good-morning,' said jimmy, as his father put winnie on to the floor. but the next moment mr. wilmot put his hands under jimmy's arms and lifted him up to kiss him, but the odd thing was that when he was standing on the floor again he could not think of anything to say to winnie. 'i've got a dollie!' she said presently, while their father and mother stood watching them, 'and i'm going to have a governess.' then they all began to talk quite freely, and jimmy soon felt as if he had lived with them always. presently they went out for a walk to buy jimmy some more clothes, and when they came back the children's dinner was ready. 'i do like being here,' said jimmy during the meal. 'i am glad you got found,' cried winnie. 'so am i,' he answered. 'but suppose,' he suggested, 'that i hadn't been found before you went away again.' then winnie solemnly laid aside her fork--she was not old enough to use a knife. 'why,' she said, 'you do say funny things. we're not going away again, ever.' 'aren't you?' asked jimmy, looking up at his father and mother. 'no,' answered mrs. wilmot, 'we're going to stay at home with you.' 'are you really--really?' asked jimmy, for he could scarcely believe it. 'yes, really,' said mr. wilmot. 'it will be nice,' said jimmy thoughtfully, and then he went on with his dinner. the end the dumpy books for children i. the flamp, the ameliorator, and the schoolboy's apprentice, _by e. v. lucas_ ii. mrs. turner's cautionary stories iii. the bad family, _by mrs. fenwick_ iv. the story of little black sambo. illustrated in colours, _by helen bannerman_ v. the bountiful lady, _by thomas cobb_ vi. a cat book, portraits _by h. officer smith_, characteristics _by e. v. lucas_ vii. a flower book. illustrated in colours _by nellie benson_. _story by eden coybee_ viii. the pink knight. illustrated in colours _by j. r. monsell_ ix. the little clown, _by thomas cobb_ by the same author cooper's first term. illustrated by gertrude m. bradley. _a new series._ the larger dumpy books for children. i. a six-inch admiral. by g. a. best. ii. holidays and happy days. by e. florence mason. with verses by hamish hendry. iii. pillow stories. by s. l. heward. with illustrations by gertrude m. bradley. [transcriber's note: susan warner, _the end of a coil_ ( )] the end of a coil. by susan warner author of "the wide, wide world." "well begun is half done." london: james nisbet & co., berners street note to the reader. as in the case of "my desire," the turning facts of this story are fact; even to the most romantic and unlikely detail. in this is found, i hope, my justification for making the hero in one place repeat something very like what was said by the hero of queechy on a like occasion. i was unwilling to disturb the absolute truth of the story, so far as i had it. contents. chapter i. dolly's arrival ii. christina and her mother iii. the marine dictionary iv. the "achilles" v. the piece of rope vi. end of school term vii. playthings viii. london ix. the peacocks x. brierley cottage xi. in the park xii. the house xiii. preaching and practice xiv. difficulties xv. the consul's office xvi. a fight xvii. rupert xviii. a square party xix. seeing sights xx. limburg xxi. venice xxii. mr. copley xxiii. the wine shop xxiv. past greatness xxv. christmas eve xxvi. naples xxvii. sorrento xxviii. at the villa xxix. whither now? xxx. down hill xxxi. hands full xxxii. the nurse xxxiii. under an oak tree xxxiv. under the same oak xxxv. ways and means xxxvi. this picture and that the end of a coil. chapter i. dolly's arrival. the door stands open of a handsome house in walnut street--the walnut street which belongs to the city of william penn; and on the threshold stands a lady, with her hand up to her brows, shielding her eyes from the light. she is watching to see what will come out of a carriage just driving up to the curbstone. the carriage stops; there descends first the figure of a handsome, very comfortable-looking gentleman. mrs. eberstein's eyes pass over him very cursorily; she has seen him before; and there is hardly a curl on his handsome head which his wife does not know by heart. what comes next? ah, that is she!--the figure of the expected one; and a little girl of some eleven years is helped carefully out by mr. eberstein, and comes up the steps to the waiting and watching lady. a delicate little thing, delicate in frame and feature alike, with a fair, childish face, framed in by loose light brown curls, and a pair of those clear, grave, wise, light hazel eyes which have the power of looking so young and so spiritually old at once. those eyes are the first thing that mrs. eberstein sees, and they fascinate her already. meanwhile kind arms are opened wide, and take the little one in. "come at last, darling! and do you remember your aunt hal? and are you half as glad to see her as she is to see you?" so mrs. eberstein gives her greeting, while she is drawing the child through the hall and into the parlour; gives it between kisses. "why, no," said her husband, who had followed. "be reasonable, harry. she cannot be so glad to see you as we are to see her. she has just come from a long stage-coach journey; and she is tired, and she is hungry; and she has left a world she knows, and has come to a world she doesn't know; hey, dolly? isn't it true? tell your aunt hal to stop asking questions, and give you something to eat." "i have come to a world i don't know," repeated the little girl by way of answer, turning her serious small face to her questioner, while mrs. eberstein was busily taking off coat and hat and mufflers. "yes, that's what i say!" returned mr. eberstein. "how do you like the look of it, hey?" "i wonder who is asking questions now!" said mrs. eberstein. "there, darling! now you are at home." she finished with another kiss; but, nevertheless, i think the feeling that it was a strange world she had come to, was rather prominent in dolly. she suddenly stooped to a great maltese cat that was lying on the hearthrug, and i am afraid the eyes were glad of an excuse to get out of sight. she touched the cat's fur tenderly and somewhat diligently. "she won't hurt you," said her aunt. "that is mr. eberstein's pet. her name is queen mab." "she don't look much like a fairy," was dolly's comment. indeed, queen mab would outweigh most of her race, and was a magnificent specimen of good feeding. "you do," thought mrs. eberstein. aloud she asked: "what do you know about fairies?" "oh, i know they are only stories. i have read about them." "fairy tales, eh?" "no, not much fairy tales," said dolly, now rising up from the cat. "i have read about them in 'midsummer night's dream.'" "'midsummer night's dream,' you midget!" exclaimed mrs. eberstein. "have you read that? and everything else you could lay hands on?" she took the child in her arms again as she spoke. dolly gave a quiet assent. "and they let you do just what you like at home? and read just what you like?" dolly smiled slightly at the obviousness of the course of action referred to; but the next minute the smile was quenched in a mist of tears, and she hid her head on mrs. eberstein's shoulder. kisses and caresses of course followed, not successfully. at last mr. eberstein's repeated suggestion that food, in the circumstances, would be very much in place, was acted upon. supper was served in the next room, which did duty for a dining-room; and the little family gathered round a bountifully spread table. there were only those three; and, naturally, the attention of the two elder was very much concentrated upon the third new member of the party; although mr. eberstein was hungry and proved it. the more mrs. eberstein studied her new acquisition, however, the more incitement to study she found. . dolly was not like most children; one could see that immediately. faces as pretty, and more pretty, could easily be found; the charm was not in mere flesh and blood, form or colour. other children's faces are often innocent too, and free from the shadow of life's burdens, as this was. nevertheless, it is not often, it is very rarely, that one sees the mingling of childish simplicity with that thoughtful, wise, spiritual look into life, which met one in dolly's serious hazel orbs; not often that sweetness and character speak so early in the lines of the lips; utterly childish in their soft, free mobility, and yet revealing continually a trait of thoughtfulness or of strength, along with the happy play of an unqualified tender disposition. "you are lovely! you are lovely!" was mrs. eberstein's inner cry; and she had to guard herself that the thought did not come to too open expression. there was a delicate air of refinement also about the child, quite in keeping with all the rest of her; a neat and noiseless handling of knife and fork, cup and saucer; and while dolly was evidently hungry as well as her uncle, she took what was given to her in a thoroughly high-bred way; that is, she made neither too much nor too little of it. doubtless all the while she was using her power of observation, as mrs. eberstein was using hers, though the fact was not obtruded; for dolly had heart wants quite as urgent as body wants. what she saw was reassuring. with mr. eberstein she had already been several hours in company, having travelled with him from new york. she was convinced of his genial kindness and steadfast honesty; all the lines of his handsome face, and every movement of his somewhat ease-loving person, were in harmony with that impression. mrs. eberstein was a fit mate for her husband. if dolly had watched her a little anxiously at first, on account of her livelier manner, she soon made out to her satisfaction that nothing but kindness, large and bounteous, lodged behind her aunt's face, and gave its character to her aunt's manner. she knew those lively eyes were studying her; she knew just as well that nothing but good would come of the study. the meal over, mrs. eberstein took her niece upstairs to make her acquainted with her new quarters. it was a little room off the hall which had been destined for dolly, opening out of her aunt's own; and it had been fitted up with careful affection. a small bedstead and dressing-table of walnut wood, a little chest of drawers, a little wardrobe; it was a wonder how so much could have been got in, but there was room for all. and then there were red curtains and carpet, and on the white spread a dainty little eider-down silk quilt; and on the dressing-table and chest of drawers pretty toilet napkins and pincushion. it was a cosy little apartment as ever eleven years old need delight in. dolly forthwith hung up her hat and coat in the wardrobe; took brush and comb out of her travelling bag, and with somewhat elaborate care made her hair smooth; as smooth, that is, as a loose confusion of curly locks allowed; then signified that she was ready to go downstairs again. if mrs. eberstein had expected some remark upon her work, she was disappointed. in the drawing-room, she drew the child to sit down upon her knee. "well, dolly, what do you think you are going to do in philadelphia?" "go to school--they say." "who says so?" "father says so, and mother." "what do you think they want you to go to school for?" "i suppose that i may become like other people." mr. eberstein burst out into a laugh. his wife's eyes went over to him adjuringly. "are you not like other people now, dolly?" the child's sweet, thoughtful brown eyes were lifted to hers frankly, as she answered, "i don't know, ma'am." "then why do you say that? or why do they say it?" "i don't know," said dolly again. "i think they think so." "i daresay they do," said mrs. eberstein; "but if you were mine, i would rather have you unlike other people." "why, aunt harry?" "yes," said mr. eberstein; "now you'll have to go on and tell." and dolly's eyes indeed looked expectant. "i think i like you best just as you are." dolly's face curled all up into a smile at this; brow and eyes and cheeks and lips all spoke her sense of amusement; and stooping forward a little at the same time, she laid a loving kiss upon her aunt's mouth, who was unspeakably delighted with this expression of confidence. but then she repeated gravely-- "i think they want me changed." "and pray, what are you going to do, with that purpose in view?" "i don't know. i am going to study, and learn things; a great many things." "i don't believe you are particularly ignorant for eleven years old." "oh, i do not know anything!" "can you write a nice hand?" dolly's face wrinkled up again with a sense of the comical. she gave an unhesitating affirmative answer. "and you have read shakespeare. what else, dolly?" "plutarch." "'plutarch's lives'?" said mrs. eberstein, while her husband again laughed out aloud. "hush, edward. is it 'plutarch's lives,' my dear, that you mean? caesar, and alexander, and pompey?" dolly nodded. "and all the rest of them. i like them very much." "but what is your favourite book?" "that!" said dolly. "i have got a whole little bookcase upstairs full of the books i used to read when i was a little girl. we will look into it to-morrow, and see what we can find. 'plutarch's lives' is not there." "oh, i do not want that," said dolly, her eyes brightening. "i have read it so much, i know it all." "come here," said mr. eberstein; "your aunt has had you long enough; come here, dolly, and talk to me. tell me which of those old fellows you think was the best fellow?" "of 'plutarch's lives'?" said dolly, accepting a position upon mr. eberstein's knee now. "yes; the men that 'plutarch's lives' tell about. whom do you like best?" dolly pondered, and then averred that she liked one for one thing and another for another. there ensued a lively discussion between her and mr. eberstein, in the course of which dolly certainly brought to view some power of discrimination and an unbiassed original judgment; at the same time her manner retained the delicate quiet which characterised all that belonged to her. she held her own over against mr. eberstein, but she held it with an exquisite poise of ladylike good breeding; and mr. eberstein was charmed with her. the talk lasted until it was broken up by mrs. eberstein, who declared dolly must go to rest. she went up herself with the child, and attended to her little arrangements; helped her undress; and when dolly was fairly in bed, stood still looking at the bright little head on the pillow, thinking that the brown eyes were very wide open for the circumstances. "are you very tired, darling?" she asked. "i don't know," said dolly. "i guess not very." "sleepy?" "no, i am not sleepy yet. i am wide awake." "do you ever lie awake, after you have gone to bed?" "not often. sometimes." "what makes you do it?" "i don't know. i get thinking sometimes." "about what can such a midget as you get thinking?" dolly's face wrinkled up a little in amusement at this question. "i see a great many things to think about," she answered. "it's too soon for you to begin that," said mrs. eberstein, shaking her head. then she dropped down on her knees by the bedside, so as to bring her face nearer the child's. "dolly, have you said your prayers?" she asked softly. the brown eyes seemed to lift their lids a little wider at that. "what do you mean, aunt harry?" she replied. "do you never pray to the lord jesus before you go to sleep?" "i don't do it ever. i don't know anything about it." the thrill that went over mrs. eberstein at this happily the little one did not know. she went on very quietly in manner. "don't you know what prayer is?" "it is what people do in church, isn't it?" "what is it that people do in church?" "i do not know," said dolly. "i never thought about it." "it is what you do whenever you ask your father or mother for anything. only that is prayer to your father or mother. this i mean is prayer to god." "we don't call it prayer, asking them anything," said dolly. "no, we do not call it so. but it is really the same thing. we call it prayer, when we speak to god." "why should i speak to god, aunt harry? i don't know how." "why he is our father in heaven, dolly. wouldn't it be a strange thing if children never spoke to their father?" "but they can't, if they don't know him," said dolly. here followed a strange thing, which no doubt had mighty after-effects. mrs. eberstein, who was already pretty well excited over the conversation, at these words broke down, burst into tears, and hid her face in the bedclothes. dolly looked on in wondering awe, and an instant apprehension that the question here was about something real. presently she put out her hand and touched caressingly mrs. eberstein's hair, moved both by pity and curiosity to put an end to the tears and have the talk begin again. mrs. eberstein lifted her face, seized the little hand and kissed it. "you see, darling," she said, "i want you to be god's own child." "how can i?" "if you will trust jesus and obey him. all who belong to him are god's dear children; and he loves them, and the lord jesus loves them, and he takes care of them and teaches them, and makes them fit to be with him and serve him in glory by and by." "but i don't know about jesus," said dolly again. "haven't you got a bible?" "no." "never read it?" "no." "never went to sunday school?" "no, ma'am." "little dolly, i am very glad you came to philadelphia." "why, aunt harry?" "because i love you so much!" exclaimed mrs. eberstein, kissing the child's sweet mouth. "why, dolly, jesus is the best, best friend we have got; nobody loves us so much in the whole world; he gave his life for us. and, then, he is the king of glory. he is everything that is loving, and true, and great, and good; 'the chiefest among ten thousand.'" "what did he give his life for?" said dolly, whose eyes were growing more and more intent. "to save our lives, dear." "from what?" "why, dolly, you and i, and everybody, have broken god's beautiful law. the punishment for that is death; not merely the death of the body, but everlasting separation from god and his love and his favour; that is death; living death. to save us from that, jesus died himself; he paid our debt; he died instead of us." "then is he dead?" said dolly awefully. "he was dead; but he rose again, and now he lives, king over all. he was god as well as man, so the grave could not hold him. but he paid our debt, darling." "you said, death was everlasting separation from god and good," said dolly very solemnly. "for us, it would have been." "but he did not die that way?" "he could not, for he is the glorious son of god. he only tasted death for us; that we might not drink the bitter cup to eternity." "aunt harry," said dolly, "is all that true?" "certainly." "when did he do that?" "it is almost nineteen hundred years ago. and since then, if any one trusts his word and is willing to be his servant, jesus loves him, and keeps him, and saves him, and makes him blessed for ever." "but why did he do that? what made him?" "his great love for us." "us?" dolly repeated. "yes. you and me, and everybody. he just came to save that which was lost." "i don't see how he can love me," said dolly slowly. "why, i am a stranger to him, aunt harry." "ah, you are no stranger! oh yes, dolly, he loves you dearly; and he knows all about you." dolly considered the matter a little, and also considered her aunt, whose lips were quivering and whose eyes were dropping tears. with a very serious face dolly considered the matter: and came to a conclusion with promptitude unusual in this one subject of all the world. she half rose up in her bed. "then i love him," she said. "i will love him, too, aunt harry." "will you, my darling?" "but i do not know how to be his servant." "jesus will teach you himself, if you ask him." "how will he teach me?" "he will make you understand his word, and let you know what pleases him. he says, 'if ye love me, keep my commandments.'" "his commandments are in the bible, aren't they?" "certainly. you say you have not got a bible?" "no." "then we will see about that to-morrow, the first thing we do. you shall have a bible, and that will tell you about his commandments." "aunt harry, i would like him to know to-night that i love him." "then tell him so, dear." "can i?" "to be sure you can. why not?" "i do not know how." "tell him, dolly, just as if the lord jesus were here present and you could see him. he is here, only you do not see him; that is all the difference tell him, dolly, just as you would tell me; only remember that you are speaking to the king. he would like to hear you say that." "i ought to kneel down when i speak to him, oughtn't i? people do in church." "it is proper, when we can, to take a position of respect when we speak to the king; don't you think so?" dolly shuffled herself up upon her knees in the bed, not regarding much that mrs. eberstein threw a shawl round her shoulders; and waited a minute or two, looking intensely serious and considering. then laying her hands involuntarily together, but with her eyes open, she spoke. "o lord jesus,--aunt harry says you are here though i cannot see you. if you are here, you can see, and you know that i love you; and i will be your servant. i never knew about you before, or i would have done it before. now i do. please to teach me, for i do not know anything, that i may do everything that pleases you. i will not do anything that don't please you. amen." dolly waited a moment, then turned and put her arms round her aunt's neck and kissed her. "thank you!"--she said earnestly; and then lay down and arranged herself to sleep. mrs. eberstein went downstairs and astonished her husband by a burst of hysterical weeping. he made anxious enquiries; and at last received an account of the last half-hour. "but, oh, edward, what do you think?" she concluded. "did you ever hear anything like that in your life? do you think it can be genuine?" "genuine what?" demanded her husband. "why, i mean, can it be true religious conversion? this child knows next to nothing; just that jesus died out of love to her, to save her,--nothing more." "and she has given her love back. very logical and reasonable; and ought not to be so uncommon." "but it is uncommon, edward. at least, people generally make a longer business of it." "in which they do not show their wisdom." "no; but they do it. edward, can it be that this child is so suddenly a christian? will it stand?" "only time can show that. but harry, all the cases,--almost all the cases reported in the new testament are cases of sudden yielding. just look at it. john and andrew took but a couple of hours or so to make up their minds. nathanael did not apparently take more than two minutes after he saw christ. lydia became a christian at her first hearing the good news; the eunuch made up his mind as quick. why should not little dolly? the trouble is caused only by people's obstinate resistance." "then you think it may be true work?" "of course i think so. this child is not an ordinary child, there is that to be said." "no," said mrs. eberstein thoughtfully. "is she not peculiar? she is such a child; and yet there is such a wise, deep look in her brown eyes. what pretty eyes they are! there is the oddest mixture of old and young in her i ever saw. she is going to be lovely, edward!" "i think she is lovely now." "oh yes! but i mean, when she grows up. she will be very lovely, with those spiritual eyes and that loose curly brown hair; if only she can be kept as she is now." "my dear, she cannot be that!" "oh, you know what i mean, edward. if she can be kept unspoiled; untainted; unsophisticated; with that sort of mixture of wisdom and simplicity which she has now. i wish we need not send her to school." "we have no choice about that. and the lord can keep his own. let us ask him." they knelt and did so; with some warm tears on mrs. eberstein's part, and great and warm earnestness in them both. chapter ii. christina and her mother. mrs. eberstein watched during the next few days, to see, if she could, whether the sudden resolve taking on dolly's part that first evening "meant anything," as she expressed it, or not. she remained in doubt. dolly was thoughtful certainly, and sweet certainly; "but that don't tell," mrs. eberstein remarked; "it is her characteristic." it was equally certain that she had attached herself with a trustful, clinging affection to the new friends whose house and hearts had received her. dolly's confidence was given to them fully and heartily from that very first day; and they saw that it was. nearly a week passed before the school-term began. meanwhile dolly was taken about, in walks and drives, to see all that her friends thought would interest her. everything interested her, they found; and upon every subject presented to her, her little head went to work; the result of which was the putting of a question now and then, which afforded her guardians, perhaps, as much entertainment as the ground of the question had given dolly. these questions, however, were called forth most of all by the subject which had seized hold of dolly's mind with such force that first evening. mrs. eberstein had not forgotten her promise about the bible. one of the first expeditions undertaken the next day had been in search of one; successful, in the judgment of both dolly and her aunt; and since then the book was very often to be seen in dolly's hands. "what are you reading there, dolly?" mr. eberstein asked, corning in one evening just before dinner. dolly was on a low seat at the corner of the fireplace, reading by the shine of a fire of liverpool coal, which threw warm lights all over the little figure. she looked up and said it was her bible she was studying. "you will put out your eyes." "oh no, uncle edward; the print is so good, and the fire makes such a nice blaze, i can see perfectly." "and pray, what are you looking for, or what are you finding, in that book, little one?" "i am looking for a great deal,--and i am finding a little," was dolly's reply. "different with me," said mr. eberstein with a short laugh. "i generally find more in the bible than i look for." "what do you look for in it?" said dolly, raising her head which had gone down to the reading. mr. eberstein laughed again. "truly, dolly," he said, "you have hit me there! i believe i often open the bible without looking for anything in particular." "perhaps that makes the difference," said dolly, letting her eyes fall again to her page. "perhaps it does; but, dolly, i should very much like to know what you are looking for?" "i am looking to find out the will of god, uncle edward." "come here, my pet," said mr. eberstein, coaxing the little girl into his arms and setting her on his knee. "what do you want to find out the will of god for? what about?" "about me." "what do you want to know the will of god about you for?" "i want to do it, uncle edward." "there couldn't be a better reason. jesus says, 'he that hath my commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me.' do you find what you seek?" "i find some," said dolly. "where were you reading just now?" "about abraham." "abraham! what do you find in abraham's life, may i ask, that tells you the will of god about dolly copley? you are not called upon to leave your country and go out into a strange land." "no; not that. but god said to abraham, 'walk before me, and be thou perfect.' and it puzzles me." "what puzzles you?" "i don't see how i can 'walk before him.'" "dolly,--the lord is here, here where we are, wherever we are." "yes. i know that." "then, if you know that and remember it, and do everything you do in his presence, and feeling that it is in his presence, you will be walking before him; don't you see? just as if jesus were here again upon earth, and you were always with him; only you do not see him now. he sees you." "and 'be perfect'?" said dolly questioningly. "yes. that means, i think, don't try to serve two masters. if you love god with all your heart, and give him your whole life and service,--not a part of it,--that is what the word to abraham means, i think. a servant of god is a perfect servant, if he does all the will of god that he knows, and as fast as he knows it. but you cannot do that of yourself, little dolly." "why cannot i, if i want to?" "why, because there come temptations, and there come difficulties; and you will want to do something you like, and not what god likes; and you will do it too, unless the lord jesus keeps fast hold of you and saves you from making such a mistake. only he can." "can he?" "certainly he can." "will he?" "if you want him to do it, and trust him to do it, he will. he will just do all that you trust him to do." dolly pondered. "will he do that because he loves me?" she asked. "just for that reason, dolly." "then he will do it," said dolly confidently; "for i will trust him. won't you show me where he says that, uncle edward?" mr. eberstein told dolly to find matt. xxi. . dolly read eagerly-- "jesus answered and said unto them, verily i say unto you, if ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is done to the fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea, it shall be done. and all things whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive." dolly read to herself, then looked up, eager and confident, for the next reference. "turn to john xv. ." again dolly found and read, in silence-- "if ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you." "what next, uncle edward?" "isn't that promise enough?" "yes; but i thought you had more." "there is a great deal more. look out thessalonians v. , ." dolly read, slowly, aloud now-- "'and the very god of peace sanctify you wholly; and i pray god your whole spirit and soul and body be preserved blameless unto the coming of our lord jesus christ. faithful is he that calleth you, who also will do it.' that is beautiful, uncle edward!" "do you want another? find jude, and read the th and th verses." with some trouble dolly found it. "'now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy, to the only wise god our saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and power, both now and ever. amen.'" dolly slipped off mr. eberstein's knee and retook her old place by the fire; where she sat turning from one passage to another of those she had been reading. mr. eberstein watched her, how the ribbon markers of the bible were carefully laid in two of the places, and a couple of neat slips of paper prepared for the others. "what have you been doing to-day, dolly?" he asked at length. "we went to see the water works." "oh, you did! and what did you think of the water works?" "we went up to the top and walked about. do the people in philadelphia want so much water as all that?" "they want a great deal more. the fairmount works give only enough for part of the city." "that is taking a great deal of trouble to get water." "it would be worse trouble to do without it." "but why don't people all live in the country, as we do at home? then they would have water for nothing." "humph! that would answer, dolly, if people were contented with water; they all want wine. i mean, my child, that most people are not satisfied with simple doings; and for anything more they must have money; and they can make money faster in cities. therefore they build cities." "is _that_ what they build cities for?" said dolly. "largely. not altogether. a great many things can be better done where people are congregated together; it is for the convenience of trade and business, in many kinds and in many ways. what have you been doing since you came home from the water works?" "o uncle edward!" said dolly, suddenly rising now and coming to him, "aunt harry has opened for me her old bookcase!" "what old bookcase? i didn't know she had an old bookcase." "oh yes; the one where she keeps the books she had when she was as old as i am." "and as young, eh? well, what is in that bookcase? is it a great find?" "o uncle edward, there is a great deal in it! it is wonderful. books i never saw, and they look so interesting!" "what, for instance? something to rival plutarch's lives?" "i don't know," said dolly; "you know i have not read them yet. there is 'sandford and merton;' i was reading in that, and i like it very much; and the 'looking glass' is another; and 'rosamond' i am sure is interesting. oh there is a whole load of them." "well i am glad of it," said mr. eberstein. "that is the right sort of stuff for your busy little brain; will not weigh too heavy. now i suppose you will be reading all the time you are in the house." "aunt harry has begun to teach me to knit." "very good," said mr. eberstein. "i believe in knitting too. that's safe." they went to dinner, and after dinner there was a further knitting lesson, in which dolly seemed absorbed; nevertheless, before the evening was over she brought up a very different subject again. "aunt harry," she began, in the midst of an arduous effort to get the loops of wool on her needles in the right relative condition,--"does mother know about the bible?" "yes," said mrs. eberstein, with a glance at her husband, "she knows about it, something." "then why did she never tell me anything about it?" mrs. eberstein hesitated. "i suppose, dolly, her thoughts were fuller of other things." "but how _could_ they be?" said the little one, laying her hands with their knitting work in her lap, and looking up. her aunt did not answer. "how could her thoughts be fuller of other things, if she knows the bible?" dolly urged. "i don't think she really knows much of what is in the bible," mrs. eberstein said. "she has never read it much." "i don't think she knows about jesus," dolly went on gravely; "for she never told me; and she would if she had known, i think. aunt harriet, i think _i_ ought to tell _her_ now." "what would you tell her, my darling?" "oh, i will tell her that i know him and love him; and i will tell her i have got a bible, and some of the things i have found in it. i will ask her to get one too, and read it. i don't believe she knows." "the reason why a great many people do not know, dolly, is, as your aunt harry says, that they are so much taken up with other things." "then i think one ought to take care not to be too much taken up with other things," said dolly very seriously. "but you have got to be taken up with other things," mr. eberstein went on. "here you are going to school in a few days; then your head will be full of english and french, and your hands full of piano keys and harp strings, from morning till night. how are you going to do?" dolly looked at the speaker, came and placed herself on his knee again, and laid a hand on his shoulder; eyeing him steadily. "ought i not to go to school?" "must!--else you cannot be the right sort of a woman, and do the right sort of work." "how then, uncle edward? what shall i do?" "i'll tell you one thing, dolly. don't study and practise to get ahead of somebody else; but to please the king!" "the king--that is jesus?" "certainly." dolly nodded, in full agreement with the rule of action as thus stated; presently brought forward another idea. "will he care? would it please him to have me play on the piano, or learn french and arithmetic?" "dolly, the more you know, and the better you know it, the better servant you can be; you will have the more to use for jesus." "can i use such things for him? how?" "many ways. he will show you how. do you think an ignorant woman could do as much in the world as an elegant, well-informed, accomplished woman?" dolly thought over this question, nodded as one who had come to an understanding of it, and went back to her knitting. "what ever will become of that child," said mrs. eberstein an hour or two later, when she and her husband were alone. "i am full of anxiety about her." "then you are taking upon you the part of providence." "no, but, edward, dolly will have a history." "so have we all," mr. eberstein responded very unresponsively. "but she will not have a common history. do you see how open she is to receive impressions, and how fast they stay once they are made?" "i see the first quality. i never saw a creature quicker to take impressions or to welcome affections. whether they will prove as lasting as they are sudden,--that we have no means of knowing at present." "i think they will." "that's a woman's conclusion, founded on her wishes." "it is a man's conclusion too; for you think the same thing, edward." "don't prove anything, harry." "yes, it does. when two people come to the same independent view of something, it is fair to suppose there are grounds for it." "i hope so. time will show." "but, edward, with this extremely sensitive and affectionate nature, how important it is that dolly should have only the right surroundings, and see only the right sort of people." "just so. and so she is going out into the world of a large school; where she will meet all sorts of people and be subjected to all sorts of influences; and you cannot shield her." "i wish i could keep her at home, and have her taught here! i wish i could!" "playing providence again. we all like to do it." "no, but, edward, just look at her," said mrs. eberstein with her eyes full of tears. "i do," said mr. eberstein. "i've got eyes. but you will have to trust her, harry." "now she will go, i have no doubt, and write that letter to her mother. i wonder if sally will get scared, and take her away from us?" "why, hal," said her husband, "your self-will is getting up very strong to-night! what if? dolly's future does not depend upon us; though we will do what we can for it." what they did then, was to pray about it again; for these people believed in prayer. the next day mrs. eberstein had invited an acquaintance to come to dinner. this acquaintance had a daughter, also about to enter mrs. delancy's school; and mrs. eberstein's object was to let the two girls become a little known to each other, so that dolly in the new world she was about to enter might not feel everything utterly strange. mrs. thayer belonged to a good new york family; and it likewise suited her purposes to have her daughter received in so unexceptionable a house as mrs. eberstein's, albeit the young lady was not without other philadelphia friends. so the party fitted together very harmoniously. mrs. thayer, in spite of her good connections, was no more than a commonplace personage. christina, her daughter, on the other hand, showed tokens of becoming a great beauty. a little older than dolly, of larger build and more flesh and blood development generally, and with one of those peach-blossom complexions which for fairness and delicacy almost rival the flower. her hair was pretty, her features also pretty, her expression placid. mrs. eberstein was much struck. "they are just about of an age," remarked mrs. thayer. "i suppose they will study the same things. everybody studies the same things. well, i hope you'll be friends and not rivals, my dears." "dolly will not be rivals with anybody," returned dolly's aunt. "she don't look very strong. i should think it would not do for her to study too hard," said the other lady. "oh, rivalry is necessary, you know, to bring out the spirit of boys and girls and make them work. it may be friendly rivalry; but if they were not rivals they would not be anything; might as well not be school girls, or school boys. they would not do any work but what they liked, and we know what that would amount to. i don't know about beating learning into boys; some people say that is the way; but with girls you can't take that way; and all you have to fall back upon is emulation." "very few young people will study for the love of it," mrs. eberstein so far assented. "they might, i believe, if the right way was taken," mr. eberstein remarked. "emulation will do it, if a girl has any spirit," said mrs. thayer. "what sort of spirit?" "what sort of spirit! why, the spirit not to let themselves be outdone; to stand as high as anybody, and higher; be no. , and carry off the first honours. a spirited girl don't like to be no. . christina will never be no. ." "is it quite certain that such a spirit is the one to be cultivated?" "it makes them study,"--said mrs. thayer, looking at her questioner to see what he meant. "what do you think the bible means, when it tells us not to seek for honour?" "_not_ to seek for honour?" repeated the lady. "not the honour that comes from man." "i didn't know it forbade it. i never heard that it was forbidden. why, mr. eberstein, it is _natural_ to wish for honour. everybody wishes for it." "so they do," mr. eberstein assented. "i might say, so _we_ do." "it is natural," repeated the lady. "its being natural does not prove it to be right." "why, mr. eberstein, if it is _natural_, we cannot help it." "how then does trying to be no. agree with the love that 'seeketh not her own'?" dolly was listening earnestly, mr. eberstein saw. mrs. thayer hesitated, in some inward disgust. "do you take that literally?" she said then. "how can you take it literally? you cannot." "but christ pleased not himself." "well, but he was not like us." "we are bidden to be like him, though." "oh, as far as we can. but you cannot press those words literally, mr. eberstein." "as far as we can? i _must_ press them, for the bible does. i ask no more, and the lord demands no more, than that we be like our master _as far as we can_. and he 'pleased not himself,' and 'received not honour from men.'" "if you were to preach such doctrine in schools, i am afraid you would have very bad recitations." "well!" said mr. eberstein. "better bad recitations than bad hearts. though really there is no necessary connection between my premises and your conclusion. the bible reckons 'emulations,' mrs. thayer, in the list of the worst things human nature knows, and does." "then you would have a set of dunces. i should just like to be told, mr. eberstein, how on that principle you would get young people to study. in the case of girls you cannot do it by beating; nor in the case of boys, after they have got beyond being little boys. then emulation comes in, and they work like beavers to get the start of one another. and so we have honours, and prizes, and distinctions. take all that away, and how would you do, mr. eberstein?" mr. eberstein was looking fondly into a pair of young eyes that were fixedly gazing at him. so looking, he spoke, "there is another sort of '_well done!_' which i would like my dolly and miss christina to try for. if they are in earnest in trying for that, they will study!" said mr. eberstein. mrs. thayer thought, apparently, that it was no use talking on the subject with a visionary man; and she turned to something else. the party left the dinner-table, and dolly took her new acquaintance upstairs to show her the treasure contained in mrs. eberstein's old bookcase. "mr. eberstein is rather a strange man, isn't he?" said miss christina on the way. "no," said dolly. "i don't think he is. what makes you say so?" "i never heard any one talk like that before." "perhaps," said dolly, stopping short on the landing place and looking at her companion. then she seemed to change her manner of attack. "who do you want to please most?" she said. "with my studies? why, mamma, of course." "i would rather please the lord jesus," said dolly. "but i was talking about _school work_," retorted the other. "you don't suppose _he_ cares about our lessons?" "i guess he does," said dolly. they were still standing on the landing place, looking into each other's eyes. "but that's impossible. think!--french lessons, and english lessons, and music and dancing, and all of it. that couldn't be, you know." "do you love jesus?" said dolly. "love him? i do not know," said christina colouring. "i am a member of the church, if that is what you mean." dolly began slowly to go up the remaining stairs. "i think we ought to study to please him," she said. "i don't see how it should please him," said the other a little out of humour. "i don't see how he should care about such little things." "why not?" said dolly. "if your mother cares, and my mother cares. jesus loves us better than they do, and i guess he cares more than they do." christina was silenced now, as her mother had been, and followed dolly thinking there were a _pair_ of uncomfortably strange people in the house. the next minute dolly was not strange at all, but as much a child as any of her fellows. she had unlocked the precious bookcase, and with the zeal of a connoisseur and the glee of a discoverer she was enlarging upon the treasures therein stowed away. "here is 'henry milner,'" she said, taking down three little red volumes. "have you read that? oh, it is delightful! i like it almost best of all. but i have not had time to read much yet. here is 'harry and lucy,' and 'rosamond,' and 'frank.' i have just looked at them. and 'sandford and merton.' do you know 'sandford and merton'? i have just read that." "there are the 'arabian nights,'" said christina. "is that good? i haven't read much yet. i don't know almost any of them." "'the looking-glass'"--christina went on--"'pity's gift'--'father's tales.'" "those are beautiful," dolly put in. "i read one, about 'grandfather's old arm-chair.' oh, it's _very_ interesting." "'elements of morality'"--christina read further on the back of a brown book. "that don't sound good, but i guess it _is_ good," said dolly. "i just peeped in, and 'evenings at home' looks pretty. here is 'robinson crusoe,' and 'northern regions;' i want to read that very much. i guess it's delightful." "have you ever been to school before?" said christina. the books had a faint interest for her. "no," said dolly. "nor have i; but i know somebody who has been at mrs. delancy's, and she says there is one lovely thing at that school. every month they go somewhere." "they--go--somewhere," dolly echoed the words. "who go?" "everybody; teachers and scholars and all. there is a holiday; and mrs. delancy takes them all to see something. one time it was a rope walk, i think; and another time it was a paper-mill; and sometimes it's a picture-gallery. it's something very interesting." "i suppose we are not _obliged_ to go, are we, if we don't want to?" "oh, but we _do_ want to. i do." "i would just as lief be at home with my aunt harry," said dolly, looking lovingly at the book-case. but christina turned away from it. "they dress a great deal at this school," she said. "does your mother dress you a great deal?" "i don't know," said dolly. "i don't know what you mean." "well, what's your school dress? what is it made of?" "my school dress for every day! it is grey poplin. it is not new." "poplin will do, i suppose," said christina. "but some of the girls wear silk; old silk dresses, you know, but really handsome still, and very stylish." "what do you mean by 'stylish'?" said dolly. "why don't you know what 'stylish' means?" "no." christina looked doubtfully at her new little companion. where could dolly have come from, and what sort of people could she belong to, who did not know _that?_ the truth was, that dolly being an only child and living at home with her father and mother, had led a very childish life up to this time; and her mother, owing to some invalidism, had lately been withdrawn from the gay world and its doings. so, though the thing was greatly upon her mother's heart, the word had never made itself familiar to dolly's ear. christina was reassured, however, by observing that the little girl's dress was quite what it ought to be, and certainly bespoke her as belonging to people who "knew what was what." so the practice was all right, and dolly needed only instruction in the theory. "'stylish,'"--she repeated. "it means--it is very hard to tell you what it means. don't you know? 'stylish' means that things have an air that belongs to the right kind of thing, and only what you see in a certain sort of people. it is the way things look when people know how." "know how, what?" inquired dolly. "know how things ought to be; how they ought to be worn, and how they ought to be done." "then everybody ought to be stylish," said dolly. "yes, but you cannot, my dear, unless you happen to know how." "but i should think one could always know how things ought to be," dolly went on. "the bible tells." "the bible!" echoed christina. "yes." "the bible tell one how to be stylish!" "the bible tells how things ought to be." "why, no, it don't, child! the bible don't tell you what sort of a hat to put on." "yes, it does, christina. the bible says, 'whether you eat or drink, or whatsoever you do, do all to the glory of god.' i can show you the words." "oh, that is something quite different. that has nothing to do with being stylish. how shall i make you understand? if your cravat wasn't tied in a nice bow there, it wouldn't be stylish." "well," returned dolly, "it wouldn't be to the glory of god either." "what has that to do with it?" "i think it would be wrong for a christian to be anything but nice." "oh, it isn't being _nice!_" said christina. "your dress wouldn't be stylish if it hadn't those flounces." "and is it now?" "yes--i think it is. i should say, your mother knows what is what. it isn't very easy to be stylish if you are poor; but i've seen people do it, though." "i don't think i understand, quite," said dolly. "but when i am old enough to dress myself,--to choose my own dresses, i mean, i shall dress to please jesus, christina." "you can't," said christina. "i never heard of such a thing. it's making religion little, i think, to talk so." "i think, if religion isn't little, it'll _do_ so," answered dolly. whereby each kept her own opinion; notwithstanding which, at the end of the afternoon they separated, mutually pleased each with her new acquaintance. chapter iii. the marine dictionary. as the weeks of the first school term went on, the two girls drew nearer to each other. everybody inclined towards dolly indeed; the sweet, fresh, honest little face, with the kindly affections beaming forth from it, and the sensitive nature quick to feel pleasure or pain, and alive to fun in the midst of its seriousness, made such a quaint mingling and such a curious variety and such a lovely creature, that all sorts of characters were drawn towards her. from the head of the school down, teachers and pupils, there was hardly one whose eye did not soften and whose lips did not smile at dolly's approach. with christina, on the other hand, it was not just so. she was not particularly clever, not particularly emotional, not specially sociable; calm and somewhat impassive, with all her fair beauty she was overlooked in the practical "selection" which takes place in school life; so that little dolly after all came to be christina's best friend. dolly never passed her over; was never unsympathetic; never seemed to know her own popularity; and christina's slow liking grew into a real and warm affection as the passing days gave her more and more occasion. in the matter of "style," it appears, dolly had enough to satisfy her; thanks to her mother; for dolly herself was as unconventional in spirit and manner as a child should be. in school work proper, on the other hand, she was a pattern of diligence and faithfulness; gave her teachers no trouble; of course had the good word and good will of every one of them. was it the working of mr. eberstein's rule? the first monthly holiday after school began was spent in fairmount park. a few weeks later, dolly and christina were sitting together one day, busy with some fancy work, when one of their schoolmates came up to them. "guess where we are going next week!" she cried. "next week?" said the others, looking up. "next holiday--next week--next saturday. yes. where do you think we are going? just guess. oh, you can't guess." "i can't guess," said dolly; "i don't know what there is to go to. the mint? mrs. delancy did speak of the mint." "not a bit of it! something else has come up. guess again." "something has _come up_. then it must be something new." "it isn't new, either. can't a thing come to you that isn't new?" "but you're talking riddles, eudora," the other two said, laughing. "well, i'll tell you. there's a man-of-war come up the river." "a man-of-war"--dolly repeated. "you know what that means, i hope, dolly copley?" "i don't know. it means a soldier. the bible says, goliath was a man-of-war from his youth." dolly as she spoke looked mystified, and her words were met by a shout of laughter so loud and ringing that it almost abashed the child. some other girls had joined the group and were standing around, and there were many to laugh. however, dolly was never given to false shame. she waited for more light. "it's a _ship_, dolly," they cried. "you dear little innocent, don't you know as much as that?" "it's a ship; and this is a big one. it is lying out in the delaware." "then why is it called a man-of-war?" said dolly. "because it is a war ship. won't it be fun! just think!--the guns, and the officers, and the midshipmen!" "what are midshipmen?" "i don't know!" cried another. "they are somebodies that are always on a man-of-war; and they are young too. baby officers, i suppose." "they _are_ officers," said the first speaker. "no, they're not. they are learning to be officers. they're at school, and their school is a man-of-war; and their teachers are the captain, and the lieutenants, and so on." "and what are their lessons about?" said dolly. "_i_ don't know. oh, they are learning to be officers, you know. really they are boys at school." "some of them are old enough," remarked another. "learning _what_, eudora?" said dolly. "how do i know, chicken? i've never been a midshipman myself. you can ask them if you like, when we go on board. for we are going on board, girls! hurrah! we shall drive over to the navy yard, and there we shall get into boats, and then we shall row--i mean be rowed--out into the stream to the ship. it's a big frigate, the 'achilles;' and mrs. delancy knows the captain; and she says it's a good chance, and she will not have us lose it. hurrah, girls! this is prime." "what's a _frigate?_" was dolly's next question. "dolly copley, you are ridiculous! you want to understand everything." "don't you?" "no! i guess i don't. i am tired enough with trying to understand a little. i'll let alone what i can. you'll know what a frigate is when you have been on board of her." "but i think i should enjoy it a great deal more if i knew beforehand," said dolly. "you had best study a ship's dictionary. _i_ am going to study what i shall wear." "that you cannot tell yet," christina remarked. "you do not know what sort of a day next saturday, i mean, saturday week, will be. it may be cold or"---- "it mayn't be hot," said the other. "it will be cold, cold enough. it's november. you can wear your prettiest winter things, young ladies." a little while after, the group had broken up, and dolly sought out one of the teachers and begged to know where she could find a "ship's dictionary." "a ship dictionary? my dear, there is no such thing. what do you want to find out?" "one of the girls said i could find out about ships in a ship's dictionary. we are going to see a man-of-war next week." "oh, and you want to study up the subject? it is a marine dictionary you are in quest of. come to the library." the library was always open to the girls for study purposes. the teacher was good-natured, and got out a big, brown square volume, and put it in dolly's hand. dolly had been followed by christina; and now the two sat down together in a window recess on the floor, with the book before them. dolly began at the beginning, and aloud. "'_aback_.'" "that is nothing we want," remarked christina. "oh yes, i think it is. it is 'the situation of the sails when their surfaces are flatted against the masts by the force of the wind.' i do not understand, though. the sails are said to be 'taken aback.'-- oh, i have heard mother say that. what could she mean? i have heard her say she was taken aback." "i have heard people say that too," said christina; "often. i never knew what they meant. something disagreeable, i think." "well, you see," said dolly, reading further, "it 'pushes the ship _astern_'--what's that? 'see _backing_.' i suppose it means pushing it back. but i don't understand!" the little girl added with a sigh. "oh, well! we don't care about all that," said dolly's companion. "go on to something else. find out about the midshipmen." "what about the midshipmen?" "nothing,--only i would like to know what they are. madeleine said they were young officers; very young; not older than some of us." "then why do you want to know about them?" said dolly. "we have nothing to do with young officers. we don't know any of them." "but we might," suggested christina. "we shall see them, if we go on board the ship." "i don't care about seeing them," said dolly. "young officers are young men, i suppose. i understand _them;_ what i don't know about, is the ship. let us go on in this book, and see what we come to. '_abaft_--the hinder part of a ship'"---- "o dolly!" cried christina, "we have not time to go through everything in this way. you have not turned over one leaf yet do get on a little." "it is good it's a holiday," said dolly, turning the leaf. "we have plenty of time. i like this book. '_aboard_,--the inside of a ship.' so when we go into the ship, we go aboard. that's it." "go on," urged christina. "here's '_admiral_.'" "'an officer of first rank and command in the fleet.' there is a great deal here about the admiral. i don't believe we shall see him. we'll look a little further." dolly presently was caught by the word "_anchor_," and lost herself in the study of the paragraphs following, and the plate accompanying; after which she declared that she understood how a ship could be held by its anchor. urged to go on again, she turned over more leaves, but got lost in the study of "_boats;_" then of "_cannon;_" then of the "_captain_'s" office and duties; finally paused at the plate and description of a ship's deck. "it's just the deck of a ship!" said christina impatiently. "you will see it when we go on board the 'achilles.'" "i want to understand it." "you can't." "are those guns?" said dolly, pointing to a row of pieces delineated along the side of the deck. "must be guns." "well, i should like to go on board of a ship very much," said dolly. "there are twelve guns on that side. if there are the same on this side, that would make twenty-four. what do they want so many for, christina, on one ship?" "why, to fight with, of course. to fire at other ships." "but what do they want of _so many?_ they would not want to fire twelve at once. i should think one would be enough." "perhaps it wouldn't. go on, dolly, do! let us get to something else." it was difficult to get dolly on. she was held fast again by the description of a naval engagement; then fell to studying the directions for the "_exercise_" of the guns; then was interested in some plates giving various orders of the line of battle. at last in due course they came to the word "_midshipman_," which was read, or the article under it, by both girls. "'a naval cadet'"--repeated christina. "and a cadet must be four years at sea before he can become a lieutenant; and two years midshipman besides. i should think they would be tired of it." "but if they are going to be sailors all their lives, it's no use for them to get tired of it," said christina. "they come on shore sometimes, don't they?" "i suppose so. oh yes, they have houses, i know, and wives and children. i shouldn't like to be the wife of a sailor!" "somebody must, i suppose," said dolly. "but i shouldn't like to have my home--my principal home, i mean--on the sea; if i was a man. _they_ must like it, i suppose." dolly went on reading. "the midshipmen have plenty to do, christina. they have to learn how to do everything a common sailor does; all the work of the ship; and then they must learn astronomy, and geometry, and navigation and mechanics. hydrostatics, too; oh dear, i don't know what that is. i can look it out, i suppose. the midshipmen must be very busy, christina, and at hard work too." christina's interest in the marine dictionary was exhausted. she went off; but dolly pored over its pages still, endeavouring to take in details about vessels, and ropes, and sails, and winds, until her head was in a fog. she recurred to the book, however, on the next opportunity; and from time to time, as her lessons permitted, gave her time and attention to this seemingly very unnecessary subject. how much she really learned, is doubtful; yet as little things do touch and link themselves with great things, it may be that the old marine dictionary in mrs. delancy's library played a not insignificant part in the fortunes of dolly copley. as we shall see. she studied, till a ship became a romance to her; till rigging and spars and decks and guns were like the furniture of a new and strange life, which hardly belonged to the earth, being upon the sea; and the men who lived that life, and especially the men who ruled in it, grew to be invested with characteristics of power and skill and energy which gave them fabulous interest in dolly's eyes. at home there had been a little scruple about letting dolly join the party. she had had a cold, and was rather delicate at all times. the scruples, however, gave way before the child's earnest wish; and as saturday of the particular week turned out mild and quiet, no hindrance was put in the way of the expedition. chapter iv. the "achilles." it was a very special delectation which the school were to enjoy to-day. the girls thought it always "fun," of course, to quit lessons and go to see anything; "even factories," as one of the girls expressed it, to dolly's untold astonishment; for it seemed to her that to be allowed to look into the mystery of manufactures must be the next thing to taking part personally in a fairy tale. however, to-day it was not a question of manufactures, but of a finished and furnished big ship, and not only finished and furnished, but manned. "_this_ is something lively," eudora opined. and she was quite right. the day was a quiet day in november, with just a spice of frost in it; the air itself was lively, quick and quickening. the party were driven to the navy yard in carriages, and there received very politely by the officers, some of whom knew mrs. delancy and lent themselves with much kindness to the undertaking. the girls were more or less excited with pleasure and anticipation; but to dolly the navy yard seemed to be already touching the borders of that mysterious and fascinating sea life in which her fancy had lately been roaming. so when the girls were all carefully bestowed in stout little row boats to go out to the ship, dolly's foot it was which stepped upon enchanted boards, and her eye that saw an enchanted world around her. what a field was this rippling water, crisped with the light breeze, and gurgling under the boat's smooth sweep ahead! how the oars rose and fell, all together, as if moved by only one hand. was this a part of the order and discipline of which she had read lately, as belonging to this strange world? probably; for now and then a command was issued to the oarsmen, curt and sharp; and obeyed, dolly saw, although she did not know what the command meant. yes, she was in an enchanted sphere; and she looked at the "achilles" as they drew nearer, with profoundest admiration. its great hulk grew large upon her view, with an absolute haze of romance and mystery hanging about its decks and rigging. it was a large ship, finely equipped, according to the fashion of naval armament which was prevalent in those days; she was a three-decker; and the port holes of her guns looked in threatening ranks along the sides of the vessel. still and majestic she lay upon the quiet river; a very wonderful floating home indeed, and unlike all else she had ever known, to dolly's apprehension. how she and the rest were ever to get on board was an insoluble problem to her, as to most of them; and the chair that was presently lowered along the ship's side to receive them, seemed a very precarious sort of means of transport. however, the getting aboard was safely accomplished; one by one they were hoisted up; and dolly's feet stood upon the great main deck. and the first view was perfectly satisfactory, and even went far beyond her imaginings. she found herself standing under a mixed confusion of masts and spars and sails, marvellous to behold, which yet she also saw was no confusion at all, but complicated and systematic order. how much those midshipmen must have to learn, though, if they were to know the names and uses and handling of every spar and every rope and each sail among them! as dolly knew they must. her eye came back to the deck. what order there too; what neatness; why it was beautiful; and the uniforms here and there, and the sailors' hats and jackets, filled up the picture to her heart's desire. dolly breathed a full breath of satisfaction. the captain of the "achilles" made his appearance, captain barbour. he was a thick-set, grizzly haired man, rather short, not handsome at all; and yet with an air of authority unmistakably clothing him like a garment of power and dignity. plainly this man's word was law, and the girls stood in awe of him. he was known to mrs. delancy; and now she went on to present formally all her young people to him. the captain returned the courtesy by calling up and introducing to her and them some of his officers; and then they went to a review of the ship. it took a long while. between mrs. delancy and captain barbour a lively conversation was carried on; dolly thought he was explaining things to the lady that she did not understand; but though it might be the case now and then, i think the talk moved mainly upon less technical matters. dolly could not get near enough to hear what it was, at any rate. the young lieutenants, too, were taken up with playing the host to the older young ladies of the party. if _they_ received instruction also by the way, dolly could not tell; the laughing hardly looked like it. she and the other young ones at any rate followed humbly at the tail of everything, and just came up to a clear view of some detail when the others were moving away. there was nobody to help dolly understand anything; nevertheless, she wandered in a fairy vision of wonderland. into the cabins, down to the forecastle, down to the gun deck. what could equal the black strangeness of _that_ view! and what could it all mean? dolly wished for her uncle edward, or some one, to answer a thousand questions. she had been reading about the guns, she looked curiously now at the realities, of which she had studied the pictures; recognised here a detail and there a detail, but remaining hugely ignorant of the whole and of the bearing of the several parts upon each other. yet she did not know how time flew; she did not know that she was getting tired; from one strange thing to another she followed her leaders about; very much alone indeed, for even the other girls of her own age were staring at a different class of objects, and could hardly be said to see what she saw, much less were ready to ask what she wanted to ask. dolly went round in a confused dream. at last the party had gone everywhere that such a party could go; captain barbour had spared them the lower gun deck. they came back to the captain's cabin, where a very pleasant lunch was served to the ladies. it was served, that is, to those who could get it, to those who were near enough and old enough to put in a claim by right of appearance. dolly and one or two more who were undeniably little girls stood a bad chance, hanging about on the outskirts of the crowd, for the cabin would not take them all in; and hearing a distant sound of clinking glass and silver and words of refreshment. it was all they seemed likely to get; and when a kindly elderly officer had taken pity on the child and given dolly a biscuit, she concluded to resign the rest of the unattainable luncheon and make the most of her other opportunities while she had them. eating the biscuit, which she was very glad of, she wandered off by herself, along the deck; looking again carefully at all she saw; for her eyes were greedy of seeing. sails,--what strange shapes; and how close rolled up some of them were! ropes,--what a multitude; and cables. coils of them on deck; and if she looked up, an endless tracery of lines seen against the blue sky. there was a sailor going up something like a rope ladder; going up and up; how could he? and how far could he go? dolly almost grew dizzy gazing at him. "what are you looking after, little one?" a voice near her asked. an unceremonious address, certainly; frankly put; but the voice was not unkindly or uncivil, and dolly was not sensitive on the point of personal dignity. she brought her eyes down for a moment far enough to see the shimmer of gold lace on a midshipman's cap, and answered, "i am looking at that man. he's going up and up, to the top of everything. i should think his head would turn." "yours will, if you look after him with your head in that position." dolly let her eyes come now to the speaker's face. one of the young midshipmen it was, standing near her, with his arms folded and leaning upon something which served as a support to them, and looking down at dolly. for standing so and leaning over, he was still a good deal taller than she. further, dolly observed a pair of level brows, beneath them a pair of wise-looking, cognisance-taking blue eyes, an expression of steady calm, betokening either an even temperament or an habitual power of self-control; and just now in the eyes and the mouth there was the play almost of a smile somewhat merry, wholly kindly. it took dolly's confidence entirely and at once. "you don't think you would like to be a sailor?" he went on. "is it pleasant?" said dolly, retorting the question earnestly and doubtfully. the smile broke a little more on the other's face. "how do you like the ship?" he asked. "i do not know," said dolly, glancing along the deck. "i think it is a strange place to live." "why?" "and i don't understand the use of it," dolly went on with a really puzzled face. "the use of what?" "the use of the whole thing. i know what ships are good for, of course; other ships; but what is the use of such a ship as this?" "to take care of the other ships." "how?" "have you been below? did you see the gun decks?" "i was in a place where there were a great many guns--but i could not understand, and there was nobody to tell me things." "would you like to go down there again?" "oh yes!" said dolly. "they will be a good while at lunch yet. oh, thank you! i should like so much to go." the young midshipman took her hand; perhaps he had a little sister at home and the action was pleasant and familiar; it seemed to be both; and led her down the way that took them to the upper gun deck. "how comes it you are not taking lunch too?" he asked by the way. "oh, there are too many of them," said dolly contentedly. "i don't care. i had a biscuit." "you don't care for your lunch?" "yes, i do, when i'm hungry; but now i would rather see things. i never saw a ship before." they arrived in the great, gloomy, black gun deck. the midshipman let go dolly's hand, and she stood and looked along the avenue between the bristling black cannon. "now, what is it that you don't understand?" he asked, watching her. "what are these guns here for?" "don't you know _that?_ guns are to fight with." "yes, i know," said dolly; "but how can you fight with them here in a row? and what would you fight with? i mean, who would you fight against?" "some other ship, if fate willed it so. look here; this is the way of it." he took a letter from the breast of his coat, tore off a blank leaf; then resting it on the side of a gun carriage, he proceeded to make a sketch. dolly's eyes followed his pencil point, spell-bound with interest. under his quick and ready fingers grew, she could not tell how, the figure of a ship,--hull, masts, sails and rigging, deftly sketched in; till it seemed to dolly she could almost see how the wind blew that was filling out the sails and floating off the streamer. "there," said the artist,--"that is our enemy." "our enemy?" repeated dolly. "our supposed enemy. we will suppose she is an enemy." "but how could she be?" "we might be at war with england suppose, or with france. this might be an english ship of war coming to catch up every merchantman she could overhaul that carried american colours, and make a prize of her; don't you see?" "do they do that?" said dolly. "what? catch up merchantmen? of course they do; and the more of value is on board, the better they are pleased. we lose so much, and they gain so much. now we want to stop this fellow's power of doing mischief; you understand." "what are those little black spots you are making along her sides." "the port holes of her guns." "port holes?" "the openings where the mouths of her guns look out. see," said he, pointing to the one near which they were standing,--"that is a port hole." "that little window?" "it isn't a window; it is a port hole." "it is not a black spot." "because you are inside, and looking out towards the light. look at them when you are leaving the ship; they will look like black spots then, you will find." "well, that's the enemy," said dolly, drawing a short breath of excitement. "what is that ship you are making now?" "that's the 'achilles'; brought to; with her main topsails laid aback, and her fore topsails full; ready for action." "i do not know what are topsails or fore topsails," said dolly. the midshipman explained; to illustrate his explanation sketched lightly another figure of a vessel, showing more distinctly the principal sails. "and this is the 'achilles,'" said dolly, recurring to the principal design. "you have put her a great way off from the enemy, it seems to me." "no. point blank range. quite near enough." "oh, what is 'point blank range'?" cried dolly in despair. her new friend smiled, but answered with good-humoured patience. dolly listened and comprehended. "then, if this were an enemy, and that the 'achilles,' and within point blank range, you would load one of these guns and fire at her?" the midshipman shook his head. "we should load up all of them--all on that side." "and five them one after another?" "as fast as we could. we should give her a broadside. but we should probably give her one broadside after another." "suppose the balls all hit her?" "yes, you may suppose that. i should like to suppose it, if i were the officer in command." "what would they do to her?--to that enemy ship?" "if they all hit? hinder her from doing any more mischief." "how?" "break her masts, tear up her rigging, make a wreck of her generally. perhaps sink her." "but suppose while you are fighting that she fights too?" "extremely probable." "if a shot came in here--could it come in here?" "certainly. cannon balls will go almost anywhere." "if it came in here, what would it do?" "kill three or four of the men at a gun, perhaps; tear away a bit of the ship's side; or perhaps disable the gun." "while you were firing at the enemy on this side, the guns of the other side, i suppose, would have nothing to do?" "they might be fighting another enemy on that side," said the midshipman, smiling. "i should think," said dolly, looking down the long line of the gun deck, and trying to imagine the state of things described,--"i should think it would be most dreadful!" "i have no doubt you would think so." "don't _you_ think so?" "i have never been in action yet." "don't you hope you never will?" the young man laughed a little. "what would be the use of ships of war, if there were never any fighting? i should have nothing to do in the world." "you might do something else," said dolly, gazing at the lines of black guns stretching along both sides of the deck, so near to each other, so black, so grim. "how many men does it take to manage each gun? you said _three or four_ might be killed." "according to the size of the gun. twelve men for these guns; larger would take fifteen." again dolly meditated; in imagination peopled the solitary place with the active crowd of men which would be there if each gun had twelve gunners, filled the silence with the roar of combined discharges, thought of the dead and wounded; at last turned her eyes to the blue ones that were watching her. "i wonder if god likes it?" she said. "likes what?" said the midshipman in wonder. "such work. i don't see how he _can_." "how can you help such work? people cannot get along without fighting." he did not speak carelessly or mockingly or banteringly; rather with a gentle, somewhat deliberate utterance. yet dolly was persuaded there was no unmanly softness in him; she never doubted but that he would be ready to do his part in that dreadful work, if it must be done. moreover, he was paying to this odd little girl a delicate sort of respect and treating her with great consideration. her confidence, as i said, had been entirely given to him before; and now some gratitude began to mingle with it, along with great freedom to speak her mind. "i don't think god can like it," she repeated. "what would you do, then?" he also repeated, smiling. "let wicked people have their own way?" "no." "if they are not to have their own way, you must stop them." "i think this is a dreadful way of stopping them." "it's a bad job for the side that goes under," the young officer admitted. "i don't believe god likes it," dolly concluded for the third time, with great conviction. "is that your rule for everything?" "yes. isn't it your rule?" "i have to obey orders," he answered, watching her. "don't you obey _his_ orders?" said dolly wistfully. "i do not know what they are." "oh, but they are in the bible. you can find them in the bible." "does it say anything about fighting?" dolly tried to think, and got confused. certainly it did say a good deal about fighting, but in various ways, it seemed to her. she did not know how to answer. she changed the subject. "how do you get the shot, the balls, i mean, into these guns? i don't see how you get at them. the mouths are out of the windows. port holes, i mean." for the upper gun deck had been put to a certain extent in order of action, and the guns were run out. "you are of an inquiring disposition," said the midshipman gravely. "am i?" "i think you are." "but i should like to know"--pursued dolly, looking at the muzzle of the gun by which they were standing. "the guns would be run in to be loaded." dolly looked at the heavy piece of metal, and at him, but did not repeat her question. "now you want to know how," he said, smiling. "if i were captain, i would have the men here and show you. the gun is run in by means of this tackle, see!--and when it is charged, it is bowsed out again." seeing dolly's wise grave eyes bent upon the subject, he went on to amuse her with a full detail of the exercise of the gun; from "casting loose," to the finishing "secure your guns;" explaining the manner of handling and loading, and the use of the principal tackle concerned. dolly listened, intent, fascinated, enchained; and i think the young man was a little fascinated too, though his attentions were given to so very young a lady. dolly's brown eyes were so utterly pure and grave and unconscious; the brain at work behind them was so evidently clear and busy and competent; the pleasure she showed was so unschoolgirl-like, and he thought so unchildlike, and at the same time so very far from being young lady-like. what she was like, he did not know; she was an odd little apparition there in the gun-deck of the "achilles," leaning with her elbows upon a gun carriage, and surveyeing with her soft eyes the various paraphernalia of conflict and carnage around her. contrast could hardly be stronger. "suppose," said dolly at last, "a shot should make a hole in the side of the ship, and let in the water?" "well? suppose it," he answered. "does that ever happen?" "quite often. why not?" "what would you do then?" "pump out the water as fast as it came in,--if we could." "suppose you couldn't?" "then we should go down." "and all in the ship?" "all who could not get out of it." "how could any get out of it?" "in the boats." "oh!--i forgot the boats. would they hold everybody?" "probably not. the other ships' boats would come to help." "the officers would go first, i suppose?" "last. the highest officer of all would be the last man on board." "why?" "he must do his duty. if he cannot save his ship, at least he must save his men;--all he can. he is there to do his duty." "i think it would be better not to be there at all," said dolly very gravely. "who would take care of you then, if an enemy's fleet were coming to attack philadelphia?" said the young officer. "i would go home," said dolly. "i don't know what would become of philadelphia. but i do not think god can like it." "shall we go above where it is more cheerful? or have you seen it all?" dolly gave him her hand again and let him help her till they got on deck. there they went roaming towards the fore part of the vessel, looking at everything by the way; dolly asking the names and the meaning of things, and receiving explanations, especially regarding the sails and rigging and steering of the ship. she was even shown where the sailors made their home in the forecastle. as they were returning aft, dolly stopped by a coil of rope on deck and began pulling at an end of it. her companion inquired what she wanted? "i would like a little piece," said dolly; "if i could get it." "a piece of rope?" "yes;--just a little bit; but it is very strong; it won't break." she was tugging at a loose strand. "how large a bit do you want?" "oh, just a little piece," said dolly. "i wanted just a little piece to keep--but it's no matter. i wanted to keep it." "a keepsake?" said the young man. "to remember us by? they are breaking up,"--he added immediately, casting his glance aft, where a stir and a gathering and a movement on deck in front of the captain's cabin could now be seen, and the sound of voices came fresh along the breeze. "they are going--there is no time now. i will send you a piece, if you will tell me where i can send it. where do you live?" "oh, will you? oh, thank you!" said dolly, and her face lifted confidingly to the young officer grew sunny with pleasure. "i live at mrs. delancy's school;--but no, i don't! i don't live there. my home is at uncle edward's--mr. edward eberstein--in walnut street." "what number?" said the midshipman, using his pencil again on the much scribbled piece of paper; and dolly told him. "and whom shall i send the--the piece of rope, to?" "oh, yes!--dolly copley. that is my name. good bye, i must go." "dolly copley. you shall have it," said he, giving the little hand she held out to him a right sailorly grasp. and dolly ran away. in the bustle and anxiety of getting lowered into the little boat again she forgot him and everything else; however, so soon as she was safely seated and just as the men were ordered to "give way," she looked up at the great ship they were leaving; and there, just above her, leaning on the guards and looking over and down at her, she saw her midshipman friend. dolly saw nothing else till his face was too small in the distance to be any longer recognised. chapter v. the piece of rope. it was saturday and holiday, and dolly went home to her aunt's. there her aunt and uncle, as was natural, expected a long story of the morning's experience. and dolly one would think might have given it; matter for the detail was not wanting; yet she seemed to have little to tell. on the other hand, she had a great deal to ask. she wanted to know why people could not do all their fighting on land; why ships of war were necessary; mr. eberstein tried to explain that there might be great and needful advantages attendant upon the use of them. then dolly begged for instances. had we, americans, ever fought at sea? mr. eberstein answered that, and gave her details of facts, while mrs. eberstein sat by silent and watched dolly's serious, meditative face. "i should think," said dolly, "that when there is a fight, a ship of war would be a very dreadful place." "there is no doubt of that, my little girl," said mr. eberstein. "take the noise, and the smoke, the packed condition of one of those gun decks, and the every now and then coming in of a round shot, crashing through planks and timbers, splintering what comes in its way, and stretching half a dozen men at once, more or less, on the floor in dead and wounded,--i think it must be as good a likeness of the infernal regions as earth can give--in one way at least." "in what way?" dolly asked immediately. "confusion of pain and horror. not wickedness." "uncle ned, do you think god can like it?" "no." "then isn't it wicked?" "no, little one; not necessarily. no sort of pain or suffering can be pleasing to god; we know it is not; yet sin has made it necessary, and he often sends it." "don't he always send it?" "why no. some sorts people bring on themselves by their own folly and perverseness; and some sorts people work on others by their own wicked self-will. god does not cause that, though he will overrule it to do what he wants done." "uncle ned, do you think we shall ever have to use our ships of war again?" "we are using them all the time. we send them to this place and that place to protect our own people, and their merchant vessels and their commerce, from interference and injury." "no, but i mean, in fighting. do you think we shall ever have to send them to fight again?" "probably." "to fight whom?" "that i don't know." "then why do you say 'probably'?" "because human nature remains what it was, and will no doubt do the same work in the future that it has done from the beginning." "why is fighting part of that work, uncle ned?" "ah, why! greed, which wants what is the right of others; pride, which resents even a fancied interference with its own; anger, which cries for revenge; these are the reasons." dolly looked very deeply serious. "why do you care so much about it, dolly?" her aunt asked at length, after a meditative pause of several minutes. "i would be sorry to have the 'achilles' go into battle," said dolly; and a perceptible slight shudder passed over her shoulders. "is the 'achilles' so much to you, just because you have seen her?" "no--" said dolly thoughtfully; "it isn't the _ship;_ it's the people." "oh!--but what do you know of the people?" "i saw a good many of them, aunt harry." politic dolly! she had really seen only one. yet she had no idea of being politic; and why she did not say whom she had seen, and what reason she had for being interested in him, i cannot tell you. from that time dolly's reading took a new turn. she sought out in the bookcases everything that related to sailors and ships, and especially naval warfare, and simply devoured it. the little life of lord nelson, by southey, in two small calf-bound volumes, became her darling book. better than any novel, for it was _true_, and equal to any novel for its varied, picturesque, passionate, stirring life story. dolly read it, till she could have given you at any time an accurate and detailed account of any one of nelson's great battles; and more than that, she studied the geography of the lands and waters thereby concerned, and where possible the topography also. i suppose the "achilles" stood for a model of all the ships in which successively the great commander hoisted his flag; and if the hero himself did not take the form and features of a certain american midshipman, it was probably because there was a likeness of the subject of the memoir opposite to the title-page; and the rather plain, rather melancholy, rather feeble traits of the english naval captain, could by no effort of imagination be confounded with the quiet strength and gentle manliness which dolly had found in the straight brows and keen blue eyes and kindly smile of her midshipman friend. that would not do. nelson was not like him, nor he like nelson; but dolly had little doubt but he would do as much, if he had occasion. in that faith she read on; and made every action lively with the vision of those keen-sighted blue eyes and firm sweet mouth in the midst of the smoke of battle and the confusion of orders given and received. how often the life of nelson was read, i dare not say; nor with what renewed eagerness the marine dictionary and its plates of ships and cannon were studied and searched. from that, dolly's attention was extended to other books which told of the sea and of life upon it, even though the life were not war-like. captain cook's voyages came in for a large amount of favour; and cooper's "afloat and ashore," which happened about this time to fall into dolly's hands, was devoured with a hunger which grew on what it fed. nobody knew; she had ceased to talk on naval subjects; and it was so common a thing for dolly to be swallowed up in some book or other whenever she was at home, that mrs. eberstein's curiosity was not excited. meanwhile school days and school work went on, and week succeeded week, and everybody but dolly had forgotten all about the "achilles;" when one day a small package was brought to the door and handed in "for miss dolly copley." it was a saturday afternoon. dolly and her aunt were sitting comfortably together in mrs. eberstein's workroom upstairs, and mr. eberstein was there too at his secretary. "for me?" said dolly, when the servant brought the package in. "it's a box! aunt harry, what can it be?" "open and see, dolly." which dolly did with an odd mixture of haste and deliberation which amused mrs. eberstein. she tore off nothing, and she cut nothing; patiently knots were untied and papers unfolded, though dolly's fingers trembled with excitement. papers taken off showed a rather small pasteboard box; and the box being opened revealed coil upon coil, nicely wound up, of a beautifully wrought chain. it might be a watch chain; but dolly possessed no watch. "what is it, aunt harry?" she said in wondering pleasure as the coils of the pretty woven work fell over her hand. "it looks like a watch chain, dolly. what is it made of?" mrs. eberstein inspected the work closely and could not determine. "but who could send me a watch chain?" said dolly. "somebody; for here is your name very plainly on the cover and on the paper." "the boy is waiting for an answer, miss." "answer? to what? i don't know whom to answer," said dolly. "there's a note, miss." "a note? where?--oh, here _is_ a note, aunt harry, in the bottom of the box. i did not see it." "from whom, dolly?" dolly did not answer. she had unfolded the note, and now her whole face was wrinkling up with pleasure or fun; she did not hear or heed her aunt's question. mrs. eberstein marked how her colour rose and her smile grew sparkling; and she watched with not a little curiosity and some impatience till dolly should speak. the little girl looked up at last with a face all dimples. "o aunt harry! it's my piece of rope." "your _piece of rope_, my dear?" "yes; i wanted a piece of rope; and this is it." "that is not a piece of rope." "yes, it is; it is made of it. i could not think what it was made of; and now i see. isn't it beautifully made? he has picked a piece of rope to pieces, and woven this chain of the threads; isn't it beautiful? and how kind! how kind he is." "_who_, dolly? who has done it?" "oh, the midshipman, aunt harry." "_the_ midshipman. what one? you didn't say anything about a midshipman." "i saw him, though, and he said he would send me a piece of rope. i wanted a piece, aunt harry, to remember the ship by; and i could not break a bit off, though i tried; then he saw me trying, and it was just time to go, and he said he would get it and send it to me. i thought he had forgotten all about it; but here it is! i am so glad." "my dear, do you call that a piece of rope?" "why, yes, aunt harry; it is woven out of a piece of rope. he has picked the rope apart and made this chain of the threads. i think he is very clever." "_who_, my dear? who has done it, dolly?" "the midshipman, aunt harry." "what midshipman?" "on the 'achilles.' i saw him that day." "did you see only one midshipman?" "no; i suppose i saw a good many. i didn't notice any but this one." "and he noticed you, i suppose?" "yes, a little"--said dolly. "did he notice nobody beside you?" "i don't know, aunt harry. not that time, for i was alone." "alone! where were all the rest, and mrs. delancy?" "eating lunch in the captain's cabin." "did you have no lunch?" "i had a biscuit one of the officers gave me." "and have you got a note there from the midshipman?" "yes, aunt harry." "what does he say?" dolly unfolded the note again and looked at it with great consideration; then handed it to mrs. eberstein. mrs. eberstein read aloud. "ship '_achilles_,' "_dec_. , -- "will miss dolly copley please send a word to say that she has received her piece of cable safe? i thought she would like it best perhaps in a manufactured form; and i hope she will keep it to remember the 'achilles' by, and also "a. crowninshield." "what's all that?" demanded mr. eberstein now from his writing-desk. mrs. eberstein bit her lips as she answered, "billet-doux." "aunt harry," said dolly now doubtfully, "must i write an answer?" "edward," said mrs. eberstein, "shall i let this child write a note to a midshipman on board the 'achilles'? what do you think? come and counsel me." mr. eberstein left his writing, informed himself of the circumstances, read "a. crowninshield's" note, and gave his decision. "the 'achilles'? oh yes, i know captain barbour very well. it's all right, i guess. i think dolly had better write an answer, certainly." so dolly fetched her writing materials. her aunt looked for some appeals for advice now on her part; but dolly made none. she bent over her paper with an earnest face, a little flushed; but it seemed she was in no uncertainty what to say or how to say it. she did not offer to show her finished note to mrs. eberstein; i think it did not occur to her; but in the intensity of her concentration dolly only thought of the person she was writing to and the occasion which made her write. certainly she would have had no objection that anybody should see what she wrote. the simple words ran as follows: "mr. crowninshield, "i have got the chain, and i think it is beautiful, and i am very much obliged to you. i mean to keep it and wear it as long as i live. you are very kind. "dolly copley." the note was closed and sent off; and with that dolly dismissed the subject, so far at least as words were concerned; but mrs. eberstein watched her still for some time handling and examining the chain, passing it through her fingers, and regarding it with a serious face, and yet an expression in the eyes and on the lips that was almost equivalent to a smile. "what are you going to do with it, dolly?" mrs. eberstein asked at length, wishing to get into the child's thoughts. "i'll keep it, aunt harry. and when i have anything to wear it with, i will wear it. when i am old enough, i mean." "what did you do to that young fellow, to make him show you such an attention?" "do to him? i didn't do anything to him, aunt harry!" "it was very kind of him, wasn't it?" "_very_ kind. i guess he is kind," said dolly. "maybe we shall see him again one of these days, and have a chance to thank him. the midshipmen get leave to come on shore now and then." but no such chance offered. the "achilles" sailed out of those waters, and her place in the river was empty. chapter vi. end of school term. dolly's school life is not further of importance in this history; or no further than may serve to fill out the picture already given of herself. a few smooth and uneventful years followed that first coming to philadelphia; not therefore unfruitful because uneventful; perhaps the very contrary. the little girl made her way among her fellow pupils and the teachers, the masters and mistresses, the studies and drills which busied them all, with a kind of sweet facility; such as is born everywhere, i suppose, of good will. whoever got into scrapes, it was never dolly copley; whoever was chidden for imperfect recitations, such rebukes never fell on her; whoever might be suspected of mischief, such suspicion could not rest for a moment on the fair, frank little face and those grave brown eyes. the most unpopular mistress had a friend in dolly; the most refractory school-girl owned to a certain influence which went forth from her; the most uncomfortable of her companions found soothing in her presence. people who are happy themselves can drop a good deal of oil on the creaking machinery around them, and love is the only manufactory where the oil is made. with all this smooth going, it may be supposed that dolly's progress in knowledge and accomplishments would be at least satisfactory; and it was more than that. she prospered in all she undertook. the teacher of mathematics said she had a good head for calculation; the french mistress declared nature had given her a good ear and accent; the dancing master found her agile and graceful as a young roe; the drawing master went beyond all these and averred that miss copley would distinguish him and herself. "she has an excellent manner of handling, madame," he said,--"and she has an eye for colour, and she will have a style that will be distinguished." moreover, dolly's voice was sweet and touching, and promised to be very effective. so things went on at school; and at home each day bound faster the loving ties which united her with her kind protectors and relations. every week grew and deepened the pleasure of the intercourse they held together. those were happy years for all parties. dolly had become rather more talkative, without being less of a bookworm. vacations were sometimes spent with her mother and father, though not always, as the latter were sometimes travelling. dolly missed nothing; mrs. eberstein's house had come to be a second home. all this while the "achilles" had never been heard of again in the neighbourhood of philadelphia. neither, though dolly i am bound to say searched faithfully all the lists of ship's officers which were reported in any american ports, did she ever so much as see the name of a. crowninshield. she always looked for it, wherever a chance of finding it might be; she never found it. such was the course of things, until dolly had reached her seventeenth year and was half through it. then, in the spring, long before school term ended, came a sudden summons for her. mr. copley had received the appointment of a consulship in london; he and his family were about to transfer themselves immediately to this new sphere of activity, and dolly of course must go along. her books were hastily fetched from school, her clothes packed up; and dolly and her kind friends in walnut street sat together the last evening in a very subdued frame of mind. "i don't see what your father wanted of a consulship, or anything else that would take him out of his country!" mr. eberstein uttered his rather grumbling complaint. "he has enough to satisfy a man without that." "but what papa likes is precisely something to take him out of the country. he likes change"--said dolly sorrowfully. "he won't have much change as american consul in london," mr. eberstein returned. "business will pin him pretty close." "i suppose it will be a change at first," said dolly; "and then, when he gets tired of it, he will give it up, and take something else." "and you, little dolly, you are accordingly to be shoved out into the great, great world, long before you are ready for it." "is the world any bigger over there than it is on this side?" said dolly, with a gleam of fun. "well, yes," said mr. eberstein. "most people think so. and london _is_ a good deal bigger than philadelphia." "the world is very much alike all over," remarked mrs. eberstein; "in one place a little more fascinating and dangerous, in another a little less." "will it be more or less, over there, for me, aunt harry?" "it would be 'more' for you anywhere, dolly, soon. why you are between sixteen and seventeen; almost a woman!" mrs. eberstein said with a sigh. "no, not yet, aunt harry. i'll be a girl yet awhile. i can be that in england, can't i, as well as here?" "better," said mr. eberstein. "but the world, nevertheless, _is_ a little bigger out there, ned," his wife added. "in what way, aunt harry? and what do you mean by the 'world' anyhow?" "i mean what the lord was speaking of, when he said to his disciples, 'if ye were of the world, the world would love his own; but because ye are not of the world, but i have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you.'" "that means, bad people?" "some of them are by no means bad people. some of them are delightful people." "then i do not quite understand, aunt harry. i thought it meant not only _bad_ people, but gay people; pleasure lovers." "aren't you a lover of pleasure, dolly?" "oh yes. but, aunt harry," dolly said seriously, "i am _not_ a 'lover of pleasure more than a lover of god.'" "no, thanks to his goodness! however, dolly, people may be just as worldly without seeking pleasures at all. it isn't that." "what is it, then?" "i don't know how to put it. ned, can you?" "why, hal," said mr. eberstein pondering, "it comes to about this, i reckon. there are just two kingdoms in the world, upon earth i mean." "yes. well? i know there are two kingdoms, and no neutral ground. but what is the dividing line? that is what we want to know." "if there is no neutral ground, it follows that the border line of one kingdom is the border line of the other. to go out of one, is to go into the other." "well? yes. that's plain." "then it is simple enough. what belongs to christ, or what is done for him or in his service, belongs to his kingdom. of course, what is _not_ christ's, nor is done for him, nor in his service, belongs to the world." there was a silence here of some duration; and then dolly exclaimed, "i see it. i shall know now." "what, dolly?" "how to do, aunt harry." "how to do what?" "everything. i was thinking particularly just then"--dolly hesitated. "yes, of what?" "of dressing myself." "dressing yourself, you chicken?" "yes, aunt harry. i see it. if i do not dress for christ, i do it for the world." "don't go into another extreme now, dolly." "no, aunt harry. i cannot be wrong, can i, if i do it for christ?" "i wonder how many girls of sixteen in the country have such a thought? and i wonder, how long will you be able to keep it, dolly?" "why not, aunt harry?" "o child! because you have got to meet the world." "what will the world do to me?" dolly asked, half laughing in her simple ignorance. "when i think what it will do to you, dolly, i am ready to break my heart. it will tempt you, child. it will tempt you with beauty, and with pleasant things; pleasant things that look so harmless! and it will seek to persuade you with sweet voices and with voices of authority; and it will show you everybody going one way, and that not your way." "but i will follow christ, aunt hal." "then you will have to bear reproach." "i would rather bear the world's reproach, than his." "if you don't get over-persuaded, child, or deafened with the voices!" "she will have to do like the little girl in the fairy tale," said mr. eberstein; "stuff cotton in her ears. the little girl in the fairy tale was going up a hill to get something at the top--what _was_ she going for, that was at the top of the hill?" "i know!" cried dolly. "i remember. she was going for three things. the singing bird and the golden water, and--i forget what the third thing was." "well, you see what that means," mr. eberstein went on. "she was going up the hill for the golden water at the top; and there were ten thousand voices in her ears tempting her to look round; and if she looked, she would be turned to stone. the road was lined with stones, which had once been pilgrims. you see, dolly? her only way was to stop her ears." "i see, uncle ned." "what shall dolly stop her ears with?" asked mrs. eberstein. "these words will do. 'whether ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of god.'" there was little more talking, for as the evening drew on, the heaviness of the parting weighed too hard upon all hearts. the next day dolly made the journey to boston, and from there to her parents' house; and her childhood's days were over. chapter vii. playthings. dolly did not know that her childhood was over. every pulse of her happy little heart said the contrary, when she found herself again among her old haunts and was going the rounds of them, the morning after her return home. she came in at last to her mother, flushed and warm. "mother, what are we going away for?" she began. "your father knows. i don't. men never know when they are well off." "do women?" "i used to think so." "is it as pleasant in england as it is here?" "depends on where you are placed, i suppose, and _how_ you are placed. how can i tell? i have never been in england." "mother, we have got the prettiest little calf in the barn that you ever saw." "in the barn! a queer place for a calf to be, it seems to me." "yes, because they want to keep it from the cow. johnson is going to rear it, he says. i am so glad it is not to be killed! it is spotted, mother; all red and white; and so prettily spotted!" an inarticulate sound from mrs. copley, which might mean anything. "and, mother, i have been getting the eggs. and johnson has a hen setting. we shall have chickens pretty soon." "dolly copley, how old are you?" "sixteen last christmas, mother." "and seventeen next christmas." "yes, ma'am, but next christmas is not come yet." "seems to me, it is near enough for you to be something besides a child." "what's the harm, mother?" "harm?" said mrs. copley with a sharp accent; "why, when one has a woman's work to do, one had better be a woman to do it. how is a child to fill a woman's place?" "i have only a child's place to fill, just now," said dolly merrily. "i have no woman's work to do, mother." "yes, you have. you have got to go into society, and play your part in society, and be married by and by; and _then_ you'll know that a woman's part isn't so easy to play." dolly looked grave. "but we are going to england, mother; where we know nobody. i don't see how we are to go into much society." "do you suppose," said mrs. copley very irately, "that with your father's position his wife and daughter will not be visited and receive invitations? that is the one thing that reconciles me to going. we shall have a very different sort of society from what we have here. why you will go to court, dolly; you will be presented; and of course you will see nothing but people of the very best circles." "i don't care about going to court." "why not? you are a goose; you know nothing about it. why don't you want to go to court? your father's daughter may, as well as some other people's. why don't you care about it?" "it would be a great deal of fuss; and no use." "no use! yes, it would; just the use i am telling you. it would introduce you to the best society." "but i am not going to live in england all my life, mother." "how do you know?" very sharply. "how do you know where you are going to live?" "why, father won't stay there always, will he?" "i am sure i don't know what your father will take into his head. i may be called to end my days in japan. but you--look here; has your aunt made you as old-fashioned as she is herself?" "how, mother?" "i am sure i can't tell how! there are ever so many ways. there's the benevolent sort, and there's the devout sort, and there's the puritanical sort. has she put it into your head that it is good to be a hermit and separate yourself from the rest of the world?" dolly laughed and denied that charge. "she's a very good woman, i suppose; but she is ridiculous," mrs. copley went on. "don't be ridiculous, whatever you are. you can't do any good to anybody by being ridiculous." "but people may call things ridiculous, that are not ridiculous, mother." "don't let them _call_ you ridiculous, then," said mrs. copley, chopping her words in the way people do when impatience has the management of them. "you had better not. the world is pretty apt to be right." dolly let the subject go, and let it go from her mind too; giving herself to the delights of her chickens, and the calf, and the nests of eggs in the hay mow. more than half the time she was dancing about out of doors; as gay as the daffodils that were just opening, as delicate as the van thol tulips that were taking on slender streaks and threads of carmine in their half transparent white petals, as sweet as the white hyacinth that was blooming in mrs. copley's window. within the house dolly displayed another character, and soon became indispensable to her mother. in all consultations of business, in emergencies of packing, in perplexities of arrangements, dolly was ready with a sweet, clear common sense, loving hands of skill, and an imperturbable cheerfulness and patience. it was only a few weeks that the confusion lasted; during those weeks mrs. copley came to know what sort of a daughter she had. and even mr. copley began to divine it. mr. copley has been no more than mentioned. he was a comely, intelligent, active, energetic man; a very good specimen of a typical yankee who has enjoyed the advantages of education and society. he had plenty of common sense, acute business faculties, and genial manners; and so was generally a popular man among his compeers. his inherited family property made him more than independent; so his business dealings were entered into rather for amusement and to satisfy the inborn yankee craving to be doing something, than for need or for gain. mr. copley laid no special value on money, beyond what went to make him comfortable. but he lacked any feeling for art, which might have made him a collector and connoisseur; he had no love for nature, which might have expended itself in grounds and gardens; he cared little for knowledge, except such as he could forthwith use. what was left to him but business? for he was not of those softly natures which sit down at home in the midst of their families and are content. however, mr. copley could value his home belongings, and had an eye to discern things. he was watching dolly, one day just before their departure, as she was busying herself with a bunch of violets; putting some of them in a glass, sticking some of them in her mother's hair, finally holding the bunch under her father's nose. "dolly," said her father, "i declare i don't know whether you are most of a child or a woman!" "i suppose i can be both, father; can't i?" "i don't know about that." "so i tell her," said mrs. copley. "it's all very well as long as she is here; but i tell her she has got to give up being a child and playing with the chickens." "why must i?" said dolly. "you will find other playthings on the other side," said her father, fondly putting his arm round her and drawing her up to him. "will they be as good as chickens? what will they be?" "yes, there, 'what will they be,' she asks! i do believe that dolly has no idea," mrs. copley remarked. "she will find out soon enough," said mr. copley contentedly. "what will they be, father?" dolly repeated, making for the present a plaything of her father's head; for both her soft arms were around it, and she was touching first one side and then the other side with her own cheeks. mr. copley seemed to enjoy the play, for he gave himself up to it luxuriously and made no answer. "dolly has been long enough in philadelphia," mrs. copley went on. "it is time she was away." "so i think." "father," said dolly now, "have i done with going to school?" there ensued a debate upon this question; dolly herself taking the negative and her mother the affirmative side. she wanted her daughter at home, she said. "but not till i am fit to be at home, mother?" "fit? why are you not fit?" said mrs. copley. "you know as much as i did when i was married; and i should think that would be enough. i do not see what girls want with so much crammed into their heads, nowadays! it does them no good, and it does nobody else any good." "what do you think you want, dolly, more than you have already?" her father asked. "why, father, i do not know _anything_. i have only begun things." "humph! not know anything. i suppose you can read and write and cipher?" "and you can play and sing," added mrs. copley. "very little, mother." "and your drawings are beautiful." "oh, no, mother! that is one especial thing that i want to do better; a great deal better." "i think they are good enough. and you have music enough. what's the use? when you are married you will give it all up." "my music and my drawing, mother?" "yes. every girl does." "but i am not going to be married." "not just yet,"--said mr. copley, drawing the soft arms round his neck,--"not just yet, dolly. but when a girl is known to have so much money as you will have, there are sure to be plenty of fellows after her. somebody will catch you up, some of these days." "somebody who wants my money, father?" "everybody wants money"--mr. copley answered evasively. "they would not come and tell you so, i suppose?" "not exactly. that isn't the game." "then they would pretend to like me, while they only wanted my money?" "mr. copley, do you think what notions you are putting in dolly's head? don't you know yet, that whatever you put in dolly's head, stays there?" mrs. copley objected. "i like that," said dolly's father. "most girls' heads are like paper fly traps--won't hold anything but a fly. dolly, in the pocket of my overcoat that hangs up in the hall, there is something that concerns you." "which pocket, father?" "ay, you've got your head on your shoulders! that's right. in the inner breast pocket, my dear. you'll find a small packet, tied up in paper." being brought and duly opened, mr. copley's fingers took out of a small paper box a yet smaller package in silk paper and handed it to dolly. it was a pretty little gold watch. "why didn't you wait till you go to geneva, mr. copley?" said his wife. "you could have got it cheaper and better there." "how do you know, my dear, without knowing how much i paid for this, or how good it is? i am not going to geneva, either. well, dolly?" dolly gave her father a mute kiss, which was expressive. "_you_ think it will do, then. what will you wear it on? i should have thought of that. you must have a chain." "oh, i have got a chain!" dolly cried, and off she ran to fetch it. she came back presently with the little box which had been sent her from the "achilles," and sat down by the lamp to put the watch on the chain. her father's eye rested on her as she sat there, and well it might. the lamp-light fell among the light loose curls of brown hair, glanced from the white brow, showed the delicate flush with which delight had coloured her cheeks, and then lit up the little hands which were busy with gold and wreathen work of the cable chain. the eyes he could not see; the mouth, he thought, with its innocent half smile, was as sweet as a mouth could be. mrs. copley was looking that way too, but seeing somewhat else. eyes do see in the same picture such different things. "what have you got there, dolly?" "a chain, mother. i am so glad! i never could wear it, before. now i am so glad." "what is it?" "a chain, mother," said dolly, holding it up. "what sort of a chain? made of what?" dolly told her story. mrs. copley examined and wondered at the elegance of the work. mr. copley promised dolly a chain of gold. "i do not want it, father. i like this," said dolly, putting the chain round her neck. "not better than a gold one?" "yes, father, i do." "why, child?" "it reminds me of the time, and of the person that made it; and i like it for all that." "who was the person? what was his name?" "a midshipman on the 'achilles.' his name was crowninshield." "a good name," said mr. copley. "why that was five and a half years ago, child. did he make such an impression on you? where is he now?" "i don't know." "you have never seen him since?" "nor heard of him. i could not even find his name in any of the lists of officers of ships, that i saw sometimes in the paper." "i'll look for it," said mr. copley. but though he was as good as his word, he was no more successful than dolly had been. chapter viii. london. mrs. copley did not like london. so she declared after a stay of some months had given her, as she supposed, an opportunity of judging. the house they inhabited was not in a sufficiently fashionable quarter, she complained; and society did not seem to open its doors readily to the new american consul. "i suppose, mother, we have not been here long enough. people do not know us." "what do you call 'long enough'?" said mrs. copley with sharp emphasis. "and how are people to know us, if they do not come to see us? when people are strangers, is the very time to go and make their acquaintance; i should say." "english nature likes to know people before it makes their acquaintance," mr. copley remarked. "i do not think you have any cause to find fault." "no; you have all _you_ want in the way of society, and you have no notion how it is with me. that is men's way. and what do you expect to do with dolly, shut up in this smoky old street? you might think of dolly." "dolly, dear," said her father, "are you getting smoked out, like your mother? do you want to go with me and see the bank of england to-day?" dolly made a joyful spring to kiss her thanks, and then flew off to get ready; but stopped at the door. "won't you go too, mother?" "and tire myself to death? no, thank you, dolly. i am not so young as i was once." "you are a very young woman for your years, my dear," said mr. copley gallantly. "but i should like to know, frank," said mrs. copley, thawing a little, "what you do mean to do with dolly?" "take her to see the bank of england. it's a wonderful institution." "you know what i mean, frank. don't run away from my question. you have society enough, i suppose, of the kind that suits you; but dolly and i are alone, or as near as possible. what is to become of dolly, shut up here in smoke and fog? you should think of dolly. i can stand it for myself." "there'll be no want of people to think of dolly." "if they could see her; but they don't see her. how are they to see her?" "i'll get you a place down in the country, if you like; out of the smoke." "i should like it very much. but that will not help dolly." "yes, it will; help her to keep fresh. i'll get her a pony." "mr. copley, you will not answer me! i am talking of dolly's prospects. you do not seem to consider them." "how old is dolly?" "seventeen." "too young for prospects, my dear." "not too young for us to think about it, and take care that she does not miss them. mr. copley, do you know dolly is very handsome?" "she is better than that!" said mr. copley proudly. "i understand faces, if i don't prospects. there is not the like of dolly to be seen in hyde park any day." "why don't you take her to ride in the park then, and let her be seen?" "do you want her to marry an englishman?" mrs. copley was silent, and before she spoke again dolly came in, ready for her expedition. london was not quite to dolly the disappointing thing her mother declared it. she was at an age to find pleasure in everything from which a fine sense could bring it out; and not being burdened with thoughts about "prospects," and finding her own and her mother's society always sufficient for herself, dolly went gaily on from day to day, like a bee from flower to flower; sucking sweetness in each one. she had a large and insatiable appetite for the sight and knowledge of everything that was worth seeing or knowing; it followed, that london was to her a rich treasure field. she delighted in viewing it under its historical aspect; she would study out the associations and the chronicled events connected with a particular point; and then, with her mind and heart full of the subject, go some day to visit the place with her father. what pleasure she took in this way it is impossible to tell. mr. copley was excessively fond and proud of his daughter, even though her mother thought him so careless about her interests; his life was a busy one, but from time to time he would spare half a day to give to dolly, and then they went sight-seeing together. old houses, old gateways and courts, old corners and streets, where something had happened or somebody had lived that henceforth could never be forgotten, how dolly studied them and hung about them! mr. copley himself cared for no historical associations, neither could he apprehend picturesque effects; what he did care for was dolly; and for her sake he would linger hours, if need were, around some bit of old london; and find amusement enough the while in watching dolly. dolly studied like an antiquary, and dreamed like a romantic girl; and at the same time enjoyed fine effects with the true natural feeling of an artist; though dolly was no artist. the sense had not been cultivated, but the feeling was born in her. so the british museum was to her something quite beyond fairyland; a region of wonders, where past ages went by in procession; or better, stood still for her eyes to gaze upon them. the tower was another place of indescribable fascination. how many visits they made to it i dare not say; dolly never had enough; and her delight was so much of a feast to her father that he did not grudge the time nor mind what he would have called the dawdling. indeed it was a sort of refuge to mr. copley, when business perplexities or iterations had fairly wearied him, which sometimes happened; then he would flee away from the dust and confusion of present life in the city and lose himself with dolly in the cool shades of the past. that might seem dusty to him too; but there was always a fresh spring of life in his little daughter which made a green place for him wherever she happened to be. so mr. copley was as contented with the condition of things at this time as it was in his nature to feel. he had enough society, as his wife had stated; he had all he wanted in that line; he was just as well contented to keep dolly for the present at home and to himself. he did not want her to be snapped up by somebody, he said; and if you don't mean to have a fire, you had best not leave matches lying about; a sentiment which mrs. copley received with great scorn. it would have, so far, suited the views of both parents, to send dolly to some first-rate boarding school for a year or two. only, they could not do without her. she was the staple of mrs. copley's life, and the spice of life to her husband. dolly was kept at home therefore, and furnished with masters in music and drawing, and at her pressing request, in languages also. and just because she made diligent, conscientious use of these advantages and worked hard most of the time, dolly the more richly enjoyed an occasional half day of wandering about with her father. she came home from her visit to the bank of england in high glee and with a brave appetite for her late luncheon. "well," said mrs. copley, watching her,--"now you have tired yourself out again; and for what?" "o mother, it was a very great sight!" said dolly. "i wish you had been along. i think it has given me the best notion of the greatness of england that i have got from anything yet." "money isn't _everything_," said mrs. copley scornfully. "i dare say we have just as good banks in america." "father says, there is nothing equal to it in the world." "that is because your father is so taken with everything english. he'd be sure to say that. i don't know why a bank in america shouldn't be as good as a bank here, or anywhere." "it isn't that, mother. a bank might be _good_, in one sense; but it could not be such a magnificent establishment as this, anywhere but in england." "why not?" "oh, the abundance of wealth here, mother; and the scale of everything; and the superb order and system. english system is something beautiful." and dolly went on to explain to her mother the arrangements of the bank, and in especial the order taken for the preservation and gradual destruction of the redeemed notes. "i should like to know what is the use of such things as banks at all?" was mrs. copley's unsatisfied comment. "why mother? don't you know? they make business so much easier, and safer." "i wish there was no such thing as banks, then." "o mother! why do you say that?" "then your father would maybe let business alone." "but he is fond of business!" "i don't think business is fond of him. he gets drawn into a speculation here and a speculation there, by some of these people he is always with; and some day he will do it once too often. he has enough for us all now; if he would only keep to his consul's business and let banks alone." mrs. copley looked worried, and dolly for a moment looked grave; but it was her mother's way to talk so. "why did he take the consulship?" "ask him! because he would rather be a nobody in england than a somebody in america." "mother," said dolly after a pause, "we have an invitation to dinner." "who?" "father and i." "not me!" cried mrs. copley. "you and your father, and not your father's wife!" "i suppose the people do not know you, mother, nor know about you; that must be the reason." "how do they know about you, pray?" "they have seen me. at least one of them has; so father says." "one of whom?" "one of the family." "what family is it?" "a rich banker's family, father says. mr. st. leger." "st. leger. that is a good name here." "they are very rich, father says, and have a beautiful place." "where?" "some miles out of london; a good many, i think." "where is your invitation?" "where?--oh, it is not written. mr. st. leger asked father to come and bring me." "and _mrs._ st. leger has sent you no invitation, then. not even a card, dolly?" "why no, mother. was that necessary?" "it would have been civil," said mrs. copley. "it is what she would have done to an englishwoman. i suppose they think we don't know any better." dolly was silent, and mrs. copley presently went on.--"how can you go to dinner several miles away? you would have to come back in the night." "oh no; we could not do that. mr. st. leger asked us to stay over till next day." "it is just like everything else in this miserable country!" mrs. copley exclaimed. "i wish i was at home!" "oh, why, mother? we shall go home by and by; why cannot you enjoy things, while we are here?" "enjoy what? staying here in the house and seeing you and your father go off to dinners without me? at home i am mrs. copley, and it means something; here, it seems, i am mr. copley's housekeeper." "but, mother, nobody meant any affront. and you will not see us go off and leave you; for i shall stay at home." "indeed you will do no such thing! i am not going to have you asked anywhere, really asked to a dinner, and not go. you shall go, dolly. but i really think mr. copley might have managed to let the people know you had a mother somewhere. that's what he would have done, if it wasn't for business. it is business that swallows him up; and i don't know for my part what life is good for so. once i had a husband. now, i declare i haven't got anything but you, dolly." "mother, you _have_ me," said the girl, kissing her. and the caress was so sweet that it reminded mrs. copley how much that one word "dolly" signified; and she was quiet. and when mr. copley came home, and the subject was discussed anew, she limited herself to inquiries about the family and questions concerning dolly's dress, refraining from all complaints on her own score. "st. leger?" said mr. copley. "who is he? he's a goodish old fellow; sharp as a hawk in business; but he's solid; solid as the bank. that's all there is about him; he is of no great count, except for his money. he'll never set the thames on fire. what did he ask us for?--humph! well--he and i have had a good deal to do with each other. and then--" mr. copley paused and his eyes involuntarily went over the table to his daughter. "do you remember, dolly, being in my office one day, a month ago or more, when mr. st. leger came in? he and his son?" dolly remembered nothing about it; remembered indeed being there, but not who came in. "well, _they_ remember it," said mr. copley. "is it a good place for dolly to go?" "dolly? oh yes. why not? they have a fine place out of town. dolly will tell you about it when she has been there." "and what must dolly wear?" pursued mrs. copley. "wear? oh, just what everybody wears. the regular thing, i suppose. dolly may wear what she has a mind to." "that is just what you know she cannot, mr. copley. at home she might; but these people here are so very particular." "about dress? not at all, my dear. english people let you go your own way in that as much as any people on the face of the earth. they do not care how you dress." "they don't _care_, no," said mrs. copley; "they don't care if you went on your head; but all the same they judge you according to how you look and what you do. and us especially because we are foreigners. i don't want them to turn up their noses at dolly because she is an american." "i'd as lieve they did it for that as for anything," said dolly laughing; "but i hope the people we are going to will know better." "they _will_ know better, there is no fear," answered her father. the subject troubled mrs. copley's head, however, from that time till the day of the dinner; and even after dolly and her father had driven off and were gone, she still debated with herself uneasily whether a darker dress would have done better, and whether dolly ought to have had flowers in her hair, to make her very best impression upon her entertainers. for dolly had elected to wear white, and would deck herself with no ornament at all, neither ribband nor flower. mrs. copley half grumbled, yet could not but allow to herself that there was nothing to wish for in the finished effect; and dolly was allowed to depart; but as i said, after she was gone, mrs. copley went on troubling herself with doubts on the question. chapter ix. the peacocks. no doubts troubled dolly's mind during that drive, about dress or anything else. her dress she had forgotten indeed; and the pain of leaving her mother at home was forced to give way before the multitude of new and pleasant impressions. that drive was pure enjoyment. the excitement and novelty of the occasion gave no doubt a spur to dolly's spirits and quickened her perceptions; they were all alive, as the carriage rolled along over the smooth roads. what could be better than to drive so, on such an evening, through such a country? for the weather was perfect, the landscape exceedingly rich and fair, the vegetation in its glory. and the roads themselves were full of the most varied life, and offered to the little american girl a flashing, changing, very amusing and abundantly suggestive scene. dolly's eyes were incessantly busy, yet her lips did not move unless to smile; and her father for a long time would not interrupt her meditations. good that she should forget herself, he thought; if she were recalled to the practical present maybe she would grow nervous. that was the only thing mr. copley was afraid of. however, for him to keep absolute silence beyond a limited time was out of his nature. "are you happy, dolly?" he asked her. "very happy, father! if only mother was with us." "ah, yes, it would have been rather pleasanter for you; but you must not mind that." "i am afraid i do not mind it enough, i am so amused with everything. i cannot help it." "that's right. now, dolly" "yes, father" "i should like to know what you have been thinking of all this while. i have been watching the smiles coming and going." "i do not know that i was thinking at all--until just now; just before you spoke." "and of what then?" "it came to me, i do not know why, a question. we have passed so many people who seemed as if they were enjoying themselves,--like me;--and so many pretty-looking places, where people might live happy, one would think; and the question somehow came to me, father, what i am going to do with my own life?" "do with it?" said mr. copley astonished; "why enjoy it, dolly. every day as much as to-day." "but perhaps one cannot enjoy life always," said dolly thoughtfully. "all you can, then, dear; all you can. there is nothing to prevent _your_ always enjoying it. you will have money enough; and that is the main thing. there is nothing to hinder your enjoying yourself." "but, father, don't you think one ought to do more with one's life than that?" "yes; you'll marry one of these days, and so make somebody else enjoy himself." "what would become of you and mother then?" asked dolly shyly. "we'd get along," said mr. copley. "what we care about, is to see you enjoy life, dolly. are you enjoying it now, puss?" "very much, father." "then so am i." the carriage left the high road here, and dolly's attention was again, seemingly, all bestowed on what she saw from its windows. her father watched her, and could not observe that she was either timid or excited in the prospect of the new scenes upon which she was about to enter. her big brown eyes were wide open, busy and interested, at the same time wholly self-forgetful. self-forgetful they remained when arriving at the house, and when she was introduced to the family; and her manner consequently left nothing to be desired. yet house and grounds and establishment were on a scale to which dolly hitherto had been entirely unaccustomed. there was a small dinner party gathered, and dolly was taken in to table by young mr. st. leger, the son of their host. dolly had seen this gentleman before, and so in this concourse of strangers she felt more at home with him than with anybody. young mr. st. leger was a very handsome fellow; with regular features and soft, rather lazy, blue eyes, which, however, were not insipid. dolly rather liked him; the expression of his features was gentle and good, so were his manners. he seemed well pleased with his choice of a companion, and did his best to make dolly pleased also. "you are new in this part of the world?" he remarked to her. "i am new in any part of the world," said dolly, dimpling, as she did when something struck her funnily. "i am not very old yet." "no, i see," said her companion, laughing a little, though in some doubt whether he or she had made the fun. "how do you like us? or haven't you been long enough here to judge?" "i have been in england a good many months." "then is it a fair question?" "all questions are fair," said dolly. "i like some things here very much." "i should be delighted to know what." "i'll tell you," said dolly's father, who sat opposite and had caught the question. "she likes an old suit of armour or a collection of old stones in the form of an arch or a gateway; and in the presence of the crown jewels she was almost as bad as that scotch lady who worshipped the old regalia of the northern kingdom. only it was the antiquity that dolly worshipped, you know; not the royalty." "what is there in antiquity?" said mr. st. leger, turning his eyes again curiously to dolly. "old things were young once; how are they any better for being old?" "not any better; only more interesting." "pray tell me why." "think of what those old stones have seen." "pardon me; they have not _seen_ anything." "think of the eyes that have seen them, then. or stand before one of those old suits of armour in the tower, and think where it has been. think of the changes that have come; and what a strange witness it is for the things that were and have passed away." "i am more interested in the present," said the young man. "i perceive you are romantic." dolly was silent. she thought one of those halls of old armour in the tower was in its attractions very far beyond the present dinner table; although indeed this amused her. presently her companion began again and gave her details about all the guests; who they were, and how they happened to be there; and then suddenly asked her if she had ever been to the races? dolly inquired what races; and was informed that the epsom races were just beginning. would she like to go to them? was inquired eagerly. dolly had no idea what was the real character of the show she was asked about; and she answered in accordance with her general craving to see everything. nevertheless she was somewhat surprised, when the gentlemen came up from dinner, to hear the proposition earnestly made; made by both mr. and mrs. st. leger; that she and her father should go with them the next day to the epsom races; and she was greatly astonished to hear her father agree to the proposal, although the acceptance of it involved the staying another day away from home and the sleeping a second night at the st. leger place. but dolly was not consulted. the family expressed their pleasure in undoubted terms, and young mr. st. leger's blue eyes had a gleam of satisfaction in them, as he assured dolly that now they would "show her something of interest in the present." dolly was the youngest guest in the house, and by all rules the one entitled to least consideration; yet she went to sleep that night in a chamber the most superb she had ever inhabited in her life. she looked around her with wonder at the richness of every matter of detail, and a little private query how _she_, little dolly copley, came to be so lodged? her mother would have no reason _here_ to complain of want of due regard. and all the evening there had been no such complaint to make. people had been very kind, dolly said to herself as she was falling asleep. but how _could_ her father have consented to stay another day, for any races in the world--leaving her mother alone? but she could not help it; and no doubt the next day would be amusing; to-day had been amusing--and dolly's thoughts went no further. the next morning everybody drove or rode to the races. dolly herself was taken by young mr. st. leger, along with one of his sisters, in an elegant little vehicle for which she knew no name. it was very comfortable, and they drove very fast--till the crowd hindered them, that is; and certainly dolly was amused. all was novel and strange to her; the concourse, the equipages, the people, the horses, even before they arrived at the race grounds. there a good position was secured, and dolly saw the whole of that day's performances. mr. st. leger attended to her unremittingly; he and his sister explained everything, and pointed out the people of mark within their range of vision; his blue eyes grew quite animated, and looked into dolly's to see what they could find there, of response or otherwise. and dolly's eyes were grave and wide-awake, intent, very busy, very lively, but how far they were brightened with pleasure he could not tell. they were bright, he saw that; fearless, pure, sweet eyes, that yet baffled him; no trace of self-consciousness or self-seeking was to be found in them; and young st. leger stood a little in awe, as common men will, before a face so uncommon. he ventured no direct question for the satisfying of his curiosity until they had returned, and dinner was over. indeed he did not venture it then; it was his father who asked it. he too had observed the simple, well-bred, lovely little maiden, and had a little curiosity on his own part. "well, miss copley--now you have seen epsom, how do you like it?" dolly hesitated. "i have been very much interested, sir, thank you," she said gravely. "but how do you _like_ it? did you enjoy it?" dolly hesitated again. finally smiled and confessed. "i was sorry for the horses." "sorry for the horses!" her host repeated. "what for?" "yes, what for?" added the younger st. leger. "they were not ill treated." "no,--" said dolly doubtfully, "perhaps not,--but they were running very hard, and for nothing." "for nothing!" echoed mr. st. leger again. "it was for a good many thousand pounds. there's many a one was there to-day who wishes they had run for nothing!" "but after all, that is for nothing," said dolly. "it is no good to anybody." "except to those that win," said the old gentleman. "except to those that win!" probably _he_ had won. dolly wanted to get out of the conversation. she made no answer. another gentleman spoke up, and opined, were it not for the money won and lost, the whole thing would fail of its attraction. it would be no sport indeed, if the horses ran _for nothing_. "do you have no races in--a--your country?" he asked dolly. dolly believed so. she had never been present at them. "nothing like epsom," said her father. "we shall have nothing to show like that for some time. but dolly takes practical views. i saw her smiling out of the windows, as we drove along, coming here yesterday; and i asked her what she was thinking of? i expected to hear her say, the beauty of the plantations, or the richness of the country, or the elegance and variety of the equipages we passed. she answered me she was thinking _what she should do with her life!_" there was a general gentle note of amusement audible through the room, but old mr. st. leger laughed out in a broad "ha, ha." "what did you conclude, my dear?" said he. "what did you conclude? i am interested to know." "i could not conclude then, sir," said dolly, bearing the laugh very well, with a pretty little peach-blossom blush coming upon her cheeks. "'tisn't difficult to know," the old gentleman went on, not unkindly watching dolly's face play. "there is one pretty certain lot for a pretty young woman. she will manage her household, take care of her husband, and bring up her children,--one of these days." "that is not precisely the ambition of all pretty young women," remarked one of the party; while mrs. st. leger good humouredly drew dolly down to a seat beside her and engrossed her attention. "you meant the words perhaps in another sense, more practical, that your father did not think of. you were thinking maybe what profession you would follow?" "i beg your pardon, ma'am!" said dolly, quite perplexed now. "how do you mean, profession?" "yes; perhaps you were thinking of being a governess some day, or a teacher, or something of that sort; were you?" dolly's face dimpled all over in a way that seemed to young st. leger the very prettiest, winningest, most uncommon loveliness that his eyes had ever been blessed with. said eyes were inseparable from dolly; he had no attention but for her looks and words; and his mother knew as much, while she too looked at the girl and waited for her answer. "oh no," dolly said; "i was not thinking of any such thing. my father does not wish me to do anything of the kind." "then what _did_ you mean, my dear?" dolly lifted a pair of sweet grave eyes to the face of her questioner; a full, rather bloated face, very florid; with an expression of eyes kindly indeed, but unresting, dissatisfied; or if that is too strong a word, not content. dolly looked at all this and answered-- "i don't want to live merely to live, ma'am." "don't you? what more do you want? to live pleasantly, of course; for not to do _that_, is not what i call living." "i was not thinking of pleasant living. but--i do not want my life to be like those horses running to-day," said dolly smiling; "for nothing; of no use." "don't you think a woman is of use and fills her place, my dear, who looks after her household and attends to her family, and does her duty by society?" "yes," said dolly hesitating,--"but that is not enough." the girl was thinking of her own mother at the moment. "not enough? why, yes, it is enough. that is a woman's place and business. what else would you do?" dolly was in some embarrassment now. she must answer, for mrs. st. leger was waiting for it; but her answer could not be understood. her eye took in again the rich appliances for present enjoyment which filled the room, above, below, and around her; and then she said, her eye coming back-- "i would like my life to be good for something that would not pass away." "not pass away? why, everything passes away, my child" (and there came a sigh here),--"in time. the thing is to make the best of them while we have them." is that all? thought dolly, as she noticed the untested, rather sad look of her hostess's face; and she wished she could say more, but she dared not. then young mr. st. leger bent forward, and inquired what she could be thinking of that would _not_ pass away? his mother saw the look with which his blue eyes sought the face of the little stranger; and turned away with another sigh, born half of sympathy with her boy's feeling and half of jealousy against the subject of it. dolly saw the look too, but did not comprehend it. she simply wondered why these people put her through the catechism so? "what could you be thinking of?" st. leger repeated, sliding into the seat his mother had quitted. "don't you know anything that will last?" dolly retorted. "no," said the young man, laughing. "do you? except that i have heard that 'a thing of beauty is a joy forever.'" this, which was a remarkable flight for st. leger, was lost upon simple dolly. "oh, i know that is true," she answered; "but that is just a way of speaking. it would not be a joy to me, if i had not something else to hold to. i am sorry for you." "really? i wish i could think that. it would be delightful to have you sorry for me." "it would be much better not to need it." "i don't know about that. perhaps, if you were very sorry for me, you would try to teach me better." "perhaps; but i shall not have time. i suppose we shall go away very early in the morning." "i should like to show you the gardens, first." "haven't we seen them?" "why, of course not. all that you have seen is a little shrubbery and a bit of the park. suppose we go over the gardens in the morning?" "i am sure we shall return home immediately after breakfast." "before breakfast then? why not?" this plan went into effect. it was an occasion of great pleasure to both parties. no better time could be for seeing the utmost beauty of the flowers; and dolly wandered in what was to her a wilderness of an enchanted land. breakfast was forgotten; and young st. leger was so charmed with this perfectly fresh, simple, and lively nature, that he for his part was willing to forget it indefinitely. dolly's utter delight, and her intelligent, quick apprehension, the sparkle in her eye, the happy colour in her cheeks, made her to his fancy the rarest thing he had ever seen. the gardener, who was summoned to give information of which his young master was not possessed, entertained quite the same opinion; and thanks to his admiring gratification dolly went back to the house the possessor of a most superb bouquet, which he had cut for her and offered through mr. st. leger. there were some significant half smiles around the breakfast table, as the young pair and the flowers made their appearance. st. leger braved them; dolly did not see them. her sweet eyes were full of the blissful enchantment still. immediately after breakfast, as she had said, her father took leave. mrs. copley had awaited their coming in a mood half irritation, half gratification. the latter conquered when she saw dolly. "now tell me all about it!" she said, before dolly even could take off her bonnet. "she went to the races," said mr. copley. "that's a queer place for dolly to go, mr. copley." "not at all. everybody goes that can go." "i think it's a queer place for young ladies to go," persisted the mother. "it is a queer place enough for anybody, if you come to that; but no worse for them than for others; and it is they make the scene so pretty as it is." "i can't imagine how there should be anything pretty in seeing horses run to death!" said mrs. copley. "i just said it is the pretty girls that give the charm," said her husband. "though _i_ can see some beauty in a fine horse, and in good riding; and they understand riding, those epsom jockeys." "jockeys!" his wife repeated. "i don't want to hear you talk about jockeys, mr. copley." "i am not going to, my dear. i give up the field to dolly." "mother, the first thing was the place. it is a most beautiful place." "the race-ground?" "no, no, mother; mr. st. leger's place. 'the peacocks,' they call it." "what do they give it such a ridiculous name for?" "i don't know. perhaps they used to have a great many peacocks. but the place is the most beautiful place i ever saw. mother, we were half an hour driving from the lodge at the park gate to the house." "the road so bad?" "so _long_, mother; think of it; half an hour through the park woods, until we carne out upon the great lawn dotted with the noblest trees you ever saw." "better than the trees in boston common? i guess not," said mrs. copley. "those are good trees, mother, but nothing to these. these are just magnificent." "i don't see why fine trees cannot grow as well on american ground as on english," said mrs. copley incredulously. "give them time enough," put in her husband. "time!" "yes. we are a new country, comparatively, my dear. these old oaks here have been growing for hundreds of years." "and what should hinder them from growing hundreds of years over there? i suppose the _ground_ is as old as england; if columbus didn't discover it all at once." "the ground," said mr. copley, eyeing the floor between his boots,--"yes, the ground; but it takes more than ground to make large trees. it takes good ground, and favouring climate, and culture; or at least to be let alone. now we don't let things alone in america." "i know _you_ don't," said his wife. "well, dolly, go on with your story." "well, mother,--there were these grand old trees, and beautiful grass under them, and cattle here and there, and the house showing in the distance. i did not like the house so very much, when we came to it; it is not old; but it is exceedingly handsome, and most beautifully furnished. i never had such a room in my life, as i have slept in these two nights." "and yet you don't like it!" put in mr. copley. "i like it," said dolly slowly. "i like all the comfort of it; but i don't think it is very pretty, father. it's very _new_." "new!" said her father. "what's the harm of a thing's being new? and what is the charm of its being old?" "i don't know," said dolly thoughtfully; "but i like it. then, mother, came the dinner; and the dinner was like the house." "that don't tell me anything," exclaimed mrs. copley. "what was the house like?" "mother, you go first into a great hall, set all round with marble figures--statues--and with a heavy staircase going up at one side. it's all marble. but oh, the flower garden is lovely!" "well, tell me about the house," said mrs. copley. "and the dinner. who was there?" "i don't know," said dolly; "quite a company. there were one or two foreign gentlemen; a count somebody and a baron somebody; there was an english judge, and his wife, and two or three other ladies and gentlemen." "how did you like the gentlemen, dolly?" her father asked here. "i had hardly anything to do with them, except the two mr. st. legers." "how did you like _them?_ i suppose, on your principle, you would tell me that you liked the _old_ one?" "never mind them," said mrs. copley; "go on about the dinner. what did you have?" "oh, everything, mother; and the most beautiful fruit at dessert; fruit from their own hothouses; and i saw the hothouses, afterwards. most beautiful! the purple and white grapes were hanging in thick clusters all over the vines; and quantities of different sorts of pines were growing in another hothouse. i had a bunch of frontignacs this morning before breakfast, father; and i never had grapes taste so good." "yes, you must have wanted something," said mr. copley; "wandering about among flowers and fruit till ten o'clock without anything to eat!" "poor mr. st. leger!" said dolly. "but he was very kind. they were all very kind. if they only would not drink wine so!" "wine!" mrs. copley exclaimed. "it was all dinner time; it began with the soup, and it did not end with the fruit, for the gentlemen sat on drinking after we had left them. and they had been drinking all dinner time; the decanters just went round and round." "nonsense, dolly!" her father said; "you are unaccustomed to the world, that is all. there was none but the most moderate drinking." "it was all dinner time, father." "that is the custom of gentlemen here. it is always so. tell your mother about the races." "i don't like the races." "why not?" "well, tell me what they were, at any rate," said mrs. copley. "it is the least you can do." "i don't know how to tell you," said dolly. "i will try. imagine a great flat plain, mother, level as far as the eye can see. imagine a straight line marked out, where the horses are to run; and at the end of it a post, which is the goal, and there is the judges' stand. all about this course, on both sides, that is towards the latter part of the course, fancy rows of carriages, drawn up as close as they can stand, the horses taken out; and on these carriages a crowd of people packed as thick as they can find room to sit and stand. they talk and laugh and discuss the horses. by and by you hear a cry that the horses have set off; and then everybody looks to see them coming, with all sorts of glasses and telescopes; and everybody is still, waiting and watching, until i suppose the horses get near enough for people to begin to judge how the race will turn out; and then begins the fearfullest uproar you ever heard, everybody betting and taking bets. _everybody_ seemed to be doing it, even ladies. and with the betting comes the shouting, and the cursing, and the cheering on this one and that one; it was a regular babel. even the ladies betted." "every one does it," said mr. copley. "and the poor horses come running, and driven to run as hard as they can; beautiful horses too, some of them; running to decide all those bets! i don't think it is an amusement for civilised people." "why not?" said her father. "it is barbarous. there is no sense in it. if the white horse beats the black, i'll pay you a thousand pounds; but if the black horse beats the white, you shall pay me two thousand. is there any sense in that?" "some sense in a thousand pound." "lost"--said dolly. "it is better not to lose, certainly." "but somebody must lose. and people bet in a heat, before they know what they ought to say; and bet more than they have to spare; i saw it yesterday." "_you_ didn't bet, mr. copley?" said his wife. "a trifle. my dear, when one is in rome, one must do as the romans do." "did you lose?" "i gained, a matter of fifty pounds." "who did you gain it from, father?" "lawrence st. leger." "he has no right to bet with his father's money." "perhaps it is his own. i will give you twenty pound of it, dolly, to do what you like with." but dolly would have none of it. if it was to be peace money, it made no peace with her. chapter x. brierley cottage. a few months later than this, it happened one day that mr. copley was surprised in his office by a visit from young st. leger. mr. copley was sitting at a table in his own private room. it was not what you would call a very comfortable room; rather bare and desolate looking; a carpet and some chairs and desks and a table being the only furniture. the table was heaped up with papers, and desks and floor alike testified to an amount of heterogeneous business. busy the consul undoubtedly was, writing and studying; nevertheless, he welcomed his visitor. the young man came in like an inhabitant of another world, as he was; in spotlessly neat attire, leisurely manner, and with his blue eyes sleepily nonchalant at the sight of all the stir of all the world. but they smiled at mr. copley. "you seem to have your bands full," he remarked. "rather. don't i? awfully! secretary taken sick--confoundedly inconvenient." mr. copley went on writing as he spoke. "there are plenty of secretaries to be had." "yes, but i haven't got hold of 'em yet. what brings you here, lawrence? not business, i suppose?" "not business with the american consul." "no. i made out so much by myself. what is it? i see all's right with you, by your face." "thank you. quite so. but you can't attend to me just now." "go ahead," said mr. copley, whose pen did not cease to scribble. "i can hear. no time for anything like the present minute. i've got _this_ case by heart, and don't need to think about it. go on, lawrence. has your father sent you to me?" "no." "sit down, and tell me what i can do for you." mr. st. leger sat down, but did not immediately comply with the rest of the invitation. he rested his elbow on the table, looked at mr. copley's pen for a few minutes, and said nothing; until mr. copley again glanced up at his face. "i do not know that you can do anything for me," said the young man then; "only you can perhaps answer a question or two. mr. copley, would you like to have me for a son-in-law?" "no," said the consul shortly; "nor any other man. i'd as lieve have you as anybody, lawrence." "thank you. i couldn't expect more. but you must allow somebody in that capacity, mr. copley." "must i? depends on how much dolly likes somebody." "that is just what i want to find out about myself," said the young man eagerly. "then you would not put any hindrance?" "in the way of dolly's happiness? not if i know it. but _that's_ got to be proved." "you know, mr. copley, she would be happy with me." "how do i know that? i know nothing of the kind. it all depends on dolly, i tell you. what does she think about it?" "that's just what i don't know and cannot find out. i have no chance. i cannot get sight of her." "her mother's sick, you see. it keeps dolly at home." "my mother has proposed several times to take miss copley out with her, and she will not go." "she's very kind, and we are grateful; but dolly won't leave her mother." "so she says. then how am i to see her, mr. copley? i can't expect her to like me if i never see her." "i don't know, my boy. wait till better times." "wait" is a word that lovers never want to hear; and lawrence sat discontentedly watching the play of mr. copley's pen. "you know it would be all right about the money," he said at length. "yes, yes; between your father and her father, i guess we could make it comfortable for you two. but the thing is all the while, what dolly thinks of you." "and how am i to find that out?" "can't tell, i declare. unless you volunteer to become my secretary." "does your secretary live in your family?" "of course he does. one of us completely." "will you take me, mr. copley?" "yes, but you would never take the drudgery. it is not in your line." "try me," said the young man. "i'll take it at once. will you have me, mr. copley? but _she_ must not know what you take me for. i don't care for the drudgery. will you let me come? on trial?" "why is the boy in earnest? this is jacob and rachel over again!" "not for seven years, i hope." "no, i shall not stay in this old crib as long as that. the question will have to be decided sooner. we haven't so much time to spare as those old patriarchs. but dolly must have time to make up her mind, if it takes seven years. she is a queer little piece, and usually has a mind of her own. about this affair she certainly will. i'll give mrs. copley a hint to keep quiet, and dolly will never suspect anything." lawrence was so thoroughly in earnest that he insisted on going to work at once. and the next day he was introduced at the house and made at home there. it was quite true that mrs. copley was unwell; the doctors were not yet agreed as to the cause. she was feeble and nervous and feverish, and dolly's time was wholly devoted to her. in these circumstances st. leger's coming into the family made a very pleasant change. dolly wondered a little that the rich banker's son should care to do business in the american consul's office; but she troubled her head little about it. what he did in the office was out of her sphere; at home, in the family, he was a great improvement on the former secretary. mr. barr, his predecessor, had been an awkward, angular, taciturn fourth person in the house; a machine of the pen; nothing more. mr. st. leger brought quite a new life into the family circle. it is true, he was himself no great talker; but his blue eyes were eloquent. they were beautiful eyes; and they spoke of kindness of heart, gentleness of disposition, and undoubted liking for his present companions. there was refinement too, and the habit of the world, and the power of comprehending at least what others spoke; and gentle as he was, there was also now and then a gleam which showed some fire and some persistent self-will; that amount of backbone without which a man's agreeable qualities go for nothing with women. it was pleasant, his respectful attention to mrs. copley; it was pleasant too the assistance he was to mr. copley's monologues; if he did not say a great deal himself, his blue eyes gave intelligent heed, and he could also now and then say a word in the right place. with dolly he took very soon the familiar habit of a brother. she liked him, she liked to pour out his coffee for him, it amused her to hear her father talk to him, she was grateful for his kindness to her mother; and before long the words exchanged between themselves came in the easy, enjoyable tone of a thorough good understanding. i don't know but st. leger would have liked a little more shyness on her part. dolly was not given to shyness in any company; and as to being shy with him, she would as soon have thought of being on terms of ceremony with berdan, the great hound that her father was so proud of. and poor st. leger was more hopelessly in love every day. dolly was so fresh and cool and sweet, as she came down to breakfast in her white wrapper; she was so despairingly careless and free; and at evening, dressed for dinner, she was so quiet and simple and graceful; it was another thing, he said to himself, seeing a girl in this way, from dancing with her in a cloud of lace and flowers in a crowded room, and talking conventional nothings. now, on the contrary, he was always admiring dolly's practical business ways; the quick eye and capable hand; the efficient attention she bestowed on the affairs of the household and gave to her father's and mother's comfort, and also not less to his own. and she was quaint; she moved curiosity. with all her beauty, she never seemed to think of her looks; and with all her spirit and sense, she never seemed to talk but when she had something to say; while yet, if anything in the conversation deserved it, it was worth while to catch the sparkle of dolly's eye and see her face dimple. nevertheless, she would often sit for a long time silent at the table, when others were talking, and remind nobody voluntarily of her presence. spring had come now, and london was filling; and lawrence was hoping for some gaieties that would draw dolly out into society, notwithstanding his secret confession about ball rooms. he wanted to see how she would bear the great world, how she would meet it; but still more he hoped to have some chance to make himself of importance to her. and then the doctors decided that mrs. copley must go into the country. what was to be done? mr. copley could not quit london without giving up his office. to any distance mrs. copley could not go without him. the dilemma, which lawrence at first had heard of with dismay, turned for his advantage; or he hoped so. his father owned a cottage in a pretty part of the country, not a great many miles from london, which cottage just then was untenanted. mr. copley could run down there any day (so could he); and mrs. copley would be in excellent air, with beautiful surroundings. this plan was agreed to, and lawrence hurried away to make the needful arrangements with his father and at the cottage. "oh dear!" said mrs. copley, when all this was communicated to her,--"why can't we go home?" "father is not ready for that, mother," dolly said somewhat sadly. "where is this place you are talking of?" "down in berkshire. mr. st. leger says you will be sure to like it." "mr. st. leger doesn't know everything. is the house furnished?" "i believe so. oh, i hope it will be very pleasant, mother dear. it's a pretty place; and they say it will be very good for you." "who says so?" "the doctors" "_they_ don't know everything, either. i tell you what i believe would do me good, dolly, only your father never wants what i want, unless he wants it at a different time; i should like to go travelling." "travelling!--where?" dolly exclaimed and inquired. "anywhere. i want a change. i am so tired of london, i could die! i have swallowed dust and fog enough to kill me. i should like to go where there is no dust. that would be a change. i should like to go to venice." "venice! so should i," said dolly in a changed tone. "well, mother, we'll go down first to this cottage in the country--they say it's delightful there;--and then, if it does you good, you'll be well enough, and we will coax father to take us to italy." "i don't care about italy. i only want to be quiet in venice, where there are no carts or omnibusses. i don't believe this cottage will do me one bit of good." "mother, i guess it will. at any rate, i suppose we must try." "i wish your father could have been contented at home, when he was well off. it's very unlucky he ever brought us here. i don't see what is to become of you, for my part." dolly suppressed a sigh at this point. "you know what the bible says, mother. 'all things shall work together for good, to them that love god.'" "i don't want to hear that sort of talk, dolly." "why not, mother?" "it don't mean anything. i would rather have people show their religion in their lives, than hear them talk about it." "but, mother, isn't there comfort in those words?" "no. it ain't true." "o mother! _what_ isn't true?" "that. there is a difference between things, and there is no use trying to make out they're all alike. sour isn't sweet, and hard ain't soft. what's the use of talking as if it was? i always like to look at things just as they are." "but, mother!"-- "now, don't talk, dolly, but just tell me. what is the good of my getting sick just now? just now, when you ought to be going into company? and we have got to give up our house, and you and i go and bury ourselves down in some out-of-the-way place, and your father get along as he can; and how we shall get along without him to manage, i am sure i don't know." "he will run down to see us often, mother." "the master's eye wants to be all the while on the spot, if anything is to keep straight." "but this is such a little spot; i think my eye can manage it." "then how are you going to take care of me?--if you are overseeing the place. and i don't believe my nerves are going to stand it, all alone down there. it'll be lonely. i'd rather hear the carts rattle. it's dreadful, to hear nothing." "well, we will try how it goes, mother; and if it does not go well, we will try somewhere else." the house in town was given up, and mr. copley moved into lodgings. some furniture and two servants were sent down to the cottage; but the very day when the ladies were to follow, mr. copley was taken possession of by some really important business. the secretary volunteered to supply his place; and in his company mrs. copley and dolly made the little journey, one warm summer day. dolly had her own causes for anxiety, the weightier that they must be kept to herself. nevertheless, the influence of sweet nature could not be withstood. the change from city streets and crowds to the green leafiness of june in the country, the quiet of unpaved roads, the deliciousness of the air full of scents from woodland and field, excited dolly like champagne. every nerve thrilled with delight; her eyes could not get enough, nor her lungs. and when they arrived at the cottage, brierley cottage it was called, she was filled with a glad surprise. it was no common, close, musty, uncomfortable little dwelling; but a roomy old house with plenty of space, dark oak wainscotings, casement windows with little diamond panes, and a wide porch covered with climbing roses and honeysuckle. these were in blossom now, and the air was perfumed with their incomparable sweetness. round the house lay a small garden ground, which having been some time without care looked pretty wild. dolly uttered her delight as the party entered the porch. mrs. copley passed on silently, looking at everything with critical eyes. "what a charming old house, mother! so airy and so old-fashioned, and _everything_ so nice." "i am afraid there is not much furniture in it," remarked the secretary. "we don't want much, for two people," said dolly gaily. "but when your father brings a dinner party down," said mrs. copley; "how does he suppose we shall manage then? you must have chairs for people to sit on." dolly did not answer; it had struck her that her father had no intention of bringing dinner parties down, and that he had made his arrangements with an evident exclusion of any such idea. he had thought two women servants enough. for the rest, leaving parties out of consideration, the house had a rambling supply of old furniture, suiting it well enough; it looked pretty, and quaint, and cool; and dolly for her part was well content. they went over the place, taking a general survey; and then mrs. copley lay down on a lounge while supper was getting ready, and dolly and mr. st. leger went out to the porch. here, beyond the roses and honeysuckles, the eye found first the wild garden or pleasure ground. there was not much of it, and it was a mere tangle of what had once been pretty and sweet. it sloped, however, down to a little stream which formed the border of the property; and on the other side of this stream the ground rose in a grassy bank, set with most magnificent oaks and beeches. a little foot-bridge spanned the stream and made a picturesque point in the view, as a bridge always does. the sun was setting, throwing his light upon that grassy bank and playing in the branches of the great oaks and beeches. dolly stood quite still, with her hands crossed upon her bosom, looking. "the garden has had nothing done to it," said st. leger. "that won't do. it's quite distressing." "i suppose father never thought of engaging a gardener," said dolly. "we have gardeners to spare, i am sure, at home. i'll send over one to train those vines and put things in some shape. you'd find him useful, too, about the house. i'll send old peters; he can come as well as not." "oh, thank you! but i don't know whether father would choose to afford a gardener," said dolly low. "he shall not afford it. i want him to come for my own comfort. you do not think i want your father to pay my gardener." "you are very kind. what ground is that over there?" "that? that is brierley park. it is a great place. the stream divides the park from this cottage ground." "can one go over the bridge?" "of course. the place is left to itself; nobody is at the house now." "why not?" "i suppose they like some other place better," said st. leger, shrugging his shoulders. "you would like to go and see the house and the pictures. the next time i come down i'll take you there." "oh, thank you! and may i go over among those grand trees? may i walk there?" "walk there, or ride there; you may do what you like; nobody will hinder you. if you meet anybody that has a right to know, you can tell him who you are. but don't go to the house till i come to go with you." "you are very good, mr. st. leger," said dolly gratefully. but then, as if shy of what he might next say, she turned and went in to her mother. dolly always kept mr. st. leger at a certain fine, insensible distance. he seemed to be very near; he was really very much at home in the family; nevertheless, an atmospheric wall, felt but not seen, divided him from dolly. it was so invisible that it was unmanageable; it kept him at a distance. chapter xi. in the park. the next day was a delightful one in dolly's experience. mr. st. leger went back to town early in the morning; and as soon as she was free of him, dolly's delight began. she attended to her mother, and put her in comfort; next, she examined the house and its capabilities, and arranged the little household; and then she gave herself to the garden. it was an unmitigated wilderness. the roses had grown into irregular, wide-spreading shrubs, with waving, flaunting branches; yet sweet with their burden of blushing flowers. lilac bushes had passed all bounds, and took up room most graspingly. hawthorn and eglantine, roses of sharon and stocky syringas, and other bushes and climbers, had entwined and confused their sprays and branches, till in places they formed an impenetrable mass. in other places, and even in the midst of this overgrown thicket, jessamine stars peeped out, lilies and violets grew half smothered, mignonette ran along where it could; even carnations and pinks were to be seen, in unhappy situations, and daisies and larkspur and scarlet geraniums, lupins and sweet peas, and i know not what more old-fashioned flowers, showed their fair faces here and there. it was bewildering, and beyond dolly's powers to put in order. she wished for old peter's arrival; and meantime cut and trimmed a little here and there, gathered a nosegay of wildering blossoms, considered what might be done, and lost herself in the sweet june day. at last it was growing near lunch time, and she went in. mrs. copley was lying on an old-fashioned lounge; and the room where she lay was brown with old oak, quaint with its diamond-paned casement windows, and cool with a general effect of wooden floor and little furniture; while roses looked in at the open window, and the light was tempered by the dark panelling and low ceiling. dolly gave an exclamation of delight. "what is it?" said mrs. copley fretfully. "mother, this place is so lovely! and this room,--do you know how perfectly pretty it is?" "it isn't half furnished. not half." "but it is furnished enough. there are only two of us; and certainly here are all the things that we want, and a great deal more than we want; and it is so pretty! so pretty!" "how long do you suppose there are to be only two of us?" "i don't know that, mother. lawrence st. leger is just gone, and i don't want him back, for my part. in fact, i don't believe we have dinner enough for three." "that's another thing. where are we going to get anything to eat?" "lunch will be ready in a minute, mother." "what have we got?" "what you like. frizzled beef and chocolate." "i like it,--but i don't suppose it is very nourishing. where are we to get what we want, dolly? how are we to get bread, and butter, and marketing?" "there's a village half a mile off. and, here is lunch on the table. we shall not starve to-day." mrs. copley liked her chocolate and found the bread good. nevertheless, she presently began again. "are we to live here alone the rest of our lives, dolly? or what do you suppose your father's idea is? it's a very lonesome place, seems to me." "why, mother, we came here to get you well; and it's enough to make anybody well. it is the loveliest place i have ever seen, i think. mr. st. leger's grand establishment is nothing to it." "and what do you mean by what you said about lawrence st. leger? are you glad to have even _him_ go away?" "yes, mother, a little bit. he was rather in my way." "in your way! that's very ungrateful. how was he in your way?" "somebody to attend to, and somebody to attend to me. i like to be let alone. by and by, when you are sleeping, i shall go over and explore the park." "what i don't understand," said mrs. copley, recurring to her former theme, "is, why, if he wanted me to be in the country, your father did not take a nice house somewhere just a little way out of london,--there are plenty of such places,--and have things handsome; so that he could entertain company, and we could see somebody. we can have nobody here. it looks really quite like poor people." "that isn't a very bad way to look," said dolly calmly. "_not?_ like poor people?" cried mrs. copley. "dolly, don't talk folly. nobody likes that look, and you don't, either." "i am not particularly afraid of it. but, mother, we do not want to entertain company while you are not well, you know." "no; and so here you are shut up and seeing no creature. i wish we were at home!" dolly did not precisely wish that; not at least till she had had time to examine this new leaf of nature's book opened to her. and yet she sighed a response to her mother's words. it was all the response she made. she was too tired with her unwonted gardening exertions to go further exploring that afternoon. it was not till a day or two later, when dolly had become somewhat more acquainted with her new life and its conditions, that she crossed the bridge one fair, warm june evening, and set her hesitating steps upon what seemed to her a wonderful piece of ground. she entered it immediately upon crossing the bridge. the green glades of the park woods were before her; the old giants of the park trees stretched their great arms over her and shadowed her footsteps. such mighty trees! their great stems stood as if they had been there for ever; the leafy crown of their heads was more majestic than any king's diadem, and gave its protecting shelter, each of them, to a wide domain of earth's minor growths. underneath their branches the turf was all green and gold, for the slant sun rays came in there and gold was in the tree tops, some of the same gold; and the green shadows and the golden bands and flecks of light were all still. there was no stir of air that evening. silence, the stillness and solitude of a woodland, were all around; the only house visible from here was the cottage dolly had just quitted, with its rose-covered porch. dolly went a little way, and stood still to look and listen, then went on a few steps more. the scene had a sort of regal beauty, not like anything she had ever known in her life before, and belonging to something her life had never touched. for this was not a primeval forest; it was not forest at all; it was a lordly pleasure ground. a "pleasaunee," for somebody's delight; kept so. there was no ragged underbrush; there were no wildering bushes and briars; the green turf swept away out of sight under the great old trees clean and soft; and they, the oaks and beeches, stretching their arms abroad and standing in still beauty and majesty, seemed to say--"yes, we belong to the family; we have stood by it for ages." dolly could see no dead trees, nor fallen lumber of dry branches; the place was dressed, yet unadorned, except by its own magnificent features; so most simple, most lordly. the first impression almost took away dolly's breath. she again went on, and again stood still, then went further; at last could go no further, and she sat down on the bank under the shadow of a great oak tree which had certainly seen centuries, and gave herself up to the scene and her thoughts. they did not fit, somehow, and took possession of her alternately. sometimes her eyes filled with glad tears, at the wonderful loveliness and stateliness of nature around her; the sense of beauty overcame all other feelings; filling and satisfying and also concealing a certain promise. it was certainly the will of the creator that all things should be thus perfect, harmonious, and fair. what was not, could be made so. but then again a shadow would come over this sunshine, as dolly remembered the anxieties she had brought from home with her. she had meant to let herself look at them here, in solitude and quiet; could she do it, now she was here? but when, if not now? gradually dolly gave herself up to thinking, and forgot where she was, or more correctly, saw the objects around her only through a veil of her own thoughts. she had several anxieties; she was obliged to confess it to herself unwillingly; for indeed anxiety was so new to dolly that she had hardly entertained it in all her life before; and when it had knocked at her door, she had answered that it came to the wrong place. however, she could not but hear and heed the knock now; and she wanted to consider the matter calmly and see whether the unwelcome visitor must be really taken in, and lodged. it was not her mother's condition. with the buoyancy of youth, and the inexperience, dolly expected that mrs. copley would soon get well. her trouble was about her father; and the worst thing about her mother's state of nervous weakness was, that she could not talk to her on the subject or get her help and co-operation. that is, if anything were to be attempted to be done in the matter.--that was another question she wanted to consider. in the first place, she could not help seeing one thing; that mr. copley was not flush with money as he used to be; as he had always been, ever since dolly could remember. it was wholly unlike him, to send her and her mother down to this cottage with a household of two women servants; barely enough for the work that was indispensably necessary. evidently, mr. copley entertained no idea of showing hospitality here in the country, and dolly thought he had been secretly glad to be relieved of the necessity of doing it in town. very unlike him. it was unlike him, too, to content his pride with so meagre an establishment. mr. copley loved to handle money, always spent it with a lavish carelessness, and was rather fond of display. what had made this change? dolly had felt the change in still other and lesser things. money had not been immediately forthcoming when she asked for it lately to pay her mantua maker's bill; and she had noticed on several occasions that her father had taken a 'bus instead of a hansom, or even had chosen to walk. a dull doubt had been creeping over her, which now was no longer obscure, but plainly enough revealed; her father had lost money. how, and where? impossible to answer this question. but at the same time there floated before dolly's mind two vague images; epsom and betting,--and a green whist table at mr. st. leger's, with eager busy players seated round it. true, the derby came but once a year; and true, she had always heard that whist was a very gentlemanly game and much money never lost at it. she repeated those facts to herself, over and over. yet the images remained; they came before her again and again; her father betting eagerly in the crowd of betters on the race course, and the same beloved figure handling the cards opposite to his friend the banker, at the hospitable mansion of the latter. who should be her guaranty, that a taste once formed, though so respectably, might not be indulged in other ways and companies not so irreproachable? the more dolly allowed herself to think of it, the more the pain at her heart bit her. and another fear came to help the former, its fit and appropriate congener. with the image of mr. st. leger and his cards, rose up also the memory of mr. st. leger's decanters; and dolly lowered her head once in a convulsion of fear. she found she could not bear the course of her thought; it must be interrupted; and she sprang up and hurried on up the bank under the great trees, telling herself that it was impossible; that anything so terrible could not happen to her; it was not to be even so much as thought of. she cast it away from her, and resolved that it could not be. as to the rest, she thought, poverty is not disgrace; she would not break her heart about _that_ till she knew there was more reason. so with flying foot she hastened forward, willing to put a forcible stop to thought by her quick motion and the new succession of objects before her eyes. yet they were not very new for a while. the ground became level and the going grew easier; otherwise it was the same lovely park ground, the same wilderness of noble trees, a renewal of the same woodland views. lovely green alleys or glades opened to right and left, bidding her to enter them; then as she went on the trees stood thicker again. the sun getting more low sent his beams more slant, gilding the sides of the great trunks, tipping the ends of branches with leafy glitter, laying lovely lines of light over the turf. dolly wandered on and on, allured by the continual change and variety of lovely combination in which grass, trees, and sunlight played before her eyes. but after a while the beauty took a different cast. the old oaks and beeches ceased; she found herself among a lighter growth, of much younger trees, some of them very ornamental, and in the great diversity of kinds showing that they were a modern plantation. what a plantation it was! for dolly could not seem to get to the end of it. she went fast; the afternoon was passing, and she was curious to see what would succeed to this young wood; though it is hardly right to call it a wood; the trees were not close to each other, but stood apart to give every one a fair chance for developing its own peculiar manner of growth. some had reached a height and breadth of beauty already; some could be only beautiful at every stage of growth; very many of them were quite strange to dolly; they were foreign trees, gathered from many quarters. she went on, until she began to think she must give it up and turn back; she was by this time far from home; but just then she saw that the plantation was coming to an end on that side; light was breaking through the branches. she pressed forward eagerly a few steps; and on a sudden stood still, almost with a cry of delight. the plantation did end there abruptly, and at the edge of it began a great stretch of level green, just spotted here and there with magnificent trees, singly or in groups. and at the further edge of this green plain, dressed, not hidden, by these intervening trees, rose a most beautiful building. it seemed to dolly like a castle in a fairy tale, so bewitchingly lovely and stately it stood there, with the evening sunlight playing upon its turrets, and battlements, and all that grand sweep of lawn lying at its feet. this must be the "house" of which lawrence had spoken; but surely it was rather a castle. the style was gothic; the building stretched along the ground to a lordly extent for a "house," and yet in the light grace and adornment of its structure it hardly looked like anything so grim as a castle. the stillness was utter; some cattle under the trees on the lawn were the only living things to be seen. dolly could not satisfy herself with looking. this was something that she had read about and heard about; a real english baronial residence. but was it reality? it was so graceful, so noble, so wonderful. she must go a little nearer. yet it was a good while before she could make up her mind to leave the spot where this exquisite view had first opened to her. she advanced then upon the lawn, going towards the house and scarce taking her eyes from it. there were no paths cut anywhere; it was no loss, for the greensward here was the perfection of english turf; soft and fine and thick and even. it was a pleasure to step on it; and dolly stepped along, in a maze, caught in the meshes of the beauty around her, and giving herself up to it in willing captivity. but the lawn was enormously wider than she had supposed; her eye had not been able to measure distances on this green level; she had walked already a long way by the time she had got one-third of its breadth behind her. still, dolly did not much consider that; her eye was fixed on the house as she now drew nearer to it, busied in picking out the details; and she only now and then cast a glance to right or left of her, and never looked back. it did occur to her at last that she herself was like a mere little speck cast away in this ocean of green, toiling over it like an ant over a floor; and she hurried her steps, though she was beginning to be tired. slowly, slowly she went; half of the breadth of lawn was behind her, and then three quarters; and the building was unfolding at least its external organisation to her curious eyes, and displaying some of its fine memberment and broken surface and the resulting lights and shadows. dolly almost forgot her toil, wondering and delighted; though beginning also to question dimly with herself how she was ever to find her way home! go back over all that ground she could not, she knew; as little could she have told where was the point at the edge of the lawn by which she had entered upon it. _that_ way she could not go; she had a notion that at the house, or near it, she might find somebody to speak to from whom she could get directions as to some other way. so she pressed on, feeding her eyes as she approached it upon the details of the house. when now more than three-fourths of the lawn ground was passed, one of dolly's side glances, intended to catch the beauty of the trees on the lawn in their evening illumination, revealed to her a disagreeable fact--that, namely, she was looked upon as an intruder by some of the cattle; and that in especial a young bull was regarding her with serious and ominous bearing and even advancing slowly towards her from the group of his companions. it seemed to dolly not desirable to stand the question, and she set off to run; which proceeding, of course, confirmed the young bull's suspicions, whatever they were, and he followed on a run also. dolly became aware of this, and now, with all the strength of muscle that remained to her, fled towards the house; no longer seeing its gothic mouldings and picturesque lights and shadows, only trying very hard to get near. she thought perhaps the creature would be shy of the immediate neighbourhood of the house, and not choose to follow her so far. but just as she reached that desirable vicinity she longed for, she was met by another danger, coming from the quarter from whence she sought safety. an enormous staghound dashed out from his covert somewhere, with an utterance from his deep throat which sounded sufficiently awful to dolly, an angry or a warning bay, and came springing towards her. dolly stood still dismayed and uncertain, the dog before and the bull behind; then, even before the former could reach her, a voice was heard calling him off and directing him to the advancing bull. in another minute or two a woman had come over the grass and stood at dolly's side. dolly was on her feet no longer; with the first breath of respite she had sunk down on the grass; nerves and muscles all trembling with the exertion and with the fright. the woman came up with a business air; then as she stood beside dolly her look changed. this was no common intruder, she saw; this delicate-featured girl; and her dress too, simple as it was, was the dress of a lady. dolly on her part looked up to a face not delicate-featured; far from it; solid and strong built as was the person to which it belonged; sense and capacity and kindliness, however, were legible even at that first glance. "you've been rather badly frightened, ma'am, i'm afraid," she said, in a voice which precisely matched the face; strong and somewhat harsh, but kindly in accent. "very," said dolly, whose face began to dimple now. "i am so much obliged to you!" "not in the vary least, ma'am. but you are worried with the fright, i fear?" "no; i'll get up," said dolly; "i'm only tired. i believe i'm a little weak too. i haven't quite got over trembling, i find." "you haven't your colour yet again, ma'am. would you come into my room and rest a bit?" "oh, thank you. you are very kind!" said dolly with sincere delight at this proposition. for now she was upon her feet she felt that her knees trembled under her, and her footsteps were unsteady as she followed the woman over the grass. they went towards a small door in the long line of the building, the staghound coming back from his chase and attending them gravely. the woman opened the door, led dolly through a passage or two, and ushered her into a cosy little sitting-room, neat as wax, nicely though plainly furnished. here she begged dolly to rest herself on the sofa; and while dolly did so she stood considering her with a kindly, anxious face. "i'm all right now," said dolly, smiling. "i beg your pardon, ma'am, but you're growing paler every minute. if you'll allow me, ma'am, i will fetch you a glass of wine." "wine? oh, no," said dolly. "i don't want any wine. i do not drink wine. i am just tired. if you'll let me rest here a few minutes"---- "lie still, ma'am, and don't talk." she left the room, and dolly lay still, with shut eyes, feeling very much exhausted. it was inexpressibly good to be under shelter and on her back; how she was to get home she could not yet consider. before that question fairly came up, her entertainer was back again; but dolly kept her eyes shut. if she opened them, perhaps she would have to talk; and she wanted nothing on earth at that moment but to be still. after a little interval, however, she heard the door open and a second person enter; and curiosity brought her eyes open then. the second person was a maid-servant with a tray. the tray was set upon a table, and dolly heard the other woman say-- "you'll bring the tea, kitty, when i ring." dolly took this as a signal that she must go; of course she was in the way; yet rest felt so very comfortable, that for a moment she still lay where she was; and lying there, she gave her hostess a more critical examination than she had hitherto bestowed on her. who could she be? she was very well, that is very respectably, dressed; her manner and bearing were those of a person in authority; she was at home; but with gentle or noble blood she could have no connection unless one of service. her features and her manner proved that. nevertheless, both her face and bearing had a certain attraction for dolly; a certain quiet and poise, an expression of acute intelligence and efficient activity, flavoured with good will, which was all very pleasant to see. evidently she was not a person to be imposed upon. dolly raised herself up at last to a sitting posture, preparatory to going. "are you recovered enough to be up, ma'am?" her hostess asked, standing still to survey her in her turn. "i'm afraid not." "oh, thank you, yes; i must go home. and i must ask you kindly to direct me; for i do not in the least know the way." "have you come far, ma'am? i couldn't make out by what direction it was or could have been; for when i saw you first, you seemed to be coming right from the middle of the lawn." "not quite that; but a little one side of the middle i did cross the lawn." "i do not know, ma'am, anybody that lives in that direction, nor any village." "brierley cottage? you know brierley cottage?" "i ask your pardon, ma'am; i thought that was standing empty for months." "it was, i suppose. we have just moved in. my mother wants country air, and mr. st. leger has let us the cottage. my mother and i are living there, and we came only a day or two ago. i wanted to see the beautiful ground and trees on this side the brook, and came over the bridge. i did not mean to have come so far; i had no notion of seeing the house or getting near it; but everything was so beautiful, i was drawn on from one point to another, till i found myself at the edge of the lawn. and then i saw the cattle, but i never thought of them." "why, ma'am," said the woman, looking surprised, "you must have walked a good bit. you must have come all through the plantations." "i should not have minded the walk so much, if i had not had the fright at the end of it. but now the thing is, to get home. can you tell me which way? for i am completely out of my reckoning." "you will take a cup of tea first, ma'am," said the woman, ringing the bell. "i had it made on purpose for you. i am sure you'll be the better for it. i am the housekeeper here, ma'am, and my name is jersey." "the housekeeper?" said dolly. "i thought the family were abroad." "so they are, ma'am; and to be sure that makes me less to do; but enough still to take care of the place. put the table up by the sofa, kitty." the girl had brought in the tea-pot, and dolly saw some magnificent strawberries on the board. the table was shoved up, a cup of tea poured out, and mrs. jersey cut bread and butter. "how kind you are!" dolly cried. "you are taking a great deal of trouble for me; a stranger." "is it for somebody that loves my master?" said mrs. jersey, looking at her with keen eyes. dolly's face dimpled all up at this, which would have completed her conquest of mrs. jersey's heart, if there had been by this time any ground in that region not already subjected. "your master?" she said. "you mean--?" "yes, ma'am, i mean that. my master is the lord jesus christ; no other. one cannot have two masters; and i serve lord brierley only under him." "and what made you think--how did you know--that i am his servant too?" "i don't know, ma'am," said the housekeeper, smiling. "i guessed it when i saw you sitting on the grass there. it seems to me, if the lord don't just yet write his name in their foreheads, he does put a letter or two of it there, so one can tell." "i am very glad to find i have a friend in the neighbourhood," said dolly. "i am dolly copley; my father is american consul at london, and a friend of mr. st. leger." "i know mr. st. leger, ma'am; by name, that is." by this time dolly's tea was poured out. the housekeeper served her, and watched her as she drank it and eat her strawberries, both of which were refreshing to dolly. "i think, ma'am, if you'll allow me to say it, you should not try your strength with quite such long walks." "i did not mean it. i was drawn on; and when i got a sight of the house from the other side of the lawn, i wanted to look at it nearer. i had no notion the distance was so much." "ay, ma'am, it's a good bit across the lawn. perhaps you would like to come another day and see the house inside. i would show it to you with pleasure." "oh, may i?" said dolly. "i should like it; oh, very much! but you are extremely kind, mrs. jersey!" "it is only what i do for a great many indifferent people, ma'am. i would think it a privilege to do it for you. my lord and lady being away, i have plenty of time on my hands." "i wonder anybody can stay away from so beautiful a home." "they have no choice, ma'am; at least so the doctors say. lady brierley is delicate, and the air of england does not agree with her." "and she must be banished from her own home!" said dolly, looking out into the lovely landscape visible from the window. "how sad that is!" "there's only one home one can always keep, ma'am," said the housekeeper, watching her. "heaven, you mean?" "we are not in heaven yet. i meant what david says, 'lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations.'" "i am not sure i understand it." "only love does understand it, ma'am." "how do you mean, please?" "ma'am, it is only love that can live in the life of another; and when that other is god, one lives in a secure and wealthy abode. and then it does not much matter where one's body is. at least, so i find it." dolly looked very thoughtful for a minute; then she rose up. "i am coming again," she said; "i am coming very soon, mrs. jersey. now, will you tell me how i can get home? i must be as quick as i can." "that is provided for, ma'am," said mrs. jersey. "it's a longish way round by the road, farther than even you came this afternoon; and you're not fit for it; far from it, i should say. i have ordered the dog-cart to take you home; and it's ready." "how could you be so kind to a stranger?" said dolly, giving her hand. but the housekeeper smiled. "you're no stranger to me, ma'am," she said, clasping the hand dolly had given. "it is true i never saw you before; but whenever i see one of my lord's children, i say to myself, 'jersey, there is another of the family, and the lord expects you to do what you can for him, or for her, as the case may be.'" dolly laughed and ran away. the adventure was taking beautiful shape. here she was to have a charming drive home, to end the day; a drive through the pretty country lanes. and they were charming in the evening light. and the dog-cart did not bring her to brierley cottage a bit too soon; for mrs. copley was already fidgeting about her. chapter xii. the house. dolly did not tell all her experiences of that afternoon. she told only so much as might serve to quiet and amuse her mother; for mrs. copley took all occasions of trouble that came in her way, and invented a few more. mrs. jersey had sent along in the dog-cart a basket of strawberries for the sick lady; so dolly hoped her mother's impressions of this day at least would be favourable. "did you ever see such magnificent berries, mother? black and red?" "why haven't we berries in our garden?" mrs. copley returned. "mother, you know the garden has not been kept up; nobody has been living here lately." "then why did not your father get some other house, where the garden _had_ been kept up, and we could have our own fruit and vegetables? i think, to be in the country and not have one's own garden and fresh things, is forlorn." "there is one thing, mother; there are plenty of markets in this country." "and plenty of high prices for everything in them. yes, if you have no end to your purse, you can buy things, certainly. but to look at what is around us here, one would think your father didn't mean us to have much of anything!" "mother, he means you to have all you want. we thought you just wanted country air." "and nothing to eat?" "we are not starving _yet_," said dolly, smiling, and arranging the strawberries. "these are a gift. a gift i shouldn't think your father would like to take, or have us take, which comes to the same thing. we used to have enough for ourselves and our neighbours too, once, when we were at home, in america. we are nobody here." "we are just ourselves, mother; what we always were. it does not make much difference what people think of us." "not much difference," cried mrs. copley, "about what people think of you! and then, what is to become of you, i should like to know? nobody seeing you, and no chance for anything! i wonder if your father means you never to be married?" "you do not want me married, mother; and not to an englishman, anyhow." "why not? and how are you going to marry anybody else, out here? can you tell me? but, o dolly! i am tormented to death!" "don't, dear mother. that is what makes you ill. what is the matter? what troubles you?" mrs. copley did not answer at once. "you are as sweet as a honeysuckle," she said. "and to think that nobody should see you!" dolly's dimples came out here strong. "are you tormented to death about that?" another pause came, and mrs. copley finally left the table with the air of one who is thinking what she will not speak. she went to the honeysuckle porch and sat down, resting her head in her hand and surveying the landscape. twilight was falling over it now, soft and dewy. "i don't see a sign of anything human, anywhere," she remarked. "is it because it is so dark?" "no, mother; there are no houses in sight." "nor from the back windows?" "no, mother." "where is the village you talk about?" "half a mile away; the woods and rising ground of brierley park hide it from us." "and in this wilderness your father expects me to get well!" "why, i think it is charming!" dolly cried. "my drive home to-night was perfectly lovely, mother." "i didn't have it." "no, of course; but the country is exceedingly pretty." "i can't make your father out." dolly was hushed here. she was at a loss likewise on this point. "he acts just as if he had lost his money." dolly did not know what to say. she had had the same impression. to her inexperience, this did not seem the first of evils; but she guessed it would wear another face to her mother. "and if he _has_," mrs. copley went on, "i am sure i wish we were at home. england is no sort of a place for poor folks." "why should you think he has, mother?" "i _don't_ think he has," mrs. copley flamed out. "but if he hasn't, i think he has lost his wits." "that would be worse," said dolly, smiling, though she felt anything but merry. "i don't know about that. nobody'll ask about your wits, if you've got money; and if you _haven't_, dolly, nobody'll care what else you have." "mother, i think it is good to have one's treasure where one cannot lose it." "i thought i had that when i married your father," said mrs. copley, beginning to cry. this was a very strange thing to dolly and very terrible. her mother's nerves, if irritable, had always been wont to show themselves of the soundest. dolly saw it was not all nerves; that she was troubled by some unspoken cause of anxiety; and she herself underwent nameless pangs of fear at this corroboration of her own doubts, while she was soothing and caressing and arguing her mother into confidence again. the success was only partial, and both of them carried careful hearts to bed. a day or two more passed without any variation in the state of things; except that old peters the gardener made his appearance, and began to reduce the wilderness outside to some order. dolly spent a good deal of time in the garden with him; tying up rose trees, taking counsel, even pulling up weeds and setting plants. that was outside refreshment; within, things were unchanged. mr. copley wrote that he would run down saturday, or, if he could not, he would send lawrence. "why shouldn't he come himself?" said mrs. copley; and, why should he send lawrence? thought dolly. she liked it better without him. she was pleasing herself in her garden; finding little ways of activity that delighted her in and out of the house; getting wonted; and she did not care for the constraint of anybody's presence who must be treated as company. one thing she determined upon, however; lawrence should not make the next visit with her at brierley house; and to prevent it, she would go at once by herself. she went that afternoon, and by an easier way of approach to the place. mrs. jersey was very glad to see her, and as soon as dolly was rested a little, entered upon the fulfilment of her promise to show the house. accordingly she took her visitor round to the principal entrance, in another side of the building from the one dolly had first seen. here, before she would go in, she stood to admire and wonder at the rich and noble effect; the beauty of turrets, oriels, mouldings, and arched windows, the wide and lofty pile which stretched away on two sides in such lordly lines. mrs. jersey told her who was the first builder; who had made this and that extension and addition; and then they went in. and the first impression here was a contrast. the place was a great hall of grand proportions. there was nothing splendid here to be seen; neither furniture nor workmanship called for admiration, unless by their simplicity. there were some old paintings on the walls; there were some fine stags' horns, very large and very old; there were some heavy oaken settles and big chairs, on which the family arms were painted; the arms of the first builder; and there were also, what looked very odd to dolly, a number of leather fire buckets, painted in like manner. yet simple as the room was, it had a great charm for her. it was lofty, calm, imposing, superb. she was not ready soon to quit it; and mrs. jersey, of course, was willing to indulge her. "it is so unlike anything at home!" dolly exclaimed. "that's in america?" said the housekeeper. "have you no old houses like this there, ma'am?" "why, we are not old ourselves," said dolly. "when this house was first begun to be built, our country was full of red indians." "is it possible! and are there indians there yet, ma'am?" "no. oh, yes, in the country, there are; but they are driven far off,--to the west--what there are of them.--this is very beautiful!" "i never heard anybody call this old hall beautiful before," said the housekeeper, smiling. "it is so large, and high, and so simple; and these old time things make it so respectable," said dolly. "respectable! yes, ma'am, it is that. shall we go on and see something better?" but her young visitor had fallen to studying the ceiling, which had curious carvings and panellings, and paintings which once had been bright. there was such a flavour of past ages in the place, that dolly's fancy was all alive and excited. mrs. jersey waited, watching her, smiling in a satisfied manner; and then, after a while, when dolly would let her, she opened the door into another apartment. a great door of carved oak it was, through which dolly went expectantly, and then stood still with a little cry. the first thing she saw was the great windows, down to the floor, all along one side of a large room, through which a view was given into the park landscape. the grand trees, the beautiful green turf, the sunlight and shadow, caught her eye for a minute; and then it came back to the view within the windows. opposite this row of windows was an enormous marble chimney-piece; the family arms, which dolly was getting to know, blazoned upon it in brilliant colours. right and left of the fireplace hung old family portraits. but when dolly turned next to give a look at the side of the hall from which she had entered, she found that the whole wall was of a piece with the great carved door; it was filled with carvings, figures in high relief, very richly executed. for a long while dolly studied these figures. mrs. jersey could give her little help in understanding them, but having, as she fancied, got hold of a clue, dolly pursued it; admiring the life and expression in the figures, and the richly-carved accessories. the whole hall was a study to her. on the further side went up the staircases leading to the next story. between them opened the entrance into the dining-hall. further than these three halls, mrs. jersey almost despaired of getting dolly that day. in the dining-hall was a portrait of queen elizabeth; and before it dolly sat down, and studied it. "did she look like that?" she said finally. "surely, she must," said the housekeeper. "the picture is thought a deal of. it was painted by a famous painter, i've been told." "she was very ugly, then!" said dolly. "handsome is that handsome does," said the housekeeper, smiling; "and, to be sure, i never could make out that her majesty was altogether handsome in her doings; though perhaps that's the fault of my stupidity." "she looks cold," said dolly; "she looks cruel." "i'm afraid, by all i have read of her, she was a little of both." "and how she is dressed!--who is that, the next to her?" "mary stuart; mary, queen of scotland; this lady's rival." "rival?" said dolly. "no, i do not think she was; only elizabeth chose to think her so. how lovely, how lovely!" "yes, and by all accounts the portrait tells truth. they say, so she was to be sure." "she looks so innocent, so sweet," said dolly, fixed before the two pictures. "do you think she wasn't?" "one cannot feel quite comfortable about her. the story is ugly, mrs. jersey. but how a woman with that face could do anything fearfully wicked, it is hard to imagine. poor thing!" "you are very kind, i am sure, to a person of whom you hold such a bad opinion," said the housekeeper, amused. "i am sorry for them both," said dolly. "life wasn't much good to either of them, i should think." "queen elizabeth had power," said mrs. jersey; "and queen mary had admiration, i understand." "yes, but elizabeth wanted the admiration, and mary stuart wanted the power," said dolly. "neither of them got what she wanted." "few people do in this world, my young lady." "do you think so?" "young people generally think they will," said the housekeeper;--"and old people know better." "but why should that be?" "does miss dolly copley know already what _she_ wants?" the housekeeper asked. "no," said dolly, laughing out; "not at all. i do not know what i want. i do not think i want anything in particular, mrs. jersey." "keep so, my dear; that is best." "why? because i should be so sure to be disappointed?" "you might. but it is safe to let god choose for us, miss copley; and as soon as we begin to plan, we begin to work for our plans, generally; and if our plan is not _his_ plan,--that makes trouble, you see, and confusion." "of course," said dolly thoughtfully. "yet it seems to me it would be pleasant to have some particular object that one was striving after. the days go by, one after another, one like another, and seem to accomplish nothing. i should like to have some purpose, some end in life, to be striving for and attaining." "a servant of christ need never want that," said the housekeeper. "i have not anything in special to do," said dolly, looking at her. "every servant has something special to do," the other answered. "i have to take care of mother. but that is not work; it is not work for christ, at least, mrs. jersey." "dear, it may be. everything you do, you may do for him; for he has given it to you to do for him. that is, unless it is something you are choosing for yourself." dolly pondered. "and if there be nothing ready to hand that you call work, there is always preparation for work to be done," mrs. jersey went on. "what sort?" "the knowledge of the bible,--and the knowledge of christ, to seek and win. that surely." "the knowledge of the bible? mrs. jersey, i know the bible pretty well." "and christ also?" dolly mused again, with a very grave face. "i do not quite know what you mean." "then, there is something to be gained yet." "but,--of course i know what the bible says about him." "that is one sort of knowledge," said the housekeeper; "but it is not the knowledge of him." "what then?" "only knowing about him, dear." "what more can we have?" "just _himself_, miss copley; and till you have that, dear, you don't rightly know what the bible means." "i don't think i quite understand you." "suppose i told you all i could about my lady brierley; would that make you know her as i know her?" "no, certainly; it would not make me really know her at all." "that is what i was thinking." "but for _that_ there must be sight, and intercourse, and the power of understanding." "all that," said mrs. jersey, smiling; "and the more of that power you speak of, the more and the nearer knowledge there will be." "but in the case you are speaking of, the knowledge of christ, sight is not possible." "no, not sight with the bodily eyes. it is not; and if it were, it mightn't do. did all the people know the lord that saw him with the bodily eyes? 'ye have neither known my father nor me,' he said to the jews. 'have i been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known me, philip?'" "you are setting me a regular puzzle, mrs. jersey." "i hope not, my dear. i do not mean it; and it is the last thing i wish." "but without sight, how is such knowledge to be gained?" "do you remember, miss copley, it is written,--'the secret of the lord is with them that fear him.' and jesus promised to him that loves him and keeps his commandments, 'i will manifest myself to him.' doubtless we must seek the fulfilment of the promise too." "how?" "the same way as with other things. we must ask, and expect, and use the means. and no doubt one must be single-eyed and true-hearted. but dear, there is no knowledge like that, once get it; and no friend to be had, that can equal the lord jesus christ." dolly sat still and pondered, gazing at the two portraits. "it is very hard to think that this world is nothing!" she said at last. "to most people it seems everything. just look at those two faces! how they struggled and fought; and how little good their life was to them, after all." "ay, and folks can struggle and fight for less things than what divided them, and lose all just the same. so the lord said, 'he that loveth his life, shall lose it;' but he said too, 'he that loseth his life for my sake, shall find it.'" "you are talking riddles again, mrs. jersey," said dolly, laughing. "i thought i was beginning to understand you; but i do not understand that." "no, dear; and surely it is a hard saying to many. but i'll give you a key. just you give your life to the lord jesus, and he will show you what the losing it means, and the gaining it, too." "thank you. i will," said dolly. they went on again after that, through more rooms of the house; but the afternoon did not serve for the whole. dolly must return to her mother. mrs. jersey sent her home again in the dog-cart. the evening was very bright and fair; the hedgerows sweet with flowers; the light glittered on the foliage of trees and copsewood and shrubbery; the sky was clear and calm. dolly tasted and rejoiced in it all; and yet in the very midst of her pleasure an echo from mrs. jersey's words seemed to run through everything. it did not depress; on the contrary, it excited dolly. with all the beauty and enjoyment of this very beautiful and very enjoyable world, there was something still better to be sought and found; somewhat still more beautiful, far more enjoyable; and the correlative fact that the search and attainment were, or might be, attended with some difficulty and requiring some effort or resolution, was simply an additional stimulus. dolly breathed the air with intense taste of it. yes, she thought, i will seek the knowledge mrs. jersey spoke of. that must be better than anything else. chapter xiii. preaching and practice. "how long you have stayed, dolly!" was mrs. copley's greeting. "i don't see what is to become of me in this lonely place, if you are always trotting about. i shall die!" dolly took this cold-water bath upon her pleasure with her usual sweetness. "dear mother, i did not know i was so long away. i will not go again, if it is bad for you." "of course it is bad for me. it is very bad for me. it is bad for anybody. i just think and think, till i am ready to fly.--what have you been doing?" "looking at brierley house. so beautiful as it is, mother!" this made a diversion. mrs. copley asked and received a detailed account of all dolly had seen. "it don't sound as if _i_ should like it," was her comment. "i should never have those old chairs and things sticking about." "o mother! yes, you would; they are most beautiful, and so old-fashioned; with the arms of the barons of coppleby carved on them." "i shouldn't want the arms of the barons of coppleby on the chairs in my house, if i was the earl of brierley." "but they are everywhere, mother; they are cut and painted over the fireplace in the baron's hall." "i'd cut 'em out, then, and put up my own. fire buckets, too! how ridiculous. what ornaments for a house!" "i like them," said dolly. "oh, you like everything. but, dolly, what does your father think is to become of us? he in london, and we here! such a way of living!" "but you wanted country air, mother." "i didn't; not in this way. air isn't everything. did he say, if he could not come down saturday, he would send mr. st. leger?" "i do not see why he should," said dolly gaily. "we don't want him." "now, what do you say that for, dolly?" "just because _i_ don't want him, mother. do you?" "he's a very good young man." dolly was silent. "and very rich." dolly said nothing. "and i am sure he is very agreeable." then, as her utterances still met no response, mrs. copley broke out. "dolly, why don't you say something? i have nobody to talk to but you, and you don't answer me! i might as well talk to the wall." "mother, i would rather have father come down to see us. if the choice lies between them, i would rather have father." mrs. copley leaned her head on her hand. "dolly," she began again, "your father acts exactly as if he had lost money." dolly again did not answer. the repeated words gave her a very startled thrill. "as if he had lost a good deal of money," mrs. copley went on. "i can't get it out of my head that he has." "it's no use to think about it, mother," dolly said as lightly as she could. "don't you trouble yourself, at any rate." "that's foolish. how can i help troubling myself? and if it _was_ any use to think about it, to be sure i needn't be troubled. dolly, it torments me day and night!" and tears that were bitter came into mrs. copley's eyes. "it need not, dear mother. money is not the only thing in the world; nor the best thing." "and that's silly, too," returned her mother. "one's bread and butter may not be the best thing in the world,--i am sure this bread ain't,--but you can't live without it. what can you do without money?" "i never tried, you know," said dolly; "but i should think it would be possible to be happy." "like a child!" said her mother. "children always think so. what's to make you happy, when the means are gone? no, dolly; money is everything, in this world. without it you are of no consequence, and you are at everybody's mercy; and i can tell you one thing besides;--if the women could be happy without money, the men cannot. if you don't give a man a good breakfast, he'll be cross all day; and if his dinner don't suit him, you'll hear of it for a week, and he'll go off to the club besides." "he cannot do _that_ without money," said dolly, trying to laugh. "then he'll stay at home, and torment you. i tell you, dolly, life ain't worth having, if you haven't got money. that is why i want you to like"---- mrs. copley broke off suddenly. "i should think one might have good breakfasts and dinners even if one was poor," said dolly. "they say french women do." "what french women do is neither here nor there. i am talking about you and me. look at this bread,--and see that omelette. i can tell you, nothing on earth would keep your father down here if he couldn't have something better to eat than, that." dolly began to ponder the possibility of learning the art of cookery. "what puzzles me," mrs. copley went on, "is, how he _could_ have lost money? but i am sure he has. i feel it in all my bones. and he is such a clever man about business too!" dolly tried with all her might to bring her mother off this theme. at last she succeeded; but the question lingered in her own mind and gave it a good deal to do. after a day or two more, mr. st. leger came as threatened. dolly received him alone. she was in the garden, gathering roses, at the time of his arrival. the young man came up to her, looking very glad and shy at once, while dolly was neither the one nor the other. she was attending to the business she had in hand. "well, how are you?" said her visitor. "how is mrs. copley? getting along, eh?" "when's father coming down, mr. st. leger?" "to-morrow. he'll come down early, he said." "sunday morning?" cried dolly, and stopped, looking at the young man. "oh yes. he'll come down early. he couldn't get off to-night, he told me. some business." "what business? anything he could not put off? what kept him, mr. st. leger?" "i don't know, 'pon my honour. he'll be down in the morning, though. what's the matter? mrs. copley isn't worse, i hope?" "no, i think not," said dolly, going back to her rose-pulling, with a hand that trembled. "may i help you? what are all these roses for? why, you've got a lot of 'em. how do you like brierley, miss dolly? it likes you. i never saw you look better. how does your mother fancy it?" "mother has taken a fancy to travel. she thinks she would like that better than being still in one place." "travel! where to? where does she want to go?" "she talks of venice. but i do not know whether father could leave his post." "i should say he couldn't, without the post leaving him. but, i say, miss dolly! maybe mrs. copley would let me be her travelling-courier, instead. i should like that famously. venice--and we might run down and see rome. hey? what do you think of it?" dolly answered coolly, inwardly resolving she would have no more to say about travelling before mr. st. leger. however, in the evening he brought up the subject himself; and mrs. copley and he went into it eagerly, and spent a delightful evening over plans for a possible journey; talking of routes, and settling upon stopping places. dolly was glad to see her mother pleased and amused, even so; but herself took no sort of part in the talk. next day mr. copley in truth arrived, and was joyfully received. "well, how do you do?" said he, after the first rejoicings were over, looking from his wife to his daughter and back again. it was the third or fourth time he had asked the question. "pretty jolly, eh? dolly is. _you_ are not, my dear, seems to me." "you are not either, it seems to me, mr. copley." "i? i am well enough." "you are not 'jolly,' father?" said dolly, hanging upon him. "why not? yes, i am. a man can't be very jolly that has anything to do in this world." "o father! i should think, to have nothing to do would be what would hinder jolliness." "anything to do but enjoy, i mean. i don't mean _nothing_ to do. but it ain't life, to live for business." "then, if i were you, i would play a little, mr. copley," said his wife. "so i do. here i am," said he, with what seemed to dolly forced gaiety. "now, how are you going to help me play?" "_we_ help _you_," said his wife. "why didn't you come yesterday?" "business, my dear; as i said. these are good berries. do they grow in the garden?" "how should strawberries grow in a garden where nobody has been living?" said his wife. "and what is your idea of play in an out-of-the-way place like this, mr. copley?" "well--not a catechism," said he, slowly putting strawberries in his mouth one after the other. "what's the matter with the place? i thought it would just suit you. isn't the air good?" "breathing isn't quite the only necessary of life," said his wife; "and you were asking about play. i think a change would be play to me." "well, this is a change, or i don't know the meaning of the word. you've just come, and have not examined the ground yet. must have a good market, if this fruit is any sign." "there is no market or anything else, except what you can find in a little village. the strawberries come from brierley house, where dolly goes to get _her_ play. as for me, who cannot run about, on my feet, or anyway, i sit here and wonder when she will be back again. are we to have no carriage here, mr. copley?" "we had better find out how you like it first, seems to me. hardly worth while, if you're not going to stay." mr. copley rose and sauntered out to the porch, and dolly looked furtively at her mother. she saw a troubled, anxious face, lines of nervous unrest; she saw that her father's coming had not brought refreshment or relief; and truly she did not perceive why it should. dolly was wholly inexperienced, in all but the butterfly life of very happy young years; nevertheless, she could not fail to read, or at least half read, some signs of another sort of life. she noticed that her father's manner wanted its ordinary careless, confident ease; there was something forced about it; his face bore tokens of loss of sleep, and had a trait of uneasiness most unwonted in mr. copley. dolly sat still a little while, and then went out and joined her father in the porch. mr. st. leger had come in, so that she did not leave her mother alone. dolly came close and laid her arm round her father's neck, her fingers playing with his hair; while he fondly threw one arm about her. "how is it, dolly?" he asked. "don't you like it here?" "_i_ do, very much. but mother finds it very quiet. i think she would like to travel, father." "travel! but i can't go travelling. i cannot get away from london for more than a day. quiet! i thought she wanted quiet. i heard of nothing but her want of quiet, till i got her down here; and now she wants noise." "not noise, exactly, but change." "well, what is this but change? as i said. i do not know what would please her." "i know what would please me," said dolly, with her heart beating; for she was venturing on unknown ground--"a little money." "money!" exclaimed her father. "what in the world do you want with money down here?" "to pay the servants, father," dolly said low. "margaret asked me for her month's wages, and i said i would ask you. can you give it to me?" "she cannot do anything with money down here either. she don't want it. her wages are safe, tell her. i'll take care of them for her." "but, father, if she likes to take care of them for herself, she has the right. such people like to see their money, i suppose." "i have yet to find the people that don't," said her father. "but, really, she'll have to wait, my child. i have not brought so much in my pocket-book with me." this also struck dolly as very unusual. never in her life, that she could remember, had her father confessed before to an empty purse. "then, could you send it to me, father, when you go back to london?" "yes, i'll send it. or better, wait till i come down again. you would not know how to manage if i sent it. and margaret really cannot be in a hurry." dolly stood still, fingering the locks of her father's thick hair, while her mental thermometer went down and down. she knew by his whole manner that the money was not at hand even were he in london; and where then was it? mr. copley had always till now had plenty; what had happened, or what was the cause of the change? and how far had it gone? and to what point might it go? and what should she do, if she could not soon pay margaret? and what would become of her mother, if not only her travelling projects were shattered, but also her personal and household comforts should fail her where she was? what could dolly do, to save money? or could she in any way touch the source of the evil, and bring about an essential bettering of this new and evil state of things? she must know more first; and how should she get more knowledge? there came a sigh to her ears here, which greatly touched her. nevertheless, for the present she could not even show sympathy, for she dared not seem aware of the need for it. tears came to her eyes, but she commanded them back; that would not do either. "suppose we take a walk, dolly, in that jolly old wood yonder?" mr. copley said. "that's brierley park, ain't it? we might go and see the house, if you like." "it is sunday, father." "well, what then? the world is pretty much the same thing sunday that it is other days, eh?" "yes, father--the world; but not the day. that is not the same as the rest." "why not? we cannot go to church to-day, if that is what you are thinking of. i took church-time to come down here. and if you wanted to go to church, dolly, you couldn't have a finer temple than over yonder." "oh, if you'll go to church there, father, i'll go." "to be sure i will. get your hat." "and my bible?" "bible?" mr. copley looked at her. "i didn't say anything about a bible. we are going to take a walk. you don't want a book to carry." "how are we going to church there, then?" "think good thoughts, and enjoy the works of the good creator. that's all you can do in any church, dolly. come, little puritan." dolly did not quite know what to do; however, she got her hat, finding that her mother was willing; and she and her father went down to the bridge. there, to her dismay somewhat, they were joined by mr. st. leger. but not to mr. copley's dismay; he welcomed the young man openly. dolly would have gone back now, but she did not dare. "going to see the house?" lawrence asked. "it is sunday," said dolly. "you cannot." "there's a way of opening doors, even on sunday," said the other. "no, not here. the housekeeper will not let you in. she is a christian." "she is a methodist, you mean," said mr. copley. "i believe she is a methodist. she is a good friend of mine." "what business have you to make friends with methodists? we're all good church people; hey, lawrence? what grand old woods these are!" "how old do you suppose these trees to be, father?" "can't guess; less than centuries would not do. centuries of being let alone! i wonder how men would get on, if they could have as good a chance? glorious! go on, children, and take your walk; i will lie down here and rest. i believe i want that more than walking." he threw himself down at full length on the turf in the shadow of a giant beech. dolly and her remaining companion passed slowly on. this was not what she had reckoned upon; but she saw that her father wished to be left alone, and she did not feel, nevertheless, that she could go home and leave the party. slowly she and mr. st. leger sauntered on, from the shadow of one great tree to another; dolly thinking what she should do. when they were gotten out of sight and out of earshot, she too stopped, and sat down on a shady bank which the roots of an immense oak had thrown up around its base. "what now?" said lawrence. "this is a good place to stay. father wishes to be left to himself." "but aren't you going any further?" "there is nothing to be gained by going any further. it is as pretty here as anywhere in the wood." "we might go on and see the pheasantry. have you seen the pheasantry?" "no." "that does not depend on the housekeeper's pleasure; and the people on the place are not all methodists. i fancy we should have no trouble in getting to see that. come! it is really very fine, and worth a walk to see. i am not much of a place-hunter, but the brierley pheasantry is something by itself." "not to-day," said dolly. "why not to-day? i can get the gate opened." "you forget it is sunday, mr. st. leger." "i do not forget it," said he, throwing himself down on the bank beside her. "i came here to have the day with you. it's a holiday. mr. copley keeps a fellow awfully busy other days, if one has the good fortune to be his secretary. i remember particularly well that it is sunday. what about it? can't a fellow have it, now he has got it?" the blue eyes were looking with a surprised sort of complaint in them, yet not wholly discontented, at dolly. how could they be discontented? so fair an object to rest upon and so curiosity-provoking too, as she was. dolly's advantages were not decked out at all; she was dressed in a simple white gown; and there were none of the formalities of fine ladyism about her; a very plain little girl; and yet, lawrence was not far wrong when he thought her the fairest thing his eyes had ever seen. _her_ eyes had such a mingling of the childlike and the wise; her hair curled in such an artless, elegant way about her temples and in her neck; the neck itself had such a pretty set and carriage, the figure was so graceful in its girlish outlines; and above all, her manner had such an inexplicable combination of the utterly free and the utterly unapproachable. lawrence lay thinking all this, or part of it; dolly was thinking how she should dispose of him. she could not well say anything that would directly seem to condemn her father. and while she was thinking what answer she should make, lawrence had forgot his question. "do you like this park?" he began on another tack. "oh, more than i can tell you! it is perfect. it is magnificent. there is nothing like it in all america. at least, _i_ never saw anything like it there." "why not?" said lawrence. "i mean, why is there not anything like this there?" then dolly's face dimpled all up in one of its expressions of extreme sense of fun. "we are not old enough," she said. "you know when these trees were young, our land was filled with the red men, and overgrown with forests." "well, those forests were old." "yes, but in a forest trees do not grow like this. they cannot. and then the forest had to be cut down." "then you like england better than america?" "i never saw in my life anything half so beautiful as brierley park." "you would be contented with such a home, wherever it might be?" "as far as the trees went," said dolly, with another ripple of fun breaking over her face. "tell me," said lawrence, "are all american girls like you?" "in what way? we do not all look alike." "no, no; i do not mean looks; they are no more like you in _that_, than you say america resembles brierley park. but you are not like an english girl." "i am afraid that is not an equal compliment to me. but why should americans be different from english people? we went over from england only a little while ago." "institutions?" lawrence ventured. "what, because we have a president, and you have a king? what difference should that make?" "then you see no difference? am i like an american, now?" "you are not like my father, certainly. but i do not know any american young men--except one. and i don't know him." "that sounds very much like a riddle. won't you be so good as to explain?" "there is no riddle," said dolly. "i knew him when i was at school, a little girl, and i have never seen him since." "then you don't know him now, i should say." "no. and yet i feel as if i knew him. i should know him if we saw each other again." "seems to have made a good deal of an impression!" "yes, i think he did. i liked him." "before you see him again you will have forgotten him," said lawrence comfortably. "do you not think you could forget america, if somebody would make you mistress of such a place as this?" "and if everybody i loved was here? perhaps," said dolly, looking round her at the soft swelling green turf over which the trees stretched their great branches. "but," said lawrence, lying on his elbow and watching her, "would you want _everybody_ you love? the bible says that a woman shall leave father and mother and cleave to her husband." "no; the bible says that is what the man shall do; leave father and mother and cleave unto his wife." "they work it the other way," said lawrence. "with us, it is the woman who leaves her family to go with the man." "mr. st. leger," said dolly suddenly, "father does not look well. what do you think is the matter with him?" "oh--aw--yes! do you think he doesn't look well?" lawrence answered vaguely. "not _ill_--but not just like himself either. what is it?" "i--well, i have thought that myself sometimes," replied the young man. "what is the matter with him?" dolly repeated anxiously. "oh, not much, he spends too much time at--at his office, you know!" "he has no need to do that. he does not want the office--not for the money's sake." "most men want money," said lawrence. "but do you think he does?" "oh, why not? why, _my_ father wants money, always wants money; and yet you would say he has enough, too. dolly"---- she interrupted him. "but what did you mean? you meant to say he spends too much time at--at what? say what you were going to say." lawrence rolled himself over on the bank so that he could look up straight into her face. it was a good look of his blue eyes. "dolly," said he, "if you will leave father and mother for my sake, figuratively, i mean,--of course, figuratively,--i will take care that neither of them ever wants anything for the rest of their lives. and you shall have a place as good as brierley park." dolly's spirits must have taken one or two quick leaps, for her colour changed so; but happily lawrence's speech was long enough to let her get possession of herself again. she answered with an _a plomb_ which, born of necessity as it was, and natural, equalled that of the most practised fine lady which should show her artificial habit or skill. like an instinct of self-preservation, i suppose; swift in action, correct in adjustment, taking its measures with unpremeditated good aim. she answered with absolute seeming calmness-- "you evade my question, i observe." "i am sure you evade mine!" said the young man, much more hotly. "perhaps i do. naturally, i want mine answered first." "and then will you give me the answer to my question?" said he eagerly. "that would seem to be no more than good manners." "what do you want to know, dolly? i am sure i can't tell what to say to you." "tell me what makes my father look unlike himself," said dolly quietly. she spoke quietly; not as if she were greatly concerned to know the answer; yet if lawrence had guessed how her heart beat he would have had still more difficulty with his reply. he had some, as it was; so much that he tried to turn the matter off. "you are imagining things," he said. "mr. copley seems to me very much what i have always known him." "he does not seem to me as _i_ have always known him," said dolly. "and you are not saying what you are thinking, mr. st. leger." "you are terribly sharp!" said he, to gain time. "that's quite common among american women. go on, mr. st. leger, if you please." "i declare, it's uncanny. i feel as if you could see through me, too. and no one will bear such looking into." "go on, mr. st. leger," dolly repeated with an air of superiority. poor child, she felt very weak at the time. "i don't know what to say, 'pon my honour," the young man averred. "i have nothing to say, really. and i am afraid of troubling you, besides." dolly could _not_ speak now. she preserved her calm air of attention; that was all. "it's really nothing," st. leger went on; "but i suppose, really, mr. copley may have lost some money. that's nothing, you know. every man does, now and then. he loses, and then he gains." "how?" said dolly gravely. "oh, well, there are various ways. betting, you know, and cards. everybody bets; and of course he can't always win, or betting would stop. that's nothing, miss copley." "have you any idea how much he has lost?" "haven't an idea. people don't tell, naturally, how hard they are hit. i am sure it is nothing you need be concerned about." "are not people often ruined in that way?" dolly asked, still preserving her outside calm. "well, that does happen, of course, now and then, with careless people. mr. copley is not one of that sort. not that kind of man." "do not people grow careless, in the interest and excitement of the play?" st. leger hesitated, and laughed a little, casting up his blue eyes at dolly as if she were a very peculiar specimen of young womanhood and he were not quite sure how to answer her. "i assure you," he said, "there is nothing that you need be concerned about. i am certain there is not." "not if my father is concerned about it already?" "he is not concerned, i am sure. oh, well! there may be a little temporary embarrassment--that can happen to any man, who is not made of gold--but it will be all right. now, miss copley"---- she put out her hand to stop him. "mr. st. leger, can you do nothing to help? you are kind, i know; you have always been kind to us; can you do nothing to help now?" the young man rather opened his eyes. was this asking him for an advance? it was a very cool proceeding in that case. "help?" he repeated doubtfully. "what sort?" "there is only one way that you could help," said dolly. he saw she meant what she meant, if he could know what that was; her cheeks had even grown pale; the sweet, clear brown eyes sought his face as if they would reach his heart, which they did; but then,--to assume any of mr. copley's responsibilities-- "i'll assume all mr. copley's responsibilities, dolly," he said with rash decision--"if you'll smile upon me." "assume?--oh, did you think i meant _that?_" cried dolly, while a furious flush came up into her face. "what a notion you must have of americans, mr. st. leger! do you think father would make over his responsibilities to another man? i did not mean anything so impossible as that." "forgive me then what did you mean?" "perhaps something as impossible," said dolly sadly, while the flush slowly paled. "i meant--couldn't you--could you--i don't know but it is just as impossible!"---- "could i, what? i could do most things, if you wished it, dolly." "then you must not call me that till i give you leave. i was going to say, could you perhaps do anything to get my father away from this habit, or pleasure"---- "of betting?" "betting--and cards--it's all the same. he never used to do it. can you help, mr. st. leger?" dolly's face was a sort of a marvel. it was so childlike, it was so womanly; it was so innocent, and it was so forceful. lawrence looked, and would have liked to do the impossible; but what could he? it was specially at his own father's card-table, he knew, that mr. copley had lost money; it was wholly in his father's society that he had been initiated into the fascination of wagers--and of something else. could he go against his own father? and how could he? and himself a player, though a very cautious one, how should he influence another man not to play? "miss copley--i am younger than your father"---- lawrence began. "i know. but you might speak where i cannot. or you might do something." "mr. copley only does what my father does, and what everybody does." "if you were to tell your father,--could not _he_ perhaps stop it?--bring my father off the notion?" dolly had reached the very core of the subject now and touched what she wanted to touch; for she had a certain assurance in her own mind that her father's intercourse with the banker and his circle of friends had led to all this trouble. lawrence pondered, looked serious; and finally promised that he would "see what he could do." he would have urged his own question then; but to dolly's great relief mr. copley found by this time that he had had enough of his own company; and called to them. however she could not escape entirely. "i have answered your question, miss copley," lawrence said as they were going down the slope towards the yet unseen caller. "hallo! yes, we're coming.--now am i not to have the promised answer to mine?" "how did you put it? the question?" said dolly, standing still and facing her difficulties. "you know. _i_ don't know how i put it," st. leger said with a half laugh. "but i meant, dolly, that you are more to me than everything and everybody in the world; and i wanted to know what i am to you?" "not _that_, mr. st. leger." dolly was quiet, and did not shun his eyes; and though she did grow rosy, there were some suspicious dimples in her fair little face; very unencouraging, but absolutely irresistible at the same time. "what then?" said the young man. "of course, i could not be to you what you are to me, dolly. naturally. but i can take care of your father and mother, and i will; and i will put you in a place as good as brierley park. i am my father's only son, and his heir, and i can do pretty much what i like to do. but i care for nothing if you will not share it with me." "i am not going to leave my father and mother at present," said dolly, shaking her head. "no, not at present," said he eagerly, catching at her words. "not at present. but you do not love anybody else, dolly?" "certainly not!" "then you will let me hope? you will let me hold myself your best friend, after them?" "i believe you are that," said dolly, giving him her hand;--"except my old methodist acquaintance, mrs. jersey." which addition was a little like a dash of cold water; but lawrence was tolerably contented after all; and pondered seriously what he could do in the matter of mr. copley's gaming tendencies. dolly was right; but it is awkward to preach against what you practise yourself. chapter xiv. difficulties. dolly on her part had not much comfort in the review of this afternoon. "it was no good," she said to herself; "i am afraid it has encouraged lawrence st. leger in nonsense. i did not mean that, but i am afraid he took it for encouragement. so much for going walking sunday. i'll never do it again." lawrence had taken leave very cheerfully; that was certain. as much could not be said for his principal. dolly had privately asked her father to send her down the money for the servants' wages; and mr. copley had given an offhand promise; but dolly saw that same want of the usual ready ease in his manner, and was not surprised when days passed and the money did not come. the question recurred, what was she to do? she wrote to remind her father; and she took a fixed resolve that she would buy no more, of anything, that she could not on the spot pay for. this, however, was not a resolve immediately taken; it ensued when after several weeks the women again pressed for their money, and again in vain. dolly started back then from the precipice she saw she might be nearing, and determined to owe no more debts. she wrote to her father once more, begging for a supply. and a supply came; but so meagre that dolly could but partially pay her two servants and keep a little in hand to go to market with. mr. copley had not come down to brierley in the meanwhile. lawrence had. her unaccustomed burden of care dolly had kept to herself; therefore it startled her when one day her mother began upon the subject. "what's this about margaret's wages, dolly?" "she asked me for some money the other day," dolly answered as easily as she could. "you didn't give it to her?" "i have given her part; i had not the whole." "haven't you _any?_" "yes, mother, but not enough to give margaret all she wants." "let her have what you've got, and write your father to send you some. i never like to keep servants waiting. what's theirs, isn't yours; and besides, they never serve you so well, and you're in their power." "mother, i want to keep a little in the house, for every day calls, till i get some more." "your father will send it immediately. why he don't come himself, i don't see. _i_'m not gaining, all alone in this wilderness, with nothing but the trees of brierley park to look at. i can't think what your father is dreaming about!" dolly was silent, and hoped the subject had blown over. yet it could not blow over for ever, she reflected. what was she to do? then her mother startled her again. "dolly have you told your father that you want money?" dolly hesitated; had to say yes. "and he did not give it to you?" "yes, mother; he sent me some." "when?" "it was--it must have been three weeks ago." "how much?" "not enough to pay all that is due to margaret." mrs. copley laid down her face in her hands. a terrible pain went through dolly's heart; but what could she say. it seemed as if pain pricked her like a shower of arrows, first on this side and then on that. she thought her mother _had_ gained somewhat in the past weeks; how would it, or could it, be now? presently mrs. copley lifted up her head with a further question. "is sarah paid?" "no, mother; not yet," said poor dolly. "has peter been paid anything?" "not by us. we do not pay peter at all," replied dolly, feeling as if the words were stabbing her. "who does?" said her mother quickly. "mr. st. leger sent him here. he is their servant really, and they take care of him." "i don't see how your father can content himself with that," said mrs. copley. "but i suppose that is one of the debts that _you_ will pay, dolly." dolly forced herself to speak very quietly, though every nerve and fibre was trembling and quivering. she said, "how, mother?" "i suppose you know. mr. st. leger knows, at any rate; and your father too, it seems." "mother," said dolly, sitting up a little straighter, "do you think i will pay debts in _that_ way?" "what other way will you pay them, then, child? what do you and your father expect? what _can_ you do, if you have not the money?" mrs. copley spoke bitterly. dolly waited a little, perhaps to bite down or swallow down some feeling. "mother," she said, somewhat lower, "do you think father would want me to pay his debts so?" "want to?" echoed mrs. copley. "i tell you, dolly, when people get into difficulties the question is not what they _want_ to do. they have to pocket their likings, and eat humble pie. but how has your father got into difficulties?" she burst out with an expression of frightened distress. "he always had plenty. dolly!--tell me!--what do you know about it? what is it? how _could_ he get into difficulties! oh, if we had staid at home! dolly, how is it possible? we have always had plenty--money running like water--all my life; and now, how _could_ your father have got into difficulties?" perhaps the difficulty was but transient and would soon pass over, dolly faintly suggested. "it don't look like it," said mrs. copley miserably, "and your father don't look like it. here we are down in this desert, you and i, to keep us out of the way, and where we will cost as near nothing as can be; and we can't pay that! do you know nothing about it, dolly? how it has come about?" "i couldn't ask father such a question, mother, you know." "and what is to become of me!" mrs. copley went on; "when travelling is the thing i need. and what is to become of you, dolly? nobody to be seen, or to see you, but st. leger. have you made up your mind to be content with him? will you have him, dolly? and is that the way your father is going to take care of you?" poor mrs. copley, having so long swallowed her troubles in secret, dreading to give pain to dolly, now that her mouth was once opened poured them forth relentlessly. why not? the subject was broached at last, and having spoken, she might go on to speak. and poor dolly, full of her own anxieties, did not know where to begin to quiet those of her mother. "mr. st. leger is nothing to me," she said, however, in answer to mrs. copley's last suggestions. "he thinks he is." "then he is very foolish," said dolly, reddening. "it is you that are foolish, and you just do not know any better. i don't think, dolly, that it would be at all a bad thing for you;--perhaps it would be the very best; though i'd rather have you marry one of our own people; but st. leger is rich, very rich, i suppose; and your father has got mixed up with them somehow, and i suppose that would settle everything. st. leger is handsome, too; he has a nice face; he has beautiful eyes; and he is a gentleman." "his face wants strength." "that's no matter. i begin to believe, dolly, that you have wit enough for two." "i am not speaking of wit; i mean _strength;_ and i should never like any man that hadn't it; not like him in the way you mean, mother." "strength? what sort of strength?" "i mean manliness; power to do right; power over himself and others; power over the wrong, to put it down, and over the right, to lift it up and give it play. i don't know that i can tell you what i mean, mother; but that is my notion of a man." "you are romantic, i am afraid, dolly. you have been reading novels too much." "what novels, mother? i have not read any, except scott's and miss austen's and 'the scottish chiefs.'" "well, you have got romantic ideas, i am afraid. your talk sounds romantic. you won't find that sort of man." "i don't care," said dolly. "but if i don't, i'll never marry any other sort." "and that is a delusion too," said mrs. copley. "you will do just as other girls do. nobody marries her fancy. and besides, st. leger thinks he has got you; and i don't know but he and your father will manage it so. he don't ask _my_ advice." now this was not quite true; for the subject of mr. st. leger had been discussed more than once between dolly's parents; though certainly mrs. copley did see that matters were out of her hand and beyond her guidance now. dolly was glad to have the conversation turn to something else; but the several subjects of it hardly left her head any more. it is blessedly true, that at seventeen there is a powerful spring of elasticity in the mind, and an inexhaustible treasury of hope; also it is true that mrs. copley was not wrong in her estimate of dolly when she adjudged her to have plenty of "wit;" otherwise speaking, resources and acuteness. that was all true; nevertheless, dolly's seventeen-year-old heart and head were greatly burdened with what they had to carry just now. experience gave her no help, and the circumstances forbade her to depend upon the experience of her mother. mrs. copley's nerves must not be excited. so dolly carried her burden alone, and found it very heavy; and debated her questions with herself, and could find an answer to never a one of them. how should she give her mother the rest and distraction of travelling? the doctor said, and dolly believed, that it would be the best thing for her. but she could not even get speech of her father to consult over the matter with him mr. copley was caught in embarrassments of his own, worse than nervous ones. what could dolly do, to break him off from his present habits, those she knew and those she dimly feared? then when, as was inevitable, the image of mr. st. leger presented itself, as affording the readiest solution of all these problems, dolly bounded back. not _that_, of all possible outcomes of the present state of things. dolly would neither be bought nor sold; would not in that way even be her parents' deliverer. she was sure she could not do that. what else could she do? she carried these questions about with her, out into the garden, and up into her room; and many a hot tear she shed over them, when she could be long enough away from her mother to let the tears dry and the signs of them disappear before she met mrs. copley's eyes again. to her eyes dolly was unfailingly bright and merry; a most sweet companion and most entertaining society; lively, talkative, and busy with endless plans for her mother's amusement. meanwhile she wrote to her father, begging him to come down to brierley; she said she wanted to talk to him. three days after that letter came lawrence st. leger. mr. copley could not spare the time, he reported. "spare the time from what?" dolly asked. "oh, business, of course. it is always business." "what sort? not consul business." "all sorts," said lawrence. "he couldn't come. so he sent me. what is the thing, miss dolly? he said something was up." "i wanted to talk to my father," dolly said coldly. "won't i do?" "not at all. i had business to discuss." "the journey, eh?" "that was one thing," dolly was obliged to allow. "well, look here. about that, i've a plan. i think i can arrange it with mr. copley, if you and your mother would be willing to set off with me, and let mr. copley join us somewhere--say at baden baden, or venice, or where you like. he could come as soon as he was ready, you know." "but you know," said dolly quietly, "i specially want _him_, himself." "but then your mother wants the journey. she really does. the doctor says so, you know, and i think he's right. and mr. copley won't leave london just now. he could send his secretary, you know. that's all right." "i must see father before i can do anything," said dolly evasively. "i will write a letter for you to carry back to him. and i will go do it at once." "and i will take a look at what peter is doing," said the young man. "such fellows always want looking after." dolly had looked after peter herself. she paused before an upper window in her way to her room, to cast a glance down into the garden. old peter was there, at some work she had set him; and before him stood lawrence, watching him, and she supposed making remarks; but at any rate, his air was the air of a master and of one very much at home. dolly saw it, read it, stood still to read it, and turned from the window with her heart too full of vexation and perturbation to write her letter then. she felt a longing for somebody to talk to, even though she could by no means lay open all her case for counsel; the air of the house was too close for her; her breath could not be drawn free in that neighbourhood. she must see somebody; and no one had poor dolly to go to but the housekeeper, mrs. jersey. nobody, near or far. so she slipped out of the house and took a roundabout way to the great mansion. she dared not take a straight way and cross the bridge, lest she should be seen and followed; so she made a circuit, and got into the park woods only after some time of warm walking through lanes and over fields. till then she had hurried; now, safe from interruption, she went slowly, and pondered what she was going to do or say. pondered everything, and could not with all her thinking make the confusion less confusion. it was a warm, still, sultry day; the turf was dry, the air was spicy under the great trees; shadow and sunshine alternately crossed her path, or more correctly, her path crossed them. a certain sense of contrast smote her as she went. around her were the tokens of a broad security, sheltering protection, quiet and immovable possession, careless wealth; and within her a tumult of fear, uncertainty, exposure, and craving need. life seemed a very unequal thing to the little american girl. her step became slower. what was she going to say to mrs. jersey? it was impossible to determine; nevertheless, dolly felt that she must see her and speak to her. that was a necessity. through the trees she caught at last sight of the grand old house. the dog knew her by this time and she did not fear him. she found the housekeeper busy with some sewing and glad to welcome her. mrs. jersey was that always. to-day she looked a little closer than usual at her visitor, discerning that dolly's mind was not just in its wonted poise. and besides, she loved to look at her. yet it is not easy to describe that for which our eyes seek and dwell upon a face or form. it is easy to say brown eyes and lightly curled, waving, beautiful hair; but hair is beautiful in different ways, and so faces. can we put dolly's charm into words? mrs. jersey saw a delicate, graceful, active figure, to begin with; delicate without any suspicion of weakness; active, in little quick, gracious movements, which it was fascinating to watch; and when not in motion, lovely in its childlike unconsciousness of repose. her hair was exceedingly beautiful, not on account of its mass or colour so much as for the great elegance of its growth and curly arrangement or disarrangement around the face and neck; and the face was a blending of womanly and childlike. it could seem by turns most of the one or most of the other; but the clear eyes had at all times a certain deep _inwardness_, along with their bright, intelligent answer to the moment's impression, and also a certain innocent outlook, which was very captivating. and then, at a moment's notice, dolly's face from being grave and thoughtful, would dimple all up with some flash of fun, and make you watch its change back to gravity again, with an intensified sense both of its merry and of its serious charm. she smiled at mrs. jersey now as she came in, but the housekeeper saw that the eyes had more care in their thoughtfulness than she was accustomed to see in them. "and how is the mother, dear?" she asked, when dolly had drawn up a chair and sat down; for they were grown familiar friends by this time. "she is not getting on much, mrs. jersey. i wanted to talk to you about her. the doctor says travelling would be the best thing." "and you will go and travel? where will you go?" "i don't know yet whether we can go anywhere. mother wants to go." dolly looked out hard into the tree groups on the lawn. they barred the vision. "that is one sign then that the doctor is right," said mrs. jersey. "it is good for sick folks to have what they like." "isn't it good for people that are not sick?" "sometimes," said mrs. jersey, smiling. "but sometimes not; or else the good lord would let them have it, when he does not let them. what are _you_ wanting, miss dolly?" "i want everything different from what it is just now!" said dolly, the tears starting to her eyes. the housekeeper was moved with a great sympathy; sympathy that was silent at first. "can i help?" she asked. "maybe you can help with your counsel," said dolly, brushing her hand over her eyes; "that is what i came here for to-day. i wanted to speak to somebody; and i have nobody but you, mrs. jersey." "your mother, my dear?" "i can't worry mother." "true. you are right. well, my dear? what do you want counsel about?" "it is very difficult to tell you. i don't know if i can. i will try. one thing. mrs. jersey, is it right sometimes, is it a girl's duty ever--to sacrifice herself for her parents?". the housekeeper had not expected this form of dilemma, and hesitated a few minutes. "sacrifice herself how, miss dolly?" "marrying, for instance." "marrying somebody she does not care for?" "yes." "how 'for her parents'?" "suppose--i am just supposing,--suppose he has money, and they haven't. suppose, for instance, they are in difficulties, and by her sacrificing herself she can put them out of difficulty? such a case might be, you know." "often has been; or at least people have thought so. but, miss dolly, where is a young lady's first duty?" "to god, of course; her first duty." "and next after god?" "to her parents, i suppose." "and besides her parents?" "i don't know; nobody, i think." "let us see. she owes something to herself." "does she?" "and do you not think she owes something to the other party concerned? don't you think she owes something to the gentleman she is to marry?" "yes, of course," said dolly slowly. "i do not know exactly what, though; nor exactly what she owes to herself." "before taking any course of action, in a matter that is very important, shouldn't she look all round the subject? and see what will become of all these duties?" "certainly. but the first comes first." "the first comes first. how does the first look to you?" "the first is her duty to god." "well. what does her duty to god say?" "i don't know," said dolly very gravely. "i am all in a puzzle. something in me says one thing, and something else in me cries out against it. mrs. jersey, the bible says, 'honour thy father and thy mother.'" "yes, and it says, 'children, obey your parents.' but the next words that come after, are--'_in the lord_.'" "how is that?" "so as you can without failing in your duty to him." "can duties clash?" "no," said the housekeeper, smiling; "for, as you said, 'the first comes first.'" "i do not understand," said dolly. "it is my duty to obey his word; and his word says, obey them." "only not when their command or wish goes against his." "well, how would this?" said dolly. "suppose they wish me to marry somebody, and my doing so would be very good for them? the bible says, 'love seeks not her own.'" "most true," said the housekeeper, watching the tears that suddenly stood in dolly's bright eyes. "but it says some other things." "what, mrs. jersey? do make it clear to me if you can. i am all in a muddle." "my dear, i am not a very good hand to explain what i mean. but do you not think you owe it both to yourself and to god, not to do what would blast your life? you cannot serve him so well with a blasted life." "it seems to me," said dolly, speaking slowly, "i have a right to give up my own happiness. i do not see the wrong of it." "in anything else," said the housekeeper. "in anything else, my dear; only not in marriage! my dear, it is not simply giving up one's happiness; it is a long torture! no, you owe it to yourself; for in that way you could never grow to be what you might be. my dear, i have seen it tried. i have known a woman who married so, thinking that it would not matter so much; she fulfilled life's duties nobly, she was a good wife and mother and friend; but when i asked her once, after she had told me her story, how life had been to her?--i shall never forget how she turned to me and said, 'it has been a hell upon earth!' miss dolly, no good father and mother would buy _anything_ at such a price; and no man that really loved a woman would have her at such a price; and so, if you follow the rule, 'whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them'--you will never marry in that way." there was a little silence, and then dolly said in an entirely changed tone, "you have cleared up the mist, mrs. jersey." "then there is another thing," the housekeeper went on. she heard the change in dolly's voice, out of which the anxiety had suddenly vanished, but she was willing to make assurance doubly sure. "did you ever think what a woman owes to the man she marries?" "i never thought about it," said dolly. "what a man asks for, is that she will marry him." how dolly's cheeks flamed up. but she was very serious, and the housekeeper if possible yet more so. "miss dolly, she owes him the best love of her heart, after that she gives to god." "i don't see how she can," said dolly. "i do not see how she _can_ love him so well as her father and mother." "he expects it, though, and has a right to it. and unless a woman can give it, she cannot be a true wife. she makes a false vow at the altar. and unless she do love him so, it may easily happen that she will find somebody afterwards that she will like better than her husband. and then, all is lost." "after she is married?" said dolly. "perhaps after she has been married for years. if she has not married the right man, she may find him when she cannot marry him." "but that is dreadful!" cried dolly. "the world is a pretty mixed-up place," said the housekeeper. "i want _your_ way to be straight and clear, miss dolly." there was a pause again, at the end of which dolly repeated, "thank you, mrs. jersey. you have cleared up the mist for me." "i hear it in your voice," said her friend, smiling. "it has got its clear, sweet ring again. is _all_ the trouble disposed of?" "oh no!" said dolly, a shadow crossing her face anew; "but i am relieved of one great perplexity. that was not all my trouble;--i cannot tell you all. i wish i could! one thing,--i want to see my father dreadfully, to talk to him about mother's going travelling; and i cannot get sight of him. he stays in london. and time is flying." "write," said the housekeeper. "oh, i have written. and i have sent messages. i would go up to london myself, but i cannot go alone." "miss dolly," said the housekeeper, after a minute's thought, "perhaps i can help here too. i have to go up to london for a few days, and was thinking to go next week. if you will trust yourself to me, i will take you, and take care of you." dolly was overjoyed at this suggestion. a little more conversation to settle preliminaries and particulars, and dolly set off on her way home with a much lightened heart. "ah me!" thought the housekeeper, as she stood at the door looking after her, "how hard we do make it for each other in this world!" chapter xv. the consul's office. before dolly had reached home she was joined by mr. st. leger. he was still in the park. "have you been for a walk?" said he in astonished fashion. "i suppose that would be a natural conclusion," said dolly. she spoke easily; it rejoiced her to find how easily she could now meet mr. st. leger. yet the game was not all played out, either. "why didn't you let me know, that i might go with you?" he went on. "that was not in my purpose," rejoined dolly lightly. "that is very unkind, dolly." "truth is never unkind." "yes, indeed, it may be; it is now." "would you like falsehood better?" "you need not be false." "i must be either false or true, must i not? which would you rather have, mr. st. leger?" "it would be no good, my choosing," said he, with a half laugh; "for you would never give me anything but absolute truth, i know. i believe that is one of your attractions, dolly. all other girls put on something, and a fellow never can tell what he is served to, the dish is spiced so cleverly. but you are like a piece of game, with no flavour but your own; and that is wild enough, and rare enough too." "mr. st. leger," said dolly gravely, "you ought to study rhetoric.'' "have. why?" "i am afraid that last speech was rather mixed up." "look here,--i wish you'd call me lawrence. we know each other quite well enough." "is that the custom in your country?" "it is going to be your country, as well. you need not speak in that fashion." "i am thinking of leaving the country," dolly went on unconcernedly. "mother is longing to travel; and i am going to bring it about." "i have tried mr. copley on that subject, i assure you." "i shall try now, and do it." "think so? then we will consult about plans and routes again this evening. mrs. copley likes that almost as well as the thing itself. for, dolly, you cannot get along without me." which assertion dolly left uncontroverted. a few days after lawrence had gone back to town was the time for mrs. jersey's journey. dolly told her mother her plan; and after a deal of doubts and fears and arguings on mrs. copley's part, it was finally agreed to. it seemed the hopefullest thing to do; and mrs. copley could be left well enough with the servants for a few days. so, early one morning mrs. jersey called for her, and dolly with a beating heart kissed her mother and went off. some business reasons occasioned the housekeeper to make the journey in a little covered carriage belonging to the house, instead of taking the public post-coach. it was all the pleasanter for dolly, being entirely private and quiet; though the time consumed was longer. they were then in the end of summer; the weather was delicious and warm; the country rich in flowers and grain fields and ripening fruit. dolly at first was full of delight, the change and the novelty were so welcome, and the country through which they drove was so exceeding lovely. nevertheless, as the day went by there began to creep over her a strange feeling of loneliness; a feeling of being out on the journey of life all by herself and left to her own skill and resources. it was not the journey to london; for _that_ she was well accompanied and provided; it was the real undertaking upon which she had set out, the goal of which was not london but--her father. to find her father not only, but to keep him; to prevent his being lost to himself, lost to her mother, to life, and to her. could she? or was she embarked on an enterprise beyond her strength? a weak girl; what was she, to do so much! it grew and pressed upon her, this feeling of being alone and busy with a work too great for her; till gradually the lovely country through which she was passing ceased to be lovely; it might have been a wilderness, for all its cheer or promise to her. dolly had talked at first, in simple, gleeful, girlish pleasure; little by little her words grew fewer, her eye lost its glad life; until she sat back, withdrawn into herself, and spoke no more unless spoken to. the housekeeper noticed the change, saw and read the abstracted, thoughtful look that had taken place of the gay, interested delight of the morning. she perceived that dolly had serious work on hand, of some sort; and she longed to help her. for the fair, sweet, womanly thoughtfulness was as lofty and lovely in its way, as the childlike simplicity of enjoyment before had been bewitching. she was glad when the day's ride came to an end. the stoppage was made at a little wayside inn; a low building of grey stone, overgrown with ivy and climbing roses, with a neatly kept bit of grass in front. here dolly's interest and delight awoke again. this was something unlike all she had ever seen. simple and plain enough the inn was; stone flooring and wooden furniture of heavy and ancient pattern made it that; but at the same time it was substantial, comfortable, neat as wax, and with a certain air of well-to-do thrift which was very pleasant. mrs. jersey was known here and warmly received. the travellers were shown into a cosy little room, brown wainscoted, and with a great jar of flowers in the chimney; and here the cloth was immediately laid for their dinner, or supper. for the supper itself they had to wait a little; and after putting off her bonnet and refreshing herself in an inner room, dolly sat down by one of the small windows. the day was declining. slant sunbeams shot across a wide plain and threw long shadows from the trees. the trees, especially those overhanging the inn, were old and large and fine; the lights and shadows were moveless, calm, peaceful; one or two neighbouring fields were stocked with beautiful cattle; and a flock of geese went waddling along over the green. it was removed from all the scenes of dolly's experience; as unlike them as her being there alone was unlike the rest of her life; in the strangeness there was this time an element of relief. "how beautiful the world is, mrs. jersey!" she remarked. "you find it so here?" answered her friend. "why, yes, i do. don't you?" "i suppose i am spoiled, miss dolly, by being accustomed to brierley." "oh, this is not brierley! but i am not comparing them. this is very pretty, mrs. jersey! why, mrs. jersey, you don't despise a daisy because it isn't a rose!" "no," said her friend; "but i suppose i cannot see the daisy when the rose is by." she was looking at dolly. "well," said dolly, "the rose is not by; and i like this very much. what a neat house! and what a pleasant sort of comfort there is about everything. i would not have missed this, mrs. jersey, for a good deal." "i am glad, miss dolly. i was thinking you were not taking much good of your day's ride--the latter part." dolly was silent, looking out now somewhat soberly upon the smiling scene; then she jumped up and threw off her gravity, and came to the supper-table. it was spread with exquisite neatness, and appetising nicety. dolly found herself hungry. if but her errand to london had been of a less serious and critical character, she could have greatly enjoyed the adventure and its picturesque circumstances. with the elastic strength of seventeen, however, she did enjoy it, even so. "how good you are to me, mrs. jersey!" she said, after the table was cleared and the two were sitting in the falling twilight. the still peace outside and inside the house had found its way to dolly's heart. there was the brooding hush of the summer evening, marked, not broken, by sounds of insects or lowing of cattle, and the voices of farm servants attending to their work. it was yet bright outside, though the sun had long gone down; inside the house shades were gathering. "i wish i could be good to you, miss dolly," was the housekeeper's answer. "oh, you are! i do not know what in the world i should have done, if you had not let me go with you to london now." "what can i do for you when we get there?" "oh, nothing! thank you." "you know exactly where to go and what to do?" "i shall take a cab and go--let me see,--yes, to father's rooms. if i do not find him there, i must go to his office." "in the city?" "yes. will that be very far from your house? why, yes, of course; we shall be at the west end. well, all the same, near or far, i must see my father." "you must be so good as to let me go in the cab with you," said mrs. jersey. "i cannot let you drive all about london alone by yourself." "oh, thank you!" said dolly again, with an undoubted accent of relief. "but"---- that sentence remained unfinished. dolly meditated. so did the housekeeper. she was wise enough to see that all was not exactly clear and fair in her young friend's path; of what nature the trouble might be she could only surmise. "what if mr. copley should not be in london?" she ventured. "oh, he must be. at least he was there a very few days ago. he never is away from london, except when he goes to visit somewhere." "it is coming towards the time now when the gentlemen go down into the country to shoot." "father does not care for shooting. i mean to get him to go to venice instead, with mother and me." "suppose you should fail in that plan, miss dolly? is your business done then?" "no. oh no!" said dolly, for a moment covering her face with her hands. "o mrs. jersey! if i could not manage that, i do not know what i should do!" dolly's voice had a premonition of despair. "but i guess i can do it," she added with a resumption of cheerfulness. and she talked on from that time merrily of other things. when they arrived in london next day, it was already too late for dolly to do anything. she was fain to let mrs. jersey lodge her and feast her and pet her to her heart's content. she was put in a pretty room in the great house; she was entertained royally, as far as the viands went; and in every imaginable way the housekeeper was carefully kind. well for dolly; who needed all the help of kindness and care. the whole long day she had been brooding on what she had to do, and trying to imagine how things would be. without data, that is a specially wearisome occupation; inasmuch as one may imagine anything, and there is nothing to contradict the most extravagant speculations. dolly's head and heart were tired by the time night came, and her nerves in an excited condition, to which mrs. jersey's ministrations and the interest of the place gave a welcome relief. dolly tried to put off thought. but everything pressed upon her, now that she was so near seeing her father; and seventeen-years-old felt as if it had a great load on its young shoulders. "mrs. jersey," she began, after supper, "you are quite sure that it is never right for a girl to sacrifice herself for the sake of benefiting her parents?" "in the way of marrying a man she does not love? miss dolly, a christian man would never have a young lady marry him on those terms." "suppose he is not a christian man?" "then he may be selfish enough to do it. but in that case, miss dolly, a christian woman can have nothing to say to him." "why not? she might bring _him_ to be christian, you know." "that isn't the lord's way, miss dolly." "what is his way, then?" "you will find it in the sixth chapter of nd corinthians. 'be not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.'" "but that means"---- "it _says_--miss dolly; it _says_,--do not be yoked up with one who is not following the lord; neither in marriage, nor in business. two oxen in a yoke, miss dolly, have to pull the same way; and if they don't want to, the weakest must go with the strongest." "but might not the christian one be the strongest?" "his disobeyeing the lord's command just shows he isn't that." dolly let the subject drop. she took a little cushion and sat down by her friend's side and laid her head in her lap; and they sat so a while, mrs. jersey looking fondly down upon the very lovely bright head on her knees, and marvelling sorrowfully at the fathers and mothers who prepare trouble for such tender and delicate creatures as their young daughters. the next morning she admired her charge under a new view of her. dolly appeared at breakfast with a calm, measured manner, which, if it were in part the effect of great pressure upon her spirits, had at the same time the grace of a very finished breeding. mrs. jersey looked and admired, and wondered too. how had the little american got this air? she could not put it on herself; but she had seen her mistresses in the great world wear it; a certain unconscious, disengaged dignity which sat marvellously well upon the gracious softness and young beauty of this little girl. the breakfast was rather silent. the drive, which they entered upon immediately after, was almost wholly so. mrs. jersey, true to her promise, let her own affairs wait, and accompanied her young friend. dolly had changed her plan, and went now first to mr. copley's office in the city. it was the hour when he should be there, and to go to his lodging would have taken them out of the way. so they drove the long miles from grosvenor square to the american consul's office. dolly's mood was eager and hopeful now; yet with too much pressure to allow of her talking. the cab stopped opposite the entrance of a narrow covered way between two walls of houses. following this narrow passage, mrs. jersey and dolly emerged into a little court, very small, on one side of which two or three steps led to the american consul's offices. the first one they entered was full of people, waiting to see the consul or parleyeing with one or another of the clerks. dolly left mrs. jersey there to wait for her, and herself went on into the inner room, her father's special private office. in those days the office of american consul was of far more importance and dignity than to-day; and this room was a tolerably comfortable one and respectably furnished. here, however, her father was not; and it immediately struck dolly that he had not been there very lately. how she gathered this impression is less easy to tell, for she could hardly be said to see distinctly any one of the characters in which the fact was written. she did not know that dust lay thick on his writing-table, and that even the papers piled there were brown with it; she did not know that the windows were fastened down this warm day, nor that an arm-chair which usually stood there for the accommodation of visitors was gone, having been slipped into the outer office by an ease-loving clerk. it was a general air of forsakenness, visible in these and in yet slighter signs, which struck dolly's sense. she stood a moment, bewildered, hoping against sense, as it were; then turned about. as she turned she was met by a young man who had followed her in from the outer office. dolly faced him. "where is mr. copley?" "he ain't here." the yankee accents of home were unmistakeable. "i see he is not here; but where is he?" "couldn't say, reelly. 'spect he's to his place. we don't ginerally expect ladies at this time o' day, or i guess he'd ha' ben on hand." the clerk grinned at dolly's beauty, the like of which to be sure was not often seen anywhere at that, or any other, time of day. "when was mr. copley here, sir?" "couldn't say. 'tain't very long, nother. was you wantin' to see him on an a'pintment?" "no. i am miss copley. where can i find my father? please tell me as quick as you can." "sartain--ef i knowed it. now i wisht i did! mr. copley, he comes and he goes, and he don't tell me which way; and there it is, you see." "where is mr. st. leger?" "mr. silliger? don't know the gentleman. likely mr. copley doos. but he ain't here to say. mebbe it 'ud be a good plan to make a note of it. that's what mr. copley allays says; 'make a note of it.'" "you do not know, sir, perhaps, whether mr. copley is in london?" "he was in london--'taint very long ago, for he was in this here office, and i see him; but that warn't yesterday, and it warn't the day before. where he's betaken himself between whiles, ain't known to me. shall i make a note, miss, against he comes?" "no," said dolly, turning away; "no need. and no use." she rejoined mrs. jersey and they went back to the carriage. "he is not there," she said excitedly; "and he has not been there for several days. we must go to his lodgings--all the way back almost!" "never mind," said the housekeeper. "we have the day before us." "it is almost twelve," said dolly, looking at her watch. "before we get there it will be one. i am a great deal of trouble to you, i fear, mrs. jersey; more than i meant to be." "my dear, it's no trouble. i am happy to be of any use to you. what sort of a chain is that you wear, miss dolly?" "curious, isn't it?" said dolly. "it was given me long ago. it is woven of threads of a ship cable." "it is a beautiful chain," said her friend, examining it admiringly. "but that is very clever, miss dolly! i should never fancy it was a piece of cable. is there an anchor anywhere?" "no," said dolly, laughing. "though i am not sure," she added thoughtfully. "my memory goes back along this chain a great way;--back to the time when i was a little girl, quite little, and very happy at school and with a dear aunt, whom i lived with then. and back there at the end of the chain are all those pleasant images; and one most beautiful day, when we went to visit a ship; a great man-of-war. a most beautiful day!" dolly repeated with the accent of loving recollection. "and you brought back a piece of cable from the ship, and braided this?" "no. oh no! i did not do it; i could not. it was done for me." "by a friend's fingers?" "yes, i suppose you may say so," said dolly; "though it is a friend i have never seen since then. i suppose i never shall. but i always wear the chain. oh, how long that seems ago!--is childhood the happiest time of a person's life, mrs. jersey?" "maybe i might say yes. miss dolly; but if i did, i should mean not what you mean. i should mean the little-child life that one can have when one is old. when the heart says, 'not my will, but thine'--when it says, 'speak, lord, for thy servant heareth.' you know, the master said, 'except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.'" "i don't believe i am just as much of a child, then, as i used to be," remarked dolly. "get back to it, my dear, as fast as you can." "but when one _isn't_ a child, things are so different. it is easy to trust and give up for a child's things; but when one is a woman"---- "it is just the same, dear miss dolly! our great affairs, they are but child's matters to the lord's eyes. the difference is in ourselves--when our hearts get proud, and our self-will gets up." "i wish i could be like a child now," said dolly from the depths of her heart. "i feel as if i were carrying the whole family on my shoulders, and as if _i_ must do it." "you cannot, my dear! your shoulders will break. 'casting your care upon him,' the bible says--'for he careth for you.'" "one does not see him"---- said dolly, with her eyes very full. "faith can see," the housekeeper returned; and then there was a long silence; while the carriage rattled along over the streets, and threaded its way through the throng of business, or bread-seekers or pleasure-seekers. so many people! dolly wondered if every one of them carried his secret burden of care, as she was doing; and if they were, she wondered how the world lived on and bore the multitudinous strain. oh, to be a child, in the full, blessed sense of the term! chapter xvi. a fight. the cab stopped, and dolly's heart gave a great thump against her ribs. what was she afraid of? mrs. jersey said she would wait in the cab, and dolly applied herself to the door-knocker. a servant came, a stupid one seemingly. "is mr. copley at home?" "i dunno." "will you find out, please?" "jemima, who's that?" called a voice of authority from behind the scenes. "somebody arter the gentleman, ma'am. i dunno, is he in his room?" the owner of the voice came forward; a portly, respectable landlady. she surveyed dolly, glanced at the cab, became very civil, invited dolly in, and sent the maid upstairs to make inquiries, declaring she did not know herself whether the gentleman were out or in. dolly would not sit down. the girl brought down word that mr. copley was not out of his bedroom yet. "i went in the parlour, ma'am, and knocked, ma'am; and i might as well ha' axed my broom, ma'am." "i'll go up," said dolly hastily; and waiting for no answer, she brushed past landlady and maid and ran up the stairs. then paused. "which rooms? on the first floor?" the woman of the house came bustling after her up the stairs and opened the door of a sitting-room. it was very comfortably furnished. "you couldn't go wrong, ma'am," she said civilly, "i 'ave no one in my rooms at this present, except mr. copley. i suppose you are his daughter, ma'am?" "his daughter," dolly repeated, standing still and facing the landlady, and keeping down all outward expression of the excitement which was consuming her. she knew she kept it down; she faced the woman steadily and calmly, and the landlady was more and more humbly civil. "mr. copley is not ill?" dolly went on. "oh, dear, no, ma'am! not to call h'ill. mr. copley is in enjoyment of very good 'ealth; as i 'ave occasion to know, ma'am, who cooks his meals for him. i can allers tell by that. when a gentleman or a lady 'as good taste for their victuals, i think it's no 'arm if they sleeps a little long in the morning; it's a trifle onconvenient to the 'ouse, it may be, when things is standing roun', but it's good for theirselves, no doubt, and satisfyin' and they'll be ready for their breakfast when they comes h'out. and shall i wake mr. copley for you, ma'am? it's time for him, to be sure." "thank you, no; you need not do anything. i will sit here and wait a little." "and mr. copley's coffee'll be ready for him, ma'am, when he's ready for h'it. mr. copley, he sets a good deal by his coffee, and likes it made particular, and he _gets_ it made particular. didn't mr. copley tell you, ma'am, as his coffee was satisfactory?" "i daresay it is," said dolly; "and i will ring for it when my father wants it. you may leave me; i will wait here." the landlady had been going round the room, picking up a bit of paper here and wiping her apron over a table there, the while taking a careful view of dolly and examining her all over. dolly's figure and manner were irreproachable; and with renewed proffers of service, the woman at last, having no choice, left the room. dolly stood still a moment then, collecting herself and looking at the situation. past one o'clock, and her father not out of his room! that was not like any of his habits, as she knew them; and dolly stood with the shadow of a nameless fear falling across her spirit. nameless, and formless; she did not discern it clearly or attempt to examine it; the mere shadow of it chilled her to the bone. she stood thinking, and trembling. not at his office for several days, though business must be calling for him; not out of his room at one o'clock in the afternoon, though all his old simple home habits were opposed to such a waste of daylight! should she try to arouse him? dolly did try, after a little while; for she could not bear the still waiting; she knocked at the inner door; but she got no response. then she went down to mrs. jersey at the cab, and told her the state of the case, begging her to go away and not wait any longer. _she_ must wait, and it was impossible to say how long. "miss dolly, does your father often rise so late?" "they say so. he never used, but it seems he does now." "it's the way with a many," said the housekeeper. "never mind me, my dear. i'll wait here, or if i get tired of that, i will come in and sit with the landlady. i shall not leave you." inwardly thankful, dolly went back to her post and sat down and looked around her. she could tell nothing by the room or its contents. both were nice enough; there was a slight smell of cigars, that was all to find fault with. dolly waited. the stillness grew dreadful. to seventeen years old the first trouble comes hard; albeit seventeen years old has also a great fund of spirit and strength to meet and conquer trouble. but what was the trouble here? it was not the unusual scantiness of means; _that_ could soon be made right, if other things were not wrong which wrought to cause it. on the other hand, if her father had fallen irreparably into bad habits--dolly would not admit the "irreparably" into her thoughts. but it was bitter to her that children should ever have to find their parents in the wrong; dreadful to have occasion to be ashamed of them. she knew, if her case proved such a one, it would be only one of a great many; she had read of such things, although chiefly among another class of people who were of coarser habits and duller natures, and if they fell had less distance to fall to get to the lowest level of society. but _her father!_--dolly cowered with her head down upon the back of a chair, and a cry in her heart calling upon his name. her father? could she have to blush for him? all her nature revolted against it; the thought came over her as a thick black cloud, so thick that for the moment light was banished from all her little landscape. oh, how can fathers do such things! and how can daughters live under them! death might be borne easier; but disgrace? death would leave the loved one still her own; disgrace seemed to have a power of annihilation. still, dolly knew not that such trouble was really come upon her; alas, she did know too well that the fear of it had. and what a descent did that alone imply! she raised her head again, and sat with dry eyes and a beating heart, waiting. at last she was sure she heard some movement in the inner room. she heard the click of things that were moved; the fall of a chair that was knocked over, sounds of steps. finally the door opened, and mr. copley appeared on the threshold. the sight of him smote his daughter. his dress was carelessly thrown on; _that_ was not so very remarkable, for mr. copley never was an exact man in matters of the toilet. it was not merely that. but dolly's eye saw that his step was unsteady, his face dull and flushed, and his eye had a look which even a very little experience understands. his air was haggard, spiritless, hopeless; so unlike the alert, self-sufficient, confident manner of old, that dolly's heart got a great wrench. and something in the whole image was so inexpressibly pitiful to her, that she did the very last thing it had been in her purpose to do; she fled to him with one bound, threw herself on his breast, and burst into a heartbreak of tears. poor mr. copley was greatly startled and sorely perplexed. he had not been prepared to see his daughter; and though miserably conscious that he offered ground enough himself for dolly's passion, he could not yet be sure that it concerned him. it might be wrought by some other cause; and in sore dismay and uncertainty he was not able to bring out a word of question. dolly sobbed, and sobbed; and putting her arms up around his neck strained him in an embrace that was most pitifully longing and tender. mr. copley felt the pitifulness; he did not know what it meant. it was not till dolly had released him and was trying to dry her eyes that he brought out a question. "what's the matter with you, dolly?" dolly heard the thick and lumbering accent of his words, and burst forth in a despairing cry. "o father! what is the matter with you?" "i'm all right," said poor mr. copley. "i'm all right. what are you here for?" "i wanted to see you. why did you never come down? you haven't been near us." "i was coming--hindered always--i was coming, dolly. how's your mother?" dolly made a great effort after voice and calmness. "she is well--i mean, she is no worse than usual. will you have your coffee, father?" but dolly's voice choked with a sob. mr. copley looked at her in a helpless kind of way and made no answer. dolly rang the bell. "how--a--how did you get here?" was the next question, put in evident embarrassment. "you wouldn't come to brierley, father; so i had to come to london. i came with a friend." "st. leger?" "st. leger! no, indeed. oh, i came with a very nice friend, who took good care of me. now, here's your breakfast." dolly was glad of the chance to get upon common everyday ground, till her breath should be free again. she helped arrange the dishes; dismissed the maid; poured out mr. copley's coffee and served him. "better take some yourself, dolly. had your breakfast? let mrs. bunce do you another chop." dolly at first said no; but presently felt that she was faint and exhausted, and agreed to the suggestion. she rang for another cup and plate, and ordered the chop. meanwhile mr. copley drank coffee and made a poor hand of the rest of his breakfast. "what did you come up for, dolly?" "to see you, sir." "you might have waited for that." "but how long? i had waited." "what's up?--if your mother's well." "i wanted to talk to you, father, and i couldn't do it in letters; because there the talking was all on one side, and i wanted to hear what you would say." "why, didn't i answer you?" "no, sir." "well, what do you want, dolly?" "i want a great deal, father. wait, please, till i get my chop; for i cannot talk to you till i do." "'ill talking between a full man and a fasting,' eh? well, here's your breakfast." it was only the bespoken cup and plate, however, and mr. copley had to wait longer. it came at last, the chop; and till it came dolly said no more. her father watched her, and watched her, and could not take his eyes off her. the flush on her cheek and the sparkle in her eye, the moisture still lingering on her eyelashes, how sweet she was! and how indefinably lovely! dolly had grown into a woman; she had the presence and poise that belong to a high-bred woman; and yet she had not lost her girlhood nor grown out of its artless graces; and as mr. copley looked he saw now and then a very childlike trembling of the under lip. it troubled his heart. he had been very uncomfortable ever since his meeting with his daughter; the discomfort began now to develope into the stings and throes of positive pain. what was she there for? whence had come that agony of tears? and why when those tears were pouring from her eyes did her soft arm clasp him so? did she want help from him? or for him? mr. copley grew extremely uneasy; restless and fidgeting. dolly ate her chop and her potatoe, needing it, i fancy; and perhaps she wanted to gain time too. mr. copley had no appetite. he had none to begin with, and certainly dolly's appearance had not given him what he had not before. "you don't make much of a breakfast, father," dolly observed. "never do," he returned. "no time to eat, when a man has just got up. a cup of coffee is the only thing. the french way is the best." "you did not use to be up so late, in the old days." "don't think it's the best time either; but--you must do as the rest of the world do; swim with the--what is it?--swim with the current." "how if the current goes the wrong way?" "can't help yourself; you must go along, if you are in it." dolly was silent, finishing her luncheon. she ate fast and hurriedly. then she pushed her chair away and came round and sat upon her father's knee; laying one arm round his neck and looking into his face. "father," she said in her clear, musical voice, sweet as a bird's notes,--"father, suppose we get out of the current?" "what current do you mean? it makes a great confusion to try to have your meals at a different hour from the rest of the world." "i don't mean that, father." "what have you come up to town for?" "to see about it," said dolly, with a smile that dimpled her cheeks most charmingly, and covered the anxiety she did not want to show. "to see about what? dolly, you are grown a woman." "yes, father." "and, i declare you're a beautiful woman, child. it's time we were thinking of getting you married." "you're not in a hurry, are you, father?" "in a hurry!" said mr. copley, gazing at her admiringly. "why, yes. i want you to be married while you can choose your place in the world, and enjoy it when you have got it. and you can choose now, dolly." "what, sir?" "your husband." "but, father," cried dolly, while her cheeks covered themselves with the most brilliant roses, "i cannot choose what is not presented to my choice!" "no, child; take what _is_. that's what i am thinking of. good enough too. don't you like the ticket you have drawn?" "father," said dolly, turning the tables now on her side, and laying her face in his neck, "i wish you would have nothing to do with lotteries or gaming!" "i have nothing to do with lotteries, child." "but with gaming?" "what put such a thing into your head?" dolly hesitated, strained him a little closer in her embrace, and did not answer directly. "father, i wish you would!" "what folly are you talking, dolly?" said mr. copley angrily. "you are meddling with what you do not understand." but dolly only clung closer, and having once broken the ice would not now give back. she must speak now. "father," she said, half sobbing, yet commanding the sobs down, "we are getting ruined. we are losing each other. mother and i live alone--we do not see you--we are poor--we have not money to pay our dues--mother is not getting better--and i am breaking my heart about her, and about you. o father, let us come and live together again." dolly got no answer to this outburst, and hardly was conscious that she got none, she was so eagerly trying to swallow down the emotion which threatened to master her voice. mr. copley had no answer ready. "father," dolly began again, "mother wants to travel; she wants to go to venice. suppose we go?" "can't travel without money, dolly. you say we haven't any." "would it cost more to travel than to live as we are living?" "you say we cannot do that." "father, do _you_ say so?" "i am merely repeating your statements, dolly, to show you how like a child you talk." "answer me as if i were a child then, father, and tell me what we can do. but _don't_ let us go on living as we are doing!" "i thought i had done the very best thing possible for your mother, when i got her that place down at--i forget what's the name of the place." "brierley." "i thought i had done the very best thing for her, when i settled her there. now she is tired of it." "but father, we cannot pay our way; and it worries her." "she is always worrying about something or other. if it wasn't that, it would be something else. any man may be straightened for cash now and then. it happens to everybody. it is nothing to make a fuss about." "but, father, if i cannot pay the servants, _they_ must be without cash too; and that is hard on poor people." "not half so hard as on people above them," replied her father hastily. "they have ways and means; and they don't have a tenth or a hundredth as many wants, anyhow." "but those they have are wants of necessary things," urged dolly. "well, what do you want me to do?" said mr. copley, with as much of harshness in his manner as ever could come out towards dolly. "i cannot coin money for you, well as i would like to do it." "father, let us take what we have got, and go to venice! all together. we'll travel ever so cheaply and live ever so plainly; only let us go! only let us go!" "think your mother'd like travelling second-class?" said mr. copley in the same way. "she wouldn't mind so very much; and i wouldn't mind it at all. if we could only go." "and what is to become of my business?" dolly did not dare give the answer that rose to her tongue, nor let her father know how much she knew. she came up on another side of the subject, and insisted that the consulate might be dispensed with. mr. copley did not need the office and might well be tired of it by this time. dolly pleaded, and her father heard her with a half embarrassed, half sullen face; feeling her affectionate entreaties more than was at all convenient, and conscious at the same time of a whole side of his life that he would be ashamed his daughter should know; and afraid of her guessing it. alas, for father and child both, when such a state of things comes about! "come, father!" said dolly at last, touching her forehead to his forehead in a sweet kind of caress,--"i want you." "suppose i find somebody else to go with you instead of me?" "nobody else will do. come, father! do come." "you might set off with lawrence," said mr. copley as if considering, "and i might join you afterwards; at venice, perhaps, or nice, or somewhere. hey?" "that won't do. i would not go with mr. lawrence." "why not?" "too much of an honour for him." "you need not be afraid of showing him too much honour, for he is willing to give you the greatest man can give to a woman." dolly coloured again, and again touched her forehead to her father's forehead and sat so, leaning against him. maybe with an instinct of hiding her cheeks. "father, let us go to venice!" she began again, leaving mr. st. leger. "just think what fun it would be, to go all together. we have been living so long without you. i believe it would just make mother up. think of seeing venice together, father!--and then maybe we would go on to geneva and get a look at mont blanc." "geneva is a place for lovers," said mr. copley. "why?" "romantic." "can't anybody else be romantic, except that sort of people? i am romantic,--and i do not care a straw about anybody but mother and you." "don't tell mr. st. leger that." "he might as well know it. come, father! say you'll go." it was hard to withstand her. the pure, gentle intonations rang upon mr. copley's soul almost like bells of doom, because he did withstand her. she was his saving good angel; he half knew it; he was ashamed before his child, and conscience knocked hard at the door of his heart; but the very shame he felt before her made her presence irksome to him, while yet it was, oh, so sweet! alas, "he that doeth evil hateth the light." he was entangled in more than one sort of net, and he lacked moral power to break the meshes. the gentle fingers that were busy with the net, trying to unloose it, were a reproach and a torment to him. she _must_ marry st. leger; so his thoughts ran; it was the best thing that could happen to her; it was the best he could do for her. then she would be secure, at all events. "dolly, why don't you like lawrence?" he began. "he's too handsome, father,--for one thing." "i never heard of such a reason for a lady's dislike. that's play, dolly." "and he knows it; there's another thing." "well, of course he knows it. how can he help knowing it?" "and he's too rich." "dolly, you are talking nonsense." "and he knows that." "he doesn't know he's _too_ rich," said mr. copley, with a little bitterness. "no st. leger ever did that." "well, father, that's what he is. very handsome, and very rich. he is nothing else. he would suit some people admirably; but he don't suit me." "what sort of thing would suit you?" "a very perverse sort of a person, who is called frank collinshaw copley." "well, you've got me," said her father, laughing a little at her. he could not help it. "you want something else besides." "i don't, father, indeed." "and, my child, money is necessary in this world. you cannot get along without money." "father, will you come to venice? and we'll get along with very little money. father, we _must_ go, for mother. the doctor says so, and she is just longing to go. we ought to go as soon as ever you can be ready." "you show how much you know about it, when you talk of venice and a _little_ money! you had better take mr. st. leger." "father, everybody says living is cheap in switzerland." "you talked of venice." "and italy. the doctor says mother ought to stay some time at nice, or naples. father, you can arrange it. do! give up the consulate, and let us take mother to italy; and then home if you like. i don't much care, so that we have you." and again dolly's forehead bent over to give a soft impact to her father's brown brow. "who did you come to town with?" he said suddenly. she told him. "well, now you had better go back with her, and i will see what i can do." "you will go, father?" "if i cannot immediately, i will send you and come on after." "i cannot go without you, father. oh, come, come!" and dolly rained kisses upon his face, and stroked his forehead and cheeks, and was so entirely delicious in her tenderness and her sweetness, her love and her anxiety, that the heart of ordinary man could not stand it. anything else became more easy than to refuse her. so mr. copley said he would go; and received a new harvest of caresses in reward, not wholly characterised by the usual drought of harvest-time, for some drops of joy and thankfulness still came falling, a sunlit shower. "now, my child," said her father, "you had better go back to your good housekeeper, and then back to your mother, and get all things ready for a start." "father, i can stay here to-night, can't i?" mr. copley was not sure that he wanted her; yet he could not refuse to make inquiry. there was no difficulty; plenty of room; and dolly joyously prepared herself to gather in the fruits of her victory, through that following care and those measures of security for want of which many a victory has been won in vain. mrs. jersey had long since been informed that she need not wait, and had driven away. dolly now sent for her portmanteau, and established herself in her father's sitting room. mr. copley looked on, helplessly; half delighted, half bored. he would not have chosen to have dolly there just then; yet being there she was one of the most lovely visions that a father's eye could rest upon. grown to be a woman--yes, she was; ordering and arranging things with a woman's wisdom and skill; ordering _him_, mr. copley felt with a queer sensation; and yet, so simple and free and sweet in all her words and ways as might have become seven instead of seventeen. st. leger might be glad if he could get her! yet she was inconvenient to mr. copley. she stood in his way, like the angel in balaam's; only not with a sword drawn, but with loving looks, and kisses, and graces, and wiles of affection; and who could withstand an angel? he gave up trying; he let her have her way; and when dinner time came, dolly and he had an almost jovial dinner. until mr. copley rose from table, unlocked a cupboard, and took out a bottle of wine. dolly's heart gave a sudden leap that meant a throe of pain. was there another fight to be fought? how should she fight another fight? but the emergency pressed her. "o father," she cried, "is that sherry?" "no, it is better," said her father--pouring out a glass,--"it is madeira." dolly saw the hand tremble that grasped the bottle, and she sprang up. she went round to her father, fell down on her knees before him, and laid one hand on the hand that had just seized the glass, the other on his shoulder. "please, father, don't take it! please don't take it!" she said in imploring tones. mr. copley paused. "not take it? why not?" said he. "it is not good for you. i know you ought not to take it, father. please, please, don't!" dolly's eagerness and distress were too visible to be disregarded, by mr. copley at least. her hand was trembling too. his still held the glass, but he looked uncertainly at dolly, and asked her why it should not be good for him? every gentleman in the land drank wine--that could afford it. "but, father," said dolly, "can you afford it?" "yes," said mr. copley. "get up, dolly. here is the wine; it costs no more to drink it than to let it alone." and he swallowed the wine in the glass at a single draught. "o father, don't take any more!" cried dolly, seeing a preparatory movement of the hand towards the bottle. "o father! don't, don't! one glass is enough. don't take any more to-day!" "you talk like a goose, dolly," said mr. copley, filling his glass. "i feel better already for that. it has done me good." "you only think so. it is not doing you good. o father! if you love me, put the bottle away. don't take a drop more!" dolly had turned pale in her agony of pleading; and her father, conscious in part, and ashamed with that secret consciousness, and taken by surprise at her action, looked at her and--did not drink. "what's the matter with you, child?" he said, trying for an unconcerned manner. "why should not i take wine, like everybody else in the world?" "father, it isn't good for people." "i beg your pardon; it is very good for me. indeed, i cannot be well without it." "that's the very thing, father; people cannot do without it; and then it comes to be the master; and then--they cannot help themselves. oh, do let it alone!" "what's the matter, dolly?" mr. copley repeated with an air of injury, which was at the same time miserably marred by embarrassment. "do you think i cannot help myself? or how am i different from every other gentleman who takes wine?" "father, a great many of them are ruined by it." "well, i am not ruined by it yet." "father, how can you tell what might be? father, i can't bear it!" dolly could not indeed; she broke down. she sat on the floor and sobbed. if mr. copley could have been angry with her; but he could not, she was so sweet in every pleading look and tone. if he could have dismissed her pleading as the whimsy of a fool; but he could not, for he knew it was wise truth. if he had been further gone in the habit which was growing upon him, to the point of brutality; but he was not yet; he was a man of affectionate nature. so he did not get angry, and though he wished dolly at brierley instead of in his room, he could not let her break her heart, seeing that she was there. he looked at her in uncomfortable silence for a minute or two; and then the bitterness of dolly's sobs was more than he could stand. he rose and put the bottle away, locked it up, and came back to his place. dolly's distress hindered her knowing what he had done. "it's gone," mr. copley said in an injured tone, as of one oppressed and persecuted. "it is put away, dolly; you need not sit there any longer." dolly looked up, rose from the floor, came into her father's arms, laid her two arms about his neck and her weary head upon his shoulder. it was a soft little head, and the action was like a child. mr. copley clasped her tenderly. "dolly," he said,--"my child--you are giving yourself a great deal more trouble than you need." dolly murmured, "thank you, father!" "you mustn't be superstitious." alas! dolly had seen his face already altered by the indulgence of his new habits. involuntarily her arms pressed him closer, and she only by an effort prevented a new outbreak of bitter sorrow. that was not best just now. she put a force upon herself; after a while looked up, and kissed her father; kissed him again and again. "i declare!" said mr. copley, half delighted and half conscience-stricken, "you are a little witch, dolly. is this the way you are going to rule other folks beside me? mr. st. leger, for instance?" "mercy, father! no," said dolly, recoiling. "i don't believe he would be hard to manage. he's desperately in love with you, dolly." "father, i don't want to manage. and i don't think lawrence is in any danger. it isn't in him to be desperate about anything." "so much the better, i think," said her father. "what if he should want to go with us to venice?" "don't let him! we do not want him." "he would be useful, i daresay. and i should have to take my secretary, dolly." "take that other fellow, the one i saw in your office to-day." "what, babbage? he's a raw article, dolly, very raw. i put him there to answer questions. the fellow was in a forlorn state here with nothing to do." they calmed down after a while; and the rest of the evening was largely spent in considering plans and details of their projected movements. it was agreed that dolly should rejoin mrs. jersey the next day, to be ready to return to brierley with her; that then all preparations should be made for a speedy start to the continent. father and daughter talked themselves into ordinary composure, and when they had bid each other good night, dolly went to rest with a feeling of some hopefulness. chapter xvii. rupert. mrs. jersey could not leave town the next day. dolly had to wait. it was hard waiting. she half wished she had stayed that day also with her father; yet when she asked herself why?--she shuddered. to take care of him? to watch and keep guard over him? what use, for one day, when she could do it no longer? mr. copley must be left to himself; and a feeling of helplessness stole over her. from the momentary encouragement and hope, she fell back again to take a more comprehensive view of the subject; she saw that all was not gained yet, and it might be that nothing! and she could do no more, except pray. poor dolly did that; but the strain of fear, the horror of shame, the grief of hurt affection, began to make her very sore. she was not getting accustomed to her burden; it was growing more insupportably galling; the only hope for the whole family lay in getting together and remaining together, and in this journey taking mr. copley away from his haunts and his tempters. yet dolly reflected with trembling that the temptation, both temptations, would meet them on their way; if a man desired to drink or to play, he would never be at a loss for the opportunity or the companions. dolly wrung her hands and prayed again. however, something was gained; and dolly on her return reported to her mother that they were to set off for the continent in a few days. she brought down money, moreover, to pay off the servants; and with a heart so far lightened, went bravely at the preparations to be made. "and will your father go with us to venice?" "of course, mother. we cannot go without him." "what if venice shouldn't agree with me?" "oh, then we'll go on further. i think naples would agree with you. there is a very nice house at sorrento--nice people--where lady brierley spent a summer; and mrs. jersey has given me the address. perhaps we'll go there." "but if lady brierley was there, i guess it's an expensive place." "no, mrs. jersey says not. you must have what you want anyhow, mother dear." "i always used," said poor mrs. copley; "but of late i have been obliged to sing another tune." "go back to the old tune, then, dear. if father hasn't got the money, i'll find some way of raising it myself. i mean you shall go to sorrento. mrs. jersey says it's just charming there." "i wonder what she knows about it! a housekeeper! queer person to tell you and me where to go." "why, a finger-post can do that, mother. mrs. jersey knows a great deal besides, about a great many things." "well!" mrs. copley said again with another sigh--"it is new times to me altogether. and i wish the old times would come back!" "perhaps they will, mother. when once we get hold of father again, we must try to charm him into staying with us." and it seemed to dolly that they might do so much. the spirit of seventeen is not easily kept down; and with the stir of actually getting ready for the journey, she felt her hope and courage moving also. a change at any rate was before her; and dolly had a faint, far-off thought of possibly working upon her father to induce him at the close of their italian journey to take ship for home. so she bustled about from morning till night; packed what was to go and what was to be left; grew very cheery over her work, and cheered and amused her mother. september was on its way now; it was time to be off; and dolly wrote to her father to tell him she was ready. a few days later, dolly was in the porch resting and eating a fine pear, which came out of a basket mrs. jersey had sent. it was afternoon, sunny and hazy, the air fragrant from the woods, the silence now and then emphasised by a shot somewhere in the distance. dolly was happy and hopeful; the weather was most lovely, the pear was excellent; she was having a pleasant half hour of musing and anticipation. somebody came on foot along the road, swung open the small lattice gate, and advanced up the path towards her. who was it? not mr. st. leger, which had been dolly's first momentary fear. no, this was a different creature. a young man, but how unlike that other. st. leger was trim-built, smooth, regular, comely; this young fellow was lank, long-limbed, none of his joints played symmetrically with the others; and the face, though shrewd enough and good-natured, had no remote pretensions to beauty. his dress had not been cut by the sort of tailor that worked for the st. legers; his gait, instead of the firm, compact, confident movement which dolly was accustomed to see, had a swinging stride, which indeed did not lack a kind of confidence; the kind that makes no doubt of getting over the ground, and cares little for obstacles. as dolly looked, she thought she had seen him before. but it was very odd, nevertheless, the sort of well-pleased smile his face wore. he took off his hat when he got to the foot of the steps, and stood there looking up at dolly in the porch. "you don't recollect me, i guess," said he. "no," said dolly gravely. "i am rupert babbage. and _that_ don't make you much wiser, does it?" "no," said dolly. "not at all." "likely. but mr. copley has sent me down." "has he?" "i recollect you first-rate," the stranger went on, feeling in his coat pocket for something and producing therefrom a letter. "don't you know the day you came to your father's office?" and mounting a step or two, without further preface he handed the letter to dolly. dolly saw her father's handwriting, her own name on the cover, and put a stop to the wonder which was creeping over her, by breaking the seal. while she read the letter the young man's eyes read her face. "dear dolly,-- "i can't get quit of this confounded babel yet--and you must want somebody badly. so i send rupert down. he'll do everything you want, better in fact than i could, for he is young and spry, and as good a boy as lives. he will see to everything, and you can get off as soon as you like. i think he had better go along all the way; his mother wit is worth a dozen stupid couriers, even though he don't know quite so much about routes and hotels; he will soon pick all that up. will you want to stay more than a night in town? for that night my landlady can take you in; and if you let me know when you will be ready i will have your passage taken in the packet. "hurried, as always, dear dolly, with my love to your mother, "f. c. copley, "consul's office london, "_sept_. , -." poor dolly read this note over and over, having thrown away the remainder of her sweet pear as belonging only to a time of easy pleasure-taking which was past. was her father not coming to brierley then? she must get off without him? why? and "_your_ passage"! why not "our" passage? dolly felt the ground giving way under her feet. no, her father could not be coming to brierley, or he would not have sent this young fellow. and all things in the world were hovering in uncertainty; nothing sure even to hope. the eyes that watched her saw the face change, the fair, bright, young face; saw her colour pale, and the lovely lines of the lips droop for a moment to an expression of great sadness. the eyelids drooped too, and he was sure there was a glistening under them. "did mr. copley say why he could not come?" she asked at length, lifting her head. "he did not. i am very sorry!" said rupert involuntarily. "i guess he could not get his business fixed. and he said you were in a hurry." but not without him! thought dolly. what was the whole movement for, if he were to be left out of it? what should she do? but she must not let the tears come. that would do nobody any good, not even herself. she brushed away the undue moisture, and raised her head. "did mr. copley tell you who i am?" the young man asked. "i guess he didn't forget that." "no. yes!" said dolly, unable to help smiling at the question and the simple earnestness of the questioner's face. "he told me your name." "left you to find out the rest?" said he. "well, what can i do first? that's what for i'm come." "i don't think there is anything to do," said dolly. "all ready?" "yes. pretty much. all except finishing." "lots o' baggage?" "no, not so very much. we did not bring a great deal down here." "then it'll go by the coach easy enough. how will it get to the coach?" "i don't know. we must have a waggon from the village, i suppose, or from some farmhouse." "when do you want to go? and i'll soon fix that." dolly reflected and said, "the day after to-morrow." "all right." he was setting forth immediately, with a world of energy in his gait. dolly called after him. "to-morrow will be time enough for the waggon, mr. babbage." "there'll be something else for to-morrow," he answered without pausing. "tea'll be ready at six," said dolly, raising her voice a little. "all right!" said he, and sped away. dolly looked after him, so full of vexation that she did not know what to do. not her father, and in his place this boy! this boy to go with them on the journey; to be one of the party; to be always on hand; for he could not be relegated to the place of a servant or a courier. and dolly wanted her father, and was sure that the expense of a fourth person might have been spared. the worst fear of all she would not look at; it was possible that they were still to be three, and her father, the fourth, left out. however, for the present the matter in hand was action; she must tell her mother about this new arrival before she met him at supper. dolly went in. "your father not coming?" said mrs. copley when she had heard dolly's report. "then we have nothing to wait for, and we can get right off. i do want to see your father out of that miserable office once!" "well, he promised me, mother," said dolly, sighing. "can we go to-morrow?" "no, mother; there are too many last things to do. next day we will." "why can't we go and leave this young man to finish up after us?" "he could not do it, mother; and we must let father know, besides." rupert came back in due time and was presented to mrs. copley; but mrs. copley did not admire his looks, and the supper-table party was very silent. the silence became unbearable to the new-comer; and though he was not without a certain shyness in dolly's presence, it became at last easier to speak than to go on eating and not speaking. "plenty of shootin' round about here, i s'pose," he remarked. "i heard the guns going." "the preserves of brierley are very full of game," dolly answered; "and there are some friends of lord brierley staying at the house." "i engaged a waggon," rupert went on. "it'll be here at one, sharp." "i ought to have sent a word to the post-office, for father, when you went to the village; but i did not think till it was too late." "i did that," said rupert. "sent a word to father?" "all right. told him you'd be up on wednesday." "oh, thank you. that was very thoughtful." "you're from america," said mrs. copley. "should think i was!" "whereabouts? where from, i mean?" "about two miles from your place--ortonville is the spot. my native." "what made you come over here?" "well, i s'pose it would be as true as anything to say, mr. copley made me come." "what for?" "well, i guess it was kindness. most likely." "kindness!" echoed mrs. copley. "poor kindness, i call it, to take a man, or a boy, or any one else, away from his natural home. haven't you found it so? don't you wish you were back there again?" "well," said rupert with a little slowness, and a twinkle in his eye at the same time,--"i just don't; if i'm to tell the truth." "it is incomprehensible to me!" returned the lady. "why, what do you find here, that you would not have had at home?" "england, for one thing," said the young man with a smile. "england! of course you would not have had england at home; but isn't america better?" "i think it is." "then what do you gain by exchanging one for the other?" said mrs. copley with heat. "that exchange ain't made yet. i calculate to go back, when i have got all i want on this side." "and what do you want? money, i suppose. everything is for money, with everybody. country, and family, and the ease of life, and the pleasure of being together--nothing matters, if only one may get money! i don't know but savages have the best of it. at least they don't live for money." mrs. copley forgot at the moment that she was wishing her daughter to marry for money. "i counsel you, young man," she began again. "money won't buy everything." he laughed good-humouredly. "can't buy much without it," he said, with that shrewd twinkle in his eye. "and what can mr. copley do for you, i should like to know?" she went on impatiently. "he's put me in a likely way," said rupert. "i am very much beholden to mr. copley. but the best thing he has done for me is this--by a long jump." "_this?_ what?" "letting me go along this journey. i do _not_ think money is the very best of all things," the young man said with some spirit. "letting you---- do you mean that you are going to venice in our party?" "if it is venice you are going to." silence fell. mrs. copley pondered the news in some consternation. to dolly it was not news, and she did not mean it should be fact, if she could help it. "perhaps you have business in venice?" mrs. copley at length ventured. "i hope it'll turn out so," said rupert. "mr. copley said i might have the pleasure of taking care of you. i should enjoy that, i guess, more than making money." "good gracious!" was all the speech mrs. copley was capable of. she sat and looked at the young man. so, furtively, did dolly. he was enjoying his supper; yes, and the prospect too; for a slight flush had risen to his face. it was not a symmetrical face, but honesty was written in every line of it. "you've got your plans fixed?" rupert next inquired. "know just which way you are going? be sure you are right, and then go ahead, you know." "we take the boat to rotterdam," said dolly. "which way, then? mr. copley told me so much." "i don't know," said mrs. copley. "if i could once get hold of mr. copley we could soon settle it." "what points do you want to make?" "points? i don't want to make any points. i don't know what you mean." "i mean, where do you want to go in special, between here and venice? or are there no places you care about?" "places? oh!--well, yes, there are. i should like to see the place where the battle of waterloo was fought." "mother, that would be out of our way," said dolly. "which is our way?" said mrs. copley. "i thought we had not fixed it." "you don't go up the rhine, then?" said rupert. "i'm going nowhere by boat except where i can't help myself. i like to feel land under me. no, we are not going up the rhine. i can see mountains enough in america, and rivers enough too." rupert had finished his supper, and took up an atlas he saw lying near. "rotterdam," he said, opening at the map of central europe,--"that is our one fixed point, that and venice. now, how to get from the one to the other." mrs. copley changed her seat to come nearer the map; and an animated discussion followed, which kept her interested and happy the whole of the evening. dolly saw it and was thankful. it was more satisfactory than the former consultation with st. leger, who treated the subject from quite too high and lordly a point of view; referring to the best hotels and assuming the easiest ways of doing things; flinging money about him, in imagination, as mrs. copley said, as if it were coming out of a purse with no bottom to it; which to be sure might be very true so far as he was concerned, but much discomposed the poor woman who knew that on her part such pleasant freehandedness was not to be thought of. rupert babbage evidently did not think of it. he considered economy. besides, he was not so distractingly _au fait_ in everything; mrs. copley could bear a part in the conversation. so she and rupert meandered over the map, talked endlessly, took a vast deal of pleasure in the exercise, and grew quite accustomed to each other; while dolly sat by, glad and yet chafing. rupert certainly was a comfort, for the hour; but she wished he had never been thought of, nevertheless. but he was a comfort next day again. cheery and busy and efficient, he managed people, sent the luggage off, helped and waited upon mrs. copley, and kept her quiet with his talk, up to the time when the third day they took their places in the coach. "really, mr. babbage, you are a very handy young man!" mrs. copley once had uttered her admiration; and rupert laughed. "i shouldn't think much of myself," he said, "if i couldn't do as much as that. you see, i consider that i'm promoted." dolly made the journey up to town in a state between relief and disgust. rupert did take a world of trouble off her hands; but she said to herself that she did not want it taken off. and she certainly did not want this long-legged fellow attending upon them everywhere. it was better to have him than st. leger; that was all you could say. the days in london were few and busy. mr. copley during this interval was very affectionate, very kind and attentive; in fact, so attentive to supplying or providing against every possible want that he found little time to be with his family. he and rupert were perpetually flying out and in, ordering this and searching for that; a sort of joyous bustle seemed to be the order of the day; for he carried it on gleefully. "why, mr. copley," his wife said, when he brought her an elegant little leather case for holding the tinctures and medicines in which she indulged, "i thought we must economise so hard? i thought you had no money now-a-days? how is this, and what does it mean? this case must have cost a pound." "you are worth more than a pound, my dear," mr. copley said with a sort of semi-earnestness. "but i thought you were so poor all of a sudden?" "we are going to turn a new leaf, and live frugally; so you see, on the strength of that, we can afford to be extravagant now and then." "that seems to me a very doubtful way, mr. copley," said his wife, shaking her head. "don't be doubtful, my dear. whatever else you do, go straight to your mark, and don't be doubtful. humming and hawing never get on with anything. care killed a cat, my dear." "it has almost killed me," said poor mrs. copley. "are we out of need of care, frank?" "_you_ are. i'll take all the care for the family. my dear, we are going in for play, and venice." dolly heard this, and felt a good deal cheered. what was her consternation, then, when the day of sailing came, and at the last minute, on board the packet, her father declared he must wait; he could not leave london yet for a week or two, but he could not let _them_ be delayed; he would let st. leger go to look after them, and he would catch them up before they got to venice. all this was said in a breath, in a rush and hurry, at the moment of taking leave; the luggage was on board, rupert was looking after it, mr. st. leger's elegant figure was just stepping across the gangway; and mr. copley kissed and shook hands and was off, with a word to lawrence as he passed, before mrs. copley or dolly could throw in more than an exclamation of dismay to stop him. stop him! one might as well stop a gust of wind. dolly saw he had planned it all; reckoned the minutes, got them off on purpose without himself, and _with_ mr. st. leger. and here was mr. st. leger to be spoken to; coming up with his assured step and his handsome, indolent blue eyes, to address her mother. st. leger was a nice fellow; he was neither a fool nor a coxcomb; but the sight of him was very disagreeable to dolly just then. she turned away, as full of vexation as she could hold, and went to rupert's side, who was looking after the luggage. "do you want to see your berth right away?" he asked her. "my berth?" said dolly. "well, yes; your cabin--state-room--whatever you call it--where you are to sleep. you know which it is; do you know where it is? i always like to get such things straightened out, first thing. would you like to see it?" "oh yes, please," said dolly; and grasping one of the hand-bags she turned away gladly from the deck. anything for a little respite and solitude, from mr. st. leger. rupert found the place, stowed bags and wraps and rugs conveniently away, and made dolly as much at home as she could be at five minutes' notice. "how long will the passage take?" she asked. "well, if i knew what the weather would be, i would tell you. shall you be sick?" "i don't know," said dolly. "i believe i wish i may. mr. babbage, are you a christian?" "well, i ain't a heathen, anyhow," said he, laughing a little. "no, but that isn't what i mean. of course you are not a heathen. but i mean--do you serve the lord jesus, and do you love him?" dolly had it not in mind to make a confidant of her new squire; but in the terrible confusion and trouble of her spirits she grasped at any possible help or stay. the excitement of the minute lifted her quite out of ordinary considerations; if rupert was a christian, he might be a stand-by to her, and anyhow would understand her. so she asked. but he looked at her and shook his head. the thought crossed him that he was _her_ servant, and her service was all that he was distinctly pledged to in his own mind. he shook his head. "then what do you do when you are in trouble?" she asked. "never been there," said rupert. "always find some way out, when i get into a fix. why, are you in trouble?" he asked sympathetically. "oh," cried dolly, "i am in trouble to death, because father hasn't come with us!" she could bear it no longer; even seventeen years old gives out sometimes; she burst into tears and sat down on a box and sobbed. all her hopes dashed to pieces; all her prospects dark and confused; nothing but disappointment and perplexity before her. what should she do with her mother, she alone? what should she do with mr. st. leger? a still more vexatious question. and what would become of her father, left to himself, and at what possible time in the future might she hope that he would break away from his ties and temptations and come to rejoin his family? dolly sobbed in sorrow and bitterness of heart. rupert babbage stood and looked on wofully; and then delicately went out and closed the door. dolly's tears did her good. i think it was a help to her too, to know that she had so efficient and faithful a servant in the despised rupert babbage. at any rate, after a half hour or so, she made her appearance on deck and met mr. st. leger with a calm apparent unconcern, which showed her again equal to the occasion. circumstances were making a woman of dolly fast. mr. st. leger's talk had in the meantime quieted mrs. copley. he assured her that her husband would soon come after and catch up with them. now he turned his attention to dolly and rupert. "who is that fellow?" he asked dolly, when rupert had left them for a minute. "he is a young man in my father's office. did you never see him there?" "but what is he doing _here?_ we do not want him, it strikes me." "he is very useful, and able." "well--aw--but cannot he keep his good qualities to their proper sphere? he is not an addition of much value to our society." "take care, mr. st. leger! he is an american; he cannot be set down with the servants." "why not, if his education and habits make that his place?" "oh, but they do not." "it seems to me they do, if you will pardon me. this fellow has never been in any gentleman's society, except your father's." "he will be a gentleman himself, in all essentials, one day, mr. st. leger. there is the difference. the capability is in him, and the ambition, and the independent and generous feeling. the foundations are all there." "i'll confess the house when i see it." "ay, but you must in the meantime do nothing to hinder its building." "why must not i?" said lawrence, laughing. "it is not my part to lay hold on a trowel and be a social mason. still less is it yours." "oh, there you are wrong. i think it is everybody's part." "do you? but fancy, what a dreadful thing life would be in that way. perpetual rubbish and confusion. and pardon me--can you pardon me?--that is my idea of america." "i do not think it is a just one," said dolly, as rupert now drew near again. "is there not perpetual building going on there, of this kind as well as of the more usual?" "perhaps. i was very young when i left home. but what then?" "nothing. i have a preference for order and quiet, and things in their places." "at that rate, you know," said dolly, "nothing would ever have been built anywhere. i grant you, the order and quiet are pleasant when your own house is all that you desire. but don't you want to see your neighbour's house come up?" "no," said lawrence, laughing. "i have a better prospect from my windows if he remains as he is." chapter xviii. a square party. the passage was stormy and long. mrs. copley and her daughter were both soon fully occupied with attending to their own sensations; and neither rupert nor lawrence had any more power to annoy them till they reached quiet water again. but even in the depths of sea misery, dolly's deeper distress broke forth. "my father! my father! what shall i do to save my father!" she was crying in her heart; all the while with a sense that every hour was bringing her further from him and from the chance of saving him. still, dolly was seventeen; and at seventeen one cannot be always cast down; and when rough water and troubled skies, and ship noises and smells, were all left behind, as it seemed, in the german ocean, and dolly found herself one morning in the hotel at rotterdam, eating a very good breakfast, her spirits sprang up in spite of herself. the retiring wave of bodily misery carried with it for the moment all other. the sun was shining again; and after breakfast they stood together at one of the windows looking out upon the new world they had come to. their hotel faced the quay: they saw before them an extent of water glittering in the sunshine, steamers waiting for their time of sailing, small craft flying about in all directions, and activity, bustle, and business filling every nook and corner of the scene. dolly's heart leaped up; the stir was very inspiriting; and how lovely the sunshine was, and how pleasant the novelty! and then, to think that she had but touched the shore of novelty; that all central europe was behind her as she stood looking out on the quay!--her father would surely catch them up somewhere, and then all would go well. she was silent, in the full joy of seeing. "what's the next move?" said lawrence. he did not care for rotterdam quay. he had been looking at dolly, charmed with the delicate, fresh picture she made. the line of frank pleasure on her lips, it was as frank as a child's, and the eyes were as absorbed; and yet they were grave, womanly eyes, he knew, not easy to cheat, with all their simplicity. the mingling of qualities was delicious, and not to be found elsewhere in all his sphere of experience. even her little hands were full of character, with a certain precision of action and calm of repose which gave to all their movements a certain thorough-bred grace, which lawrence could recognise though he could not analyse. then the little head with its masses of wavy hair was so lovely, and the slim figure so full of that same certainty of action and grace of rest which he admired; there was nothing undecided about dolly, and yet there was nothing done by rule. that again was a combination he did not know elsewhere. her dress--he considered that too. it was the simplest of travelling dresses, with nothing to mark it, or draw attention, or make it unfit for its special use--in perfectly good taste. how did she know? thought lawrence; for he knew as well as i do that she had not learned it of her mother. there was nothing marked about mrs. copley's appearance; nevertheless she lacked that harmony of simple good taste which was all over dolly. lawrence looked, until he saw that rupert was looking too; and then he thought it was time to break up the exercise. "what is the next move?" he said. "we have not settled that," said dolly. "we could think of nothing on board ship. mother, dear, now we are here, which way shall we go?" "i don't know anything about ways," said mrs. copley. "not here in this strange country." "then put it another way," said lawrence. "where do you want to go?" "why, to venice," said mrs. copley, looking at him. "of course; but you want to see something by the way?" "i left all that to mr. copley," said she, half whimpering. "when do you think he will come, mr. st. leger? i depended on my husband." "he will come soon," said lawrence. "but i would not recommend staying in rotterdam to wait for him. what do you say to our asking him to meet us in wiesbaden? to be sure, the season is over." "wiesbaden?" said mrs. copley. "wiesbaden?" cried dolly. "oh no, mr. st. leger! not there, nor in any such place!" "the season is over, miss dolly." "i don't want to go to wiesbaden. mother, you wanted to see something--what was it?" "waterloo"---- mrs. copley began. "that would take us out of the way of everything--down into belgium--and you would not see anything when you got there, mrs. copley. only some fields; there is nothing left of the battle." "but if i saw the fields, i could imagine the battle," said mrs. copley. "could you? let us imagine something pleasanter. you don't want to go up the rhine?" "i don't want to go anywhere in a boat, mr. st. leger. i am going to keep on land, now i've got there. but i was thinking.--somebody told me of some wonderful painted glass, somewhere near rotterdam, and told me not to miss seeing it. where is it?" "i know," said dolly; "the place was gonda; in the cathedral. but where is gonda?" "nine miles off," said rupert. "then that's where i want to go," said mrs. copley. "i have heard all my life of painted glass; now i should like to see what it amounts to." "perhaps that would take us out of our way too, mother." "i thought we just said we had no way settled," said mrs. copley in an irritated tone. "what's the use of being here, if we can't see anything now we are here? nine miles isn't much, anyhow." "we will go there, dear," said dolly. "we can go so far and come back to this place, if necessary." "and there is another thing i want to see, now we are here," mrs. copley went on. "i want to go to dresden." "dresden!" cried st. leger. "what's at dresden?" "a great many things, i suppose; but what i want to see is the green vaults and the picture gallery." "mrs. copley," said lawrence quietly, "there are galleries of pictures everywhere. we shall find them at every step--more than you will want to look at, by a hundred fold." "but we shall not find green vaults, shall we? and you will not tell me that the dresden madonna is anywhere but at dresden?" "i did not know you cared so much about pictures, mother," dolly ventured. "i don't!" said mrs. copley,--"not about the pictures; but i don't like to be here and not see what there is to see. i like to say i have seen it. it would be absurd to be here and not see things. your father told me to go just where i wanted to; and if i don't go to waterloo, i want to see dresden." "and from there?" said lawrence. "i don't know. i suppose we can find our way from there to venice somehow." "but do you not include cologne cathedral in the things you wish to see?" "cologne? i don't know about cathedrals. we are going to see one now, aren't we? isn't one as good as another?" "to pray in, i have no doubt," said lawrence; "but hardly to look at." "well, you don't think churches ought to be built to look at, do you? i think that is wicked. churches are meant for something." "you would not object to looking at them when they _are_ built? would you? here we are now, going to see gonda cathedral." "no, i am not," said mrs. copley. "i am going to see the glass windows. we shall not see them to-day if we stand here talking." lawrence ordered a carriage, and the party set out. he wished devoutly that it had numbered five instead of four, so that rupert could have been sent outside. but the carnage held them all comfortably. dolly was a little uneasy at the travelling problem before her; however, no uneasiness could stand long against the charm of that morning's drive. the blessed familiar sun shone on a world so very different from all the world she had ever known before. on every hand were flower gardens; on both sides of the way; and in the midst of the flower gardens stood pleasant-looking country houses; while the road was bordered with narrow canals, over which drawbridges of extravagant size led to the houses. it was a rich and quaint and pretty landscape under the september sun; and dolly felt all concern and annoyance melting away from her. she saw that her mother too was amused and delighted. surely things would come out right by and by. the town interested three of the party in a high degree. "well!" said mrs. copley, "haven't they learned here _yet_ to turn the front of their houses to the street?" "perhaps they never will," said lawrence. "why should they?" "because things ought to be right, if it is only the fronts of houses," said the lady. "i wouldn't mind which _way_ they looked, if they would only hold up straight," said rupert. "what ails the town?" "bad soil, most likely," returned lawrence. "the foundations of holland are moral, not physical." "what do you mean by that?" said mrs. copley. "i am sure they have plenty of money. is this the cathedral we are coming to?" "st. jans kirk ." "well, if that's all!--it isn't handsome a bit!" "it's real homely, that's a fact," said rupert. "you came to see the glass windows," said lawrence. "let us go in, and then pass judgment." they went in, and then a low exclamation from rupert was all that was heard. the ladies were absolutely mute before the blaze of beauty that met them. "well!" said rupert after a pause of deep silence--"now i know what folks mean when they say something 'beats the dutch.' that beats all _i_ ever saw!--hollow." "but how delicious!" exclaimed dolly. "the work is so delicate. and oh, the colours! mother, do you see that purple? who is the person represented there, mr. st. leger?" "that is philip the second. and it is not likely, i may remark, that any dutchman painted it. that broken window was given to the church by philip." "who did paint it, then?" "i cannot say, really." "what a pity it is broken!" "but the others are mostly in very good keeping. come on--here is the duke of alva." "if i were a dutch woman, i would break that," said dolly. "no, you wouldn't. consider--he serves as an adornment of the city here. breaking his effigy would not be breaking _him_, miss dolly." "it must be a very strange thing to live in an old country," said dolly. "i mean, if you belong to it. just look at these windows!--how old is the work itself, mr. st. leger?" "i am not wise in such things;--i should say it must date from the best period of the art. i believe it is said so." "and when was that?" "really, i don't know; a good while ago, miss dolly." "philip ii. came to reign about the middle of the sixteenth century," rupert remarked. "exactly," st. leger said, looking annoyed. "well, sir," rupert went on, "i would like to ask you one thing--can't they paint as good a glass window now as they could then?" "they may paint a better glass window, for aught i know," said lawrence; "but the painting will not be so good." "that's curious," said rupert. "i thought things went for'ard, and not back, in the world. why shouldn't they paint as well now as ever?" nobody spoke. "why should they not, mr. st. leger?" dolly repeated. "i don't know, i'm sure. mrs. copley, i'm afraid you are fatiguing yourself." mrs. copley yielded to this gentle suggestion; and long, long before dolly was ready to go, the party left the church to repair to a hotel, and have some refreshment. they were all in high spirits by this time. "is it settled where we are to go next?" mr. st. leger inquired as they sat at table. "i don't care where _next_," said mrs. copley; "but only i want to come out at dresden." "but dresden, mother"--said dolly gently, "it is not in our way to venice." she interpreted the expression she saw in lawrence's face. "dolly, the green vaults are in dresden. i am not going to be so near and not see them. wasn't i right about the painted windows? i never saw anything so beautiful in my life, nor you didn't. i wouldn't have missed it for anything. now you'll see if i ain't right about the green vaults." "what do you expect to find in them?" lawrence asked. "i do not remember anything about such a mysterious place." "i have heard about it in london," mrs. copley answered. "somebody who had been there told me about it, and i made up my mind i'd see it if ever i got a chance. it is like having aladdin's lamp and going down into _his_ vault--only you can't take away what you've a mind to; that's the only difference." "but what is there? aladdin's grotto was full of precious stones, if i remember." "and so are these," cried mrs. copley. "there is an egg with a hen in it." at this there was a general laugh. "it's a fact," said mrs. copley. "and in the hen, or under it--_in_ the hen, i believe--there is a crown of gold and diamonds and pearls, with a motto. oh, it's wonderful. it's better than the arabian nights, if it's true." "except that we cannot take the egg away with us," said lawrence. "however--pray, do they let in the indiscriminate public to see these wonders?" "i don't know. i suppose there are ways to get in, or nobody would have been in." "no doubt; the problem is, to find the way. influence may be necessary, possibly." "i daresay mr. copley can manage it. do write and ask him what we must do, dolly; and ask him to send us letters, or leave, or whatever we must have. write to-day, will you? and ask him to send it right away. of course there are ways to do things." "may i make a suggestion?" said lawrence. "if we are to go on to dresden, why should we return to rotterdam? we might send back to the hotel for our luggage, and meanwhile you can rest here. and then we can go on to utrecht early to-morrow; or this evening, if you like. it would save time." this plan met approval. rupert volunteered to go back and bring mrs. copley's belongings safely to gonda. "and while you are about it, bring mine too, my good fellow, will you?" said st. leger as rupert was about to go. he spoke somewhat superciliously. but the other answered with cool good humour, "all right. i'll do that, on the understanding that you'll do as much for me next time." and he went. "confound him!" said lawrence; while dolly smiled. "hush!" she said. "i am sure that is a fair bargain." "where did mr. copley pick up such a green hand?" "did you never see him at the office?" "what office?" "the consul's office, in london. you have been there enough." "oh, ah--the consul's office," said lawrence. "true, if he was there i must have seen him. but what do we want of him here?" "he is useful to you just now," said dolly. but afterwards she took up the question again and, what lawrence did not dream of, included his name in it. why was either of these young men there? this time of waiting at the hotel gave dolly a chance to think; and while she sat at the window and watched the strange figures and novel sights in the street, her mind began to go over more questions than one. she felt in a sort lost without her father. here were she and her mother taking a journey through europe in the care of these two young men. what were they there for? rupert certainly for her pleasure and service, she knew; lawrence, she was equally sure, for his own. how should she manage them? for lawrence must not be encouraged, while at the same time he could not be sent away. at least, not yet. careful, and cool, and womanly, she must be; and that was not so very difficult, for poor dolly felt as if glad childish days were past for her. another question was, how she should get the most good of her journey, and how she could help rupert, who, she could see, was on the watch to improve himself. dolly had a sympathy for him. she resolved that she would study up every subject that presented itself, and set rupert upon doing the same. st. leger might take care of himself. yet dolly's conscience would not let him go so. no; one can be nobody's travelling companion for days or weeks, without having duties to fulfil towards him; but dolly thought the duties were very difficult in this her particular case. if her father would but come! and therewith dolly sat down and wrote him the tenderest, lovingest of letters, telling him about their journey, and the glass windows; and begging him to meet them in dresden or before, so that they might see the fabulous green vaults together. in any case, she begged him to make such provision that mrs. copley might not be disappointed of seeing them. all dolly's eloquence and some tears were poured out upon that sheet of paper; and as she sealed it up she felt again that she was surely growing to be a woman; the days of her childhood were gone. not so far off, however, but that dolly's spirits sprang up again after the letter was despatched, and were able to take exquisite pleasure in everything the further journey offered. even the unattractive was novel, and what was not unattractive was so charming. she admired the quaint, clean, bright, fanciful dutch towns; the abundance of flowers still to be seen abroad; the smiling country places surrounding the towns; the strange carvings and devices on the houses; the crooked streets. "you are the first person i ever saw," lawrence said admiringly, "who found beauty in crooked streets." "do you like straight ones?" said dolly. "certainly. why not?" "you look from end to end; you see all there is at once; walk and walk as you may, there is no change, but the same wearisome lines of houses. now when streets are not straight, but have windings and turnings, you are always coming to something new." "i suppose you like them to be up hill and down too?" "oh, very much!" "you do not find that in holland." "no, but in boston." "ah, indeed!" said lawrence. "i wonder," dolly went on, "what makes one nation so different from another. _you_ are on an island; but here there is only a line between holland and germany, and the people are not alike." "comes from what they eat," said lawrence. "their _food?_" said dolly. "yes. the scotchman lives upon porridge, the englishman on beef and porter, the german on sausages and beer." "the french?" "oh, on soup and salad and sour wine." "and italians?" "on grapes and olives." "that will do to talk about," said dolly; "but it does not touch the question." "not touch the question! i beg your pardon--but it does touch it most essentially. do you think it makes no difference to a man what sort of a dinner he eats?" "a great difference _to_ some men; but does it make much difference in him?" "yes," said rupert; and "yes!" said lawrence, with a unanimity which made dolly smile. "i can tell you," the latter went on, "a man is one thing or another for the day, according to whether he has had a good breakfast or a bad one." "i understand. that's temper." "it is not temper at all. it is physical condition." "it's feeling put to rights, _i_ think," said rupert. "i suppose all these people are suited, in their several ways," said dolly. "will mother like venice, mr. st. leger, when we get there? what is it like?" "like a city afloat. _you_ will like it, for the strangeness and the beautiful things you will find there. i can't say about mrs. copley, i'm sure." "what do they drink there?" said rupert. "water?" "well, not exactly. you can judge for yourself, my good fellow." "but that is italy," said dolly. "i suppose there is no beer or porter?" "well, you can find it, of course, if you want it; there are people enough coming and going that _do_ want it; but in venice you can have pure wine, and at a reasonable price, too." "at hotels, of course," said dolly faintly. "of course, at some of them. but i was not thinking of hotels." "of what, then?" "wine-shops.'' "wine-shops! not for people who only want a glass, or two glasses?" "just for them. a glass or two, or half a dozen." "restaurants, you mean?" "no, i do not mean restaurants. they are just wine-shops; sell nothing but wine. odd little places. there's no show; there's no set out; there are just the casks from which the wine is drawn, and the glasses-mugs, i should say; queer things; pints and quarts, and so on. nothing else is there, but the customers and the people who serve you." "and people go into such places to drink wine? merely to drink, without eating anything?" "they can eat, if they like. there are street venders, that watch the custom and come in immediately after any one enters; they bring fruit and confections and trifles." "you do not mean that _gentlemen_ go to these places, mr. st. leger?" "certainly. the wine is pure, and sold at a reasonable rate. gentlemen go, of course--if they know where to go." dolly's heart sank. in venice this!--where she had hoped to have her father with her safe. she had known there was wine enough to be had in hotels; but that, she knew too, costs money, if people will have it good; and mr. copley liked no other. but cheap wine-shops, "if you know where to go,"--therefore retired and comparatively private places,--were _those_ to be found in venice, the goal of her hopes? dolly's cheeks grew perceptibly pale. "what is the matter, miss dolly?" lawrence asked, watching her. but dolly could not answer; and she thought he knew, besides. "there is no harm in pure wine," he went on. dolly flashed a look at him upon that, a most involuntary, innocent look; yet one which he would have worked half a day for if it could have been obtained so. it was eloquent, it was brilliant, it was tender; it carried a fiery appeal against the truth of his words, and at the same time a most moving deprecation of his acting in consonance with them. she dared not speak plainer, and she could not have spoken plainer, if she had talked for an hour. lawrence would have urged further his view of the subject, but that look stopped him. indeed, the beauty of it put for the moment the occasion of it out of his head. thanks to rupert's efficient agency, they were able to spend that night at utrecht, and the next day went on. it seemed to dolly that every hour was separating her further from her father; which to be sure literally was true; nevertheless she had to give herself up to the witchery of that drive. the varied beauty, and the constant novelty on every hand, were a perpetual entertainment. mrs. copley even forgot herself and her grievances in looking out of the carriage windows; indeed, the only trouble she gave was in her frequent changing places with dolly to secure now this and now that view. "we haven't got such roads in massachusetts," remarked rupert. "this is what i call first-rate going." "have you got such anything else there?" lawrence inquired smoothly. "not such land, i'm bound to say." "no," said dolly, "this is not in the least like massachusetts, in anything. o mother, look at those cattle! why there must be thousands of them; how beautiful! you would not find such an immense level green plain in massachusetts, mr. st. leger. i never saw such a one anywhere." mrs. copley took that side of the carriage. "it wouldn't be used for a pasture ground, if we had it there," said rupert. "perhaps it would. i fancy it is too wet for grain," st. leger answered. "now here is a lake again," said dolly. "how large, and how pretty! miles and miles, it must be. how pretty those little islands are, mr. babbage!" mrs. copley exchanged again, and immediately burst out-- "dolly, dolly, did you see that woman's earrings? i declare they were a foot long." "i beg your pardon--half a foot, mrs. copley." "what do you suppose they are made of?" "true gold or silver." "mercy! that's the oddest thing i've seen yet. i suppose holland is a very rich country." "and here come country houses and gardens again," said dolly. "there's a garden filled with marble statues, mother." mrs. copley shifted her seat to the other side to look at the statues, and directly after went back to see some curiously trimmed yews in another garden. so it went on; dolly and her mother getting a good deal of exercise by the way. mrs. copley was ready for her dinner, and enjoyed it; and dolly perceiving this enjoyed hers too. then they were delighted with arnheim. they drove into the town towards evening; and the quaint, picturesque look of the place, lying bright in the sunshine of a warm september day, took the hearts of both ladies. the odd gables, the endless variety of building, the balconies hung with climbing vines; and above all, the little gardens, gay with fall flowers and furnished with arbours or some sort of shelter, under some of which people were taking tea, while in others the wooden tables and chairs stood ready though empty, testifying to a good deal of habitual out-of-door life; they stirred dolly's fancy and mrs. copley's curiosity. both of them were glad to spend the night in such a pretty place. after they had had supper comfortably, dolly left her mother talking to st. leger and slipped out quietly to take a walk, having privately summoned rupert to attend her. the walk was full of enjoyment. it lasted a good while; till dolly began to grow a little tired, and the evening light was dying away; then the steps slackened which had been very brisk at setting out, and dolly began to let her thoughts go beyond what was immediately before her. she was very much inclined to be glad now of rupert's presence in the party. she perceived that he was already devoted to her service; not with mr. st. leger's pretensions, but with something more like the adoration a heathen devotee pays to his goddess. rupert already watched her eyes and followed her wishes, sometimes before they were spoken. it was plain that she might rely upon him for all to which his powers would reach; and a strong element of good-will began to mix with her confidence in him. what could she do, to help make this journey a benefit to the boy? he had known little of good or gentle influences in his life; yet he was gentle himself and much inclined to be good, she thought. and he might be very important to her yet, before she got home. "i don't know the first thing about this country," he broke the silence. "it was always a little spot in the corner of the map that i thought was no sort of count. why, it's a grand place!" "you ought to read about it in history." "i never read much history, that's a fact," rupert answered. "never had much to read," he added with a laugh. "fact is, my life up to now has been pretty much of a scrimmage for the needful." "knowledge is needful," said dolly. "that's a fact; but a fellow must live first, you see. and that warn't always easy once." "and what are your plans or prospects? what do you mean to be--or do? what do you mean to make of yourself?" rupert half laughed. "i haven't any prospects--to speak of. in fact, i don't see ahead any further than venice. as to what i am to be, or do,--i expect that will be settled without any choice of mine. i've got along, so far, somehow; i guess i'll get along yet." "are you a christian?" dolly asked, following a sudden impulse. "i guess i ain't what you mean by that." "what do you mean by it?" "well--where i come from, they call christians folks that have j'ined the church." "that's making a profession," said dolly. "yes, i've heard folks call it that." "but what is the reality? _what_ do you think a man professes when he joins the church?" "i'll be shot if i know," rupert answered, looking at her hard in the fading light. "i'd like first-rate to hear you say." "it is just to be a servant of christ," said dolly. "a true servant, 'doing the will of god from the heart.'" "how are you going to know what his will is? i should be bothered if you asked _me_." "oh, he has told us that," said dolly, surprised. "in the bible." "then i s'pose you've got to study _that_ considerable." "certainly." "well, don't it say things pretty different from what most folks do?" "yes. what then?" "then it wouldn't be just easy to get along with it, i should think." "what then?" "well!" said rupert,--"how are you going to live in the world, and not do as the world do?" "then you _have_ studied the bible a little?" "no, fact, i haven't," said rupert. "but i've heard folks talk now and again; and that's what i think about it." "suppose it is difficult?" said dolly. "but it is really not difficult, if one is a true servant of god and not only make-believe. suppose it were difficult, though. do you remember what christ said of the two ways, serving him and not serving him?" rupert shook his head. "have you got a bible of your own?" "no," said rupert. "that's an article i never owned yet. i've always wanted other things more, you see." "and i would rather want everything else in the world," said dolly. "i mean, i would rather be without everything else." "surely!" said rupert. "because i am a servant of christ, you see. now that is what i want you to be. and as to the question of ease or difficulty--this is what i was going to repeat to you. jesus said, that those who hear and obey him are like a house planted on a rock; fixed and firm; a house that when the storms come and the winds blow, is never so much as shaken. but those who do not obey him are like a house built on the sand. when the storms blow and the winds beat, it will fall terribly and all to ruins. it seems to me, mr. babbage, that _that_ is harder than the other." "suppose the storms do not come?" said rupert. "i guess they come to most people," said dolly soberly. "but the lord did not mean these storms merely. i don't know whether he meant them at all. he meant the time by and by.--come, we must go home," said dolly, beginning to go forward again. "i wish you would be a servant of christ, mr. babbage!" "why?" "oh, because all that is sure and strong and safe and happy is on that side," said dolly, speaking eagerly. "all that is noble and true and good. you are sure of nothing if you are not a christian, mr. babbage; you are not sure even of yourself. temptation may whirl you, you don't know where, and before you know it and before you can help it. and when the storms come, those storms--your house will--go down--in the sands"---- and to rupert's enormous astonishment, dolly's voice broke here, and for a second she stood still, drawing long sobs; then she lifted her head with an effort, took his arm and went swiftly back on the way to the hotel. he had not been able to say one word. rupert could not have the faintest notion of the experience which had pointed and sharpened dolly's last words; he could not imagine why, as they walked home, she should catch a hasty breath now and then, as he knew she did, a breath which was almost a sob; but rupert babbage was dolly's devoted slave from that day. lawrence himself marvelled somewhat at the appearance and manner of the young lady in the evening. the talk and the thoughts had roused and stirred dolly, with partly the stir of pain, but partly also the sense of work to do and the calling up of all her loving strength to do it. her cheek had a little more colour than usual, her eye a soft hidden fire, her voice a thrill of tender power. she was like, lawrence thought, a most rare wild wood flower, some spiritual orchis or delicious and delicate geranium; in contrast to the severely trained, massive and immoveable tulips and camellias of society. she was at a vexatious distance from him, however; and handled him with a calm superiority which no woman of the world could have improved upon. only it was nature with dolly. chapter xix. seeing sights. the next day's journey was uninteresting and slow. mrs. copley grew tired; and even dinner and rest at a good hotel failed to restore her spirits. "how many more days will it be before we get to dresden?" she desired to know. "keep up your courage, mrs. copley," said lawrence. "remember the green vaults! we have some work before us yet to get there." "we shall not get there to-morrow?" "we shall hardly do more than reach cassel to-morrow." "i don't know anything about cassel. will it be nothing but sand all the way, like to-day? we have left everything pretty behind us in holland." "i think the way will mend a little," lawrence allowed. "what place is next to cassel?" "as our resting place for the night? i am afraid it will take us two days to get to weimar." "and then dresden?" "no, then leipzig." "oh, i should like to see leipzig," cried dolly. "what for?" said her mother. "i am sure all these places are nothing to us, and i think the country is very stupid. and i like travelling where i know what the people say. i feel as if i had got five thousand miles from anywhere. what do you suppose keeps your father, dolly?" "i don't know, mother." "you may write and tell him, if he don't come to us in dresden i shall go back. this isn't _my_ notion of pleasure." "but it is doing you good, mother." "i hadn't anything i could eat this evening. if you don't mind, dolly, i'll go to bed." dolly did mind, for she longed for a walk again among the strange scenes and people. as it was not to be had this time, she sat at her window and looked out. it was moonlight, soft weather; and her eye was at least filled with novelty enough, even so. but her thoughts went back to what was not novel. the day had been dull and fatiguing. dolly's spirits were quiet. she too was longing for her father, with a craving, anxious longing that was more full of fear than of hope. and as she thought it over again, she did not like her position. her mother was little of a shield between her and what she wanted to escape, lawrence st. leger's attentions; and she could but imperfectly protect herself. true, she knew she gave him no direct encouragement. yet he was constantly with her, he had the right of taking care of her, he let her see daily what a pleasure it was, and she was not able to turn it into the reverse of pleasure. she could not repulse him, unless he pushed his advances beyond a certain point; and lawrence was clever enough to see that he had better not do that. he took things for granted a little, in a way that annoyed dolly. she knew she gave him no proper encouragement; nevertheless, the things she could not forbid might seem to weave a tacit claim by and by. she wished for her father on her own account. but when she thought of what was keeping him, dolly's head went down in agony. "o father, father!" she cried in the depths of her heart, "why don't you come? how can you let us ask in vain? and what dreadful, dreadful entanglement it must be that has such power over you to make you do things so unlike yourself! oh, what shall i do? what shall i do? i cannot reach him now--only by letters." mrs. copley got up next morning in renewed spirits. "dolly," she inquired while she was dressing, in which business dolly always helped her,--"is anything settled between st. leger and you?" "settled, mother? he is father's secretary,--at least so he calls himself,--taking care of us in father's absence. there is nothing else settled, nor to be settled." "you know why he is here, child." "because father isn't, mother; and i should like to make the exchange as quickly as possible." "what's the matter with him, dolly?" "the principal thing is, he won't take a hint." "no, no; i mean, what fault do you find in him?" "that, mother. nothing else." "he worships the ground you tread on." "mother, i think that is a pity. don't you?" "i think you ought to be very glad of it. i am. dolly, the st. legers are _very_ well off; he is rich, and his father is rich; and there is that beautiful place, and position, and everything you could desire." "position!" dolly repeated. "mother, i think i make my own position. at any rate, i like it better than his." "o dolly! the st. legers"---- "they are not anything particular, mother. rich bankers; that is all." "and isn't that enough?" "well, no," said dolly, laughing. "it would take a good deal more to tempt me away from you and father." "but, child, you've got to go. and mr. st. leger is as fond of you as ever he can be." "he will not break his heart, mother. he is not that sort. don't think it." "i don't care if he did!" said mrs. copley, half crying. "it is not _him_ i am thinking of; it is you." "thank you, mother," said dolly, putting her arms round her mother's neck and kissing her repeatedly. "but i am not going to leave you for any such person. and i don't think so much of money as you do." "dolly, dolly, money is a good thing." "there is not enough of it in the world to buy me, mother. don't try to fix my price." the rest of that day dolly was gay. whether from the reaction of spirits natural to seventeen, or whether she were lightened in heart by the explicitness of her talk with her mother in the morning, she was the life of the day's journey. the road itself mended; the landscape was often noble, with fine oak and beech woods, and lovely in its rich cultivation; meadows and ploughed fields and tracts of young grain and smiling villages alternating with one another. there was no tedium in the carriage from morning to night. st. leger and rupert laughed at dolly, and with her; and mrs. copley, in spite of chewing the cud of mortification at dolly's impracticableness, was beguiled into forgetting herself. sometimes this happy effect could be managed; at other times it was impossible. but more days followed, not so gay. "i'm as tired as i can be!" was mrs. copley's declaration, as they were approaching leipzig. "we'll soon get to our hotel now," said lawrence soothingly. "'tain't that," said mrs. copley; "i am tired of hotels too. i am tired of going from one place to another. i should like to stay still somewhere." "but it is doing you good, mother." "i don't see it," said mrs. copley. "and what do you mean by its doing me good, dolly? what is good that you don't feel? it's like something handsome that you can't see; and if you call that good, i don't. i wonder if life's to everybody what it is to me!" "not exactly," said lawrence. "not everybody can go where he likes and do what he will, and have such an attendant handmaiden everywhere." "do what i will!" cried mrs. copley, who like other dissatisfied people did not like to have her case proved against her,--"much you know about it, mr. st. leger! if i had my will, i would go back to america." "then you would have to do without your handmaiden," said lawrence. "you do not think that we on this side are so careless of our own advantage as to let such a valuable article go out of the country?" it was said with just such a mixture of jest and earnest that dolly could hardly take it up. the words soothed mrs. copley, though her answer hardly sounded so. "i suppose that is what mothers have to make up their minds to," she said. "just when their children are ready to be some comfort to them, off they go, to begin the same game on their own account. i sometimes wonder whether it is worth while to live at all!" "but one can't help that," said rupert. "i don't see what it amounts to." "mother, think of the dresden green vaults," said dolly. "well, i do," said mrs. copley. "that keeps me up. but when i have seen them, dolly, what will keep me up then?" "why, venice, mother." "and suppose i don't like venice? i sometimes think i shan't." "then we will not stay there, dear. we will go on to sorrento." "after all, dolly, one can't keep always going somewhere. one must come to a stop." "the best way is not to think of that till one is obliged to do it," said lawrence. "enjoy while you have to enjoy." "that ain't a very safe maxim, seems to me," said rupert. "one's rope might get twisted up." "it is the maxim of a great many wise men," said lawrence, ignoring the figure. "is it wise?" said dolly. "would you spend your money so, like your time? spend to the last farthing, before you made any provision for what was to be next?" "no, for i need not. in money matters one can always take care to have means ahead." "so you can in the other thing." "how?" said rupert, and "how?" said lawrence, in the same breath. "you cannot always, as mrs. copley said, go on finding new places to go to and new things to see." "i'd have what would put me above the need of that." "what? philosophy? stoicism?" "no," said dolly softly. "have you discovered the philosopher's stone?" said lawrence; "and can you turn common things into gold for your purposes?" "yes," said dolly in the same way. "let us hear how, won't you? is it books, or writing, or art perhaps? you are very fond of that, i know." "no," said dolly slowly; "and i cannot show it to you, either, mr. st. leger. it is like the golden water in the story in the arabian nights, which was at the top of a hill, and people went up the hill to get it; but on the way so many strange voices sounded in their ears that they were tempted to look round; and if they looked round they were turned to stone. so the way was marked with stones." "and nobody got the golden water?" "yes. at last one went up, who being forewarned, stopped her ears and never looked round. she got to the top and found the golden water. we in these times give it another name. it is the water of life." "what _are_ you talking about, dolly?" said her mother. "must one go up the hill with one's ears stopped _now_, to get the wonderful water?" lawrence asked. dolly nodded. "and when you have got it--what then?" "then you have got it," said dolly. "it is the water of life. and you have done with this dry wilderness that mother is complaining of, and you are recommending." lawrence stroked and pulled his moustache, as he might have done if a lady had spoken to him in polite sanscrit. rupert looked gravely out of the carriage window. neither answered, and nobody spoke another word, till mrs. copley exclaimed, "there's leipzig!" "looks sort o' peaceful now," remarked rupert. "peaceful? why, ain't the place quiet?" mrs. copley asked anxiously. "quiet enough," said lawrence; "but there was a time, not so long ago, when it wasn't exactly so." "when was that?" "when all the uniforms of europe were chasing through it," said dolly; "some chased and some chasing; when the country was covered with armies; when a half a million of men or so fought a long battle here, and the suburbs of leipzig were full of dead and wounded and sick and starving; there was not much peace then in or out of the city; though there was some rejoicing." "oh," said mrs. copley, "you mean"---- "when napoleon was beaten here, mother." "war's a mean thing!" said rupert. "that's not precisely the view civilised peoples take of it," said lawrence with a slight sneer. "true, though," said dolly. "mean?" said lawrence. "do you think it was a mean thing for germany to rise up and cast out the power that had been oppressing her? or for the other powers of europe to help?" "no; but very mean for the side that had given the occasion." "that's as you look at it," said lawrence. "no, but how god looks at it. you cannot possibly think," said dolly slowly, going back to her old childish expression,--"that he likes it." lawrence could not help smiling at this very original view. "very few people that make war ask that question," he said. "god will ask them, though," said dolly, "why they did not. i think few people ask that question, mr. st. leger, about anything." "it is not usual, except for a little saint here and there like you," he allowed. "and yet it is the only question. there is nothing else to be asked about a matter; almost nothing else. if that is settled, it is all settled." "if we were only all saints," lawrence put in. "why are not we?" "i don't know. i suppose everybody is not cut out for such a vocation." "everybody ought to be a saint." "do you mean that?" cried rupert. "i thought,--i mean, i thought it was a special gift." "yes," said dolly with a smile at him; "but god gives it to every one that wants it. and when the king comes, mr. st. leger, he will gather his saints to him, and none others; don't yon want to be counted among them then?--i do!" i don't know what had wrought up dolly to this sudden burst; but she dropped her veil upon eyes all alight, while some soft dripping tears were falling from them like diamonds. every one knows the peculiar brilliancy of a sunlit shower; and the two young men remained fairly dazzled. rupert, however, looked very grave, while the other wore a cloud on his brow. dolly was as matter-of-fact as possible when she came out from under her veil again; and declared she should not go to a hotel in dresden, but take a lodging. "why?" lawrence enquired. "cheaper. and pleasanter. and much quieter. we shall probably have to stay several days in dresden. we must get letters there." "but you do not know where to go to find lodgings." "yes, i do. or i shall. i hope so. i have sent for the address of the woman with whom lady brierley had lodgings a whole winter." "where do you expect to receive this address?" "in leipzig, i hope." "really, dolly, you take a good deal upon you, considering how old you are," said her mother. "don't you think mr. st. leger knows best?" "no, mother, not for you and me. oh, _he_ can go to a hotel. he will, of course." however, this mr. st. leger did not desire. he was obliged to do it, nevertheless. the letter was found at leipzig, the lodgings were found in dresden, but not roomy enough to hold them all. mrs. copley and her daughter and their attendant rupert were very comfortably accommodated; and to dolly's great joy found themselves alone. frau wetterhahn was all obligingness, hearing lady brierley's name, and made them right welcome. this frau wetterhahn! she was the most lively, active, capable, talkative, bright-eyed, good-humoured, free and easy little woman that you can imagine. she was really capable, and cooked them a nice supper. dolly had unpacked a few things, and felt herself at home, and the three sat down comfortably to their meal. "now, mother, dear," said dolly, "this is pleasant!" "well," said mrs. copley, "i think it is. if you only hadn't sent lawrence away!" "he couldn't stay, mother. frau wetterhahn sent him away--not i. change will be good for him. and for me too. i am going to make believe we are at home for a little while. and you are going to see the green vaults; and i am going to see everything. and these rooms are so cosy!" "aren't you going to see the green vaults too?" "indeed, i hope so. but we may have to wait a day or two, dear mother; that will be good, and you can have a rest." "i'm sure i'm glad of it," said mrs. copley. "i am just tired of riding, and more tired yet of seeing everlasting new things. i am aching for something i've seen before in my life." "well, here's a cup of coffee, mother." mrs. copley tasted. "if you think _that's_ like anything i used to have at home, i'm sorry for you!" she said with a reproachful look. "don't you like it? i do. i like it because it is different. but i think it is very good, mother. and look--here is some delicious bread." "it's like no bread i ever saw till i came to germany. oh, mercy! why must folks have so many ways? i wonder how things will be at venice!" "stranger than ever, mother, i'm afraid." "then i shall get tired of it. isn't this a very roundabout way that we are going to venice--round this way by dresden?" "why, yes, mother, of course; but the green vaults are here, and you were bound to see the green vaults." "i wouldn't have come, if i had known it was so far," said mrs. copley. but she relished her supper, and was not nervous, and slept well; and dolly was somewhat in hopes that dresden was not a bad move after all. they had to wait, as she said, for letters, and for the sight of the glories that had attracted them hither. several days passed by. they passed in delights, for dolly. two mornings were spent in the great picture gallery. mrs. copley's desires and expectations having focussed upon the green vaults, were hardly able to see anything else clearly; indeed, she declared that she did not think the wonderful madonna was so very wonderful after all; no woman could stand upon clouds in that way, and as she _was_ a woman, she did not see why the painter did not exhibit her in a possible situation; and those little angels at the foot of the picture--where was the other half of them supposed to be? she did not like half of anything. but dolly dreamed in rapture, before this and many another wonder of art. mrs. copley made processions round the rooms constantly, drawing, of course, st. leger with her; she could not be still. but dolly would stop before a picture and be immoveable for half an hour, drinking in pleasure and feeding upon knowledge; and rupert generally took post behind her and acted as body-guard. what he made of the show, i do not know. dolly asked him how he liked it? he said, "first-rate." "well, what do you think of it, rupert?" dolly asked gaily. "well, i guess i don't just see into it," was the dubious answer. "if these are likenesses of folks, they ain't like my folks." "oh, but they are not likenesses; most of them are not." "what are they, then? and what is the good of 'em, if they don't mean anything?" "they are out of people's imagination; as the painter imagined such and such persons might have looked, in such situations." "how the painter imagined they might have looked!" cried rupert. "yes. and they mean a great deal; all that was in the painter's mind." "i don't care a red cent how a man fancies somebody looked. i'd like the real thing, if i could get it. i'd go some ways to see how the mother of christ _did_ look; but you say that ain't it?" "no," said dolly, smiling. rupert surveyed the great picture again. "don't you think it is beautiful, rupert?" dolly pursued, curious to know what went on in his thoughts. "i've seen as handsome faces--and handsomer," he said slowly; "and i like flesh and blood a long sight better than a painting, anyhow." "handsome?" said dolly. "oh, it is not _that_--it is so much more!"---- "what is it, miss dolly?" said lawrence, just then coming up behind her. "i should like to hear your criticism. do put it in words." "that's not easy; and it is not criticism. but i'll tell you how it seems to me; as the painting, not of anybody's features, but of somebody's nature, spirit. it is a painting of the spiritual character." "mental traits can be expressed in words, though," said lawrence. "you'll go on, i hope?" "i cannot," said dolly. "it is not the lovely face, mr. babbage; it is thought and feeling, love and purity, and majesty--but the majesty of a person who has no thought of herself." dolly could not get out of that one room; she sat before the raphael, and then stood fixed before the "notte" or the "magdalene" of correggio; and would not come away. rupert always attended on her, and mrs. copley as regularly made progresses through the rooms on lawrence's arm, till she declared herself tired out. they were much beholden to lawrence and his good offices these days, more than they knew; for it was past the season when the gallery was open to the public, and entrance was obtained solely by the influence of st. leger's mediation and money; how much of the latter they never knew. lawrence was a very good escort also; his address was pleasant, and his knowledge of men and things sufficient for useful purposes; he knew in general what was what and who was who, and was never at a loss. rupert followed the party like a faithful dog, ready for service and with no opportunity to show it; lawrence held the post of leader and manager now, and filled it well. in matters of art, however, i am bound to say, though he could talk more, he knew as little as rupert himself. "what is to be done to-morrow?" he asked, in the evening of that second day. "we haven't got our letters yet," said mrs. copley. "i can't see why they don't come." "so the green vaults must wait. what else shall we do?" "oh," said dolly, "might we not go to the gallery again?" "another day?" cried her mother. "why, you have been there two whole mornings, child. ain't that enough?" "mother, i could go two months, i think." "then you'd catch your death," said mrs. copley. "that inner room is very chill now. for my part, i do not want to see another picture again in days and days. my head swims with looking at them. i don't see what you find in the old things." dolly could not have told. she sighed, and it was agreed that they would drive about the city and its environs next day; lawrence assuring them that it was one of the pleasantest towns in germany. but the next morning early came the letters from mr. copley; one to his wife and one to dolly. dolly read them both and pondered them; and was unsatisfied. they were rather cheerful letters; at the same time mr. copley informed his wife and daughter that he could not join them in dresden; nor at any rate before they got to venice. so much was final; but what puzzled and annoyed dolly yet more than this delay was the amount of money he remitted to her. to her, for mrs. copley, as an invalid, it was agreed, should not be burdened with business. so the draft came in the letter to dolly; and it was not half large enough. dolly kept the draft, gave the letter to her mother to read, and sat in a mazed kind of state, trying to bring her wits to a focus upon this condition of affairs. what was her father thinking of? it is one thing to be short of funds at home, in one's own country and in one's own house; it is bad enough even there; what is it when one is in a strange land and dependent upon the shelter of other people's houses, for which an equivalent must be paid in money? and when one is obliged to travel from one place to another, and every mile of the way demands another equivalent in money? mr. copley had sent a little, but dolly knew it would by no means take them to venice. what did he intend? or what did he expect her to do? apply to lawrence? never! no, not under any pressure or combination that could be brought to bear. he would demand an equivalent too; or worse, think that it was guaranteed, if she made such an application. how could mr. copley place his child in such a predicament? and then dolly's head went down in her hands, for the probable answer crushed her. he never would, he never could, but for yielding to unworthy indulgences; becoming entangled in low pleasures; taken possession of by the influence of unprincipled men. her father!--dolly felt as if her heart would break or her head burst with its burden of pain,--"oh, a father never should let his child feel ashamed for him!" was the secret cry down in the depths of her heart. dolly would not speak it out ever, even to herself, but it was there, all the same; and it tortured her, with a nameless, exquisite torture, under which she mentally writhed, without being able to get the least relief. every surge of the old love and reverence broke on those sharp rocks of pain more hopelessly. "o father!--o father!" she cried silently, with a pitiful vain appeal which could never be heard. and then the practical question came back, taking away her breath. what was she to do? if they did not stay too long in dresden they would have enough money to pay their lodging-bill and go, she calculated, half the way to venice. what then? and if mr. copley met them in venice, according to promise, who would assure her that he would then come provided with the necessary funds? and what if he failed to come? dolly started up, feeling that she could not sit any longer thinking about it; her nerves were getting into a hard knot. she would not think; she busied herself in making her mother and herself ready for their morning's excursion. and lawrence came with a carriage; and they set off. it was a lovely day, and certainly the drive was all it had promised; and dolly barred off thought, and _would_ look and enjoy and talk and make others enjoy; so the first part of the day passed very well. dolly would make no arrangements for the afternoon, and mrs. copley was able for no more that day. but when the early dinner was over, dolly asked rupert to walk with her. rupert was always ready, and gave a delighted assent. "are you going out again? and to leave me all alone?" said mrs. copley. "you will be lying down, mother dear; you will not want me; and i have business on hand, that i must attend to." "i don't see what business," said mrs. copley fretfully; "and you can't do anything here, in a strange place. you'd better get mr. st. leger to do it for you." "he cannot do my work," said dolly lightly. "but you had better wait and take him along, dolly. he knows where to go." "so do i, mother. i want rupert this time, and not mr. st. leger. you sleep till i come back." dolly had said she meant business, but at first going out things did not look like it. she went slowly and silently along the streets, not attending much to what she was passing, rupert thought; till they arrived at an open spot from which the view of the river, with the bridge and parts of the town, could be enjoyed; and there dolly sat down on a step, and still without speaking to rupert, bent forward leaning on her knees, and seemed to give herself up to studying the beautiful scene. she saw it; the river, the picturesque bridge, the wavy, vine-clad hills, the unfamiliar buildings of the city, the villas scattered about on the banks of the elbe; she saw it all under a clear heaven and a sunny light which dressed everything in hues of loveliness; and her face was fixed the while in lines of grave thought and gave back no reflection of the beauty. it had beauty enough of its own, rupert thought; who, i must say, paid little heed to the landscape and watched his companion instead. the steady, intent, sweet eyes, how much grave womanliness was in them; how delicate the colour was on the cheek, and how tender were the curves of the lips; while the wilful, clustering curly hair gave an almost childish setting to the features whose expression was so very un-childish. for it was exceedingly grave. dolly did see the lovely landscape, and it made her feel alone and helpless. there was nothing wonted or familiar; she seemed to herself somehow cast away in the saxon capital. and truly she was all alone. lawrence she could not apply to, her mother must not even be talked to; she knew nobody else. her father had let her come on this journey, had sent her forth, and now left her unprovided even for the barest necessities. no doubt he meant that she should be beholden to mr. st. leger, to whom he could return the money by and by. "or not at all," thought dolly bitterly, "if i would give him myself instead. o father, could you sell me!" then came the thought of the entanglements and indulgences which had brought mr. copley to do other things so unlike himself; and dolly's heart grew too full. she could not bear it; she had borne up and fought it out all the morning; now feeling and truth must have a minute for themselves; her head went down on her hands and she burst into quiet sobs. quiet, but deep. rupert, looking on in dismayed alarm, saw that this outbreak of pain had some deep grounded cause; right or wrong, it came from dolly's very heart, and her whole nature was trembling. he was filled with a great awe; and in this awe his sympathy was silent for a time; but he could not leave the girl to herself too long. "miss dolly," he said in a pause of the sobs, "i thought you were such a christian?" dolly started, lifted her quivering, tearful face, and looked straight at him. "yes," she said,--"what then?" "i always thought religious folks had something to comfort them." "don't think they haven't," said dolly. but there she broke down again, and it was a storm of a rain shower that poured from her eyes this time. she struggled to get the better of it, and as soon as she could she sat up again, brushing the tears right and left with her hands and speaking in a voice still half choked. "don't think they haven't! if i had not _that_, my heart would just break and be done with it. but being a christian does not keep one from suffering--sometimes." her voice failed. "what is the matter? no, i don't mean that you should tell me that; only--can't i do something?" "no, thank you; nobody can. yes, you are doing a great deal, rupert; you are the greatest comfort to me. i depend upon you." rupert's eyes glistened. he was silent for sheer swelling of heart. he gulped down something--and went on presently. "i was thinkin' of something my old mother used to say. i know i've heard her say it, lots o' times. i don't know what the trouble is, that's a fact--so maybe i hadn't oughter speak; but _she_ used to say that nothing could happen to christians that would do 'em any real hurt." "i know," said dolly, wondering to herself how it could be true; "the bible says so."--and then conscience rebuked her. "and it _is_ true," she said, lifting up her head; "everything is true that the bible says, and that is true; and it says other things"---- "what?" said rupert; more for her sake, i confess, than for his own. "it says--'thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is staid upon thee;' i was reading it this morning. you see i must be a very poor christian, or i should not have doubted a minute. but even a christian, and the best, must be sorry sometimes for things he cannot help," said dolly. "then you were not troubled about yourself just now?" said rupert. "yes, i was! i was indeed, in spite of all those words and a great many others. i believe i forgot them." "i should think, if god gives people promises, he would like them to be trusted," said rupert "that's what _we_ do." dolly looked at him again as if he had said something that struck her; and then she got up, and taking his arm, set off this time at a business pace. she knew, she said, where to find what she wanted; however, she had gone out of her way, and it cost her some trouble and time to get to the place. it was a store of artists' materials, among other things; and here dolly made careful purchases of paper, colours, and camel's-hair pencils. rupert was reassured as to a suspicion that had crossed him, that part of dolly's trouble might have been caused by want of means; seeing that she was buying articles of amusement with a free hand. then dolly went straight home. all the rest of that afternoon she sat drawing. the next two days, the weather was unfavourable for going out, and she sat at her work persistently, whenever she was not obliged to be reading to her mother or attending upon her. the day following the long-planned visit to the green vaults was made. in the evening lawrence came to see them. "well, mrs. copley; tired?"--he began. "i don't know which part of me's most tired," said the lady; "my eyes, or my head, or my feet." "did it pay, after all?" "pay! i wouldn't have missed it for a year's length of life! it went ahead of all i ever thought of or dreamt of. it was most like aladdin's lamp--or what he saw, i mean, when he went down into fairyland. i declare, it was just as good." "only that you could not put things in your pockets. what would you have brought, mrs. copley, if it had been safe and allowable? the famous egg?" "mercy, no, mr. st. leger! i shouldn't have a minute's peace of my life, for fear i should lose it again." "that's about how they say the first owner felt. they tell of him, that a lady once coaxed him to let her have the egg in her hand; and she kept it in her hand; and the prince forgot; and she drove back to dresden with it." "where was he, the prince?" "at some hunting castle, i believe. it was night before he found out his loss; and then he booted and spurred in hot haste and rode to dresden in the middle of the night to fetch the egg from the lady again." "what's the use of things that give folks so much trouble?" said rupert. "a matter of taste!" said lawrence, shrugging his shoulders. "but i am glad to have been through those rooms myself; and i never should, but for you, mrs. copley. i suppose there is hardly the like to be seen anywhere else." "what delicious things there were in the ivory room," said dolly. "those drunken musicians, mother, of albert dürer; and some of the vases; how beautiful they were!" "i did not see the musicians," said mrs. copley. "i don't see how drunken musicians, or drunken anything, could be pretty. odd taste, i think." "then perhaps you didn't like the piece with the fallen angels?" said rupert. "that beat me!" "how could there be peace with the fallen angels?" mrs. copley asked scornfully. at which, however, there was a great burst of laughter. "i liked best of all the room where the egg was, i believe. but the silver room was magnificent." "i liked the ivory better than the silver, mother." "who does it all belong to?" rupert asked. "the reigning house of saxony," lawrence answered. "the whole of it?" "yes." "and that big picture gallery into the bargain?" "yes." "that's bein' grasping, for any one family to have so much," was rupert's conclusion. "well, you see," said lawrence, "we get the good of it, and they have the care." "i don't see how we get the good of it," said mrs. copley. "i suppose if i had one of those golden birds, now, with the eyes of diamonds; or one of those wonderfully chased silver caskets; i should have enough to keep me in comfort the rest of my life. _i_ think things are queer, somehow. one single one of those jewels that lie heaped up there, and i should want for nothing more in this world. and there they lie and nobody has 'em." "do you want for anything now, mother dear?" asked dolly. she was busy at a side table, arranging something in a little frame, and did not look up from her work. "i should think i did!" was mrs. copley's rejoinder. "what don't i want, from breath up?" "here you have had one wish fulfilled to-day--you have seen the green vaults--and now we are going to venice to fulfil another wish--what would you have?" "i don't like to think i am going away from here. i like dresden best of all the places we've been in. and i would like to go through the green vaults--but why they are called so, i cannot conceive--about once every month. i would _never_ get tired." "so you would like to settle in dresden?" said lawrence. "i don't think it would be safe to let you go through the green vaults often, mrs. copley; you would certainly be tempted too much for your principles. miss dolly, we had better get her away. when _do_ we go, by the by?" instead of answering, dolly rose up and brought him something to look at; a plain little oval frame of black wood within which was a head in light water colours. "mrs. copley!" exclaimed lawrence. "is it like?" "striking! capital. i'm not much of a judge of painting in general, but i know a friend's face when i see it; and this is to the life. to the life! graceful, too. where did you get it?" "i got the paper and the paints at a little shop in--i forget the name of the _strasse;_--and mother was here to my hand. ecco!" "you _don't_ mean you did it?" said lawrence, while the others crowded near to look. "i used to amuse myself with that kind of thing when i was at school, and i had always a knack at catching likenesses. i am going to try you, rupert, next." "ah, try me!" cried lawrence. "will you? and we will stay in dresden till it is done." "suppose i succeed," said dolly softly,--"will you get me orders?" "orders?" "yes. to paint likenesses, like this, in miniature. i can take ivory, but i would not waste ivory on this one. i'll do yours on ivory if you like." "but _orders?_" said lawrence, dumbfounded. "yes," said dolly, nodding, "orders; and for as high pay as you think i can properly ask. hush! say nothing to mother"---- "is that like me?" mrs. copley asked, after studying the little picture. "capitally like you!" lawrence cried. "then i've changed more'n i thought i had, that's all. i don't think i care about your painting me any more, dolly, if that's the best you can do." "why, mrs. copley," said lawrence, "it's beautiful. exactly your turn of the head, and the delicate fresh colour in your cheeks. it's perfect!" "is it?" said mrs. copley in a modified tone. "so that's what you've been fussing about, dolly, these two days. well, take mr. st. leger next. i want to see what you'll make of him. she won't flatter you," the lady went on; "that's one thing you may lay your account with; she won't flatter you. but if we're going away, you won't have much chance; and, seems to me, we had better settle which way we are going." lawrence did not take up this hint. he sat gazing at the little miniature, which was in its way very lovely. the colours were lightly laid in, the whole was rather sketchy; but the grace of the delineation was remarkable, and the likeness was perfect; and dolly had shown a true artist's eye in her choice of position and point of view. "i did not know you had such a wonderful talent," he remarked. dolly made no answer. "you'll do me next?" "if you like my conditions." "i do not understand them," he said, looking up at her. "i want orders," dolly said almost in a whisper. "orders? to paint things like this? for money? nonsense, dolly!" "as you please, mr. st. leger; then i will stay here a while and get work through frau wetterhahn. she wants me to paint _her_." "you never will!" "i'll try." "as a favour then?" dolly lifted her eyes and smiled at the young man; a smile that utterly and wholly bewitched him. wilful? yes, he thought it was wilful, but sweet and arch, and bright with hope and purpose and conscious independence; a little defiant, a great deal glad. "paint me," said he hastily, "and i'll give you anything you like." dolly nodded. "very well," said she; "then you may talk with mother about our route." chapter xx. limburg. lawrence did talk with mrs. copley; and the result of the discussion was that the decision and management of their movements was finally made over to him. whether it happened by design or not, the good lady's head was quite confused among the different plans suggested; she could understand nothing of it, she said; and so it all fell into lawrence's hand. i think that was what he wanted, and that he had views of his own to gratify; for dolly, who had been engaged with other matters this time, expressed some surprise a day or two after they set out, at finding herself again in weimar. "going back the way we came?" she cried. "only for a little distance--a few stages," explained lawrence; "after that it will be all new." dolly did not much care, nor know enough to correct him if he was going wrong; she gave herself up to hopeful enjoyment of the constantly varying new scenes and sights. mrs. copley, on the contrary, seemed able to enjoy nothing beyond the shortening of the distance between her and venice. if she had known how much longer than was necessary lawrence had made it! so it happened that they were going one day down a pleasant road which led along a river valley, when an exclamation from dolly roused her mother out of a half nap. "what is it?" she asked. "mother, such a beautiful, beautiful old church! look--see how it sits up there grandly on the rock." "very inconvenient, i should think," said mrs. copley, giving a glance out of the carriage window. "i shouldn't think people would like to mount up there often." "i believe," said lawrence, also looking out now, "that must be a famous old church--isn't this limburg?--yes. it is the cathedral at limburg; a very fine specimen of its style, miss dolly, they say." "what is the style? it's beautiful! gothic?" "no,--aw--not exactly. i'm not learned myself, really, in such matters. i hardly know a good thing when i see it--never studied antiquities, you know; but this is said, i know, to be a very good thing." "how old? it does not look antiquated." "oh, it has been repaired and restored. but it is not gothic, so it dates further back; what they call the transition style." "it is very noble," said dolly. "is it as good inside as outside?" "don't know, i declare; i suppose so. we might go in and see; let the horses feed and mrs. copley take a rest." this proposition was received with such joy by dolly that it was at once acted upon. the party sought out an inn, bespoke some luncheon, and arranged for mrs. copley's repose. but chancing to hear from lawrence that the treasures of art and value in the church repositories were both rich and rare, she gave up the promised nap and joined the party who went to the dome. after the dresden green vaults, she said, she supposed nothing new could be found; but she would go and see. so they went all together. if lawrence had guessed to what this chance visit would lead! but that is precisely what people can never know. dolly was in a condition of growing delight, which every step increased. before the great front of the cathedral she stood still and looked up, while rupert and mrs. copley turned their backs and gazed out upon the wide country view. lawrence, as usual when he could, attended upon dolly. "i did not know you were so fond of _this_ kind of thing," he remarked, seeing a little enviously her bright, interested eyes. "it lifts me almost off my feet!" said dolly. "my soul don't seem big enough to take it all in. how grand, how grand!--whose statues are those?" "on each side?" said lawrence, who had been collecting information. "that on the one hand is heinrich von isenburg, the founder; and the other is the architect, but nobody knows his name. it is lost. st. george is on the top there." "well," said dolly, "he is just as well off as if it hadn't been lost!" "who? the architect? how do you make that out? he loses all the glory." "how does he lose it? do you think," said dolly, smiling, "he would care, in the other world, to know that you and i liked his work?" "the other world!" said st. leger. "you believe in it, don't you?" "yes, certainly; but you speak as if"---- "as if i believed in it!" said dolly merrily. "you speak as if you didn't." "i do, i assure you; but what is fame then?" "nothing at all," said dolly.--"just nothing at all; if you mean people's admiration or applause given when we have gone beyond reach of it." "beyond reach of it!" said lawrence, echoing her words again. "miss dolly, do you think it is no use to have one's name honoured by all the world for ages after we have lived?" "very good for the world," said dolly, with a spice of amusement visible again. "and nothing to the man?" "what should it be to the man?" said dolly, seriously enough now. "mr. st. leger, when a man has got beyond this world with its little cares and interests, there will be just one question for him,--whether he has done what god put him here to do; and there will be just one word of praise that he will care about,--the 'well done!'--if he may have it,--from those lips." dolly began quietly, but her colour flushed and her lip trembled as she went on, and her eye sparkled through a sudden veil of tears. lawrence was silenced by admiration, and almost forgot what they were talking about. "but don't you think," he began again, as dolly moved towards the church door, "that the one thing--i mean, the praise here,--will be a sort of guaranty for the praise there?" "no," said dolly. "that which is highly esteemed among men is abomination in the sight of god--often, often." she pushed open the door and went in. only a little way in; there she stood still, arrested by all the glory and the beauty that met her eye. the nobleness of form, the wealth of colour, the multiplied richness of both, almost bewildered her at first entering. pillars, arches, vaultings, niches, galleries, arcades--a wilderness of harmonised form; and every panel and fair space filled with painting. she could not see details yet; she was lost in the greatness of the whole. "whom has mrs. copley picked up?" asked lawrence in an undertone. after all, if the architect's posthumous fame had depended on him, it would not have been worth much effort. mrs. copley, it may be mentioned, had passed on while dolly and st. leger had stood talking outside; and now she was seen in the distance the centre of a group of lively talkers; at least there was one lady who was free to exercise her gifts in that way. lawrence and dolly slowly advanced, even dolly's attention taken for a moment from the church by this extraordinary combination. yes, mrs. copley had found acquaintances. the talker was a lady of about her own age; a gentleman stood near, a little behind was a younger lady, while rupert balanced the group on the other side. "there's something uncommon over yonder," whispered lawrence. "do you see that blond girl? not blond neither, for her hair isn't; but what an exquisite colour!--and magnificent figure. do you know her?" "no," said dolly,--"i think not. yet i do. who can it be? i do not know the one talking to mother." "and this is she?" the elder lady was saying as dolly now came up, looking at her with a smiling face. "it's quite delightful to meet friends in the midst of a wilderness so; like the print of a man's foot on the sands in a desert; for really, in the midst of strange people one feels cast away. she's handsomer than you were, mrs. copley. my dear, do you know your old schoolfellow?" "christina thayer!" exclaimed dolly, as the other young lady came forward; and there was a joyful recognition on both sides. "who is your friend?" mrs. thayer next went on. "won't you introduce him?--st. leger? don't i know your father? ernest singleton st. leger?--yes! why, he was a great beau of mine once, a good while ago, you know," she added, nodding. "you might not think it, but he was. oh, i know him very well; i know him like a book. you must be my friend. christina, this is mr. st. leger; my old friend's son.--mr. thayer." mr. thayer was nothing remarkable. but christina had fulfilled the promise of her girlhood, and developed into a magnificent beauty. her skin showed the richest, clear, creamy white tints, upon which in her cheeks and lips the carmine lay like rose leaves. her hair was light brown and abundant, features regular, eyes sweet; she was one of those fair, full, stately, placid saxon types of beauty, which are not very common in america and remarkable anywhere. her figure was roundly and finely developed, rather stately and slow moving; which characteristic harmonised with all the rest of her. the two girls were as unlike each other as possible. it amused and half fascinated lawrence to watch the contrast. it seemed to be noon of a summer day in the soul of christina, a still breadth of light without shadow; there was a murmur of content in her voice when she spoke, and a ripple of content in her laugh when she laughed. but the light quivered on dolly's lip, and gleamed and sparkled in her brown eyes, and light and shadow could flit over her face with quick change; they did so now. meanwhile people had forgotten the old cathedral. christina seemed unaffectedly glad at the meeting with her friend of the school days. "i'm so delighted," she said, drawing dolly a little apart. "where are you? where do you come from, i mean? how come you to be here?" "we come from dresden; we are on our way"---- "you are living in london, aren't you? i heard that. it's too good to meet you so! for europe is full of people, no doubt, but there are very few that i care for. oh, tell me where you are going?" "venice first." "and further south? you are going on into italy?" "yes, i think so." "that's delightful. oh, there's nothing like italy! it is not your wedding journey, dolly?"--with a glance at the very handsome young man who was standing in waiting a few paces off. "what are you thinking of!" cried dolly. "christina, we are travelling for mother's health." "oh, well, i didn't suppose it; but it might be, you know; it will be, before you know it. it isn't _mine_, either; though it only wants two things of it. oh, i want to tell you all about myself, dolly, and i want to show you somebody; i have got somebody to show, you see. you will come and make us a visit, will you not? oh, you must! i must have you." "you said it wanted only _two things_ of being your wedding journey? what things?" "the presence of the gentleman, and the performance of the ceremony." and as christina said it, a delicate peach-blossom bloom ripened in her cheeks; you could hardly say that she blushed. "oh, the gentleman is somewhere, though he is not here," she went on, with that ripple of laughter; "and the ceremony is somewhere in the distance, too. i want you to see him, dolly. i am proud of him. i think everything in the world of him." "i suppose i may know his name?" "christina," cried mrs. thayer, "where are you? my dear, we cannot stand here and talk all the afternoon; our friends have got to see the church. isn't it a delicious old place? just go round and examine things; i could stay here for ever. every little place where there is room for it is filled with the quaintest, queerest, charmingest paintings. where there is room for it, there is a group; and where there is not a group, there is an apostle or a saint; and where there is not room for that, there is something else, which this unintelligible old guide will explain to you. and think--for years and years it has held the richest collection--oh, just wait and see! it is better than the church itself. my dear, the riches of its treasures are incalculable. fancy, a mitre, a bishop's mitre, you know, so heavy with precious stones that the good man cannot bear it on his head but a few minutes; over three thousand pearls and precious stones in it; and the work, oh, the work of it is wonderful! just in the finest renaissance"---- "we have just come from the green vaults at dresden," put in mrs. copley. "i suppose that goes ahead of everything else." "oh, my dear, i don't know; i don't see how anything can be superior to the show here. is mr. st. leger fond of art?" "fonder of nature," mr. st. leger confesses with a bow. "nature,--well, come to see us at naples. we have got a villa not far from there--you'll _all_ come and stay with us. oh, we cannot let you off; it is such a thing to meet with one's own people from home. you will certainly want to see us, and we shall want to see you. venice, oh yes, after you have seen venice, and then we shall be at home again; we just set off on this journey to use up the time until the 'red chief' could come to naples. we are going back soon, and we'll be all ready to welcome you. and mr. st. leger, of course. mr. st. leger, i could tell you a great deal about your father. he and i flirted dreadfully once; and, you know, if flirting is _properly_ carried on, one always has a little sneaking kindness for the people one has flirted with." "no more than that?" said st. leger with a polite smile. "why, what would you have? after one has grown old, you know. you would not have me in love with him! here is my husband and my daughter. don't you have a kindness for the people you flirt with?" "i must not say anything against flirting, in the present company"---- lawrence began. "no, of course you mustn't. we all flirt, at a certain age. how are young people to get acquainted with one another and find out what they would like? you never buy cheese without tasting it, you know, not in england. just as well call things by their right names. i don't think anybody ought to deny flirting; it's nature; we must do it. christina flirts, i know, in the most innocent way, with everybody; not as i did; she has her own style; and your daughter does it too, mrs. copley. i can see it in her eyes. ah me, i wish i was young again! and what a place to flirt in such an old church is!" "o mamma!" came from christina. "very queer taste, i should say," remarked mrs. copley. "it isn't taste; it is combination of circumstances," mrs. thayer, smiling, went on. "you see if i don't say true. my dear, such a place as this is full of romance, full! just think of the people that have been married here; why, the first church was built here in ; imagine that!" "enough to keep one from flirting for ever," said dolly, on whom the lady's eye fell as she ended her sentence. "just go in and see those jewels and hear the stories," said mrs. thayer, nodding at her. "that old woman will tell you stories enough, if you can understand her; christina had to translate for me; but, my dear, there's a story there fit to break your heart; about a blood jasper. it is carved; mr. thayer says the carving is very fine, and i suppose it is; but all i thought of was the story. my dear, the stone is all spotted with dark stains, and they are said to be the stains of heart's blood. oh, it is as tragical as can be. you see, the carver, or stone-cutter,--the young man who did the work,--loved his master's daughter--it's a very romantic story--and she"---- "flirted?" suggested st. leger. "well, i am afraid she did; but it is the old course of things; her father thought she might look higher, you know, and she _did;_ married the richest nobleman in verona; and the young man had been promised her if he did his work well, and the work is magnificently done; but he was cheated; and he drove a sharp little knife into his heart. christina, what was the old master's name?" "i forget, mamma." "you ought not to forget; you will want to tell the story. of course _i_ have forgotten; i did not understand it at the time, and i never remember anything besides; but he was very famous, and everybody wanted the things he did, and he could not execute all the commissions he got; and this young man was his best favourite pupil." "how came the stains upon the stone?" asked lawrence. "did it bleed for sympathy?" "i don't know; i have forgotten. oh yes! the stone was in his hand, you know." "and it was sympathy?" said lawrence quite gravely, though dolly could not keep her lips in order. "no, it was the blood. go in and you'll see it, and all the rest. and there---- where are you going? to venice? we are going on to cologne and then back to rome. we shall meet in rome? you will stay in venice for a few weeks, and then be in rome about christmas; and then we will make arrangements for a visit from you all. oh yes, we must have you all." lawrence accompanied the lady to the door, and christina following with dolly earnestly begged for the meeting in rome, and that dolly would spend christmas with her. "i have so much to tell you," she said; "and my--the gentleman i spoke of--will meet us in rome; and he will spend christmas with us; and i want you to see him. i admire mr. st. leger, very much!" she added in a confidential whisper. "mr. st. leger is nothing to me," said dolly steadily, looking in her friend's face. "he is father's secretary, and is taking care of us till my father can come." "oh, well, if he is not anything to you _now_, perhaps--you never know what will be," said christina. "he is very handsome! don't you like him? i long to know how you will like--mr. rayner." "who is he?" said dolly, by way of saying something. "didn't i tell yon? he is first officer on board the 'red chief,' one of our finest vessels of war; it is in the mediterranean now; and we expect him to come to us at christmas. manage to be at rome then, do, dear; and afterwards you must all come and make us a visit at our villa, near naples, and we'll show you everything." "christina," said mrs. thayer, when she and her daughter and her husband were safe in the privacy of their carriage, "that is a son of the rich english banker, st. leger; they are _very_ rich. we must be polite to him." "you are polite to everybody, mamma." "but _you_ must be polite to him." "i'll try, mamma--if you wish it." "i wish it, of course. you never know how useful such an acquaintance may be to you. is he engaged to that girl?" "i think not, mamma. she says not." "that don't prove anything, though." "yes, it does, with her. dolly copley was always downright--not like the rest." "every girl thinks it is fair to fib about her lovers. however, i thought _he_ looked at you, christina, not exactly as if he were a bound man." "he is too late," said the girl carelessly. "i am a bound woman." "well, be civil to him," said her mother. "you never know what people may do." "i don't care, mamma. mr. st. leger's doings are of no importance to me." mrs. thayer was silent now; and her husband remarked that mr. st. leger could not do better than pick up that pretty, wise-eyed little girl. "wise-eyed! she is that, isn't she?" cried christina. "she always was. she is grown up wonderfully pretty." "she is no more to be compared to you, than--well, never mind," said mrs. thayer. "i hope we shall see more of them at christmas. talk of eyes,--mr. st. leger's eyes are beautiful. did you notice them?" dolly on her side had seen the party descend the rocks, looking after them with an odd feeling or mixture of feelings. the meeting with her school friend had brought up sudden contrasts never so sharply presented to her before. the gay carelessness of those old times, the warm shelter of her aunt hal's home, the absolute trust in her father and mother,--where was all that now? dolly saw christina's placid features and secure gaiety, saw her surrounded and sheltered by her parents' arms, strong to guard and defend her; and she seemed to herself lonely. it fell to her to guard and defend her mother; and her father? what was he about?--there swept over her an exceeding bitter cry of desolateness, unuttered, but as it were the cry of her whole soul; with again that sting of pain which seemed unendurable, how can a father let his child be ashamed of him! she turned away that st. leger might not see her face; she felt it was terribly grave; and betook herself now to the examination of the church. and the still beauty and loftiness of the place wrought upon her by and by with a strange effect. wandering along among pillars and galleries and arcades, where saints and apostles and martyrs looked down upon her as out of past ages, she seemed to be surrounded by a "great cloud of witnesses." they looked down upon her with grave, high sympathy, or they looked up with grave, high love and trust; they testified to work done and dangers met, and suffering borne, for christ,--and to the glory awaiting them, and to which they then looked forward, and which now they had been enjoying--how long? what mattered the little troubled human day, so that heaven's long sunshine set in at the end of it? and that sun "shall no more go down." dolly roved on and on, going from one to another sometimes lovely sometimes stern old image; and gradually she forgot the nineteenth century, and dropped back into the past, and so came to take a distant and impartial view of herself and her own life; getting a better standard by which to measure the one and regulate the other. she too could live and work for christ. what though the work were different and less noteworthy; what matter, so that she were doing what he gave her to do? not to make a noise in the world, either by preaching or dying; not to bear persecution; just to live true and shine, to comfort and cheer her mother, to reclaim and save her father, to trust and be glad! yes, less than that latter would not do full honour to her master or his truth; and so much as that he would surely help her to attain. dolly wandered about the cathedral, and mused, and prayed, and grew quiet and strong, she thought; while her mother was viewing the church treasures with mr. st. leger, dolly excused herself, preferring the church. "dolly, dolly," said mrs. copley when at last she came away, "you don't know what you have lost." "it is not so much as i have gained, mother." "i'm glad we have seen it, mr. st. leger; and i'm glad we have done with it! i don't want to see any more sights till we get to venice. where are the thayers going, dolly?" "to cologne, mother, and to nice and mentone, they said." "i wish they were coming to venice. how fat christina has grown!" "o mother! she is a regular beauty--she could not do with less flesh; she ought not to lose an ounce of it. she is not fat. she is perfect. is she not, mr. st. leger?" lawrence assented that miss thayer had the symmetry of a beautiful statue. "too fat," said mrs. copley. "if she is a statue now, what will she be by and by? i don't like that sort of beauties. her face wants life." "it does not want sweetness," said lawrence. "it is a very attractive face." "i am glad we stopped here, if it was only for the meeting them," said mrs. copley. "but i can't see how you could miss all those diamonds and gold and silver things, dolly. they were just wonderful." "all the green vaults did not give me the pleasure this old church did, mother." chapter xxi. venice. "you and your friend are the most perfect contrast," remarked lawrence as they were driving away. "she is repose in action--and you are activity in repose." "that sounds well," dolly answered after a pause. "i am trying to think whether there is any meaning in it." "certainly; or i hope so. she is placidity itself; one wonders if she could be anything but placid; while you"---- "never mind about me," said dolly hastily. "i am longing to know whether mother will like venice." "shall you?" "oh, i like everything." which was the blissful truth. even anxiety did not prevent its being the truth; perhaps anxiety even at times put a keener edge upon enjoyment; dolly fled from troublesome thoughts to the beauties of a landscape, the marvels of a piece of mediaeval architecture, the bewitchment of a bit of painting from an old master's hand; and tasted, and lingered, and tasted over again in memory, all the beauty and the marvel and the bewitchment. lawrence smiled to himself at the thought of what she would find in venice. "there's one thing i don't make out," rupert broke in. "only one?" said lawrence. but the other was too intent to heed him. "it bothers me, why the people that could build such a grand church, couldn't make better houses for themselves." "ah!" said lawrence. "you manage that better in america?" "if we didn't--i'd emigrate! we don't have such splendid things as that old pile of stones,"--looking back at the dome,--"but our farmhouses are a long sight ahead of this country." "i guess, rupert," dolly remarked now, "the men that built the dome did not build the farmhouses." "who built the dome, as you call it, then? but i don't see any dome; there's only a nest of towers." "the nobles built the great cathedrals." "and if you went through one of _their_ houses," said lawrence, "you would not think they neglected number one. you never saw anything like an old german _schloss_ in america." "then the nobles had all the money?" "pretty much so. except the rich merchants in some of the cities; and _they_ built grand churches and halls and the like, and made themselves happy with magnificence at home in other ways; not architecture." "i am glad i don't belong here," said rupert. "but don't the people know any better?" "than what?" "than to let the grand folks have it all their own way?" "they were brought up to it," said lawrence. "that's just what they like." "i expect they'll wake up some day," said rupert. which observation lawrence did not think worthy of answer; as it was ahead of the time and of him equally. they made no unnecessary delay now in going on to venice. i think lawrence had had a secret design to see some one of the great gaming watering-places; and they had come back to the banks of the rhine on purpose. but, however, both dolly and her mother were in such haste that he could not induce them by any motive of curiosity or interest to stop. dolly indeed had a great horror of those places, and did not want, she said, to see how beautiful they were. she hoped for her father's coming to them in venice; and mrs. copley with the nervous restlessness of an invalid had set her mind on that goal, and would not look at anything short of it. so they only passed through wiesbaden and went on. but dolly did want to see switzerland. when the party came to the lake of constance, however, mrs. copley declined that proposal. everybody went to switzerland, she said; and she did not care about it. the hope would have fallen through, only that lawrence, seeing dolly's disappointment, proposed taking a route through the tyrol. comparatively few people went there, he assured mrs. copley; and furthermore, that it was as good a way to venice as any other. mrs. copley gave consent; and to dolly's immeasurable and inexpressible satisfaction through the tyrol they went. nothing could spoil it, even although mrs. copley every day openly regretted her concession and would have taken it back if she could. the one of them was heartily sorry, the other as deeply contented, when finally the plains of lombardy were reached. it was evening and rainy weather when they came to the last stage of their journey, and left the carriage of which mrs. copley had grown so weary. "what sort of a place is this?" she asked presently. "not much of a place," said lawrence. "we will leave it as fast as possible." "well, i should hope so. what are these things? and is that a canal?" "we should call it a canal in our country," said rupert; "but _there_ there'd be something at the end of it." "but what are those black things?" mrs. copley repeated. "do you want me to get into one of them? i don't like it." "they are gondolas, mother; venetian gondolas. we must get into one, if we want to go to venice." "where is venice?" said mrs. copley, looking over the unpromising landscape. "i don't know," said dolly, laughing, "but mr. st. leger knows. we shall be there in a little while mother, if you'll only get in." "i don't like boats. and i never saw such boats as those in my life," said mrs. copley, holding back. "i would rather keep the carriage and go on as we came; though all my bones are aching. i would rather go in the carriage." "but you cannot, mother; there are no carriages here. the way is by water; and boats are the only vehicles used in venice. we may as well get accustomed to them." "no carriages!" "why, surely you knew that before." "i didn't. i knew there were things to go on the canals; i never knew they were such forlorn-looking things; but i supposed there were carriages to go in the streets. are there no carts either? how is the baggage going?" "there are no streets, mother. the ways are all water ways, and the carriages are gondolas; and it is just as lovely as it can be. come, let us try it." "what are the houses built on?" "mother, suppose you get in, and we'll talk as we go along. we had better get out of the rain; don't you think so? it is falling quite fast." "i had rather be in the rain than in the sea. dolly, if it isn't too far, i'll walk." "it is too far, dear mother. you could not do that. it is a long way yet." lawrence stood by, biting his lips between impatience and a sense of the ridiculous; and withal admiring the tender, delicate patience of the girl who gently coaxed and reasoned and persuaded, and finally moved mrs. copley to suffer herself to be put in the gondola, on the forward deck of which rupert had been helping the gondoliers to stow some of the baggage. dolly immediately took her place beside her mother; the two young men followed, and the gondola pushed off. mrs. copley found herself comfortable among the cushions, felt that the motion of the gondola was smooth, assured herself that it would not turn over; finally felt at leisure to make observations again. "we can't see anything here," she remarked, peering out first on one side, then on the other. "there is nothing to see," said lawrence, "but the banks of the canal." "very ugly banks, too. are we going all the way by water now?" "all the way, to our hotel door." "do the boatmen know where to go?" "yes. have no fear." "why don't they have streets in venice?" "mother, don't you remember, the city is built on sand banks, and the sea flows between? the only streets possible are like this. could anything be better? this motion will not fatigue you; and are not your cushions comfortable?" "the _sea_, dolly?" cried mrs. copley, catching the word. "you never told me that. if the sea comes in, it must be rough sometimes." "no, mother; it is a shallow level for miles and miles, covered at high tide by a few feet of water, and at low tide bare. venice is built on the sand banks of islands which rise above this level." "what ever made people choose such a ridiculous place to build a city, when there was good ground enough?" "the good ground was not safe from enemies, mother, dear. the people fled to these sand islands for safety." "enemies! what enemies?" so the history had to be further gone into; in the midst of which mrs. copley burst out again. "i'm so tired of this canal!--just mud banks and nothing else. how much longer is it to last?" "we shall come to something else by and by. have patience," said lawrence. but the patience of three of them was tried, before they fairly emerged from the canal, and across a broader water saw the lines of building and the domes of venice before them. "you'll soon be out of the gondola now, mother, dear," said dolly delightedly. for the rain clouds had lifted a little, and the wide spread of the lagoon became visible, as well as the dim line of the city; and dolly's heart grew big. mrs. copley's was otherwise. "i'll never get into one again," she said, referring to the gondolas. "i don't like it. i don't feel as if i was anywhere. there's another,--there's two more. are they all painted black?" "it is the fashion of venetian gondolas." "well! there is nothing like seeing for yourself. i always had an idea gondolas were something romantic and pretty. is the water deep here?" "no, very shallow," lawrence assured her. "it looks just as if it was deep. i wouldn't have come to venice if i had known what a forlorn place it is." but who shall tell the different impression on dolly's mind, when the city was really reached and the gondola entered one of those narrow water-ways between rows of palaces. the rain had begun to come down again, it is true; a watery veil hung over the buildings, drops plashed busily into the canal; there were no beautiful effects of sunlight and shadow; and lawrence himself declared it was a miserable coming to venice. but dolly was in a charmed state. she noted eagerly every strange detail; bridges, boats, people; was hardly sorry for the rain, she found so much to delight her in spite of it. "what's our man making such noises for?" cried mrs. copley. "just to give warning before he turns a corner," lawrence explained, "lest he should run against another gondola." "what would happen then? is the water deep enough to drown? it would be horrid water to be drowned in!" said mrs. copley shuddering. "no danger, mother; we are not going to try it," dolly said soothingly. "nobody is ever drowned in venetian canals," said lawrence. "they will carry us safe to our hotel, mrs. copley; never fear." "but hasn't the water risen?" she exclaimed presently. "it is up to the steps of that house there." "it is up to all the steps, mother, so that people can get into their gondolas at their very door; don't you see?" "it goes ahead of everything!" exclaimed rupert, who had scarce spoken. "it's like being in a fairy story." "i can't see much beside water," said mrs. copley. "water above and water below. it must be unhealthy. and i thought venice had such beautiful old palaces. i don't see any of 'em." "we have passed several of them," said lawrence. "i can see nothing but black walls--except those queer painted sticks; what are _they_ for?" "to the gondolas in waiting." "what are they painted so for?" "the colours belonging to the family arms." "whose family?" "the family to whom the house belongs." "dolly," said mrs. copley, "we shall not want to stay here long. we might go on and try rome. mrs. thayer says spring-time is the best at naples." "it will all look very different, mrs. copley, when you see it by sunlight," said lawrence. "wait a little." dolly would have enjoyed every inch of the way, if her mother would have let her. to her eyes the novel strangeness of the scene was entrancing. not beautiful, certainly; not beautiful yet; by mist and rain and darkness how should it be? but she relished the novelty. the charmed stillness pleased her; the gliding gondolas; the but half revealed houses and palaces; the odd conveyance in which she herself was seated; the wonderful water-ways, the strange cries of the gondoliers. it was not half spoiled for her, as it was; and she trusted the morning would bring for her mother a better mood. something of a better mood was produced that evening when mrs. copley found herself in a warm room, before a good supper. but the next morning it still rained. dark skies, thick atmosphere, a gloomy outlook upon ways where no traveller for mere pleasure was to be seen; none but people bent on business of one sort or another. yet everything was delightful to dolly's eyes; the novelty was perfect, the picturesqueness undeniable. what she could see of the lagoon, of the vessels at anchor, the flying gondolas, the canals and the bridges over them, and the beautiful riva, put dolly in a rapture. her eye roved, her heart swelled. "o mother!" she exclaimed, "if father would only come!" "what then?" said mrs copley dismally. "he would take us away, i hope." "oh, but not until we have seen venice." "_i_ have seen venice enough to content me. it is the wettest place i was ever in my life." "why, it rains, mother. any place is wet when it rains." "this would be wet at all times. i think the ground must have sunk, dolly; people would never have built in the water so. the ground must have sunk." "no, mother; i guess not. it has been always just so." "what made them build here then, when there is all the earth beside? what did they take to the water for? and what are the houses standing on, any way?" "islands, mother, between which these canals run. i told you before." "i should think the people hadn't any sense." and nothing would tempt mrs. copley out that day. of course dolly must stay at home too, though she would most gladly have gone about through the rainy, silent city, in one of those silent gondolas, and feed her eyes at every step. however, she made herself and made her mother as comfortable as she could; got out her painting and worked at rupert's portrait, which was so successful that lawrence begged she would begin upon him at once. "you know the conditions," she said. "i accept them. finish one of me so good as that, and i will send it to my mother and ask her what she will give for it." "but not tell her?"---- "certainly not." "i find," said dolly slowly, "that it is a very great compliment for a lady to paint a gentleman's likeness." "why?" "she has to give so much attention to the lines of his face. i shouldn't like to paint some people. but i'll do anybody, for a consideration." "your words are not flattering," said lawrence, "even if your actions are." "no," said dolly. "compliments are not in my way." and though she made a beginning upon st. leger's picture, and studied the lines of his face accordingly, he did not feel flattered. dolly's clear, intelligent eyes looked at him as steadily and as unmovedly as if he had been a titian. the next day brought a change. if dolly had watched from her balcony with interest the day before, now she was breathless with what she found. the sun was shining bright, a breeze was rippling the waters of the lagoon, and gently fluttering a sail and a streamer here and there; the beautiful water was enlivened with vessels of all kinds and of many lands, black gondolas darted about; and the buildings lining the shores of the lagoon stood to view in their beauty and magnificence and variety before dolly's eye; the doge's palace, here and there a clock tower, here and there the bridge over a side canal. "o mother!" she cried, "we have seen nothing like this! nothing like this!" "i am glad it don't rain at least," said mrs. copley. "but it can't be healthy here, dolly; it must be damp." and when they all met at breakfast, and plans for the day began to be discussed, she declared that she did not want to see anything. "not st. mark's?" said lawrence. "what is st. mark's? it is just a church. i am sure we have seen churches enough." "there is only one st. mark's in the world." "i don't care if there were a dozen. is it better than the church we went to see--at that village near wiesbaden?" "limburg? much better." "well--that will do for me." "there is the famous old palace of the doges; and the bridge of sighs, mrs. copley, and the prisons." "prisons? you don't think i want to go looking at prisons, do you? why should i? what's in the prisons?" "not much. there has been, first and last, a good deal of misery in them." "and you think that is pleasant to look at?" dolly could not help laughing, and confessed she would like to see the prisons. "well, you may go," said her mother. "_i_ don't want to." lawrence saw that dolly's disappointment was like to be bitter. "i'll tell you what i'll show you, mrs. copley, if you'll trust yourself to go out," he said. "i have got a commission from my mother which must take me into one of the wonderful shops of curiosities here. you never saw such a shop. old china, of the rarest, and old furniture of the most delightful description, and old curiosities of art out of decayed old palaces, caskets, vases, trinkets, mirrors, and paintings." mrs. copley demurred. "can we go there in a carriage?" "no such thing to be had, except a gondola carriage. come! you will like it. why, mrs. copley, the streets are no broader than very narrow alleys. carriages would be of no use." mrs. copley demurred, but was tempted. the gondola went better by day than in the night. once out, lawrence used his advantage and took the party first to the place of st. mark, where he delighted dolly with a sight of the church. mrs. copley was too full of something else to admire churches. she waited and endured, while dolly's eyes and mind devoured the new feast given to them. they went into the church, up to the roof, and came out to the piazza again. "it is odd," said dolly--"i see it is beautiful; i see it is magnificent; more of both than i can say; and yet, it does not give me the feeling of respect i felt for that old dome at limburg." "but," said lawrence; "that won't do, you know. st. mark's and limburg! that opinion cannot stand. what makes you say so?" "i don't know," said dolly. "i have a feeling that the people who built that were more in earnest than the people who built this." "more in earnest? i beg your pardon!" said lawrence. "what can you mean? i should say people were in earnest enough here, to judge by the riches of the place. just see the adornment everywhere, and the splendour." "yes," said dolly, "i see. it is partly that. though there was adornment, and riches too, at the other place. but the style of it is different. those grave old towers at limburg seemed striving up into the sky. i don't see any striving here; in the building, i mean." "why, there are pinnacles enough," said lawrence, in comical inability to fathom her meaning, or answer her. "yes," said dolly; "and domes; but the pinnacles do not strive after anything, and the cupolas seem to settle down like great extinguishers upon everything like striving." lawrence laughed, and thought in his own mind that dolly was a little american, wanting culture, and knowing nothing about architecture. "what is that great long building?" mrs. copley now inquired. "that, mother?--that is the palace of the doges. where is the bridge of sighs?" they went round to look at it from the ponte della paglia. nearer investigation had to be deferred, or, dolly saw, it would be too literally a bridge of sighs to them that morning. they turned their backs on the splendours, ecclesiastical and secular, of the place of st. mark, and proceeded to the store of second-hand curiosities st. leger had promised mrs. copley, the visit to which could no longer be deferred. dolly was in a dream of delight all the way. sunlight on the old palaces, on the bridges over the canals, on the wonderful carvings of marbles, on the strange water-ways; sunlight and colour; ay, and shadow and colour too, for the sun could not get in everywhere. between the beauty and picturesqueness, and the wealth of old historic legend and story clustering about it everywhere, dolly's dream was entrancing. "i do not know half enough about venice," she remarked by the way. "rupert, we must read up. as soon as i can get the books," she added with a laugh. however, dolly was susceptible to more than one sort of pleasure; and when the party had reached the jew's shop, she was perhaps as much pleased though not so much engrossed as her mother. for mrs. copley, figuratively speaking, was taken off her feet. this was another thing from the green vaults and the treasure chamber of limburg; here the wonders and glories were not unattainable, if one had the means to reach them, that is; and not admiration only, but longing, filled mrs. copley's mind. "i must have that cabinet," she said. "i suppose we can do nothing till your father comes, dolly. do write and tell him to bring plenty of money along, for i shall want some. such a chance one does not have often in one's life. and that cup! dolly, i _must_ have that cup; it's beyond everything i ever did see!" "mother, look at this ivory carving." "that's out of my line," said mrs. copley with a slight glance. "i should call that good for nothing, now. what's the use of it? but, o dolly, see this sideboard!" "you don't want _that_, mother." "why don't i? the price is not so very much." "think of the expense of getting it home." "there is no such great difficulty in that. you must write your father, dolly, to send if he does not come, at once. i should not like to leave these things long. somebody else might see them." "hundreds have seen them already, mrs. copley," said lawrence. "there's time enough." "i'd rather not trust to that." "what things do you want, dear mother, seriously? anything?" dolly's voice carried a soft insinuation that her mother's wanting anything there was a delusion; mrs. copley flamed out. "do you think i am coming into such a place as this, dolly, and going to let the chance slip? i _must_ have several of these things. i'll tell you. this cup--that isn't much. now that delicious old china vase--i do not know what china it is, but i'll find out; there is nothing like it, i don't believe, in all boston. i have chosen that sideboard; _that_ is quite reasonable. you would pay quite as much in boston, or in london, for a common handsome bit of cabinet-maker's work; while this is--just look at it, dolly; see these drawers, see these compartments--that's for wine and cordials, you know"---- "we don't want wine and cordials," said dolly. "see the convenience and the curiousness of these arrangements; and look at the inlaying, child! it's the loveliest thing i ever saw in my life. oh, i must have that! and it would be a sin to leave this screen, dolly. where ever do you suppose that came from?" "eastern work," said lawrence. "what eastern work?" "impossible for me to say. might have belonged to the great mogul, by the looks of it. do you admire _that_, mrs. copley?" "how should it come here?" "here? the very place!" said lawrence. "what was there rare or costly in the world, that did not find its way to venice and into the palaces of the old nobles?" "but how came it _here?_" "into this curiosity shop? the old nobles went to pieces, and their precious things went to auction; and good master judas or master levi bought them." "and these things were in the palaces of the old nobles?" "many of them. perhaps all of them. i should say, a large proportion." "that makes them worth just so much the more." "you need not tell master levi that. and you have admired so much this morning, mrs. copley, if you will take my advice, it will be most discreet to come away without making any offer. do not let him think you have any purpose of buying. i am afraid he will put on a fearful price, if you do." whether lawrence meant this counsel seriously, or whether it was a feint to get mrs. copley safely out of the shop, dolly was uncertain; she was grateful to lawrence all the same. no doubt he had seen that she was anxious. he had been in fact amused at the elder lady not more than interested for the younger one; dolly's delicate attempts to draw off her mother from thoughts of buying had been so pretty, affectionate, and respectful in manner, sympathising, and yet steady in self-denial. mrs. copley was hard to bring off. she looked at lawrence, doubtful and antagonistic, but his suggestion had been too entirely in her own line not to be appreciated. mrs. copley looked and longed, and held her tongue; except from exclamations. they got out of the shop at last, and dolly made a private resolve not to be caught there again if she could help it. in the afternoon she devoted herself to painting lawrence's picture. her first purpose had been to take a profile or side view of him; but st. leger declared, if the likeness was for his mother she would never be satisfied if the eyes did not look straight into her eyes; so dolly had to give that point up; and accordingly, while she studied him, he had full and equal opportunity to study her. it was a doubtful satisfaction. he could rarely meet dolly's eyes, while yet he saw how coolly they perused him, how calmly they studied him as an abstract thing. he wanted to see a little shyness, a little consciousness, a little wavering, in those clear, wise orbs; but no! dolly sat at her work and did it as unconcernedly as if she were five years old, to all appearance; with as quiet, calm poise of manner and simplicity of dignity as if she had been fifty. but how pretty she was! those eyes of hers were such an uncommon mingling of childhood and womanhood, and so lovely in cut and colour and light; and the mouth was the most mobile thing ever known under that name, and charming in every mood of rest or movement. the whole delicate face, the luxuriant brown hair, the little hands, the supple, graceful figure, lawrence studied over and over again; till he felt it was not good for him. "painting a person must make you well acquainted with him," he began after a long silence, during which dolly had been very busy. "outside knowledge," said dolly. "does not the outside always tell something of what is within?" "something," dolly allowed in the same tone. "what do you see in me?" "mrs. st. leger will know, when she gets this." "what you see _in_ me?" "well, no--perhaps not." "couldn't you indulge me and tell me?" "why should i?" "out of kindness." "i do not know whether it would be a kindness," said dolly slowly. "you see, dolly, a fellow can't stand everything for ever! i want to know what you think of me, and what my chances are. come! i've been pretty patient, it strikes me. speak out a bit." mrs. copley was lying down to rest, and rupert had left the room. the pair were alone. "what do you want me to say, mr. st. leger?" "tell me what you see in me." "what would be the good of that? i see an englishman, to begin with." "you _see_ that in me?" "certainly." "i am glad, but i didn't know it. is that an advantage in your eyes?" "am i an englishwoman?" "not a bit of it," said lawrence, "nor like it. i never saw an english girl the least like you. but you might grow into it, dolly, don't you think?" she lifted her face for an instant and gave him a flashing glance of fun. "won't you try, dolly?" "i think i would just as lieve be an american." "why? america is too far off." "very good when you get there," said dolly contentedly. "but not better than we have on our side?" "well, you have not all the advantages on your side," said dolly, much occupied with her drawing. "go on, and tell me _what_ we have not." "i doubt the wisdom." "i beg the favour." "it would not please you. in the first place, you would not believe me. in the second place, you would reckon an advantage what i reckon a disadvantage." "what _do_ you mean?" said lawrence, very curious and at the same time uneasy. dolly tried to get off, but he held her to the point. at last dolly spoke out. "mr. st. leger, women have a better time in my country." "a better time? impossible. there are no homes in the world where wives and daughters are better cared for or better loved. none in the world!" "ah," said dolly, "they are too well cared for." "how do you mean?" "too little free." "free?" said lawrence. "is _that_ what you want?" "and not quite respected enough." "dolly, you bewilder me. what ever did you see or hear to make you think our women are not respected?" "i dare say it is a woman's view," said dolly lightly. but lawrence eagerly begged her to explain or give an instance of what she meant. "i have not seen much, you know," said dolly, painting away. "but i heard a gentleman once, at his own dinner-table, and when there was company present--i was not the only visitor--i heard him tell his wife that the _soup was nasty_." and dolly glanced up to see how lawrence took it. she judiciously did not tell him that the house was his own father's, and the gentleman in question mr. st. leger himself. lawrence was silent at first. i presume the thing was not so utterly unfamiliar as that he should be much shocked; while he did perceive that here was some difference of the point of view between dolly's standpoint and his own, and was not ready to answer. dolly glanced up at him significantly: still lawrence did not find words. "that didn't mean anything!" at last he said. dolly glanced at him again. "i suppose the soup _wasn't_ good. why not say so?" "no reason why he should not say so, at a proper time and place." "it didn't mean any harm, dolly." "i suppose not." "then what's the matter?" "it is not the way _we_ do," said dolly. "in america, i mean. not when we are polite." "do you think husband and wife ought to be polite to each other--in that way?" "in what way?" "that they should not call things by their right names?" here dolly lifted her sweet head and laughed; a merry, ringing, musical, very much amused laugh. "ah, you see you are an englishman," she said. "that is the way you will speak to your wife." "i will never speak to _you_, dolly, in any way you don't like." "no" said dolly gravely, and returning to her work. "aren't you ever going to give me a little bit of encouragement?" said he. "i have been waiting as patiently as i could. may i tell my mother who did the picture, when i send it?" "say it was done by a deserving young artist, in needy circumstances; but no names." "but that's not true, dolly. your father is as well off as ever he was; his embarrassments are only temporary. he is not in needy circumstances." "i said nothing about my father. here, mr. st. leger--come and look at it." the finished likeness was done with great truth and grace. dolly's talent was an extraordinary one, and had not been uncultivated. she had done her best in the present instance, and the result was a really delicious piece of work. lawrence saw himself given to great advantage; truly, delicately, characteristically. he was delighted. "i will send it right off," he said. "mamma has nothing of me half so good." "ask her what she thinks it is worth." "and i want you to paint a duplicate of this, for me; for myself." "a duplicate!" cried dolly. "i couldn't." "another likeness of me then, in another view. set your own price." "but i shall never make my fortune painting you," said dolly. "you must get me some other customers; that is the bargain." "what notion is this, dolly? it is nonsense between me and you. why not let things be settled? let us come to an understanding, and give up this ridiculous idea of painting for money;--if you are in earnest." "i am always in earnest. and we are upon an excellent understanding, mr. st. leger. and i want money. the thing is as harmonious as possible." chapter xxii. mr. copley. lawrence could get no more satisfaction from dolly. she left him, and went and stood at the window of her mother's room, looking out. the sunset landscape was glorious. bay and boats, shipping, palaces, canals and bridges, all coloured in such wonderful colours, brilliant in such marvellous lights and shades, as northern lands do not know, though they have their own. yet she looked at it sadly. it was venice; but when would her father come? all her future seemed doubtful and cloudy; and the sunshine which is merely external does not in some moods cast even a reflection of brightness upon one's inner world. if her father would come, and lawrence would go--if her father would come and be his old self--but what large "ifs" these were. dolly's eyes grew misty. then her mother woke up. "what are you looking at, dolly?" "the wonderful sunset, mother. oh, it is so beautiful! do come here and see the colours on the sails of the boats." "when do you think your father will be here?" "oh, soon, i hope. he ought to be here soon." "did you tell him i would want money to buy things? i must not lose that sideboard." "there was no need to write about that. he can always get money, if he chooses, as well here as in london. if he has it, that is; but you know, mother"---- "i know," mrs. copley interrupted, "that is all nonsense. he _has_ it. he always did have it. he has been spending it in other ways lately; that's what it is. getting his own pleasure. now it is my turn." "you shall have it, dear mother, if i can manage it. you are nicely to-day, aren't you? venice agrees with you. i'm so glad!" "i think everything would go right, dolly, if you would just tell mr. st. leger that you will have him. i don't like such humming and hawing about anything. he really has waited long enough. if you would tell him that, now, or tell _me_, then he would lend me the money i want to get those things. i am afraid of losing them. dolly, when you know you are going to say yes, why not say it? i believe i should get well then, right off. _you_ would be safe too, any way." dolly sighed imperceptibly, and made no answer. "you don't half appreciate mr. st. leger. he's just a splendid young man. i don't believe there's such another match for you in all england. you should have seen how keen mrs. thayer was to know all about him. wouldn't she like him for her daughter, though! and she is handsome enough, according to some taste. i wish, dolly, you'd have everything fixed and square before we meet the thayers again; or you cannot tell what may happen. he may slip through your fingers yet." dolly made as little answer as possible. and further, she contrived for a few days to keep her mother from the curiosity shops. it could be done only by staying persistently within doors; and dolly shut herself up to her painting, and made excuses. but she found this was telling unfavourably on her mother's spirits, and so on her nerves and health; and she began to go out again, though chafing at her dependence on lawrence, and longing for her father exceedingly. he came at last; and dolly to her great relief thought he looked well; though certainly not glad to be in venice. "how's your mother?" he asked her when they were alone. "i think she will be well now, father; now that you have come. and i have so wanted you!" "i have no doubt she could have got along just as well without me till she went to sorrento, if she had only thought so." "i don't think she could. and _i_ could not, father. i do not like to be left so much to mr. st. leger's care." "he likes it. how has he behaved?" "he has behaved very well." "then what's the matter?" "i don't want him to think he has a right to take care of us." "he has the right, if i give it to him. and you know you mean to give him the right, dolly, in permanence. what's the use of fighting shy about it? oh, girls, girls! you must have your way, i suppose. well, now i'm here to look after you." and the business of sight-seeing was carried on from that time with unabating activity. they went everywhere, and still mr. copley found new things for them to see. mrs. copley took him into the curiosity shops, but as surely he took her out of them, with not much done in the way of purchases. dolly enjoyed everything during the first week or two. she would have enjoyed it hugely, only that the lurking care about her father was always present to her mind. she was not at rest. mr. copley seemed well and cheery; active and hearty as usual; yet dolly detected something hollow in the cheer and something forced in the activity. she thought him restless and uneasy, in spite of all the gaiety. one day after an excursion of some length the party had turned into a restaurant to refresh themselves. chocolate and coffee had been brought; and then mr. copley exclaimed, "hang it! this won't do. have you drunk nothing but slops all this while, lawrence?" and he ordered the waiter to bring a flask of greek wine. dolly's heart leaped to her mouth. "oh no, father!" she said pleadingly, laying her hand on his. "oh no, what, my child?" "no wine, please, father!" there was more intensity in dolly's accents than perhaps anybody knew but mr. copley; he had the key; and the low quaver in dolly's voice did not escape him. he answered without letting himself meet her eyes. "why not? hasn't lawrence given you any _vino dolce_ since you have been in foreign parts? one can get good wine in venice; and pure." "if one knows where to go for it," added st. leger. "so i am told." "you have not found out by experience yet? we will explore together." "not for wine, father?" murmured dolly. "yes, for wine. wine is one of the good things. what do you think grapes grow for, eh? certainly, wine is a good thing, if it is properly used. eh, lawrence?" "i have always thought so, sir." "cheer your mother up now, dolly. i believe it would do her lots of good. here it is. we'll try." dolly flushed with pain and anxiety. yet here, how could she speak plainly? her father was opening the bottle, and the waiter was setting the glasses. "we have it on good authority, miss dolly," lawrence said, looking at her, and not sure how far he might venture, "that wine 'maketh glad the heart of man.'" "and on the same authority we have it that 'wine is a mocker.'" "what will you do with contradictory authority?" "they are not contradictory, those two words," said dolly. "it is deceitful; it gets hold of a man, and then he cannot get loose from it. you _know_, mr. st. leger, what work it does." "not _good_ wine," said her father, tossing off his glass. "that's fair; nothing extra. i think we can find better. letitia, try it; i have a notion it will do you good;--ought to have been tried before." and he filled his wife's glass, and then dolly's, and then rupert's. dolly felt as nearly desperate as ever in her life. her father had the air of a man who has broken through a slight barrier between him and comfort. mrs. copley sipped the wine. lawrence looked observingly from one face to another. then dolly stretched out her hand and laid it upon rupert's glass. "please stand by me, rupert!" she begged. "i will!" said the young man, smiling. "what do you want me to do?" "do as i do." "i will." dolly lifted her glass and poured the contents of it into the nearly emptied chocolate jug. rupert immediately followed her example. "what's that for?" said her father, frowning. "it's waste," added her mother. "i call that waste." "don't make yourself ridiculous, dolly!" mr. copley went on. "my child, the world has drunk wine ever since before you were born, and it will go on drinking it after you are dead. what is the use of trying to change what cannot be changed? what can _you_ do?" "father, i will not help a bad cause." "how is it a bad cause, miss dolly?" said lawrence now. "it is a certain pleasure,--but what harm?" "do you ask me that?" said she, with a look of her clear, womanly eyes, which it was not very pleasant to meet. "well, of course, if people misuse the thing,"---- he began. "do they often misuse it, mr. st. leger?" "well, yes; perhaps they do." "go on. what are the consequences, when they misuse it?" "when people drink too much bad brandy of course--but wine like _this_ never hurt anybody." dolly thought, it had hurt _her_ that day; but she could not trust her voice to say it. her lips trembled, her beautiful eyes filled, she was obliged to wait. and how, there before her father whom the fruit of the vine had certainly hurt grievously, and before mr. st. leger who knew as much and had seen it, could she put the thing in words? her father had chosen his time cruelly. and where was his promise? dolly fought and swallowed and struggled with herself; and tried to regain command of voice. "it's a narrow view, ray dear," said mr. copley, filling his glass again, to dolly's infinite horror; "a narrow view. well-bred people do not hold it. it is always a mistake to set yourself against the world. the world is generally right." "o father, do you think so?" "not a doubt of it," said mr. copley, sipping the wine and looking from one to another of the faces in the little group. "dolly is a foolish girl, rupert; do not let her persuade you." "it certainly is not the wine that is to be condemned," said lawrence, "but the immoderate use of it. that's all." "what do you call immoderate use of it?" rupert asked now, putting the question in dolly's interest. "more than your head can bear," said lawrence. "keep within that limit, and you're all right." "suppose your neighbour cannot bear what you can?" said dolly, looking at him. "and suppose your example tempts him?" "it's his business to know what he can take," said lawrence. "it isn't mine." "but suppose he is drawn on by your example, and drinks more than he can bear? what follows, mr. st. leger?" dolly's voice had a pathetic clang which touched rupert, and i think embarrassed lawrence. "if he is so unwise, of course he suffers for it. but as i said, that is his business." "and not yours?" "of course not!" mr. copley broke in. "dolly, you do not understand the world. how can i tell st. leger how much he is to drink? or he tell me how much i must? don't be absurd, child! you grow a little absurd, living alone." "father, i think the world might be better than it is. and one person helps on another for good or for evil. and st. paul was not of your opinion." "st. paul? what did he say about it? that one must not drink wine? not at all. he told timothy, or somebody, to take it, for his stomach's sake." "but he said,--that if meat made his brother to offend, he would eat no meat while the world stood, lest he made his brother to offend. and meat is certainly a good thing." "well, there are just two things about it," said mr. copley; "meat is not wine, and i am not st. paul. a little more, lawrence. if it is not a man's duty to look after his neighbour's potations, neither is it a woman's. dolly is young; she will learn better." if she did not, lawrence thought, she would be an inconvenient helpmeet for him. he was very much in love; but certainly he would not wish his wife to take up a crusade against society. perhaps dolly _would_ learn better; he hoped so. yet the little girl had some reason, too; for her father gave her trouble, lawrence knew. "i'm sorry," he thought, "deuced sorry! but really i can't be expected to take mr. copley, wine and all, on my shoulders. really it is not my look-out." dolly went home very sober and careful. it is true, not much wine had been drunk that day. yet she knew a line had been passed, the passing of which was significant of future licence, and introductory to it. and that it had been done in her presence was to prove to her that her influence could avail nothing. it was bravado. what lay before her now? "rupert," she said suddenly, as they were walking together, "let us make a solemn pledge, you and i, each to the other, that we will never drink wine nor anything of the sort; unless we must, for sickness, you know." "what would be the good of that?" said the young man, laughing. "i don't know," said dolly, from whose eyes, on the contrary, hot tears began to drop. "perhaps i shall save you, and you may save me; how can we tell?" "but we could keep from it just the same, without pledging ourselves?" said rupert, soberly enough now. "could; but we might be tempted. if we do this, maybe we can help other people, as well as each other." the tears were coming so thick from dolly's eyes that rupert's heart was sore for her. she was brushing them away, right and left, but he saw them glitter and fall; and he thought the man who could, for the sake of a glass of wine, cause such tears to be shed, was--i won't say what he thought he was. he was mad against mr. copley and st. leger too. he promised whatever dolly wanted. and when they were at home, and an opportunity was found, the agreement abovementioned was written out, and rupert made two copies, and one of them he kept and one dolly kept; both signed with both their names. so rupert was safe. from that day, however, things went less well with mr. copley. he began by small degrees to withdraw himself from the constant attendance upon his wife and daughter which he had hitherto practised, leaving them again to lawrence's care. by little and little this came about. mr. copley excused himself in the morning, and was with them in the evening; then after a while he was missing in the evening. dolly tried to hold him fast, by getting him to sit for his picture; and the very observation under which she held him so, showed her that he was suffering from evil influences. his eyes had lost something of their frank, manly sparkle; avoided hers; looked dull and unsteady. the lines of his whole face inexplicably were changed; an expression of feebleness and something like humiliation taking place of the alert, bold, self-sufficient readiness of look and tone which had been natural to him. dolly read it all, with a heart torn in two, and painted it as she read it; making a capital picture of him. but it grieved dolly sorely, while it delighted everybody else. "what is it worth, father?" she asked, concealing as well as she could what she felt. "worth? it's worth anything you please. it is glorious, dolly!" "i work for money," she said archly. "upon my word, you could turn a pretty penny if you did. this is capital work," said he, turning to lawrence. "if this had been done on ivory, now"---- "i did a likeness of mr. st. leger for his mother--that was on ivory. she sent me ten pounds for it." "ten pounds to _her_. to anybody else, i should say it was worth twenty,--well," said mr. copley. "so i say, sir," lawrence answered. "i am going to pay that price for my copy." "then will you pay me twenty pounds, sir?" "i?" said mr. copley. "not exactly, dolly! i am not made of money, like your friend lawrence here. wish i could, and you should have it." "will you get me customers, then, father?" "customers!" echoed mr. copley. "yes. because you are not made of money, you know, father; and i want a good deal of money." "you!" said mr. copley, looking at her. for, indeed, dolly had never been one of those daughters who make large demands on their father's purse. but dolly answered now with a calm, practical tone and manner. "yes, i do, father; and mother has a longing for some of those arabian nights things in the curiosity shops. you know people enough here, father; show them your picture and get me customers." "don't be ridiculous, dolly," said her father. "we are not at the point of distress yet. and," he added in a graver tone, as lawrence left the room, "you must remember, that even if i were willing to see my daughter working as a portrait-painter, mr. st. leger might have a serious objection to his wife doing it--or a lady who is to be his wife." "mr. st. leger may dispose of his wife when he gets her," said dolly calmly. "i am not that lady." "yes, you are." "not if i know anything about it." "then you don't!" said mr. copley. "it is proverbial that girls never know their own minds. why, dolly, it would be the making of you, child." "no, father; only of my dresses." mr. copley was a little provoked. "what's your objection to st. leger? can you give one?" he asked hotly. "father, he doesn't suit me." "you don't like him, because you don't like him. a real woman's reason! isn't he handsome?" "very. and sleepy." "he's wide awake enough for purposes of business." "maybe; not for purposes of pleasure. father, beautiful paintings and grand buildings are nothing to him; nothing at all; and music might be the tinkling of tin kettles for all the meaning he finds in it. father, dear, do get me some customers!" "you are a silly girl, dolly!" said her father, breaking away, and not very well pleased. neither did he bring her customers. those were not the days of photographs. dolly took to painting little bits of views in venice; here a palace; there a bridge over a canal; the pillars with the dragon and st. theodore, the place of st. mark, bits of the riva with boats; she finished up these little pictures with great care and delicacy of execution, and then employed rupert to dispose of them in the stationers' and fancy shops. he had some difficulty at first in finding the right market for her wares; however, he finally succeeded; and dolly could sell as many pictures as she could paint. true, not for a great price; they did not pay so well as likenesses; but dolly took what she could get, feeling very uncertain of supplies for a time that was coming. mr. copley certainly was not flush with his money now; and she did not flatter herself that his ways were mending. less and less did his wife and daughter see of his company. "rupert," said dolly doubtfully, one day, "do you know where my father goes, so much of the time?" "no," said rupert; "that's just what i don't. but i can find out, easy." dolly did not say, do; she did not say anything; she stood pondering and anxious by the window. neither did rupert ask further; he acted. it came by degrees to be a pretty regular thing, that mr. copley spent the evening abroad, excused himself from going anywhere with his family, and when they did see him wore an uncertain, purposeless, vagrant sort of look and air. by degrees this began to strike even mrs. copley. "i wish you would just make up your mind to marry mr. st. leger!" she said almost weepingly one day. "then all would go right. i believe it would make me well, to begin with; and it would bring your father right back to his old self." "how, mother?" dolly said sadly. "it would give him spirit at once. it is because he is out of spirits that he does so." (mrs. copley did not explain herself.) "i know, if he were once sure of seeing you mrs. st. leger, all would come right. lawrence would help him; he _could_ help him then." "who would help me?" "nonsense, dolly! who would help you choose your dresses and wear your diamonds; that is all the difficulty you would have. but all's going wrong!" said mrs. copley, sinking into tears; "and you are selfish, like everybody else, and think only of yourself." dolly bore this in silence. it startled her, however, greatly, to find her own view of things held by her much less sharp-sighted mother. she pondered on what was best to do. should she sit still and quietly see her father lost irretrievably in the bad habits which were creeping upon him? but what step could she take? she asked herself this question evening after evening. it was late one night, and lawrence as well as her father had been out ever since dinner. mrs. copley, weary and dispirited, had gone to bed. dolly stood at the window looking out, not to see how the moonlight sparkled on the water and glanced on the vessels, but in a hopeless sort of expectancy watching for her father to come. the stream of passers-by had grown thin, and was growing thinner. "rupert," dolly spoke after a long silence, "do you know where my father is?" "can't say i do. i could give a pretty fair guess, though, if you asked me." "could you take me to him?" "take you to him!" exclaimed the young man, starting. "can you find the way? where is it?" "i've been there often enough," said rupert. "what place is it?" "the queerest place you ever saw. do you recollect mr. st. leger telling us once about wine-shops in venice? you and he were talking"---- "yes, yes, i remember. is it one of those? not a café?" "not a café at all; neither a café nor a trattoria. just a wine-shop. nothing in it but wine casks, and the mugs or jugs of white and blue crockery that they draw the wine into; it's the most ridiculous place altogether i ever was in. i haven't been in it now, that's a fact." "what were you there for so often, then?" "well," said rupert, "i was looking after things." "drink wine and eat nothing!" said dolly again. "are there many people there?" "well, you can eat if you have a mind to; there are folks enough to sell you things; though they don't belong to the establishment. they come in from the street, with ever so many sorts of things, directly they see a customer sit down; fish and oysters, and cakes and fruit. but the shop sells nothing but wine. mr. st. leger says that is good." "not many people there?" dolly asked again. "no; not unless at a busy time. there won't be many there now, i guess." "what makes you think my father is there?" "i've seen him there pretty often," rupert said in a low voice. dolly stood some minutes silent, thinking, and struggling with herself. when she turned to rupert at the end of those minutes, her air was quite composed and her voice was clear and calm. "can you take me there, rupert? can you find the way?" "i know it as well as the way to my mouth. you see, i didn't know but maybe--i couldn't tell what you might take a notion to want me to do; so i just practised, till i had got the ins and outs of the thing. and there are a good many ins and outs, i can tell you. but i know them." "then we will go," said dolly. "i'll be ready in two minutes." it was a brilliant moonlight night, as i said. venice, the bride of the adriatic, lay as if robed in silver for her wedding. the air was soft, late as the time of year was; dolly had no need of any but a light wrap to protect her in her midnight expedition. rupert called a gondola, and presently they were gliding along, as still as ghosts, under the shadow of bridges, past glistening palace fronts, again in the deep shade of a wall of buildings. wherever the light struck it was like molten silver; façades and carvings stood sharply revealed; every beauty of the weird city seemed heightened and spiritualised; almost glorified; while the silence, the outward peace, gave still more the impression of a place fair-like and unreal. it was truly a wonderful sail, a marvellous passage through an enchanted city, never to be forgotten by either of the two young people; who went for some distance in a silence as if a spell were upon them too. at dolly's age, with all its elasticity, some aspects of trouble are more overwhelming than in later years. when one has not measured life, not learned yet the relations and proportions of things, one imagines the whole earth darkened by the cloud which is but hiding the sun from the spot where our feet stand. and before one has seen what wonders time can do, the ruin wrought by an avalanche or a flood seems irreparable. it is inconceivable, that the bare and torn rocks should be clothed again, the choking piles of rubbish ever be anything but dismal and unsightly, the stripped fields ever be green and flourishing, or the torn-up trees be ever replaced. yet time does it all. come after a while to look again, and the traces of past devastation are not easy to find; nature's weaving has so covered, and nature's embroidery has so adorned, the bald places. in human life there is something like this often done; though, as i said, youth wots not of it and does not believe in it. so dolly this night saw her little life a wilderness, which had been a garden of flowers. some flowers might be lifting their heads yet, but what dolly looked at was the destruction. wrought by her own father's hand! i cannot tell how that thought stung and crushed dolly. what would anything else in the world have mattered, so she could have kept him? help could have been found; but to lose _him_, her father, and not by death, but by change, by dishonour, by loss of his identity--dolly felt indeed that a storm had come upon the little garden of her life from the sweeping ruin of which there could be no revival. she could hardly hold her head up for a long distance of that midnight sail; yet she did, and noted as they passed the fairy glories of the scene. just noted them, to deepen, if possible, the pangs at her heart. all this beauty, all this outward delight, mocked the inner reality; and made sharp the sense of it with the contrast of what might have been. as they went along, venice became to her fancy a grave and monument of lost things, which floated together in her mind's vision. past struggles for freedom, beaten back or faded out; vanished patriotism and art, with their champions; extinct ambitions and powers; historical glories evaporated, as it were, leaving only a scent upon the air; what was left at venice but monuments? and like it now her own little life gone out and gone down! for so it seemed to dolly. even if she succeeded in her mission, and brought her father home, what safety, what security could she have? and if she did _not_ bring him--then all was lost indeed. it was lost anyhow, she thought, as far as her own life was concerned. her father could not be what he had been again. "o father! my father!" was poor dolly's bitter cry, "if you had taken anything else from me, and only left me yourself!" after a long time, when she spoke to rupert, it was in a quiet, unaltered voice. "is this the shortest way, rupert?" "as like as not it's the longest. but, you see, it's the only way i know. i've always got there starting from the place of st. mark; and that way i know what i am about; but though i daresay there's a short cut home, i've never been it, and don't know it." dolly added no more. "it's a bit of a walk from st. mark's," rupert went on. "do you mind?" "no," said dolly, sighing. "rupert, i wish you were a christian friend! you are a good friend, but i wish you were a christian!" "why just now?" "nobody else can give one comfort. you cannot, rupert, with all the will in the world; there is no comfort in anything you could tell me. i have only one christian friend on this side of the atlantic; and that is mrs. jersey; and she might as well be in america too, where aunt hal is!" dolly was crying. it went to rupert's heart. "what could a christian friend say to you?" he asked at length. "remind me of something, or of some words, that i ought to remember," said dolly, still weeping. "of what?" said rupert. "if you know, tell me. remind yourself; that's as good as having some one else remind you. what comfort is there in religion for a great trouble? is there any?" "yes," said dolly. "what then? tell us, miss dolly. i may want it some time, as well as you." "i suppose everybody is pretty sure to want it, some time in his life," said dolly sadly, but trying to wipe away her tears. "let's have the comfort then," said rupert, "if you've got it." "why, are _you_ in trouble, rupert?" she said, rousing up. "what about?" "never mind; let's have the comfort; that's the thing wanted just now. what would you say to me now if i wanted it pretty bad?" "the trouble is, it is so hard to believe what god says," dolly said, speaking half to herself and half to her companion. "what does he say? is it anything a fellow can take hold of and hold on to? i never could make out much by what i've heard folks tell; and i never heard much anyhow, to begin with." "one of the things that are good to me," said dolly, bowing her face on her hand, "is--that jesus knows." "knows what?" "all about it--everything--my trouble, and your trouble, if you have any." "i don't see the comfort in that. if he knows, why don't he hinder? i suppose he _can_ hinder?" "he does hinder whatever would be real harm to his people; he has promised that." "well, ain't this real harm, that is worrying you?" said rupert. "what do you call harm?" "pain and trouble are not always harm," said dolly, "for his children often have them, i know; and no trouble seems sweet at the minute, but bitter; and the sweet fruits come afterward. oh, it's so bitter now!" cried poor dolly, unable to keep the tears back again;--"but he knows. he knows." "if he knows," said rupert, wholly unable to understand this reasoning, "why doesn't he hinder? that's what i look at." "i don't know," said dolly faintly. "what comforts you in that, then?" said rupert almost impatiently. "that's too big a mouthful for me." "no, you're wrong," said dolly. "he knows why. i have the comfort of that, and so i am sure there _is_ a why. it is not all vague chance and confusion, with no hand to rule anything. don't you see what a difference that makes?" "do you mean to say, that everything that happens is for the best?" "no," said dolly. "wrong can never be as good as right. only, rupert, god will so manage things that to his children--to his children--good shall come out of evil, and nothing really hurt them." "then the promise is only for them?" "that's all. how could it be for the others?" "i don't see it," said rupert. "seems to my eyes as if black was black and white white; it's the fault of my eyes, i s'pose. it is only moonshine to my eyes, that makes black white." "rupert, you do not understand. i will tell you. you know the story of joseph. well, when his brothers tried to murder him, that was what you call evil, wasn't it?" "black, and no moonshine on it." "yet it led to his being sold into egypt." "what was the moonshine on that? he was a slave, warn't he?" "but that brought him to be governor of egypt; he was the means of the plenty in the land through those years of famine; and by his power and influence his family was placed in the best of the land when starvation drove them down there." "but why must he be sold a slave to begin with?" "good reasons. as a servant of potiphar he learned to know all about the land and its produce and its cultivation, and the peasant people that cultivated it. if it had not been for the knowledge he gained as a slave, joseph could never have known what to do as a governor." "i never thought of that," said rupert, his tone changing. "then when he was thrown into prison, _you_ would have said that was a black experience too?" "i should, and no mistake." "and there, among the great prisoners of state, he learned to know about the politics of the country, and heard what he never could have heard talked about anywhere else; and there, by interpreting their dreams, he recommended himself to the high officers of pharaoh. except through the prison, it is impossible to see how he, a poor foreigner, could ever have come to be so distinguished at the king's court; for the egyptians hated and despised foreigners." "i'll be whipped if that ain't a good sermon," said rupert drily; "and what's more, i can understand it, which i can't most sermons i've heard. but look here,--do you think god takes the same sort of look-out for common folks? joseph was joseph." "the care comes of his goodness, not out of our worthiness," said dolly, the tears dripping from her eyes. "to him, dolly is dolly, and rupert is rupert, just as truly. i know it, and yet i am so ungrateful!" "but tell me, then," rupert went on, "how comes it that god, who can do everything, does not make people good right off? half the trouble in the world comes of folks' wrong-headedness; why don't he make 'em reasonable?" "he tries to make them reasonable." "_tries!_ why don't he do it?" "you, for instance," said dolly--"because he has given you the power of choice, rupert; and you know yourself that obedience would not be obedience if it were not voluntary." on this theological nut rupert ruminated, without finding anything to say. "you have comforted me," dolly went on presently. "thank you, rupert. you have made me remember what i had forgotten. just look at that palace front in the moonlight!" "the world's a queer place, though," said rupert, not heeding the palace front. "what are you thinking of?" "this city, for one thing. i've been, reading that book you lent me. hasn't there been confusion enough, though, up and down these canals, and in and out of those palaces! and the rest of the world is pretty much in the same way. only in america it ain't quite so bad. i suppose because we haven't had time enough." chapter xxiii. the wine-shop. it was past twelve by the clock tower when the two left the gondola and entered the place of st. mark. the old church with its cupolas, the open place, the pillars with st. theodore and the dragon, the palace of the doges with its open stone work, showed like a scene out of another world; so unearthly beautiful, so weird and so stately. there had been that day some festival or public occasion which had called the multitude together, and lingerers were still to be seen here and there, and the windows of cafés and trattorie were lighted, and the buzz of voices came from them. dolly and rupert crossed the square, however, without more than a moment's lingering, and plunged presently into what seemed to her a labyrinth of confused ways. such ways! an alley in new york would be broad in comparison; two women in hoops would have been obliged to use some skill to pass each other; they threaded the old city in the strangest manner. rupert went steadily and without hesitation, dolly wondered how he could, through one into another, up and down, over bridge after bridge, clearly knowing his way; yet it was a nervous walk to her, for more than one reason. sometimes the whole line of one of these narrow streets, if they could be called so, would be perfectly dark; the moonlight not getting into it, and only glittering on a palace cornice or a street corner in view; others, lying right for the moonbeams, were flooded with them from one turning to another. most of the shops were closed; but the sellers of fruit had not shut up their windows yet, and now and then a cook-shop made a most peculiar picture, with its blazing fire at the back, and its dishes of cooked and uncooked viands temptingly displayed at the street front. steadily and swiftly rupert and dolly passed on; saw these things without stopping to look at them, but yet saw them so that in all after-life those peculiar effects of light and shade, fireshine and moonlight, italian fruits and vegetables, and fish coloured by the one or the other illumination, were never lost from memory. here there would be a red vulcanic glow in the interior of a shop where the furnace fire was flaming up about the pots and pans of cookery; and at the street front, at the window, the moonlight glinting white from the edge of a dish, or glancing from a pane of glass; and then again reflected from the still waters of a canal. the two saw these things, and never forgot; but dolly was silent and rupert did not know what to say. yet he thought he felt her arm tremble sometimes, and would have given a great deal to be able to speak to the purpose. perhaps dolly at length found the need of distraction to her thoughts, for she it was that first said anything. "i hope mother will not wake up!" "why?" "she would not understand my being away." "then she does not know?" "i did not dare tell her. i had to risk it. i do not want her ever to know, rupert, if it can be helped." "she'll be no wiser for me. what are you going to do now, miss dolly? we ain't far off the place." "i am going to get my father to go home with me. you needn't come in. better not. you go back to the gondola and wait there for a little say--a quarter or half an hour; if i do not come before that, then go on home." "but you cannot go anywhere alone?" "oh no; i shall have father; but i cannot tell which way he may take to get home. you go back to the gondola,--or no, be in front of st. mark's; that would be better." "i am afraid to leave you, miss dolly." "you need not. one gets to places where there is nothing to fear any more." rupert was not sure what she meant; her voice had a peculiar cadence which struck him. then they turned another corner, and a few steps ahead of them saw the light from a window making a strip of illumination across the street, which here was unvisited by the moonbeams. "that is the place," said rupert. dolly slackened her walk, and the next minute paused before the window and looked in. the light was not brilliant, yet sufficient to show several men within, some sitting and drinking, some in attendance; and dolly easily recognised one among the former number. she drew her arm from rupert's. "now go back to st. mark's," she whispered. "i wish it. yes, i would rather go in alone. wait for me a little while in front of st. mark's." she stood still yet half a minute, making her observations or getting up her resolution; then with a light, swift step passed into the shop. rupert could not obey her and go at once; he felt he must see what she did and what her reception promised to be; he came a little nearer to the window and gazed anxiously in. the minutes he stood there burned the scene for ever into his memory. the light shone in a wide, spacious apartment, which it but gloomily revealed. there was nothing whatever of the outward attractions with which in new york or london a drinking saloon, not of a low order, would have been made pleasant and inviting. the wine had need to be good, thought rupert, when men would come to such a place as this and spend time there, simply for the pleasure of drinking it. yet several men were there, taking that pleasure, even so late as the hour was; and they were respectable men, at least if their dress could be taken in testimony. they sat with mugs and glasses before them; one had a plate of olives also, another had some other tit-bit or provocative; one seemed to be in converse with mr. copley, who was not beyond converse yet, though rupert saw he had been some time drinking. his face was flushed a little, his eyes dull, his features overspread with that inane stupidity which comes from long-continued and purely sensual indulgence of any kind, especially under the fumes of wine. to the side of this man, rupert saw dolly go. she went in, as i said, with a light, quick step, looked at nobody else, made straight to her father, and laid a hand upon his shoulder. with that she threw back her head-covering a little,--it was some sort of a scarf, of white and brown worsted knitting, which lay around her head like a glory, in rupert's eyes,--and showed her face to her father. fair and delicate and sweet, bright and grave at once, for she _did_ look bright even there, she stood at his side like his good angel, with her little hand upon his shoulder. no wonder mr. copley started and looked frightened; that was the first look; and then confused. rupert understood it all, though he could not hear what was said. he saw the man was embarrassed. "dolly!" said mr. copley, falling back upon his first thought, as the easiest to speak of,--"what is the matter?" "nothing with me, father. will you take me home?" "where's your mother?" "she is at home. but it is pretty late, father." "where's lawrence?" "i don't know." "where is rupert, then?" "he is out, somewhere. will you go home with me, father?" "how did you come here?" said mr. copley, sitting a little straighter up, and now beginning to replace or conceal confusion with displeasure. "i will tell you. i will tell you on the way. but shall we go first, father? i don't like to stay here." "here? what in the name of ten thousand devils---- who brought you here?" "i am alone," said dolly. "hadn't we better go, father? and then we can talk as we go." at this point a half tipsy venetian rose, and stepping before the pair with a low reverence, said something to mr. copley, of which dolly only understood the words, "la bella signorina;" they made her, however, draw her scarf forward over her face and brought mr. copley to his feet. he could stand, she saw, but whether he could walk very well was open to question. "signer, signor"---- he began, stammering and incensed. dolly seized his arm. "shall we go, father? it is so late, and mother might want me. it is very late, father. never mind anything, but come!" mr. copley was sufficiently himself to see the necessity; nevertheless, his score must be paid; and his head was in a bad condition for reckoning. he brought out some silver from his pocket, and stood somewhat helplessly looking at it and at the shopman alternately; then with an awkward movement of his elbow contrived to throw over a glass, which fell on the floor and broke. everybody was looking now at the father and daughter, and words came to dolly's ears which made her cheek burn. but she stood calm, self-possessed, waiting with a somewhat lofty air of maidenly dignity; helped her father solve the reckoning, paid for the glass, and at last got hold of his arm and drew him away; after a gentle, grave salutation to the attendant which he answered profoundly, and which brought everybody in the little shop to his feet in involuntary admiration and respect. dolly looked at nobody, yet with sweet courtesy made a distant sign of acknowledgment to their homage, and the next minute stood outside the shop in the dark little street and the mild, still air. i think, even at that minute, with the strange, startling inappropriateness of license which thoughts give themselves, there flashed across her a sense of the ironical contrast of things without and within her; without, venice and her historical past and her monumental glory; within, a trembling little heart and present danger and a burden of dishonour. but that was only a flash; the needs of the minute banished all thinking that was not connected with action; and the moment's business was to get her father home. she had no thought now for the picturesque revealings of the moonlight and obscurings of the shadow. yet she was conscious of them, in that sharp flash of contrast. at getting upon his feet and out into the air and gloom of the little street, mr. copley's head was very contused; or else he had taken more wine than his daughter guessed. he was not fit to guide himself, or to take care of her. as he seemed utterly at a standstill, dolly naturally and unconsciously set her face to go the way she had come; for one or two turnings at least she was sure of it. before those one or two turnings were made, however, she was shocked and scared to find that her father's walk was wavering; he swayed a little on his feet. the street was empty; and if it had not been, what help could dolly ask for? a pang of great terror shot through her. she took her father's arm, to endeavour to hold him fast; a task rather too much for her little hands and slight frame; and feeling that in spite of her he still moved unsteadily, and that she was an insufficient help, dolly's anguish broke forth in a cry; natural enough in its unreasoningness-- "o father, don't!--remember, i am all alone!" how much was in the tone of those last words dolly could not know; they hardly reached mr. copley's sense, though they went through and through another hearer. the next minute rupert stood before the pair, and was offering his arm to mr. copley. not trusting his patron, in the circumstances, to take care of his young mistress, rupert had disobeyed her orders so far as to keep the two figures in sight; he had watched them from one turning to another, and had seen that his help was needed, even before he heard dolly's cry. then, with a spring, he was there. mr. copley leaned now upon his arm, and dolly fell behind, thankful unspeakably for the relief. she knew by this time that she could never have found her way; and it was plain her father could not. "rupert," said mr. copley, half recognising the assistance afforded him, "you're a good fellow, and always in the way when you aren't wanted, by george!" but he leaned on his arm heavily. dolly followed close; she could not well keep beside them; and felt in that hour more thoroughly lonely perhaps than at any other of her life before or after. rupert was a relief; and yet so the shame was increased. she stepped along through moonlight and shadow, feeling that light was gone out of her pathway of life for ever, as far as this world was concerned. what was left, when her father was lost to her?--her father!--and not by death; _that_ would not have been to lose him utterly; but now his very identity was gone. her father, whom all her life she had loved; manly, frank, able, active, taking the lead in every society where she had seen him, making other men do his bidding always, until the passion of gaining and the lust of drink got hold of him! was it the same, that figure in front of her, leaning on somebody's arm and glad to lean, and going with lame, unsteady gait whither he was led, so like the way his mental course had been lately? was that her father? the bitterness of dolly's feeling it is impossible to put into words. tears could bring no relief, and nature did not summon them to the impossible service. the fire at her heart would have burnt them up; for there was a strange passion of resistance and sense of wrong mixed with dolly's bitter pain. the way was not short, and it seemed threefold the length it was; every step was so hard, and the crowd of thoughts was so disproportionately great. they were rather ruminating thoughts of grief and pain, than considerative of what was to be done. for the first, the thing was to get mr. copley home. dolly did not look beyond that. she was glad to find herself arrived at st. mark's again; and presently they were all three in the gondola. mr. copley leaned in a corner, laid his head against a cushion, and slept, or seemed to sleep. the other two were as silent; but i think both felt at the moment as if they would never sleep again. rupert's face was in shadow; he watched dolly's face which was in light. she forgot it could be watched; her eyes stared into the moonshine, not seeing it, or looking through it; the sweet face was so very grave that the watcher felt his heart ache. not the gentle gravity of young maidenhood, looking into the vague light; but the anxious, searching gaze of older life looking into the vague darkness. rupert did not dare speak to her, though he longed. what would he not have given for the right and the power to comfort! but he knew he had neither. he had sense enough not to try. it was customary for mr. copley, after he had been late out at night, to keep to his room until a late hour the next morning; so dolly knew what she had to expect. it suited her very well this time, for she must think what she would say to her father when she next saw him. she took care that a cup of coffee such as he liked was sent him; and then, after her own slight breakfast, sat down to plan her movements. so rupert found her, with her bible in her lap, but not reading; sitting gazing out upon the bright waters of the lagoon. he came up to her, with a depth of understanding and sympathy in his plain features which greatly dignified them. "does that help?" said he, glancing at the book in dolly's lap. "_this?_" said dolly. "what other help in the world is there?" "friends?" suggested rupert. "yes, you were a great help last night," dolly said slowly. "but there come times--and things--when friends cannot do anything." "and then--what does the book do?" "the book?" dolly repeated again. "o rupert! it tells of the friend that can do everything!" her eyes flushed with tears and she clasped her hands as she spoke. "what?" said rupert; for her action was eloquent, and he was curious; and besides he liked to make her talk. dolly looked at him and saw that the question was serious. she opened her book. "listen. 'let your conversation be without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have; for he hath said, i will never leave thee nor forsake thee. so that we may boldly say, the lord is my helper, and i will not fear what man shall do unto me.'" "that makes pretty close work of it. can you get hold of that rope? and how much strain will it bear?" "i believe it will bear anything," said dolly slowly and thoughtfully; "if one takes hold with both hands. i guess the trouble with me is, that i only take hold with one." "what do you do with the other hand?" "stretch it out towards something else, i suppose. for, see here, rupert;--'thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee; because he trusteth in thee.'--i am just ashamed of myself!" said dolly, breaking down and bursting into tears. "what for?" said rupert. "because i do not trust so." "i should think it would be very difficult." "it ought not to be difficult to trust a friend whose truth you know. there! that has done me good," said the girl, sitting up and brushing away the tears. "rupert, if there is anything you want to see or to do here in venice, be about it; for i think we shall go off to rome at once." she told the same thing to st. leger when he came in; and having got rid of both the young men set herself anew to consider how she should speak to her father. and consideration helped nothing; she could not tell; she had to leave it to the moment to decide. it was late in the morning, later than the usual hour for the déjeuner à la fourchette, which mr. copley liked. he did not want anything to-day, his wife said; and she and dolly and rupert had finished their meal. dolly contrived then that her mother should go out under rupert's convoy, to visit the curiosity shop again, (nothing else would have tempted her), and to make one or two little purchases for which dolly gave rupert the means. when they were fairly off, she went to her father's room; he was up and dressed, she knew. she went with a very faint heart, not knowing in the least what she would do or say, but feeling that something must be said and done, both. mr. copley was sitting listlessly in a chair by the window; miserable enough, dolly could see by the gloomy blank of his face; looking out, and caring for nothing that he saw. his features showed traces of the evening before, in red eyes and pale cheeks; and yet worse, in the spiritless, abased expression, which was more than dolly could bear. she had come in very quietly, but when she saw this she made one spring to his side and sank down on the floor before him, hiding her face on his knee. mr. copley's trembling hand presently lifted her up into his arms, and dolly sat on his knee and buried her face in his breast. neither of them was ready to speak; neither did speak for some time. it was mr. copley who began. "well, dolly,--i suppose you will say to me that i have broken my word?" "o father!"--it came in a sort of despair from dolly's heart,--"what shall we do?" mr. copley had certainly no answer ready to this question; and his next words were a departure. "how came you to be at that place last night?" "i was afraid you were there"---- "how did you dare come poking about through all those crooked ways, and at that time of night?" "father," dolly said, without lifting her head, "that was nothing. i dared nothing, compared with what you dared!" "i? you are mistaken, child. i did not run the slightest risk. in fact, i was only doing what everybody else does. you make much of nothing, in your inexperience." "father," said dolly, with a great effort, "you promised me. and when a man cannot keep his promise"---- she had meant to be perfectly quiet; she had begun very calmly; but at that word, suddenly, her calmness failed her. it was too much; and with a sort of wailing cry, which in its forlornness reached and wrung even mr. copley's nerves, she broke into a terrible passion of weeping. terrible! young hearts ought never to know such an agony; and never, never should such an agony be known for the shame or even the weakness of a father. the hand appointed to shield, the love which ought to shelter,--when the blow comes from _that_ quarter, it finds the heart bare and defenceless indeed, and comes so much the harder in that it comes from so near. no other more distant can give such a stroke. and to the young heart, unaccustomed to sorrow, new to life, not knowing how many its burdens and how heavy; not knowing on the other hand the equalising, tempering effects of time; the first great pain comes crushing. the shoulders are not adjusted to the burden, and they feel as if they must break. dolly's sobs were so convulsive and racking that her father was startled and shocked. what had he done? alas, the man never knows what he has done; he cannot understand how women die, before their time, that death of the heart which is out of the range of masculine nature. "dolly!--dolly!" mr. copley cried, "what is the matter? don't, dolly, if you love me. my child, what have i done? don't you know _everybody_ takes a little wine? are you wiser than all the world?" "you promised, father!" dolly managed to say. "perhaps i promised too much. you see, dolly,--_don't_ cry so!--a man must do as the rest of the world do. it isn't possible to live a separate life, as you would have me. it would make me ridiculous. it would not do. there's no harm in a little wine, child." "father, you promised!" dolly repeated, clinging to him. she was not shrinking away; her arms of love were wrapped round his neck as tenderly as even in old childish days; they had power over mr. copley, power which he could not quite resist nor break away from. he returned their pressure, he even kissed her, feeling, i am happy to say, a little ashamed of himself. "you don't want me to be ridiculous, dolly?" he repeated, not knowing what to say. what should she answer to that? no, she did not want him to be ridiculous; and as he spoke she recalled the staggering, impotent figure of last night, in its unmanly feebleness and senseless idiocy. a sense of the difficulty of her task and the vanity of her representations came over dolly; it gave her new food for tears, but the present effect was to make her stop them. i suppose despair does not weep. dolly was not despairing, either. "what shall we do, father?" she asked, ignoring all his remarks and suggestions. "do, dolly? about what?" "don't you think we will not stay any longer in venice?" "for all i care! where, then?" "to rome, father?" "i thought you were to be in rome at christmas?" "it is not so very long till christmas." "is your mother agreed?" "she will be, if you say so." "if it pleases you, dolly--i don't care." "and, father, dear father! won't you keep your promise to me? what is to become of us, father?" some bitter tears flowed again as she said this quietly; but mr. copley knew they were flowing, and he had an intuitive sense that they were bitter. they embarrassed him. "i'll make a bargain, dolly," he said after a pause. "i'll do what you want of me--anything you want--if you'll marry st. leger." "but, father, i have not made up my mind to like him enough for that." "you will like him well enough. if you were to marry him you would be devoted to him. i know you." "i think the devotion ought to come first." "nonsense. that is romantic folly. novels are one thing, and real life is another." "i daresay; but do you object to people's being a little romantic?" "when it interferes with their bread and butter, i do." "father, if you would drink no wine, we could all of us have as much bread and butter as we choose." "you are always harping on that!" said mr. copley, frowning. "because, our whole life depends on it, father. you cannot bear wine as some people can, i suppose; the habit is growing on you; mother and i are losing you, we do not even have but half a sight of you; and--father--we are wanting necessaries. but i do not think of _that_," dolly went on eagerly; "i do not care; i am willing to live on dry bread, and work for the means to get it; but i cannot bear to lose you, father! i cannot bear it!--and it will kill mother. she does not know; i have kept her from knowing; she knows nothing about what happened last night. o father, do not let her know! would anything pay you for breaking her heart and mine? is wine more to you than we are? o father, father! let us go home to america, and quit all these people and associations that make it so hard for you to be yourself. i want you to be your dear old self, father! your dear self, that i love"---- dolly's voice was choked, and she sobbed. mr. copley was not quite insensible. he was silent a good while, hearing her sobs, and then he groaned; a groan partly of real feeling, partly, i am afraid, of desire to have the scene ended; the embarrassment and the difficulty disposed of and behind him. but he thought it had been an expression of deeper feeling solely. "i'll do anything you like, my dear child," he said. "only stop crying. you break my heart." "father, will you really do something if i ask you?" "anything! only stop crying so." "then, father, write and sign it, that you will not ever touch wine. rupert and i have taken such a pledge already." "what is the use of writing and signing? i don't see. a man can let it alone without that." "he can, if he wants to let it alone; but if he is very much tempted, then the pledge is a help." "what did you and rupert do such a thing as that for?" "i wanted to save him." "make _him_ take the pledge, then. why you?" "how could i ask him to do what i would not do myself? but i've done it, father; now will you join us?" "pshaw!" said mr. copley, displeased. "now you have incapacitated yourself from appearing as others do in society. how would you refuse, if you were asked to drink wine with somebody at a dinner-table?" "very easily. i should think all women would refuse," said dolly. "father, will you join us, and let us all be unfashionable and happy together?" "did st. leger pledge himself?" "i have not asked him." "well, i will if he will." "for him, father, and not for me?" said dolly. "ask him," said mr. copley. "i'll do as he does." "father, you might set an example to him." "i'll let him set the example for me," said mr. copley rising. and dolly could get no further. but it was settled that they were to leave venice. what was to be gained by this step dolly did not quite know; yet it was a step, that was something. it was something, too, to get out of the neighbourhood of that wine-shop, of which dolly thought with horror. what might await them in rome she did not know; at least the bonds of habit in connection with a particular locality would be broken. and venice was grown odious to her. chapter xxiv. past greatness. they went to rome. dolly had little comfort from her conversation with her father. she turned over in her mind his offer to quit wine if st. leger would do the same. st. leger would not give any such pledge, dolly was very clearly aware; except, indeed, she paid him for it with another pledge on her part. with such a bribe she believed he would do it, or anything else that might be asked of him. smooth and quiet as the young gentleman was outwardly, he had a power of self-will; as was shown by his persistence in following her. dolly was obliged to confess that his passion was true and strong. if she would have him, no doubt, at least she believed there was no doubt, lawrence would agree to be unfashionable and drink no more wine to the day of his death for her sake. if he agreed to that, her father would agree to it; both of them would be saved from that danger. dolly pondered. ought she to pay the price? should she sacrifice herself, and be the wife of a rich banker, and therewith keep her father and all of them from ruin? very soberly dolly turned the whole thing over in her mind; back and forward; and always she was certain on one point,--that she did not want to be lawrence's wife; and to her simple, childlike perceptions another thing also seemed clear; that it is a bad way to escape one wrong by doing another. she always brought up with that. and so, she could not venture and did not venture to attack lawrence on the wine question. she knew it would be in vain. meanwhile, they were in rome. two of the gentlemen being skilled travellers, they had presently secured a very tolerable apartment; not in the best situation, indeed, but so neither was it of the most expensive sort; and clubbing their resources, were arranged comfortably enough to feel quite at home. and immediately dolly began to use her advantage and see rome. mrs. copley had no curiosity to see anything; all her wish was to sit at her window or by her fire and talk to her husband; and as mr. copley shared her lack of enterprise and something withheld him from seeking either gambling or drinking-shops, dolly could go out with an easy mind, and give herself undividedly to the intense enjoyment of the place and the time. yes, undividedly; for she was eighteen, and at eighteen one has a power of, for a time, throwing off trouble. trouble was on her, she knew; and, nevertheless, when dolly found herself in the streets of rome, or in presence of its wonders of art or marvels of antiquity, she and trouble parted company. she forgot all but the present; or even if she did not forget, she disregarded. her spirit took a momentary leap above all that ordinarily held it down, and revelled, and rejoiced, and expanded, and rose into a region of pure exquisite life. rupert, who always accompanied her, was rather opening the eyes of his mind, and opening them very wide indeed, and as is the case with eyes newly opened, not seeing very clearly; yet taking great pleasure in what he did see. st. leger, her other companion, had a certain delight in seeing dolly's enjoyment; for himself, alas! it was too plain that art said little to him, and antiquity nothing. one afternoon, when they had been perhaps a week in rome, dolly declared her intention of taking rupert to the museo capitolino. "you were there the day before yesterday," st. leger remarked, rousing himself from a comfortable position and a magazine. "yes, thank you; and now i am going to do for mr. babbage what you did for me; introduce him to a scene of delights. you know, one should always pass on a good thing that one has received." "don't you want me?" "no, indeed! i wouldn't bore you to that extent." "but you will allow me, for my own pleasure," said lawrence, getting up. "no, i will not. you have done your part, as far as that museum is concerned; and besides, i have heard that a lady must not dance too many dances with one gentleman. it is mr. babbage's turn." and with a merry little nod of her head, and smile at the irresolute st. leger, dolly went off. rupert was generally of the party when they went sight-seeing, but it had happened that it was not the case when the visit to the capitoline museum had been made. "you are not going to this place for my sake?" rupert said as dolly hurried along. "for your sake, and for my sake," she answered. "i was there for about two minutes, and i should like two days. o rome, rome! i _never_ saw anything like rome." "why?" said rupert. "it hasn't got hold of me so." "wait, and it will. i seem to be touching the history of the world here, till i don't know whereabouts in the ages i am. is this the nineteenth century?--here we are." half an hour later, the two found themselves in the hall of the emperors. "do you know roman history, rupert?" "a little. not much. not far down, you see. i know about romulus and remus." "then you know more than anybody else knows. that's a myth. look here. let us begin at the beginning. do you know this personage?" "julius caesar? yes. i have read about him." "did you ever read plutarch's lives? they used to be my delight when i was a little girl. i was very fond of julius caesar then. i know better now. but i am glad to see him." "why, wasn't he a great man?" "very. so the world says. i have come to perceive, rupert, that that don't mean much." "why not? i thought the world was apt to be right." "in some things. no doubt this man _might_ have been a very great man; he had power; but what good did he do to the world? he just worked for himself. i tell you what the bible says, rupert; 'the things which are highly esteemed among men, are abomination in the sight of god.' look, and you will see it is so." "if you go by _that_---- who is this next man? augustus. he was the first roman emperor, wasn't he?" "and all around here are ranged his successors. what a set they were! and they look like it." "how do you know they are likenesses?" "know from coins. do you know, almost all these men, the emperors, died a violent death? murdered, or else they killed themselves. that speaks, don't it, for the beauty and beneficence of their reigns, and the loveliness of their characters?" "i don't know them very well. some of them were good men, weren't they?" "see here, nos. and . here are caligula and claudius. caligula was murdered. then claudius was poisoned by his wife agrippina; there she is, no. . she was killed by her son nero; and nero killed himself; and no. , there is another wife of claudius whom he killed before he married agrippina; and here, no. , was a wife of nero whom he killed by a kick. and that is the way, my dear rupert, they went on. don't you wish you had belonged to the imperial family? there's greatness for you!" "but there were some really great ones, weren't there? which are they?" "well, let us see. come on. here is trajan. he was not a brute; he was a philosopher and a sceptic. he was quite a distinguished man in the arts of war and peace. but he ordered that the profession of christianity should be punished with death. he legalised all succeeding persecutions, by his calm enactments. do you think he was a great man in the sight of god?" "were the christians persecuted in his reign?" "certainly. in asia minor, under the good governor pliny. simon the son of cleophas was crucified at that time." "perhaps trajan did not know any better." "he might have known better, though. ignorance is no plea that will stand, when people have the means of knowledge. but come on. here is marcus aurelius; here, rupert, nos. and . he was what the world calls a very great man. he was cultivated, and wise, and strong, a great governor, and for a heathen a good man; and how he treated the christians! east and west, and at rome here itself, how they were sought out and tortured and killed! what do you think the lord thinks of such a great man as that? remember the bible says of his people, 'he that toucheth you, toucheth the apple of his eye.' what do you think the lord thought of marcus aurelius' greatness? look here, rupert--here is decius, and here is diocletian." "were they persecutors too?" "great. it is so strange to look at their faces here, in this museum, after so many centuries. i suppose they will stand here, maybe, till the end of the world. come away--we have been so long in this gallery we have not left time enough for the other rooms." they went to the hall of the gladiator; and there dolly studied the figure which gives name to the place, with a kind of rapt intensity. she described to her companion the meaning of the marble; but it was not the same thing to them both. dolly was lost in delighted contemplation. rupert looked on with a kind of incredulous scorn. "you don't care for it?" she said suddenly, catching a sight of his face. "what's it good for?" said rupert. "this ain't a likeness of anybody, is it?" "it is a likeness of a great many people. hundreds and hundreds died in such fashion as that, for the pleasure of the roman people." "well, would it have been any satisfaction to you to see it?" "why, no! i hope not." "then why do you like to see it here now?" "i don't! this is not reality, but an image." "i can't see why you should like to look at the image, when you couldn't bear the reality." "why, rupert"---- dolly began, but her further words were cut off. "met again!" said a soft voice. "you here! we did not know you would be in rome so soon." "dolly!" exclaimed christina, who followed her mother. "that's delightful. dolly copley in rome! and in the museo capitolino. who is with you?" "we are all here," said dolly, smiling. "yes, yes, in rome, of course; but you are not in the museum alone?" dolly presented mr. babbage. "and how is your mother?" mrs. thayer went on. "better! i am so glad. i thought she would be better in italy. and what have you done with your handsome _cavaliero servente_--mr. st. leger?" "i left him at home with a magazine, in which i _think_ there was a story," said dolly. "impossible! his gallantry allowed you to come alone?" "not his gallantry, but perhaps his sense of weakness," dolly answered. "of weakness, my dear? is he a weak young man? he does not look it." "very good muscular power, i daresay; but when we talk of power of will, you know 'weakness' is relative. i forbade him, and he did not dare to come." "you forbade him! and he obeyed? but, christina, i do not think you have mr. shubrick in such training as that. would he obey, if you gave him orders?" "probably the relations are different," said dolly, obliging herself to keep a grave face. "i am in a happy independence of mr. st. leger which allows me to command him." "independence!" said mrs. thayer, with an air half curious, half confounded, which was a severe trial to dolly's risible muscles. "i know young ladies are very independent in these days--i don't know whether it is a change for the better or not--but i do not think christina would boast of her independence of _her_ knight-errant." "no," said dolly. "the cases are different--as i said. mr. st. leger does not stand in that particular relation to me." "doesn't he? but, my dear, i hope you haven't quarrelled?" "not at all," said dolly. "we do not like each other well enough to quarrel." "but he struck me as a most delightful young man." "i believe he generally makes that impression." "i used to know his father," said mrs. thayer. "he was a sad flirt. i know, you see, my dear, because i was one myself. i am glad christina does not take after me. but i used to think it was great fun. is mr. st. leger anything of a flirt?" "i have had no opportunity of knowing, ma'am," said dolly gravely. "well, you will bring him to see us? you are all coming to make us a visit at our villa, at sorrento; and mr. shubrick is coming; christina wants to show him to you; you know a girl is always proud of her conquests; and then we will go everywhere and make you see everything. you have just no notion how delightful it is at sorrento in the spring and summer. it's paradise!" "but you are coming first to spend christmas with me, dolly," said her friend, who until now had hardly been able to get in a word. "i have five thousand things to talk to you about. my sailor friend has promised to be here too, if he can, and his ship is in the mediterranean somewhere, so i guess he can; and i want you to see him. come and spend christmas eve with me--do! and then we shall have a chance to talk before he comes. of course there would be no chance after," she added with a confident smile. dolly was not much in a mood for visiting, and scantly inclined to mix in the joyous circle which must be breathing so different an atmosphere from her own. she doubted besides whether she could leave her watch and ward for so long a time as a night and a day. yet it was pleasant to see christina, and the opportunity to talk over old times was tempting; and her friend's instances were very urgent. dolly at last gave a conditional assent; and they parted; dolly and rupert taking the way home. "is that lady a friend of yours?" rupert enquired. "the daughter; not the mother." "the old lady, i meant. she has a mind to know all about us." "why?" "she asked me about five hundred and fifty questions, after she quitted you." "what did you tell her?" "i told her what she knew before," said rupert, chuckling. "her stock of knowledge hasn't grown _very_ much, i guess, by all she got out of me. but she tried." dolly was silent. after a short pause, rupert spoke again in quite another tone. "miss dolly, you've put me in a sort of a puzzle. you said a little while ago, or you spoke as if you thought, that all those grand old roman emperors were not after all great men. then, if _they_ were not great, what's a fellow to try for? if a common fellow does his best, he will not get to the hundredth or the thousandth part of what those men did. yet you say they were not great. what's the use of my trying, for instance, to do anything, or be anything?" "what did they do, rupert?" "well, you seem to say, nothing! but don't you come to rome to admire what they did?" "some of the things they did, or made. but stand still here, rupert, and look. do you see the rome of the caesars? you see an arch here and a theatre there; but the city of those days is buried. it is under our feet. the great works of art here, those that were done in their day, were not done by them. do you think it is any good to one of those old emperors in the other world--take the best of them--is it any good to him now that he had some of these splendid buildings erected, or marbles carved? or that his armies conquered the world, and his government held order wherever his arms went? if he is happy in the presence of god, is it anything to him, now, that we look back and admire his work?--and if he is unhappy, banished that presence, is it anything to him then?" "well, what _is_ greatness then?" said rupert. "what is worth a man's trying for, if these greatest things are worth nothing?" "i do not think anything is really great or worth while," said dolly, "except those things that god likes." "you come back to religion," said rupert. "i did not mean religion. what are those things?" "i do not think anything is worth trying for, rupert, except the things that will last." "what things will last?" said he half impatiently. "look here," said dolly. "step a little this way. do you see the colosseum over yonder? who do you think will remember, and do remember, that with most pleasure; vespasian and titus who built it, or the christians who gave themselves to the lions there for christ's sake?" "yes," said rupert, "of course; but _that_ isn't the thing. there are no lions here now." "there are lions of another sort," said dolly, standing still and with her eyes fixed upon the wonderful old pile in the distance. "there is always work to be done for god, rupert, and dangers or difficulties to be faced; and to the people who face _any_ lions for his sake, there is a promise of praise and honour and blessing that will last for ever." "then you would make all a man's work to be work for god?" said rupert, not satisfied with this view of the question. "what is to become of all the rest of the things that are to be done in the world?" "there ought not to be anything else done in the world," said dolly, laughing, as she turned and began to walk on again. "it ought all to be done for him. merchants ought to make money for his service; and lawyers ought to strive to bring god's order between man and man, and justice to every one, and that never wrong should be done or oppression exercised by anybody. 'break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free.' and soldiers ought to fight for no other reason but to protect weaker people from violence and wrong. and so on of everything else. and, rupert, god has promised a city, of his own preparing, for his people; it will be a place of delights; and i am thinking of that word,--'blessed are they that do his commandments; that they may have a right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city.' i don't believe anybody that is left outside will think much of what we call greatness in that day." "why, the world wouldn't be the world, at that rate," cried rupert. "think it wouldn't be altered for the better?" "but a few people can't make it like that." "suppose they make only a very little piece of it like that?--but then comes the end, rupert, and the king's 'well done!'" "then you wouldn't have a man make as much as he can of himself," said rupert after a dissatisfied pause. "certainly i would." "what use?" "oh, to be a better servant to his master, the best he possibly can; and to do more work for him; the most he can do." "it seems to me, miss dolly, if you are right, pretty much all the rest of the world are wrong." "yes, rupert; don't you remember the bible says that the wrong way is the broad way, where almost all the people go?" rupert's meditations this time held him till they got home. the days that intervened before christmas were filled full with delightful business. dolly had her anxieties, it is true; but she was in rome. what could stand against the witchery of the enchantress city? anxieties fell into the background; and with all the healthy, elastic spring of her young years dolly gave herself to the present and the past, and rejoiced, hour by hour and step by step, in what the present and the past opened up to her. true, her father and mother hardly shared in her pleasure; mr. copley's taste was blunted, i fear, for all noble enjoyment; and mrs. copley cared mainly to be comfortable in her home quarters, and to go out now and then where the motley world of fashion and of sight-seeing did most congregate. especially she liked to go to the pincian hill sunday afternoon, and watch the indescribable concourse of people of all nationalities which is there to be seen at that time. but there dolly would not go. "it is very absurd of you, dolly!" cried her mother, greatly disappointed; for she had a pride in seeing the universal attention which was drawn to dolly in every public place. "what harm should there be in looking at the beautiful view and hearing music? we are not going to _do_ anything." "it's the lord's day, mother," said dolly, looking up at her sorrowfully. "you went to church this morning all right," her mother said. "there is no church for you to go to at this time of day, that i know of; and if there were, i should think it very ridiculous to go again. if you want to think, you could think about good things, i should hope, on the pincian. what is there to hinder you?" "only everything i should see and hear, mother." "hinder you from thinking about good things!" "hinder me from thinking about anything," said dolly, laughing a little. "seriously, miss dolly," said lawrence, who stood by, hat in hand, ready to go; the pincian hill sunday evening was something he quite approved of;--"seriously, do you think there is anything _wrong_ in sitting up there for an hour or two, and seeing the beautiful sunset colours, and hearing the music?" "she's a little puritan," said her father; "and the puritans were always an obstinate set, lawrence; always, and in every nation and people. i wonder why the two things should go together." "what two things, father?" "what you call puritanism and obstinacy." "i suppose because those you call puritans love the truth," said dolly; "and so hold to it." "and do you not think other people, who are not puritans, also love the truth, miss dolly?" lawrence asked. "i don't think anybody loves the truth he disobeys," dolly said with a gentle shake of her head. "there!" said her mother. "there's dolly all over. she is right, and nobody else is right. i wonder what she supposes is to become of all the rest of the world! everybody in rome will be on the pincian to-night except dolly copley. and every other mother but me will have her daughter with her." in answer to which dolly kissed her, pulled the strings of her bonnet into a prettier bow, and looked at her with sweet, shining eyes, which said as plainly as possible without words that mrs. copley knew better. the party went off, nevertheless; and lawrence, lingering till the others had turned their backs, held out his hand to dolly. "will you tell me," said he, "as a favour, what you think is the harm of what we are doing?" "you are just robbing the king of heaven and earth," dolly answered gravely. "robbing! of what?" "of time which he says is his, and of honour which he says ought to be his." "how?" "'the seventh day is the sabbath of the lord thy god.'" "this is not the seventh; it is the first." "quibbling, mr. st. leger. it is not the seventh from monday, but it _is_ the seventh from sunday; it is the one day set apart from the seven." "and what ought we to do with it? sabbath means _rest_, does it not? what are we going to do but rest up there on the pincian? only rest most delightfully. you will not rest so here." "i suppose your bodies will rest," said dolly. "your minds will have most uncommon powers of abstraction if they do." "but you are putting yourself out of the world, dolly." "i mean it," said she with a little nod at him. "the lord's people are not of the world, mr. st. leger; and the world does not like their ways. never did." "i wonder if all puritans are as quaint as you," said he, kissing the hand he held. but then he went off to the pincian. and there, surely, was a most wonderful, rich, and varied scene; a concourse of people of all characters and nationalities--except the small party in the world which dolly represented; a kaleidoscope view of figures and costumes, classes and callings, most picturesque, most diversified, most changeful. there were the thayers, amongst others; and as they joined company with the copley party, of course mrs. copley's pleasure was greatly increased; for in a crowd it is always pleasant to know somebody. mr. copley knew several people. mrs. thayer had leisure to tell and ask whatever she had a mind with mrs. copley, and to improve her acquaintance with mr. st. leger; who on his part managed to get some conversation with the beautiful christina. it was a distinction to be talking to such a beauty, and he felt it so; and christina on her part was not insensible to the fact that the young man was himself very handsome, and unexceptionably well dressed, and the heir to many thousands; therefore a person of importance. the time on the pincian hill that evening was very pleasantly spent; and so mrs. copley told her daughter on their return. "mrs. thayer said she was very sorry not to see you," mrs. copley added. "i am much obliged to her." "you are not obliged to her at all, for she didn't mean it. that's what you get by staying behind." "what?" said dolly, dimpling up. "that woman had it all her own way; talked to mr. st. leger, and let him talk to her daughter. you see, dolly, christina is very handsome when you are not by." "mother, she is at any time. she's beautiful. you must not set me up in comparison with her." "well, she's engaged," said mrs. copley. "i wish you were. you let everything hang by the eyelids, dolly; and some fine morning what you look for won't be there." chapter xxv. christmas eve. christmas eve came, and rupert attended dolly to the piazza di spagna, where her friends had apartments in a great hotel. dolly was quite prepared to enjoy herself; the varied delights of the foregoing days had lifted her out of the quiet, patient mood of watchful endurance which of late had been chronic with her, and her spirits were in a flow and stir more fitted to her eighteen years. she was going through the streets of rome! the forms of the ages rose before her mind's eye continually, and before her bodily eye appeared here and there tokens and remains which were like the crumblings of those ages; tangible proofs that once they had been, and that rome was still rome. dolly drew breaths of pleasure as she and rupert walked along. "you are going to stay all night?" said rupert. "yes, they want me." "and they have asked nobody but you?" said rupert, who was not conventional. "they wanted nobody but me. it is not a party; it is my old school-friend only, who wants to show me her future husband." rupert grunted his intelligence, and at the same time his mystification. "what for?" he asked. and dolly laughed. "i don't know! it is natural, i suppose, to some people. here we are. good night." the thayers were very well lodged indeed. dolly found herself in really charming rooms, well furnished and well lighted. she was joyfully received, and christina led her forthwith through saloon and dining-room to the sanctuary of her own chamber. a certain feeling of contrast began to fall upon dolly already, christina looked so very fresh and fair and well kept; the lightest veil of anxiety had never shadowed her bloom; the most remote cloud of embarrassment or need had never risen on her horizon. careless, happy, secure, her mind knew no burden. it made dolly feel the pressure of her own; and yet she was glad, for a little, to get into this atmosphere of peace and confidence, and enjoy it even by the contrast. christina's room looked like a curiosity shop. it was littered with recent purchases; all sorts of pretty things, useful and useless. "one cannot help buying," she said, excusing herself. "i see something at every step that i want; and i must get it when i see it, or i may never see it again, you know. it is great fun, but sometimes i almost get tired. here, dear, i can lay your things here. isn't my fire nice? now sit down and warm yourself. it's too delightful to have you! it is like a bit of home, and a bit of old times. those old school days were pleasant?" "very pleasant!" said dolly, sitting down and looking into the queer but bright fire of small sticks which burned in christina's chimney. "very pleasant! i was with my dear aunt hal, in philadelphia." "but these days are better, dolly," miss thayer went on. "that wasn't much compared to this." "i don't know," said dolly. "there was no care in those times." "care?" exclaimed christina, as if she did not know the meaning of the word. "what care have you, dolly? i have none, except the care to make my money buy all i want--which it won't, so i may as well make up my mind to it, and i do. what have you been getting in rome?" "oh, more pleasure than i knew so many days could hold," said dolly, laying some of the sticks of the fire straight. "isn't it wonderful? i think there's nothing like rome. unless, perhaps, paris." "paris!" said dolly. "what's at paris?" "ah, you don't know it, or you wouldn't ask! everything, my dear. rome has a good deal, certainly, but paris has _everything_. now tell me,--are you engaged?" "i? no. of course not." "i don't see why it's of course. most people are at one time or another; and i didn't know but your time had come." "no," said dolly. "neither the time nor the man. i've come to hear about yours." "if he's good, you'll see him; the man, i mean. he promised to be with us at christmas, if he could; and he always keeps his promises." "that's a good thing," said dolly. . "ye-s," said christina, "that is, of course, a good thing. one likes to have promises kept. but it is possible to have too much of a good thing." "not of keeping promises!" said dolly in unfeigned astonishment. "i don't know," said christina. "sandie is so fixed in everything; he holds to his opinions and his promises and his expectations; and he holds a trifle too fast." "he has a right to hold to his expectations, surely," said dolly, laughing. "not too much," said christina. "he has no right to expect everybody to keep their promises as precisely as he does his! people aren't made alike." "no; but honour is honour." "come, now, dolly," said christina laughing in her turn, "you are another! you are just a little bit precise, like my sandie. you cannot make all the world alike, if you try; and he can't." "i am not going to try, and i think it would be a very stupid world if i could do it; but nobody ought to raise _expectations_ he is not prepared to gratify." "like a sentence out of a book!" cried christina. "but sandie is the most unchangeable person; he will not take any views of anything but the views he has always taken; he is as fixed as the rock of gibraltar, and almost as distinct and detached from the rest of the world." "and don't you like that?" "no; confess i do not. i'd like him to come down a little from his high place and mix with the rest of us mortals." "what expectations does he indulge which you are not willing to meet?" "that's the very thing!" cried christina, in her turn stooping to arrange the little sticks and pile more on; "he is unreasonable." "how?" "wants me to marry him." "is that unreasonable?" "yes! till things are ready for such a step, and i am ready." "what things?" "dolly, he is only the first officer of his ship. he was distinguished in the last war, and he has the prospect of promotion. i don't want to marry him till he is a captain." "why?" said dolly. "why?--don't you understand? he would have a better position then, and better pay; and could give me a better time generally; and mamma thinks we ought to wait. and i like waiting. it's better fun, i do think, to be engaged than to be married. i _know_ i shouldn't have my head near so much if i was married to sandie. i do just as i like now; for mamma and i are always of a mind." "and are not you and mr. shubrick of a mind?" "not about this," said christina, getting up from the hearth, and laughing. "pray, if one may ask, how long have you and he been waiting already?" "oh, _he_ thinks it is a great while; but what is the harm of waiting?" "well, how long is it, christina?" "dolly, we were engaged very young. it was before i left school; one summer when i was home for the vacation. i was sixteen; that is four years ago, and more." "four years!" cried dolly. "yes. of course we were too young then to think of marrying. he was home on furlough, and i was home for the vacation; and our houses were near together; and so we made it up. his people were not very well off, but mine were; so there was nothing in the way, and nobody objected much; only mother said we must wait." "what are you waiting for now, christina?" "i told you. i am in no hurry, for my part. i want sandie to get his ship; and in the meanwhile it is just as nice to be as we are. we see each other when we can; and italy is italy; and i am very contented. unfortunately, sandie isn't." "how long do you propose to go on waiting?" "i don't know. oh, i don't know! and i don't care. what is the harm of waiting?" "that depends on what you promise yourselves in being married." "dolly," said christina thoughtfully, "i don't promise myself anything much better than i have got now. if sandie would only be content, i could go on so for ever." "and not be married?" "besides, dolly, i don't want to keep house in a small way. i do not! and if i married a lieutenant in the navy, i couldn't do anything else. you see, sandie would not live upon papa's money; though papa would do anything for me; but sandie won't; and on _his_ means we should live on a very small scale indeed." "but you would have enough?" "enough for what? we should have enough to eat. but, dolly, i do not like to have to think of economy. i have never been used to it. look at my room; see the things i have got together these last few days. look here--this is a ring i want you to wear for me. isn't it delicious? it is as old as the best time of cameo-cutting, they say, but i do not remember when that was; it's rather large for a lady's ring, but it is an undoubted beauty. jupiter's eagle, with the thunderbolts. just look at the plumage of the bird,--and its fierce eye!" dolly was greatly delighted. of all the pretty things she had seen during the weeks past, she had bought nothing, save one or two bits for her mother. this gift was vastly more to dolly than christina could imagine. she had so literally everything she wanted, that no further acquisition could give her great pleasure. it lacked the enhancement of difficulty and rarity. i suppose the ring was more to dolly than her whole roomful beside to christina. it was in truth a very exquisite cameo. dolly put it on her finger and looked at it in different lights, and admired it and enjoyed it hugely; while at the same time it gave an odd grace of setting-off to her simple dress. dolly was in a plain black silk, with no adornment at all, until she put the ring on. unless her quaint old cable chain could be called such. _that_ dolly always wore. she was a sweet, quaint figure, illuminated by the firelight, as christina observed her; girlish and graceful, with a fair face and beautiful hair; the sober dress and the true womanly eyes making a certain hidden harmony, and the cameo setting a seal of daintiness and rareness to the whole. christina was seized with admiration that had a good deal of respect blended with it of a sudden. "you don't agree with me, dolly," she said after a little, when dolly's thanks and the beauty of the ring had been sufficiently discussed, and a pause had brought the thoughts of both back to the former subject. "what do you want, christina?" "i just want to be happy and comfortable," said the girl, "as i always have been. i don't want to come down to pinching. is that unreasonable?" "you would not have to pinch, christina." "yes, i should; to live like the rest of the world." "are you obliged to do that?" "live like the rest of the world? yes, or be out of the world." "i thought you were a christian," said dolly softly. "a christian! yes, so i am. what has that got to do with it?" "a good deal, i should say. tiny, you cannot follow christ and be like the world." "i don't want to be like the world, in bad things; but i mean things that are not bad. one must be like the world in some ways, if one can. don't you set up for being any better than me, dolly, for i won't stand it; we are all really just alike." "the world and christians?" "yes; in some things." "ways of living?" "yes,--in some ways." "christina, did you use to think so in old times?" "i was young then; i did not know the world. you have _got_ to do as the world do, in a measure, dolly." dolly was silent a bit. she too, on her part, observed her friend. fair and handsome she was; very handsome; with the placid luxuriance of nature which has never known shocks or adverse weather. dolly felt the contrast which christina had also felt, but dolly went deeper into it. she and her friend had drifted apart, not in regard for each other, but in life and character; and dolly involuntarily compared their experiences. trouble to christina was a word of unknown meaning; to herself it was become daily bread. had that made the difference? christina was living on the surface of things; skimming a smooth sea in a gilded gondola; shelter and adornment were all about her life, and plenty within. dolly had been, as it were, cast into the waves and was struggling with them; now lifted on a high crest, and now brought down to the bottom. was that how she had learned to know that there were wonderful things of preciousness and beauty at the bottom of the sea? and must one perhaps be tossed by the storm to find out the value and the power of the hand that helps? it did smite dolly with a kind of pain, the sense of christina's sheltered position and security; the thought of the father's arms that were a harbour for her, the guardianship that came between her and all the roughness of the world. and yet, dolly along with the bitterness of this, was tasting also something else which did not enter christina's cup of life; a rarer sweetness, which she would not have exchanged for christina's whole draught. she had found jewels more precious at the depth of the sea than ever christina could pick up in her pleasure sail along shore. christina, with all her luxury, was missing something, and in danger of losing more. dolly resolved to speak. "do you know, tiny," she said, "if i were mr. shubrick, i should not be satisfied?" "why not?" said christina carelessly. "why, you are preferring the world to him." "i am not! no such thing, dolly. i love him dearly." "by your own showing, you love--what shall i say?--luxuries and position, more." "i only want to wait a little." "and, christina--i don't believe god likes it." "likes what?" "your wanting to do as the world do." "how do you know i do?" "you said so." "i like to have a nice house, and servants enough, and furniture to please me, and means to entertain my friends; and who doesn't? that's all i ask for." "and to do what everybody else does." "yes," said christina smiling. "who don't?" "you were on the pincian hill sunday afternoon." "yes," said christina suddenly, looking up. "why not? why weren't you there?" "if you will read the last two verses of the fifty-eighth chapter of isaiah, you will know." "i can't read in this light," said christina, looking round the room, "and i don't know just where i have laid my bible. everybody goes to the pincian. it's no harm." "would mr. shubrick go?" "who told you he wouldn't?" said christina. "i declare, if you are going to help him in his crotchets, i won't let you see much of him! sandie!--he's just an unmanageable, unreasonable bit of downrightness.--and uprightness," she added, laughing. "dolly, he can have his own way aboard ship; but in the world one can't get along so. one must conform a little. one must." "does god like it?" said dolly. "what queer questions you ask! this is not a matter of religion; it is only living." dolly remembered words which came very inconveniently across christina's principles; yet she was afraid of saying too much. she reflected that her friend was breathing the soft air of luxury, which is not strengthening, and enveloped in a kind of mist of conventionality, through which she could not see. with herself it was different. she had been thrown out of all that; forced to do battle with necessity and difficulty, and so driven to lay hold of the one hand of strength and deliverance that she could reach. what wonder if she held it fast and held it dear? while christina seemed hardly to have ever felt the need of anything. "now, dolly, tell me all about yourself," christina broke in upon her meditations. "there isn't much to tell." "what have you been doing?" "painting miniatures--one of the last things." "oh, delightful! copies?" "copies from life. may i take you? and then perhaps, if i succeed, you will get me work." "work!" repeated christina. dolly nodded. "yes; i want work." "work!" cried christina again. "dolly, you don't mean that you _need_ it? don't say that!" "i do. that's nothing so dreadful, if only i can get it. i paint miniatures for--i have had ten and i have had twenty pounds," said dolly with a laugh; "but twenty is magnificent. i do not ask twenty." christina exclaimed with real sorrow and interest, and was eager to know the cause of such a state of things. dolly could but give her the bare facts, not the philosophy of them. "you poor, dear, lovely little dolly!" cried christina. "a thought strikes me. why don't you marry this handsome, rich young englishman?" again dolly's face dimpled all over. "the thought don't strike me," she said. "but he's very rich, isn't he?" "yes. that is nothing to me. i wouldn't give my father and mother for him." "but for your father and mother's sake?"--there was a knock at the door here. "what is it? dinner? come, dolly; we'll reason afterwards." the dinner was excellent. more than the excellence, however, went to dolly's enjoyment. the rare luxury of eating without having to think what it cost, and without careful management to make sure that enough was left for the next day's breakfast and lunch. it was great luxury! and how dolly felt it, no one there could in the least guess. with that, however, as the evening went on and the unwonted soft atmosphere of ease was taking effect upon her, dolly again and again drew the contrast between herself and her friend. how sheltered and guarded, and fenced in and fenced off, christina was! how securely and safely blooming in the sacred enclosure of fatherly and motherly care! and dolly--alas, alas! _her_ defences were all down, and she herself, delicate and tender, forced into the defender's place, to shield those who should have shielded her. it pressed on her by degrees, as the sweet unaccustomed feeling of ease and rest made itself more and more sensible, and by contrast she realised more and more the absence of it in her own life. it pressed very bitterly. the girls had just withdrawn again after dinner to the firelight cosiness of christina's room, when mrs. thayer put her head in. "christina, here's baron krämer and signor count villa bella, come to know if you will go to the sistine chapel." "mother!--how you put titles together! oh, i remember; there is music at the sistine to-night. but sandie might come." "and might not," said mrs. thayer. "you will have time enough to see sandie; and this is christmas eve, you know. you may not be in rome next christmas." "would you like to go, dolly?" said christina doubtfully. dolly's heart jumped at the invitation; music and the sistine chapel! but it did not suit her to make an inconvenient odd one in a partie carrée, among strangers. she declined. "i said i would go," said mrs. thayer. "since the gentlemen have come to take you, i think you had better. dolly will not mind losing you for an hour or two." which dolly eagerly confirmed; wondering much at the same time to see christina hesitate, when her lover, as she said, might come at any minute. she, too, finally resolved against it, however; and when mrs. thayer and the gentlemen had gone, and mr. thayer had withdrawn, as his custom was, to his own apartment, the two girls took possession of the forsaken drawing-room. it was a pretty room, very well furnished, and like every other part of the present home of the thayers, running over with new possessions in the shape of bits of art or antiquity, pictures, and trinkets of every kind, which they were always picking up. these were an infinite amusement to dolly; and christina was good-humouredly pleased with her pleasure. "there's no fun in being in rome," she remarked, "if you cannot buy all you see. i would run away if my purse gave out." "but there is all that you cannot take away," said dolly. "think of what your mother has gone to this evening." "the sistine chapel," said christina. "i don't really care for it. those stupid old prophets and sybils say nothing to me; though of course one must make a fuss about them; and the picture of the last judgment, _i_ think, is absolutely frightful." but here dolly's eyes arrested her friend. "well, i tell you the truth; i do think so," she said. "i may tell the truth to you. i do not care one pin for michael angelo." "mayn't you tell the truth to anybody?" "not unless i want to be stared at; and i do not want to be stared at, in _that_ way. i am glad i did not go with mamma and those people; if sandie had come, i do not think he would have altogether liked it. though i don't know but it is good to make men jealous. mamma says it is." "oh no!" said dolly. "not anybody you care for." "what do _you_ know?" said christina archly. before she could receive an answer, then, she had started and sprung up; for the door gently opened and on the threshold presented himself a gentleman in naval uniform. "sandie!" cried christina. "didn't you expect me?" he said with a frank and bright smile. dolly had heard enough about this personage to make her very curious; and her eyes took keen note of him. she saw a tall, upright figure, with that free poise of bearing which is a compound of strength and ease; effortless, quiet, graceful, and dignified. though in part the result of a certain symmetry of joints and practised activity in the use of them, this sort of bearing refers itself also, and yet more surely, to the character, and makes upon the beholder the impression again of strength and ease in the mental action. it is not common; it struck dolly in the first five steps he made into the room and in the manner of his greeting his betrothed. out of delicate consideration, i suppose, for the company in which they found themselves, he offered only a look and a hand-clasp; but christina jumped up and kissed him. she was not short, yet she had to make a little spring to reach his lips. and then, quietly putting an arm round her, he gave her her kiss back. christina was rosy when she turned to present him, and both were smiling. letting her go, he bowed low before christina's friend; low and gravely; with such absolute gravity that dolly almost felt herself in the way; as if he wished her not there. then they sat down around the fire; and the same feeling came over her again with a rush. they were three; they ought to have been but two; she was one too many; they must wish her away. and yet, christina had asked her precisely and specially that she might be one of the company that night. dolly would have wished herself away, nevertheless; only that she was so very much interested, and could not. the newcomer excited her curiosity greatly, and provoked her observation; and, if the truth must be told, exercised also a powerful attraction upon her. he sat before the fire, full in her view, and struck dolly as different from all the people she had ever seen in her life. she took glances from time to time, as she could, at the fine, frank, manly face, which had an unusual combination of the two qualities, frankness and manliness; was much more than usually serious, for a man of his age; and yet, she saw now and then, could break to tenderness or pleasure or amusement, with a sweetness that was winning. dolly was fascinated, and could not wish herself away; why should she, if christina did not? in all her life she never forgot the images of two of the people around the fire that evening. "sandie" in the middle, in front of the blaze; christina on the other hand of him. she was in a glistening robe of dark blue silk, her fair hair knotted and wound gracefully about her head; a beautiful creature; looking at her lover with complacent looks of possession and smiles of welcome. dolly never knew what sort of a figure the third was; she could not see herself, and she never thought about it. yet she was a foil to the other two, and they were a foil to her, as she sat there at the corner of the hearth on a low cushion, in her black dress, and with no ornament about her other than the cameo ring. a creature very different from the beauty at the other corner of the fireplace; more delicate, more sensitive, more spiritual; oddly and inexplicably, more of a child and more of a woman. that's a rare mixture. there was something exceedingly sweet and simple in her soft brown eyes and her lips; but the eyes had looked at life, the brow was grave, and the lips could close into lines of steady will. the delicate vessel was the shrine of a soul, as large as it could hold, and so had taken on the transparent nobility which belongs to the body when the soul is allowed to be dominant. one point of the contrast between the two girls was in the character and arrangement of their hair. christina's was smooth, massed, and in a sort massive; dolly's clustered or was knotted about her head, without the least disorder, but with a wilfulness of elegant play most harmonious with all the rest of her appearance. to characterise the two in a word, christina was a beautiful pearl, and dolly was a translucent opal. they sat down round the fire. "well, sandie, you naughty boy," christina began, "what has kept you away all this time?" "duty." "duty! i told you so, dolly; this man has only two or three words in his vocabulary, which he trots out on all occasions to do general service. one of them is 'duty;' another is 'must.'" "'must' is the true child of 'duty,'" the gentleman remarked. "oh no, i don't allow that; it is a marriage connection, which may be dissolved by a dispensation." "is that your idea of the marriage connection?" said he with a smile. "but, sandie! don't you want something to eat?" "no, thank you." "because you can have it in a moment." "i have dined, christina." "where have you been all this while--weeks and weeks?" "have you not received any letters from me?" "yes, indeed! but words are so different spoken and written. we have been half over europe. i wish you could have been along! sandie, we went to baden-baden." "what for?" "_what for!_ why, to see it. and we saw the gaming." "how did you like it?" "it is fascinating. i never saw such a scene in my life; the people's faces; and then the mad eagerness with which they went at it; old men and young men, and women. oh, it was astonishing to see the women!" "what was the effect upon you?" "i don't know; astonishment." "how did mrs. thayer like it?" "do you know, i think she half wanted to try her hand? i was so amazed at mother! i told her she must not." "you observe, miss copley, miss thayer knows the use of one of my words." it was a strange, novel, absorbing experience to dolly. sitting at one corner of the hearth, quiet, and a little as it were a one side, she watched the play and the people. she was so delightfully set free for the moment from all her home cares and life anxieties. it was like getting out of the current and rush of the waves into a nook of a bay, where her tossed little skiff could lie still for a bit, and the dangers and difficulties of navigation did not demand her attention. she rested luxuriously and amused herself with seeing and hearing what went on. and to tell the whole truth, dolly was more than amused; she was interested; and watched and listened keenly. christina was a lovely figure in her bright dress and bright beauty, a little excited, and happy, not too much; not too much to make dolly's presence desirable and agreeable; just enough to make her more lovely than usual. the other figure of the little party was more interesting yet to dolly. she thought he was very peculiar, and unlike any one she had ever seen. his repose of demeanour was striking; he seemed to make no unnecessary movement; he sat still; neither hand nor head nor foot betrayed any restlessness either of mind or body; and yet when he did move, were it only hand or foot or head, the impression he gave dolly was of readiness for the keenest action, if the time for action once came. how the two seemingly contradictory impressions were conveyed together, dolly did not stop to think; she had no time to moralise upon her observations; however, this mingling of calm and vigour was very imposing to her; it attracted and fascinated. no man could sit more quiet in company; and yet, if he turned his head or shifted the position of his hand, what dolly saw was power and readiness to move with effect if there were anything to be done; and the calm intensified the power to her mind. and then, apart from all this, the room in which they were sitting was filled with pretty things and charming things which the thayers had been collecting since they came to rome. dolly's eye strayed from one to another, as she sat listening to her companions; though the pretty things never diverted her attention from what these were saying or what they were doing. it was a charmed hour altogether! of rest and relief and enjoyment. taken out of herself and away from her cares, dolly tasted and delighted in the fairy minutes as they flew, and did not even trouble herself to think how soon they would be flown by and gone. "you have been a great while away, sandie," christina was saying. "why could you not join us before? you might have skipped something. here have i stayed away from the sistine to-night, for your sake." "is it any special loss, this evening of all others?" "certainly! it is christmas; there is music, and company." "do you enjoy the sistine chapel, apart from music and company?" "no, indeed i don't! i don't like it at all. such horrid things on the walls, as are enough to give one the nightmare after being there. i know it is michael angelo, and i am horribly out of order in saying so; but what is the use of pretending in _this_ company?" "what is the use of pretending in any company?" "oh, nonsense, sandie! a great deal. everybody pretends, at some time or other. what would become of us if we spoke out all we had in our minds?" "you do not like the sistine chapel. what do you enjoy most in rome?" "most? the pincian, sunday afternoon." "sunday! why sunday?" "music, and all the world there. it's the most beautiful scene, in the first place, and the most amusing, that you can find. there is _everybody_ there, sandie; people from all the quarters of the earth; of all nationalities and costumes; the oddest and the prettiest; everybody you know and everybody you don't know." "but why on sunday?" "oh, that's the special day; that and thursday, i believe; but i generally have something else to do thursday; and anyhow there isn't as good a show. i rarely go thursday." "and sunday you have nothing else to do. i see." "well, sandie, of course we have been to church in the morning, you know. there is nothing to go to in the afternoon. what should one do?" "miss copley, do you enjoy the pincian on sunday evenings?" "i have not tried it," said dolly. "your mother and father were there, though, last sunday," said christina. "sandie, what are you thinking of? you have some superstitious objection? i daresay you have!" "not i," said mr. shubrick. "but it occurs to me that there is a command somewhere, touching the question." "what command? in the bible! sandie, do you think those sunday commands are to be taken just as they stand--to mean just so? and shut one stupidly up in the house for all day sunday except when one is going in procession to church?" "you know," said mr. shubrick, "i am like the centurion in the bible, 'a man under authority,' having other men under me; 'and i say to this man, go, and he goeth; and to another, come and he cometh.' i know nothing about orders that are not to be obeyed." "and is that the way you would rule your house?" said christina, half pouting. "i should leave that to you," he answered smiling. "it is enough for me to rule my ship. the house would be your care." "would it? does that mean that you expect always to be a sailor?" "it is my profession. a man must do something." "if he _must_. but not if he has no need to do anything?" the young officer looked at her with a considerative sort of gravity, and inquired if she could respect a lazy man. "no, and you never would be lazy, or could be lazy," she said, laughing. "but surely there are things enough to be done on shore." "things enough. the question for every one is where he can do most." "why, sandie," christina cried, "it is not possible that you should have your time to yourself on shipboard, and as an acting officer, as you could at home on shore. reading and study, that, you like, i know; and then painting, and all art pleasures, that you think so much about, much more than i do; and a thousand other things;--you have no chance for them at sea." "you talk as if one had nothing to do but to please himself." "well," said christina, "so far as one can, why not? does not all the world?" "yes. all the world. you are right. all the world, except a little body of men who follow christ; and _he_, pleased not himself. i thought you knew i was one of his servants, christina." "does that forbid your pleasing yourself?" "not in one way," said mr. shubrick, smiling again, a smile that made dolly's heart throb with its meaning. "it is my pleasure to do my master's will. the work he has given me to do, i would rather do of all things." "i can't think what work you mean, sandie. i really do not understand." "do you understand, miss copley?" dolly started. "i believe so," she said. "will you have the goodness to explain to christina?" "why don't you explain yourself, sandie?" said his betrothed. "i am talking too much. besides, it will come better from miss copley's lips." "i don't think so; but however.--well, dolly, if you are to explain, please explain. but how come _you_ to understand, when i don't understand? what work does he mean?" "i suppose," said dolly, "mr. shubrick means work for other people." "work for other people!" cried christina. "do you think _we_ do not do work for other people? mamma gives away loads; she does a great deal for the poor. she is always doing it." "and you?" "oh, i help now and then. but she does not want my help much." "did you think, miss copley, i meant work for poor people?" "no," said dolly. "at least--that is--i thought you meant the work that is for christ." "well, i am sure he commanded us to take care of the poor," said christina. "he commanded us also to carry the gospel to every creature." "that's for ministers, and missionaries," said christina. "the order was given to all the disciples, and he commanded us to be lights in the world." "of course--to set good examples." "that is not quite the whole," said mr. shubrick; "though people do take it so, i believe." "i have always taken it so," said dolly. "what more can it be?" "remember the words--'whatsoever _doth make manifest_ is light.' there is the key. there are good examples--so called--which disturb nobody. there are others,"--he spoke very gravely,--"before which sin knows itself, and conscience shrinks away; before which no lie can stand. those are the lord's light-bearers." "sandie, what has got you into this vein of moralising? is this talk for christmas eve, when we ought to be merry? don't you lead a dreadful dull life on board ship?" "no," said he. "never. neither there nor anywhere else." "are you always picking at the wick of that light of yours, to make it shine more?" "by no means. no lamp would stand such treatment. no; the only thing for us to do in that connection is to see that the supply of oil is kept up." "sandie, life would be fearful on your terms!" "i do not find it so." and, "oh no, christina!" came from dolly's lips at the same time. christina looked from one to the other. "i had better gone to the sistine," she said. "i suppose you would tell me there to look at michael angelo's picture of the last judgment. but i assure you i never do. i make a point not to see it." "what do _you_ enjoy most in this old city, miss copley?" mr. shubrick said now, turning to her. "i hardly can tell," said dolly; "i enjoy it all so very much. i think, of all--perhaps the colosseum." "that old ruin!" said christina. "but it is such a beautiful ruin! have you seen it by moonlight? and i always think of the time when it was finished, and full, and of the things that were done there; and i fancy the times when the moonlight shone in just so after the days when christians had been given to the lions. i never get tired of the colosseum." "you, too!" exclaimed christina. "what pleasant and enlivening contemplations!" "yes," said dolly. "grand. i see the moonlight shining on the broken walls of the colosseum, and i think of the martyrs in their white robes. there is no place brings me nearer to heaven, and the world looks so small." "dolly copley!" cried christina. "do you want the world to look small, as long as you are obliged to live in it?" "it looks big enough," said dolly, smiling, "as soon as i get home." the conversation, however, after this did take a turn, and ran upon more everyday topics; less interesting to dolly however. but the speakers were interesting always; and she watched them, the play of sense and nonsense, of feeling and fun, not caring much that the matter of the talk did not concern her; until mrs. thayer and her escort were heard returning. and then, indeed, the evening changed its character; however the fascination remained for dolly. the talk was no longer on personal subjects; it went gaily and jovially over all sorts of light matters; an excellent supper was served; and in the novelty and the brightness and the liveliness of all about her, dolly was in a kind of bewitchment. it was a lull, a pause in the midst of her cares, a still nook to which an eddy had brought her, out of the current; dolly took the full benefit. she would not think of trouble. sometimes a swift feeling of contrast swept in upon her, the contrast of her friend's safe and sheltered life. no care for her; no anxiety about ways and means; no need to work for money; and no need to fear for anybody dear to her. christina's father was _her_ guardian, not she his; he might be a very humdrum man, and no doubt was, but his daughter had no cause to be ashamed for him; had not the burden of his life and character on her own shoulders to take care of. a swift, keen feeling of this contrast would come over dolly; but she put it away as instantly, and would not see or hear anything but what was pleasant. chapter xxvi. naples. dolly shared her friend's room. talk ran on, all the while they were undressing, upon all manner of trifles. when they were laid down, however, and dolly was just rejoicing to be quiet and think, christina began to speak in a different tone. "dolly, how do you like him?" i think, if dolly had liked him less, she would have been fuller in his praise. i do not know by what sort of hidden instinct and unconscious diplomacy she answered very coolly and with no enthusiasm. "i like him very well. i think he is true." "true! of course he is true. if he wouldn't be so stupid. to expect one to be unlike all the world." dolly was silent. "he's crochetty, that's what he is," christina went on. "i hate a man to be crochetty. i shall work him out of it, if ever we come to live together." "i don't believe you will, christina." "why not?"--quickly. "i don't _think_ you will," dolly repeated. "because you have the same notions that he has. my dear little dolly! you don't know the world. you _can't_ live in the world and be running your head perpetually against it; indeed you cannot. you may break your head, but you won't do anything else. and the world will laugh at you." "but, christina, whom do you serve? for it comes to that." "whom do i serve! pooh, that's not the question." "it comes to that, christina." "well, of course there is but one answer. but sandie would have me give up everything;--everything!--all i like, and all i want to do." "christina, it seems to me the bible says we must give christ our whole selves." "oh, if you are going to take the bible literally"---- "how else can you take it?" "seasonably." "but how are you going to settle what is reasonable? didn't the lord know what he wanted his people to do? and he said we must give him ourselves and all we have got." "have you?" said christina. "what?" "given up all, as you say?" "i think i have," dolly answered slowly. "i am sure, christina, i do not want anything but what god chooses to give me." "and are you ready to give up all your own pleasure and amusement, and your time, and be like no one else, and have no friends in the world?" christina spoke the words in a kind of hurry. "you go too fast," said dolly. "you ask too many things at once; and you forget what mr. shubrick said--that it is pleasure to please our master. _he_ said it was his meat to do his father's will; and he is our pattern. and doing his will does not prevent either pleasure or amusement, of the right sort; not at all. o christina! i do not think anybody is rightly happy, except those who love christ and obey him." "are you happy?" was the next quick question. dolly could not answer it as immediately. "if i am not," she said at last, "it is because there are some things in my life just now that--trouble me." "dear dolly!" said christina affectionately. "but you looked quite happy this evening." "i was," said dolly. "you made me so." christina kissed her, and thereupon at once fell asleep. but dolly was not sleepy. her thoughts were wide awake, and roved over everything in the world, it seemed to her; at least over all her friend's affairs and over all her own. she was not fretting, only looking at things. christina's ease and security and carelessness, her own burdens and responsibilities; the fulness of means here, the difficulty of getting supplies in her own household; sandie shubrick, finally, and lawrence st. leger! what a strange difference between one lot and another! it was a bright night; the moonlight streamed in at one of the windows in a yellow flood. dolly lay staring at the pool of light on the floor. roman moonlight! and so the same moonlight had poured down in old times upon the city of the caesars; lighted up their palaces and triumphal arches; yes, and the pile of the colosseum and the bones of the martyrs. the same moonlight! old rome lay buried; the oppressor and the oppressed were passed away; the persecutor and his victims alike long gone from the scene of their doings and sufferings; and the same moon shining on! what shadows we are in comparison! thought dolly; and then her thoughts instantly corrected themselves. not we, but _this_, is the shadow; this material, so unchanging earth. sense misleads us. "the world passeth away and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of god abideth for ever." then it is only to do that, thought dolly; be it hard or easy; that is the only thing to care about. and therewith another word came to her; it seemed to be written in the moonlight:--"who shall separate us from the love of christ?" it came so soft and sweet upon dolly's heart as i can hardly tell; her eyelids dropped from their watch, and in another minute she too was fast asleep. the next day was wholly pleasant to her. it was merry, as christmas ought to be; and dolly had laid aside her own cares and took everything as light-heartedly as anybody else. more, perhaps, if the truth were known; for dolly had laid her cares she knew where, and that they would be looked after. the pleasant people, whose festivities she shared, were all kind to her; she had not been forgotten in the gifts which were flying about; and altogether the day was a white one. it only ended too soon. at four o'clock dolly prepared to go home. christina protested that she was not wanted there. "i am wanted more than you think. i must give mother a piece of my christmas day." "well, you're all coming to us at sorrento, remember; and that will be charming. we will go everywhere together. and sandie;--you will be with us, sandie? in the spring, at the villa? oh, you must!" "if i possibly can," he said gravely. "and sandie will take you home now, as you must go. i see he is ready." dolly would have objected, but she could not alter this arrangement; and mr. shubrick walked home with her. it was a very matter-of-fact walk, however. there was as nearly as possible no conversation between the two. nevertheless, the walk had its fascination for dolly. the stately, straight, manly figure beside her, inspired her with an admiration which had a little awe mixed with it; to walk with him, even in silence, was an undoubted pleasure; and when he took leave of her at the door of her lodgings and turned away, dolly felt, and not till then, that her holiday was over. she went up the stairs slowly. her short holiday was over. now work again. well! dolly remembered the conclusion of last night's thoughts in the moonlight; took up her burden on her shoulders, and carried it up stairs with her. she found her mother alone. "dearest mother, how do you do?" she said, kissing her; "and how has the day been? i have stayed away pretty late, but i could hardly help it; and i have had a very nice time." "i don't like holidays," was mrs. copley's answer. "they're the wearisomest days i know; especially when every one else is out and enjoying himself. this christmas has been a year long, seems to me. who did you see?" "just themselves, and christina's friend, mr. shubrick." "what's he like?" "he's very fine, mother, i think. christina ought to be a happy woman." "he hasn't got anything, as i understand?" said mrs. copley. "i don't think mrs. thayer is at all delighted with the match. i know i shouldn't be." "mrs. thayer does not see things with my eyes, probably; and you don't see them at all, mother, dear, not knowing mr. shubrick. look at my presents; see this lovely cameo ring; christina gave it to me christmas eve; and this brooch is from mrs. thayer; and mr. thayer gave me this dear little bronze lamp." "what do you want with such a thing as that? you can't use it." "oh, for the antique beauty, mother; and the lovely shape. it's real bronze, and mr. thayer says the workmanship is very fine." "but he has nothing, has he?" said mrs. copley, weighing the bronze lamp in her hand disapprovingly. "who? he has another just like it. do you mean mr. thayer?" "pshaw, child, no! i mean the other man, christina's intended. he has nothing, has he?" "i do not know what you call 'nothing.' he has a very fine figure, an excellent face, sense and firmness and gentleness; and a manner that's fascinating. i never saw anybody with a finer manner. i think he has a good deal." "mr. st. leger has all that, dolly, and money to boot." "mother! there is all the difference in the world between the two men." "st. leger has the money, though; and that makes more difference than anything else i know of. dolly, i _wish_ you would make up your mind. i think that would bring your father all right." "where is father, mother?" "gone out." "but i thought he would stay with you while i was away. couldn't you keep him at home, mother? just this one day?" "i never try to influence your father's motions, dolly. i never did. and it would be no use. men do not bear that sort of thing." "what sort of thing?" "interference. they never do. no man of any spunk does. they are all alike in that." "do you mean that no man will give up any of his pleasure for a woman that he loves, and that loves him?" "while men are just in love, dolly, and before they are married, they will make fools of themselves; and for a little while after. then things fall into their regular train; and their regular train is as i tell you. let a man alone, if you want to keep the peace and have a comfortable time, dolly. i _never_ interfere with your father. i never did." would it have been better if she had? dolly queried. _she_ must interfere with him now, and it was hard. dolly thought the wife might have done it easier than the daughter. she did not believe her father was looking up antiquities; she had not faith in his love of art; he could be on no good errand, she greatly feared. christmas day! and he would go out and leave his nervous, invalid wife to count her fingers in solitude; not even waiting till dolly should be at home again. _are_ all men like that? mr. shubrick, for instance? but what was to be done? if mr. copley had found places and means of dissipation in rome, then rome was a safe abode for him no longer. where would be a safe abode? dolly's heart was bitter in its sorrow for a moment; then she gathered herself up. "mother, do you like rome?" "why should i like it? i think we came away from venice a great deal too soon. you would come, dolly. there is nothing here, for me, but old tumbledown places; and the meals are not near so good as we had there in venice. no, i'm sick and tired of rome. i'm glad you've had a good christmas day; it's been forlorn to me." "i won't go again from you, mother. will you like to make a visit to the thayers at their villa?" "i don't know. is mr. st. leger invited?" "particularly." "and the other man?" "what other man?" said dolly, laughing. "you know,--christina's man." "he is asked. i do not know about his coming. he would if he could, he said. why? do you want to see him?" "no." it was well on in the evening before mr. copley made his appearance. and then he was taciturn and not in an agreeable temper. the worse for wine he was not, in one sense; he was in no measure overcome by it; but dolly knew that he had been taking it somewhere. o fathers! she thought, if you are not to "provoke your children to anger," neither ought you to drive them to despair; and you ought never, never, to let them blush for you! that i should be ashamed for _my father!_ she said nothing that night but what was in the way of sweetest ministry to both father and mother. she talked of all that she had seen and done during her visit. she got out a supper of fruit, and would have them eat it. not very easy work, for her father was glum and her mother unresponsive; but she did what could be done. next day she proposed going on to sorrento. "it does not agree very well with mother here; at least i do not think she is gaining; and she does not enjoy it." "you enjoy it, don't you?" "oh yes; as far as that goes. but i care more for mother and you." "and i care for you, dolly. no, no; we are old people; it doesn't signify a rush whether we like it or no. you are young, and you are here for once, in rome, and i am not going away till you've seen it fairly. don't you say so, mother, hey? now she has got a good chance, she must use it." "i'm afraid it's expensive," put in mrs. copley. "nonsense; no more than anywhere else. it'll be just about the same thing at sorrento, or wherever you go. see all you can, dolly. we'll stay." "i should think you would send rupert home, at least," said his wife rather disconsolately; but true to her principles she put in no objection to her husband's pleasure. "we might save so much." "we shouldn't save anything. rupert makes himself very useful; if we had not him, we should want some rogue of a courier. i'll keep rupert. how he enjoys it, the dog!" rupert was invaluable to dolly, though she said nothing about it. always ready to attend upon her, always devoted to her wishes, her intelligent companion, and her most faithful and efficient servant in making purchases of drawing materials or in disposing of her finished work. dolly attempted to overrule the decision made ostensibly in her favour, that their stay in rome should be prolonged; but had no success. everybody, except only her mother, was against her. and though she feared sadly that her father's motive was twofold and regarded his own pleasure more than hers, she could not change the present status of things. they remained at rome all winter. it was a winter of mingled delight and distress to dolly; strangely mingled. the immediate money cares were lifted off; that was one thing. the family lived cheaply, and gave themselves few indulgences, but the bills were paid, somehow; and it was a perpetual indulgence only to be in rome. how dolly took the good of it, i have not room to describe. she was busy, too; she even worked hard. before the thayers went away, she had taken all their portraits; and with so much acceptance that they introduced her to other friends; and dolly's custom grew to be considerable. it paid well, for her pictures were really exquisite. her great natural gift had been trained judiciously, so far as it was trained at all, in america; and now necessity spurred her, and practice helped her, and habitually conscientious work lost no time, and maturing sense and feeling added constant new charm to her performances, discernment to her eye, and skill to her hand. dolly was accumulating a little stock of money against a time of need; and the secret knowledge of this was a perpetual comfort. and when she gave herself play-time, how she played! then, with her father if she could get him, or with rupert if, as most often was the case, mr. copley was out of the way or indisposed for sight-seeing, dolly went about the old city, drinking in pleasure; revelling in historical associations, which were always a hobby of hers; feasting with untiring enjoyment on the wonders of architecture old and new; or in churches and galleries losing herself in rapt ecstasy before this or that marvel of the painter's art. it was a wonderful winter to dolly. many a young lady has passed the same season in the same place, but it is only one here and there who finds the hundredth part of the mental food and delectation that dolly found. day by day she was growing, and knew it; in delicacy of appreciation, in tenderness of feeling, in power of soul to grasp, in largeness of heart to love, in courage to do and suffer. for all dolly's studying and enjoying she did in the light of bible truth and the enriching of heavenly influences; and so, in pictures of the old masters and creations of the grand architects of old and new time, she found truth and teaching and testimony utterly missed by those who have not the right key. it is the same with nature and with all the great arts; for truth is one; and if you are quite ignorant of her in her highest and grandest revelations, you cannot by possibility understand the more subordinate and initiative. some dim sense of the hidden mystery, some vague appreciation of the outward beauty of the language without getting at its expressed meaning, or but very partially, just so far as you have the key; that is all there is for you. in all dolly's horizon there was but one cloud. lawrence was one of the company, it is true, almost one of the family; treated with greatest consideration and familiarity by both father and mother. but dolly was not a weak young woman. she knew her own mind, and she had given lawrence to know it; she was in no confusion about him, and her conscience was clear. lawrence was also enjoying rome, after his own fashion; if he was staying for her, dolly did not know it, and it was not her fault. so her one only shadow upon the brightness at rome came from her father. not that he went into any great excesses; or if he did, they were hidden from dolly; but he indulged himself, she knew, in one at least of his mischievous pleasures. she had no reason to suppose that he gambled; as i said, there was always money to discharge the weekly bills; but he found wine somewhere and drank it; that was certain; and when did ever evil habits stand still? if he kept within bounds now, who should warrant her that he would continue to do so? mr. copley came home sometimes cheerful and disposed to be merry; he had taken only enough to exhilarate him; at other times he came home gloomy and cross, and then dolly knew he had drunk enough to confuse his head and slightly disturb his conscience. what could she do? she clenched her little hands sometimes when she was walking the streets, and sometimes she wrung them in impotent grief. she strove to win her father to share in her pleasures; with little success. she was lovely to him as a daughter could be, always; and at the same time she let him see by her grave face and subdued manner when he came home with the breath of wine upon his lips, that she was troubled and grieved. what more could she do? so her winter was a complication of great enjoyment with anxiety and mortification. about the end of march they left the delightful old city and set off southwards. to sorrento, was dolly's fond hope. but when they got to naples, she found that all the men of the party were against proceeding further, at least before the pleasures and novelties of that place had also bean tasted. "there's a famous museum here, dolly," said her father. "you could not pass that?" "and pompeii--don't you want to see pompeii?" cried rupert. "it will be pleasanter at sorrento later in the season," said lawrence; "much pleasanter. wait till it grows warm here; then sorrento will be delightful. we are taking everything just at the right time." "and it is as beautiful here as you can find anything," added mr. copley. "you want to look at the bay of naples, now you have the chance." yes, said dolly to herself, and they say the wines are good at naples too! but she gave up the question. they established themselves in a hotel. "for how long, i wonder?" said mrs. copley to dolly when they were alone. "it seems as if i wasn't going to get to sorrento. i don't know what i expect there, either, i am sure; only we set out to go to sorrento for my health; and here we are in naples after five months of wandering and lounging about! and here we are going to stay, it seems." "the wandering and lounging about was very good for you, mother, dear. you are a great deal improved in your looks." "i wish i was in my feelings." "you are, aren't you?" "what does your father want to do in naples?" "i don't know. they all want to stay here a while, you see. and, mother, don't you enjoy this wonderful view?" for their windows commanded the bay. "i'd rather see boston harbour, by half." "oh, so would i!--on some accounts. but, mother, it is a great thing to see naples." "so your father thinks. men never do know what they want; only it is always something they haven't got." "we're in naples, though, mother." "we shan't be long." "well, we don't _want_ to be here long, mother." "i'd like to be still somewheres. your father'd as lieve be anywhere else as at home; but i like to see my own fire burn. i don't know as i ever shall again. unless you'll marry mr. st. leger, dolly. that would bring all right, at one stroke." from which suggestion dolly always escaped as fast as possible. it turned out that they were to stay a good while at naples. perhaps mr. copley feared the seclusion of a private house at sorrento. however that were, he seemed to find motives to detain him where he was, and lawrence st. leger was nothing loth. the days went by, till dolly herself grew impatient. they went very much after the former manner, as far as the gentlemen were concerned; lawrence found society, and mr. copley too, naturally, took pleasure in meeting a good many people to whom he was known. what other pleasure he took in their company dolly could but guess; with him things went on very much as they had done in rome. with her, not. dolly knew nobody, kept close by her mother, who eschewed all society, and so of course had no likenesses to paint. she worked busily at the other sort of painting which had engaged her in venice; made lovely little pictures of naples; rather of bits of naples; characteristic bits; which were done with so much truth and grace that rupert without difficulty disposed of them to the fancy dealers. the time of photographs was not yet; and dolly made money steadily. she enjoyed this work greatly. her other pleasures were found in walks about the city, and in visits to the museum. there was not in naples the wealth of art objects which had been so inexhaustible in rome; nevertheless, the museum furnished an interest all its own; and dolly went there day after day. indeed, the interest grew; and objects which at her first going she passed carelessly by, at the fourth or fifth she began to study with intent interest. the small bronzes found at pompeii were pored over by her and rupert till they almost knew the several pieces by heart, and had constructed over them a whole system of the ways of private life in those old days when they were made and used. dolly often managed to persuade her father to be her escort when she went to the museum; and mr. copley would go patiently, for dolly's sake, seeing the extreme delight it afforded her; but mr. copley was not always to be had, and then dolly chose certain parts of the collection which she and rupert could study together. so they gave a great deal of time to the collection of coins; not at first, but by degrees drawn on. so with the famous collection of antique bronzes. rupert looked on these in the beginning with a depreciating eye. "what's the fun here? i don't get at it," he remarked. "o rupert! the beauty of the things." "they are what i call right homely. what a colour they have got. is it damp, or what?" "don't you know? these dark ones come from herculaneum, and were locked up in lava; the others, the greenish ones, are from pompeii, where the covering was lighter and they were exposed to damp, as you say." "well, i suppose they are curious, being so ancient." "rupert, they are most beautiful." but rupert as well as dolly found a mine of interest in the greek and gladiatorial armour and weapons. "it makes my head turn!" said rupert. "what?" "why, it is eighteen hundred years ago. to think that men lived and fought with those helmets and weapons and shields, so long back! and now here are the shields and helmets, but where are the men?" dolly said nothing. "do you think they are anywhere?" "certainly!" said dolly, turning upon him. "as certainly as they wore that armour once." "where, then?" "i can't tell you that. the bible and the ancients call it hades--the place of departed spirits." "but here are their shields,--and folks come and look at them." "yes." "it gives one a sort of queer feeling." "yes," said dolly. "one of those helmets may have belonged to a conqueror, and another may have been unclasped from a dead gladiator's head. and it don't matter much to either of them now." "it seems as if nothing in the world mattered much," said rupert. "it don't!" said dolly quickly. "'the world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of god abideth for ever.'" "you think such a one is better off than the rest?" said rupert. "how? you say the rest are living somewhere." "existing." "what's the difference?" "just all the difference between light and darkness;--or between life and death. you would not call it living, if all joy and hope were gone out of existence; you would wish that existence could end." "how do you know all about it so well, miss dolly?" the young man asked a little incredulously. "rupert, it begins in this world. i know a little of the difference now. i never was where all joy and hope were gone out of existence--though i have seen trouble," said dolly gravely. "but i _do_ know that nothing in this world is so good as the love of christ; and that without him life is not life." "people seem to have a good time without it," said rupert. "for a little. how would they be, do you think, if all their pleasures were taken away?--their money, and all their money gets for them; friends and all?" "wretched dogs," said rupert. "but nobody in the world that loved christ was ever that," dolly said, smiling. there was in her smile something so tender and triumphant at once, that it silenced rupert. it was a testimony quite beyond words. for that instant dolly's spirit looked out of the transparent features, and the light went to rupert's heart like an arrow. dolly moved on, and he followed, not looking at the gladiators' shields or greek armour. "then, miss dolly," he burst out, after his thoughts had been seething a little while,--"if this world is so little count, what's the use of anything that men do? what's the good of studying--or of working--or of coming to look at these old things?--or of doing anything else, but just religion?" dolly's eyes sparkled, but she laughed a little. "you cannot 'do' religion that way, rupert," she said. "the old monks made a mistake. what is the use? why, if you are going to be a servant of christ and spend your life in working for him, won't you be the very best and most beautiful servant you can? do you think a savage has as much power or influence in the world as an educated, accomplished, refined man? would he do as much, or do it as well? if you are going to give yourself to christ, won't you make the offering as valuable and as honourable as you can? that is what you would do if you were giving yourself to a woman, rupert. i know you would." rupert had no chance to answer, for strangers drew near, and dolly and he passed on. perhaps he did not wish to answer. there were other times when dolly visited the museum with her father. then she studied the frescoes from pompeii, the marble sculptures, or sat before some few of the pictures in the collections of the old masters. mr. copley was patient, admiring her if he admired nothing else; but even he did admire and enjoy some of the works of art in which the museum is so rich; and one day he and dolly had a rare bit of talk over the collection of ancient glass. such hours made dolly only the more grieved and distressed when she afterwards perceived that her father had been solacing himself with other and very much lower pleasures. chapter xxvii. sorrento. it was not till the end of may that they got away from naples. mrs. copley was long tired of her stay there, and even, she said, tired of the bay! dolly was glad to have her father at a distance from hotels and acquaintances, even though but for a time; and the gentlemen liked moving, as men always do. so the little party in the carriage were in very good spirits and harmony. rupert had gone on before with the luggage, to make sure that all was right about the rooms and everything ready. they were engaged in the house to which lady brierley's housekeeper had given them the address. the day was one of those which travellers tell us of in the south of italy, when spring is in its glory or passing into summer. in truth, the weather was very warm; but dolly at least never regarded that, in her delight at the views presented to her. after castellamare was passed, and as the afternoon wore on, her interest grew with every step. villages and towns, rocks and trees, were steeped in a wonderful golden light; vineyards and olive groves were etherialised; and when they drew near to meta, and the plain of sorrento opened before them, dolly hung out of the carriage almost breathless. "is it better than the bay of naples?" asked lawrence, smiling. "i am not comparing," said dolly. "but look at the trees! did you ever see such beautiful woods?" "hardly woods, are they?" said lawrence. "there's variety, certainly." "said to be a very healthy place," remarked mr. copley. "i envy you, dolly. you can get pleasure out of a stick, if it has leaves on it. naturally, the plain of sorrento---- but this sun, i confess, makes me wish for the journey's end." "that is not far off, father. yonder is sorrento." and soon the carriage rolled into the town, and turning then aside brought them to a house on the outskirts of the place, situated on a rocky cliff overhanging the shore of the sea. rupert met them at the gate, and announced a neat house, civil people, comfortable lodgings, and dinner getting ready. "i only hope they will not give us maccaroni with tomatoes," said mrs. copley. "i am so tired of seeing maccaroni with tomatoes." "don't mind for to-day, mother, dear," said dolly. "we'll have it all right to-morrow." the rooms were found so pleasant, bright and clean, that even mrs. copley was satisfied. the dinner, which was ready for them as soon as they were ready for it, proved also excellent; with plenty of fresh vegetables and fruit. till the meal was over, dolly had scarce a chance to see where she was; but then she left the others at the table and went out at the open glass door upon a piazza which extended all along the sea front of the house. here she stood still and cried to the others to follow her. the house was built, as i said, like many houses in sorrento, on the edge of a rocky cliff, from which there was fair, unhindered view over the whole panorama of sea and land. the sun was descending the western sky, and the flood of italian light seemed to transfigure the world. between the verandah and the absolute edge of the rocks, the space was filled with beds of flowers and shrubbery; and a little a one side, so as not to interrupt the view, were fig-trees and pomegranate-trees and olives. dolly ran down the steps into the garden, and the rest of the party could not but come after her. dolly's face was flushed with delight. "did anybody ever see such colours before?" she cried. "oh, the colours! look at the blue of the water, down there in the shade; and then see that delicious green beyond, set off by its fringe of white foam; and then where the sun strikes, and where the clouds are reflected." "it is just what you have been seeing in the bay of naples," said mrs. copley. "and vesuvius, mother! do look at vesuvius; how noble it is from here, and in this light." "we had vesuvius at naples too," said mrs. copley. "it is a wonder to me how people can be so fond of being near it, when you never know what tricks it will play you." "mother, dear, the lava _never_ comes so far as this, in the worst eruptions." "the fact that it never did does not prove what it may do some time." "you are not afraid of it, surely?" said mr. copley. "no," said his wife. "but i have no pleasure in looking at anything that has done, and is going to do, so much mischief. it seems to me a kind of monster." "you cannot be fond of the sea, at that rate, mrs. copley," lawrence observed. "no, you are right," she said. "the only thing i like about it is, that it is the way home." "you don't want to see the way home just now, my dear," said mr. copley. "you have but now got to the place of your desires." "if you ask me what that is, it is boston," said mrs. copley. but, however, for a while she did take satisfaction in the quiet and beauty and sweet air of sorrento. dolly revelled in it all. she was devoted to her mother and her mother's pleasure, it is true; and here as at rome and naples she was thus kept a good deal in the house. nevertheless, here, at sorrento, she tempted her mother to go out. a little carriage was procured to take her to the edge of one of the ravines which on three sides enclose the town; and then dolly and her mother, with rupert's help, would wind their way down amid the wilderness of lovely vegetation with which the sides and bottom of the ravine were grown. at the bottom of the dell they would provide mrs. copley with a soft bed of moss or a convenient stone to rest upon; while the younger people roved all about, gathering flowers, or finding something for dolly to sketch, and coming back ever and anon to mrs. copley to show what they had found or tell what they had seen; and mrs. copley for the time forgot her ills, and even forgot boston, and was amused, and enjoyed the warm air and the luxuriant and sweet nature of italy. sometimes lawrence came instead of rupert; and dolly did not enjoy herself so well. but lawrence was at his own risk now; she could not take care of him. except by maintaining her calm, careless, disengaged manner; and that she did. there were other times when dolly and rupert went out in a boat on the sea. steps in the rock led immediately down from the garden to the shore; on the shore were fishermen's huts, and a boat was always to be had. long expeditions by water could not be undertaken, for mrs. copley could not be tempted out on the sea, and she might not be long left alone; but there were lovely hours, when rupert rowed the boat over the golden and purple waves, when all the air seemed rosy and all the sea enamelled, and the sky and the clouds (as rupert said) were as if they had come out of a fairy book; every colour was floating there and sending down a paradise of broken rainbows upon water and land and the heads of the two pleasure-takers. but even at sorrento there was a shadow over dolly. for the first weeks the gentlemen, that is, mr. copley and his supposed secretary, made numerous excursions. mrs. copley utterly declined to take part in anything that could be called an excursion; and dolly would not go without her. lawrence and mr. copley therefore went whither they would alone, and saw everything that could be seen within two or three days of sorrento; for they were gone sometimes as long as that. they took provisions with them; and dolly sadly feared, nay, she knew, that wines formed a large part of their travelling stock on these occasions; she feared, even, no small part of the attraction of them. mr. copley generally came back not exactly the same as when he went; there was an indescribable look and air which made dolly's heart turn cold; a disreputable air of license, as if he had been indulging himself in spite of strong pledges given, and in disregard of gentle influences that were trying to deter him. and when he had not been on excursions, dolly often knew that he had found his favourite beverage somewhere and was a trifle the worse for it. what could she do? she asked herself with a feeling almost of desperation. she had done all she knew; what remained? her father was well aware how she felt. yet no! not that. he could not have the faintest conception of the torture he gave his daughter by making her ashamed of him, nor of the fearful dread which lay upon her of what his habit of indulgence might end in. if he _had_, mr. copley could not, at this stage of things at least, have borne it. he must have yielded up anything or borne anything, rather than that she should bear this. but he was a man, and could not guess it; if he had been told, he would not have understood it; so he had his pleasure, and his child's heart was torn with sorrow and shame. there came a day at last when in their lodgings mr. copley called for a bottle of wine at dinner. dolly's heart gave a great jump. "o father, we do not want wine!" she cried pleadingly. "i do," said mr. copley, "and st. leger does. nonsense, my dear! no gentleman takes his dinner without his wine. isn't it so, lawrence?" and the wine was brought, and the two gentlemen helped themselves. mrs. copley accepted a little; rupert,--dolly looked to see what he would do,--rupert quietly put it by. so it had come to this again. not all her prayers and tears and known wishes could hold her father back from his desire. the desire must already be very strong! dolly kept her composure with difficulty. she ate no more dinner. and it was a relief to thoughts she could scarcely bear, when rupert in the evening asked her to go out and take a row on the water. such an evening as it was! dolly ran gladly down the rocky steps which led to the shore, and eagerly followed rupert into the boat. she thought to escape from her trouble for a while. instead of that, when the boat got away from the shore, and dolly was floating on the crimson and purple sea, with a flush of crimson and purple sent down upon her from the clouds, and everything in the world glowing with colour or tipped with gold,--her face as she gazed into the glory took such an expression of wan despair, that rupert forgot where he was. greatly he longed to say something to break up that look; and could not find the words. the beauty and the peace of the external world wrought, as it sometimes does, by the power of contrast; and had set dolly to thinking of her father and of his and her very doubtful future. what would become of him if his present manner of life went on?--and what would become of his wife and of her? what could she do, more than she had done, in vain? dolly tried to think, and could not find. suddenly, by some sweet association of rays of light, there came into her mind the night before christmas, and the moonshine in christina's room, and the words that were so good to her then. "who shall separate us from the love of christ?" yes, thought dolly,--that is sure. nothing can come between. nothing can take _that_ joy from me; "neither death nor life; nor things present, nor things to come." but, oh! i wish my father and mother had it too!--with that came a rush of tears to her eyes; she turned her face away from rupert so that he might not see them. had she done anything, made any efforts, to bring them to that knowledge? with her mother, yes; with her father, no. it had seemed hopelessly difficult. how could she set about it? as she pondered this question, rupert saw that the expression of her face had changed, and now he ventured to speak. "miss dolly, you set me a thinking in rome." "did i?" said dolly, brightening. "about what?" "and in naples you drove the nail further in." "what nail? what are you talking about, rupert?" "do you remember what you said when we were coming from the capitoline museum? we were looking at the colosseum." "i do not recollect." "i do. you drove the nail in then; and when we were in naples, at the museum there, you gave it another hit. it's in now." dolly could not help laughing. "you are quite a riddle, rupert. i make nothing of it." "miss dolly, i've been thinking that i will go home." "home?" and dolly's face now grew very grave indeed. "yes. i've been splitting my head thinking; and i've about made up my mind. i think i'll go home." rupert was very serious too, and pulled the oars with a leisurely, mechanical stroke, which showed he was not thinking of _them_. "what home? london, do you mean?" "well, not exactly. i should think not! no, i mean boston, or lynn rather. there's my old mother." "oh!--your mother," said dolly slowly. "and she is at lynn. is she _alone_ there?" "she's been alone ever since i left her; and i'm thinking that's what she hadn't ought to be." dolly paused. the indication seemed to be, that rupert was taking up the notion of duty; duty towards others as well as pleasure for himself; and a great throb of gladness came up in her heart, along with the sudden shadow of what was not gladness. "i think you are quite right, rupert," she said soberly. "then you are purposing to go back to lynn to take care of her?" "i set out to see the world and to be something," rupert went on, looking thoughtfully out to sea;--"and i've done one o' the two. i've seen the world. i don' know as i should ever be anything, if i staid in it. but your talk that day--those days--wouldn't go out of my head; and i thought i'd give it up, and go home to my old mother." "i'll tell you what i think, rupert," said dolly; "a man is a great deal more likely to come out right in the end and 'be something,' if he follows god's plan for him, than if he makes a plan for himself. anyhow, i'd rather have that 'well done,' by and by"---- she stopped. "how's a man to find out god's plan for him?" "just the way you are doing. when work is set before you, take hold of it. when the lord has some more for you he'll let you know." "then you think this _is_ my work, miss dolly, to go home and take care of her? she wanted me to make a man of myself; and when mr. copley made me his offer, she didn't hold me back. but she cried some!" "you cannot do another so manly a thing as this, rupert. i wouldn't let her cry any more, if i were you." "no more i ain't a-goin' to," said the young man energetically. "but, miss dolly"---- "what?" "do you think it is my duty, because i do one thing, to do t'other? do you think i ought to take to shoemaking?" "why to shoemaking, rupert?" "well, my father was a shoemaker. they're all shoemakers at lynn, pretty much." "that is no reason why you should be. your education, the education you have got since you came over to this side, has fitted you for something else, if you like something else better." "that's just what i do!" said rupert with emphasis. "but i could make a good living that way--i was brought up to it, you see;--and i s'pose _she'd_ like me to take up the old business; but i feel like driving an awl through a board whenever i think of it." "i wouldn't do it, rupert, if i could do something i was more fit for. people always do things best that they like to do. i think the choice of a business is your affair. do what you can do best. but i'd make shoes rather than do nothing." "i don't know what i am fit for," said rupert, evidently relieved, "but--oh yes, i would _cobble_ shoes rather than do nothing. i don't want to eat idle bread. then i'll go." "your experience here, in london and on this journey, will not have been lost to you," dolly observed. "it's been the best thing ever happened to me, this journey," said the young man. "and you've done me more good, miss dolly, than anybody in this world,--if it ain't my mother." "i? i am very glad. i am sure you have done a great deal for me, rupert." "you have put me upon thinking. and till a fellow begins to think, he ain't much more good than a cabbage." "when will you go, rupert? i wish we were going too!" "well, i guess my old mother has sat lookin' for me long enough. i guess i'll start pretty soon." "will you?" said dolly. "but not before we have made our visit to mrs. thayer's villa? we are going there next week." "i'll start then, i guess." "and not go with us to the thayers'?" "i guess not." "didn't they invite you?" "not a bit of it! took good care not, i should say." "how do you mean?" "well, miss dolly, mrs. thayer was standing two feet from me and asking mr. st. leger, and she didn't look my way till she had got through and was talking of something else; and then she looked as if i had been a pane of glass and she was seeing something on the other side--as i suppose she was." dolly was silent for a few minutes and then she said, "how i shall miss you, rupert!"--and tears were near, though she would not let them come. and rupert made no answer at all, but rowed the boat in. yes, dolly knew she would miss him sadly. he had been her helper and standby and agent and escort and friend, in many a place now, and on many an occasion. he had done for her what there was no one else to do, ever since that first evening when he had made his appearance at brierley and she had wished him away. so little do people recognise their blessings often at first sight. now,--dolly pondered as she climbed the cliff,--how would she get along without rupert? how long would her father even be content to abide with her mother and her in their quiet way of living? she had seen symptoms of restlessness already. what should she do if he became impatient? if he left them to st. leger's care and went back to london? or if he carried them off with him perhaps? to london again! and then afresh came the former question, what was there in her power, that might draw her father to take deeper and truer views of life and duty than he was taking now? a question that greatly bothered dolly; for there was dimly looming up in the distance an answer that she did not like. to attack her father in private on the subject of religion, was a step that dolly thought very hopeless; he simply would not hear her. but there was another thing she could do--could she do it? persuade her father and mother to consent to have family prayer? dolly's heart beat and her breath came quick as she passed through the little garden, sweet with roses and oleander and orange blossoms. how sweet the flowers were! how heavenly fair the sky over her head! so it ought to be in people's hearts, thought dolly;--so in mine. and if it were, i should not be afraid of anything that was right to do. and this _is_ right to do. dolly avoided the saloon where the rest of the family were, and betook herself to her own room; to consider and to pray over her difficulties, and also to get rid of a few tears and bring her face into its usual cheerful order. when at last she went down, she found her mother alone, but her father almost immediately joined them. the windows were open towards the sea, the warm, delicious air stole in caressingly, the scent of roses and orange blossoms and carnations filled the house and seemed to fill the world; moonlight trembled on the leaves of the fig-tree, and sent lines of silver light into the room. the lamp was lowered and mrs. copley sat doing nothing, in a position of satisfied enjoyment by the window. as dolly came in by one door, mr. copley entered by another, and flung himself down on a chair; his action speaking neither enjoyment nor satisfaction. "well!" said he. "how much longer do you think you can stand this sort of thing?" "what sort of thing, father?" "do you sit in the dark usually?" "come here, father," said dolly, "come to the window and see the moonshine on the sea. do you call that dark?" "your father never cared for moonshine, dolly," said mrs. copley. "no, that's true," said mr. copley with a short laugh. "haven't you got almost enough of it?" "of moonshine, father?" "yes--on the bay of sorrento. it's a lazy place." "you have not been very lazy since you have been here," said his wife. "well, i have seen all there is to be seen; and now i am ready for something else. aren't you?" "but, father," said dolly, "i suppose, just because sorrento is what you call a lazy place it is good for mother." "change is good for her too--hey, wife?" "you will have a change next week, father; you know we are going for that visit to the thayers." "we shall not want to stay there long," said mr. copley; "and then we'll move." nobody answered. dolly looked out sorrowfully upon the beautiful bright water. sorrento had been a place of peace to her. must she go so soon? the scent of myrtles and roses and oranges came in bewilderingly at the open window, pleading the cause of "lazy" sorrento with wonderfully persuasive flatteries. was there any other place in the world so sweet? dolly clung to it, in heart; yearned towards it; the glories of the southern sun were what she had never imagined, and she longed to stay to enjoy and wonder at them. the fruits, the flowers, the sunny air, the fulness and variedness of the colouring on land and sea, the leisure and luxury of bountiful nature,--dolly was loath, loath to leave them all. no other sorrento, she was ready to believe, would ever reveal itself to her vision; and she shrank a little from the somewhat rough way she had been travelling before and must travel again. and now in the further way, rupert, her helper and standby, would not be with her. then again came the words of christmas eve to her--"who shall separate us from the love of christ?"--and with the words came the recollection of the new bit of service dolly had found to do in her return and answer to that love. yet she hesitated, and her heart began to beat faster, and she made no move until her father began to ask if it were not time to leave the moonlight and go to bed. dolly came from the window, then to the table where the lowered lamp stood. "mother and father, i should like to do something," she said with an interrupted breath. "would you mind--may i--will you let me read a chapter to you before we go?" "a chapter of what?" said her father; though he knew well enough. "the bible." there was a pause. mrs. copley stirred uneasily, but left the answer for her husband to give. it came at last, coldly. "there is no need for you to give yourself that trouble, my dear. i suppose we can all read the bible for ourselves." "but not as a family, father?" "what do you mean, dolly?" "father, don't you think we ought together, as a family,--don't you think we ought to read the bible together? it concerns us all." "it's very kind of you, my daughter; but i approve of everybody managing his own affairs," mr. copley said, as he rose and lounged, perhaps with affected carelessness, out of the room. dolly stood a moment. "may i read to you, mother?" "if you like," said mrs. copley nervously; "though i don't see, as your father says, why we cannot every one read for ourselves. why did you say that to your father, dolly? he didn't like it." dolly made no reply. she knelt down by the low table to bring her bible near the light, and read a psalm, her voice quivering a little. she wanted comfort for herself, and half unconsciously she chose the twenty-seventh psalm. "'the lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall i fear? the lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall i be afraid?'" her voice grew steady as she went on; but when she has finished, her mother was crying. chapter xxviii. at the villa. the place inhabited by the thayers was a regular italian villa. it had not been at all in order that suited english notions of comfort, or american either, when they moved in; but they had painted and matted and furnished, and filled the rooms with pretty things, pictures and statues and vases and flowers; till it looked now quite beautiful and festive. its situation was perfect. the house stood high, on the shore overlooking the sea, with a full view of vesuvius, and it was surrounded with a paradise of orange-trees, fig-trees, pomegranates, olives, oaks and oleanders, with roses and a multitude of other flowers; in a wealth of sweetness and luxuriance of growth that northern climes know nothing of. the reception the visitors met with was joyous. "i am so glad you are come!" cried christina, as she carried off dolly through the hall to her particular room. "that bad boy, sandie, has not reported yet; but he will come; and then we will go everywhere. have you been everywhere already?" "i have been nowhere. i have staid with mother, and she wanted to be quiet." "well, she can be quiet now with my mother; they can take care of each other. and you have not been to capri?" "no." "just think of it! how delightful! you have not seen the grotta azzurra?" "i have seen nothing." "nor the grotto of the sirens? you have seen _that?_ it was so near." "no, i have not. i have been nowhere; only with mother to gather ferns and flowers in the dells around sorrento. we used to take mother in a donkey cart--a calessino--to the edge of the side of the dell, and then help her down, and get loads of flowers and ferns. it was very pleasant." "i wish sandie would only come--the tiresome fellow! there's no counting on him. but he will come. he said he would if he could, and he can of course. i suppose you have not visited paestum yet then?" "i believe father went there. we did not." "nor we, yet. i don't care so much--only i like to keep going--but father is crazy to see the ruins. you know the ruins are wonderful. do you care for ruins?" "i believe i do," said dolly, smiling, "when the ruins are of something beautiful. and those greek temples--oh, i _should_ like to see them." "i would rather see beautiful things when they are perfect; not in ruins; ruins are sad, don't you think so?" "i suppose they ought to be," said dolly, laughing now. "but somehow, christina, i believe the ruins give me more pleasure than if they were all new and perfect--or even old and perfect. it is a perverse taste, i suppose, but i do." "why? they are not so handsome in ruins." "they are lovelier." "lovely!--for old ruins! i can understand papa's enthusiasm; he's a kind of antiquity worshipper; but you--and 'lovely!'" "and interesting, christina. ruins tell of so much; they are such grand books of history, and witnesses for things gone by. but beautiful--oh yes, beautiful beyond all others, if you talk of buildings. what is st. peter's, compared to the colosseum?" christina stared at her friend. "what is st. peter's? a most magnificent work of modern art, i should say; and you compare it to a tumbledown old bit of barbarism. that's _too_ like sandie. do you and your friend agree as harmoniously as sandie and i? we ought to exchange." "i have no 'friend,' as you express it," said dolly, pulling her wayward, curling locks into a little more order. "mr. st. leger is nothing to me--if you are speaking of him." "i am sure, if he told the truth, he would not say that of you," said christina, looking with secret admiration at the figure before her. it was a rare kind of beauty, not of the stereotyped or formal sort; like one of the dainty old vases of alabaster, elegant in form and delicate and exquisite in chiselling and design, with a pure inner light showing through. that was not the comparison in christina's mind, and indeed she made none; but women's eyes are sometimes sharp to see feminine beauty; and she confessed that dolly's was uncommon, not merely in degree but in kind. there was nothing conventional about it; there never had been; her curling hair took a wayward way of its own; her brown eyes had a look of thoughtfulness mingled with childlike innocence; they always had it more or less; now the wisdom was more sweet and the innocence more spiritual. her figure and her manner were all in harmony, wearing unconscious grace and a very simple, free dignity. "we cannot go to paestum at this season of the year, they say," christina began again, at a distance from her thoughts; "but one _can_ go to the punta di campanella and monte san costanzo; and as soon as sandie comes, we will. we will wait a day for him first." dolly was quite willing to wait for him; for, to tell the truth, one of her pleasures in the thought of this visit had been the possibility of seeing mr. shubrick again. she did not say so, however; and the two girls presently went back to the hall. this was a luxurious apartment, occupying the centre of the house; octagonal, and open to the outer world both at front and back. warm and yet fresh air was playing through it; the odours of flowers filled it; the most commodious of light chairs and settees furnished it; and scattered about the wide, delicious space were the various members of the party. mrs. thayer and mrs. copley had been sitting together; just now, as the girls entered, mrs. thayer called st. leger to her. "i am delighted to see you here, mr. st. leger," she said graciously. "you know your father was a very old friend of mine." "that gives me a sort of claim to your present kindness," said st. leger. "you might put in a claim to kindness anywhere," returned the lady. "don't you get it, now, if you tell the truth?" "i have no reason to complain--in general," said the young man, smiling. "you are a little like your father. he was another. we were great cronies when i was a girl. in fact, he was an old beau of mine. we used to see a vast deal of each other;--flirting, i suppose you would call it; but how are young people to get along without flirting? i liked him very much, for i always had a fancy for handsome men; and if you ask him, he will tell you that i was handsome too at that time. oh, i was! you may look at me and be incredulous; but i was a belle in those days; and i had a great many handsome men around me, and some not handsome. ....was i english? no. you don't understand how i could have seen so much of your father. well, never doubt a story till you have heard the whole of it. i was an american girl; but my father and mother were both dead, and i was sent to england, to be brought up by an aunt, who was the nearest relation i had in the world. she had married an englishman and settled in england." "then we may claim you," said lawrence. "to all intents and purposes you are english." "might have been," returned mrs. thayer. "the flirtation ran very high, i can tell you, between your father and me. he was a poor man then. i understand he has nobly recovered from that fault. is it true? people say he is made of gold." "there is no lack of the material article," lawrence admitted. "no. well, the other sort we know he had, or this would never be true of him now. i did not look so far ahead then. there is no telling what would have happened, but for a little thing. just see how things go. i might have married in england, and all my life would have been different; and then came along mr. thayer. and the way i came to know him was this. a cousin of mine in america was going to be married, and her friend was a friend of mr. thayer. mr. thayer was coming over to england, and my cousin charged him with a little piece of wedding cake in white paper to bring to me. just that little white packet! and mr. thayer brought it, and we saw one another, and the end was, i have lived my life on the other side instead of on this side." "it's our loss, i am sure," said st. leger civilly. "you are too polite to say it is mine, but i know you think so. perhaps it is. at any rate, i was determined, and am determined, that my daughter shall see and choose for herself which hemisphere she will live in. what are you doing in italy?" "what everybody does in italy, looking at the old and enjoying the new." "ah, that's what it is!" said mrs. thayer approvingly. "that is what one enjoys. but my husband is one of the other sort. we divide italy between us. he looks at the marbles, and i eat the pomegranates. do you like pomegranates?--no? i delight in them, and in everything else fresh and new and sweet and acid. but what i want to know, mr. st. leger, is--how come these old ruins to be so worth looking at? hasn't the human race made progress? can't we raise as good buildings now-a-days, and as good to see, as those old heathen did?" "i suppose we can, when we copy their work exactly." "but how is that? christians ought to do better work than heathens. i do not understand it." "no," said st. leger, "i do not understand it." "old poetry--that's what they study so much at oxford and cambridge, and everywhere else;--and old pictures, and old statues. i think the world ought to grow wiser as it grows older. i believe it is prejudice. there's my husband crazy to go to paesturn,--i'm glad he can't; the marshes or something are so unhealthy; but i'm going to arrange for you an expedition to the punta--punta di something--the toe of the boot, you know; it's delightful; you go on donkeys, and you have the most charming views, and what i know you like better than anything,--the most charming opportunities for flirtation." "it will have to be miss thayer and i then," said lawrence. "miss copley does not know how." "nonsense! don't tell me. every girl does. she has her own way, i suppose. makes it more piquant--and _piquing_." lawrence looked over towards the innocent face, so innocent of anything false, he knew, or even of anything ambiguous; a face of pure womanly nature, childlike in its naturalness, although womanly in its gravity. perhaps he drew a swift comparison between a man's chances with a face of that sort, and the counter advantages of christina's more conventional beauty. mr. thayer had sat down beside dolly and was drawing her into talk. "you are fond of art, miss copley. i remember we met you first in the room of the dying gladiator, in the capitoline museum. but everybody has to go to see the dying gladiator and the rest." "i suppose so," said dolly. "i remember, though, i thought you were enjoying it." "oh, i was." "i can always find out whether people really enjoy things. how many times did you go to see the gladiator? let me see,--you were in rome three months?" "nearer four." "four! well, and how many times did you see the gladiator?" "i don't quite know. half a dozen times, i think. i went until i had got it by heart; and now i can look at it whenever i like." "humph!" said mr. thayer. "the only thing christina wanted to see a second time was the mosaics; and those she did not get by heart exactly, but brought them away, a good many of them, bodily. and have you developed any taste for architecture during your travels?" "i take great pleasure in some architecture," said dolly. "may i ask what instances? i am curious to see how our tastes harmonise." "ah, but i know nothing about it," said dolly. "i am entirely--or almost entirely--ignorant; and you know and understand." "'almost entirely?'" said mr. thayer. "you have studied the subject?" "a little," said dolly, smiling and blushing. "do favour me. i am desirous to know what you have seen that particularly pleased you." "the cathedral at limburg." "limburg. oh--ah! yes, it was _there_ we first met you. i was thinking it was in the museum of the capitol. limburg. you liked that?" "very much!" "romanesque--or rather transition." "i do not know what romanesque is, or transition either." "did you notice the round arches and the pointed arches?" "i do not remember. yes, i do remember the round arches; but i was thinking rather of the effect of the whole." "the church at limburg shows a mixture of the round romanesque and the pointed gothic; gothic was preparing; that sort of thing belongs to the first half of the thirteenth century. well, that bespeaks very good taste. what next would you mention, miss dolly?" "i don't know; i have enjoyed so many things. perhaps i should say the doge's palace at venice." "ha! the doge's palace, hey? you like the pink and white marble." "don't you, mr. thayer?" "that's not what one looks for in architecture. what do you say to st. peter's?" "you will find a great deal of fault with me. i did not care for it." "not? it is michael angelo's work." "but knowing the artist is no reason for admiring the work," said dolly, smiling. "you are very independent! st. peter's! not to admire st. peter's!" "i admired the magnificence, and the power, and a great many things; but i did not like the building. not nearly so much as some others." "now i wish we could go to paestum, and see what you would say to pure old greek work. but it would be as much as our lives are worth, i suppose." "yes, mr. thayer," his wife cried; "don't talk about paestum; they are going to-morrow to the point." "the point? what point? the coast is full of points." "the punta di campanella, papa," said christina. "i thought you were going to capri?" "we'll keep capri till sandie comes. he would be a help on the water. all our marine excursions we will keep until sandie comes. i only hope he'll be good and come." the very air seemed full of pleasant anticipations; and dolly would have been extremely happy; was happy; until on going in to dinner she saw the wineglasses on the table, and bottles suspiciously cooling in water. her heart sank down, down. if she had had time and had dared, she would have remonstrated; but yet what could she say? she knew, too, that the wine at mr. thayer's table, like everything else on it, would be of the best procurable; better and more alluring than her father could get elsewhere. in her secret heart there was a bitter unspoken cry of remonstrance. o friends! o friends!--she was ready to say,--do you know what you are doing? you are dropping sweet poison into my life; bitter poison; deadly poison, where you little think it; and you do it with smiles and coloured glasses! she could hardly eat her dinner. she saw with indescribable pain and a sort of powerless despair, how mr. copley felt the license of his friend's house and example, and how the delicacy of the vintages offered him acted to dull his conscience; mr. thayer praising them and hospitably pressing his guest to partake. he himself drank very moderately and in a kind of mere matter-of-fact way; it was part of the dinner routine; and st. leger tasted, as a man who knows indeed what is good, but also makes it a matter of no moment; no more than his bread or his napkin. mr. copley drank with eager gusto, and glass after glass; even, dolly thought, in a kind of bravado. and this would go on every day while their visit lasted; and perhaps not at dinner only; there were luncheons, and for aught she knew, suppers. dolly's heart was hot within her; so hot that after dinner she could not keep herself from speaking on the subject to christina. yet she must begin as far from her father as possible. the two girls were sitting on the bank under a fig-tree, looking out on the wonderful spectacle of the bay of naples at evening. "there is a matter i have been thinking a great deal about lately," she said, with a little heartbeat at her daring. "i daresay," laughed christina. "that is quite in your way. oh, i do wish sandie would come! he _ought_ to be here." "this is no laughing matter, christina. it is a serious question." "you are never anything but serious, are you?" said her friend. "if you have a fault, it is that, dolly. you don't laugh enough." dolly was silent and swallowed her answer; for what did christina know about it? _she_ had not to watch over her father; her father watched over her. presently she began again; her voice had a little strain in its tone. "this is something for you and me to consider; for you and me, and other women who can do anything. christina, did you ever think about the use of wine?" "wine?" echoed miss thayer, a good deal mystified. "the use of it? i don't know any use of it, except to give people, gentlemen, something to talk of at dinner. oh, it is good in sickness, i suppose. what are you thinking of?" "i am thinking of the harm it does," said dolly in a low voice. "harm? what harm? you are not one of those absurd people i have heard of, who cut down their apple-trees for fear the apples will be made into cider?" "i have no apple-trees to cut down," said dolly. "but don't you know, christina, that there is such a thing as drinking too much wine? and what comes of it?" "not among our sort of people," said christina. "i know there are such things as drunkards; but they are in the lower classes, who drink whisky and gin. not among gentlemen." dolly choked, and turned her face away to hide the eyes full of tears. "too much wine?" christina repeated. "one may have too much of anything. too much fire will burn up your house; yet fire is a good thing." "that's only burning up your house," said dolly sorrowfully. "_only_ burning up your house! dolly copley, what are you thinking of?" "i am thinking of something infinitely worse. i am thinking of a man losing his manhood; of families losing their stay and their joy, because the father, or the husband, or the brother, has lost himself!--gone down below his standing as an intellectual creature;--become a mere animal, given up to low pleasures which make him sink lower and lower in the scale of humanity. i am thinking of _his_ loss and of _their_ loss, christina. i am thinking of the dreadfulness of being ashamed of the dearest thing you have, and the way hearts break under it. and don't you know that when the love of wine and the like gets hold of a person, it is stronger than he is? it makes a slave of him, so that he cannot help himself." christina's thoughts made a rapid flight over all the persons for whom dolly could possibly fear such a fate, or in whom she could possibly have seen such an example. but mr. st. leger had the clear, fresh colour of perfect health and condition; mr. copley loved wine evidently, but drank it like a gentleman, and gave, to her eyes, no sign of being enslaved. what could dolly be thinking of? her mother was out of the question. "i don't make out what you are at, dolly," she said. "such things do not happen in our class of society." "yes, they do. they happen in every class. and the highest ought to set an example to the lowest." "no use if they did. anyhow, dolly, it is nothing you and i can meddle with." "i think we ought not to have wine on our tables." "mercy! everybody does that." "it is offering temptation." "to whom? our friends are not that sort of people." "how do you know but they may be? how can you tell but the taste or the tendency may be where you least think of it?" "you don't mean that mr. st. leger has anything of that sort?" said christina, facing round upon her. "no more than other people, so far as i know. i am speaking in general, christina. the thing is in the world; and we, i do think, we whose example would influence people,--i suppose everybody's example influences somebody else--i think we ought to do what we can." "and not have wine on our dinner-tables!" "would that be so very dreadful?" "it would be very inconvenient, i can tell you, and very disagreeable. fancy! no wine on the table. no one could understand it. and how our dinner-tables would look, dolly, with the wine-glasses and the decanters taken off! and then, what would people talk about? wine is such a help in getting through with a dinner-party. people who do not know anything else, and cannot talk of anything else, can taste wine; and have plenty to say about its colour, and its _bouquet_, and its age, and its growth, and its manufacture, and where it can be got genuine, and how it can be adulterated. and so one gets through with the dinner quite comfortably." "i should not want to see people who knew no more than that," said dolly. "oh, but you must." "why?" "and it does not do to be unfashionable." "why, christina! do you recollect what is said in the epistle of john--'the world knoweth us not'? i do not see how a christian _can_ be fashionable. to be fashionable, one must follow the ways of the world." "well, we must follow some of them," cried christina, flaring up, "or people will not have anything to do with you." "that's what christ said,--'because ye are not of the world, ... therefore the world hateth you.'" "do you like to have people hate you?" "no; but rather that than have jesus say i do not belong to him." "dolly," said christina, "you are _very_ high-flown! that might just do for one of sandie's speeches." "i am glad mr. shubrick is such a wise man." "he's just a bit too wise for me. you see, i am not so superior. i should like to take him down a peg. and i--will if he don't come soon." he did not come in time for the next day's pleasure-party; so the young ladies had only mr. st. leger and mr. thayer to accompany them. mrs. copley "went on no such tramps," she said; and mrs. thayer avowed she was tired of them. the expedition took all day, for they went early and came back late, to avoid the central heat of midday. it was an extremely beautiful little journey; the road commanding a long series of magnificent views, almost from their first setting out. they went on donkeys, which was a favourite way with dolly; at massa they stopped for a cup of coffee; they climbed monte san costanzo; interviewed the hermit and enjoyed the prospect; and finally settled themselves for as pleasant a rest as possible among the myrtles on the solitary point of the coast. from here their eyes had a constant regale. the blue mediterranean spread out before them, capri in the middle distance, and the beauties of the shore nearer by, were an endless entertainment for dolly. christina declared she had seen it all before; mr. thayer found nothing worthy of much attention unless it had antiquities to be examined; and the fourth member of the party was somewhat too busy with human and social interests to leave his attention free. mr. st. leger had been now for a long time very unobtrusive in his attentions to dolly, and dolly partly hoped he had given her up; but that was a mistake. perhaps he thought it was only a matter of time, for dolly to get acquainted with him and accustomed to him; perhaps he thought himself sure of his game, if the fish had only line enough. having the powerful support of dolly's father and mother, all worldly interests on the side of his suit, a person and presence certainly unobjectionable, to say the least; how could a girl like dolly, in the long run, remain unimpressed? he would give her time. meanwhile, mr. st. leger was enjoying himself; seeing her daily and familiarly; he could wait comfortably. it would appear by all this that lawrence was not an ardent man; but constitutions are different; there is an ardour of attack, and there is an ardour of persistence; and the latter, i think, belonged to him. besides, he had sense enough to see that a too eager pressing of his cause with dolly would ruin all. so he had waited, not discontentedly, and bided his time. now, however, he began to think it desirable on many accounts to have the question decided. mr. copley would not stay much longer in italy, lawrence was certain, and the present way of life would come to an end; if his advantages were ever to bear fruit, it should be ripe now. moreover, one or two other, and seemingly inconsistent, considerations came in. lawrence admired miss thayer. her beauty was even more striking, to his fancy, than dolly's; if it were also more like other beauties he had seen. she had money too, and dolly had none. truly, mr. st. leger had enough of his own; but when did ever a man with enough not therefore desire more? he admired christina very much; she suited him; if dolly should prove after all obdurate, here was his chance for making himself amends. cool! for an ardent lover; but mr. st. leger _was_ of a calm temperament, and these suggestions did come into his mind back of his liking for dolly. this liking was strong upon him the day of the excursion to the punta di campanella. of necessity he was christina's special attendant, mr. thayer being dolly's. many girls would not have relished such an arrangement, lawrence knew; his sisters would not. and dolly was in an acme of delight. lawrence watched her whenever they came near each other, and marvelled at the sweet, childish-womanish face. it was in a ripple of pleasure; the brown, considerate eyes were sparkling, roving with quick, watchful glances over everything, and losing as few as possible of the details of the way. talking to mr. thayer now and then, lawrence saw her, with the most innocent, sweet mouth in the world; her smile and that play of lip and eye bewitched him whenever he got a glimpse of it. the play of christina's features was never so utterly free, so absent from thought of self, so artless in its fun. now and then, too, there came the soft, low ring of a clear voice, in laughter or talking, bearing the same characteristics of a sweet spirit and a simple heart; and yet, when in repose, dolly's face was strong in its sense and womanliness. the combination held mr. st. leger captive. i do not know how he carried on his needful attentions to his companion; with a mechanical necessity, i suppose; when all the while he was watching dolly and contrasting the two girls. he was not such a fool as not to know which indications promised him the best wife; or if not him, the man who could get her. and he resolved, if a chance offered, he would speak to dolly that very day. for here was christina, if his other hope failed. he _was_ cool; nevertheless, he was in earnest. they had climbed up monte san costanzo and admired the view. they had rested, and enjoyed a capital lunch among the myrtles on the point. it was when they were on their way home in the afternoon, and not till then, that the opportunity presented itself which he had wished for. on the way home, the order of march was broken up. christina sometimes dropped st. leger to ride with her father; sometimes called dolly to be her companion; and at last, declaring that she did not want mr. st. leger to have a sense of sameness about the day, she set off with her father ahead, begging dolly to amuse the other gentleman. which dolly made not the least effort to do. the scenery was growing more lovely with every minute's lengthening shadows; and she rode along, giving all her attention to it, not making to mr. st. leger even the remarks she might have made to mr. thayer. the change of companions to her was not welcome. st. leger found the burden of conversation must lie upon him. "we have not seen much of each other for a long time," he began. "only two or three times a day," said dolly. "and you think that is enough, perhaps!" said lawrence hastily. "don't you think more would have a tendency to produce what christina calls a 'sense of sameness'?" said dolly, turning towards him a face all dimpled with fun. "that is according to circumstances. the idea is not flattering. but, miss dolly," said lawrence, pulling himself up, "in all this while--these months--that we have been travelling together, we have had time to learn to know each other pretty well. _you_ must have been able to make up your mind about me." "which part of your character?" "miss dolly," said lawrence with some heat, "you know what i mean." "do i? but i did not know that i had to make up my mind about anything concerning you; i thought that was done long ago." "and you do not like me any better now than you did then?" "perhaps i do," said dolly slowly. "i always liked you, mr. st. leger, and i had cause. you have been a very kind friend to us." "for your sake, dolly." "i am sorry for that," she said. "and i have waited all this time in the hope that you would get accustomed to me, and your objections would wear away. you know what your father and mother wish concerning us. does their wish not weigh with you?" "no," said dolly very quietly. "this is my affair, not theirs." "it is their affair so far as your interests are involved. and i do not wish to praise myself; but you know they think that those interests would be secured by a marriage with me. and i believe i could make you happy, dolly." dolly shook her head. "how could you?" she said. "we belong to two opposite parties, and are following two different lines of life. you would not like my way, and i should not like yours. how could either of us be happy?" "even granting all that," said lawrence, "why should you not bear with my peculiarities, and i with yours, and neither be the worse? that is very frequently done." "is it? i do not think it ought to be done." "let us prove that it can be. i will never interfere with you, dolly." "yes, you would," said dolly, dimpling all over again. "do you think you would make up your mind to have no wine in your cellar or on your table? take that for one thing. i should have no wine on mine." "that's a crotchet of yours," said he, smiling at her: he thought if _this_ were all, the thing might be managed. "that is only one thing, mr. st. leger," dolly went on very gravely now. "i should be unfashionable in a hundred ways, and you would not like that. i should spend money on objects and for causes that you would not care about nor agree to. i am telling you all this to reconcile you to doing without me." "your refusal is absolute, then?" "yes." "you would not bring up these extraneous things, dolly, if you had any love for me." "i do not know why that should make any difference. it might make it hard." "then you _have_ no love for me?" "i am afraid not," said dolly gently. "not what you mean. and without that, you would not wish for a different answer from me." "yes, i would!" said he. "all that would come; but you know your own business best." dolly thought she did, and the proposition remained uncontroverted. therewith the discourse died; and the miles that remained were made in unsocial silence. dolly feared she had given some pain, but doubted it could not be very great; and she was glad to have the explanation over. perhaps the pain was more than she knew, although lawrence certainly was not a desperate wooer; nevertheless, he was disappointed, and he was mortified, and mortification is hard to a man. for the matter of that, it is hard to anybody. it was not till the villa occupied by the thayers was close before them that he spoke again. "do you expect to stay much longer in italy?" "i am afraid not," dolly answered. "i have reason to think mr. copley will not. indeed, i know as much. i thought you might like to be informed." dolly said nothing. her eyes roved over the beautiful bay, almost with an echo of eve's "must i then leave thee, paradise?" in her heart. the smoke curling up from vesuvius caught the light; little sails skimming over the sea reflected it; the sweetness of thousands of roses and orange blossoms, and countless other flowers, filled all the air; it was a time and a scene of nature's most abundant and beautiful bounty. dolly checked her donkey, and for a few minutes stood looking; then with a brave determination that she would enjoy it all as much as she could while she had it, she went into the house. chapter xxix. whither now? the days that followed were full of pleasure; and dolly kept to her resolution, not to spoil the present by care about the future. indeed, the balmy air and the genial light and all the wealth that nature has bestowed upon southern italy, were a help to such a resolution. the infinite lavish fulness of the present quite laughed at the idea of barrenness or want anywhere in time to come. dolly knew that was nature's subtle flattery, not to be trusted, and yet she willingly admitted the flattery. nothing should spoil these days. one evening she and christina were sitting again on the bank, wondering at the marvellous sunset panorama. "how difficult it is, looking at this," said dolly, "to believe that there is want and misery in the world." "why should you believe it?" said christina. "i don't think there is, except where people have brought it upon themselves." "people bring it upon other people. but to look at this, one would say it was impossible. and this is how the world was meant to be, i suppose." "what do you mean? how?" said christina. "it is rich to hear you talk." "oh, look at it, christina! look at the colours and the lights and the sparkle everywhere, the perfect wealth of loveliness in form as well as colour; and if you think a minute you will know that he who made it all meant people to be happy, and meant them to be as full of happiness as the earth is full of beauty." "i don't see 'lights' and 'colours' so much as you do, dolly; i am not an artist; but if god meant them to be happy, why aren't they happy?" "sin," said dolly. "what's the use of thinking about it? you and i cannot help it." "christina, that is not true. we can help some of it." "by giving money, you mean? well, we do, whenever we see occasion; but there is no end of the cheatery." "giving money will not take away the world's misery, christina." "what will, then? it will do a good deal." "it will do a good deal, but it does not touch the root of the trouble." "what does, dolly?--you dreamer." "the knowledge of christ." "well, it is the business of clergymen and missionaries to give them that." "prove it." "why, that's what they are for." "do you think there are enough of them to preach the good news to every creature?" "well, then, there ought to be more." "and in the meantime?--tell me, christina, to whom was that command given, to preach the gospel to every creature?" "to the apostles, of course!" "twelve men? or eleven men, rather. they could not. no, it was given to all the disciples; and so, christina, it was given to you, and to me." "to preach the gospel!" said christina. "that is, just to tell the good news." "and to whom do you propose we should tell it?" "the command says, everybody." "how can you and i do that, dolly?" "that is just what i am studying, christina. i do not quite know. but when i look out on all this wonderful beauty, and see what it means, and think how miserable the world is,--just the very opposite,--i feel that i must do it, somehow or other." christina lifted her arms above her head and clapped her hands together. "mad, mad!" she exclaimed--"you are just gone mad, dolly. oh, i wish you'd get married, and forget all your whimsies. the right sort of man would make you forget them. haven't you found the right sort of man yet?" "the right sort of man would help me carry them out." "it must be my sandie, then; there isn't another match for you in extravagant ideas in all this world. what does mr. st. leger think of them?" "i never asked him. i suppose he would take very much your view." "and you don't care what view he takes?" said christina, looking sharply at her. "not in the least. except for his own sake." the one drawback upon the perfect felicity of this visit was, that the said sandie did not appear. they could not wait for him; they went on the most charming of excursions, by sea and land, wishing for him; in which wish dolly heartily shared. it had been one of the pleasures she had promised herself in coming to the thayers' that she should see mr. shubrick again. he had interested her singularly, and even taken not a little hold of her fancy. so she was honestly disappointed when at last a note came from him, saying that he found it impossible to join the party. "that means just that he has something on hand that he calls 'duty'--which anybody else would put off or hand over," said christina, pouting. "duty is a very good reason," said dolly. "don't you see, you are sure of mr. shubrick, that in any case he will not do what he thinks wrong? i think you ought to be a very happy woman, christina." but the excursions were made without mr. shubrick's social or material help. they went to capri; they visited the grottoes; nay, they made a party to go up vesuvius. all that was to be seen, they saw; and, as christina declared, they left nothing undone that they could do. then came the breaking up. "are you expecting to go back to that stuffy little place at sorrento?" mr. copley asked. it was the evening before their departure, and all the party were sitting, scattered about upon the verandah. "father!" cried dolly. "it is the airiest, floweriest, sunniest, brightest, most delightful altogether house, that ever took lodgers in!" "it certainly wasn't stuffy, mr. copley," said his wife. "dolly likes it because you couldn't get a glass of good wine in the house. whatever the rest of humanity like, she makes war upon. i conclude you are reckoning upon going back there, my wife and daughter?" "are not you, mr. copley?" his wife asked. "i must be excused." "then where are you going?" "home." "home!" exclaimed mrs. copley. "do you mean _home?_ boston?" "a boston woman thinks boston is the centre of the universe, you may notice," said mr. copley, turning to mr. thayer. "it's a curious peculiarity. no matter what other cities on the face of the earth you show her, her soul turns back to boston." "don't say anything against boston," said mrs. thayer; "it's a good little place. i know, when mr. thayer first carried me there, it took me a while to get accustomed to it;--things on a different scale, you know, and looked at from a different point of view; but i soon found admirers, and then friends. oh, i assure you, boston and i were very fond of each other in those days; and though i lost my claims to admiration a long time ago, i have kept my friends." "i have no doubt the admirers are still there too," said mr. copley. "does mrs. thayer mean to say she has no admirers? i profess myself one!" "christina takes the admiration now-a-days. i am contented with that." "and so you conquer by proxy." "mr. copley," here put in his wife, "if you do not mean america by 'home,' what do you mean? and where are you going?" "where my home has been for a number of years. england--london." "but you have given up your office?" "i am half sorry, that is a fact." "then what should you do in london?" "my dear, of the many hundred thousands who call london their home, very few have an office." "but they have business of some kind?" "that is a boston notion. did you ever observe, thayer, that a massachusetts man has no idea of life without business? it is the reason why he is in the world, to him; it never occurs to him that _play_ might be occasionally useful. i declare! i believe they don't know the meaning of the word in america; it has dropped out, like a forgotten art." "but, father," dolly spoke up now, "if you are going to london, mother and i cannot possibly go to sorrento." "i don't quite see the logic of that." "why, we cannot be here in italy quite alone." "i'll leave you st. leger to take care of you and bring you back; as he took you away." "i should be very happy to fall in with that plan," said lawrence slowly; "but i fear i cannot make it out. i have been making arrangements to go into greece, seeing that i am so near it. and i may quite possibly spend another winter in rome." there was a pause, and when mr. copley spoke again there was another sound in his voice. it was not his will to betray it, but dolly heard the chagrin and disappointment. "well," said he, "such independent travellers as you two ladies can do pretty comfortably alone in that paragon of lodging-houses." "but not make the journey home alone, father." "when are you coming?" "when you do, of course," said his wife. dolly knew it must be so and not otherwise. she sat still and down-hearted, looking abroad over the bay of naples, over all the shores of which the moonlight was quivering or lying in still floods of calm beauty. from this, ay, and from everything that was like this, in either its fairness or its tranquillity, she must go. there had been a little lull in her cares since they came to sorrento; the lull was over. back to london!--and that meant, back to everything from which she had hoped to escape. how fondly she had hoped, once her father was away from the scene of his habits and temptations, he could be saved to himself and his family; and perhaps even lured back to america where he would be comparatively safe. now where was that hope, or any other? suddenly dolly changed her place and sat down close beside mr. copley. "father, i wish you would take us back to our real old home--back to roxbury!" "can't do it, my pet." "but, father, why not? what should keep you in england?" "business." "now that you are out of the office?" "yes. do you think all business is confined to the consuls' offices? a few other people have something to do." dolly heard no tone of hope-giving in her father's words. she ceased and sat silent, leaning upon his knee as she was and looking off into the moonlight. mrs. thayer and mr. st. leger were carrying on a lively discourse about people and things unknown to her; mr. thayer was smoking; mrs. copley was silent and sorry and cast-down, like herself, she knew. dolly's eye went roving through the moonlight as if it were never going to see moonlight again; and her heart was taking up the old question, and feeling it too heavy to carry, how should she save her father from his temptation? under the pressure dolly's heart felt very low; until again those words came and lifted her up,--"who shall separate us from the love of christ?" after that the sweet moonbeams seemed to be full of those words. i am _not_ alone, thought dolly, i am _not_ forgotten; and he does not mean that i should be crushed, or hurt, by this arrangement of things, which i strove so to hinder. i will not be one of the "little faith" people. i will just trust the lord--my lord. what i cannot do, he can; and his ways are wonderful and past finding out. so she was quieted. and yet as she sat there it came over dolly's mind, as things will, quite unbidden; it came over her to think how life would go on here, in italy, with christina, after she was gone. when the lovely italian chapter of her own life was closed up and ended, when she would be far away out of sight of vesuvius, in the fogs of london, the sun of naples would still be shining on the thayers' villa. they would go sailing on blue water, or floating over the gold and purple reflections which sometimes seemed to fill both water and air; they would see the white shafts of paestum, yes, it would be soon cool enough for that; or if they must wait for paestum, there were enough old monasteries and ruined castles and beauties of the like sort to keep them busy for many a day. beauties which dolly and mr. thayer loved. nobody else in the house loved them. christina had hardly an eye for them; and st. leger, if he looked, did not care for what he saw. nevertheless, they three would go picnicking through the wonderful old land, where every step was on monumental splendour or historical ashes, and the sights would be before them; whether they had eyes to see or no. for dolly it was all done. she was glad she had had so much and enjoyed so much; and that enjoyment had given memory such a treasure of things to keep, that were hers for all time, and could be looked at in memory's chambers whenever she pleased. yet she could not see the moonlight on the bay of naples this evening for the last time, and remember towards what she was turning her face, without some tears coming that nobody saw--tears that were salt and hot. the journey home was a contrast to the way by which they had come. it pleased mr. copley to go by sea from naples to marseilles, and from thence through france as fast as the ground could be passed over, till they reached dover. and although those were not the days of lightning travel, yet travelling continually, the effect was of one swift, confused rush between naples and london. instead of the leisurely, winding course pursued to dresden, and from dresden to venice, deviating at will from the shortest or the most obvious route, stopping at will at any point where the fancy took them, dawdling, speculating, enjoying, getting good out of every step of the way,--this journey was a sort of flash from the one end of it to the other, with nothing seen or remembered between but the one item of fatigue. so it came about, that when they found themselves in a london lodging-house, and mrs. copley and dolly sat down and looked at each other, they had the feeling of having left sorrento last evening, and of being dazed with the sudden transition from sorrento and sunshine to london and smoke. "well!" said mr. copley, rubbing his hands, "here we are!" "i don't feel as if i was anywhere," said his wife. "my head's in a whirl. is this the way you like to travel, frank?" "the purpose of travelling, my dear," said mr. copley, still rubbing his hands--it must have been with satisfaction, for it could not have been with cold--"the purpose of travel is--to get over the ground." "it wasn't my purpose when i went away." "no--but when you came back." "it wasn't my purpose anyway," said mrs. copley. "i should never stir from my place if i had to move the way you have kept me moving. my head is in a whirl." "i'll take hold and turn it round the other way." "i think it is quite likely you will! i should like to know what you mean to do with us, now you have got us here." "keep you here." "what are you going to do with yourself, mr. copley?" "there are always so many uses that i can make of myself, more than i have time for, that i cannot tell which i shall take hold of first." with which utterance he quitted the room, almost before it was fairly out of his mouth. the two left behind sat and looked at the room, and then at each other. "what are we going to do now, dolly?" mrs. copley asked in evidently dismayed uncertainty. "i don't know, mother." "how long do you suppose your father will be contented to stay in this house?" "i have no means of guessing, mother. i don't know why we are here at all." "we had to go somewhere, i suppose, when we came to london--just for the first; but i can't stay _here_, dolly!" "of course not, mother." "then where are we going to? it is all very well to say 'of course not;' but where can we go, dolly?" "i have been thinking about it, mother, dear, but i have not found out yet. if we knew how long father wanted to stay in london"---- "it is no use asking that. i can tell you beforehand. he don't know himself. but it is my belief he'll find something or other to make him want to stay here the rest of his life." "o mother, i hope not!" "it is no use speaking to him about it, dolly. even if he knew, he would not own it, but that's my belief; and i can't bear london, dolly. a very few days of this noise and darkness would just put me back where i was before we went away. i know it would." "this is a darker day than common; they are not all so." "they are all like gloom itself, compared to where we have been. i tell you, dolly, i cannot stand it. after sorrento, i cannot bear this." "it's my belief, mother, you want home and roxbury air. why don't you represent that to father, forcibly?" "dolly, i never put myself in the way of your father's pleasure. he must take his pleasure; and he likes london. how he can, i don't see; but he does, and so do a great many other people; it may be a want of taste in me; i daresay it is; but i shall not put myself in the way of his pleasure. i'll stand it as long as i can, and when i cannot stand it any longer, i'll die. it will come to an end some time." "mother, don't talk so! we'll coax father to finish up his business and go home to roxbury. i am quite setting my heart on it. only you have patience a little, and don't lose courage. i'll talk to father as soon as i get a chance." "what a dirty place this is!" was mrs. copley's next remark. "yes. it is not like the rocks and the sea. a great city must be more or less so, i suppose." "i believe great cities are a mistake. i believe they were not meant to be built. they don't agree with me, anyway. well, i'll lie down on that old sofa there--it's hard enough to have been one of job's troubles--and see if i can get to sleep." dolly drew a soft shawl over her, and sat down to keep watch alone. the familiar london sounds were not cheering to the ears which had been so lately listening to the lap of the waves and the rustling of the myrtle branches. and the dingy though comfortable london lodging-house was a poor exchange for the bay of sorrento and the bright rooms full of the scents of orange flowers and roses and carnations. dolly gave way a little and felt very down-hearted. not merely for this change of her outside world, indeed; dolly was not so weak; only in this case the outward symbolised the inward, and gave fitting form and imagery for it. the grime and confusion of london streets, to dolly's fancy, were like the evil ways which she saw close upon her; and as roses and myrtles, so looked a fair family life of love and right-doing. why not?--when he, who is love itself and righteousness immaculate, declares of himself,--"i am the rose of sharon, and the lily of the valleys." i do not think those words occurred to dolly that night, but other bible words did, after a while. promises of the life that shall be over all the earth one day, when the wilderness and the desert places shall be no longer desolate or barren, but shall "rejoice and blossom as the rose;" when to the lord's people, "the sun shall no longer be their light by day, neither for brightness shall the moon give light" to them; when "sorrow and sighing shall flee away," and "the days of their mourning shall be ended." the words were like a lovely chime of bells,--or like the breath from a whole garden of roses and orange flowers,--or like the sunset light on the bay of naples; or anything else most majestic, sweet, and fair. what if there were shadowed places to go through first?--and a region of shadow dolly surely knew she had entered now. she longed for her father to come home; she wanted to consult with him about their arrangements, and so arrive at some certainty respecting what she had to do and expect. but dolly knew that an early coming home was scarce to be hoped for; and she providently roused her mother at ten o'clock, and persuaded her to go to bed. then dolly waited alone in truth, with not even her sleeping mother's company; very sad at heart, and clutching, as a lame man does his stick, at some of the words of comfort she knew. "though i walk through the valley of the shadow of death, i will fear no evil; for thou art with me." the case was not quite so bad, nor so good, with her as that; but the words were a strong staff to lean upon, nevertheless. and those others: "because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will i deliver him; i will set him on high, because he hath known my name. he shall call upon me, and i will answer him; i will be with him in trouble;"... and, "there shall no evil happen to the just." dolly stayed her heart on such words, while she waited for her father's coming. as it grew later and yet later she doubted whether she ought to wait. she was waiting however when he came, between twelve and one, but nearer the latter. she listened to his step on the stair, and knew all was not right; and when he opened the door, she saw. her father had surely been taking wine or something; his face was flushed, his eyes were excited, and his manner was wandering. "dolly!--what are you here for?" "i waited for you, father. i wanted to have a talk with you. but it's too late now," dolly said, trembling. "too late--yes, of course. go to bed. that's the thing for you. london is a great place, dolly!" alas! his expression of satisfaction was echoed in her heart by an anathema. it was no time then to say anything. dolly went to bed and cried herself to sleep, longing for that sunshiny time of which it is promised to the lord's people--"thy sun shall no more go down by day;" and thankful beyond all power of words to express, even then in her sorrow, that another sun had even already risen upon her, in the warm light of which no utter darkness was possible. it was a day or two before, with her best watching, she could catch an opportunity to speak to her father. the second morning mrs. copley had headache and staid in bed, and dolly and mr. copley were at breakfast alone. "how long, father, do you think you may find affairs to keep you in england?" dolly began with her father's first cup of coffee. "as long as i like, my dear. there is no limit. in england there are always things going on to keep a man alive, and to keep him busy." "isn't that true in america equally?" "i don't think so. i never found it so. oh, there is enough to do there; but you don't find the same facilities, nor the same men to work with; and you don't know what to do with your money there when you have got it. england is the place! for a man who wants to live and to enjoy life." "it isn't for a woman," said dolly. "at least, not for one woman. father, don't you know mother is longing to go home, to roxbury?" "dolly, she is longing for something or other impossible, every day of her life." "but it would do her a great deal of good to be back there." "it would do me a great deal of harm." there was a pause here during which dolly meditated, and mr. copley buttered pieces of toast and swallowed them with ominous despatch. dolly saw he would be soon through his breakfast at that rate. "but, father," she began again, "are we to spend all the rest of our lives in england?" "my dear, i don't know anything about the future. i never look ahead. the day is as much as i can see through. i advise you to follow my example." "what are mother and i to do, then? we cannot stay permanently here, in this house." "what's the matter with it?" "nothing, as a lodging-house; but mother would not thrive or be happy in a london lodging-house." "people's happiness is in their own power. it does not depend upon place. all the clergymen will tell you so. you must talk to your mother, dolly." "father, i talked to _you_ at sorrento; but i remember you thought you could not live there." "that was sorrento; but london!--london is the greatest city in the world. every taste may be suited in london." "you know the air does not agree with mother. she will not be well if we keep her here," said dolly anxiously; for she saw the last piece of toast on its way. "nonsense! that is fancy." "if it is fancy, it is just as good as reality. she was pining when we were here before, until we went down to brierley; and she will lose all she has gained in her travelling if we keep her here now." "well--i'll see what i can do," said mr. copley, rising from the table. "when is st. leger coming back?" "how should i know? i know nothing at all of his purposes but what he told us." "have you thrown him over?" "i never took him up." "then you are more of a goose than i thought you. he'll be caught by that fair friend of yours, before he gets out of italy. good morning!" mr. copley hurried away; and dolly was left to her doubts. what could so interest and hold him in a place where he had no official business, where his home was not, and he had no natural associations? was it the attraction of mere pleasure, or was it pleasure under that mischievous, false face of gain, which men delight in and call speculation. and from speculation proper, carried on among the business haunts of men, there is not such a very wide step in the nature of things to the green level of the gaming-table. true, many men indulge in the one variety who have a horror of the other; but dolly's father, she knew, had a horror of neither. stocks, or dice, what did it matter? and in both varieties the men who played with him, she knew too, would help their play with wine. against these combined powers, what was she? and what was to become of them all? part of the question was answered at dinner that evening. mr. copley announced that brierley cottage was unoccupied and that he had retaken it for them. "brierley!" cried mrs. copley. "brierley! are we going back _there_ again! frank, do you mean that we are to spend all our lives apart in future?" "not at all, my dear! if you will be so good as to stay with me, i shall be very happy." "in london! but you know very well i cannot live in london." "then you can go down to brierley." "and how often shall you come there?" "when the chinks of business are wide enough to let me slip through." "business! all you live for is business. mr. copley, what do you expect is to become of dolly, shut up in a cottage down in the country?" "how is she to get married, you mean? _she_ expects a fairy prince to come along one of these days; and of course he could find her at brierley as easily as anywhere. it makes no difference in a fairy tale. in fact, the unlikely places are just the ones where the princes turn up." "you will not be serious!" sighed mrs. copley. "serious? i am nothing but serious. the regular suitor, proposed by the parents, has offered himself and been rejected; and now there is nothing to do but to wait for the fairy prince." poor mrs. copley gave it up. her husband's words were always too quick for her. brierley was afterwards discussed between her and dolly. the proposal was welcome to neither of them. yet london would not do for mrs. copley; she grew impatient of it more and more. and so, within a week after their arrival, they left it and went down again to their old home in the country. it felt like going to prison, mrs. copley said. though the country was still full of summer's wealth and beauty; and it was impossible not to feel the momentary delight of the change from london. the little garden was crowded with flowers, the fields all around rich in grass and grain; the great trees of the park standing in their unchanged regal beauty; the air sweet as air could be, without orange blossoms. and yet it seemed to the two ladies, when mr. copley left them again after taking them down to the cottage, that they were shut off and shut up in a respectable and very eligible prison, from whence escape was doubtful. chapter xxx. down hill. to do mr. copley justice, he left the prison very well provided and furnished. the store closet and pantry were stocked; the house put in tolerable order, and two maids were taken down. the old gardener had disappeared, but dolly declared she would keep the flowers in order herself. so for a number of weeks things really went not ill with them at brierley. dolly did keep the flowers in order, and she did a great many other things; the chief of which, however, was attending to her mother. how exquisitely she did this it would take a great deal of detail to tell. it was shown, or felt rather, for a great part, in very small particulars. not only in taking care of her mother's wardrobe and toilette, like the most skilled of waiting-maids; not only in ordering and providing her meals like the most dainty of housekeepers; not only in tireless reading aloud of papers and books, whatever could be got to interest mrs. copley; these were part, but besides these there were a thousand little touches a day given to mrs. copley's comfort, that even herself hardly took any note of. dolly's countenance never was seen to fall in her mother's presence, nor her spirits perceived to flag. she was like the flowers with which she filled the house and dressed the table; sweet and fresh and cheery and lovely. and so ministering, and so ministered to, i cannot say that the life of the mother and daughter was other than a happy one. if mrs. copley was sensible of a grievous want here and there, which made her nervous and irritable whenever she thought of it, the tenderness of dolly's soothing and the contagion of dolly's peace were irresistible; and if dolly had a gnawing subject of care, which hurt and pricked and stung her perpetually, a cloud of fear darkening over her, from the shadow of which she could not get free; yet the loving care to ward off both the pain and the fear from her mother, helped at least to keep her own heart fresh and strong to bear whatever was coming. so in their little room, at their table, or about the flowers in the garden, or sitting in the honeysuckle porch reading, the mother and daughter were always together, and the days of late summer and then of autumn went by sweetly enough. and when the last roses were gone and the honeysuckle vines had ceased to send forth their breath of fragrance, and leaves turned sear, and the winds blew harsh from the sea, dolly and mrs. copley made themselves all the snugger in the cottage; and knitting and reading was carried on in the glow of a good fire that filled all their little room with brightness. they were ready for winter; and winter when it came did not chill them; the household life was warm and busy. all this while they had the stir of frequent visits from mr. copley, and between whiles the expectation of them. they were never long; he came and went, mrs. copley said, like a gust of wind, with a rush and a whistle and a roar, and then was gone, leaving you to feel how still it was. however, these gusts of wind brought a great deal of refreshment. mr. copley always came with his hands full of papers; always had the last london or edinburgh quarterly, and generally some other book or books for his wife and daughter to delight themselves withal. and though dolly was not always satisfied with her father's appearance, yet on the whole he gave her no new or increased occasion for anxiety. so the autumn and winter went not ill away. the cottage had no visitors. it was at some distance from the village, and in the village there was hardly anybody that would have held himself entitled to visit there. the doctor was an old bachelor. the rector took no account of the two stranger ladies whom now and then his eye roved over in service time. truly they were not often to be seen in his church, for the distance was too far for mrs. copley to walk, unless in exceptionally good days; when the weather and the footing and her own state of body and mind were in rare harmony over the undertaking. there was nobody else to take notice of them, and nobody did take notice of them; and in process of time it came to pass, not unnaturally, that mrs. copley began to get tired of living alone. for though it is extremely pleasant to be quiet, yet it remains true that man was made a social animal; and if he is in a healthy condition he craves contact with his fellows. as the winter wore away, some impression of this sort seemed to force itself upon mrs. copley. "i wonder what your father is dreaming of!" she said one day, when she had sat for some time looking at dolly, who was drawing. "he seems to think it quite natural that you should live down here at this cottage, year in and year out, like a toad in a hole; with no more life or society. we might as well be shut up in a nunnery, only then there would be more of us. i never heard of a nunnery with only two nuns." "are you getting tired of it, mother?" "tired!--that isn't the word. i think i am growing stupid, and gradually losing my wits." "we have not been a bit stupid this winter, mother, dear." "we haven't seen anybody." "the family are soon coming to brierley house, mrs. jersey says. i daresay you will see somebody then." "i don't believe we shall. the english don't like strangers, i tell you, dolly, unless they come recommended by something or other;--and there is nothing to recommend us." mrs. copley uttered this last sentence with such a dismal sort of realisation, that dolly laughed out. "you are too modest, mother. i do not believe things are as bad as that." "you will see," said her mother. "and i hope you will stop going to see the housekeeper then." "i do not know why i should," said dolly quietly. however, this question began to occupy her; not the question of her visiting mrs. jersey or of any one else visiting them; but this prolonged living alone to which her mother and she seemed to be condemned. it was not good, and it was not right; and dolly saw that it was beginning to work unfavourably upon mrs. copley's health and spirits. but london? and a lodging-house? that would be worse yet; and for a house to themselves in london dolly did not believe the means were at hand. lately, things had been less promising. mr. copley seemed to be not so ready with his money; and he did not look well. yes, he was well, he said when she asked him; nevertheless, her anxious eye read the old signs. she had not noticed them during the winter, or but slightly and rarely. whether mr. copley had been making a vigorous effort to be as good as his word and spare dolly pain; whether his sense of character had asserted itself, whether he had been so successful in speculation or play that he did not need opiates and could do without irritants; i do not know. there had been an interval. now, dolly began to be conscious again of the loss of freshness, the undue flush, the weak eyes, the unsteady mouth, the uneven gait. a stranger as yet might have passed it all by without notice; dolly knew the change from her father's former quick, confident movements, iron nerves and muscular activity. and what was almost worse than all to her, among indications of his being entered on a downward course, she noticed that now he avoided her eye; looked at her, but preferred not meeting her look. i cannot tell how dreadful this was to dolly. she had been always accustomed, until lately, to respect her father and to see him respected; to look at him as holding his place among men with much more than the average of influence and power; he was apt to do what he wished to do, and also to make other men do it. he was recognised as a leader in all parties and plans in which he took any share; mr. copley's word was quoted and mr. copley's lead was followed; and as is the case with all such men, his confidence in himself had been one of his sources of power and means of success. dolly had been all her life accustomed to this as the natural and normal condition of things. now she saw that her father had ceased to respect himself. the agony this revelation brought to mr. copley's loyal little daughter, it is impossible to tell. she felt it almost unbearable, shrank from it, would have closed her eyes to it; but dolly was one of those whose vision is not clouded but rather made more keen by affection; and she failed to see nothing that was before her. the ministry dolly applied to this new old trouble was of the most exquisite kind. without making it obtrusive, she bestowed upon her father a sort of service the like of which not all the interest of courts can obtain for their kings. she was tender of him, with a tenderness that came like the touch of a soft summer wind; coming and going, and coming again. it calls for no answer or return; only it is there with its blessing, comforting tired nerves and soothing ruffled spirits. mr. copley hardly knew what dolly was doing; hardly knew that it was dolly; when now it was a gentle touch on his arm, leading him to the tea-table, and now a specially prepared cup, and dolly bringing it, and standing before him smiling and tasting it, looking at him over it. and mr. copley certainly thought at such times that a prettier vision was not to be seen in the whole united kingdom. another time she would perch herself upon his knee and stroke back his hair from his temples, with fingers so delicate it was like the touch of a fairy; and then sometimes she would lay her head caressingly down on his shoulder; and though at such times dolly could willingly have broken her heart in weeping, she let mr. copley see nothing but smiles, and suffered scarce so much as a stray sigh to come to his ear. "have you seen anything of the great people?" he asked one evening, when dolly had moved his sudden admiration. "do you mean the people at the house?" his wife said. "no, of course. don't you know, mr. copley, you must be great yourself to have the great look at you." "humph! there are different ways of being great. i shouldn't wonder, now, if you could show lady brierley as much as lady brierley could show you--in some ways." "what extravagant notions you do have, frank," said his wife. "you are so much of an american, you forget everybody around you is english." "lady brierley has been only a little while come home," said dolly. "we need not discuss her yet." and so speaking, dolly brought out the bible. the reading with her mother had become a regular thing now, greatly helpful to mrs. copley's good rest, dolly believed, both by day and night; and latterly when he had been at the cottage her father had not run away when she brought her book. alone with her mother, dolly had long since added prayer to the reading; not yet in her father's presence. her heart beat a little, it cost an effort; all the same dolly knew it must now be done. with a grave little face she brought out her bible, laid it on the table, and opened it at the fifth chapter of matthew. "here comes our domestic chaplain!" said her father. dolly looked up at him and smiled. "then of course you would not interfere with anything the chaplain does?" she said. "only not preach," said her father in the same tone. "i don't approve of any but licensed preaching. and that one need not hear unless one has a mind to." "i let the bible do the preaching, generally," said dolly. "but we do pray, father." "who?" said mr. copley quickly. "your mother and you? everybody prays, i hope, now and then." "we do it now, and then too, father. or rather, _i_ do it now, after reading." mr. copley made no reply; and dolly went on, feeling that the way was open to her, if it were also a little difficult to tread. she read part of the chapter, feeling every word through and through. alas, alas, alas! the "poor in spirit," the "pure in heart," the "meek,"--where were these? and what had their blessing to do with the ears to which she was reading? the "persecuted for righteousness' sake,"--how she knew her father and mother would lay that off upon the martyrs of olden time, with whom and their way of life, they thought, the present time has nothing to do! and so, with the persecuted dismiss the meek and the pure. the blessings referred certainly to a peculiar set of persons; no one is called on in these days to endure persecution. dolly knew how they would escape applying what they heard to themselves; and she knew, with her heart full, what they were missing thereby. she went on, feeling every word so thrillingly that it was no wonder they came from her lips with a very peculiar and moving utterance; that is the way with words that are spoken from the heart; and although indeed the lovely sentences might have passed by her hearers, as trite or unintelligible or obsolete, the inflexions of dolly's voice caught the hearts of both parents and stirred them involuntarily with an answering thrill. she did not know it; she did know that they were very still and listening; and after the reading was done, though she trembled a little, her own feelings were so roused that it was not very difficult for dolly to kneel down by the table and pray. but she had only scanty opportunities of working upon her father in this or in any way; mr. copley's visits to brierley, always short, began now to be more and more infrequent. as weeks went on and the spring slipped by, another thing was unmistakable about these visits; mr. copley brought less money with him. through the autumn and winter, the needs of the little household had been indifferently well supplied. dolly had paid her servants and had money for her butcher and grocer. now this was no longer always the case. mr. copley came sometimes with empty pockets and a very thin pocket-book; he had forgotten, he said; or, he would make it all right next time. which dolly found out he never did. her servants' wages began to get in arrear, and dolly herself consequently into anxious perplexity. she had, she knew, a little private stock of her own, gained by her likenesses and other drawings; but like a wise little woman as she was, dolly resolved she would not touch it unless she came to extremity. but what should she do? just one thing she was clear upon; she would _not_ run in debt; she would not have what she could not pay for. she paid off one servant and dismissed her. this could not happen without the knowledge of mrs. copley. "but however are you going to manage? the latter asked in much concern. "honestly, mother. oh, and nicely too. you will see. i must be a poor thing if i could not keep these little rooms in order." "and make beds? and set tables? and wash dishes?" "i like to set tables. and what is it to wash two cups and spoons? and if i make the beds, we shall have them comfortable." "jane certainly had her own ideas about making beds, and they were different from mine," said mrs. copley. "but i hate to have you, dolly. it will make your hands red and rough." "nothing does that for my hands, luckily, mother, dear. don't you mind. we shall get on nicely." "but what's the matter? haven't you got money enough?" "mother, i won't have servants that i cannot pay punctually." "don't your father give you money to pay them?" "he gave me money enough to pay part; so i pay part, and send the other part away," said dolly gaily. "i _hope_ he has not got into speculation again," said mrs. copley. "i can't think what he busies himself about in london." this subject dolly changed as fast as she could. she feared something worse than speculation. whether it were cards, or dice, or betting, or more business-like forms of the vice, however, the legitimate consequences were not slow to come; the supply of money for the little household down at brierley became like the driblets of a stream which has been led off from its proper bed by a side channel; only a few trickling drops instead of the full, natural current. dolly could not get from her father the means to pay the wages of her remaining servant. this was towards the beginning of summer. dolly pondered now very seriously what she should do. the lack of a housemaid she had made up quite comfortably with her own two busy hands; mrs. copley at least had been in particular comfort, whenever she did not get a fit of fretting on dolly's account; and dolly herself had been happy, though unquestionably the said hands had been very busy. now what lay before her was another thing. she could not consult her mother, and there was nobody else to consult; she must even make up her mind as to the line of duty the best way she might; and however the difficulty and even the impossibility of doing without anybody stared her in the face, it was constantly met by the greater impossibility of taking what she could not pay for. dolly made up her mind on the negative view of the case; what she _could_ being not clear, only what she could not. she would dismiss her remaining servant, and do the cooking herself. it would be only for two. and perhaps, she thought, this step would go further to bring her father to his senses than any other step she could take. dolly, however, went wisely to work. quite alone in the house she and her mother could not be. she went to her friend mrs. jersey and talked the matter over with her; and through her got a little girl, a small farmer's daughter, to come and do the rough work. she let her mother know as little as possible about the matter; she took some of her own little stock and paid off the cook, representing to her mother no more than that she had exchanged the one helpmeet for the other. but poor dolly found presently that she did not know how to cook. how should she? "what's become of all our good bread?" said mrs. copley, a day or two after the change. "and, dolly, i don't know what you call this, but if it is meant for hash, it is a mistake." dolly heard in awed silence; and when dinner and breakfast had seen repeated animadversions of the like kind, she made up her mind again and took her measures. she went to her friend mrs. jersey, and asked her to teach her to make bread. "to make bread!" the good housekeeper repeated in astonishment. "you, miss dolly? can that be necessary?" "mother cannot eat poor bread," said dolly simply. "and there is nobody but me to make it. i think i can learn, mrs. jersey; cannot i?" the tears stood in the good woman's eyes. "but, my dear miss dolly," she began anxiously, "this is a serious matter. you do not look very strong. who does the rest of the cooking? pardon me for being so bold to ask; but i am concerned about you." therewith dolly's own eyes became moist; however, it would never do to take that tone; so she shook off the feeling, and confessed she was the sole cook in her mother's establishment, and that for her mother's well-doing it was quite needful that what she eat should be good and palatable. and dolly declared she would like to know how to do things, and be independent. "you've got the realest sort of independence," said the housekeeper. "well, my dear, come, and i'll teach you all you want to know." there followed now a series of visits to the house, in which mrs. jersey thoroughly fulfilled her promise. in the kind housekeeper's room dolly learned not only to make bread and biscuit, and everything else that can be concocted of flour, but she was taught how to cook a bit of beefsteak, how to broil a chicken, how to make omelettes and salads and a number of delicate french dishes; stews and soups and ragouts and no end of comfortable things. dolly was in great earnest, therefore lost not a hint and never forgot a direction; she was quick and keen to learn; and mrs. jersey soon declared laughingly that she believed she was born to be a cook. "and it goes great qualities to that, miss dolly," she said. "you needn't take it as low praise. there are people, no doubt, that are nothing _but_ cooks; that's the fault of something else, i always believe. whoever can be a real cook can be something better if he has a chance and a will." "it seems to me, it is just common sense, mrs. jersey." "i suppose you are not going to tell me that _that_ grows on every bush? yes, common sense has a great deal to do, no doubt; but one must have another sort of sense; one must know when a thing is right; and one must be able to tell the moment of time when it is right, and then one must be decided and quick to take it then and not let it have the other moment which would make it all wrong. now, miss dolly, i see you know when to take off an omelette--and yet you couldn't tell me how you know." dolly's learning was indeed by practising with her own hands. one day it happened that lady brierley had come into the housekeeper's room to see about some arrangements she was making for mrs. jersey's comfort. while she was there, dolly opened the door from an adjoining light closet, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her arms dusted with flour. seeing somebody whom she did not know, dolly retreated, shutting the door after her. "whom have you got there, mrs. jersey?" said the lady, forgetting what she had come about. "that girl is too handsome to be among the maids." "she's not among the maids, my lady. she is not in the house. she only came to get some instruction from me, which i was very glad to give her?" "of course. that is quite in your way. but she does not belong in the village, i think?" "no, my lady, nor hereabouts at all, properly. she lives in brierley cottage; she and her mother; i believe the father is there now and by times, but they live alone mostly, and he is in london. they have been much better off; and last year they went travelling all through europe. i thought i should never see them again; but here they are back, and have been for a year." "i think i have heard of them. are they poor?" "i am much afraid so, my lady." "would it do any good, jersey, if i went there?" "it would be a great kindness, my lady. i think it might do good." the final result of all which was a visit. it was now full summer; the season had come into its full bloom and luxuriance. roses were opening their sweet buds all around brierley cottage; the honeysuckles made the porch into an arbour; the garden was something of a wilderness, but a wilderness of lovely, old-fashioned things. one warm afternoon, dolly with a shears in her hand had gone out into the garden to cut off the full-blown roses, which to-morrow would shed their leaves; doing a little trimming by the way, both of rose-bushes and other things; the wildering of the garden had been so great. and very busy she was, and enjoying it; "cutting in" here, and "cutting out" there, flinging the refuse shoots and twigs carelessly from her into the walk to be gathered up afterwards. she was so busy she never heard the roll of carriage wheels, never heard them stop, nor the gate open; knew nothing, in fact, but the work she was busy with, till a slight sound on the gravel near by made her look round. then she saw at one glance the lady standing there in laces and feathers, the carriage waiting outside the gate, and the servants in attendance around it. dolly shook herself free of the roses and stepped forward, knowing very well who it must be. a little fresh colour had been brought into her cheeks by her exercise and the interest in her work; a little extra flush came now, with the surprise of this apparition. she was as lovely as one of her own rose-branches, and the wind had blown her hair about, which was always wayward, we know, giving perhaps to the great lady the impression of equal want of training. but she was very lovely, and the visitor could not take her eyes off her. "you are miss--copley?" she said. "i have heard mrs. jersey speak of you." "mrs. jersey is a very kind friend to me," said dolly. "will lady brierley walk in?" mrs. jersey is her friend, thought the lady as she followed dolly into the cottage. probably she is just of that level, and my coming is thrown away. however, she went in. the little cottage sitting-room was again something of a puzzle to her; it was not rich, but neither did it look like anything mrs. jersey would have contrived for her own accommodation. flowers filled the chimney and stood in vases or baskets; books lay on one table, on the other drawing materials; and simple as everything was, there was nevertheless in everything the evidence, negative as well as positive, that the tastes at home there were refined and delicate and cultivated. it is difficult to tell just how the impression comes upon a stranger, but it came upon lady brierley before she had taken her seat. dolly too, the more she looked at her, puzzled her. she had set down her basket of roses and thrown off her garden hat, and now opened the blinds which shaded the room too much, and took a chair near her visitor. the girl's manner, the lady saw, was extremely composed; she did not seem at all fluttered at the honour done her, and offered her attentions with a manner of simple courtesy which was graceful enough but perfectly cool. so cool, that it rather excited lady brierley's curiosity, who was accustomed to be a person of great importance wherever she went. her eye took in swiftly the neatness of the room, its plainness, and yet its expression of life and mental activity; the work and workbasket on the chair, the bunch of ferns and amaranthus in one vase, the roses in another, the violets on the table, the physiognomy of the books, which were not from the next circulating library, the drawing materials; and then came back to the figure seated before her, with the tossed, beautiful hair and the very delicate, spirited face; and it crossed lady brierley's mind, if she had a daughter like that!--with the advantages and bringing up she could have given her, what would she not have been! and the next thought was, she was glad that her son was in russia. dolly had opened the window and sat quietly down. she knew her mother would not wish to be called. once, months ago, dolly had a little hoped for this visit, and thought it might bring her a pleasant friend, or social acquaintance at least; now that so long time had passed since lady brierley's return, with no sign of kindness from the great house, she had given up any such expectation; and so cared nothing about the visit. dolly's mind was stayed elsewhere; she did not need lady brierley; and it was in part the beautiful, disengaged grace of her manner which drew the lady's curiosity. "i did not know brierley cottage was such a pretty place," she began. "it is quite comfortable," said dolly. "now in summer, when the flowers are out, i think it is very pretty." "you are fond of flowers. i found you pruning your rose-bushes, were you not?" "yes," said dolly. "the old man who used to attend to it has left me in the lurch since we went away. if i did not trim them, they would go untrimmed. they do go untrimmed, as it is." "is there no skill required?" "oh yes," said dolly, her face wrinkling all up with fun; "but i have enough for that. i have learned so much. and pruning is very pretty work. this is not just the time for it." "how can it be pretty? i do not understand." "no, i suppose not," said dolly. "but i think it is pretty to cut out the dead wood which is unsightly, and cut away the old wood which can be spared, leaving the best shoots for blossoming the next year. and then the trimming in of overgrown bushes, so as to have neat, compact, graceful shrubs, instead of wild, awkward-growing things--it is constant pleasure, for every touch tells; and the rose-bushes, i believe seem almost like intelligent creatures to me." "but you would not deal with intelligent creatures so?" "the lord does," said dolly quietly. "what do you mean?" said the lady sharply. "i do not understand your meaning." "i did not mean that all people were rose-bushes," said dolly, with again an exquisite gleam of amusement in her face. "but will you not be so good as to explain? what _can_ you mean, by your former remark?" "it is not a very deep meaning," said dolly with a little sigh. "you know, lady brierley, the bible likens the lord's people, christians, to plants in the lord's garden; and the lord is the husbandman; and where he sees that a plant is growing too rank and wild, he prunes it--cuts it in--that it may be thriftier and healthier and do its work better." "that's a dreadful idea! where did you get it?" "christ said so," dolly answered, looking now in the face of her questioner. "is it a dreadful idea? it does not seem so to me. he is the husbandman. and i would not like to be a useless branch." "you have been on the continent lately?" lady brierley quitted the former subject. "yes; last year." "you went to my old lodging-house at sorrento, i think i heard from mrs. jersey. did you find it comfortable?" "oh, delightful!" said dolly with a breath which told much. "nothing could be nicer, or lovelier." "then you enjoyed life in italy?" "very much. but indeed i enjoyed it everywhere." "what gave you so much pleasure? i envy you. now i go all over europe, and find nothing particular to hold me anywhere. and i see by the way you speak that it was not so with you." "no," said dolly, half smiling. "europe was like a great, real fairyland to me. i feel as if i had been travelling in fairyland." "do indulge me and tell me how that was? the novelty, perhaps." "novelty is pleasant enough," said dolly, "but i do not think it was the novelty. rome was more fascinating the last week than it was the first." "ah, rome! there one never gets to the end of the novelties." "it was not that," said dolly shaking her head. "i grew absolutely fond of the gladiator; and raphael's michael conquering the dragon was much more beautiful to me the last time i saw it than ever it was before; and so of a thousand other things. they seemed to grow into my heart. so at venice. the palace of the doges--i did not appreciate it at first. it was only by degrees that i learned to appreciate it." "your taste for art has been uncommonly cultivated!" "no" said dolly. "i do not know anything about art. till this journey i had never seen much." "there is a little to see at brierley," said the lady of the house. "i should like to show it to you." "i should like dearly to see it again," said dolly. "your ladyship is very kind. mrs. jersey did show me the house once, when we first came here; and i was delighted with some of the pictures, and the old carvings. it was all so unlike anything at home." "at home?" said lady brierley enquiringly. "i mean, in america." "novelty again," said the lady, smiling, for she could not help liking dolly. "no," said dolly, "not that. it was far more than that. it was the real beauty,--and then, it was the tokens of a family which had had power enough to write its history all along. there was the power, and the history; and such a strange breath of other days. there is nothing like that in america.'' "then we shall keep you in england?" said lady brierley still with a pleased smile. "i do not know," said dolly; but her face clouded over and lost the brightness which had been in it a moment before. "i see you would rather return," said her visitor. "perhaps you have not been long enough here to feel at home with us?" "i have been here for several years," said dolly. "ever since i was fifteen years old." "that is long enough to make friends." "i have not made friends," said dolly. "my mother's health has kept her at home--and i have stayed with her." "but, my dear, you are just at an age when it is natural to want friends and to enjoy them. in later life one learns to be sufficient to one's self; but not at eighteen. i am afraid brierley must be sadly lonely to you." "oh no," said dolly, with her sweet gleam of a smile, which went all over her face; "i am not lonesome." "will you come and see me sometimes?" "if i can. thank you, lady brierley." "you seem to me to be a good deal of a philosopher," said the lady, who evidently still found dolly a puzzle. "or is it rather an artist, that i should say?"--glancing at the drawing-table--"i know artists are very sufficient to themselves." "i am neither one nor the other," said dolly, laughing. "you are not apathetic--i can see that. what is your secret, miss copley?" "i beg your pardon--what secret does your ladyship mean?" "your secret of content and self-reliance. pardon me--but you excite my envy and curiosity at once." dolly's look went back to the fire. "i have no secret," she said gravely. "i am not a philosopher. i am afraid i am not always contented. and yet i _am_ content," she added, "with whatever the lord gives me. i know it is good." lady brierley saw tears in the eyes, which were so singularly wise and innocent at once. she was more and more interested, but would not follow dolly's last lead. "what do you draw?" she asked, again turning her head towards the drawing materials. "whatever comes in my way," said dolly. "likenesses, sometimes; little bits of anything i like." lady brierley begged to be shown a specimen of the likenesses; and forthwith persuaded dolly to come and make a picture of herself. with which agreement the visit ended. if she had come some months ago, thought dolly as she looked after the retreating figure of her visitor, i should have liked it. she might have been a friend, and a great help. now, i don't think you can, my lady! chapter xxxi. hands full. dolly was, however, partly mistaken. lady brierley was a help. first, for the likenesses. dolly painted so charming a little picture of her ladyship that it was a perpetual letter of recommendation; lady brierley's friends desired to have dolly's pencil do the same service for them; neighbouring families saw and admired her work and came to beg to have her skill exerted on their behalf; and, in short, orders flowed in upon dolly to the full occupation of all the time she had to give to them. they paid well, too. for that, dolly had referred to lady brierley to say what the price ought to be; and lady brierley, guessing need on the one hand and knowing abundance on the other, had set the price at a very pretty figure; and money quite piled itself up in dolly's secret hoard. she was very glad of it; for her supplies from her father became more and more precarious. he seemed to shut his eyes when he came to brierley, and not recognise the fact that anything was wanting or missing. and well dolly knew that such wilful oversight could never happen if mr. copley were himself doing true and faithful work; she knew he was going in false and dangerous ways, without being able to follow him and see just what they were. her one comfort was, that her mother did not seem to read the signs that were so terribly legible to herself. and here too lady brierley's new-found friendship was of use. she wrought a diversion for the girl's troubled spirits. she was constantly having dolly at the house. dolly objected to leaving her mother; at the same time mrs. copley very much objected to have dolly stay at home when such chances offered; so, at first to paint, and then to give her sweet company, dolly went often, and spent hours at a time with lady brierley, who on her part grew more and more fond of having the little american girl in her society. dolly was a novelty, and a mystery, and a beauty. lady brierley's son was in russia; so there was no harm in her being a beauty, but the contrary; it was pleasant to the eyes. and dolly was _naïve_, and fresh, and independent too, with a manner as fearless and much more frank than lady brierley's own, and yet with as simple a reserve of womanly dignity as any lady could have; and how a girl that painted likenesses for money, and made her own bread, and learned cookery of mrs. jersey, could talk to lord brierley with such sweet, quiet freedom, was a puzzle most puzzling to the great lady. so it was to others, for at brierley house dolly often saw a great deal of company. it did her good; it refreshed her; it gave her a world of things to tell for the amusement of her mother; and besides all that, she felt that lady brierley was really a friend, and would be kind if occasion were; indeed, she was kind now. dolly needed it all, for darker days were coming, and the shadow of them was "cast before," as the manner is. with every visit of mr. copley to the cottage, dolly grew more uneasy. he was not looking well, nor happy, nor easy; his manner was constrained, his spirits were forced; and for all that appeared, he might suppose that dolly and her mother could live on air. he gave them nothing else to live on. what did he live on himself, dolly queried, besides wine? and she made up her mind that, hard as it was, and doubtful as the effect, she must have a talk with him the next time he came down. "o father, father!" she cried to herself in the bitterness of her heart, "how can you! how can you! how can you! it never, never ought to be, that a child is ashamed for her father! the world is turned upside down." how intensely bitter it was, the children who have always been proud of their parents can never know. dolly wrung her hands sometimes, in a distress that was beyond tears; and then devoted herself with redoubled ardour to her mother, to prevent her from finding out how things were going. she would have a plain talk with her father the next time he came, very difficult as she felt it would be; things could not go on as they were; or at least, not without ending in a thorough breakdown. but what we purpose is one thing; what we are able to execute is often quite another thing. it was a week or two before mr. copley made his appearance. dolly was looking from the window, and saw the village fly drive up and her father get out of it. she announced the fact to her mother, and then ran down to the garden gate to meet him. as their hands encountered at the gate, dolly almost fell back; took her hand from the latch, and only put it forth again when she saw that her father could not readily get the gate open. he was looking ill; his gait was tottering, his eye wavering, and when he spoke his utterance was confused. dolly felt as if a lump of ice had suddenly come where her heart used to be. "you are not well, father?" she said as they went up the walk together. "well enough," returned mr. copley--"all right directly. cursed wet weather--got soaked to the bone--haven't got warm yet." "wet weather!" said dolly; "why, it is very sunny and warm. what are you thinking of, father?" "sun don't _always_ shine in england," said mr. copley. "let me get in and have a cup of tea or coffee. you don't keep such a thing as brandy in the house, do you?" "you have had brandy enough already," said dolly in a low, grave voice. "i will make some coffee. come in--why, you are trembling, father! are you _cold?_" "haven't been warm for three days. cold? yes. coffee, dolly, let me have some coffee. it's the vilest climate a man ever lived in." "why, father," said dolly, laying her hand on his sleeve, "your coat is wet! what have you done to yourself?" "wet? no,--it isn't. i put on a dry coat to come down--wouldn't be such a fool as to put on a wet one. coffee, dolly! it's cold enough for a fire." "but how _did_ your coat get wet, father?" "'tisn't wet. i left a wet coat in london--had enough of it. if you go out in england you must get wet. give me some coffee, if you haven't got any brandy. i tell you, i've never been warm since." dolly ran up stairs, where mrs. copley was making a little alteration in her dress. "mother," she cried, "will you go down and take care of father? he is not well; i am afraid he has taken cold; i am going to make him some coffee as fast as i can. get him to change his coat;--it is wet." then dolly ran down again, every nerve in her trembling, but forcing herself to go steadily and methodically to work. she made a cup of strong coffee, cooked a nice bit of beefsteak she had in the house, rejoicing that she had it; and while the steak was doing she made a plate of toast, such as she knew both father and mother were fond of. in half an hour she had it all ready and carried it up on a tray. mrs. copley was sitting with an anxious and perplexed face watching her husband; he had crept to the empty fireplace and was leaning towards it as towards a place whence comfort ought to be looked for. his wife had persuaded him to exchange the wet coat for an old dressing-gown, which change, however, seemed to have wrought no bettering of affairs. "what is the matter?" said poor mrs. copley with a scared face. "i can't make out anything from what he says." "he has caught cold, i think," said dolly very quietly; though her face was white, and all the time of her ministrations in the kitchen she had worked with that feeling of ice at her heart. "father, here is your coffee, and it is good; maybe this will make you feel better." she had set her dishes nicely on the table; she had poured out the coffee and cut a piece of the steak; but mr. copley would look at no food. he drank a little coffee, and set the cup down. "sloppy stuff! haven't you got any brandy?" "you have had brandy already this afternoon, father. take the coffee now." "brandy? my teeth were chattering, and i took a wretched glass somewhere. do give me some more, dolly! and stop this shaking." "where did you get cold, mr. copley?" asked his wife. "you have caught a terrible cold." "nothing of the kind. i am all right. just been in the rain; rain'll wet any man; my coat's got it." "but _when_, frank?" urged his wife. "there has been no rain to-day; it is clear, hot summer weather. when were you in the rain?" "i don't know. rain's rain. it don't signify when. have you got nothing better than this? i shall not stop shaking till morning." and he did not. they got him to bed, and sat and watched by him, the mother and daughter; watching the feverish trembling, and the feverish flush that gradually rose in his cheeks. they could get no more information as to the cause of the mischief. the truth was, that two or three nights previous, mr. copley had sat long at play and drunk freely; lost freely too; so that when at last he went home, his condition of mind and body was so encumbered and confused that he took no account of the fact that it was raining heavily. he was heated, and the outer air was refreshing; mr. copley walked home to his lodgings; was of course drenched through; and on getting home had no longer clearness of perception enough in exercise to know that he must take off his wet clothes. how he passed the night he never knew; but the morning found him very miserable, and he had been miserable ever since. pains and aches, flushes of heat, creepings of inexplicable cold, would not be chased away by any potations his landlady recommended or by the stronger draughts to which mr. copley's habits bade him recur; and the third day, with something of the same sort of dumb instinct which makes a wounded or sick animal draw back to cover, he threw himself into the post coach and went down to brierley. naturally, he took advantage of stopping places by the way to get something to warm him; and so reached home at last in an altogether muddled and disordered state of mind and body. neither mrs. copley nor dolly would go to bed that night. not that there was much to do, but there was much to fear; and they clung in their fear to each other's company. mrs. copley dozed in an easy-chair part of the time; and dolly sat at the open window with her head on the sill and lost herself there in slumber that was hardly refreshing. the night saw no change; and the morning was welcome, as the morning is in times of sickness, because it brought stir and the necessity of work to be done. it was still early when dolly, after refreshing herself with water and changing her dress, went downstairs. she opened the hall door, and stood still a moment. the summer morning met her outside, fresh with dew, heavy with the scent of roses, musical with the song of birds; dim, sweet, full of life, breathing loveliness, folding its loveliness in mystery. as yet, things could be seen but confusedly; the dark bank of brierley park with its giant trees rose up against the sky, there was no gleam on the little river, the outlines of nearer trees and bushes were merged and indistinct; but what a hum and stir and warble and chitter of happy creatures! how many creatures to be happy! and what a warm breath of incense told of the blessings of the summer day in store for them! for them, and not for dolly? it smote her hard, the question and the answer. it was for her too; it ought to be for her; the lord's will was that all his creatures should be happy; and some of his creatures would not! some refused the rich invitation, and would neither take themselves nor let others take the bountiful, tender, blessed gifts of god. it came to dolly with an unspeakable sore pain. yes, the lord's will was peace and joy and plenty for them all; fulness of gracious supply; the singing of delighted hearts, loving and praising him. and men made their own choice to have something else, and brought bitterness into what was meant to be only sweet. tears came slowly into her eyes, mournful tears, and rolled down her cheeks hopelessly. whatever was to become now of her little family? her father, she feared, was entering upon a serious illness, which might last no one knew how long. who would nurse him? and if dolly did, who would do the work of the household? and if her father was laid by for any considerable time, whence were needful supplies to come from? dolly's little stock would not last for ever. and how would her mother stand the strain and the care and the fatigue? it seemed to dolly as she stood there at the door, that her sky was closing in and the ground giving way beneath her feet. usually she kept up her courage bravely; just now it failed. "dolly," her mother's voice came smothered from over the balusters of the upper hall. "yes, mother?" "send nelly for the doctor as soon as you can." "yes, mother. as soon as it is light enough." the doctor! that was another thought. then there would be the doctor's bill. but at this point dolly caught herself up. "_take no thought for the morrow_"--what did that mean? "_be careful for nothing;_ but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto god." and, "who shall separate us from the love of christ?" the words loosed the bands which seemed to have bound dolly's heart in iron; she broke down, fell down on her knees in the porch, resting her head on the seat, and burst into a thunder-shower of weeping, which greatly cleared the air and relieved the oppression under which she had been labouring. this was nearly as uncommon a thing for dolly as her former hopeless mood; she rose up feeling shaken, and yet strengthened. ready for duty. she went into the little sitting-room, set open the casement, and put the furniture in order, dusting and arranging. leaving that all right, dolly went down to the kitchen and made the fire. she was thinking what she should do for breakfast, when her little handmaid made her appearance. dolly gave her some bread and butter and cold coffee, and sent her off to the village with a note to the doctor which she had meanwhile prepared. left to herself then, she put on her kettle, and looked at the untouched pieces of beefsteak she had cooked last night. she knew what to do with them, thanks to mrs. jersey. the next thing was to go out into the dewy garden and get a handful of different herbs and vegetables growing there; and what she did with them i will not say; but in a little while dolly had a most savoury mess prepared. then she crept upstairs to her mother. here everything was just as it had been all night. dolly whispered to her mother to come down and have some breakfast. mrs. copley shook her head. "you must, mother, dear. i have got something nice--and father is sleeping; he don't want you. come! i have got it in the kitchen, for nelly is away, and it's less trouble, and keeps the coffee hot. come! father won't want anything for a little while, and you and i do, and must have it, or we cannot stand what is on our hands. come, mother. wash your face, and it will refresh you, and come right down." the little kitchen was very neat; the window was open and the summer morning looking in; nobody was there but themselves; and so there might be many a worse place to take breakfast in. and the meal prepared was dainty, though simple. mrs. copley could not eat much, nor dolly; and yet the form of coming to breakfast and the nicety of the preparation were a comfort; they always are; they seem to say that all things are not confusion, and give a kind of guaranty for the continuance of old ways. still, mrs. copley did not eat much, and soon went back to her watch; and dolly cleared the table and considered what she could have for dinner. for dinner must be as usual; on that she was determined. but the doctor's coming was the next thing on the programme. the doctor came and made his visit, and dolly met him in the hall as he was going away. he was a comfortable-looking man, with the long english whiskers; ruddy and fleshy; one who, dolly was sure, had no objection, for his own part, to a good glass of wine, or even a good measure of beer, if the wine were not forthcoming. "your father, is it?" said the doctor. "well, take care of him--take care of him." "how shall we take care of him, sir?" "well, i've left medicines upstairs. he won't want much to eat; nor much of anything, for a day or two." "what is it? cold?" "no, my young lady. fever." "he got himself wet in the rain, a few days ago. he was shivering last night." "very likely. that's fever. must take its course. he's not shivering now." "will he be long ill, sir, probably?" "impossible to say. these things are not to be counted upon. may get up in a day or two, but far more likely not in a week or two. good morning!" a week or two! dolly stood and looked after the departing chaise which carried the functionary who gave judgment so easily on matters of life and death. the question came back. what would become of her mother and her, if watching and nursing had to be kept up for weeks?--with all the rest there was to do. dolly felt very blue for a little while; then she shook it off again and took hold of her work. nelly had returned by this time, with a knuckle of veal from the butcher's. dolly put it on, to make the nicest possible delicate stew for her mother; and even for her father she thought the broth might, do. she gathered herbs and vegetables in the garden again, and a messenger came from mrs. jersey with a basket of strawberries; dolly wrote a note to go back with the basket, and altogether had a busy morning of it. for bread had also to be made; and her small helpmate was good for only the simplest details of scrubbing and sweeping and washing dishes. it was with the greatest difficulty after all that dolly coaxed her mother to come down to dinner; nelly being left to keep watch the while and call them if anything was wanted. "i can't eat, dolly!" mrs. copley said, when she was seated at dolly's board. "mother, it is necessary. see--this is what you like, and it is very good, i know. and these potatoes are excellent." "but, dolly, he may be sick for weeks, for aught we can tell; it is a low fever. oh, this is the worst of all we have had yet!" cried mrs. copley, wringing her hands. it did look so, and for a moment dolly could not speak. her heart seemed to stand still. "mother, we don't know," she said. "we do not know anything. it may be no such matter; it may _not_ last so; the doctor cannot tell; and anyhow, mother, god does know and he will take care. we can trust him, can't we? and meanwhile what you and i have to do is to keep up our strength and our faith and our spirits. eat your dinner like a good woman. i am going to make a cup of tea for you. perhaps father would take some." "and you," said mrs. copley, eyeing her. dolly had a white kitchen apron on, it is true, but she was otherwise in perfect order and looked very lovely. "what about me?" she said. "doing kitchen work! you, who are fit for--something so different!" mrs. copley had to get rid of some tears here. "doing kitchen work? yes, certainly, if that is the thing given me to do. why not? isn't my veal good? i'll do anything, mother, that comes to hand, provided i _can_ do it. mother, we don't trust half enough. remember who it is gives me the cooking to do. shall i not do what he gives me? and i can tell you one little secret--i _like_ to do cooking. isn't it good?" mrs. copley made a very respectable dinner after all. this was the manner of the beginning of mr. copley's illness. faith and courage were well tried as the days went on; for though never violently ill, he never mended. day and night the same tedious low fever held him, wearing down not his strength only but that of the two whose unaided hands had to manage all that was done. dolly did not know where to look for a nurse, and mrs. copley was utterly unwilling to have one called in. she herself roused to the emergency and ceased to complain about her own troubles; she sat up night after night, with only partial help from dolly, who had her hands full with the care of the house and the day duty and the sick cookery. and as day after day went by, and night after night was watched through, and days and nights began to run into weeks, the strength and nervous energy of them both began at times to fail. neither showed it to the other, except as pale faces and weary eyes told their story. mrs. copley cried in secret, at night, with her head on the window-sill; and dolly went with slow foot to gather her herbs and vegetables, and sat down sometimes in the porch, in the early dawn or the evening gloom, and allowed herself to own that things were looking very dark indeed. the question was, how long would it be possible to go on as they were doing? how long would strength hold out?--and money? the doctor's fees took great pinches out of dolly's fund; and for the present there was no adding to it. lady brierley was away; she had gone to the seaside. mrs. jersey was very kind; fruit and eggs and vegetables came almost daily from the house to dolly's help, and the kind housekeeper herself had offered to sit up with the sick man; but this offer was refused. mr. copley did not like to see any stranger about him. and dolly and her mother were becoming now very tired. as the weeks went on, they ceased to look in each other's faces any more with questioning eyes; they knew too well how anxiety and effort had told upon both of them, and each was too conscious of what the other was thinking and fearing. they did not meet each other's eyes with those mute demands in them any more; but they stole stealthy glances sometimes each to see how the other face looked; what tokens of wear and tear it was showing; taking in at a rapid view the lines of weariness, the marks of anxiety, the faded colour, the languor of spirit which had gradually taken the place of the earlier energy. in word and action they showed none of all this. all the more, no doubt, when each was alone and the guard might be relaxed, a very grave and sorrowful expression took possession of their faces. nothing else might be relaxed. day and night the labour and the watch were unintermitting. and so the summer wore on to an end. dolly was patient, but growing very sad; perhaps taking a wider view of things than her mother, who for the present was swallowed up in the one care about her husband's condition. dolly, managing the finances and managing the household, had both parents to think of; and was sometimes almost in despair. she was sitting so one afternoon in the kitchen, in a little lull of work before it was time to get supper, looking out into the summer glow. it was warm in the small kitchen, but dolly had not energy to go somewhere else for coolness. she sat gazing out, and almost querying whether all things were coming to an end at once; life and the means to live together, and the strength to get means. and yet she remembered that it is written--"trust in the lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and _verily thou shalt be fed_." but then,--it came cold into her heart,--it could not be said that her father and mother had ever fulfilled those conditions; could the promise be good for _her_ faith alone? and truly, where was dolly's faith just now? withal, as she sat gazing out of the window, she saw that full wealth of summer, which was a pledge and proof of the riches of the hand from which it came. "there's a gentleman, mum," dolly's little helpmate announced in her ear. dolly started. "a gentleman? what gentleman? it isn't the doctor? he has been here." "it's no him. i knows dr. hopley. it's no him." "i cannot see company. is it company, nelly?" "the gentleman didn't say, mum." "where is he?" "he's a standin' there at the door." dolly slowly rose up and doubtfully took off her great kitchen apron; doubtfully went upstairs. perhaps she had better see who it was. mrs. jersey might have sent a messenger,--or lady brierley! she went on to the hall door, which was open, and where indeed she saw a tall figure against the summer glow which filled all out of doors. a tall figure, a tall, upright figure; at first dolly could see only the silhouette of him against the warm outer light. she came doubtfully close up to the open door. then she could see a little more besides the tallness; a peculiar uprightness of bearing, a manly, frank face, a head of close curling dark hair, and an expression of pleasant expectation; there was a half smile on the face, and a deferential look of waiting. he stood bareheaded before her, and had not the air of a stranger; but dolly was quite bewildered. somebody altogether strange, and yet somehow familiar. she said nothing; her eyes questioned why, being a stranger, he should stand there with such a look upon his face. "i am afraid i am not remembered," said the gentleman, with the smile coming out a little more. his look, too, was steady and straightforward and observant,--where had dolly seen that mixture of quietness and resoluteness? her eyes fell to the little cap in his hand, an officer's cap, and then light came into them. "oh!" she cried,--"mr. shubrick!" "it is a long time since that christmas day at rome," he said; a more wistful gravity coming into his face as he better scanned the face opposite to him, which the evening light revealed very fully. "oh, i know now," said dolly. "i do not need to be reminded; but i could not expect to see you here. i thought you were in the mediterranean. will you come in, mr. shubrick? i am very glad to see you; but my thoughts were so far away"---- "you thought i was in the mediterranean?" he said as he followed dolly in. "may i ask, why?" "your ship was there." "_was_ there; but ships are not stationary things." "no, of course not," said dolly, throwing open the blinds and letting the summer light and fragrance stream in. "then, when did you see christina?" "not for months. the red chief has been ordered to the baltic and is there now; and i got a furlough to come to england. but--how do you do, miss copley?" "i am well, thank you." "forgive me for asking, if that information can be depended on?" "yes, indeed i am well. i suppose i look tired. we have had sickness here for a good while--my father. mother and i are tired, no doubt." "you look very tired. i am afraid i ought not to be here. can you make me of use? what is the matter? please remember that i am not a stranger." "i am very glad to remember it," said dolly. "no, i do not feel as if you were a stranger, mr. shubrick, after that day we spent together. you asked what was the matter--oh, i don't know! a sort of slow, nervous fever, not infectious at all, nor very alarming; only it must be watched, and he always wants some one with him, and of course after a while one gets tired. that cannot be helped. we have managed very well." "not mrs. copley and you alone?" "yes." "how long?" "it is five weeks now." "and no improvement yet?" "i do not know. mother thinks a little," said dolly, faltering. this speaking to eyes and ears of sympathy, after so long an interval, rather upset her; her lips trembled, tears came, she was upon the point of breaking down; she struggled for self-command, but her lips trembled more and more. "i have come in good time," said her visitor. "it is pleasant to see somebody, to be able to speak to somebody, that is so good as to care," said dolly, brushing her hand over her eyes swiftly. "you are worn out," said the other gently. "i am not going to be simply somebody to speak to. miss copley, i am a countryman, and a sort of a friend, you know. you will let me take the watch to-night." "you!" said dolly, starting. "oh no!" "i beg your pardon. you ought to say 'oh yes.' i have had experience. i think you may trust me." "oh, i cannot. we have no right to let you do so." "you have a right to make any use of me you can; for i place myself at your disposal." "you are _very_ kind, mr. shubrick!" "don't say anything more. that is settled," said he, taking up his cap, as if in preparation for departure. dolly was a little bewildered by the quiet, decided manner, just like what she remembered of mr. shubrick; unobtrusive and undemonstrative, but if he moved, moving straight to his goal. she rose as he rose. "but," she stammered, "i don't think you can. father likes nobody but mother and me about him." "he will like me to-morrow," mr. shubrick answered with a smile. "don't fear; i will manage that." "you are very kind!" said dolly. "you are very kind!"--already her heart was leaping towards this offered help, and mr. shubrick looked so resolute and strong and ready; she could hardly oppose him. "but you are _too_ kind!" she said suddenly. "no," said he gravely; "that is impossible. remember, in the family we belong to, the rule is one which we can never reach. 'that ye love one another, even as i have loved you.'" what it was, i do not know, in these words which overcame dolly. in the words and the manner together. she was very tired and overstrung, and they found some unguarded spot and reached the strained nerves. dolly put both hands to her face and burst into tears, and for a moment was terribly afraid that she was going to be hysterical. but that was not dolly's way at all, and she made resolute fight against her nerves. meanwhile, she felt herself taken hold of and placed in a chair by the window; and the sense that somebody was watching her and waiting, helped the return of self-control. with a sort of childish sob, dolly presently took down her hands and looked up through the glistening tears at the young man standing over her. "there!" she said, forcing a smile on the lips that quivered,--"i am all right now. i do not know how i could be so foolish." "_i_ know," said mr. shubrick. "then i will just return to the village for half and hour, and be back here as soon as possible." "but"--said dolly doubtfully. "why don't you send for what you want?" "difficult," said the other. "i am going to get some supper." "oh!" said dolly. "if _that_ is what you want--sit down, mr. shubrick. or send off your fly first, and then sit down. if you are going to stay here to-night, i'll give you your supper. send away the fly, mr. shubrick, please!" "i do not think i can. and you cannot possibly do such a thing as you propose. i shall be back here in a very little time." dolly put her hand upon mr. shubrick's cap and softly took it from him. "no," she said. "it's a bargain. if i let you do one thing, you must let me do the other. it would trouble me to have you go. it is too pleasant to see a friend here, to lose sight of him in this fashion. there will be supper, of some sort, and you shall have the best we can. will you send away your fly, please, and sit down and wait for it?" if dolly could not withstand him, so on this point there was no resisting her. mr. shubrick yielded to her evident urgent wish; and dolly went back to her preparations. the question suddenly struck her, _where_ should she have supper? down here in the kitchen? but to have it in order, upstairs, would involve a great deal more outlay of strength and trouble. the little maid could not set the table up there, and dolly could not, with the stranger looking on. that would never do. she debated, and finally decided to put her pride in her pocket and bring her visitor down to the kitchen. it was not a bad place, and if he was going to be a third nurse in the house, it would be out of keeping to make any ceremony with him. dolly's supper itself was faultless. she had some cold game, sent by lady brierley or by her order; she had fresh raspberries sent by mrs. jersey, and a salad of cresses. but mrs. copley would not be persuaded to make her appearance. she did not want to see strangers; she did not like to leave mr. copley; in short, she excused herself obstinately, to dolly's distress. however, she made no objection to having mr. shubrick take her place for the night; and she promised dolly that if she got a good night's sleep and was rested, she would appear at breakfast. chapter xxxii. the nurse. dolly made her mother's excuses, which seemed to her visitor perfectly natural, and ushered him down to the supper laid in the little kitchen; dolly explaining very simply that her mother and she had lived there since there had been sickness in the house, and had done so for want of hands to make other arrangements possible. and mr. shubrick seemed also to find it the most natural thing in the world to live in the kitchen, and for all that appeared, had never taken his meals anywhere else in his life. he did justice to the supper too, which was a great gratification to dolly; and lifted the kettle for her from the hob when she wanted it, and took his place generally as if he were one of the family. as for dolly, there came over her a most exquisite sense of relief; a glimpse of shelter and protection, the like of which she had not known since she could hardly remember when. true, it was transient; it could not abide; mr. shubrick was sitting there opposite her like some one that had fallen from the clouds, and whom mist and shadow would presently swallow up again; but in the meanwhile, what a gleam of light his presence brought! he would go soon again, of course; he must; but to have him there in the meantime was a momentary comfort unspeakable. more than momentary; he would stay all night. and her mother would get a night's sleep. for her own part, this feeling of rest was already as good as sleep. yes, for once, for a little, a strong hand had come between her and her burdens. dolly let herself rest upon it, with an intense appreciation of its strength and sufficiency. and so resting, she observed her new helper curiously. she noticed how entirely he was the same man she had seen that christmas day in rome; the same here as there, with no difference at all. there was the calm of manner that had struck her then, along with the readiness for action; the combination was peculiar, and expressed in every turn of head and hand. here, in a strange house, he was as absolutely at ease and unconstrained as if he had been on the quarterdeck of his own ship. is it the habit of command? thought dolly. but that does not necessarily give a man ease of manner in his intercourse with others who are not under his command. meanwhile, mr. shubrick sat and talked, keeping up a gentle run of unexciting thoughts, and apparently as much at home in the kitchen of brierley cottage as if he had lived there always. "when have you seen christina?" dolly asked. "not in some months." "are they at sorrento yet?" "no; they spent the winter in rome, and this summer they are in switzerland. i had a letter from miss thayer the other day. i mean, a few weeks ago." it occurred to dolly that one or the other of them must be a slack correspondent. "i almost wonder they could leave sorrento," she remarked. "they got tired of it." "i never get tired of lovely things," said dolly. "the longer i know them the better pleasure i take in them. i could have stayed in venice, it seemed to me, for years; and rome--i should never have got away from rome of my own accord, if duty had not made me; and then at naples, i enjoyed it better the last day than the first. and sorrento"---- "what about sorrento?" "oh, it was--you know what sorrento is. it was roses and myrtles and orange blossoms, and the fire of the pomegranate flowers and the grey of the olives; and the italian sun, and the italian air; and, mr. shubrick, you know what the mediterranean is, with all its colours under the shadow of the cliffs and the sunlight on the open sea. and vesuvius was always a delightful wonder to me. and the people were so nice. sorrento is perfect." a soft breath of a sigh came from dolly's heart. "you do not like england so well?" "no. oh no! but i could like england. mr. shubrick, my time at sorrento was almost without care; and you know that makes a difference." "would you like to live without care?" said he. dolly looked at him, the question seemed so strange. "without anxious care--i should," she answered. "that you may, anywhere." "how is it possible, sometimes?" dolly asked wistfully. "may i be yankee enough to answer your question by another? is it any relief to you to have me come in and take the watch for to-night?" "the greatest," said dolly. "i cannot express to you how great it is; for mother and i have had it all to do for so long. i cannot tell you, mr. shubrick, in what a strange lull of rest i have been sitting here since we came downstairs. i have just let my hands fall." "how can you be sure it is safe to do that?" he said, smiling. "oh," said dolly, "i know you will take care; and while you do, i need not." mr. shubrick was silent. dolly pondered. "do i know what you mean?" she said. "i think you do," he replied. "do you remember it is written, --'casting your care upon him, _for he careth for you_'?" "and that means, not to care myself?" "not anxiously, or doubtfully. you cannot trust your care to another, and at the same time keep it yourself." "i know all that," said dolly slowly; "or i thought i knew it. how is it, then, that it is so difficult to get the good of it?" "was it very difficult to trust me?" mr. shubrick asked. "no," said dolly, "because--you know you are not a stranger, mr. shubrick. i feel as if i knew you." he lifted his eyes and looked at her; not regarding the compliment to himself, but with a steady, keen eye carrying dolly's own words home to her. he did not say a word; but dolly changed colour. "oh, do you mean _that?_" she cried, almost with tears. "is it because i know christ so poorly that i trust him so slowly?" "what else can it be? and you know, miss dolly, just that absolute trust is the thing the lord wants of us. and you know it is the thing of all others that we like from one another. we need not be surprised that he likes it; for we were made in his image." dolly sat silent, struck and moved both with sorrow and gladness; for if it were possible so to lay down care, what more could burden her? and that she had not done it, testified to more strangeness and distance on her part towards her best friend than she liked to think of. her musings were interrupted by mr. shubrick. "now may i be introduced to mr. copley?" he said. dolly was rather doubtful about the success of this introduction. however, she brought her mother out of the sick-room, and took mr. shubrick in; and there, in obedience to his desire, left him, without an introduction; for her father was asleep. "he will never let him stay there, dolly," said mrs. copley. "he will not bear it at all." and dolly waited and feared and hoped. but the night drew on, and came down upon the world; mrs. copley went to bed, at dolly's earnest suggestion, and was soon fast asleep, fatigue carrying it over anxiety; and dolly watched and listened in vain for sounds of unrest from her father's room. none came; the house was still; the summer night was deliciously mild; dolly's eyelids trembled and closed, and opened, and finally closed again, not to open till the summer morning was bright and the birds making a loud concert of their morning song. mr. shubrick, left alone with his patient, sat down and waited; reviewing meanwhile the room and his surroundings. it was a moderate-sized, neat, pretty room, with one window looking out upon the garden. the casement was two-leaved, and one leaf only was part open. the air consequently was close and hot. and if the room was neat, that applies only to its natural and normal condition; for if neatness includes tidiness, it could not be said at present to deserve that praise. there was an indescribable litter everywhere, such as is certain to accumulate in a sick-room if the watchers are not imbued with the spirit of order. here were one or two spare pillows, on so many chairs; over the back of another chair hung mr. copley's dressing-gown; at a very unconnected distance from his slippers under a fourth chair. on still another chair lay a plate and knife with the remains of an orange; on the mantelpiece, the rest of the chairs, the tables, and even the floor, stood a miscellaneous assortment of cups, glasses, saucers, bottles, spoons, and pitchers, large and small, attached to as varied an assemblage of drinks and medicines. only one medicine was to be given from time to time, mr. shubrick had been instructed; and that was marked, and he recognised it; what were all the rest of this assemblage doing here? some books lay about also, and papers, and magazines; here a shawl, there some articles of female apparel; and a basket of feminine work. the litter was general, and somewhat disheartening to a lover of order; mrs. copley being one of those people who have nothing of the sort belonging to them, and indeed during the most of her life accustomed to have somebody else keep order for her; servants formerly, dolly of late. mr. shubrick sat and looked at all these things, but made no movement, until by and by his patient awoke. it was long past sunset now, the room in partial twilight, yet illumination enough still reflected from a very bright sky for the two people there to see each what the other looked like. mr. copley used his eyes in this investigation for a few minutes in silence. "who are you?" he inquired abruptly. "a friend." "what friend? you are a friend i don't know." "that is true; but it will not be true to-morrow," mr. shubrick said quietly. "what are you here for?" "to act the part of a friend, if you will allow me. i am here to wait upon you, mr. copley." "thank you, i prefer my own people about me," said the sick man curtly. "you may go, and send them, or some of them, to me." "i cannot do that," said the stranger, "and you must put up with me for to-night. mrs. copley and your daughter are both very tired, and need rest." "humph!" said the invalid with a surprised grunt. "did _they_ send you here?" "no. they permitted me to come. i take it as a great privilege." "you take it before you have got it. i have not given my leave yet. what are you doing there?" "letting some fresh air in for you." mr. shubrick was setting wide open both leaves of the casement. "you mustn't do that. the night air is not good for me. shut the window." "you cannot have any air at night _but_ night air," replied mr. shubrick, uttering what a great authority has since spoken, and leaving the window wide open. "but night air is very bad. i don't want it; do you hear?" "if you will lie still a minute or two, you will begin to feel that it is very good. it is full of the breath of roses and mignonette, and a hundred other pleasant things." "but i tell you that's poison!" cried mr. copley, beginning to excite himself. "i choose to have the window shut; do you hear me, sir? confound you, i want it shut!" the young man, without regarding this order, came to the bedside, lifted mr. copley's head and shook up his pillows and laid him comfortably down again. "lie still," he said, "and be quiet. you are under orders, and i am in command here to-night. i am going to take care of you, and you have no need to think about it. is that right?" "yes," said the other, with another grunt half of astonishment and half of relief,--"that's right. but i want the window shut, i tell you." "now you shall have your broth. it will be ready presently." "i don't want any broth!" said the sick man. "if you could get me a glass of wine;--_that_ would set me up. i'm tired to death of these confounded slops. they are nothing for a man to grow strong upon. never would make a man strong--never!" mr. shubrick made no answer. he was going quietly about the room. "what are you doing?" said the other presently, watching him. "making things ship-shape--clearing decks." "what do you know about clearing decks?" said mr. copley. "i will show you." and the sick man watched with languid amusement to see how, as his new nurse went from place to place, the look of the room changed. shawls and clothing were folded up and bestowed on a chest of drawers; slippers were put ready for use at the bedside; books were laid together neatly on the table; and a small army of cups and glasses and empty vials were fairly marched out of the room. in a little while the apartment was in perfect order, and seemed half as large again. the invalid drew a long breath. "you're an odd one!" said he, when he caught mr. shubrick's eye again. "where did you learn all that? and who are you? and how did you come here? i have a right to know." "you have a perfect right, and shall know all about me," was the answer; "but first, here is your broth, hot and good." (mr. shubrick had just received it from the little maid at the door). "take this now, and to-morrow, if you behave well, you shall have something better." mr. copley suffered himself to be persuaded, took the broth, and then repeated his question. "i am sandie shubrick, lieutenant in the united states navy, on board ship 'the red chief;' just now on furlough, and in england." "what did you come to england for?" "business and pleasure." "which do you call this you are about now?" "both," said mr. shubrick, smiling. "now you may lie still, and keep the rest of your questions for another time." mr. copley yielded, and lay looking at his new attendant, till he dozed off into unconsciousness. waking then after a while, hot and restless, his nurse brought water and a sponge and began sponging his face and neck and hands; gently and soothingly; and kept up the exercise until restlessness abated, breaths of satisfied content came at easy intervals; and finally mr. copley slumbered off peacefully, and knew no more. when he awoke the sun was shining on the oaks of brierley park. the window was open, as it had been all night, and by the window sat mr. shubrick, looking out. the sick man eyed him for a while. "are you asleep there?" he said at last, growing impatient of the silence. mr. shubrick got up and came to him. "good morning!" said he. "how have you rested?" "i believe it's the best night i've had yet. what were you doing to me in the night? using a sponge to me, weren't you? it put me to sleep. i believe it would cure a man of a fever, by jupiter." "not by jupiter," said mr. shubrick. "and you must not say such things while i am here." "why not?" mr. copley opened his eyes somewhat. "it is no better than counterfeit swearing." "would you rather have the true thing?" "i never permit either, where i am in authority?" "your authority can't reach far. you've got to take the world as you find it." "i dispute that. you've got to take the world and make it better." "what do you do where your authority is not sufficient?" "i go away." "look here," said mr. copley. "do you call yourself in authority _here?_" "those are the only terms on which i could stay," said mr. shubrick, smiling. "well, see," said the other,--"i wish you would stay. you've done me more good than all the doctor and everybody else before you." "i come after them all, remember." "i wish you had come before them. women don't know anything. there's my wife,--she would have let the room get to be like a jew's old clothes shop, and never be aware of it. i didn't know what was choking me so, and now i know it was the confusion. you belong to the navy?" "i told you so last evening," said mr. shubrick, who meanwhile was sponging mr. copley's face and hands again and putting him in order generally, so as a sick man's toilet might be made. "by jupiter!--i beg your pardon--i believe i am going to get over this, after all," said mr. copley "i am sure i shall, if you'll stay and help me." "i will do it with pleasure. now, what are you going to have for your breakfast?" "but, look here. why should you stay with me? i am nothing to you. who's to pay you for it?" "i do not come for pay; or rather, i get it as i go along. make yourself easy, and tell me about your breakfast." "how do you come here? i don't know you. who does know you?" "i have been a friend of your friends, mr. and mrs. thayer, for many years." "humph. ah! well. about breakfast, i don't know what they have got for me downstairs; some lolypop or other." "we'll do better for you than that," said mr. shubrick. the morning meanwhile had come to the other inmates of the house. dolly had left the sofa where she had spent the night, with a glad consciousness that the night was over and there had been no disturbance. her mother had slept all the night through and was sleeping yet. what refreshment and comfort it was. what strength and rest, to think of that kind, calm, strong, resolute man in her father's room; somebody that could be depended upon. dolly thought christina ought to be a happy woman, with always such a hand to support her all her life long. "and he drinks no wine," thought dolly; "that temptation will never overtake him; she will never have to be ashamed of him. he will hold her up, and not she him. she is happy." the worst thing about mr. shubrick's coming was, that he must go away again! however, not yet; he would be seen at breakfast first; and to prepare breakfast was now dolly's next care. then she got her mother up and persuaded her to make herself nice and appear at the meal. "you are never going to bring him down into the kitchen?" said mrs. copley, horrified, when she got there. "certainly, mother; it is no use trying to make a fuss. i cannot give him breakfast anywhere else." "then i would let him go to the village, dolly, and get his breakfast there." "but that would be very inhospitable. he was here at supper, mother; i don't think he was frightened. he knows just how we are situated." "he doesn't know you have nobody to help you, i hope?" "how could he help knowing it? the thing is patent. never mind, mother; the breakfast will be good, if the breakfast-room is only so so. if you do not mind, nobody else will." "that you should come to this!" said mrs. copley, sinking into a chair. "my dolly! doing a servant's work, and for strangers, and nobody to help or care! and what are we coming to? i don't see, for my part. you are ruined." "not yet," said dolly cheerfully. "if i am, i do not feel like it. now, mother, see if you can get mr. shubrick down here before my omelette is ruined; for that is the greatest danger just at present." it was not quite easy to get mr. shubrick down there, however; he demurred very seriously; and i am afraid the omelette was something the worse before he came. but then the breakfast was rather gay. the watcher reported a quiet night, and as he was much inclined to think, an amended patient. "quiet!" echoed mrs. copley. "how could you keep him quiet?" "i suppose i imagined myself on board ship," said the young man, smiling, "and gave orders, as i am accustomed to do there. habit is a great thing." "and mr. copley minded your orders?" "that is understood." "well!" ejaculated mrs. copley. "he never would do the least thing i or dolly wanted him to do; not the least thing. _he_ has been giving the orders all along; and as fidgetty as ever he could be. fidgetty and nervous. wasn't he fidgetty?" "no; very docile and peaceable." "you must be a wonderful man," said mrs. copley. "habit," said mr. shubrick. "as i said, it is a great thing." "he has been having his own way all along," said mrs. copley; "and ordering us about, and doing just the things he ought not to do. he was always that way." "not the proper way for a sick room," said mr. shubrick. "you had better install me as head nurse." how dolly wished they could do that! as she saw him there at the table, with his quiet air of efficiency and strength, dolly thought what a treasure he was in a sick house; how strong she felt while she knew he was near. perhaps mrs. copley's thoughts took the same turn; she sighed a little as she spoke. "you have been very kind, mr. shubrick. we shall never forget it. you have been a great help. if mr. copley would only get better now"---- "i am going to see him better before i go." "we could not ask any _more_ help of you." "you need not," and mr. shubrick smiled. "mr. copley has done me the honour to ask me." "mr. copley has asked you!" repeated mrs. copley in bewilderment. "what?" "asked me to stay." "to stay and nurse him?" "yes. and i said i would. you cannot turn me away after that." "but you have your own business in england," dolly here put in. "this is it, i think." "your own pleasure, then. you did not come to england for this." "it seems i did," he said. "i am off duty, miss dolly, i told you; here on furlough, to do what i like; and there is nothing else at present that i should like half so well." dolly scored another private mark here to the account of mr. shubrick's goodness; and in the ease which suddenly came to her own mind, felt as if her head were growing light and giddy. but it was no illusion or dream. mr. shubrick was really there, finishing his breakfast, and really going to stay and take care of her father; and dolly felt as if the tide of their affairs had turned. so indeed it proved. from that time mr. shubrick assumed the charge of the sick-room, by night and also by day. he went for a walk to the village sometimes, and always got his dinner there; the rest of the time he was at the cottage, attending to everything that concerned mr. copley. dolly and her mother were quite put away from that care. and whether it were the moral force of character, which acted upon mr. copley, or whether it were that his disorder had really run its length and that a returning tide of health was coming back to its channels, the sick man certainly was better. he grew better from day to day. he had been quiet and manageable from the first in his new nurse's hands; now he began to take pleasure in his society, holding long talks with him on all possible subjects. appetite mended also, and strength was gradually replacing weakness, which had been very great. anxiety on the one score of her father's recovery was taken away from dolly. other anxieties remained, and even pressed harder, when the more immediately engrossing care was removed. in spite of mr. shubrick's lecture about casting off care, dolly found it difficult to act upon the truth she knew. her little fund of money was much reduced; she could not help asking herself how they were going to live? would her father, as soon as he was strong enough, go back to his former ways and be taken up with his old companions? and if he did, how much longer could the little household at brierley struggle on alone? what had become of all her father's property in america, from which in old time the income had always been more than sufficient for all their wants and desires? was it gone irrevocably? or had only the ready money accruing from it been swallowed up in speculation or pleasure? and whence could dolly get light on these points, or how know what steps she ought to take? could her weakness do anything, in view of that fact to which her mother had alluded, that mr. copley always took his own way? it was all utter and dark confusion as she looked forward. could dolly trust and be quiet? in her meditations another subject occupied her a good deal. the presence of sandie shubrick was such a comfort that it was impossible not to think what she would do without him when he was gone. he was a universal comfort. since he had taken charge of the sick-room, the sickness was disappearing; while he was in command, there was no rebellion; the affairs of the household worked smoothly, and dolly had no need to draw a single long breath of perplexity or anxiety. the sound of that even, firm step on the gravel walk or in the hall, was a token of security; the sight of mr. shubrick's upright, alert figure anywhere was good for courage and hope. his resolute, calm face was a light in the house. dolly's thoughts were much busied with him and with involuntary speculations about him and christina. it was almost unavoidable. she thought, as indeed she had thought before, that miss thayer was a happy woman, to have so much strength and goodness belonging to her. what a shielded life hers would be, by this man's side. he would never neglect her or prefer his interests to hers; he would never give her cause to be ashamed of him; and here dolly's lips sometimes quivered and a hot tear or two forced their way out from under her eyelids. and how could possibly christina so play fast and loose with him, do dishonour to so much goodness, and put off her consent to his wishes until all grace was gone out of it? mr. shubrick apparently had made up his mind to this treatment and was not cast down by it; or perhaps would he, so self-reliant as he was, be cast down utterly by anything? i think perhaps dolly thought too much about mr. shubrick. it was difficult to help it. he had brought such a change into her life; he was doing such a work in the house; he was so very pleasant a companion at those breakfasts and suppers in the kitchen. for his dinner mr. shubrick persisted in going to the village inn. he said the walk did him good. he had become in these few days quite as one of themselves. and now he would go. mr. copley was fast getting well, and his nurse would go. dolly could not bear to think of it. chapter xxxiii. under an oak tree. more than a week passed, and mr. copley was steadily convalescent. he had not left his room yet, but he needed no longer the steady attendance of some one bound to minister to his wants. dolly was expecting now every day to hear mr. shubrick say he must bid them good-bye; and she took herself a little to task for caring so much about it. what was sandie shubrick to her, that she should feel such a heart-sinking at the prospect of his departure? it was a very wonderful thing that he, christina thayer's mr. shubrick, should have come to help this little family in its need; it was very astonishing that he should be there even then, waiting on dolly copley's sick father; let her be satisfied with this so unexpected good, and bid him farewell as easily as she had bid him welcome. but dolly could not. how could she? she said to herself. and every time she saw mr. shubrick she feared lest the dreaded words would fall from his lips. so when he came to her one afternoon when she was sitting in the porch, her heart gave a throb of anticipation. however, he said nothing of going, but remarked how pretty the sloping ground looked, on the other side of the little river, with its giant trees and the sunlight streaming through the branches upon the greensward. "it is very pretty," said dolly. "the park is beautiful. you ought to see it"--_before you go_, she was on the point of saying, but did not say. "will you come with me, and show me what i ought to look at?" "now?" said dolly. "if it is not too warm for you. we might take it easily and keep in the shadow of the trees." "oh, it is not too warm," said dolly; and she ran to fetch her garden hat. it was not august now; the summer was past, yet the weather was fit for the height of summer. warm, spicy, dry air, showing misty in the distance like a gossamer veil, and near by a still glow over everything. the two young people wandered over the bridge and slowly mounted the bank among the oaks and beeches, keeping in the shade as much as might be. there was a glorious play of shadow and sunlight all over the woodland; and the two went softly along, hardly disturbing the wild creatures that looked at them now and then. for the woods were full of life. they saw a hare cross an opening, and grey squirrels eyed them from the great oak branches overhead; and there was a soft hum of insects filling all the silence. it was not the time of day for the birds to be merry. nor perhaps for the human creatures who slowly passed from tree to tree, avoiding the spaces of sunlight and summer glow. they were neither merry nor talked much. "this is very noble," said sandie at last. "were you ever in england before, mr. shubrick?" "yes." "then you have seen many of these fine places already, perhaps?" "no, not many. my stay has been mostly in london; though i did run down a little into the country." "people say we have nothing like this in america." "true, i suppose," said sandie. "we are too young a people, and we have had something else to do." "it is like a dream, that anybody should have such a house and such a place as brierley," dolly went on. "there is nothing wanting that one can imagine, for beauty and dignity and delight of living and luxury of ease. it might be the arabian nights, or fairyland. you must see the house, with its lovely old carvings, and pictures, and old, old furniture; and the arms of the family that built it carved and painted everywhere, on doors and chairs and mantelpieces." "of the family that built it?" repeated mr. shubrick. "not the family that owns it now?" "no. you see their arms too, but the others are the oldest. and then it would take you hours to go through the gardens. there are different gardens; one, most exquisite, framed in with trees, and a fountain in the middle, and all the beds filled with rare plants. but i do not like anything about the place better than these trees and greensward." "it must be a difficult thing," said sandie meditatively, "to use it all for christ." dolly was silent a while. "i don't see how it _could_ be used so," she said. the other made no answer. they went slowly on and on, getting up to the higher ground and more level going, while the sun's rays coming a little more slant as the afternoon declined, gave an increasing picturesqueness to the scene. mr. shubrick had been for some time almost entirely silent, when dolly proposed to stop and rest. "one enjoys it better so," she said. "one has better leisure to look. and i wanted to talk to you, besides." her companion was very willing, and they took their places under a great oak, on the swell of greensward at the foot of it. ground and grass and moss were all dry. dolly sat down and laid off her hat; however, the proposed "talk" did not seem to be ready, and she let mr. shubrick wait. "i wanted to ask you something," said she at last. "i have been wanting to ask you something for a good while." there she stopped. she was not looking at him; she was taking care not to look at him; she was trying to regard mr. shubrick as a foreign abstraction. seeing which, he began to look at her more persistently than hitherto. "what is it?" he asked, with not a little curiosity. "there is nobody else i can ask," dolly went on; "and if you could give me the help i want, it would be a great thing for me." "i will if i can." the young man's eyes did not turn away now. and dolly was an excessively pretty thing to look at; so taken up with her own thoughts that she was in no danger of finding out that she was an object of attention or perhaps admiration. her companion perceived this, and indulged his eyes fearlessly. dolly's fair, flushed face was thin with the work and the care of many weeks past; the traces of that were plain enough; yet it was delicately fair all the same, and perhaps more than ever, with the heightened spirituality of the expression. the writing on her features, of love and purity, habitual self-devotion and self-forgetfulness, patience and sweetness, was so plain and so unconscious, that it made her a very rare subject of contemplation, and, as her companion thought, extremely lovely. her attitude spoke the same unconsciousness; her dress was of the simplest description; her brown hair was tossed into disorder; but dress and hair and attitude alike were deliciously graceful, with that mingling of characteristics of child and woman which was peculiar to dolly. lieutenant shubrick was familiar with a very diverse type of womanly charms in the shape of his long-betrothed miss thayer. the comparison, or contrast, might be interesting; at any rate, any one who had eyes to read this type before him needed no contrast to make it delightful; and probably mr. shubrick had such eyes. he was quite silent, leaving dolly to choose her time and her words at her own pleasure. "i know you will," she said slowly, taking up his last words;--"you have already; but i am a bad learner. you know what you said, mr. shubrick, the day you came, that evening when we were at supper,--about trusting, and not taking care?" "yes." dolly did not look at him, and went on. "i do not find that i can do it." "do what?" "lay down care. quite lay it down." "it is not easy," mr. shubrick admitted. "is it possible, always? i find i can trust pretty well when i can see at least a possible way out of difficulties; but when the way seems all shut up, and no opening anywhere,--then--i do not quite lay down care. how can i?" "there is only one thing that can make it possible." "i know--you told me; but how then can i get that? i must be very far from the knowledge of christ--if _that_ is what is wanting." dolly's eyes filled with tears. "no," said mr. shubrick gently, "but perhaps it does follow, that you have not enough of that knowledge." "of course. and how shall i get it? i can trust when i see some light, but when i can see none, i am afraid." "if i promised to take you home, i mean, to america, by ways known to me but unknown to you, could you trust me and take the steps i bade you." i am not justifying mr. shubrick. this was a kind of tentative speech for his own satisfaction; but he made it, watching for dolly's answer the while. it came without hesitation. "yes," she said. "i should believe you, if you told me so." "yet in that case you would follow me blindly." "yes." "seeing no light." "yes. but then i know you enough to know that you would not promise what you would not do." "thank you. this is by way of illustration. you would not be afraid?" "not a bit. i see what you mean," said dolly, colouring a little. "do you think there is anything friends can give one another, so precious as such trust?" "no--i suppose not." "is it wonderful, if the lord wants it of his children?" "no. o mr. shubrick, i am ashamed of myself! what is the reason that i can give it to you, for instance, and not to him? is it just wickedness?" "it is rather, distance." "distance! then how shall i get near?" "do you know what a question you are asking me? one of the grandest that a creature can ask. it is the question of questions. for, to get near, is to see the lord's beauty; and to see him is to love him, and to love with that absolute confidence. 'thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee.' and, 'this is life eternal, to know thee.'" "then how, mr. shubrick?" said dolly. "how is one to do?" she was almost tearful in her earnestness. but he spoke, earnestly enough, yet with a smile. "there are two sides to the question. on your side, you must do what you would do in any case where you wanted to cultivate a friendship. how would that be?" dolly pondered. "i never put it so to myself," she said slowly, "and yet i suppose it must be so. why, in any such case i should try to see a great deal of the person i wanted to make a friend of. i would be in the person's company, hear him talk, or hear her talk, if it was a woman; and talk to her. it would be the only way we could become known to each other." "translate, now." "translate?" said dolly. "you mean,"---- "apply to the case in hand." "you mean," said dolly, "that to study the bible is to hear the lord speak; and to pray, is to speak to him." "to study the bible with a heart ready to obey all it finds--_that_ is hearing the lord speak; and if prayer is telling him your thoughts and wishes in your own language, that is speaking to him." "but it is speaking without an answer." "i beg your pardon. it is speaking without an audible answer; that is all." "then how does the answer come?" "in receiving what you ask for; in finding what you seek." dolly brushed away a tear again. "one needs to take a good deal of time for all that," she said presently. "can you cultivate a friendship on any other terms?" "perhaps not. this is quite a new view of the whole matter, mr. shubrick. to me." "common sense. and bible." "does the bible speak of it?" "the bible speaks of the life of religion as contained in our knowing god and in his knowing us." "but he,--he knows everybody." "not in this way. it is the sweet knowledge of intimate friendship and relations of affection. 'i know thee by name,' was one of the reasons given why the lord would grant moses' bold prayer. 'i have called thee by thy name, thou art mine,' is the word to his people israel. 'he calleth his own sheep by name,' you know it is said of the good shepherd. and 'they shall all know me,' is the promise concerning the church in christ. while, you remember, the sentence of dismissal to the others will be simply, 'i know you not.' and, 'the lord knoweth them that are his.'" there was silence; and then dolly said, "you said there were two sides to the question." "yes. your part we have talked about; it is to study, and ask, and obey, and believe. the lord's part is to reveal himself to you. it is a matter of revelation. you cannot attain it by any efforts of your own, be they never so determinate. therefore your prayer must be constantly like that of moses--'i beseech thee, show me thy glory.' and you see, that makes your part easy, because the other part is sure." "mr. shubrick, you are a very comforting talker!" said dolly. "nay, i am only repeating the lord's words of comfort." "so i am to study, and yet study will not do it," said dolly; "and i am to pray, and yet prayer will not give it." "study will not do it, certainly. but when the lord bestows his light, study becomes illumination. no, prayer does not give it, either; yet you must ask if yon would have. and christ's promise to one who loves him and keeps his commandments is,--you recollect it,--'i will love him _and will manifest myself to him_.'" "that will do, mr. shubrick, thank you," said dolly rising. "you need not say any more. i think i understand. and i am very much obliged to you." mr. shubrick made no answer. they went saunteringly along under the great trees, rather silent both of them after that. as the sun got lower the beauty of the wooded park ground grew more exceeding. all that a most noble growth of trees could show, scattered and grouped, all that a most lovely undulation of ground surface could give, in slope and vista and broken light and shadow, was gilded here and there with vivid gold, or filled elsewhere with a sunny, misty glow of vapourous rays, as if the air were streaming with gold dust among the trees. all tints and hues of greensward, moss, and fern, under all conditions of illumination, met their wondering eyes; and for a while there was little spoken but exclamations of delight and discussion of beautiful effects that came under review. they went on so, from point to point, by much the same way that dolly had taken on her first visit to the park; till they came out as she had done from the thinner part of the woodland, and stood at the edge of the wide plain of open greensward which stretched on up to the house. here they stood still. the low sun was shining over it all; the great groups of oaks and elms stood in full revealed beauty and majesty; and in the distance the house looked superbly down over the whole. "there is hardly anything about brierley that i like better than this," said dolly. "isn't it lovely? i always delight in this great slope of wavy green ground; and see how it is emphasised and set off by those magnificent trees? and the house looks better from nowhere than from here." "it is very noble--it is exceeding beautiful," mr. shubrick assented. "now this, i suppose, one could not see in america," dolly went on; "nor anything like it." "america has its own beauties; doubtless nothing like this. there is the dignity of many generations here. but, miss dolly, as i said before,--it would be difficult to use all this for christ." "i do not see how it could be done," said dolly. "mr. shubrick, i happen to know, it takes seven or eight thousand a year--or more--to keep the place up. pounds sterling, i mean; not dollars. merely to keep the establishment up and in order." "and yet, if i were its owner, i should find it hard to give up these ancestral acres and trees, or to cease to take care of them. i am glad i am a poor man!" "give them up?" said dolly. "do you think _that_ would be duty?" "i do not know. how could i take seven or eight thousand pounds a year just to keep up all this magnificence, when the money is so wanted for the lord's work, in so many ways? when it would do such great things, given to him." "then, mr. shubrick, the world must be very much mistaken in its calculations. people would not even understand you, if they heard you say that." "do _you_ understand me?" "oh yes. and yet i cannot tell you what delight i take in all this, every time i see it. the feeling of satisfaction seems to go to my very heart. and so when i am in the house,--and the gardens. oh, you have not seen the gardens, nor the house either; and there is no time to-day. but i do not know that i enjoy anything much more than this view. though the house is delicious, mr. shubrick." "i can believe it," he said, smiling. "you see what reason i have to rejoice that i am a poor man." dolly thought, poor child, as they turned and went homeward, she could hardly go so far as to rejoice that she was a poor woman. not that she wanted brierley; but she did dread possible privation which seemed to be before her. she feared the uncertainty which lay over her future in regard to the very necessaries of life; she shrank a little from the difficulty and the struggle of existence, which she knew already by experience. and then, mr. shubrick, who had been such a help and had made such a temporary diversion of her troubled thoughts, would be soon far away; she had noticed that he did not speak of some other future opportunity of seeing the house and gardens, when she remarked that it was too late to-day. he would be going soon; this one walk with him was probably the last; and then the old times would set in again. dolly went along down among the great oaks and beeches, down the bank now getting in shadow, and spoke hardly a word. and mr. shubrick was as silent as she, probably as busy with his own thoughts. so they went, until they came again in sight of the bridge and the little river down below them, and a few steps more would have brought the cottage into view. "we have come home fast," said mr. shubrick. "do you think we need go in and show ourselves quite yet? suppose we sit down here under this tree for a few minutes again, and enjoy all we can." dolly knew it must be approaching the time for her to see about supper; but she could not withstand the proposal. she sat down silently and took off her hat to cool herself. "i come here very often," she said, "to get a little refreshment. it is so pleasant, and so near home." "you call brierley 'home.' have you accepted it as a permanent home?" "what can we do?" said dolly. "mother and i long to go back to america--we cannot persuade father." "miss dolly, will you excuse me for remarking that you wear a very peculiar watch-chain," mr. shubrick said next, somewhat irrelevantly. "my watch-chain! oh, yes, i know it is peculiar," said dolly. "for anything i know, there is only one in the world." "may i ask, whose manufacture it is?" "it was made by somebody--a sort of a friend, and yet not a friend either--somebody i shall never see again." "ah? how is that?" "it is a great while ago," said dolly. "i was a little girl. at that time i was at school in philadelphia, and staying with my aunt there. o aunt hal! how i would like to see her!--the girls were all taken one day to see a man-of-war lying in the river; our schoolmistress took us; it was her way to take us to see things on the holidays; and this time it was a man-of-war; a beautiful ship; the 'achilles.' my chain is made out of some threads of a cable on board the 'achilles.'" "you did not make it?" "no, indeed. i could not, nor anybody else that i know. the manufacture is exquisite. look at it," said dolly, putting chain and watch in mr. shubrick's hand. "but somebody must have made it," said the young officer, examining the chain attentively. "yes. it was odd enough. the others were having lunch; i could not get into the little cabin where the table was set, the place was so full; and so i wandered away to look at things. i had not seen them half enough, and then one of the young officers of the ship found me--he was a midshipman, i believe--and he was very good to me. he took me up and down and round and about; and then i was trying to get a little bit of a piece off a cable that lay coiled up on the deck and could not, and he said he would send me a piece; and he sent me that." "seems strong," said mr. shubrick, still examining the chain. "oh, it is very strong." "this is a nice little watch. deserves a better thing to carry it." "better!" cried dolly, stretching out her hand for the chain. "you do not appreciate it. i like this better than any other. i always wear this. father gave me a very handsome gold chain; he was of your opinion; but i have never had it on. this is my cable." she slipped the chain over her neck as she spoke. "what makes you think you will never see the maker of the cable again?" "oh, that is a part of the story i did not tell you. with the chain came a little note, asking me to say that i had received it, and signed 'a. crowninshield.' i can show you the note. i have it in my work-box at home. do you know anybody of that name in the navy, mr. shubrick?" "midshipman?" "he might not be a midshipman now, you know. that is nine years ago." "true. i do not know of a lieutenant crowninshield in the navy--and i am sure there is no captain of that name." "that is what i thought," said dolly. "i do not believe he is alive. whenever i saw in the papers mention of a ship of the navy in port, i used to go carefully over the lists of her officers; but i never could find the name of crowninshield." mr. shubrick here produced his pocket-book, and after some opening of inner compartments, took out a small note, which he delivered to dolly. dolly handled it at first in blank surprise, turned it over and over, finally opened it. "why, this is my note!" she cried, very much confounded. "my own little note to that midshipman. here is my name. and here is his name. how did you get it, mr. shubrick?" she asked, looking at him. but his face told her nothing. "it was given to me," he said. "by whom?" "by the messenger that brought it from you." "the messenger? but you you--you--are somebody else!" mr. shubrick laughed out. "am i?" said he. "well, perhaps,--though i think not." "but you are not that midshipman?" "no. i was he, though." "your name,--your name is not crowninshield?" "yes. that is one of my names. alexander crowninshield shubrick, at your service." dolly looked at him, like a person awake from a dream, trying to read some of the remembered lineaments of that midshipman in his face. he bore her examination very coolly. "why--oh, is it possible you are he?" cried dolly with an odd accent of almost disappointment, which struck mr. shubrick, but was inexplicable. "why did you not sign your true name?" "excuse me. i signed my true name, as far as it went." "but not the whole of it. why didn't you?" "i had a reason. i did not wish you to trace me." "but please, why not, mr. shubrick?" "we might say, it was a boy's folly." "i shall not say so," said dolly, tendering the note back. "i daresay you had some reason or other. but i cannot somehow get my brain out of a whirl. i thought you were somebody else!--here is your note, mr. shubrick. i cannot imagine what made you keep it so long." his hand did not move to receive the note. "i have been keeping it for this time," he answered. "and now, i do not want to keep it any longer, miss dolly, unless--unless i may have you too." dolly looked at him now with a face of startled inquiry and uneasiness. whether she were more startled or incredulous of what she heard, it would be impossible to say. the expression in her eyes grew to be almost terror. but mr. shubrick smiled a little as he met them. "i kept the note, for i always knew, from that time, that i should marry that little girl, if ever i could find her,--and if she would let me." dolly's face was fairly blanched. "but--you belong to somebody else," she said. "no," said he,--"i beg your pardon. i belong to nobody in the world, but myself. and you." "christina told me"---- "she told you true," said mr. shubrick quite composedly. "there was a connection subsisting between us, which, while it lasted, bound us to each other. it happened, as such things happen; years ago we were thrown into each other's company, in the country, when i was home on leave. my home was near hers; we saw a great deal of each other; and fancied that we liked each other more than the fact was, or rather in a different way. so we were engaged; on my part it was one of those boyish engagements which boys frequently form before they know their own minds, or what they want. on the other side you can see how it was from the circumstances of the case. christina did not care enough about me to want to be married; she always put it off; and i was not deeply enough concerned to find the delay very hard to bear. and then, when i saw you in rome that christmas time, i knew immediately that if ever in the world i married anybody, it would be the lady that wore that chain." "but christina?" said dolly, still with a face of terrified trouble. was then mr. shubrick a traitor, false to his engagements, deserting a person to whom, whether willingly or not, he was every way bound? he did not look like a man conscious of dishonourable dealing, of any sort; and he answered in a voice that was both calm and unconcerned. "christina and i are good friends, but not engaged friends any more. will you read that?" he handed dolly another letter as he spoke, and dolly, bewildered, opened it. "ischl, _may_ , --. "dear sandie,--"you are quite ridiculous to want me to write this letter, for anybody that knows you, knows that whatever you say is the truth, absolutely unmixed and unvarnished. your word is enough for any statement of facts, without mine to help it. however, since you will have it so, here i am writing. "but really it is very awkward. what do you wish me to say, and how shall i say it? you want a testimony, i suppose. well, then, this is to certify, that you and i are the best friends in the world, and mean to remain so, in spite of the fact that we once meant to be more than friends, and have found out that we made a mistake. yes, it was a mistake. we both know it now. but anybody may be mistaken; it is no shame, either to you or me, especially since we have remedied the error after we discovered it. really, i am in admiration of our clear-sightedness and bravery, in breaking loose, in despite of the trammels of conventionality. but you never were bound by those trammels, or any other, except what you call 'duty.' so i herewith declare you free,--that is what you want me to say, is it not?--free with all the honours, and with the full preservation of my regards and high consideration. indeed, i do not believe i ever shall hold anybody else in _quite_ such high consideration; but perhaps that very fact made me unfit to be anything but your friend. i am afraid you are too good for me, in stern earnest; but i have a notion that will be no disadvantage to you in certain other sweet eyes that i know; the goodness, i mean, not anything else. "we are here, at this loveliest of lovely places; but we have got enough of it, and are going to spend some weeks in the tyrol. i suppose i know where to imagine _you_, at least part of the summer. and you will know where to imagine me next winter, when i tell you that in the fall the probability is that i shall become mrs. st. leger. you may tell dolly. didn't i remark to her once that she and i had better effect an exchange? funny, wasn't it? however, for the present i am, as i have long been, your very sincere friend, christina thayer." dolly read the letter and stared at it, and finally returned it without raising her eyes. and then she sat looking straight before her, while her face might be likened to the evening sky when the afterglow is catching the clouds. from point to point the flush catches, cloud after cloud is lighted up, until under the whole heaven there is one crimson glow. dolly was not much given to blushing, she was not at all wont to be a prey to shyness; what had come over her now? when lawrence st. leger had talked to her on this very same subject, she had been able to answer him with scarcely a rise of colour in her cheeks; with a calm and cool exercise of her reasoning powers, which left her fully mistress of the situation and of herself. she had not been disturbed then, she had not been excited. what was the matter now? for dolly was overtaken by an invincible fit of shyness, such as never had visited her in all her life. i do not think now she knew that she was blushing; according to her custom, she was not self-conscious; what she was conscious of, intensely, was mr. shubrick's presence, and an overwhelming sense of his identity with the midshipman of the "achilles." what _that_ had to do with dolly's shyness, it might be hard to tell; but her sweet face flushed till brow and neck caught the tinge, and the eyelids fell over the eyes, and dolly for the moment was mistress of nothing. mr. shubrick looking at her, and seeing those lovely flushes and her absolute gravity and silence, was in doubt what it might mean. he thought that perhaps nobody had ever spoken to her on such a subject before; yet dolly was no silly girl, to be overcome by the mere strangeness of his words. did her silence and gravity augur ill for him? or well? and then, without being in the least a coxcomb, it occurred to him that her excessive blushing told on the hopeful side of the account. he waited. he saw she was as shy as a just caught bird; was she caught? he would not make so much as a movement to startle her further. he waited, with something at his heart which made it easier every moment for him to wait. but in the nature of the case, waiting has its limits. "what are you going to do about it?" he inquired at length, in a very gentle manner. "give me my note back again, with the conditions?" dolly did nothing of the kind. she held the note, it is true, and looked at it, but without making any movement to restore it to its owner. so decided an action did not seem at the moment possible to her. she looked at the little note, with the prettiest sort of embarrassment, and presently rose to her feet. "i am sure it is time to have supper," she said, "and they cannot do anything at home till i come." mr. shubrick rose too and followed dolly, who set off unceremoniously down the bank towards the bridge. he followed her, half smiling, and wholly impatient. yet though a stride or two would have brought him alongside of her, he would not make them. he kept behind, and allowed her to trip on before him, which she did with a light, hasty foot, until they neared the little gate of the courtyard belonging to the house. then he stepped forward and held the gate open for her to enter, not saying a word. dolly passed him with the loveliest shy down-casting of her eyelids, and went on straight into the house. he saw the bird was fluttering yet, but he thought he was sure of her. chapter xxxiv. under the same oak. dolly threw off her hat and went down to the kitchen premises. mr. shubrick repaired to the sick-room and relieved mrs. copley. that lady, descending to the lower part of the house, found dolly very busy with the supper-table, and apparently much flushed with the hot weather. "your father's getting well!" she said with a sigh. "that's good news, i am sure, mother." "yes,--it's good news," mrs. copley repeated doubtfully; "but it seems as if everything good in this world had a bad side to it." dolly stood still. "what's the matter?" she said. "oh, he's so uneasy. as restless end fidgetty as a fish out of water. he is contented with nothing except when mr. shubrick is near him; he behaves quietly then, at least, however he feels. i believe it takes a man to manage a man. though i never saw a man before that could manage your father. _he_ laughs at it, and says it is the habit of giving orders." "who laughs at it?" "mr. shubrick, to be sure. you don't suppose your father owns to minding orders? but he does mind, for all that. what will become of us when that young man goes away?" "why, mother?" "my patience, dolly! what have you done to heat yourself so! your face is all flushed. do keep away from the fire, or you'll certainly spoil your complexion. you're all flushed up, child." "but father,--what about father?" "oh, he's just getting ready to take his own head, as soon as mr. shubrick slips the bridle off. he's talking of going up to town already; and he will go, i know, as soon as he _can_ go; and then, dolly, then--i don't know what will become of us!" mrs. copley put her hands over her face, and the last words were spoken with such an accent of forlorn despair, that dolly saw her mother must have found out or divined much that she had tried to keep from her. she hesitated with her answer. somehow, the despair and the forlornness had gone out of dolly's heart. "i hope--i think--there will be some help, mother." "where is it to come from?" said mrs. copley sharply. "we are as alone as we can be. we might as well be on a desert island. now you have sent off mr. st. leger--oh, how obstinate children are! and how little they know what is for their good!" this subject was threadbare. dolly let it drop. it may be said she did that with every subject that was started that evening. mr. shubrick at supper made brave efforts to keep the talk a going; but it would not go. dolly said nothing; and mrs. copley in the best of times was never much help in a conversation. just now she had rather a preoccupied manner; and i am by no means certain that, with the superhuman keenness of intuition possessed by mothers, she had not begun to discern a subtle danger in the air. the pressure of one fear being removed, there was leisure for any other to come up. however, mr. shubrick concerned himself only about dolly's silence, and watched her to find out what it meant. she attended to all her duties, even to taking care of him, which to be sure was one of her duties; but she never looked at him. the same veil of shy grace which had fallen upon her in the wood, was around her still, and tantalised him. nor did he get another chance to speak to her alone through the next two days that passed; carefully as he sought for it. dolly was not to be found or met with, unless sitting at the table behind her tea-urn and with her mother opposite. mr. shubrick bided his time in a mixture of patience and impatience. the latter needs no accounting for; the former was half brought about and maintained by the exquisite manner of dolly's presentation of herself those days. the delicate, coy grace which invested her, it is difficult to describe it or the effect of it. she was not awkward, she was not even embarrassed, the least bit in the world; she was grave and fair and unapproachable, with the rarest maidenly shyness, which took the form of the rarest womanly dignity. she was grave, at least when mr. shubrick saw her; but watching her as he did narrowly and constantly, he could perceive now and then a slight break in the gravity of her looks, which made his heart bound with a great thrill. it was not so much a smile as a light upon her lips; a play of them; which he persuaded himself was not unhappy. the loveliness of the whole manifestation of dolly during those two days, went a good way towards keeping him quiet; but naturally it worked two ways. and human patience has limits. the second day, mr. shubrick's had given out. he came in from his walk to the village, bringing mrs. copley something she had commissioned him to get from thence; and found both ladies sitting at a late dinner. and not the young officer's eyes alone marked the sudden flush which rose in dolly's cheeks when he appeared, and the lowered eyelids as he stood opposite her. "we began to review the park, the other day," he said, eyeing her steadily. "can we have another walk in it this afternoon, miss dolly? the first was so pleasant." "i shouldn't think you'd go pleasuring just now, dolly, when your father wants you," said mrs. copley. "you have seen hardly anything of him lately. i should think you would go and sit with him this afternoon. i know he would like it." whether this arrangement was agreeable to the present parties concerned, or either of them, did not appear. of course the most decorous acquiescence was all that came to light. a little later, mr. shubrick himself, being thus relieved from duty, quitted the house and strolled down to the bridge and over it into the park; and dolly slowly went upstairs to her father's room. it was true, she had been there lately less than usual; but there had been a reason for that. her conscience was not charged with any neglect. mr. copley seemed sleepily inclined; and after a word or two exchanged with him dolly began to go round the room, looking to see if anything needed her ordering hand. truly she found nothing. coming to the window, she paused a moment in idle wistfulness to see how the summer sunshine lay upon the oaks of the park. and standing there, she saw mr. shubrick, slowly going over the bridge. she turned away and went on with her progress round the room. "what are you about there, dolly?" mr. copley called to her. "just seeing if anything wants my attention, father." "nothing does, i can tell you. the room is all right, and everything in it. i've been kept in order, since i have had a naval officer to attend upon me." "don't i keep things in order, father?" "if you do, your mother don't. she thinks that anywhere is a place, and that one place is as good as another." "mother seems to think i have neglected you lately. have you missed me?" "missed you! no. i have had care and company. where did you pick up that young man, dolly?" "i, father? i didn't pick him up." "how came he here, then? what brought him?" "i don't know," said dolly. "would you like to have me read to you?" "no, child. shubrick reads to me and talks to me. he's capital company, though he's one of your blue sort." "father! he is not blue, nor am i. do you think i am blue?" "sky blue," said her father. "he's navy blue. that's the difference." "i do not understand the difference," said dolly, half laughing. "never mind. what have you done with mr. shubrick?" "i?" said dolly, aghast. "yes. where is he?" "oh!--i believe, mother sent him into the park." "sent him into the park? what for?" "i do not mean that she sent him," said dolly, correcting herself in some embarrassment; "i mean, that she sent me up here, and he went into the park." "i wish he'd come back, then. i want him to finish reading to me that capital article on english and european politics." "can i finish it?" "no, child. you don't understand anything about the subject. shubrick does. i like to discuss things with him; he's got a clear head of his own; he's a capital talker. when is he going?" "going where, father?" "going away. he can't stay here for ever, reading politics and putting my room in order. how long is he going to stay?" "i do not know." "well--when he goes i shall go! i shall not be able to hold out here. i shall go back to london. i can't live where there is not a man to speak to some time in the twenty-four hours. besides, i can do nothing here. i might as well be a cabbage, and a cabbage without a head to it." "are we cabbages?" asked dolly at this. "mother and i?" "cabbage roses, my dear; cabbage roses. nothing worse than that." "but even cabbage roses, father, want somebody to take care of them." "i'll take care of you. but i can do it best in london." "then you do not want me to read to you father?" dolly said after a pause. "no, my dear, no, my dear. if you could find that fellow shubrick--i should like him." and mr. copley closed his eyes as if to sleep, finding nothing worthy to occupy his waking faculties. dolly sat by the window, looking out and meditating. yes, mr. shubrick would be going away, probably soon; his furlough could not last always. meanwhile, she had given him no answer to his questions and propositions. it was rather hard upon him, dolly felt; and she had a sort of yearning sympathy towards her suitor. a little impatience seized her at being shut up here in her father's room, where he did not want her, and kept from the walk in the park with mr. shubrick, who did want her. he wanted her very much, dolly knew; he had been waiting patiently, and she had disappointed every effort he made to get speech of her and see her alone, just because she was shy of him and of herself. but it was hardly fair to him, after all, and it could not go on. he had a right to know what she would say to his proposition; and she was keeping him in uneasiness, (to put it mildly), dolly knew quite well. and now, when could she see him? when would she have a chance to speak to him alone, and to hear all that she yet wanted to hear? but indeed dolly now was thinking not so much of what she wanted as of what _he_ wanted; and her uneasiness grew. he might be obliged to go off suddenly; officers' orders are stubborn things; she might have no chance at all, for aught she knew, after this afternoon. she looked at her father; he had dozed off. she looked out of the window; the afternoon sun, sinking away in the west, was sending a flood of warm light upon and among the trees of the park. it must be wonderfully pretty there! it must be vastly pleasant there! and there, perhaps, mr. shubrick was sitting at this moment on the bank, wishing for her, and feeling impatiently that his free time was slipping away. dolly's heart stirred uneasily. she had been very shy of him; she was yet; but now she felt that he had a right to his answer. something that took the guise of conscience opposed her shy reserve and fought with it. mr. shubrick had a _right_ to his answer; and she was not treating him well to let him go without it. dolly looked again at her father. eyes closed, breathing indicative of gentle slumber. she looked again over at the sunlit park. it was delicious over there, among its sunny and shadowy glades. perhaps mr. shubrick had walked on, tempted by the beauty, and was now at a distance; perhaps he had not been tempted, and was still near, up there among the trees, wanting to see her. dolly turned away from the window and with a quick step went downstairs. she met nobody. her straw flat was on the hall table; she took it up and went out; through the garden, down to the bridge, over the bridge, with a step not swift but steady. mr. shubrick had a right to his answer, and she was simply doing what was his due, and there might be no time to lose. she went a little more slowly when she found herself in the park; and she trembled a little as her eye searched the grassy openings. she was not quite so confident here. but she went on. she had not gone very far before she saw him; under the same oak where they had sat together; lying on his elbow on the turf and reading. dolly started, but then advanced slowly, after that one minute's check and pause. he was reading; he did not see her, and he did not hear her light footstep coming up the bank; until her figure threw a shadow which reached him. then he looked up and sprang up; and perhaps divining it, met dolly's hesitation, for, taking her hands he placed her on the bank beside his open book; which book, dolly saw, was his bible. but her shyness had all come back. the impression made by the thought of a person, when you do not see him, is something quite different from the living and breathing flesh and blood personality. mr. shubrick, on the other hand, was in a widely different mood; which dolly knew, i suppose, though she could not see. "this is unlooked-for happiness," said he, throwing himself down on the bank beside her. "what have you done with mr. copley?" "nothing. he did not want me. he asked me what i had done with mr. shubrick? i think you have spoiled him." dolly spoke without looking at her companion, be it understood, and her breath came a little short. "and what are you going to do with mr. shubrick?" her companion said, not in the tone of a doubtful man, lying there on the bank and watching her. but dolly found no words. she could not say anything, well though she recognised mr. shubrick's right to have his answer. her eyes were absolutely cast down; the colour on her cheek varied a little, yet not with the overwhelming flushes of the other day. dolly was struggling with the sense of duty, the necessity for action, and yet she could not act. she had come to the scene of action, indeed, and there her bravery failed her; and she sat with those delicate lights coming and going on her cheek, and the brown eyes hidden behind the sweep of the lowered eyelashes; most like a shy child. mr. shubrick could have smiled, but he kept back the smile. "you know," he said in calm, matter-of-fact tones, that met dolly's sense of business, "my action must wait upon your decision. if you do not let me stay, i must go, and that at once. what do you want me to do?" "i do not want you to go," dolly breathed softly. silently mr. shubrick held out his hand. as silently, though frankly, dolly put hers into it. still she did not look at him. and he recognised what sort of a creature he was dealing with, and had sense and delicacy and tact and manliness enough not to startle her by any demonstration whatever. he only held the little hand, still and fast, for a space, during which neither of them said anything; then, however, he bent his head over the hand and kissed it. "my fingers are not accustomed to such treatment," said dolly, half laughing, and trying hard to strike into an ordinary tone of conversation, though she left him the hand. "i do not think they ever were kissed before." "they have got to learn!" said her companion. dolly was silent again. it was with a great joy at her heart that she felt her hand so clasped and held, and knew that mr. shubrick had got his answer and the thing was done; but she did not show it, unless to a nice observer. and a nice observer was by her side. yet he kept silence too for a while. it was one of those full, blessed silences that are the very reverse of a blank or a void; when the heart's big treasure is too much to be immediately unpacked, and words when they come are quite likely enough not to touch it and to go to something comparatively indifferent. however, words did not just that on the present occasion. "dolly, i am in a sort of amazement at my own happiness," mr. shubrick said. dolly could have answered, so was she! but she did not. she only dimpled a little, and flushed. "i have been waiting for you all these years," he went on; "and now i have got you!" dolly's dimples came out a little more. "i thought you did not wait," she remarked. mr. shubrick laughed. "my heart waited," he said. "i made a boy's mistake; and i might have paid a man's penalty for it. but i had always known that you and no other would be my wife, if i could find you. that is, if i could persuade you; and somehow i never allowed myself to doubt of that. i did not take such a chance into consideration." "but i was such a little child," said dolly. "ay," said he; "that was it. you were _such_ a little child." "but you must have been a very extraordinary midshipman, it seems to me." "by the same rule you must have been a very extraordinary little girl." they both laughed at that. "i suppose we were both extraordinary," said dolly; "but, really, mr. shubrick, you know very little about me!" his answer to that was to kiss again the hand he held. "what do you know of me?" "i think i know a great deal about you," said dolly softly. "you have a great deal to learn. wouldn't you like to begin by hearing how miss thayer and i came to an understanding?" "oh, yes, yes! if you please," said dolly, extremely glad to get upon a more abstract subject of conversation. "i owe that to myself, perhaps," mr. shubrick went on; "and i certainly owe it to you. i told you how i got into my engagement with her. it was a boyish fancy; but all the same, i was bound by it; and i should have been legally bound before now, only that christina always put off that whenever i proposed it. i found too that the putting it off did not make me miserable. dolly, the case is going to be different this time!" "you mean," said dolly doubtfully, "it _is_ going to make you miserable?" "no! i mean, you are not going to put me off." "oh, but!"----said dolly flushing, and stopped. "i have settled that point in my own mind," he said, smiling; "it is as well you should know it at once.--so time went by, until i went to spend that christmas day in rome. after that day i knew nearly all that i know now. of course it followed, that i could not accept the invitation to sorrento, when you were expected to be there. i could not venture to see you again while i was bound in honour to another woman. i stayed on board ship, those hot summer days, when all the officers that could went ashore. i stayed and worked at my problem--what i was to do." he paused and dolly said nothing. she was listening intently, and entirely forgetting that the sunlight was coming very slant and would soon be gone, and that home and supper were waiting for her managing hand. dolly's eyes were fixed upon another hand, which held hers, and her ears were strained to catch every word. she rarely dared glance at mr. shubrick's face. "i wonder what counsel you would have given me?" he went on,--"if i could have asked it of you as an indifferent person,--which you were." "i don't know," said dolly. "i know what people think"---- "yes, i knew what people think, too; and it a little embarrassed my considerations. however, dolly, i made up my mind at last to this;--that to marry christina would be acting a lie; that i could not do that; and that if i could, a lie to be acted all my life long would be too heavy for me. negatively, i made up my mind. positively, i did not know exactly how i should work it. but i must see christina. and as soon as affairs on board ship permitted, i got a furlough of a few days and went to sorrento. i got there one lovely afternoon, about three weeks after you had gone. sea and sky and the world generally were flooded with light and colour, so as i have never seen them anywhere else, it seems to me. you know how it is." "yes, i know sorrento," said dolly. but just then, an english bank under english oaks seemed as good to the girl as ever an italian paradise. that, naturally, she did not show. "i know sorrento," she said quietly. "and you know the thayers' villa. i found christina and mr. st. leger sitting on the green near the house, under an orange tree--symbolical; and the air was sweet with a thousand other things. i felt it with a kind of oppression, for the mental prospect was by no means so delicious." "no," said dolly. "and sometimes that feeling of contrast makes one very keen to see all the lovely things outside of one." "do _you_ know that?" said mr. shubrick. "yes. i know it" "one can only know it by experience. what experience can you have had, my dolly, to let you feel it?" dolly turned her eyes on him without speaking. she was thinking of venice at midnight under the moon, and a sail, and a wine-shop. tell him? no, indeed, never! "you are not ready to let me know?" said he, smiling. "how long first must it be?" "it isn't anything you need know," said dolly, looking away. but with that the question flashed upon her, would he not have to know? had he not a right? "please go on," she said hurriedly. "i can go on now easier than i could then," he said with a half laugh. "i sat down with them, and purposely brought the conversation upon the theme of my trouble. it came quite naturally, _apropos_ of a case of a broken engagement which was much talked of just then; and i started my question. suppose one or the other of the parties had discovered that the engagement was a mistake? they gave it dead against me; all of them; mrs. thayer had come out by that time. they were unanimous in deciding that pledges made must be kept, at all hazards." "i think that is the general view," said dolly. "it is not yours?" "i never thought much about it. but i think people ought always and everywhere to be true.--that is nothing to kiss my hand for," dolly added with the pretty flush which was coming and going so often this afternoon. "you will let me judge of that." "i didn't think you were that sort of person." "what sort of person?" "one of those that kiss hands." "shall i choose something else to kiss, next time?" but dolly looked so frightened that mr. shubrick, laughing, went back to his story. "we were at sorrento," he said. "you can suppose my state of mind. i thought at least i would take disapprobation piecemeal, and i asked christina to go out on the bay with me. you have been on the bay of sorrento about sun-setting?" "oh yes, many a time." "i did not enjoy it at first. i hope you did. i think christina did. it was the fairest evening imaginable; and my oar, every stroke i made, broke and shivered purple and golden waters. it was sailing over the rarest possible mosaic in which the pattern was constantly shifting. i studied it, while i was studying how to begin what i had to do. then, after a while, when we were well out from shore, i lay on my oars, and asked miss thayer whether she were sure that her judgment was according to her words, in the matter we had been discussing at the house? she asked what i meant. i put it to her then, whether she would choose to marry a man who liked another woman better than he did herself? "christina's eyes opened a little, and she said 'not if she knew it.' "'then you gave a wrong verdict up there,' i said. "'but that was about what the _man_ should do,' she replied. 'if he has made a promise, he must fulfil it. or the woman, if it is the woman.' "'would not that be doing a wrong to the other party?' "'how a wrong?' said christina. 'it would be keeping a promise. every honourable person does that.' "'what if it be a promise which the other side no longer wishes to have kept?' "'you cannot tell that,' said christina. 'you cannot know. probably the other side does wish it kept.' "i reminded her that she had just declared _she_, in the circumstances, would not wish it; but she said, somewhat illogically, 'that it made no difference.' "i suggested an application of the golden rule." "yes," said dolly; "i think that rule settles it. i should think no woman would let a man marry her who, she knew, liked somebody else better." "and no man in his senses--no _good_ man," said sandie, "would have a woman for his wife whose heart belonged to another man; or, leaving third parties out of the question, whose heart did not belong to _him_. i said something of this to christina. she answered me with the consequences of scandal, disgrace, gossip, which she said attend the breaking off of an engagement. in short, she threw over all my arguments. i had to come to the point. i asked her if she would like to marry _me_, if she knew that i liked somebody else better? "she opened her eyes at me. 'do you, sandie?' she said. and i told her yes. "'who?' she asked as quick as a flash. and i knew then that _her_ heart was safe," mr. shubrick added with a smile. "i told her frankly, that ever since christmas day, i had known that if i ever married anybody it would be the lady i then saw with her. "'dolly!' she cried. 'but you don't know her, sandie.'" mr. shubrick and dolly both stopped to laugh. "i am sure that was true. and i should think unanswerable," said dolly. "it was not true. do you think it is true now?" "well, you know me a little better, but i should think, not much." "shows how little you can tell about it. by the same reasoning, i suppose you do not know _me_ much?" "no," said dolly. "yes, i do! i know you a great deal, in some things. if i didn't"---- she flushed up. "we both know enough to begin with; is that it? do you remember, that evening, christmas eve, how you sat by the corner of the fireplace and kept quiet, while miss thayer talked?" "yes." dolly remembered it very well. "you wore a black dress, and no ornaments, and the firelight shone on a cameo ring on your hand, and on your face, and the curls of your hair, and every now and then caught this," said mr. shubrick, touching dolly's chain. "christina talked, and i studied you." "one evening," said dolly. "one evening; but i was reading what was not written in an evening. however, i left christina's objection unanswered--though i do not allow that it is unanswerable; and waited. she needed a little while to come to her breath." "poor christina!" said dolly. "not at all; it was poor sandie, if anybody. i do not think christina suffered, more than a little natural and very excusable mortification. she never loved me. i had guessed as much before, and i was relieved now to find that i had been certainly right. but she needed a little while to get her breath, nevertheless. she asked me if i was serious? then, why i did not tell her sooner? i replied that i had had a great fight to fight before i could make up my mind to tell her at all. "and then, as i judge, _she_ had something of a fight to go through. she turned her face away from me, and sat silent. i did not interrupt her; and we floated so a good while on the coloured sea. i do not believe she knew what the colours were; but i did, i confess. i had got a weight off my mind. the bay of sorrento was very lovely to me that evening. after a good while, christina turned to me again, and i could see that she was all taut and right now. she began with a compliment to me." "what was it?" dolly asked. "said i was a brave fellow, i believe." "i am sure i think that was true." "do you? it is harder to be false than true, dolly." "all the same, it takes bravery sometimes to be true." "so christina seemed to think. i believe i said nothing; and she went on, and added she thought i had done right, and she was much obliged to me." "that was like christina," said dolly. "'but you are bold,' she said again, 'to tell me!' "i assured her i had not been bold at all, but very cowardly. "'what do you expect people will say?' "i told her i had been concerned only and solely with the question of how she herself would take my disclosure; what she would say, and how she would feel. "she was silent again. "'but, sandie,' she began after a minute or two which were not yet pleasant minutes to either of us,--'i think it was very risky. it's all right, or it will be all right, i believe, soon,--but suppose i had been devotedly in love with you? suppose it had broken my heart? it _hasn't_--but suppose it had?'" "yes," said dolly. "you could not know." "i think i knew," said mr. shubrick. "but at any rate, dolly, i should have done just the same. 'fais que dois, advienne que pourra,' is a grand old motto, and always safe. i could not marry one woman while i loved another. the question of breaking hearts does not come in. i had no right to marry christina, even to save her life, if that had been in danger. but happily it was not in danger. she did shed a few tears, but they were not the tears of a broken heart. i told her something like what i have been saying to you. "'but dolly!' she said. 'you do not know her, you do not even _know her_.' that thought seemed to weigh on her mind." "what could you say to it?" said dolly. "i said nothing," mr. shubrick answered, smiling. "then christina went on to remark that miss copley did not know me; and that possibly i had been brave for nothing. i still made no answer; and she declared she saw it in my face, that i was determined it should _not_ be for nothing. she wished me success, she added; but 'dolly had her own way of looking at things.'" dolly could not help laughing. "so that is my story," mr. shubrick concluded. "and, oh, look at the light, look at the light!" said dolly, jumping up. "where will mother think i and supper are!" "she thinks probably that you are in mr. copley's room." "no, she knows i am not; for she is sure to be there herself." "then i will go straight to them, while you bring up arrears with supper." "and christina will marry mr. st. leger!" said dolly, while she flushed high at this suggestion. "yet i am not surprised." "is it a good match?" "the world would say so." "_i_ am not," said sandie, "according to the same judgment. i am not rich, dolly. by and by i will tell you all i have. but it is enough for us to live upon comfortably." nobody had ever seen dolly so shy and blushing and timid as she was now, walking down the bank by mr. shubrick's side. it was a bit of the same lovely manifestation which he had been enjoying for a day or two with a little alloy. it was without alloy that he enjoyed it now. chapter xxxv. ways and means. as they entered the house, dolly went downstairs and mr. shubrick up; she trembling and in a maze, he with a glad, free step, and a particularly bright face. mrs. copley was with her husband, as dolly had opined. "here's one of them," cried mr. copley as sandie entered. "where have you been all this while? if you think i'll do to be left alone yet, you're mistaken. where have you been?" "in what i believe is the park of brierley--over there under the oaks." "and where is dolly, mr. shubrick?" dolly's mother asked. "i have just brought her home. she is downstairs." "i sent her to take care of her father," said mrs. copley in a dissatisfied tone. "she informed me that mr. copley did not want her, and preferred me," said mr. shubrick. "but you did not come?" said mrs. copley suspiciously. he stood looking at her half a minute, with a slight smile upon his face, the frank, pleasant smile which belonged to him; then he turned, took a glass from the table and came to mr. copley's side to give him a draught which was due. next he lifted his patient by the shoulders a little, to arrange the pillows behind him, and as he laid him back upon them he said quietly--"will you give your daughter to me, mr. copley?" mr. copley looked, or stared rather, grumly enough at the speaker. "that means, you have got her already!" "not without your consent." "i thought as much! does dolly want to marry you?" "i do not know," said sandie with a smile; "but i believe i may say that she will marry nobody else." "ay, there it is. i have other views for my daughter." "and i thought you were engaged to miss thayer?" put in mrs. copley. "true; i was; but that was a boyish mistake. we have all other views. miss thayer is to marry your friend, mr. st. leger." "christina!" cried mrs. copley. "didn't i know mrs. thayer would do that, if she could! and now she has done it. and christina has thrown you over?" "not at all," said sandie, again with a smile. "and you have not to blame mrs. thayer, so far as i know. miss thayer and i are very good friends, but we were never intended to marry each other. we have found that out, and acted accordingly." "and she has got him!" mrs. copley repeated. "i told dolly she would like to do that. put their two fortunes together, and they will have enough," said poor mrs. copley. "that comes of our going to sorrento!" "look here, young man," said mr. copley. "if i give you dolly, as you say, after she has given herself,--the witch!--what are you and she going to live on?" "we have something to live on," said the young man with quiet independence. "not much, i'll be sworn!" "not perhaps what you would call much. a lieutenant in the navy is not likely to have more than a very moderate fortune." "fortune! what do you call a fortune?" "enough to live on." "are you ever going to be a captain?" "i cannot say. but there is some prospect of it." "things might be worse, then," grumbled mr. copley. "anyhow, you have tied my tongue, my fine fellow. i can't say a word against you. but look here;--if you don't want a wife that will rule you, i advise you not to marry my dolly. she's a witch for having her own way. 'my dolly'!" mr. copley half groaned. "i suppose now she's your dolly. i don't want to give her to any man, that's the truth." "and i thought all this nursing had been so disinterested!" said mrs. copley dolefully. sandie's answer to this was conclusive, of the subject and the conversation both. he went up to mrs. copley, took her hand, and bent down and kissed her. just at that moment they were called to supper; and mrs. copley, completely conquered, went down with all her reproaches smothered in the bud. yet i confess her face showed a conflict of feelings as she entered the kitchen. it was cloudy with disappointment, and at the same time her eyes were wet with tears of some sweeter feeling. dolly, standing behind the supper-table, looked from the one to the other as the two came in. "it is all settled, dolly," said mr. shubrick. and i think he would have taken his betrothal kiss, then and there, had not dolly's glance been so shy and shrinking that she flashed at him. she was standing quietly and upright; there was no awkwardness in her demeanour; it was the look of her eyes that laid bans upon sandie. he restrained himself; paid her no particular attention during supper; talked a great deal, but on entirely indifferent subjects; and if he played the lover to anybody, certainly it was to mrs. copley. "he is a good young man, i believe," said mrs. copley, making so much of an admission as she and dolly went upstairs. "o mother," said dolly, half laughing and half vexed, "you say that just because he has been entertaining you!" "well," returned mrs. copley. "i like to be entertained. don't you find him entertaining?" mr. shubrick kept up the same tactics for several days; behaving himself in the house very much as he had done ever since he had come to it. and out of the house, though he and dolly took long walks and held long talks together; he was very cool and undemonstrative. he would let her get accustomed to him. and certainly in these conversations he was entertaining. walking, or sitting on the bank under some old beech or oak tree, he had endless things to tell dolly; things to which she listened as eagerly as ever desdemona did to othello; stories out of which, avoid personalities as he would, she could not but gain, step by step, new knowledge of the story-teller. and hour by hour dolly's respect for him and appreciation of him grew. little by little she found how thorough his education was, and how fine his accomplishments. especially as a draughtsman. easily and often, in telling her of some place or of some naval engagement, sandie would illustrate for her with any drawing materials that came to hand; making spirited and masterly sketches with a few strokes of his hand, it might be on paper, or on a bit of bark, or on the ground even. "ah," said dolly one day, watching him, "i cannot do that! i can do something, but i cannot do that." "what can you do?" inquired sandie. "i can copy. i can take down the lines of a face, or of a bridge, or a house, when i see it before me; but i cannot put things on paper out of my thoughts. do you remember how you did this sort of thing for me the very first time i saw you?--in the gun deck of the 'achilles'?" he smiled, finishing the sketch he was about. "i remember. i remember what pleasure it gave me, too. at that time i had a little sister, just your age, of whom i was exceedingly fond." "at that time--you _had?_" dolly repeated. "yes," he said soberly; "i have not anybody now, of near kin to me." dolly's hand with mute sympathy stole into his. it was the first action of approach to him that she had made, unless that coming to him in the park three or four days before might be reckoned in the bargain. he tossed his drawing into her lap and warmly clasped the hand. "it is time you began to talk to me, dolly," he said. "i have talked a great deal, but you have said next to nothing. you must have a great many questions to ask me." "i don't know," said dolly. "why, you know nothing about me," he said with a laughing look of his eyes. "you had better begin. you may ask me anything." "but knowing a person and knowing _about_ him, are very different things." "very. and if you have the one sort of knowledge, it seems to me you must want to have the other. unless, where both are alike uninteresting; which i cannot suppose is my case." "no," said dolly, laughing a little, "but i suppose you will tell me things by degrees, without my asking." "what makes you suppose that?" "it would be natural, wouldn't it?" "_would_ it be natural, without your showing any interest?" "ah, but now _you_ are supposing. perhaps i should show interest." sandie laughed now heartily. "i will try you," said he. "i will begin and tell you something without questions asked. dolly, i have a house." "have you?" "you do not care to hear about it?" "i am glad that you have a house," said dolly demurely. sandie was lying on the turfy bank, in a convenient position for looking up into her eyes; and she found it not precisely an easy position for her. "you do not take it as a matter of personal concern?" "it is a house a long way off," said dolly. "just now we are here.'' "how much longer do you expect to be here?" "that i do not know at all. mother and i have tried and tried to get father to go home again,--and we cannot move him." "i must try," said mr. shubrick. "oh, if you could!" said dolly, clasping her hands unconsciously--"i don't know what i would give. he seems to mind you more than anybody." "what keeps him here? business?" "i suppose it is partly business," said dolly slowly, not knowing quite how to answer. and then darted into her heart with a pang of doubt and pain, the question: was not mr. shubrick entitled to know what kept her father in england, and the whole miserable truth of it? she had been so occupied and so happy these last days, she had never fairly faced the question before. it almost caught her breath away. "dolly, when we all go back to america, the house i speak of will not be 'far off.'" "no," said dolly faintly. "look here," said he, taking one of her hands. "it is a house i hope you will like. _i_ like it, though it has no pretension whatever. it is an old house; and the ground belonging to it has been in the possession of my family for a hundred years; the house itself is not quite so old. but the trees about it are. the old house stands shut up and empty. i told you, i have no one very near of kin left to me; so even when i am at home i do not go there. i have never lived there since my mother left it." dolly was silent. "now, how soon do you think i may have the house opened and put in order for living in?" there came up a lovely rose colour in the cheeks he was looking at; however dolly answered with praiseworthy steadiness---- "that is a matter for you to consider." "is it?" "certainly." "but you know it would be no use to open it, until somebody is ready to live there." "no," said dolly. "of course--i suppose not." "so you see, after all, i have to come to you with questions, seeing you will ask me none." "oh," said dolly, "i will ask you questions, if you will let me. i would rather ask than answer." "very well," said he, laughing. "i give place to you. ask what you like." then followed silence. the young officer lay easily on the bank at her feet, holding dolly's hand; sometimes bringing his eyes to bear upon her face, sometimes letting them rove elsewhere; amused, but waiting. "i shall have to begin again," said he. "no, don't," said dolly. "mr. shubrick, where is your house?" "about fifty miles from boston, in one of the prettiest new england villages on the coast." "and how much ground is there round it?" "about a hundred acres." "doesn't it spoil a house to be shut up so?" "it is not good for it. but there is nobody belonging to me that i would like to see in it; and i could never rent the old place. i am very fond of it, dolly. it is full of associations to me." it swept through dolly, how she would like to put it in order and keep it open for him; and again she was silent, till admonished by a laughing, "go on." but dolly did not know what further to say, and was still silent. "there is one question you have not asked me," mr. shubrick said, "which would be a very pertinent one just now. you have never asked me how long _i_ was going to stay in england." "no," said dolly, starting. "how soon must you--how long can you stay?" "my leave expires in two weeks." "two weeks! and can you not get it extended?" "i don't know. perhaps, for a little. but, dolly, there is a prospect of the 'red chief' being ordered home; and there is a further possibility that i may have to take her home; for captain busby is very much out of health and wants to stay the winter over in naples." "you may have to take her home. will that give you the ship, do you mean?" "no," said he, smiling; "ships are not had at such an easy rate as that. but, dolly, you perceive that there are several questions we must ask and answer; and the sooner the better." "then," said dolly a little hurriedly,--she was afraid of the questions that might be coming,--"if you go away in two or three weeks, when shall i see you again?" there was more of an admission made in these words than dolly herself knew; and it was made with a tender, shy grace of tone and manner which touched the young officer with more than one feeling. he bent down to kiss dolly's hand before he said anything. "that is one of the questions," he said. "let me tell you what i have thought about it. the 'red chief' has been a long time out; she needs overhauling. she will probably be sent home soon, and i am like to be in charge of her. i may expect to get a long furlough when i go home; and--i want to spend every minute of it with you. i do not want to lose a day, dolly. do you understand? i want you to be all ready for me, so that we can be married the very day i get to you." "you mean, in america?" said dolly, with a great flush. "i mean, in america, of course. i want to take you straight away from your old home to your new one. i will have the house put in readiness"---- "when do you think you will be there?" dolly broke in. "by christmas, perhaps." "but i am here," said dolly. "so am i here, just at present," said he, smiling. "but you can go over in one ship while i am going over in another, and be there as soon as i, or before." "i don't know," said dolly. "i can't tell about father. i don't know when he will be persuaded to leave england." she looked doubtful and troubled now. possible difficulties and hindrances began to loom up before her, never looked at until then. what if her father would not go? what if he persisted in staying by the companions who were his comrades in temptation? could she go away and leave him to them? and leave her mother to him? here offered itself another sort of self-sacrifice, to which nothing could be objected except its ruinous effect upon her own future. nay, not _her_ own future alone; but what of that? "fais que dois advienne que pourra." it all swept through dolly's head with the speed, and something of the gloom, of a whirlwind. "i don't know anything about his movements," she repeated anxiously. "only, mother and i cannot get him away." "in that case, i will come to england for you." "oh no!" said dolly, shaking her head; "_that_ would not do. i could not leave him and mother here." "why not?" dolly was silent. she could not tell him why not. "would it be more difficult here, than to leave them in america?" mr. shubrick asked, the smile upon his lips checked by the very troubled expression of dolly's face. "it would not be 'difficult' here; it would be _impossible_." "may i ask, why more impossible, or difficult, than in america?" dolly was silent. what could she say? "suppose mr. copley should prefer to stay in england permanently?" "yes," said dolly in a sort of whisper. "what then?" "i do not know," she answered faintly. "in america it would be different?" "yes." "do you know, my little dolly, you are speaking what it is very difficult for me to understand?" "of course," said dolly. "you cannot understand it." "are you not going to give me the grace of an explanation?" "i cannot." "then i shall go to mr. copley for it." "oh no!" said dolly, starting, and laying both her hands upon one of the young officer's, as if in pleading or in hindering. "oh no, mr. shubrick! please, _please_, do not speak to mother or father about this! please say nothing about it!" he kissed and clasped the hands, making, however, no promise. for a moment he paused, seeing that dolly was very deeply disturbed. "do you think father and mother both could not be tempted to go home for your sake?" he then asked. "oh, mother, yes; but father--i don't know about father." "i shall try my powers of persuasion," said mr. shubrick lightly. dolly made no answer and was evidently in so much troubled confusion of thought that she was not ready, even if he were, to take up again the consideration of plans and prospects, or to enter into any other more indifferent subject of conversation. after a trial or two, seeing this, mr. shubrick proposed to get a book and read to her; which he had once or twice done to their great mutual pleasure. and as dolly eagerly welcomed the proposal, he left her there on the bank and went down to the cottage, which was not very far off, to fetch the book. as soon as he was out of sight, dolly laid her face in her hands. it was all rushing upon her now, what she had scarce looked at before in the pre-occupation and happiness of the last days. it was a confusion of difficult questions. would her father leave the companions and habits to which he had grown so fast, and go back to america for her sake--that is, for the sake of seeing her promptly married? dolly doubted it much. it was quite possible that her father would regard that consideration as the reverse of an inducement. it was quite possible that no unselfish inducement would have any power at all with him. then he would stay in england. and so long as he was in england, in the clutches of the temptation that had got so much power, dolly could not leave him; and if she could leave him, it would be impossible to forsake her mother, whose only stay and comfort on earth she was. in that case, what was she to say to mr. shubrick? how could he understand, that for dolly to leave father and mother was any way different or more difficult than christina's or any other girl's doing the same thing? he could not understand, unless she told him all; and how was it possible for her to do that? how could she tell her lover her father's shame? and if she simply refused to marry him and refused to give any reason, what was he to think then? shame and fear and longing took such possession of dolly that she was thrown into great perturbation. she left her seat on the bank and walked up and down under the great trees. a good burst of tears was near, but she would not give way to that; sandie would see it. he would be back presently. and he would be putting his question again; and whatever in the world should she say to him? for the hundredth time the bitter apostrophe to her father rose in dolly's heart. how _could_ he have let her be ashamed of him? and then another thought darted into her head. had not mr. shubrick a right to know all about it? dolly was almost distracted with her confusion of difficulties. she would not cry, which as she told herself would help nothing. she stood by a great oak branch which, leaving the parent trunk a few feet higher up, swept in lordly fashion, in a delicious curve, down towards the turf, with again a spring upward at its extremity. dolly stood where it came lowest, and had rested her two arms upon it, looking out vaguely into the green wilderness beyond. she thought she was safe; that was not the side towards the cottage, from which quarter mr. shubrick would come; she would hear his steps in time before she turned round. but mr. shubrick had seen her standing there, and innocently made a little bend from the straight path so as to come up on one side and catch a stolen view of her sweet face. coming so, he saw much more than he expected, and much more than dolly would have let him see. the next moment he had taken the girl in his arms. dolly started and would have freed herself, but she found she could not do it without making more effort than she was willing to use. she stood still, fluttering, trembling, and at the same time not a little abashed. "what is troubling you, dolly?" dolly dared not look and could not speak. silence made an admission, she knew; nevertheless, she could find no words to say. "don't you love me well enough to tell me?" "oh, it isn't that," cried dolly; "it's _because_"---- here dolly's revelations came to an end, and yet she had revealed a good deal. a dark glow came into the young officer's eyes. truly, she had before never told him so much as that she loved him. but his next words were spoken in the same tone with the foregoing. it was very affectionate, and withal there was a certain accent of authority in it. i think it awed dolly a little. she had known really very little of authority, as exercised towards herself. this was something very unlike her father's careless acquiescence, or his careless opposition; very unlike the careless way in which he would sometimes throw his arm round her, affectionate though that was. the affection here was different, dolly felt with an odd sort of astonishment; and the care, and the asserted right of ownership. it gave the girl a thrill of joy; at the same time it had upon her a kind of subduing effect. so came his next question, gently as it was put, and it was put very gently. "do you not think i have a right to know?" "perhaps," she stammered. "oh, i don't know but you ought to know,--but how can i tell you! oh, i don't know how i can tell you!" dolly trembled in her doubt and distress; she fought down tears. both hands went up to cover her face. "is it a trouble in which i can help?" "i don't know." "if i am to help, you must tell me something more, dolly." "yes, but i cannot. oh, if you knew, you would know that i cannot. i think perhaps you ought to know,--but i cannot tell you! i don't see how i can tell you!" "then do not try to tell me, until we are married," said he soothingly. "it will be easier then." "but i think you ought to know before," said dolly, and he felt how she trembled in his arms. "if you don't know, you will not be able to understand"---- "what?" for dolly paused. "what i do. you will not understand it." "what are you going to do?" said mr. shubrick, smiling; she knew he was smiling. "you are going home to be ready to meet me; and the day i come, we are going to be married. then you can tell me what you like. hey?" "but you don't know!" cried dolly. "i can't tell when we shall go home. i don't know whether father will quit england for all i can say. i don't know whether he will ever quit it!" "then, as i remarked before, i will have the honour to come to england and fetch you." "ah, but i could not go then." "why not?" "i could not leave them alone here." "why not here as well as in america?" "my father needs me here," said dolly in a low voice and with tears,--what sharp tears of bitterness!--coming into her eyes. "needs you! do not i need you?" said mr. shubrick. "no," said dolly. "i am so glad you don't!" and her brown eyes gave one flash of undoubted, albeit inexplicable, pride and rejoicing into his face. "how do you dare say that, dolly?" he asked in growing curiosity and mystification. "you can stand alone," she said, her voice again drooping. mr. shubrick was silent a moment, considering what this might mean. they had not altered their relative positions during this little dialogue. dolly's face was again covered by her hands. "i don't know if i can stand alone," said sandie at last slowly; "but i am not going to try." "perhaps you must," said dolly sadly, lifting her face again. "if i can get father to go home, i will; maybe you can do it if i cannot. but i am not sure that anybody can do it. mr. shubrick, he did not use to be like this; he was everything different; he was what you would have liked; but now he has got in with some people here in whose company he--oh, how can i tell you!" cried dolly, bursting into tears; but then she fought them back and struggled for voice and went on with sad bravery. "i have told you so much, i must tell you the whole. he is not just master of himself; temptation takes hold of him and he cannot resist it. they lead him to play and--betting--and he loses money,--and then comes wine." dolly's voice fell. "i have been trying and trying to get him back; sometimes i almost thought i had done it; but the temptation gets hold of him again, and then everything goes. and so, i cannot be sure," dolly went on, as mr. shubrick remained silent, "what he will do about going home. once he would have done it for me; but i do not know what he will do now. i cannot tell. and if there is a hope for him, it is in me. i have not been able to do much, yet; but if i cannot, no one can. unless you, perhaps; but you cannot be with him. and you see, mr. shubrick, that even if i can be of no use to him, i could not leave mother all alone. i could not. i am glad you know it all now; but"---- dolly could say nothing more. in sorrow and shame and agitation of spirits, she broke down and sobbed. her lover was very still; but though he spoke not a word, dolly was feeling all the while the new guardianship she had come into; what strong love and what resolute care it was; feeling it the more because mr. shubrick was so quiet about it. it was new to dolly; it was very delicious; ah, and what if she were but learning that now, to do without it for ever after! her tears had more sources than one; nevertheless, as soon as she could manage it, dolly mastered her feelings and checked down the expression of them; lifted her head and wiped her eyes, as if she had done now with tears for the term of her natural life. even forced a smile, as she said-- "please, mr. shubrick, let me go,--you must be tired of me." which dolly, to be sure, had no reason to think, and had still less reason a minute after; being obliged to learn, somewhat to her astonishment, that there was also a difference in kisses as well as in some other things. dolly was exceedingly filled with confusion. "i--didn't--give you leave!" she managed to say, abashed as she was. "no," said sandie, laughing. "and yet i think you did, dolly. i am glad to see your dimples again! come here and sit down. i think i see the way out of our difficulties." "you have been quick in finding it," said dolly, as he placed her on the bank. "habit," said sandie. "sailors _must_ see their way and make their decisions quickly, if at all. at least, that is oftentimes the case. this is one of the cases." "can you depend on decisions formed so suddenly?"--dolly was driven by some unaccountable instinct of shyness to lead off from the subject in hand, nearly as it concerned her. and besides, she was too flushed and abashed to deal coolly with any subject. "_must_ depend on them," said sandie, laughing a little at her pretty confusion. "as i told you, there is often no other to be had. and a sailor cannot afford to change his course; he must see to it that he is right at first. vacillation would be almost worse than anything." "at that rate, sailors must get a very downright way with them." "perhaps. are you afraid of it?" "no," said dolly demurely. "are you a good sailor?" mr. shubrick laughed out "do you doubt it?" "no, not at all," said dolly, laughing a little herself. "only you can do so many things--drawing, and speaking so many languages,--i wanted to know if you were good at that too." "that is one of the necessities of my position, dolly. a man who cannot sail a ship had better not try to command her." "i wish you would tell me one thing," said dolly wistfully. "i will tell you anything." "i wish you would tell me how you got your promotion. when i saw you first, you were a midshipman on board the 'achilles.' christina told me you had distinguished yourself in the war. how was it?" mr. shubrick gave her a glance of surprise at first, at this very irrelevant propounding of questions; then a gleam came out of his blue eyes, which were not in the least like mr. st. leger's blue eyes; but he answered quite gravely. "you have a right to know, if anybody in the world has; and yet i cannot tell you, dolly. i did nothing more than hundreds of others; nothing but my duty. only it happens, that if a man is always doing his duty, now and then there comes a time that draws attention to him, and brings what he does into prominence; and he gets advancement perhaps; but it does not follow that he has done any more than hundreds of others would have done." "are there so many men that are 'always doing their duty'?" "i hope so. i believe so. in naval affairs." "you have not told me what was the occasion that brought your doings into prominence?" he glanced at her with a flash in his eyes again. "is that pressing just now?" "isn't now a good time?" said dolly, smiling. "no, for my head is full of something else. i can't tell you how i came to be promoted first. after i was raised to a lieutenancy, i got special credit for disciplining the crew." "disciplining?" said dolly. "exercising them in gunnery practice." "oh!--i remember how you told me about that in the gun deck of the 'achilles.'" "this was on board another ship. her guns were well served upon an occasion that followed, and honourable mention was made of my services as having led to that result. now shall i go on?" "if you have any more to tell." "i am going no further on that tack. you must come about." "i suppose," said dolly quaintly, "i must if you must." "we were getting too far to leeward. we must come up into the wind a little more, dolly, and face our difficulties. i think i have found the way out of them. as i understand you, it is quite a matter of uncertainty when, or if ever, mr. copley can be induced to leave england." "quite uncertain. even if he promised to-day that he would go next week, i could not be sure but he would change his mind before the day came." "and so long as he and your mother are here, they need you. do you see, dolly, what prospect that opens to us?" "yes." "the only thing to do, is to give me a right to speak in the matter." "you have a right to speak," said dolly. "only"---- "i have no right to speak with authority. you must give me the authority." "how?" said dolly shyly. "there is but one way. don't you see, if i have the right to say where you shall be, the rest all follows?" "how can you?" said dolly. he took her hand gently. "you must marry me before i go," said he. "it is the only way, dolly. don't be startled; you shall have all the time you want to get accustomed to the thought. i am not going to hurry you. the only difference is, that instead of being married the day i get to you in america, we will have the ceremony performed here, the day i leave you. not till then, dolly. but then, of course, you must go to america to meet me; and if i know anything of mr. and mrs. copley, where you must be, they will choose to be also. i think i can get another week or two of leave, so that it will not seem so very sudden." dolly had flushed and paled a little. she sat looking on the ground in silence. mr. shubrick let her have a while to herself, and then asked her what she thought of his plan? "i don't know," said dolly faintly. "i mean," she added,--"perhaps it is the best way. i don't know but it is the only way. i don't believe mother will like it." "we will talk her over," said the young officer joyfully. "you said _she_ wishes to go home?" "oh yes. and i think she will come over to our side, when she knows the reasons." sandie bent down and reverently kissed the hand he held. "then"---- said dolly, on whose cheek the flushes were coming and going,--but she did not finish her sentence. "then, what?" "i was thinking to ask, how soon or when you expect your ship to go home?" "i do not know certainly. probably i shall be ordered home before christmas; but it may not be till january." dolly was silent again. "if our plan is carried out, _you_ will go sooner, will you not?" "oh, immediately. as soon as possible." "in that case you will be there before i shall. i told you, i have nobody very nearly belonging to me; but there is a cousin--a sort of cousin--living in the place; mrs. armitage; i will send her word to open the house and get it in some sort of order for us." both were silent again for a space, and i think not only one was happy. for dolly knew the plan would work. but she was struggling besides with a thought which she wanted, and did not want, to speak. it must come out! or dolly would not have been dolly. "mr. shubrick"---- she began. "what?" said he eagerly; for dolly's tone showed that there was a good deal behind it. "would you--i was thinking"---- "about what?" "the house. would you--trust _me?_ i mean, of course, if we are there before you?" a flood of colour rushed over dolly's face. "trust you?" he said with a bright light in his eyes. "what am i going to do all my life? trust you to put your own house in order? i cannot think of anything i should like quite so well. what a delightful thought, dolly!" "i should like it," said dolly shyly. "then, instead of writing to mrs. armitage to open the house, i will send her an order to deliver the key to mrs. shubrick." he liked to watch how the colour flitted on her face, and the lines of brow and lip varied; how she fluttered like a caught bird, and yet a bird that did not want to fly away. dolly was frank enough; there was nothing affected, or often even conscious, about this shy play; it was the purest nature in sweetest manifestation. shyness was something dolly had never been guilty of with anybody but mr. shubrick; it was an involuntary tribute she constantly paid to him. chapter xxxvi. this picture and that. the plan worked, as dolly had known from the first, that it would. mrs. copley came into it, and then mr. copley could not resist. it only grieved mrs. copley's heart that there should be, as she said, no wedding. "might as well be married in a barn!" she said. the barn-like effect was a little taken off by lord and lady brierley's presence at the ceremony, which to be sure was performed in no barn, but the pretty village church; and by the breakfast given to dolly thereafter at the great house. this was not what dolly or mr. shubrick had desired. it came about on this wise. dolly went to pay a farewell visit of thanks to lady brierley and to her good friend the housekeeper. sandie accompanied her. now, mr. shubrick was one of those persons who make their way in all companies. lady brierley, talking to dolly, eyed the while the figure of the young officer, his face, and his fine, quiet, frank manners; watched him talking with her husband, who happened to come in; and also caught with her practised eye a glance or two of dolly's. dolly, be it remarked, was not shy here; before her noble friends, she neither flushed nor trembled nor was nervous. but lady brierley saw how things were. "so," said her ladyship at last, when dolly was about taking leave,--"you have not told me, but i know it,--you are going home to get married!" "that would seem to be the natural order of things," said sandie, as dolly was not immediately ready with her answer; "but we are going to reverse the terms. we are purposing to be married first and then go home." the lady looked at him with a curious mixture of expressions; it was too early in the century then for an officer of the american navy to be altogether a pleasant sight to the eyes of an englishwoman; at the same time, she could not wholly withhold her liking from this young officer's fine looks and manly bearing. she turned to dolly again. "i hope you are going to ask me to your wedding," she said. "when is it to be, dolly?" "my mother thinks it does not deserve to be called a wedding," said dolly, dimpling and growing rosy. "i should not have ventured to ask your ladyship. but if you are so kind--it is to be on the morning of the th--very early in the morning, for mr. shubrick has to set off that day to rejoin his ship." "i'll get up by daybreak," said her ladyship, arching her brows, "if it is necessary. and you will come here from the church and have breakfast with me, will you? it would be a great pleasure to me." so it had been arranged; and, as i said, mrs. copley had been a good deal comforted by the means. lady brierley's breakfast was beautiful; she had caused her rooms to be dressed with flowers in dolly's honour; the company was small, but the more harmonious; and the presents given to dolly were very handsome. and now there is nothing more to do, but to give two pictures; and even for them there is hardly room. the scene of the first, is a house in harley street, london. it is an excellent house, and just new furnished and put in cap-a-pie order from top to bottom. in the drawing-room a group of people taking a general survey. one of them a very handsome young man, in unexceptionable style, waiting upon two ladies; a beauty, and the beauty's mother. things in the house meet approval. "i think it is perfect," said mrs. thayer. "just perfect. the man has done his work very well." she was referring to the upholsterer, and at the moment looking at the window curtains. "isn't that a lovely tint of french grey?" said christina, "and the blue fringe is the right thing for it. i think the folds are a little too full--but it is a good fault. it is all right, i believe. i do like a drawing-room with no fault in it, no eye-sore." "there could hardly be any fault in the work of hans and piccalilly," remarked st. leger. "oh, i don't know, lawrence," said the young lady. "didn't they do the fortescues' house? and the drawing-room is in white and gold; very pretty in itself, but just think how it will set off all those florid people. a bunch of peonies on a white ground!" lawrence laughed. "_you_ can bear anything," he said. "but blue suits you." "it's just perfect," mrs. thayer repeated. "i see nothing to find fault with. yes, christina can bear anything and wear anything. it saves a great deal of trouble. when i was a girl i had a different complexion. i wasn't a peony, but i _was_ a rose--not a white rose; and anything shading on red i could not wear; not purple, nor claret, nor even ashes of roses. it was a regular perplexity, to get variety enough with the small number of shades at my disposal; for orange did not become me, either. well, i can wear anything now, too," she added with a half laugh. "and it is nothing to anybody." "mamma, you know better than that," said christina. "now," said lawrence, "the question is, when shall we take possession? the house is all ready for us." "there is no use in taking possession till we are ready to keep it; and it would be dull to stay in town all winter, wouldn't it?" said christina. "whatever should we do?" "very dull," said mrs. thayer. "it is a long while yet before the season begins. better be anywhere else." "i was thinking of brighton," said christina. "i think i should like that." "after the peacocks," said lawrence. "we are due there, you know, for a visit." "oh, after the peacocks, of course. but then,--do you think, lawrence, we could do anything better than go to brighton? till the season opens?" brighton quite met mr. st. leger's views of what was desirable. it was a month or two later, as it happened, that another house was undergoing inspection, a house at a very great distance from harley street, geographically and otherwise; but let the reader judge. this was a country house in a fair new england village; where there was land enough for everybody, and everybody had land, and in consequence the habitations of men were individually, as the habitations of men should be, surrounded with grass and trees and fields; the very external arrangements of the place giving thereby a type of the free and independent life and wide space for mental and characteristic development enjoyed by the inhabitants. the particular house in question was not outwardly remarkable above many others; it stood in a fair level piece of ground, shaded and surrounded with beautiful old american elms. the inspectors of the same were two ladies. dolly had come to the village a week or two before. mr. copley was not just then in condition to be left alone; so as her mother could not be with her, she had summoned her dear aunt hal, from philadelphia; and mr. eberstein would not be left behind. all three they had come to this place, found quarters at the inn, and since then dolly and mrs. eberstein had been very busy getting the house cleaned and put in order. the outside, as i said, gave promise of nothing remarkable; dolly had been the more surprised and pleased to find the interior extremely pleasant and not commonplace. rooms were large and airy; picturesquely arranged; and furnished, at least in part, in a style for which she had not been at all prepared. the house had been for a long stretch of years in the possession of a family, not wealthy, but well to do, and cultivated; and furthermore, several of the members of it at different times had been seafaring; and, as happens in such cases, there had been brought home from foreign parts a small multitude of objects of art or convenience which bore witness to distant industries and fashions. india mats of fine quality were on some of the floors; india hangings at some of the windows; beautiful china was found to be in quantity, both of useful and ornamental kinds. little lacquered tables; others of curious inlaid work; bamboo chairs; chinese screens and fans; and i know not what all besides. dolly and mrs. eberstein reviewed these articles with great interest and admiration; they gave the house, simple as it was, an air of elegance which its exterior quite forbade one to look for. at the same time, some other necessary things were wanting, or worn. the carpet in what dolly called the drawing-room was one of these instances. it was very much the worse for wear. dolly and her aunt went carefully over everything; adjusting, supplying, arranging, here and there; dolly getting a number of small presents by the way, and a few that were not small. at last mr. eberstein sent in a fine carpet for the drawing-room; and dolly would not have it put down. "not till mr. shubrick comes," she said. "why not, my dear? this is threadbare," her aunt pleaded. "aunt hal, i should not like to give the room a strange look. he may have associations with this old carpet, for anything i know." "men do not have 'associations' with things," said mrs. eberstein. "some men do, and perhaps he is one of them. at any rate, i want the house to look like home to him when he comes. i'll put down the carpet afterwards, if he likes it." "i am afraid you are going to spoil him, dolly," said mrs. eberstein, shaking her head. "i hope he is worthy of it all. but don't spoil him!" "he is much more likely to spoil me, aunt hal." "spoil _you!_" exclaimed her aunt indignantly. "what do you know about it? o dolly, dolly! i hope you have got the right man!" at which, however, dolly showed all her dimples, and laughed so comically that mrs. eberstein, right or wrong, was obliged to laugh with her. mr. copley had once said a true thing about his daughter; that if she married mr. st. leger she would be devoted to him. "if"--yes, so she would. and being now married to somebody else, dolly was a very incarnation of loyalty to her husband. alas, many another woman has trusted so, on less grounds, and made shipwreck; but dolly's faith was well founded, and there was no shipwreck in store for her. so the day came when all was in readiness, and the two ladies took a satisfied review of their work. it was the day when mr. shubrick was looked for home. the "red chief" had arrived in port; and sandie had written that by the evening of this day he hoped to be at home. everything was in order; fires were lighted; a servant installed below stairs; supper prepared; nothing left to be done anywhere. dolly had seen to the supper carefully herself; indeed, for a day or two there had been some very thoughtful cooking and baking going on; which mrs. eberstein had watched with great interest, some amusement, and ever so little a bit of jealousy. "is mr. shubrick a difficult man to please?" she demanded. "how can i tell?" said dolly. "i have only seen him in our house, not in his own. he did not scold there; but how do i know what he may do here?" "scold!" repeated mrs. eberstein. "dolly, i believe it would rouse all the wickedness there is in me, if anybody should scold _you!_" dolly flushed rosily, and then she fairly laughed out. "i will tell you a secret, aunt hal," she said. "i don't mean that in this matter, at least, he shall find any occasion." so the supper was ready, and the table was set, and fires were bright. mrs. eberstein stayed with dolly till the evening began to fall, and then went back to the inn; averring that she would not for the universe be found in mr. shubrick's house when he came. dolly stood at the window and watched her aunt's dark figure moving down to the gate, and then still stood at the window watching. it was all snow stillness outside. there was a faint moonlight, which glistened on the white ground and bare elm branches. a few inches of snow had fallen the day before; the sun had thawed the surface slightly, and then it had frozen in a glittering smooth crust. it was still outside as only leafless winter can be, when there are no wings to flutter, or streams to trickle, or chirrup of insects to break the calm. not a footfall, not a sleigh bell; not another light in sight, but only the moon. anybody in the road might have seen another light,--that which came from dolly's windows. she had been hard to suit about her arrangements; she would not have candles lit, for she did not wish an illumination that might make the interior visible to a chance passer-by; and yet she would not have the shutters shut, for the master of the house coming home must read his welcome from afar in rays of greeting from the windows. so she made up the fires and left the curtains open; and ruddy firelight streamed out upon the snow. it was bright enough to have revealed dolly herself, only that the house stood back some distance from the road. dolly watched and listened a while; then crossed the hall to the room on the other side, from the windows of which a like glow shone out. the fire was in order; the table stood ready. dolly went back again. it was so still outside, as if sandie never would come. she listened with her heart beating hard and fast. for an hour and a half, perhaps; and then she heard the tinkle of sleigh bells. they might be somebody else's. but they came nearer, and very near, and stopped; only dolly heard a mixed jangle of the bells, as if the horse had thrown his head up and given a confused shake to them all. the next thing was the gate falling to, and a step crunching the crisp snow. then the house door opened with no preliminary knock; and somebody was throwing off wraps in the hall. dolly had made a step or two forward, and stopped; and when sandie appeared on the threshold, she was standing in the middle of the room, as pretty a picture of shy joy as a man need wish to see in his heart or his house. if mrs. eberstein could have been there and watched his greeting of her, the lady's doubts respecting his being "the right man" would perhaps have been solved. but after the first hasty word or two, it was very silent. "dolly," mr. shubrick said at last. and there he stopped; nothing followed. "what were you going to say?" dolly whispered. "so much, that i do not know how to begin. i cannot get hold of the end of anything. are you not going to let me see your eyes? i do not know where i am, till i get a look into them." he smiled a moment after; for, although shyly and fleetingly, the brown eyes were lifted for a brief glance to his. what a sweet, tender simpleness was in them, and yet what a womanly, thoughtful brow was above them; and, yes, sandie read somewhat else that a man likes to read; a fealty of love to him that would never fail. it went to his heart. but he saw too that dolly's colour had left her cheeks, though at first they were rosy enough; and in the lines of her face generally and the quiver of her lip he could see that the nervous tension was somewhat too much. he must lead off to commoner subjects. "who is here with you?" "nobody." "you do not mean that you are _alone_ here, dolly?" "no. oh no. i mean, nobody in the house. aunt harry and uncle ned are at baxter's. aunt harry only left me an hour or two ago, when it was time to expect you." "it was very kind of her to leave you!" said sandie frankly. "we have been here a fortnight. when i found i could not have mother, i wrote to aunt hal; and she came." "what was the matter with your mother?" dolly half unwound herself from the arms that held her, and turned her face away. she was trying to choke something down that threatened to stop her speech. "father"---- "what of him?" said sandie with a grave change of tone. "i am not sorry," said dolly. "but, oh! to think that i should not be sorry!" she covered her face. sandie was silent, waiting and wondering. it could not be mr. copley's death that was in question; but what then could it be? he waited, to let dolly take her own time. neither did he have to wait long. "you remember," she began, still with her face turned away,--"you remember what i told you one day in brierley park--about father?" "certainly i remember." "you understood me?" "yes, i think so." "then you knew that i was--very anxious"--dolly caught her breath--"about what might come? oh, it is not treason for me to talk to you about it--now!" cried dolly. "it is not treason for you to tell me anything," said mr. shubrick, drawing her again closer, though dolly kept her face bent down out of his sight. "treason and you have nothing in common. what is it?" "i told you, i knew there was no safety," she said, making a quick motion of her hand over her eyes. "i hoped things would be better over here, away from those people that led him the wrong way; and they _were_ better; it was like old times; still i knew there was no safety. and now--he is taken care of," she said with a tremble of her lip which spoke of strong pain, strongly kept down. "he went to see some new fine machinery in somebody's mill. somehow, by some carelessness, his coat got caught in the machinery; and before the works could be stopped his leg was--fearfully broken." dolly spoke with difficulty and making great effort to master her agitation. the arms that held her felt how she was quivering all over. "when, dolly? when did this happen?" "soon after we came home. it is six weeks ago now." "how is your father now?" "doing very well; getting cured slowly. but he will never walk again without--support. oh, do you see how i am so sorry and glad together? isn't it dreadful, that i should be glad?" she looked up now, for she would not distress mr. shubrick by giving way to the tears which would have been a relief to herself. she looked up with such a face! the eyes shining through tears, the mouth trembling with a smile; sunshine and rain all in one glitter. "and _that_ is the way he has been taken care of!" she said. mr. shubrick stooped his face gently to hers with a mute, caressing motion, leaving her time to get rid of those encumbering tears or to shed more of them; waiting till the tremor subsided a little. soon dolly spoke again. "it has been such a weight on me--oh, such a weight! i could hardly bear it sometimes. and now--this is better." "yes," he said. "you had to know of it. i was very sorry!" "sorry that i should know?" "oh yes, yes! sorry and ashamed. sorry for you, too." dolly's trembling was excessive. "hush!" said sandie softly. "what is yours is mine; sorrow and joy together. i think i had better go and take up my old office of nurse again." "oh," said dolly, starting, and a glad tone coming into her voice, "would you? how he would like that!" "it must have been a little hard for them both to have you come away just now. i think we will go and comfort them up, dolly." "you are very, very good!" said dolly, with her eyes glistening, and speaking from hearty conviction. "whom are you talking to? i have not heard my name yet." "i have not got accustomed to you yet, you know," dolly said with a little nervous laugh. "besides,--i never did." "never did what?" "i never called you anything but--mr. shubrick." "christina did." "poor christina!" said dolly. "why?" said the other merrily. "she is the rich mrs. st. leger; why do you say 'poor christina'?" "i am afraid i have come between her and happiness," dolly said, blushing frankly. "you have no occasion to say that," sandie said, laughing. "she has got what she wanted. there was a terrible danger that she might have come between _me_ and happiness. but for her--i am not at all sure that she would have been happy with me." "i remember," said dolly, "she told me one time, she knew she would not '_have her head_' so much, if she were once married to you." "she would not have approved my old house, either," said sandie contentedly, letting dolly go that he might put up the fire, which had tumbled down, after the fashion of wood fires. "she might have liked it," dolly answered. "you do?" "oh, very much! aunt hal and i think it is charming. and it is full of lovely things." "wants a new carpet, i should say," said sandie, eyeing the threadbare one under his feet, which mrs. eberstein had objected to. "there!" said dolly. "aunt hal said you would never know what was on the floor. i told her she was mistaken." "what gave her such a poor opinion of my eyesight?" "oh, nothing, it was not of your _eyesight_, i don't know, unless she thinks that is the way with men in general. uncle ned had brought me a present of a beautiful new carpet for this room, and aunt harry wanted me to have it put down; but i wouldn't until i knew whether you would like it." "whether i would like it!" sandie repeated, rather opening his eyes. "i should think the question was, whether _you_ would like it. i like new carpets." "i did not know but you might have some affection for this old one," said dolly. "i did not want to change the look of the room before you came, so that it would not seem like home. aunt harry said i would spoil you." "what did you answer to that?" "i said it was more likely you would spoil me," said dolly, dimpling up and flushing. "do you think i will?" said sandie, taking her hand and drawing her up to him. dolly hesitated, flushed and dimpled more, and answered, however, a frank "no." "why?" was the quick next question. "you ask too many things," said dolly. "don't you want something to eat?" "no, not at all!--yes." "i thought so," said dolly, laughing. "come, then." she put her hand in his and led him across the broad hall to the dining-room. and during the next hour sandie might have recurred with reason to his late remark; that christina had been near coming between him and happiness. the careless luxury of her way of entertaining him, was in strongest contrast to the sweet, thoughtful, delicate housewifery of his wife. it was a constant pleasure to watch her. tea-making, in her hands, was a nice art; her fingers were deft to cut bread; and whenever the hands approached him, whether it were to give a cup of tea or to render some other ministry, it was with an indescribable shyness and carefulness at once, which was wholly bewitching. sandie was hungry, no doubt; but his feast was mental that night, and exquisite. meanwhile, he talked. he gave dolly details of his voyage home, which had been stormy; got from her a full account of the weeks since she had set foot on american ground; and finally informed her that his having a ship was certain, and in the near future. "poor christina!" said dolly. "hush!" said he, laughing and drawing her with him back into the other room; "you shall not say that again. would you like to go to washington? the probability is that you will have to go." "anywhere," said dolly. they stood silently before the fire for a few minutes; then mr. shubrick turned to her with a change of tone. "why did you think i would not spoil you?" she was held fast, she could not run away; he was bending down to look in her face, she could not hide it. dolly's breath came short. there was so much in the tone of his words that stirred her. besides, the answer--what came at last was-- "sandie, you know you wouldn't!" "reasons?" "oh!--reasons." "yes. i want to know the reasons, dolly." in her desperation dolly looked up, one good glance of her brown eyes; then she hid her face. i think sandie was satisfied, for he asked no more. "yes," he said presently. "i love you too well, and you love me too well. we will try to help each other up; not down. dolly, i would not spoil you for the whole world! and i do not believe i could if i tried." the lady from whom this story comes, remembers having seen mrs. shubrick when she was a beautiful old lady. then and all her life she wore her cable watch-chain. the end. typographical errors silently corrected: chapter : =if they don't know him= replaced by =if they don't know him= chapter : ='the sails are said= replaced by =the sails are said= chapter : =what strange shapes:= replaced by =what strange shapes;= chapter : =unschoolgirl-like;= replaced by =unschoolgirl-like,= chapter : =for calculation,= replaced by =for calculation;= chapter : =all her beauty she= replaced by =all her beauty, she= chapter : =pay my gardener.= replaced by =pay my gardener."= chapter : =old-fashioned flowers showed= replaced by =old-fashioned flowers, showed= chapter : =with it. i should= replaced by =with it, i should= chapter : =no" said rupert= replaced by =no," said rupert= chapter : =if lawrence, had= replaced by =if lawrence had= chapter : =there by interpreting= replaced by =there, by interpreting= chapter : =to him, dolly= replaced by =to him, dolly= chapter : =in thee.--i am= replaced by =in thee.'--i am= chapter : =and he cometh.= replaced by =and he cometh.'= chapter : ="though people do= replaced by ="though people do= chapter : =ways, of private= replaced by =ways of private= chapter : =hateth you."= replaced by =hateth you.'"= file was produced from scans of public domain material produced by microsoft for their live search books site.) [illustration: writing the notes.] riverdale story books the birthday party boston, lee & shepard. the riverdale books. the birthday party. a story for little folks. by oliver optic, author of "the boat club," "all aboard," "now or never," "try again," "poor and proud," "little by little," &c. boston: lee and shepard, (successors to phillips, sampson & co.) . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by william t. adams, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. the birthday party. i. flora lee's birthday came in july. her mother wished very much to celebrate the occasion in a proper manner. flora was a good girl, and her parents were always glad to do any thing they could to please her, and to increase her happiness. they were very indulgent parents, and as they had plenty of money, they could afford to pay well for a "good time." yet they were not weak and silly in their indulgence. as much as they loved their little daughter, they did not give her pies and cakes to eat when they thought such articles would hurt her. they did not let her lie in bed till noon because they loved her, or permit her to do any thing that would injure her, either in body or mind. flora always went to church, and to the sunday school, and never cried to stay at home. if she had cried, it would have made no difference, for her father and mother meant to have her do right, whether she liked it or not. but flora gave them very little trouble about such matters. her parents knew best what was good for her, and she was willing in all things to obey them. it was for this reason that they were so anxious to please her, even at the expense of a great deal of time and money. the birthday of flora came on wednesday, and school did not keep in the afternoon. all the children, therefore, could attend the party which they intended to give in honor of the day. about a week before the time, mrs. lee told flora she might have the party, and wanted her to make out a list of all the children whom she wished to invite. "i want to ask all the children in riverdale," said flora, promptly. "not all, i think," replied mrs. lee. "yes, mother, all of them." "but you know there are a great many bad boys in town. do you wish to invite them?" "perhaps, if we treat them well, they will be made better by it." "would you like to have joe birch come to the party?" "i don't know, mother," said flora, musing. "i think you had better invite only those who will enjoy the party, and who will not be likely to spoil the pleasure of others. we will not invite such boys as joe birch." "just as you think best, dear mother," replied flora. "shall i ask such boys as tommy woggs?" "tommy isn't a bad boy," said mrs. lee, with a smile. "i don't know that he is; but he is a very queer fellow. you said i had better not ask those who would be likely to spoil the pleasure of others." "do you think, my child, tommy woggs will do so?" "i am afraid he would; he is such a queer boy." "but tommy is a great traveller, you know," added mrs. lee, laughing. "the boys and girls don't like him, he pretends to be such a big man. he knows more than all the rest of the world put together--at least, he thinks he does." "i think you had better ask him, for he will probably feel slighted if you don't." "very well, mother." "now, flora, i will take a pencil and paper and write down the names of all the boys and girls with whom you are acquainted; and you must be careful not to forget any. here comes frank; he will help you." frank was told about the party, and he was quite as much pleased with the idea as his sister had been; and both of them began to repeat the names of all the boys and girls they could remember. for half an hour they were employed in this manner, and then the list was read over to them, so as to be sure that no names had been omitted. flora and frank now went through all the streets of riverdale, in imagination, thinking who lived in each house; and when they had completed their journey in fancy, they felt sure they had omitted none. "but we must invite cousins sarah and henry," said flora. "o, i hope they will come! henry is so funny; we can't do without them." "perhaps they will come; at any rate we will send them invitations," replied mrs. lee. the next day, when the children had gone to school, mrs. lee went to the office of the riverdale gazette, which was the village newspaper, and had the invitations printed on nice gilt-edged paper. by the following day mrs. lee had written in the names of the children invited, enclosed the notes in envelopes, and directed them. i will give you a copy of one of them, that you may know how to write them when you have a birthday party, though i dare say it would do just as well if you go to your friends and ask them to attend. if you change the names and dates, this note will answer for any party. _miss flora lee presents her compliments to miss nellie green, and requests the pleasure of her company on wednesday afternoon, july ._ _riverdale, july ._ "those are very fine indeed," said flora: "shall i put on my bonnet, and carry out some of them to-day?" "no, my child; it is not quite the thing for you to carry your own invitations. i will tell you what you may do. you may hire david white to deliver them for you. you must pay him for it; give him half a dollar, which will be a good thing for him." this plan was adopted, and frank was sent with the notes and the money over to the poor widow's cottage. "don't you think it is very wicked, mother, for rich folks to have parties, when the money they cost will do so much good to the poor?" asked flora. "i do not think so, my dear child." "well, i think so, mother," added flora, warmly. "perhaps you do not fully understand it." "i think i do." "why should it be wicked for you to enjoy yourself?" "i don't think it is wicked to enjoy myself, but only to spend money for such things. you said you were going to have the riverdale band, and that the music would cost more than twenty dollars." "i did, and the supper will cost at least twenty more; for i have spoken to the confectioner to supply us with ice cream, cake, jellies, and other luxuries. we shall have a supply of strawberries and cream, and all the nice things of the season. we must also erect a tent in the garden, in which we shall have the supper; but after tea i will tell you all about it." [illustration] [illustration: flora and her father.] ii. flora could not help thinking how much good the forty dollars, which her father would have to pay for the birthday party, would do if given to the poor. it seemed to her just like spending the money for a few hours' pleasure; and even if they had a fine time, which she was quite sure they would have, it would be soon over, and not do any real good. forty dollars was a great deal of money. it would pay mrs. white's rent for a whole year; it would clothe her family, and feed them nearly all the next winter. it appeared to her like a shameful waste; and these thoughts promised to take away a great deal from the pleasure of the occasion. "i think, mother, i had just as lief not have the band, and only have a supper of bread and butter and seed cakes." "why, flora, what has got into you?" said her father. mrs. lee laughed at the troubled looks of flora, and explained to her father the nature of her scruples in regard to the party. "where did the child get this foolish idea?" asked her father, who thought her notions were too old and too severe for a little girl. "didn't i see last winter how much good only a little money would do?" replied flora. "don't you think it is wicked for me to live in this great house, keep five or six horses, and nine or ten servants, when i could live in a little house, like mrs. white?" laughed mr. lee. "all the money you spend would take care of a dozen families of poor folks," said flora. "that is very true. suppose i should turn away all the men and women that work for me,--those, i mean, who work about the house and garden,--and give the money i spend in luxuries to the poor." "but what would john and peter, hannah and bridget do then? they would lose their places, and not be able to earn any thing. why, no, father; peter has a family; he has got three children, and he must take care of them." "ah, you begin to see it--do you?" said mr. lee, with a smile. "all that i spend upon luxury goes into the pockets of the farmer, mechanic, and laborer." "i see that, father," replied flora, looking as bright as sunshine again; "but all the money spent on my party will be wasted--won't it?" "not a cent of it; my child. if i were a miser, and kept my money in an iron safe, and lived like a poor man, i should waste it then." "but twenty dollars for the riverdale band is a great deal to give for a few hours' service. it don't do any good, i think." "yes, it does; music improves our minds and hearts. it makes us happy. i have engaged six men to play. they are musicians only at such times as they can get a job. they are shoemakers, also, and poor men; and the money which i shall pay them will help support their families and educate them." "what a fool i was, father!" exclaimed flora. "o, no; not so bad as that; for a great many older and wiser persons than yourself have thought just what you think." "but the supper, father,--the ice cream, the cake, and the lemonade,--won't all the money spent for these things be wasted?" "no more than the money spent for the music. the confectioner and those whom he employs depend upon their work for the means of supporting themselves and their families." "so they do, father. and when you have a party, you are really doing good to the poor." "that depends upon circumstances," replied mr. lee. "i don't think it would be an act of charity for a person who could not afford it to give a party. i only mean to say that when we spend money for that which does not injure us or any body else, what we spend goes into the pockets of those who need it. "a party--a proper party, i mean, such a one as you will have--is a good thing in itself. innocent amusement is just as necessary as food and drink. "god has given me wealth, flora, and he expects me to do all the good i can with it. i hold it as his steward. now, when i pay one of these musicians three or four dollars for an afternoon's work, i do him a favor as well as you and those whom you invite to your party. "and i hope the party will make you love one another more than ever before. i hope the music will warm your hearts, and that the supper will make you happy, and render you thankful to the giver of all things for his constant bounty." "how funny that i should make such a blunder!" exclaimed flora. "i am sure i shall enjoy my party a great deal more now that i understand these things." "i hope you won't understand too much, flora. suppose you had only a dollar, and that it had been given you to purchase a story book. then, suppose mrs. white and her children were suffering from want of fuel and clothing. what would you do with your dollar?" "i would----" "wait a minute, flora," interposed her father. "when you buy the book, you pay the printer, the paper maker, the bookseller, the type founder, the miner who dug the lead and the iron from the earth, the machinist who made the press, and a great many other persons whose labor enters into the making of a book--you pay all these men for their labor; you give them money to help take care of their wives and children, their fathers and mothers. you help all these men when you buy a book. now, what would you do with your dollar?" "i would give it to poor mrs. white," promptly replied flora. "i think you would do right, for your money would do more good in her hands. the self-denial on your part would do you good. i only wanted you to understand that, when you bought a book,--even a book which was only to amuse you,--the money is not thrown away. "riches are given to men for a good purpose; and they ought to use their wealth for the benefit of others, as well as for their own pleasure. if they spend money, even for things that are of no real use to them, it helps the poor, for it feeds and clothes them." flora was much interested in this conversation, and perhaps some of my young friends will think she was an old head to care for such things; but i think they can all understand what was said as well as she did. [illustration] [illustration: on the lawn.] iii. the great day at length arrived, and every thing was ready for the party. on the lawn, by the side of the house, a large tent had been put up, in which the children were to have the feast. under a large maple tree, near the tent, a stage for the musicians had been erected. two swings had been put up; and there was no good reason why the children should not enjoy themselves to their hearts' content. i think the teachers in the riverdale school found it hard work to secure the attention of their scholars on the forenoon of that day, for all the boys and girls in the neighborhood were thinking about the party. as early as one o'clock in the afternoon the children began to collect at the house of mr. lee, and at the end of an hour all who had received invitations were present. the band had arrived, and at a signal from mr. lee the music commenced. "now, father, we are all here. what shall we do?" asked flora, who was so excited she did not know which way to turn, or how to proceed to entertain the party. "wait a few minutes, and let the children listen to the music. they seem to enjoy it very well." "but we want to play something, father." "very soon, my child, we will play something." "what shall we play, father?" "there are plenty of plays. wouldn't you like to march a little while to the music?" "march?" "yes, march to the tune of 'hail, columbia.' i will show you how to do it." "i don't know what you mean, father." "well, i will show you in a few minutes." when the band had played a little while longer, mr. lee assembled the children in the middle of the lawn, and asked them if they would like to march. they were pleased with the idea, though some of them thought it would be rather tame amusement for such an exciting occasion. "you want two leaders, and i think you had better choose them yourselves. it would be the most proper to select two boys." mr. lee thought the choice of the leaders would amuse them; so he proposed that they should vote for them. "how shall we vote, father?" asked frank. "three of the children must retire, and pick out four persons; and the two of these four who get the most votes shall be the leaders." mr. lee appointed two girls and one boy to be on this committee; but while he was doing so, tommy woggs said he did not think this was a good play. "i don't think they will choose the best leaders," said tommy. "don't you, mr. woggs?" asked mr. lee, laughing. "no, sir, i do not. what do any of these boys know about such things!" said tommy, with a sneer. "i have been to new york, and have seen a great many parades." "have you, indeed?" "yes, sir, i have." "and you think you would make a better leader than any of the others?" "i think so, sir." all the children laughed heartily at master woggs, who was so very modest! "none of these boys and girls have ever been to new york," added tommy, his vanity increasing every moment. "that is very true; and perhaps the children will select you as their leader." "they can do as they like. if they want me, i should be very willing to be their leader," replied tommy. it was very clear that master woggs had a very good opinion of himself. he seemed to think that the fact of his having been to new york made a hero of him, and that all the boys ought to take off their caps to him. but it is quite as certain that the riverdale children did not think master woggs was a very great man. he thought so much of himself, that there was no room for others to think much of him. the committee of three returned in a few minutes, and reported the names of four boys to be voted for as the leaders. they were henry vernon, charley green, david white, and tommy woggs. the important little gentleman who had been to new york, was delighted with the action of the committee. he thought all the children could see what a very fine leader he would make, and that all of them would vote for him. "what shall we do for votes, father?" asked frank. "we can easily manage that, frank," replied mr. lee. "we have no paper here." "listen to me a moment, children," continued mr. lee. "there are four boys to be voted for; and we will choose one leader first, and then the other. "those who want henry vernon for a leader will put a blade of grass in the hat which will be the ballot box; those who want charley green will put in a clover blossom; those who want david white will put in a maple leaf; and those who want to vote for tommy woggs will put in a--let me see--put in a dandelion flower." the children laughed, for they thought the dandelion was just the thing for master woggs, who had been to new york. one of the boys carried round mr. lee's hat, and it was found that henry vernon had the most votes; so he was declared to be the first leader. "humph!" said tommy woggs. "what does henry vernon know? he has never been to new york." "but he lives in boston," added charley green. "boston is nothing side of new york." "i think boston is a great place," replied charley. "that's because you have never been to new york," said master woggs. "they will, of course, all vote for me next time. if they do, i will show them how things are done in new york." "pooh!" exclaimed charley, as he left the vain little man. while all the children were wondering who would be the other leader, flora was electioneering among them for her favorite candidate; that is, she was asking her friends to vote for the one she wanted. who do you suppose it was? master woggs? no. it was david white. the hat was passed round again, and when the votes were counted, there was only one single dandelion blossom found in the hat. tommy woggs was mad, for he felt that his companions had slighted him; but it was only because he was so vain and silly. people do not often think much of those who think a great deal of themselves. there was a great demand for maple leaves, and david white was chosen the second leader, and had nearly all the votes. the boys then gave three cheers for the leaders, and the lines were formed. mr. lee told henry and david just how they were to march, and the band at once began to play "hail columbia." the children first marched, two by two, round the lawn, and then down the centre. when they reached the end, one leader turned off to the right, and the other to the left, each followed by a single line of the children. passing round the lawn, they came together again on the other side. then they formed a great circle, a circle within a circle, and concluded the march with the "grand basket." this was certainly a very simple play, but the children enjoyed it ever so much--i mean all but vain master woggs, who was so greatly displeased because he was not chosen one of the leaders, that he said there was no fun at all in the whole thing. about half an hour was spent in marching, and then mr. lee proposed a second game. the children wanted to march a little longer; but there were a great number of things to be done before night, and so it was thought best, on the whole, to try a new game. [illustration] [illustration: the old fiddler.] iv. when the children had done marching, mrs. lee took charge of the games. several new plays, which none of them had heard of before, were introduced. the boys and girls all liked them very well, and the time passed away most rapidly. just before they were going to supper, an old man, with a fiddle in his hand, tottered into the garden, and down the lawn. he was a very queer-looking old man. he had long white hair, and a long white beard. he was dressed in old, worn-out, soldier clothes, in part, and had a sailor's hat upon his head, so that they could not tell whether he was a soldier or a sailor. as he approached the children, they began to laugh with all their might; and he certainly was a very funny old man. his long beard and hair, his tattered finery, and his hobbling walk, would have made almost any one laugh--much more a company of children as full of fun as those who were attending the birthday party. "children," said the old man, as he took off his hat and made a low bow, "i heard there was a party here, and i came to play the fiddle for you. all the boys and girls like a fiddle, because it is so merry." "o mother! what did send that old man here?" cried flora. "he came of himself, i suppose," replied mrs. lee, laughing. "i think it is too bad to laugh at an old man like him," added flora. "it would be, if he were in distress; but don't you see he is as merry as any of the children?" "play us some tunes," said the children. "i will, my little dears;" and the old man raised the fiddle. "let's see--i will play 'napoleon's grand march.'" the fiddler played, but he behaved so queerly that the children laughed so loud they could hardly hear the music. "why, that's 'yankee doodle,'" said henry vernon; and they all shouted at the idea of calling that tune "napoleon's grand march." "now i will play you the solo to the opera of 'la sonnambula,'" said the old man. "whew!" said henry. the old man fiddled again, with the same funny movements as before. "why, that's 'yankee doodle' too!" exclaimed henry. "i guess he don't know any other tune." "you like that tune so well, i will play you 'washington's march;'" and the funny old fiddler, with a great flourish, began to play again; but still it was "yankee doodle." and so he went on saying he would play many different tunes, but he played nothing but "yankee doodle." "can't you tell us a story now?" asked charley green. "o, yes, my little man, i can tell you a story. what shall it be?" "are you a soldier or a sailor?" "neither, my boy." "the story! the story!" shouted the boys, very much excited. "some years ago i was in new york," the old man commenced. "did you see me there?" demanded tommy woggs. "well, my little man, i don't remember that i saw you." "o, i was there;" and tommy thrust his hands down to the bottom of his pockets, and strutted up the space between the children and the comical old fiddler. "i did see a very nice-looking little gentleman----" "that was me," pompously added tommy. "he was stalking up broadway. he thought every body was looking at and admiring him; but such was not the case. he looked just like--just like----" "like me?" asked tommy. "like a sick monkey," replied the fiddler. "go on with your story." "i will, children. several years ago i was in new york. it is a great city; if you don't believe it, ask master tommy woggs." "you tell the truth, mr. fiddler. it is a great city, and i have been all over it, and can speak from observation," replied master woggs. "the story!" shouted the children. "i was walking up broadway. this street is always crowded with people, as well as with carts and carriages." "i have seen that street," said tommy. "now you keep still a few minutes, tommy, if you can," interposed mrs. lee. "at the corner of wall street----" "i know where that is," exclaimed tommy. "at the corner of wall street there was a man with a kind of cart, loaded with apples and candy, which he was selling to the passers-by. suddenly there came a stage down the street, and ran into the apple cart." "i saw the very same thing done," added tommy, with his usual self-important air. "keep still, tom woggs," said charley green. "the apples were scattered all over the sidewalk; yet the man picked up all but one of them, though he was very angry with the driver of the stage for running against his cart." "why didn't he pick up the other apple?" asked henry. "a well-dressed man, with big black whiskers, picked that up. 'give it to me,' said the apple man. 'i will not,' replied the man with whiskers. the apple merchant was as mad as he could be; and then the man with black whiskers put his hand in his pocket and drew out a knife. the blade was six inches long." "o, dear me!" exclaimed flora. "raising the knife, he at once moved towards the angry apple merchant, and--and----" "well, what?" asked several, eagerly. "and cut a piece out of the apple, and put it in his mouth." the children all laughed heartily, for they were sure the man with the whiskers was going to stab the apple merchant. "he then took two cents from his pocket, paid for the apple, and went his way," continued the old man. "now, there is one thing more i can do. i want to run a race with these boys." "pooh! you run a race!" sneered charley. "i can beat you." "try it, and see." the old man and charley took places, and were to start at the word from henry. but when it was given, the fiddler hobbled off, leaving charley to follow at his leisure. when the old man had got half way round the lawn, charley started, sure he could catch him long before he reached the goal. but just as the boy was coming up with the man, the latter began to run, and poor charley found, much to his surprise, that he ran very fast. he was unable to overtake him, and consequently lost the race. the children were much astonished when they saw the old man run so fast. he appeared to have grown young all at once. but he offered to race with any of the boys again; and half a dozen of them agreed to run with him. "i guess i will take my coat off this time," said the fiddler. as he threw away the coat, he slipped off the wig and false beard he wore; and the children found, to their surprise, that the old man was mr. lee, who had dressed himself up in this disguise to please them. the supper was now ready, and all the children were invited to the tent. they had played so hard that all of them had excellent appetites, and the supper was just as nice as a supper could be. it was now nearly dark, and the children had to go home; but all of them declared the birthday party of flora was the best they ever attended. "only to think," said flora, when she went to bed that night, "the old fiddler was my father!" lizzie. mother, what ails our lizzie dear, so cold and still she lies? she does not speak a word to-day, and closed her soft blue eyes. why won't she look at me again, and laugh and play once more? i cannot make her look at me as she used to look before. her face and neck as marble white, and, o, so very cold! why don't you warm her, mother dear, your cloak around her fold? her little hand is cold as ice, upon her waveless breast,-- so pure, i thought i could see through the little hand i pressed. your darling sister's dead, my child; she cannot see you now; the damps of death are gath'ring there upon her marble brow. she cannot speak to you again, her lips are sealed in death; that little hand will never move, nor come that fleeting breath. all robed in white, and decked with flowers, we'll lay her in the tomb; the flower that bloomed so sweetly here, no more on earth will bloom; but in our hearts we'll lay her up, and love her all the more, because she died in life's spring time, ere earth had won her o'er. nay, nay, my child, she is not dead, although she slumbers there, and cold and still her marble brow, and free from pain and care. she slept, and passed from earth to heaven, and won her early crown: an angel now she dwells above, and looks in triumph down. she is not dead, for jesus died that she might live again. "forbid them not," the saviour said, and blessed dear sister then. her little lamp this morn went out on earth's time-bounded shore; but angels bright in heaven this morn relighted it once more. some time we, too, shall fall asleep, to wake in heaven above, and meet our angel lizzie there in realms of endless love. we'll bear sweet sister in our hearts, and then there'll ever be an angel there to keep our souls from sin and sorrow free. the sign of the red cross a tale of old london by evelyn everett-green chapter i. a warning whisper. "i don't believe a word of it!" cried the master builder, with some heat of manner. "it is just an old scare, the like of which i have heard a hundred times ere now. some poor wretch dies of the sweating sickness, or, at worst, of the spotted fever, and in a moment all men's mouths are full of the plague! i don't believe a word of it!" "heaven send you may be right, good friend," quoth rachel harmer, as she sat beside her spinning wheel, and spoke to the accompaniment of its pleasant hum. "and yet, methinks, the vice and profligacy of this great city, and the lewdness and wanton wickedness of the court, are enough to draw down upon us the judgments of almighty god. the sin and the shame of it must be rising up before him day and night." the master builder moved a little uneasily in his seat. for his own part he thought no great harm of the roistering, gaming, and gallantries of the court dandies. he knew that the times were very good for him. fine ladies were for ever sending for him to alter some house or some room. gay young husbands, or those who thought of becoming husbands, were seldom content nowadays without pulling their house about their ears, and rebuilding it after some new-fangled fashion copied from france. or if the structure were let alone, the plenishings must be totally changed; and master charles mason, albeit a builder by trade, and going generally amongst his acquaintances and friends by the name of master builder, had of late years taken to a number of kindred avocations in the matter of house plenishings, and so forth. this had brought him no small profit, as well as intimate relations with many a fine household and with many grand folks. money had flowed apace into his pocket of late. his wife had begun to go about so fine that it was well for her the old sumptuary laws had fallen into practical disuse. his son was an idle young dog, chiefly known to the neighbourhood as being the main leader of a notorious band of scourers, of which more anon, and many amongst his former friends and associates shook their heads, and declared that charles mason was growing so puffed up by wealth that he would scarce vouchsafe a nod to an old acquaintance in the street, unless he were smart and prosperous looking. the master builder had a house upon old london bridge. once he had carried on his business there, but latterly he had grown too fine for that. to the disgust of his more simple-minded neighbours, he had taken some large premises in cheapside, where he displayed many fine stuffs for upholstering and drapery, where the new-fashioned indian carpets were displayed to view, and fine gilded furniture from france, which a little later on became the rage all through the country. his own house was now nothing more than a dwelling place for himself and his family; even his apprentices and workmen were lodged elsewhere. the neighbours, used to simpler ways, shook their heads, and prophesied that the end of so much pride would be disaster and ruin. but year after year went by, and the master builder grew richer and richer, and could afford to laugh at the prognostications of those about him, of which he was very well aware. he was perhaps somewhat puffed up by his success. he was certainly proud of the position he had made. he liked to see his wife sweep along the streets in her fine robes of indian silk, which seemed to set a great gulf between her and her neighbours. he allowed his son to copy the fopperies of the court gallants, and even to pick up the silly french phrases which made the language at court a mongrel mixture of bad english and vile french. all these things pleased him well, although he himself went about clad in much the same fashion as his neighbours, save that the materials of his clothing were finer, and his frills more white and crisp; and it was in his favour that his friendship with his old friend james harmer had never waned, although he knew that this honest tradesman by no means approved his methods. perhaps in his heart of hearts he preferred the comfortable living room of his neighbour to the grandeur insisted upon by his wife at home. at any rate, he found his way three or four evenings in the week to harmer's fireside, and exchanged with him the news of the day, or retailed the current gossip of the city. harmer was by trade a gold and silver lace maker. he carried on his business in the roomy bridge house which he occupied, which was many stories high, and contained a great number of rooms. he housed in it a large family, several apprentices, two shopmen, and his wife's sister, dinah morse, at such times as the latter was not out nursing the sick, which was her avocation in life. mason and harmer had been boys together, had inherited these two houses on the bridge from their respective fathers, and had both prospered in the world. but harmer was only a moderately affluent man, having many sons and daughters to provide for; whereas mason had but one of each, and had more than one string to his bow in the matter of money getting. in the living room of harmer's house were assembled that february evening six persons. it was just growing dusk, but the dancing firelight gave a pleasant illumination. harmer and mason were seated on opposite sides of the hearth in straight-backed wooden armchairs, and both were smoking. rachel sat at her wheel, with her sister dinah near to her; and in the background hovered two fine-looking young men, the two eldest sons of the household--reuben, his father's right-hand man in business matters now; and dan, who had the air and appearance of a sailor ashore, as, indeed, was the case with him. it was something which dinah morse had said that had evoked the rather fierce disclaimer from the master builder, with the rejoinder by rachel as to the laxity of the times; and now it was dinah's voice which again took up the word. "whether it be god's judgment upon the city, or whether it be due to the carelessness of man, i know not," answered dinah quietly; "i only say that the bill of mortality just published is higher than it has been this long while, and that two in the parish of st. giles have died of the plague." "well, st. giles' is far enough away from us," said the master builder. "if the magistrates do their duty, there is no fear that it will spread our way. there were deaths over yonder of the plague last november, and it seems as though they had not yet stamped out the germs of it. but a little firmness and sense will do that. we have nothing to fear. so long as the cases are duly reported, we shall soon be rid of the pest." dinah pressed her lips rather closely together. she had that fine resolute cast of countenance which often characterizes those who are constantly to be found at the bedside of the sick. her dress was very plain, and she wore a neckerchief of soft, white indian muslin about her throat, instead of the starched yellow one which was almost universal amongst the women citizens of the day. her hands were large and white and capable looking. her only ornament was a chatelaine of many chains, to which were suspended the multifarious articles which a nurse has in constant requisition. in figure she was tall and stately, and in the street strangers often paused to give her a backward glance. she was greatly in request amongst the sick of the better class, though she was often to be found beside the sick poor, who could give her nothing but thanks for her skilled tendance of them. "ay, truly, so long as the cases are duly reported," she repeated slowly. "but do you think, sir, that that is ever done where means may be found to avoid it?" the master builder looked a little startled at the question. "surely all good folks would wish to do what was right by their neighbours. they would not harbour a case of plague, and not make it known in the right quarter." "you think not, perhaps. had you seen as much of the sick as i have, you would know that men so fear and dread the distemper, as they most often call it, that they will blind their eyes to it to the very last, and do everything in their power to make it out as something other than what they fear. i have seen enough of the ways of folks with sickness to be very sure that all who have friends to protect the fearful secret, will do so if it be possible. it is when a poor stranger dies of a sudden that it becomes known that the plague has found another victim. why are there double the number of deaths in this week's bill, if more than are set down as such be not the distemper?" all the faces in the room looked very grave at that, for in truth it was a most disquieting thought. the sailor came a few steps nearer the fire, and remarked: "it has all come from those hounds of dutchmen! right glad am i that we are to go to war with them at last, whether the cause be righteous or not. they have gotten the plague all over their land. i saw men drop down in the streets and die of it when i was last in port there. they send it to us in their merchandise." "my wife will die of terror if she hears but a whisper of the distemper being anigh us," remarked the master builder, with a sigh and a look of uneasiness. "but men are always scaring us with tales of its coming and, after all, there is but a death here and one there, such as any great city may look to have." at that moment the door was thrown open, and a pretty young damsel, wearing a crimson cloak and hood, stepped lightly in. "o father, mother, do but come and look!" she cried, with the air of coaxing assurance which bespoke a favoured child. "such a strange star in the sky! men in the streets are all looking and pointing; and some say that it is no star, but a comet, and that it predicts some dreadful thing which is coming upon this land. do come and look at it! there is a clear sky tonight, and one can see it well. and i heard that it has been seen by some before this, when at night the rain clouds have been swept away by the wind. do come to the window above the river and look! one can see it fine from there." this sudden announcement, falling just upon the talk of pestilence and peril, caused a certain flutter and sensation through the room. all the persons there rose to their feet and followed the rosy-cheeked maiden out upon the staircase, and to a window from which the great river could be seen flowing beneath. a large expanse of sky could also be commanded from here, and as the inside of the house was almost dark, it was easy to obtain an excellent view of the strange appearance which was attracting so much attention in the streets. it certainly was no star that was glowing thus with a red and sullen-looking flame. neither shape nor position in the heavens accorded with that of any star of magnitude. "it was certainly," so said reuben harmer, who had some knowledge of the heavenly bodies, "no star, but one of those travelling meteors or comets which are seen from time to time, and which from remote ages have been declared to foretell calamity to the lands over which they appear to travel." the harmer family were godly people of somewhat puritanic leaning, yet they were by no means entirely free from the superstition of their times, nor would rachel have called it superstition to regard this manifestation as a warning from god. why should he not send some such messenger before he proceeded to take vengeance upon an ungodly city? was not even guilty sodom warned of its approaching doom? all faces then were grave, but that of the master builder wore a look of fear as well. "i must to my wife," he said. "if she sees this comet, she will be vastly put about. i must to her side to reassure her. pray heaven that no calamity be near to us!" "amen!" replied harmer, gravely; and then the master builder retreated down the staircase, whilst from a room below a cheerful voice was heard announcing that supper was ready. the party therefore all moved downstairs towards the kitchen, where all the meals were taken in company with the apprentices, shopmen, and serving wenches. dorcas, the maiden who had brought news of the comet, slipped her. hand within reuben's arm, and asked him in a whisper: "thinkest thou, reuben, that it betides evil to the city?" "nay, i know not what to think," he answered. "it is a strange thing, and men often say it betides ill; but i have no knowledge of mine own. i never saw the like before." "they spoke of it at my lady scrope's today," said dorcas. "i was behind her chair, with her fan and essence bottles, and the lap dogs, when in comes one and another of the old beaux who beguile their leisure with my lady's sharp speeches; and they spoke of this thing, and she laughed them to scorn, and called them fools for listening to old wives' fables. it is her way thus to revile all who come anigh her. she said she had lived through a score of such scares, and would snap her fingers at all the comets of the heavens at once. sometimes it makes me tremble to hear her talk; but methinks she loveth to raise a shudder in the hearts of those who hear her. she is a strange being. sometimes i almost fear to go to and fro there, albeit she treats me well, and seldom speaks harshly to me. but men say she is above a hundred years old, and she leads so strange a life in her lonely house. fancy being there alone of a night, with only that deaf old man and his aged wife within doors! it would scare me to death. but she will not let one other of her servants abide there with her!" "ay, it is her whimsie. women folks are given to such," answered reuben, tolerantly. "she is a strange creature, albeit i doubt not that men make her out stranger than she is. well, well, the comet at least will do us no hurt of itself; and if it be god's way of warning us of peril to come, we need not fear it, but only set ourselves to be ready for what he may send us." below stairs there was a comfortable meal spread upon the table, simple and homely, but sufficient for the appetites of all. the three rosy-faced apprentices, of whom a son of the house made one, formed a link at table between the family and the shopmen and serving wenches. all sat down together, and rebecca, the daughter who lived at home, served up the hot broth and puddings. the eldest daughter was a serving maid in the household of my lady howe, and was seldom able to get home for more than a few hours occasionally, even when that fashionable dame was in london. dorcas spent each night under the shelter of her father's roof, and went daily to the quaint old house close beside allhallowes the less, where lived the eccentric lady scrope, her mistress, of whom mention has been made. the youngest son was also from home, being apprenticed to a carpenter in the service of the master builder next door, and he lived, as was usual, in the house of his employer. thus four out of harmer's seven children lived always at home, and dan the sailor was with them whenever his ship put into the river after a voyage. no talk of either comet or plague was permitted at table; indeed the meal was generally eaten in something approaching to silence. sometimes the master of the house would address a question to one of the family, or suppress by a glance the giggling of the lads at the lower end of the table. joseph's presence there rather encouraged hilarity, for he was a merry urchin, and stood not in the same awe of his father as did his comrades. kindness was the law of the house, but it was the kindness of thorough discipline. neither the master nor the mistress believed in the liberty that brings licence in its train. life went very quietly, smoothly, and monotonously within the walls of that busy house. trade was brisk just now. the fashion lately introduced amongst fine ladies of having whole dresses of gold or silver lace, brought more orders for the lace maker than he well knew how to accomplish in the time. he and his son and his apprentices were hard at work from morning to night; and glad enough was the master of the daily-increasing daylight, which enabled him and those who were glad to earn larger wages to work extra hours each day. being thus busy at home, he went less than was his wont abroad, and heard but little either of the sullen comet which hung night after night in the sky, or of the whispers sometimes circulating in the city of fresh cases of the distemper. these last, however, were growing fewer. the scare of a few weeks back seemed to be dying down. people said the pest had been stamped out, and the brighter, hotter weather cheered the hearts of men, albeit in case of sickness it might be their worst enemy, as some amongst them well knew. "i never believed a word of it!" said the wife of the master builder, as she sat in her fine drawing room and fanned herself with a great fan made of peacock's feathers. she was very handsomely dressed, far muore like a fine court dame than the wife of a simple citizen. her comnpanion was a very pretty girl of about nineteen, whose abundant chestnut hair was dressed after a fashionable mode, although she refused to have it frizzed over her head as her mother's was, and would have preferred to dress it quite simply. she wished she might have plain clothes suitable to her station, instead of being tricked out as though she were a fine lady. but her mother ruled her with a rod of iron, and girls in those days had not thought of rising in rebellion. the master builder's wife considered that she had gentle blood in her veins, as her grandfather had been a country squire who was ruined in the civil war, so that his family sank into poverty. of late she had done all in her power to get her neighbours to accord her the title of madam mason, which she extorted from her servants, and which was given to her pretty generally now, although as much in mockery, it must be confessed, as in respect of her finery. she did not look a very happy woman, in spite of all the grandeur about her. she had frightened away her simpler neighbours by her airs of condescension and by the splendour of her house, and yet she could not yet see any way of inducing other and finer folks to come and see her. sometimes her husband brought in a rich patron and his wife to look at the fine room, and examnine the furniture in it, and these persons would generally be mighty civil to her whilst they stayed; but then they did not come to see her, but only in the way of business. it was agreeable to be able to repeat what my lord this or my lady that said about the cabinets and chairs; but after all she was half afraid that her boasting deceived nobody, and gertrude would never come to her aid with any little innocent fibs about their grand visitors. "i never did believe a word of it," repeated madam, after a pause. "gertrude, why do you not answer when i speak to you? you are as dull as a dutch doll, sitting there and saying nothing. i would that frederick were at home! he can speak when he is spoken to; but you are like a deaf mute!" "i beg your pardon, ma'am. i was reading--i did not hear." "that is always the way--reading, reading, reading! why, what good do you think reading will do you? why don't you get your silk embroidery or practise upon the spinnet? such advantages as you have! and all thrown away on a girl who does not know when she is well off. i have no manner of patience with you, gertrude. if i had had such opportunities in my girlhood, i should never have been a mere citizen's wife now." a slightly mutinous look passed across gertrude's face. submissive in word and manner, as was the rule of the day, she was by no means submissive in mind, and had her mother's ears been sharper she might have detected the undertone of irony in the reply she received. "i think nobody would take you for a citizen's wife, ma'am. as for me, i am not made to shine in a higher sphere than mine own. i have not even the patience to learn the spinnet. i would sooner be baking pies with rebecca next door, as we used to do when we were children, before father grew so rich." madam's face clouded ominously. she heartily wished she had never admitted her children to intimacy with the harmers next door. it had done no harm in the case of frederick. he was his mother's son, every inch of him, and was as ready to turn up a supercilious nose at his old comrades as ever madam could wish. but gertrude was different--she was excessively provoking at times. she did not seem able to understand that if one intended to rise in the world, one must cut through a number of old ties, and start upon a fresh track. it was not easy in those times to rise; but still the wealthier citizens did occasionally make a position for themselves, and get amongst the hangers-on of the court party, especially if they were open handed with their money. madam often declared that if they only moved into another part of the town, everything she wanted could be attained; but on that point her husband was inexorable. he loved the old bridge house. there he had been born, and there he meant to die, and he had not the smnallest intention of removing elsewhere to please even the wife to whom he granted so many indulgences. "you are a fool!" cried madam, angrily; "you say those things only to provoke me. i wish you had some right feeling and some conversation. you are as dull as ditch water. you care for nothing. i don't believe it would rouse you to hear that the plague was in the next street!" "well, we shall see," answered gertrude, with a calmness that was at least a little provoking, "for people say it is spreading very fast, and may soon be here." "what!" cried madam, in a sudden panic; "who says that? what do you mean, girl?" "it was reuben who told me," answered gertrude, with a little blush which she tried to conceal by turning her face towards the window. but her ruse was in vain. madam's hawk eye had caught the rising colour, and her brow contracted sharply. "reuben! what reuben? have i not told you a hundred times that i would have none of that sort of talk any more? reuben, indeed! as though you were boy and girl together! pray tell me this, you forward minx, does he dare to address you as gertrude when he has the insolence to speak to you in the streets, where alone i presume he can do so?" gertrude's face was burning with indignation. she had to clasp her hands tightly together to restrain the hot words which rose to her lips. "we have been children together--and friends," she said, "the harmers and i. how should we forget that so quickly--even though you have forgotten! my father does not mind." madam's face was as red as her daughter's. she was about to make some violent retort, when the sound of a footstep on the stairs checked the words upon her lips. "there is frederick!" she said. chapter ii. london's young citizens. the door of the room where mother and daughter sat was flung wide open with scant ceremony, and to the accompaniment of a boisterous laugh. into the room swaggered a tall, fine-looking young man of some three-and-twenty summers, dressed in all the extravagance of a lavish and extravagant age. upon his head he wore an immense peruke of ringlets, such as had been introduced at court the previous year, and which was almost universal now with the nobles and gentry, but by no means so amongst the citizens. the periwig was surmounted by a high-crowned hat adorned with feathers and ribbons, and ribbons floated from his person in such abundance that to unaccustomed eyes the effect was little short of grotesque. even the absurd high-heeled shoes were tied with immense bows of ribbon, whilst knees, wrists, throat, and even elbows displayed their bows and streamers. the young dandy wore the full "petticoat breeches" of the period, with a short doublet, a jaunty cloak hung from the shoulders, and an abundance of costly lace ruffles adorned the neck and wrists of the doublet, he wore at his side a short rapier, and had a trick of laying his hand upon the hilt, as though it would take very little provocation to make him draw it forth upon an adversary. his step was not altogether so steady as it might have been, as he swaggered into his mother's presence. his handsome face was deeply flushed. he was laughing boisterously; but there was that in his aspect which made his sister turn away with a look of repulsion, though his mother's glance rested on him with a look of admiring pride that savoured of adoration. in her fond and foolish eyes he was perfection, and the more he copied the vices and the follies of the gallants about the person of the king, the prouder did his vain and weak mother become of him. "ho! ho! ho! such a bit of fun!" it is impossible to give frederick mason's words verbatim, as he seldom opened his lips without an oath, and inter-larded his talk with coarse jests in english and fragments of ribaldry in vile french, till it would scarce be intelligible to the reader of today. "such a prime bit of fun! who would have thought that little dorcas next door would grow up such a marvelous pretty damsel! by my troth, what a slap she did give me in return for my kiss!" gertrude suddenly turned upon her brother with flashing eyes. "think shame of yourself, frederick! you disgrace your boasted manhood. how dare you annoy with your coarse gallantry the daughter of our father's oldest friend, and that too in the open streets!" "how dare you speak so to your brother, girl?" cried madam, bristling up like an angry mother hen. "what call have you to chide him? is he answerable to you for his acts?" gertrude subsided into silence, for she could not answer back as she would have liked. it was not for her to argue with her mother; and madam, having vanquished her daughter, turned upon her son. "you must have a care how you vex our neighbours, for your father would take it ill an he heard of it. nay, i would not myself that you mixed yourself up too much with them. they are honest good folks enow, but scarce such as are fitting company for us. what of this girl dorcas? is not she the one who is waiting maid to that mad old witch woman in allhallowes, lady scrope?" "that may well be. i saw her come forth from a grim portal hard by allhallowes the less. i knew not who it was, but i gave chase, and ere she put her foot upon the bridge, i had plucked the hood from off her pretty curls, and had kissed her soundly on both cheeks. and at that she gave me such a cuff as i feel yet, and ran like a fawn, and i after her, till she vanished within the door of our neighbour's house; and then it came to me that it was dorcas, grown wondrous pretty since i last took note of her. if she comes always home at this hour, i'll waylay my lady again and take toll of her." "you had better be careful not to let reuben get wind of it" said gertrude, with suppressed anger in her voice. "if he were to catch you insulting his sister, it is more than a slap or a cuff you would get." frederick burst into a boisterous laugh. "what! do you think a dirty shopman would dare lay hands upon me? i'd run him through the body as soon as look at him. he'd better keep out of reach of my sword arm. you can tell him so, fair sister, if you have a tendresse for the young counter jumper." gertrude's sensitive colour flew up, and her brother laughed loud and long, pointing his finger at her, and adding one coarse jest to another; but the mother interposed rather hastily, being uneasy at the turn the talk was taking. "hist, children, no more of this! "i would not that this tale came to your father's ears, frederick; it were better to have a care where our neighbours are concerned. let the wench alone. there are many prettier damsels than she, who will not rebuff you in such fashion." "ay, verily, but that is the spice of it all. when the wench gives you kiss for kiss, it is sweet, but flavourless. a box on the ear, and a merry chase through the streets afterwards, is a game more to my liking. i'll see the little witch again and be even with her, or my name's not frederick mason the scourer!" "your father will like it ill if it comes to his ears," remarked madam, with a touch of uneasiness; "and for my part, the less we have to do with our neighbours the better. they are no fit associates for us." "say that we are no fit associates for them," murmured gertrude, beneath her breath. her heart was swelling with sorrow and anger. in her eyes there was no young man in all london town to be compared with reuben harmer. from the day when in childhood they had playfully plighted their troth, she had never ceased to regard him as the one man in the world most worthy of love and reverence, and she knew that he had never ceased to look upon her with the same feelings. latterly they had had but scant opportunities of meeting. madam threw every possible obstacle in the way of her daughter's entering the doors of that house, and kept her own closed against those of her former friends whom she now chose to regard as her inferiors. madam had never been liked. she had always held her head high, and shown that she thought herself too good for the place she occupied. her house had never been popular. no neighbours had ever been in the habit of running in and out to exchange bits of news with her, or ask for the loan of some recipe or household convenience. it had not been difficult to seclude herself in her gradually increasing dignities, and only her daughter had keenly felt the difference when she had intimated that she wished the intimacy between her family and that of the harmers to cease. frederick had long since taken to himself other associates of a more congenial kind. the master builder went to and fro as before, permitting his wife full indulgence of her fads and fancies, but resolved to exercise his own individual liberty, and quite unconscious of the blow that was being inflicted upon his daughter, who was naturally tied by her mother's commands, and forced to abide by her regulations. madam had been quick to see that if she did not take care reuben harmer would shortly aspire to the hand of her daughter, and she was not sure but that her husband would be weak enough to let the foolish girl please herself in the matter, and throw away what chance she had of marrying out of the city, and rising a step in life. madam pinned her main hopes of a social rise for herself in the marriages of her children. she fondly believed that frederick, with his good looks and his wealth, could take his pick even amongst high-born ladies, and not all the good-natured ridicule of her husband served to weaken this conviction. she was not a great admirer of her daughter's charms, but she knew that the girl was admired, and had been noticed more than once by the fine ladies who had come to look at her furniture and hangings. she had a plan of her own for getting gertrude into the train of some fine court dame, and once secured in such a position, her fair face and ample dowry might do the rest. if her son and daughter were well married, she would have two houses where she could make a home for herself more to her liking. no end of ambitious dreams were constantly floating in her shallow brain, and as all these were more or less bound up with the future of her son and daughter, it was natural that she should desire to put down with a strong hand the smallest indication of a love affair between gertrude and reuben. she had even persuaded her husband that gertrude ought to make a good marriage; and as he was able to give her an ample dowry, and was proud of her good looks, he himself was of opinion that she might do something rather brilliant, even if she did not realize her mother's fond dreams. all this was very well known to poor gertrude by this time, and it was seldom now that she did more than catch a passing glimpse of reuben, or exchange a few hasty words with him in the street. the young man was proud, and knew that he was looked down upon by the master builder and his wife. this made him very reticent of showing his feelings, and reduced gertrude often to the lowest ebb of depression. so the coarse jests of her brother were a keen pain to her, and she presently rose and left the room in great resentment, followed by a mocking laugh from the ill-conditioned young man. having lost one victim, that amiable youth next turned his attention to his mother, and began to torment her with the same zest as he had displayed in the baiting of his sister. "all the town is talking of the plague," he remarked, in would-be solemn tones. "they say that in st. giles' and st. andrew's parishes they are burying them by the dozen every day;" and as his mother uttered a little scream, and shrank away even from him, he went on in the same tone, "all the fine folks from that end of the town are thinking of moving into the country. the witches and wizards are declaring openly in the streets that the whole city is to be destroyed. some folks say that soon the lord mayor and the magistrates will have all the infected houses shut up straitly, so that none may go in or come forth when it is known that the distemper has appeared there. the door will be marked with a red cross, and the words 'lord, have mercy upon us!' writ large above it. so, good mother, when i come home one day with the marks of the distemper upon me, the whole house will be closed, and none will be able to go forth to escape it. so we shall all perish together, as a loving family should do." the blasphemies and ribald jokes with which this good-for-nothing young man adorned his speech made it sound tenfold more hideous than i can do. even his mother shrank away from him, in terror and amaze at his levity, and cried aloud in her fear so that instantly the door opened, and her husband entered to know what was amiss. frederick looked a little uneasy then, for he still held his father in a wholesome awe; but the mother made no complaint of her son, but only said she had been affrighted by hearing that there were more deaths from the plague than she had thought would ever be the case after all the care the magistrates had taken, and was it true that the lord mayor had spoken of shutting up the houses, and so causing the sound ones to become diseased and to perish with the stricken ones? the master builder answered gravely enough; for he had himself but just come in from hearing that the weekly bills of mortality were terribly high, and that the deaths in certain of the western parishes had been beyond all reckoning since the last years when the plague had visited the city. true, there were not many put down as having died of the plague; but it was known how much was done to get other diseases set down in the bills, so that there was not much comfort to be got out of that. the master builder thought that the houses would not be shut up unless things became much worse. the matter had been spoken of, as he himself had heard; but the people were much against it, and it would be a measure most difficult to enforce, and would tend to make men conceal from the authorities any case of distemper which appeared amongst them. but he said it was true enough that persons of high degree were beginning to move into the country, at least from the western part of the town; but that all felt very sure the distemper would speedily be checked, and would not come within the city walls at all, nor extend eastward beyond its boundaries. madam breathed a little more freely on hearing this, but made an eager suggestion to her husband that they should go away if the distemper began to spread. but the master builder shook his head impatiently. "a fine thing to run away from a chance ill, and court a certain ruin! how do you think business will thrive if all the men run away from their shops like affrighted sheep? no, no; it is often safest to stay at home with closed doors than to run helter skelter to strange places where one knows not who may have been last. keep indoors with your perfumes and spices, and keep the wench close with you. that is the best way of outwitting the enemy. besides, it has come nowhere near us yet." madam had certainly no mind to be ruined, nor was she one who loved change or the discomforts of travel. so she thought on the whole her husband's advice was good. it would be much more comfortable to stay here with closed doors, surrounded by the luxuries of home. now as frederick sat with outstretched legs in one of the easiest chairs in the room, and heard his father speak of these things, a thought came into his head which tickled his fancy so vastly that throughout the evening he kept bursting into smothered laughter, so much so that his sister threw him many suspicious glances, and divined that he had some evil purpose in his head. the may light lasted long in the sky; but as it failed frederick went out, as was his wont, and for many hours he spent his time with a number of kindred spirits in a neighbouring tavern, quaffing large potations, and dicing and gaming after the fashion of the court gallants. the bulk of the young roisterers thus assembled belonged to one of those bands of scourers of which frederick claimed to be the head. they were the worthy successors to the "roaring boys" or bonaventors of past centuries, and their favourite pastime was, after spending the night in revelry and play, to start forth towards dawn and scour the streets, upsetting the baskets or carts of the early market folks bringing their wares into the town, scattering the merchandise in the gutter, kissing the women, cuffing the men, wrenching off knockers from house doors, and getting up fights with the watch or with some rival band of scourers which resulted in broken heads and sometimes in actual bloodshed. the magistrates treated these misdemeanours with wonderful tolerance when the culprits were from time to time brought before them, and the nuisance went on practically unchecked--the people being used to wild and dissolute ways and much brawling--and looking on it as one of the necessary ills of life. but upon this bright may morning, before the streets began to awaken, even before the market folks were astir, frederick led forth his band intent upon a new sort of mischief. some of the number carried pots of red paint in their hands, and others pots of white paint. up and down the empty streets paraded these worthies, pausing here and there at the door of some citizen that presented a tempting surface. one of their number would paint upon it the ominous red cross, whilst another who had skill enough (for writing was not the accomplishment of every citizen even then) would add in staring white letters the legend, "lord, have mercy upon us!" it was a brutal jest at such a time, when the dread visitor had actually appeared as it were in their midst, and all sober men were in fear of what might betide, and of the methods already spoken of for the suppression of the distemper. but it was its very wickedness which gave it its charm in the opinion of the perpetrators, and as they went from street to street, frederick suddenly exclaimed: "ha! we are close to allhallowes. let us adorn the door of the old madwoman, lady scrope. they say she lives quite alone, and that her servants come in the morning and leave at night. sure they will none of them have courage to pass the threshold when that sign adorns it, and the old hag will have to come forth herself to seek them. an excellent joke! i will watch the house, and give her a kiss as she comes forth." whereupon the whole crew burst into shouts of drunken laughter, and made a rush to the door, which stood flush in a grim-looking wall just beneath the shadow of the church of allhallowes the less. frederick had the paint pot in his hand, and he traced a fine red cross upon the door, all the while making his ribald jests upon the old woman within, he and his companions alike, far too drunk with wine and unholy mirth to have eyes or ears for what was happening close beside them. they did not hear the sound of an opening window just above them. they did not see a nightcapped head poked forth, the great frilled cap surrounding a small, wizened, but keenly-courageous face, in which the eyes were glittering like points of fire. none of them saw this. none of them heeded, and the head was for a moment silently withdrawn. then it was again cautiously protruded, and the next minute there descended on the head of frederick a black hot mass of tar and bitumen. it scalded his face, it blinded his eyes. it choked and almost poisoned him by its vaporous pungency. it matted itself in his voluminous periwig, and plastered it down to his shoulders; it clotted his lace frills, and ran in filthy rivulets down his smart clothes. in a word, it rendered him in a moment a disgusting and helpless object, unable to see or hear, almost unable to breathe, and quite unable to rid himself of the sticky, loathsome mass in which he had suddenly become encased. then from the window above came a shrill, jeering cry: "to your task, bold scourers--to your task! scour your own fine friend and comrade. scour him well, for he will need it. scour him from head to foot. a pest upon you, young villains! i would every citizen in london would serve you the same!" then the window above was banged to. the mob of roisterers fled helter skelter, laughing and jeering. not one amongst them offered to assist their wretched leader. they left him alone in his sorry plight to get out of it as best he might. they had not the smallest consideration for one even of their own number overtaken by misfortune. roaring with laughter at the frightful picture he presented, they dispersed to their own homes, and the wretched frederick was left alone in the street to do the best he could with his black, unsavoury plaster. he strove in vain to clear his vision, and to remove the peruke, which clung to him like a second skin. he was in a horrible fright lest he should be seen and recognized in this ignominious plight; and although he felt sure his comrades would spread the story of his discomfiture all over the town, he did not wish to be seen by the watch, or by any law-abiding citizens who knew him. but how to get home was a puzzle, blind and half suffocated as he was; and he scarce knew whether anger or relief came uppermost to his mind when he felt his arm taken, and a voice that he knew said in his ear: "for shame, frederick! it is a disgrace to london the way you and your comrades go on. and now of all times to jest when the foe is at our doors. shame upon you! the old dame has given you no more than your due. but come with me, and i will get you home ere the town be awake; and have a care how you offend again like this, for the magistrates will not suffer jests of such a kind at such a time. know you not that it is almost enough to frighten a timid serving wench into the distemper to see such signs upon the doors? and if it break out in the midst of us, who can say where it will end?" it was reuben harmer who spoke, as frederick very well knew. the young men had been boys together, and as reuben was two years the elder, he assumed a tone in speaking which frederick now keenly resented. but it was no time to repel an overture of help, and he sullenly forced himself to accept reuben's good offices. the great clotted periwig was with some difficulty got off, and then it was possible to remove the worst of the tar from face and eyes. frederick at last could see clearly and breathe freely, but presented so lamentable an object that he only longed to get safe home to the shelter of his father's house. the costly periwig of curls had perforce to be left in the gutter, hopelessly ruined, and frederick, who had given more money for it than he could well afford, shook his fist at the house which contained the redoubtable old woman who had thus fooled and bested him. "you scourers will find that you can play your meddlesome games too often," remarked reuben sternly, his eyes upon the red cross and the half-completed words above. "i would that all the city were of the same spirit as lady scrope. she always keeps a quantity of hot pitch or tar beside her bed, with a lamp burning beneath it, in case of attacks from robbers. you may thank your stars that it descended not boiling hot upon your head. had she been so minded to punish you, she would have done so fearlessly. you may be thankful it was no worse." frederick sullenly picked up his hat, which he had laid aside while painting the door, and which had thus escaped injury, pulled it as far over his face as it would go, and turned abruptly away from reuben. "i'll be revenged on the old hag yet!" he muttered between his teeth. "i've got a double debt to pay to this house now. i'll not forget it either." he turned abruptly away and scuttled home by the narrowest alleys he could find, whilst reuben went about looking for the red crosses, and giving timely notice to the master of the house, that they might be erased, as quietly and quickly as possible. accident had led reuben early abroad that day, but he made use of his time to undo as far as he was able the mischievous jesting of frederick's band of scourers. chapter iii. drawing nearer. "brother reuben, i cannot think what can be the reason, but my lady scrope has bidden me beg of thee to give her speech upon the morrow. all this day she has been in a mighty pleasant humour: she gave me this silken neckerchief when i left today, and bid me bring my brother with me on the morrow--and she means thee, reuben." "what can be the meaning of that?" asked rachel harmer, with a look of curiosity. "doth she often speak to thee of thy kindred, child?" "if the whim be on her, and she has naught else to amuse her, she will bid me tell of the life at home, and of our neighbours and friends," answered dorcas. "but never has she spoke as she did today. nor can i guess why she would have speech with reuben." "i can guess shrewdly at that," said the young man. "it so befell this morning that i found a party of roisterers at her door, who were marking it with a red cross, as though it were a plague-stricken house--as the magistrates talk of marking them now if the distemper spreads much further and wider. the bold lady had herself put these fellows to the rout by pouring pitch upon them from a window above; but i stopped to rebuke the foremost of them myself, and to erase their handiwork from the door. i did not know that i was either seen or known; but methinks my lady scrope has eyes in the back of her head, as the saying goes." "you may well say that!" cried dorcas, with a laugh and a shrug. "never was there such a woman for knowing everything and everybody. but she spoke not to me of any roisterers. would i had been there to see her pouring her filthy compound over them! she always has it ready. how she must have rejoiced to find a use for it at last!" "it is an evil and a scurvy jest at such a time to mock at the peril which is at our very doors, and which naught but the mercy of god can avert from us," said the master of the house, very gravely. then, looking round upon his assembled household, he added in the same very serious way, "i have been this day into the heart of the city. i have spoken with many of the authorities there. the lord mayor and the magistrates are in great anxiety, and i fear me there can be no longer any doubt that the distemper is spreading fearfully. it has not yet appeared within the city nor upon the other side of the river; but in the western parishes it is spreading every way, and they say that all who are able are fleeing away from their houses. perchance for those who can do so this may be the safest thing to do. but soon they will not be permitted to leave, unless they have a bill of health from the lord mayor, as in the country beyond the honest folks are taking alarm, and are crying out that we are like to spread the plague all over the kingdom." "i, too, have heard sad tales of the mortality," said dinah, raising her calm voice and speaking very seriously. "i met a good physician, under whom i often laboured amongst the sick, and he tells me that there be poor stricken wretches from whom all the world flee in terror the moment it appears they have the distemper upon them. many have died already untended and uncared for, whilst others have in the madness of the fever and pain burst out of the rooms in which they have been shut up, and have run up and down the streets, spreading terror in their path, till they have dropped down dead or dying, to be carried to graveyard or pest house as the case may be. but who can tell how many other victims such a miserable creature may not have infected first?" "ay, that is the terror of it," said harmer. "all are saying that nurses must be found to care for the sick, and many are very resolved that the houses where the distemper is found should be straitly shut up and guarded by watchmen, that none go forth. it is a hard thing for the whole to be thus shut in with the infected; but as men truly say, how shall the whole city escape if something be not done to restrain the people from passing to and fro, and spreading the distemper everywhere?" "i have thought," said dinah, very quietly, "that it may be given to me to offer myself as a nurse for these poor persons. i have passed unscathed through many perils before now. once i verily believe i was with one who died even of this distemper, albeit the physician called it the spotted fever, which frights men less than the name of plague. there be many herbs and simples and decoctions which men say are of great value in keeping the infection at bay. and even were it not so, we must not be thinking only at such times of saving our own lives. there be some that must be ready to risk even life, if they may serve their brethren. the good physicians are prepared to do this, to say nothing of the magistrates and those who have the management of this great city at such a time. and it seems to me that women must always be ready to tend the sick even in times of peril. i seem to hear a call that bids me offer myself for this work; but none else shall suffer through me. if i go, i return hither no more. i shall live amongst the sick until this judgment be overpast, or until i myself be called hence, as may well be." all faces were grave and full of awe. yet perhaps none who knew dinah were overmuch surprised at her words. her life had been lived amongst the sick for many years. she had never shrunk from danger, or had spared herself when the need was pressing. her sister rachel, although the tears stood in her eyes, said nothing to dissuade her. nor indeed was there much time for discussion then, for the master builder looked in at that moment with a face full of concern. he brought the news that fresh revelations were being hourly made as to the terrible rapidity with which the plague was spreading in the parishes without the walls; and he added that even the gay and giddy court had been at last alarmed, and that the king had been heard to say he should quit whitehall and retire with his court and his minions to oxford in the course of a week or a fortnight, unless matters became speedily much better. "ay, that is ever the way," said harmer, sternly. "the reckless monarch and his licentious court draw down upon the city the wrath of god in judgment of their wickedness, and those who have provoked the judgment flee from the peril, leaving the poor of the city to perish like sheep." "well, well, well; fine folks like change, and it is easy for them to go elsewhere. i would do the same, perchance, were i so placed," said the master builder; "but we men of business must stick to our work as long as it sticks to us. "what about your mistress, lady scrope, dorcas? has she said aught of leaving london? she is one who could easily fly. not but what i trust the distemper will be kept well out of the city by the care taken." "she has spoken no word of any such thing," answered dorcas. "she reads and hears all that is spoken about the plague, and makes my blood run cold by the stories she tells of it in other lands, and during other outbreaks which she can remember. methinks sometimes the very hair on my head is standing up in the affright her words bring me. but she only laughs and mocks, and calls me a little poltroon. i trow that she would never fly; it would not be like her." "men and women do many things unlike themselves in stress of particular and deadly peril," said the master builder. "lady scrope would do well to consider leaving whilst the city has so good a bill of health; it may be less easy by-and-by, should the distemper spread." "thou canst speak to her of this thing, reuben, when thou dost see her on the morrow," observed his father. "perchance she has not considered the peril of being detained if she puts off flight too long." reuben said he would name the matter to the lady; and when dorcas set forth upon the morrow for her daily walk, her brother accompanied her, and told her in confidence what he had not told to his family--how frederick mason had been served by the irate old lady, and what a sorry spectacle he had presented afterwards. dorcas laughed heartily at the story. she had no love for frederick, and she told her brother that she suspected he had been the half-tipsy gallant who had striven to kiss her in the streets, and had partially succeeded. this put reuben into a great wrath, and he promised whenever he could do so to come and escort his sister home from the house in allhallowes. true, the distance was but very short, yet the lane to the bridge head was lonely and narrow, and frederick was known for a most ill-conditioned young man. lady scrope received reuben in a demi-toilet of a peculiar kind, and a very strange and wizened object did she appear. she thanked him for the rebuke she had heard him administer to the roisterer, enjoyed a hearty laugh over his wretched appearance, and then proceeded to indulge her insatiable taste for gossip by demanding of him all the city news, and what all the world there was talking about. "since this plague bogey has got into men's minds i see nobody and hear nothing," she said. "all the fools be flying the place like so many silly sheep; or, if they come to sit awhile, their talk is all of pills and decoctions, refuses and ointments. bah! they will buy the drugs of every foolish quack who goes about the streets selling plague cures, and then fly off the next day, thinking that they will be the next victim. bah! the folly of the men! how glad i am that i am a woman." "still, madam," said reuben, taking his cue, "there be many noble ladies who think it well to remove themselves for a time from this infected city. not that for the time being the city itself is infected, and we hope to keep it free--" "then men are worse fools than i take them for," was the sharp retort. "keep the plague out of the city! bah! what nonsense will they talk next! is it not written in the very heavens that the city is to be destroyed? heed not their idle prognostications. i tell you, young man, that the plague is already amongst us, even though men know it not. in a few more weeks half the houses in the very city itself will be shut up, and grass will be growing in the streets. we may be thankful if there are enough living to bury the dead. keep it out of the city, forsooth! let them do it if they can; i know better!" dorcas paled and shrank, fully convinced that her redoubtable mistress possessed a familiar spirit who revealed to her the things that were coming; but reuben fancied that the old lady was but guessing, and he saw no reason to be afraid at her words. saying such things would not bring them to pass. "then, madam," he answered, "if such be the case, would it not be well to consider whether you do not remove yourself ere these things comne to pass? pardon me if i seem to take it upon mnyself to advise you, but i was charged by my father, who is like to be appointed for a time one of the examiners of health whom the mayor and magistrates think it well to institute at this time, that soon it may not be so easy to get away from the city as it is now; wherefore it behoves the sound whilst they are yet sound to bethink them whether or not they will take themselves away elsewhere. also my mother wished me to ask the question of your ladyship, forasmuch as she would like to know whether my sister in such case would be required to accompany you." lady scrope nodded her head several times, an odd light of mockery gleaming in her keen black eyes. "tell your worthy father, good youth, that i thank him for his good counsel; but also tell him that nothing will drive me from this place--not even though i be the only one left alive in the city. here i was born, and here i mean to die; and whether death comes by the plague or by some other messenger what care i? i tell thee, lad, i am far safer here than gadding about the country. here i can shut myself up at pleasure from all the world. abroad, i am at the muercy of any plague-stricken vagabond who comes to ask an alms. let all sensible folks stay at home and shut themselves up, and let the fools go gadding here, there, and all over. as for dorcas, let her come and go as long as she safely may; but if your good mother would keep her at home, then let her abide there, and return to me when the peril is overpast. i like the wench, and if she likes to abide altogether with me she may do so. let her mother choose." dorcas, however, had no wish to live in that lonely house altogether, and for the present there was no reason why she should not go backwards and forwards to her father's abode. her parents were grateful to lady scrope for her offer, but for the present there was no reason for making any change. the weather during these bright days of may had been cool and fresh, and in spite of all evil auguries, sanguine persons had tried hard to believe and to make others believe that the peril of a visitation of the plague had been somewhat overrated. yet the choked thoroughfares leading out of london gave the lie to these suppositions, and for many weeks the bridge was a sight in itself, crowded with carriages and waggons all filled with the richer folks and their goods, hastening to the pleasant regions of surrey to forget their fears and escape the pestilential atmosphere of the city. then towards the end of the month a great heat set in, and at once, as it were, the infection broke out in a hundred different and unsuspected places, not only without but within the city walls. how the distemper had so spread none then dared to guess. it seemed everywhere at once, none knew why or how. doubtless it was in innumerable instances the tainted condition of the wells from which the bulk of the people still drew their water; but men did not think of these things long ago. they looked each other in the face in fear and terror, none knowing but that his neighbour in the street might be carrying about with him the seeds of the dread distemper. it now behoved all careful citizens to bethink them well what they would do, with the fearful foe knocking as it were at their very doors, and the matter was brought home right early to the harmer household, by a thing that befell them at the very outset of the access of hot weather which told so fatally upon the city almost imumediately afterwards. rachel harmer was awakened from sleep one night by the sound of something rattling upon the bed-chamber floor, as though it had fallen from the open casement, and as she came to her waking senses, she heard a voice without calling in urgent accents: "mother! mother! mother!" rising in some alarm, she went to the window which projected over the lower stories of the house, as was usual at that time, and on putting out her head she beheld a female figure standing in the roadway below. when the moonlight fell upon the upturned face, she saw it was that of her daughter janet, who was in the service of lady howe, and was her waiting maid, living in her house not far from whitehall, and earning good wages in that gay household. in no little alarm at seeing her daughter out alone in the street at night, she spoke her name and bid her wait at the door till she could let her in, which she would do immediately; but janet instantly replied: "nay, mother, come not to the door; come to the little window at the corner, where i can speak quietly till i have told you all. open not the door till you have heard my lamentable tale. i know not even now that i am right to come hither at all." in great fear and anxiety the mother cast a loose wrapper about her, and descended quickly to the little storeroom close against the shop, where there was a tiny window which opened direct upon the street. at this window, but a few paces away, she found her daughter awaiting her, and by the light of the rush candle that she carried she saw that the girl's face was deadly white. "child, child, what ails thee? come in and tell me all. thou must not stand out there. i will open the door and fetch thee in." "no, mother, no--not till thou hast heard my tale," pleaded janet; "for the sake of the rest thou must be cautious. mother, i have been with one who died of the plague at noon today!" "mercy on us, child! how came that about?" "it was my fellow servant and bed fellow," answered janet. "we were like sisters together, and if ever i ailed aught she tended me as fondly as thou couldst thyself, mother. today, when we rose, she complained of headache and a feeling of illness; but we went down and took our breakfast below with the rest. at least i took mine as usual, though she did but toy with her food. then all of a sudden she put her hand to her side and turned ghastly white, and fell off her chair. a scullery wench set up a cry, 'the plague! the plague!' and forthwith they all fled this way and that--all save me, who could not leave her thus. i made her swallow some hot cordial which i think they call alexiteric water, and which is said to be very beneficial in cases of the distemper; and she was able to crawl upstairs after a while to her bed once more, where i put her. i knew not for some hours what was passing in the house, though i heard a great commotion there, and presently there stole in a mincing physician who attends my lady, holding a handkerchief steeped in vinegar to his nose, and smelling like an apothecary's shop. he looked at poor patience, who lay in a stupor, heeding none, and he directed me to uncover her neck for him to see if she had the tokens upon her. there had been none when i put her to bed again, so that i had hoped it was but a colic or some such affection; but, alas, when i looked at his direction, there were the black swellings plainly to be seen. forthwith he fled with indecent haste, and only stopped to say he would send a nurse and such remedies as should be needful." "o my child! and thou wast with her all the time!--thou didst even touch and handle her?" "mother, i could not leave her alone to die. and hardly had the doctor gone than the fever came upon her, and it was all i could do to keep her from rushing out of the room in her pain. but it lasted only a brief while--for the poison must have gotten a sore hold on her--and just after noon she fell back in mine arms and died. "o mother, i see her face now--so livid and terrible to look upon! o mother, mother, shall i too look like that when my turn comes to die?" "hush, hush, my child! god is very merciful. it may be his good pleasure to spare thee. thy aunt doth go to and fro amongst the smitten ones, and she is yet in her wonted health. but ere i call thy father and ask counsel what we are to do, tell me the rest of thy tale. who came to thy relief? and how camest thou hither so late?" "i could not come before. i dared not go forth by day, lest i bore about the seeds of the distemper. the nurse came at three o'clock, and finding her patient already dead, wrapped her in a sheet, and said that a coffin would be sent at dark, and that the bearers would fetch her for burying when the cart came round, and that when i heard the bell ring i must call to them from the window and let them in. i asked why the porter should not do that, but she told me that already every person in the house had fled. my lady had fallen into an awful fright on hearing that one of her servants was smitten, and before any knowledge could have been received of it by the authorities, she had applied for and obtained a clean bill for herself and her household, and every one of them had fled. the house was empty, save for me and the poor dead girl; and i was bidden to stay till her corpse was removed, for the nurse said she was wanted in a dozen places at once, and that she had too much to do with the sick to attend upon the dead." "and thou wert willing to wait?" "i could not leave her alone. besides, i feared to walk the streets till night. the nurse bid me not linger after the body was taken, for no man knows when the houses will be shut up, so that none can go forth who have been with an infected person. but it is not so done yet, and i was free. but i dared not come home amongst you all to bring, perhaps, death with me. i waited in the house till the men and the cart came, and they brought a coffin and took poor patience away. they told me then that soon there would be no more coffins, and that they would have to bury without them." janet paused and shuddered strongly. "o mother, mother, mother!" she wailed, "what shall i do? what will become of me? shall i have to die in the streets, or to go to the pest house? oh, why do such terrible things befall us?" the mother was weeping now, but the next moment she felt the touch of her husband's hand upon her shoulder, and his voice said in its quiet and authoritative way: "what means all this coil and to do? why does the child speak thus? tell me all; i must hear the tale. "janet, my girl, never ask the why and the wherefore of any of the lord's just judgments. it is for us to bow our heads in repentance and submission, trusting that he will never try us above what we are able to bear." comforted by the sound of her father's voice, janet repeated her tale to him in much the same words as before, the father listening in thoughtful silence, without comment or question; till at the conclusion of the tale he said to his wife: "go upstairs and bring down with thee my heavy riding cloak which hangs in the press;" and when she had obeyed him, he added, "now go up to thy room, and shut thyself in till i call thee thence." implicit obedience to her husband was one of rachel's characteristics. although she longed to know what was to be done, she asked no questions, but retired upstairs and fell on her knees in prayer. the master of the house went to a great cask of vinegar which stood in the corner, and after pretty well saturating the heavy cloak in that pungent liquid, he unbarred the door, and beckoning to his daughter to approach, threw about her the heavy mantle and bid mer follow him. he led her through the house and up to a large spare guest chamber, rather away from the other sleeping chambers of the house, and he quickly brought to her there a bath and hot water, and certain herbs specially prepared--wormwood, woodsorrel, angelica, and so forth. he bid her wash herself all over in the herb bath, wrapping all her clothing first in the cloak, which she was to put outside the door. then she was to go to bed, whilst all her clothing was burnt by his own hands; and after that she must submit to remain shut up in that room, seeing nobody but himself, until such time should have gone by as should prove whether or not she had become infected by the distemper. janet wept for joy at being thus received beneath her father's roof, having heard so many fearsome tales of persons being turned out of doors even by their nearest and dearest, were it but suspected that they might carry about with them the seeds of the dreaded distemper. but the worthy lace maker was a godly man, and brave with the courage that comes of a lively faith. he had learned all that could be told of the nature of the distemper; and after he had burnt all his daughter's clothing with his own hands, and had assured himself that she felt sound and well, and had also fumigated his own house thoroughly, he felt that he had done all in his power against the infection, and that the rest must be left in the hands of providence. the mother hovered anxiously about, but came not near her husband till permitted by him. she did not enter the room where her daughter now lay comfortably in a soft bed, but she prepared some good food for her, which was carried in by the father later on, and promised her that by the morning she should have clothing to put on, and that she should have every care and comfort during the days of her captivity. janet thanked god from the very bottom of her heart that night for having given to her such good and kindly parents, and earnestly besought that she might be spared, not only for her own unworthy sake, but for their sakes who had risked so much rather than that she should be an outcast from home at such a time of peril and horror. chapter iv. james harmer's resolve. it was with a grave face, yet with a brave and cheerful mien, that the worthy harmer met his household upon the following morning. he had passed the remainder of that strangely interrupted night in meditation and prayer, and had arrived now at a resolution which he intended to put into immediate effect. his household consisted, it will be remembered, of his own family, together with apprentices, shopmen, and serving wenches. to all of these he now addressed himself, told the story which his daughter had related of the treatment received in the house of the high-born lady by the poor girl stricken by the pestilence, and how it had made even his own child almost fear to enter her father's house. "my friends," said the master, looking round upon the ring of grave and eager faces, "these things ought not to be. in times of common trouble and peril the hearts of men should draw closer together, and we should remember that god's command to us is to love our neighbour as ourself. if we were to lie stricken of mortal illness, should we think it a christ-like act for all men to flee away from us? but inasmuch as we ought all of us to take every care not to run into needless peril, so must we take every right and reasonable precaution to keep from ourselves and our homes this just but terrible visitation, which god has doubtless sent for our admonition and chastisement." after this preface, harmer proceeded to tell his household what he had himself resolved upon. his two apprentices--other than his own son joseph--were sons of a farmer living in greenwich; and he purposed that very day to get his sailor son dan to take them down the river in a boat, that he might deliver the lads safe and sound to their parents before further peril threatened, advising them to keep them at home till the distemper should have abated, and arranging with them for a regular supply of fresh and untainted provisions, to be conveyed to his house from week to week by water, so long as there should be any fear of marketing in the city. he foresaw that very soon trade would come almost to a standstill. the scare and the pestilence together were emptying london of all its wealthier inhabitants. there would be soon no work for either shopmen or apprentices, and he counselled the former, if they had homes out of london to go to, to remain no longer in town, but to take their wages and seek safety and employment elsewhere, until the calamity should be overpast. he also gave the same liberty to the serving wenches, one of whom came from islington and the other from rotherhithe. and all of these persons having home and friends, decided to leave forthwith, to be out of the danger of infection, and of that still more dreaded danger of being shut up in an infected house with a plague-stricken person. the master gave liberally to each of his servants according to their past service, and promised that if he should escape the pestilence, and continue his business in more prosperous times, he would take them back into his house again. for the present, however, it seemed good to him that only his own family should remain with him. his wife and three daughters could well manage the house, and he did not desire that any other person should be imperilled through the course of action he himself intended to take. when he took boat with his apprentices, he offered to joseph to accompany his companions and remain under the charge of the farmer and his wife at greenwich; but the boy begged so earnestly to remain at home with the rest, that he was permitted to do so. truth to tell, joseph was more fascinated than alarmed by the thought of the advance of the dreaded plague, and was by no means anxious to be taken away from the city when all the world was saying that such strange things would be seen ere long. the lad felt so safe beneath the care of wise and loving parents, that he would never of his own will consent to leave them. the moment the party had started by boat, the shop being that day shut for the first time, albeit for some days nothing had been stirring in the way of custom--joseph darted away down a network of alleys hard by in search of his younger brother benjamin, who was apprenticed to a carpenter in lad lane, off wood street, and therefore much nearer to the infected parishes than the house on the bridge. benjamin was sure to know the latest news as to the spread of the pestilence. joseph was of opinion that it was all rather fine fun, especially since it seemed like to get him a spell of unwonted holiday. already as he passed through the streets he noted a great many empty and shut-up houses. men were going about with grave and anxious faces. often they would look askance at some passerby who might be walking a little feebly or unsteadily, and once joseph saw a man some fifty paces in advance of him stagger and fall to the ground with a lamentable cry. instead of flying to his assistance, all who saw him fled in terror, crying one to the other, "it is the pestilence! send for the watch to get him away!" and presently there came two men who lifted him up and carried him away, but whether he was then alive or dead the boy did not know, and a great awe fell upon him; for he had never seen such a thing before, and could not understand how death could come so suddenly. "is it always so with them?" he asked of a woman who was craning her head out of a window to see where the bearers were taking him. "i cannot tell," she answered. "they say that there be many walking about amongst us daily in the streets who carry death to all in their breath and in their touch, and yet they know it not themselves, and none know it till they fall as yon poor man did, and die ofttimes in a few minutes or hours. if such be so, who knows when he is safe? may the lord have mercy upon us all! there be seven lying dead in this street today, and though folks say they died of other fevers and distempers, who can tell? they bribe the nurses and the leeches to return them dead of smaller ailments, but i verily believe the pestilence is stalking through our very midst even now." she shut down the window with a groan, and joseph pursued his way with somewhat modified feelings, half elated at being in the thick of so much that was terrible and awesome, and yet beginning to understand somewhat of the horror that was possessing the minds of all. he found himself walking in the middle of the street, and avoiding too close contact with the passersby; indeed all seemed disposed to give strangers a wide berth just now, so that it was not difficult to avoid contact. yet crowds were to be seen, too, at many open spaces. sometimes a fervid preacher would be declaiming to a pale-faced group on the subject of god's righteous judgments upon a wicked and licentious city. sometimes a wizened old woman or a juggling charlatan would be seen selling all sorts of charms and potions as specifics against the plague. joseph pressing near in curiosity to one of these vendors, found him doing a brisk trade in dried toads, which he vowed would preserve the wearer from all infection. another had packets of dried herbs to which he gave terribly long names, and which he declared acted as an antidote to the poison. another had small leaflets on which directions were given for applying a certain ointment to the plague spots, which at once cured them as by magic. the leaflets were given away, but the ointment had to be bought. those, however, who once read what the paper said, seldom went away without a box of the precious specific. joseph would have liked one himself, but had no money, and was further restrained by a sense of conviction that his father would say it was all nonsense and quackery. church bells were ringing, and many were tolling--tolling for the dead, and ringing the living into the churches, where special prayers were being offered and many excellent discourses preached, to which crowds of people listened with bated breath. joseph crept into one church on his way for a few minutes, but was too restless to listen long, and soon came forth again. he was now near to lad lane, and hastening his steps lest he might be further delayed, came quickly upon the back premises of the carpenter's shop, where the sound of hammer and chisel and saw made quite a clamour in the quiet air. "they are busy here at all events," muttered joseph, as he pushed open the gate of the yard, and in truth they were busy within; but yet the sight that presented itself to his eyes was anything hut a cheerful one, for every man in the large number assembled there was at work upon a coffin. coffins in every stage of construction stood everywhere, and the carpenters were toiling away at them as if for dear life. nothing but coffins was to be seen; and scarcely was one finished, in never so rude a fashion, but it was borne hurriedly away by some waiting messenger, and the master kept coming into the yard to see if his men could not work yet faster. "they say they must bury the corpses uncoffined soon," joseph heard him whisper to his foreman as he passed by. "no bodies may wait above ground after the first night when the cart goes its round. six orders have come in within the last hour. no one knows how many we shall have by nightfall, or how many men we shall have working soon. i sent job away but an hour since. i hope it was not the distemper that turned his face so green! they say it has broken out in three streets hard by, and that it is spreading like wildfire." joseph shuddered as he listened and crept away to the corner where his brother was generally to be found. and there sure enough was benjamin, a pretty fair-haired boy, who looked scarce strong enough for the task in hand, but who was yet working might and main with chisel and hammer. his face brightened at sight of his brother, yet he did not relax his efforts, only saying eagerly: "how goes it at home with them all, joseph? i trow it is the coffin makers, not the lace makers, who have all the trade nowadays! we are working night and day, and yet cannot keep up with the orders." benjamin was half proud of all this press of business, but he did not look as though it agreed with him. his face was pale, and when at last he threw down his hammer it was with a gasp of exhaustion. the day was very hot, and he had been at work before the dawn. it was no wonder, perhaps, that he looked wan and weary, yet the master passing by paused and cast an uneasy glance at him. for it was from the very next stool that he had recently dismissed the man job of whom he had spoken, and of whose condition he felt grave doubts. seeing joseph close by he gave him a nod, and said: "hast come to fetch home thy brother? two of my apprentices have been taken away since yesterday. he is a good lad, and does his best; but he may take a holiday at home if he likes. you are healthier at your end of the town, and they say the distemper comes not near water. "wilt thou go home to thy mother, boy? we want men rather than lads at our work in these days." joseph had had no thought of fetching home his brother when he started, but it seemed to him that benjamin would be much better at home than in this crowded yard, where already the infection might have spread. the boy confessed to a headache and pains in his limbs; and so fearful were all men now of any symptom of illness, however trifling, that the master sent him forth without delay, bidding joseph take him straight home to his mother, and keep him there at his father's pleasure. a young boy was better at home in these days, as indeed might well be the case. benjamin was well pleased with this arrangement, having had something too much of over hours and hard work. "he thinks perchance i have the distemper upon me," he remarked slyly to joseph, "but it is not that. it is but the long hours and the heat and noise of the yard. i shall be well enough when i get home to mother." and this indeed proved to be the case. the child was overdone, and wanted but a little rest and care and mothering; and right glad were both his parents to have him safe under their own wing. upon that hot evening, almost the first in june, james harmer had the satisfaction of feeling that he had every member of his family under his own roof, and that his household contained now none who were not indeed his very own flesh and blood. janet had slept peacefully almost the whole day, and had conversed happily and affectionately through the closed door with her sisters, who were rejoiced to have her there. she spoke of feeling perfectly well but desired to remain in seclusion until certain that she could injure none beside. she was not therefore able to be present when her father unfolded his plans to the rest of the family, though she was quickly apprised of the result later on. "my dear wife and dutiful children," said the master of the house, as he sat at table and looked about him at the ring of dear faces round him, "i have been thinking much as to what it is right for us to do in face of this peril and scourge which god has sent upon the city; and albeit i am well aware that it is the duty of every man to take reasonable care of himself and his household, yet i also feel very strongly that in the protection of the lord is our greatest strength and safeguard, and that our best and strongest defence is in throwing ourselves upon his mercy, and asking day by day for his merciful protection for a household which looks to him as the lord of life and death." then the good man proceeded to quote from holy writ certain passages in which the pestilence is represented as being the scourge of the lord, and is spoken of as being an angel of the lord with a drawn sword slaying right and left, yet ever ready to spare where the lord shall bid. "i shall then," continued harmer, "daily and nightly confide those of this household into the keeping of almighty god, and pray to him for his protection and special blessing. it may be (since his ears are always open to the supplication of his children) that he will send his angel of life to watch over us and keep us from harm; and having this confidence, and using such means as seem wise and reasonable for the protection of all, i shall strive--and you must all strive with me--to dismiss selfish terrors and the horror that begets cruelty and callousness, that we may all of us do our duty towards those about us, and show that even the scourge of a righteous and offended god may become a blessing if taken in meekness and humility." then the good man proceeded to say what precautions he was about to take for the preservation of his family. he did not propose to fly the city. he had many valuable goods on the premises, which he might probably lose were he to shut up his house and leave. he had no place to go to in the country, and believed that the scourge might well follow them there, were every householder to seek to quit his abode. moreover, never was there greater need in the city for honest men of courage and probity to help to meet the coming crisis and to see carried out all the wise regulations proposed by the mayor and aldermen. he had resolved to join them--since business was like to be at a standstill for a while--and do whatsoever a man could do to forward that good work. his son reuben was of the same mind with him; whilst his wife would far rather face the peril in her own house than go out, she knew not whither, to be perhaps overtaken by the plague on the road. her heart had yearned over the sick ever since she had heard her daughter's harrowing tale, and knew that her sister was at work amongst the stricken. she knew not what she might be able to do, but she trusted to her husband for guidance, and would be entirely under his direction. some citizens spoke of victualling their houses as for a siege, and entirely secluding themselves and their families till the plague was overpast--and indeed this was many times done with success, although the plan broke down in other cases--but this was not harmer's idea. he did indeed advise his wife and daughters to be careful how they adventured themselves abroad, and where they went. he had arranged at the farm near greenwich for a regular supply of provisions to be brought by water to the stairs hard by the bridge; and since their house was supplied by water from the new river, they were sure of a constant fresh supply. but he had no intention of incarcerating himself or any of his household, and preventing them from being of use to afflicted neighbours, whilst he himself anticipated having to go into many stricken homes and into infected houses. all the restriction he imposed was that any person sallying forth into places where infection might be met should change his raiment before going out, in a small building in the rear of the shop which he was about to fit up for that purpose, and to keep constantly fumigated by the frequent burning of certain perfumes, of oil of sulphur, and of a coarse medicated vinegar which was said to be an excellent disinfectant. on returning home again, the person who had been exposed would doff all outer garments in this little room, would resume his former clothing, and hang up the discarded garments where they would be subjected to this disinfecting fumigation for a number of hours, and would be then safe to wear upon another occasion. he intended burning regularly in his house a fire of pungent wood such as pine or cedar, which was to be constantly fed with such spices and perfumes and disinfectants as the physicians should pronounce most efficacious. perfect cleanliness he did not need to insist upon, for his wife could not endure a speck of dust upon anything in the house. a careful diet, regular hours, and freedom from needless fears would, he was assured, do much towards maintaining them all in health, and he concluded his address by kneeling down in the midst of his sons and daughters, and commending them all most fervently to the protection of heaven, praying for grace to do their duty towards all about them, and for leading and guidance that they ran not into needless peril, but were directed in all things by the spirit of god. they had hardly risen from their knees before a knock at the door announced the arrival of a visitor, and joseph running to answer the summons--since there was now no servant in the house--came back almost immediately ushering in the master builder, whose face wore a very troubled look. "heaven guard us all! i think my wife will go distraught with the terror of this visitation, if it goes on much longer. what is a man to do for the best? she raves at me sometimes like a maniac for not having taken her away ere the scourge spread as it is doing now. but when i tell her that if she is bent upon it she must e'en go now, she cries out that nothing would induce her to set her foot outside the house. she sits with the curtains and shutters fast closed, and a fire of spices on the hearth, till one is fairly stifled, and will touch nothing that is not well-nigh soaked in vinegar. and each time that frederick comes in with some fresh tale, she is like to swoon with fear, and every time she vows that it is the pestilence attacking her, and is like to die from sheer fright. what is a man to do with such a wife and such a son?" "surely frederick will cease to repeat tales of horror when he sees they so alarm his mother," said rachel; but the master builder shook his head with an air of more than doubt. "it seems his delight to torment her with terror; and she appears almost equally eager to hear all, though it almost scares her out of her senses. as for gertrude, the child is pining like a caged bird shut up in the house and not suffered to stir into the fresh air. i am fair beset to know what to do for them. nothing will convince madam but that there be dead carts at every street corner, and that the child will bring home death with her every time she stirs out. yet frederick comes to and fro, and she admits him to her presence (though she holds a handkerchief steeped in vinegar to her nose the while), and she gets no harm from him." "poor child!" said rachel, thinking of gertrude, whom once she had known so well, running to and fro in the house almost like one of her own. "would that we could do somewhat for her. but i fear me her mother would not suffer her to visit us, especially since poor janet came home last night from a plague-stricken house." reuben's eyes had brightened suddenly at his mother's words, but the gleam died out again, and he remained quite silent whilst the story of janet's appearance at home was told. the master builder listened with interest and sighed at the same time. perhaps he was contrasting the nature of his neighbour's wife with that of his own. how would madam have acted had her child come to her in such a plight? harmer then told his neighbour the rules he was about to lay down for his own household, all of which the master builder, who was a keen practical man, cordially approved. he was himself likely soon to be in a great strait, for most probably he would be appointed in due course to serve as an examiner of health, and would of necessity come into contact with those who had been amongst the sick, even if not with the infected themselves, and how his wife would bear such a thing as that he scarce dared to think. business, too, was at a standstill, all except the carpentering branch, and that was only busy with coffins. if london became depopulated, there would be nothing doing in the building and furnishing line for long enough. some prophets declared that the city was doomed to a destruction such as had never been seen by mortal man before. even as it was the plague seemed like to sweep away a fourth of the inhabitants; and if that were so, what would become of such trades as his for many a year to come? already the master builder spoke of himself as a half-ruined man. his neighbour did all he could to cheer him, but it was only too true that misfortune appeared imminent. harmer had always been a careful and cautious man, laying by against a rainy day, and not striving after a rapid increase of wealth. but the master builder had worked on different lines. he had enlarged his borders wherever he could see his way to doing so, and although he had a large capital by this time, it was all floating in this and that venture; so that in spite of his appearance of wealth and prosperity, he had often very little ready money. so long as trade was brisk this mattered little, and he turned his capital over in a fashion that was very pleasing to himself. but this sudden and totally unexpected collapse of business came upon him at a time when he could ill afford to meet it. already he had had to discharge the greater part of his workmen, having nothing for them to do. the expenses which he could not put down drained his resources in a way that bid fair to bring him to bankruptcy, and it was almost impossible to get in outstanding accounts when the rich persons in his debt had fled hither and thither with such speed and haste that often no trace of them could be found, and their houses in town were shut up and absolutely empty. "as for frederick, he spends money like water--and his mother encourages him," groaned the unhappy father in confidence to his friend. "ah me! when i look at your fine sons, and see their conduct at home and abroad, it makes my heart burn with shame. what is it that makes the difference? for i am sure i have denied frederick no advantage that money could purchase." "perhaps it is those advantages which money cannot purchase that he lacks," said james harmer, gravely--"the prayers of a godly mother, the chastisement of a father who would not spoil the child by sparing the rod. there are things in the upbringing of children, my good friend, of far more value than those which gold will purchase." the master builder gave vent to a sound almost like a groan. "you are right, harmer, you are right. i have not done well in this thing. my son is no better than an idle profligate. i say it to my shame, but so it is. nothing that i say will keep him from his riotous comrades and licentious ways. i have spoken till i am weary of speaking, and all is in vain. and now that this terrible scourge of god has fallen upon the city, instead of turning from their evil courses with fear and loathing, he and such as he are but the more reckless and impious, and turn into a jest even this fearful visitation. they scour the streets as before, and drink themselves drunk night by night. ah, should the pestilence reach some amongst them, what would be their terrible doom! i cannot bear even to think of it! yet that is too like to be the end of my wretched boy, my poor, unhappy frederick!" chapter v. the plot and its punishment. strange as it may appear, the awful nature of the calamity which had overtaken the great city had by no means the subduing influence upon the spirits of the lawless young roisterers of the streets that might well have been expected. no doubt there were some amongst these who were sobered by the misfortunes of their fellows, and by the danger in which every person in the town now stood; but it seemed as if the very imminence of the peril and the fearful spread of the contagion exercised upon others a hardening influence, and they became even more lawless and dissolute than before. "let us eat and drink; for tomorrow we die," appeared to be their motto, and they lived up to it only too well. so whilst the churches were thronged with multitudes of pious or terrified persons, assembled to pray to god for mercy, and to listen to words of godly counsel or admonition; whilst the city authorities were doing everything in their power to check the course of the frightful contagion, and send needful relief to the sufferers, and many devoted men and women were adventuring their lives daily for the sake of others, the taverns were still filled day by day and night by night with idle and dissolute young men, tainted with all the vices of a vicious court and an unbelieving age--drinking, and making hideous mockery of the woes of their townsmen, careless even when the gaps amid their own ranks showed that the fell disease was busy amongst all classes and ranks. indeed, it was no unheard of thing for a man to fall stricken to the ground in the midst of one of these revels; and although the master of the house would hastily throw him out of the door as if he had staggered forth drunk, yet it would ofttimes be the distemper which had him in its fatal clutches, and the dead cart would remove him upon its next gloomy round. for now indeed the pestilence was spreading with a fearful rapidity. the king, taking sudden alarm, after being careless and callous for long, had removed with his court to oxford. the fiat for the shutting up of all infected houses had gone forth, and was being put in practice, greatly increasing the terror of the citizens, albeit many of them recognized in it both wisdom and foresight. something plainly had to be done to check the spread of the infection. and as there was no means of removing the sick from their houses--there being but two or three pest houses in all london--even should their friends be prompt to give notice, and permit them to be borne away, the only alternative seemed to be to shut them up within the doors of the house where they lay stricken; and since they might already have infected all within it, condemn these also to share the imprisonment. it was this that was the hardship, and which caused so many to strive to evade the law by every means in their power. it drove men mad with fear to think of being shut up in an infected house with a person smitten with the fell disease. yet if the houses were not so closed, and guarded by watchmen hired for the purpose, the sick in their delirium would have constantly been getting out and running madly about the streets, as indeed did sometimes happen, infecting every person they met. restraint of some sort was needful, and the closing of the houses seemed the only way in which this could be accomplished. it may be guessed what hard work all this entailed upon such of the better sort of citizens as were willing to give themselves to the business. james harmer and his two elder sons, reuben and dan, offered themselves to the lord mayor to act as examiners or searchers, or in whatever capacity he might wish to employ them. dan should by this time have been at sea, but his ship being still in the docks when the plague broke out remained yet unladed. none from the infected city would purchase merchandise. the sailing master had himself been smitten down, and dan, together with quite a number of sailors, was thrown out of employment. many of these poor fellows were glad to take service as watchmen of infected houses, or even as bearers and buriers of the dead. at a time when trade was at a standstill, and men feared alike to buy or to sell, this perilous and lugubrious occupation was all that could be obtained, and so there were always men to be found for the task of watching the houses, though at other times it might have been impossible to get enough. orders had been sent round the town that all cases of the distemper were to be reported within a few hours of discovery to the examiner of health, who then had the house shut up, supplied it with a day and a night watchman (whose duty it was to wait on the inmates and bring them all they needed), and had the door marked with the ominous red cross and the motto of which mention has been made before. plague nurses were numerous, but too often these were women of the worst character, bent rather upon plunder than desirous of relieving the sufferers. grim stories were told of their neglect and rapacity. yet amongst them were many devoted and excellent women, and the physicians who bravely faced the terrors of the time and remained at their post when others fled from the peril, deserve all honour and praise; the more so that many amongst these died of the infection, as indeed did numbers of the examiners and searchers who likewise remained at their post to the end. it will therefore be well understood that good master harmer and his sons had no light time of it, and ran no small personal risk in their endeavours to serve their fellow citizens in this crisis. although the pestilence had not as yet broken out in this part of the town with the virulence that it had shown elsewhere, still there were fresh cases rumoured day by day; and it often appeared that when one case in a street was reported, there had been many others there before of which no notice had been given, and that perhaps half a dozen houses were infected, and must be forthwith shut up. at first neglectful persons were brought before the magistrates; but soon these persons became too numerous, and the magistrates too busy to hear their excuses. an example was made of one or another, to show that the laws must be kept; but newgate itself becoming infected by the disease, it was not thought fit to send any malefactor there except for some heinous offence. dan joined the force of the constables, and day by day had exciting tales to tell about determined persons who had escaped from infected houses either by tricking or overpowering the watchman. all sorts of clever shifts were made to enable families where perhaps only one lay sick to escape from the house, leaving the sick person sometimes quite alone, or sometimes in charge of a nurse. dan said it was heartrending to hear the cries and lamentations of miserable creatures pleading to be let out, convinced that it was certain death to them to remain shut up with the sick. yet, since they might likely be themselves already infected, it was the greater peril and cruelty to let them forth; and he had ghastly tales to tell of the visitation of certain houses, where the watchmen reported that nothing had been asked for for long, and where, when the house was entered by searchers or constables, every person within was found either dead or dying. the precautions duly observed by the harmer family had hitherto proved efficacious, and though the father and his sons going about their daily duties came into contact with infected persons frequently, yet, by the use of the disinfectants recommended by the college of physicians, and by a close and careful attention to their directions, they went unscathed in the midst of much peril, and brought no ill to those at home when they returned thither for needful rest and refreshment. janet had had a slight attack of illness, but there were no absolute symptoms of the distemper with it. her father was of opinion that it might possibly be a very mild form of the disease, but the doctor called in thought not, and so their house escaped being shut up, and after a prudent interval janet came down and took her place in the family as before. mother and daughters worked together for the relief of the sick poor, making and sending out innumerable dainties in the way of broth, possets, and light puddings, which were gratefully received by poor folks in shut-up houses, who, although fed and cared for at the public expense when not able to provide for themselves, were grateful indeed for these small boons, and felt themselves not quite so forlorn and wretched when receiving tokens of goodwill from even an unknown source. the harmony, tranquillity, and goodwill that reigned in this household, even in the midst of so much that was terrible, was a great contrast to the anguish, terror, and ceaseless recriminations which made the masons' abode a veritable purgatory for its luckless inhabitants. as the news of the spreading contagion reached her, so did madam's terror and horror increase. as her husband had said long since, she sat in rooms with closed windows and drawn curtains, burned fires large enough to roast an ox, and half poisoned herself with the drugs she daily swallowed, and which she would have forced upon her whole household had they not rebelled against being thus sickened. as a natural consequence of her folly and ungovernable fears, madam was never well, and was for ever discovering some new symptom which threw her into an ecstasy of terror. she would wake in the night screaming out in uncontrollable fear that she had gotten the plague--that she felt a burning tumour here or there upon her person--that she was sinking away into a deadly swoon, or that something fatal was befalling her. by day she would fall into like passions of fear, call out to her daughter to send for every physician whose name she had heard, and upbraid and revile her in the most unmeasured terms if the poor girl ventured to hint that the doctors were beginning to be tired of coming to listen to what always proved imaginary terrors. the only times when husband or daughter enjoyed any peace was when frederick chose to make his appearance at home. on these occasions his mother would summon him to her presence, although in mortal fear lest he should bring infection with him, and make him tell her all the most frightful stories which he had picked up about the awful spread of the disease, about the iniquities and abominations practised by nurses and buriers, of which last there was plenty of gossip (although probably much was set down in malice and much exaggerated) and all the prognostications of superstitious or profane persons as to the course the pestilence was going to take. eagerly did she listen to all of these stories, which frederick took care should be very well spiced, as it was at once his amusement to frighten his mother and spite his sister; for gertrude in private implored him not to continue to alarm their mother with his frightful tales, and also begged him for his own sake to relinquish his evil habits of intemperance, which at such a time as this might lead to fatal results. the good-for-nothing youth only mocked at her, and derided his father when he gave him the same warning. he had become perfectly unmanageable and reckless, and nothing that he heard or saw about him produced any impression. although taverns and ale houses were closely watched, and ordered to close at nine o'clock, and the gatherings of idle and profligate youths of whatever condition of life sternly reprobated and forbidden by the authorities, yet these worthies found means of evading or defying the regulations, and their revels continued as before, so that frederick was seldom thoroughly sober, and more reckless and careless even than of old. in vain his father strove to bring him to a better mind; in vain he warned him of the peril of his ways and the danger to his health of such constant excesses. frederick only laughed insolently; whereupon the master builder, who had but just come from his neighbour's house, and was struck afresh with the contrast presented by the two homes, asked him if he knew how reuben harmer was passing his time, and made a few bitter comparisons between his son and those of his neighbour. this was perhaps unfortunate, for frederick, like most men of his type, was both vain and spiteful. the mention of the harmers put him instantly in mind of his grudge against reuben and his suddenly-aroused admiration for rosy-cheeked dorcas, both of which matters had been put out of his head by recent events. he had discovered also that reuben generally accompanied his sister home from lady scrope's house in the evening, so that it had not been safe to pursue his attempted gallantries towards the maid. but as he heard his father's strictures upon his conduct, coupled with laudations of his old rival reuben, a gleam of malice shone in his eyes, and he at once made up his mind to contrive and carry out a project which had been vaguely floating in his brain for some time, and which might be the more easily arranged now that the town was in a state of confusion and distress, and the streets were often so empty and deserted. in that age of vicious licence, it seemed nothing but an excellent joke to frederick and his boon companions to waylay a pretty city maiden returning to her home from her daily duties. frederick meant no harm to the girl; but he had been piqued by the way in which his compliments and kisses had been received, and above all he was desirous to do a despite to reuben, whose rebukes still rankled in his heart, though he had quickly forgotten his good offices on the occasion of his escapade before lady scrope's door. moreover, he owed that notable old woman a grudge likewise, and thought he could pay off scores all round by making away with pretty dorcas, at any rate for a while. so he and his comrades laid their plans with what they thought great skill, resolved that they should be carried out upon the first favourable opportunity. for a while dorcas had been rather nervous of leaving the house in allhallowes unless reuben was waiting for her. but as she had seen no more of the gallant who had accosted her, and as it was said on all hands that these had left london in hundreds, she had taken courage of late, and had bidden her brother not incommode himself on her account, if it were difficult for him to be her escort home. of late he had oftentimes been kept away by pressure of other duties. sometimes dan had come in his stead. sometimes she had walked back alone and unmolested. persons avoided each other in the streets now, and hurried by with averted glances. although upon her homeward route, which was but short, she had as yet no infected houses to pass, she always hastened along half afraid to look about her. but her father's good counsel and his daily prayers for his household so helped her to keep up heart, that she had not yet been frightened from her occupation, although her mistress always declared on parting in the evening that she never expected to see her back in the morning. "if the plague does not get you, some coward terror will. never mind; i can do without you, child. i never looked for you to have kept so long at your post. all the rest have fled long since." which was true indeed, only dorcas and the old couple who lived in the house still continuing their duties. fear of the pestilence had driven away the other servants, and they had sought safety on the other side of the water, where it was still believed infection would not spread. "i will come back in the morning. my father bids us all do our duty, and sets us the example, madam," said dorcas, as she prepared to take her departure. it was a dark evening for the time of year; heavy thunderclouds were hanging low in the sky and obscuring the light. the air was oppressive, and seemed charged with noxious vapours. part of this was due to the cloud of smoke wafted along from one of the great fires kept burning with the object of dispelling infection. but dorcas shivered as she stepped out into the empty street, and looked this way and that, hoping to see one of her brothers. but nobody was in sight and she had just descended the steps and was turning towards her home when out from a neighbouring porch there swaggered a very fine young gallant, who made an instant rush towards her, with words of welcome and endearment on his lips. in a moment dorcas recognized him not only as the gallant who had addressed her once before, but also as frederick mason, her brothers' old playfellow, of whom such evil things were spoken now by all their neighbours on the bridge. uttering a little cry of terror, the girl darted back, turned, and commenced running like a hunted hare in the opposite direction, careless where she went or what she did provided she only escaped from the address and advances of her pursuer. but fleet as were her own steps, those in pursuit seemed fleeter. she heard her tormentor coming after her, calling her by name and entreating for a hearing. she knew that he was gaining upon her and must soon catch her up. she was in a lonely street where not a single passerby seemed to be stirring. she looked wildly round for some way of escape, and just at that moment saw a man come round a corner and fit a key into the door of one of the houses. without pausing to think, dorcas made a rush towards him, and so soon as the door was opened she dashed within the house, and fled up the staircase--fled she knew not whither--uttering breathless, frightened cries, whilst all the time she knew that her pursuer was close behind, and heard his voice mingled with angry cries of remonstrance from the man they had left below. suddenly a door close to dorcas opened, and a new terror was revealed to her horror-stricken gaze. a gaunt, tall figure, wrapped in a long white garment that looked like grave clothes, sprang out into the stairway with a shriek that was like nothing human. dorcas sank, almost fainting with terror, to the ground; but the spectre--for such it seemed to her--paid no heed to her, but sprang upon her pursuer, who had at that moment come up, and the next moment had his arms wound about him in a bearlike embrace, whilst all the time he was laughing an awful laugh. then lifting the unfortunate young man off his feet with a strength that was almost superhuman, he bore him rapidly down the stairs and rushed out with him into the street. all this happened in so brief a moment of time that dorcas had not even time to regain her feet, or to utter the scream of terror which came to her lips. but as she found breath to utter her cry, another door opened and a scared face looked out, whilst a woman's voice asked in lamentable accents: "what do you here, maiden? what has happened to bring any person into this shut-up house? child, child, how didst thou obtain entrance here? the plague is in this house, and we are straitly shut up!" before dorcas could answer for fright and the confusion of her faculties, a pale-faced watchman came hurrying up the stairs. "where is the maid?" he asked, and then seeing dorcas he grasped her by the wrist and cried, "unless you wish to be shut up for a month, come away instantly. this is a stricken house. what possessed you to seek shelter here? better anything than that. "as for your son, mistress, he is fled forth into the street; i could not hinder him. we are undone if the constable comes. but if we can get him back again ere that, all may be well. i will let you forth to lead him hither if he will listen to your voice." from the room whence the sick man had appeared a frightened face looked forth, and a half-tipsy old crone whimpered out: "the fault was none of mine. i had but just dropped asleep for a moment. but when a man has the strength of ten what can one poor old woman do?" without paying any heed to this creature, the watchman and the mother of the plague-stricken man, together with dorcas, who hurriedly told her tale as they moved, ran down the dark staircase and out into the street. there, a little way off, was the tall spectre-like figure, still hugging in bearlike embrace the hapless frederick, and dancing the while a most weird and fantastic dance, chanting some awful words which none could rightly catch, but the burden of which was, "the dance of death! the dance of death! none who dances here with me will dance with any other!" "for heaven's sake release him from that embrace!" cried the mother, who knew that her son was smitten to death. "if all be true that the maid hath said, he is not fit to die, and that embrace is a deadly one!--o my son, my son! come back, come back! "mercy on us, here is the watch! we are undone!" indeed the trampling of many hasty feet announced the arrival of a number of persons upon the scene. it seemed like enough to be the constables or the watch; but the moment the newcomers appeared round the corner, dorcas, uttering a little shriek of joy and relief, threw herself upon the foremost man, who was in fact none other than reuben himself--reuben, followed closely by his brother dan, and they by several young roisterers, the boon companions of frederick. it had chanced that almost as soon as dorcas had run from lady scrope's door, hotly pursued by frederick, her brothers had come up to fetch her thence. it was also part of that worthy's plan that they should hear she had been carried off, though not by himself. his half-tipsy comrades, therefore, who had come to see the sport, immediately informed the young men that the maid had been pursued by a scourer in such and such a direction; and so quickly had the brothers pursued the flying footsteps of the pair--guided by the footmarks in the dusty and untrodden streets--that they had come upon this strange and ghastly scene almost at its commencement, and in a moment their practised eyes took in what had happened. the open door marked with the ominous red cross, the troubled face of the watchman, the ghastly apparition of the delirious plague-stricken man, the horror depicted in the face of the mother--all this told a tale of its own. scenes of a like kind were now growing common enough in the city; but this was more terrible to the young men from the fact that the face of the unhappy and half-fainting frederick was known to them and that they understood the awful peril into which this adventure had thrown him. they knew the strength of delirious patients, and the peril of contagion in their touch. to attempt to loosen that bearlike clasp might be death to any who attempted it. reuben looked about him, still holding his sister in his arms as though to keep her away from the peril; and dan, who had taken one step forward towards the sheeted spectre, paused and muttered between his teeth: "the hound! he has but got his deserts!" "true," said reuben, for he was certain now that it had been frederick who was dorcas's pursuer; "yet we must not leave him thus. he will be strangled or choked by the pestilential smell if we cannot get him away. take dorcas, dan. let me see if i can do aught with him." but even as reuben spoke, and dorcas clung closer than ever to him in fear that he was about to adventure himself into greater peril, the delirious man suddenly flung frederick from him, so that he fell upon the pavement almost as one dead; and then, with a hideous shriek that rang in their ears for long, fled back to the house as rapidly as he had left it, and fell down dead a few moments later upon the bed from which he had so lately risen. that fact they learned only the next day. for the moment it was enough that the patient was safely within doors again, and that the watchman could make fast the door. the roisterers had fled at the first sight of the plague-stricken man with their hapless leader in his embrace, and now the darkening street contained only the prostrate figure on the pavement, the two brothers, and the white-faced dorcas, who felt like to die of fear and horror. as chance or providence would have it, up at that very moment came the master builder himself, and seeing his son in such a plight, shook his head gravely, thinking him drunk in the gutter. but reuben went up and told all the tale, as far as he knew or guessed it, and dorcas having confirmed the same more by gestures than words, the unhappy father smote his brow, and cried in a voice of lamentation: "alas that i should have such a son! o unhappy, miserable youth! what will be thy doom now?" at this cry frederick moved, and got slowly upon his feet. he had been stunned by the violence of his fall, and for the first moment believed himself drunk, and caught at his father's arm for support. "have a care, sir," said reuben, in a low voice; "he may be infected already by the contact." but the master builder only uttered a deep sigh like a groan, as he answered, "i fear me he is infected by a distemper worse then the plague. i thank you, lads, for your kindly thoughts towards him and towards me, but i must e'en take this business into mine own hands. get you away, and take your sister with you. it is not well for maids to be abroad in a city where such things can happen. lord, indeed have mercy upon us!" chapter vi. neighbours in need. gertrude mason sat in the topmost attic of the house, leaning out at the open window, and drinking in, as it were, great draughts of fresh air, as she watched the lights beginning to sparkle from either side of the river, and the darkening volume of water slipping silently beneath. this attic was gertrude's haven of refuge at this dread season, when almost every other window in the house was shuttered and close-curtained; when she was kept like a prisoner within the walls of the house, and half smothered and suffocated by the fumes of the fires which her mother insisted on burning, let the weather be ever so hot, as a preventive against the terrible infection which was spreading with fearful rapidity throughout all london. but madam mason's feet never climbed these steep ladder-like stairs up to this eyrie, which all her life had been dear to gertrude. in her childhood it had been her playroom. as she grew older, she had gradually gathered about her in this place numbers of childish and girlish treasures. her father bestowed gifts upon her at various times. she had clever fingers of her own, and specimens of her needlework and her painting adorned the walls. at such times as the fastidious mistress of the house condemned various articles of furniture as too antiquated for her taste, gertrude would get them secretly conveyed up here; so that her lofty bower was neither bare nor cheerless, but, on the contrary, rather crowded with furniture and knick-knacks of all sorts. she kept her possessions scrupulously clean, lavishing upon them much tender care, and much of that active service in manual labour which she found no scope for elsewhere. her happiest hours were spent up in this lonely attic, far removed from the sound of her mother's plaints or her brother's ribald and too often profane jesting. here she kept her books, her lute, and her songbirds; and the key of her retreat hung always at her girdle, and was placed at night beneath her pillow. this evening she had been hastily dismissed from her father's presence, he having come in with agitated face, and bidden her instantly take herself away whilst he spoke with her mother. she had obeyed at once, without pausing to ask the questions which trembled on her lips. that something of ill had befallen she could not doubt; but at least her father was safe, and she must wait with what patience she could for the explanation of her sudden dismissal. she knew from her brother's reports that already infected houses were shut up, and none permitted to go forth. but so straitly had she herself been of late imprisoned within doors, that she felt it would make but little difference were she to hear that a watchman guarded the door, and that the fatal red cross had been painted upon it. "our neighbours are not fearful as we are. they go to and fro in the streets. they seek to do what they can for the relief of the sick. my father daily speaks of their courage and faith. why may not i do likewise? i would fain tend the sick, even though my life should be the forfeit. we can but live once and die once. far sooner would i spend a short life of usefulness to my fellow men, than linger out a long and worthless existence in the pursuit of idle pleasures. it does not bring happiness. ah! how little pleasure does it bring!" gertrude spoke half aloud and with some bitterness, albeit she strove to be patient with the foibles of her mother, and to think kindly of her, her many faults notwithstanding. but the terror of these days was taking with her a very different form from what it did with madam mason. it was inflaming within her a great desire to be up and doing in this stricken city, where the fell disease was walking to and fro and striking down its victims by hundreds and thousands. other women, in all lands and of all shades of belief, had been found to come forward at seasons of like peril, and devote themselves fearlessly to the care of the sick. why might not she make one of this band? what though it should cost her her life? life was not so precious a thing to her that she should set all else aside to preserve it! she was awakened from her fit of musing by an unwonted sound--a hollow tapping, tapping, tapping, which seemed to come from a corner of the attic where the shadows gathered most dun and dark. the girl drew in her head from the window with a startled expression on her face, and was then more than ever aware of the strange sound which caused a slight thrill to run through her frame. what could it be? there was no other room in their house from which the sound could proceed. she was not devoid of the superstitious feelings of the age, and had heard before of ghostly tappings that were said to be a harbinger of coming death or misfortune. tap! tap! tap! the sound continued with a ceaseless regularity, and then came other strange sounds of wrenching and tearing. these were perhaps not quite so ghostly, but equally alarming. what could it be? who and what could be behind that wall? gertrude had heard stories of ghastly robberies, committed during these past days in plague-stricken houses, which were entered by worthless vagabonds, when all within were dead or helpless, and from which vantage ground they had gained access into other houses, and had sometimes brought the dread infection with them. gertrude was by nature courageous, and she had always made it a point of duty not to add to her mother's alarms by permitting herself to fall a victim to nervous terrors. frightened though she undoubtedly was, therefore, she did not follow the impulse of her fear and run below to summon her father, who was, she suspected, bent on some serious work of his own; but she stood very still and quiet, pressing her hands over her beating heart, resolved if possible to discover the mystery for herself before giving any alarm. all at once the sounds grew louder; something seemed to give way, and she saw a hand, a man's hand, pushed through some small aperture. at that she uttered a little cry. "who is there?" she cried, in a shaking voice; and immediately the hand was withdrawn, whilst a familiar and most reassuring voice made answer: "is anybody there? i beg ten thousand pardons. i had thought the attic would be hare and empty." "reuben!" cried gertrude, springing forward towards the small aperture in the wall. "oh, what is it? is it indeed thou? and what art thou doing to the wall?" "gertrude! is that thy voice indeed? nay, now, this is a good hap. sweet mistress gertrude, have i thy permission to open once again betwixt thy home and mine that door which as children thy brother and we did contrive, but which was presently sealed up, though not over-strongly?" "ah, the door!" cried gertrude, coming forward to the place and feeling with her hands at the laths and woodwork; "i had forgot, but it comes to me again. yes, truly there was a rude door once. oh, open it quickly! i will get thee a light and hold it. dost thou know, reuben, what has befallen to make my father look as he did but now? i trow it is something evil. my heart is heavy within me." "ay, i know," answered reuben; "i will tell thee anon, sweet mistress, if thou wilt let me into thy presence." "nay, call me not mistress," said gertrude, with a little accent of reproach in her voice. "have we not played as brother and sister together, and do not times like this draw closer the bonds of friendship? thou canst not know how lonesome and dreary my life has been of late. i pine for a voice from the world without. thou wilt indeed be welcome, good reuben." gertrude was busying herself with the tedious preparations for obtaining a light, and being skilful by long practice, she soon had a lamp burning in the room; and in a few minutes more, by the diligent use of hammer and chisel, reuben forced open the little rough door which long ago had been contrived between the boys of the two households, and which had not been done away with altogether, although it had been securely fastened up by the orders of madam mason when she found her son frederick taking too great advantage of this extra means of egress from the house, though she had other motives than the one alleged for the checking of the great intimacy which was growing up between her children and those of her neighbour. the door once opened, reuben quickly stood within the attic, and looked around him with wondering and admiring eyes. "nay, but it is a very bower of beauty!" he cried, and then he came forward almost timidly and took gertrude by the hand, looking down at her with eyes that spoke eloquently. "is this thy nest, thou pretty songbird?" he said. "had i known, i should scarce have dared to invade it so boldly." gertrude clung to him with an involuntary appeal for protection that stirred all the manhood within him. "ah, reuben, tell me what it all means!" she cried, "for methinks that something terrible has happened." still holding the little trembling hand in his, reuben told her of the peril her brother had been in. he spoke not of dorcas, not desiring to pain her more than need be, but he had to say that her brother was, in a half-drunken state, pursuing some maiden in idle sport, and that, having been so exposed to contagion, there was great fear now for him and for his life. gertrude listened with pale lips and dilating eyes; her quick apprehension filled up more of the details than reuben desired. "it was dorcas he was pursuing," she cried, recoiling and putting up her hands to her face; "i know it! i know it! o wretched boy! why does he cover us with shame like this? i marvel that thou canst look kindly upon me, reuben. am i not his most unhappy sister?" "thou art the sweetest, purest maiden my eyes ever beheld," answered reuben, his words seeming to leap from his lips against his own will. then commanding himself, he added more quietly, "but he is like to be punished for his sins, and it may be the lesson learned will be of use to him all his life. it will be a marvel if he escapes the distemper, having been so exposed, and that whilst inflamed by drink, which, so far as i may judge, enfeebles the tissues, and causes a man to fall a victim far quicker than if he had been sober, and a temperate liver." "my poor brother!" cried gertrude, beneath her breath. "oh, what has my father done with him? what will become of him?" "your father brought him hither at once--not within the house, but into one of his old offices where in past times his goods were wont to be stored. he has now gone to consult with your mother whether or not the poor lad should be admitted within the house or not. if your mother will not have him here, he will remain for a while where he is; and if he falls sick, he will be removed to the pest house." "oh no! no! no!" cried gertrude vehemently, "not whilst he has a sister to nurse him--a roof, however humble, to shelter him. let him not die amongst strangers! i fear not the infection. i will go to him this minute. already i have thought it were better to die of the plague, doing one's duty towards the sick and suffering, than to keep shut up away from all. they shall not take him away to die amidst those scenes of horror of which one has heard. even my mother will be brave, methinks, for frederick's sake. i trow she will open her doors to him." "that is what your father thinks. it may be that even now he is bringing him within. but, sweet mistress, if frederick comes here, it may well be that in another week this house will be straitly shut up, with the red cross upon the door, and the watchman before the portal day and night. that is why i have come hither at once, to open the little door between our houses; for i cannot bear the thought of knowing naught that befalls you for a whole long month. and since, though my work takes me daily into what men call the peril of infection, i am sound and bring no hurt to others, i am not afraid that i shall bring hurt to thee. i could not bear to have no tidings of how it fared with thee. thou wilt not chide me for making this provision. it came into my head so soon as i knew that peril of infection was like to come within these walls. we must not let thee be shut quite away from us. we may be able to give thee help, and in times of peril neighbours must play a neighbourly part." the tears stood in gertrude's eyes. she was thinking of the unkindly fashion in which her mother had spoken of late years of these neighbours, and contrasting with that the way in which they were now coming forward to claim the neighbour's right to help in time of threatened trouble. the tears were very near her eyes as she made answer: "o reuben, how good thou art! but if our house be infected, how can it be possible for thee to come and go? would it not be a wrong against those who lay down these laws for the preservation of the city?" then reuben explained to her that, though the magistrates and aldermen were forced to draw up a strict code for the ordering of houses where infection was, these same personages themselves, together with doctors, examiners, and searchers of houses, had perforce to go from place to place; yet by using all needful and wise precautions, both for themselves and others, they had reasonable hope of doing nothing to spread the contagion. reuben, as a searcher under his father, had again and again been in infected houses, and brought face to face with persons dying of the malady; yet so far he had escaped, and by adopting the wise precautions ordered at the outset by their father, no case of illness had appeared so far amongst them. if every person who could be of use excluded himself from all chance of contagion, there would be none to order the affairs of the unhappy city, or to carry relief to the sufferers. there must be perforce some amongst them who were ready to run the risk in order to assist the sufferers, and they of the household of james harmer were all of one mind in this. "we do naught that is rash. we have herbs and drugs and all those things which the doctors think to be of use; and thou shalt have a supply of all such anon--if indeed thy mother be not already amply provided. but i cannot bear for thee to be straitly shut up; i must be able to see how it goes with thee. and should it be that thou wert thyself a victim, thou shalt not lack the best nursing that all london can give." she looked up at him with fearless eyes. "do men ever recover when once attacked by the plague?" "yes, many do--though nothing like the number who die. amongst our nurses and bearers of the dead are numbers who have had the distemper and have survived it. they go by the name of the 'safe people.' yet some have been known to take it again, though i think these cases are rare." "if frederick takes it, will he be like to live?" asked gertrude; and reuben was silent. both knew that the unhappy young man had long been given to drunkenness and debauchery, and that his constitution was undermined by his excesses. the girl pressed her hands together and was silent; but after a few moments' pause she looked up at reuben, and said, "you have given me courage by this visit. come again soon. i must to my mother now. i must ask her what i can do to help her and my unhappy brother." "take this paper and this packet before you go," said reuben. "the one contains directions for the better lodging and tending of the sick. the other contains prepared herbs which are useful as preventives--tormentil, valerian, zedoary, angelica, and so forth; but i take it that pure vinegar is as good an antidote to infection as anything one can find. keep some always about you. let your kerchief be always steeped in it. then be of a cheerful courage, and take food regularly, and in sufficient quantities. all these things help to keep the body in health; and though the most healthy may fall victims, yet methinks that it is those who are underfed or weakened by disease or dissipation upon whom the malady fastens with most virulent strength. i will come anon and learn what is betiding. farewell for the nonce, sweet mistress, and may god be with you." greatly cheered and strengthened by this unexpected interview, gertrude descended to the lower part of the house in search of her mother, and found her, with her face tied up in a cloth soaked in vinegar, bending over the unhappy frederick, who lay with a face as white as death upon a couch in one of the lower rooms. to her credit be it said, the motherhood in the master builder's wife had triumphed over her natural terror at the thought of the infection. when her husband had brought her the news that frederick was in one of the old shop buildings, awaiting her permission (after what had occurred) to enter the house; when she knew that should he sicken of the plague he would be taken away to the pest house to be tended there, and as she believed assuredly to die, she burst into wild weeping, and declared that she would risk everything sooner than that should happen. so it had been speedily arranged that the unhappy youth should be provided with a vinegar and herb bath and a complete change of raiment out there in the disused shop, and that then he should come into the house, his mother being willing to take the risk rather than banish him from home. this had been quickly done, under the direction of good james harmer, who as one of the examiners of health was well qualified to give counsel in the matter. he also told his neighbour that should the young man be attacked by the plague, he would strive if possible to gain for him the services of his sister-in-law, dinah morse, who was one of the most tender and skilful nurses now working amongst the sick. she was always busy; but so fell was the action of the plague poison, that her patients died daily, despite her utmost care, and she was constantly moving from house to house, sometimes leaving none alive behind her in a whole domicile. a certain number recovered, and these she made shift to visit daily for a while; but her main work lay amongst the dying, whose friends too often left them in terror so soon as the fatal marks appeared which bespoke them sickening of the terrible distemper. the master builder received this promise with gratitude, having heard gruesome stories of the evil practices of many of those who called themselves plague nurses, but who really sought their own gain, and often left the patient alone and untended in his agony, whilst they coolly ransacked the house from which the other inmates had often contrived to flee before it was shut up. frederick, utterly unnerved and overcome by the horror of the thing which had befallen him, looked already almost like one stricken to death. his mother was striving to get him to swallow some of the medicines which were considered as valuable antidotes, and to sip at a cup of so-called plague water--a rather costly preparation much in vogue amongst the wealthier citizens at that time. but the nausea of the horrible smell of the plague patient was still upon him, sickening him to the refusal of all medicine or food, and to gertrude's eyes he looked as though he might well be smitten already. her father was the only person who had eyes to notice her approach, and he strode forward and took her by the hands as though to keep her away. "child, thou must not come here. thy brother has been in a terrible danger--half strangled by a creature raving in the delirium of the distemper. it may be death to approach him even now. i would have had thy mother keep away. come not thou near to him. let us not increase the peril which besets us." gertrude stood quite still, neither resisting her father, nor yet yielding to the pressure which would have forced her from the room. "dear sir," she said, with dutiful reverence, "i must fain submit to thee in this thing. yet i prithee keep me not from my brother in the hour of his extremity. methinks that a more terrible thing than the plague itself is the cruel fear which it inspires, whereby families are rent asunder, and the sick are neglected and deserted in the hour of their utmost need. if indeed frederick should fall a victim, this house will be straitly shut up; and if it be true what men say, the infection will spread through it, do what we will to keep it away. then what can it matter whether the risk be a little more or less? is it not better that i should be with my mother and my brother, than that i should seek my own safety by shutting myself up apart from all, a readier prey to grief and terror? methinks i should the sooner fall ill thus shut away from all. prithee let me take my place beside frederick, and relieve my mother when she be weary; so do i think it will be best for me and her." the father's face quivered with emotion as he took his daughter in his arms and kissed her tenderly. "thou shalt do as thou wilt, my sweet child," he said. "these indeed are fearful days, and it may be that happier are they who let their heart be ruled by love instead of by fear. fear has become a cruel thing, from what men tell us. thou shalt do thy desire. yet methinks thy brother has scarce deserved this grace at thy hands." "let us not think of that," said gertrude, with a look of pain in her eyes; "let us only think of his peril, and of the terrible retribution which may fall upon him. god grant that he may find repentance and peace at the last!" "amen!" said the master builder, with some solemnity, thinking of the fashion in which his son's time had been spent of late, and of the very escapade which had brought this evil upon him. all that night mother and sister watched beside the bed of the unhappy young man, who moaned and tossed, and too often broke into blasphemous railings at the fate which had overtaken him. he gave himself up for lost from the first, and having no hope or real belief as regards the future life, was full of darkness and bitterness of heart. he would not so much as listen when gertrude would have spoken to him of the saviour's love for sinners, but answered with mocking and profane words which made her heart die within her. towards morning he fell into a restless sleep, from which he wakened in a high fever, not knowing any of those about him. the father coming in, went towards him with a strange look in his eyes, and after bending over him a few seconds, turned a haggard face towards his wife and daughter, saying: "may the lord have mercy upon us! he has the tokens upon him!" instantly the mother uttered a scream of lamentation, and fell half senseless into her husband's arms; whilst gertrude stood suddenly up with a white face and said: "let me take word to our neighbours next door. master harmer is an examiner. we must needs report it to him; and they will tell us what we must do, and give us help if any can." "ay, that they will," answered the master builder, with some emotion in his voice. "go, girl, and report that the distemper has broken out in the house, and that we submit ourselves to the orders of the authorities for all such as be infected." gertrude sped upstairs. she preferred that method of transit to the one by the street door. but she had no need to go further than her attic; for upon opening the door she saw two figures in the room, and instantly recognized reuben and his sister janet. the latter came forward with outstretched hands, and would have taken gertrude into her embrace, but that she drew back and said in a voice of warning: "take heed, janet; touch me not. i have passed the night by the bedside of my brother, and he is stricken with the plague!" "so soon?" quoth reuben, quickly; whilst janet would not be denied her embrace, saying softly: "i have no longer a fear of that distemper myself, for i have been with it erstwhile, and my aunt dinah tells me that i have had a very mild attack of the same ill, and that i am not like to take it again." "if indeed frederick is smitten, we must take precautions to close the house," said reuben. "is there aught you would wish to do ere giving the notice to my father?" "nay, i was on my way to him," said gertrude, speaking with the calmness of one upon whom the expected blow has at last fallen. "let what must be done be done quickly. can we have a nurse? for methinks frederick must needs have tendance more skilled than any we can give him. but let it not be one of those women"--gertrude paused and shuddered, as though she knew not how to finish her sentence. "trust me to do all for you that lies in my power," answered reuben, in a voice of emotion; "and never feel shut up altogether from the world; even when the outer door be locked and guarded by a watchman. i have already hung a bell within our house, and the cord is tied here upon this nail. in any time of need you have but to ring it, and be sure that the summons will be speedily answered." a mist rose before gertrude's eyes and a lump in her throat. she pressed janet's hand, and said to reuben in a husky voice: "i have no words today. some day i will find how to thank you for all this goodness at such a time." before many hours had passed dinah morse was installed beside the sick man. strong perfumes were burnt in and about his room, and the terrible tumours which bespoke the poison in his blood were treated skilfully by poultices and medicaments, applied by one who thoroughly understood the nature of the disease and the course it ran. but from the first it was apparent to a trained eye that the young man was doomed. there was too much poison in his blood before, and his constitution was undermined by his reckless and dissolute life. all that was possible was done to relieve the sufferings and abate the fever of the patient. one of the best and most devoted of the doctors who remained courageously at his post during this terrible time was called in. but he shook his head over the patient, and bid his parents make up their minds for the worst. "you have the best nurse in all london," said dr. hooker. "if skill and care could save him, he would be saved. but i fear me the poison has spread all over. be cautious how you approach him, for he breathes forth death to those who are not inoculated. i would i could do more for you, but our skill avails little before this dread scourge." and so, with looks and words of friendly compassion and goodwill, the doctor took his departure; and before nightfall frederick was called to his last account. just as the hour of midnight tolled, a sound of wheels was heard in the street below, a bell rang, and a lugubrious voice called out: "bring forth your dead! bring forth your dead!" directed by reuben, who was on the alert, the bearers themselves entered the house and removed the body, wrapped in its linen swathings, but without a coffin, for by this time there was not such a thing to be had for love or money; nor could the carts have contained their loads had each corpse been coffined. gertrude alone, from an upper window, saw the body of her brother laid decently and reverently, under reuben's direction, in the ominous-looking vehicle. for the mother of the dead youth was weeping her heart out in her husband's arms, and was not allowed to know at what hour nor in what manner her son's body was conveyed away. "will they fling him, with never a prayer, into some great pit such as i have heard spoken of?" asked gertrude of dinah, who stood beside her at the window, fearful lest she should be overwhelmed by the horror of it all. she now drew her gently and tenderly back into the room, whilst the cart rumbled away upon its mournful errand, and smoothing the tresses of the girl, and drawing her to rest upon a couch hard by, she answered: "think not of that, dear child. for what does it matter what befalls the frail mortal body? with whatsoever burial we may be buried now, we shall rise again at the last day in glory and immortality! that is what we must think of in these sorrowful times. we must lift our hearts above the things of this world, and let our conversation and citizenship be in heaven." then the tears gushed out from gertrude's eyes, and she wept freely and fully the healing tears of youth. chapter vii. sisters of mercy. "father, dear father, prithee let me go!" "what, my child? have i not lost all but thee? am i to send thee forth to thy death in this terrible city, stricken by the hand of god?" into gertrude's face there crept a wonderful light and brightness. her eyes shone with the intensity of her feeling. "father," she said, "it is even because i hold the city to be smitten by god that i ask thy permission to go forth to minister to the sick and stricken ones. it seems to me as though in my heart a voice had spoken, saying, 'go, and i will be with thee.' father, listen, i pray thee. i heard that voice first, methought, upon the terrible night when they came and took frederick away. when mother was next laid low, and as i watched beside her, and watched likewise how dinah soothed and comforted and assuaged her anguish of mind and body, the voice in my heart grew ever louder and louder. whilst she lived, i knew my place was beside her; but it has pleased god to take her away. no tie binds me here now. if i stay, i shall but eat out my heart in fruitless longing, shut into these walls, and by no means permitted to sally forth. from a plague-stricken house i may only go to those smitten with the distemper. father, let me go! prithee let me go! dinah will take me; she will let me be with her. ask her; she will tell thee." as the girl made her appeal to her father, the grave-faced, gentle woman who had remained with this household for nigh fourteen days stood quietly by. dinah morse had not quitted the house since the day upon which the hapless frederick had been stricken down by the fell disease. for hardly had his remains been borne from the house before the mother fell violently ill of a wasting fever. at first there were no special indications of the plague in her malady; but after a week's time these suddenly developed themselves. from the first she had declared herself smitten by the distemper, and whether this conviction helped to develop the germs of the malady none could say. but be that as it might, the dreaded tokens appeared upon her body at last, and within three days from that time she lay dead. all that the kindness of friends and neighbours could avail had been done. the harmer family, in particular, had showed so much attention and sympathy in this trying time, that gertrude was often overcome with shame as she recalled in what uncivil fashion they had been treated by her mother of late years, and how they were now returning good for evil, just at a time when so many men were finding themselves forsaken even by their nearest and dearest in the hour of their affliction. the whole experience through which she had passed had made a deep and lasting impression upon gertrude. she had already watched two of the beings nearest and dearest to her fall victims to the dire disease which was raging in the city and laying low its thousands daily. it seemed to her that there was but one thing to be done now by those whose circumstances permitted it, and that was to go forth amid the sick and smitten ones, and do what lay within human power to mitigate their sufferings, and to afford them the solace and comfort of feeling that they were not altogether shut off from the love and sympathy of their fellow men. "father," she urged, as she saw that her parent still hesitated, "what would have become of us without dinah? what should we have done had no help come to us in our hour of need? think of the hundreds and thousands about us longing for some such tendance and love as she brought hither to us! what would have become of us had no kind neighbours befriended us? and are we not bidden to do unto others as we would have them do unto us in like case?" "but the risk, my child, the risk!" he urged. "am i to lose my last and only stay and solace?" "mother died in this house, which is now doubly infected. i was with her and with frederick both, and yet i am sound and whole, and thou also. why should we so greatly fear, when no man can say who will be smitten and who will escape? methinks, perchance, those who seek to do their duty to the living, as our good neighbours and the city aldermen and magistrates and doctors are doing, will be specially protected of god. father, let me go! truly i feel that i have been bidden. here i should fret myself ill in fruitless longing. let me go forth with dinah. let me obey the call which methinks god has sent me. truly i think i shall be the safest so. and who can say in these days, take what precaution he will, that he may not already have upon him the dreaded tokens? if we must die, let us at least die doing good to our fellow men. did not our lord say to those who visited the sick in their necessity, 'ye have done it unto me'?" "child," said the master builder, in a much-moved voice, "it shall be as you desire. go; and may the blessing of god go with you. i will offer myself for any post, as searcher or examiner, which may be open, if indeed i may go forth from this house ere the twenty-eight days be expired. if dinah will take you, and if the harmers will let you both sally forth from the house, i will not keep you back. it may be indeed that god has called you; and if so, may he keep and bless you both." father and daughter embraced each other tenderly. in those times the shadow of death was so very apparent that no one knew from day to day what might befall him ere the morrow. strong men, leaving their homes apparently in their usual health, would sink down in the streets an hour afterwards, and perhaps die before the very eyes of the passersby, none of whom would be found willing so much as to approach the sufferer with a kind word. men would hasten by with vinegar-steeped cloths held closely over their faces; and later on some bearer with a cart or barrow would be sent to carry away the corpse and fling it into the nearest pit, of which there was now an ever-increasing number in the various parishes. it will well be understood that in such days as these the need for nurses for the sick was terribly great. the majority of those so-called nurses were women of the lowest class, whose motive was personal gain, not a loving desire to mitigate the sufferings of the stricken. whether all the dismal tales told by the miserable beings shut up in their houses, and left to the mercy of watchmen and nurses, were true may be well open to doubt. many poor creatures became half demented by terror, and scarcely knew what they said. but enough was from time to time substantiated to prove how very terrible were the scenes which sometimes went on within these sealed abodes; and more than once some careless watchman or thieving and neglectful nurse had been whipped through the streets for misdemeanours brought home to them by the authorities. but now things were growing too pressing for individual cases to attract much attention. do as men would to cope with the evil, the spread of the fell disease was something terrible to witness. up till quite recently, the cases in the southern and eastern parishes and within the city walls had been few as compared with those in the north and west; but now the scourge seemed to have fallen upon the city itself, and the resources of the authorities were taxed to the uttermost. the harmer family welcomed back dinah with joy; but when they heard of gertrude's resolve, they looked grave and awed. then janet stepped forward suddenly, and addressing her father, said: "dear father, what gertrude has desired for herself is nothing less than what i myself have often wished. let me go forth also to tend the sick. if our neighbour can dare to let his only child do this thing, surely thou wilt spare me. every day brings terrible tales of the woe and the pressing need of hundreds and thousands around us. let me go, too. i am like to be safer than many, seeing that i may already have been touched by the distemper, though i knew it not." the example of his neighbour was not without effect upon the worthy citizen. moreover, it seemed to him that those who went about their daily duties, and shrank not from contact with the sick when it was needful, fared better than many who shut themselves up at home, and feared to look forth even from their windows. as an examiner of health he was frequently brought into contact with the sick, and his son even oftener, and yet both kept their health wonderfully. true, there were many amongst those who filled these perilous offices who did fall victims, but not more in proportion than others who shunned all contact with peril. steady nerves and a stout heart seemed as good preventives as any antidote; and the physicians who laboured ceaselessly and devotedly amongst the stricken ones seemed seldom to suffer. moreover, after all these weeks of terror, the minds of persons of all degrees were growing used to the sense of uncertainty and peril, and janet's request aroused no very strenuous opposition from any member of her family. "she shall please herself," said her father, after some discussion on the subject. "god has been very merciful to us so far. we will put our trust in him during all this time. if the girl has had a call, let her do her duty, and he will he with her." that night the three devoted women slept beneath the roof of the bridge house. upon the morrow they sallied forth to their strange task, but were told by the master of the house that they might return thither at any time they chose, provided they took the prescribed precautions with regard to their clothing before they entered. the sun was blazing hotly down on the streets as they opened the door to go forth. sultry weather had now set in, no rain fell through the long, scorching days, and the heat was a terrible factor in the spread of the epidemic. dinah, who had been nigh upon fourteen days shut up in one house, looked about her with grave, watchful eyes. already she saw a great difference in the look of the bridge. four houses were marked with the ominous red cross; and the tide of traffic, bearing the stream of persons out from the stricken city, had almost ceased. bills of health were difficult to obtain now. the country villages round were loth to receive inmates of london. all roads were watched, and many hapless stragglers sent back again who had thought to escape from the city of destruction. myriads had already left, and others were still flying--they could make shift to escape. but the continuous stream had ceased to cross the bridge. foot passengers were few, and all walked in the middle of the road, avoiding contact with one another. many kept a handkerchief or cloth pressed to their faces. strangers eyed each other askance, none knowing that the other might not be already sickening of the disease. between the stones of the streets blades of grass were beginning to grow up. dinah pointed to these tokens and gave a little sigh. just before they turned off from the bridge a flying figure was seen approaching, and janet exclaimed quickly: "why, it is dorcas!" since her fright of a fortnight back, dorcas had remained an inmate of lady scrope's house by her own desire. although she knew that poor frederick would annoy her no more, she had come to have a horror of the very streets themselves. she had never forgotten the apparition of that white-robed figure, clad in what seemed like its death shroud; and as lady scrope was by no means ill pleased to keep her young maiden by night as well as by day, her father was glad that she should be saved the risk even of the short walk to and fro each day. but here she was, flying homewards as though there were wings to her feet; and she would almost have passed them in her haste, had not janet laid hold of her arm and spoken her name aloud. then she gave a little cry of relief and happiness, and turning upon her aunt, she cried: "ah, how glad i am to see thee! i was praying thou mightst still be at home. lady scrope has been suddenly seized by some malady, i know not what. everyone in the house but the old deaf man and his wife has fled. three servants left before, afraid of passing to and fro. the rest only waited for the first alarm to seize whatever they could lay hands upon and fly. i could not stop them. i did what i could, but methinks they would have rifled the house had it not been that the mistress, ill as she was, rose from her bed and chased them forth. they feared her more than ever when they thought she had the plague upon her. and now i have come forth for help; for i am alone with her in the house, and i know not which way to turn. "ah, good aunt, come back with me, i prithee. i am at my wit's end with the fear of it all." without a moment's delay the party turned towards the house in allhallowes, and speedily found themselves at the grim-looking portal, which dorcas opened with her key. the house felt cool and fresh after the glare of the hot streets. although by no means a stately edifice outside, it was roomy and commodious within, and the broad oak staircase was richly carpeted--a thing in those days quite unusual save in very magnificent houses. doors stood open, and there were traces of confusion in some of the rooms; but dorcas was already hurrying her companions up the stairs, and the silence of the house was broken by the sound of a shrill voice demanding in imperious tones who were coming and what was their business. "fear not, mistress, it is i!" cried dorcas, springing forward in advance of the others. she disappeared within an open door, and her companions heard the sharp tones of the answering voice saying: "tush, child! who talks of fear? it is only fools who fear! dost think i am scared by this bogey talk of plague? a colic, child--a colic; that is all i ail. i have always suffered thus in hot weather all my life. plague, forsooth! i could wish i had had it, that i might have given it as a parting benediction to those knaves and hussies who thought to rob me when i lay a-dying, as many a woman has been robbed before! i only hope they may sicken of pure fright, as has happened to many a fool before now! ha! ha! ha! how they did run! they thought i was tied by the leg for once. but i had them--i had them! i warrant me they did not take the worth of a sixpence from my house!" the chuckling laugh which followed bespoke a keen sense of enjoyment. certainly this high-spirited old lady was not much like the ordinary plague patient. dinah knocked lightly at the door, and entered, the two girls following her out of sheer curiosity. "heyday! and who are these?" cried lady scrope. that redoubtable old dame was sitting up in bed, her great frilled nightcap tied beneath her chin, her hawk's eyes full of life and fire, although her face was very pinched and blue, and there were lines about her brow and lips which told the experienced eyes of the sick nurse that she was suffering considerable pain. dinah explained their sudden appearance, and asked if they could be of any service. the old lady gazed at them all in turn, and her face relaxed as she broke into rather a grim laugh. "plague nurses, by all the powers! certes, this is very pretty company! if all that is said be true, ye be the worst harpies of all. i had better have my own minions to rob me than be left to your tender mercies. three of you, too! verily, 'wheresoever the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered together,'" and the patient laughed again, as though tickled at her own grim pleasantry. dorcas would have expostulated and explained and apologized, but her mistress cut her short with a sharp tap of her fan. "little fool, hold thy peace! as though i didn't know an honest face when i see it! "come, good people, look me well over, and you'll soon see i have none of the tokens. it is but a colic, such as i am well used to at this season of the year; but in these days let a body's finger but ache, and all the world runs helter skelter this way and that, calling out, 'the plague! the plague!' the plague, forsooth! as though i had not lived through a score of such scares of plague. if men would but listen to me, there need never be any more plagues in london. but the fools will not hear wisdom." "what is your remedy, madam?" asked dinah, who saw very clearly that the old lady had gauged her symptoms aright; and although she had alarmed her attendants by a partial collapse an hour before, was mending now, and had no symptom of the distemper upon her. "my remedy is too simple for fools. fill up every well in london--which is just a poison trap--and drink only new river water, and make every house draw its supply from thence, and we shall soon cease to hear of the plague! that's my remedy; but when i tell men so, they gibe and jeer and call me fool for my pains. fools every one of them! if it would only please providence to burn their city about their ears and fill up all the old wells with the rubbish, you would soon see an end of these scares of plague. tush! if men will drink rank poison they deserve to have the plague--that is all i have to say to them." such an idea as this was certainly far in advance of the times, and it was small wonder that lady scrope found no serious listeners when she propounded her scheme. dinah did not profess to have an opinion on such a wide question. her duties were with the sick. others must seek for the cause of the outbreak. that was not the province of women. something in her way of moving about and performing her little offices pleased the fancy of the capricious old woman, as did also the aspect of the two girls, who were assisting dorcas to set the room to rights after the confusion of the morning, when the mistress had suddenly been taken with a violent colic, which had turned her blue and rigid, and had convinced her household that she was taken for death, and that by a seizure of the prevailing malady. she asked dinah of herself and her plans, and nodded her head with approval as she heard that the two girls were to attend the sick likewise under her care. "good girls, brave girls--i like to see courage in old and young alike. if i were young myself, i vow i would go with you. it's a fine set of experiences you will have. "young woman, i like you. i shall want to hear of you and your work. listen to me. this house is my own. i have no one with me here save the child dorcas, and i don't think she is of the stuff that would be afraid; and i take good care of her, so that she is in no peril. come back hither to me whenever you can. this house shall be open to you. you can come hither for rest and food. it is better than to go to and fro where there be so many young folks as in the place you come from. bring the girls with you, too. they be good, brave maidens, and deserve a place of rest. i have victualled my house well. i have enough and to spare. i like to hear the news, and none can know more in these days than a plague nurse. "come, children, what say you to this? go to and fro amongst the sick; but come home hither and tell me all you have done. what say you? against rules for persons to pass from infected houses into clean ones? bah! in times like these what can men hope to do by their rules and regulations? plague nurses and plague doctors are under no rules. they must needs go hither and thither wherever they are called. if i fear not for myself, you need not fear for me. i shall never die of the plague; i have had my fortune told me too many times to fear that! i shall never die in my bed--that they all agree to tell me. have no fears for me; i have none for myself. "make this house your home, you three good women. i am not a good woman myself, but i know the kind when i see them. they are rare, but all the more valued for that. come, i say; you will not find a better place!" dorcas clasped her hands in rapture and looked from one to the other. the fear of the distemper was small in comparison with the pleasure of the thought of seeing her sister and aunt and friend at intervals, now that she was so completely shut up in this lonely house, and that the servants had all fled never to return. it was just such an eccentric and capricious whim as was eminently characteristic of lady scrope. she had had nothing but her own whims to guide her through life, and she indulged them at her pleasure. she had taken a fancy to dinah from the first moment. she knew all about the family of her young companion, from having listened to dorcas's chatter when in the mood. keenly interested in the spread of the plague, which had driven away all her fashionable friends, she was eager for news about it, and the more ghastly the tales that were told, the more did she seem to revel in them. to have news first hand from those who actually tended the sick seemed to her a capital plan; and dinah recognized at once the advantage of having admittance for herself and the two girls to this solitary and commodious house, where rest and refreshment could be readily obtained, and where their coming and going would not be likely to be observed or to hurt any one. "if your ladyship really means it--" she began. "my ladyship generally does mean what she says--as dorcas will tell you if you ask her," was the rather short, sharp reply. "say no more, say no more; i hate chitter-chatter and shilly-shally. the thing's settled, and there's an end of it. go your ways, go your ways; i'm none too ill for dorcas to look to, now that the little fool is assured that i haven't got the plague. but you may have brought it here yourself, so you are bound in duty to come back and look after us the first moment you can. go along with you all, and bring me word what london is doing, and what the streets are like. they say there be courts down in the worst parts of the town where not a living person remains, and where there be none left to give notice of the deaths. you go and bring me word about all that. "a fine thing truly for our grand city! the living soon will not be enough to bury the dead! go! go! go! i shall wait and watch for your return. none will interfere with anything that goes on in my house. you can come and go at will. dorcas will give you a key. i will trust you. you have a face to be trusted." "it is quite true--nobody ever dares interfere with her," said dorcas, as she led the way downstairs. "they think she is a witch; and truly, methinks she is the strangest woman that ever drew breath! but i shall love her for what she has said and done today. i pray you be not long in coming again. none can want you much more sorely than i do!" chapter viii. in the doomed city. the clocks in the church steeples were chiming the hour of ten as dinah and her two companions started forth a second time upon their errand of mercy and charity. it was an hour at which in ordinary times all the city should be alive, the streets filled with passersby, wagons lumbering along with heavy freights, fine folks in their coaches or on horseback picking their way from place to place, and shopmen or their apprentices crying their wares from open doorways. now the streets were almost empty. the shops were almost all shut up. here and there an open bake house was to be seen, orders having been issued that these places were to remain available for the public, come what might; and women or trembling servant maids were to be seen going to and fro with their loads of bread or dough for baking. but each person looked askance at the other. neighbours were afraid to pause to exchange greetings, and hurried away from all contact with one another; and children breaking away from their mothers' sides were speedily called back, and chidden for their temerity. some of the churches stood wide open, and persons were seen to hurry in, lock themselves for a few minutes into separate pews, and pour out their souls in supplication. often the sound of lamentation and weeping was heard to issue from these buildings. at certain hours of the day such of the clergy as were not scared away through fear of infection, or who were not otherwise occupied amongst the sick, would come in and address the persons gathered there, or read the daily office of prayer; but although at first these services had been well attended--people flocking to the churches as though to take sanctuary there--the widely-increased mortality and the fearful spread of the distemper had caused a panic throughout the city. the magistrates had issued warnings against the assembling of persons together in the same building, and the congregations were themselves so wasted and decimated by death and disease that each week saw fewer and fewer able to attend. from every steeple in the city the bells tolled ceaselessly for the dead. but it was already whispered that soon they would toll no more, for the deaths were becoming past all count, and there might likely enough be soon no one left to toll. at one open place through which dinah led her companions, a tall man, strangely habited, and with a great mass of untrimmed hair and beard, was addressing a wild harangue to a ring of breathless listeners. in vivid and graphic words he was summing up the wickedness and perversity of the city, and telling how that the wrath of god had descended upon it, and that he would no longer stay his hand. the day of mercy had gone by; the day of vengeance had come--the day of reckoning and of punishment. the innocent must now perish with the guilty, and he warned each one of his hearers to prepare to meet his judge. the man was gazing up overhead with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets. every face in the crowd grew pale with horror. the man seemed rooted to the spot with a ghastly terror. they followed the direction of his gaze, but could see nothing save the quivering sunshine above them. suddenly one in the crowd gave a shriek which those who heard it never forgot, and fell to the ground like one dead. with a wild, terrible laugh the preacher gathered up his long gown and fled onwards, and the crowd scattered helter skelter, terrified and desperate. none seemed to have a thought for the miserable man smitten down before their very eyes. all took care to avoid approaching him in their hasty flight. he lay with his face upturned to the steely, pitiless summer sky. a woman coming furtively along with a market basket upon her arm suddenly set up a dolorous cry at sight of him, and setting down her basket ran towards him, the tears streaming down her face. "why, it is none other than good john harwood and his wife elizabeth!" cried janet, making a forward step. "oh, poor creatures, poor creatures! good aunt, prithee let us do what we can for their relief. i knew not the man, his face was so changed, but i know him now. they are very honest, good folks, and have worked for us ere now. they live hard by, if so be they have not changed their lodgings. can we do nothing to help them?" "we will do what we can," said dinah. "remember, my children, all that i have bidden you do when approaching a stricken person. be not rash, neither be over-much affrighted. the lord has preserved me, and methinks he will preserve you, too." with that she stepped forward and laid a hand upon the shoulder of the poor woman, who was weeping copiously over her husband, and calling him by every name she could think of, though he lay rigid with half-open eyes and heeded her not. "good friend," said dinah, in her quiet, commanding fashion, "it is of no avail thus to weep and cry. we must get your goodman within doors, and tend him there. see, there is a man with a handcart over yonder. go call him, and bid him come to our help. we must not let your goodman lie out here in the streets in this hot sunshine." "god bless you! god bless you!" cried the poor distracted woman, unspeakably thankful for any help at a time when neighbours and friends were wont alike to flee in terror from any stricken person. "but alas and woe is me! tell me, is this the plague?" "i fear so," answered dinah, who had bent over the smitten man; "but go quickly and do as i have said. there be some amongst the sick who recover. lose not heart at the outset, but trust in god, and do all that thou art bidden." the woman ran quickly, and the man, who was indeed one of those forlorn creatures who, for a livelihood, were even willing to scour the streets and remove from thence those that were stricken down by death as they went their way amongst their fellows, came with her at her request, and lifting her husband into his cart, wheeled him away towards a poor alley where lay her home. as she turned into it she looked at the three women who followed, and said: "god have mercy upon us! i would not have you adventure yourselves here. there be but three houses in all the street where the distemper has not come, and of those, mine, which was one, must now be shut up. lord have mercy upon us indeed, else we be all dead men!" dinah paused for a brief moment, and looked at her young charges. "my children," she said, "needs must that i go where the need is so great. but bethink you a moment if ye have strength and wish to follow. i know not what sad and terrible sights we may have to encounter. think ye that ye can bear them? have ye the strength to go forward? if not, i would have you go back ere you have reached the contamination." janet looked at gertrude, and gertrude looked at janet; but though there was great seriousness and awe in their faces, there was no fear. gertrude had gone through so much already within the walls of her home that she had no fear greater than that of remaining in helpless idleness there, alone with her own thoughts and memories. as for janet, she had much of the nature of her aunt--much of that eager, intense sympathy and compassion for the sick and suffering which has induced women in all ages to go forth in times of dire need, and risk their lives for their stricken and afflicted brethren. so after one glance of mutual comprehension and sympathy, they both answered in one breath: "no, we will not turn back. we will go with you. where the need is sorest, there would we be, too." "god bless you! god bless you for angels of mercy!" sobbed the poor woman, who heard their words, and knowing both dinah and janet, understood something of the situation, "for we be perishing like sheep here in this place, shut away from all, and with never a nurse to come nigh us. there be some rough fellows placed outside the houses to see that none go in or out, and perchance they do their best to find nurses; but at such a time as this it is small wonder if ofttimes none are to be found. and some they have brought are worse than none. the lord protect us from the tender mercies of such!" the narrow court into which they now turned was cool in comparison with the sunny street; but there was nothing refreshing in the coolness, for fumes of every sort exhaled from the houses, and at the far end there burned a fire of resinous pine logs, the smoke from which, when it rolled down the court, was almost choking. "they say it will check the spread of the distemper to the streets beyond," said the woman, "but methinks it does as much harm as good. if the lord help us not, we be all dead men. the cart took away a score or more of corpses last night. pray heaven it take not away my poor husband tonight!" the bearer of the handcart stopped at the door indicated by the woman, and lifted the stricken man in his arms. it was one of the very few doors all down that street which did not bear the ominous red cross. as gertrude looked up and down the court her heart sank within her for pity. the houses were closed. watchers lounged at the doors, drinking and smoking and jesting together, being by this time recklessly and brutally hardened to their office. they knew not from day to day when their own turn might come; but this knowledge seemed to have an evil rather than a sobering effect upon them. the better sort of watchmen were employed, as a rule, to keep the better sort of houses. when these crowded courts and alleys were attacked, the authorities had to send whom they could rather than whom they would. indefatigable and courageously as they worked, the magnitude of the calamity was such that it taxed their resources to the utmost; and had it not been for the bountiful supplies of money sent in by charitable people, from the king downwards, for the relief of the city in this time of dire need, thousands must have perished from actual want, as well as those who fell victims to the plague itself. yet do as these brave and devoted men could, the sufferings of the poor at this time were terrible. as the sound of voices was heard in the street below, windows were thrown up, and heads protruded with more or less of caution. from one of the windows thus thrown up there issued a lamentable wailing, and a woman with a white, wild face cried out in tones of passionate entreaty: "help! help! help! good people. ah, if that be a nurse, let her come hither. there be five dying and two dead in the house, and none but me to tend them, and methinks i am stricken to the death!" "janet," said dinah, with a searching glance at her niece, "methinks i must needs answer that cry. go with this good woman, and do what thou canst for her husband. thou dost know what is best to be done. i will come to thee anon; but thou wilt not fear to be thus left? there is but one sick in this house. the need is sorer elsewhere." "go, i will do my best. at least i can make a poultice, and see that he is put to bed. i have medicaments in my bag. i would not hinder thee. sure there is work for all in this terrible place!" "and this is only one of many scattered throughout the city!" breathed gertrude softly, her heart swelling within her. ever since she had halted before this house she had been aware of the sound of plaintive weeping and wailing proceeding from the adjoining tenement; and as dinah moved away towards the door opposite, she asked elizabeth harwood what the sound meant, and if there was trouble in the next house. "trouble?--trouble and death everywhere!" was the answer. "the man was taken away in the cart yesternight. god alone knows who is alive in the house now. there be seven little children there with their mother, but which of them be living and which dead by now no one knows. i have heard nothing of the woman's voice these many hours. pray heaven she be not dead--and the little helpless children all alone with the dead corpse!" "oh, surely that could not be!" cried gertrude. "surely the watchman would go to them! oh, that must not be! i will go and speak with him. he would not leave them to perish so!" the woman shook her head, and hurried up the stairs whither her husband had been carried. her heart was too full of her own anxious misery to have room for more than a passing sympathy for the needs and troubles of others. but gertrude could not rest. she neither followed janet into this house nor her aunt across the street. she went to the door of the next house, upon which the red cross had been painted; and seeing her so stand before it, a man detached himself from a group hard by and asked her business, since the house was closed. "i am a nurse," answered gertrude, boldly. "i have come to nurse the sick. let me into this house, i pray, for i hear the need is very sore." "sore enough, mistress," answered the man, fumbling with his key, for of course there was admittance to plague nurses and doctors into infected houses; "but if you take my advice, you'll not venture within the door. the dead cart has had four from it these last two days. like enough by this time they are all dead. they have asked for nothing these past ten hours--not since the cart came last night." with a shudder of pity and horror, but without any personal shrinking, gertrude signed to the man to open the door, which he proceeded to do in a leisurely manner. then she stepped across the threshold, the door was closed behind her, and she heard the key turn in the lock. truly her work had now begun. she was incarcerated in a plague-stricken house, and this time by her own will. for the first few seconds she stood still in the dark entry, unable to see her way before her; but soon her eyes grew used to the dim light, and she saw that there was a door on one side of the passage and a steep flight of stairs leading upwards, and it was from some upper portion of the house from which the sound of crying proceeded. just glancing into the lower room, which she found quite empty, and which was unexpectedly clean, she mounted the rickety staircase, the wailing sound growing more distinct every step she took. the house was a very tiny one even for these small tenements, and there were only two little rooms upon the upper floor. it was from one of these that the crying was proceeding, but gertrude could not be sure which. with a beating heart she opened the first door, and saw a sight which went to her heart. upon a narrow bed lay two little forms wrapped in the same sheet, rigidly still, waiting their last transit to the common grave. except for the two dead children the room was empty, and gertrude, softly closing the door, and breathing a silent prayer, she scarce knew whether for herself, for the living, or for the dead, she opened the other, and came upon a scene, the pathos and inexpressible sadness of which made a lasting impression upon her, which even after events did not efface from her memory. there was a bed in this room too, and upon it lay the emaciated form of a woman; asleep, as the girl first thought--dead, as she afterwards quickly discovered. by her side there nestled a little child, hardly more than an infant, wailing pitifully with that plaintive, persistent cry which had attracted her attention at the outset. three children, varying in age from four to eight, sat huddled on the floor in a corner, their tear-stained faces all turned in wondering expectancy upon the newcomer. stretched upon the floor beside the bed was another child, so still that gertrude felt from the first that it, too, was dead, and when she lifted up the little form, she saw the dreaded death tokens upon the waxen skin. with a prayer in her heart for grace and strength and guidance, gertrude laid the dead child beside its dead mother--for she saw that the woman was cold and stiff in death; and then she gathered the living children round her, and taking the infant in her arms, she led them all down into the lower room, and quickly kindled the fire that was laid ready in the grate. she found nothing of any sort in the house, and the children were crying for food; but the watchman quickly provided what was needful, being, perhaps, a little ashamed of the condition in which this household had been found. gertrude tended and fed and comforted the little ones, her heart overflowing with sympathy. they clung about her and fondled her as children will do those who have come to them in their hour of dire necessity; and as their hunger became appeased, and they grew confident of the kindness of their new friend, they told their pathetic tale with the unconscious graphic force of childhood. there had been a large household only a few days before. father, mother, two grownup sons, and one or two daughters--evidently by a former marriage. the big brothers had gone away--probably to act as bearers or watchmen--and the little ones knew nothing of them. one of the sisters had been in service, but came home suddenly, complaining of illness, sat down in a chair, and died almost before they realized she was ill. they had kept that death a secret, had obtained a certificate of some other ailment than the distemper, and for a week all had gone on quietly, when suddenly three became ill together. numbers of houses were shut up all round them. theirs was reported and closed. for a few days there had been hope. then the father sickened, and all the grownup persons had died almost together, save the mother, and had been taken away the night before last. what had happened since was dim and confused to the children. their mother had seemed like one stunned--had hardly noticed them, or attended to their wants. then two of them had been taken away into the other room. they had heard their mother weeping aloud for a while, but she would not let them in to her. by and by she had come back to them, and had taken the baby in her arms and lain down upon the bed. she had never moved after that--not even when little harry had called to her, and had lain crying and moaning on the floor. the children thought she was asleep, and by and by harry had gone to sleep too. they had slept together on the floor, huddled together in helpless misery and confusion of mind, until awakened by the ceaseless wailing of the baby, which never roused their mother. they were too much bewildered and weakened to make any attempt to call for help, and were just waiting for what would happen, when gertrude had come amongst them like an angel of mercy. her tears fell fast as the story was told, but the children had shed all theirs. they were comforted now, feeling as though something good had happened, and they crept about her and clung round her, begging her not to leave them. nor had she any wish to do so. it seemed to her as though this must surely be her place for the present--amongst these helpless little ones to whom providence had sent her in the hour of their extreme necessity. the baby was sleeping in her arms. she looked down into its tiny face, and wondered if it would be possible that its life could be saved. for a whole night it had lain at its dead mother's side. could it have escaped the contagion? the three older children appeared well, and even grew merry as the hours wore slowly away. from time to time gertrude looked out into the street, but there was nothing to be seen save the men on guard; and only from time to time was the silence broken by the cry of some delirious patient, or a shriek for mercy from some half-demented woman driven frantic by the terrors by which she was surrounded. when afternoon came, she prepared more food for the children, and partook of it with them, and wondered how and where she should spend the night. the infant in her arms had grown strangely still and quiet. it could not be roused, and breathed slowly and heavily. "harry looked just like that before he went to sleep," said the eldest of the children, coming and peeping into the small waxen face; and gertrude gave a little involuntary shiver as she thought of the four still forms lying sleeping upstairs, and wondered whether this would make a fifth for the bearers to carry forth at night. just as the dusk began to fall, there came the sound of a slight parley without. then the key turned in the house door, and the next minute, to gertrude's unspeakable relief, dinah entered the room. "my poor child, did you think i was never coming to you?" "i did not know if you could," answered gertrude. "oh, tell me, what must i do for all these little ones--and for the baby? is he dying too? it is so long since he has moved. i am afraid to look at him lest i disturb him, but--but--" dinah bent over the little form, and lifted it gently from gertrude's arms. "poor little lamb, its troubles are all over," she said, after a few moments. "the little ones often go like that--quite peacefully and quietly. it has not suffered at all. it has been a gentle and merciful release. you need not weep for it, my child." "i think my tears are for the living rather than for the dead," answered gertrude, with brimming eyes. "there are but three left out of seven living yesterday, and what is to become of them?" "we must report their case to the authorities. there are numbers of poor children left thus orphaned, and it is hard to know what will become of them. i will send at once to my brother-in-law, and report the matter to him. he will know what it were best to do. meantime i shall remain here with you. janet is busy next door. her patient is mending, and none besides in the house is sick. but oh, the things i have seen and heard this day! there is not one living now in the house to which i went first, and i have seen ten men and women die since i saw you last. "god alone knows how it is to end. it seems as though his hand were outstretched, and as though the whole city were doomed!" chapter ix. joseph's plan. "ben, boy, i am sick to death of sitting at home doing naught, and seeing naught of all the sights that be abroad, and of which men are for ever speaking. what boots it to be alive, if one is buried or shut up as we are? art thou afraid to come forth? or shall i go alone?" "where wilt thou go, brother?" asked ben, looking up from a bit of wood carving upon which he was engrossed, with an eager light in his eyes. perhaps these two young lads had felt the calamity which had befallen the city more than any one else in the house; for whilst the father, mother, sisters, and two elder sons were all hard at work doing all in their power for the relief of the sick, the younger lads were kept at home, to be as far as possible out of harm's way, and they had felt the confinement and idleness as most irksome. their mother employed them about the house when she could, but it was not much she could find for them to do. to be sure there was some amusement to be found in watching the life on the river; for though traffic was suspended, many whole families were living on board vessels moored on the river, and hoped by this device to keep the plague away from them. yet the time hung very heavy on their hands, and the stories of the increasing ravages of the plague could not but depress them, seeming as they did to lengthen out indefinitely the time of their captivity. three of the sisters were practically living away from the house (of which more anon), and the loneliness of the silent house was becoming unbearable. to lads used to an active life and plenty of exercise, the distemper itself seemed a less evil than this close confinement between four walls. the bridge houses did not even possess yards or strips of garden, and without venturing out into the streets--which had for some weeks been forbidden by their father--the boys could not stir beyond the walls of their home. august had now come, a close, steaming, sultry august, and the plague was raging with a virulence that threatened to destroy the whole city. the bills of mortality week by week were appalling in magnitude; and yet those who knew best the condition of the lower courts and alleys were well aware that no possible record could be kept of those crowded localities, where whole households and families, even whole streets, were swept away in the course of a few days, and where there were sometimes none left to give warning and notice that there were dead to be borne away. so the registered deaths could only show a certain proportionate accuracy; for even the dead carts could keep no reckoning of the numbers they bore to the common grave, and the bearers themselves were too often stricken down in the performance of their ghastly duties, and shot by their comrades into the pit amongst those whom they had carried forth an hour before. it was small wonder that the father had forbidden his younger sons to adventure themselves in the streets, where the pestilence seemed to hang in the very air. but the magnitude of the peril was beginning to rob even the most cautious persons of any confidence in their methods, for it seemed as if those working hardest amongst the sick and dead were quite as much preserved from peril as those who shunned their neighbours and never came abroad unless dire necessity compelled them. indeed, despite many deaths of individuals, it began to be noted that the magistrates, aldermen, examiners of health, and nurses of the plague-stricken sickened and died less, in proportion, than almost any other class. and of the physicians who remained at their posts to tend the sick, not many died, although some few here and there were stricken, and of these a certain proportion succumbed. but, as a whole, the workers who toiled with a good heart and gentle spirit amongst the sick (not just for daily bread or love of gain) fared better in the prevailing mortality than many others who held themselves aloof and lived in deadly fear of the pestilence. wherefore it was not strange that at the last a sort of recklessness was bred amongst the citizens, and they kept themselves less close now when things were in so terrible a pass than they had done when the deaths were fewer and the conditions less fatal. james harmer had always been one of those who had put his confidence more in the providence of god than in any merely human precautions, and although he had always insisted upon prudence and care, he had steadily discouraged in his household any of that feeling of panic or of despair which he believed had been a strong factor in the spread of the distemper in its earlier stages. he also agreed in part with lady scrope's views regarding the water supply of the city--the old wells and the contaminated river water. he let nothing be drunk in his house save what was supplied from the new river, and he impressed the same advice upon all his neighbours. but to return to the boys and their weariness of the shut-up life of the house. the heat had grown intolerable, their pining after fresh air and liberty was become too strong for resistance. benjamin's eyes glowed at the very thought of escape from the region of streets and shut-up houses, and he drank in the sense of his brother's words eagerly. "hark ye," cried joseph, in a rapid undertone, for they did not wish their mother to overhear them, she being by many degrees more fearful than their father, as was but natural, "why should we stay pent up here day after day and week after week, when even the girls be permitted abroad, and go into the very heart of the peril? we cannot be nurses to the sick, i know right well; neither can we help to search houses, or do such like things, as the elder ones. but why do we tarry at home eating our hearts out, when the whole world is before us, and there be such wondrous things to see? "listen, ben. i have a plan. let us but once get free of this house, and be our own masters, and we will wander about london as we will, and see those things of which all men be speaking. i long to look into one of those yawning pits where they shoot the dead, and to see the grass growing in the city, and to hear some of those strange preachers who go about prophesying in the streets. i long for liberty and freedom. i would sooner die of the plague at last than fret my heart out shut up here. and we may be smitten as well at home as abroad, as even father says himself." "why, so we may; and methinks more are smitten so than those who go forth and breathe the air without!" cried benjamin. "our aunt lives amongst the dying, but she is not smitten; and the girls are ever in peril, but they live on, whilst others are taken. but will our father let us go forth? for i would not like to go unless he bid us." "nay, nor i," answered joseph quickly, for reverence for their father was a strong sentiment in all james harmer's sons and daughters; "we will strive to win his consent and blessing to our going forth; but we need not say all that we purpose doing when we are free. for, indeed, it may well be that we shall meet with many hindrances. they say that the roads leading away from the city are all closely watched, that no infected person is able to pass, and that many sound ones are turned back lest they bring the infection with them." "then how shall we get out?" asked benjamin; but joseph nodded his head wisely, and said he had a plan. before, however, he could further enlighten his brother they heard their father's footfall on the stair, and he came in looking weary and sad, as it was inevitable that he should, coming as he did into personal contact with so much misery, sickness, and death. there was always refreshment ready for the workers at any hour of the day when they should come in to seek it. the boys rushed off to get him such things as their mother had ready, and whilst he partook of the wholesome and appetising meal prepared for him, joseph burst out with his pent-up weariness of the shut-up life, his longing to be free of the house and the city, and his earnest desire that his father would permit him and benjamin to go forth and shift for themselves in the country until the terrible visitation was past. the father listened with a grave face. he too began to have a great fear that the whole city was doomed to be swept away, and although upheld in his resolve to do his duty, so long as he was able, by his strong and fervent faith in the goodness and mercy of god, he was disposed to the opinion that all who remained would in turn be carried off victims to the fearful pestilence. had he known from the beginning how terrible it would become in time, he sometimes said to himself, he would at least have made shift to send his family away; but now that they were engrossed in works of piety and charity, he could not feel it right to bid them cease their labours of love, nor did he feel any temptation to quit his own post. yet this made him the more ready to listen to the eager petition of his boys, and to consider the project which had formed itself in the quick brain of joseph. "father, i have thought of it so much these past days. we are sound in health. thou couldst get us the papers without which men say none can pass the watch upon the roads. with them we can sally forth, with a small provision of money and food, and make our way either by boat to the farm at greenwich where the other 'prentice boys live, and where there would be a welcome for us always, or else northward to our aunt beyond islington, who will be hungering for news of us, and who will be rejoiced, i am very sure, to give us a welcome and to hear of the welfare of all, even though we come to her from the land of the shadow of death." "ay, verily do ye!" exclaimed the father, whose phrase joseph had picked up and quoted. "heaven send that my poor sister be yet numbered among the living. i know not whether the fell disease has wrought havoc beyond the limits of the city in that direction; but at the first it raged more fiercely north and west than with us, and god alone knows who are taken and who are left!" "then, father, may we go?" asked benjamin, eagerly. the father looked from one boy to the other with the glance of one who thinks he may be looking his last upon some loved face. men had begun to grow used to the thought that when they left their homes in the morning they might return to them no more, or that they might return to find that one or more of their dear ones had been struck down and carried off in the course of a few hours. so terrible was the malignity of the disease, that often death supervened after a few hours, although others would linger--often in terrible suffering--for many days before death (or much more rarely, recovery) relieved them of their pain. this good man knew that if he let the lads go, he might never see them again. he or they might be victims before they met, and might see each other's face no more upon earth. yet he did not oppose the boys' plan. he knew how bad for them was this shut-up life, and how the very sense of fret and compulsory inactivity might predispose them to the contagion. if they could once get beyond the limits of the city, they might be far safer than they could be here. it would be a relief to have them gone--to think of them as living in safety in the fresh air of the country. moreover, it pleased him to think of sending a message of loving assurance to his favourite sister, who dwelt in the open country beyond the hamlet of islington. he felt assured that if she still lived she would have a warm welcome for his boys; and if the lads were well provided with money and wholesome food, they had wits enough to take care of themselves for a while, until they had found some asylum. in all the surrounding villages, as he well knew, were only too many empty houses and cottages. he knew that there was risk; but there was risk everywhere, and he felt sympathy with the lads for their eager desire to get free of their prison. the mother felt more fear, but she never interfered with the decisions of her husband. her tears fell as she packed up in very small compass a few articles of clothing and some provisions for the lads. their father furnished them with money, the bulk of which was sewn up in their clothing, and with those health passes which were so needful for those leaving the infected city. the summer's night was really the best time in which to commence a journey. the heat of the streets by day was intolerable, the danger of encountering infected persons was greater, whilst although it was at night that the dead carts went about, these could be easily avoided, as the warning bell and mournful cry gave ample notice of their approach. last thing of all, after the boys had partaken of an ample supper, and had shed a few natural tears at the thought that it might be the last meal ever eaten beneath the roof of the old home, the father knelt down and commended them solemnly to the care of him in whose hands alone lay the issues of life and death. then he blessed the boys individually, charged them to take every reasonable care, and finally escorted them down to the door, which he carefully opened, and after ascertaining that the road was quite clear, he walked with them as far as the end of the bridge, and dismissed them on their way with another blessing. much sobered by the scenes through which they had passed, yet not a little elated by the quick and successful issue to their demand, the boys looked each other in the face by the light of the great yellow moon, and nipped each other by the hand to make sure it was not all a dream. how strange the sleeping city looked beneath that pale white light! the boys had hardly ever been abroad after nightfall, and never during this sad strange time, when even by day all was so different from what they had been used to see. now it did indeed look like a city of the dead, for not even an idle roisterer, or a drunkard stumbling homewards with uncertain gait, was to be seen. the watchmen, sleeping or trying to sleep within the porches or upon the doorsteps of certain houses, were the only living beings to be seen; and even they were few and far between in this locality, for almost every house was shut up and empty, the inhabitants of many having fled before the distemper became so bad, and others having all died off, leaving the houses utterly vacant. "let us go and see the house where janet and rebecca and mistress gertrude dwell," said benjamin, as they watched their father's figure vanish in the distance, and felt themselves quite alone in the world; "perchance one of them may be waking, and may look forth from the window if we throw up a pebble. i would fain say a farewell word to them ere we go forth, for who knows whether we may see them again?" "ay, verily, we may be dead or else they," said joseph, but in the tone of one who has grown used to the thought. "this way then; the house lies hard by, next door to my lady scrope's. who would have thought that that cross old madwoman would have turned so kindly disposed towards the poor and sick as she hath done?" there were many amongst her former friends and acquaintances who would have asked that question, had they been there to ask it. lady scrope had never been credited with charitable feelings; and yet it was her doing that a large house, her own property, next door to the small one she chose to inhabit, had been made over to the magistrates and authorities of the city at this time, for the housing of orphaned children whose parents had perished of the plague, and who were thrown upon the charity of strangers, or upon those entrusted with the care of the city at this crisis. true, the house was standing empty and desolate. its tenants had fled, taking their goods with them. all that was left of plenishing belonged to lady scrope. pallets were easily provided by the officers of health, and the place was speedily filled with little children, who were tenderly cared for by gertrude, janet, and rebecca (who had joined her sister in this labour of love), all three having given themselves up to this work, and finding their hands too full to desire other occupation abroad. joseph and benjamin had of course heard all about this, and knew exactly where to find the house. it was marked with the red cross, for, as was inevitable, many of the little inmates were carried off by the fell disease after admission, and the numbers were constantly thinning and being replaced by fresh ones. but hitherto the nurses themselves had been spared, and toiled on unremittingly at their self-chosen work. there was no watchman at the door as the boys stole up, but they had scarcely been there ten seconds before a window was thrown up, and janet's voice was heard exclaiming, "andrew, art thou yet returned?" "there is nobody here, sister," answered joseph, "save ben and me. we are come to say farewell, for we are going forth this night from the city, to seek safety with our aunt in islington. can we do aught for you ere we go?" "alas, it is the dead cart of which we have need tonight," answered janet. "we sent the watchman for physic, but it is needed no longer. the little ones are dead already--three of them, and only one ill this morning. "ah, brothers, glad am i to hear ye be going. god send you safety and health; and forget not to pray for us in the city when ye are far away. may he soon see fit to remove his chastening hand! it is hard to see the little ones suffer." janet's voice was quiet and calm, but benjamin burst into tears at the sound of her words, and at the thought of the little dead children; but she leaned out and said kindly: "nay, nay, weep not, ben, boy; let us think that they are taken in mercy from the evil to come. but linger not here, dear brothers. who knows that contagion may not dwell in the very air? go forth with what speed you may. "ah, there is the bell! the cart is on its way! and here comes good andrew back. now he will do all that we need. fare you well, brothers. rebecca is sleeping tonight, and i would not wake her. i will give her your farewell love tomorrow." she waved them away, and they withdrew; but a species of fascination kept them hanging round the spot. moreover, they feared to meet the death cart in that narrow thoroughfare, and the porch of the church of allhallowes the less was in close proximity. the iron gate was open, and they were quickly able to hide themselves in the porch, from whence by peeping out they could see all that passed. nearer and nearer came the sound of the rumbling wheels and the bell, and now the cry, "bring forth your dead! bring forth your dead!" was clearly to be heard through the still air. round the corner came the strange conveyance, drawn by two weary-looking horses; and at some signal from the inmates it drew up at the door of the house in front of which the boys had been standing a minute before. the watchman brought out three little shrouded forms. they were laid upon the top of the awful pile, and the cart with its heavy load rumbled away, the bell no longer ringing, because there was no room for more upon that journey. the boys stood with hands closely locked together, for although they had heard of these things before, they had never seen the sight. their bedroom at home looked out upon the river, and the dead cart only went about at night. they trembled at the thought which came to them, that had they been numbered amongst the dead during this terrible visitation they too had been carried in that fashion to their last resting place. "come, ben, let us be going," said joseph, recovering himself first; "we need not linger in the city if we like it not. there may be strange things to see in all truth; but if we have no stomach for them, why let us make our way northward with all speed. we can leave all this behind us by daybreak an we will." taking hands, and feeling their courage return as they walked on, the brothers passed along the silent streets. sometimes a window would be opened from above, and a doleful voice would cry aloud in grief or anguish of mind, or some command would be shouted to the watchman beneath, or there would be a piercing cry for the dead cart as it rumbled by. the boys at last grew used to the sound of the bell and the wheels. go where they would they could not avoid hearing one or another as the men went about their dismal errand. it seemed less terrible after a time than it had done at first, and the bold spirit within them came back. they wended their way northward, avoiding the narrower thoroughfares and keeping to the broader streets. even these were often very narrow and ill smelling, so that the brothers had recourse to their vinegar bottle or swallowed a spoonful of venice treacle before venturing down. once they were forced to turn aside out of their way to avoid a heap of corpses that had been brought out from a narrow alley to wait for the cart. they had heard of such things before, but to see them was tenfold more terrible. yet the spirit of adventure took possession of them as they passed along, and they were less afraid even of the most terrible things than they had been of lesser ones at starting. in passing near to the little church of st. margaret's, lothbury, they were attracted by the sound of a voice crying out as if in excitement or fear. being filled with curiosity in spite of their fears, they turned in the direction of the sound, and came upon a man clutching hard at the railings of the little churchyard, which like all others in that part was now filled to overflowing, and closed for burials, the dead being taken to the great pits dug in various places. night though it was, there was a small crowd of persons gathered round the railings, all peering in with eager faces, whilst the voice of the man at the corner kept calling out: "see! see! there she goes! she stands there by yon tall tombstone waving her arms over her head! now she is wringing her hands, and weeping again. "o my wife, my wife! do you not know me? i am here, margaret, i am here! weep not for the children who are dead; weep for unhappy me, who am left alive. ay, it is for the living that men should weep and howl. the dead are at peace--their troubles are over; but our agony is yet to come. "margaret! margaret! look at me! pity me! "ah, she will not hear! she turns away! see, she is gliding hither and thither seeking the graves of her children-- "margaret! i could not help it. they would not let them lie beside thee! they took them away in the cart. i would have sprung in after them, but they held me back. "ah, woe is me! woe is me! there is no place for me either among the living or the dead. all turn from me alike!" the tears rolled down the poor man's face, his voice was choked with sobs. he still continued to point and to cry out, and to address some imaginary being whom he declared was wandering amongst the tombs. the boys pressed near to look, for some in the crowd suddenly made exclamations as though they had caught a glimpse of the phantom; but look as they would the brothers saw nothing, and joseph asked of an elderly man in the little crowd what it all meant. "methinks it means only that yon poor fellow has lost his reason," he answered, shaking his head. "his wife was one of the first to die when the distemper broke out; and men called it only a fever, though some said she had the tokens on her. she was buried here. and it is but a week since the last of his children was taken--six in two weeks; and he has escaped out of his house, and wanders about the streets, and comes here every night, saying that he sees his dead wife, and that she is looking for her children, and cannot find them because they are lying in the plague pit. he is distraught, poor fellow; but many men gather night by night to hear him. "for my part, i will come no more. men are best at home in their own houses; and you lads had best go home as fast as you can. it is no place and no hour for boys to be abroad." joseph and benjamin said a civil goodnight to the man, and taking hands bent their steps northward once again. they were now close to the open moor fields; and although there was still another region of houses to be passed upon the other side, they felt that when once they had passed the gate and the walls they should have left the worst of the peril behind them. chapter x. without the walls. only one trifling incident befell the boys before they found themselves without the city gate. they were proceeding down coleman street towards moor gate, where they knew they should have to show their pass, and perhaps have some slight trouble in getting through, and were rehearsing such things as they had decided to tell the guard at the gate, when the sound of a dismal howling smote upon their ears, and they paused to look about them, for the street was very still, and almost every house seemed deserted and empty. the sound came again, and joseph remarked: "'tis some poor dog who perchance has lost master and home. there be only too many such in the city they say. they throw them by scores into the river to be rid of them; but i have heard father say that it is an ill thing to do, and likely to spread the contagion instead of checking it. alive, the poor beasts do no ill; but their carcasses poison both the water and the air. beshrew me, but he makes a doleful wailing!" going on cautiously through the darkness, for the moon was veiled behind some clouds, the brothers presently saw, lying just outside a shut-up house, a long still form wrapped in a winding sheet, put out ready for one of the many carts that passed up the street on the way to the great pits in bunhill and finsbury fields. whether the corpse was that of a man or a woman the boys could not tell. they made a circuit round it to avoid passing near. but beside the still figure squatted a little dog of the turnspit variety, and he was awakening the echoes of the quiet street by his lugubrious howls. both the brothers were fond of animals, and particularly of dogs, and they paused after having passed by, and tried to get the creature to come to them; but though he paused for a moment in his wailing, and even wagged his tail as though in gratitude for the kind words spoken, he would not leave his post beside the corpse, and the boys had perforce to go on their way. "the dumb brute could teach a lesson in charity to many a human being," remarked joseph, gravely; "he will not leave his dead master, and they too often flee away even from the living. poor creature, how mournful are his cries! i would that we could comfort him." at the gate they were stopped and questioned. they told a straightforward and truthful tale; their pass was examined and found correct; and their father's name being widely known and respected for his untiring labours in the city at this time, the boys were treated civilly enough and wished god speed and a safe return. they were the more quickly dismissed that the sound of wheels rumbling up to the gate made itself heard, and the guard darted hastily away into his shelter. "these plague carts will be the death of us, passing continually all the night through with their load," he said. "best be gone before it comes through, lads. it carries death in its train." the boys were glad enough to make off, and found themselves for the time being free of houses in the pleasant open moor fields, which were familiar to them as the favourite gathering place of shopmen and apprentices on all high days and holidays. the moon shone down brightly again, although near her setting now; but before long the dawn would begin to lighten in the east, and the boys cared no whit for the semi-darkness of a summer's night. behind them still came the rumble of wheels, and they drew aside to let the cart pass with its dreadful cargo. behind it ran a small black object, and benjamin exclaimed: "it is the little dog! o brother, let us follow and see what becomes of him!" the strange curiosity to see the burying place, which tempted only too many to their death in those perilous days, was upon joseph at that moment. he desired greatly to see one of those plague pits, and to watch the emptying of the cart at its mouth. forgetting their father's warnings, the brothers ran quickly after the cart, which was easily kept in view, and soon saw it halt and turn round at a spot where they could discern the outline of a great mound of earth, and the black yawning mouth of what they knew must be the pit. half terrified, half fascinated, they gripped each other by the hand and crept step by step nearer. they took care to keep to the windward of the pit, and were getting very near to it when the air was rent by another of the doleful cries which they had heard before, but which sounded so strange and mournful here that they stopped short in terror at the noise. it seemed even to affect the nerves of the bearers, for one of them exclaimed: "it is that cur again, who has left the marks of his teeth in my hand. if i could but get near him with my cudgel, he should never howl again." "i thought we had rid ourselves of the brute, but he must have followed us. a plague upon his doleful voice! they say that it bodes ill to hear a dog's howl at night. perchance he will leap down into the pit after his master. we will take good care he comes not forth again if he does that." with these words the rough fellows turned to the cart, which was now at the edge of the pit, and finished the rude burial which was all that could in those days be given to the dead. every now and then one of the men would aim a heavy stone at the poor dog, who sat on the edge of the pit howling dismally. the creature, however, was never hit, for he kept a respectful distance from his enemies. their work done, the men got into the cart and drove away, without having noticed the two boys crouching beside the pile of soil in the shadow. the dog began running backwards and forwards along the edge of the pit, which being only lately dug was still deep, though filling up very fast in these terrible days of drought and heat. the boys rose up and called to him kindly. he did not notice them at first, but finally came, and looked up in their faces with appealing eyes, as though he begged of them to give him back his master. "touch him not, ben," said joseph to his brother, who would have taken the dog into his embrace, "he has been in a plague stricken house. let us coax him to yon pool, and wash him there; and then, if he will go with us, we will take him and welcome. it may be he will be a safeguard from danger; and it would be sorrowful indeed to leave him here." the dog was divided in mind between watching the pit's mouth and going with the kindly-spoken boys, who coaxed and called to him; but at last it seemed as though the loneliness of the place, and the natural instinct of the canine mind to follow something human, prevailed over the other instinct of watching for the return of his master from this strange resting place. perhaps the journey in the cart and the promiscuous burial had confused the poor beast's mind as to whether indeed his master lay there at all. with many wistful glances backwards, he still followed the boys; and when they paused at length beside a spring of fresh water, he needed little urging to jump in and refresh himself with a bath, emerging thence in better spirits and ravenously hungry, as they quickly found when they opened their wallet and partook of a part of the excellent provisions packed up for them by their mother. the young travellers were by this time both tired and sleepy, and finding near by a soft mossy bank, they lay down and were quickly asleep, whilst the dog curled himself up contentedly at their feet and slept also. when the boys awoke the sun was up, although it was still early morning. they were bewildered for a few moments to know where they were, but memory quickly returned to them, and with it a sense of exhilaration at being no longer cooped up within the walls of a house, but out in the open country, with the world before them and the plague-stricken city behind. even the presence of the dog, who proved to be a handsome and intelligent member of his race, black and tan in colour, with appealing eyes and a quick comprehension of what was spoken to him, added greatly to the pleasure of the lads. they gave their new companion the name of fido, as a tribute to his affection for his dead master; but they were very well pleased that he did not carry his fidelity to the pass of remaining behind by the great pit when they started forth to pursue their way to their aunt's house beyond islington. fido ran backwards and forwards for a while whining and looking pathetically sorrowful; but after the boys had coaxed and caressed him, and had explained many times over that his master could not possibly come back, he seemed to resign himself to the inevitable, and trotted at their heels with drooping tail, but with gratitude in his eyes whenever they paused to caress him or give him a kind word. and they were glad enough of his company along the road, for from time to time they met groups of very rough-looking men prowling about as though in search of plunder. some of these fellows eyed the wallets carried by the boys with covetous glances; but on such occasions fido invariably placed himself in front of his young masters, and with flashing eyes and bristling back plainly intimated that he was there to protect them, whilst the gleaming rows of shining teeth which he displayed when he curled up his lips in a threatening snarl seemed to convince all parties that it was better not to provoke him to anger. the more open parts of the region without the walls looked very strange to the boys as they journeyed onwards. numbers of tents were to be seen dotted about finsbury and moor fields and whole families were living there in the hope of escaping contagion. country people from regions about came daily with their produce to supply the needs of these nomads; and it was curious to see the precautions taken on both sides to avoid personal contact. the villagers would deposit their goods upon large stones set up for the purpose; and after they had retired to a little distance, some persons from the tents or scattered houses would come and take the produce, depositing payment for it in a jar of vinegar set there to receive it. after it had thus lain a short time, the vendor would come and take it thence; but some were so cautious that they would not place it in purse or pocket till they had passed it through the fire of a little brazier which they had with them. nor was it to be wondered at that the country folks were thus cautious, for the contagion had spread throughout all the surrounding districts, and every village had its tale of woe to tell. at first the people had been kind and compassionate enough in welcoming and harbouring apparently sound persons fleeing from the city of destruction; but when again and again it happened that the wayfarer died that same night of the plague in the house which had received him, and infected many of those who had showed him kindness, so that sometimes a whole family was swept away in two or three days, it was no wonder that they were afraid of offering hospitality to wayfarers, and preferred that these persons should encamp at a distance from them, though they were willing to supply them with the necessaries of life at reasonable charges. it must be spoken to the credit of the country people at this time, that they did not raise the price of provisions, as might have been expected, seeing the risk they ran in taking them to the city. there was no scarcity and hardly any advance in price throughout the dismal time of visitation. this was doubtless due, in part, to the wise and able measures taken by the magistrates and city corporations; but it also redounds to the credit of the villagers, that they did not strive to enrich themselves through the misfortunes of their neighbours. the boys were glad to purchase fruit and milk for a light breakfast; and their fresh open faces and tender years seemed to give them favour wherever they went. they were not shunned, as some travellers found themselves at this time, but were admitted to several farm houses on their way, and regaled plentifully, whilst they told their tale to a circle of breathless listeners. sometimes they were stopped upon the way by the men told off to watch the roads, and turn back any coming from the city who had not the proper pass of health. but the boys, being duly provided with this, were always suffered to proceed after some parley. they began, however, to understand how difficult a thing it had now become to escape from the infected city; and several times they saw travellers turned back because their passes were dated a few days back, and the guard declared it impossible to know what infection they had encountered since. very sad indeed were these poor creatures at being, as it were, sent back to their death. for it began to be rumoured all about the city that not a living creature would escape who remained there. it was said that god's judgments had gone forth, and that the whole place would be given over to destruction, even as sodom, and that none who remained in it would be left alive. this sort of talk made the brothers very anxious and sorrowful, but, as joseph sought to remind his brother, the people who said these things had nothing better to go by than the prognostications of old women or quacks and astrologers, whom their father had taught them to disbelieve. he had always taught them that god alone knew the future and the thing that he would do, and that it was folly and presumption on the part of man to seek to penetrate his counsels, and venture to prophesy things which he had not revealed. so they plucked up heart, these two youthful wayfarers, firmly believing that god would take care of their father and all those who were working in the cause of mercy and charity in the great city, and that they could leave the issues of these things in his hands. since the day was very hot, and they were somewhat weary with their long walk and short night, they lay down at noontide in a little wood, not more than three miles from their aunt's house in islington, and there they slept again, with fido at their feet, until the sun was far in the west, and they were ready to finish their journey in the cool freshness of the evening. they had come by no means the nearest way, but had fetched a wide circuit, so as to avoid, as far as possible, all regions of outlying houses. time was no particular object to them, so that they reached their destination by nightfall; and now they were quite in the open country, and delighting in the pure air and the rural sights and sounds. yet even here all was not so happy and smiling as appeared from the face of nature. the corn was standing ripe for the sickle, but in too many districts there were not hands enough to reap it. one beautiful field of wheat which the brothers passed was shedding the golden grain from the ripened ears, and flocks of birds were gathering it up. when they passed the farmstead they saw the reason for this. not a sign of life was there about the place. no cattle lowed, no dog barked; and an old crone who sat by the wayside with a bundle of ripe ears in her lap shook her head as she saw the wondering faces of the boys, and said: "all dead and gone! all dead and gone! alive one day--dead the next! the plague carried them off, every one of them, harvest hands and all. they say it was the men who came to cut the corn that brought it. but who can tell? they got yon field in"--pointing to one where the golden stubble was to be seen short and compact--"but half were dead ere ever it was down; and then the sickness fell upon the house, and of those who did not fly not one remains. lord have mercy upon us! we be all dead men if he come not to our aid. who knows whose turn may come next?" truly the shadow of death seemed everywhere. but the boys were so used to dismal tales of wholesale devastation that one more or less did not seem greatly to matter. perhaps the contrast was the more sharp out here between the smiling landscape and the silent, shut-up house; but the chief fear which beset them was lest their kind aunt should have been taken by death, in which case they scarcely knew what would become of themselves. they hastened their steps as they entered the familiar lane where nestled the thatched cottage in which their aunt had her abode. mary harmer was their father's youngest and favourite sister. once she had made one of the home party on the bridge; but that was long before the boys could remember. that was in the lifetime of their grandparents, and before the old people resigned their business to the able hands of their son james, and came into the country to live. the grandfather of joseph and benjamin had built this cottage, and he and his wife had lived in it from that time till the day of their death. their daughter mary remained still in the pretty, commodious place--if indeed she had not died during the time of the visitation. the children all loved their aunt mary, and esteemed a visit to her house as one of the greatest of privileges. benjamin, who was rather delicate, had once passed six months together here, and was called by mary harmer "her boy." he grew excited as he marked every familiar turn in the shady lane; and when at last the thatched roof of the rose-covered cottage came in sight, he uttered a shout of excitement and ran hastily forward. the diamond lattice panes were shining with their accustomed cleanliness. there was no sign of neglect about the bright little house. the door stood open to the sunshine and the breeze; and at the sound of benjamin's cry, a figure in a neat cotton gown and large apron appeared suddenly in the doorway, whilst a familiar voice exclaimed: "now god be praised! it is my own boy. two of them! thank heaven for so much as this!" and running down the garden path, mary harmer folded both the lads in her arms, tears coursing down her cheeks the while. "god bless them! god bless them! how i have longed for news of you all! what news from home bring you, dear lads? i tremble almost to ask, but be it what it may, two of you are alive and well; and in times like these we must needs learn to say, 'thy will be done!'" "we are all alive, we are all well!" cried joseph, hastening to relieve the worst of his aunt's fears. "some say ours is almost the only house in london where there be not one dead. i scarce know if that be true. one or two of us have been sick, and some say that janet and dan have both had a touch of the distemper; but they soon were sound again. they all go about amongst the sick. father has been one of the examiners all the time through; and though they only appoint them for a month, he will not give up his office. he says that so long as he and his family are preserved, so long will he strive to do his duty towards his fellow men. there be many like him--our good lord mayor for one; and my lord craven, who will not fly, as almost all the great ones have done, but stays to help to govern the city wisely, and to see that the alms are distributed aright to the poor at this season. "but there was naught for us to do. we were too young to be bearers or searchers, and boys cannot tend the sick. so we grew weary past bearing of the shut-up house, and yestereve our father gave us leave to sally forth and seek news of thee, good aunt. and oh, we are right glad to find ourselves out of the city and safe with thee!" joseph spoke on, because mary harmer was weeping so plenteously with joy and gratitude that she had no words in which to answer him. she had not dared to hope that she should see again any of the dear faces of her kinsfolk. true, the distemper was yet raging fiercely, and none could say when the end would come; but it was much to know that they had lived in safety through these many weeks. it seemed to the pious woman as though god had given her a sort of pledge of his special mercy to her and hers, and that he would not now fail them. she led the boys into her pretty, cheerful cottage, and set them down to the table, where she quickly had a plentiful meal set before them. fido's pathetic story was told, and he was caressed and fed in a fashion that altogether won his heart. he made them all laugh at his method of showing gratitude; for he walked up to the fire before which a bit of meat was cooking, and plainly intimated his desire to be allowed to turn the spit if they would give him the needful convenience. this being done by the handy benjamin, he set to his task with the greatest readiness, and the boys quite forgot all their sorrowful thoughts in the entertainment of watching fido turn the spit. long did they sit at table, eating with the healthy appetite of growing lads, and answering their aunt's minute questions as to the welfare of every member of the household. greatly was she interested in the home for desolate children provided by lady scrope, and ordered by her nieces and gertrude. she told the boys that her house had often been used to shelter homeless and destitute persons, whom charity forbade her to send away. just now she was alone; but even then she was not idle, for all round in the open fields and woods persons of all conditions were living encamped, and some of these had hardly the necessaries of life. out of her own modest abundance, mary harmer supplied food and clothing to numbers of poor creatures, who might otherwise be in danger of perishing; and she bid the boys be ready to help her in her labour of love, because she had ofttimes more to do than one pair of hands could accomplish, and her little serving girl had run off in alarm the very first time she opened her door to a poor sick lady with an infant in her arms, who had escaped from the city only to die out in the country. it was not the plague that carried her off, but lung disease of long standing, and the infant did not survive its mother many days. "but it frightened sally away, poor child, just as if it had been the sickness; and i have since heard that she was taken with it a month ago in her own home, and that every one there died within three days. these be terrible times! but we know they are sent by god, and that he will help us through them; and surely, i think, it cannot be his will that we turn a deaf ear to the plaints of the afflicted, and think of naught but our own safety. i have work and enough to do, and will find you enough to fill your hands, boys. it was a happy thought indeed which sent you two hither to me." chapter xi. love in difficulties. "it means that i am a ruined man, my poor girl!" "ruined! o father, how can that be? methought you were a man of much substance. mother always said so." gertrude looked anxiously into the careworn face of her father, which had greatly changed during the past weeks. he paid her occasional visits in her self-chosen home, being one of those who had ceased to fear contagion, and went about almost without precaution, from sheer indifference to the long-continued peril. he had been a changed man ever since the melancholy deaths of his son and his wife; but today a darker cloud than any she had seen there before rested upon his brow, and the daughter was anxious to learn the reason of it. this it was which had wrung from the master builder the foregoing confession. "your poor mother was partly right, and partly wrong. i might have been a rich man, i might be a rich man even now--terrible as is the state of trade in this stricken city--had it not been that she would have me adventure beyond my means in her haste to see me wealthy before my fellows. and the end of it is that i stand here today a ruined man!" gertrude held in her arms a little child, over whom she bent from time to time to assure herself that it slept. her face had grown pale and thin during her long confinement between the walls of this house; yet it was a happier and more contented face than it had been wont to be in the days when she lived in luxurious idleness at her mother's side. she looked many years older than she had done then, but there was a beauty and sweet serenity about her appearance now which had not been visible in the days of old. "what has happened during this sad time to ruin you, dear father?" asked gertrude gently, guessing that it would ease his heart to talk of his troubles. "is it the sudden stoppage of all trade?" "that has been serious enough. it would have done much harm had that been the only thing, but there be many, many other causes. thou art too young and unversed in the ways of business to understand all; but i was not content to grow rich in the course of business alone. i had ventures of all sorts afloat--on sea and on land; and through the death of patrons, through the sudden stoppage of all trade, numbers and numbers of these have come to no good. my money is lost; my loans cannot be recovered. men are dead or fled to whom i looked for payment. half-finished houses are thrown back on my hands, since half london is empty. and poor frederick's debts are like the sands upon the seashore. i cannot meet them, but i cannot let others suffer for his imprudence and folly. the old house on the bridge will have to go. i must needs sell it so soon as a purchaser can be found. it may be i shall have to hand it over to one of frederick's creditors bodily. i had thought to end my days there in peace, with my children's children round me. but the almighty is dealing very bitterly with me. wife and son are taken away, and now the old home must follow!" gertrude, who knew his great love for the house in which he had been born, well understood what a fearful wrench this would be, and her heart overflowed with compassion. "o father! must it be so? is there no way else? methought you had stores of costly goods laid by in your warehouses. surely the sale of those things would save you from this last step!" the master builder smiled a little bitterly. "truly is it said that wealth takes to itself wings in days of adversity. i myself thought as you do, child--at least in part; and today i visited my warehouses, to look over my goods and see what there were to fetch when men will dare to buy things which have lain within the walls of this doomed city all these months. i had the keys of the place. i myself locked them up when the plague forced me to close my warehouse and dismiss my men. i saw all made sure, as i thought, with my own eyes. but what think you i found there today?" "o father! what?" asked gertrude, and yet she divined the answer all too well; for she had heard stories of robbery and daring wickedness even during this season of judgment and punishment which prepared her for the worst. "that the whole place had been plundered; that there was nothing left of any price whatever. thieves have broken in during this time of panic, and have despoiled me of the value of thousands of pounds. whilst my mind has been full of other matters, my worldly wealth has been swept away. i stand here before you a ruined man. and like enough the very miscreants who have used this time of public calamity for plunder and lawlessness may be lying by this time in the common grave. but that will not give my property back to me." "alas, father, these are indeed evil days! but has no watch been kept upon the streets that such acts can be done by the evil disposed? is all property in the city at the mercy of the violent and wicked?" "only too much has vanished that same way, as i have heard from many. some owners are themselves gone where they will need their valuables no more, and others were careful to remove all they had to their own houses, or they themselves lived over their goods and could guard them by their presence. that is where my error lay. i gave your mother her will in this. she liked not the shop beneath, and i stored my goods elsewhere. poor woman, she is dead and gone; we will speak no hard things of her weaknesses and follies. but had she lived to see this day, she had grievously lamented her resolve to have naught about her to remind her of buying and selling." "ah, poor mother! i often think it was the happiest thing for her to be taken ere these fearful things came to pass. the terror would well nigh have driven her distracted. methinks she would have died of sheer fright. but, father, is all lost past recovery? can none of the watch or of the constables tell you aught, or help you to recover aught?" "ah, child, in these days of death, who is to know so much as where to carry one's questions? watchmen and constables have died and changed a score of times in the past two months. the magistrates do their best to keep order in the city, but who can fight against the odds of such a time as this? the very men employed as watchmen may be the thieves themselves. they have to take the services of almost any who offer. it is no time to pick and choose. i carried my story to the lord mayor himself, and he gave me sympathy and pity; but to look for the robbers is a hopeless task. it is most like that the plague pits have received them ere now. the mortality in the lower parts of the city is more fearful than it has ever been, and it seems as though the summer heats would never end. belike i shall be taken next, and then it will matter little that my fortune has taken unto itself wings." gertrude came and bent over him with a soft caress. "say not so, dear father. god has preserved us all this while. let us not distrust his love and goodness now." "it might be the greater mercy," answered the master builder in a depressed voice. "i am too old to start life again with nothing but my broken credit for capital. as for you, child, your future is assured. i could leave you happy in that thought. you would want for nothing." gertrude raised her eyes wonderingly to her father's face. she had laid the sleeping child in its cot, and had taken a place at her father's feet. "what mean you, father?" she asked. "i have only you in the wide world now. if you were to die, i should be both orphaned and destitute. what mean you by speaking of my future thus? whom have i in the wide world besides yourself?" the father passed his hand over her curly hair, and answered with a sigh and a smile: "surely, child, thou dost know by this time that the heart of reuben harmer is all thine own. he worships the very ground on which thou dost tread. his father and i have spoken of it. fortune has dealt more kindly with our neighbours than with me. good james harmer has laid by money, while i have adventured it rashly in the hope of large returns. this calamity has but checked his work for these months; when the scourge is past, he will reopen business once more, and will find himself but little the poorer. he is a wiser man than i have been; and his wife and sons have all been helpful to him. the love of reuben harmer is my assurance for thy future welfare. thou wilt never want so long as they have a roof over their heads. "nay, now what ails thee, child? why dost thou spring up and look at me like that?" for gertrude's usually tranquil face was ablaze now with all manner of conflicting emotions. she seemed for a moment almost too agitated to speak, and when she could command herself there were traces of great emotion in her voice. "father, father!" she cried, "how can you thus shame me? you must know with what unmerited scorn and contumely reuben was treated by poor mother when it was we who were rich and they who were (in her belief, at least) poor. she would scarce let him cross the threshold of our house. i have tingled with shame at the way in which she spoke of and to him. frederick openly insulted him at pleasure. every slight was heaped upon him; and he was once told to his very face that he might look elsewhere for a wife, for that my fortune was to win me the hand of some needy court gallant. yes, father, i heard with my own ears those very words spoken--save that the term 'needy' was added in mine own heart. oh, i could have shrunk into the earth with shame. and after all this, after all these insults and aspersions heaped upon him in the day of our prosperity--am i to be made over to him penniless and needy, without a shilling of dowry? am i to be thrown upon his generosity in my hour of poverty, when i was denied to him in my day of supposed wealth? "father, father! i cannot, i will not permit it. i can work for my own bread if needs must be. but i will not owe it to the generosity of reuben harmer, after all that has passed. i should be humbled to the very dust!" the master builder looked at his daughter in amaze. he had never seen gertrude quite so moved before. "why, child," he exclaimed in astonishment. "i always thought that thou hadst a liking for the youth!" then at that word gertrude burst suddenly into tears and cried: "i love him as mine own soul, and i am not ashamed to own it. but that is the very reason why i will have none of him now. i will not be thrown upon his generosity like a bundle of damaged goods. let him seek a wife who can bring him a modest fortune with her, and who has never been scornfully denied to him before. o father! can you not see that i can never consent to be his now? "o mother, mother! why did you do me this ill?" the father felt that the situation had got beyond him. never much versed in the ways of women, he was fairly puzzled by his daughter's strange method of taking his confidence. he knew, of course, of the tactics of his wife, which he had deplored at the time, though he had been unable to bring her to a better frame of mind; but since the young people liked each other, and since madam was in her grave, it seemed absurd to let a shadow stand between them and their happiness. perhaps if left to herself gertrude would reach that conclusion of her own accord, and the master builder rose to go without pressing the matter further. gertrude, left alone, was weeping silently and bitterly beside the child's cot, when she was aware of a little short laugh almost at her elbow, and a familiar voice said in sharp accents: "good child! i like a woman with a spirit of her own. go on as you have begun, and don't let him think he is to have it all his own way. lovers are all very well, but husbands soon show their wives how cheap they hold them when they have won them all too cheap. throw him aside in scorn! let him not think or see that you care a snap of the fingers for him. that will rivet the fetters all the faster; and when you have got him like a tame bear at the end of a chain--why then you can make up your mind at leisure what you will end by doing." gertrude sprang up suddenly, and faced lady scrope with flushed cheeks and glowing eyes. the little witch-like woman with her black-handled stick and her mobcap was no unfrequent visitor to this shut-up house. there was a communication between the two dwellings by means of a door in the cellars, and all this while curiosity, or some better motive, had prompted the eccentric old woman to come to and fro between her own luxurious house and this, paying visits to the devoted girls, and by turns terrifying and charming the children. gertrude had been interested from the first by the piquant individuality of the old aristocrat, and was a decided favourite with her. it was plain now that she had been listening to the conversation between father and daughter, a thing so characteristic of her curiosity and even of her benevolence that gertrude hardly so much as resented it. nevertheless, having a spirit of her own, and being by no means prepared to be dictated to in these matters, some hot words escaped her lips almost before she knew, and were answered by lady scrope by an amused peal of her witch-like laughter. "tut! tut! tut! hoity toity! but she is in a temper, is she, my lady? well a good thing too. your saints are insipid unless they can call up a spice of the devil on occasion! oh, don't you be afraid of me, child. i've known all about you and young harmer this long time. i agree with your late mother, that you could do better; but with all the world topsy turvy as it is now, we must take what we can get; and that young man is estimable without doubt, and a bit of a hero in his way. i don't blame you for loving him. it's the way with maids, and will be to the end of time, i take it. all i say is, don't throw yourself away too fast. show a proper pride. keep him dangling and fearing, rather than hoping too much. show him that he can't have you just for the asking. why, child, i have kept a dozen fools hanging round me for a twelvemonth together sometimes; but i only married when i was tired of the game, and when i knew i had made sure of a captive who would not rebel. i swore in church to obey poor scrope; but, bless you, he obeyed me like a lamb to the last day of his life--and was all the better for it." lady scrope's reminiscences and bits of worldly wisdom were not much more to gertrude's taste than her father's had been. it was not pride, but a sense of humiliation and shame, which kept her from facing the thought of marriage with reuben now that she was poor, when she had been scornfully denied to him when she was thought to be a well-dowered maiden. the idea of keeping him dangling after her in suspense was about the last that would ever have entered her head. her feeling was one of profound humiliation and unworthiness. her mother's bitter words could never be forgotten by her; and after what her father had told her of his ruined state, it appeared to her simply impossible that she should let reuben take possession of her and her future when she could bring nothing in return. but she could not speak of these things to lady scrope; and finding her favourite irresponsive and reserved, the dame shrugged her shoulders and passed on to another room, where the children were soon heard to utter shrieks and gasps of mingled delight and terror at the stories she told them, which stories invariably fascinated them to an extraordinary degree, yet left them with a sense of undefined horror that was half delightful, half terrible. they all thought that she was a witch, and that she could spirit any of them away to fairy land. but since she brought sweetmeats in her capacious pockets, and had an endless fund of stories at her disposal, her visits were always welcomed, and she had certainly shown herself capable of a most unsuspected benevolence at this crisis, in presenting this house to the authorities for such a purpose, and in contributing considerably to the maintenance of the desolate little inmates. she liked to hear their dismal stories almost as well as they liked to hear hers. she made a point of visiting every fresh batch of children, after they had been duly fumigated and disinfected, and she seemed to take a horrible and unnatural delight in the ghastly details of desolation and death which were revealed in the artless narratives of the children. she was one of those who, knowing much of the fearful corruption of the times, were fond of prognosticating this judgment as a sweeping away of the dregs of the earth; although she still maintained that had the water supply been purer and differently arranged, the judgment of heaven would have had to seek another medium. for three or four days gertrude lived in a state of feverish expectancy and subdued excitement. she had fancied from her father's tone in speaking that there had been some talk of a betrothal between him and his neighbour, and that reuben might take her consent for granted. the idea made her restless and unhappy. she wished the ordeal of refusing him over. she believed she was right in taking this step; but it was a hard one, and she was sometimes afraid of her own courage. the more she thought of the matter the more she convinced herself that reuben's love was one of compassion rather than true affection. he had almost ceased his attentions in her mother's lifetime, and had been very reserved in his intercourse of late. doubtless if he heard of her father's ruin, generosity would make him strive to do all that he could for her in her changed circumstances. it would be like him then to step forward and avow himself ready to marry her. but it was out of the question for her to consent. she wished the matter settled and done with; she wished the irrevocable words spoken. and yet when at dusk one evening reuben suddenly stood before her, she felt her heart beating to suffocation, and wished that she had any reasonable excuse for fleeing from him. his visits to the house were not frequent; he was too busy to make them so. but from time to time he brought orphaned children to the home of shelter, or took away from it some of those for whom other homes had been found with their kinsfolk in other places. tonight he had brought in three little destitute orphans; but having given them over into the care of his sisters, he went in search of gertrude, who was with the youngest of the children in a separate room, and, having sung them all to sleep, was sitting in the window thinking her own thoughts. she knew what was coming when she saw reuben's face, and braced herself to meet it. reuben was very quiet and self-restrained--so self-restrained that she thought she read in his manner an indication that her suspicion was correct, and that it was pity rather than love which prompted his proposal of marriage. as a matter of fact reuben was more in love with gertrude now than he had ever been in his life before; but he had come to look upon her as a being so far above him in every respect that he sometimes marvelled at himself for ever hoping to win her. the fact that her father was just now a ruined man seemed to him as nothing. at a time like this the presence or absence of this world's goods appeared absolutely trivial. reuben believed that the master builder would retrieve his fortune in better times without difficulty, and regarded this temporary reverse as absolutely insignificant. therefore he had no clue to gertrude's motive in her rejection of him, and accepted it almost in silence, feeling that it was what he always ought to have looked for, and marvelling at his temerity in seeking the hand of one who was to him more angel than woman. he said very little; he took it very quietly. it seemed to him as though all the life went out of him, and as though hope died within him for ever. but he scarcely showed any outward emotion as he rose and said farewell; and little did he guess how, when he had gone, gertrude flung herself on the floor in a passion of tears and sobbed till the fountain of her weeping was exhausted. "i was right! i was right! it was not love; it was only pity! but ah, how terrible it is to put aside all the happiness of one's life! oh i wonder if i have done wrong! i wonder if i could better have borne it if i had humbled myself to take what he had to offer, without thinking of anything but myself!" would he come again? would he try to see her any more? would this be the end of everything between them? gertrude asked herself these questions a thousand times a day; but a week flew by and he had not come. she had not seen a sign of him, nor had any word concerning him reached her from without. there was nothing very unusual in this, certainly; and yet as day after day passed by without bringing him, the girl felt her heart sinking within her, and would have given worlds for the chance of reconsidering her well-considered judgment. how the days went by she scarcely knew, but the next event in her dream-like life was the sudden bursting into the room of dorcas, her face flushed, and her eyelids swollen and red with weeping. dorcas was a member of lady scrope's household, but paid visits from time to time to the other house. also, as lady scrope's house was not shut up, she could go thence to pay a visit home at any time, and she had just come from one such visit now. gertrude sprang up at sight of her, asking anxiously: "dorcas! dorcas! what is wrong?" "reuben!" cried dorcas, with a great catch in her breath, and then she fell sobbing again as though her heart would break. gertrude stood like one turned to stone, her face growing as white as her kerchief. "what of reuben?" she asked, in a voice that she hardly knew for her own. "he is not--dead?" "pray heaven he be not," cried dorcas through her sobs; and then, with a great effort controlling herself, she told her brief tale. "i went home at noon today and found them all in sore trouble. reuben has not been seen or heard of for three days. mother says she had a fear for several days before that that something was amiss; he looked so wan, and ate so little, and seemed like one out of whom all heart is gone. he would go forth daily to his work, but he came home harassed and tired, and on the last morning she thought him sick; but he said he was well, and promised to come home early. then she let him go, and no one has seen him since. "oh, what can have befallen him? there seems but one thing to believe. they say the sickness is worse now than ever it was. people drop down dead in street and market, and soon there will be none left to bury them. that must have been reuben's fate. he has dropped down with the infection upon him, and if he be not lying in some pest house--which they say it is death now to enter--he must be lying in one of those awful graves. "o reuben! reuben! we shall never see you again!" chapter xii. exciting discoveries. joseph and benjamin found themselves exceedingly happy and exceedingly well occupied in their aunt's pleasant cottage. they rose every morning with the lark, and spent an hour in setting everything to rights in the house, and sweeping out every room with scrupulous care, as their mother had taught them to do at home, believing that perfect cleanliness was one of the greatest safeguards against infection. hot and close though the weather remained, the air out in these open country places seemed delicious to the boys, and the freedom to run out every moment into the open fields was in itself a privilege which could only be appreciated by those who had been long confined within walls. sometimes they were alone in the house with their aunt. sometimes the cottage harboured guests of various degrees--travellers fleeing from the doomed city in terror of the fearful mortality there, or poor unfortunates turned away from their own abodes because they were suspected of having been in contact with the sick, and were refused admittance again. servant maids were often put in this melancholy plight. they would be sent upon errands by their employers to the bake house or some other place; and perhaps ere they were admitted again they would be closely questioned as to what they had seen or heard. sometimes having terrible and doleful tales to tell of having seen persons fall down in the agonies of death almost at their feet, terror would seize hold upon the inmates of the house, who would refuse to open the door to one who might by this time be herself infected. and when this was the case, the forlorn creature was forced to wander away, and generally tried to find her way out of the city and into the country beyond. many such unlucky wights, having no passes, were turned back by the guardians of the road; but some succeeded in evading these men, or else in persuading them, and many such unfortunates had found rest and help and shelter beneath mary harmer's charitable roof. september was now come, but as yet there was no abatement of the pestilence raging in the city. indeed the accounts coming in of the virulence of the plague seemed worse than ever. ten thousand deaths were returned in the weekly bill for the first week alone, and those who knew the state of the city were of opinion that not more than two-thirds of the deaths were ever really reported to the authorities. hitherto the carts had never gone about save by night, and for all that was rumoured by those who loved to make the worst of so terrible a calamity, it was seldom that a corpse lay about in the streets for above a short while, just until notice of its presence there was given to the authorities. but now it seemed as though nothing could cope with the fearful increase of the mortality. the carts were forced to work by day as well as by night; and so virulent was now the pestilence that the bearers and buriers who had hitherto escaped, or had recovered of the malady and thought themselves safe, died in great numbers. so that there were tales of carts overthrown in the streets by reason of the drivers of them falling dead upon their load, or of driverless horses going of their own accord to the pits with their load. these terrible tales were reported to mary harmer and her nephews by the fugitives who sought refuge with her at this time. and very thankful did the lads feel to be free of the city and its terrors, albeit they never forgot to offer up earnest prayer for their father and mother and all their dear ones who were dwelling in the midst of so much peril. there was no hope of hearing news of them, save by hazard, whilst things were like this; but they trusted that the precautions taken, and hitherto successfully, would avert the pestilence from their dwelling, and for the rest the boys were too well employed to have time for brooding. when their daily work at home was done, there were always errands of mercy to be performed to neighbours who had had sickness at home, or to the persons encamped in the fields, who were very thankful of any little presents of vegetables or eggs or other necessaries; whilst others of larger means were glad to buy from those who came to sell, and gave good money for the accommodation. mary harmer had a large and productive garden and a large stock of poultry, so that she was able both to sell and to give largely; and the boys thought that working in the garden and looking after the fowls was the best sort of fun possible. they were exceedingly useful to her, and she kept them out of danger without fretting or curbing their eager spirit of usefulness. of course, no person in those days could act with unselfish charity and not adventure something; but she took all reasonable precautions, and, like her brother, trusted the rest to providence. and she believed that the boys were safer with her, even though not so closely restrained, than they would have been had they remained in the infected city, where the people now seemed to be dying like stricken sheep. but the spirit of curiosity and love of adventure were not dead within the hearts of the boys; and although for some weeks they were fully contented in performing the duties set them by their aunt, there were moments when a strong curiosity would come over them for some greater sensation, and this it was which led them to an act of disobedience destined to be fraught with important consequences, as will soon be seen. mary harmer's house was empty again, and she had promised to sit up for a night with a sick woman who lived some two miles off, and who had entreated her to come and see her. this was no case of plague, but fear of the infection had become so strong by this time that the sick were often rather harshly treated, and sometimes almost entirely neglected, by those about them. mary harmer had heard that this poor creature had been left alone by her son's wife, who had taken away her children and refused to go near her. mary knew that her presence there for a while, and her assurances as to the nature of the malady, would be most likely to bring the woman to reason, so she decided to go and remain for one whole night, and she left her own cottage in the charge of the boys, bidding them take care of everything, and expect her back again on the following afternoon. they were quite happy all that evening, seeing to the poultry, and running races with fido in the leafy lane. they liked the importance of the charge of the house, although they missed the gentle presence of their aunt. they shut up the house at dark, and prepared their simple supper, and whilst they were eating it, benjamin said: "what shall we do tomorrow when we have finished our work?" "i know what i should like to do," said joseph promptly. "what, brother?" asked benjamin eagerly. "marry, what i want to do is to go and see that farm house hard by clerkenwell which they have turned into a pest house, and where they say they have dozens of plague-stricken people brought in daily. i have never seen a pest house. i would fain know what it looks like. and we might get more news there of the truth of those things that they say about the plague in the city. ben, what sayest thou?" ben's eyes were round with wonder and excitement. the boys had all the careless daring and eager curiosity which belong to boy nature. they were by this time so much habituated to living under conditions of risk and a certain amount of peril, that a little more or a little less did not now seem greatly to matter. "would our good aunt approve?" asked the younger boy. "i trow not," answered joseph frankly; "women are always timid, and she would say, perchance, that unless duty called us it were foolish to adventure ourselves into danger. but i would fain see this place, ben, boy. if in time to come we live to be men, and folks ask us of these days of peril and sickness, i should like to have seen all that may be seen of these great things. our father went many times to the pest houses within the city and came away no worse. why should thou or i suffer? we have our vinegar bottles and our decoctions, and methinks we know enough now not to run needless risks." benjamin was almost as eager and curious as his brother. the spirit of adventure soon gets into the hearts of boys and runs riot there. before they went to bed they had fully decided to make the excursion; and they rose earlier next morning so as to get all their work done while it was yet scarce light, so that they might start for their destination before the heat of the day came on. it was pleasant walking through the dewy fields, and hard indeed was it to imagine that death and misery lurked anywhere in the neighbourhood of what was so smiling and gay. the boys knew what paths to take, nor was the distance very great. benjamin on his former visit to his aunt had spent a day with the good people at this very farm house. now, alas, all had been swept away, and the place had been taken possession of for the time being by the authorities, to be used as a supplementary pest house, where the homeless sick could be temporarily housed. generally it was but for a few hours or a couple of days that such shelter was needed. the great common grave, barely a quarter of a mile away, received day by day the great majority of the unfortunate ones who were brought in. in all london proper there were only two pest houses used at this time, one on some fields beyond old street, and the other in westminster; but as the virulence of the distemper increased, and the suburbs became so terribly infected, and such numbers of persons fleeing this way and that would fall stricken by the wayside, it became necessary to find places of some sort where they could be received, and the authorities began to take possession of empty houses--generally farmsteads standing in a convenient but isolated position--and to use them for this melancholy purpose. it could not be expected that even the most charitable would receive plague-stricken wayfarers into their own families, nor would such a thing be right. yet they could not remain by the wayside to die and infect the air. so they were removed by the bearers appointed to that gruesome work to these smaller pest houses, and only too often from thence to the pit in the course of a few hours. "how pretty it all looks!" said benjamin, as they approached the place. "see, joseph, those are the great elm trees where the rooks build, and which i used to climb. when they cut the hay, i came often and rolled about in it and played with the boys from the farm. to think that they should all be dead and gone! alack! what strange times these be! it seems sometimes as though it were all a dream!" "i would it were!" said joseph, sobered by the thought of their near approach to the habitation of death. "ben, wouldst thou rather turn back and see no more? we have at least seen the outside of a pest house. shall that suffice us?" "nay, if we have come so far, let us go further," answered benjamin. "we have seen naught but the tiled roof and the green garden. come this way. there is a little gate by which we may gain entrance to a side door. perchance they will turn us back if we seek to enter at the front." the farm house looked peaceful enough nestling beneath its sheltering row of tall elms, in the midst of its wild garden, now a mass of autumnal bloom. but as they neared the house the boys heard dismal sounds issuing thence--the groans of sufferers beneath the hands of the physicians, who were often driven to use what seemed cruel measures to cause the tumours to break--the only chance of recovery for the patient--the shriek of some maddened or delirious patient, or the unintelligible murmur and babble from a multitude of sick. moreover, they inhaled the pungent fumes of the burning drugs and vinegar which alone made it possible to breathe the atmosphere tainted by so much pestilential sickness. the boys held their own bottles of vinegar to their noses as they stole towards the house, feeling a mingling of strong repulsion and strong curiosity as they approached the dismal stronghold of disease. although men were in these days becoming almost reckless, and those who actually nursed and tended the sick were naturally less cautious and less particular than others, yet it is probable that the daring boys might have been turned back had they approached the house by the ordinary entrance, for they certainly could not profess to have business there. as it was, however, thanks to benjamin's knowledge of the place, not a creature observed their quiet approach through the orchard and along a tangled garden path. this path brought them to a door, which stood wide open in this sultry weather, in order to let a free current of air pass through the house, and they inhaled more strongly still the aromatic perfumes, which were not yet strong enough entirely to overcome that other noisome odour which was one of the most fatal means of spreading infection from plague-stricken patients. "we can get into the great kitchen by this door," whispered benjamin. "i trow they will use it for the sick; it is the biggest room in all the house. yonder is the door. shall i open it?" joseph gave a sign of assent, but bid his brother not speak needlessly, and keep his handkerchief to his mouth and nose. they had both steeped their handkerchiefs in vinegar, and could inhale nothing save that pungent scent. burning with curiosity, yet half afraid of their own temerity, the boys stole through a half-open door into a great room lined with beds. the sound of moans, groans, shrieks, and prayers drowned all the noise their own entry might have made, and they stood in the shadow looking round them, quite unnoticed in the general confusion of that busy home of death. there were perhaps a score or more of sufferers in the great room, and two nurses moving about amongst them, quickly and in none too tender a fashion. a doctor was also there with a young man, his assistant; and at some bedsides he paused, whilst at others he gave a shake of the head, and went by without a word. indeed it seemed to the boys as though almost a quarter of the patients were dead men, they lay so still and rigid, and the purple patches upon the white skin stood out with such terrible distinctness. a man suddenly put in his head from the open door at the other end and asked of anybody who could answer him: "room for any more here?" and the doctor's assistant, looking round, replied: "room for four, if you will send and have these taken away." almost immediately there came in two men, who bore away four corpses from the place, and in five minutes more the beds were full again, and the nurses were calculating how soon it would be possible to receive more, some now here being obviously in a dying state. the bearers reported that the outer barn was full as well as all the house; but those without invariably died, whilst a portion of those brought in recovered. joseph and benjamin had seen enough for their own curiosity. it was a more terrible sight than they had anticipated, and they felt a great longing to get out of this stricken den into the purer air without. joseph had laid a hand on his brother's arm to draw him away, when he was alarmed by seeing his brother's eyes fixed upon the far corner of the room with such an extraordinary expression of amaze and horror, that for a moment he feared he must have been suddenly stricken by the plague and was going off into the awful delirium he had heard described. a poignant fear and remorse seized him, lest he had been the means of bringing his brother into this peril and having caused his attack, if indeed it were one, and he pulled him harder by the arm to get him away. but with a strange choked cry benjamin broke from him, and running across the room he flung himself upon his knees by the side of a bed, crying in a lamentable voice: "reuben--reuben--reuben!" it was joseph's turn now to gaze in horror and dismay. could that be reuben--that cadaverous, death-like creature, with the livid look of a plague patient, lying like one in a trance which can only end in the awakening of death? was benjamin dreaming? or was it really their brother? but how could he by any possibility be here, so far away from home, so utterly beyond the limits of his own district? the doctor had approached benjamin and had pulled him back from the bedside quickly, though not unkindly. "what are you doing here, child?" he said. "have we not enough upon our hands without having sound persons mad enough to seek to add to the numbers of the sick? is he a relation of yours? "well, well, well, he will be looked after here better than you can do it. your brother? well, he has been four days here, and is one of those i have hope for. the tumours have discharged. he is suffering now from weakness and fever; but he might get well, especially if we could move him out of this pestilential air. go home, children, and tell your friends that if they have a place to take him to he will not infect them now, and will have a better chance. but you must not linger here. it may be death to you; though it is true enough that many come seeking their friends who go away and take no hurt. no one can say who is safe and who is not. but get you gone, get you gone. your brother shall be well looked to, i say. we have none so many who recover that we can afford to let those slip back for whom there is a chance!" he had pushed the boys by this time into the garden, and was speaking to them there. he was a kind man, if blunt, and habit had not bred indifference in him to the sufferings of those about him. he told the boys that one of the strangest features about the plague patients was the rapid recovery they often made when once the poison was discharged by the breaking of the swellings, and the rapidity with which the infection ceased when these broken tumours had healed. reuben's case had seemed desperate enough when he was brought in, but now he was in a fair way of recovery. if he could be taken to better air, he would probably be a sound man quickly. even as he was, he might well recover. the boys looked at each other and said with one voice that they thought they knew of a house where he would be received, and got leave to remove him in a cart at any time. the doctor then hurried back to his work, whilst the brothers looked each other in the face, and benjamin said gravely: "methinks it must have been put into our hearts to go. aunt mary will forgive the temerity when she hears of the special providence." their aunt was at no great distance off, as benjamin knew. instead of going home, they found their way to a brook. pulling off their clothes, they proceeded to drag them over the sweet-scented meadow grass. then they plunged into the brook, and enjoyed a delightful paddle and bath in the clear cool water. after rolling themselves in the hot grass, and having a fine romp there with fido, they donned their garments, and felt indeed as though they had got rid of all germs of infection and disease. after this they made their way towards the cottage where their aunt had been staying, and met her just sallying forth to return home. without any hesitation or delay joseph told the tale of their hardihood and disobedience, and the strange discovery to which it had led them; and although their aunt trembled and looked pale with terror at the thought of how they had exposed themselves, she did not stop to chide them, but was full of anxiety for the immediate release of reuben from his pestilential prison, and eager to have him to nurse in her own house, if she could do this without risk to the younger boys. they were to the full as eager as she, and promised in everything to obey her--even to the sleeping and living in an outhouse for a few days, if only she would save reuben from that horrible pest house. none knew better than mary harmer, who was a notable nurse herself, how much might now depend upon pure air, nourishing food, and quiet; and how could her nephew receive much individual care when cooped up amongst scores, if not hundreds, of desperate cases? mary was so much beloved by all around, that she quickly found a farmer willing to lend a cart even for the purpose of removing a sick person from the pest house, if he bore the honoured name of harmer. she would not permit any person to accompany the cart, but drove it herself, and sent the boys home to prepare the airiest chamber and make all such preparations as they could think of beforehand; and to remove their own bedding into the outhouse, till she was assured that they were in no peril from the presence of their brother indoors. eagerly the boys worked at these tasks, and everything was in beautiful order when the cart drove up. one of the attendants from the pest house had come with it, and he carried reuben up to the bed made ready for him, and drove the cart away, promising to disinfect it thoroughly, and return it to the owner ere nightfall. it was little the eager boys saw of their aunt that day. she was engrossed by reuben the whole time. she said he was terribly weak, and that he had not yet got back the use of his faculties. he lay in a sort of trance or stupor, and did not know where he was or what was happening. it came from weakness, and would pass away as he got back his strength. the doctor had assured her that the plague symptoms had spent themselves, and that he was free from the contagion. the boys slept in the shed that night tranquilly enough, and in the morning their aunt came to them with a grave and sorrowful face. "is he worse?" asked benjamin starting up. "not worse, i hope, yet not better. he has some trouble on his mind, and i fear that if we cannot ease him of that he will die," and her tears ran over, for reuben was dear to her as a nephew, and she knew what store her brother set by his eldest son. "trouble! what trouble? are any dead at home?" cried the boys anxiously. "can he speak? has he talked to you? tell us all!" "he has not talked with his senses awake, but he has spoken words which have told me much. death is not the trouble. he has not said one word to make me fear that our loved ones have been taken. the trouble is his own. it is a trouble of the heart. it concerns one whose name is gertrude. is not that the name of master mason's daughter?" "why, yes, to be sure. she has joined with the rest--with janet and rebecca--to care for the orphan children whom none know what to do with, there are such numbers of them. reuben always thought a great deal of mistress gertrude--and she of him. what of that?" "does she think much of him?" asked mary eagerly. "i feared she had flouted his love!" "nay, she worships the ground he treads on!" cried joseph, who had a very sharp pair of eyes of his own, and a great liking for sweet-spoken gertrude himself. "it was madam, her mother, who flouted reuben. gertrude is of different stuff. why, whenever she was with us she would get me in a corner and talk of nothing but him. i thought they would but wait for the plague to be overpast to wed each other!" mary stood with her hands locked together, thinking deeply. "joseph," she said, "if it were a matter of saving reuben's life, think you that mistress gertrude would come hither to my house and help me to nurse him back to health?" joseph's eyes flashed with eager excitement. "i am certain sure she would!" he answered. "ah, but how to let her know!" cried mary, pressing her hands together in perplexity. "alas for days like these! how shall any one get a letter safely delivered to her in time? it may be that if we tarry the fever will have swept him off. it is fever of the mind rather than the body, and it is hard to minister to the mind diseased, without the one healing medicine." "hold! i have a plan," cried joseph, whose wits were sharpened by the pressing nature of the business in hand; "listen, and i will expound it. tomorrow morning i will sally forth with a barrow laden with eggs, vegetables, and fruit; and i will enter the city as one of the country folks for the market, with whom none interfere at the barriers. i will e'en sell my goods to whoever will buy them, and at the bottom of the barrow thou shalt put one of thy cotton gowns and market aprons, aunt mary. then will i go to mistress gertrude and tell her all. i shall learn of the welfare of those at home, and will come back with her at my side. the watch will but take her for a market woman, and we shall both pass unchecked and unhindered. by noon tomorrow gertrude shall be here! "nay, hinder me not, good aunt. we must all adventure ourselves somewhat in this dire distress and peril. sure, if providence kept me safe in yon pest house yesterday, i need not fear to return to the city upon an errand of mercy such as may save my brother's life!" chapter xiii. happy meetings. "reuben found! reuben alive! o joseph, joseph, joseph!" and dorcas burst into tears of joy and relief, and sobbed aloud upon her brother's neck. joseph had brought his news straight to dorcas, knowing that she at least would be certainly found within lady scrope's house. he was secretly afraid to go home first, lest the fatal red cross upon the door should tell its tale of woe, or lest the whole house itself should be shut up and desolate, like the majority of the houses he had passed in the forlorn city that morning. he felt, however, an almost superstitious confidence that lady scrope's house would defy the infection. he was decidedly of the opinion that that redoubtable dame was a witch, and that she had charms which kept the plague at bay. he therefore first sought out the sister with whom he felt certain he could obtain speech; and she had drawn him into a little parlour hard by the street door, in great astonishment at seeing him there, and fearful at first (as folks had grown to be of late) that he was the bearer of evil tidings. the joy and relief were therefore so great that she could not restrain her tears, and between laughing, crying, and repeating in astonished snatches the words of explanation which fell from joseph's lips, she made such an unwonted commotion in the ordinarily silent house, that soon the tap of a stick could have been heard by ears less preoccupied coming down the stairs and along the passage, and the door was pushed open to admit the little upright figure of the mistress of the house. "hoity toity! art thou bereft of thy senses, child? what in fortune's name means all this? "boy, who art thou? and what dost thou here? a brother, forsooth! come with some news, perchance? well, well, well; how goes it in the city? are any left alive? they say at the rate we are going now, it will take but a month more to destroy the city even as sodom was destroyed!" "o madam," cried dorcas dashing away her tears, and turning an eager face towards the witch-like old woman, who in her silk gown, hooped and looped up, her fine lace cap and mittens, and her ebony stick with its ivory head, looked the impersonation of a fairy godmother, "this is my brother joseph, and he comes with welcome tidings. my brother reuben is not dead, albeit he has in truth been smitten by the plague. joseph found him yesterday in the pest house just beyond clerkenwell; and he is in a fair way to recover, if his mind can but be set at rest. "oh what news this will be for our parents!--for the girls!--for gertrude! oh how we have mourned and wept together; and now we shall rejoice with full hearts!" "has mistress gertrude mourned for him too?" asked joseph eagerly. "marry that is good hearing, for i have wondered all this while whether i should obtain the grace from her for which i have come." "and what is that, young man?" asked lady scrope, tapping her cane upon the ground as much as to say that in her own house she was not going to take a secondary place, and that conversation was to be addressed to her. joseph turned to her at once and answered: "verily, good madam, my aunt has sent me hither to fetch mistress gertrude forthwith to his side. she says that he calls ceaselessly upon her, and that unless he can see her beside him he may yet die of the disappointment and trouble, albeit the plague is stayed in his case, and it is but the fever of weakness that is upon him. she thinks it will not hurt her to come, if so be that it is as we hope, and that she has in her heart for him the same love as he has for her." "oh, she has! she has!" cried dorcas, fired with sudden illumination of mind about many things that perplexed her before. "her heart is just breaking for him! "prithee, good madam, let me go and call her. they say that she is of little use in the house now, being weak and weeping, and too sad at heart to work as heretofore. they can well spare her on such an errand, and methinks it will save her life as well as his. let me but go and tell her the news." "go, child, go. lovers be the biggest fools in all this world of fools! and if the women be the bigger fools, 'tis but because they were meant to be fitting companions for the men! "go to, child!--bring her here, and let us see what she says to this mad errand of this mad boy. "and you, young sir, whilst your sister is gone, tell me all you saw and heard in the pest house! marry, i like your spirit in going thither! it is the one place i long to see myself; only i am too old to go gadding hither and thither after fine sights!" joseph was quite willing to indulge the old lady's morbid curiosity as to the sights he had seen yesterday and today, as he had journeyed back into the city in the guise of a market lad. the things were terrible enough to satisfy even lady scrope, who seemed to rejoice in an uncanny fashion over the awful devastation going on all round. "i'm not a saint myself," she said with unwonted gravity, "and i never set up for one, but many has been the time when i have warned those about me that god would not stand aside for ever looking on at these abominations. the means were ready to his hand, and he has taken them and used them as a scourge. and he will scourge this wicked city yet again, if men will not amend their evil practices." next minute gertrude and dorcas came running in together, and gertrude almost flung herself into joseph's arms in her eager gratitude to him for his news, and her desire to hear everything he could tell her. such a clamour of voices then arose as fairly drowned any remark that lady scrope tried from time to time to throw in. her old face took a suddenly softened look as she watched the little scene, and heard the words that passed amongst the young people. presently she went tapping away on her high-heeled shoes, and was absent for some ten or fifteen minutes. when she came back she held in her hands a small iron-bound box, which seemed to be very heavy for its size. "well," she asked in her clear, sharp tones, "and what is going to be done next?" "o madam, i am going to him. i can do naught else," answered gertrude, whose face was like an april morning, all smiles and tears blended together. "i cannot let him lie wanting me and wearying for me." "humph! i thought you had shown yourself a girl of spirit, and had sent him about his business when he came a-wooing, eh?" "o madam, i did so. i thought that duty bid me; but i have repented so bitterly since! they say that 'twas since then he fell into the melancholy which was like to make him fall ill of the distemper. oh, if he were to die, i should feel his blood on my head. i should never hold it up again. i cannot let anything keep me from him now. i must go to him in my poverty and tell him all. he must be the judge!" lady scrope uttered a little snort, although her face bore no unkindly look. "child, child, thou art a veritable woman! i had thought better things of thee, but thou art just like the rest. thou wilt gladly lie down in the dust, so as the one man shall trample upon thee, whilst thou dost adore him the more for it. go to! go to! maids and lovers be all alike. fools every one of them! but for all that i like thee. i have an old woman's fancy for thee. and since in these days none may reckon on seeing the face of a departing friend again, i give now into thine hands the wedding gift i have had in mine eyes for thee. "nay, thank me not; and open it not save at the bedside of thy betrothed husband--if thou art fool enough to betroth thyself to one who as like as not will die of the plague before the week is out. "and now off with you both. if you tarry too long, the watch will not believe you to be honest market folks, and will hinder your flight. good luck go with you; and when ye be come to the city again--if ever that day arrive--come hither and tell me all the tale of your folly and love. although a wise woman myself, i have a wondrous love of hearing tales of how other folks make havoc of their lives by their folly." gertrude took the box, which amazed her by its weight, and suggested ideas of value quite out of keeping with what she had any reason to expect from one so little known to her as lady scrope. she thanked the donor with shy gratitude, and pressed the withered hand to her fresh young lips. lady scrope, a little moved despite her cynical fashion of talking, gave her several affectionate kisses; and then the other girls came in to see the last of their companion, and to charge her with many messages of love for reuben. joseph during this interval darted round to his father's house, to exchange a kiss with his mother and tell her the good news. it was indeed a happy day for the parents to hear that the son whom they had given up for lost was living, and likely, under gertrude's care, to do well. they had not dared to murmur or repine. it seemed to them little short of a miracle that death had spared to them all their children through this fearful season. when they believed one had at last been taken, they had learned the strength and courage to say, "god's will be done." yet it was happiness inexpressible to know that he was not only living, but in the safe retreat of mary harmer's cottage, and under her tender and skilful care. so used were they now to the thought of those they loved caring for the sick, that they had almost ceased to fear contagion so encountered. it appeared equally busy amongst those who fled from it. they did not even chide joseph for the reckless curiosity which had led the boys to adventure themselves without cause in the fashion that had led to such notable results. when joseph returned to lady scrope's, it was to find gertrude arrayed in the clothes provided for her, and looking, save for her dainty prettiness, quite like a country girl come in with marketable wares. such things of her own as she needed for her sojourn, together with lady scrope's precious box, were put into the barrow beneath the empty basket and sacks. then with many affectionate farewells the pair started forth, and talking eagerly all the while, took their way through the solitary grass-grown streets, away through cripplegate, and out towards the pleasanter regions beyond the walls. joseph sought to engross his companion in talk, so that she might not see or heed too much the dismal aspect of all around them. he himself had seen a considerable difference in the city between the time he and benjamin had left it and today. in places it almost seemed as though no living soul now remained; and he observed that foot passengers in the streets went about more recklessly than before, with a set and desperate expression of countenance, as though they had made up their minds to the worst, and cared little whether their fate overtook them today or a week hence. gertrude's thoughts, however, were so much with reuben, that she heeded but little of what she saw around her. she spoke of him incessantly, and begged again and again to hear the story of how he had been found. her cheek flushed a delicate rose tint each time she heard how he had called for her ceaselessly in his delirium. that showed her, if nothing else could convince her of it, how true and disinterested his love was; that it was for herself he had always wooed her, and not for any hope of the fortune she had at one time looked to receive from her father as her marriage dowry. when they had passed the last of the houses, and stood in the sunny meadows, with the blue sky above them and the songs of birds in their ears, gertrude heaved a great sigh of relief, and her eyes filled with tears. "o beautiful trees and fields!" she cried; "it seems as though nothing of danger and death could overshadow the dwellers in such fair places." "so benjamin and i thought," said joseph gravely; "but, alas, the plague has been busy here, too. see, there is a cluster of houses down there, and but three of them are now inhabited. the pestilence came and smote right and left, and in some houses not one was left alive. still death seems not so terrible here amid these smiling fields as it does when men are pent together in streets and lanes. and the dead at first could be buried in their own gardens by their friends, if they could not take them to the churchyards, which soon refused to receive them. many were thus saved from the horror of the plague pit, which they so greatly dreaded. but i know not whether it is a wise kindness so to bury them; for there were hamlets, i am told, where the plague raged fearfully, and where the living could scarce bury the dead." gertrude sighed; death and trouble did indeed seem everywhere. but even her sorrow for others could not mar her happiness in the prospect of seeing reuben once again; and as they neared the place, and joseph pointed out the twisted chimneys and thatched roof peeping through the sheltering trees and shrubs, the girl could not restrain her eager footsteps, and flew on in advance of her companion, who was retarded by his barrow. the next minute she was eagerly kissing benjamin (who, together with fido, had run out at the sound of her footsteps), and shedding tears of joy at the news that reuben was no worse, that there were now no symptoms of the plague about him, but that he was perilously weak, and needed above all things that his mind should be set at rest. at the sound of voices mary harmer came softly downstairs from the sick man's side, and divining in a moment who the stranger was, took her into a warm, motherly embrace, and thanked her again and again for coming so promptly. "nay, it is i must thank thee for letting me come," answered gertrude between smiles and tears. "and now, may i not go to him? i would not lose a moment. i am hungry for the sight of his living face. prithee, let me go!" "so thou shalt, my child, in all good speed; but just at this moment he sleeps, and thou must refresh thyself after thy long, hot walk, that thou mayest be better able to tend him. i will not keep thee from him, be sure, when the time comes that thou mayest go to him." joseph at that moment came up with the barrow, and gertrude found that it was pleasant and refreshing to let mary harmer bathe her face and hands and array her in her own garments. and then she sat down to a pleasant meal of fresh country provisions, which tasted so different from anything she had eaten these many long weeks. the boys, who as a precautionary measure were keeping away from the house itself until it should be quite certain that their brother was free from infection, took their meal on the grass plot outside, and enjoyed it mightily. the whole scene was so different from anything upon which gertrude's eyes had rested for long, that tears would rise unbidden in them, though they were tears of happiness and gratitude. the dog fido took to her at once, and showed her many intelligent attentions, and was so useful altogether in fetching and carrying that his cleverness and docility were a constant source of amusement and wonder to all, and gave endless delight to the boys, who spent all their spare time in training him. then just when the afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen, and the light to grow golden with the mellow september glow, gertrude was softly summoned to the pleasant upper chamber, which smelt sweetly of lavender, rose leaves, and wild thyme, where beside the open casement lay reuben, in a snow-white bed, his face sadly wasted and white, and his eyes closed as if in the lassitude of utter weakness. mary gave gertrude a smile, and motioned her to go up to him, which she did very softly and with a beating heart. he did not appear to note her footfall; but when she stood beside him, and gently spoke his name, his eyes flashed open in a moment, and fixed themselves upon her face, their expression growing each moment more clear and comprehending. "gertrude!" he breathed in a voice whose weakness told a tale of its own, and he moved his hand as though he would fain ascertain by the sense of touch whether or not this was a dream. she saw the movement, and took his hand between her own, kneeling down beside the bed and covering it with kisses and tears. that seemed to tell him all, without the medium of words. he asked no question, he only lay gazing at her with a deep contentment in his eyes. he probably knew not either where he was, or how any of these strange things came to pass. she was with him; she was his very own. of that there could be no manner of doubt. and that being so, what did anything else matter? he lay gazing at her perfectly contented, till he fell asleep holding her hand in his. that was the beginning of a steady if rather a slow recovery. it was only natural indeed that reuben should be long in regaining strength. he had been through months of fatigue and arduous wearing toil, and the marvel was that when the distemper attacked him in his weakness and depression he had strength enough to throw it off. as mary harmer said, it seemed sometimes as though those who went fearlessly amongst the plague stricken became gradually inoculated with the poison, and were thus able to rid themselves of it when it did attack them. reuben at least had soon thrown off his attack, and the state of weakness into which he had fallen was less the result of the plague than of his long and arduous labours before. how he ever came to be in the pest house of clerkenwell he never could altogether explain. he remembered that business had called him out in a northwesterly direction; and he had a dim recollection of feeling a sick longing for a sight of the country once more, and of bending his steps further than he need, whilst he fancied he had entertained some notion of paying a visit to his aunt, and making sure that his brothers had safely reached her abode. that was probably the reason why he had come so far away from home. he had been feeling miserably restless and wretched ever since gertrude had refused him, and upon that day he had an overpowering sense of illness and weariness upon him, too. but he did not remember feeling any alarm, or any premonition of coming sickness. he had grown so used to escaping when others were stricken down all round, that the sense of uncertainty which haunted all men at the commencement of the outbreak had almost left him now. it could only be supposed that the fever of the pestilence had come upon him, and that he had dropped by the wayside, as so many did, and had been carried into the farm house by some compassionate person, or by one of the bearers whose duty it was to keep the highways clear of such objects of public peril. but he knew nothing of his own condition, and had had no real gleam of consciousness, until he opened his eyes in his aunt's house to find gertrude bending over him. there was no shadow between them now. gertrude's surrender was as complete as lady scrope had foreseen. she used now to laugh with reuben over the sayings of that redoubtable old dame, and wonder what she would think of them could she see them now. the box she had entrusted to gertrude had been given into mary harmer's care for the present, till reuben should be strong enough to enjoy the excitement of opening it. but upon the first day that saw him down in the little parlour, lying upon the couch that had been made ready to receive him, joseph eagerly clamoured to have the box brought down and opened; and his wish being seconded by all, mary harmer quickly produced it, and it was set upon a little table at the side of the couch. "have you the key?" asked reuben of gertrude, and she produced it from her neck, round which it had been hanging all this while by a silken cord. "it felt almost like a love token," she said with a little blush, "for she told me i was not to open it save at the side of my betrothed husband!" now, amid breathless silence, she fitted the key into the lock and raised the lid. that disclosed a layer of soft packing, which, when removed, left the contents exposed to view. "oh!" cried joseph and benjamin in tones of such wonder that fido must needs rear himself upon his hind legs to get a peep, too; but he was soon satisfied, for he saw nothing very interesting in the yellow contents of the wooden box, which neither smelt nice nor were good for food. but the lovers looked across at each other in speechless amazement. for the box was filled to the brim with neatly piled heaps of golden guineas--the first guineas ever struck in this country; so called from the fact that they were made of guinea gold brought from africa by one of the trading companies, and first coined in the year . and a quick calculation, based upon the counting of one of these upright heaps, showed that the box contained five hundred of these golden coins, which as yet were only just coming into general circulation. "oh," cried gertrude in amaze, "what can she have done it for? and they call lady scrope a miser!" "misers often have strange fancies; and lady scrope has always been one of the strangest and most unaccountable of her sex," said reuben. "i cannot explain it one whit. it is of a piece with much of her inscrutable life. all we can do is to give her our gratitude for her munificence. she has neither kith nor kin to wrong by her strange liberality to thee, sweet gertrude; nor can i marvel that she should have come to love thee so well. sweet heart, this money will purchase the house upon the bridge which thy father tells us he is forced to sell. i had thought that i would buy it of him for our future home. but thou hast the first claim. at least, now the place is safe. what is mine is thine, and what is thine is mine, and we will together make the purchase, and give him a home with us beneath the old roof. "will that make you happy, dear heart? methinks it will please lady scrope that her golden hoard should help in such an act of filial love!" and gertrude could only weep tears of pure happiness on her lover's shoulder, and marvel how it was that such untold joy had come to her in the midst of the very shadow of death. chapter xiv. brighter days. "the plague is abating! the plague is abating! the bills were lower by two thousand last week! they say the city is like to go mad with joy. i would fain go and see what is happening there. prithee, good aunt, let me e'en do so much. i shall take no hurt. methinks, having escaped all peril heretofore, i may be accounted safe now." this was joseph's eager petition as he rushed homewards after a stroll in the direction of the town one evening early in october. there had been rumours of an improvement in the health of the city for perhaps ten days now, notwithstanding the fearful mortality during the greater part of september. therefore were the weekly bills most eagerly looked for, and when it was ascertained that the mortality had diminished by two thousand (when, from the number of sick, it might well have risen by that same amount), it did indeed seem as though the worst were over; and great was the joy which joseph's news brought to those within the walls of that cottage home. yet mary harmer was wise and cautious in the answer she gave to the eager boy. "wait yet one week longer, joseph; for we may not presume upon god's goodness and mercy, and adventure ourselves without cause into danger. the city has been fearfully ravaged of late. the very air seems to have been poisoned and tainted, and there are streets and lanes which, they say, it is even now death to enter. therefore wait yet another week, and then we will consider what is safe to be done. right glad should i be for news of your father and mother; but we have been patient this long while, and we will be patient still." "our good aunt is wise," said reuben, who looked wonderfully better for his stay in fresh country air, albeit still rather gaunt and pale. "it is like that this good news itself may lead men to be somewhat reckless in their joy and confidence. we will not move till we have another report. perchance our father may be able to let us know ere long of his welfare and that of the rest at home." all through the week that followed encouraging and cheering reports of the abatement of the plague were heard by those living on the outskirts of the stricken city; and when the next week's bill showed a further enormous decrease in the death rate, mary harmer permitted joseph to pay a visit home, his return being eagerly waited for in the cottage. he came just as the early twilight was drawing in, and his face was bright and joyous. "it is like another city," he cried. "i had not thought there could be so many left as i saw in the streets today. and they went about shaking each other by the hand, and smiling, and even laughing aloud in their joy. and if they saw a shut-up house, and none looking forth from the windows, some one would stand and shout aloud till those within looked out, and then he would tell them the good news that the plague was abating; and at that sound many poor creatures would fall a-weeping, and praise the lord that he had left even a remnant." "poor creatures!" said mary harmer with commiseration; "it has been a dismal year for thousands upon thousands!" "ay, verily. i cannot think that london will ever be full again," said the boy. "there be whole streets with scarce an inhabitant left, and we know that multitudes of those who fled died of the pestilence on the road and in other places. but today there was no memory for the misery of the past, only joy that the scourge was abating. it is not that many do not still fall ill of the distemper, but that they recover now, where once they would have died. and whereas three weeks back they died in a day or two days, now even if so be as they do die, it takes the poison eight or ten days to kill them. the physicians say that that is because the malignity of the distemper is abating, wherefore men scarce fear it now, and come freely abroad, not in despair, as they did when it was so virulent a scourge, but because they fear it so much less than before." "and our parents and those at home?" asked reuben eagerly. "all well, though something weary and worn; but it is wondrous how they have borne up all through. father says that he will come hither to see us all the first moment he can. his duties are like to have a speedy end; and he is longing for a sight of reuben's face, and of something better than closed houses and the wan faces of the sick or the mourners." "poor brother james!" said mary softly; "i would that he and his would leave the city behind for a while, and remain under my roof to recover their strength and health. it must have been a sorely trying time. think you that they could leave the house together? for we would make shift to receive them all, an they could come." this was a most delightful idea to all the party. the hospitable cottage had plenty of rooms, although many of these were but attics beneath the thatched roof, none too light or commodious. in summer they might have been too warm and stuffy to be agreeable sleeping places, but in the cooler autumn they would be good enough for hardy young folks brought up simply and plainly. joseph and benjamin at once dashed all over the place, making plans for the housing of the whole party. it would be the finest end to a melancholy period, being all together here in this homelike place. everything was duly arranged in the hopes of winning the father's consent to the scheme. mary harmer hunted up stores of bedding and linen, the latter of her own weaving, and every day they waited impatiently for the appearing of james harmer, who, however, was unaccountably long in making his appearance. he came at last, but it was with a sorrowful face and a bowed look which told at once a story of trouble, and made the whole party stand silent, after the first eager chorus of welcome, certain that he was the bearer of bad news. "my poor boy dan!" he said in a choked voice, and sat himself heavily down upon the chair beside the hearth. "dan!" cried reuben, and the word was echoed by all the brothers in tones of varying surprise and dismay. "you do not mean that he is dead!" "taken to the plague pit a week ago. just when all the world is rejoicing in the thought that the distemper is abating. dr. hooker spoke truly when he said that the confidence of the people was like to be a greater peril than the disease itself. for those who are sick now come openly abroad into the streets, no longer afraid for themselves or others, and thus it has come about that no man knows whether he is safe, and my poor boy has been taken." sad indeed were the faces of all, and the two little boys were dissolved in tears, as their father told how poor dan had fallen sick, and had succumbed on the fourth day to the poison. "dr. hooker said that he was worn out with his unceasing labours, else he would not have died," said the sorrowful father. "he had treated many worse cases even when things were worse, and brought them round. but dan was worn out with all he had been doing for the past months. he fell an easy prey; and he did not suffer much, thank god. he lay mostly in a torpor, much as reuben did, as i hear, but slowly sank away. his poor mother! she had begun to think that she was to have all her children about her yet. but in truth we must not repine, having so many left to us, when they say there is scarce a family in all the town that has not lost its two, three, or four at best!" it almost seemed a more sorrowful thing to lose dan just when things were beginning to look brighter, than it would have done when the distemper was at its height. but as the good man said, gratitude for so many spared ought to outweigh any repining for those taken. after the first tears were shed, he gently checked in those about him the inclination to mourn, saying that god knew best, and had dealt very lovingly and bountifully with them; and that they must trust his goodness and mercy all through, and believe that he had judged mercifully and tenderly in taking their brother from them. the sight of reuben alive and well did much to assuage the father's grief; for there had been a time when he had not thought to look upon the face of his firstborn in this life. he was also greatly pleased to learn that he had another daughter in the person of gentle gertrude, and he gladly undertook the negotiation of the purchase of his neighbour's house, so that he should not know who the purchaser was until the right moment came. mary harmer's proposal to take in the whole family for a spell of fresh air and rest was gratefully accepted by the tired father. "i trow it would be the greatest boon for all of us, and may likely save us from some peril," he said, "for, as i say, men seem to be gone mad with joy that the malignity of the plague is so greatly abating, and that the houses are no longer closed. for my own part, i would they were closed yet a little longer; but the impatience of the people would not now permit it, and they having shown themselves in the main docile and obedient these many months, must be considered now that the worst of the peril is past. when the plague was at its worst last month, there was of necessity some relaxation of stringent measures, because there were times when neither watchmen nor nurses could be found, and common humanity forbade us to close houses when the inhabitants could not get tendance in the prescribed way. moreover, a sort of desperation was bred in men's minds, and the fear was the less because that every man thought his own turn would assuredly come ere long. so that when of a sudden the bills began to decrease, it seemed unreasonable to be more strict than we had been just before. moreover, it was found harder to restrain the people in their joy than in their sorrow; and so we must hope for the best, and trust that the lessened malignity of the disease will keep down the mortality. for that there will continue to be many sick for weeks to come we cannot doubt. as for myself, knowing and fearing all i do, nothing would more please and comfort me than to bring my wife and girls hither to this safe spot. i had not dared to think you could take such a party, mary; but since you have already made provision for us, why, the sooner we all get forth from the city, the better will it please me." great was the joy in the cottage occasioned by this answer. sorrow for the loss of poor dan was almost forgotten in joyful preparation. dan had not been much at home for many years, only coming and going as his ship chanced to put into port in the river or not. therefore his loss was not felt as that of reuben would have been. it seemed a sad and grievous thing, after having escaped so many perils, to come to his death at last; but so many families had suffered such infinitely greater loss, that repining and mourning seemed almost wrong. and the thought of seeing all the home faces once more was altogether too delightful to admit of much admixture of grief. "i wonder if dorcas will come," said gertrude, as they hung about the door awaiting the arrival which was expected every minute. three days had now passed since james harmer's first visit, and he was to bring his wife and daughters in the afternoon, and stay the night himself, returning on the morrow to transact some necessary business, but spending much of his time with his family in this pleasant spot. gertrude had offered to leave, if there were not room for her; but in truth she scarce knew where to go, since of her father she had heard very little of late, and knew not how long his house would be his own. no one, however, would hear of such a thing as that she should leave them. she was already like a sister to the boys, and had in old days been as one to the girls. moreover, as mary harmer sometimes said, why should not she and reuben be quietly married out here before they returned to the city, and then they could go back to their own house when all the negotiations had been completed and her father's mind relieved of its load of care? "why should dorcas not come?" asked mary quickly. "my brother spoke of bringing all." "i was wondering if lady scrope would be willing to spare her," was the reply. "she is fond of dorcas in her way, and is used to her. she might not be willing she should go, and she is very determined when her mind is made up." "yet i think she has a kind heart in spite of all her odd ways," said mary harmer; "i scarce think she would keep the girl pining there alone. but we shall see. my wonder would rather be if janet and rebecca could get free from the other house where the children are kept." "father said that that house was to be emptied soon. the lord mayor is making many wise regulations for the support of those left destitute by the plague. large sums of money kept flowing in all the while the scourge lasted. the king sent large contributions, and other wealthy men followed his example. there be many widows left alone and desolate, and these are to have a sum of money and certain orphan children to care for. all that will be settled speedily; for who knows when my lady scrope's house may not be wanted by the tenant who ran away in such hot haste months ago? it will need purifying, too, and directions will shortly be issued, i take it, for the right purification of infected houses. "my sisters will soon get their burdens off their hands. it is time they had a change; they were looking worn and tired even before i left the city." "they are coming! they are coming! they are just here!" shouted joseph and benjamin in one breath, coming rushing down from a vantage post up to which they had climbed in one of the great elm trees. "they must all be there--every one of them! it is like a caravan along the road; but i know it is they, for we saw father leading a horse, and mother was riding it--with such a lot of bags and bundles!" the next minute the caravan hove in sight through the windings of the lane, and three minutes later there was such a confusion of welcomes going on that nothing intelligible could be said on either side; nor was it until the whole party was assembled round the table in mary harmer's pleasant kitchen, ready to do justice to the good cheer provided, that any kind of conversation could be attempted. the sisters felt like prisoners released. they laughed and cried as they danced about the garden in the twilight, stooping down to lay their faces against the cool, wet grass, and drinking in the scented air as though it were something to be tasted by palate and tongue. "it is so beautiful! it is so wonderful!" they kept exclaiming one to the other, and the quaint, rambling cottage, with its bare floor, and simple, homely comforts, seemed every whit as charming. dorcas was there, as well as janet and rebecca; and the three sisters, together with gertrude, were to share a pair of attics with a door of communication between them. they were delighted with everything. they kept laughing and kissing each other for sheer joy of heart; and although a sigh, and a murmur of "poor dan! if only he could be here!" would break at intervals from one or another, yet in the intense joy of this meeting, and in the sense of escape from the city in which they had been so long imprisoned, all but thankfulness and delight must needs be forgotten, and it was a ring of wonderfully happy faces that shone on mary harmer at the supper board that night. "this is indeed a kindly welcome, sister," said rachel, as she sat at her husband's right hand, looking round upon the dear faces she had scarce dared hope to see thus reunited for so many weary weeks; "i could have desired nothing better for all of us. thou canst scarcely know how it does feel to be free once more, to be able to go where one will, without vinegar cloths to one's face, and to feel that the air is a thing to breathe with healing and delight, instead of to be feared lest there be death in its kiss! ah me! i think god does not let us know how terrible a thing is till his chastening hand is removed. we go on from day to day, and he gives us strength for each day as it comes; but had we known at the beginning what lay before us, methinks our souls would have well nigh fainted within us. and yet here we are--all but one--safe and sound at the other side!" "i truly never thought to see such fearful sights, and to come through such a terrible time of trial," said dinah very gravely. she was one of the party included in mary harmer's hospitable invitation, and looked indeed more in need of the rest and change than any of the others. her brother had had some ado to get her to quit her duties as nurse to the sick even yet, but it was not difficult now to get tendance for them, and she felt so greatly the need of rest that she had been persuaded at last. "many and many are the times when i have been left the only living being in a house--once, so far as i could tell, the only living thing in a whole street! none may know, save those who have been through it, the awful loneliness of being so shut in, with nothing near but dead bodies. and yet the lord has brought me through, and only one of our number has been taken." the mother's eyes filled with tears, but her heart was too thankful for those spared her to let her grief be loud. one after another those round the table spoke of the things they had seen and heard; but presently the talk drifted to brighter themes. gertrude asked eagerly of her father, and where he was and what he was doing; and mary harmer asked if he would not come and join them, if her house could be made to hold another inmate. "he is well in health, but looks aged and harassed," was the answer of the father. "he has had sad losses. half-finished houses have been thrown back on his hands through the death of those who had commenced them; he has been robbed of his stores of costly merchandise; and poor frederick's debts have mounted up to a great sum. now that people are flocking back into the city, and business is reviving once more, he will have to meet his creditors, and can only do this by the sale of his house. i saw him yesterday, and told him i had heard of a purchaser already; whereat he was right glad, fearing that he might be long in selling, since men might fear to come back to the city, and whilst there were so many hundreds of houses left empty. if he can once get rid of his load of debt, he can strive to begin business again in a modest way. but, to be sure, it will be long before any houses will need to be built; the puzzle will be how to fill those that are left empty. i fear me he will find things hard for a while. but if he has a home with you, my children, and if we all give what help we can, i doubt not that little by little he may recover a part of what he has lost. he will be wise not to try so many different callings. if he had not had so many ventures afloat in these troubled times, he would not now have lost his all." "that was poor mother's wish," said gertrude softly; "she wanted to be rich quickly for frederick's sake. i used to hear father tell her that the risk was too great; but she did not seem able to understand aright. i do not think it was father's own wish." "that is what i always said," answered james harmer heartily; "and i trow things will be greatly better now, if once trade makes a start again. as for us, we have lost a summer's trade, but, beyond that, all has been well with us. we have had the fewer outgoings, and so soon as the gentry and the court come back again we shall be as busy as ever. the plague has done us little harm, for we had no great ventures afloat to miscarry, and had money laid by against any time of necessity." that evening, before the party retired to rest, the father gathered his children and all the household about him, and offered a fervent thanksgiving for their preservation during this time of peril. after that they all separated to their own rooms, and the girls sat long together ere they sought their couches, talking, as girls will talk, of all that had happened to them, and of the coming marriage of gertrude and their brother, over which they heartily rejoiced. "i must e'en let lady scrope know when it is to be," said dorcas, "if i can make shift to do so. i trow she would like to be there. she has taken a wondrous liking to thee, gertrude, and she says she has a fine opinion of reuben, too. i know not quite what she has heard of him, but so it is." "i was fearful lest she should not be willing to spare thee, dorcas," said gertrude with a caress, "but here thou art with the rest." "yes, she was wondrous good to us," said janet eagerly, "else i scarce know how we could have come, for there were six children left in the house, and no homes yet found for them to go to. they were the sickly ones whom we feared to part with, and father said they would strive to get places for them in the country. when we heard what our kind aunt wished, we saw not how we could leave the little ones; but lady scrope, she up and chid us well for silly, puling fools, who thought the world could not wag without our help. and then she sent out and got two nice, comfortable, honest widow women to live in the house with the children. and one of them had a neat-fingered daughter, who had been in good service till the plague sent her family into the country and she was packed off home. her she took for her maid, and sent dorcas off with us. sure, never was a sharper tongue and a kinder heart in one body together! i had never thought to like lady scrope one-tenth part as well as i do." those were happy days that followed. it was pure delight to the sisters to wander about the green fields and lanes, watching the play of light and shadow there, hearing the songs of the birds, and seeing the gorgeous pageantry of autumn clothing the trees with all manner of wondrous tints and hues. reuben knew the neighbourhood by that time, and was their companion in their rambles; and happy were the hours thus spent, only less happy than the meetings round the glowing hearth or hospitable table later on, when the news of the day would be told and retold. james harmer went frequently into the city to see after certain things, and to ascertain that his own and his neighbour's houses were safe. what he saw and heard there day by day made him increasingly glad that big family had found so safe a retreat; for there was still some considerable peril to the dwellers in the city, owing, more than anything, to the utter carelessness of the people now that the immediate scare was removed. the same men who had shrunk away from all contact with even sound persons six weeks ago, would now actually visit and hold converse with those who had the disease upon them. persons afflicted with tumours that were still active and therefore infectious would walk openly about the streets, none seeming to object to their presence even in crowded thoroughfares. it seemed as though joy at the abatement of the pestilence had wrought a sort of madness in the brains and hearts of the people. so long as the death rate decreased, and the cases were no longer so fatal in character, there seemed no way of making the citizens observe proper precautions, and, as many averred, the malady increased and spread, although not in nearly so fatal a form, as it never need have done but for the recklessness of the multitudes. one very sorrowful case was brought home to the harmers, because it happened to some worthy neighbours of their own who had lived opposite to them for many a year. when first the alarm was given that the plague had entered within the city walls, this man had hastily decided to quit london with his wife and family and seek an asylum in the country, and had earnestly urged the harmers to do the same. for many months nothing had been heard of them; but with the first abatement of the malady the father had appeared, and had asked advice from harmer as to how soon he might bring home his family, who were all sound and well. his friend advised him to wait another month at least; but he laughed such counsel to scorn, and just before the harmers themselves started for islington, their friends had settled themselves in their old house opposite. ten days later harmer heard with great dismay that three of the children had taken the plague and had died. by the end of the week there was not one of the family alive save the unhappy man himself, and he went about like one distraught, so that his reason or his life seemed like to pay the forfeit. it was no wonder, in the hearing of such stories as these--of which there were many--that mary harmer rejoiced to have her brother's household safely housed and out of danger, and that she earnestly begged them to remain with her at least until the merry christmastide should be overpast. chapter xv. a christmas wedding. "i never thought to see daughter of mine wedded from the house of a neighbour," said the master builder (whose title yet clung to him, albeit there was something of mockery in the sound), heaving a sigh as he looked into the happy face of his child. "but a homeless man must needs do the best he can; and our good friends have won the right to play the part of kinsfolk towards us both." "indeed--indeed they have, dear father," answered gertrude; "thou canst not think how happy i have been here in this sweet cottage, nor what a home it has been to us all these weeks. i shall be almost loth to leave it on the morrow--at least i should be, were it not for the great happiness coming into my life. but the home to which reuben will take me must be even dearer than this. and thou wilt come with us, sweet father, and make us happy by thy presence!" "ay, child, if thou wilt have the homeless old man who has managed his affairs so ill as to have to start life afresh when he should be thinking of resigning his work into other hands, and passing his old age in peace and--" but gertrude stopped him with a kiss. "thou art not old, father; and i trow before thou art, a peaceful and prosperous old age will be in store for thee. whilst reuben and i live, nothing shall lack to thee that filial love can bestow. o dearest father! methinks there are bright and happy days before us yet." "i trust so--i trust so, my child, for thee especially. for thou dost deserve them. thou hast been a good daughter, and wilt make a good wife." "my heart misgives me sometimes that i was not always so tender a daughter to poor mother as i fain would have been. may god pardon me in whatever way i may have erred!" "the error was more hers than thine," answered the father with a sigh; "and mine too, inasmuch as i checked her not early, as i perchance might have done. she would have wed thee with some needy and perhaps evil-living gallant, who would have taken thee for thy fortune. thou hast done far better to choose such an honest, godly youth as reuben. he will make thee an excellent husband." "ah, will he not!" said gertrude, her face alight with tender love. "poor mother did not understand what she was doing in striving to banish him from the house. but methinks, in the land of spirits all these things are seen aright; and that if it is permitted to the dead to know aught of what passes in the land they have left behind, she will be rejoicing with us today." "heaven send it may be so! my poor wife," and the father heaved a great sigh of mixed feelings, "it is well she has not lived to see this end to her schemings to be rich. at least she is spared the knowledge of her husband's ruin." "nay, call it not that, dear father. master harmer says that things are beginning to look up again after the terrible visitation, and surely your affairs will look up likewise." "in a measure, yes," he answered. "i have at least sold the old house for a better sum than i expected; and the purchaser has bought all the rich furniture, save such things as i would not sell for the sake of your poor mother. these i shall move shortly to your home, my child. my good friend says that it is hard by his house, so the journey will not be a difficult one." "no, father," answered gertrude, with glowing cheeks. "and who has bought the old bridge house?" "nay, i have not even had the heart to ask. my good friend has carried out the business for me from first to last. he has been the truest friend man ever had. i have had naught to do but to sign the papers and receive the purchase money. no doubt the pang of seeing others living there will pass in time, but just now i care not even to think of it." gertrude's face was still glowing a rosy red, but she turned the conversation at once. "and thou art getting together a little business again, father, on the southwark side of the river?" "yes; that again is by the advice of our good neighbour. he showed me that i could no longer afford the large buildings in the chepe. he heard of these small premises going a-begging for a purchaser, all connected with them having perished in the plague. the small sum left to me of the purchase money of the house, after my debts were paid, sufficed to buy them; and now i have two steady workmen in my employ, instead of the scores i once had. but god be thanked, we have never been idle all these weeks. and it may be that by-and-by, as confidence returns, i may get something of a business together again." "thou hast been purifying and disinfecting houses, they say, for the wealthy ones of the city?" "ay; that was our good friend's thought. the lord mayor and authorities issued general directions for this work; and harmer suggested to me that i should print handbills offering to undertake the purging of any house entrusted to me for a fixed fee. this i did, and have had my hands full ever since. all the fine folks are crowding back now that the cold weather has come, but no one cares to venture within his house till it has been purified by the burning of aromatic drugs and spices. the rich care not what they spend, so that they are sure they are free from danger. as for the poor, they do but burn tar or pitch or sulphur; and methinks these do just as well, save that the odour which hangs about is not so grateful to the senses. yes, it was a happy thought of good james harmer, and has put money in my pocket enough to enable me to undertake small building matters without borrowing. but i trow it will be long ere any building is wanted in and about the city. there are too many empty houses left there for that." "shall i see a wondrous change there when i go back, father?" "a change, but a wondrous small one compared to what one would suppose," answered the father. "all men are amazed to see how quickly the streets have filled, and how little of change there is to note in the outward aspect of things. i had thought that half the houses would be left empty; but i think there be not more than one-eighth without inhabitants, and these are filling up apace. to be sure, in the once crowded lanes and alleys there are far fewer people than before; but it is wonderful to see how small the change is; and life goes on just as of old. it is as if the calamity was already half forgot!" "nay but, father, i trust it is not forgotten, and that men's consciences are stirred, and that they have taken to heart the warning of god's just anger." the master builder slightly shook his head. "i fear not, child, i fear not. i hear the same oaths and blasphemies, the same ribald jests and ungodly talk, as of old. they say the court, which has lately returned to whitehall, is as gay and wanton as ever. in face of the terror of death, men did resolve to amend their ways; but i fear me, that terror being past, they do but make a mock of it, and return, like the sow in scripture, to their wallowing in the mire." gertrude looked gravely sorrowful for a moment; but, on the eve of her wedding day, she could not be sorrowful long. she and her father were enjoying a talk together before she sought her couch. he had been unable to come earlier to see her, business matters having detained him in town. for the past two months he had been at work with his task of purifying and setting in order the houses of the better-class people, for their return thither after the plague; and though he had sent many affectionate messages to his daughter, this was the first time for several weeks that they had met. it could not but rankle in the father's heart that, for the time being, he had no home to offer to his child. he had been staying with his good friend james harmer all this while, who had left his wife and family at islington to regain their full health and strength, while he spent his time between the bridge house and the cottage. his business required his presence at home during a part of the week, since his shopmen and apprentices had already returned; but he would not permit his family to do so just yet, deeming it better for them to remain with his sister, and to enjoy with her a period of rest and refreshment which could never be theirs in the busy life of home. a happy christmas had thus been spent; and now it was the eve of gertrude's wedding day, which was the one following christmas day. the master builder had spent the festival with his friends, and on the morrow would accompany his daughter and her husband to their home in the city, the harmer family returning to their house at the same time, and bringing mary with them on a visit after all her hospitality to them. by nine o'clock the next morning, the quiet little wedding party was approaching the church, when to their surprise they beheld a fine coach, drawn by four horses, drawing up at the gate of the churchyard; and before dorcas had more than time to exclaim, "why, it is my lady scrope herself!" they saw that diminutive but remarkable old dame alighting from it, and walking nimbly up the path towards the porch. "i never dreamed she would really come, albeit i did let her know the day according to promise--or rather to her command," said her handmaiden, hurrying after her as if by instinct. the little figure in its sables and strangely-fashioned velvet bonnet turned at the sound of the quick footfall; and there stood the old lady scanning the whole party with her bead-like eyes, and giving little nods to this one and the other in response to their respectful reverences. "a pretty pair! a pretty pair!" was her comment upon the bridal couple, who walked together, and who certainly looked very handsome and happy. reuben had regained strength and colour, though his face was thinner and finer in outline than it had been before his illness; and gertrude had always been something of a beauty, and had greatly improved in looks during these weeks of happiness. "well, well, well! i am always sorry for folks who are tying burdens round their own necks; but some can do it with a better grace than others. "now, child," and she turned to gertrude, and rapped her cane upon the ground, "don't make a fool of yourself or your husband! don't begin by thinking him the best man in the world; else he may turn out all too soon to be the worst. don't let him trample upon you. hold your own with him. "pooh! i might as well spare my words. poor fools, they are all alike at starting. they only learn to sing to another tune when experience has taken them in hand for a while. well, well, well! 'tis a pretty sight after all. i'll say no more. give me your arm, good master harmer, and let me have a good view of the tying of this knot, so that there shall be no slipping out of it later." james harmer, with a bow which he made as courtly as he knew how, offered his arm to the curious, little, old lady; and strange it was to see her small, richly-clad, upright figure amongst the simple group before the altar that day. many there were who wondered what had brought her, and amongst the party themselves none could answer the question. it appeared to be one of those freaks for which, in old days, lady scrope had made herself famous throughout london, and the habit of which had not been overcome, although the opportunities were growing smaller with advancing years. she insisted on accompanying the party back to mary harmer's cottage. a simple collation was awaiting them before they travelled back to the city. lady scrope looked with the greatest interest and curiosity at the cottage; received the inquiring advances of fido very graciously; made the boys tell her all the history of his attaching himself to them; and finally made herself the most entertaining and agreeable guest at the board, although the sharpness of her speech and the acid favour of some of her remarks bred a little uneasiness in some of her auditors. nevertheless the time passed pleasantly enough; and when the hands of the clock pointed to the hour of eleven, the lady rose to her feet and remarked incisively: "my coach will be here immediately, if the varlets play me not false. the bride, bridegroom, and the bride's father shall drive with me. i mean to see the maiden's house before i return to mine own." a glowing colour was in gertrude's face. now she began to have a clearer idea why lady scrope was there. reuben had been to her once, and had asked her approval of their plan to expend the bulk of the dowry she had, with such eccentric and unaccountable generosity, bestowed upon the bride, upon the purchase of the house which had been for many generations in the family of her father, and which she loved well from old associations. reuben was going to set up in business for himself now. he had long been contemplating this step, since his father's trade was increasing steadily. they would now be partners, reuben taking one branch of the industry, and leaving his father the other. with the changes in fashions, changes in the manufacture of court luxuries became necessary. reuben would advance with the times, his father would remain where he was before. it was a plan which had been carefully considered by both father and son for long, and would have been earlier carried out had it not been for the disastrous stoppage of all trade during the visitation of the plague. now, however, london seemed as gay as ever. orders were pouring in. it was wonderful how little the gaps in the ranks seemed to be heeded. it was scarcely, even amongst the upper classes, that persons troubled to wear the deep mourning for departed friends which, under ordinary circumstances, they would have done. the great wish of all appeared to be to forget the awful visitation as fast as possible, and to drown the memory of it in feasting and revelry. and this spirit, however little to the liking of a godly man like james harmer, was nevertheless good for his trade. lady scrope being in the secret of the surprise in store for the master builder, was anxious to amuse herself by being witness to his enlightenment; and it certainly seemed as though she had full right thus to amuse herself, if it were her desire. reuben had some savings of his own; but the purchase of the house, had it been made by him alone, would have seriously crippled his ability to carry out his further plans of business. thus it was really lady scrope's golden guineas which had paved the way for the young people, and no one could grudge her the enjoyment of seeing them arrive at their new home. the master builder had had some dealings of late with her ladyship; for on hearing what he was employed to do for so many of her friends, she summoned him to fumigate both of her houses when she had got rid of all her temporary inmates; and she followed him about, watching what he did, and amusing herself with making him relate all the gossip he had picked up relative to her acquaintances into whose houses he had been admitted: how many amongst them had had the plague, how many had died, and all the other details that her insatiable curiosity could glean from him. and now the bridal couple, together with the bride's father, were being driven in state through the widest thoroughfares of the city in the hired chariot of lady scrope, she chatting all the while, and pointing out this thing and that as they went, openly lamenting that so little remained to remind them of the plague, and prophesying that london had not done with calamity yet. gertrude was amazed at the small change in the familiar streets as they neared their home. true, she saw more strange faces than she had been wont to do, and read new names and new signs upon the gaily-painted boards hanging over the shop doors. again and again she missed from some accustomed doorway the familiar face of the former owner, and saw that a stranger had taken the old business. but then, again, others were there in their old places; friendly faces beamed upon her as she looked out of the window. it was known upon the bridge itself that she was to come back today; and though the appearance of this fine coach caused a little thrill of surprise, there was a fine buzz of welcome as reuben put out his head and stopped the postillion at the familiar door; for so many fears had been entertained of reuben's death, that there were those who could not believe they should see him again in the flesh until he stood before them. "what means all this? why stop ye here?" asked the master builder, with a little agitation in his voice. "you have a home of your own, you told me, reuben, to which to take your wife. why stop you at your father's house? let the postillion drive to your own abode." "this is our own abode, dear father," said gertrude softly, alighting from the coach and taking him by the hand to lead him in. her other hand was held by her husband; and lady scrope was forgotten for the moment by all, as the three passed the familiar threshold amid a chorus of good wishes from friends and neighbours, to which reuben responded by a variety of signs, gertrude being too much moved to notice them. "dear father," she said, as they stood within the lower room, which was being now fitted as of old for a shop, "forgive us if we have kept our happy secret till now. we wanted to have the home ready ere we brought you to it. this is our home. a wonderful thing befell me. a dowry was bestowed upon me by a generous patroness, from whom i looked not to receive a penny; that dowry bought the house. reuben's business will give us an ample livelihood. thou wilt remain always with us in the dear old house which thou hast loved. oh how happy we shall be--how wondrously happy! "father dear, it was lady scrope who gave me the wonderful gift that has brought us all this. we must try to thank her ere we think of ourselves more." so speaking gertrude turned, with her eyes full of happy tears, towards lady scrope, who stood only a few paces off watching everything with her accustomed intense scrutiny, and held out both her hands in a sweet and simple gesture expressive of so much feeling that the old dame felt an unwonted mist rising in her eyes. "tut, tut, tut, child! i want no thanks. what good did the gold do me, thinkest thou, shut away in yonder box? what think you i had preserved it there for? marry that i might fling it away at dice or cards with those who came to visit me? it was my pleasure money, as i chose to call it. and then came the plague and smote hip and thigh amongst those who called me friend. and what good did the gold do me or any person else? if it pleases me to throw it away on a pair of fools, whose business is that but mine? "there, there, there, that will do, all of you good people. i want to see the house. i want none of your fool's talk. going to keep a shop here?--sensible man. i'll come and buy all my finery when you start business, and sit and gossip at the counter the while. so mind you have plenty of fine folks to gossip with me. if i were young again, i vow i'd keep a shop myself." and she made reuben show samples of his goods, which were piled up in readiness, albeit he was not quite ready to open shop; and very excellent of their kind they were, as lady scrope was not slow to remark. "i'll send the whole city to you. i'll make you the fashion yet. if i were a younger woman, and had my own old train of gallants after me, i'd have made your fortune for you before the year was out. but i'll do something yet, you shall see. and mind that you never begin to lend money, young man, to any needy young fool who may ask it of you. those greedy court gallants would eat up all the gold of the indies, and be no whit the richer for it. no money lending, young man, for in that way lies ruin, as too many have found." the master builder winced like one touched in a tender part, whilst reuben answered boldly: "i have no such intentions. i hate usury, nor care i to earn money for others to filch from me. i get my wealth by honest trade; and if any man comes to me for aid, all the help i can give him is to put him in the way of doing the like." lady scrope nodded her head and laughed her shrill witch-like laugh. "he! he! he! offer honest work to a needy gallant! may i be there to hear when thou dost. work, forsooth!--a turn at the galleys would do most of them a power of good. well, well, well, young man, thou speakest sound sense. thou shouldst prosper in thy business. "now, girl, show me the rest of the house, for i must needs be getting home ere long. i shall weary my old bones with all this gadding to and fro." gertrude was willing enough to obey. the house was hardly changed from the time she had left it, save that all which was faded and worn had been replaced and furbished anew, and the whole place made sweet and wholesome, and as clean and bright as hands could make it. gertrude would have preferred a plainer and simpler abode, more like that of her neighbours; but she had not had the heart to undo all her mother's dainty handiwork, and reuben had thought nothing too good for his bride. lady scrope gibed and jeered a little, but not unkindly. she knew all the family history by this time, and how that gertrude was not responsible for the luxuries with which her life would be surrounded. "go to, child, go to; i am no judge over thee. what matters it a few years earlier or later? it began in shakespeare's time, as you may read if you will, and it grows worse every generation. soon the shopmen and traders will be the fine gentlemen of the land, and we may hope for the pickings and leavings of their tables. what does it matter to me? i shall not be troubled by it. and if i be not troubled thereby, what matter if all the world goes mad? "now fare you well, young folks; and thou, good master builder, thank heaven for a good and dutiful daughter, for they grow not on every hedge in these graceless days. "see me to my coach, young man, if thou canst leave devouring thy wife with thine eyes for so much as a minute. "poor fools! poor fools! both of you. "give me a kiss, maiden--nay, mistress i must call thee now. be a good child, and be not too meek. remember the fate of the hapless griselda." nodding her head and shaking her finger, lady scrope vanished down the stairs upon reuben's arm; and gertrude, moved beyond her powers of self restraint by all she had gone through, flung herself into her father's arms, and the two mingled together their tears of thankfulness and joy. chapter xvi. a flaming city. many happy months passed away, and the great city began to forget the terrible calamity through which it had passed. there was a little fear at first when the summer set in exceptionally hot and dry--very much as it had done the preceding year; but the plague seemed to have wreaked its full vengeance upon the inhabitants, and there was no fresh outbreak, although isolated cases were reported, as was usual, from time to time, and sometimes a slight passing scare would upset the minds of men in a certain locality, to be shortly laid at rest when no further ill followed. the two houses on the bridge, standing sociably side by side, were pleasant and flourishing places of business. benjamin was now apprenticed to his brother reuben, his old master the carpenter having fallen a victim to the plague. dorcas remained with lady scrope, who was now reckoned as a kind friend and patroness to the harmers, father and son. rebecca fulfilled her old functions of the useful daughter at home, though it was thought she would not long remain there, as she was being openly courted by a young mercer in southwark, who had bought a business left without head through the ravages of the plague, and was rapidly working it up to something considerable and successful. the master builder, too, was getting on, although still doing a very small trade compared to what he had done before. many of his patrons were dead, others had been scared away altogether from london for the present, and with so many vacant houses to fill nobody cared to think of building. still he found employment of a kind, and was never idle, although things were very different from what they had been, and he thought rather of paying his way in a quiet fashion than of building up a great fortune. he lived in the old house with his daughter and son-in-law, and was happier than in the old days, when his wife had always been trying to make him ape the ways of the gentry, and his son had been wearying his life out with ceaseless importunities for money, which would only be wasted in drunkenness and rioting. now the days passed happily and peacefully. gertrude was a loving wife and a loving daughter. her father's comfort and welfare were studied equally with that of her husband. she did her utmost not to permit him ever to feel lonely or neglected, and she considered his needs as his own fine-lady wife had never thought of doing. he had also his friends next door to visit, where he was always welcome. there was now another door of communication opened between the two houses, and almost every evening the master builder would drop in for an hour to smoke a pipe with his friend and exchange the news of the day, leaving the young married couple to themselves, for a happy interchange of affection and confidences. the harmer household remained unchanged, save for the death of dan and the marriage of reuben; but the sailor had been so little at home, that there was no great blank left by his absence, and reuben was too close at hand to be greatly missed. janet had not returned to service. her mother had been rather horrified at the manner in which the poor girl had been treated by her mistress when the plague had appeared in the house. she did not care to send her back to lady howe, and janet had become so accomplished a nurse, and took such interest in the life, that she begged to be allowed to follow the calling of her aunt dinah, and to spend her time amongst the sick, wherever she might be needed. so both she and dinah morse lived at the house on the bridge, but went about amongst the sick in the neighbourhood, generally directed by dr. hooker, but sometimes called specially to urgent cases by neighbours or friends. sometimes they returned home at night to sleep, sometimes they remained for several days or weeks at a time with their patients, according to their degree and the urgency of the case. janet found herself very well content in her new life, and her mother liked it for her, since it brought her so much more to her home. it began to be noted that when dinah morse was at the house on the occasions of the visits of the master builder, he addressed a great part of his conversation to her, seemed never to weary hearing her talk, and would sit looking reflectively at her when other people were doing the talking. he had never forgotten how she had come to them in their hour of dire need, when poor frederick had sickened of the fell disease which so soon carried him off. he always declared that her tenderness to his wife and daughter at that time had been beyond all price, and it seemed as though his sense of obligation and gratitude did not lessen with time. sometimes james harmer would say smilingly to his wife: "methinks our good neighbour hath a great fancy for dinah. i always do say that such a woman as she ought to be the wife of some good honest man. they might do worse, both of them, than think of marriage. what think you of dinah? tends her fancy that way at all?" and at that question rachel would shake her head wisely and respond: "dinah is not one to wear her heart upon her sleeve! a woman hides her secret in her heart till the right time comes for giving an answer. but we shall see! we shall see!" in this manner the spring and summer passed happily and quickly away. august had come and gone, and now the first days of september had arrived. the heat still continued very great, and a parching east wind had been blowing for many weeks, which had dried up the woodwork of the houses till it was like tinder. sometimes the master builder, coming home from his work of repairing or altering some house either great or small, would say: "i would we could get rain. this long drought is something serious. i never knew the houses so dry and parched as they are now. if a fire were to break out, it would be no small matter to extinguish it. the water supply is very low, and the whole city is like tinder." it was saturday night. the sun had gone down like a great ball of fire, and gertrude had observed to her husband how it had dyed the river a peculiarly blood-red hue. one of those wandering fortune tellers, who had paraded the city so often during the early days of the plague (till the poor wretches were themselves carried off in great numbers by it), had passed down the street once or twice during the day, and had been always chanting a rude song like a dirge, in which many woes were said to be hanging over london town. these prognostications had been frequent since the appearance in the sky of another comet, which had been seen on all clear nights of late. it had considerably alarmed the citizens, who remembered the comet of the previous year, and the terrible visitation which had followed. this one was not very like the former; it was far more bright, and burning, and red, and its motion appeared more rapid in the sky. the soothsayers and astrologers, of which there were still plenty left, all averred that it bespoke some fresh calamity hanging over the city, and for a while there was considerable alarm in many minds, and some families actually left london, fearful that the plague would again break out there; but by this time the panic had well nigh died down. the comet ceased to be seen in the sky, and even the mournful words of the fortune tellers did not attract the notice they had done at first. the summer was waning, and no sickness had appeared; and of any other kind of calamity the people did not appear to dream. the master builder had gone in as usual to the next house to have a talk with his neighbour. but tonight he looked in vain for dinah. "she and janet have both been summoned to a fine lady who is sick in a grand house nigh to st. paul's. dr. hooker fetched them thither this morning. they will be well paid for their work, he says. the lady has sickened of a fever, and some of her household took fright lest it should be the plague, albeit the symptoms are quite different. so he must needs take both dinah and janet with him, that she might be rightly served and tended. tomorrow joseph shall go and ask news of her, and get speech with janet if he can, and learn how it fares with her. i confess i am glad, when she goes to fine houses, that dinah should be there also. janet is a pretty creature, and those young gallants think of nothing but to amuse themselves by turning girls' heads, be they ever so humble. "ah me! ah me! there is a vast deal of wickedness in the world! i cannot wonder that men foretell some fresh calamity upon this city. i am sure some of the things we hear and see--well, well, well, we must not judge others. it is enough that judgment and vengeance are the lord's." rachel stopped short because she saw the look of pain which always came into the master builder's face when he thought of his profligate young son, cut off in the prime of his youthful manhood, and that without any assurance on the part of those about him that he had repented of the error of his ways. the carelessness and wickedness of the young men of the city were always a sore subject, and he still winced when the pranks of the scourers were commented upon by his neighbours. "it is my lady desborough who has fallen ill," concluded rachel, anxious to turn the subject. "methinks you had some dealings with her lord not such very long time since. the name fell familiarly upon my ears." "yes, truly, i did much to garnish their house, and i built out a private parlour for my lady, all of looking glass and gilding. not long since i purified the house for them with the costliest of spices. lord desborough thinks all the world of his beauteous lady. they are devoted to each other, which is a goodly thing to see in these days. he will be greatly alarmed if she be seriously indisposed. he is a right worthy gentleman; and with thy permission i will accompany joseph to st. paul's tomorrow and learn the latest tidings of her." "with all my heart," answered the mother; and soon after that the master builder took his departure, and both houses settled to rest for the night. it might have been two or three o'clock in the morning, none could say exactly how time went on that memorable day, when the master builder was awakened by sounds in the adjoining chamber, where reuben and his wife slept; and before he was fully awake, he heard gertrude's voice at his door crying out: "o father, father! there is such a dreadful fire! reuben is going out to see where it is. methinks it must be very nigh at hand. prithee go with him, and see that he comes to no hurt!" the master builder was awake in an instant, and although it was an hour at which the room should be dark, he found it quite sufficiently light to dress without trouble, owing to the red glare of fire somewhere in the neighbourhood. "pray heaven it be not very near us!" was the cry of his heart as he hurried into his clothes, remembering his own auguries of a short time back respecting the spread of fire, if once it got a hold upon a street or building. he was dressed in a moment, and had joined reuben as the latter was feeling his way to the fastenings of the door. two of the shopmen, who slept below, were already aroused and wishful to join them; and as they emerged into the street, which was quite light with the palpitating glow of fire, the door of the harmers' house opened to admit the exit of the master of the house and his son joseph. "thou hast seen it also! i fear me it is very nigh at hand. i had a good look from my topmost window, and methought it must surely be in long lane or in pudding lane; certainly it is in one of the narrow thoroughfares turning off northward from thames street. it must have been burning for some while. it seems to have taken firm hold. belike the poor creatures there are all too terrified to do aught to check the spread of the flames. we must see what can be done. it will not do to let the flames get a hold. this strong dry wind will spread them west and north with terrible speed, if something be not done to check them!" james harmer spoke with the air of a man who is used to offices of authority. he had exercised one so long during the crisis of the plague, that the habit of thinking for his fellow citizens still clung to him. it appeared to him to be his bounden duty to do what he could to save life and property; and all the time he spoke he was hastening along the bridge in the direction of the smoke clouds and flames. the master builder hurried along at his side, and before they had reached the end of the bridge there were quite a dozen of the householders or their servants joining the procession to the scene of the conflagration. until they reached the corner of thames street they saw nothing beyond the red column of flame and the showers of sparks mingling with clouds of smoke; but when once they reached the corner, a terrible sight was revealed to them, for the whole block of buildings between pudding lane and new fish street was a mass of flames, and the fire seemed to be like a living thing, driven onwards before some mighty compelling power. "god preserve us all! it will be upon us in an hour if nothing be done to check it," cried harmer in sudden dismay. "what is being done? what are the people doing?" cried a score of voices. but what indeed could the terrified people do, wakened out of their sleep in the dead of night to find their houses burning about their ears? they were running helter skelter this way and that, not knowing which way to turn, like so many frightened sheep. not that they thought as yet that this fire was going to be so very different from other bad fires which some of them had seen; for their wooden and plaster houses burned down too readily at all times, and were built up easily enough afterwards. a little farther off the people were trying to get their goods out of the houses, that they might not lose all if the fire came their way. but those actually burned out seemed to do nothing but stand helplessly by looking on; and perhaps it was only the master builder himself who at this moment realized that there was a very serious peril threatening the whole quarter of the city where the fire had broken out, and had already taken such hold. the wind being slightly north as well as east in its direction, it seemed reasonable to hope that the conflagration would not cross thames street in a southerly direction, in which case the bridge would be safe; and, indeed, as new fish street was a fairly wide thoroughfare, it was rather confidently hoped that this might prove a check to the fire. the master builder ran up the street crying out to the terrified inhabitants to get all the water they could and fling it upon the roofs and walls of their dwellings, to strive to keep the flames at bay; but there was scarcely one to listen or try to obey. the people were all hurrying out of their houses, bringing their families and their goods and chattels with them. the street was so blocked by hand carts and jostling crowds, that it was hopeless to attempt any plan of organization here. then all too soon a cry went up that the fire had leaped the street and had ignited a house on the west side. a groan and a scream of terror went up as it was seen that this was all too true, and already great waves of flame seemed to be rushing onwards as if driven from the mouth of some vast blasting furnace; and the master builder returned to his friends with a very grave face. "heaven send the whole city be not destroyed!" he exclaimed; "never have i seen fire like unto this fire! "reuben, lad, make thy way with all speed to the lord mayor, and tell him of the peril in which we stand. he is the man to find means to check this fearful conflagration. would to heaven it were good sir john lawrence who were mayor, as he was in the days of the plague! he was a man of spirit, and courage, and resource. but i much fear me that poor bludworth has little of any of these qualities. nevertheless go to him, reuben. tell him what thou hast seen, and tell him that if he wishes not to see london burned about his ears it behoves him to do something!" reuben dashed off along thames street westward to do his errand, and then the master builder turned gravely to his friend and said: "harmer, i like not the aspect of things. i fear me that even we are likely to stand in dire peril ere long. yet we shall have time to take steps for our salvation, seeing the wind is our friend so far, though heaven alone knows when that may change, and drive the flames straight down upon us. yet, methinks, we shall have time for what must be done. wilt thou work hand in hand with me for the salvation of our goods and houses, even though it may mean present loss?" "i will do whatever is right and prudent," answered harmer, hurrying hack towards the bridge with his friend and with those who had followed them, and in a short while they were surrounded by a number of frightened neighbours, all asking what awful thing was happening, and what could be done to save themselves. the master builder was naturally the man looked to, and he gave answer quietly and firmly. if the fire once leaped thames street, and attacked the south side, nothing short of a miracle could save the bridge houses, unless some drastic step were taken; and the only method which he could devise in the emergency, was that some of the houses at the northern end should be demolished by means of gunpowder, and the ruins soaked in water, so that the passage of the flames might be stayed there. but at this suggestion the faces of those who lived in these same houses grew long and grave, as indeed the speaker had anticipated. the owners were not prepared for so great a sacrifice. they argued that with the wind where it was, the fire might in all probability not extend southward at all, in which case their loss would he useless. they talked and argued the matter out for about twenty anxious minutes, and in fine flatly refused to have their houses touched, preferring to take their chance of escaping the fire to this wholesale demolition. this was no more than the master builder had foreseen, and without attempting further argument he turned to his neighbour and said: "then it must be your workshops and storerooms that must go. you can better spare them than the house itself; and on the opposite side there is the empty house where poor david norris lived and died. there is none living there now to hinder us. we must take the law into our own hands and make the gap there. if the fire comes not this way, i will bear the blame with the mayor, if we be called to account; but methinks a little promptitude now may save half the bridge, and perchance all the southern part of london likewise!" "do as you will, good friend, your knowledge is greater than mine," answered james harmer with cheerful alacrity; "heaven forbid that i should value my goods beyond the life and property and salvation of the many in this time of threatened peril." "we shall save the goods first. it is only the sheds and workshops that must go," answered the master builder cheerily, and forthwith he and his men, who had come hurrying up, together with all the men and boys in the double harmer household, commenced carrying within shop and houses all the valuables stored in the smaller buildings hard by. it was a work quickly accomplished, and whilst it was being carried out, the master builder himself was carefully making preparations for the demolition of the empty house opposite, which indeed was already in some danger of falling into decay, and was empty and desolate. it had been the abode of the unfortunate man who brought his family back too soon to the city, and lost them all of the plague within a short time. he himself had lingered on for some months, and had then died of a broken heart. but nobody had cared to live in the house since. it was averred that it was haunted by the restless spirit of the poor man, and strange noises were said to issue from it at night. others declared that the ghost of the wife was seen flitting past the windows, and that she always carried a sick moaning child in her arms. so ill a name had the house got by reason of these many stories that none would take it, and there was therefore none to interfere when, with a loud report and showers of dust and sparks, the whole place and the workshop at the side were blown up at the command of the master builder, and reduced to a pile of ruins. in spite of all the excitement and fear caused by the spreading fire, the neighbours looked upon the master builder as an enthusiast and a madman, and upon james harmer as a poor dupe, to allow such destruction of property. no sooner were both sets of buildings destroyed than men were set to work with buckets and chains to drench the dusty heaps of the ruins with water, nor would the master builder permit the workers to slacken their efforts until the whole mass of demolished ruin was reduced to the condition of a soppy pulp. by this time the day had broken; but the sun was partially obscured by the thick pall of smoke which hung in the air, whilst the ceaseless roar of the flames was becoming terrible in its monotony. backwards and forwards ran excited men and boys, always bringing fresh reports as to the alarming spread of the fire. even upon the bridge the heat could plainly be felt. the workers who were called within doors to be refreshed by food and drink were almost too anxious to eat. never had such a fire been seen before. whilst the master builder and his friend were snatching a hasty meal, reuben came hurrying back with a smoke-blackened face. he too showed signs of grave anxiety. "well, lad, hast thou seen the lord mayor?" was the eager question. "ay, verily, i have seen him," answered reuben, with a bent brow, and a look of severity on his young face, "but i might as well have spoken to fido there for all the good i did." "why, how so?" asked his father quickly and sternly; "is the man lost to all sense of his duties? where was he? what said he? come sit thee down, lad, and eat thy fill, and tell us all the tale." reuben was hungry enough, and his wife hung over him supplying his needs; but he was thinking more of the perils of his fellow citizens, and of the supine conduct of the mayor, than of anything else. "i found the worshipful fellow in bed," he answered. "other messengers had arrived with the news, but his servant had not ventured to disturb him. i, however, would not be denied. i went up to him in his bed chamber, and i told him what i had seen, and warned him that there was need for prompt action. but he only answered with an oath and a ribald jest, which i will not repeat in the hearing of my wife or mother; and he would have turned again to his slumbers, had i not well nigh forced him to get up, and had not some of the aldermen arrived at that minute to speak of the matter, and inquire into its magnitude. they be all of them disposed to say that it will burn itself out fast enough like other fires; but i trow some amongst them are aroused to a fear that it may spread far in this dry wind, and with the houses so parched and cracked with heat. then i came away, having done mine errand, and went back to the fire. it had spread all too fast even in that short time, and the worst thing is that no means seem to be taken to stop it. the people run about like those distraught, crying that a second judgment has come, that it is god's doing, and that man cannot fight against it. they are all seeking to convey away their goods to some safe place; but the fire travels quicker than they, and they are forced to leave their chattels and flee for their lives. i trow such a sight has never been seen before." "it must be like the burning of rome in the days of the wicked emperor nero," said gertrude in a low, awed voice. "pray heaven they extinguish the flames soon! it would be fearful indeed were they to last till nightfall." at this moment rachel harmer came hurrying into the room with a pale scared face. "the child dorcas!" she cried. "why have we not thought of her? is she safe? where has the fire reached to? god forgive me! i must surely be off my head! husband, go for the child; she must be scared to death, even if naught worse has befallen her!" "i had not forgot the maid," answered the father; "but it is well she should be looked to now. the fire has not crossed thames street. lady scrope's house is safe yet a while; but unless things quickly improve, both she and the child should come hither. "make ready the best guest chamber in thy house, gertrude, and thy husband and i will go and bring her hither. "come, lad, as thy mother saith, the child may be scared at the heat and the flames. and my lady has many valuables to be rescued, too. it would be shame that they should perish in the flames if these leap the street. we will take the boat and moor it at cold harbour, and slip up by the side street out of the way of the smoke and the heat. we can thus bring her and her goods with most safety here. marry that is well bethought! we will lose not an hour. one cannot tell at what moment the fire may change its direction." reuben rose at once, and accompanied by two of the steadiest of the shopmen, they prepared to carry out their plan of seeking to rescue lady scrope and her valuables. chapter xvii. scenes of terror. "father! sweet father! thank heaven thou art come! methought we should be burned alive in this terrible house. methought perchance all of you had been burned. o father! tell me, what is befalling? it is like the last judgment, when all the world shall be consumed with fervent heat!" dorcas, with a white face and panting breath, stood clinging to her father's arm, as though she would never let it go. he soothed her tenderly, striving to pacify her terrors, but it was plain that she had been through some hours of terrible fear. "my little bird, didst thou think we should leave thee to perish here?" asked the father, half playfully, half reproachfully; "and if so affrighted, why didst thou not fly home to thy nest? that, at least, would have been easy." "ah, but i could not leave my lady when all besides had fled--even the two old creatures who were never afraid of remaining when the distemper was raging all around. she stands at the window watching the flames devouring all else opposite, and it is hot enough there well nigh to singe the hair on her head; but she laughs and chuckles the while, and says the most horrible things. i cannot bear to go anigh her; and yet i cannot leave her alone. "o father, father! come and get her away. she seems like one made without the power of fear. the more that others are affrighted, the more she seems to rejoice!" dorcas and her father and brother were in the narrow entry upon which the back door of the house opened. this alley led right down to the river, where the boat was moored under the charge of the two shopmen. it would be easy to carry down any valuables and load it up, and then transport the intrepid old woman, when she had looked her fill, and when she saw her own safety threatened. for it began to be evident that the flames would quickly overleap the gap presented by thames street. they were gathering so fearfully in power that great flakes of fire detached themselves from the burning buildings and leaped upon other places to right and left, as though endowed with the power of volition. the fire was even spreading eastward in spite of the strong east wind--not, of course, with anything like the rapidity with which it made its way westward, but in a fashion which plainly showed how firm a hold it had upon the doomed houses. there was no time to lose if lady scrope and her valuables were to be saved. the house seemed full of smoke as they entered it; and dorcas led them up the stairs into the parlour, at the window of which her mistress was standing, leaning upon her stick, and uttering a succession of short, sharp exclamations, intermingled with the cackling laugh of old age. "ha! that is a good one! some roof fell in then! see the sparks rushing up like waters from a fountain! i would not have missed that! pity it is daylight; 'twould have been twice as fine at night! good! good! good! yes run, my man, run, or the flames will catch you. ha! they gave him a lick, and he has dropped his bundle and fled for his very life. ha! ha! ha! it is as good as the best play i ever saw in my life! here comes another. oh, he has so laden himself that he can scarcely run. there! he is down; he struggles to rise, but his pack holds him to the ground. o my good fool! you will find that your goods cost you dear today. you should have read your bible to better purpose. ah! there is some good-natured fool helping him up and along. it is more than he deserves. i should have liked to see what he did when the next wave of fire ran up the street. "dorcas, child, where art thou? thou art losing the finest sight of thy life! if thou hast courage to stay with me, why hast thou not courage to enjoy such a sight as thou wilt not see twice in a lifetime?" "madam! madam!" cried the girl running forward, "here are my father and brother, come to help to save your goods and escape by the back. they have brought the boat to cold harbour, where it is moored; and, if it please you, they will conduct you to it, and come back and fetch such goods as you would most wish saved." but the old woman did not even turn her head. she was eagerly scanning the street without, along which sheets of flame seemed to be driven. "great powers, what a noise! methinks some church tower has collapsed. st. lawrence, poultney, belike. st. mary's, bush lane, will be the next. would i were there to see. i will to the roof of the house to obtain a better view. zounds, but this is worth a hundred plagues! i had never thought to live to see london burned about my ears. what a noise the fire makes! it is like the rushing of a mighty flood. oh, a flood of fire is a fine thing!" the weird old woman looked like a spirit of the devouring element, as she stood at her window talking aloud in her strange excitement and enjoyment of the awful destruction about her. the heat within the room was becoming intolerable, yet she did not appear to feel it. the house being well built, with thick walls and well-fitting windows, resisted the entrance of the great volumes of smoke that roiled along laden with sparks and burning fragments of wood; but these fiery heralds were becoming so menacing and continuous, that the harmers saw plainly how little time was to be lost if they would save either the old woman or her valuables. "madam," said james harmer approaching, and forcing his presence upon the notice of the mistress of the house, "there is little time to lose if you would save yourself or your goods. we have come to give such assistance as lies in our power. will you give me your authority to bear away hence all such things as may be most readily transported and are of most value? when we have saved these, belike you will have looked your fill on the fire. and, at least, you can see it as well from any other place in the neighbourhood without this risk. may we commence our task of rescue?" "oh yes, my good fellow, take what you will. dorcas will show you what is of greatest value. lade yourselves with spoil, and make yourselves rich for life. i drove forth the hired varlets who would fain have robbed me ere they left; but take what you will, and my blessing with it. your daughter deserves a dowry at my hands. take all you can lay hands upon; i shall want it no more. ha! i must to the roof! i must to the roof! why, if it only lasts till nightfall, what a sight it will be! right glad am i that i have lived to see this day." without particularly heeding the words of the strange old woman, father and son, directed by dorcas, set about rapidly to collect and transport to the boat the large quantities of silver plate and other valuables which, during her long life, lady scrope had collected about her. the rich furniture had, perforce, to be left behind, save a small piece here and there of exceptional value; but there were jewels, and golden trinkets, and strangely-carved ivories set with gems, and all manner of costly trophies from the distant lands whither vessels now went and returned laden with all manner of wonders. the harmers were amazed at the vast amount of treasure hoarded up in that small house, and wondered that lady scrope had not many times had her life attempted by the servants, who must have known something of the contents of cabinet and chest. but her reputation as a witch had been a great safeguard, and her own intrepid spirit had done even more to hold robbers at bay. all who knew her were fully aware that she was quite capable of shooting down any person found in the act of robbing her, and that she always kept loaded pistols in her room in readiness. there was a story whispered about, of her having locked up in one of her rooms a servant whom she had caught pilfering, and it was said that she had starved him to death amid the plunder he had gathered, and had afterwards had his body flung without burial into the river. whether there was more than rumour in such a gruesome tale none could now say, but it had long become an acknowledged axiom that lady scrope's goods had better be let alone. twice had the boat been laden and returned, for all concerned worked with a will, and now all had been removed from the house which it was possible to take on such short notice and in such a fashion. the fire was surging furiously across the road, and in more than one place it had leaped the street, and the other side, the south side, was now burning as fiercely as the northern. dorcas had been dispatched to call down lady scrope, for her father reckoned that in ten minutes more the house would be actually engulfed in the oncoming mass of flames. and now the girl hurried up to them, her face blanched with terror. "she will not come, father; she will not come. she laughs to scorn all that i say. she stands upon the parapet of the roof, tossing her arms, and crying aloud as she sees building after building catch fire, and the great billows of flame rolling along. oh, it is terrible to see and to hear her! methinks she has gone distraught. prithee, go fetch her down by force, dear father, for i trow that naught else will suffice." father and son looked at each other in consternation. they had not seriously contemplated the possibility of finding the old woman obstinate to the last. but yet, now that dorcas spoke, it seemed to them quite in keeping with what they had heard of her, that she should decline to leave even in the face of dire peril. "run to the boat, child!" cried the father. "let us know that thou art safe on board, and leave thy mistress to us. if she come not peaceably, we must needs carry her down. "come, reuben, we must not tarry within these walls more than five minutes longer. the fire is approaching on all sides. i fear me, both the allhallowes will be victims next." springing up the staircase, now thick with smoke, father and son emerged at last upon a little leaden platform, and saw at a short distance from them the old woman whom they sought, tossing her arms wildly up and down, and bursting into awful laughter when anything more terrible than usual made itself apparent. they could not get quite up to her without actually crawling along an unguarded ridge of masonry, as she must have done to attain her present position; but they approached as near as was possible, and called to her urgently: "madam, we have saved your goods as far as it was possible; now we come to save you. lose not a moment in escaping from the house. in a few more minutes escape will be impossible." she turned and faced them then, dropping her mocking and excited manner, and speaking quite calmly and quietly. "good fellow, who told you that i should leave my house? i have no intention whatever of doing any such thing. what should i do in a strange place with strange surroundings? here i have lived, and here i will die. you are an honest man, and you have an honest wench for your daughter. keep all you have saved, and give her a marriage portion when she is fool enough to marry. as for me, i shall want it no more." "but, madam, it is idle speaking thus!" cried reuben, with the impetuosity of youth. "you must leave your house on the instant--" "so they told me in the time of the plague," returned lady scrope, with a little, disdainful smile; "but i told them i should never die in my bed." "madam, we cannot leave you here to perish in the flames," cried the youth, with some heat and excitement of manner. "i would that you would come quietly with us, but if not i must needs--" and here he began to suit the action to the words, and to make as though he would creep along the ledge and gain the old woman's vantage ground, as, indeed, was his intention. but he had hardly commenced this perilous transit before he felt himself pulled back by his father, who said, in a strange, muffled voice: "it is useless, reuben; we can do nothing. we must leave her to her fate. either she is truly a witch, as men say, or else her brain is turned by the fearsome sight." and reuben, following his father's glance, saw that the redoubtable lady scrope had drawn forth a pistol from pocket or girdle, and was pointing it full at him, with a light in her eyes which plainly betokened her intention of using it if he dared to thwart her beyond a certain point. when she saw the action of james harmer, she smiled a sardonic smile. "farewell, gentlemen," she said, with a wave of her hand. "i thank you for your good offices, and for your kindly thought for me. but no man has ever yet moved me from my purpose, and no man has laid hands on me against my will--nor ever shall. go! farewell! save yourselves, and take my blessing and good wishes with you; but i move not an inch from where i stand. i defy the fire, as i defied the plague!" it was useless to remain. words were thrown away, and to attempt force would but bring certain death upon whoever attempted it. the fire was already almost upon them. father and son, after one despairing look at each other, darted down the stairs again, and had but just time to make their escape ere a great wave of flame came rolling along overhead, and the house itself was wrapped in the fiery mantle. dorcas, waiting with the men in the boat, devoured them with her eyes as they appeared, and uttered a little cry of horror and amazement when she saw them appear, choked and blackened, but alone. "she would not come! she would not come! oh, i feared it from the first; but it seemed so impossible! oh, how could she stay there alone in that sea of fire! o my mistress! my mistress! my poor mistress! she was always kind to me." neither father nor brother spoke as they got into the boat and pushed off into the glowing river. it was terrible to think of that intrepid old woman facing her self-chosen and fiery doom alone up there upon the roof of that blazing house. "she must have been mad!" sobbed dorcas; and her father answered with grave solemnity: "methinks that self-will, never checked, never guided, breeds in the mind a sort of madness. let us not judge her. god is the judge. by this time, methinks, she will have passed from time to eternity." dorcas shuddered and hid her face. she could not grasp the thought that her redoubtable mistress was no more; but the weird sight of the fire, as seen from the river, drew her thoughts even from the contemplation of the tragedy just enacted. the great pall of smoke seemed extending to a fearful distance, and the girl turned with a sudden terror to her father. "father, will our house be burned?" "i trust not, my child, i trust not. it is of great moment that the bridge should be saved, not for its own sake only, but to keep the flames from spreading southward, as they might if they crossed that frail passage. we have done what we could; and we cannot be surrounded as are other houses. the fire can advance but by one road upon us. i trust the action we have taken will suffice to save us and others. i would fain be at home to see how matters are going there. i fear me that the pillar of fire over yonder is the blazing tower of st. magnus. if so, the fire is fearfully near the head of the bridge. god help the poor families who would not consent to the demolition of their houses for the common weal! i fear me now they are in danger of losing both houses and goods!" it was even so, as the harmers found on reaching their own abode, which they did by putting across the river to the southwark side, to avoid the peril from the burning fragments which were flying all about the north bank of the river. the flames, having once leaped thames street, were devouring the houses on the southern side of the street with an astonishing rapidity; and the river was crowded with wherries, to which the affrighted people brought such goods as they could hastily lay hands upon in the terror and confusion. st. magnus was now burning furiously, and great flakes of fire were falling pitilessly upon the houses at the northern end of the bridge. even as the harmers came hurrying up, a shout of fear told them that one of these had ignited, and the next minute there was no mistaking it. the houses on both sides of the northern end of the bridge were in flames; and the people who had somehow trusted that the bridge would, on account of its more isolated position, escape, were rushing terrified out of their doors, or were flinging their goods out of the windows with a recklessness that caused many of them to be broken to fragments as they reached the ground, whilst others were seized and carried off by the thieves and vagabonds who came swarming out of the dens of the low-lying parts of the city, eager to turn the public calamity into an occasion of private gain, and lost no opportunity of appropriating in the general confusion anything upon which they could lay their hands. "pray heaven the means we have taken may be blessed to the city!" cried james harmer, as he hurried along. he found his men hard at work pumping water and drenching the ruins with it; for, as they said, the great heat dried up the moisture with inconceivable rapidity, and if once these ruins fired, nothing short of a miracle could save the remainder of the houses. other stout fellows were upon the roofs with their buckets, emptying them as fast as they were filled upon the roofs and walls, so that when burning fragments and showers of sparks or even a leaping billow of flame smote upon them, it hissed like a live thing repulsed, and died away in smoke and blackness. it was the same when the flames reached the gap which had been made in the buildings by the master builder. the angry fire leapt again and again upon the drenched ruins, but each time fell back hissing and throwing off clouds of steam. for above two long hours that seemed like days the hand-to-hand fight continued, resolute and determined men casting water ceaselessly upon the ruins and the roofs and walls of the adjoining houses, the fire on the other side of the gap blazing furiously, and seeking to overstep it whenever a puff of wind gave it the right impetus. had the wind shifted a point to the south, possibly nothing could have saved the bridge; but the general direction was northeast, and it was only an occasional eddy that brought a rush of flames to the southward. but there was great peril from the intense heat generated by the huge body of burning buildings close at hand, and from the flying splinters and clouds of sparks. fearlessly and courageously as the workers toiled on, there were moments when their hearts almost failed them, when it seemed as though nothing could stop the oncoming tyrant, which appeared more like a living monster than a mere inanimate agency. but as the daylight waned, it began to be evident that victory would be with the devoted workers. although the ever-increasing light in the sky told them that in other directions the fire was spreading with tireless fury, in the neighbourhood of the bridge and the places where it had broken out it had almost wreaked its fury. it had burned houses, and shops, and churches to the very ground. the lambent flames still played about the heaps of burning ruins, but the fury of the conflagration had abated through lack of material upon which to feed itself. victory remained finally with those who had worked so well to keep the foe in check, and keep in safety the southern portion of the city. the master builder's scheme had been attended with marked success. the demolished buildings had arrested the progress of the flames, although not without severe labour on the part of those concerned. when the harmer family met together to eat and drink after the toils of the day, so wearied out that even the knowledge that the terrible fire was still devouring all before it in other quarters could not keep them from their beds that night, the master of the house said to his friend the master builder: "truly, if other means fail, we had better set about blowing up whole streets of houses in the path of the flames. we will to the lord mayor at daybreak, and tell him how the bridge has been saved. the people may lament at the destruction of their houses, but sure that is better than that all the city should be ravaged by fire!" busy indeed were the women of both those abodes upon that memorable night. from basement to attic their houses were crowded with neighbours who had been burned out, and who must either pass the night in the open air or else seek shelter from friends more fortunate than themselves. the men, for the most part, were abroad in the streets, drawn thither by the excitement of the great fire, and by the hope of helping to save other persons and goods. but the women and children crowded together in helpless dismay, watching from the windows the increasing glow in the sky as the sun sank and night came on, and mingling tears of terror for others with their own lamentations over the loss of houses and goods. good rachel harmer and her daughters and daughter-in-law moved amongst the poor creatures like ministering angels. the children were fed and put to bed by twos and threes together. the mothers were bidden to table in relays, and everything was done to cheer and sustain them. good james harmer thought not of his own goods when his neighbours were in dire need, and neither he nor his son grudged the hospitality which was willingly accorded to all who asked it, even though the houses would not stretch themselves out for the accommodation of more than a certain number. but as in times of trouble men draw very near together, so the misfortune of the citizens of london opened the hearts of their neighbours of southwark and the surrounding villages, who themselves were now safe and in no danger from the great fire. hospitable countrymen came with wagons and took away homeless creatures with their few poor goods, to be entertained for a while by their own wives and daughters. others who had to encamp in the open fields were supplied with food by the surrounding inhabitants; and although there were much sorrow of heart and distress, the kindness shown to the burned out families did much to assuage their woes. james harmer, who had done much to see to the safe housing of multitudes of women and children, came home at last, and gathering his household about him, gave thanks for their timely preservation in another great peril; and then he dismissed them to their beds, bidding them sleep, for that none knew what the morrow might bring forth. and they went to such couches as they could find for themselves, ready to do his behest; and though london was in flames, and the house almost as light as day, there were few that did not sleep soundly on the night which followed that strange eventful sunday. chapter xviii. what befell dinah. dinah morse and her niece janet were faring sumptuously in lord desborough's house, hard by st. paul's churchyard. his young wife lay sick of a grievous fever, and he was well nigh distracted by the fear of losing her. nothing was too good for her, or for the gentle-faced, soft-voiced nurses who had come to tend her in her hour of need. the best of everything was at their disposal; and it was no great source of regret to them that several of the hired servants had fled before their arrival, a whisper having gone through the house that her ladyship had taken the plague. dinah and janet had seen too much of the plague to be deceived by a few trifling similarities in some of the symptoms. they were able to assure the distracted husband that it was not the dreaded distemper, and then they settled to the task of nursing like those habituated to it; and so different were they in their ways from the women he had seen before in the office of sick nurse, many of whom were creatures of no good reputation, and of evil habits and life, that his mind was almost relieved of its fears and anxiety, and he began to entertain joyful hopes of the recovery of his spouse. upon the sunday morning which had passed so strangely and eventfully for those in the east of the city, there was nothing to disturb the tranquillity of patient or of nurses. it had been a hot night, and janet, when she relieved dinah towards morning, said she had seen a red light in the sky towards the east, and feared there had been a bad fire. but neither of them thought much of this; and when the bell of st. paul's rang for morning service, dinah bade janet put on her hood and go, for lady desborough was sleeping quietly, and would only need quiet watching for the next few hours. when janet entered the great building she was aware that a certain excitement and commotion seemed to prevail in some of the groups gathered together in paul's walk, as the long nave of the old building was called. paul's walk was a place of no very good repute, and any modest girl was wont to hurry through it with her hood drawn and her eyes bent upon the ground. disgraceful as such desecration must be accounted, there can be no doubt that paul's walk was a regular lounge for the dissipated and licentious young gallants of the day, a place where barter and traffic were shamelessly carried on, and where all sorts of evil practices prevailed. the sacredness of a building solemnly consecrated to god by their pious forefathers seemed to mean nothing to the reckless roisterers of that shameless age. the puritans during the late civil war had set the example of desecrating churches, by using them as stables and hospitals, and for other secular purposes. it was a natural outcome of such practices that the succeeding generation should go a step further and do infinitely worse. if god-fearing men did not scruple to desecrate consecrated churches, was it likely that their godless successors would have greater misgivings? janet therefore hurried along without seeking to know what men were talking of, and during the time that the service went on she almost forgot the impression she had taken in on her first entrance. as she came out she joined the old door porter of lord desborough's house, and was glad to walk with him through the crowded nave and into the bright, sunny air without. although the sun was shining, she was aware of a certain murkiness in the air, but did not specially heed it until some loudly-spoken words fell upon her ears. "but forty hours, and this whole city shall be consumed by fire!" shouted a strange-looking man, who, in very scanty attire, was stationed upon the top of the steps, and was declaiming and gesticulating as he addressed a rather frightened-looking crowd beneath him. "within forty hours there shall not be left standing one stone upon another in all this mighty edifice. the hand of the lord is stretched forth against this evil city, and judgment shall begin at his sanctuary. beware, and bewail, and repent in dust and ashes, for the lord will do a thing this day which will cause the ears of every one who hears it to tingle. he is coming! he is coming! he is coming in clouds and majesty in a flaming fire, even as he appeared on the mount of sinai! be ready to meet him. he comes to smite and not to spare! his chariots of fire are over us already. they travel apace upon the wings of the wind. i see them! i hear them! they come! they come! they come!" the fanatic waved his hands in the air with frantic gestures, and pointed eastward. certainly there did appear to be a strange murkiness and haze in the air; and was there not a smell as of burning? or was it but the idea suggested by the man's words? janet trembled as she slipped her arm within that of the old porter. "what does he mean?" she asked nervously. "the people seem very attentive to hear. they look affrighted, and some of them seem to tremble. what does it all mean?" "i scarce know myself. i heard men speak of a terrible fire right away in the east that has been burning many hours now. but sure they cannot fear that it will come nigh to st. paul's. that were madness indeed! why, each dry summer, as it comes, brings us plenty of bad fires. the fellow is but one of those mad fools who love to scare honest folks out of their senses. heed him not, mistress. belike he knows no more than thou and i. it is his trade to set men trembling. let us go home; there is no danger for us." rather consoled by these words, and certainly without any real apprehensions for their personal safety, janet returned to the house, where she and dinah passed a quiet day. neither of them went out again; and though they spoke sometimes of the fire, and wondered if it had been extinguished, they did not suffer any real anxiety of mind. "i trust it went not nigh to our homes," said janet once or twice. "i would that one of the boys might come and give us news of them. but if folks are in trouble over yonder, father is certain to have his hands full. he will never stand by idle whilst other folks are suffering danger and loss." "he is a good man," answered dinah, and with her these words stood for much. towards nightfall lord desborough came in with rather an anxious look upon his face. his eyes first sought the face of his wife; but seeing her lie in the tranquil sleep which was her best medicine, he was satisfied of her well being, and without putting his usual string of questions he began abruptly to ask of dinah: "have you heard news of this terrible fire?" both nurses looked earnestly at him. "is it not yet extinguished, my lord?" "extinguished? no, nor likely to be, if all we hear be true. i have not seen it with mine own eyes. i was at whitehall all the day, and heard no more than that some houses and churches in the east had been burned. but they say now that the flames are spreading this way with all the violence of a tempest at sea, and those who have been to see say that it is like a great sea of fire, rushing over everything so that nothing can hinder it. the lord mayor and his aldermen have been down since the morning, striving to do what they can; but, so far as report says, the flames are yet unchecked. it seems impossible that they should ever reach even to us here; but i am somewhat full of fear. what would befall my poor young wife if the fire were to threaten this house?" dinah looked grave and anxious. lady desborough's condition was critical, and she could only be moved at considerable risk. but it seemed impossible that the fire could travel all this distance. only the troubled look on the husband's face would have convinced her that such a thing could be contemplated for a moment even by the faintest-hearted. "you would not have us move her now, ere the danger approaches?" asked the husband anxiously. "no, my lord. to move her tonight would be, i think, certain death," answered dinah gravely. "she has but passed the crisis of a very serious fever, and is weak as a newborn babe. we will strive all we can to get up her strength, that she may be able for what may come. but i trust and hope the fire will be extinguished long ere it reaches us. oh, surely never was there fire that burned for days and destroyed whole streets and parishes!" "and oh, my lord, can you tell us if the bridge is safe?" asked janet clasping her hands together in an agony of uncertainty and fear. "have you heard news of the bridge? oh, say it is not burned! they all talk of the east, but what does that mean? who can tell me if my father's house has escaped?" lord desborough was a very kindly man, and the distress of the girl touched him. "i will go forth and ask news of all who have been thither to see," he answered. "many have gone both by land and water to see the great sight. i would go likewise, save that i fear to leave my wife. but, at least, i will seek all the news i can get, and come again to you." the master of the house went forth, and the two anxious watchers, after a long look at their patient to satisfy themselves that she was sleeping peacefully, and not likely to wake suddenly, crept silently into an adjoining room, where a large window looking eastward enabled them to see in the sky that strange and terrible glow, which was so bright and fierce as darkness fell that they were appalled in beholding it spreading and brightening in the sky. "good lack, what a terrible fire it must be!" cried janet, wringing her hands together. "o good aunt, what can resist the oncoming fury of such a fearful conflagration? would that i knew my father's house was safe. but, at least, those within must have had warning, and they could with ease escape by water if even the streets were in flames. alack, this poor city! it does indeed seem as though the vials of god's wrath were being poured out upon it! will his hand be stayed till all is destroyed? surely the hearts of men must turn back to him in these days of dire calamity!" dinah gravely shook her head, her face lighted up by the ever-increasing light in the eastern sky, which grew brighter and brighter with the gathering shades of night. "methought in those terrible days of the plague that surely men's hearts would, for the future, be set upon higher things, seeing how they had learned by fearful experience that man's life is but a vapour that the wind carrieth away. but as soon as the pressing peril abated, they hardened their hearts, and turned hack to their evil ways. it may be that even this warning will be lost upon them. god alone knows how many will see his hand in this great judgment, and will turn to him in fear if not in love!" before many minutes had passed affrighted servants began peeping and then crowding into the room, as though they felt more assurance in presence of dinah's quiet steadfastness and courage. the faces of the maids were pale with apprehension. it was difficult to believe, in the midst of this ruddy glare which actually palpitated as the lights and shadows danced upon the wall, that the fire was yet as distant as was reported. all the menservants had run out into the streets after news of the progress of the fire, and the women were scared by their absence. dinah did what she could to calm them, pointing out that since they could as yet neither hear nor feel anything of so great a fire, it must still be a great way off. it was hardly possible to believe that it would be permitted to sweep onwards much longer unchecked. by this time men's minds must be fully alive to the great peril in which all london stood, and she doubted not that some wise measures would soon be taken to stay the spread of the flames. she advised the maidens to go to bed and not think any more about it. let them commend themselves to god and seek to sleep. she would undertake to watch, and to rouse them up should there be any need during the night. somewhat appeased and comforted by these words, the maids withdrew and sought their needed rest. but janet and dinah returned to the sickroom, resolved to keep vigil there, and only to sleep by turns upon the couch, ready dressed in case of emergency. it was nigh upon midnight before lord desborough returned, and he was so blackened and begrimed that they scarcely knew him. his wife was still sleeping the sleep of exhausted nature, and, after one glance at her, the young nobleman turned towards janet, who was quivering all over in her anxiety to hear the news. "well, maiden, thy father's house is safe, and half the bridge is safe; and the thanks of that are due to him and to a worthy neighbour, who by their wise exertions stayed the fire, which might else have spread even to the other side of the river." janet and dinah exchanged looks of unspeakable relief, and lord desborough continued in the same cautious undertone: "once out of doors, the fire fever quickly got its hold on me, even as it has gotten hold upon almost every person in the city. i had not meant to go far but i took a wherry, and, the tide serving well, i was swiftly borne along towards the bridge, and from the river i saw the raging of such a fire as, methinks, the world has never seen before. no words of mine can paint the awful grandeur of the sight i saw. it was as light as day upon the water, and there were times when the river itself seemed ablaze. for, as the flames wrought havoc amongst the warehouses and stores along the wharfs, burning masses of oil and tar would pour out upon the bosom of the water, blazing terribly, and the boatmen had to keep a sharp watch sometimes lest they and their craft should be engulfed in the fiery stream. to the ignorant, who knew not what caused the water to wear this aspect of burning, it appeared as though even the river had ignited. this increased their terrors tenfold, and they say that some poor distraught creatures actually flung themselves into the fire or the water, convinced that the end of the world had come, and careless as to whether they perished soon or late." "but my father--my father!" cried janet earnestly. "ah, true, thy father. i heard of him from the watermen in the wherries, who told me the tale of how he had saved the bridge by pulling down his workshops and drenching the ruins with water. it seemeth to me that unless some prompt and resolute course of a similar kind is taken tomorrow or tonight, infinite loss must ensue. no ordinary means can now check this great fire. but surely the lord mayor and his advisers will have by now a plan on foot. were i not so weary, and anxious about my wife, i would go forth once more to see what was doing. but i must wait now for the morrow, and then, pray heaven all danger may be at an end. fear not, good friends, if you hear terrible sounds as of an earthquake shaking the house this night. men say that if the city is to be saved it must be by the blowing up of whole streets of small houses somewhere in the path of the flames, so that they shall have nothing whereon to feed. others say that nothing will stop them, and that none will be found ready to make sacrifice of their dwellings for the public good, preferring to risk the chance of the flames reaching them. i know not the truth of all the rumours flying about; but the thing might be, and might be wisely done. so fear not if you should hear some sounds that will make you think of an earthquake. and call me if aught alarms you, or if my wife should change either for the better or the worse." so saying, lord desborough took himself off to his well-earned repose; and the two nurses passed the night, sometimes waking and sometimes sleeping, but not disturbed by any strange sounds of explosion, and hopeful, as the night passed without special event, that the fire had been extinguished. but morning brought appalling accounts of its spread. nothing had been done, it seemed, to stay its course. it had reached cheapside, and was rushing a headlong course down it, and even the guildhall, men said, would not escape. north and west the great, rolling body of the flames was spreading; churches were going down before it, one after the other, as helplessly as the timber and plaster houses, which burned like so much tinder. hour after hour as that day passed by fresh and terrible items of news were brought in. would anything ever stop the oncoming sea of fire? surely--surely something would be done to save st. paul's. surely that magnificent and time-honoured structure would not be permitted to perish without some attempt to save it! dinah went out at midday for a mouthful of air, leaving janet in charge of the sick lady. she turned her steps towards the great edifice towering up in all its grandeur towards the sunny sky. it was hard indeed to believe that it could succumb to the devouring element, so solid and unconsumable it looked. yet, although all men were asserting vehemently that "paul's could never burn," all faces were looking anxious, and all ears were eagerly attuned to catch any new item of news which a messenger or passerby might bring. the murkiness in the air, faintly discernible even yesterday, had become very marked by this time. the smell of fire was in the air, although as yet the terrible roaring of the flames, of which all men who had been near it were speaking, had not yet become audible in the babel of talk going on in the streets and about the great church. the dean and canons were grouped about the precincts, looking anxiously into each other's faces, as though to seek to read encouragement from one another. nothing was talked of but the fire, the incapacity shown by the civic authorities in dealing with it, and lamentations that good sir john lawrence, who had coped so ably with the pestilence last year, should be no longer in office at this second great crisis. still it was averred on all hands that something was about to be done; that it was too scandalous to stand by panic stricken whilst the whole city perished. every one seemed to have heard talk respecting the demolition or blowing up of houses in the path of the flames; but none could say actually that it had been done, or was about to be done, in any given locality. burned out households were pouring continually along the choked thoroughfares, striving to find safe places where they might bestow such goods as they had succeeded in saving. charitable persons were occupied in housing and feeding those who had nothing of their own; whilst others, whose fears were on a larger scale, were fleeing altogether away from the city to friends in the country beyond, desiring only to escape the coming judgment, which seemed like that poured out on sodom. dinah went back with a very grave face to her charge. the poor lady had now recovered her senses, and though as weak as a newborn babe, was able to smile from time to time upon her husband, who sat beside her holding her hand between his. he was so overjoyed at this happy change in his wife's condition that he had no thought to spare at this moment for the peril of the city. he asked for no news as dinah appeared; and indeed it was very necessary that the patient should not be in any wise alarmed or excited. dinah, however, was becoming very uneasy as time went on; and she was certain that the air grew darker than could be accounted for by the falling dusk, and upon going to the east window as the twilight fell, she was appalled by the awful glare in the sky, and was certain that now, indeed, she did begin to distinguish the roaring of the flames as the wind drifted them ever onwards and onwards. had it not been for the exceedingly critical state in which the patient lay, she would have suggested her removal before things grew worse. as it was, it might be death to move her; and perhaps the flames would be stayed ere they reached the noble cathedral pile. surely every effort would be made for that end. it was difficult to imagine that the citizens would not combine together in some great and mighty effort to save their homes and their sanctuary before it should be too late. "what an awful sight!" exclaimed a soft voice behind her. "heaven grant the peril be not so nigh as it looks!" it was lord desborough, who had come in and was looking with anxious eyes at the flaming sky, over which great clouds of sparks and flaming splinters could be seen drifting. it might only be fancy, but the room seemed to be growing hot with the breath of the fire. the young nobleman's face was very grave and disturbed. "what must we do?" he asked of dinah. "can she be moved? ought we to take her elsewhere?" "i would we could," answered dinah, "but she is so weak that it may be death to carry her hence, and if we spoke to her of this terrible thing that is happening, the shock might bring back the fever, and then, indeed, all would be lost." the husband wrung his hands together in the utmost anxiety. dinah stood thinking deeply. "my lord," she presently said, "it may come to this, that she will have to be moved, risk or no risk. should we not think about whither to take her if it be needful?" "ay, verily; but where may that be? who can know what place is safe? and to transport her far would be certain death. she would die on the road thither." "that is very true, my lord," answered dinah; "but it has come into my mind that, perchance, my sister's house could receive her--that house upon the bridge, which is now safe, and which can be in no danger again, since all the city about it lies in ashes. by boat we could transport her most gently of all; and tonight, upon the rising tide, it might well be done, if the need should become more pressing." "a good thought! a happy thought indeed!" cried lord desborough. "but art thou sure that thy good kinsmen will have room within their walls? they may have befriended so many." "that is like enow," answered dinah; "i have thought of that myself. my lord, methinks it would be a good plan for you to take boat now, at once, taking the maid janet with you as a guide and spokeswoman. she will take you to her father's house and explain all; and then her father and brothers will come back with you, if need presses more sorely, and help us to transport thither the poor lady. i will sit by her the while, and by plying her with cordials and such food as she can swallow, strive to feed her feeble strength; and if the flames seem coming nearer and nearer, i will make shift to dress her in such warm and easy garments as are best suited to the journey she may have to take. and i will trust to you to be back to save us ere the danger be over great." "that i will! that i will!" cried the eager husband. "the plan is an excellent one! i will lose not a moment in acting upon it. i like not the look of yon sky. i fear me there will be no staying the raging of the flames. i will lose not a minute. bid the girl be ready, and we will forth at once. we will take boat at baynard's castle, and be back again ere two hours have passed!" janet was delighted with the plan. she was restless and nervous here, and anxiously eager to know what had befallen her own people. she would gladly have had dinah to go also, but saw that the sick lady could not be left, and that it would not be right to move her save on urgent necessity; but to go and get a band of eager helpers to come to the rescue if need be satisfied her entirely, and she said a joyful farewell to her aunt, promising to send help right speedily. left alone with her patient, dinah commenced her task of feeding the lamp of life, and seeking by every means in her power to prepare the patient for the possible transit. once she was called from the room by some commotion without, and found the frightened servants all huddled together outside the door, uncertain whether to fly the place altogether or to wait till some one came with definite news as to the magnitude of the peril. the light in the sky was terrible. the showers of sparks were falling all round the houses and the cathedral. the roar of the approaching fire began to be clearly distinguished above every other sound. dinah, who knew that tumult and affright were the worst things possible for her patient, counselled the cowering maids to make good their escape at once, since there was nothing to be done in the house that night, and they were far too frightened to sleep. all had friends who would give them shelter. and soon the house was silent and empty, for the men had gone off either to the fire or out of sheer fright, and dinah was left quite alone with her patient. "what is that noise i hear all the time?" asked lady desborough presently, in a feeble voice. "i feel as though there was something burning in the room. the air seems thick and heavy. is it my fantasy, or do i smell burning? where is my husband? is there something the matter going on?" "there is a bad fire not very far from here, my lady," answered dinah quietly. "my lord has gone to see if it be like to spread, that he may take such steps as are needful. be not anxious; we are safe beneath his care. he will let no hurt come nigh us before he is back to tell us what we shall do." a tranquil smile lighted the lady's face at these words. she was in that state of weakness when the mind is not easily ruffled, and dinah's calm face and steady voice were very tranquillizing. "ah yes, my good lord will not let hurt come nigh us. we will await his good pleasure. i trust no poor creatures are in peril? there will be many to help them i trow?" "yes, my lady. i have not heard of lives lost; and many say that it is good for some of the old houses to burn, that they may build better ones little by little. now take this cordial, and sleep once more. i will awaken you when my lord returns." the lady obeyed, and soon slept again, her pulse stronger and firmer and her mind at rest. but dinah was growing very uneasy. far though she was above the street, she heard shouts and cries--muffled and distant truly, but very apparent to her strained faculties--all indicative of alarm and the presence of peril. she dared not leave her post at the bedside, but the air was becoming so thick with smoke that the patient coughed from time to time, and the nurse was not certain how much longer it would be possible to breathe in it. she was certain, too, that the place was becoming hot, increasingly hot, each minute. oh, where was lord desborough? why did he not come? at last she stole from the room and into the adjoining chamber, and then indeed an awful sight met her shrinking gaze. a pillar of lambent flame, which seemed to her to be close at hand, was rising up in the air as though it reached the very heavens. it swayed slowly this way and that, surrounded by clouds of crimson smoke and a veritable furnace of sparks. then, as she watched with awed and fascinated gaze, it suddenly seemed to make a bound towards the tower of st. paul's standing up majestic and beautiful against the fiery sky. it fastened upon it like a living monster greedy of prey. tongues of flame seemed to be licking it on all sides, and a mass of fire encircled it. with a gasp of fear and horror dinah turned away. "st. paul's on fire!" she exclaimed beneath her breath; "god in his mercy have pity upon us! can any one save us now?" chapter xix. just in time. lady desborough sat up in bed propped up with pillows, dressed in such flowing garments as dinah had been able to array her in, her eyes shining in anxious expectation, her panting breath showing the oppression caused by the murkiness of the atmosphere. but in spite of the peril of the situation, to which she had now awakened with full comprehension; in spite of the fatigue of being partially dressed, with a view to sudden flight; in spite of the horror of knowing herself to be alone with dinah in this flame-encircled house, her spirit rose to the occasion, triumphing over the weakness of the flesh. dinah had feared that the knowledge of the peril would extinguish the faint flame of life; but it seemed rather to cause it to burn more strongly. the fragile creature looked full of courage, and the fears she experienced at this moment were less for herself than for others. "my dear lord! my dear lord!" she kept repeating. "dinah, if he were living nothing would keep him from me. where is he gone? dost thou think he will return in time?" "i think so, my dear lady," answered dinah in her full, quiet voice; "i pray he may come soon!" "yes, pray for him, pray for him!" cried the lady clasping her hands, "i have not prayed for him enough. pray that his precious life may be preserved!" dinah clasped her hands and bent her head. her whole faculties seemed merged in one great stress of urgent prayer. the lady looked at her and touched her hand gently. "you are a good woman, dinah morse. i am glad to have you with me; but if my good lord come not soon, you must save yourself and fly. i will not have you lose your life for me. you have not strength to bear me hence, and i cannot walk. you must fly and save yourself. for me, if my dear lord be dead, life has nothing for me to desire it." "madam," answered dinah, in her calm, resolute way, "your good lord, my master, entrusted you to my care, and that charge i cannot and will not quit whatever may betide. god is with us in the midst of the fire as truly as he was in the raging of the plague. he brought me safe through the one peril, and i can trust him for this second one. our lives we may not recklessly cast away, neither may we fly from our post of duty lightly, and without due warrant." lady desborough's thin white fingers closed over dinah's steady hand with a grateful pressure. "thou art a good woman, dinah," she said. "thy presence beside me gives me strength and hope. truly i should dread to be left alone, and yet i would not have thee stay if the peril becomes great." "we will trust that help may reach us shortly," answered dinah, who realized the magnitude of the peril far more clearly than did the sick lady, who had no idea of the awful extent of the fire. that it was a bad one she was well aware, and in perilous proximity to their dwelling; but dinah had not told her, nor had she for a moment guessed, that half the city of london was already destroyed. "go and look from the windows," she said a few minutes later, when the two had sat in silent prayer and meditation for that brief interval. "go see what is happening in the street below. i marvel that i hear so little stir of voices. but the walls are thick, and we are high up. go and see what is passing below, and bring me word again." dinah was not loth to obey this behest, being terribly anxious to know what was happening around them. neither by word nor by sign would she add to the anxieties of lady desborough, knowing how much might depend upon her calmness if the chance of rescue offered itself; but she herself began to entertain grave fears for the safety of this house, wedged in, as it appeared to her to be, between masses of blazing buildings. running up to the top attics of the house, which commanded views almost every way, the sight which greeted her eyes was indeed appalling. the whole mass of st. paul's grand edifice was alight, and the flames were rushing up the walls like fiery serpents whilst the dull roar of the conflagration was like the booming of the breakers on an iron-bound coast. grand and terrible was the sight presented by that vast sea of flame, which extended eastward as far as the eyes could see. it was more brilliantly light now, in the middle of the night, than in the brightest summer noontide, although the blood-red glare was terrible in its intensity, and brought to dinah's spirit, with a shudder of horror, a vision of the bottomless pit with its eternal fires. but without pausing to linger to watch the awful grandeur of the burning cathedral, she hastily passed from attic to attic to see how matters were going in other quarters, and she soon discovered, to her dismay and anxiety, that the flames had crept around the little wedge-like block of buildings in which this mansion stood, and that they were literally ringed round by fire. by some caprice, or perhaps owing to its solidity of structure, this small three-cornered block, containing about three good houses, had not yet ignited; but the hungry flames were creeping on apace, and, as it seemed to dinah, from all sides. as she took in this fact, it seemed to her that help could never reach them now, and that all they could do was to strive to meet death with as calm and bold a spirit as they could, commending their souls to god, and trusting that he would raise up their bodies at the last day, even though they might be consumed to ashes in the midst of this burning fire. what was that noise? surely a shout from below. dinah started, and fled hastily down the staircase. in another moment she heard more plainly. "sweet heart, sweet heart, where art thou--oh where art thou?" it was lord desborough's voice; she recognized it with a thrill of gladness. but there was another voice mingling with it which she also knew, and she heard her own name called with equal urgency. "dinah! mistress dinah! ah, pray god we have not come too late! dinah, we are here to save you both! show yourself, if you be still there. pray heaven they have not rushed forth in their fears and perished in the flames!" in another instant dinah had rushed to a window, which seemed to be on the same side of the house as the voices--namely, at the back; and, in the narrow court below, she saw lord desborough, the master builder, her brother, and reuben, all clustered together, with ladders and ropes, and all calling aloud to those within to show themselves. "we are here! we are safe! but the fire is well nigh upon us," answered dinah, who had just been convinced by the rolling of the smoke up the staircase that the lower part of the house was in flames. "thank god! thank god! they are still there!" cried lord desborough at sight of her; whilst the master builder, who was getting a ladder into position in order to run it up to the window where she stood, spoke rapidly and commandingly: "there is no time to lose. the house is ringed by fire. it will be all we can do to make good our escape. the front of the place is in flames already; we cannot approach that way, and the street is full of waves of fire. can you make shift to bring out the sick lady to this window? or--" dinah vanished the moment she understood what was to be done; but quick as were her movements, lord desborough was in the room almost as soon as she was. he must have darted up the ladder almost ere it was in position, and the next moment he had his wife in his arms, straining her passionately to his breast, as she cried in joyful accents: "o my love, my dear, dear love! methought thou hadst perished in yon fearful fire!" "it is more fearful than thou dost know, sweet heart, but with heaven's help we will bear thee safe through it. shut thine eyes, dear heart, and trust to me. we have won our way thus far in the teeth of many a peril. pray heaven we make good our escape in like fashion. we have taken every measure of precaution." in her great delight at having her husband back safe and sound, and in her state of exceeding weakness, lady desborough understood little of the terrible nature of what was happening. she felt her husband's arms round her; she knew he had come to save her from danger; and her trust was so perfect and implicit that it left no room in her heart for anxious fears. she closed her eyes like a tired child, and laid her head upon his shoulder. he was a strong man, and she had wasted in the fever to a mere shadow, and was always small and slight. he carried her as easily as though she had been an infant; and making straight for the open window, he climbed out upon the ladder and went slowly and steadily down it, whilst those below held it for him. dinah watched the descent with eager eyes, unheeding all else. she never thought to look behind her. she had no idea that a mass of flames had suddenly come rushing up the stairway behind her. she was conscious of an overpowering heat and a rush of blinding smoke that caused her to stagger back gasping for breath; but it was only as she actually felt the hot breath of the flames upon her cheek, and saw that the whole house had suddenly become involved in the universal destruction, that she knew what had befallen her, and that death was striving hard to clutch her and make her its prey. with a short, sharp cry, she staggered towards the open window, but the heat and the smoke made her dizzy. she fell against the frame, and uttered a faint cry for help; and then it seemed to her that the body of flame behind leaped upon her like a live thing. she was conscious for a moment of making a fierce and desperate struggle, and then she knew no more, for black darkness swallowed her up, and her last moment of consciousness was spent in a prayer that the lord would be with her in death and receive her spirit into his hands. when next dinah opened her eyes it was to find a cool wind blowing on her face, and to feel an unwonted motion of the bed (as she supposed it for a moment) on which she was lying. everything was bright as day about her, but everything seemed to be dyed the hue of blood. the next moment sense and memory returned. she realized that she was lying in the bottom of a boat, which men were rowing with steady strokes. she saw lord desborough sitting in the stern, only a few feet away, still clasping his wife in his arms. she knew that her head was lying in somebody's lap, and the next moment she heard a familiar voice saying: "ah! she is better now. she has opened her eyes!" "rachel!" exclaimed dinah sitting suddenly up, in spite of a sensation of giddiness which made everything swim before her eyes for a few moments; and rachel harmer looked down into her face and smiled. "dear dinah, thank heaven thou art safe! i hear that thou wert in fearful peril in this burning city; but our good neighbour brought thee forth from the blazing house just as the boards on which thou wert standing gave way beneath thy feet. oh, how thankful must we be that our home and our dear ones have all been preserved to us, when half the city is lying in ruins!" dinah raised herself up still more at these words, and turned her eyes in the direction of the raging flames on the north side of the river; and only then was she able to realize something of the terrible magnitude of that great conflagration. the boat was hugging the southwark shore, for indeed it was scarce safe to approach the other, save from motives of dire necessity, and so thickly did sparks and fragments of blazing matter fall hissing into the river for quite half its width, that boats were chary of adventuring themselves much beyond the southwark bank, save those conveying persons or goods from some of the many wharfs; and these made straight across with their cargoes as soon as they could quit the shore. "it is terrible! terrible!" gasped dinah. "it is like the mouth of a volcano! and to think that but a short hour since i was in the midst of it. o sister, tell me how thou comest to be here. tell me how i was snatched from the flames, for, verily, i thought i was their prey." rachel put a trembling arm about her sister's shoulders as she made reply. "truly there were those standing by who thought the same. but for the brave expedition of our neighbour there, methinks thou wouldst have perished; but let me tell the tale from the beginning. "it was some time after dark--i scarce know how the hours have sped through these two strange nights and days, when the day seems almost dimmer than the night. but suddenly there was janet with us--janet and my lord desborough, come with news that the fire had threatened even st. paul's, and that he desired help to save his sick wife and thee, dinah, ere the flames should have reached his abode. janet told us much of the poor lady's state, and we made all fitting preparation to receive her. but none were at home save the boys, and they had to go forth and find their father and brother, to return with lord desborough to help him in his work of rescue. he would fain have got others and not have tarried so long. but all men seem distraught by fear, and would not listen to his promises of reward, nor face the perils either of the journey by water or of an approach to the flaming city." "indeed it hath a fearful aspect!" said dinah thoughtfully, as she turned her eyes upon the blazing mass that had been teeming with life but a few short hours ago. "hast heard, sister, whether many poor creatures have perished in the flames? oh, my heart has been sad for them, thinking of all the homeless and all the dead!" "they say that wondrous few have fallen victims to the fire," said rachel, "and those that have perished are, for the most part, poor, distraught creatures, whom terror caused to fling away their lives, or like my lady scrope, who would not leave her home and preferred to perish with it. it is sad enough to think of the thousands who have lost home and goods in the fire. but had it come before the plague had ravaged the city so fearfully, it must have been tenfold worse. methinks if the lanes and courts of the city had been crowded as they were then, the loss of life must needs have been far greater." "but to proceed with thy tale," said dinah after a pause. "how was it that thou didst adventure thyself with the rescuing party in the boat?" "methought that, as there were helpless women to be saved, a woman might find work to do suited more to her than to the men folks. moreover, i may not deny that i felt a great and mighty desire to see this wonderful fire more nigh. custom has used us to so much since it commenced that the terror of it has somewhat faded. they were saying that st. paul's was blazing or like to blaze. i desired to see that awful sight; and see it i did right well, as we pushed the boat into mid-water after landing lord desborough and his assistants at baynard's castle. they were some half hour gone, and we sat and watched the fire, in some fear truly for them, for the flames seemed devouring everything, but with confidence that they would act with all prudence, and in the full belief that the fire had not yet attacked my lord's house." "ah, but it had!" said dinah with a little shiver. "i would not have believed that flames could sweep on at such a fearful pace. one minute we seemed safe, the next it was seething round us!" "that is what they all say of this fire. it travels with such an awful rapidity, and will suddenly pounce like a live thing upon some building hitherto unharmed, and in an incredibly short time will have licked it up, if one may so speak, leaving nothing but a mass of smouldering ashes behind." "i know how it leaps," spoke dinah, with a little shiver. "i cannot think even now how i came to be saved." "it was our good neighbour, the master builder, who saved thee at risk of his life," answered rachel with a little sob in her voice. "it was a terrible thing to see, reuben tells me. he and his father were holding the ladder, and lord desborough was bringing down his wife, when all in a moment the house seemed engulfed in one of those great flame waves of which all men are speaking, and they saw you totter and fall, as if it had engulfed thee in its deadly embrace. lord desborough was not yet down the ladder, and knew nothing of thy peril, being engrossed in tender care for his wife. nobody could pass him, nor would the ladder bear a greater weight; but the next moment they saw that our good neighbour had somehow got another ladder against the wall and was rushing up it at a pace that seemed impossible. reuben ran to steady this ladder, for it was like to fall with the quaking and shaking. and then, just before they heard the fall of the burning floors, he saw the master builder coming down bearing his burden safely; and once having both of you safe, there was not a moment to lose in making for the boat. already the alley was full of blinding flame and choking smoke, and it was all the men could do to carry the pair of you safe to baynard's castle, where we took you all on board, but only two minutes before the fire began to blaze there also. see, by looking back thou canst see how fiercely it is burning! "god alone knows how and where it will be stayed. they say it is spreading northward as furiously as it flies westward. if the city walls stay not its course, all london will surely perish." dinah was silent a while, looking seriously before her. then she lifted her face nearer to her sister's and said: "prithee, tell me, has our good friend and neighbour suffered hurt in thus adventuring his life for me?" "he has not spoken of it, if so be that he has," was the answer; "but the haste and peril and confusion were too great for many words. we shall soon be at home now, and all who need it will receive tendance. i fear me, dear sister, that thou canst not altogether have escaped the cruel embrace of the fire. thy garments were singed and charred: but this cloak covers thee well and protects thee from the night air." dinah moved herself, and felt no hurt. she looked anxiously towards lord desborough, as though to ask how it went with his lady. fortunately the night was warm and calm, save for the light breeze that was enough to fan the fierce flames onward and onward. by day the wind blew hard from the east; but it dropped at night, and this was no small boon to the many homeless creatures who had no roofs to shelter their heads. once landed at the southwark wharf, the party was soon within the sheltering doors of the twin houses. gertrude came forth to meet them, anxious solicitude written on every line of her face. the first care was for the poor lady, for whom they had made ready a pleasant and airy room. she was carried thither, and dinah followed to see what was her condition; and although she was exceedingly weak, she was not unconscious, and so long as she had her husband beside her holding her hand, she seemed to care nothing for the strangeness of her surroundings, or for the perils through which she had passed. "verily, i think she will live," said dinah, when janet had fed her with some of the strong broth which had been made in readiness. "she looks not greatly worse than when she started up in bed in her own house with the consciousness that there was fire near. i had not thought so tender a frame could go through so much of peril and hardship; but methinks her lord's return was the charm that worked so marvellously for her; for, truly, she had begun to fear him dead." satisfied as to her patient, dinah allowed herself to be taken care of by gertrude, who insisted on removing her burned garments, and assuring herself that no other hurt had been done. it was wonderful what an escape dinah's had been, for there was scarcely any mark of fire upon her, only a little redness here and there, but nothing approaching to a severe burn. she declared that she could not go to bed in the midst of so much excitement; and after telling gertrude of the wonderful nature of her own escape, she added, with a slightly heightened colour: "i would fain assure myself of the welfare of thy brave father, for it may be that he may have sustained some hurt; and if that be so, we must minister to his needs right speedily. much depends in burns upon the promptness with which they are dressed." gertrude's filial anxiety was at once aroused, as well as her warm admiration for her father's courage and devotion. together they sought him out and found him in one of the lower rooms, a plate of food before him, which, however, he had hardly touched. the moment he saw his daughter, who entered a little in advance, he rose hastily and exclaimed: "tell me how she does. has she received any hurt?" "lady desborough?" asked gertrude; "they all say she--" "nay, nay, child, not lady desborough! what is lady desborough to me? i mean dinah, that noble, devoted woman, who would not leave her mistress even in the face of deadly peril. tell me of her! tell me--" and here the master builder came to a dead stop, and paused for a moment in bashful shamefacedness most unwonted with him, for there was dinah entering behind his daughter, and surely she must have heard every word. "dinah is not hurt, father," said gertrude, covering the awkward pause with ready tact; "her escape has been truly wonderful. she wishes to know whether you also have escaped; for she tells me that you must have faced a sea of flame in order to get to her." "your arm is hurt--is burned!" said dinah coming forward quickly, her eye detecting that much in a moment. "gertrude, bring me the oil and the linen. i will bind it up before i do aught else. when the air is kept away the smart is wonderfully allayed." the burn was rather a severe one, but the master builder seemed to feel no pain under the dexterous manipulation of dinah's gentle, capable hands. when he would have thanked her she gave him a quick look, and made a low-toned answer. "nay, nay, i can hear no thanks from thee. do i not owe thee my life? but for thee i should not be here now. it is i who must thank thee--only i have no words in which to do it." "then let us do without words between us for the future, dinah," said the master builder, possessing himself of one of her hands, which was not withdrawn. "if thou hadst perished in the fire, life had had nothing left for me. does not that show that we belong to each other? i have not much to give, but all i have is thine; and i think thou mightest go the world over and not find a more loving heart!" chapter xx. the flames stayed. "something must be done! the whole city must not perish! it is a shame that so much destruction has already taken place. what are the city magnates about that they stand idle, wringing their hands, whilst all london burns about their ears?" young lord desborough was the speaker. he had risen in some excitement from the table where he had been seated at breakfast, for james harmer had just come in with the news that the fire was still burning with the same fierceness as of old; that it had spread beyond the city walls, ludgate and newgate having both been reduced to a heap of smoking ruins; that it was spreading northward and westward as fiercely as ever; whilst even in an easterly direction it was creeping slowly and insidiously along, so that men began to whisper that the tower itself would eventually fall a prey. "nay, now, but that must not, that shall not be!" cried lord desborough in great excitement. "shame enough for london that st. paul's is gone! are we to lose every ancient building of historic fame? what would his majesty say were that to perish also? zounds! methinks my lord mayor must surely be sleeping. in good king henry the eighth's reign his head would have been struck off ere now. "thou hast seen him, thou sayest, good master harmer. what does he purpose to do? surely he cannot desire all the city to perish. yet, methinks, that will be what will happen, if indeed it be not already accomplished." "he is like one distraught," answered harmer. "i went to him yesterday, and i have been again at break of day this morn. i have told him how we saved the bridge, and have begged powers of him to effect great breaches at various points to stay the ravages of the flames; but he will do naught but say he must consider, he must consider." "and whilst he considers, london burns to ashes!" cried the young nobleman in impetuous scorn. "a plague upon his consideration and his reflections! we want a man who can act in times like these. beshrew me if i go not to his majesty myself and tell him the whole truth. methinks if he but knew the dire need for bold measures, london might even now be saved--so much of it as yet remains. if the lord mayor is worse than a child at such a crisis, let us to his majesty and see what he will say!" "a good thought, in truth," answered harmer thoughtfully. "but surely his majesty knows?" "ay, after a fashion doubtless; but it takes some little time to rouse the lion spirit in him. he is wont to laugh and jest somewhat too much, and dally with news, whilst he throws the dice with his courtiers, or passes a compliment to some fair lady. he takes life somewhat too lightly does my lord the king, until he be thoroughly roused. but the blood of kings runs in his veins; and let him but be awakened to the need for action, then he can act as a sovereign, indeed." "then, good my lord, in the name of all those poor townsfolk whose houses are standing yet, let the king be roused to a full sense of the dire peril!" cried harmer, in almost passionate tones; "for if some one come not to their help, i trow there will not be a house within or without the city that will not be reduced to ashes ere two more days have passed." "it is terrible to think of," said the master builder, who was taking his meal with the young lord, by his special desire, both having slept late into the morning after the exertions of the previous night. "if you, my lord, can get speech of the king, and show him the things you have seen and suffered, methinks that that should be enough to rouse him. and doubtless you could get speech of his majesty without trouble, whereas a humble citizen might sue for hours in vain." "yes, i trow that i could obtain an audience without much ado," answered lord desborough, though he gave rather a doubtful glance at his soiled and fire-blackened garments, which were all he had in the world since the burning of his house. "but i would have you go with me also, good masters harmer and mason; for it was your prompt methods that saved the bridge, and perchance all southwark too. i would have you with me to add your testimony to mine. "master harmer, your name was spoken often in the time of the raging of the plague, as that of a brave and loyal citizen. it is likely his majesty may bear it still in mind, and it will give weight to any testimony you have to offer." harmer and the master builder exchanged glances. they had not thought to appear before royalty, but they were willing to do anything that might be for the good of the town; and whilst the one hurried away to procure a wherry to take them as near as might be to whitehall, the other supplied, from the stores in the shop, a new court suit to young lord desborough befitting his rank and station. lady desborough was going on better than any had dared to hope. her husband stole in to look at her before his departure, and was rewarded by a sweet and tranquil smile. he stole towards the bedside and kissed her, telling her he was going to see the king; and she, knowing that his duties called him often to court, asked no question, and seemed to remember nothing of the fire, but only bade him return anon to her when he could. reuben was going also in the boat, and some of the men as rowers. gertrude had donned her best cloak and holiday gown, and asked wistfully of her husband: "prithee take me also; i will not be in your way. but i would fain see something of this great sight of which all men talk, and they say it may best be seen from the river." "come then, sweet heart, so as thou dost not ask to run into peril," said reuben; and by noon the party were well on their way, their progress being somewhat slow, as the tide was running out, and there was a considerable press of craft on the river, which was the only safe roadway now from one part of the burned city to the other. as boats passed each other, items of news were exchanged between the occupants, and every tale added some detail of horror to the last. bridewell was in flames now, and many said newgate also. some averred that the prisoners had been left locked up in their cells to perish miserably, others that they had all been released, and that london would be swarming with felons and criminals, who would lead the van in the many acts of plunder which were already being perpetrated. what might be the truth of all these rumours none could say; but one thing could at least be gathered, which was that the fire was still raging unchecked, and that nothing had as yet been done to stay its progress. when the boat had reached its destination, lord desborough courteously invited gertrude and her husband to accompany the deputation. they had not anticipated any such thing; but curiosity overcame every other feeling, and before another half hour had passed they found themselves absolutely within the precincts of whitehall, passing along corridors where fine-feathered gallants and royal lackeys and pages walked hither and thither, and where their appearance excited some mirthful curiosity, although nobody spoke openly to them. lord desborough was challenged on all hands, but gave only brief replies. he would tell no word of his mission; and presently he led his companions into a small anteroom, which was quite empty, and charged the servant, who had accompanied them thus far, not to permit any one to enter so long as they were there. then he hurried away to seek audience of the king, but promised to join his companions again in as brief a time as possible. "belike it will be long enough ere we see him again," said harmer, who almost regretted having come when there might be work to do elsewhere. "the ear of royalty is often besieged in vain, or at least it is a case of hours before an audience can be obtained. yon pleasure-loving monarch will care but little if all london burn, so as he has his ladies and his courtiers about him to make merry by day and by night!" by which sentiment it may be gathered that a good deal of the puritan sternness of character and distrust of royalty lingered in the mind of james harmer, although in this case he was not destined to be a true prophet. half an hour may have passed, certainly not more, before a sound of approaching voices from the inner room, to which this one was but the antechamber, announced the approach of some persons. the listeners within thought they distinguished the tones of lord desborough's voice; nor were they mistaken, for next moment, when the doors were flung wide open, and the party instinctively rose to their feet, it was to see the young noble approaching in earnest talk with a very dark, sallow man in an immense black periwig, whom in a moment they knew to be the king himself. he was followed by a still darker man, less richly dressed than himself, but still very fine and gay, who was so like the king as to be recognized instantly for the duke of york. the little group made deep obeisance as the royal party came forward, and received in return a carelessly gracious nod from the king, who flung himself into a seat, and looked at lord desborough. "his majesty would know from you, good masters harmer and mason, what you have seen with your own eyes of this fire, and in particular how the flames were stayed upon the bridge by your efforts. he has heard so many contradictory stories from those who are less well informed, that he will have the tale from first to last by worthy citizens who are to be trusted to speak truth." there was no mistaking the ring of truth in the narratives which were told by the master builder and his neighbour. the king listened almost in silence, but when he did ask a question it was shrewd and pertinent in its import. the dark face was lacking neither in force nor in power; and if the eyes of royalty did, from time to time, stray towards the fair face of gertrude, who followed her father's tale with breathless interest, his talk was all of the means which must forthwith be taken for the arrest of the fire, and from the sparkle in his eyes it was plain that he was aroused at last to some purpose. "good citizens," he said at length, "since our worthy mayor has proved himself a fool and a poltroon, i must needs use such tools as i have under my hand. "bring me pen and paper, knave!" he cried to a servant who was in attendance; and when the man returned, the king hastily scrawled a few lines upon the paper, and gave it into the hands of the citizens. "my good fellows," he said, in his easy and familiar way, "take there your authority under my hand, and go and save the tower. the tower must not and shall not perish. pull down, blow up, sacrifice as you will, but save you the tower. as for me, i will forth instantly and see what may be done in this quarter. the people shall not say that their king cared no whit whilst the whole city was burned to ashes. would i had known more before, but each messenger brought news that something was about to be done. "about to be done, forsooth! that is ever the way. zounds! i would like to pitch yon cowardly mayor and his whole corporation into the heart of the flames! and if something be not done to save what remains of the city, i will make good my word!" then, with a complete change of manner, he rose and came forward to the corner where gertrude stood shrinking and quivering, half frightened by this strange man, yet impressed by some indescribably kingly quality in him that fascinated her imagination in spite of all she had heard of him. "fair mistress," he said gallantly, "hast thou nothing to ask? these good citizens have all had their word to say. am i not to hear the music of thy voice also?" gertrude, startled and abashed, dropped her eyes, and knew not what to say; but something in the king's glance compelled an answer of some kind, and a sudden inspiration flashed upon her. "sire," she said, in a sweet tremulous voice, her colour coming and going in her cheek in a most becoming fashion, "may i ask a boon of your gracious majesty?" "a hundred if thou wilt, fair mistress; there is nothing so sweet to me as obeying the behests of beauty." she shrank a little from his glance, and her grasp tightened upon her husband's arm; but she took courage, and went on bravely: "i have but one boon to crave, gracious sire. for myself i have all that heart of woman could crave; but there is still one small trouble in my life. my dear father, who stands before you now, was well-nigh ruined a year ago in that fearful visitation of the plague. by trade he is a builder, and right well does he know his business. after this terrible fire there must needs be much building to do ere the city can be dwelt in. may it please your gracious majesty to grant to him a portion of the work, that he may retrieve his lost fortune, and regain the place which he once held amongst his fellow citizens!" "it shall be done, mistress, it shall be done!" answered the king, with a smile at the girl and a friendly look towards the master builder. "marry, it is a good thought too; for we shall want honest and skilful men to rebuild us our city. "thy prayer is heard and granted, fair lady. i will not forget thy petition. i will see to it myself. farewell, sweet heart! think always kindly of your king," and he saluted her upon the cheek, after the fashion of the day. then turning briskly to the men he said, in a very different tone, "now to our respective tasks, good sirs. we have our work cut out before us this day. let it not be our fault if, ere the night fall upon us, the spreading flames, which are devastating this city, are stopped, and further destruction arrested." with a friendly nod, and with a smile to gertrude, the king went as suddenly as he came. lord desborough lingered only a few moments to say, in hurried tones: "thank heaven his majesty is roused at last! now, indeed, something will be accomplished. i must remain with him. i shall have my work, doubtless, somewhere, as you have yours in the east. fare you well. we shall meet again at nightfall; and pray heaven the fire may by that time be stayed in its ravages!" need it be told here how that fire was stayed? how the king and the duke, his brother, rode in person at the head of a gallant band of men-at-arms and soldiers, and directed those measures--long urged upon the mayor, but never efficiently carried out--of blowing up and pulling down large blocks of houses in the path of the flames, so that their ravages were stayed? it was the king himself who saved temple bar and a part of fleet street, the fire being checked close to st. dunstan's in the west. lord desborough superintended like operations at pye corner, hard by smithfield; whilst the good citizens, harmer and mason, took boat to the tower as fast as possible, and with the assistance of the governor, and by the mandate of the king, checked the slowly advancing flames just as they had reached the very walls of the fortress itself. the great and terrible fire was stayed ere nightfall. true, the flames smouldered and even raged in the burning area for another day and night, but the spread of them was checked. the citizens, recovering from their apathetic despair, and encouraged by the example of their king, no longer stood trembling by, but joined together to imitate his actions and sacrifice a little property to save much. "thank god, thank god, the peril is at an end! the very flames have glutted themselves, and are sinking down into the smouldering heaps of the ruins they have wrought!" said reuben, coming back on the thursday evening from an expedition of inquiry and discovery. "terrible indeed is the sight, but the worst is now known. four hundred streets, ninety churches--if what i heard be true--and thirteen thousand houses--fifteen wards destroyed, and eight more half burned! was ever such a fire known before? yet can we say, heaven be praised that it has spread no further. verily, it seemed once as though nothing would escape!" gertrude, too, was full of excitement. "father has had a summons from the lord mayor. he was urgently sent for soon after thou hadst gone. o reuben, dost think the king has remembered my words to him? dost think he has put in a plea for my father when the city is rebuilt?" "it is like enough," answered reuben; "they say his majesty does not forget when his word is plighted. he will be a rich man if he be employed by the corporation. and how goes the sick lady?" "so well that my lord has taken her away by boat to a villa hard by lambeth, where she will be quieter and more at rest than she could be here. janet and dorcas have gone with her as her maids, her own servants having fled hither and thither. she would fain have had dinah, too, but dinah was not willing." husband and wife smiled a little at each other, and then reuben said: "thou, wilt have a stepmother soon, little wife. how wilt thou like that?" "well enow, so it be dinah," answered gertrude, smiling; "but there is the father coming in. prithee, let me run to him and hear his news!" others had seen the approach of the familiar figure, and there was quite a little group around the door of the two houses to ask news of the master builder as he approached. his face wore a beaming look, and in reply to the many questions showered upon him he answered gaily: "in truth, good friends, if the plague ruined me, it seems as though the fire was to set me up again. here is my lord mayor, prompted thereto by his gracious majesty the king, giving into my hands the task of seeing to the rebuilding of bridge ward, within, billingsgate ward, dowgate ward, and candlewick ward. four wards to build! why, my fortune is made!" he gave one quick look at dinah, and then took her hand in his, all looking smilingly on the while. "thou didst not repulse me when i was but a poor and broken man," he said; "but, please heaven, before many months have passed over my head it will be no mockery to speak of me as master builder once again!" file was produced from scans of public domain material produced by microsoft for their live search books site.) [illustration: see p. "all the fellows came round and asked him what he was going to do now"] the flight of pony baker a boy's town story by w.d. howells author of "a boy's town" "christmas every day" etc. illustrated new york and london harper & brothers books by w.d. howells annie kilburn. mo. april hopes. mo. between the dark and daylight. new edition. mo. boy life. illustrated. mo. boy's town. illustrated. post vo. certain delightful english towns. illustrated. vo. traveller's edition, leather. christmas every day, and other stories. illustrated. mo. holiday edition. illustrated. to. coast of bohemia. illustrated. mo. criticism and fiction. portrait. mo. day of their wedding. illustrated. mo. familiar spanish travels. illustrated. vo. fennel and rue. illustrated. new edition. mo. flight of pony baker. post vo. hazard of new fortunes. new edition. mo. heroines of fiction. illustrated. vols. vo. imaginary interviews. vo. imperative duty. mo. paper. impressions and experiences. new edition. mo. kentons. mo. landlord at lion's head. illustrated. new edition. mo. letters home. mo. library of universal adventure. illustrated. vo, cloth. three-quarter calf. literary friends and acquaintance. illustrated. vo. literature and life. vo. little swiss sojourn. illustrated. mo. london films. illustrated. vo. traveller's edition, leather. miss bellard's inspiration. mo. modern italian poets. illustrated. mo. mother and the father. illustrated. new edition. mo. mouse-trap, a likely story, the garroters, five-o'clock tea. illustrated. new edition. mo. my literary passions. new edition. mo. my mark twain. illustrated. vo. my year in a log cabin. illustrated. mo. open-eyed conspiracy. mo. pair of patient lovers. mo. parting and a meeting. illustrated. square mo. quality of mercy. new edition. mo. questionable shapes. ill'd. mo. ragged lady. illustrated. new edition. mo. roman holidays. illustrated. vo. traveller's edition, leather. seven english cities. illustrated. vo. traveller's edition, leather. shadow of a dream. mo. son of royal langbrith. vo. stops of various quills. illustrated. to. limited edition. story of a play. mo. the seen and unseen at stratford-on-avon. crown vo. their silver wedding journey. illustrated. vols. crown vo. in vol. new edition. mo. through the eye of a needle. new edition. mo. traveller from altruria. new edition. mo. world of chance. mo. farces: a letter of introduction. illustrated. mo. a likely story. illustrated. mo. a previous engagement. mo. paper. evening dress. illustrated. mo. five-o'clock tea. illustrated. mo. parting friends. illustrated. mo. the albany depot. illustrated. mo. the garroters. illustrated. mo. the mouse-trap. illustrated. mo. the unexpected guests. illustrated. mo. harper & brothers, publishers, new york copyright, , by harper & brothers. published september, . _contents_ chap. page i. pony's mother, and why he had a right to run off ii. the right that pony had to run off, from the way his father acted iii. jim leonard's hair-breadth escape iv. the scrape that jim leonard got the boys into v. about running away to the indian reservation on a canal-boat, and how the plan failed vi. how the indians came to the boy's town and jim leonard acted the coward vii. how frank baker spent the fourth at pawpaw bottom, and saw the fourth of july boy viii. how pony baker came pretty near running off with a circus ix. how pony did not quite get off with the circus x. the adventures that pony's cousin, frank baker, had with a pocketful of money xi. how jim leonard planned for pony baker to run off on a raft xii. how jim leonard backed out, and pony had to give it up _illustrations_ "all the fellows came round and asked him what he was going to do now" _frontispiece_ "being dressed so well was one of the worst things that was done to him by his mother" "'i'll learn that limb to sleep in a cow-barn!' "real indians, in blankets, with bows and arrows" "very smiling-looking" "he began being cold and stiff with her the very next morning" "frank baker was one of those fellows that every mother would feel her boy was safe with" "'why, you ain't afraid, are you, pony?'" _the flight of pony baker_ _the flight of pony baker_ i pony's mother, and why he had a right to run off if there was any fellow in the boy's town fifty years ago who had a good reason to run off it was pony baker. pony was not his real name; it was what the boys called him, because there were so many fellows who had to be told apart, as big joe and little joe, and big john and little john, and big bill and little bill, that they got tired of telling boys apart that way; and after one of the boys called him pony baker, so that you could know him from his cousin frank baker, nobody ever called him anything else. you would have known pony from the other frank baker, anyway, if you had seen them together, for the other frank baker was a tall, lank, tow-headed boy, with a face so full of freckles that you could not have put a pin-point between them, and large, bony hands that came a long way out of his coat-sleeves; and the frank baker that i mean here was little and dark and round, with a thick crop of black hair on his nice head; and he had black eyes, and a smooth, swarthy face, without a freckle on it. he was pretty well dressed in clothes that fitted him, and his hands were small and plump. his legs were rather short, and he walked and ran with quick, nipping steps, just like a pony; and you would have thought of a pony when you looked at him, even if that had not been his nickname. [illustration: "being dressed so well was one of the worst things that was done to him by his mother"] that very thing of his being dressed so well was one of the worst things that was done to him by his mother, who was always disgracing him before the other boys, though she may not have known it. she never was willing to have him go barefoot, and if she could she would have kept his shoes on him the whole summer; as it was, she did keep them on till all the other boys had been barefoot so long that their soles were as hard as horn; and they could walk on broken glass, or anything, and had stumped the nails off their big toes, and had grass cuts under their little ones, and yarn tied into them, before pony baker was allowed to take his shoes off in the spring. he would have taken them off and gone barefoot without his mother's knowing it, and many of the boys said that he ought to do it; but then she would have found it out by the look of his feet when he went to bed, and maybe told his father about it. very likely his father would not have cared so much; sometimes he would ask pony's mother why she did not turn the boy barefoot with the other boys, and then she would ask pony's father if he wanted the child to take his death of cold; and that would hush him up, for pony once had a little brother that died. pony had nothing but sisters, after that, and this was another thing that kept him from having a fair chance with the other fellows. his mother wanted him to play with his sisters, and she did not care, or else she did not know, that a girl-boy was about the meanest thing there was, and that if you played with girls you could not help being a girl-boy. pony liked to play with his sisters well enough when there were no boys around, but when there were his mother did not act as if she could not see any difference. the girls themselves were not so bad, and they often coaxed their mother to let him go off with the other boys, when she would not have let him without. but even then, if it was going in swimming, or fishing, or skating before the ice was very thick, she would show that she thought he was too little to take care of himself, and would make some big boy promise that he would look after pony; and all the time pony would be gritting his teeth, he was so mad. once, when pony stayed in swimming all day with a crowd of fellows, she did about the worst thing she ever did; she came down to the river-bank and stood there, and called to the boys, to find out if pony was with them; and they all had to get into the water up to their necks before they could bear to answer her, they were so ashamed; and pony had to put on his clothes and go home with her. he could see that she had been crying, and that made him a little sorry, but not so very; and the most that he was afraid of was that she would tell his father. but if she did he never knew it, and that night she came to him after he went to bed, and begged him so not to stay in swimming the whole day any more, and told him how frightened she had been, that he had to promise; and then that made him feel worse than ever, for he did not see how he could break his promise. she was not exactly a bad mother, and she was not exactly a good mother. if she had been really a good mother she would have let him do whatever he wanted, and never made any trouble, and if she had been a bad mother she would not have let him do anything; and then he could have done it without her letting him. in some ways she was good enough; she would let him take out things to the boys in the back yard from the table, and she put apple-butter or molasses on when it was hot biscuit that he took out. once she let him have a birthday party, and had cake and candy-pulling and lemonade, and nobody but boys, because he said that boys hated girls; even his own sisters did not come. sometimes she would give him money for ice-cream, and if she could have got over being particular about his going in swimming before he could swim, and pistols and powder and such things, she would have done very well. she was first-rate when he was sick, and nobody could take care of him like her, cooling his pillow and making the bed easy, and keeping everybody quiet; and when he began to get well she would cook things that tasted better than anything you ever knew: stewed chicken, and toast with gravy on, and things like that. even when he was well, and just lonesome, she would sit by his bed if he asked her, till he went to sleep, or got quieted down; and if he was trying to make anything she would help him all she could, but if it was something that you had to use a knife with she was not much help. it always seemed to pony that she begrudged his going with the boys, and she said how nice he used to keep his clothes before, and had such pretty manners, and now he was such a sloven, and was so rude and fierce that she was almost afraid of him. he knew that she was making fun about being afraid of him; and if she did hate to have him go with some of the worst boys, still she was willing to help in lots of ways. she gave him yarn to make a ball with, and she covered it for him with leather. sometimes she seemed to do things for him that she would not do for his sisters, and she often made them give up to him when they had a dispute. she made a distinction between boys and girls, and did not make him help with the housework. of course he had to bring in wood, but all the fellows had to do that, and they did not count it; what they hated was having to churn, or wipe dishes after company. pony's mother never made him do anything like that; she said it was girls' work; and she would not let him learn to milk, either, for she said that milking was women's work, and all that pony had to do with the cow was to bring her home from the pasture in the evening. sometimes when there was company she would let him bring in a boy to the second table, and she gave them all the preserves and cake that they could eat. the kind of company she had was what nearly all the mothers had in the boy's town; they asked a whole lot of other mothers to supper, and had stewed chicken and hot biscuit, and tea and coffee, and quince and peach preserves, and sweet tomato pickles, and cake with jelly in between, and pound-cake with frosting on, and buttered toast, and maybe fried eggs and ham. the fathers never seemed to come; or, if the father that belonged in the house came, he did not go and sit in the parlor with the mothers after supper, but went up-town, to the post-office, or to some of the lawyers' offices, or else a store, and talked politics. pony never thought his mother was good looking, or, rather, he did not think anything about that, and it always seemed to him that she must be a pretty old woman; but once when she had company, and she came in from the kitchen with the last dish, and put it on the table, one of the nicest of the other mothers came up, and put her arm around pony's mother, and said: "how pretty you do look, mrs. baker! i just want to kiss you on those red cheeks. i should say you were a girl, instead of having all those children." pony was standing out on the porch with his five sisters, and when he looked in through the door, and saw his mother with her head thrown back laughing, and her face flushed from standing over the stove to cook the supper, and her brown hair tossed a little, he did think that she was very nice looking, and like the girls at school that were in the fourth reader; and she was very nicely dressed, too, in a white muslin dress, with the blue check apron she had been working in flung behind the kitchen door, as she came into the sitting-room carrying the dish in one hand. he did not know what the other mother meant by saying "all those children"; for it was a small family for the boy's town, and he thought she must just be fooling. sometimes his mother would romp with the children, or sing them funny, old-fashioned songs, such as people used to sing when the country was first settled and everybody lived in log cabins. when she got into one of her joking times she would call pony "honey! honey!" like the old colored aunty that had the persimmon-tree in her yard; and if she had to go past him she would wind her arm around his head and mumble the top of it with her lips; and if there were any of the fellows there, and pony would fling her arm away because he hated to have her do it before them, she would just laugh. of course, if she had been a good mother about everything else pony would not have minded that, but she was such a very bad mother about letting him have fun, sometimes, that pony could not overlook it, as he might have done. he did not think that she ought to call him pony before the boys, for, though he did not mind the boys' calling him pony, it was not the thing for a fellow's mother, and it was sure to give them the notion she babied him at home. once, after she called him "pony, dear!" the fellows mocked her when they got away, and all of them called him "pony, dear!" till he began to cry and to stone them. but the worst of her ways was about powder, and her not wanting him to have it, or not wanting him to have it where there was fire. she would never let him come near the stove with it, after one of the fellows had tried to dry his powder on the stove when it had got wet from being pumped on in his jacket-pocket while he was drinking at the pump, and the fellow forgot to take it off the stove quick enough, and it almost blew his mother up, and did pretty nearly scare her to death; and she would not let him keep it in a bottle, or anything, but just loose in a paper, because another of the fellows had begun to pour powder once from a bottle onto a coal of fire, and the fire ran up the powder, and blew the bottle to pieces, and filled the fellow's face so full of broken glass that the doctor was nearly the whole of that fourth of july night getting it out. so, although she was a good mother in some things, she was a bad mother in others, and these were the great things; and they were what gave him the right to run off. ii the right that pony had to run off, from the way his father acted pony had a right to run off from some of the things that his father had done, but it seemed to him that they were mostly things that his mother had put his father up to, and that his father would not have been half as bad if he had been let alone. in the boy's town the fellows celebrated christmas just as they did fourth of july, by firing off pistols and shooting crackers, and one christmas one of the fellows' pistols burst and blew the ball of his thumb open, and when a crowd of the fellows helped him past pony's house, crying and limping (the pain seemed to go down his leg, and lame him), pony's mother made his father take pony's pistol right away from him, and not let him have it till after new year's; and what made it worse was that pony had faithfully kept his promise to her that he would not fire anything out of his pistol but paper wads, while all the other fellows were firing shot, and tacks, and little marbles, out of theirs; and some of them tried to shame him into breaking his word, and he had to stand their calling him cry-baby, and everything. then, she would not let his father get him a gun to go hunting with, because he would have to fire something besides wads out of that, and would be sure to kill himself. pony told her that he would not kill himself, and tried to laugh her out of the notion, but it was no use, and he never had a gun till he was twelve years old; he was nine at the time i mean. one of the fellows who was only eight was going to have a gun as soon as his brother got done with his. she would hardly let his father get him a dog, and i suppose it was something but pony's disappointment about the gun that made her agree to the dog at last; even then she would not agree to his having it before it had its eyes open, when the great thing about a puppy was its not having its eyes open, and it was fully two weeks old before he was allowed to bring it home, though he was taken to choose it before it could walk very well, and he went every day afterwards to see how it was getting along, and to watch out that it did not get changed with the other little dogs. the first night after he got it to his own house, the dog whined so with homesickness that it kept everybody awake till pony went to the woodshed, where it was in the clothes-basket, and took it into his own bed; then it went to sleep, and did not whine a bit. his father let him keep it there that one night, but the next he made him put it out again, because he said it would get the house full of fleas; and he said if it made much more trouble he would make pony take it back. he was not a very good father about money, because when pony went to ask him for a five-cent piece he always wanted to know what it was for, and even when it was for a good thing a fellow did not always like to tell. if his father did not think it was a good thing he would not let pony have it, and then pony would be ashamed to go back to the boys, for they would say his father was stingy, though perhaps none of them had tried to get money from their own fathers. every now and then the fellows tried to learn to smoke, and that was a thing that pony's father would not let him do. he would let him smoke the drift-wood twigs, which the boys picked up along the river shore and called smoke-wood, or he would let him smoke grapevine or the pods of the catalpa, which were just like cigars, but he was mean about real tobacco. once, when he found a cigar in pony's pocket, he threw it into the fire, and said that if he ever knew him to have another he would have a talk with him. he was pretty bad about wanting pony to weed his mother's flower-beds and about going regularly to school, and always getting up in time for school. to be sure, if a show or a circus came along, he nearly always took pony in, but then he was apt to take the girls, too, and he did not like to have pony go off with a crowd of boys, which was the only way to go into a show; for if the fellows saw you with your family, all dressed up, and maybe with your shoes on, they would make fun of you the next time they caught you out. he made pony come in every night before nine o'clock, and even christmas eve, or the night before fourth of july, he would not let him stay up the whole night. when he went to the city, as the boys called the large town twenty miles away from the boy's town, he might get pony a present or he might not, but he would not promise, because once when he promised, he forgot it, and then pony's mother scolded him. there were some boys' fathers in the boy's town who were good fathers, and let their children do whatever they pleased, and pony could not help feeling rather ashamed before these boys. if one of that sort of fellows' fathers passed a crowd of boys, they would not take any notice of their boys; but if pony's father came along, he would very likely say, "well, pony!" or something like that, and then all the fellows would hollo, "well, pony! well, pony!" and make fun of his father, when he got past, and walk like him, or something, so that pony would be so mad he would hardly know what to do. he hated to ask his father not to speak to him, or look at him, when he was with the fellows, but it seemed to him as if his father ought to know better without asking. there were a great many things like that which no good father would have done, but the thing that made pony lose all patience, and begin getting ready to run off right away, was the way his father behaved when pony got mad at the teacher one day, and brought his books home, and said he was not going back to that school any more. the reason was because the teacher had put pony back from third reader to the second and made him go into a class of little fellows not more than seven years old. it happened one morning, after a day when pony had read very badly in the afternoon, and though he had explained that he had read badly because the weather was so hot, the teacher said he might try it in the second reader till the weather changed, at any rate; and the whole school laughed. the worst of it was that pony was really a very good reader, and could speak almost the best of any of the boys; but that afternoon he was lazy, and would not pay attention. at recess, after the teacher had put him back, all the fellows came round and asked him what he was going to do now; and he just shut his teeth and told them they would see; and at noon they did see. as soon as school was dismissed, or even before, pony put all his books together, and his slate, and tied them with his slate-pencil string, and twitched his hat down off the peg, and strutted proudly out of the room, so that not only the boys but the teacher, too, could see that he was leaving school. the teacher looked on and pretended to smile, but pony did not smile; he kept his teeth shut, and walked stiffly through the door, and straight home, without speaking to any one. that was the way to do when you left school in the boy's town, for then the boys would know you were in earnest; and none of them would try to speak to you, either; they would respect you too much. pony's mother knew that he had left school as soon as she saw him bringing home his books, but she only looked sorry and did not say anything. she must have told his father about it when he came to dinner, though, for as soon as they sat down at the table his father began to ask what the trouble was. pony answered very haughtily, and said that old archer had put him back into the second reader, and he was not going to stand it, and he had left school. "then," said his father, "you expect to stay in the second reader the rest of your life?" this was something that pony had never thought of before; but he said he did not care, and he was not going to have old archer put him back, anyway, and he began to cry. it was then that his mother showed herself a good mother, if ever she was one, and said she thought it was a shame to put pony back and mortify him before the other boys, and she knew that it must just have happened that he did not read very well that afternoon because he was sick, or something, for usually he read perfectly. his father said, "my dear girl, my dear girl!" and his mother hushed up and did not say anything more; but pony could see what she thought, and he accused old archer of always putting on him and always trying to mortify him. "that's all very well," said his father, "but i think we ought to give him one more trial; and i advise you to take your books back again this afternoon, and read so well that he will put you into the fourth reader to-morrow morning." pony understood that his father was just making fun about the fourth reader, but was in earnest about his going back to school; and he left the table and threw himself on the lounge, with his face down, and cried. he said he was sick, and his head ached, and he could not go to school; his father said that he hoped his headache would wear off in the course of the afternoon, but if he was worse they would have the doctor when he came home from school. then he took his hat and went out of the front door to go up town, and pony screamed out, "well, i'll run off; that's what i'll do!" his father did not take any notice of him, and his mother only said, "pony, pony!" while his sisters all stood round frightened at the way pony howled and thrashed the lounge with his legs. but before one o'clock pony washed his face and brushed his hair, and took his books and started for school. his mother tried to kiss him, but he pushed her off, for it seemed to him that she might have made his father let him stay out of school, if she had tried, and he was not going to have any of her pretending. he made his face very cold and hard as he marched out of the house, for he never meant to come back to that house any more. he meant to go to school that afternoon, but as soon as school was out he was going to run off. when the fellows saw him coming back with his books they knew how it was, but they did not mock him, for he had done everything that he could, and all that was expected of anybody in such a case. a boy always came back when he had left school in that way, and nobody supposed but what he would; the thing was to leave school; after that you were not to blame, whatever happened. before recess it began to be known among them that pony was going to run off, because his father had made him come back, and then they did think he was somebody; and as soon as they got out at recess they all crowded round him and began to praise him up, and everything, and to tell him that they would run off, too, if their fathers sent them back; and so he began to be glad that he was going to do it. they asked him when he was going to run off, and he told them they would see; and pretty soon it was understood that he was going to run off the same night. when school was out a whole crowd of them started with him, and some of the biggest fellows walked alongside of him, and talked down over their shoulders to him, and told him what he must do. they said he must not start till after dark, and he must watch out for the constable till he got over the corporation line and then nobody could touch him. they said that they would be waiting round the corner for him as soon as they had their suppers, and one of them would walk along with him to the end of the first street and then another would be waiting there to go with him to the end of the next, and so on till they reached the corporation line. very likely his father would have the constable waiting there to stop him, but pony ought to start to run across the line and then the fellows would rush out and trip up the constable and hold him down till pony got safe across. he ought to hollo, when he was across, and that would let them know that he was safe and they would be ready to let the constable up, and begin to run before he could grab them. everybody thought that was a splendid plan except archy hawkins, that all the fellows called old hawkins; his father kept one of the hotels, and old hawkins used to catch frogs for the table; he was the one that the frogs used to know by sight, and when they saw him they would croak out: "here comes hawkins! here comes hawkins! look out!" and jump off the bank into the water and then come up among the green slime, where nobody but old hawkins could see them. he was always joking and getting into scrapes, but still the boys liked him and thought he was pretty smart, and now they did not mind it when he elbowed the big boys away that were talking to pony and told them to shut up. "you just listen to your uncle, pony!" he said. "these fellows don't know anything about running off. i'll tell you how to do it; you mind your uncle! it's no use trying to get away from the constable, if he's there, for he'll catch you as quick as lightning, and he won't mind these fellows any more than fleas. you oughtn't try to start till along about midnight, for the constable will be in bed by that time, and you won't have any trouble. you must have somebody to wake you up, and some of the fellows ought to be outside, to do it. you listen to your grandfather! you ought to tie a string around your big toe, and let the string hang out of the window, the way you do fourth of july eve; and then just as soon as it strikes twelve, the fellows ought to tug away at the string till you come hopping to the window, and tell 'em to stop. but you got to whisper, and the fellows mustn't make any noise, either, or your father will be out on them in a minute. he'll be watching out, to-night, anyway, i reckon, because--" old hawkins was walking backward in front of pony, talking to him, and showing him how he must hop to the window, and all at once he struck his heel against a root in the sidewalk, and the first thing he knew he sat down so hard that it about knocked the breath out of him. all the fellows laughed, and anybody else would have been mad, but old hawkins was too good-natured; and he got up and brushed himself, and said: "say! let's go down to the river and go in, before supper, anyway." nearly all the fellows agreed, and old hawkins said: "come along, pony! you got to come, too!" but pony stiffly refused, partly because it seemed to him pretty mean to forget all about his running away, like that, and partly because he had to ask his mother before he went in swimming. a few of the little fellows kept with him all the way home, but most of the big boys went along with old hawkins. one of them stayed with pony and the little boys, and comforted him for the way the rest had left him. he was a fellow who was always telling about indians, and he said that if pony could get to the indians, anywhere, and they took a fancy to him, they would adopt him into their tribe, if it was just after some old chief had lost a son in battle. maybe they would offer to kill him first, and they would have to hold a council, but if they did adopt him, it would be the best thing, because then he would soon turn into an indian himself, and forget how to speak english; and if ever the indians had to give up their prisoners, and he was brought back, and his father and mother came to pick him out, they might know him by some mark or other, but he would not know them, and they would have to let him go back to the indians again. he said that was the very best way, and the only way, but the trouble would be to get to the indians in the first place. he said he knew of one reservation in the north part of the state, and he promised to find out if there were any other indians living nearer; the reservation was about a hundred miles off, and it would take pony a good while to go to them. the name of this boy was jim leonard. but now, before i go the least bit further with the story of pony baker's running away, i have got to tell about jim leonard, and what kind of boy he was, and the scrape that he once got pony and the other boys into, and a hair-breadth escape he had himself, when he came pretty near being drowned in a freshet; and i will begin with the hair-breadth escape, because it happened before the scrape. iii jim leonard's hair-breadth escape jim leonard's stable used to stand on the flat near the river, and on a rise of ground above it stood jim leonard's log-cabin. the boys called it jim leonard's log-cabin, but it was really his mother's, and the stable was hers, too. it was a log stable, but up where the gable began the logs stopped, and it was weather-boarded the rest of the way, and the roof was shingled. jim leonard said it was all logs once, and that the roof was loose clap-boards, held down by logs that ran across them, like the roofs in the early times, before there were shingles or nails, or anything, in the country. but none of the oldest boys had ever seen it like that, and you had to take jim leonard's word for it if you wanted to believe it. the little fellows nearly all did; but everybody said afterwards it was a good thing for jim leonard that it was not that kind of roof when he had his hair-breadth escape on it. he said himself that he would not have cared if it had been; but that was when it was all over, and his mother had whipped him, and everything, and he was telling the boys about it. he said that in his pirate book lots of fellows on rafts got to land when they were shipwrecked, and that the old-fashioned roof would have been just like a raft, anyway, and he could have steered it right across the river to delorac's island as easy! pony baker thought very likely he could, but hen billard said: "well, why didn't you do it, with the kind of a roof you had?" some of the boys mocked jim leonard; but a good many of them thought he could have done it if he could have got into the eddy that there was over by the island. if he could have landed there, once, he could have camped out and lived on fish till the river fell. it was that spring, about fifty-four years ago, when the freshet, which always came in the spring, was the worst that anybody could remember. the country above the boy's town was under water, for miles and miles. the river bottoms were flooded so that the corn had to be all planted over again when the water went down. the freshet tore away pieces of orchard, and apple-trees in bloom came sailing along with logs and fence rails and chicken-coops, and pretty soon dead cows and horses. there was a dog chained to a dog-kennel that went by, howling awfully; the boys would have given anything if they could have saved him, but the yellow river whirled him out of sight behind the middle pier of the bridge, which everybody was watching from the bank, expecting it to go any minute. the water was up within four or five feet of the bridge, and the boys believed that if a good big log had come along and hit it, the bridge would have been knocked loose from its piers and carried down the river. perhaps it would, and perhaps it would not. the boys all ran to watch it as soon as school was out, and stayed till they had to go to supper. after supper some of their mothers let them come back and stay till bedtime, if they would promise to keep a full yard back from the edge of the bank. they could not be sure just how much a yard was, and they nearly all sat down on the edge and let their legs hang over. jim leonard was there, holloing and running up and down the bank, and showing the other boys things away out in the river that nobody else could see; he said he saw a man out there. he had not been to supper, and he had not been to school all day, which might have been the reason why he would rather stay with the men and watch the bridge than go home to supper; his mother would have been waiting for him with a sucker from the pear-tree. he told the boys that while they were gone he went out with one of the men on the bridge as far as the middle pier, and it shook like a leaf; he showed with his hand how it shook. jim leonard was a fellow who believed he did all kinds of things that he would like to have done; and the big boys just laughed. that made jim leonard mad, and he said that as soon as the bridge began to go, he was going to run out on it and go with it; and then they would see whether he was a liar or not! they mocked him and danced round him till he cried. but pony baker, who had come with his father, believed that jim leonard would really have done it; and at any rate, he felt sorry for him when jim cried. he stayed later than any of the little fellows, because his father was with him, and even all the big boys had gone home except hen billard, when pony left jim leonard on the bank and stumbled sleepily away, with his hand in his father's. when pony was gone, hen billard said: "well, going to stay all night, jim?" and jim leonard answered back, as cross as could be, "yes, i am!" and he said the men who were sitting up to watch the bridge were going to give him some of their coffee, and that would keep him awake. but perhaps he thought this because he wanted some coffee so badly. he was awfully hungry, for he had not had anything since breakfast, except a piece of bread-and-butter that he got pony baker to bring him in his pocket when he came down from school at noontime. hen billard said, "well, i suppose i won't see you any more, jim; good-bye," and went away laughing; and after a while one of the men saw jim leonard hanging about, and asked him what he wanted there, at that time of night; and jim could not say he wanted coffee, and so there was nothing for him to do but go. there was nowhere for him to go but home, and he sneaked off in the dark. when he came in sight of the cabin he could not tell whether he would rather have his mother waiting for him with a whipping and some supper, or get to bed somehow with neither. he climbed softly over the back fence and crept up to the back door, but it was fast; then he crept round to the front door, and that was fast, too. there was no light in the house, and it was perfectly still. all of a sudden it struck him that he could sleep in the stable-loft, and he thought what a fool he was not to have thought of it before. the notion brightened him up so that he got the gourd that hung beside the well-curb and took it out to the stable with him; for now he remembered that the cow would be there, unless she was in somebody's garden-patch or corn-field. he noticed as he walked down towards the stable that the freshet had come up over the flat, and just before the door he had to wade. but he was in his bare feet and he did not care; if he thought anything, he thought that his mother would not come out to milk till the water went down, and he would be safe till then from the whipping he must take, sooner or later, for playing hooky. sure enough, the old cow was in the stable, and she gave jim leonard a snort of welcome and then lowed anxiously. he fumbled through the dark to her side, and began to milk her. she had been milked only a few hours before, and so he got only a gourdful from her. but it was all strippings, and rich as cream, and it was smoking warm. it seemed to jim leonard that it went down to his very toes when he poured it into his throat, and it made him feel so good that he did not know what to do. there really was not anything for him to do but to climb up into the loft by the ladder in the corner of the stable, and lie down on the old last year's fodder. the rich, warm milk made jim leonard awfully sleepy, and he dropped off almost as soon as his head touched the corn-stalks. the last thing he remembered was the hoarse roar of the freshet outside, and that was a lulling music in his ears. the next thing he knew, and he hardly knew that, was a soft, jolting, sinking motion, first to one side and then to another; then he seemed to be going down, down, straight down, and then to be drifting off into space. he rubbed his eyes, and found it was full daylight, although it was the daylight of early morning; and while he lay looking out of the stable-loft window and trying to make out what it all meant, he felt a wash of cold water along his back, and his bed of fodder melted away under him and around him, and some loose planks of the loft floor swam weltering out of the window. then he knew what had happened. the flood had stolen up while he slept, and sapped the walls of the stable; the logs had given way, one after another, and had let him down, with the roof, into the water. he got to his feet as well as he could, and floundered over the rising and falling boards to the window in the floating gable. one look outside showed him his mother's log-cabin safe on its rise of ground, and at the corner the old cow, that must have escaped through the stable door he had left open, and passed the night among the cabbages. she seemed to catch sight of jim leonard when he put his head out, and she lowed to him. jim leonard did not stop to make any answer. he clambered out of the window and up onto the ridge of the roof, and there, in the company of a large gray rat, he set out on the strangest voyage a boy ever made. in a few moments the current swept him out into the middle of the river, and he was sailing down between his native shore on one side and delorac's island on the other. all round him seethed and swirled the yellow flood in eddies and ripples, where drift of all sorts danced and raced. his vessel, such as it was, seemed seaworthy enough. it held securely together, fitting like a low, wide cup over the water, and perhaps finding some buoyancy from the air imprisoned in it above the window. but jim leonard was not satisfied, and so far from being proud of his adventure, he was frightened worse even than the rat which shared it. as soon as he could get his voice, he began to shout for help to the houses on the empty shores, which seemed to fly backward on both sides while he lay still on the gulf that swashed around him, and tried to drown his voice before it swallowed him up. at the same time the bridge, which had looked so far off when he first saw it, was rushing swiftly towards him, and getting nearer and nearer. he wondered what had become of all the people and all the boys. he thought that if he were safe there on shore he should not be sleeping in bed while somebody was out in the river on a roof, with nothing but a rat to care whether he got drowned or not. where was hen billard, that always made fun so; or archy hawkins, that pretended to be so good-natured; or pony baker, that seemed to like a fellow so much? he began to call for them by name: "hen billard--_o_ hen! help, help! archy hawkins, _o_ archy! i'm drowning! pony, pony, _o_ pony! don't you see me, pony?" he could see the top of pony baker's house, and he thought what a good, kind man pony's father was. surely _he_ would try to save him; and jim leonard began to yell: "o mr. baker! look here, mr. baker! it's jim leonard, and i'm floating down the river on a roof! save me, mr. baker, save me! help, help, somebody! fire! fire! fire! murder! fire!" by this time he was about crazy, and did not half know what he was saying. just in front of where hen billard's grandmother lived, on the street that ran along the top of the bank, the roof got caught in the branches of a tree which had drifted down and stuck in the bottom of the river so that the branches waved up and down as the current swashed through them. jim leonard was glad of anything that would stop the roof, and at first he thought he would get off on the tree. that was what the rat did. perhaps the rat thought jim leonard really was crazy and he had better let him have the roof to himself; but the rat saw that he had made a mistake, and he jumped back again after he had swung up and down on a limb two or three times. jim leonard felt awfully when the rat first got into the tree, for he remembered how it said in the pirate book that rats always leave a sinking ship, and now he believed that he certainly was gone. but that only made him hollo the louder, and he holloed so loud that at last he made somebody hear. it was hen billard's grandmother, and she put her head out of the window with her night-cap on, to see what the matter was. jim leonard caught sight of her and he screamed, "fire, fire, fire! i'm drownding, mrs. billard! oh, do somebody come!" hen billard's grandmother just gave one yell of "fire! the world's a-burnin' up, hen billard, and you layin' there sleepin' and not helpin' a bit! somebody's out there in the river!" and she rushed into the room where hen was, and shook him. he bounced out of bed and pulled on his pantaloons, and was down-stairs in a minute. he ran bareheaded over to the bank, and when jim leonard saw him coming he holloed ten times as loud: "it's me, hen! it's jim leonard! oh, do get somebody to come out and save me! fire!" as soon as hen heard that, and felt sure it was not a dream, which he did in about half a second, he began to yell, too, and to say: "how did you get there? fire, fire, fire! what are you on? fire! are you in a tree, or what? fire, fire! are you in a flat-boat? fire, fire, fire! if i had a skiff--fire!" he kept racing up and down the bank, and back and forth between the bank and the houses. the river was almost up to the top of the bank, and it looked a mile wide. down at the bridge you could hardly see any light between the water and the bridge. pretty soon people began to look out of their doors and windows, and hen billard's grandmother kept screaming, "the world's a-burnin' up! the river's on fire!" then boys came out of their houses; and then men with no hats on; and then women and girls, with their hair half down. the fire-bells began to ring, and in less than five minutes both the fire companies were on the shore, with the men at the brakes and the foremen of the companies holloing through their trumpets. then jim leonard saw what a good thing it was that he had thought of holloing fire. he felt sure now that they would save him somehow, and he made up his mind to save the rat, too, and pet it, and maybe go around and exhibit it. he would name it bolivar; it was just the color of the elephant bolivar that came to the boy's town every year. these things whirled through his brain while he watched two men setting out in a skiff towards him. they started from the shore a little above him, and they meant to row slanting across to his tree, but the current, when they got fairly into it, swept them far below, and they were glad to row back to land again without ever getting anywhere near him. at the same time, the tree-top where his roof was caught was pulled southward by a sudden rush of the torrent; it opened, and the roof slipped out, with jim leonard and the rat on it. they both joined in one squeal of despair as the river leaped forward with them, and a dreadful "oh!" went up from the people on the bank. some of the firemen had run down to the bridge when they saw that the skiff was not going to be of any use, and one of them had got out of the window of the bridge onto the middle pier, with a long pole in his hand. it had an iron hook at the end, and it was the kind of pole that the men used to catch drift-wood with and drag it ashore. when the people saw blue bob with that pole in his hand, they understood what he was up to. he was going to wait till the water brought the roof with jim leonard on it down to the bridge, and then catch the hook into the shingles and pull it up to the pier. the strongest current set close in around the middle pier, and the roof would have to pass on one side or the other. that was what blue bob argued out in his mind when he decided that the skiff would never reach jim leonard, and he knew that if he could not save him that way, nothing could save him. blue bob must have had a last name, but none of the little fellows knew what it was. everybody called him blue bob because he had such a thick, black beard that when he was just shaved his face looked perfectly blue. he knew all about the river and its ways, and if it had been of any use to go out with a boat, he would have gone. that was what all the boys said, when they followed blue bob to the bridge and saw him getting out on the pier. he was the only person that the watchman had let go on the bridge for two days. the water was up within three feet of the floor, and if jim leonard's roof slipped by blue bob's guard and passed under the bridge, it would scrape jim leonard off, and that would be the last of him. all the time the roof was coming nearer the bridge, sometimes slower, sometimes faster, just as it got into an eddy or into the current; once it seemed almost to stop, and swayed completely round; then it just darted forward. blue bob stood on the very point of the pier, where the strong stone-work divided the current, and held his hooked pole ready to make a clutch at the roof, whichever side it took. jim leonard saw him there, but although he had been holloing and yelling and crying all the time, now he was still. he wanted to say, "o bob, save me!" but he could not make a sound. it seemed to him that bob was going to miss him when he made a lunge at the roof on the right side of the pier; it seemed to him that the roof was going down the left side; but he felt it quiver and stop, and then it gave a loud crack and went to pieces, and flung itself away upon the whirling and dancing flood. at first jim leonard thought he had gone with it; but it was only the rat that tried to run up blue bob's pole, and slipped off into the water; and then somehow jim was hanging onto blue bob's hands and scrambling onto the bridge. blue bob always said he never saw any rat, and a good many people said there never was any rat on the roof with jim leonard; they said that he just made the rat up. he did not mention the rat himself for several days; he told pony baker that he did not think of it at first, he was so excited. pony asked his father what he thought, and pony's father said that it might have been the kind of rat that people see when they have been drinking too much, and that blue bob had not seen it because he had signed the temperance pledge. but this was a good while after. at the time the people saw jim leonard standing safe with blue bob on the pier, they set up a regular election cheer, and they would have believed anything jim leonard said. they all agreed that blue bob had a right to go home with jim and take him to his mother, for he had saved jim's life, and he ought to have the credit of it. before this, and while everybody supposed that jim leonard would surely be drowned, some of the people had gone up to his mother's cabin to prepare her for the worst. she did not seem to understand exactly, and she kept round getting breakfast, with her old clay pipe in her mouth; but when she got it through her head, she made an awful face, and dropped her pipe on the door-stone and broke it; and then she threw her check apron over her head and sat down and cried. [illustration: "'i'll learn that limb to sleep in a cow-barn!'"] but it took so long for her to come to this that the people had not got over comforting her and trying to make her believe that it was all for the best, when blue bob came up through the bars with his hand on jim's shoulder, and about all the boys in town tagging after them. jim's mother heard the hurrahing and pulled off her apron, and saw that jim was safe and sound there before her. she gave him a look that made him slip round behind blue bob, and she went in and got a table-knife, and she came out and went to the pear-tree and cut a sucker. she said, "i'll learn that limb to sleep in a cow-barn when he's got a decent bed in the house!" and then she started to come towards jim leonard. iv the scrape that jim leonard got the boys into as i said, it was in the spring that jim leonard's hair-breadth escape happened. but it was late in the summer of that very same year that he got pony baker and all the rest of the boys into about one of the worst scrapes that the boy's town boys were ever in. at first, it was more like a dare than anything else, for when jim leonard said he knew a watermelon patch that the owner had no use for, the other boys dared him to tell where it was. he wagged his head, and said that he knew, and then they dared him to tell whose patch it was; and all at once he said it was bunty williams's, and dared them to come and get the melons with him. none of the boys in the boy's town would take a dare, and so they set off with jim leonard, one sunny saturday morning in september. some of the boys had their arms round one another's necks, talking as loud as they could into one another's faces, and some whooping and holloing, and playing indian, and some throwing stones and scaring cats. they had nearly as many dogs as there were boys, and there were pretty nearly all the boys in the neighborhood. there seemed to be thirty or forty of them, they talked so loud and ran round so, but perhaps there were only ten or eleven. hen billard was along, and so were piccolo wright and archie hawkins, and then a great lot of little fellows. pony baker was not quite a little fellow in age; and there was something about him that always made the big boys let him go with their crowd. but now, when they passed pony's gate and his mother saw them, and because it was such a warm morning and she thought they might be going down to the river and called out to him, "you mustn't go in swimming, pony, dear; you'll get the ague," they began to mock pony as soon as they got by, and to hollo, "no, pony, dear! you mustn't get the ague. keep out of the water if you don't want your teeth to rattle, pony, dear!" this made pony so mad that he began to cry and try to fight them, and they all formed in a ring round him and danced and whooped till he broke through and started home. then they ran after him and coaxed him not to do it, and said that they were just in fun. after that they used pony first-rate, and he kept on with them. jim leonard was at the head, walking along and holloing to the fellows to hurry up. they had to wade the river, and he was showing off how he could hop, skip, and jump through, when he stepped on a slippery stone and sat down in the water and made the fellows laugh. but they acted first-rate with him when they got across; they helped him to take off his trousers and wring them out, and they wrung them so hard that they tore them a little, but they were a little torn already; and they wrung them so dry that he said they felt splendid when he got them on again. one of his feet went through the side of the trouser leg that was torn before it got to the end, and made the fellows laugh. when the boys first started jim said he had got to go ahead so as to be sure that they found the right patch. he now said that bunty williams had two patches, one that he was going to sell the melons out of, and the other that he was going to let them go to seed in; and it was the second melon patch that he had deserted. but pretty soon after they got over the river he came back and walked with the rest of the boys, and when they came to a piece of woods which they had to go through, he dropped behind. he said it was just the place for indian, and he wanted to be where he could get at them if they started up when the boys got by, as they would very likely do. some of the big fellows called him a cowardy-calf; but he said he would show them when the time came, and most of the little boys believed him and tried to get in front. it was not long before he stopped and asked, what if he could not find the right patch? but the big boys said that they reckoned he could if he looked hard enough, and they made him keep on. one of the dogs treed a squirrel, and jim offered to climb the tree and shake the squirrel off; but hen billard said his watermelon tooth was beginning to trouble him, and he had no time for squirrels. that made all the big boys laugh, and they pulled jim leonard along, although he held back with all his might and told them to quit it. he began to cry. pony baker did not know what to make of him. he felt sorry for him, but it seemed to him that jim was acting as if he wanted to get out of showing the fellows where the patch was. pony lent him his handkerchief, and jim said that he had the toothache, anyway. he showed pony the tooth, and the fellows saw him and made fun, and they offered to carry him, if his tooth ached so that he could not walk, and then suddenly jim rushed ahead of the whole crowd. they thought he was trying to run away from them, and two or three of the big fellows took after him, and when they caught up with him, the rest of the boys could see him pointing, and then the big boys that were with him gave a whoop and waved their hats, and all the rest of the boys tore along and tried which could run the fastest and get to the place the soonest. they knew it must be something great; and sure enough it was a watermelon patch of pretty near an acre, sloping to the south from the edge of the woods, and all overrun with vines and just bulging all over with watermelons and muskmelons. the watermelons were some of the big mottled kind, with lightish blotches among their darker green, like georgia melons nowadays, and some almost striped in gray and green, and some were those big, round sugar melons, nearly black. they were all sizes, but most of them were large, and you need not "punk" them to see if they were ripe. anybody could tell that they were ripe from looking at them, and the muskmelons, which were the old-fashioned long kind, were yellow as gold. now, the big fellows said, you could see why bunty williams had let this patch go to seed. it was because they were such bully melons and would have the best seeds; and the fellows all agreed to save the seeds for bunty, and put them where he could find them. they began to praise jim leonard up, but he did not say anything, and only looked on with his queer, sleepy eyes, and said his tooth ached, when the fellows plunged down among the melons and began to burst them open. they had lots of fun. at first they cut a few melons open with their knives, but that was too slow, and pretty soon they began to jump on them and split them with sharp-edged rocks, or anything, to get them open quick. they did not eat close to the rind, as you do when you have a melon on the table, but they tore out the core and just ate that; and in about a minute they forgot all about saving the seeds for bunty williams and putting them in one place where he could get them. some of the fellows went into the edge of the woods to eat their melons, and then came back for more; some took them and cracked them open on the top rail of the fence, and then sat down in the fence corner and plunged their fists in and tore the cores out. some of them squeezed the juice out of the cores into the shells of the melons and then drank it out of them. piccolo wright was stooping over to pull a melon and archie hawkins came up behind him with a big melon that had a seam across it, it was so ripe; and he brought it down on piccolo's head, and it smashed open and went all over piccolo. he was pretty mad at first, but then he saw the fun of it, and he took one end of the melon and scooped it all out, and put it on in place of his hat and wore it like a helmet. archie did the same thing with the other end, and then all the big boys scooped out melons and wore them for helmets. they were all drabbled with seeds and pulp, and some of the little fellows were perfectly soaked. none of them cared very much for the muskmelons. somehow pony would not take any of the melons, although there was nothing that he liked so much. the fellows seemed to be having an awfully good time, and yet somehow it looked wrong to pony. he knew that bunty williams had given up the patch, because jim leonard said so, and he knew that the boys had a right to the melons if bunty had got done with them; but still the sight of them there, smashing and gorging, made pony feel anxious. it almost made him think that jim leonard was better than the rest because he would not take any of the melons, but stayed off at one side of the patch near the woods, where pony stood with him. he did not say much, and pony noticed that he kept watching the log cabin where bunty williams lived on the slope of the hill about half a mile off, and once he heard jim saying, as if to himself: "no, there isn't any smoke coming out of the chimbly, and that's a sign there ain't anybody there. they've all gone to market, i reckon." it went through pony that it was strange jim should care whether bunty was at home or not, if bunty had given up the patch, but he did not say anything; it often happened so with him about the things he thought strange. the fellows did not seem to notice where he was or what he was doing; they were all whooping and holloing, and now they began to play war with the watermelon rinds. one of the dogs thought he smelled a ground-squirrel and began to dig for it, and in about half a minute all the dogs seemed to be fighting, and the fellows were yelling round them and sicking them on; and they were all making such a din that pony could hardly hear himself think, as his father used to say. but he thought he saw some one come out of bunty's cabin, and take down the hill with a dog after him and a hoe in his hand. he made jim leonard look, and jim just gave a screech that rose above the din of the dogs and the other boys, "bunty's coming, and he's got his bulldog and his shotgun!" and then he turned and broke through the woods. all the boys stood still and stared at the hill-side, while the dogs fought on. the next thing they knew they were floundering among the vines and over the watermelon cores and shells and breaking for the woods; and as soon as the dogs found the boys were gone, they seemed to think it was no use to keep on fighting with nobody to look on, and they took after the fellows. the big fellows holloed to the little fellows to come on, and the little fellows began crying. they caught their feet in the roots and dead branches and kept falling down, and some of the big fellows that were clever, like hen billard and archie hawkins, came back and picked them up and started them on again. nobody stopped to ask himself or any one else why they should be afraid of bunty if he had done with his melon patch, but they all ran as if he had caught them stealing his melons, and had a right to shoot them, or set his dog on them. they got through the woods to the shore of the river, and all the time they could hear bunty williams roaring and shouting, and bunty williams's bulldog barking, and it seemed as if he were right behind them. after they reached the river they had to run a long way up the shore before they got to the ripple where they could wade it, and by that time they were in such a hurry that they did not stop to turn up their trousers' legs; they just splashed right in and splashed across the best way they could. some of them fell down, but everybody had to look out for himself, and they did not know that they were all safe over till they counted up on the other side. everybody was there but jim leonard, and they did not know what had become of him, but they were not very anxious. in fact they were all talking at the tops of their voices, and bragging what they would have done if bunty had caught them. piccolo wright showed how he could have tripped him up, and archie hawkins said that snuff would make a bulldog loosen his grip, because he would have to keep sneezing. none of them seemed to have seen either bunty's shotgun or his bulldog, but they all believed that he had them because jim leonard said so, just as they had believed that bunty had got done with his melon patch, until all at once one of them said, "where is jim leonard, anyway?" then they found out that nobody knew, and the little fellows began to think that maybe bunty williams had caught him, but hen billard said: "oh, he's safe enough, somewheres. i wish i had him here!" archie hawkins asked, "what would you do to him?" and hen said: "i'd show you! i'd make him go back and find out whether bunty really had a bulldog with him. i don't believe he had." then all the big boys said that none of them believed so, either, and that they would bet that any of their dogs could whip bunty's dog. their dogs did not look much like fighting. they were wet with running through the river, and they were lying round with their tongues hanging out, panting. but it made the boys think that something ought to be done to jim leonard, if they could ever find him, and some one said that they ought to look for him right away, but the rest said they ought to stop and dry their pantaloons first. pony began to be afraid they were going to hurt jim leonard if they got hold of him, and he said he was going home; and the boys tried to keep him from doing it. they said they were just going to build a drift-wood fire and dry their clothes at it, and they told him that if he went off in his wet trousers he would be sure to get the ague. but nothing that the boys could do would keep him, and so the big fellows said to let him go if he wanted to so much; and he climbed the river bank and left them kindling a fire. when he got away and looked back, all the boys had their clothes off and were dancing round the fire like indians, and he would have liked to turn back after he got to the top, and maybe he might have done so if he had not found jim leonard hiding in a hole up there and peeping over at the boys. jim was crying, and said his tooth ached awfully, and he was afraid to go home and get something to put in it, because his mother would whale him as soon as she caught him. he said he was hungry, too, and he wanted pony to go over into a field with him and get a turnip, but pony would not do it. he had three cents in his pocket--the big old kind that were as large as half-dollars and seemed to buy as much in that day--and he offered to let jim take them and go and get something to eat at the grocery. they decided he should buy two smoked red herrings and a cent's worth of crackers, and these were what jim brought back after he had been gone so long that pony thought he would never come. he had stopped to get some apples off one of the trees at his mother's house, and he had to watch his chance so that she should not see him, and then he had stopped and taken some potatoes out of a hill that would be first-rate if they could get some salt to eat them with, after they had built a fire somewhere and baked them. they thought it would be a good plan to dig one of these little caves just under the edge of the bank, and make a hole in the top to let the smoke out; but they would have to go a good way off so that the other fellows could not see them, and they could not wait for that. they divided the herrings between them, and they each had two crackers and three apples, and they made a good meal. then they went to a pump at the nearest house, where the woman said they might have a drink, and drank themselves full. they wanted awfully to ask her for some salt, but they did not dare to do it for fear she would make them tell what they wanted it for. so they came away without, and jim said they could put ashes on their potatoes the way the indians did, and it would be just as good as salt. they ran back to the river bank, and ran along up it till they were out of sight of the boys on the shore below, and then they made their oven in it, and started their fire with some matches that jim leonard had in his pocket, so that if he ever got lost in the woods at night he could make a fire and keep from freezing. his tooth had stopped aching now, and he kept telling such exciting stories about indians that pony could not seem to get the chance to ask why bunty williams should take after the boys with his shotgun and bulldog if he had given up the watermelon patch and only wanted it for seed. the question lurked in pony's mind all the time that they were waiting for the potatoes to bake, but somehow he could not get it out. he did not feel very well, and he tried to forget his bad feelings by listening as hard as he could to jim leonard's stories. jim kept taking the potatoes out to see if they were done enough, and he began to eat them while they were still very hard and greenish under the skin. pony ate them, too, although he was not hungry now, and he did not think the ashes were as good as salt on them, as jim pretended. the potato he ate seemed to make him feel no better, and at last he had to tell jim that he was afraid he was going to be sick. jim said that if they could heat some stones, and get a blanket anywhere, and put it over pony and the stones, and then pour water on the hot stones, they could give him a steam bath the way the indians did, and it would cure him in a minute; they could get the stones easy enough, and he could bring water from the river in his straw hat, but the thing of it was to get the blanket. he stood looking thoughtfully down at pony, who was crying now, and begging jim leonard to go home with him, for he did not believe he could walk on account of the pain that seemed to curl him right up. he asked jim if he believed he was beginning to have the ague, but jim said it was more like the yellow janders, although he agreed that pony had better go home, for it was pretty late, anyway. he made pony promise that if he would take him home he would let him get a good way off before he went into the house, so that pony's father and mother should not see who had brought him. he said that when he had got off far enough he would hollo, and then pony could go in. he was first-rate to pony on the way home, and helped him to walk, and when the pain curled him up so tight that he could not touch his foot to the ground, jim carried him. pony could never know just what to make of jim leonard. sometimes he was so good to you that you could not help thinking he was one of the cleverest fellows in town, and then all of a sudden he would do something mean. he acted the perfect coward at times, and at other times he was not afraid of anything. almost any of the fellows could whip him, but once he went into an empty house that was haunted, and came and looked out of the garret windows, and dared any of them to come up. he offered now, if pony did not want to go home and let his folks find out about the melon patch, to take him to his mother's log-barn, and get a witch-doctor to come and tend him; but pony said that he thought they had better keep on, and then jim trotted and asked him if the jolting did not do him some good. he said he just wished there was an indian medicine-man around somewhere. they were so long getting to pony's house that it was almost dusk when they reached the back of the barn, and jim put him over the fence. jim started to run, and pony waited till he got out of sight and holloed; then he began to shout, "father! mother! _o_ mother! come out here! i'm sick!" it did not seem hardly a second till he heard his mother calling back: "pony! pony! where are you, child? where are you?" "here, behind the barn!" he answered. pony's mother came running out, and then his father, and when they had put him into his own bed up-stairs, his mother made his father go for the doctor. while his father was gone, his mother got the whole story out of pony--what he had been doing all day, and what he had been eating--but as to who had got him into the trouble, she said she knew from the start it must be jim leonard. after the doctor came and she told him what pony had been eating, without telling all that he had been doing, the doctor gave him something to make him feel better. as soon as he said he felt better she began to talk very seriously to him, and to tell him how anxious she had been ever since she had seen him going off in the morning with jim leonard at the head of that crowd of boys. "didn't you know he couldn't be telling the truth when he said the man had left his watermelon patch? didn't any of the boys?" "no," said pony, thoughtfully. "but when he pretended that he shouldn't know the right patch, and wanted to turn back?" "we didn't think anything. we thought he just wanted to get out of going. ought they let him turn back? maybe he meant to keep the patch all to himself." his mother was silent, and pony asked, "do you believe that a boy has a right to take anything off a tree or a vine?" "no; certainly not." "well, that's what i think, too." "why, pony," said his mother, "is there anybody who thinks such a thing can be right?" "well, the boys say it's not stealing. stealing is hooking a thing out of a wagon or a store; but if you can knock a thing off a tree, or get it through a fence, when it's on the ground already, then it's just like gathering nuts in the woods. that's what the boys say. do you think it is?" "i think it's the worst kind of stealing. i hope my boy doesn't do such things." "not very often," answered pony, thoughtfully. "when there's a lot of fellows together, you don't want them to laugh at you." "o pony, dear!" said his mother, almost crying. "well, anyway, mother," pony said, to cheer her up, "i didn't take any of the watermelons to-day, for all jim said bunty had got done with them." "i'm so glad to think you didn't! and you must promise, won't you, never to touch any fruit that doesn't belong to you?" "but supposing an apple was to drop over the fence onto the sidewalk, what would you do then?" "i should throw it right back over the fence again," said pony's mother. pony promised his mother never to touch other people's fruit, but he was glad she did not ask him to throw it back over the fence if it fell outside, for he knew the fellows would laugh. his father came back from going down-stairs with the doctor, and she told him all that pony had told her, and it seemed to pony that his father could hardly keep from laughing. but his mother did not even smile. "how could jim leonard tell them that a man would give up his watermelon patch, and how could they believe such a lie, poor, foolish boys?" "they wished to believe it," said pony's father, "and so did jim, i dare say." "he might have got some of them killed, if bunty williams had fired his gun at them," said pony's mother; and he could see that she was not half-satisfied with what his father said. "perhaps it was a hoe, after all. you can't shoot anybody with a hoe-handle, and there is nothing to prove that it was a gun but jim's word." "yes, and here poor pony has been so sick from it all, and jim leonard gets off without anything." "you are always wanting the tower to fall on the wicked," said pony's father, laughing. "when it came to the worst, jim didn't take the melons any more than pony did. and he seems to have wanted to back out of the whole affair at one time." "oh! and do you think that excuses him?" "no, i don't. but i think he's had a worse time, if that's any comfort, than pony has. he has suffered the fate of all liars. sooner or later their lies outwit them and overmaster them, for whenever people believe a liar he is forced to act as if he had spoken the truth. that's worse than having a tower fall on you, or pains in the stomach." pony's mother was silent for a moment as if she could not answer, and then she said, "well, all i know is, i wish there was no such boy in this town as jim leonard." v about running away to the indian reservation on a canal-boat, and how the plan failed now, anybody can see the kind of a boy that jim leonard was, pretty well; and the strange thing of it was that he could have such a boy as pony baker under him so. but, anyway, pony liked jim, as much as his mother hated him, and he believed everything jim said in spite of all that had happened. after jim promised to find out whether there was any indian reservation that you could walk to, he pretended to study out in the geography that the only reservation there was in the state was away up close to lake erie, but it was not far from the same canal that ran through the boy's town to the lake, and jim said, "i'll tell you what, pony! the way to do will be to get into a canal-boat, somehow, and that will take you to the reservation without your hardly having to walk a step; and you can have fun on the boat, too." pony agreed that this would be the best way, but he did not really like the notion of living so long among the indians that he would not remember his father and mother when he saw them; he would like to stay till he was pretty nearly grown up, and then come back in a chief's dress, with eagle plumes all down his back and a bow in his hand, and scare them a little when he first came in the house and then protect them from the tribe and tell them who he was, and enjoy their surprise. but he hated to say this to jim leonard, because he would think he was afraid to live with the indians always. he hardly dared to ask him what the indians would do to him if they did not adopt him, but he thought he had better, and jim said: "oh, burn you, maybe. but it ain't likely but what they'll adopt you; and if they do they'll take you down to the river, and wash you and scrub you, so's to get all the white man off, and then pull out your hair, a hair at a time, till there's nothing but the scalp-lock left, so that your enemies can scalp you handy; and then you're just as good an indian as anybody, and nobody can pick on you, or anything. the thing is how to find the canal-boat." the next morning at school it began to be known that pony baker was going to run off on a canal-boat to see the indians, and all the fellows said how he ought to do it. one of the fellows said that he ought to get to drive the boat horses, and another that he ought to hide on board in the cargo, and come out when the boat was passing the reservation; and another that he ought to go for a cabin-boy on one of the passenger-packets, and then he could get to the indians twice as soon as he could on a freight-boat. but the trouble was that pony was so little that they did not believe they would take him either for a driver or a cabin-boy; and he said he was not going to hide in the cargo, because the boats were full of rats, and he was not going to have rats running over him all the time. some of the fellows thought this showed a poor spirit in pony, and wanted him to take his dog along and hunt the rats; they said he could have lots of fun; but others said that the dog would bark as soon as he began to hunt the rats, and then pony would be found out and put ashore in a minute. the fellows could not think what to do till at last one of them said: "you know piccolo wright?" "yes." "well, you know his father has got a boat?" "yes. well?" "well, and he's got a horse, too; and everything." "well, what of it?" "get piccolo to hook the boat and take pony to the reservation." the fellows liked this notion so much that they almost hurrahed, and they could hardly wait till school was out and they could go and find piccolo and ask him whether he would do it. they found him up at the canal basin, where he was fishing off the stern of his father's boat. he was a pretty big boy, though he was not so very old, and he had a lazy, funny face and white hair; and the fellows called him piccolo because he was learning to play the piccolo flute, and talked about it when he talked at all, but that was not often. he was one of those boys who do not tan or freckle in the sun, but peel, and he always had some loose pieces of fine skin hanging to his nose. all the fellows came up and began holloing at once, and telling him what they wanted him to do, and he thought it was a first-rate notion, but he kept on fishing, without getting the least bit excited; and he did not say whether he would do it or not, and when the fellows got tired of talking they left him and began to look round the boat. there was a little cabin at one end, and all the rest of the boat was open, and it had been raining, or else the boat had leaked, and it was pretty full of water; and the fellows got down on some loose planks that were floating there, and had fun pushing them up and down, and almost forgot what they had come for. they found a long pump leaning against the side of the boat, with its spout out over the gunwale, and they asked piccolo if they might pump, and he said they might, and they pumped nearly all the water out after they had got done having fun on the planks. some of them went into the cabin and found a little stove there, where pony could cook his meals, and a bunk where he could sleep, or keep in out of the rain, and they said they wished they were going to run off, too. they took more interest than he did, but they paid him a good deal of attention, and he felt that it was great to be going to run off, and he tried not to be homesick, when he thought of being down there alone at night, and nobody near but piccolo out on the towpath driving the horse. the fellows talked it all over, and how they would do. they said that piccolo ought to hook the boat some friday night, and the sooner the better, and get a good start before saturday morning. they were going to start with pony, and perhaps travel all night with him, and then get off and sleep in the woods, to rest themselves, and then walk home; and the reason that piccolo ought to hook the boat friday night was that they could have all saturday to get back, when there was no school. if the boat went two miles an hour, which she always did, even if she was loaded with stone from piccolo's father's quarry, she would be fifteen miles from the boy's town by daybreak; and if they kept on travelling night and day, and pony drove the horse part of the time, they could reach the indian reservation monday evening, for they would not want to travel sunday, because it was against the law, and it was wicked, anyway. if they travelled on sunday, and a storm came up, just as likely as not the boat would get struck by lightning, and if it did, the lightning would run out along the rope and kill the horse and piccolo, too, if he was riding. but the way for piccolo to do was always to come aboard when it began to rain, and that would keep pony company a little, and they could make the horse go by throwing stones at him. pony and piccolo ought to keep together as much as they could, especially at night, so that if there were robbers, they could defend the boat better. of course, they could not make the horse go by throwing stones at him in the dark, and the way for them to do was for pony to get out and ride behind piccolo. besides making it safer against robbers, they could keep each other from going to sleep by talking, or else telling stories; or if one of them did doze off, the other could hold him on; and they must take turn about sleeping in the daytime. but the best way of all to scare the robbers was to have a pistol, and fire it off every little once in a while, so as to let them know that the boat was armed. one of the fellows that had a pistol said he would lend it to pony if pony would be sure to send it back from the reservation by piccolo, for he should want it himself on the fourth, which was coming in about three weeks. another fellow that had five cents, which he was saving up till he could get ten, to buy a pack of shooting-crackers, said he would lend it to pony to buy powder, if he only felt sure that he could get it back to him in time. all the other fellows said he could do it easily, but they did not say how; one of them offered to go and get the powder at once, so as to have it ready. but pony told him it would not be of any use, for he had promised his mother that he would not touch a pistol or powder before the fourth. none of the fellows seemed to think it was strange that he should be willing to run away from home, and yet be so anxious to keep his promise to his mother that he would not use a pistol to defend himself from robbers; and none of them seemed to think it was strange that they should not want piccolo, if he hooked his father's boat, to travel on sunday with it. after a while piccolo came to the little hatch-door, and looked down into the cabin where the boys were sitting and talking at the tops of their voices; but in about a minute he vanished, very suddenly for him, and they heard him pumping, and then before they knew it, they heard a loud, harsh voice shouting, "heigh, there!" they looked round, and at the open window of the cabin on the land-side they saw a man's face, and it seemed to fill the whole window. they knew it must be piccolo's father, and they just swarmed up the gangway all in a bunch. some of them fell, but these hung on to the rest, somehow, and they all got to the deck of the cabin together, and began jumping ashore, so that piccolo's father could not catch them. he was standing on the basin bank, saying something, but they did not know what, and they did not stop to ask, and they began to run every which way. they all got safely ashore, except jim leonard; he fell over the side of the boat between it and the bank, but he scrambled up out of the water like lightning, and ran after the rest. he was pretty long-legged, and he soon caught up, but he was just raining water from his clothes, and it made the fellows laugh so that they could hardly run, to hear him swish when he jolted along. they did not know what to do exactly, till one of them said they ought to go down to the river and go in swimming, and they could wring jim leonard's clothes out, and lay them on the shore to dry, and stay in long enough to let them dry. that was what they did, and they ran round through the backs of the gardens and the orchards, and through the alleys, and climbed fences, so that nobody could see them. the day was pretty hot, and by the time they got to the river they were all sweating, so that jim's clothes were not much damper than the others. he had nothing but a shirt and trousers on, anyway. after that they did not try to get piccolo to hook his father's boat, for they said that his father might get after them any time, and he would have a right to do anything he pleased to them, if he caught them. they could not think of any other boat that they could get, and they did not know how pony could reach the reservation without a canal-boat. that was the reason why they had to give up the notion of his going to the indians; and if anybody had told them that the indians were going to come to pony they would have said he was joking, or else crazy; but this was really what happened. it happened a good while afterwards; so long afterwards that they had about forgotten he ever meant to run off, and they had got done talking about it. vi how the indians came to the boy's town and jim leonard acted the coward jim leonard was so mad because he lost his chip-hat in the canal basin, when he fell off the boat (and had to go home bareheaded and tell his mother all about what happened, though his clothes were dry enough, and he might have got off without her noticing anything, if it had not been for his hat) that he would not take any interest in pony. but he kept on taking an interest in indians, and he was the most excited fellow in the whole boy's town when the indians came. the way they came to town was this: the white people around the reservation got tired of having them there, or else they wanted their land, and the government thought it might as well move them out west, where there were more indians, there were such a very few of them on the reservation; and so it loaded them on three canal-boats and brought them down through the boy's town to the ohio river, and put them on a steamboat, and then took them down to the mississippi, and put them on a reservation beyond that river. the boys did not know anything about this, and they would not have cared much if they had. all they knew was that one morning (and it happened to be saturday) three canal-boats, full of indians, came into the basin. nobody ever knew which boy saw them first. it seemed as if all the fellows in the boy's town happened to be up at the basin at once, and were standing there when the boats came in. when they saw that they were real indians, in blankets, with bows and arrows, warriors, squaws, papooses, and everything, they almost went crazy, and when a good many of the indians came ashore and went over to the court-house yard and began to shoot at quarters and half-dollars that the people stuck into the ground for them to shoot at, the fellows could hardly believe their eyes. they yelled and cheered and tried to get acquainted with the indian boys, and ran and got their arrows for them, and everything; and if the indians could only have stayed until the fourth, which was pretty near now, they would have thought it was the greatest thing that ever happened. jim leonard said they belonged to a tribe that had been against the british in the last war, and were the friends of the long knives, as they called the americans. he said that he read it in a book; and he hunted round for pony baker, and when he found him he said: "come here, pony; i want to tell you something." [illustration: "real indians, in blankets, with bows and arrows"] any other time all the other fellows would have crowded around and wanted to know what it was, but now they were so much taken up with the indians that none of them minded him, and so he got a good chance at pony alone. pony was afraid that jim leonard wanted him to run off with the indians, and this was just what he did want. he said: "you ought to get a blanket and stain your face and hands with walnut juice, and then no one could tell you from the rest of the tribe, and you could go out with them where they're going and hunt buffaloes. it's the greatest chance there ever was. they'll adopt you into the tribe, maybe, as soon as the canal-boats leave, or as quick as they can get to a place where they can pull your hair out and wash you in the canal. i tell you, if i was in your place, i'd do it, pony." pony did not know what to say. he hated to tell jim leonard that he had pretty nearly given up the notion of running off for the present, or until his father and mother did something more to make him do it. ever since the boys failed so in trying to get piccolo to hook his father's boat for pony to run off in, things had been going better with pony at home. his mother did not stop him from half so many things as she used to do, and lately his father had got to being very good to him: let him lie in bed in the morning, and did not seem to notice when he stayed out with the boys at night, telling stories on the front steps, or playing hide-and-go-whoop, or anything. they seemed to be a great deal taken up with each other and not to mind so much what pony was doing. his mother let him go in swimming whenever he asked her, and did not make him promise to keep out of the deep water. she said she would see, when he coaxed her for five cents to get powder for the fourth, and she let him have one of the boys to spend the night with him once, and she gave them waffles for breakfast. she showed herself something like a mother, and she had told him that if he would be very, very good she would get his father to give him a quarter, so that he could buy two packs of shooting-crackers, as well as five cents' worth of powder for the fourth. but she put her arms around him and hugged him up to her and kissed his head and said: "you'll be very careful, pony, won't you? you're all the little boy we've got, and if anything should happen to you--" she seemed to be almost crying, and pony laughed and said: "why, nothing could happen to you with shooting-crackers"; and she could have the powder to keep for him; and he would just make a snake with it fourth of july night; put it around through the grass, loose, and then light one end of it, and she would see how it would go off and not make the least noise. but she said she did not want to see it; only he must be careful; and she kissed him again and let him go, and when he got away he could see her wiping her eyes. it seemed to him that she was crying a good deal in those days, and he could not understand what it was about. she was scared at any little thing, and would whoop at the least noise, and when his father would say: "lucy, my dear girl!" she would burst out crying and say that she could not help it. but she got better and better to pony all the time, and it was this that now made him ashamed with jim leonard, because it made him not want to run off so much. he dug his toe into the turf in the court-house yard under the locust-tree, and did not say anything till jim leonard asked him if he was afraid to go off and live with the indians, because if he was going to be a cowardy-calf like that, it was all that jim leonard wanted to do with him. pony denied that he was afraid, but he said that he did not know how to talk indian, and he did not see how he was going to get along without. jim leonard laughed and said if that was all, he need not be anxious. "the indians don't talk at all, hardly, even among each other. they just make signs; didn't you know that? if you want something to eat you point to your mouth and chew; and if you want a drink, you open your mouth and keep swallowing. when you want to go to sleep you shut your eyes and lean your cheek over on your hand, this way. that's all the signs you need to begin with, and you'll soon learn the rest. now, say, are you going with the indians, or ain't you going? it's your only chance. why, pony, what are you afraid of? hain't you always wanted to sleep out-doors and not do anything but hunt?" pony had to confess that he had, and then jim leonard said: "well, then, that's what you'll do if you go with the indians. i suppose you'll have to go on the warpath with them when you get out there; and if it's against the whites you won't like it at first; but you've got to remember what the whites have done to the indians ever since they discovered america, and you'll soon get to feeling like an indian anyway. one thing is, you've got to get over being afraid." that made pony mad, and he said: "i ain't afraid now." "i know that," said jim leonard. "but what i mean is, that if you get hurt you mustn't hollo, or cry, or anything; and even when they're scalping you, you mustn't even make a face, so as to let them know that you feel it." by this time some of the other fellows began to come around to hear what jim leonard was saying to pony. a good many of the indians had gone off anyway, for the people had stopped sticking quarters into the ground for them to shoot at, and they could not shoot at nothing. jim leonard saw the fellows crowding around, but he went on as if he did not notice them. "you've got to go without eating anything for weeks when the medicine-man tells you to; and when you come back from the warpath, and they have a scalp-dance, you've got to keep dancing till you drop in a fit. when they give a dog feast you must eat dog stew until you can't swallow another mouthful, and you'll be so full that you'll just have to lay around for days without moving. but the great thing is to bear any kind of pain without budging or saying a single word. maybe you're used to holloing now when you get hurt?" pony confessed that he holloed a little; the others tried to look as if they never holloed at all, and jim leonard went on: "well, you've got to stop that. if an arrow was to go through you and stick out at your back, or anywhere, you must just reach around and pull it out and not speak. when you're having the sun-dance--i think it's the sun-dance, but i ain't really certain--you have to stick a hook through you, right here"--he grabbed pony by the muscles on his shoulders--"and let them pull you up on a pole and hang there as long as they please. they'll let you practise gradually so that you won't mind hardly anything. why, i've practised a good deal by myself, and now i've got so that i believe if you was to stick me with--" all of a sudden something whizzed along the ground and jim leonard stooped over and caught one of his feet up in his hand, and began to cry and to hollo: "oh, oh, oh! ow, ow, ow! oh, my foot! oh, it's broken; i know it is! oh, run for the doctor, do, pony baker! i know i'm going to die! oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear!" all the boys came crowding around to see what the matter was, and the men came, too, and pretty soon some one found an arrow in the grass, and then they knew that it was a stray arrow that had hit jim leonard on the side of the foot, after missing one of the dimes that was stuck in the ground. it was blunt, and it had not hurt him that anybody could see, except rubbed the skin off a little on the ankle-bone. but jim leonard began to limp away towards home, and now, as the indians had all gone back to their boats, and the fellows had nothing else to do, they went along with him. archy hawkins held him up on one side, and hen billard on the other, and archy said, "i tell you, when i heard jim yell, i thought it was a real indian," and hen said: "i thought it was the scalp-halloo." archy said, "the way i came to think it was a real indian was that a real indian never makes any noise when he's hurt," and hen said: "i thought it was the scalp-halloo, because jim was stooping over as if he was tearing the scalp off of a white man. he's been practising, you know." "well, practice makes perfect. i reckon if jim hasn't got so far that he would smile when you scalped him, or just laugh if you shot an arrow through him, or would let you stick a hook into him, and pull him up to the top of a pole, it's because he's begun at the other end. i'll bet he could eat himself full of dog stew, and lay around three days without stirring." jim leonard thought the fellows had come along to pity him and help him; but when he heard archy hawkins say that, and hen billard began to splutter and choke with the laugh he was holding in, he flung them off and began to fight at them with his fists, and strike right and left blindly. he broke out crying, and then the fellows made a ring around him and danced and mocked him. "hey, jim, what'd you do if they pulled your hair out?" "jimmy, oh, jim! would you hollo much louder if they tomahawked you?" "show your uncle how to dance till you drop, jim." they kept on till jim leonard picked up stones to stone them, and then they all ran away, jumping and jeering till they got out of sight. it was about dinner-time, anyway. no one was left but pony baker. he stooped down over jim when he sat crying over his foot. "does it hurt you much, jimmy?" he asked. "yes, it hurts dreadfully, pony. the skin's all rubbed off. i'm afraid it's broken my leg." "well, let me help you home," said pony. "your mother can tie it up, then." he made jim lean on him, and keep trying his foot, and pretty soon they found he could walk with it nearly the same as the other foot, and before they got to jim's house they were talking and laughing together. after that, pony baker gave up running off to the indians. he about gave up running off altogether. he had a splendid fourth of july. his mother would not let him stay up the whole of the night before, but she let him get up at four o'clock, and fire off both his packs of shooting-crackers; and though she had forbidden him to go down to the river-bank where the men were firing off the cannon, he hardly missed it. he felt sleepy as soon as his crackers were done, and another fellow who was with him came into the parlor, and they both lay down on the carpet and went to sleep there, and slept till breakfast-time. after breakfast he went up to the court-house yard, with some other fellows, and then, after dinner, when they all came round and begged, and the big fellows promised to watch out for pony, his mother let him go out to the second lock with them, and go in swimming in the canal. he did not know why this should be such a great privilege, but it was. he had never been out to the second lock before. it was outside of the corporation line, and that was a great thing in itself. after supper, pony's mother let him fire off his powder-snake, and she even came out and looked at it, with her fingers in her ears. he promised her that it wouldn't make any noise, but she could not believe him; and when the flash came, she gave a little whoop, and ran in-doors. it shamed him before the boys, for fear they would laugh; and she acted even worse when his father wished to let him go up to the court-house yard to see the fireworks. a lot of the fellows were going, and he was to go with the crowd, but his father was to come a little behind, so as to see that nothing happened to him; and when they were just starting off what should she do but hollo to his father from the door where she was standing, "do be careful of the child, henry!" it did not seem as if she could be a good mother when she tried, and she was about the afraidest mother in the boy's town. all the way up to the court-house the boys kept snickering and whispering, "don't stump your toe, child," and "be careful of the child, boys," and things like that till pony had to fight some of them. then they stopped. they were afraid his father would hear, anyway. but the fireworks were splendid, and the fellows were very good to pony, because his father stood in the middle of the crowd and treated them to lemonade, and they did not plague, any more, going home. it was ten o'clock when pony got home; it was the latest he had ever been up. the very fourth of july before that one he had been up pretty nearly as late listening to his cousin, frank baker, telling about the fun he had been having at a place called pawpaw bottom; and the strange thing that happened there, if it did happen, for nobody could exactly find out. so i think i had better break off again from pony, and say what it was that frank told; and after that i can go on with pony's running off. vii how frank baker spent the fourth at pawpaw bottom, and saw the fourth of july boy it was the morning of the fourth, and frank was so anxious to get through with his wood-sawing, and begin celebrating with the rest of the boys, that he hardly knew what to do. he had a levvy (as the old spanish _real_ used to be called in southern ohio) in his pocket, and he was going to buy a pack of shooting-crackers for ten cents, and spend the other two cents for powder. he had no pistol, but he knew a fellow that would lend him his pistol part of the time, and he expected to have about the best fourth he ever had. he had been up since three o'clock watching the men fire the old six-pounder on the river-bank; and he was going to get his mother to let him go up to the fireworks in the court-house yard after dark. but now it did not seem as if he could get wood enough sawed. twice he asked his mother if she thought he had enough, but she said "not near," and just as jake milrace rode up the saw caught in a splinter of the tough oak log frank was sawing and bumped back against frank's nose; and he would have cried if it had not been for what jake began to say. he said he was going to pawpaw bottom to spend the fourth at a fellow's named dave black, and he told frank he ought to go too; for there were plenty of mulberries on dave's father's farm, and the early apples were getting ripe enough to eat, if you pounded them on a rock; and you could go in swimming, and everything. jake said there was the greatest swimming-hole at pawpaw bottom you ever saw, and they had a log in the water there that you could have lots of fun with. frank ran into the house to ask his mother if he might go, and he hardly knew what to do when she asked him if there was wood enough yet to get dinner and supper. but his aunt manda was spending the summer with his mother, and she said she reckoned she could pick up chips to do all the cooking they needed, such a hot day; and frank ran out to the cow-house, where they kept the pony, because the bakers had no stable, and saddled him, and was off with jake milrace in about a minute. the pony was short and fat and lazy, and he had to be whipped to make him keep up with jake's horse. it was not exactly jake's horse; it was his sister's husband's horse, and he had let jake have it because he would not be using it himself on the fourth of july. it was tall and lean, and it held its head so high up that it was no use to pull on the bridle when it began to jump and turn round and round, which it did every time frank whipped his pony to keep even with jake. it would shy and sidle, and dart so far ahead that the pony would get discouraged and would lag back, and have to be whipped up again; and then the whole thing would have to be gone through with the same as at first. the boys did not have much chance to talk, but they had a splendid time riding along, and when they came to a cool, dark place in the woods they pretended there were indians; and at the same time they kept a sharp eye out for squirrels. if they had seen any, and had a gun with them, they could have shot one easily, for squirrels are not afraid of you when you are on horseback; and, as it was, jake milrace came pretty near killing a quail that they saw in the road by a wheat-field. he dropped his bridle and took aim with his forefinger, and pulled back his thumb like a trigger; and if his horse had not jumped, and his finger had been loaded, he would surely have killed the quail, it was so close to him. they could hear the bob-whites whistling all through the stubble and among the shocks of wheat. jake did not know just where dave black's farm was, but after a while they came to a blacksmith's shop, and the blacksmith told them to take a lane that they would come to on the left, and then go through a piece of woods and across a field till they came to a creek; then ford the creek and keep straight on, and they would be in sight of the house. it did not seem strange to frank that they should be going to visit a boy without knowing where he lived, but afterwards he was not surprised when dave black's folks did not appear to expect them. they kept on, and did as the blacksmith told them, and soon enough they got to a two-story log-cabin, with a man in front of it working at a wheat-fan, for it was nearly time to thresh the wheat. the man said he was dave black's father; he did not act as if he was very glad to see them, but he told them to put their horses in the barn, and he said that dave was out in the pasture hauling rails. frank thought that was a queer way of spending the fourth of july, but he did not say anything, and on their way out to the pasture jake explained that dave's father was british, and did not believe much in the fourth of july, anyway. they found dave easily enough, and he answered jake's "hello!" with another when the boys came up. he had a two-horse wagon, and he was loading it with rails from a big pile; there were two dogs with him, and when they saw the boys they came towards them snarling and ruffling the hair on their backs. jake said not to mind them--they would not bite; but they snuffed so close to frank's bare legs that he wished dave would call them off. they slunk away, though, when they heard him speak to the boys; and then jake milrace told dave black who frank was, and they began to feel acquainted, especially when jake said they had come to spend the fourth of july with dave. he said, "first rate," and he explained that he had his foot tied up the way they saw because he had a stone-bruise which he had got the first day he began to go barefoot in the spring; but now it was better. he said there was a bully swimming-hole in the creek, and he would show them where it was as soon as he had got done hauling his rails. the boys took that for a kind of hint, and they pulled off their roundabouts and set to work with him. frank thought it was not exactly like the fourth, but he did not say anything, and they kept loading up the rails and hauling them to the edge of the field where dave's father was going to build the fence, and then unloading them, and going back to the pile for more. it seemed to frank that there were about a thousand rails in that pile, and they were pretty heavy ones--oak and hickory and walnut--and you had to be careful how you handled them, or you would get your hands stuck full of splinters. he wondered what jake milrace was thinking, and whether it was the kind of fourth he had expected to have; but jake did not say anything, and he hated to ask him. sometimes it appeared to frank that sawing wood was nothing to it; but they kept on loading rails, and unloading them in piles about ten feet apart, where they were wanted; and then going back to the big pile for more. they worked away in the blazing sun till the sweat poured off their faces, and frank kept thinking what a splendid time the fellows were having with pistols and shooting-crackers up in the boy's town; but still he did not say anything, and pretty soon he had his reward. when they got half down through the rail-pile they came to a bumblebees' nest, which the dogs thought was a rat-hole at first. one of them poked his nose into it, but he pulled it out quicker than wink and ran off howling and pawing his face and rubbing his head in the ground or against the boys' legs. even when the dogs found out that it was not rats they did not show any sense. as soon as they rubbed a bee off they would come yelping and howling back for more; and hopping round and barking; and then when they got another bee, or maybe a half-dozen (for the bees did not always fight fair), they would streak off again and jump into the air, and roll on the ground till the boys almost killed themselves laughing. the boys went into the woods, and got pawpaw branches, and came back and fought the bumblebees till they drove them off. it was just like the battle of bunker hill; but frank did not say so, because dave's father was british, till dave said it himself, and then they all pretended the bees were mexicans; it was just a little while after the mexican war. when they drove the bees off, they dug their nest out; it was beautifully built in regular cells of gray paper, and there was a little honey in it; about a spoonful for each boy. frank was glad that he had not let out his disappointment with the kind of fourth they were having; and just then the horn sounded from the house for dinner, and the boys all got into the wagon, and rattled off to the barn. they put out the horses and fed them, and as soon as they could wash themselves at the rain-barrel behind the house, they went in and sat down with the family at dinner. it was a farmer's dinner, as it used to be in southern ohio fifty years ago: a deep dish of fried salt pork swimming in its own fat, plenty of shortened biscuit and warm green-apple sauce, with good butter. the boy's town boys did not like the looks of the fat pork, but they were wolf-hungry, and the biscuit were splendid. in the middle of the table there was a big crock of buttermilk, all cold and dripping from the spring-house where it had been standing in the running water; then there was a hot apple-pie right out of the oven; and they made a pretty fair meal, after all. after dinner they hauled more rails, and when they had hauled all the rails there were, they started for the swimming-hole in the creek. on the way they came to a mulberry-tree in the edge of the woods-pasture, and it was so full of berries and they were so ripe that the grass which the cattle had cropped short was fairly red under the tree. the boys got up into the tree and gorged themselves among the yellow-hammers and woodpeckers; and frank and jake kept holloing out to each other how glad they were they had come; but dave kept quiet, and told them to wait till they came to the swimming-hole. it was while they were in the tree that something happened which happened four times in all that day, if it really happened: nobody could say afterwards whether it had or not. frank was reaching out for a place in the tree where the berries seemed thicker than anywhere else, when a strong blaze of light flashed into his eyes, and blinded him. "oh, hello, dave black!" he holloed. "that's mean! what are you throwin' that light in my face for?" but he laughed at the joke, and he laughed more when dave shouted back, "i ain't throwin' no light in your face." "yes, you are; you've got a piece of look-in'-glass, and you're flashin' it in my face." "wish i may die, if i have," said dave, so seriously that frank had to believe him. "well, then, jake milrace has." "i hain't, any such thing," said jake, and then dave black roared back, laughing: "oh, i'll tell you! it's one of the pieces of tin we strung along that line in the corn-field to keep the crows off, corn-plantin' time." the boys shouted together at the joke on frank, and dave parted the branches for a better look at the corn-field. "well, well! heigh there!" he called towards the field. "oh, he's gone now!" he said to the other boys, craning their necks out to see, too. "but he _was_ doing it, frank. if i could ketch that feller!" "somebody you know? let's get him to come along," said jake and frank, one after the other. "i couldn't tell," said dave. "he slipped into the woods when he heard me holler. if it's anybody i know, he'll come out again. don't seem to notice him; that's the best way." for a while, though, they stopped to look, now and then; but no more flashes came from the corn-field, and the boys went on cramming themselves with berries; they all said they had got to stop, but they went on till dave said: "i don't believe it's going to do us any good to go in swimming if we eat too many of these mulberries. i reckon we better quit, now." the others said they reckoned so, too, and they all got down from the tree, and started for the swimming-hole. they had to go through a piece of woods to get to it, and in the shadow of the trees they did not notice that a storm was coming up till they heard it thunder. by that time they were on the edge of the woods, and there came a flash of lightning and a loud thunder-clap, and the rain began to fall in big drops. the boys saw a barn in the field they had reached, and they ran for it; and they had just got into it when the rain came down with all its might. suddenly jake said: "i'll tell you what! let's take off our clothes and have a shower-bath!" and in less than a minute they had their clothes off, and were out in the full pour, dancing up and down, and yelling like indians. that made them think of playing indians, and they pretended the barn was a settler's cabin, and they were stealing up on it through the tall shocks of wheat. they captured it easily, and they said if the lightning would only strike it and set it on fire so it would seem as if the indians had done it, it would be great; but the storm was going round, and they had to be satisfied with being settlers, turn about, and getting scalped. it was easy to scalp frank, because he wore his hair long, as the town boys liked to do in those days, but jake lived with his sister, and he had to do as she said. she said a boy had no business with long hair; and she had lately cropped his close to his skull. dave's father cut his hair round the edges of a bowl, which he had put on dave's head for a pattern; the other boys could get a pretty good grip of it, if they caught it on top, where the scalp-lock belongs; but dave would duck and dodge so that they could hardly get their hands on it. all at once they heard him call out from around the corner of the barn, where he had gone to steal up on them, when it was their turn to be settlers: "aw, now, jake milrace, that ain't fair! i'm an indian, now. you let go my hair." "who's touchin' your old hair?" jake shouted back, from the inside of the barn. "you must be crazy. hurry up, if you're ever goin' to attack us. i want to get out in the rain, myself, awhile." frank was outside, pretending to be at work in the field, and waiting for the indians to creep on him, and when jake shouted for dave to hurry, he looked over his shoulder and saw a white figure, naked like his own, flit round the left-hand corner of the barn. then he had to stoop over, so that dave could tomahawk him easily, and he did not see anything more, but jake yelled from the barn: "oh, you got that fellow with you, have you? then he's got to be settler next time. come on, now. oh, do hurry up!" frank raised his head to see the other boy, but there was only dave black, coming round the right-hand corner of the barn. "you're crazy yourself, jake. there ain't nobody here but me and frank." "there is, too!" jake retorted. "or there was, half a second ago." but dave was busy stealing on frank, who was bending over, pretending to hoe, and after he had tomahawked frank, he gave the scalp-halloo, and jake came running out of the barn, and had to be chased round it twice, so that he could fall breathless on his own threshold, and be scalped in full sight of his family. then dave pretended to be a war-party of wyandots, and he gathered up sticks, and pretended to set the barn on fire. by this time frank and jake had come to life, and were wyandots, too, and they all joined hands and danced in front of the barn. "there! there he is again!" shouted jake. "who's crazy _now_, i should like to know?" "where? where?" yelled both the other boys. "there! right in the barn door. or he _was_, quarter of a second ago," said jake, and they all dropped one another's hands, and rushed into the barn and began to search it. they could not find anybody, and dave black said: "well, he's the quickest feller! must 'a' got up into the mow, and jumped out of the window, and broke for the woods while we was lookin' down here. but if i get my hands onto him, oncet!" they all talked and shouted and quarrelled and laughed at once; but they had to give the other fellow up; he had got away for that time, and they ran out into the rain again to let it wash off the dust and chaff, which they had got all over them in their search. the rain felt so good and cool that they stood still and took it without playing any more, and talked quietly. dave decided that the fellow who had given them the slip was a new boy whose folks had come into the neighborhood since school had let out in the spring, so that he had not got acquainted yet; but dave allowed that he would teach him a few tricks as good as his own when he got at him. the storm left a solid bank of clouds in the east for a while after it was all blue in the western half of the sky, and a rainbow came out against the clouds. it looked so firm and thick that dave said you could cut it with a scythe. it seemed to come solidly down to the ground in the woods in front of the hay-mow window, and the boys said it would be easy to get the crock of gold at the end of it if they were only in the woods. "i'll bet that feller's helpin' himself," said dave, and they began to wonder how many dollars a crock of gold was worth, anyhow; they decided about a million. then they wondered how much of a crock full of gold a boy could get into his pockets; and they all laughed when jake said he reckoned it would depend upon the size of the crock. "i don't believe that fellow could carry much of it away if he hain't got more on than he had in front of the barn." that put frank in mind of the puzzle about the three men that found a treasure in the road when they were travelling together: the blind man saw it, and the man without arms picked it up, and the naked man put it in his pocket. it was the first time dave had heard the puzzle, and he asked, "well, what's the answer?" but before frank could tell him, jake started up and pointed to the end of the rainbow, where it seemed to go into the ground against the woods. "oh! look! look!" he panted out, and they all looked, but no one could see anything except jake. it made him mad. "why, you must be blind!" he shouted, and he kept pointing. "don't you see him? there, there! oh, now, the rainbow's going out, and you can't see him any more. he's gone into the woods again. well, i don't know what your eyes are good for, anyway." he tried to tell them what he had seen; he could only make out that it must be the same boy, but now he had his clothes on: white linen pantaloons and roundabout, like what you had on may day, or the fourth if you were going to the sunday-school picnic. dave wanted him to tell what he looked like, but jake could not say anything except that he was very smiling-looking, and seemed as if he would like to be with him; jake said he was just going to hollo for him to come over when the rainbow began to go out; and then the fellow slipped back into the woods; it was more like melting into the woods. "and how far off do you think you could see a boy smile?" dave asked, scornfully. "how far off can you say a rainbow is?" jake retorted. "i can say how far off that piece of woods is," said dave, with a laugh. he got to his feet, and began to pull at the other boys, to make them get up. "come along, if you're ever goin' to the swimmin'-hole." [illustration: "very smiling-looking"] the sun was bright and hot, and the boys left the barn, and took across the field to the creek. the storm must have been very heavy, for the creek was rushing along bank-full, and there was no sign left of dave's swimming-hole. but they had had such a glorious shower-bath that they did not want to go in swimming, anyway, and they stood and watched the yellow water pouring over the edge of a mill-dam that was there, till dave happened to think of building a raft and going out on the dam. jake said, "first rate!" and they all rushed up to a place where there were some boards on the bank; and they got pieces of old rope at the mill, and tied the boards together, till they had a good raft, big enough to hold them, and then they pushed it into the water and got on it. they said they were on the ohio river, and going from cincinnati to louisville. dave had a long pole to push with, like the boatmen on the keel-boats in the early times, and jake had a board to steer with; frank had another board to paddle with, on the other side of the raft from dave; and so they set on their journey. the dam was a wide, smooth sheet of water, with trees growing round the edge, and some of them hanging so low over it that they almost touched it. the boys made trips back and forth across the dam, and to and from the edge of the fall, till they got tired of it, and they were wanting something to happen, when dave stuck his pole deep into the muddy bottom, and set his shoulder hard against the top of the pole, with a "here she goes, boys, over the falls of the ohio!" and he ran along the edge of the raft from one end to the other. frank and dave had both straightened up to watch him. at the stern of the raft dave tried to pull up his pole for another good push, but it stuck fast in the mud at the bottom of the dam, and before dave knew what he was about, the raft shot from under his feet, and he went overboard with his pole in his hand, as if he were taking a flying leap with it. the next minute he dropped into the water heels first, and went down out of sight. he came up blowing water from his mouth, and holloing and laughing, and took after the raft, where the other fellows were jumping up and down, and bending back and forth, and screaming and yelling at the way he looked hurrying after his pole, and then dangling in the air, and now showing his black head in the water like a musk-rat swimming for its hole. they were having such a good time mocking him that they did not notice how his push had sent the raft swiftly in under the trees by the shore, and the first thing they knew, one of the low branches caught them, and scraped them both off the raft into the water, almost on top of dave. then it was dave's turn to laugh, and he began: "what's the matter, boys? want to help find the other end of that pole?" jake was not under the water any longer than dave had been, but frank did not come up so soon. they looked among the brush by the shore, to see if he was hiding there and fooling them, but they could not find him. "he's stuck in some snag at the bottom," said dave; "we got to dive for him"; but just then frank came up, and swam feebly for the shore. he crawled out of the water, and after he got his breath, he said, "i got caught, down there, in the top of an old tree." "didn't i tell you so?" dave shouted into jake's ear. "why, jake was there till i got loose," said frank, looking stupidly at him. "no, i wasn't," said jake. "i was up long ago, and i was just goin' to dive for you; so was dave." "then it was that other fellow," said frank. "i thought it didn't look overmuch like jake, anyway." "oh, pshaw!" dave jeered. "how could you tell, in that muddy water?" "i don't know," frank answered. "it was all light round him. looked like he had a piece of the rainbow on him, or foxfire." "i reckon if i find him," said dave, "i'll take his piece of rainbow off'n him pretty quick. that's the fourth time that feller's fooled us to-day. where d'you s'pose he came up? oh, _i_ know! he got out on the other side under them trees, while we was huntin' for frank, and not noticin'. how'd he look, anyway?" "i don't know; i just saw him half a second. kind of smiling, and like he wanted to play." "well, i know him," said dave. "it's the new boy, and the next time i see him--oh, hello! there goes our raft!" it was drifting slowly down towards the edge of the dam, and the boys all three plunged into the water again, and swam out to it, and climbed up on it. they had the greatest kind of a time, and when they had played castaway sailors, frank and jake wanted to send the raft over the edge of the dam; but dave said it might get into the head-race of the mill and tangle itself up in the wheel, and spoil the wheel. so they took the raft apart and carried the boards on shore, and then tried to think what they would do next. the first thing was to take off their clothes and see about drying them. but they had no patience for that; and so they wrung them out as dry as they could and put them on again; they had left their roundabouts at dave's house, anyway, and so had nothing on but a shirt and trousers apiece. the sun was out hot after the rain, and their clothes were almost dry by the time they got to dave's house. they went with him to the woods-pasture on the way, and helped him drive home the cows, and they wanted him to get his mother to make his father let him go up to the boy's town with them and see the fireworks; but he said it would be no use; and then they understood that if a man was british, of course he would not want his boy to celebrate the fourth of july by going to the fireworks. they felt sorry for dave, but they both told him that they had had more fun than they ever had in their lives before, and they were coming the next fourth and going to bring their guns with them. then they could shoot quails or squirrels, if they saw any, and the firing would celebrate the fourth at the same time, and his father could not find any fault. it seemed to frank that it was awful to have a father that was british; but when they got to dave's house, and his father asked them how they had spent the afternoon, he did not seem to be so very bad. he asked them whether they had got caught in the storm, and if that was what made their clothes wet, and when they told him what had happened, he sat down on the wood-pile and laughed till he shook all over. then frank and jake thought they had better be going home, but dave's mother would not let them start without something to eat; and she cut them each a slice of bread the whole width and length of the loaf, and spread the slices with butter, and then apple-butter, and then brown sugar. the boys thought they were not hungry, but when they began to eat they found out that they were, and before they knew it they had eaten the slices all up. dave's mother said they must come and see dave again some time, and she acted real clever; she was an american, anyway. they got their horses and started home. it was almost sundown now, and they heard the turtle-doves cooing in the woods, and the bob-whites whistling from the stubble, and there were so many squirrels among the trees in the woods-pastures, and on the fences, that frank could hardly get jake along; and if it had not been for jake's horse, that ran whenever frank whipped up his pony, they would not have got home till dark. they smelt ham frying in some of the houses they passed, and that made them awfully hungry; one place there was coffee, too. when they reached frank's house he found that his mother had kept supper hot for him, and she came out and said jake must come in with him, if his family would not be uneasy about him; and jake said he did not believe they would. he tied his horse to the outside of the cow-house, and he came in, and frank's mother gave them as much baked chicken as they could hold, with hot bread to sop in the gravy; and she had kept some coffee hot for frank, so that they made another good meal. they told her what a bully time they had had, and how they had fallen into the dam; but she did not seem to think it was funny; she said it was a good thing they were not all drowned, and she believed they had taken their deaths of cold, anyway. frank was afraid she was going to make him go up stairs and change his clothes, when he heard the boys begin to sound their call of "ee-o-wee" at the front door, and he and jake snatched their hats and ran out. there was a lot of boys at the gate; hen billard was there, and archy hawkins and jim leonard; there were some little fellows, and frank's cousin pony was there; he said his mother had said he might stay till his father came for him. hen billard had his thumb tied up from firing too big a load out of his brass pistol. the pistol burst, and the barrel was all curled back like a dandelion stem in water; he had it in his pocket to show. archy hawkins's face was full of little blue specks from pouring powder on a coal and getting it flashed up into his face when he was blowing the coal; some of his eye-winkers were singed off. jim leonard had a rag round his hand, and he said a whole pack of shooting-crackers had gone off in it before he could throw them away, and burned the skin off; the fellows dared him to let them see it, but he would not; and then they mocked him. they all said there had never been such a fourth of july in the boy's town before; and frank and jake let them brag as much as they wanted to, and when the fellows got tired, and asked them what they had done at pawpaw bottom, and they said, "oh, nothing much; just helped dave black haul rails," they set up a jeer that you could hear a mile. then jake said, as if he just happened to think of it, "and fought bumblebees." and frank put in, "and took a shower-bath in the thunder-storm." and jake said, "and eat mulberries." and frank put in again, "and built a raft." and jake said, "and dave got pulled into the mill-dam." and frank wound up, "and jake and i got swept overboard." by that time the fellows began to feel pretty small, and they crowded round and wanted to hear every word about it. then jake and frank tantalized them, and said of course it was no fourth at all, it was only just fun, till the fellows could not stand it any longer, and then frank jumped up from where he was sitting on his front steps, and holloed out, "i'll show you how dave looked when his pole pulled him in," and he acted it all out about dave's pole pulling him into the water. jake waited till he was done, and then he jumped up and said, "i'll show you how frank and me looked when we got swept overboard," and he acted it out about the limb of the tree scraping them off the raft while they were laughing at dave and not noticing. as soon as they got the boys to yelling, jake and frank both showed how they fought the bumblebees, and how the dogs got stung, and ran round trying to rub the bees off against the ground, and your legs, and everything, till the boys fell down and rolled over, it made them laugh so. jake and frank showed how they ran out into the rain from the barn, and stood in it, and told how good and cool it felt; and they told about sitting up in the mulberry-tree, and how twenty boys could not have made the least hole in the berries. they told about the quails and the squirrels; and they showed how frank had to keep whipping up his pony, and how jake's horse kept wheeling and running away; and some of the fellows said they were going with them the next fourth. hen billard tried to turn it off, and said: "pshaw! you can have that kind of a fourth any day in the country. who's going up to the court-house yard to see the fireworks?" he and archy hawkins and the big boys ran off, whooping, and the little fellows felt awfully, because their mothers had said they must not go. just then, pony baker's father came for him, and he said he guessed they could see the fireworks from frank's front steps; and jake stayed with frank, and frank's father came out, and his aunt and mother leaned out of the window, and watched, while the roman candles shot up, and the rockets climbed among the stars. they were all so much taken up in watching that they did not notice one of the neighbor women who had come over from her house and joined them, till mrs. baker happened to see her, and called out: "why, mrs. fogle, where did you spring from? do come in here with manda and me. i didn't see you, in your black dress." "no, i'm going right back," said mrs. fogle. "i just come over a minute to see the fireworks--for wilford; you can't see them from my side." "oh," said mrs. baker, softly. "well, i'm real glad you came. you ought to have heard the boys, here, telling about the kind of fourth they had at pawpaw bottom. i don't know when i've laughed so much." "well, i reckon it's just as well i wasn't here. i couldn't have helped in the laughing much. it seems pretty hard my wilford couldn't been having a good time with the rest to-day. he was always such a fourth-of-july boy." "but he's happy where he is, mrs. fogle," said mrs. baker, gently. "well, i know he'd give anything to been here with the boys to-day--i don't care where he is. and he's been here, _too_; i just know he has; i've felt him, all day long, teasing at me to let him go off with your frank and jake, here; he just fairly loved to be with them, and he never done any harm. oh, my, my! i don't see how i used to deny him." she put up her apron to her face, and ran sobbing across the street again to her own house; they heard the door close after her in the dark. "i declare," said mrs. baker, "i've got half a mind to go over to her." "better not," said pony baker's father. "well, i reckon you're right, henry," mrs. baker assented. they did not talk gayly any more; when the last rocket had climbed the sky, jake milrace rose and said in a whisper he must be going. after he was gone, frank told, as if he had just thought of it, about the boy that had fooled them so, at pawpaw bottom; and he was surprised at the way his mother and his uncle henry questioned him up about it. "well, now," she said, "i'm glad poor mrs. fogle wasn't here, or--" she stopped, and her brother-in-law rose, with the hand of his sleepy little son in his own. "i think pony had better say good-night now, while he can. frank, you've had a remarkable fourth. good-night, all. i wish i had spent the day at pawpaw bottom myself." before they slept that night, pony's mother said: "well, i'd just as soon you'd kept that story to yourself till morning, henry. i shall keep thinking about it, and not sleep a wink. how in the world do you account for it?" "i don't account for it," said pony's father. "now, that won't do! what do you think?" "well, if it was _one_ boy that saw the fourth boy it might be a simple case of lying." "frank baker never told a lie in his life. he couldn't." "perhaps jake could, or dave. but as they all three saw the boy at different times, why, it's--" "what?" "it's another thing." "now, you can't get out of it that way, henry. do you believe that the child longed so to be back here that--" "ah, who knows? there's something very strange about all that. but we can't find our way out, except by the short-cut of supposing that nothing of the kind happened." "you can't suppose that, though, if all three of the boys say it did." "i can suppose that they think it happened, or made each other think so." pony's mother drew a long sigh. "well, i know what _i_ shall always think," she said. viii how pony baker came pretty near running off with a circus just before the circus came, about the end of july, something happened that made pony mean to run off more than anything that ever was. his father and mother were coming home from a walk, in the evening; it was so hot nobody could stay in the house, and just as they were coming to the front steps pony stole up behind them and tossed a snowball which he had got out of the garden at his mother, just for fun. the flower struck her very softly on her hair, for she had no bonnet on, and she gave a jump and a hollo that made pony laugh; and then she caught him by the arm and boxed his ears. "oh, my goodness! it was you, was it, you good-for-nothing boy? i thought it was a bat!" she said, and she broke out crying and ran into the house, and would not mind his father, who was calling after her, "lucy, lucy, my dear child!" pony was crying, too, for he did not intend to frighten his mother, and when she took his fun as if he had done something wicked he did not know what to think. he stole off to bed and he lay there crying in the dark and expecting that she would come to him, as she always did, to have him say that he was sorry when he had been wicked, or to tell him that she was sorry, when she thought she had not been quite fair with him. but she did not come, and after a good while his father came and said: "are you awake, pony? i am sorry your mother misunderstood your fun. but you mustn't mind it, dear boy. she's not well, and she's very nervous." "i don't care!" pony sobbed out. "she won't have a chance to touch me again!" for he had made up his mind to run off with the circus which was coming the next tuesday. he turned his face away, sobbing, and his father, after standing by his bed a moment, went away without saying anything but, "don't forget your prayers, pony. you'll feel differently in the morning, i hope." pony fell asleep thinking how he would come back to the boy's town with the circus when he was grown up, and when he came out in the ring riding three horses bareback he would see his father and mother and sisters in one of the lower seats. they would not know him, but he would know them, and he would send for them to come to the dressing-room, and would be very good to them, all but his mother; he would be very cold and stiff with her, though he would know that she was prouder of him than all the rest put together, and she would go away almost crying. he began being cold and stiff with her the very next morning, although she was better than ever to him, and gave him waffles for breakfast with unsalted butter, and tried to pet him up. that whole day she kept trying to do things for him, but he would scarcely speak to her; and at night she came to him and said, "what makes you act so strangely, pony? are you offended with your mother?" "yes, i am!" said pony, haughtily, and he twitched away from where she was sitting on the side of his bed, leaning over him. "on account of last night, pony?" she asked, softly. "i reckon you know well enough," said pony, and he tried to be disgusted with her for her being such a hypocrite, but he had to set his teeth hard, hard, or he would have broken down crying. "if it's for that, you mustn't, pony, dear. you don't know how you frightened me. when your snowball hit me, i felt sure it was a bat, and i'm so afraid of bats, you know. i didn't mean to hurt my poor boy's feelings so, and you mustn't mind it any more, pony." [illustration: "he began being cold and stiff with her the very next morning"] she stooped down and kissed him on the forehead, but he did not move or say anything; only, after that he felt more forgiving towards his mother. he made up his mind to be good to her along with the rest when he came back with the circus. but still he meant to run off with the circus. he did not see how he could do anything else, for he had told all the boys that day that he was going to do it; and when they just laughed, and said: "oh yes. think you can fool your grandmother! it'll be like running off with the indians," pony wagged his head, and said they would see whether it would or not, and offered to bet them what they dared. the morning of the circus day all the fellows went out to the corporation line to meet the circus procession. there were ladies and knights, the first thing, riding on spotted horses; and then a band chariot, all made up of swans and dragons. there were about twenty baggage wagons; but before you got to them there was the greatest thing of all. it was a chariot drawn by twelve shetland ponies, and it was shaped like a big shell, and around in the bottom of the shell there were little circus actors, boys and girls, dressed in their circus clothes, and they all looked exactly like fairies. they scarce seemed to see the fellows, as they ran alongside of their chariot, but hen billard and archy hawkins, who were always cutting up, got close enough to throw some peanuts to the circus boys, and some of the little circus girls laughed, and the driver looked around and cracked his whip at the fellows, and they all had to get out of the way then. jim leonard said that the circus boys and girls were all stolen, and nobody was allowed to come close to them for fear they would try to send word to their friends. some of the fellows did not believe it, and wanted to know how he knew it; and he said he read it in a paper; after that nobody could deny it. but he said that if you went with the circus men of your own free will they would treat you first-rate; only they would give you burnt brandy to keep you little; nothing else but burnt brandy would do it, but that would do it, sure. pony was scared at first when he heard that most of the circus fellows were stolen, but he thought if he went of his own accord he would be all right. still, he did not feel so much like running off with the circus as he did before the circus came. he asked jim leonard whether the circus men made all the children drink burnt brandy; and archy hawkins and hen billard heard him ask, and began to mock him. they took him up between them, one by his arms and the other by the legs, and ran along with him, and kept saying, "does it want to be a great big circus actor? then it shall, so it shall," and, "we'll tell the circus men to be very careful of you, pony dear!" till pony wriggled himself loose and began to stone them. after that they had to let him alone, for when a fellow began to stone you in the boy's town you had to let him alone, unless you were going to whip him, and the fellows only wanted to have a little fun with pony. but what they did made him all the more resolved to run away with the circus, just to show them. he helped to carry water for the circus men's horses, along with the boys who earned their admission that way. he had no need to do it, because his father was going to take him in, anyway; but jim leonard said it was the only way to get acquainted with the circus men. still pony was afraid to speak to them, and he would not have said a word to any of them if it had not been for one of them speaking to him first, when he saw him come lugging a great pail of water, and bending far over on the right to balance it. "that's right," the circus man said to pony. "if you ever fell into that bucket you'd drown, sure." he was a big fellow, with funny eyes, and he had a white bulldog at his heels; and all the fellows said he was the one who guarded the outside of the tent when the circus began, and kept the boys from hooking in under the curtain. even then pony would not have had the courage to say anything, but jim leonard was just behind him with another bucket of water, and he spoke up for him. "he wants to go with the circus." they both set down their buckets, and pony felt himself turning pale when the circus man came towards them. "wants to go with the circus, heigh? let's have a look at you." he took pony by the shoulders and turned him slowly round, and looked at his nice clothes, and took him by the chin. "orphan?" he asked. pony did not know what to say, but jim leonard nodded; perhaps he did not know what to say, either; but pony felt as if they had both told a lie. "parents living?" the circus man looked at pony, and pony had to say that they were. he gasped out, "yes," so that you could scarcely hear him, and the circus man said: "well, that's right. when we take an orphan, we want to have his parents living, so that we can go and ask them what sort of a boy he is." he looked at pony in such a friendly, smiling way that pony took courage to ask him whether they would want him to drink burnt brandy. "what for?" "to keep me little." "oh, i see." the circus man took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief, which he threw into the top of his hat before he put it on again. "no, i don't know as we will. we're rather short of giants just now. how would you like to drink a glass of elephant milk every morning and grow into an eight-footer?" pony said he didn't know whether he would like to be quite so big; and then the circus man said perhaps he would rather go for an india-rubber man; that was what they called the contortionists in those days. "let's feel of you again." the circus man took hold of pony and felt his joints. "you're put together pretty tight; but i reckon we could make you do if you'd let us take you apart with a screw-driver and limber up the pieces with rattlesnake oil. wouldn't like it, heigh? well, let me see!" the circus man thought a moment, and then he said: "how would double-somersaults on four horses bareback do?" pony said that would do, and then the circus man said: "well, then, we've just hit it, because our double-somersault, four-horse bareback is just going to leave us, and we want a new one right away. now, there's more than one way of joining a circus, but the best way is to wait on your front steps with your things all packed up, and the procession comes along at about one o'clock in the morning and picks you up. which'd you rather do?" pony pushed his toe into the turf, as he always did when he was ashamed, but he made out to say he would rather wait out on the front steps. "well, then, that's all settled," said the circus man. "we'll be along," and he was going away with his dog, but jim leonard called after him: "you hain't asked him whereabouts he lives." the circus man kept on, and he said, without looking around, "oh, that's all right. we've got somebody that looks after that." "it's the magician," jim leonard whispered to pony, and they walked away. ix how pony did not quite get off with the circus a crowd of the fellows had been waiting to know what the boys had been talking about to the circus man; but jim leonard said: "don't you tell, pony baker!" and he started to run, and that made pony run, too, and they both ran till they got away from the fellows. "you have got to keep it a secret; for if a lot of fellows find it out the constable'll get to know it, and he'll be watching out around the corner of your house, and when the procession comes along and he sees you're really going he'll take you up, and keep you in jail till your father comes and bails you out. now, you mind!" pony said, "oh, i won't tell anybody," and when jim leonard said that if a circus man was to feel _him_ over, that way, and act so kind of pleasant and friendly, he would be too proud to speak to anybody, pony confessed that he knew it was a great thing all the time. "the way'll be," said jim leonard, "to keep in with him, and he'll keep the others from picking on you; they'll be afraid to, on account of his dog. you'll see, he'll be the one to come for you to-night; and if the constable is there the dog won't let him touch you. i never thought of that." perhaps on account of thinking of it now jim leonard felt free to tell the other fellows how pony was going to run off, for when a crowd of them came along he told them. they said it was splendid, and they said that if they could make their mothers let them, or if they could get out of the house without their mothers knowing it, they were going to sit up with pony and watch out for the procession, and bid him good-bye. at dinner-time he found out that his father was going to take him and all his sisters to the circus, and his father and mother were so nice to him, asking him about the procession and everything, that his heart ached at the thought of running away from home and leaving them. but now he had to do it; the circus man was coming for him, and he could not back out; he did not know what would happen if he did. it seemed to him as if his mother had done everything she could to make it harder for him. she had stewed chicken for dinner, with plenty of gravy, and hot biscuits to sop in, and peach preserves afterwards; and she kept helping him to more, because she said boys that followed the circus around got dreadfully hungry. the eating seemed to keep his heart down; it was trying to get into his throat all the time; and he knew that she was being good to him, but if he had not known it he would have believed his mother was just doing it to mock him. pony had to go to the circus with his father and sisters, and to get on his shoes and a clean collar. but a crowd of the fellows were there at the tent door to watch out whether the circus man would say anything to him when he went in; and jim leonard rubbed up against him, when the man passed with his dog and did not even look at pony, and said: "he's just pretending. he don't want your father to know. he'll be round for you, sure. i saw him kind of smile to one of the other circus men." it was a splendid circus, and there were more things than pony ever saw in a circus before. but instead of hating to have it over, it seemed to him that it would never come to an end. he kept thinking and thinking, and wondering whether he would like to be a circus actor; and when the one came out who rode four horses bareback and stood on his head on the last horse, and drove with the reins in his teeth, pony thought that he never could learn to do it; and if he could not learn he did not know what the circus men would say to him. it seemed to him that it was very strange he had not told that circus man that he didn't know whether he could do it or not; but he had not, and now it was too late. a boy came around calling lemonade, and pony's father bought some for each of the children, but pony could hardly taste his. "what is the matter with you, pony? are you sick?" his father asked. "no. i don't care for any; that's all. i'm well," said pony; but he felt very miserable. after supper jim leonard came round and went up to pony's room with him to help him pack, and he was so gay about it and said he only wished _he_ was going, that pony cheered up a little. jim had brought a large square of checked gingham that he said he did not believe his mother would ever want, and that he would tell her he had taken if she asked for it. he said it would be the very thing for pony to carry his clothes in, for it was light and strong and would hold a lot. he helped pony to choose his things out of his bureau drawers: a pair of stockings and a pair of white pantaloons and a blue roundabout, and a collar, and two handkerchiefs. that was all he said pony would need, because he would have his circus clothes right away, and there was no use taking things that he would never wear. jim did these up in the square of gingham, and he tied it across cater-cornered twice, in double knots, and showed pony how he could put his hand through and carry it just as easy. he hid it under the bed for him, and he told pony that if he was in pony's place he should go to bed right away or pretty soon, so that nobody would think anything, and maybe he could get some sleep before he got up and went down to wait on the front steps for the circus to come along. he promised to be there with the other boys and keep them from fooling or making a noise, or doing anything to wake his father up, or make the constable come. "you see, pony," he said, "if you can run off this year, and come back with the circus next year, then a whole lot of fellows can run off. don't you see that?" pony said he saw that, but he said he wished some of the other fellows were going now, because he did not know any of the circus boys and he was afraid he might feel kind of lonesome. but jim leonard said he would soon get acquainted, and, anyway, a year would go before he knew it, and then if the other fellows could get off he would have plenty of company. as soon as jim leonard was gone pony undressed and got into bed. he was not sleepy, but he thought maybe it would be just as well to rest a little while before the circus procession came along for him; and, anyway, he could not bear to go down-stairs and be with the family when he was going to leave them so soon, and not come back for a whole year. after a good while, or about the time he usually came in from playing, he heard his mother saying: "where in the world is pony? has he come in yet? have you seen him, girls? pony! pony!" she called. but somehow pony could not get his voice up out of his throat; he wanted to answer her, but he could not speak. he heard her say, "go out to the front steps, girls, and see if you can see him," and then he heard her coming up the stairs; and she came into his room, and when she saw him lying there in bed she said: "why, i believe in my heart the child's asleep! pony! are you awake?" pony made out to say no, and his mother said: "my! what a fright you gave me! why didn't you answer me? are you sick, pony? your father said you didn't seem well at the circus; and you didn't eat any supper, hardly." pony said he was first-rate, but he spoke very low, and his mother came up and sat down on the side of his bed. "what is the matter, child?" she bent over and felt his forehead. "no, you haven't got a bit of fever," she said, and she kissed him, and began to tumble his short black hair in the way she had, and she got one of his hands between her two, and kept rubbing it. "but you've had a long, tiresome day, and that's why you've gone to bed, i suppose. but if you feel the least sick, pony, i'll send for the doctor." pony said he was not sick at all; just tired; and that was true; he felt as if he never wanted to get up again. his mother put her arm under his neck, and pressed her face close down to his, and said very low: "pony, dear, you don't feel hard towards your mother for what she did the other night?" he knew she meant boxing his ears, when he was not to blame, and he said: "oh no," and then he threw his arms round her neck and cried; and she told him not to cry, and that she would never do such a thing again; but she was really so frightened she did not know what she was doing. when he quieted down she said: "now say your prayers, pony, 'our father,'" and she said "our father" all through with him, and after that, "now i lay me," just as when he was a very little fellow. after they had finished she stooped over and kissed him again, and when he turned his face into his pillow she kept smoothing his hair with her hand for about a minute. then she went away. pony could hear them stirring about for a good while down-stairs. his father came in from up-town at last and asked: "has pony come in?" and his mother said: "yes, he's up in bed. i wouldn't disturb him, henry. he's asleep by this time." his father said: "i don't know what to make of the boy. if he keeps on acting so strangely i shall have the doctor see him in the morning." pony felt dreadfully to think how far away from them he should be in the morning, and he would have given anything if he could have gone down to his father and mother and told them what he was going to do. but it did not seem as if he could. by-and-by he began to be sleepy, and then he dozed off, but he thought it was hardly a minute before he heard the circus band, and knew that the procession was coming for him. he jumped out of bed and put on his things as fast as he could; but his roundabout had only one sleeve to it, somehow, and he had to button the lower buttons of his trousers to keep it on. he got his bundle and stole down to the front door without seeming to touch his feet to anything, and when he got out on the front steps he saw the circus magician coming along. by that time the music had stopped and pony could not see any procession. the magician had on a tall, peaked hat, like a witch. he took up the whole street, he was so wide in the black glazed gown that hung from his arms when he stretched them out, for he seemed to be groping along that way, with his wand in one hand, like a blind man. he kept saying in a kind of deep, shaking voice: "it's all glory; it's all glory," and the sound of those words froze pony's blood. he tried to get back into the house again, so that the magician should not find him, but when he felt for the door-knob there was no door there anywhere; nothing but a smooth wall. then he sat down on the steps and tried to shrink up so little that the magician would miss him; but he saw his wide goggles getting nearer and nearer; and then his father and the doctor were standing by him looking down at him, and the doctor said: "he has been walking in his sleep; he must be bled," and he got out his lancet, when pony heard his mother calling: "pony, pony! what's the matter? have you got the nightmare?" and he woke up, and found it was just morning. the sun was shining in at his window, and it made him so glad to think that by this time the circus was far away and he was not with it, that he hardly knew what to do. he was not very well for two or three days afterwards, and his mother let him stay out of school to see whether he was really going to be sick or not. when he went back most of the fellows had forgotten that he had been going to run off with the circus. some of them that happened to think of it plagued him a little and asked how he liked being a circus actor. hen billard was the worst; he said he reckoned the circus magician got scared when he saw what a whaler pony was, and told the circus men that they would have to get a new tent to hold him; and that was the reason why they didn't take him. archy hawkins said: "how long did you have to wait on the front steps, pony, dear?" but after that he was pretty good to him, and said he reckoned they had better not any of them pretend that pony had not tried to run off if they had not been up to see. pony himself could never be exactly sure whether he had waited on the front steps and seen the circus magician or not. sometimes it seemed all of it like a dream, and sometimes only part of it. jim leonard tried to help him make it out, but they could not. he said it was a pity he had overslept himself, for if he had come to bid pony good-bye, the way he said, then he could have told just how much of it was a dream and how much was not. x the adventures that pony's cousin, frank baker, had with a pocketful of money very likely pony baker would not have tried to run off any more if it had not been for jim leonard. he was so glad he had not got off with the circus that he did not mind any of the things at home that used to vex him; and it really seemed as if his father and mother were trying to act better. they were a good deal taken up with each other, and sometimes he thought they let him do things they would not have let him do if they had noticed what he asked. his mother was fonder of him than ever, and if she had not kissed him so much before the fellows he would not have cared, for when they were alone he liked to have her pet him. but one thing was, he could never get her to like jim leonard, or to believe that jim was not leading him into mischief whenever they were off together. she was always wanting him to go with his cousin frank, and he would have liked to ask frank about running off, and whether a fellow had better do it; but he was ashamed, and especially after he heard his father tell how splendidly frank had behaved with two thousand dollars he was bringing from the city to the boy's town; pony was afraid that frank would despise him, and he did not hardly feel fit to go with frank, anyway. frank baker was one of those fellows that every mother would feel her boy was safe with. she would be sure that no crowd he was in was going to do any harm or come to any, for he would have an anxious eye out for everybody, and he would stand between the crowd and the mischief that a crowd of boys nearly always wants to do. his own mother felt easy about the younger children when they were with frank; and in a place where there were more chances for a boy to get sucked under mill-wheels, and break through ice, and fall from bridges, or have his fingers taken off by machinery than any other place i ever heard of, she no more expected anything to happen to them, if he had them in charge, than if she had them in charge herself. [illustration: "frank baker was one of those fellows that every mother would feel her boy was safe with"] as there were a good many other children in the family, and mrs. baker did her own work, like nearly every mother in the boy's town, frank almost always had some of them in charge. when he went hunting, or fishing, or walnutting, or berrying, or in swimming, he usually had one or two younger brothers with him; if he had only one, he thought he was having the greatest kind of a time. he did not mind carrying his brother on his back when he got tired, although it was not exactly the way to steal on game, and the gun was a heavy enough load, anyway; but if he had not got many walnuts, or any at all--as sometimes happened--it was not a great hardship to haul his brother home in the wagon. to be sure, when he wanted to swim out with the other big boys it was pretty trying to have to keep an eye on his brother, and see that he did not fall into the water from the bank where he left him. he was a good deal more anxious about other boys than he was about himself, and once he came near getting drowned through his carelessness. it was in winter, and the canal basin had been frozen over; then most of the water was let out from under the ice, and afterwards partly let in again. this lifted the ice-sheet, but not back to its old level, and the ice that clung to the shores shelved steeply down to the new level. frank stepped on this shore ice to get a shinny-ball, and slipped down to the edge of the ice-sheet, which he would be sure to go under into the water. he holloed with all his might, and by good luck some people came and reached him a stick, by which he pulled himself out. the scare of it haunted him for long after, but not so much for himself. whenever he was away from home in the winter he would see one of his younger brothers slipping down the shore ice and going under the ice-sheet, and he would break into a cold sweat at the idea. this shows just the worrying kind of boy frank was; and it shows how used he was to having care put upon him, and how he would even borrow trouble when he had none. it generally happens with any one who makes himself useful that other people make him useful, too, and all the neighbors put as much trust in frank as his mother, and got him to do a good many things that they would not have got other boys to do. they could not look into his face, a little more careworn than it ought to be at his age, without putting perfect faith in him, and trying to get something out of him. that was how he came to do so many errands for mothers who had plenty of boys of their own; and he seemed to be called on in any sort of trouble or danger, when the fathers were up-town, and was always chasing pigs or cows out of other people's gardens, and breaking up their hens from setting, or going up trees with hives to catch their bees when they swarmed. i suppose this was how he came to be trusted with that pocketful of money, and why he had a young brother along to double his care at the time. the money was given him in the city, as the boy's town boys always called the large place about twenty miles away, where frank went once with his mother when he was eleven years old. she was going to take passage there on a steamboat and go up the ohio river to visit his grandmother with his sisters, while frank was to go back the same day to the boy's town with one of his young brothers. they all drove down to the city together in the carriage which one of his uncles had got from the livery stable, with a driver who was to take frank and his brother home. this uncle had been visiting frank's father and mother, and it was his boat that she was going on. it lay among a hundred other boats, which had their prows tight together along the landing for half a mile up and down the sloping shore. it was one of the largest boats of all, and it ran every week from cincinnati to pittsburgh, and did not take any longer for the round trip than an ocean steamer takes now for the voyage from new york to liverpool. the children all had dinner on board, such a dinner as there never was in any house: roast beef and roast chicken; beefsteak and ham in chafing-dishes with lamps burning under them to keep them hot; pound-cake with frosting on, and pies and pickles, corn-bread and hot biscuit; jelly that kept shaking in moulds; ice-cream and spanish pudding; coffee and tea, and i do not know what all. when the children had eaten all they could hold, and made their uncle laugh till he almost cried, to see them trying to eat everything, their mother went ashore with them, and walked up the landing towards the hotel where the carriage was left, so as to be with frank and his little brother as long as she could before they started home. she was about one of the best mothers in the boy's town, and frank hated to have her go away even on a visit. she kept giving him charges about all the things at home, and how he must take good care of his little brothers, and see that the garden gate was fastened so that the cows could not get in, and feed the chickens regularly, and put the cat out every night, and not let the dog sleep under his bed; and they were so busy talking and feeling sorry that they got to the hotel before they knew it. there, whom should they see but one of the boy's town merchants, who was in the city on business, and who seemed as glad to meet them as if they were his own relations. they were glad, too, for it made them feel as if they had got back to the boy's town when he came up and spoke to mrs. baker. they had started from home after a very early breakfast, and she said it seemed as if they had been gone a year already. the merchant told her that he had been looking everywhere for somebody he knew who was going to the boy's town; and then he told mrs. baker that he had two thousand dollars which he wanted to send home to his partner, and he asked her if she could take it for him when she went back. "well, indeed, indeed, i'm thankful i'm not going, mr. bushell!" mrs. baker said. "and i wouldn't have supposed i could be, i'm so homesick. i'm going up the river on a visit to mother; but if i was going straight back, i wouldn't take your two thousand dollars for the half of it. i would be afraid of losing it, or getting robbed and murdered. i don't know what wouldn't happen. i would be happy to oblige you, but indeed, indeed i couldn't!" the merchant said he was sorry, but if she was not going home he supposed he would have to find some one who was. it was before the days of sending money by express, or telegraphing it, and the merchant told her he was afraid to trust the money in the mail. he asked her who was going to take her carriage home, and she told him the name of the driver from the livery stable in the boy's town, who had come to the city with them. mr. bushell seemed dreadfully disappointed, but when she went on to say how anxious she was that the driver should get frank and his brother home before dark, he brightened up all of a sudden, and he asked, "is frank going back?" and he looked down into frank's face and smiled, as most people did when they looked into frank's face, and he asked, "what's the reason frank couldn't take it?" mrs. baker put her arm across frank's breast and pulled him away, and said, "indeed, indeed, the child just sha'n't, and that's all about it!" but mr. bushell took the boy by the arm and laughed. "let's feel how deep your pants' pocket is," he said; and he put his hand into the pocket of frank's nankeen trousers and felt; and then, before mrs. baker could stop him, he drew a roll of bank-notes out of his own pocket and pushed it into frank's. "there, it's just a fit! do you think you'd lose it?" "no, he wouldn't lose it," said his mother, "and that's just it! he'd worry about it every minute, and i would worry about him!" she tried to make the merchant take the money back, but he kept joking; and then he turned serious, and told her that the money had to be put in the bank to pay a note, and he did not know any way to get it to his partner if she would not let frank take it; that he was at his wits' end. he said he would as lief trust it with frank as with any man he knew; that nobody would think the boy had any money with him; and he fairly begged her to let frank take it for him. he talked to her so much that she began to give way a little. she felt proud of his being willing to trust frank, and at last she consented. mr. bushell explained that he wished his partner to have the money that evening, and she had to agree to let frank carry it to him as soon as he got home. the boy's town was built on two sides of a river. mr. bushell's store was across the river from where the bakers lived, and she said she did not want the child to have to go through the bridge after dark. perhaps it was her anxiety about this that began the whole trouble; for when the driver came with the carriage, she could not help asking him if he was sure to get home before sundown. that made him drive faster than he might have done, perhaps; at any rate, he set off at a quick trot after mr. bushell had helped put the two boys in. mrs. baker gathered her little girls together and went back to the boat with her heart in her mouth, as she afterwards said. the driver got out of the city without trouble, but when he came to the smooth turnpike road, it seemed to frank that the horses kept going faster and faster, till they were fairly flying over the ground. the driver pulled and pulled at the reins, and people began to hollo, "look out where you're going!" when they met them or passed them, and all at once frank began to think the horses were running away. he had not much chance to think about it, though, he was so busy keeping his little brother from bouncing off the seat and out of the carriage, and in feeling if mr. bushell's money was safe; and he was not certain that they were running away till he saw people stopping and staring, and then starting after the carriage. the horses tore along for two or three miles; they thundered through the covered bridge on mill's creek, and passed the four-mile house. by the time they reached the little village beyond it they had the turnpike to themselves; every team coming and going drove into the gutter. at the village a large, fat butcher, who was sitting tilted back in a chair at the door of his shop, saw the carriage coming in a whirlwind of dust, and he knew what the matter was. there was a horse standing at the hitching rail, and the butcher just had time to untie him and jump into the saddle when the runaways flew by. he took after them as fast as his horse could go, and overhauled them at the end of the next bridge and brought them to a stand. it had really been nothing but a race against time. no one was hurt; the horses were pretty badly blown, that was all; but the carriage was so much shaken up that it had to be left at a wagon-shop, where it could not be mended till morning. the two boys were taken back to four-mile house, where they would have to pass the night. frank worried about his father, who would be expecting them home that evening; but he was glad his mother did not know what had happened. he was thankful enough when he felt his brother all over and found him safe and sound, and then put his hand on his pocket and found that mr. bushell's money was still there. he did not eat very much supper, and he went to bed early, after he had put his brother in bed and seen him fall asleep almost before he got through his prayers. frank was very tired, and pretty sore from the jouncing in the carriage; but he was too worried to be sleepy. he began to think, what if some one should get mr. bushell's money away from him in the night, while he was asleep? and then he was glad that he did not feel like sleeping. he got up and put on his clothes and sat down by the window, listening to his brother's breathing and looking out into the dark at the heat-lightning in the west. the day had been very hot and the night was close, without a breath of wind. by-and-by all the noises about the house died away, and he knew everybody had gone to bed. the lantern under the tavern porch threw a dim light out into the road; some dogs barked away off. there was no other sound, and the stillness was awful. he kept his hand on the pocket that had the money in it. after a while frank began to feel very drowsy, and he thought he would lie down again, but he promised himself he would not sleep, and he did not undress; for if he took his pantaloons off, he did not know how he could make sure every minute that the money was safe, unless he put it under his pillow. he was afraid if he did that he might forget it in the morning, and leave it when he got up. he stretched himself on the bed beside his brother, and it seemed to him that it was hardly a second before he heard a loud crash that shook the whole house; and the room looked full of fire. another crash came, and then another, with a loud, stony kind of rolling noise that seemed to go round the world. then he knew that he had been asleep, and that this dreadful noise was the swift coming of a thunder-storm. it was the worst storm that was ever known in mill creek valley, so the people said afterwards, but as yet it was only beginning. the thunder was deafening, and it never stopped a moment. the lightning hardly stopped, either; it filled the room with a quivering blaze; at times, when it died down, the night turned black as ink, and then a flash came that lit up the fields outside, and showed every stick and stone as bright as the brightest day. frank was dazed at first by the glare and the noise; then he jumped out of bed, and tried for two things: whether the money was still safe in his pocket, and whether his brother was alive. he never could tell which he found out first; as soon as he knew, he felt a little bit better, but still his cheerfulness was not anything to brag of. if his brother was alive, it seemed to be more than any one else in the house was besides himself. he could not hear a soul stirring, although in that uproar there might have been a full-dress parade of the butler guards in the tavern, firing off their guns, and he could not have heard them. he looked out in the entry, but it was all dark there except when he let the flashes of his room into it. he thought he would light his candle, for company, and so that the lightning would not be so awfully bright. he found his candlestick easily enough--he could have found a pin in that glare--but there were no matches. so he decided to get along without the candle. every now and then he put his hand in his pocket, or on the bulge outside, to make sure of the money; and whenever a very bright flash came, he would listen for his brother's breathing, to tell whether he had been struck by lightning or not. but it kept thundering so that sometimes he could not hear. then frank would shake him till the boy gave a sort of snort, and that proved that he was still alive; or he would put his ear to his brother's breast, and listen whether his heart was beating. it always was, and by-and-by the rain began to fall. it fell in perfect sheets, and the noise it made could be heard through the thunder. but frank had always heard that after it began to rain, a thunder-storm was not so dangerous, and the air got fresher. still, it blazed and bellowed away, he could never tell how long, and it seemed to him that he must have felt a thousand times for mr. bushell's money, and tried a thousand times to find whether his brother had been struck by lightning or not. once or twice he thought he would call for help; but he did not think he could make anybody hear, and he was too much ashamed to do it, anyway. between the times of feeling for the money and seeing whether his brother was alive, he thought about his mother: how frightened she would be if she knew what had happened to him and his brother, after they left her. and he thought of his father: how troubled he must be at their not getting home. it seemed to him that he must be to blame, somehow, but he could not understand how, exactly; and he could not think of any way to help it. he wondered if the storm was as bad on the river and in the boy's town, and whether the lightning would strike the boat or the house; the house had a lightning-rod, but the boat could not have one, of course. he felt pretty safe about his father and the older-younger brother who had been left at home with him; but he was not sure about his mother and sisters, and he tried to imagine what people did on a steamboat in a thunder-storm. after a long time had passed, and he thought it must be getting near morning, he lay down again beside his brother, and fell into such a heavy sleep that he did not wake till it was broad day, and the sun was making as much blaze in the curtainless tavern-room as the lightning had made. the storm was over, and everything was as peaceful as if there had never been any such thing as a storm in the world. the first thing he did was to make a grab for his pocket. the money was still there, and his brother sleeping as soundly as ever. after breakfast, the livery-stable man came with the carriage, which he had got mended, and frank started home with his brother once more. but they had sixteen miles to go before they would reach the boy's town, and the carriage had been so badly shattered, or else the driver was so much afraid of the horses, that he would not let them go at more than a walk. frank was anxious to get home on his father's account; still he would rather get home safe, and he did not try to hurry the driver, for fear they might not get home at all. it was four o'clock in the afternoon when they stopped at his father's house. his older-younger brother, and the hired girl, whom his mother had got to keep house while she was gone on her visit, came out and took his little brother in; and the girl told frank his father had just been there to see whether he had got back. then he knew that his father must have been as anxious as he had been afraid he was. he did not wait to go inside; he only kicked off the shoes he wore to the city and started off for his father's office as fast as his bare feet could carry him. he found his father at the door. he did not say very much, but frank could see by his face that he had been worrying; and afterwards he said that he was just going round to the livery stable the next minute to get another team, and go down towards the city to see what had become of them all. frank told him what had happened, and his father put his arms round him, but still did not say much. he did not say anything at all about mr. bushell's money or seem to think about it till frank asked: "i'd better take it right straight over to his store, hadn't i, father?" his father said he reckoned he had, and frank started away on the run again. he wanted to get rid of that money so badly, for it was all he had to worry about, after he had got rid of his brother, that he was out of breath, almost, by the time he reached mr. bushell's store. but even then he could not get rid of the money. mr. bushell had told him to give it to his partner, but his partner had gone out into the country, and was not to be back till after supper. frank did not know what to do. he did not dare to give it to any one else in the store, and it seemed to him that the danger of having it got worse every minute. he hung about a good while, and kept going in and out of the store, but at last he thought the best thing would be to go home and ask his father; and that was what he did. by this time his father had gone home to supper, and he found him there with his two younger brothers, feeling rather lonesome, with frank's mother and his sisters all away. but they cheered up together, and his father said he had done right not to leave the money, and he would just step over, after supper, and give it himself to mr. bushell's partner. he took the roll of bills from frank and put it into his own pocket, and went on eating his supper, but when they were done he gave the bills back to the boy. "after all, frank, i believe i'll let you take that money to mr. bushell's partner. he trusted it to you, and you ought to have the glory; you've had the care. do you think you'll be afraid to come home through the bridge after sunset?" the bridge was one of those old-fashioned, wooden ones, roofed in and sided up, and it stretched from shore to shore, like a tunnel, on its piers. it was rather dim, even in the middle of the brightest day, and none of the boys liked to be caught in it after sunset. frank said he did not believe he should be afraid, for it seemed to him that if he had got through a runaway, and such a thunder-storm as that was the night before, without harm, he could surely get through the bridge safely. there was not likely to be anybody in it, at the worst, but indian jim, or solomon whistler, the crazy man, and he believed he could run by them if they offered to do anything to him. he meant to walk as slowly as he could, until he reached the bridge, and then just streak through it. that was what he did, and it was still quite light when he reached mr. bushell's store. his partner was there, sure enough, this time, and frank gave him the money, and told him how he had been so long bringing it. the merchant thanked him, and said he was rather young to be trusted with so much money, but he reckoned mr. bushell knew what he was about. "did he count it when he gave it to you?" he asked. "no, he didn't," said frank. "did you?" "i didn't have a chance. he put it right into my pocket, and i was afraid to take it out." mr. bushell's partner laughed, and frank was going away, so as to get through the bridge before it was any darker, but mr. bushell's partner said, "just hold on a minute, won't you, frank, till i count this," and he felt as if his heart had jumped into his throat. what if he had lost some of the money? what if somebody had got it out of his pocket, while he was so dead asleep, and taken part of it? what if mr. bushell had made a mistake, and not given him as much as he thought he had? he hardly breathed while mr. bushell's partner slowly counted the bank-notes. it took him a long time, and he had to wet his finger a good many times, and push the notes to keep them from sticking together. at last he finished, and he looked at frank over the top of his spectacles. "two thousand?" he asked. "that's what mr. bushell said," answered the boy, and he could hardly get the words out. "well, it's all here," said mr. bushell's partner, and he put the money in his pocket, and frank turned and went out of the store. he felt light, light as cotton, and gladder than he almost ever was in his life before. he was so glad that he forgot to be afraid in the bridge. the fellows who were the most afraid always ran through the bridge, and those who tried not to be afraid walked fast and whistled. frank did not even think to whistle. his father was sitting out on the front porch when he reached home, and he asked frank if he had got rid of his money, and what mr. bushell's partner had said. frank told him all about it, and after a while his father asked, "well, frank, do you like to have the care of money?" "i don't believe i do, father." "which was the greater anxiety to you last night, mr. bushell's money, or your brother?" frank had to think awhile. "well, i suppose it was the money, father. you see, it wasn't my own money." "and if it had been your own money, you wouldn't have been anxious about it? you wouldn't have cared if you had lost it, or somebody had stolen it from you?" frank thought again, and then he said he did not believe he had thought about that. "well, think about it now." frank tried to think, and at last he said. "i reckon i should have cared." "and if it had been your own money, would you have been more anxious about it than about your brother?" this time frank was more puzzled than ever; he really did not know what to say. his father said: "the trouble with money is, that people who have a great deal of it seem to be more anxious about it than they are about their brothers, and they think that the things it can buy are more precious than the things which all the money in the world cannot buy." his father stood up. "better go to bed, frank. you must be tired. there won't be any thunder-storm to-night, and you haven't got a pocketful of money to keep you awake." xi how jim leonard planned for pony baker to run off on a raft now we have got to go back to pony baker again. the summer went along till it got to be september, and the fellows were beginning to talk about when school would take up. it was almost too cold to go in swimming; that is, the air made you shiver when you came out, and before you got your clothes on; but if you stood in the water up to your chin, it seemed warmer than it did on the hottest days of summer. only now you did not want to go in more than once a day, instead of four or five times. the fellows were gathering chinquapin acorns most of the time, and some of them were getting ready to make wagons to gather walnuts in. once they went out to the woods for pawpaws, and found about a bushel; they put them in cornmeal to grow, but they were so green that they only got rotten. the boys found an old shanty in the woods where the farmer made sugar in the spring, and some of the big fellows said they were coming out to sleep in it, the first night they got. it was this that put jim leonard in mind of pony's running off again. all the way home he kept talking to pony about it, and pony said he was going to do it yet, some time, but when jim leonard wanted him to tell the time, he would only say, "you'll see," and wag his head. then jim leonard mocked him and dared him to tell, and asked him if he would take a dare. after that he made up with him, and said if pony would run off he would run off, too; and that the way for them to do would be to take the boards of that shanty in the woods and build a raft. they could do it easily, because the boards were just leaned up against the ridge-pole, and they could tie them together with pawpaw switches, they were so tough, and then some night carry the raft to the river, after the water got high in the fall, and float down on it to the city. "why, does the river go past the city?" pony asked. "of course it does," said jim leonard, and he laughed at pony. "it runs into the ohio there. where's your geography?" pony was ashamed to say that he did not suppose that geography had anything to do with the river at the boy's town, for it was not down on the map, like behring straits and the isthmus of suez. but he saw that jim leonard really knew something. he did not see the sense of carrying the raft two miles through the woods when you could get plenty of drift-wood on the river shore to make a raft of. but he did not like to say it for fear jim leonard would think he was afraid to be in the woods after dark, and after that he came under him more than ever. most of the fellows just made fun of jim leonard, because they said he was a brag, but pony began to believe everything he said when he found out that he knew where the river went to; pony had never even thought. jim was always talking about their plan of running off together, now; and he said they must fix everything so that it would not fail this time. if they could only get to the city once, they could go for cabin-boys on a steamboat that was bound for new orleans; and down the mississippi they could easily hide on some ship that was starting for the spanish main, and then they would be all right. jim knew about the spanish main from a book of pirate stories that he had. he had a great many books and he was always reading them. one was about indians, and one was about pirates, and one was about dreams and signs, and one was full of curious stories, and one told about magic and how to do jugglers' tricks; the other was a fortune-telling book. jim leonard had a paper from the city, with long stories in, and he had read a novel once; he could not tell the boys exactly what a novel was, but that was what it said on the back. after pony and he became such friends he told him everything that was in his books, and once, when pony went to his house, he showed him the books. pony was a little afraid of jim leonard's mother; she was a widow woman, and took in washing; she lived in a little wood-colored house down by the river-bank, and she smoked a pipe. she was a very good mother to jim, and let him do whatever he pleased--go in swimming as much as he wanted to, stay out of school, or anything. he had to catch drift-wood for her to burn when the river was high; once she came down to the river herself and caught drift-wood with a long pole that had a nail in the end of it to catch on with. by the time school took up pony and jim leonard were such great friends that they asked the teacher if they might sit together, and they both had the same desk. when pony's mother heard that, it seemed as if she were going to do something about it. she said to his father: "i don't like pony's going with jim leonard so much. he's had nobody else with him for two weeks, and now he's sitting with him in school." pony's father said, "i don't believe jim leonard will hurt pony. what makes you like him, pony?" pony said, "oh, nothing," and his father laughed. "it seems to be a case of pure affection. what do you talk about together?" "oh, dreams, and magic, and pirates," said pony. his father laughed, but his mother said, "i know hell put mischief in the child's head," and then pony thought how jim leonard always wanted him to run off, and he felt ashamed; but he did not think that running off was mischief, or else all the boys would not be wanting to do it, and so he did not say anything. his father said, "i don't believe there's any harm in the fellow. he's a queer chap." "he's so low down," said pony's mother. "well, he has a chance to rise, then," said pony's father. "we may all be hurrahing for him for president some day." pony could not always tell when his father was joking, but it seemed to him he must be joking now. "i don't believe pony will get any harm from sitting with him in school, at any rate." after that pony's mother did not say anything, but he knew that she had taken a spite to jim leonard, and when he brought him home with him after school he did not bring him into the woodshed as he did with the other boys, but took him out to the barn. that got them to playing in the barn most of the time, and they used to stay in the hay-loft, where jim leonard told pony the stories out of his books. it was good and warm there, and now the days were getting chilly towards evenings. once, when they were lying in the hay together, jim leonard said, all of a sudden, "i've thought of the very thing, pony baker." pony asked, "what thing?" "how to get ready for running off," said jim leonard, and at that pony's heart went down, but he did not like to show it, and jim leonard went on: "we've got to provision the raft, you know, for maybe we'll catch on an island and be a week getting to the city. we've got to float with the current, anyway. well, now, we can make a hole in the hay here and hide the provisions till we're ready to go. i say we'd better begin hiding them right away. let's see if we can make a place. get away, trip." he was speaking to pony's dog, that always came out into the barn with him and stayed below in the carriage-room, whining and yelping till they helped him up the ladder into the loft. then he always lay in one corner, with his tongue out, and looking at them as if he knew what they were saying. he got up when jim leonard bade him, and jim pulled away the hay until he got down to the loft floor. "yes, it's the very place. it's all solid, and we can put the things down here and cover them up with hay and nobody will notice. now, to-morrow you bring out a piece of bread-and-butter with meat between, and i will, too, and then we will see how it will do." pony brought his bread-and-butter the next day. jim said he intended to bring some hard-boiled eggs, but his mother kept looking, and he had no chance. "let's see whether the butter's sweet, because if it ain't the provisions will spoil before we can get off." he took a bite, and he said, "my, that's nice!" and the first thing he knew he ate the whole piece up. "well, never mind," he said, "we can begin to-morrow just as well." the next day jim leonard brought a ham-bone, to cook greens with on the raft. he said it would be first-rate; and pony brought bread-and-butter, with meat between. then they hid them in the hay, and drove trip away from the place. the day after that, when they were busy talking, trip dug the provisions up, and, before they noticed, he ate up pony's bread-and-butter and was gnawing jim leonard's ham-bone. they cuffed his ears, but they could not make him give it up, and jim leonard said: "well, let him have it. it's all spoilt now, anyway. but i'll tell you what, pony--we've got to do something with that dog. he's found out where we keep our provisions, and now he'll always eat them. i don't know but what we'll have to kill him." "oh no!" said pony. "i couldn't kill trip!" "well, i didn't mean kill him, exactly; but do something. i'll tell you what--train him not to follow you to the barn when he sees you going." pony thought that would be a good plan, and he began the next day at noon. trip tried to follow him to the barn, and pony kicked at him, and motioned to stone him, and said: "go home, sir! home with you! home, i say!" till his mother came to the back door. "why, what in the world makes you so cross with poor trip, pony?" she asked. "i'll teach him not to tag me round everywhere," said pony. his mother said: "why, i thought you liked to have him with you?" "i'm tired of it," said pony; but when he put his mother off that way he felt badly, as if he had told her a lie, and he let trip come with him and began to train him again the next day. it was pretty hard work, and trip looked at him so mournfully when he drove him back that he could hardly bear to do it; but jim leonard said it was the only way, and he must keep it up. at last trip got so that he would not follow pony to the barn. he would look at him when pony started and wag his tail wistfully, and half jump a little, and then when he saw pony frown he would let his tail drop and stay still, or walk off to the woodshed and keep looking around at pony to see if he were in earnest. it made pony's heart ache, for he was truly fond of trip; but jim leonard said it was the only way, and so pony had to do it. they provisioned themselves a good many times, but after they talked a while they always got hungry, or jim leonard did, and then they dug up their provisions and ate them. once when he came to spend saturday afternoon with pony he had great news to tell him. one of the boys had really run off. he was a boy that pony had never seen, though he had heard of him. he lived at the other end of the town, below the bridge, and almost at the sycamore grove. he had the name of being a wild fellow; his father was a preacher, but he could not do anything with him. now, jim leonard said, pony must run off right away, and not wait for the river to rise, or anything. as soon as the river rose, jim would follow him on the raft; but pony must start first, and he must take the pike for the city, and sleep in fence corners. they must provision him, and not eat any of the things before he started. he must not take a bundle or anything, because if he did people would know he was running off, or maybe they would think he was a runaway slave from kentucky, he was so dark-complexioned. at first pony did not like it, because it seemed to him that jim leonard was backing out; but jim leonard said that if two of them started off at the same time, people would just know they were running off, and the constable would take them up before they could get across the corporation line. he said that very likely it would rain in less than a week, and then he could start after pony on the raft, and be at the ohio river almost as soon as pony was. he said, "why, you ain't afraid, are you, pony?" and pony said he was not afraid; for if there was anything that a boy's town boy hated, it was to be afraid, and pony hated it the worst of any, because he was sometimes afraid that he was afraid. they fixed it that pony was to sleep the next friday night in the barn, and the next morning, before it was light, he was to fill his pockets with the provisions and run off. every afternoon he took out a piece of bread-and-butter with meat between and hid it in the hay, and jim leonard brought some eggs. he said he had no chance to boil them without his mother seeing, but he asked pony if he did not know that raw eggs were first-rate, and when pony said no, he said, "well, they are." they broke one of the eggs when they were hiding them, and it ran over the bread-and-butter, but they wiped it off with hay as well as they could, and jim leonard said maybe it would help to keep it, anyway. [illustration: "'why, you ain't afraid, are you, pony?'"] when he came round to pony's house the next friday afternoon from school he asked him if he had heard the news, and when pony said no, he said that the fellow that ran off had been taken up in the city by the watchman. he was crying on the street, and he said he had nowhere to sleep, and had not had anything to eat since the night before. pony's heart seemed to be standing still. he had always supposed that as soon as he ran off he should be free from all the things that hindered and vexed him; and, although he expected to be sorry for his father and mother, he expected to get along perfectly well without them. he had never thought about where he should sleep at night after he got to the city, or how he should get something to eat. "now, you see, pony," said jim leonard, "what a good thing it was that i thought about provisioning you before you started. what makes you look so?" pony said, "i'm not looking!" jim leonard said, "you're not afraid, are you, just because that fellow got took up? you're not such a cowardy-calf as to want to back out now?" the tears came into pony's eyes. "cowardy-calf yourself, jim leonard! you've backed out long ago!" "you'll see whether i've backed out," said jim leonard. "i'm coming round to sleep in the barn with you to-night, and help you to get a good start in the morning. and maybe i'll start myself to-morrow. i will if i can get anybody to help me make the raft and bring it through the woods. now let's go up into the loft and see if the provisions are all safe." they dug the provisions up out of the hay and jim leonard broke one of the eggs against the wall. it had a small chicken in it, and he threw it away. another egg smelt so that they could hardly stand it. "i don't believe these eggs are very good," said jim leonard. "i got them out of a nest that the hen had left; mother said i might have them all." he broke them one after another, and every one had a chicken in it, or else it was bad. "well, never mind," he said. "let's see what the bread-and-butter's like." he bit into a piece, but he did not swallow any. "tastes kind of musty; from the hay, i reckon; and the meat seems kind of old. but they always give the sailors spoilt provisions, and this bread-and-butter will do you first-rate, pony. you'll be so hungry you can eat anything. say, you ain't afraid now, are you, pony?" "no, not now," said pony, but he did not fire up this time as he did before at the notion of his being afraid. jim leonard said, "because, maybe i can't get mother to let me come here again. if she takes a notion, she won't. but i'm going to watch out, and as soon as supper's over, and i've got the cow into the lot, and the morning's wood in, i'm going to try to hook off. if i don't get here to stay all night with you i'll be around bright and early in the morning, to wake you and start you. it won't be light now much before six, anyway." xii how jim leonard backed out, and pony had to give it up it all seemed very strange to pony. first, jim leonard was going to run off with him on a raft, and then he was going to have pony go by land and follow him on the raft; then suddenly he fixed it so that pony was going alone, and he was going to pass the last night with him in the barn; and here, all at once, he was only coming, maybe, to see him off in the morning. it made pony feel very forlorn, but he did not like to say anything for fear jim leonard would call him cowardy-calf. it was near sunset, on a cool day in the beginning of october, and the wind was stirring the dry blades in the corn-patch at the side of the barn. they made a shivering sound, and it made pony lonesomer and lonesomer. he did not want to run off, but he did not see how he could help it. trip stood at the wood-house door, looking at him, but he did not dare to come to pony as long as he was near the barn. but when pony started towards the house trip came running and jumping to him, and pony patted him and said, "poor trip, poor old trip!" he did not know when he should see such another dog as that. the kitchen door was open, and a beautiful smell of frying supper was coming out. pretty soon his mother came to the open door, and stood watching him patting trip. "well, have you made up with poor old trip, pony? why don't you come in, child? you look so cold, out there." pony did not say anything, but he came into the kitchen and sat in a corner beyond the stove and watched his mother getting the supper. in the dining-room his sisters were setting the table and his father was reading by the lamp there. pony would have given almost anything if something had happened just to make him tell what he was going to do, so that he could have been kept from doing it. he saw that his mother was watching him all the time, and she said: "what makes you so quiet, child?" pony said, "oh, nothing," and his mother asked, "have you been falling out with jim leonard?" pony said no, and then she said, "i almost wish you had, then. i don't think he's a bad boy, but he's a crazy fool, and i wish you wouldn't go with him so much. i don't like him." all of a sudden pony felt that he did not like jim leonard very much himself. it seemed to him that jim leonard had not used him very well, but he could not have told how. after supper the great thing was how to get out to the barn without any one's noticing. pony went to the woodshed door two or three times to look out. there were plenty of stars in the sky, but it seemed very dark, and he knew that it would be as black as pitch in the barn, and he did not see how he could ever dare to go out to it, much less into it. every time he came back from looking he brought an armload of wood into the kitchen so that his mother would not notice. the last time she said, "why, you dear, good boy, what a lot of wood you're bringing for your mother," for usually pony had to be told two or three times before he would get a single armload of wood. when his mother praised him he was ashamed to look at her, and so he looked round, and he saw the lantern hanging by the mantel-piece. when he saw that lantern he almost wished that he had not seen it, for now he knew that his last excuse was gone, and he would really have to run off. if it had not been for the lantern he could have told jim leonard that he was afraid to go out to the barn on account of ghosts, for anybody would be afraid of ghosts; jim leonard said he was afraid of them himself. but now pony could easily get the lantern and take it out to the barn with him, and if it was not dark the ghosts would not dare to touch you. he tried to think back to the beginning of the time when he first intended to run off, and find out if there was not some way of not doing it; but he could not, and if jim leonard was to come to the barn the next morning to help him start, and should not find him there, pony did not know what he would do. jim leonard would tell all the fellows, and pony would never hear the last of it. that was the way it seemed to him, but his mind felt all fuzzy, and he could not think very clearly about it. when his mother finished up her work in the kitchen he took the lantern from the nail and slipped up the back stairs to his little room, and then, after he heard his sisters going to bed and his father and mother talking together quietly, he lit the lantern and stole out to the barn with it. nobody noticed him, and he got safely inside the barn. he used to like to carry the lantern very much, because it made the shadows of his legs, when he walked, go like scissors-blades, and that was fun; but that night it did not cheer him up, and it seemed as if nothing could cheer him up again. when trip first saw him come out into the woodshed with the lantern he jumped up and pawed pony and licked the lantern, he was so glad, but when pony went towards the barn trip stopped following him and went back into the wood-house very sadly. pony would have given almost anything to have trip come with him, only, as jim leonard said, trip would whine or bark, or something, and then pony would be found out and kept from running off. the more he wanted to be kept from running off the more he knew he must not try to be, and he let trip go back when he would have so gladly helped him up into the hay-loft and slept with him there. he would not have been afraid with trip, and now he found that he was dreadfully afraid. the lantern-light was a charm against ghosts, but not against rats, and the first thing pony knew when he got into the barn a rat ran across his foot. trip would have kept the rats off. they seemed to just swarm in the loft when pony got up there, and after he hung the lantern on a nail and lay down in the hay they did not mind him at all. they played all around, and two of them got up on their hind legs once and fought, or else danced, pony could not tell which. he could not sleep, and after a while he felt the tears coming and he began to cry, and he kept sobbing, and could not stop himself. when pony's mother was ready to go to bed she said to pony's father: "did pony say good-night to you?" and when he said no, she said, "but he must have gone to bed," and she ran up the stairs to see. she came down again in about half a second and she said, "he doesn't seem to be there," and she raced all through the house hunting for him. in the kitchen she saw that the lantern was gone and then she said: "i might have known he was up to some mischief, he was so quiet. this is some more of jim leonard's work. henry, i want you to go right out and look for pony. it's half-past nine." then pony's father knew that it would be no use to talk and he started out. but the whole street was quiet, and all the houses were dark as if the people had gone to bed. he went up town and to all the places where the big boys were apt to play at night, and he found hen billard and archy hawkins, but neither of them had seen pony since school. they were both sitting on hen billard's front steps, because archy hawkins was going to stay all night with him, and they were telling stories. when pony's father asked about pony and seemed anxious they tried to comfort him, but they could not think where pony could be. they said perhaps jim leonard would know. then pony's father went home, and the minute he opened the front door pony's mother called out: "have you found him?" his father said: "no. hasn't he come in yet?" and he told her how he had been looking everywhere, and she burst out crying. "i know he's fallen into the canal and got drowned, or something," and she wrung her hands together; and then he said that hen billard and archy hawkins thought jim leonard would know, and he had only stopped to see whether pony had happened to come in, and he was going straight to jim leonard's mother's house; and pony's mother said: "oh, go, go, go!" and fairly pushed him out of the house. by this time it was ten o'clock and going on eleven, and all the town was as still as death, except the dogs. pony's father kept on until he got down to the river-bank, where jim leonard's mother lived, and he had to knock and knock before he could make anybody hear. at last jim leonard's mother poked her head out of the window and asked who was there, and pony's father told her. he said: "is jim at home, mrs. leonard?" and she said: "yes, and fast asleep three hours ago. what makes you ask?" then he had to tell her. "we can't find pony, and some of the boys thought jim might know where he is. i'm sorry to disturb you, mrs. leonard. good-night," and he went back home. when he got there he found pony's mother about crazy. he said now they must search the house thoroughly; and they went down into the cellar first, because she said she knew pony had fallen down the stairs and killed himself. but he was not there, and then they hunted through all the rooms and looked under the tables and beds and into the cupboards and closets, and he was not there. then they went into the wood-house and looked there, and up into the wood-house loft among the old stoves and broken furniture, and he was not there. trip was there, and he made them think so of pony that pony's mother took on worse than she had yet. "now i'm going out to look in the barn," said pony's father. "you stay quietly in the house, lucy." trip started to go with pony's father, but when he saw that he was going to the barn he was afraid to follow him, pony had trained him so; and pony's father went alone. he shaded the candle that he was carrying with his hand, and when he got into the barn he put it down and stood and looked and tried to think how he should do. it was dangerous to go around among the hay with the candle, and the lantern was gone. almost from the first pony's father thought that he heard a strange noise like some one sobbing, and then it seemed to him that there was a light up in the loft. he holloed out: "who's there?" and then the noise stopped, but the light kept on. pony's father holloed out again: "pony! is that you, pony?" and then pony answered, "yes," and he began sobbing again. in less than half a second pony's father was up in the loft, and then down again and out of the barn and into the yard with pony. his mother was standing at the back door, for she could not bear to stay in the house, and pony's father holloed to her: "here he is, lucy, safe and sound!" and pony's mother holloed back: "well, don't touch him, henry! don't scold the child! don't say a word to him! oh, i could just fall on my knees!" pony's father came along, bringing pony and the lantern. pony's hair and clothes were all stuck full of pieces of hay, and his face was smeared with hay-dust which he had rubbed into it when he was crying. he had got some of jim leonard's mother's hen's eggs on him, and he did not smell very well. but his mother did not care how he looked or how he smelled. she caught him up into her arms and just fairly hugged him into the house, and there she sat down with him in her arms, and kissed his dirty face, and his hair all full of hay-sticks and spider-webs, and cried till it seemed as if she was never going to stop. she would not let his father say anything to him, but after a while she washed him, and when she got him clean she made him up a bed on the lounge and put him to sleep there where she could see him. she said she was not going to sleep herself that night, but just stay up and realize that they had got pony safe again. one thing she did ask him, and that was: "what in the world made you want to sleep in the barn, pony?" and pony was ashamed to say he was getting ready to run off. he began: "jim leonard--" and his mother broke out: "i knew it was some of jim leonard's work!" and she talked against jim leonard until pony fell asleep, and said pony should never speak to him again. she and pony's father sat up all night talking, and about daybreak he recollected that he had left the candle burning in the barn, and he ran out with all his might to get it before it set the barn on fire. but it had burned out without catching anything, and he was coming back to the house when he met jim leonard sneaking towards the barn door. he pounced on him, and caught him by the collar, and he said as savagely as he could: "what are you doing here, jim?" jim leonard was too scared to speak, and pony's father hauled him to the house door, and holloed in to pony's mother: "i've got jim leonard here, lucy"; and she holloed back: "oh, well, take him away, and don't let me see the dreadful boy!" and pony's father said: "i'll take him home to his mother, and see what she has to say to him." all the way down to the river-bank he did not say a word to jim leonard, but when they got to jim leonard's mother's house, there she was with her pipe in her mouth coming out to get chips to kindle the fire with, and she said: "i'd like to know what you've got my boy by the collar for, mr. baker?" pony's father said: "i don't know myself; i'll let him tell you. pony was hid in the barn last night, and i just now caught jim prowling around on the outside. i should like to hear what he wanted." jim leonard did not say anything. his mother gave him one look, and then she went into the house and came out with a table-knife in her hand. she said, "i reckon i can get him to tell you," and she went to a pear-tree that there was before her house and cut a long sucker from the foot of it. she came up to jim and then she said: "tell!" she did not have to say it twice, and in about half a second he told how pony had intended to run off and how he put him up to it, and everything. pony's father did not wait to see what jim leonard's mother did to jim. when pony woke in the morning he heard his mother saying: "i could almost think he had bewitched the child." his father said: "it really seems like a case of mesmeric influence." pony was sick for about a week after that. when he got better his father had a very solemn talk with him, and asked why he ever dreamed of running away from his home, where they all loved him so. pony could not tell. all the things that he used to be so mad about were like nothing to him now, and he was ashamed of them. his father did not try hard to make him tell. he explained to him what a miserable boy he would have been if he had really got away, and said he hoped his night's experience in the barn would be a lesson to him. that was what it turned out to be. but it seemed to be a lesson to his father and mother, too. they let him do more things, and his mother did not baby him so much before the boys. he thought she was trying to be a better mother to him, and, perhaps, she did not baby him so much because now he had a little brother for her to baby instead, that was born about a week after pony tried to run off. the end proofreading team. html version by al haines. travellers' stories by mrs. follen illustrated with engravings. travellers' stories it is the pleasant twilight hour, and frank and harry chilton are in their accustomed seat by their mother's side in the old sofa, that same comfortable old sofa, which might have listened to many pleasant and interesting stories that will never be told. mother, said frank, you have often promised us that some time you would tell us about your travels in europe. this is a good stormy evening, and no one will come in to interrupt you; so please, dear mother, tell us all you can remember. it is now, boys, five years since my return from europe. much that i did and saw while there i forget. however, as i have been lately looking over my hasty journal, i will see what i can remember. on the first of august i set sail in the steamer caledonia for england. at four o'clock in the afternoon, we were out of sight of land; one by one, we had taken leave of every object which could be seen from the departing vessel; and now nothing was visible to us but the sky, the ocean meeting it in its wide, unbroken circle the sun gradually sinking in the west, and our small but only house, the ship. how strange, how sublime the scene was! so lonely, so magnificent, so solemn! at last the sun set, gilding the clouds, and looking, to my tearful eyes, as if that too said farewell! then the moon appeared; and the long, indefinite line of light from where her rays first touched the waters to our ship, and the dancing of the waves as they crossed it, catching the light as they passed, were so beautiful that i was unwilling to leave the deck when the hour for rest arrived. the wind was against us, and we did not get on very fast; but i enjoyed the novel scene the next day, and passed all my time on deck, watching the sailors and the passengers, and noticing the difference between englishmen and americans. on sunday it was very cold, and the wind, still contrary, rose higher and higher; it was impossible to set any sail, but i still kept on deck, and thus avoided sickness. soon after breakfast i saw a white foam rising in different places occasionally, and was told that it was whales spouting; i saw a great number, and enjoyed it highly. presently some one called out, "an iceberg!" and, far off against the sky, i saw this floating wonder. it was very beautiful; such a dazzling white, so calm and majestic, and so lonely; it was shaped, as i thought, like an old cathedral, but others thought like a sleeping lion, taking what i called the ruined tower for his head and mane. soon after this, the man on the lookout cried, "steamship america;" and in a few moments more we saw her coming swiftly towards us with her sails all set, for the wind was fair for her. captain leitch then told me that he should stop his vessel and send a boat on board, and that he would send a letter by it if i would write one quickly; to others he said the same thing. in a moment the deck was cleared, and in a few more moments all had returned with their letters; and never was there a more beautiful sight than these two fine steamers manoeuvring to stop at a respectful distance from each other; then our little boat was lowered, and o, how pretty it was to see her dancing over the rough waves to the other steamer! we sent to the america the sad news of the loss of the kestrel. after what seemed to us a long time, the boat returned and brought papers, &c., but no important news; and in a few moments the two steamers courtesied to each other, and each went on her way. after six days, the waves had risen to a terrible height; the wind was all but a gale; the ocean, as far as one could see, was one roaring foam; one after another the angry billows rose to the height of twenty or thirty feet, and rolled on, curling over their green sides, and then broke with a voice of thunder against our vessel. i crawled out of the cabin, assisted by two gentlemen, and from the lower deck saw the sublime commotion over the bulwarks, when the ship rolled over on the side where i was sitting. the sea broke over our vessel repeatedly; it went over the top of the smoke pipe, and struck the fore-topsail in the middle but did, not hurt either of them. the fourth officer was washed out of his berth by a sea when he was asleep. one of the paddles broke, but in a very short time was replaced. one of the wheels was often entirely out of water, but no harm was done us by any of these disasters; and on we went safe through the troubled waters. at night, when we were planning how we should secure ourselves from rolling about the cabin, there came a sudden lurch of the ship, and every thing movable was sent slam bang on one side of the cabin; and such a crash of crockery in the pantry! a few minutes after came a sound as if we had struck a rock. "what is that?" i asked of the stewardess. "only a sea, ma'am," she replied. in my heart i hoped we should not have another such box on the ear. we had a horrid night, but the next day it grew quieter, though it was still rough, and the wind ahead. soon after, it grew fair, and the captain promised us that on monday, before twelve o'clock, we should see ireland; and sure enough it was so. i was on deck again just at twelve; the sun came out of the clouds, and the mate took an observation. "that is worth five pounds," said he; "now i know just where we are." then the captain went up on the wheel-box, and we heard the welcome sound, "tory island." we were then greatly rejoiced; this was the twelfth day of our voyage. at night, for one hour, the wind blew a gale, and the ship rocked in a very disagreeable manner; but at six o'clock on tuesday morning we were on deck, and there was the beautiful welsh coast, and snowdon just taking off his night-cap; and soon we saw "england, that precious stone set in a silver sea." next to the thought of friends whom we had parted from for so long a time, my mind during the voyage was occupied with the idea of columbus. when i looked upon the rude, boundless ocean, and remembered that when he set out with his little vessel to go to a land that no one knew any thing of, not even that there was such a land, he was guided altogether by his faith in its existence; that he had no sympathy, but only opposition; that he had no charts, nothing but the compass, that sure but mysterious guide,--the thought of his sublime courage, of his patient faith, was so present to my mind, that it seemed as if i was actually sometimes in his presence. the other idea was the wonderful skill displayed in the construction of the small, but wonderfully powerful and beautifully arranged and safe home, in which we were moving on this immense and turbid ocean, carrying within her the great central fire by which the engine was moved, which, in spite of winds and waves, carried us safely along; then the science which enabled the master of this curious nutshell of man's contriving to know just in what part of this waste of trackless waters we were. all these things i knew before, and had often thought of them, but was never so impressed with them; it was almost as if they were new to me. before i quit the ocean, i must tell you of what i saw for which i cannot account, and, had not one of the gentlemen seen it too, i should almost have doubted my senses. when we were entirely out of sight of land, i saw a white butterfly hovering over the waves, and looking as if he were at home. where the beautiful creature came from, or how he lived, or what would become of him, no one could tell. he seemed to me to be there as a symbol and a declaration that the souls of those whose bodies lay in the ocean were yet living and present with those they had loved. when we arrived at liverpool, we found a very dear friend, whom we had known in america, on the wharf ready to receive us. he took us to his house, and we felt that we were not, after all, in a strange land. love and kindness are the home of all souls, and show us what heaven must be. the thing that impressed me most was the dim light of the english day, the soft, undefined shadows, compared with our brilliant sunshine and sharply defined shade--then the coloring of the houses, the streets, the ground, of every thing; no bright colors, all sober, some very dark,--the idea of age, gravity, and stability. nobody seems in a hurry. our country seems so young and vehement; this so grave and collected! now i will tell you something about my visit to my dear friend harriet martineau, whose beautiful little books, "feats on the fiord," "the crofton boys," and the others, you love so much to read. she lives at ambleside, in what is called the lake country. ambleside is a beautiful country town in the valley of the rotha, and not far from lake windermere. around the town rise high hills, which perhaps may be called mountains. these mountains are not, like many of ours, clothed to the summit with thick wild forests, but have fewer trees, and are often bare at the summit. the mixture of gray rock and green grass forms such a beautiful coloring over their graceful and sometimes grotesque outline that you would not have them other than they are. the ambleside houses are of dark-gray stone, and almost all of them have ivy and flowers about them. one small house, the oldest in the village, was several hundred years old; and out of all the crevices between the stones hung harebells and other wild flowers; one side of it and much of the roof were covered with ivy. this house was only about ten feet square, and it looked to me like a great rustic flower pot. i should like some time to read you a description of this lovely place, written by miss martineau herself. then you will almost hear the murmuring sound of the brathay and the rotha, and breathe the perfume of the wild heather, and catch the freshness of the morning breeze, as she offers you these mountain luxuries in her glowing words. miss martineau lives a little out of the village. you drive up to the house through a shrubbery of laurels, and roses, and fuschias, and other plants,--young trees and flowers,--to the beautiful little porch, covered with honeysuckles and creeping plants. the back of the house is turned to the road, and the front looks out over the loveliest green meadows, to the grand, quiet hills, sometimes clear and sharp in their outline against the blue sky, and at others wreathed with mist; and one might sit for hours at the large bay window in the parlor, watching these changes, and asking no other enjoyment. it was also a great pleasure to witness the true and happy life of my friend. i saw there the highest ideas of duty, usefulness, and benevolence carried into daily practice. miss martineau took us one morning to see the poet wordsworth. he lived in a low, old-fashioned stone house, surrounded by laurels, and roses, and fuschias, and other flowers and flowering shrubs. the porch is all covered with ivy. we found the venerable man in his low, dark parlor. he very kindly showed us his study, and then took us over his grounds. when we took our leave, i asked him to give each of us a leaf from a fine laurel tree near him; this he did very kindly, and smiled as kindly at my effort at a compliment, in saying to him something about one who had received so many laurels having some to spare to others. i thanked him for his goodness in giving me so much of his time, and bade the venerable man good by, very much pleased with my visit, and very grateful to the kind friend who had introduced me to him, and insured me a welcome. i shall never forget that day. ambleside is a very fashionable place for travellers to visit in the summer months, and we saw there many distinguished and agreeable people. i had a conversation with an intelligent lad of fourteen years of age, which impressed me very much. he was talking with me about our country, and finding faults with it of various kinds. while i could, i defended it. he thought our revolution was only a rebellion. i told him that all revolutions were only successful rebellions, and that we bore with the tyranny of his country as long as we could. "i don't like the americans," said he; he blushed as he thought of the discourtesy of saying this to me, and then added, "they are so inconsistent; they call themselves republicans, and then hold slaves, and that is so wicked and absurd." he went on to say all he thought and felt about the wickedness of slavery. i heard him to the end, and then said, "there is nothing you have said upon that subject that i do not agree to entirely. you cannot say too much against slavery; but i call myself an abolitionist, and while i live, i mean to say and do all i can against it. there are many people in america, also, who feel as i do, and we hope to see it abolished." while we were in westmoreland, we made an excursion of four days among the beautiful lakes. miss martineau was our guide and companion. she knows the name of every mountain, every lake, every glen and dale, every stream and tarn, and her guidance lent a new charm to the scenes of grandeur and beauty through which she conducted us. we took a vehicle which the people call a jaunting car; it is a square open carriage with two side seats and a door behind; and is drawn by one horse. two easy steps and a door easily opened let you in and out when you please. the car holds four persons. the driver has a seat in front, and under it he tied our carpet bag. never did four souls enjoy themselves more than we on this little excursion. i could not give you an adequate idea of what we saw, or of the pleasure we took. think of coming down from one of these beautiful hills into eskdale, or ennesdale, of walking four miles on the banks of ullswater, of looking with your living eyes on derwent water, grassmere, windermere, and many other lovely spots of which you have seen pictures and read descriptions; and of being one in the pleasantest party in the world, as you think, stopping where, and when, and as long as any one pleases. it was on this journey that i first saw a real ruin. the ruins of calder abbey i had never heard of; but the impression it made upon me i can never forget; partly, perhaps, that it was the first ruin upon which i ever gazed. one row of the pillars of the great aisle remains standing. the answering row is gone. two tall arches of the body of the main building remain also, and different pieces of the walls. it is of sandstone; the clusters of columns in the aisle look as if they were almost held together by the ivy and honeysuckles that wave around their mouldering capitals with every motion of the wind. in every crevice, the harebell, the foxglove, and innumerable other flowers peep forth, and swing in the wind. on the tops of the arches and walls large flowering shrubs are growing; on the highest is a small tree, and within the walls are oak trees more than a century old. the abbey was built seven hundred years ago; and the ruins that are now standing look as if they might stand many centuries longer. the owner of the place has made all smooth and nice around it, so that you may imagine the floor of the church to look like green velvet. it seems as if the ivy and the flowers were caressing and supporting the abbey in its beautiful old age. as i walked under the arches and upon the soft green turf, that so many years ago had been a cold rough stone pavement, trodden by beings like myself; and felt the flowers and vines hanging from the mouldering capitals touch my face; and saw, in the place where was once a confessional, an oak tree that had taken centuries to grow, and whose top branches mingled with the smiling crest of flowers that crowned the tops of the highest arches,--the thought of the littleness and the greatness of man, and the everlasting beauty of the works of the creator, almost overwhelmed me; and i felt that, after all, i was not in a decaying, ruined temple, but in an everlasting church, that would grow green and more beautiful and perfect as time passes on. there is a fine old park around these lovely ruins; and, not far off, a beautiful stream of water, with a curious bridge over it. the old monks well knew how to choose beautiful places to live in. all harmonizes, except--i grieve to tell of it--a shocking modern house, very near, very ugly, and, i suppose, ridiculously elegant and comfortable inside. from this hideosity you must resolutely turn away; and then you may say, as i did, that your mortal eyes have never rested on any thing so lovely as the ruins of calder abbey. sometimes miss martineau would tell us some pretty legend, or some good story. this was one of the legends: near the borders of the ullswater is the beautiful ara force, one of the most lovely falls i have seen in england. one may stand below, and look up at the rushing stream, or above, on the top of the fall. here, long ago, in the time of the crusades, stood a pair of lovers; and here grows an old oak which was their trysting tree. the lady was of noble birth, and lived in a castle near by; and her true knight used to come at the still hour of evening to meet her at the ara force. at length the lover was called away to the holy land. as he left his lady, he vowed to be her true knight, and to return and wed her. many long days passed away, and the lady waited in vain for her true knight. though she heard often from others of his chivalrous deeds in the east, yet no word came from him to tell her he was faithful; and she began to fear that he was no longer true to her, but was serving some other lady. despair at last came upon her; and she grew wan and pale, and slept no longer soundly: but, when the world was at rest, she would rise in her sleep, and wander to the trysting tree, and pluck off the green oak leaves, and throw them into the foaming water. the knight was all this time faithful, but was not able to send word to his lady love. at last, he returned to england, and hastened towards the castle where she lived. it was late at night when he came to the ara force; and he sat him down under the trysting tree to wait for the morning. when he had been there a long time, he saw a figure approach, all in white, and pluck off the oak leaves, and fling them into the stream. angry to see the sacred tree thus injured, he rose to prevent it. the figure started and awoke. in a moment he knew his beloved lady. she was now on the frail bridge. the sudden shock, and the roar of the force below, had made her giddy. he leaped forward to embrace and save her. alas! too late. her foot slipped, and she fell. it was all over. the water tumbling far down into the rocky chasm beneath told the story of death. the knight was inconsolable. he retired from the world forever, and built a monastery near by, on the borders of the lake, where he died. the frail bridge is now gone, and a strong plank, with a railing, supplies its place. but the water still roars down the rock as on the fatal night; and the foam and spray look as if the white garments of the fair lady were still fluttering over the deep below. from ambleside i went with some friends to visit dr. nichol at glasgow. we took coach first, and then the railroad. for the sake of economy we took a second class carriage. the second class carriages, on the english railroad, are, in fact, boxes with small holes for windows, from which you may, if you are not very short, see something of the world you are flying through, but not much. good, honest, hard boards are on the floor, sides, tops, and seats; in short, all around you. the backs are not slanted at all. you must sit bolt upright, or not sit at all. now and then, these vehicles have a thin leather on the seats--not often. nothing can be more luxurious than a first class carriage. the floors are nicely carpeted, the seats and backs are all stuffed; each seat is a very nice easy chair. you can sleep in them almost as well as in a bed; but these carriages are very expensive; and on this account many of the gentry take those of the second class, hard as they are. we arrived at glasgow at eight o'clock in the evening, and were unfortunate enough to have a driver to the vehicle we took, who did not know where the observatory was. we knew that it was three miles from the city, and not much more. we were advised by a gentleman, who was in the same railroad box with us, to take a noddy, or a minibus, to the observatory. what these things were, of course, we could only guess, and we did not care much, so we could only get out of our wooden box. we came to the conclusion that we could sympathize tolerably well with poor box brown. we, as we had been advised, took a noddy. a minibus is only a small omnibus. a noddy is a contrivance that holds four, and has a door at the end, and only one horse,--very like a yankee cab. glasgow, as every one knows, is one of the greatest manufacturing cities in the world. before we arrived, we were astonished at the great fires from the iron works in the environs; and, as the streets were well lighted, our eyes were dazzled and delighted with the whole scene, and we were so pleased with the comfort of our noddy, that we did not at first feel troubled at the fact that neither our driver nor we knew where dr. nichol's house was. presently we found ourselves left in the middle of the street, and saw our noddy man, in a shop as bright as day, poring over a directory. all he could learn was what we had already told him, and so on he went, not knowing whether right or wrong, giving us a fine opportunity of seeing the city in the evening. at last, he came to the bridge over the clyde, and there the tollman directed us to the observatory. after a long drive, evidently over not a very good road, the driver stopped, and told us that here was dr. nichol's house. he began to take off our luggage. we insisted upon his inquiring, first, if that was dr. nichol's. he took off our trunk, and would have us go in; we resisted; and after a while he rang the bell, and the answer was, "dr. nichol lives in the next house." still higher we had to climb, and at last stopped at the veritable observatory, where our friend, who was expecting us, lived. nothing could exceed the hospitality with which we were received. early, one misty, smoky morning, i embarked in one of the famous little clyde steamers, and set out on a highland tour. i had heard of old scotia's barren hills, clothed with the purple heather and the yellow gorse, of her deep glens, of her romantic streams; but the reality went far beyond the description, or my imagination. the hills are all bare of trees, but their outline is very beautiful and infinitely varied. picture to yourself a ridge of hills or mountains all purple with the heather, relieved with the silver-gray of the rocks and with patches of the bright yellow gorse, and all this harmony of color reflected in the green sea water which runs winding far in among the hills. as the light changes, these colors are either brought out more strongly, or mingle into one soft lilac color, or sometimes a sort of purple-gray. your eye is enchanted, and never weary of looking and admiring. i would not have any trees on the scotch hills; i would not have them other than they are. if i were dying i could look at them with joy; they are lovely beyond words to tell. i was on all the most celebrated and beautiful lakes. i was rowed in an open boat, by two highland youths, from one end of loch katrine to the other, and through those beautiful, high, heathery, rocky banks at one end of the lake, called the trosachs. these exquisite rocks are adorned, and every crevice fringed and festooned with harebells, heather, gorse, and here and there beautiful evergreen trees. we passed by "ellen's isle," as it is called, the most exquisite little island ever formed, a perfect oval, and all covered with the purple heather, the golden gorse, and all sorts of flowers and exquisitely beautiful trees. o, what a little paradise it is! a number of little row-boats, with fine-looking highland rowers and gay companies of ladies and gentlemen, were visiting the island as we passed. they show the oak tree to which they say ellen fastened her boat. it was beautiful to see the glancing of the sunlight on the oars of these boats, and the bright colors of the shawls and bonnets of the ladies in them, and to witness this homage to nature and genius which they were paying in their visit to ellen's isle. i was glad to join them, and do reverence too. the heather is usually not more than two feet high,--sometimes higher, but often shorter; but on ellen's isle it grows to the height of four and five feet. just before we came to oban, we passed the estate of lord heigh, where we heard the following story. the origin of his name and rank is this: when king kenneth ruled in scotland, he was beaten in a great battle by the danes, and his army scattered among the hills, while the enemy was marching home in triumph. a man in the scottish army said that he knew a pass through which the victor must go, where one man might stop a thousand, and offered himself and his two sons to defend it. he came to the pass armed only with an ox-yoke, but made such use of his weapon that the danes were kept at bay, till the scots rallied and cut them to pieces. when kenneth reached the pass, he found his brave subject lying in truth quite exhausted. he raised him up, and inquired his name; the fainting man could only gasp, "heigh-ho, heigh!" from that moment he was called the lord of heigh, and the king gave him as much land as an eagle could fly over without alighting. the family arms are an eagle on the wing over an ox-yoke. at edinburgh, i went to see the regalia, which are kept in a small room in the castle, in which they were found after being buried there for more than a century. it is a small room, not more than twelve feet square. on one side is the iron chest in which the regalia were found; and in the middle of the room is a marble table, entirely white, surrounded by an iron grating, on which is the crown which robert bruce had made for himself, the sword of james the first, the signet ring of charles the first, and other jewels that had belonged to some of the scottish kings. around these and the other insignia of their former royalty the lamps are always burning. this is an altar sacred to auld lang syne. i arrived in york at half past two o'clock at night. all was dark in the city, save the lights in the large station, where we were let out of our boxes with our luggage. we had contrived occasionally to lie down on the hard wooden seats, resting our heads on our carpet bags, and, by a little entreaty, had secured a box to ourselves, so that we were not quite so weary as we might have been, and were in good spirits for what was before us, which was to hunt up a lodging place for the remainder of the night, for all the inns were closed. after a while, we got a porter to take the luggage. after some hard knocking we roused an innkeeper, and by three o'clock we were all in as good beds as mortals could desire. at nine o'clock we breakfasted, and at ten my delighted eyes rested on the real, living york minster; the dream of my youth was realized, and i stood in its majestic presence. i entered; the service had just begun; the organ was playing, they were chanting. you could not tell from whence the music came. it was every where; it enters your soul like a beautiful poetic thought, and you know not what possesses you. only your whole soul is full of worship, peace, and joy. i could hardly keep from falling on my knees. look at the fine engravings, and study it all out as well as you can; still you can form no adequate idea of the effect of those endless arches, of the exquisite carving in stone, of the flowers, strange figures, and in short every wild, every grotesque thing that you can or cannot imagine. well has it been called a great poem in stone,--such grace, such aspiration, such power, such harmony. o, it was worth crossing the atlantic, that first impression. after the service, i took a guide and went all over this miracle of beauty and genius, and read the inscriptions and saw the curiosities. during my second stay in liverpool, my friend took me to chester, that wonderful old city, just on the borders of wales. if you can imagine the front rooms of the second story of a row of houses taken out, and in their place a floor put over the lower story and a ceiling under the upper story, and shops in the back rooms, you will form some idea of chester. all the streets, nearly, are made in this way. the carts and horses go in the narrow streets between the houses, but foot passengers walk in this curious sort of piazzas, put into the houses instead of being added to them. the most elegant shops are here in these back rooms, and you walk for whole long streets under cover, with the dwellings of the inhabitants over your heads and under your feet. often the upper story shelves over the third, so that you almost wonder why the house does not tumble over. a friend, whom i had never seen, did me the honor to invite me to her hospitable mansion in manchester. it was indeed a great privilege to be allowed to make a part of the family circle, and sit with them by their fireside, and be made to feel at home so far from one's native land; and this i experienced all the time i was in england. i was prepared for the appearance of manchester. so i was not astonished at the number of tall chimneys, nor at the quantity of smoke that issued from them. and i could quite enter into the feelings of the friend who told me that nothing was more melancholy than to see a clear atmosphere over the town; the blacker it looked the more prosperity was indicated, and the more cause for rejoicing. my kind friend took me to one of the great print factories. my principal wish for going was to see how the factory people looked, whether they seemed well and happy. i observed them; they were well dressed, and were cheerful in their appearance. there were a few children employed, who looked healthy and happy. there was at this factory a reading room, nicely warmed and perfectly comfortable, where the workman, by subscribing a penny or two a week, could obtain the right to spend his leisure hours and see the periodicals and newspapers. each one had a vote in deciding what these papers should be, as they were paid for by the subscription money of the laborers. the proprietors paid a certain sum towards the support of the reading room. of course, seeing one prosperous factory and the fortunate workmen in it, in manchester, cannot enable one to form any adequate judgment of the condition of the working people. i visited the asylum for the deaf and dumb, which appeared to me to have an admirable teacher. one of his best aids is a young man who was his pupil. the teacher desired me to ask of this young man the meaning of some word that had an abstract meaning. i asked him what he understood by intelligence. he put his hand to his head, and thought for some time, before he attempted to reply; then he nearly covered the slate with his definition. he evidently saw the difference between intelligence and learning or knowledge, but had to use many words to express his idea; but i thought he had as clear a thought as any of us. after he had given the best definition he could, he added, "there is another meaning to the word: it means news, sometimes." there was, at this asylum, a little girl, about twelve years old, who was blind, as well as deaf and dumb. she was a very interesting child from her countenance and manner, apart from her infirmity. her face was far more beautiful than laura bridgman's; her head good, but not so fine at present, not so well developed. her eyes were closed, and her long, dark lashes rested on her cheeks with a mournful expression. the teacher was just getting into communication with her, but had to make many efforts, such as pressing her head, her heart, and shoulders, as well as her hands. when he tried to tell her that laura bridgman, in america, was in the same state that she was, and that she had learned a great deal, and had sent her love to all the deaf and dumb, by a lady who had come to see her, she raised her head, and looked as if trying to see or hear, and then put out her hand. i took it, and then told the teacher how dr. howe and others communicated with laura bridgman by moving their fingers, and making certain impressions on the palm of her hand. as i told him, i imitated the motions with my fingers on the palm of her hand. she gave one of those peculiar screams which laura bridgman does, at times, when she is excited, and her white face glowed with pleasure and strong emotion. her teacher told me i had put myself into communication with her; but my heart ached to think i could do no more. in a few moments we left her. she told her teacher to tell me to give her love to laura bridgman, and sat down again upon her little bench, in the solitude of her perpetual silence and blindness. when i had been over the institution, and seen the admirable work of the inmates, and was about leaving, i had to pass near this lovely child again. when i was within three or four feet of her, she put out her hand and took hold of me. it seemed as if she knew me from the rest of the party, after i had thus by chance spoken to her imprisoned soul. no one will wonder that i could not keep the tears out of my eyes. i visited another collection of children, who might have been still more unfortunate than these but for the wise charity of the people of manchester. the swinton union school is a large, noble building, in the outskirts of manchester. the school is a fine looking place, surrounded by nice gardens and grounds. it can contain one thousand children; there were then in it six hundred and fifty. they have a fine, large, well-ventilated school room. they have a large place to wash themselves, with a sufficient number of separate, fixed basins, arranged to admit and let off water, a towel and piece of soap for each child; and they are obliged to wash their faces and hands three times a day. there are great tanks where they are all bathed twice a week. they have a fine infant school for the little ones, most admirably managed. the large girls are taught to wash, and iron, and do housework. the boys are, some of them, taught the tailor's trade, and some the shoemaker's, and others the baker's. it was a pretty sight to see the little fellows sitting on their legs, making their own jackets and trousers, and laughing together, and looking as happy as boys can look; and just so with the little shoemakers. they work only four hours, and then another set take their place. the room was large and airy, and perfectly comfortable. i saw the clothes they had made, all nicely pressed and put away in their storerooms, ready for wear. so with the shoes; they mended their old shoes and their old clothes themselves. i saw those of the children who were not at work, at play; for the school hours were past. i saw their happy faces, their clean, tidy clothes, and their long rows of nice, clean beds, for i went into every part of the house, and a beautiful sight it all was. in the kitchen some girls were making up the bread, and most excellent bread it was, and a good, large, thick slice there was for every one. i saw the dining hall, and all that belonged to that part of the concern, and all was just what it ought to be. now, you must know that these are, all, the children of paupers--children who have no earthly parents, children that the public must take care of, or they would live or die in the streets. all the different parishes have erected this building, and put in the best teachers, and furnished it as i have related to you, and there placed these poor children, who were growing up in vice and misery. here they are taught habits of order, industry, and obedience, and learn a way of supporting themselves honestly, and are kept till they are old enough to be put apprentice to some good person who will treat them well. so, instead of six hundred and fifty ignorant, reckless vagrants, the community receives that number of well-instructed, well-brought-up individuals, who can support themselves decently and respectably. an english country home, where education, high breeding, easy circumstances, old trees, room enough, and a merry family circle, make life beautiful--this had always been one of my dreams of earthly happiness. all this was realized at mrs. c--'s, at chobham, where i stopped for a visit on my way to london. every day my kind friends devised some little plan for my amusement, beyond the constant pleasure of the every-day life. one day they took me to windsor, which, you know, is one of the queen's country palaces. we approached it through the famous avenue of elms in the park. the effect of the castle, seen through that long, long vista, is very fine. the english elm, though not so graceful as ours, is more grand and stately, and better for architectural effects. there were many deer in the park, which added much to its beauty. at last we were at the castle; it is a fine building, but would be far more picturesque in ruins than in its present perfect state. we went first into the chapel; this is exquisitely beautiful. the gothic clusters of pillars springing up from the floor rise unbroken to the roof, and spread out like palm trees. the emblazoned coats of arms of the knights of the garter hanging all around on the pillars of the chapel, the beautiful carved ornaments like lace-work, and many other rare and lovely objects, make the royal chapel very magnificent. there was a horrible old woman who went screeching about the room, showing the pictures, &c. she was particularly apropos in calling us, when she found we were americans, into a corner of the chapel to show us the tomb of lord harcourt, who is there represented receiving the sword of some unfortunate american general, and shrieked out with her cracked voice, "i thought this might interest you." after feasting my eyes long enough upon the chapel, i went into the castle, and joined one of those batches of human beings which are driven through the state apartments by the guide. the rooms are magnificent. one contains a beautiful collection of pictures by vandyke. we saw the grand malachite vase, presented to victoria by the emperor of russia, large enough to hold one or two men. after seeing the rooms, we ascended the tower, whence is a fine view. we then walked on the terrace, and went to join the rest of our party, who had gone before us to the hotel. we then went to get a look at the famous eton school, about a mile distant. the eton boys amused me much. they go there very young, and remain there a long while, till they are ready to enter the universities. their dress indicates their advancement in age and standing. first comes a jacket, then a little suspicion of a tail, which gradually lengthens and widens as maturity comes on, till, at last, it is a perfect tail coat. i saw specimens in these various stages of growth. after one of the happiest weeks that ever mortals passed, i said a reluctant farewell, and departed for london, where more kind friends, whom i had never seen, were expecting my arrival. i can now, in my mind's eye, see all the dear family on the steps or in the hall door, giving us their parting blessing, and the old comfortable-looking gentlemanly butler arranging my luggage. one of the dear family accompanied me to the railroad, and saw me fairly on my way to london. in london we again enjoyed the great pleasure of being received like old friends, not heard there truly divine music. there is no describing and no forgetting the effect of one of those sublime religious strains that seem to burst forth from you know not where, and swell and grow fuller and louder, and then more and more distant, and fainter and fainter, till you think it dying in the distance, and then gush out with an overwhelming fulness of harmony and beauty. one feels as if he would hear such strains at the hour of death. our next object was st. paul's. how different! how very different! in a gothic building, you think that the artist, who designed it, had in mind the idea of the solemn forest where the crossing branches produce all those beautiful lines and forms, which so delight your eye, and where the dim, mysterious light awakens and accords with the religious sentiment; but the effect of the great dome, which suggests the open sky, is entirely opposite. the effect upon your mind of standing in the middle of st. paul's is very impressive; but what moved me most was the sound of the people without the walls. no one of our party spoke, and the noise of the busy multitude without was like the waves of the ocean. i had heard the voice of many waters while coming over the atlantic, and there is no exaggeration; it is just such a sound, such an ebbing and flowing, and yet such a full and constant roar, as the waves make after continued high winds. it was truly sublime, this concentrated sound of this living multitude of human beings, these breathings and heavings of the heart of the mighty monster, london. we were shown all over the cathedral; we first ascended to the inside gallery, and walked around, looking down upon the whole interior; we then visited the clock, and we heard and felt the quiver of its tremendous voice. we next entered the famous whispering gallery, which is made around the base of the dome inside. the faintest whisper is heard at the point opposite that whence it comes. then we went outside, and walked some time around the dome, gazing about with great delight. then we ascended to the golden gallery, as it is called from the fact that the balustrade is gilded. it runs around the top of the dome. from here, you see london all spread out like a map before you,--its towers, its spires, all its multitudinous abodes, lie beneath your eye. one little thing remained. the ball was yet above us. the gentlemen of our party went up various perpendicular ladders, and at last pulled themselves through a small hole into the ball. there is room, i think, there for a dozen people, if well packed, not to stand, walk, or sit, however; these things the nature of the place forbids. it is a strange feeling, they say, to crouch in this little apartment and hear the wind roaring and shaking the golden cross above. the whole ball shakes somewhat, and by a sudden movement one can produce quite a perceptible motion. we descended the infinity of stairs, and entered the crypt, as it is called, under the church. there were many grand tombs there. nelson's occupies the centre, and is a fine work. but what impressed me most was the tomb of sir christopher wren himself; a simple tablet marks his tomb, with this inscription, which is repeated above in the nave:-- subtus conditur hujus ecclesias et urbis conditor, christopherus wren; qui vixit annos ultra nonaginta, non sibi, sed bono publico. lector, si monumentum requiris, circumspice. obiit feb. mdccxxiii., aetat. xci. we subjoin a translation of this inscription for our young friends:-- "underneath lies buried christopher wren, the builder of this church and city; who lived beyond the age of ninety years, not for himself, but for the public good.--reader, if you ask for his monument, look around you.--he died on the th of february, , aged ." he is called the builder of the city, as well as of the church; for sir christopher wren was the architect of more than fifty of the churches in london. one morning, our friend, miss s., was kind enough to accompany us to greenwich, where, you know, is the hospital for disabled sailors of the british navy. the day was warm and lovely, like what we call the indian summer in america. we took an omnibus to london bridge; from thence we proceeded by railway, and in a few minutes were in greenwich. we entered the magnificent old park, and wandered about for a long time, to our hearts' content, among the venerable old trees, admiring the graceful deer that were enjoying themselves all around us. at last we came to the top of a charming hill, where we sat down to rest and look at the river. several of the sailors had arranged spy glasses of various sizes for the accommodation of visitors, and for the good to themselves of a few pence. we patronized one of these, and then descended to the hospital, which is the main object of interest. it was just time for the old sailors' dinner, and we went into one of their dining rooms, where there were about three hundred seated at an excellent meal, plain, but wholesome and plentiful. a very pleasant sight it was; they were chatting, telling good old stories, and laughing merrily, and evidently enjoying themselves highly. there were, at that time, more than seven hundred of these veterans in the building. those who chose carried their dinners to their rooms. the place for the sailors' sleeping rooms was a long hall, with small rooms on one side and large windows on the other. the rooms were just large enough for a bed, a bureau, a little table, and, i think, two chairs. there were shelves around the room, except on the side that looked into the hall, where was the door and a window. on these shelves were ranged little keepsakes, books and various articles of taste, often beautiful shells; there were hanging up around the rooms profiles of friends, perhaps the dearest that this life can give us. i could not help thinking that many a touching story might be told by those silent but eloquent memorials. we were much amused with looking at a card put in one of the windows of these little comfortable state rooms, on which was written these words: "anti-poke-your-nose-into-other-folks'-business society. pounds reward annually to any one who will really mind his own business; with the prospect of an increase of pounds, if he shall abstain from poking his nose into other folks' business." we returned to london in a steamer. now you must suppose you are walking with me in paris, on a bright sunday morning in spring. we will go first to the place vendome. it is an oblong square with the corners cut off. the buildings are all of the same beautiful cream-colored stone, and of the same style of architecture,--a basement story, very pretty and simple, and upper stories ornamented with corinthian pilasters and gilded balconies. there are high, pointed roofs with pretty luthern windows. the place is four hundred and twenty feet by four hundred and fifty. two large handsome streets, opposite to each other, the rue de la paix, and the rue castiglione, open out of the place; these alone break the range of handsome buildings that surround this beautiful spot. in the centre is the magnificent column, made in imitation of the column of trajan, and surmounted by a bronze statue of napoleon in his military dress. at first he was placed there in his imperial robes; but when he fell, so did his statue, and it was melted up to help make an equestrian statue of henry iv. in , the present statue was erected; and the people are very proud of the little corporal, as they call him, as he stands up there, looking over their glorious city, as if born to lead men to conquest, and to govern the world. inside the column is a spiral staircase by which you ascend to the top of the column. you are well paid for the fatigue of mounting these one hundred and seventy-six steps, when you get your breath and look down upon paris glittering in the sunlight. what pleases me most, however, is the scene immediately below. all the people are in the streets. sunday in paris is a holiday. whole families leave work, care,--all their troubles,--and come into the public places to enjoy themselves. there is no swearing, no drunkenness, no rudeness, no noise; the old folks seats themselves in chairs, and the children run about. some have been to mass, and some have not, but all are in the spirit of enjoyment. nothing can be more enlivening than the aspect of the french people. you cannot resist their cheerful looks. the appearance of the place vendome is truly enchanting. now let us go down, and take a nearer look at what is going on below. at the foot of the column you will see a group of children collected round a man with a large basket of little tin carriages which are constructed in such a way that they will go with the wind on a smooth place. for some distance round the column is laid the asphaltum pavement. these little tin carriages run well across this wide platform; and you might imagine that the tin horses carried them. it is a pleasant thing to see the delight of the children, and a lesson in good nature and good manners, to see how carefully all the passers by turn aside, so as not to interrupt the progress of these pretty toys. look up at the beautiful bas reliefs in bronze, on this noble column, giving the history of so many fierce battles and so much bloodshed, and at the military hero on the top, and then at these laughing, merry children at the foot, running after the tin carriages that go with the wind. is it not a strange and moving contrast? does it not tell a story that all of us hope may be one day true; when war shall belong only to history, and when peace shall possess the earth? around the base of this beautiful column many of those who served under bonaparte, or who remember him with affection, hang wreaths and garlands as expressions of their tender remembrance. this is still done; these memorials are ever there. at one time this was forbidden by the government, but to no purpose. at last, an officer was stationed at the foot of the column with a water engine, and with orders to play it upon any one who should bring any votive offerings to the fallen hero. a lady, whose love and admiration could not be so intimidated, came the next day in her carriage, which she filled with wreaths of flowers, and stood up in it, and threw wreath after wreath at the foot of the column, crying out, as each one fell, "will you play your engine upon me?" but not a drop of water was sent at her, and she deposited all her offerings, and went away unharmed. i suppose a frenchman would sooner have been shot than have done any thing to quench the enthusiasm of this heroic woman. one thing struck me much in paris, and most agreeably, and that is the good appearance of the children. this is not confined to the rich; you will see a very poor woman leading her child, really well dressed. you never see boys idling in the streets; you never hear them swearing and quarrelling. if you ask a boy to show you the way, his manner of doing it would grace a drawing room. i am told that the french are never severe with their children; that the french nature will not bear it; that strong excitement makes the children ill; that the law of love is the only one they will bear. stop with me now on our walk, at this little low cart, just by the sidewalk; it is as you see larger than a common handcart, and much lower, and on four small wheels; it is full of china, all marked sous. see how pretty these cups and saucers are. after your looking at all the pieces, the owner would say, "bon jour" very kindly to you, if you took nothing, but we will take this pretty cup and saucer; as a remembrance of his little cart. as we walk along, we shall see many others, containing every thing you can imagine. i bought many things in the streets,--combs, saucepans, clothes-brushes, &c. look into this shop window; see these lovely flowers, and, in the midst of them, a small fountain is playing all the time to keep them fresh. look at those immense bunches in the windows,--of pansies, violets, hyacinths of all colors, ixias, wall flowers, tulips, geraniums, narcissus; and o, this is not half the variety of flowers! look into the shop; there are bushels of them and other flowers, all ranged round the wall; the perfume salutes the most insensible passer-by; it tells of the songs of birds, and of the delights of summer time. you cannot resist its influence. let us go in and look at the flowers. the person who keeps the shop has the manners of a lady; she wishes you good morning; and, if you do not behave just as you would if you entered a lady's parlor, you are set down as an american or englishman, who does not know how to behave. when you leave the shop also, you must remember to say, "bon jour," or you commit an offence. how kindly the lady who keeps this flower shop shows us all her flowers! how she seems to love them, as if they were her children! we must get a bouquet to show our gratitude for her kindness, though she would not demand it. at every street corner is a woman with a basket of violets and evergreens. she offers them in such a pretty way, taking care that you shall take their perfume. you cannot resist them. now, suppose we were taking a walk, some other morning. before us is the "place de la concorde," all glistening in the spring sunlight. see, there, in the centre, is the obelisk--a monument of the time of sesostris, king of egypt, erected by him before the great temple of thebes more than three thousand years ago, or fifteen hundred and fifty years before christ. this enormous stone, all of one piece, seventy-two feet high, seven feet and a half square at the base, of red granite, and covered with hieroglyphic inscriptions, was given to the french government by the viceroy of egypt, in consideration of an armed and naval establishment which that government had helped him to form at alexandria. eight hundred men struggled for three months in egypt, in the midst of all manner of hardships, building a road and constructing machinery to drag the obelisk, completely cased in wood, down to the nile. it cost two millions of francs to place this monument where it now stands. this was done with great pomp and ceremony in october, , the royal family and about a hundred and fifty thousand other people looking on. now try to place yourself in imagination at the foot of this great obelisk of luxor, mounted up as it is upon a single block of gray granite of france, covered all over with gilded engraving of the machinery used in placing the great thing where it is. the place de la concorde itself, which surrounds you, is eight sided; and if the excavations around it were filled with water, it would be an island, seven hundred feet or so across, and connected with the main land by four elegant little bridges. but instead of water, these "diggings" are beautifully filled with flower gardens. at the eight corners of the island are eight pavilions, as they are called; or great watch houses, of elegant architecture, occupied by the military or the police, as occasion requires. each of these forms the base of a gigantic statue, representing one of the principal cities of france. it is as if the whole eight were sitting in friendly council for the good of paris. how beautiful they are, with their grand expressionless faces, and their graceful attitudes, and their simple antique drapery. they are all sitting in their mural crowns,--the fortified cities on cannons, the commercial ones on bales of goods. strasburg alone seems full of life. she has her arm akimbo, as if braving germany, to which she once belonged. look, north from the obelisk, up the rue de la concorde, and the splendid church of the madeleine bounds your sight. on your right are the gardens of the tuilleries; on your left are the champs elysees; behind you is the chamber of deputies. both before and behind you, in the place itself, you have a splendid fountain, each being a round basin, fifty feet in diameter, in which stands a smaller basin, with a still smaller above it, supported and surrounded by bronze figures of rivers, seas, genii of fruits, flowers, and fisheries, and all manner of gods of commerce and navigation, all spouting water like mad. see the famous marble horses from marly. how impatient they look to break away from the athletic arm which holds them! what life and spirit they show! how beautiful they are! take one look now at the arc de triomphe; it is nearly two miles off, but looks very near. now turn; and directly opposite, at some distance, you see what james lowell calls the "front door of the tuilleries." the gardens are full of beautiful children. their mothers or nurses are sitting under the trees, while the children run about at will. there are thousands playing at ball, driving hoops, jumping ropes, shouting, laughing, merry as children will be and ought to be. let us take a stroll in the champs elysees. you have never seen any thing so beautiful, so captivating, as the scene. it seems like enchantment. all the world is here--young and old, poor and rich, fashionable and unfashionable. all for their amusement. let us see what this group are looking at so earnestly. a number of wooden ponies are wheeled round and round, and each has a rosy-cheeked boy upon it. here is another in which they go in boats; another in chairs. this amusement costs only two or three sous apiece to the children. the parents or the nurses stand around enjoying it almost as much as the children. let us walk on. see that little fountain gleaming through the tender green of the young leaves as you see them in the pretty wood that forms a background to the picture. all along in the road you observe fine equipages of all sorts standing in waiting, while the gay world, or the poor invalids whom they brought to this place of enchantment, are walking about or sitting in chairs, courting health and amusement. here is something still prettier than any thing you have seen--a beautiful little carriage that can hold four children and a driver, drawn by four white goats, with black horns and beards. the french are peculiarly kind to animals. no law is necessary in france for the protection of animals from the cruelty of their masters. you meet men and women, very respectably dressed, leading dogs with the greatest care; and in the fashionable drives, every tenth carriage (it seemed to me) had a dog lying on the seat, or standing on his hind legs, looking out of the window. a friend told me that, when present at a grand review where there was a great crowd, she saw a woman, who could not get near enough to see the show, hold up her dog over the heads of the people, that he might at least have the pleasure of seeing what was going on. i must tell you about the ceremony of making an archbishop, which we had the good fortune to witness. it took place at notre dame. the nave of the church was full. around the altar, all the priests and dignitaries of the church were seated; the officiating archbishop in a high seat, and an empty chair by his side for the new archbishop when finished and prepared for the honor. all the priests were in full dress. their garments were stiff with gold and silver. my eyes were dazzled with their splendor. perfect silence prevailed, and the ceremony commenced. the priest, who was to be made into a bishop, had all sorts of things done to him. he knelt, he prayed, he was prayed over, he was read to, he had hands laid upon him, he was crossed; incense was thrown up, the organ played, and all the priests and bishops knelt and rose from their knees, and knelt and rose again, and again; high mass was said, and the show was very remarkable. once the poor mortal, who was to be consecrated, knelt, and a large book was put upon him, like a saddle. finally they took him and tied napkins upon his arms and his neck, and then led him to a knot of priests a little out of my sight. in a few moments, he reappeared with all his canonicals on, except the mitre. now he was brilliant indeed, loaded with gold ornaments, stiff with splendor. his face, i noticed, was very red, and he looked weary. i did not quite understand the tumbled towels; whether these were to catch the consecrating oil that they poured on his head, or whether they were emblematic of the filthy rags of this world, which he laid aside for the new and shining garments of perfect holiness, i could not find out. now the new archbishop knelt again before the old archbishop, and the old one put the mitre upon the head of the new one. then the old archbishop embraced and kissed the new, and after that all the other bishops, who, as the french say, assisted at the ceremony, performed the same act on both sides of his face. after this, the new archbishop and his holy brother walked side by side, followed by all the other bishops and priests, down from the altar among the audience; and the new dignitary gave his blessing to all the people. i wish i could carry you with me to the palace at versailles. the magnificent equestrian statue of louis xiv., which you can see afar off as you approach, the noble statues in the grand court yard, and the ancient regal aspect of the whole scene, with its countless fountains and its seven miles of pictures, are beyond all description. as i stood lost in wonder and admiration, my friend, who introduced me to this world of wonders, pointed to a window in one corner of the building; there, she said, louis xvi. passed much of his time making locks; and there, from that balcony, marie antoinette appeared with her children and the king, when she addressed the wild, enraged parisian mob. we saw the private apartments of the unhappy queen, and the small door through which she escaped from the fury of the soldiers. we went to see the little trianon which she had built for her amusement; a lovely place it is. here she tried to put aside state and the queen, and be a happy human being. here marie antoinette had a laiterie, a milk house, where she is said to have made butter and cheese. here she caused to be built twelve cottages after the swiss fashion, and filled them with poor families whom she tried to make happy. we went into her dairy. it was fit for a queen to make butter in. in the centre of the beautifully shaped room was a large oblong, white marble table; on each side were places for admitting the water, and under them beautiful marble reservoirs in the shape of shells, and, underneath, large slabs of white marble. all is still, all so chaste, so beautiful, all as it once was, and she, the poor sufferer, what a story of blighted hope and bitter sorrow! see her the night before her trial, which she knew would end in death, mending her own old shoes, that she might appear more decently. the solemn realities of life had come to her unsought. i left paris and travelled through belgium to cologne. the day i arrived was some holiday; so there was grand mass in the cathedral, and such music!--the immense building was filled with the sound. the full organ was played, and some of the priest singers took part. never did music so overcome me. the sublime piece,--as i thought of beethoven's, surely of some great composer,--performed in this glorious old cathedral, was beyond all that i had ever dreamt of. it seems to me that i might think of it again in my dying hour with delight. i felt as if it created a new soul in me. such gushes of sweet sound, such joyful fulness of melody, such tender breathings of hope, and love, and peace, and then such floods of harmony filling all those sublime arches, ascending to the far distant roof and running along through the dim aisles--o, one must hear, to have an idea of the effect of such music in such a place. at bonn we took the steamer; the day was perfect, and our pleasure was full. you must see one of these fine old castles on the top of the beautiful hills--you must yourself see the blue sky through its ruined arches--you must see the vines covering every inch of the mountain that is not solid rock, and witness the lovely effect of the gray rock mingling with the tender green--you must hear the wild legend of the owner of the castle in his day of power, and feel the passage of time and civilization that has changed his fastness of strength and rapine to a beautiful adornment of this scene of peace and plenty, its glories all humbled, its terrors all passed away, and its great and only value the part it plays in a picture, and the lesson it preaches, in its decay, of the progress of justice and humanity. from coblentz to bingen is the glory of the rhine scenery; old castles looking down over these lovely hills covered with vines and cornfields; little villages nestled in between them; beautiful spires of the prettiest churches you can imagine, looking as if they gathered the houses of the villages under their protecting wings. your soul, in short, is full of unutterable delight. it was a sort of relief to laugh at the legend as we passed the little island on which is the mouse tower, so named from the history of bishop hatto, who it is said was eaten up by rats because he refused corn in a time of scarcity to the starving poor, when he had a plenty rotting in his storehouses. when i was obliged at last to turn away from all these glories, the words of byron were in my heart:-- * * * * * adieu to thee again; a vain adieu; there can be no farewell to scenes like thine. the mind is colored by thy every hue, and if reluctantly the eyes resign their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely rhine, 'tis with the thankful glance of parting praise. more mighty spots may rise, more glaring shine, but none unite in one attracting maze the brilliant, fair, and soft, the glories of old days, the negligently grand, the fruitful bloom of summer ripeness, the white cities' sheen, the rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, the forest's growth, and gothic walls between the wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been, in mockery of man's art." absalom's hair bjornstjerne bjornson chapter harald kaas was sixty. he had given up his free, uncriticised bachelor life; his yacht was no longer seen off the coast in summer; his tours to england and the south had ceased; nay, he was rarely to be found even at his club in christiania. his gigantic figure was never seen in the doorways; he was failing. bandy-legged he had always been, but this defect had increased; his herculean back was rounded, and he stooped a little. his forehead, always of the broadest--no one else's hat would fit him--was now one of the highest, that is to say, he had lost all his hair, except a ragged lock over each ear and a thin fringe behind. he was beginning also to lose his teeth, which were strong though small, and blackened by tobacco; and now, instead of "deuce take it" he said "deush take it." he had always held his hands half closed as though grasping something; now they had stiffened so that he could never open them fully. the little finger of his left hand had been bitten off "in gratitude" by an adversary whom he had knocked down: according to harald's version of the story, he had compelled the fellow to swallow the piece on the spot. he was fond of caressing the stump, and it often served as an introduction to the history of his exploits, which became greater and greater as he grew older and quieter. his small sharp eyes were deep set and looked at one with great intensity. there was power in his individuality, and, besides shrewd sense, he possessed a considerable gift for mechanics. his boundless self-esteem was not devoid of greatness, and the emphasis with which both body and soul proclaimed themselves made him one of the originals of the country. why was he nothing more? he lived on his estate, hellebergene, whose large woods skirted the coast, while numerous leasehold farms lay along the course of the river. at one time this estate had belonged to the kurt family, and had now come back to them, in so far as that harald's father, as every one knew, was not a kaas at all, but a kurt; it was he who had got the estate together again; a book might be written about the ways and means that he had employed. the house looked out over a bay studded with islands; farther out were more islands and the open sea. an immensely long building, raised on an old and massive foundation, its eastern wing barely half furnished, the western inhabited by harald kaas, who lived his curious life here. these wings were connected by two covered galleries, one above the other, with stairs at each end. curiously enough, these galleries did not face the sea, that is, the south, but the fields and woods to the north. the portion of the house between the two wings was a neutral territory--namely, a large dining-room with a ballroom above it, neither of which was used in later years. harald kaas's suite of rooms was distinguished from without by a mighty elk's head with its enormous antlers, which was set up over the gallery. in the gallery itself were heads of bear, wolf, fox and lynx, with stuffed birds from land and sea. skins and guns hung on the walls of the anteroom, the inner rooms were also full of skins and impregnated with the smell of wild animals and tobacco-smoke. harald himself called it "man-smell;" no one who had once put his nose inside could ever forget it. valuable and beautiful skins hung on the walls and covered the floors; his very bed was nothing else; harald kaas lay, and sat, and walked on skins, and each one of them was a welcome subject of conversation, for he had shot and flayed every single animal himself. to be sure, there were those who hinted that most of the skins had been bought from brand and company, of bergen, and that only the stories were shot and flayed at home. i for my part think that this was an exaggeration; but be that as it may, the effect was equally thrilling when harald kaas, seated in his log chair by the fireside, his feet on the bearskin, opened his shirt to show us the scars on his hairy chest (and what scars they were!) which had been made by the bear's teeth, when he had driven his knife, right up to the haft, into the monster's heart. all the queer tankards, and cupboards, and carved chairs listened with their wonted impassiveness. harald kaas was sixty, when, in the month of july, he sailed into the bay accompanied by four ladies whom he had brought from the steamer--an elderly lady and three young ones, all related to him. they were to stay with him until august. they occupied the upper storey. from it they could hear him walking about and grunting below them. they began to feel a little nervous. indeed, three of them had had serious misgivings about accepting the invitation; and these misgivings were not diminished when, next morning, they saw kaas composedly strolling up from the sea stark naked! they screamed, and, gathering together, still in their nightgowns, held a council of war as to the advisability of leaving at once; but when one of them cried "you should not have called us, aunt, and then we should not have seen him," they could not help laughing, and therewith the whole affair ended. certainly they were a little stiff at breakfast; but when harold kaas began a story about an old black mare of his which was in love with a young brown horse over at the dean's, and which plunged madly if any other horse came near her, but, on the other hand, put her head coaxingly on one side and whinnied "like a dainty girl" whenever the parson's horse came that way--well, at that they had to give in, as well first as last. if they had strayed here out of curiosity they must just put up with the "night side of nature," as harald kaas expressed it, with the stress on the first word. for all that they were nearly frightened out of their wits the very next night, when he discharged his gun right under their windows. the aunt even asserted that he had shot through her open casement. she screamed loudly, and the others, starting from their sleep, were out on the floor before they knew where they were. then they crouched in the windows and peeped out, although their aunt declared that they would certainly be shot--they really must see what it was. yes! there they saw him among the cherry and apple trees, gun in hand, and they could hear him swearing. in the greatest trepidation they crept back into bed again. next morning they learned that he had shot at some night prowlers, one of whom had got "half the charge in his leg, that he had, deush take him! it ain't the prowling i mind, but that he should prowl here. we bachelors will have no one poaching on our preserves." the four ladies sat as stiff as four church candles, till at length one of them sprang up with a scream, the others joining in chorus. the visitors were not bored; harald kaas dealt too much in the unexpected for that. there was a charm, too, in the great woods, where there had been no felling since he had come into the property, and there were merry walks by the riverside and plenty of fish in the river. they bathed, they took delightful sails in the cutter and drives about the neighbourhood, though certainly the turn-out was none of the smartest. the youngest of the girls, kristen ravn, presently became less eager to join in these expeditions. she had fallen in love with the disused east wing of the house, and there she spent many a long hour, alone by the open window, gazing out at the great lime-trees which stood straggling, gaunt, and mysterious. "you ought to build a balcony here, out towards the sea," she said. "look how the water glitters between the limes." when once she had hit upon a plan, kristen ravn never relinquished it, and when she had suggested it some four or five times, he promised that it should be done. but on the heels of this scheme came another. "below the first balcony there must be another wider one," said she in her soft voice, "and it must have steps at each end down to the lawn--the lawn is so lovely just here." the unheard-of presumption of her demand inoculated him with the idea, and at length he consented to this as well. "the rooms must be refurnished," she gravely commanded. "the one next to the balcony which is to be built under here shall be in yellow pine, and the floor must be polished." she pointed with her long delicate hand. "all the floors must be polished. i will give you the design for the room above, i have thought it carefully out." and in imagination she papered the walls, arranged the furniture, and hung up curtains of wondrous patterns. "i know, too, how the other rooms are to be done," she added. and she went from one to the other, remaining a little while in each. he followed, like an old horse led by the bridle. before their visit was half over he most coolly neglected three out of his four guests. his deep-set eyes twinkled with the liveliest admiration whenever she approached. he sought in the faces of the others the admiration which he himself felt: he would amble round her like an old photographic camera which had the power of setting itself up. but from the day when she took down from his bookshelf a french work on mechanics, a subject with which she was evidently acquainted and for which she declared that she had a natural aptitude, it was all over with him. from that day forward, if she were present, he effaced himself both in word and action. in the mornings when he met her in one of her characteristic costumes he laughed softly, or gazed and gazed at her, and then glanced towards the others. she did not talk much, but every word that she uttered aroused his admiration. but he was most of all captivated when she sat quietly apart, heedless of every one: at such times he resembled an old parrot expectant of sugar. his linen had always been snowy white, but beyond this he had taken no special pains with his toilet; but now he strutted about in a tussore silk coat, which he had bought in algiers, but had at once put aside because it was too tight--he looked like a clipt box hedge in it. now, who was this lion-tamer of twenty-one, who, without in the least wishing to do so, unconsciously even (she was the quietest of the party), had made the monarch of the forest crouch at her feet and gaze at her in abject humility? look at her, as she sits there, with her loose shining hair of the prettiest shade of dark red; look at her broad forehead and prominent nose, but more than all at those large wondering eyes; look at her throat and neck, her tall slight figure; notice especially the renaissance dress which she wears, its style and colour, and your curiosity will still remain unsatisfied, for she has an individuality all her own. kristen ravn had lost her mother at her birth and her father when she was five years old. the latter left her a handsome fortune, with the express condition that the investments should not be changed, and that the income should be for her own use whether she married or not. he hoped by this means to form her character. she was brought up by three different members of her wide-branching family, a family which might more properly be termed a clan, although they had no common characteristics beyond a desire to go their own way. when two ravns meet they, as a rule, differ on every subject; but as a race they hold religiously together--indeed, in their eyes there is no other family which is "amusing," the favourite adjective of the ravns. kristen had a receptive nature; she read everything, and remembered what she read; that is say, she had a logical mind, for a retentive memory implies an orderly brain. she was consequently number one in everything which she took up. this, coupled with the fact that she lived among those who regarded her somewhat as a speculation, and consequently flattered her, had early made an impression on her nature, quite as great, indeed, as the possession of money. she was by no means proud, it was not in the ravn nature to be so; but at ten years old she had left off playing; she preferred to wander in the woods and compose ballads. at twelve she insisted on wearing silk dresses, and, in the teeth of an aunt all curls and lace and with a terrible flow of words, she carried her point. she held herself erect and prim in her silks, and still remained number one. she composed verses about sir adge and maid else, about birds and flowers and sad things. on reaching the age at which other girls, who have the means, begin to wear silk dresses, she left them off. she was tired, she said, of the "smooth and glossy." she now grew enthusiastic for fine wool and expensive velvet of every shade. dresses in the renaissance style became her favourites, and the subject of her studies. she puffed out her bodices like those in leonardo's and rafael's portraits of women, and tried in other ways as well to resemble them. she left off writing verses, and wrote stories instead; the style was good, though they were anything rather than spontaneous. they were short, with a more or less clear pointe. stories by a girl of eighteen do not as a general rule make a sensation, but these were particularly audacious. it was evident that their only object was to scandalise. instead of her own name she used the nom-de-plume of "puss." this, however, was only to postpone the announcement that the author who scandalised her readers most, and that at a time when every author strove to do so, was a girl of eighteen belonging to one of the first families in the country. soon every one knew that "puss" was she of the tumbled red locks, "the tall renaissance figure with the titian hair." her hair was abundant, glossy, and slightly curling; she still wore it hanging loose over her neck and shoulders, as she had done as a child. her great eyes seemed to look out upon a new world; but one felt that the lower part of her face was scarcely in harmony with the upper. the cheeks fell in a little; the prominent nose made the mouth look smaller than it actually was; her neck seemed only to lead the eye downward to her bosom, which almost appeared to caress her throat, especially when her head was bent forward, as was generally the case. and very beautiful the throat was, delicate in colour, superb in contour, and admirably set upon the bust. for this reason she could never find in her heart to hide this full white neck, but always kept it uncovered. her finely moulded bust surmounting a slender waist and small hips, her rounded arms, her long hands, her graceful carriage, in her tightly-fitting dress, formed such a striking picture that one did more than look--one was obliged to study her, when the elegance and beauty of her dress were taken into account, one realised how much intelligence and artistic taste had here been exercised. she was friendly in society, natural and composed, always occupied with something, always with that wondering expression. she spoke very little, but her words were always well chosen. all this, and her general disposition, made people chary of opposing her, more especially those who knew how intelligent she was and how much knowledge she possessed. she had no friends of her own, but her innumerable relations supplied her with society, gossip, and flattery, and were at once her friends and body-guard. she would have had to go abroad to be alone. among these relations she was a princess: they not only paid her homage, but had sworn by "life and death" that she must marry without more ado, which was absolutely against her wish. from her childhood she had been laying by money, but the amount of her savings was far less than her relations supposed. this rather mythical fortune contributed not a little to the fact that "every one" was in love with her. not only the bachelors of the family, that was a matter of course, but artists and amateurs, even the most blase, swarmed round her, la jeunesse doree (which is homely enough in norway), without an exception. a living work of art, worth more or less money, piquante and admired, how each longed to carry her home, to gloat over her, to call her his own! there was surely more intensity of feeling near her than near others, a losing of oneself in one only; that unattainable dream of the world-weary. with her one could lead a thoroughly stylish life, full of art and taste and comfort. she was highly cultivated, and absolutely emancipated--our little country did not, in those days, possess a more alluring expression. when face to face with her they were uncertain how to act, whether to approach her diffidently or boldly, smile or look serious, talk or be silent. what these idle wooers gleaned from her stories, her characteristic dress, her wondering eyes, and her quiet dreaminess, was not the highest, but they expended their energy thereon; so that their unbounded discomfiture may be imagined when, in the autumn, the news spread that fruken kristen ravn was married to harald kaas. they burst into peals of derisive laughter they scoffed, they exclaimed; the only explanation they could offer was that they had too long hesitated to try their fortune. there were others, who both knew and admired her, who were no less dismayed. they were more than disappointed--the word is too weak; to many of them it seemed simply deplorable. how on earth could it have happened? every one, herself excepted, knew that it would ruin her life. on kristen ravn's independent position, her strong character, her rare courage, on her knowledge, gifts, and energy, many, especially women, had built up a future for the cause of woman. had she not already written fearlessly for it? her tendency towards eccentricity and paradox would soon have worn off, they thought, as the struggle carried her forward, and at last she might have become one of the first champions of the cause. all that was noblest and best in kristen must predominate in the end. and now the few who seek to explain life's perplexities rather than to condemn them discovered--some of them, that the defiant tone of her writings and her love of opposition bespoke a degree of vanity sufficient to have led her into fallacy. others maintained that hers was essentially a romantic nature which might cause her to form a false estimate both of her own powers and of the circumstances of life. others, again, had heard something of how this husband and wife lived, one in each wing of the house, with different staffs of servants, and with separate incomes; that she had furnished her side in her own way, at her own expense, and had apparently conceived the idea of a new kind of married life. some people declared that the great lime-trees near the mansion at hellebergene were alone responsible for the marriage. they soughed so wondrously in the summer evenings, and the sea beneath their branches told such enthralling stories. those grand old woods, the like of which were hardly to be found in impoverished norway, were far dearer to her than was her husband. her imagination had been taken captive by the trees, and thus harald kaas had taken her. the estate, the climate, the exclusive possession of her part of the house: this was the bait which she had chosen. harald kaas was only a kind of puck who had to be taken along with it. but it is doubtful whether this conjecture was any nearer the truth. no one ever really knew. she was not one of those whom it is easy to catechise. every one wearies at last of trying to solve even the most interesting of enigmas. no one could tolerate the sound of her name when, four months after her marriage, she was seen in a stall at the christiania theatre just as in old days, though looking perhaps a little paler. every opera-glass was levelled at her. she wore a light, almost white, dress, cut square as usual. she did not hide her face behind her fan. she looked about her with her wondering eyes, as though she was quite unconscious that there were other people in the theatre or that any one could be looking at her. even the most pertinacious were forced to concede that she was both physically and mentally unique, with a charm all her own. but just as she had become once more the subject of general conversation, she disappeared. it afterwards transpired that her husband had fetched her away, though hardly any one had seen him. it was concluded that they must have had their first quarrel over it. accurate information about their joint life was never obtained. the attempts of her relations to force themselves upon them were quite without result, except that they found out that she was enceinte, notwithstanding her utmost efforts to conceal the fact. she sent neither letter nor announcement; but in the summer, when she was next seen in christiania, she was wheeling a perambulator along karl johan street, her eyes as wondering as though some one had just put it between her hands. she looked handsomer and more blooming than ever. in the perambulator lay a boy with his mother's broad forehead, his mother's red hair. the child was charmingly dressed, and he, as well as the perambulator, was so daintily equipped, so completely in harmony with herself, that every one understood the reply that she gave, when, after the usual congratulations, her acquaintances inquired, "shall we soon have a new story from you?"--she answered, "a new story? here it is!" but, notwithstanding the unalloyed happiness which she displayed here, it could no longer be concealed that more often than not she was absent from home, and that she never mentioned her husband's name. if any one spoke of him to her, she changed the subject. by the time that the boy was a year old, it had become evident that she contemplated leaving hellebergene entirely. she had been in christiania for some time and had gone home to make arrangements, saying that she should come back in a few days. but she never did so. the day after her return home, while the numerous servants at hellebergene, as well as the labourers with their wives and children, were all assembled at the potato digging, harald kaas appeared, carrying his wife under his left arm like a sack. he held her round the waist, feet first, her face downwards and hidden by her hair, her hands convulsively clutching his left thigh, her legs sometimes hanging down, sometimes straight out. he walked composedly out with her, holding in his right hand a bunch of long fresh birch twigs. a little way from the gallery he paused, and laying her across his left knee, he tore off some of her clothes, and beat her until the blood flowed. she never uttered a sound. when he put her from him, she tremblingly rearranged--first her hair, thus displaying her face just as the blood flowed back from it, leaving it deadly white. tears of pain and shame rolled down her cheeks; but still not a sound. she tried to rearrange her dress, but her tattered garments trailed behind her as she went back to the house. she shut the door after her, but had to open it again; her torn clothes had caught fast in it. the women stood aghast; some of the children screamed with fright: this infected the rest, and there was a chorus of sobs. the men, most of whom had been sitting smoking their pipes, but who had sprung to their feet again, stood filled with shame and indignation. it had not been without a pang that harald kaas had done this, his face and manner had shown it for a long time and still did so; but he had expected that a roar of laughter would greet his extraordinary vagary. this was evident from the composure with which he had carried his wife out; and still more from the glance of gratified revenge with which he looked round him afterwards. but there was only dead stillness, succeeded by weeping, sobbing, and indignation. he stood there for a moment, quite overcome, then went indoors again, a defeated, utterly broken man. in every encounter with this delicate creature the giant had been worsted. after this, however, she never went beyond the grounds. for the first few years she was only seen by the people about the estate, and by them but seldom. sometimes she would take her boy out in his little carriage, or, as time went on, would lead him by the hand, sometimes she was alone. she was generally wrapped in a big shawl, a different one for each dress she wore, and which she always held tightly round her. this was so characteristic of her that to this day i hear people from the neighbourhood talk about it as though she were never seen otherwise. what then did she do? she studied; she had given up writing: for more than one reason it had become distasteful to her. she had changed roles with her husband, giving herself up to mathematics, chemistry, and physics, she made calculations and analyses--sending for books and materials for these objects. the people on the estate saw nothing extraordinary in all this. from the first they had admired her delicacy and beauty. every one admired her; it was only the manner and degree that varied. little by little she came to be regarded as one whose life and thoughts were beyond their comprehension. she sought no one, but to those who came to her she never refused help--more or less. she made herself well acquainted with the facts of each case; no one could ever deceive her. whether she gave much or little, she imposed no conditions, she never lectured them. her opinion was expressed by the amount that she gave. her husband's behaviour towards her was such that, had she not been very popular, she could not have remained at hellebergene; that is to say, he opposed and thwarted her in every way he could; but every one took her part. the boy! could not he have been a bond of union? on the contrary, there were those who declared that it was from the time of his birth that things had gone amiss between the parents. the first time that his father saw him the nurse reported that he "came in like a lord and went out like a beggar!" the mother lay down again and laughed; the nurse had never seen the like of it before. had he expected that his child must of necessity resemble him, only to find it the image of its mother? when the boy was old enough he loved to wander across to his father's rooms where there were so many curious things to see; his father always received him kindly, talking in a way suited to his childish intelligence, but he would take occasion to cut away a quantity of his hair. his mother let it grow free and long like her own, and his father perpetually cut it. the boy would have been glad enough to be rid of it, but when he grew a little older, he comprehended his father's motive, and thenceforth he was on his guard. when the people on the estate had told him something of his father's highly-coloured histories of his feats of strength and his achievements by land and water, the boy began to feel a shy admiration for him, but at the same time he felt all the more strongly the intolerable yoke which he laid upon them--upon every living being on the estate. it became a secret religion with him to oppose his father and help his mother, for it was she who suffered. he would resemble her even to his hair, he would protect her, he would make it all up to her. it was a positive delight to him when his father made him suffer: he absolutely felt proud when he called him rafaella, instead of rafael, the name which his mother had chosen for him; it was the one that she loved best. no one was allowed to use the boats or the carriage, no one might walk through the woods, which had been fenced in, the horses were never taken out. no repairs were undertaken; if fru kaas attempted to have anything done at her own expense, the workmen were ordered off: there could no longer be any doubt about it, he wished everything to go to rack and ruin. the property went from bad to worse, and the woods--well! it was no secret, every one on the place talked about it--the timber was being utterly ruined. the best and largest trees were already rotten; by degrees the rest would become so. at twelve years of age rafael began to receive religious teaching from the dean: the only subject in which his mother did not instruct him. he shared these lessons with helene, the dean's only child, who was four years younger than rafael and of whom he was devotedly fond. the dean told them the story of david. the narrative was unfolded with additions and explanations; the boy made a picture of it to himself; his mother had taught him everything in this way. assyrian warriors with pointed beards, oblique eyes, and oblong shields, had to represent the israelites; they marched by in an endless procession. he saw the blue-green of the vineyards on the hillside, the shadow of the dusty palm-trees upon the dusty road. then a wood of aromatic trees into which all the warriors fled. then followed the story of absalom. "absalom rebelled against his father, what a dreadful thing to think of," said the dean. "a grown-up man to rebel against his father." he chanced to look towards rafael, who turned as red as fire. the thought which was constantly in his mind was that when he was grown up he should rebel against his father. "but absalom was punished in a marvellous manner," continued the dean. "he lost the battle, and as he fled through the woods, his long hair caught in a tree, the horse ran away from under him, and he was left hanging there until he was run through by a spear." rafael could see absalom hanging there, not in the long assyrian garments, not with a pointed beard. no! slender and young, in rafael's tight-fitting breeches and stockings, and with his own red hair! ah! how distinctly he saw it! the horse galloping far away--the grey one at home which he used to ride by stealth when his father was asleep after dinner. he could see the tall, slender lad, dangling and swaying, with a spear through his body. distinctly! distinctly! this vision, which he never mentioned to a soul, he could not get rid of. to be left hanging there by his hair--what a strange punishment for rebelling against his father! certainly he already knew the history, but till now he had paid no special heed to it. it was on a friday that this great impression had been made on him, and on the following thursday morning he awoke to see his mother standing over him with her most wondering expression. her hair still as she had plaited it for the night; one plait had touched him on the nose and awoke him before she spoke. she stood bending over him, in her long white nightgown with its dainty lace trimming, and with bare feet. she would never have come in like that if something terrible had not happened. why did she not speak? only look and look--or was she really frightened? "mother!" he cried, sitting up. then she bent close down to him. "the man is dead," she whispered. it was his father whom she called "the man," she never spoke of him otherwise. rafael did not comprehend what she said, or perhaps it paralysed him. she repeated it again louder and louder, "the man is dead, the man is dead." then she stood upright, and putting out her bare feet from under her nightgown, she began to dance--only a few steps; and then she slipped away through the door which stood half open. he jumped up and ran after her; there she lay on the sofa, sobbing. she felt that he was behind her, she raised herself quickly, and, still sobbing, pressed him to her heart. even when they stood together beside the body, the hand which he had in his shook so that he threw his arms round her, thinking that she would fall. later in life, when he recalled this, he understood what she had silently endured, what an unbending will she had brought to the struggle, but also what it had cost her. at the time he did not in the least comprehend it. he imagined that she suffered from the horror of the moment as he himself did. there lay the giant, in wretchedness and squalor! he who had once boasted of his cleanliness, and expected the like in others, lay there, dirty and unshaven, under dirty bed clothes, in linen so ragged and filthy that no workman on the estate had worse. the clothes which he had worn the day before lay on a chair beside the bed, miserably threadbare, foul with dirt, sweat, and tobacco, and stinking like everything else. his mouth was distorted, his hands tightly clenched; he had died of a stroke. and how forlorn and desolate was all around him! why had his son never noticed this before? why had he never felt that his father was lonely and forsaken? to how great an extent no words could express. rafael burst into tears; louder and louder grew his sobbing, until it sounded through all the rooms. the people from the estate came in one by one. they wished to satisfy their curiosity. the boy's crying, unconsciously to himself, influenced them all: they saw everything in a new light. how unfortunate, how desolate, how helpless had he been who now lay there. lord, have mercy on us all! when the corpse of harald kaas had been laid out, the face shaved, and the eyes closed, the distortion was less apparent. they could trace signs of suffering, but the expression was still virile. it seemed a handsome face to them now. chapter within a few days of the funeral mother and son were in england. rafael was now to enter upon a long course of study, for which, by his earlier education, his mother had prepared him, and for which, by painful privations, she had saved up sufficient money. the property was to the last degree impoverished, and burdened with mortgages, and the timber only fit for fuel. their neighbour the dean, a clear-headed and practical man, took upon himself the management of affairs; as money was needed the work of devastation must begin at once. the mother and son did not wish to witness it. they came to england like two fugitives who, after many and great trials, for affection's sake seek a new home and a new country. rafael was then twelve years old. they were inseparable, and in the shiftless life that they led in their new surroundings they became, if possible, more closely attached to each other. yet not long afterwards they had their first disagreement. he had gone to school, had begun to learn the language and to make friends, and had developed a great desire to show off. he was very tall and slender and was anxious to be athletic. he took an active part in the play-ground, but here he achieved no great success. on the other hand, thanks to his mother, he was better informed than his comrades, and he contrived to obtain prominence by this. this prominence must be maintained, and nothing answered so well as boasting about norway and his father's exploits. his statements were somewhat exaggerated, but that was not altogether his fault, he knew english fairly well, but had not mastered its niceties. he made use of superlatives, which always come the most readily. it was true that he had inherited from his father twenty guns, a large sailing-boat, and several smaller ones; but how magnificent these boats and guns had become! he intended to go to the north pole, he said, as his father had done, to shoot white bears, and invited them all to come with him. he made a greater impression on his hearers than he himself was aware of; but something more was wanted, for it was impossible to foretell from day to day what might be expected of him. he had to study hard in order to meet the demand. as an outcome of this, he betook himself one evening to the hairdresser's, with some of his schoolfellows, and, without more ado, requested him to cut his hair quite close. that ought to satisfy them for a long time. the other boys had teased him about his hair, and it got in the way when he was playing--he hated it. besides, ever since the story of absalom's rebellion and punishment, it had remained a secret terror to him, but it had never before occurred to him to have it cut off. his schoolfellows were dismayed, and the hairdresser looked on it as a work of wilful destruction. rafael felt his heart begin to sink, but the very audacity of the thing gave him courage they should see what he dare do. the hairdresser hesitated to act without fru kaas's knowledge, but at length he ceased to make objections. rafael's heart sank lower and lower, but he must go through with it now. "off with it," he said, and remained immovable in the chair. "i have never seen more splendid hair," said the hairdresser diffidently, taking up the scissors but still hesitating. rafael saw that his companions were on the tiptoe of expectation. "off with it," he said again with assumed indifference. the hairdresser cut the hair into his hand and laid it carefully in paper. the boys followed every snip of the scissors with their eyes, rafael with his ears; he could not see in the glass. when the hairdresser had finished and had brushed his clothes for him, he offered him the hair. "what do i want with it?" said rafael. he dusted his elbows and knees a little, paid, and left the shop, followed by his companions. they, however, exhibited no particular admiration. he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass as he went out, and thought that he looked frightful. he would have given all that he possessed (which was not much), he would have endured any imaginable suffering, he thought, to have his hair back again. his mother's wondering eyes rose up before him with every shade of expression; his misery pursued him, his vanity mocked him. the end of it all was that he stole up to his room and went to bed without his supper. but when his mother had vainly waited for him, and some one suggested that he might be in the house, she went to his room. he heard her on the stairs; he felt that she was at the door. when she entered he had hidden his head beneath the bedclothes. she dragged them back; and at the first sight of her dismay he was reduced to such despair that the tears which were beginning to flow ceased at once. white and horror-struck she stood there; indeed she thought at first that some one had done it maliciously; but when she could not extract a word of enlightenment, she suspected mischief. he felt that she was waiting for an explanation, an excuse, a prayer for forgiveness, but he could not, for the life of him, get out a word. what, indeed, could he say? he did not understand it himself. but now he began to cry violently. he huddled himself together, clasping his head between his hands. it felt like a bristly stubble. when he looked up again his mother was gone. a child sleeps in spite of everything. he came down the next morning in a contrite mood and thoroughly shamefaced. his mother was not up; she was unwell, for she had not slept a wink. he heard this before he went to her. he opened her door timidly. there she lay, the picture of wretchedness. on the toilet-table, in a white silk handkerchief, was his hair, smoothed and combed. she lay there in her lace-trimmed nightgown, great tears rolling down her cheeks. he had come, intending to throw himself into her arms and beg her pardon a thousand times. but he had a strong feeling that he had better not do so, or was he afraid to? she was in the clouds, far, far away. she seemed in a trance: something, at once painful and sacred, held her enchained. she was both pathetic and sublime. the boy stepped quietly from the room and hurried off to school. she remained in bed that day and the next, and made him sit with the servant in order that she might be alone. when she was in trouble she always behaved thus, and that he should cross her in this way was the greatest trial that she had ever known. it came upon her, too, like a deluge of rain from a clear sky. now it seemed to her that she could foresee his future--and her own. she laid the blame of all this on his paternal ancestry. she could not see that incessant artistic fuss and too much intellectual training had, perhaps, aroused in him a desire for independence. the first time that she saw him again with his cropped head, which grew more and more like his father's in shape, her tears flowed quietly. when he wished to come to her side, she waived him back with her shapely hand, nor would she talk to him; when he talked she hardly looked at him; till at last he burst into tears. for he suffered as one can suffer but once, when the childish penitence is fresh and therefore boundless, and when the yearning for love has received its first rebuff. but when, on the fifth day, she met him coming up the stairs, she stood still in dismay at his appearance: pale, thin, timid; the effect perhaps heightened by the loss of his hair. he, too, stood still, looking forlorn and abject, with disconsolate eyes. then hers filled; she stretched out her arms. he was once more in his paradise, but they both cried as though they must wade through an ocean of tears before they could talk to each other again. "tell me about it now," she whispered. this was in her own room. they had spoken the first fond words and kissed each other over and over again. "how could this have happened, rafael?" she whispered again, with her head pressed to his; she did not wish to look at him while she spoke. "mother," he answered, "it is worse to cut down the woods at home, at hellebergene, than that i--" she raised her head and looked at him. she had taken off her hat and gloves, but now she put them quickly on again. "rafael, dear," she said, "shall we go for a walk together in the park, under the grand old trees?" she had felt his retort to be ingenious. after this episode, however, england, and more especially her son's schoolfellows, became distasteful to her, and she constantly made plans to keep him away from the latter out of school hours. she found this very easy; sometimes she went over his studies with him, at others they visited all the manufactories and "works" for miles round. she liked to see for herself and awakened the same taste in him. factories which, as a rule, were closed to visitors, were readily opened to the pretty elegant lady and her handsome boy, "who after all knew nothing at all about it;" and they were able to see almost all that they wished. it was a less congenial task to use her influence to turn his thoughts to higher things, but it was rarely, nevertheless, that she failed. she struggled hard over what she did not understand and sought for help. to explain these things to rafael in the most attractive manner possible became a new occupation for her. his natural disposition inclined him to such studies; but to a boy of thirteen, who was thus kept from his comrades and their sports, it soon became a nuisance. no sooner had fru kaas noticed this than she took active steps. they left england and crossed to france. the strange speech threw him back on her; no one shared him with her. they settled in calais. a few days after their arrival she cut her hair short; she hoped that it would touch him to see that as he would not look like her, she tried to look like him--to be a. boy like him. she bought a smart new hat, she composed a jaunty costume, new from top to toe, for everything must be altered with the hair. but when she stood before him, looking like a girl of twenty-five, merry, almost boisterous, he was simply dismayed--nay, it was some time before he could altogether comprehend what had happened. as long as he could remember his mother, her eyes had always looked forth from beneath a crown; more solemn, more beautiful. "mother," he said, "where are you?" she grew pale and grave, and stammered something about its being more comfortable--about red hair not looking well when it began to lose its colour--and went into her room. there she sat with his hair before her and her own beside it; she wept. "mother, where are you?" she might have answered, "rafael, where are you?" she went about with him everywhere. in france two handsome, stylishly dressed people are always certain to be noticed, a thing which she thoroughly appreciated. during their different expeditions she always spoke french; he begged her to talk norse at least now and then, but all in vain. here, too, they visited every possible and impossible factory. unpractical and reserved as she was on ordinary occasions, she could be full of artifice and coquetry whenever she wished to gain access to a steam bakery and particular as she generally was about her toilette, she would come away again sooty and grimy if thereby she could procure for rafael some insight into mechanics. she shrank from foul air as from the cholera, yet inhaled sulphuric acid gas as though it had been ozone for his sake. "seeing for yourself, rafael, is the substance, other methods are its shadow;" or "seeing for yourself, rafael, is meat and drink, the other is but literature." he was not quite of the same opinion: he thought that notre dame de paris, from which he was daily dragged away, was the richest banquet that he had yet enjoyed, while from the factory of mayel et fils there issued the most deadly odours. his reading--she had encouraged him in it for the sake of the language and had herself helped him; now she was jealous of it and could not be persuaded to get him new books; but he got them nevertheless. they had been in calais for several months; he had masters and was beginning to feel himself at home, when there arrived at the pension a widow from one of the colonies, accompanied by her daughter, a girl of thirteen. the new comers had not appeared at meals for more than two days before the young gentleman began to pay his court to the young lady. from the first moment it was a plain case. very soon every one in the pension was highly amused to notice how fluent his french was becoming; his choice of words at times was even elegant! the girl taught him it without a trace of grammar, by charm, sprightliness, a little nonsense; a pair of confiding eyes and a youthful voice were sufficient. it was from her that he got, by stealth, one novel after another. by stealth it had to be; by stealth lucie had procured them; by stealth she gave them to him; by stealth they were read; by stealth she took them back again. this reading made him a little absent-minded, but otherwise nothing betrayed his flights into literature: to be sure, they were not very wonderful. fru kaas noticed her son's flirtation, and smiled with the rest over his progress in french. she had less objection to this friendship, in which, to a great extent, she shared, than to those in england, from which she had been quite excluded. in the evenings she would take the mother and daughter out for short excursions; and these she greatly enjoyed. but the novel reading which the young people carried on secretly had resulted in conversations of a "grown up" type. they talked of love with the deep experience which is proper to their age, they talked with still greater discretion as to when their wedding should take place; on this point they indirectly said much which caused them many a delightful tremor. as they were accustomed to talk about themselves before others, to describe their feelings in a veiled form, it often happened when there were many people near that they carried this amusement further, and before they were themselves aware of it, they were in the full tide of a symbolic language and played "catch" with each other. fru kaas noticed one evening that the word "rose" was drawn out to a greater length than it was possible for any rose to attain to; at the same time she saw the languishing look in their eyes, and broke in with the question, "what do you mean about the rose, child?" if any one had peeped behind a rose-bush and caught them kissing one another, a thing they had never done, they could not have blushed more. the next day fru kaas found new rooms, a long way from the quay near which they were living. rafael had suffered greatly at being torn away from england just as he had come down from his high horse and had put himself on a par with his companions, but not the least notice was taken of his trouble; it had only annoyed his mother. to be absolutely debarred from the books he was so fond of had been hard; but up to this time, being in a foreign land, amid foreign speech, he had always fallen back upon her. now he openly defied her. he went straight off to the hotel and sought out madame mery and her daughter as though nothing had occurred. this he did every day when he had finished his lessons. lucie had now become his sole romance; he gave all his leisure time to her, and not only that (for it no longer sufficed to see her at her mother's), they met on the quay! at times a maid-servant walked with them for appearance sake, at others she kept in the background. sometimes they would go on board a norwegian ship, sometimes they wandered about or strolled beneath some great trees. when he saw her in her short frock come out of the door, saw her quick movements, and her lively signals to him with parasol or hat or flowers, the quay, the ships, the bales, the barrels, the air, the noise, the crowd, all seemed to play and sing, "enfant! si j'etais roi je donerais l'empire, et mon char, et mon septre, et mon peuple a genoux," and he ran to meet her. he never dared to do more than to take both her chubby brown hands, nor to say more than "you are very sweet, you are very very good." and she never went further than to look at him, walk with him, laugh with him, and say to him, "you are not like the others." what experiences there had been in the life of this girl of thirteen goodness alone knows. he never asked her, he was too sure of her. he learned french from her as one bird feeds from another's bill, or as one who looks at his image in a fountain, as he drinks from it. one day, as mother and son were at breakfast, she glanced quietly across at him. "i heard of an excellent preparatory school of mechanics at rouen," she said, "so i wrote to inquire about it, and here is the answer. i approve of it in all respects, as you will do when you read it. i think that we shall go to rouen; what do you say to it?" he grew first red, then white; then put down his bread, his table napkin; got up and left the room. later in the day she asked him whether he would not read the letter; he left her without answering. at last, just as he was going to meet lucie on the quay, she said, and this time with determination, that they were to leave in the course of an hour. she had already packed up; as they stood there the man came to fetch the luggage. at that moment he felt that he could thoroughly understand why his father had beaten her. as they sat in the carriage which took them to the station he suffered keenly. it could not nave been worse, he thought, if his mother had stabbed him with a knife. he did not sit beside her in the railway carriage. during the first days at rouen he would not answer when she spoke to him, nor ask a single question. he had adopted her own tactics; he carried them through with a cruelty of which he was not aware. for a long time he had been disposed to criticise her; now that this criticism was extended to all that she said or did, the spirit of accusation tinctured her whole life; their joint past seemed altered and debased. his father's bent form, in the log chair on the hairless skin, malodorous and dirty, rose up before him, in vivid contrast with his mother in her well appointed, airy, perfumed rooms! when rafael stood by his father's body he had felt the same thing--that the old man had been badly treated. he himself had been encouraged to neglect his father, to shun him, to evade his orders. at that time he had laid the blame on the people on the estate; now he put it all down to his mother's account. his father had certainly adored her once, and this feeling had changed into wild self-consuming hatred. what had happened? he did not know; but he could not but admit that his mother would have tried the patience of job. he pictured to himself how lucie would come running with her flowers, search for him over the whole quay, farther and farther every time, standing still at last. he could not think of it without tears, and without a feeling of bitterness. but a child is a child. it was not a life-long grief. as the place was new and historically interesting, and as lessons had now begun and his mother was always with him, this feeling wore off, but the mutual restraint was still there. the critical spirit which had first been roused in england never afterwards left rafael. the hours of study which they passed together produced good results. beginning as her pupil, he had ended by becoming her teacher. she was anxious to keep up with him, and this was an advantage to him, on account of her almost too minute accuracy, but still more from her intelligent questions. apart from study they passed many pleasant hours together, but they both knew that something was missing in their conversation which could never be there again. at longer or shorter intervals a shy silence interrupted this intercourse. sometimes it was he, sometimes she, who, for some cause or other, often a most trivial one, elected not to reply, not to ask a question, not to see. when they were good friends he appreciated the best side of her character, the self-sacrificing life which she led for him. when they were not friends it was exactly the opposite. when they were friends, he, as a rule, did whatever she wished. he tried to atone for the past. he was in the land of courtesy and influenced by its teaching. when he was not friends with her he behaved as badly as possible. he early got among bad companions and into dissipated habits; he was the very child of rebellion. at times he had qualms of conscience on account of it. she guessed this, and wished him to guess that she guessed it. "i perceive a strange atmosphere here, fie! some one has mixed their atmosphere with yours, fie!" and she sprinkled him with scent. he turned as red as fire and, in his shame and misery, did not know which way to look. but if he attempted to speak she became as stiff as a poker, and, raising her small hand, "taisez-vous des egards, sil vous plait." it must be said in her excuse that, notwithstanding the daring books which she had written, she had had no experience of real life; she knew no form of words for such an occasion. it came at last to this pass, that she, who had at one time wished to control his whole life and every thought in it, and who would not share him with any one, not even with a book, gradually became unwilling to have any relations with him outside his studies. the french language especially lends itself to formal intercourse and diplomacy. they grasped this fact from the first. it may, indeed, have contributed to form their mutual life. it was more equitable and caused fewer collisions. at the slightest disagreement it was at once "monsieur mon fils" or simply "monsieur," or "madame ma mere," or "madame." at one time his health seemed likely to suffer: his rapid growth and the studies, to which she kept him very closely, were too much for his strength. but just then something remarkable occurred. at the time when rafael was nineteen he was one day in a french chemical factory, and, as it were in a flash, saw how half the power used in the machinery might be saved. the son of the owner who had brought him there was a fellow-student. to him he confided his discovery. they worked it out together with feverish excitement to the most minute details. it was very complex, for it was the working of the factory itself which was involved. the scheme was carefully gone into by the owner, his son, and their assistants together, and it was decided to try it. it was entirely successful; less than half the motive power now sufficed. rafael was away at the time that it was inaugurated; he had gone down a mine. his mother was not with him; he never took her down mines with him. as soon as ever he returned home he hurried off with her to see the result of his work. they saw everything, and they both blushed at the respect shown to them by the workmen. they were quite touched when, the owner being called, they heard his expressions of boundless delight. champagne flowed for them, accompanied by the warmest thanks. the mother received a beautiful bouquet. excited by the wine and the congratulations, proud of his recognition as a genius, rafael left the place with his mother on his arm. it seemed to him as though he were on one side, and all the rest of the world on the other. his mother walked happily beside him, with her bouquet in her hand. rafael wore a new overcoat--one after his own heart, very long and faced with silk, and of which he was excessively proud. it was a clear winter's day; the sun shone on the silk, and on something more as well. "there is not a speck on the sky, mother," he said. "nor one on your coat either," she retorted; for there had been a great many on his old one, and each had had its history. he was too big now to be turned to ridicule, and too happy as well. she heard him humming to himself: it was the norwegian national air. they came back to the town again as from elysium. all the passers-by looked at them: people quickly detect happiness. besides rafael was a head taller than most of them and fairer in complexion. he walked quickly along beside his elegant mother, and looked across the boulevard as though from a sunny height. "there are days on which one feels oneself a different person," he said. "there are days on which one receives so much," she answered, pressing his arm. they went home, threw aside their wraps, and looked at one another. sketches of the machinery which they had just seen lay about, as well as some rough drawings. these she collected and made into a roll. "rafael," she said, and drew herself up, half laughing, half trembling, "kneel; i wish to knight you." it did not seem unnatural to him; he did so. "noblesse oblige," she said, and let the roll of paper approach his head; but therewith she dropped it and burst into tears. he spent a merry evening with his friends, and was enthusiastically applauded. but as he lay in bed that night he felt utterly despondent. the whole thing might, after all, have been a mere chance. he had seen so much, had acquired so much information; it was no discovery that he had made. what was it, then? he was certainly not a genius; that must be an exaggeration. could one imagine a genius without a victor's confidence, or had his peculiar life destroyed that confidence? this anxiety which constantly intruded itself; this bad conscience; this dreadful, vile conscience; this ineradicable dread; was it a foreboding? did it point to the future? it was about half a year after this that his desultory studies became concentrated on electricity, and after a time this took them to munich. during the course of these studies he began to write, quite spontaneously. the students had formed a society, and rafael was expected to contribute a paper. but his contribution was so original that they begged him to show it to the professor, and this encouraged him greatly. it was the professor, too, who had his first article printed. a norwegian technical periodical accepted a subsequent one, and this was the external influence which turned his thoughts once more towards norway. norway rose before him as the promised land of electricity. the motive power of its countless waterfalls was sufficient for the whole world! he saw his country during the winter darkness gleaming with electric lustre. he saw her, too, the manufactory of the world, the possessor of navies. now he had something to go home for! his mother did not share his love for their country, and had no desire to live in norway. but the money which she had saved up for his education bad been spent long ago. hellebergene had had its share. the estate did not yield an equivalent, for it was essentially a timbered estate, and the trees on it were still immature. so it was to be home! a few years alone at hellebergene was just what he wished for. but--something always occurred to prevent their departure at the time fixed for it. first he was detained by an invention which he wished to patent. up to the present time he had only sketched out ideas which others had adopted; now it was to be different. the invention was duly patented and handed over to an agent to sell; but still they did not start. what was the hindrance? another invention with a fresh patent more likely to sell than the first, which unfortunately did not go off. this patent was also taken out, which again cost money, and was handed over to the agent to be sold. could he not start now? well, yes, he thought he could. but fru kaas soon realised that he was not serious, so she sought the help of a young relative, hans ravn, an engineer, like most of the ravns. rafael liked hans, for he was himself a ravn in temperament, a thing that he had not realised before; it was quite a revelation to him. he had believed that the ravns were like his mother, but now found that she greatly differed from them. to hans ravn fru kaas said plainly that now they must start. the last day of may was the date fixed on, and this hans was to tell every one, for it would make rafael bestir himself, his mother thought, if this were known everywhere. hans ravn spread this news far and near, partly because it was his province to do so, partly because he hoped it would be the occasion of a farewell entertainment such as had never been seen. a banquet actually did take place amid general enthusiasm, which ended in the whole company forming a procession to escort their guest to his house. here they encountered a crowd of officers who were proceeding home in the same manner. they nearly came to blows, but fraternised instead, and the engineers cheered the officers and the officers the engineers. the next day the history of the two entertainments and the collision between the guests went the round of the papers. this produced results which fru kaas had not foreseen. the first was a very pleasant one. the professor who had had rafael's first article published drove up to the door, accompanied by his family. he mounted the stairs, and asked her if she would not, in their company, once more visit the prettiest parts of munich and its vicinity. she felt flattered, and accepted the invitation. as they drove along they talked of nothing but rafael: partly about his person, for he was the darling of every lady, partly about the future which lay before him. the professor said that he had never had a more gifted pupil. fru kaas had brought an excellent binocular glass with her, which she raised to her eyes from time to time to conceal her emotion, and their hearty praise seemed to flood the landscape and buildings with sunshine. the little party lunched together, and drove home in the afternoon. when fru kaas re-entered her room, she was greeted by the scent of flowers. many of their friends who had not till now known when they were to leave had wished to pay them some compliment. indeed, the maid said that the bell had been ringing the whole morning. a little later rafael and hans ravn came in with one or two friends. they proposed to dine together. the sale of the last patent seemed to be assured, and they wished to celebrate the event. fru kaas was in excellent spirits, so off they went. they dined in the open air with a number of other people round them. there was music and merriment, and the subdued hum of distant voices rose and fell in the twilight. when the lamps were lighted, they had on one side the glare of a large town, on the other the semi-darkness was only relieved by points of light; and this was made the subject of poetical allusions in speeches to the friends who were so soon to leave them. just then two ladies slowly passed near rafael's chair. fru kaas, who was sitting opposite, noticed them, but he did not. when they had gone a short distance they stood still and waited, but did not attract his attention. then they came slowly back again, passing close behind his chair, but still in vain. this annoyed fru kaas. her individuality was so strong that her silence cast a shadow over the whole party; they broke up. the next morning rafael was out again on business connected with the patent. the bell rang, and the maid came in with a bill; it had been brought the previous day as well, she said. it was from one of the chief restaurateurs of the town, and was by no means a small one. fru kaas had no idea that rafael owed money--least of all to a restaurateur. she told the maid to say that her son was of age, and that she was not his cashier. there was another ring--the maid reappeared with a second bill, which had also been brought the day before. it was from a well-known wine merchant; this, too, was not a small one. another ring; this time it was a bill for flowers and by no means a trifle. this, too, had been brought the day before. fru kaas read it twice, three times, four times: she could not realise that rafael owed money for flowers--what did he want them for? another ring; now it was a bill from a jeweller. fru kaas became so nervous at the ringing and the bills that she took to flight. here, then, was the explanation of their postponed departure: he was held captive; this was the reason for all his anxiety about selling the patent. he had to buy his freedom. she was hardly in the street when an unpretending little old woman stepped up to her, and asked timidly if this might be frau von kas? another bill, thought fru kaas, eyeing her closely. she reminded one of a worn-out rose-bush with a few faded blossoms on it: she seemed poor and inexperienced in all save humility. "what do you want with me?" inquired fru kaas sympathetically, resolved to pay the poor thing at once, whatever it might be. the little woman begged "tausend mal um verzeihung," but she was "einer beamten-wittwe" and had read in the paper that the young von kas was leaving, and both she and her daughter were in such despair that she had resolved to come to frau von kas, who was the only one--and here she began to cry. "what does your daughter want from me?" asked fru kaas rather less gently. "ach! tausend mal um verzeihung gnadige frau," her daughter was married to hofrath von rathen--"ihrer grossen schonheit wegen"--ah, she was so unhappy, for hofrath von rathen drank and was cruel to her. herr von kas had met her at the artists' fete--"und so wissen sie zwei so junge, reizende leute." she looked up at fru kaas through her tears--looked up as though from a rain-splashed cellar window; but fru kaas had reverted to her abrupt manner, and as if from an upper storey the poor little woman heard, "what does your daughter want with my son?" "tausend mal um verzeihung," but it had seemed to them that her daughter might go with them to norway, norway was such a free country. "und die zwei jungen haben sich so gern." "has he promised her this?" said fru kaas, with haughty coldness. "nein, nein, nein," was the frightened reply. they two, mother and daughter, had thought of it that day. they had read in the paper that the young von kas was going away. "herr gott in himmel!" if her daughter could thus be rid at once of all her troubles! frau von kas had not an idea of what a faithful soul, what a tender wife her daughter was. fru kaas crossed hastily over to the opposite pavement. she did not go quite so fast as a person in chase of his hat, but it seemed to the poor little creature, left in the lurch, with folded hands and frightened eyes, that she had vanished faster than her hopes. on the other side of the waystood a pretty young flower-girl who was waiting for the elegant lady hurrying in her direction. "bitte, gnadige frau." here is another, thought the hunted creature. she looked round for help, she flew up the street, away, away--when another lady popped up right in front of her, evidently trying to catch her eye. fru kaas dashed into the middle of the street and took refuge in a carriage. "where to?" asked the driver. this she had not stopped to consider, but nevertheless answered boldly, "the bavaria!" in point of fact she had had an idea of seeing the view of the city and its environs from "bavaria's" lofty head before leaving. there were a great many people there, but fru kaas's turn to go up soon came; but just as she had reached the head of the giantess and was going to look out, she heard a lady whisper close behind her, "that is his mother." it was probable that there were several mothers up there in "bavaria's" head beside fru kaas, nevertheless she gathered her skirts together and hurried down again. rafael came home to dine with his mother; he was in the highest spirits--he had sold his patent. but he found her sitting in the farthest corner of the sofa, with her big binocular glass in her hand. when he spoke to her she did not answer, but turned the glass with the small end towards him; she wished him to look as far off as possible. chapter it was a bright evening in the beginning of june that they disembarked from the steamer, and at once left the town in the boat which was to take them to hellebergene. they did not know any of the boatmen, although they were from the estate; the boat also was new. but the islands among which they were soon rowing were the old ones, which had long awaited them and seemed to have swum out to meet them, and now to move one behind the other so that the boat might pass between them. neither mother nor son spoke to the men, nor did they talk to each ether. in thus keeping silence they entered into each other's feelings, for they were both awestruck. it came upon them all at once. the bright evening light over sea and islands, the aromatic fragrance from the land,--the quick splash of a little coasting steamer as she passed them--nothing could cheer them. their life lay there before them, bringing responsibilities both old and new. how would all that they were coming to look to them, and how far were they themselves now fitted for it? now they had passed the narrow entrance of the bay, and rounded the last point beneath the crags of hellebergene. the green expanse opened out before them, the buildings in its midst. the hillsides had once been crowned and darkly clad with luxuriant woods. now they stood there denuded, shrunk, formless, spread over with a light green growth leaving some parts bare. the lowlands, as well as the hills which framed them, were shrunk and diminished, not in extent but in appearance. they could nut persuade themselves to look at it. they recalled it all as it had been and felt themselves despoiled. the buildings had been newly painted, but they looked small by contrast with those which they had in their minds. no one awaited them at the landing, but a few people stood about near the gallery, looking embarrassed--or were they suspicious? the travellers went into fru kaas's old rooms, both up stairs and down. these were just as they had left them, but how faded and wretched they looked! the table, which was laid for supper, was loaded with coarse food like that at a farmer's wedding. the old lime-trees were gone. fru kaas wept. suddenly she was reminded of something. "let us go across to the other wing," she said this as if there they would find what was wanting. in the gallery she took rafael's arm; he grew curious. his father's old rooms had been entirely renovated for him. in everything, both great and small, he recognised his mother's designs and taste. a vast amount of work, unknown to him, an endless interchange of letters and a great expenditure of money. how new and bright everything looked! the rooms differed as much from what they had been, as she had endeavoured to make rafael's life from the one that had been led in them. they two had a comfortable meal together after all, followed by a quiet walk along the shore. the wide waters of the bay gleamed softly, and the gentle ripple took up its old story again while the summer night sank gently down upon them. early the next morning rafael was out rowing in the bay, the play-ground of his childhood. notwithstanding the shorn and sunken aspect of the hills, his delight at being there again was indescribable. indescribable because of the loneliness and stillness: no one came to disturb him. after having lived for many years in large towns, to find oneself alone in a norwegian bay is like leaving a noisy market-place at midday and passing into a high vaulted church where no sound penetrates from without, and where only one's own footstep breaks the silence. holiness, purification, abstraction, devotion, but in such light and freedom as no church possesses. the lapse of time, the past were forgotten; it was as though he had never been away, as though no other place had ever known him. indescribable, for the intensity of his feelings surpassed anything that he had hitherto known. new sensations, impressions of beauty absolutely forgotten since childhood, or remembered but imperfectly, crowded upon him, speaking to him like welcoming spirits. the altered contour of the hills, the dear familiar smell, the sky which seemed lower and yet farther off, the effects of light in colder tones, but paler and more delicate. nowhere a broad plain, an endless expanse. no! all was diversified, full of contrast, broken; not lofty, still unique, fresh, he had almost said tumultuous. each moment he felt more in accord with his memories, his nature was in harmony with it all. he paused between each stroke of the oars, soothed by the gentle motion; the boat glided on, he had not concerned himself whither, when he heard from behind the sound of oars which was not the echo of his own. the strokes succeeded each other at regular intervals. he turned. at that moment fru kaas came out on to the terrace with her big binocular. she had had her coffee, and was ready to enjoy the view over the bay, the islands, and the open sea. rafael, she was told, had already gone out in the boat. yes! there he was, far out. she put up her glass at the moment that a white painted boat shot out towards his brown one. the white one was rowed by a girl in a light-coloured dress. "grand dieu! are there girls here too?" now rafael ceases rowing, the girl does the same, they rest on their oars and the boats glide past each other. fru kaas could distinguish the girl's shapely neck under her dark hair, but her wide-brimmed straw hat hid her face. rafael lets his oars trail along the water and resting on them looks at her, and now her oars also touch the water as she turns towards him. do they know each other? quickly the boats draw together; rafael puts out his hand and draws them closer, and now he gives her his hand. fru kaas can see rafael's profile so plainly that she can detect the movement of his lips. he is laughing! the stranger's face is hidden by her hat, but she can see a full figure and a vigorous arm below the half-sleeve. they do not loose their hands; now he is laughing till his broad shoulders shake. what is it? what is it? can any one have followed him from munich? fru kaas could remain where she was no longer. she went indoors and put down the glass; she was overcome by anxiety, filled with helpless anger. it was some time before she could prevail on herself to go out and resume her walk. the girl had turned her boat. now they are rowing in side by side, she as strongly as he. whenever fru kaas looked at her son he was laughing and the girl's face was turned towards his. now they head for the landing-place at the parsonage. was it helene? the only girl for miles round, and rafael had hooked himself on to her the very first day that he was at home. these girls who can never see him without taking a fancy to him! now the boats are beached, not on the shingle, where the stones would be slippery. no! on the sand, where they have run them up as high as possible. now she jumps lightly and quickly out of her boat, and he a little more heavily out of his; they grasp each other's hands again. yes! there they were. fru kaas turned away; she knew that for the moment she was nothing more than an old chattel pushed away into a corner. it was helene. she knew that they had arrived and thought that she would row past the house; and thus it was that she had encountered rafael, who had simply gone out to amuse himself. as they had lain on their oars and the boats glided silently past each other, he thought to himself, "that girl never grew up here, she is cast in too fine a mould for that; she is not in harmony with the place." he saw a face whose regular lines, and large grey eyes, harmonised well with each other, a quiet wise face, across which all at once there flew a roguish look. he knew it again. it had done him good before to-day. our first thought in all recognitions, in all remembrances--that is to say, if there is occasion for it--is, has that which we recognise or recall done us good or evil? this large mouth, those honest eyes, which have a roguish look just now, had always, done him good. "helene!" he cried, arresting the progress of his boat. "rafael!" she answered, blushing crimson and checking her boat too. what a soft contralto voice! when he came in to breakfast, beaming, ready to tell everything, he was confronted by two large eyes, which said as plainly as possible, "am i put on one side already?" he became absolutely angry. during breakfast she said, in a tone of indifference, that she was going to drive to the dean's, to thank him for the supervision which he had given to the estate during all these years. he did not answer, from which she inferred that he did not wish to go with her. it was some time before she started. the harness was new, the stable-boy raw and untrained. she saw nothing more of rafael. she was received at the parsonage with the greatest respect, and yet very heartily. the dean was a fine old man and thoroughly practical. his wife was of profounder nature. both protested that the care of the estate had been no trouble to them, it had only been a pleasant employment; helene had now undertaken it. "helene?" yes; it had so chanced that the first bailiff at hellebergene had once been agronomist and forester on a large concern which was in liquidation, helene had taken such a fancy to him, that when she was not at school, she went with him everywhere; and, indeed, he was a wonderful old man. during these rambles she had learned all that he could teach her. he had an especial gift for forestry. it was a development for her, for it gave a fresh interest to her life. little by little she had taken over the whole care of the estate. it absorbed her. fru kaas asked if she might see helene, to thank her. "but helene has just gone out with rafael, has she not?" "yes, to be sure," answered fru kaas. she would not show surprise; but she asked at once for her carriage. meanwhile the two young people had determined to climb the ridge. at first they followed the course of the river, helene leading the way. it was evident that she had grown up in the woods. how strong and supple she was, and how well she acquitted herself when she had to cross a brook, climb a wooded slope, force a way through a barrier of bristly young fir-trees which opposed her passage, or surmount a heap of clay at a quarry, of which there were a great many about there. each difficulty was in turn overcome. the ascent from the river was the most direct and the pleasantest, which was the reason that they had come this way. rafael would not be outdone by her, and kept close at her heels. but, great heavens! what it cost him. partly because he was out of practice, partly-- "it is a little difficult to get over here," she said. a tree had fallen during the last rainy weather, and hung half suspended by its roots, obstructing the path. "you must not hold by it, it might give way and drag us with it." at last there is something which she considers difficult, he thought. she deliberated for a moment before the farthest-spreading branches which had to be crossed; then, lifting her skirts to her knees, over them she went, and over the next ones as well, and then across the trunk to the farthest side, where there were no branches in the way; then obliquely up the hillside. she stood still at the top of the height and watched him crawl up after her. it cost him a struggle; he was out of breath and the perspiration poured off him. when he got up to her, everything swam before him; and although it was only for a fraction of a second, it left him fairly captivated by her strength. she stood and looked at him with bright, roguish eyes. she was flushed and hot, and her bosom rose and fell quickly; but there was no doubt that she could at once have taken an equally long and steep climb. he was not able to speak a word. "now turn round and look at the sea," she said. the words affected him as though great pan had uttered them from the mountains far behind. he turned his eyes towards them. it seemed as though nature herself had spoken to him. the words caressed him as with a hand now cold, now warm, and he became a different being. for he had lost himself--lost himself in her as she walked along the river-bank and climbed the hillside. she seemed to draw fresh power from the woods, to grow taller, more agile, more vigorous. the fervour of her eyes, the richness of her voice, the grace of her movements, the glimpses of her soul, had allured him down there in the valley, beside the rushing river, and the feeling of loss of individuality had increased with the exertion and the excitement. no ball-room or play-ground, no gymnasium or riding-school can display the physical powers, and the spirit which underlies them, the unity of mind and body, as does the scaling of steep hills and rocky slopes. at last, intoxicated by these feelings, he thought to himself--i am climbing after her, climbing to the highest pinnacle of happiness. up there! up there! the composure of her manner towards him, her freedom from embarrassment, maddened him. up there! up there! and ever as they mounted she became more spirited, he more distressed. up there! up there! his eyes grew dim, for a few seconds he could not move, could not speak. then she had said, "now you must look at the sea." he seemed to see with different eyes, to be endowed with new sensations, and these new sensations gave answer to what the distant mountains had said. they answered the sea out there before him, the island-studded sea, the open sea beyond, the wide swelling ocean, the desires and destinies of life all the world over. the sea lay steel-bright beneath the suffused sunlight, and seemed to gaze on the rugged land as on a beloved child instinct with vital power. cling thou to the mighty one, or thy strength will be thine undoing! and many of the inventions which he had dreamed of loomed vaguely before him. they lay outside there. it depended on him whether he should one day bring them safely into port. "what are you thinking about?" said she, the sound of her voice put these thoughts to flight and recalled him to the present. he felt how full and rich her contralto voice was, a moment ago he could have told her this, and more besides, as an introduction to still more. now he sat down without answering, and she did the same. "i come up here very often," she said, "to look at the sea. from here it seems the source of life and death; down there it is a mere highway." he smiled. she continued: "the sea has this power, that whatever pre-occupation one may bring up here, it vanishes in a moment; but down below it remains with one." he looked at her. "yes, it is true," said she, and coloured. "i do not in the least doubt it," he replied. but she did not continue the subject. "you are looking at the saplings, i see." "yes." "you must know that last year there was a long drought; almost all the young trees up here withered away, and in other places on the hillsides also, as you see." she pointed as she spoke. "it looks so ugly as one comes into the bay. i thought about that yesterday. i thought also that you should not be here long before you saw that you had done us an injustice, for could anything be prettier than that little fir-tree down there in the hollow? just look at its colour; that is a healthy fellow! and these sturdy saplings, and that little gem there!" the tones of helene's voice betrayed the interest which she felt. "but how that one over there has grown." she scrambled across to it, and he after her. "do you see? two branches already; and what branches!" they knelt down beside it. "this boy has had parents of whom he can boast, for they have all had just as much and just as little shelter. oh! the disgusting caterpillars." she was down before the little tree at the side which was being spun over. she cleared it, and got up to fetch some wet mould, which she laid carefully round the sprouts. "poor thing i it wants water, although it rained tremendously a little time ago." "are you often up here?" he asked. "it would all come to nothing if i were not!" she looked at him searchingly. "you do not, perhaps, believe that this little tree knows me; every one of them, indeed. if i am long away from them they do not thrive, but when i am often with them they flourish." she was on her knees, supporting herself with one hand, while with the other she pulled up some grass. "the thieves," said she, "which want to rob my saplings." if it had been a little person who had said this; a little person with lively eyes and a merry mouth--but helene was tall and stately; her eyes were not lively, but met one with a steady gaze. her mouth was large, and gave deliberate utterance to her thoughts. whoever has read helene's words quickly, hurriedly, must read them over again. she spoke quietly and thoughtfully, each syllable distinct and musical. she was not the same girl who had led the way by river and hill. then she seemed to glory in her strength; now her energy had changed to delicate feeling. one of the most remarkable women in scandinavia, who also had these two sides to her character, and made the fullest use of both, johanne luise hejberg, once saw helene when she had but just attained to womanhood. she could not take her eyes off her; she never tired of watching her and listening to her. did the aged woman, then at the close of her life, recognise anything of her own youth in the girl? outwardly too they resembled each other. helene was dark, as fru hejberg had been; was about the same height, with the same figure, but stronger; had a large mouth, large grey eyes like hers, into which the same roguish look would start. but the greatest likeness was to be found in their natures: in fru hejberg's expression when she was quiet and serious; in a certain motherliness which was the salient feature in her nature. "what a healthy girl!" said she; bade some one bring helene to her, and drawing her towards her, kissed her on the forehead. helene and her companion had crossed to the other side of the hill, for he positively must see the "buckthorn swamp"; but when they got down there he did not know it again: it was covered by luxuriant woods. "yes! it is old helgesen who deserves the credit of that," she said. "he noticed that an artificial embankment had converted this great flat into a swamp, so he cut through it. i was only a child then, but i had my share in it. they gave me a bit of ground down by the river to plant kohl kabi in. i looked after it the whole summer. later on i had a larger piece. with the profits we cut ditches up to here. in the fourth year we bought plants. in fact, he so arranged it, that i paid for it all with my work, the old rogue!" when rafael got home his mother was at table: she had not waited for him, a sure sign that she felt aggrieved. no attempts on his part to set things right succeeded. she would not answer, and soon left the room. it now struck him how pleasant it would have been for his mother if he had taken her with him to explore and make acquaintance with this new hellebergene. the evening before, in his father's rooms, it had seemed as though nothing could ever separate them--and the first thing in the morning he was off with some one else. this evening he knew that nothing could be done, but next morning he begged her earnestly to come with them, and they would show her what he had seen the day before; but she only shook her head and took up a book. day after day he made a similar request, but always with the same result. she thought that these invitations were merely formal, and so, from one point of view, they were. he was most ready to appease her, most ready to show her everything, for he felt himself to blame, though he certainly thought that she might have understood; but her presence would have marred their tete-a-tete; he would have been embarrassed enough if she had acquiesced! the dean, with his wife and daughter, came the following sunday to return fru kaas's visit. she was politeness itself, and specially thanked helene for her care of hellebergene. helene coloured without knowing why, but when rafael also coloured, she blushed still deeper. this was the event of the visit; nothing else of importance occurred. in their daily walks through the fields and woods, the two young people soon exhausted the topic of hellebergene. he took up another theme. his inventions became the topic of conversation. he had acquired, from his studies with his mother, an unusual facility in explaining his meaning, and in helene he found a listener such as he had rarely before met with. she was sufficiently acquainted with the laws of nature to understand a simple description. but all the same it was not his inventions but himself that he discoursed on. he quite realised this, and became all the more eager. her eyes made his reasoning clearer. he had never before had such complete faith in himself as when near her, and now no misgivings succeeded. helene, however, had not hitherto known the direction and results of his studies. he was an engineer, that was all that she had heard on the subject. when he had told her more about it he rose considerably in her estimation. it was she now who began to feel constrained. at first she did not understand why she felt obliged to put more restraint upon herself. after a time she began to excuse herself from joining him, and their walks became more rare. "she had so much to do now." he did not comprehend the reason of this; he fancied that his mother might be to blame (which, by the way, was quite a mistake), and he grew angry. he was already greatly affronted that his mother had chosen to confound his former gallantries with his present attachment. he quite forgot that at first he had merely sought to amuse himself here as elsewhere. he gave himself up entirely to his passion, which would brook no hindrance, no opposition; it became majestic. in helene he had found his future life. but her parents had grown less cordial of late owing to fru kaas's coldness, and the time came when all attempts to obtain meetings with helene failed. he had never been so infatuated. he seemed to see her continually before him--her luxuriant beauty, her light step, her grey eyes gazing steadfastly into his. why could they not be married to-morrow or the next day? what could be more natural? what could more certainly help him forward? the constraint between his mother and himself had reached a greater pitch than ever before. he thought seriously of leaving her and the country. he still had some money left, the proceeds of the patent, and he could easily make more. how irksome it became to him to go into the fields and woods without helene! he could not study; he had no one to talk to; what should he do? devote himself to boating!--row out far beyond the bay, right up to the town! one day, as he rowed along the coast, beyond the bay, he noticed that the clay and flag-stone formation in the hills and ridges was speckled with grey. helene had told him how extraordinary it looked out there now that the trees were gone, but as they would have had to come out in the boat to see it he had let the remark pass. now he decided to land there. the shore rose steeply from the water, but he scrambled up. he had expected to find limestone, but he could hardly believe his own eyes: it was cement stone! absolutely, undoubtedly, cement stone! how far did it extend? as far as he could see; it might even extend to the boundary of the estate. in any case, here was sufficient for extensive works for many, many years, if only there were enough silica with the clay and lime. he had soon knocked off a few pieces, which he put into the boat, and set out for home to analyse them. seldom had any one rowed faster than he did; now he shot past the islands into the bay, up to the landing-place before the house. if the cement stone contained the right proportions, here was what would make helene and himself independent of every one; and that at once! a little later, with dirty hands and clothes, his face bathed in perspiration, he rushed up to his mother with the result of his investigations. "here is something for you to see." she was reading; she looked up and turned as white as a sheet. "is that the cement stone?" she asked, as she put down her book. "did you know about it?" he exclaimed, in the greatest astonishment. "good gracious, yes," she answered. she walked across to the window, came back again, pressing her hands together. "so you have found it too?" "who did before me?" "your father, rafael, your father, the first time that i was here, a little time before we were to leave." she paused. "he came rushing in as you did just now--not so quickly, not so quickly, he was weak in the legs, but otherwise just like you." she let her eyes rest, with a peculiar look, on rafael's dirty hands. the hands themselves were not well shaped, they were almost exactly his father's. rafael noticed nothing. "had he found the bed of cement stone, then?" "yes. he locked the door behind him. i got up from my chair and asked him how he dared? he could hardly speak." she paused for a moment, recalling it all again. "yes, and it was that stuff." "what did he say, mother?" she had turned to leave the room. "your father believed that i had brought luck to the house." "and why was it not so, then?" she faced him quickly. he coloured. "pardon, mother, you misunderstood me. i meant, why did it come to nothing about the cement?" "you did not know your father: there were too many hooks about him for him to be able to carry out anything." "hooks?" "yes! eccentricity, egotism, passion, which caught fast in everything." "what did he propose to do?" "no one was to be allowed to have anything to do with it, no one was to know of it, he was to be everything! for this reason the timber was to be cut down and sold; and when we were married--i say when we were married, the whole of my fortune was to be used as well." he saw the horror with which she still regarded it; she was passing through the whole struggle again; and he understood that he must not question her further. she made a gesture with her hand; and he asked hurriedly, "why did you not tell me before, mother?" "because it would have brought you no good," she answered decidedly. he felt, nay, he saw that she believed that it would bring him no good now. she again raised her hand, and he left her. when he was once more in the boat, taking his great news to the parsonage, he thought to himself, here is the reason of my father's and mother's deadly enmity. the cement stone! she did not trust him, she would not give him both herself and her fortune, so there was no cement, nor were any trees felled. "well, he scored after all. yes, and mother too; but god help me!" then he reckoned up what the timber and the fortune together would have been worth, and what further sum could have been raised on the property, the value of the cement-bed being taken into consideration. he understood his father better than his mother. what a fortune, what power, what magnificence, what a life! at the parsonage he carried every one with him. the dean, because he saw at once what this was worth. "you are a rich man now," he said. the dean's wife, because she felt attracted by his ability and enthusiasm. helene? helene was silent and frightened. he turned towards her and asked if she would come with him in the boat to see it. she really must see how extensive the bed was. "yes, dear, go with him," said her father. rafael wished to sit behind her in the boat and hastened towards the bow; but, without a word, she passed him, sat down, and took her oars; so, after all, he had to sit in front of her. they thus began at cross purposes. his back was towards her, he saw how the water foamed under her oars, there was a secret struggle, a tacit fear, which was heard in the few words which they exchanged, and which merely increased their constraint. when they drew near to their destination they were flushed and hot. now he was obliged to turn round to look for the place of landing. to begin with, they went slowly along the whole cement-bed as far as it was visible. he was now turned so as to face her, and he explained it all to her. she kept her eyes fixed on the cliff, and only glanced at him, or did not look at him all. they turned the boat again, in order to land at the place where he intended the factory to stand. a portion of the rock would have to be blasted to make room, the harbour too must be made safer so that vessels might lie close in, and all this would cost money. he landed first in order to help her, but she jumped on shore without his assistance; then they climbed upwards, he leading the way, explaining everything as he went; she following with eyes and ears intent. all for which, from her childhood, she had worked so hard at hellebergene, and all which she had dreamed of for the estate, had become so little now. it would be many years before the trees yielded any return. but here was promise of immediate prosperity and future wealth if, as she never doubted, he proved to be correct. she felt that this humbled her, made her of no account, but ah! how great it made him seem! the rowing, the climbing, the excitement, gave animation to rafael's explanations; face and figure showed his state of tension. she felt almost giddy: should she return to the boat and row away alone? but she was too proud thus to betray herself. it seemed to her that there was the look of a conqueror in his eyes; but she did not intend to be conquered. neither did she wish to appear as the one who had remained at home and speculated on his return. that would be simply to turn all that was most cherished, most unselfish in her life, against herself. something in him frightened her, something which, perhaps, he himself could not master--his inward agitation. it was not boisterous or terrifying; it was glowing, earnest zeal, which seemed to deprive him of power and her of will, and this she would not endure. hardly had they gained the summit from which they could look out over the islands to the open sea, and across to hellebergene, to the parsonage, and the river flowing into the inner bay, than he turned away from it all towards her, as she stood with heaving breast, glowing cheeks, and eyes which dare not turn away from the sea. "helene," he whispered, approaching her; he wished to take her in his arms. she trembled, although she did not turn round; the next moment she sprang away from him, and did not pause till she had got down to the boat, which she was about to push off, but bethought herself that it would be too cowardly, so she remained standing and watched him come after her. "helene," he called from above, "why do you run away from me?" "rafael, you must not," she answered when he rejoined her. the strongest accent of both prayer and command of which a powerful nature is capable sounded in her words. she in the boat, he on the shore; they eyed one another like two antagonists, watchful and breathing hard, till he loosed the boat, stepped in and pushed off. she took her seat; but before doing the same he said: "you know quite well what i wanted to say to you." he spoke with difficulty. she did not answer and got out her oars; her tears were ready to flow. they rowed home again more slowly than they had come. a lark hovered over their heads. the note of a thrush was heard away inland. a guillemot skimmed over the water in the same direction as their own, and a tern on curved wing screamed in their wake. there was a sense of expectation over all. the scent of the young fir-trees and the heather was wafted out to them; farther in lay the flowery meadows of hellebergene. at a great distance an eagle could be seen, high in air, winging his way from the mountains, followed by a flock of screaming crows, who imagined that they were chasing him. rafael drew helene's attention to them. "yes, look at them," she said; and these few words, spoken naturally, helped to put both more at their ease. he looked round at her and smiled, and she smiled back at him. he felt in the seventh heaven of delight, but it must not be spoken. but the oars seemed to repeat in measured cadence, "it--is--she. it--is--she. it--is--she." he said to himself, is not her resistance a thousand times sweeter than-- "it is strange that the sea birds no longer breed on the islands in here," he said. "that is because for a long time the birds have not been protected; they have gone farther out." "they must be protected again: we must manage to bring the birds back, must we not?" "yes," she answered. he turned quickly towards her. perhaps she should not have said that, she thought, for had he not said "we"? to show how far she was from such a thought, she looked towards the land. "the clover is not good this year." "no. what shall you do with the plot next year?" but she did not fall into the trap. he turned round, but she looked away. now the rush of the river tossed them up and down in a giddy dance, as the force of the stream met the boat. rafael looked up to where they had walked together the first day. he turned to see if she were not, by chance, looking in the same direction. yes, she was! they rowed on towards the landing-place at the parsonage, and he spoke once or twice, but she had learned that that was dangerous. they reached the beach. "helene!" said he, as she jumped on shore with a good-bye in passing, "helene!" but she did not stay. "helene!" he shouted, with such meaning in it that she turned. she looked at him, but only remained for a moment. no more was needed! he rowed home like the greatest conqueror that those waters had ever seen. ever since the vikings had met together in the innermost creek, and left behind them the barrow which is still to be seen near the parsonage--yes, ever since the elk of the primaeval forest, with mighty antlers, swam away from the doe which he had won in combat, to the other which he heard on the opposite shore. since the first swarm of ants, like a waving fan, danced up and down in the sunlight, on its one day of flight. since the first seals struggled against each other to reach the one whom they saw lie sunning herself on the rocks. fru kaas had seen them pass as they rowed out at a furious pace. she had seen them row slowly back, and she understood everything. no sooner had the cement stone been found than-- she paced up and down; she wept. she did not put any dependence on his constancy; in any case it was too early for rafael to settle himself here: he had something very different before him. the cement stone would not run away from him, or the girl either, if there were anything serious in it. she regarded his meeting with helene as merely an obstacle in the way, which barred his further progress. rafael rowed towards home, bending to his oars till the water foamed under the bow of his boat. now he has landed; now he drags the boat up as if she were an eel-pot. now he strides quickly up to the house. frightened, despairing, his mother shrank into the farthest corner of the sofa, with her feet drawn up under her, and, as he burst in through the door and began to speak, she cried out: "taisez-vous! des egards, s'il vous plait." she stretched out her arms before her as if for protection. but now he came, borne on the wings of love and happiness. his future was there. he did what he had never done before: went straight up to her, drew her arms down, embraced and kissed her, first on the forehead, then on the cheeks, eyes, mouth, ears, neck, wherever he could; all without a word. he was quite beside himself. "mad boy," she gasped; "des egards, mais rafael, donc!--que--" and she threw herself on his breast with her arms round his neck. "now you will forsake me, rafael," she said, crying. "forsake you, mother! no one can unite the two wings like helene." and now he began a panegyric on her, without measure, and unconscious that he said the same thing over and over again. when he became quieter, and she was permitted to breathe, she begged to be alone: she was used to being alone. in the evening she came down to him, and said that, first of all, they ought to go to christiania, and find an expert to examine the cement-bed and learn what further should be done. her cousin, the government secretary, would be able to advise them, and some of her other relations as well. most of them were engineers and men of business. he was reluctant to leave hellebergene just now, he said, she must understand that; besides, they had agreed not to go away until the autumn. but she maintained that this was the surest way to win helene; only she begged that, with regard to her, things should remain as they were till they had been to christiania. on this point she was inflexible, and it was so arranged. as was their custom, they packed up at once. they drove over to the parsonage that same evening to say good-bye. they were all very merry there: on fru kaas's side because she was uneasy, and wished to conceal the fact by an appearance of liveliness; on the dean's part because he really was in high spirits at the discovery which promised prosperity both to hellebergene and the district; on his wife's because she suspected something. the most hearty good wishes were therefore expressed for their journey. rafael had availed himself of the general preoccupation to exchange a few last words with helene in a corner. he obtained a half-promise from her that when he wrote she would answer; but he was careful not to say that he had spoken to his mother. he felt that helene would be startled by a proceeding which came quite naturally to him. as they drove away, he waved his hat as long as they remained in sight. the waving was returned, first by all, but finally by only one. the summer evening was light and warm, but not light enough, not warm enough, not wide enough; there did not seem room enough in it for him; it was not bright enough to reflect his happiness. he could not sleep, yet he did not wish to talk; companionship or solitude were alike distasteful to him. he thought seriously of walking or rowing over to the parsonage again and knocking at the window of helene's room. he actually went down to the boathouse and got out the boat. but perhaps it would frighten her, and possibly injure his own cause. so he rowed out and out to the farthest islands, and there he frightened the birds. at his approach they rose: first a few, then many, then all protested in a hideous chorus of wild screams. he was enveloped in an angry crowd, a pandemonium of birds. but it did not ruffle his good humour. "wait a bit," he said to them. "wait a bit, until the islands at hellebergene are 'protected,' and the whole estate as well. then you shall come and be happy with us. good-bye till then!" chapter he came to christiania like a tall ship gay with flags. his love was the music on board. his numerous relations were ready to receive him. of these many were engineers, who were a jour with all his writings, which they had taken care should be well known. some of the largest mechanical undertakings in the country were in their hands, so that they had connections in every direction. once more the family had a genius in its midst; that is to say, one to make a show with. rafael went from entertainment to entertainment, from presentation to presentation, and wherever he or his mother went court was paid to them. in all this the ladies of the family were even more active than their lords; and they had not been in the town many days before every one knew that they were to be the rage. there are some people who always will hold aloof. they are as irresponsive as a sooty kettle when you strike it. they are like peevish children who say "i won't," or surly old dogs who growl at every one. but he was so exceedingly genial, a capital fellow with the highest spirits. he had looks as well; he was six feet high; and all those six feet were clothed in perfect taste. he had large flashing eyes and a broad forehead. he was practised in making clear to others all in which he was interested, and at such times how handsome he looked! he was a thorough man of the world, able to converse in several languages at the cosmopolitan dinners which were a speciality of the ravns. he was the owner of one of the few extensive estates in norway, and had the control, it was said, of a considerable fortune besides. the half of this would have been enough to set all tongues wagging; therefore, first the family, then their friends, then the whole town feted him. he was a nine days' wonder! one must know the critical, unimaginative natives of christiania, who daily pick each other to pieces to fill the void in their existences; one must have admired their endless worrying of threadbare topics to understand what it must be when they got hold of a fresh theme. nothing which flies before the storm is more dangerous than desert sand, nothing can surpass a christiania furor. when it became known that two of his relations who were conversant with the subject, together with a distinguished geologist and a superintendent of mines, had been down to hellebergene with rafael, and had found that his statements were well grounded, he was captured and borne off in triumph twenty times a day. it was trying work, but he was always in the vein, and ready to take the rough with the smooth. in all respects the young madcap was up to the standard, so that day and night passed in a ceaseless whirl, which left every one but himself breathless. the glorious month at hellebergene had done good. he was drawn into endless jovial adventures, so strange, so audacious, that one would have staked one's existence that such things were impossible in christiania. but great dryness begets thirst. he was in the humour of a boy who has got possession of a jam-pot, whose mouth, nose, and hands are all besmirched. it is thus that ladies like children best; then they are the sweetest things in the world. like a tall, full-grown mountain-ash covered by a flock of starlings, he was the centre of a fluttering crowd. it only remained for him to be deified, and this too came to pass. one day he visited several factories, giving a hint here, another there (he had great practical knowledge and a quick eye) and every hint was of value. at last in a factory of something the same description as the one in france where he had been the means of economising half the motive power, he suggested a similar plan; he saw on the spot how it could be effected. this became the subject of much conversation. it grew and grew, it rose like the sea after days of westerly gales. this new genius, but little over twenty, would surely some day be the wonder of the country. it soon became the fashion for every manufacturer to invite him to visit his factory, and it was only after they were convinced that they had a god among them that it became serious, for enthusiasm in a manufacturer strikes every one. the ladies only waited for this important moment to go at a bound from the lowest degree of sense to the fifth degree of madness. their eyes danced on him like sunlight on polished metal. he himself paid little heed to degree or temperature; he was too happy in his genial contentment, and too indifferent as well. one thing which greatly helped to bring him to the right pitch was the family temperament, for it was so like his own. he was a ravn through and through, with perhaps a little grain of kaas added. he was what they called pure ravn, quite unalloyed. he seemed to them to have come straight from the fountain-head of their race, endowed with its primitive strength. this strong physical attribute had perhaps made his abilities more fertile, but the family claimed the abilities, too, as their own. through hans ravn, rafael had learned to value the companionship of his relations; now he had it in perfection. for every word that he said appreciative laughter was ready--it really sparkled round him. when he disagreed with prevailing tastes, prejudices, and morals, they disagreed too. when his precocious intelligence burst upon them, they were always ready to applaud. they even met him half-way--they could foresee the direction of his thoughts. as he was young in years and disposition, and at the same time knew more than most young people, he suited both old and young. ah! how he prospered in norway! his mother went with him everywhere. her life had at one time appeared to her relations to be most objectless, but how much she had made of it! they respected her persevering efforts to attain the goal, and she became aware of this. in the most elegant toilettes, with her discreet manner and distinguished deportment, she was hurried from party to party, from excursion to excursion, until it became too much for her. it went too far, too; her taste was offended by it; she grew frightened. but the train of dissipation went on without her, like a string of carriages which bore him along with it while she was shaken off. her eyes followed the cloud of dust far away, and the roll of the wheels echoed back to her. helene--how about helene? was she too out in the cold? far from it. rafael was as certain that she was with him as that his gold watch was next his heart. the very first day that he arrived he wrote a letter to her. it was not long, he had not time for that, but it was thoroughly characteristic. he received an answer at once; the hostess of the pension brought it to him herself. he was so immensely delighted that the lady, who was related to the dean and who had noticed the post mark, divined the whole affair--a thing which amused him greatly. but helene's letter was evasive; she evidently knew him too little to dare to speak out. he never found time to draw the hostess into conversation on the subject, however. he came home late, he got up late, and then there were always friends waiting for him; so that he was not seen in the pension again until he returned to dress for dinner, during which time the carriage waited at the door, for he never got home till the last moment. when could he write? it would soon all be done with, and then home to helene! the business respecting the cement detained him longer than he had anticipated. his mother made complications; not that she opposed the formation of a company, but she raised many difficulties: she should certainly prefer to have the whole affair postponed. he had no time to talk her round, besides, she irritated him. he told it to the hostess. a curious being, this hostess, who directed the pension, the business of the inmates, and a number of children, without apparent effort. she was a widow; two of her children were nearly twenty, but she looked scarcely thirty. tall, dark, clever, with eyes like glowing coals; decided, ready in conversation as in business, like an officer long used to command, always trusted, always obeyed; one yielded oneself involuntarily to her matter-of-course way of arranging everything, and she was obliging, even self-sacrificing, to those she liked--it was true that that was not everybody. this absence of reserve was especially characteristic of her, and was another reason why all relied on her. she had long ago taken up fru kaas--entertained her first and foremost. angelika nagel used in conversation modern christiania slang which is the latest development of the language. in the choice of expressions, words such as hideous were applied to what was the very opposite of hideous, such as "hideously amusing," "hideously handsome." "snapping" to anything that was liquid, as "snapping good punch." one did not say "pretty" but "quite too pretty" or "hugely pretty." on the other hand, one did not say "bad" for anything serious, but with comical moderation "baddish." anything that there was much of went by miles; for instance, "miles of virtue." this slipshod style of talk, which the idlers of large towns affect, had just become the fashion in christiania. all this seemed new and characteristic to the careless emancipated party which had arisen as a protest against the prudery which fru kaas, in her time, had combated. the type therefore amused her:--she studied it. angelika nagel relieved her of all her business cares, which were only play to her. it was the same thing with the question of the cement undertaking. in an apparently careless manner she let drop what had been said and done about it, which had its effect on fru kaas. soon things had progressed so far that it became necessary to consult rafael about it, and as he was difficult to catch, she sat up for him at night. the first time that she opened the door for him he was absolutely shy, and when he heard what she wanted him for he was above measure grateful. the next time he kissed her! she laughed and ran away without speaking to him--that was all he got for his pains. but he had held her in his arms, and he glowed with a suddenly awakened passion. she, in the meantime, kept out of his way, even during the day he never saw her unless he sought her. but when he least expected it she again met him at the door; there was something which she really must say to him. there was a struggle, but at last she twisted herself away from him and disappeared. he whispered after her as loud as he dared, "then i shall go away!" but while he was undressing she slipped into his room. the next day, before he was quite awake, the postman brought him the warrant for a post-office order for fifteen thousand francs. he thought that there must be a mistake in the name, or else that it was a commission that had been entrusted to him. no! it was from the french manufacturer whose working expenses he had reduced so greatly. he permitted himself, he wrote, to send this as a modest honorarium. he had not been able to do so sooner, but now hoped that it would not end there. he awaited rafael's acknowledgment with great anxiety, as he was not sure of his address. rafael was up and dressed in a trice. he told his news to every one, ran down to his mother and up again; but he had not been a moment alone before the superabundance of happiness and sense of victory frightened him. now there must be an end of all this, now he would go home. he had not had the slightest prickings of conscience, the slightest longings, until now; all at once they were uncontrollable. she stood upon the hilltop, pure and noble. it became agonising. he must go at once, or it would drive him mad. this anxiety was made less acute by the sight of his mother's sincere pleasure. she came up to him when she heard that he had shut himself into his room. they had a really comfortable talk together--finally about the state of their finances. they lived in the pension because they could no longer afford to live in an hotel. the estate would bring nothing in until the timber once more became profitable, and her capital was no longer intact--notwithstanding the prohibition. now she was ready to let him arrange about the cement company. on this he went out into the town, where his court soon gathered round him. but the large sum of money which was required could not be raised in a day, so the affair dragged on. he grew impatient, he must and would go; and finally his mother induced her cousin, the government secretary, to form the company, and they prepared to leave. they paid farewell visits to some of their friends, and sent cards and messages of thanks to the rest. everything was ready, the very day had come, when rafael, before he was up, received a letter from the dean. an anonymous letter from christiania, he wrote, had drawn his attention to rafael's manner of life there, and he had in consequence obtained further information, the result being that he was, that day, sending his daughter abroad. there was nothing more in the letter. but rafael could guess what had passed between father and daughter. he dressed himself and rushed down to his mother. his indignation against the rascally creatures who had ruined his and helene's future--"who could it have been?"--was equalled by his despair. she was the only one he cared for; all the others might go to the deuce. he felt angry, too, that the dean, or any one else, should have dared to treat him in this way, to dismiss him like a servant, not to speak to him, not to put him in a position to speak for himself. his mother had read the letter calmly, and now she listened to him calmly, and when he became still more furious she burst out laughing. it was not their habit to settle their differences by words; but this time it flashed into his mind that she had not persuaded him to come here merely on account of the cement, but in order to separate him from helene, and this he said to her. "yes," he added, "now it will be just the same with me as it was with my father, and it will be your fault this time as well." with this he went out. fru kaas left christiania shortly afterwards, and he left the same evening--for france. from france he wrote the most pressing letter to the dean, begging him to allow helene to return home, so that they could be married at once. whatever the dean had heard about his life in christiania had nothing to do with the feelings which he nourished for helene. she, and she alone, had the power to bind him; he would remain hers for life. the dean did not answer him. a month later he wrote again, acknowledging this time that he had behaved foolishly. he had been merely thoughtless. he had been led on by other things. the details were deceptive, but he swore that this should be the end of it all. he would show that he deserved to be trusted; nay, he had shown it ever since he left christiania. he begged the dean to be magnanimous. this was practically exile for him, for he could not return to hellebergene without helene. everything which he loved there had become consecrated by her presence; every project which he had formed they had planned together; in fact, his whole future--he fretted and pined till he found it impossible to work as seriously as he wished to do. this time he received an answer--a brief one. the dean wrote that only a lengthened probation could convince them of the sincerity of his purpose. so it was not to be home, then, and not work; at all events, not work of any value. he knew his mother too well to doubt that now the cement business was shelved, whether the company were formed or not--he was only too sure of that. he had written to his mother, begging earnestly to be forgiven for what he had said. she must know that it was only the heat of the moment. she must know how fond he was of her, and how unhappy he felt at being in discord with her on the subject which was, and always would be, most dear to him. she answered him prettily and at some length, without a word about what had happened or about helene. she gave him a great deal of news, among other things what the dean intended to do about the estate. from this he concluded that she was on the same terms with the dean as before. perhaps his latest reasons for deferring the affair was precisely this: that he saw that fru kaas did not interest herself for it. it wore on towards the autumn. all this uncertainty made him feel lonely, and his thoughts turned towards his friends at christiania. he wrote to tell them that he intended to make towards home. he meant, however, to remain a little time at copenhagen. at copenhagen he met angelika nagel again. she was in company with two of his student friends. she was in the highest spirits, glowing with health and beauty, and with that jaunty assurance which turns the heads of young men. he had, during all this time, banished the subject of his intrigue from his mind, and he came there without the least intention of renewing it; but now, for the first time in his life, he became jealous! it was quite a novel feeling, and he was not prepared to resist it. he grew jealous if he so much as saw her in company with either of the young men. she had a hearty outspoken manner, which rekindled his former passion. now a new phase of his life began, divided between furious jealousy and passionate devotion. this led, after her departure, to an interchange of letters, which ended in his following her to christiania. on board the steamer he overheard a conversation between the steward and stewardess. "she sat up for him of nights till she got what she wanted, and now she has got hold of him." it was possible that this conversation did not concern him, but it was equally possible that the woman might have been in the pension at christiania. he did not know her. it is strange that in all such intrigues as his with angelika the persons concerned are always convinced that they are invisible. he believed that, up to this time, no human being had known anything about it. the merest suspicion that this was not the case made it altogether loathsome. the pension--angelika--the letters. he would be hanged if he would go on with it for any earthly inducement. had angelika angled for him and landed him like a stupid fat fish? he had been absolutely unsuspicious. the whole affair had been without importance, until they met again at copenhagen. perhaps that, too, had been a deep-laid plan. nothing can more wound a man's vanity than to find that, believing himself a victor, he is in truth a captive. rafael paced the deck half the night, and when he reached christiania went to an hotel, intending to go home the next day to hellebergene, come what would. this and everything of the kind must end for ever: it simply led straight to the devil. when once he was at home, and could find out where helene was, the rest would soon be settled. from the hotel he went up to angelika nagel's pension to say that some luggage which was there was to be sent down to the hotel at once--he was leaving that afternoon. he had dined and gone up to his room to pack, when angelika stood before him. she was at once so pretty and so sad-looking that he had never seen anything more pathetic. had he really kept away from her house? was he going at once? she wept so despairingly that he, who was prepared for anything rather than to see her so inconsolable, answered her evasively. their relations, he said, had had no more significance than a chance meeting. this they both understood; therefore she must realise that, sooner or later, it must end. and now the time was come. indeed, it had more significance, she said. there had never been any one to whom she had been so much attached; this she had proved to him. now she had come here to tell him that she was enceinte. she was in as great despair about it as any one could be. it was ruin for herself and her children. she had never contemplated anything so frightful, but her mad love had carried her away; so now she was where she deserved to be. rafael did not answer, for he could not collect his thoughts. she sat at a table, her face buried in her hands, but his eye fell on her strong arms in the close-fitting sleeves, her little foot thrust from beneath her dress; he saw how her whole frame was shaken by sobs. nevertheless, what first made him collect his thoughts was not sympathy with her who was here before him; it was the thought of helene, of the dean, of his mother: what would they say? as though she were conscious whither his thoughts had flown, she raised her head. "will you really go away from me?" what despair was in her face! the strong woman was weaker than a child. he stood erect before her, beside his open trunk. he, too, was absolutely miserable. "what good will it do for me to stay here?" he asked gently. her eyes fixed themselves on him, dilating, becoming clearer every moment. her mouth grew scornful. she seemed to grow taller every moment. "you will marry me if you are an honourable man!" "marry--you?" he exclaimed, first startled, then disdainful. an evil expression came into her eyes; she thrust her head forward; the whole woman collected herself for the attack like a tiger-cat, but it ended with a violent blow on the table. "yes you shall, devil take me!" she whispered. she rushed past him to the window. what was she going to do? she opened it, screamed out he could not clearly hear what, leant far out, and screamed again; then closed it, and turned towards him, threatening, triumphant. he was as white as a sheet, not because he was frightened or dreaded her threats, but because he recognised in her a mortal enemy. he braced himself for the struggle. she saw this at once. she was conscious of his strength before he had made a movement. there was that in his eye, in his whole demeanour, which she would never be able to overcome: a look of determination which one would not willingly contest. if he had not understood her till now, he had equally revealed himself to her. all the more wildly did she love him. he rejoiced that he had taken no notice of what she had done, but turned to put the last things into his trunk and fasten it. then she came close up to him, in more complete contrition, penitence, and wretchedness than he had ever seen in life or art. her face stiffened with terror, her eyes fixed, her whole frame rigid, only her tears flowed quietly, without a sob. she must and would have him. she seemed to draw him to herself as into a vortex: her love had become the necessity of her life, its utterances the wild cry of despair. he understood it now. but he put the things into his trunk and fastened it, took a few steps about the room, as if he were alone, with such an expression of face that she herself saw that the thing was impossible. "do you not believe," she said quietly, "that i would relieve you of all cares, so that you could go on with your own work? have you not seen that i can manage your mother?" she paused a moment, then added: "hellebergene--i know the place. the dean is a relation of mine. i have been there; that would be something that i could take charge of; do you not think so? and the cement quarries," she added; "i have a turn for business: it should be no trouble to you." she said this in an undertone. she had a slight lisp, which gave her an air of helplessness. "don't go away, to-day, at any rate. think it over," she added, weeping bitterly again. he felt that he ought to comfort her. she came towards him, and throwing her arms round him, she clung to him in her despair and eagerness. "don't go, don't go!" she felt that he was yielding. "never," she whispered, "since i have been a widow have i given myself to any one but you; and so judge for yourself." she laid her head on his shoulder and sobbed bitterly. "it has come upon me so suddenly," he said; "i cannot--" "then take time," she interrupted in a whisper, and took a hasty kiss. "oh, rafael!" she twined her arms round him: her touch thrilled through him-- some one knocked at the door: they started away from each other. it was the man who had come for the luggage. rafael flushed crimson. "i shall not go till to-morrow," he said. when the man had left the room angelika sprang towards rafael. she thanked and kissed him. oh, how she beamed with delight and exultation! she was like a girl of twenty, or rather like a young man, for there was something masculine in her manner as she left him. but the light and fire were no sooner withdrawn than his spirits fell. a little later he lay at full length on the sofa, as though in a grave. he felt as though he could never get up from it again. what was his life now? for there is a dream in every life which is its soul, and when the dream is gone the life appears a corpse. this, then, was the fulfilment of his forebodings. hither the ravens had followed the wild beast which dwelt in him. it would on longer play and amuse him, but strike its claws into him in earnest, overthrow him, and lap his fresh-spilt blood. but it was none the less certain that if he left her she would be ruined, she and her child. then no one would consider him as an honourable man, least of all himself. during his last sojourn in france, when he could not settle down to a great work which was constantly dawning before him, he had thought to himself--you have taken life too lightly. nothing great ever comes to him who does so. now, perhaps, when he did his duty here; took upon himself the burden of his fault towards her, himself, and others--and bore it like a man; then perhaps he would be able to utilise all his powers. that was what his mother had done, and she had succeeded. but with the thought of his mother came the thought of helene, of his dream. it was flying from him like a bird of passage from the autumn. he lay there and felt as though he could never get up again. from amid the turmoil of the last summer there came to his recollection two individuals, in whom he reposed entire confidence: a young man and his wife. he went to see them the same evening and laid the facts honestly before them, for now, at all events, he was honest. the conclusive proof of being so is to be able to tell everything about oneself as he did now. they heard him with dismay, but their advice was remarkable. he ought to wait and see if she were enceinte. this aroused his spirit of contradiction. there was no doubt about it, for she was perfectly truthful. but she might be mistaken; she ought to make quite sure. this suggestion, too, shocked him; but he agreed that she should come and talk things over with them. they knew her. she came the next day. they said to her, what they could not very well say to rafael, that she would ruin him. the wife especially did not spare her. a highly gifted young man like rafael kaas, with such excellent prospects in every way, must not, when little more than twenty, burden himself with a middle-aged wife and a number of children. he was far from rich, he had told her so himself; his life would be that of a beast of burden, and that too, before he had learned to bear the yoke. if he had to work, to feed so many people, he might strain himself to the uttermost, he would still remain mediocre. they would both suffer under this, be disappointed and discontented. he must not pay so heavy a price for an indiscretion for which she was ten times more to blame than he. what did she imagine people would say? he who was so popular, so sought after. they would fall upon her like rooks at a rooks' parliament and pick her to pieces. they would, without exception, believe the worst. the husband asked her if she were quite sure that she was enceinte: she ought to make quite certain. angelika nazel reddened, and answered, half scornful, half laughing, that she ought to know. "yes," he retorted, "many people have said that--who were mistaken. if it is understood that you are to be married on account of your condition, and it should afterwards turn out that you were mistaken, what do you suppose that people will say? for of course it will get about." she reddened again and sprang to her feet. "they can say what they please." after a pause she added: "but god knows i do not wish to make him unhappy." to conceal her emotion she turned away from them, but the wife would not give up. she suggested that angelika should write to rafael without further delay, to set him free and let him return home to his mother; there they would be able to arrange matters. angelika was so capable that she could earn a living anywhere. rafael too ought to help her. "i shall write to his mother," angelika said. "she shall know all about it, so that she may understand for what he is responsible." this they thought reasonable, and angelika sat down and wrote. she frequently showed agitation, but she went on quickly, steadily, sheet after sheet. just then came a ring--a messenger with a letter. the maid brought it in. her mistress was about to take it, but it was not for her; it was for angelika--they both recognised rafael's careless handwriting. angelika opened it--grew crimson; for he wrote that the result of his most serious considerations was, that neither she nor her children should be injured by him. he was an honourable man who would bear his own responsibilities, not let others be burdened by them. angelika handed the letter to her friend, then tore up the one which she had been writing, and left the house. her friend stood thinking to herself--the good that is in us must go bail for the evil, so we must rest and be satisfied. the discovery which she had made had often been made before, but it was none the less true. chapter the next day they were married. that night, long after his wife had fallen into her usual healthy sleep, rafael thought sorrowfully of his lost paradise. he could not sleep. as he lay there he seemed to look out over a meadow, which had no springtime, and therefore no flowers. he retraced the events of the past day. his would be a marred life which had never known the sweet joys of courtship. angelika did not share his beliefs. she was a stern realist, a sneering sceptic, in the most literal sense a cynic. her even breathing, her regular features, seemed to answer him. "hey-dey, my boy, we shall be merry for a thousand years! better sleep now, you will need sleep if you mean to try which of us is the stronger." the next day their marriage was the marvel of the town and neighbourhood. "just like his mother!" people exclaimed; "what promise there was in her! she might have chosen so as to have been now in one of the best positions in the country--when, lo and behold! she went and made the most idiotic marriage. the most idiotic? no, the son's is more idiotic still." and so on and so forth. most people seem naturally impelled to exalt the hero of the hour higher than they themselves intend, and when a reaction comes, to decry him in an equal degree. few people see with their own eyes, and on special occasions even magnifying or diminishing glasses are called into play with most amusing results. "rafael kaas a handsome fellow?--well, yes, but too big, too fair, no repose, altogether too restless. rich? he? he has not a stiver! the savings eaten up long ago, nothing coming in, they have been encroaching on their capital for some time; and the beds of cement stone--who the deuce would join with him in any large undertaking? they talk about his gifts, his genius even; but is he very highly gifted? is it anything more than what he has acquired? the saving of motive power at the factory? was that anything more than a mere repetition of what he had done before?--and that, of course, only what he had seen elsewhere." just the same with the hints which he had given. "merely close personal observation; for it must be admitted that he had more of that than most people; but as for ingenuity! well, he could make out a good case for himself, but that was about the extent of his ingenuity." "his earlier articles, as well as those which had recently appeared on the use of electricity in baking and tanning--could you call those discoveries? let us see what he will invent now that he has come home, and cannot get ideas from reading and from seeing people." rafael noticed this change--first among the ladies, who all seemed to have been suddenly blown away, with a few exceptions, who did not respect a marriage like his, and who would not give in. his relations, also, held somewhat aloof. "it was not thus that he showed himself a true ravn. he was so in temperament and disposition, perhaps, but it was just his defect that he was only a half-breed." the change of front was complete: he noticed it on all hands. but he was man enough, and had sufficient obstinacy as well, to let himself be urged on by this to hard work, and in his wife there was still more of the same feeling. he had a sense of elevation in having done his duty, and as long as this tension lasted it kept him up to the mark. on the day of his marriage (from early in the morning until the time when the ceremony took place) he employed himself in writing to his mother; a wonderful, a solemn letter in the sight of the all-knowing,--the cry of a tortured soul in utmost peril. it depended on his mother whether she would receive them and let their life become all that was now possible. angelika--their business, manager, housekeeper, chief. he--devoted to his experiments. she--the tender mother, the guide of both. it seemed to him that their future depended on this letter and the answer to it, and he wrote in that spirit. never had he so fully depicted himself, so fully searched his own heart. it was the outcome of what he had lived through during these last few days, the mellowing influence of his struggles during the night watches. nothing could have been more candid. he was pained that he did not receive an answer at once, although he realised what a blow it would be to her. he understood that, to begin with, it would destroy all her dreams, as it had already destroyed. but he relied on her optimistic nature, which he had never known surpassed, and on the depth of her purpose in all that she undertook. he knew that she drew strength and resolution from all that was deepest in their common life. therefore he gave her time, notwithstanding angelika's restlessness, which could hardly be controlled. she even began to sneer; but there was something holy in his anticipation: her words fell unheeded. when on the third day he had received no letter, he telegraphed, merely these words: "mother, send me an answer." the wires had never carried anything more fraught with unspoken grief. he could not return home. he remained alone outside the town until the evening, by which time the answer might well have arrived. it was there. "my beloved son, you are always welcome; most of all when you are unhappy!" the word you was underlined. he grew deadly pale, and went slowly into his own room. there angelika let him remain for a while in peace, then came in and lit the lamp. he could see that she was much agitated, and that every now and then she cast hasty glances at him. "do you know what, rafael? you ought simply to go straight to your mother. it is too bad, both on account of our future and hers. we shall be ruined by gossip and trash." he was too unhappy to be contemptuous. she had no respect for anybody or anything, he thought; why, then, should he be angry because she felt none, either for his mother or for his position in regard to her? but how vulgar angelika seemed to him, as she bent over a troublesome lamp and let her impatience break out! her mouth but too easily acquired a coarse expression. her small head would rear itself above her broad shoulders with a snake-like expression, and her thick wrist-- "well," she said, "when all is said and done, that disgusting hellebergene is not worth making a fuss over." now she is annoyed with herself, he thought, and must have her say. she will not rest until she has picked a quarrel; but she shall not have that satisfaction. "after all that has been said and all that has happened there--" but this, too, missed fire. "how could i have supposed that she could manage my mother?" he got up and paced the room. "is that what mother felt? yet they were such good friends. i suspected nothing then. how is it that mother's instinct is always more delicate? have i blunted mine?" when, a little later, angelika came in again, he looked so unhappy that she was struck by it, and she then showed herself so kind and fertile in resource on his behalf, and there was such sunshine in her cheerfulness and flow of spirits during the evening, that he actually brightened up under it, and thought--if mother could have brought herself to try the experiment, perhaps after all it might have answered. there is so much that is good and capable in this curious creature. he went to the children. from the first day he and they had taken to each other. they had been unhappy in the great pension, with a mother who seldom came near them or took any notice of them, except as clothes to be patched, mouths to feed, or faults to be punished. rafael had in his nature the unconventionality which delights in children's confidence, and he felt a desire to love and to be loved. children are quick to feel this. they only wasted angelika's time. they were in her way now more than ever; for it may be said at once that, rafael had become everything to her. this was the fascination in her, and whatever happened, it never lost its power. her tenderness, her devotion, were boundless. by the aid of her personal charm, her resourceful ingenuity, she obtained every advantage for him within her range, and even beyond it. it was felt in her devotion by night and day, when anything was to be done, in an untiring zeal such as only so strong and healthy a woman could have had in her power to render. but in words it did not show itself, hardly even in looks: except, perhaps, while she fought to win him, but never since then. had she been able to adhere to one line of conduct, if only for a few weeks at a time, and let herself be guided by her never-failing love, he would, in this stimulating atmosphere, have made of his married life what his mother, in spite of all, had made of hers. why did not this happen? because the jealousy which she had aroused in him and which had drawn him to her again was now reversed. they were hardly married before it was she who was jealous! was it strange? a middle-aged woman, even though she be endowed with the strongest personality and the widest sympathy, when she wins a young husband who is the fashion--wins him as angelika won hers--begins to live in perpetual disquietude lest any one should take him from her. had she not taken him herself? if we were to say that she was jealous of every human being who came there, man or woman, old or young, beside those whom he met elsewhere, it would be an exaggeration, but this exaggeration throws a strong light upon the state of things, which actually existed. if he became at all interested in conversation with any one, she always interrupted. her face grew hard, her right foot began to move; and if this did not suffice, she struck in with sulky or provoking remarks, no matter who was there. if something were said in praise of any one, and it seemed to excite his interest, she would pooh-pooh it, literally with a "pooh!" a shrug of the shoulders, a toss of the head, or an impatient tap of the foot. at first he imagined that she really knew something disadvantageous about all those whom she thus disparaged, and he was filled with admiration at her acquaintance with half norway. he believed in her veracity as he believed in few things. he believed, too, that it was unbounded like so many of her qualities. she said the most cynical things in the plainest manner without apparent design. but little by little it dawned upon him that she said precisely what it pleased her to say, according to the humour that she was in. one day, as they were going to table--he had come in late and was hungry--he was delighted to see that there were oysters. "oysters! at this time of the year," he cried. "they must be very expensive." "pooh! that was the old woman, you know. she persuaded me to take them for you. i got them for next to nothing." "that was odd; you have been out, then, too?" "yes, and i saw you; you were walking with emma ravn." he understood at once, by the tone of her voice, that this was not permitted, but all the same he said, "yes; how sweet she is! so fresh and candid." "she! why, she had a child before she was married." "emma? emma ravn?" "yes! but i do not know who by." "do you know, angelika, i do not believe that," he said solemnly. "you can do as you please about that, but she was at the pension at the time, so you can judge for yourself if i am right." he could not believe that any human being could so belie themselves. emma's eyes, clear as water in a fountain where one can count the pebbles at the bottom, rose to his mind, in all their innocence. he could not believe that such eyes could lie. he grew livid, he could not eat, he left the table. the world was nothing but a delusion, the purest was impure. for a long time after this, whenever he met emma or her white-haired mother, he turned aside, so as not to come face to face with them. he had clung to his relations: their weak points were apparent to every one, but their ability and honesty no less so. this one story destroyed his confidence, impaired his self-reliance, shattered his belief, and thus made him the poorer. how could he be fit for anything, when he so constantly allowed himself to be befooled? there was not one word of truth in the whole story. his simple confidence was held in her grasp, like a child in the talons of an eagle; but this did not last much longer. fortunately, she was without calculation or perseverance. she did not remember one day what she had said the day before; for each day she coolly asserted whatever was demanded by the necessity of the moment. he, on the contrary, had an excellent memory; and his mathematical mind ranged the evidence powerfully against her. her gifts were more aptness and quickness than anything else, they were without training, without cohesion, and permeated with passion at all points. therefore he could, at any moment, crush her defence; but whenever this happened, it was so evident that she had been actuated by jealousy that it flattered his vanity; which was the reason why he did not regard it seriously enough--did not pursue his advantage. perhaps if he had done so, he would have discovered more, for this jealousy was merely the form which her uneasiness took. this uneasiness arose from several causes. the fact was that she had a past and she had debts which she had denied, and now she lived in perpetual dread lest any one should enlighten him. if any one got on the scent, she felt sure that this would be used against her. it merely depended on what he learned--in other words, with whom he associated. she could disregard anonymous letters because he did so, but there were plenty of disagreeable people who might make innuendoes. she saw that rafael too, to some extent, avoided his countless friends of old days. she did not understand the reason, but it was this: that he, as well, felt that they knew more of her than it was expedient for him to know. she saw that he made ingenious excuses for not being seen out with her. this, too, she misconstrued. she did not at all understand that he, in his way, was quite as frightened as she was of what people might say. she believed that he sought the society of others rather than hers. if nothing more came of such intercourse, stories might be told. this was the reason for her slanders about almost every one he spoke to. if they had vilified her, they must be vilified in return. she had debts, and this could not be concealed unless she increased them; this she did with a boldness worthy of a better cause. the house was kept on an extravagant scale, with an excellent table and great hospitality. otherwise he would not be comfortable at home, she said and believed. she herself vied with the most fashionably dressed ladies in the town. her daily struggle to maintain her hold on him demanded this. it followed, of course, that she got everything for "nothing" or "the greatest bargain in the world." there was always some one "who almost gave it" to her. he did not know himself how much money he spent, perhaps, because she hunted and drove him from one thing to another. originally he had thought of going abroad; but with a wife who knew no foreign languages, with a large family-- here at home, as he soon discovered, every one had lost confidence in him. he dared not take up anything important, or else he wished to wait a little before he came to any definite determination. in the meantime, he did whatever came to hand, and that was often work of a subordinate description. both from weariness, and from the necessity to earn a living, he ended by doing only mediocre work, and let things drift. he always gave out that this was only "provisional." his scientific gifts, his inventive genius, with so many pounds on his back, did not rise high, but they should yet! he had youth's lavish estimate of time and strength, and therefore did not see, for a long time, that the large family, the large house were weighing him farther and farther down. if only he could have a little peace, he thought, he would carry out his present ideas and new ones also. he felt such power within him. but peace was just what he never had. now we come to the worst, or more properly, to the sum of what has gone before. the ceaseless uneasiness in which angelika lived broke out into perpetual quarrelling. for one thing, she had no self-command. a caprice, a mistake, an anxiety over-ruled everything. she seized the smallest opportunities. again--and this was a most important factor--there was her overpowering anxiety to keep possession of him; this drew her away from what she should have paid most heed to, in order to let him have peace. she continued her lavish housekeeping, she let the children drift, she concentrated all her powers on him. her jealousy, her fears, her debts, sapped his fertile mind, destroyed his good humour, laid desolate his love of the beautiful and his creative power. he had in particular one great project, which he had often, but ineffectually, attempted to mature. the effort to do so had begun seriously one day on the heights above hellebergene, and had continued the whole summer. curiously enough, one morning, as he sat at some most wearisome work, hellebergene and helene, in the spring sunshine, rose before him, and with them his project, lofty and smiling, came to him again. then he begged for a little peace in the house. "let me be quiet, if only for a month," he said. "here is some money. i have got an idea; i must and will have quiet. in a month's time i shall have got on so far that perhaps i shall be able to judge if it is worth continuing. it may be that this one idea may entirely support us." this was something which she could understand, and now he was able to be quiet. he had an office in the town, but sometimes took his papers home with him in the evenings, for it often happened that something would occur to him at one moment or another. she bestowed every care on him; she even sat on the stairs while he was asleep at midday, to prevent him from being disturbed. this went on for a fortnight. then it so chanced that, when he had gone out for a walk, she rummaged among his papers, and there, among drawings, calculations, and letters, she actually, for once in a way, found something. it was in his handwriting and as follows: "more of the mother than the lover in her; more of the solicitude of love than of its enjoyment. rich in her affection, she would not squander it in one day with you, but, mother-like, would distribute it throughout your life. instead of the whirl of the rapids, a placid stream. her love was devotion, never absorption. you were one and she was one. together we should have been more powerful than two lovers are wont to be." there was more of this, but angelika could not read further, she became so furious. were these his own thoughts, or had he merely copied them? there were no corrections, so most likely it was a copy. in any case it showed where his thoughts were. rafael came quietly home, went straight to his room and lighted a candle, even before he took off his overcoat. as he stood he wrote down a few formulae, then seized a book, sat down astride of a chair, and made a rapid calculation. just then angelika came in, leaned forward towards him, and said in a low voice: "you are a nice fellow! now i know what you have in hand. look there: your secret thoughts are with that beast." "beast!" he repeated. his anger at being disturbed, at her having found this particular paper, and now the abuse from her coarse lips of the most delicate creature he had ever known, and, above all, the absolute unexpectedness of the attack, made him lose his head. "how dare you? what do you mean?" "don't be a fool. do you suppose that i don't guess that that is meant for the girl who looked after your estate in order to catch you?" she saw that this hit the mark, so she went still further. "she, the model of virtue! why, when she was a mere girl, she disgraced herself with an old man." as she spoke she was seized by the throat and flung backwards on to the sofa, without the grasp being relaxed. she was breathless, she saw his face over her; deadly rage was in it. a strength, a wildness of which she had no conception, gazed upon her in sensual delight at being able to strangle her. after a wild struggle her arms sank down powerless, her will with them; only her eyes remained wide open, in terror and wonderment. dare he? "yes, he dare!" her eyes grew dim, her limbs began to tremble. "you have taken my apple, i tell you," was heard in a childish voice from the next room, a soft lisping voice. it came from the most peaceful innocence in the world! it saved her! he rushed out again; but even when the rage had left him which had seized upon him and dominated him as a rider does a horse, he was still not horrified at himself. his satisfaction at having at length made his power felt was too great for that. but by degrees there came a revulsion. suppose he had killed her, and had to go into penal servitude for the rest of his life for it! had such a possibility come into his life? might it happen in the future? no! no! no! how strange that angelika should have wounded him! how frightful her state of mind must be when she could think so odiously of absolutely innocent people; and how angry she must have been to behave in such a way towards him, whom she loved above all others, indeed, as the only one for whom she had to live! a long, long sum followed: his faults, her faults, and the faults of others. he cooled down and began to feel more like himself. in an hour or two he was fit to go home, to find her on her bed, dissolved in tears, prepared at once to throw her arms round his neck. he asked pardon a hundred times, with words, kisses, and caresses. but with this scene his invention had fled. the spell was broken. it never did more than flutter before him, tempting him to pursue it once more; but he turned away from the whole subject and began to work for money again. something offered itself just at that moment which angelika had hunted up. back to the unending toil again. now at last it became an irritation to him: he chafed as the war horse chafes at being made a beast of burden. this made the scenes at home still worse. since that episode their quarrels knew no bounds. words were no longer necessary to bring them about: a gesture, a look, a remark of his unanswered, was enough to arouse the most violent scenes. hitherto they had been restrained by the presence of others, but now it was the same whether they were alone or not. very soon, as far as brutality of expression or the triviality of the question was concerned, he was as bad or worse than she. his idle fancy and creative genius found no other vent, but overthrew and trampled underfoot many of life's most beautiful gifts. thus he squandered much of the happiness which such talents can duly give. sometimes his daily regrets and sufferings, sometimes his passionate nature, were in the ascendant, but the cause of his despair was always the same--that this could have happened to him. should he leave her? he would not thus escape. the state of the case had touched his conscience at first, later he had become fond of the children, and his mother's example said to him, "hold out, hold out!" the unanimous prediction that this marriage would be dissolved as quickly as it had been made he would prove to be untrue. besides, he knew angelika too well now not to know that he would never obtain a separation from her until, with the law at her back, she had flayed him alive. he could not get free. from the first it had been a question of honour and duty; honour and duty on account of the child which was to come--and which did not come. here he had a serious grievance against her; but yet, in the midst of the tragedy, he could not but be amused at the skill with which she turned his own gallantries against him. at last he dared not mention the subject, for he only heard in return about his gay bachelor life. the longer this state of things lasted and the more it became known, the more incomprehensible it became to most people that they did not separate--to himself, too, at times, during sleepless nights. but it is sometimes the case that he, who makes a thousand small revolts, cannot brace himself to one great one. the endless strife itself strengthens the bonds, in that it saps the strength. he deteriorated. this married life, wearing in every way, together with the hard work, resulted in his not being equal to more than just the necessities of the day. his initiative and will became proportionately deadened. a strange stagnation developed itself: he had hallucinations, visions; he saw himself in them--his father! his mother! all the pictures were of a menacing description. at night he dreamed the most frightful things: his unbridled fancy, his unoccupied creative power, took revenge, and all this weakened him. he looked with admiration at his wife's robust health: she had the physique of a wild beast. but at times their quarrels, their reconciliations, brought revelations with them: he could perceive her sorrows as well. she did not complain, she did not say a word, she could not do so; but at times she wept and gave way as only the most despairing can. her nature was powerful, and the struggle of her love beyond belief. the beauty of the fulness of life was there, even when she was most repulsive. the wild creature, wrestling with her destiny, often gave forth tragic gleams of light. one day his relation, the government secretary, met him. they usually avoided each other, but to-day he stopped. "ah, rafael," said the dapper little man nervously, "i was coming to see you." "my dear fellow, what is it?" "ah, i see that you guess; it is a letter from your mother." "from my mother?" during all the time since her telegram they had not exchanged a word. "a very long letter, but she makes a condition." "hum, hum! a condition?" "yes, but do not be angry; it is not a hard one: it is only that you are to go away from the town, wherever you like, so long as you can be quiet, and then you are to read it." "you know the contents?" "i know the contents, i will go bail for it." what he meant, or why he was so perturbed by it, rafael did not understand, but it infected him; if he had had the money, and if on that day he had been disengaged, he would have gone at once. but he had not the money, not more than he wanted for the fete that evening. he had the tickets for it in his pocket at that moment. he had promised angelika that he would go there with her, and he would keep his promise, for it had been given after a great reconciliation scene. a white silk dress had been the olive branch of these last peaceful days. she therefore looked very handsome that evening as she walked into the great hall of the lodge, with rafael beside her tall and stately. she was in excellent spirits. her quiet eyes had a haughty expression as she turned her steps with confident superiority towards those whom she wished to please, or those whom she hoped to annoy. he did not feel confident. he did not like showing himself in public with her, and lately it had precisely been in public places that she had chosen to make scenes; besides which, he felt nervous as to what his mother could wish to say to him. a short time before he came to the fete, he had tried, in two quarters, to borrow money, and each time had received only excuses. this had greatly mortified him. his disturbed state of mind, as is so often the case with nervous people, made him excited and boisterous, nay, even made him more than usually jovial. and as though a little of the old happiness were actually to come to him that evening, he met his friend and relative hans ravn, him and his young bavarian wife, who had just come to the town. all three were delighted to meet. "do you remember," said hans ravn, "how often you have lent me money, rafael?" and he drew him on one side. "now i am at the top of the tree, now i am married to an heiress, and the most charming girl too; ah, you must know her better." "she is pretty as well," said rafael. "and pretty as well--and good tempered; in fact, you see before you the happiest man in norway." rafael's eyes filled. ravn put his hands on to his friend's shoulders. "are you not happy, rafael?" "not quite so happy as you, hans--" he left him to speak to some one else, then returned again. "you say, hans, that i have often lent you money." "are you pressed? do you want some, rafael? my dear fellow, how much?" "can you spare me two thousand kroner?" "here they are." "no, no; not in here, come outside." "yes, let us go and have some champagne to celebrate our meeting. no, not our wives," he added, as rafael looked towards where they stood talking. "not our wives," laughed rafael. he understood the intention, and now he wished to enjoy his freedom thoroughly. they came in again merrier and more boisterous than before. rafael asked hans ravn's young wife to dance. her personal attractions, natural gaiety, and especially her admiration of her husband's relations, took him by storm. they danced twice, and laughed and talked together afterwards. later in the evening the two friends rejoined their wives, so that they might all sit together at supper. even from a distance rafael could see by angelika's face that a storm was brewing. he grew angry at once. he had never been blamed more groundlessly. he was never to have any unalloyed pleasure, then! but he confined himself to whispering, "try to behave like other people." but that was exactly what she did not mean to do. he had left her alone, every one had seen it. she would have her revenge. she could not endure hans ravn's merriment, still less that of his wife, so she contradicted rudely once, twice, three times, while hans ravn's face grew more and more puzzled. the storm might have blown over, for rafael parried each thrust, even turning them into jokes, so that the party grew merrier, and no feelings were hurt; but on this she tried fresh tactics. as has been already said, she could make a number of annoying gestures, signs and movements which only he understood. in this way she showed him her contempt for everything which every one, and especially he himself, said. he could not help looking towards her, and saw this every time he did so, until under the cover of the laughter of the others, with as much fervour and affection as can be put into such a word, "you jade!" he said. "jade; was ist das?" asked the bright-eyed foreigner. this made the whole affair supremely ridiculous. angelika herself laughed, and all hoped that the cloud had been finally dispersed. no!--as though satan himself had been at table with them, she would not give in. the conversation again grew lively, and when it was at its height, she pooh-poohed all their jokes so unmistakably that they were completely puzzled. rafael gave her a furious look, and then she jeered at him, "you boy!" she said. after this rafael answered her angrily, and let nothing pass without retaliation, rough, savage retaliation; he was worse than she was. "but god bless me!" said good-natured hans ravn at length, "how you are altered, rafael!" his genial kindly eyes gazed at him with a look which rafael never forget. "ja, ich kan es nicht mehr aushalten" said the young fru ravn, with tears in her eyes. she rose, her husband hurried to her, and they left together. rafael sat down again, with angelika. those near them looked towards them and whispered together. angry and ashamed, he looked across at angelika, who laughed. everything seemed to turn red before his eyes--he rose; he had a wild desire to kill her there, before every one. yes! the temptation overpowered him to such an extent that he thought that people must notice it. "are you not well, kaas?" he heard some one beside him say. he could not remember afterwards what he answered, or how he got away; but still, in the street, he dwelt with ecstasy on the thought of killing her, of again seeing her face turn black, her arms fall powerless, her eyes open wide with terror; for that was what would happen some day. he should end his life in a felon's cell. that was as certainly a part of his destiny as had been the possession of talents which he had allowed to become useless. a quarter of an hour later he was at the observatory: he scanned the heavens, but no stars were visible. he felt that he was perspiring, that his clothes clung to him, yet he was ice-cold. that is the future that awaits you, he thought; it runs ice-cold through your limbs. then it was that a new and, until then, unused power, which underlay all else, broke forth and took the command. "you shall never return home to her, that is all past now, boy; i will not permit it any longer." what was it? what voice was that? it really sounded as though outside himself. was it his father's? it was a man's voice. it made him clear and calm. he turned round, he went straight to the nearest hotel, without further thought, without anxiety. something new was about to begin. he slept for three hours undisturbed by dreams; it was the first night for a long time that he had done so. the following morning he sat in the little pavilion at the station at eidsvold with his mother's packet of letters laid open before him. it consisted of a quantity of papers which he had read through. the expanse of lake mjosen lay cold and grey beneath the autumn mist, which still shrouded the hillsides. the sound of hammers from the workshops to the right mingled with the rumble of wheels on the bridge; the whistle of an engine, the rattle of crockery from the restaurant; sights and sounds seethed round him like water boiling round an egg. as soon as his mother had felt sure that angelika was not really enceinte she had busied herself in collecting all the information about her which it was possible to obtain. by the untiring efforts of her ubiquitous relations she had succeeded to such an extent and in such detail as no examining magistrate could have accomplished. and there now lay before him letters, explanations, evidence, which the deponent was ready to swear to, besides letters from angelika herself: imprudent letters which this impulsive creature could perpetrate in the midst of her schemes; or deeply calculated letters, which directly contradicted others which had been written at a different period, based on different calculations. these documents were only the accompaniment of a clear summing-up by his mother. it was therefore she who had guided the investigations of the others and made a digest of their discoveries. with mathematical precision was here laid down both what was certain and what, though not certain, was probable. no comment was added, not a word addressed to himself. that portion of the disclosures which related to angelika's past does not concern us. that which had reference to her relations with rafael began by proving that the anonymous letters, which had been the means of preventing his engagement with helene, had been written by angelika. this revelation and that which preceded it, give an idea of the overwhelming humiliation under which rafael now suffered. what was he that he could be duped and mastered like a captured animal; that what was best and what was worst in him could lead him so far astray? like a weak fool he was swept along; he had neither seen nor heard nor thought before he was dragged away from everything that was his or that was dear to him. as he sat there, the perspiration poured from him as it had done the night before, and again he felt a deadly chill. he therefore went up to his room with the papers, which he locked up in his trunk, and then set off at a run along the road. the passers-by turned to stare after the tall fellow. as he ran he repeated to himself, "who are you, my lad? who are you?" then he asked the hills the same question, and then the trees as well. he even asked the fog, which was now rolling off, "who am i? can you answer me that?" the close-cropped half-withered turf mocked him--the cleared potato patches, the bare fields, the fallen leaves. "that which you are you will never be; that which you can you will never do; that which you ought to become you will never attain to! as you, so your mother before you. she turned aside--and your father too--into absolute folly; perhaps their fathers before them! this is a branch of a great family who never attained to what they were intended for." "something different has misled each one of us, but we have all been misled. why is that so? we have greater aims than many others, but the others drove along the beaten highway right through the gates of fortune's house. we stray away from the highway and into the wood. see! am i not there myself now? away from the highway and into the wood, as though i were led by an inward law. into the wood." he looked round among the mountain-ashes, the birches, and other leafy trees in autumn tints. they stood all round, dripping, as though they wept for his sorrow. "yes, yes; they will see me hang here, like absalom by his long hair." he had not recalled this old picture a moment before he stopped, as though seized by a strong hand. he must not fly from this, but try to fathom it. the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: absalom's history was his own. he began with rebellion. naturally rebellion is the first step in a course which leads one from the highway--leads to passion and its consequences. that was clear enough. thus passion overpowered strength of purpose; thus chance circumstances sapped the foundations--but david rebelled as well. why, then, was not david hung up by his hair? it was quite as long as absalom's. yes, david was within an ace of it, right up to his old age. but the innate strength in david was too great, his energy was always too powerful: it conquered the powers of rebellion. they could not drag him far away into passionate wanderings; they remained only holiday flights in his life and added poetry to it. they did not move his strength of purpose. ah, ha! it was so strong in david that he absorbed them and fed on them; and yet he was within an ace--very often. see! that is what i, miserable contemptible wretch, cannot do. so i must hang! very soon the man with the spear will be after me. rafael now set off running; probably he wished to escape the man with the spear. he now entered the thickest part of the wood, a narrow valley between two high hills which overshadowed it. oh, how thirsty he was, so fearfully thirsty! he stood still and wondered whether he could get anything to drink. yes, he could hear the murmur of a brook. he ran farther down towards it. close by was an opening in the wood, and as he went towards the stream he was arrested by something there: the sun had burst forth and lighted up the tree-tops, throwing deep shadows below. did he see anything? yes; it seemed to him that he saw himself, not absolutely in the opening, but to one side, in the shadow, under a tree; he hung there by his hair. he hung there and swung, a man, but in the velvet jacket of his childhood and the tight-fitting trousers: he swung suspended by his tangled red hair. and farther away he distinctly saw another figure: it was his mother, stiff and stately, who was turning round as if to the sound of music. and, god preserve him! still farther away, broad and heavy, hung his father, by the few thin hairs on his neck, with wretched distorted face as on his death-bed. in other respects those two were not great sinners. they were old; but his sins were great, for he was young, and therefore nothing had ever prospered with him, not even in his childhood. there had always been something which had caused him to be misunderstood or which had frightened him or made him constantly constrained and uncertain of himself. never had he been able to keep to the main point, and thus to be in quiet natural peace. with only one exception--his meeting with helene. it seemed to him that he was sitting in the boat with her out in the bay. the sky was bright, there was melody in the woods. now he was up on the hill with her, among the saplings, and she was explaining to him that it depended on her care whether they throve or not. he went to the brook to drink; he lay down over the water. he was thus able to see his own face. how could that happen? why, there was sunshine overhead. he was able to see his own face. great heavens! how like his father he had become. in the last year he had grown very like his father--people had said so. he well remembered his mother's manner when she noticed it. but, good god! were those grey hairs? yes, in quantities, so that his hair was no longer red but grey. no one had told him of it. had he advanced so far, been so little prepared for it, that hans ravn's remark, "how you are altered, rafael!" had frightened him? he had certainly given up observing himself, in this coarse life of quarrels. in it, certainly, neither words nor deeds were weighed, and hence this hunted feeling. it was only natural that he had ceased to observe. if the brook had been a little deeper, he would have let himself be engulfed in it. he got up, and went on again, quicker and quicker: sometimes he saw one person, sometimes another, hanging in the woods. he dare not turn round. was it so very wonderful that others besides himself and his family had turned from the beaten track, and peopled the byways and the boughs in the wood? he had been unjust towards himself and his parents; they were not alone, they were in only too large a company. what will unjust people say, but that the very thing which requires strength does not receive it, but half of it comes to nothing, more than half of the powers are wasted. here, in these strips of woodland which run up the hills side by side, like organ-pipes, henrik vergeland had also roamed: within an ace, with him too, within an ace! wonderful how the ravens gather together here, where so many people are hanging. ha! ha! he must write this to his mother! it was something to write about to her, who had left him, who deserted him when he was the most unhappy, because all that she cared for was to keep her sacred person inviolate, to maintain her obstinate opinion, to gratify her pique--oh! what long hair!--how fast his mother was held! she had not cut her hair enough then. but now she should have her deserts. everything from as far back as he could remember should be recalled, for once in a way he would show her herself; now he had both the power and the right. his powers of discovery had been long hidden under the suffocating sawdust of the daily and nightly sawing; but now it was awake, and his mother should feel it. people noticed the tall man break out of the wood, jump over hedges and ditches, and make his way straight up the hill. at the very top he would write to his mother!-- he did not return to the hotel till dark. he was wet, dirty, and frightfully exhausted. he was as hungry as a wolf, he said, but he hardly ate anything; on the other hand, he was consumed with thirst. on leaving the table he said that he wished to stay there a few days to sleep. they thought that he was joking, but he slept uninterruptedly until the afternoon of the next day. he was then awakened, ate a little and drank a great deal, for he had perspired profusely; after which he fell asleep again. he passed the next twenty-four hours in much the same way. when he awoke the following morning he found himself alone. had not a doctor been there, and had he not said that it was a good thing for him to sleep? it seemed to him that he had heard a buzz of voices; but he was sure that he was well now, only furiously hungry and thirsty, and when he raised himself he felt giddy. but that passed off by degrees, when he had eaten some of the food which had been left there. he drank out of the water-jug--the carafe was empty--and walked once or twice up and down before the open window. it was decidedly cold, so he shut it. just then he remembered that he had written a frightful letter to his mother! how long ago was it? had he not slept a long time? had he not turned grey? he went to the looking-glass, but forgot the grey hair at the sight of himself. he was thin, lank, and dirty.--the letter! the letter! it will kill my mother! there had already been misfortunes enough, more must not follow. he dressed himself quickly, as if by hurrying he could overtake the letter. he looked at the clock--it had stopped. suppose the train were in! he must go by it, and from the train straight to the steamer, and home, home to hellebergene! but he must send a telegram to his mother at once. he wrote it--"never mind the letter, mother. i am coming this evening and will never leave you again." so now he had only to put on a clean collar, now his watch--it certainly was morning--now to pack, go down and pay the bill, have something to eat, take his ticket, send the telegram; but first--no, it must all be done together, for the train was there; it had only a few minutes more to wait; he could only just catch it. the telegram was given to some one else to send off. but he had hardly got into the carriage, where he was alone, than the thought of the letter tortured him, till he could not sit still. this dreadful analysis of his mother, strophe after strophe, it rose before him, it again drove him into the state of mind in which he had been among the hills and woods of eidsvold. beyond the tunnel the character of the scenery was the same.--good god! that dreadful letter was never absent from his thoughts, otherwise he would not suffer so terribly. what right had he to reproach his mother, or any one, because a mere chance should have become of importance in their lives? would the telegram arrive in time to save her from despair, and yet not frighten her from home because he was coming? to think that he could write in such a way to her, who had but lived to collect the information which would free him! his ingratitude must appear too monstrous to her. the extreme reserve which she was unable to break through might well lead to catastrophes. what might not she have determined on when she received this violent attack by way of thanks? perhaps she would think that life was no longer worth living, she who thought it so easy to die. he shuddered. but she will do nothing hastily, she will weigh everything first. her roots go deep. when she appears to have acted on impulse, it is because she has had previous knowledge. but she has no previous knowledge here; surely here she will deliberate. he pictured her as, wrapped in her shawl, she wandered about in dire distress--or with intent gaze reviewing her life and his own, until both appeared to her to have been hopelessly wasted--or pondering where she could best hide herself so that she should suffer no more. how he loved her! all that had happened had drawn a veil over his eyes, which was now removed. now he was on board the steamer which was bearing him home. the weather had become mild and summerlike; it had been raining, but towards evening it began to clear. he would get to hellebergene in fine weather, and by moonlight. it grew colder; he spoke to no one, nor had he eyes for anything about him. the image of his mother, wrapped in her long shawl--that was all the company he had. only his mother! no one but his mother! suppose the telegram had but frightened her the more--that to see him now appeared the worst that could happen. to read such a crushing doom for her whole life, and that from him! she was not so constituted that it could be cancelled by his asking forgiveness and returning to her. on the contrary, it would precipitate the worst, it must do so. the violent perspiration began again; he had to put on more wraps. his terror took possession of him: he was forced to contemplate the most awful possibilities--to picture to himself what death his mother would choose! he sprang to his feet and paced up and down. he longed to throw himself into somebody's arms, to cry aloud. but he knew well that he must not let such words escape him.--he had to picture her as she handled the guns, until she relinquished the idea of using any of them. then he imagined her recalling the deepest hiding-places in the woods--where were they all? he recalled them, one after another. no, not in any of those, for she wished to hide herself where she would never be found! there was the cement-bed; it went sheer down there, and the water was deep!--he clung to the rigging to prevent himself from falling. he prayed to be released from these terrors. but he saw her floating there, rocked by the rippling water. was it the face which was uppermost, or was it the body, which for a while floated higher than the face? his thoughts were partially diverted from this by people coming up to ask him if he were ill. he got something warm and strong to drink, and now the steamer approached the part of the coast with which he was familiar. they passed the opening into hellebergene, for one has to go first to the town, and thence in a boat. it now became the question, whether a boat had been sent for him. in that case his mother was alive, and would welcome him. but if there was no boat, then a message from the gulf had been sent instead! and there was no boat!-- for a moment his senses failed him; only confused sounds fell on his ear. but then he seemed to emerge from a dark passage. he must get to hellebergene! he must see what had happened; he would go and search! by this time it was growing dark. he went on shore and looked round for a boat as though half asleep. he could hardly speak, but he did not give in till he got the men together and hired the boat. he took the helm himself, and bade them row with all their might. he knew every peak in the grey twilight. they might depend on him, and row on without looking round. soon they had passed the high land and were in among the islands. this time they did not come out to meet him; they all seemed gathered there to repel him. no boat had been sent; there was, therefore, nothing more for him to do here. no boat had been sent, because he had forfeited his place here. like savage beasts, with bristles erect, the peaks and islands arrayed themselves against him. "row on, my lads," he cried, for now arose again in him that dormant power which only manifested itself in his utmost need. "how is it with you, my boy? i am growing weary. courage, now, and forward!" again that voice outside himself--a man's voice. was it his father's? whether or not it were his father's voice, here before his father's home he would struggle against fate. in man's direst necessity, what he has failed in and what he can do seem to encounter each other. and thus, just as the boat had cleared the point and the islands and was turning into the bay, he raised himself to his full height, and the boatmen looked at him in astonishment. he still grasped the rudder-lines, and looked as though he were about to meet an enemy. or did he hear anything? was it the sound of oars? yes, they heard them now as well. from the strait near the inlet a boat was approaching them. she loomed large on the smooth surface of the water and shot swiftly along. "is that a boat from hellebergene?" shouted rafael. his voice shook. "yes," came a voice out of the darkness, and he recognised the bailiff's voice. "is it rafael?" "yes. why did you not come before?" "the telegram has only just arrived." he sat down. he did not speak. he became suddenly incapable of uttering a word. the other boat turned and followed them. rafael nearly ran his boat on shore; he forgot that he was steering. very soon they cleared the narrow passage which led into the inner bay, and rounded the last headland, and there!--there lay hellebergene before them in a blaze of light! from cellar to attic, in every single window, it glowed, it streamed with light, and at that moment another light blazed out from the cairn on the hill-top. it was thus that his mother greeted him. he sobbed; and the boatmen heard him, and at the same time noticed that it had grown suddenly light. they turned round, and were so engrossed in the spectacle that they forgot to row. "come! you must let me get on," was all that he could manage to say. his sufferings were forgotten as he leapt from the boat. nor did it disturb him that he did not meet his mother at the landing-place, or near the house, nor see her on the terrace. he simply rushed up the stairs and opened the door. the candles in the windows gave but little light within. indeed, something had been put in the windows for them to stand on, so that the interior was half in shadow. but he had come in from the semi-darkness. he looked round for her, but he heard some one crying at the other end of the room. there she sat, crouched in the farthest corner of the sofa, with her feet drawn up under her, as in old days when she was frightened. she did not stretch out her arms; she remained huddled together. but he bent over her, knelt down, laid his face on hers, wept with her. she had grown fragile, thin, haggard, ah! as though she could be blown away. she let him take her in his arms like a child and clasp her to his breast; let him caress and kiss her. ah, how ethereal she had become! and those eyes, which at last he saw, now looked tearfully out from their large orbits, but more innocently than a bird from its nest. over her broad forehead she had wound a large silk handkerchief in turban fashion. it hung down behind. she wished to conceal the thinness of her hair. he smiled to recognise her again in this. more spiritualised, more ethereal in her beauty, her innermost aspirations shone forth without effort. her thin hands caressed his hair, and now she gazed into his eyes. "rafael, my rafael!" she twined her arms round him and murmured welcome. but soon she raised her head and resumed a sitting posture. she wished to speak. he was beforehand with her. "forgive the letter," he whispered with beseeching eyes and voice, and hands upraised. "i saw the distress of your soul," was the whispered answer, for it could not be spoken aloud. "and there was nothing to forgive," she added. she had laid her face against his again. "and it was quite true, rafael," she murmured. she must have passed through terrible days and nights here, he thought, before she could say that. "mother, mother! what a fearful time!" her little hand sought his: it was cold; it lay in his like an egg in a deserted nest. he warmed it and took the other as well. "was not the illumination splendid?" she said. and now her voice was like a child's. he moved the screen which obstructed the light: he must see her better. he thought, when he saw the look of happiness in her face, if life looks so beautiful to her still, we shall have a long time together. "if you had told me all that about absalom, the picture which you made when you were told the story of david, rafael; if you had only told me that before!" she paused, and her lips quivered. "how could i tell it to you, mother, when i did not understand it myself?" "the illumination--that must signify that i, too, understand. it ought to light you forward; do you not think so?" a painful memory from childhood i must have been somewhere about seven years old, when one sunday afternoon a rumour reached the parsonage that, on that same day, two men, rowing past the buggestrand in eidsfjord, had discovered a woman who had fallen over a cliff, and had remained half lying, half hanging, close to the water's edge. before moving her, they tried to find out from her who had thrown her over. it was thirty-five miles by water to the doctor's, and then an order for admission to the hospital had also to be procured. she had lain twenty-four hours before help reached her, and shortly afterwards she died. before she breathed her last, she said it was peer hagbo who had done it. "but," she added, "they mustn't do him any harm." everybody knew that there had been an attachment between the girl, who was in service at hagbo's, and the son of the house, and the shrewd ones instantly guessed why he wanted to get her out of the way. i remember clearly the arrival of the news. it was, as i have said, on a sunday afternoon, her death having occurred on the morning of the same day. it was in the very middle of summer, when the whole place was flooded with sunshine and gladness. i remember how the light faded, faces turned to stone, the fjord grew dim, and village and forest shrank away into shadow. i remember that even the next day i felt as though a blow had been dealt to ordinary existence. i knew that i need not go to school. men knocked off work, leaving everything just as it was, and sat down with idle hands. the women especially were paralysed: it was evident they felt themselves threatened, they even said as much. when strangers came to the parsonage their bearing and expression showed that the murder lay heavy on their minds, and they read the same story in us. we took each other's hands with a sense of remoteness. the murder was the only thing that was present with us. whatever we talked of we seemed to hear of the murder in voice and word. the last consciousness at night and the first in the morning was that everything was unsettled, and that the joy of life was suddenly arrested, like the hands on a dial at a certain hour. but by degrees the murder fell into its proper place among other interests; curiosity and gossip had made it commonplace. it was taken up, turned over, considered, picked at and pulled about, till it became simply "the last new thing." soon we knew every detail of the relation between the murdered and the murderer. we knew who it was that peer's mother had wanted him to marry; we knew the hagbo family in and out, and their history for generations past. when the magistrate came to the parsonage to institute the preliminary inquiry, the murder was merely an inexhaustible theme of conversation. but the next day when the bailiff and some other men appeared with the murderer, a new feeling took possession of me, a feeling of which i could not have imagined myself capable--an overpowering compassion. a young good-looking lad, well grown, slightly built, rather small than otherwise, with dark not very thick hair, with appealing eyes which were now downcast, with a clear voice, and about his whole personality a certain charm, almost refinement; a creature to associate with life, not death, with gladness, with gaiety. i was more sorry for him than i can say. the bailiff and the other people spoke kindly to him too, so they must have felt the same. only the peppery little clerk came out with some hard words, but the accused stood cap in hand and made no answer. he paced up and down the yard in his shirt sleeves--the day was very warm--with a flat cloth cap over his close-cut hair, and his hands in his trousers pockets, or toying restlessly with a piece of straw. the parsonage dog had found companions, and the youth followed the dog's frolic with his eyes, and gazed at the chickens and at us children as though he longed to be one of us. the girl's words, "but don't do him any harm," rang in my ears unceasingly--whether he walked about or stood still or sat down. i knew that he would certainly be beheaded, and, believing that it must be soon, i was filled with horror at the thought of his saying to himself, in a month i shall die--and then in a week--in a day--an hour... it must be utterly unendurable. i slipped behind him to see his neck, and just at that moment he lifted his hand up to it, a little brown hand; and i could not get rid of the thought that perhaps his fingers would come in the way when the axe was falling. he and the warders were asked to come in and dine. i felt i must see if it were really possible for him to eat. yes, he ate and chatted just like the rest, and for a time i forgot my terror. but no sooner was i outside again and alone than i fell to thinking of it with might and main, and it seemed to me very hard that her words, "but you mustn't do him any harm," should be so utterly disregarded. i felt i must go in and say as much to father. but he, slow and serious, and the clerk, little and dapper, were walking up and down the room deep in conversation, far, far above all my misery. i slipped out again, and stroked the coat which peer had taken off. the inquiry was held in my schoolroom. my master acted as secretary to the court, and i got leave to sit there and listen. for the matter of that, the clerk spoke in so loud a voice that it could be heard through the open window by every one in the place. the unfortunate youth was called upon to account for the entire day on which the murder had been committed--for every hour of that sunday. he denied that he had killed her--denied it with the utmost emphasis: "it was not he who had done it." the magistrate's examination was both acutely and kindly conducted; peer was moved to tears, but no confession could be drawn from him. "this will be a long business, madam," said the magistrate to my mother when the first day's inquiry was over. but later in the evening peer's sister came to the parsonage and remained with him all through the night. they were heard whispering and crying unceasingly. in the morning peer was pale and silent; before the court he took all the blame upon himself. the way it had happened, he explained, was that he had been her lover, and that his mother had strongly disapproved of the connection. so one sunday as the girl, prayer-book in hand, was going to church, he met her in the wood. they sat down, and he asked if she intended to declare him the father of the child she was about to bear; for it was in this time of sore necessity that she was going to seek consolation in the church. she replied that she could accuse no one else. he spoke of the shame it would bring on him, and how annoyed his mother already was. yes, yes, she knew that too well. his mother was very angry with her; and she thought it strange of peer that he didn't stand up for her; he knew best whose fault it was that all this had happened. but peer hinted that she had been compliant to others as well as to himself, and therefore he would not submit to being given out as the child's father. he tried to make her angry, but did not succeed, she was so gentle. he had an axe lying concealed in the heather near where he sat. he took it and struck her on the head from behind. she did not lose consciousness at once, but tried to defend herself while she begged for her life. he could give no clear account of what happened afterwards. it seemed almost as though he himself had lost consciousness. as to the other events, he accepted the account of them which had been given in the evidence against him. his sister waited at the parsonage until he came from the examination, worn out and with eyes red with weeping. once more they went aside and whispered. i remember nothing more of her than that she held her head down and wept a great deal. it was in the winter that he was to be executed. the announcement was made at such short notice that every one in the house had to bestir himself--father was to deliver an exhortation at the place of execution, and the dean, whose parishioner the condemned man was, together with the bailiff, had arranged to come to us the day before. peer and his warders and a friend, his instructor during the time of his imprisonment, schoolmaster jakobsen, were to sleep down in the schoolhouse, which was part of the farm property belonging to the old parsonage. meals were to be carried from our house to the prisoner and jakobsen. i remember that they came in the morning in two boat-loads from molde: the dean, the bailiff, the military escort, and the condemned man. but i had to sit in the old schoolhouse, and not even later in the day was i allowed to go down to where they were. this prohibition made the whole proceeding the more mysterious. it grew dark early. the sea ran black against a whitish and in some places bare-swept beach. the ragged clouds chased each other across the sky. we were afraid a storm was coming on. then one of the parsonage chimneys caught on fire, and most of the soldiers came rushing up to offer help. the great fire-ladder was brought from under the storehouse. it was unusually heavy and clumsy, so it was difficult to get it raised, till father broke into the midst of the crowd, ordered them all to stand back, and set it up by himself. this is still remembered in the parish; and also that the bailiff, an active little fellow, took a bucket in each hand and went up the ladder till he reached the turf roof. the black fjord, the hurrying clouds, the menace of the coming day, the blaze of the fire, the bustle and din...and then the silence afterwards! people whispered as they moved about the rooms and out in the yard, whence they looked down upon the schoolhouse-prison where the steady light burned. schoolmaster jacobsen was sitting there now with his friend. they were singing and praying together, i heard from those who had been down in that direction. peer's family came in the evening in a boat, went up to see him, and took leave of him. i heard how dauntless he was in his confidence that the next day he would be with god, and how beautifully he talked to his people, and especially how he begged them to take an affectionate greeting to his mother, and be good to her as long as she lived. some said she had come in the boat with the rest, but would not go up to see him. that was not true, any more than that some of them were at the execution the next day, which was also reported. i wakened the next morning under a weight of apprehension. the weather had changed and was fair now, but it felt oppressive nevertheless. no one spoke loud, and people said as little as possible. i was to be allowed to go with the rest and look on; so i made haste to find my tutor, whom i had been told not to leave. the two clergymen came out in their cassocks. we went down to the landing-place and rowed the first part of the way. the condemned man and his escort had gone on before, and waited at the place where we disembarked, in order to walk the latter part of the way to the place of execution, a kilometer or so distant. the execution had to take place at a cross-roads, and there was only one in the neighbourhood--namely, at ejdsvaag, nearly seven miles away from where the murder was committed. the bailiff headed the procession, then came the soldiers, then the condemned man, with the dean on one side and my father on the other, then jacobsen and my tutor, with me between them, then some more people, followed by more soldiers. we walked cautiously along the slippery road. the clergyman talked constantly to the condemned man, who was now very pale. his eyes had grown gentle and weary and he said very little. my mother, who had been very kind to him, and whom he had thanked for all she had done, had sent him a bottle of wine to keep up his strength. the first time that my tutor offered him some, he looked at the clergyman as though asking if there were anything sinful in accepting it. my father quoted st. paul's advice to timothy, and instantly he drank off a long draught. by the wayside stood people curious to see him, and they joined the procession as it passed along. among them were some of his comrades, to whom he sorrowfully nodded. once or twice he lifted his cap, the same flat one i had seen him in the first time. it was evident that his comrades had a regard for him; and i saw, too, some young women who were crying, and made no attempt to conceal it. he walked along with his hands clasped at his breast, probably praying. we were all startled by the captain's loud and commonplace word of command, "attention!" as we reached the appointed place. a body of soldiers stood drawn up in a hollow square, which closed in after admitting the bailiff, the clergyman, the condemned man, and a few besides, among whom was myself. a great silent crowd stood round, and over their heads one saw the mounted figure of the sheriff in his cocked hat. when the soldiers who came with us, having carried out various sharp words of command, had taken their places in the square, the further proceedings began by the sheriff's reading aloud the death sentence and the royal order for the execution. the sheriff stationed himself directly in front of the place where some planed boards were laid over the grave. at one end of it stood the block. on the other side of the grave a platform had been erected, from which the dean was to speak. peer hagbo knelt below on the step, with his face buried in his hands, close to the feet of his spiritual adviser. the dean was of danish birth, one of the many who, at the time of the separation, had chosen to make their home in norway. his addresses were beautiful to read, but one couldn't always hear him, and least of all when he was moved, as was frequently the case. he shouted the first words very loud; then his head sank down between his shoulders, and he shook it without a pause while he closed his eyes and uttered some smothered sounds, catching his breath between them. the points of his tall shirt-collar, which reached to the middle of his ears (i have never since seen the like), stuck up on each side of the bare cropped head with the two double chins underneath, and the whole was framed between his shoulders, which, by long practice, he could raise much higher than other men. those who did not know him--for to know him was to love him--could hardly keep from laughing. his speech was neither heard nor understood, but it was short. his emotion forced him to break it off suddenly. one thing alone we all understood: that he loved the pale young man whom he had prepared for death, and that he wished that all of us might go to our god as happy and confident as he who was to die to-day. when he stepped down they embraced each other for the last time. peer gave his hand to my father and to a number besides, and then placed himself by his friend jakobsen. the latter knew what this meant. he took off a kerchief and bound peer's eyes, while we saw him whisper something to him and receive a whispered answer. then a man came forward to bind peer's hands behind his back, but he begged to be left free, and his prayer was granted. then jakobsen took him by the hand and led him forward. at the place where peer was to kneel jakobsen stopped short, and peer slowly bent his knees. jakobsen bent peer's head down until it rested on the block; then he drew back and folded his hands. all this i saw, and also that a tall man came and took hold of peer's neck, while a smaller man drew forth from a couple of folded towels a shining axe with a remarkably broad thin blade. it was then i turned away. i heard the captain's horrible "present arms"; i heard some one praying "our father"--perhaps it was peer himself--then a blow that sounded exactly as if it went into a great cabbage. at once i looked round again, and saw one leg kicking out, and a yard or two beyond the body lay the head, the mouth gasping and gasping as if for air. the executioner's assistant sprang forward and took hold of it by the ends of the handkerchief that had bandaged the eyes, and threw it into the coffin beside the body, where it fell with a dull sound. the boards were laid over the coffined remains, and the whole hastily lifted up and lowered into the grave. then my father got up on the platform. every one could understand what he said, and his powerful voice was heard to such a distance that even now it is remembered in the district. following up the thunderous admonition of the execution itself, he warned the young against the vices which prevailed in the parish--against drunkenness, fighting, unchastity, and other misconduct. they must have liked the discourse very much, for it was stolen out of the pocket of his gown on the way home. as for me, i left the place as sick at heart, as overwhelmed with horror, as if it were my turn to be executed next. afterwards i compared notes with many others, who owned to exactly the same feeling. father and the dean dined at the captain's with the other officials; but they separated and went home directly after dinner. a treatise on parents and children by bernard shaw contents parents and children trailing clouds of glory the child is father to the man what is a child? the sin of nadab and abihu the manufacture of monsters small and large families children as nuisances child fanciers childhood as a state of sin school my scholastic acquirements schoolmasters of genius what we do not teach, and why taboo in schools alleged novelties in modern schools what is to be done? children's rights and duties should children earn their living? children's happiness the horror of the perpetual holiday university schoolboyishness the new laziness the infinite school task the rewards and risks of knowledge english physical hardihood and spiritual cowardice the risks of ignorance and weakness the common sense of toleration the sin of athanasius the experiment experimenting why we loathe learning and love sport antichrist under the whip technical instruction docility and dependence the abuse of docility the schoolboy and the homeboy the comings of age of children the conflict of wills the demagogue's opportunity our quarrelsomeness we must reform society before we can reform ourselves the pursuit of manners not too much wind on the heath, brother wanted: a child's magna charta the pursuit of learning children and game: a proposal the parents' intolerable burden mobilization children's rights and parents' wrongs how little we know about our parents our abandoned mothers family affection the fate of the family family mourning art teaching the impossibility of secular education natural selection as a religion moral instruction leagues the bible artist idolatry "the machine" the provocation to anarchism imagination government by bullies parents and children trailing clouds of glory childhood is a stage in the process of that continual remanufacture of the life stuff by which the human race is perpetuated. the life force either will not or cannot achieve immortality except in very low organisms: indeed it is by no means ascertained that even the amoeba is immortal. human beings visibly wear out, though they last longer than their friends the dogs. turtles, parrots, and elephants are believed to be capable of outliving the memory of the oldest human inhabitant. but the fact that new ones are born conclusively proves that they are not immortal. do away with death and you do away with the need for birth: in fact if you went on breeding, you would finally have to kill old people to make room for young ones. now death is not necessarily a failure of energy on the part of the life force. people with no imagination try to make things which will last for ever, and even want to live for ever themselves. but the intelligently imaginative man knows very well that it is waste of labor to make a machine that will last ten years, because it will probably be superseded in half that time by an improved machine answering the same purpose. he also knows that if some devil were to convince us that our dream of personal immortality is no dream but a hard fact, such a shriek of despair would go up from the human race as no other conceivable horror could provoke. with all our perverse nonsense as to john smith living for a thousand million eons and for ever after, we die voluntarily, knowing that it is time for us to be scrapped, to be remanufactured, to come back, as wordsworth divined, trailing ever brightening clouds of glory. we must all be born again, and yet again and again. we should like to live a little longer just as we should like pounds: that is, we should take it if we could get it for nothing; but that sort of idle liking is not will. it is amazing--considering the way we talk--how little a man will do to get pounds: all the -pound notes i have ever known of have been more easily earned than a laborious sixpence; but the difficulty of inducing a man to make any serious effort to obtain pounds is nothing to the difficulty of inducing him to make a serious effort to keep alive. the moment he sees death approach, he gets into bed and sends for a doctor. he knows very well at the back of his conscience that he is rather a poor job and had better be remanufactured. he knows that his death will make room for a birth; and he hopes that it will be a birth of something that he aspired to be and fell short of. he knows that it is through death and rebirth that this corruptible shall become incorruptible, and this mortal put on immortality. practise as you will on his ignorance, his fears, and his imagination, with bribes of paradises and threats of hells, there is only one belief that can rob death of its sting and the grave of its victory; and that is the belief that we can lay down the burden of our wretched little makeshift individualities for ever at each lift towards the goal of evolution, which can only be a being that cannot be improved upon. after all, what man is capable of the insane self-conceit of believing that an eternity of himself would be tolerable even to himself? those who try to believe it postulate that they shall be made perfect first. but if you make me perfect i shall no longer be myself, nor will it be possible for me to conceive my present imperfections (and what i cannot conceive i cannot remember); so that you may just as well give me a new name and face the fact that i am a new person and that the old bernard shaw is as dead as mutton. thus, oddly enough, the conventional belief in the matter comes to this: that if you wish to live for ever you must be wicked enough to be irretrievably damned, since the saved are no longer what they were, and in hell alone do people retain their sinful nature: that is to say, their individuality. and this sort of hell, however convenient as a means of intimidating persons who have practically no honor and no conscience, is not a fact. death is for many of us the gate of hell; but we are inside on the way out, not outside on the way in. therefore let us give up telling one another idle stories, and rejoice in death as we rejoice in birth; for without death we cannot be born again; and the man who does not wish to be born again and born better is fit only to represent the city of london in parliament, or perhaps the university of oxford. the child is father to the man is he? then in the name of common sense why do we always treat children on the assumption that the man is father to the child? oh, these fathers! and we are not content with fathers: we must have godfathers, forgetting that the child is godfather to the man. has it ever struck you as curious that in a country where the first article of belief is that every child is born with a godfather whom we all call "our father which art in heaven," two very limited individual mortals should be allowed to appear at its baptism and explain that they are its godparents, and that they will look after its salvation until it is no longer a child. i had a godmother who made herself responsible in this way for me. she presented me with a bible with a gilt clasp and edges, larger than the bibles similarly presented to my sisters, because my sex entitled me to a heavier article. i must have seen that lady at least four times in the twenty years following. she never alluded to my salvation in any way. people occasionally ask me to act as godfather to their children with a levity which convinces me that they have not the faintest notion that it involves anything more than calling the helpless child george bernard without regard to the possibility that it may grow up in the liveliest abhorrence of my notions. a person with a turn for logic might argue that if god is the father of all men, and if the child is father to the man, it follows that the true representative of god at the christening is the child itself. but such posers are unpopular, because they imply that our little customs, or, as we often call them, our religion, mean something, or must originally have meant something, and that we understand and believe that something. however, my business is not to make confusion worse confounded, but to clear it up. only, it is as well to begin by a sample of current thought and practice which shews that on the subject of children we are very deeply confused. on the whole, whatever our theory or no theory may be, our practice is to treat the child as the property of its immediate physical parents, and to allow them to do what they like with it as far as it will let them. it has no rights and no liberties: in short, its condition is that which adults recognize as the most miserable and dangerous politically possible for themselves: namely, the condition of slavery. for its alleviation we trust to the natural affection of the parties, and to public opinion. a father cannot for his own credit let his son go in rags. also, in a very large section of the population, parents finally become dependent on their children. thus there are checks on child slavery which do not exist, or are less powerful, in the case of manual and industrial slavery. sensationally bad cases fall into two classes, which are really the same class: namely, the children whose parents are excessively addicted to the sensual luxury of petting children, and the children whose parents are excessively addicted to the sensual luxury of physically torturing them. there is a society for the prevention of cruelty to children which has effectually made an end of our belief that mothers are any more to be trusted than stepmothers, or fathers than slave-drivers. and there is a growing body of law designed to prevent parents from using their children ruthlessly to make money for the household. such legislation has always been furiously resisted by the parents, even when the horrors of factory slavery were at their worst; and the extension of such legislation at present would be impossible if it were not that the parents affected by it cannot control a majority of votes in parliament. in domestic life a great deal of service is done by children, the girls acting as nursemaids and general servants, and the lads as errand boys. in the country both boys and girls do a substantial share of farm labor. this is why it is necessary to coerce poor parents to send their children to school, though in the relatively small class which keeps plenty of servants it is impossible to induce parents to keep their children at home instead of paying schoolmasters to take them off their hands. it appears then that the bond of affection between parents and children does not save children from the slavery that denial of rights involves in adult political relations. it sometimes intensifies it, sometimes mitigates it; but on the whole children and parents confront one another as two classes in which all the political power is on one side; and the results are not at all unlike what they would be if there were no immediate consanguinity between them, and one were white and the other black, or one enfranchised and the other disenfranchised, or one ranked as gentle and the other simple. not that nature counts for nothing in the case and political rights for everything. but a denial of political rights, and the resultant delivery of one class into the mastery of another, affects their relations so extensively and profoundly that it is impossible to ascertain what the real natural relations of the two classes are until this political relation is abolished. what is a child? an experiment. a fresh attempt to produce the just man made perfect: that is, to make humanity divine. and you will vitiate the experiment if you make the slightest attempt to abort it into some fancy figure of your own: for example, your notion of a good man or a womanly woman. if you treat it as a little wild beast to be tamed, or as a pet to be played with, or even as a means to save you trouble and to make money for you (and these are our commonest ways), it may fight its way through in spite of you and save its soul alive; for all its instincts will resist you, and possibly be strengthened in the resistance; but if you begin with its own holiest aspirations, and suborn them for your own purposes, then there is hardly any limit to the mischief you may do. swear at a child, throw your boots at it, send it flying from the room with a cuff or a kick; and the experience will be as instructive to the child as a difficulty with a short-tempered dog or a bull. francis place tells us that his father always struck his children when he found one within his reach. the effect on the young places seems to have been simply to make them keep out of their father's way, which was no doubt what he desired, as far as he desired anything at all. francis records the habit without bitterness, having reason to thank his stars that his father respected the inside of his head whilst cuffing the outside of it; and this made it easy for francis to do yeoman's service to his country as that rare and admirable thing, a freethinker: the only sort of thinker, i may remark, whose thoughts, and consequently whose religious convictions, command any respect. now mr place, senior, would be described by many as a bad father; and i do not contend that he was a conspicuously good one. but as compared with the conventional good father who deliberately imposes himself on his son as a god; who takes advantage of childish credulity and parent worship to persuade his son that what he approves of is right and what he disapproves of is wrong; who imposes a corresponding conduct on the child by a system of prohibitions and penalties, rewards and eulogies, for which he claims divine sanction: compared to this sort of abortionist and monster maker, i say, place appears almost as a providence. not that it is possible to live with children any more than with grown-up people without imposing rules of conduct on them. there is a point at which every person with human nerves has to say to a child "stop that noise." but suppose the child asks why! there are various answers in use. the simplest: "because it irritates me," may fail; for it may strike the child as being rather amusing to irritate you; also the child, having comparatively no nerves, may be unable to conceive your meaning vividly enough. in any case it may want to make a noise more than to spare your feelings. you may therefore have to explain that the effect of the irritation will be that you will do something unpleasant if the noise continues. the something unpleasant may be only a look of suffering to rouse the child's affectionate sympathy (if it has any), or it may run to forcible expulsion from the room with plenty of unnecessary violence; but the principle is the same: there are no false pretences involved: the child learns in a straightforward way that it does not pay to be inconsiderate. also, perhaps, that mamma, who made the child learn the sermon on the mount, is not really a christian. the sin of nadab and abihu but there is another sort of answer in wide use which is neither straightforward, instructive, nor harmless. in its simplest form it substitutes for "stop that noise," "dont be naughty," which means that the child, instead of annoying you by a perfectly healthy and natural infantile procedure, is offending god. this is a blasphemous lie; and the fact that it is on the lips of every nurserymaid does not excuse it in the least. dickens tells us of a nurserymaid who elaborated it into "if you do that, angels wont never love you." i remember a servant who used to tell me that if i were not good, by which she meant if i did not behave with a single eye to her personal convenience, the cock would come down the chimney. less imaginative but equally dishonest people told me i should go to hell if i did not make myself agreeable to them. bodily violence, provided it be the hasty expression of normal provoked resentment and not vicious cruelty, cannot harm a child as this sort of pious fraud harms it. there is a legal limit to physical cruelty; and there are also human limits to it. there is an active society which brings to book a good many parents who starve and torture and overwork their children, and intimidates a good many more. when parents of this type are caught, they are treated as criminals; and not infrequently the police have some trouble to save them from being lynched. the people against whom children are wholly unprotected are those who devote themselves to the very mischievous and cruel sort of abortion which is called bringing up a child in the way it should go. now nobody knows the way a child should go. all the ways discovered so far lead to the horrors of our existing civilizations, described quite justifiably by ruskin as heaps of agonizing human maggots, struggling with one another for scraps of food. pious fraud is an attempt to pervert that precious and sacred thing the child's conscience into an instrument of our own convenience, and to use that wonderful and terrible power called shame to grind our own axe. it is the sin of stealing fire from the altar: a sin so impudently practised by popes, parents, and pedagogues, that one can hardly expect the nurserymaids to see any harm in stealing a few cinders when they are worrited. into the blackest depths of this violation of children's souls one can hardly bear to look; for here we find pious fraud masking the violation of the body by obscene cruelty. any parent or school teacher who takes a secret and abominable delight in torture is allowed to lay traps into which every child must fall, and then beat it to his or her heart's content. a gentleman once wrote to me and said, with an obvious conviction that he was being most reasonable and high minded, that the only thing he beat his children for was failure in perfect obedience and perfect truthfulness. on these attributes, he said, he must insist. as one of them is not a virtue at all, and the other is the attribute of a god, one can imagine what the lives of this gentleman's children would have been if it had been possible for him to live down to his monstrous and foolish pretensions. and yet he might have written his letter to the times (he very nearly did, by the way) without incurring any danger of being removed to an asylum, or even losing his reputation for taking a very proper view of his parental duties. and at least it was not a trivial view, nor an ill meant one. it was much more respectable than the general consensus of opinion that if a school teacher can devise a question a child cannot answer, or overhear it calling omega omeega, he or she may beat the child viciously. only, the cruelty must be whitewashed by a moral excuse, and a pretence of reluctance. it must be for the child's good. the assailant must say "this hurts me more than it hurts you." there must be hypocrisy as well as cruelty. the injury to the child would be far less if the voluptuary said frankly "i beat you because i like beating you; and i shall do it whenever i can contrive an excuse for it." but to represent this detestable lust to the child as divine wrath, and the cruelty as the beneficent act of god, which is exactly what all our floggers do, is to add to the torture of the body, out of which the flogger at least gets some pleasure, the maiming and blinding of the child's soul, which can bring nothing but horror to anyone. the manufacture of monsters this industry is by no means peculiar to china. the chinese (they say) make physical monsters. we revile them for it and proceed to make moral monsters of our own children. the most excusable parents are those who try to correct their own faults in their offspring. the parent who says to his child: "i am one of the successes of the almighty: therefore imitate me in every particular or i will have the skin off your back" (a quite common attitude) is a much more absurd figure than the man who, with a pipe in his mouth, thrashes his boy for smoking. if you must hold yourself up to your children as an object lesson (which is not at all necessary), hold yourself up as a warning and not as an example. but you had much better let the child's character alone. if you once allow yourself to regard a child as so much material for you to manufacture into any shape that happens to suit your fancy you are defeating the experiment of the life force. you are assuming that the child does not know its own business, and that you do. in this you are sure to be wrong: the child feels the drive of the life force (often called the will of god); and you cannot feel it for him. handel's parents no doubt thought they knew better than their child when they tried to prevent his becoming a musician. they would have been equally wrong and equally unsuccessful if they had tried to prevent the child becoming a great rascal had its genius lain in that direction. handel would have been handel, and napoleon and peter of russia _them_selves in spite of all the parents in creation, because, as often happens, they were stronger than their parents. but this does not happen always. most children can be, and many are, hopelessly warped and wasted by parents who are ignorant and silly enough to suppose that they know what a human being ought to be, and who stick at nothing in their determination to force their children into their moulds. every child has a right to its own bent. it has a right to be a plymouth brother though its parents be convinced atheists. it has a right to dislike its mother or father or sister or brother or uncle or aunt if they are antipathetic to it. it has a right to find its own way and go its own way, whether that way seems wise or foolish to others, exactly as an adult has. it has a right to privacy as to its own doings and its own affairs as much as if it were its own father. small and large families these rights have now become more important than they used to be, because the modern practice of limiting families enables them to be more effectually violated. in a family of ten, eight, six, or even four children, the rights of the younger ones to a great extent take care of themselves and of the rights of the elder ones too. two adult parents, in spite of a house to keep and an income to earn, can still interfere to a disastrous extent with the rights and liberties of one child. but by the time a fourth child has arrived, they are not only outnumbered two to one, but are getting tired of the thankless and mischievous job of bringing up their children in the way they think they should go. the old observation that members of large families get on in the world holds good because in large families it is impossible for each child to receive what schoolmasters call "individual attention." the children may receive a good deal of individual attention from one another in the shape of outspoken reproach, ruthless ridicule, and violent resistance to their attempts at aggression; but the parental despots are compelled by the multitude of their subjects to resort to political rather than personal rule, and to spread their attempts at moral monster-making over so many children, that each child has enough freedom, and enough sport in the prophylactic process of laughing at its elders behind their backs, to escape with much less damage than the single child. in a large school the system may be bad; but the personal influence of the head master has to be exerted, when it is exerted at all, in a public way, because he has little more power of working on the affections of the individual scholar in the intimate way that, for example, the mother of a single child can, than the prime minister has of working on the affections of any individual voter. children as nuisances experienced parents, when children's rights are preached to them, very naturally ask whether children are to be allowed to do what they like. the best reply is to ask whether adults are to be allowed to do what they like. the two cases are the same. the adult who is nasty is not allowed to do what he likes: neither can the child who likes to be nasty. there is no difference in principle between the rights of a child and those of an adult: the difference in their cases is one of circumstance. an adult is not supposed to be punished except by process of law; nor, when he is so punished, is the person whom he has injured allowed to act as judge, jury, and executioner. it is true that employers do act in this way every day to their workpeople; but this is not a justified and intended part of the situation: it is an abuse of capitalism which nobody defends in principle. as between child and parent or nurse it is not argued about because it is inevitable. you cannot hold an impartial judicial inquiry every time a child misbehaves itself. to allow the child to misbehave without instantly making it unpleasantly conscious of the fact would be to spoil it. the adult has therefore to take action of some sort with nothing but his conscience to shield the child from injustice or unkindness. the action may be a torrent of scolding culminating in a furious smack causing terror and pain, or it may be a remonstrance causing remorse, or it may be a sarcasm causing shame and humiliation, or it may be a sermon causing the child to believe that it is a little reprobate on the road to hell. the child has no defence in any case except the kindness and conscience of the adult; and the adult had better not forget this; for it involves a heavy responsibility. and now comes our difficulty. the responsibility, being so heavy, cannot be discharged by persons of feeble character or intelligence. and yet people of high character and intelligence cannot be plagued with the care of children. a child is a restless, noisy little animal, with an insatiable appetite for knowledge, and consequently a maddening persistence in asking questions. if the child is to remain in the room with a highly intelligent and sensitive adult, it must be told, and if necessary forced, to sit still and not speak, which is injurious to its health, unnatural, unjust, and therefore cruel and selfish beyond toleration. consequently the highly intelligent and sensitive adult hands the child over to a nurserymaid who has no nerves and can therefore stand more noise, but who has also no scruples, and may therefore be very bad company for the child. here we have come to the central fact of the question: a fact nobody avows, which is yet the true explanation of the monstrous system of child imprisonment and torture which we disguise under such hypocrisies as education, training, formation of character and the rest of it. this fact is simply that a child is a nuisance to a grown-up person. what is more, the nuisance becomes more and more intolerable as the grown-up person becomes more cultivated, more sensitive, and more deeply engaged in the highest methods of adult work. the child at play is noisy and ought to be noisy: sir isaac newton at work is quiet and ought to be quiet. and the child should spend most of its time at play, whilst the adult should spend most of his time at work. i am not now writing on behalf of persons who coddle themselves into a ridiculous condition of nervous feebleness, and at last imagine themselves unable to work under conditions of bustle which to healthy people are cheerful and stimulating. i am sure that if people had to choose between living where the noise of children never stopped and where it was never heard, all the goodnatured and sound people would prefer the incessant noise to the incessant silence. but that choice is not thrust upon us by the nature of things. there is no reason why children and adults should not see just as much of one another as is good for them, no more and no less. even at present you are not compelled to choose between sending your child to a boarding school (which means getting rid of it altogether on more or less hypocritical pretences) and keeping it continually at home. most working folk today either send their children to day schools or turn them out of doors. this solves the problem for the parents. it does not solve it for the children, any more than the tethering of a goat in a field or the chasing of an unlicensed dog into the streets solves it for the goat or the dog; but it shews that in no class are people willing to endure the society of their children, and consequently that it is an error to believe that the family provides children with edifying adult society, or that the family is a social unit. the family is in that, as in so many other respects, a humbug. old people and young people cannot walk at the same pace without distress and final loss of health to one of the parties. when they are sitting indoors they cannot endure the same degrees of temperature and the same supplies of fresh air. even if the main factors of noise, restlessness, and inquisitiveness are left out of account, children can stand with indifference sights, sounds, smells, and disorders that would make an adult of fifty utterly miserable; whilst on the other hand such adults find a tranquil happiness in conditions which to children mean unspeakable boredom. and since our system is nevertheless to pack them all into the same house and pretend that they are happy, and that this particular sort of happiness is the foundation of virtue, it is found that in discussing family life we never speak of actual adults or actual children, or of realities of any sort, but always of ideals such as the home, a mother's influence, a father's care, filial piety, duty, affection, family life, etc. etc., which are no doubt very comforting phrases, but which beg the question of what a home and a mother's influence and a father's care and so forth really come to in practice. how many hours a week of the time when his children are out of bed does the ordinary bread-winning father spend in the company of his children or even in the same building with them? the home may be a thieves' kitchen, the mother a procuress, the father a violent drunkard; or the mother and father may be fashionable people who see their children three or four times a year during the holidays, and then not oftener than they can help, living meanwhile in daily and intimate contact with their valets and lady's-maids, whose influence and care are often dominant in the household. affection, as distinguished from simple kindliness, may or may not exist: when it does it either depends on qualities in the parties that would produce it equally if they were of no kin to one another, or it is a more or less morbid survival of the nursing passion; for affection between adults (if they are really adult in mind and not merely grown-up children) and creatures so relatively selfish and cruel as children necessarily are without knowing it or meaning it, cannot be called natural: in fact the evidence shews that it is easier to love the company of a dog than of a commonplace child between the ages of six and the beginnings of controlled maturity; for women who cannot bear to be separated from their pet dogs send their children to boarding schools cheerfully. they may say and even believe that in allowing their children to leave home they are sacrificing themselves for their children's good; but there are very few pet dogs who would not be the better for a month or two spent elsewhere than in a lady's lap or roasting on a drawingroom hearthrug. besides, to allege that children are better continually away from home is to give up the whole popular sentimental theory of the family; yet the dogs are kept and the children are banished. child fanciers there is, however, a good deal of spurious family affection. there is the clannishness that will make a dozen brothers and sisters who quarrel furiously among themselves close up their ranks and make common cause against a brother-in-law or a sister-in-law. and there is a strong sense of property in children, which often makes mothers and fathers bitterly jealous of allowing anyone else to interfere with their children, whom they may none the less treat very badly. and there is an extremely dangerous craze for children which leads certain people to establish orphanages and baby farms and schools, seizing any pretext for filling their houses with children exactly as some eccentric old ladies and gentlemen fill theirs with cats. in such places the children are the victims of all the caprices of doting affection and all the excesses of lascivious cruelty. yet the people who have this morbid craze seldom have any difficulty in finding victims. parents and guardians are so worried by children and so anxious to get rid of them that anyone who is willing to take them off their hands is welcomed and whitewashed. the very people who read with indignation of squeers and creakle in the novels of dickens are quite ready to hand over their own children to squeers and creakle, and to pretend that squeers and creakle are monsters of the past. but read the autobiography of stanley the traveller, or sit in the company of men talking about their school-days, and you will soon find that fiction, which must, if it is to be sold and read, stop short of being positively sickening, dare not tell the whole truth about the people to whom children are handed over on educational pretexts. not very long ago a schoolmaster in ireland was murdered by his boys; and for reasons which were never made public it was at first decided not to prosecute the murderers. yet all these flogging schoolmasters and orphanage fiends and baby farmers are "lovers of children." they are really child fanciers (like bird fanciers or dog fanciers) by irresistible natural predilection, never happy unless they are surrounded by their victims, and always certain to make their living by accepting the custody of children, no matter how many alternative occupations may be available. and bear in mind that they are only the extreme instances of what is commonly called natural affection, apparently because it is obviously unnatural. the really natural feeling of adults for children in the long prosaic intervals between the moments of affectionate impulse is just that feeling that leads them to avoid their care and constant company as a burden beyond bearing, and to pretend that the places they send them to are well conducted, beneficial, and indispensable to the success of the children in after life. the true cry of the kind mother after her little rosary of kisses is "run away, darling." it is nicer than "hold your noise, you young devil; or it will be the worse for you"; but fundamentally it means the same thing: that if you compel an adult and a child to live in one another's company either the adult or the child will be miserable. there is nothing whatever unnatural or wrong or shocking in this fact; and there is no harm in it if only it be sensibly faced and provided for. the mischief that it does at present is produced by our efforts to ignore it, or to smother it under a heap of sentimental lies and false pretences. childhood as a state of sin unfortunately all this nonsense tends to accumulate as we become more sympathetic. in many families it is still the custom to treat childhood frankly as a state of sin, and impudently proclaim the monstrous principle that little children should be seen and not heard, and to enforce a set of prison rules designed solely to make cohabitation with children as convenient as possible for adults without the smallest regard for the interests, either remote or immediate, of the children. this system tends to produce a tough, rather brutal, stupid, unscrupulous class, with a fixed idea that all enjoyment consists in undetected sinning; and in certain phases of civilization people of this kind are apt to get the upper hand of more amiable and conscientious races and classes. they have the ferocity of a chained dog, and are proud of it. but the end of it is that they are always in chains, even at the height of their military or political success: they win everything on condition that they are afraid to enjoy it. their civilizations rest on intimidation, which is so necessary to them that when they cannot find anybody brave enough to intimidate them they intimidate themselves and live in a continual moral and political panic. in the end they get found out and bullied. but that is not the point that concerns us here, which is, that they are in some respects better brought up than the children of sentimental people who are always anxious and miserable about their duty to their children, and who end by neither making their children happy nor having a tolerable life for themselves. a selfish tyrant you know where to have, and he (or she) at least does not confuse your affections; but a conscientious and kindly meddler may literally worry you out of your senses. it is fortunate that only very few parents are capable of doing what they conceive their duty continuously or even at all, and that still fewer are tough enough to ride roughshod over their children at home. school but please observe the limitation "at home." what private amateur parental enterprise cannot do may be done very effectively by organized professional enterprise in large institutions established for the purpose. and it is to such professional enterprise that parents hand over their children when they can afford it. they send their children to school; and there is, on the whole, nothing on earth intended for innocent people so horrible as a school. to begin with, it is a prison. but it is in some respects more cruel than a prison. in a prison, for instance, you are not forced to read books written by the warders and the governor (who of course would not be warders and governors if they could write readable books), and beaten or otherwise tormented if you cannot remember their utterly unmemorable contents. in the prison you are not forced to sit listening to turnkeys discoursing without charm or interest on subjects that they dont understand and dont care about, and are therefore incapable of making you understand or care about. in a prison they may torture your body; but they do not torture your brains; and they protect you against violence and outrage from your fellow prisoners. in a school you have none of these advantages. with the world's bookshelves loaded with fascinating and inspired books, the very manna sent down from heaven to feed your souls, you are forced to read a hideous imposture called a school book, written by a man who cannot write: a book from which no human being can learn anything: a book which, though you may decipher it, you cannot in any fruitful sense read, though the enforced attempt will make you loathe the sight of a book all the rest of your life. with millions of acres of woods and valleys and hills and wind and air and birds and streams and fishes and all sorts of instructive and healthy things easily accessible, or with streets and shop windows and crowds and vehicles and all sorts of city delights at the door, you are forced to sit, not in a room with some human grace and comfort or furniture and decoration, but in a stalled pound with a lot of other children, beaten if you talk, beaten if you move, beaten if you cannot prove by answering idiotic questions that even when you escaped from the pound and from the eye of your gaoler, you were still agonizing over his detestable sham books instead of daring to live. and your childish hatred of your gaoler and flogger is nothing to his adult hatred of you; for he is a slave forced to endure your society for his daily bread. you have not even the satisfaction of knowing how you are torturing him and how he loathes you; and you give yourself unnecessary pains to annoy him with furtive tricks and spiteful doing of forbidden things. no wonder he is sometimes provoked to fiendish outbursts of wrath. no wonder men of downright sense, like dr johnson, admit that under such circumstances children will not learn anything unless they are so cruelly beaten that they make desperate efforts to memorize words and phrases to escape flagellation. it is a ghastly business, quite beyond words, this schooling. and now i hear cries of protest arising all round. first my own schoolmasters, or their ghosts, asking whether i was cruelly beaten at school? no; but then i did not learn anything at school. dr johnson's schoolmaster presumably did care enough whether sam learned anything to beat him savagely enough to force him to lame his mind--for johnson's great mind _was_ lamed--by learning his lessons. none of my schoolmasters really cared a rap (or perhaps it would be fairer to them to say that their employers did not care a rap and therefore did not give them the necessary caning powers) whether i learnt my lessons or not, provided my father paid my schooling bill, the collection of which was the real object of the school. consequently i did not learn my school lessons, having much more important ones in hand, with the result that i have not wasted my life trifling with literary fools in taverns as johnson did when he should have been shaking england with the thunder of his spirit. my schooling did me a great deal of harm and no good whatever: it was simply dragging a child's soul through the dirt; but i escaped squeers and creakle just as i escaped johnson and carlyle. and this is what happens to most of us. we are not effectively coerced to learn: we stave off punishment as far as we can by lying and trickery and guessing and using our wits; and when this does not suffice we scribble impositions, or suffer extra imprisonments--"keeping in" was the phrase in my time--or let a master strike us with a cane and fall back on our pride at being able to hear it physically (he not being allowed to hit us too hard) to outface the dishonor we should have been taught to die rather than endure. and so idleness and worthlessness on the one hand and a pretence of coercion on the other became a despicable routine. if my schoolmasters had been really engaged in educating me instead of painfully earning their bread by keeping me from annoying my elders they would have turned me out of the school, telling me that i was thoroughly disloyal to it; that i had no intention of learning; that i was mocking and distracting the boys who did wish to learn; that i was a liar and a shirker and a seditious little nuisance; and that nothing could injure me in character and degrade their occupation more than allowing me (much less forcing me) to remain in the school under such conditions. but in order to get expelled, it was necessary commit a crime of such atrocity that the parents of other boys would have threatened to remove their sons sooner than allow them to be schoolfellows with the delinquent. i can remember only one case in which such a penalty was threatened; and in that case the culprit, a boarder, had kissed a housemaid, or possibly, being a handsome youth, been kissed by her. she did not kiss me; and nobody ever dreamt of expelling me. the truth was, a boy meant just so much a year to the institution. that was why he was kept there against his will. that was why he was kept there when his expulsion would have been an unspeakable relief and benefit both to his teachers and himself. it may be argued that if the uncommercial attitude had been taken, and all the disloyal wasters and idlers shewn sternly to the door, the school would not have been emptied, but filled. but so honest an attitude was impossible. the masters must have hated the school much more than the boys did. just as you cannot imprison a man without imprisoning a warder to see that he does not escape, the warder being tied to the prison as effectually by the fear of unemployment and starvation as the prisoner is by the bolts and bars, so these poor schoolmasters, with their small salaries and large classes, were as much prisoners as we were, and much more responsible and anxious ones. they could not impose the heroic attitude on their employers; nor would they have been able to obtain places as schoolmasters if their habits had been heroic. for the best of them their employment was provisional: they looked forward to escaping from it into the pulpit. the ablest and most impatient of them were often so irritated by the awkward, slow-witted, slovenly boys: that is, the ones that required special consideration and patient treatment, that they vented their irritation on them ruthlessly, nothing being easier than to entrap or bewilder such a boy into giving a pretext for punishing him. my scholastic acquirements the results, as far as i was concerned, were what might have been expected. my school made only the thinnest pretence of teaching anything but latin and greek. when i went there as a very small boy i knew a good deal of latin grammar which i had been taught in a few weeks privately by my uncle. when i had been several years at school this same uncle examined me and discovered that the net result of my schooling was that i had forgotten what he had taught me, and had learnt nothing else. to this day, though i can still decline a latin noun and repeat some of the old paradigms in the old meaningless way, because their rhythm sticks to me, i have never yet seen a latin inscription on a tomb that i could translate throughout. of greek i can decipher perhaps the greater part of the greek alphabet. in short, i am, as to classical education, another shakespear. i can read french as easily as english; and under pressure of necessity i can turn to account some scraps of german and a little operatic italian; but these i was never taught at school. instead, i was taught lying, dishonorable submission to tyranny, dirty stories, a blasphemous habit of treating love and maternity as obscene jokes, hopelessness, evasion, derision, cowardice, and all the blackguard's shifts by which the coward intimidates other cowards. and if i had been a boarder at an english public school instead of a day boy at an irish one, i might have had to add to these, deeper shames still. schoolmasters of genius and now, if i have reduced the ghosts of my schoolmasters to melancholy acquiescence in all this (which everybody who has been at an ordinary school will recognize as true), i have still to meet the much more sincere protests of the handful of people who have a natural genius for "bringing up" children. i shall be asked with kindly scorn whether i have heard of froebel and pestalozzi, whether i know the work that is being done by miss mason and the dottoressa montessori or, best of all as i think, the eurythmics school of jacques dalcroze at hellerau near dresden. jacques dalcroze, like plato, believes in saturating his pupils with music. they walk to music, play to music, work to music, obey drill commands that would bewilder a guardsman to music, think to music, live to music, get so clearheaded about music that they can move their several limbs each in a different metre until they become complicated living magazines of cross rhythms, and, what is more, make music for others to do all these things to. stranger still, though jacques dalcroze, like all these great teachers, is the completest of tyrants, knowing what is right and that he must and will have the lesson just so or else break his heart (not somebody else's, observe), yet his school is so fascinating that every woman who sees it exclaims "oh, why was i not taught like this!" and elderly gentlemen excitedly enrol themselves as students and distract classes of infants by their desperate endeavors to beat two in a bar with one hand and three with the other, and start off on earnest walks round the room, taking two steps backward whenever monsieur daleroze calls out "hop!" oh yes: i know all about these wonderful schools that you cannot keep children or even adults out of, and these teachers whom their pupils not only obey without coercion, but adore. and if you will tell me roughly how many masons and montessoris and dalcrozes you think you can pick up in europe for salaries of from thirty shillings to five pounds a week, i will estimate your chances of converting your millions of little scholastic hells into little scholastic heavens. if you are a distressed gentlewoman starting to make a living, you can still open a little school; and you can easily buy a secondhand brass plate inscribed pestalozzian institute and nail it to your door, though you have no more idea of who pestalozzi was and what he advocated or how he did it than the manager of a hotel which began as a hydropathic has of the water cure. or you can buy a cheaper plate inscribed kindergarten, and imagine, or leave others to imagine, that froebel is the governing genius of your little _creche_. no doubt the new brass plates are being inscribed montessori institute, and will be used when the dotteressa is no longer with us by all the mrs pipchins and mrs wilfers throughout this unhappy land. i will go further, and admit that the brass plates may not all be frauds. i will tell you that one of my friends was led to genuine love and considerable knowledge of classical literature by an irish schoolmaster whom you would call a hedge schoolmaster (he would not be allowed to teach anything now) and that it took four years of harrow to obliterate that knowledge and change the love into loathing. another friend of mine who keeps a school in the suburbs, and who deeply deplores my "prejudice against schoolmasters," has offered to accept my challenge to tell his pupils that they are as free to get up and go out of the school at any moment as their parents are to get up and go out of a theatre where my plays are being performed. even among my own schoolmasters i can recollect a few whose classes interested me, and whom i should certainly have pestered for information and instruction if i could have got into any decent human relationship with them, and if they had not been compelled by their position to defend themselves as carefully against such advances as against furtive attempts to hurt them accidentally in the football field or smash their hats with a clod from behind a wall. but these rare cases actually do more harm than good; for they encourage us to pretend that all schoolmasters are like that. of what use is it to us that there are always somewhere two or three teachers of children whose specific genius for their occupation triumphs over our tyrannous system and even finds in it its opportunity? for that matter, it is possible, if difficult, to find a solicitor, or even a judge, who has some notion of what law means, a doctor with a glimmering of science, an officer who understands duty and discipline, and a clergyman with an inkling of religion, though there are nothing like enough of them to go round. but even the few who, like ibsen's mrs solness, have "a genius for nursing the souls of little children" are like angels forced to work in prisons instead of in heaven; and even at that they are mostly underpaid and despised. that friend of mine who went from the hedge schoolmaster to harrow once saw a schoolmaster rush from an elementary school in pursuit of a boy and strike him. my friend, not considering that the unfortunate man was probably goaded beyond endurance, smote the schoolmaster and blackened his eye. the schoolmaster appealed to the law; and my friend found himself waiting nervously in the hammersmith police court to answer for his breach of the peace. in his anxiety he asked a police officer what would happen to him. "what did you do?" said the officer. "i gave a man a black eye" said my friend. "six pounds if he was a gentleman: two pounds if he wasnt," said the constable. "he was a schoolmaster" said my friend. "two pounds" said the officer; and two pounds it was. the blood money was paid cheerfully; and i have ever since advised elementary schoolmasters to qualify themselves in the art of self-defence, as the british constitution expresses our national estimate of them by allowing us to blacken three of their eyes for the same price as one of an ordinary professional man. how many froebels and pestalozzis and miss masons and doctoress montessoris would you be likely to get on these terms even if they occurred much more frequently in nature than they actually do? no: i cannot be put off by the news that our system would be perfect if it were worked by angels. i do not admit it even at that, just as i do not admit that if the sky fell we should all catch larks. but i do not propose to bother about a supply of specific genius which does not exist, and which, if it did exist, could operate only by at once recognizing and establishing the rights of children. what we do not teach, and why to my mind, a glance at the subjects now taught in schools ought to convince any reasonable person that the object of the lessons is to keep children out of mischief, and not to qualify them for their part in life as responsible citizens of a free state. it is not possible to maintain freedom in any state, no matter how perfect its original constitution, unless its publicly active citizens know a good deal of constitutional history, law, and political science, with its basis of economics. if as much pains had been taken a century ago to make us all understand ricardo's law of rent as to learn our catechisms, the face of the world would have been changed for the better. but for that very reason the greatest care is taken to keep such beneficially subversive knowledge from us, with the result that in public life we are either place-hunters, anarchists, or sheep shepherded by wolves. but it will be observed that these are highly controversial subjects. now no controversial subject can be taught dogmatically. he who knows only the official side of a controversy knows less than nothing of its nature. the abler a schoolmaster is, the more dangerous he is to his pupils unless they have the fullest opportunity of hearing another equally able person do his utmost to shake his authority and convict him of error. at present such teaching is very unpopular. it does not exist in schools; but every adult who derives his knowledge of public affairs from the newspapers can take in, at the cost of an extra halfpenny, two papers of opposite politics. yet the ordinary man so dislikes having his mind unsettled, as he calls it, that he angrily refuses to allow a paper which dissents from his views to be brought into his house. even at his club he resents seeing it, and excludes it if it happens to run counter to the opinions of all the members. the result is that his opinions are not worth considering. a churchman who never reads the freethinker very soon has no more real religion than the atheist who never reads the church times. the attitude is the same in both cases: they want to hear nothing good of their enemies; consequently they remain enemies and suffer from bad blood all their lives; whereas men who know their opponents and understand their case, quite commonly respect and like them, and always learn something from them. here, again, as at so many points, we come up against the abuse of schools to keep people in ignorance and error, so that they may be incapable of successful revolt against their industrial slavery. the most important simple fundamental economic truth to impress on a child in complicated civilizations like ours is the truth that whoever consumes goods or services without producing by personal effort the equivalent of what he or she consumes, inflicts on the community precisely the same injury that a thief produces, and would, in any honest state, be treated as a thief, however full his or her pockets might be of money made by other people. the nation that first teaches its children that truth, instead of flogging them if they discover it for themselves, may have to fight all the slaves of all the other nations to begin with; but it will beat them as easily as an unburdened man with his hands free and with all his energies in full play can beat an invalid who has to carry another invalid on his back. this, however, is not an evil produced by the denial of children's rights, nor is it inherent in the nature of schools. i mention it only because it would be folly to call for a reform of our schools without taking account of the corrupt resistance which awaits the reformer. a word must also be said about the opposition to reform of the vested interest of the classical and coercive schoolmaster. he, poor wretch, has no other means of livelihood; and reform would leave him as a workman is now left when he is superseded by a machine. he had therefore better do what he can to get the workman compensated, so as to make the public familiar with the idea of compensation before his own turn comes. taboo in schools the suppression of economic knowledge, disastrous as it is, is quite intelligible, its corrupt motive being as clear as the motive of a burglar for concealing his jemmy from a policeman. but the other great suppression in our schools, the suppression of the subject of sex, is a case of taboo. in mankind, the lower the type, and the less cultivated the mind, the less courage there is to face important subjects objectively. the ablest and most highly cultivated people continually discuss religion, politics, and sex: it is hardly an exaggeration to say that they discuss nothing else with fully-awakened interest. commoner and less cultivated people, even when they form societies for discussion, make a rule that politics and religion are not to be mentioned, and take it for granted that no decent person would attempt to discuss sex. the three subjects are feared because they rouse the crude passions which call for furious gratification in murder and rapine at worst, and, at best, lead to quarrels and undesirable states of consciousness. even when this excuse of bad manners, ill temper, and brutishness (for that is what it comes to) compels us to accept it from those adults among whom political and theological discussion does as a matter of fact lead to the drawing of knives and pistols, and sex discussion leads to obscenity, it has no application to children except as an imperative reason for training them to respect other people's opinions, and to insist on respect for their own in these as in other important matters which are equally dangerous: for example, money. and in any case there are decisive reasons; superior, like the reasons for suspending conventional reticences between doctor and patient, to all considerations of mere decorum, for giving proper instruction in the facts of sex. those who object to it (not counting coarse people who thoughtlessly seize every opportunity of affecting and parading a fictitious delicacy) are, in effect, advocating ignorance as a safeguard against precocity. if ignorance were practicable there would be something to be said for it up to the age at which ignorance is a danger instead of a safeguard. even as it is, it seems undesirable that any special emphasis should be given to the subject, whether by way of delicacy and poetry or too impressive warning. but the plain fact is that in refusing to allow the child to be taught by qualified unrelated elders (the parents shrink from the lesson, even when they are otherwise qualified, because their own relation to the child makes the subject impossible between them) we are virtually arranging to have our children taught by other children in guilty secrets and unclean jests. and that settles the question for all sensible people. the dogmatic objection, the sheer instinctive taboo which rules the subject out altogether as indecent, has no age limit. it means that at no matter what age a woman consents to a proposal of marriage, she should do so in ignorance of the relation she is undertaking. when this actually happens (and apparently it does happen oftener than would seem possible) a horrible fraud is being practiced on both the man and the woman. he is led to believe that she knows what she is promising, and that he is in no danger of finding himself bound to a woman to whom he is eugenically antipathetic. she contemplates nothing but such affectionate relations as may exist between her and her nearest kinsmen, and has no knowledge of the condition which, if not foreseen, must come as an amazing revelation and a dangerous shock, ending possibly in the discovery that the marriage has been an irreparable mistake. nothing can justify such a risk. there may be people incapable of understanding that the right to know all there is to know about oneself is a natural human right that sweeps away all the pretences of others to tamper with one's consciousness in order to produce what they choose to consider a good character. but they must here bow to the plain mischievousness of entrapping people into contracts on which the happiness of their whole lives depends without letting them know what they are undertaking. alleged novelties in modern schools there is just one more nuisance to be disposed of before i come to the positive side of my case. i mean the person who tells me that my schooldays belong to a bygone order of educational ideas and institutions, and that schools are not now a bit like my old school. i reply, with sir walter raleigh, by calling on my soul to give this statement the lie. some years ago i lectured in oxford on the subject of education. a friend to whom i mentioned my intention said, "you know nothing of modern education: schools are not now what they were when you were a boy." i immediately procured the time sheets of half a dozen modern schools, and found, as i expected, that they might all have been my old school: there was no real difference. i may mention, too, that i have visited modern schools, and observed that there is a tendency to hang printed pictures in an untidy and soulless manner on the walls, and occasionally to display on the mantel-shelf a deplorable glass case containing certain objects which might possibly, if placed in the hands of the pupils, give them some practical experience of the weight of a pound and the length of an inch. and sometimes a scoundrel who has rifled a bird's nest or killed a harmless snake encourages the children to go and do likewise by putting his victims into an imitation nest and bottle and exhibiting them as aids to "nature study." a suggestion that nature is worth study would certainly have staggered my schoolmasters; so perhaps i may admit a gleam of progress here. but as any child who attempted to handle these dusty objects would probably be caned, i do not attach any importance to such modernities in school furniture. the school remains what it was in my boyhood, because its real object remains what it was. and that object, i repeat, is to keep the children out of mischief: mischief meaning for the most part worrying the grown-ups. what is to be done? the practical question, then, is what to do with the children. tolerate them at home we will not. let them run loose in the streets we dare not until our streets become safe places for children, which, to our utter shame, they are not at present, though they can hardly be worse than some homes and some schools. the grotesque difficulty of making even a beginning was brought home to me in the little village in hertfordshire where i write these lines by the lady of the manor, who asked me very properly what i was going to do for the village school. i did not know what to reply. as the school kept the children quiet during my working hours, i did not for the sake of my own personal convenience want to blow it up with dynamite as i should like to blow up most schools. so i asked for guidance. "you ought to give a prize," said the lady. i asked if there was a prize for good conduct. as i expected, there was: one for the best-behaved boy and another for the best-behaved girl. on reflection i offered a handsome prize for the worst-behaved boy and girl on condition that a record should be kept of their subsequent careers and compared with the records of the best-behaved, in order to ascertain whether the school criterion of good conduct was valid out of school. my offer was refused because it would not have had the effect of encouraging the children to give as little trouble as possible, which is of course the real object of all conduct prizes in schools. i must not pretend, then, that i have a system ready to replace all the other systems. obstructing the way of the proper organization of childhood, as of everything else, lies our ridiculous misdistribution of the national income, with its accompanying class distinctions and imposition of snobbery on children as a necessary part of their social training. the result of our economic folly is that we are a nation of undesirable acquaintances; and the first object of all our institutions for children is segregation. if, for example, our children were set free to roam and play about as they pleased, they would have to be policed; and the first duty of the police in a state like ours would be to see that every child wore a badge indicating its class in society, and that every child seen speaking to another child with a lower-class badge, or any child wearing a higher badge than that allotted to it by, say, the college of heralds, should immediately be skinned alive with a birch rod. it might even be insisted that girls with high-class badges should be attended by footmen, grooms, or even military escorts. in short, there is hardly any limit to the follies with which our commercialism would infect any system that it would tolerate at all. but something like a change of heart is still possible; and since all the evils of snobbery and segregation are rampant in our schools at present we may as well make the best as the worst of them. children's rights and duties now let us ask what are a child's rights, and what are the rights of society over the child. its rights, being clearly those of any other human being, are summed up in the right to live: that is, to have all the conclusive arguments that prove that it would be better dead, that it is a child of wrath, that the population is already excessive, that the pains of life are greater than its pleasures, that its sacrifice in a hospital or laboratory experiment might save millions of lives, etc. etc. etc., put out of the question, and its existence accepted as necessary and sacred, all theories to the contrary notwithstanding, whether by calvin or schopenhauer or pasteur or the nearest person with a taste for infanticide. and this right to live includes, and in fact is, the right to be what the child likes and can, to do what it likes and can, to make what it likes and can, to think what it likes and can, to smash what it dislikes and can, and generally to behave in an altogether unaccountable manner within the limits imposed by the similar rights of its neighbors. and the rights of society over it clearly extend to requiring it to qualify itself to live in society without wasting other peoples time: that is, it must know the rules of the road, be able to read placards and proclamations, fill voting papers, compose and send letters and telegrams, purchase food and clothing and railway tickets for itself, count money and give and take change, and, generally, know how many beans made five. it must know some law, were it only a simple set of commandments, some political economy, agriculture enough to shut the gates of fields with cattle in them and not to trample on growing crops, sanitation enough not to defile its haunts, and religion enough to have some idea of why it is allowed its rights and why it must respect the rights of others. and the rest of its education must consist of anything else it can pick up; for beyond this society cannot go with any certainty, and indeed can only go this far rather apologetically and provisionally, as doing the best it can on very uncertain ground. should children earn their living? now comes the question how far children should be asked to contribute to the support of the community. in approaching it we must put aside the considerations that now induce all humane and thoughtful political students to agitate for the uncompromising abolition of child labor under our capitalist system. it is not the least of the curses of that system that it will bequeath to future generations a mass of legislation to prevent capitalists from "using up nine generations of men in one generation," as they began by doing until they were restrained by law at the suggestion of robert owen, the founder of english socialism. most of this legislation will become an insufferable restraint upon freedom and variety of action when capitalism goes the way of druidic human sacrifice (a much less slaughterous institution). there is every reason why a child should not be allowed to work for commercial profit or for the support of its parents at the expense of its own future; but there is no reason whatever why a child should not do some work for its own sake and that of the community if it can be shewn that both it and the community will be the better for it. children's happiness also it is important to put the happiness of the children rather carefully in its place, which is really not a front place. the unsympathetic, selfish, hard people who regard happiness as a very exceptional indulgence to which children are by no means entitled, though they may be allowed a very little of it on their birthdays or at christmas, are sometimes better parents in effect than those who imagine that children are as capable of happiness as adults. adults habitually exaggerate their own capacity in that direction grossly; yet most adults can stand an allowance of happiness that would be quite thrown away on children. the secret of being miserable is to have leisure to bother about whether you are happy or not. the cure for it is occupation, because occupation means pre-occupation; and the pre-occupied person is neither happy nor unhappy, but simply alive and active, which is pleasanter than any happiness until you are tired of it. that is why it is necessary to happiness that one should be tired. music after dinner is pleasant: music before breakfast is so unpleasant as to be clearly unnatural. to people who are not overworked holidays are a nuisance. to people who are, and who can afford them, they are a troublesome necessity. a perpetual holiday is a good working definition of hell. the horror of the perpetual holiday it will be said here that, on the contrary, heaven is always conceived as a perpetual holiday, and that whoever is not born to an independent income is striving for one or longing for one because it gives holidays for life. to which i reply, first, that heaven, as conventionally conceived, is a place so inane, so dull, so useless, so miserable, that nobody has ever ventured to describe a whole day in heaven, though plenty of people have described a day at the seaside; and that the genuine popular verdict on it is expressed in the proverb "heaven for holiness and hell for company." second, i point out that the wretched people who have independent incomes and no useful occupation, do the most amazingly disagreeable and dangerous things to make themselves tired and hungry in the evening. when they are not involved in what they call sport, they are doing aimlessly what other people have to be paid to do: driving horses and motor cars; trying on dresses and walking up and down to shew them off; and acting as footmen and housemaids to royal personages. the sole and obvious cause of the notion that idleness is delightful and that heaven is a place where there is nothing to be done, is our school system and our industrial system. the school is a prison in which work is a punishment and a curse. in avowed prisons, hard labor, the only alleviation of a prisoner's lot, is treated as an aggravation of his punishment; and everything possible is done to intensify the prisoner's inculcated and unnatural notion that work is an evil. in industry we are overworked and underfed prisoners. under such absurd circumstances our judgment of things becomes as perverted as our habits. if we were habitually underworked and overfed, our notion of heaven would be a place where everybody worked strenuously for twenty-four hours a day and never got anything to eat. once realize that a perpetual holiday is beyond human endurance, and that "satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do" and it will be seen that we have no right to impose a perpetual holiday on children. if we did, they would soon outdo the labor party in their claim for a right to work bill. in any case no child should be brought up to suppose that its food and clothes come down from heaven or are miraculously conjured from empty space by papa. loathsome as we have made the idea of duty (like the idea of work) we must habituate children to a sense of repayable obligation to the community for what they consume and enjoy, and inculcate the repayment as a point of honor. if we did that today--and nothing but flat dishonesty prevents us from doing it--we should have no idle rich and indeed probably no rich, since there is no distinction in being rich if you have to pay scot and lot in personal effort like the working folk. therefore, if for only half an hour a day, a child should do something serviceable to the community. productive work for children has the advantage that its discipline is the discipline of impersonal necessity, not that of wanton personal coercion. the eagerness of children in our industrial districts to escape from school to the factory is not caused by lighter tasks or shorter hours in the factory, nor altogether by the temptation of wages, nor even by the desire for novelty, but by the dignity of adult work, the exchange of the factitious personal tyranny of the schoolmaster, from which the grown-ups are free, for the stern but entirely dignified laws of life to which all flesh is subject. university schoolboyishness older children might do a good deal before beginning their collegiate education. what is the matter with our universities is that all the students are schoolboys, whereas it is of the very essence of university education that they should be men. the function of a university is not to teach things that can now be taught as well or better by university extension lectures or by private tutors or modern correspondence classes with gramophones. we go to them to be socialized; to acquire the hall mark of communal training; to become citizens of the world instead of inmates of the enlarged rabbit hutches we call homes; to learn manners and become unchallengeable ladies and gentlemen. the social pressure which effects these changes should be that of persons who have faced the full responsibilities of adults as working members of the general community, not that of a barbarous rabble of half emancipated schoolboys and unemancipable pedants. it is true that in a reasonable state of society this outside experience would do for us very completely what the university does now so corruptly that we tolerate its bad manners only because they are better than no manners at all. but the university will always exist in some form as a community of persons desirous of pushing their culture to the highest pitch they are capable of, not as solitary students reading in seclusion, but as members of a body of individuals all pursuing culture, talking culture, thinking culture, above all, criticizing culture. if such persons are to read and talk and criticize to any purpose, they must know the world outside the university at least as well as the shopkeeper in the high street does. and this is just what they do not know at present. you may say of them, paraphrasing mr. kipling, "what do they know of plato that only plato know?" if our universities would exclude everybody who had not earned a living by his or her own exertions for at least a couple of years, their effect would be vastly improved. the new laziness the child of the future, then, if there is to be any future but one of decay, will work more or less for its living from an early age; and in doing so it will not shock anyone, provided there be no longer any reason to associate the conception of children working for their living with infants toiling in a factory for ten hours a day or boys drudging from nine to six under gas lamps in underground city offices. lads and lasses in their teens will probably be able to produce as much as the most expensive person now costs in his own person (it is retinue that eats up the big income) without working too hard or too long for quite as much happiness as they can enjoy. the question to be balanced then will be, not how soon people should be put to work, but how soon they should be released from any obligation of the kind. a life's work is like a day's work: it can begin early and leave off early or begin late and leave off late, or, as with us, begin too early and never leave off at all, obviously the worst of all possible plans. in any event we must finally reckon work, not as the curse our schools and prisons and capitalist profit factories make it seem today, but as a prime necessity of a tolerable existence. and if we cannot devise fresh wants as fast as we develop the means of supplying them, there will come a scarcity of the needed, cut-and-dried, appointed work that is always ready to everybody's hand. it may have to be shared out among people all of whom want more of it. and then a new sort of laziness will become the bugbear of society: the laziness that refuses to face the mental toil and adventure of making work by inventing new ideas or extending the domain of knowledge, and insists on a ready-made routine. it may come to forcing people to retire before they are willing to make way for younger ones: that is, to driving all persons of a certain age out of industry, leaving them to find something experimental to occupy them on pain of perpetual holiday. men will then try to spend twenty thousand a year for the sake of having to earn it. instead of being what we are now, the cheapest and nastiest of the animals, we shall be the costliest, most fastidious, and best bred. in short, there is no end to the astonishing things that may happen when the curse of adam becomes first a blessing and then an incurable habit. and in that day we must not grudge children their share of it. the infinite school task the question of children's work, however, is only a question of what the child ought to do for the community. how highly it should qualify itself is another matter. but most of the difficulty of inducing children to learn would disappear if our demands became not only definite but finite. when learning is only an excuse for imprisonment, it is an instrument of torture which becomes more painful the more progress is made. thus when you have forced a child to learn the church catechism, a document profound beyond the comprehension of most adults, you are sometimes at a standstill for something else to teach; and you therefore keep the wretched child repeating its catechism again and again until you hit on the plan of making it learn instalments of bible verses, preferably from the book of numbers. but as it is less trouble to set a lesson that you know yourself, there is a tendency to keep repeating the already learnt lesson rather than break new ground. at school i began with a fairly complete knowledge of latin grammar in the childish sense of being able to repeat all the paradigms; and i was kept at this, or rather kept in a class where the master never asked me to do it because he knew i could, and therefore devoted himself to trapping the boys who could not, until i finally forgot most of it. but when progress took place, what did it mean? first it meant caesar, with the foreknowledge that to master caesar meant only being set at virgil, with the culminating horror of greek and homer in reserve at the end of that. i preferred caesar, because his statement that gaul is divided into three parts, though neither interesting nor true, was the only latin sentence i could translate at sight: therefore the longer we stuck at caesar the better i was pleased. just so do less classically educated children see nothing in the mastery of addition but the beginning of subtraction, and so on through multiplication and division and fractions, with the black cloud of algebra on the horizon. and if a boy rushes through all that, there is always the calculus to fall back on, unless indeed you insist on his learning music, and proceed to hit him if he cannot tell you the year beethoven was born. a child has a right to finality as regards its compulsory lessons. also as regards physical training. at present it is assumed that the schoolmaster has a right to force every child into an attempt to become porson and bentley, leibnitz and newton, all rolled into one. this is the tradition of the oldest grammar schools. in our times an even more horrible and cynical claim has been made for the right to drive boys through compulsory games in the playing fields until they are too much exhausted physically to do anything but drop off to sleep. this is supposed to protect them from vice; but as it also protects them from poetry, literature, music, meditation and prayer, it may be dismissed with the obvious remark that if boarding schools are places whose keepers are driven to such monstrous measures lest more abominable things should happen, then the sooner boarding schools are violently abolished the better. it is true that society may make physical claims on the child as well as mental ones: the child must learn to walk, to use a knife and fork, to swim, to ride a bicycle, to acquire sufficient power of self-defence to make an attack on it an arduous and uncertain enterprise, perhaps to fly. what as a matter of common-sense it clearly has not a right to do is to make this an excuse for keeping the child slaving for ten hours at physical exercises on the ground that it is not yet as dexterous as cinquevalli and as strong as sandow. the rewards and risks of knowledge in a word, we have no right to insist on educating a child; for its education can end only with its life and will not even then be complete. compulsory completion of education is the last folly of a rotten and desperate civilization. it is the rattle in its throat before dissolution. all we can fairly do is to prescribe certain definite acquirements and accomplishments as qualifications for certain employments; and to secure them, not by the ridiculous method of inflicting injuries on the persons who have not yet mastered them, but by attaching certain privileges (not pecuniary) to the employments. most acquirements carry their own privileges with them. thus a baby has to be pretty closely guarded and imprisoned because it cannot take care of itself. it has even to be carried about (the most complete conceivable infringement of its liberty) until it can walk. but nobody goes on carrying children after they can walk lest they should walk into mischief, though arab boys make their sisters carry them, as our own spoiled children sometimes make their nurses, out of mere laziness, because sisters in the east and nurses in the west are kept in servitude. but in a society of equals (the only reasonable and permanently possible sort of society) children are in much greater danger of acquiring bandy legs through being left to walk before they are strong enough than of being carried when they are well able to walk. anyhow, freedom of movement in a nursery is the reward of learning to walk; and in precisely the same way freedom of movement in a city is the reward of learning how to read public notices, and to count and use money. the consequences are of course much larger than the mere ability to read the name of a street or the number of a railway platform and the destination of a train. when you enable a child to read these, you also enable it to read this preface, to the utter destruction, you may quite possibly think, of its morals and docility. you also expose it to the danger of being run over by taxicabs and trains. the moral and physical risks of education are enormous: every new power a child acquires, from speaking, walking, and co-ordinating its vision, to conquering continents and founding religions, opens up immense new possibilities of mischief. teach a child to write and you teach it how to forge: teach it to speak and you teach it how to lie: teach it to walk and you teach it how to kick its mother to death. the great problem of slavery for those whose aim is to maintain it is the problem of reconciling the efficiency of the slave with the helplessness that keeps him in servitude; and this problem is fortunately not completely soluble; for it is not in fact found possible for a duke to treat his solicitor or his doctor as he treats his laborers, though they are all equally his slaves: the laborer being in fact less dependent on his favor than the professional man. hence it is that men come to resent, of all things, protection, because it so often means restriction of their liberty lest they should make a bad use of it. if there are dangerous precipices about, it is much easier and cheaper to forbid people to walk near the edge than to put up an effective fence: that is why both legislators and parents and the paid deputies of parents are always inhibiting and prohibiting and punishing and scolding and laming and cramping and delaying progress and growth instead of making the dangerous places as safe as possible and then boldly taking and allowing others to take the irreducible minimum of risk. english physical hardihood and spiritual cowardice it is easier to convert most people to the need for allowing their children to run physical risks than moral ones. i can remember a relative of mine who, when i was a small child, unused to horses and very much afraid of them, insisted on putting me on a rather rumbustious pony with little spurs on my heels (knowing that in my agitation i would use them unconsciously), and being enormously amused at my terrors. yet when that same lady discovered that i had found a copy of the arabian nights and was devouring it with avidity, she was horrified, and hid it away from me lest it should break my soul as the pony might have broken my neck. this way of producing hardy bodies and timid souls is so common in country houses that you may spend hours in them listening to stories of broken collar bones, broken backs, and broken necks without coming upon a single spiritual adventure or daring thought. but whether the risks to which liberty exposes us are moral or physical our right to liberty involves the right to run them. a man who is not free to risk his neck as an aviator or his soul as a heretic is not free at all; and the right to liberty begins, not at the age of years but of seconds. the risks of ignorance and weakness the difficulty with children is that they need protection from risks they are too young to understand, and attacks they can neither avoid nor resist. you may on academic grounds allow a child to snatch glowing coals from the fire once. you will not do it twice. the risks of liberty we must let everyone take; but the risks of ignorance and self-helplessness are another matter. not only children but adults need protection from them. at present adults are often exposed to risks outside their knowledge or beyond their comprehension or powers of resistance or foresight: for example, we have to look on every day at marriages or financial speculations that may involve far worse consequences than burnt fingers. and just as it is part of the business of adults to protect children, to feed them, clothe them, shelter them, and shift for them in all sorts of ways until they are able to shift for themselves, it is coming more and more to be seen that this is true not only of the relation between adults and children, but between adults and adults. we shall not always look on indifferently at foolish marriages and financial speculations, nor allow dead men to control live communities by ridiculous wills and living heirs to squander and ruin great estates, nor tolerate a hundred other absurd liberties that we allow today because we are too lazy to find out the proper way to interfere. but the interference must be regulated by some theory of the individual's rights. though the right to live is absolute, it is not unconditional. if a man is unbearably mischievous, he must be killed. this is a mere matter of necessity, like the killing of a man-eating tiger in a nursery, a venomous snake in the garden, or a fox in the poultry yard. no society could be constructed on the assumption that such extermination is a violation of the creature's right to live, and therefore must not be allowed. and then at once arises the danger into which morality has led us: the danger of persecution. one christian spreading his doctrines may seem more mischievous than a dozen thieves: throw him therefore to the lions. a lying or disobedient child may corrupt a whole generation and make human society impossible: therefore thrash the vice out of him. and so on until our whole system of abortion, intimidation, tyranny, cruelty and the rest is in full swing again. the common sense of toleration the real safeguard against this is the dogma of toleration. i need not here repeat the compact treatise on it which i prepared for the joint committee on the censorship of stage plays, and prefixed to the shewing up of blanco posnet. it must suffice now to say that the present must not attempt to schoolmaster the future by pretending to know good from evil in tendency, or protect citizens against shocks to their opinions and convictions, moral, political or religious: in other words it must not persecute doctrines of any kind, or what is called bad taste, and must insist on all persons facing such shocks as they face frosty weather or any of the other disagreeable, dangerous, or bracing incidents of freedom. the expediency of toleration has been forced on us by the fact that progressive enlightenment depends on a fair hearing for doctrines which at first appear seditious, blasphemous, and immoral, and which deeply shock people who never think originally, thought being with them merely a habit and an echo. the deeper ground for toleration is the nature of creation, which, as we now know, proceeds by evolution. evolution finds its way by experiment; and this finding of the way varies according to the stage of development reached, from the blindest groping along the line of least resistance to intellectual speculation, with its practical sequel of hypothesis and experimental verification; or to observation, induction, and deduction; or even into so rapid and intuitive an integration of all these processes in a single brain that we get the inspired guess of the man of genius and the desperate resolution of the teacher of new truths who is first slain as a blasphemous apostate and then worshipped as a prophet. here the law for the child is the same as for the adult. the high priest must not rend his garments and cry "crucify him" when he is shocked: the atheist must not clamor for the suppression of law's serious call because it has for two centuries destroyed the natural happiness of innumerable unfortunate children by persuading their parents that it is their religious duty to be miserable. it, and the sermon on the mount, and machiavelli's prince, and la rochefoucauld's maxims, and hymns ancient and modern, and de glanville's apologue, and dr. watts's rhymes, and nietzsche's gay science, and ingersoll's mistakes of moses, and the speeches and pamphlets of the people who want us to make war on germany, and the noodle's orations and articles of our politicians and journalists, must all be tolerated not only because any of them may for all we know be on the right track but because it is in the conflict of opinion that we win knowledge and wisdom. however terrible the wounds suffered in that conflict, they are better than the barren peace of death that follows when all the combatants are slaughtered or bound hand and foot. the difficulty at present is that though this necessity for toleration is a law of political science as well established as the law of gravitation, our rulers are never taught political science: on the contrary, they are taught in school that the master tolerates nothing that is disagreeable to him; that ruling is simply being master; and that the master's method is the method of violent punishment. and our citizens, all school taught, are walking in the same darkness. as i write these lines the home secretary is explaining that a man who has been imprisoned for blasphemy must not be released because his remarks were painful to the feelings of his pious fellow townsmen. now it happens that this very home secretary has driven many thousands of his fellow citizens almost beside themselves by the crudity of his notions of government, and his simple inability to understand why he should not use and make laws to torment and subdue people who do not happen to agree with him. in a word, he is not a politician, but a grown-up schoolboy who has at last got a cane in his hand. and as all the rest of us are in the same condition (except as to command of the cane) the only objection made to his proceedings takes the shape of clamorous demands that _he_ should be caned instead of being allowed to cane other people. the sin of athanasius it seems hopeless. anarchists are tempted to preach a violent and implacable resistance to all law as the only remedy; and the result of that speedily is that people welcome any tyranny that will rescue them from chaos. but there is really no need to choose between anarchy and tyranny. a quite reasonable state of things is practicable if we proceed on human assumptions and not on academic ones. if adults will frankly give up their claim to know better than children what the purposes of the life force are, and treat the child as an experiment like themselves, and possibly a more successful one, and at the same time relinquish their monstrous parental claims to personal private property in children, the rest must be left to common sense. it is our attitude, our religion, that is wrong. a good beginning might be made by enacting that any person dictating a piece of conduct to a child or to anyone else as the will of god, or as absolutely right, should be dealt with as a blasphemer: as, indeed, guilty of the unpardonable sin against the holy ghost. if the penalty were death, it would rid us at once of that scourge of humanity, the amateur pope. as an irish protestant, i raise the cry of no popery with hereditary zest. we are overrun with popes. from curates and governesses, who may claim a sort of professional standing, to parents and uncles and nurserymaids and school teachers and wiseacres generally, there are scores of thousands of human insects groping through our darkness by the feeble phosphorescence of their own tails, yet ready at a moment's notice to reveal the will of god on every possible subject; to explain how and why the universe was made (in my youth they added the exact date) and the circumstances under which it will cease to exist; to lay down precise rules of right and wrong conduct; to discriminate infallibly between virtuous and vicious character; and all this with such certainty that they are prepared to visit all the rigors of the law, and all the ruinous penalties of social ostracism on people, however harmless their actions maybe who venture to laugh at their monstrous conceit or to pay their assumptions the extravagant compliment of criticizing them. as to children, who shall say what canings and birchings and terrifyings and threats of hell fire and impositions and humiliations and petty imprisonings and sendings to bed and standing in corners and the like they have suffered because their parents and guardians and teachers knew everything so much better than socrates or solon? it is this ignorant uppishness that does the mischief. a stranger on the planet might expect that its grotesque absurdity would provoke enough ridicule to cure it; but unfortunately quite the contrary happens. just as our ill health delivers us into the hands of medical quacks and creates a passionate demand for impudent pretences that doctors can cure the diseases they themselves die of daily, so our ignorance and helplessness set us clamoring for spiritual and moral quacks who pretend that they can save our souls from their own damnation. if a doctor were to say to his patients, "i am familiar with your symptoms, because i have seen other people in your condition; and i will bring the very little knowledge we have to your treatment; but except in that very shallow sense i dont know what is the matter with you; and i cant undertake to cure you," he would be a lost man professionally; and if a clergyman, on being called on to award a prize for good conduct in the village school, were to say, "i am afraid i cannot say who is the best-behaved child, because i really do not know what good conduct is; but i will gladly take the teacher's word as to which child has caused least inconvenience," he would probably be unfrocked, if not excommunicated. and yet no honest and intellectually capable doctor or parson can say more. clearly it would not be wise of the doctor to say it, because optimistic lies have such immense therapeutic value that a doctor who cannot tell them convincingly has mistaken his profession. and a clergyman who is not prepared to lay down the law dogmatically will not be of much use in a village school, though it behoves him all the more to be very careful what law he lays down. but unless both the clergyman and the doctor are in the attitude expressed by these speeches they are not fit for their work. the man who believes that he has more than a provisional hypothesis to go upon is a born fool. he may have to act vigorously on it. the world has no use for the agnostic who wont believe anything because anything might be false, and wont deny anything because anything might be true. but there is a wide difference between saying, "i believe this; and i am going to act on it," or, "i dont believe it; and i wont act on it," and saying, "it is true; and it is my duty and yours to act on it," or, "it is false; and it is my duty and yours to refuse to act on it." the difference is as great as that between the apostles' creed and the athanasian creed. when you repeat the apostles' creed you affirm that you believe certain things. there you are clearly within your rights. when you repeat the athanasian creed, you affirm that certain things are so, and that anybody who doubts that they are so cannot be saved. and this is simply a piece of impudence on your part, as you know nothing about it except that as good men as you have never heard of your creed. the apostolic attitude is a desire to convert others to our beliefs for the sake of sympathy and light: the athanasian attitude is a desire to murder people who dont agree with us. i am sufficient of an athanasian to advocate a law for the speedy execution of all athanasians, because they violate the fundamental proposition of my creed, which is, i repeat, that all living creatures are experiments. the precise formula for the superman, _ci-devant_ the just man made perfect, has not yet been discovered. until it is, every birth is an experiment in the great research which is being conducted by the life force to discover that formula. the experiment experimenting and now all the modern schoolmaster abortionists will rise up beaming, and say, "we quite agree. we regard every child in our school as a subject for experiment. we are always experimenting with them. we challenge the experimental test for our system. we are continually guided by our experience in our great work of moulding the character of our future citizens, etc. etc. etc." i am sorry to seem irreconcilable; but it is the life force that has to make the experiment and not the schoolmaster; and the life force for the child's purpose is in the child and not in the schoolmaster. the schoolmaster is another experiment; and a laboratory in which all the experiments began experimenting on one another would not produce intelligible results. i admit, however, that if my schoolmasters had treated me as an experiment of the life force: that is, if they had set me free to do as i liked subject only to my political rights and theirs, they could not have watched the experiment very long, because the first result would have been a rapid movement on my part in the direction of the door, and my disappearance there-through. it may be worth inquiring where i should have gone to. i should say that practically every time i should have gone to a much more educational place. i should have gone into the country, or into the sea, or into the national gallery, or to hear a band if there was one, or to any library where there were no schoolbooks. i should have read very dry and difficult books: for example, though nothing would have induced me to read the budget of stupid party lies that served as a text-book of history in school, i remember reading robertson's charles v. and his history of scotland from end to end most laboriously. once, stung by the airs of a schoolfellow who alleged that he had read locke on the human understanding, i attempted to read the bible straight through, and actually got to the pauline epistles before i broke down in disgust at what seemed to me their inveterate crookedness of mind. if there had been a school where children were really free, i should have had to be driven out of it for the sake of my health by the teachers; for the children to whom a literary education can be of any use are insatiable: they will read and study far more than is good for them. in fact the real difficulty is to prevent them from wasting their time by reading for the sake of reading and studying for the sake of studying, instead of taking some trouble to find out what they really like and are capable of doing some good at. some silly person will probably interrupt me here with the remark that many children have no appetite for a literary education at all, and would never open a book if they were not forced to. i have known many such persons who have been forced to the point of obtaining university degrees. and for all the effect their literary exercises has left on them they might just as well have been put on the treadmill. in fact they are actually less literate than the treadmill would have left them; for they might by chance have picked up and dipped into a volume of shakespear or a translation of homer if they had not been driven to loathe every famous name in literature. i should probably know as much latin as french, if latin had not been made the excuse for my school imprisonment and degradation. why we loathe learning and love sport if we are to discuss the importance of art, learning, and intellectual culture, the first thing we have to recognize is that we have very little of them at present; and that this little has not been produced by compulsory education: nay, that the scarcity is unnatural and has been produced by the violent exclusion of art and artists from schools. on the other hand we have quite a considerable degree of bodily culture: indeed there is a continual outcry against the sacrifice of mental accomplishments to athletics. in other words a sacrifice of the professed object of compulsory education to the real object of voluntary education. it is assumed that this means that people prefer bodily to mental culture; but may it not mean that they prefer liberty and satisfaction to coercion and privation. why is it that people who have been taught shakespear as a school subject loathe his plays and cannot by any means be persuaded ever to open his works after they escape from school, whereas there is still, years after his death, a wide and steady sale for his works to people who read his plays as plays, and not as task work? if shakespear, or for that matter, newton and leibnitz, are allowed to find their readers and students they will find them. if their works are annotated and paraphrased by dullards, and the annotations and paraphrases forced on all young people by imprisonment and flogging and scolding, there will not be a single man of letters or higher mathematician the more in the country: on the contrary there will be less, as so many potential lovers of literature and mathematics will have been incurably prejudiced against them. everyone who is conversant with the class in which child imprisonment and compulsory schooling is carried out to the final extremity of the university degree knows that its scholastic culture is a sham; that it knows little about literature or art and a great deal about point-to-point races; and that the village cobbler, who has never read a page of plato, and is admittedly a dangerously ignorant man politically, is nevertheless a socrates compared to the classically educated gentlemen who discuss politics in country houses at election time (and at no other time) after their day's earnest and skilful shooting. think of the years and years of weary torment the women of the piano-possessing class have been forced to spend over the keyboard, fingering scales. how many of them could be bribed to attend a pianoforte recital by a great player, though they will rise from sick beds rather than miss ascot or goodwood? another familiar fact that teaches the same lesson is that many women who have voluntarily attained a high degree of culture cannot add up their own housekeeping books, though their education in simple arithmetic was compulsory, whereas their higher education has been wholly voluntary. everywhere we find the same result. the imprisonment, the beating, the taming and laming, the breaking of young spirits, the arrest of development, the atrophy of all inhibitive power except the power of fear, are real: the education is sham. those who have been taught most know least. antichrist among the worst effects of the unnatural segregation of children in schools and the equally unnatural constant association of them with adults in the family is the utter defeat of the vital element in christianity. christ stands in the world for that intuition of the highest humanity that we, being members one of another, must not complain, must not scold, must not strike, nor revile nor persecute nor revenge nor punish. now family life and school life are, as far as the moral training of children is concerned, nothing but the deliberate inculcation of a routine of complaint, scolding, punishment, persecution, and revenge as the natural and only possible way of dealing with evil or inconvenience. "aint nobody to be whopped for this here?" exclaimed sam weller when he saw his employer's name written up on a stage coach, and conceived the phenomenon as an insult which reflected on himself. this exclamation of sam weller is at once the negation of christianity and the beginning and the end of current morality; and so it will remain as long as the family and the school persist as we know them: that is, as long as the rights of children are so utterly denied that nobody will even take the trouble to ascertain what they are, and coming of age is like the turning of a convict into the street after twenty-one years penal servitude. indeed it is worse; for the convict may have learnt before his conviction how to live in freedom and may remember how to set about it, however lamed his powers of freedom may have become through disuse; but the child knows no other way of life but the slave's way. born free, as rousseau says, he has been laid hands on by slaves from the moment of his birth and brought up as a slave. how is he, when he is at last set free, to be anything else than the slave he actually is, clamoring for war, for the lash, for police, prisons, and scaffolds in a wild panic of delusion that without these things he is lost. the grown-up englishman is to the end of his days a badly brought-up child, beyond belief quarrelsome, petulant, selfish, destructive, and cowardly: afraid that the germans will come and enslave him; that the burglar will come and rob him; that the bicycle or motor car will run over him; that the smallpox will attack him; and that the devil will run away with him and empty him out like a sack of coals on a blazing fire unless his nurse or his parents or his schoolmaster or his bishop or his judge or his army or his navy will do something to frighten these bad things away. and this englishman, without the moral courage of a louse, will risk his neck for fun fifty times every winter in the hunting field, and at badajos sieges and the like will ram his head into a hole bristling with sword blades rather than be beaten in the one department in which he has been brought up to consult his own honor. as a sportsman (and war is fundamentally the sport of hunting and fighting the most dangerous of the beasts of prey) he feels free. he will tell you himself that the true sportsman is never a snob, a coward, a duffer, a cheat, a thief, or a liar. curious, is it not, that he has not the same confidence in other sorts of man? and even sport is losing its freedom. soon everybody will be schooled, mentally and physically, from the cradle to the end of the term of adult compulsory military service, and finally of compulsory civil service lasting until the age of superannuation. always more schooling, more compulsion. we are to be cured by an excess of the dose that has poisoned us. satan is to cast out satan. under the whip clearly this will not do. we must reconcile education with liberty. we must find out some means of making men workers and, if need be, warriors, without making them slaves. we must cultivate the noble virtues that have their root in pride. now no schoolmaster will teach these any more than a prison governor will teach his prisoners how to mutiny and escape. self-preservation forces him to break the spirit that revolts against him, and to inculcate submission, even to obscene assault, as a duty. a bishop once had the hardihood to say that he would rather see england free than england sober. nobody has yet dared to say that he would rather see an england of ignoramuses than an england of cowards and slaves. and if anyone did, it would be necessary to point out that the antithesis is not a practical one, as we have got at present an england of ignoramuses who are also cowards and slaves, and extremely proud of it at that, because in school they are taught to submit, with what they ridiculously call oriental fatalism (as if any oriental has ever submitted more helplessly and sheepishly to robbery and oppression than we occidentals do), to be driven day after day into compounds and set to the tasks they loathe by the men they hate and fear, as if this were the inevitable destiny of mankind. and naturally, when they grow up, they helplessly exchange the prison of the school for the prison of the mine or the workshop or the office, and drudge along stupidly and miserably, with just enough gregarious instinct to turn furiously on any intelligent person who proposes a change. it would be quite easy to make england a paradise, according to our present ideas, in a few years. there is no mystery about it: the way has been pointed out over and over again. the difficulty is not the way but the will. and we have no will because the first thing done with us in childhood was to break our will. can anything be more disgusting than the spectacle of a nation reading the biography of gladstone and gloating over the account of how he was flogged at eton, two of his schoolfellows being compelled to hold him down whilst he was flogged. not long ago a public body in england had to deal with the case of a schoolmaster who, conceiving himself insulted by the smoking of a cigaret against his orders by a pupil eighteen years old, proposed to flog him publicly as a satisfaction to what he called his honor and authority. i had intended to give the particulars of this ease, but find the drudgery of repeating such stuff too sickening, and the effect unjust to a man who was doing only what others all over the country were doing as part of the established routine of what is called education. the astounding part of it was the manner in which the person to whom this outrage on decency seemed quite proper and natural claimed to be a functionary of high character, and had his claim allowed. in japan he would hardly have been allowed the privilege of committing suicide. what is to be said of a profession in which such obscenities are made points of honor, or of institutions in which they are an accepted part of the daily routine? wholesome people would not argue about the taste of such nastinesses: they would spit them out; but we are tainted with flagellomania from our childhood. when will we realize that the fact that we can become accustomed to anything, however disgusting at first, makes it necessary for us to examine carefully everything we have become accustomed to? before motor cars became common, necessity had accustomed us to a foulness in our streets which would have horrified us had the street been our drawing-room carpet. before long we shall be as particular about our streets as we now are about our carpets; and their condition in the nineteenth century will become as forgotten and incredible as the condition of the corridors of palaces and the courts of castles was as late as the eighteenth century. this foulness, we can plead, was imposed on us as a necessity by the use of horses and of huge retinues; but flogging has never been so imposed: it has always been a vice, craved for on any pretext by those depraved by it. boys were flogged when criminals were hanged, to impress the awful warning on them. boys were flogged at boundaries, to impress the boundaries on their memory. other methods and other punishments were always available: the choice of this one betrayed the sensual impulse which makes the practice an abomination. but when its viciousness made it customary, it was practised and tolerated on all hands by people who were innocent of anything worse than stupidity, ill temper, and inability to discover other methods of maintaining order than those they had always seen practised and approved of. from children and animals it extended to slaves and criminals. in the days of moses it was limited to lashes. in the early nineteenth century it had become an open madness: soldiers were sentenced to a thousand lashes for trifling offences, with the result (among others less mentionable) that the iron duke of wellington complained that it was impossible to get an order obeyed in the british army except in two or three crack regiments. such frantic excesses of this disgusting neurosis provoked a reaction against it; but the clamor for it by depraved persons never ceased, and was tolerated by a nation trained to it from childhood in the schools until last year ( ), when in what must be described as a paroxysm of sexual excitement provoked by the agitation concerning the white slave traffic (the purely commercial nature of which i was prevented from exposing on the stage by the censorship twenty years ago) the government yielded to an outcry for flagellation led by the archbishop of canterbury, and passed an act under which a judge can sentence a man to be flogged to the utmost extremity with any instrument usable for such a purpose that he cares to prescribe. such an act is not a legislative phenomenon but a psychopathic one. its effect on the white slave traffic was, of course, to distract public attention from its real cause and from the people who really profit by it to imaginary "foreign scoundrels," and to secure a monopoly of its organization for women. and all this evil is made possible by the schoolmaster with his cane and birch, by the parents getting rid as best they can of the nuisance of children making noise and mischief in the house, and by the denial to children of the elementary rights of human beings. the first man who enslaved and "broke in" an animal with a whip would have invented the explosion engine instead could he have foreseen the curse he was laying on his race. for men and women learnt thereby to enslave and break in their children by the same means. these children, grown up, knew no other methods of training. finally the evil that was done for gain by the greedy was refined on and done for pleasure by the lustful. flogging has become a pleasure purchasable in our streets, and inhibition a grown-up habit that children play at. "go and see what baby is doing; and tell him he mustnt" is the last word of the nursery; and the grimmest aspect of it is that it was first formulated by a comic paper as a capital joke. technical instruction technical instruction tempts to violence (as a short cut) more than liberal education. the sailor in mr rudyard kipling's captains courageous, teaching the boy the names of the ship's tackle with a rope's end, does not disgust us as our schoolmasters do, especially as the boy was a spoiled boy. but an unspoiled boy would not have needed that drastic medicine. technical training may be as tedious as learning to skate or to play the piano or violin; but it is the price one must pay to achieve certain desirable results or necessary ends. it is a monstrous thing to force a child to learn latin or greek or mathematics on the ground that they are an indispensable gymnastic for the mental powers. it would be monstrous even if it were true; for there is no labor that might not be imposed on a child or an adult on the same pretext; but as a glance at the average products of our public school and university education shews that it is not true, it need not trouble us. but it is a fact that ignorance of latin and greek and mathematics closes certain careers to men (i do not mean artificial, unnecessary, noxious careers like those of the commercial schoolmaster). languages, even dead ones, have their uses; and, as it seems to many of us, mathematics have their uses. they will always be learned by people who want to learn them; and people will always want to learn them as long as they are of any importance in life: indeed the want will survive their importance: superstition is nowhere stronger than in the field of obsolete acquirements. and they will never be learnt fruitfully by people who do not want to learn them either for their own sake or for use in necessary work. there is no harder schoolmaster than experience; and yet experience fails to teach where there is no desire to learn. still, one must not begin to apply this generalization too early. and this brings me to an important factor in the case: the factor of evolution. docility and dependence if anyone, impressed by my view that the rights of a child are precisely those of an adult, proceeds to treat a child as if it were an adult, he (or she) will find that though the plan will work much better at some points than the usual plan, at others it will not work at all; and this discovery may provoke him to turn back from the whole conception of children's rights with a jest at the expense of bachelors' and old maids' children. in dealing with children what is needed is not logic but sense. there is no logical reason why young persons should be allowed greater control of their property the day after they are twenty-one than the day before it. there is no logical reason why i, who strongly object to an adult standing over a boy of ten with a latin grammar, and saying, "you must learn this, whether you want to or not," should nevertheless be quite prepared to stand over a boy of five with the multiplication table or a copy book or a code of elementary good manners, and practice on his docility to make him learn them. and there is no logical reason why i should do for a child a great many little offices, some of them troublesome and disagreeable, which i should not do for a boy twice its age, or support a boy or girl when i would unhesitatingly throw an adult on his own resources. but there are practical reasons, and sensible reasons, and affectionate reasons for all these illogicalities. children do not want to be treated altogether as adults: such treatment terrifies them and over-burdens them with responsibility. in truth, very few adults care to be called on for independence and originality: they also are bewildered and terrified in the absence of precedents and precepts and commandments; but modern democracy allows them a sanctioning and cancelling power if they are capable of using it, which children are not. to treat a child wholly as an adult would be to mock and destroy it. infantile docility and juvenile dependence are, like death, a product of natural selection; and though there is no viler crime than to abuse them, yet there is no greater cruelty than to ignore them. i have complained sufficiently of what i suffered through the process of assault, imprisonment, and compulsory lessons that taught me nothing, which are called my schooling. but i could say a good deal also about the things i was not taught and should have been taught, not to mention the things i was allowed to do which i should not have been allowed to do. i have no recollection of being taught to read or write; so i presume i was born with both faculties; but many people seem to have bitter recollections of being forced reluctantly to acquire them. and though i have the uttermost contempt for a teacher so ill mannered and incompetent as to be unable to make a child learn to read and write without also making it cry, still i am prepared to admit that i had rather have been compelled to learn to read and write with tears by an incompetent and ill mannered person than left in ignorance. reading, writing, and enough arithmetic to use money honestly and accurately, together with the rudiments of law and order, become necessary conditions of a child's liberty before it can appreciate the importance of its liberty, or foresee that these accomplishments are worth acquiring. nature has provided for this by evolving the instinct of docility. children are very docile: they have a sound intuition that they must do what they are told or perish. and adults have an intuition, equally sound, that they must take advantage of this docility to teach children how to live properly or the children will not survive. the difficulty is to know where to stop. to illustrate this, let us consider the main danger of childish docility and parental officiousness. the abuse of docility docility may survive as a lazy habit long after it has ceased to be a beneficial instinct. if you catch a child when it is young enough to be instinctively docile, and keep it in a condition of unremitted tutelage under the nurserymaid, the governess, the preparatory school, the secondary school, and the university, until it is an adult, you will produce, not a self-reliant, free, fully matured human being, but a grown-up schoolboy or schoolgirl, capable of nothing in the way of original or independent action except outbursts of naughtiness in the women and blackguardism in the men. that is exactly what we get at present in our rich and consequently governing classes: they pass from juvenility to senility without ever touching maturity except in body. the classes which cannot afford this sustained tutelage are notably more self-reliant and grown-up: an office boy of fifteen is often more of a man than a university student of twenty. unfortunately this precocity is disabled by poverty, ignorance, narrowness, and a hideous power of living without art or love or beauty and being rather proud of it. the poor never escape from servitude: their docility is preserved by their slavery. and so all become the prey of the greedy, the selfish, the domineering, the unscrupulous, the predatory. if here and there an individual refuses to be docile, ten docile persons will beat him or lock him up or shoot him or hang him at the bidding of his oppressors and their own. the crux of the whole difficulty about parents, schoolmasters, priests, absolute monarchs, and despots of every sort, is the tendency to abuse natural docility. a nation should always be healthily rebellious; but the king or prime minister has yet to be found who will make trouble by cultivating that side of the national spirit. a child should begin to assert itself early, and shift for itself more and more not only in washing and dressing itself, but in opinions and conduct; yet as nothing is so exasperating and so unlovable as an uppish child, it is useless to expect parents and schoolmasters to inculcate this uppishness. such unamiable precepts as always contradict an authoritative statement, always return a blow, never lose a chance of a good fight, when you are scolded for a mistake ask the person who scolds you whether he or she supposes you did it on purpose, and follow the question with a blow or an insult or some other unmistakable expression of resentment, remember that the progress of the world depends on your knowing better than your elders, are just as important as those of the sermon on the mount; but no one has yet seen them written up in letters of gold in a schoolroom or nursery. the child is taught to be kind, to be respectful, to be quiet, not to answer back, to be truthful when its elders want to find out anything from it, to lie when the truth would shock or hurt its elders, to be above all things obedient, and to be seen and not heard. here we have two sets of precepts, each warranted to spoil a child hopelessly if the other be omitted. unfortunately we do not allow fair play between them. the rebellious, intractable, aggressive, selfish set provoke a corrective resistance, and do not pretend to high moral or religious sanctions; and they are never urged by grown-up people on young people. they are therefore more in danger of neglect or suppression than the other set, which have all the adults, all the laws, all the religions on their side. how is the child to be secured its due share of both bodies of doctrine? the schoolboy and the homeboy in practice what happens is that parents notice that boys brought up at home become mollycoddles, or prigs, or duffers, unable to take care of themselves. they see that boys should learn to rough it a little and to mix with children of their own age. this is natural enough. when you have preached at and punished a boy until he is a moral cripple, you are as much hampered by him as by a physical cripple; and as you do not intend to have him on your hands all your life, and are generally rather impatient for the day when he will earn his own living and leave you to attend to yourself, you sooner or later begin to talk to him about the need for self-reliance, learning to think, and so forth, with the result that your victim, bewildered by your inconsistency, concludes that there is no use trying to please you, and falls into an attitude of sulky resentment. which is an additional inducement to pack him off to school. in school, he finds himself in a dual world, under two dispensations. there is the world of the boys, where the point of honor is to be untameable, always ready to fight, ruthless in taking the conceit out of anyone who ventures to give himself airs of superior knowledge or taste, and generally to take lucifer for one's model. and there is the world of the masters, the world of discipline, submission, diligence, obedience, and continual and shameless assumption of moral and intellectual authority. thus the schoolboy hears both sides, and is so far better off than the homebred boy who hears only one. but the two sides are not fairly presented. they are presented as good and evil, as vice and virtue, as villainy and heroism. the boy feels mean and cowardly when he obeys, and selfish and rascally when he disobeys. he looses his moral courage just as he comes to hate books and languages. in the end, john ruskin, tied so close to his mother's apron-string that he did not escape even when he went to oxford, and john stuart mill, whose father ought to have been prosecuted for laying his son's childhood waste with lessons, were superior, as products of training, to our schoolboys. they were very conspicuously superior in moral courage; and though they did not distinguish themselves at cricket and football, they had quite as much physical hardihood as any civilized man needs. but it is to be observed that ruskin's parents were wise people who gave john a full share in their own life, and put up with his presence both at home and abroad when they must sometimes have been very weary of him; and mill, as it happens, was deliberately educated to challenge all the most sacred institutions of his country. the households they were brought up in were no more average households than a montessori school is an average school. the comings of age of children all this inculcated adult docility, which wrecks every civilization as it is wrecking ours, is inhuman and unnatural. we must reconsider our institution of the coming of age, which is too late for some purposes, and too early for others. there should be a series of coming of ages for every individual. the mammals have their first coming of age when they are weaned; and it is noteworthy that this rather cruel and selfish operation on the part of the parent has to be performed resolutely, with claws and teeth; for your little mammal does not want to be weaned, and yields only to a pretty rough assertion of the right of the parent to be relieved of the child as soon as the child is old enough to bear the separation. the same thing occurs with children: they hang on to the mother's apron-string and the father's coat tails as long as they can, often baffling those sensitive parents who know that children should think for themselves and fend for themselves, but are too kind to throw them on their own resources with the ferocity of the domestic cat. the child should have its first coming of age when it is weaned, another when it can talk, another when it can walk, another when it can dress itself without assistance; and when it can read, write, count money, and pass an examination in going a simple errand involving a purchase and a journey by rail or other public method of locomotion, it should have quite a majority. at present the children of laborers are soon mobile and able to shift for themselves, whereas it is possible to find grown-up women in the rich classes who are actually afraid to take a walk in the streets unattended and unprotected. it is true that this is a superstition from the time when a retinue was part of the state of persons of quality, and the unattended person was supposed to be a common person of no quality, earning a living; but this has now become so absurd that children and young women are no longer told why they are forbidden to go about alone, and have to be persuaded that the streets are dangerous places, which of course they are; but people who are not educated to live dangerously have only half a life, and are more likely to die miserably after all than those who have taken all the common risks of freedom from their childhood onward as matters of course. the conflict of wills the world wags in spite of its schools and its families because both schools and families are mostly very largely anarchic: parents and schoolmasters are good-natured or weak or lazy; and children are docile and affectionate and very shortwinded in their fits of naughtiness; and so most families slummock along and muddle through until the children cease to be children. in the few cases when the parties are energetic and determined, the child is crushed or the parent is reduced to a cipher, as the case may be. when the opposed forces are neither of them strong enough to annihilate the other, there is serious trouble: that is how we get those feuds between parent and child which recur to our memory so ironically when we hear people sentimentalizing about natural affection. we even get tragedies; for there is nothing so tragic to contemplate or so devastating to suffer as the oppression of will without conscience; and the whole tendency of our family and school system is to set the will of the parent and the school despot above conscience as something that must be deferred to abjectly and absolutely for its own sake. the strongest, fiercest force in nature is human will. it is the highest organization we know of the will that has created the whole universe. now all honest civilization, religion, law, and convention is an attempt to keep this force within beneficent bounds. what corrupts civilization, religion, law, and convention (and they are at present pretty nearly as corrupt as they dare) is the constant attempts made by the wills of individuals and classes to thwart the wills and enslave the powers of other individuals and classes. the powers of the parent and the schoolmaster, and of their public analogues the lawgiver and the judge, become instruments of tyranny in the hands of those who are too narrow-minded to understand law and exercise judgment; and in their hands (with us they mostly fall into such hands) law becomes tyranny. and what is a tyrant? quite simply a person who says to another person, young or old, "you shall do as i tell you; you shall make what i want; you shall profess my creed; you shall have no will of your own; and your powers shall be at the disposal of my will." it has come to this at last: that the phrase "she has a will of her own," or "he has a will of his own" has come to denote a person of exceptional obstinacy and self-assertion. and even persons of good natural disposition, if brought up to expect such deference, are roused to unreasoning fury, and sometimes to the commission of atrocious crimes, by the slightest challenge to their authority. thus a laborer may be dirty, drunken, untruthful, slothful, untrustworthy in every way without exhausting the indulgence of the country house. but let him dare to be "disrespectful" and he is a lost man, though he be the cleanest, soberest, most diligent, most veracious, most trustworthy man in the county. dickens's instinct for detecting social cankers never served him better than when he shewed us mrs heep teaching her son to "be umble," knowing that if he carried out that precept he might be pretty well anything else he liked. the maintenance of deference to our wills becomes a mania which will carry the best of us to any extremity. we will allow a village of egyptian fellaheen or indian tribesmen to live the lowest life they please among themselves without molestation; but let one of them slay an englishman or even strike him on the strongest provocation, and straightway we go stark mad, burning and destroying, shooting and shelling, flogging and hanging, if only such survivors as we may leave are thoroughly cowed in the presence of a man with a white face. in the committee room of a local council or city corporation, the humblest employees of the committee find defenders if they complain of harsh treatment. gratuities are voted, indulgences and holidays are pleaded for, delinquencies are excused in the most sentimental manner provided only the employee, however patent a hypocrite or incorrigible a slacker, is hat in hand. but let the most obvious measure of justice be demanded by the secretary of a trade union in terms which omit all expressions of subservience, and it is with the greatest difficulty that the cooler-headed can defeat angry motions that the letter be thrown into the waste paper basket and the committee proceed to the next business. the demagogue's opportunity and the employee has in him the same fierce impulse to impose his will without respect for the will of others. democracy is in practice nothing but a device for cajoling from him the vote he refuses to arbitrary authority. he will not vote for coriolanus; but when an experienced demagogue comes along and says, "sir: _you_ are the dictator: the voice of the people is the voice of god; and i am only your very humble servant," he says at once, "all right: tell me what to dictate," and is presently enslaved more effectually with his own silly consent than coriolanus would ever have enslaved him without asking his leave. and the trick by which the demagogue defeats coriolanus is played on him in his turn by _his_ inferiors. everywhere we see the cunning succeeding in the world by seeking a rich or powerful master and practising on his lust for subservience. the political adventurer who gets into parliament by offering himself to the poor voter, not as his representative but as his will-less soulless "delegate," is himself the dupe of a clever wife who repudiates votes for women, knowing well that whilst the man is master, the man's mistress will rule. uriah heep may be a crawling creature; but his crawling takes him upstairs. thus does the selfishness of the will turn on itself, and obtain by flattery what it cannot seize by open force. democracy becomes the latest trick of tyranny: "womanliness" becomes the latest wile of prostitution. between parent and child the same conflict wages and the same destruction of character ensues. parents set themselves to bend the will of their children to their own--to break their stubborn spirit, as they call it--with the ruthlessness of grand inquisitors. cunning, unscrupulous children learn all the arts of the sneak in circumventing tyranny: children of better character are cruelly distressed and more or less lamed for life by it. our quarrelsomeness as between adults, we find a general quarrelsomeness which makes political reform as impossible to most englishmen as to hogs. certain sections of the nation get cured of this disability. university men, sailors, and politicians are comparatively free from it, because the communal life of the university, the fact that in a ship a man must either learn to consider others or else go overboard or into irons, and the habit of working on committees and ceasing to expect more of one's own way than is included in the greatest common measure of the committee, educate the will socially. but no one who has ever had to guide a committee of ordinary private englishmen through their first attempts at collective action, in committee or otherwise, can retain any illusions as to the appalling effects on our national manners and character of the organization of the home and the school as petty tyrannies, and the absence of all teaching of self-respect and training in self-assertion. bullied and ordered about, the englishman obeys like a sheep, evades like a knave, or tries to murder his oppressor. merely criticized or opposed in committee, or invited to consider anybody's views but his own, he feels personally insulted and wants to resign or leave the room unless he is apologized to. and his panic and bewilderment when he sees that the older hands at the work have no patience with him and do not intend to treat him as infallible, are pitiable as far as they are anything but ludicrous. that is what comes of not being taught to consider other people's wills, and left to submit to them or to over-ride them as if they were the winds and the weather. such a state of mind is incompatible not only with the democratic introduction of high civilization, but with the comprehension and maintenance of such civilized institutions as have been introduced by benevolent and intelligent despots and aristocrats. we must reform society before we can reform ourselves when we come to the positive problem of what to do with children if we are to give up the established plan, we find the difficulties so great that we begin to understand why so many people who detest the system and look back with loathing on their own schooldays, must helplessly send their children to the very schools they themselves were sent to, because there is no alternative except abandoning the children to undisciplined vagabondism. man in society must do as everybody else does in his class: only fools and romantic novices imagine that freedom is a mere matter of the readiness of the individual to snap his fingers at convention. it is true that most of us live in a condition of quite unnecessary inhibition, wearing ugly and uncomfortable clothes, making ourselves and other people miserable by the heathen horrors of mourning, staying away from the theatre because we cannot afford the stalls and are ashamed to go to the pit, and in dozens of other ways enslaving ourselves when there are comfortable alternatives open to us without any real drawbacks. the contemplation of these petty slaveries, and of the triumphant ease with which sensible people throw them off, creates an impression that if we only take johnson's advice to free our minds from cant, we can achieve freedom. but if we all freed our minds from cant we should find that for the most part we should have to go on doing the necessary work of the world exactly as we did it before until we organized new and free methods of doing it. many people believed in secondary co-education (boys and girls taught together) before schools like bedales were founded: indeed the practice was common enough in elementary schools and in scotland; but their belief did not help them until bedales and st george's were organized; and there are still not nearly enough co-educational schools in existence to accommodate all the children of the parents who believe in co-education up to university age, even if they could always afford the fees of these exceptional schools. it may be edifying to tell a duke that our public schools are all wrong in their constitution and methods, or a costermonger that children should be treated as in goethe's wilhelm meister instead of as they are treated at the elementary school at the corner of his street; but what are the duke and the coster to do? neither of them has any effective choice in the matter: their children must either go to the schools that are, or to no school at all. and as the duke thinks with reason that his son will be a lout or a milksop or a prig if he does not go to school, and the coster knows that his son will become an illiterate hooligan if he is left to the streets, there is no real alternative for either of them. child life must be socially organized: no parent, rich or poor, can choose institutions that do not exist; and the private enterprise of individual school masters appealing to a group of well-to-do parents, though it may shew what can be done by enthusiasts with new methods, cannot touch the mass of our children. for the average parent or child nothing is really available except the established practice; and this is what makes it so important that the established practice should be a sound one, and so useless for clever individuals to disparage it unless they can organize an alternative practice and make it, too, general. the pursuit of manners if you cross-examine the duke and the coster, you will find that they are not concerned for the scholastic attainments of their children. ask the duke whether he could pass the standard examination of twelve-year-old children in elementary schools, and he will admit, with an entirely placid smile, that he would almost certainly be ignominiously plucked. and he is so little ashamed of or disadvantaged by his condition that he is not prepared to spend an hour in remedying it. the coster may resent the inquiry instead of being amused by it; but his answer, if true, will be the same. what they both want for their children is the communal training, the apprenticeship to society, the lessons in holding one's own among people of all sorts with whom one is not, as in the home, on privileged terms. these can be acquired only by "mixing with the world," no matter how wicked the world is. no parent cares twopence whether his children can write latin hexameters or repeat the dates of the accession of all the english monarchs since the conqueror; but all parents are earnestly anxious about the manners of their children. better claude duval than kaspar hauser. laborers who are contemptuously anti-clerical in their opinions will send their daughters to the convent school because the nuns teach them some sort of gentleness of speech and behavior. and peers who tell you that our public schools are rotten through and through, and that our universities ought to be razed to the foundations, send their sons to eton and oxford, harrow and cambridge, not only because there is nothing else to be done, but because these places, though they turn out blackguards and ignoramuses and boobies galore, turn them out with the habits and manners of the society they belong to. bad as those manners are in many respects, they are better than no manners at all. and no individual or family can possibly teach them. they can be acquired only by living in an organized community in which they are traditional. thus we see that there are reasons for the segregation of children even in families where the great reason: namely, that children are nuisances to adults, does not press very hardly, as, for instance, in the houses of the very poor, who can send their children to play in the streets, or the houses of the very rich, which are so large that the children's quarters can be kept out of the parents' way like the servants' quarters. not too much wind on the heath, brother what, then, is to be done? for the present, unfortunately, little except propagating the conception of children's rights. only the achievement of economic equality through socialism can make it possible to deal thoroughly with the question from the point of view of the total interest of the community, which must always consist of grown-up children. yet economic equality, like all simple and obvious arrangements, seems impossible to people brought up as children are now. still, something can be done even within class limits. large communities of children of the same class are possible today; and voluntary organization of outdoor life for children has already begun in boy scouting and excursions of one kind or another. the discovery that anything, even school life, is better for the child than home life, will become an over-ridden hobby; and we shall presently be told by our faddists that anything, even camp life, is better than school life. some blundering beginnings of this are already perceptible. there is a movement for making our british children into priggish little barefooted vagabonds, all talking like that born fool george borrow, and supposed to be splendidly healthy because they would die if they slept in rooms with the windows shut, or perhaps even with a roof over their heads. still, this is a fairly healthy folly; and it may do something to establish mr harold cox's claim of a right to roam as the basis of a much needed law compelling proprietors of land to provide plenty of gates in their fences, and to leave them unlocked when there are no growing crops to be damaged nor bulls to be encountered, instead of, as at present, imprisoning the human race in dusty or muddy thoroughfares between walls of barbed wire. the reaction against vagabondage will come from the children themselves. for them freedom will not mean the expensive kind of savagery now called "the simple life." their natural disgust with the visions of cockney book fanciers blowing themselves out with "the wind on the heath, brother," and of anarchists who are either too weak to understand that men are strong and free in proportion to the social pressure they can stand and the complexity of the obligations they are prepared to undertake, or too strong to realize that what is freedom to them may be terror and bewilderment to others, will drive them back to the home and the school if these have meanwhile learned the lesson that children are independent human beings and have rights. wanted: a child's magna charta whether we shall presently be discussing a juvenile magna charta or declaration of rights by way of including children in the constitution is a question on which i leave others to speculate. but if it could once be established that a child has an adult's right of egress from uncomfortable places and unpleasant company, and there were children's lawyers to sue pedagogues and others for assault and imprisonment, there would be an amazing change in the behavior of schoolmasters, the quality of school books, and the amenities of school life. that consciousness of consent which, even in its present delusive form, has enabled democracy to oust tyrannical systems in spite of all its vulgarities and stupidities and rancors and ineptitudes and ignorances, would operate as powerfully among children as it does now among grown-ups. no doubt the pedagogue would promptly turn demagogue, and woo his scholars by all the arts of demagogy; but none of these arts can easily be so dishonorable or mischievous as the art of caning. and, after all, if larger liberties are attached to the acquisition of knowledge, and the child finds that it can no more go to the seaside without a knowledge of the multiplication and pence tables than it can be an astronomer without mathematics, it will learn the multiplication table, which is more than it always does at present, in spite of all the canings and keepings in. the pursuit of learning when the pursuit of learning comes to mean the pursuit of learning by the child instead of the pursuit of the child by learning, cane in hand, the danger will be precocity of the intellect, which is just as undesirable as precocity of the emotions. we still have a silly habit of talking and thinking as if intellect were a mechanical process and not a passion; and in spite of the german tutors who confess openly that three out of every five of the young men they coach for examinations are lamed for life thereby; in spite of dickens and his picture of little paul dombey dying of lessons, we persist in heaping on growing children and adolescent youths and maidens tasks pythagoras would have declined out of common regard for his own health and common modesty as to his own capacity. and this overwork is not all the effect of compulsion; for the average schoolmaster does not compel his scholars to learn: he only scolds and punishes them if they do not, which is quite a different thing, the net effect being that the school prisoners need not learn unless they like. nay, it is sometimes remarked that the school dunce--meaning the one who does not like--often turns out well afterwards, as if idleness were a sign of ability and character. a much more sensible explanation is that the so-called dunces are not exhausted before they begin the serious business of life. it is said that boys will be boys; and one can only add one wishes they would. boys really want to be manly, and are unfortunately encouraged thoughtlessly in this very dangerous and overstraining aspiration. all the people who have really worked (herbert spencer for instance) warn us against work as earnestly as some people warn us against drink. when learning is placed on the voluntary footing of sport, the teacher will find himself saying every day "run away and play: you have worked as much as is good for you." trying to make children leave school will be like trying to make them go to bed; and it will be necessary to surprise them with the idea that teaching is work, and that the teacher is tired and must go play or rest or eat: possibilities always concealed by that infamous humbug the current schoolmaster, who achieves a spurious divinity and a witch doctor's authority by persuading children that he is not human, just as ladies persuade them that they have no legs. children and game: a proposal of the many wild absurdities of our existing social order perhaps the most grotesque is the costly and strictly enforced reservation of large tracts of country as deer forests and breeding grounds for pheasants whilst there is so little provision of the kind made for children. i have more than once thought of trying to introduce the shooting of children as a sport, as the children would then be preserved very carefully for ten months in the year, thereby reducing their death rate far more than the fusillades of the sportsmen during the other two would raise it. at present the killing of a fox except by a pack of foxhounds is regarded with horror; but you may and do kill children in a hundred and fifty ways provided you do not shoot them or set a pack of dogs on them. it must be admitted that the foxes have the best of it; and indeed a glance at our pheasants, our deer, and our children will convince the most sceptical that the children have decidedly the worst of it. this much hope, however, can be extracted from the present state of things. it is so fantastic, so mad, so apparently impossible, that no scheme of reform need ever henceforth be discredited on the ground that it is fantastic or mad or apparently impossible. it is the sensible schemes, unfortunately, that are hopeless in england. therefore i have great hopes that my own views, though fundamentally sensible, can be made to appear fantastic enough to have a chance. first, then, i lay it down as a prime condition of sane society, obvious as such to anyone but an idiot, that in any decent community, children should find in every part of their native country, food, clothing, lodging, instruction, and parental kindness for the asking. for the matter of that, so should adults; but the two cases differ in that as these commodities do not grow on the bushes, the adults cannot have them unless they themselves organize and provide the supply, whereas the children must have them as if by magic, with nothing to do but rub the lamp, like aladdin, and have their needs satisfied. the parents' intolerable burden there is nothing new in this: it is how children have always had and must always have their needs satisfied. the parent has to play the part of aladdin's djinn; and many a parent has sunk beneath the burden of this service. all the novelty we need is to organize it so that instead of the individual child fastening like a parasite on its own particular parents, the whole body of children should be thrown not only upon the whole body of parents, but upon the celibates and childless as well, whose present exemption from a full share in the social burden of children is obviously unjust and unwholesome. today it is easy to find a widow who has at great cost to herself in pain, danger, and disablement, borne six or eight children. in the same town you will find rich bachelors and old maids, and married couples with no children or with families voluntarily limited to two or three. the eight children do not belong to the woman in any real or legal sense. when she has reared them they pass away from her into the community as independent persons, marrying strangers, working for strangers, spending on the community the life that has been built up at her expense. no more monstrous injustice could be imagined than that the burden of rearing the children should fall on her alone and not on the celibates and the selfish as well. this is so far recognized that already the child finds, wherever it goes, a school for it, and somebody to force it into the school; and more and more these schools are being driven by the mere logic of facts to provide the children with meals, with boots, with spectacles, with dentists and doctors. in fact, when the child's parents are destitute or not to be found, bread, lodging, and clothing are provided. it is true that they are provided grudgingly and on conditions infamous enough to draw down abundant fire from heaven upon us every day in the shape of crime and disease and vice; but still the practice of keeping children barely alive at the charge of the community is established; and there is no need for me to argue about it. i propose only two extensions of the practice. one is to provide for all the child's reasonable human wants, on which point, if you differ from me, i shall take leave to say that you are socially a fool and personally an inhuman wretch. the other is that these wants should be supplied in complete freedom from compulsory schooling or compulsory anything except restraint from crime, though, as they can be supplied only by social organization, the child must be conscious of and subject to the conditions of that organization, which may involve such portions of adult responsibility and duty as a child may be able to bear according to its age, and which will in any case prevent it from forming the vagabond and anarchist habit of mind. one more exception might be necessary: compulsory freedom. i am sure that a child should not be imprisoned in a school. i am not so sure that it should not sometimes be driven out into the open--imprisoned in the woods and on the mountains, as it were. for there are frowsty children, just as there are frowsty adults, who dont want freedom. this morbid result of over-domestication would, let us hope, soon disappear with its cause. mobilization those who see no prospect held out to them by this except a country in which all the children shall be roaming savages, should consider, first, whether their condition would be any worse than that of the little caged savages of today, and second, whether either children or adults are so apt to run wild that it is necessary to tether them fast to one neighborhood to prevent a general dissolution of society. my own observation leads me to believe that we are not half mobilized enough. true, i cannot deny that we are more mobile than we were. you will still find in the home counties old men who have never been to london, and who tell you that they once went to winchester or st albans much as if they had been to the south pole; but they are not so common as the clerk who has been to paris or to lovely lucerne, and who "goes away somewhere" when he has a holiday. his grandfather never had a holiday, and, if he had, would no more have dreamed of crossing the channel than of taking a box at the opera. but with all allowance for the polytechnic excursion and the tourist agency, our inertia is still appalling. i confess to having once spent nine years in london without putting my nose outside it; and though this was better, perhaps, than the restless globe-trotting vagabondage of the idle rich, wandering from hotel to hotel and never really living anywhere, yet i should no more have done it if i had been properly mobilized in my childhood than i should have worn the same suit of clothes all that time (which, by the way, i very nearly did, my professional income not having as yet begun to sprout). there are masses of people who could afford at least a trip to margate, and a good many who could afford a trip round the world, who are more immovable than aldgate pump. to others, who would move if they knew how, travelling is surrounded with imaginary difficulties and terrors. in short, the difficulty is not to fix people, but to root them up. we keep repeating the silly proverb that a rolling stone gathers no moss, as if moss were a desirable parasite. what we mean is that a vagabond does not prosper. even this is not true, if prosperity means enjoyment as well as responsibility and money. the real misery of vagabondage is the misery of having nothing to do and nowhere to go, the misery of being derelict of god and man, the misery of the idle, poor or rich. and this is one of the miseries of unoccupied childhood. the unoccupied adult, thus afflicted, tries many distractions which are, to say the least, unsuited to children. but one of them, the distraction of seeing the world, is innocent and beneficial. also it is childish, being a continuation of what nurses call "taking notice," by which a child becomes experienced. it is pitiable nowadays to see men and women doing after the age of all the travelling and sightseeing they should have done before they were . mere wondering and staring at things is an important part of a child's education: that is why children can be thoroughly mobilized without making vagabonds of them. a vagabond is at home nowhere because he wanders: a child should wander because it ought to be at home everywhere. and if it has its papers and its passports, and gets what it requires not by begging and pilfering, but from responsible agents of the community as of right, and with some formal acknowledgment of the obligations it is incurring and a knowledge of the fact that these obligations are being recorded: if, further, certain qualifications are exacted before it is promoted from permission to go as far as its legs will carry it to using mechanical aids to locomotion, it can roam without much danger of gypsification. under such circumstances the boy or girl could always run away, and never be lost; and on no other conditions can a child be free without being also a homeless outcast. parents could also run away from disagreeable children or drive them out of doors or even drop their acquaintance, temporarily or permanently, without inhumanity. thus both parties would be on their good behavior, and not, as at present, on their filial or parental behavior, which, like all unfree behavior, is mostly bad behavior. as to what other results might follow, we had better wait and see; for nobody now alive can imagine what customs and institutions would grow up in societies of free children. child laws and child fashions, child manners and child morals are now not tolerated; but among free children there would certainly be surprising developments in this direction. i do not think there would be any danger of free children behaving as badly as grown-up people do now because they have never been free. they could hardly behave worse, anyhow. children's rights and parents' wrongs a very distinguished man once assured a mother of my acquaintance that she would never know what it meant to be hurt until she was hurt through her children. children are extremely cruel without intending it; and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the reason is that they do not conceive their elders as having any human feelings. serve the elders right, perhaps, for posing as superhuman! the penalty of the impostor is not that he is found out (he very seldom is) but that he is taken for what he pretends to be, and treated as such. and to be treated as anything but what you really are may seem pleasant to the imagination when the treatment is above your merits; but in actual experience it is often quite the reverse. when i was a very small boy, my romantic imagination, stimulated by early doses of fiction, led me to brag to a still smaller boy so outrageously that he, being a simple soul, really believed me to be an invincible hero. i cannot remember whether this pleased me much; but i do remember very distinctly that one day this admirer of mine, who had a pet goat, found the animal in the hands of a larger boy than either of us, who mocked him and refused to restore the animal to his rightful owner. whereupon, naturally, he came weeping to me, and demanded that i should rescue the goat and annihilate the aggressor. my terror was beyond description: fortunately for me, it imparted such a ghastliness to my voice and aspect as i under the eye of my poor little dupe, advanced on the enemy with that hideous extremity of cowardice which is called the courage of despair, and said "you let go that goat," that he abandoned his prey and fled, to my unforgettable, unspeakable relief. i have never since exaggerated my prowess in bodily combat. now what happened to me in the adventure of the goat happens very often to parents, and would happen to schoolmasters if the prison door of the school did not shut out the trials of life. i remember once, at school, the resident head master was brought down to earth by the sudden illness of his wife. in the confusion that ensued it became necessary to leave one of the schoolrooms without a master. i was in the class that occupied that schoolroom. to have sent us home would have been to break the fundamental bargain with our parents by which the school was bound to keep us out of their way for half the day at all hazards. therefore an appeal had to be made to our better feelings: that is, to our common humanity, not to make a noise. but the head master had never admitted any common humanity with us. we had been carefully broken in to regard him as a being quite aloof from and above us: one not subject to error or suffering or death or illness or mortality. consequently sympathy was impossible; and if the unfortunate lady did not perish, it was because, as i now comfort myself with guessing, she was too much pre-occupied with her own pains, and possibly making too much noise herself, to be conscious of the pandemonium downstairs. a great deal of the fiendishness of schoolboys and the cruelty of children to their elders is produced just in this way. elders cannot be superhuman beings and suffering fellow-creatures at the same time. if you pose as a little god, you must pose for better for worse. how little we know about our parents the relation between parent and child has cruel moments for the parent even when money is no object, and the material worries are delegated to servants and school teachers. the child and the parent are strangers to one another necessarily, because their ages must differ widely. read goethe's autobiography; and note that though he was happy in his parents and had exceptional powers of observation, divination, and story-telling, he knew less about his father and mother than about most of the other people he mentions. i myself was never on bad terms with my mother: we lived together until i was forty-two years old, absolutely without the smallest friction of any kind; yet when her death set me thinking curiously about our relations, i realized that i knew very little about her. introduce me to a strange woman who was a child when i was a child, a girl when i was a boy, an adolescent when i was an adolescent; and if we take naturally to one another i will know more of her and she of me at the end of forty days (i had almost said of forty minutes) than i knew of my mother at the end of forty years. a contemporary stranger is a novelty and an enigma, also a possibility; but a mother is like a broomstick or like the sun in the heavens, it does not matter which as far as one's knowledge of her is concerned: the broomstick is there and the sun is there; and whether the child is beaten by it or warmed and enlightened by it, it accepts it as a fact in nature, and does not conceive it as having had youth, passions, and weaknesses, or as still growing, yearning, suffering, and learning. if i meet a widow i may ask her all about her marriage; but what son ever dreams of asking his mother about her marriage, or could endure to hear of it without violently breaking off the old sacred relationship between them, and ceasing to be her child or anything more to her than the first man in the street might be? yet though in this sense the child cannot realize its parent's humanity, the parent can realize the child's; for the parents with their experience of life have none of the illusions about the child that the child has about the parents; and the consequence is that the child can hurt its parents' feelings much more than its parents can hurt the child's, because the child, even when there has been none of the deliberate hypocrisy by which children are taken advantage of by their elders, cannot conceive the parent as a fellow-creature, whilst the parents know very well that the children are only themselves over again. the child cannot conceive that its blame or contempt or want of interest could possibly hurt its parent, and therefore expresses them all with an indifference which has given rise to the term _enfant terrible_ (a tragic term in spite of the jests connected with it); whilst the parent can suffer from such slights and reproaches more from a child than from anyone else, even when the child is not beloved, because the child is so unmistakably sincere in them. our abandoned mothers take a very common instance of this agonizing incompatibility. a widow brings up her son to manhood. he meets a strange woman, and goes off with and marries her, leaving his mother desolate. it does not occur to him that this is at all hard on her: he does it as a matter of course, and actually expects his mother to receive, on terms of special affection, the woman for whom she has been abandoned. if he shewed any sense of what he was doing, any remorse; if he mingled his tears with hers and asked her not to think too hardly of him because he had obeyed the inevitable destiny of a man to leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife, she could give him her blessing and accept her bereavement with dignity and without reproach. but the man never dreams of such considerations. to him his mother's feeling in the matter, when she betrays it, is unreasonable, ridiculous, and even odious, as shewing a prejudice against his adorable bride. i have taken the widow as an extreme and obvious case; but there are many husbands and wives who are tired of their consorts, or disappointed in them, or estranged from them by infidelities; and these parents, in losing a son or a daughter through marriage, may be losing everything they care for. no parent's love is as innocent as the love of a child: the exclusion of all conscious sexual feeling from it does not exclude the bitterness, jealousy, and despair at loss which characterize sexual passion: in fact, what is called a pure love may easily be more selfish and jealous than a carnal one. anyhow, it is plain matter of fact that naively selfish people sometimes try with fierce jealousy to prevent their children marrying. family affection until the family as we know it ceases to exist, nobody will dare to analyze parental affection as distinguished from that general human sympathy which has secured to many an orphan fonder care in a stranger's house than it would have received from its actual parents. not even tolstoy, in the kreutzer sonata, has said all that we suspect about it. when it persists beyond the period at which it ceases to be necessary to the child's welfare, it is apt to be morbid; and we are probably wrong to inculcate its deliberate cultivation. the natural course is for the parents and children to cast off the specific parental and filial relation when they are no longer necessary to one another. the child does this readily enough to form fresh ties, closer and more fascinating. parents are not always excluded from such compensations: it happens sometimes that when the children go out at the door the lover comes in at the window. indeed it happens now oftener than it used to, because people remain much longer in the sexual arena. the cultivated jewess no longer cuts off her hair at her marriage. the british matron has discarded her cap and her conscientious ugliness; and a bishop's wife at fifty has more of the air of a _femme galante_ than an actress had at thirty-five in her grandmother's time. but as people marry later, the facts of age and time still inexorably condemn most parents to comparative solitude when their children marry. this may be a privation and may be a relief: probably in healthy circumstances it is no worse than a salutary change of habit; but even at that it is, for the moment at least, a wrench. for though parents and children sometimes dislike one another, there is an experience of succor and a habit of dependence and expectation formed in infancy which naturally attaches a child to its parent or to its nurse (a foster parent) in a quite peculiar way. a benefit to the child may be a burden to the parent; but people become attached to their burdens sometimes more than the burdens are attached to them; and to "suffer little children" has become an affectionate impulse deep in our nature. now there is no such impulse to suffer our sisters and brothers, our aunts and uncles, much less our cousins. if we could choose our relatives, we might, by selecting congenial ones, mitigate the repulsive effect of the obligation to like them and to admit them to our intimacy. but to have a person imposed on us as a brother merely because he happens to have the same parents is unbearable when, as may easily happen, he is the sort of person we should carefully avoid if he were anyone else's brother. all europe (except scotland, which has clans instead of families) draws the line at second cousins. protestantism draws it still closer by making the first cousin a marriageable stranger; and the only reason for not drawing it at sisters and brothers is that the institution of the family compels us to spend our childhood with them, and thus imposes on us a curious relation in which familiarity destroys romantic charm, and is yet expected to create a specially warm affection. such a relation is dangerously factitious and unnatural; and the practical moral is that the less said at home about specific family affection the better. children, like grown-up people, get on well enough together if they are not pushed down one another's throats; and grown-up relatives will get on together in proportion to their separation and their care not to presume on their blood relationship. we should let children's feelings take their natural course without prompting. i have seen a child scolded and called unfeeling because it did not occur to it to make a theatrical demonstration of affectionate delight when its mother returned after an absence: a typical example of the way in which spurious family sentiment is stoked up. we are, after all, sociable animals; and if we are let alone in the matter of our affections, and well brought up otherwise, we shall not get on any the worse with particular people because they happen to be our brothers and sisters and cousins. the danger lies in assuming that we shall get on any better. the main point to grasp here is that families are not kept together at present by family feeling but by human feeling. the family cultivates sympathy and mutual help and consolation as any other form of kindly association cultivates them; but the addition of a dictated compulsory affection as an attribute of near kinship is not only unnecessary, but positively detrimental; and the alleged tendency of modern social development to break up the family need alarm nobody. we cannot break up the facts of kinship nor eradicate its natural emotional consequences. what we can do and ought to do is to set people free to behave naturally and to change their behavior as circumstances change. to impose on a citizen of london the family duties of a highland cateran in the eighteenth century is as absurd as to compel him to carry a claymore and target instead of an umbrella. the civilized man has no special use for cousins; and he may presently find that he has no special use for brothers and sisters. the parent seems likely to remain indispensable; but there is no reason why that natural tie should be made the excuse for unnatural aggravations of it, as crushing to the parent as they are oppressive to the child. the mother and father will not always have to shoulder the burthen of maintenance which should fall on the atlas shoulders of the fatherland and motherland. pending such reforms and emancipations, a shattering break-up of the parental home must remain one of the normal incidents of marriage. the parent is left lonely and the child is not. woe to the old if they have no impersonal interests, no convictions, no public causes to advance, no tastes or hobbies! it is well to be a mother but not to be a mother-in-law; and if men were cut off artificially from intellectual and public interests as women are, the father-in-law would be as deplorable a figure in popular tradition as the mother-in-law. it is not to be wondered at that some people hold that blood relationship should be kept a secret from the persons related, and that the happiest condition in this respect is that of the foundling who, if he ever meets his parents or brothers or sisters, passes them by without knowing them. and for such a view there is this to be said: that our family system does unquestionably take the natural bond between members of the same family, which, like all natural bonds, is not too tight to be borne, and superimposes on it a painful burden of forced, inculcated, suggested, and altogether unnecessary affection and responsibility which we should do well to get rid of by making relatives as independent of one another as possible. the fate of the family the difficulty of inducing people to talk sensibly about the family is the same as that which i pointed out in a previous volume as confusing discussions of marriage. marriage is not a single invariable institution: it changes from civilization to civilization, from religion to religion, from civil code to civil code, from frontier to frontier. the family is still more variable, because the number of persons constituting a family, unlike the number of persons constituting a marriage, varies from one to twenty: indeed, when a widower with a family marries a widow with a family, and the two produce a third family, even that very high number may be surpassed. and the conditions may vary between opposite extremes: for example, in a london or paris slum every child adds to the burden of poverty and helps to starve the parents and all the other children, whereas in a settlement of pioneer colonists every child, from the moment it is big enough to lend a hand to the family industry, is an investment in which the only danger is that of temporary over-capitalization. then there are the variations in family sentiment. sometimes the family organization is as frankly political as the organization of an army or an industry: fathers being no more expected to be sentimental about their children than colonels about soldiers, or factory owners about their employees, though the mother may be allowed a little tenderness if her character is weak. the roman father was a despot: the chinese father is an object of worship: the sentimental modern western father is often a play-fellow looked to for toys and pocket-money. the farmer sees his children constantly: the squire sees them only during the holidays, and not then oftener than he can help: the tram conductor, when employed by a joint stock company, sometimes never sees them at all. under such circumstances phrases like the influence of home life, the family, the domestic hearth, and so on, are no more specific than the mammals, or the man in the street; and the pious generalizations founded so glibly on them by our sentimental moralists are unworkable. when households average twelve persons with the sexes about equally represented, the results may be fairly good. when they average three the results may be very bad indeed; and to lump the two together under the general term the family is to confuse the question hopelessly. the modern small family is much too stuffy: children "brought up at home" in it are unfit for society. but here again circumstances differ. if the parents live in what is called a garden suburb, where there is a good deal of social intercourse, and the family, instead of keeping itself to itself, as the evil old saying is, and glowering at the neighbors over the blinds of the long street in which nobody knows his neighbor and everyone wishes to deceive him as to his income and social importance, is in effect broken up by school life, by out-of-door habits, and by frank neighborly intercourse through dances and concerts and theatricals and excursions and the like, families of four may turn out much less barbarous citizens than families of ten which attain the boer ideal of being out of sight of one another's chimney smoke. all one can say is, roughly, that the homelier the home, and the more familiar the family, the worse for everybody concerned. the family ideal is a humbug and a nuisance: one might as reasonably talk of the barrack ideal, or the forecastle ideal, or any other substitution of the machinery of social organization for the end of it, which must always be the fullest and most capable life: in short, the most godly life. and this significant word reminds us that though the popular conception of heaven includes a holy family, it does not attach to that family the notion of a separate home, or a private nursery or kitchen or mother-in-law, or anything that constitutes the family as we know it. even blood relationship is miraculously abstracted from it; and the father is the father of all children, the mother the mother of all mothers and babies, and the son the son of man and the savior of his brothers: one whose chief utterance on the subject of the conventional family was an invitation to all of us to leave our families and follow him, and to leave the dead to bury the dead, and not debauch ourselves at that gloomy festival the family funeral, with its sequel of hideous mourning and grief which is either affected or morbid. family mourning i do not know how far this detestable custom of mourning is carried in france; but judging from the appearance of the french people i should say that a frenchwoman goes into mourning for her cousins to the seventeenth degree. the result is that when i cross the channel i seem to have reached a country devastated by war or pestilence. it is really suffering only from the family. will anyone pretend that england has not the best of this striking difference? yet it is such senseless and unnatural conventions as this that make us so impatient of what we call family feeling. even apart from its insufferable pretensions, the family needs hearty discrediting; for there is hardly any vulnerable part of it that could not be amputated with advantage. art teaching by art teaching i hasten to say that i do not mean giving children lessons in freehand drawing and perspective. i am simply calling attention to the fact that fine art is the only teacher except torture. i have already pointed out that nobody, except under threat of torture, can read a school book. the reason is that a school book is not a work of art. similarly, you cannot listen to a lesson or a sermon unless the teacher or the preacher is an artist. you cannot read the bible if you have no sense of literary art. the reason why the continental european is, to the englishman or american, so surprisingly ignorant of the bible, is that the authorized english version is a great work of literary art, and the continental versions are comparatively artless. to read a dull book; to listen to a tedious play or prosy sermon or lecture; to stare at uninteresting pictures or ugly buildings: nothing, short of disease, is more dreadful than this. the violence done to our souls by it leaves injuries and produces subtle maladies which have never been properly studied by psycho-pathologists. yet we are so inured to it in school, where practically all the teachers are bores trying to do the work of artists, and all the books artless, that we acquire a truly frightful power of enduring boredom. we even acquire the notion that fine art is lascivious and destructive to the character. in church, in the house of commons, at public meetings, we sit solemnly listening to bores and twaddlers because from the time we could walk or speak we have been snubbed, scolded, bullied, beaten and imprisoned whenever we dared to resent being bored or twaddled at, or to express our natural impatience and derision of bores and twaddlers. and when a man arises with a soul of sufficient native strength to break the bonds of this inculcated reverence and to expose and deride and tweak the noses of our humbugs and panjandrums, like voltaire or dickens, we are shocked and scandalized, even when we cannot help laughing. worse, we dread and persecute those who can see and declare the truth, because their sincerity and insight reflects on our delusion and blindness. we are all like nell gwynne's footman, who defended nell's reputation with his fists, not because he believed her to be what he called an honest woman, but because he objected to be scorned as the footman of one who was no better than she should be. this wretched power of allowing ourselves to be bored may seem to give the fine arts a chance sometimes. people will sit through a performance of beethoven's ninth symphony or of wagner's ring just as they will sit through a dull sermon or a front bench politician saying nothing for two hours whilst his unfortunate country is perishing through the delay of its business in parliament. but their endurance is very bad for the ninth symphony, because they never hiss when it is murdered. i have heard an italian conductor (no longer living) take the _adagio_ of that symphony at a lively _allegretto_, slowing down for the warmer major sections into the speed and manner of the heroine's death song in a verdi opera; and the listeners, far from relieving my excruciation by rising with yells of fury and hurling their programs and opera glasses at the miscreant, behaved just as they do when richter conducts it. the mass of imposture that thrives on this combination of ignorance with despairing endurance is incalculable. given a public trained from childhood to stand anything tedious, and so saturated with school discipline that even with the doors open and no schoolmasters to stop them they will sit there helplessly until the end of the concert or opera gives them leave to go home; and you will have in great capitals hundreds of thousands of pounds spent every night in the season on professedly artistic entertainments which have no other effect on fine art than to exacerbate the hatred in which it is already secretly held in england. fortunately, there are arts that cannot be cut off from the people by bad performances. we can read books for ourselves; and we can play a good deal of fine music for ourselves with the help of a pianola. nothing stands between us and the actual handwork of the great masters of painting except distance; and modern photographic methods of reproduction are in some cases quite and in many nearly as effective in conveying the artist's message as a modern edition of shakespear's plays is in conveying the message that first existed in his handwriting. the reproduction of great feats of musical execution is already on the way: the phonograph, for all its wheezing and snarling and braying, is steadily improving in its manners; and what with this improvement on the one hand, and on the other that blessed selective faculty which enables us to ignore a good deal of disagreeable noise if there is a thread of music in the middle of it (few critics of the phonograph seem to be conscious of the very considerable mechanical noise set up by choirs and orchestras) we have at last reached a point at which, for example, a person living in an english village where the church music is the only music, and that music is made by a few well-intentioned ladies with the help of a harmonium, can hear masses by palestrina very passably executed, and can thereby be led to the discovery that jackson in f and hymns ancient and modern are not perhaps the last word of beauty and propriety in the praise of god. in short, there is a vast body of art now within the reach of everybody. the difficulty is that this art, which alone can educate us in grace of body and soul, and which alone can make the history of the past live for us or the hope of the future shine for us, which alone can give delicacy and nobility to our crude lusts, which is the appointed vehicle of inspiration and the method of the communion of saints, is actually branded as sinful among us because, wherever it arises, there is resistance to tyranny, breaking of fetters, and the breath of freedom. the attempt to suppress art is not wholly successful: we might as well try to suppress oxygen. but it is carried far enough to inflict on huge numbers of people a most injurious art starvation, and to corrupt a great deal of the art that is tolerated. you will find in england plenty of rich families with little more culture than their dogs and horses. and you will find poor families, cut off by poverty and town life from the contemplation of the beauty of the earth, with its dresses of leaves, its scarves of cloud, and its contours of hill and valley, who would positively be happier as hogs, so little have they cultivated their humanity by the only effective instrument of culture: art. the dearth is artificially maintained even when there are the means of satisfying it. story books are forbidden, picture post cards are forbidden, theatres are forbidden, operas are forbidden, circuses are forbidden, sweetmeats are forbidden, pretty colors are forbidden, all exactly as vice is forbidden. the creator is explicitly prayed to, and implicitly convicted of indecency every day. an association of vice and sin with everything that is delightful and of goodness with everything that is wretched and detestable is set up. all the most perilous (and glorious) appetites and propensities are at once inflamed by starvation and uneducated by art. all the wholesome conditions which art imposes on appetite are waived: instead of cultivated men and women restrained by a thousand delicacies, repelled by ugliness, chilled by vulgarity, horrified by coarseness, deeply and sweetly moved by the graces that art has revealed to them and nursed in them, we get indiscriminate rapacity in pursuit of pleasure and a parade of the grossest stimulations in catering for it. we have a continual clamor for goodness, beauty, virtue, and sanctity, with such an appalling inability to recognize it or love it when it arrives that it is more dangerous to be a great prophet or poet than to promote twenty companies for swindling simple folk out of their savings. do not for a moment suppose that uncultivated people are merely indifferent to high and noble qualities. they hate them malignantly. at best, such qualities are like rare and beautiful birds: when they appear the whole country takes down its guns; but the birds receive the statuary tribute of having their corpses stuffed. and it really all comes from the habit of preventing children from being troublesome. you are so careful of your boy's morals, knowing how troublesome they may be, that you keep him away from the venus of milo only to find him in the arms of the scullery maid or someone much worse. you decide that the hermes of praxiteles and wagner's tristan are not suited for young girls; and your daughter marries somebody appallingly unlike either hermes or tristan solely to escape from your parental protection. you have not stifled a single passion nor averted a single danger: you have depraved the passions by starving them, and broken down all the defences which so effectively protect children brought up in freedom. you have men who imagine themselves to be ministers of religion openly declaring that when they pass through the streets they have to keep out in the wheeled traffic to avoid the temptations of the pavement. you have them organizing hunts of the women who tempt them--poor creatures whom no artist would touch without a shudder--and wildly clamoring for more clothes to disguise and conceal the body, and for the abolition of pictures, statues, theatres, and pretty colors. and incredible as it seems, these unhappy lunatics are left at large, unrebuked, even admired and revered, whilst artists have to struggle for toleration. to them an undraped human body is the most monstrous, the most blighting, the most obscene, the most unbearable spectacle in the universe. to an artist it is, at its best, the most admirable spectacle in nature, and, at its average, an object of indifference. if every rag of clothing miraculously dropped from the inhabitants of london at noon tomorrow (say as a preliminary to the great judgment), the artistic people would not turn a hair; but the artless people would go mad and call on the mountains to hide them. i submit that this indicates a thoroughly healthy state on the part of the artists, and a thoroughly morbid one on the part of the artless. and the healthy state is attainable in a cold country like ours only by familiarity with the undraped figure acquired through pictures, statues, and theatrical representations in which an illusion of natural clotheslessness is produced and made poetic. in short, we all grow up stupid and mad to just the extent to which we have not been artistically educated; and the fact that this taint of stupidity and madness has to be tolerated because it is general, and is even boasted of as characteristically english, makes the situation all the worse. it is becoming exceedingly grave at present, because the last ray of art is being cut off from our schools by the discontinuance of religious education. the impossibility of secular education now children must be taught some sort of religion. secular education is an impossibility. secular education comes to this: that the only reason for ceasing to do evil and learning to do well is that if you do not you will be caned. this is worse than being taught in a church school that if you become a dissenter you will go to hell; for hell is presented as the instrument of something eternal, divine, and inevitable: you cannot evade it the moment the schoolmaster's back is turned. what confuses this issue and leads even highly intelligent religious persons to advocate secular education as a means of rescuing children from the strife of rival proselytizers is the failure to distinguish between the child's personal subjective need for a religion and its right to an impartially communicated historical objective knowledge of all the creeds and churches. just as a child, no matter what its race and color may be, should know that there are black men and brown men and yellow men, and, no matter what its political convictions may be, that there are monarchists and republicans and positivists, socialists and unsocialists, so it should know that there are christians and mahometans and buddhists and shintoists and so forth, and that they are on the average just as honest and well-behaved as its own father. for example, it should not be told that allah is a false god set up by the turks and arabs, who will all be damned for taking that liberty; but it should be told that many english people think so, and that many turks and arabs think the converse about english people. it should be taught that allah is simply the name by which god is known to turks and arabs, who are just as eligible for salvation as any christian. further, that the practical reason why a turkish child should pray in a mosque and an english child in a church is that as worship is organized in turkey in mosques in the name of mahomet and in england in churches in the name of christ, a turkish child joining the church of england or an english child following mahomet will find that it has no place for its worship and no organization of its religion within its reach. any other teaching of the history and present facts of religion is false teaching, and is politically extremely dangerous in an empire in which a huge majority of the fellow subjects of the governing island do not profess the religion of that island. but this objectivity, though intellectually honest, tells the child only what other people believe. what it should itself believe is quite another matter. the sort of rationalism which says to a child "you must suspend your judgment until you are old enough to choose your religion" is rationalism gone mad. the child must have a conscience and a code of honor (which is the essence of religion) even if it be only a provisional one, to be revised at its confirmation. for confirmation is meant to signalize a spiritual coming of age, and may be a repudiation. really active souls have many confirmations and repudiations as their life deepens and their knowledge widens. but what is to guide the child before its first confirmation? not mere orders, because orders must have a sanction of some sort or why should the child obey them? if, as a secularist, you refuse to teach any sanction, you must say "you will be punished if you disobey." "yes," says the child to itself, "if i am found out; but wait until your back is turned and i will do as i like, and lie about it." there can be no objective punishment for successful fraud; and as no espionage can cover the whole range of a child's conduct, the upshot is that the child becomes a liar and schemer with an atrophied conscience. and a good many of the orders given to it are not obeyed after all. thus the secularist who is not a fool is forced to appeal to the child's vital impulse towards perfection, to the divine spark; and no resolution not to call this impulse an impulse of loyalty to the fellowship of the holy ghost, or obedience to the will of god, or any other standard theological term, can alter the fact that the secularist has stepped outside secularism and is educating the child religiously, even if he insists on repudiating that pious adverb and substituting the word metaphysically. natural selection as a religion we must make up our minds to it therefore that whatever measures we may be forced to take to prevent the recruiting sergeants of the churches, free or established, from obtaining an exclusive right of entry to schools, we shall not be able to exclude religion from them. the most horrible of all religions: that which teaches us to regard ourselves as the helpless prey of a series of senseless accidents called natural selection, is allowed and even welcomed in so-called secular schools because it is, in a sense, the negation of all religion; but for school purposes a religion is a belief which affects conduct; and no belief affects conduct more radically and often so disastrously as the belief that the universe is a product of natural selection. what is more, the theory of natural selection cannot be kept out of schools, because many of the natural facts that present the most plausible appearance of design can be accounted for by natural selection; and it would be so absurd to keep a child in delusive ignorance of so potent a factor in evolution as to keep it in ignorance of radiation or capillary attraction. even if you make a religion of natural selection, and teach the child to regard itself as the irresponsible prey of its circumstances and appetites (or its heredity as you will perhaps call them), you will none the less find that its appetites are stimulated by your encouragement and daunted by your discouragement; that one of its appetites is an appetite for perfection; that if you discourage this appetite and encourage the cruder acquisitive appetites the child will steal and lie and be a nuisance to you; and that if you encourage its appetite for perfection and teach it to attach a peculiar sacredness to it and place it before the other appetites, it will be a much nicer child and you will have a much easier job, at which point you will, in spite of your pseudoscientific jargon, find yourself back in the old-fashioned religious teaching as deep as dr. watts and in fact fathoms deeper. moral instruction leagues and now the voices of our moral instruction leagues will be lifted, asking whether there is any reason why the appetite for perfection should not be cultivated in rationally scientific terms instead of being associated with the story of jonah and the great fish and the thousand other tales that grow up round religions. yes: there are many reasons; and one of them is that children all like the story of jonah and the whale (they insist on its being a whale in spite of demonstrations by bible smashers without any sense of humor that jonah would not have fitted into a whale's gullet--as if the story would be credible of a whale with an enlarged throat) and that no child on earth can stand moral instruction books or catechisms or any other statement of the case for religion in abstract terms. the object of a moral instruction book is not to be rational, scientific, exact, proof against controversy, nor even credible: its object is to make children good; and if it makes them sick instead its place is the waste-paper basket. take for an illustration the story of elisha and the bears. to the authors of the moral instruction books it is in the last degree reprehensible. it is obviously not true as a record of fact; and the picture it gives us of the temper of god (which is what interests an adult reader) is shocking and blasphemous. but it is a capital story for a child. it interests a child because it is about bears; and it leaves the child with an impression that children who poke fun at old gentlemen and make rude remarks about bald heads are not nice children, which is a highly desirable impression, and just as much as a child is capable of receiving from the story. when a story is about god and a child, children take god for granted and criticize the child. adults do the opposite, and are thereby led to talk great nonsense about the bad effect of bible stories on infants. but let no one think that a child or anyone else can learn religion from a teacher or a book or by any academic process whatever. it is only by an unfettered access to the whole body of fine art: that is, to the whole body of inspired revelation, that we can build up that conception of divinity to which all virtue is an aspiration. and to hope to find this body of art purified from all that is obsolete or dangerous or fierce or lusty, or to pick and choose what will be good for any particular child, much less for all children, is the shallowest of vanities. such schoolmasterly selection is neither possible nor desirable. ignorance of evil is not virtue but imbecility: admiring it is like giving a prize for honesty to a man who has not stolen your watch because he did not know you had one. virtue chooses good from evil; and without knowledge there can be no choice. and even this is a dangerous simplification of what actually occurs. we are not choosing: we are growing. were you to cut all of what you call the evil out of a child, it would drop dead. if you try to stretch it to full human stature when it is ten years old, you will simply pull it into two pieces and be hanged. and when you try to do this morally, which is what parents and schoolmasters are doing every day, you ought to be hanged; and some day, when we take a sensible view of the matter, you will be; and serve you right. the child does not stand between a good and a bad angel: what it has to deal with is a middling angel who, in normal healthy cases, wants to be a good angel as fast as it can without killing itself in the process, which is a dangerous one. therefore there is no question of providing the child with a carefully regulated access to good art. there is no good art, any more than there is good anything else in the absolute sense. art that is too good for the child will either teach it nothing or drive it mad, as the bible has driven many people mad who might have kept their sanity had they been allowed to read much lower forms of literature. the practical moral is that we must read whatever stories, see whatever pictures, hear whatever songs and symphonies, go to whatever plays we like. we shall not like those which have nothing to say to us; and though everyone has a right to bias our choice, no one has a right to deprive us of it by keeping us from any work of art or any work of art from us. i may now say without danger of being misunderstood that the popular english compromise called cowper templeism (unsectarian bible education) is not so silly as it looks. it is true that the bible inculcates half a dozen religions: some of them barbarous; some cynical and pessimistic; some amoristic and romantic; some sceptical and challenging; some kindly, simple, and intuitional; some sophistical and intellectual; none suited to the character and conditions of western civilization unless it be the christianity which was finally suppressed by the crucifixion, and has never been put into practice by any state before or since. but the bible contains the ancient literature of a very remarkable oriental race; and the imposition of this literature, on whatever false pretences, on our children left them more literate than if they knew no literature at all, which was the practical alternative. and as our authorized version is a great work of art as well, to know it was better than knowing no art, which also was the practical alternative. it is at least not a school book; and it is not a bad story book, horrible as some of the stories are. therefore as between the bible and the blank represented by secular education, the choice is with the bible. the bible but the bible is not sufficient. the real bible of modern europe is the whole body of great literature in which the inspiration and revelation of hebrew scripture has been continued to the present day. nietzsche's thus spake zoroaster is less comforting to the ill and unhappy than the psalms; but it is much truer, subtler, and more edifying. the pleasure we get from the rhetoric of the book of job and its tragic picture of a bewildered soul cannot disguise the ignoble irrelevance of the retort of god with which it closes, or supply the need of such modern revelations as shelley's prometheus or the niblung's ring of richard wagner. there is nothing in the bible greater in inspiration than beethoven's ninth symphony; and the power of modern music to convey that inspiration to a modern man is far greater than that of elizabethan english, which is, except for people steeped in the bible from childhood like sir walter scott and ruskin, a dead language. besides, many who have no ear for literature or for music are accessible to architecture, to pictures, to statues, to dresses, and to the arts of the stage. every device of art should be brought to bear on the young; so that they may discover some form of it that delights them naturally; for there will come to all of them that period between dawning adolescence and full maturity when the pleasures and emotions of art will have to satisfy cravings which, if starved or insulted, may become morbid and seek disgraceful satisfactions, and, if prematurely gratified otherwise than poetically, may destroy the stamina of the race. and it must be borne in mind that the most dangerous art for this necessary purpose is the art that presents itself as religious ecstasy. young people are ripe for love long before they are ripe for religion. only a very foolish person would substitute the imitation of christ for treasure island as a present for a boy or girl, or for byron's don juan as a present for a swain or lass. pickwick is the safest saint for us in our nonage. flaubert's temptation of st anthony is an excellent book for a man of fifty, perhaps the best within reach as a healthy study of visionary ecstasy; but for the purposes of a boy of fifteen ivanhoe and the templar make a much better saint and devil. and the boy of fifteen will find this out for himself if he is allowed to wander in a well-stocked literary garden, and hear bands and see pictures and spend his pennies on cinematograph shows. his choice may often be rather disgusting to his elders when they want him to choose the best before he is ready for it. the greatest protestant manifesto ever written, as far as i know, is houston chamberlain's foundations of the nineteenth century: everybody capable of it should read it. probably the history of maria monk is at the opposite extreme of merit (this is a guess: i have never read it); but it is certain that a boy let loose in a library would go for maria monk and have no use whatever for mr chamberlain. i should probably have read maria monk myself if i had not had the arabian nights and their like to occupy me better. in art, children, like adults, will find their level if they are left free to find it, and not restricted to what adults think good for them. just at present our young people are going mad over ragtimes, apparently because syncopated rhythms are new to them. if they had learnt what can be done with syncopation from beethoven's third leonora overture, they would enjoy the ragtimes all the more; but they would put them in their proper place as amusing vulgarities. artist idolatry but there are more dangerous influences than ragtimes waiting for people brought up in ignorance of fine art. nothing is more pitiably ridiculous than the wild worship of artists by those who have never been seasoned in youth to the enchantments of art. tenors and prima donnas, pianists and violinists, actors and actresses enjoy powers of seduction which in the middle ages would have exposed them to the risk of being burnt for sorcery. but as they exercise this power by singing, playing, and acting, no great harm is done except perhaps to themselves. far graver are the powers enjoyed by brilliant persons who are also connoisseurs in art. the influence they can exercise on young people who have been brought up in the darkness and wretchedness of a home without art, and in whom a natural bent towards art has always been baffled and snubbed, is incredible to those who have not witnessed and understood it. he (or she) who reveals the world of art to them opens heaven to them. they become satellites, disciples, worshippers of the apostle. now the apostle may be a voluptuary without much conscience. nature may have given him enough virtue to suffice in a reasonable environment. but this allowance may not be enough to defend him against the temptation and demoralization of finding himself a little god on the strength of what ought to be a quite ordinary culture. he may find adorers in all directions in our uncultivated society among people of stronger character than himself, not one of whom, if they had been artistically educated, would have had anything to learn from him or regarded him as in any way extraordinary apart from his actual achievements as an artist. tartuffe is not always a priest. indeed he is not always a rascal: he is often a weak man absurdly credited with omniscience and perfection, and taking unfair advantages only because they are offered to him and he is too weak to refuse. give everyone his culture, and no one will offer him more than his due. in thus delivering our children from the idolatry of the artist, we shall not destroy for them the enchantment of art: on the contrary, we shall teach them to demand art everywhere as a condition attainable by cultivating the body, mind, and heart. art, said morris, is the expression of pleasure in work. and certainly, when work is made detestable by slavery, there is no art. it is only when learning is made a slavery by tyrannical teachers that art becomes loathsome to the pupil. "the machine" when we set to work at a constitution to secure freedom for children, we had better bear in mind that the children may not be at all obliged to us for our pains. rousseau said that men are born free; and this saying, in its proper bearings, was and is a great and true saying; yet let it not lead us into the error of supposing that all men long for freedom and embrace it when it is offered to them. on the contrary, it has to be forced on them; and even then they will give it the slip if it is not religiously inculcated and strongly safeguarded. besides, men are born docile, and must in the nature of things remain so with regard to everything they do not understand. now political science and the art of government are among the things they do not understand, and indeed are not at present allowed to understand. they can be enslaved by a system, as we are at present, because it happens to be there, and nobody understands it. an intelligently worked capitalist system, as comte saw, would give us all that most of us are intelligent enough to want. what makes it produce such unspeakably vile results is that it is an automatic system which is as little understood by those who profit by it in money as by those who are starved and degraded by it: our millionaires and statesmen are manifestly no more "captains of industry" or scientific politicians than our bookmakers are mathematicians. for some time past a significant word has been coming into use as a substitute for destiny, fate, and providence. it is "the machine": the machine that has no god in it. why do governments do nothing in spite of reports of royal commissions that establish the most frightful urgency? why do our philanthropic millionaires do nothing, though they are ready to throw bucketfuls of gold into the streets? the machine will not let them. always the machine. in short, they dont know how. they try to reform society as an old lady might try to restore a broken down locomotive by prodding it with a knitting needle. and this is not at all because they are born fools, but because they have been educated, not into manhood and freedom, but into blindness and slavery by their parents and schoolmasters, themselves the victims of a similar misdirection, and consequently of the machine. they do not want liberty. they have not been educated to want it. they choose slavery and inequality; and all the other evils are automatically added to them. and yet we must have the machine. it is only in unskilled hands under ignorant direction that machinery is dangerous. we can no more govern modern communities without political machinery than we can feed and clothe them without industrial machinery. shatter the machine, and you get anarchy. and yet the machine works so detestably at present that we have people who advocate anarchy and call themselves anarchists. the provocation to anarchism what is valid in anarchism is that all governments try to simplify their task by destroying liberty and glorifying authority in general and their own deeds in particular. but the difficulty in combining law and order with free institutions is not a natural one. it is a matter of inculcation. if people are brought up to be slaves, it is useless and dangerous to let them loose at the age of twenty-one and say "now you are free." no one with the tamed soul and broken spirit of a slave can be free. it is like saying to a laborer brought up on a family income of thirteen shillings a week, "here is one hundred thousand pounds: now you are wealthy." nothing can make such a man really wealthy. freedom and wealth are difficult and responsible conditions to which men must be accustomed and socially trained from birth. a nation that is free at twenty-one is not free at all; just as a man first enriched at fifty remains poor all his life, even if he does not curtail it by drinking himself to death in the first wild ecstasy of being able to swallow as much as he likes for the first time. you cannot govern men brought up as slaves otherwise than as slaves are governed. you may pile bills of right and habeas corpus acts on great charters; promulgate american constitutions; burn the chateaux and guillotine the seigneurs; chop off the heads of kings and queens and set up democracy on the ruins of feudalism: the end of it all for us is that already in the twentieth century there has been as much brute coercion and savage intolerance, as much flogging and hanging, as much impudent injustice on the bench and lustful rancor in the pulpit, as much naive resort to torture, persecution, and suppression of free speech and freedom of the press, as much war, as much of the vilest excess of mutilation, rapine, and delirious indiscriminate slaughter of helpless non-combatants, old and young, as much prostitution of professional talent, literary and political, in defence of manifest wrong, as much cowardly sycophancy giving fine names to all this villainy or pretending that it is "greatly exaggerated," as we can find any record of from the days when the advocacy of liberty was a capital offence and democracy was hardly thinkable. democracy exhibits the vanity of louis xiv, the savagery of peter of russia, the nepotism and provinciality of napoleon, the fickleness of catherine ii: in short, all the childishnesses of all the despots without any of the qualities that enabled the greatest of them to fascinate and dominate their contemporaries. and the flatterers of democracy are as impudently servile to the successful, and insolent to common honest folk, as the flatterers of the monarchs. democracy in america has led to the withdrawal of ordinary refined persons from politics; and the same result is coming in england as fast as we make democracy as democratic as it is in america. this is true also of popular religion: it is so horribly irreligious that nobody with the smallest pretence to culture, or the least inkling of what the great prophets vainly tried to make the world understand, will have anything to do with it except for purely secular reasons. imagination before we can clearly understand how baleful is this condition of intimidation in which we live, it is necessary to clear up the confusion made by our use of the word imagination to denote two very different powers of mind. one is the power to imagine things as they are not: this i call the romantic imagination. the other is the power to imagine things as they are without actually sensing them; and this i will call the realistic imagination. take for example marriage and war. one man has a vision of perpetual bliss with a domestic angel at home, and of flashing sabres, thundering guns, victorious cavalry charges, and routed enemies in the field. that is romantic imagination; and the mischief it does is incalculable. it begins in silly and selfish expectations of the impossible, and ends in spiteful disappointment, sour grievance, cynicism, and misanthropic resistance to any attempt to better a hopeless world. the wise man knows that imagination is not only a means of pleasing himself and beguiling tedious hours with romances and fairy tales and fools' paradises (a quite defensible and delightful amusement when you know exactly what you are doing and where fancy ends and facts begin), but also a means of foreseeing and being prepared for realities as yet unexperienced, and of testing the possibility and desirability of serious utopias. he does not expect his wife to be an angel; nor does he overlook the facts that war depends on the rousing of all the murderous blackguardism still latent in mankind; that every victory means a defeat; that fatigue, hunger, terror, and disease are the raw material which romancers work up into military glory; and that soldiers for the most part go to war as children go to school, because they are afraid not to. they are afraid even to say they are afraid, as such candor is punishable by death in the military code. a very little realistic imagination gives an ambitious person enormous power over the multitudinous victims of the romantic imagination. for the romancer not only pleases himself with fictitious glories: he also terrifies himself with imaginary dangers. he does not even picture what these dangers are: he conceives the unknown as always dangerous. when you say to a realist "you must do this" or "you must not do that," he instantly asks what will happen to him if he does (or does not, as the case may be). failing an unromantic convincing answer, he does just as he pleases unless he can find for himself a real reason for refraining. in short, though you can intimidate him, you cannot bluff him. but you can always bluff the romantic person: indeed his grasp of real considerations is so feeble that you find it necessary to bluff him even when you have solid considerations to offer him instead. the campaigns of napoleon, with their atmosphere of glory, illustrate this. in the russian campaign napoleon's marshals achieved miracles of bluff, especially ney, who, with a handful of men, monstrously outnumbered, repeatedly kept the russian troops paralyzed with terror by pure bounce. napoleon himself, much more a realist than ney (that was why he dominated him), would probably have surrendered; for sometimes the bravest of the brave will achieve successes never attempted by the cleverest of the clever. wellington was a completer realist than napoleon. it was impossible to persuade wellington that he was beaten until he actually was beaten. he was unbluffable; and if napoleon had understood the nature of wellington's strength instead of returning wellington's snobbish contempt for him by an academic contempt for wellington, he would not have left the attack at waterloo to ney and d'erlon, who, on that field, did not know when they were beaten, whereas wellington knew precisely when he was not beaten. the unbluffable would have triumphed anyhow, probably, because napoleon was an academic soldier, doing the academic thing (the attack in columns and so forth) with superlative ability and energy; whilst wellington was an original soldier who, instead of outdoing the terrible academic columns with still more terrible and academic columns, outwitted them with the thin red line, not of heroes, but, as this uncompromising realist never hesitated to testify, of the scum of the earth. government by bullies these picturesque martial incidents are being reproduced every day in our ordinary life. we are bluffed by hardy simpletons and headstrong bounders as the russians were bluffed by ney; and our wellingtons are threadbound by slave-democracy as gulliver was threadbound by the lilliputians. we are a mass of people living in a submissive routine to which we have been drilled from our childhood. when you ask us to take the simplest step outside that routine, we say shyly, "oh, i really couldnt," or "oh, i shouldnt like to," without being able to point out the smallest harm that could possibly ensue: victims, not of a rational fear of real dangers, but of pure abstract fear, the quintessence of cowardice, the very negation of "the fear of god." dotted about among us are a few spirits relatively free from this inculcated paralysis, sometimes because they are half-witted, sometimes because they are unscrupulously selfish, sometimes because they are realists as to money and unimaginative as to other things, sometimes even because they are exceptionally able, but always because they are not afraid of shadows nor oppressed with nightmares. and we see these few rising as if by magic into power and affluence, and forming, with the millionaires who have accidentally gained huge riches by the occasional windfalls of our commerce, the governing class. now nothing is more disastrous than a governing class that does not know how to govern. and how can this rabble of the casual products of luck, cunning, and folly, be expected to know how to govern? the merely lucky ones and the hereditary ones do not owe their position to their qualifications at all. as to the rest, the realism which seems their essential qualification often consists not only in a lack of romantic imagination, which lack is a merit, but of the realistic, constructive, utopian imagination, which lack is a ghastly defect. freedom from imaginative illusion is therefore no guarantee whatever of nobility of character: that is why inculcated submissiveness makes us slaves to people much worse than ourselves, and why it is so important that submissiveness should no longer be inculcated. and yet as long as you have the compulsory school as we know it, we shall have submissiveness inculcated. what is more, until the active hours of child life are organized separately from the active hours of adult life, so that adults can enjoy the society of children in reason without being tormented, disturbed, harried, burdened, and hindered in their work by them as they would be now if there were no compulsory schools and no children hypnotized into the belief that they must tamely go to them and be imprisoned and beaten and over-tasked in them, we shall have schools under one pretext or another; and we shall have all the evil consequences and all the social hopelessness that result from turning a nation of potential freemen and freewomen into a nation of two-legged spoilt spaniels with everything crushed out of their nature except dread of the whip. liberty is the breath of life to nations; and liberty is the one thing that parents, schoolmasters, and rulers spend their lives in extirpating for the sake of an immediately quiet and finally disastrous life. notes on this etext: this text was taken from a printed volume containing the plays "misalliance", "the dark lady of the sonnets", "fanny's first play", and the essay "a treatise on parents and children". notes on the editing: italicized text is delimited with underlines ("_"). punctuation and spelling retained as in the printed text. shaw intentionally spelled many words according to a non-standard system. for example, "don't" is given as "dont" (without apostrophe), "dr." is given as "dr" (without a period at the end), and "shakespeare" is given as "shakespear" (no "e" at the end). the pound (currency) symbol has been replaced by the word "pounds". a double story by george macdonald. new york: a double story i. there was a certain country where things used to go rather oddly. for instance, you could never tell whether it was going to rain or hail, or whether or not the milk was going to turn sour. it was impossible to say whether the next baby would be a boy, or a girl, or even, after he was a week old, whether he would wake sweet-tempered or cross. in strict accordance with the peculiar nature of this country of uncertainties, it came to pass one day, that in the midst of a shower of rain that might well be called golden, seeing the sun, shining as it fell, turned all its drops into molten topazes, and every drop was good for a grain of golden corn, or a yellow cowslip, or a buttercup, or a dandelion at least;--while this splendid rain was falling, i say, with a musical patter upon the great leaves of the horse-chestnuts, which hung like vandyke collars about the necks of the creamy, red-spotted blossoms, and on the leaves of the sycamores, looking as if they had blood in their veins, and on a multitude of flowers, of which some stood up and boldly held out their cups to catch their share, while others cowered down, laughing, under the soft patting blows of the heavy warm drops;--while this lovely rain was washing all the air clean from the motes, and the bad odors, and the poison-seeds that had escaped from their prisons during the long drought;--while it fell, splashing and sparkling, with a hum, and a rush, and a soft clashing--but stop! i am stealing, i find, and not that only, but with clumsy hands spoiling what i steal:-- "o rain! with your dull twofold sound, the clash hard by, and the murmur all round:" --there! take it, mr. coleridge;--while, as i was saying, the lovely little rivers whose fountains are the clouds, and which cut their own channels through the air, and make sweet noises rubbing against their banks as they hurry down and down, until at length they are pulled up on a sudden, with a musical plash, in the very heart of an odorous flower, that first gasps and then sighs up a blissful scent, or on the bald head of a stone that never says, thank you;--while the very sheep felt it blessing them, though it could never reach their skins through the depth of their long wool, and the veriest hedgehog--i mean the one with the longest spikes--came and spiked himself out to impale as many of the drops as he could;--while the rain was thus falling, and the leaves, and the flowers, and the sheep, and the cattle, and the hedgehog, were all busily receiving the golden rain, something happened. it was not a great battle, nor an earthquake, nor a coronation, but something more important than all those put together. a baby-girl was born; and her father was a king; and her mother was a queen; and her uncles and aunts were princes and princesses; and her first-cousins were dukes and duchesses; and not one of her second-cousins was less than a marquis or marchioness, or of their third-cousins less than an earl or countess: and below a countess they did not care to count. so the little girl was somebody; and yet for all that, strange to say, the first thing she did was to cry. i told you it was a strange country. as she grew up, everybody about her did his best to convince her that she was somebody; and the girl herself was so easily persuaded of it that she quite forgot that anybody had ever told her so, and took it for a fundamental, innate, primary, first-born, self-evident, necessary, and incontrovertible idea and principle that she was somebody. and far be it from me to deny it. i will even go so far as to assert that in this odd country there was a huge number of somebodies. indeed, it was one of its oddities that every boy and girl in it, was rather too ready to think he or she was somebody; and the worst of it was that the princess never thought of there being more than one somebody--and that was herself. far away to the north in the same country, on the side of a bleak hill, where a horse-chestnut or a sycamore was never seen, where were no meadows rich with buttercups, only steep, rough, breezy slopes, covered with dry prickly furze and its flowers of red gold, or moister, softer broom with its flowers of yellow gold, and great sweeps of purple heather, mixed with bilberries, and crowberries, and cranberries--no, i am all wrong: there was nothing out yet but a few furze-blossoms; the rest were all waiting behind their doors till they were called; and no full, slow-gliding river with meadow-sweet along its oozy banks, only a little brook here and there, that dashed past without a moment to say, "how do you do?"--there (would you believe it?) while the same cloud that was dropping down golden rain all about the queen's new baby was dashing huge fierce handfuls of hail upon the hills, with such force that they flew spinning off the rocks and stones, went burrowing in the sheep's wool, stung the cheeks and chin of the shepherd with their sharp spiteful little blows, and made his dog wink and whine as they bounded off his hard wise head, and long sagacious nose; only, when they dropped plump down the chimney, and fell hissing in the little fire, they caught it then, for the clever little fire soon sent them up the chimney again, a good deal swollen, and harmless enough for a while, there (what do you think?) among the hailstones, and the heather, and the cold mountain air, another little girl was born, whom the shepherd her father, and the shepherdess her mother, and a good many of her kindred too, thought somebody. she had not an uncle or an aunt that was less than a shepherd or dairymaid, not a cousin, that was less than a farm-laborer, not a second-cousin that was less than a grocer, and they did not count farther. and yet (would you believe it?) she too cried the very first thing. it was an odd country! and, what is still more surprising, the shepherd and shepherdess and the dairymaids and the laborers were not a bit wiser than the king and the queen and the dukes and the marquises and the earls; for they too, one and all, so constantly taught the little woman that she was somebody, that she also forgot that there were a great many more somebodies besides herself in the world. it was, indeed, a peculiar country, very different from ours--so different, that my reader must not be too much surprised when i add the amazing fact, that most of its inhabitants, instead of enjoying the things they had, were always wanting the things they had not, often even the things it was least likely they ever could have. the grown men and women being like this, there is no reason to be further astonished that the princess rosamond--the name her parents gave her because it means rose of the world--should grow up like them, wanting every thing she could and every thing she couldn't have. the things she could have were a great many too many, for her foolish parents always gave her what they could; but still there remained a few things they couldn't give her, for they were only a common king and queen. they could and did give her a lighted candle when she cried for it, and managed by much care that she should not burn her fingers or set her frock on fire; but when she cried for the moon, that they could not give her. they did the worst thing possible, instead, however; for they pretended to do what they could not. they got her a thin disc of brilliantly polished silver, as near the size of the moon as they could agree upon; and, for a time she was delighted. but, unfortunately, one evening she made the discovery that her moon was a little peculiar, inasmuch as she could not shine in the dark. her nurse happened to snuff out the candles as she was playing with it; and instantly came a shriek of rage, for her moon had vanished. presently, through the opening of the curtains, she caught sight of the real moon, far away in the sky, and shining quite calmly, as if she had been there all the time; and her rage increased to such a degree that if it had not passed off in a fit, i do not know what might have come of it. as she grew up it was still the same, with this difference, that not only must she have every thing, but she got tired of every thing almost as soon as she had it. there was an accumulation of things in her nursery and schoolroom and bedroom that was perfectly appalling. her mother's wardrobes were almost useless to her, so packed were they with things of which she never took any notice. when she was five years old, they gave her a splendid gold repeater, so close set with diamonds and rubies, that the back was just one crust of gems. in one of her little tempers, as they called her hideously ugly rages, she dashed it against the back of the chimney, after which it never gave a single tick; and some of the diamonds went to the ash-pit. as she grew older still, she became fond of animals, not in a way that brought them much pleasure, or herself much satisfaction. when angry, she would beat them, and try to pull them to pieces, and as soon as she became a little used to them, would neglect them altogether. then, if they could, they would run away, and she was furious. some white mice, which she had ceased feeding altogether, did so; and soon the palace was swarming with white mice. their red eyes might be seen glowing, and their white skins gleaming, in every dark corner; but when it came to the king's finding a nest of them in his second-best crown, he was angry and ordered them to be drowned. the princess heard of it, however, and raised such a clamor, that there they were left until they should run away of themselves; and the poor king had to wear his best crown every day till then. nothing that was the princess's property, whether she cared for it or not, was to be meddled with. of course, as she grew, she grew worse; for she never tried to grow better. she became more and more peevish and fretful every day--dissatisfied not only with what she had, but with all that was around her, and constantly wishing things in general to be different. she found fault with every thing and everybody, and all that happened, and grew more and more disagreeable to every one who had to do with her. at last, when she had nearly killed her nurse, and had all but succeeded in hanging herself, and was miserable from morning to night, her parents thought it time to do something. a long way from the palace, in the heart of a deep wood of pine-trees, lived a wise woman. in some countries she would have been called a witch; but that would have been a mistake, for she never did any thing wicked, and had more power than any witch could have. as her fame was spread through all the country, the king heard of her; and, thinking she might perhaps be able to suggest something, sent for her. in the dead of the night, lest the princess should know it, the king's messenger brought into the palace a tall woman, muffled from head to foot in a cloak of black cloth. in the presence of both their majesties, the king, to do her honor, requested her to sit; but she declined, and stood waiting to hear what they had to say. nor had she to wait long, for almost instantly they began to tell her the dreadful trouble they were in with their only child; first the king talking, then the queen interposing with some yet more dreadful fact, and at times both letting out a torrent of words together, so anxious were they to show the wise woman that their perplexity was real, and their daughter a very terrible one. for a long while there appeared no sign of approaching pause. but the wise woman stood patiently folded in her black cloak, and listened without word or motion. at length silence fell; for they had talked themselves tired, and could not think of any thing more to add to the list of their child's enormities. after a minute, the wise woman unfolded her arms; and her cloak dropping open in front, disclosed a garment made of a strange stuff, which an old poet who knew her well has thus described:-- "all lilly white, withoutten spot or pride, that seemd like silke and silver woven neare; but neither silke nor silver therein did appeare." "how very badly you have treated her!" said the wise woman. "poor child!" "treated her badly?" gasped the king. "she is a very wicked child," said the queen; and both glared with indignation. "yes, indeed!" returned the wise woman. "she is very naughty indeed, and that she must be made to feel; but it is half your fault too." "what!" stammered the king. "haven't we given her every mortal thing she wanted?" "surely," said the wise woman: "what else could have all but killed her? you should have given her a few things of the other sort. but you are far too dull to understand me." "you are very polite," remarked the king, with royal sarcasm on his thin, straight lips. the wise woman made no answer beyond a deep sigh; and the king and queen sat silent also in their anger, glaring at the wise woman. the silence lasted again for a minute, and then the wise woman folded her cloak around her, and her shining garment vanished like the moon when a great cloud comes over her. yet another minute passed and the silence endured, for the smouldering wrath of the king and queen choked the channels of their speech. then the wise woman turned her back on them, and so stood. at this, the rage of the king broke forth; and he cried to the queen, stammering in his fierceness,-- "how should such an old hag as that teach rosamond good manners? she knows nothing of them herself! look how she stands!--actually with her back to us." at the word the wise woman walked from the room. the great folding doors fell to behind her; and the same moment the king and queen were quarrelling like apes as to which of them was to blame for her departure. before their altercation was over, for it lasted till the early morning, in rushed rosamond, clutching in her hand a poor little white rabbit, of which she was very fond, and from which, only because it would not come to her when she called it, she was pulling handfuls of fur in the attempt to tear the squealing, pink-eared, red-eyed thing to pieces. "rosa, rosamond!" cried the queen; whereupon rosamond threw the rabbit in her mother's face. the king started up in a fury, and ran to seize her. she darted shrieking from the room. the king rushed after her; but, to his amazement, she was nowhere to be seen: the huge hall was empty.--no: just outside the door, close to the threshold, with her back to it, sat the figure of the wise woman, muffled in her dark cloak, with her head bowed over her knees. as the king stood looking at her, she rose slowly, crossed the hall, and walked away down the marble staircase. the king called to her; but she never turned her head, or gave the least sign that she heard him. so quietly did she pass down the wide marble stair, that the king was all but persuaded he had seen only a shadow gliding across the white steps. for the princess, she was nowhere to be found. the queen went into hysterics; and the rabbit ran away. the king sent out messengers in every direction, but in vain. in a short time the palace was quiet--as quiet as it used to be before the princess was born. the king and queen cried a little now and then, for the hearts of parents were in that country strangely fashioned; and yet i am afraid the first movement of those very hearts would have been a jump of terror if the ears above them had heard the voice of rosamond in one of the corridors. as for the rest of the household, they could not have made up a single tear amongst them. they thought, whatever it might be for the princess, it was, for every one else, the best thing that could have happened; and as to what had become of her, if their heads were puzzled, their hearts took no interest in the question. the lord-chancellor alone had an idea about it, but he was far too wise to utter it. ii. the fact, as is plain, was, that the princess had disappeared in the folds of the wise woman's cloak. when she rushed from the room, the wise woman caught her to her bosom and flung the black garment around her. the princess struggled wildly, for she was in fierce terror, and screamed as loud as choking fright would permit her; but her father, standing in the door, and looking down upon the wise woman, saw never a movement of the cloak, so tight was she held by her captor. he was indeed aware of a most angry crying, which reminded him of his daughter; but it sounded to him so far away, that he took it for the passion of some child in the street, outside the palace-gates. hence, unchallenged, the wise woman carried the princess down the marble stairs, out at the palace-door, down a great flight of steps outside, across a paved court, through the brazen gates, along half-roused streets where people were opening their shops, through the huge gates of the city, and out into the wide road, vanishing northwards; the princess struggling and screaming all the time, and the wise woman holding her tight. when at length she was too tired to struggle or scream any more, the wise woman unfolded her cloak, and set her down; and the princess saw the light and opened her swollen eyelids. there was nothing in sight that she had ever seen before. city and palace had disappeared. they were upon a wide road going straight on, with a ditch on each side of it, that behind them widened into the great moat surrounding the city. she cast up a terrified look into the wise woman's face, that gazed down upon her gravely and kindly. now the princess did not in the least understand kindness. she always took it for a sign either of partiality or fear. so when the wise woman looked kindly upon her, she rushed at her, butting with her head like a ram: but the folds of the cloak had closed around the wise woman; and, when the princess ran against it, she found it hard as the cloak of a bronze statue, and fell back upon the road with a great bruise on her head. the wise woman lifted her again, and put her once more under the cloak, where she fell asleep, and where she awoke again only to find that she was still being carried on and on. when at length the wise woman again stopped and set her down, she saw around her a bright moonlit night, on a wide heath, solitary and houseless. here she felt more frightened than before; nor was her terror assuaged when, looking up, she saw a stern, immovable countenance, with cold eyes fixedly regarding her. all she knew of the world being derived from nursery-tales, she concluded that the wise woman was an ogress, carrying her home to eat her. i have already said that the princess was, at this time of her life, such a low-minded creature, that severity had greater influence over her than kindness. she understood terror better far than tenderness. when the wise woman looked at her thus, she fell on her knees, and held up her hands to her, crying,-- "oh, don't eat me! don't eat me!" now this being the best she could do, it was a sign she was a low creature. think of it--to kick at kindness, and kneel from terror. but the sternness on the face of the wise woman came from the same heart and the same feeling as the kindness that had shone from it before. the only thing that could save the princess from her hatefulness, was that she should be made to mind somebody else than her own miserable somebody. without saying a word, the wise woman reached down her hand, took one of rosamond's, and, lifting her to her feet, led her along through the moonlight. every now and then a gush of obstinacy would well up in the heart of the princess, and she would give a great ill-tempered tug, and pull her hand away; but then the wise woman would gaze down upon her with such a look, that she instantly sought again the hand she had rejected, in pure terror lest she should be eaten upon the spot. and so they would walk on again; and when the wind blew the folds of the cloak against the princess, she found them soft as her mother's camel-hair shawl. after a little while the wise woman began to sing to her, and the princess could not help listening; for the soft wind amongst the low dry bushes of the heath, the rustle of their own steps, and the trailing of the wise woman's cloak, were the only sounds beside. and this is the song she sang:-- out in the cold, with a thin-worn fold of withered gold around her rolled, hangs in the air the weary moon. she is old, old, old; and her bones all cold, and her tales all told, and her things all sold, and she has no breath to croon. like a castaway clout, she is quite shut out! she might call and shout, but no one about would ever call back, "who's there?" there is never a hut, not a door to shut, not a footpath or rut, long road or short cut, leading to anywhere! she is all alone like a dog-picked bone, the poor old crone! she fain would groan, but she cannot find the breath. she once had a fire; but she built it no higher, and only sat nigher till she saw it expire; and now she is cold as death. she never will smile all the lonesome while. oh the mile after mile, and never a stile! and never a tree or a stone! she has not a tear: afar and anear it is all so drear, but she does not care, her heart is as dry as a bone. none to come near her! no one to cheer her! no one to jeer her! no one to hear her! not a thing to lift and hold! she is always awake, but her heart will not break: she can only quake, shiver, and shake: the old woman is very cold. as strange as the song, was the crooning wailing tune that the wise woman sung. at the first note almost, you would have thought she wanted to frighten the princess; and so indeed she did. for when people will be naughty, they have to be frightened, and they are not expected to like it. the princess grew angry, pulled her hand away, and cried,-- "you are the ugly old woman. i hate you!" therewith she stood still, expecting the wise woman to stop also, perhaps coax her to go on: if she did, she was determined not to move a step. but the wise woman never even looked about: she kept walking on steadily, the same pace as before. little obstinate thought for certain she would turn; for she regarded herself as much too precious to be left behind. but on and on the wise woman went, until she had vanished away in the dim moonlight. then all at once the princess perceived that she was left alone with the moon, looking down on her from the height of her loneliness. she was horribly frightened, and began to run after the wise woman, calling aloud. but the song she had just heard came back to the sound of her own running feet,-- all all alone, like a dog-picked bone! and again,-- she might call and shout, and no one about would ever call back, "who's there?" and she screamed as she ran. how she wished she knew the old woman's name, that she might call it after her through the moonlight! but the wise woman had, in truth, heard the first sound of her running feet, and stopped and turned, waiting. what with running and crying, however, and a fall or two as she ran, the princess never saw her until she fell right into her arms--and the same moment into a fresh rage; for as soon as any trouble was over the princess was always ready to begin another. the wise woman therefore pushed her away, and walked on; while the princess ran scolding and storming after her. she had to run till, from very fatigue, her rudeness ceased. her heart gave way; she burst into tears, and ran on silently weeping. a minute more and the wise woman stooped, and lifting her in her arms, folded her cloak around her. instantly she fell asleep, and slept as soft and as soundly as if she had been in her own bed. she slept till the moon went down; she slept till the sun rose up; she slept till he climbed the topmost sky; she slept till he went down again, and the poor old moon came peaking and peering out once more: and all that time the wise woman went walking on and on very fast. and now they had reached a spot where a few fir-trees came to meet them through the moonlight. at the same time the princess awaked, and popping her head out between the folds of the wise woman's cloak--a very ugly little owlet she looked--saw that they were entering the wood. now there is something awful about every wood, especially in the moonlight; and perhaps a fir-wood is more awful than other woods. for one thing, it lets a little more light through, rendering the darkness a little more visible, as it were; and then the trees go stretching away up towards the moon, and look as if they cared nothing about the creatures below them--not like the broad trees with soft wide leaves that, in the darkness even, look sheltering. so the princess is not to be blamed that she was very much frightened. she is hardly to be blamed either that, assured the wise woman was an ogress carrying her to her castle to eat her up, she began again to kick and scream violently, as those of my readers who are of the same sort as herself will consider the right and natural thing to do. the wrong in her was this--that she had led such a bad life, that she did not know a good woman when she saw her; took her for one like herself, even after she had slept in her arms. immediately the wise woman set her down, and, walking on, within a few paces vanished among the trees. then the cries of the princess rent the air, but the fir-trees never heeded her; not one of their hard little needles gave a single shiver for all the noise she made. but there were creatures in the forest who were soon quite as much interested in her cries as the fir-trees were indifferent to them. they began to hearken and howl and snuff about, and run hither and thither, and grin with their white teeth, and light up the green lamps in their eyes. in a minute or two a whole army of wolves and hyenas were rushing from all quarters through the pillar like stems of the fir-trees, to the place where she stood calling them, without knowing it. the noise she made herself, however, prevented her from hearing either their howls or the soft pattering of their many trampling feet as they bounded over the fallen fir needles and cones. one huge old wolf had outsped the rest--not that he could run faster, but that from experience he could more exactly judge whence the cries came, and as he shot through the wood, she caught sight at last of his lamping eyes coming swiftly nearer and nearer. terror silenced her. she stood with her mouth open, as if she were going to eat the wolf, but she had no breath to scream with, and her tongue curled up in her mouth like a withered and frozen leaf. she could do nothing but stare at the coming monster. and now he was taking a few shorter bounds, measuring the distance for the one final leap that should bring him upon her, when out stepped the wise woman from behind the very tree by which she had set the princess down, caught the wolf by the throat half-way in his last spring, shook him once, and threw him from her dead. then she turned towards the princess, who flung herself into her arms, and was instantly lapped in the folds of her cloak. but now the huge army of wolves and hyenas had rushed like a sea around them, whose waves leaped with hoarse roar and hollow yell up against the wise woman. but she, like a strong stately vessel, moved unhurt through the midst of them. ever as they leaped against her cloak, they dropped and slunk away back through the crowd. others ever succeeded, and ever in their turn fell, and drew back confounded. for some time she walked on attended and assailed on all sides by the howling pack. suddenly they turned and swept away, vanishing in the depths of the forest. she neither slackened nor hastened her step, but went walking on as before. in a little while she unfolded her cloak, and let the princess look out. the firs had ceased; and they were on a lofty height of moorland, stony and bare and dry, with tufts of heather and a few small plants here and there. about the heath, on every side, lay the forest, looking in the moonlight like a cloud; and above the forest, like the shaven crown of a monk, rose the bare moor over which they were walking. presently, a little way in front of them, the princess espied a whitewashed cottage, gleaming in the moon. as they came nearer, she saw that the roof was covered with thatch, over which the moss had grown green. it was a very simple, humble place, not in the least terrible to look at, and yet, as soon as she saw it, her fear again awoke, and always, as soon as her fear awoke, the trust of the princess fell into a dead sleep. foolish and useless as she might by this time have known it, she once more began kicking and screaming, whereupon, yet once more, the wise woman set her down on the heath, a few yards from the back of the cottage, and saying only, "no one ever gets into my house who does not knock at the door, and ask to come in," disappeared round the corner of the cottage, leaving the princess alone with the moon--two white faces in the cone of the night. iii. the moon stared at the princess, and the princess stared at the moon; but the moon had the best of it, and the princess began to cry. and now the question was between the moon and the cottage. the princess thought she knew the worst of the moon, and she knew nothing at all about the cottage, therefore she would stay with the moon. strange, was it not, that she should have been so long with the wise woman, and yet know nothing about that cottage? as for the moon, she did not by any means know the worst of her, or even, that, if she were to fall asleep where she could find her, the old witch would certainly do her best to twist her face. but she had scarcely sat a moment longer before she was assailed by all sorts of fresh fears. first of all, the soft wind blowing gently through the dry stalks of the heather and its thousands of little bells raised a sweet rustling, which the princess took for the hissing of serpents, for you know she had been naughty for so long that she could not in a great many things tell the good from the bad. then nobody could deny that there, all round about the heath, like a ring of darkness, lay the gloomy fir-wood, and the princess knew what it was full of, and every now and then she thought she heard the howling of its wolves and hyenas. and who could tell but some of them might break from their covert and sweep like a shadow across the heath? indeed, it was not once nor twice that for a moment she was fully persuaded she saw a great beast coming leaping and bounding through the moonlight to have her all to himself. she did not know that not a single evil creature dared set foot on that heath, or that, if one should do so, it would that instant wither up and cease. if an army of them had rushed to invade it, it would have melted away on the edge of it, and ceased like a dying wave.--she even imagined that the moon was slowly coming nearer and nearer down the sky to take her and freeze her to death in her arms. the wise woman, too, she felt sure, although her cottage looked asleep, was watching her at some little window. in this, however, she would have been quite right, if she had only imagined enough--namely, that the wise woman was watching over her from the little window. but after all, somehow, the thought of the wise woman was less frightful than that of any of her other terrors, and at length she began to wonder whether it might not turn out that she was no ogress, but only a rude, ill-bred, tyrannical, yet on the whole not altogether ill-meaning person. hardly had the possibility arisen in her mind, before she was on her feet: if the woman was any thing short of an ogress, her cottage must be better than that horrible loneliness, with nothing in all the world but a stare; and even an ogress had at least the shape and look of a human being. she darted round the end of the cottage to find the front. but, to her surprise, she came only to another back, for no door was to be seen. she tried the farther end, but still no door. she must have passed it as she ran--but no--neither in gable nor in side was any to be found. a cottage without a door!--she rushed at it in a rage and kicked at the wall with her feet. but the wall was hard as iron, and hurt her sadly through her gay silken slippers. she threw herself on the heath, which came up to the walls of the cottage on every side, and roared and screamed with rage. suddenly, however, she remembered how her screaming had brought the horde of wolves and hyenas about her in the forest, and, ceasing at once, lay still, gazing yet again at the moon. and then came the thought of her parents in the palace at home. in her mind's eye she saw her mother sitting at her embroidery with the tears dropping upon it, and her father staring into the fire as if he were looking for her in its glowing caverns. it is true that if they had both been in tears by her side because of her naughtiness, she would not have cared a straw; but now her own forlorn condition somehow helped her to understand their grief at having lost her, and not only a great longing to be back in her comfortable home, but a feeble flutter of genuine love for her parents awoke in her heart as well, and she burst into real tears--soft, mournful tears--very different from those of rage and disappointment to which she was so much used. and another very remarkable thing was that the moment she began to love her father and mother, she began to wish to see the wise woman again. the idea of her being an ogress vanished utterly, and she thought of her only as one to take her in from the moon, and the loneliness, and the terrors of the forest-haunted heath, and hide her in a cottage with not even a door for the horrid wolves to howl against. but the old woman--as the princess called her, not knowing that her real name was the wise woman--had told her that she must knock at the door: how was she to do that when there was no door? but again she bethought herself--that, if she could not do all she was told, she could, at least, do a part of it: if she could not knock at the door, she could at least knock--say on the wall, for there was nothing else to knock upon--and perhaps the old woman would hear her, and lift her in by some window. thereupon, she rose at once to her feet, and picking up a stone, began to knock on the wall with it. a loud noise was the result, and she found she was knocking on the very door itself. for a moment she feared the old woman would be offended, but the next, there came a voice, saying, "who is there?" the princess answered, "please, old woman, i did not mean to knock so loud." to this there came no reply. then the princess knocked again, this time with her knuckles, and the voice came again, saying, "who is there?" and the princess answered, "rosamond." then a second time there was silence. but the princess soon ventured to knock a third time. "what do you want?" said the voice. "oh, please, let me in!" said the princess. "the moon will keep staring at me; and i hear the wolves in the wood." then the door opened, and the princess entered. she looked all around, but saw nothing of the wise woman. it was a single bare little room, with a white deal table, and a few old wooden chairs, a fire of fir-wood on the hearth, the smoke of which smelt sweet, and a patch of thick-growing heath in one corner. poor as it was, compared to the grand place rosamond had left, she felt no little satisfaction as she shut the door, and looked around her. and what with the sufferings and terrors she had left outside, the new kind of tears she had shed, the love she had begun to feel for her parents, and the trust she had begun to place in the wise woman, it seemed to her as if her soul had grown larger of a sudden, and she had left the days of her childishness and naughtiness far behind her. people are so ready to think themselves changed when it is only their mood that is changed! those who are good-tempered because it is a fine day, will be ill-tempered when it rains: their selves are just the same both days; only in the one case, the fine weather has got into them, in the other the rainy. rosamond, as she sat warming herself by the glow of the peat-fire, turning over in her mind all that had passed, and feeling how pleasant the change in her feelings was, began by degrees to think how very good she had grown, and how very good she was to have grown good, and how extremely good she must always have been that she was able to grow so very good as she now felt she had grown; and she became so absorbed in her self-admiration as never to notice either that the fire was dying, or that a heap of fir-cones lay in a corner near it. suddenly, a great wind came roaring down the chimney, and scattered the ashes about the floor; a tremendous rain followed, and fell hissing on the embers; the moon was swallowed up, and there was darkness all about her. then a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder, so terrified the princess, that she cried aloud for the old woman, but there came no answer to her cry. then in her terror the princess grew angry, and saying to herself, "she must be somewhere in the place, else who was there to open the door to me?" began to shout and yell, and call the wise woman all the bad names she had been in the habit of throwing at her nurses. but there came not a single sound in reply. strange to say, the princess never thought of telling herself now how naughty she was, though that would surely have been reasonable. on the contrary, she thought she had a perfect right to be angry, for was she not most desperately ill used--and a princess too? but the wind howled on, and the rain kept pouring down the chimney, and every now and then the lightning burst out, and the thunder rushed after it, as if the great lumbering sound could ever think to catch up with the swift light! at length the princess had again grown so angry, frightened, and miserable, all together, that she jumped up and hurried about the cottage with outstretched arms, trying to find the wise woman. but being in a bad temper always makes people stupid, and presently she struck her forehead such a blow against something--she thought herself it felt like the old woman's cloak--that she fell back--not on the floor, though, but on the patch of heather, which felt as soft and pleasant as any bed in the palace. there, worn out with weeping and rage, she soon fell fast asleep. she dreamed that she was the old cold woman up in the sky, with no home and no friends, and no nothing at all, not even a pocket; wandering, wandering forever, over a desert of blue sand, never to get to anywhere, and never to lie down or die. it was no use stopping to look about her, for what had she to do but forever look about her as she went on and on and on--never seeing any thing, and never expecting to see any thing! the only shadow of a hope she had was, that she might by slow degrees grow thinner and thinner, until at last she wore away to nothing at all; only alas! she could not detect the least sign that she had yet begun to grow thinner. the hopelessness grew at length so unendurable that she woke with a start. seeing the face of the wise woman bending over her, she threw her arms around her neck and held up her mouth to be kissed. and the kiss of the wise woman was like the rose-gardens of damascus. iv. the wise woman lifted her tenderly, and washed and dressed her far more carefully than even her nurse. then she set her down by the fire, and prepared her breakfast. the princess was very hungry, and the bread and milk as good as it could be, so that she thought she had never in her life eaten any thing nicer. nevertheless, as soon as she began to have enough, she said to herself,-- "ha! i see how it is! the old woman wants to fatten me! that is why she gives me such nice creamy milk. she doesn't kill me now because she's going to kill me then! she is an ogress, after all!" thereupon she laid down her spoon, and would not eat another mouthful--only followed the basin with longing looks, as the wise woman carried it away. when she stopped eating, her hostess knew exactly what she was thinking; but it was one thing to understand the princess, and quite another to make the princess understand her: that would require time. for the present she took no notice, but went about the affairs of the house, sweeping the floor, brushing down the cobwebs, cleaning the hearth, dusting the table and chairs, and watering the bed to keep it fresh and alive--for she never had more than one guest at a time, and never would allow that guest to go to sleep upon any thing that had no life in it. all the time she was thus busied, she spoke not a word to the princess, which, with the princess, went to confirm her notion of her purposes. but whatever she might have said would have been only perverted by the princess into yet stronger proof of her evil designs, for a fancy in her own head would outweigh any multitude of facts in another's. she kept staring at the fire, and never looked round to see what the wise woman might be doing. by and by she came close up to the back of her chair, and said, "rosamond!" but the princess had fallen into one of her sulky moods, and shut herself up with her own ugly somebody; so she never looked round or even answered the wise woman. "rosamond," she repeated, "i am going out. if you are a good girl, that is, if you do as i tell you, i will carry you back to your father and mother the moment i return." the princess did not take the least notice. "look at me, rosamond," said the wise woman. but rosamond never moved--never even shrugged her shoulders--perhaps because they were already up to her ears, and could go no farther. "i want to help you to do what i tell you," said the wise woman. "look at me." still rosamond was motionless and silent, saying only to herself, "i know what she's after! she wants to show me her horrid teeth. but i won't look. i'm not going to be frightened out of my senses to please her." "you had better look, rosamond. have you forgotten how you kissed me this morning?" but rosamond now regarded that little throb of affection as a momentary weakness into which the deceitful ogress had betrayed her, and almost despised herself for it. she was one of those who the more they are coaxed are the more disagreeable. for such, the wise woman had an awful punishment, but she remembered that the princess had been very ill brought up, and therefore wished to try her with all gentleness first. she stood silent for a moment, to see what effect her words might have. but rosamond only said to herself,-- "she wants to fatten and eat me." and it was such a little while since she had looked into the wise woman's loving eyes, thrown her arms round her neck, and kissed her! "well," said the wise woman gently, after pausing as long as it seemed possible she might bethink herself, "i must tell you then without; only whoever listens with her back turned, listens but half, and gets but half the help." "she wants to fatten me," said the princess. "you must keep the cottage tidy while i am out. when i come back, i must see the fire bright, the hearth swept, and the kettle boiling; no dust on the table or chairs, the windows clear, the floor clean, and the heather in blossom--which last comes of sprinkling it with water three times a day. when you are hungry, put your hand into that hole in the wall, and you will find a meal." "she wants to fatten me," said the princess. "but on no account leave the house till i come back," continued the wise woman, "or you will grievously repent it. remember what you have already gone through to reach it. dangers lie all around this cottage of mine; but inside, it is the safest place--in fact the only quite safe place in all the country." "she means to eat me," said the princess, "and therefore wants to frighten me from running away." she heard the voice no more. then, suddenly startled at the thought of being alone, she looked hastily over her shoulder. the cottage was indeed empty of all visible life. it was soundless, too: there was not even a ticking clock or a flapping flame. the fire burned still and smouldering-wise; but it was all the company she had, and she turned again to stare into it. soon she began to grow weary of having nothing to do. then she remembered that the old woman, as she called her, had told her to keep the house tidy. "the miserable little pig-sty!" she said. "where's the use of keeping such a hovel clean!" but in truth she would have been glad of the employment, only just because she had been told to do it, she was unwilling; for there are people--however unlikely it may seem--who object to doing a thing for no other reason than that it is required of them. "i am a princess," she said, "and it is very improper to ask me to do such a thing." she might have judged it quite as suitable for a princess to sweep away the dust as to sit the centre of a world of dirt. but just because she ought, she wouldn't. perhaps she feared that if she gave in to doing her duty once, she might have to do it always--which was true enough--for that was the very thing for which she had been specially born. unable, however, to feel quite comfortable in the resolve to neglect it, she said to herself, "i'm sure there's time enough for such a nasty job as that!" and sat on, watching the fire as it burned away, the glowing red casting off white flakes, and sinking lower and lower on the hearth. by and by, merely for want of something to do, she would see what the old woman had left for her in the hole of the wall. but when she put in her hand she found nothing there, except the dust which she ought by this time to have wiped away. never reflecting that the wise woman had told her she would find food there when she was hungry, she flew into one of her furies, calling her a cheat, and a thief, and a liar, and an ugly old witch, and an ogress, and i do not know how many wicked names besides. she raged until she was quite exhausted, and then fell fast asleep on her chair. when she awoke the fire was out. by this time she was hungry; but without looking in the hole, she began again to storm at the wise woman, in which labor she would no doubt have once more exhausted herself, had not something white caught her eye: it was the corner of a napkin hanging from the hole in the wall. she bounded to it, and there was a dinner for her of something strangely good--one of her favorite dishes, only better than she had ever tasted it before. this might surely have at least changed her mood towards the wise woman; but she only grumbled to herself that it was as it ought to be, ate up the food, and lay down on the bed, never thinking of fire, or dust, or water for the heather. the wind began to moan about the cottage, and grew louder and louder, till a great gust came down the chimney, and again scattered the white ashes all over the place. but the princess was by this time fast asleep, and never woke till the wind had sunk to silence. one of the consequences, however, of sleeping when one ought to be awake is waking when one ought to be asleep; and the princess awoke in the black midnight, and found enough to keep her awake. for although the wind had fallen, there was a far more terrible howling than that of the wildest wind all about the cottage. nor was the howling all; the air was full of strange cries; and everywhere she heard the noise of claws scratching against the house, which seemed all doors and windows, so crowded were the sounds, and from so many directions. all the night long she lay half swooning, yet listening to the hideous noises. but with the first glimmer of morning they ceased. then she said to herself, "how fortunate it was that i woke! they would have eaten me up if i had been asleep." the miserable little wretch actually talked as if she had kept them out! if she had done her work in the day, she would have slept through the terrors of the darkness, and awaked fearless; whereas now, she had in the storehouse of her heart a whole harvest of agonies, reaped from the dun fields of the night! they were neither wolves nor hyenas which had caused her such dismay, but creatures of the air, more frightful still, which, as soon as the smoke of the burning fir-wood ceased to spread itself abroad, and the sun was a sufficient distance down the sky, and the lone cold woman was out, came flying and howling about the cottage, trying to get in at every door and window. down the chimney they would have got, but that at the heart of the fire there always lay a certain fir-cone, which looked like solid gold red-hot, and which, although it might easily get covered up with ashes, so as to be quite invisible, was continually in a glow fit to kindle all the fir-cones in the world; this it was which had kept the horrible birds--some say they have a claw at the tip of every wing-feather--from tearing the poor naughty princess to pieces, and gobbling her up. when she rose and looked about her, she was dismayed to see what a state the cottage was in. the fire was out, and the windows were all dim with the wings and claws of the dirty birds, while the bed from which she had just risen was brown and withered, and half its purple bells had fallen. but she consoled herself that she could set all to rights in a few minutes--only she must breakfast first. and, sure enough, there was a basin of the delicious bread and milk ready for her in the hole of the wall! after she had eaten it, she felt comfortable, and sat for a long time building castles in the air--till she was actually hungry again, without having done an atom of work. she ate again, and was idle again, and ate again. then it grew dark, and she went trembling to bed, for now she remembered the horrors of the last night. this time she never slept at all, but spent the long hours in grievous terror, for the noises were worse than before. she vowed she would not pass another night in such a hateful haunted old shed for all the ugly women, witches, and ogresses in the wide world. in the morning, however, she fell asleep, and slept late. breakfast was of course her first thought, after which she could not avoid that of work. it made her very miserable, but she feared the consequences of being found with it undone. a few minutes before noon, she actually got up, took her pinafore for a duster, and proceeded to dust the table. but the wood-ashes flew about so, that it seemed useless to attempt getting rid of them, and she sat down again to think what was to be done. but there is very little indeed to be done when we will not do that which we have to do. her first thought now was to run away at once while the sun was high, and get through the forest before night came on. she fancied she could easily go back the way she had come, and get home to her father's palace. but not the most experienced traveller in the world can ever go back the way the wise woman has brought him. she got up and went to the door. it was locked! what could the old woman have meant by telling her not to leave the cottage? she was indignant. the wise woman had meant to make it difficult, but not impossible. before the princess, however, could find the way out, she heard a hand at the door, and darted in terror behind it. the wise woman opened it, and, leaving it open, walked straight to the hearth. rosamond immediately slid out, ran a little way, and then laid herself down in the long heather. v. the wise woman walked straight up to the hearth, looked at the fire, looked at the bed, glanced round the room, and went up to the table. when she saw the one streak in the thick dust which the princess had left there, a smile, half sad, half pleased, like the sun peeping through a cloud on a rainy day in spring, gleamed over her face. she went at once to the door, and called in a loud voice, "rosamond, come to me." all the wolves and hyenas, fast asleep in the wood, heard her voice, and shivered in their dreams. no wonder then that the princess trembled, and found herself compelled, she could not understand how, to obey the summons. she rose, like the guilty thing she felt, forsook of herself the hiding-place she had chosen, and walked slowly back to the cottage she had left full of the signs of her shame. when she entered, she saw the wise woman on her knees, building up the fire with fir-cones. already the flame was climbing through the heap in all directions, crackling gently, and sending a sweet aromatic odor through the dusty cottage. "that is my part of the work," she said, rising. "now you do yours. but first let me remind you that if you had not put it off, you would have found it not only far easier, but by and by quite pleasant work, much more pleasant than you can imagine now; nor would you have found the time go wearily: you would neither have slept in the day and let the fire out, nor waked at night and heard the howling of the beast-birds. more than all, you would have been glad to see me when i came back; and would have leaped into my arms instead of standing there, looking so ugly and foolish." as she spoke, suddenly she held up before the princess a tiny mirror, so clear that nobody looking into it could tell what it was made of, or even see it at all--only the thing reflected in it. rosamond saw a child with dirty fat cheeks, greedy mouth, cowardly eyes--which, not daring to look forward, seemed trying to hide behind an impertinent nose--stooping shoulders, tangled hair, tattered clothes, and smears and stains everywhere. that was what she had made herself. and to tell the truth, she was shocked at the sight, and immediately began, in her dirty heart, to lay the blame on the wise woman, because she had taken her away from her nurses and her fine clothes; while all the time she knew well enough that, close by the heather-bed, was the loveliest little well, just big enough to wash in, the water of which was always springing fresh from the ground, and running away through the wall. beside it lay the whitest of linen towels, with a comb made of mother-of-pearl, and a brush of fir-needles, any one of which she had been far too lazy to use. she dashed the glass out of the wise woman's hand, and there it lay, broken into a thousand pieces! without a word, the wise woman stooped, and gathered the fragments--did not leave searching until she had gathered the last atom, and she laid them all carefully, one by one, in the fire, now blazing high on the hearth. then she stood up and looked at the princess, who had been watching her sulkily. "rosamond," she said, with a countenance awful in its sternness, "until you have cleansed this room--" "she calls it a room!" sneered the princess to herself. "you shall have no morsel to eat. you may drink of the well, but nothing else you shall have. when the work i set you is done, you will find food in the same place as before. i am going from home again; and again i warn you not to leave the house." "she calls it a house!--it's a good thing she's going out of it anyhow!" said the princess, turning her back for mere rudeness, for she was one who, even if she liked a thing before, would dislike it the moment any person in authority over her desired her to do it. when she looked again, the wise woman had vanished. thereupon the princess ran at once to the door, and tried to open it; but open it would not. she searched on all sides, but could discover no way of getting out. the windows would not open--at least she could not open them; and the only outlet seemed the chimney, which she was afraid to try because of the fire, which looked angry, she thought, and shot out green flames when she went near it. so she sat down to consider. one may well wonder what room for consideration there was--with all her work lying undone behind her. she sat thus, however, considering, as she called it, until hunger began to sting her, when she jumped up and put her hand as usual in the hole of the wall: there was nothing there. she fell straight into one of her stupid rages; but neither her hunger nor the hole in the wall heeded her rage. then, in a burst of self-pity, she fell a-weeping, but neither the hunger nor the hole cared for her tears. the darkness began to come on, and her hunger grew and grew, and the terror of the wild noises of the last night invaded her. then she began to feel cold, and saw that the fire was dying. she darted to the heap of cones, and fed it. it blazed up cheerily, and she was comforted a little. then she thought with herself it would surely be better to give in so far, and do a little work, than die of hunger. so catching up a duster, she began upon the table. the dust flew about and nearly choked her. she ran to the well to drink, and was refreshed and encouraged. perceiving now that it was a tedious plan to wipe the dust from the table on to the floor, whence it would have all to be swept up again, she got a wooden platter, wiped the dust into that, carried it to the fire, and threw it in. but all the time she was getting more and more hungry and, although she tried the hole again and again, it was only to become more and more certain that work she must if she would eat. at length all the furniture was dusted, and she began to sweep the floor, which happily, she thought of sprinkling with water, as from the window she had seen them do to the marble court of the palace. that swept, she rushed again to the hole--but still no food! she was on the verge of another rage, when the thought came that she might have forgotten something. to her dismay she found that table and chairs and every thing was again covered with dust--not so badly as before, however. again she set to work, driven by hunger, and drawn by the hope of eating, and yet again, after a second careful wiping, sought the hole. but no! nothing was there for her! what could it mean? her asking this question was a sign of progress: it showed that she expected the wise woman to keep her word. then she bethought her that she had forgotten the household utensils, and the dishes and plates, some of which wanted to be washed as well as dusted. faint with hunger, she set to work yet again. one thing made her think of another, until at length she had cleaned every thing she could think of. now surely she must find some food in the hole! when this time also there was nothing, she began once more to abuse the wise woman as false and treacherous;--but ah! there was the bed unwatered! that was soon amended.--still no supper! ah! there was the hearth unswept, and the fire wanted making up!--still no supper! what else could there be? she was at her wits' end, and in very weariness, not laziness this time, sat down and gazed into the fire. there, as she gazed, she spied something brilliant,--shining even, in the midst of the fire: it was the little mirror all whole again; but little she knew that the dust which she had thrown into the fire had helped to heal it. she drew it out carefully, and, looking into it, saw, not indeed the ugly creature she had seen there before, but still a very dirty little animal; whereupon she hurried to the well, took off her clothes, plunged into it, and washed herself clean. then she brushed and combed her hair, made her clothes as tidy as might be, and ran to the hole in the wall: there was a huge basin of bread and milk! never had she eaten any thing with half the relish! alas! however, when she had finished, she did not wash the basin, but left it as it was, revealing how entirely all the rest had been done only from hunger. then she threw herself on the heather, and was fast asleep in a moment. never an evil bird came near her all that night, nor had she so much as one troubled dream. in the morning as she lay awake before getting up, she spied what seemed a door behind the tall eight-day clock that stood silent in the corner. "ah!" she thought, "that must be the way out!" and got up instantly. the first thing she did, however, was to go to the hole in the wall. nothing was there. "well, i am hardly used!" she cried aloud. "all that cleaning for the cross old woman yesterday, and this for my trouble,--nothing for breakfast! not even a crust of bread! does mistress ogress fancy a princess will bear that?" the poor foolish creature seemed to think that the work of one day ought to serve for the next day too! but that is nowhere the way in the whole universe. how could there be a universe in that case? and even she never dreamed of applying the same rule to her breakfast. "how good i was all yesterday!" she said, "and how hungry and ill used i am to-day!" but she would not be a slave, and do over again to-day what she had done only last night! she didn't care about her breakfast! she might have it no doubt if she dusted all the wretched place again, but she was not going to do that--at least, without seeing first what lay behind the clock! off she darted, and putting her hand behind the clock found the latch of a door. it lifted, and the door opened a little way. by squeezing hard, she managed to get behind the clock, and so through the door. but how she stared, when instead of the open heath, she found herself on the marble floor of a large and stately room, lighted only from above. its walls were strengthened by pilasters, and in every space between was a large picture, from cornice to floor. she did not know what to make of it. surely she had run all round the cottage, and certainly had seen nothing of this size near it! she forgot that she had also run round what she took for a hay-mow, a peat-stack, and several other things which looked of no consequence in the moonlight. "so, then," she cried, "the old woman is a cheat! i believe she's an ogress, after all, and lives in a palace--though she pretends it's only a cottage, to keep people from suspecting that she eats good little children like me!" had the princess been tolerably tractable, she would, by this time, have known a good deal about the wise woman's beautiful house, whereas she had never till now got farther than the porch. neither was she at all in its innermost places now. but, king's daughter as she was, she was not a little daunted when, stepping forward from the recess of the door, she saw what a great lordly hall it was. she dared hardly look to the other end, it seemed so far off: so she began to gaze at the things near her, and the pictures first of all, for she had a great liking for pictures. one in particular attracted her attention. she came back to it several times, and at length stood absorbed in it. a blue summer sky, with white fleecy clouds floating beneath it, hung over a hill green to the very top, and alive with streams darting down its sides toward the valley below. on the face of the hill strayed a flock of sheep feeding, attended by a shepherd and two dogs. a little way apart, a girl stood with bare feet in a brook, building across it a bridge of rough stones. the wind was blowing her hair back from her rosy face. a lamb was feeding close beside her; and a sheepdog was trying to reach her hand to lick it. "oh, how i wish i were that little girl!" said the princess aloud. "i wonder how it is that some people are made to be so much happier than others! if i were that little girl, no one would ever call me naughty." she gazed and gazed at the picture. at length she said to herself, "i do not believe it is a picture. it is the real country, with a real hill, and a real little girl upon it. i shall soon see whether this isn't another of the old witch's cheats!" she went close up to the picture, lifted her foot, and stepped over the frame. "i am free, i am free!" she exclaimed; and she felt the wind upon her cheek. the sound of a closing door struck on her ear. she turned--and there was a blank wall, without door or window, behind her. the hill with the sheep was before her, and she set out at once to reach it. now, if i am asked how this could be, i can only answer, that it was a result of the interaction of things outside and things inside, of the wise woman's skill, and the silly child's folly. if this does not satisfy my questioner, i can only add, that the wise woman was able to do far more wonderful things than this. vi. meantime the wise woman was busy as she always was; and her business now was with the child of the shepherd and shepherdess, away in the north. her name was agnes. her father and mother were poor, and could not give her many things. rosamond would have utterly despised the rude, simple playthings she had. yet in one respect they were of more value far than hers: the king bought rosamond's with his money; agnes's father made hers with his hands. and while agnes had but few things--not seeing many things about her, and not even knowing that there were many things anywhere, she did not wish for many things, and was therefore neither covetous nor avaricious. she played with the toys her father made her, and thought them the most wonderful things in the world--windmills, and little crooks, and water-wheels, and sometimes lambs made all of wool, and dolls made out of the leg-bones of sheep, which her mother dressed for her; and of such playthings she was never tired. sometimes, however, she preferred playing with stones, which were plentiful, and flowers, which were few, or the brooks that ran down the hill, of which, although they were many, she could only play with one at a time, and that, indeed, troubled her a little--or live lambs that were not all wool, or the sheep-dogs, which were very friendly with her, and the best of playfellows, as she thought, for she had no human ones to compare them with. neither was she greedy after nice things, but content, as well she might be, with the homely food provided for her. nor was she by nature particularly self-willed or disobedient; she generally did what her father and mother wished, and believed what they told her. but by degrees they had spoiled her; and this was the way: they were so proud of her that they always repeated every thing she said, and told every thing she did, even when she was present; and so full of admiration of their child were they, that they wondered and laughed at and praised things in her which in another child would never have struck them as the least remarkable, and some things even which would in another have disgusted them altogether. impertinent and rude things done by their child they thought so clever! laughing at them as something quite marvellous; her commonplace speeches were said over again as if they had been the finest poetry; and the pretty ways which every moderately good child has were extolled as if the result of her excellent taste, and the choice of her judgment and will. they would even say sometimes that she ought not to hear her own praises for fear it should make her vain, and then whisper them behind their hands, but so loud that she could not fail to hear every word. the consequence was that she soon came to believe--so soon, that she could not recall the time when she did not believe, as the most absolute fact in the universe, that she was somebody; that is, she became most immoderately conceited. now as the least atom of conceit is a thing to be ashamed of, you may fancy what she was like with such a quantity of it inside her! at first it did not show itself outside in any very active form; but the wise woman had been to the cottage, and had seen her sitting alone, with such a smile of self-satisfaction upon her face as would have been quite startling to her, if she had ever been startled at any thing; for through that smile she could see lying at the root of it the worm that made it. for some smiles are like the ruddiness of certain apples, which is owing to a centipede, or other creeping thing, coiled up at the heart of them. only her worm had a face and shape the very image of her own; and she looked so simpering, and mawkish, and self-conscious, and silly, that she made the wise woman feel rather sick. not that the child was a fool. had she been, the wise woman would have only pitied and loved her, instead of feeling sick when she looked at her. she had very fair abilities, and were she once but made humble, would be capable not only of doing a good deal in time, but of beginning at once to grow to no end. but, if she were not made humble, her growing would be to a mass of distorted shapes all huddled together; so that, although the body she now showed might grow up straight and well-shaped and comely to behold, the new body that was growing inside of it, and would come out of it when she died, would be ugly, and crooked this way and that, like an aged hawthorn that has lived hundreds of years exposed upon all sides to salt sea-winds. as time went on, this disease of self-conceit went on too, gradually devouring the good that was in her. for there is no fault that does not bring its brothers and sisters and cousins to live with it. by degrees, from thinking herself so clever, she came to fancy that whatever seemed to her, must of course be the correct judgment, and whatever she wished, the right thing; and grew so obstinate, that at length her parents feared to thwart her in any thing, knowing well that she would never give in. but there are victories far worse than defeats; and to overcome an angel too gentle to put out all his strength, and ride away in triumph on the back of a devil, is one of the poorest. so long as she was left to take her own way and do as she would, she gave her parents little trouble. she would play about by herself in the little garden with its few hardy flowers, or amongst the heather where the bees were busy; or she would wander away amongst the hills, and be nobody knew where, sometimes from morning to night; nor did her parents venture to find fault with her. she never went into rages like the princess, and would have thought rosamond--oh, so ugly and vile! if she had seen her in one of her passions. but she was no better, for all that, and was quite as ugly in the eyes of the wise woman, who could not only see but read her face. what is there to choose between a face distorted to hideousness by anger, and one distorted to silliness by self-complacency? true, there is more hope of helping the angry child out of her form of selfishness than the conceited child out of hers; but on the other hand, the conceited child was not so terrible or dangerous as the wrathful one. the conceited one, however, was sometimes very angry, and then her anger was more spiteful than the other's; and, again, the wrathful one was often very conceited too. so that, on the whole, of two very unpleasant creatures, i would say that the king's daughter would have been the worse, had not the shepherd's been quite as bad. but, as i have said, the wise woman had her eye upon her: she saw that something special must be done, else she would be one of those who kneel to their own shadows till feet grow on their knees; then go down on their hands till their hands grow into feet; then lay their faces on the ground till they grow into snouts; when at last they are a hideous sort of lizards, each of which believes himself the best, wisest, and loveliest being in the world, yea, the very centre of the universe. and so they run about forever looking for their own shadows, that they may worship them, and miserable because they cannot find them, being themselves too near the ground to have any shadows; and what becomes of them at last there is but one who knows. the wise woman, therefore, one day walked up to the door of the shepherd's cottage, dressed like a poor woman, and asked for a drink of water. the shepherd's wife looked at her, liked her, and brought her a cup of milk. the wise woman took it, for she made it a rule to accept every kindness that was offered her. agnes was not by nature a greedy girl, as i have said; but self-conceit will go far to generate every other vice under the sun. vanity, which is a form of self-conceit, has repeatedly shown itself as the deepest feeling in the heart of a horrible murderess. that morning, at breakfast, her mother had stinted her in milk--just a little--that she might have enough to make some milk-porridge for their dinner. agnes did not mind it at the time, but when she saw the milk now given to a beggar, as she called the wise woman--though, surely, one might ask a draught of water, and accept a draught of milk, without being a beggar in any such sense as agnes's contemptuous use of the word implied--a cloud came upon her forehead, and a double vertical wrinkle settled over her nose. the wise woman saw it, for all her business was with agnes though she little knew it, and, rising, went and offered the cup to the child, where she sat with her knitting in a corner. agnes looked at it, did not want it, was inclined to refuse it from a beggar, but thinking it would show her consequence to assert her rights, took it and drank it up. for whoever is possessed by a devil, judges with the mind of that devil; and hence agnes was guilty of such a meanness as many who are themselves capable of something just as bad will consider incredible. the wise woman waited till she had finished it--then, looking into the empty cup, said: "you might have given me back as much as you had no claim upon!" agnes turned away and made no answer--far less from shame than indignation. the wise woman looked at the mother. "you should not have offered it to her if you did not mean her to have it," said the mother, siding with the devil in her child against the wise woman and her child too. some foolish people think they take another's part when they take the part he takes. the wise woman said nothing, but fixed her eyes upon her, and soon the mother hid her face in her apron weeping. then she turned again to agnes, who had never looked round but sat with her back to both, and suddenly lapped her in the folds of her cloak. when the mother again lifted her eyes, she had vanished. never supposing she had carried away her child, but uncomfortable because of what she had said to the poor woman, the mother went to the door, and called after her as she toiled slowly up the hill. but she never turned her head; and the mother went back into her cottage. the wise woman walked close past the shepherd and his dogs, and through the midst of his flock of sheep. the shepherd wondered where she could be going--right up the hill. there was something strange about her too, he thought; and he followed her with his eyes as she went up and up. it was near sunset, and as the sun went down, a gray cloud settled on the top of the mountain, which his last rays turned into a rosy gold. straight into this cloud the shepherd saw the woman hold her pace, and in it she vanished. he little imagined that his child was under her cloak. he went home as usual in the evening, but agnes had not come in. they were accustomed to such an absence now and then, and were not at first frightened; but when it grew dark and she did not appear, the husband set out with his dogs in one direction, and the wife in another, to seek their child. morning came and they had not found her. then the whole country-side arose to search for the missing agnes; but day after day and night after night passed, and nothing was discovered of or concerning her, until at length all gave up the search in despair except the mother, although she was nearly convinced now that the poor woman had carried her off. one day she had wandered some distance from her cottage, thinking she might come upon the remains of her daughter at the foot of some cliff, when she came suddenly, instead, upon a disconsolate-looking creature sitting on a stone by the side of a stream. her hair hung in tangles from her head; her clothes were tattered, and through the rents her skin showed in many places; her cheeks were white, and worn thin with hunger; the hollows were dark under her eyes, and they stood out scared and wild. when she caught sight of the shepherdess, she jumped to her feet, and would have run away, but fell down in a faint. at first sight the mother had taken her for her own child, but now she saw, with a pang of disappointment, that she had mistaken. full of compassion, nevertheless, she said to herself: "if she is not my agnes, she is as much in need of help as if she were. if i cannot be good to my own, i will be as good as i can to some other woman's; and though i should scorn to be consoled for the loss of one by the presence of another, i yet may find some gladness in rescuing one child from the death which has taken the other." perhaps her words were not just like these, but her thoughts were. she took up the child, and carried her home. and this is how rosamond came to occupy the place of the little girl whom she had envied in the picture. vii. notwithstanding the differences between the two girls, which were, indeed, so many that most people would have said they were not in the least alike, they were the same in this, that each cared more for her own fancies and desires than for any thing else in the world. but i will tell you another difference: the princess was like several children in one--such was the variety of her moods; and in one mood she had no recollection or care about any thing whatever belonging to a previous mood--not even if it had left her but a moment before, and had been so violent as to make her ready to put her hand in the fire to get what she wanted. plainly she was the mere puppet of her moods, and more than that, any cunning nurse who knew her well enough could call or send away those moods almost as she pleased, like a showman pulling strings behind a show. agnes, on the contrary, seldom changed her mood, but kept that of calm assured self-satisfaction. father nor mother had ever by wise punishment helped her to gain a victory over herself, and do what she did not like or choose; and their folly in reasoning with one unreasonable had fixed her in her conceit. she would actually nod her head to herself in complacent pride that she had stood out against them. this, however, was not so difficult as to justify even the pride of having conquered, seeing she loved them so little, and paid so little attention to the arguments and persuasions they used. neither, when she found herself wrapped in the dark folds of the wise woman's cloak, did she behave in the least like the princess, for she was not afraid. "she'll soon set me down," she said, too self-important to suppose that any one would dare do her an injury. whether it be a good thing or a bad not to be afraid depends on what the fearlessness is founded upon. some have no fear, because they have no knowledge of the danger: there is nothing fine in that. some are too stupid to be afraid: there is nothing fine in that. some who are not easily frightened would yet turn their backs and run, the moment they were frightened: such never had more courage than fear. but the man who will do his work in spite of his fear is a man of true courage. the fearlessness of agnes was only ignorance: she did not know what it was to be hurt; she had never read a single story of giant, or ogress or wolf; and her mother had never carried out one of her threats of punishment. if the wise woman had but pinched her, she would have shown herself an abject little coward, trembling with fear at every change of motion so long as she carried her. nothing such, however, was in the wise woman's plan for the curing of her. on and on she carried her without a word. she knew that if she set her down she would never run after her like the princess, at least not before the evil thing was already upon her. on and on she went, never halting, never letting the light look in, or agnes look out. she walked very fast, and got home to her cottage very soon after the princess had gone from it. but she did not set agnes down either in the cottage or in the great hall. she had other places, none of them alike. the place she had chosen for agnes was a strange one--such a one as is to be found nowhere else in the wide world. it was a great hollow sphere, made of a substance similar to that of the mirror which rosamond had broken, but differently compounded. that substance no one could see by itself. it had neither door, nor window, nor any opening to break its perfect roundness. the wise woman carried agnes into a dark room, there undressed her, took from her hand her knitting-needles, and put her, naked as she was born, into the hollow sphere. what sort of a place it was she could not tell. she could see nothing but a faint cold bluish light all about her. she could not feel that any thing supported her, and yet she did not sink. she stood for a while, perfectly calm, then sat down. nothing bad could happen to her--she was so important! and, indeed, it was but this: she had cared only for somebody, and now she was going to have only somebody. her own choice was going to be carried a good deal farther for her than she would have knowingly carried it for herself. after sitting a while, she wished she had something to do, but nothing came. a little longer, and it grew wearisome. she would see whether she could not walk out of the strange luminous dusk that surrounded her. walk she found she could, well enough, but walk out she could not. on and on she went, keeping as much in a straight line as she might, but after walking until she was thoroughly tired, she found herself no nearer out of her prison than before. she had not, indeed, advanced a single step; for, in whatever direction she tried to go, the sphere turned round and round, answering her feet accordingly. like a squirrel in his cage she but kept placing another spot of the cunningly suspended sphere under her feet, and she would have been still only at its lowest point after walking for ages. at length she cried aloud; but there was no answer. it grew dreary and drearier--in her, that is: outside there was no change. nothing was overhead, nothing under foot, nothing on either hand, but the same pale, faint, bluish glimmer. she wept at last, then grew very angry, and then sullen; but nobody heeded whether she cried or laughed. it was all the same to the cold unmoving twilight that rounded her. on and on went the dreary hours--or did they go at all?--"no change, no pause, no hope;"--on and on till she felt she was forgotten, and then she grew strangely still and fell asleep. the moment she was asleep, the wise woman came, lifted her out, and laid her in her bosom; fed her with a wonderful milk, which she received without knowing it; nursed her all the night long, and, just ere she woke, laid her back in the blue sphere again. when first she came to herself, she thought the horrors of the preceding day had been all a dream of the night. but they soon asserted themselves as facts, for here they were!--nothing to see but a cold blue light, and nothing to do but see it. oh, how slowly the hours went by! she lost all notion of time. if she had been told that she had been there twenty years, she would have believed it--or twenty minutes--it would have been all the same: except for weariness, time was for her no more. another night came, and another still, during both of which the wise woman nursed and fed her. but she knew nothing of that, and the same one dreary day seemed ever brooding over her. all at once, on the third day, she was aware that a naked child was seated beside her. but there was something about the child that made her shudder. she never looked at agnes, but sat with her chin sunk on her chest, and her eyes staring at her own toes. she was the color of pale earth, with a pinched nose, and a mere slit in her face for a mouth. "how ugly she is!" thought agnes. "what business has she beside me!" but it was so lonely that she would have been glad to play with a serpent, and put out her hand to touch her. she touched nothing. the child, also, put out her hand--but in the direction away from agnes. and that was well, for if she had touched agnes it would have killed her. then agnes said, "who are you?" and the little girl said, "who are you?" "i am agnes," said agnes; and the little girl said, "i am agnes." then agnes thought she was mocking her, and said, "you are ugly;" and the little girl said, "you are ugly." then agnes lost her temper, and put out her hands to seize the little girl; but lo! the little girl was gone, and she found herself tugging at her own hair. she let go; and there was the little girl again! agnes was furious now, and flew at her to bite her. but she found her teeth in her own arm, and the little girl was gone--only to return again; and each time she came back she was tenfold uglier than before. and now agnes hated her with her whole heart. the moment she hated her, it flashed upon her with a sickening disgust that the child was not another, but her self, her somebody, and that she was now shut up with her for ever and ever--no more for one moment ever to be alone. in her agony of despair, sleep descended, and she slept. when she woke, there was the little girl, heedless, ugly, miserable, staring at her own toes. all at once, the creature began to smile, but with such an odious, self-satisfied expression, that agnes felt ashamed of seeing her. then she began to pat her own cheeks, to stroke her own body, and examine her finger-ends, nodding her head with satisfaction. agnes felt that there could not be such another hateful, ape-like creature, and at the same time was perfectly aware she was only doing outside of her what she herself had been doing, as long as she could remember, inside of her. she turned sick at herself, and would gladly have been put out of existence, but for three days the odious companionship went on. by the third day, agnes was not merely sick but ashamed of the life she had hitherto led, was despicable in her own eyes, and astonished that she had never seen the truth concerning herself before. the next morning she woke in the arms of the wise woman; the horror had vanished from her sight, and two heavenly eyes were gazing upon her. she wept and clung to her, and the more she clung, the more tenderly did the great strong arms close around her. when she had lain thus for a while, the wise woman carried her into her cottage, and washed her in the little well; then dressed her in clean garments, and gave her bread and milk. when she had eaten it, she called her to her, and said very solemnly,-- "agnes, you must not imagine you are cured. that you are ashamed of yourself now is no sign that the cause for such shame has ceased. in new circumstances, especially after you have done well for a while, you will be in danger of thinking just as much of yourself as before. so beware of yourself. i am going from home, and leave you in charge of the house. do just as i tell you till my return." she then gave her the same directions she had formerly given rosamond--with this difference, that she told her to go into the picture-hall when she pleased, showing her the entrance, against which the clock no longer stood--and went away, closing the door behind her. viii. as soon as she was left alone, agnes set to work tidying and dusting the cottage, made up the fire, watered the bed, and cleaned the inside of the windows: the wise woman herself always kept the outside of them clean. when she had done, she found her dinner--of the same sort she was used to at home, but better--in the hole of the wall. when she had eaten it, she went to look at the pictures. by this time her old disposition had begun to rouse again. she had been doing her duty, and had in consequence begun again to think herself somebody. however strange it may well seem, to do one's duty will make any one conceited who only does it sometimes. those who do it always would as soon think of being conceited of eating their dinner as of doing their duty. what honest boy would pride himself on not picking pockets? a thief who was trying to reform would. to be conceited of doing one's duty is then a sign of how little one does it, and how little one sees what a contemptible thing it is not to do it. could any but a low creature be conceited of not being contemptible? until our duty becomes to us common as breathing, we are poor creatures. so agnes began to stroke herself once more, forgetting her late self-stroking companion, and never reflecting that she was now doing what she had then abhorred. and in this mood she went into the picture-gallery. the first picture she saw represented a square in a great city, one side of which was occupied by a splendid marble palace, with great flights of broad steps leading up to the door. between it and the square was a marble-paved court, with gates of brass, at which stood sentries in gorgeous uniforms, and to which was affixed the following proclamation in letters of gold, large enough for agnes to read:-- "by the will of the king, from this time until further notice, every stray child found in the realm shall be brought without a moment's delay to the palace. whoever shall be found having done otherwise shall straightway lose his head by the hand of the public executioner." agnes's heart beat loud, and her face flushed. "can there be such a city in the world?" she said to herself. "if i only knew where it was, i should set out for it at once. there would be the place for a clever girl like me!" her eyes fell on the picture which had so enticed rosamond. it was the very country where her father fed his flocks. just round the shoulder of the hill was the cottage where her parents lived, where she was born and whence she had been carried by the beggar-woman. "ah!" she said, "they didn't know me there. they little thought what i could be, if i had the chance. if i were but in this good, kind, loving, generous king's palace, i should soon be such a great lady as they never saw! then they would understand what a good little girl i had always been! and i shouldn't forget my poor parents like some i have read of. _i_ would be generous. _i_ should never be selfish and proud like girls in story-books!" as she said this, she turned her back with disdain upon the picture of her home, and setting herself before the picture of the palace, stared at it with wide ambitious eyes, and a heart whose every beat was a throb of arrogant self-esteem. the shepherd-child was now worse than ever the poor princess had been. for the wise woman had given her a terrible lesson one of which the princess was not capable, and she had known what it meant; yet here she was as bad as ever, therefore worse than before. the ugly creature whose presence had made her so miserable had indeed crept out of sight and mind too--but where was she? nestling in her very heart, where most of all she had her company, and least of all could see her. the wise woman had called her out, that agnes might see what sort of creature she was herself; but now she was snug in her soul's bed again, and she did not even suspect she was there. after gazing a while at the palace picture, during which her ambitious pride rose and rose, she turned yet again in condescending mood, and honored the home picture with one stare more. "what a poor, miserable spot it is compared with this lordly palace!" she said. but presently she spied something in it she had not seen before, and drew nearer. it was the form of a little girl, building a bridge of stones over one of the hill-brooks. "ah, there i am myself!" she said. "that is just how i used to do.--no," she resumed, "it is not me. that snub-nosed little fright could never be meant for me! it was the frock that made me think so. but it is a picture of the place. i declare, i can see the smoke of the cottage rising from behind the hill! what a dull, dirty, insignificant spot it is! and what a life to lead there!" she turned once more to the city picture. and now a strange thing took place. in proportion as the other, to the eyes of her mind, receded into the background, this, to her present bodily eyes, appeared to come forward and assume reality. at last, after it had been in this way growing upon her for some time, she gave a cry of conviction, and said aloud,-- "i do believe it is real! that frame is only a trick of the woman to make me fancy it a picture lest i should go and make my fortune. she is a witch, the ugly old creature! it would serve her right to tell the king and have her punished for not taking me to the palace--one of his poor lost children he is so fond of! i should like to see her ugly old head cut off. anyhow i will try my luck without asking her leave. how she has ill used me!" but at that moment, she heard the voice of the wise woman calling, "agnes!" and, smoothing her face, she tried to look as good as she could, and walked back into the cottage. there stood the wise woman, looking all round the place, and examining her work. she fixed her eyes upon agnes in a way that confused her, and made her cast hers down, for she felt as if she were reading her thoughts. the wise woman, however, asked no questions, but began to talk about her work, approving of some of it, which filled her with arrogance, and showing how some of it might have been done better, which filled her with resentment. but the wise woman seemed to take no care of what she might be thinking, and went straight on with her lesson. by the time it was over, the power of reading thoughts would not have been necessary to a knowledge of what was in the mind of agnes, for it had all come to the surface--that is up into her face, which is the surface of the mind. ere it had time to sink down again, the wise woman caught up the little mirror, and held it before her: agnes saw her somebody--the very embodiment of miserable conceit and ugly ill-temper. she gave such a scream of horror that the wise woman pitied her, and laying aside the mirror, took her upon her knees, and talked to her most kindly and solemnly; in particular about the necessity of destroying the ugly things that come out of the heart--so ugly that they make the very face over them ugly also. and what was agnes doing all the time the wise woman was talking to her? would you believe it?--instead of thinking how to kill the ugly things in her heart, she was with all her might resolving to be more careful of her face, that is, to keep down the things in her heart so that they should not show in her face, she was resolving to be a hypocrite as well as a self-worshipper. her heart was wormy, and the worms were eating very fast at it now. then the wise woman laid her gently down upon the heather-bed, and she fell fast asleep, and had an awful dream about her somebody. when she woke in the morning, instead of getting up to do the work of the house, she lay thinking--to evil purpose. in place of taking her dream as a warning, and thinking over what the wise woman had said the night before, she communed with herself in this fashion:-- "if i stay here longer, i shall be miserable, it is nothing better than slavery. the old witch shows me horrible things in the day to set me dreaming horrible things in the night. if i don't run away, that frightful blue prison and the disgusting girl will come back, and i shall go out of my mind. how i do wish i could find the way to the good king's palace! i shall go and look at the picture again--if it be a picture--as soon as i've got my clothes on. the work can wait. it's not my work. it's the old witch's; and she ought to do it herself." she jumped out of bed, and hurried on her clothes. there was no wise woman to be seen; and she hastened into the hall. there was the picture, with the marble palace, and the proclamation shining in letters of gold upon its gates of brass. she stood before it, and gazed and gazed; and all the time it kept growing upon her in some strange way, until at last she was fully persuaded that it was no picture, but a real city, square, and marble palace, seen through a framed opening in the wall. she ran up to the frame, stepped over it, felt the wind blow upon her cheek, heard the sound of a closing door behind her, and was free. free was she, with that creature inside her? the same moment a terrible storm of thunder and lightning, wind and rain, came on. the uproar was appalling. agnes threw herself upon the ground, hid her face in her hands, and there lay until it was over. as soon as she felt the sun shining on her, she rose. there was the city far away on the horizon. without once turning to take a farewell look of the place she was leaving, she set off, as fast as her feet would carry her, in the direction of the city. so eager was she, that again and again she fell, but only to get up, and run on faster than before. ix. the shepherdess carried rosamond home, gave her a warm bath in the tub in which she washed her linen, made her some bread-and-milk, and after she had eaten it, put her to bed in agnes's crib, where she slept all the rest of that day and all the following night. when at last she opened her eyes, it was to see around her a far poorer cottage than the one she had left--very bare and uncomfortable indeed, she might well have thought; but she had come through such troubles of late, in the way of hunger and weariness and cold and fear, that she was not altogether in her ordinary mood of fault-finding, and so was able to lie enjoying the thought that at length she was safe, and going to be fed and kept warm. the idea of doing any thing in return for shelter and food and clothes, did not, however, even cross her mind. but the shepherdess was one of that plentiful number who can be wiser concerning other women's children than concerning their own. such will often give you very tolerable hints as to how you ought to manage your children, and will find fault neatly enough with the system you are trying to carry out; but all their wisdom goes off in talking, and there is none left for doing what they have themselves said. there is one road talk never finds, and that is the way into the talker's own hands and feet. and such never seem to know themselves--not even when they are reading about themselves in print. still, not being specially blinded in any direction but their own, they can sometimes even act with a little sense towards children who are not theirs. they are affected with a sort of blindness like that which renders some people incapable of seeing, except sideways. she came up to the bed, looked at the princess, and saw that she was better. but she did not like her much. there was no mark of a princess about her, and never had been since she began to run alone. true, hunger had brought down her fat cheeks, but it had not turned down her impudent nose, or driven the sullenness and greed from her mouth. nothing but the wise woman could do that--and not even she, without the aid of the princess herself. so the shepherdess thought what a poor substitute she had got for her own lovely agnes--who was in fact equally repulsive, only in a way to which she had got used; for the selfishness in her love had blinded her to the thin pinched nose and the mean self-satisfied mouth. it was well for the princess, though, sad as it is to say, that the shepherdess did not take to her, for then she would most likely have only done her harm instead of good. "now, my girl," she said, "you must get up, and do something. we can't keep idle folk here." "i'm not a folk," said rosamond; "i'm a princess." "a pretty princess--with a nose like that! and all in rags too! if you tell such stories, i shall soon let you know what i think of you." rosamond then understood that the mere calling herself a princess, without having any thing to show for it, was of no use. she obeyed and rose, for she was hungry; but she had to sweep the floor ere she had any thing to eat. the shepherd came in to breakfast, and was kinder than his wife. he took her up in his arms and would have kissed her; but she took it as an insult from a man whose hands smelt of tar, and kicked and screamed with rage. the poor man, finding he had made a mistake, set her down at once. but to look at the two, one might well have judged it condescension rather than rudeness in such a man to kiss such a child. he was tall, and almost stately, with a thoughtful forehead, bright eyes, eagle nose, and gentle mouth; while the princess was such as i have described her. not content with being set down and let alone, she continued to storm and scold at the shepherd, crying she was a princess, and would like to know what right he had to touch her! but he only looked down upon her from the height of his tall person with a benignant smile, regarding her as a spoiled little ape whose mother had flattered her by calling her a princess. "turn her out of doors, the ungrateful hussy!" cried his wife. "with your bread and your milk inside her ugly body, this is what she gives you for it! troth, i'm paid for carrying home such an ill-bred tramp in my arms! my own poor angel agnes! as if that ill-tempered toad were one hair like her!" these words drove the princess beside herself; for those who are most given to abuse can least endure it. with fists and feet and teeth, as was her wont, she rushed at the shepherdess, whose hand was already raised to deal her a sound box on the ear, when a better appointed minister of vengeance suddenly showed himself. bounding in at the cottage-door came one of the sheep-dogs, who was called prince, and whom i shall not refer to with a which, because he was a very superior animal indeed, even for a sheep-dog, which is the most intelligent of dogs: he flew at the princess, knocked her down, and commenced shaking her so violently as to tear her miserable clothes to pieces. used, however, to mouthing little lambs, he took care not to hurt her much, though for her good he left her a blue nip or two by way of letting her imagine what biting might be. his master, knowing he would not injure her, thought it better not to call him off, and in half a minute he left her of his own accord, and, casting a glance of indignant rebuke behind him as he went, walked slowly to the hearth, where he laid himself down with his tail toward her. she rose, terrified almost to death, and would have crept again into agnes's crib for refuge; but the shepherdess cried-- "come, come, princess! i'll have no skulking to bed in the good daylight. go and clean your master's sunday boots there." "i will not!" screamed the princess, and ran from the house. "prince!" cried the shepherdess, and up jumped the dog, and looked in her face, wagging his bushy tail. "fetch her back," she said, pointing to the door. with two or three bounds prince caught the princess, again threw her down, and taking her by her clothes dragged her back into the cottage, and dropped her at his mistress' feet, where she lay like a bundle of rags. "get up," said the shepherdess. rosamond got up as pale as death. "go and clean the boots." "i don't know how." "go and try. there are the brushes, and yonder is the blacking-pot." instructing her how to black boots, it came into the thought of the shepherdess what a fine thing it would be if she could teach this miserable little wretch, so forsaken and ill-bred, to be a good, well-behaved, respectable child. she was hardly the woman to do it, but every thing well meant is a help, and she had the wisdom to beg her husband to place prince under her orders for a while, and not take him to the hill as usual, that he might help her in getting the princess into order. when the husband was gone, and his boots, with the aid of her own finishing touches, at last quite respectably brushed, the shepherdess told the princess that she might go and play for a while, only she must not go out of sight of the cottage-door. the princess went right gladly, with the firm intention, however, of getting out of sight by slow degrees, and then at once taking to her heels. but no sooner was she over the threshold than the shepherdess said to the dog, "watch her;" and out shot prince. the moment she saw him, rosamond threw herself on her face, trembling from head to foot. but the dog had no quarrel with her, and of the violence against which he always felt bound to protest in dog fashion, there was no sign in the prostrate shape before him; so he poked his nose under her, turned her over, and began licking her face and hands. when she saw that he meant to be friendly, her love for animals, which had had no indulgence for a long time now, came wide awake, and in a little while they were romping and rushing about, the best friends in the world. having thus seen one enemy, as she thought, changed to a friend, she began to resume her former plan, and crept cunningly farther and farther. at length she came to a little hollow, and instantly rolled down into it. finding then that she was out of sight of the cottage, she ran off at full speed. but she had not gone more than a dozen paces, when she heard a growling rush behind her, and the next instant was on the ground, with the dog standing over her, showing his teeth, and flaming at her with his eyes. she threw her arms round his neck, and immediately he licked her face, and let her get up. but the moment she would have moved a step farther from the cottage, there he was it front of her, growling, and showing his teeth. she saw it was of no use, and went back with him. thus was the princess provided with a dog for a private tutor--just the right sort for her. presently the shepherdess appeared at the door and called her. she would have disregarded the summons, but prince did his best to let her know that, until she could obey herself, she must obey him. so she went into the cottage, and there the shepherdess ordered her to peel the potatoes for dinner. she sulked and refused. here prince could do nothing to help his mistress, but she had not to go far to find another ally. "very well, miss princess!" she said; "we shall soon see how you like to go without when dinner-time comes." now the princess had very little foresight, and the idea of future hunger would have moved her little; but happily, from her game of romps with prince, she had begun to be hungry already, and so the threat had force. she took the knife and began to peel the potatoes. by slow degrees the princess improved a little. a few more outbreaks of passion, and a few more savage attacks from prince, and she had learned to try to restrain herself when she felt the passion coming on; while a few dinnerless afternoons entirely opened her eyes to the necessity of working in order to eat. prince was her first, and hunger her second dog-counsellor. but a still better thing was that she soon grew very fond of prince. towards the gaining of her affections, he had three advantages: first, his nature was inferior to hers; next, he was a beast; and last, she was afraid of him; for so spoiled was she that she could more easily love what was below than what was above her, and a beast, than one of her own kind, and indeed could hardly have ever come to love any thing much that she had not first learned to fear, and the white teeth and flaming eyes of the angry prince were more terrible to her than any thing had yet been, except those of the wolf, which she had now forgotten. then again, he was such a delightful playfellow, that so long as she neither lost her temper, nor went against orders, she might do almost any thing she pleased with him. in fact, such was his influence upon her, that she who had scoffed at the wisest woman in the whole world, and derided the wishes of her own father and mother, came at length to regard this dog as a superior being, and to look up to him as well as love him. and this was best of all. the improvement upon her, in the course of a month, was plain. she had quite ceased to go into passions, and had actually begun to take a little interest in her work and try to do it well. still, the change was mostly an outside one. i do not mean that she was pretending. indeed she had never been given to pretence of any sort. but the change was not in her, only in her mood. a second change of circumstances would have soon brought a second change of behavior; and, so long as that was possible, she continued the same sort of person she had always been. but if she had not gained much, a trifle had been gained for her: a little quietness and order of mind, and hence a somewhat greater possibility of the first idea of right arising in it, whereupon she would begin to see what a wretched creature she was, and must continue until she herself was right. meantime the wise woman had been watching her when she least fancied it, and taking note of the change that was passing upon her. out of the large eyes of a gentle sheep she had been watching her--a sheep that puzzled the shepherd; for every now and then she would appear in his flock, and he would catch sight of her two or three times in a day, sometimes for days together, yet he never saw her when he looked for her, and never when he counted the flock into the fold at night. he knew she was not one of his; but where could she come from, and where could she go to? for there was no other flock within many miles, and he never could get near enough to her to see whether or not she was marked. nor was prince of the least use to him for the unravelling of the mystery; for although, as often as he told him to fetch the strange sheep, he went bounding to her at once, it was only to lie down at her feet. at length, however, the wise woman had made up her mind, and after that the strange sheep no longer troubled the shepherd. as rosamond improved, the shepherdess grew kinder. she gave her all agnes's clothes, and began to treat her much more like a daughter. hence she had a great deal of liberty after the little work required of her was over, and would often spend hours at a time with the shepherd, watching the sheep and the dogs, and learning a little from seeing how prince, and the others as well, managed their charge--how they never touched the sheep that did as they were told and turned when they were bid, but jumped on a disobedient flock, and ran along their backs, biting, and barking, and half choking themselves with mouthfuls of their wool. then also she would play with the brooks, and learn their songs, and build bridges over them. and sometimes she would be seized with such delight of heart that she would spread out her arms to the wind, and go rushing up the hill till her breath left her, when she would tumble down in the heather, and lie there till it came back again. a noticeable change had by this time passed also on her countenance. her coarse shapeless mouth had begun to show a glimmer of lines and curves about it, and the fat had not returned with the roses to her cheeks, so that her eyes looked larger than before; while, more noteworthy still, the bridge of her nose had grown higher, so that it was less of the impudent, insignificant thing inherited from a certain great-great-great-grandmother, who had little else to leave her. for a long time, it had fitted her very well, for it was just like her; but now there was ground for alteration, and already the granny who gave it her would not have recognized it. it was growing a little liker prince's; and prince's was a long, perceptive, sagacious nose,--one that was seldom mistaken. one day about noon, while the sheep were mostly lying down, and the shepherd, having left them to the care of the dogs, was himself stretched under the shade of a rock a little way apart, and the princess sat knitting, with prince at her feet, lying in wait for a snap at a great fly, for even he had his follies--rosamond saw a poor woman come toiling up the hill, but took little notice of her until she was passing, a few yards off, when she heard her utter the dog's name in a low voice. immediately on the summons, prince started up and followed her--with hanging head, but gently-wagging tail. at first the princess thought he was merely taking observations, and consulting with his nose whether she was respectable or not, but she soon saw that he was following her in meek submission. then she sprung to her feet and cried, "prince, prince!" but prince only turned his head and gave her an odd look, as if he were trying to smile, and could not. then the princess grew angry, and ran after him, shouting, "prince, come here directly." again prince turned his head, but this time to growl and show his teeth. the princess flew into one of her forgotten rages, and picking up a stone, flung it at the woman. prince turned and darted at her, with fury in his eyes, and his white teeth gleaming. at the awful sight the princess turned also, and would have fled, but he was upon her in a moment, and threw her to the ground, and there she lay. it was evening when she came to herself. a cool twilight wind, that somehow seemed to come all the way from the stars, was blowing upon her. the poor woman and prince, the shepherd and his sheep, were all gone, and she was left alone with the wind upon the heather. she felt sad, weak, and, perhaps, for the first time in her life, a little ashamed. the violence of which she had been guilty had vanished from her spirit, and now lay in her memory with the calm morning behind it, while in front the quiet dusky night was now closing in the loud shame betwixt a double peace. between the two her passion looked ugly. it pained her to remember. she felt it was hateful, and hers. but, alas, prince was gone! that horrid woman had taken him away! the fury rose again in her heart, and raged--until it came to her mind how her dear prince would have flown at her throat if he had seen her in such a passion. the memory calmed her, and she rose and went home. there, perhaps, she would find prince, for surely he could never have been such a silly dog as go away altogether with a strange woman! she opened the door and went in. dogs were asleep all about the cottage, it seemed to her, but nowhere was prince. she crept away to her little bed, and cried herself asleep. in the morning the shepherd and shepherdess were indeed glad to find she had come home, for they thought she had run away. "where is prince?" she cried, the moment she waked. "his mistress has taken him," answered the shepherd. "was that woman his mistress?" "i fancy so. he followed her as if he had known her all his life. i am very sorry to lose him, though." the poor woman had gone close past the rock where the shepherd lay. he saw her coming, and thought of the strange sheep which had been feeding beside him when he lay down. "who can she be?" he said to himself; but when he noted how prince followed her, without even looking up at him as he passed, he remembered how prince had come to him. and this was how: as he lay in bed one fierce winter morning, just about to rise, he heard the voice of a woman call to him through the storm, "shepherd, i have brought you a dog. be good to him. i will come again and fetch him away." he dressed as quickly as he could, and went to the door. it was half snowed up, but on the top of the white mound before it stood prince. and now he had gone as mysteriously as he had come, and he felt sad. rosamond was very sorry too, and hence when she saw the looks of the shepherd and shepherdess, she was able to understand them. and she tried for a while to behave better to them because of their sorrow. so the loss of the dog brought them all nearer to each other. x. after the thunder-storm, agnes did not meet with a single obstruction or misadventure. everybody was strangely polite, gave her whatever she desired, and answered her questions, but asked none in return, and looked all the time as if her departure would be a relief. they were afraid, in fact, from her appearance, lest she should tell them that she was lost, when they would be bound, on pain of public execution, to take her to the palace. but no sooner had she entered the city than she saw it would hardly do to present herself as a lost child at the palace-gates; for how were they to know that she was not an impostor, especially since she really was one, having run away from the wise woman? so she wandered about looking at every thing until she was tired, and bewildered by the noise and confusion all around her. the wearier she got, the more was she pushed in every direction. having been used to a whole hill to wander upon, she was very awkward in the crowded streets, and often on the point of being run over by the horses, which seemed to her to be going every way like a frightened flock. she spoke to several persons, but no one stopped to answer her; and at length, her courage giving way, she felt lost indeed, and began to cry. a soldier saw her, and asked what was the matter. "i've nowhere to go to," she sobbed. "where's your mother?" asked the soldier. "i don't know," answered agnes. "i was carried off by an old woman, who then went away and left me. i don't know where she is, or where i am myself." "come," said the soldier, "this is a case for his majesty." so saying, he took her by the hand, led her to the palace, and begged an audience of the king and queen. the porter glanced at agnes, immediately admitted them, and showed them into a great splendid room, where the king and queen sat every day to review lost children, in the hope of one day thus finding their rosamond. but they were by this time beginning to get tired of it. the moment they cast their eyes upon agnes, the queen threw back her head, threw up her hands, and cried, "what a miserable, conceited, white-faced little ape!" and the king turned upon the soldier in wrath, and cried, forgetting his own decree, "what do you mean by bringing such a dirty, vulgar-looking, pert creature into my palace? the dullest soldier in my army could never for a moment imagine a child like that, one hair's-breadth like the lovely angel we lost!" "i humbly beg your majesty's pardon," said the soldier, "but what was i to do? there stands your majesty's proclamation in gold letters on the brazen gates of the palace." "i shall have it taken down," said the king. "remove the child." "please your majesty, what am i to do with her?" "take her home with you." "i have six already, sire, and do not want her." "then drop her where you picked her up." "if i do, sire, some one else will find her and bring her back to your majesties." "that will never do," said the king. "i cannot bear to look at her." "for all her ugliness," said the queen, "she is plainly lost, and so is our rosamond." "it may be only a pretence, to get into the palace," said the king. "take her to the head scullion, soldier," said the queen, "and tell her to make her useful. if she should find out she has been pretending to be lost, she must let me know." the soldier was so anxious to get rid of her, that he caught her up in his arms, hurried her from the room, found his way to the scullery, and gave her, trembling with fear, in charge to the head maid, with the queen's message. as it was evident that the queen had no favor for her, the servants did as they pleased with her, and often treated her harshly. not one amongst them liked her, nor was it any wonder, seeing that, with every step she took from the wise woman's house, she had grown more contemptible, for she had grown more conceited. every civil answer given her, she attributed to the impression she made, not to the desire to get rid of her; and every kindness, to approbation of her looks and speech, instead of friendliness to a lonely child. hence by this time she was twice as odious as before; for whoever has had such severe treatment as the wise woman gave her, and is not the better for it, always grows worse than before. they drove her about, boxed her ears on the smallest provocation, laid every thing to her charge, called her all manner of contemptuous names, jeered and scoffed at her awkwardnesses, and made her life so miserable that she was in a fair way to forget every thing she had learned, and know nothing but how to clean saucepans and kettles. they would not have been so hard upon her, however, but for her irritating behavior. she dared not refuse to do as she was told, but she obeyed now with a pursed-up mouth, and now with a contemptuous smile. the only thing that sustained her was her constant contriving how to get out of the painful position in which she found herself. there is but one true way, however, of getting out of any position we may be in, and that is, to do the work of it so well that we grow fit for a better: i need not say this was not the plan upon which agnes was cunning enough to fix. she had soon learned from the talk around her the reason of the proclamation which had brought her hither. "was the lost princess so very beautiful?" she said one day to the youngest of her fellow-servants. "beautiful!" screamed the maid; "she was just the ugliest little toad you ever set eyes upon." "what was she like?" asked agnes. "she was about your size, and quite as ugly, only not in the same way; for she had red cheeks, and a cocked little nose, and the biggest, ugliest mouth you ever saw." agnes fell a-thinking. "is there a picture of her anywhere in the palace?" she asked. "how should i know? you can ask a housemaid." agnes soon learned that there was one, and contrived to get a peep of it. then she was certain of what she had suspected from the description given of her, namely, that she was the same she had seen in the picture at the wise woman's house. the conclusion followed, that the lost princess must be staying with her father and mother, for assuredly in the picture she wore one of her frocks. she went to the head scullion, and with humble manner, but proud heart, begged her to procure for her the favor of a word with the queen. "a likely thing indeed!" was the answer, accompanied by a resounding box on the ear. she tried the head cook next, but with no better success, and so was driven to her meditations again, the result of which was that she began to drop hints that she knew something about the princess. this came at length to the queen's ears, and she sent for her. absorbed in her own selfish ambitions, agnes never thought of the risk to which she was about to expose her parents, but told the queen that in her wanderings she had caught sight of just such a lovely creature as she described the princess, only dressed like a peasant--saying, that, if the king would permit her to go and look for her, she had little doubt of bringing her back safe and sound within a few weeks. but although she spoke the truth, she had such a look of cunning on her pinched face, that the queen could not possibly trust her, but believed that she made the proposal merely to get away, and have money given her for her journey. still there was a chance, and she would not say any thing until she had consulted the king. then they had agnes up before the lord chancellor, who, after much questioning of her, arrived at last, he thought, at some notion of the part of the country described by her--that was, if she spoke the truth, which, from her looks and behavior, he also considered entirely doubtful. thereupon she was ordered back to the kitchen, and a band of soldiers, under a clever lawyer, sent out to search every foot of the supposed region. they were commanded not to return until they brought with them, bound hand and foot, such a shepherd pair as that of which they received a full description. and now agnes was worse off than before. for to her other miseries was added the fear of what would befall her when it was discovered that the persons of whom they were in quest, and whom she was certain they must find, were her own father and mother. by this time the king and queen were so tired of seeing lost children, genuine or pretended--for they cared for no child any longer than there seemed a chance of its turning out their child--that with this new hope, which, however poor and vague at first, soon began to grow upon such imaginations as they had, they commanded the proclamation to be taken down from the palace gates, and directed the various sentries to admit no child whatever, lost or found, be the reason or pretence what it might, until further orders. "i'm sick of children!" said the king to his secretary, as he finished dictating the direction. xi. after prince was gone, the princess, by degrees, fell back into some of her bad old ways, from which only the presence of the dog, not her own betterment, had kept her. she never grew nearly so selfish again, but she began to let her angry old self lift up its head once more, until by and by she grew so bad that the shepherdess declared she should not stop in the house a day longer, for she was quite unendurable. "it is all very well for you, husband," she said, "for you haven't her all day about you, and only see the best of her. but if you had her in work instead of play hours, you would like her no better than i do. and then it's not her ugly passions only, but when she's in one of her tantrums, it's impossible to get any work out of her. at such times she's just as obstinate as--as--as"-- she was going to say "as agnes," but the feelings of a mother overcame her, and she could not utter the words. "in fact," she said instead, "she makes my life miserable." the shepherd felt he had no right to tell his wife she must submit to have her life made miserable, and therefore, although he was really much attached to rosamond, he would not interfere; and the shepherdess told her she must look out for another place. the princess was, however, this much better than before, even in respect of her passions, that they were not quite so bad, and after one was over, she was really ashamed of it. but not once, ever since the departure of prince had she tried to check the rush of the evil temper when it came upon her. she hated it when she was out of it, and that was something; but while she was in it, she went full swing with it wherever the prince of the power of it pleased to carry her. nor was this all: although she might by this time have known well enough that as soon as she was out of it she was certain to be ashamed of it, she would yet justify it to herself with twenty different arguments that looked very good at the time, but would have looked very poor indeed afterwards, if then she had ever remembered them. she was not sorry to leave the shepherd's cottage, for she felt certain of soon finding her way back to her father and mother; and she would, indeed, have set out long before, but that her foot had somehow got hurt when prince gave her his last admonition, and she had never since been able for long walks, which she sometimes blamed as the cause of her temper growing worse. but if people are good-tempered only when they are comfortable, what thanks have they?--her foot was now much better; and as soon as the shepherdess had thus spoken, she resolved to set out at once, and work or beg her way home. at the moment she was quite unmindful of what she owed the good people, and, indeed, was as yet incapable of understanding a tenth part of her obligation to them. so she bade them good by without a tear, and limped her way down the hill, leaving the shepherdess weeping, and the shepherd looking very grave. when she reached the valley she followed the course of the stream, knowing only that it would lead her away from the hill where the sheep fed, into richer lands where were farms and cattle. rounding one of the roots of the hill she saw before her a poor woman walking slowly along the road with a burden of heather upon her back, and presently passed her, but had gone only a few paces farther when she heard her calling after her in a kind old voice-- "your shoe-tie is loose, my child." but rosamond was growing tired, for her foot had become painful, and so she was cross, and neither returned answer, nor paid heed to the warning. for when we are cross, all our other faults grow busy, and poke up their ugly heads like maggots, and the princess's old dislike to doing any thing that came to her with the least air of advice about it returned in full force. "my child," said the woman again, "if you don't fasten your shoe-tie, it will make you fall." "mind your own business," said rosamond, without even turning her head, and had not gone more than three steps when she fell flat on her face on the path. she tried to get up, but the effort forced from her a scream, for she had sprained the ankle of the foot that was already lame. the old woman was by her side instantly. "where are you hurt, child?" she asked, throwing down her burden and kneeling beside her. "go away," screamed rosamond. "you made me fall, you bad woman!" the woman made no reply, but began to feel her joints, and soon discovered the sprain. then, in spite of rosamond's abuse, and the violent pushes and even kicks she gave her, she took the hurt ankle in her hands, and stroked and pressed it, gently kneading it, as it were, with her thumbs, as if coaxing every particle of the muscles into its right place. nor had she done so long before rosamond lay still. at length she ceased, and said:-- "now, my child, you may get up." "i can't get up, and i'm not your child," cried rosamond. "go away." without another word the woman left her, took up her burden, and continued her journey. in a little while rosamond tried to get up, and not only succeeded, but found she could walk, and, indeed, presently discovered that her ankle and foot also were now perfectly well. "i wasn't much hurt after all," she said to herself, nor sent a single grateful thought after the poor woman, whom she speedily passed once more upon the road without even a greeting. late in the afternoon she came to a spot where the path divided into two, and was taking the one she liked the look of better, when she started at the sound of the poor woman's voice, whom she thought she had left far behind, again calling her. she looked round, and there she was, toiling under her load of heather as before. "you are taking the wrong turn, child." she cried. "how can you tell that?" said rosamond. "you know nothing about where i want to go." "i know that road will take you where you won't want to go," said the woman. "i shall know when i get there, then," returned rosamond, "and no thanks to you." she set off running. the woman took the other path, and was soon out of sight. by and by, rosamond found herself in the midst of a peat-moss--a flat, lonely, dismal, black country. she thought, however, that the road would soon lead her across to the other side of it among the farms, and went on without anxiety. but the stream, which had hitherto been her guide, had now vanished; and when it began to grow dark, rosamond found that she could no longer distinguish the track. she turned, therefore, but only to find that the same darkness covered it behind as well as before. still she made the attempt to go back by keeping as direct a line as she could, for the path was straight as an arrow. but she could not see enough even to start her in a line, and she had not gone far before she found herself hemmed in, apparently on every side, by ditches and pools of black, dismal, slimy water. and now it was so dark that she could see nothing more than the gleam of a bit of clear sky now and then in the water. again and again she stepped knee-deep in black mud, and once tumbled down in the shallow edge of a terrible pool; after which she gave up the attempt to escape the meshes of the watery net, stood still, and began to cry bitterly, despairingly. she saw now that her unreasonable anger had made her foolish as well as rude, and felt that she was justly punished for her wickedness to the poor woman who had been so friendly to her. what would prince think of her, if he knew? she cast herself on the ground, hungry, and cold, and weary. presently, she thought she saw long creatures come heaving out of the black pools. a toad jumped upon her, and she shrieked, and sprang to her feet, and would have run away headlong, when she spied in the distance a faint glimmer. she thought it was a will-o'-the-wisp. what could he be after? was he looking for her? she dared not run, lest he should see and pounce upon her. the light came nearer, and grew brighter and larger. plainly, the little fiend was looking for her--he would torment her. after many twistings and turnings among the pools, it came straight towards her, and she would have shrieked, but that terror made her dumb. it came nearer and nearer, and lo! it was borne by a dark figure, with a burden on its back: it was the poor woman, and no demon, that was looking for her! she gave a scream of joy, fell down weeping at her feet, and clasped her knees. then the poor woman threw away her burden, laid down her lantern, took the princess up in her arms, folded her cloak around her, and having taken up her lantern again, carried her slowly and carefully through the midst of the black pools, winding hither and thither. all night long she carried her thus, slowly and wearily, until at length the darkness grew a little thinner, an uncertain hint of light came from the east, and the poor woman, stopping on the brow of a little hill, opened her cloak, and set the princess down. "i can carry you no farther," she said. "sit there on the grass till the light comes. i will stand here by you." rosamond had been asleep. now she rubbed her eyes and looked, but it was too dark to see any thing more than that there was a sky over her head. slowly the light grew, until she could see the form of the poor woman standing in front of her; and as it went on growing, she began to think she had seen her somewhere before, till all at once she thought of the wise woman, and saw it must be she. then she was so ashamed that she bent down her head, and could look at her no longer. but the poor woman spoke, and the voice was that of the wise woman, and every word went deep into the heart of the princess. "rosamond," she said, "all this time, ever since i carried you from your father's palace, i have been doing what i could to make you a lovely creature: ask yourself how far i have succeeded." all her past story, since she found herself first under the wise woman's cloak, arose, and glided past the inner eyes of the princess, and she saw, and in a measure understood, it all. but she sat with her eyes on the ground, and made no sign. then said the wise woman:-- "below there is the forest which surrounds my house. i am going home. if you pledge to come there to me, i will help you, in a way i could not do now, to be good and lovely. i will wait you there all day, but if you start at once, you may be there long before noon. i shall have your breakfast waiting for you. one thing more: the beasts have not yet all gone home to their holes; but i give you my word, not one will touch you so long as you keep coming nearer to my house." she ceased. rosamond sat waiting to hear something more; but nothing came. she looked up; she was alone. alone once more! always being left alone, because she would not yield to what was right! oh, how safe she had felt under the wise woman's cloak! she had indeed been good to her, and she had in return behaved like one of the hyenas of the awful wood! what a wonderful house it was she lived in! and again all her own story came up into her brain from her repentant heart. "why didn't she take me with her?" she said. "i would have gone gladly." and she wept. but her own conscience told her that, in the very middle of her shame and desire to be good, she had returned no answer to the words of the wise woman; she had sat like a tree-stump, and done nothing. she tried to say there was nothing to be done; but she knew at once that she could have told the wise woman she had been very wicked, and asked her to take her with her. now there was nothing to be done. "nothing to be done!" said her conscience. "cannot you rise, and walk down the hill, and through the wood?" "but the wild beasts!" "there it is! you don't believe the wise woman yet! did she not tell you the beasts would not touch you?" "but they are so horrid!" "yes, they are; but it would be far better to be eaten up alive by them than live on--such a worthless creature as you are. why, you're not fit to be thought about by any but bad ugly creatures." this was how herself talked to her. xii. all at once she jumped to her feet, and ran at full speed down the hill and into the wood. she heard howlings and yellings on all sides of her, but she ran straight on, as near as she could judge. her spirits rose as she ran. suddenly she saw before her, in the dusk of the thick wood, a group of some dozen wolves and hyenas, standing all together right in her way, with their green eyes fixed upon her staring. she faltered one step, then bethought her of what the wise woman had promised, and keeping straight on, dashed right into the middle of them. they fled howling, as if she had struck them with fire. she was no more afraid after that, and ere the sun was up she was out of the wood and upon the heath, which no bad thing could step upon and live. with the first peep of the sun above the horizon, she saw the little cottage before her, and ran as fast as she could run towards it, when she came near it, she saw that the door was open, and ran straight into the outstretched arms of the wise woman. the wise woman kissed her and stroked her hair, set her down by the fire, and gave her a bowl of bread and milk. when she had eaten it she drew her before her where she sat, and spoke to her thus:-- "rosamond, if you would be a blessed creature instead of a mere wretch, you must submit to be tried." "is that something terrible?" asked the princess, turning white. "no, my child; but it is something very difficult to come well out of. nobody who has not been tried knows how difficult it is; but whoever has come well out of it, and those who do not overcome never do come out of it, always looks back with horror, not on what she has come through, but on the very idea of the possibility of having failed, and being still the same miserable creature as before." "you will tell me what it is before it begins?" said the princess. "i will not tell you exactly. but i will tell you some things to help you. one great danger is that perhaps you will think you are in it before it has really begun, and say to yourself, 'oh! this is really nothing to me. it may be a trial to some, but for me i am sure it is not worth mentioning.' and then, before you know, it will be upon you, and you will fail utterly and shamefully." "i will be very, very careful," said the princess. "only don't let me be frightened." "you shall not be frightened, except it be your own doing. you are already a brave girl, and there is no occasion to try you more that way. i saw how you rushed into the middle of the ugly creatures; and as they ran from you, so will all kinds of evil things, as long as you keep them outside of you, and do not open the cottage of your heart to let them in. i will tell you something more about what you will have to go through. "nobody can be a real princess--do not imagine you have yet been any thing more than a mock one--until she is a princess over herself, that is, until, when she finds herself unwilling to do the thing that is right, she makes herself do it. so long as any mood she is in makes her do the thing she will be sorry for when that mood is over, she is a slave, and no princess. a princess is able to do what is right even should she unhappily be in a mood that would make another unable to do it. for instance, if you should be cross and angry, you are not a whit the less bound to be just, yes, kind even--a thing most difficult in such a mood--though ease itself in a good mood, loving and sweet. whoever does what she is bound to do, be she the dirtiest little girl in the street, is a princess, worshipful, honorable. nay, more; her might goes farther than she could send it, for if she act so, the evil mood will wither and die, and leave her loving and clean.--do you understand me, dear rosamond?" as she spoke, the wise woman laid her hand on her head and looked--oh, so lovingly!--into her eyes. "i am not sure," said the princess, humbly. "perhaps you will understand me better if i say it just comes to this, that you must not do what is wrong, however much you are inclined to do it, and you must do what is right, however much you are disinclined to do it." "i understand that," said the princess. "i am going, then, to put you in one of the mood-chambers of which i have many in the house. its mood will come upon you, and you will have to deal with it." she rose and took her by the hand. the princess trembled a little, but never thought of resisting. the wise woman led her into the great hall with the pictures, and through a door at the farther end, opening upon another large hall, which was circular, and had doors close to each other all round it. of these she opened one, pushed the princess gently in, and closed it behind her. the princess found herself in her old nursery. her little white rabbit came to meet her in a lumping canter as if his back were going to tumble over his head. her nurse, in her rocking-chair by the chimney corner, sat just as she had used. the fire burned brightly, and on the table were many of her wonderful toys, on which, however, she now looked with some contempt. her nurse did not seem at all surprised to see her, any more than if the princess had but just gone from the room and returned again. "oh! how different i am from what i used to be!" thought the princess to herself, looking from her toys to her nurse. "the wise woman has done me so much good already! i will go and see mamma at once, and tell her i am very glad to be at home again, and very sorry i was so naughty." she went towards the door. "your queen-mamma, princess, cannot see you now," said her nurse. "i have yet to learn that it is my part to take orders from a servant," said the princess with temper and dignity. "i beg your pardon, princess," returned her nurse, politely; "but it is my duty to tell you that your queen-mamma is at this moment engaged. she is alone with her most intimate friend, the princess of the frozen regions." "i shall see for myself," returned the princess, bridling, and walked to the door. now little bunny, leap-frogging near the door, happened that moment to get about her feet, just as she was going to open it, so that she tripped and fell against it, striking her forehead a good blow. she caught up the rabbit in a rage, and, crying, "it is all your fault, you ugly old wretch!" threw it with violence in her nurse's face. her nurse caught the rabbit, and held it to her face, as if seeking to sooth its fright. but the rabbit looked very limp and odd, and, to her amazement, rosamond presently saw that the thing was no rabbit, but a pocket-handkerchief. the next moment she removed it from her face, and rosamond beheld--not her nurse, but the wise woman--standing on her own hearth, while she herself stood by the door leading from the cottage into the hall. "first trial a failure," said the wise woman quietly. overcome with shame, rosamond ran to her, fell down on her knees, and hid her face in her dress. "need i say any thing?" said the wise woman, stroking her hair. "no, no," cried the princess. "i am horrid." "you know now the kind of thing you have to meet: are you ready to try again?" "may i try again?" cried the princess, jumping up. "i'm ready. i do not think i shall fail this time." "the trial will be harder." rosamond drew in her breath, and set her teeth. the wise woman looked at her pitifully, but took her by the hand, led her to the round hall, opened the same door, and closed it after her. the princess expected to find herself again in the nursery, but in the wise woman's house no one ever has the same trial twice. she was in a beautiful garden, full of blossoming trees and the loveliest roses and lilies. a lake was in the middle of it, with a tiny boat. so delightful was it that rosamond forgot all about how or why she had come there, and lost herself in the joy of the flowers and the trees and the water. presently came the shout of a child, merry and glad, and from a clump of tulip trees rushed a lovely little boy, with his arms stretched out to her. she was charmed at the sight, ran to meet him, caught him up in her arms, kissed him, and could hardly let him go again. but the moment she set him down he ran from her towards the lake, looking back as he ran, and crying "come, come." she followed. he made straight for the boat, clambered into it, and held out his hand to help her in. then he caught up the little boat-hook, and pushed away from the shore: there was a great white flower floating a few yards off, and that was the little fellow's goal. but, alas! no sooner had rosamond caught sight of it, huge and glowing as a harvest moon, than she felt a great desire to have it herself. the boy, however, was in the bows of the boat, and caught it first. it had a long stem, reaching down to the bottom of the water, and for a moment he tugged at it in vain, but at last it gave way so suddenly, that he tumbled back with the flower into the bottom of the boat. then rosamond, almost wild at the danger it was in as he struggled to rise, hurried to save it, but somehow between them it came in pieces, and all its petals of fretted silver were scattered about the boat. when the boy got up, and saw the ruin his companion had occasioned, he burst into tears, and having the long stalk of the flower still in his hand, struck her with it across the face. it did not hurt her much, for he was a very little fellow, but it was wet and slimy. she tumbled rather than rushed at him, seized him in her arms, tore him from his frightened grasp, and flung him into the water. his head struck on the boat as he fell, and he sank at once to the bottom, where he lay looking up at her with white face and open eyes. the moment she saw the consequences of her deed she was filled with horrible dismay. she tried hard to reach down to him through the water, but it was far deeper than it looked, and she could not. neither could she get her eyes to leave the white face: its eyes fascinated and fixed hers; and there she lay leaning over the boat and staring at the death she had made. but a voice crying, "ally! ally!" shot to her heart, and springing to her feet she saw a lovely lady come running down the grass to the brink of the water with her hair flying about her head. "where is my ally?" she shrieked. but rosamond could not answer, and only stared at the lady, as she had before stared at her drowned boy. then the lady caught sight of the dead thing at the bottom of the water, and rushed in, and, plunging down, struggled and groped until she reached it. then she rose and stood up with the dead body of her little son in her arms, his head hanging back, and the water streaming from him. "see what you have made of him, rosamond!" she said, holding the body out to her; "and this is your second trial, and also a failure." the dead child melted away from her arms, and there she stood, the wise woman, on her own hearth, while rosamond found herself beside the little well on the floor of the cottage, with one arm wet up to the shoulder. she threw herself on the heather-bed and wept from relief and vexation both. the wise woman walked out of the cottage, shut the door, and left her alone. rosamond was sobbing, so that she did not hear her go. when at length she looked up, and saw that the wise woman was gone, her misery returned afresh and tenfold, and she wept and wailed. the hours passed, the shadows of evening began to fall, and the wise woman entered. xiii. she went straight to the bed, and taking rosamond in her arms, sat down with her by the fire. "my poor child!" she said. "two terrible failures! and the more the harder! they get stronger and stronger. what is to be done?" "couldn't you help me?" said rosamond piteously. "perhaps i could, now you ask me," answered the wise woman. "when you are ready to try again, we shall see." "i am very tired of myself," said the princess. "but i can't rest till i try again." "that is the only way to get rid of your weary, shadowy self, and find your strong, true self. come, my child; i will help you all i can, for now i can help you." yet again she led her to the same door, and seemed to the princess to send her yet again alone into the room. she was in a forest, a place half wild, half tended. the trees were grand, and full of the loveliest birds, of all glowing gleaming and radiant colors, which, unlike the brilliant birds we know in our world, sang deliciously, every one according to his color. the trees were not at all crowded, but their leaves were so thick, and their boughs spread so far, that it was only here and there a sunbeam could get straight through. all the gentle creatures of a forest were there, but no creatures that killed, not even a weasel to kill the rabbits, or a beetle to eat the snails out of their striped shells. as to the butterflies, words would but wrong them if they tried to tell how gorgeous they were. the princess's delight was so great that she neither laughed nor ran, but walked about with a solemn countenance and stately step. "but where are the flowers?" she said to herself at length. they were nowhere. neither on the high trees, nor on the few shrubs that grew here and there amongst them, were there any blossoms; and in the grass that grew everywhere there was not a single flower to be seen. "ah, well!" said rosamond again to herself, "where all the birds and butterflies are living flowers, we can do without the other sort." still she could not help feeling that flowers were wanted to make the beauty of the forest complete. suddenly she came out on a little open glade; and there, on the root of a great oak, sat the loveliest little girl, with her lap full of flowers of all colors, but of such kinds as rosamond had never before seen. she was playing with them--burying her hands in them, tumbling them about, and every now and then picking one from the rest, and throwing it away. all the time she never smiled, except with her eyes, which were as full as they could hold of the laughter of the spirit--a laughter which in this world is never heard, only sets the eyes alight with a liquid shining. rosamond drew nearer, for the wonderful creature would have drawn a tiger to her side, and tamed him on the way. a few yards from her, she came upon one of her cast-away flowers and stooped to pick it up, as well she might where none grew save in her own longing. but to her amazement she found, instead of a flower thrown away to wither, one fast rooted and quite at home. she left it, and went to another; but it also was fast in the soil, and growing comfortably in the warm grass. what could it mean? one after another she tried, until at length she was satisfied that it was the same with every flower the little girl threw from her lap. she watched then until she saw her throw one, and instantly bounded to the spot. but the flower had been quicker than she: there it grew, fast fixed in the earth, and, she thought, looked at her roguishly. something evil moved in her, and she plucked it. "don't! don't!" cried the child. "my flowers cannot live in your hands." rosamond looked at the flower. it was withered already. she threw it from her, offended. the child rose, with difficulty keeping her lapful together, picked it up, carried it back, sat down again, spoke to it, kissed it, sang to it--oh! such a sweet, childish little song!--the princess never could recall a word of it--and threw it away. up rose its little head, and there it was, busy growing again! rosamond's bad temper soon gave way: the beauty and sweetness of the child had overcome it; and, anxious to make friends with her, she drew near, and said: "won't you give me a little flower, please, you beautiful child?" "there they are; they are all for you," answered the child, pointing with her outstretched arm and forefinger all round. "but you told me, a minute ago, not to touch them." "yes, indeed, i did." "they can't be mine, if i'm not to touch them." "if, to call them yours, you must kill them, then they are not yours, and never, never can be yours. they are nobody's when they are dead." "but you don't kill them." "i don't pull them; i throw them away. i live them." "how is it that you make them grow?" "i say, 'you darling!' and throw it away and there it is." "where do you get them?" "in my lap." "i wish you would let me throw one away." "have you got any in your lap? let me see." "no; i have none." "then you can't throw one away, if you haven't got one." "you are mocking me!" cried the princess. "i am not mocking you," said the child, looking her full in the face, with reproach in her large blue eyes. "oh, that's where the flowers come from!" said the princess to herself, the moment she saw them, hardly knowing what she meant. then the child rose as if hurt, and quickly threw away all the flowers she had in her lap, but one by one, and without any sign of anger. when they were all gone, she stood a moment, and then, in a kind of chanting cry, called, two or three times, "peggy! peggy! peggy!" a low, glad cry, like the whinny of a horse, answered, and, presently, out of the wood on the opposite side of the glade, came gently trotting the loveliest little snow-white pony, with great shining blue wings, half-lifted from his shoulders. straight towards the little girl, neither hurrying nor lingering, he trotted with light elastic tread. rosamond's love for animals broke into a perfect passion of delight at the vision. she rushed to meet the pony with such haste, that, although clearly the best trained animal under the sun, he started back, plunged, reared, and struck out with his fore-feet ere he had time to observe what sort of a creature it was that had so startled him. when he perceived it was a little girl, he dropped instantly upon all fours, and content with avoiding her, resumed his quiet trot in the direction of his mistress. rosamond stood gazing after him in miserable disappointment. when he reached the child, he laid his head on her shoulder, and she put her arm up round his neck; and after she had talked to him a little, he turned and came trotting back to the princess. almost beside herself with joy, she began caressing him in the rough way which, not-withstanding her love for them, she was in the habit of using with animals; and she was not gentle enough, in herself even, to see that he did not like it, and was only putting up with it for the sake of his mistress. but when, that she might jump upon his back, she laid hold of one of his wings, and ruffled some of the blue feathers, he wheeled suddenly about, gave his long tail a sharp whisk which threw her flat on the grass, and, trotting back to his mistress, bent down his head before her as if asking excuse for ridding himself of the unbearable. the princess was furious. she had forgotten all her past life up to the time when she first saw the child: her beauty had made her forget, and yet she was now on the very borders of hating her. what she might have done, or rather tried to do, had not peggy's tail struck her down with such force that for a moment she could not rise, i cannot tell. but while she lay half-stunned, her eyes fell on a little flower just under them. it stared up in her face like the living thing it was, and she could not take her eyes off its face. it was like a primrose trying to express doubt instead of confidence. it seemed to put her half in mind of something, and she felt as if shame were coming. she put out her hand to pluck it; but the moment her fingers touched it, the flower withered up, and hung as dead on its stalks as if a flame of fire had passed over it. then a shudder thrilled through the heart of the princess, and she thought with herself, saying--"what sort of a creature am i that the flowers wither when i touch them, and the ponies despise me with their tails? what a wretched, coarse, ill-bred creature i must be! there is that lovely child giving life instead of death to the flowers, and a moment ago i was hating her! i am made horrid, and i shall be horrid, and i hate myself, and yet i can't help being myself!" she heard the sound of galloping feet, and there was the pony, with the child seated betwixt his wings, coming straight on at full speed for where she lay. "i don't care," she said. "they may trample me under their feet if they like. i am tired and sick of myself--a creature at whose touch the flowers wither!" on came the winged pony. but while yet some distance off, he gave a great bound, spread out his living sails of blue, rose yards and yards above her in the air, and alighted as gently as a bird, just a few feet on the other side of her. the child slipped down and came and kneeled over her. "did my pony hurt you?" she said. "i am so sorry!" "yes, he hurt me," answered the princess, "but not more than i deserved, for i took liberties with him, and he did not like it." "oh, you dear!" said the little girl. "i love you for talking so of my peggy. he is a good pony, though a little playful sometimes. would you like a ride upon him?" "you darling beauty!" cried rosamond, sobbing. "i do love you so, you are so good. how did you become so sweet?" "would you like to ride my pony?" repeated the child, with a heavenly smile in her eyes. "no, no; he is fit only for you. my clumsy body would hurt him," said rosamond. "you don't mind me having such a pony?" said the child. "what! mind it?" cried rosamond, almost indignantly. then remembering certain thoughts that had but a few moments before passed through her mind, she looked on the ground and was silent. "you don't mind it, then?" repeated the child. "i am very glad there is such a you and such a pony, and that such a you has got such a pony," said rosamond, still looking on the ground. "but i do wish the flowers would not die when i touch them. i was cross to see you make them grow, but now i should be content if only i did not make them wither." as she spoke, she stroked the little girl's bare feet, which were by her, half buried in the soft moss, and as she ended she laid her cheek on them and kissed them. "dear princess!" said the little girl, "the flowers will not always wither at your touch. try now--only do not pluck it. flowers ought never to be plucked except to give away. touch it gently." a silvery flower, something like a snow-drop, grew just within her reach. timidly she stretched out her hand and touched it. the flower trembled, but neither shrank nor withered. "touch it again," said the child. it changed color a little, and rosamond fancied it grew larger. "touch it again," said the child. it opened and grew until it was as large as a narcissus, and changed and deepened in color till it was a red glowing gold. rosamond gazed motionless. when the transfiguration of the flower was perfected, she sprang to her feet with clasped hands, but for very ecstasy of joy stood speechless, gazing at the child. "did you never see me before, rosamond?" she asked. "no, never," answered the princess. "i never saw any thing half so lovely." "look at me," said the child. and as rosamond looked, the child began, like the flower, to grow larger. quickly through every gradation of growth she passed, until she stood before her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither old nor young; for hers was the old age of everlasting youth. rosamond was utterly enchanted, and stood gazing without word or movement until she could endure no more delight. then her mind collapsed to the thought--had the pony grown too? she glanced round. there was no pony, no grass, no flowers, no bright-birded forest--but the cottage of the wise woman--and before her, on the hearth of it, the goddess-child, the only thing unchanged. she gasped with astonishment. "you must set out for your father's palace immediately," said the lady. "but where is the wise woman?" asked rosamond, looking all about. "here," said the lady. and rosamond, looking again, saw the wise woman, folded as usual in her long dark cloak. "and it was you all the time?" she cried in delight, and kneeled before her, burying her face in her garments. "it always is me, all the time," said the wise woman, smiling. "but which is the real you?" asked rosamond; "this or that?" "or a thousand others?" returned the wise woman. "but the one you have just seen is the likest to the real me that you are able to see just yet--but--. and that me you could not have seen a little while ago.--but, my darling child," she went on, lifting her up and clasping her to her bosom, "you must not think, because you have seen me once, that therefore you are capable of seeing me at all times. no; there are many things in you yet that must be changed before that can be. now, however, you will seek me. every time you feel you want me, that is a sign i am wanting you. there are yet many rooms in my house you may have to go through; but when you need no more of them, then you will be able to throw flowers like the little girl you saw in the forest." the princess gave a sigh. "do not think," the wise woman went on, "that the things you have seen in my house are mere empty shows. you do not know, you cannot yet think, how living and true they are.--now you must go." she led her once more into the great hall, and there showed her the picture of her father's capital, and his palace with the brazen gates. "there is your home," she said. "go to it." the princess understood, and a flush of shame rose to her forehead. she turned to the wise woman and said: "will you forgive all my naughtiness, and all the trouble i have given you?" "if i had not forgiven you, i would never have taken the trouble to punish you. if i had not loved you, do you think i would have carried you away in my cloak?" "how could you love such an ugly, ill-tempered, rude, hateful little wretch?" "i saw, through it all, what you were going to be," said the wise woman, kissing her. "but remember you have yet only begun to be what i saw." "i will try to remember," said the princess, holding her cloak, and looking up in her face. "go, then," said the wise woman. rosamond turned away on the instant, ran to the picture, stepped over the frame of it, heard a door close gently, gave one glance back, saw behind her the loveliest palace-front of alabaster, gleaming in the pale-yellow light of an early summer-morning, looked again to the eastward, saw the faint outline of her father's city against the sky, and ran off to reach it. it looked much further off now than when it seemed a picture, but the sun was not yet up, and she had the whole of a summer day before her. xiv. the soldiers sent out by the king, had no great difficulty in finding agnes's father and mother, of whom they demanded if they knew any thing of such a young princess as they described. the honest pair told them the truth in every point--that, having lost their own child and found another, they had taken her home, and treated her as their own; that she had indeed called herself a princess, but they had not believed her, because she did not look like one; that, even if they had, they did not know how they could have done differently, seeing they were poor people, who could not afford to keep any idle person about the place; that they had done their best to teach her good ways, and had not parted with her until her bad temper rendered it impossible to put up with her any longer; that, as to the king's proclamation, they heard little of the world's news on their lonely hill, and it had never reached them; that if it had, they did not know how either of them could have gone such a distance from home, and left their sheep or their cottage, one or the other, uncared for. "you must learn, then, how both of you can go, and your sheep must take care of your cottage," said the lawyer, and commanded the soldiers to bind them hand and foot. heedless of their entreaties to be spared such an indignity, the soldiers obeyed, bore them to a cart, and set out for the king's palace, leaving the cottage door open, the fire burning, the pot of potatoes boiling upon it, the sheep scattered over the hill, and the dogs not knowing what to do. hardly were they gone, however, before the wise woman walked up, with prince behind her, peeped into the cottage, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, and then walked away up the hill. in a few minutes there arose a great battle between prince and the dog which filled his former place--a well-meaning but dull fellow, who could fight better than feed. prince was not long in showing him that he was meant for his master, and then, by his efforts, and directions to the other dogs, the sheep were soon gathered again, and out of danger from foxes and bad dogs. as soon as this was done, the wise woman left them in charge of prince, while she went to the next farm to arrange for the folding of the sheep and the feeding of the dogs. when the soldiers reached the palace, they were ordered to carry their prisoners at once into the presence of the king and queen, in the throne room. their two thrones stood upon a high dais at one end, and on the floor at the foot of the dais, the soldiers laid their helpless prisoners. the queen commanded that they should be unbound, and ordered them to stand up. they obeyed with the dignity of insulted innocence, and their bearing offended their foolish majesties. meantime the princess, after a long day's journey, arrived at the palace, and walked up to the sentry at the gate. "stand back," said the sentry. "i wish to go in, if you please," said the princess gently. "ha! ha! ha!" laughed the sentry, for he was one of those dull people who form their judgment from a person's clothes, without even looking in his eyes; and as the princess happened to be in rags, her request was amusing, and the booby thought himself quite clever for laughing at her so thoroughly. "i am the princess," rosamond said quietly. "what princess?" bellowed the man. "the princess rosamond. is there another?" she answered and asked. but the man was so tickled at the wondrous idea of a princess in rags, that he scarcely heard what she said for laughing. as soon as he recovered a little, he proceeded to chuck the princess under the chin, saying-- "you're a pretty girl, my dear, though you ain't no princess." rosamond drew back with dignity. "you have spoken three untruths at once," she said. "i am not pretty, and i am a princess, and if i were dear to you, as i ought to be, you would not laugh at me because i am badly dressed, but stand aside, and let me go to my father and mother." the tone of her speech, and the rebuke she gave him, made the man look at her; and looking at her, he began to tremble inside his foolish body, and wonder whether he might not have made a mistake. he raised his hand in salute, and said-- "i beg your pardon, miss, but i have express orders to admit no child whatever within the palace gates. they tell me his majesty the king says he is sick of children." "he may well be sick of me!" thought the princess; "but it can't mean that he does not want me home again.--i don't think you can very well call me a child," she said, looking the sentry full in the face. "you ain't very big, miss," answered the soldier, "but so be you say you ain't a child, i'll take the risk. the king can only kill me, and a man must die once." he opened the gate, stepped aside, and allowed her to pass. had she lost her temper, as every one but the wise woman would have expected of her, he certainly would not have done so. she ran into the palace, the door of which had been left open by the porter when he followed the soldiers and prisoners to the throne-room, and bounded up the stairs to look for her father and mother. as she passed the door of the throne-room she heard an unusual noise in it, and running to the king's private entrance, over which hung a heavy curtain, she peeped past the edge of it, and saw, to her amazement, the shepherd and shepherdess standing like culprits before the king and queen, and the same moment heard the king say-- "peasants, where is the princess rosamond?" "truly, sire, we do not know," answered the shepherd. "you ought to know," said the king. "sire, we could keep her no longer." "you confess, then," said the king, suppressing the outbreak of the wrath that boiled up in him, "that you turned her out of your house." for the king had been informed by a swift messenger of all that had passed long before the arrival of the prisoners. "we did, sire; but not only could we keep her no longer, but we knew not that she was the princess." "you ought to have known, the moment you cast your eyes upon her," said the king. "any one who does not know a princess the moment he sees her, ought to have his eyes put out." "indeed he ought," said the queen. to this they returned no answer, for they had none ready. "why did you not bring her at once to the palace," pursued the king, "whether you knew her to be a princess or not? my proclamation left nothing to your judgment. it said every child." "we heard nothing of the proclamation, sire." "you ought to have heard," said the king. "it is enough that i make proclamations; it is for you to read them. are they not written in letters of gold upon the brazen gates of this palace?" "a poor shepherd, your majesty--how often must he leave his flock, and go hundreds of miles to look whether there may not be something in letters of gold upon the brazen gates? we did not know that your majesty had made a proclamation, or even that the princess was lost." "you ought to have known," said the king. the shepherd held his peace. "but," said the queen, taking up the word, "all that is as nothing, when i think how you misused the darling." the only ground the queen had for saying thus, was what agnes had told her as to how the princess was dressed; and her condition seemed to the queen so miserable, that she had imagined all sorts of oppression and cruelty. but this was more than the shepherdess, who had not yet spoken, could bear. "she would have been dead, and not buried, long ago, madam, if i had not carried her home in my two arms." "why does she say her two arms?" said the king to himself. "has she more than two? is there treason in that?" "you dressed her in cast-off clothes," said the queen. "i dressed her in my own sweet child's sunday clothes. and this is what i get for it!" cried the shepherdess, bursting into tears. "and what did you do with the clothes you took off her? sell them?" "put them in the fire, madam. they were not fit for the poorest child in the mountains. they were so ragged that you could see her skin through them in twenty different places." "you cruel woman, to torture a mother's feelings so!" cried the queen, and in her turn burst into tears. "and i'm sure," sobbed the shepherdess, "i took every pains to teach her what it was right for her to know. i taught her to tidy the house and"-- "tidy the house!" moaned the queen. "my poor wretched offspring!" "and peel the potatoes, and"-- "peel the potatoes!" cried the queen. "oh, horror!" "and black her master's boots," said the shepherdess. "black her master's boots!" shrieked the queen. "oh, my white-handed princess! oh, my ruined baby!" "what i want to know," said the king, paying no heed to this maternal duel, but patting the top of his sceptre as if it had been the hilt of a sword which he was about to draw, "is, where the princess is now." the shepherd made no answer, for he had nothing to say more than he had said already. "you have murdered her!" shouted the king. "you shall be tortured till you confess the truth; and then you shall be tortured to death, for you are the most abominable wretches in the whole wide world." "who accuses me of crime?" cried the shepherd, indignant. "i accuse you," said the king; "but you shall see, face to face, the chief witness to your villany. officer, bring the girl." silence filled the hall while they waited. the king's face was swollen with anger. the queen hid hers behind her handkerchief. the shepherd and shepherdess bent their eyes on the ground, wondering. it was with difficulty rosamond could keep her place, but so wise had she already become that she saw it would be far better to let every thing come out before she interfered. at length the door opened, and in came the officer, followed by agnes, looking white as death and mean as sin. the shepherdess gave a shriek, and darted towards her with arms spread wide; the shepherd followed, but not so eagerly. "my child! my lost darling! my agnes!" cried the shepherdess. "hold them asunder," shouted the king. "here is more villany! what! have i a scullery-maid in my house born of such parents? the parents of such a child must be capable of any thing. take all three of them to the rack. stretch them till their joints are torn asunder, and give them no water. away with them!" the soldiers approached to lay hands on them. but, behold! a girl all in rags, with such a radiant countenance that it was right lovely to see, darted between, and careless of the royal presence, flung herself upon the shepherdess, crying,-- "do not touch her. she is my good, kind mistress." but the shepherdess could hear or see no one but her agnes, and pushed her away. then the princess turned, with the tears in her eyes, to the shepherd, and threw her arms about his neck and pulled down his head and kissed him. and the tall shepherd lifted her to his bosom and kept her there, but his eyes were fixed on his agnes. "what is the meaning of this?" cried the king, starting up from his throne. "how did that ragged girl get in here? take her away with the rest. she is one of them, too." but the princess made the shepherd set her down, and before any one could interfere she had run up the steps of the dais and then the steps of the king's throne like a squirrel, flung herself upon the king, and begun to smother him with kisses. all stood astonished, except the three peasants, who did not even see what took place. the shepherdess kept calling to her agnes, but she was so ashamed that she did not dare even lift her eyes to meet her mother's, and the shepherd kept gazing on her in silence. as for the king, he was so breathless and aghast with astonishment, that he was too feeble to fling the ragged child from him, as he tried to do. but she left him, and running down the steps of the one throne and up those of the other, began kissing the queen next. but the queen cried out,-- "get away, you great rude child!--will nobody take her to the rack?" then the princess, hardly knowing what she did for joy that she had come in time, ran down the steps of the throne and the dais, and placing herself between the shepherd and shepherdess, took a hand of each, and stood looking at the king and queen. their faces began to change. at last they began to know her. but she was so altered--so lovelily altered, that it was no wonder they should not have known her at the first glance; but it was the fault of the pride and anger and injustice with which their hearts were filled, that they did not know her at the second. the king gazed and the queen gazed, both half risen from their thrones, and looking as if about to tumble down upon her, if only they could be right sure that the ragged girl was their own child. a mistake would be such a dreadful thing! "my darling!" at last shrieked the mother, a little doubtfully. "my pet of pets?" cried the father, with an interrogative twist of tone. another moment, and they were half way down the steps of the dais. "stop!" said a voice of command from somewhere in the hall, and, king and queen as they were, they stopped at once half way, then drew themselves up, stared, and began to grow angry again, but durst not go farther. the wise woman was coming slowly up through the crowd that filled the hall. every one made way for her. she came straight on until she stood in front of the king and queen. "miserable man and woman!" she said, in words they alone could hear, "i took your daughter away when she was worthy of such parents; i bring her back, and they are unworthy of her. that you did not know her when she came to you is a small wonder, for you have been blind in soul all your lives: now be blind in body until your better eyes are unsealed." she threw her cloak open. it fell to the ground, and the radiance that flashed from her robe of snowy whiteness, from her face of awful beauty, and from her eyes that shone like pools of sunlight, smote them blind. rosamond saw them give a great start, shudder, waver to and fro, then sit down on the steps of the dais; and she knew they were punished, but knew not how. she rushed up to them, and catching a hand of each said-- "father, dear father! mother dear! i will ask the wise woman to forgive you." "oh, i am blind! i am blind!" they cried together. "dark as night! stone blind!" rosamond left them, sprang down the steps, and kneeling at her feet, cried, "oh, my lovely wise woman! do let them see. do open their eyes, dear, good, wise woman." the wise woman bent down to her, and said, so that none else could hear, "i will one day. meanwhile you must be their servant, as i have been yours. bring them to me, and i will make them welcome." rosamond rose, went up the steps again to her father and mother, where they sat like statues with closed eyes, half-way from the top of the dais where stood their empty thrones, seated herself between them, took a hand of each, and was still. all this time very few in the room saw the wise woman. the moment she threw off her cloak she vanished from the sight of almost all who were present. the woman who swept and dusted the hall and brushed the thrones, saw her, and the shepherd had a glimmering vision of her; but no one else that i know of caught a glimpse of her. the shepherdess did not see her. nor did agnes, but she felt her presence upon her like the beat of a furnace seven times heated. as soon as rosamond had taken her place between her father and mother, the wise woman lifted her cloak from the floor, and threw it again around her. then everybody saw her, and agnes felt as if a soft dewy cloud had come between her and the torrid rays of a vertical sun. the wise woman turned to the shepherd and shepherdess. "for you," she said, "you are sufficiently punished by the work of your own hands. instead of making your daughter obey you, you left her to be a slave to herself; you coaxed when you ought to have compelled; you praised when you ought to have been silent; you fondled when you ought to have punished; you threatened when you ought to have inflicted--and there she stands, the full-grown result of your foolishness! she is your crime and your punishment. take her home with you, and live hour after hour with the pale-hearted disgrace you call your daughter. what she is, the worm at her heart has begun to teach her. when life is no longer endurable, come to me. "madam," said the shepherd, "may i not go with you now?" "you shall," said the wise woman. "husband! husband!" cried the shepherdess, "how are we two to get home without you?" "i will see to that," said the wise woman. "but little of home you will find it until you have come to me. the king carried you hither, and he shall carry you back. but your husband shall not go with you. he cannot now if he would." the shepherdess looked and saw that the shepherd stood in a deep sleep. she went to him and sought to rouse him, but neither tongue nor hands were of the slightest avail. the wise woman turned to rosamond. "my child," she said, "i shall never be far from you. come to me when you will. bring them to me." rosamond smiled and kissed her hand, but kept her place by her parents. they also were now in a deep sleep like the shepherd. the wise woman took the shepherd by the hand, and led him away. and that is all my double story. how double it is, if you care to know, you must find out. if you think it is not finished--i never knew a story that was. i could tell you a great deal more concerning them all, but i have already told more than is good for those who read but with their foreheads, and enough for those whom it has made look a little solemn, and sigh as they close the book. the master key an electrical fairy tale founded upon the mysteries of electricity and the optimism of its devotees. it was written for boys, but others may read it by l. frank baum contents --who knows?-- . rob's workshop . the demon of electricity . the three gifts . testing the instruments . the cannibal island . the buccaneers . the demon becomes angry . rob acquires new powers . the second journey . how rob served a mighty king . the man of science . how rob saved a republic . rob loses his treasures . turk and tatar . a battle with monsters . shipwrecked mariners . the coast of oregon . a narrow escape . rob makes a resolution . the unhappy fate of the demon who knows? these things are quite improbable, to be sure; but are they impossible? our big world rolls over as smoothly as it did centuries ago, without a squeak to show it needs oiling after all these years of revolution. but times change because men change, and because civilization, like john brown's soul, goes ever marching on. the impossibilities of yesterday become the accepted facts of to-day. here is a fairy tale founded upon the wonders of electricity and written for children of this generation. yet when my readers shall have become men and women my story may not seem to their children like a fairy tale at all. perhaps one, perhaps two--perhaps several of the demon's devices will be, by that time, in popular use. who knows? . rob's workshop when rob became interested in electricity his clear-headed father considered the boy's fancy to be instructive as well as amusing; so he heartily encouraged his son, and rob never lacked batteries, motors or supplies of any sort that his experiments might require. he fitted up the little back room in the attic as his workshop, and from thence a net-work of wires soon ran throughout the house. not only had every outside door its electric bell, but every window was fitted with a burglar alarm; moreover no one could cross the threshold of any interior room without registering the fact in rob's workshop. the gas was lighted by an electric fob; a chime, connected with an erratic clock in the boy's room, woke the servants at all hours of the night and caused the cook to give warning; a bell rang whenever the postman dropped a letter into the box; there were bells, bells, bells everywhere, ringing at the right time, the wrong time and all the time. and there were telephones in the different rooms, too, through which rob could call up the different members of the family just when they did not wish to be disturbed. his mother and sisters soon came to vote the boy's scientific craze a nuisance; but his father was delighted with these evidences of rob's skill as an electrician, and insisted that he be allowed perfect freedom in carrying out his ideas. "electricity," said the old gentleman, sagely, "is destined to become the motive power of the world. the future advance of civilization will be along electrical lines. our boy may become a great inventor and astonish the world with his wonderful creations." "and in the meantime," said the mother, despairingly, "we shall all be electrocuted, or the house burned down by crossed wires, or we shall be blown into eternity by an explosion of chemicals!" "nonsense!" ejaculated the proud father. "rob's storage batteries are not powerful enough to electrocute one or set the house on fire. do give the boy a chance, belinda." "and the pranks are so humiliating," continued the lady. "when the minister called yesterday and rang the bell a big card appeared on the front door on which was printed the words: 'busy; call again.' fortunately helen saw him and let him in, but when i reproved robert for the act he said he was just trying the sign to see if it would work." "exactly! the boy is an inventor already. i shall have one of those cards attached to the door of my private office at once. i tell you, belinda, our son will be a great man one of these days," said mr. joslyn, walking up and down with pompous strides and almost bursting with the pride he took in his young hopeful. mrs. joslyn sighed. she knew remonstrance was useless so long as her husband encouraged the boy, and that she would be wise to bear her cross with fortitude. rob also knew his mother's protests would be of no avail; so he continued to revel in electrical processes of all sorts, using the house as an experimental station to test the powers of his productions. it was in his own room, however,--his "workshop"--that he especially delighted. for not only was it the center of all his numerous "lines" throughout the house, but he had rigged up therein a wonderful array of devices for his own amusement. a trolley-car moved around a circular track and stopped regularly at all stations; an engine and train of cars moved jerkily up and down a steep grade and through a tunnel; a windmill was busily pumping water from the dishpan into the copper skillet; a sawmill was in full operation and a host of mechanical blacksmiths, scissors-grinders, carpenters, wood-choppers and millers were connected with a motor which kept them working away at their trades in awkward but persevering fashion. the room was crossed and recrossed with wires. they crept up the walls, lined the floor, made a grille of the ceiling and would catch an unwary visitor under the chin or above the ankle just when he least expected it. yet visitors were forbidden in so crowded a room, and even his father declined to go farther than the doorway. as for rob, he thought he knew all about the wires, and what each one was for; but they puzzled even him, at times, and he was often perplexed to know how to utilize them all. one day when he had locked himself in to avoid interruption while he planned the electrical illumination of a gorgeous pasteboard palace, he really became confused over the network of wires. he had a "switchboard," to be sure, where he could make and break connections as he chose; but the wires had somehow become mixed, and he could not tell what combinations to use to throw the power on to his miniature electric lights. so he experimented in a rather haphazard fashion, connecting this and that wire blindly and by guesswork, in the hope that he would strike the right combination. then he thought the combination might be right and there was a lack of power; so he added other lines of wire to his connections, and still others, until he had employed almost every wire in the room. yet it would not work; and after pausing a moment to try to think what was wrong he went at it again, putting this and that line into connection, adding another here and another there, until suddenly, as he made a last change, a quick flash of light almost blinded him, and the switch-board crackled ominously, as if struggling to carry a powerful current. rob covered his face at the flash, but finding himself unhurt he took away his hands and with blinking eyes attempted to look at a wonderful radiance which seemed to fill the room, making it many times brighter than the brightest day. although at first completely dazzled, he peered before him until he discovered that the light was concentrated near one spot, from which all the glorious rays seemed to scintillate. he closed his eyes a moment to rest them; then re-opening them and shading them somewhat with his hands, he made out the form of a curious being standing with majesty and composure in the center of the magnificent radiance and looking down upon him! . the demon of electricity rob was a courageous boy, but a thrill of fear passed over him in spite of his bravest endeavor as he gazed upon the wondrous apparition that confronted him. for several moments he sat as if turned to stone, so motionless was he; but his eyes were nevertheless fastened upon the being and devouring every detail of his appearance. and how strange an appearance he presented! his jacket was a wavering mass of white light, edged with braid of red flames that shot little tongues in all directions. the buttons blazed in golden fire. his trousers had a bluish, incandescent color, with glowing stripes of crimson braid. his vest was gorgeous with all the colors of the rainbow blended into a flashing, resplendent mass. in feature he was most majestic, and his eyes held the soft but penetrating brilliance of electric lights. it was hard to meet the gaze of those searching eyes, but rob did it, and at once the splendid apparition bowed and said in a low, clear voice: "i am here." "i know that," answered the boy, trembling, "but why are you here?" "because you have touched the master key of electricity, and i must obey the laws of nature that compel me to respond to your summons." "i--i didn't know i touched the master key," faltered the boy. "i understand that. you did it unconsciously. no one in the world has ever done it before, for nature has hitherto kept the secret safe locked within her bosom." rob took time to wonder at this statement. "then who are you?" he inquired, at length. "the demon of electricity," was the solemn answer. "good gracious!" exclaimed rob, "a demon!" "certainly. i am, in truth, the slave of the master key, and am forced to obey the commands of any one who is wise and brave enough--or, as in your own case, fortunate and fool-hardy enough--to touch it." "i--i've never guessed there was such a thing as a master key, or--or a demon of electricity, and--and i'm awfully sorry i--i called you up!" stammered the boy, abashed by the imposing appearance of his companion. the demon actually smiled at this speech,--a smile that was almost reassuring. "i am not sorry," he said, in kindlier tone, "for it is not much pleasure waiting century after century for some one to command my services. i have often thought my existence uncalled for, since you earth people are so stupid and ignorant that you seem unlikely ever to master the secret of electrical power." "oh, we have some great masters among us!" cried rob, rather nettled at this statement. "now, there's edison--" "edison!" exclaimed the demon, with a faint sneer; "what does he know?" "lots of things," declared the boy. "he's invented no end of wonderful electrical things." "you are wrong to call them wonderful," replied the demon, lightly. "he really knows little more than yourself about the laws that control electricity. his inventions are trifling things in comparison with the really wonderful results to be obtained by one who would actually know how to direct the electric powers instead of groping blindly after insignificant effects. why, i've stood for months by edison's elbow, hoping and longing for him to touch the master key; but i can see plainly he will never accomplish it." "then there's tesla," said the boy. the demon laughed. "there is tesla, to be sure," he said. "but what of him?" "why, he's discovered a powerful light," the demon gave an amused chuckle, "and he's in communication with the people in mars." "what people?" "why, the people who live there." "there are none." this great statement almost took rob's breath away, and caused him to stare hard at his visitor. "it's generally thought," he resumed, in an annoyed tone, "that mars has inhabitants who are far in advance of ourselves in civilization. many scientific men think the people of mars have been trying to signal us for years, only we don't understand their signals. and great novelists have written about the martians and their wonderful civilization, and--" "and they all know as much about that little planet as you do yourself," interrupted the demon, impatiently. "the trouble with you earth people is that you delight in guessing about what you can not know. now i happen to know all about mars, because i can traverse all space and have had ample leisure to investigate the different planets. mars is not peopled at all, nor is any other of the planets you recognize in the heavens. some contain low orders of beasts, to be sure, but earth alone has an intelligent, thinking, reasoning population, and your scientists and novelists would do better trying to comprehend their own planet than in groping through space to unravel the mysteries of barren and unimportant worlds." rob listened to this with surprise and disappointment; but he reflected that the demon ought to know what he was talking about, so he did not venture to contradict him. "it is really astonishing," continued the apparition, "how little you people have learned about electricity. it is an earth element that has existed since the earth itself was formed, and if you but understood its proper use humanity would be marvelously benefited in many ways." "we are, already," protested rob; "our discoveries in electricity have enabled us to live much more conveniently." "then imagine your condition were you able fully to control this great element," replied the other, gravely. "the weaknesses and privations of mankind would be converted into power and luxury." "that's true, mr.--mr.--demon," said the boy. "excuse me if i don't get your name right, but i understood you to say you are a demon." "certainly. the demon of electricity." "but electricity is a good thing, you know, and--and--" "well?" "i've always understood that demons were bad things," added rob, boldly. "not necessarily," returned his visitor. "if you will take the trouble to consult your dictionary, you will find that demons may be either good or bad, like any other class of beings. originally all demons were good, yet of late years people have come to consider all demons evil. i do not know why. should you read hesiod you will find he says: 'soon was a world of holy demons made, aerial spirits, by great jove designed to be on earth the guardians of mankind.'" "but jove was himself a myth," objected rob, who had been studying mythology. the demon shrugged his shoulders. "then take the words of mr. shakespeare, to whom you all defer," he replied. "do you not remember that he says: 'thy demon (that's thy spirit which keeps thee) is noble, courageous, high, unmatchable.'" "oh, if shakespeare says it, that's all right," answered the boy. "but it seems you're more like a genius, for you answer the summons of the master key of electricity in the same way aladdin's genius answered the rubbing of the lamp." "to be sure. a demon is also a genius; and a genius is a demon," said the being. "what matters a name? i am here to do your bidding." . the three gifts familiarity with any great thing removes our awe of it. the great general is only terrible to the enemy; the great poet is frequently scolded by his wife; the children of the great statesman clamber about his knees with perfect trust and impunity; the great actor who is called before the curtain by admiring audiences is often waylaid at the stage door by his creditors. so rob, having conversed for a time with the glorious demon of electricity, began to regard him with more composure and less awe, as his eyes grew more and more accustomed to the splendor that at first had well-nigh blinded them. when the demon announced himself ready to do the boy's bidding, he frankly replied: "i am no skilled electrician, as you very well know. my calling you here was an accident. so i don't know how to command you, nor what to ask you to do." "but i must not take advantage of your ignorance," answered the demon. "also, i am quite anxious to utilize this opportunity to show the world what a powerful element electricity really is. so permit me to inform you that, having struck the master key, you are at liberty to demand from me three gifts each week for three successive weeks. these gifts, provided they are within the scope of electricity, i will grant." rob shook his head regretfully. "if i were a great electrician i should know what to ask," he said. "but i am too ignorant to take advantage of your kind offer." "then," replied the demon, "i will myself suggest the gifts, and they will be of such a character that the earth people will learn the possibilities that lie before them and be encouraged to work more intelligently and to persevere in mastering those natural and simple laws which control electricity. for one of the greatest errors they now labor under is that electricity is complicated and hard to understand. it is really the simplest earth element, lying within easy reach of any one who stretches out his hand to grasp and control its powers." rob yawned, for he thought the demon's speeches were growing rather tiresome. perhaps the genius noticed this rudeness, for he continued: "i regret, of course, that you are a boy instead of a grown man, for it will appear singular to your friends that so thoughtless a youth should seemingly have mastered the secrets that have baffled your most learned scientists. but that can not be helped, and presently you will become, through my aid, the most powerful and wonderful personage in all the world." "thank you," said rob, meekly. "it'll be no end of fun." "fun!" echoed the demon, scornfully. "but never mind; i must use the material fate has provided for me, and make the best of it." "what will you give me first?" asked the boy, eagerly. "that requires some thought," returned the demon, and paused for several moments, while rob feasted his eyes upon the gorgeous rays of color that flashed and vibrated in every direction and surrounded the figure of his visitor with an intense glow that resembled a halo. then the demon raised his head and said: "the thing most necessary to man is food to nourish his body. he passes a considerable part of his life in the struggle to procure food, to prepare it properly, and in the act of eating. this is not right. your body can not be very valuable to you if all your time is required to feed it. i shall, therefore, present you, as my first gift, this box of tablets. within each tablet are stored certain elements of electricity which are capable of nourishing a human body for a full day. all you need do is to toss one into your mouth each day and swallow it. it will nourish you, satisfy your hunger and build up your health and strength. the ordinary food of mankind is more or less injurious; this is entirely beneficial. moreover, you may carry enough tablets in your pocket to last for months." here he presented rob the silver box of tablets, and the boy, somewhat nervously, thanked him for the gift. "the next requirement of man," continued the demon, "is defense from his enemies. i notice with sorrow that men frequently have wars and kill one another. also, even in civilized communities, man is in constant danger from highwaymen, cranks and policemen. to defend himself he uses heavy and dangerous guns, with which to destroy his enemies. this is wrong. he has no right to take away what he can not bestow; to destroy what he can not create. to kill a fellow-creature is a horrid crime, even if done in self-defense. therefore, my second gift to you is this little tube. you may carry it within your pocket. whenever an enemy threatens you, be it man or beast, simply point the tube and press this button in the handle. an electric current will instantly be directed upon your foe, rendering him wholly unconscious for the period of one hour. during that time you will have opportunity to escape. as for your enemy, after regaining consciousness he will suffer no inconvenience from the encounter beyond a slight headache." "that's fine!" said rob, as he took the tube. it was scarcely six inches long, and hollow at one end. "the busy lives of men," proceeded the demon, "require them to move about and travel in all directions. yet to assist them there are only such crude and awkward machines as electric trolleys, cable cars, steam railways and automobiles. these crawl slowly over the uneven surface of the earth and frequently get out of order. it has grieved me that men have not yet discovered what even birds know: that the atmosphere offers them swift and easy means of traveling from one part of the earth's surface to another." "some people have tried to build airships," remarked rob. "so they have; great, unwieldy machines which offer so much resistance to the air that they are quite useless. a big machine is not needed to carry one through the air. there are forces in nature which may be readily used for such purpose. tell me, what holds you to the earth, and makes a stone fall to the ground?" "attraction of gravitation," said rob, promptly. "exactly. that is one force i refer to," said the demon. "the force of repulsion, which is little known, but just as powerful, is another that mankind may direct. then there are the polar electric forces, attracting objects toward the north or south poles. you have guessed something of this by the use of the compass, or electric needle. opposed to these is centrifugal electric force, drawing objects from east to west, or in the opposite direction. this force is created by the whirl of the earth upon its axis, and is easily utilized, although your scientific men have as yet paid little attention to it. "these forces, operating in all directions, absolute and immutable, are at the disposal of mankind. they will carry you through the atmosphere wherever and whenever you choose. that is, if you know how to control them. now, here is a machine i have myself perfected." the demon drew from his pocket something that resembled an open-faced watch, having a narrow, flexible band attached to it. "when you wish to travel," said he, "attach this little machine to your left wrist by means of the band. it is very light and will not be in your way. on this dial are points marked 'up' and 'down' as well as a perfect compass. when you desire to rise into the air set the indicator to the word 'up,' using a finger of your right hand to turn it. when you have risen as high as you wish, set the indicator to the point of the compass you want to follow and you will be carried by the proper electric force in that direction. to descend, set the indicator to the word 'down.' do you understand?" "perfectly!" cried rob, taking the machine from the demon with unfeigned delight. "this is really wonderful, and i'm awfully obliged to you!" "don't mention it," returned the demon, dryly. "these three gifts you may amuse yourself with for the next week. it seems hard to entrust such great scientific discoveries to the discretion of a mere boy; but they are quite harmless, so if you exercise proper care you can not get into trouble through their possession. and who knows what benefits to humanity may result? one week from to-day, at this hour, i will again appear to you, at which time you shall receive the second series of electrical gifts." "i'm not sure," said rob, "that i shall be able again to make the connections that will strike the master key." "probably not," answered the demon. "could you accomplish that, you might command my services forever. but, having once succeeded, you are entitled to the nine gifts--three each week for three weeks--so you have no need to call me to do my duty. i shall appear of my own accord." "thank you," murmured the boy. the demon bowed and spread his hands in the form of a semi-circle. an instant later there was a blinding flash, and when rob recovered from it and opened his eyes the demon of electricity had disappeared. . testing the instruments there is little doubt that this strange experience befallen a grown man he would have been stricken with a fit of trembling or a sense of apprehension, or even fear, at the thought of having faced the terrible demon of electricity, of having struck the master key of the world's greatest natural forces, and finding himself possessed of three such wonderful and useful gifts. but a boy takes everything as a matter of course. as the tree of knowledge sprouts and expands within him, shooting out leaf after leaf of practical experience, the succession of surprises dulls his faculty of wonderment. it takes a great deal to startle a boy. rob was full of delight at his unexpected good fortune; but he did not stop to consider that there was anything remarkably queer or uncanny in the manner in which it had come to him. his chief sensation was one of pride. he would now be able to surprise those who had made fun of his electrical craze and force them to respect his marvelous powers. he decided to say nothing about the demon or the accidental striking of the master key. in exhibiting to his friends the electrical devices he had acquired it would be "no end of fun" to mark their amazement and leave them to guess how he performed his feats. so he put his treasures into his pocket, locked his workshop and went downstairs to his room to prepare for dinner. while brushing his hair he remembered it was no longer necessary for him to eat ordinary food. he was feeling quite hungry at that moment, for he had a boy's ravenous appetite; but, taking the silver box from his pocket, he swallowed a tablet and at once felt his hunger as fully satisfied as if he had partaken of a hearty meal, while at the same time he experienced an exhilarating glow throughout his body and a clearness of brain and gaiety of spirits which filled him with intense gratification. still, he entered the dining-room when the bell rang and found his father and mother and sisters already assembled there. "where have you been all day, robert?" inquired his mother. "no need to ask," said mr. joslyn, with a laugh. "fussing over electricity, i'll bet a cookie!" "i do wish," said the mother, fretfully, "that he would get over that mania. it unfits him for anything else." "precisely," returned her husband, dishing the soup; "but it fits him for a great career when he becomes a man. why shouldn't he spend his summer vacation in pursuit of useful knowledge instead of romping around like ordinary boys?" "no soup, thank you," said rob. "what!" exclaimed his father, looking at him in surprise, "it's your favorite soup." "i know," said rob, quietly, "but i don't want any." "are you ill, robert?" asked his mother. "never felt better in my life," answered rob, truthfully. yet mrs. joslyn looked worried, and when rob refused the roast, she was really shocked. "let me feel your pulse, my poor boy!" she commanded, and wondered to find it so regular. in fact, rob's action surprised them all. he sat calmly throughout the meal, eating nothing, but apparently in good health and spirits, while even his sisters regarded him with troubled countenances. "he's worked too hard, i guess," said mr. joslyn, shaking his head sadly. "oh, no; i haven't," protested rob; "but i've decided not to eat anything, hereafter. it's a bad habit, and does more harm than good." "wait till breakfast," said sister helen, with a laugh; "you'll be hungry enough by that time." however, the boy had no desire for food at breakfast time, either, as the tablet sufficed for an entire day. so he renewed the anxiety of the family by refusing to join them at the table. "if this goes on," mr joslyn said to his son, when breakfast was finished, "i shall be obliged to send you away for your health." "i think of making a trip this morning," said rob, carelessly. "where to?" "oh, i may go to boston, or take a run over to cuba or jamaica," replied the boy. "but you can not go so far by yourself," declared his father; "and there is no one to go with you, just now. nor can i spare the money at present for so expensive a trip." "oh, it won't cost anything," replied rob, with a smile. mr. joslyn looked upon him gravely and sighed. mrs. joslyn bent over her son with tears in her eyes and said: "this electrical nonsense has affected your mind, dear. you must promise me to keep away from that horrid workshop for a time." "i won't enter it for a week," he answered. "but you needn't worry about me. i haven't been experimenting with electricity all this time for nothing, i can tell you. as for my health, i'm as well and strong as any boy need be, and there's nothing wrong with my head, either. common folks always think great men are crazy, but edison and tesla and i don't pay any attention to that. we've got our discoveries to look after. now, as i said, i'm going for a little trip in the interests of science. i may be back to-night, or i may be gone several days. anyhow, i'll be back in a week, and you mustn't worry about me a single minute." "how are you going?" inquired his father, in the gentle, soothing tone persons use in addressing maniacs. "through the air," said rob. his father groaned. "where's your balloon?" inquired sister mabel, sarcastically. "i don't need a balloon," returned the boy. "that's a clumsy way of traveling, at best. i shall go by electric propulsion." "good gracious!" cried mr. joslyn, and the mother murmured: "my poor boy! my poor boy!" "as you are my nearest relatives," continued rob, not noticing these exclamations, "i will allow you to come into the back yard and see me start. you will then understand something of my electrical powers." they followed him at once, although with unbelieving faces, and on the way rob clasped the little machine to his left wrist, so that his coat sleeve nearly hid it. when they reached the lawn at the back of the house rob kissed them all good-by, much to his sisters' amusement, and turned the indicator of the little instrument to the word "up." immediately he began to rise into the air. "don't worry about me!" he called down to them. "good-by!" mrs. joslyn, with a scream of terror, hid her face in her hands. "he'll break his neck!" cried the astounded father, tipping back his head to look after his departing son. "come back! come back!" shouted the girls to the soaring adventurer. "i will--some day!" was the far-away answer. having risen high enough to pass over the tallest tree or steeple, rob put the indicator to the east of the compass-dial and at once began moving rapidly in that direction. the sensation was delightful. he rode as gently as a feather floats, without any exertion at all on his own part; yet he moved so swiftly that he easily distanced a railway train that was speeding in the same direction. "this is great!" reflected the youth. "here i am, traveling in fine style, without a penny to pay any one! and i've enough food to last me a month in my coat pocket. this electricity is the proper stuff, after all! and the demon's a trump, and no mistake. whee-ee! how small everything looks down below there. the people are bugs, and the houses are soap-boxes, and the trees are like clumps of grass. i seem to be passing over a town. guess i'll drop down a bit, and take in the sights." he pointed the indicator to the word "down," and at once began dropping through the air. he experienced the sensation one feels while descending in an elevator. when he reached a point just above the town he put the indicator to the zero mark and remained stationary, while he examined the place. but there was nothing to interest him, particularly; so after a brief survey he once more ascended and continued his journey toward the east. at about two o'clock in the afternoon he reached the city of boston, and alighting unobserved in a quiet street he walked around for several hours enjoying the sights and wondering what people would think of him if they but knew his remarkable powers. but as he looked just like any other boy no one noticed him in any way. it was nearly evening, and rob had wandered down by the wharves to look at the shipping, when his attention was called to an ugly looking bull dog, which ran toward him and began barking ferociously. "get out!" said the boy, carelessly, and made a kick at the brute. the dog uttered a fierce growl and sprang upon him with bared teeth and flashing red eyes. instantly rob drew the electric tube from his pocket, pointed it at the dog and pressed the button. almost at the same moment the dog gave a yelp, rolled over once or twice and lay still. "i guess that'll settle him," laughed the boy; but just then he heard an angry shout, and looking around saw a policeman running toward him. "kill me dog, will ye--eh?" yelled the officer; "well, i'll just run ye in for that same, an' ye'll spend the night in the lockup!" and on he came, with drawn club in one hand and a big revolver in the other. "you'll have to catch me first," said rob, still laughing, and to the amazement of the policeman he began rising straight into the air. "come down here! come down, or i'll shoot!" shouted the fellow, flourishing his revolver. rob was afraid he would; so, to avoid accidents, he pointed the tube at him and pressed the button. the red-whiskered policeman keeled over quite gracefully and fell across the body of the dog, while rob continued to mount upward until he was out of sight of those in the streets. "that was a narrow escape," he thought, breathing more freely. "i hated to paralyze that policeman, but he might have sent a bullet after me. anyhow, he'll be all right again in an hour, so i needn't worry." it was beginning to grow dark, and he wondered what he should do next. had he possessed any money he would have descended to the town and taken a bed at a hotel, but he had left home without a single penny. fortunately the nights were warm at this season, so he determined to travel all night, that he might reach by morning some place he had never before visited. cuba had always interested him, and he judged it ought to lie in a southeasterly direction from boston. so he set the indicator to that point and began gliding swiftly toward the southeast. he now remembered that it was twenty-four hours since he had eaten the first electrical tablet. as he rode through the air he consumed another. all hunger at once left him, while he felt the same invigorating sensations as before. after a time the moon came out, and rob amused himself gazing at the countless stars in the sky and wondering if the demon was right when he said the world was the most important of all the planets. but presently he grew sleepy, and before he realized what was happening he had fallen into a sound and peaceful slumber, while the indicator still pointed to the southeast and he continued to move rapidly through the cool night air. . the cannibal island doubtless the adventures of the day had tired rob, for he slept throughout the night as comfortably as if he had been within his own room, lying upon his own bed. when, at last, he opened his eyes and gazed sleepily about him, he found himself over a great body of water, moving along with considerable speed. "it's the ocean, of course," he said to himself. "i haven't reached cuba yet." it is to be regretted that rob's knowledge of geography was so superficial; for, as he had intended to reach cuba, he should have taken a course almost southwest from boston, instead of southeast. the sad result of his ignorance you will presently learn, for during the entire day he continued to travel over a boundless waste of ocean, without the sight of even an island to cheer him. the sun shone so hot that he regretted he had not brought an umbrella. but he wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, which protected him somewhat, and he finally discovered that by rising to a considerable distance above the ocean he avoided the reflection of the sun upon the water and also came with the current of good breeze. of course he dared no stop, for there was no place to land; so he calmly continued his journey. "it may be i've missed cuba," he thought; "but i can not change my course now, for if i did i might get lost, and never be able to find land again. if i keep on as i am i shall be sure to reach land of some sort, in time, and when i wish to return home i can set the indicator to the northwest and that will take me directly back to boston." this was good reasoning, but the rash youth had no idea he was speeding over the ocean, or that he was destined to arrive shortly at the barbarous island of brava, off the coast of africa. yet such was the case; just as the sun sank over the edge of the waves he saw, to his great relief, a large island directly in his path. he dropped to a lower position in the air, and when he judged himself to be over the center of the island he turned the indicator to zero and stopped short. the country was beautifully wooded, while pretty brooks sparkled through the rich green foliage of the trees. the island sloped upwards from the sea-coast in all directions, rising to a hill that was almost a mountain in the center. there were two open spaces, one on each side of the island, and rob saw that these spaces were occupied by queer-looking huts built from brushwood and branches of trees. this showed that the island was inhabited, but as rob had no idea what island it was he wisely determined not to meet the natives until he had discovered what they were like and whether they were disposed to be friendly. so he moved over the hill, the top of which proved to be a flat, grass-covered plateau about fifty feet in diameter. finding it could not be easily reached from below, on account of its steep sides, and contained neither men nor animals, he alighted on the hill-top and touched his feet to the earth for the first time in twenty-four hours. the ride through the air had not tired him in the least; in fact, he felt as fresh and vigorous as if he had been resting throughout the journey. as he walked upon the soft grass of the plateau he felt elated, and compared himself to the explorers of ancient days; for it was evident that civilization had not yet reached this delightful spot. there was scarcely any twilight in this tropical climate and it grew dark quickly. within a few minutes the entire island, save where he stood, became dim and indistinct. he ate his daily tablet, and after watching the red glow fade in the western sky and the gray shadows of night settle around him he stretched himself comfortably upon the grass and went to sleep. the events of the day must have deepened his slumber, for when he awoke the sun was shining almost directly over him, showing that the day was well advanced. he stood up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and decided he would like a drink of water. from where he stood he could see several little brooks following winding paths through the forest, so he settled upon one that seemed farthest from the brushwood villages, and turning his indicator in that direction soon floated through the air to a sheltered spot upon the bank. kneeling down, he enjoyed a long, refreshing drink of the clear water, but as he started to regain his feet a coil of rope was suddenly thrown about him, pinning his arms to his sides and rendering him absolutely helpless. at the same time his ears were saluted with a wild chattering in an unknown tongue, and he found himself surrounded by a group of natives of hideous appearance. they were nearly naked, and bore spears and heavy clubs as their only weapons. their hair was long, curly, and thick as bushes, and through their noses and ears were stuck the teeth of sharks and curious metal ornaments. these creatures had stolen upon rob so quietly that he had not heard a sound, but now they jabbered loudly, as if much excited. finally one fat and somewhat aged native, who seemed to be a chief, came close to rob and said, in broken english: "how get here?" "i flew," said the boy, with a grin. the chief shook his head, saying: "no boat come. how white man come?" "through the air," replied rob, who was rather flattered at being called a "man." the chief looked into the air with a puzzled expression and shook his head again. "white man lie," he said calmly. then he held further conversation with his fellows, after which he turned to rob and announced: "me see white man many times. come in big boats. white man all bad. make kill with bang-sticks. we kill white man with club. then we eat white man. dead white man good. live white man bad!" this did not please rob at all. the idea of being eaten by savages had never occurred to him as a sequel to his adventures. so he said rather anxiously to the chief. "look here, old fellow; do you want to die?" "me no die. you die," was the reply. "you'll die, too, if you eat me," said rob. "i'm full of poison." "poison? don't know poison," returned the chief, much perplexed to understand him. "well, poison will make you sick--awful sick. then you'll die. i'm full of it; eat it every day for breakfast. it don't hurt white men, you see, but it kills black men quicker than the bang-stick." the chief listened to this statement carefully, but only understood it in part. after a moment's reflection he declared: "white man lie. lie all time. me eat plenty white man. never get sick; never die." then he added, with renewed cheerfulness: "me eat you, too!" before rob could think of a further protest, his captors caught up the end of the rope and led him away through the forest. he was tightly bound, and one strand of rope ran across the machine on his wrist and pressed it into his flesh until the pain was severe. but he resolved to be brave, whatever happened, so he stumbled along after the savages without a word. after a brief journey they came to a village, where rob was thrust into a brushwood hut and thrown upon the ground, still tightly bound. "we light fire," said the chief. "then kill little white man. then eat him." with this comforting promise he went away and left rob alone to think the matter over. "this is tough," reflected the boy, with a groan. "i never expected to feed cannibals. wish i was at home with mother and dad and the girls. wish i'd never seen the demon of electricity and his wonderful inventions. i was happy enough before i struck that awful master key. and now i'll be eaten--with salt and pepper, probably. wonder if there'll be any gravy. perhaps they'll boil me, with biscuits, as mother does chickens. oh-h-h-h-h! it's just awful!" in the midst of these depressing thoughts he became aware that something was hurting his back. after rolling over he found that he had been lying upon a sharp stone that stuck out of the earth. this gave him an idea. he rolled upon the stone again and began rubbing the rope that bound him against the sharp edge. outside he could hear the crackling of fagots and the roar of a newly-kindled fire, so he knew he had no time to spare. he wriggled and pushed his body right and left, right and left, sawing away at the rope, until the strain and exertion started the perspiration from every pore. at length the rope parted, and hastily uncoiling it from his body rob stood up and rubbed his benumbed muscles and tried to regain his lost breath. he had not freed himself a moment too soon, he found, for hearing a grunt of surprise behind him he turned around and saw a native standing in the door of the hut. rob laughed, for he was not a bit afraid of the blacks now. as the native made a rush toward him the boy drew the electric tube from his pocket, pointed it at the foe, and pressed the button. the fellow sank to the earth without even a groan, and lay still. then another black entered, followed by the fat chief. when they saw rob at liberty, and their comrade lying apparently dead, the chief cried out in surprise, using some expressive words in his own language. "if it's just the same to you, old chap," said rob, coolly, "i won't be eaten to-day. you can make a pie of that fellow on the ground." "no! we eat you," cried the chief, angrily. "you cut rope, but no get away; no boat!" "i don't need a boat, thank you," said the boy; and then, as the other native sprang forward, he pointed the tube and laid him out beside his first victim. at this act the chief stood an instant in amazed uncertainty. then he turned and rushed from the hut. laughing with amusement at the waddling, fat figure, rob followed the chief and found himself standing almost in the center of the native village. a big fire was blazing merrily and the blacks were busy making preparations for a grand feast. rob was quickly surrounded by a crowd of the villagers, who chattered fiercely and made threatening motions in his direction; but as the chief cried out to them a warning in the native tongue they kept a respectful distance and contented themselves with brandishing their spears and clubs. "if any of your fellows come nearer," rob said to the fat chief, "i'll knock 'em over." "what you make do?" asked the chief, nervously. "watch sharp, and you'll see," answered rob. then he made a mocking bow to the circle and continued: "i'm pleased to have met you fellows, and proud to think you like me well enough to want to eat me; but i'm in a bit of a hurry to-day, so i can't stop to be digested." after which, as the crowd broke into a hum of surprise, he added: "good-day, black folks!" and quickly turned the indicator of his traveling machine to the word "up." slowly he rose into the air, until his heels were just above the gaping blacks; but there he stopped short. with a thrill of fear he glanced at the indicator. it was pointed properly, and he knew at once that something was wrong with the delicate mechanism that controlled it. probably the pressure of the rope across its face, when he was bound, had put it out of order. there he was, seven feet in the air, but without the power to rise an inch farther. this short flight, however, had greatly astonished the blacks, who, seeing his body suspended in mid-air, immediately hailed him as a god, and prostrated themselves upon the ground before him. the fat chief had seen something of white men in his youth, and had learned to mistrust them. so, while he remained as prostrate as the rest, he peeped at rob with one of his little black eyes and saw that the boy was ill at ease, and seemed both annoyed and frightened. so he muttered some orders to the man next him, who wriggled along the ground until he had reached a position behind rob, when he rose and pricked the suspended "god" with the point of his spear. "ouch!" yelled the boy; "stop that!" he twisted his head around, and seeing the black again make a movement with the spear, rob turned his electric tube upon him and keeled him over like a ten-pin. the natives, who had looked up at his cry of pain, again prostrated themselves, kicking their toes against the ground in a terrified tattoo at this new evidence of the god's powers. the situation was growing somewhat strained by this time, and rob did not know what the savages would decide to do next; so he thought it best to move away from them, since he was unable to rise to a greater height. he turned the indicator towards the south, where a level space appeared between the trees; but instead of taking that direction he moved towards the northeast, a proof that his machine had now become absolutely unreliable. moreover, he was slowly approaching the fire, which, although it had ceased blazing, was a mass of glowing red embers. in his excitement he turned the indicator this way and that, trying to change the direction of his flight, but the only result of his endeavor was to carry him directly over the fire, where he came to a full stop. "murder! help! fire and blazes!" he cried, as he felt the glow of the coals beneath him. "i'll be roasted, after all! here; help, fatty, help!" the fat chief sprang to his feet and came to the rescue. he reached up, caught rob by the heels, and pulled him down to the ground, away from the fire. but the next moment, as he clung to the boy's feet, they both soared into the air again, and, although now far enough from the fire to escape its heat, the savage, finding himself lifted from the earth, uttered a scream of horror and let go of rob, to fall head over heels upon the ground. the other blacks had by this time regained their feet, and now they crowded around their chief and set him upright again. rob continued to float in the air, just above their heads, and now abandoned all thoughts of escaping by means of his wrecked traveling machine. but he resolved to regain a foothold upon the earth and take his chances of escape by running rather than flying. so he turned the indicator to the word "down," and very slowly it obeyed, allowing him, to his great relief, to sink gently to the ground. . the buccaneers once more the blacks formed a circle around our adventurer, who coolly drew his tube and said to the chief: "tell your people i'm going to walk away through those trees, and if any one dares to interfere with me i'll paralyze him." the chief understood enough english to catch his meaning, and repeated the message to his men. having seen the terrible effect of the electric tube they wisely fell back and allowed the boy to pass. he marched through their lines with a fine air of dignity, although he was fearful lest some of the blacks should stick a spear into him or bump his head with a war-club. but they were awed by the wonders they had seen and were still inclined to believe him a god, so he was not molested. when he found himself outside the village he made for the high plateau in the center of the island, where he could be safe from the cannibals while he collected his thoughts. but when he reached the place he found the sides so steep he could not climb them, so he adjusted the indicator to the word "up" and found it had still had enough power to support his body while he clambered up the rocks to the level, grass-covered space at the top. then, reclining upon his back, he gave himself up to thoughts of how he might escape from his unpleasant predicament. "here i am, on a cannibal island, hundreds of miles from civilization, with no way to get back," he reflected. "the family will look for me every day, and finally decide i've broken my neck. the demon will call upon me when the week is up and won't find me at home; so i'll miss the next three gifts. i don't mind that so much, for they might bring me into worst scrapes than this. but how am i to get away from this beastly island? i'll be eaten, after all, if i don't look out!" these and similar thoughts occupied him for some time, yet in spite of much planning and thinking he could find no practical means of escape. at the end of an hour he looked over the edge of the plateau and found it surrounded by a ring of the black cannibals, who had calmly seated themselves to watch his movements. "perhaps they intend to starve me into surrender," he thought; "but they won't succeed so long as my tablets hold out. and if, in time, they should starve me, i'll be too thin and tough to make good eating; so i'll get the best of them, anyhow." then he again lay down and began to examine his electrical traveling machine. he did not dare take it apart, fearing he might not be able to get it together again, for he knew nothing at all about its construction. but he discovered two little dents on the edge, one on each side, which had evidently been caused by the pressure of the rope. "if i could get those dents out," he thought, "the machine might work." he first tried to pry out the edges with his pocket knife, but the attempt resulted in failure, then, as the sides seemed a little bulged outward by the dents, he placed the machine between two flat stones and pressed them together until the little instrument was nearly round again. the dents remained, to be sure, but he hoped he had removed the pressure upon the works. there was just one way to discover how well he had succeeded, so he fastened the machine to his wrist and turned the indicator to the word "up." slowly he ascended, this time to a height of nearly twenty feet. then his progress became slower and finally ceased altogether. "that's a little better," he thought. "now let's see if it will go sidewise." he put the indicator to "north-west,"--the direction of home--and very slowly the machine obeyed and carried him away from the plateau and across the island. the natives saw him go, and springing to their feet began uttering excited shouts and throwing their spears at him. but he was already so high and so far away that they failed to reach him, and the boy continued his journey unharmed. once the branches of a tall tree caught him and nearly tipped him over; but he managed to escape others by drawing up his feet. at last he was free of the island and traveling over the ocean again. he was not at all sorry to bid good-by to the cannibal island, but he was worried about the machine, which clearly was not in good working order. the vast ocean was beneath him, and he moved no faster than an ordinary walk. "at this rate i'll get home some time next year," he grumbled. "however, i suppose i ought to be glad the machine works at all." and he really was glad. all the afternoon and all the long summer night he moved slowly over the water. it was annoying to go at "a reg'lar jog-trot," as rob called it, after his former swift flight; but there was no help for it. just as dawn was breaking he saw in the distance a small vessel, sailing in the direction he was following, yet scarcely moving for lack of wind. he soon caught up with it, but saw no one on deck, and the craft had a dingy and uncared-for appearance that was not reassuring. but after hovering over it for some time rob decided to board the ship and rest for a while. he alighted near the bow, where the deck was highest, and was about to explore the place when a man came out of the low cabin and espied him. this person had a most villainous countenance, and was dark-skinned, black-bearded and dressed in an outlandish, piratical costume. on seeing the boy he gave a loud shout and was immediately joined by four companions, each as disagreeable in appearance as the first. rob knew there would be trouble the moment he looked at this evil crew, and when they drew their daggers and pistols and began fiercely shouting in an unknown tongue, the boy sighed and took the electric tube from his coat pocket. the buccaneers did not notice the movement, but rushed upon him so quickly that he had to press the button at a lively rate. the tube made no noise at all, so it was a strange and remarkable sight to see the pirates suddenly drop to the deck and lie motionless. indeed, one was so nearly upon him when the electric current struck him that his head, in falling, bumped into rob's stomach and sent him reeling against the side of the vessel. he quickly recovered himself, and seeing his enemies were rendered harmless, the boy entered the cabin and examined it curiously. it was dirty and ill-smelling enough, but the corners and spare berths were heaped with merchandise of all kinds which had been taken from those so unlucky as to have met these cruel and desperate men. after a short inspection of the place he returned to the deck and again seated himself in the bow. the crippled condition of his traveling machine was now his chief trouble, and although a good breeze had sprung up to fill the sails and the little bark was making fair headway, rob knew he could never expect to reach home unless he could discover a better mode of conveyance than this. he unstrapped the machine from his wrist to examine it better, and while holding it carelessly in his hand it slipped and fell with a bang to the deck, striking upon its round edge and rolling quickly past the cabin and out of sight. with a cry of alarm he ran after it, and after much search found it lying against the bulwark near the edge of a scupper hole, where the least jar of the ship would have sent it to the bottom of the ocean. rob hastily seized his treasure and upon examining it found the fall had bulged the rim so that the old dents scarcely showed at all. but its original shape was more distorted than ever, and rob feared he had utterly ruined its delicate mechanism. should this prove to be true, he might now consider himself a prisoner of this piratical band, the members of which, although temporarily disabled, would soon regain consciousness. he sat in the bow, sadly thinking of his misfortunes, until he noticed that one of the men began to stir. the effect of the electric shock conveyed by the tube was beginning to wear away, and now the buccaneer sat up, rubbed his head in a bewildered fashion and looked around him. when he saw rob he gave a shout of rage and drew his knife, but one motion of the electric tube made him cringe and slip away to the cabin, where he remained out of danger. and now the other four sat up, groaning and muttering in their outlandish speech; but they had no notion of facing rob's tube a second time, so one by one they joined their leader in the cabin, leaving the boy undisturbed. by this time the ship had begun to pitch and toss in an uncomfortable fashion, and rob noticed that the breeze had increased to a gale. there being no one to look after the sails, the vessel was in grave danger of capsizing or breaking her masts. the waves were now running high, too, and rob began to be worried. presently the captain of the pirates stuck his head out of the cabin door, jabbered some unintelligible words and pointed to the sails. the boy nodded, for he understood they wanted to attend to the rigging. so the crew trooped forth, rather fearfully, and began to reef the sails and put the ship into condition to weather the storm. rob paid no further attention to them. he looked at his traveling machine rather doubtfully and wondered if he dared risk its power to carry him through the air. whether he remained in the ship or trusted to the machine, he stood a good chance of dropping into the sea at any moment. so, while he hesitated, he attached the machine to his wrist and leaned over the bulwarks to watch the progress of the storm. he might stay in the ship until it foundered, he thought, and then take his chances with the machine. he decided to wait until a climax arrived. the climax came the next moment, for while he leaned over the bulwarks the buccaneers stole up behind him and suddenly seized him in their grasp. while two of them held his arms the others searched his pockets, taking from him the electric tube and the silver box containing his tablets. these they carried to the cabin and threw upon the heap of other valuables they had stolen. they did not notice his traveling machine, however, but seeing him now unarmed they began jeering and laughing at him, while the brutal captain relieved his anger by giving the prisoner several malicious kicks. rob bore his misfortune meekly, although he was almost ready to cry with grief and disappointment. but when one of the pirates, to inflict further punishment on the boy, came towards him with a heavy strap, he resolved not to await the blow. turning the indicator to the word "up" he found, to his joy and relief, that it would yet obey the influence of the power of repulsion. seeing him rise into the air the fellow made a grab for his foot and held it firmly, while his companions ran to help him. weight seemed to make no difference in the machine; it lifted the pirate as well as rob; it lifted another who clung to the first man's leg, and another who clung to him. the other two also caught hold, hoping their united strength would pull him down, and the next minute rob was soaring through the air with the entire string of five buccaneers dangling from his left leg. at first the villains were too astounded to speak, but as they realized that they were being carried through the air and away from their ship they broke into loud shouts of dismay, and finally the one who grasped rob's leg lost his hold and the five plunged downward and splashed into the sea. finding the machine disposed to work accurately, rob left the buccaneers to swim to the ship in the best way they could, while he dropped down to the deck again and recovered from the cabin his box of tablets and the electric tube. the fellows were just scrambling on board when he again escaped, shooting into the air with considerable speed. indeed, the instrument now worked better than at any time since he had reached the cannibal island, and the boy was greatly delighted. the wind at first sent him spinning away to the south, but he continued to rise until he was above the air currents, and the storm raged far beneath him. then he set the indicator to the northwest and breathlessly waited to see if it would obey. hurrah! away he sped at a fair rate of speed, while all his anxiety changed to a feeling of sweet contentment. his success had greatly surprised him, but he concluded that the jar caused by dropping the instrument had relieved the pressure upon the works, and so helped rather than harmed the free action of the electric currents. while he moved through the air with an easy, gliding motion he watched with much interest the storm raging below. above his head the sun was peacefully shining and the contrast was strange and impressive. after an hour or so the storm abated, or else he passed away from it, for the deep blue of the ocean again greeted his eyes. he dropped downward until he was about a hundred feet above the water, when he continued his northwesterly course. but now he regretted having interfered for a moment with the action of the machine, for his progress, instead of being swift as a bird's flight, became slow and jerky, nor was he sure that the damaged machine might not break down altogether at any moment. yet so far his progress was in the right direction, and he resolved to experiment no further with the instrument, but to let it go as it would, so long as it supported him above the water. however irregular the motion might be, it was sure, if continued, to bring him to land in time, and that was all he cared about just then. when night fell his slumber was broken and uneasy, for he wakened more than once with a start of fear that the machine had broken and he was falling into the sea. sometimes he was carried along at a swift pace, and again the machine scarcely worked at all; so his anxiety was excusable. the following day was one of continued uneasiness for the boy, who began to be harrassed by doubts as to whether, after all, he was moving in the right direction. the machine had failed at one time in this respect and it might again. he had lost all confidence in its accuracy. in spite of these perplexities rob passed the second night of his uneven flight in profound slumber, being exhausted by the strain and excitement he had undergone. when he awoke at daybreak, he saw, to his profound delight, that he was approaching land. the rising sun found him passing over a big city, which he knew to be boston. he did not stop. the machine was so little to be depended upon that he dared make no halt. but he was obliged to alter the direction from northwest to west, and the result of this slight change was so great a reduction in speed that it was mid-day before he saw beneath him the familiar village in which he lived. carefully marking the location of his father's house, he came to a stop directly over it, and a few moments later he managed to land upon the exact spot in the back yard whence he had taken his first successful flight. . the demon becomes angry when rob had been hugged and kissed by his mother and sisters, and even mr. joslyn had embraced him warmly, he gave them a brief account of his adventures. the story was received with many doubtful looks and much grave shaking of heads, as was quite natural under the circumstances. "i hope, my dear son," said the father, "that you have now passed through enough dangers to last you a lifetime, so that hereafter you will be contented to remain at home." "oh, robert!" cried his mother, with tears in her loving eyes, "you don't know how we've all worried about you for the past week!" "a week?" asked rob, with surprise. "yes; it's a week to-morrow morning since you flew into the air and disappeared." "then," said the boy, thoughtfully, "i've reached home just in time." "in time for what?" she asked. but he did not answer that question. he was thinking of the demon, and that on the afternoon of this very day he might expect the wise and splendid genius to visit him a second time. at luncheon, although he did not feel hungry, he joined the family at the table and pleased his mother by eating as heartily as of old. he was surprised to find how good the food tasted, and to realize what a pleasure it is to gratify one's sense of taste. the tablets were all right for a journey, he thought, but if he always ate them he would be sure to miss a great deal of enjoyment, since there was no taste to them at all. at four o'clock he went to his workshop and unlocked the door. everything was exactly as he had left it, and he looked at his simple electrical devices with some amusement. they seemed tame beside the wonders now in his possession; yet he recollected that his numerous wires had enabled him to strike the master key, and therefore should not be despised. before long he noticed a quickening in the air, as if it were suddenly surcharged with electric fluid, and the next instant, in a dazzling flash of light, appeared the demon. "i am here!" he announced. "so am i," answered rob. "but at one time i really thought i should never see you again. i've been--" "spare me your history," said the demon, coldly. "i am aware of your adventures." "oh, you are!" said rob, amazed. "then you know--" "i know all about your foolish experiences," interrupted the demon, "for i have been with you constantly, although i remained invisible." "then you know what a jolly time i've had," returned the boy. "but why do you call them foolish experiences?" "because they were, abominably foolish!" retorted the demon, bitterly. "i entrusted to you gifts of rare scientific interest--electrical devices of such utility that their general adoption by mankind would create a new era in earth life. i hoped your use of these devices would convey such hints to electrical engineers that they would quickly comprehend their mechanism and be able to reproduce them in sufficient quantities to supply the world. and how do you treat these marvelous gifts? why, you carry them to a cannibal island, where even your crude civilization has not yet penetrated!" "i wanted to astonish the natives," said rob, grinning. the demon uttered an exclamation of anger, and stamped his foot so fiercely that thousands of electric sparks filled the air, to disappear quickly with a hissing, crinkling sound. "you might have astonished those ignorant natives as easily by showing them an ordinary electric light," he cried, mockingly. "the power of your gifts would have startled the most advanced electricians of the world. why did you waste them upon barbarians?" "really," faltered rob, who was frightened and awed by the demon's vehement anger, "i never intended to visit a cannibal island. i meant to go to cuba." "cuba! is that a center of advanced scientific thought? why did you not take your marvels to new york or chicago; or, if you wished to cross the ocean, to paris or vienna?" "i never thought of those places," acknowledged rob, meekly. "then you were foolish, as i said," declared the demon, in a calmer tone. "can you not realize that it is better to be considered great by the intelligent thinkers of the earth, than to be taken for a god by stupid cannibals?" "oh, yes, of course," said rob. "i wish now that i had gone to europe. but you're not the only one who has a kick coming," he continued. "your flimsy traveling machine was nearly the death of me." "ah, it is true," acknowledged the demon, frankly. "the case was made of too light material. when the rim was bent it pressed against the works and impeded the proper action of the currents. had you gone to a civilized country such an accident could not have happened; but to avoid possible trouble in the future i have prepared a new instrument, having a stronger case, which i will exchange for the one you now have." "that's very kind of you," said rob, eagerly handing his battered machine to the demon and receiving the new one in return. "are you sure this will work?" "it is impossible for you to injure it," answered the other. "and how about the next three gifts?" inquired the boy, anxiously. "before i grant them," replied the demon, "you must give me a promise to keep away from uncivilized places and to exhibit your acquirements only among people of intelligence." "all right," agreed the boy; "i'm not anxious to visit that island again, or any other uncivilized country." "then i will add to your possessions three gifts, each more precious and important than the three you have already received." at this announcement rob began to quiver with excitement, and sat staring eagerly at the demon, while the latter increased in stature and sparkled and glowed more brilliantly than ever. . rob acquires new powers "i have seen the folly of sending you into the world with an offensive instrument, yet with no method of defense," resumed the demon, presently. "you have knocked over a good many people with that tube during the past week." "i know," said rob; "but i couldn't help it. it was the only way i had to protect myself." "therefore my next gift shall be this garment of protection. you must wear it underneath your clothing. it has power to accumulate and exercise electrical repellent force. perhaps you do not know what that means, so i will explain more fully. when any missile, such as a bullet, sword or lance, approaches your person, its rush through the air will arouse the repellent force of which i speak, and this force, being more powerful than the projective force, will arrest the flight of the missile and throw it back again. therefore nothing can touch your person that comes with any degree of force or swiftness, and you will be safe from all ordinary weapons. when wearing this garment you will find it unnecessary to use the electric tube except on rare occasions. never allow revenge or animosity to influence your conduct. men may threaten, but they can not injure you, so you must remember that they do not possess your mighty advantages, and that, because of your strength, you should bear with them patiently." rob examined the garment with much curiosity. it glittered like silver, yet was soft and pliable as lamb's wool. evidently the demon had prepared it especially for his use, for it was just rob's size. "now," continued the demon, more gravely, "we approach the subject of an electrical device so truly marvelous that even i am awed when i contemplate the accuracy and perfection of the natural laws which guide it and permit it to exercise its functions. mankind has as yet conceived nothing like it, for it requires full knowledge of electrical power to understand even its possibilities." the being paused, and drew from an inner pocket something resembling a flat metal box. in size it was about four inches by six, and nearly an inch in thickness. "what is it?" asked rob, wonderingly. "it is an automatic record of events," answered the demon. "i don't understand," said rob, with hesitation. "i will explain to you its use," returned the demon, "although the electrical forces which operate it and the vibratory currents which are the true records must remain unknown to you until your brain has mastered the higher knowledge of electricity. at present the practical side of this invention will be more interesting to you than a review of its scientific construction. "suppose you wish to know the principal events that are occurring in germany at the present moment. you first turn this little wheel at the side until the word 'germany' appears in the slot at the small end. then open the top cover, which is hinged, and those passing events in which you are interested will appear before your eyes." the demon, as he spoke, opened the cover, and, looking within, the boy saw, as in a mirror, a moving picture before him. a regiment of soldiers was marching through the streets of berlin, and at its head rode a body of horsemen, in the midst of which was the emperor himself. the people who thronged the sidewalks cheered and waved their hats and handkerchiefs with enthusiasm, while a band of musicians played a german air, which rob could distinctly hear. while he gazed, spell-bound, the scene changed, and he looked upon a great warship entering a harbor with flying pennants. the rails were lined with officers and men straining their eyes for the first sight of their beloved "vaterland" after a long foreign cruise, and a ringing cheer, as from a thousand throats, came faintly to rob's ear. again the scene changed, and within a dingy, underground room, hemmed in by walls of stone, and dimly lighted by a flickering lamp, a body of wild-eyed, desperate men were plighting an oath to murder the emperor and overthrow his government. "anarchists?" asked rob, trembling with excitement. "anarchists!" answered the demon, with a faint sneer, and he shut the cover of the record with a sudden snap. "it's wonderful!" cried the boy, with a sigh that was followed by a slight shiver. "the record is, indeed, proof within itself of the marvelous possibilities of electricity. men are now obliged to depend upon newspapers for information; but these can only relate events long after they have occurred. and newspaper statements are often unreliable and sometimes wholly false, while many events of real importance are never printed in their columns. you may guess what an improvement is this automatic record of events, which is as reliable as truth itself. nothing can be altered or falsified, for the vibratory currents convey the actual events to your vision, even as they happen." "but suppose," said rob, "that something important should happen while i'm asleep, or not looking at the box?" "i have called this a record," replied the demon, "and such it really is, although i have shown you only such events as are in process of being recorded. by pressing this spring you may open the opposite cover of the box, where all events of importance that have occurred throughout the world during the previous twenty-four hours will appear before you in succession. you may thus study them at your leisure. the various scenes constitute a register of the world's history, and may be recalled to view as often as you desire." "it's--it's like knowing everything," murmured rob, deeply impressed for perhaps the first time in his life. "it is knowing everything," returning the demon; "and this mighty gift i have decided to entrust to your care. be very careful as to whom you permit to gaze upon these pictures of passing events, for knowledge may often cause great misery to the human race." "i'll be careful," promised the boy, as he took the box reverently within his own hands. "the third and last gift of the present series," resumed the demon, "is one no less curious than the record of events, although it has an entirely different value. it is a character marker." "what's that?" inquired rob. "i will explain. perhaps you know that your fellow-creatures are more or less hypocritical. that is, they try to appear good when they are not, and wise when in reality they are foolish. they tell you they are friendly when they positively hate you, and try to make you believe they are kind when their natures are cruel. this hypocrisy seems to be a human failing. one of your writers has said, with truth, that among civilized people things are seldom what they seem." "i've heard that," remarked rob. "on the other hand," continued the demon, "some people with fierce countenances are kindly by nature, and many who appear to be evil are in reality honorable and trustworthy. therefore, that you may judge all your fellow-creatures truly, and know upon whom to depend, i give you the character marker. it consists of this pair of spectacles. while you wear them every one you meet will be marked upon the forehead with a letter indicating his or her character. the good will bear the letter 'g,' the evil the letter 'e.' the wise will be marked with a 'w' and the foolish with an 'f.' the kind will show a 'k' upon their foreheads and the cruel a letter 'c.' thus you may determine by a single look the true natures of all those you encounter." "and are these, also, electrical in their construction?" asked the boy, as he took the spectacles. "certainly. goodness, wisdom and kindness are natural forces, creating character. for this reason men are not always to blame for bad character, as they acquire it unconsciously. all character sends out certain electrical vibrations, which these spectacles concentrate in their lenses and exhibit to the gaze of their wearer, as i have explained." "it's a fine idea," said the boy; "who discovered it?" "it is a fact that has always existed, but is now utilized for the first time." "oh!" said rob. "with these gifts, and the ones you acquired a week ago, you are now equipped to astound the world and awaken mankind to a realization of the wonders that may be accomplished by natural forces. see that you employ these powers wisely, in the interests of science, and do not forget your promise to exhibit your electrical marvels only to those who are most capable of comprehending them." "i'll remember," said rob. "then adieu until a week from to-day, when i will meet you here at this hour and bestow upon you the last three gifts which you are entitled to receive. good-by!" "good-by!" repeated rob, and in a gorgeous flash of color the demon disappeared, leaving the boy alone in the room with his new and wonderful possessions. . the second journey by this time you will have gained a fair idea of rob's character. he is, in truth, a typical american boy, possessing an average intelligence not yet regulated by the balance-wheel of experience. the mysteries of electricity were so attractive to his eager nature that he had devoted considerable time and some study to electrical experiment; but his study was the superficial kind that seeks to master only such details as may be required at the moment. moreover, he was full of boyish recklessness and irresponsibility and therefore difficult to impress with the dignity of science and the gravity of human existence. life, to him, was a great theater wherein he saw himself the most interesting if not the most important actor, and so enjoyed the play with unbounded enthusiasm. aside from the extraordinary accident which had forced the electrical demon into this life, rob may be considered one of those youngsters who might possibly develop into a brilliant manhood or enter upon an ordinary, humdrum existence, as fate should determine. just at present he had no thought beyond the passing hour, nor would he bother himself by attempting to look ahead or plan for the future. yet the importance of his electrical possessions and the stern injunction of the demon to use them wisely had rendered the boy more thoughtful than at any previous time during his brief life, and he became so preoccupied at the dinner table that his father and mother cast many anxious looks in his direction. of course rob was anxious to test his newly-acquired powers, and decided to lose no time in starting upon another journey. but he said nothing to any of the family about it, fearing to meet with opposition. he passed the evening in the sitting-room, in company with his father and mother and sisters, and even controlled his impatience to the extent of playing a game of carom with nell; but he grew so nervous and impatient at last that his sister gave up the game in disgust and left him to his own amusement. at one time he thought of putting on the electric spectacles and seeing what the real character of each member of his family might be; but a sudden fear took possession of him that he might regret the act forever afterward. they were his nearest and dearest friends on earth, and in his boyish heart he loved them all and believed in their goodness and sincerity. the possibility of finding a bad character mark on any of their familiar faces made him shudder, and he determined then and there never to use the spectacles to view the face of a friend or relative. had any one, at that moment, been gazing at rob through the lenses of the wonderful character marker, i am sure a big "w" would have been found upon the boy's forehead. when the family circle broke up, and all retired for the night, rob kissed his parents and sisters with real affection before going to his own room. but, on reaching his cozy little chamber, instead of preparing for bed rob clothed himself in the garment of repulsion. then he covered the glittering garment with his best summer suit of clothes, which effectually concealed it. he now looked around to see what else he should take, and thought of an umbrella, a rain-coat, a book or two to read during the journey, and several things besides; but he ended by leaving them all behind. "i can't be loaded down with so much truck," he decided; "and i'm going into civilized countries, this time, where i can get anything i need." however, to prevent a recurrence of the mistake he had previously made, he tore a map of the world and a map of europe from his geography, and, folding them up, placed them in his pocket. he also took a small compass that had once been a watch-charm, and, finally, the contents of a small iron bank that opened with a combination lock. this represented all his savings, amounting to two dollars and seventeen cents in dimes, nickles and pennies. "it isn't a fortune," he thought, as he counted it up, "but i didn't need any money the last trip, so perhaps i'll get along somehow. i don't like to tackle dad for more, for he might ask questions and try to keep me at home." by the time he had finished his preparations and stowed all his electrical belongings in his various pockets, it was nearly midnight and the house was quiet. so rob stole down stairs in his stocking feet and noiselessly opened the back door. it was a beautiful july night and, in addition to the light of the full moon, the sky was filled with the radiance of countless thousands of brilliant stars. after rob had put on his shoes he unfolded the map, which was plainly visible by the starlight, and marked the direction he must take to cross the atlantic and reach london, his first stopping place. then he consulted his compass, put the indicator of his traveling machine to the word "up," and shot swiftly into the air. when he had reached a sufficient height he placed the indicator to a point north of east and, with a steady and remarkably swift flight, began his journey. "here goes," he remarked, with a sense of exaltation, "for another week of adventure! i wonder what'll happen between now and next saturday." . how rob served a mighty king the new traveling machine was a distinct improvement over the old one, for it carried rob with wonderful speed across the broad atlantic. he fell asleep soon after starting, and only wakened when the sun was high in the heavens. but he found himself whirling along at a good rate, with the greenish shimmer of the peaceful ocean waves spread beneath him far beyond his range of vision. being in the track of the ocean steamers it was not long before he found himself overtaking a magnificent vessel whose decks were crowded with passengers. he dropped down some distance, to enable him to see these people more plainly, and while he hovered near he could hear the excited exclamations of the passengers, who focused dozens of marine glasses upon his floating form. this inspection somewhat embarrassed him, and having no mind to be stared at he put on additional speed and soon left the steamer far behind him. about noon the sky clouded over, and rob feared a rainstorm was approaching. so he rose to a point considerably beyond the clouds, where the air was thin but remarkably pleasant to inhale and the rays of the sun were not so hot as when reflected by the surface of the water. he could see the dark clouds rolling beneath him like volumes of smoke from a factory chimney, and knew the earth was catching a severe shower of rain; yet he congratulated himself on his foresight in not being burdened with umbrella or raincoat, since his elevated position rendered him secure from rain-clouds. but, having cut himself off from the earth, there remained nothing to see except the clear sky overhead and the tumbling clouds beneath; so he took from his pocket the automatic record of events, and watched with breathless interest the incidents occurring in different parts of the world. a big battle was being fought in the philippines, and so fiercely was it contested that rob watched its progress for hours, with rapt attention. finally a brave rally by the americans sent their foes to the cover of the woods, where they scattered in every direction, only to form again in a deep valley hidden by high hills. "if only i was there," thought rob, "i could show that captain where to find the rebels and capture them. but i guess the philippines are rather out of my way, so our soldiers will never know how near they are to a complete victory." the boy also found considerable amusement in watching the course of an insurrection in venezuela, where opposing armies of well-armed men preferred to bluster and threaten rather than come to blows. during the evening he found that an "important event" was madame bernhardt's production of a new play, and rob followed it from beginning to end with great enjoyment, although he felt a bit guilty at not having purchased a ticket. "but it's a crowded house, anyway," he reflected, "and i'm not taking up a reserved seat or keeping any one else from seeing the show. so where's the harm? yet it seems to me if these records get to be common, as the demon wishes, people will all stay at home and see the shows, and the poor actors 'll starve to death." the thought made him uneasy, and he began, for the first time, to entertain a doubt of the demon's wisdom in forcing such devices upon humanity. the clouds had now passed away and the moon sent her rays to turn the edges of the waves into glistening showers of jewels. rob closed the lid of the wonderful record of events and soon fell into a deep sleep that held him unconscious for many hours. when he awoke he gave a start of surprise, for beneath him was land. how long it was since he had left the ocean behind him he could not guess, but his first thought was to set the indicator of the traveling machine to zero and to hover over the country until he could determine where he was. this was no easy matter. he saw green fields, lakes, groves and villages; but these might exist in any country. being still at a great elevation he descended gradually until he was about twenty feet from the surface of the earth, where he paused near the edge of a small village. at once a crowd of excited people assembled, shouting to one another and pointing towards him in wonder. in order to be prepared for emergencies rob had taken the electric tube from his pocket, and now, as he examined the dress and features of the people below, the tube suddenly slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground, where one end stuck slantingly into the soft earth. a man rushed eagerly towards it, but the next moment he threw up his hands and fell upon his back, unconscious. others who ran to assist their fallen comrade quickly tumbled into a heap beside him. it was evident to rob that the tube had fallen in such a position that the button was being pressed continually and a current of electric fluid issued to shock whoever came near. not wishing to injure these people he dropped to the ground and drew the tube from the earth, thus releasing the pressure upon the button. but the villagers had now decided that the boy was their enemy, and no sooner had he touched the ground than a shower of stones and sticks rained about him. not one reached his body, however, for the garment of repulsion stopped their flight and returned them to rattle with more or less force against those who had thrown them--"like regular boomerangs," thought rob. to receive their own blows in this fashion seemed so like magic to the simple folk that with roars of fear and pain they ran away in all directions. "it's no use stopping here," remarked rob, regretfully, "for i've spoiled my welcome by this accident. i think these people are irish, by their looks and speech, so i must be somewhere in the emerald isle." he consulted his map and decided upon the general direction he should take to reach england, after which he again rose into the air and before long was passing over the channel towards the shores of england. either his map or compass or his calculations proved wrong, for it was high noon before, having changed his direction a half dozen times, he came to the great city of london. he saw at a glance that it would never do to drop into the crowded streets, unless he wanted to become an object of public curiosity; so he looked around for a suitable place to alight. near by was a monstrous church that sent a sharp steeple far into the air. rob examined this spire and saw a narrow opening in the masonry that led to a small room where a chime of bells hung. he crept through the opening and, finding a ladder that connected the belfry with a platform below, began to descend. there were three ladders, and then a winding flight of narrow, rickety stairs to be passed before rob finally reached a small room in the body of the church. this room proved to have two doors, one connecting with the auditorium and the other letting into a side street. both were locked, but rob pointed the electric tube at the outside door and broke the lock in an instant. then he walked into the street as composedly as if he had lived all his life in london. there were plenty of sights to see, you may be sure, and rob walked around until he was so tired that he was glad to rest upon one of the benches in a beautiful park. here, half hidden by the trees, he amused himself by looking at the record of events. "london's a great town, and no mistake," he said to himself; "but let's see what the british are doing in south africa to-day." he turned the cylinder to "south africa," and, opening the lid, at once became interested. an english column, commanded by a brave but stubborn officer, was surrounded by the boer forces and fighting desperately to avoid capture or annihilation. "this would be interesting to king edward," thought the boy. "guess i'll hunt him up and tell him about it." a few steps away stood a policeman. rob approached him and asked: "where's the king to-day?" the officer looked at him with mingled surprise and suspicion. "'is majesty is sojournin' at marlb'ro 'ouse, just now," was the reply. "per'aps you wants to make 'im a wissit," he continued, with lofty sarcasm. "that's it, exactly," said rob. "i'm an american, and thought while i was in london i'd drop in on his royal highness and say 'hello' to him." the officer chuckled, as if much amused. "hamericans is bloomin' green," he remarked, "so youse can stand for hamerican, right enough. no other wissitors is such blarsted fools. but yon's the palace, an' i s'pose 'is majesty'll give ye a 'ot reception." "thanks; i'll look him up," said the boy, and left the officer convulsed with laughter. he soon knew why. the palace was surrounded by a cordon of the king's own life guards, who admitted no one save those who presented proper credentials. "there's only one thing to do;" thought rob, "and that's to walk straight in, as i haven't any friends to give me a regular introduction." so he boldly advanced to the gate, where he found himself stopped by crossed carbines and a cry of "halt!" "excuse me," said rob; "i'm in a hurry." he pushed the carbines aside and marched on. the soldiers made thrusts at him with their weapons, and an officer jabbed at his breast with a glittering sword, but the garment of repulsion protected him from these dangers as well as from a hail of bullets that followed his advancing figure. he reached the entrance of the palace only to face another group of guardsmen and a second order to halt, and as these soldiers were over six feet tall and stood shoulder to shoulder rob saw that he could not hope to pass them without using his electric tube. "stand aside, you fellows!" he ordered. there was no response. he extended the tube and, as he pressed the button, described a semi-circle with the instrument. immediately the tall guardsmen toppled over like so many tenpins, and rob stepped across their bodies and penetrated to the reception room, where a brilliant assemblage awaited, in hushed and anxious groups, for opportunity to obtain audience with the king. "i hope his majesty isn't busy," said rob to a solemn-visaged official who confronted him. "i want to have a little talk with him." "i--i--ah--beg pardon!" exclaimed the astounded master of ceremonies. "what name, please?" "oh, never mind my name," replied rob, and pushing the gentleman aside he entered the audience chamber of the great king. king edward was engaged in earnest consultation with one of his ministers, and after a look of surprise in rob's direction and a grave bow he bestowed no further attention upon the intruder. but rob was not to be baffled now. "your majesty," he interrupted, "i've important news for you. a big fight is taking place in south africa and your soldiers will probably be cut into mince meat." the minister strode towards the boy angrily. "explain this intrusion!" he cried. "i have explained. the boers are having a regular killing-bee. here! take a look at it yourselves." he drew the record from his pocket, and at the movement the minister shrank back as if he suspected it was an infernal machine and might blow his head off; but the king stepped quietly to the boy's side and looked into the box when rob threw open the lid. as he comprehended the full wonder of the phenomenon he was observing edward uttered a low cry of amazement, but thereafter he silently gazed upon the fierce battle that still raged far away upon the african veld. before long his keen eye recognized the troops engaged and realized their imminent danger. "they'll be utterly annihilated!" he gasped. "what shall we do?" "oh, we can't do anything just now," answered rob. "but it's curious to watch how bravely the poor fellows fight for their lives." the minister, who by this time was also peering into the box, groaned aloud, and then all three forgot their surroundings in the tragedy they were beholding. hemmed in by vastly superior numbers, the english were calmly and stubbornly resisting every inch of advance and selling their lives as dearly as possible. their leader fell pierced by a hundred bullets, and the king, who had known him from boyhood, passed his hand across his eyes as if to shut out the awful sight. but the fascination of the battle forced him to look again, and the next moment he cried aloud: "look there! look there!" over the edge of a line of hills appeared the helmets of a file of english soldiers. they reached the summit, followed by rank after rank, until the hillside was alive with them. and then, with a ringing cheer that came like a faint echo to the ears of the three watchers, they broke into a run and dashed forward to the rescue of their brave comrades. the boers faltered, gave back, and the next moment fled precipitately, while the exhausted survivors of the courageous band fell sobbing into the arms of their rescuers. rob closed the lid of the record with a sudden snap that betrayed his deep feeling, and the king pretended to cough behind his handkerchief and stealthily wiped his eyes. "'twasn't so bad, after all," remarked the boy, with assumed cheerfulness; "but it looked mighty ticklish for your men at one time." king edward regarded the boy curiously, remembering his abrupt entrance and the marvelous device he had exhibited. "what do you call that?" he asked, pointing at the record with a finger that trembled slightly from excitement. "it is a new electrical invention," replied rob, replacing it in his pocket, "and so constructed that events are reproduced at the exact moment they occur." "where can i purchase one?" demanded the king, eagerly. "they're not for sale," said rob. "this one of mine is the first that ever happened." "oh!" "i really think," continued the boy, nodding sagely, "that it wouldn't be well to have these records scattered around. their use would give some folks unfair advantage over others, you know." "certainly." "i only showed you this battle because i happened to be in london at the time and thought you'd be interested." "it was very kind of you," said edward; "but how did you gain admittance?" "well, to tell the truth, i was obliged to knock over a few of your tall life-guards. they seem to think you're a good thing and need looking after, like jam in a cupboard." the king smiled. "i hope you haven't killed my guards," said he. "oh, no; they'll come around all right." "it is necessary," continued edward, "that public men be protected from intrusion, no matter how democratic they may be personally. you would probably find it as difficult to approach the president of the united states as the king of england." "oh, i'm not complaining," said rob. "it wasn't much trouble to break through." "you seem quite young to have mastered such wonderful secrets of nature," continued the king. "so i am," replied rob, modestly; "but these natural forces have really existed since the beginning of the world, and some one was sure to discover them in time." he was quoting the demon, although unconsciously. "you are an american, i suppose," said the minister, coming close to rob and staring him in the face. "guessed right the first time," answered the boy, and drawing his character marking spectacles from his pocket, he put them on and stared at the minister in turn. upon the man's forehead appeared the letter "e." "your majesty," said rob, "i have here another queer invention. will you please wear these spectacles for a few moments?" the king at once put them on. "they are called character markers," continued the boy, "because the lenses catch and concentrate the character vibrations radiating from every human individual and reflect the true character of the person upon his forehead. if a letter 'g' appears, you may be sure his disposition is good; if his forehead is marked with an 'e' his character is evil, and you must beware of treachery." the king saw the "e" plainly marked upon his minister's forehead, but he said nothing except "thank you," and returned the spectacles to rob. but the minister, who from the first had been ill at ease, now became positively angry. "do not believe him, your majesty!" he cried. "it is a trick, and meant to deceive you." "i did not accuse you," answered the king, sternly. then he added: "i wish to be alone with this young gentleman." the minister left the room with an anxious face and hanging head. "now," said rob, "let's look over the record of the past day and see if that fellow has been up to any mischief." he turned the cylinder of the record to "england," and slowly the events of the last twenty-four hours were reproduced, one after the other, upon the polished plate. before long the king uttered an exclamation. the record pictured a small room in which were seated three gentlemen engaged in earnest conversation. one of them was the accused minister. "those men," said the king in a low voice, while he pointed out the other two, "are my avowed enemies. this is proof that your wonderful spectacles indicated my minister's character with perfect truth. i am grateful to you for thus putting me upon my guard, for i have trusted the man fully." "oh, don't mention it," replied the boy, lightly; "i'm glad to have been of service to you. but it's time for me to go." "i hope you will favor me with another interview," said the king, "for i am much interested in your electrical inventions. i will instruct my guards to admit you at any time, so you will not be obliged to fight your way in." "all right. but it really doesn't matter," answered rob. "it's no trouble at all to knock 'em over." then he remembered his manners and bowed low before the king, who seemed to him "a fine fellow and not a bit stuck up." and then he walked calmly from the palace. the people in the outer room stared at him wonderingly and the officer of the guard saluted the boy respectfully. but rob only smiled in an amused way as he marched past them with his hands thrust deep into his trousers' pockets and his straw hat tipped jauntily upon the back of his head. . the man of science rob passed the remainder of the day wandering about london and amusing himself by watching the peculiar ways of the people. when it became so dark that there was no danger of his being observed, he rose through the air to the narrow slit in the church tower and lay upon the floor of the little room, with the bells hanging all around him, to pass the night. he was just falling asleep when a tremendous din and clatter nearly deafened him, and set the whole tower trembling. it was the midnight chime. rob clutched his ears tightly, and when the vibrations had died away descended by the ladder to a lower platform. but even here the next hourly chime made his ears ring, and he kept descending from platform to platform until the last half of a restless night was passed in the little room at the bottom of the tower. when, at daylight, the boy sat up and rubbed his eyes, he said, wearily: "churches are all right as churches; but as hotels they are rank failures. i ought to have bunked in with my friend, king edward." he climbed up the stairs and the ladders again and looked out the little window in the belfry. then he examined his map of europe. "i believe i'll take a run over to paris," he thought. "i must be home again by saturday, to meet the demon, so i'll have to make every day count." without waiting for breakfast, since he had eaten a tablet the evening before, he crept through the window and mounted into the fresh morning air until the great city with its broad waterway lay spread out beneath him. then he sped away to the southeast and, crossing the channel, passed between amiens and rouen and reached paris before ten o'clock. near the outskirts of the city appeared a high tower, upon the flat roof of which a man was engaged in adjusting a telescope. upon seeing rob, who was passing at no great distance from this tower, the man cried out: "approchez!--venez ici!" then he waved his hands frantically in the air, and fairly danced with excitement. so the boy laughed and dropped down to the roof where, standing beside the frenchman, whose eyes were actually protruding from their sockets, he asked, coolly: "well, what do you want?" the other was for a moment speechless. he was a tall, lean man, having a bald head but a thick, iron-gray beard, and his black eyes sparkled brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. after attentively regarding the boy for a time he said, in broken english: "but, m'sieur, how can you fly wizout ze--ze machine? i have experiment myself wiz some air-ship; but you--zere is nossing to make go!" rob guessed that here was his opportunity to do the demon a favor by explaining his electrical devices to this new acquaintance, who was evidently a man of science. "here is the secret, professor," he said, and holding out his wrist displayed the traveling machine and explained, as well as he could, the forces that operated it. the frenchman, as you may suppose, was greatly astonished, and to show how perfectly the machine worked rob turned the indicator and rose a short distance above the tower, circling around it before he rejoined the professor on the roof. then he showed his food tablets, explaining how each was stored with sufficient nourishment for an entire day. the scientist positively gasped for breath, so powerful was the excitement he experienced at witnessing these marvels. "eet is wonderful--grand--magnifique!" he exclaimed. "but here is something of still greater interest," continued rob, and taking the automatic record of events from his pocket he allowed the professor to view the remarkable scenes that were being enacted throughout the civilized world. the frenchman was now trembling violently, and he implored rob to tell him where he might obtain similar electrical machines. "i can't do that," replied the boy, decidedly; "but, having seen these, you may be able to discover their construction for yourself. now that you know such things to be possible and practical, the hint should be sufficient to enable a shrewd electrician to prepare duplicates of them." the scientist glared at him with evident disappointment, and rob continued: "these are not all the wonders i can exhibit. here is another electrical device that is, perhaps, the most remarkable of any i possess." he took the character marking spectacles from his pocket and fitted them to his eyes. then he gave a whistle of surprise and turned his back upon his new friend. he had seen upon the frenchman's forehead the letters "e" and "c." "guess i've struck the wrong sort of scientist, after all!" he muttered, in a disgusted tone. his companion was quick to prove the accuracy of the character marker. seeing the boy's back turned, he seized a long iron bar that was used to operate the telescope, and struck at rob so fiercely that had he not worn the garment of protection his skull would have been crushed by the blow. at it was, the bar rebounded with a force that sent the murderous frenchman sprawling upon the roof, and rob turned around and laughed at him. "it won't work, professor," he said. "i'm proof against assassins. perhaps you had an idea that when you had killed me you could rob me of my valuable possessions; but they wouldn't be a particle of use to a scoundrel like you, i assure you! good morning." before the surprised and baffled scientist could collect himself sufficiently to reply, the boy was soaring far above his head and searching for a convenient place to alight, that he might investigate the charms of this famed city of paris. it was indeed a beautiful place, with many stately buildings lining the shady boulevards. so thronged were the streets that rob well knew he would soon be the center of a curious crowd should he alight upon them. already a few sky-gazers had noted the boy moving high in the air, above their heads, and one or two groups stood pointing their fingers at him. pausing at length above the imposing structure of the hotel anglais, rob noticed at one of the upper floors an open window, before which was a small iron balcony. alighting upon this he proceeded to enter, without hesitation, the open window. he heard a shriek and a cry of "au voleur!" and caught sight of a woman's figure as she dashed into an adjoining room, slamming and locking the door behind her. "i don't know as i blame her," observed rob, with a smile at the panic he had created. "i s'pose she takes me for a burglar, and thinks i've climbed up the lightning rod." he soon found the door leading into the hallway and walked down several flights of stairs until he reached the office of the hotel. "how much do you charge a day?" he inquired, addressing a fat and pompous-looking gentlemen behind the desk. the man looked at him in a surprised way, for he had not heard the boy enter the room. but he said something in french to a waiter who was passing, and the latter came to rob and made a low bow. "i speak ze eengliss ver' fine," he said. "what desire have you?" "what are your rates by the day?" asked the boy. "ten francs, m'sieur." "how many dollars is that?" "dollar americaine?" "yes; united states money." "ah, oui! eet is ze two dollar, m'sieur." "all right; i can stay about a day before i go bankrupt. give me a room." "certainement, m'sieur. have you ze luggage?" "no; but i'll pay in advance," said rob, and began counting out his dimes and nickles and pennies, to the unbounded amazement of the waiter, who looked as if he had never seen such coins before. he carried the money to the fat gentleman, who examined the pieces curiously, and there was a long conference between them before it was decided to accept them in payment for a room for a day. but at this season the hotel was almost empty, and when rob protested that he had no other money the fat gentleman put the coins into his cash box with a resigned sigh and the waiter showed the boy to a little room at the very top of the building. rob washed and brushed the dust from his clothes, after which he sat down and amused himself by viewing the pictures that constantly formed upon the polished plate of the record of events. . how rob saved a republic while following the shifting scenes of the fascinating record rob noted an occurrence that caused him to give a low whistle of astonishment and devote several moments to serious thought. "i believe it's about time i interfered with the politics of this republic," he said, at last, as he closed the lid of the metal box and restored it to his pocket. "if i don't take a hand there probably won't be a republic of france very long and, as a good american, i prefer a republic to a monarchy." then he walked down-stairs and found his english-speaking waiter. "where's president loubet?" he asked. "ze president! ah, he is wiz his mansion. to be at his residence, m'sieur." "where is his residence?" the waiter began a series of voluble and explicit directions which so confused the boy that he exclaimed: "oh, much obliged!" and walked away in disgust. gaining the street he approached a gendarme and repeated his question, with no better result than before, for the fellow waved his arms wildly in all directions and roared a volley of incomprehensible french phrases that conveyed no meaning whatever. "if ever i travel in foreign countries again," said rob, "i'll learn their lingo in advance. why doesn't the demon get up a conversation machine that will speak all languages?" by dint of much inquiry, however, and after walking several miles following ambiguous directions, he managed to reach the residence of president loubet. but there he was politely informed that the president was busily engaged in his garden, and would see no one. "that's all right," said the boy, calmly. "if he's in the garden i'll have no trouble finding him." then, to the amazement of the frenchmen, rob shot into the air fifty feet or so, from which elevation he overlooked a pretty garden in the rear of the president's mansion. the place was protected from ordinary intrusion by high walls, but rob descended within the enclosure and walked up to a man who was writing at a small table placed under the spreading branches of a large tree. "is this president loubet?" he inquired, with a bow. the gentleman looked up. "my servants were instructed to allow no one to disturb me," he said, speaking in excellent english. "it isn't their fault; i flew over the wall," returned rob. "the fact is," he added, hastily, as he noted the president's frown, "i have come to save the republic; and i haven't much time to waste over a bundle of frenchmen, either." the president seemed surprised. "your name!" he demanded, sharply. "robert billings joslyn, united states of america!" "your business, monsieur joslyn!" rob drew the record from his pocket and placed it upon the table. "this, sir," said he, "is an electrical device that records all important events. i wish to call your attention to a scene enacted in paris last evening which may have an effect upon the future history of your country." he opened the lid, placed the record so that the president could see clearly, and then watched the changing expressions upon the great man's face; first indifference, then interest, the next moment eagerness and amazement. "mon dieu!" he gasped; "the orleanists!" rob nodded. "yes; they've worked up a rather pretty plot, haven't they?" the president did not reply. he was anxiously watching the record and scribbling notes on a paper beside him. his face was pale and his lips tightly compressed. finally he leaned back in his chair and asked: "can you reproduce this scene again?" "certainly, sir," answered the boy; "as often as you like." "will you remain here while i send for my minister of police? it will require but a short time." "call him up, then. i'm in something of a hurry myself, but now i've mixed up with this thing i'll see it through." the president touched a bell and gave an order to his servant. then he turned to rob and said, wonderingly: "you are a boy!" "that's true, mr. president," was the answer; "but an american boy, you must remember. that makes a big difference, i assure you." the president bowed gravely. "this is your invention?" he asked. "no; i'm hardly equal to that. but the inventor has made me a present of the record, and it's the only one in the world." "it is a marvel," remarked the president, thoughtfully. "more! it is a real miracle. we are living in an age of wonders, my young friend." "no one knows that better than myself, sir," replied rob. "but, tell me, can you trust your chief of police?" "i think so," said the president, slowly; "yet since your invention has shown me that many men i have considered honest are criminally implicated in this royalist plot, i hardly know whom to depend upon." "then please wear these spectacles during your interview with the minister of police," said the boy. "you must say nothing, while he is with us, about certain marks that will appear upon his forehead; but when he has gone i will explain those marks so you will understand them." the president covered his eyes with the spectacles. "why," he exclaimed, "i see upon your own brow the letters--" "stop, sir!" interrupted rob, with a blush; "i don't care to know what the letters are, if it's just the same to you." the president seemed puzzled by this speech, but fortunately the minister of police arrived just then and, under rob's guidance, the pictured record of the orleanist plot was reproduced before the startled eyes of the official. "and now," said the boy, "let us see if any of this foolishness is going on just at present." he turned to the opposite side of the record and allowed the president and his minister of police to witness the quick succession of events even as they occurred. suddenly the minister cried, "ha!" and, pointing to the figure of a man disembarking from an english boat at calais, he said, excitedly: "that, your excellency, is the duke of orleans, in disguise! i must leave you for a time, that i may issue some necessary orders to my men; but this evening i shall call to confer with you regarding the best mode of suppressing this terrible plot." when the official had departed, the president removed the spectacles from his eyes and handed them to rob. "what did you see?" asked the boy. "the letters 'g' and 'w'." "then you may trust him fully," declared rob, and explained the construction of the character marker to the interested and amazed statesman. "and now i must go," he continued, "for my stay in your city will be a short one and i want to see all i can." the president scrawled something on a sheet of paper and signed his name to it, afterward presenting it, with a courteous bow, to his visitor. "this will enable you to go wherever you please, while in paris," he said. "i regret my inability to reward you properly for the great service you have rendered my country; but you have my sincerest gratitude, and may command me in any way." "oh, that's all right," answered rob. "i thought it was my duty to warn you, and if you look sharp you'll be able to break up this conspiracy. but i don't want any reward. good day, sir." he turned the indicator of his traveling machine and immediately rose into the air, followed by a startled exclamation from the president of france. moving leisurely over the city, he selected a deserted thoroughfare to alight in, from whence he wandered unobserved into the beautiful boulevards. these were now brilliantly lighted, and crowds of pleasure seekers thronged them everywhere. rob experienced a decided sense of relief as he mixed with the gay populace and enjoyed the sights of the splendid city, for it enabled him to forget, for a time, the responsibilities thrust upon him by the possession of the demon's marvelous electrical devices. . rob loses his treasures our young adventurer had intended to pass the night in the little bed at his hotel, but the atmosphere of paris proved so hot and disagreeable that he decided it would be more enjoyable to sleep while journeying through the cooler air that lay far above the earth's surface. so just as the clocks were striking the midnight hour rob mounted skyward and turned the indicator of the traveling machine to the east, intending to make the city of vienna his next stop. he had risen to a considerable distance, where the air was remarkably fresh and exhilarating, and the relief he experienced from the close and muggy streets of paris was of such a soothing nature that he presently fell fast asleep. his day in the metropolis had been a busy one, for, like all boys, he had forgotten himself in the delight of sight-seeing and had tired his muscles and exhausted his strength to an unusual degree. it was about three o'clock in the morning when rob, moving restlessly in his sleep, accidently touched with his right hand the indicator of the machine which was fastened to his left wrist, setting it a couple of points to the south of east. he was, of course, unaware of the slight alteration in his course, which was destined to prove of serious importance in the near future. for the boy's fatigue induced him to sleep far beyond daybreak, and during this period of unconsciousness he was passing over the face of european countries and approaching the lawless and dangerous dominions of the orient. when, at last, he opened his eyes, he was puzzled to determine where he was. beneath him stretched a vast, sandy plain, and speeding across this he came to a land abounding in luxuriant vegetation. the centrifugal force which propelled him was evidently, for some reason, greatly accelerated, for the scenery of the country he was crossing glided by him at so rapid a rate of speed that it nearly took his breath away. "i wonder if i've passed vienna in the night," he thought. "it ought not to have taken me more than a few hours to reach there from paris." vienna was at that moment fifteen hundred miles behind him; but rob's geography had always been his stumbling block at school, and he had not learned to gage the speed of the traveling machine; so he was completely mystified as to his whereabouts. presently a village having many queer spires and minarets whisked by him like a flash. rob became worried, and resolved to slow up at the next sign of habitation. this was a good resolution, but turkestan is so thinly settled that before the boy could plan out a course of action he had passed the barren mountain range of thian-shan as nimbly as an acrobat leaps a jumping-bar. "this won't do at all!" he exclaimed, earnestly. "the traveling machine seems to be running away with me, and i'm missing no end of sights by scooting along up here in the clouds." he turned the indicator to zero, and was relieved to find it obey with customary quickness. in a few moments he had slowed up and stopped, when he found himself suspended above another stretch of sandy plain. being too high to see the surface of the plain distinctly he dropped down a few hundred feet to a lower level, where he discovered he was surrounded by billows of sand as far as his eye could reach. "it's a desert, all right," was his comment; "perhaps old sahara herself." he started the machine again towards the east, and at a more moderate rate of speed skimmed over the surface of the desert. before long he noticed a dark spot ahead of him which proved to be a large body of fierce looking men, riding upon dromedaries and slender, spirited horses and armed with long rifles and crookedly shaped simitars. "those fellows seem to be looking for trouble," remarked the boy, as he glided over them, "and it wouldn't be exactly healthy for an enemy to get in their way. but i haven't time to stop, so i'm not likely to get mixed up in any rumpus with them." however, the armed caravan was scarcely out of sight before rob discovered he was approaching a rich, wooded oasis of the desert, in the midst of which was built the walled city of yarkand. not that he had ever heard of the place, or knew its name; for few europeans and only one american traveler had ever visited it. but he guessed it was a city of some importance from its size and beauty, and resolved to make a stop there. above the high walls projected many slender, white minarets, indicating that the inhabitants were either turks or some race of mohammedans; so rob decided to make investigations before trusting himself to their company. a cluster of tall trees with leafy tops stood a short distance outside the walls, and here the boy landed and sat down to rest in the refreshing shade. the city seemed as hushed and still as if it were deserted, and before him stretched the vast plain of white, heated sands. he strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the band of warriors he had passed, but they were moving slowly and had not yet appeared. the trees that sheltered rob were the only ones without the city, although many low bushes or shrubs grew scattering over the space between him and the walls. an arched gateway broke the enclosure at his left, but the gates were tightly shut. something in the stillness and the intense heat of the mid-day sun made the boy drowsy. he stretched himself upon the ground beneath the dense foliage of the biggest tree and abandoned himself to the languor that was creeping over him. "i'll wait until that army of the desert arrives," he thought, sleepily. "they either belong in this city or have come to capture it, so i can tell better what to dance when i find out what the band plays." the next moment he was sound asleep, sprawling upon his back in the shade and slumbering as peacefully as an infant. and while he lay motionless three men dropped in quick succession from the top of the city wall and hid among the low bushes, crawling noiselessly from one to another and so approaching, by degrees, the little group of trees. they were turks, and had been sent by those in authority within the city to climb the tallest tree of the group and discover if the enemy was near. for rob's conjecture had been correct, and the city of yarkand awaited, with more or less anxiety, a threatened assault from its hereditary enemies, the tatars. the three spies were not less forbidding in appearance than the horde of warriors rob had passed upon the desert. their features were coarse and swarthy, and their eyes had a most villainous glare. old fashioned pistols and double-edged daggers were stuck in their belts and their clothing, though of gorgeous colors, was soiled and neglected. with all the caution of the american savage these turks approached the tree, where, to their unbounded amazement, they saw the boy lying asleep. his dress and fairness of skin at once proclaimed him, in their shrewd eyes, a european, and their first thought was to glance around in search of his horse or dromedary. seeing nothing of the kind near they were much puzzled to account for his presence, and stood looking down at him with evident curiosity. the sun struck the polished surface of the traveling machine which was attached to rob's wrist and made the metal glitter like silver. this attracted the eyes of the tallest turk, who stooped down and stealthily unclasped the band of the machine from the boy's outstretched arm. then, after a hurried but puzzled examination of the little instrument, he slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. rob stirred uneasily in his sleep, and one of the turks drew a slight but stout rope from his breast and with gentle but deft movement passed it around the boy's wrists and drew them together behind him. the action was not swift enough to arouse the power of repulsion in the garment of protection, but it awakened rob effectually, so that he sat up and stared hard at his captors. "what are you trying to do, anyhow?" he demanded. the turks laughed and said something in their own language. they had no knowledge of english. "you're only making fools of yourselves," continued the boy, wrathfully. "it's impossible for you to injure me." the three paid no attention to his words. one of them thrust his hand into rob's pocket and drew out the electric tube. his ignorance of modern appliances was so great that he did not know enough to push the button. rob saw him looking down the hollow end of the tube and murmured: "i wish it would blow your ugly head off!" but the fellow, thinking the shining metal might be of some value to him, put the tube in his own pocket and then took from the prisoner the silver box of tablets. rob writhed and groaned at losing his possessions in this way, and while his hands were fastened behind him tried to feel for and touch the indicator of the traveling machine. when he found that the machine also had been taken, his anger gave way to fear, for he realized he was in a dangerously helpless condition. the third turk now drew the record of events from the boy's inner pocket. he knew nothing of the springs that opened the lids, so, after a curious glance at it, he secreted the box in the folds of his sash and continued the search of the captive. the character marking spectacles were next abstracted, but the turk, seeing in them nothing but spectacles, scornfully thrust them back into rob's pocket, while his comrades laughed at him. the boy was now rifled of seventeen cents in pennies, a broken pocket knife and a lead-pencil, the last article seeming to be highly prized. after they had secured all the booty they could find, the tall turk, who seemed the leader of the three, violently kicked at the prisoner with his heavy boot. his surprise was great when the garment of repulsion arrested the blow and nearly overthrew the aggressor in turn. snatching a dagger from his sash, he bounded upon the boy so fiercely that the next instant the enraged turk found himself lying upon his back three yards away, while his dagger flew through the air and landed deep in the desert sands. "keep it up!" cried rob, bitterly. "i hope you'll enjoy yourself." the other turks raised their comrade to his feet, and the three stared at one another in surprise, being unable to understand how a bound prisoner could so effectually defend himself. but at a whispered word from the leader, they drew their long pistols and fired point blank into rob's face. the volley echoed sharply from the city walls, but as the smoke drifted slowly away the turks were horrified to see their intended victim laughing at them. uttering cries of terror and dismay, the three took to their heels and bounded towards the wall, where a gate quickly opened to receive them, the populace feeling sure the tatar horde was upon them. nor was this guess so very far wrong; for as rob, sitting disconsolate upon the sand, raised his eyes, he saw across the desert a dark line that marked the approach of the invaders. nearer and nearer they came, while rob watched them and bemoaned the foolish impulse that had led him to fall asleep in an unknown land where he could so easily be overpowered and robbed of his treasures. "i always suspected these electrical inventions would be my ruin some day," he reflected, sadly; "and now i'm side-tracked and left helpless in this outlandish country, without a single hope of ever getting home again. they probably won't be able to kill me, unless they find my garment of repulsion and strip that off; but i never could cross this terrible desert on foot and, having lost my food tablets, i'd soon starve if i attempted it." fortunately, he had eaten one of the tablets just before going to sleep, so there was no danger of immediate starvation. but he was miserable and unhappy, and remained brooding over his cruel fate until a sudden shout caused him to look up. . turk and tatar the tatars had arrived, swiftly and noiselessly, and a dozen of the warriors, still mounted, were surrounding him. his helpless condition aroused their curiosity, and while some of them hastily cut away his bonds and raised him to his feet, other plied him with questions in their own language. rob shook his head to indicate that he could not understand; so they led him to the chief--an immense, bearded representative of the tribe of kara-khitai, the terrible and relentless black tatars of thibet. the huge frame of this fellow was clothed in flowing robes of cloth-of-gold, braided with jewels, and he sat majestically upon the back of a jet-black camel. under ordinary circumstances the stern features and flashing black eyes of this redoubtable warrior would have struck a chill of fear to the boy's heart; but now under the influence of the crushing misfortunes he had experienced, he was able to gaze with indifference upon the terrible visage of the desert chief. the tatar seemed not to consider rob an enemy. instead, he looked upon him as an ally, since the turks had bound and robbed him. finding it impossible to converse with the chief, rob took refuge in the sign language. he turned his pockets wrong side out, showed the red welts left upon his wrists by the tight cord, and then shook his fists angrily in the direction of the town. in return the tatar nodded gravely and issued an order to his men. by this time the warriors were busily pitching tents before the walls of yarkand and making preparations for a formal siege. in obedience to the chieftain's orders, rob was given a place within one of the tents nearest the wall and supplied with a brace of brass-mounted pistols and a dagger with a sharp, zigzag edge. these were evidently to assist the boy in fighting the turks, and he was well pleased to have them. his spirits rose considerably when he found he had fallen among friends, although most of his new comrades had such evil faces that it was unnecessary to put on the character markers to judge their natures with a fair degree of accuracy. "i can't be very particular about the company i keep," he thought, "and this gang hasn't tried to murder me, as the rascally turks did. so for the present i'll stand in with the scowling chief and try to get a shot at the thieves who robbed me. if our side wins i may get a chance to recover some of my property. it's a slim chance, of course, but it's the only hope i have left." that very evening an opportunity occurred for rob to win glory in the eyes of his new friends. just before sundown the gates of the city flew open and a swarm of turks, mounted upon fleet horses and camels, issued forth and fell upon their enemies. the tatars, who did not expect the sally, were scarcely able to form an opposing rank when they found themselves engaged in a hand-to-hand conflict, fighting desperately for their lives. in such a battle, however, the turks were at a disadvantage, for the active tatars slipped beneath their horses and disabled them, bringing both the animals and their riders to the earth. at the first onslaught rob shot his pistol at a turk and wounded him so severely that he fell from his horse. instantly the boy seized the bridle and sprang upon the steed's back, and the next moment he had dashed into the thickest part of the fray. bullets and blows rained upon him from all sides, but the garment of repulsion saved him from a single scratch. when his pistols had been discharged he caught up the broken handle of a spear, and used it as a club, galloping into the ranks of the turks and belaboring them as hard as he could. the tatars cheered and followed him, and the turks were so amazed at his miraculous escape from their bullets that they became terrified, thinking he bore a charmed life and was protected by unseen powers. this terror helped turn the tide of battle, and before long the enemy was pressed back to the walls and retreated through the gates, which were hastily fastened behind them. in order to prevent a repetition of this sally the tatars at once invested the gates, so that if the turks should open them they were as likely to let their foes in as to oppose them. while the tents were being moved up rob had an opportunity to search the battlefield for the bodies of the three turks who had robbed him, but they were not among the fallen. "those fellows were too cowardly to take part in a fair fight," declared the boy; but he was much disappointed, nevertheless, as he felt very helpless without the electric tube or the traveling machine. the tatar chief now called rob to his tent and presented him with a beautiful ring set with a glowing pigeon's-blood ruby, in acknowledgment of his services. this gift made the boy feel very proud, and he said to the chief: "you're all right, old man, even if you do look like a pirate. if you can manage to capture that city, so i can get my electrical devices back, i'll consider you a trump as long as i live." the chief thought this speech was intended to express rob's gratitude, so he bowed solemnly in return. during the night that followed upon the first engagement of the turks and tatars, the boy lay awake trying to devise some plan to capture the city. the walls seemed too high and thick to be either scaled or broken by the tatars, who had no artillery whatever; and within the walls lay all the fertile part of the oasis, giving the besieged a good supply of water and provisions, while the besiegers were obliged to subsist on what water and food they had brought with them. just before dawn rob left his tent and went out to look at the great wall. the stars gave plenty of light, but the boy was worried to find that, according to eastern custom, no sentries or guards whatever had been posted and all the tatars were slumbering soundly. the city was likewise wrapped in profound silence, but just as rob was turning away he saw a head project stealthily over the edge of the wall before him, and recognized in the features one of the turks who had robbed him. finding no one awake except the boy the fellow sat upon the edge of the wall, with his feet dangling downward, and grinned wickedly at his former victim. rob watched him with almost breathless eagerness. after making many motions that conveyed no meaning whatever, the turk drew the electric tube from his pocket and pointed his finger first at the boy and then at the instrument, as if inquiring what it was used for. rob shook his head. the turk turned the tube over several times and examined it carefully, after which he also shook his head, seeming greatly puzzled. by this time the boy was fairly trembling with excitement. he longed to recover this valuable weapon, and feared that at any moment the curious turk would discover its use. he held out his hand toward the tube, and tried to say, by motions, that he would show the fellow how to use it. the man seemed to understand, by he would not let the glittering instrument out of his possession. rob was almost in despair, when he happened to notice upon his hand the ruby ring given him by the chief. drawing the jewel from his finger he made offer, by signs, that he would exchange it for the tube. the turk was much pleased with the idea, and nodded his head repeatedly, holding out his hand for the ring. rob had little confidence in the man's honor, but he was so eager to regain the tube that he decided to trust him. so he threw the ring to the top of the wall, where the turk caught it skilfully; but when rob held out his hand for the tube the scoundrel only laughed at him and began to scramble to his feet in order to beat a retreat. chance, however, foiled this disgraceful treachery, for in his hurry the turk allowed the tube to slip from his grasp, and it rolled off the wall and fell upon the sand at rob's very feet. the robber turned to watch its fall and, filled with sudden anger, the boy grabbed the weapon, pointed it at his enemy, and pressed the button. down tumbled the turk, without a cry, and lay motionless at the foot of the wall. rob's first thought was to search the pockets of his captive, and to his delight he found and recovered his box of food tablets. the record of events and the traveling machine were doubtless in the possession of the other robbers, but rob did not despair of recovering them, now that he had the tube to aid him. day was now breaking, and several of the tatars appeared and examined the body of the turk with grunts of surprise, for there was no mark upon him to show how he had been slain. supposing him to be dead, they tossed him aside and forgot all about him. rob had secured his ruby ring again, and going to the chief's tent he showed the jewel to the guard and was at once admitted. the black-bearded chieftain was still reclining upon his pillows, but rob bowed before him, and by means of signs managed to ask for a band of warriors to assist him in assaulting the town. the chieftain appeared to doubt the wisdom of the enterprise, not being able to understand how the boy could expect to succeed; but he graciously issued the required order, and by the time rob reached the city gate he found a large group of tatars gathered to support him, while the entire camp, roused to interest in the proceedings, stood looking on. rob cared little for the quarrel between the turks and tatars, and under ordinary circumstances would have refused to side with one or the other; but he knew he could not hope to recover his electrical machines unless the city was taken by the band of warriors who had befriended him, so he determined to force an entrance for them. without hesitation he walked close to the great gate and shattered its fastenings with the force of the electric current directed upon them from the tube. then, shouting to his friends the tatars for assistance, they rushed in a body upon the gate and dashed it open. the turks had expected trouble when they heard the fastenings of the huge gate splinter and fall apart, so they had assembled in force before the opening. as the tatars poured through the gateway in a compact mass they were met by a hail of bullets, spears and arrows, which did fearful execution among them. many were killed outright, while others fell wounded to be trampled upon by those who pressed on from the rear. rob maintained his position in the front rank, but escaped all injury through the possession of the garment of repulsion. but he took an active part in the fight and pressed the button of the electric tube again and again, tumbling the enemy into heaps on every side, even the horses and camels falling helplessly before the resistless current of electricity. the tatars shouted joyfully as they witnessed this marvelous feat and rushed forward to assist in the slaughter; but the boy motioned them all back. he did not wish any more bloodshed than was necessary, and knew that the heaps of unconscious turks around him would soon recover. so he stood alone and faced the enemy, calmly knocking them over as fast as they came near. two of the turks managed to creep up behind the boy, and one of them, who wielded an immense simitar with a two-edged blade as sharp as a razor, swung the weapon fiercely to cut off rob's head. but the repulsive force aroused in the garment was so terrific that it sent the weapon flying backwards with redoubled swiftness, so that it caught the second turk at the waist and cut him fairly in two. thereafter they all avoided coming near the boy, and in a surprisingly short time the turkish forces were entirely conquered, all having been reduced to unconsciousness except a few cowards who had run away and hidden in the cellars or garrets of the houses. the tatars entered the city with shouts of triumph, and the chief was so delighted that he threw his arms around rob's neck and embraced him warmly. then began the sack of yarkand, the fierce tatars plundering the bazaars and houses, stripping them of everything of value they could find. rob searched anxiously among the bodies of the unconscious turks for the two men who had robbed him, but neither could be found. he was more successful later, for in running through the streets he came upon a band of tatars leading a man with a rope around his neck, whom rob quickly recognized as one of the thieves he was hunting for. the tatars willingly allowed him to search the fellow, and in one of his pockets rob found the record of events. he had now recovered all his property, except the traveling machine, the one thing that was absolutely necessary to enable him to escape from this barbarous country. he continued his search persistently, and an hour later found the dead body of the third robber lying in the square in the center of the city. but the traveling machine was not on his person, and for the first time the boy began to give way to despair. in the distance he heard loud shouts and sound of renewed strife, warning him that the turks were recovering consciousness and engaging the tatars with great fierceness. the latter had scattered throughout the town, thinking themselves perfectly secure, so that not only were they unprepared to fight, but they became panic-stricken at seeing their foes return, as it seemed, from death to life. their usual courage forsook them, and they ran, terrified, in every direction, only to be cut down by the revengeful turkish simitars. rob was sitting upon the edge of a marble fountain in the center of the square when a crowd of victorious turks appeared and quickly surrounded him. the boy paid no attention to their gestures and the turks feared to approach him nearly, so they stood a short distance away and fired volleys at him from their rifles and pistols. rob glared at them scornfully, and seeing they could not injure him the turks desisted; but they still surrounded him, and the crowd grew thicker every moment. women now came creeping from their hiding places and mingled with the ranks of the men, and rob guessed, from their joyous chattering, that the turks had regained the city and driven out or killed the tatar warriors. he reflected, gloomily, that this did not affect his own position in any way, since he could not escape from the oasis. suddenly, on glancing at the crowd, rob saw something that arrested his attention. a young girl was fastening some article to the wrist of a burly, villainous-looking turk. the boy saw a glitter that reminded him of the traveling machine, but immediately afterward the man and the girl bent their heads over the fellow's wrist in such a way that rob could see nothing more. while the couple were apparently examining the strange device, rob started to his feet and walked toward them. the crowd fell back at his approach, but the man and the girl were so interested that they did not notice him. he was still several paces away when the girl put out her finger and touched the indicator on the dial. to rob's horror and consternation the big turk began to rise slowly into the air, while a howl of fear burst from the crowd. but the boy made a mighty spring and caught the turk by his foot, clinging to it with desperate tenacity, while they both mounted steadily upward until they were far above the city of the desert. the big turk screamed pitifully at first, and then actually fainted away from fright. rob was much frightened, on his part, for he knew if his hands slipped from their hold he would fall to his death. indeed, one hand was slipping already, so he made a frantic clutch and caught firmly hold of the turk's baggy trousers. then, slowly and carefully, he drew himself up and seized the leather belt that encircled the man's waist. this firm grip gave him new confidence, and he began to breathe more freely. he now clung to the body of the turk with both legs entwined, in the way he was accustomed to cling to a tree-trunk when he climbed after cherries at home. he had conquered his fear of falling, and took time to recover his wits and his strength. they had now reached such a tremendous height that the city looked like a speck on the desert beneath them. knowing he must act quickly, rob seized the dangling left arm of the unconscious turk and raised it until he could reach the dial of the traveling machine. he feared to unclasp the machine just then, for two reasons: if it slipped from his grasp they would both plunge downward to their death; and he was not sure the machine would work at all if in any other position than fastened to the left wrist. rob determined to take no chances, so he left the machine attached to the turk and turned the indicator to zero and then to "east," for he did not wish to rejoin either his enemies the turks or his equally undesirable friends the tatars. after traveling eastward a few minutes he lost sight of the city altogether; so, still clinging to the body of the turk, he again turned the indicator and began to descend. when, at last, they landed gently upon a rocky eminence of the kuen-lun mountains, the boy's strength was almost exhausted, and his limbs ached with the strain of clinging to the turk's body. his first act was to transfer the traveling machine to his own wrist and to see that his other electrical devices were safely bestowed in his pockets. then he sat upon the rock to rest until the turk recovered consciousness. presently the fellow moved uneasily, rolled over, and then sat up and stared at his surroundings. perhaps he thought he had been dreaming, for he rubbed his eyes and looked again with mingled surprise and alarm. then, seeing rob, he uttered a savage shout and drew his dagger. rob smiled and pointed the electric tube at the man, who doubtless recognized its power, for he fell back scowling and trembling. "this place seems like a good jog from civilization," remarked the boy, as coolly as if his companion could understand what he said; "but as your legs are long and strong you may be able to find your way. it's true you're liable to starve to death, but if you do it will be your own misfortune and not my fault." the turk glared at him sullenly, but did not attempt to reply. rob took out his box of tablets, ate one of them and offered another to his enemy. the fellow accepted it ungraciously enough, but seeing rob eat one he decided to follow his example, and consumed the tablet with a queer expression of distrust upon his face. "brave man!" cried rob, laughingly; "you've avoided the pangs of starvation for a time, anyhow, so i can leave you with a clear conscience." without more ado, he turned the indicator of the traveling machine and mounted into the air, leaving the turk sitting upon the rocks and staring after him in comical bewilderment. . a battle with monsters our young adventurer never experienced a more grateful feeling of relief and security than when he found himself once more high in the air, alone, and in undisputed possession of the electrical devices bestowed upon him by the demon. the dangers he had passed through since landing at the city of the desert and the desperate chance that alone had permitted him to regain the traveling machine made him shudder at the bare recollection and rendered him more sober and thoughtful than usual. we who stick closely to the earth's surface can scarcely realize how rob could travel through the air at such dizzy heights without any fear or concern whatsoever. but he had come to consider the air a veritable refuge. experience had given him implicit confidence in the powers of the electrical instrument whose unseen forces carried him so swiftly and surely, and while the tiny, watch-like machine was clasped to his wrist he felt himself to be absolutely safe. having slipped away from the turk and attained a fair altitude, he set the indicator at zero and paused long enough to consult his map and decide what direction it was best for him to take. the mischance that had swept him unwittingly over the countries of europe had also carried him more than half way around the world from his home. therefore the nearest way to reach america would be to continue traveling to the eastward. so much time had been consumed at the desert oasis that he felt he must now hasten if he wished to reach home by saturday afternoon; so, having quickly come to a decision, he turned the indicator and began a swift flight into the east. for several hours he traveled above the great desert of gobi, but by noon signs of a more fertile country began to appear, and, dropping to a point nearer the earth, he was able to observe closely the country of the chinese, with its crowded population and ancient but crude civilization. then he came to the great wall of china and to mighty peking, above which he hovered some time, examining it curiously. he really longed to make a stop there, but with his late experiences fresh in his mind he thought it much safer to view the wonderful city from a distance. resuming his flight he presently came to the gulf of laou tong, whose fair face was freckled with many ships of many nations, and so on to korea, which seemed to him a land fully a century behind the times. night overtook him while speeding across the sea of japan, and having a great desire to view the mikado's famous islands, he put the indicator at zero, and, coming to a full stop, composed himself to sleep until morning, that he might run no chances of being carried beyond his knowledge during the night. you might suppose it no easy task to sleep suspended in mid-air, yet the magnetic currents controlled by the traveling machine were so evenly balanced that rob was fully as comfortable as if reposing upon a bed of down. he had become somewhat accustomed to passing the night in the air and now slept remarkably well, having no fear of burglars or fire or other interruptions that dwellers in cities are subject to. one thing, however, he should have remembered: that he was in an ancient and little known part of the world and reposing above a sea famous in fable as the home of many fierce and terrible creatures; while not far away lay the land of the dragon, the simurg and other ferocious monsters. rob may have read of these things in fairy tales and books of travel, but if so they had entirely slipped his mind; so he slumbered peacefully and actually snored a little, i believe, towards morning. but even as the red sun peeped curiously over the horizon he was awakened by a most unusual disturbance--a succession of hoarse screams and a pounding of the air as from the quickly revolving blades of some huge windmill. he rubbed his eyes and looked around. coming towards him at his right hand was an immense bird, whose body seemed almost as big as that of a horse. its wide-open, curving beak was set with rows of pointed teeth, and the talons held against its breast and turned threateningly outward were more powerful and dreadful than a tiger's claws. while, fascinated and horrified, he watched the approach of this feathered monster, a scream sounded just behind him and the next instant the stroke of a mighty wing sent him whirling over and over through the air. he soon came to a stop, however, and saw that another of the monsters had come upon him from the rear and was now, with its mate, circling closely around him, while both uttered continuously their hoarse, savage cries. rob wondered why the garment of repulsion had not protected him from the blow of the bird's wing; but, as a matter of fact, it had protected him. for it was not the wing itself but the force of the eddying currents of air that had sent him whirling away from the monster. with the indicator at zero the magnetic currents and the opposing powers of attraction and repulsion were so evenly balanced that any violent atmospheric disturbance affected him in the same way that thistledown is affected by a summer breeze. he had noticed something of this before, but whenever a strong wind was blowing he was accustomed to rise to a position above the air currents. this was the first time he had slept with the indicator at zero. the huge birds at once renewed their attack, but rob had now recovered his wits sufficiently to draw the electric tube from his pocket. the first one to dart towards him received the powerful electric current direct from the tube, and fell stunned and fluttering to the surface of the sea, where it floated motionless. its mate, perhaps warned by this sudden disaster, renewed its circling flight, moving so swiftly that rob could scarcely follow it, and drawing nearer and nearer every moment to its intended victim. the boy could not turn in the air very quickly, and he feared an attack in the back, mistrusting the saving power of the garment of repulsion under such circumstances; so in desperation he pressed his finger upon the button of the tube and whirled the instrument around his head in the opposite direction to that in which the monster was circling. presently the current and the bird met, and with one last scream the creature tumbled downwards to join its fellow upon the waves, where they lay like two floating islands. their presence had left a rank, sickening stench in the surrounding atmosphere, so rob made haste to resume his journey and was soon moving rapidly eastward. he could not control a shudder at the recollection of his recent combat, and realized the horror of a meeting with such creatures by one who had no protection from their sharp beaks and talons. "it's no wonder the japs draw ugly pictures of those monsters," he thought. "people who live in these parts must pass most of their lives in a tremble." the sun was now shining brilliantly, and when the beautiful islands of japan came in sight rob found that he had recovered his wonted cheerfulness. he moved along slowly, hovering with curious interest over the quaint and picturesque villages and watching the industrious japanese patiently toiling at their tasks. just before he reached tokio he came to a military fort, and for nearly an hour watched the skilful maneuvers of a regiment of soldiers at their morning drill. they were not very big people, compared with other nations, but they seemed alert and well trained, and the boy decided it would require a brave enemy to face them on a field of battle. having at length satisfied his curiosity as to japanese life and customs rob prepared for his long flight across the pacific ocean. by consulting his map he discovered that should he maintain his course due east, as before, he would arrive at a point in america very near to san francisco, which suited his plans excellently. having found that he moved more swiftly when farthest from the earth's surface, because the air was more rarefied and offered less resistance, rob mounted upwards until the islands of japan were mere specks visible through the clear, sunny atmosphere. then he began his eastward flight, the broad surface of the pacific seeming like a blue cloud far beneath him. . shipwrecked mariners ample proof of rob's careless and restless nature having been frankly placed before the reader in these pages, you will doubtless be surprised when i relate that during the next few hours our young gentleman suffered from a severe attack of homesickness, becoming as gloomy and unhappy in its duration as ever a homesick boy could be. it may have been because he was just then cut off from all his fellow-creatures and even from the world itself; it may have been because he was satiated with marvels and with the almost absolute control over the powers which the demon had conferred upon him; or it may have been because he was born and reared a hearty, healthy american boy, with a disposition to battle openly with the world and take his chances equally with his fellows, rather than be placed in such an exclusive position that no one could hope successfully to oppose him. perhaps he himself did not know what gave him this horrible attack of "the blues," but the truth is he took out his handkerchief and cried like a baby from very loneliness and misery. there was no one to see him, thank goodness! and the tears gave him considerable relief. he dried his eyes, made an honest struggle to regain his cheerfulness, and then muttered to himself: "if i stay up here, like an air-bubble in the sky, i shall certainly go crazy. i suppose there's nothing but water to look at down below, but if i could only sight a ship, or even see a fish jump, it would do me no end of good." thereupon he descended until, as the ocean's surface same nearer and nearer, he discovered a tiny island lying almost directly underneath him. it was hardly big enough to make a dot on the biggest map, but a clump of trees grew in the central portion, while around the edges were jagged rocks protecting a sandy beach and a stretch of flower-strewn upland leading to the trees. it looked beautiful from rob's elevated position, and his spirits brightened at once. "i'll drop down and pick a bouquet," he exclaimed, and a few moments later his feet touched the firm earth of the island. but before he could gather a dozen of the brilliant flowers a glad shout reached his ears, and, looking up, he saw two men running towards him from the trees. they were dressed in sailor fashion, but their clothing was reduced to rags and scarcely clung to their brown, skinny bodies. as they advanced they waved their arms wildly in the air and cried in joyful tones: "a boat! a boat!" rob stared at them wonderingly, and had much ado to prevent the poor fellows from hugging him outright, so great was their joy at his appearance. one of them rolled upon the ground, laughing and crying by turns, while the other danced and cut capers until he became so exhausted that he sank down breathless beside his comrade. "how came you here?" then inquired the boy, in pitying tones. "we're shipwrecked american sailors from the bark 'cynthia jane,' which went down near here over a month ago," answered the smallest and thinnest of the two. "we escaped by clinging to a bit of wreckage and floated to this island, where we have nearly starved to death. indeed, we now have eaten everything on the island that was eatable, and had your boat arrived a few days later you'd have found us lying dead upon the beach!" rob listened to this sad tale with real sympathy. "but i didn't come here in a boat," said he. the men sprang to their feet with white, scared faces. "no boat!" they cried; "are you, too, shipwrecked?" "no;" he answered. "i flew here through the air." and then he explained to them the wonderful electric traveling machine. but the sailors had no interest whatever in the relation. their disappointment was something awful to witness, and one of them laid his head upon his comrade's shoulder and wept with unrestrained grief, so weak and discouraged had they become through suffering. suddenly rob remembered that he could assist them, and took the box of concentrated food tablets from his pocket. "eat these," he said, offering one of each to the sailors. at first they could not understand that these small tablets would be able to allay the pangs of hunger; but when rob explained their virtues the men ate them greedily. within a few moments they were so greatly restored to strength and courage that their eyes brightened, their sunken cheeks flushed, and they were able to converse with their benefactor with calmness and intelligence. then the boy sat beside them upon the grass and told them the story of his acquaintance with the demon and of all his adventures since he had come into possession of the wonderful electric contrivances. in his present mood he felt it would be a relief to confide in some one, and so these poor, lonely men were the first to hear his story. when he related the manner in which he had clung to the turk while both ascended into the air, the elder of the two sailors listened with rapt attention, and then, after some thought, asked: "why couldn't you carry one or both of us to america?" rob took time seriously to consider this idea, while the sailors eyed him with eager interest. finally he said: "i'm afraid i couldn't support your weight long enough to reach any other land. it's a long journey, and you'd pull my arms out of joint before we'd been up an hour." their faces fell at this, but one of them said: "why couldn't we swing ourselves over your shoulders with a rope? our two bodies would balance each other and we are so thin and emaciated that we do not weigh very much." while considering this suggestion rob remembered how at one time five pirates had clung to his left leg and been carried some distance through the air. "have you a rope?" he asked. "no," was the answer; "but there are plenty of long, tough vines growing on the island that are just as strong and pliable as ropes." "then, if you are willing to run the chances," decided the boy, "i will make the attempt to save you. but i must warn you that in case i find i can not support the weight of your bodies i shall drop one or both of you into the sea." they looked grave at this prospect, but the biggest one said: "we would soon meet death from starvation if you left us here on the island; so, as there is at least a chance of our being able to escape in your company i, for one, am willing to risk being drowned. it is easier and quicker than being starved. and, as i'm the heavier, i suppose you'll drop me first." "certainly," declared rob, promptly. this announcement seemed to be an encouragement to the little sailor, but he said, nervously: "i hope you'll keep near the water, for i haven't a good head for heights--they always make me dizzy." "oh, if you don't want to go," began rob, "i can easily--" "but i do! i do! i do!" cried the little man, interrupting him. "i shall die if you leave me behind!" "well, then, get your ropes, and we'll do the best we can," said the boy. they ran to the trees, around the trunks of which were clinging many tendrils of greenish-brown vine which possessed remarkable strength. with their knives they cut a long section of this vine, the ends of which were then tied into loops large enough to permit the sailors to sit in them comfortably. the connecting piece rob padded with seaweed gathered from the shore, to prevent its cutting into his shoulders. "now, then," he said, when all was ready, "take your places." the sailors squatted in the loops, and rob swung the vine over his shoulders and turned the indicator of the traveling machine to "up." as they slowly mounted into the sky the little sailor gave a squeal of terror and clung to the boy's arm; but the other, although seemingly anxious, sat quietly in his place and made no trouble. "d--d--don't g--g--go so high!" stammered the little one, tremblingly; "suppose we should f--f--fall!" "well, s'pose we should?" answered rob, gruffly. "you couldn't drown until you struck the water, so the higher we are the longer you'll live in case of accident." this phase of the question seemed to comfort the frightened fellow somewhat; but, as he said, he had not a good head for heights, and so continued to tremble in spite of his resolve to be brave. the weight on rob's shoulders was not so great as he had feared, the traveling machine seeming to give a certain lightness and buoyancy to everything that came into contact with its wearer. as soon as he had reached a sufficient elevation to admit of good speed he turned the indicator once more to the east and began moving rapidly through the air, the shipwrecked sailors dangling at either side. "this is aw--aw--awful!" gasped the little one. "say, you shut up!" commanded the boy, angrily. "if your friend was as big a coward as you are i'd drop you both this minute. let go my arm and keep quiet, if you want to reach land alive." the fellow whimpered a little, but managed to remain silent for several minutes. then he gave a sudden twitch and grabbed rob's arm again. "s'pose--s'pose the vine should break!" he moaned, a horrified look upon his face. "i've had about enough of this," said rob, savagely. "if you haven't any sense you don't deserve to live." he turned the indicator on the dial of the machine and they began to descend rapidly. the little fellow screamed with fear, but rob paid no attention to him until the feet of the two suspended sailors were actually dipping into the waves, when he brought their progress to an abrupt halt. "wh--wh--what are you g--g--going to do?" gurgled the cowardly sailor. "i'm going to feed you to the sharks--unless you promise to keep your mouth shut," retorted the boy. "now, then; decide at once! which will it be--sharks or silence?" "i won't say a word--'pon my honor, i won't!" said the sailor shudderingly. "all right; remember your promise and we'll have no further trouble," remarked rob, who had hard work to keep from laughing at the man's abject terror. once more he ascended and continued the journey, and for several hours they rode along swiftly and silently. rob's shoulders were beginning to ache with the continued tugging of the vine upon them, but the thought that he was saving the lives of two unfortunate fellow-creatures gave him strength and courage to persevere. night was falling when they first sighted land; a wild and seemingly uninhabited stretch of the american coast. rob made no effort to select a landing place, for he was nearly worn out with a strain and anxiety of the journey. he dropped his burden upon the brow of a high bluff overlooking the sea and, casting the vine from his shoulders, fell to the earth exhausted and half fainting. . the coast of oregon when he had somewhat recovered, rob sat up and looked around him. the elder sailor was kneeling in earnest prayer, offering grateful thanks for his escape from suffering and death. the younger one lay upon the ground sobbing and still violently agitated by recollections of the frightful experiences he had undergone. although he did not show his feelings as plainly as the men, the boy was none the less gratified at having been instrumental in saving the lives of two fellow-beings. the darkness was by this time rapidly enveloping them, so rob asked his companions to gather some brushwood and light a fire, which they quickly did. the evening was cool for the time of year, and the heat from the fire was cheering and grateful; so they all lay near the glowing embers and fell fast asleep. the sound of voices aroused rob next morning, and on opening his eyes and gazing around he saw several rudely dressed men approaching. the two shipwrecked sailors were still sound asleep. rob stood up and waited for the strangers to draw near. they seemed to be fishermen, and were much surprised at finding three people asleep upon the bluff. "whar 'n thunder 'd ye come from?" asked the foremost fisherman, in a surprised voice. "from the sea," replied the boy. "my friends here are shipwrecked sailors from the 'cynthia jane.'" "but how'd ye make out to climb the bluff?" inquired a second fisherman; "no one ever did it afore, as we knows on." "oh, that is a long story," replied the boy, evasively. the two sailors had awakened and now saluted the new-comers. soon they were exchanging a running fire of questions and answers. "where are we?" rob heard the little sailor ask. "coast of oregon," was the reply. "we're about seven miles from port orford by land an' about ten miles by sea." "do you live at port orford?" inquired the sailor. "that's what we do, friend; an' if your party wants to join us we'll do our best to make you comf'table, bein' as you're shipwrecked an' need help." just then a loud laugh came from another group, where the elder sailor had been trying to explain rob's method of flying through the air. "laugh all you want to," said the sailor, sullenly; "it's true--ev'ry word of it!" "mebbe you think it, friend," answered a big, good-natured fisherman; "but it's well known that shipwrecked folks go crazy sometimes, an' imagine strange things. your mind seems clear enough in other ways, so i advise you to try and forget your dreams about flyin'." rob now stepped forward and shook hands with the sailors. "i see you have found friends," he said to them, "so i will leave you and continue my journey, as i'm in something of a hurry." both sailors began to thank him profusely for their rescue, but he cut them short. "that's all right. of course i couldn't leave you on that island to starve to death, and i'm glad i was able to bring you away with me." "but you threatened to drop me into the sea," remarked the little sailor, in a grieved voice. "so i did," said rob, laughing; "but i wouldn't have done it for the world--not even to have saved my own life. good-by!" he turned the indicator and mounted skyward, to the unbounded amazement of the fishermen, who stared after him with round eyes and wide open mouths. "this sight will prove to them that the sailors are not crazy," he thought, as he turned to the south and sped away from the bluff. "i suppose those simple fishermen will never forget this wonderful occurrence, and they'll probably make reg'lar heroes of the two men who have crossed the pacific through the air." he followed the coast line, keeping but a short distance above the earth, and after an hour's swift flight reached the city of san francisco. his shoulders were sore and stiff from the heavy strain upon them of the previous day, and he wished more than once that he had some of his mother's household liniment to rub them with. yet so great was his delight at reaching once more his native land that all discomforts were speedily forgotten. much as he would have enjoyed a day in the great metropolis of the pacific slope, rob dared not delay longer than to take a general view of the place, to note its handsome edifices and to wonder at the throng of chinese inhabiting one section of the town. these things were much more plainly and quickly viewed by rob from above than by threading a way through the streets on foot; for he looked down upon the city as a bird does, and covered miles with a single glance. having satisfied his curiosity without attempting to alight, he turned to the southeast and followed the peninsula as far as palo alto, where he viewed the magnificent buildings of the university. changing his course to the east, he soon reached mount hamilton, and, being attracted by the great tower of the lick observatory, he hovered over it until he found he had attracted the excited gaze of the inhabitants, who doubtless observed him very plainly through the big telescope. but so unreal and seemingly impossible was the sight witnessed by the learned astronomers that they have never ventured to make the incident public, although long after the boy had darted away into the east they argued together concerning the marvelous and incomprehensible vision. afterward they secretly engrossed the circumstance upon their records, but resolved never to mention it in public, lest their wisdom and veracity should be assailed by the skeptical. meantime rob rose to a higher altitude, and sped swiftly across the great continent. by noon he sighted chicago, and after a brief inspection of the place from the air determined to devote at least an hour to forming the acquaintance of this most wonderful and cosmopolitan city. . a narrow escape the auditorium tower, where "the weather man" sits to flash his reports throughout the country, offered an inviting place for the boy to alight. he dropped quietly upon the roof of the great building and walked down the staircase until he reached the elevators, by means of which he descended to the ground floor without exciting special attention. the eager rush and hurry of the people crowding the sidewalks impressed rob with the idea that they were all behind time and were trying hard to catch up. he found it impossible to walk along comfortably without being elbowed and pushed from side to side; so a half hour's sight-seeing under such difficulties tired him greatly. it was a beautiful afternoon, and finding himself upon the lake front, rob hunted up a vacant bench and sat down to rest. presently an elderly gentleman with a reserved and dignified appearance and dressed in black took a seat next to the boy and drew a magazine from his pocket. rob saw that he opened it to an article on "the progress of modern science," in which he seemed greatly interested. after a time the boy remembered that he was hungry, not having eaten a tablet in more than twenty-four hours. so he took out the silver box and ate one of the small, round disks it contained. "what are those?" inquired the old gentleman in a soft voice. "you are too young to be taking patent medicines." "there are not medicines, exactly," answered the boy, with a smile. "they are concentrated food tablets, sorted with nourishment by means of electricity. one of them furnishes a person with food for an entire day." the old gentleman stared at rob a moment and then laid down his magazine and took the box in his hands, examining the tablets curiously. "are these patented?" he asked. "no," said rob; "they are unknown to any one but myself." "i will give you a half million dollars for the recipe to make them," said the gentleman. "i fear i must refuse your offer," returned rob, with a laugh. "i'll make it a million," said the gentleman, coolly. rob shook his head. "money can't buy the recipe," he said; "for i don't know it myself." "couldn't the tablets be chemically analyzed, and the secret discovered?" inquired the other. "i don't know; but i'm not going to give any one the chance to try," declared the boy, firmly. the old gentleman picked up his magazine without another word, and resumed his reading. for amusement rob took the record of events from his pocket and began looking at the scenes reflected from its polished plate. presently he became aware that the old gentleman was peering over his shoulder with intense interest. general funston was just then engaged in capturing the rebel chief, aguinaldo, and for a few moments both man and boy observed the occurrence with rapt attention. as the scene was replaced by one showing a secret tunnel of the russian nihilists, with the conspirators carrying dynamite to a recess underneath the palace of the czar, the gentleman uttered a long sigh and asked: "will you sell that box?" "no," answered rob, shortly, and put it back into his pocket. "i'll give you a million dollars to control the sale in chicago alone," continued the gentleman, with an eager inflection in his smooth voice. "you seem quite anxious to get rid of money," remarked rob, carelessly. "how much are you worth?" "personally?" "yes." "nothing at all, young man. i am not offering you my own money. but with such inventions as you have exhibited i could easily secure millions of capital. suppose we form a trust, and place them upon the market. we'll capitalize it for a hundred millions, and you can have a quarter of the stock--twenty-five millions. that would keep you from worrying about grocery bills." "but i wouldn't need groceries if i had the tablets," said rob, laughing. "true enough! but you could take life easily and read your newspaper in comfort, without being in any hurry to get down town to business. twenty-five millions would bring you a cozy little income, if properly invested." "i don't see why one should read newspapers when the record of events shows all that is going on in the world," objected rob. "true, true! but what do you say to the proposition?" "i must decline, with thanks. these inventions are not for sale." the gentleman sighed and resumed his magazine, in which he became much absorbed. rob put on the character marking spectacles and looked at him. the letters "e," "w" and "c" were plainly visible upon the composed, respectable looking brow of his companion. "evil, wise and cruel," reflected rob, as he restored the spectacles to his pocket. "how easily such a man could impose upon people. to look at him one would think that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth!" he decided to part company with this chance acquaintance and, rising from his seat, strolled leisurely up the walk. a moment later, on looking back, he discovered that the old gentleman had disappeared. he walked down state street to the river and back again, amused by the activity displayed in this busy section of the city. but the time he had allowed himself in chicago had now expired, so he began looking around for some high building from the roof of which he could depart unnoticed. this was not at all difficult, and selecting one of many stores he ascended by an elevator to the top floor and from there mounted an iron stairway leading to the flat roof. as he climbed this stairway he found himself followed by a pleasant looking young man, who also seemed desirous of viewing the city from the roof. annoyed at the inopportune intrusion, rob's first thought was to go back to the street and try another building; but, upon reflecting that the young man was not likely to remain long and he would soon be alone, he decided to wait. so he walked to the edge of the roof and appeared to be interested in the scenery spread out below him. "fine view from here, ain't it?" said the young man, coming up to him and placing his hand carelessly upon the boy's shoulder. "it is, indeed," replied rob, leaning over the edge to look into the street. as he spoke he felt himself gently but firmly pushed from behind and, losing his balance, he plunged headforemost from the roof and whirled through the intervening space toward the sidewalk far below. terrified though he was by the sudden disaster, the boy had still wit enough remaining to reach out his right hand and move the indicator of the machine upon his left wrist to the zero mark. immediately he paused in his fearful flight and presently came to a stop at a distance of less than fifteen feet from the flagstones which had threatened to crush out his life. as he stared downward, trying to recover his self-possession, he saw the old gentleman he had met on the lake front standing just below and looking at him with a half frightened, half curious expression in his eyes. at once rob saw through the whole plot to kill him and thus secure possession of his electrical devices. the young man upon the roof who had attempted to push him to his death was a confederate of the innocent appearing old gentleman, it seemed, and the latter had calmly awaited his fall to the pavement to seize the coveted treasures from his dead body. it was an awful idea, and rob was more frightened than he had ever been before in his life--or ever has been since. but now the shouts of a vast concourse of amazed spectators reached the boy's ears. he remembered that he was suspended in mid-air over the crowded street of a great city, while thousands of wondering eyes were fixed upon him. so he quickly set the indicator to the word "up," and mounted sky-ward until the watchers below could scarcely see him. then he fled away into the east, even yet shuddering with the horror of his recent escape from death and filled with disgust at the knowledge that there were people who held human life so lightly that they were willing to destroy it to further their own selfish ends. "and the demon wants such people as these to possess his electrical devices, which are as powerful to accomplish evil when in wrong hands as they are good!" thought the boy, resentfully. "this would be a fine world if electric tubes and records of events and traveling machines could be acquired by selfish and unprincipled persons!" so unnerved was rob by his recent experiences that he determined to make no more stops. however, he alighted at nightfall in the country, and slept upon the sweet hay in a farmer's barn. but, early the next morning, before any one else was astir, he resumed his journey, and at precisely ten o'clock of this day, which was saturday, he completed his flying trip around the world by alighting unobserved upon the well-trimmed lawn of his own home. . rob makes a resolution when rob opened the front door he came face to face with nell, who gave an exclamation of joy and threw herself into his arms. "oh, rob!" she cried, "i'm so glad you've come. we have all been dreadfully worried about you, and mother--" "well, what about mother?" inquired the boy, anxiously, as she paused. "she's been very ill, rob; and the doctor said to-day that unless we heard from you soon he would not be able to save her life. the uncertainty about you is killing her." rob stood stock still, all the eager joy of his return frozen into horror at the thought that he had caused his dear mother so much suffering. "where is she, nell?" he asked, brokenly. "in her room. come; i'll take you to her." rob followed with beating heart, and soon was clasped close to his mother's breast. "oh, my boy--my dear boy!" she murmured, and then for very joy and love she was unable to say more, but held him tight and stroked his hair gently and kissed him again and again. rob said little, except to promise that he would never again leave home without her full consent and knowledge. but in his mind he contrasted the love and comfort that now surrounded him with the lonely and unnatural life he had been leading and, boy though he was in years, a mighty resolution that would have been creditable to an experienced man took firm root in his heart. he was obliged to recount all his adventures to his mother and, although he made light of the dangers he had passed through, the story drew many sighs and shudders from her. when luncheon time arrived he met his father, and mr. joslyn took occasion to reprove his son in strong language for running away from home and leaving them filled with anxiety as to his fate. however, when he saw how happy and improved in health his dear wife was at her boy's return, and when he had listened to rob's manly confession of error and expressions of repentance, he speedily forgave the culprit and treated him as genially as ever. of course the whole story had to be repeated, his sisters listening this time with open eyes and ears and admiring their adventurous brother immensely. even mr. joslyn could not help becoming profoundly interested, but he took care not to show any pride he might feel in his son's achievements. when his father returned to his office rob went to his own bed-chamber and sat for a long time by the window in deep thought. when at last he aroused himself, he found it was nearly four o'clock. "the demon will be here presently," he said, with a thrill of aversion, "and i must be in the workshop to receive him." silently he stole to the foot of the attic stairs and then paused to listen. the house seemed very quiet, but he could hear his mother's voice softly humming a cradle-song that she had sung to him when he was a baby. he had been nervous and unsettled and a little fearful until then, but perhaps the sound of his mother's voice gave him courage, for he boldly ascended the stairs and entered the workshop, closing and locking the door behind him. . the unhappy fate of the demon again the atmosphere quickened and pulsed with accumulating vibrations. again the boy found himself aroused to eager expectancy. there was a whirl in the air; a crackling like distant musketry; a flash of dazzling light--and the demon stood before him for the third time. "i give you greetings!" said he, in a voice not unkindly. "good afternoon, mr. demon," answered the boy, bowing gravely. "i see you have returned safely from your trip," continued the apparition, cheerfully, "although at one time i thought you would be unable to escape. indeed, unless i had knocked that tube from the rascally turk's hand as he clambered to the top of the wall, i believe you would have been at the yarkand oasis yet--either dead or alive, as chance might determine." "were you there?" asked rob. "to be sure. and i recovered the tube for you, without which you would have been helpless. but that is the only time i saw fit to interfere in any way." "i'm afraid i did not get a chance to give many hints to inventors or scientists," said rob. "true, and i have deeply regretted it," replied the demon. "but your unusual powers caused more astonishment and consternation than you, perhaps, imagined; for many saw you whom you were too busy to notice. as a result several able electricians are now thinking new thoughts along new lines, and some of them may soon give these or similar inventions to the world." "you are satisfied, then?" asked rob. "as to that," returned the demon, composedly, "i am not. but i have hopes that with the addition of the three marvelous devices i shall present you with to-day you will succeed in arousing so much popular interest in electrical inventions as to render me wholly satisfied with the result of this experiment." rob regarded the brilliant apparition with a solemn face, but made no answer. "no living person," continued the demon, "has ever before been favored with such comforting devices for the preservation and extension of human life as yourself. you seem quite unappreciative, it is true; but since our connection i have come to realize that you are but an ordinary boy, with many boyish limitations; so i do not condemn your foolish actions too harshly." "that is kind of you," said rob. "to prove my friendliness," pursued the demon, "i have brought, as the first of to-day's offerings this electro-magnetic restorer. you see it is shaped like a thin metal band, and is to be worn upon the brow, clasping at the back of the head. its virtues surpass those of either the fabulous 'fountain of youth,' or the 'elixir of life,' so vainly sought for in past ages. for its wearer will instantly become free from any bodily disease or pain and will enjoy perfect health and vigor. in truth, so great are its powers that even the dead may be restored to life, provided the blood has not yet chilled. in presenting you with this appliance, i feel i am bestowing upon you the greatest blessing and most longed-for boon ever bequeathed of suffering humanity." here he held the slender, dull-colored metallic band toward the boy. "keep it," said rob. the demon started, and gave him an odd look. "what did you say?" he asked. "i told you to keep it," answered rob. "i don't want it." the demon staggered back as if he had been struck. "don't want it!" he gasped. "no; i've had enough of your infernal inventions!" cried the boy, with sudden anger. he unclasped the traveling machine from his wrist and laid it on the table beside the demon. "there's the thing that's responsible for most of my troubles," said he, bitterly. "what right has one person to fly through the air while all his fellow-creatures crawl over the earth's surface? and why should i be cut off from all the rest of the world because you have given me this confounded traveling machine? i didn't ask for it, and i won't keep it a moment longer. give it to some one you hate more than you do me!" the demon stared aghast and turned his glittering eyes wonderingly from rob to the traveling machine and back again, as if to be sure he had heard and seen aright. "and here are your food tablets," continued the boy, placing the box upon the table. "i've only enjoyed one square meal since you gave them to me. they're all right to preserve life, of course, and answer the purpose for which they were made; but i don't believe nature ever intended us to exist upon such things, or we wouldn't have the sense of taste, which enables us to enjoy natural food. as long as i'm a human being i'm going to eat like a human being, so i've consumed my last electrical concentrated food tablet--and don't you forget it!" the demon sank into a chair, nerveless and limp, but still staring fearfully at the boy. "and there's another of your unnatural devices," said rob, putting the automatic record of events upon the table beside the other things. "what right have you to capture vibrations that radiate from private and secret actions and discover them to others who have no business to know them? this would be a fine world if every body could peep into every one else's affairs, wouldn't it? and here is your character marker. nice thing for a decent person to own, isn't it? any one who would take advantage of such a sneaking invention as that would be worse than a thief! oh, i've used them, of course, and i ought to be spanked for having been so mean and underhanded; but i'll never be guilty of looking through them again." the demon's face was frowning and indignant. he made a motion to rise, but thought better of it and sank back in his chair. "as for the garment of protection," resumed the boy, after a pause, "i've worn it for the last time, and here it is, at your service. i'll put the electric tube with it. not that these are such very bad things in themselves, but i'll have none of your magical contrivances. i'll say this, however: if all armies were equipped with electrical tubes instead of guns and swords the world would be spared a lot of misery and unnecessary bloodshed. perhaps in time; but that time hasn't arrived yet." "you might have hastened it," said the demon, sternly, "if you had been wise enough to use your powers properly." "that's just it," answered rob. "i'm not wise enough. nor is the majority of mankind wise enough to use such inventions as yours unselfishly and for the good of the world. if people were better, and every one had an equal show, it would be different." for some moments the demon sat quietly thinking. finally the frown left his face and he said, with animation: "i have other inventions, which you may use without any such qualms of conscience. the electro-magnetic restorer i offered you would be a great boon to your race, and could not possibly do harm. and, besides this, i have brought you what i call the illimitable communicator. it is a simple electric device which will enable you, wherever you may be, to converse with people in any part of the world, without the use of such crude connections as wires. in fact, you may--" "stop!" cried rob. "it is useless for you to describe it, because i'll have nothing more to do with you or your inventions. i have given them a fair trial, and they've got me into all sorts of trouble and made all my friends miserable. if i was some high-up scientist it would be different; but i'm just a common boy, and i don't want to be anything else." "but, your duty--" began the demon. "my duty i owe to myself and to my family," interrupted rob. "i have never cultivated science, more than to fool with some simple electrical experiments, so i owe nothing to either science or the demon of electricity, so far as i can see." "but consider," remonstrated the demon, rising to his feet and speaking in a pleading voice, "consider the years that must elapse before any one else is likely to strike the master key! and, in the meanwhile, consider my helpless position, cut off from all interest in the world while i have such wonderful inventions on my hands for the benefit of mankind. if you have no love for science or for the advancement of civilization, do have some consideration for your fellow-creatures, and for me!" "if my fellow-creatures would have as much trouble with your electrical inventions as i had, i am doing them a service by depriving them of your devices," said the boy. "as for yourself, i've no fault to find with you, personally. you're a very decent sort of demon, and i've no doubt you mean well; but there's something wrong about our present combination, i'm sure. it isn't natural." the demon made a gesture of despair. "why, oh why did not some intelligent person strike the master key!" he moaned. "that's it!" exclaimed rob. "i believe that's the root of the whole evil." "what is?" inquired the demon, stupidly. "the fact that an intelligent person did not strike the master key. you don't seem to understand. well, i'll explain. you're the demon of electricity, aren't you?" "i am," said the other, drawing himself up proudly. "your mission is to obey the commands of whoever is able to strike the master key of electricity." "that is true." "i once read in a book that all things are regulated by exact laws of nature. if that is so you probably owe your existence to those laws." the demon nodded. "doubtless it was intended that when mankind became intelligent enough and advanced enough to strike the master key, you and all your devices would not only be necessary and acceptable to them, but the world would be prepared for their general use. that seems reasonable, doesn't it?" "perhaps so. yes; it seems reasonable," answered the demon, thoughtfully. "accidents are always liable to happen," continued the boy. "by accident the master key was struck long before the world of science was ready for it--or for you. instead of considering it an accident and paying no attention to it you immediately appeared to me--a mere boy--and offered your services." "i was very anxious to do something," returned the demon, evasively. "you've no idea how stupid it is for me to live invisible and unknown, while all the time i have in my possession secrets of untold benefit to the world." "well, you'll have to keep cool and bide your time," said rob. "the world wasn't made in a minute, and while civilization is going on at a pretty good pace, we're not up to the demon of electricity yet." "what shall i do!" groaned the apparition, wringing his hands miserably; "oh, what shall i do!" "go home and lie down," replied rob, sympathetically. "take it easy and don't get rattled. nothing was every created without a use, they say; so your turn will come some day, sure! i'm sorry for you, old fellow, but it's all your own fault." "you are right!" exclaimed the demon, striding up and down the room, and causing thereby such a crackling of electricity in the air that rob's hair became rigid enough to stand on end. "you are right, and i must wait--wait--wait--patiently and silently--until my bonds are loosed by intelligence rather than chance! it is a dreary fate. but i must wait--i must wait--i must wait!" "i'm glad you've come to your senses," remarked rob, drily. "so, if you've nothing more to say--" "no! i have nothing more to say. there is nothing more to say. you and i are two. we should never had met!" retorted the demon, showing great excitement. "oh, i didn't seek your acquaintance," said rob. "but i've tried to treat you decently, and i've no fault to find with you except that you forgot you were a slave and tried to be a master." the demon did not reply. he was busily forcing the various electrical devices that rob had relinquished into the pockets of his fiery jacket. finally he turned with an abrupt movement. "good-by!" he cried. "when mortal eyes next behold me they will be those of one fit to command my services! as for you, your days will be passed in obscurity and your name be unknown to fame. good-by,--forever!" the room filled with a flash of white light so like a sheet of lightning that the boy went reeling backwards, half stunned and blinded by its dazzling intensity. when he recovered himself the demon of electricity had disappeared. rob's heart was very light as he left the workshop and made his way down the attic stairs. "some people might think i was a fool to give up those electrical inventions," he reflected; "but i'm one of those persons who know when they've had enough. it strikes me the fool is the fellow who can't learn a lesson. i've learned mine, all right. it's no fun being a century ahead of the times!" [illustration: "run along, tommy fox," the squirrel said] sleepy-time tales the tale of tommy fox by arthur scott bailey illustrated by harry l. smith copyright, , by a. s. bailey contents chapter i tommy enjoys himself ii johnnie green goes hunting iii tommy fox learns to hunt iv mother grouse's children v tommy fox is hungry vi mr. gray squirrel's mistake vii tommy chases mr. woodchuck viii something makes tommy very proud ix tommy fox in trouble x mrs. fox outwits dog spot xi tommy grows too careless xii old mr. crow is pleased xiii johnnie green and his new pet xiv tommy fox makes a strange friend xv johnnie green feels sad xvi tommy becomes boastful xvii paying a call on a friend xviii the world turns white xix tommy fox learns a new trick xx the drummer of the woods xxi the biggest surprise of all illustrations "run along, tommy fox," the squirrel said...... frontispiece a cloud of feathers floated down from the limb mr. woodchuck whisked down out of sight tommy dashed for the little door tommy thought it was his mother's voice mrs. fox and tommy started to run i tommy enjoys himself tommy fox was having a delightful time. if you could have come upon him in the woods you would have been astonished at his antics. he leaped high off the ground, and struck out with his paws. he opened his mouth and thrust his nose out and then clapped his jaws shut again, with a snap. tommy burrowed his sharp face into the dead leaves at his feet and tossed his head into the air. and then he jumped up and barked just like a puppy. if you could have hid behind a tree and watched tommy fox you would have said that he was playing with something. but you never could have told what it was, because you couldn't have seen it. and you may have three guesses now, before i tell you what it was that tommy fox was playing with. ... it was a feather! yes--tommy had found a downy, brownish feather in the woods, which old mother grouse had dropped in one of her flights. and tommy was having great sport with it, tossing it up in the air, and slapping and snapping at it, as it drifted slowly down to the ground again. he grew quite excited, did tommy fox. for he just couldn't help making believe that it was old mother grouse herself--and not merely one of her smallest feathers that he had found. and he leaped and bounded and jumped and tumbled about and made a great fuss over nothing but that little, soft, brownish feather. there was something about that feather that made tommy's nose twitch and wrinkle and tremble. tommy sniffed and sniffed at the bit of down, for he liked the smell of it. it made him feel very hungry. and at last he felt so hungry that he decided he would go home and see if his mother had brought him something to eat. so he started homewards. i must explain that tommy lived with his mother and that their house was right in the middle of one of farmer green's fields, not far from the foot of blue mountain. when tommy was quite small his mother had chosen that place for her house, which was really a den that she had dug in the ground. by having her house in the center of the field she knew that no one could creep up and catch tommy when he was playing outside in the sunshine. now tommy was older, and had begun to roam about in the woods and meadows alone. but mrs. fox liked her home in the field, and so she continued to live there. tommy was so hungry, now, and in such a hurry to reach home, that you might think that he would have gone straight toward his mother's house. but he didn't. he trotted along a little way, and suddenly gave a sidewise leap which carried him several feet away from the straight path he had been following. again he trotted ahead for a short distance. and then he wheeled around and ran in a circle. and after he had made the circle he jumped to one side once more, and ran along on an old tree which had fallen upon the ground. he was not playing. no!--tommy fox was just trying to obey his mother. ever since he had been big enough to wander off by himself she had told him that he must never go anywhere without making jumps and circles. "it takes longer," she said; "but it is better to do that way, because it makes it hard for a dog to follow you. if you ran straight ahead, farmer green's dog could go smelling along in your footsteps, and if he didn't actually catch you he could follow you right home and then we would have to move, to say the least." tommy was so afraid of dogs that he almost never forgot to do just as his mother told him. he was half-way home and passing through a clump of evergreens, when he suddenly stopped. the wind was blowing in his face, and brought to his nostrils a smell that made him tremble. it was not a frightened sort of tremble, but a delicious, joyful shiver that tommy felt. for he smelled something that reminded him at once of that feather with which he had been playing. and tommy stood as still as a statue and his sharp eyes looked all around. at first he could see nothing. but in a minute or two he noticed something on the ground, beneath one of the evergreen trees. he had looked at it carefully several times; and each time he had decided that it was only an old tree-root. but now he saw that he had been mistaken. yes! it was old mother grouse herself! ii johnnie green goes hunting when tommy fox discovered old mother grouse crouched beneath the evergreen tree he grew hungrier than ever. and he decided that he would catch mrs. grouse and eat her on the spot. tommy had never caught a grouse. but his mother had brought home some of old mother grouse's relations for him to eat; and tommy knew of nothing that tasted any better. he thought that old mother grouse must be sleeping, she was so still. and he did not mean to wake her if he could help it--at least, not until he had caught her. so tommy flattened himself out on his stomach and began to creep towards her, very slowly and very carefully. he didn't make the slightest noise. and soon he had stolen so close to old mother grouse that he was just about to spring up and rush upon her. then all at once there was the most terrible noise. it was almost as loud as thunder, and it seemed to tommy that the ground was rising right up in front of him. he was so startled that he fell over backward. and his heart thumped and pounded against his ribs. the next moment tommy fox felt very sheepish, for he realized that the noise was nothing but the beating of old mother grouse's wings against the air. and instead of the ground rising, it was old mother grouse herself who had jumped up and sailed away. she hadn't been asleep. she had seen him all the time. [illustration: a cloud of feathers floated down from the limb] and she had just waited until she saw that tommy was trying to catch her before she flew off. old mother grouse didn't fly far. she perched in a tree just a little way off and sat there and looked down at tommy fox and chuckled to herself. she knew that she was perfectly safe. and though tommy fox trotted up to the tree where she sat and stared longingly up at her she wasn't the least bit worried. for she knew quite well that tommy couldn't climb a tree. tommy felt very peevish. he was _so_ hungry! and he couldn't help thinking how good old mother grouse would have tasted. he couldn't reach her now. but still he didn't go along toward home. he simply couldn't keep his greedy eyes off fat old mother grouse! and he squatted down beside a bush and stared at her. old mother grouse didn't mind that. she just stared back at tommy fox; and she didn't say a word to him, which somehow made tommy still more peevish. how long tommy would have stayed there it would be hard to tell. but in a little while something happened that sent him home on the run. if mrs. grouse and tommy had been looking out as sharply as they generally did, farmer green's boy never could have crept up so close to them. but they were so busy staring at each other that they never saw farmer green's boy at all. now, johnnie green had his gun with him, for he was hunting grouse. he did not see tommy fox at all, because tommy was hidden behind the bush. but johnnie green saw old mother grouse; and almost as soon as he saw her he fired. the old shot-gun made a tremendous roar. the woods rang and echoed with the noise. and tommy fox saw a cloud of feathers float down from the limb where old mother grouse had been sitting. but old mother grouse herself flew away. the shot had knocked out some of her tail-feathers, but hadn't hurt her at all. it all happened very quickly. and tommy fox felt himself leaping high in the air. he was so frightened that he had jumped almost out of his skin. and he ran and ran, and ran faster than he had ever run before in all his rather short life. johnnie green saw him run. but his gun wasn't loaded now, and he couldn't shoot. and he didn't have his dog with him, either. it was lucky for tommy fox that there was no dog there. for tommy was so scared that he forgot all about jumping sideways, and running in circles, as his mother had taught him. he just ran straight for his home in the middle of the big field; and when he got there he scurried through the door and scampered inside; and he never came out again all that day. iii tommy fox learns to hunt tommy fox was hunting crickets in the field near his mother's house. being a young fox, not much more than half-grown, tommy knew very little of hunting. in fact, crickets were about the only thing he could hunt and _catch_. of course, any one can _hunt_. the hard part of it is to _catch_ what you are hunting. tommy was glad that he knew how to capture crickets, for he was very fond of them. to be sure, it took a great many crickets to satisfy his hunger. but they were good when he wanted a light lunch; and there was fun, too, in hunting them. this is the way tommy fox caught crickets. he would stand very still in the tall grass and watch sharply. wherever he saw the grass moving, tommy would pounce upon that spot, bringing his two front paws down tight against the ground. and in the bunch of grass that lay beneath his paws tommy almost always found a fat cricket. there was just one drawback about that kind of hunting. he could catch crickets only upon still days, when there was no wind; because when the wind blew, the grass waved everywhere, and tommy couldn't tell whether it was crickets or whether it was wind that made the grass move. well, upon this very day when tommy fox was amusing himself, and swallowing crickets as fast as he could grab them, his mother came out of her house and watched him for a little while. tommy was feeling quite proud of his skill. "i can hunt--can't i, mother?" he exclaimed. "watch me! i get them almost every time!" he boasted. mrs. fox did not answer. she was thinking deeply. she knew that there were a great many things she must teach her son, because he was growing up; and some day he would be leaving home to go out into the world and take care of himself. and mrs. fox knew that tommy would have to learn to catch bigger things than crickets in order to keep from starving. pretty soon mrs. fox started across the field. she was gone rather a long time. but she came back at last, carrying something that squirmed and twisted and wriggled. whatever it was that mrs. fox was bringing home, it was furry, and quite big and heavy. when tommy saw it he stopped hunting crickets at once. he knew what his mother had. it was a woodchuck! "hurrah!" he shouted. "i'm hungry! may i eat all of him i want?" you might think that he had swallowed so many crickets that he wouldn't want anything more to eat just then. but to tell the truth, it was very seldom that tommy fox wasn't hungry as a bear. "not so fast!" mrs. fox said. "i'm going to teach you to hunt. and you're to begin with this woodchuck. now i'm going to let him go, and you must catch him." so mrs. fox let the woodchuck slip away; and off he scampered, with tommy after him. mrs. fox followed close behind. and soon she saw tommy give a great spring and land right on top of the woodchuck. tommy was greatly excited. but he was hungry, too, "may i eat him now?" he asked. "no! let him go again," his mother commanded. "and see if you can catch him more quickly next time." tommy obeyed. and though he overtook the woodchuck sooner, he was not so careful to avoid the 'chuck's sharp teeth, and he got a savage nip right on his nose. tommy was surprised. he was so surprised that he dropped the woodchuck. and you may believe that mr. woodchuck lost no time. he scurried away as fast as his legs would carry him. tommy began to whimper. his nose hurt; and he thought he had lost his dinner, too. but mrs. fox bounded after mr. woodchuck and brought him back again. she made tommy stop crying. and he had to begin his lesson all over again. when mrs. fox thought that tommy had learned enough for that day they both sat down and made a meal of that unfortunate mr. woodchuck. and tommy felt that he had already become a mighty hunter. he hadn't the least doubt that he could go into the woods and catch almost anything he saw. we shall see later whether tommy fox knew as much as he thought he did. iv mother grouse's children the very next day after his first lesson in hunting, when his mother had brought home the live woodchuck, tommy fox went off into the woods alone. he had made up his mind that he would surprise his mother by bringing home some nice tidbit for dinner--a rabbit, perhaps, or maybe a squirrel. he wasn't quite sure _what_ it would be, because you know when hunting you have to take what you find--if you can catch it. tommy fox hadn't been long in the woods before he had even better luck than he had expected. he was creeping through a thicket, making no noise at all, when what should he see but that sly old mother grouse, with all her eleven children! they were very young, were old mother grouse's children; and they hadn't yet learned to fly. and there they were, all on the ground, with the proud old lady in their midst. tommy fox was so pleased that he almost laughed out loud. he tried to keep still; but he couldn't help snickering a little. and old mother grouse heard him. she started to fly. but instead of tearing off out of danger, she lighted on the ground quite near tommy. "how stupid of her!" he thought. "i'll just catch the old lady first, and then get the youngsters afterward. _they_ can't fly away." so tommy made a leap for old mother grouse. he just missed her. she rose in the nick of time and slipped away from him. but she didn't fly far. so tommy followed. and he stole up very slyly; and once more, when he was quite near the old lady, he sprang at her. it was really very annoying. for again old mother grouse just escaped. again she flew a little further away, lighted on the ground, and seemed to forget that tommy fox was so near. that same thing happened as many as a dozen times. and the twelfth time that mrs. grouse rose before one of tommy's rushes she didn't come down again. she lighted in a tree. and since it appeared to tommy that she had no intention of leaving her safe perch, he gave up in disgust. he was very angry because he hadn't caught old mother grouse. but there was her family! he would get _them_--the whole eleven of them! and he turned back toward the place where he had first come upon them. now, sly old mother grouse had played a trick on tommy fox. if he had just left her alone he could have caught every one of her children. but she had tempted him to follow her. and every time she rose from the ground and flew a short distance, she led tommy further away from her little ones. tommy had some trouble in finding the exact spot where he had stumbled upon mrs. grouse and her children. but he found it again, at last. and little good it did him; for not a trace of those eleven young grouse could he discover. they had all disappeared--every single one of them! _they_ knew what to do when their mother led tommy fox away. each of them found a safe hiding-place. some of them burrowed beneath the fallen leaves; some of them hid behind old stumps; some of them crept into a hollow log. and try as he would, tommy fox was unable to find so much as one downy feather. he was so disappointed--and so ashamed--that he went home and stayed there. but he had learned something. yes! tommy fox knew that if he ever met old mother grouse and her family again he would catch her children first. afterward he would try to capture the sly old lady herself. but he didn't believe, just then, that he would ever be able to catch her. you see, tommy realized that he wasn't quite so clever as he had thought. v tommy fox is hungry tommy fox kept a sharp look-out to see what he could capture to eat. but he could discover nothing at all. to be sure, there were birds in the trees, and birds' nests too, and tommy was very fond of birds' eggs. but he couldn't climb trees. the birds were out of his reach; and so were the squirrels. he saw plenty of red squirrels, and gray squirrels, and little striped chipmunks. they looked down from the branches and chattered and scolded at him. they were perfectly safe, and they knew it. tommy fox sat down to think. as i have said, he was hungry. and there is nothing that sharpens a fox's wits like hunger. he looked very innocent, as he rested under a big chestnut tree, and gazed up at a gray squirrel which was perched on a limb over his head. "run along, tommy fox," the squirrel said to him.--"there's no use of your staying here. i shan't come down until you're gone." tommy didn't say anything. he just whined a few times, and held his paw against his stomach. and he gave one or two groans. the gray squirrel came a little further down the tree and looked at tommy again. he wondered if tommy was ill. and then, when tommy stretched himself out on the ground and lay quite still the gray squirrel was sure that tommy fox had eaten something that hurt him. "what is it?" the squirrel inquired. tommy looked up and murmured something. the squirrel couldn't hear what he said, but he thought he caught the word _poison_. and he decided that tommy had probably devoured a poisoned chicken-head which farmer green had thrown out for him. i am afraid that the squirrel didn't feel very sorry. he didn't like tommy fox, for tommy was always trying to catch him. but if he wasn't sorry, he was curious. and he sat up on a low branch and looked at tommy for a long time. tommy fox never moved again. his eyes were shut; his beautiful red tail, with its white tip, lay limp on the ground; and his legs stuck out as stiff as pokers. mr. gray squirrel felt sure that tommy was very ill. he called and called to tommy. but he got no reply. and at last he decided that tommy must be dead. so he slipped down the tree to the ground, to get a better look. at first mr. gray squirrel stayed close to the tree, so that he could scamper up again in case he was mistaken. but tommy fox never moved an eyelash. and at last mr. gray squirrel grew quite bold. he edged closer to tommy. he had never been so near a fox before, and he was curious to see what he looked like. he stole up beside tommy and was just about to call to his friends in the next tree-top to come down, when he received the surprise of his life. as mr. gray squirrel watched, he thought he saw one of tommy fox's eyelids quiver. and a great fear seized him. had he been mistaken? was tommy fox playing dead? vi mr. gray squirrel's mistake mr. gray squirrel certainly was mistaken, when he thought that tommy fox was dead and came down out of the chestnut tree to look at him. tommy wasn't even ill. you remember that he was very hungry? and that he had not been able to find anything to eat? tommy could not climb the tree, where mr. gray squirrel sat. so the only thing left for him to do was to make mr. gray squirrel come down where _he_ was. that was what tommy fox was thinking about, when he sat there on his haunches and looked up so innocently at mr. gray squirrel. as tommy sat there a bright idea came to him. so he held his paw to his stomach and pretended to be ill. and as soon as he saw that mr. gray squirrel thought he was ill, tommy fell over on his side and made believe he was dead. though his eyes were shut tight, tommy's ears were so sharp that he could tell when mr. gray squirrel came down the tree. and he could hear him slowly picking his way nearer and nearer. tommy's nose was sharp, too, and he could smell mr. gray squirrel. he smelled so good that tommy couldn't help opening one eye the least bit, just to see him. that was when mr. gray squirrel noticed that his eyelid quivered. and tommy saw at once that mr. gray squirrel had caught that flicker of his eyelid, and that he was frightened. tommy knew then that he must act quickly. he jumped up like a flash. but quick as he was, mr. gray squirrel was even quicker. he reached the tree just ahead of tommy fox; and though tommy leaped high up the trunk, he was too late. mr. gray squirrel scrambled up the tree so fast that his big, bushy tail just whisked across tommy's face. and in another second he was safe in the tree-top, chattering and scolding, and calling tommy names. tommy fox felt very foolish. he realized that if he had jumped up without first opening his eye he would not have given mr. gray squirrel any warning; and then he would have caught the plump old fellow. but it was too late now. another time he would know better. and he sneaked off, to try the same trick on one of mr. gray squirrel's friends. it was no use. mr. squirrel followed him, jumping from one tree-top to another, and made a great noise, calling after him, and jeering at him, and telling all his friends about the mean trick tommy had tried to play on him. and to tommy's great disgust, an old crow high up in a tall tree heard the story, and haw-hawed loudly, he was so amused. he made such a racket that all the forest-people heard him; and tommy knew that there was no sense in trying to catch a squirrel around there _that_ day. he went down into the meadow and began hunting crickets. and though he didn't have as good a lunch as he wanted, probably he ate all that was good for him. vii tommy chases mr. woodchuck tommy fox went up into farmer green's back-pasture, which, lay even nearer blue mountain than the field where tommy and his mother lived. he skulked along among the rocky hummocks, and the old stumps which dotted the pasture thickly. his ears and his eyes and his nose were all alert to discover any small animal that might be stirring--especially his nose; for tommy could smell things when they were a long way off. tommy's mother had explained to him that he must always hunt with the wind blowing in his face; because then the breeze brought to him the scent of any animal that might be in front of him, whether it happened to be an animal that tommy was hunting, or some animal that was hunting _him_. in that way tommy would be able to know what was ahead of him, even if he couldn't see it. [illustration: mr. woodchuck whisked down out of sight] but if he were careless, and trotted along with the wind blowing _behind him_--ah! that was quite different. the other forest-people would all know he was coming, for then _they_ would be able to get tommy's scent. and some day, if he were so foolish as to go about with the wind at his back, some day he might stumble right onto a wildcat, or a dog, or a man, or some other terrible creature. well--tommy remembered all these things that his mother had told him. the wind blew fresh in his face. and to his delight all at once he smelled a woodchuck. there was no mistaking that savoury smell. it affected tommy very pleasantly--much as you are affected by catching a whiff of hot peanuts, or pop-corn, or candy cooking on the stove. tommy stole along very carefully. and as he peered around a stump he saw, not ten jumps ahead of him, a fine, fat woodchuck. tommy crept up a little closer; and then he sprang for mr. woodchuck with a rush. pudgy mr. woodchuck saw tommy just in time. he turned tail and ran for his life; and he was so spry, though he was quite a fat, elderly gentleman, that he reached his hole and whisked down out of sight just as tommy was about to seize him. tommy was disappointed. but he was determined to get that woodchuck, and he began to dig away at mr. woodchuck's hole. you see, mr. woodchuck was smaller than tommy fox, and since the underground tunnel that led to his home was only big enough to admit _him_, tommy was obliged to make it larger. though mr. woodchuck's hole was under a shady oak tree, tommy found digging to be somewhat warm work, so he took off his neat, red coat and hung it carefully upon a bush. he worked very hard, for he was eager to find mr. woodchuck. in fact, the further tommy dug into the ground the more excited he grew. and he had just decided that he had almost reached the end of the tunnel, and that a little more digging would bring him inside of mr. woodchuck's house, when he met with an unexpected check. to tommy's dismay, mr. woodchuck's tunnel led between two roots of the big oak, and tommy could not squeeze between them. he reached his paws through the narrow opening and crowded his nose in as far as it would go. but that was all he could do. he did not doubt that somewhere in beyond, in the darkness, mr. woodchuck was having a good laugh because tommy had done all that work for nothing. i am sorry to say that tommy fox lost his temper. he called after mr. woodchuck. yes--he shouted some rather bad names after him. but of course that didn't do a bit of good. and tommy fox put on his coat and went home to think about what he could do. he didn't care to ask his mother's advice, because he didn't want her to know that mr. woodchuck had got away from him. but he hoped to find some way in which he could catch the old gentleman. viii something makes tommy very proud tommy fox could think of nothing but mr. woodchuck. he thought there could be no use in going back to the hole beneath the big oak in the pasture until the next day, because mr. woodchuck would probably be afraid that tommy was waiting for him to come out. yes--tommy decided that mr. woodchuck would stay in his house down among the roots of the big tree and not show himself again until he felt quite sure that his enemy had grown tired of watching and had given up the idea of catching him. but tommy guessed that by another day old mr. woodchuck would be so hungry that he would have to go out of doors again to get something to eat. and tommy fox could hardly wait for the night to pass. but another day came at last; and it found tommy up and hurrying to farmer green's back-pasture, where mr. woodchuck lived. it was just growing light; and there was a heavy dew upon the grass, which tommy didn't like at all, because he just hated to get his feet wet. tommy did not go near mr. woodchuck's hole. although he was just a young fox, he was too wise to do that. he knew that if he went nosing around mr. woodchuck's dooryard the old gentleman would smell his tracks as soon as he poked his head out. so tommy was careful to keep away from the hole where he had dug so hard the day before. he sneaked around until he had passed mr. woodchuck's house; and then he crept up behind the big oak close by. and there he waited. tommy kept smiling. he was _so_ pleased, because his plan was working out very well. the wind blew towards him, and tommy saw that mr. woodchuck wouldn't be able to smell him when the old fellow came up into the open air. for a long time tommy waited there. he kept very still. and he stayed hidden behind the tree, with only one eye peeping round the tree-trunk, so that he could watch for mr. woodchuck. he was very patient--was tommy. you have to be patient, you know, when you are hunting. he crouched behind the tree for at least an hour, and never once took his eye off that hole. and at last he saw mr. woodchuck's nose come popping out. if tommy hadn't been watching very closely he wouldn't have seen it at all; for mr. woodchuck just stuck his head up for a second, took one quick look all around, and jumped back again. he hadn't seen anything to frighten him. but he thought it best to be very careful. tommy waited. and pretty soon that small nose came sticking out again. this time it stayed longer. and to tommy's great delight, in another minute he saw mr. woodchuck climb up and take a good look all about. tommy fox hardly breathed. he didn't see how the old gentleman could help spying him. but he didn't. and then mr. woodchuck started off across the pasture, to find something for breakfast. he was very hungry, for he hadn't had any supper the night before. tommy fox waited until mr. woodchuck had gone just a few steps away from his doorway. and then tommy stole after him. this time tommy was between mr. woodchuck and his house. and mr. woodchuck couldn't escape. it was all over in a second. and tommy fox felt very proud of himself when he reached home and showed his mother what he had brought. "i can hunt--can't i, mother?" he said. "to-morrow i'm going up on the mountain and catch a bear." "don't be silly," mrs. fox said. "you know you couldn't catch a bear." but she was much pleased, in spite of what she said. for she saw that tommy was really beginning to learn something. ix tommy fox in trouble a few days after tommy fox caught old mr. woodchuck, something happened that set him thinking. perhaps i should say _"a few nights"_ instead of _"days."_ for one night his mother came home with a fat hen slung across her shoulders. she had been down to farmer green's hen-house, right in the middle of the night, when farmer green and his family were asleep; and she had snatched one of the sleeping hens off the roost and stolen away with it without waking anybody. only a very wise old fox could do that. "you mustn't go near farmer green's hen-house," mrs. fox said to tommy, as they picked the bones of the fat hen together. "you are not old enough to get one of farmer green's hens." you notice that mrs. fox didn't speak of _"stealing"_ a hen. she called it "getting" one. for foxes believe that it is only fair to take a farmer's hen now and then, in return for killing field-mice and woodchucks, which eat the farmer's grain. but the farmer never stops to think of that. he only thinks of the hens that he loses. tommy fox never said a word while his mother was talking to him. he was very busy, eating. but that was not the only reason why he kept still. he heard his mother's warning, but he thought she was silly. he really believed that he was quite old enough and quite big enough and quite wise enough to go down to farmer green's and get a hen himself. after catching old mr. woodchuck tommy felt that he was able to do about everything his mother could do. and he made up his mind right then and there that he would show her. he would pay a visit to the hen-house that very night. tommy fox could not wait for night to come. in fact, he could wait only until the close of day--he was in such a hurry to capture a hen. the sun had scarcely sunk out of sight in the west and the sky was still red, when he crept slyly up to farmer green's hen-house. tommy had heard that farmer green went to bed very early, after working hard in the fields each day. and since he saw nobody stirring about the place he thought that everyone was asleep. the hens were asleep. there was no doubt of that. peeping inside their little house, tommy could see them roosting in rows. and he lost no time in squeezing through one of the small doors. he felt a bit timid, once he was inside. and for a moment he almost wished that he hadn't come. but he was determined to take a hen home with him; so he reached up and grabbed the very first hen he came to, on the lowest perch of all. it was a big, old, white hen that tommy fox seized. she awoke the moment he touched her, and began to squall. and to tommy's alarm, all the rest of the hens heard her and began to cackle loudly. the noise was deafening. and tommy made a dash for the little door, with old mrs. white hen in his mouth. she was flapping her wings and kicking as hard as she could. and tommy was dismayed to find that he could not get her through the narrow door. every time he tried to push through, one of mrs. white hen's legs, or a wing, or her head, struck against the edge of the doorway. then a dog barked. and tommy heard something running around the chicken-house. he just knew that it was a man. and he dropped the old hen in a hurry and slipped through the door. he was just in time. he heard a man shout, "after him, spot!" and giving one frightened glance over his shoulder, tommy saw that farmer green's dog was close behind him. x mrs. fox outwits dog spot poor tommy fox! how he wished that he had obeyed his mother, and kept away from farmer green's hen-house! now farmer green's dog spot was chasing him. tommy could hear him baying joyfully as he followed. but you may be sure that tommy was not joyful. he was terribly frightened. he could think of nothing to do except to run, run, run! as fast as he could go. he was headed straight for home, and he only hoped that he would get there before the dog spot caught him. now, tommy was doing just about the worst thing he could do. he never once jumped sideways, or ran around in a circle. and though he might have waded a little way in the shallow brook in the meadow, where spot would have lost his trail, tommy used the bridge to get across the stream; so the dog spot had no trouble at all in following him. and spot kept drawing nearer and nearer. it happened that mrs. fox heard the baying of the dog. and she knew what spot was saying. he was crying--"i've almost got him! i've almost got him!" a shiver passed over mrs. fox; for she thought at once of tommy. he was not at home, and she wondered if by any chance he was in trouble. she hurried through the field to see who it was that spot was chasing. and sure enough! pretty soon mrs. fox saw tommy come tearing through the field, panting hard, with his tongue hanging out, and a most frightened look upon his face. [illustration: tommy dashed for the little door] mrs. fox hastened to meet him. the dog spot was then on the other side of a low hill, and running along with his nose to the ground. "jump!" mrs. fox said to tommy, as soon as he joined her. tommy remembered, then, what his mother had always told him. so he gave a long leap to one side. "now make a big circle, and jump again. then go home!" that was all mrs. fox had time to say. she stopped just long enough to see tommy dash off; and then she started right in the opposite direction. the dog spot saw her and gave a yelp of delight. he did not know what had been happening. he only thought that now he was going to catch the fox, which was the stupidest fox he had ever chased, running as it did, straight away, with never a leap or a circle, or any other sort of trick to fool him. little did spot guess that old mrs. fox had not the slightest idea of being caught. she had been followed by spot himself many times; and she knew exactly how to escape him. she just lingered for a few moments, to make sure that tommy was safe, and that spot was chasing _her_. and then how she did run! in no time at all she left spot far behind. now, mrs. fox knew that there was a ploughed field nearby, and that was just what she wanted. she scampered towards it at great speed and went straight across it. and when she had reached the other side of the ploughed ground she sat down for a short breathing spell. you see, mrs. fox was very wise indeed. she knew that in dry weather, such as there was then, a ploughed field takes no scent at all. she knew that when spot reached that loose dirt spot could not smell her footsteps. and so she just sat there on her haunches, and caught her breath again. a grim smile crossed mrs. fox's face as she heard spot barking away in the distance. it was a very different bark from what she had heard when he was chasing tommy. this time spot was saying, "oh, dear! oh, dear! i've lost him!" over and over again. when mrs. fox reached home she found tommy safe inside their house. he was crying, because he was afraid he would never see his mother again. and after his mother found out how spot had happened to chase him, tommy cried some more--but for an entirely different reason. who can guess what the reason was? xi tommy grows too careless by the time summer was nearly over, tommy fox was much bigger than he had been in the spring. so many things had happened, and he had learned so much, that he began to be quite bold. and he had grown so saucy that his mother often had to scold him. tommy had fallen into the bad habit of going about calling all the forest-people names; and in that way he had gained for himself the ill-will of all the creatures who lived near the foot of blue mountain. it interfered with his hunting, because whenever he started out to get something to eat, as soon as they saw him the forest-people told one another that he was coming. old mr. crow especially was the worst of all. he was forever calling "stop, thief!" after tommy fox; and then he would haw-haw in a manner that was frightfully annoying. in fact, he made matters so unpleasant that after a time tommy began to roam far down the valley, along swift river, where he tried to catch fish. the fish, at least, couldn't call him names, and there was some satisfaction in that fact, even if he hadn't much luck as a fisherman. and just for excitement tommy began to worry farmer green's spot. he delighted in barking at spot. and spot would always stop what he was doing and rush pell-mell after tommy fox. then tommy would skip away with a laugh. first he always ran for the river, and jumped from one stone to another, and waded where the water was shallow. then he would dash off through the meadows, leaving so crooked a trail behind him that when spot at last found the place where tommy had left the river, he never could follow him very far. but one day tommy stumbled upon spot quite by accident. there was no wind at all that day, to bring any scent to tommy's sharp nose. and he suddenly found that spot was right in front of him, between him and the river. tommy fox turned and ran. he laughed, too; because he felt quite sure that he could outwit old spot. and he leaped and twisted and turned about, and made so many circles, that he felt sure spot couldn't follow him. yes--tommy felt so safe that he stopped running and was trotting slowly along through the field in which he lived. he was almost home, when he heard a noise behind him. he looked around and to his great surprise there was spot almost upon him. there was no time to lose. there was only one thing tommy could do. the door of his mother's house was only a short distance off and tommy made for it. luckily, he managed to reach it. once inside, he could hear the dog spot barking in the opening. but he knew that spot was too big to follow him. although tommy was very glad to be safe at home, he was worried. for now spot know where he and his mother lived; and they would have to move. tommy was afraid his mother would be very angry with him for being so stupid as to let spot follow him. but he couldn't help it now. meanwhile, old spot continued to bark, and scratch at the door of tommy's home. but at last he stopped. and all was still. tommy wondered where his mother was. she was not at home. and he wanted to see her, even if he was afraid that she would punish him. for tommy did not know exactly what to do. he did not dare go out for fear spot might be lying in wait for him. so tommy stayed there. and still his mother did not come home. he wondered where she could be. xii old mr. crow is pleased there was a very good reason why mrs. fox did not come home that day when the dog spot chased tommy fox into his house. she had heard old spot barking in the field and she had hurried toward home as fast as she could, to see what was the matter. to her great dismay, when she leaped up on the stone-wall not far from her house mrs. fox could see spot scratching at her door. and she guessed at once that he had driven tommy inside. the poor old lady hardly knew what to do. but she hid in the grass, hoping that spot would grow tired of his task and go home. but old dog spot kept up a great barking. he howled so loudly that they heard him way off at the farm-house; and mrs. fox nearly wept when she saw farmer green and his boy johnnie come hurrying across the fields. pretty soon johnnie green returned to the farm-house; and when he came back mrs. fox could see that he carried a steel trap. for a short time johnnie and his father busied themselves at her doorway. and then they went away, calling old dog spot after them. after they had gone, mrs. fox stole sadly across the field to the home she had liked so well. she knew that she could live there no longer in peace and quiet. yes--she would have to move. and now the first thing to be done was to get tommy safely out of the house. mrs. fox reached her door-yard. and there she paused. there was no trap to be seen, anywhere. but the path leading to her door was sprinkled thick with fresh earth; and wise old mrs. fox knew that hidden underneath it, somewhere, lay that cruel trap, with its jaws wide open, waiting to catch her if she stepped between them. she crept as close to her door as she dared, and called softly to tommy. i don't need to say that her son was delighted to hear his mother's voice. he poked his nose out of the hole at once. and he would have jumped out and fallen right into the trap if his mother had not warned him. "don't come out!" she cried sharply, "there's a trap here, beneath this dirt. now, do just as i tell you, or you'll be caught!" tommy fox was frightened. for once, at least, he believed, that his mother knew more than he did. and he didn't dare move, except when she ordered. he didn't dare put a foot down except where she told him to. tommy had taken several careful steps, and his mother had begun to think that he was almost safely past the trap, when a very unfortunate thing happened. tommy was just about to set one of his front feet down upon a spot that his mother had pointed out to him, when somebody suddenly called, "stop, thief!" tommy fox was so startled that he gave a quick jump. _snap!_ went the trap. and though tommy sprang up into the air, he was just too late. the trap closed tightly across the tips of his toes. it was only one foot that was caught; but that was enough. he could not get away--no matter how hard he pulled. it was old mr. crow who had called "stop, thief!" he was laughing now. his "haw-haw! haw-haw!" could be heard plainly enough, as he flapped away in great glee, to tell all the forest-people that tommy fox would trouble them no more. xiii johnnie green and his new pet tommy fox was in a terrible fix. he was caught fast by the foot in a trap; and if that isn't being in a fix, i should like to know what is. all night long he whimpered and cried. all night long he tugged and pulled, trying to get free. but the more he tugged the more the trap hurt his foot. and the harder he cried. mrs. fox couldn't help tommy at all. she stayed with him throughout the night, and tried to comfort him. and she only left when morning came and she smelled men coming across the fields. then, with one last sorrowful look at tommy, she crept sadly away. in a few minutes more farmer green and his boy johnnie reached mrs. fox's door. and they were both greatly pleased when they saw that the trap had done its work so well. "it's a young cub," farmer green said, as soon as he spied tommy fox. "may i have him, father?" johnnie asked quickly. "i'd like him for a pet." tommy fox was terribly frightened when he heard that. you see, he didn't know what a "pet" was. he thought that probably it was something like a stew, for he had been told that people ate things like that; and he could see himself, in his mind's eye, being cut up and tossed into a pot. "a pet, eh?" said farmer green. "well, i suppose so. he's hardly worth skinning. you may have him, i guess. but look out that he doesn't bite you." johnnie green was delighted. he helped his father put tommy into an old sack, and taking the trap too, they started toward the farm-house. when they reached farmer green's home johnnie and his father fitted a stout collar about tommy's neck. and they fastened one end of a chain to it; and the other end they tied to a long stake, which they drove into the ground in farmer green's door-yard. then johnnie green set a big wooden box close beside the stake. he tipped the box over on its side, and threw some straw into it. and that was tommy fox's new home. you might think that it was a much nicer home than he had before. but tommy did not like it at all. all the people on the farm came and looked at him, inside the box; and johnnie green never left him for more than ten minutes all the rest of that day. tommy made up his mind that he would make a house of his own. and that very night he dug a hole in farmer green's dooryard, where he could crawl out of sight of everyone. tommy liked that much better. no matter how hard johnnie green pulled on the chain, he couldn't drag tommy out unless he wanted to come. but after a few days tommy began to get used to being a pet. he found that it was not such a terrible thing, after all. he did miss the fine runs he used to have; and the hunts; and he missed his mother, too. he could hear her often, at night, calling to him from the fields. and then tommy would answer, and tug at his chain. but he couldn't get away. and after a while he would go to sleep and dream pleasant dreams, about catching crickets in the long grass. xiv tommy fox makes a strange friend there was one thing, especially, that surprised tommy fox. and i think it surprised the dog spot even more. tommy and spot became friends. at first, whenever spot came near, tommy would run into his hole, as far as his chain would allow him. but after a time he began to peep out at his visitor. and finally he grew so bold that when spot came to see him he stayed above ground, though to be sure he sat close to the door of his house, so that he could whisk out of sight if spot should come too near him. since spot often came to look at johnnie green's new pet, he began to like tommy. and instead of growling, he would wag his tail, and try to be friendly. and the first thing they knew, they were playing together, and rolling and tumbling about, pretending to bite each other. now, spot was much bigger than tommy fox, and stronger. and sometimes when they played together he would get so rough that tommy would run down into his underground house and hide. but he never lost his temper, because he knew that spot did not mean to hurt him. and tommy was always ready to come out again and play some more. johnnie green was very proud of his new pet. and one day when he was going to drive to the village he took tommy fox with him. he tied tommy's chain to the wagon and tommy sat up on the seat beside his young master. he had a fine ride. it frightened him at first, to see so many people, for it was market-day, when the farmers for miles around came to the village to sell their butter and eggs and vegetables. there was a great number of dogs, too, running about the village streets. tommy was glad that he was high up on the seat of the wagon, beside johnnie green, for he knew that he was perfectly safe there. he saw so many strange sights that after that first day whenever he saw johnnie starting off for the village he was never satisfied unless he went too. on the whole, tommy fox did not have a bad time, being johnnie green's pet. and although farmer green often complained that johnnie would rather play with his young fox than drive the cows, or feed the chickens, or fetch water from the pump, still farmer green himself rather enjoyed watching tommy fox. but at last something happened that made farmer green very angry. one morning he discovered that a fine hen had disappeared during the night. and the following night another hen vanished. farmer green was puzzled. old spot had been loose all the time, and he had never barked once. that was what made farmer green suspicious. farmer green went out into his door-yard, where tommy fox was basking in the sunshine. tommy looked up at farmer green very innocently. you would have thought he had never done anything wrong in all his life. farmer green began to examine the ground about tommy's house. he didn't find anything unusual. but when he knelt down and peered into the hole tommy fox had dug for himself, what should he see but several hen-feathers! that was enough for farmer green. he knew then where his fat hens had gone. but he was puzzled. there was tommy, chained fast to the stake. how could he ever have visited the hen-house? farmer green picked up tommy's chain. and to his surprise he found that the end of it wasn't fastened to the stake at all! it had worked loose, somehow. and tommy had been free to wander about as much as he pleased. xv johnnie green feels sad yes--there was trouble when farmer green discovered that tommy fox had been stealing his hens. he fastened the end of tommy's chain to the stake once more. and then he went out to the barn, where his boy johnnie was watering the horses. "we'll have to kill that fox," he said to johnnie. "he's got loose, somehow, and he's stolen two hens. i can't have him on the place any longer. he's made friends with old spot and the dog will let him do anything he likes." poor johnnie green! he felt so sad! and he begged his father not to kill tommy. but fanner green was very angry with tommy. [illustration with caption: tommy thought it was his mother's voice] "no!" he said. "that cub's so tricky there's no knowing when he'll get loose again." but johnnie begged so hard that his father promised that he might keep tommy one more day. johnnie green was in despair. he could not bear to have his pet killed. and when he went to bed that night he never fell asleep at all. he was very tired; but he managed to keep awake. and in the middle of the night johnnie got out of bed and put on his clothes. he didn't dare to light his candle. but the moonbeams streamed in through his little gable-window and johnnie could see very well without any other light. as soon as he was dressed johnnie stole down the stairs, carrying his shoes in his hand, so he wouldn't make any noise. in spite of all his caution, the old stairs would creak now and then. but luckily nobody heard him; and soon johnnie was out of the house. he found tommy fox wide awake, sitting on his haunches in the moonlight, listening. far away in the distance a fox was barking and tommy thought it sounded like his mother's voice. tommy was surprised to see johnnie green at that hour. and he was astonished when johnnie untied the chain from the stake and started away with him. they went off across the fields, toward blue mountain, right in the direction of that barking. the meadows smelled sweet; and tommy fox began to wish that he could slip his head out of his collar and scamper away. and that was exactly what happened. after they had gone some distance, johnnie green stopped. he unbuckled tommy's collar, and gave tommy a push. at first tommy was not quite sure that he wanted to leave his good master. but there was that fox, yelping and calling. something seemed to draw tommy toward that sound. he just couldn't help himself. and the first thing he knew he was bounding off over the meadow running as fast as his legs would carry him, and barking as loudly as he could bark. johnnie green went slowly home again. he crept into the house and stole upstairs, and cried himself to sleep. but he was glad of one thing. tommy fox would not be killed the next morning. xvi tommy becomes boastful when johnnie green turned tommy fox loose, out in the meadow, in the moonlight, tommy hurried across the fields as fast as he could go. you remember that he heard a fox barking, near the foot of blue mountain, and he thought it sounded like his mother. so tommy barked, too. and as he ran he could hear that other fox coming towards him. pretty soon they met, and such a joyful meeting you never saw in all your life. for it _was_ old mrs. fox. and she was so delighted to see tommy that she licked him all over with her tongue, and looked at him carefully, to see if he was hurt anywhere. mrs. fox had never expected to see tommy again. but there he was, bigger than ever, and altogether _too_ fat, for johnnie had fed him well; and then, there were those two hens that tommy had stolen. tommy fox was very glad indeed to see his mother once more. he frisked about her, and yelped, and jumped up and down. and when she saw that tommy had come back safe and sound mrs. fox danced a little bit, too. and then she took tommy home. you remember that when farmer green caught tommy in a trap, right at the door of his mother's house, mrs. fox had been obliged to move. her new home was not far away from the old one. it was snug and cozy, and on the whole was a pretty nice sort of house, though the dooryard was not quite so sunny as she would have preferred, for the branches of a big tree shaded it. tommy had to answer a great many questions. his mother wanted to know everything that had happened to him. she was astonished when she found that he had been in the village, right in the daytime. he was the only fox she knew of who had ever been there. and when she heard of tommy's friendship with the dog spot mrs. fox was more surprised than ever. she couldn't understand it. and she shook her head over and over again as tommy told her what good times he and spot had had together. mrs. fox actually began to think that tommy was telling stories. the other forest-people, too, thought that tommy was fibbing when he bragged about his strange adventures. and old mr. crow began to cry "stop, liar!" after him, instead of "stop, thief!" as he used to do. but tommy fox didn't mind that very much. he knew that he was telling the truth. and he more than half guessed that old mr. crow was jealous of him, because he had so many wonderful things to tell. though the forest-people always listened to tommy's stories, they disliked him more than ever. for he was always going about boasting of what he had seen, and what he had done, and what _his_ friend, the dog spot, said. "if you're such good friends with old dog spot, why don't you go down to the farm-yard and see him?" mr. crow said to tommy one day. this was long after tommy had come back to live with his mother. in fact, it was quite late in the fall, and the weather was growing cold. "all right! i will!" tommy said. he was not going to let old mr. crow get the better of him. "i'll go now," tommy said. and with that he started down the valley toward farmer green's buildings. xvii paying a call on a friend mr. crow had dared tommy fox to go down to pay a call on his friend dog spot, at farmer green's place. and tommy was trotting along across the fields. he was quite near farmer green's house when he heard a dog bark not far away. "there's spot now!" tommy said to himself. and he turned at once in the direction of the barking. he was smiling, for he knew spot would be greatly pleased to see him, and very much surprised, too. tommy stole slyly up toward the place where the dog was barking. the sound came from beyond some bushes. and tommy thought he would jump out from behind the bushes and startle spot. so he crept up to the bushes and then suddenly gave a yelp and leaped clean over them. it was tommy fox himself who got the surprise. for there was a strange dog! and as soon as he saw tommy he sprang after him. tommy did not wait a second. he left that place a great deal faster than he came. and as he went skimming over the fields, a red streak against the brown stubble, he could hear mr. crow laughing heartily. the old fellow had sailed along high over tommy's head, to see what happened; and he was greatly pleased with himself. you see, he knew that farmer green's hired man had brought home a new dog just a few days before, and mr. crow hoped that if tommy went to the farm-yard he would meet the strange dog. tommy was very angry. he saw at once that old mr. crow had tricked him and he made up his mind that if he ever had a chance he would get even with the old gentleman. but now he had no time to think about that. there was that strange dog, following hot on his trail. tommy had quite enough to worry him, without bothering his head over mr. crow just then. now, even if tommy fox was conceited, he was really a very bright youngster. and as he bounded along he thought of a pretty clever scheme. yes, he thought of a fine trick to play on that dog. the idea came to him all at once. and as soon as the thought popped into his head, tommy turned toward swift river. he was at the bank in no time, and he skipped nimbly down to the river's edge. tommy fox could see no water at all running in swift river. and you might think he was disappointed. but he wasn't. he found exactly what he had hoped for. he could see no water running, down there in the bed of the river, because _the river was covered with ice._ it was just a thin shell of ice; but it was strong enough to bear tommy's weight. he ran across it quickly. and then what do you suppose he did? he sat right down on the opposite bank! tommy fox wanted to see the fun. he had to wait only a minute. for pretty soon the strange dog came rushing down the opposite bank of the river and leaped far out from the edge of the stream. there was a crash, and a splitting, crackling noise! and the strange dog was floundering in the cold water. the ice was not thick enough to hold him up, and he had hard work to scramble back to the bank again. but he climbed out of the water at last, and tucked his tail between his legs and made off. old mr. crow saw what happened. he stopped laughing. and he sailed away silently, thinking that tommy fox was a pretty smart young cub, after all. xviii the world turns white after he outwitted the strange dog, tommy fox became more of a braggart than ever. he thought that he knew just about all there was to know. but with the coming of winter tommy found that he had many things to learn. it was almost like living in a different world, for the ground was white everywhere. and though tommy fox loved to play in the snow, he discovered one thing about it that he did not like at all. it frightened him when he saw how plainly his footprints showed after a fresh snow-fall. and he wondered how he would ever be able to escape being caught, should any strange dog chase him. as the winter days passed, tommy learned that it was very hard for him to run fast in a light, dry snow--that through such snow a dog could run much faster than he could. but when there was a thin crust he could go skipping along like the wind, while dogs, being heavier, broke through the crust and floundered about in the softer snow beneath. one day tommy and his mother were out hunting. the snow was very deep everywhere, for it was mid-winter. and it had thawed and frozen so often that the snow was quite hard, except for just about an inch of fresh snow which had fallen during the night. tommy and his mother could see rabbit tracks all around them; and they had very good luck hunting. but something happened that wasn't exactly lucky. they had turned toward home, when a dog bayed somewhere behind them, and pretty soon mrs. fox saw that they were being followed. she and tommy started to run. and tommy saw that there was one more bad thing about winter. swift river, and all the little brooks, were covered with thick ice and there was no chance at all for him and his mother to run through shallow water and throw the dog off their scent. it was that strange dog that was chasing them--the one that belonged to farmer green's hired man. he was a very fast runner, and in spite of the usual tricks that foxes know, mrs. fox and tommy could not lose him. tommy began to be frightened. and old mrs. fox herself was somewhat worried. but she still had a few tricks up her sleeve. she didn't intend to let that dog catch them if she could help it. [illustration with caption: mrs. fox and tommy started to run] "oh, mother! whatever shall we do?" tommy said. "do you think we can get away from him?" "of course," mrs. fox answered. "but you must do just as i tell you. now, follow right in my tracks, and don't be frightened, i'm going to show you a new trick--one that my own mother taught me when i was no older than you are." mrs. fox turned to the right and started back across the valley. she was going straight toward swift river. "oh, dear!" tommy cried. "don't you know that the river is frozen solid, mother? the dog can follow us across it, as easy as anything." "stop fussing!" mrs. fox said, looking over her shoulder at tommy. "we're not going to the river. you just mind me and you'll see, in a few minutes, that we can fool that dog." and she kept on running, with tommy right at her heels. xix tommy fox learns a new trick now, there was a road that ran through the valley, along the bank of swift river. and when mrs. fox reached it, with tommy close behind her, she turned again--this time to the left--and ran along in the beaten track which the horses and sleighs had made. tommy fox thought it very strange that his mother should lead him to the road, where they were sure to find people driving. tommy followed her. but he was very unhappy. they swung into the road just ahead of a farmer, who was driving along in a sleigh. the sleigh-bells tinkled merrily as the horse trotted smartly down the road. but the jingling of the bells did not sound at all pleasant to tommy fox. it only frightened him all the more. the farmer in the sleigh did not see tommy and his mother, for the snow rose high on both sides, and the road wound in and out. little did he know that mrs. fox and tommy were scampering along in front of him. of course, he couldn't catch them, anyhow. tommy knew that much. but if they ran very far down the road they would be sure to meet some other man. to tommy it seemed bad enough to have that dog chasing them, without going where they were sure to find other enemies. tommy could hear the dog baying. and he knew dogs well enough to know that that dog felt very sure he was going to catch them. but pretty soon tommy heard the dog talking in a very different fashion. he gave a number of short barks, which meant that he was in trouble. mrs. fox looked over her shoulder and smiled at tommy. she knew that they were safe. she knew that the dog had not reached the road until the farmer had driven right over their footsteps and spoiled their scent. after the horse had passed over their trail the dog could smell only the horse's footprints, instead of theirs. and mrs. fox could tell what was happening back there in the road. she knew just exactly as well as if she had been there herself--she knew that the dog had stopped short, and was running all around, with his nose to the ground, trying to find where she and tommy had gone. but he never found out. you see, he wasn't half as clever as mrs. fox. it never once occurred to him that tommy and his mother had turned into the road just ahead of that farmer in his sleigh. and finally the stupid dog gave up the chase and went back to farmer green's house. by that time mrs. fox and tommy were safe at home. yes--they were even having a good laugh over the way they had fooled the dog. and tommy had quite forgotten how frightened he had been. in fact, he began to feel very well pleased with himself. for he never once remembered that it was his mother, and not himself, who had thought of that trick. he ought to have felt very grateful to his grandmother, for having taught his mother that clever way of cheating a dog out of his dinner. but tommy fox was so conceited that if his grandmother had been there with them he would have thought he knew ten times as much as she did. i've no doubt that he would even have tried to teach her to suck eggs--never once stopping to think that she knew all about such things many years before he was born. xx the drummer of the woods tommy fox stopped short and listened. it was early spring, and the snow was still deep on the sides of blue mountain. _thump--thump--thump, thump, thump, thump! rub--rub--rub--rub, r-r-r-r-r-r-r!_ if you had heard that sound you would have said that there was a boy hidden somewhere on the mountain; and that he was playing a drum. but tommy fox knew better than that. he knew that it was mr. grouse, calling to mrs. grouse. and tommy knew that he made that noise by beating the air with his strong wings. now, tommy fox had not eaten a grouse for a long, long time. he had never captured a grouse himself. in fact, he had never even tried, since that time in the summer, when old mother grouse had played a trick on him, and led him away from her children. tommy made up his mind now that he was old enough and wise enough to capture mr. grouse. but he thought he had better wait until night, when mr. grouse couldn't see well. tommy fox's eyes, you know, were even sharper at night than they were in the daytime. well! tommy fox went home. and that very night he stole back again to the clump of evergreens where he had heard mr. grouse drumming. it was pretty dark up there on the mountain. but tommy had no trouble at all in finding his way. and he kept looking up at the thick branches of the evergreens, for he hoped that mr. grouse was asleep on a low branch, which he could reach with a good, high jump. yes--it was dark. and it was very cold up there on blue mountain, for all it was early springtime. and the evergreen trees bowed beneath a burden of snow, which had fallen only the day before. it was very still in the forest. and when tommy fox suddenly heard a cry of _"whoo--whoo--whoo!"_ he jumped, in spite of himself. tommy knew, right away, that it was only mr. owl. and he felt very sheepish. and then all at once tommy jumped again. this time he was terribly frightened, for the strangest thing happened. the snow rose right up beneath his feet, and flew in his face. and something struck him a good, hard blow under his chin. tommy fell over backward in the snow, he was so surprised. and a roar like thunder rang through the forest. tommy knew then what had happened. maybe you have guessed, too. for it was mr. grouse himself. he had burrowed his way into the snow, so that he might have a warm blanket to cover him during the night. and tommy fox had stepped squarely on top of him. it was no wonder mr. grouse had sprung up in a hurry. he was just as frightened as tommy himself, because he had been sound asleep, and he had no idea what was the matter. as for tommy fox, it was a huge joke on him. but it was a joke that didn't please tommy at all. he felt very silly, when it was all over. xxi the biggest surprise of all it was a pretty big surprise for tommy fox, when mr. grouse sprang out of the snow, right beneath his feet. but it was nothing at all, compared with the surprise tommy had when he reached home. very late at night tommy stole into his mother's house. in fact, it was nearly morning. and tommy crept in very quietly, for he hardly expected that his mother would be awake and he did not want to disturb her. tommy had just curled up on his bed and was all ready to go to sleep, when to his great astonishment he heard his mother talking. she was not talking to _him_, but to someone near her, for she spoke so low that tommy could not hear what she was saying. he thought right away that somebody had come to pay them a visit. and he called out-- "who's here, mother? is it a visitor?" "yes, tommy," mrs. fox answered. "come here and see who it is." tommy jumped out of bed and hopped across the room. at first he couldn't see anybody but his mother. "it's just a joke!" tommy exclaimed. "you're only fooling!" "look sharp!" said mrs. fox. "it's a surprise. what do you call this?" she moved aside a bit, and pointed to a little, soft, woolly thing which lay close beside her. tommy had to look two or three times to see what it was. and even then he wasn't sure. "is it--is it--a baby?" he asked. "that's just what it is," his mother said. tommy certainly was surprised. and before he could find his voice again mrs. fox showed him another baby fox, and another and another and another. yes--there they were--five of them all together, small and soft and woolly. they weren't nearly so brightly colored as tommy and his mother--just a pale, brownish red. tommy fox could hardly believe it. as he stared at them he suddenly noticed something strange about the baby foxes. "why--they're all blind--every one of them!" he cried. "hadn't we better send them back and get some good ones?" he asked. mrs. fox laughed. "of course they're blind," she said. "you were blind when you were their age. their eyes will be open in a few days.... well--what do you think of them, tommy?" she asked; for tommy fox seemed to be lost in thought. "i was wondering how they would ever be able to hunt--they're so small." "oh! i'll have to hunt for them, for a long time," his mother explained. "when they get big enough i shall teach them to hunt for themselves, just as i taught you. "now you see why i showed you how to catch mice and rabbits and woodchucks," mrs. fox said. "you'll have to look out for yourself now, tommy. for i shall have all i can do to find enough for myself and five children to eat, without feeding a big fellow like you." that made tommy fox feel very proud. he felt bigger, and stronger, and wiser than ever before. "i shall get along all right," tommy said. "i almost caught mr. grouse tonight. but he got away." tommy yawned, for he was very sleepy. and pretty soon he was curled up on his little bed again, dreaming of a wonderful bird that he had caught, which was so big that he and his mother and his five little brothers and sisters made a fine meal off it. but of course it was only a dream. the end a word to grown ups to you;--parents, guardians, teachers and all others upon whom devolves the supremely important responsibility of directing the early years of development of childhood, this series of tuck-me-in tales which sketch such vivid and delightful scenes of the vibrant life of meadow and woodland should have tremendous appeal. in this collection of stories you will find precisely the sort of healthy, imaginative entertainment that is an essential in stimulating thought germs in the child mind. merely from the standpoint of their desirability for helping the growing tot to pass an idle half hour, any one of these volumes would be worth your while. but the author had something further than that in mind. he has, with simplicity and grace, worthy of high commendation, sought to convey a two-fold lesson throughout the entire series, the first based upon natural history and the second upon the elementary principles of living which should be made clear to every child at the earliest age of understanding. the first of these aims he has accomplished by adapting every one of his bird characters to its living counterpart in the realm of biology. the child learns very definite truths about which the story is woven; learns in such a fascinating manner that he will not quickly forget, and is brought into such pleasant intimacy that his immediate sympathy is aroused. the author accomplishes the purpose of driving home simple lessons on good conduct by attributing the many of the same traits of character to his feathered heroes and heroines that are to be found wherever the human race made its habitation. the praise-worthy qualities of courage, love, unselfishness, truth, industry, and humility are portrayed in the dealings of the field and forest folk and the consequential reward of these virtues is clearly shown; he also reveals the unhappy results of greed, jealousy, trickery and other character weaknesses. the effect is to impress indelibly upon the imagination of the child that certain deeds are their own desirable reward while certain others are much better left undone. if any further recommendation is necessary, would it not be well to resort to the court of final appeal, the child himself? simply purchase a trial copy from your bookseller with the understanding that if it meets with the disapproval of the little man or woman for whom it is intended, he will accept its return. the tale of jolly robin of course, there is a time when jolly robin is only a nestling. then one day, after he tumbles out of the apple tree and falls squawking and fluttering to the ground, he takes his first lesson in flying. so pleased is jolly to know that he can actually sail through the air on his wings, that he goes out into the wide, wide world to shift for himself. one day, after advising with jimmy rabbit, he decides to become general laugh-maker to the inhabitants of pleasant valley, and he becomes one of mother nature's happiest little feathered folk, going about trying to make things a bit better in the world. true, he falls into many blunders and has many strange experiences, but his intentions are always the best, remember. slyly tucked away in this story of jolly robin and of his adventures, is much bird lore and philosophy,--both instructive and entertaining. the tale of betsy butterfly betsy butterfly is the owner of a pair of such beautifully colored wings and her sweet disposition matches them so perfectly that it is a very common occurrence to hear one of the tiny dwellers in farmer green's meadow remark: "why, the sun just has to smile on her!" of course, any lady so gifted is bound to have many admirers and betsy is no exception. but there are a few of her acquaintances who cannot keep from showing their jealousy of her popularity and these try in various unkind ways to make her disliked. the story of how she politely overlooks these rude attempts, in that way causing herself to be all the more thought of, is the best sort of example to any human girl or boy who wishes to know how to be sure of making friends. you will find that betsy is a great girl for giving parties and perhaps she will give you a few valuable ideas that will be useful sometime when you have a party of your own. buster bumblebee buster's intentions are all very good, but he is so awkward and stupid that he constantly stumbles into trouble, thereby causing his acquaintances much unnecessary discomfiture and himself no end of embarrassment. he is, furthermore, a terrific boaster, as you will learn when you read of his many declarations of the pummeling he would give the ferocious robber fly, if ever he chanced to meet that devouring assassin. what buster actually does when the unexpected encounter takes place will afford you a good laugh at his expense, and, finally, after you have romped and dallied with him through his many happy excursions you will close the book with a feeling that it has done you good to have known him, lazy and blundering though he is, for he is indeed the best natured fellow, and he is so anxious to buzz into everything that attracts his attention that you find you have learned a great many things you never before dreamed of about the tiny creatures of the fields. the tale of freddie firefly freddie firefly is most anxious to lighten the cares of his friends in pleasant valley for he is a most unselfish fellow and enjoys nothing more than seeing other people as happy as he. he has one grave fault, however, that prevents him from being a very great help, and that is his inability to remain long in one place. he is so full of spry gaiety that he never can be quite content unless he is dancing with his relatives in the hollow near the swamp or darting about farmer green's lawn. his friends often give him advice as to how he may use the wonderful light which he always carries with him, and finally mrs. ladybug tells him he should go to the railroad and work as a signalman for the trains. you will hold your breath as you read about the exciting adventure that follows this suggestion, and you will no doubt agree with those to whom he later tells it that he is a very lucky freddie to escape. rusty wren is another little neighbor in pleasant valley. his particular home there is farmer green's yard where he lives in a bright shiny home which is really a tin can with a hole in it! and dear me! i forgot all about rusty wren's family--his wife and six baby children who had to be given wren food by rusty and little chippy, jr. you will laugh heartily when you read about chippy growing so big and fat that he gets stuck in rusty's tiny doorway and can't get pulled out. my, what an exciting time it was! and you will laugh again when you watch rusty wren go way over to the bank of black creek all ready for a party when there really is no party. yes, you will agree with farmer green's boy and the rest of our friends in pleasant valley that rusty certainly is a very interesting little neighbor. the tale of daddy long-legs daddy is a person of such unusual appearance with, his eight scrawny legs in contrast to ordinary people's two, and everything about his private life is such a mystery to his neighbors that his acquaintances give him credit for having a marvelous ability to look into the future. in fact, there are many two-legged humans, even today, who think he is a sort of soothsayer and mystery man. perhaps, if you are one of these, you will be inclined to change your mind after reading about his contest with old mr. crow to see which is really the wiser of the two. and would you not naturally suppose that anybody with so many legs to carry him would be the champion walker of the world? maybe daddy finds that it takes time to decide which of his feet he should put forward in taking the next step, or may be each separate foot has a notion of choose; at any rate, he proves to be the slowest traveler imaginable. but he is so popular among his neighbors and you will like him too--he has so many quaint ideas. the tale of kiddie katydid kiddy katydid and his relatives were in possession of a secret that none of the pleasant valley folk can solve, though they waste much time and energy trying to guess it. even to this day it is doubtful if anyone other than kiddie himself really knows what katy did! but his friends are a curious lot and they work their brains over-time to think of some scheme to make kiddie tell. if you want to know what they do accidentally discover about kiddie himself and how excited every body becomes as the rare news spreads from mouth to mouth, you will find that and many other remarkable things about him in this interesting story of his life in the maple tree that grows in farmer green's yard. you will like kiddie. he is very modest and retiring--behaving very much as any well raised youngster should, and when you understand just how it happens that he keeps repeating that funny remark about katy, you can join him in the hearty laugh he has on his friends. the tale of old mr. crow mr. crow has a very solemn look--unless you regard him closely. but it is a very sly, knowing look, if you take pains to stare boldly into his eyes. like many human beings, he is fond of clothes, and he particularly likes gay ones, but perhaps that is because he is so black himself. anyhow, so long as he can wear a bright red coat and a yellow necktie--or a bright red necktie and a yellow coat--he is generally quite happy. one fall mr. crow decides to stay in pleasant valley during the winter, instead of going south, and he remembers all at once that he will need some warm clothing. now, mr. frog, the tailor, and jimmy rabbit, the shoemaker, know just how to talk to mr. crow to sell their merchandise, playing upon his vanity to buy the latest, and even to "set the styles," but they have to be pretty keen and sly to get the best of mr. crow in the end. mr. crow has his good points as well as his bad ones, and he helps farmer green a lot more than he injures him it is said. nevertheless, farmer green does not figure that way,--and in justice to old "jim crow," you should read of his adventures for yourself. the tale of solomon owl all the folks down in pleasant valley know solomon owl. well, it's this way. if you hear solomon owl on a dark night when his "wha-wha! whoo-ah!" sends a chill 'way up your spine, and if you see him you can never forget him, either. he has great, big, staring eyes that make you feel queer when you look at his pale face. no, sir, little folks like mr. frog, the tailor, certainly don't like to have any visits from solomon owl when solomon has a fine appetite. to be sure, farmer green isn't happy when solomon steals some of his fine chickens, and neither are the chickens for that matter. but solomon doesn't have all the fun on some one else. oh no! reddy woodpecker knows how to tease him by tapping with his bill on solomon's wooden house in the daytime, when every owl likes to sleep and dream of all the nice frogs and fat chickens they are going to feast on the next night, and then, out comes solomon all blinking with his big, black eyes. but this wise owl, who really isn't as wise as he looks, you know, finds a good way to fool reddy and the rest of the folks who like to annoy him, and lives his own happy life. the tale of jasper jay jasper jay really is a good sort of a fellow even though he does make a dreadful racket when he is around; but that is his way of talking. he just likes to tease for the fun of teasing and so naturally he gets into lots of scraps and seems bound to get into more. of course, lots of folks in pleasant valley don't like him because he plays tricks and pranks on them and makes them feel all ruffled up. why, he even thinks he can spoil the singing society, but do you know, the society fools jasper himself. and that time jimmy rabbit teaches jasper jay some manners down by the cedar tree--the poor jay stays there until his feet are frozen in the water before he finds out--well--you may discover for yourself what happens next. none the captain's toll-gate by frank r. stockton _with a memorial sketch by mrs. stockton_ contents i. olive ii. maria port iii. mrs. easterfield iv. the son of an old shipmate v. olive pays toll vi. mr. claude locker vii. the captain and his guest go fishing and come home happy viii. captain asher is not in a good humor ix. miss port takes a drive with the butcher x. mrs. easterfield writes a letter xi. mr. locker is released on bail xii. mr. rupert hemphill xiii. mr. lancaster's backers xiv. a letter for olive xv. olive's bicycle trip xvi. mr. lancaster accepts a mission xvii. dick is not a prompt bearer of news xviii. what olive determined to do xix. the captain and dick lancaster desert the toll-gate xx. mr. locker determines to rush the enemy's position xxi. miss raleigh enjoys a rare privilege xxii. the conflicting serenades xxiii. the captain and maria xxiv. mr. tom arrives at broadstone xxv. the captain and mr. tom xxvi. a stop at the toll-gate xxvii. by proxy xxviii. here we go! lovers three! xxix. two pieces of news xxx. by the sea xxxi. as good as a man xxxii. the stock-market is safe xxxiii. dick lancaster does not write xxxiv. miss port puts in an appearance xxxv. the dorcas on guard xxxvi. cold tinder xxxvii. in which some great changes are recorded xxxviii. "it has just begun!" list of illustrations portrait of frank b. stockton _etching by jacques reich from a photograph._ the holt, mr. stockton's home near convent, n.j. claymont, mr. stockton's home near charles town, west virginia. a corner in mr. stockton's study at claymont. the upper terraces of mr. stockton's garden at claymont. a memorial sketch as this--the captain's toll-gate--is the last of the works of frank r. stockton that will be given to the public, it is fitting that it be accompanied by some account of the man whose bright spirit illumined them all. it is proper, also, that something be said of the stories themselves; of the circumstances in which they were written, the influences that determined their direction, and the history of their evolution. it seems appropriate that this should be done by the one who knew him best; the one who lived with him through a long and beautiful life; the one who walked hand in hand with him along the whole of a wonderful road of ever-changing scenes: now through forests peopled with fairies and dryads, griffins and wizards; now skirting the edges of an ocean with its strange monsters and remarkable shipwrecks; now on the beaten track of european tourists, sharing their novel adventures and amused by their mistakes; now resting in lovely gardens imbued with human interest; now helping the young to make happy homes for themselves; now sympathizing with the old as they look longingly toward a heavenly home; and, oftenest, perhaps, watching girls and young men as they were trying to work out the problems of their lives. all this, and much more, crowded the busy years until the angel of death stood in the path; and the journey was ended. in regard to the present story--the captain's toll-gate--although it is now after his death first published, it was all written and completed by mr. stockton himself. no other hand has been allowed to add to, or to take from it. mr. stockton had so strong a feeling upon the literary ethics involved in such matters that he once refused to complete a book which a popular and brilliant author, whose style was thought to resemble his own, had left unfinished. mr. stockton regarded the proposed act in the light of a sacrilege. the book, he said, should be published as the author left it. knowing this fact, readers of the present volume may feel assured that no one has been permitted to tamper with it. although the last book by mr. stockton to be published, it is not the last that he wrote. he had completed the captain's toll-gate, and was considering its publication, when he was asked to write another novel dealing with the buccaneers. he had already produced a book entitled buccaneers and pirates of our coasts. the idea of writing a novel while the incidents were fresh in his mind pleased him, and he put aside the captain's toll-gate, as the other book--kate bonnet--was wanted soon, and he did not wish the two works to conflict in publication. steve bonnet, the crazy-headed pirate, was a historical character, and performed the acts attributed to him. but the charming kate, and her lover, and ben greenaway were inventions. francis richard stockton, born in philadelphia in , was, on his father's side, of purely english ancestry; on his mother's side, there was a mixture of english, french, and irish. when he began to write stories these three nationalities were combined in them: the peculiar kind of inventiveness of the french; the point of view, and the humor that we find in the old english humorists; and the capacity of the irish for comical situations. soon after arriving in this country the eldest son of the first american stockton settled in princeton, n.j., and founded that branch of the family; while the father, with the other sons, settled in burlington county, in the same state, and founded the burlington branch of the family, from which frank r. stockton was descended. on the female side he was descended from the gardiners, also of new jersey. his was a family with literary proclivities. his father was widely known for his religious writings, mostly of a polemical character, which had a powerful influence in the denomination to which he belonged. his half-brother (much older than frank) was a preacher of great eloquence, famous a generation ago as a pulpit orator. when frank and his brother john, two years younger, came to the age to begin life for themselves, they both showed such decided artistic genius that it was thought best to start them in that direction, and to have them taught engraving; an art then held in high esteem. frank chose wood, and john steel engraving. both did good work, but their hearts were not in it, and, as soon as opportunity offered, they abandoned engraving. john went into journalism; became editorially connected with prominent newspapers; and had won a foremost place in his chosen profession; when he was cut off by death at a comparatively early age. [illustration: the holt, mr stockton's home near convent. n.j.] frank chose literature. he had, while in the engraving business, written a number of fairy tales, some of which had been published in juvenile magazines; also a few short stories, and quite an ambitious long story, which was published in a prominent magazine. he was then sufficiently well known as a writer to obtain without difficulty a place on the staff of hearth and home, a weekly new york paper, owned by orange judd, and conducted by edward eggleston. mrs. mary mapes dodge had charge of the juvenile department, and frank went on the paper as her assistant. not long after scribner's monthly was started by charles scribner (the elder), in conjunction with roswell smith, and j.g. holland. later mr. smith and his associates formed the century company; and with this company mr. stockton was connected for many years: first on the century magazine, which succeeded scribner's monthly, and afterward on st. nicholas, as assistant to mrs. mary mapes dodge, and, still later, when he decided to give up editorial work, as a constant contributor. after a few years he resigned his position in the company with which he had been so pleasantly associated in order to devote himself exclusively to his own work. by this time he had written and published enough to feel justified in taking, what seemed to his friends, a bold, and even rash, step, because so few writers then lived solely by the pen. he was never very strong physically; he felt himself unable to do his editorial work, and at the same time write out the fancies and stories with which his mind was full. this venture proved to be the wisest thing for him; and from that time his life was, in great part, in his books; and he gave to the world the novels and stories which bear his name. i have mentioned his fairy stories. having been a great lover of fairy lore when a child, he naturally fell into this form of story writing as soon as he was old enough to put a story together. he invented a goodly number; and among them the ting-a-ling stories, which were read aloud in a boys' literary circle, and meeting their hearty approval, were subsequently published in the riverside magazine, a handsome and popular juvenile of that period; and, much later, were issued by hurd & houghton in a very pretty volume. in regard to these, he wrote long afterward as follows: "i was very young when i determined to write some fairy tales because my mind was full of them. i set to work, and in course of time produced several which were printed. these were constructed according to my own ideas. i caused the fanciful creatures who inhabited the world of fairy-land to act, as far as possible for them to do so, as if they were inhabitants of the real world. i did not dispense with monsters and enchanters, or talking beasts and birds, but i obliged these creatures to infuse into their extraordinary actions a certain leaven of common sense." it was about this time, while very young, that he and his brother became ambitious to write stories, poems, and essays for the world at large. they sent their effusions to various periodicals, with the result common to ambitious youths: all were returned. they decided at last that editors did not know a good thing when they saw it, and hit upon a brilliant scheme to prove their own judgment. one of them selected an extract from paradise regained (as being not so well known as paradise lost), and sent it to an editor, with the boy's own name appended, expecting to have it returned with some of the usual disparaging remarks, which they would greatly enjoy. but they were disappointed. the editor printed it in his paper, thereby proving that he did know a good thing if he did not know his milton. mr. stockton was fond of telling this story, and it may have given rise to a report, extensively circulated, that he tried to gain admittance to periodicals for many years before he succeeded. this is not true. some rebuffs he had, of course--some with things which afterward proved great successes--but not as great a number as falls to the lot of most beginners. the ting-a-ling tales proved so popular that mr. stockton followed them at intervals with long and short stories for the young which appeared in various juvenile publications, and were afterward published in book form--roundabout rambles. tales out of school, a jolly fellowship, personally conducted, the story of viteau, the floating prince, and others. some years later, after he had begun to write for older readers, he wrote a series of stories for st. nicholas, ostensibly for children, but really intended for adults. children liked the stories, but the deeper meaning underlying them all was beyond the grasp of a child's mind. these stories mr. stockton took very great pleasure in writing, and always regarded them as some of his best work, and was gratified when his critics wrote of them in that way. they have become famous, and have been translated into several languages, notably old pipes and the dryad, the bee man of orne, and the griffin and the minor canon. this last story was suggested by chester cathedral, and he wrote it in that venerable city. the several tales were finally collected into a volume under the title: the bee man of orne and other stories, which is included in the complete edition of his novels and stories. during the whole of his literary career mr. stockton was an occasional contributor of short stories and essays to the youth's companion. mr. stockton considered his career as an editor of great advantage to him as an author. in an autobiographical paper he writes: "long-continued reading of manuscripts submitted for publication which are almost good enough to use, and yet not quite up to the standard of the magazine, can not but be of great service to any one who proposes a literary career. bad work shows us what we ought to avoid, but most of us know, or think we know, what that is. fine literary work we get outside the editorial room. but the great mass of literary material which is almost good enough to print is seen only by the editorial reader, and its lesson is lost upon him in a great degree unless he is, or intends to be, a literary worker." the first house in which we set up our own household goods stood in nutley, n.j. we had with us an elderly _attaché_ of the stockton family as maid-of-all-work; and to relieve her of some of her duties i went into new york, and procured from an orphans' home a girl whom mr. stockton described as "a middle-sized orphan." she was about fourteen years old, and proved to be a very peculiar individual, with strong characteristics which so appealed to mr. stockton's sense of humor that he liked to talk with her and draw out her opinions of things in general, and especially of the books she had read. her spare time was devoted to reading books, mostly of the blood-curdling variety; and she read them to herself aloud in the kitchen in a very disjointed fashion, which was at first amusing, and then irritating. we never knew her real name, nor did the people at the orphanage. she had three or four very romantic ones she had borrowed from novels while she was with us, for she was very sentimental. mr. stockton bestowed upon her the name of pomona, which is now a household word in myriads of homes. this extraordinary girl, and some household experiences, induced mr. stockton to write a paper for scribner's monthly which he called rudder grange. this one paper was all he intended to write, but it attracted immediate attention, was extensively noticed, and much talked about. the editor of the magazine received so many letters asking for another paper that mr. stockton wrote the second one; and as there was still a clamor for more, he, after a little time, wrote others of the series. some time later they were collected in a book. for those interested in pomona i will add, that while the girl was an actual personage, with all the characteristics given to her by her chronicler, the woman pomona was a development in mr. stockton's mind of the girl as he imagined she would become, for the original passed out of our lives while still a girl. rudder grange was mr. stockton's first book for adult readers, and a good deal of comment has been made upon the fact that he had reached middle life when it was published. his biographers and critics assume that he was utterly unknown at that time, and that he suddenly jumped into favor, and they naturally draw the inference that he had until then vainly attempted to get before the public. this is all a misapprehension of the facts. it will be seen from what i have previously stated, that at this time he was already well known as a juvenile writer, and not only had no difficulty in getting his articles printed, but editors and publishers were asking him for stories. he had made but few slight attempts to obtain a larger audience. that he confined himself for so long a time to juvenile literature can be easily accounted for. for one thing, it grew out of his regular work of constantly catering for the young, and thinking of them. then, again, editorial work makes urgent demands upon time and strength, and until freed from it he had not the leisure or inclination to fashion stories for more exacting and critical readers. perhaps, too, he was slow in recognizing his possibilities. certain it is that the public were not slow to recognize him. he did, however, experience difficulties in getting the collected papers of rudder grange published in book form. i will quote his own account, which is interesting as showing how slow he was to appreciate the fact that the public would gladly accept the writings of a humorist: "the discovery that humorous compositions could be used in journals other than those termed comic marked a new era in my work. periodicals especially devoted to wit and humor were very scarce in those days, and as this sort of writing came naturally to me, it was difficult, until the advent of puck, to find a medium of publication for writings of this nature. i contributed a good deal to this paper, but it was only partly satisfactory, for articles which make up a comic paper must be terse and short, and i wanted to write humorous tales which should be as long as ordinary magazine stories. i had good reason for my opinion of the gravity of the situation, for the editor of a prominent magazine declined a humorous story (afterward very popular) which i had sent him, on the ground that the traditions of magazines forbade the publication of stories strictly humorous. therefore, when i found an editor at last who actually _wished_ me to write humorous stories, i was truly rejoiced. my first venture in this line was rudder grange. and, after all, i had difficulty in getting the series published in book form. two publishers would have nothing to do with them, assuring me that although the papers were well enough for a magazine, a thing of ephemeral nature, the book-reading public would not care for them. the third publisher to whom i applied issued the work, and found the venture satisfactory." the book-reading public cared so much for this book that it would not remain satisfied with it alone. again and again it demanded of the author more about pomona, euphemia, and jonas. hence the rudder grangers abroad and pomona's travels. the most famous of mr. stockton's stories, the lady or the tiger?, was written to be read before a literary society of which he was a member. it caused such an interesting discussion in the society that he published it in the century magazine. it had no especial announcement there, nor was it heralded in any way, but it took the public by storm, and surprised both the editor and the author. all the world must love a puzzle, for in an amazingly short time the little story had made the circuit of the world. debating societies everywhere seized upon it as a topic; it was translated into nearly all languages; society people discussed it at their dinners; plainer people argued it at their firesides; numerous letters were sent to nearly every periodical in the country; and public readers were expounding it to their audiences. it interested heathen and christian alike; for an english friend told mr. stockton that in india he had heard a group of hindoo men gravely debating the problem. of course, a mass of letters came pouring in upon the author. a singular thing about this story has been the revival of interest in it that has occurred from time to time. although written many years ago, it seems still to excite the interest of a younger generation; for, after an interval of silence on the subject of greater or less duration, suddenly, without apparent cause, numerous letters in relation to it will appear on the author's table, and "solutions" will be printed in the newspapers. this ebb and flow has continued up to the present time. mr. stockton made no attempt to answer the question he had raised. we both spent much time in the south at different periods. the dramatic and unconsciously humorous side of the negroes pleased his fancy. he walked and talked with them, saw them in their homes, at their "meetin's," and in the fields. he has drawn with an affectionate hand the genial, companionable southern negro as he is--or rather as he was--for this type is rapidly passing away. soon there will be no more of these "old-time darkies." they would be by the world forgot had they not been embalmed in literature by mr. stockton, and the best southern writers. there is one other notable characteristic that should be referred to in writing of mr. stockton's stories--the machines and appliances he invented as parts of them. they are very numerous and ingenious. no matter how extraordinary might be the work in hand, the machine to accomplish the end was made on strictly scientific principles, to accomplish that exact piece of work. it would seem that if he had not been an inventor of plots he might have been an inventor of instruments. this idea is sustained by the fact that he had been a wood-engraver only a short time when he invented and patented a double graver which cuts two parallel lines at the same time. it is somewhat strange that more than one of these extraordinary machines has since been exploited by scientists and explorers, without the least suspicion on their part that the enterprising romancer had thought of them first. notable among these may be named the idea of going to the north pole under the ice, the one that the center of the earth is an immense crystal (great stone of sardis), and the attempt to manufacture a gun similar to the peace compeller in the great war syndicate. in all of mr. stockton's novels there were characters taken from real persons who perhaps would not recognize themselves in the peculiar circumstances in which he placed them. in the crowd of purely imaginative beings one could easily recognize certain types modified and altered. in the casting away of mrs. leeks and mrs. aleshine he introduced two delightful old ladies whom he knew, and who were never surprised at anything that might happen. whatever emergency arose, they took it as a matter of course, and prepared to meet it. mr. stockton amused himself at their expense by writing this story. he was not at first interested in the dusantes, and had no intention of ever saying anything further about them. when there was a demand for knowledge of the dusantes mr. stockton did not heed it. he was opposed to writing sequels. but when an author of distinction, whose work and friendship he highly valued, wrote to him that if he did not write something about the dusantes, and what they said when they found the board money in the ginger jar, he would do it himself, mr. stockton set himself to writing the dusantes. i have been asked to give some account of the places in which mr. stockton's stories and novels were written, and their environments. some of the southern stories were written in virginia, and, now and then, a short story elsewhere, as suggested by the locality, but the most of his work was done under his own roof-tree. he loved his home; it had to be a country home, and always had to have a garden. in the care of a garden and in driving, he found his two greatest sources of recreation. [illustration: claymont, mr. stockton's home near charles town, west virginia.] i have mentioned nutley, which lies in new jersey, near new york. his dwelling there was a pretty little cottage, where he had a garden, some chickens, and a cow. this was his home in his editorial days, and here rudder grange was written. it was a rented place. the next home we owned. it stood at a greater distance from new york, at the place called convent, half-way between madison and morristown, in new jersey. here we lived a number of years after mr. stockton gave up editorial work; and here the greater number of his tales were written. it was a much larger place than we had at nutley, with more chickens, two cows, and a much larger garden. mr. stockton dictated his stories to a stenographer. his favorite spot for this in summer was a grove of large fir-trees near the house. here, in the warm weather, he would lie in a hammock. his secretary would be near, with her writing materials, and a book of her choosing. the book was for her own reading while mr. stockton was "thinking." it annoyed him to know he was being "waited for." he would think out pages of incidents, and scenes, and even whole conversations, before he began to dictate. after all had been arranged in his mind he dictated rapidly; but there often were long pauses, when the secretary could do a good deal of reading. in cold weather he had the secretary and an easy chair in the study--a room he had built according to his own fancy. a fire of blazing logs added a glow to his fancies. i may state here that we always spent a part of every winter in new york. a certain amount of city life was greatly enjoyed. mr. stockton thus secured much intellectual pleasure. he liked his clubs, and was fond of society, where he met men noted in various walks of life.[ ] [footnote : edward gary, the secretary of the century club, in the obituary notice of mr. stockton written by him for the club's annual report, says of mr. stockton as a member: "it was but a dozen years ago that frank r. stockton entered the fellowship of the century, in which he soon became exceedingly at home, winning friends here, as he won them all over the land and in other lands, by the charm of his keen and kindly mind shining in all that he wrote and said. he had an extraordinary capacity for work and a rare talent for diversion, and the century was honored by his well-earned fame, and fortunate in its share in his ever fresh and varying companionship."] i am now nearing the close of a life which had had its trials and disappointments, its struggles with weak health and with unsatisfying labor. but these mostly came in the earlier years, and were met with courage, an ever fresh-springing hope, and a buoyant spirit that would not be intimidated. on the whole, as one looks back through the long vista, much more of good than of evil fell to his lot. his life had been full of interesting experiences, and one of, perhaps, unusual happiness. at the last there came to pass the fulfilment of a dream in which he had long indulged. he became the possessor of a beautiful estate containing what he most desired, and with surroundings and associations dear to his heart. he had enjoyed the holt, his new jersey home, and was much interested in improving it. his neighbors and friends there were valued companions. but in his heart there had always been a longing for a home, not suburban--a place in the _real_ country, and with more land. finally, the time came when he felt that he could gratify this longing. he liked the virginia climate, and decided to look for a place somewhere in that state, not far from the city of washington. after a rather prolonged search, we one day lighted upon claymont, in the shenandoah valley. it won our hearts, and ended our search. it had absolutely everything that mr. stockton coveted. he bought it at once, and we moved into it as speedily as possible. claymont is a handsome colonial residence, "with all modern improvements"--an unusual combination. it lies near the historic old town of charles town, in west virginia, near harpers ferry. claymont is itself an historic place. the land was first owned by "the father of his country." this great personage designed the house, with its main building, two cottages (or lodges), and courtyards, for his nephew bushrod, to whom he had given the land. through the wooded park runs the old road, now grass grown, over which braddock marched to his celebrated "defeat," guided by the youthful george washington, who had surveyed the whole region for lord fairfax. during the civil war the place twice escaped destruction because it had once been the property of washington. but it was not for its historical associations, but for the place itself, that mr. stockton purchased it. from the main road to the house there is a drive of three-quarters of a mile through a park of great forest-trees and picturesque groups of rocks. on the opposite side of the house extends a wide, open lawn; and here, and from the piazzas, a noble view of the valley and the blue ridge mountains is obtained. besides the park and other grounds, there is a farm at claymont of considerable size. mr. stockton, however, never cared for farming, except in so far as it enabled him to have horses and stock. but his soul delighted in the big, old terraced garden of his west virginia home. compared with other gardens he had had, the new one was like paradise to the common world. at claymont several short stories were written. john gayther's garden was prepared for publication here by connecting stories previously published into a series, told in a garden, and suggested by the one at claymont. john gayther, however, was an invention. kate bonnet and the captain's toll-gate were both written at claymont. [illustration: a corner in mr. stockton's study at claymont. showing the desk at which all his later books were written.] mr. stockton was permitted to enjoy this beautiful place only three years. they were years of such rare pleasure, however, that we can rejoice that he had so much joy crowded into so short a space of his life, and that he had it at its close. truly life was never sweeter to him than at its end, and the world was never brighter to him than when he shut his eyes upon it. he was returning from a winter in new york to his beloved claymont, in good health, and full of plans for the summer and for his garden, when he was taken suddenly ill in washington, and died three days later, on april , , a few weeks after kate bonnet was published in book form. mr. stockton passed away at a ripe age--sixty-eight years. and yet his death was a surprise to us all. he had never been in better health, apparently; his brain was as active as ever; life was dear to him; he seemed much younger than he was. he had no wish to give up his work; no thought of old age; no mental decay. his last novels, his last short stories, showed no falling-off. they were the equals of those written in younger years. nor had he lost the public interest. he was always sure of an audience, and his work commanded a higher price at the last than ever before. his was truly a passing away. he gently glided from the homes he had loved to prepare here to one already prepared for him in heaven, unconscious that he was entering one more beautiful than even he had ever imagined. mr. stockton was the most lovable of men. he shed happiness all around him, not from conscious effort but out of his own bountiful and loving nature. his tender heart sympathized with the sad and unfortunate, but he never allowed sadness to be near, if it were possible to prevent it. he hated mourning and gloom. they seemed to paralyze him mentally until his bright spirit had again asserted itself, and he had recovered his balance. he usually looked either upon the best, or the humorous side of life. pie won the love of every one who knew him--even that of readers who did not know him personally, as many letters testify. to his friends his loss is irreparable, for never again will they find his equal in such charming qualities of head and heart. [illustration: the upper terraces of mr. stockton's garden at claymont.] this is not the place for a critical estimate of the work of frank r. stockton.[ ] his stories are, in great part, a reflex of himself. the bright outlook on life; the courageous spirit; the helpfulness; the sense of the comic rather than the tragic; the love of domestic life; the sweetness of pure affection; live in his books as they lived in himself. he had not the heart to make his stories end unhappily. he knew that there is much of the tragic in human lives, but he chose to ignore it as far as possible, and to walk in the pleasant ways which are numerous in this tangled world. there is much philosophy underlying a good deal that he wrote, but it has to be looked for; it is not insistent, and is never morbid. he could not write an impure word, or express an impure thought, for he belonged to the "pure in heart," who, we are assured, "shall see god." [footnote : i may, however, properly quote from the sketch prepared by mr. gary for the century club: "he brought to his later work the discipline of long and rather tedious labor, with the capital amassed by acute observation, on which his original imagination wrought the sparkling miracles that we know. he has been called the representative american humorist. he was that in the sense that the characters he created had much of the audacity of the american spirit, the thirst for adventures in untried fields of thought and action, the subconscious seriousness in the most incongruous situations, the feeling of being at home no matter what happens. but how amazingly he mingled a broad philosophy with his fun, a philosophy not less wise and comprehending than his fun was compelling! if his humor was american, it was also cosmopolitan, and had its laughing way not merely with our british kinsmen, but with alien peoples across the usually impenetrable barrier of translation. the fortune of his jesting lay not in his ears, but in the hearts of his hearers. it was at once appealing and revealing. it flashed its playful light into the nooks and corners of our own being, and wove close bonds with those at whom we laughed. there was no bitterness in it. he was neither satirist nor preacher, nor of set purpose a teacher, though it must be a dull reader that does not gather from his books the lesson of the value of a gentle heart and a clear, level outlook upon our perplexing world."] marian e. stockton. claymont, _may , _. the captain's toll-gate _chapter i_ _olive._ a long, wide, and smoothly macadamized road stretched itself from the considerable town of glenford onward and northward toward a gap in the distant mountains. it did not run through a level country, but rose and fell as if it had been a line of seaweed upon the long swells of the ocean. upon elevated points upon this road, farm lands and forests could be seen extending in every direction. but there was nothing in the landscape which impressed itself more obtrusively upon the attention of the traveler than the road itself. white in the bright sunlight and gray under the shadows of the clouds, it was the one thing to be seen which seemed to have a decided purpose. northward or southward, toward the gap in the long line of mountains or toward the wood-encircled town in the valley, it was always going somewhere. about two miles from the town, and at the top of the first long hill which was climbed by the road, a tall white pole projected upward against the sky, sometimes perpendicularly, and sometimes inclined at a slight angle. this was a turnpike gate or bar, and gave notice to all in vehicles or on horses that the use of this well-kept road was not free to the traveling public. at the approach of persons not known, or too well known, the bar would slowly descend across the road, as if it were a musket held horizontally while a sentinel demanded the password. upon the side of the road opposite to the great post on which the toll-gate moved, was a little house with a covered doorway, from which toll could be collected without exposing the collector to sun or rain. this tollhouse was not a plain whitewashed shed, such as is often seen upon turnpike roads, but a neat edifice, containing a comfortable room. on one side of it was a small porch, well shaded by vines, furnished with a settle and two armchairs, while over all a large maple stretched its protecting branches. back of the tollhouse was a neatly fenced garden, well filled with old-fashioned flowers; and, still farther on, a good-sized house, from which a box-bordered path led through the garden to the tollhouse. it was a remark that had been made frequently, both by strangers and residents in that part of the country, that if it had not been for the obvious disadvantages of a toll-gate, this house and garden, with its grounds and fields, would be a good enough home for anybody. when he happened to hear this remark captain john asher, who kept the toll-gate, was wont to say that it was a good enough home for him, even with the toll-gate, and its obvious disadvantages. it was on a morning in early summer, when the garden had grown to be so red and white and yellow in its flowers, and so green in its leaves and stalks, that the box which edged the path was beginning to be unnoticed, that a girl sat in a small arbor standing on a slight elevation at one side of the garden, and from which a view could be had both up and down the road. she was rather a slim girl, though tall enough; her hair was dark, her eyes were blue, and she sat on the back of a rustic bench with her feet resting upon the seat; this position she had taken that she might the better view the road. with both her hands this girl held a small telescope which she was endeavoring to fix upon a black spot a mile or more away upon the road. it was difficult for her to hold the telescope steadily enough to keep the object-glass upon the black spot, and she had a great deal of trouble in the matter of focusing, pulling out and pushing in the smaller cylinder in a manner which showed that she was not accustomed to the use of this optical instrument. "field-glasses are ever so much better," she said to herself; "you can screw them to any point you want. but now i've got it. it is very near that cross-road. good! it did not turn there; it is coming along the pike, and there will be toll to pay. one horse, seven cents." she put down the telescope as if to rest her arm and eye. presently, however, she raised the glass again. "now, let us see," she said, "uncle john? jane? or me?" after directing the glass to a point in the air about two hundred feet above the approaching vehicle, and then to another point half a mile to the right of it, she was fortunate enough to catch sight of it again. "i don't know that queer-looking horse," she said. "it must be some stranger, and jane will do. no, a little boy is driving. strangers coming along this road would not be driven by little boys. i expect i shall have to call uncle john." then she put down the glass and rubbed her eye, after which, with unassisted vision, she gazed along the road. "i can see a great deal better without that old thing," she continued. "there's a woman in that carriage. i'll go myself." with this she jumped down from the rustic seat, and with the telescope under her arm, she skipped through the garden to the little tollhouse. the name of this girl was olive asher. captain john asher, who took the toll, was her uncle, and she had now been living with him for about six weeks. olive was what is known in certain social circles as a navy girl. about twenty years before she had come to her uncle's she had been born in genoa, her father at the time being a lieutenant on an american war-vessel lying in the harbor of villa franca. her first schooldays were passed in the south of france, and she spent some subsequent years in a german school in dresden. here she was supposed to have finished her education but when her father's ship was stationed on our pacific coast and olive and her mother went to san francisco they associated a great deal with army people, and here the girl learned so much more of real life and her own country people that the few years she spent in the far west seemed like a post-graduate course, as important to her true education as any of the years she had spent in schools. after the death of her mother, when olive was about eighteen, the girl had lived with relatives, east and west, hoping for the day when her father's three years' cruise would terminate, and she could go and make a home for him in some pleasant spot on shore. now, in the course of these family visits she had come to stay with her father's brother, john asher, who kept the toll-gate on the glenford pike. captain john asher was an older man than his brother, the naval officer, but he was in the prime of life, and able to hold the command of a ship if he had cared to do it. but having been in the merchant service for a long time, and having made some money, he had determined to leave the sea and to settle on shore; and, finding this commodious house by the toll-gate, he settled there. there were some people who said that he had taken the position of toll-gate keeper because of the house, and there were others who believed that he had bought the house on account of the toll-gate. but no matter what people thought or said, the good captain was very well satisfied with his home and his official position. he liked to meet with people, and he preferred that they should come to him rather than that he should go to them. he was interested in most things that were going on in his neighborhood, and therefore he liked to talk to the people who were going by. sometimes a good talking acquaintance or an interesting traveler would tie his horse under the shade of the maple-tree and sit a while with the captain on the little porch. certain it was, it was the most hospitable toll-gate in that part of the country. there was a road which branched off from the turnpike, about a mile from the town, and which, after some windings, entered the pike again beyond the toll-gate, and although this road was not always in very good condition, it had seen a good deal of travel, which, in time, gave it the name of the shunpike. but since captain asher had lived at the toll-gate it was remarked that the shunpike was not used as much as in former times. there were penurious people who had once preferred to go a long way round and save money whose economical dispositions now gave way before the combined attractions of a better road, and a chat with captain asher. it had been predicted by some of her relatives that olive would not be content with her life in her uncle's somewhat peculiar household. he was a bachelor, and seldom entertained company, and his ordinary family consisted of an elderly housekeeper and another servant. but olive was not in the least dissatisfied. from her infancy up, she had lived so much among people that she had grown tired of them; and her good-natured uncle, with his sea stories, the garden, the old-fashioned house, the fields and the woods beyond, the little stream, which came hurrying down from the mountains, where she could fish or wade as the fancy pleased her, gave her a taste of some of the joys of girlhood which she had not known when she was really a girl. another thing that greatly interested her was the toll-gate. if she had been allowed to do so, she would have spent the greater part of her time taking money, making change, and talking to travelers. but this her uncle would not permit. he did not object to her doing some occasional toll-gate work, and he did not wonder that she liked it, remembering how interesting it often was to himself, but he would not let her take toll indiscriminately. so they made a regular arrangement about it. when the captain was at his meals, or shaving, or otherwise occupied, old jane attended to the toll-gate. at ordinary times, and when any of his special friends were seen approaching, the captain collected toll himself, but when women happened to be traveling on the road, then it was arranged that olive should go to the gate. two or three times it had happened that some young men of the town, hearing their sisters talk of the pretty girl who had taken their toll, had thought it might be a pleasant thing to drive out on the pike, but their money had always been taken by the captain, or else by the wooden-faced jane, and nothing had come of their little adventures. the garden hedge which ran alongside the road was very high. _chapter ii_ _maria port._ olive stood impatiently at the door of the little tollhouse. in one hand she held three copper cents, because she felt almost sure that the person approaching would give her a dime or two five-cent pieces. "i never knew horses to travel so slowly as they do on this pike!" she said to herself. "how they used to gallop on those beautiful roads in france!" in due course of time the vehicle approached near enough to the toll-gate for olive to take an observation of its occupant. this was a middle-aged woman, dressed in black, holding a black fan. she wore a black bonnet with a little bit of red in it. her face was small and pale, its texture and color suggesting a boiled apple dumpling. she had small eyes of which it can be said that they were of a different color from her face, and were therefore noticeable. her lips were not prominent, and were closely pressed together as if some one had begun to cut a dumpling, but had stopped after making one incision. this somewhat somber person leaned forward in the seat behind her young driver, and steadily stared at olive. when the horse had passed the toll-bar the boy stopped it so that his passenger and olive were face to face and very near each other. "seven cents, please," said olive. the cleft in the dumpling enlarged itself, and the woman spoke. "bless my soul," she said, "are you captain asher's niece?" "i am," said olive in surprise. "well, well," said the other, "that just beats me! when i heard he had his niece with him i thought she was a plain girl, with short frocks and her hair plaited down her back." olive did not like this woman. it is wonderful how quickly likes and dislikes may be generated. "but you see i am not," she replied. "seven cents, please." "don't you suppose i know what the toll is?" said the woman in the carriage. "i'm sure i've traveled over this road often enough to know that. but what i'm thinkin' about is the difference between what i thought the captain's niece was and what she really is." "it does not make any difference what the difference is," said olive, speaking quickly and with perhaps a little sharpness in her voice, "all i want is for you to pay me the toll." "i'm not goin' to pay any toll," said the other. olive's face flushed. "little boy," she exclaimed, "back that horse!" as the youngster obeyed her peremptory request olive gave a quick jerk to a rope and brought down the toll-gate bar so that it stretched itself across the road, barely missing in its downward sweep the nose of the unoffending horse. "now," said olive, "if you are ready to pay your toll you can go through this gate, and if you are not, you can turn round and go back where you came from." "i'm not goin' to pay any toll," said the other, "and i don't want to go through the gate. i came to see captain asher.--johnny, turn your horse a little and let me get out. then you can stop in the shade of this tree and wait until i'm ready to go back.--i suppose the captain's in," she said to olive, "but if he isn't, i can wait." "oh, he's at home," said olive, "and, of course, if i had known you were coming to see him, i would not have asked you for your toll. this way, please," and she stepped toward a gate in the garden hedge. "when i've been here before," said the visitor, "i always went through the tollhouse. but i suppose things is different now." "this is the entrance for visitors," said olive, holding open the gate. captain asher had heard the voices, and had come out to his front door. he shook hands with the newcomer, and then turned to olive, who was following her. "this is my niece, my brother alfred's daughter," he said, "and olive, let me introduce you to miss maria port." "she introduced herself to me," said miss port, "and tried to get seven cents out of me by letting down the bar so that it nearly broke my horse's nose. but we'll get to know each other better. she's very different from what i thought she was." "most people are," said captain asher, as he offered a chair to miss port in his parlor, and sat down opposite to her. olive, who did not care to hear herself discussed, quietly passed out of the room. "captain," said miss port, leaning forward, "how old is she, anyway?" "about twenty," was the answer. "and how long is she going to stay?" "all summer, i hope," said captain john. "well, she won't do it, i can tell you that," remarked miss port. "she'll get tired enough of this place before the summer's out." "we shall see about that," said the captain, "but she is not tired yet." "and her mother's dead, and she's wearin' no mournin'." "why should she?" said the captain. "it would be a shame for a young girl like her to be wearing black for two years." "she's delicate, ain't she?" "i have not seen any signs of it." "what did her mother die of?" "i never heard," said the captain; "perhaps it was the bubonic plague." miss port pushed back her chair and drew her skirts about her. "horrible!" she exclaimed. "and you let that child come here!" the captain smiled. "perhaps it wasn't that," he said. "it might have been an avalanche, and that is not catching." miss port looked at him seriously. "it's a great pity she's so handsome," she said. "i don't think so; i am glad of it," replied the captain. miss port heaved a sigh. "what that girl is goin' to need," she said, "is a female guardeen." "would you like to take the place?" asked the captain with a grin. at that instant it might have been supposed that a certain dumpling which has been mentioned was made of very red apples and that its covering of dough was somewhat thin in certain places. miss port's eyes were bent for an instant upon the floor. "that is a thing," she said, "which would need a great deal of consideration." a sudden thrill ran through the captain which was not unlike a moment in his past career when a gentle shudder had run through his ship as its keel grazed an unsuspected sand-bar, and he had not known whether it was going to stick fast or not; but he quickly got himself into deep water again. "oh, she is all right," said he briskly; "she has been used to taking care of herself almost ever since she was born. and by the way, miss port, did you know that mr. easterfield is at his home?" miss port was not pleased with the sudden change in the conversation, and she remembered, too, that in other days it had been the captain's habit to call her maria. "i did not know he had a home," she answered. "i thought it was her'n. but since you've mentioned it, i might as well say that it was about him i came to see you. i heard that he came to town yesterday, and that her carriage met him at the station, and drove him out to her house. i hoped he had stopped a minute as he drove through your toll-gate, and that you might have had a word with him, or at least a good look at him. mercy me!" she suddenly ejaculated, as a look of genuine disappointment spread over her face; "i forgot. the coachman would have paid the toll as he went to town, and there was no need of stoppin' as they went back. i might have saved myself this trip." the captain laughed. "it stands to reason that it might have been that way," he said, "but it wasn't. he stopped, and i talked to him for about five minutes." the face of miss port now grew radiant, and she pulled her chair nearer to captain asher. "tell me," said she, "is he really anybody?" "he is a good deal of a body," answered the captain. "i should say he is pretty nearly six feet high, and of considerable bigness." "well!" exclaimed miss port, "i'd thought he was a little dried-up sort of a mummy man that you might hang up on a nail and be sure you'd find him when you got back. did he talk?" "oh, yes," said the captain, "he talked a good deal." "and what did he tell you?" "he did not tell me anything, but he asked a lot of questions." "what about?" said miss port quickly. "everything. fishing, gunning, crops, weather, people." "well, well!" she exclaimed. "and don't you suppose his wife could have told him all that, and she's been livin' here--this is the second summer. did he say how long he's goin' to stay?" "no." "and you didn't ask him?" "i told you he asked the questions," replied the captain. "well, i wish i'd been here," miss port remarked fervently. "i'd got something out of him." "no doubt of that," thought the captain, but he did not say so. "if he expects to pass himself off as just a common man," continued miss port, "that's goin' to spend the rest of his summer here with his family, he can't do it. he's first got to explain why he never came near that young woman and her two babies for the whole of last summer, and, so far as i've heard, he was never mentioned by her. i think, captain asher, that for the sake of the neighborhood, if you don't care about such things yourself, you might have made use of this opportunity. as far as i know, you're the only person in or about glenford that's spoke to him." the captain smiled. "sometimes, i suppose," said he, "i don't say enough, and sometimes i say too much, but--" "then i wish he'd struck you more on an average," interrupted miss port. "but there's no use talkin' any more about it. i hired a horse and a carriage and a boy to come out here this mornin' to ask you about that man. and what's come of it? you haven't got a single thing to tell anybody except that he's big." the captain changed the subject again. "how is your father?" he asked. "pop's just the same as he always is," was the answer. "and now, as i don't want to lose the whole of the seventy-five cents i've got to pay, suppose you call in that niece of yours, and let me have a talk with her. perhaps i can get something interesting out of her." the captain left the room, but he did not move with alacrity. he found olive with a book in a hammock at the back of the house. when he told her his errand she sat up with a sudden bounce, her feet upon the ground. "uncle," she said, "isn't that woman a horrid person?" the captain was a merry-minded man, and he laughed. "it is pretty hard for me to answer that question," said he; "suppose you go in and find out for yourself." olive hesitated; she was a girl who had a very high opinion of herself and a very low opinion of such a person as this miss port seemed to be. why should she go in and talk to her? still undecided, she left the hammock and made a few steps toward the house. then, with a sudden exclamation, she stopped and dropped her book. "buggy coming," she exclaimed, "and that thing is running to take the toll!" with these words she started away with the speed of a colt. an approaching buggy was on the road; miss maria port, walking rapidly, had nearly reached the back door of the tollhouse when olive swept by her so closely that the wind of her fluttering garments almost blew away the breath of the elder woman. "seven cents!" cried olive, standing in the covered doorway, but she might have saved herself the trouble of repeating this formula, for the man in the buggy was not near enough to hear her. when olive saw it was a man, she turned, and perceiving her uncle approaching the tollhouse, she hurried by him up the garden path, looking neither to the right nor to the left. "a pretty girl that is of yours!" exclaimed miss port. "she might just as well have slapped me in the face!" "but what were you going to do in here?" asked captain asher. "you know that's against the rules." "the rules be bothered," replied the irate maria. "i thought it was mr. smiley. he's been away from his parish for a week, and there are a good many things i want to ask him." "well, it is the roman catholic priest from marlinsville," said captain asher, "and he wouldn't tell you anything if you asked him." the captain had a cheerful little chat with the priest, who was one of his most valued road friends; and when he returned to his garden he found miss port walking up and down the main path in a state of agitation. "i should think," said she, "that the company would have something to say about your takin' up your time talkin' to people on the road. i've heard that sometimes they get out, and spend hours talkin' and smokin' with you. i guess that's against the rules." "it is all right between the company and me," replied the captain. "you know i am a stockholder in a small way." "you are!" exclaimed miss port. "well, i've got somethin' by comin' here, anyway." stowing away this bit of information in regard to the captain's resources in her mind for future consideration, she continued: "i don't think much of that niece of your'n. has she never lived anywhere where the people had good manners?" olive, who had gone to her room in order to be out of the way of this queer visitor, now sat by an upper window, and it was impossible that she should fail to hear this remark, made by miss port in her most querulous tones. olive immediately left the window, and sat down on the other side of the room. "good manners!" she ejaculated, and fell to thinking. her present situation had suddenly presented itself to her in a very different light from that in which she had previously regarded it. she was living in a very plain house in a very plain way, with a very plain uncle who kept a tollhouse; but she liked him; and, until this moment, she had liked the life. but now she asked herself if it were possible for her longer to endure it if she were to be condemned to intercourse with people like that thing down in the garden. if her uncle's other friends in glenford were of that grade she could not stay here. she smiled in spite of her irritation as she thought of the woman's words--"anywhere where the people had good manners." good manners, indeed! she remembered the titled young officers in germany with whom she had talked and danced when she was but seventeen years old, and who used to send her flowers. she remembered the people of rank in the army and navy and in the state who used to invite her mother and herself to their houses. she remembered the royal prince who had wished to be presented to her, and whose acquaintance she had declined because she did not like what she had heard of him. she remembered the good friends of her father in europe and america, ladies and gentlemen of the army and navy. she remembered the society in which she had mingled when living with her boston aunt during the past winter. then she thought of miss port's question. good manners, indeed! "well," said the perturbed maria, after having been informed by the captain that his niece was accustomed to move in the best circles, "i don't want to go into the house again, for if i was to meet her, i'm sure i couldn't keep my temper. but i'll say this to you, captain asher, that i pity the woman that's her guardeen. and now, if you'll help my boy turn round so he won't upset the carriage, i'll be goin'. but before i go i'll just say this, that if you'd been in the habit of takin' advantage of the chances that come to you, i believe that you'd be a good deal better off than you are now, even if you do own shares in the turnpike company." it was not difficult for the captain to recognize some of the chances to which she alluded; one of them she herself had offered him several times. "oh, i am very well off as i am," he answered, "but perhaps some day i may have something to tell you of the easterfields and about their doings up on the mountain." "about her doin's, you might as well say," retorted miss port. "no matter what you tell me, i don't believe a word about his ever doin' anything." with this she walked to the little phaeton, into which the captain helped her. "uncle john," said olive, a few minutes later, "are there many people like that in glenford?" "my dear child," said the captain, "the people in glenford, the most of them, i mean, are just as nice people as you would want to meet. they are ladies and gentlemen, and they are mighty good company. they don't often come out here, to be sure, but i know most of them, and i ought to be ashamed of myself that i have not made you acquainted with them before this. as to maria port, there is only one of her in glenford, and, so far as i know, there isn't another just like her in the whole world. now i come to think of it," he continued, "i wonder why some of the young people have not come out to call on you. but if that maria port has been going around telling them that you are a little girl in short frocks it is not so surprising." "oh, don't bother yourself, uncle john, about calls and society," said olive. "if you can only manage that that woman takes the shunpike whenever she drives this way, i shall be perfectly satisfied with everything just as it is." _chapter iii_ _mrs. easterfield._ on the side of the mountain, a few miles to the west of the gap to which the turnpike stretched itself, there was a large estate and a large house which had once belonged to the sudley family. for a hundred years or more the sudleys had been important people in this part of the country, but it had been at least two decades since any of them had lived on this estate. some of them had gone to cities and towns, and others had married, or in some other fashion had melted away so that their old home knew them no more. although it was situated on the borders of the southern country, the house, which was known as broadstone, from the fact that a great flat rock on the level of the surrounding turf extended itself for many feet at the front of the principal entrance, was not constructed after ordinary southern fashions. some of the early sudleys were of english blood and proclivities, and so it was partly like an english house; some of them had taken continental ideas into the family, and there was a certain solidity about the walls; while here and there the narrowness of the windows suggested southern europe. some parts of the great stone walls had been stuccoed, and some had been whitewashed. here and there vines climbed up the walls and stretched themselves under the eaves. as the house stood on a wide bluff, there was a lawn from which one could see over the tree tops the winding river sparkling far below. there were gardens and fields on the open slopes, and beyond these the forests rose to the top of the mountains. the ceilings of the house were high, and the halls and rooms were wide and airy; the trees on the edge of the woods seemed always to be rustling in a wind from one direction or another, and a lady; mrs. easterfield; who several years before had been traveling in that part of the country; declared that broadstone was the most delightful place for a summer residence that she had ever seen, either in this country or across the ocean. so, with the consent and money of her husband, she had bought the estate the summer before the time of our story, and had gone there to live. mr. easterfield was what is known as a railroad man, and held high office in many companies and organizations. when his wife first went to broadstone he was obliged to spend the summer in europe, and had agreed with her that the estate on the mountains would be the best place for her and the two little girls while he was away. this state of affairs had occasioned a good deal of talk, especially in glenford, a town with which the easterfields had but little to do, and which therefore had theorized much in order to explain to its own satisfaction the conduct of a comparatively young married woman who was evidently rich enough to spend her summers at any of the most fashionable watering-places, but who chose to go with her young family to that old barracks of a house, and who had a husband who never came near her or his children, and who, so far as the glenford people knew, she never mentioned. mrs. margaret easterfield was a very fine woman, both to look at and to talk to, but she did not believe that her duty to her fellow-beings demanded that she should devote her first summer months at her new place to the gratification of the eyes and ears of her friends and acquaintances, so she had gone to broadstone with her family--all females--with servants enough, and for the whole of the summer they had all been very happy. but this summer things were going to be a little different at broadstone, for mrs. easterfield had arranged for some house parties. her husband was very kind and considerate about her plans, and promised her that he would make one of the good company at broadstone whenever it was possible for him to do so. so now it happened that he had come to see his wife and children and the house in which they lived; and, having had some business at a railroad center in the south, he had come through glenford, which was unusual, as the intercourse between broadstone and the great world was generally maintained through the gap in the mountains. with his wife by his side and a little girl on each shoulder, mr. tom easterfield walked through the grounds and the gardens and out on the lawn, and looked down over the tops of the trees upon the river which sparkled far below, and he said to his wife that if she would let him do it he would send a landscape-gardener, with a great company of italians, and they would make the place a perfect paradise in about five days. "it could be ruined a great deal quicker by an army of locusts," she said, "and so, if you do not mind, i think i will wait for the locusts." it was not time yet for any of the members of the house parties to make their appearance, and it was the general desire of his family that mr. easterfield should remain until some of the visitors arrived, but he could not gratify them. three days after his arrival he was obliged to be in atlanta; and so, soon after breakfast one fine morning, the easterfield carriage drove over the turnpike to the glenford station, mr. and mrs. easterfield on the back seat, and the two little girls sitting opposite, their feet sticking out straight in front of them. when they stopped at the toll-gate captain asher came down to collect the toll--ten cents for two horses and a carriage. olive was sitting in the little arbor, reading. she had noticed the approaching equipage and saw that there was a lady in it, but for some reason or other she was not so anxious as she had been to collect toll from ladies. if she could have arranged the matter to suit herself she would have taken toll from the male travelers, and her uncle john might attend to the women; she did not believe that men would have such absurd ideas about people or ask ridiculous questions. there was no conversation at the gate on this occasion, for the carriage was a little late, but as it rolled on mrs. margaret said to mr. tom: "it seems to me as though i have just had a glimpse of dresden. what do you suppose could have suggested that city to me?" mr. tom could not imagine, unless it was the dust. she laughed, and said that he had dust and ballast and railroads on the brain; and when the oldest little girl asked what that meant, mrs. margaret told her that the next time her father came home she would make him sit down on the floor and then she would draw on that great bald spot of his head, which they had so often noticed, a map of the railroad lines in which he was concerned, and then his daughters would understand why he was always thinking of railroad-tracks and that sort of thing with the inside of his head, which, as she had told them, was that part of a person with which he did his thinking. "don't they sell some sort of annual or monthly tickets for this turnpike?" asked mr. tom. "if they do, you would save yourself the trouble of stopping to pay toll and make change." "i so seldom use this road," she said, "that it would not be worth while. one does not stop on returning, you know." but notwithstanding this speech, when mrs. easterfield returned from the glenford station, one little girl sitting beside her and the other one opposite, both of them with their feet sticking out, she ordered her coachman to stop when he reached the toll-gate. olive was still sitting in the arbor, reading. the captain was not visible, and the wooden-faced jane, noticing that the travelers were a lady and two little girls, did not consider that she had any right to interfere with miss olive's prerogatives; so that young lady felt obliged to go to the toll-gate to see what was wanted. "you know you do not have to pay going back," she said. "i know that," answered mrs. easterfield, "but i want to ask about tickets or monthly payments of toll, or whatever your arrangements are for that sort of thing." "i really do not know," said olive, "but i will go and ask about it." "but stop one minute," exclaimed mrs. easterfield, leaning over the side of the carriage. "is it your father who keeps this toll-gate?" for some reason or other which she could not have explained to herself, olive felt that it was incumbent upon her to assert herself, and she answered: "oh, no, indeed. my father is lieutenant-commander alfred asher, of the cruiser hopatcong." without another word mrs. easterfield pushed open the door of the carriage and stepped to the ground, exclaiming: "as i passed this morning i knew there was something about this place that brought back to my mind old times and old friends, and now i see what it was; it was you. i caught but one glimpse of you and i did not know you. but it was enough. i knew your father very well when i was a girl, and later i was with him and your mother in dresden. you were a girl of twelve or thirteen, going to school, and i never saw much of you. but it is either your father or your mother that i saw in your face as you sat in that arbor, and i knew the face, although i did not know who owned it. i am mrs. easterfield, but that will not help you to know me, for i was not married when i knew your father." olive's eyes sparkled as she took the two hands extended to her. "i don't remember you at all," she said, "but if you are the friend of my father and mother--" "then i am to be your friend, isn't it?" interrupted mrs. easterfield. "i hope so," answered olive. "now, then," said mrs. easterfield, "i want you to tell me how in the world you come to be here." there were two stools in the tollhouse, and olive, having invited her visitor to seat herself on the better one, took the other, and told mrs. easterfield how she happened to be there. "and that handsome elderly man who took the toll this morning is your uncle?" "yes, my father's only brother," said olive. "a good deal older," said mrs. easterfield. "oh, yes, but i do not know how much." "and you call him captain. was he also in the navy?" "no," said olive, "he was in the merchant service, and has retired. it seems queer that he should be keeping a toll-gate, but my father has often told me that uncle john does not care for appearances, and likes to do things that please him. he likes to keep the tollhouse because it brings him in touch with the world." "very sensible in him," said mrs. easterfield. "i think i would like to keep a toll-gate myself." captain asher had seen the carriage stop, and knew that mrs. easterfield was talking to olive, but he did not think himself called upon to intrude upon them. but now it was necessary for him to go to the tollhouse. two men in a buggy with a broken spring and a coffee bag laid over the loins of an imperfectly set-up horse had been waiting for nearly a minute behind mrs. easterfield's carriage, desiring to pay their toll and pass through. so the captain went out of the garden-gate, collected the toll from the two men, and directed them to go round the carriage and pass on in peace, which they did. then mrs. easterfield rose from her stool, and approached the tollhouse door, and, as a matter of course, the captain was obliged to step forward and meet her. olive introduced him to the lady, who shook hands with him very cordially. "i have found the daughter of an old friend," said she, and then they all went into the tollhouse again, where the two ladies reseated themselves, and after some explanatory remarks mrs. easterfield said: "now, captain asher, i must not stay here blocking up your toll-gate all the morning, but i want to ask of you a very great favor. i want you to let your niece come and make me a visit. i want a good visit--at least ten days. you must remember that her father and i, and her mother, too, were very good friends. now there are so many things i want to talk over with miss olive, and i am sure you will let me have her just for ten short days. there are no guests at broadstone yet, and i want her. you do not know how much i want her." captain asher stood up tall and strong, his broad shoulders resting against the frame of the open doorway. it was a positive delight to him to stand thus and look at such a beautiful woman. so far as he could see, there was nothing about her with which to find fault. if she had been a ship he would have said that her lines were perfect, spars and rigging just as he would have them. in addition to her other perfections, she was large enough. the captain considered himself an excellent judge of female beauty, and he had noticed that a great many fine women were too small. with olive's personal appearance he was perfectly satisfied, although she was slight, but she was young, and would probably expand. if he had had a daughter he would have liked her to resemble mrs. easterfield, but that feeling did not militate in the least against olive. in his mind it was not necessary for a niece to be quite as large as a daughter ought to be. "but what does olive say about it?" he asked. "i have not been asked yet," replied olive, "but it seems to me that i--" "would like to do it," interrupted mrs. easterfield. "now, isn't that so, dear olive?" the girl looked at the captain. "it depends upon what you say about it, uncle john." the captain slightly knitted his brows. "if it were for one night, or perhaps a couple of days," he said, "it would be different. but what am i to do without olive for nearly two weeks? i am just beginning to learn what a poor place my house would be without her." at this minute a man upon a rapidly trotting pony stopped at the toll-gate. "excuse me one minute," continued the captain, "here is a person who can not wait," and stepping outside he said good morning to a bright-looking young fellow riding a sturdy pony and wearing on his cap a metal plate engraved "united states rural delivery." the carrier brought but one letter to the tollhouse, and that was for captain asher himself. as the man rode away the captain thought he might as well open his letter before he went back. this would give the ladies a chance to talk further over the matter. he read the letter, which was not long, put it in his pocket, and then entered the tollhouse. there was now no doubt or sign of disturbance on his features. "i have considered your invitation, madam," said he, "and as i see olive wants to visit you, i shall not interfere." "of course she does," cried mrs. easterfield, springing to her feet, "and i thank you ever and ever so much, captain asher. and now, my dear," said she to olive, "i am going to send the carriage for you to-morrow morning." and with this she put her arm around the girl and kissed her. then, having warmly shaken hands with the captain, she departed. "do you know, uncle john," said olive, "i believe if you were twenty years older she would have kissed you." with a grim smile the captain considered; would he have been willing to accept those additional years under the circumstances? he could not immediately make up his mind, and contented himself with the reflection that olive did not think him old enough for the indiscriminate caresses of young people. _chapter iv_ _the son of an old shipmate._ when olive came down to breakfast the next morning she half repented that she had consented to go away and leave her uncle for so long a time. but when she made known her state of mind the captain laughed at her. "my child," said he, "i want you to go. of course, i did not take to the notion at first, but i did not consider then what you will have to tell when you come home. the people of glenford will be your everlasting debtors. it might be a good thing to invite maria port out here. you could give her the best time she ever had in her life, telling her about the broadstone people." "maria port, indeed!" said olive. "but we won't talk of her. and you really are willing i should go?" "i speak the truth when i say i want you to go," replied the captain. whereupon olive assured him that he was truly a good uncle. after the easterfield carriage had rolled away with olive alone on the back seat, waving her handkerchief, the captain requested jane to take entire charge of the toll-gate for a time; and, having retired to his own room, he took from his pocket the letter he had received the day before. "i must write an answer to this," he said, "before the postman comes." the letter was from one of the captain's old shipmates, captain richard lancaster, the best friend he had had when he was in the merchant service. captain lancaster had often been asked by his old friend to visit him at the toll-gate, but, being married and rheumatic, he had never accepted the invitation. but now he wrote that his son, dick, had planned a holiday trip which would take him through glenford, and that, if it suited captain asher, the father would accept for the son the long-standing invitation. captain lancaster wrote that as he could not go himself to his old friend asher, the next best thing would be for his son to go, and when the young man returned he could tell his father all about captain asher. there would be something in that like old times. besides, he wanted his former shipmate to know his son dick, who was, in his eyes, a very fine young fellow. "there never was such a lucky thing in the world," said captain asher to himself, when he had finished rereading the letter. "of course, i want to have dick lancaster's son here, but i could not have had him if olive had been here. but now it is all right. the young fellow can stay here a few days, and he will be gone before she gets back. if i like him i can ask him to come again; but that's my business. handsome women, like that mrs. easterfield, always bring good luck. i have noticed that many and many a time." then he set himself to work to write a letter to invite young richard lancaster to spend a few days with him. for the rest of that day, and the greater part of the next, captain asher gave a great deal of thinking time to the consideration of the young man who was about to visit him, and of whom, personally, he knew very little. he was aware that captain lancaster had a son and no other children, and he was quite sure that this son must now be a grown-up young man. he remembered very well that captain lancaster was a fine young fellow when he first knew him, and he did not doubt at all that the son resembled the father. he did not believe that young dick was a sailor, because he and old dick had often said to each other that if they married their sons should not go to sea. of course he was in some business; and captain lancaster ought to be well able to give him a good start in life; just as able as he himself was to give olive a good start in housekeeping when the time came. "now, what in the name of common sense," ejaculated captain asher, "did i think of that for? what has he to do with olive, or olive with him?" and then he said to himself, thinking of the young man in the bosom of his family and without reference to anybody outside of it: "yes, his father must be pretty well off. he did a good deal more trading than ever i did. but after all, i don't believe he invested his money any better than i did mine, and it is just as like as not if we were to show our hands, that olive would get as much as dick's son. there it is again. i can't keep my mind off the thing." and as he spoke he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and began to stride up and down the garden walk; and as he did so he began to reproach himself. what right had he to think of his niece in that way? it was not doing the fair thing by her father, and perhaps by her, for that matter. for all he knew she might be engaged to somebody out west or down east, or in some other part of the world where she had lived. but this idea made very little impression on him. knowing olive as he did, he did not believe that she was engaged to anybody anywhere; he did not want to think that she was the kind of girl who would conceal her engagement from him, or who could do it, for that matter. but, everything considered, he was very glad olive had gone to broadstone, for, whatever the young fellow might happen to be, he wanted to know all about him before olive met him. captain asher firmly believed that there was nothing of the matchmaker in his disposition, but notwithstanding this estimate of himself, he went on thinking of olive and the son of his old shipmate, both separately and together. he had never said to anybody, nor intimated to anybody, that he was going to give any of his moderate fortune to his niece. in fact, before this visit to him he had not thought much about it, nor did it enter his mind that olive's boston aunt, her mother's sister, had favored this visit of the girl to her toll-gate uncle, hoping that he might think about it. in consequence of these cogitations, and in spite of the fact that he despised matchmaking, captain asher was greatly interested in the coming advent of his shipmate's son. when the same phaeton, the same horse, and the same boy that had brought maria port to the tollhouse, conveyed there a young man with two valises, one rather large, captain asher did not hurry from the house to meet his visitor. he had seen him coming, and had preferred to stand in his doorway and take a preliminary observation of him. having taken this, captain asher was obliged to confess to himself that he was disappointed. the first cause of his disappointment was the fact that the young man wore a colored shirt and no vest, and a yellow leather belt. now, captain asher for the greater part of his active life had worn colored shirts, sometimes very dark ones, with no vests, but he had not supposed that a young man coming to a house where there was a young lady accustomed to the best society would present himself in such attire. the captain instantly remembered that his visitor could not know that there was a young lady at the house, but this did not satisfy him. such attire was not respectful, even to him. the leather belt especially offended him. the captain was not aware of the _negligé_ summer fashions for men which then prevailed. the next thing that disappointed him was that young lancaster, seen across the garden, did not appear to be the strapping young fellow he had expected to see. he was moderately tall, and moderately broad, and handled his valise with apparent ease, but he did not look as though he were his father's son. dick lancaster had married the daughter of a captain when he was only a second mate, and that piece of good fortune had been generally attributed to his good looks. but these observations and reflections occupied a very short time, and captain asher walked quickly to meet his visitor. as he stepped out of the garden-gate he was disappointed again. the young man's trousers were turned up above his shoes. the weather was not wet, there was no mud, and if dick lancaster's son had not bought a pair of ready-made trousers that were too long for him, why should he turn them up in that ridiculous way? in spite of these first impressions, the captain gave his old friend's son a hearty welcome, and took him into the house. after dinner he subjected the young man to a crucial test; he asked him if he smoked. if the visitor had answered in the negative he would have dropped still further in the captain's estimation. it was not that the captain had any theories in regard to the sanitary advantages or disadvantages of tobacco; he simply remembered that nearly all the rascals with whom he had been acquainted had been eager to declare that they never used tobacco in any form, and that nearly all the good fellows he had known enjoyed their pipes. in fact, he could not see how good fellowship could be maintained without good talk and good tobacco, so he waited with an anxious interest for his guest's answer. "oh, yes," said he, "i am fond of a smoke, especially in company," and so, having risen several inches in the good opinion of his host, he followed him to the little arbor in the garden. "now, then," said captain asher, when his pipe was alight, "you have told me a great deal about your father, now tell me something about yourself. i do not even know what your business is." "i am assistant professor of theoretical mathematics in sutton college," answered the young man. captain asher put down his pipe and gazed at his visitor across the arbor. this answer was so different from anything he had expected that for the moment he could not express his astonishment, and was obliged to content himself with asking where sutton college was. "it is what they call a fresh-water college," replied the young man, "and i do not wonder that you do not know where it is. it is near our town. i graduated there and received my present appointment about three years ago. i was then twenty-seven." "your father was good at mathematics," said captain asher. "he was a great hand at calculations, but he went in for practise, as i did, and not for theories. i suppose there are other professors who teach regular working mathematics." "oh, yes," replied the young man, with a smile, "there is the professor of applied mathematics, but of course the thorough student wants to understand the theories on which his practise is to be based." "i do not see why he should," replied the other. "if a good ship is launched for me, i don't care anything about the stocks she slides off of." "perhaps not," said lancaster, "but somebody has to think about them." in the afternoon captain asher showed his visitor his little farm, and took him out fishing. during these recreations he refrained, as far as possible, from asking questions, for he did not wish the young man to suppose that for any reason he had been sent there to undergo an examination. but in the evening he could not help talking about the college, not in reference to the work and life of the students, a subject that did not interest him, but in regard to the work and the prospects of the faculty. "what does your president teach?" he asked. "i believe all presidents have charge of some branch or other." "oh, yes," said lancaster, "our president is professor of mental and moral philosophy." "i thought it would be something of the kind," said the captain to himself. "even the head professor of mathematical theories would never get to the top of the heap. he is not useful enough for that." after he had gone to bed that night captain asher found himself laughing about the events of the day. he could not help it when he remembered how his mind had been almost constantly occupied with a consideration of his old shipmate's son with reference to his brother's daughter. and when he remembered that neither of these two young people had ever seen or heard of the other, it is not surprising that he laughed a little. "it's none of my business, anyway," thought the captain, "and i might as well stop bothering my head about it. i suppose i might as well tell him about olive, for it is nothing i need keep secret. but first i'll see how long he is going to stay. it's none of his business, anyway, whether i have a niece staying with me or not." _chapter v_ _olive pays toll._ it is needless to say that olive was charmed with broadstone; with its mistress; with the two little girls; with the woods; the river; the mountains; and even the sky; which seemed different from that same sky when viewed from the tollhouse. she was charmed also with the rest of the household, which was different from anything of that kind that she had known, being composed entirely, with the exception of some servants, of women and little girls. olive, accustomed all her life to men, men, men, grew rapturous over this amazonian paradise. "don't be too enthusiastic," said mrs. easterfield; "for a while you may like fresh butter without salt, but the longing for the condiment will be sure to come." there was mrs. blynn, the widow of a clergyman, with dark-brown eyes and white hair, who was always in a good humor, who acted as the general manager of the household, and also as particular friend to any one in the house who needed her services in that way. then there was miss raleigh, who was supposed to be mrs. easterfield's secretary. she was a slender spinster of forty or more, with sad eyes and very fine teeth. she had dyspeptic proclivities, and never differed with anybody except in regard to her own diet. she seldom wrote for mrs. easterfield, for that lady did not like her handwriting, and she did not understand the use of the typewriter; nor did she read to the lady of the house, for mrs. easterfield could not endure to have anybody read to her. but in all the other duties of a secretary she made herself very useful. she saw that the books, which every morning were found lying about the house, were put in their proper places on the shelves, and, if necessary, she dusted them; if she saw a book turned upside down she immediately set it up properly. she was also expected to exert a certain supervision over the books the little girls were allowed to look at. she was an excellent listener and an appropriate smiler; mrs. easterfield frequently said that she never knew miss raleigh to smile in the wrong place. she took a regular walk every day, eight times up and down the whole length of the lawn. mrs. easterfield gave herself almost entirely to the entertainment of her guest. they roamed over the grounds, they found the finest points of view, at which olive was expert, being a fine climber, and they tramped for long distances along the edge of the woods, where together they killed a snake. mrs. easterfield also allowed olive the great privilege of helping her work in her garden of nature. this was a wide bed which was almost entirely shaded by two large trees. the peculiarity about this bed was that its mistress carefully pulled up all the flowering plants and cultivated the weeds. "you see," said she to olive, "i planted here a lot of flower-seeds which i thought would thrive in the shade, but they did not, and after a while i found that they were all spindling and puny-looking, while the weeds were growing as if they were out in the open sunshine, so i have determined to acknowledge the principle of the survival of the fittest, and whenever anything that looks like a flower shows itself i jerk it out. i also thin out all but the best weeds. i hoe and rake the others, and water them if necessary. look at that splendid jamestown weed--here they call it jimson weed--did you ever see anything finer than that with its great white blossoms and dark-green leaves? i expect it to be twice as large before the summer is over. and all these others. see how graceful they are, and what delicate flowers some of them have!" "i wonder," said olive, "if i should have had the strength of mind to pull up my flowers and leave my weeds." "the more you think about it," said mrs. easterfield, "the more you like weeds. they have such fine physiques, and they don't ask anybody to do anything for them. they are independent, like self-made men, and come up of themselves. they laugh at disadvantages, and even bricks and flagstones will not keep them down." "but, after all," said olive, "give me the flowers that can not take care of themselves." and she turned toward a bed of carnations, bright under the morning sun. "do you suppose, little girl," said mrs. easterfield, following her, "that i do not like flowers because i do like weeds? everything in its place; weeds are for the shady spots, but i keep my flowers out of such places. this flower, for instance," touching olive on the cheek. "and now let us go into the house and see what pleasant thing we can find to do there." in the afternoon the two ladies went out rowing on the river, and mrs. easterfield was astonished at olive's proficiency with the oar. she had thought herself a good oarswoman, but she was nothing to olive. she good-naturedly acknowledged her inferiority, however. how could she expect to compete with a navy girl? she said. "are you fond of swimming?" asked olive, as she looked down into the bright, clear water. "oh, very," said mrs. easterfield. "but i am not allowed to swim in this river. it is considered dangerous." olive looked up in surprise. it seemed odd that there should be anything that this bright, free woman was not allowed to do, or that there should be anybody who would not allow it. then followed some rainy days, and the first clear day mrs. easterfield told olive that she would take her a drive in the afternoon. "i shall drive you myself with my own horses," she said, "but you need not be afraid, for i can drive a great deal better than i can row. we must lose no time in seizing all the advantages of this amazonian life, for to-morrow some of our guests will arrive, the foxes and mr. claude locker." "who are the foxes?" asked olive. "they are the pleasantest visitors that any one could have," was the answer. "they always like everything. they never complain of being cold, nor talk about the weather being hot. they are interested in all games, and they like all possible kinds of food that one can give them to eat. they are always ready to go to bed when they think they ought to, and sit up just as long as they are wanted. of course, they have their own ideas about things, but they don't dispute. they take care of themselves all the morning, and are ready for anything you want to do in the afternoon or evening. they have two children at home, but they never talk about them unless they are particularly asked to do so. they know a great many people, and you can tell by the way they speak of them that they won't talk scandal about you. in fact, they are model guests, and they ought to open a school to teach the art of visiting." "and what about mr. claude locker?" mrs. easterfield laughed. "oh, he is different," she said; "he is so different from the foxes that words would not describe it. but you won't be long in becoming acquainted with him." the road over which the two ladies drove that afternoon was a beautiful one, sometimes running close to the river under great sycamores, then making a turn into the woods and among the rocks. at last they came to a cross-road, which led away from the river, and here mrs. easterfield stopped her horses. "now, olive," said she, for she was now very familiar with her guest, "i will leave the return route to you. shall we go back by the river road--and the scenery will be very different when going in the other direction--or shall we drive over to glenford, and go home by the turnpike? that is a little farther, but the road is a great deal better?" "oh, let us go that way," cried olive. "we will go through uncle john's toll-gate, and you must let me pay the toll. it will be such fun to pay toll to uncle john, or old jane." "very well," said mrs. easterfield, "we will go that way." when the horses had passed through glenford and had turned their heads homeward, they clattered along at a fine rate over the smooth turnpike, and olive was in as high spirits as they were. "whoever comes out to take toll," said she, "i intend to be treated as an ordinary traveler and nothing else. i have often taken toll, but i never paid it in my life. and they must take it--no gratis traveling for me. but i hope you won't mind stopping long enough for me to say a few words after i have transacted the regular business." "oh, no," said mrs. easterfield, "you can chat as much as you like. we have plenty of time." olive held in her hand a quarter of a dollar; she was determined they should make change for her, and that everything should be done properly. dick lancaster sat in the garden arbor, reading. he was becoming a little tired of this visit to his father's old friend. he liked captain asher and appreciated his hospitality, but there was nothing very interesting for him to do in this place, and he had thought that it might be a very good thing if the several days for which he had been invited should terminate on the morrow. there were some very attractive plans ahead of him, and he felt that he had now done his full duty by his father and his father's old friend. captain asher was engaged with some matters about his little farm, and lancaster had asked as a favor that he might be allowed to tend the toll-gate during his absence. it would be something to do, and, moreover, something out of the way. when he perceived the approach of mrs. easterfield's carriage lancaster walked down to the tollhouse, and stopped for a minute to glance over the rates of toll which were pasted up inside the door as well as out. the carriage stopped, and when a young man stepped out from the tollhouse olive gave a sudden start, and the words with which she had intended to greet her uncle or old jane instantly melted away. "don't push me out of the carriage," said mrs. easterfield, good-naturedly, and she, too, looked at the young man. "for two horses and a vehicle," said dick lancaster, "ten cents, if you please." olive made no answer, but handed him the quarter with which he retired to make change. mrs. easterfield opened her mouth to speak, but olive put her finger on her lips and shook her head; the situation astonished her, but she did not wish to ask that stranger to explain it. lancaster came out and dropped fifteen cents into olive's hand. he could not help regarding with interest the occupants of the carriage, and mrs. easterfield looked hard at him. suddenly olive turned in her seat; she looked at the house, she looked at the garden, she looked at the little piazza by the side of the tollhouse. yes, it was really the same place. for an instant she thought she might have been mistaken, but there was her window with the virginia creeper under the sill where she had trained it herself. then she made a motion to her companion, who immediately drove on. "what does this mean?" exclaimed mrs. easterfield. "who is that young man? why didn't you give me a chance to ask after the captain, even if you did not care to do so?" "i never saw him before!" cried olive. "i never heard of him. i don't understand anything about it. the whole thing shocked me, and i wanted to get on." "i don't think it a very serious matter," said mrs. easterfield. "some passer-by might have relieved your uncle for a time." "not at all, not at all," replied olive. "uncle john would never give the toll-gate into the charge of a passer-by, especially as old jane was there. i know she was there, for the basement door was open, and she never goes away and leaves it so. that man is somebody who is staying there. i saw an open book on the arbor bench. nobody reads in that arbor but me." "and that young man apparently," said mrs. easterfield. "i agree with you that it is surprising." for some minutes olive did not speak. "i am afraid," she said, presently, "that my uncle is not acting quite frankly with me. i noticed how willing he was that i should go to your house." "perhaps he expected this person and wanted to get you out of the way," laughed mrs. easterfield. "well, my dear, i do not believe your uncle is such a schemer. he does not look like it. take my word for it, it will all be as simple as a-b-c when it is explained to you." but olive could not readily take this view of the case, and the drive home was not nearly so pleasant as it would have been if her uncle or old jane had taken her quarter and given her fifteen cents in change. that night, soon after the family at broadstone had retired to their rooms, olive knocked at the door of mrs. easterfield's chamber. "do you know," she exclaimed, when she had been told to enter, "that a horrible idea has come into my head? uncle john may have been taken sick, and that man looked just like a doctor. old jane was busy with uncle, and as the doctor had to wait, he took the toll. oh, i wish we had asked! it was cruel in me not to!" "now, that is all nonsense," said mrs. easterfield. "if anything serious is the matter with your uncle he most surely would have let you know, and, besides, both the doctors in glenford are elderly men. i do not believe there is the slightest reason for your anxiety. but to make you feel perfectly satisfied, i will send a man to glenford early in the morning. i want to send there anyway." "but i would not like my uncle to think that i was trying to find out anything he did not care to tell me," said olive. "oh, don't trouble yourself about that," answered mrs. easterfield. "i will instruct the man. he need not ask any questions at the toll-gate. but when he gets to glenford he can find out everything about that young man without asking any questions. he is a very discreet person. and i am also a discreet person," she added, "and you shall have no connection with my messenger's errand." after breakfast the next morning mrs. easterfield took olive aside. "my man has returned," she said; "he tells me that captain asher took the toll, and was smoking his pipe in perfect health. he also saw the young man, and his natural curiosity prompted him to ask about him in the town. he heard that he is the son of one of the captain's old shipmates who is making him a visit. now i hope this satisfies you." "satisfies me!" exclaimed olive. "i should have been a great deal better satisfied if i had heard he was sick, provided it was nothing dangerous. i think my uncle is treating me shamefully. it is not that i care a snap about his visitor, one way or another, but it is his want of confidence in me that hurts me. could he have supposed i should have wanted to stay with him if i had known a young man was coming?" "well, my dear," said mrs. easterfield, "i can not send anybody to find out what he supposed. but i am as certain as i can be certain of anything that there is nothing at all in this bugbear you have conjured up. no doubt the young man dropped in quite accidentally, and it was his bad luck that prevented him from dropping in before you left." olive shook her head. "my uncle knew all about it. his manner showed it. he has treated me very badly." _chapter vi_ _mr. claude locker._ the foxes arrived at broadstone at the exact hour of the morning at which they had been expected. they always did this; even trains which were sometimes delayed when other visitors came were always on time when they carried the foxes. they were both perfectly well and happy, as they always were. as rapidly as it was possible for human beings to do so they absorbed the extraordinary advantages of the house and it surroundings, and they said the right things in such a common-sense fashion that their hostess was proud that she owned such a place, and happy that she had invited them to see it. in their hearts they liked everything about the place except olive, and they wondered how they were going to get along with such a glum young person, but they did not talk about her to mrs. easterfield; there was too much else. mr. claude locker was expected on the train by which the foxes had come, but he did not arrive; and this made it necessary to send again for him in the afternoon. mrs. easterfield tried very hard to cheer up olive, and to make her entertain the foxes in her usual lively way, but this was of no use; the young person was not in a good humor, and retired for an afternoon nap. but as this was an indulgence she very seldom allowed herself, it was not likely that she napped. mr. fox spoke to mrs. fox about her. "a queer girl," he said; "what do you suppose is the matter with her?" "the symptoms are those of green apples," replied mrs. fox, "and probably she will be better to-morrow." the carriage came back without mr. locker. but just as the soup-plates were being removed from the dinner-table he arrived in a hired vehicle, and appeared at the dining-room door with his hat in one hand, and a package in the other. he begged mrs. easterfield not to rise. "i will slip up to my room," said he, "if you have one for me, and when i come down i will greet you and be introduced." with this he turned and left the room, but was back in a moment. "it was a woman," he said, "who was at the bottom of it. it is always a woman, you know, and i am sure you will excuse me now that you know this. and you must let me begin wherever you may be in the dinner." "i have heard of mr. locker," said mr. fox, "but i never met him before. he must be very odd." "he admits that himself," said mrs. easterfield, "but he asserts that he spends a great deal of his time getting even with people." in a reasonable time mr. locker appeared and congratulated himself upon having struck the roast. "as a matter of fact," he said, "we will now all begin dinner together. what has gone before was nothing but overture. if i can help it i never get in until the beginning of the play." he bowed parenthetically as mrs. easterfield introduced him to the company; and, as she looked at him, olive forgot for a moment her uncle and his visitor. "don't send for soup, i beg of you," said mr. locker, as he took his seat. "i regard it as a rare privilege to begin with the inside cut of beef." mr. locker was not allowed to do all the talking; his hostess would not permit that; but under the circumstances he was allowed to explain his lateness. "you know i have been spending a week with the bartons," he said, "and last night i came over from their house to the station in a carriage. there is a connecting train, but i should have had to take it very early in the evening, so i saved time by hiring a carriage." "saved time?" exclaimed mrs. easterfield. "i saved all the time from dinner until the bartons went to bed, which would have been lost if i had taken the train. besides, i like to travel in carriages. one is never too late for a carriage; it is always bound to wait for you." in the recesses of his mind mr. fox now said to himself, "this is a fool." and mrs. fox, in the recesses of her mind, remarked, "i am quite sure that mr. fox will look upon this young man as a fool." "i spent what was left of the night at a tavern near the station," continued mr. locker, "where i would have had to stay all night if i had not taken the carriage. and i should have been in plenty of time for the morning train if i had not taken a walk before breakfast. apparently that is a part of the world where it takes a good deal longer to go back to a place than it does to get away from it." "but where did the woman come in?" asked mrs. easterfield. "oh, she came in with some tea and sandwiches in the middle of the afternoon," said mr. locker. "i was waiting in the parlor of the tavern. she was fairly young, and as i ate she stood and talked. she talked about horace walpole." at this even olive smiled. "it was odd, wasn't it?" continued mr. locker, glancing from one to the other. "but that is what she did. she had been reading about him in an old book. she asked me if i knew anything about him, and i told her a great deal. it was so very interesting to tell her, and she was so interested, that when the train arrived i was too much occupied to think that it might start again immediately, but it did that very thing, and so i was left. however, the walpole young woman told me there was a freight-train along in about an hour, and so we continued our conversation. when this train came i asked the engineer how many cigars he would take to let me ride in the cab. he said half a dozen, but as i only had five, i promised to send him the other by mail. however, as i smoked two of his five, i suppose i ought to send him three." "this young man," said mr. fox to himself, "is trying to appear more of a fool than he really is." "i have no doubt," said mrs. fox to herself, "that mr. fox is of the opinion that this young man is making an effort to appear foolish." that evening was a dull one. mrs. easterfield did her best, claude locker did his best, and mr. and mrs. fox did their best to make things lively, but their success was poor. miss raleigh, the secretary, sat ready to give an approving smile to any liveliness which might arise, and mrs. blynn, with the dark eyes and soft white hair, sat sewing and waiting; never before had it been necessary for her to wait for liveliness in mrs. easterfield's house. a mild rain somewhat assisted the dullness, for everybody was obliged to stay indoors. early the next morning olive asher went down-stairs, and stood in the open doorway looking out upon the landscape, glowing in the sunshine and brighter and more odorous from the recent rain. some time during the night this young woman had made up her mind to give no further thought to her uncle who kept the toll-gate. there was no earthly reason why he, or anything he wanted to do, or did not want to do, or did, should trouble and annoy her. a few months before she had scarcely known him, not having seen him since she was a girl; and, in fact, he was no more to her now than he was before she went to his house. if he chose to offer her any explanation of his strange conduct, that would be very well; if he did not choose, that would also be very well. the whole affair was of no consequence; she would drop it entirely from her mind. olive's bounding spirits now rose very high, and when claude locker came in with his shoes soaked from a tramp in the wet grass she greeted him in such a way that he could scarcely believe she was the grumpy girl of the day before. as they went into breakfast mrs. fox remarked to her husband in a low voice that miss asher seemed to have recovered entirely from her indisposition. in the course of the morning mr. locker found an opportunity to speak in private with mrs. easterfield. "i am in great trouble," he said; "i want to marry miss asher." "you show unusual promptness," said mrs. easterfield. "not at all," replied locker. "this sort of thing is not unusual with me. my mind is a highly sensitive plate, and receives impressions almost instantaneously. if it were a large mind these impressions might be placed side by side, and each one would perhaps become indelible. but it is small, and each impression claps itself down on the one before. this last one, however, is the strongest of them all, and obliterates everything that went before." "it strikes me," said mrs. easterfield, "that if you were to pay more attention to your poems and less to young ladies it would be better." "hardly," said mr. locker; "for it would be worse for the poems." the general appearance of mr. locker gave no reason to suppose that he would be warranted in assuming a favorable issue from any of the impressions to which his mind was so susceptible. he was small, rather awkwardly set up, his head was large, and the features of his face seemed to have no relation to each other. his nose was somewhat stubby, and had nothing to do with his mouth or eyes. one of his eyebrows was drawn down as if in days gone by he had been in the habit of wearing a single glass. the other brow was raised over a clear and wide-open light-blue eye. his mouth was large, and attended strictly to its own business. it transmitted his odd ideas to other people, but it never laughed at them. his chin was round and prominent, suggesting that it might have been borrowed from somebody else. his cheeks were a little heavy, and gave no assistance in the expression of his ideas. his profession was that of a poet. he called himself a practical poet, because he made a regular business of it, turning his poetic inspirations into salable verse with the facility and success, as he himself expressed it, of a man who makes boxes out of wood. moreover, he sold these poems as readily as any carpenter sold his boxes. like himself, claude locker's poems were always short, always in request, and sometimes not easy to understand. the poem he wrote that night was a word-picture of the rising moon entangled in a sheaf of corn upon a hilltop, with a long-eared rabbit sitting near by as if astonished at the conflagration. "a very interesting girl, that miss asher," said mr. fox to his wife that evening. "i do not know when i have laughed so much." "i thought you were finding her interesting," said mrs. fox. "to me it was like watching a game of roulette at monte carlo. it was intensely interesting, but i could not imagine it as having anything to do with me." "no, my dear," said mr. fox, "it could have nothing to do with you." after mrs. easterfield retired she sat for a long time, thinking of olive. that young person and mr. locker had been boating that afternoon, and olive had had the oars. mr. locker had told with great effect how she had pulled to get out of the smooth water, and how she had dashed over the rapids and between the rocks in such a way as to make his heart stand still. "i should like to go rowing with her every day," he had remarked confidentially. "each time i started i should make a new will." "why a new one?" mrs. easterfield had asked. "each time i should take something more from my relatives to give to her," had been the answer. as she sat and thought, mrs. easterfield began to be a little frightened. she was a brave woman, but it is the truly brave who know when they should be frightened, and she felt her responsibility, not on account of the niece of the toll-gate keeper, but on account of the daughter of lieutenant asher, whom she had once known so well. the thing which frightened her was the possibility that before anybody would be likely to think of such a thing olive might marry claude locker. he was always ready to do anything he wanted to do at any time; and for all mrs. easterfield knew, the girl might be of the same sort. but mrs. easterfield rose to the occasion. she looked upon olive as a wild young colt who had broken out of her paddock, but she remembered that she herself had a record for speed. "if there is to be any running i shall get ahead of her," she said to herself, "and i will turn her back. i think i can trust myself for that." olive slept the sound sleep of the young, but for all that she had a dream. she dreamed of a kind, good, thoughtful, and even affectionate, middle-aged man; a man who looked as though he might have been her father, and whom she was beginning to look upon as a father, notwithstanding the fact that she had a real father dressed in a uniform and on a far-away ship. she dreamed ever so many things about this newer, although elder, father, and her dream made her very happy. but in the morning when she woke her dream had entirely passed from her mind, and she felt just as much like a colt as when she had gone to bed. _chapter vii_ _the captain and his guest go fishing and come home happy._ when dick lancaster told captain asher he had taken toll from two ladies in a phaeton he was quite eloquent in his description of said ladies. he declared with an impressiveness which the captain had not noticed in him before that he did not know when he had seen such handsome ladies. the younger one, who paid the toll, was absolutely charming. she seemed a little bit startled, but he supposed that was because she saw a strange face at the toll-gate. dick wanted very much to know who these ladies were. he had not supposed that he would find such stylish people, and such a handsome turnout in this part of the country. "oh, ho," said captain asher, "do you suppose we are all farmers and toll-gate keepers? if you do, you are very much mistaken, although i must admit that the stylish people, as you call them, are scattered about very thinly. i expect that carriage was from broadstone over on the mountain. was the team dapple gray, pony built?" "yes," said lancaster. "then it was mrs. easterfield driving some of her company. i have seen her with that team. and by george," he exclaimed, "i bet my head the other one was olive! of course it was. and she paid toll! well, well, if that isn't a good one! olive paying toll! i wish i had been here to take it! that truly would have been a lark!" dick lancaster did not echo this wish of his host. he was very glad, indeed, that the captain had not been at the toll-gate when the ladies passed through. captain asher was still laughing. "olive must have been amazed," he said. "it was queer enough for her to go through my gate and pay toll, but to pay it to an assistant professor of theoretical mathematics was a good deal queerer. i can't imagine what she thought about it." "she did not know i am that!" exclaimed dick lancaster. "there is nothing of the professor in my outward appearance--at least, i hope not." "no, i don't think there is," replied the captain. "but she must have been amazed, all the same. i wish i had been here, or old jane, anyway. but, of course, when a stranger showed himself she would not have said anything." "but who is olive?" asked lancaster. "she's my niece," said the captain. "i don't think i have mentioned her to you. she is on a visit to me, but just now she is staying at broadstone. i suppose she will be there about a week longer." "it's odd he has not mentioned her to me," thought lancaster, and then, as the captain went to ask old jane if she had seen olive pass, the young man retired to the arbor with a book which he did not read. his desire to inform his host that it would be necessary to take leave of him on the morrow had very much abated. it would be very pleasant, he thought, to be a visitor in a family of which that girl was a member. but if she were not to return for a week, how could he expect to stay with the captain so long? there would be no possible excuse for such a thing. then he thought it would be very pleasant to be in a country of which that young woman was one of the inhabitants. anyway, he hoped the captain would invite him to make a longer stay. the great blue eyes with which the young lady had regarded him as she paid the toll would not fade out of his mind. "she must have wondered who it was that took the toll," said old jane. "and there wasn't no need of it, anyway. i could have took it as i always have took it when you was not here, and before either of them came." "either of them" struck the captain's ear strangely. here was this old woman coupling these two young people in her mind! the next morning captain asher sat on his little piazza, smoking his pipe and thinking about olive driving through the gate and paying toll to a stranger. but he now considered the incident from a different point of view. of course, olive had been surprised when she had seen the young man, but she might also have wondered how he happened to be there and she not know of it. if he were staying long enough to be entrusted with toll-taking it might--in fact, the captain thought it probably would--appear very strange to her that she should not know of it. so now he asked himself if it would not be a good thing if he were to write her a little note in which he should mention mr. lancaster and his visit. in fact, he thought the best thing he could do would be to write her a playful sort of a note, and tell her that she should feel honored by having her toll taken up by a college professor. but he did not immediately write the note. the more he thought about it, the more he wished he had been at the toll-gate when mrs. easterfield's phaeton passed by. captain asher did not write his note at all. he did not know what to say; he did not want to make too much of the incident, for it was really a trifling matter, only worthy of being mentioned in case he had something more important to write about. but he had nothing more important; there was no reason why he should write to olive during her short stay with mrs. easterfield. besides, she would soon be back, and then he could talk to her; that would be much better. now, two strong desires began to possess him; one was for olive to come home; and the other for dick lancaster to go away. there had been moments when he had had a shadowy notion of bringing the two together, but this idea had vanished. his mind was now occupied very much with thoughts of his beautiful niece and very little with the young man in the colored shirt and turned-up trousers who was staying with him. dick lancaster, in his arbor, was also thinking a great deal about olive, and very little about that stalwart sailor, her uncle. if he had merely seen the young woman, and had never heard anything about her, her face would have impressed him, but the knowledge that she was an inmate of the house in which he was staying could not fail to affect him very much. he was puzzling his mind about the girl who had given him a quarter of a dollar, and to whom he had handed fifteen cents in change. he wondered how such a girl happened to be living at such a place. he wondered if there were any possibility of his staying there, or in the neighborhood, until she should come back; he wondered if there were any way by which he could see her again. he might have wondered a good many other things if captain asher had not approached the arbor. the captain having been aroused from his mental contemplation of olive by a man in a wagon, had glanced over at the arbor and had suddenly been struck with the conviction that that young man looked bored, and that, as his host, he was not doing the right thing by him. "dick," said the captain, "let's go fishing. it's not late yet, and i'll put my mare to the buggy, and we can drive to the river. we will take something to eat with us, and make a day of it." lancaster hesitated a moment; he had been thinking that the time had come when he should say something about his departure, but this invitation settled the matter for that day; and in half an hour the two had started away, leaving the toll-gate in charge of old jane, who was a veteran in the business, having lived at the toll-gate years before the captain. as they drove along the smooth turnpike lancaster remembered with great interest that this road led to the gap in the mountains; that the captain had told him broadstone was not very far from the gap; and that the river was not very far from broadstone; and his face glowed with interest in the expedition. but when, after a few miles, they turned into a plain country road which, as the captain informed him, led in a southeasterly direction, to a point on the river where black bass were to be caught and where a boat could be hired, the corners of dick lancaster's mouth began to droop. of necessity that road must reach the river miles to the south of broadstone. it was a very good day for fishing, and the captain was pleased to see that the son of his old shipmate was a very fair angler. toward the close of the afternoon, with the conviction that they had had a good time and that their little expedition had been a success, the two fishermen set out for home with a basket of bass: some of them quite a respectable size; stowed away under the seat of the buggy. when they reached the turnpike the old mare, knowing well in which direction her supper lay, turned briskly to the left, and set out upon a good trot. but this did not last very long. to her great surprise she was suddenly pulled up short; a carriage with two horses which had been approaching had also stopped. on the back seat of this carriage sat mrs. easterfield; on one side of her was a little girl, and on the other side was another little girl, each with her feet stuck out straight in front of her. "oh, captain asher," exclaimed the lady, with a most enchanting smile, "i am so glad to meet you. i was obliged to go to glenford to take one of my little girls to the dentist, and i inquired for you each time i passed your gate." the captain was very glad he had been so fortunate as to meet her, and as her eyes were now fixed upon his companion, he felt it incumbent upon him to introduce mr. richard lancaster, the son of an old shipmate. "but not a sailor, i imagine," said mrs. easterfield. "oh, no," said the captain, "mr. lancaster is assistant professor of theoretical mathematics in sutton college." dick could not imagine why the captain said all this, and he flushed a little. "sutton college?" said mrs. easterfield. "then, of course, you know professor brent." "oh, yes," said lancaster. "he is our president." "i never met him," said she, "but he was a classmate of my husband, and i have often heard him speak of him. and now for my errand, captain asher. isn't it about time you should be wanting to see your niece?" the captain's heart sank. did she intend to send olive home? "i always want to see her," he said, but without enthusiasm. "but don't you think it would be nice," said the lady, "if you were to come to lunch with us to-morrow? it was to ask you this that i inquired for you at the toll-gate." now, this was another thing altogether, and the captain's earnest acceptance would have been more coherent if it had not been for the impatience of his mare. "and i want you to bring your friend with you," continued mrs. easterfield. "the invitation is for you both, of course." dick's face said that this would be heavenly, but his mouth was more prudent. "it will be strictly informal," continued mrs. easterfield. "only myself and family, three guests, and olive. we shall sit down at one. good-by." mrs. easterfield was entirely truthful when she said she was glad to meet the captain. her anxiety about olive and claude locker was somewhat on the increase. she was very well aware that the most dangerous thing for one young woman is one young man; and in thinking over this truism she had been impressed with the conviction that it was not well for mr. claude locker to be the one man at broadstone. then, in thinking of possible young men, her mind naturally turned to the young man who was visiting olive's uncle. she did not know anything about him, but he was a young man, and if he proved to be worth something, he could be asked to come again. so it was really to dick lancaster, and not to captain asher, that the luncheon invitation had been given. the appointment with the glenford dentist had made it necessary for her to leave home that afternoon. to be sure, she had sent the foxes with olive and claude locker upon the drive through the gap, and, under ordinary circumstances, and with ordinary people, there would have been no reason for her to trouble herself about them, but neither the circumstances nor the people were ordinary, and she now felt anxious to get home and find out what claude locker and olive had done with mrs. and mr. fox. _chapter viii_ _captain asher is not in a good humor._ the next morning was very bright for captain asher; he was going to see olive, and he did not know before how much he wished to see her. when dick lancaster came from the house to take his seat in the buggy the sight of the handsome suit of dark-blue serge, white shirt and collar, and patent-leather shoes, with the trousers hanging properly above them, placed dick very much higher in the captain's estimation than the young man with the colored shirt and rolled-up trousers could ever have reached. the captain, too, was well dressed for the occasion, and mrs. easterfield had no reason whatever to be ashamed of these two gentlemen when she introduced them to her other visitors. she liked professor lancaster. having lately had a good deal of claude locker, she was prepared to like a quiet and thoroughly self-possessed young man. olive was the latest of the little company to appear, and when she came down she caused a genuine, though gentle sensation. she was most exquisitely dressed, not too much for a luncheon, and not enough for a dinner. this navy girl had not studied for nothing the art of dressing in different parts of the world. her uncle regarded her with open-eyed astonishment. "is this my brother's daughter?" he asked himself. "the little girl who poured my coffee in the morning and went out to take toll?" olive greeted her uncle with absolute propriety, and made the acquaintance of mr. lancaster with a formal courtesy to which no objection could be made. apparently she forgot the existence of mr. locker, and for the greater part of the meal she conversed with mr. fox about certain foreign places with which they were both familiar. the luncheon was not a success; there was a certain stiffness about it which even mrs. easterfield could not get rid of; and when the gentlemen went out to smoke on the piazza olive disappeared, sending a message to mrs. easterfield that she had a bad headache and would like to be excused. her excuse was a perfectly honest one, for she was apt to have a headache when she was angry; and she was angry now. the reason for her indignation was the fact that her uncle's visitor was an extremely presentable young man. had it been otherwise, olive would have given the captain a good scolding, and would then have taken her revenge by making fun of him and his shipmate's son. but now she felt insulted that her uncle should conceal from her the fact that he had an entirely proper young gentleman for a visitor. could he think she would want to stay at his house to be with that young man? was she a girl from whom the existence of such a person was to be kept secret? she was very angry, indeed, and her headache was genuine. captain asher was also angry. he had intended to take olive aside and tell her all about dick lancaster, and how he had refrained from saying anything about him until he found out what sort of a young man he was. if, then, she saw fit to scold him, he was perfectly willing to submit, and to shake hands all around. but now he would have no chance to speak to her; she had not treated him properly, even if she had a headache. he admitted to himself that she was young and probably sensitive, but it was also true that he was sensitive, although old. therefore, he was angry. mrs. easterfield was disturbed; she saw there was something wrong between olive and her uncle, and she did not like it. she had invited lancaster with an object, and she did not wish that other people's grievances should interfere with said object. olive was grumpy up-stairs and claude locker was in the doleful dumps under a tree, and if these two should grump and dump together, it might be very bad; consequently, mrs. easterfield was more anxious than ever that there should be at least two young men at broadstone. for this reason she asked lancaster if he were fond of rowing; and when he said he was, she invited him to join them in a boat party the next day to help her and olive pull the big family boat. mr. fox did not like rowing, and mr. locker did not know how. on the drive home captain asher and lancaster did not talk much. even the young man's invitation to the rowing party did not excite much interest in the captain. these two men were both thinking of the same girl; one pleasantly, and the other very unpleasantly. dick was charmed with her, although he had had very little opportunity of becoming acquainted with her, but he hoped for better luck the next day. the captain did not know what to make of her. he felt sure that she was at fault, and that he was at fault, and he could not see how things could be made straight between them. only one thing seemed plain to him, and this was that, with things as they were at present, she was not likely to come back to his house; and this would not be necessary; he knew very well that there were other places she could visit; and that early in the fall her father would be home. dick lancaster walked to broadstone the next morning because captain asher was obliged to go to glenford on business, but the young man did not in the least mind a six-mile walk on a fine morning. all the way to glenford the captain thought of olive; sometimes he wished she had never come to him. even now, with lancaster to talk to, he missed her grievously, and if she should not come back, the case would be a great deal worse than if she had never come at all. but one thing was certain: if she returned as the young lady with whom he had lunched at broadstone, he did not want her. he felt that he had been in the wrong, that she had been in the wrong; and it seemed as if things in this world were gradually going wrong. he was not in a good humor. when he stopped his mare in front of a store, maria port stepped up to him and said: "how do you do, captain? what have you done with your young man?" the captain got down from his buggy, hitched his mare to a post, and then shook hands with miss port. "dick lancaster has gone boating to-day with the broadstone people," he said. "what!" exclaimed miss port. "gone there again already? why it was only yesterday you took dinner with them." "lunch," corrected the captain. "well, you may call it what you please," said maria, "but i call it dinner. and them two's together without you, that you tried so hard to keep apart!" "i did not try anything of the kind," said the captain a little sharply; "it just happened so." "happened so!" exclaimed miss port. "well, i must say, captain asher, that you've a regular genius for makin' things happen. the minute she goes, he comes. i wish i could make things happen that way." the captain took no notice of this remark, and moved toward the door of the store. "look here, captain," continued miss port, "can't you come and take dinner with us? you haven't seen pop for ever so long. it won't be lunch, though, but an honest dinner." the captain accepted the invitation; for old mr. port was one of his ancient friends; and then he entered the store. miss port was on the point of following him; she had something to say about olive; but she stopped. "i'll keep that till dinner-time," she said to herself. old mr. port had always been a very pleasant man to visit, and he had not changed now, although he was nearly eighty years old. he had been a successful merchant in the days when captain asher commanded a ship, and there was good reason to believe that a large measure of his success was due to his constant desire to make himself agreeable to the people with whom he came in business contact. he was just as agreeable to his friends, of whom captain asher was one of the oldest. the people of glenford often puzzled themselves as to what sort of a woman maria's mother could have been. none of them had ever seen her, for she had died years before old mr. port had come into that healthful region to reside; but all agreed that her parents must have been a strangely assorted pair, unless, indeed, as some of the wiser suggested, she got her disposition from a grandparent. "that navy niece of yours must be a wild girl," said miss port to the captain as she carved the beef. "wild!" exclaimed the captain. "i never saw anything wild about her." "perhaps not," said his hostess, "but there's others that have. it was only three days ago that she took that young man, that goggle-eyed one, out on the river in a boat, and did her best to upset him. whether she stood up and made the boat rock while he clung to the side, or whether she bumped the boat against rocks and sand-bars, laughin' the louder the more he was frightened, i wasn't told. but she did skeer him awful. i know that." "you seem to know a good deal about what is going on at broadstone," remarked the captain, somewhat sarcastically. "indeed i do," said she; "a good deal more than they think. they've got such fine stomachs that they can't eat the beef they get at the gap, and mr. morris goes there three times a week, all the way from glenford, to take them chicago beef. the rest of the time they mostly eat chickens, i'm told." "and so your butcher takes meat and brings back news," said the captain. "the next time he passes the toll-gate i will tell him to leave the news with me, and i will see that it is properly distributed." and with this, he began to talk with mr. port. "oh, you needn't be so snappish about her," insisted maria. "if you are in that temper often, i don't wonder the young woman wanted to go away." the captain made no answer, but his glance at the speaker was not altogether a pleasant one. old mr. port did not hear very well; but his eyesight was good, and he perceived from the captain's expression that his daughter had been saying something sharp. this he never allowed at his table; and, turning to her, he said gently, but firmly: "maria, don't you think you'd better go up-stairs and go to bed?" "he's all the time thinkin' i'm a child," said miss maria, with a grin; "but how awfully he's mistook." then she added: "has that teacher got money enough to support a wife when he marries her? i don't suppose his salary amounts to much. i'm told it's a little bit of a college he teaches at." "i do not know anything about his salary," said the captain, and again attempted to continue the conversation with the father. but the daughter was not to be put down. "when is olive asher coming back to your house?" she asked. the captain turned upon her with a frown. "i did not say she was coming back at all," he snapped. now old mr. port thought it time for him to interfere. to him maria had always been a young person to be mildly counseled, but to be firmly punished if she did not obey said counsels. it was evident that she was now annoying his old friend; maria had a great habit of annoying people, but she should not annoy captain asher. "maria," said mr. port, "leave the table instantly, and go to bed." miss port smiled. she had finished her dinner, and she folded her napkin and dusted some crumbs from her lap. she always humored her father when he was really in earnest; he was very old and could not be expected to live much longer, and it was his daughter's earnest desire that she should be in good favor with him when he died. with a straight-cut smile at the captain, she rose and left the two old friends to their talk, and went out on the front piazza. there she saw mr. morris, the butcher, on his way home with an empty wagon. she stepped out to the edge of the sidewalk and stopped him. "been to broadstone?" she asked. "yes," said the butcher with a sigh, and stopping his horse. miss port always wanted to know so much about broadstone, and he was on his way to his dinner. "well," said miss port, "what monkey tricks are going on there now? has anybody been drowned yet? did you see that young man that's stayin' at the toll-gate?" "yes," said the butcher, "i saw him as i was crossing the bridge. he was in the big boat helping to row. pretty near the whole family was in the boat, i take it." "that's like them, just like them!" she exclaimed. "the next thing we'll hear will be that they've all gone to the bottom together. i don't suppose one of them can swim. was the captain's niece standin' up, or sittin' down?" "they were all sitting down," said the butcher, "and behaving like other people do in a boat." and he prepared to go on. "stop one minute," said miss port. "of course you are goin' out there day after to-morrow?" "no," said mr. morris. "i'm going to-morrow. they've ordered some extra things." then he said, with a sort of conciliatory grin, "i'll get some more news, and have more time to tell it." "now, don't be in such a hurry," said miss port, advancing to the side of the wagon. "i want very much to go to broadstone. i've got some business with that mrs. blynn that i ought to have attended to long ago. now, why can't i ride out with you to-morrow? that's a pretty broad seat you've got." the butcher looked at her in dismay. "oh, i couldn't do that, miss port," he said. "i always have a heavy load, and i can't take passengers, too." "now, what's the sense of your talkin' like that?" said miss port. "you've got a great big horse, and plenty of room, and would you have me go hire a carriage and a driver to go out there when you can take me just as well as not?" the butcher thought he would be very willing. he did not care for her society, and, moreover, he knew that both at broadstone and in the town he would be ridiculed when it should be known that he had been taking maria port to drive. "oh, i couldn't do it," he replied. "of course, i'm willing to oblige--" "oh, don't worry yourself any more, mr. morris," interrupted miss port. "i'm not askin' you to take me now, and i won't keep you from your dinner." the next morning as mr. morris, the butcher, was driving past the port house at rather a rapid rate for a man with a heavy wagon, miss maria appeared at her door with her bonnet on. she ran out into the middle of the street, and so stationed herself that mr. morris was obliged to stop. then, without speaking, she clambered up to the seat beside him. "now, you see," said she, settling herself on the leather cushion, "i've kept to my part of the bargain, and i don't believe your horse will think this wagon is a bit heavier than it was before i got in. what's the name of the new people that's comin' to broadstone?" _chapter ix_ _miss port takes a drive with the butcher._ as the butcher and miss port drove out of town the latter did not talk quite so much as was her wont. she seemed to have something on her mind, and presently she proposed to mr. morris that he should take the shunpike for a change. "that would be a mile and a half out of my way!" he exclaimed. "i can't do it." "i should think you'd get awfully tired of this same old road," said she. "the easiest road is the one i like every time," said mr. morris, who was also not inclined to talk. miss port did not care to pass the toll-gate that day; she was afraid she might see the captain, and that in some way or other he would interfere with her trip, but fortune favored her, as it nearly always did. old jane came to the gate, and as this stolid old woman never asked any questions, miss port contented herself with bidding her good morning, and sitting silent during the process of making change. this self-restraint very much surprised old jane, who straightway informed the captain that miss port was riding with the butcher to broadstone--she knew it was broadstone, for he had no other customers that way--and she guessed something must be the matter with her, for she kept her mouth shut, and didn't say nothing to nobody. as the wagon moved on miss port heaved a sigh. fearful that she might see the captain somewhere, she had not even allowed herself to survey the premises in order to catch a glimpse of the shipmate's son. this was a rare piece of self-denial in maria, but she could do that sort of thing on occasion. when the butcher's wagon neared the broadstone house miss port promptly got down, and mr. morris went to the kitchen regions by himself. she never allowed herself to enter a house by the back or side door, so now she went to the front, where, disappointed at not seeing any of the family although she had made good use of her eyes, she was obliged to ask a servant to conduct her to mrs. blynn. before she had had time to calculate the cost of the rug in the hall, or to determine whether the walls were calcimined or merely whitewashed, she found herself with that good lady. miss port's business with mrs. blynn indicated a peculiar intelligence on the part of the visitor. it was based upon very little; it had not much to do with anything; it amounted to almost nothing; and yet it appeared to contain certain elements of importance which made mrs. blynn give it her serious consideration. after she had talked and peered about as long as she thought was necessary, maria said she was afraid mr. morris would be waiting for her, and quickly took her leave, begging mrs. blynn not to trouble herself to accompany her to the door. when she left the house maria did not seek the butcher's wagon, but started out on a little tour of observation through the grounds. she was quite sure mr. morris was waiting for her, but for this she did care a snap of her finger; he would not dare to go and leave her. presently she perceived a young gentleman approaching her, and she recognized him instantly--it was the goggle-eyed man who had been described to her. stepping quickly toward mr. locker, she asked him if he could tell her where she could find miss asher; she had been told she was in the grounds. the young man goggled his eye a little more than usual. "do you know her?" said he. "oh, yes," replied maria; "i met her at the house of her uncle, captain asher." "and, knowing her, you want to see her" astonished, miss port replied, "of course." "very well, then," said he; "beyond that clump of bushes is a seat. she sits thereon. accept my condolences." "i will remember every word of that," said miss port to herself, "but i haven't time to think of it now. he's just ravin'." olive had just had an interview with mr. locker which, in her eyes, had been entirely too protracted, and she had sent him away. he had just made her an offer of marriage, but she had refused even to consider it, assuring him that her mind was occupied with other things. she was busy thinking of those other things when she heard footsteps near her. "how do you do" said miss port, extending her hand. olive rose, but she put her hands behind her back. "oh!" said miss port, dropping her hand, but allowing herself no verbal resentment. she had come there for information, and she did not wish to interfere with her own business. "i happened to be here," she said, "and i thought i'd come and tell you how your uncle is. he took dinner with us yesterday, and i was sorry to see he didn't have much appetite. but i suppose he's failin', as most people do when they get to his age. i thought you might have some message you'd like to send him." "thank you," said olive with more than sufficient coldness, "but i have no message." "oh!" said miss port. "you're in a fine place here," she continued, looking about her, "very different from the toll-gate; and i expect the easterfields has everything they want that money can more than pay for." having delivered this little shot at the reported extravagance of the lady of the manor, she remarked: "i don't wonder you don't want to go back to your uncle, and run out to take the toll. it must have been a very great change to you if you're used to this sort of thing." "who said i was not going back?" asked olive sharply. "your uncle," said miss port. "he told me at our house. of course, he didn't go into no particulars, but that isn't to be expected, he's not the kind of man to do that." olive stood and looked at this smooth-faced, flat-mouthed spinster. she was pale, she trembled a little, but she spoke no word; she was a girl who did not go into particulars, especially with a person such as this woman standing before her. miss port did not wish to continue the conversation; she generally knew when she had said enough. "well," she remarked, "as you haven't no message to send to your uncle, i might as well go. but i did think that as i was right on my way, you'd have at least a word for him. good mornin'." and with this she promptly walked away to join mr. morris, cataloguing in her mind as she went the foolish and lazy hammocks and garden chairs, the slow motions of a man who was sweeping leaves from the broad stone, and various other evidences of bad management and probable downfall which met her eyes in every direction. when miss port approached the toll-gate on her return she was very anxious to stop, and hoped that the captain would be at the gate. fortune favored her again, and there he stood in the doorway of the little tollhouse. "oh, captain," she exclaimed, extending herself somewhat over the butcher's knees in order to speak more effectively, "i've been to broadstone, and i've seen your niece. she's dressed up just like the other fine folks there, and she's stiffer than any of them, i guess. i didn't see mrs. easterfield, although i did want to get a chance to tell her what i thought about her plantin' weeds in her garden, and spreadin' new kinds of seeds over this country, which goes to weeds fast enough in the natural way. as to your niece, i must say she didn't show me no extra civility, and when i asked her if she had any message for you, she said she hadn't a word to say." the captain was not in the least surprised to hear that olive had not treated miss port with extra civility. he remembered his niece treating this prying gossip with positive rudeness, and he had been somewhat amused by it, although he had always believed that young people should be respectful to their elders. he did not care to talk about olive with miss port, but he had to say something, and so he asked if she seemed to be having a good time. "if settin' behind bushes with young men, and goggle-eyed ones at that, is havin' a good time," replied miss port, "i'm sure she's enjoyin' herself." and then, as she caught sight of lancaster: "i suppose that's the young man who's visitin' you. i hope he makes his scholars study harder than he does. he isn't readin' his book at all; he's just starin' at nothin'. you might be polite enough to bring him out and introduce him, captain," she added in a somewhat milder tone. the captain did not answer; in fact, he had not heard all that miss port had said to him. if olive had refused to send him a word, even the slightest message, she must be a girl of very stubborn resentments, and he was sorry to hear it. he himself was beginning to get over his resentment at her treatment of him at the broadstone luncheon, and if she had been of his turn of mind everything might have been smoothed over in a very short time. "well?" remarked maria in an inquiring tone. "excuse me," said the captain, "what were you saying?" miss maria settled herself in her seat. "if you and that young man wastin' his time in the garden can't keep your wits from wool-gatherin'," said she, "i hope old jane has got sense enough to go on with the housekeepin'. i'll call again when you've sent your young man away, and got your young woman back." maria said little to the taciturn butcher on their way to glenford, but she smiled a good deal to herself. for years it had been the desire of her life to go to live in the toll-gate--not with any idea of ousting captain asher--oh, no, by no means. old mr. port could not live much longer, and his daughter would not care to reside in the glenford house by herself. but the toll-gate would exactly suit her; there was life; there was passing to and fro; there was money enough for good living and good clothes without any encroachment on whatever her father might leave her; and, above all, there was the captain, good for twenty years yet, in spite of his want of appetite, which she had mentioned to his niece. this would be a settlement which would suit her in every way, but so long as that niece lived there, there would be no hope of it; even the shipmate's son would be in the way. but she supposed he would soon be off. _chapter x_ _mrs. easterfield writes a letter._ when miss port had left her, olive was so much disturbed by what that placid spinster had told her that she totally forgot claude locker's proposal of marriage, as well as the other things she had been thinking about. these things had been not at all unpleasant; she had been thinking of her uncle and her return to the toll-gate house. her visit to broadstone was drawing to a close, and she was getting very tired of mr. locker and mr. and mrs. fox. she found, now her anger had cooled down, that she was actually missing her uncle, and was thinking of him as of some one who belonged to her. her own father had never seemed to belong to her; for periods of three years he was away on his ship; and, even when he had been on shore duty, she had sometimes been at school; and when she and her parents had been stationed somewhere together, the lieutenant had been a good deal away from home on this or that naval business. when a girl she had taken these absences as a matter of course, but since she had been living with her uncle her ideas on the subject had changed. she wanted now to be at home with him: and as broadstone was so near the toll-gate she had no doubt that mrs. easterfield would sometimes want her to come to her when, perhaps, she would have different people staying with her. this was a very pleasant mental picture, and the more olive had looked at it, the better she had liked it. as to the reconciliation with her uncle, it troubled her mind but little. so often had she been angry with people, and so often had everything been made all right again, that she felt used to the process. her way was simple enough; when she was tired of her indignation she quietly dropped it; and then, taking it for granted that the other party had done the same, she recommenced her usual friendly intercourse, just as if there had never been a quarrel or misunderstanding. she had never found this method to fail--although, of course, it might easily have failed with one who was not olive--and she had not the slightest doubt that if she wrote to her uncle that she was coming on a certain day, she would be gladly received by him when she should arrive. but now? after what that woman had told her, what now? if her uncle had said she was not coming back, there was an end to her mental pictures and her pleasant plans. and what a hard man he must be to say that! slowly walking over the grass, olive went to look for mrs. easterfield, and found her in her garden on her knees by a flower-bed digging with a little trowel. "mrs. easterfield," said she, "i am thinking of getting married." the elder lady sprang to her feet, dropping her trowel, which barely missed her toes. she looked frightened. "what?" she exclaimed. "to whom?" "not to anybody in particular," replied olive. "i am considering the subject in general. let's go sit on that bench, and talk about it." a little relieved, mrs. easterfield followed her. "i don't know what you mean," she said, when they were seated. "women don't think of marriage in a general way; they consider it in a particular way." "oh, i am different," said olive; "i am a navy girl, and more like a man. i have to look out for myself. i think it is time i was married, and therefore i am giving the subject attention. don't you think that is prudent?" "and you say you have no particular leanings?" the other inquired. "none whatever," said olive. "mr. locker proposed to me less than an hour ago, but i gave him no answer. he is too precipitate, and he is only one person, anyway." "you don't want to marry more than one person!" exclaimed mrs. easterfield. "no," said olive, "but i want more than one to choose from." mrs. easterfield did not understand the girl at all. but this was not to be expected so soon; she must wait a little, and find out more. notwithstanding her apparent indifference to claude locker, there was more danger in that direction than mrs. easterfield had supposed. a really persistent lover is often very dangerous, no matter how indifferent a young woman may be. "have you been considering the professor?" she asked, with a smile. "i noticed that you were very gracious to him yesterday." "no, i haven't," said olive. "but i suppose i might as well. i did try to make him have a good time, but i was still a little provoked and felt that i would like him to go back to my uncle and tell him that he had enjoyed himself. but now i suppose i must consider all the eligibles." "why now?" asked mrs. easterfield quickly; "why now more than any previous time?" olive did not immediately answer, but presently she said: "i am not going back to my uncle. there was a woman here just now--i don't know whether she was sent or not--who informed me that he did not expect me to return to his house. when my mother was living we were great companions for each other, but now you see i am left entirely alone. it will be a good while before father comes back, and then i don't know whether he can settle down or not. besides, i am not very well acquainted with him, but i suppose that would arrange itself in time. so you see all i can do is to visit about until i am married, and therefore the sooner i am married and settled the better." "perhaps this is a cold-blooded girl!" said mrs. easterfield to herself. "but perhaps it is not!" then, speaking aloud, she said: "olive asher, were you ever in love?" the girl looked at her with reflective eyes. "yes," she said. "i was once, but that was the only time." "would you mind telling me about it?" asked mrs. easterfield. "not at all," replied the girl. "i was between thirteen and fourteen, and wore short dresses, and my hair was plaited. my father was on duty at the philadelphia navy-yard, and we lived in that city. there was a young man who used to come to bring messages to father; i think he was a clerk or a draftsman. i do not remember his name, except that his first name was rupert, and father always called him by that. he was a beautiful man-boy or boy-man, however you choose to put it. his eyes were heavenly blue, his skin was smooth and white, his cheeks were red, and he had the most charming mouth i ever saw. he was just the right height, well shaped, and wore the most becoming clothes. i fell madly in love with him the second time i saw him, and continued so for a long time. i used to think about him and dream about him, and write little poems about him which nobody ever saw. i tried to make a sketch of his face once, but i failed and tore it up." "what did he do?" asked mrs. easterfield. "nothing whatever," said olive. "i never spoke to him, or he to me. i don't believe he ever noticed me. whenever i could i went into the room where he was talking to father, but i was very quiet and kept in the background, and i do not think his eyes ever fell upon me. but that did not make any difference at all. he was beautiful above all other men in the world, and i loved him. he was my first, my only love, and it almost brings tears in my eyes now to think of him." "then you really could love the right person if he were to come along," said mrs. easterfield. "why do you think i couldn't? of course i could. but the trouble is he doesn't come, so i must try to arrange the matter with what material i have." when mrs. easterfield left the garden she went rapidly to her room. there was a smile on her lips, and a light in her eye. a novel idea had come to her which amused her, pleased her, and even excited her. she sat down at her writing-table and began a letter to her husband. after an opening paragraph she wrote thus: "is not mr. hemphill, of the central office of the d. and j., named rupert? it is my impression that he is. you know he has been to our house several times to dinner when you invited railroad people, and i remember him very well. if his name is rupert will you find out, without asking him directly, whether or not he was engaged about seven years ago at the navy-yard. i am almost positive i once had a conversation with him about the navy-yard and the moving of one of the great buildings there. if you find that he had a position there, don't ask him any more questions, and drop the subject as quickly as you can. but i then want you to send him here on whatever pretext you please--you can send me any sort of an important message or package--and if i find it desirable, i shall ask him to stay here a few days. these hard-worked secretaries ought to have more vacations. in fact, i have a very interesting scheme in mind, of which i shall say nothing now for fear you may think it necessary to reason about it. by the time you come it will have been worked out, and i will tell you all about it. now, don't fail to send mr. hemphill as promptly as possible, if you find his name is rupert, and that he has ever been engaged in the navy-yard." this letter was then sent to the post-office at the gap with an immediate-delivery stamp on it. when mrs. easterfield went down-stairs, her face still glowing with the pleasure given by the writing of her letter, she met claude locker, whose face did not glow with pleasure. "what is the matter with you?" she asked. "i feel like a man who has been half decapitated," said he. "i do not know whether the execution is to be arrested and my wound healed, or whether it is to go on and my head roll into the dust." "a horrible idea!" said mrs. easterfield. "what do you really mean?" "i have proposed to miss asher and i was treated with indifference, but have not been discarded. don't you see that i can not live in this condition? i am looking for her." "it will be a great deal better for you to leave her alone," replied mrs. easterfield. "if she has any answer for you she will give it when she is ready. perhaps she is trying to make up her mind, and you may spoil all by intruding yourself upon her." "that will not do at all," said locker, "not at all. the more miss asher sees of me in an unengaged condition the less she will like me. i am fully aware of this. i know that my general aspect must be very unpleasant, so if i expect any success whatever, the quicker i get this thing settled the better." "even if she refuses you," said mrs. easterfield. "yes," he answered; "then down comes the axe again, away goes my head, and all is over! then there is another thing," he said, without giving mrs. easterfield a chance to speak. "there is that mathematical person. when will he be here again?" "i do not know," replied mrs. easterfield; "he has merely a general invitation." "i don't like him," said locker. "he has been here twice, and that is two times too many. i hate him." "why so?" "because he is unobjectionable," locker answered, "and i am very much afraid miss asher likes unobjectionable people. now i am objectionable--i know it--and the longer i remain unengaged the more objectionable i shall become. i wish you would invite nobody but such people as the foxes." "why?" "because they are married," replied locker. "but i must not wait here. can you tell me where i shall be likely to find her?" "yes," said mrs. easterfield, "she is with the foxes, and they are married." _chapter xi_ _mr. locker is released on bail._ nearly the whole of that morning dick lancaster sat in the arbor in the tollhouse garden, his book in his hand. part of the time he was thinking about what he would like to do, and part of the time he was thinking about what he ought to do. he felt sure he had stayed with the captain as long as he had been expected to, but he did not want to go away. on the contrary, he greatly desired to remain within walking distance of broadstone. he was in love with olive. when he had seen her at luncheon, cold and reserved, he had been greatly impressed by her, and when he went out boating with her the next day he gave her his heart unreservedly. when people fell in love with olive they always did it promptly. as he sat, with olive standing near the footlights of his mental stage and the drop-curtain hanging between her and all the rest of the world, the captain strolled up to him. "dick," said he, "somehow or other my tobacco does not taste as it ought to. give me a pipeful of yours." when the captain had filled his pipe from dick's bag he lighted it and gave a few puffs. "it isn't a bit better than mine," said he, "but i will keep on and smoke it. dick, let's go and take a walk over the hills. i feel rather stupid to-day. and, by the way, i hope you will be able to stay with me for the rest of your vacation. have you made plans to go anywhere else?" "no plans of the slightest importance," answered lancaster with joyous vivacity. "i shall be delighted to stay." this prompt acceptance somewhat surprised the captain. he had spoken without premeditation, and without thinking of anything at all except that he did not want everybody to go away and leave him. he had begun to know something of the pleasures of family life; of having some one to sit at the table with him; to whom he could talk; on whom he could look. in fact, although he did not exactly appreciate such a state of things, some one he could love. he was getting really fond of dick lancaster. as for olive, he did not know what to think of her; sometimes he was sure she was not coming back, and at other times he thought it likely he might get a letter that very day appointing the time for her return. he stood puffing his pipe and thinking about this after dick had spoken. "but it does not matter," he said to himself, "which way it happens. if she doesn't come i want him here, and if she does come, he is good enough for anybody, and perhaps she may be pleased." and then he indulged in a little fragment of the dream which had come to him before; he saw two young people in a charming home, not at the toll-gate, and himself living with them. plenty of money for all moderate needs, and all happy and satisfied. then with a sigh he knocked the tobacco from his pipe and said to himself: "if i hear she is coming, i will let her know he is still here, and then she must judge for herself." as they walked together over the hills, dick lancaster was very anxious to know something about olive's return, but he did not like to ask. the captain had been very reticent on the subject of his niece, and dick was a gentleman. but to his surprise, and very much to his delight, the captain soon began to talk about olive. he told dick how his brother had entered the navy when the elder was first mate on a merchant vessel; how alfred had risen in the service; had married; and how his wife and daughter had lived in various parts of the world. then he spoke of a good many things he had heard about olive, and other things he had found out since she had lived with him; and as he went on his heart warmed, and dick lancaster listened with as warm a heart as that from which the captain spoke. and thus they walked over the hills, this young man and this elderly man, each in love with the same girl. during all the walk dick never asked when miss asher was coming back to the tollhouse, nor did captain asher make any remarks upon the subject. it was not really of vital importance to dick, as broadstone was so near, and it was of such vital importance to the captain that it was impossible for him to speak of it. the next day the bright-hearted richard trod buoyantly upon the earth; he did not care to read; he did not want to smoke; and he was not much inclined to conversation; he was simply buoyant, and undecided. the captain looked at him and smiled. "why don't you walk over to broadstone?" he said. "it will do you good. i want you to stay with me, but i don't expect you to be stuck down to this tollhouse all day. i am going about the farm to-day, but i shall expect you to supper." when he was ready to start dick lancaster felt a little perplexed. his ideas of friendly civility impelled him to ask the captain if there was anything he could do for him, if there was any message or missive he could take to his niece, or anything he could bring from her, but he was prudent and refrained; if the captain wished service of this sort he was a man to ask for it. the first person dick met at broadstone was mrs. easterfield, cutting roses. "i am very glad to see you, professor lancaster," said she, as she put down her roses and her scissors. "would you mind, before you enter into the general broadstone society, sitting down on this bench and talking a little to me?" dick could not help smiling. what man in the world, even if he were in love with somebody else, could object to sitting down by such a woman and talking to her? "what i am going to say," said mrs. easterfield, "is impertinent, unwarranted, and of an officious character. you and i know each other very slightly; neither of us has long been acquainted with captain asher, you have met his niece but twice, and i have never really known her until what you might call the other day. but in spite of all this, i propose that you and i shall meddle a little in their affairs. i have taken the greatest fancy to miss asher, and, if you can do it without any breach of confidence, i would like you to tell me if you know of any misunderstanding between her and her uncle." "i know of nothing of the kind," said dick with great interest, "but i admit i thought there might be something wrong somewhere. he knew i was coming here to-day--in fact, he suggested it--but he sent miss asher no sort of message." "can it be possible he is cherishing any hard feelings against her?" she remarked. "i should not have supposed he was that sort of man." "he is not that sort of man," said dick warmly. "he was talking to me about her yesterday, and from what he said, i am sure he thinks she is the finest girl in the world." "i am glad to hear that," said she, "but it makes the situation more puzzling. can it be possible that she is treating him badly?" "oh, i could not believe that!" exclaimed dick fervently. "i can not imagine such a thing." mrs. easterfield smiled. he had really known the girl but for one day, for the first meeting did not count; and here he was defending the absolute beauty of her character. but the assumption of the genus young man often overtops the pyramids. she now determined to take him a little more into her confidence. "miss asher has intimated to me that she does not expect to go back to her uncle's house, and this morning she made a reference to the end of her visit here, but i thought you might be able to tell me something about her uncle. if he really does not expect her back i want her to stay here." "alas," said dick, "i can not tell you anything. but of one thing i feel sure, and that is that he would like her to come back." "well," said mrs. easterfield, "i am not going to let her go away at present, and if captain asher should say anything to you on the subject, you are at liberty to tell him that. from what you said the other day, i suppose you will soon be leaving this quiet valley for the haunts of men." "oh, no," exclaimed dick. "he wants me to stay with him as long as i can, and i shall certainly do it." "now," said mrs. easterfield, rising, "i must go and finish cutting my roses. i think you will find everybody on the tennis grounds." mrs. easterfield had cut in all twenty-three roses when claude locker came to her from the house. his face was beaming, and he skipped over the short grass. "congratulate me," he said, as he stepped before her. mrs. easterfield dropped her roses and her scissors and turned pale. "what do you mean?" she gasped. "oh, don't be frightened," he said. "i have not been acquitted, but the execution has been stopped for the present, and i am out on bail. i really feel as though the wound in my neck had healed." "what stuff!" said mrs. easterfield, her color returning. "try to speak sensibly." "oh, i can do that," said mr. locker; "upon occasion i can do that very well. i proposed again to miss asher not twenty minutes ago. she gave me no answer, but she made an arrangement with me which i think is going to be very satisfactory; she said she could not have me proposing to her every time i saw her--it would attract attention, and in the end might prove annoying--but she said she would be willing to have me propose to her every day just before luncheon, provided i did not insist upon an answer, and would promise to give no indication whatever at any other time that i entertained any unusual regard for her. i agreed to this, and now we understand each other. i feel very confident and happy. the other person has no regular time for offering himself, and if any effort of mine can avail he shall not find an irregular opportunity." mrs. easterfield laughed. "come pick up my roses," she said. "i must go in." "it is like making love," said locker as he picked up the flowers, "charming, but prickly." at this moment he started. "who is that?" he exclaimed. mrs. easterfield turned. "oh, that is monsieur emile du brant. he is one of the secretaries of the austrian legation. he is to spend a week with us. suppose you take my flowers into the house and i will go to meet him." claude locker, his arms folded around a mass of thorny roses, and a pair of scissors dangling from one finger, stood and gazed with savage intensity at the dapper little man--black eyes, waxed mustache, dressed in the height of fashion--who, with one hand outstretched, while the other held his hat, advanced with smiles and bows to meet the lady of the house. locker had seen him before; he had met him in washington; and he had received forty dollars for a poem of which this austrian young person was the subject. he allowed the lady and her guest to enter the house before him, and then, like a male flora, he followed, grinding his teeth, and indulging in imprecations. "he will have to put on some other kind of clothes," he muttered, "and perhaps he may shave and curl his hair. that will give me a chance to see her before lunch. i do not know that she expected me to begin to-day, but i am going to do it. i have a clear field so far, and nobody knows what may happen to-morrow." as locker stood in the hallway waiting for some one to come and take his flowers, or to tell him where to put them, he glanced out of the back door. there, to his horror, he saw that mrs. easterfield had conducted her guest through the house, and that they were now approaching the tennis ground, where professor lancaster and miss asher were standing with their rackets in their hands, while mr. and mrs. fox were playing chess under the shade of a tree. "field open!" he exclaimed, dropping the roses and the scissors. "field clear! what a double-dyed ass am i!" and with this he rushed out to the tennis ground; mrs. easterfield did not play. before mrs. easterfield returned to the house she stood for a moment and looked at the tennis players. "olive and three young men," she said to herself; "that will do very well." a little before luncheon claude locker became very uneasy, and even agitated. he hovered around olive, but found no opportunity to speak to her, for she was always talking to somebody else, mostly to the newcomer. but she was a little late in entering the dining-room, and locker stepped up to her in the doorway. "is this your handkerchief?" he asked. "no," said she, stopping; "isn't it yours?" "yes," he replied, "but i had to have some way of attracting your attention. i love you so much that i can scarcely see the table and the people." "thank you," she said, "and that is all for the next twenty-four hours." _chapter xii_ _mr. rupert hemphill._ that afternoon it rained, so that the broadstone people were obliged to stay indoors. dick lancaster found mr. fox a very agreeable and well-informed man, and mrs. fox was also an excellent conversationalist. mrs. easterfield, who, after the confidences of the morning, could not help looking at him as something more than an acquaintance, talked to him a good deal, and tried to make the time pass pleasantly, at which business she was an adept. all this was very pleasant to dick, but it did not compensate him for the almost entire loss of the society of olive, who seemed to devote herself to the entertainment of the austrian secretary. mrs. easterfield was very sorry that the young foreigner had come at this time, but he had been invited the winter before; the time had been appointed; and the visit had to be endured. when the rain had ceased, and dick was about to take his leave, his hostess declared she would not let him walk back through the mud. "you shall have a horse," she said, "and that will insure an early visit from you, for, of course, you will not trust the animal to other hands than your own. i would ask you to stay, but that would not be treating the captain kindly." as dick was mounting mr. du brant was standing at the front door, a smile on his swarthy countenance. this smile said as plainly as words could have done so that it was very amusing to this foreign young man to see a person with rolled-up trousers and a straw hat mount upon a horse. claude locker, whose soul had been chafing all the afternoon under his banishment from the society of the angel of his life, was also at the front door, and saw the contemptuous smile. instantly a new and powerful emotion swept over his being in the shape of a strong feeling of fellowship for lancaster. it made his soul boil with indignation to see the sneer which the austrian directed toward the young man, a thoroughly fine young man, who, by said foreigner's monkeyful impudence, and another's mistaken favor, had been made a brother-in-misfortune of himself, claude locker. "i will make common cause with him against the enemy," thought locker. "if i should fail to get her i will help him to." and although dick's brown socks were plainly visible as he cantered away, mr. locker looked after him as a gallant and honored brother-in-arms. that evening claude locker fought for himself and his comrade. he persisted in talking french with mr. du brant; and his remarkable management of that language, in which ignorance and a subtle facility in intentional misapprehension were so adroitly blended that it was impossible to tell one from the other, amused olive, and so provoked the austrian that at last he turned away and began to talk american politics with mr. fox, which so elated the poet that the ladies of the party passed a merry evening. "would you like me to take him out rowing to-morrow?" asked claude apart to his hostess. "with you at the oars?" she asked. "of course," said locker. "i am amazed," said she, "that you should suspect me of such cold-blooded cruelty." "you know you don't want him here," said claude. "his salary can not be large, and he must spend the greater part of it on clothes--and oil." "is it possible," she asked, "that you look upon that young man as a rival?" "by no means," he replied; "such persons never marry. they only prevent other people from marrying anybody. therefore it is that i remember what sort of a boatman i am." "my dear," said mr. fox, when he and his wife had retired to their room, "after hearing what that austrian has to say of the american people, i almost revere mr. locker." "i heard some of his remarks," she said, "and i imagined they would have an effect of that kind upon you." when the broadstone surrey came from the train the next morning it brought a gentleman. "what!" exclaimed mrs. fox, when from the other side of the lawn she saw him alight. "another young man with a valise! it seems to me that this is an overdose!" "overdoses," remarked mr. fox, "are often less dangerous than just enough poison." mrs. easterfield received this visitor at the door. she had been waiting for him, and did not wish him to meet anybody when she was not present. after offering his respectful salutations, mr. hemphill, mr. easterfield's secretary in the central office of the d. and j., delivered without delay a package of which he was the bearer, and apologized for his valise, stating that mr. easterfield had told him he must spend the night at broadstone. "most assuredly you would do that," said she, and to herself she added, "if i want you longer i will let you know." mr. rupert hemphill was a very handsome man; his nose was fine; his eyes were dark and expressive; he wore silky side-whiskers, which, however, did not entirely conceal the bloom upon his cheeks; his teeth were very good; he was well shaped; and his clothes fitted him admirably. as has been said before, mrs. easterfield was exceedingly interested; she was even a little agitated, which was not common with her. she had mr. hemphill conducted to his room, and then she waited for him to come down; this also was not common with her. "mr. locker," she called from the open door, "do you know where miss asher is?" the poet stopped in his stride across the lawn, and approached the lady. "oh, she is with the du brant," said he. "i have been trying to get in some of my french, but neither of them will rise to the fly. however, i am content; it is now three hours before luncheon, and if she has him to herself for that length of time, i think she will be thoroughly disgusted. then it will be my time, as per agreement." mrs. easterfield was a little disappointed. she wanted olive by herself, but she did not want to make a point of sending for her. but fortune favored her. "there she is," exclaimed locker; "she is just going into the library. let me go tell her you want her." "not at all," said mrs. easterfield. "don't put yourself into danger of breaking your word by seeing her alone before luncheon. i'll go to her." mr. locker continued his melancholy stroll, and mrs. easterfield entered the library. olive must not be allowed to go away until the moment arrived which had been awaited with so much interest. "i am looking for a copy of _tartarin sur les alps_. i am sure i saw it among these french books," said olive, on her knees before a low bookcase. "would you believe it, mr. du brant has never read it, and he seems to think so much of education." mrs. easterfield knew exactly where the book was, but she preferred to allow olive to occupy herself in looking for it, while she kept her eyes on the hall. "wait a moment, olive," said she; "a visitor has just arrived, and i want to make him acquainted with you." olive rose with a book in her hand, and mrs. easterfield presented mr. hemphill to miss asher. as she did so, mrs. easterfield kept her eyes steadily fixed upon the young lady's face. with a pleasant smile olive returned mr. hemphill's bow. she was generally glad to make new acquaintances. "mr. hemphill is one of my husband's business associates," said mrs. easterfield, still with her eyes on olive. "he has just come from him." "did he send us this fine day by you?" said olive. "if so, we are greatly obliged to him." the young man answered that, although he had not brought the day, he was delighted that he had come in company with it. "what atrocious commonplaces!" thought mrs. easterfield. "the girl does not know him from adam!" here was a disappointment; the thrill, the pallor, the involuntary start, were totally absent; and the first act of the little play was a failure. but mrs. easterfield hoped for better things when the curtain rose again. she conducted mr. hemphill to the foxes and let olive go away with her book; and, as soon as she had the opportunity, she read the letter from her husband. "with this i send you mr. hemphill," he wrote. "i don't know what you want to do with him, but you must take good care of him. he is a most valuable secretary, and an estimable young man. as soon as you have done with him please send him back." "i am glad he is estimable," said mrs. easterfield to herself. "that will make the matter more satisfactory to tom when i explain it to him." when dick lancaster, properly booted and wearing a felt hat, returned the borrowed horse, he was met by mr. locker, who had been wandering about the front of the house, and when he had dismounted dick was somewhat surprised by the hearty handshake he received. "i am sorry to have to tell you," said the poet, "that there is another one." "another what?" asked dick. "another unnecessary victim," replied locker. and with this he returned to the front of the house. at last olive came down the stairs, and she was alone. locker stepped quickly up to her. "if i should marry," he said, "would i be expected to entertain that austrian?" she stopped, and gave the question her serious consideration. "i should think," she said, "that that would depend a good deal upon whom you should marry." "how can you talk in that way?" he exclaimed. "as if there were anything to depend upon!" "nothing to depend upon," said olive, slightly raising her eyebrows. "that is bad." and she went into the dining-room. the afternoon was an exceptionally fine one, but the party at broadstone did not take advantage of it; there seemed to be a spirit of unrest pervading the premises, and when the carriage started on a drive along the river only mr. and mrs. fox were in it. mrs. easterfield would not leave olive and mr. hemphill, and she did not encourage them to go. consequently there were three young men who did not wish to go. "it seems to me," said mr. fox, as they rolled away, "that a young woman, such as miss asher, has it in her power to interfere very much with the social feeling which should pervade a household like this. if she were to satisfy herself with attracting one person, all the rest of us might be content to make ourselves happy in such fashions as might present themselves." "the rest of us!" exclaimed mrs. fox. "yes," replied her husband. "i mean you, and mrs. easterfield, and myself, and the rest. that young woman's indeterminate methods of fascination interfere with all of us." "i don't exactly see how they interfere with me," said mrs. fox rather stiffly. "if the carriage had been filled, as was expected," said her husband, "i might have had the pleasure of driving you in a buggy." she turned to him with a smile. "immediately after i spoke," she said, "i imagined you might be thinking of something of that kind." mrs. easterfield was not a woman to wait for things to happen in their own good time. if possible, she liked to hurry them up. in this olive and hemphill affair there was really nothing to wait for; if she left them to themselves there would be no happenings. as soon as was possible, she took olive into her own little room, where she kept her writing-table, and into whose sacred precincts her secretary was not allowed to penetrate. "now, then," said she, "what do you think of mr. hemphill?" "i don't think of him at all," said olive, a little surprised. "is there anything about him to think of?" "he sat by you at luncheon," said mrs. easterfield. "i know that," said olive, "and he was better than an empty chair. i hate sitting by empty chairs." "olive," exclaimed mrs. easterfield with vivacity, "you ought to remember that young man!" "remember him?" the girl ejaculated. "certainly," said mrs. easterfield. "after what you told me about him, i expected you would recognize him the moment you saw him. but you did not know him; you did not do anything i expected you to do; and i was very much disappointed." "what are you talking about?" asked olive. "i am talking about mr. hemphill; mr. rupert hemphill; who, about seven years ago, was engaged in the philadelphia navy-yard, and who came to your house on business with your father. from what you told me of him i conjectured that he might now be my husband's philadelphia secretary, for his name is rupert, and i had reason to believe that he was once engaged in the navy-yard. when i found out i was entirely correct in my supposition i had him sent here, and i looked forward with the most joyous anticipations to being present when you first saw him. but it was all a fiasco! i suppose some people might think i was unwarrantably meddling in the affairs of others, but as it was in my power to create a most charming romance, i could not let the opportunity pass." olive did not hear a word of mrs. easterfield's latest remarks; her round, full eyes were fixed upon the wall in front of her, but they saw nothing. her mind had gone back seven years. "is it possible," she exclaimed presently, "that that is my rupert, my beautiful rupert of the roseate cheeks, the rupert of my heart, my only love! the endymion-like youth i watched for every day; on whom i gazed and gazed and worshiped and longed for when he had gone; of whom i dreamed; to whom my soul went out in poetry; whose miniature i would have painted on the finest ivory if i had known how to paint; and whose image thus created i would have worn next my heart to look at every instant i found myself alone, if it had not been that my dresses were all fastened down the back! i am going to him this instant! i must see him again! my rupert, my only love!" and with this she started to the door. "olive," cried mrs. easterfield, springing from her chair, "stop, don't you do that! come back. you must not--" but the girl had flown down the stairs, and was gone. _chapter xiii_ _mr. lancaster's backers._ olive found mr. hemphill under a tree upon the lawn. he was sitting on a low bench with one little girl upon each knee. he was not a stranger to the children, for they had frequently met him during their winter residences in cities. he was telling them a story when olive approached. he made an attempt to rise, but the little girls would not let him put them down. "don't move, mr. hemphill," said olive; "i am going to sit down myself." and as she spoke she drew forward a low bench. "i am so glad to see you are fond of children, mr. hemphill," she continued; "you must have changed very much." "changed!" he exclaimed. "i have always been fond of them." "excuse me," said olive, "not always. i remember a child you did not care for, on whom you did not even look, who was absolutely nothing to you, although you were so much to her." mr. hemphill stared. "i do not remember such a child," said he. "she existed," said olive. "i was that child." and then she told him how she had seen him come to her father's house. mr. hemphill remembered lieutenant asher, he remembered going to his house, but he did not remember seeing there a little girl. "i was not so very little," said olive; "i was fourteen, and i was just at an age to be greatly attracted by you. i thought you were the most beautiful young man i had ever beheld. i don't mind telling you, because i can not look upon you as a stranger, that i fell deeply in love with you." as mr. hemphill sat and listened to these words his face turned redder than the reddest rose, even his silky whiskers seemed to redden, his fine-cut red lips were parted, but he could not speak. the two little girls had been gazing earnestly at olive. now the elder one spoke. "i am in love," she said. "and so am i," piped up the younger one. "she's in love with martha's little jim," said the first girl, "but i am in love with henry. he's eight. both boys." "i wouldn't be in love with a girl," said the little one contemptuously. this interruption was a help to mr. hemphill, and his redness paled a little. "of course you could not be expected to know anything of my feelings for you," said olive, "and perhaps it is very well you did not, for business is business, and the feelings of girls should not be allowed to interfere with it. but my heart went out to you all the same. you were my first love." now mr. hemphill crimsoned again worse than before. he had not yet spoken a word, and there was no word in the english language which he thought would be appropriate for the occasion. "you may think i am a little cruel to plump this sort of thing upon you," said olive, "in such a sudden way, but i am not. all this was seven years ago, and a person of my age can surely speak freely of what happened seven years ago. i did not even know you when i met you, but mrs. easterfield told me about you, and now i remember everything, and i think it would have been inhuman if i had not told you of the part you used to play in my life. you have a right to know it." if mr. hemphill could have reddened any more he would have done so, but it was not possible. the thought flashed into his mind that it might be well to say something about her having found him very much changed, but in the next instant he saw that that would not do. how could he assume that he had ever been beautiful; how could he force her to say that he was not beautiful now, or that he still remained so? "i am very glad i have met you," said olive, "and that i know who you are. and i am glad, too, to tell you that i forgive you for not taking notice of me seven years ago." "is that all of your story?" asked the elder little girl. "yes," said olive, laughing, "that is all." "well, then, let mr. hemphill go on with his," said she. "oh, certainly," said olive, jumping up; "and you must all excuse me for interfering with your story." mr. hemphill sat still, a little girl on each knee. he had not spoken a word since that beautiful girl had told him she had once loved him. and he could not speak now. "you look as if you had a plaster taken off," said the younger little girl. and, after waiting a moment for an answer, she slipped off his knee; the other followed; and the story was postponed. when mrs. easterfield heard olive's account of this incident she was utterly astounded. "what sort of a girl are you" she exclaimed. "what are you going to do about it now?" "do?" said olive quietly. "i have done." mrs. easterfield was in a state of great perplexity. she had already asked mr. hemphill to stay until saturday, three days off, and she could not tell him to go away, and the awkwardness of his remaining in the same house with olive was something not easy to deal with. during olive's interview with mr. hemphill and the little girls claude locker had been sitting alone at a distance, gazing at the group. he was waiting for an opportunity of social converse, for this was not forbidden him even if the time did not immediately precede the luncheon hour. he saw hemphill's blazing face, and deeply wondered. if it had been the lady who had flushed he would have bounced upon the scene to defend her, but olive was calm, and it was the conscious guilt of the man that made his face look like a freshly painted tin roof. this was an affair into which he had no right to intrude himself, and so he sat and sighed, and his heart grew heavy. how many ante-luncheon avowals would have to be made before she would take so much interest in him, one way or the other! mr. du brant also sat at a distance. he was reading, or at least appearing to read; but he was so unaccustomed to holding a book in his hands that he did it very awkwardly, and miss raleigh, who was looking at him from the library window, made up her mind that if he dropped it, as she expected him to do, she would get the book and rub the dirt off the corners before it was put back into the bookcase. but when olive left mr. hemphill she went so quickly into the house that the austrian was unable to join her, and he, therefore, went to his room to prepare for dinner. dick lancaster had also been waiting, although not watching. he had hoped that he might have a chance for a little talk with olive. but there was really no good reason to expect it, for he knew that two, and perhaps three, young men had stayed at home that afternoon in the hope that they might have the same opportunity. the odds against him were great. he began to think that perhaps he was engaged in a foolish piece of business, and was in danger of making himself disagreeably conspicuous. the other young men were guests at broadstone, but if he came there every day as he had been doing, and as he wanted to do, it might be thought that he was taking advantage of mrs. easterfield's kindness. at that moment he heard the rustle of skirts, and, glancing up, saw mrs. easterfield, who was looking for him. mrs. easterfield's regard for lancaster was growing, partly on account of the confidence she had already reposed in him. in her present state of mind she would have been glad to give him still more, for she did not know what to do about olive and mr. hemphill, and there was no one with whom she could talk upon the subject; even if she had known dick better her loyalty to olive would have prevented that. "have you found out anything about the captain and olive?" she asked. "has he spoken of her return?" "no," replied dick; "he has not said a word on the subject, but i am very sure he would be overjoyed to have her come back. every day when the postman arrives i believe he looks for a letter from her, and he shows that he feels it when he finds none. he is good-natured, and pleasant, but he is not as cheerful as when i first came." "every day," said mrs. easterfield, as they walked together, "i love olive more and more." "so do i," thought dick. "but every day i understand her less and less," she continued. "she is truly a navy girl, and repose does not seem to be one of her characteristics. from what she has told me, i believe she has never lived in domestic peace and quiet until she came to stay with her uncle. it would delight me to see her properly married. i wish you would marry her." dick stopped, and so did she, and they stood looking at each other. he did not redden, for he was not of the flushing kind; his face even grew a little hard. "do you believe," said he, in a very different tone from his ordinary voice, "that i have the slightest chance?" "of course i do," she answered. "i believe you have a very good chance, or i should not have spoken to you. i flatter myself that i have excellent judgment concerning young men, and i am very fond of olive." "mrs. easterfield," exclaimed dick, "you know i am in love with her. i suppose that has been easy enough to see, but it has all been very quick work with me; in fact, i have had very little to say to her, and have never said anything that could in the slightest degree indicate how i felt toward her. but i believe i loved her the second day i met her, and i am not sure it did not begin the day before." "i think that sort of thing is always quick work where olive is concerned," said mrs. easterfield. "i think it likely that many young men have fallen in love with her, and that they have to be very lively if they want a chance to tell her so. but don't be jealous. i know positively that none of them ever had the slightest chance. but now all that is passed. i know she is tired of an unsettled life, and it is likely she may soon be thinking of marrying, and there will be no lack of suitors. she has them now. but i want her to marry you." "mrs. easterfield," exclaimed dick, "you have known me but a very little while----" "don't mention that," she interrupted. "i do quick work as well as other people. i never before engaged in any matchmaking business, but if this succeeds, i shall be proud of it to the end of my days. you are in love with olive, and she is worthy of you. i want you to try to win her, and i will do everything i can to help you. here is my hand upon it." as dick held that hand and looked into that face a courage and a belief in himself came into his heart that had never been there before. by day and by night his soul had been filled with the image of olive, but up to this moment he had not thought of marrying her. that was something that belonged to the future, not even considered in his state of inchoate adoration. but now that he had been told he had reason to hope, he hoped; and the fact that one beautiful woman told him he might hope to win another beautiful woman was a powerful encouragement. henceforth he would not be content with simply loving olive; if it were within his power he would win, he would have her. "you look like a soldier going forth to conquest," said mrs. easterfield with a smile. "and you," said he impulsively, "you not only look like, but you are an angel." this was pretty strong for the young professor, but the lady understood him. she was very glad, indeed, that he could express himself impulsively, for without that power he could not win olive. as dick started away from broadstone on his walk to the toll-gate he heard quick steps behind him and was soon overtaken by claude locker. "hello," said that young man, "if you are on your way home i am going to walk a while with you. i have not done a thing to-day." when dick heard these words his heart sank. he was on his way home accompanied by olive--olive in his heart, olive in his soul, olive in his brain, olive in the sky and all over the earth--how dared a common mortal intrude himself upon the scene? "there is another thing," said locker, who was now keeping step with him. "my soul is filled with murderous intent. i thirst for human life, and i need the restraints of companionship." "who is it you want to kill?" asked dick coldly. "it is an austrian," replied the other. "i will not say what austrian, leaving that to your imagination. i don't suppose you ever killed an austrian. neither have i, but i should like to do it. it would be a novel and delightful experience." dick did not think it necessary that he should be told more; he perfectly understood the state of the case, for it was impossible not to see that this young man was paying marked attention to olive, while mr. du brant was doing the same thing. but still it seemed well to say something, and he remarked: "what is the matter with the austrian?" "he is in love with miss asher," said locker, "and so am i. i am beginning to believe he is positively dangerous. i did not think so at first, but i do now. he has actually taken to reading. i know that man; i have often seen him in washington. he was always running after some lady or other, but i never knew him to read before. it is a dangerous symptom. he reads with one eye, while the other sweeps the horizon to catch a glimpse of her. by the way, that would be a splendid idea for a district policeman; if he stood under a lamp-post in citizen's dress reading a book, no criminal would suspect his identity, and he could keep one eye on the printed page, and devote the other to the cause of justice. but to return to our sallow mutton, or black sheep, if you choose. that austrian ought to be killed!" dick smiled sardonically. "he is not your only obstacle," he said. "i know it," replied locker. "there's that chinese laundried fellow, smooth-finished, who came up this morning. he must be an old offender, for i saw her giving it to him hot this morning. i am sure she was telling him exactly what she thought of him, for he turned as red as a pickled beet. so he will have to scratch pretty hard if he expects to get into her good graces again, and i suppose that is what he came here for. but i am not so much afraid of him as i am of that austrian. if he keeps on the literary lay, and reads books with her, looking up the words in the dictionary, it is dangerous." "i do not see," said lancaster, somewhat loftily, "why you speak of these things to me." "then i'll tell you," said locker quickly. "i speak of them to you because you are just as much concerned in them as i am. you are in love with miss asher--anybody can see that--and, in fact, i should think you were a pretty poor sort of a fellow if you were not, after having seen and talked with her. consequently that austrian is just as dangerous to you as he is to me. and as i have chosen you for my brother-in-arms, it is right that i tell you everything i know." "brother-in-arms?" ejaculated dick. "that is what it is," said locker, "and i will tell you how it came about. the austrian looked upon you with scorn and contempt because you rode a horse wearing rolled-up trousers and low shoes. as you did not see him and could not return the contempt, i did it for you. having done this, a fellow feeling for you immediately sprang up within me. that is what always happens, you know. after that the feeling became a good deal stronger, and i said to myself that if i found i could not get miss asher; and it's seventy-six i don't, for that's generally the state of my luck; i would help you to get her, partly because i like you, and partly because that austrian must be ousted, no matter what happens or how it is done. so i became your brother-in-arms, and if i find i am out of the race, i am going to back you up just as hard as i can, and here's my hand upon it." dick stopped as he had stopped half an hour before, and gazed upon his companion. "now don't thank me," continued locker, "or say anything nice, because if i find i can come in ahead of you i am going to do it. but if we work together, i am sure we need not be afraid of that austrian, or of that fiery-faced model for a ready-made-clothes shop. it is to be either you or me--first place for me, if possible." dick could not help laughing. "you are a jolly sort of a fellow," said he, "and i will be your brother-in-arms. but it is to be first place for me, if possible." and they shook hands upon the bargain. that evening mr. hemphill found olive alone. "i have been trying to get a chance to speak to you, miss asher," said he. "i want to ask you to help me, for i do not know what in the world to do." olive looked at him inquiringly. "since you spoke to me this afternoon," he went on, "i have been in a state of most miserable embarrassment; i can not for the life of me decide what i ought to say or what i ought to do, or what i ought not to say or what i ought not to do. if i should pass over as something not necessary to take into consideration the--the--most unusual statement you made to me, it might be that you would consider me as a boor, a man incapable of appreciating the--the--highest honors. then again, if i do say anything to show that i appreciate such honors, you may well consider me presumptuous, conceited, and even insulting. i thought a while ago that i would leave this house before it would be necessary for me to decide how i should act when i met you, but i could not do that. explanations would be necessary, and i would not be able to make them, and so, in sheer despair, i have come to you. whatever you say i ought to do i will do. of myself, i am utterly helpless." olive looked at him with serious earnestness. "you are in a queer position," she said, "and i don't wonder you do not know what to do. i did not think of this peculiar consequence which would result from my revelation. as to the revelation itself, there is no use talking about it; it had to be made. it would have been unjust and wicked to allow a man to live in ignorance of the fact that such a thing had happened to him without his knowing it. but i think i can make it all right for you. if you had known when you were very young, in fact, when you were in another age of man, that a young girl in short dresses was in love with you, would you have disdained her affection?" "i should say not!" exclaimed rupert hemphill, his eyes fixed upon the person who had once been that girl in short dresses. "well, then," said olive, "there could have been nothing for her to complain of, no matter what she knew or what she did not know, and there is nothing he could complain of, no matter what he knew or did not know. and as both these persons have passed entirely out of existence, i think you and i need consider them no longer. and we can talk about tennis or bass fishing, or anything we like. and if you are a fisherman you will be glad to hear that there is first-rate bass fishing in the river now, and that we are talking of getting up a regular fishing party. we shall have to go two or three miles below here where the water is deeper and there are not so many rocks." that night mr. hemphill dreamed hard of a girl who had loved him when she was little, and who continued to love him now that she had grown to be wonderfully handsome. he was going out to sail with her in a boat far and far away, where nobody could find them or bring them back. _chapter xiv_ _a letter for olive._ the next morning, about an hour after breakfast, mr. du brant proposed to olive. he had received a letter the day before which made it probable that he might be recalled to washington before the time which had been fixed for the end of his visit at broadstone, and he consequently did not wish to defer for a moment longer than was necessary this most important business of his life. he told miss asher that he had never truly loved before; which was probably correct; and that as she had raised his mind from the common things of earth, upon which it had been accustomed to grovel, she had made a new man of him in an astonishingly short time; which, it is likely, was also true. he assured her that without any regard to outside circumstances, he could not live without her. if at any other time he had allowed his mind to dwell for a moment upon matrimony, he had thought of family, position, wealth, social station, and all that sort of thing, but now he thought of nothing but her, and he came to offer her his heart. in fact, the man was truly and honestly in love. inwardly olive smiled. "i can not ask him," she said to herself, "to say this again every day before dinner. he hasn't the wit of claude locker, and would not be able to vary his remarks; but i can not blast his hopes too suddenly, for, if i do that, he will instantly go away, and it would not be treating mrs. easterfield properly if i were to break up her party without her knowledge. but i will talk to her about it. and now for him.--mr. du brant," she said aloud, speaking in english, although he had proposed to her in french, because she thought she could make her own language more impressive, "it is a very serious thing you have said to me, and i don't believe you have had time enough to think about it properly. now don't interrupt. i know exactly what you would say. you have known me such a little while that even if your mind is made up it can not be properly made up, and therefore, for your own sake, i am going to give you a chance to think it all over. you must not say you don't want to, because i want you to; and when you have thought, and thought, and know yourself better--now don't say you can not know yourself better if you have a thousand years in which to consider it--for though you think that it is true it is not" "and if i rack my brains and my heart," interrupted mr. du brant, "and find out that i can never change nor feel in any other way toward you than i feel now, may i then----" "now, don't say anything about that," said olive. "what i want to do now is to treat you honorably and fairly, and to give you a chance to withdraw if, after sober consideration, you think it best to do so. i believe that every young man who thinks himself compelled to propose marriage in such hot haste ought to have a chance to reflect quietly and coolly, and to withdraw if he wants to. and that is all, mr. du brant. i must be off this minute, for mrs. easterfield is over there waiting for me." mr. du brant walked thoughtfully away. "i do not understand," he said to himself in french, "why she did not tell me i need not speak to her again about it. the situation is worthy of diplomatic consideration, and i will give it that." from a distance claude locker beheld his austrian enemy walking alone, and without a book. "something has happened," he thought, "and the fellow has changed his tactics. before, under cover of a french novel, he was a snake in the grass, now he is a snake hopping along on the tip of his tail. perhaps he thinks this is a better way to keep a lookout upon her. i believe he is more dangerous than he was before, for i don't know whether a snake on tip tail jumps or falls down upon his victims." one thing mr. locker was firmly determined upon. he was going to try to see olive as soon as it was possible before luncheon, and impress upon her the ardent nature of his feelings toward her; he did not believe he had done this yet. he looked about him. the party, excepting himself and mr. du brant, were on the front lawn; he would join them and satirize the gloomy austrian. if olive could be made to laugh at him it would be like preparing a garden-bed with spade and rake before sowing his seeds. the rural mail-carrier came earlier than usual that day, and he brought olive but one letter, but as it was from her father, she was entirely satisfied, and retired to a bench to read it. in about ten minutes after that she walked into mrs. easterfield's little room, the open letter in her hand. as mrs. easterfield looked up from her writing-table the girl seemed transformed; she was taller, she was straighter, her face had lost its bloom, and her eyes blazed. "would you believe it!" she said, grating out the words as she spoke. "my father is going to be married!" mrs. easterfield dropped her pen, and her face lost color. she had always been greatly interested in lieutenant asher. "what!" she exclaimed. "he? and to whom?" "a girl i used to go to school with," said olive, standing as if she were framed in one solid piece. "edith marshall, living in geneva. she is older than i am, but we were in the same classes. they are to be married in october, and she is to sail for this country about the time his ship comes home. he is to be stationed at governor's island, and they are to have a house there. he writes, and writes, and writes, about how lovely it will be for me to have this dear new mother. me! to call that thing mother! i shall have no mother, but i have lost my father." with this she threw herself upon a lounge, and burst into passionate tears. mrs. easterfield rose, and closed the door. claude locker had no opportunity to press his suit before luncheon, for olive did not come to that meal; she had one of her headaches. every one seemed to appreciate the incompleteness of the party, and even mrs. easterfield looked serious, which was not usual with her. mr. hemphill was much cast down, for he had made up his mind to talk to olive in such a way that she should not fail to see that he had taken to heart her advice, and might be depended upon to deport himself toward her as if he had never heard the words she had addressed to him. he had prepared several topics for conversation, but as he would not waste these upon the general company, he indulged only in such remarks as were necessary to good manners. mr. du brant talked a good deal in a perfunctory manner, but inwardly he was somewhat elated. "her emotions must have been excited more than i supposed," he thought. "that is not a bad sign." mrs. fox was a little bit--a very little bit--annoyed because mr. fox did not make as many facetious remarks as was his custom. he seemed like one who, in a degree, felt that he lacked an audience; mrs. fox could see no good reason for this. when mrs. easterfield went up to olive's room she found her bathing her eyes in cold water. "will you lend me a bicycle" said olive. "i am sure you have one." mrs. easterfield looked at her in amazement. "i want to go to my uncle," said olive. "he is now all i have left in this world. i have been thinking, and thinking about everything, and i want to go to him. whatever has come between us will vanish as soon as he sees me, i am sure of that. i do not know why he did not want me to come back to him, but he will want me now, and i should like to start immediately without anybody seeing me." "but a bicycle!" exclaimed mrs. easterfield. "you can't go that way. i will send you in the carriage." "no, no, no," cried olive; "i want to go quietly. i want to go so that i can leave my wheel at the door and go right in. i have a short walking-skirt, and i can wear that. please let me have the bicycle." mrs. easterfield made olive sit down and she talked to her, but there was no changing the girl's determination to go to her uncle, to go alone, and to go immediately. _chapter xv_ _olive's bicycle trip._ despite olive's desire to set forth immediately on her bicycle trip, it was past the middle of the afternoon when she left broadstone. she went out quietly, not by the usual driveway, and was soon upon the turnpike road. as she sped along the cool air upon her face refreshed her; and the knowledge that she was so rapidly approaching the dear old toll-gate, where, even if she did not find her uncle at the house, she could sit with old jane until he came back, gave her strength and courage. up a long hill she went, and down again to the level country. then there was a slighter rise in the road, and when she reached its summit she saw, less than a mile away, the toll-gate surrounded by its trees, the thick foliage of the fruit-trees in the garden, the little tollhouse and the long bar, standing up high at its customary incline upon the opposite side of the road. down the little hill she went; and then, steadily and swiftly, onward. presently she saw that some one was on the piazza by the side of the tollhouse; his back was toward her, he was sitting in his accustomed armchair; she could not be mistaken; it was her uncle. now and then, while upon the road, she had thought of what she should say when she first met him, but she had soon dismissed all ideas of preconceived salutations, or explanations. she would be there, and that would be enough. her father's letter was in her pocket, and that was too much. all she meant to do was to glide up to that piazza, spring up the steps, and present herself to her uncle's astonished gaze before he had any idea that any one was approaching. she was within twenty feet of the piazza when she saw that her uncle was not alone; there was some one sitting in front of him who had been concealed by his broad shoulders. this person was a woman. she had caught sight of olive, and stuck her head out on one side to look at her. upon her dough-like face there was a grin, and in her eye a light of triumph. with one quick glance she seemed to say: "ah, ha, you find me here, do you? what have you to say to that?" olive's heart stood still. that woman, that maria port, sitting in close converse with her uncle in that public place where she had never seen any one but men! that horrid woman at such a moment as this! she could not speak to her; she could not speak to her uncle in her presence. she could not stop. with what she had on her mind, and with what she had in her pocket, it would be impossible to say a word before that maria port! without a swerve she sped on, and passed the toll-gate. she only knew one thing; she could not stop. the wildest suspicions now rushed into her mind. why should her uncle be thus exposing himself to the public gaze with maria port? why did it give the woman such diabolical pleasure to be seen there with him? with a mind already prepared for such sickening revelations, olive was convinced that it could mean nothing but that her uncle intended to marry maria port. what else could it mean? but no matter what it meant, she could not stop. she could not go back. on went her bicycle, and presently she gained sufficient command over herself to know that she should not ride into the town. but what else could she do? she could not go back while those two were sitting on the piazza. suddenly she remembered the shunpike. she had never been on it, but she knew where it left the road, and where it reentered it. so she kept on her course, and in a few minutes had reached the narrow country road. there were ruts here and there, and sometimes there were stony places; there were small hills, mostly rough; and there were few stretches of smooth road; but on went olive; sometimes trying with much effort to make good time, and always with tears in her eyes, dimming the roadway, the prospect, and everything in the world. "there now!" exclaimed maria port, springing to her feet. "what have you got to say to that? if that isn't brazen i never saw brass!" "what do you mean?" said the captain, rising in his chair. "mean?" said maria port, leaning over the railing. "look there! do you see that girl getting away as fast as she can work herself? that's your precious niece, olive asher, scooting past us with her nose in the air as if we was sticks and stones by the side of the road. what have you got to say to that, captain john, i'd like to know?" the captain ran down the path. "you don't mean to say that is olive!" he cried. "that's who it is," answered miss port. "she looked me square in the face as she dashed by. not a word for you, not a word for me. impudence! that doesn't express it!" the captain paid no attention to her, but ran into the garden. old jane was standing near the house door. "was that miss olive?" he cried. "did you see her?" "yes," said old jane, "it was her. i saw her comin', and i came out to meet her. but she just shot through the toll-gate as if she didn't know there was a toll on bicycles." the captain stood still in the garden-path. he could not believe that olive had done this to treat him with contempt. she must have heard some news. there must be something the matter. she was going into town at the top of her speed to send a telegram, intending to stop as she came back. she might have stopped anyway if it had not been for that good-for-nothing maria port. she hated maria, and he hated her himself, at this moment, as she stood by his side, asking him what was the matter with him. "it's no more than you have to expect," said she. "she's a fine lady, a navy lady, a foreign lady, that's been with the aristocrats! she's got good clothes on that she never wore here, and where i guess she had a pretty stupid time, judgin' from how they carry on at that easterfield place. why in the world should she want to stop and speak to such persons as you and me?" the captain paid no attention to these remarks. "if she doesn't want to send a telegram, i don't see what she is going to town for in such a hurry. i suppose she thought she could get there sooner than a man could go on a horse," he said. "telegram!" sneered miss port. "it's a great deal easier to send telegrams from the gap." "then it is something worse," he thought. perhaps she might be running away, though what in the world she was running from he could not imagine. anyway, he must see her; he must find out. when she came back she must not pass again, and if she did not come back he must go after her. he ran to the road and put down the bar, calling to old jane to come there and keep a sharp lookout. then he quickly returned to the house. "what are you going to do" asked miss port. "i never saw a man in such a fluster." "if she does not come back very soon," said he, "i shall go to town after her." "then i suppose i might as well be going myself," said she. "and by the way, captain, if you are going to town, why don't you take a seat in my carriage? dear knows me and the boy don't fill it." but the captain would consider no such invitation. when he met olive he did not want maria port to be along. he did not answer, and went into the house to make some change in his attire. old jane would not let olive pass, and if he met her on the road or in the town he wanted to be well dressed. miss port still stood in the path by the house door. "that's not what i call polite," said she, "but he's awful flustered, and i don't mind." far from minding, maria was pleased; it pleased her to know that his niece's conduct had flustered him. the more that girl flustered him the better it would be, and she smiled with considerable satisfaction. if she could get that girl out of the way she believed she would find but little difficulty in carrying out her scheme to embitter the remainder of the good captain's life. she did not put it in that way to herself; but that was the real character of the scheme. suddenly an idea struck her. it was of no use for her to stand and wait, for she knew she would not be able to induce the captain to go with her. it would be a great thing if she could, for to drive into town with him by her side would go far to make the people of glenford understand what was going to happen. but, if she could not do this, she could do something else. if she started away immediately she might meet that asher girl coming back, and it would be a very fine thing if she could have an interview with her before she saw her uncle. she made a quick step toward the house and looked in. the captain was not visible, but old jane was standing near the back door of the tollhouse. the opportunity was not to be lost. "good-by, john," said she in a soft tone, but quite loud enough for the old woman to hear. "i'll go home first, for i've got to see to gettin' supper ready for you. so good-by, john, for a little while." and she kissed her hand to the inside of the house. then she hurried out of the gate; got into the little phaeton which was waiting for her under a tree; and drove away. she had come there that afternoon on the pretense of consulting the captain about her father's health, which she said disturbed her, and she had requested the privilege of sitting on the toll-gate piazza because she had always wanted to sit there, and had never been invited. the captain had not invited her then, but as she had boldly marched to the piazza and taken a seat, he had been obliged to follow. captain asher, wearing a good coat and hat, relieved old jane at her post, and waited and waited for olive to come back. he did not for a moment think she might return by the shunpike, for that was a rough road, not fit for a bicycle. and if she passed this way once, why should she object to doing it again? when more than time enough had elapsed for her return from the town, he started forth with a heavy heart to follow her. he told old jane that if for any reason he should be detained in town until late, he would take supper with mr. port, and if, although he did not expect this, he should not come back that night, the ports would know of his whereabouts. he did not take his horse and buggy because he thought it would be in his way. if he met olive in the road he could more easily stop and talk to her if he were walking than if he had a horse to take care of. "i hope you're not runnin' after miss olive," said old jane. the captain did not wish his old servant to imagine that it was necessary for him to run after his niece, and so he answered rather quickly: "of course not." then he set off toward the town. he did not walk very fast, for if he met olive he would rather have a talk with her on the road than in glenford. he walked on and on, not with his eyes on the smooth surface of the pike, but looking out afar, hoping that he might soon see the figure of a girl on a bicycle; and thus it was that he passed the entrance to the shunpike without noticing that a bicycle track turned into it. olive struggled on, and the road did not improve. she worked hard with her body, but still harder with her mind. it seemed to her as though everything were endeavoring to crush her, and that it was almost succeeding. if she had been in her own room, seated, or walking the floor, indignation against her uncle would have given her the same unnatural vigor and energy which had possessed her when she read her father's letter; but it is impossible to be angry when one is physically tired and depressed, and this was olive's condition now. once she dismounted, sat down on a piece of rock, and cried. the rest was of service to her, but she could not stay there long; the road was too lonely. she must push on. so on she pressed, sometimes walking, and sometimes on her wheel, the pedals apparently growing stiffer at every turn. slight mishaps she did not mind, but a fear began to grow upon her that she would never be able to reach broadstone at all. but after a time--a very long time it seemed--the road grew more level and smooth; and then ahead she saw the white surface of the turnpike shining as it passed the end of her road. when she should emerge on that smooth, hard road it could not be long, even if she went slowly, before she reached home. she was still some fifty yards from the pike when she saw a man upon it, walking southward. as dick lancaster passed the end of the road he lifted his head, and looked along it. it was strange that he should do so, for since he had started on his homeward walk he had not raised his eyes from the ground. he had reached broadstone soon after luncheon, before olive had left on her wheel, and had passed rather a stupid time, playing tennis with claude locker, he had seen but little of mrs. easterfield, whose mind was evidently occupied. once she had seemed about to take him into her confidence, but had suddenly excused herself, and had gone into the house. when the game was finished locker advised him to go home. "she is not likely to be down until dinner time," he had said, "and this evening i'll defend our cause against those other fellows. i have several good things in my mind that i am sure will interest her, and i don't believe there's any use courting a girl unless you interest her." lancaster had taken the advice, and had left much earlier than was usual. _chapter xvi_ _mr. lancaster accepts a mission._ when dick lancaster saw olive he stopped with a start, and then ran toward her. "miss asher!" he exclaimed. "what are you doing here? what is the matter? you look pale." when she saw him coming olive had dismounted, not with the active spring usual with her, but heavily and clumsily. she did not even smile as she spoke to him. "i am glad to see you, mr. lancaster," she said. "i am on my way back to broadstone, and i would like to send a message to my uncle by you." "back from where? and why on this road?" he was about to ask, but he checked himself. he saw that she trembled as she stood. "miss asher," said he, "you must stop and rest. let me take your wheel and come over to this bank and sit down." she sat down in the shade and took off her hat; and for a moment she quietly enjoyed the cool breeze upon her head. he did not want to annoy her with questions, but he could not help saying: "you look very tired." "i ought to be tired," she answered, "for i have gone over a perfectly dreadful road. of course, you wonder why i came this way, and the best thing for me to do is to begin at the beginning and to tell you all about it, so that you will know what i have been doing, and then understand what i would like you to do for me." so she told him all her tale, and, telling it, seemed to relieve her mind while her tired body rested. dick listened with earnest avidity. he lost not the slightest change in her expression as she spoke. he was shocked when he heard of her father; he was grieved when he imagined how she must have felt when the news came to her; he was angry when he heard of the impertinent glare of maria port; and his heart was torn when he knew of this poor girl's disappointment, of her soul-harrowing conjectures, of her wearisome and painful progress along that rough road; of which progress she said but little, although its consequences he could plainly see. all these things showed themselves upon his countenance as he gazed upon her and listened, not only with his ears, but his heart. "i shall be more than glad," he said, when she had finished, "to carry any message, or to do anything you want me to do. but i must first relieve you of one of your troubles. your uncle has not the slightest idea of marrying miss port. i don't believe he would marry anybody; but, of all women, not that vulgar creature. let me assure you, miss asher, that i have heard him talk about her, and i know he has the most contemptuous opinion of her. i have heard him make fun of her, and i don't believe he would have anything to do with her if it were not for her father, who is one of his oldest friends." she looked at him incredulously. "and yet they were sitting close together," she said; "so close that at first i did not see her; apparently talking in the most private manner in a very public place. they surely looked very much like an engaged couple as i have noticed them. and old jane has told me that everybody knows she is trying to trap him; and surely there is good reason to believe that she has succeeded." dick shook his head. "impossible, miss asher," he said. "he never would have such a woman. i know him well enough to be absolutely sure of that. of course, he treats her kindly, and perhaps he is sociable with her. it is his nature to be friendly, and he has known her for a long time. but marry her! never! i am certain, miss asher, he would never do that." "i wish i could believe it," said she. "i can easily prove it to you," he said. "i will take your message to your uncle, i will tell him all you want me to tell him, and then i will ask him, frankly and plainly, about miss port. i do not in the least object to doing it. i am well enough acquainted with him to know that he is a frank, plain man. i am sure he will be much amused at your supposition, and angry, too, when i tell him of the way that woman looked at you and so prevented you from stopping when you had come expressly to see him. then i will immediately come to broadstone to relieve your mind in regard to the maria port business, and to bring you whatever message your uncle has to send you." "no, no," said olive, "you must not do that. it would be too much to come back to-day. you have relieved my mind somewhat about that woman, and i am perfectly willing to wait until to-morrow, when you can tell me exactly how everything is, and let me know when my uncle would like me to come and see him. i think it will be better next time not to take him by surprise. but i would be very, very grateful to you, mr, lancaster, if you would come as early in the morning as you can. i can wait very well until then, now that my mind is easier, but i am afraid that when to-morrow begins i shall be very impatient. my troubles are always worse in the morning. but you must not walk. my uncle has a horse and buggy. but perhaps it would be better to let mrs. easterfield send for you. i know she will be glad to do it." dick assured her that he did not wish to be sent for; that he would borrow the captain's horse, and would be at broadstone as early as was proper to make a visit. "proper!" exclaimed olive. "in a case like this any time is proper. in mrs. easterfield's name i invite you to breakfast. i know she will be glad to have me do it. and now i must go on. you are very, very good, and i am very grateful." dick could not say that he was more grateful for being allowed to help her than she could possibly be for being helped, but his face showed it, and if she had looked at him she would have known it. "miss asher," he exclaimed as she rose, "your skirt is covered with dust. you must have fallen." "i did have one fall," she said, "but i was so worried i did not mind." "but you can not go back in that plight," he said; "let me dust your skirt." and breaking a little branch from a bush, he proceeded to make her look presentable. "and now," said he, when she had complimented him upon his skill, "i will walk with you to the entrance of the grounds. perhaps as you are so tired," he said hesitatingly, "i can help you along, so that you will not have to work so hard yourself." "oh, no," she answered; "that is not at all necessary. when i am on the turnpike i can go beautifully. i feel ever so much rested and stronger, and it is all due to you. so you see, although you will not go with me, you will help me very much." and she smiled as she spoke. he truly had helped her very much. dick was unwilling that she should go on alone, although it was still broad daylight and there was no possible danger, and he was also unwilling because he wanted to go with her, but there was no use saying anything or thinking anything, and so he stood and watched her rolling along until she had passed the top of a little hill, and had departed from his view. then he ran to the top of the little hill, and watched her until she was entirely out of sight. the rest of the way to the toll-gate seemed very short to dick, but he had time enough to make up his mind that he would see the captain at the earliest possible moment; that he would deliver his message and the letter of lieutenant asher; that he would immediately bring up the matter of maria port and let the captain know the mischief that woman had done. then, armed with the assurances the captain would give him, he would start for broadstone after supper, and carry the good news to olive. it would be a shame to let that dear girl remain in suspense for the whole night, when he, by riding, or even walking an inconsiderable number of miles, could relieve her. he found old jane in the tollhouse. "where is the captain" he asked. "the captain?" she repeated. "he's in town takin' supper with his sweetheart." dick stared at her. "perhaps you haven't heard that he's engaged to maria port," said the woman; "and i don't wonder you're taken back! but i suppose everybody will soon know it now, and the sooner the better, i say." "what are you talking about" exclaimed dick. "you don't mean to tell me that the captain is going to marry miss port?" "whether he wants to or not, he's gone so far he'll have to. i've knowed for a long time she's been after him, but i didn't think she'd catch him just yet." "i don't believe it." cried dick. "it must be a mistake! how do you know it?" "know!" said old jane, who, ordinarily a taciturn woman, was now excited and inclined to volubility. "don't you suppose i've got eyes and ears? didn't i see them for ever and ever so long sittin' out on this piazza, where everybody could see 'em, a-spoonin' like a couple of young people? and didn't i see 'em tearin' themselves asunder as if they couldn't bear to be apart for an hour? and didn't i hear her tell him she was goin' home to get an extry good supper for him? and didn't i hear her call him 'dear john,' and kiss her hand to him. and if you don't believe me you can go into the kitchen and ask mary; she heard the 'dear john' and saw the hand-kissin'. and then didn't he tell me he was goin' to the ports' to supper, and if he stayed late and anybody asked for him--meaning you, most probable, and i think he might have left somethin' more of a message for you--that he was to be found with the ports--with maria most likely, for the old man goes to bed early?" dick made no answer; he was standing motionless looking out upon the flowers in the garden. "and perhaps you haven't heard of miss olive comin' past on a bicycle," old jane remarked. "i saw her comin', and i knew by the look on her face that it made her sick to see that woman sittin' here, and i don't blame her a bit. when he started so early for town i thought he might be intendin' to look for her, and yet be in time for the ports' supper, but she didn't come back this way at all, and i expect she went home by the shunpike." "which she did," said dick, showing by this remark that he was listening to what the old woman was saying. "but he cut me mighty short when i asked him," continued old jane. "i tried to ease his mind, but as i found his mind didn't need no easin', i minded my own business, just as he was mindin' his. and now, sir, you'll have to eat your supper alone this time." if dick's supper had consisted of nectar and the brains of nightingales he would not have noticed it; and, until late in the evening, he sat in the arbor, anxiously waiting for the captain's return. about ten o'clock old jane, sleepy from having sat up so long, called to him from the door that he might as well come in and let her lock up the house. the captain was not coming home that night. he had stayed with the ports once before, when the old man was sick. "i guess he's got a better reason for stayin' tonight," she said. "it'll be a great card for that maria when the glenford people knows it, and they'll know it you may be sure, if she has to go and walk the soles of her feet off tellin' them. one thing's mighty sure," she continued. "i'm not goin' to stay here with her in the house. he'll have to get somebody else to help him take toll. but i guess she'll want to do that herself. nothin' would suit her better than to be sittin' all day in the tollhouse talkin' scandal to everybody that goes by." _chapter xvii_ _dick is not a prompt bearer of news._ when the captain reached glenford, and before he went to the ports' he went to the telegraph-office, and made inquiries at various other places, but his niece had not been seen in town. he wandered about so long and asked so many questions that it was getting dark when he suddenly thought of the shunpike. he had not thought of it before, for it was an unfit road for bicycles, but now he saw that he had been a fool. that was the only way she could have gone back. hurrying to a livery-stable, he hired a horse and buggy and a lantern, and drove to the shunpike. there he plainly saw the track of the bicycle as it had turned into that rough road. then he drove on, examining every foot of the way, fearful that he might see, lying senseless by the side of the road, the figure of a girl, perhaps unconscious from fatigue, perhaps dead from an accident. when at last he emerged upon the turnpike he lost the track of the bicycle, but still he went on, all the way to broadstone; a girl might be lying senseless by the side of the road, even on the pike, which at this time was not much frequented. thus assuring himself that olive had reached broadstone in safety, or at least had not fallen by the way, he turned and drove back to town upon the pike, passing his own toll-gate, where the bar was always up after dark. he had promised to return the horse that night, and, as he had promised, he intended to do it. it was after nine o'clock when, returning from the livery-stable, he reached the port house, and saw maria sitting in the open doorway. she instantly ran out to meet him, asking him somewhat sharply why he had disappointed them. she had kept the supper waiting ever so long. he went in to see her father, who was sitting up for him, and she busied herself in getting him a fresh supper. nice and hot the supper was, and although his answers to her questions had not been satisfactory, she concealed her resentment, if she had any. when the meal was over both father and daughter assured him that it was too late for him to go home that night, and that he must stay with them. tired and troubled, captain asher accepted the invitation. as soon as he could get away from the port residence the next morning captain asher went home. he had hoped he would have been able to leave before breakfast, but the solicitous maria would not listen to this. she prepared him a most tempting breakfast, cooking some of the things with her own hands, and she was so attentive, so anxious to please, so kind in her suggestions, and in every way so desirous to make him happy through the medium of savory food and tender-hearted concern, that she almost made him angry. never before, he thought, had he seen a woman make such a coddling fool of herself. he knew very well what it meant, and that provoked him still more. when at last he got away he walked home in a bad humor; he was even annoyed with olive. granting that what she had done was natural enough under the circumstances, and that she had not wished to stop when she saw him in company with a woman she did not like, he thought she might have considered him as well as herself. she should have known that it would give him great trouble for her to dash by in that way and neither stop nor come back to explain matters. she must have known that maria port was not going to stay always, and she might have waited somewhere until the woman had gone. if she had had the least idea of how much he wanted to see her she would have contrived some way to come back to him. but no, she went back to broadstone to please herself, and left him to wander up and down the roads looking for her in the dark. when the captain met old jane at the door of the tollhouse her salutation did not smooth his ruffled spirits, for she told him that she and mr. lancaster had sat up until nearly the middle of the night waiting for him, and that the poor young man must have felt it, for he had not eaten half a breakfast. the captain paid but little attention to these remarks and passed in, but before he crossed the garden he met dick, who informed him that he had something very important to communicate. important communications that must be delivered without a moment's loss of time are generally unpleasant, and knowing this, the captain knit his brows a little, but told dick he would be ready for him as soon as he lighted his pipe. he felt he must have something to soothe his ruffled spirits while he listened to the tale of the woes of some one else. but at the moment he scratched his match to light his pipe his soul was illuminated by a flash of joy; perhaps dick was going to tell him he was engaged to olive; perhaps that was what she had come to tell him the day before. he had not expected to hear anything of this kind, at least not so soon, but it had been the wish of his heart--he now knew that without appreciating the fact--it had been the earnest wish of his heart for some time, and he stepped toward the little arbor with the alacrity of happy anticipation. as soon as they were seated dick began to speak of olive, but not in the way the captain had hoped for. he mentioned the great trouble into which she had been plunged, and gave the captain his brother's letter to read. when he had finished it the captain's face darkened, and his frown was heavy. "an outrageous piece of business," he said, "to treat a daughter in this way; to put a schoolmate over her head in the family! it is shameful! and this is what she was coming to tell me?" "yes," said dick, "that is it." now there was another flash of joy in the captain's heart, which cleared up his countenance and made his frown disappear. "she was coming to me," he thought. "i was the one to whom she turned in her trouble." and it seemed to this good captain as if he had suddenly become the father of a grown-up daughter. "but what message did she send me?" he asked quickly. "did she say when she was coming again?" dick hesitated; olive had said that she wanted her uncle to say when he wanted to see her, so that there should be no more surprising, but this request had been conditional. dick knew that she did not want to come if her uncle were going to marry miss port; therefore it was that he hesitated. "before we go any further," he said, "i think i would better mention a little thing which will make you laugh, but still it did worry miss asher, and was one reason why she went back to broadstone without stopping." "what is it" asked the captain, putting down his pipe. dick did not come out plainly and frankly, as he had told olive he would do when he mentioned the maria port matter. in his own heart he could not help believing now that olive's suspicions had had good foundations, and old jane's announcements, combined with the captain's own actions in regard to the port family, had almost convinced him that this miserable engagement was a fact. but, of course, he would not in any way intimate to the captain that he believed in such nonsense, and therefore, in an offhand manner, he mentioned olive's absurd anxiety in regard to miss port. when the captain heard dick's statement he answered it in the most frank and plain manner; he brought his big hand down on his knee and swore as if one of his crew had boldly contradicted him. he did not swear at anybody in particular; there was the roar and the crash of the thunder and the flash of the lightning, but no direct stroke descended upon any one. he was angry that such a repulsive and offensive thing as his marriage to maria port should be mentioned, or even thought of, but he was enraged when he heard that his niece had believed him capable of such disgusting insanity. with a jerk he rose to his feet. "i will not talk about such a thing as this," he said. "if i did i am sure i should say something hard about my niece, and i don't want to do that." with this he strode away, and proceeded to look after the concerns of his little farm. old jane came cautiously to dick. "did he tell you when it was going to be, or anything about it?" she asked. "no," said dick, "he would not even speak of it." "i suppose he expects us to mind our own business," said she, "and of course we'll have to do it, but i can tell him one thing--i'm goin' to make it my business to leave this place the day before that woman comes here." dejected and thoughtful, dick sat in the arbor. here was a state of affairs very different from what he had anticipated. he had not been able to hurry to her the evening before; he had not gone to breakfast as she had invited him; he had not started off early in the forenoon; and now he asked himself when should he go, or, indeed, why should he go at all? she had no anxieties he could relieve. anything he could tell her would only heap more unhappiness upon her, and the longer he could keep his news from her the better it would be for her. olive had not joined the broadstone party at dinner the night before. she had been too tired, and had gone directly to her room, where, after a time, mrs. easterfield joined her; and the two talked late. one who had overheard their conversation might well have supposed that the elder lady was as much interested in lieutenant asher's approaching nuptials as was the younger one. when she was leaving mrs. easterfield said: "you have enough on your mind to give it all the trouble it ought to bear, and so i beg of you not to think for a moment of that absurd idea about your uncle's engagement. i never saw the woman, but i have heard of her; she is a professional scandal-monger; and captain asher would not think for a moment of marrying her. when mr. lancaster comes to-morrow you will hear that she was merely consulting him on business, and that you are to go to the toll-gate to-morrow as soon as you can. but remember, this time i am going to send you in the carriage. no more bicycles." in spite of this well-intentioned admonition, olive did not sleep well, and dreamed all night of miss port in the shape of a great cat covered with feathers like a chicken, and trying to get a chance to jump at her. very early she awoke, and looking at her clock, she began to calculate the hours which must pass before mr. lancaster could arrive. it was rather strange that of the two troubles which came to her as soon as she opened her eyes, the suspected engagement of her uncle pushed itself in front of the actual engagement of her father; the one was something she _knew_ she would have to make up her mind to bear; the other was something she _feared_ she would have to make up her mind to bear. _chapter xviii_ _what olive determined to do._ olive was very much disappointed at breakfast time, and as soon as she had finished that meal she stationed herself at a point on the grounds which commanded the entrance. people came and talked to her, but she did not encourage conversation, and about eleven o'clock she went to mrs. easterfield in her room. "he is not coming," she said. "he is afraid." "what is he afraid of?" asked mrs. easterfield. "he is afraid to tell me that the optimistic speculations with which he tried to soothe my mind arose entirely from his own imagination. the whole thing is exactly what i expected, and he hasn't the courage to come and say so. now, really, don't you think this is the state of the case, and that if he had anything but the worst news to bring me he would have been here long ago?" mrs. easterfield looked very serious. "i would not give up," she said, "until i saw mr. lancaster and heard what he has to say." "that would not suit me," said olive. "i have waited and waited just as long as i can. it is as likely as not that he has concluded that he can not do anything here which will be of service to any one, and has started off to finish his vacation at some place where people won't bother him with their own affairs. he told me when i first met him that he was on his way north. and now, would you like me to tell you what i have determined to do?" "i would," said mrs. easterfield, but her expression did not indicate that she expected olive's announcement to give her any pleasure. "i have been considering it all the morning," said olive, "and i have determined to marry without delay. the greatest object of my life at present is to write to my father that i am married. i don't wish to tell him anything until i can tell him that. i would also be glad to be able to send the same message to the toll-gate house, but i don't suppose it will make much difference there." "do you think," said mrs. easterfield, "that my inviting you here made all this trouble?" "no," said olive. "it was not the immediate cause, but uncle knows i do not like that woman, and she doesn't like me, and it would not have suited him to have me stay very much longer with him. i thought at first he was glad to have me go on account of mr. lancaster, but now i do not believe that had anything to do with it. he did not want me with him, and what that woman came here and told me about his not expecting me back again was, i now believe, a roundabout message from him." "now, olive," said mrs. easterfield, "it would be a great deal better for you to stop all this imagining until you hear from mr. lancaster, if you don't see him. perhaps the poor young man has sprained his ankle, or was prevented in some ordinary way from coming. but what is this nonsense about getting married?" "there is no nonsense about it," said olive. "i am going to marry, but i have not chosen any one yet." mrs. easterfield uttered an exclamation of horror. "choose!" she exclaimed. "what have you to do with choosing? i don't think you are much like other girls, but i did think you had enough womanly qualities to make you wait until you are chosen." "i intend to wait until i am chosen," said olive, "but i shall choose the person who is to choose me. i have always thought it absurd for a young woman to sit and wait and wait until some one comes and sees fit to propose to her. even under ordinary circumstances, i think the young woman has not a fair chance to get what she wants. but my case is extraordinary, and i can't afford to wait; and as i don't want to go out into the world to look for a husband, i am going to take one of these young men here." "olive," cried mrs. easterfield, "you don't mean you are going to marry mr. locker?" "you forget," said olive, "that i told you i have not made up my mind yet. but although i have not come to a decision, i have a leaning toward one of them. the more i think of it the more i incline in the direction of my old love." "mr. hemphill!" exclaimed mrs. easterfield. "olive, you are crazy, or else you are joking in a very disagreeable manner. there could be no one more unfit for you than he is." "i am not crazy, and i am not joking," replied the girl, "and i think rupert would suit me very well. you see, i think a great deal more of rupert than i do of mr. hemphill, although the latter gentleman has excellent points. he is commonplace, and, above everything else, i want a commonplace husband. i want some one to soothe me, and quiet me, and to give me ballast. if there is anything out of the way to be done i want to do it myself. i am sure he is in love with me, for his anxious efforts to make me believe that the frank avowal of my early affection had no effect upon him proves that he was very much affected. i believe that he is truly in love with me." mrs. easterfield's sharp eyes had seen this, and she had nothing to say. "i believe," continued olive, "that a retrospect love will be a better foundation for conjugal happiness than any other sort of affection. one can always look back to it no matter what happens, and be happy in the memory of it. it would be something distinct which could never be interfered with. you can't imagine what an earnest and absorbing love i once had for that man!" mrs. easterfield sprang to her feet. "olive asher," she cried, "i can't listen to you if you talk in this way!" "well, then," said olive, "if you object so much to rupert--you must not forget that it would be rupert that i would really marry if i became the wife of mr. hemphill--do you advise me to take mr. locker? and i will tell you this, he is not to be rudely set aside; he has warm-hearted points which i did not suspect at first. i will tell you what he just said to me. as i was coming up-stairs he hurried toward me, and his face showed that he was very anxious to speak to me. so before he could utter a word, i told him that he was too early; that his hour had not yet arrived. then that good fellow said to me that he had seen i was in trouble, and that he had been informed it had been caused by bad news from my family. he had made no inquiries because he did not wish to intrude upon my private affairs, and all he wished to say now was that while my mind was disturbed and worried he did not intend to present his own affairs to my attention, even though i had fixed regular times for his doing so. but although he wished me to understand that i need not fear his making love to me just at this time, he wanted me to remember that his love was still burning as brightly as ever, and would be again offered me just as soon as he would be warranted in doing so." "and what did you say to that?" asked mrs. easterfield. "i felt like patting him on the head," olive answered, "but instead of doing that i shook his hand just as warmly as i could, and told him i should not forget his consideration and good feeling." mrs. easterfield sighed. "you have joined him fast to your car," she said, "and yet, even if there were no one else, he would be impossible." "why so?" asked olive quickly. "i have always liked him, and now i like him ever so much better. to be sure he is queer; but then he is so much queerer than i am that perhaps in comparison i might take up the part of commonplace partner. besides, he has money enough to live on. he told me that when he first addressed me. he said he would never ask any woman to live on pickled verse feet, and he has also told me something of his family, which must be a good one." "olive," said mrs. easterfield, "i don't believe at all in the necessity or the sense in your precipitating plans of marrying. it is all airy talk, anyway. you can't ask a man to step up and marry you in order that you may sit down and write a letter to your father. but if you are thinking of marrying, or rather of preparing to marry at some suitable time, why, in the name of everything that is reasonable, don't you take mr. lancaster? he is as far above the other young men you have met here as the mountains are above the plains; he belongs to another class altogether. he is a thoroughly fine young man, and has a most honorable profession with good prospects, and i know he loves you. you need not ask me how i know it--it is always easy for a woman to find out things like that. now, here is a prospective husband for you whose cause i should advocate. in fact, i should be delighted to see you married to him. he possesses every quality which would make you a good husband." olive smiled. "you seem to know a great deal about him," said she, "and i assure you that so far as he himself is concerned, i have no objections to him, except that i think he might have had the courage to come and tell me the truth this morning, whatever it is." "perhaps he has not found out the truth yet," quickly suggested mrs. easterfield. olive fixed her eyes upon her companion and for a few moments reflected, but presently she shook her head. "no, that can not be," she answered. "he would have let me know he had been obliged to wait. oh, no, it is all settled, and we can drop that subject. but as for mr. lancaster, his connections would make any thought of him impossible. he, and his father, too, are both close friends of my uncle, and he would be a constant communication between me and that woman unless there should be a quarrel, which i don't wish to cause. no, i want to leave everything of that sort as far behind me as it used to be in front of me, and as professor lancaster is mixed up with it i could not think of having anything to do with him." mrs. easterfield was silent. she was trying to make up her mind whether this girl were talking sense or nonsense. what she said seemed to be extremely nonsensical, but as she said it, it was difficult to believe that she did not consider it to be entirely rational. "well," said olive, "you have objected to two of my candidates, and i positively decline the one you offer, so we have left only the diplomat. he has proposed, and he has not yet received a definite answer. you have told me yourself that he belongs to an aristocratic family in austria, and i am sure that would be a grand match. we have talked together a great deal, and he seems to like the things i like. i should see plenty of court life and high society, for he will soon be transferred from this legation, and if i take him i shall go to some foreign capital. he is very sharp and ambitious, and i have no doubt that some day he will be looked upon as a distinguished foreigner. now, as it is the ambition of many american girls to marry distinguished foreigners, this alliance is certainly worthy of due consideration." "stuff!" said mrs. easterfield. olive was not annoyed, and replied very quietly: "it is not stuff. you must know young women who have married foreigners and who did not do anything like so well as if they had married rising diplomats." mrs. blynn now knocked at the door on urgent household business. "i shall want to see you again about all this, olive," said mrs. easterfield as they parted. "of course," replied the girl, "whenever you want to." "mrs. blynn," said the lady of the house, "before you mention what you have come to talk about, please tell one of the men to put a horse to a buggy and come to the house. i want to send a message by him." the letter which was speedily on its way to mr. richard lancaster was a very brief one. it simply asked the young gentleman to come to broadstone, with bad news or good news, or without any news at all. it was absolutely necessary that the writer should see him, and in order that there might be no delay she sent a conveyance for him. moreover, she added, it would give her great pleasure if mr. lancaster would come prepared to spend a couple of days at her house. she felt sure good captain asher would spare him for that short time. she believed that at this moment more gentlemen were needed at broadstone, and, although she did not go on to say that she thought dick was not having a fair chance at this very important crisis, that is what she expected the young man to understand. just before luncheon, at the time when claude locker might have been urging his suit had he been less kind-hearted and generous, olive found an opportunity to say a few words to mrs. easterfield. "a capital idea has come into my head," she said. "what do you think of holding a competitive examination among these young men?" "more stuff, and more nonsense!" ejaculated mrs. easterfield. "i never knew any one to trifle with serious subjects as you are trifling with your future." "i am not trifling," said olive. "of course, i don't mean that i should hold an examination, but that you should. you know that parents--foreign parents, i mean--make all sorts of examinations of the qualifications and merits of candidates for the hands of their daughters, and i should be very grateful if you would be at least that much of a mother to me." "no examination would be needed," said the other quickly; "i should decide upon mr. lancaster without the necessity of any questions or deliberations." "but he is not a candidate," said olive; "he has been ruled out. however," she added with a little laugh, "nothing can be done just now, for they have not all entered themselves in the competition; mr. hemphill has not proposed yet." at that instant the rest of the family joined them on their way to luncheon. the meal was scarcely over when olive disappeared up-stairs, but soon came down attired in a blue sailor suit, which she had not before worn at broadstone, and although the ladies of that house had been astonished at the number of costumes this navy girl carried in her unostentatious baggage, this was a new surprise to them. "mr. hemphill and i are going boating," said olive to mrs. easterfield. "olive!" exclaimed the other. "what is there astonishing about it?" asked the girl. "i have been out boating with mr. locker, and it did not amaze you. you need not be afraid; mr. hemphill says he has had a good deal of practise in rowing, and if he does not understand the management of a boat i am sure i do. it is only for an hour, and we shall be ready for anything that the rest of you are going to do this afternoon." with this, away she went, skipping over the rocks and grass, down to the river's edge, followed by mr. hemphill, who could scarcely believe he was in a world of common people and common things, while he, in turn, was followed by the mental anathemas of a poet and a diplomat. _chapter xix_ _the captain and dick lancaster desert the toll-gate._ when captain asher, in an angry mood, left his young friend and guest and went out into his barnyard and his fields in order to quiet his soul by the consideration of agricultural subjects, he met with but little success. he looked at his pigs, but he did not notice their plump condition; he glanced at his two cows, cropping the grass in the little meadow, but it did not impress him that they also were in fine condition; nor did he care whether the pasture were good or not. he looked at this; and he looked at that; and then he folded his arms and looked at the distant mountains. suddenly he turned on his heel, walked straight to the stable, harnessed his mare to the buggy, and, without saying a word to anybody, drove out of the gate, and on to glenford. dick lancaster, who was in the arbor, looked in amazement after the captain's departing buggy, and old jane, with tears in her eyes, came out and spoke to him. "isn't this dreadful" she said to him. "supper with that woman and there all night, and back again as soon as he can get off this mornin'!" "perhaps he is not going to her house," dick suggested. "he may have business in town which he forgot yesterday." "if he'd had it he'd forgot it," replied the old woman. "but he hadn't none. he's gone to maria port's, and he may bring her back with him, married tight and fast, for all you or me knows. it would be just like his sailor fashion. when the captain's got anything to do he just does it sharp and quick." "i don't believe that," said dick. "if he had had any such intention as that he certainly would have mentioned it to you or to me." the good woman shook her head. "when an old man marries a girl," she said, "she just leads him wherever she wants him to go, and he gives up everything to her, and when an old man marries a tough and seasoned and smoked old maid like maria port, she just drives him wherever she wants him to go, and he hasn't nothin' to say about it. it looks as if she told him to come in this mornin', and he's gone. it may be for a weddin', or it may be for somethin' else, but whatever it is, it'll be her way and not his straight on to the end of the chapter." dick had nothing to answer. he was very much afraid that old jane knew what she was talking about, and his mind was occupied with trying to decide what he, individually, ought to do about it. old jane was now obliged to go to the toll-gate to attend to a traveler, but when she came back she took occasion to say a few more words. "it's hard on me, sir," she said, "at my age to make a change. i've lived at this house, and i've took toll at that gate ever since i was a girl, long before the captain came here, and i've been with him a long time. my people used to own this house, but they all died, and when the place was sold and the captain bought it, he heard about me, and he said i should always have charge of the old toll-gate when he wasn't attendin' to it himself, just the same as when my father was alive and was toll-gate keeper, and i was helpin' him. but i've got to go now, and where i'm goin' to is more'n i know. but i'd rather go to the county poorhouse than stay here, or anywhere else, with maria port. she's a regular boa-constrictor, that woman is! she's twisted herself around people before this and squeezed the senses out of them; and that's exactly what she's doin' with the captain. if she could come here to live and bring her old father, and get him to sell the house in town and put the money in bank, and then if she could worry her husband and her father both to death, and work things so she'd be a widow with plenty of money and a good house and as much farm land as she wanted, and a toll-gate where she could set all day and take toll and give back lies and false witness as change, she'd be the happiest woman on earth." it had been long since old jane had said as much at any one time to any one person, but her mind was stirred. her life was about to change, and the future was very black to her. when dinner was ready the captain had not yet returned, and dick ate his meal by himself. he was now beginning to feel used to this sort of thing. he had scarcely finished, and gone down to the garden-gate to look once more over the road toward glenford, when the man in the buggy arrived, and he received mrs. easterfield's letter. he lost no moments in making up his mind. he would go to broadstone, of course, and he did not think it at all necessary to stand on ceremony with the captain. the latter had gone off and left him without making any statement whatever, but he would do better, and he wrote a note explaining the state of affairs. as he was leaving old jane came to bid him good-by. "i don't know," said she, "that you will find me here when you come back. the fact of it is i don't know nothin'. but one thing's certain, if she's here i ain't, and if she's too high and mighty to take toll in her honeymoon, the captain'll have to do it himself, or let 'em pass through free." mrs. easterfield was on the lawn when lancaster arrived, and in answer to the involuntary glance with which dick's eyes swept the surrounding space, even while he was shaking hands with her, she said: "no, she is not here. she has gone boating, and so you must come and tell me everything, and then we can decide what is best to tell her." for an instant dick's soul demurred. if he told olive anything he would tell her all he knew, and exactly what had happened. but he would not lose faith in this noble woman who was going to help him with olive if she could. so they sat down, side by side, and he told her everything he knew about captain asher and miss port. "it does look very much as if he were going to marry the woman," said mrs. easterfield. then she sat silent and looked upon the ground, a frown upon her face. dick was also silent, and his countenance was clouded. "poor olive," he thought, "it is hard that this new trouble should come upon her just at this time." but mrs. easterfield said in her heart: "poor fellow, how little you know what has come upon you! the woman who has turned her uncle from olive has turned olive from you." "well," said the lady at length, "do you think it is worth while to say anything to her about it? she has already surmised the state of affairs, and, so far as i can see, you have nothing of importance to tell her." "perhaps not," said dick, "but as she sent me on a mission i want to make known to her the result of it so far as there has been any result. it will be very unpleasant, of course--it will be even painful--but i wish to do it all the same." "that is to say," said mrs. easterfield with a smile that was not very cheerful, "you want to be with her, to look at her and to speak to her, no matter how much it may pain her or you to do it." "that's it," answered dick. mrs. easterfield sat and reflected. she very much liked this young man, and, considering herself as his friend, were there not some things she ought to tell him? she concluded that there were such things. "mr. lancaster," she said, "have you noticed that there are other young men in love with miss asher?" "i know there is one," said dick, "for he told me so himself." "that was claude locker?" said she with interest. "and he promised," continued dick, "that if he failed he would do all he could to help me. i can not say that this is really for love of me, for his avowed object is to prevent mr. du brant from getting her. we assumed that he was her lover, although i do not know that there is any real ground for it." "there is very good ground for it," said she, "for he has already proposed to her. what do you think of that?" "it makes no difference to me," said dick; "that is, if he has not been accepted. what i want is to find myself warranted in telling miss asher how i feel toward her; it does not matter to me how the rest of the world feels." "then there is another," said mrs. easterfield, "with whom she is now on the river--mr. hemphill. he is in love with her; and as he can not stay here very long, i think he will soon propose." "i can not help it," said dick; "i love her, and the great object of my life just at present is to tell her so. you said you would help me, and i hope you will not withdraw from that promise." "no, indeed," said she, "but i do not know her as well as i thought i did. but here she comes now, and without the young man. i hope she has not drowned him!" without heeding anything that had just been said to him dick kept his eyes fixed upon the sparkling girl who now approached them. every step she made was another link in his chain; mrs. easterfield glanced at him and knew this. she pitied him for what he had to tell her now, and more for what he might have to hear from her at another time. but olive saved dick from any present ordeal. she stepped up to him and offered him her hand. "i do not wonder, mr. lancaster," she said, "that you did not want to come back and tell me your doleful story, but as i know what it is, we need not say anything about it now, except that i am ever so much obliged to you for all your kindness to me. and now i am going to ask another favor. won't you let me speak to mrs. easterfield a few moments?" as soon as they were seated, with the door shut, olive began. "well," said she, "he has proposed." "mr. hemphill!" exclaimed mrs. easterfield. "rupert," olive answered, "yes, it is truly rupert who proposed to me." "i declare," cried mrs. easterfield, "you come to me and tell me this as if it were a piece of glad news. yesterday, and even this morning, you were plunged in grief, and now your eyes shine as if you were positively happy." "i have told you my aim and object in life," said the girl. "i am trying to do something, and to do it soon, and everything is going on smoothly. and as to being happy, i tell you, mrs. easterfield, there is no woman alive who could help being made happy by such a declaration as i have just received. no matter what answer she gave him, she would be bound to be happy." "most other women would not have let him make it," said mrs. easterfield a little severely. "there is something in that," said olive, "but they would not have the object in life i have. i may be unduly exalted, but you would not wonder at it if you had seen him and heard him. mrs. easterfield, that man loves me exactly as i used to love him, and he has told me his love just as i would have told him mine if i could have carried out the wish of my heart. his eyes glowed, his frame shook with the ardor of his passion. two or three times i had to tell him that if he did not trim boat we should be upset. i never saw anything like his impassioned vehemence. it reminded me of salvini. i never was loved like that before." "and what answer did you make to him?" asked mrs. easterfield, her voice trembling. "i did not make him any. it would not have been fair to the others or to myself to do that. i shall not swerve from my purpose, but i shall not be rash." mrs. easterfield rose suddenly and stepped to the open window; she could not sit still a moment longer; she needed air. "olive," she said, "this is mad and wicked folly in you, and it is impertinent in him, no matter how much you encouraged him. i would like to send him back to his desk this minute. he has no right to come to his employer's house and behave in this manner." olive did not get angry. "he is not impertinent," said she. "he knows nothing in this world but that i once loved him, and that now he loves me. employer and employee are nothing to him. i don't believe he would go if you told him to, even if you could do such a thing, which i don't believe you would, for, of course, you would think of me as well as of him." "olive asher," cried mrs. easterfield in a voice which was almost a wail, "do you mean to say that you are to be considered in this matter, that for a moment you think of marrying this man?" "yes," said olive; "i do think of it, and the more i think of it the better i think of it. he is a good man; you have told me that yourself; and i can feel that he is good. i know he loves me. there can be no mistake about his words and his eyes. i feel as i never felt toward any other man, that i might become attached to him. and in my opinion a real attachment is the foundation of love, and you must never forget that i once loved him." the girl now stepped close to mrs. easterfield. "i am sorry to see those tears," she said; "i did not come here to make you unhappy." "but you have made me very unhappy," said the elder lady, "and i do not think i can talk any more about this now." when olive had gone mrs. easterfield hurried down-stairs in search of lancaster. she did not care what any one might think of her unconventional eagerness; she wanted to find him, and she soon succeeded. he was sitting in the shade with a book, which, when she approached him, she did not believe he was reading. "yes," said she, as he started to his feet in evident concern, "i have been crying, and there is no use in trying to conceal it. of course, it is about olive, but i can not confide in you now, and i do not know that i have any right to do so, anyway. but i came here to beg you most earnestly not to propose to miss asher, no matter how good an opportunity you may have, no matter how much you want to do so, no matter how much hope may spring up in your heart." "do you mean," said dick, "that i must never speak to her? am i too late? is she lost to me?" "not at all," said she, "you are not too late, but you may be too early. she is not lost to anybody, but if you should speak to her before i tell you to she will certainly be lost to you." _chapter xx_ _mr. locker determines to rush the enemy's position._ the party at broadstone was not in what might be called a congenial condition. there were among them elements of unrest which prevented that assimilation which is necessary to social enjoyment. even the ordinarily placid mr. fox was dissatisfied. the trouble with him was--although he did not admit it--that he missed the company of miss asher. he had found her most agreeable and inspiriting, but now things had changed, and he did not seem to have any opportunity for the lively chats of a few days before. he remarked to his wife that he thought broadstone was getting very dull, and he should be rather glad when the time came for them to leave. mrs. fox was not of his opinion; she enjoyed the state of affairs more than she had done when her husband had been better pleased. there was something going on which she did not understand, and she wanted to find out what it was. it concerned miss asher and one of the young men, but which one she could not decide. in any case it troubled mrs. easterfield, and that was interesting. claude locker seemed to be a changed man; he no longer made jokes or performed absurdities. he had become wonderfully vigilant, and seemed to be one who continually bided his time. he bided it so much that he was of very little use as a member of the social circle. mr. du brant was also biding his time, but he did not make the fact evident. he was very vigilant also, but was very quiet, and kept himself in the background. he had seen olive and mr. hemphill go out in the boat, but he determined totally to ignore that interesting occurrence. the moment he had an opportunity he would speak to olive again, and the existence of other people did not concern him. mr. hemphill was walking by the river; olive had not allowed him to come to the house with her, for his face was so radiant with the ecstasy of not having been discarded by her that she did not wish him to be seen. from her window mrs. easterfield saw this young man on his return from his promenade, and she knew it would not be many minutes before he would reach the house. she also saw the diplomat, who was glaring across the grounds at some one, probably mr. locker, who, not unlikely, was glaring back at him. she had come up-stairs to do some writing, but now she put down her pen and called to her secretary. "miss raleigh," said she, "it has been a good while since you have done anything for me." "indeed it has," said the other with a sigh. "but i want you to do something this minute. it is strictly confidential business. i want you to go down on the lawn, or any other place where miss asher may be, and make yourself _mal à propos_. i am busy now, but i will relieve you before very long. can you do that? do you understand?" the aspect of the secretary underwent a total change. from a dull, heavy-eyed woman she became an intent, an eager emissary. her hands trembled with the intensity of her desire to meddle with the affairs of others. "of course i understand," she exclaimed, "and i can do it. you mean you don't want any of those young men to get a chance to speak to miss asher. do you include mr. lancaster? or shall i only keep off the others?" "i include all of them," said mrs. easterfield. "don't let any of them have a chance to speak to her until i can come down. and hurry! here is one coming now." hurrying down-stairs, the secretary glanced into the library. there she saw mrs. fox in one armchair, and olive in another, both reading. in the hall were the two little girls, busily engaged in harnessing two small chairs to a large armchair by means of a ball of pink yarn. outside, about a hundred yards away, she saw mr. hemphill irresolutely approaching the house. miss raleigh's mind, frequently dormant, was very brisk and lively when she had occasion to waken it. she made a dive toward the children. "dear little ones," she cried, "don't you want to come out under the trees and have the good mr. hemphill tell you a story? i know he wants to tell you one, and it is about a witch and two pussy-cats and a kangaroo. come along. he is out there waiting for us." down dropped the ball of yarn, and with exultant cries each little girl seized an outstretched hand of the secretary, and together they ran over the grass to meet the good mr. hemphill. of course he was obliged to want to tell them a story; they expected it of him, and they were his employer's children. to be sure he had on mind something very practical and sensible he wished to say to miss olive, which had come to him during his solitary walk, and which he did not believe she would object to hearing, although he had said so much to her quite recently. as soon as he should begin to speak she would know that this was something she ought to know. it was about his mother, who had an income of her own, and did not in the least depend upon her son. miss olive would certainly agree with him that it was proper for him to tell her this. but the little girls seized his hands and led him away to a bench, where, having seated him almost forcibly, each climbed upon a knee. the good mr. hemphill sent a furtive glare after miss raleigh, who, with that smile of gentle gratification which comes to one after having just done a good deed to another, sauntered slowly away. "don't come back again," cried out the older of the little girls. "he was put out in the last story, and we want this to be a long one. and remember, mr, rupert, it is to be about a witch and two pussy-cats--" "and a kangaroo," added the other. at the front door the secretary met miss asher, just emerging. "isn't that a pretty picture" she said, pointing to the group under the trees. olive looked at them and smiled. "it is beautiful," she said; "a regular family composition. i wish i had a kodak." "oh, that would never do!" exclaimed miss raleigh. "he is just as sensitive as he can be, and, of course, it's natural. and the dear little things are so glad to get him to themselves so that they can have one of the long, long stories they like so much. may i ask what that is you are working, miss asher?" "it is going to be what they call a nucleus," said olive, showing a little piece of fancy work. "you first crochet this, and then its ultimate character depends on what you may put around it. it may be a shawl, or a table cover, or even an apron, if you like crocheted aprons. i learned the stitch last winter. would you like me to show it to you?" "i should like it above all things," said the secretary. and together they walked to a rustic bench quite away from the story-telling group. "so far i have done nothing but nucleuses," said olive, as they sat down. "i put them away when they are finished, and then i suppose some time i shall take up one and make it into something." "like those pastry shells," said miss raleigh, "which can be laid away and which you can fill up with preserves or jam whenever you want a pie. how many of these have you, miss asher?" "when this is finished there will be four," said olive. at some distance, and near the garden, dick lancaster, strolling eastward, encountered claude locker, strolling westward. "hello!" cried locker. "i am glad to see you. brought your baggage with you this time, i see. that means you are going to stay, of course." "a couple of days," replied dick. "well, a man can do a lot in that time, and you may have something to do, but i am not sure. no, sir," continued locker, "i am not sure. i am on the point of making a demonstration in force. but the enemy is always presenting some new force. by enemy you understand me to mean that which i adore above all else in the world, but which must be attacked, and that right soon if her defenses are to be carried. step this way a little, and look over there. do you see that raleigh woman sitting on a bench with her? well, now, if i had not had such a beastly generous disposition i might be sitting on that bench this minute. i was deceived by a feint of the opposing forces this morning. i don't mean she deceived me. i did it myself. although i had the right by treaty to march in upon her, i myself offered to establish a truce in order that she might bury her dead. i did not know who had been killed, but it looked as if there were losses of some kind. but it was a false alarm. the dead must have turned up only missing, and she was as lively as a cricket at luncheon, and went out in a boat with that tailor's model--sixteen dollars and forty-eight cents for the entire suit ready-made; or twenty-three dollars made to order." dick smiled a little, but his soul rebelled within him. he regretted that he had given his promise to mrs. easterfield. what he wanted to do that moment was to go over to captain asher's niece and ask her to take a walk with him. what other man had a better right to speak to her than he had? but he respected his word; it would be very hard to break a promise made to mrs. easterfield; and he stood with his hands in his pockets, and his brows knit. "now, i tell you what i am going to do," said locker. "i am going to wait a little while--a very little while--and then i shall bounce over my earthworks, and rush her position. it is the only way to do it, and i shall be up and at her with cold steel. and now i will tell you what you must do. just you hold yourself in reserve; and, if i am routed, you charge. you'd better do it if you know what's good for you, for that austrian's over there pulverizing his teeth and swearing in french because that raleigh woman doesn't get up and go. now, i won't keep you any longer, but don't go far away. i can't talk any more, for i've got to have every eye fixed upon the point of attack." dick looked at the animated face of his companion, and began to ask himself if the moment had not arrived when even a promise made to mrs. easterfield might be disregarded. should he consent to allow his fate to depend upon the fortunes of mr. locker? he scorned the notion. it would be impossible for the girl who had talked so sweetly, so earnestly, so straight from her heart, when he had met her on the shunpike, to marry such a mountebank as this fellow, generous as he might be with that which could never belong to him. as to the diplomat, he did not condescend to bestow a thought upon such a black-pointed little foreigner. _chapter xxi_ _miss raleigh enjoys a rare privilege._ miss raleigh was very attentive to the instructions given her by miss asher, and while she exhibited the fashion of the new stitch olive reflected. "i wonder," she said to herself, "if mrs. easterfield has done this. it looks very much like it, and if she did i am truly obliged to her. there is nothing i want so much now as a rest, and i didn't want to stay in the house either. miss raleigh," said she, suddenly changing the subject, "were you ever in love?" the secretary started. "what do you mean by that?" she asked. "i don't mean anything," said olive. "i simply wanted to know." "it is a queer question," said miss raleigh, her face changing to another shade of sallowness. "i know that," said olive quickly, "but the answers to queer questions are always so much more interesting than those to any others. don't you think so?" "yes, they are," said miss raleigh thoughtfully, "but they are generally awfully hard to get. i have tried it myself." "then you ought to have a fellow feeling for me," said olive. "well," said the other, looking steadfastly at her companion, "if you will promise to keep it all to yourself forever, i don't mind telling you that i was once in love. would you like me to tell you who i was in love with?" "yes," said olive, "if you are willing to tell me." "oh, i am perfectly willing," said the secretary. "it was mr. hemphill." olive turned suddenly and looked at her in amazement. "yes, it was mr. hemphill over there," said the other, speaking very tranquilly, as if the subject were of no importance. "you see, i have been living with the easterfields for a long time, and in the winter we see a good deal of mr. hemphill. he has to come to the house on business, and often takes meals. he is mr. easterfield's private and confidential secretary. and, somehow or other, seeing him so often, and sometimes being his partner at cards when two were needed to make up a game, i forgot that i was older than he, and i actually fell in love with him. you see he has a good heart, miss asher; anybody could tell that from his way with children; and i have noticed that bachelors are often nicer with children than fathers are." "and he?" asked olive. miss raleigh laughed a little laugh. "oh, i did all the loving," she answered. "he never reciprocated the least little bit, and i often wondered why i adored him as much as i did. he was handsome, and he was good, and he had excellent taste; he was thoroughly trustworthy in his relations to the family, and i believe he would be equally so in all relations of life; but all that did not account for my unconquerable ardor, which was caused by a certain something which you know, miss asher, we can't explain." olive tried hard not to allow any emotion to show itself in her face, but she did not altogether succeed. "and you still--" said she. "no, i don't," interrupted miss raleigh. "i love him no longer. there came a time when all my fire froze. i discovered that there was--" "i say, miss asher--" it was the voice of claude locker. olive looked around at him. "well?" said she. "perhaps you have not noticed," said he, "that the tennis ground is now in the shade, and if you don't mind walking that way--" he said a good deal more which miss raleigh did not believe, understanding the young man thoroughly, and which olive did not hear. her mind was very busy with what she had just heard, which made a great impression on her. she did not know whether she was affronted, or hurt, or merely startled. here was a man who loved her, a man she had loved, and one about whom she had been questioning herself as to the possibility of her loving him again. and here was a woman, a dyspeptic, unwholesome spinster, who had just said she had loved him. if miss raleigh had loved this man, how could she, olive, love him? there was something repugnant about it which she did not attempt to understand. it went beyond reason. she felt it to be an actual relief to look up at claude locker, and to listen to what he was saying. "you mean," said she presently, "that you would like miss raleigh and me to come with you and play tennis." "i did not know miss raleigh played," he answered, "but i thought perhaps--" "oh, no," said olive. "i would not think of such a thing. in fact, miss raleigh and i are engaged. we are very busy about some important work." mr. locker gazed at the crocheted nucleus with an air of the loftiest disdain. "of course, of course," said he, "but you really oblige me, miss asher, to speak very plainly and frankly and to say that i really do not care about playing tennis, but that i want to speak to you on a most important subject, which, for reasons that i will explain, must be spoken of immediately. so, if miss raleigh will be kind enough to postpone the little matter you have on hand--" olive smiled and shook her head. "no, indeed, sir," she said; "i would not hurt a lady's feelings in that way, and moreover, i would not allow her to hurt her own feelings. it would hurt your feelings, miss raleigh, wouldn't it, to be sent away like a child who is not wanted?" "yes," said the secretary, "i think it would." mr. locker listened in amazement. he had not thought the mature maiden had the nerve to say that. "then again," said olive, "this isn't the time for you to talk business with me, and you should not disturb me at this hour." "oh," said locker, bringing down the forefinger of his right hand upon the palm of his left, "that is a point, a very essential point. i voluntarily surrendered the period of discourse which you assigned to me for a reason which i now believe did not exist, and this is only an assertion of the rights vested in me by you." miss raleigh listened very attentively to these remarks, but could not imagine what they meant. olive looked at him graciously. "yes," she said, "you are very generous, but your period for discourse, as you call it, will have to be postponed." "but it can't be postponed," he answered. "if i could see you alone i could soon explain that to you. there are certain reasons why i must speak now." "i can't help it," said olive. "i am not going to leave miss raleigh, and i am sure she does not want to leave me, so if you are obliged to speak you must speak before her." mr. locker gazed from one to the other of the two ladies who sat before him; each of them wore a gentle but determined expression. he addressed the secretary. "miss raleigh," said he, "if you understood the reason for my strong desire to speak in private with miss asher, perhaps you would respect it and give me the opportunity i ask for. i am here to make a proposition of marriage to this lady, and it is absolutely necessary that i make it without loss of time. do you desire me to make it in your presence?" "i should like it very much," said miss raleigh. mr. locker gave her a look of despair, and turned to olive. "would you permit that?" he asked. "if it is absolutely necessary," she said, "i suppose i shall have to permit it." mr. locker had the soul of a lion in his somewhat circumscribed body, and he was not to be recklessly dared to action. "very well, then," said he, "i shall proceed as if we were alone, and i hope, miss raleigh, you will at least see fit to consider yourself in a strictly confidential position." "indeed i shall," she replied; "not one word shall ever--" "i hope not," interrupted claude, "and i will add that if i should ever be accidentally present when a gentleman is about to propose to you, miss raleigh, i shall heap coals of fire upon your head by instantaneously withdrawing." the secretary was about to thank him, but olive interrupted. "now, claude locker," said she, "what can you possibly have to say to me that you have not said before?" "a good deal, miss asher, a good deal, although i don't wonder you suppose that no man could say more to you of his undying affection than i have already said. but, since i last spoke on the subject, i have been greatly impressed by the fact that i have not said enough about myself; that i have not made you understand me as i really am. i know very well that most people, and i suppose that at some time you have been among them, look upon me as a very frivolous young man, and not one to whom the right sort of a girl should give herself in marriage. but that is a mistake. i am as much to be depended upon as anybody you ever met. my apparently whimsical aspect is merely the outside--my shell, marked off in queer designs with variegated colors--but within that shell i am as domestic, as sober, and as surely to be found where i am expected to be as any turtle. this may seem a queer figure, but it strikes me as a very good one. when i am wanted i am there. you can always depend upon me." there was not a smile upon the face of either woman as he spoke. they were listening earnestly, and with the deepest interest. miss raleigh's eyes sparkled, and olive seemed to be most seriously considering this new aspect in which mr. locker was endeavoring to place himself. "perhaps you may think," claude continued, "that you would not desire turtle-like qualities in a husband, you who are so bright, so bounding, so much like a hare, but i assure you, that is just the companion who would suit you. all day you might skip among the flowers, and in the fields, and wherever you were, you would always know where i was--making a steady bee-line for home; and you would know that i would be there to welcome you when you arrived." "that is very pretty!" said miss raleigh. and then she quickly added: "excuse me for making a remark." "now, miss asher," continued locker, "i have tried, very imperfectly, i know, to make you see me as i really am, and i do hope you can put an end to this suspense which is keeping me in a nervous tingle. i can not sleep at night, and all day i am thinking what you will say when you do decide. you need not be afraid to speak out before miss raleigh. she is in with us now, and she can't get out. i would not press you for an answer at this moment, but there are reasons which i can not say anything about without meddling with other people's business. but my business with you is the happiness of my life, and i feel that i can not longer endure having it momentarily jeopardized." at the conclusion of this speech a faint color actually stole into miss raleigh's face, and she clasped her thin hands in the intensity of her approval. "mr. locker," said olive, speaking very pleasantly, "if you had come to me to-day and had asked me for a decision based upon what you had already said to me, i think i might have settled the matter. but after what you have just told me, i can not answer you now. you give me things to think about, and i must wait." "heavens" exclaimed mr. locker, clasping his hands. "am i not yet to know whether i am to rise into paradise, or to sink into the infernal regions?" olive smiled. "don't do either, mr. locker," she said. "this earth is a very pleasant place. stay where you are." he folded his arms and gazed at her. "it is a pleasant place," said he, "and i am mighty glad i got in my few remarks before you made your decision. i leave my love with you on approbation, and you may be sure i shall come to-morrow before luncheon to hear what you say about it." "i shall expect you," said olive. and as she spoke her eyes were full of kind consideration. "now, that's genuine," said miss raleigh, when locker had departed. "if he had not felt every word he said he could not have said it before me." "no doubt you are right," said olive. "he is very brave. and now you see this new line, which begins an entirely different kind of stitch!" in the middle distance mr. du brant still strolled backward and forward, pulverizing his teeth and swearing in french. he seldom removed his eyes from miss asher, but still she sat on that bench and crocheted, and talked, and talked, and crocheted, with that everlasting miss raleigh! he had seen locker with her, and he had seen him go; and now he hoped that the woman would soon depart. then it would be his chance. the young austrian had become most eager to make olive his wife. he earnestly loved her; and, beyond that, he had come to see that a marriage with her would be most advantageous to his prospects. this beautiful and brilliant american girl, familiar with foreign life and foreign countries, would give him a position in diplomatic society which would be most desirable. she might not bring him much money; although he believed that all american girls had some money; but she would bring him favor, distinction, and, most likely, advancement. with such a wife he would be a welcome envoy at any court. and, besides, he loved her. but, alas, miss raleigh would not go away. about half an hour after claude locker left olive he encountered dick lancaster. "well," said he, "i charged. i was not routed, i can't say that i was even repulsed. but i was obliged to withdraw my forces. i shall go into camp, and renew the attack to-morrow. so, my friend, you will have to wait. i wish i could say that there is no use of your waiting, but i am a truthful person and can't do that." lancaster was not pleased. "it seems to me," he said, "that you trifle with the most important affairs of life." "trifle!" exclaimed locker. "would you call it trifling if i fail, and then to save her from a worse fate, were to back you up with all my heart and soul?" dick could not help smiling. "by a worse fate," he said, "i suppose you mean--" "the austrian," interrupted locker. "mrs. easterfield has told me something about him. he may have a title some day, and he is about as dangerous as they make them. instead of accusing me of trifling, you ought to go down on your knees and thank me for still standing between him and her." "that is a duty i would like to perform myself," said dick. "perhaps you may have a chance," sighed locker, "but i most earnestly hope not. look over there at that he-nurse. those children have made him take them walking, and he is just coming back to the house." _chapter xxii_ _the conflicting serenades._ mrs. easterfield worked steadily at her letter, feeling confident all the time that her secretary was attending conscientiously to the task which had been assigned to her, and which could not fail to be a most congenial one. one of the greatest joys of miss raleigh's life was to interfere in other people's business; and to do it under approval and with the feeling that it was her duty was a rare joy. the letter was to her husband, and mrs. easterfield was writing it because she was greatly troubled, and even frightened. in the indulgence of a good-humored and romantic curiosity to know whether or not a grown-up young woman would return to a sentimental attachment of her girlhood, she had brought her husband's secretary to the house with consequences which were appalling. if this navy girl she had on hand had been a mere flirt, mrs. easterfield, an experienced woman of society, might not have been very much troubled, but olive seemed to her to be much more than a flirt; she would trifle until she made up her mind, but when she should come to a decision mrs. easterfield believed she would act fairly and squarely. she wanted to marry; and, in her heart, mrs. easterfield commended her; without a mother; now more than ever without a father; her only near relative about to marry a woman who was certainly a most undesirable connection; olive was surely right in wishing to settle in life. and, if piqued and affronted by her father's intended marriage, she wished immediately to declare her independence, the girl could not be blamed. and, from what she had said of mr. hemphill, mrs. easterfield could not in her own mind dissent. he was a good young man; he had an excellent position; he fervently loved olive; she had loved him, and might do it again. what was there to which she could object? only this: it angered and frightened her to think of olive asher throwing herself away upon rupert hemphill. so she wrote a very strong letter to her husband, representing to him that the danger was very great and imminent, and that he was needed at broadstone just as soon as he could get there. business could be set aside; his wife's happiness was at stake; for if this unfortunate match should be made, it would be her doing, and it would cloud her whole life. of herself she did not know what to do, and if she had known, she could not have done it. but if he came he would not only know everything, but could do anything. this indicated her general opinion of mr. tom easterfield. "now," said she to herself, as she fixed an immediate-delivery stamp upon the letter, "that ought to bring him here before lunch to-morrow." when olive saw fit to go to her room miss raleigh felt relieved from guard, and went to mrs. easterfield to report. she told that lady everything that had happened, even including her own emotions at various points of the interview. the amazed mrs. easterfield listened with the greatest interest. "i knew claude locker was capable of almost any wild proceeding," she said, "but i did not think he would do that!" "there is one thing i forgot," said the secretary, "and that is that i promised mr. locker not to mention a word of what happened." "i am very glad," replied mrs. easterfield, "that you remembered that promise after you told me everything, and not before. you have done admirably so far." "and if i have any other opportunities of interpolating myself, so to speak," said miss raleigh, "shall i embrace them?" mrs. easterfield laughed. "i don't want you to be too obviously zealous," she answered. "i think for the present we may relax our efforts to relieve miss asher of annoyance." mrs. easterfield believed this. she had faith in olive; and if that young woman had promised to give claude locker another hearing the next day she did not believe that the girl would give anybody else a positive answer before that time. miss raleigh went away not altogether satisfied. she did not believe in relaxed vigilance; for one thing, it was not interesting. olive was surprised when she found that mr. lancaster was to stay to dinner, and afterward when she was informed that he had been invited to spend a few days, she reflected. it looked like some sort of a plan, and what did mrs. easterfield mean by it? she knew the lady of the house had a very good opinion of the young professor, and that might explain the invitation at this particular moment, but still it did look like a plan, and as olive had no sympathy with plans of this sort she determined not to trouble her head about it. and to show her non-concern, she was very gracious to mr. lancaster, and received her reward in an extremely interesting conversation. still olive reflected, and was not in her usual lively spirits. mr. fox said to mrs. fox that it was an abominable shame to allow a crowd of incongruous young men to swarm in upon a country house party, and interfere seriously with the pleasures of intelligent and self-respecting people. that night, after mrs. easterfield had gone to bed, and before she slept, she heard something which instantly excited her attention; it was the sound of a guitar, and it came from the lawn in front of the house. jumping up, and throwing a dressing-gown about her, she cautiously approached the open window. but the night was dark, and she could see nothing. pushing an armchair to one side of the window, she seated herself, and listened. words now began to mingle with the music, and these words were french. now she understood everything perfectly. mr. du brant was a musician, and had helped himself to the guitar in the library. from the position in which she sat mrs. easterfield could look upon a second-story window in a projecting wing of the house, and upon this window, which belonged to olive's room, and which was barely perceptible in the gloom, she now fixed her eyes. the song and the thrumming went on, but no signs of life could be seen in the black square of that open window. mrs. easterfield was not a bad french scholar, and she caught enough of the meaning of the words to understand that they belonged to a very pretty love song in which the flowers looked up to the sky to see if it were blue, because they knew if it were the fair one smiled, and then their tender buds might ope; and, if she smiled, his heart implored that she might smile on him. there was a second verse, much resembling the first, except that the flowers feared that clouds might sweep the sky; and they lamented accordingly. now, mrs. easterfield imagined that she saw something white in the depths of the darkness of olive's room, but it did not come to the front, and she was very uncertain about it. suddenly, however, something happened about which she could not be in the least uncertain. above olive's room was a chamber appropriated to the use of bachelor visitors, and from the window of this room now burst upon the night a wild, unearthly chant. it was a song with words but without music, and the voice in which it was shot out into the darkness was harsh, was shrill, was insolently blatant. and thus the clamorous singer sang: "my angel maid--ahoy! if aught should you annoy, by act or sound, from sky or ground, i then pray thee to call on me my angel maid--ahoy, my ange--my ange--l maid ahoy! ahoy! ahoy!" the music of the guitar now ceased, and no french words were heard. no ditty of latin origin, be it ever so melodious and fervid, could stand against such a wild storm of anglo-saxon vociferation. every ahoy rang out as if sea captains were hailing each other in a gale! "what lungs he has" thought mrs. easterfield, as she put her hand over her mouth so that no one should hear her laugh. at the open window, at which she still steadily gazed, she now felt sure she saw something white which moved, but it did not come to the front. a wave of half-smothered objurgation now rolled up from below; it was not to be readily caught, but its tone indicated rage and disappointment. but the guitar had ceased to sound, and the french love song was heard no more. a little irrepressible laugh came from somewhere, but who heard it beside herself mrs. easterfield could not know. then all was still, and the insects of the night, and the tree frogs, had the stage to themselves. early in the morning miss raleigh presented herself before mrs. easterfield to make a report. "there was a serenade last night," she said, "not far from miss asher's window. in fact, there were two, but one of them came from mr. locker's room, and was simply awful. mr. du brant was the gentleman who sang from the lawn, and i was very sorry when he felt himself obliged to stop. i do not think very much of him, but he certainly has a pleasant voice, and plays well on the guitar. i think he must have been a good deal cut up by being interrupted in that dreadful way, for he grumbled and growled, and did not go into the house for some time. i am sure he would have been very glad to fight if any one had come down." "you mean," said mrs. easterfield, "if mr. locker had come." "well," said the secretary, "if mr. hemphill had appeared i have no doubt he would have answered. mr. du brant seemed to me ready to fight anybody." "how do you know so much about him?" asked mrs. easterfield. "and why did you think of mr. hemphill?" "oh, he was looking out of his window," said miss raleigh. "he could not see, but he could hear." "i ask you again," said mrs. easterfield, "how do you know all this?" "oh, i had not gone to bed, and, at the first sound of the guitar, i slipped on a waterproof with a hood, and went out. of course, i wanted to know everything that was happening." "i had not the least idea you were such an energetic person," remarked mrs. easterfield, "and i think you were entirely too rash. but how about mr. lancaster? do you know if he was listening?" miss raleigh stood silent for a moment, then she exclaimed: "there now, it is too bad! i entirely forgot him! i have not the slightest idea whether he was asleep or awake, and it would have been just as easy--" "well, you need not regret it," said mrs. easterfield. "i think you did quite enough, and if anything of the kind occurs again i positively forbid you to go out of the house." "there is one thing we've got to look after," said miss raleigh, without heeding the last remark, "this may result in bloodshed." "nonsense," said mrs. easterfield; "nothing of that kind is to be feared from the gentlemen who visit broadstone." "still," said miss raleigh, "don't you think it would be well for me to keep an eye on them?" "oh, you may keep both eyes on them if you want to," said mrs. easterfield. then she began to talk about something else, but, although she dismissed the matter so lightly, she was very glad at heart that she had sent for her husband. things were getting themselves into unpleasant complications, and she needed tom. there was a certain constraint at the breakfast table. mr. fox had heard the serenades, although his consort had slept soundly through the turmoil; and, while carefully avoiding any reference to the incidents of the night, he was anxiously hoping that somebody would say something about them. mrs. easterfield saw that mr. du brant was in a bad humor, and she hoped he was angry enough to announce his early departure. but he contented himself with being angry, and said nothing about going away. mr. hemphill was serious, and looked often in the direction of olive. as for dick lancaster, miss raleigh, whose eye was fixed upon him whenever it could be spared from the exigencies of her meal, decided that if there should be a fight he would be one of the fighters; his brow was dark and his glance was sharp; in fact, she was of the opinion that he glared. claude locker did not come to breakfast until nearly everybody had finished. his dreams had been so pleasant that he had overslept himself. in the eyes of mrs. easterfield olive's conduct was positively charming. no one could have supposed that during the night she had heard anything louder than the ripple of the river. she talked more to mr. du brant than to any one else, although she managed to draw most of the others into the conversation; and, with the assistance of the hostess, who gave her most good-humored help, the talk never flagged, although it did not become of the slightest interest to any one who engaged in it. they were all thinking about the conflict of serenades, and what might happen next. shortly after breakfast miss raleigh came to mrs. easterfield. "mr. du brant is with her," she said quickly, "and they are walking away. shall i interpolate?" "no," said the other with a smile, "you can let them alone. nothing will happen this morning, unless, indeed, he should come to ask for a carriage to take him to the station." mrs. easterfield was busy in her garden when dick lancaster came to her. "what a wonderfully determined expression you have!" said she. "you look as if you were going to jump on a street-car without stopping it!" "you are right," said he, "i am determined, and i came to tell you so. i can't stand this sort of thing any longer. i feel like a child who is told he must eat at the second table, and who can not get his meals until every one else is finished." "and i suppose," she said, "you feel there will be nothing left for you." "that is it," he answered, "and i don't want to wait. my soul rebels! i can't stand it!" "therefore," she said, "you wish to appear before the meal is ready, and in that case you will get nothing." he looked at her inquiringly. "i mean," said she, "that if you propose to miss asher now you will be before your time, and she will decline your proposition without the slightest hesitation." "i do not quite understand that," said dick. "would she decline all others?" "i am afraid not." "but why do you except me?" asked dick. "surely she is not engaged. i know you would tell me at once if that were so." "it is not so," said mrs. easterfield. "then i shall take my chances. with all this serenading and love-making going on around me and around the woman i love with all my heart. i can not stand and wait until i am told my time has come. the intensity and the ardor of my feelings for her give me the right to speak to her. unless i know that some one else has stepped in before me and taken the place i crave, i have decided to speak to her just as soon as i can. but i thought it was due to you to come first and tell you." "mr. lancaster," said mrs. easterfield, speaking very quietly, "if you decide to go to miss asher and ask her to marry you, i know you will do it, for i believe you are a man who keeps his word to himself, but i assure you that if you do it you will never marry her. so you really need not bother yourself about going to her; you can simply decide to do it, and that will be quite sufficient; and you can stay here and hold these long-stemmed dahlias for me as i cut them." a troubled wistfulness showed itself upon the young man's face. "you speak so confidently," he said, "that i almost feel i ought to believe you. why do you tell me that i am the only one of her suitors who would certainly be rejected if he offered himself?" mrs. easterfield dropped the long-stemmed dahlias she had been holding; and, turning her eyes full upon lancaster, she said, "because you are the only one of them toward whom she has no predilections whatever. more than that, you are the only one toward whom she has a positive objection. you are the only one who is an intimate friend of her uncle, and who would be likely, by means of that intimate friendship, to bring her into connection with the woman she hates, as well as with a relative she despises on account of his intended marriage with that woman." "all that should not count at all," cried dick. "in such a matter as this i have nothing to do with captain asher! i stand for myself and speak for myself. what is his intended wife to me? or what should she be to her?" "of course," said mrs. easterfield, "all that would not count at all if olive asher loved you. but you see she doesn't. i have had it from her own lips that her uncle's intended marriage is, and must always be, an effectual barrier between you and her." "what" cried dick. "have you spoken to her of me? and in that way?" "yes," said mrs. easterfield, "i have. i did not intend to tell you, but you have forced me to do it. you see, she is a young woman of extraordinary good sense. she believes she ought to marry, and she is going to try to make the very best marriage that she possibly can. she has suitors who have very strong claims upon her consideration--i am not going to tell you those claims, but i know them. now, you have no claim--special claim, i mean--but for all this, i believe, as i have told you before, that you are the man she ought to marry, and i have been doing everything i can to make her cease considering them, and to consider you. and this is the way she came to give me her reasons for not considering you at all. now the state of the case is plain before you." dick bowed his head and fixed his eyes upon the dahlias on the ground. "don't tread on the poor things," she said, "and don't despair. all you have to do is to let me put a curbed bit on you, and for you to consent to wear it for a little while. see," said she, moving her hands in the air, as if they were engaged upon the bridle of a horse, "i fasten this chain rather closely, and buckle the ends of the reins in the lowest curb. now, you must have a steady hand and a resolute will until the time comes when the curb is no longer needed." "and do you believe that time will come?" he asked. "it will come," she said, "when two things happen; when she has reason to love you, and has no reason to object to you; and, in my opinion, that happy combination may arrive if you act sensibly." "but--" said dick. at this moment a quick step was heard on the garden-path and they both turned. it was olive. "mr. lancaster," she cried, "i want you; that is, if mrs. easterfield can spare you. we are making up a game of tennis. mr. du brant and mr. hemphill are there, but i can not find mr. locker." mrs. easterfield could spare him, and dick lancaster, with the curbed chain pressing him very hard, walked away with olive asher. _chapter xxiii_ _the captain and maria._ when the captain drove into glenford on the day when his mind had been so much disturbed by dick lancaster's questions regarding a marriage between him and maria port, he stopped at no place of business, he turned not to the right nor to the left, but went directly to the house of his old friend with whom he had spent the night before. mr. simeon port was sitting on his front porch, reading his newspaper. he looked up, surprised to see the captain again so soon. "simeon," said the captain, "i want to see maria. i have something to say to her." the old man laid down his newspaper. "serious?" said he. "yes, serious," was the answer, "and i want to see her now." mr. port reflected for a moment. "captain," said he, "do you believe you have thought about this as much as you ought to?" "yes, i have," replied the captain; "i've thought just as much as i ought to. is she in the house?" mr. port did not answer. "captain john," said he presently, "maria isn't young, that's plain enough, considerin' my age; but she never does seem to me as if she'd growed up. when she was a girl she had ways of her own, and she could make water bile quick, and now she can make it bile just as quick as ever she did, and perhaps quicker. she's not much on mindin' the helm, captain john, and there're other things about her that wouldn't be attractive to husbands when they come to find them out. and if i was you i'd take my time." "that's just what i intend to do," said the captain. "this is my time, and i am going to take it." miss port, who was busy in the back part of the house, heard voices, and now came forward. she was wiping her hands upon her apron, and one of them she extended to the captain. "i am glad to see you--john," she said, speaking in a very gentle voice, and hesitating a little at the last word. the captain looked at her steadfastly, and then, without taking her hand, he said: "i want to speak to you by yourself. i'll go into the parlor." she politely stepped back to let him pass her, and then her father turned quickly to her. "did you expect to see him back so soon?" he asked. she smiled and looked down. "oh, yes," said she, "i was sure he'd come back very soon." the old man heaved a sigh, and returned to his paper. maria followed the captain. "john," said she, speaking in a low voice, "wouldn't you rather come into the dinin'-room? he's a little bit hard of hearin', but if you don't want him to hear anything he'll take in every word of it." "maria port," said the captain, speaking in a strong, upper-deck voice, "what i have to say i'll say here. i don't want the people in the street to hear me, but if your father chooses to listen i would rather he did it than not." she looked at him inquiringly. "well," she answered, "i suppose he will have to hear it some time or other, and he might as well hear it now as not. he's all i've got in the world, and you know as well as i do that i run to tell him everything that happens to me as soon as it happens. will you sit down?" "no," said the captain, "i can speak better standing. maria port, i have found out that you have been trying to make people believe that i am engaged to marry you." the smile did not leave maria's face. "well, ain't you?" said she. a look of blank amazement appeared on the face of the captain, but it was quickly succeeded by the blackness of rage. he was about to swear, but restrained himself. "engaged to you?" he shouted, forgetting entirely the people in the street; "i'd rather be engaged to a fin-back shark!" the smile now left her face. "oh, thank you very much," she said. "and this is what you meant by your years of devotion! i held out for a long time, knowing the difference in our ages and the habits of sailors, and now--just when i make up my mind to give in, to think of my father and not of myself, and to sacrifice my feelin's so that he might always have one of his old friends near him, now that he's got too feeble to go out by himself, and at his age you know as well as i do he ought to have somebody near him besides me, for who can tell what may happen, or how sudden--you come and tell me you'd rather marry a fish. i suppose you've got somebody else in your mind, but that don't make no difference to me. i've got no fish to offer you, but i have myself that you've wanted so long, and which now you've got." the angry captain opened his mouth to speak; he was about to ejaculate woman! but his sense of propriety prevented this. he would not apply such an epithet to any one in the house of a friend. wretch rose to his lips, but he would not use even that word; and he contented himself with: "you! you know just as well as you know you are standing there that i never had the least idea of marrying you. you know, too, that you have tried to make people think i had, people here in town and people out at my house, where you came over and over again pretending to want to talk about your father's health, when it did not need any more talking about than yours does. you know you have made trouble in my family; that you so disgusted my niece that she would not stop at my house, which had been the same thing as her home; you sickened my friends; and made my very servants ashamed of me; and all this because you want to marry a man who now despises you. i would have despised you long ago if i had seen through your tricks, but i didn't." there was a smile on miss port's face now, but it was not such a smile as that with which she had greeted the captain; it was a diabolical grin, brightened by malice. "you are perfectly right," she said; "everybody knows we are engaged to be married, and what they think about it doesn't matter to me the snap of my finger. the people in town all know it and talk about it, and what's more, they've talked to me about it. that niece of your'n knows it, and that's the reason she won't come near you, and i'm sure i'm not sorry for that. as for that old thing that helps you at the toll-gate, and as for the young man that's spongin' on you, i've no doubt they've got a mighty poor opinion of you. and i've no doubt they're right. but all that matters nothin' to me. you're engaged to be married to me; you know it yourself; and everybody knows it; and what you've got to do is to marry, or pay. you hear what i say, and you know what i'm goin' to stick to." it may be well for captain asher's reputation that he had no opportunity to answer miss port's remarks. at that instant mr. simeon port appeared at the door which opened from the parlor on the piazza. he stepped quickly, his actions showing nothing of that decrepitude which his dutiful daughter had feared would prevent him from seeking the society of his friends. he fixed his eyes on his daughter and spoke in a loud, strong voice. "maria," said he, "go to bed! i've heard what you've been saying, and i'm ashamed of you. i've been ashamed of you before, but now it's worse than ever. go to bed, i tell you! and this time, go!" there was nothing in the world that maria port was afraid of except her father, and of him personally she had not the slightest dread. but of his dying without leaving her the whole of his fortune she had an abiding terror, which often kept her awake at night, and which sent a sickening thrill through her whenever a difficulty arose between her and her parent. she was quite sure what he would do if she should offend him sufficiently; he would leave her a small annuity, enough to support her; and the rest of his money would go to several institutions which she had heard him mention in this connection. if she could have married captain asher she would have felt a good deal safer; it would have taken much provocation to make her father leave his money out of the family if his old friend had been one of that family. now, when she heard her father's voice, and saw his dark eyes glittering at her, she knew she was in great danger, and the well-known chill ran through her. she made no answer; she cared not who was present; she thought of nothing but that those eyes must cease to glitter, and that angry voice must not be heard again. she turned and walked to her room, which was on the same floor, across the hall. "and mind you go to bed!" shouted her father. "and do it regular. you're not to make believe to go to bed, and then get up and walk about as soon as my back is turned. i'm comin' in presently to see if you've obeyed me." she answered not, but entered her room, and closed the door after her. mr. port now turned to the captain. "i never could find out," he said, "where maria got that mind of her'n. it isn't from my side, for my father and mother was as good people as ever lived, and it wasn't from her mother, for you knew her, and there wasn't anything of the kind about her." "no," said captain asher, "not the least bit of it." "it must have been from her grandmother ellis," said the old man. "i never knew her, for she died before i was acquainted with the family, but i expect she died of deviltry. that's the only insight i can get into the reasons for maria's havin' the mind she's got. but i tell you, captain john, you've had a blessed escape! i didn't know she was in the habit of goin' out to your house so often. she didn't tell me that." "simeon," said the captain, "i think i will go now. i have had enough of maria. i don't suppose i'll hear from her very soon again." the old man smiled. "no," said he, "i don't think she'll want to trouble you any more." miss port, whose ear was at the keyhole of her door not twelve feet away, grinned malignantly. soon after captain asher had gone mr. port walked to the door of his daughter's room, gave a little knock, and then opened the door a little. "you are in bed, are you?" said he. "well, that's good for you. turn down that coverlid and let me see if you've got your nightclothes on." she obeyed. "very well," he continued; "now you stay there until i tell you to get up." captain asher went home, still in a very bad humor. he had ceased to be angry with maria port, he was done with her; and he let her pass out of his mind. but he was angry with other people, especially with olive. she had allowed herself to have a most contemptuous opinion of him; she had treated him shamefully; and as he thought of her his indignation increased instead of diminishing. and young lancaster had believed it! and old jane! it was enough to make a stone slab angry, and the captain was not a stone slab. _chapter xxiv_ _mr. tom arrives at broadstone._ after the conclusion of the game of tennis in which olive and three of her lovers participated, claude locker, returning from a long walk, entered the grounds of broadstone. he had absented himself from that hospitable domain for purposes of reflection, and also to avoid the company of mr. du brant. not that he was afraid of the diplomat, but because of the important interview appointed for the latter part of the morning. he very much wished that no unpleasantness of any kind should occur before the time for that interview. having found that he had given himself more time than was necessary for his reflections and his walk, he had rested in the shade of a tree and had written two poems. one of these was the serenade which he would have roared out on the night air on a very recent occasion if he had had time to prepare it. it was, in his opinion, far superior to the impromptu verses of which he had been obliged to make use, and it pleased him to think that if things should go well with him after the interview to which he was looking forward, he would read that serenade to its object, and ask her to substitute it in her memory for the inharmonic lines which he had used in order to smother the degenerate melody of a foreign lay. the other poem was intended for use in case his interview should not be successful. but on the way home mr. locker experienced an entire change of mind. he came to believe that it would be unwise for him to arrange to use either of those poems on that day. for all he knew, miss asher might like foreign degenerate lays, and she might be annoyed that he had interfered with one. he remembered that she had told him that if he had insisted on an immediate answer to his proposition it would have been very easy to give it to him. he realized what that meant; and, for all he knew, she might be quite as ready this morning to act with similar promptness. that du brant business might have settled her mind, and it would therefore be very well for him to be careful about what he did, and what he asked for. about half an hour before luncheon, when he neared the house and perceived miss asher on the lawn, it seemed to him very much as if she were looking for him. this he did not like, and he hurried toward her. "miss asher," said he, "i wish to propose an amendment." "to what?" asked olive. "but first tell me where you have been and what you have been doing? you are covered with dust, and look as hot as if you had been pulling the boat against the rapids. i have not seen you the whole morning." "i have been walking," said he, "and thinking. it is dreadful hot work to think. that should be done only in winter weather." "it would be a woeful thing to take a cold on the mind," said olive. "that is so!" he replied. "that is exactly what i am afraid of this morning, and that is the reason i want to propose my amendment. i beg most earnestly that you will not make this interview definitive. i am afraid if you do i may get chills in my mind, soul, and heart from which i shall never recover. i have an idea that the weather may not be as favorable as it was yesterday for the unveiling of tender emotions." "why so?" asked olive. "there are several reasons," returned mr. locker. "for one thing, that musical uproar last night. i have not heard anything about that, and i don't know where i stand." olive laughed. "it was splendid," said she. "i liked you a great deal better after that than i did before." "now tell me," he exclaimed hurriedly, "and please lose no time, for here comes a surrey from the station with a gentleman in it--do you like me enough better to give me a favorable answer, now, right here?" "no," said olive. "i do not feel warranted in being so precipitate as that." "then please say nothing on the subject," said locker. "please let us drop the whole matter for to-day. and may i assume that i am at liberty to take it up again to-morrow at this hour?" "you may," said olive. "what gentleman is that, do you suppose?" "i know him," said locker, "and, fortunately, he is married. he is mr. easterfield." "here's papa! here's papa!" shouted the two little girls as they ran out of the front door. "and papa," said the oldest one, "we want you to tell us a story just as soon as you have brushed your hair! mr. rupert has been telling us stories, but yours are a great deal better." "yes," said the other little girl, "he makes all the children too good. they can't be good, you know, and there's no use trying. we told him so, but he doesn't mind." there was story-telling after luncheon, but the papa did not tell them, and the children were sent away. it was mrs. easterfield who told the stories, and mr. tom was a most interested listener. "well," said he, when she had finished, "this seems to be a somewhat tangled state of affairs." "it certainly is," she replied, "and i tangled them." "and you expect me to straighten them?" he asked. "of course i do," she replied, "and i expect you to begin by sending mr. hemphill away. you know i could not do it, but i should think it would be easy for you." "would you object if i lighted a cigar?" he asked. "of course not," she said. "did you ever hear me object to anything of the kind?" "no," said he, "but i never have smoked in this room, and i thought perhaps miss raleigh might object when she came in to do your writing." "my writing!" exclaimed mrs. easterfield. "now don't trifle! this is no time to make fun of me. olive may be accepting him this minute." "it seems to me," said mr. easterfield, slowly puffing his cigar, "that it would not be such a very bad thing if she did. so far as i have been able to judge, he is my favorite of the claimants. du brant and i have met frequently, and if i were a girl i would not want to marry him. locker is too little for miss asher, and, besides, he is too flighty. your young professor may be good enough, but from my limited conversation with him at the table i could not form much of an opinion as to him one way or another. i have an opinion of hemphill, and a very good one. he is a first-class young man, a rising one with prospects, and, more than that, i think he is the best-looking of the lot." "tom," said mrs. easterfield, "do you suppose i sent for you to talk such nonsense as that? can you imagine that my sense of honor toward olive's parents would allow me even to consider a marriage between a high-class girl, such as she is--high-class in every way--to a mere commonplace private secretary? i don't care what his attributes and merits are; he is commonplace to the backbone; and he is impossible. if what ought to be a brilliant career ends suddenly in rupert hemphill i shall have olive on my conscience for the rest of my life." "that settles it," said mr. tom easterfield; "your conscience, my dear, has not been trained to carry loads, and i shall not help to put one on it. hemphill is a good man, but we must rule him out." "yes," said she, "olive is a great deal more than good. he must be ruled out." "but i can't send him away this afternoon," tom continued. "that would put them both on their mettle, and, ten to one, he would considerately announce his engagement before he left." "no," said she. "olive is very sharp, and would resent that. but now that you are here i feel safe from any immediate rashness on their part." "you are right," said mr. tom. "my very coming will give them pause. and now i want to see the girl." "what for?" asked mrs. easterfield. "i want to get acquainted with her. i don't know her yet, and i can't talk to her if i don't know her." "are you going to talk to her about hemphill?" "yes, for one thing," he answered. "well," said she, "you will have to be very circumspect. she is both alert, and sensitive." "oh, i'll be circumspect enough," he replied. "you may trust me for that." it was not long after this that mrs. easterfield, being engaged in some hospitable duties, sent olive to show mr. tom the garden, and it was rather a slight to that abode of beauty that the tour of the rose-lined paths occupied but a very few minutes, when mr. easterfield became tired, and desired to sit down. having seated themselves on mrs. easterfield's favorite bench, olive looked up at her companion, and asked: "well, sir, what is it you brought me here to say to me?" mr. tom laughed, and so did she. "if it is anything about the gentlemen who are paying their addresses to me, you may as well begin at once, for that will save time, and really an introduction is not necessary." mr. easterfield's admiration for this young lady, which had been steadily growing, was not decreased by this remark. "this girl," said he to himself, "deserves a nimble-witted husband. hemphill would never do for her. it seems to me," he said aloud, "that we are already well enough acquainted for me to proceed with the remarks which you have correctly assumed i came here to make." "yes," said she, "i have always thought that some people are born to become acquainted, and when they meet they instantly perceive the fact, and the thing is accomplished. they can then proceed." "very well," said he, "we will proceed." "i suppose," said olive, "that mrs. easterfield has explained everything, and that you agree with her and with me that it is a sensible thing for a girl in my position to marry, and, having no one to attend wisely to such a matter for me, that i should endeavor to attend to it myself as wisely as i can. also, that a little bit of pique, caused by the fact that i am to have an old schoolfellow for a stepmother, is excusable." "and it is this pique which puts you in such a hurry? i did not exactly understand that." "yes, it does," said she. "i very much wish to announce my own engagement, if not my marriage, before any arrangements shall be made which may include me. do you think me wrong in this?" "no, i don't," said mr. easterfield. "if i were a girl in your place i think i would do the same thing myself." olive's face expressed her gratitude. "and now," said she, "what do you think of the young men? i feel so well acquainted with you through mrs. easterfield that i shall give a great deal of weight to your opinion. but first let me ask you one thing: after what you have heard of me do you think i am a flirt?" mr. tom knitted his brows a little, then he smiled, and then he looked out over the flower-beds without saying anything. "don't be afraid to say so if you think so," said she. "you must be perfectly plain and frank with me, or our acquaintanceship will wither away." under the influence of this threat he spoke. "well," said he, "i should not feel warranted in calling you a flirt, but it does seem to me that you have been flirting." "i think you are wrong, mr. easterfield," said olive, speaking very gravely. "i never saw any one of these young men before i came here except mr. hemphill, and he was an entirely different person when i knew him before, and i have given no one of them any special encouragement. if mr. locker were not such an impetuous young man, i think the others would have been more deliberate, but as it was easy to see the state of his mind, and as we are all making but a temporary stay here, these other young men saw that they must act quickly, or not at all. this, while it was very amusing, was also a little annoying, and i should greatly have preferred slower and more deliberate movements on the part of these young men. but all my feelings changed when my father's letter came to me. i was glad then that they had proposed already." "that is certainly honest," said mr. tom. "of course it is honest," replied olive. "i am here to speak honestly if i speak at all. now, don't you see that if under these peculiar circumstances one eligible young man had proposed to me i ought to have considered myself fortunate? now here are three to choose from. do you not agree with me that it is my duty to try to choose the best one of them, and not to discourage any until i feel very certain about my choice?" "that is business-like," said mr. easterfield; "but do you love any one of them?" "no, i don't," answered olive, "except that there is a feeling in that direction in the case of mr. hemphill. i suppose mrs. easterfield has told you that when i was a schoolgirl i was deeply in love with him; and now, when i think of those old times, i believe it would not be impossible for those old sentiments to return. so there really is a tie between him and me; even though it be a slight one; which does not exist at all between me and any one of the others." for a moment neither of them spoke. "that is very bad, young woman," thought mr. tom. "a slight tie like that is apt to grow thick and strong suddenly." but he could not discourse about mr. hemphill; he knew that would be very dangerous. he would have to be considered, however, and much more seriously than he had supposed. "well," said he, "i will tell you this: if i were a young man, unmarried, and on a visit to broadstone at this time, i should not like to be treated as you are treating the young men who are here. it is all very well for a young woman to look after herself and her own interests, but i should be very sorry to have my fate depend upon the merits of other people. i may not be correct, but i am afraid i should feel i was being flirted with." "well, then," said olive, giving a quick, forward motion on the bench, "you think i ought to settle this matter immediately, and relieve myself at once from the imputation of trifling with earnest affection?" "oh, no, no, no!" cried mrs. easterfield. "not at all! don't do anything rash!" olive leaned back on the bench, and laughed heartily. "there is so much excellent advice in this world," she said, "which is not intended to be used. however, it is valuable all the same. and now, sir, what is it you would like me to do? something plain; intended for every-day use." mr. tom leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "it does not appear to me," he said, "that you have told me very much i did not know before, for mrs. easterfield put the matter very plainly before me." "and it does not seem to me," said olive, "that you have given me any definite counsel, and i know that is what you came here to do." "you are mistaken there," he said. "i came here to find out what sort of a girl you are; my counsels must depend on my discoveries. but there is one thing i want to ask you; you are all the time talking about three young men. now, there are four of them here." "yes," she answered quickly. "but only three of them have proposed; and, besides, if the other were to do so, he would have to be set aside for what i may call family reasons. i don't want to go into particulars because the subject is very painful to me." for a moment mr. tom did not speak. then, determined to go through with what he had come to do, which was to make himself acquainted with this girl, he said: "i do not wish to discuss anything that is painful to you, but mrs. easterfield and i are very much disturbed for fear that in some way your visit to broadstone created some misunderstanding or disagreeable feeling between you and your uncle. now, would you mind telling me whether this is so, or not?" she looked at him steadily. "there is an unpleasant feeling between me and my uncle, but this visit has nothing to do with it. and i am going to tell you all about it. i hate to feel so much alone in the world that i can't talk to anybody about what makes me unhappy. i might have spoken to mrs. easterfield, but she didn't ask me. but you have asked me, and that makes me feel that i am really better acquainted with you than with her." this remark pleased mr. tom, but he did not think it would be necessary to put it into his report to his wife. he had promised to be very circumspect; and circumspection should act in every direction. "it is very hard for a girl such as i am," she continued, "to be alone in the world, and that is a very good reason for getting married as soon as i can." "and for being very careful whom you marry," interrupted mr. easterfield. "of course," said she, "and i am trying very hard to be that. a little while ago i had a father with whom i expected to live and be happy, but that dream is over now. and then i thought i had an uncle who was going to be more of a father to me than my own father had ever been. but that dream is over, too." "and why?" asked mr. easterfield. "he is going to marry a woman," said olive, "that is perfectly horrible, and with whom i could not live. and the worst of it all is that he never told me a word about it." as she said this olive looked very solemn; and mr. tom, not knowing on the instant what would be proper to say, looked solemn also. "you may think it strange," said she, "that i talk in this way to you, but you came here to find out what sort of girl i am, and i am perfectly willing to help you do it. besides, in a case like this, i would rather talk to a man than to a woman." mr. tom believed her, but he did not know at this stage of the proceedings what it would be wise to say. he was also fully aware that if he said the wrong thing it would be very bad, indeed. "now, you see," said she, "there is another reason why i should marry as soon as possible. in my case most girls would take up some pursuit which would make them independent, but i don't like business. i want to be at the head of a household; and, what is more, i want to have something to do--i mean a great deal to do--with the selection of a husband." the conversation was taking a direction which frightened mr. tom. in the next moment she might be asking advice about the choice of a husband. it was plain enough that love had nothing to do with the matter, and mr. tom did not wish to act the part of a practical-minded cupid. "and now let me ask a favor of you," said he. "won't you give me time to think over this matter a little?" "that is exactly what i say to my suitors," said olive, smiling. mr. tom smiled also. "but won't you promise me not to do anything definite until i see you again?" he asked earnestly. "that is not very unlike what some of my suitors say to me," she replied. "but i will promise you that when you see me again i shall still be heart-free." "there can be no doubt of that," mr. tom said to himself as they arose to leave the garden. "and, my young woman, you may deny being a flirt, but you permitted the addresses of two young men before you were upset by your father's letter. but i think i like flirts. at any rate, i can not help liking her, and i believe she has got a heart somewhere, and will find it some day." when mr. tom returned to the house he did not find his wife, for that lady was occupied somewhere in entertaining her guests. now, although it might have been considered his duty to go and help her in her hospitable work, he very much preferred to attend to the business which she had sent for him to do. and walking to the stables, he was soon mounted on a good horse, and riding away southward on the smooth gray turnpike. _chapter xxv_ _the captain and mr. tom._ captain asher was standing at the door of the tollhouse when he saw mr. easterfield approaching. he recognized him, although he had had but one brief interview with him one day at the toll-gate some time before. mr. easterfield was a man absorbed in business, and the first summer mrs. easterfield was at broadstone he was in europe engaged in large and important affairs, and had not been at the summer home at all. and so far this summer, he had been there but once before, and then for only a couple of days. now, as the captain saw the gentleman coming toward the toll-gate he had no reason for supposing that he would not go through it. nevertheless, his mind was disturbed. any one coming from broadstone disturbed his mind. he had not quite decided whether or not to ask any questions concerning the late members of his household, when the horseman stopped at the gate, and handed him the toll. "good morning, captain," said mr. easterfield cheerily, for he had heard much in praise of the toll-gate keeper from his wife. "good morning, mr. easterfield," said the captain gravely. "i am glad i do not have to introduce myself," said mr. easterfield, "for i am only going through your gate as far as that tree to tie my horse. then, if convenient to you, i should like to have a little talk with you." the captain's mind, which had been relieved when mr. easterfield paid his toll, now sank again. but he could not say a talk would be inconvenient. "if i had known that you were not going on," he said, "you need not have paid." "like most people in this life," said mr. easterfield, "i pay for what i have already done, and not for what i am going to do. and now have you leisure, sir, for a short conversation?" the captain looked very glum. he felt not the slightest desire now to ask questions, and still less desire to be interrogated. however, he was not afraid of anything any one might say to him; and if a certain subject was broached, he had something to say himself. "yes," said he; "do you prefer indoors or out of doors?" "out of doors, if it suits," replied the visitor, "for i would like to take a smoke." "i am with you there," said the captain, as he led the way to the little arbor. here mr. easterfield lighted a cigar, and the captain a pipe. "now, sir," said the latter, when the tobacco in his bowl was in a satisfactory glow, "what is it you want to talk about?" he spoke as if he were behind entrenchments, and ready for an attack. "we have two of your guests with us," answered mr. easterfield, "professor lancaster, and your niece." "oh," said the captain, evidently relieved. "i thought perhaps you had come to ask questions about some reports you may have heard in regard to me." "not at all, not at all," said mr. easterfield. "i would not think of mentioning your private affairs, about which i have not the slightest right or wish to speak. but as we have apparently appropriated two of your young people, i think, and mrs. easterfield agrees with me, that it is but right you should be informed as to their health, and what they are doing." the captain puffed vigorously. "when is dick lancaster coming back" he asked. "i can't say anything about that," replied mr. easterfield, "for i am not master of ceremonies. we would like to keep him as long as we can, but, of course, your claims must be considered." "i should think so," remarked the captain. "professor lancaster is a remarkably fine young man," said the other, "and as he is a friend of yours, and as i should like him to be a friend of mine, it would give me pleasure to talk to you more about him. but i may as well confess that my real object in coming here is to talk about your niece. of course, as i said before, it might appear that i have no right to meddle with your family affairs, but in this case i certainly think i am justified; for, as mrs. easterfield invited the young lady to leave you and to come to her, and as all that has happened to her has happened at our house, and in consequence of that invitation, i think that you, as her nearest accessible relative, should be told of what has occurred." the captain made no answer, but gazed steadily into the face of the speaker. "therefore," continued mr. easterfield, "i will simply state that my wife and i have very good reason to believe that your niece is about to engage herself in marriage; and i will only add that we are very sorry, indeed, that this should have occurred under our roof." a sudden and curious change came over the face of the captain; a light sparkled in his eye, and a faint flush, as if of pleasure, was visible under his swarthy skin. he leaned toward his companion. "is it dick lancaster?" he asked quickly. mr. easterfield answered gravely: "i wish it were, but i am very sorry to say it is not." the light went out of the captain's eye. he leaned back on his bench and the little flush in his cheeks was succeeded by a somber coldness. "very good," said he; "i don't want to hear anything more about it, and, what is more, it would not be right for you to tell me, even if i did want to know. it is none of my business." "now, really, captain asher," began mr. easterfield. "no, sir," the captain interrupted. "it is none of my business, and i don't want to hear anything about it. and now, sir, i would like to tell you something. it is something i thought you came here to ask about, and i did not like it, but now i want to tell you of my own free will, in confidence. that is to say, i don't want you to speak of it to anybody in your house. i suppose you have heard something about my intending to marry a woman in town?" "yes," said mr. easterfield, "i can not deny that i have, but i considered it was entirely your own affair, and i had not--" "of course," interrupted the captain, "and i want to tell you--but i don't want my niece to hear it as coming from me--that that whole thing is a most abominable lie! that woman has been trying to make people believe i am going to marry her, and she has made a good many believe it, but i would rather cut my throat than marry her. but i have told her what i think of her in a way she can not mistake. and that ends her! i tell you this, mr. easterfield, because i believe you are a good man, and you certainly seem to be a friendly man, and i would like you to know it. i would have liked very much to tell everybody, especially my own flesh and blood, but now i assure you, sir, i am too proud to have her know it through me. let her go on and marry anybody she pleases, and let her think anything she pleases about me. she has been satisfied with her own opinion of me without giving me a chance to explain to her, or to tell her the truth, and now she can stay satisfied with it until somebody else sets her straight." "but this is very hard, captain," said mr. easterfield; "hard on you, hard on her, and hard on all of us, i may say." the captain made no answer to these words, and did not appear to hear them. "i tell you, mr. easterfield," he said presently, "that i did not know until now how much i cared for that girl. i don't mind saying this to you because you come to me like a friend, and i believe in you. yes, sir, i did not know how much i cared for her, and it is pretty hard on me to find out how little she cares for me." "you are wrong there," said mr. easterfield. "my wife tells me that miss asher has frequently talked to her about you and her life here, and it is certain she has--" "oh, that does not make any difference," interrupted the captain. "i am talking about things as they are now. it was all very well as long as things seemed to be going right, but i believe in people who stand by you when things seem to be going wrong, and who keep on standing by you until they know how they are going, and that is exactly what she did not do. now, there was dick lancaster; he came to me and asked me squarely about that affair. to be sure, i cut him off short, for it angered me to think that he, or anybody else, should have such an idea of me, and, besides, it was none of his business. but it should have been her business; she ought to have made it her business; and, even if the thing had stood differently, i would have told her exactly how it did stand; and then she could have said to me what she thought about it, and what she was going to do. but instead of that, she just made up her mind about me, and away went everything. yes, sir, everything. i can't tell you the plans i had made for her and for myself, and, i may say, for dick lancaster. if it suited her, i wanted her to marry him, and if it suited her i wanted to go and live with them in his college town, or any other place they might want to go. again and again, after i knew dick, have i gone over this thing and planned it out this way, and that way, but always with us three in the middle of everything. do you see that?" continued the captain after a slight pause, as he drew from his pocket a dainty little pearl paper-cutter. "that belongs to her. she used to sit out here, and cut the leaves of books as she read them. i can see her little hand now as it went sliding along the edges of the pages. when she went away she left it on the bench, and i took it. and i've kept it in my pocket to take out when i sit here, and cut books with it when i have 'em. i haven't many books that ain't cut, but i've sat here and cut 'em till there wasn't any left. and then i cut a lot of old volumes of coast survey reports. it is a foolish thing for an old man to do, but then--but then--well, you see, i did it." there was a choke in the captain's voice as he leaned over to put the paper-cutter in his pocket and to pick up his pipe, which he had laid on the bench beside him. mr. easterfield was touched and surprised. he would not have supposed the captain to be a man of such tender sentiment. and he took him at once to his heart. "it is a shame," his thoughts ran, "for this man to be separated from the niece he so loves. she is a cold-hearted girl, or she does not understand him. it must not be." had he been a woman he would have said all this, but, being a man, he found it difficult to break the silence which followed the captain's last words. he did not know what to say, although he had no hesitation in making up his mind what he was going to do about it all. he arose. "captain asher," he said, "i have now told you what i thought you should know, and i must take my departure. i would not presume for a moment to offer you any advice in regard to your family affairs, but there is one thing mrs. easterfield and i will interfere with, if we can, for we feel that we have a right to do it, and that is any definite and immediate engagement of your niece. if she should promise herself in marriage at our house we shall feel that we are responsible for it, and that, in fact, we brought it about. whether the match shall seem desirable to you or not, we do not wish to be answerable for it." "oh, i need not be counted in at all," said the captain, who had recovered his composure. "it is her own affair. i suppose it was the news of her father's intended marriage that put her in such a hurry." "you are right," said mr. easterfield. "just like her" the captain exclaimed. "and i don't blame her. i'm with her there" when mr. tom reached broadstone he dismounted at the stable, and walked to the house. nobody was to be seen on the grounds. it was a warm afternoon when those whose hearts were undisturbed by the turmoils of love were apt to be napping, and those who were in the tumultuous state of mind referred to, preferred to separate themselves from each other and the rest of the world until the cause of their inquietude should consider the heat of the summer day as sufficiently mitigated for her to appear again among her fellow beings. mr. easterfield did not care to meet any of his guests, and hoped to find his wife in her room, that he might report, and consult. but, as he approached the house, he saw at an upper window a female head. it stayed there just long enough for him to see that it was olive's head; then it disappeared. when he reached the hall door there stood olive. mr. tom was a little disappointed. he wanted to see his wife immediately, and then to see olive. but he could not say so. "well," said the girl, coming down the steps, "it looks as if we had arranged to meet. but although we didn't, let's take a little walk. i have something i want to say to you." mr. easterfield turned, and walked away from the house. he was a masterful man, and did not like to have his plans interfered with. therefore he made a dash, and had the first word. "miss asher," said he, "i am glad to hear anything you have to say, but first you must really listen to me." olive looked at him with surprise. she also was a masterful person, and not accustomed to be treated in this way. but he gave her no chance. "miss asher," said he, "i have come to you to speak for one of your lovers, the truest, best lover you ever had, and i believe, ever will have." olive looked at him steadfastly, and her face grew hard. "mr. easterfield," she said, "this will not do. i have told you i will not have it. mrs. easterfield and you have been very good and kind, and i have told you everything, but you do not seem to remember one thing i have said. i will not have anybody forced upon me; no matter if he happens to be an angel from heaven, or no matter how much better he may be than anybody else on earth. i have my reasons for this determination. they are good reasons, and, above all, they are my reasons. i don't want you to think me rude, but if you persist in forcing that gentleman upon my attention, i shall have to request that the whole subject be dropped between us." "who in the name of common sense do you think i am talking about?" exclaimed mr. tom. "do you think i refer to mr. lancaster?" "i do," she said. "you know you would not come to plead the cause of any one of the others." he looked down at her half doubtfully, wondering a little how she would take what he was going to say. "you are mistaken," he said quietly. "i have nothing whatever to say about mr. lancaster. the lover i speak of is your uncle." then her face turned red. "why do you use that expression? did he send you to say it?" "not at all. i came of my own free will. i went to see captain asher immediately after i left you. perhaps you are thinking that i have no right to intrude in your family affairs, but i do not mind your thinking that. i had a long talk with your uncle. i found that the uppermost sentiment of his soul was his love for you. you had come into his life like the break of day. every little thing you had owned or touched was dear to him because it had been yours, or you had used it. all his plans in life had been remade in reference to you." they had stopped and were standing facing each other. they could not walk and talk as they were talking. "yet, but," she exclaimed, her face pale and her eyes fixed steadfastly upon him, "but what of that--" "there are no yets and buts," he exclaimed, half angry with her that she hesitated. "i know what you were going to say, but that woman you have heard of is nothing to him. he hates her worse than you hate her. she has imposed upon you; how i know not; but she is an impostor." at this instant she seized him by the arm. "mr. easterfield," she cried, and as she spoke the tears were running down her cheeks, "please let me have a carriage--something covered! i would go on my wheel, for that would be quicker, but i don't want anybody to speak to me or see me! will you have it brought to the back door, mr. easterfield, please? i will run to the house, and be waiting when it comes." she did not wait for him to answer. he did not ask her where she was going. he knew very well. she ran to the house, and he hurried to the stable. having given his orders, mr. tom went in search of his wife. the moment had arrived when it was absolutely necessary to let her know what was going on. he found her in her own room. "where on earth have you been?" she exclaimed. "i have been looking everywhere for you." in as few words as possible he told her where he had been, and what he had done. "and where are you going now?" she asked. "i am going to change my coat," said the good mr. tom. "after my ride to the toll-gate and back this jacket is too dusty for me to drive with her." "drive with her" exclaimed mrs. easterfield. "it will be very well for you to get rid of some of that dust, but when the carriage comes i will drive with olive to see her uncle." and thus it happened that mr. tom stayed at home with the house party while the close carriage, containing his wife and that dear girl, olive asher, rolled swiftly southward over the smooth turnpike road. _chapter xxvi_ _a stop at the toll-gate._ the four lovers at broadstone walked, and wandered, and waited, after breakfast that morning, but only one of them knew definitely what he was waiting for, and that was mr. locker. he was waiting for half-past twelve o'clock, when he would join miss asher, if she gave him an opportunity; and he was sure she would give him one, for she was always to be trusted. he intended this interview to be decisive. it would not do for him to wait any longer; yes or no must be her word. she had been walking down by the river with the best clothes on the premises, and he now feared the owner of those clothes more than anybody else. he was a keen-sighted young man, for otherwise how could he have been a poet, and he assured himself that miss asher was taking hemphill seriously. so mr. locker determined to charge the works of the enemy that day before luncheon. when the conflict was over his flag might float high and free or it might lie trampled in the dust, but the battle should be fought, and no quarter would be asked or given. as for mr. hemphill and mr. du brant, they simply wandered, and waited, and bored the rest of the company. they did not care to do anything, for that might embarrass them in case miss asher appeared and wished to do something else; they did not want to stay in the house because she might show herself somewhere out of doors; they did not want to stay on the grounds because at any moment she might seat herself in the library with a book; above all things, they wanted to keep away from each other; and their indeterminate peregrinations made sick the souls of mr. and mrs. fox. the diplomat did not know what he was going to do when he saw miss asher alone; everything would depend upon surrounding circumstances, for he was quick as well as wary, and could make up his mind on the instant. but good rupert hemphill had not even as much decision of purpose as this. he had already spent half an hour with the lady of his love, and he had not been very happy. delighted that she had permitted him to join her, he had at once begun to speak of the one great object which dominated his existence, but she had earnestly entreated him not to do so. "it is such a pity," she had said, "for us never to talk of anything but that. there are so many things i like to talk about, especially the things of which i read. i am now reading charles lamb--that is, whenever i get a chance--and i don't believe anybody in these days ever does read the works of that dear old man. there is a complete set of his books in the library, and they do not look as if they had ever been opened. did you ever read his little essays on popular fallacies? some of them are just as true as they can be, although they seem like making fun, especially the one about the angry man being always in the wrong. i am inclined to side with the angry man. i know i am generally right when i am angry." mr. hemphill had not read these little essays, nor had he admitted that he had never read anything else by mr. lamb; but he had agreed that it was very common to be both angry and right. then olive had talked to him about other books, and his way had become very rough and exceedingly thorny, and he had wished he knew how to bring up the subject of some new figures in the german. but he had not succeeded in doing this. she had been in a bookish mood, and the mood had lasted until she had left him. now he began to think that it would be better for him to give up wandering and waiting and go into the library and prepare himself for another talk with olive, but he did not go; she might see him and suspect his design. he would wait until later. he took some books to his room. dick lancaster wandered and waited, but he was full of a purpose, although it was not exactly definite; he wanted to find mrs. easterfield and ask her to release him from his promise. he could not remain much longer at broadstone, and olive's morning walk with hemphill had made him very nervous. she knew that these young men were in love with her, and he had a right to let her know that he was also. it might be imprudent for him to do this, but he could not see why it would not be as imprudent at any other time as now. moreover, there might come no other time, and he had control of now. mrs. easterfield had not joined her guests because of her anxiety about olive. mr. easterfield did not appear. for a time he was very particularly engaged in the garden. mr. fox grew very much irritated. "i tell you, my dear," said he, "every one who comes here makes this place more stupid and dull. i can't see exactly any reason for it, but these lovers are at the bottom of it. i hate lovers." "you should be very glad, my dear," replied mrs. fox, "that i was not of your opinion in my early life." but things changed for the better after a time. it is true that mrs. easterfield and olive did not appear, but mr. easterfield showed himself, and did it with great advantage. the simple statement that his wife and miss asher had gone to make a call caused a feeling of relief to spread over the whole party. until the callers returned there was no reason why they should not all enjoy themselves, and mr. easterfield was there to show them how to do it. as the broadstone carriage rolled swiftly on there was not much conversation between its occupants. to the somewhat sensitive mind of mrs. easterfield it seemed that olive was a little disappointed at the change of companions, but this may have been a mere fancy. the girl was so wrapped up in self-concentrated thought that it was not likely that she would have talked much to any one. suddenly, however, olive broke out: "mr. easterfield must be a thoroughly good man" she said. "he is," assented the other. "and you have always been entirely satisfied with him?" "entirely," was the reply, without a smile. now olive turned her face toward her companion and laid her hand upon her arm. "you ought to be a happy woman," she said. "now, what is this girl thinking of?" asked mrs. easterfield to herself. "is she imagining that any one of the young fellows who are now besieging her can ever be to her what tom is to me? or is she making an ideal of my husband to the disparagement of her own lovers? whichever way she thinks, she would better give up thinking." but the somewhat sensitive mrs. easterfield need not have troubled herself. the girl had already forgotten the good mr. tom, and her mind was intent upon getting to her uncle. "will you please ask the man to stop," she said, "before he gets to the gate, and let me out? then perhaps you will kindly drive on to the tollhouse and wait for me. i will not keep you waiting long." the carriage stopped, and olive slipped out, and, before mrs. easterfield had any idea of what she was going to do, the girl climbed the rail fence which separated the road from the captain's pasture field. between this field and the garden was a picket fence, not very high; and, toward a point about midway between the little tollhouse and the dwelling, olive now ran swiftly. when she had nearly reached the fence she gave a great bound; put one foot on the upper rail to which the pickets were nailed; and then went over. what would have happened if the sharp pales had caught her skirts might well be imagined. but nothing happened. "that was a fine spring" said mrs. easterfield to herself. "she has seen him in the house, and wants to get there before he hears the carriage." olive walked quietly through the garden to the house. she knew that her uncle was not at the gate, for from afar she had seen that the little piazza on which he was wont to sit was empty. she went noiselessly into the hall, and looked into the parlor. by a window in the back of the room she saw her uncle writing at a little table. with a rush of air she was at his side before he knew she was in the room. as he turned his head her arms were around his neck, and the pen in his hand made a great splotch of ink upon her white summer dress. "now, uncle," she exclaimed, looking into his astonished face, "here i am and here i am going to stay! and if you want to know anything more about it, you will have to wait, for i am not going to make any explanations now. i am too happy to know that i have a dear uncle left to me in this world, and to know that we two are going to live together always to want to talk about whys and wherefores." "but, olive" exclaimed the captain. "there are no buts," she interrupted. "not a single but, my dear uncle john! i have come back to stay with you, and that is all there is about it. mrs. easterfield is outside in her carriage, and i must go and send her away. but don't you come out, uncle john; i have some things to say to her, and i will let you know when she is going." as olive sped out of the room captain asher turned around in his chair and looked after her. tears were running down his swarthy cheeks. he did not know how or why it had all happened. he only knew that olive was coming back to live with him! meantime old jane was entertaining mrs. easterfield at the toll-gate, where no money was paid, but a great deal of information gained. the old woman had seen miss olive run into the house, and she was elated and excited, and consequently voluble. mrs. easterfield got the full account of the one-sided courtship of the captain and miss port. even the concluding episode of maria having been put to bed had somehow reached the ears of old jane. it is really wonderful how secret things do become known, for not one of the three actors in that scene would have told it on any account. but old jane knew it, and told it with great glee, to mrs. easterfield's intense enjoyment. then she proceeded to praise olive for the spirit she had shown under these trying circumstances; and, in this connection, naturally there came into the recital the spirit the old woman herself had shown under these same trying circumstances, and how she had got all ready to leave the minute the nuptial knot was tied and before that maria port could reach the toll-gate, although it was like tearing herself apart to leave the spot where she had lived so many years. "but," she concluded, "it is all right now. the captain tells me it's all a lie of her own makin'. she's good at that business, and if lies was salable she'd be rich." just as the old woman reached this, what seemed to her unsophisticated mind, impossible business proposition, olive appeared. mrs. easterfield was surprised to see her so soon, and, to tell the truth, a little disappointed. she had been greatly interested and amused by the old woman's rapid tale, which she would not interrupt, but had put aside in her mind several questions to ask, and one of them was in relation to her husband's late visit to the captain. she had had no detailed account from him, and she wondered how much this old body knew about it. she seemed to know pretty much everything. but olive's appearance put an end to this absorbing conversation. "has you come to stay, dearie?" eagerly asked old jane, as olive grasped her hand. "to be sure i have, jane! i have come to stay forever!" "thank goodness!" exclaimed the old woman. "how the captain will brighten up! but my! i must go and alter the supper!" "mrs. easterfield," said olive, when the old woman had departed, "you will have to go back without me. i can not leave my uncle, and i am going to stay here right along. you must not think i am ungrateful to you, or unmindful of mr. easterfield's great kindness, but this is my place for the present. some day i know you will be good enough to let me pay you another visit." "and what am i to do with all those young men?" asked mrs. easterfield mischievously. she would have added, "and one of them your future husband?" but she remembered the coachman. olive laughed. "they will annoy you less when i am not there. if you will be so good as to ask your maid to pack up my belongings, i will send for my trunk." she glanced at the coachman. "would you mind taking a little walk with me along the road?" "i shall be glad to do so," said mrs. easterfield, getting out of the carriage. "now, my dear mrs. easterfield," said olive when they were some distance from the toll-gate and the house, "i am going to ask you to add to all your kindness one more favor for me." "that has such an ominous sound," said mrs. easterfield, "that i am not disposed to promise beforehand." "it is about those three young men you mentioned." "i mentioned no number, and there are four." "in what i am going to ask of you one of them can be counted out. he is not in the affair. only three are in this business. won't you be so good as to decline them all for me? i know that you can do it better than i can. you have so much tact. and you must have done the thing many a time, and i have not done it once. i am very awkward; i don't know how; and, to confess the truth, i have put myself into a pretty bad fix." "upon my word," cried mrs. easterfield, "that is a pretty thing for one woman to ask of another! "i know it is," said olive, "and i would not ask it of anybody but the truest friend--of no one but you. but you see how difficult it is for me to attend to it. and it must be done. i have given up all idea of marrying, i am going to stay here, and when my father comes with his young lady he will find me settled and fixed, and he and she will have nothing to do with making plans for me. now, dear mrs. easterfield, i know you will do this favor for me, and let me say that i wish you would be particularly gentle and pleasant in speaking to mr. locker. i think he is really a very kind and considerate young man. he certainly showed himself that way. i know you can talk so nicely to him that perhaps he will not mind very much. as for mr. du brant, you can tell him plainly that i have carefully considered his proposition--and that is the exact truth--and that i find it will be wise for me not to accept it. he is a man of affairs, and will understand that i have given him a straightforward, practical answer, and he will be satisfied. you must not be sharp with mr. hemphill, as i know you will be inclined to be. please remember that i was once in love with him, and respect my feelings as well as his. besides, he is good, and he is in earnest, and he deserves fair treatment. i am sorry that i have worried you about him, and i will tell you now that i have found out he would not do at all. i found it out this morning when i was talking to him about books. his mind is neither broad nor cultivated." "i could have told you that," said mrs. easterfield, "and saved you all the trouble of taking that walk by the river." "and then there is one more thing," continued olive; "it is about professor lancaster. i am sure you will agree with me that it will not do for him to come back here. i am just going to start housekeeping again. i've got the supper on my mind this minute. you can't imagine how everything has turned topsy-turvy since i left. i suppose he will be wanting to go north, anyway. in fact, he told me so." mrs. easterfield laughed. she did not believe that mr. lancaster would want to go north, or west, or east, although south might suit him. but she saw the point of olive's request; it would be awkward to have him at the tollhouse. "oh, i will take care of him," she said, "and he shall continue his vacation trip just as soon as mr. easterfield and i choose to give him up." "you see," said olive in an explanatory way, "i have not anything in the world to do with him, but i thought he might want to come back to see uncle again. and, really," she added, speaking with a great deal of earnestness, "i don't want to be bothered with any more young men! and now i will call uncle. you know i had to say all these things to you immediately." mrs. easterfield walked quickly back to her carriage, but she did not wait to see captain asher. as a hostess it was necessary for her to hurry back home; and as a quick-witted, sensible woman she saw that it would be well to leave these two happy people to themselves. this was not the time for them to talk to her. so, when the captain, unwilling to wait any longer, appeared at the door of the house, these two dear friends had kissed and parted, and the carriage was speeding away. on her way home mrs. easterfield forgot her slight chagrin at what her husband had not done, in her joy at what he had accomplished. he had neglected to take her fully into his confidence, and had acted very much as if he had been a naval commander, who had cut his telegraphic connections in order not to be embarrassed by orders from the home government. but, on the other hand, he had saved her from the terrible shock of hearing olive declare that she had just engaged herself to rupert hemphill. if it had not been for the extraordinary promptness of her good tom--a style of action he had acquired in the railroad business--it would have been just as likely as not that olive would have accepted that young man before she had had an opportunity of finding out his want of breadth and cultivation. _chapter xxvii_ _by proxy._ about half-past twelve claude locker made his appearance in the spacious hall. he looked out of the front door; he looked out of the back door; he peered into the parlor; he glanced up the stairway; and then he peeped into the library. he had not seen the lady of the house since her return, and he was waiting for olive. this morning his fate was to be positively decided; he would take a position that would allow of no postponement; he would tell her plainly that a statement that she was not prepared to give him an answer that day would be considered by him as a final rejection. she must haul down her flag or he would surrender and present to her his sword. claude locker saw nothing of miss asher, but it was not long before the lady of the house came down-stairs. "oh, mr. locker," she exclaimed, "i am so glad to see you! come into the library, please." he hesitated a minute. "i beg your pardon," said he, "but i have an appointment--" "i know that," said she, "and you may be surprised to hear that it is with me and not with miss asher. come in and i will tell you about it." claude locker actually ran after his hostess into the library, both of his eyes wide open. "and now," said she, "please sit down, and hear what i have to say." locker seated himself on the edge of a chair; he did not feel happy; he suspected something was wrong. "is she sick?" he asked. "can't she come down?" "she is very well," was the reply, "but she is not here. she is with her uncle." "then i am due at her uncle's house before one o'clock," said he. "no," she answered, "you are due here." he fixed upon her a questioning glance. "miss asher," she continued, "has deputed me to give you her answer. she can not come herself, but she does not forget her agreement with you." the young man still gazed steadfastly. "if it is to be a favorable decision," said he, "i hope you will be able to excuse any exuberance of demeanor on my part." mrs. easterfield smiled. "in that case," she said, "i do not suppose i should have been sent as an envoy." his brow darkened, and instinctively he struck one hand with the other. "that is exactly what i expected!" he exclaimed. "the signs all pointed that way. but until this moment, my dear madam, i hoped. yes, i had presumed to hope that i might kindle in her heart a little nickering flame. i had tried to do this, and i had left but one small match head, which i intended to strike this day. but now i see i had a piece of the wrong end of the match. after this i must be content forever to stay in the cold." "i am glad you view the matter so philosophically," said mrs. easterfield, "and olive particularly desired me to say--" "don't call her olive, if you please," he interrupted. "it is like speaking to me through the partly open door of paradise, through which i can not enter. slam it shut, i beg of you, and talk over the top of the wall." "miss asher wants you to know," continued mrs. easterfield, "that while she has decided to decline your addresses, she is deeply grateful to you for the considerate way in which you have borne yourself toward her. i know she has a high regard for you, and that she will not forget your kindness." mr. locker put his hands in his pockets. "do you know," said he, "as this thing had to be done, i prefer to have you do it than to have her do it. well, it is done now! and so am i!" "you never did truly expect to get her, did you, mr. locker?" asked mrs. easterfield. "never," he answered; "but i do not flinch at what may be impossibilities. nobody, myself included, can imagine that i shall rival keats, and yet i am always trying for it." "is it keats you are aiming at?" she said. "yes," he replied; "it does not look like it, does it? but it is." "and you don't feel disheartened when you fail?" said she. mr. locker took his hands from his pockets, and folded his arms. "yes, i do," he said; "i feel as thoroughly disheartened as i do now. but i have one comfort; keats and miss asher dropped me; i did not drop them. so there is nothing on my conscience. and now tell me, is she going to take lancaster? i hope so." "she could not do that," answered mrs. easterfield, "for i know he has not asked her." "then he'd better skip around lively and do it," said mr. locker, "not only for his own sake, but for mine. if i should be cast aside for the hemphill clothes i should have no faith in humanity. i would give up verse, and i would give up woman." "don't be afraid of anything like that," said mrs. easterfield, laughing. "it may be somewhat of a breach of confidence, but i am going to tell you nevertheless; because i think you deserve it; that i am also deputed to decline the addresses of mr. hemphill, and mr. du brant." "hurrah!" cried locker. "mrs. easterfield, i envy you; and if you don't feel like performing the rest of your mission, you can depute it to me. i don't know anything at this moment that would give me so much joy." "i would not be so disloyal or so cruel as that," said she. "but i shall not be in a hurry. i shall let them eat their lunch in peace and hope." "not much peace," said he. "her empty chair will put that to flight. i know how it feels to look at her empty chair." "then you really love her?" said mrs. easterfield, much moved. "with every fiber," said he. mrs. easterfield found herself much embarrassed at the luncheon table. she had made her husband understand the state of affairs, but had not had time to enter into particulars with him, and she did not find it easy satisfactorily to explain to the company the absence of miss asher without calling forth embarrassing questions as to her return, and she wished carefully to avoid telling them that her guest was not coming back for the present. if she made this known then she feared there might be a scene at the table. mr. hemphill turned pale when, that afternoon, his hostess, in an exceedingly clear and plain manner, made known to him his fate. for a few moments he did not speak. then he said very quietly: "if she had not, of her own accord, told me that she had once loved me, i should never have dared to say anything like that to her." "i do not think you need any excuse, mr. hemphill," said mrs. easterfield. "in fact, if you loved her, i do not see how you could help speaking after what she herself said to you." "that is true," he replied. "and i love her with all my heart!" "she ought never to have told you of that girlish fancy," said his hostess. "it was putting you in a very embarrassing position, and i am bound to say to you, mr. hemphill, that i also am very much to blame. knowing all this, as i did, i should not have allowed you to meet her." "oh, don't say that!" exclaimed mr. hemphill. "don't say that! not for the world would i give up the memory of hearing her say she once loved me! i don't care how many years ago it was. i am glad you let me come here. i am glad she told me. i shall never forget the happiness i have had in this house. and now, mrs. easterfield, let me ask you one thing--" at this moment mrs. easterfield, who was facing the door, saw her husband enter the hall, and by his manner she knew he was looking for her. "excuse me," she said to hemphill, "i will be back in an instant." and she ran out. "tom," she cried, "you must go away. i can not see you now. i am very busy declining the addresses of a suitor, and can not be interrupted." mr. tom looked at her in surprise, although it was not often mrs. easterfield could surprise him. he saw that she was very much in earnest. "well," said he, "if you are sure you are going to decline him i won't interrupt you. and when you have sealed his fate you will find me in my room. i want particularly to see you." mrs. easterfield went back to the library and hemphill continued: "you need not answer if you do not think it is right," said he, "but do you believe at any time she thought seriously of me?" mrs. easterfield smiled as she answered: "now, you see the advantage of an agent in such matters as this. you could not have asked her that question, or if you did she would not answer you. and now i am going to tell you that she did have some serious thought of you. whatever encouragement she gave you, she treated you fairly. she is a very practical young woman--" "excuse me," said hemphill hurriedly, "but if you please, i would rather you did not tell me anything more. sometimes it is not well to try to know too much. i can't talk now, mrs. easterfield, for i am dreadfully cut up, but at the same time i am wonderfully proud. i don't know that you can understand this." "yes, i can," she said; "i understand it perfectly." "you are very kind," he said. as he was about to leave the room he stopped and turned to mrs. easterfield. "is she going to marry professor lancaster?" he asked. "really, mr. hemphill," she replied, "i can not say anything about that. i do not know any more than you do." "well, i hope she may," he said. "it would be a burning shame if she were to accept that austrian; and as for the other little man, he is too ugly. you must excuse me for speaking of your friends in this way, mrs. easterfield, but really i should feel dreadfully if i thought i had been set aside for such a queer customer as he is." mrs. easterfield did not laugh then; but when hemphill had gone, and she had joined her husband, they had a good time together. "and so they all recommend lancaster," said he. "so far," she answered; "but i have yet to hear what mr. du brant has to say." "i think you have had enough of this discarding business," said mr. tom. "you would better leave du brant to me." "oh, no," said she; "i promised olive. and, besides, i think i like it." "i believe you do," said mr. tom. "and now i want to say something important. it is not right that broadstone should be given up entirely to the affairs of miss asher and her lovers. i think, for instance, that our friend fox looks very much dissatisfied." "that is because olive is not here," she replied. "not only that," he answered. "he loses her, and does not get anything else in her place. now, we must make this house lively, as it ought to be. let du brant off for to-day and let us make up a party to go out on the river. we will take two boats, and have some of the men to do the rowing. postpone dinner so we can have a long afternoon." mr. du brant did not go on the river excursion. he had some letters to write, and begged to be excused. he had not asked when miss asher was expected back, or anything about her return. he did not understand the state of affairs, and was afraid he might receive some misleading information. but if she should come that afternoon or the next day he determined to be on the spot. after that he might not be able to remain at broadstone, and it would be a glorious opportunity for him if she should come back that afternoon. it was twilight when the boating party returned. under the genial influence of mr. tom and his wife they had all enjoyed themselves as much as it was possible for them to do so without olive. when claude locker, a little behind the others, reached the top of the hill he perceived, not far away, mr. du brant strolling. these two had not spoken since the night of the interrupted serenade. each of them had desired to avoid words or actions which might disturb the peace of this hospitable home, and consequently had very successfully succeeded in avoiding each other. but now mr. locker walked straight up to the secretary of legation, holding out his hand. "now, mr. du brant," said he, "since we are both in the same boat, let us shake hands and let bygones be bygones." but the young austrian did not take the proffered hand. for a moment he looked as though he were about to turn away without taking any notice of locker, but he had not the strength of mind to do this. he turned and remarked with a scowl: "what do you mean by same boat? i have nothing to do with you on the water or on the land!" mr. locker shrugged his shoulders. "so you have not been told," said he. "told!" exclaimed du brant, now very much interested. "told what?" "that you will have to find out," said the other. "it is not my business to tell you. but i don't mind saying that as i have been told i thought perhaps you might have been." "told what?" exclaimed mr. du brant again, stepping up closer to the other. "don't shout so," said locker; "they will think we are quarreling. didn't i say i am not the person to tell you anything, and if you did not understand me i will say it again." for some seconds the austrian looked steadily at his companion. then he said, "have you been refused by miss asher?" "well," said locker with a sigh, "as that is my business, i suppose i can talk about it if i want to. yes, i have." again du brant was silent for a time. "did she tell you herself?" he asked. "no, she did not," was the answer. "she kindly sent me word by mrs. easterfield. i suppose your turn has not come yet. i was at the head of the list." and, fearing that if he stayed longer he might say too much, mr. locker walked slowly away, whistling disjointedly as he went. that evening mrs. easterfield discovered that she had been deprived of the anticipated pleasure of conveying to mr. du brant the message which olive had sent him. that gentleman, unusually polite and soft-spoken, found her by herself, and thus accosted her: "you must excuse me, madam, for speaking upon a certain subject without permission from you, but i have reason to believe that you are the bearer of a message to me from miss asher." "how in the world did you find that out?" she asked. "it was the--locker," he answered. "i do not think it was his intention to inform me fully; he is not a master of words and expressions; he is a little blundering; but, from what he said, i supposed you were kind enough to be the bearer of such a message." "yes," said mrs. easterfield; "not being able to be here herself, miss asher requested me to say to you that she must decline--" "excuse me, madam," he interrupted, "but it is i who decline. i bear toward you, madam, the greatest homage and respect, but what i had the honor to say to miss asher i said to her alone, and it is only from her that it is possible for me to receive an answer. therefore, madam, it is absolutely necessary that i decline to be a party to the interview you so graciously propose. it breaks my heart, my dear madam, even to seem unwilling to listen to anything you might deign to say to me, but in this case i must be firm, i must decline. can you pardon me, dear madam, for speaking as i have been obliged to speak?" "oh, of course," said mrs. easterfield. "and really, since you know so much, it is not necessary for me to tell you anything more." "ah," said the diplomat, with a little bow and an incredulous expression, as if the lady could have no idea what he might yet know, "i am so much obliged to you! i am so thankful!" _chapter xxviii_ _here we go! lovers three!_ the three discarded lovers of broadstone--all discarded, although one of them would not admit it--would have departed the next day had not that day been sunday, when there were no convenient trains. mr. du brant was due in washington; mr. hemphill was needed very much at his desk, especially since mr. easterfield had decided to spend a few days with his wife; and claude locker wanted to go. when he had finished the thing he happened to be doing it was his habit immediately to begin something else. all was at an end between him and miss asher. he acknowledged this, and he did not wish to stay at broadstone. but, as it could not be helped, they all stayed over sunday. mr. easterfield planned an early afternoon expedition to a mission church in the mountains; it would be a novel experience, and a delightful trip, and everybody must go. in the course of the morning mr. du brant strolled in the eastern parts of the grounds, and mr. locker strolled over that portion of the lawn which lay to the west. mr. du brant did not meet with any one with whom he cared to talk, but mr. locker was fortunate enough to meet miss raleigh. "i am glad to see you," said he; "you are the person above all other persons i wish to talk to." "it delights me to hear that," said the lady, her face showing that she spoke the truth. "let us go over there and sit down," said he. "now, then," he continued, "you were present, miss raleigh, at a very peculiar moment in my life, a momentous moment, i may say. you enjoyed a privilege--if you consider it such--not vouchsafed to many mortals." "i did consider it a privilege, you may be sure," exclaimed miss raleigh, "and i value it. you do not know how highly i value it!" "you heard me offer myself, body and soul, to the lady i loved. you were taken into our confidence, you saw me laid upon the table--" "oh, dreadful!" cried the lady. "don't put it that way." "well, then," said he, "you saw me postponed for future consideration. you promised you would regard everything you heard as confidential; by so doing you enabled me to speak when otherwise i might not have dared to do so. i am deeply grateful to you; and, as you already know so much about my hopes and my aspirations, i think it right you should know all there is to know." the conscience of miss raleigh stirred itself very vigorously within her, and her voice was much subdued as she said: "i am sure you are very good." "well, then," said locker, "the proposal you heard me make has been declined. i am discarded; and not directly in a face-to-face interview, but through another by a message. it would have been inconvenient for miss asher personally to communicate the intelligence, so as mrs. easterfield was coming this way she kindly consented to convey the intelligence." "i declare," exclaimed miss raleigh, "i had not heard of that! mrs. easterfield made me her confidant in the early stages of this affair, or i should say, these affairs. but she has not told me that." "she will doubtless give herself that pleasure later," said locker. "no," said she, "she will not think any more about it. i am of no further use. and may i ask if you know anything about the two other gentlemen?" "both turned down," said locker. "i might have supposed that," answered the lady; "for if miss asher would not take you she certainly would not be content with either of them." "with all my heart i thank you," said locker warmly. "such words are welcome to a wounded heart." for a moment miss raleigh was silent, then she remarked, "it is very hard to be discarded." "you are right there!" exclaimed locker. "but how do you happen to know anything about it?" "i have been discarded myself," she answered. the larger eye of mr. locker grew still larger, the other endeavored to emulate its companion's size; and his mouth became a rounded opening. "discarded?" he cried. "yes," said she. the countenance of the young man was now bright with interest and curiosity. "i don't suppose it would be right to ask you," said he, "even although i have taken you so completely into my confidence--but, never mind. don't think of it. of course, i would not propose such a question." "of course not," said she, "you are too manly for that." and then she was silent again. naturally she hesitated to reveal the secrets of her heart, and to a gentleman with whom her acquaintance was of such recent date; but she earnestly wanted to repose confidence in another, as well as to receive it, and it was so seldom, so very seldom, that such an opportunity came to her. "i do not know," she said, "that i ought to, but still--" "oh, don't, if you don't want to," said locker. "but i think i do want to," she replied. "you are so kind, so good, and you have confided in me. yes, i was once discarded, not exactly by word of mouth, or even by message, but still discarded." "a stranger to me, of course," said locker, his whole form twisting itself into an interrogation-point. "no," said she, "and as i have begun i will go on. it was mr. hemphill." "what!" he exclaimed. "that--" "yes, it was he," said she, speaking slowly, and in a low voice. "he was mr. easterfield's secretary and i was mrs. easterfield's secretary, and, of course, we were thrown much together. he has very good qualities; i do not hesitate now to say that; and they impressed themselves upon me. in every possible way i endeavored to make things pleasant for him. i do not believe that when he was at work he ever wanted a glass of cold water that he did not find it within reach. i early discovered that he was very fond of cold water." "a most commendable dissipation," interrupted locker. "he had no dissipations," said miss raleigh. "his character was unimpeachable. in very many ways i was attracted to him, in very many ways i endeavored to make life pleasant for him; and i am afraid that sometimes i neglected mrs. easterfield's interests so that i might do little things for him, such as dusting, keeping his ink-pots full, providing fresh blotting-paper, and many other trifling services which devotion readily suggested." locker heaved a sigh of commiseration which she mistook for one of sympathy. "i will not go into particulars," she continued, "but at last he discovered that--well, i will be plain with you--he discovered that i loved him. then, sir--it is humiliating to me to say it, but i will not flinch--he discarded me. he did not use words, but his manner was sufficient. never again did i go near his desk, never did i tender him the slightest service. it was a terrible blow! it was humiliating" "i should think so," said locker, "from him" "but i will say no more," she remarked with a sigh. "i have told you what you have heard that you may understand how thoroughly i sympathize with you, for all is over with me in that direction, as i suppose all is over with you in your direction. and now i must go, for this long conference may be remarked. but before i go, i will say that if ever you--" "oh, no, no, no!" interrupted locker, "it would not do at all! i really have begun to believe that i was cut out for a bachelor." "what!" said miss raleigh, with great severity. "do you suppose, sir, that i--" "not at all, not at all" cried locker. "not for one moment do i suppose that you--" "if for one moment," said she, "i had imagined you would suppose--" "but i assure you, miss raleigh, i never did suppose that you would imagine i would think--but if you do suppose i thought you imagined i could possibly conceive--" "but i really did think," said miss raleigh, speaking more gently. "but if i was wrong--" "nay, think no more about it," locker interrupted, "and let us be friends again." he offered her his hand, which she shook warmly, and then departed. it had been arranged that lancaster was not to leave broadstone on the next day. he had expected to do so, but mr. easterfield had planned for a day's fishing for himself, mr. fox, and the professor, and he would not let the latter off. the ladies had accepted an invitation to luncheon that day; the next day some new visitors were expected; and in order not to interfere with mr. easterfield's plans, evidently intended to restore to broadstone some of the social harmony which had recently been so disturbed, dick consented to stay, although he really wanted to go. he could not forget that his vacation was passing. "very well, then," mrs. easterfield remarked to him that sunday evening, "if you must go on tuesday, i suppose you must, although i think it would be better for you if i were to keep my eye on you for a little while longer." "perhaps so," said lancaster, "but the time has come when curb-bits, cages, and good advice are not for me. i must burst loose from everything and go my way, right or wrong, whatever it may be." "i see that," said she; "but if it had not been for the curbed bit and all that, you would be leaving this place a discarded lover, like the rest of them. they depart with their love-affairs finished forever, ended; you go as free to woo, to win, or to lose as you ever were. and you owe this entirely to me, so whatever else you do, don't sneer at my curbs and my cages; to them you owe your liberty." the professor fully appreciated everything she had done for him, and told her so earnestly and warmly. but she interrupted his grateful expressions. "it would have been very hard on me," she said, "if olive had asked me to carry to you the news of your rejection. that is what i did for the others, i suppose you know." "oh, yes," said lancaster; "locker told me." "i might have supposed that," said she. "and now i feel bound to tell you also, although it is not a message, that olive does not expect to see you at her uncle's house. she infers that you are going to continue your vacation journey." "i have made my plans for my journey," said he, "and i do not think, mrs. easterfield, that you will care to have me talk them over with you." "no, indeed," she replied; "i do not want to hear a word about them, but i am going to give you one piece of advice, whether you like it or not. don't be in a hurry to ask her to marry you. at this moment she does not want to marry anybody. her position has entirely changed. she wanted to marry so that her plans might be settled before her father and his new wife arrive; and now she considers that they are settled. so be careful. it is true that the objections she formerly had to you are removed, but before you ask her to marry you, you should seriously ask yourself what reason there is she should do so. she does not know you very well; she is not interested in you; and i am very sure she is not in love with you. now you know, for i have told you so, that i would be delighted to see you two married. i believe you would suit each other admirably, but although you may agree with me in this opinion, i am quite sure she does not; at least, not yet. now, this is all i am going to say, except that you have my very best wishes that you may get her." "i shall never forget that," said he, "but i see i am not to be free from the memory, at least, of the curb and the cage." after breakfast on monday the three discarded lovers departed in a dog-cart, mr. du brant in front with the driver, and claude locker and hemphill behind. for some minutes the party was silent. if circumstances had permitted they would have gone separately. as long as he could see the mansion of broadstone, claude locker spoke no word. when the time had come to go he had not wanted to go. when taking leave of dick lancaster he had congratulated that favored young man upon the fact that he had not been rejected, and had assured him that if he had remained at broadstone he would have done his best to back him up as he had said he would. hemphill was not inclined to talk. of course, locker did not care to converse with the young diplomat, and consequently he found himself bored, and to relieve his feelings he burst into song. his words were impromptu, and although the verse was not very good, it was very impressive. it began as follows: "here we go, lovers three, all steeped deep in miseree." at this mr. hemphill turned and looked at him, while a deep grunt came from the front seat, but the singer kept on without much attention to meter, and none at all to tune. "this is so, here we go, flabbergasted, hopes all blasted, flags half-masted. while it lasted, we poor--" "look here," cried du brant, turning round suddenly, "i beg you desist that. you are insulting. and what you say is not true, as regards me at least. you can sing for yourself." "not true!" cried locker. "oh, ho, oh ho! perhaps you have forgotten yourself, kind sir." this little speech seemed to make du brant very angry, and he fairly shouted at locker: "no, i haven't forgotten myself, and i have not forgotten you! you have insulted me before, and i should like to make you pay for it! i should like to have satisfaction from you, sir" "that sounds well," cried locker. "do you mean to fight?" "i want the satisfaction due to a gentleman," answered the young austrian. "good," cried locker, "that would suit me exactly. it would brighten me up. let's do it now. i am not going to stop at washington, and this is the only time i can give you. driver, can we get to the station in time if we stop a little while?" the person addressed was a young negro who had become intensely interested in the conversation. "oh, yes, sah," he answered. "we'll git dar twenty minutes before de train does, and if you takes half an hour i can whip up. that train's mostly late, anyway." "all right," cried locker. "and now, sir, how shall we fight? what have you got to fight with?" "this is folly," growled du brant. "i have nothing to fight with. i do not fight with fists, like you americans." "haven't you a penknife" coolly asked locker. "if not, i daresay mr. hemphill will lend you one." du brant now fairly trembled with anger. "when i fight," said he, "i fight like a gentleman; with a sword or a pistol." "i am sorry," said locker, "but if i remembered to bring my sword and pistol i must have put them in the bottom of my trunk, and that has gone on to the station. have you two pistols or swords with you? or do you think you could get sufficient satisfaction out of a couple of piles of stones that we could hurl at each other?" du brant made no english answer to this, but uttered some savage remarks in french. "do you understand what all that means?" inquired locker of hemphill, who had been quietly listening to what had been going on. "yes," said the other, "he is cursing you up hill, and down dale." "oh," said locker, "it sounds to me as if he were calculating his last week's expenses. but when he gets to french cursing, i drop him. i can't fight him that way." the colored boy now showed that he was very much disappointed. he had expected the pleasure of a fight, and he was afraid he was going to lose it. "i tell you, sah," he said to locker, "why don't you try kick-shins? do you know what kick-shins is? you don't know what kick-shins is? well, kick-shins is this: one fellow stands in front of the other fellow, and one takes hold of the collar of the other fellow, and the other fellow takes hold of his collar, and then they kicks each other's shins, and the one what squeals fust, he's licked, and the other one gits the gal. you've got pretty thin shoes, sah," addressing du brant, "and your feet ain't half as big as his'n, but your toes is more p'inted." "no kick-shins for me," said locker. "i've got to be economical about my clothes." du brant's rage now became ungovernable. "do you apologize," he cried, "or i take you by the throat, and i strangle you." hemphill, who had been smiling mildly at the kick-shin proposition, now turned himself about. "you will not do that," he said, "and if you don't sit quiet and keep your mouth shut, i'll toss you out of this cart, and make you walk the rest of the way to the station." as hemphill looked quite big and strong enough to execute this threat, and as he was too quiet a man to be ignored, du brant turned his face to the horse, and said no more. "i did not know you were such a trump" cried locker. "give me your hand. i should hate to be strangled by a foreigner!" when they took the train du brant went by himself into the smoking-car, and locker and hemphill had a seat together. "do you know," said locker, "i am beginning to like you, although i must admit that before this morning i can remember no feeling of the sort." "that is not surprising," said hemphill. "a man is not generally fond of his rival." "we will let it go at that," said locker, "we'll let it go at that! i should not wonder, if we had all stayed at broadstone; and if the central object of interest had also remained; and, if i had failed, as i have failed, to make the proper impression; and if the professor, whom i promised to back up in case i should find myself out of the combat, should also have failed; i should not wonder if i had backed up you." _chapter xxix_ _two pieces of news._ it was nearly two weeks after mrs. easterfield drove away from the captain's toll-gate before she went back there again. there were many reasons for thus depriving herself of olive's society. mr. tom had stayed with her for an unusually long time; a house full of visitors, mostly relatives, had succeeded the departed lovers, and foxes; and, besides, olive was so very busy and so very happy--as she learned from many little notes--cleaning the house from garret to cellar, and loving her uncle better every day, that it really would have been a misdemeanor to interfere with her ardent pursuits. but now olive had written that she wanted to tell her a lot of things which could not go into a letter, and so the broadstone carriage stopped again at the toll-gate. two great things had olive to tell, and she was really glad that her uncle was not at home so that she might get at once to the telling. in the first place, old mr. port was dead, and captain asher was in great trouble about this. of course, he could not keep away from the deathbed of his old friend, nor could he neglect to do all honor to his memory, but it was a terrible thing for him to have to go into the house where maria port lived. after what had happened it was almost too much for his courage, although he was a brave man. but he had conquered his feelings, and he was there now. the funeral would be to-morrow. when mrs. easterfield heard all that olive had to tell her about maria port, her heart went out to that brave man who kept the toll-gate. the next thing that olive had to tell was that she had heard from her father, who wrote that he would soon arrive in this country; that he would then go west, where he would marry olive's former schoolmate; and that, on their wedding tour, he would make a little visit at the tollhouse so that olive might see her new mother. "now, isn't this enough," cried olive, "to make any girl spread her wings and fly to the ends of the earth? but i have no wings; they have all gone away in a dog-cart. but i don't feel about that as i used to feel," she continued, a little hardness coming into her face. "i am settled now just the same as if i were married, and father and edith malcolmsen may come just as soon as they please. they shall make no plans for me; i am going to stay here with uncle john. this house is mine now, and i am seriously thinking of having it painted. i shall stay here just as if i were one of those trees, and my father and my new mother--" here tears came into olive's eyes and mrs. easterfield stopped her. "olive," said she, "i will give you a piece of advice. when your father and his young wife come here, treat her exactly as if she were your old friend. if you do so i think you will get along very well. this is partly selfish advice, for i greatly desire the opportunity to treat your father hospitably. he was my friend when i was a girl, you remember, and i looked up to him with very great admiration." and so these two friends sat and talked, and talked, and talked until it was positively shameful, considering that the broadstone horses were accustomed to be fed and watered at noon, and that the coachman was very hungry. when, at last, mrs. easterfield drove home, and it must have been three in the afternoon, she left olive very much comforted, even in regard to the unfortunate obligations which had fallen upon her uncle. for now that her old father had gone, all intercourse with the port woman would cease. but in her own mind mrs. easterfield was not so very much comforted. it was all well enough to talk about olive and her uncle and the happiness and safety of the home he had given her, but that sort of thing could not last very long. he was an elderly man and she was a girl. in the natural course of events, she would probably be left alone while she was very young. she would then be alone, for her father's wife could never be a mother to her when he was at sea, and their home would never be a home for her when he was on shore. what olive wanted, in mrs. easterfield's opinion, was a husband. an uncle, such as captain asher, was very charming, but he was not enough. during this pleasant afternoon, when captain asher was in town attending to some arrangements for the burial of mr. port, miss maria was sitting discreetly alone in her darkened chamber. she had a great many things to think about, and if she had allowed her conscience full freedom of action, there would have been much more upon her mind. she might have been troubled by the recollection that since her father's very determined treatment of her when she had endeavored to fix herself upon the affections of captain asher, she had so conducted herself toward her venerable parent that she had actually nagged the life out of him; and that had she been the dutiful daughter she ought to have been he might have been living yet. but thoughts of this nature were not common to maria port. she had made herself sure that the will was all right, and he was very old. there was a time for all things, and maria was now about to begin life for herself. to her plans for this new life she now gave almost her sole attention. she had one great object in view which overshadowed everything else, and this was to marry captain asher. this she could have done before, she firmly believed, had it not been for her old father and that horrid girl, the captain's niece. as for the elderly man who kept the toll-gate she did not mind him. if not interfered with, she was sure she could make him marry her, and then the great ambition of her life would be satisfied. unpretentious as was her establishment in town, she did not care to spend the money necessary to keep it up, and although she was often an unkind woman, she was not cruel enough to think of inflicting herself as a boarder upon any housewife in the town. no, the toll-gate was the home for her; and if captain asher chose to inflict himself upon her for a few years longer, she would try to endure it. one obstacle to her plans was now gone, and she must devote herself to the work of getting rid of the other one. while olive asher remained at the tollhouse there was no chance for her in that quarter. the funeral was over, and when the bereaved miss port took leave of captain asher she exhibited a quiet gratitude which was very becoming and suitable. during the short time when he had visited the house every day she had showed him no resentment on account of what had passed between them, and had treated him very much as if he had been one of her father's old friends with whom she was not very well acquainted and to whom she was indebted for various services connected with the sad occasion. when he took final leave of her he shook her hand, and as he did so he gave her a peculiar grasp which, in his own mind, indicated that he and she had now nothing more to do with each other, and that the acquaintance was adjourned without day. she bade him a simple farewell, and as he left the house she grinned at his broad back. this grin expressed, to herself at least, that the old and rather faulty acquaintance was at an end, and that the new connection which she intended to establish between herself and him would be upon an entirely different basis. he did not ask her if there was anything more that he could do for her, for he did not desire to mix himself up with her affairs, which he knew she was eminently able to manage for herself, and it was with a deep breath of relief that he got into his buggy and drove home to his toll-gate. _chapter xxx_ _by the sea._ when lieutenant asher and his bride arrived at his brother's toll-gate they were surprised as well as delighted by the cordiality of their greeting. each of them had expected a little stiffness during the first interview, but there was nothing of the kind, although young mrs. asher was bound to admit, when she took time to think upon the subject, that olive treated her exactly as if she had been a dear old schoolmate, and not at all as her father's wife. this made things very pleasant and easy at that time, she thought, although it might have to be corrected a little after a while. things were all very pleasant, and there never had been so much talk at the tollhouse since the first stone of its foundation had been laid. the day after the arrival of the newly married couple mrs. easterfield called upon them, and invited the whole family to dinner. "i have never realized how much she must have thought of my parents!" said olive to herself, as she gazed upon her father and mrs. easterfield. "they are so very glad to see each other!" she did not know that lieutenant asher had been to the present mrs. easterfield almost as much of a divinity as mr. hemphill had been to her girlish fancy; the difference being that the young cadet was well aware of the adoration of this child, not yet in long dresses, and greatly enjoyed and encouraged it. when, a few years later, the child heard of his marriage, she had outgrown the love with the lengthening of the skirts. but she had a tender recollection of it which she cherished. the dinner the next day was a great success, and after it the lieutenant and mrs. easterfield earnestly discussed olive when they had the opportunity for a _tête-à-tête_. she was so much to each of them, and he was grateful that his daughter had fallen under the influence of this old friend, now a charming woman. "she is so beautiful," said the lady, "that she ought to be married as soon as possible to the most suitable bachelor in the united states." "not so fast! not so fast" said the lieutenant. "edith and i are going to housekeeping very soon, and then we shall want olive." mrs. easterfield smiled, but made no reply. when the lieutenant and his wife, with olive, came a few days afterward to make their proper dinner call, he found an occasion to speak to their hostess. "do you know," said he, "that this is a strange girl of mine?" she positively refuses to come and live with us. we had counted upon having her, and had made all our arrangements for it. she is as good and nice as she can be, but we can not move her." "you ought not to try," said mrs. easterfield; "it would be a shame for her to go away and leave her uncle. you have one young lady, and you should not ask for both. olive must marry, and the captain must go and live with her." "have you arranged all that?" said he. "i remember you were a great schemer when quite a little girl." "i am as great as ever," said she. "and i have selected the gentleman." "oh, ho!" cried the lieutenant. "and is that all settled? olive should have told me that." "she could not do it," said mrs. easterfield; "for it is not all settled. there are some obstacles in the way; and the greatest of them is that she does not love him." the lieutenant laughed. "then that is settled. i know olive." mrs. easterfield flushed, and then laughed. "i doubt that knowledge. it is certain you do not know me! the young man loves her with all his heart; there is no objection to him; and i am most earnestly in favor of the match." "ah" said the lieutenant, with a bow; "if that is the case, i must get a pencil and paper and calculate what i can give her for her trousseau. i hope the wedding will not come off very soon, for i am decidedly short at present, on account of recent matrimonial expenses. would you mind telling me his name? is he naval?" "oh, no," said she; "he is pedagogy." "what!" he cried, his eyes wide open. then she laughed and told him all about dick lancaster. "of course," concluded mrs. easterfield, "i can not ask you not to speak to _anybody_ about what i have told you, but i do hope you will prevent its getting to olive's ears. i am afraid it would make a breach between us if she knew that i was trying to make a match for her. and, you see, that is exactly what i am doing." "and you are right," said the lieutenant; "and what is more, i am with you! you don't know," he added in a softer tone, "how grateful i am to you for your care of olive now that my dear wife is gone!" for the moment he totally forgot that his dear wife had merely gone to the edge of the bluff with the captain and olive to look at the river. that evening, as they sat together, lieutenant asher told his brother all that mrs. easterfield had confided to him about dick lancaster. the captain was delighted. "that is what i have wanted," he said, "almost from the beginning, and i want it more than ever now. i am getting to be an old fellow, and i want to see her settled before i sail." "you know, john," said the lieutenant, "that i find olive is a little more of a girl of her own mind than she used to be. i don't believe she would rest quietly under the housekeeping of a girl so nearly her own age." the captain gave some vigorous puffs. "i should think not!" he said to himself. "olive would have that young woman swabbing the decks before they had been out three days! you are right," said he aloud, "but we must all look out that olive does not hear anything about this." it was not until they were continuing their bridal trip that lieutenant asher considered the subject of mentioning dick lancaster to his wife. then, after considering it, he concluded not to do it. in the first place, he knew that he was getting to be a little bit elderly, and he did not care about discussing the perfections of the young man who had been selected as a suitable partner for his wife's school friend. this was all very foolish, of course, but people often are very foolish. thus it was that olive asher never heard of the tripartite alliance between her father, her uncle, and her good friend at broadstone. when captain asher learned, a few days after his brother had left, that the broadstone family had gone to the seashore, he sat reflectively and asked himself if he were doing the right thing by olive. the season was well advanced; it was getting very hot at the toll-gate, and at many other gates in that region; and this navy girl ought to have a breath of fresh air. it is wonderful that he had not thought of it before! at breakfast the next morning olive stopped pouring coffee when he told her his plans to go to the sea. "with you, uncle john!" she cried. "that would be better than anything in the world! you sail a boat?" she asked inquiringly. "sail a boat!" roared the captain. "i have a great mind to kick over this table! my dear, i can sail a boat, keel uppermost, if the water's deep enough! sail a boat!" he repeated. "i sailed a catboat from boston to egg harbor before your mother was born. by the way, you seem very anxious about boat sailing. are you afraid of the water?" she laughed gaily. "i deserve that," she said, "and i accept it. but perhaps i have done something that you never did. i have sailed a felucca." "very good," said the captain; "if there's a felucca where we're going you can sail me in one." they went to a virginia seaside resort, these two, and left old jane in charge of the toll-gate. early in the day after they arrived they went out to engage a boat. when they found one which suited the captain's critical eye, he said to the owner thereof: "i will take her for the morning, but i don't want anybody to sail me. i will do that myself." "i don't know about that," said the man; "when my boat goes out--" he stopped speaking suddenly and looked the captain over and over, up and down. "all right, sir," said he. "and you don't want nobody to manage the sheet?" "no," interpolated olive, "i'll manage the sheet." so they went out on the bounding sea. and as the wind whistled the hat off her head so that she had to fling it into the bottom of the boat, olive wished that her uncle kept a toll-gate on the sea. then she could go out with him and stop the little boats and the great steamers, and make them drop seven cents or thirteen cents into her hands as she stood braced in the stern; and she was just beginning to wonder how she could toss up the change to them if they dropped her a quarter, when the captain began to sing tom bowline. he was just as gay-hearted as she was. it was about noon when they returned, for the captain was a very particular man and he had hired the boat only for the morning. olive had scarcely taken ten steps up the beach before she found herself shaking hands with a young man. "how on earth!" she exclaimed. "it was not on earth at all," he said; "i came by water. i wanted to find out if what i had heard of the horrors of a coastwise voyage were true; and i found that it was absolutely correct." "but here!" she exclaimed. "why here? you could not have known!" "of course not," he answered; "if i had known i am sure i would have felt that i ought not to come. but i didn't know, and so you see i am as innocent as a butterfly. more innocent, in fact, for that little wagwings knows where he ought not to go, and he goes there all the same." captain asher was still at the boat, making some practical suggestions to her owner; who, being not yet forty, had many things to learn about the sails and rigging of a catboat. "mr. locker," said olive, looking at him very intently, "did you come here to renew any of your previous performances?" "as a serenader?" said he. "oh, no! but perhaps you mean as a love-maker?" "that is it," said olive. mr. locker took off his hat, and rubbed his head. "no," said he, "i didn't; but i wish i could say i did. but that's impossible. i presume i am right in assuming this impossibility?" "entirely," said olive. "and, furthermore, i truly didn't know you were here. i think you may rest satisfied that that flame is out, although--by the way, i believe i could make some verses on that subject containing these lines: "'i do not want the flame, i better like the coal--' meaning, of course, that i hope our friendship may continue." she smiled. "there are no objections to that," she said. "perhaps not, perhaps not," he said, clutching his chin with his hand; "but some other lines come into my head. of course, he didn't want the coal to go out. "'he blew too hard, the flame revived.'" "that will do! that will do!" cried olive. "i don't want any more of that poem." "and the result of it all," said he, "is only a burnt match." "nothing but a bit of charcoal," added olive. at this moment up came the captain. olive had told him all about mr. locker, and he was not glad to see him. olive noticed this, and she spoke quickly. "here's mr. locker, uncle; he has dropped down quite accidentally at this place." "oh" said the captain incredulously. "you know he used to like me too much. but he knows me better now." "charming frankness of friendship!" said locker. "and as i like him very much, i am glad he is here," continued olive. the young man bowed in gratitude, but olive's words embarrassed him somewhat, and he did not know exactly what would be suitable for him to say. so he took refuge in a change of subject. "captain," said he, "can you fish?" a look of scornful amazement showed itself upon the old mariner's face. "i have tried it," said he. "and so have i," cried locker, "but i never had any luck in fishing and--some other things. i am vilely unlucky. i expect that's because i don't know how to fish." "it is very likely," said olive, "that your bad luck comes from not knowing where to fish." the young man took off his hat and held it for a little while, although the sun was very hot. during the course of that afternoon and evening captain asher grew to like claude locker. the young man told such gravely comical stories, especially about his experiences in boats and on the water, that the captain was very glad he had happened to drop down upon that especial watering-place. he wanted olive to have some society besides his own, and a discarded lover was better than any other young man they might meet. he knew that olive was a girl who would not go back on her word. _chapter xxxi_ _as good as a man._ the next day our three friends went fishing in a catboat belonging to the young seaman of forty, and they took their dinner with them, although mr. locker declared that he did not believe that he would want any. they had a good time on the water, for the captain had made careful inquiries about the best fishing grounds, and the mishaps of locker were so numerous and so provocative of queer remarks from himself, that the captain and olive sometimes forgot to pull up their fish, so preengaged were they in laughing. the sky was bright, the water smooth, and even mr. locker caught fish, although it might have been thought that he did everything possible to prevent himself doing so. when their boat ran up the beach late in the afternoon the captain and olive were still laughing, and mr. locker was as sober as a soda-water fountain from which spouts such intermittent sparkle. dear as was the toll-gate, this was a fine change from that quiet home. the next morning, upon the sand, claude locker approached olive. "would you like to decline my addresses for the second time?" he abruptly asked. "of course not" she exclaimed. "well, then," said he, extending his hand, "good-by!" "what are you talking about?" said olive. "what does this mean?" "it means," said he, "that i have fallen in love with you again. i think i am rather worse than i was before. if i stay here i shall surely propose. nothing can stop me--not even the presence of your uncle if it is impossible for me to see you alone--and, if you don't want any of that, it is necessary that i go, and go quickly." "of course i don't want it," she said. "but why need you be so foolish? we were getting along so nicely as friends. i expected to have lots of fun here with you and uncle." "fun!" groaned locker. "it might have been fun for you and the captain, but what of the poor torn heart? i know i must go, and now. if i stay here five minutes longer i shall be at your feet, and it will be far better if i take to my own. good-by!" and, with a warm grasp of her hand, he departed. olive looked after him as he walked to the hotel. if he had known how much she regretted to see him go he would have come back, and all his troubles would have begun again. "hello!" cried the captain when locker had entered the house, "i was looking for you. we can run out, and have some fishing this morning. the tide will suit. you did so well yesterday that i think to-day. i can even teach you to take out a hook." "take out a hook?" said locker. "i have a hook within me which no man in this world, and but one woman, can take out. and as this she must not even be asked to do, i go. farewell!" "what's the matter with the young man" asked the captain of olive a little later. "oh, he has fallen in love with me again," said olive, with a sigh, "and, of course, that spoils everything. i wish people could be more sensible." the captain looked down upon her admiringly. "i don't see any hope for people," he said. and this was the first personal compliment he had ever paid his niece. when claude locker had gone, olive missed him more than she thought she could miss anybody. much of the life seemed to have gone out of the place, and the captain's high spirits waned as if he was suffering from the depression which follows a stimulant. "if that young fellow had been better-looking," said the captain, "if he had more solid sense, and a good business, with both his eyes alike, i might have been more willing to let him go." "if he had been all that," asked olive with a smile, "why shouldn't you have been willing to let him stay?" the captain did not answer. no matter what young locker might have been, he could never have been dick lancaster. "uncle," said olive that afternoon, "where shall we go next?" "i don't know," said he, "but let's go to-morrow. i don't believe i like so many strangers except when they pay toll." they traveled about a good deal; and in a general way enjoyed themselves; but they were both old travelers, and mere novelty was not enough for them. each loved the company of the other, but each would have liked to have locker along. it grieved olive to think that she wanted him, or anybody, but she would not even try to deceive herself. the weather grew cooler, and she said to her uncle: "let us go back to the toll-gate; it must be perfectly beautiful there now, with the mountains putting on their gold and red." so they started for home, planning for a stop in washington on their way. brightness and people were coming back to washington. the air was cooler, and city life was stirring. olive and her uncle stayed several days longer than they had intended; as most people do who visit washington. on one of these days as they were returning to their hotel from the smithsonian grounds, where they had been looking at autumn leaves from all quarters of this wide land; many of them unknown to them; they looked with interest from the shaded grounds on one side of the street to the great public building on the other side, which they were then passing, and at the broad steps ascending from the sidewalk to the basement floor. as they moved on thus slowly they noticed a man standing upon the upper steps of one of these stairs. his back was toward them; and, as their eyes fell upon him he stepped upon the upper sidewalk. he was walking with a cane which seemed to be rather short for him. he stood still for a moment, and appeared to be waiting for some one. then, suddenly his whole frame thrilled with nervous action; he slightly lowered his head, and, in an instant, he brought his cane to his shoulder, as if it had been a gun. the captain had seen that sort of thing before. it was an air-gun. without a word he made a dash at the man. he was elderly, but in a case like this he was swift. as he ran he glanced out in the direction in which the gun was aimed. along the broad, sunlighted avenue a barouche was passing. on the back seat sat two gentlemen, well-dressed, erect. even in a flash one would notice an air of dignity in their demeanor. there was not time to strike down the weapon, but before the man had heard steps behind him the captain gave him a tremendous blow between the shoulders which staggered him, and spoiled his aim. then the captain seized the air-gun. there was a whiz, and a click on the pavement. then the man turned. his black eyes flashed out of a swarthy face nearly covered with beard; his soft hat had fallen off when the captain struck him, and his black hair stood up like bristles on a shoe-brush. he was not a large man; he wore a loose woolen jacket; his sleeves were short, and his hands were hairy. all this olive saw, for she had been quick to follow her uncle; but the captain, who firmly held the air-gun, saw nothing but the glaring face of a devil. the man jerked furiously at the gun, but the captain's grasp was too strong. then the fellow released his hold upon the gun, and, with a savage fury, threw himself upon the older man. the two stood near the top of the steps, and the shock of the attack was so great that both fell, slipping down several of the stone steps. olive tried to scream, but in her fright her voice utterly left her. she could not make a sound. as they lay upon the steps, the captain beneath, the man seized his victim by the neck with both hands, pressing his great thumbs deeply into his throat. apparently he did not notice olive. all the efforts of his devilish soul were bent upon stifling the voice and the life out of the witness of his attempted crime. olive sprang down, and stood over the struggling men. her uncle's eyes stared at her, and seemed bursting from his head. his face was growing dark. again olive tried to scream; and, in a frenzy, she seized the man to pull him from the captain. as she did so her hand fell upon something protruding under his woolen jacket. with a quick flash of instinct her sense of feeling recognized this thing. she jerked up the jacket, and there was the stock of a pistol protruding from his hip pocket. in an instant olive drew it. a horrid sound issued from the mouth of captain asher; he was choking to death. in the same second that she heard it olive thrust the muzzle of the pistol against the side of the man's head and pulled the trigger. the man's head fell forward and his hairy hands released their grip, but they still remained at the captain's throat. the latter gave a great gasp, and for an instant he turned his eyes full upon the face of his niece. then his lids closed. now there were footsteps, and, looking up, olive saw a negro cabman in faded livery and an old silk hat, who stood staring. before she could speak to him there came another man, a policeman, who, equally amazed, stared at the group below him. only these two had heard the pistol shots. there were no other people passing on the avenue, and as it was past office hours there was no one in the great public building. until they reached the top of the steps the policeman and cabman could see nothing. now they stood astounded as they stared down upon an elderly man lying on his back on the steps; another man, apparently lifeless, lying on top of him with his hands upon his throat; and a girl standing a little below them with a smoking pistol in her hand. before they had time to speak or move olive called out, "take that man off my uncle." in a moment the policeman, followed by the negro, ran down the steps and pulled the black-headed man off the captain, and the limp body slipped down several steps. the policeman now turned toward olive. "take this," she said, handing him the pistol. "i shot him. he was trying to kill my uncle." the two men raised the captain to a sitting position. he was now breathing, though in gasps, with his eyes opened. the policeman took the pistol, looked at it, then at olive, then at the captain, and then down at the body on the steps. he was trying to get an idea of what had happened without asking. if the negro had not been present he might have asked questions, but this was an unusual situation, and he felt his responsibility, and his importance. olive now stepped toward him, and in obedience to her quick gesture he bent his head, and she whispered something to him. instantly he was quivering with excitement. he thrust the pistol into his pocket, and turned to the negro. "run," said he, "and get your cab! don't say a word to a soul and i will give you five dollars." the moment the negro had departed olive said: "pick up that air-gun. there, on the upper step." then she went to her uncle and sat down by him. "are you hurt?" she said. "can you speak?" the captain put his arm around her shoulder, fixing a loving look upon her, and murmured, "you are as good as a man!" the policeman picked up the air-gun, and gazed upon it as if it had been a telegram in cipher from a detective. then he tried to conceal it under his coat, but it was too long. "let me have it," said olive; "i will put it behind me." she had barely concealed it when the cab drove up. "now," said the policeman, "you two must go with me. can you walk, sir?" "oh, yes," said the captain in a voice clear, but weak. olive rose, holding the air-gun behind her, and the policeman and the cabman helped the captain to the carriage. olive followed, and the policeman, actuated by some strong instinct, did not look around to see if she were doing so. he had no more idea that she would run away than that the stone steps would move. when he saw that she had taken the air-gun into the carriage with her, he closed the door. "did your fall hurt you, uncle?" said olive, looking anxiously into his face. "my throat hurts dreadfully," he said, "and i'm stiff. but i'll be stiffer to-morrow." the policeman picked up the hat of the black-haired man, and going down the steps, he placed it on his head. "now help me up with this gentleman," he said to the cabman; "we must put him on the box-seat between us. take him under the arms, and we'll carry him naturally. he must be awfully drunk!" so they lifted him up the steps, and, after much trouble, got him on the box-seat. fortunately they were both big men. then they drove away to police headquarters. the officer was the happiest policeman in washington. this was the greatest piece of work he had known of during his service; and he was doing it all himself. with the exception of the driver, nobody else was mixed up in it in the least degree. what he was doing was not exactly right; it was not according to custom and regulation. he should have called for assistance, for an ambulance; but he had not, and his guardian angel had kept all foot-passengers from the steps of the public building. he did not know what it all meant, but he was doing it himself, and if that black driver should slip from his seat (of which he occupied a very small portion) and he should break his neck, the policeman would clutch the reins, and be happier than any man in washington. there were very many people who looked at the drunken man who was being carried off by the policeman, but the cabman drove swiftly, and gave such people very little opportunity for close observation. _chapter xxxii_ _the stock-market is safe._ there was a great stir at the police station, but olive and her uncle saw little of it. they were quickly taken to private rooms, where the captain was attended by a police surgeon. he had been bruised and badly treated, but his injuries were not serious. olive was put in charge of a matron, who wondered greatly what brought her there. very soon they were examined separately, and the tale of each of them was almost identical with that of the other; only olive was able to tell more about the two gentlemen in the barouche, for she had been at her uncle's side, and there was nothing to obstruct her vision. when the examination was ended the police captain enjoined each of them to say no word to any living soul about what they had testified to him. this was a most important matter, and it was necessary that it be hedged around with the greatest secrecy. when olive retired to her plain but comfortable cot she was tired and weak from the reaction of her restrained emotions, but she did not immediately go to sleep for thinking that she had killed a man. and yet for this killing there was not in this girl's mind one atom of regret. she was so grateful that she had been there, and had been enabled to do it. she had seen her uncle almost at his last gasp, and she had saved him from making that last gasp. moreover, she had saved the life of the man who had saved the most important life in the land. she knew the face of the gentleman in the barouche who sat on the side nearest her; she knew what her uncle had done, and she was proud of him; she knew what she had done for him; and she regarded the black-haired man with the hairy hands no more than she would have regarded a wild beast who had suddenly sprung upon them. she thought of him, of course, with horror, but her feelings of thankfulness for her uncle's safety were far too strong. at last her grateful heart closed her eyes, and let her rest. there were no letters found on the body of the black-haired man which gave any clue to his name; but there were papers which showed that he was from southern france; that he was an anarchist; that he was in this country upon a mission; and that he had been for two weeks in washington, waiting for an opportunity to fulfil that mission. which opportunity had at last shown itself in front of him just as captain john asher rushed up behind him. this information was so important that extraordinary methods were pursued. communications were immediately made with the state department, and with the higher police authorities; and it was quickly determined that, whatever else might be done, the strictest secrecy must be enforced. the coroner's jury was carefully selected and earnestly admonished; and, early the next morning, when the captain and olive were required to testify before it, they were made to understand how absolutely necessary it was they should say nothing except to answer the questions which were asked them. the coroner was eminently discreet in regard to his questions; and the verdict was that olive was acting in her own defense as well as that of her uncle when she shot his assailant. among the officials whose positions enabled them to know all these astonishing occurrences it was unanimously agreed that, so far as possible, everybody should be kept in ignorance of the crime which had been attempted, and of the deliverance which had taken place. very early the next afternoon the air was filled with the cries of newsboys, and each paper that these boys sold contained a full and detailed account of a remarkable attempt by an unknown foreigner upon the life of captain john asher, a visitor in washington, and the heroic conduct of his niece, miss olive asher, who shot the murderous assailant with his own pistol. there were columns and columns of this story, but strange to say, in not one of the papers was there any allusion to the two gentlemen in the barouche, or to the air-gun. how this most important feature of the occurrence came to be omitted in all the accounts of it can only be explained by those who thoroughly understand the exigencies of the stock-market, and the probable effect of certain classes of news upon approaching political situations, and who have made themselves familiar with the methods by which the pervasive power of the press is sometimes curtailed. in the later afternoon editions there were portraits of olive, and her uncle. olive was broad-shouldered, with black hair and a determined frown, while the captain was a little man with a long beard. there were no portraits of the anarchist. he passed away from the knowledge of man, and no one knew even his name: his crime had blotted him out; his ambition was blotted out; even the evil of his example was blotted out. there was nothing left of him. when they were released from detention the captain and olive quickly left the station--which they did without observation--and entered a carriage which was waiting for them a short distance away. the fact that another carriage with close-drawn curtains had stopped at the station about ten minutes before, and that a thickly veiled lady (the matron) and an elderly man with his collar turned up and his hat drawn down (one of the police officers in plain clothes) had entered the carriage and had been driven rapidly away had drawn off the reporters and the curiosity mongers on the sidewalk and had contributed very much to the undisturbed exit of captain and miss asher. these two proceeded leisurely to the railroad-station, where they took a train which would carry them to the little town of glenford. their affairs at the hotel could be arranged by telegram. there were calls at that hotel during the rest of the day from people who knew olive or her uncle; calls from people who wanted to know them; calls from people who would be contented even to look at them; calls from autograph hunters who would be content simply to send up their cards; quiet calls from people connected with the government; and calls from eager persons who could not have told anybody what they wanted. to none of these could the head clerk give any satisfaction. he had not seen his guests since the day before, and he knew naught about them. when miss maria port heard that that horrid girl, olive asher, had shot an anarchist, she stiffened herself to her greatest length, and let her head fall on the back of her chair. she was scarcely able to call to the small girl who endured her service to bring her some water. "now all is over," she groaned, "for i can never marry a man whose niece's hands are dripping with blood. she will live with him, of course, for he is just the old fool to allow that, and anyway there is no other place for her to go except the almshouse--that is, if they'll take her in." and at the terrified girl, who tremblingly asked if she wanted any more water, she threw her scissors. the captain and his niece arrived early in the day at glenford station. the captain engaged a little one-horse vehicle which had frequently brought people to the toll-gate, and informed the driver that there was no baggage. the man, gazing at olive, but scarcely daring to raise his eyes to her face, proceeded with solemn tread toward his vehicle as if he had been leading the line in a funeral. as they drove through the town they were obliged to pass the house of miss maria port. the door was shut, and the shutters were closed. she had had a terrible night, and had slept but little, but hearing the sound of wheels upon the street, she had bounced out of bed and had peered through the blinds. when she saw who it was she cursed them both. "that was the only thing," she snapped, "that could have kept me from gettin' him! so far as i know, that was the only thing!" when old jane received the travelers at the toll-gate she warmly welcomed the captain, but she trembled before olive. if the girl noticed the demeanor of the old woman, she pretended not to do so, and, speaking to her pleasantly, she passed within. "will they hang her?" she said to the captain later. "what do you mean?" he shouted. "have you gone crazy?" "the people in the town said they would," replied old jane, beginning to cry a little. the captain looked at her steadily. "did any particular person in the town say that?" "yes, sir," she answered; "miss maria port was the first to say it, so i've been told." "she is the one who ought to be hanged!" said the captain, speaking very warmly. "as for miss olive, she ought to have a monument set up for her. i'd do it myself if i had the money." old jane answered not, but in her heart she said: "but she killed a man! it is truly dreadful!" by nightfall of that day the two hotels of glenford were crowded, the visitors being generally connected with newspapers. on the next day there was a great deal of travel on the turnpike, and old jane was kept very busy, the captain having resigned the entire business of toll-taking to her. everybody stopped, asked questions, and requested to see the captain; and many drove through and came back again, hoping to have better luck next time. but their luck was always bad; old jane would say nothing; and the captain and olive were not to be seen. the gate to the little front garden was locked, and there was no passing through the tollhouse. to keep people from getting over the fence a bulldog, which the captain kept at the barn, was turned loose in the yard. there were men with cameras who got into the field opposite the toll-gate, and who took views from up and down the road, but their work could not be prevented, and olive and her uncle kept strictly indoors. it was on the afternoon of the second day of siege that the captain, from an upper window, discovered a camera on three legs standing outside of his grounds at a short distance from the house. a man was taking sight at something at the back of the house. softly the captain slipped down into the back yard, and looking up he saw olive sitting at a window, reading. with five steps the captain went into the house and then reappeared at the back door with a musket in his hand. the man had stepped to his pack at a little distance to get a plate. the captain raised his musket to his shoulder; olive sprang to her feet at the sound of the report; old jane in the tollhouse screamed; and the camera flew into splinters. after this there were no further attempts to take pictures of the inmates of the house at the toll-gate. after two days of siege the newspaper reporters and the photographers left glenford. they could not afford to waste any more time. but they carried away with them a great many stories about the captain and his erratic niece, mostly gleaned from a very respectable elderly lady of the town by the name of port. _chapter xxxiii_ _dick lancaster does not write._ on the third morning after their arrival at the toll-gate the captain and olive ventured upon a little walk over the farm. it was very hard upon both of them to be shut up in the house so long. they saw no reporters, nor were there any men with cameras, but the scenery was not pleasant, nor was the air particularly exhilarating. they were not happy; they felt alone, as if they were in a strange place. some of the captain's friends in the town came to the toll-gate, but there were not many, and olive saw none of them. the whole situation reminded the girl of the death of her mother. as soon as it was known that the ashers were at home there came letters from many quarters. one of these was from mrs. easterfield. she would be at broadstone as soon as she could get her children started from the seashore. she longed to take olive to her heart, but whether this was in commiseration or commendation was not quite plain to olive. the letter concluded with this sentence: "there is something behind all this, and when i come you must tell me." then there was one from her father in which he bemoaned what had happened. "that such a thing should have come to my daughter!" he wrote. "to my daughter!" there was a great deal more of it, but he said nothing about coming with his young wife to the toll-gate, and olive's countenance was almost stern when she handed this letter to her uncle. claude locker wrote: "how i long, how i rage to write to you, or to go to you! but if i should write, it would be sure to give you pain, and if i should go to you i should also go crazy. therefore, i will merely state that i love you madly; more now than ever before; and that i shall continue to do so for the rest of my life, no matter what happens to you, or to me, or to anybody. "ever turned toward you, "claude locker. "how i wish i had been there with a sledgehammer!" and then there were the newspapers. many of these the captain had ordered by the glenford bookseller, and a number were sent by friends, and some even by strangers. and so they learned what was thought of them over a wide range of country, and this publicity olive found very hard to bear. it was even worse than the deed she was forced to do, and which gave rise to all this disagreeable publicity. that deed was done in the twinkling of an eye, and was the only thing that could be done; but all this was prolonged torture. of course, the newspapers were not responsible for this. the transaction was a public one in as public a place as could possibly be selected, and it was clearly their duty to give the public full information in regard to it. they knew what had happened, and how could they possibly know what had not happened? nor could they guess that this was of more importance than the happening. and so they all viewed the action from the point of view that a young woman had blown out a man's brains on the steps of the treasury. it was a most unusual, exciting, and tragic incident, and in a measure, incomprehensible; and coming at a time when there was a dearth of news, it was naturally much exploited. many of the papers recognized the fact that miss asher had done this deed to save her uncle's life, and applauded it, and praised her quick-wittedness and courage; but all this was spoiled for olive by the tone of commiseration for her in which it was all stated. she did not see why she should be pitied. rather should she be congratulated that she was, fortunately, on the spot. other journals did not so readily give in to the opinion that it was an act of self-defense. it might be so; but they expressed strong disapproval of the legal action in this strange affair. a young woman, accompanied by a relative, had killed an unknown man. the action of the authorities in this case had been rapid and unsatisfactory. the person who had fired the fatal shot and her companion had been cleared of guilt upon their own testimony, and the cause of the man who died had no one to defend it. if two persons can kill a man, and then state to the coroner's jury that it was all right, and thereupon repair to their homes without further interference by the law, then had the cause of justice in the capital of the nation reached a very strange pass. such were the views of the reputable journals. but there were some which fell into the captain's hands that were well calculated to arouse his ire. such a sensational occurrence did not often come in their way, and they made the most of it. they scented the idea that the girl had killed an unknown man to save her uncle's life; blamed the authorities severely for not finding out who he was; suggested there must be a secret reason for this; and hinted darkly at a scandal connected with the affair, which, if investigated, would be found to include some well-known names. "this is outrageous!" cried the captain. "it is too abominable to be borne! olive, why should we not tell the exact facts of this thing? we did agree--very willingly at the time--to keep the secret. but i am not willing now, and you are being sacrificed to the stock-market. that is the whole truth of it! if these editors knew the truth they would be chanting your praises. if that scoundrel had killed me, he would have killed you, and then he could have run away to go on with his president shooting. i am going to washington this very day to tell the whole story. you shall not suffer that stocks may not fall and the political situation made alarming at election time. that is what it all means, and i won't stand it!" "you will only make things worse, uncle," said olive. "then the whole matter will be stirred up afresh. we will be summoned to investigations, and all sorts of disagreeable things. every item of our lives will be in the papers, and some will be invented. it is very bad now, but in a little while the public will forget that a countryman and a country girl had a fracas in washington. but the other thing will never be forgotten. it is very much better to leave it as it is." the captain, notwithstanding the presence of a lady, cursed the officials, the newspapers, the government, and the whole country. "i am going to do it!" he cried vehemently. "i don't care what happens!" but olive put her arms around him and coaxed him for her sake to let the matter rest. and, finally, the captain, grumblingly, assented. if olive had been a girl brought up in a gentle-minded household, knowing nothing of the varied life she had lived when a navy girl; sometimes at this school and sometimes at that; sometimes in her native land, and sometimes in the midst of frontier life; sometimes with parents, and sometimes without them; and, had she been less aware from her own experiences and those of others, that this is a world in which you must stand up very stiffly if you do not want to be pushed down; she might have sunk, at least for a time, under all this publicity and blame. even the praise had its sting. but she did not sink. the liveliness and the fun went out of her, and her face grew hard and her manner quiet. but she was not quiet within. she rebelled against the unfairness with which she was treated. no matter what the newspapers knew or did not know, they should have known, and should have remembered, that she had saved her uncle's life. if they had known more they would have been just and kind enough no doubt, but they ought to have been just and kind without knowing more. captain asher would now read no more papers. but olive read them all. letters still came; one of them from mr. easterfield. but every time a mail arrived there was a disappointment in the toll-gate household. the captain could scarcely refrain from speaking of his disappointment, for it was a true grief to him that dick lancaster had not written a word. of course, olive did not say anything upon the subject, for she had no right to expect such a letter, and she was not sure that she wanted one, but it was very strange that a person who surely was, or had been, somewhat interested in her uncle and herself should have been the only one among her recent associates who showed no interest whatever in what had befallen her. even mr. and mrs. fox had written. she wished they had not written, but, after all, stupidity is sometimes better than total neglect. "olive," said the captain one pleasant afternoon, "suppose we take a drive to broadstone? the family is not there, but it may interest you to see the place where i hope your friends will soon be living again. i can not bear to see you going about so dolefully. i want to brighten you up in some way." "i'd like it," said olive promptly. "let us go to broadstone." at that moment they heard talking in the tollhouse; then there were some quick steps in the garden; and, almost immediately, dick lancaster was in the house and in the room where the captain and his niece were sitting. he stepped quickly toward them as they rose, and gave olive his left hand because the captain had seized his right and would not let it go. "i have been very slow getting here," he said, looking from one to the other. "but i would not write, and i have been unconscionably delayed. i am so proud of you," he said, looking olive full in the face, but still holding the captain by the hand. olive's hand had been withdrawn, but it was very cheering to her to know that some one was proud of her. the captain poured out his delight at seeing the young professor--the first near friend he had seen since his adventure, and, in his opinion, the best. olive said but little, but her countenance brightened wonderfully. she had always liked mr. lancaster, and now he showed his good sense and good feeling; for, while it was evidently on his mind, he made no allusion to anything they had done, or that had happened to them. he talked chiefly of himself. but the captain was not to be repressed, and his tone warmed up a little as he asked if dick had been reading the newspapers. at this olive left the room to make some arrangements for mr. lancaster's accommodation. seizing this opportunity, dick lancaster stopped the captain, who he saw was preparing to go lengthily into the recent affair. "yes, yes," he said, speaking quickly, "and my blood has run hot as i read those beastly papers. but let me say something to you while i can. i am deeply interested in something else just now. i came here, captain, to propose marriage to your niece. have i your consent?" "consent!" cried the captain. "why, it is the clearest wish of my heart that you should marry olive!" and seizing the young man by both arms, he shook him from head to foot. "consent!" he exclaimed. "i should think so, i should think so! will she take you, dick? is that--" "i don't know," said lancaster, "i don't know. i am here to find out. but i hear her coming." the happy captain thought it full time to go away somewhere. he felt that he could not control his glowing countenance, and that he might say or do something which might be wrong. so he departed with great alacrity, and left the two young people to themselves. _chapter xxxiv_ _miss port puts in an appearance._ the captain clapped on his hat, and walked up the road toward glenford. he was very much excited and he wanted to sing, but his singing days were over, and he quieted himself somewhat by walking rapidly. there was a buggy coming from town, but it stopped before it reached him and some one in it got out, while the vehicle proceeded slowly onward. the some one waited until the captain came up to her. it was miss maria port. "how do you do?" she said, holding out her hand. "i was on my way to see you." the captain put both his hands in his pockets, and his face grew somewhat dark. "why do you want to see me?" he asked. she looked at him steadily for a moment, and then answered, speaking very quietly. "i found that mr. lancaster had arrived in town, and had gone to your house, and that he was in such a hurry that he walked. so i immediately hired a buggy to come out here. i am very glad i met you." "but what in the name of common sense," exclaimed the captain, "did you come to see me for? what difference does it make to you whether mr. lancaster is here or not? what have you got to do with me and my affairs, anyway?" she smiled a smile which was very quiet and flat. "now, don't get angry," she said. "we can talk over things in a friendly way just as well as not, and it will be a great deal better to do it. and i'd rather talk here in the public road than anywhere else; it's more private." "i don't want a word to say to you," said the captain, preparing to move on. "i have nothing at all to do with you." "ah," said miss port, with another smile, "but i think you have. you've got to marry me, you know." then the captain stopped suddenly. he opened his mouth, but he could find no immediate words. "yes, indeed," said miss port, now speaking quietly; "and when i saw mr. lancaster had come to town, i knew that i must see you at once. of course, he has come to take away your niece, and that's the best thing to be done, for she wouldn't want to keep on livin' here where so many people have known her. at first i thought that would be a very good thing, for you would be separated from her, and that's what you need and deserve. young men are young men, and they are often a good deal kinder than they would be if they stopped to think. but a person of mature age is different. he would know what is due to himself and his standing in society. at least, that is what i did think. but it suddenly flashed on me that they might want to get away as quick as they could--which would be proper, dear knows--and it would be just like you to go with them. and so i came right out." the captain had listened to all this because he very much wanted to know what she had to say, but now he exclaimed: "do you suppose i shall pay any attention to all the gossip about my affairs?" "now, don't go on like that," said miss port; "it doesn't do any good, and if you'll only keep quiet, and think pleasantly about it, there will be no trouble at all. you know you've got to marry me; that's settled. everybody knows about it, and has known about it for years. i didn't press the matter while father was alive because i knew it would worry him. but now i'm going to do it. not in any anger or bad feelin', but gently, and as firmly as if i was that tree. i don't want to go to any law, but if i have to do it, i'll do it. i've got my proofs and my witnesses, and i'm all right. the people of your own house are witnesses. and there are ever so many more." "woman!" cried the captain, "don't you say another word! and don't you ever dare to speak to me again! i'm not going away, and my niece is not going away; and i assure you that i hate and despise you so much that all the law in the world couldn't make me marry you. although you know as well as i do that all you've been saying has no sense or truth in it." miss port did not get angry. with wonderful self-repression she controlled her feelings. she knew that if she lost that control there would be an end to everything. she grew pale, but she spoke more gently than before. "you know"--she was about to say "john," but she thought she would better not--"that what i say about determination and all that, i simply say because you do not come to meet me half-way, as i would have you do. all i want is to get you to acknowledge my rights, to defend me from ridicule. you know that i am now alone in the world, and have no one to look to but you--to whom i always expected to look when father died--and if you should carry out your cruel words, and should turn from me as if i was a stranger and a nobody, after all these years of visitin' and attention from you, which everybody knows about, and has talked about, i could never expect anybody else--you bein' gone--to step forward--" at this the face of the captain cleared, and as he gazed upon the unpleasant face and figure of this weather-worn spinster, the idea that any one with matrimonial intentions should "step forward," as she put it, struck him as being so extremely ludicrous that he burst out laughing. then leaped into fire every nervelet of miss maria port. "laugh at me, do you?" cried she. "i'll give you something to laugh at! and if you 're going to stand up for that thing you have in your house, that murderess--" she said no more. the captain stepped up to her with a smothered curse so that she moved back, frightened. but he did nothing. he was too enraged to speak. she was a woman, and he could not strike her to the ground. before her sallow venom he was helpless. he was a man and she was a woman, and he could do nothing at all. he was too angry to stay there another second, and, without a word, he left her, walking with great strides toward the town. miss maria port stood looking after him, panting a little, for her excitement had been great. then, with a yellow light in her eyes, she hurried toward her vehicle, which had stopped. as captain asher strode into town he asked himself over and over again what should he do? how should he punish this wildcat--this ruthless creature, who spat venom at the one he loved best in the world, and who threatened him with her wicked claws? in his mind he looked from side to side for help; some one must fight his battle for him; he could not fight a woman. he had not reached town when he thought of mrs. faulkner, the wife of the methodist minister. he knew her; she and her husband had been among the friends who had come out to see him; and she was a woman. he would go directly to her, and ask her advice. the captain was not shown into the parlor of the parsonage, but into the minister's study, that gentleman being away. he heard a great sound of talking as he passed the parlor door, and it was not long before mrs. faulkner came in. he hesitated as she greeted him. "you have company," he said, "but can i see you for a very few minutes? it is important." "of course you can," said she, closing the study door. "our dorcas society meets here to-day, but we have not yet come to order. i shall be glad to hear what you have to say." so they sat down, and he told her what he had to say, and as she listened she grew very angry. when she heard the epithet which had been applied to olive she sprang to her feet. "the wretch!" she cried. "now, you see, mrs. faulkner," said the captain, "i can do nothing at all myself, and there is no way to make use of the law; that would be horrible for olive, and it could not be done; and so i have come to ask help of you. i don't see that any other man could do more than i could do." mrs. faulkner sat silent for a few minutes. "i am so glad you came to me," she said presently. "i have always known miss port as a scandal-monger and a mischief-maker, but i never thought of her as a wicked woman. this persecution of you is shameful, but when i think of your niece it is past belief! you are right, captain asher; it must be a woman who must take up your cause. in fact," said she after a moment's thought, "it must be women. yes, sir." and as she spoke her face flushed with enthusiasm. "i am going to take up your cause, and my friends in there, the ladies of the dorcas society, will stand by me, i know. i don't know what we shall do, but we are going to stand by you and your niece." here was a friend worth having. the captain was very much affected, and was moved with unusual gratitude. he had been used to fighting his own battles in this world, and here was some one coming forward to fight for him. there came upon him a feeling that it would be a shame to let this true lady take up a combat which she did not wholly understand. he made up his mind in an instant that he would not care what danger might be threatened to other people, or to trade, or to society, he would be true to this lady, to olive, and to himself. he would tell her the whole story. she should know what olive had done, and how little his poor girl deserved the shameful treatment she had received. mrs. faulkner listened with pale amazement; she trembled from head to foot as she sat. "and you must tell no one but your husband," said the captain. "this is a state secret, and he must promise to keep it before you tell." she promised everything. she would be so proud to tell her husband. when the captain had gone, mrs. faulkner, in a very unusual state of mind, went into the parlor, took the chair, and putting aside all other business, told to the eagerly receptive members the story of miss port and captain asher. how she had persecuted him, and maligned him, and of the shameful way in which she had spoken of his niece. but not one word did she tell of the story of the two gentlemen in the barouche, and of the air-gun. she was wild to tell everything, but she was a good woman. "now, ladies," said mrs. faulkner, "in my opinion, the thing for us to do is to go to see maria port; tell her what we think of her; and have all this wickedness stopped." without debate it was unanimously agreed that the president's plan should be carried out. and within ten minutes the whole dorcas society of eleven members started out in double file to visit the house of maria port. _chapter xxxv_ _the dorcas on guard._ miss port had not been home very long and was up in her bedroom, which looked out on the street, when she heard the sound of many feet, and, hurrying to the window, and glancing through the partly open shutters, she saw that a company of women were entering the gate into her front yard. she did not recognize them, because she was not familiar with the tops of their hats; and besides, she was afraid she might be seen if she stopped at the window; so she hurried to the stairway and listened. there were two great knocks at the door--entirely too loud--and when the servant-maid appeared she heard a voice which she recognized as that of mrs. faulkner inquiring for her. instantly she withdrew into her chamber and waited, her countenance all alertness. when the maid came up to inform her that mrs. faulkner and a lot of ladies were down-stairs, and wanted to see her, miss port knit her brows, and shut her lips tightly. she could not connect this visit of so many glenford ladies with anything definite; and yet her conscience told her that their business in some way concerned captain asher. he had had time to see them, and now they had come to see her; probably to induce her to relinquish her claims upon him. as this thought came into her mind she grew angry at their impudence, and, seating herself in a rocking-chair, she told the servant to inform the ladies that she had just reached home, and that it was not convenient for her to receive them at present. mrs. faulkner sent hack a message that, in that case, they would wait; and all the ladies seated themselves in the port parlor. "the impudence!" said miss port to herself; "but if they like waitin,' they can wait, i guess they'll get enough of it!" so maria port sat in her room and the ladies sat in the parlor below; and they sat, and they sat, and they sat, and at last it began to grow dark. "i guess they'll be wantin' their suppers," said maria, "but they'll go and get them without seein' me. it's no more convenient for me to go down now than when they first came." there had been, and there was, a great deal of conversation down in the parlor, but it was carried on in such a low tone that, to her great regret, miss port could not catch a word of it. "now," said mrs. pilsbury, "i must go home, for my husband will want his supper and the children must be attended to." "and so must i," said mrs. barney and mrs. sloan. they would really like very much to stay and see what would happen next, but they had families. "ladies," said mrs. faulkner, "of course, we can't all stay here and wait for that woman; but i propose that three of us shall stay and that the rest shall go home. i'll be one to stay. and then, in an hour three of you come back, and let us go and get our suppers. in this way we can keep a committee here all the time. all night, if necessary. when i come back i will bring a candlestick and some candles, for, of course, we don't want to light her lamps. if she should come down while i am away, i'd like some one to run over and tell me. it's such a little way." at this the ladies arose, and there was a great rustling and chattering, and the face of miss maria, in the room above, gleamed with triumph. "i knew i'd sit 'em out," said she; "they haven't got the pluck i've got." but when the servant came up and told her that "three of them ladies was a-sittin' in the parlor yet and said they was a-goin' to wait for her," she lost her temper. she sent down word that she didn't intend to see any of them, and she wanted them to go home. to this mrs. faulkner replied that they wished to see her, and that they would stay. and the committee continued to sit. now miss port began to be seriously concerned. what in the world could these women want? they were very much in earnest; that was certain. could it be possible that she had said more than she intended to captain asher, and that she had given him to understand that she would use any of these women as witnesses if she went to law? however, whatever they meant, she intended to sit them out. so she told her maid to make her some tea and to bring it up with some bread and butter and preserves, and a light. she also ordered her to be careful that the people in the parlor should see her as she went up-stairs. "i guess they'll know i'm in earnest when they see the tea," she said. "i've set out a mess of 'em, and it won't take long to finish up them three!" she partook of her refreshments, and she reclined in her rocking-chair, and waited for the hungry ones below to depart. "i'll give 'em half an hour," said she to herself. before that time had elapsed she heard another stir below, and she exclaimed: "i knew it" and there were steps in the hallway, and some people went out. she sprang to her feet; she was about to run down-stairs and lock and bolt every door; but a sound arrested her. it was the talking of women in the parlor. she stopped, with her mouth wide open, and her eyes staring, and then the servant came up and told her that "them three had gone, and that another three had come back, and they had told her to say that they were goin' to stay in squads all night till she came down to see them." miss port sat down, her elbows on the table, and her chin in her hands. "it must be something serious," she thought. "the ladies of this town are not in the habit of staying out late unless it is to nurse bad cases, or to sit up with corpses." and then the idea struck her that probably there might be something the matter that she had not thought of. she had caused lots of mischief in her day, and it might easily be that she had forgotten some of it. but the more she thought about the matter, the more firmly she resolved not to go down and speak to the women. she would like to send for a constable and have them cleared out of the house, but she knew that none of the three constables in town would dare to use force with such ladies as mrs. faulkner and the members of the dorcas society. so she sat and waited, and listened, and grew very nervous, but was more obstinate now than ever, for she was beginning to be very fearful of what those women might have to say to her. she could "talk down one woman, but not a pack of 'em." thus time passed on, with occasional reports from the servant until the latter fell asleep, and came up-stairs no more. there were sounds of footsteps in the street, and miss port put out her light, and went to the front shutters. three women were coming in. they entered the house, and in a few minutes afterward three women went out. miss port stood up in the middle of the floor, and was almost inclined to tear her hair. "they're goin' to stay all night!" she exclaimed. "i really believe they 're goin' to stay all night!" for a moment she thought of rushing down-stairs and confronting the impertinent visitors, but she stopped; she was afraid. she did not know what they might say to her, and she went to the banisters and listened. they were talking; always in a low voice. it seemed to her that these people could talk forever. then she began to think of her front door, which was open; but, of course, nobody could come while those creatures were in the parlor. but if she missed anything she'd have them brought up in court if it took every cent she had in the world and constables from some other town. she slipped to the back stairs, and softly called the servant, but there was no answer. she was afraid to go down, for the back door of the parlor commanded all the other rooms on that floor. now she felt more terribly lonely and more nervous. if she had had a pistol she would have fired it through the floor. then those women would run away, and she would fasten up the house. but there they sat, chatter, chatter, chatter, till it nearly drove her mad. she wished now she had gone down at first. after a time, and not a very long time, there were some steps in the street and in the yard, and more women came into the house, but, worse than that, the others stayed. family duties were over now, and those impudent creatures could be content to stay the rest of the evening. for a moment the worried woman felt as if she would like to go to bed and cover up her head and so escape these persistent persecutors. but she shook her head. that would never do. she knew that when she awoke in the morning some of those women would still be in the parlor, and, to save her soul, she could not now imagine what it was that kept them there like hounds upon her track. it was now eleven o'clock. when had the port house been open so late as that? the people in the town must be talking about it, and there would be more talking the next day. perhaps it might be in the town paper. the morning would be worse than the night. she could not bear it any longer. there was now nothing to be heard in front but that maddening chatter in the parlor, and up the back stairs came the snores of the servant. she got a traveling-bag from a closet and proceeded to pack it; then she put on her bonnet and shawl and put into her bag all the money she had with her, trembling all the time as if she had been a thief: robbing her own house. she could not go down the back stairs, because, as has been said, she could have been seen from the parlor; but a carpenter had been mending the railing of a little piazza at the back of the house, and she remembered he had left his ladder. down this ladder, with her bag in her hand, miss port silently moved. she looked into the kitchen; she could not see the servant, but she could hear her snoring on a bench. clapping her hand over the girl's mouth, she whispered into her ear, and without a word the frightened creature sat up and followed miss port into the yard. "now, then," said miss port, whispering as if she were sticking needles into the frightened girl, "i'm goin' away, and don't you ask no questions, for you won't get no answers. you just go to bed, and let them people stay in the parlor all night. they'll be able to take care of the house, i guess, and if they don't i'll make 'em suffer. in the morning you can see mrs. faulkner--for she's the ringleader--and tell her that you're goin' home to your mother, and that miss port expects her to pull down all the blinds in this house, and shut and bolt the doors. she is to see that the eatables is put away proper or else give to the poor--which will be you, i guess--and then she is to lock all the doors and take the front-door key to squire allen, and tell him i'll write to him. and what's more, you can say to the nasty thing that if i find anything wrong in my house, or anything missin', i 'll hold her and her husband responsible for it, and that i'm mighty glad i don't belong to their church." then she slipped out of the back gate of the yard, and made her way swiftly to the railroad-station. there was a train for the north which passed glenford at half-past twelve, and which could be flagged. there was one man at the station, and he was very much surprised to see miss port. "is anything the matter?" he said. "yes," she snapped, "there's some people sick, and i guess there'll be more of 'em a good deal sicker in the morning. i've got to go." "a case of pizenin'?" asked the man very earnestly. "yes," said she, wrapping her shawl around her; "the worse kind of pizenin'!" then she talked no more. the servant-girl slept late, and there were a good many ladies in the parlor when she came down. she did not give them a chance to ask her anything, but told her message promptly. it was a message pretty fairly remembered, although it had grown somewhat sharper in the night. when it was finished the girl added: "and i'm to have all the eatables in the house to take home to my mother, and squire allen is to pay me four dollars and seventy-five cents, which has been owin' to me for wages for ever so long." _chapter xxxvi_ _cold tinder._ olive and dick lancaster sat together in the captain's parlor. she was very quiet--she had been very quiet of late--but he was nervous. "it is very kind, mr. lancaster," said olive, breaking the silence, "for you to come to see us instead of writing. it is so much pleasanter for friends--" "oh, it was not kind," he said, interrupting her. "in fact, it was selfishness. and now i want to tell you quickly, miss asher, while i have the chance, the reason of my coming here to-day. it was not to offer you my congratulations or my sympathy, although you must know that i feel for you and your uncle as much in every way as any living being can feel. i came to offer my love. i have loved you almost ever since i knew you as much as any man can love a woman, and whenever i have been with you i could hardly hold myself back from telling you. but i was strong, and i did not speak, for i knew you did not love me." olive was listening, looking steadily at him. "no," she said, "i did not love you." he paid no attention to this remark, as if it related to something which he knew all about, but went on, "i resolved to speak to you some time, but not until i had some little bit of a reason for supposing you would listen to me; but when i read the account of what you did in washington, i knew you to be so far above even the girl i had supposed you to be; then my love came down upon me and carried me away. and all that has since appeared in the papers has made me so long to stand by your side that i could not resist this longing, and i felt that no matter what happened, i must come and tell you all." "and now?" asked olive. "there is nothing more," said dick. "i have told you all there is. i love you so truly that it seems to me as if i had been born, as if i had lived, as if i had grown and had worked, simply that i might be able to come to you and say, i love you. and now that i have told you this, i hope that i have not pained you." "you have not pained me," said olive, "but it is right that i should say to you that i do not love you." she said this very quietly and gently, but there was sadness in her tones. dick lancaster sprang up, and stood before her. "then let me love you" he cried. "do not deny me that! do not take the life out of me! the soul out of me! do not turn me away into utter blackness! do not say i shall not love you!" olive's clear, thoughtful eyes were looking into his. "i believe you love me," she answered slowly. "i believe every word you say. but what i say is also true. i will admit that i have asked myself if i could love you. there was a time when i was in great trouble, when i believed that it might be possible for me to marry some one without loving him, but i never thought that about _you_. you were different. i could not have married you without loving you. i believe you knew that, and so you did not ask me." his voice was husky when he spoke again. "but you do not answer me," he said. "you have seen into my very soul. may i love you?" she still looked into his glowing eyes, but she did not speak. it was with herself she was communing, not with him. but there was something in the eyes which looked into his which made his heart leap, and he leaned forward. "olive," he whispered, "can you not love me?" her lips appeared as if they were about to move, but they did not, and in the next moment they could not. he had her in his arms. poor foolish, lovely olive! she thought she was so strong. she imagined that she knew herself so well. she had seen so much; she had been so far; she had known so many things and people that she had come to look upon herself as the decider of her own destiny. she had come to believe so much in herself and in her cold heart that she was not afraid to listen to the words of a burning heart! _her_ heart could keep so cool! and now, in a flash, the fire had spread! the coolest hearts are often made of tinder. poor foolish, lovely, happy olive! she scarcely understood what had happened to her. she only knew that she had been born and had lived, and had grown, that he might come to her and say he loved her. what had she been thinking of all this time? "you are so quick," she said, as she put back some of her disheveled hair. "dearest," he whispered, "it seems to me as if i had been so slow, so slow, so very slow!" it was a long time before captain asher returned, and when he entered the parlor he found these two still there. they had been sitting by the window, and when they came forward to meet him dick's arm was around the waist of olive. the captain looked at them for a moment, and then he gave a shout, and encircled them both in his great arms. when they were cool enough to sit down and olive and dick had ceased trying to persuade the captain that he was not the happiest of the three, olive said to him: "i have told dick everything--about the air-gun and all. of course, he must know it." "and i have been looking at you," said dick, putting his hand upon the captain's shoulder, "as the only hero i have ever met. not only for what you have done, but for what you have refrained from doing." "nonsense!" said the captain. "olive now--" "oh! olive is olive!" said dick. and he did not mind in the least that the captain was present. * * * * * it was on the next afternoon that the broadstone carriage stopped at the toll-gate. mrs. easterfield sprang out of it, asking for nobody, for she had spied olive in the arbor. "it seems to me," she said, as she burst into tears and took the girl into her arms, "it does seem to me as if i were your own mother!" "the only one i have," said olive, "and very dear!" it was some time after this that mrs. easterfield was calm enough to stop the flow of exciting conversation and to say to olive, taking both her hands tenderly within her own: "my dear, we have been talking a great deal of sentiment, and now i want seriously to speak to you on a matter of business." "business!" asked olive in surprise. "yes, it is really business from your point of view; and i have come round to that point of view myself. olive, i want you to marry!" "oh," said olive, "that is it, is it? that is what you call business?" "yes, dear; i am now looking at your future, and at marriage in the very sensible way you regarded those matters when you were staying with me." "but," said olive, who could scarcely help laughing, "there was a good reason then for my being so sensible, and that reason no longer exists. i can now afford single-blessedness." "no, olive, dear, you can not. circumstances are all against that consummation. you are not made for that sort of thing. and your uncle is an old man, and even with him you need a young protector. i want you to marry richard lancaster. you know my heart has been set on it for some time, and now i urge it. you could never bring forth a single objection to him." "except that i did not love him." "neither did you love the young men you were considering as eligible. now, do try to be a sensible girl." "mrs. easterfield, are you laughing at me?" asked olive. "far from it, my dear. i am desperately in earnest. you see, recent events--" "dick lancaster and i are engaged to be married," said olive demurely, not waiting for the end of that sentence. "and," she added, laughing at mrs. easterfield's astonished countenance, "i have not yet considered whether or not it is sensible." after mrs. easterfield had given a half dozen kisses to partly express her pleasure, she said: "and where is he now? i must see him!" "he went back to his college late last night; it was impossible for him to stay here any longer at present." as mrs. easterfield was going away--she had waited and waited for the captain who had not come--olive detained her. "you are so dear," she said, "that i must tell you a great thing." and then she told the story of the two men in the barouche. mrs. easterfield turned pale, and sat down again. she had actually lost her self-possession. she made olive tell her the story over and over again. "it is too much," she said, "for one day. i am glad the captain is not here, i would not know what to say to him. i may tell tom?" she said. "i must tell him; he will be silent as a rock." olive smiled. "yes, you may tell tom," she said. "i have told dick, but on no account must harry ever know anything about it." mrs. easterfield looked at her in amazement. that the girl could joke at such a moment! when the captain came home olive told him how she had entrusted the great secret to mrs. easterfield and her husband. "well," said he, "i intended to tell you, but haven't had a chance yet, that i spoke of the matter to mrs. faulkner. so i have told two persons and you have told three, and i suppose that is about the proportion in which men and women keep secrets." _chapter xxxvii_ _in which some great changes are recorded._ a few days after his return to his college prof. richard lancaster found among his letters one signed "your backer, claude locker." the letter began: "you owe her to me. you should never forget that. if i had done better no one can say what might have been the result. this proposition can not be gainsaid, for as no one ever saw me do better, how should anybody know? i knew i was leaving her to you. she might not have known it, but i did. i did not suppose it would come so soon, but i was sure it would ultimately come to pass. it has come to pass, and i feel triumphant. in the great race in which i had the honor to run, you made a most admirable second. the best second is he who comes in first. in order for a second to take first place it is necessary that the leader in the race, be that leader horse, man, or boat, should experience a change in conditions. i experienced such a change, voluntary or involuntary it is unnecessary to say. you came in first, and i congratulate you as no living being can congratulate you who has not felt for a moment or two that it was barely possible that he might, in some period of existence, occupy the position which you now hold. "do not be surprised if you hear of my early marriage. some woman no better-looking than i am may seek me out. if this should happen, and you know of it, please think of me with gratitude, and remember that i was once "your backer, "claude locker." olive also received a letter from mr. locker, which ran thus: "mrs. easterfield told me. she wrote me a letter about it, and i think her purpose was to make me thoroughly understand that i was not in this matter at all. she did not say anything of the kind, but i think she thought it would be a dreadful thing, if by any act of mine, i should cause you to reconsider your arrangement with professor lancaster. i have written to the said professor, and have told him that it is not improbable that i shall soon marry. i don't know yet to what lady i shall be united, but i believe in the truth of the adage, 'that all things come to those who can not wait.' they are in such a hurry that they take what they can get. "if you do not think that this is a good letter, please send it back and i will write another. what i am trying to say is, that i would sacrifice my future wife, no matter who she may be, to see you happy. and now believe me always "your most devoted acquaintance, "claude locker. "p.s.--wouldn't it be a glorious thing if you were to be married in church with all the rejected suitors as groomsmen and lancaster as an old roman conqueror with the captive princess tied behind!" now that all the turmoil of her life was over, and olive at peace with herself, her thoughts dwelt with some persistency upon two of her rejected suitors. until now she had had but little comprehension of the love a man may feel for a woman--perhaps because she herself never loved--but now she looked back upon that period of her life at broadstone with a good deal of compunction. at that time it had seemed to her that it really made very little difference to her three lovers which one she accepted, or if she rejected them all. but now she asked herself if it could be possible that du brant and hemphill had for her anything of the feeling she now had for dick lancaster. (locker did not trouble her mind at all.) if so, she had treated them with a cruel and shameful carelessness. she had really intended to marry one of them, but not from any good and kind feeling; she was actuated solely by pique and self-interest; and she had, perhaps, sacrificed honest love to her selfishness; and, what was worse, had treated it with what certainly appeared like contempt, although she certainly had not intended that. she felt truly sorry, and cast about in her mind for some means of reparation. she could think of but one way: to find for each of them a very nice girl--a great deal nicer than herself--and to marry them all with her blessing. but, unfortunately for this scheme, olive had no girl friends. she had acquaintances "picked up here and there," as she said, but she knew very little about any of them, and not one of them had ever struck her as being at all angelic or superior in any way. neither of the young men who were lying so heavily on her mind had written to any one, either at the toll-gate or at broadstone, since the very public affair in which she had played a conspicuous part; and her consolation was that as each one had read that account he had said to himself: "i am thankful that girl did not accept me! what a fortunate escape!" but still she wished that she had behaved differently at broadstone. she said nothing to any one of these musings, but she ventured one day to ask mr. easterfield how mr. hemphill was faring. his reply was only half satisfactory. he reported the young man as doing very well, and being well; he was growing fat, and that did not improve his looks; and he was getting more and more taciturn and self-absorbed. "why was he taciturn?" olive asked herself. "was he brooding and melancholy?" she did not know anything about the fat, and what might be its primal cause; but her mind was not set at ease about him. things went on quietly and pleasantly at the toll-gate, and at broadstone. dick came down as often as he could and spent a day or two (usually including a sunday) with olive and her uncle. it was now october, and colleges were in full tide. it was also the hunting season, and that meant that mr. tom would be at broadstone for a couple of weeks, and mrs. easterfield said she must have olive at that time. and, in order to make the house lively, she invited lieutenant asher and his wife at the same time, as olive and her young stepmother were now very good friends. then the captain invited his old friend captain lancaster, dick's father, to visit him at the toll-gate. these were bright days for these old shipmates; and, strange to say, as they sat and puffed, they did not talk so much of things that had been, as they puffed and made plans of things which were to be. and these plans always concerned the niece of one, and the son of the other. captain asher was not at all satisfied with dick's position in the college. he could not see how eminence awaited any young man who taught theories; he would like dick's future to depend on facts. "two and two make four," said he; "there is no need of any theory about that, and that's the sort of thing that suits me." captain lancaster smiled. he was a dry old salt, and listened more than he talked. "just now," he remarked, "i guess dick will stick to his theories, and for a while he won't be apt to give his mind to mathematics very much, except to that kind of figuring which makes him understand that one and one makes one." there was a thing the two old mates were agreed upon. no matter-what dick's position might be in the college, his salary should be as large as that of any other professor. they could do it, and they would do it. they liked the idea, and they shook hands over it. olive was greatly pleased with captain lancaster. "there is the scent of the sea about him," she wrote to dick, "as there is about uncle john and father, but it is different. it is constant and fixed, like the smell of salt mackerel. he would never keep a toll-gate; nor would he marry a young wife. not that i object to either of these things, for if the one had not happened i would never have known you; and if the other had not happened, i might not have become engaged to you." the two captains dined at broadstone while olive was there, and captain lancaster highly approved of mrs. easterfield. all seafaring men did--as well as most other men. "it is a shame she had to marry a landsman," said captain lancaster, when he and captain john had gone home. "it seems to me she would have suited you." "you might mention that the next time you go to her house," said captain asher. "i don't believe it has ever been properly considered." it was at this time that olive's mind was set at rest about one of her discarded lovers. mr. du brant wrote her a letter. "my dear miss asher--it is very long since i have had any communication with you, but this silence on my part has been the result of circumstances, and not owing, i assure you upon my honor, to any diminution of the great regard (to use a moderate term) which i feel for you. i had not the pleasure of seeing you when i left broadstone, but our mutual friend, mrs. easterfield, told me you had sent to me a message. i firmly (but i trust politely) declined to receive it. and so, my dear miss asher, as the offer i made you then has never received any acknowledgment, i write now to renew it. i lay my heart at your feet, and entreat you to do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage. "and let me here frankly state that when first i read of your great deed--you are aware, of course, to what i refer--i felt i must banish all thought of you from my heart. let me explain my position, i had just received news of the death of my uncle, count rosetra, and that i had inherited his title and estates. it is a noble name, and the estates are great. could i confer these upon one who was being so publicly discussed--the actor in so terrible a drama? i owed more to society, and to my noble race, and to my country than i had done before becoming a noble. but ah, my torn heart! o miss asher, that heart was true to you through all, and has asserted itself in a vehement way. i recognized your deed as noble; i thought of your beauty and your intellect; of your attractive vivacity; of your manner and bearing, all so fine; and i realized how you would grace my title and my home; how you would help me to carry out the great ambitions i have. "will you, lady, deign to accept my homage and my love? a favorable answer will bring me to make my personal solicitations. "your most loving and faithful servant, "christian du brant. "(now count rosetra.)" "what a bombastic mixture!" thought olive, as she read this effusion. "i wonder if there is any real love in it! if there is, it is so smothered it is easily extinguished." and she extinguished it; and thoughts of count rosetra troubled her no more. she did not show dick this letter, but she thought it due to mrs. easterfield to read it to her. "he has got it into his head that an american woman, such as you, will make his house attractive to people he wants there," commented that lady. "you have not considered me at all, you ungrateful girl! only think how i could have exploited 'my friend, the countess'! and what a fine place for me to visit!" it had been arranged by the two houses that dick and olive should be married in the early summer when the college closed; and mrs. easterfield had arranged in her own mind that the wedding should be in her city house. it would not be too late in the season for a stylish wedding--a thing mrs. easterfield had often wished she could arrange, and it was hopeless to think of waiting until her little ones could help her to this desire of her heart. she held this great secret in reserve, however, for a delightful surprise at the proper time. but she and olive both had a wedding surprise before olive's visit was finished. it was, in fact, the day before olive's return to the toll-gate that mr. easterfield walked in upon them as they were sitting at work in mrs. easterfield's room. he had been unexpectedly summoned to the city three days before, and had gone with no explanation to his wife. she did not think much about it, as he was accustomed to going and coming in a somewhat erratic manner. "it seems to me," she said, looking at him critically after the first greetings, "that you have an important air." "i am the bearer of important news," he said, puffing out his cheeks. in answer to the battery of excited inquiries which opened upon him he finally said: "i was solemnly invited to town to attend a solemn function, and i solemnly went, and am now solemnly returned." "pshaw!" said mrs. easterfield. "i don't believe it's anything." "a wedding is something. a very great something. it is a solemn thing; and made more solemn by the loss of my secretary." "what!" almost screamed his wife. "mr. hemphill?" "the very man. and, o miss olive, if you could but have seen him in his wedding-clothes your heart would have broken to think that you had lost the opportunity of standing by them at the altar." "but who was the bride?" asked mrs. easterfield impatiently. "miss eliza grogworthy." "now, tom, i know you are joking! why can't you be serious?" "i am as serious as were that couple. i have known her for some time, and she was very visible." "why, she is old enough to be his mother!" "not quite, my dear. in such a case as this, one must be particular about ages. she is a few years older than he is probably, but she is not bad looking, and a good woman with a nice big house and lots of money. he has walked out of my office into a fine position, and i unselfishly congratulated him with all my heart." "poor mr. hemphill!" sighed olive. she was thinking of the very young man she had sighed for when a very young girl. "he needs no pity," said mr. easterfield seriously. "i should not be surprised if he feels glad that he was not--well, we won't say what," he added, looking mischievously at olive. "this is really a great deal better thing for him. he is not a favorite of my wife, but he is a thoroughly good fellow in his way, and i have always liked him. there were certain things necessary to him in this life, and he has got them. that can not be said about everybody by a long shot! no, he is to be congratulated." olive was silent. she was trying to make up her mind that he was really to be congratulated, and to get rid of a lingering doubt. "well, that is the end of him in our affairs!" exclaimed mrs. easterfield. "why didn't you tell us what you were going to town for?" "because he asked me not to mention it to any one. and, besides, that is not all i went to town for." "oh," said his wife, "any more weddings?" "no," said mr. easterfield, helping himself to an easy chair. "you know i have lately been so much with nautical people i have acquired a taste for the sea." "i did not know it," said his wife; "but what of it?" "well, as lieutenant asher and his wife are here yet, and have no earthly reason for being anywhere in particular; and as captain asher seems to be tired of the toll-gate; and as captain lancaster doesn't care where he is; and as miss olive doesn't know what to do with herself until it is time for her to get married; and as you are always ready to go gadding; and as the children need bracing up; and as you can not get along without miss raleigh; and as mrs. blynn is a good housekeeper; and as i have an offer for renting our town house; i propose that we all go to sea together." the two ladies had listened breathlessly to these words, and now olive sprang up in great excitement, and mrs. easterfield clapped her hands in delight. "how clever you are, tom!" she exclaimed. "what a splendid idea! how can we go?" "i have leased a yacht, and we are going to the mediterranean." _chapter xxxviii_ "_it has just begun!_" this wonderful scheme which mr. easterfield had planned and carried out met with general favor. perhaps if they had all been consulted before he made the plan there would have been many alterations, and discussions, and doubts. but the thing was done, and there was nothing to say but "yes" or "no." the time had come for the house party at broadstone to break up, and the lieutenant and mrs. asher had arranged to spend the next few months in the city, but they gladly accepted mr. easterfield's generous invitation and would return to the toll-gate alter a few weeks preparatory to sailing, that the party might get together, for captain lancaster was to remain at the tollhouse. mr. easterfield also invited claude locker "to make things lively in rough weather," and that young man accepted with much alacrity. mrs. easterfield was in such a state of delight that she nearly lost her self-possession. sometimes, her husband told her, she scarcely spoke rationally. if she had been asked to wish anything that love or money could bring her, it would have been this very thing; but she would not have believed it possible. she was busy everywhere planning for everybody, and making out various lists. but, as she said, there is a little black spot in almost every joy. and her little black spot was dick lancaster. "poor professor lancaster!" she said to her husband. "we to have such a great pleasure, and he shut up in close rooms! and olive far away!" "are you sure about olive?" asked mr. easterfield. "she has never said positively that she is going. i most earnestly hope that she will not back out because lancaster can not go. if she stays her uncle will stay." "and for that very reason she will go," said mrs. easterfield. "and i think professor lancaster will urge her to go. he is unselfish enough, i am sure, to wish her to have this great pleasure. and, talking of olive, one thing is certain, tom, we must be back early in the spring. there will be a great deal to do before the wedding. and, o tom, i will tell you--but you must not tell any one, for i am keeping it for a surprise--i am going to give them a fine wedding. they will be married in church, of course, but the reception will be at our house. you will like that, i know." "will there be good eating?" "plenty of it." "then i shall like it." all this was very well, but, nevertheless, this talk made the enthusiastic lady a little uneasy. it was true olive had never said in words conclusively whether she would go or not. but she was extremely anxious that her father should go, and she implicitly followed mrs. easterfield's directions in making preparations for him, and was just as earnest in making her own; and her friend was certainly justified in thinking all this was a tacit consent. as for the two captains, they were so delighted at this heavenly prospect that they gave up talking about dick and olive, and read guide-books to each other, and studied maps, and sea-charts until their brains were nearly addled. they were a source of great amusement to the young people when dick came for his frequent short visits. it was evident to all interested that professor lancaster approved of the expedition, for he entered heartily into all the talk about the various places to be visited, and all that was to be done on the vessel; and he did not bore them with any lamentations in regard to the coming separation between him and olive. and, of course, every one respected his feelings, and said nothing to him about it. the weeks went by; all the preparations were made; and at last the time came when the company were to assemble at the toll-gate and broadstone before the final plunge into the unknown. olive wished to have them all to dinner on the first day of this short visit. "our house is a little one," she said to mrs. easterfield, "but we can make it big enough. you know nautical people understand how to do that. what a jolly company we shall have! you know dick will be there." "yes, poor dick!" sighed mrs. easterfield, when olive had left. the easterfields, with lieutenant asher and his wife, arrived very promptly at the toll-gate on that important day, and their drive through the bright, crisp air put them in a merry mood. they had hoped to bring mr. locker, but he had not arrived. they found two captains at the toll-gate in even merrier mood. dick lancaster was there, having arrived that morning, and they were none of them surprised that he looked serious. the ladies were not immediately asked to go up-stairs to remove their wraps, for olive was not there to receive them. she soon, however, made her appearance in a lovely white dress that had been made for the trip under mrs. easterfield's supervision. dick lancaster immediately got up from his chair and joined her; and the reverend mr. faulkner appeared from some mysterious place, and the astonished guests were treated to a very pretty marriage ceremony. it was soon over, and the two jolly captains laughed heartily at the bewilderment of the broadstone party. and then there was a wild time of hand-shaking and congratulations and embracing. by his wife's orders, mr. tom kissed olive, which seemed perfectly proper to everybody except mrs. lieutenant asher. she was also a young bride, with no similar experiences. later, when all were composed, olive explained. "what has happened just now is all on account of mr. easterfield's invitation. i wrote immediately to dick, and we settled it between us that he would ask for a vacation--they always give vacations when professors are married, and he knew of some one to take his place--and then we would be married, and ask mr. and mrs. easterfield to invite us to take our wedding trip with them. dick had to stay at the college until the last minute almost, and so we didn't say anything about the wedding--and we were both afraid of--well, we don't like a fuss--and so we planned this. and when dick came he brought the license and mr. faulkner. and now i don't see how mr. easterfield can help inviting us." mr. easterfield was standing by his wife, and as olive finished her explanation he took his wife's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze of sympathy; and that heroic woman never flinched; nor did she ever say one word about that pretty wedding she had planned for the spring. they had all nearly finished the fried chicken with white sauce, when claude locker arrived. he had missed the regular train and had come on a freight; had got a horse when he reached broadstone. "i am more tired than if i had walked," he grumbled. "i am always in bad luck! i am an unlucky dog! but you are so good you will excuse me, miss asher." "that is not my name," said olive gravely. and with both eyes of the same size, mr. locker looked around, wondering why everybody was laughing. "let me introduce mrs. lancaster," said dick with a bow. "do you mean," cried locker, starting up, "that this thing is really done?" "no," said olive. "it has just begun." the end note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: "lieut. frederick garrison" is a pseudonym used by upton sinclair. [illustration: "'the cadets of this academy, miss adams,' said he, 'do not speak to mr. mallory.'" (see page )] a cadet's honor or mark mallory's heroism by lieut. frederick garrison, u. s. a. author of "off for west point," "on guard," "a west point treasure," etc. [illustration: boys' own library] philadelphia david mckay, publisher south washington square copyright, by street & smith a cadet's honor contents chapter page i--a "yearling" meeting ii--mark's mysterious visitor iii--trouble for mark iv--the explanation v--mark in disgrace vi--indian's re-examination vii--the examination of the parson viii--the rescue party ix--heroism of the parson x--more troubles xi--disadvantages of "coventry" xii--the embassy of the parson xiii--preparations for the battle xiv--the affair at the fort xv--two plebes in hospital xvi--the parson's indignation xvii--indian in trouble xviii--to the rescue xix--the alliance is completed xx--indignation of the yearlings xxi--a mild attempt at hazing xxii--the bombshell falls xxiii--in the shadow of dismissal xxiv--a letter xxv--a swimming match xxvi--the finish of a race xxvii--what mark did xxviii--mark meets the superintendent xxix--the seven in session xxx--the move into camp xxxi--"first night" xxxii--conclusion a cadet's honor chapter i. a "yearling" meeting. the whole class came to the meeting. there hadn't been such an important meeting at west point for many a day. the yearling class had been outrageously insulted. the mightiest traditions of the academy had been violated, "trampled beneath the dust," and that by two or three vile and uncivilized "beasts"--"plebes"--new cadets of scarcely a week's experience. and the third class, the yearlings, by inherent right the guardians of west point's honor, and the hazers of the plebe, had vowed that those plebes must be punished as never had plebes been punished before. the first and third classes of cadets had gone into summer camp the previous day, immediately after the graduation exercises. from that date, the middle of june to july , they have a comparative holiday, with no drills and no duties except guard-mounting, dress parade toward evening, and inspections. and it was during the first of the holiday mornings that the above-mentioned "meeting" was held, beneath the shady trees of trophy point, a short distance from the camp. "i move," shouted a voice in the crowd, "that we elect bud smith chairman." the motion was carried with a shout, and bud smith, just out of hospital by the way, was "boosted" up onto one of the guns, which served as the "chair." bud smith was a tall, heavily-built youth with a face covered by court-plaster and "contusions," as the results of a west point fight are officially designated by the hospital surgeon. "this meeting will please come to order," said the chairman. "and the gentlemen will oblige me by keeping quiet and not compelling me to use my voice much. for i am--er--not feeling very well to-day." and bud illustrated his statement by gently mopping his "contusions" with a damp handkerchief. "we have met," began the chairman, as soon as this formality was over--"we have met, i believe, to consider the cases of three 'beasts,' powers, stanard and mallory, by name (a low groan from the class), and to consider the best method of reducing them to submission. i don't think it is necessary for me to restate the complaints against them, for you are probably all as familiar with the incidents as i. 'texas' powers, or as he calls himself, jeremiah, son o' the honorable scrap powers, o' hurricane county, texas, must be disciplined because he fails to understand what is expected of him. he dared to order a superior officer out of his room, and last monday morning he succeeded in defeating no less than four men in our class--myself among them." and cadet smith again mopped his "contusions," and went on. "of course we have got to find somebody to whip him. then, too, stanard lost his temper and attacked half a dozen of our class, for no other reason on earth than that they tied him in a sack and carried him out onto the cavalry plain. he, too, was victorious, i am told. and then, last of all, but of all the offenders most insolent and lawless, comes----" the chairman paused solemnly before he pronounced the name. "mark mallory." and the storm of hisses and jeers that followed could have been heard at barracks. it was evident that the yearlings had no love for mark mallory, whoever mark mallory might be. "mark mallory commenced his tricks," the chairman continued, "even before he was a cadet. he was impudent then. and the other day he dared to act as powers' second. and, worse than all, yesterday, to show how utterly reckless and b. j. he is, he deliberately locked bull harris and baby edwards up in an icehouse, with the intention of making them absent at taps and compelling them to remain imprisoned all night. it was only by the merest accident, they succeeding in forcing the door, that this plan was frustrated. now, gentlemen, this thing is about as serious as it can possibly be. mark mallory's conduct shows that he's gotten the idea into his head that not only can he avoid being hazed, but even turn the tables upon us and bid us defiance. his attack upon the two cadets was absolutely unprovoked. bull told me personally that he had not attempted to haze him, and had not even spoken to him. it was a pure case of freshness and nothing else. and he's got to be licked for it until he can't stand up." bud smith finished his speech amid a round of applause, and then fell to soothing his "contusions" again. it may as well be stated here that bull harris' account of the incident that was just now causing so much talk was an absolute falsehood. as told in a previous volume, entitled "off for west point," bull and his gang had made an attempt to lock mark up, and had failed, and been locked up themselves instead. that was all. but bull and his gang saw fit to omit that part of the story. it was safe, for no one could gainsay it; mark's account was not asked for. "i move, mr. chairman," said corporal jasper, rising, "that inasmuch as mallory seems to be the leader of this fool business, that we lick him first, and that, too, to-morrow morning. for it's growing worse every minute. the plebes are getting so downright b. j. that a fellow can't even give an order without fearing to be disobeyed. to-morrow morning, i say. and i call for some one to volunteer." the young officer's motion took the crowd's fancy. "who'll fight him? who'll fight him?" became the cry, and was followed by a chorus of names offered as suggestions. one was predominant, and seemed to be the most popular. "williams! billy williams. get up, billy! speech!" and "billy" arose from the ground as the cry grew louder, and said that he was "very much honored," and that if the class really selected him he would be most happy to do the best he possibly could. "hooray! billy's going to lick him! 'ray for billy." "i move, mr. chairman, that a committee be appointed to convey the challenge on behalf of the class." "carried," said the chairman. "i appoint corporal jasper and cadet spencer. this meeting stands adjourned." and the yearlings scattered, bearing "billy williams" off in triumph. the committee, much as it hated to, was obliged to delay the sending of the challenge. there were two reasons: in the first place, mark mallory, together with the rest of the plebes, was being bullied and tormented just then in the course of a squad drill; and, in the second place, one of the committee, cadet spencer, was engaged in doing the bullying, having been appointed "on duty over plebes." after supper, however, came a blissful half hour of rest to the last-named unfortunates; and then the three yearlings gathered together, took an extra quantity of dignity, and sallied forth to find the three "b. j.'s." "b. j.," it may be added, is west point for fresh, and stands for "before june." entering barracks, the committee made straight for mark mallory's room and knocked. "come in, thar!" shouted a voice. there were four occupants in the room. one was a round, fat-faced boy with an alarmed, nervous look, cadet joseph smith, of indianapolis, commonly known as "indian." in a chair by the window sat a still more curious figure, a lank, bony individual with ill-fitted, straying clothes and a long, sharp face. upon his big, bulging knees rested a leather-bound volume labeled "dana's geology," and opened at the tertiary fossiliferous strata of the hudson river valley. "parson" peter stanard was too much interested to notice the entrance of the cadets. he was trying to classify a cyatho phylloid coral which he had just had the luck to find. sprawled upon the bed was another tall, slender fellow, his feet hoisted up on the pile of blankets at the foot. all the committee saw of "texas" powers was a pair of soles, for texas didn't care to move. the fourth party was a handsome, broad-shouldered chap, with curly brown hair. and to him corporal jasper, the spokesman, addressed himself. "mr. mallory?" said he. mr. mallory bowed. "we have come as a committee representing the yearling class." "i am honored," said mr. mallory. "pray do not feel so in the least," said corporal jasper, witheringly. "the class desires to express, in the first place, its entire displeasure, both as a class and as individuals, at your unprovoked conduct toward two of its members." "um," said mark, thoughtfully. "and did the two members tell you the attack was unprovoked?" "they did." "then i desire to express, in the first place, my entire displeasure, both as a class and as an individual, at being thus grossly misrepresented." "bully!" came the voice from behind the mattress. "in short," continued mark, "i desire to call the statement of messrs. harris and edwards a downright, unmitigated and contemptible lie." "sock it to 'em!" chuckled the voice from the mattress. "wow!" "well put!" added "parson" stanard. "worthy of the great patrick henry himself." "bless my soul!" chimed indian, ready to run. cadet jasper took it coolly, like the gentleman he was. "it is customary, mr. mallory," he said, calmly, "for a man to have to earn the right to call a higher class man a liar." "i am quite ready, sir," responded mr. mallory. "that is fortunate. the class offers you such an opportunity. we are directed to bring a challenge from cadet williams, of the third class, to meet him at fort clinton at four o'clock to-morrow morning." "i will consider it a favor," said mark, politely, "if you will be good enough to inform the class that i am most happy to accept." "an' look a yere," cried texas, mark's chum, raising his head and peering out between his feet. "look a yere! whar do i come in, in this bizness?" "your seconds?" inquired jasper, not noticing the interruption. "mr. powers and mr. stanard." "and is there any other information?" "none." "remember, fort clinton at four a. m." "i shall be there without fail. and i thank you for your trouble in the matter." cadets jasper and spencer bowed and withdrew, while the four "beasts" sat and looked at each other in silence. "well," mark said, at last, "what do you think of it?" "think?" growled texas. "i think it's a skin, that's what i think. an' it's jest like you an' your luck, mark mallory!" and, so saying, texas kicked the mattress off the bed. "if you don't do that feller williams, whoever he is, in the first round, i'll kick you out an' do it myself!" "but who is this williams?" inquired mark, as he picked up the mattress and threw it at texas. "does anybody here know?" "i do," said the "parson," reverently depositing dana on the floor. "i do know, and i shall, forsooth, be very happy to tell you about him. williams is, in the first place, as to physical proportions, the largest man in his class; in the second place, he is the best all-around man----" "all round like indian?" inquired texas, gravely. "inasmuch as," continued the "parson," "he won a considerable proportion of the olympic contests, which are celebrated here under the designation of 'the spring games.'" "that sounds promising," said mark, thoughtfully. "i wonder if he can fight." "as to his pugilistic abilities, i am by no means so accurately informed, but if my conjecture be of any value whatsoever, i should be inclined to infer, from the fact that our enemies, the representatives of tyranny and oppression, who are endeavoring to reduce us to submission, have selected him as their champion and representative in arms, that----" "he's a beaut," put in texas, to save time. "and i only wish i'd had mark's luck." "and i wish," added the boston student, "that i could contrive to account for the presence of this cyathodhylloid fossil in a sandstone of tertiary origin." it was not very long after this that "tattoo" sounded. but before it did the little band of rebels up in the barracks had time to swear eternal fealty, and to vow by all that man held dear to be present "at fort clinton at four a. m. to-morrow," there, as the "parson" classically put it, to fire a shot for freedom that should be heard around the world. mark swore it, and indian, too; texas swore it by the seventeen guns which were stowed away in his trunk, and by the honor of his father, "the honorable scrap powers, o' hurricane county;" and peter stanard swore it by bunker hill and, yea, even by lamachus, he of the gorgon's crest. and then the meeting adjourned. chapter ii. mark's mysterious visitor. these were days of work for the plebes at west point--days of drilling and practicing from sunrise to night, until mind and body were exhausted. and it usually happened that most of the unfortunates were already sound asleep by the time "tattoo" was sounded, that is, unless the unfortunates had been still more unfortunate, unfortunate enough to fall into the clutches of the merciless yearling. when "taps" came half an hour later, meaning lights out and all quiet, there was usually scant need for the round of the watchful "tac," as the tactical officer is designated. it happened so on this night. the "tac" found all quiet except for the snoring. and, this duty over, the officer made his way to his own home; and after that there was nothing awake except the lonely sentry who marched tirelessly up and down the halls. the night wore on, the moon rose and shone down in the silent area, making the shadows of the gray stone building stand out dark and black. and the clock on the guardhouse indicated the hour of eleven. it was not very many minutes more before there was a dark, shadowy form, stealing in by the eastern sally-port, and hugging closely the black shadows of the wall. he paused, whoever it was, when he reached the area, and waited, listening. the sentry's tramp grew clear and then died out again, which meant that the sentry was back in the hallway of the barracks, and then the shadowy form stepped out into the moonlight and ran swiftly and silently across the area and sprang up the steps to the porch of the building; and there he stood and waited again until once more the sentry was far away--then stepped into the doorway and crept softly up the stairs. the strange midnight visitor was evidently some one who knew the place. he knew just the room he was going to, also, for he wasted not a moment's time, but stole swiftly down the hall, and stopped before one of the doors. it was the room of cadets mallory and powers. doors at west point are never locked; there are no keys. the strange visitor crouched and listened cautiously. a sound of deep and regular breathing came from within, and, hearing it, he softly opened the door, entered and then just as carefully shut it behind him. having attended to this, he crept to one of the beds. he seemed to know which one he wanted without even looking; it was mark mallory's. and then the stranger leaned over and gently touched the occupant. the occupant was sleeping soundly, for he was tired; the touch had no effect upon him. the visitor tried again, and harder, this time with success. mark mallory sat up in alarm. "ssh! don't make a sound," whispered the other. "i've got a message for you. ssh!" it is enough to alarm any one to be awakened out of a sound sleep in such a manner, and at such a time, and mark's heart was thumping furiously. "who are you?" he whispered. the figure made no answer, but crept to the window, instead, where the moonlight was streaming in. and mark recognized him instantly as one of the small drum orderlies he had seen about the post. half his alarm subsided then, and he arose and joined the boy at the window. "here," said the boy. "read it." and so saying, he shoved a note into the other's hand. mark took it hurriedly, tore it open and read it. it took him but a moment to do so, and when he finished his face was a picture of amazement and incredulity. "who gave you this?" he demanded, angrily. "ssh!" whispered the boy, glancing fearfully at the bed where texas lay. "ssh! you may wake him. she did." "now, look here!" said mark, in a recklessly loud voice, for he was angry, believing that the boy was lying. "now, look here! i've been fooled with one letter this way, and i don't mean to be fooled again. if this is a trap of those cadets, as sure as i'm alive, i'll report the matter to the superintendent and have you court-martialed. remember! and now i give you a chance to take it back. if you tell me the truth i'll let you go unhurt. now, once more, who gave you this?" and mark looked the trembling boy in the eye; but the boy still clung to his story. "she did, indeed she did," he protested. "where?" asked mark. "down at her house." "why were you there?" "i live there." mark stared at the boy for a moment more, and bit his lip in uncertainty. then he turned away and fell to pacing up and down the room, muttering to himself. "yes," he said, "yes, i believe she wrote it. but what on earth can it mean? what on earth can be the matter?" then he turned to the boy. "do you know what she wants?" he inquired. "no, sir," whispered the other. "only she told me to show you the way to her house." "is anything the matter?" "i don't know; but she looked very pale." and mark turned away once more and fell to pacing back and forth. "shall i go?" he mused. "shall i go? it's beyond cadet limits. if i'm caught it means court-martial and expulsion. there's the 'blue book' on the mantel staring at me for a warning. by jingo! i don't think i'll risk it!" he turned to the boy about to refuse the request; and then suddenly came another thought--she knew the danger as well as he! she knew what it meant to go beyond limits, and yet she had sent for him at this strange hour of the night, and for him, too, a comparative stranger. surely, it must be a desperate matter, a matter in which to fail was sheer cowardice. at the same time with the thought there rose up before him a vision of a certain very sweet and winsome face; and when he spoke to the boy his answer was: "i'll go." he stepped to the desk, and wrote hastily on a piece of paper this note to texas: "i'll be back in time to fight. explain later. trust me. "mark." this he laid on the bureau, and then silently but quickly put on his clothes and stepped to the door with the boy. mark halted for a moment and glanced about the room to make sure that all was well and that texas was asleep, and then he softly shut the door and turned to the boy. "how are we going to get out?" he demanded. "come," responded the other, setting the example by creeping along on tiptoe. "come." they halted again at the top of the stairway to wait until the sentry had gone down, and then stole down and dodged outside the door just as the latter turned and marched back. flattened against the wall, they waited breathlessly, while he approached nearer and nearer, and then he halted, wheeled and went on. at the same moment the two crept quickly across the area and vanished in the darkness of the sally port. "now," said the drum boy, as they came out on the other side, "here we are. come on." mark turned and followed him swiftly down the road toward highland falls, and quiet once more reigned about the post. there was one thing more that needs to be mentioned. it was a very simple incident, but it was destined to lead to a great deal. it was merely that a gust of wind blew in at the window of the room where texas slept, and, seizing the sheet of paper upon which mark had written, lifted it gently up and dropped it softly and silently behind the bureau, whither mark had thrown the other note. and that was all. chapter iii. trouble for mark. time has a way of passing very hurriedly when there is anything going to happen, especially if it be something disagreeable. the hands of the clock had been at half-past eleven when mark left. it took them almost no time to hurry on to midnight, and not much longer to get to two. and from two it went on to three, and then to half-past. the blackness of the night began to wane, and the sky outside the window to lighten with the first gray streaks of dawn. not long after this time up in one of the rooms on the second floor of barracks, division , the occupant of one of the rooms began to grow restless. for the occupant had promised himself and others to awaken them. and awaken he did suddenly, and turned over, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. "mark! oh, mark!" he called, softly. "git up, thar! it's time to be hustlin'!" there was no answer, and texas got up, yawning, and went to the other bed. "git up thar, you prize fighter you!" and as he spoke he aimed a blow at the bed, and the next moment he started back in amazement, for his hand had touched nothing but a mattress, and texas knew that the bed was empty. "wow!" he muttered. "he's gone without me!" and with this thought in his mind he rushed to his watch to see if he were too late. no, it was just ten minutes to four, and texas started hastily to dress, wondering at the same time what on earth could have led mark to go so early and without his friend. "that was the goldurndest queer trick i ever did hear of in my life, by jingo!" it took him but a few short moments to fling his clothes on; and then he stepped quickly across the hall and entered a room on the other side. "i wonder if that parson's gone with him," he muttered. the "parson" had not, for texas found him engaged in encasing his long, bony legs in a pair of trousers that would have held a dozen such. "are you accoutered for the combat?" he whispered, in a sepulchral tone, sleepily brushing his long black hair from his eyes. "where is mark?" "the fool's gone up there without us!" replied the texan, angrily. "without us!" echoed stanard, sliding into his pale sea-green socks. "bless my soul!" echoed a voice from the bed--indian was too sleepy to get up. "bless my soul, what an extraordinary proceeding!" "come on," said texas. "hurry up." the "parson" snatched up his coat and made for the door. "i think," said he, halting at the door in hesitation. "i think i'll leave my book behind. i'll hardly need it, do you think?" "come on!" growled texas, impatiently. "hurry up!" texas was beginning to get angry, as he thought, over mark's "fool trick." the two dodged the sentry without much trouble; it is probable that the sentry didn't want to see them, even if he did. they ran hastily out through the sally port and across the parade ground, texas, in his impatience, dragging his long-legged companion in tow. they made a long detour and approached fort clinton from behind the hotel, in order to avoid the camp. hearing voices from inside the embankment, texas sprang hastily forward, scrambled up the bank, and peered down into the inclosure. "here they are," called one of the cadets, and then, as he glanced at the two, he added: "but where's mallory?" and texas gazed about him in blank amazement. "where is he?" he echoed. "where is he? why, ain't he yere?" it was the cadets' turn to look surprised. "here?" echoed corporal jasper. "here! why, we haven't seen him." "hain't seen him!" roared texas, wild with vexation. "what in thunder!" "wasn't he in your room?" inquired somebody. "no. he was gone! i thought, of course, he'd come out yere." and texas fell to pacing up and down inside the fort, chewing at his finger nails and muttering angrily to himself, while the yearlings gathered into a group and speculated what the strange turn in the affair could mean. "it's ten to one he's flunked," put in bull harris, grinning joyfully. some such idea was lurking in texas' mind, too, but it made him mad that any of his enemies should say it. "if he has," he bellowed, wheeling about angrily and facing the cadet. "if he has it's because you've tricked him again, you ole white-legged scoundrel you!" texas doubled up his fists and looked ready to fight right then; bull harris opened his mouth to answer, but jasper interposed: "that's enough," said he. "we can settle this some other time. the question is now about mallory. you say, mr. powers, you've not the least idea where he is?" "if i had," responded texas, "if i had, d'you think i'd be hyar?" jasper glanced at his watch. "it's five minutes after now," said he, "and i----" he got no farther, for texas started forward on a run. "i'm a goin' to look fo' him!" he announced. and then he sprang over the embankment and disappeared, while the cadets stood about waiting impatiently, and speculating as to what mark's conduct could mean. poor stanard sat sprawled out on top of the earthworks, where he sat down in amazement and confusion when he discovered that mark was not on hand; and there he sat yet, too much amazed and confused to move or say anything. meanwhile texas was hurrying back to barracks with all the speed he could command, his mind in a confused state of anxiety and doubt and anger. the position of humiliation in which mark's conduct had placed him was gall and wormwood to him, and he was fast working himself into a temper of the texas style. he rushed upstairs, forgetting that such a thing as a sentry existed. he burst into the room and gazed about him. the place was empty still, and texas slammed the door and marched downstairs again, and raced back to the fort. the cadets were still waiting impatiently, for it was a good while after four by this time. "find him?" they inquired. "no, i didn't!" snapped texas. "no fight, then," said jasper. "it's evident he's flunked." "wow!" cried texas! "no fight! what's the matter with me?" and, suiting the action to the word, he whipped off his coat. "not to-day," responded jasper, with decision. "you'll have your chance another day." "unless you run home, too," sneered harris. texas' face was fiery red with anger, and he doubled up his fists and made a leap for the last speaker. "you coyote!" he roared. "you an' me'll fight now!" bull harris started back, and before texas could reach him half a dozen cadets interfered. williams, the would-be defender of his class, seized the half-wild fellow by the shoulders and forced him back. "just take it easy," he commanded. "just take it easy. you'll learn to control yourself before you've been here long." texas could do nothing, for he was surrounded completely. bull harris was led away, and then the rest of the cadets scattered to steal into camp, but texas snatched up his coat in a rage, and strode away toward barracks, muttering angrily to himself, the "parson" following behind in silence. the latter ventured to interpose a remark on the way, and texas turned upon him angrily. "shut up!" he growled. "mind your business!" stanard gazed at him in silence. "i guess i'll have to knock him down again," he said to himself. but he didn't, at least, not then; and texas pranced up to his room and flung himself into a chair, muttering uncomplimentary remarks about mark and west point and everything in it. it was just half-past four when he entered, and for fifteen minutes he sat and pounded the floor with his heel in rage. texas was about as mad as he knew how to be, which was very mad indeed. and then suddenly there was a step in the hall and the door was burst open. texas turned and looked. it was mark! texas sprang to his feet in an instant, all his wrath aflame. mark had come in hurriedly, for he had evidently been running. "what happened----" he began, but he got no further. "you confounded coward!" roared texas. "whar did you git the nerve to show yo' face round hyar?" "why, texas?" exclaimed mark, in amazement. texas was prancing up and down the room, his fingers twitching. "i jest tell you, sah, they ain't no room in my room fo' a coward that sneaks off when he's got a fight. now i----" "i left word for you," said mark, interrupting him. "word for me! word for me!" howled the other. "you're a--a--a liar, sah!" mark's face was as white as a sheet, but he kept his temper. "now, texas," he began again, soothingly. "now, texas----" "take that, too, will ye?" sneered texas. "you're coward enough to swallow that, too, hey? wonder how much more you'll stand. try that." and before mark could raise his arm the other sprang forward and dealt him a stinging blow upon the face. mark stepped back, his whole frame quivering. "how much?" he repeated, slowly. "not that." and then, just as slowly, he took off his coat. "fight, hey?" laughed texas. "wow! ready?" he added, flinging his own jacket on the floor and getting his great long arms into motion. "ready?" "yes," said mark. "i am ready." and in an instant the other leaped forward, just as he had done at fort clinton, except that he omitted the yelling, being indoors with a sentry nearby. physically two fighters were never more evenly matched; no one, to look at them, could have picked the winner, for both were giants. but there was a difference apparent before very long. texas fought in the wild and savage style of the prairie, nip-and-tuck, go-as-you-please; and he was wild with anger. he had swept the yearlings at fort clinton before him that way and he thought to do it again. mark had another style, a style that texas had never seen. he learned a good deal about it in a very few minutes. texas started with a rush, striking right and left with all the power of his arms; and mark simply stepped to one side and let the wall stop texas. that made texas angrier still, if such a thing can be imagined. he turned and made another dash, this time aiming a savage blow at his opponent's head. in it was all the power of the texan's great right arm, and it was meant to kill. mark moved his head to one side and let the blow pass, stopping the rush with a firm prod in the other's chest; then he stepped aside and waited for another rush. for he did not want to hurt his excited roommate if he could help it. a repetition of this had no effect upon texas, however, except to increase his fury, and mark found that he was fast getting mad himself. a glancing blow upon the head that brought blood capped the climax, and mark gritted his teeth and got to work. texas made another lunge, which mark dodged, and then, before the former could stop, mark caught him a crushing blow upon the jaw which made his teeth rattle. texas staggered back, and mark followed him up rapidly, planting blow after blow upon the body of his wildly striking opponent. and in a few moments texas, the invincible texas, was being rapidly pummeled into submission. "i'll leave his face alone," thought mark, as he aimed a blow that half paralyzed the other's right wrist. "for i don't want the cadets to know about this." and just then he landed an extra hard crack upon the other's chest, and texas went down in a corner. "want any more?" inquired mark, gravely. texas staggered to his feet and made one more rush, only to be promptly laid out again. "i guess that's enough," thought mark, as the other lay still and gasped. "i guess that's enough for poor texas." and so saying, he took out his handkerchief, wiped the blood from his face, and then opened the door and went out. "i'm sorry i had to do it," he mused; "sorry as thunder! but he made me. and anyhow, he won't want to fight very soon again." chapter iv. the explanation. mark had barely reached the head of the stairs before the morning gun sounded, and five minutes later he was in line at roll call with the rest of his class. it is needless to say that texas was absent. texas woke up a while later, and staggered to his feet, feeling carefully of his ribs to make sure they were not really broken. and then he went out and interviewed a sentry in the hall. "look a yere, mister," said he. "where's this yere place they call the hospital?" the sentry directed him to await the proper hour, and texas spent the rest of that day, reported by the surgeon as "absent from duty--sick--contusions." and the whole class wondered why. mark noticed that the cadets were looking at him at breakfast; and he noticed that the members of his own class were rather distant, but he gritted his teeth and made up his mind to face it out. "if even texas called me a coward," he mused, "i can't expect the rest of 'em to do otherwise." and so it seemed, for that same morning just after breakfast corporal jasper and cadet spencer paid a visit to mark. "the class would like, if you please, mr. mallory," said the former, "an explanation of your conduct this morning." "and i am sorry to say," responded mark, just as politely, "that i am unable to give it. all i can say is that my conduct, though it may seem strange and mysterious, was unavoidable. if you will allow me, i shall be pleased to meet mr. williams to-morrow." "we cannot allow it," said jasper, emphatically, "unless you consent to explain your action and can succeed in doing it satisfactorily, which you will pardon me for saying i doubt very much, you stand before the academy branded as a coward." "very well," said mark, "let it be so." and he turned away, and all through that long, weary morning and the afternoon, too. cadet mallory was in coventry, and not a soul spoke a word to him, except cadet spencer, at drill. and he was frigid. cadet powers was released from the hospital "cured" that evening after supper, and he limped upstairs to his room, and sat down to think about himself, and to philosophize upon the vanities of life and the follies of ambition. mark did not come up until "tattoo" sounded, and so texas had plenty of time. he felt very meek just then; he wasn't angry any more, and he'd had plenty of time also to think over what a fool he had been in not listening to mark's explanation of his absence. for texas had been suddenly convinced that mark was no coward after all. while he sat there, a piece of paper sticking out from under the bureau caught his eye. texas was getting very neat recently under west point discipline; he picked that paper up, and read as follows: "i'll be back in time to fight. explain later. trust me. "mark." "oh!" cried texas, springing up from his chair and wrenching a dilapidated shoulder. "he told me he did that--and i called him a liar!" texas walked up and down, and mused some more. then it occurred to him there might be more paper under that bureau to explain things. he got down, painfully, and fished out another crumpled note. and he read that, too: "dear mr. mallory: i am in deep trouble, and i need your aid at once. you can tell how serious the trouble is by the fact that i ask you to come to me immediately. if you care to do a generous and helpful act pray do not refuse. sincerely yours, "mary adams." mary adams was a girl well known to many of the cadets. the letter was roughly scrawled on a pad, and when texas finished reading it he flung it on the floor and went and glared at himself in the mirror. "you idiot!" he muttered, shaking his fist at himself. "here them ole cadets went an' fooled mark mallory again, an' you--bah!" texas was repentant through and through by that time; he grabbed up his cap savagely and made for the door, with a reckless disregard for sore joints. he hobbled downstairs and out of barracks, and caught mark by the arm just as mark was coming in. "well, texas?" inquired mark, smiling. "fust place," said texas, briefly, "want to thank you fo' lickin' me." "welcome," said mark. "second place, do it ag'in if i ever lose my temper." "welcome," said mark. "third place, i want to 'pologize." "what's up? what's happened to convince you?" "nothin' much," said texas, "only i been a' findin' out what a fool i am. hones' now, mark," and as mark looked into the other's pleading gray eyes he saw that texas meant it. "hones' now, this yere's fust time i ever 'pologized in my life. i'm sorry." and mark took him by the hand. they were friends again from that moment. "i jist saw that second note from mary adams upstairs," explained texas, "an' then i knowed them ole cadets had fooled you that way ag'in. say, mark, you're mos' as big a fool as me--mos'." "that note was genuine," answered mark. and then as he saw texas' amazement, he led him aside and explained. "i'll tell you about it," said he, "for i can trust you not to tell. but i can't explain to the rest of the class, and i won't, either, though they may call me a coward if they choose. "a drummer boy came up here last night--or, rather, this morning. he woke me up and gave me that note, swore it was genuine, too, and i believed him in the end. as you see, mary adams wanted to see me, and she was in a desperate hurry about it. well, i debated over it for a long time; at first i thought i wouldn't, for i was afraid of court-martial; but then as i thought of her in distress i made up my mind to risk it, and i went. as it turned out, old man, you'd have been ashamed of me if i hadn't. there are worse things than being called a coward, and one of em's being a coward. "i found her in great trouble, as she said. she has a brother, a fellow of about twenty-two, i guess. she lives with her widowed mother, and he takes care of them. i think they are poor. anyway, this brother had gotten two or three hundred dollars from his employer to take a trip out west. he had fallen in with a rather tough crowd down in the village, and they were busy making him spend it as fast as he could. that was the situation." "it was tough," commented texas. "the problem was to get him away. the girl hadn't a friend on earth to call on, and she happened to think of me. she begged me to try to get him away. and i'll tell you one thing, too, texas. the cadets say she's a flirt and all that. she may be. i haven't had a chance to find out, and i don't propose to; but a girl that thinks as much of her brother as she does, and does as much for him, is not beyond respect by a good sight. i was really quite taken with her last night." "beware the serpent," put in texas, laughing. "she's pretty, i'm told. go on." "well, i found him, after a couple of hours' search, in a tough dive, with a crowd of loafers hanging on to him. i got him out, but i had to knock down----" "hey!" cried texas, springing up in excitement. "had a fight, did ye? why didn't you take me 'long?" "i didn't know i was going to fight," said mark, laughing. "and did you lick 'em?" "i only had to lick two, and then the rest ran." texas sighed resignedly, and mark went on: "i took him home, as i said, and left him with her. i got home just in time for reveille." "time to have me call you names and to lick me blue, for the same which i have jest thanked yo," added texas, his eyes suspiciously moist. "an' look a yere, ole man"--texas slung his hand around to his hip pocket and "pulled" a beautiful silver-mounted revolver, loaded "to the brim"--"look a yere, mark. this yere gun, i ain't ever gone out 'thout it fo' ten year. she's a----" "you don't mean to say you've had it on up here!" "sho'," said texas, "an' i come near usin' it on you, too. mark, you dunno how a texas man is with a gun. mos' of 'em 'ud ruther sell their wives. an' i'm a goin' to give you this to show that--er--that ther' ain't no hard feelin's, you know." "and i'll take it," said mark, getting hold of texas' other hand at the same time--"take it, if it's only to keep you from carrying it. and there aren't any hard feelings." chapter v. mark in disgrace. "in my excursions into the various fields of knowledge i have never yet had occasion to investigate the alleged discoveries of phrenological experimentalists, and yet----" the speaker paused for a moment, long enough to sigh mournfully. then he continued: "and yet i had, i think, sufficient perception of character as delineated by the outlines of physiognomy to recognize at once the fact that the person to whom we refer is in no way a coward." "i wish i had, parson," responded his companion, ruefully rubbing a large lump upon his forehead. "i wish i had." the thin, learned features of the first speaker found it difficult to indicate any amusement, and yet there was the trace of a smile about his mouth as he answered. "you say he 'licked' you, to use your own rather unclassic phrase?" he inquired. "licked me? wow! he gave me, sah, the very worst lickin' i ever got in my life--which is very natural, seeing that when a feller gits licked down in texas they bury him afterward. i reckon i'd be a gunnin' fo' him right now, if 'twarn't seein' it's mark mallory. why, man, a feller can't stay mad with mark mallory long!" it was just dinner time and parson and texas were sitting on the steps of barracks, waiting for the summons and talking over the events of the previous day. "and how did this encounter originate?" inquired the parson. "all in my foolishness!" growled texas. "you see yesterday morning when he didn't turn up to fight that 'ere yearling fellow williams, i thought 'twas cause he was scared. an' so i got mad an' when he did turn up i went fo' him. an' then i went fo' the hospital." "his conduct did seem unaccountable," rejoined the other. "and yet somehow i had an instinctive intuition, so to speak, that there was an adequate reason. and one is apt to find that such impressions are trustworthy, as, indeed, was most obviously demonstrated and consistently maintained by the german philosopher, immanuel kant. are you acquainted with kant's antinomies?" the parson added, anxiously. "no," said powers. "i ain't. they ain't got to texas yit. but i wish i'd had more sense'n to git mad with mark. i tell you i felt cheap when he did explain. i kain't tell you the reason yit, but you'll know it before long. all i kin say is he went down to cranston's." "to cranston's? i thought we weren't allowed off the grounds." "we ain't. but he took the risk of expulsion." "and another, too," put in the parson, "the risk of being called a coward an' being ostracised by the cadets." "i dunno 'bout the astercizin' part," said texas, "but i know they called him a coward, an' i know they cut him dead. there won't even a plebe speak to him, 'cept me an' you an' injun. an' it's what i call durnation tough now, by jingo!" "it don't worry me very much," put in a voice behind them. the two turned and saw mark looking at them with an amused expression. "it don't worry me much," he repeated. "i guess i can stand it if you'll stand by me. and i think pretty soon i can get another chance at williams, and then----" "if ye do," cried the excitable texan, springing up, "i'll back you to murder him in jist about half a minute." "it won't be so easy," responded mark, "for williams is the best man in his class, and that's saying a great deal. but i'll try it; and in the meantime we'll face out the disgrace. i can stand it, for really there isn't much privation when you have three to keep you company." "i reckon," put in texas, after a moment's thought, "i reckon we'll have to put off aformin' o' thet ere new organization we were a-talkin' 'bout. cuz we kain't git anybody to join ef they won't any of 'em speak to us." "i guess we three are enough for the present," said mark, "at least while all the cadets leave us alone. and if they try to haze us i think we can fight about as well as the rest of them. then there's indian, too, you know; i don't think he can fight much, but he's----" "now, see here!" cried an indignant voice from the doorway, "now see here, you fellows! i think that's real mean, now, indeed i do. didn't i tell you fellows i was going to learn to fight?" he expostulated. "didn't i? bless my soul, now, what more can a man do?" mark winked slyly to his companions, and put on his most solemn air. "do?" he growled. "you ask what more can a man do? a man might, if he were a man, rise up and prove his prowess and win himself a name. he might gird up his loins and take his sword in his hand and sally forth, to vindicate his honor and the honor of his sworn friends and allies. that is what he might do. and instead what does he do? in slothfulness and cowardice he sits and suffers beneath the rod of tyranny and oppression!" mark finished out of breath and red in the face. "bless my soul!" cried indian. "such a course is by no means entirely unprecedented," put in stanard, solemnly. "it is common in the mythology of antiquity and in the legends of mediæval times. such was the course of hercules, and thus did sir galahad and the knights of the round table." poor joe smith was gazing at the two speakers in perplexity. he wasn't quite sure whether they were serious or not, but he thought they were, and he was on the verge of promising to go out and kill something, whether a cadet or a grizzly, at once. the only trouble was that the tall, sedate-looking officer of the day, in his spotless uniform of gray and white and gold with a dazzling red sash thrown in, strode out of the guardhouse just then; a moment later came the cry, "new cadets turn out!" and indian drew a breath of relief at being delivered from his uncomfortable situation. saturday afternoon is a holiday at west point. the luckless plebe, having been drilled and shouted at for a week, gets a much-needed chance to do as he pleases, with the understanding, of course, that he does not happen to fall into the hands of the yearlings. if he does, he does as they please, instead. saturday afternoon is also a holiday time for the yearling, too, and he is accustomed to amuse himself with variety shows and concerts, recitations and exhibition drills, continuous performances that are free, given by the "beasts," the "trained animals," or plebes. it may be well at the start to have a word to say about "hazing" at west point. hazing is abolished there, so people say. at any rate, there are stringent measures taken to prevent it. a cadet is forbidden in any way to lay hands upon the plebe; he is forbidden to give any degrading command or exact any menial service; and the penalty for breaking these rules is dismissal. the plebe is called up daily before the tactical officer in charge of his company, and asked if he has any complaint to make. such are the methods. the results are supposed to be a complete stopping of "deviling" in all its forms. the actual result has been that when a yearling wants to "lay hands upon the plebe" he does it on the sly--perhaps "yanks" him, as one peculiar form of nocturnal torture is termed. when the yearling wants some work done, instead of "commanding" he "requests," and with the utmost politeness. if he wants his gun cleaned he kindly offers to "show" the plebe how to do it--taking care to see that the showing is done on his own gun and not on the plebe's. and the plebe is not supposed to object. he may, but in that case there are other methods. if he reports anybody he is ostracised--"cut" by every one, his own class included. this being the case, we come to the events of this particular saturday afternoon. "there were three wily yearlings set out one summer's day to hunt the plebe so timid in barracks far away." only in this case there were half a dozen instead of three. now, of all the persons selected for torment that year, with the possible exception of mark and texas, the two "b. j.'s," indian was the most prominent. "indian," as he was now called by the whole corps, was a _rara avis_ among plebes, being an innocent, gullible person who believed implicitly everything that was told him, and could be scared to death by a word. it was indian that this particular crowd of merry yearlings set out to find. mark and texas, it chanced, had gone out for a walk; "parson" stanard had, wandered over to the library building to "ascertain the extent of their geological literature," and to get some information, if possible, about a most interesting question which was just then troubling him. and poor joe smith was all alone in his room, dreading some visitation of evil. the laughing crowd dashed up the steps and burst into the room. indian had been told what to do. "heels together, turn out your toes, hands by your sides, palms to the front, fingers closed, little fingers on the seams of the trousers, head up, chin in, shoulders thrown back, chest out. here, you! get that scared look off your face. whacher 'fraid of. if you don't stop looking scared i'll murder you on the spot!" and with preliminary introduction the whole crowd got at him at once. "can you play the piano? go ahead, then. what! haven't got any? why didn't you bring one? what's the use of being able to play the piano if you haven't a piano? can you recite? don't know anything? you look like it. here, take this paper--it's a song. learn it now! why don't you learn it? what do you mean by staring at me instead of at the paper? there, that's right. now sing the first six verses. don't know 'em yet? bah, what will you do when you come to trigonometry with a hundred and fourteen formulas to learn every night? have you learned to stand on your head yet? what! didn't i tell you to do it? who taught you to stand on your feet, anyhow? why don't you answer me, eh? let's see you get up on that mantelpiece. won't hold you? well, who said it would? what's that got to do with it? no! don't take that chair. vault up! there. now flap your wings. what! haven't got any? what kind of an angel are you, anyhow? flap your ears. let's hear you crow like a hen. hens don't crow? what do you know about hens, anyway? were you ever a hen? well, why weren't you? were you ever a goose, then? no? well, you certainly look like it! why don't you crow when we tell you? what kind of crowing is that--flap your arms, there. have you got any toothpicks? what! no toothpicks? don't suppose you have any teeth, either. oh, so you have toothpicks, have you? well, why did you say you didn't? take 'em out of your pockets and row yourself along that mantelpiece with 'em. 'fraid you'll fall off, eh? well, we'll put you up again. humpty dumpty! row fast now! row! get that grin off your face. how dare you smile at a higher classman! you are the most amazingly presumptuous beast that i ever heard of. get down now, and don't break any bones about it, either!" all these amazing orders, rattled off in a breath, and interspersed with a variety of comment and ejaculation, poor indian obeyed in fear and trembling. he was commanded to fall down, and he fell; he was commanded to fall up, and he protested that the law of gravitation----"bah! why don't you get the law repealed?" he wiped off a smile from his terrified face and threw it under the bed. then, gasping, spluttering, he went under and got it. he strove his very best to go to sleep, amid a variety of suggestions, such as which eyes to shut and which lung to breathe through. this went on till the ingenuity of the cadets was nearly exhausted. then one individual, more learned than the rest, chanced to learn the identity of the indian's name with that of the great mormon leader. and instantly he elbowed his way to the front. "look here, sir, who told you to be a mormon? you're not a mormon? got only one wife, hey? none? then what sort of a mormon are you? why have you got a mormon's name? did you steal it? don't you know who joseph smith was? no? not you, the great joseph smith! suppose you think you're the great joseph smith. well, now, how on earth did you ever manage to get into this academy without knowing who joseph smith was? didn't ask you that, you say? well, they should have! fellow-citizens and cadets, did you ever hear of such a thing? there must be some mistake here. the very idea of letting a dunce like that in? why, i knew who joseph smith was about seventy-five years ago. gentlemen, i move you that we carry this case to the academy board at once. i shall use my influence to have this man expelled. i never heard of such a preposterous outrage in my life! not know joseph smith! and he's too fat to be a cadet, anyhow. what do you say?" "come ahead! come ahead!" cried the rest of the mob, indignant and solemn. and almost before the poor indian could realize what they were doing, or going to do, the whole crowd arose gravely and marched in silence out of the room, bent upon their direful mission of having the army board expel indian because he had never heard of joseph smith, the mormon prophet. and indian swallowed every bit of it and sat and trembled for his life. chapter vi. indian's re-examination. it was a rare opportunity. the six yearlings made for camp on a run, and there an interesting conference was held with a few more choice spirits, the upshot being that the whole crew set out for barracks again in high spirits, and looking forward to a jolly lark. they entered the building, causing dire fear to several anxious-looking plebes who were peering out of the windows and wondering if this particular marauding party was bound in their direction. it was one of the empty rooms that they entered, however, and there they proceeded to costume one of their number, putting on a huge red sash, some medals, a few shoulder straps borrowed for the occasion, and, last of all, a false mustache. this done, they hastened over to the room where the unfortunate "mormon" still sat. the "officer" rapped sharply on the door. "come in," a voice responded weakly; the cadets came. "mr. smith, sir?" inquired the personage with the mustache. "yes, sir," said indian, meekly, awed by the man's splendor. "i have been requested by certain of the cadets of the united states military academy to investigate the circumstance of your alleged passing at the recent examination. i have been informed by these same gentleman that when questioned by them you exhibited stupidity and ignorance so very gross as to cause them to doubt whether you have any right to call yourself a cadet at all." here the cadets shook their heads solemnly and looked very stern indeed. "bless my soul!" cried indian. "in order to consider these very grave allegations," continued the other, "a special meeting of the army board was first convened, with the following result:" here the speaker paused, cleared his throat pompously, and drew forth a frightfully official-looking envelope, from which he took a large printed sheet with the west point seal upon the top. "united states military academy, west point, june th," he read--that is the way all "orders" begin. "cadet joseph smith, of indianapolis, indiana, it has just been ascertained, was admitted to the duties of conditional cadet through an error of the examining board. a re-examination of cadet smith is hereby ordered to be conducted immediately under the charge of the lord high chief quartermaster of the academy. by order of the academy board. ahem!" the lord high chief quartermaster finished, and cadet smith sank down upon the bed in horror. "sir!" shouted the officer, "how dare you sit down in the presence of your superiors? get up, sir, instantly!" indian "got," weak-kneed and trembling. "the examination will be held," continued the cadet, "in the observatory building, at once. gentlemen, you will conduct mr. smith there and await my arrival." the bogus officer desired time to change his uniform, as he knew it would be risky to cross the parade in his borrowed clothing. now the observatory building is situated far away from the rest of the academy, upon the hillside near fort putnam. and thither the party set out, the cadets freely discussing the probable fate of the unhappy plebe. it was the almost unanimous verdict that one who was so unutterably stupid as never to have heard of the great joseph smith would not stand the ghost of a show. all of which was comforting to the listening victim. the observatory was deserted and lonely. the door was locked, and the party gained entrance by the windows, which alone was enough to excite one's suspicion. but indian was too scared to think. the lord high chief quartermaster presently slipped in, once more bedecked with medals and mustache. the examining party got to work at once in a very businesslike and solemn manner. the physical examination was to come first, they said. it had been the opinion of the army board that mr. smith was far too fat to make a presentable cadet. the surgeons were busy that afternoon in trying to piece together several plebes who had been knocked all to pieces by the yearlings for being too "b. j."--this was the explanation of the lord high chief quartermaster--and so it would be necessary to examine indian here, and at once, too. and if it were found, as, indeed, would most probably be the case, that he was too fat, why then it would be necessary for him to reduce weight immediately. several schemes were suggested as to how this might be done. there was the shylock, the shakespearian method, of a pound of flesh from near the heart. cadet corporal so-and-so suggested that several veal cutlets from the legs--each an inch thick--would serve. a veal cutlet an inch thick he estimated--his great grandfather on his mother's other side had been a butcher, he stated--would weigh three pounds. then acting cadet sergeant somebody-else suggested a turkish bath, the jockey's method, together with very violent exercise. this plan was adopted finally as being the least likely to be fatal in its results. but just then somebody suddenly thought of the fact that it would be best to weigh the subject first, which was considered a good idea, but for the fact that they had no scales. this trouble "feazed" the crowd at first. then the lord high chief quartermaster said that he was a first-rate judge of weight, having slaughtered hogs in his youth, and could tell by the feel. so mr. joseph smith must be immediately "boosted" up and balanced upon the cadet's outstretched hand, there to be shaken and otherwise tested, while the man below made audible calculations by means of trigonometrical formulas as to what was his actual weight. the result of this experiment, as might have been expected, was by no means very definite. the lord high chief, etc., thought the weight was too much, but he couldn't be sure. and then cadet "admiral" jones proposed another scheme. he had been a juggler "when he was young;" he was used to tossing heavy weights; in fact, he just happened to know that he could throw three hundred pounds exactly twelve feet, the height of the ceiling. it was obvious, therefore, that if indian weighed over that he would not reach the ceiling; but if he should go through the ceiling that would mean just as clearly that he was under the limit and need not "reduce." in vain did the frightened boy protest that he weighed only one hundred and fifty; the test must be made, and made it was. indian's terrified form did not once get near the ceiling, and so reduce he must. the cadets formed a circle about the room. "now," said the commanding official, "now you must manage to reduce weight quickly this way, or we shall try the veal cutlet scheme. so you'll find it best to hurry. we want you to run around the outside of this circle. we'll give you just ten and one-quarter minutes by my watch (which runs very fast, by the way) to get around fifty times. and in the course of that you must manage to perspire fifteen pounds of weight (enough to make you go through the ceiling). this is equal to half a gallon of water. now then! take off your coat, sir. ready! set!! go!!! why don't you start, sir? there now! hurry up! one second--two seconds--three--four--fi'--six--sev'n--eight--nine--ten--'leven! faster! faster!! hurry up! one minute! you haven't lost a pound yet! what! out of breath already? faster! that's right! keep it up now!" the scene at this stage of the "examination" is left to the imagination; indian, wild-eyed, panting and red, plunging wildly around in a dizzy circle of a dozen laughing cadets. and in the center the lord high with his watch slowly telling off the minutes. "two minutes there, two minutes! come now, hurry up! don't begin to lag there! why don't you stop that panting? there goes the first drop of perspiration. hooray, there's another! it'll soon be a gallon now. two and a quarter!" poor joseph kept it up to five, by which time he was so dizzy that he could not stand up; which was the best reason in the world why he sank down utterly breathless in the corner. and there he lay gasping, the cadets in vain trying to get him to rise. "i think," said the presiding officer, nearly convulsed with laughter--"i think that is reduction enough for the present, and i say we proceed to the 'mental.'" a conference was held over in one corner of the room, as to what the questions should be; and then in an evil hour (for them) an idea struck one of the cadets. "see here, fellows," said he. "i think he's been examined enough. let's get somebody else. let's get---- who's that learned chap?" "stanard?" "oh, yes, stanard! the parson! let's get him." the idea took with a rush. it would be so much more fun to fool the learned parson! and in a minute or two half the party, including the lord high chief quartermaster, was on its way back to barracks to hunt up the new victim, while the rest stayed to resuscitate indian and to write out a list of questions for the "mental examination." chapter vii. the examination of the parson. the "examining board" had the good luck to come upon the parson in a secluded spot near the observatory. the parson had left the library for a walk, his beloved dana under his arm and the cyathophylloid coral in one of his pockets. the "committee" made a rush at him. "mr. stanard?" inquired the lord high, etc. mr. stanard bowed in his grave, serious way, his knees stiff, and his head bobbing in unison with his flying coat tails. "mr. stanard, i have been sent by the army board to read the inclosed notice to you. ahem!" mr. stanard peered at the speaker. his mustache fooled the parson, and the parson bowed meekly. once more the cadet took out the official envelope and with a preliminary flourish and several "ahems!" began to read: "united states military academy, west point, june th. cadet peter stanard, of boston, massachusetts, it has just been ascertained, was admitted to the duties of conditional cadet through an error of the examining board. a re-examination of cadet stanard is hereby ordered to be conducted immediately under the charge of the--ahem!--superintendent of ordnance, in the observatory building. by order of the academy board. ahem!" now, if cadet peter stanard had been a cadet just a little longer he would never have been taken in by that device, for cadet peter stanard was no fool. but as it was, he did not see that the order was absurd. he went. again the procession started with the same comments as before; this time, however, the door was not locked, and the party entered, sought out another room where stood several solemn cadets at attention, respectfully saluting the superintendent of ordnance, ex-lord high. "cadet stanard," said the latter, "take a chair. here is pencil and paper. what is that book there. geology? well, give it to me until afterward. now, mr. stanard, here are ten questions which the board expects you to answer. these are general questions--that is, they are upon no particular subject. the board desires to test your general stock of information, the--ahem!--breadth, so to speak, of your intellectual horizon. now you will be allowed an hour to answer them. and since i have other duties in the meantime, i shall leave you, trusting to your own honor to use no unfair means. mr. stanard, good-day." mr. stanard rose, bobbed his head and coat tails and sat down. the superintendent marched out, the cadets after him. the victim heard a key turn in the door; the parson glanced at the first question on the paper-- "i. when are cyathophylloid corals to be found in fossiliferous sandstone of tertiary origin?" "by the bones of a megatherium!" cried the parson, "the very thing i was looking for myself and couldn't find." and forthwith he seized his pencil, and, without reading further, wrote a ten minutes' discourse upon his own researches in that same line. "that's the best i can do," said he, wiping his brow. "now for the next." "ii. name any undiscovered island in the pacific ocean." the parson knitted his brows in perplexity and reread the question. "undiscovered," he muttered. "undiscovered! surely that word is undiscovered. u-m-yes! but if an island is undiscovered how can it have any name? that must be a mistake." in perplexity, the parson went on to the next one. "iii. if a dog jumps three feet at a jump, how many jumps will it take him to get across a wall twelve feet wide?" "iv. in what year did george washington stop beating his mother?" a faint light had begun to dawn upon stanard's mind; his face began to redden with indignation. "v. what is strategy in warfare? give an example. if you were out of ammunition and didn't want the enemy to know it, would it be strategy to go right on firing?" "vi. if three cannibals eat one missionary, how many missionaries will it take to eat the three cannibals?" "vii. if a plebe's swelled head shrinks at the rate of three inches a day, how many months will it be before it fits his brains?" and stanard seized the paper, tore it across the middle and flung it to the floor in disgust. then he made for the door. "there's going to be a fight!" he muttered. "i swear it by the seven hills of rome!" the parson's blood was boiling with righteous indignation; he had "licked" those same cadets before, or some of them, and he meant to do it again right now. but when he reached the door he halted for a moment to listen to a voice he heard outside. "i tell you i cannot do it! bless my soul!"--the parson recognized the sound. "i tell you i have lost enough weight already. i can't run again. now, i'll go home first. bless my soul!" "oho!" said the parson. "so they got poor indian in this thing, too. um--this is something to think over." with his usual meditative manner he turned and took his seat again, carefully pulling up his trousers and moving his coat tails as he did so. clearing his throat, he began to discuss the case with himself. "it is obvious, very obvious, that my condition will in no way be ameliorated by creating a suspicion in trying to make a forceful exit through that locked door. "it would be a more efficacious method, i think, in some way to manage to summon aid. perhaps it would be well to endeavor to leave in secret." and with this thought in mind he went to the window. "it would appear," he said, gravely, as he took in the situation, "that the 'high-thundering, olympian zeus' smiles propitiously upon my plan." and with this classic remark he stuck one long shank out of the window, followed it with another just as long, and stood upon the cornice over the door of the building, which chanced to be in reach. from there he half slid, half tumbled to the ground, arose, arranged his necktie carefully, gazed about him solemnly to hear if any one had seen him, and finally set out at a brisk pace for barracks, taking great, long strides, swinging his great, long arms, and talking sagely to himself in the meanwhile. "when the other two members of our--ahem!--alliance are made aware of the extraordinary condition of affairs," he muttered, "i think that i am justified in my hypothesis when i say there will be some excitement." there was. chapter viii. the rescue party. mark and texas were seated on the steps of barracks when the parson came through the sally port. the two were listening to the music of the band at the saturday afternoon hop in the academy building, and also watching several cadets paying penalties by marching sedately back and forth in the area. stanard strolled in slowly with no signs of excitement. he came up and sat down beside the two in his usual methodical way. "good-afternoon, gentlemen," said he. "good-afternoon. i have something to deliberate upon with you if it is perfectly agreeable." it was agreeable, and so the parson told his story, embellishing it with many flourishes, classical allusions and geological metaphors. and when he finished texas sprang up in excitement. "wow!" he cried. "let's go up thar an' clean out the hull crowd." "it is best to deliberate, to think over our plan of attack," returned the parson, calmly, and with a mild rebuke in his tone, which reminded texas of his promise never to get excited again, made him sit down sheepishly. "i think," put in mark, "that we ought to think up some scheme to scare 'em off, or get away with indian, or something. it's a harmless joke, you know, so what's the use of fighting over it?" "oh," growled texas, in disgust. "if we could only manage to turn the tables on them," continued mark. "shut up a while, and let's think a few minutes." and then there was silence, deep and impressive, while everybody got his "ratiocinating apparatus," as the parson called it, to work. mark was the first to break it. "look here, parson," said he, "what's the name of all those chemicals of yours that you hid up the chimney for fear the cadet officers 'd make you give 'em up?" the parson rattled off a list of unpronounceable names, at the mention of one of which mark sprang up. "get it! get it! you long-legged boston professor, you!" he shouted. "never mind why! but i've got something in my pocket that'll--gee whiz! hurry up!" the parson did as he was commanded, and in about as much of a hurry as was possible for him. and mark tucked the bottle under his coat and the three set off in haste to the rescue, texas grumbling meanwhile and wanting to know why in thunderation a square stand-up fight wasn't just as good as anything. an indian war party could not have made a more stealthy entrance than did the three. they climbed in one of the windows on the lower floor, the basement, and then listened for any sound that might tell them what was going on above. they heard voices conversing in low tones, but no signs of hazing; the reason of that fact being that indian was just then locked in another room hard at work on his "mental examination," the same one that had been given to stanard. and poor indian was striving his best to think of the name of any undiscovered island which he had ever heard of. mark took the big bottle from under his coat, set it on the floor and took out the cork. from his pocket he took a paper containing a thick black powder. this he poured carefully into the bottle, put in the cork, and then turned and made a dash for the window. outside, the three made for the woods nearby and hid to watch. "just wait till enough of that dissolves," said mark. "just wait." meanwhile, upstairs, the hilarious cadets were chuckling merrily over the predicament of their two victims. the lord high, etc., and superintendent had carefully timed the hour that the parson was to have for his answers; the hour was up, and the official had arisen, turned the key, and was in the very act of opening the door when suddenly-- bang! a loud report that shook the doors and windows of the building and made the cadets spring up in alarm. they gazed in one another's frightened faces, scarcely knowing what to think. and then up the stairway slowly rolled a dense volume of heavy smoke, that seemed to fill the building in an instant. "fire! fire!" yelled the whole crowd at once, and, forgetting both their victims in the mad excitement, they made a wild dash down the stairs for the door. "fire! fire!" rang out their cries, and a moment later a big bell down at barracks sounded the alarm--"fire! fire!" and over in the woods three conspirators sat and punched one another for joy. chapter ix. heroism of the parson. the cadets of the academy are organized into a fire department for the safety of the post. it is the duty of the cadets upon the sounding of the alarm--three strokes of the bell, or a long roll on the drum, or three shots, as the case may be--to fall into line immediately and proceed to the scene of the fire. one brigade has charge of a hand engine, another forms a bucket line, etc. west point was, of course, thrown into the wildest excitement on the instant that the cry was raised. the cadets poured in from every direction, and in a few moments were on the way at double-quick. army officers, the soldiers of the regular army at the post, infantry and cavalry, all made for the scene. the observatory building was found to be in imminent peril, apparently; there were no flames in sight, but smoke was pouring from every crevice. prompt and quick to act, some heroic young cadet leaped up the steps and burst in the door with an ax, though it was not locked and needed only a turn of the knob to open it. the moment an opening was made a cloud of smoke burst forth that drove the party back before it, and at the same instant a cry of horror swelled up from the fast-arriving crowd. with one accord everybody glanced up to one of the windows on the floor above. there stood a figure, nothing but the head visible in the smoke, a figure of a badly-frightened lad, yelling at the top of his lungs for help! help! help! and the crowd gazed at him in terror. it was indian, apparently in peril of his life! who should save him? who? the thought was in everybody's mind at the moment, and yet every one hesitated before that barrier of blinding smoke. and then--then suddenly a roar of cheers and shouts swelled up as a hero came to the fore. when every one else trembled this hero alone was bold. he had dashed wildly from the woods, a tall, lanky, long-haired figure. he had fought his way through the craven crowd, his coat tails flying and his long elbows working. he had dashed up the steps, his light green socks twinkling with every stride. and now, while the crowd shouted encouragement, he plunged desperately into the thick of the smoke and was lost to view. the crowd waited in breathless suspense--one minute--two--and still the imperiled lad stood at the window and the hero did not appear. could it be that he was lost--overcome by smoke and flame? the throng below hated to think of it and yet--no, there he was! at the doorway again! had he failed to accomplish his noble purpose? had he been driven back from the work of rescue? no! no! he had succeeded; he had gotten what he wanted! as he dashed wildly out again the people saw that he carried under his arm a great, leather-bound volume. "dana's geology" was safe! and a moment or two later somebody put up a ladder and the unfortunate "mormon" climbed down in haste. meanwhile, what of the fire? encouraged by the example of the "hero," the cadets rushed in to the attack. but, strange to say, though they had hand engines and buckets and ladders, they could find no fire to attack. several windows having been smashed, most of the smoke had escaped by this time--there had really been but very little of it, anyway, just enough for excitement. there is a saying that where there is smoke there must be flame, and, acting on this rather dubious statement, the gallant fire brigade hunted high and low, searching in every nook and corner of the building, and even searching the desk drawers to see if perchance the cunning fire had run away and hidden there. and still not a sign of flame. the mystery got more and more interesting; the whole crowd came in--the smoke having all gone by this time--to see if, perchance, a little more diligent search might not aid; and the people kept coming until finally the place was so packed that there was no room for the fire anyway. and so finally every one gave it up in disgust and went home, including the gallant fire brigade. and the three conspirators in the woods went, too, scarcely able to hide their glee. "it's jest one on them ole cadets!" vowed texas. of course, the army board ordered a strict investigation, which was made--and told nothing. all that was found was a few bits of broken glass in one room, and an "examination paper" in another. indian was hauled up, terrified, to explain; he described his hazing, but steadfastly refused names--which was good west point etiquette--he vowed he knew nothing about the fire--which was the truth--also west point etiquette. and since indian was mum, and there was no one else to investigate, the investigation stopped, and the affair remained a west point mystery--a mystery to all but three. chapter x. more troubles. "no, sir! i wouldn't think of it, not for a moment. the fellow's a coward, and he don't deserve the chance." and cadet corporal jasper brought his fist down on the table with a bang. "no, sir," he repeated. "i wouldn't think of it!" "but he wants to fight!" exclaimed the other. "well, he had a chance once; why didn't he fight then? that's what i want to know, and that's what he won't tell us. and as far as i'm concerned mallory shall lie in the bed he's made. i wouldn't honor him with another chance." it was an afternoon late in june, and the two speakers were discussing some ice cream at "the dutchwoman's" and waiting for the call to quarters before dress parade. "if that fellow," continued corporal jasper, "had any reason on earth for getting up at midnight, dodging sentry and running out of barracks, to stay till reveille, except to avoid fighting you that morning, now, by jingo! i want to know what it is! the class sent me to ask him, and he simply said he wouldn't tell, that's all. his bluff about wanting another chance won't work." "well, if we don't," protested williams, the other man, a tall, finely-built fellow, "if we don't, he'll go right on getting fresh, won't he?" "no, sir, he won't! we'll find a way to stop him. in the first place, he's been sent to coventry. not a man in the academy'll speak to him; he may not mind that for a while, but i think he won't brave it out very long. just you watch and see." "the only trouble with that," said williams, "is that he's not cut by all the fellows. i've seen three of the plebes with him." "what!" cried the other, in amazement. "who?" "well, there's that fellow he seconded in the fight----" "texas, you mean?" "yes, texas. then that long-legged scarecrow stanard was out walking with him this very day. and i saw that goose they call the indian talking to him at dinner, and before the whole plebe class, too." "well, now, by jingo! they'll find it costs something to defy the corps!" exclaimed jasper. "it's a pretty state of affairs, indeed, if three or four beasts can come up here and run this place as they please. they'll find when an order's given here they'll obey, or else they can chase themselves home in a hurry. that fellow mallory must be a fool! there's never been a plebe at this academy's dared to do half what he's done." "that's why i think it would be best to lick him. i'm not sure i can do it, you know, but i think it would be best to try." "that fellow started out to be b. j. at the very start," growled the excitable corporal, after a moment's thought. "right at the very start! 'baby' edwards was telling me the other day how way last year this fellow met with an accident--fell off the express or something--and while he was staying down at the falls baby and a couple of other fellows thought he was a candidate, and started in to haze him. he was sassy as you please then. and after that he went out west, where he lives, and did some extraordinary thing--saved an express, i believe, and sent in an account to a paper for a lot of money. of course that got him dead stuck on himself, and then he goes and wins a cadetship here and thinks he can run the earth. he was so deucedly b. j. he had to go and lock edwards and bull harris in an icehouse down near the falls!" "you see what's happened now," he continued, after a moment's pause. "your challenge brought him up with a round turn, and he saw his bluff was stopped. he was afraid to fight, and so he hid, that's all. but, by jingo, he'll pay for it if i've got anything to say in the matter!" and the little corporal made the dishes on the table rattle. corporal jasper and cadet williams had finished their council and their ice cream by this time, and arose to go just as the roll of drum was heard from "camp mcpherson." the two strolled off in the direction of the summons, jasper just as positive and vehement as ever. "you shan't fight him," he declared. "and if sending him to coventry doesn't do any good, we'll find some other way, that's all! and we'll keep at him till he learns how to behave himself if it takes the whole summer to do it." this was the young cadet officer's parting vow, as he turned and entered his tent. chapter xi. disadvantages of "coventry." "sir, the parade is formed!" thus spoke the cadet adjutant as he approached the lieutenant in command, and a moment later, at the word, the battalion swung around and marched across the campus. it was the evening dress parade of perhaps the best drilled body of troops in the country, and west point was out in holiday attire to see it. seated on the benches beneath the trees on the western edge of the parade ground was a crowd of spectators--visitors at the post and nearly the whole plebe class besides. for this was saturday afternoon holiday, and the "beasts" had turned out in a body to witness the performance of what they were all hoping some day to be. it was a "mighty fine" performance, and one that made those same beasts open their eyes with amazement. spotless and glittering in their uniforms were the cadets, and they went through all manner of difficult evolutions in perfect unison, marching with lines as straight and even as the eye could wish. it is a pretty sight, a mass of gray in a setting of deep green--the trees that encircle the spot, and it made the poor homesick "beasts" take a little interest in life once more. among these "beasts" were mark and texas. they sat under the trees a little apart from the crowd and watched the scene with interest. mark had seen dress parades before; texas had not, and he stared with open eyes and mouth, giving vent to an exclamation of amazement and delight at intervals. "look a' yere, mark," he cried, "d'you think we'll ever be able do that a' way. honest, now? i think i'll stay!" "even after you get through fightin?" laughed mark. "i don't think i want to fight any more," growled texas, looking glum. "since you an' me fit, somehow fightin' ain't so much fun." "what's the fun o' fightin' ef you git licked?" he added, after a moment's thought. "i never tried it," said the other, laughing. "but i suppose you'll be real meek now and let them haze you." "yaas!" drawled texas, grinning. "yes, i will! them ole cadets git after me, now, by jingo, i'll go out there an' yank some of 'em out that parade an' lick them all t'once. but say! look at that chap on a horse." "that chap's the commandant," said mark, "and he's going to review the parade for a change." "i wish i was in it," exclaimed texas, "an' i wish i knew all that rigamarole they're doin' now"--that "rigamarole" being the manual-at-arms. "i jest believe if i had somebody to teach me 'cept that 'ere yellin' tomcat of a cadet spencer i'd learn in a jiffy, dog on his boots!" "there he is now," said mark, "in the second line there. and there on the outside with his chevrons is corporal jasper, 'the committee.' they look very different when they're in line." "nothin' 'd make that red-headed, freckle-faced coyote of a drill-master look different," growled texas. "i jes' wish he was bigger'n me so's i could git up a scrap with him. jest think o' that little martinet a yellin' at me an' tellin' me i didn't have any sense. to-day, for instance, d'you remember, he was tryin' to show indian how to march an' move his legs, an' indian got twisted up into a knot; an' durnation, jist because i laughed, why he rared round an' bucked fo' an hour! what's the harm in laughing, anyhow?" and texas glared so savagely at his tormentor as the line swept by just then that mark concluded there was no harm and laughed. "you're getting to be very stupid company, texas," said he. "you never do anything but growl at the cadets. i wish i had some diversion." and mark turned away in mock disgust and glanced down the archway of trees. "here she comes," he said, after a moment's pause. "that's she walking up the path with a cadet and another girl." texas turned as mark spoke, and looked in the direction of his nod. "so that's mary adams!" he exclaimed. "well! well! that's the girl you dodged barracks for, and risked your commission, and missed the fight, and got called a coward, and sent to coventry, and lots else. i swear!" "that's the one," said mark, smiling. "she's stunning pretty," added texas, as the trio drew near. "gee-whiz! i don't blame you." "i liked her right well myself," admitted the other. "that is after i saw her with that brother of hers. she certainly is a good sister to him. but the cadets say she's something of a flirt, and wicks merritt advised me to leave her alone, so i guess i shall." "sunday school teacher!" said texas, laughing. "we'll have to call you parson, instead of stanard. but i guess you're right. that's not a very beautiful looking cadet she's with." the three were passing then, and mark arose. "i guess i'll have to go speak to her," said he. "she's beckoning to me. wait a moment." texas watched his friend approach the group; he could not hear what was said, however, and so he turned away to watch the parade. by doing it he missed an interesting scene. mary adams welcomed mark with a look of gratitude and admiration that mark could not fail to notice. she had not forgotten the magnitude of the service he had done for her. and then she turned to her two companions. "miss webb," she said, "let me present mr. mallory." the other girl bowed, and mary adams turned to the cadet. "mr. murray, mr. mallory," said she. and then came the thunderclap. mark put out his hand; the cadet quietly put his behind his back. "the cadets of this academy, miss adams," said he, "do not speak to mr. mallory. mr. mallory is a coward!" it was a trying moment; mark felt the blood surge to his head, his fingers twitched and his lip quivered. he longed to spring at the fellow's throat and fling him to the ground. it was a natural impulse. texas would have done it. but mark controlled himself by the effort of his life. he clinched his hands behind him and bit his tongue, and when he spoke he was calm and emotionless. "miss adams," he said, "mr. murray and i will settle that later." the two girls stared in amazement, "mr. murray" gazed into space, and mark turned without another word and strode over to where his friend was sitting. "texas!" he muttered, gripping him by the shoulder. "texas, there's going to be a fight." "hey!" cried texas, springing to his feet. "what's that? whoop!" chapter xii. the embassy of the parson. "what's happened?" cried texas, as soon as he'd managed to get calm enough to talk coherently. "what's happened?" "sit down," said mark, laughing in spite of himself. "sit down and stop your dancing. everybody in the place is staring at you." texas sat, and then mark described to him just what had happened. as might have been expected, he was up in arms in a moment. "where is that feller? now, look a 'yere, mark, leggo me. thar he goes! say, if i don't git him by the neck an'----" the excitable youth was quieted after some ten minutes' work or so, and immediate danger was over. "and now," said mark, "where's the parson?" "over in library," responded the other, "a fossilizin'. what do you want with him?" "you be good," said mark, "and i'll let you see. come on." they found the parson as texas had said, and they managed to separate him from the books and drag him over to barracks. then mark, who by this time had recovered his usual easy good-nature, told of "mr. murray's" insult again. "now, i haven't the least objection," he continued, "of being sent to coventry. in fact, so long as it means the cadets' leaving me alone, i rather like the idea. but i don't propose to stand a thing like that which just happened for a moment. so there's got to be a fight, and if they won't let me, i'll have to make 'em, that's all." "um," said the parson, looking grave. "um." "now, as for that fellow murray," added mark, "i don't propose to fight him." "wow!" shouted texas. "what in thunder do you mean? now if you don't, by jingo! i'll go and do it myself!" "take it easy," said mark, laughing. "you see, williams is the man the class has selected to beat me; he's the best fighter. now, if i beat anybody else it won't do me the least bit of good; they'd still say i'm afraid of williams. so i'm going to try him first. how's that, texas?" "reckon you're right," admitted powers, rather sheepishly. "i 'spose you'll let me go and arrange it, hey?" "i'd as soon think of sending a dynamite bomb," laughed mark. "you'd be in a fight before he'd said three words. that's what i wanted the parson for. i think he'd be grave and scholarly even if they ate him." "thank you," said the parson, gravely. "i should try." "wow!" growled texas. and thus it happened that the parson set out for "camp mcpherson," a short while later, his learned head full of prize fighting and the methods and practice of diplomacy. it was rather an unusual thing for a plebe to do--this venturing into "camp;" and the cadets stared at the parson, wondering what an amount of curiosity he must have to go prospecting within the lines of the enemy. the parson, however, did not act as if curiosity had brought him; with a businesslike air and a solemn visage he strode down the company street, and, heedless of the cadets who had gathered at the tent doors to see him, halted in front of one before which he saw "billy" williams standing. "mr. williams?" said the parson. mr. williams had been engaged in vigorously drying his face; he paused, and gazed up out of the towel in surprise, and one of his tent mates, cadet captain fischer, ceased unwinding himself from his long red sash and stared. "my name is stanard," said the parson--"peter stanard." "pleased to meet you," said williams, stretching out a long, brawny arm. there was a twinkle in the yearling's eye as he glanced at the skinny white fingers which stanard put out in return. and, taking in the stranger's lank, scholarly figure, williams seized the hand and squeezed with all his might. he expected to hear a howl, but he was disappointed. the parson drew up his "prehensile muscles," as he called them. the result was that cadet williams turned white, but he said nothing about it, and invited the stranger into his tent. the parson deposited himself gently in one corner and drew up his long legs under him. then he gazed out of the tent and said--"ahem!" "warm day," said williams, by way of a starter. "it is not that the temperature is excessively altitudinous," responded the parson, "but the presence of a larger proportion of humidity retards perspiratory exudation." "er--yes," said williams. "yes, i think that's it." "i have come--ahem!" continued stanard, "as a representative of mr. mallory." the other bowed. "mr. mallory desires to know--if you will pardon my abruptness in proceeding immediately to the matter in hand--to know if it is not possible for you to fulfill a certain--er--engagement which you had with him." "i see," said williams, thoughtfully, and he tapped the floor with his foot for a minute or so. "mr. mallory, of course, understands," he continued at last, "that i have no grudge against him at all." "certainly," said the parson. "in fact, i rather admire mr. mallory, on the whole, though some of his actions have been, i think, imprudent. in this matter i am simply the deputy of the class." "exactly," said the parson, bowing profusely. "therefore, i fight when the class says so, and when they say no, what reason have i for fighting? now, the class thinks that mr. mallory has had chance enough, and----" "but they don't know the circumstances!" protested stanard, with more suddenness than was usual with him. "they do not," responded the other. "but they'd like to." "i do not know them myself," said the parson. "but i have faith enough in mr. mallory to take his word that it was unavoidable." "you must have a good deal," added williams, his handsome face looking grave, "a good deal to risk being sent to coventry." "i am willing. examples of yet higher devotion to a _fides amicus_, so to speak, are by no means extraordinary. take the popular instance of damon and pythias, or, if you look for one yet more conspicuous, i would mention prylocates and tyndarus, in the well-known play of 'the captive,' by plautus, with which you are doubtless familiar." and the parson closed his learned discourse with his favorite occupation of wiping his brow. "the risk is your own," responded the yearling, calmly. "you must not mind if the class resents your view of the case." there was a few moments' silence after that, during which the parson racked his head to think what to say next. "you refuse, then, to fight mr. mallory?" he inquired at last. "absolutely!" responded the other. "absolutely, until the class so directs." then the parson drew a long breath, and prepared for the culminating stroke. "what i say next, mr. williams," said he, "you will understand is said with all possible politeness and good feeling, but it must be said. mr. mallory has been insulted by some cadets as a coward. he must free himself from the suspicion. mr. williams, if a plebe should strike an older cadet, would that make a fight necessary?" "most certainly," said williams, flushing. "well, now, suppose he simply threatened to do so," continued stanard. "would that be cause enough?" "it might." "well, then, mr. williams, mr. mallory desires me with all politeness to beg permission to threaten to strike you." "i see," said the other, smiling at the solemn air with which the lank stranger made this extraordinary request. "i see. i have no objection to his so doing." "thank you," said stanard. "a fight is now necessary, i believe?" "er--yes," said williams. "i believe it is." the fact of the matter was that he saw that mark was in a position to force a fight if he chose, and the yearling was by no means reluctant, anyhow. "i thank you for your courtesy," he continued, bowing stanard out of the tent. "tell mr. mallory that i shall send my second to see him this evening. good-day." and stanard bowed and strode away with joy in his very stride. "we have met the enemy," was his report to mark. "we have met the enemy, and there's going to be a fight!" chapter xiii. preparations for the battle. it does not take long for news of so exciting a matter as a really important fight to spread among the corps. no sooner did the parson leave camp than cadets began to stroll in to find out why he had come, and, learning, they hurried off to discuss the news with their own tentmates. so it happened that by the time the cadets marched down to mess hall to supper every man in the battalion knew that mark mallory, the b. j. beast, had succeeded in getting another chance at "billy" williams. the plebes knew of it, too. when their rather ragged and scattered company fell in behind the corps at barracks, they were all talking about it, at least when the file closers weren't near. at supper nobody talked of anything else, and everybody in the room was eying mark and his stalwart opponent and speculating as to what the chances would be. "billy'll do him!" vowed the yearlings. "there's nobody in the class that stands more chance." and the plebes feared it would be that way, too, and yet there were a few at the tables discussing the matter in whispers, venturesome enough to say that perhaps maybe their classmate might win and to wonder what on earth would happen to him if he did. "it'll mean a revelation if he does!" they cried. "perhaps it'll even stop hazing." the mood of the irate little corporal, who had vowed not an hour before that mallory should not have another chance, may well be imagined. "i tell you, 'tis a shame!" he vowed to williams. "a shame! i don't see why in thunder you didn't hold out." "it's not my fault, jasper," responded the other, smiling good naturedly. "if you'll think a while, you'll see he was in a position to force a fight at any time he chose. if i refused to 'allow him to threaten to hit me,' as he put it, he could have threatened anyway, and then if that didn't do any good, he'd have actually to hit me, and there you would have been. it's a great deal better this way." "yes!" growled jasper. "that sounds all very well. but look where it puts me, by george! you'll have to get somebody else to arrange it. i won't. i went as a committee and told him he'd not get another chance, and i tell you now i'll not go take it back for anybody, and with that b. j. plebe especially." "perhaps he won't be so very b. j. after the fight," responded the other, smiling. "i don't know, of course, but i shall do my best." "if you don't," said the other, looking serious, "by jingo! we'll be in a thundering fix. there's nobody in the class can beat you, and that plebe'll have a walkover." this last sentiment of jasper's was the sentiment of the whole yearling class, and the class was in a state of uncertainty in consequence. texas was known to have whipped four cadets in one morning, and all of them good men, too; then there was a rumor out that mark and texas had had a quarrel and that the latter had gone to the hospital some five minutes later. the two facts put together were enough to make the most confident do some thinking. it is difficult for one who has never been to west point to appreciate what this state of affairs meant--because it is hard for him to appreciate the relation which exists between the plebe and the rest of the corps. from the moment of the former's arrival as an alarmed and trembling candidate, it is the especial business of every cadet to teach him that he is the most utterly, entirely and absolutely insignificant individual upon the face of the universe. he is shouted at and ordered, bullied, badgered, tormented, pulled and hauled, drilled and laughed at until he is reduced to the state of mind of a rabbit. if he is "b. j." about it, he is bullied the more; if he shows fight, he has all he wants, and is made meeker still. the result of it all is that he learns to do just as anybody else commands him, and never dares to sneeze unless he's asked you if he might. all of which is fun for the yearling. now, here was mark mallory--to say nothing of texas--who had come up to the point with an absurd notion of his own dignity, who had outwitted the yearlings at every turn, been sent to coventry--and didn't care a hang, and now was on the point of trying to "lick" the finest all-around athlete in the whole third class. it was enough to make the corps tremble--the yearlings, at any rate. the first class usually feels too dignified to meddle with such things. billy williams' ambassador put in an appearance on the following sunday morning, and, to mark's disgust, he proved to be none other than his old enemy, bull harris--sent, by the way, not because williams so chose, but because bull himself had asked to be sent. "mr. williams," said he, "says he'll give you another chance to run away." mark bowed politely, determined that harris should get as little chance for insult as possible. "he'll fight you to-morrow--fort clinton, at four, and if you don't come, by thunder! he'll find out why." mark's face grew white, but he only bowed again, and swallowed it. and just then came an unexpected interruption. "mr. mallory, as the challenged party, has the right to name the time." the voice was loud and clear, and seemed to have authority; harris turned and confronted cadet first captain fischer, in all his glory of chevrons and sword. now, the first captain is lord of west point--and harris didn't dare to say a word, though he was boiling within. "and, moreover," continued the imposing young officer, angrily, "you should remember that you came, mr. harris, as a gentleman and not as a combatant. mr. mallory, what is your wish?" "the time suits me," said mark, quietly. "good-day, mr. harris." and harris left in a very unpleasant mood indeed; he had meant to have no end of amusement at the expense of mark's feelings. "you've a hard row to hoe," said the cadet officer to mark, "and a hard man to beat. and you were foolish to get into it, but, all the same, i'll see that you have fair play." "and that," exclaimed texas to mark, as he watched the tall, erect figure of the cadet vanish through the sally port. "that is the first decent word i've heard from a cadet since i've been here. bully for fischer!" "it's probable," said mark, "that he knows harris as well as we. and now, old fellow," he added, "we've got nothing to do but pass time, and wait--and wait for to-morrow morning!" mark slept soundly that night in spite of the excitement. it was texas who was restless, for texas had promised to act as alarm clock, and, realizing that not to be on time again would be a calamity indeed, he was up half a dozen times to gaze out of the window toward the eastern sky, watching for the first signs of morning. while it was yet so dark that he could scarcely see the clock, he routed mark out of bed. "git up thar," he whispered, "git up an' git ready." mark "got," and the two dressed hurriedly and crept down the stairs, past the sentry--the sentry was a cadet, and kindly "looked the other way"--and then went out through the sally port to the parade ground. the plain was shrouded in mist and darkness, and the stars still shone, though there was a faint light in the east. the two stole past the camp--where also the sentries were blind--scaled the ramparts, and stood in the center of "old fort clinton." the spot was deserted and silent, but scarcely had the two been there a moment before a head peered over the wall nearest to the camp. "they're here," whispered a cadet, and sprang over. a dozen others followed him, and in a very few minutes more there were at least thirty of them, excited and eager, waiting for "billy" to put in an appearance. it was not long before billy came, and behind him his faithful chum, jasper, with a bucket of water, and sponges and towels enough for a dozen. about the same time stanard's long shanks appeared over the breastworks, and indian tumbled over a moment later. things were about ready then. "let's lose no time," said jasper, always impatient. "captain fischer will act as referee and timekeeper, if it's agreeable." no one could have suited mark more, and he said so. likewise, he stated, through his second, mr. powers, that he preferred to fight by rounds, which evidently pleased mr. williams. mr. williams was by this time stripped to the waist, his suspenders tied about him. and it was evidently as fischer had said. there was no finer man in his class, and he was trained to perfection. his skin was white and glistening, his shoulders broad and massive, and the muscles on his arms stood out with every motion. his legs were probably as muscular, too, thought mark, for williams held the record for the mile. the yearlings' hearts beat higher as they gazed at their champion's determined face. mark was a little slower in stepping up; when he did so the watching crowd sized him up carefully, and then there was doubt. "oh, gee, but this is going to be a fight!" was the verdict of every one of them. "marquis of queensberry rules," said fischer, in a low tone. "both know them?" mark nodded. "shake hands!" mark put out his, by way of answer, and williams gripped it right heartily. "ready?" and then the simple word "go." let us gaze about a moment at the scene. the ring is surrounded by earthworks, now grass-grown and trodden down, unkept since the revolutionary days, when west point was a gibraltar. old cannon, caissons and wagon wheels are scattered about inside, together with ramparts and wire chevaux-de-friezes which the cadets are practiced in constructing. in the southwest corner is a small, clear, smooth-trodden space, where the two brawny, white-skinned warriors stand. the cadets are forming a ring about them, for every one is too excited to sit down and keep quiet. the "outlooks," posted for safety, are neglecting their duty recklessly for the same reason, and looking in altogether. every eye is on the two. over in mark's corner sits texas, gripping his hands in excitement, wriggling nervously and muttering to himself. stanard is beside him with "dana's geology" as a cushion. the parson is a picture of calm and scholarly dignity, in direct contrast with our friend texas, who is on the verge of one of his wild "fits." "indian" is the fourth and only other plebe present, and indian is horrified, as usual, and mutters "bless my soul" at intervals. on the opposite side of the circle of cadets are jasper and another second, both breathlessly watching every move. nearby stands cadet captain fischer, calm and cool, critically watching the play. chapter xiv. the affair at the fort. the two began cautiously, like a pair of skillful generals sending out a skirmish line to test the enemy's strength and resource. this was no such battle as texas', a wild rush, a few mighty blows, and then victory. williams was wary as a cat, sparring lightly, and taking no risks, and the other saw the plan and its wisdom. "playing easy," muttered the referee, noting the half minute on his watch. "know their business, it seems." "wow!" growled texas. "what's the good o' this yere baby business? say, parson, ain't they never goin' to hit? whoop!" this last exclamation was caused by the real beginning of the battle. williams saw an unguarded face, and quick as thought his heavy arm shot out; the crowd gasped, and mark saw it. a sudden motion of his head to one side was enough to send the blow past him harmlessly, and a moment later the yearling's forward plunge was checked by an echoing crack upon his ribs. then for the rest of the round the excited cadets were treated to an exhibition of sparring such as they had never seen in their lives. feinting, dodging and parrying, the springing pair seemed everywhere at once, and their fists in a thousand places. the crowd was thrilled; even the imperturbable fischer was moved to exclamation, and texas in half a minute had seen more skill than his whole experience had shown him in his life. "look a thar! look a thar! he's got him--no--gad! whoop!" texas did as much dancing as the fighters themselves, and more talking than the whole crowd. captain fischer had to stop watching him long enough to tell him that the camp, with its sleeping "tacs," was only a few yards away. and then, as powers subsided, the cadet glanced at his watch, called "time!" and the two fighters went to their corners, panting. "what did ye stop for?" inquired texas, while the parson set diligently to work at bathing several red spots on his friend's body. "what kind o' fightin' is this yere? ain't give up, have you? say, mark, now go in nex' time an' do him. what's the use o' layin' off?" "a very superior exhibition of--lend me that court-plaster, please--pugilistic ability," commented the parson, bustling about like an old hen. and then a moment later the referee gave the word and they were at it again. this round there was no delay; both went at it savagely, though warily and skillfully as ever. blow after blow was planted that seemed fairly to shake the air, driven by all the power that human muscle could give. "won't last long at this rate," said the referee, sagely shaking his head. "give 'em another round--gee!" fischer's "gee" was echoed by the yearlings with what would have, but for the nearness of the camp, been a yell of triumph and joy. williams had seen a chance, and had been a second too quick for mark; he had landed a crushing blow upon the latter's head, one which made him stagger. quick to see his chance, the yearling had sprung in, driving his half-dazed opponent backward, landing blow after blow. texas gasped in horror. the yearlings danced--and then---- "time!" said the imperturbable fischer. texas sprang forward and led his bewildered friend to a seat; texas was about ready to cry. "old man!" he muttered, "don't let him beat you. oh! it'll be the death of me. i'll go jump into the river!" "steady! steady!" said the parson; "we'll be all right in a moment." mark said nothing, but as his reeling brain cleared he gritted his teeth. "time," said the referee. and williams sprang forward to finish the work, encouraged by the enthusiastic approval of his half-wild classmates. he aimed another blow with all his might; mark dodged; the other tried again, and again the plebe leaped to one side; this repeated again and again was the story of the next minute, and the yearlings clinched their hands in disappointment and rage. "he's flunking!" cried one of them--bull harris--"he's afraid!" "he's fighting just as he ought," retorted captain fischer, "and doing it prettily, too. good!" and then once more the crowd settled into an anxious silence to watch. the story of that minute was the story of ten. mark had seen that in brute force his adversary was his equal, and that skill, coolness and endurance were to win. he made up his mind on his course, and pursued it, regardless of the jeers of the yearlings and their advice to billy to "go in and finish him off." billy went, but he could not reach mark, and occasionally his ardor would be checked by an unexpected blow which made his classmates groan. "it's a test of endurance now," observed fischer, "and billy ought to win. but the plebe holds well--bully shot, by jove! mallory's evidently kept in training. time!" that was for the seventh round. "he's getting madder now," whispered mark to stanard, as he sat down to rest. "he wants to finish. if those fellows keep at him much more he'll sail in for a finish--and then, well, i'm pretty fresh yet." goaded on by his impatient classmates, williams did "sail in," the very next round. mark led him a dance, from corner to corner, dodging, ducking and twisting, the yearling, thinking the victory his, pressing closer and closer and aiming blow after blow. "watch out, billy, watch out," muttered the vigilant fischer to himself, as he caught the gleam in mark's eye. just then williams paused, actually exhausted; mark saw his chest heaving, and, a still surer sign, his lip trembling. "now, then!" whispered the parson at his back, and mark sprang forward. the yearling dodged, mark followed rapidly. there was a moment of vicious striking, and then the cadets gasped to see williams give way. it was only an inch, but it told the story--williams was tired. fischer gazed at his watch and saw that there was yet half a minute, and at the same moment he heard a resounding thump. mark had planted a heavy blow upon his opponent's chest, he followed almost instantly with another, and the yearlings groaned. williams rallied, and made a desperate fight for his life, but at the close of that round he was what a professional reporter would have termed "groggy." he came up weakly at the call. "don't be afraid of hitting him," the parson had said, afraid that mark's kind-heartedness would incline him to mercy. "there's too much at stake. win, and win in a hurry"--the parson forgot to be classical when he was excited. obedient to command, mark set out, though it was evident to him that he had the fight. while texas muttered and pranced about for joy, mark dealt his opponent another blow which made him stagger; he caught himself upon one knee, and mark stepped back and waited for him to rise. and then suddenly a pair of strong arms were flung about the plebe's waist and he felt himself shoved hurriedly along; at the same moment a voice shouted in his ear: "run, plebe, run for your life!" mark glanced about him in dimly-conscious amazement. he saw that the ring had melted into a number of cadets, skurrying away in every direction at the top of their speed. he heard the words, "a tac! a tac!" and knew the fight had been discovered by an army officer. a figure dashed up behind mark and caught him by the arm. it was fischer. "run for your life! get in barracks!" he cried. and with that he vanished, and mark, obeying, rushed across the cavalry plain and was soon lying breathless and exhausted in his room, where the wildly-jubilant texas joined him a moment later, just as reveille was sounded. "victory! victory!" he shouted. "wow!" and by breakfast time that morning every cadet in the corps was discussing the fight. and mark was the hero of the whole plebe class. chapter xv. two plebes in hospital. "say, tell me, did you do him?" the speaker was a lad with brown, curly hair and a laughing, merry face, at present, however, half covered with a swathing of bandages. he was standing on the steps of the hospital building at west point, and regarding with anxiety another lad of about the same age, but taller and more sturdily built. "i don't know that i did him," responded mark--for the one addressed was he--"i don't know that i can say i did him, but i believe i would have if the fight hadn't been interrupted." "bully, b'gee!" cried the other, excitedly slapping his knee and wincing with pain afterward. "gimme your hand! i'm proud of you, b'gee! my name's alan dewey, at your service." mark took the proffered hand, smiling at the stranger's joy. "my success seems to cause you considerable pleasure," he said. "yes, b'gee!" exclaimed dewey, "it does! and to every true and loyal plebe in the academy. you've brought honor to the name of plebe by licking the biggest yearling in the place, b'gee, and that means the end of hazing." "i'm not so sure of that," said mark. "i am," returned the other. "but say, tell me something about the fight. i wanted to come, only i was shut up in hospital. did williams put up a good one?" "splendid," said mark. "he ought to. they say he's champion of his class, and an all-round athlete. but you look as if you could fight some yourself." "he almost had me beaten once," said mark. "i thought i was a goner." "say, but you're a spunky chap!" remarked dewey, eying mark with an admiring expression. "i don't think there's ever been a plebe dared to do half what you've done. the whole class is talking about you." "is that so?" inquired mark, laughing. "i didn't mean to do anything reckless." "what's the difference," laughed the other, "when you can lick 'em all, b'gee? i wish i could do it," he added, rather more solemnly. "then, perhaps, maybe i wouldn't be the physical wreck that i am." "you been fighting, too?" inquired mark, laughing. "betcher life, b'gee!" responded the other, emphatically. "only i wasn't as clever at it as you." "tell me about it," said mark, with interest. "it happened last saturday afternoon, and i've been in hospital ever since, b'gee. some of the cadets caught me taking a walk up somewhere near what they call 'crow's nest.' and so they set out to have some fun. told me to climb a tree, in the first place. i looked at the tree, and, b'gee, there wasn't a limb for thirty feet, and the limbs there were rotten. there was one of 'em, a big, burly fellow with short hair and a scar on his cheek----" "bull harris!" cried mark. "yes," said dewey, "that's what they called him--'bull.'" "did you fight with him?" "betcher life, b'gee! he tried to make me climb that tree, and, b'gee, says i, 'i won't, b'gee!' then i lammed him one in the eye----" "bully!" cried mark, and then he added, "b'gee!" by way of company. "did he beat you?" "betcher life," cried the other. "that is, the six of 'em did." "you don't mean to say the crowd attacked you?" "that's what i said." "well, sir!" exclaimed mark, "the more i hear of that bull harris the bigger coward i find him. it's comforting to know that all the cadets aren't that way." "very comforting!" responded the other, feeling of the bandage on his swollen jaw. "very comforting! reminds me of a story i heard once, b'gee, of a man who got a thousand dollars' comfort from a railroad for having his head cut off." mark laughed for a moment, and then he fell to tapping the step thoughtfully with his heel. he was thinking over a plan. "i don't suppose you've much love for the yearlings," he remarked, at last. "bet cher life not," laughed the other. "i've about as much as a mother-in-law for a professional joke writer, b'gee! reminds me of a story i once heard--but go on; i want to hear what you had to say. tell my story later." "well, three friends of mine have formed a sort of an informal alliance for self-defence----" "bully, b'gee!" cried dewey, excitedly. "and i thought maybe you'd like to----" "join? bet cher life, b'gee! why didn't you say so before? whoop!" and thus it happened that member number five of the west point "alliance" was discovered. "i don't think this famous alliance is going to have much to do at the start," said mark, as soon as master dewey had recovered from his excitement, "for i rather fancy the yearlings will leave us alone for a time." "bet cher life, b'gee!" assented the other. "if they don't look out they won't have time to be sorry." "b'gee!" added mark, smiling. "do i say that much?" inquired the other, with a laugh. "i suppose i must, because the fellows have nicknamed me 'b'gee.' i declare i'm not conscious of saying it. do i?" "bet cher life, b'gee," responded mark, whereupon his new acquaintance broke into one of his merry laughs. "let's go around to barracks," said mark, finally--it was then just after breakfast time. "i expect they'll want me to report for drill. i thought i'd get off for the morning on the strength of my 'contusions,' as they call them. but the old surgeon was too sly for me. he patched me up in a jiffy." "what was the matter with you?" inquired dewey, dropping his smile. "one eye's about half shut, as you see," responded mark, "and then i had quite a little cut on the side of my head where williams hit me once. otherwise i am all right--only just a little rocky." "as the sea captain remarked of the harbor, b'gee," added the other. "but tell me, how's williams?" "pretty well done up, as the laundryman remarked, to borrow your style of illustration," mark responded, laughing. "they had to carry poor williams down here. he's in there now being fixed up. and say, you should have seen how queerly the surgeon looked at us two. he knew right away what was up, of course, but he never said a word--just entered us 'sick--contusions.' is that what you were?" "bet cher life, b'gee!" responded the other. "but he tried to get me to tell what was up. he rather suspected hazing, i think. i didn't say anything, though." "it would have served some of those chaps just right if you had," vowed mark. "you know you could have every one of them expelled." the two had reached the area of barracks by this time, and hurried over to reach their rooms before inspection. "and don't you mention what i've told you about this great alliance to a soul," mark enjoined. "we'd have the whole academy about our ears in a day." dewey assented. "what's the name of it?" he inquired. "haven't got any name for it yet," said mark, "or any leader either, in fact. we're waiting to get a few more members, enough for a little excitement. then we'll organize, elect a leader, swear allegiance, and you can bet there'll be fun--b'gee!" "come up to my room," he added, after a moment's pause, "as soon as you get fixed up for inspection, and i'll introduce you to the other fellows." with which parting word he turned and bounded up the stairs to his own room. chapter xvi. the parson's indignation. mark found his roommate and faithful second, texas, busily occupied in cleaning up for the morning inspection. texas wasn't looking for mark; it had been texas' private opinion that mark had earned a week's holiday by the battle of the morning, and that the surgeon would surely grant it. when mark did turn up, however, texas wasted no time in complaining of the injustice, but got his friend by the hand in a hurry. "ole man," he cried, "i'm proud of you! i ain't had a chance to say how proud i am!" "thanks," said mark, laughing, "but look out for that sore thumb--and for mercy's sakes don't slap me on that shoulder again. i'm more delicate than i look. and say, texas, i've got a new member for our secret society--b'gee!" texas looked interested. "he's a pretty game youngster," mark continued, "for when bull harris and that gang of his tried to haze him, he sailed in and tried to do the crowd." "oh!" cried texas, excitedly. "wow! i wish i'd 'a' been there. say, mark, d'ye know i've been a missin' no end o' fun that a'way. parson had a fight, an' i didn't see it; you had one daown to cranston's, an' i missed that; an' yere's another!" texas looked disgusted and mark burst out laughing. "'tain't any fun," growled the former. "but go on, tell me 'bout this chap. what does he look like?" "he's not as tall as we," replied mark, "but he's very good-looking and jolly. and when he says 'b'gee' and laughs, you can't help laughing with him. hello, there's inspection!" this last remark was prompted by a sharp rap upon the door. the two sprang up and stood at attention. "heels together, eyes to the front, chest out"--they knew the whole formula by this time. and cadet corporal jasper strode in, found fault with a few things and then went on to carry death and devastation into the next place. a few minutes later the parson strolled in. "yea, by zeus," began he, without waiting for the formality of a salutation. "yea, by apollo, the far-darting, this is indeed an outrage worthy of the great achilles to avenge. and i do swear by the bones of my ancestors, by the hounds of diana, forsooth even by jupiter lapis and the gemini, that never while i inspire the atmosphere of existence will i submit myself to so outrageous an imposition----" "wow!" cried texas. "what's up?" "sit down and tell us about it," added mark. "it is written in the most immortal document," continued the parson, without noticing the interruption, "that ever emanated from the mind of man, the declaration of independence (signed, by the way, by an ancestor of my stepmother), that among the inalienable privileges of man, co-ordinate with life and liberty itself, is the pursuit of happiness. and in the name of the seven gates of thebes and the seven hills of the eternal city, i demand to know what happiness a man can have if all his happiness is taken from him!" "b'gee! reminds me of a story i heard about a boy who wanted to see the cow jump over the moon on a night when there wasn't any moon, b'gee." mark and texas looked up in surprise and the parson faced about in obvious displeasure at the interruption. "in the name of all the olympian divinities and the inhabitants of charon and the styx," he cried, angrily, "i demand to know----" "come in," said mark, laughing. "excuse me for interrupting, parson, but this is mr. alan dewey, b'gee, member number five of our band of desperate buccaneers, if you please. mr. dewey, allow me to introduce you to the gentleman who 'reminded' you of that last story, mr. peter stanard, of boston, massachusetts, the cradle of liberty, the nurse of freedom, and the center and metropolis of the geological universe." the parson bowed gravely. "while i am, together with all true bostonians, proud of the reputation which my city has merited, yet i am----" "also to mr. jeremiah powers," continued mark, cutting the parson off in his peroration. "son o' the honorable scrap powers, o' hurricane county, texas," added texas, himself. young dewey shook hands all around, and then sat down on the bed, looking at mark with a puzzled expression on his face, as much as to say, "what on earth have i struck--b'gee?" mark saw his expression and undertook to inform him, making haste to start before the parson could begin again on the relative merits of boston and the rest of the civilized universe. "powers and stanard," said he, "are the members of our organization, together with indian, the fat boy." "i see," said dewey, at the same time thinking what a novel organization it must be. "there's indian now." indian's round, scared face peered in through the open doorway just then. he was introduced to number five, whereupon number five remarked 'very pleased to meet you, b'gee.' and indian echoed 'bless my soul!' and crept into the room and sat down in an inconspicuous corner. there was a moment's pause and then the parson commenced: "if i remember correctly, we were occupied when last interrupted, by--ahem! a rather facetious observation upon the subject of our solitary lunar satellite and quadruped of the genus bos--occupied i say in considering the position which the metropolis of boston has obtained----" "drop boston!" laughed mark. "we weren't on boston anyhow. boston came in afterward--as boston always does, in fact." "which reminds me, b'gee," put in the newcomer, "of a story i once heard of----" "drop the story, too!" exclaimed mark. "i want to know what the parson was so indignant about." "yes, yes!" put in texas. "that's what i say, too. and be quick about it. we've only ten minutes 'fore drill, an' if there's anybody got to be licked, why, we got to hustle." "well," said stanard, drawing a long breath. "well! since it is the obvious and, in fact, natural desire of the company assembled, so expressed by them, that i should immediately proceed to a summary and concise statement of the matter in hand, pausing for no extensive introductions or formal perorations, but endeavoring assiduously to impart to my promulgations a certain clarified conciseness which in matters of this peculiar nature is so eminently advantageous----" the parson was interrupted at this place by a subdued "b'gee!" from dewey, followed by a more emphatic "wow!" and a scarcely audible "bless my soul!" "what's the matter?" he inquired, stopping short and looking puzzled. "nothing," replied mark. "i didn't say anything." "oh!" said the parson. "excuse me. where was i? oh, yes, i was just saying i would be brief. gentlemen--ahem!--when i entered this room i was in a condition of violent anger. as i stated, an outrage had been offered me such as neither parmenides, nor socrates, nor even zeno, stoic of stoics, could have borne. and i have resolved to seek once more, as a prodigal son, the land of my birth, where science is fostered instead of being repressed as in this hotbed of prejudice and ignorance. i----" "what's up?" cried the four. "i am coming to that," said the parson, gravely, stretching out his long shanks, drawing up his trousers, and displaying his sea-green socks. "this same morning--and my friend indian will substantiate my statement, for he was there--a low, ignorant cadet corporal did enter into my room, for inspection, by zeus, and after generally displaying his ill-manners, he turned to me and conveyed the extraordinary information that, according to rules, forsooth, i must be deprived of the dearest object of my affections, solace of my weary hours, my friend in time of need, my companion in sickness, which through all the trials of adversity has stuck to me closer than a brother, my only joy, my----" "what?" cried the four, by this time wrought up to the highest pitch of indignation and excitement. "my one refuge from the cares of life," continued the solemn parson, "the one mitigating circumstance in this life of tribulation, the only----" "what? what? what?" "what? of all things what, but this? what but my life, my pride, my hope--my beloved volume of 'dana's geology,' friend of my----" and the roar of laughter which came then made the sentry out on the street jump in alarm. the laughing lasted until the cry came: "new cadets turn out!" which meant drill; and it lasted after that, too, so that cadet spencer, drillmaster, "on duty over plebes," spent the next hour or two in wondering what on earth his charges kept snickering at. poor texas was the subject of a ten-minute discourse upon "impertinence and presumption," because he was guilty of the heinous offense of bursting out laughing in the midst of one of the irate little drillmaster's tirades. chapter xvii. indian in trouble. what manner of torture is squad drill has already been shown; and so the reader should have some idea of what our five friends were going through. squad drill lasts for the first two weeks or so of plebe life--that is, before the move into camp. the luckless victims begin after breakfast, and at regular (and frequent) periods until night are turned out under the charge of some irascible yearling to be taught all manner of military maneuvers--setting up drill, how to stand, to face, and, in fact, how to walk. most people, those who have not been to west point, are under the delusion that they know how to walk already. it usually takes the luckless plebe a week to get that idea hammered out of his head, and another week besides to learn the correct method. the young instructor, presenting, by the way, a ludicrous contrast in his shining uniform of gray and white and gold, with his three or four nervous and variously costumed pupils, takes the bayonet of his gun for a drill stick and marches "his" squad over into a secluded corner of the area and thus begins the above-mentioned instructions: "at the word forward, throw the weight of the body upon the right leg, the left knee straight. at the word march, move the left leg smartly without jerk, carry the left foot forward thirty inches from the right, the sole near the ground, the toe a little depressed, knee straight and slightly turned out. at the same time throw the weight of the body forward (eyes to the front) and plant the foot without shock, weight of the body resting upon it; next, in like manner, advance the right foot and plant it as above. continue to advance without crossing the legs or striking one against the other, keeping the face direct to the front. now, forward, common time, march. depress the toe so that it strikes the ground at the same time as the heel (palms of the hands squarely to the front. head up)"--and so on. that is the way the marching exercise goes, exclusive, of course, of all interruptions, comments and witticisms on the instructor's part. the plebe begins to get used to it after the first week or so, when the stiffness rubs off, and then a certain amount of rivalry begins to spring up among various squads, and everybody settles down to the business of learning. the squads are consolidated later on, and gradually the class is merged into one company. such as they are, these drills, together with inspections, meals and "rests" (with hazing), occupy almost the entire time of the two weeks in barracks. and now for our five "rebels." that particular monday morning the plebes had an hour's rest before dinner, in which to do as they pleased (or as the yearlings pleased). and during this hour it was that one of "the five," the always luckless and unhappy one, got into trouble. the one was indian, or the mormon. indian, it seemed, was always thought of whenever there was any deviling to be done. the other plebes did as they were told, and furnished amusement on demand, but they always realized that it was all in fun. indian, however, was an innocent, gullible youth, who took everything solemnly, and was in terror of his unhappy life every moment of the day. and he was especially unfortunate this time because he fell into the hands of "bull" harris and his gang. it is not the intention of the writer to give the impression that all cadets at west point were or are like "bull" harris, or that hazing of his peculiar variety is an everyday affair. but it would be hard to find one hundred men without a cowardly, cruel nature among them. "bull" harris and his crowd represented the lower element of the yearling class, and made hazing their business and diversion. they were the especial dread of the plebes in consequence. bull had tried his tricks upon mark to his discomfort, and ever since that had left mark strictly alone, and confined his efforts to less vigorous victims, among which were dewey, and now indian. indian had selected a rather grewsome occupation, anyhow, at the particular moment when he was caught. it was just in keeping with the peculiarly dejected frame of mind he was in (after squad drill). he was wandering through the graveyard, which is situated in a lonely portion of the post, way off in the northwestern corner. some heroes, west point's bravest, lie buried there, and indian was dejectedly wondering if those same heroes would ever have stuck through plebe days in barracks if they had had a drill master like that "red-headed coyote," chick spencer. he had about concluded they would not have, when he heard some muffled laughter and the sound of running feet. a moment later the terrified plebe found himself completely surrounded by a dozen merry yearlings, out for a lark. prominent among them were bull and his toadying little friend, baby edwards. it is correct west point etiquette for a plebe, when "captured" to go meekly wherever desired. indian went, and the party disappeared quickly in the woods on one side, the captive being hidden completely in the circle of cadets. there was one person who had seen him, however, and that one person was the parson, who had been about to enter the gate to join his friend. and the parson, when he saw it, turned quickly on his heel and strode away back to barracks as fast as his long legs could carry him without loss of scholarly dignity. "yes, by zeus," he muttered to himself. "yea, by zeus, the enemy is fierce upon our trail. and swiftly, forsooth, will i hie me to my companions and inform them of this insufferable indignity." all unconscious of the learned gentleman's discovery, the yearlings meanwhile were hurrying away into a secluded portion of the woods; for they knew that their time was short, and that they would have to make haste. the terrified victim was pushed over logs and through brambles until he was almost exhausted, the captors meanwhile dropping dire hints as to his fate. "an indian he is!" muttered bull harris. "an indian!" (the plebe was as red as one then.) "he shall die an indian's death!" "that's what he shall!" echoed the crowd. "an indian! an indian! we'll burn him at the stake!" "he, he! the only good indian's a dead indian, he, he!" chimed in baby, chuckling at his own witticism. "he, he!" all this poor joseph did not fail to notice, and as was his habit, he believed every word of it. nor did his mind regain any of its composure as the procession continued its solemn marching through the lonely woods, to the tune of the yearlings' cheerful remarks. the latter were chuckling merrily to themselves, but when they were in hearing of their victim their tone was deep and awful, and their looks dark and savage. poor indian's fat, round eyes stared wider and rounder every minute; his equally round, red face grew redder, and his gasping exclamations more frequent and violent. "bless my soul!" he cried, "what extraordinary proceedings!" "ha! ha!" muttered the yearlings. "see, he trembles! behold how the victim pales!" a short distance farther in the woods the party came upon a small clearing. "just the spot!" cried bull. "see the tree in the center. that is the stake, and to that we will tie him, while the smoke ascends to the clouds of heaven." "just the spot!" echoed baby, chuckling gleefully. "it is quiet," continued bull, in a low, sepulchral tone. "yes, and his cries of agony will be heard by none. advance, wretched victim, and prepare to die the death which your savage ancestors did inflict upon our fathers. advance!" "advance!" growled the crowd. "bless my soul!" cried the indian. he was no more capable of advancing than he was of flying. his knees were shaking in violent terror. great beads of perspiration rolled from the dimples in his fat little cheeks. limp and helpless, he would have sunk to the ground, but for the support of his captors. "advance!" cried bull, again, stamping on the ground in mock impatience and rage. "bodyguard, bring forth the wretch!" in response to this order several of the cadets dragged the unhappy plebe to the tree and held him fast against it. bull harris produced from under his coat a coil of rope, and indian felt it being wrapped about his body. up to this point he had been silent from sheer terror; but the feeling of the rough rope served to bring before him with startling reality the awfulness of the fate that was in store for him. he opened his mouth and forthwith gave vent to a cry so weird and unearthly that the yearlings burst out into a shout of laughter. it was no articulate cry, simply a wild howl. it rang and echoed through the woods, like the hoot of an owl at night, or the strange, half-human cry of a frightened dog. and it died into a gasp that bull harris described as "the sigh of a homesick bullfrog." indian's musical efforts continued as the horrible rope was wound about his body. each wail was louder and more unearthly, more mirth-provoking to the unpitying cadets, until at last, when bull harris finished and stepped back to survey his work, the frightened plebe could be likened to nothing less than a steam calliope. the yearlings were so much amused by his powers that they resolved forthwith that the show must not stop. and so, without giving the performer chance to breathe even, they set to work diligently collecting sticks and leaves. "heap 'em up! heap 'em up!" cried bull. "heap 'em up! and soon shall the fire blaze merrily." naturally, since indian's shrieks and howls continued unabated in quantity or variety through all this, the yearlings were in no hurry to finish, but took care to prolong the agony, sport as they called it, as long as possible. so, while the red-faced, perspiring victim panted, grunted, howled, and wriggled, they piled the wood about him with exasperating slowness, rearranging, inspecting, and discussing the probable effect of each and every stick of wood they laid on. it was done, at last, however, and the result was a great pile of fagots surrounding and half covering the unfortunate lad. they were fagots selected as being the driest that could be found in the dry and sun-parched clearing. there was a moment or two later on when bull wished they had not been quite so dry, after all. the crowd stood and admired their work for a few moments longer, while indian's weird wails rose higher than ever. then bull stepped forward. "art thou prepared to die?" he inquired in his most sepulchral tone. indian responded with a crescendo in c minor. "he answereth not!" muttered the other. "let him scorn our questions who dares. what, ho! bring forth the torch! we shall roast him brown." "and when he is brown," roared another, "then he will cease to be smith!" "yes," cried bull, "for he will be dead. his bones shall bleach on the plains. on his flesh we will make a meal!" "an indian meal!" added baby, chuckling merrily over his own joke. "several meals," continued bull, solemnly. "there is enough of him for a whole _table d'hote_. how about that? aren't you?" "wow! wo-oo-oo-oooo!" wailed indian. "he mocks us!" cried the spokesman. "he scorns to answer. very well! we shall see. is the torch lit?" the torch, an ordinary sulphur match, was not lit. but bull produced one from the same place as the rope and held it poised. he waited a moment while the yearlings discussed the next action. "i say we let him loose," said one. "he's scared enough." "nonsense!" laughed bull, "i'm not going to stop yet. i'm going to set him afire." "set him afire!" echoed the crowd, in a whisper. "'sh! yes," responded the other. "not really, you know, but just enough to scare him. we'll set fire to the wood and then when it's begun to smoke some we'll put it out." "that's risky," objected somebody. "i say we----" "nonsense!" interrupted the leader. "if you don't want to, run home. i am." and so once more he turned toward the wretched captive, who still kept up his shrieks. "ha, ha!" he muttered, "thy time has come. say thy last prayer." with which words he stepped quickly forward, struck the match upon his heel, and after holding it for a moment knelt down before the pile of leaves and wood. "wow! wow!" roared indian. "stop! stop! help! wo-oo-oo!" another of those steam calliope wails. "he shrieks for mercy!" muttered bull. "he shrieks in vain. there!" the last exclamation came as he touched the match to the leaves, stood up and worked off to join his companions. "form a ring," he said, "and dance about him as he dies." the terror of indian can scarcely be imagined; he was almost on the verge of fainting as the hot choking smoke curled up and around his face. his yells grew louder and increased to a perfect shriek of agony. "don't you think we'd better stop it now?" inquired one of the yearlings, more timid than the rest. "rats!" laughed bull. "it's hardly started. i'll manage it." bull's "management" proved rather untrustworthy; for bull had forgotten to take into account the dryness of the twigs, and also another factor. the air had been still as he struck the match, but just at that moment a slight breeze swept along the ground, blowing the leaves before it. it struck the little fire and it seized one tiny flame and bore it up through the pile and about the legs of the imprisoned plebe. the next instant the yearlings were thrown into the wildest imaginable confusion by a cry from one of them. "look out! look out! his trousers are afire!" chapter xviii. to the rescue. things happened in a whirl of confusion after that. to the horrified cadets a thousand incidents seemed to crowd in at one moment. in the first place there was the terrified captive, bound helplessly to the tree, his clothing on fire, himself shrieking at the top of his lungs. then there were the yearlings themselves, all crying out with fright and alarm and rushing wildly in to drag the burning wood away. finally there were other arrivals, whom, in the excitement, the yearlings scarcely noticed. there were two of them; one tore a knife from his pocket and cut the rope in a dozen places, the other flung off his jacket and wrapped it quickly about indian's feet, extinguishing the flames. and then the two stood up and gazed at the rest--the frightened yearlings and their infuriated victim. infuriated? yes, wildly infuriated! a change had come over indian such as no one who knew him had ever seen before. the fire had not really hurt him; it had only ruined his clothing and scorched his legs enough to make him wild with rage. he had tugged at his bonds savagely; when he was cut free he had torn loose from the friendly stranger who had knelt to extinguish the fire, and made a savage rush at the badly scared cadets. indian's face was convulsed with passion. his arms were swinging wildly like a windmill's sails in a hurricane, while from his mouth rushed a volley of exclamations that would have frightened captain kidd and his pirate band. it made no difference what he hit; the fat boy was too blind with rage to see. he must hit something! if a tree had lain in his path he would have started in on that. as luck would have it, however, the thing that was nearest to him was a yearling--baby edwards. baby could have been no more frightened if he had seen an express train charging on him. he turned instantly and fled--where else would he flee but to his idol bull? he hid behind that worthy; bull put up his hands to defend himself; and the next instant indian's flying arms reached the spot. one savage blow on the nose sent bull tumbling backward--over baby. indian, of course, could not stop and so did a somersault over the two. there was a pretty _mêlée_ after that. baby was the first to emerge, covered with dirt and bruises. indian got up second; he gazed about him, his rage still burning; he gave one snort, shook his head clear of the soil as an angry bull might; and then made another savage rush at baby. baby this time had no friend to hide behind; harris was lying on the ground, face down, as a man might do to protect himself in a cyclone. and so baby had no resource but flight; he took to his heels, the enraged plebe a few feet behind; and in half a minute more the pair were lost to sight and sound, far distant in the woods, indian still pursuing. it might be pleasant to follow them, for indian in his rage was a sight to divert the gods. but there was plenty more happening at the scene of the fire, things that ought not be missed. in the first place, who were the two new arrivals? it was evident that they were plebes--their faces were familiar to the cadets. but beyond that no one knew anything about them. they had freed their helpless classmate and saved him from serious injury, as has been told. they had done one thing more that has not been mentioned yet. one of them, the smaller, just after indian had broken loose, had reached over and dealt the nearest yearling he could reach a ringing blow upon the cheek. "take that!" said he. "bah jove, you're a cur." there was another _mêlée_ after that. of course the setting fire to indian had been a pure accident; but the two strangers did not know it. they saw in the whole thing a piece of diabolical cruelty. the yearling the wrath chanced to fall upon was gus murray--and his anger is left to the imagination. he sprang at the throat of the reckless plebe; and the rest of the crowd rushed to his aid, pausing just for an instant to size up the pair. they did not seem "to be any great shucks." the taller was a big slouchy-looking chap in clothes that evidently bespoke the farmer, and possessing a drawl which quite as clearly indicated the situation of the farm--the prairies. having cut indian loose he was lounging lazily against the tree and regarding his more excitable companion with a good-natured grin. the companion was even less awe-inspiring, for one had to look at him but an instant to see that he was one of the creatures whom all well-regulated boys despise--a dude. he wore a high collar, ridiculously high; he was slender and delicate looking, with the correct fifth avenue stoop to his shoulders and an attitude to his arms which showed that he had left his cane behind only on compulsion when he "struck the point." and any doubts the yearlings may have had on this question were settled as the yearlings stared, for the object turned to the other and spoke. "aw say, sleepy," said he, "come help me chastise these fellows, don't ye know." as a fact there was but little choice in the matter, it was fight or die with the two, for at the same instant gus murray, wild with rage, had leaped forward and made a savage lunge at the dude. what happened then murray never quite knew. all he made out was that when he hit at the dude the dude suddenly ceased to be there. the yearling glanced around in surprise and discovered that his victim had slid coolly under his elbow and was standing over on the other side of the clearing--smiling. the rest of the crowd, not in the least daunted by murray's miss, rushed in to the attack; and a moment later a wild scrimmage was in progress, a scrimmage which defied the eye to comprehend and the pen to describe. the former never moved from the tree, but with his back flat against it and his great clumsy arms swinging like sledge hammers he stood and bid defiance to his share of the crowd. the dude's tactics were just the opposite. he was light and slender, and should have been easy prey. that was what bull harris thought as he hastily arose from the spot where indian had butted him and joined his eager comrades in the hunt. the hunt; a hunt it was, and no mistake. while the farmer stayed in one place, the dude seemed everywhere at once. dodging, ducking, running, he seemed just to escape every blow that was aimed at him. he seemed even to turn somersaults, to the amazed yearlings, who had been looking for a dude and not an acrobat. the dude did not dodge all the time, though; occasionally he would stop to cool the ardor of some especially excited cadet with a sudden punch where it wasn't looked for. once also he stuck out his foot and allowed bull harris to get his legs caught in it, with a result that bull's nose once more plowed the clearing. the writer wishes it were his privilege to chronicle the fact that the two put the eight to flight; or that indian, having put the baby "to sleep," returned to perform yet greater prodigies of valor. it would be a pleasure to tell of all that, but on the other hand truth is a stubborn thing. things do not always happen as they should in spite of the providence that is supposed to make them. the farmer, after a five-minute gallant stand, was finally knocked down--from behind--and once down he was being fast pummeled into nothingness. the dude--his collar, much to his alarm, having wilted--was in the last stage of exhaustion. in fact, bull had succeeded in landing a blow, the first of the afternoon for him. the dude was about to give up and perish, when assistance arrived. for these gallant heroes were not fated to conquer alone. the first warning of the arrival of reinforcements was not the traditional trumpet call, nor the roll of a drum, nor even the tramp of soldiers, but a muttered "wow!" this was followed by texas himself, bursting through the bushes like a battering ram. mark was at his side, and behind them came the parson. dewey, being rather crippled, brought up the rear. the four lost no time in questions; they saw two plebes in distress, and they had met indian on the warpath and learned the cause of the trouble. they knew it was their business to help and they "sailed right in" to do it. mark placed himself by the side of the panting "dude." texas and the parson made a v formation and speedily got the farmer to his feet and in fighting array once more. and after that the odds of the battle were more even. it was a very brief battle, in fact. a mere skirmish after that. mark's prowess was dreaded, and that of texas but little less. after texas had chased two yearlings into the woods, and mark had stretched out bull--that was bull's third time that afternoon--the ardor of the eight began to wane. it was not very long then before the attack stopped by mutual consent, and the combatants took to staring at each other instead. the rage of bull as he picked himself up and examined his damages must be imagined. "you confounded plebes shall pay for this," he roared, "as sure as i'm alive." "now?" inquired mark, smiling, rubbing his hands, and looking ready to resume hostilities. "it's a case of blamed swelled head, that's what it is," growled the other, sullenly. "which," added the parson's solemn voice, "might be somewhat more classically expressed by the sesquipedalian hellenic vocable--ahem!--megalacephalomania." with which interesting bit of information--presented gratis--the parson carefully laid his beloved "dana" on the ground and sat down on it for safety. "why can't you plebes mind your business, anyhow?" snarled gus murray. "that's what i say, too!" cried bull. "curious coincidence!" laughed dewey. "reminds me of a story i once heard, b'gee--i guess it's most too long a story to tell through. remind me of it, mark, and i'll tell it to you some day. one of the most remarkable tales i ever heard, that! told me by a fellow that used to run a sausage factory. it was right next door to a 'home for homeless cats,' though, b'gee, i couldn't ever see how the cats were homeless if they had a home there. they didn't stay very long, though. that was the funniest part of it. they used to sit on the fence near the sausage factory, b'gee----" dewey could have prattled on that way till doomsday with unfailing good humor. it made the yearlings mad and that was all he cared about. but by this time bull had perceived that he was being guyed, and he turned away with an angry exclamation. "you fellows may stay if you choose;" he said, "i'm going back to camp. and those plebes shall pay for this!" "cash on demand!" laughed mark, as the discomfited crowd turned and slunk off. chapter xix. the alliance is completed. having been thus easily rid of their unpleasant enemies, the plebes set out in high feather for home. "i must get back in time to dress for dinner, don't ye know," said the dude. "i'm 'bliged to yew fellows," put in the farmer, getting up from his seat with a lazy groan. "my name's methusalem zebediah chilvers, and i'll shake hands all raound." "and mine's chauncey van rensallear mount-bonsall, don't ye know," said the other, putting on his immaculate white gloves. "bah jove! i've lost a cuff button, quarreling with those deuced yearlings!" chauncey's cuff button was found at last--he vowed he wouldn't go to dinner without it--and then the party started in earnest, the two strangers giving a graphic and characteristic account of the scrimmage we have just witnessed. mark in the meantime was doing some thinking, wondering if here were not two more eligible members of the "alliance." while he was debating this question the "dude" approached him privately and began thus: "i want to say something to you," he said. "dye know, i can't see why we plebes suffer so, bah jove! i was thinking aw, don't ye know, if some of us would band together we could--aw--chastise the deuced cadets and----" master chauncey van rensallear mount-bonsall got no further, for mark came out then and told the secret. in a few moments the alliance had added number six and number seven. "and now, b'gee, i say let's organize, b'gee!" cried dewey. the sound of a drum from barracks put a stop to further business then, but before supper there was a spare half hour, and during that time the seven conspirators met in mark's room to "organize." indian was there, too, now calm and meek again. "in the first place," said mark, "we want to elect a leader." "wow!" cried texas, "what fo'? ain't you leader?" "i say, mark, b'gee!" cried dewey. "mark," said the parson, solemnly. "mark," murmured indian from the corner, and "mark" chimed in the two newcomers. "it seems to be unanimous," said mark, "so i guess i'll have to let it go. but i'm sure i can't see why you think of me. what shall we call ourselves?" that brought a lengthy discussion, which space does not permit of being given. the loyal legion, the sons of the revolution, the independents, the cincinnati--suggested by the classic parson--and also the trojan heroes--from the same source--all these were suggested and rejected. then somebody moved the seven rebels, which was outvoted as not expressive enough, but which led to another one that took the whole crowd with a rush. it came from an unexpected source--the unobtrusive indian in the corner. "let's name it 'the seven devils'!" said he. and the seven devils they were from that day until the time when the class graduated from the point. "three cheers for the seven devils!" cried dewey, "b'gee!" "now," said the parson, rising with a solemn look, "let us swear eternal fealty by all that man holds holy. let us swear by the stygian shades and the realms of charon, whence all true devils come. yea, by zeus!" "and we'll stand by one another to the death, b'gee," cried dewey. "remember, we're organized for no purpose on earth but to do those yearlings, and we'll lick 'em, b'gee, if they dare to look at us." "show 'em no mercy, don't ye know," said "chauncey." "and let's have a motto," cried indian, becoming infected with the excitement. "'down with the yearlings.'" "i suggest 'we die but we never surrender,' b'gee." "'_veni, vidi, vici_,'" remarked the parson, "or else '_dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_,' in the immortal words of horace, poet of the sabine farm." "a motto should be brief," laughed mark. "i can beat you all. i'll give you a motto in three letters of the alphabet." "three letters!" echoed the crowd. "three letters! what is it?" "it expresses all our objects in forming," said mark, "and we'll have lots of fun if we obey it. my motto is 'b. b. j.'" "bully, b'gee!" cried dewey, and the rest echoed his approval with a rush. that was, all except the unobtrusive indian in the corner. "i--i don't quite," he stammered, "quite see it. why is----" "ahem!" mark straightened himself up and put on his best professional air in imitation of the parson. "ahem! if you had lived in boston, and devoted yourself to the cultivation of the intellectualities--yea, by zeus!--instead of learning to lose your temper and chase yearlings like a wild texan---- however, i'll explain it." "please do!" cried indian, innocently. "i'll never chase the yearlings again." "that's good! b. j. stands for 'before june,' and is west point slang for 'fresh.'" "i knew what b. j. means," put in indian. "what! then why didn't you say so and save me the trouble? the other b. is the present imperative of the verb to be; he was, being, been, is, am, ain't. and the only way i can explain what b. b. j. means is to say that it means be b. j., be b. j. with a vengeance, and when you get tired of being b. j., b. b. j. some more. do you see?" "er, yes," said indian. "and now," laughed mark, "since we're through, three cheers for the seven devils!" and that is the story of the forming of west point's first and only secret society, a society which was destined to introduce some very, very exciting incidents into west point's dignified history, the seven devils, b. b. j. chapter xx. indignation of the yearlings. "by george, he's the freshest plebe that ever struck this place!" the speaker was bull harris, and he was sitting on the steps of the library building along with half a dozen classmates, excitedly and angrily discussing the fight. "now i tell you mark mallory's got to be put out of this place in a week," continued the first speaker. "and i don't care how it's done, either, fair or foul." "that's just what i say, too!" chimed in baby edwards. "he's got to be put out in a week!" bull harris smiled benignly upon his toadying echo, while the rest of the gang nodded approvingly. "i'm sure everybody agrees that he's got to be taken down," put in somebody else. "the only trouble is i don't see how on earth it is to be done." "that's the worst of it!" snarled bull. "that fellow mallory seems to get the best of us everything we try; confound him!" "i'm sure such a thing has never been known at west point," said another. "just think of it! why, it's the talk of the post, and everybody's laughing at us, and the plebes are getting bolder every minute. one of them actually dared to turn up his nose at me to-day. think of it--at me--a yearling, and he a vile beast!" "it's perfectly awful," groaned bull. "perfectly awful! imagine a crowd of yearlings allowing themselves to be stopped while hazing a plebe--stopped, mind you, by half as many plebes--and then to make it a thousand times worse to have the fellow they were hazing taken away!" "and the yearlings all chased back to camp by a half-crazy texan," chimed in another, who hadn't been there and so could afford to mention unpleasant details. "yet what can we do?" cried baby. "we can't offer to fight him. he's as good as licked billy williams, and bill's the best man we could put up. that mallory's a regular terror." "mark mallory's got to be taken down." this suggestion was good, only rather indefinite, which indefiniteness was remarked by one of the crowd, merry vance, the cadet who had interposed the same objection before. merry was a tall, slender youth, with a whitish hue that suggested dissipation, and a fine, scornful curve to his lips that suggested meanness no less clearly. "it's all very well to say we've got to do him," said he, "but that don't say how. as i said, we can't find a man in our class to whip him fair. and we can't tackle him in a crowd because in the first place he seems to have his own gang, and in the second place none of us dares to touch him. i know i don't, for one." "pooh!" laughed bull, scornfully. "i'm not afraid of him." "me either!" chimed in the little baby, doubling up his fists. "all right," said the other. "only i noticed you both kept good and quiet when he stepped up to loosen indian." there was an awkward silence for a few minutes after that; bull harris could think of nothing to say, for he knew the charge was true; and as for baby edwards, he never said anything until after his big friend had set him an example. "we can't get him into any trouble with the authorities, either," continued vance at last. "in fact, i don't know what we are to do." "he's simply turned west point's customs topsy-turvy," groaned another. "why, when we were plebes nobody ever dared to think of defying a yearling. and this mallory and his gang are running the place. no one dares to haze a plebe any more." "talking about that," said gus murray, another yearling who had just strolled up. "talking about that, just see what happened to me not five minutes ago. met one of the confounded beasts--that fellow, by the way, we did up, though it don't seem to have done him the least bit of good--just as b. j. as ever. you know who i mean, the rather handsome chap they call dewey. he went to pass the color guard up at camp just now and he didn't raise his hat. the sentry called him down for it, and then as he went off i said to him: 'you ought to know better than that, plebe.' 'thank you,' says he, and when i told him he should say 'sir' to a higher cadet, what on earth do you suppose he had the impudence to say?" "what?" inquired the crowd, eagerly. "said he wouldn't do it because i hadn't said 'sir' to him!" "what!" "yes, indeed! did you ever hear of such impudence? why, i'll leave the academy to-morrow if that kind of thing keeps up." and with that dire threat gus murray seated himself on the steps and relapsed into a glum silence. "i heard you sat down on that mallory last saturday," observed some one at last. "that's what i did!" responded murray, brightening up at the mention of a less discouraging incident. "mary adams introduced me to him and i cut him dead. gee, but he was mad!" "wonder, if he'll try to make you apologize," said bull. "it would be just like him," put in merry. the other looked as if he didn't relish the possibility one bit; he turned the conversation quickly. "wait till he tries it," said he. "in the meantime i'm more interested in the great question, what are we going to do to take him down?" "can't think of a thing," said vance, flatly. "not a thing!" "by george!" cried bull. "i'm going to think of something if i die for it." "i'll shake with you on that," put in murray. "we won't rest till we get a plan." "let me in too," said vance. "and me too!" cried baby. and so it happened that when the informal assembly dissolved for supper it dissolved with but one idea in the mind of every cadet in the party--that mark mallory must be taken down! a plan came at last, one which was enough to do for any one; and when it came it came from a most unexpected source, none other than the baby, who never before in the memory of bull had dared to say anything original. the baby's sweet little brain, evolving the interesting problem, struck an idea which, so to speak, brought down the house. "i'll tell you what!" he cried. "i've a scheme!" "what is it?" inquired bull, incredulously. "let's soak him on demerits!" and with a look of delight bull turned and stared at murray. "by the lord!" he cried, "that's it. we'll soak him on demerits!" then the precious trio locked arms and did a war on the campus. "just the thing!" gasped bull, breathlessly. "murray's a corporal and he can do it! whoop!" "yes!" cried the baby. "and he was put over plebes to-day. will you do it, murray?" and murray lost no time in vowing that he would; bull harris felt then that at last he was on the road to victory. it is necessary to explain the system of discipline which prevails at west point. a cadet is allowed to receive only one hundred "demerits" during the first six months of his stay. these demerits are assigned according to a regular and inflexible schedule; thus for being late at roll call, a minor offense, a cadet receives two demerits, while a serious offense, such as disobedience of orders or sitting down on post while on sentry duty, brings ten units of trouble in its wake. these demerits are not given by the instructor or the cadet who notices the offense; but he enters the charge in a book which is forwarded to headquarters. the report is read out after parade that same day and posted in a certain place the next day; and four days later the superintendent assigns the demerits in all cases where "explanations" have not been received. the following is an example of an explanation: "west point, n. y., ---- --, --. report--bedding not properly folded at police inspection. "explanation--some one disarranged my bedding after i had piled it. i was at the sink at the time of inspection, and i readjusted the bedding upon my return. "respectfully submitted, "---- ----, "cadet ----, co. ----, ---- class. "to the commandant of cadets." cadets usually hand in explanations, though the explanations are not always deemed satisfactory. reports are made by the army officers, and also by cadets themselves, file closers, section marchers and others. it was in this last fact that bull harris and his friend murray saw their chance. it very seldom happens that a cadet reports another except where the report is deserved; a man who does otherwise soon gets into trouble. but bull and his gang saw no obstacle in that; most of them were always head over heels in demerits themselves, including murray--though he was a "cadet-corporal." being thus, and in consequent danger of expulsion, they were reckless of possible trouble. and besides, bull had sworn to haze that plebe, and he meant to do it. the plan in brief was simply this: mark mallory must be demerited right and left, everywhere and upon every possible pretext, just or unjust--and that was all. the thing has been done before; there is talk of doing it whenever a colored lad is admitted to the point. and murray was the man to do it, too, because he had just been transferred and put "on duty over plebes." it was only necessary to give one hundred demerits. one hundred demerits is a ticket of leave without further parley or possibility of return. chapter xxi. a mild attempt at hazing. if cadet corporal murray had any doubts about the necessity for putting this very dirty scheme into practice, or if his not over squeamish conscience was the least bit troubled by the prospect, something happened that same evening which effectually squelched such ideas. it was after supper, during half an hour of so-called "rest," which is allowed to the over-drilled plebe. mr. murray, in whose manly breast still burned a fire of rage at the insult which "b. j." dewey had offered him, resolved in his secret heart that that same insult must and should be avenged. that evening he thought an especially favorable time, for dewey was still an "invalid," as a result of his last b. j. effort. with this purpose in view, cadet murray stole away from his companions and set out for barracks, around which the luckless plebes were clustered. arriving there, he hunted; he spent quite a while in hunting, for the object of his search was nowhere to be seen. he caught sight of mark and his "gang," but dewey was not among them. when he did find him at last it was a good way from that place--way up on flirtation walk; and then cadet murray got down to business at once. "look a here, b. j. beast!" he called. the object of this peremptory challenge turned, as also did his companion, the terrified indian--once more about to be hazed. the two stared at the yearling; a lady and gentleman passing glanced at him also, probably wondering what was in store for the luckless plebes; and then they passed on, leaving the place lonely, and deserted, just the spot for the proposed work. so thought the yearling, as he rubbed his hands gleefully and spoke again. "beast!" said he, "i want to tell you that you were very impudent to me to-day!" "strange coincidence!" cried dewey, with one of his merry laughs. "reminds me of a story i once heard, b'gee. two old farmers got stuck in a snowdrift--five feet deep, and getting deeper. says one of 'em, b'gee, 'it's c-c-c-cold!' 'b'gee!' cried the other. 'b'gee, naow ain't that pecooliar! jes' exactly what i was goin' to say myself, b'gee!'" cadet murray listened to this blithe recital with a frowning brow. "you think that's funny, don't you!" he sneered. "no, b'gee!" laughed dewey, "because i didn't write it. 'nother fellow told me that--the queerest chap i think i ever knew, he was. had a mother-in-law that used to----" "shut up!" cried murray, in anger, seeing that he was being "guyed." "b'gee!" cried dewey, "that's just what she didn't!" there was an ominous silence after that, during which the yearling glared angrily, and indian muttered "bless my soul!" "it's quite evident," began the former, at last, "that you are inclined to be fresh." "ink-lined to be fresh," added dewey, "as the stamped egg remarked when it was dated three days after it was laid. that's another far-fetched joke, though. still i've heard some more far-fetched than that--one a friend of mine read on an egyptian pyramid and brought home to tell for new. queer fellow that friend of mine was, too. he didn't have a mother-in-law, this one, but he slept in a folding bed, and, b'gee, that bed used to shut up oftener than the mother-in-law didn't. handsome bed, too--an inlaid bed--and it shut up whenever it was laid in, b'gee." dewey could have prattled on at this merry rate for an hour, for he knew more jokes--good ones--and could make up more bad ones on the spur of the moment than half a dozen ordinary mortals. but he was brought to a sudden halt just then, and muttered a suppressed "b'gee!" for the yearling, wild with anger, leaped forward and aimed a savage blow at his head. the plebe ducked; he was quick and agile in body as he was in mind. and then as the big cadet aimed another blow, he put up his one well arm--the other was in a sling--and defended himself to the best of his ability, at the same time calling indian to his aid. but before there was time for another move something else happened. dewey was debating whether discretion were not really the whole of valor, and whether it were not better to "run away and live to fight--or run away--some other day;" and indian was actually doubling up his fat little fists about to strike the first blow in his fat little life; when suddenly came a shout behind them, and a moment later a strong hand seized the advancing yearling by the back of his collar and flung him head first to the ground. cadet murray sprang to his feet again and turned purple with rage and soiled with dirt, to confront the stalwart form of mark, and mark rubbing his hands together and smiling cheerfully. "will you have any more?" he inquired, politely. "step right up if you will--and by the way, stop that swearing." "a very timely arrival," remarked dewey, smoothing his jacket. "very timely, b'gee! reminds me----" "bless my soul!" cried indian. "going, are you?" put in mark, as the discomfited murray started to slink away. "well, good-evening. i've had my satisfaction for being called a coward by you." "you shall pay for this," the furious cadet muttered. "pay for it as sure as i'm alive!" his threat was taken lightly by the plebes; they had little idea of what he meant when he spoke. and they were chatting merrily about the adventure as they turned and made their way back to barracks. "it only goes to show," was mark's verdict, "that an alliance is a first-rate idea. i saw that fellow prowling around barracks and i knew right away what he was up to. we've one more enemy, that's all." that was not all, by a good sight. the angry yearling hurried back to camp, nursing his feelings as he went; there he poured out the vials of his wrath into the ears of his two sympathetic companions, bull and the baby. and the three of them spent the rest of that evening, up to tattoo, discussing their revenge, thinking up a thousand pretexts upon which cadet mallory might be "skinned." there was a bombshell scheduled to fall into the midst of the "alliance" the next day. chapter xxii. the bombshell falls. nothing happened that evening; mark and his friends passed their time in serene unconsciousness of any danger, merrily discussing the latest hazing effort of the enemy. bull harris and his crowd did not put in appearance, or try to put their plot into execution, for the simple reason that there was no chance. the first "whack," so to speak, was scheduled for the a. m. inspection the next day. the only inspection at night is made by a "tac"--a practical officer--who goes the rounds with a dark lantern after taps to make sure that no plebes have been run away with. reveille and roll call the next morning passed without incident, except that cadet mallory was reported "late" at the latter function; the charge being true, no suspicions were awakened. after that came the march to mess hall, the plebe company, which was by this time able to march presentably though rather stiffly, falling in behind the rest of the corps. during that march "file closer" vance had occasion to rebuke cadet mallory for loud talking in ranks. it hadn't been loud, at least not very loud, but mark swallowed it and said nothing. breakfast passed without incident, and the plebes were marched back to barracks, there breaking ranks, and scattering to quarters to "spruce up" for inspection. mark and texas, who shared the same room, lost no time in getting to work at the sweeping and dusting and arranging. it seems scarcely necessary to say that there are no chambermaids at west point. cadets do their own room cleaning, "policing," as it is called, and they do it well, too. a simpler, barer place than a room in barracks it would be hard to imagine. bare white walls--no pictures allowed--and no wall paper--a black fireplace, a plain table, an iron bedstead, a washstand, two chairs, and a window is about the entire inventory. and every article in that room must be found placed with mathematical precision in just such a spot and no other. there is a "bluebook"--learned by heart--to tell where; and there are penalties for every infringement. demerits are the easiest things in the world to get; enough might be given at one inspection to expel. the signal, dreaded like poison by all plebes, that the time for inspection has come, is a heavy step in the hall and a single tap upon the door. it came that morning while the two victims-to-be were still hard at work. in accordance with orders each sprang up, stood at attention--heels together, head up, eyes to the front, chest out, etc.--and silently awaited developments. mark gasped for breath when he saw who it was that entered; cadet corporal jasper had been transferred and the man who was to do the work this time was none other than murray, next to bull harris, mark's greatest enemy on earth. cadet murray looked handsome in his spotless uniform of gray and white, with his chevrons of gold; he strode in with a stern and haughty look which speedily changed to one of displeasure as he gazed about him at the room. he took a rapid mental count of the possible charges he could make; and then glanced up at the name which is posted on the wall, telling who is "room orderly" for the week--and so responsible for the faults. it was mallory, and the yearling could scarcely hide a smile of satisfaction. "you plebes have had nearly two weeks now," he began, frowning with well-feigned displeasure, "in which to learn to arrange your rooms. the disorder which i see shows not only carelessness but actual insubordination. and i propose to make an example of you two for once and for all." the two victims were expected to say nothing; and they said it. but mark did a pile of thinking and his heart sank as he realized what his enemy might do if he chose. it is possible to find a thousand faults in the most perfect work if one only hunts long enough and is willing to split hairs. cadet corporal murray took out a notebook and pencil with obvious meaning. "in the first place," said he, "where should that broom be? behind the door, should it not? why is it not? i find that your bedding is piled carelessly, very carelessly. the blanket is not evenly folded; moreover, the bluebook states particularly that the blanket is to be placed at the bottom of the pile. you may see that it is not so. why, mr. mallory, i do not think it has ever happened to me to find a room so utterly disorderly, or a cadet so negligent! look at that bluebook; it belongs upon the mantelpiece, and i see it on the bed----" "i was reading it," put in mark, choking down his anger by a violent effort. and as he spoke the corporal's face grew sterner yet. "in the first place, sir," said he, "you have no business to be reading while awaiting inspection, and you know it--though i must say a more frequent study of that book would save you much trouble. in the second place, you are not expected to answer under such circumstances; the proper thing for you to do is to hand in the explanation to the authorities, and you know that, too. i am sent here to notice and report delinquencies and not to argue about them with you. i regret now that i shall be obliged to mention the fact that you remonstrated with an officer during inspection, a most serious charge indeed." and cadet corporal murray made another note in his book, chuckling inwardly as he did it. "what next?" thought the two plebes. there was lots more. the yearling next stepped over to the mantelpiece and ran his finger, with its spotless white glove, along the inner edge. texas had rubbed that mantel fiercely; yet, to get it so clean as not to soil the glove was almost impossible, and so the corporal first held up the finger to show the mark of dirt and then--wrote down "dust on mantel." there is no need to tell the rest in detail, but simply to say that while mark and his roommate gazed on in blank despair, their jubilant enemy made out a list of at least a dozen charges, which he knew would aggregate to at least half of the demerit maximum, and for every one of which there was some slight basis of justification. the yearling was shrewd enough to suspect this fact would prevent their being excused, for he did not think that mark would sign his name to a lie in his explanation. the disastrous visit was closed with a note--"floor unswept"--because three scraps of paper were observed peering out from under the table; and then without another word the cadet turned on his heel and marched out of the room. and mark and texas stood and stared at each other in utter and abject consternation. it was a minute at least before either of them spoke; they were both too dumfounded. the bombshell had struck, and had brought ruin in its path. mark knew now what was the power of his enemies; knew that he was gone. for with such a weapon as the one the cowardly murray had struck his dismissal was the matter of a week or less. already he was more than halfway to expulsion; already the prize for which he had fought so long and so hard was slipping from his grasp. and all on account of a cowardly crowd he had made his enemies because he had been strong and manly enough to do what he knew was right. it was a cruel fact and mark felt pretty bitter toward west point just then. as for texas, his faithful friend and roommate, texas said not one word; but he went to the chimney, up which he had hidden his sixteen revolvers for safety, calmly selected two of the biggest, and having examined the cartridges, tucked them safely away in his rear pockets. then he sat down on the bed and gave vent to a subdued "durnation!" about this same time cadet corporal murray, having handed in his reports at headquarters, was racing joyfully back to camp, there to join his friend, bull harris, with a shout of victory. "rejoice! rejoice!" he cried, slapping his chum on the back. "we've got him! i soaked him for fifty at least!" chapter xxiii. in the shadow of dismissal. the rest of that day passed without incident. mark managed after a good deal of trouble to postpone texas' hunting trip; and the two struggled on through the day's drills disconsolately, waiting to see what would happen next. evening came, and the plebes being lined up in barracks area the roll was called, the "orders" read, and then the reports of the day. the cadet who did the reading rattled down the list in his usual hurried, breathless style. but when he came to m he paused suddenly; he gazed at the list incredulously, then cleared his throat, took a long foreboding breath and began: "mallory--late at roll call. "same--laughing loud in ranks. "same--bedding improperly arranged at a. m. inspection. "same--broom out of place at a. m. inspection. "same--remonstrating with superior officer at a. m. inspection." and so the cadet officer went on, the whole plebe class listening with open-eyed amazement while one charge after another was rattled off, and gazing out of the corners of their eyes at the object of the attack, who stood and listened with a look of calm indifference upon his face. the list was finished at last, when the listeners had about concluded that it was eternal; the rest of the reports were quickly disposed of, and then: "break ranks, march!" and the line melted into groups of excited and eagerly talking cadets, discussing but one subject--the ruin of mallory. of course it was known to every one that this was simply one more effort of the yearlings to subdue him; and loud were the threats and expressions of disapproval. mark's bravery in making a fight for his honor had won him the admiration of his class, and the class felt that with his downfall came a return of the old state of affairs and the complete subjection of the "beasts" once more. there were jealous ones who rejoiced secretly, and there were timid ones who declared that they had always said that mallory was too b. j. to last. but in the main there was nothing but genuine anger at the upper classmen's "rank injustice," and wild talk of appealing to the superintendent to bring it to a stop. the utter consternation of the seven allies is left to the reader's imagination. after the first shock of horror had passed the crowd had sat down and made a calculation; they found fifty-five demerits due that day, which, together with ten previously given, left thirty-five to go, and then--why it made them sick to think of what would happen! having striven to realize this for half an hour, they got together and swore a solemn oath, first, that if mark were dismissed, a joint statement of the reasons thereof, incidentally mentioning each and every act of hazing done by the yearlings, naming principals, witnesses, time and place, should be forwarded to the superintendent, signed by the six; and second, that every yearling who gave a demerit should be "licked until he couldn't stand up." texas also swore incidentally that he'd resign if mark were "fired," and take him down to texas to make a cowboy of him. and after that there was nothing to do but wait and pray--and clean up for next day's inspection, a task at which the whole seven labored up to the very last minute before tattoo. * * * * * it was the afternoon of the following day; the rays of a scorching july sun beat down upon the post, and west point seemed asleep. up by camp mcpherson the cadets were lounging about in idleness, and it was only down at barracks that there was anything moving at all. inside the area the hot and shimmering pavement echoed to the tread of the plebe company at drill; outside the street was deserted except for one solitary figure with whom our story has to do. the figure was a cadet officer in uniform, captain fischer, of the first class, resplendent in his chevrons and sash. he was marching down the street with the firm, quick step that is second nature to a west pointer; he passed the barracks without looking in and went on down to the hospital building; and there he turned and started to enter. the door opened just as he reached it, however, and another cadet came out. the officer sprang forward instantly and grasped him by the hand. "williams!" he cried. "just the fellow i was coming to see. and what a beautiful object you are!" williams smiled a melancholy smile; he was beautiful and he knew it. his face was covered in spots with greek crosses of court-plaster, and elsewhere by startling red lumps. and he walked with a shy, retiring gait that told of sundry other damages. such were the remains of handsome "billy," all-round athlete and favorite of his class, defeated hero. williams had waited scarcely long enough for this thought to flash over the young officer before he spoke again, this time with some anxiety. "tell me! tell me about mallory! i hear they're skinning him on demerits." "yes, they are," returned fischer, "and they've soaked him twenty more this morning!" "twenty more! then how many has he?" "eighty-five." "what!" cried williams. "you don't mean it! why, he'll be out in a week. say, fischer, that's outrageous!" "perfectly outrageous!" vowed the officer. and williams brought his hand down on his knee with a bang. "by george!" he cried, "i'm going around to see him about it!" with which words he sprang down the stairs and, leaving the cadet officer to gaze at him in surprise, hurried up the street to barracks. squad drill was just that moment over; without wasting any time about it, williams hurried into the building and made his way to mallory's room. he found the plebe, and got right to work to say what he had to say. "mr. mallory," he began, "i've come up in the first place to shake hands with you, and to say there's no hard feeling." "thank you," said mark, and his heart went with the grip of his hand. "you made a good fight, splendid!" continued the yearling. "and some day i'll be proud to be your friend." "i'm afraid," returned mark, with a sad smile, "that i'll not be here that long." "that's the second thing i've come to see you about," vowed williams. "mr. mallory, i want you to understand that the decent men of this class don't approve of the work that mur--er, i suppose you know who's back of it. and i tell you right now that i'm going to stop it if it's the last act i ever do on this earth!" "i'm afraid it won't do much good," responded the other, shaking his head. "i could never pass six months without getting fifteen demerits." "it's a shame!" cried the other. "and you have worked for your appointment, too." "i have worked," exclaimed mark, something choking his voice that sounded suspiciously near a sob, "worked for it as i have never worked for anything in my life. it has been the darling ambition of my heart to come here. and i came--and now--and now----" he stopped, for he could think of no more to say. williams stood and regarded him in silence for some moments, and then he took him by the hand again. "mr. mallory," said he, "just as sure as i'm alive this thing shall stop! keep up heart now, and we'll make a fight for it! while there's life there's hope, they say--and, by heaven, you shan't be expelled!" the following evening, when the reports were read, mark's list of demerits had reached a total of ninety-five. the excitement among plebes and cadets alike was intense, and it was known far and wide that mark mallory, the "b. j." plebe, stood at last "in the shadow of dismissal." chapter xxiv. a letter. "my dear fischer: i promised to drop you a line just to let you know how i'm getting along, though it does take a tremendous pile of energy to write a letter on a hot afternoon like this. i'm sure i shall go to sleep in the middle of it, and naturally, too, for even writing to you is enough to bore anybody. i can almost imagine you leaning over to whack at me in return for that compliment. "well, i am home on furlough; and i don't know whether i wish i were back or not, for i fear that you will have cut me out on all the girls, especially since you are a high and mighty first captain this year. speaking of girls, you just ought to be here. the girls at west point are _blasé_ on cadets, for they see so many; but here a west point officer is cock of the walk, and i have to fight a jealous rival once a week." cadet captain fischer dropped the letter at this stage of it and lay back and laughed. "wicks merritt's evidently forgotten i was on furlough once myself," he said. "he's telling me all about how it goes." "what's he got to say?" inquired williams, the speaker's tentmate, looking up from the gun he was cleaning. "oh, nothing much; only a lot of nonsense--jollying as usual. wicks always is." and then fischer picked up the letter again, and went on. the two were seated near the door of a tent in "company a street," at camp mcpherson. fischer was lying in front of the tent "door," which was open to admit the morning breeze that swept across the parade ground. his friend sat over in an opposite corner and rubbed away. there was silence of some minutes, broken only by the sound of the polishing and the rustling of fischer's paper. and then the latter spoke again. "oh, say!" said he. "here's something that'll interest you, billy. something about your friend mallory." "fire away," said williams. "'by the way, when you answer this let me know something about my pet and _protégé_, future football captain of the west point eleven. the last time i heard from where you are, mark mallory was raising cain. i heard that he was a b. j. plebe for fair; that he'd set to work to make war on the yearlings, and had put them to rout in style; also, incidentally, that he was scheduled to fight billy williams, the yearling's pet athlete. tell billy i hope the plebe does him; tell him i say that if mallory once whacks him on the head with that right arm of his he'll see more stars from the lick than the lick telescope can show----'" "billy" broke in just then with a dismal groan. "i don't know whether that's because of the pun," laughed fischer, "or because of your recollection of the blow. however, i'll proceed. "'now, i don't care how much you fellows haze my mallory; he's tough and he can stand it. he'll probably give you tit for tat every time, anyhow. but i do want to say this--watch out that nobody tries any foul play on him, skins him on demerits or reports him unfairly. do me a favor and keep your eye out for that. watch particularly bull harris, who is, i think, the meanest sneak in the yearling class, and also his chum, gus murray. "'i know it for a fact that mallory caught bull in a very dirty act about a month ago and knocked spots out of him for it. i can't tell you what the act was; but bull has sworn vengeance and he'll probably try to get it, so watch for me. if you let mallory get into trouble, mind what i say, i'll never forgive you as long as you live. i'll cut you out with bessie smith, who, they say, is your fair one at present. mallory is a treasure, and when you know him as well as i you'll think so, too.'" cadet captain fischer dropped the letter, sat up, and stared at williams; and williams stared back. there was disgust on the faces of both. "by george!" cried the latter at last, striking his gunstock in the ground. "by george! we've let 'em do it already!" and after that there was a silence of several unpleasant minutes, during which each was diligently thinking over the situation. "he's a fine fellow, anyway," continued williams. "and we were a pack of fools to let that bull harris gang soak him as we did. they've gone to work and given him ninety-five demerits in a week on trumped-up charges. and it's perfectly outrageous, that's what it is! the plebe's confoundedly fresh, of course, but he's a gentleman for all that, and he don't deserve one-quarter of the demerits he's gotten. the decent fellows in the class ought to be ashamed of themselves." "that's what i say! he only has to get five demerits more and then he's fired for good." "which means," put in the officer, "that's he's sure to be fired by next week." "exactly! and then what will wicks say? i went over to barracks to see mallory about it yesterday; he's nearly heart-broken, for he's worked like a horse to get here, and now he's ruined--practically expelled. yet, what can we do?" "can't he hand in explanations and get the demerits excused?" suggested fischer. "no, because most of the charges had just enough basis of truth in them to make them justifiable. i tell you i was mad when he told me about it; i vowed i'd do something to stop it. yet what on earth can i do? i can't think of a thing except to lick that fellow bull harris and his crowd. but what possible good will that do mallory?" "mallory will probably do that himself," remarked fischer, smiling for a moment; his face became serious again as he continued. "i begin to agree with you, billy, about that thing. i've heard several tales about how mallory outwitted bull in his hazing adventures, and the plebe's probably made him mad. it's a dirty revenge bull has taken, and i think if it's only for wicks' sake i'll put a stop to it." "you!" echoed williams. "pray, how?" "what am i a first captain for?" laughed fischer. "just you watch me and see what i do! i can't take off the ninety-five, but i can see that he don't get the other five, by jingo! and i will do it for you, too!" and with that, the cadet arose and strode out of the tent, leaving his friend to labor at the gun in glum and disconsolate silence. at the same time that williams and fischer were discussing the case of this particularly refractory plebe, there were other cadets doing likewise, but with far different sentiments and views. the cadets were bull harris and his cronies. they were sitting--half a dozen of them--beneath the shade trees of trophy point at the northern end of the parade ground; they were waiting for dinner, and the afternoon, which, being saturday, was a holiday and for which they had planned some particular delicious hazing adventure. foremost among them was bull harris himself, seated upon one of the cannon. beside him was baby edwards. gus murray sat on bull's other side and made up a precious trio. murray was laughing heartily at something just then, and the rest of the crowd seemed to appreciate the joke immensely. "ho! ho!" said he. "just think of it! after i had soaked the confounded plebe for fifty and more, ho! ho! they got suspicious up at headquarters and transferred me, and ho! ho! put m-m-merry vance on instead, and he, ho! ho! soaked him all the harder!" and gus murray slapped his knee and roared at this truly humorous state of affairs. "yes," chimed in merry vance. "yes, i thought when gus told me he'd been transferred again that we'd lost our chance to skin mallory for fair. and the very next night up gets the adjutant and reads off the orders putting me on duty over the plebes. oh, gee! did you ever hear the like?" "never," commented bull, grinning appreciatively. "never," chimed in baby's little voice. "positively never!" "tell us about it," suggested another. "what did you do?" "oh, nothing much," replied vance. "i went up there at the a. m. inspection, and i just made up my mind to give him twenty demerits, and i did it, that's all. they had spruced up out of sight; but it didn't take me very long to find something wrong, i tell you." "i guess not!" agreed baby. "i gave him the twenty, as you saw; and say, you ought to have seen how sick he looked! ho! ho!" and then the crowd indulged in another fit of violent hilarity. "i guess," said bull, when this had finally passed, "that we can about count mallory as out for good. he's only got five more demerits to run before dismissal, and he'll be sure to get those in time, even if we don't give 'em to him--which, by the way, i mean to do anyhow. but we'll just parcel 'em one at a time just enough to keep him worried, hey?" "that's it exactly!" commented the baby. "he deserves it every bit!" growled bull. "he's the b. j.est 'beast' that ever struck west point. why, we could never have a moment's peace with that fellow around. we couldn't haze anybody. he stopped us half a dozen times." the sentiment was the sentiment of the whole gang; and they felt that they had cause to be happy indeed. their worst enemy had been disposed of and a man might breathe freely once more. the crowd could think of nothing to talk about that whole morning but that b. j. "beast" and his ruin. they found something, however, before many more minutes passed. bull chanced to glance over his shoulder in the direction of the camp. "hello!" he said. "here comes fischer." "good-afternoon, mr. fischer," said bull. "good-afternoon," responded the officer, with obvious stiffness; and then there was an awkward silence, during which he surveyed them in silence. "mr. harris," he said, at last, "i'd like to speak to you for a moment; and mr. murray, and you, too, mr. vance." the three stepped out of the group with alacrity, and followed fischer over to a seat nearby, while the rest of the gang stood and stared in surprise, speculating as to what this could possibly mean. the three with the officer were finding out in a hurry. "i am told," began the latter, gazing at them, with majestic sternness, "that you three are engaged in skinning a certain plebe----" "why, mr. fischer!" cried the three, in obvious surprise. "don't interrupt me!" thundered the captain in a voice that made them quake, and that reached the others and made them quake, too. "don't interrupt me! i know what i am talking about. i was a yearling once myself, and i'm a cadet still, and there's not the least use trying to pull the wool over my eyes. i know there never yet was a plebe who got fifty demerits in one day and deserved them." the captain did not fail to notice here that the trio flushed and looked uncomfortable. "you all know, i believe," he continued, "just exactly what i think of you. i've never hesitated to say it. now, i want you to understand in the first place that i know of this contemptible trick, and that also i know the plebe, who's worth more than a dozen of you; and that if he gets a demerit from any one of you again i'll make you pay for it as sure as i'm alive. just remember it, that's all!" and with this, the indignant captain turned upon his heel, and strode off, leaving the yearlings as if a bombshell had landed in their midst. "fischer's a confounded fool!" bull harris broke out at last. "just what he is!" cried the baby. "i'd like to knock him over." and after that there was silence again, broken only by the roll of a drum that meant dinner. "well," was bull's final word, as the crowd set out for camp, "it's unfortunate, i must say. but it won't make the least bit of difference. mallory'll get his demerits sure as he's alive, and fischer's interference won't matter in the least." "that's what!" cried the rest of them. chapter xxv. a swimming match. the manner in which the cadets dine has not as yet been described in these pages; perhaps here is just as good a place as any to picture the historic mess hall where lee and grant and sherman once dined, and toward which on that saturday afternoon were marching not only the group we have just left, but also the object of all their dislike, the b. j. plebe who fell in behind the cadets as the battalion swung past barracks. the cadets march to mess hall; they march to every place they go as a company. the building itself is just south of the "academic" and barracks; it is built of gray stone, and forcibly reminds the candid observer of a jail. they tell stories at west point of credulous candidates who have "swallowed" that, and believed that the cadet battalion was composed of disobedient cadets, about to be locked up in confinement. there is a flight of iron steps in the center, and at the foot of these steps, three times every day, the battalion breaks ranks and dissolves into a mob of actively bounding figures. upon entering, the cadets do not take seats, but stand behind their chairs, and await the order, "company a, take seats!" "company b, take seats!" and so on. the plebes, who, up to this time, are still a separate company, come last, as usual; they are seated by themselves, at one side of the dining-room. the tables seat twenty-two persons, ten on a side, and one at each end. the cadets are placed according to rank, and they always sit in the same seats. the tables are divided down the center by an imaginary line, each part being a "table"; first class men sit near the head, and so on down to the plebes, who find themselves at the center (that is, after they have moved into camp, and been "sized" and assigned to companies; before that they are "beasts," herded apart, as has been said). the dinner is upon the table when the cadets enter; the corporals are charged with the duty of carving, and the luckless plebe is expected to help everybody to water upon demand, and eats nothing until that duty has been attended to. after the meal, for which half an hour is allowed, the command, "company a, rise!" and so on, is the signal to leave the table and fall into line again on the street outside. this, however, does not take place until a lynx-eyed "tac" has gone the rounds, making notes--"so-and-so, too much butter on plate." "somebody else, napkin not properly folded," and so on. this ceremony over, the battalion marches back to camp, a good half mile, in the broiling sun or pouring rain, as the case may be. that saturday afternoon being a hot one, and a holiday, our friends of the last chapter, bull harris and his gang, sought out an occupation in which fully half the cadets at the post chanced to agree; they went in swimming, a diversion which the superintendent sees fit to allow. "gee's point," on the hudson, is within the government property, and thither the cadets gather whenever the weather is suitable. that particular party included bull and baby (who didn't swim, but liked to watch bull), gus murray, vance and the rest of their retainers. and, on the way, they passed the time by discussing their one favorite topic, their recent triumph over "that b. j. beast." there was a new phase of the question they had to speculate upon now, and that was what the "beast" could possibly have done to move to such unholy wrath so important a personage as the senior captain of the battalion. also, they were interested in trying to think up a method by which those extra demerits might be speedily given without incurring the wrath of that officer. though each one of the yearlings was ready, even anxious, to explain that he wasn't the least bit afraid of him. "i tell you," declared bull, "he couldn't prove anything against us if he tried. it's all one great bluff of fischer's, and he's a fool to act as he did." "i'd a good mind to tell him as much!" assented baby. "it won't make any difference," put in murray, "we'll soak the plebe, anyhow. we can easily give him five demerits in short order, and without attracting any attention, either." "he's out, just as sure as he's alive!" laughed bull. "we wouldn't need to do a thing more." "exactly!" cried the echo. "not a thing!" "all the same," continued the other, "i wish we could get up a scheme to get him in disgrace, so as to clinch it. i wish we could----" just here bull was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from murray. murray had brought his hand against his knee with a whack, and there was a look of inspiration upon his face. "great cæsar!" he cried, "i've got it!" "got it! what?" "a scheme! a scheme to do him!" "what is it?" "write him a letter, or something--get him to leave barracks at night--have a sentry catch him beyond limits, or else we'll report him absent! oh, say!" the crowd were staring at each other in amazement, a look of delight spreading over their faces, as the full possibilities of this same inspiration dawned upon them. "by the lord!" cried bull, at last. "court-martial him! that's the ticket!" "shake on it!" responded murray. in half a minute the gang had sworn to put that plan into execution within the space of twenty-four hours. and after that they hurried on down to the point to go in swimming. "speak of angels," remarked murray, "and they flap their wings. there's the confounded plebe now." "of angels!" sneered vance. "of devils, you mean." "by george!" muttered bull. "you can't phaze that fellow. i thought he'd be up in barracks, moping, to-day!" "probably wants to put up a bluff as if he don't care," was the clever suggestion of the baby. "i bet he's sore as anything!" "i told him i'd make him the sickest plebe in the place," growled bull, "and i'll bet he is, too." the yearling would have won his bet; there was probably no sadder man in west point than mark mallory just then, even though he did not choose to let his enemies know it. "look at him dive!" sneered baby, watching him with a malignant frown. "he wants to show off." "pretty good dive," commented a bystander, who was somewhat more disinterested. "good, your grandmother!" cried the other. "why, i could beat that myself if i knew how to swim!" and then he wondered why the crowd laughed. "come on, let's go in ourselves," put in bull, anxious to end his small friend's discomfort. "hurry up, there!" the crowd had turned away, to follow their leader in his suggestion; they were by no means anxious to swell the number of those who had gathered for the obvious purpose of watching mark mallory's feats as a swimmer. in fact, they couldn't see why anybody should want to watch a b. j. beast, and a "beast" who had only a day or two more to stay, at that. just then, however, a cry from the crowd attracted their attention, and made them turn hastily again. "a race! a race!" and bull harris cried out with vexation, as he wheeled and took in the situation. "by the lord!" he cried. "did you ever hear of such a b. j. trick in your life? the confounded plebe is going to race with fischer!" chapter xxvi. the finish of a race. so it was; certain of the cadets, being piqued at the evident superiority which that b. j. mallory (his usual title by this time) had displayed in the water, had requested their captain to take him down. the "captain" had good-naturedly declared that he was willing to try; and the shout that attracted bull's attention was caused by the plebe's ready assent to the proposition for an impromptu race. "fischer ought to be ashamed of himself, to have anything to do with him!" was bull harris' angry verdict. "i almost hope the plebe beats him." "i don't!" vowed murray, emphatically. "let's hurry up, and see it." the latter speaker suited the action to the word; bull followed, growling surlily. "look at that gang of plebes!" he muttered. "they're the ones who helped mallory take away the fellow we were hazing; they think they're right in it, now." "yes," chimed in baby. "and see that fellow, texas, making a fool of himself." "that fellow texas" was "making a fool of himself" by dancing about in wild excitement, and raising a series of cowboy whoops in behalf of his friend, and of plebes in general. "there they are, ready to go!" cried murray, betraying some excitement. "i wish the confounded plebe'd never come up again!" growled bull, in return, striving hard to appear indifferent. "i bet fischer'll do him!" exclaimed the baby. "he swims like a fish. say, they're going to race to that tree way down the river. golly, but that's a long swim!" "long nothing!" sneered vance. "i could swim that a dozen times. but, say, they'll finish in the rain; look at that thunderstorm coming!" in response to this last remark, the crowd cast their eyes in the direction indicated. they found that the prediction seemed likely to be fulfilled. to the north, up the hudson, dense, black clouds already obscured the sky, and a strong, fresh breeze, that smelled of rain, was springing up from thence, and making the swimmers shiver apprehensively. the preparation for the race went on, however; nobody cared for the storm. "gee whiz!" cried the baby, in excitement. "won't it be exciting! i don't mind the rain. i'm going to run down along the shore, and watch it! hooray!" "rats!" growled bull, angrily. "i don't care about any old race. i'm going to keep dry, let me tell you!" even the damper of his idol's displeasure could not change master edwards' mind, however; he and nearly the whole crowd with him made a dash down the shore for a vantage point to see the finish. "there! they're off!" the cry came a moment later, as the two lightly-clad figures stepped to the mark from which they were to start. they were about of one size, magnificently proportioned, both of them, and the race bid fair to be a close one. "ready?" called the starter, in a voice that rang down the shore. "yes," responded mark, and at the same moment a heavy cloud swept under the sun, and the air grew dark and chilly. the wind increased to a gale, blowing the spray before it; and then---- "go!" called the starter. the two dived as one figure; both took the water clean and low, with no perceptible splash; two heads appeared a moment later, forging ahead side by side; a cheer from the cadets arose, that drowned, for a moment, the roars of the storm; and the race was on. it is remarkable how closely nature follows a rule in her most perfect work; here were two figures, built by her a thousand miles apart, racing there, and each striving with might and main, yet the sum total of the energy that each was able to expend so nearly alike that yard by yard they struggled on, without an inch of difference between them. "fischer! fischer!" rose the shouts of the cadets. "mallory! mallory!" roared the excited plebes, backed up by an occasional "wow!" in the stentorian tones of the mighty texan, who, by this time, was on the verge of epilepsy. onward went the two heads, still side by side, seeming to creep through the water at a snail's pace to the excited partisans on the shore. but it was no snail's pace to the two in the water; each was struggling in grim earnestness, putting into every stroke all the power that was in him. neither looked at the other; but each could tell, from the cries of the cadets, that his opponent was pressing him closely. nearer and nearer they came to the far distant goal; higher and higher rose the shouts: "fischer! fischer!" "mallory! mallory!" "he's got him!" "no." "hooray!" "gee! but it is exciting," screamed baby. "go it, fischer! do him!" "and i wish that confounded 'beast' was in hades!" snarled bull, whose hatred of mark was deeper, and more malignant than that of his friend. "i believe i could kill him!" during all this excitement the storm had been sweeping rapidly up, its majesty unnoticed in the excitement of the race. far up the hudson could be seen a driving cloud of rain; and the wind had risen to a hurricane, while the air grew dark and chill. the race was at its most exciting stage--the finish, and the cadets were dancing about, half in a frenzy, yelling incoherently, at the two still struggling lads, when some one, nobody knew just who, chanced to glance for one brief instant up the river. a moment later a cry was heard that brought the race to a startling and unexpected close. "look! look! the sailboat!" the cry sounded even above the roar of the storm and the shouts of the crowd. the cadets turned in alarm and gazed up the river. what they saw made them forget that such a thing as a race ever existed. right in the teeth of the wind, in the center of the river, was a small catboat, driven downstream, before the gale, with the speed of a locomotive. in the boat was one person, and the person was a girl. she sat in the stern, waving her hands in helpless terror, and even as the spectators stared, the boat gibed with terrific violence, and a volume of water poured in over the gunwale. the crowd was thrown into confusion; a babel of excited voices arose, and the race was forgotten in an instant. the racers were not slow to notice it; both of them turned to gaze behind them, and to take in the situation. "help! help!" called a faint voice from the distant sailboat. help! who was there to help? there was not a boat in sight; the cadets were running up and down in confusion, hunting for one in vain. they were like a nest of frightened ants, without a leader, skurrying this way and that, and only contributing to the general alarm. the girl herself could do nothing, and so it seemed as if help were far away, indeed. there was one person in the crowd, however, who kept his head in the midst of all that confusion. and the person was mark. exhausted though he was by his desperate swim, he did not hesitate an instant. before the amazed cadet captain at his side could half comprehend his intention, he turned quickly in the water, and, with one powerful stroke, shot away toward the center of the stream. the cadets on the shore scarcely knew whether to cry out in horror, or to cheer the act they saw. they caught one more glimpse of the catboat as it raced ahead before the gale; they saw the gallant plebe struggling in the water. and then the storm struck them in its fury. a blinding sheet of driving rain, that darkened the air and drove against the river, and rose again in clouds of spray; a gale that lashed the water into fury; and darkness that shut out the river, and the boat, and the swimmer, and left nothing but a humbled group of shivering cadets. chapter xxvii. what mark did. the surprise of the helpless watchers on the shore precludes description. they knew that out upon that seething river a tragedy was being enacted; but the driving rain made a wall about them--they could not aid, they could not even see. they stood about in groups, and whispered, and listened, and strained their eyes to pierce the mist. mark's friends were wild with alarm; and his enemies--who can describe their feelings? a man has said that it is a terrible thing to die with a wrong upon one's soul; but that it is agony to see another die whom you have wronged, to know that your act can never be atoned for now. that there is one unpardonable sin to your account on the records of eternity. that was how the yearlings felt; and even bull harris, ruffian though he was, trembled slightly about the lips. the storm itself was one of those which come but seldom. nature's mighty forces flung loose in one giant cataclysm. it came from the north, and it had a full sweep down the valley of the hudson, pent in and focused to one point by the mountains on each side. it tore the trees from the tops as it came; it struck the river with a swish, and beat the water into foam. it flung the raindrops in gusts against it, and caught them up in spray and whirled them on; and this, to the echoing crashes of the thunder and the dull, lurid gleam of the lightning that played in the rear. one is silent at such times at that; the frightened cadets on the shore would probably have stood in groups and trembled, and done nothing through it all, had it not been for a cry that aroused them. some one, sharper eyed than the rest, espied a figure struggling in the water near the shore. there was a rush for the spot, and strong arms drew the swimmer in. it was captain fischer, breathless and exhausted from the race. he lay on the bank, panting for breath for a minute, and then raised himself upon his arms. "where's mallory?" he cried, his voice sounding faint and distant in the roar of the storm. "out there," responded somebody, pointing. "w-why don't somebody go help him?" gasped the other. "he'll drown!" "don't know where to go to," answered the first speaker, shaking his head. fischer sank back, too exhausted, himself, to move. "he'll drown! he'll drown!" he muttered. "he is tired to death from the race." and after that there was another anxious wait, every one hesitating, wondering if there were any use venturing into the tossing water. the storm was one that came in gusts; its first minute's fury past, there was a brief let up in its violence, and the darkness that the black clouds had brought with them yielded to the daylight for a while. during that time those on the shore got one brief glimpse of a startling panorama. the boat was sighted first, still skimming along before the gale, but obviously laboring with the water she had shipped. the frightened occupant was still in the stern, clinging to the gunwale with terror. there was a shout raised when the boat was noticed, and all eyes were bent upon it anxiously. then some one, chancing a glance down the river below, caught a glimpse of a moving head. "there's mallory!" he cried. "hooray!" there was mallory, and mallory was swimming desperately, as the crowd could dimly see. for the boat he was aiming at was just a little farther out in the stream than he, and bearing swiftly down upon him. whatever happened must happen with startling rapidity, and the crowd knew it, and forebore to shout--almost to breathe. the boat plunged on; the swimmer fairly leaped through the waves. nearer it came, nearer--up to him--past him! no! for, as it seemed, the bow must cleave his body, the body was seen to leap forward with it. he had caught the boat! and a wild cheer burst from the spectators. "he's safe! he's safe!" but the cheer, as it died out, seemed to catch in their throats, and to change into a gasp of suspense, and then of horror. mallory had clung to the bow for a moment, as if too exhausted to move. his body, half submerged, had cut a white furrow in the water, drawn on by the plunging boat. then the girl, in an evil moment, released her hold and sprang forward to help him. she caught his arm, and he flung himself upon the boat. and then came the crash. leaning to one side, with the sudden weight, the boat half turned, and then gibed with terrific violence. the great boom swung around like a giant club, driven by the pressure of the wind upon the vast surface of the sail. the watchers gave a half-suppressed gasp, mallory was seen to put out his arm, and the next instant the blow was struck. it hit the girl with a crash that those on shore thought they heard; it flung her far out into the water, and almost at the same instant mallory was seen to leap out in a low, quick dive. then, as if the scene was over, and the book shut, the rain burst out again in its fury, and the darkness of the raging storm shut it all out. this time there could be no mistaking duty; the cadets knew now where the struggling pair were, and they had no reason to hesitate. first to move was one of a group of six anxious plebes, who had been waiting in agony; it was texas, and the spectators saw him plunge into the water and vanish in the driving rain. then more of that crowd followed him; fischer, too, sprang up, exhausted though he was, and in the end there were at least a dozen sturdy lads swimming with all their might toward the spot where mallory had been seen to leap. they were destined, however, to do but little good; so we shall stay by those upon the shore. the weakening of bull harris' followers has been mentioned; it increased as the plebe's self-sacrificing daring was shown. "he certainly is spunky," one of the crowd ventured to mutter, as he shivered and watched. "i hope he gets ashore." and bull turned upon him with a savage oath. "you fool!" he cried. "you confounded fool! if he does, i could kill him! kill him! do you hear me?" there are some natures like that. have you read the tale of macauley's?-- "how brave horatius held the bridge in the good old days of yore." there was just such a hero then battling with the waves as now-- "curse him!" cried false sextus. "will not the villain drown?" and on the other hand-- "heaven help him," quoth spurius laritus, "and bring him safe to shore! for such a gallant feat of arms has ne'er been seen before." there were few of bull's crowd as hardened in their hatred as was he; murray was one, and the sallow vance another. baby edwards followed suit, of course. but, as for the rest of them, they were thinking. "i don't care!" vowed one. "i'm sorry we've got him fired." "do you mean," demanded bull, in amazement, "that you're not going to keep the promise you made a while ago?" "that's what i do!" declared the other, sturdily. "i think he deserves to stay!" and bull turned away in alarm and disgust. "fools!" he muttered to himself. "fools!" and gritted his teeth in rage. "i hope he's never seen again." it seemed as if that might happen; the cadets during all this time had been standing out in the driving rain, striving to pierce the darkness of the storm. from the river came an occasional shout from some one of the rescue party; but no word from the plebe or the girl. once the watchers caught sight of a figure swimming in; it proved to be fischer once more. the cadets had rushed toward him with sudden hope, but he shook his head, sadly. "couldn't--couldn't find him," he panted, shaking the water from his hair and shielding his face from the driving rain. "i was too tired to stay long." the storm swept by in a very short while. violence such as that cannot last long in anything. while the anxious cadets raced up and down the shore, each striving to catch a glimpse of mallory, the dark clouds sailed past and the rain settled into an ordinary drizzle. the surface of the white-capped river became visible then, and gradually the heads of the swimmers came into view. "there's billy williams!" was the cry. "and that's texas, way over there. here's parson stanard! and jones!" and so on it went, but no mallory. those on the shore could not see him and those in the river had no better luck. most of them had begun to give up in despair, when the long-expected cry did come. for mark was not dead by a long shot. a shout came from a solitary straggler far down the stream, and the straggler was seen to plunge into the water. those on the shore made a wild dash for the spot and those in the water struck out for the shore so as to join them. and louder at last swelled the glad cry. "here he is! hooray!" the plebe was about a hundred yards from the shore, and swimming weakly; the girl, still unconscious, was floating upon her back--and her rescuer, holding her by the arms--was slowly towing her toward the shore. a dozen swam out to aid him as soon as he was seen; strong arms lifted the girl and bore her high upon the bank, others supporting the half-fainting plebe to a seat. "is she dead?" was mark's first thought, as soon as he could speak at all. "i don't know," said fischer, chafing the girl's hands and watching for the least sign of life. "somebody hustle up for the doctor there! quick!" several of the cadets set out for the hospital at a run; and the rest gathered about the two and offered what help they could. "it's judge fuller's daughter," said fischer, who was busily dosing the unconscious figure with a flask of reddish liquid surreptitiously produced by one of the cadets. "do you know her?" inquired mark, in surprise. "know her!" echoed half the bystanders at once. "why, she lives just across the river!" "that's an ugly looking wound on the head there," continued fischer, bending over the prostrate form. "gosh! but that boom must have struck her. and here, mallory," he added, "you'd best take a taste of this brandy. you look about dead yourself." "no, i thank you," responded mark, smiling weakly. "i'm all right. only i'm glad it's all over and----" mark got no farther; as if to mock his words came a cry that made the crowd whirl about and look toward the river in alarm. "help! help!" "by george!" cried fischer, "it's one of the fellows!" "it's alan!" shouted mark. "alan dewey!" and before any one could divine his intention he sprang up and made a dash for the river. for mark knew how dewey had come there; he had swum out, cripple though he was, to hunt for him; and with his one well arm, poor gallant dewey was finding trouble in getting back. mark had been quick, but fischer was a bit too quick for him and seized him by the arm. "come back here!" he commanded, sternly. "and don't be a fool. you're near dead. some of you fellows swim out and tow that plebe in." half a dozen had started without being asked; and mark's overzealous friend was grabbed by the hair and arms and feet and rushed in in great style. he came up smiling as usual. "got out too far, b'gee!" he began. "very foolish of me! reminds me of a story i once heard---- oh, say!" this last explanation came as the speaker caught sight of the figure of the young girl; and his face lost its smile on the instant. "she's alive, isn't she?" he cried. "don't know," said fischer. "here comes the doctor now." "well, she certainly is a beautiful girl!" responded dewey, shaking his head. "b'gee, we don't want that kind to die!" the doctor was coming on a run; and a minute later he was kneeling beside the young girl's body. "jove!" he muttered. "almost a fractured skull! no, she's alive! see here, who got her out?" "mr. mallory," responded the captain, turning toward where mark had sat. and then he gave vent to a startled exclamation. "good heavens! he's fainted! what's the matter?" "fainted?" echoed the surgeon, as he noticed the young man's white lips and bloodless cheek. "fainted! i should say so! why, he's almost as near dead as she! we must take him to the hospital." chapter xxviii. mark meets the superintendent. "yes, colonel, the lad is a hero, and i want to tell him so, too!" the speaker was a tall, gray-haired gentleman, and he whacked his cane on the floor for emphasis as he spoke. "it was a splendid act, sir, splendid!" he continued. "and i want to thank mark mallory for it right here in your office." the man he addressed wore the uniform of the united states army; he was colonel harvey, the superintendent of the west point academy. "i shall be most happy to have you do so," he replied, smiling at this visitor's enthusiasm. "you have certainly," he added, "much to thank the young man for." "much!" echoed the other. "much! why, my dear sir, if that daughter of mine had been drowned i believe it would have killed me. she is my only child, and, if i do say it myself, sir, the sweetest girl that ever lived." "wasn't it rather reckless, judge," inquired the other, "for you to allow her to go sailing alone?" "she is used to the boat," responded judge fuller, "but no one on earth could have handled it in such a gale. i do not remember to have seen such a one in all the time i have lived up here." "nor i, either," said the superintendent. "it was so dark that i could scarcely see across the parade ground. it is almost miraculous that mallory should have succeeded in finding the boat as he did." "tell me about it," put in the other. "i have not been able to get a consistent account yet." "cadet captain fischer told me," responded the colonel. "it seems that he and mallory were just at the finish of a swimming race when the storm broke. they caught sight of the boat with your daughter in it coming down stream. the plebe turned, exhausted though he was, and headed for it. it got so dark then that those on shore could scarcely see; but the lad managed to catch the boat as it passed and climbed aboard. just then the boom swung round and flung the girl into the water. mallory dived again at once----" "splendid!" interrupted the other. "and swam ashore with her." "and then fainted, they say," the judge added. "yes," said colonel harvey. "dr. grimes told me that it was one of the worst cases of exhaustion he had ever seen. but the lad is doing well now; he appears to be a very vigorous youngster--and i've an idea several of the yearlings found that out to their discomfort. the doctor told me that he thought he would be out this morning; the accident was only two days ago." "that is fortunate," responded the other. "the boy is too good to lose." "he appears to be a remarkable lad generally," continued the superintendent. "i have heard several tales about him. some of the stories came to me 'unofficially,' as we call it, and i don't believe mallory would rest easily if he thought i knew of them. young fischer, who's a splendid man himself, i'll tell you, informed me yesterday that the plebe had earned his admission fee by bringing help to a wrecked train and telegraphing the account to a new york paper." "i heard he had been in some trouble about demerits," put in judge fuller. "in very serious trouble. i had to take a very radical step to get him out of it. every once in a while i find that some new cadet is being 'skinned,' as the cadets call it, demerited unfairly. i always punish severely when i find that out. in this case, though, i had no proof; mallory would say nothing, though he was within five demerits of expulsion. so i decided to end the whole matter by declaring a new rule i've been contemplating for some time. i've found that new cadets get too many demerits during the first few weeks, before they learn the rules thoroughly. so i've decided that in future no demerits shall be given for the first three weeks, and that delinquencies shall be punished by extra hours and other penalties. that let mallory out of his trouble, you see." "a very clever scheme!" laughed the other. "very clever!" it may be of interest to notice that colonel harvey's rule has been in effect ever since. there was silence of a few moments after that, during which judge fuller tapped the floor with his cane reflectively. "you promised to let me see this mallory," he said, suddenly. "i'm ready now." by way of answer, the superintendent rang a bell upon his desk. "go over to the hospital," he said to the orderly who appeared in the doorway, "and find out if cadet mallory is able to be about. if he is, bring him here at once." the boy disappeared and the colonel turned to his visitor and smiled. "is that satisfactory?" he inquired. "very!" responded the other. "and i only wish that you could send for my daughter to come over, too. i hope those surgeons are taking care of her." "as much as if she were their own," answered the colonel. "i cannot tell you how glad i was to learn that she is beyond danger." "it is god's mercy," said the other, with feeling. "she could not have had a much narrower escape." and after that neither said anything until a knock at the door signaled the arrival of the orderly. "come in," called the superintendent, and two figures stepped into the room. one was the messenger, and the other was mark. "this," said the superintendent after a moment's pause, "is cadet mallory." and cadet mallory it was. the same old mark, only paler and more weak just then. judge fuller rose and bowed gravely. "sit down," said he, "you are not strong enough to stand." and after that no one said anything for fully a minute; the last speaker resumed his seat and fell to studying mark's face in silence. and mark waited respectfully for him to begin. "my name," said he at last, "is fuller." "judge fuller?" inquired mark. "yes. and grace fuller is my daughter." after that there was silence again, broken suddenly by the excitable old gentleman dropping his cane, springing up from his chair, and striding over toward the lad. "i want to shake hands with you, sir! i want to shake hands with you!" he cried. mark was somewhat taken aback; but he arose and did as he was asked. "and now," said the judge, "i guess that's all--sit down, sir, sit down; you've little strength left, i can see. i want to thank you, sir, for being the finest lad i've met for a long time. and when my daughter gets well--which she will, thank the lord--i'll be very glad to have you call on us, or else to let us call on you--seeing that we live beyond cadet limits. and if ever you get into trouble, here or anywhere, just come and see me about it, and i'll be much obliged to you. and that's all." having said which, the old gentleman stalked across the room once more, picked up his hat and cane, and made for the door. "good-day, sir," he said. "i'm going around now to see my daughter. good-day, and god bless you." after which the door was shut. it was several minutes after that before colonel harvey said anything. "you have made a powerful friend, my boy," he remarked, smiling at the recollection of the old gentleman's strange speech. "and you have brought honor upon the academy. i am proud of you--proud to have you here." "thank you, sir," said mark, simply. "all i have to say besides that," added the officer, "is to watch out that you stay. don't get any more demerits." "i'll try not, sir." "do. and i guess you had best go and join your company now if the doctor thinks you're able. something is happening to-day which always interests new cadets. i bid you good-morning, mr. mallory." and mark went out of that office and crossed the street to barracks feeling as if he were walking on air. chapter xxix. the seven in session. it is fun indeed to be a hero, to know that every one you pass is gazing at you with admiration. or if one cannot do anything heroic, let him even do something that will bring him notoriety, and then-- "as he walks along the boulevard, with an independent air." he may be able to appreciate the afore-mentioned sensation. there was no boulevard at west point, but the area in barracks served the purpose, and mark could not help noticing that as he went the yearlings were gazing enviously at him, and the plebes with undisguised admiration. he hurried upstairs to avoid that, and found that he had leaped, as the phrase has it, from the frying pan to the fire. for there were the other six of the "seven devils" ready to welcome him with a rush. "wow!" cried texas. "back again! whoop!" "bless my soul, but i'm glad!" piped in the little round bubbly voice of "indian." "bless my soul!" "sit down. sit down," cried "parson" stanard, reverently offering his beloved volume of "dana's geology" for a cushion. "sit down and let us look at you." "yes, b'gee!" chimed in alan dewey. "yes, b'gee, let's look at you. reminds me of a story i once heard, b'gee--pshaw, what's the use of trying to tell a good story with everybody trying to shout at once." the excitement subsided after some five minutes more, and mark was glad of it. with the true modesty natural to all high minds he felt that he would a great deal rather rescue a girl than be praised and made generally uncomfortable for it. so he shut his followers up as quickly as he could, which was not very quickly, for they had lots to say. "how is the girl?" inquired dewey, perceiving at last that mark really meant what he said, and so, hastening to turn the conversation. "she's doing very well now," said mark. "always your luck!" growled texas. "she's beautiful, and her father's a judge and got lots of money. bet he runs off and marries her in a week. oh, say, mark, but you're lucky! you just ought to hear the plebes talk about you. i can't tell you how proud i am, man! why----" "right back at it again!" interrupted mark, laughing. "right back again! didn't i tell you to drop it? i know what i'll do----" here mark arose from his seat. "i hereby declare this a business meeting of the seven devils, and as chairman i call the meeting to order." "what for?" cried the crowd. "to consider plans for hazing," answered mark. "i----" "wow!" roared texas, wildly excited in an instant. "goin' to haze somebody? whoop!" and mark laughed silently to himself. "i knew i'd make you drop that rescue business," he said. "and mr. powers, you will have the goodness to come to order and not to address the meeting until you are granted the floor. it is my purpose, if you will allow me to say a few words to the society--ahem!" mark said this with stern and pompous dignity and texas subsided so suddenly that the rest could scarcely keep from laughing. "but, seriously now, fellows," he said, after a moment's silence. "let's leave all the past behind and consider what's before us. i really have something to say." having been thus enjoined, the meeting did come to order. the members settled themselves comfortably about the room as if expecting a long oration, and mark continued, after a moment's thought. "we really ought to make up our mind beforehand as to just exactly what we're going to do. i suppose you all know what's going to happen to-day." "no!" cried the impulsive texas. "i don't. what is it, anyhow?" "we're to move to camp this afternoon," responded mark. "i know; but what's that got to do with it?" "lots. several of the cadets have told me that there's always more hazing done on that one day than on all the rest put together. you see, we leave barracks and go up to live with the whole corps at the summer camp. and that night the yearlings always raise cain with the plebes." "bully, b'gee!" chimed in dewey, no less pleased with the prospect. "so to-night is the decisive night," continued mark. "and i leave it for the majority to decide just what we'll do about it. what do you say?" mark relapsed into silence, and there was a moment's pause, ended by the grave and classic parson slowly rising to his feet. the parson first laid his inevitable "dana" upon the floor, then glanced about him with a pompous air and folded his long, bony arms. "ahem!" he said, and then began: "gentlemen! i rise--ahem!--to put the case to you as i see it; i rise to emulate the example of the immortal patrick henry--to declare for liberty or death! yea, by zeus, or death!" "bully, b'gee!" chimed in dewey, slapping his knee in approval and winking merrily at the crowd from behind the parson's back. "gentlemen!" continued the parson. "once before we met in this same room and we did then make known our declaration of independence to the world. but there is one thing we have not yet done, and that we must do! yea, by zeus! i am a bostonian--i may have told you that before--and i am proud of the deeds of my forefathers. they fought at bunker hill; and, gentlemen, we have that yet to do." "betcher life, b'gee!" cried dewey, as the parson gravely took his seat. then the former arose and continued the discussion. "not much of a hand for making a speech," he said, "as the deaf-mute remarked when he lost three fingers; but i've got something to say, and, b'gee, i'm going to say it. to-night is the critical night, and if we are meek and mild now, we'll be it for the whole summer. and i say we don't, b'gee, and that's all!" with which brief, but pointed and characteristic summary of the situation, alan sat down and texas clapped his heels together and gave vent to a "wow!" of approval. "anybody else got anything to say?" inquired mark. "yes, bah jove! i have, don't ye know." this came from mr. chauncey van rensallear mount-bonsall. chauncey wore a high collar and a london accent; he was by this time playfully known as "the man with a tutor and a hyphen," both of which luxuries it had been found he possessed. but chauncey was no fool for all his mannerisms. "aw--yes," said he, "i have something to say, ye know. those deuced yearlings will haze us more than any other plebes in the place. beastly word, that, by the way. i hate to be called a plebe, ye know. there is blue blood in our family, bah jove, and i'll guarantee there isn't one yearling in the place can show better. why, my grandfather----" "i call the gentleman to order," laughed mark. "hazing's the business on hand. hazing, and not hancestors." "i know," expostulated chauncey, "but i hate to be called a plebe, ye know. as i was going to say, however, they'll haze us most. mark has--aw--fooled them a dozen times, bah jove! texas chastised four of them. parson, i'm told, chased half a dozen once. my friend indian here got so deuced mad the other day that he nearly killed one, don't ye know. dewey's worse, and as for me and my friend sleepy here--aw--bah jove!----" "you did better than all of us!" put in mark. chauncey paused a moment to make a remark about "those deuced drills, ye know, which kept a fellah from ever having a clean collah, bah jove!" and then he continued. "i just wanted to say, ye know, that we were selected for the hazing to-night, and that we might as well do something desperate at once, bah jove! that's what i think, and so does my friend sleepy. don't you, sleepy?" "i ain't a-thinkin' abaout it 't all," came a voice from the bed where methusalem zebediah chilvers, the farmer, lay stretched out. "sleepy's too tired," laughed mark. "it seems to be the unanimous opinion of the crowd," he continued, after a moment's pause, "that we might just as well be bold. in other words, that we have no hazing." "b'gee!" cried dewey, springing to his feet, excitedly. "b'gee, i didn't say that! no, sir!" "what did you say, then?" inquired mark. "i said that we shouldn't let them haze us, b'gee, and i meant it, too. i never said no hazing! bet cher life, b'gee! i was just this moment going to make the motion that we carry the war into the enemy's country, that we upset west point traditions for once and forever, and with a bang, too. in other words"--here the excitable youngster paused, so that his momentous idea might have due weight--"in other words, b'gee, that we haze the yearlings!" there was an awed silence for a few moments to give that terrifically original proposition a chance to settle in the minds of the amazed "devils." texas was the first to act and he leaped across the room at a bound and seized "b'gee" by the hand. "wow!" he roared. "whoop! bully, b'gee!" and in half a minute more the seven, including the timid indian, had registered a solemn vow to do deeds of valor that would "make them ole cadets look crosseyed," as texas put it. they were going to haze the yearlings! chapter xxx. the move into camp. the new cadets at west point are housed in barracks for two weeks after their admission. during this time "squad drill" is the daily rule, and the strangers learn to march and stand and face--everything a new soldier has to learn, with the exception of the manual of arms. after that they are adjudged fit to associate with the older cadets, and are marched up to "camp mcpherson." this usually takes place about the first day of july. our friends, the seven, had been measured for uniforms along with the rest of the plebe company during their first days in barracks. the fatigue uniforms had been given out that morning, to the great excitement of everybody, and now "cit" clothing, with all its fantastic variety of hats and coats of all colors, was stowed away in trunks "for good," and the plebes costumed uniformly in somber suits of gray, with short jackets and only a black seam down the trousers for ornament. full dress uniforms, such as the old cadets up at camp were wearing, were yet things of the future. that morning also the plebes had been "sized" for companies. of "companies" there are four, into which the battalion of some three hundred cadets is divided, "for purposes of instruction in infantry tactics, and in military police and discipline." (for purposes of "academic instruction," they are of course divided into the four classes: first, second, third, or "yearlings," and fourth, the "plebes".) the companies afore-mentioned are under the command of tactical officers. these latter report to the "commandant of cadets," who is, next to the superintendent, the highest ranking officer on the post. the companies are designated a, b, c and d. a and d are flank companies, and to them the tallest cadets are assigned. b and c are center companies. mark and texas, and also the parson and sleepy, all of whom were above the average height, found themselves in a. the remainder of the seven devils managed to land in b; and the whole plebe class was ordered to pack up and be ready to move immediately after dinner. the cadets are allowed to take only certain articles to camp; the rest, together with the cit's clothing, was stored in trunks and put away in the trunk room. right here at the start there was trouble for the members of our organization. texas, it will be remembered, had a choice assortment of guns of all caliber, sixteen in number. these he had stored up the chimney of his room for safety. (the chimney is a favorite place of concealment for contraband articles at west point). but there was no such place of concealment in camp; and no way of getting the guns there anyhow. there are no pockets in the cadets' uniforms except a small one for a watch. money they are not allowed to carry, and their handkerchiefs are tucked in the breasts of their coats. it was a difficult situation, for texas, with true texan cautiousness, vowed he'd never leave his guns behind. "why, look a yere, man," he cried. "i tell you, t'ain't safe now fo' a feller to go up thar 'thout anything to defend himself. you kain't tell what may happen!" the parson was in a similar quandary. his chimney contained a various assortment of chemicals, together with sundry geological specimens, including that now world-famous cyathophylloid coral which had been discovered "in a sandstone of tertiary origin." and the parson vowed that either that cyathophylloid went to camp or he stayed in barracks--yea, by zeus! there was no use arguing with them; mark tried it in vain. texas was obdurate and talked of holding up the crowd that dared to take those guns away; and the parson said that he had kept a return ticket to boston, his native town, a glorious city where science was encouraged and not repressed. that was the state of affairs through dinner, and up to the moment when the cry, "new cadets turn out!" came from the area. by that time texas had tied his guns in one of his shirts, and the parson had variously distributed his fossils about his body until he was one bundle of lumps. "if you people will congregate closely about me," he exclaimed, "i apprehend that the state of affairs will not be observed." it was a curious assembly that "turned out"--a mass of bundles, brooms and buckets, with a few staggering plebes underneath. they marched up to camp that way, too, and it was with audible sighs of relief that they dropped their burdens at the end. a word of description of "camp mcpherson" may be of interest to those who have never visited west point. it is important that the reader should be familiar with its appearance, for many of mark's adventures were destined to happen there--some of them this very same night. the camp is half a mile or so from barracks, just beyond the cavalry plain and very close to old fort clinton. the site is a pretty one, the white tents standing out against the green of the shade trees and the parapet of the fort. the tents are arranged in four "company streets" and are about five feet apart. the tents have wooden platforms for floors and are large enough for four cadets each. a long wooden box painted green serves as the "locker"--it has no lock or key--and a wooden rod near the ridge pole serves as a wardrobe. and that is the sum total of the furniture. the plebes made their way up the company streets and the cadet officers in charge, under the supervision of the "tacs," assigned them to their tents. fortunately, plebes are allowed to select their own tent mates; it may readily be believed the four devils of a company went together. by good fortune the three remaining in b company, as was learned later, found one whole tent left over and so were spared the nuisance of a stranger in their midst--a fact which was especially gratifying to the exclusive master chauncey. having been assigned to their tents, the plebes were set to work under the brief instructions of a cadet corporal at the task of arranging their household effects. this is done with mathematical exactness. there is a place for everything, and a penalty for not keeping it there. blankets, comforters, pillows, etc., go in a pile at one corner. a looking-glass hangs on the front tent pole; a water bucket is deposited on the front edge of the platform; candlesticks, candles, cleaning materials, etc., are kept in a cylindrical tin box at the foot of the rear tent pole; and so on it goes, through a hundred items or so. there are probably no more uniform things in all nature than the cadet tents in camp. the proverbial peas are not to be compared with them. the amount of fear and trembling which was caused to those four friends of ours in a certain a company tent by the contraband goods of texas and the parson is difficult to imagine. the cadet corporal, lynx-eyed and vigilant, scarcely gave them a chance to hide anything. it was only by mark's interposing his body before his friends that they managed to slide their precious cargoes in under the blankets, a temporary hiding place. and even when the articles were thus safely hidden, what must that officious yearling do but march over and rearrange the pile accurately, almost touching one of the revolvers, and making the four tremble and quake in their boots. they managed the task without discovery, however, and went on with their work. and by the first drum beat for dress parade that afternoon, everything was done up in spick-and-span order, to the eye at any rate. dress parade was a formality in which the plebes took no part but that of interested spectators. they huddled together shyly in their newly occupied "plebe hotels" and watched the yearlings, all in spotless snowy uniforms, "fall in" on the company street outside. the yearlings were wild with delight and anticipation at having the strangers right among them at last, and they manifested great interest in the plebes, their dwellings, and in fact in everything about them. advice and criticism, and all kinds of guying that can be imagined were poured upon the trembling lads' heads, and this continued in a volley until the second drum changed the merry crowd into a silent and motionless line of soldiers. mark could scarcely keep his excitable friend texas from sallying out then and there to attack some of the more active members of this hilarious crowd. it was evident that, while no plebe escaped entirely, there was no plebe hotel in a company so much observed as their own. for the three b. j.-est plebes in the whole plebe class were known to be housed therein. cadet mallory, "professional hero," was urged in all seriousness to come out and rescue somebody on the spot, which oft-repeated request, together with other merry chaffing, he bore with a good-natured smile. cadet stanard was plagued with geological questions galore, among which the "cyathophylloid" occupied a prominent place. cadet powers was dared to come out and lasso a stray "tac," whose blue-uniformed figure was visible out on the parade ground. and mr. chilvers found the state of "craps" a point of great solicitude to all. it was all stopped by the drum as has been mentioned; the company wheeled by fours and marched down the street, leaving the plebes to an hour of rest. but oh! those same yearlings were thinking. "oh, won't we just soak 'em to-night!" and, strange to say, the same thought was in the minds of seven particular plebes that stayed behind. for mark had a plot by this time. chapter xxxi. "first night." dress parade leaves but a few moments for supper, with no chance for "deviling." but when the battalion marched back from that meal and broke ranks, when the dusk of evening was coming on to make an effective screen, then was the time, thought the cadets. and so thought the plebes, too, as they came up the road a few minutes later, trembling with anticipation, most of them, and looking very solemn and somber in their dusky fatigue uniforms. "first night of plebe camp," says a well-known military writer, "is a thing not soon to be forgotten, even in these days when pitchy darkness no longer surrounds the pranks of the yearlings, and when official vigilance and protection have replaced what seemed to be tacit encouragement and consent. "then--some years ago--it was no uncommon thing for a new cadet to be dragged out--'yanked'--and slid around camp on his dust-covered blanket twenty times a night, dumped into fort clinton ditch, tossed in a tent fly, half smothered in the folds of his canvas home, ridden on a tent pole or in a rickety wheelbarrow, smoked out by some vile, slow-burning pyrotechnic compound, robbed of rest and sleep at the very least after he had been alternately drilled and worked all the livelong day." in mark's time the effort to put a stop to the abuses mentioned had just been begun. army officers had been put on duty at night; gas lamps had been placed along the sentry posts--precautions which are doubled nowadays, and with the risk of expulsion added besides. they have done away with the worst forms of hazing if not with the spirit. the yearlings "had it in" for our four friends of company a that evening. in fact, scarcely had the plebes scattered to their tents when that particular plebe hotel was surrounded. the cadets had it all arranged beforehand, just what was to happen, and they expected to have no end of fun about it. "parson stanard" was to be serenaded first; the crowd meant to surround him and "invite" him to read some learned extracts from his beloved "dana." the parson was to recount some of the nobler deeds of boston's heroes, including himself; he was to display his learning by answering questions on every conceivable subject; he was to define and spell a list of the most outlandish words in every language known to the angels. texas was to show his skill and technique in hurling an imaginary lasso and firing an imaginary revolver from an imaginary galloping horse. he was to tell of the geography, topography, climate and resources of the lone star state; he was to recount the exploits of his "dad," "the hon. scrap powers, sah, o' hurricane co.," and his uncle, the new senator-elect. mark was to give rules for rescuing damsels, saving expresses and ferryboats, etc. and mr. methusalem zebediah chilvers of kansas was to state his favorite method of raising three-legged chickens and three-foot whiskers. that was the delicious programme as finally agreed upon by the yearlings. and there was only one drawback met in the execution of it. the four plebes could not be found! they weren't in their tent; they weren't in camp! preposterous! the yearlings hunted, scarcely able to believe their eyes. the plebes, of course, had a perfect right to take a walk after supper if they chose. but the very idea of daring to do it on the first night in camp, when they knew that the yearlings would visit them and expect to be entertained! it was an unheard-of thing to do; but it was just what one would have expected of those b. j. beasts, so the yearlings grumbled, as they went off to other tents to engage other plebes in conversation and controversy. but where were the four? no place in particular. they had simply joined the other three and had the impudence to disappear in the woods for a stroll until tattoo. they had come to the conclusion that it was better to do that than to stay and be "guyed," as they most certainly would be if they refused their tormentors' requests. and mark had overruled texas' vehement offer to stay and "do up the hull crowd," deciding that the cover of the night would be favorable to the sevens' hazing, and that until then they should make themselves scarce. in the meantime there was high old sport in camp mcpherson. in response to the requests of the merry yearlings, some plebes were sitting out on the company streets and rowing desperate races at a -to-the-minute stroke with brooms for oars and air for water; some were playing imaginary hand-organs, while others sang songs to the tunes; some "beasts" were imitating every imaginable animal in a real "menagerie," and some were relating their personal history while trying to stand on their heads. all this kind of hazing is good-natured and hurts no one physically, however much the loss of dignity may torment some sensitive souls. it is the only kind of hazing that remains to any great extent nowadays. in the midst of such hilarity time passes very rapidly--to the yearlings, anyway. in almost no time tattoo had sounded; and then the companies lined up for the evening roll call, the seven dropping into line as silently as they had stolen off, deigning a word to no one in explanation of their strange conduct. "that's what i call a pretty b. j. trick!" growled cadet harris. bull had been looking forward with great glee to that evening's chance to ridicule mark, with all his classmates to back him; it was a lost chance now, and bull was angry in consequence. bull's cronies agreed with him as to the "b. j.-ness" of that trick. and they, along with a good many others, too, agreed that the trick ought not be allowed to succeed. "we ought to haze him ten times as hard to-night to make up for it!" was the verdict. and so it happened that the seven, by their action, brought down upon their heads all the hazing that was done after taps. this hazing, too, was by far the least pleasant, for it was attended to only by the more reckless members of the class, members who could not satisfy their taste for torture by making a helpless plebe sing songs, but must needs tumble him out of bed and ride him on a rail at midnight besides. the fact, however, that all such members of the yearling class had decided to concentrate their torments upon him did not worry mark in the least. in fact, that was just what mark had expected and prepared for. and so there was destined to be fun that night. "now go to your tents, make down your bedding just as you were taught at barracks; do not remove your underclothing; hang up your uniforms where each man can get his own in an instant; put your shoes and caps where you can get them in the dark if need be; turn in and blow your candle out, before the drum strikes 'taps,' at ten. after that, not a sound! get to sleep as soon as you can and be ready to form here at reveille." so spoke cadet corporal jasper; and then at the added command, "break ranks, march!" the plebe company scattered, and with many a sigh of relief vanished as individuals in the various tents. the corporal's last order, "be ready to form here at reveille," is a source of much worriment to the plebe. but the one before it, "get to sleep as soon as you can," is obeyed with the alacrity born of hours of drill and marching. long before tattoo, which is the signal for "lights out," the majority of the members of the class were already dreaming. perhaps they were not resting very easily, for most of them had a vague idea that there might be trouble that night; but they knew that lying awake would not stop it, and they were all too sleepy anyway. the last closing ceremony of a west point day in camp is the watchful "tac's" inspection. one of these officers goes the rounds with a dark lantern, flashing it into every tent and making sure that the four occupants are really in bed. (the "bed" consists of a board floor, and blankets.) having attended to this duty, the tac likewise retires and camp mcpherson sinks into the slumbers of the night. after that until five the next morning there is no one awake but the tireless sentries. a word about these. the camp is a military one and is never without guard from the moment the tents are stretched until the th of august, when the snowy canvas comes to the ground once more. the "guard tent" is at the western end of the camp, and is under the charge of the "corporal of the guard," a cadet. the sentries are cadets, too, and there are five of them, numbered--sentry no. and so on. the ceremony each morning at which these sentries go on duty is called "guard-mounting." and during the next twenty-four hours these sentries are on duty two hours in every six--two hours on and then four off, making eight in the twenty-four. these sentries being cadets themselves--and yearlings at present--hazing is not so difficult as it might seem. a sentry can easily arrange to have parties cross his beat without his seeing them; it is only when the sentry is not in the plot that the thing is dangerous. the "tac"--lieutenant allen was his name--had made his rounds for the night, finding plebes and yearlings, too, all sleeping soundly, or apparently so. and after that there was nothing moving but the tramping sentinels, and the shadows of the trees in the moonlight as they fell on the shining tents--that is, there was nothing moving that was visible. the yearlings, plenty of them, were wide awake in their tents and preparing for their onslaught upon the sleeping plebes. sleeping? perhaps, but certainly not all of them. some of those plebes were as wide awake as the yearlings, and they were engaged in an occupation that would have taken the yearlings considerably by surprise if they had known it. there were seven of them in two tents, tents that were back to back and close together, one being in company a and one in b. they were very quiet about their work; for it was a risky business. discovery would have meant the sentry's yelling for the corporal of the guard; meant that lieutenant allen would have leaped into his trousers and been out of his tent at the corporal's heels; meant a strict investigation, discovery, court-martial and dismissal. it was all right for yearlings to be out at night; but plebes--never! it grew riskier still as a few minutes passed, for one of the b. j. beasts had the temerity to come out of his tent. he came very cautiously, it was true, worming his way along the ground silently, in true indian--or texas style. for texas it was, that adventurous youth having vowed and declared that if he were not allowed to attend to this particular piece of mischief he would go out and hold up a sentry instead; the other three occupants were peering under the tent folds watching him anxiously as he crawled along. as a fact, texas' peril was not as great as was supposed, for the sentries had no means of telling if he was a yearling or not. the idea of a plebe's daring to break rules would not have occurred to them anyhow. be that as it may, at any rate nobody interrupted the seven devils' plans. cadet powers made his way across the "street," deposited his burden, a glistening steel revolver some two feet long. and then he stole back and the crowd lay still in their tents and watched and waited. they had not long to do that. texas barely had time to crawl under the canvas and to mutter to his friends--for the hundredth time: "didn't i tell ye them air guns 'ud come in handy?" at that very moment a sound of muffled laughter warned them that the moment had arrived. "just in time!" whispered mark, seizing his friend by the hand and at the same time giving vent to a subdued chuckle. "just in time. s-sh!" the four, who lay side by side under the tent, could hear each other's hearts thumping then. "will it work? will it work?" was the thought in the mind of every one of them. chapter xxxii. conclusion. the yearlings were a merry party, about ten of them, and they were out for fun and all the fun that could be had. they were going to make it hot for certain b. j. plebes, and they meant to lose no time about it, either. they crept up the company street, laughing and talking in whispers, for fear they should arouse the tac. the sentries they did not care about, of course, for the sentries were pledged to "look the other way." it was decided that the first thing to be done to those b. j. plebes was to "yank 'em." yanking is a west point invention. it means that the victim finds his blanket seized by one corner and torn from under him, hurling him to the ground. many a plebe's nightmares are punctuated with just such periods as these. it seems that a "yanking" was just what the four had prepared for. they had prepared for it by huddling up in one corner and rigging dummies to place in their beds. the dummies consisted of wash basins, buckets, etc., and it was calculated that when these dummies were yanked they would be far from dumb. the yearlings stole up cautiously; they did not know they were watched. the breathless plebes saw their shadows on the tent walls, and knew just what was going on. they saw the figures line up at the back; they saw half a dozen pairs of hands gently raise the canvas, and get a good firm grip on the blankets. then came a subdued "now!" and then--well, things began to happen after that! the yearlings "yanked" with all the power of their arms. the blankets gave way, and the result was a perfectly amazing clatter and crash. have you ever heard half a dozen able-bodied dishwashers working at once? naturally the wildest panic resulted among the attacking party. they did not know what they had done, but they did know that they had done something desperate, and that they wished they hadn't. as the sound broke out on the still, night air they turned in alarm and made a wild dash for their tents. two of them raced down the company street at top speed; both of them suddenly struck an unexpected obstruction and were sent flying through the air. it was a string; and at one end of it was the texas . -caliber. the result was a bang that woke the camp with a jump. and then there was fun for fair. the sentries knew then that every one was awake, including the "tac," and that they might just as well, therefore, "give the alarm." all five of them accordingly set up a wild shout for the corporal of the guard. this brought the young officer and lieutenant allen on the scene in no time. also it brought from the land of dreams every cadet in the corps who had managed to sleep through the former racket. and nearly all of them rushed to their tent doors wondering what would happen next. the seven meanwhile had been working like beavers. the instant the gun had gone off texas, who held the string, had yanked it in and stowed it away with his other weapons, shaking with laughter in the meanwhile. the others had gone to work with a will; pitcher, basin, bucket, everything, had been hastily set in place; blankets had been relaid; and everything, in short, was put in order again, so that by the time that lieutenant allen got around to their tent--the officer had seized his lantern and set out on a hasty round to discover the jokers--he found four "scared" plebes, sitting up in beds, sleepily rubbing their eyes, and inquiring in anxiety: "what's the matter?" he didn't tell them, for he hadn't the remotest idea himself. and nobody told him; the yearlings couldn't have if they had wanted to. of course the lieutenant didn't care to stay awake all night, fruitlessly asking questions; so he went to bed. the sentries resumed their march, wondering meanwhile what on earth had led their classmates to make so much rumpus, and speculating as to whether it could possibly be true, what one cadet had suggested--that that wild and woolly texan had tried to shoot some one who had hazed him. the rest of the cadets dropped off to sleep. and soon everybody was quiet again--that is, except the seven devils. the seven devils had only just begun. they lay and waited until things were still, and then mark gave the order, and the crowd rose as one man and stole softly out into the street. this included even the trembling indian, who was muttering "bless my soul!" at a great rate. "i guess they're all asleep now," whispered mark. "what are you going to do?" inquired indian. "yank 'em," responded mark, briefly. "come ahead." mark had seen that the yearlings came up boldly, which told him at once that the sentries were "fixed," and he calculated that just at the moment the moon being clouded, the sentries would not know yearlings from plebes. the only danger was that lieutenant allen might still be awake. it was risky, but then---- "do you see bull harris' tent?" mark whispered. "it is the sixth from here. he and the baby, with vance and murray, are in there. now, then." with trembling hearts the crowd crept down the street; this was their first venture as lawbreakers. they stole up behind the tent just as the yearlings had; they reached under the canvas and seized the blankets. and then came a sudden haul--and confusion and muttered yells from the inside, which told them that no dummies had been yanked this time. the yearlings sprang up in wrath and gazed out; retreating footsteps and muffled laughter were all that remained, and they went back to bed in disgust. the plebes went, too, in high glee. "and now," said mark. "i guess we might as well go to sleep." * * * * * one does not like to leave this story without having a word to say about what the corps thought of the whole thing next morning. the "tac," of course, reported to his superior the night's alarm--"cause unknown," and that was the end of the matter officially. but the yearlings--phew! the class compared notes right after reveille; and no one talked about anything else for the rest of that day. the cause of the rumpus made by the blankets was soon guessed; the two who had set off the gun were questioned, and that problem soon worked out also; that alone was bad enough! but the amazement when bull and his tentmates turned up and declared that they--yearlings!--had been yanked, yes yanked, and by some measly plebes at that, there is no possibility of describing the indignation. why, it meant that the class had been defied, that west point had been overturned, that the world was coming to an end, and--what more could it possibly mean? and through all the excitement the seven just looked at each other--and winked: "b. b. j.!" they said: "just watch us!" "it was great, b'gee!" said dewey. "hurrah for the plebes!" "hurrah!" was the answer, in a shout. "hurrah!" the end. _the cream of juvenile fiction_ the boys' own library a selection of the best books for boys by the most popular authors the titles in this splendid juvenile series have been selected with care, and as a result all the stories can be relied upon for their excellence. they are bright and sparkling; not over-burdened with lengthy descriptions, but brimful of adventure from the first page to the last--in fact they are just the kind of yarns that appeal strongly to the healthy boy who is fond of thrilling exploits and deeds of heroism. among the authors whose names are included in the boys' own library are horatio alger, jr., edward s. ellis, james otis, capt. ralph bonehill, burt l. standish, gilbert patten and frank h. converse. special features of the boys' own library all the books in this series are copyrighted, printed on good paper, large type, illustrated, printed wrappers, handsome cloth covers stamped in inks and gold--fifteen special cover designs. _ titles--price, per volume, cents_ for sale by all booksellers, or sent, postpaid, on receipt of price by the publisher. david mckay, so. washington square, philadelphia, pa. horatio alger, jr. one of the best known and most popular writers. good, clean, healthy stories for the american boy. adventures of a telegraph boy dean dunham erie train boy, the five hundred dollar check from canal boy to president from farm boy to senator backwoods boy, the mark stanton ned newton new york boy tom brace tom tracy walter griffith young acrobat c. b. ashley. one of the best stories ever written on hunting, trapping and adventure in the west, after the custer massacre. gilbert, the boy trapper annie ashmore. a splendid story, recording the adventures of a boy with smugglers. smuggler's cave, the capt. ralph bonehill. capt. bonehill is in the very front rank as an author of boys' stories. these are two of his best works. neka, the boy conjurer tour of the zero club walter f. bruns. an excellent story of adventure in the celebrated sunk lands of missouri and kansas. in the sunk lands frank h. converse. this writer has established a splendid reputation as a boys' author, and although his books usually command $ . per volume, we offer the following at a more popular price. gold of flat top mountain happy-go-lucky jack heir to a million in search of an unknown race in southern seas mystery of a diamond that treasure voyage to the gold coast harry collingwood. one of england's most successful writers of stories for boys. his best story is pirate island george h. coomer. two books we highly recommend. one is a splendid story of adventure at sea, when american ships were in every port in the world, and the other tells of adventures while the first railway in the andes mountains was being built. boys in the forecastle old man of the mountain william dalton. three stories by one of the very greatest writers for boys. the stories deal with boys' adventures in india, china and abyssinia. these books are strongly recommended for boys' reading, as they contain a large amount of historical information. tiger prince war tiger white elephant edward s. ellis. these books are considered the best works this well-known writer ever produced. no better reading for bright young americans. arthur helmuth check no. from tent to white house perils of the jungle on the trail of geronimo white mustang george manville fenn. for the past fifty years mr. fenn has been writing books for boys and popular fiction. his books are justly popular throughout the english-speaking world. we publish the following select list of his boys' books, which we consider the best he ever wrote. commodore junk dingo boys weathercock golden magnet grand chaco ensign clarke fitch, u. s. n. a graduate of the u. s. naval academy at annapolis, and thoroughly familiar with all naval matters. mr. fitch has devoted himself to literature, and has written a series of books for boys that every young american should read. his stories are full of very interesting information about the navy, training ships, etc. bound for annapolis clif, the naval cadet cruise of the training ship from port to port strange cruise, a william murray graydon. an author of world-wide popularity. mr. graydon is essentially a friend of young people, and we offer herewith ten of his best works, wherein he relates a great diversity of interesting adventures in various parts of the world, combined with accurate historical data. butcher of cawnpore, the camp in the snow, the campaigning with braddock cryptogram, the from lake to wilderness in barracks and wigwam in fort and prison jungles and traitors rajah's fortress, the white king of africa, the lieut. frederick garrison, u. s. a. every american boy takes a keen interest in the affairs of west point. no more capable writer on this popular subject could be found than lieut. garrison, who vividly describes the life, adventures and unique incidents that have occurred in that great institution--in these famous west point stories. off for west point cadet's honor, a on guard west point treasure, the west point rivals, the headon hill. the hunt for gold has always been a popular subject for consideration, and mr. hill has added a splendid story on the subject in this romance of the klondyke. spectre gold henry harrison lewis. mr. lewis is a graduate of the naval academy at annapolis, and has written a great many books for boys. among his best works are the following titles--the subjects include a vast series of adventures in all parts of the world. the historical data is correct, and they should be read by all boys, for the excellent information they contain. centreboard jim king of the island midshipman merrill yankee boys in japan ensign merrill sword and pen valley of mystery, the lieut. lionel lounsberry. a series of books embracing many adventures under our famous naval commanders, and with our army during the war of and the civil war. founded on sound history, these books are written for boys, with the idea of combining pleasure with profit; to cultivate a fondness for study--especially of what has been accomplished by our army and navy. cadet kit carey captain carey kit carey's protegé lieut. carey's luck out with commodore decatur randy, the pilot tom truxton's school days tom truxton's ocean trip treasure of the golden crater won at west point brooks mccormick. four splendid books of adventure on sea and land, by this well-known writer for boys. giant islanders, the how he won nature's young nobleman rival battalions walter morris. this charming story contains thirty-two chapters of just the sort of school life that charms the boy readers. bob porter at lakeview academy stanley norris. mr. norris is without a rival as a writer of "circus stories" for boys. these four books are full of thrilling adventures, but good, wholesome reading for young americans. phil, the showman young showman's rivals, the young showman's pluck, the young showman's triumph lieut. james k. orton. when a boy has read one of lieut. orton's books, it requires no urging to induce him to read the others. not a dull page in any of them. beach boy joe last chance mine secret chart, the tom havens with the white squadron james otis. mr. otis is known by nearly every american boy, and needs no introduction here. the following copyrights are among his best: chased through norway inland waterways reuben green's adventures at yale unprovoked mutiny wheeling for fortune gilbert patten. mr. patten has had the distinction of having his books adopted by the u. s. government for all naval libraries on board our war ships. while aiming to avoid the extravagant and sensational, the stories contain enough thrilling incidents to please the lad who loves action and adventure. in the rockspur stories the description of their baseball and football games and other contests with rival clubs and teams make very exciting and absorbing reading; and few boys with warm blood in their veins, having once begun the perusal of one of these books, will willingly lay it down till it is finished. boy boomers boy cattle king boy from the west don kirke's mine jud and joe rockspur nine, the rockspur eleven, the rockspur rivals, the st. george rathborne. mr. rathborne's stories for boys have the peculiar charm of dealing with localities and conditions with which he is thoroughly familiar. the scenes of these excellent stories are along the florida coast and on the western prairies. canoe and camp fire paddling under palmettos rival canoe boys sunset ranch chums of the prairie young range riders gulf cruisers shifting winds arthur sewell. an american story by an american author. it relates how a yankee boy overcame many obstacles in school and out. thoroughly interesting from start to finish. gay dashleigh's academy days capt. david southwick. an exceptionally good story of frontier life among the indians in the far west, during the early settlement period. jack wheeler the famous frank merriwell stories. burt l. standish. no modern series of tales for boys and youths has met with anything like the cordial reception and popularity accorded to the frank merriwell stories. there must be a reason for this and there is. frank merriwell, as portrayed by the author, is a jolly whole-souled, honest, courageous american lad, who appeals to the hearts of the boys. he has no bad habits, and his manliness inculcates the idea that it is not necessary for a boy to indulge in petty vices to be a hero. frank merriwell's example is a shining light for every ambitious lad to follow. six volumes now ready: frank merriwell's school days frank merriwell's chums frank merriwell's foes frank merriwell's trip west frank merriwell down south frank merriwell's bravery frank merriwell's hunting tour frank merriwell's races frank merriwell's sports afield frank merriwell at yale victor st. clair. these books are full of good, clean adventure, thrilling enough to please the full-blooded wide-awake boy, yet containing nothing to which there can be any objection from those who are careful as to the kind of books they put into the hands of the young. cast away in the jungle comrades under castro for home and honor zip, the acrobat from switch to lever little snap, the post boy zig-zag, the boy conjurer matthew white, jr. good, healthy, strong books for the american lad. no more interesting books for the young appear on our lists. adventures of a young athlete eric dane guy hammersley my mysterious fortune tour of a private car young editor, the arthur m. winfield. one of the most popular authors of boys' books. here are three of his best. mark dale's stage venture young bank clerk, the young bridge tender, the gayle winterton. this very interesting story relates the trials and triumphs of a young american actor, including the solution of a very puzzling mystery. young actor, the ernest a. young. this book is not a treatise on sports, as the title would indicate, but relates a series of thrilling adventures among boy campers in the woods of maine. boats, bats and bicycles * * * * * transcriber's note: numerous errors in the original text involving missing or improper quotation marks have been corrected. in addition, the following typographical errors present in the original text have been corrected. in chapter i, a spurious paragraph break following "not compelling me to use my voice much." was removed, "convey the challenge in behalf of the class" was changed to "convey the challenge in behalf of the class", "inquired jaspar" was changed to "inquired jasper", and "the presence of this cyashodhylloid fossil" was changed to "the presence of this cyathodhylloid fossil". in chapter vi, "the shakesperian method" was changed to "the shakespearian method", and "trigometrical formulas" was changed to "trigonometrical formulas". in chapter ix, "imminet peril" was changed to "imminent peril". in chapter xii, "plantus" was changed to "plautus". in chapter xviii, "the seequipedalian hellenic vocable" was changed to "the sesquipedalian hellenic vocable". in chapter xix, "my name's methusalem zedediah chilvers" was changed to "my name's methusalem zebediah chilvers". in chapter xxiii, "you have worked for your appointment, to" was changed to "you have worked for your appointment, too". in chapter xxiv, a period was changed to a comma after "good-afternoon, mr. fischer". in chapter xxvii, "gooh! but that boom" was changed to "gosh! but that boom". in chapter xxix, "this came from mr. chauncey van rensalear mount-bonsall" was changed to "this came from mr. chauncey van rensallear mount-bonsall". in chapter xxxi, "tossed in a ten fly" was changed to "tossed in a tent fly", and a semicolon was added after "air for water". in the advertisements, "to cutivate a fondness for study" was changed to "to cultivate a fondness for study", and "good, wholsome reading" was changed to "good, wholesome reading". from squire to squatter a tale of the old land and the new by gordon stables published by john f. shaw and co., paternoster row, london. this edition dated . chapter one. book i--at burley old farm. "ten to-morrow, archie." "so you'll be ten years old to-morrow, archie?" "yes, father; ten to-morrow. quite old, isn't it? i'll soon be a man, dad. won't it be fun, just?" his father laughed, simply because archie laughed. "i don't know about the fun of it," he said; "for, archie lad, your growing a man will result in my getting old. don't you see?" archie turned his handsome brown face towards the fire, and gazed at it--or rather into it--for a few moments thoughtfully. then he gave his head a little negative kind of a shake, and, still looking towards the fire as if addressing it, replied: "no, no, no; i don't see it. other boys' fathers _may_ grow old; mine won't, mine couldn't, never, _never_." "dad," said a voice from the corner. it was a very weary, rather feeble, voice. the owner of it occupied a kind of invalid couch, on which he half sat and half reclined--a lad of only nine years, with a thin, pale, old-fashioned face, and big, dark, dreamy eyes that seemed to look you through and through as you talked to him. "dad." "yes, my dear." "wouldn't you like to be old really?" "wel--," the father was beginning. "oh," the boy went on, "i should dearly love to be old, very old, and very wise, like one of these!" here his glance reverted to a story-book he had been reading, and which now lay on his lap. his father and mother were used to the boy's odd remarks. both parents sat here to-night, and both looked at him with a sort of fond pity; but the child's eyes had half closed, and presently he dropped out of the conversation, and to all intents and purposes out of the company. "yes," said archie, "ten is terribly old, i know; but is it quite a man though? because mummie there said, that when solomon became a man, he thought, and spoke, and did everything manly, and put away all his boy's things. i shouldn't like to put away my bow and arrow--what say, mum? i shan't be altogether quite a man to-morrow, shall i?" "no, child. who put that in your head?" "oh, rupert, of course! rupert tells me everything, and dreams such strange dreams for me." "you're a strange boy yourself, archie." his mother had been leaning back in her chair. she now slowly resumed her knitting. the firelight fell on her face: it was still young, still beautiful--for the lady was but little over thirty--yet a shade of melancholy had overspread it to-night. the firelight came from huge logs of wood, mingled with large pieces of blazing coals and masses of half-incandescent peat. a more cheerful fire surely never before burned on a hearth. it seemed to take a pride in being cheerful, and in making all sorts of pleasant noises and splutterings. there had been bark on those logs when first heaped on, and long white bunches of lichen, that looked like old men's beards; but tongues of fire from the bubbling, caking coals had soon licked those off, so that both sticks and peat were soon aglow, and the whole looked as glorious as an autumn sunset. and firelight surely never before fell on cosier room, nor on cosier old-world furniture. dark pictures, in great gilt frames, hung on the walls, almost hiding it; dark pictures, but with bright colours standing out in them, which time himself had not been able to dim; albeit he had cracked the varnish. pictures you could look into--look in through almost--and imagine figures that perhaps were not in them at all; pictures of old-fashioned places, with quaint, old-fashioned people and animals; pictures in which every creature or human being looked contented and happy. pictures from masters' hands many of them, and worth far more than their weight in solid gold. and the firelight fell on curious brackets, and on a tall corner-cabinet filled with old delf and china; fell on high, narrow-backed chairs, and on one huge carved-oak chest that took your mind away back to centuries long gone by and made you half believe that there must have been "giants in those days." the firelight fell and was reflected from silver cups, and goblets, and candlesticks, and a glittering shield that stood on a sideboard, their presence giving relief to the eye. heavy, cosy-looking curtains depended from the window cornices, and the door itself was darkly draped. "ten to-morrow. how time does fly!" it was the father who now spoke, and as he did so his hand was stretched out as if instinctively, till it lay on the mother's lap. their eyes met, and there seemed something of sadness in the smile of each. "how time does fly!" "dad!" the voice came once more from the corner. "dad! for years and years i've noticed that you always take mummie's hand and just look like that on the night before archie's birthday. father, why--" but at that very moment the firelight found something else to fall upon--something brighter and fairer by far than anything it had lit up to-night. for the door-curtain was drawn back, and a little, wee, girlish figure advanced on tiptoe and stood smiling in the middle of the room, looking from one to the other. this was elsie, rupert's twin-sister. his "beautiful sister" the boy called her, and she was well worthy of the compliment. only for a moment did she stand there, but as she did so, with her bonnie bright face, she seemed the one thing that had been needed to complete the picture, the centre figure against the sombre, almost solemn, background. the fire blazed more merrily now; a jet of white smoke, that had been spinning forth from a little mound of melting coal, jumped suddenly into flame; while the biggest log cracked like a popgun, and threw off a great red spark, which flew half-way across the room. next instant a wealth of dark-brown hair fell on archie's shoulder, and soft lips were pressed to his sun-dyed cheek, then bright, laughing eyes looked into his. "ten to-morrow, archie! _aren't_ you proud?" elsie now took a footstool, and sat down close beside her invalid brother, stretching one arm across his chest protectingly; but she shook her head at archie from her corner. "ten to-morrow, you great big, big brother archie," she said. archie laughed right merrily. "what are you going to do all?" "oh, such a lot of things! first of all, if it snows--" "it is snowing now, archie, fast." "well then i'm going to shoot the fox that stole poor cock jock. oh, my poor cock jock! we'll never see him again." "shooting foxes isn't sport, archie." "no, dad; it's revenge." the father shook his head. "well, i mean something else." "justice?" "yes, that is it. justice, dad. oh, i did love that cock so! he was so gentlemanly and gallant, father. oh, so kind! and the fox seized him just as poor jock was carrying a crust of bread to the old hen ann. he threw my bonnie bird over his shoulder and ran off, looking so sly and wicked. but i mean to kill him! "last time i fired off branson's gun was at a magpie, a nasty, chattering, unlucky magpie. old kate says they're unlucky." "did you kill the magpie, archie?" "no, i don't think i hurt the magpie. the gun must have gone off when i wasn't looking; but it knocked me down, and blackened all my shoulder, because it pushed so. branson said i didn't grasp it tight enough. but i will to-morrow, when i'm killing the fox. rupert, you'll stuff the head, and we'll hang it in the hall. won't you, roup?" rupert smiled and nodded. "and i'm sure," he continued, "the ann hen was so sorry when she saw poor cock jock carried away." "did the ann hen eat the crust?" "what, father? oh, yes, she did eat the crust! but i think that was only out of politeness. i'm sure it nearly choked her." "well, archie, what will you do else to-morrow?" "oh, then, you know, elsie, the fun will only just be beginning, because we're going to open the north tower of the castle. it's already furnished." "and you're going to be installed as king of the north tower?" said his father. "installed, father? rupert, what does that mean?" "led in with honours, i suppose." "oh, father, i'll instal myself; or sissie there will; or old kate; or branson, the keeper, will instal me. that's easy. the fun will all come after that." burley old farm, as it was called--and sometimes burley castle--was, at the time our story opens, in the heyday of its glory and beauty. squire broadbent, archie's father, had been on it for a dozen years and over. it was all his own, and had belonged to a bachelor uncle before his time. this uncle had never made the slightest attempt to cause two blades of grass to grow where only one had grown before. not he. he was well content to live on the little estate, as his father had done before him, so long as things paid their way; so long as plenty of sleek beasts were seen in the fields in summer, or wading knee-deep in the straw-yard in winter; so long as pigs, and poultry, and feather stock of every conceivable sort, made plenty of noise about the farm-steading, and there was plenty of human life about, the old squire had been content. and why shouldn't he have been? what does a north-country farmer need, or what has he any right to long for, if his larder and coffers are both well filled, and he can have a day on the stubble or moor, and ride to the hounds when the crops are in? but his nephew was more ambitious. the truth is he came from the south, and brought with him what the honest farmer folks of the northumbrian borders call a deal of new-fangled notions. he had come from the south himself, and he had not been a year in the place before he went back, and in due time returned to burley old farm with a bonnie young bride. of course there were people in the neighbourhood who did not hesitate to say, that the squire might have married nearer home, and that there was no accounting for taste. for all this and all that, both the squire and his wife were not long in making themselves universal favourites all round the countryside; for they went everywhere, and did everything; and the neighbours were all welcome to call at burley when they liked, and had to call when mrs broadbent issued invitations. well, the squire's dinners were truly excellent, and when afterwards the men folk joined the ladies in the big drawing-room, the evenings flew away so quickly that, as carriage time came, nobody could ever believe it was anything like so late. the question of what the squire had been previously to his coming to burley was sometimes asked by comparative strangers, but as nobody could or cared to answer explicitly, it was let drop. something in the south, in or about london, or deal, or dover, but what did it matter? he was "a jolly good fellow--ay, and a gentleman every inch." such was the verdict. a gentleman the squire undoubtedly was, though not quite the type of build, either in body or mind, of the tall, bony, and burly men of the north--men descended from a race of ever-unconquered soldiers, and probably more akin to the scotch than the english. sitting here in the green parlour to-night, with the firelight playing on his smiling face as he talked to or teased his eldest boy, squire broadbent was seen to advantage. not big in body, and rather round than angular, inclining even to the portly, with a frank, rosy face and a bold blue eye, you could not have been in his company ten minutes without feeling sorry you had not known him all his life. amiability was the chief characteristic of mrs broadbent. she was a refined and genuine english lady. there is little more to say after that. but what about the squire's new-fangled notions? well, they were really what they call "fads" now-a-days, or, taken collectively, they were one gigantic fad. although he had never been in the agricultural interest before he became squire, even while in city chambers theoretical farming had been his pet study, and he made no secret of it to his fellow-men. "this uncle of mine," he would say, "whom i go to see every christmas, is pretty old, and i'm his heir. mind," he would add, "he is a genuine, good man, and i'll be genuinely sorry for him when he goes under. but that is the way of the world, and then i'll have my fling. my uncle hasn't done the best for his land; he has been content to go--not run; there is little running about the dear old boy--in the same groove as his fathers, but i'm going to cut out a new one." the week that the then mr broadbent was in the habit of spending with his uncle, in the festive season, was not the only holiday he took in the year. no; for regularly as the month of april came round, he started for the states of america, and england saw no more of him till well on in june, by which time the hot weather had driven him home. but he swore by the yankees; that is, he would have sworn by them, had he sworn at all. the yankees in mr broadbent's opinion were far ahead of the english in everything pertaining to the economy of life, and the best manner of living. he was too much of a john bull to admit that the americans possessed any superiority over this tight little isle, in the matter of either politics or knowledge of warfare. england always had been, and always would be, mistress of the seas, and master of and over every country with a foreshore on it. "but," he would say, "look at the yanks as inventors. why, sir, they beat us in everything from button-hook. look at them as farmers, especially as wheat growers and fruit raisers. they are as far above englishmen, with their insular prejudices, and insular dread of taking a step forward for fear of going into a hole, as a berkshire steam ploughman is ahead of a skyeman with his wooden turf-turner. and look at them at home round their own firesides, or look at their houses outside and in, and you will have some faint notion of what comfort combined with luxury really means." it will be observed that mr broadbent had a bold, straightforward way of talking to his peers. he really had, and it will be seen presently that he had, "the courage of his own convictions," to use a hackneyed phrase. he brought those convictions with him to burley, and the courage also. why, in a single year--and a busy, bustling one it had been--the new squire had worked a revolution about the place. lucky for him, he had a well-lined purse to begin with, or he could hardly have come to the root of things, or made such radical reforms as he did. when he first took a look round the farm-steading, he felt puzzled where to begin first. but he went to work steadily, and kept it up, and it is truly wonderful what an amount of solid usefulness can be effected by either man or boy, if he has the courage to adopt such a plan. chapter two. a chip of the old block. it was no part of squire broadbent's plan to turn away old and faithful servants. he had to weed them though, and this meant thinning out to such an extent that not over many were left. the young and healthy creatures of inutility had to shift; but the very old, the decrepit--those who had become stiff and grey in his uncle's service--were pensioned off. they were to stay for the rest of their lives in the rural village adown the glen--bask in the sun in summer, sit by the fire of a winter, and talk of the times when "t'old squire was aboot." the servants settled with, and fresh ones with suitable "go" in them established in their place, the live stock came in for reformation. "saint mary! what a medley!" exclaimed the squire, as he walked through the byres and stables, and past the styes. "everything bred anyhow. no method in my uncle's madness. no rules followed, no type. why the quickest plan will be to put them all to the hammer." this was cutting the gordian-knot with a vengeance, but it was perhaps best in the long run. next came renovation of the farm-steading itself; pulling down and building, enlarging, and what not, and while this was going on, the land itself was not being forgotten. fences were levelled and carted away, and newer and airier ones put up, and for the most part three and sometimes even five fields were opened into one. there were woods also to be seen to. the new squire liked woods, but the trees in some of these were positively poisoning each other. here was a larch-wood, for instance--those logs with the long, grey lichens on them are part of some of the trees. so closely do the larches grow together, so white with moss, so stunted and old-looking, that it would have made a merry-andrew melancholy to walk among them. what good were they? down they must come, and down they had come; and after the ground had been stirred up a bit, and left for a summer to let the sunshine and air into it, all the hill was replanted with young, green, smiling pines, larches, and spruces, and that was assuredly an improvement. in a few years the trees were well advanced; grass and primroses grew where the moss had crept about, and the wood in spring was alive with the song of birds. the mansion-house had been left intact. nothing could have added much to the beauty of that. it stood high up on a knoll, with rising park-like fields behind, and at some considerable distance the blue slate roofs of the farm-steading peeping up through the greenery of the trees. a solid yellow-grey house, with sturdy porch before the hall door, and sturdy mullioned windows, one wing ivy-clad, a broad sweep of gravel in front, and beyond that, lawns and terraces, and flower and rose gardens. and the whole overlooked a river or stream, that went winding away clear and silvery till it lost itself in wooded glens. the scenery was really beautiful all round, and in some parts even wild; while the distant views of the cheviot hills lent a charm to everything. there was something else held sacred by the squire as well as the habitable mansion, and that was burley old castle. undoubtedly a fortress of considerable strength it had been in bygone days, when the wild scots used to come raiding here, but there was no name for it now save that of a "ruin." the great north tower still stood firm and bold, and three walls of the lordly hall, its floor green with long, rank grass; the walls themselves partly covered with ivy, with broom growing on the top, which was broad enough for the half-wild goats to scamper along. there was also the _donjon_ keep, and the remains of a _fosse_; but all the rest of this feudal castle had been unceremoniously carted away, to erect cowsheds and pig-styes with it. "so sinks the pride of former days, when glory's thrill is o'er." no, squire broadbent did not interfere with the castle; he left it to the goats and to archie, who took to it as a favourite resort from the time he could crawl. but these--all these--new-fangled notions the neighbouring squires and farmers bold could easily have forgiven, had broadbent not carried his craze for machinery to the very verge of folly. so _they_ thought. such things might be all very well in america, but they were not called for here. extraordinary mills driven by steam, no less wonderful-looking harrows, uncanny-like drags and drilling machines, sowing and reaping machines that were fearfully and wonderfully made, and ploughs that, like the mills, were worked by steam. terrible inventions these; and even the men that were connected with them had to be brought from the far south, and did not talk a homely, wholesome _lingua_, nor live in a homely, wholesome way. his neighbours confessed that his crops were heavier, and the cereals and roots finer; but they said to each other knowingly, "what about the expense of down-put?" and as far as their own fields went, the plough-boy still whistled to and from his work. then the new live stock, why, type was followed; type was everything in the squire's eye and opinion. no matter what they were, horses, cattle, pigs, sheep, and feather stock, even the dogs and birds were the best and purest of the sort to be had. but for all the head-shaking there had been at first, things really appeared to prosper with the squire; his big, yellow-painted wagons, with their fine clydesdale horses, were as well known in the district and town of b--as the brewer's dray itself. the "nags" were capitally harnessed. what with jet-black, shining leather, brass-work that shone like burnished gold, and crimson-flashing fringes, it was no wonder that the men who drove them were proud, and that they were favourites at every house of call. even the bailiff himself, on his spirited hunter, looked imposing with his whip in his hand, and in his spotless cords. breakfast at burley was a favourite meal, and a pretty early one, and the capital habit of inviting friends thereto was kept up. mrs broadbent's tea was something to taste and remember; while the cold beef, or that early spring lamb on the sideboard, would have converted the veriest vegetarian as soon as he clapped eyes on it. on his spring lamb the squire rather prided himself, and he liked his due meed of praise for having reared it. to be sure he got it; though some of the straightforward northumbrians would occasionally quizzingly enquire what it cost him to put on the table. squire broadbent would not get out of temper whatever was said, and really, to do the man justice, it must be allowed that there was a glorious halo of self-reliance around his head; and altogether such spirit, dash, and independence with all he said and did, that those who breakfasted with him seemed to catch the infection. their farms and they themselves appeared quite behind the times, when viewed in comparison with broadbent's and with broadbent himself. if ever a father was loved and admired by a son, the squire was that man, and archie was that particular son. his father was archie's _beau ideal_ indeed of all that was worth being, or saying, or knowing, in this world; and rupert's as well. he really was his boys' hero, but behaved more to them as if he had been just a big brother. it was a great grief to both of them that rupert could not join in their games out on the lawn in summer--the little cricket matches, the tennis tournaments, the jumping, and romping, and racing. the tutor was younger than the squire by many years, but he could not beat him in any manly game you could mention. yes, it was sad about rupert; but with all the little lad's suffering and weariness, he was _such_ a sunny-faced chap. he never complained, and when sturdy, great, brown-faced archie carried him out as if he had been a baby, and laid him on the couch where he could witness the games, he was delighted beyond description. i'm quite sure that the squire often and often kept on playing longer than he would otherwise have done just to please the child, as he was generally called. as for elsie, she did all her brother did, and a good deal more besides, and yet no one could have called her a tom girl. as the squire was archie's hero, i suppose the boy could not help taking after his hero to some extent; but it was not only surprising but even amusing to notice how like to his "dad" in all his ways archie had at the age of ten become. the same in walk, the same in talk, the same in giving his opinion, and the same in bright, determined looks. archie really was what his father's friends called him, "a chip of the old block." he was a kind of a lad, too, that grown-up men folks could not help having a good, romping lark with. not a young farmer that ever came to the place could have beaten archie at a race; but when some of them did get hold of him out on the lawn of an evening, then there would be a bit of fun, and archie was in it. these burly northumbrians would positively play a kind of pitch and toss with him, standing in a square or triangle and throwing him back and fore as if he had been a cricket ball. and there was one very tall, wiry young fellow who treated archie as if he had been a sort of dumb-bell, and took any amount of exercise out of him; holding him high aloft with one hand, swaying him round and round and up and down, changing hands, and, in a word, going through as many motions with the laughing boy as if he had been inanimate. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ i do not think that archie ever dressed more quickly in his life, than he did on the morning of that auspicious day which saw him ten years old. to tell the truth, he had never been very much struck over the benefits of early rising, especially on mornings in winter. the parting between the boy and his warm bed was often of a most affecting character. the servant would knock, and the gong would go, and sometimes he would even hear his father's voice in the hall before he made up his mind to tear himself away. but on this particular morning, no sooner had he rubbed his eyes and began to remember things, than he sprang nimbly to the floor. the bath was never a terrible ordeal to archie, as it is to some lads. he liked it because it made him feel light and buoyant, and made him sing like the happy birds in spring time; but to-day he did think it would be a saving of time to omit it. yes, but it would be cowardly, and on this morning of all mornings; so in he plunged, and plied the sponge manfully. he did not draw up the blinds till well-nigh dressed. for all he could see when he did do so, he might as well have left them down. the windows--the month was january--were hard frozen; had it been any other day, he would have paused to admire the beautiful frost foliage and frost ferns that nature had etched on the panes. he blew his breath on the glass instead, and made a clean round hole thereon. glorious! it had been snowing pretty heavily, but now the sky was clear. the footprints of the wily fox could be tracked. archie would follow him to his den in the wild woods, and his skye terriers would unearth him. then the boy knelt to pray, just reviewing the past for a short time before he did so, and thinking what a deal he had to be thankful for; how kind the good father was to have given him such parents, such a beautiful home, and such health, and thinking too what a deal he had to be sorry for in the year that was gone; then he gave thanks, and prayer for strength to resist temptation in the time to come; and, it is needless to say, he prayed for poor invalid rupert. when he got up from his knees he heard the great gong sounded, and smiled to himself to think how early he was. then he blew on the pane and looked out again. the sky was blue and clear, and there was not a breath of wind; the trees on the lawn, laden with their weight of powdery snow, their branches bending earthwards, especially the larches and spruces, were a sight to see. and the snow-covered lawn itself, oh, how beautiful! archie wondered if the streets of heaven even could be more pure, more dazzlingly white. whick, whick, whick, whir-r-r-r-r! it was a big yellow-billed blackbird, that flew out with startled cry from a small austrian pine tree. as it did so, a cloud of powdery snow rose in the air, showing how hard the frost was. early though it was--only a little past eight--archie found his father and mother in the breakfast-room, and greetings and blessings fell on his head; brief but tender. by-and-bye the tutor came in, looking tired; and archie exulted over him, as cocks crow over a fallen foe, because he was down first. mr walton was a young man of five or six and twenty, and had been in the family for over three years, so he was quite an old friend. moreover, he was a man after the squire's own heart; he was manly, and taught archie manliness, and had a quiet way of helping him out of every difficulty of thought or action. besides, archie and rupert liked him. after breakfast archie went up to see his brother, then downstairs, and straight away out through the servants' hall to the barn-yards. he had showers of blessings, and not a few gifts from the servants; but old scotch kate was most sincere, for this somewhat aged spinster really loved the lad. at the farm-steading he had many friends to see, both hairy and feathered. he found some oats, which he scattered among the last, and laughed to see them scramble, and to hear them talk. well, archie at all events believed firmly that fowls can converse. one very lovely red game bird, came boldly up and pecked his oats from archie's palm. this was the new cock jock, a son of the old bird, which the fox had taken. the ann hen was there too. she was bold, and bonnie, and saucy, and seemed quite to have given up mourning for her lost lord. ann came at archie's call, flew on to his wrist, and after steadying herself and grumbling a little because archie moved his arm too much, she shoved her head and neck into the boy's pocket, and found oats in abundance. that was ann's way of doing business, and she preferred it. the ducks were insolent and noisy; the geese, instead of taking higher views of life, as they are wont to do, bent down their stately necks, and went in for the scramble with the rest. the hen turkeys grumbled a great deal, but got their share nevertheless; while the great gobbler strutted around doing attitudes, and rustling himself, his neck and head blood-red and blue, and every feather as stiff as an oyster-shell. he looked like some indian chief arrayed for the war-path. having hurriedly fed his feathered favourites, archie went bounding off to let out a few dogs. he opened the door and went right into their house, and the consequence was that one of the newfoundlands threw him over in the straw, and licked his face; and the skye terriers came trooping round, and they also paid their addresses to him, some of the young ones jumping over his head, while archie could do nothing for laughing. when he got up he sang out "attention!" and lo! and behold the dogs, every one looking wiser than another, some with their considering-caps on apparently, and their heads held knowingly to one side. "attention!" cried the boy. "i am going to-day to shoot the fox that ran off with the hen ann's husband. i shall want some of you. you bounder, and you little fuss, and you tackier, come." and come those three dogs did, while the rest, with lowered tails and pitiful looks, slunk away to their straw. bounder was an enormous newfoundland, and fuss and tackier were terriers, the former a skye, the latter a very tiny but exceedingly game yorkie. yonder, gun on shoulder, came tall, stately branson, the keeper, clad in velveteen, with gaiters on. branson was a northumbrian, and a grand specimen too. he might have been somewhat slow of speech, but he was not slow to act whenever it came to a scuffle with poachers, and this last was not an unfrequent occurrence. "my gun, branson?" "it's in the kitchen, master archie, clean and ready; and old kate has put a couple of corks in it, for fear it should go off." "oh, it is loaded then--really loaded!" "ay, lad; and i've got to teach you how to carry it. this is your first day on the hill, mind, and a rough one it is." archie soon got his leggings on, and his shot-belt and shooting-cap and everything else, in true sportsman fashion. "what!" he said at the hall door, when he met mr walton, "am i to have my tutor with me _to-day_?" he put strong emphasis on the last word. "you know, mr walton, that i am ten to-day. i suppose i am conceited, but i almost feel a man." his tutor laughed, but by no means offensively. "my dear archie, i _am_ going to the hill; but don't imagine i'm going as your tutor, or to look after you. oh, no! i want to go as your friend." this certainly put a different complexion on the matter. archie considered for a moment, then replied, with charming condescension: "oh, yes, of course, mr walton! you are welcome, i'm sure, to come _as a friend_." chapter three. a day of adventure. if we have any tears all ready to flow, it is satisfactory to know that they will not be required at present. if we have poetic fire and genius, even these gifts may for the time being be held in reservation. no "ode to a dying fox" or "elegy on the death and burial of reynard" will be necessary. for reynard did not die; nor was he shot; at least, not sufficiently shot. in one sense this was a pity. it resulted in mingled humiliation and bitterness for archie and for the dogs. he had pictured to himself a brief moment of triumph when he should return from the chase, bearing in his hand the head of his enemy--the murderer of the ann hen's husband-- and having the brush sticking out of his jacket pocket; return to be crowned, figuratively speaking, with festive laurel by elsie, his sister, and looked upon by all the servants with a feeling of awe as a future nimrod. in another sense it was not a pity; that is, for the fox. this sable gentleman had enjoyed a good run, which made him hungry, and as happy as only a fox can be who knows the road through the woods and wilds to a distant burrow, where a bed of withered weeds awaits him, and where a nice fat hen is hidden. when reynard had eaten his dinner and licked his chops, he laid down to sleep, no doubt laughing in his paw at the boy's futile efforts to capture or kill him, and promising himself the pleasure of a future moonlight visit to burley old farm, from which he should return with the ann hen herself on his shoulder. yes, archie's hunt had been unsuccessful, though the day had not ended without adventure, and he had enjoyed the pleasures of the chase. bounder, the big newfoundland, first took up the scent, and away he went with fuss and tackier at his heels, the others following as well as they could, restraining the dogs by voice and gesture. through the spruce woods, through a patch of pine forest, through a wild tangle of tall, snow-laden furze, out into the open, over a stream, and across a wide stretch of heathery moorland, round quarries and rocks, and once more into a wood. this time it was stunted larch, and in the very centre of it, close by a cairn of stones, bounder said--and both fuss and tackier acquiesced--that reynard had his den. but how to get him out? "you two little chaps get inside," bounder seemed to say. "i'll stand here; and as soon as he bolts, i shall make the sawdust fly out of him, you see!" escape for the fox seemed an impossibility. he had more than one entrance to his den, but all were carefully blocked up by the keeper except his back and front door. bounder guarded the latter, archie went to watch by the former. "keep quiet and cool now, and aim right behind the shoulder." quiet and cool indeed! how could he? under such exciting circumstances, his heart was thumping like a frightened pigeon's, and his cheeks burning with the rush of blood to them. he knelt down with his gun ready, and kept his eyes on the hole. he prayed that reynard might not bolt by the front door, for that would spoil his sport. the terrier made it very warm for the fox in his den. small though the little yorkie was, his valour was wonderful. out in the open reynard could have killed them one by one, but here the battle was unfair, so after a few minutes of a terrible scrimmage the fox concluded to bolt. archie saw his head at the hole, half protruded then drawn back, and his heart thumped now almost audibly. would he come? would he dare it? yes, the fox dared it, and came. he dashed out with a wild rush, like a little hairy hurricane. "aim behind the shoulder!" where was the shoulder? where was anything but a long sable stream of something feathering through the snow? bang! bang! both barrels. and down rolled the fox. yes, no. oh dear, it was poor fuss! the fox was half a mile away in a minute. fuss lost blood that stained the snow brown as it fell on it. and archie shed bitter tears of sorrow and humiliation. "oh, fuss, my dear, dear doggie!" he cried, "_i_ didn't mean to hurt you." the skye terrier was lying on the keeper's knees and having a snow styptic. soon the blood ceased to flow, and fuss licked his young master's hands, and presently got down and ran around and wanted to go to earth again; and though archie felt he could never forgive himself for his awkwardness, he was so happy to see that fuss was not much the worse after all. but there would be no triumphant home-returning; he even began to doubt if ever he would be a sportsman. then branson consoled him, and told him he himself didn't do any better when he first took to the hill. "it is well," said mr walton, laughing, "that you didn't shoot me instead." "ye-es," said archie slowly, looking at fuss. it was evident he was not quite convinced that mr walton was right. "fuss is none the worse," cried branson. "oh, i can tell you it does these scotch dogs good to have a drop or two of lead in them! it makes them all the steadier, you know." about an hour after, to his exceeding delight, archie shot a hare. oh joy! oh day of days! his first hare! he felt a man now, from the top of his astrachan cap to the toe caps of his shooting-boots. bounder picked it up, and brought it and laid it at archie's feet. "good dog! you shall carry it." bounder did so most delightedly. they stopped at an outlying cottage on their way home. it was a long, low, thatched building, close by a wood, a very humble dwelling indeed. a gentle-faced widow woman opened to their knock. she looked scared when she saw them, and drew back. "oh!" she said, "i hope robert hasn't got into trouble again?" "no, no, mrs cooper, keep your mind easy, bob's a' right at present. we just want to eat our bit o' bread and cheese in your sheiling." "and right welcome ye are, sirs. come in to the fire. here's a broom to brush the snow fra your leggins." bounder marched in with the rest, with as much swagger and independence as if the cottage belonged to him. mrs cooper's cat determined to defend her hearth and home against such intrusion, and when bounder approached the former, she stood on her dignity, back arched, tail erect, hair on end from stem to stern, with her ears back, and green fire lurking in her eyes. bounder stood patiently looking at her. he would not put down the hare, and he could not defend himself with it in his mouth; so he was puzzled. pussy, however, brought matters to a crisis. she slapped his face, then bolted right up the chimney. bounder put down the hare now, and gave a big sigh as he lay down beside it. "no, mrs cooper, bob hasn't been at his wicked work for some time. he's been gi'en someone else a turn i s'pose, eh?" "oh, sirs," said the widow, "it's no wi' my will he goes poachin'! if his father's heid were above the sod he daren't do it. but, poor bob, he's all i have in the world, and he works hard--sometimes." branson laughed. it was a somewhat sarcastic laugh; and young archie felt sorry for bob's mother, she looked so unhappy. "ay, mrs cooper, bob works hard sometimes, especially when settin' girns for game. ha! ha! hullo!" he added, "speak of angels and they appear. here comes bob himself!" bob entered, looked defiantly at the keeper, but doffed his cap and bowed to mr walton and archie. "mother," he said, "i'm going out." "not far, bob, lad; dinner's nearly ready." bob had turned to leave, but he wheeled round again almost fiercely. he was a splendid young specimen of a borderer, six feet if an inch, and well-made to boot. no extra flesh, but hard and tough as copper bolts. "denner!" he growled. "ay, denner to be sure--taties and salt! ha! and gentry live on the fat o' the land! if i snare a rabbit, if i dare to catch one o' god's own cattle on god's own hills, i'm a felon; i'm to be taken and put in gaol--shot even if i dare resist! yas, mother, i'll be in to denner," and away he strode. "potatoes and salt!" archie could not help thinking about that. and he was going away to his own bright home and to happiness. he glanced round him at the bare, clay walls, with their few bits of daubs of pictures, and up at the blackened rafters, where a cheese stood--one poor, hard cheese--and on which hung some bacon and onions. he could not repress a sigh, almost as heart-felt as that which bounder gave when he lay down beside the hare. when the keeper and tutor rose to go, archie stopped behind with bounder just a moment. when they came out, bounder had no hare. yet that hare was the first archie had shot, and--well, he _had_ meant to astonish elsie with this proof of his prowess; but the hare was better to be left where it was--he had earned a blessing. the party were in the wood when bob cooper, the poacher, sprang up as if from the earth and confronted them. "i came here a purpose," he said to branson. "this is not your wood; even if it was i wouldn't mind. what did you want at my mother's hoose?" "nothing; and i've nothing to say to ye." "haven't ye? but ye were in our cottage. it's no for nought the glaud whistles." "i don't want to quarrel," said branson, "especially after speakin' to your mother; she's a kindly soul, and i'm sorry for her and for you yoursel', bob." bob was taken aback. he had expected defiance, exasperation, and he was prepared to fight. archie stood trembling as these two athletes looked each other in the eyes. but gradually bob's face softened; he bit his lip and moved impatiently. the allusion to his mother had touched his heart. "i didn't want sich words, branson. i--may be i don't deserve 'em. i-- hang it all, give me a grip o' your hand!" then away went bob as quickly as he had come. branson glanced at his retreating figure one moment. "well," he said, "i never thought i'd shake hands wi' bob cooper! no matter; better please a fool than fecht 'im." "branson!" "yes, master archie." "i don't think bob's a fool; and i'm sure that, bad as he is, he loves his mother." "quite right, archie," said mr walton. archie met his father at the gate, and ran towards him to tell him all his adventures about the fox and the hare. but bob cooper and everybody else was forgotten when he noticed what and whom he had behind him. the "whom" was branson's little boy, peter; the "what" was one of the wildest-looking--and, for that matter, one of the wickedest-looking-- shetland ponies it is possible to imagine. long-haired, shaggy, droll, and daft; but these adjectives do not half describe him. "why, father, wherever--" "he's your birthday present, archie." the boy actually flushed red with joy. his eyes sparkled as he glanced from his father to the pony and back at his father again. "dad," he said at last, "i know now what old kate means about 'her cup being full.' father, my cup overflows!" well, archie's eyes were pretty nearly overflowing anyhow. chapter four. in the old castle tower. they were all together that evening in the green parlour as usual, and everybody was happy and merry. even rupert was sitting up and laughing as much as elsie. the clatter of tongues prevented them hearing mary's tapping at the door; and the carpet being so thick and soft, she was not seen until right in the centre of the room. "why, mary," cried elsie, "i got such a start, i thought you were a ghost!" mary looks uneasily around her. "there be one ghost, miss elsie, comes out o' nights, and walks about the old castle." "was that what you came in to tell us, mary?" "oh, no, sir! if ye please, bob cooper is in the yard, and he wants to speak to master archie. i wouldn't let him go if i were you, ma'am." archie's mother smiled. mary was a privileged little parlour maiden, and ventured at times to make suggestions. "go and see what he wants, dear," said his mother to archie. it was a beautiful clear moonlight night, with just a few white snow-laden clouds lying over the woods, no wind and never a hush save the distant and occasional yelp of a dog. "bob cooper!" "that's me, master archie. i couldn't rest till i'd seen ye the night. the hare--" "oh! that's really nothing, bob cooper!" "but allow me to differ. it's no' the hare altogether. i know where to find fifty. it was the way it was given. look here, lad, and this is what i come to say, branson and you have been too much for bob cooper. the day i went to that wood to thrash him, and i'd hae killed him, an i could. ha! ha! i shook hands with him! archie broadbent, your father's a gentleman, and they say you're a chip o' t'old block. i believe 'em, and look, see, lad, i'll never be seen in your preserves again. tell branson so. there's my hand on't. nay, never be afear'd to touch it. good-night. i feel better now." and away strode the poacher, and archie could hear the sound of his heavy tread crunching through the snow long after he was out of sight. "you seem to have made a friend, archie," said his father, when the boy reported the interview. "a friend," added mr walton with a quiet smile, "that i wouldn't be too proud of." "well," said the squire, "certainly bob cooper is a rough nut, but who knows what his heart may be like?" archie's room in the tower was opened in state next day. old kate herself had lit fires in it every night for a week before, though she never would go up the long dark stair without peter. peter was only a mite of a boy, but wherever he went, fuss, the skye terrier, accompanied him, and it was universally admitted that no ghost in its right senses would dare to face fuss. elsie was there of course, and rupert too, though he had to be almost carried up by stalwart branson. but what a glorious little room it was when you were in it! a more complete boy's own room could scarcely be imagined. it was a _beau ideal_; at least rupert and archie and elsie thought so, and even mr walton and branson said the same. let me see now, i may as well try to describe it, but much must be left to imagination. it was not a very big room, only about twelve feet square; for although the tower appeared very large from outside, the abnormal thickness of its walls detracted from available space inside it. there was one long window on each side, and a chair and small table could be placed on the sill of either. but this was curtained off at night, when light came from a huge lamp that depended from the ceiling, and the rays from which fought for preference with those from the roaring fire on the stone hearth. the room was square. a door, also curtained, gave entrance from the stairway at one corner, and at each of two other corners were two other doors leading into turret chambers, and these tiny, wee rooms were very delightful, because you were out beyond the great tower when you sat in them, and their slits of windows granted you a grand view of the charming scenery everywhere about. the furniture was rustic in the extreme--studiously so. there was a tall rocking-chair, a great dais or sofa, and a recline for rupert--"poor rupert" as he was always called--the big chair was the guest's seat. the ornaments on the walls had been principally supplied by branson. stuffed heads of foxes, badgers, and wild cats, with any number of birds' and beasts' skins, artistically mounted. there were also heads of horned deer, bows and arrows--these last were archie's own--and shields and spears that uncle ramsay had brought home from savage wars in africa and australia. the dais was covered with bear skins, and there was quite a quantity of skins on the floor instead of a carpet. so the whole place looked primeval and romantic. the bookshelf was well supplied with readable tales, and a harp stood in a corner, and on this, young though she was, elsie could already play. the guest to-night was old kate. she sat in the tall chair in a corner opposite the door, branson occupied a seat near her, rupert was on his recline, and archie and elsie on a skin, with little peter nursing wounded fuss in a corner. that was the party. but archie had made tea, and handed it round; and sitting there with her cup in her lap, old kate really looked a strange, weird figure. her face was lean and haggard, her eyes almost wild, and some half-grey hair peeped from under an uncanny-looking cap of black crape, with long depending strings of the same material. old kate was housekeeper and general female factotum. she was really a distant relation of the squire, and so had it very much her own way at burley old farm. she came originally from "just ayant the border," and had a wealth of old-world stories to tell, and could sing queer old bits of ballads too, when in the humour. old kate, however, said she could not sing to-night, for she felt as yet unused to the place; and whether they (the boys) believed in ghosts or not she (kate) did, and so, she said, had her father before her. but she told stories--stories of the bloody raids of long, long ago, when northumbria and the scottish borders were constantly at war--stories that kept her hearers enthralled while they listened, and to which the weird looks and strange voice of the narrator lent a peculiar charm. old kate was just in the very midst of one of these when, twang! one of the strings of elsie's harp broke. it was a very startling sound indeed; for as it went off it seemed to emit a groan that rang through the chamber, and died away in the vaulted roof. elsie crept closer to archie, and peter with fuss drew nearer the fire. the ancient dame, after being convinced that the sound was nothing uncanny, proceeded with her narrative. it was a long one, with an old house in it by the banks of a winding river in the midst of woods and wilds--a house that, if its walls had been able to speak, could have told many a marrow-freezing story of bygone times. there was a room in this house that was haunted. old kate was just coming to this, and to the part of her tale on which the ghosts on a certain night of the year always appeared in this room, and stood over a dark stain in the centre of the floor. "and ne'er a ane," she was saying, "could wash that stain awa'. weel, bairns, one moonlicht nicht, and at the deadest hoor o' the nicht, nothing would please the auld laird but he maun leave his chaimber and go straight along the damp, dreary, long corridor to the door o' the hauntid room. it was half open, and the moon's licht danced in on the fleer. he was listening--he was looking--" but at this very moment, when old kate had lowered her voice to a whisper, and the tension at her listeners' heart-strings was the greatest, a soft, heavy footstep was heard coming slowly, painfully as it might be, up the turret stairs. to say that every one was alarmed would but poorly describe their feelings. old kate's eyes seemed as big as watch-glasses. elsie screamed, and clung to archie. "who--oo--'s--who's there?" cried branson, and his voice sounded fearful and far away. no answer; but the steps drew nearer and nearer. then the curtain was pushed aside, and in dashed--what? a ghost?--no, only honest great bounder. bounder had found out there was something going on, and that fuss was up there, and he didn't see why he should be left out in the cold. that was all; but the feeling of relief when he did appear was unprecedented. old kate required another cup of tea after that. then branson got out his fiddle from a green baize bag; and if he had not played those merry airs, i do not believe that old kate would have had the courage to go downstairs that night at all. archie's pony was great fun at first. the best of it was that he had never been broken in. the squire, or rather his bailiff, had bought him out of a drove; so he was, literally speaking, as wild as the hills, and as mad as a march hare. but he soon knew archie and elsie, and, under branson's supervision, scallowa was put into training on the lawn. he was led, he was walked, he was galloped. but he reared, and kicked, and rolled whenever he thought of it, and yet there was not a bit of vice about him. spring had come, and early summer itself, before scallowa permitted archie to ride him, and a week or two after this the difficulty would have been to have told which of the two was the wilder and dafter, archie or scallowa. they certainly had managed to establish the most amicable relations. whatever scallowa thought, archie agreed to, and _vice versa_, and the pair were never out of mischief. of course archie was pitched off now and then, but he told elsie he did not mind it, and in fact preferred it to constant uprightness: it was a change. but the pony never ran away, because archie always had a bit of carrot in his pocket to give him when he got up off the ground. mr walton assured archie that these carrots accounted for his many tumbles. and there really did seem to be a foundation of truth about this statement. for of course the pony had soon come to know that it was to his interest to throw his rider, and acted accordingly. so after a time archie gave the carrot-payment up, and matters were mended. it was only when school was over that archie went for a canter, unless he happened to get up very early in the morning for the purpose of riding. and this he frequently did, so that, before the summer was done, scallowa and archie were as well known over all the countryside as the postman himself. archie's pony was certainly not very long in the legs, but nevertheless the leaps he could take were quite surprising. on the second summer after archie got this pony, both horse and rider were about perfect in their training, and in the following winter he appeared in the hunting-field with the greatest _sang-froid_, although many of the farmers, on their weight-carrying hunters, could have jumped over archie, scallowa, and all. the boy had a long way to ride to the hounds, and he used to start off the night before. he really did not care where he slept. old kate used to make up a packet of sandwiches for him, and this would be his dinner and breakfast. scallowa he used to tie up in some byre, and as often as not archie would turn in beside him among the straw. in the morning he would finish the remainder of kate's sandwiches, make his toilet in some running stream or lake, and be as fresh as a daisy when the meet took place. both he and scallowa were somewhat uncouth-looking. elsie, his sister, had proposed that he should ride in scarlet, it would look so romantic and pretty; but archie only laughed, and said he would not feel at home in such finery, and his "eider duck"--as he sometimes called the pony-- would not know him. "besides, elsie," he said, "lying down among straw with scarlets on wouldn't improve them." but old kate had given him a birthday present of a little scotch glengarry cap with a real eagle's feather, and he always wore this in the hunting-field. he did so for two reasons; first, it pleased old kate; and, secondly, the cap stuck to his head; no breeze could blow it off. it was not long before archie was known in the field as the "little demon huntsman." and, really, had you seen scallowa and he feathering across a moor, his bonnet on the back of his head, and the pony's immense mane blowing straight back in the wind, you would have thought the title well earned. in a straight run the pony could not keep up with the long-legged horses; but archie and he could dash through a wood, and even swim streams, and take all manner of short cuts, so that he was always in at the death. the most remarkable trait in archie's riding was that he could take flying leaps from heights: only a shetland pony could have done this. archie knew every yard of country, and he rather liked heading his lilliputian nag right away for a knoll or precipice, and bounding off it like a roebuck or scottish deerhound. the first time he was observed going straight for a bank of this kind he created quite a sensation. "the boy will be killed!" was the cry, and every lady then drew rein and held her breath. away went scallowa, and they were on the bank, in the air, and landed safely, and away again in less time that it takes me to tell of the exploit. the secret of the lad's splendid management of the pony was this: he loved scallowa, and scallowa knew it. he not only loved the little horse, but studied his ways, so he was able to train him to do quite a number of tricks, such as lying down "dead" to command, kneeling to ladies--for archie was a gallant lad--trotting round and round circus-fashion, and ending every performance by coming and kissing his master. between you and me, reader, a bit of carrot had a good deal to do with the last trick, if not with the others also. it occurred to this bold boy once that he might be able to take scallowa up the dark tower stairs to the boy's own room. the staircase was unusually wide, and the broken stones in it had been repaired with logs of wood. he determined to try; but he practised riding him blindfolded first. then one day he put him at the stairs; he himself went first with the bridle in his hand. what should he do if he failed? that is a question he did not stop to answer. one thing was quite certain, scallowa could not turn and go down again. on they went, the two of them, all in the dark, except that now and then a slit in the wall gave them a little light and, far beneath, a pretty view of the country. on and on, and up and up, till within ten feet of the top. here scallowa came to a dead stop, and the conversation between archie and his steed, although the latter did not speak english, might have been as follows: "come on, 'eider duck'!" "not a step farther, thank you." "come on, old horsie! you can't turn, you know." "no; not another step if i stay here till doomsday in the afternoon. going upstairs becomes monotonous after a time. no; i'll be shot if i budge!" "you'll be shot if you don't. gee up, i say; gee up!" "gee up yourself; i'm going to sleep." "i say, scallowa, look here." "what's that, eh? a bit of carrot? oh, here goes?" and in a few seconds more scallowa was in the room, and had all he could eat of cakes and carrots. archie was so delighted with his success that he must go to the castle turret, and halloo for branson and old kate to come and see what he had got in the tower. old kate's astonishment knew no bounds, and branson laughed till his sides were sore. bounder, the newfoundland, appeared also to appreciate the joke, and smiled from lug to lug. "how will you get him down?" "carrots," said archie; "carrots, branson. the 'duck' will do anything for carrots." the "duck," however, was somewhat nervous at first, and half-way downstairs even the carrots appeared to have lost their charm. while archie was wondering what he should do now, a loud explosion seemed to shake the old tower to its very foundation. it was only bounder barking in the rear of the pony. but the sound had the desired effect, and down came the "duck," and away went archie, so that in a few minutes both were out on the grass. and here scallowa must needs relieve his feelings by lying down and rolling; while great bounder, as if he had quite appreciated all the fun of the affair, and must do something to allay his excitement, went tearing round in a circle, as big dogs do, so fast that it was almost impossible to see anything of him distinctly. he was a dark shape _et preterea nihil_. but after a time scallowa got near to the stair, which only proves that there is nothing in reason you cannot teach a shetland pony, if you love him and understand him. the secret lies in the motto, "fondly and firmly." but, as already hinted, a morsel of carrot comes in handy at times. chapter five. "boys will be boys." bob cooper was as good as his word, which he had pledged to archie on that night at burley old farm, and branson never saw him again in the squire's preserves. nor had he ever been obliged to appear before the squire himself--who was now a magistrate--to account for any acts of trespass in pursuit of game on the lands of other lairds. but this does not prove that bob had given up poaching. he was discreetly silent about this matter whenever he met archie. he had grown exceedingly fond of the lad, and used to be delighted when he called at his mother's cottage on his "eider duck." there was always a welcome waiting archie here, and whey to drink, which, it must be admitted, is very refreshing on a warm summer's day. well, bob on these occasions used to show archie how to make flies, or busk hooks, and gave him a vast deal of information about outdoor life and sport generally. the subject of poaching was hardly ever broached; only once, when he and archie were talking together in the little cottage, bob himself volunteered the following information: "the gentry folks, master archie, think me a terrible man; and they wonder i don't go and plough, or something. la! they little know i've been brought up in the hills. sport i must hae. i couldna live away from nature. but i'm never cruel. heigho! i suppose i must leave the country, and seek for sport in wilder lands, where the man o' money doesn't trample on the poor. only one thing keeps me here." he glanced out of the window as he spoke to where his old mother was cooking dinner _al fresco_--boiling a pot as the gipsy does, hung from a tripod. "i know, i know," said archie. "how old are you now, master archie?" "going on for fourteen." "is _that_ all? why ye're big eno' for a lad o' seventeen!" this was true. archie was wondrous tall, and wondrous brown and handsome. his hardy upbringing and constant outdoor exercise, in summer's shine or winter's snow, fully accounted for his stature and looks. "i'm almost getting too big for my pony." "ah! no, lad; shetlands'll carry most anything." "well, i must be going, bob cooper. good-bye." "good-bye, master archie. ah! lad, if there were more o' your kind and your father's in the country, there would be fewer bad men like--like me." "i don't like to hear you saying that, bob. couldn't you be a good man if you liked? you're big enough." the poacher laughed. "yes," he replied, "i'm big enough; but, somehow, goodness don't strike right home to me like. it don't come natural--that's it." "my brother rupert says it is so easy to be good, if you read and pray god to teach and help you." "ah, master archie, your brother is good himself, but he doesn't know all." "my brother rupert bade me tell you that; but, oh, bob, how nice he can speak. i can't. i can fish and shoot, and ride 'eider duck;' but i can't say things so pretty as he can. well, good-bye again." "good-bye again, and tell your brother that i can't be good all at one jump like, but i'll begin to try mebbe. so long." archie broadbent might have been said to have two kinds of home education; one was thoroughly scholastic, the other very practical indeed. the squire was one in a hundred perhaps. he was devoted to his farm, and busied himself in the field, manually as well as orally. i mean to say that he was of such an active disposition that, while superintending and giving advice and orders, he put his hand to the wheel himself. so did mr walton, and whether it was harvest-time or haymaking, you would have found squire broadbent, the tutor, and archie hard at it, and even little elsie doing a little. i would not like to say that the squire was a radical, but he certainly was no believer in the benefits of too much class distinction. he thought burns was right when he said-- "a man's a man for a' that." was he any the less liked or less respected by his servants, because he and his boy tossed hay in the same field with them? i do not think so, and i know that the work always went more merrily on when they were there; and that laughing and even singing could be heard all day long. moreover, there was less beer drank, and more tea. the squire supplied both liberally, and any man might have which he chose. consequently there was less, far less, tired-headedness and languor in the evening. why, it was nothing uncommon for the lads and lasses of burley old farm to meet together on the lawn, after a hard day's toil, and dance for hours to the merry notes of branson's fiddle. we have heard of model farms; this squire's was one; but the servants, wonderful to say, were contented. there was never such a thing as grumbling heard from one year's end to the other. christmas too was always kept in the good, grand old style. even a yule log, drawn from the wood, was considered a property of the performances; and as for good cheer, why there was "lashins" of it, as an irishman would say, and fun "galore," to borrow a word from beyond the border. mr walton was a scholarly person, though you might not have thought so, had you seen him mowing turnips with his coat off. he, however, taught nothing to archie or rupert that might not have some practical bearing on his after life. such studies as mathematics and algebra were dull, in a manner of speaking; latin was taught because no one can understand english without it; french and german conversationally; geography not by rote, but thoroughly; and everything else was either very practical and useful, or very pleasant. music archie loved, but did not care to play; his father did not force him; but poor rupert played the zither. he loved it, and took to it naturally. rupert got stronger as he grew older, and when archie was fourteen and he thirteen, the physician gave good hopes; and he was even able to walk by himself a little. but to some extent he would be "poor rupert" as long as he lived. he read and thought far more than archie, and--let me whisper it--he prayed more fervently. "oh, roup," archie would say, "i should like to be as good as you! somehow, i don't feel to need to pray so much, and to have the lord jesus so close to me." it was a strange conceit this, but rupert's answer was a good one. "yes, archie, i need comfort more; but mind you, brother, the day may come when you'll want comfort of this kind too." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ old kate really was a queer old witch of a creature, superstitious to a degree. here is an example: one day she came rushing--without taking time to knock even--into the breakfast parlour. "oh, mistress broadbent, what a ghast i've gotten!" "dear me!" said the squire's wife; "sit down and tell us. what is it, poor kate?" "oh! oh!" she sighed. "nae wonder my puir legs ached. oh! sirs! sirs! "ye ken my little pantry? well, there's been a board doon on the fleer for ages o' man, and to-day it was taken out to be scrubbit, and what think ye was reveeled?" "i couldn't guess." "words, 'oman; words, printed and painted on the timmer--'_sacred to the memory of dinah brown, aged _.' a tombstone, 'oman--a wooden gravestone, and me standin' on't a' these years." here the squire was forced to burst out into a hearty laugh, for which his wife reprimanded him by a look. there was no mistake about the "wooden tombstone," but that this was the cause of old kate's rheumatism one might take the liberty to doubt. kate was a staunch believer in ghosts, goblins, fairies, kelpies, brownies, spunkies, and all the rest of the supernatural family; and i have something to relate in connection with this, though it is not altogether to the credit of my hero, archie. old kate and young peter were frequent visitors to the room in the tower, for the tea archie made, and the fires he kept on, were both most excellent in their way. "boys will be boys," and archie was a little inclined to practical joking. it made him laugh, so he said, and laughing made one fat. it happened that, one dark winter's evening, old kate was invited up into the tower, and branson with peter came also. archie volunteered a song, and branson played many a fine old air on his fiddle, so that the first part of the evening passed away pleasantly and even merrily enough. old kate drank cup after cup of tea as she sat in that weird old chair, and, by-and-by, archie, the naughty boy that he was, led the conversation round to ghosts. the ancient dame was in her element now; she launched forth into story after story, and each was more hair-stirring than its predecessor. elsie and archie occupied their favourite place on a bear's skin in front of the low fire; and while kate still droned on, and branson listened with eyes and mouth wide open, the boy might have been noticed to stoop down, and whisper something in his sister's ear. almost immediately after a rattling of chains could be heard in one of the turrets. both kate and branson started, and the former could not be prevailed upon to resume her story till archie lit a candle and walked all round the room, drawing back the turret curtains to show no one was there. once again old kate began, and once again chains were heard to rattle, and a still more awesome sound followed--a long, low, deep-bass groan, while at the same time, strange to say, the candle in archie's hand burnt blue. to add to the fearsomeness of the situation, while the chain continued to rattle, and the groaning now and then, there was a very appreciable odour of sulphur in the apartment. this was the climax. old kate screamed, and the big keeper, branson, fell on his knees in terror. even elsie, though she had an inkling of what was to happen, began to feel afraid. "there now, granny," cried archie, having carried the joke far enough, "here is the groaning ghost." as he spoke he produced a pair of kitchen bellows, with a musical reed in the pipe, which he proceeded to sound in old kate's very face, looking a very mischievous imp while he did so. "oh," said old kate, "what a scare the laddie has given me. but the chain?" archie pulled a string, and the chain rattled again. "and the candle? that was na canny." "a dust of sulphur in the wick, granny." big branson looked ashamed of himself, and old kate herself began to smile once more. "but how could ye hae the heart to scare an old wife sae, master archie?" "oh, granny, we got up the fun just to show you there were no such things as ghosts. rupert says--and he should know, because he's always reading--that ghosts are always rats or something." "ye maunna frichten me again, laddie. will ye promise?" "yes, granny, there's my hand on it. now sit down and have another cup of tea, and elsie will play and sing." elsie could sing now, and sweet young voice she had, that seemed to carry you to happier lands. branson always said it made him feel a boy again, wandering through the woods in summer, or chasing the butterflies over flowery beds. and so, albeit archie had carried his practical joke out to his own satisfaction, if not to that of every one else, this evening, like many others that had come before it, and came after it, passed away pleasantly enough. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was in the spring of the same year, and during the easter holidays, that a little london boy came down to reside with his aunt, who lived in one of archie's father's cottages. young harry brown had been sent to the country for the express purpose of enjoying himself, and set about this business forthwith. he made up to archie; in fact, he took so many liberties, and talked to him so glibly, and with so little respect, that, although archie had imbued much of his father's principles as regards liberalism, he did not half like it. perhaps, after all, it was only the boy's manner, for he had never been to the country at all before, and looked upon every one--archie included--who did not know london, as jolly green. but archie did not appreciate it, and, like the traditional worm, he turned, and once again his love for practical joking got the better of his common-sense. "teach us somefink," said harry one day, turning his white face up. he was older, perhaps, than archie, but decidedly smaller. "teach us somefink, and when you comes to vitechapel to wisit me, i'll teach you summut. my eye, won't yer stare!" the idea of this white-chafted, unwholesome-looking cad, expecting that _he_, squire broadbent's son, would visit _him_ in whitechapel! but archie managed to swallow his wrath and pocket his pride for the time being. "what shall i teach you, eh? i suppose you know that potatoes don't grow on trees, nor geese upon gooseberry-bushes?" "yes; i know that taters is dug out of the hearth. i'm pretty fly for a young un." "can you ride?" "no." "well, meet me here to-morrow at the same time, and i'll bring my 'duck.'" "look 'ere, johnnie raw, ye said '_ride_,' not '_swim_.' a duck teaches swimmin', not ridin'. none o' yer larks now!" next day archie swept down upon the cockney in fine form, meaning to impress him. the cockney was not much impressed; i fear he was not very impressionable. "my heye, johnnie raw," he roared, "vere did yer steal the moke?" "look you here, young whitechapel, you'll have to guard that tongue of yours a little, else communications will be cut. do you see?" "it _is_ a donkey, ain't it, johnnie?" "come on to the field and have a ride." five minutes afterwards the young cockney on the "eider duck's" back was tearing along the field at railway speed. john gilpin's ride was nothing to it, nor tam o'shanter's on his grey mare, meg! both these worthies had stuck to the saddle, but this horseman rode upon the neck of the steed. scallowa stopped short at the gate, but the boy flew over. archie found his friend rubbing himself, and looking very serious, and he felt happier now. "call that 'ere donkey a heider duck? h'm? i allers thought heider ducks was soft! "one to you, johnnie. i don't want to ride hany more." "what else shall i teach you?" "hey?" "come, i'll show you over the farm." "honour bright? no larks!" "yes; no larks!" "say honour." "honour." young whitechapel had not very much faith in his guide, however; but he saw more country wonders that day than ever he could have dreamt of; while his strange remarks kept archie continually laughing. next day the two boys went bird-nesting, and really archie was very mischievous. he showed him a hoody-crow's nest, which he represented as a green plover's or lapwing's; and a blackbird's nest in a furze-bush, which he told harry was a magpie's; and so on, and so forth, till at last he got tired of the cheeky cockney, and sent him off on a mile walk to a cairn of stones, on which he told him crows sometimes sat and "might have a nest." then archie threw himself on the moss, took out a book, and began to read. he was just beginning to repent of his conduct to harry brown, and meant to go up to him like a man when he returned, and crave his forgiveness. but somehow, when harry came back he had so long a face, that wicked archie burst out laughing, and forgot all about his good resolve. "what shall i teach you next?" said archie. "draw it mild, johnnie; it's 'arry's turn. it's the boy's turn to teach you summut. shall we 'ave it hout now wi' the raw uns? bunches o' fives i means. hey?" "i really don't understand you." "ha! ha! ha! i knowed yer was a green 'un, johnnie. can yer fight? hey? 'cause i'm spoilin' for a row." and harry brown threw off his jacket, and began to dance about in terribly knowing attitudes. "you had better put on your clothes again," said archie. "fight _you_? why i could fling you over the fishpond." "ah! i dessay; but flingin' ain't fightin', johnnie. come, there's no getting hout of it. it ain't the first young haristocrat i've frightened; an' now you're afraid." that was enough for archie. and the next moment the lads were at it. but archie had met his match; he went down a dozen times. he remained down the last time. "it is wonderful," he said. "i quite admire you. but i've had enough; i'm beaten." "spoken like a plucked 'un. haven't swallowed yer teeth, hey?" "no; but i'll have a horrid black-eye." "raw beef, my boy; raw beef." "well; i confess i've caught a tartar." "an' i caught a crab yesterday. wot about your eider duck? my heye! johnnie, i ain't been able to sit down conweniently since. i say, johnnie?" "well." "friends, hey?" "all right." then the two shook hands, and young whitechapel said if archie would buy two pairs of gloves he would show him how it was done. so archie did, and became an apt pupil in the noble art of self-defence; which may be used at times, but never abused. however, archie broadbent never forgot that lesson in the wood. chapter six. "johnnie's got the grit in him." on the day of his fight with young harry in the wood, archie returned home to find both his father and mr walton in the drawing-room alone. his father caught the lad by the arm. "been tumbling again off that pony of yours?" "no, father, worse. i'm sure i've done wrong." he then told them all about the practical joking, and the _finale_. "well," said the squire, "there is only one verdict. what do you say, walton?" "serve him right!" "oh, i know that," said archie; "but isn't it lowering our name to keep such company?" "it isn't raising our name, nor growing fresh laurels either, for you to play practical jokes on this poor london lad. but as to being in his company, archie, you may have to be in worse yet. but listen! i want my son to behave as a gentleman, even in low company. remember that boy, and despise no one, whatever be his rank in life. now, go and beg your mother's and sister's forgiveness for having to appear before them with a black-eye." "archie!" his father called after him, as he was leaving the room. "yes, dad?" "how long do you think it will be before you get into another scrape?" "i couldn't say for certain, father. i'm sure i don't want to get into any. they just seem to come." "there's no doubt about one thing, mr broadbent," said the tutor smiling, when archie had left. "and that is?" "he's what everybody says he is, a chip of the old block. headstrong, and all that; doesn't look before he leaps." "don't _i_, walton?" "squire, i'm not going to flatter you. you know you don't." "well, my worthy secretary," said the squire, "i'm glad you speak so plainly. i can always come to you for advice when--" "when you want to," said walton, laughing. "all right, mind you do. i'm proud to be your factor, as well as tutor to your boys. now what about that chillingham bull? you won't turn him into the west field?" "why not? the field is well fenced. all our picturesque beasts are there. he is only a show animal, and he is really only a baby." "true, the bull is not much more than a baby, but--" the baby in question was the gift of a noble friend to squire broadbent; and so beautiful and picturesque did he consider him, that he would have permitted him to roam about the lawns, if there did not exist the considerable probability that he would play battledore and shuttlecock with the visitors, and perhaps toss old kate herself over the garden wall. so he was relegated to the west field. this really was a park to all appearance. a few pet cattle grazed in it, a flock of sheep, and a little herd of deer. they all lived amicably together, and sought shelter under the same spreading trees from the summer's sun. the cattle were often changed, so were the sheep, but the deer were as much fixtures as the trees themselves. the changing of sheep or cattle meant fine fun for archie. he would be there in all his glory, doing the work that was properly that of herdsmen and collie dogs. there really was not a great deal of need for collies when archie was there, mounted on his wild shetland pony, his darling "eider duck" scallowa; and it was admittedly a fine sight to see the pair of them--they seemed made for each other--feathering away across the field, heading and turning the drove. at such times he would be armed with a long whip, and occasionally a beast more rampageous than the rest would separate itself from the herd, and, with tail erect and head down, dash madly over the grass. this would be just the test for archie's skill that he longed for. away he would go at a glorious gallop; sometimes riding neck and neck with the runaway and plying the whip, at other times getting round and well ahead across the beast's bows with shout and yell, but taking care to manoeuvre so as to steer clear of an ugly rush. in this field always dwelt one particular sheep. it had, like the pony, been a birthday present, and, like the pony, it hailed from the _ultima thule_ of the british north. if ever there was a demon sheep in existence, surely this was the identical quadruped. tall and lank, and daft-looking, it possessed almost the speed of a red deer, and was as full of mischief as ever sheep could be. the worst of the beast was, that he led all the other woolly-backs into mischief; and whether it proposed a stampede round the park, ending with a charge through the ranks of the deer, or a well-planned attempt at escape from the field altogether, the other sheep were always willing to join, and sometimes the deer themselves. archie loved that sheep next to the pony, and there were times when he held a meet of his own. mousa, as he called him, would be carted, after the fashion of the queen's deer, to a part of the estate, miles from home; but it was always for home that mousa headed, though not in a true line. no, this wonderful sheep would take to the woods as often as not, and scamper over the hills and far away, so that archie had many a fine run; and the only wonder is that scallowa and he did not break their necks. the young chillingham bull was as beautiful as a dream--a nightmare for instance. he was not very large, but sturdy, active, and strong. milk-white, or nearly so, with black muzzle and crimson ears inside, and, you might say, eyes as well. pure white black-tipped horns, erect almost, and a bit of a mane which added to his picturesqueness and wild beauty. his name was lord glendale, and his pedigree longer than the laird o' cockpen's. now, had his lordship behaved himself, he certainly would have been an ornament to the society of westfield. but he wouldn't or couldn't. baby though he was, he attempted several times to vivisect his companions; and one day, thinking perhaps that mousa did not pay him sufficient respect, his lordship made a bold attempt to throw him over the moon. so it was determined that lord glendale should be removed from westfield. at one end of the park was a large, strong fence, and branson and others came to the conclusion that glendale would be best penned, and have a ring put in his nose. yes, true; but penning a chillingham wild baby-bull is not so simple as penning a letter. there is more _present_ risk about the former operation, if not _future_. "well, it's got to be done," said branson. "yes," said archie, who was not far off, "it's got to be done." "oh, master archie, you _can't_ be in this business!" "can't i, branson? you'll see." and branson did see. he saw archie ride into the west field on scallowa, both of them looking in splendid form. men with poles and ropes and dogs followed, some of the former appearing not to relish the business by any means. however, it would probably be an easier job than they thought. the plan would be to get the baby-bull in the centre of the other cattle, manoeuvre so as to keep him there, and so pen all together.--this might have been done had archie kept away, but it so happened that his lordship was on particularly good terms with himself this morning. moreover, he had never seen a shetland pony before. what more natural, therefore, than a longing on the part of lord glendale to examine the little horse _inside_ as well as out? "go gently now, lads," cried branson. "keep the dogs back, peter, we must na' alarm them." lord glendale did not condescend to look at branson. he detached himself quietly from the herd, and began to eat up towards the spot where archie and his "duck" were standing like some pretty statue. eating up towards him is the correct expression, as everyone who knows bulls will admit; for his lordship did not want to alarm archie till he was near enough for the grand rush. then the fun would commence, and lord glendale would see what the pony was made of. while he kept eating, or rather pretending to eat, his sly red eyes were fastened on archie. now, had it been harry brown, the whitechapel boy, this ruse on the part of the baby-bull might have been successful. but archie broadbent was too old for his lordship. he pretended, however, to take no notice; but just as the bull was preparing for the rush he laughed derisively, flicked lord glendale with the whip, and started. lord glendale roared with anger and disappointment. "oh, master archie," cried branson, "you shouldn't have done that!" now the play began in earnest. away went archie on scallowa, and after him tore the bull. archie's notion was to tire the brute out, and there was some very pretty riding and manoeuvring between the two belligerents. perhaps the bull was all too young to be easily tired, for the charges he made seemed to increase in fierceness each time, but archie easily eluded him. branson drove the cattle towards the pen, and got them inside, then he and his men concentrated all their attention on the combatants. "the boy'll be killed as sure as a gun!" cried the keeper. archie did not think so, evidently; and it is certain he had his wits about him, for presently he rode near enough to shout: "ease up a hurdle from the back of the pen, and stand by to open it as i ride through." the plan was a bold one, and branson saw through it at once. down he ran with his men, and a back hurdle was loosened. "all right!" he shouted. and now down thundered scallowa and archie, the bull making a beautiful second. in a minute or less he had entered the pen, but this very moment the style of the fight changed somewhat; for had not the attention of everyone been riveted on the race, they might have seen the great newfoundland dashing over the field, and just as lord glendale was entering the pen, bounder pinned him short by the tail. the brute roared with pain and wheeled round. meanwhile archie had escaped on the pony, and the back hurdle was put up again. but how about the new phase the fight had taken? once more the boy's quick-wittedness came to the front. he leapt off the pony and back into the pen, calling aloud, "bounder! bounder! bounder!" in rushed the obedient dog, and after him came the bull; up went the hurdle, and off went archie! but, alas! for the unlucky bounder. he was tossed right over into the field a moment afterwards, bleeding frightfully from a wound in his side. to all appearance bounder was dead. in an agony of mind the boy tried to staunch the blood with his handkerchief; and when at last the poor dog lifted his head, and licked his young master's face, the relief to his feelings was so great that he burst into tears. archie was only a boy after all, though a bold and somewhat mischievous one. bounder now drank water brought from a stream in a hat. he tried to get up, but was too weak to walk, so he was lifted on to scallowa's broad back and held there, and thus they all returned to burley old farm. so ended the adventure with the baby-bull of chillingham. the ring was put in his nose next day, and i hope it did not hurt much. but old kate had bounder as a patient in the kitchen corner for three whole weeks. a day or two after the above adventure, and just as the squire was putting on his coat in the hall, who should march up to the door and knock but harry brown himself. most boys would have gone to the backdoor, but shyness was not one of harry's failings. "'ullo!" he said; for the door opened almost on the instant he knocked, "yer don't take long to hopen to a chap then." "no," said squire broadbent, smiling down on the lad; "fact is, boy, i was just going out." "going for a little houting, hey? is 'pose now you're johnnie's guv'nor?" "i think i know whom you refer to. master archie, isn't it? and you're the little london lad?" "i don't know nuffink about no harchies. p'r'aps it _is_ harchibald. but i allers calls my friends wot they looks like. he looks like johnnie. kinsevently, guv'nor, he _is_ johnnie to me. d'ye twig?" "i think i do," said squire broadbent, laughing; "and you want to see my boy?" "vot i vants is this 'ere. johnnie is a rare game un. 'scuse me, guv'nor, but johnnie's got the grit in him, and i vant to say good-bye; nuffink else, guv'nor." here harry actually condescended to point a finger at his lip by way of salute, and just at the same moment archie himself came round the corner. he looked a little put out, but his father only laughed, and he saw it was all right. these were harry's last words: "good-bye, then. you've got the grit in ye, johnnie. and if hever ye vants a friend, telegraph to 'arry brown, esq., of vitechapel, 'cos ye know, johnnie, the king may come in the cadger's vay. adoo. so long. blue-lights, and hoff we goes." chapter seven. "they're up to some black work to-night." another summer flew all too fast away at burley old farm and castle tower. the song of birds was hushed in the wild woods, even the corn-crake had ceased its ventriloquistic notes, and the plaintive wee lilt of the yellow-hammer was heard no more. the corn grew ripe on braeland and field, was cut down, gathered, stooked, and finally carted away. the swallows flew southwards, but the peewits remained in droves, and the starlings took up their abode with the sheep. squires and sturdy farmers might now have been met tramping, gun in hand, over the stubble, through the dark green turnip-fields, and over the distant moorlands, where the crimson heather still bloomed so bonnie. anon, the crisp leaves, through which the wind now swept with harsher moan, began to change to yellows, crimsons, and all the hues of sunset, and by-and-by it was hunting-time again. archie was unusually thoughtful one night while the family sat, as of yore, round the low fire in the green parlour, elsie and rupert being busy in their corner over a game of chess. "in a brown study, archie?" said his mother. "_no_, mummie; that is, yes, i was thinking--" "wonders will never cease," said rupert, without looking up. archie looked towards him, but his brother only smiled at the chessmen. the boy was well enough now to joke and laugh. best of signs and most hopeful. "i was thinking that my legs are almost too long now to go to the meet on poor scallowa. not that scallowa would mind. but don't you think, mummie dear, that a long boy on a short pony looks odd?" "a little, archie." "well, why couldn't father let me have tell to-morrow? he is not going out himself." his father was reading the newspaper, but he looked at archie over it. though only his eyes were visible, the boy knew he was smiling. "if you think you won't break your neck," he said, "you may take tell." "oh," archie replied, "i'm quite sure i won't break _my_ neck!" the squire laughed now outright. "you mean you _might_ break tell's, eh?" "well, dad, i didn't _say_ that." "_no_, archie, but you _thought_ it." "i'm afraid, dad, the emphasis fell on the wrong word." "never mind, archie, where the emphasis falls; but if you let tell fall the emphasis will fall where you won't like it." "all right, dad, i'll chance the emphasis. hurrah!" the squire and mr walton went off early next day to a distant town, and branson had orders to bring tell round to the hall door at nine sharp; which he did. the keeper was not groom, but he was the tallest man about, and archie thought he would want a leg up. archie's mother was there, and elsie, and rupert, and old kate, and little peter, to say nothing of bounder and fuss, all to see "t' young squire mount." but no one expected the sight they did see when archie appeared; for the lad's sense of fun and the ridiculous was quite irrepressible. and the young rascal had dressed himself from top to toe in his father's hunting-rig--boots, cords, red coat, hat, and all complete. well, as the boots were a mile and a half too big for him-- more or less, and the breeches and coat would have held at least three archie broadbents, while the hat nearly buried his head, you may guess what sort of a guy he looked. bounder drew back and barked at him. old kate turned her old eyes cloudwards, and held up her palms. branson for politeness' sake _tried_ not to laugh; but it was too much, he went off at last like a soda-water cork, and the merriment rippled round the ring like wildfire. even poor rupert laughed till the tears came. then back into the house ran archie, and presently re-appeared dressed in his own velvet suit. but archie had not altogether cooled down yet. he had come to the conclusion that having an actual leg up, was not an impressive way of getting on to his hunter; so after kissing his mother, and asking rupert to kiss elsie for him, he bounded at one spring to branson's shoulder, and from this elevation bowed and said "good morning," then let himself neatly down to the saddle. "tally ho! yoicks!" he shouted. then clattered down the avenue, cleared the low, white gate, and speedily disappeared across the fields. archie had promised himself a rare day's run, and he was not disappointed. the fox was an old one and a wily one--and, i might add, a very gentlemanly old fox--and he led the field one of the prettiest dances that dawson, the greyest-headed huntsman in the north, ever remembered; but there was no kill. no; master reynard knew precisely where he was going, and got home all right, and went quietly to sleep as soon as the pack drew off. the consequence was that archie found himself still ten miles from home as gloaming was deepening into night. another hour he thought would find him at burley old farm. but people never know what is before them, especially hunting people. it had been observed by old kate, that after archie left in the morning, bounder seemed unusually sad. he refused his breakfast, and behaved so strangely that the superstitious dame was quite alarmed. "i'll say naething to the ladies," she told one of the servants, "but, woe is me! i fear that something awfu' is gain tae happen. i houp the young laddie winna brak his neck. he rode awa' sae daft-like. he is just his faither a' ower again." bounder really had something on his mind; for dogs do think far more than we give them credit for. well, the squire was off, and also mr walton, and now his young master had flown. what did it mean? why he would find out before he was many hours older. so ran bounder's cogitations. to think was to act with bounder; so up he jumped, and off he trotted. he followed the scent for miles; then he met an errant collie, and forgetting for a time all about his master, he went off with him. there were many things to be done, and bounder was not in a hurry. they chased cows and sheep together merely for mischief's sake; they gave chase to some rabbits, and when the bunnies took to their holes, they spent hours in a vain attempt to dig them out. the rabbits knew they could never succeed, so they quietly washed their faces and laughed at them. they tired at last, and with their heads and paws covered with mould, commenced to look for mice among the moss. they came upon a wild bees' home in a bank, and tore this up, killing the inmates bee by bee as they scrambled out wondering what the racket meant. they snapped at the bees who were returning home, and when both had their lips well stung they concluded to leave the hive alone. honey wasn't _very_ nice after all, they said. at sunset they bathed in a mill-dam and swam about till nearly dusk, because the miller's boy was obliging enough to throw in sticks for them. then the miller's boy fell in himself, and bounder took him out and laid him on the bank to drip, neither knowing nor caring that he had saved a precious life. but the miller's boy's mother appeared on the scene and took the weeping lad away, inviting the dogs to follow. she showered blessings on their heads, especially on "the big black one's," as the urchin called bounder, and she put bread and milk before them and bade them eat. the dogs required no second bidding, and just as bounder was finishing his meal the sound of hoofs was heard on the road, and out bounced bounder, the horse swerved, the rider was thrown, and the dog began to wildly lick his face. "so it's you, is it, bounder?" said archie. "a nice trick. and now i'll have to walk home a good five miles." bounder backed off and barked. why did his master go off and leave him then? that is what the dog was saying. "come on, boy," said archie. "there's no help for it; but i do feel stiff." they could go straight over the hill, and through the fields and the wood, that was one consolation. so off they set, and archie soon forgot his stiffness and warmed to his work. bounder followed close to his heels, as if he were a very old and a very wise dog indeed; and harrying bees' hives, or playing with millers' boys, could find no place in his thoughts. archie lost his way once or twice, and it grew quite dark. he was wondering what he should do when he noticed a light spring up not far away, and commenced walking towards it. it came from the little window of a rustic cottage, and the boy knew at once now in which way to steer. curiosity, however, impelled him to draw near to the window. he gave just one glance in, but very quickly drew back. sitting round a table was a gang of half a dozen poachers. he knew them as the worst and most notorious evil-doers in all the country round. they were eating and drinking, and guns stood in the corners, while the men themselves seemed ready to be off somewhere. away went archie. he wanted no nearer acquaintance with a gang like that. in his way home he had to pass bob cooper's cottage, and thought he might just look in, because bob had a whole book of new flies getting ready for him, and perhaps they were done. bob was out, and his mother was sitting reading the good book by the light of a little black oil lamp. she looked very anxious, and said she felt so. her laddie had "never said where he was going. only just went away out, and hadn't come back." it was archie's turn now to be anxious, when he thought of the gang, and the dark work they might be after. bob was not among them, but who could tell that he would not join afterwards? he bade the widow "good-night," and went slowly homewards thinking. he found everyone in a state of extreme anxiety. hours ago tell had galloped to his stable door, and if there be anything more calculated to raise alarm than another, it is the arrival at his master's place of a riderless horse. but archie's appearance, alive and intact, dispelled the cloud, and dinner was soon announced. "oh, by the way," said archie's tutor, as they were going towards the dining-room, "your old friend bob cooper has been here, and wants to see you! i think he is in the kitchen now." away rushed archie, and sure enough there was bob eating supper in old kate's private room. he got up as archie's entered, and looked shy, as people of his class do at times. archie was delighted. "i brought the flies, and some new sorts that i think will do for the kelpie burn," he said. "well, i'm going to dine, bob; you do the same. don't go till i see you. how long have you been here?" "two hours, anyhow." when archie returned he invited bob to the room in the castle tower. kate must come too, and branson with his fiddle. away went archie and his rough friend, and were just finishing a long debate about flies and fishing when kate and peter, and branson and bounder, came up the turret stairs and entered the room. archie then told them all of what he had seen that night at the cottage. "mark my words for it," said bob, shaking his head, "they're up to some black work to-night." "you mustn't go yet awhile, bob," archie said. "we'll have some fun, and you're as well where you are." chapter eight. the widow's lonely hut. bob cooper bade archie and branson good-bye that night at the bend of the road, some half mile from his own home, and trudged sturdily on in the starlight. there was sufficient light "to see men as trees walking." "my mother'll think i'm out in th' woods," bob said to himself. "well, she'll be glad when she knows she's wrong this time." once or twice he started, and looked cautiously, half-fearfully, round him; for he felt certain he saw dark shadows in the field close by, and heard the stealthy tread of footsteps. he grasped the stout stick he carried all the firmer, for the poacher had made enemies of late by separating himself from a well-known gang of his old associates--men who, like the robbers in the ancient ballad-- "slept all day and waked all night, and kept the country round in fright." on he went; and the strange, uncomfortable feeling at his heart was dispelled as, on rounding a corner of the road, he saw the light glinting cheerfully from his mother's cottage. "poor old creature," he murmured half aloud, "many a sore heart i've given her. but i'll be a better boy now. i'll--" "now, lads," shouted a voice, "have at him!" "back!" cried bob cooper, brandishing his cudgel. "back, or it'll be worse for you!" the dark shadows made a rush. bob struck out with all his force, and one after another fell beneath his arm. but a blow from behind disabled him at last, and down he went, just as his distracted mother came rushing, lantern in hand, from her hut. there was the sharp click of the handcuffs, and bob cooper was a prisoner. the lantern-light fell on the uniforms of policemen. "what is it? oh, what has my laddie been doin'?" "murder, missus, or something very like it! there has been dark doin's in th' hill to-night!" bob grasped the nearest policeman by the arm with his manacled hands. "when--when did ye say it had happened?" "you know too well, lad. not two hours ago. don't sham innocence; it sits but ill on a face like yours." "mother," cried bob bewilderingly, "i know nothing of it! i'm innocent!" but his mother heard not his words. she had fainted, and with rough kindness was carried into the hut and laid upon the bed. when she revived some what they left her. it was a long, dismal ride the unhappy man had that night; and indeed it was well on in the morning before the party with their prisoner reached the town of b--. bob's appearance before a magistrate was followed almost instantly by his dismissal to the cells again. the magistrate knew him. the police had caught him "red-handed," so they said, and had only succeeded in making him prisoner "after a fierce resistance." "remanded for a week," without being allowed to say one word in his own defence. the policeman's hint to bob's mother about "dark doin's in th' hill" was founded on fearful facts. a keeper had been killed after a terrible _melee_ with the gang of poachers, and several men had been severely wounded on both sides. the snow-storm that came on early on the morning after poor bob cooper's capture was one of the severest ever remembered in northumbria. the frost was hard too all day long. the snow fell incessantly, and lay in drifts like cliffs, fully seven feet high, across the roads. the wind blew high, sweeping the powdery snow hither and thither in gusts. it felt for all the world like going into a cold shower-bath to put one's head even beyond the threshold of the door. nor did the storm abate even at nightfall; but next day the wind died down, and the face of the sky became clear, only along the southern horizon the white clouds were still massed like hills and cliffs. it was not until the afternoon that news reached burley old farm of the fight in the woods and death of the keeper. it was a sturdy old postman who had brought the tidings. he had fought his way through the snow with the letters, and his account of the battle had well-nigh caused old kate to swoon away. when mary, the little parlour maid, carried the mail in to her master she did not hesitate to relate what she had heard. squire broadbent himself with archie repaired to the kitchen, and found the postman surrounded by the startled servants, who were drinking in every word he said. "one man killed, you say, allan?" "ay, sir, killed dead enough. and it's a providence they caught the murderer. took him up, sir, just as he was a-goin' into his mother's house, as cool as a frosted turnip, sir." "well, allan, that is satisfactory. and what is his name?" "bob cooper, sir, known all over the--" "bob cooper!" cried archie aghast. "why, father, he was in our room in the turret at the time." "so he was," said the squire. "taken on suspicion i suppose. but this must be seen to at once. bad as we know bob to have been, there is evidence enough that he has reformed of late. at all events, he shall not remain an hour in gaol on such a charge longer than we can help." night came on very soon that evening. the clouds banked up again, the snow began to fall, and the wind moaned round the old house and castle in a way that made one feel cold to the marrow even to listen to. morning broke slowly at last, and archie was early astir. tell, with the shetland pony and a huge great hunter, were brought to the door, and shortly after breakfast the party started for b--. branson bestrode the big hunter--he took the lead--and after him came the squire on tell, and archie on scallowa. this daft little horse was in fine form this morning, having been in stall for several days. he kept up well with the hunters, though there were times that both he and his rider were all but buried in the gigantic wreaths that lay across the road. luckily the wind was not high, else no living thing could long have faced that storm. the cottage in which widow cooper had lived ever since the death of her husband was a very primitive and a very poor one. it consisted only of two rooms, what are called in scotland "a butt and a ben." bob had been only a little barefooted boy when his father died, and probably hardly missed him. he had been sent regularly to school before then, but not since, for his mother had been unable to give him further education. all their support was the morsel of garden, a pig or two, and the fowls, coupled with whatever the widow could make by knitting ribbed stockings for the farmer folks around. bob grew up wild, just as the birds and beasts of the hills and woods do. while, however, he was still a little mite of a chap, the keepers even seldom molested him. it was only natural, they thought, for a boy to act the part of a squirrel or polecat, and to be acquainted with every bird's nest and rabbit's burrow within a radius of miles. when he grew a little older and a trifle bigger they began to warn him off, and when one day he was met marching away with a cap full of pheasant's eggs, he received as severe a drubbing as ever a lad got at the hands of a gamekeeper. bob had grown worse instead of better after this. the keepers became his sworn enemies, and there was a spice of danger and adventure in vexing and outwitting them. unfortunately, in spite of all his mother said to the contrary, bob was firmly impressed with the notion that game of every kind, whether fur or feather, belonged as much to him as to the gentry who tried to preserve them. the fresh air was free; nobody dared to claim the sunshine. then why the wild birds, and the hares and rabbits? evil company corrupts good manners. that is what his copy-book used to tell him. but bob soon learned to laugh at that, and it is no wonder that as he reached manhood his doings and daring as a poacher became noted far and near. he was beyond the control of his mother. she could only advise him, read to him, pray for him; but i fear in vain. only be it known that bob cooper really loved this mother of his, anomalous though it may seem. well, the keepers had been very harsh with him, and the gentry were harsh with him, and eke the law itself. law indeed! why bob was all but an outlaw, so intense was his hatred to, and so great his defiance of the powers that be. it was strange that what force could not effect, a few soft words from branson, and archie's gift of the hare he had shot on his birthday, brought about. bob cooper's heart could not have been wholly adamantine, therefore he began to believe that after all a gamekeeper might be a good fellow, and that there might even exist gentlefolks whose chief delight was not the oppression of the poor. he began after that to seek for honest work; but, alas! people looked askance at him, and he found that the path of virtue was one not easily regained when once deviated from. his quondam enemy, however, branson, spoke many a good word for him, and bob was getting on, much to his mother's delight and thankfulness, when the final and crashing blow fell. poor old widow cooper! for years and years she had but two comforts in this world; one was her bible, and the other--do not smile when i tell you--was her pipie. oh! you know, the poor have not much to make them happy and to cheer their loneliness, so why begrudge the widow her morsel of tobacco? in the former she learned to look forward to another and a better world, far beyond that bit of blue sky she could see at the top of her chimney on a summer's night--a world where everything would be bright and joyful, where there would be no vexatious rheumatism, no age, and neither cold nor care. from the latter she drew sweet forgetfulness of present trouble, and happy recollections of bygone years. sitting there by the hearth all alone--her son perhaps away on the hill--her thoughts used oftentimes to run away with her. once more she would be young, once again her hair was a bonnie brown, her form little and graceful, roses mantling in her cheeks, soft light in her eyes. and she is wandering through the tasselled broom with david by her side. "david! heigho!" she would sigh as she shook the ashes from her pipie. "poor david! it seems a long, long time since he left me for the better land," and the sunlight would stream down the big, open chimney and fall upon her skinny hands--fall upon the elfin-like locks that escaped from beneath her cap--fall, too, on the glittering pages of the book on her lap like a promise of better things to come. before that sad night, when, while sitting up waiting for her son, she was startled by the sudden noise of the struggle that commenced at her door, she thought she had reason to be glad and thankful for the softening of her boy's heart. then all her joy collapsed, her hopes collapsed--fell around her like a house of cards. it was a cruel, a terrible blow. the policeman had carried her in, laid her on the bed with a rough sort of kindness, made up the fire, then gone out and thought no more about her. how she had spent the night need hardly be said; it is better imagined. she had dropped asleep at last, and when she awoke from fevered dreams it was daylight out of doors, but darkness in the hut. the window and door were snowed up, and only a faint pale light shimmered in through the chimney, falling on the fireless hearth--a dismal sight. many times that day she had tried to rise, but all in vain. the cold grew more intense as night drew on, and it did its work on the poor widow's weakened frame. her dreams grew more bright and happy though, as her body became numbed and insensible. it was as though the spirit were rejoicing in its coming freedom. but dreams left her at last. then all was still in the house, save the ticking of the old clock that hung against the wall. the squire speedily effected bob cooper's freedom, and he felt he had really done a good thing. "now, robert," he told him, "you have had a sad experience. let it be a lesson to you. i'll give you a chance. come to burley, and branson will find you honest work as long as you like to do it." "lord love you, sir!" cried bob. "there are few gentry like you." "i don't know so much about that, robert. you are not acquainted with all the good qualities of gentlefolks yet. but now, branson, how are we all to get home?" "oh, i know!" said archie. "scallowa can easily bear branson's weight, and i will ride the big hunter along with bob." so this was arranged. it was getting gloamed ere they neared the widow's lonesome hut. the squire with branson had left archie and bob, and cut across the frozen moor by themselves. "how glad my mother will be!" said bob. and now they came in sight of the cottage, and bob rubbed his eyes and looked again and again, for no smoke came from the chimney, no signs of life was about. the icicles hung long and strong from the eaves; one side of the hut was entirely overblown with drift, and the door in the other looked more like the entrance to some cave in greenland north. bad enough this was; but ah, in the inside of the poor little house the driven snow met them as they pushed open the door! it had blown down the wide chimney, covered the hearth, formed a wreath like a sea-wave on the floor, and even o'er-canopied the bed itself. and the widow, the mother, lay underneath. no, not dead; she breathed, at least. when the room had been cleared and swept of snow; when a roaring fire had been built on the hearth, and a little warm tea poured gently down her throat, she came gradually back again to life, and in a short time was able to be lifted into a sitting position, and then she recognised her son and archie. "oh, mother, mother!" cried bob, the tears streaming over his sun-browned face, "the maker'll never forgive me for all the ill i've done ye." "hush! bobbie, hush! what, lad, the maker no' forgive ye! eh, ye little know the grip o' his goodness! but you're here, you're innocent. thank him for that." "ye'll soon get better, mother, and i'll be so good. the squire is to give me work too." "it's o'er late for me," she said. "i'd like to live to see it, but his will be done." archie rode home the giant hunter, but in two hours he was once more mounted on scallowa, and feathering back through the snow towards the little cottage. the moon had risen now, and the night was starry and fine. he tied scallowa up in the peat shed, and went in unannounced. he found bob cooper sitting before the dying embers of the fire, with his face buried in his hands, and rocking himself to and fro. "she--just blessed me and wore away." that was all he said or could say. and what words of comfort could archie speak? none. he sat silently beside him all that livelong night, only getting up now and then to replenish the fire. but the poacher scarcely ever changed his position, only now and then he stretched out one of his great hands and patted archie's knee as one would pet a dog. a week passed away, and the widow was laid to rest beneath the frozen ground in the little churchyard by the banks of the river. archie went slowly back with bob towards the cottage. on their way thither, the poacher--poacher now no more though--entered a plantation, and with his hunting-knife cut and fashioned a rough ash stick. "we'll say good-bye here, master archie." "what! you are not going back with me to burley old farm?" bob took a small parcel from his pocket, and opening it exposed the contents. "do you know them, master archie?" "yes, your poor mother's glasses." "ay, lad, and as long as i live i'll keep them. and till my dying day, archie, i'll think on you, and your kindness to poor poacher bob. no, i'm not goin' back to burley, and i'm not going to the cottage again. i'm going away. where? i couldn't say. here, quick, shake hands, friend. let it be over. good-bye." "good-bye." and away went bob. he stopped when a little way off, and turned as if he had forgotten something. "archie!" he cried. "yes, bob." "take care of my mother's cat." next minute he leapt a fence, and disappeared in the pine wood. chapter nine. the whole yard was ablaze and burning fiercely. one year is but a brief span in the history of a family, yet it may bring many changes. it did to burley old farm, and some of them were sad enough, though some were glad. a glad change took place for instance in the early spring, after bob's departure; for rupert appeared to wax stronger and stronger with the lengthening days; and when uncle ramsay, in a letter received one morning, announced his intention of coming from london, and making quite a long stay at burley, rupert declared his intention of mounting scallowa, and riding over to the station to meet him. and the boy was as good as his word. in order that they might be both cavaliers together, uncle ramsay hired a horse at d--, and the two rode joyfully home side by side. his mother did not like to see that carmine flush on rupert's cheeks, however, nor the extra dark sparkle in his eyes when he entered the parlour to announce his uncle's arrival, but she said nothing. uncle ramsay broadbent was a brother of the squire, and, though considerably older, a good deal like him in all his ways. there was the same dash and go in him, and the same smiling front, unlikely to be dismayed by any amount of misfortune. "there are a deal of ups and downs in the ocean of life," archie heard him say one day; "we're on the top of a big wave one hour, and in the trough of the sea next, so we must take things as they come." yes, this uncle was a seafarer; the skipper of a sturdy merchantman that he had sailed in for ten long years. he did not care to be called captain by anyone. he was a master mariner, and had an opinion, which he often expressed, that plain "mr" was a gentleman's prefix. "i shan't go back to sea again," he said next morning at breakfast. "fact is, brother, my owners think i'm getting too old. and maybe they're right. i've had a fair innings, and it is only fair to give the young ones a chance." uncle ramsay seemed to give new life and soul to the old place. he settled completely down to the burley style of life long before the summer was half over. he joined the servants in the fields, and worked with them as did the squire, walton, and archie. and though more merriment went on in consequence, there was nevertheless more work done. he took an interest in all the boys' "fads," spent hours with them in their workshop, and made one in every game that was played on the grass. he was dreadfully awkward at cricket and tennis however; for such games as these are but little practised by sailors. only he was right willing to learn. there was a youthfulness and breeziness about uncle ramsay's every action, that few save seafarers possess when hair is turning white. of course, the skipper spent many a jolly hour up in the room of the castle tower, and he did not object either to the presence of old kate in the chair. he listened like a boy when she told her weird stories; and he listened more like a baby than anything else when branson played his fiddle. then he himself would spin them a yarn, and hold them all enthralled, especially big-eyed elsie, with the sterling reality and graphicness of the narrative. when uncle ramsay spoke you could see the waves in motion, hear the scream of the birds around the stern, or the wind roaring through the rigging. he spoke as he thought; he painted from life. well, the arrival of uncle ramsay and rupert's getting strong were two of the pleasant changes that took place at burley in this eventful year. alas! i have to chronicle the sad ones also. yet why sigh? to use uncle ramsay's own words, "you never know what a ship is made of until stormy seas are around you." first then came a bad harvest--a terribly bad harvest. it was not that the crops themselves were so very light, but the weather was cold and wet; the grain took long to ripen. the task of cutting it down was unfortunately an easy one, but the getting it stored was almost an impossibility. at the very time when it was ripe, and after a single fiercely hot day, a thunder-storm came on, and with it such hail as the oldest inhabitant in the parish could not remember having seen equalled. this resulted in the total loss of far more of the precious seed, than would have sown all the land of burley twice over. the wet continued. it rained and rained every day, and when it rained it poured. the squire had heard of a yankee invention for drying wheat under cover, and rashly set about a rude but most expensive imitation thereof. he first mentioned the matter to uncle ramsay at the breakfast-table. the squire seemed in excellent spirits that morning. he was walking briskly up and down the room rubbing his hands, as if in deep but pleasant thought, when his brother came quietly in. "hullo! you lazy old sea-dog. why you'd lie in your bed till the sun burned a hole in the blanket. now just look at me." "i'm just looking at you." "well, i've been up for hours. i'm as hungry as a caithness highlander. and i've got an idea." "i thought there was something in the wind." "guess." "guess, indeed! goodness forbid i should try. but i say, brother," continued uncle ramsay, laughing, "couldn't you manage to fall asleep somewhere out of doors, like the man in the story, and wake up and find yourself a king? my stars, wouldn't we have reforms as long as your reign lasted! the breakfast, mary? ah, that's the style!" "you won't be serious and listen, i suppose, ramsay." "oh, yes; i will." "well, the americans--" "the americans again; but go on." "the americans, in some parts where i've been, wouldn't lose a straw in a bad season. it is all done by means of great fanners and heated air, you know. now, i'm going to show these honest northumbrian farmers a thing or two. i--" "i say, brother, hadn't you better trust to providence, and wait for a fair wind?" "now, ramsay, that's where you and i differ. you're a slow moses. i want to move ahead a trifle in front of the times. i've been looking all over the dictionary of my daily life, and i can't find such a word as 'wait' in it." "let me give you some of this steak, brother." "my plan of operations, ramsay, is--" "why," said mrs broadbent, "you haven't eaten anything yet!" "i thought," said uncle ramsay, "you were as hungry as a tipperary highlander, or some such animal." "my plan, ramsay, is--" etc, etc. the two "etc, etc's" in the last line stand for all the rest of the honest squire's speech, which, as his sailor brother said, was as long as the logline. but for all his hunger he made but a poor breakfast, and immediately after he jumped up and hurried away to the barn-yards. it was a busy time for the next two weeks at burley old farm, but, to the squire's credit be it said, he was pretty successful with his strange operation of drying wheat independent of the sun. his ricks were built, and he was happy--happy as long as he thought nothing about the expense. but he did take an hour or two one evening to run through accounts, as he called it. uncle ramsay was with him. "why, brother," said ramsay, looking very serious now indeed, "you are terribly down to leeward--awfully out of pocket!" "ah! never mind, ramsay. one can't keep ahead of the times now-a-days, you know, without spending a little." "spending a little! where are your other books? mr walton and i will have a look through them to-night, if you don't mind." "not a bit, brother, not a bit. we're going to give a dance to-morrow night to the servants, so if you like to bother with the book-work i'll attend to the terpsichorean kick up." mr walton and uncle ramsay had a snack in the office that evening instead of coming up to supper, and when mrs broadbent looked in to say good-night she found them both quiet and hard at work. "i say, walton," said uncle ramsay some time after, "this is serious. draw near the fire and let us have a talk." "it is sad as well as serious," said walton. "had you any idea of it?" "not the slightest. in fact i'm to blame, i think, for not seeing to the books before. but the squire--" walton hesitated. "i know my brother well," said ramsay. "as good a fellow as ever lived, but as headstrong as a nor'-easter. and now he has been spending money on machinery to the tune of some ten thousand pounds. he has been growing crop after crop of wheat as if he lived on the prairies and the land was new; and he has really been putting as much down in seed, labour, and fashionable manures as he has taken off." "yet," said walton, "he is no fool." "no, not he; he is clever, too much so. but heaven send his pride, honest though it be, does not result in a fall." the two sat till long past twelve talking and planning, then they opened the casement and walked out on to the lawn. it was a lovely autumn night. the broad, round moon was high in the heavens, fighting its way through a sky of curdling clouds which greatly detracted from its radiance. "look, walton," said the sailor, "to windward; yonder it is all blue sky, by-and-by it will be a bright and lovely night." "by-and-by. yes," sighed walton. "but see! what is that down yonder rising white over the trees? smoke! why, walton, the barn-yards are all on fire!" almost at the same moment branson rushed upon the scene. "glad you're up, gentlemen," he gasped. "wake the squire. the servants are all astir. we must save the beasts, come of everything else what will." the farm-steading of burley was built in the usual square formation round a centre straw-yard, which even in winter was always kept so well filled that beasts might lie out all night. to the north were the stacks, and it was here the fire originated, and unluckily the wind blew from that direction. it was by no means high; but fire makes its own wind, and in less than half an hour the whole yard was ablaze and burning fiercely, while the byres, stables, and barns had all caught. from the very first these latter had been enveloped in dense rolling clouds of smoke, and sparks as thick as falling snowflakes, so that to save any of the live stock seemed almost an impossibility. with all his mania for machinery, and for improvements of every kind possible to apply to agriculture, it is indeed a wonder that the squire had not established a fire brigade on his farm. but fire was an eventuality which he had entirely left out of his reckoning, and now there was really no means of checking the terrible conflagration. as soon as the alarm was given every one did what he could to save the live stock; but the smoke was blinding, maddening, and little could be done save taking the doors off their hinges. who knows what prodigies of valour were performed that night by the humble cowmen even, in their attempts to drive the oxen and cows out, and away to a place of safety? in some instances, when they had nearly succeeded, the cattle blocked the doorways, or, having got out to the straw-yard, charged madly back again, and prevented the exit of their fellows. thus several servants ran terrible risks to their lives. they were more successful in saving the horses, and this was greatly owing to archie's presence of mind. he had dashed madly into the stable for his pet scallowa. the shetland pony had never looked more wild before. he sniffed the danger, he snorted and reared. all at once it occurred to archie to mount and ride him out. no sooner had he got on his back than he came forth like a lamb. he took him to a field and let him free, and as he was hurrying back he met little peter. "come, peter, come," he cried; "we can save the horses." the two of them rushed to the stable, and horse after horse was bridled and mounted by little peter and ridden out. but a fearful hitch occurred. tell, the squire's hunter, backed against the stable door and closed it, thus imprisoning archie, who found it impossible to open the door. the roof had already caught. the horses were screaming in terror, and rearing wildly against the walls. peter rushed away to seek assistance. he met branson, and in a word or two told him what had happened. luckily axes were at hand, and sturdy volunteers speedily smashed the door in, and poor archie, more dead than alive, with torn clothes and bleeding face, was dragged through. the scene after this must be left to imagination. but the squire reverently and fervently thanked god when the shrieks of those fire-imprisoned cattle were hushed in death, and nothing was to be heard save the crackle and roar of the flames. the fire had lit up the countryside for miles around. the moonlight itself was bright, but within a certain radius the blazing farm cast shadows against it. next morning stackyards, barn-yards, farm-steading, machinery-house, and everything pertaining to burley old farm, presented but a smouldering, blackened heap of ruins. squire broadbent entertained his poor, frightened people to an early breakfast in the servants' hall, and the most cheerful face there was that of the squire. here is his little speech: "my good folks, sit down and eat; and let us be thankful we're all here, and that no human lives are lost. my good kinswoman kate here will tell you that there never yet was an ill but there might be a worse. let us pray the worse may never come." chapter ten. "after all, it doesn't take much to make a man happy." for weeks to come neither uncle ramsay nor walton had the heart to add another sorrow to the squire's cup of misery. they knew that the fire had but brought on a little sooner a catastrophe which was already fulling; they knew that squire broadbent was virtually a ruined man. all the machinery had been rendered useless; the most of the cattle were dead; the stacks were gone; and yet, strange to say, the squire hoped on. those horses and cattle which had been saved were housed now in rudely-built sheds, among the fire-blackened ruins of their former wholesome stables and byres. one day branson, who had always been a confidential servant, sent mary in to say he wished to speak to the squire. his master came out at once. "nothing else, branson," he said. "you carry a long face, man." "the wet weather and the cold have done their work, sir. will you walk down with me to the cattle-sheds?" arrived there, he pointed to a splendid fat ox, who stood in his stall before his untouched turnips with hanging head and dry, parched nose. his hot breath was visible when he threw his head now and then uneasily round towards his loin, as if in pain. there was a visible swelling on the rump. branson placed a hand on it, and the squire could hear it "bog" and crackle. "what is that, branson? has he been hurt?" "no, sir, worse. i'll show you." he took out his sharp hunting-knife. "it won't hurt the poor beast," he said. then he cut deep into the swelling. the animal never moved. no blood followed the incision, but the gaping wound was black, and filled with air-bubbles. "the quarter-ill," said the cowman, who stood mournfully by. that ox was dead in a few hours. another died next day, two the next, and so on, though not in an increasing ratio; but in a month there was hardly an animal alive about the place except the horses. it was time now the squire should know all, and he did. he looked a chastened man when he came out from that interview with his brother and walton. but he put a right cheery face on matters when he told his wife. "we'll have to retrench," he said. "it'll be a struggle for a time, but we'll get over it right enough." present money, however, was wanted, and raised it must be. and now came the hardest blow the squire had yet received. it was a staggering one, though he met it boldly. there was then at burley old mansion a long picture gallery. it was a room in an upper story, and extended the whole length of the house--a hall in fact, and one that more than one squire broadbent had entertained his friends right royally in. from the walls not only did portraits of ancestors bold and gay, smile or frown down, but there hung there also many a splendid landscape and seascape by old masters. most of the latter had to be sold, and the gallery was closed, for the simple reason that squire broadbent, courageous though he was, could not look upon its bare and desecrated walls without a feeling of sorrow. pictures even from the drawing-room had to go also, and that room too was closed. but the breakfast-room, which opened to the lawn and rose gardens, where the wild birds sang so sweetly in summer, was left intact; so was the dining-room, and that cosy, wee green parlour in which the family delighted to assemble around the fire in the winter's evenings. squire broadbent had been always a favourite in the county--somewhat of an upstart and iconoclast though he was--so the sympathy he received was universal. iconoclast? yes, he had delighted in shivering the humble idols of others, and now his own were cast down. nobody, however, deserted him. farmers and squires might have said among themselves that they always knew broadbent was "going the pace," and that his new-fangled american notions were poorly suited to england, but in his presence they did all they could to cheer him. when the ploughing time came round they gave him what is called in the far north "a love-darg." men with teams of horses came from every farm for miles around and tilled his ground. they had luncheon in a marquee, but they would not hear of stopping to dinner. they were indeed thoughtful and kind. the parson of the parish and the doctor were particular friends of the squire. they often dropped in of an evening to talk of old times with the family by the fireside. "i'm right glad," the doctor said one evening, "to see that you don't lose heart, squire." "bless me, sir, why should i? to be sure we're poor now, but god has left us a deal of comfort, doctor, and, after all, _it doesn't take much to make a man happy_." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ boys will be boys. yes, we all know that. but there comes a time in the life of every right-thinking lad when another truth strikes home to him, that boys will be men. i rather think that the sooner a boy becomes cognisant of this fact the better. life is not all a dream; it must sooner or later become a stern reality. life is not all pleasant parade and show, like a field-day at aldershot; no, for sooner or later pomp and panoply have to be exchanged for camp-life and action, and bright uniforms are either rolled in blood and dust, or come triumphant, though tarnished, from the field of glory. life is not all plain sailing over sunlit seas, for by-and-by the clouds bank up, storms come on, and the good ship has to do battle with wind and wave. but who would have it otherwise? no one would who possesses the slightest ray of honest ambition, or a single spark of that pride of self which we need not blush to own. one day, about the beginning of autumn, rupert and archie, and their sister elsie, were in the room in the tower. they sat together in a turret chamber, elsie gazing dreamily from the window at the beautiful scenery spread out beneath. the woods and wilds, the rolling hills, the silvery stream, the half-ripe grain moving in the wind, as waves at sea move, and the silvery sunshine over all. she was in a kind of a daydream, her fingers listlessly touching a chord on the harp now and then. a pretty picture she looked, too, with her bonnie brown hair, and her bonnie blue eyes, and thorough english face, thorough english beauty. perhaps archie had been thinking something of this sort as he sat there looking at her, while rupert half-lay in the rocking-chair, which his brother had made for him, engrossed as usual in a book. whether archie did think thus or not, certain it is that presently he drew his chair close to his sister's, and laying one arm fondly on her shoulder. "what is sissie looking at?" he asked. "oh, archie," she replied, "i don't think i've been looking at anything; but i've been seeing everything and wishing!" "wishing, elsie? well, you don't look merry. what were you wishing?" "i was wishing the old days were back again, when--when father was rich; before the awful fire came, and the plague, and everything. it has made us all old, i think. wouldn't you like father was rich again?" "i am not certain; but wishes are not horses, you know." "_no_," said elsie; "only if it could even be always like this, and if you and rupert and i could be always as we are now. i think that, poor though we are, everything just now is so pretty and so pleasant. but you are going away to the university, and the place won't be the same. i shall get older faster than ever then." "well, elsie," said archie, laughing, "i am so old that i am going to make my will." rupert put down his book with a quiet smile. "what are you going to leave me, old man? scallowa?" "no, rupert, you're too long in the legs for scallowa, you have no idea what a bodkin of a boy you are growing. scallowa i will and bequeath to my pretty sister here, and i'll buy her a side-saddle, and two pennyworth of carrot seed. elsie will also have bounder, and you, rupert, shall have fuss." "anything else for me?" "don't be greedy. but i'll tell you. you shall have my tool-house, and all my tools, and my gun besides. well, this room is to be sister's own, and she shall also have my fishing-rod, and the book of flies that poor bob cooper made for me. oh, don't despise them, they are all wonders!" "well really, archie," said elsie, "you talk as earnestly as if you actually were going to die." "who said i was going to die? no, i don't mean to die till i've done much more mischief." "hush! archie." "well, i'm hushed." "why do you want to make your will?" "oh, it isn't wanting to make my will! i am--i've done it. and the 'why' is this, i'm going away." "to oxford?" "no, elsie, not to oxford. i've got quite enough latin and greek out of walton to last me all my life. i couldn't be a doctor; besides father is hardly rich enough to make me one at present. i couldn't be a doctor, and i'm not good enough to be a parson." "archie, how you talk." there were tears in elsie's eyes now. "i can't help it. i'm going away to enter life in a new land. uncle ramsay has told me all about australia. he says the old country is used up, and fortunes can be made in a few years on the other side of the globe." there was silence in the turret for long minutes; the whispering of the wind in the elm trees beneath could be heard, the murmuring of the river, and far away in the woods the cawing of rooks. "don't you cry, elsie," said archie. "i've been thinking about all this for some time, and my mind is made up. i'm going, elsie, and i know it is for the best. you don't imagine for a single moment, do you, that i'll forget the dear old times, and you all? no, no, no. i'll think about you every night, and all day long, and i'll come back rich. you don't think that i _won't_ make my fortune, do you? because i mean to, and will. so there. don't cry, elsie." "_i'm_ not going to cry, archie," said rupert. "right, rupert, you're a brick, as branson says." "i'm not old enough," continued rupert, "to give you my blessing, though i suppose kate would give you hers; but we'll all pray for you." "well," said archie thoughtfully, "that will help some." "why, you silly boy, it will help a lot." "i wish i were as good as you, rupert. but i'm just going to try hard to do my best, and i feel certain i'll be all right." "you know, roup, how well i can play cricket, and how i often easily bowl father out. well, that is because i've just tried my very hardest to become a good player; and i'm going to try my very hardest again in another way. oh, i shall win! i'm cocksure i shall. come, elsie, dry your eyes. here's my handkie. don't be a little old wife." "you won't get killed, or anything, archie?" "no; i won't get killed, or eaten either." "they do tell me," said elsie--"that is, old kate told me--that the streets in australia are all paved with gold, and that the roofs of the houses are all solid silver." "well, i don't think she is quite right," said archie, laughing. "anyhow, uncle says there is a fortune to be made, and i'm going to make it. that's all." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ archie went straight away down from that boy's room feeling every inch a man, and had an interview with his father and uncle. it is needless to relate what took place there, or to report the conversation which the older folks had that evening in the little green parlour. both father and uncle looked upon archie's request as something only natural. for both these men, singular to say, had been boys once themselves; and, in the squire's own words, archie was a son to be proud of. "we can't keep the lad always with us, mother," said squire broadbent; "and the wide world is the best of schools. i feel certain that, go where he will, he won't lose heart. if he does, i should be ashamed to own him as a son. so there! my only regret is, ramsay, that i cannot send the lad away with a better lined pocket." "my dear silly old brother, he will be better as he is. and i'm really not sure that he would not be better still if he went away, as many have gone before him, with only a stick and a bundle over his shoulder. you have a deal too much of the broadbent pride; and archie had better leave that all behind at home, or be careful to conceal it when he gets to the land of his adoption." the following is a brief list of archie's stock-in-trade when he sailed away in the good ship _dugong_ to begin the world alone: . a good stock of clothes. . a good stock of assurance. . plenty of hope. . good health and abundance of strength. . a little nest egg at an australian bank to keep him partly independent till he should be able to establish a footing. . letters of introduction, blessings, and a little pocket bible. his uncle chose his ship, and sent him away round the cape in a good old-fashioned sailing vessel. and his uncle went to glasgow to see him off, his last words being, "keep up your heart, boy, whatever happens; and keep calm in every difficulty. good-bye." away sailed the ship, and away went archie to see the cities that are paved with gold, and whose houses have roofs of solid silver. chapter eleven. book ii--at the golden gates. "spoken like his father's son." "cheer, boys, cheer, no more of idle sorrow, courage, true hearts shall bear us on our way; hope flies before, and points the bright to-morrow, let us forget the dangers of to-day." that dear old song! how many a time and oft it has helped to raise the drooping spirits of emigrants sailing away from these loved islands, never again to return! the melody itself too is such a manly one. inez dear, bring my fiddle. not a bit of bravado in that ringing air, bold and all though it is. yet every line tells of british ardour and determination--ardour that no thoughts of home or love can cool, determination that no danger can daunt. "cheer, boys, cheer." the last rays of the setting sun were lighting up the cornish cliffs, on which so few in that good ship would ever again set eyes, when those around the forecastle-head took up the song. "cheer, boys, cheer." listen! those on the quarterdeck join in the chorus, sinking in song all difference of class and rank. and they join, too, in that rattling "three times three" that bids farewell to england. then the crimson clouds high up in the west change to purple and brown, the sea grows grey, and the distant shore becomes slaty blue. soon the stars peep out, and the passengers cease to tramp about, and find their way below to the cosily-lighted saloon. archie is sitting on a sofa quite apart from all the others. the song is still ringing in his head, and, if the whole truth must be told, he feels just a trifle down-hearted. he cannot quite account for this, though he tries to, and his thoughts are upon the whole somewhat rambling. they would no doubt be quite connected if it were not for the distracting novelty of all his present surroundings, which are as utterly different from anything he has hitherto become acquainted with as if he had suddenly been transported to another planet. no, he cannot account for being dull. perhaps the motion of the ship has something to do with it, though this is not a very romantic way of putting it. archie has plenty of moral courage; and as the ship encountered head winds, and made a long and most difficult passage down through the irish sea, he braced himself to get over his morsel of _mal de mer_, and has succeeded. he is quite cross with himself for permitting his mind to be tinged with melancholy. that song ought to have set him up. "why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?" oh, archie is not weeping; catch him doing anything so girlish and peevish! he would not cry in his cabin where he could do so without being seen, and it is not likely he would permit moisture to appear in his eyes in the saloon here. yet his home never did seem to him so delightful, so cosy, so happy, as the thoughts of it do now. why had he not loved it even more than he did when it was yet all around him? the dear little green parlour, his gentle lady mother that used to knit so quietly by the fire in the winter's evenings, listening with pleasure to his father's daring schemes and hopeful plans. his bonnie sister, elsie, so proud of him--archie; rupert, with his pale, classical face and gentle smile; matter-of-fact walton; jolly old uncle ramsay. they all rose up before his mind's eye as they had been; nay but as they might be even at that very moment. and the room in the tower, the evenings spent there in summer when daylight was fading over the hills and woods, and the rooks flying wearily home to their nests in the swaying elm trees; or in winter when the fire burned brightly on the hearth, and weird old kate sat in her high-backed chair, telling her strange old-world stories, with branson, wide-eyed, fiddle in hand, on a seat near her, and bounder--poor bounder--on the bear's skin. then the big kitchen, or servants' hall--the servants that all loved "master archie" so dearly, and laughed and enjoyed every prank he used to play. dear old burley! should he ever see it again? a week has not passed since he left it, and yet it seems and feels a lifetime. he was young a week ago; now he is old, very old--nearly a man. nearly? well, nearly, in years; in thoughts, and feelings, and circumstances even--_quite_ a man. but then he should not feel down-hearted for this simple reason; he had left home under such bright auspices. many boys run away to sea. the difference between their lot and his is indeed a wide one. yes, that must be very sad. no home life to look back upon, no friends to think of or love, no pleasant present, no hopeful future. then archie, instead of letting his thoughts dwell any longer on the past, began at once to bridge over for himself the long period of time that must elapse ere he should return to burley old farm. of course there would be changes. he dared say walton would be away; but elsie and rupert would still be there, and his father and mother, looking perhaps a little older, but still as happy. and the burned farm-steading would be restored, or if it were not, it soon should be after he came back; for he would be rich, rolling in wealth in fact, if half the stories he had heard of australia were true, even allowing that _all_ the streets were not paved with gold, and _all_ the houses not roofed with sparkling silver. so engrossed was he with these pleasant thoughts, that he had not observed the advent of a passenger who had entered the saloon, and sat quietly down on a camp-stool near him. a man of about forty, dressed in a rough pilot suit of clothes, with a rosy weather-beaten but pleasant face, and a few grey hairs in his short black beard. he was looking at archie intently when their eyes met, and the boy felt somewhat abashed. the passenger, however, did not remove his glance instantly; he spoke instead. "you've never been to sea before, have you?" "no, sir; never been off the land till a week ago." "going to seek your fortune?" "yes; i'm going to _make_ my fortune." "bravo! i hope you will." "what's to hinder me?" "nothing; oh, nothing much! everybody doesn't though. but you seem to have a bit of go in you." "are you going to make yours?" said archie. the stranger laughed. "no," he replied. "unluckily, perhaps, mine was made for me. i've been out before too, and i'm going again to see things." "you're going in quest of adventure?" "i suppose that is really it. that is how the story-books put it, anyhow. but i don't expect to meet with adventures like sinbad the sailor, you know; and i don't think i would like to have a little old man of the sea with his little old legs round my neck." "australia is a very wonderful place, isn't it?" "yes; wonderfully wonderful. everything is upside-down there, you know. to begin with, the people walk with their heads downwards. some of the trees are as tall as the moon, and at certain seasons of the year the bark comes tumbling off them like rolls of shoeleather. others are shaped like bottles, others again have heads of waving grass, and others have ferns for tops. there are trees, too, that drop all their leaves to give the flowers a chance; and these are so brilliantly red, and so numerous, that the forest where they grow looks all on fire. well, many of the animals walk or jump on two legs, instead of running on four. does that interest you?" "yes. tell me something more about birds." "well, ducks are everywhere in australia, and many kinds are as big as geese. they seem to thrive. and ages ago, it is said by the natives, the moles in australia got tired of living in the dark, and held a meeting above-ground, and determined to live a different mode of life. so they grew longer claws, and short, broad, flat tails, and bills like ducks, and took to the water, and have been happy ever since. "well, there are black swans in abundance; and though it is two or three years since i was out last, i cannot forget a beautiful bird, something betwixt a pheasant and peacock, and the cock's tail is his especial delight. it is something really to be proud of, and at a distance looks like a beautiful lyre, strings and all. the cockatoos swarm around the trees, and scream and laugh at the lyre-bird giving himself airs, but i daresay this is all envy. the hen bird is not a beauty, but her chief delight is to watch the antics and attitudes of her lord and master as he struts about making love and fun to her time about, at one moment singing a kind of low, sweet song, at another mocking every sound that is heard in the forest, every noise made by man or bird or beast. no wonder the female lyre-bird thinks her lord the cleverest and most beautiful creature in the world! "then there is a daft-looking kingfisher, all head and bill, and wondering eyes, who laughs like a jackass, and makes you laugh to hear him laugh. so loud does he laugh at times that his voice drowns every other sound in the forest. "there is a bird eight feet high, partly cassowary, partly ostrich, that when attacked kicks like a horse, or more like a cow, because it kicks sideways. but if i were to sit here till our good ship reached the cape, i could not tell you about half the curious, beautiful, and ridiculous creatures and things you will find in australia if you move much about. i do think that that country beats all creation for the gorgeousness of its wild birds and wild flowers; and if things do seem a bit higgledy-piggledy at first, you soon settle down to it, and soon tire wondering at anything. "but," continued the stranger, "with all their peculiarities, the birds and beasts are satisfied with their get-up, and pleased with their surroundings, although all day long in the forests the cockatoos, and parrots, and piping crows, and lyre-birds do little else but joke and chaff one another because they all look so comical. "yes, lad, australia you will find is a country of contrarieties, and the only wonder to me is that the rivers don't all run up-hill instead of running down; and mind, they are sometimes broader at their sources than they are at their ends." "there is plenty of gold there?" asked archie. "oh, yes, any amount; but--" "but what, sir?" "the real difficulty--in fact, the only difficulty--is the finding of it." "but that, i suppose, can be got over." "come along with me up on deck, and we'll talk matters over. it is hot and stuffy down here; besides, they are going to lay the cloth." arrived at the quarterdeck, the stranger took hold of archie's arm, as if he had known him all his life. "now," he said, "my name is vesey, generally called captain vesey, because i never did anything that i know of to merit the title. i've been in an army or two in different parts of the globe as a free lance, you know." "how nice!" "oh, delightful!" said captain vesey, though from the tone of his voice archie was doubtful as to his meaning. "well," he added, "i own a yacht, now waiting for me, i believe, at the cape of good hope, if she isn't sunk, or burned, or something. and your tally?" "my what, sir?" "your tally, your name, and the rest of it?" "archie broadbent, son of squire broadbent, of burley old farm, northumberland." "what! you a son of charlie broadbent? yankee charlie, as we used to call him at the club. well, well, well, wonders will never cease; and it only shows how small the world is, after all." "and you used to know my father, sir?" "my dear boy, i promised myself the pleasure of calling on him at burley. i've only been home for two months, however; and i heard--well, boy, i needn't mince matters--i heard your father had been unfortunate, and had left his place, and gone nobody could tell me whither." "no," said archie, laughing, "it isn't quite so bad as all that; and it is bound to come right in the end." "you are talking very hopefully, lad. i could trace a resemblance in your face to someone i knew the very moment i sat down. and there is something like the same cheerful ring in your voice there used to be in his. you really are a chip of the old block." "so they say." and archie laughed again, pleased by this time. "but, you know, lad, you are very young to be going away to seek your fortune." "i'll get over that, sir." "i hope so. of course, you won't go pottering after gold!" "i don't know. if i thought i would find lots, i would go like a shot." "well, take my advice, and don't. there, i do not want to discourage you; but you better turn your mind to farming--to squatting." "that wouldn't be very genteel, would it?" "genteel! why, lad, if you're going to go in for genteelity, you'd best have stayed at home." "well, but i have an excellent education. i can write like copper-plate. i am a fair hand at figures, and well up in latin and greek; and--" "ha! ha! ha!" captain vesey laughed aloud. "latin and greek, eh? you must keep that to yourself, boy." "and," continued archie boldly, "i have a whole lot of capital introductions. i'm sure to get into a good office in sydney; and in a few years--" archie stopped short, because by the light that streamed from the skylight he could see that captain vesey was looking at him half-wonderingly, but evidently amused. "go on," said the captain. "not a word more," said archie doggedly. "finish your sentence, lad." "i shan't. there!" "well, i'll do it for you. you'll get into a delightful office, with mahogany writing-desks and stained glass windows, turkey carpet and an easy-chair. your employer will take you out in his buggy every sunday to dine with him; and after a few years, as you say, he'll make you a co-partner; and you'll end by marrying his daughter, and live happy ever after." "you're laughing at me, sir. i'll go down below." "yes, i'm laughing at you, because you're only a greenhorn; and it is as well that i should squeeze a little of the lime-juice out of you as anyone else. no, don't go below. mind, i was your father's friend." "yes," pouted poor archie; "but you don't appear to be mine. you are throwing cold water over my hopes; you are smashing my idols." "a very pretty speech, archie broadbent. but mind you this--a hut on solid ground is better far than a castle in the air. and it is better that i should storm and capsize your cloud-castle, than that an absolute stranger did so." "well, i suppose you are right. forgive me for being cross." "spoken like his father's son," said captain vesey, grasping and shaking the hand that archie extended to him. "now we know each other. ding! ding! ding! there goes the dinner-bell. sit next to me." chapter twelve. "keep on your cap. i was once a poor man myself." the voyage out was a long, even tedious one; but as it has but little bearing on the story i forbear to describe it at length. the ship had a passenger for madeira, parcels for ascension and saint helena, and she lay in at the cape for a whole week. here captain vesey left the vessel, bidding archie a kind farewell, after dining with him at the fountain, and roaming with him all over the charming botanical gardens. "i've an idea we'll meet again," he said as he bade him adieu. "if god spares me, i'll be sure to visit sydney in a year or two, and i hope to find you doing well. you'll know if my little yacht, the _barracouta_, comes in, and i know you'll come off and see me. i hope to find you with as good a coat on your back as you have now." then the _dugong_ sailed away again; but the time now seemed longer to archie than ever, for in captain vesey he really had lost a good friend--a friend who was all the more valuable because he spoke the plain, unvarnished truth; and if in doing so one or two of the young man's cherished idols were brought tumbling down to the ground, it was all the better for the young man. it showed those idols had feet of clay, else a little cold water thrown over them would hardly have had such an effect. i am sorry to say, however, that no sooner had the captain left the ship, than archie set about carefully collecting the pieces of those said idols and patching them up again. "after all," he thought to himself, "this captain vesey, jolly fellow as he is, never had to struggle with fortune as i shall do; and i don't think he has the same pluck in him that my father has, and that people say i have. we'll see, anyhow. other fellows have been fortunate in a few years, why shouldn't i? 'in a few years?' yes, these are the very words captain vesey laughed at me for. 'in a few years?' to be sure. and why not? what _is_ the good of a fortune to a fellow after he gets old, and all worn down with gout and rheumatism? 'cheer, boys, cheer;' i'm going in to win." how slow the ship sailed now, apparently; and when it did blow it usually blew the wrong way, and she would have to stand off and on, or go tack and half-tack against it, like a man with one long leg and one short. but she was becalmed more than once, and this did seem dreadful. it put archie in mind of a man going to sleep in the middle of his work, which is not at all the correct thing to do. well, there is nothing like a sailing ship after all for teaching one the virtue of patience; and at last archie settled down to his sea life. he was becoming quite a sailor--as hard as the wheel-spokes, as brown as the binnacle. he was quite a favourite with the captain and officers, and with all hands fore and aft. indeed he was very often in the forecastle or galley of an evening listening to the men's yarns or songs, and sometimes singing a verse or two himself. he was just beginning to think the _dugong_ was vanderdecken's ship, and that she never would make port at all, when one day at dinner he noticed that the captain was unusually cheerful. "in four or five days more, please god," said he, "we'll be safe in sydney." archie almost wished he had not known this, for these four or five days were the longest of any he had yet passed. he had commenced to worship his patched-up idols again, and felt happier now, and more full of hope and certainty of fortune than he had done during the whole voyage. sometimes they sighted land. once or twice birds flew on board--such bright, pretty birds too they looked. and birds also went wheeling and whirring about the ship--gulls, the like of which he had never seen before. they were more elegant in shape and purer in colour than ours, and their voices were clear and ringing. dick whittington construed words out of the sound of the chiming bells. therefore it is not at all wonderful that archie was pleased to believe that some of these beautiful birds were screaming him a welcome to the land of gold. just at or near the end of the voyage half a gale of wind blew the ship considerably out of her course. then the breeze went round to fair again, the sea went down, and the birds came back; and one afternoon a shout was heard from the foretop that made archie's heart jump for very joy. "land ho!" that same evening, as the sun was setting behind the blue mountains, leaving a gorgeous splendour of cloud-scenery that may be equalled, but is never surpassed in any country, the _dugong_ sailed slowly into sydney harbour, and cast anchor. at last! yes, at last. here were the golden gates of the el dorado that were to lead the ambitious boy to fortune, and all the pleasures fortune is capable of bestowing. archie had fancied that sydney would prove to be a very beautiful place; but not in his wildest imaginings had he conjured up a scene of such surpassing loveliness as that which now lay before him, and around him as well. on the town itself his eye naturally first rested. there it lay, miles upon miles of houses, towers, and steeples, spread out along the coast, and rising inland. the mountains and hills beyond, their rugged grandeur softened and subdued in the purple haze of the day's dying glory; the sky above, with its shades of orange, saffron, crimson, opal, and grey; and the rocks, to right and left in the nearer distance, with their dreamy clouds of foliage, from which peeped many a lordly mansion, many a fairy-like palace. he hardly noticed the forests of masts; he was done with ships, done with masts, for a time at least; but his inmost heart responded to the distant hum of city life, that came gently stealing over the waters, mingling with the chime of evening bells, and the music of the happy sea-gulls. would he, could he, get on shore to-night? "no," the first officer replied, "not before another day." so he stood on deck, or walked about, never thinking of food--what is food or drink to a youth who lives on hope?--till the gloaming shades gave place to night, till the southern stars shone over the hills and harbour, and strings upon strings of lamps and lights were hung everywhere across the city above and below. now the fairy scene is changed. archie is on shore. it is the forenoon of another day, and the sun is warm though not uncomfortably hot. there is so much that is bracing and invigorating in the very air, that he longs to be doing something at once. longs to commence laying the foundation-stone of that temple of fortune which--let captain vesey say what he likes--he, archie broadbent, is bent upon building. he has dressed himself in his very english best. his clothes are new and creaseless, his gloves are spotless, his black silk hat immaculate, the cambric handkerchief that peeps coyly from his breast pocket is whiter than the snow, his boots fit like gloves, and shine as softly black as his hat itself, and his cane even must be the envy of every young man he meets. strange to say, however, no one appears to take a very great deal of notice of him, though, as he glances towards the shop windows, he can see as if in a mirror that one or two passengers have looked back and smiled. but it couldn't surely have been at him? impossible! the people, however, are apparently all very active and very busy, though cool, with a self-possession that he cannot help envying, and which he tries to imitate without any marked degree of success. there is an air of luxury and refinement about many of the buildings that quite impresses the young man; but he cannot help noticing that there is also a sort of business air about the streets which he hardly expected to find, and which reminds him forcibly of glasgow and manchester. he almost wishes it had been otherwise. he marches on boldly enough. archie feels as if on a prospecting tour--prospecting for gold. of course he is going to make his fortune, but how is he going to begin? that is the awkward part of the business. if he could once get in the thin end of the wedge he would quickly drive it home. "there is nothing like ambition. if we steer a steady course." of course there isn't. but staring into a china-shop window will do him little good. i do not believe he saw anything in that window however. only, on turning away from it, his foot goes splash into a pool of dirty water on the pavement, or rather on what ought to be a pavement. that boot is ruined for the day, and this reminds him that sydney streets are _not_ paved with gold, but with very unromantic matter-of-fact mud. happy thought! he will dine. the waiters are very polite, but not obsequious, and he makes a hearty meal, and feels more at home. shall he tip this waiter fellow? is it the correct thing to tip waiters? will the waiter think him green if he does, or green if he doesn't? these questions, trifling though they may appear, really annoyed archie; but he erred on the right side, and did tip the waiter--well too. and the waiter brightened up, and asked him if he would like to see a playbill. then this reminded archie that he might as well call on some of the people to whom he had introductions. so he pulled out a small bundle of letters, and he asked the waiter where this, that, and t'other street was; and the waiter brought a map, and gave him so many hints, that when he found himself on the street again he did not feel half so foreign. he had something to do now, something in view. besides he had dined. "yes, he'd better drive," he said to himself, "it would look better." he lifted a finger, and a hansom rattled along, and drew up by the kerb. he had not expected to find cabs in sydney. his card-case was handy, and his first letter also. he might have taken a 'bus or tram. there were plenty passing, and very like glasgow 'buses they were too; from the john with the ribbons to the cad at the rear. but a hansom certainly looked more aristocratic. aristocratic? yes. but were there any aristocrats in sydney? was there any real blue blood in the place? he had not answered those questions to his satisfaction, when the hansom stopped so suddenly that he fell forward. "wait," he said to the driver haughtily. "certainly, sir." archie did not observe, however, the grimace the jehu made to another cabman, as he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, else he would hardly have been pleased. there was quite a business air about the office into which the young man ushered himself, but no one took much notice of him. if he had had an older face under that brand-new hat, they might have been more struck with his appearance. "ahem! aw--!" archie began. "one minute, sir," said the clerk nearest him. "fives in forty thousand? fives in forty are eight--eight thousand." the clerk advanced pen in mouth. "do you come from jenkins's about those bills?" "no, i come from england; and i've a letter of introduction to your _master_." archie brought the last word out with a bang. "mr berry isn't in. will you leave a message?" "no, thank you." "as you please." archie was going off, when the clerk called after him, "here is mr berry himself, sir." a tall, brown-faced, elderly gentleman, with very white hair and pleasant smile. he took archie into the office, bade him be seated, and slowly read the letter; then he approached the young man and shook hands. the hand felt like a dead fish's tail in archie's, and somehow the smile had vanished. "i'm really glad to see your father's son," he said. "sorry though to hear that he has had a run of bad luck. very bad luck it must be, too," he added, "to let you come out here." "indeed, sir; but i mean to make my for--that is, i want to make my living." "ay, young man, living's more like it; and i wish i could help you. there's a wave of depression over this side of our little island at present, and i don't know that any office in town has a genteel situation to offer you." archie's soul-heat sank a degree or two. "you think, sir, that--" "i think that you would have done better at home. it would be cruel of me not to tell you the truth. now i'll give you an example. we advertised for a clerk just a week since--" "i wish i'd been here." "my young friend, you wouldn't have had the ghost of a chance. we had five-and-thirty to pick and choose from, and we took the likeliest. i'm really sorry. if anything should turn up, where shall i communicate?" where should he communicate? and this was his father's best friend, from whom the too sanguine father expected archie would have an invitation to dinner at once, and a general introduction to sydney society. "oh, it is no great matter about communicating, mr berry; aw!--no matter at all! i can afford to wait a bit and look round me. i--aw!-- good morning, sir." away stalked the young northumbrian, like a prince of the blood. "a chip of the old block," muttered mr berry, as he resumed his desk work. "poor lad, he'll have to come down a peg though." the cabby sprang towards the young nob. "where next, sir?" "grindlay's." archie was not more successful here, nor anywhere else. but at the end of a week, during which time he had tried as hard as any young man had ever tried before in sydney or any other city to find some genteel employment, he made a wise resolve; viz, to go into lodgings. he found that living in a hotel, though very cheerful, made a terrible hole in his purse; so he brought himself "down a peg" by the simple process of "going up" nearer the sky. here is the explanation of this paradox. it was archie's custom to spend his forenoons looking for something to do, and his evenings walking in the suburbs. poor, lonely lad, that never a soul in the city cared for, any more than if he had been a stray cat, he found it wearisome, heart-breaking work wandering about the narrow, twisting streets and getting civilly snubbed. he felt more of a gentleman when dining. afterwards his tiredness quite left him, and hope swelled his heart once more. so out he would go and away--somewhere, anywhere; it did not matter so long as he could see woods, and water, and houses. oh, such lovely suburban villas, with cool verandahs, round which flowering creepers twined, and lawns shaded by dark green waving banana trees, beneath which he could ofttimes hear the voices of merry children, or the tinkle of the light guitar. he would give reins to his fancy then, and imagine things--such sweet things! yes, he would own one of the biggest and most delightful of these mansions; he should keep fleet horses, a beautiful carriage, a boat--he must have a boat, or should it be a gondola? yes, that would be nicer and newer. in this boat, when the moonlight silvered the water, he would glide over the bay, returning early to his happy home. his bonnie sister should be there, his brother rupert--the student--his mother, and his hero, that honest, bluff, old father of his. what a dear, delightful dream! no wonder he did not care to return to the realities of his city life till long after the sun had set over the hills, and the stars were twinkling down brighter and lovelier far than those lights he had so admired the night his ship arrived. he was returning slowly one evening and was close to the city, but in a rather lonely place, when he noticed something dark under the shade of a tree, and heard a girl's voice say: "dearie me! as missus says; but ain't i jolly tired just!" "who is that?" said archie. "on'y me, sir; on'y sarah. don't be afear'd. i ain't a larrikin. help this 'ere box on my back like a good chummie." "it's too heavy for your slight shoulders," quoth gallant archie. "i don't mind carrying it a bit." "what, a gent like you! why, sir, you're greener than they make 'em round here!" "i'm from england." "ho, ho! well, that accounts for the milk. so'm i from hengland. this way, chummie." they hadn't far to go. "my missus lives two story up, top of a ware'us, and i've been to the station for that 'ere box. she do take it out o' me for all the wage. she do." archie carried the box up the steep stairs, and sarah's mistress herself opened the door and held a candle. a thin, weary-looking body, with whom sarah seemed to be on the best and most friendly terms. "brought my young man," said sarah. "ain't he a smartie? but, heigho! _so_ green! _you_ never!" "come in a minute, sir, and rest you. never mind this silly girl." archie did go in a minute; five, ten, ay fifteen, and by that time he had not only heard all this ex-policeman's wife's story, but taken a semi-attic belonging to her. and he felt downright independent and happy when next day he took possession. for now he would have time to really look round, and it was a relief to his mind that he would not be spending much money. archie could write home cheerfully now. he was sure that something would soon turn up, something he could accept, and which would not be derogatory to the son of a northumbrian squire. more than one influential member of commercial society had promised "to communicate with him at the very earliest moment." but, alas! weeks flew by, and weeks went into months, and no more signs of the something were apparent than he had seen on the second day of his arrival. archie was undoubtedly "a game un," as sarah called him; but his heart began to feel very heavy indeed. living as cheaply as he could, his money would go done at last. what then? write home for more? he shuddered to think of such a thing. if his first friend, captain vesey, had only turned up now, he would have gone and asked to be taken as a hand before the mast. but captain vesey did not. a young man cannot be long in sydney without getting into a set. archie did, and who could blame him. they were not a rich set, nor a very fast set; but they had a morsel of a club-room of their own. they formed friendships, took strolls together, went occasionally to the play, and often had little "adventures" about town, the narratives of which, when retailed in the club, found ready listeners, and of course were stretched to the fullest extent of importance. they really were not bad fellows, and would have done archie a good turn if they could. but they could not. they laughed a deal at first at his english notions and ideas; but gradually archie got over his greenness, and began to settle down to colonial life, and would have liked sydney very much indeed if he had only had something to do. the ex-policeman's wife was very kind to her lodger. so was sarah; though she took too many freedoms of speech with him, which tended to lower his english squirearchical dignity very much. but, to do her justice, sarah did not mean any harm. only once did archie venture to ask about the ex-policeman. "what did he do?" "oh, he drinks!" said sarah, as quietly as if drinking were a trade of some kind. archie asked no more. rummaging in a box one day, archie found his last letter of introduction. it had been given him by uncle ramsay. "you'll find him a rough and right sort of a stick," his uncle had said. "he _was_ my steward, now he is a wealthy man, and can knock down his cheque for many thousands." archie dressed in his best and walked right away that afternoon to find the address. it was one of the very villas he had often passed, in a beautiful place close by the water-side. what would be his reception here? this question was soon put at rest. he rang the bell, and was ushered into a luxuriously-furnished room; a room that displayed more richness than taste. a very beautiful girl--some thirteen years of age perhaps--got up from a grand piano, and stood before him. archie was somewhat taken aback, but bowed as composedly as he could. "surely," he thought, "_she_ cannot be the daughter of the rough and right sort of a stick who had been steward to his uncle. he had never seen so sweet a face, such dreamy blue eyes, or such wealth of hair before. "did you want to see papa? sit down. i'll go and find him." "will you take this letter to him?" said archie. and the girl left, letter in hand. ten minutes after the "rough stick" entered, whistling "sally come up." "hullo! hullo!" he cried, "so here we are." there he was without doubt--a big, red, jolly face, like a full moon orient, a loose merino jacket, no waistcoat or necktie, but a cricketer's cap on the very back of his bushy head. he struck archie a friendly slap on the back. "keep on yer cap," he shouted, "i was once a poor man myself." archie was too surprised and indignant to speak. "well, well, well," said mr winslow, "they do tell me wonders won't never cease. what a whirligig of a world it is. one day i'm cleanin' a gent's boots. gent is a capting of a ship. next day gent's nephew comes to me to beg for a job. say, young man, what'll ye drink?" "i didn't come to _drink_, mr winslow, neither did i come to _beg_." "whew-ew-ew," whistled the quondam steward, "here's pride; here's a touch o' the old country. why, young un, i might have made you my under-gardener." the girl at this moment entered the room. she had heard the last sentence. "papa!" she remonstrated. then she glided out by the casement window. burning blushes suffused archie's cheeks as he hurried over the lawn soon after; angry tears were in his eyes. his hand was on the gate-latch when he felt a light touch on his arm. it was the girl. "don't be angry with poor papa," she said, almost beseechingly. "no, no," archie cried, hardly knowing what he did say. "what is your name?" "etheldene." "what a beautiful name! i--i will never forget it. good-bye." he ran home with the image of the child in his mind--on his brain. sarah--plain sarah--met him at the top of the stairs. he brushed past her. "la! but ye does look glum," said sarah. archie locked his door. he did not want to see even sarah--homely sarah--that night. chapter thirteen. "something in soap." it was a still, sultry night in november. archie's balcony window was wide open, and if there had been a breath of air anywhere he would have had the benefit of it. that was one advantage of having a room high up above the town, and there were several others. for instance, it was quieter, more retired, and his companions did not often take him by storm, because they objected to climb so many stairs. dingy, small, and dismal some might have called it, but archie always felt at home up in his semi-attic. it even reminded him of his room in the dear old tower at burley. then his morsel of balcony, why that was worth all the money he paid for the room itself; and as for the view from this charming, though non-aristocratic elevation, it was simply unsurpassed, unsurpassable--looking far away over a rich and fertile country to the grand old hills beyond--a landscape that, like the sea, was still the same, but ever changing; sometimes smiling and green, sometimes bathed in tints of purple and blue, sometimes grey as a sky o'ercast with rain clouds. yes, he loved it, and he would take a chair out here on a moonlight evening and sit and think and dream. but on this particular night sleep, usually so kind to the young man, absolutely refused to visit his pillow. he tried to woo the goddess on his right side, on his left, on his back; it was all in vain. finally, he sat bolt upright in his little truckle bed in silent defiance. "i don't care," he said aloud, "whether i sleep or not. what does it matter? i've nothing to do to-morrow. heigho!" nothing to do to-morrow! how sad! and he so young too. were all his dreams of future fortune to fade and pass away like this--nothing to do? why he envied the very boys who drove the mill wagons that went lazily rolling past his place every day. they seemed happy, and so contented; while he--why his very life--had come to be all one continued fever. "nothing to do yet, sir?" it was the ordinary salutation of his hard-working mite of a landlady when he came home to his meal in the afternoon. "i knows by the weary way ye walks upstairs, sir, you aren't successful yet, sir." "nothink to do yet, sir?" they were the usual words that the slavey used when she dragged upstairs of an evening with his tea-things. "nothink to do," she would say, as she deposited the tray on the table, and sank _sans ceremonie_ into the easy-chair. "nothink to do. what a 'appy life to lead! now 'ere's me a draggin' up and down stairs, and a carryin' of coals and a sweepin', and a dustin' and a hanswering of the door, till, what wi' the 'eat and the dust and the fleas, my poor little life's well-nigh worrited out o' me. heigho! hif i was honly back again in merrie england, catch me ever goin' to any australia any more. but you looks a horned gent, sir. nothink to do! my eye and betty martin, ye oughter to be 'appy, if you ain't." archie got up to-night, enrobed himself in his dressing-gown, and went and sat on his balcony. this soothed him. the stars were very bright, and seemed very near. he did not care for other companionship than these and his own all-too-busy thoughts. there was hardly a sound to be heard, except now and then the hum of a distant railway train increasing to a harsh roar as it crossed the bridge, then becoming subdued again and muffled as it entered woods, or went rolling over a soft and open country. nothing to do! but he must and would do something. why should he starve in a city of plenty? he had arms and hands, if he hadn't a head. indeed, he had begun of late to believe that his head, which he used to think so much of, was the least important part of his body. he caught himself feeling his forearm and his biceps. why this latter had got smaller and beautifully less of late. he had to shut his fist hard to make it perceptible to touch. this was worse and worse, he thought. he would not be able to lift a fifty-six if he wanted to before long, or have strength enough left to wield a stable broom if he should be obliged to go as gardener to winslow. "what next, i wonder?" he said to himself. "first i lose my brains, if ever i had any, and now i have lost my biceps; the worst loss last." he lit his candle, and took up the newspaper. "i'll pocket my pride, and take a porter's situation," he murmured. "let us see now. hullo! what is this? 'apprentice wanted--the drug trade--splendid opening to a pushing youngster.' well, i am a pushing youngster. 'premium required.' i don't care, i have a bit of money left, and i'll pay it like a man if there is enough. why the drug trade is grand. sydney drug-stores beat glasgow's all to pieces. druggists and drysalters have their carriages and mansions, their town and country houses. hurrah! i'll be something yet!" he blew out the candle, and jumped into bed. the gentle goddess required no further wooing. she took him in her lap, and he went off at once like a baby. rap--rap--rap--rap! "hullo! yes; coming, sarah; coming." it was broad daylight; and when he admitted sarah at last, with the breakfast-tray, she told him she had been up and down fifty times, trying to make him hear. sarah was given to a little exaggeration at times. "it was all very well for a gent like he," she said, "but there was her a-slavin' and a-toilin', and all the rest of it." "well, well, my dear," he cut in, "i'm awfully sorry, i assure you." sarah stopped right in the centre of the room, still holding the tray, and looked at him. "what!" she cried. "ye ain't a-going to marry me then, young man! what are ye my-dearing me for?" "no, sarah," replied archie, laughing; "i'm not going to marry you; but i've hopes of a good situation, and--" "is that all?" sarah dumped down the tray, and tripped away singing. archie's interview with the advertiser was of a most satisfactory character. he did not like the street, it was too new and out of the way; but then it would be a beginning. he did not like his would-be employer, but he dared say he would improve on acquaintance. there was plenty in the shop, though the place was dingy and dirty, and the windows small. the spiders evidently had fine times of it here, and did not object to the smell of drugs. he was received by mr glorie himself in a little back sanctum off the little back shop. the premium for apprenticing archie was rather more than the young man could give; but this being explained to the proprietor of these beautiful premises, and owner of all the spiders, he graciously condescended to take half. archie's salary--a wretched pittance--was to commence at once after articles were signed; and mr glorie promised to give him a perfect insight into the drug business, and make a man of him, and "something else besides," he added, nodding to archie in a mysterious manner. the possessor of the strange name was a queer-looking man; there did not appear much glory about him. he was very tall, very lanky, and thin, his shoulders sloping downwards like a well-pointed pencil, while his face was solemn and elongated, like your own, reader, if you look at it in a spoon held lengthways. the articles were signed, and archie walked home on feathers apparently. he went upstairs singing. his landlady ran to the door. "work at last?" archie nodded and smiled. when sarah came in with the dinner things she danced across the room, bobbing her queer, old-fashioned face and crying-- "lawk-a-daisy, diddle-um-doo, missus says you've got work to do!" "yes, sarah, at long last, and i'm so happy." "'appy, indeed!" sang sarah. "why, ye won't be the gent no longer!" archie certainly had got work to do. for a time his employer kept him in the shop. there was only one other lad, and he went home with the physic, and what with studying hard to make himself _au fait_ in prescribing and selling seidlitz powders and gum drops, archie was pretty busy. so months flew by. then his long-faced employer took him into the back premises, and proceeded to initiate him into the mysteries of the something else that was to make a man of him. "there's a fortune in it," said mr glorie, pointing to a bubbling grease-pot. "yes, young sir, a vast fortune." "what is the speciality?" archie ventured to enquire. "the speciality, young sir?" replied mr glorie, his face relaxing into something as near a smile as it would permit of. "the speciality, sir, is soap. a transparent soap. a soap, young sir, that is destined to revolutionise the world of commerce, and bring _my_ star to the ascendant after struggling for two long decades with the dark clouds of adversity." so this was the mystery. archie was henceforward, so it appeared, to live in an atmosphere of scented soap; his hope must centre in bubbles. he was to assist this mr glorie's star to rise to the zenith, while his own fortune might sink to nadir. and he had paid his premium. it was swallowed up and simmering in that ugly old grease-pot, and except for the miserable salary he received from mr glorie he might starve. poor archie! he certainly did not share his employer's enthusiasm, and on this particular evening he did not walk home on feathers, and when he sat down to supper his face must have appeared to sarah quite as long and lugubrious as mr glorie's; for she raised her hands and said: "lawk-a-doodle, sir! what's the matter? have ye killed anybody?" "not yet," answered archie; "but i almost feel i could." he stuck to his work, however, like a man; but that work became more and more allied to soap, and the front shop hardly knew him any more. he had informed the fellows at the club-room that he was employed at last; that he was apprenticed to the drug trade. but the soap somehow leaked out, and more than once, when he was introduced to some new-comer, he was styled-- "mr broadbent," and "something in soap." this used to make him bite his lips in anger. he would not have cared half so much had he not joined this very club, with a little flourish of trumpets, as young broadbent, son of squire broadbent, of burley old castle, england. and now he was "something in soap." he wrote home to his sister in the bitterness of his soul, telling her that all his visions of greatness had ended in bubbles of rainbow hue, and that he was "something in soap." he felt sorry for having done so as soon as the letter was posted. he met old winslow one day in the street, and this gentleman grasped archie's small aristocratic hand in his great brown bear's paw, and congratulated him on having got on his feet at last. "yes," said archie with a sneer and a laugh, "i'm 'something in soap.'" "and soap's a good thing i can tell you. soap's not to be despised. there's a fortune in soap. i had an uncle in soap. stick to it, my lad, and it'll stick to you." but when a new apprentice came to the shop one day, and was installed in the front door drug department, while he himself was relegated to the slums at the back, his cup of misery seemed full, and he proceeded forthwith to tell this mr glorie what he thought of him. mr glorie's face got longer and longer and longer, and he finally brought his clenched fist down with such a bang on the counter, that every bottle and glass in the place rang like bells. "i'll have the law on you," he shouted. "i don't care; i've done with you. i'm sick of you and your soap." he really did not mean to do it; but just at that moment his foot kicked against a huge earthenware jar full of oil, and shivered it in pieces. "you've broke your indenture! you--you--" "i've broken your jar, anyhow," cried archie. he picked up his hat, and rushing out, ran recklessly off to his club. he was "something in soap" no more. he was beggared, but he was free, unless indeed mr glorie should put him in gaol. chapter fourteen. the king may come in the cadger's way. mr glorie did not put his runaway apprentice in gaol. he simply advertised for another--with a premium. poor archie! his condition in life was certainly not to be envied now. he had but very few pounds between him and actual want. he was rich in one thing alone--pride. he would sooner starve than write home for a penny. no, he _could_ die in a gutter, but he could not bear to think they should know of it at burley old farm. long ago, in the bonnie woods around burley, he used to wonder to find dead birds in dark crannies of the rocks. he could understand it now. they had crawled into the crannies to die, out of sight and alone. his club friends tried to rally him. they tried to cheer him up in more ways than one. be it whispered, they tried to make him seek solace in gambling and in the wine-cup. i do not think that i have held up my hero as a paragon. on the contrary, i have but represented him as he was--a bold, determined lad, with many and many a fault; but now i am glad to say this one thing in his favour: he was not such a fool as to try to drown his wits in wine, nor to seek to make money questionably by betting and by cards. after archie's letter home, in which he told elsie that he was "something in soap," he had written another, and a more cheerful one. it was one which cost him a good deal of trouble to write; for he really could not get over the notion that he was telling white lies when he spoke of "his prospects in life, and his hopes being on the ascendant;" and as he dropped it into the receiver, he felt mean, demoralised; and he came slowly along george street, trying to make himself believe that any letter was better than no letter, and that he would hardly have been justified in telling the whole truth. well, at burley old farm things had rather improved, simply for this reason: squire broadbent had gone in heavily for retrenchment. he had proved the truth of his own statement: "it does not take much in this world to make a man happy." the squire was happy when he saw his wife and children happy. the former was always quietly cheerful, and the latter did all they could to keep up each other's hearts. they spent much of their spare time in the beautiful and romantic tower-room, and in walking about the woods, the grounds, and farm; for rupert was well now, and was his father's right hand, not in the rough-and-tumble dashing way that archie would have been, but in a thoughtful, considering way. mr walton had gone away, but branson and old kate were still to the fore. the squire could not have spared these. i think that rupert's religion was a very pretty thing. he had lost none of his simple faith, his abiding trust in god's goodness, though he had regained his health. his devotions were quite as sincere, his thankfulness for mercies received greater even than before, and he had the most unbounded faith in the efficacy of prayer. so his sister and he lived in hope, and the squire used to build castles in the green parlour of an evening, and of course the absent archie was one of the kings of these castles. after a certain number of years of retrenchment, burley was going to rise from its ashes like the fabled phoenix--machinery and all. the squire was even yet determined to show these old-fashioned farmer folks of northumbria "a thing or two." that was his ambition; and we must not blame him; for a man without ambition of some kind is a very humble sort of a clod--a clod of very poor clay. but to return to sydney. archie had received several rough invitations to go and visit mr winslow. he had accepted two of these, and, singular to say, etheldene's father was absent each time. now, i refuse to be misunderstood. archie did not "manage" to call when the ex-miner was out; but archie was not displeased. he had taken a very great fancy for the child, and did not hesitate to tell her that from the first day he had met her he had loved her like his sister elsie. of course etheldene wanted to know all about elsie, and hours were spent in telling her about this one darling sister of his, and about rupert and all the grand old life at burley. "i should laugh," cried archie, "if some day when you grew up, you should find yourself in england, and fall in love with rupert, and marry him." the child smiled, but looked wonderfully sad and beautiful the next moment. she had a way like this with her. for if etheldene had been taken to represent any month of our english year, it would have been april--sunshine, flowers, and showers. but one evening archie happened to be later out in the suburbs than he ought to have been. the day had been hot, and the night was delightfully cool and pleasant. he was returning home when a tall, rough-looking, bearded man stopped him, and asked "for a light, old chum." archie had a match, which he handed him, and as the light fell on the man's face, it revealed a very handsome one indeed, and one that somehow seemed not unfamiliar to him. archie went on. there was the noise of singing farther down the street, a merry band of youths who had been to a race meeting that clay, and were up to mischief. the tall man hid under the shadow of a wall. "they're larrikins," he said to himself, and "he's a greenhorn." he spat in his fist, and kept his eye on the advancing figures. archie met them. they were arm-in-arm, five in all, and instead of making way for him, rushed him, and down he went, his head catching the kerb with frightful force. they at once proceeded to rifle him. but perhaps "larrikins" had never gone to ground so quickly and so unexpectedly before. it was the bearded man who was "having his fling" among them, and he ended by grabbing one in each hand till a policeman came up. archie remembered nothing more then. when he became sensible he was in bed with a bandaged head, and feeling as weak all over as a kitten. sarah was in the room with the landlady. "hush, my dear," said the latter; "you've been very ill for more than a week. you're not to get up, nor even to speak." archie certainly did not feel inclined to do either. he just closed his eyes and dozed off again, and his soul flew right away back to burley. "oh, yes; he's out of danger!" it was the doctor's voice. "he'll do first-rate with careful nursing." "he won't want for that, sir. sarah here has been like a little mother to him." archie dozed for days. only, whenever he was sensible, he could notice that sarah was far better dressed, and far older-looking and nicer-looking than ever she had been. and now and then the big-bearded man came and sat by his bed, looking sometimes at him, some times at sarah. one day archie was able to sit up; he felt quite well almost, though of course he was not really so. "i have you to thank for helping me that night," he said. "ay, ay, master archie; but don't you know me?" "no--no. i don't think so." the big-bearded man took out a little case from his pocket, and pulled therefrom a pair of horn-bound spectacles. "why!" cried archie, "you're not--" "i _am_, really." "oh, bob cooper, i'm pleased to see you! tell me all your story." "not yet, chummie; it is too long, or rather you're too weak. why, you're crying!" "it's tears of joy!" "well, well; i would join you, lad, but tears ain't in my line. but somebody else will want to see you to-morrow." "who?" "just wait and see." archie did wait. indeed he had to; for the doctor left express orders that he was not to be disturbed. the evening sun was streaming over the hills when sarah entered next day and gave a look towards the bed. "i'm awake, sarah." "it's bob," said sarah, "and t'other little gent. they be both a-comin' upstairs athout their boots." archie was just wondering what right sarah had to call bob cooper by his christian name, when bob himself came quietly in. "ah!" he said, as he approached the bed, "you're beginning to look your old self already. now who is this, think you?" archie extended a feeble white hand. "why, whitechapel!" he exclaimed joyfully. "wonders will never cease!" "well, johnnie, and how are ye? i told ye, ye know, that 'the king, might come in the cadger's way.'" "not much king about me now, harry; but sit down. why i've come through such a lot since i saw you, that i begin to feel quite aged. well, it is just like old times seeing you. but you're not a bit altered. no beard, or moustache, or anything, and just as cheeky-looking as when you gave me that thrashing in the wood at burley. but you don't talk so cockneyfied." "no, johnnie; ye see i've roughed it a bit, and learned better english in the bush and scrub. but i say, johnnie, i wouldn't mind being back for a day or two at burley. i think i could ride your buck-jumping 'eider duck' now. ah, i won't forget that first ride, though; i've got to rub myself yet whenever i think of it." "but how on earth did you get here at all, the pair of you?" "well," said harry, "that ain't my story 'alf so much as it is bob's. i reckon he better tell it." "oh, but i haven't the gift of the gab like you, harry! i'm a slow coach. i am a duffer at a story." "stop telling both," cried archie. "i don't want any story about the matter. just a little conversational yarn; you can help each other out, and what i don't understand, why i'll ask, that's all." "but wait a bit," he continued. "touch that bell, harry. pull hard; it doesn't ring else. my diggins are not much account. here comes sarah, singing. bless her old soul! i'd been dead many a day if it hadn't been for sarah." "look here, sarah." "i'm looking nowheres else, mister broadbent; but mind you this, if there's too much talking, i'm to show both these gents downstairs. them's the doctor's orders, and they've got to be obeyed. now, what's your will, sir?" "tea, sarah." "that's right. one or two words at a time and all goes easy. tea you shall have in the twinkling of a bedpost. tea and etceteras." sarah was as good as her word. in ten minutes she had laid a little table and spread it with good things; a big teapot, cups and saucers, and a steaming urn. then off she went singing again. archie wondered what made her so happy, and meant to ask her when his guests were gone. "now, young squire," said harry, "i'll be the lady; and if your tea isn't to your taste, why just holler." "but don't call me squire, harry; i left that title at home. we're all equal here. no kings and no cadgers." "well, bob, when last i saw you in old england, there was a sorrowful face above your shoulders, and i'll never forget the way you turned round and asked me to look after your mother's cat." "ah, poor mother! i wish i'd been better to her when i had her. however, i reckon we'll meet some day up-bye yonder." "yes, bob, and you jumped the fence and disappeared in the wood! where did you go?" chapter fifteen. bob's story: wild life at the diggings. "well, it all came about like this, archie: 'england,' i said to myself, says i, 'ain't no place for a poor man.' your gentry people, most o' them anyhow, are just like dogs in the manger. the dog couldn't eat the straw, but he wouldn't let the poor hungry cow have a bite. your landed proprietors are just the same; they got their land as the dog got his manger. they took it, and though they can't live on it all, they won't let anybody else do it." "you're rather hard on the gentry, bob." "well, maybe, archie; but they ain't many o' them like squire broadbent. never mind, there didn't seem to be room for me in england, and i couldn't help noticing that all the best people, and the freest, and kindest, were men like your uncle ramsay, who had been away abroad, and had gotten all their dirty little meannesses squeezed out of them. so when i left you, after cutting that bit o' stick, i made tracks for london. i hadn't much money, so i tramped all the way to york, and then took train. when i got to london, why i felt worse off than ever. not a soul to speak to; not a face i knew; even the bobbies looking sour when i asked them a civil question; and starvation staring me in the face." "starvation, bob?" "ay, archie, and money in my pocket. plenty o' shilling dinners; but, lo! what was _one_ london shilling dinner to the like o' me? why, i could have bolted three! then i thought of harry here, and made tracks for whitechapel. i found the youngster--i'd known him at burley--and he was glad to see me again. his granny was dead, or somebody; anyhow, he was all alone in the world. but he made me welcome--downright happy and welcome. i'll tell you what it is, archie lad, harry is a little gentleman, cockney here or cockney there; and deep down below that white, thin face o' his, which three years and over of australian sunshine hasn't made much browner, harry carries a heart, look, see! that wouldn't disgrace an english squire." "bravo, bob! i like to hear you speak in that way about our friend." "well, that night i said to harry, 'isn't it hard, harry.' i says, 'that in this free and enlightened land a man is put into gaol if he snares a rabbit?' "'free and enlightened fiddlestick!' that was harry's words. 'i tell ye what it is, bob,' says he, 'this country is played out. but i knows where there are lots o' rabbits for the catching.' "'where's that?' i says. "'australia o!' says harry. "'harry,' says i, 'let us pool up, and set sail for the land of rabbits--for australia o!' "'right you are,' says harry; and we pooled up on the spot; and from that day we haven't had more'n one purse between the two of us, have we, harry?" "only one," said harry; "and one's enough between such old, old chums." "he may well say old, _old_ chums, archie; he may well put the two olds to it; for it isn't so much the time we've been together, it's what we've come through together; and shoulder to shoulder has always been our motto. we've shared our bed, we've shared our blanket, our damper and our water also, when there wasn't much between the two of us. "we got helped out by the emigration folks, and we've paid them since, and a bit of interest thrown in for luck like; but when we stood together in port jackson for the first time, the contents of our purse wouldn't have kept us living long, i can assure you. "'cities aren't for the like of us, harry,' says i. "'not now,' says harry. "so we joined a gang going west. there was a rush away to some place where somebody had found gold, and harry and i thought we might do as well as any o' them. "ay, archie, that was a rush. 'tinklers, tailors, sodjers, sailors.' i declare we thought ourselves the best o' the whole gang, and i think so still. "we were lucky enough to meet an old digger, and he told us just exactly what to take and what to leave. one thing we _did_ take was steamboat and train, as far as they would go, and this helped us to leave the mob a bit in the rear. "well, we got high up country at long last--" "hold!" cried harry. "he's missing the best of it. is that fair, johnnie?" "no, it isn't fair." "why, johnnie, we hadn't got fifty miles beyond civilisation when, what with the heat and the rough food and bad water, johnnie, my london legs and my london heart failed me, and down i must lie. we were near a bit of a cockatoo farmer's shanty." "does it pay to breed cockatoos?" said archie innocently. "don't be the death o' me, johnnie. a cockatoo farmer is just a crofter. well, in there bob helped me, and i could go no farther. how long was i ill, bob?" "the best part o' two mouths, harry." "ay, johnnie, and all that time bob there helped the farmer--dug for him, trenched and fenced, and all for my sake, and to keep the life in my cockney skin." "well, harry," said bob, "you proved your worth after we got up. you hardened down fine after that fever." harry turned towards archie. "you mustn't believe all bob says, johnnie, when he speaks about me. bob is a good-natured, silly sort of a chap; and though he has a beard now, he ain't got more 'n 'alf the lime-juice squeezed out of him yet." "never mind, bob," said archie, "even limes and lemons should not be squeezed dry. you and i are country lads, and we would rather retain a shade of greenness than otherwise; but go on, bob." "well, now," continued bob, "i don't know that harry's fever didn't do us both good in the long run; for when we started at last for the interior, we met a good lot of the rush coming back. there was no fear of losing the tracks. that was one good thing that came o' harry's fever. another was, that it kind o' tightened his constitution. la! he could come through anything after that--get wet to the skin and dry again; lie out under a tree or under the dews o' heaven, and never complain of stiffness; and eat corn beef and damper as much as you'd like to put before him; and he never seemed to tire. as for me, you know, archie, i'm an old bush bird. i was brought up in the woods and wilds; and, faith, i'm never so much at home as i am in the forests. not but what we found the march inland wearisome enough. worst of it was, we had no horses, and we had to do a lot of what you might call good honest begging; but if the squatters did give us food going up, we were willing to work for it." "if they'd let us, bob." "which they didn't. hospitality and religion go hand in hand with the squatter. when i and harry here set out on that terribly long march, i confess to both of ye now i didn't feel at all certain as to how anything at all would turn out. i was just as bad as the young bear when its mother put it down and told it to walk. the bear said, 'all right, mother; but how is it done?' and as the mother only answered by a grunt, the young bear had to do the best it could; and so did we. "'how is it going to end?' i often said to harry. "'we can't lose anything, bob,' harry would say, laughing, 'except our lives, and they ain't worth much to anybody but ourselves; so i'm thinkin' we're safe.'" here bob paused a moment to stir his tea, and look thoughtfully into the cup, as if there might be some kind of inspiration to be had from that. he laughed lightly as he proceeded: "i'm a bad hand at a yarn; better wi' the gun and the 'girn,' harry. but i'm laughing now because i remember what droll notions i had about what the bush, as they call it, would be like when we got there." "but, johnnie," harry put in, "the curious thing is, that we never did get there, according to the settlers." "no?" "no; because they would always say to us, 'you're going bush way, aren't ye, boys?' and we would answer, 'why, ain't we there now?' and they would laugh." "that's true," said bob. "the country never seemed to be bush enough for anybody. soon's they settled down in a place the bush'd be farther west." "then the bush, when one is going west," said archie, "must be like to-morrow, always one day ahead." "that's it; and always keeping one day ahead. but it was bush enough for us almost anywhere. and though i feel ashamed like to own it now, there was more than once that i wished i hadn't gone there at all. but i had taken the jump, you see, and there was no going back. well, i used to think at first that the heat would kill us, but it didn't. then i made sure the want of water would. that didn't either, because, one way or another, we always came across some. but i'll tell you what nearly killed us, and that was the lonesomeness of those forests. talk of trees! la! archie, you'd think of jack and the beanstalk if you saw some we saw. and why didn't the birds sing sometimes? but no, only the constant bicker, bicker of something in the grass. there were sounds though that did alarm us. we know now that they were made by birds and harmless beasts, but we were all in the dark then. "often and often, when we were just dropping, and thought it would be a comfort to lie down and die, we would come out of a forest all at once, and feel in a kind of heaven because we saw smoke, or maybe heard the bleating o' sheep. heaven? indeed, archie, it seemed to be; for we had many a kindly welcome from the roughest-looking chaps you could possibly imagine. and the luxury of bathing our poor feet, with the certainty of a pair of dry, clean socks in the mornin', made us as happy as a couple of kings. a lump of salt junk, a dab of damper, and a bed in a corner made us feel so jolly we could hardly go to sleep for laughing. "but the poor beggars we met, how they did carry on to be sure about their bad luck, and about being sold, and this, that, and t'other. ay, and they didn't all go back. we saw dead bodies under trees that nobody had stopped to bury; and it was sad enough to notice that a good many of these were women, and such pinched and ragged corpses! it isn't nice to think back about it. "had anybody found gold in this rush? yes, a few got good working claims, but most of the others stopped till they couldn't stop any longer, and had to get away east again, crawling, and cursing their fate and folly. "but i'll tell you, archie, what ruined most o' them. just drink. it is funny that drink will find its way farther into the bush at times than bread will. "well, coming in at the tail o' the day, like, as harry and i did, we could spot how matters stood at a glance, and we determined to keep clear of bush hotels. ah! they call them all hotels. well, i'm a rough un, archie, but the scenes i've witnessed in some of those drinking houffs has turned my stomach. maudlin, drunken miners, singing, and blethering, and boasting; fighting and rioting worse than poachers, archie, and among them--heaven help us!--poor women folks that would melt your heart to look on. "'can we settle down here a bit?' i said to harry, when we got to the diggings. "'we'll try our little best, old chum,' was harry's reply. "and we did try. it was hard even to live at first. the food, such as it was in the new stores, was at famine price, and there was not much to be got from the rivers and woods. but after a few months things mended; our station grew into a kind o' working town. we had even a graveyard, and all the worst of us got weeded out, and found a place there. "harry and i got a claim after no end of prospecting that we weren't up to. we bought our claim, and bought it cheap; and the chap we got it from died in a week. drink? ay, archie, drink. i'll never forget, and harry i don't think will, the last time we saw him. we had left him in a neighbour's hut down the gully dying to all appearance, too weak hardly to speak. we bade him 'good-bye' for the last time as we thought, and were just sitting and talking like in our slab hut before turning in, and late it must have been, when the door opened, and in came glutz, that was his name. la! what a sight! his face looked like the face of a skeleton with some parchment drawn tight over it, his hollow eyes glittered like wildfire, his lips were dry and drawn, his voice husky. "he pointed at us with his shining fingers, and uttered a low cry like some beast in pain; then, in a horrid whisper, he got out these words: "'give me drink, drink, i'm burning.' "i've seen many a sight, but never such a one as that, archie. we carried him back. yes, we did let him have a mouthful. what mattered it. next day he was in a shallow grave. i suppose the dingoes had him. they had most of those that died. "well, by-and-by things got better with harry and me; our claim began to yield, we got dust and nuggets. we said nothing to anybody. we built a better sort of shanty, and laid out a morsel of garden, we fished and hunted, and soon learned to live better than we'd done before, and as we were making a bit of money we were as happy as sandboys. "no, we didn't keep away from the hotel--they soon got one up--it wouldn't have done not to be free and easy. but we knew exactly what to do when we did go there. we could spin our bits o' yarns, and smoke our pipes, without losing our heads. sometimes shindies got up though, and revolvers were used freely enough, but as a rule it was pretty quiet." "only once, when that little fellow told you to 'bail up.'" "what was that, harry?" asked archie. "nothing much," said bob shyly. "he caught him short round the waist, johnnie, and smashed everything on the counter with him, then flung him straight and clear through the doorway. when he had finished he quietly asked what was to pay, and bob was a favourite after that. i reckon no one ever thought of challenging him again." "where did you keep your gold?" "we hid it in the earth in the tent. there was a black fellow came to look after us every day. we kept him well in his place, for we never could trust him; and it was a good thing we did, as i'm going to tell you. "we had been, maybe, a year and a half in the gully, and had got together a gay bit o' swag, when our claim gave out all at once as 'twere--some shift o' the ground or lode. had we had machinery we might have made a round fortune, but there was no use crying about it. we quietly determined to make tracks. we had sent some away to brisbane already--that we knew was safe, but we had a good bit more to take about us. however, we wouldn't have to walk all the way back, for though the place was half-deserted, there were horses to be had, and farther along we'd manage to get drags. "two of the worst hats about the place were a man called vance, and a kind of broken-down surgeon of the name of williams. they lived by their wits, and the wonder is they hadn't been hanged long ago. "it was about three nights before we started, and we were coming home up the gully. the moon was shining as bright as ever i'd seen it. the dew was falling too, and we weren't sorry when we got inside. our tame dingo came to meet us. he had been a pup that we found in the bush and brought up by hand, and a more faithful fellow never lived. we lit our fat-lamp and sat down to talk, and a good hour, or maybe more, went by. then we lay down, for there was lots to be done in the morning. "there was a little hole in the hut at one end where wango, as we called the wild dog, could crawl through; and just as we were dozing off i heard a slight noise, and opened my eyes enough to see poor wango creeping out. we felt sure he wouldn't go far, and would rush in and alarm us if there were the slightest danger. so in a minute more i was sleeping as soundly as only a miner can sleep, archie. how long i may have slept, or how late or early it was, i couldn't say, but i awoke all at once with a start. there was a man in the hut. next minute a shot was fired. i fell back, and don't remember any more. harry there will tell you the rest." "it was the shot that wakened me, archie, but i felt stupid. i groped round for my revolver, and couldn't find it. then, johnnie, i just let them have it tom sayers's fashion--like i did you in the wood, if you remember." "there were two of them?" "ay, vance and the doctor. i could see their faces by the light of their firing. they didn't aim well the first time, johnnie, so i settled them. i threw the doctor over my head. his nut must have come against something hard, because it stilled him. i got the door opened and had my other man out. ha! ha! it strikes me, johnnie, that i must have wanted some exercise, for i never punished a bloke before as i punished that vance. he had no more strength in him than a bandicoot by the time i was quite done with him, and looked as limp all over and just as lively as 'alf a pound of london tripe. "i just went to the bluff-top after that, and coo-eed for help, and three or four right good friends were with us in as many minutes, johnnie. "we thought bob was dead, but he soon spoke up and told us he wasn't, and didn't mean to die. "our chums would have lynched the ruffians that night. the black fellow was foremost among those that wanted to. but i didn't like that, no more did bob. they were put in a tent, tied hand and foot, and our black fellow made sentry over them. next day they were all gone. then we knew it was a put-up job. poor old wango was found with his throat cut. the black fellow had enticed him out and taken him off, then the others had gone for us." "but our swag was safe," said bob, "though i lay ill for months after. and now it was harry's turn to nurse; and i can tell you, archie, that my dear, old dead-and-gone mother couldn't have been kinder to me than he was. a whole party of us took the road back east, and many is the pleasant evening we spent around our camp fire. "we got safe to brisbane, and we got safe here; but somehow we're a kind o' sick of mining." "ever hear more of your assailants?" asked archie. "what, the chaps who tried to bail us up? yes. we did hear they'd taken to bush-ranging, and are likely to come to grief at that." "well, bob cooper, i think you've told your story pretty tidily, with harry's assistance; and i don't wonder now that you've only got one purse between you." "ah!" said bob, "it would take weeks to tell you one half of our adventures. we may tell you some more when we're all together in the bush doing a bit of farming." "all together?" "to be sure! d'ye reckon we'll leave you here, now we've found you? we'll have one purse between three." "indeed, bob, we will not. if i go to the bush--and now i've half a mind to--i'll work like a new hollander." "bravo! you're a chip o' the old block. well, we can arrange that. we'll hire you. will that do, my proud young son of a proud old sire?" "yes; you can hire me." "well, we'll pay so much for your hands, and so much for your head and brains." archie laughed. "and," continued bob, "i'm sure that sarah will do the very best for the three of us." "sarah! why, what do you mean, bob?" "only this, lad: sarah has promised to become my little wife." the girl had just entered. "haven't you, sarah?" "hain't i what?" "promised to marry me." "well, mister archie broadbent, now i comes to think on't, i believes i 'ave. you know, mister, you wouldn't never 'ave married me." "no, sarah." "well, and i'm perfectly sick o' toilin' up and down these stairs. that's 'ow it is, sir." "well, sarah," said archie, "bring us some more nice tea, and i'll forgive you for this once, but you mustn't do it any more." it was late ere bob and harry went away. archie lay back at once, and when, a few minutes after, the ex-policeman's wife came in to see how he was, she found him sound and fast. archie was back again at burley old farm, that is why he smiled in his dreams. "so i'm going to be a hired man in the bush," he said to himself next morning. "that's a turn in the kaleidoscope of fortune." however, as the reader will see, it did not quite come to this with archie broadbent. chapter sixteen. a miner's marriage. it was the cool season in sydney. in other words, it was winter just commencing; so, what with balmy air and beauty everywhere around, no wonder archie soon got well. he had the kindest treatment too, and he had youth and hope. he could now write home to his parents and elsie a long, cheerful letter without any twinge of conscience. he was going to begin work soon in downright earnest, and get straight away from city life, and all its allurements; he wondered, he said, it had not occurred to him to do this before, only it was not too late to mend even yet. he hated city life now quite as much as he had previously loved it, and been enamoured of it. it never rains but it pours, and on the very day after he posted his packet to burley he received a registered letter from his uncle. it contained a bill of exchange for fifty pounds. archie blushed scarlet when he saw it. now had this letter and its contents been from his father, knowing all he did of the straits at home, he would have sent the money back. but his uncle evidently knew whom he had to deal with; for he assured archie in his letter that it was a loan, not a gift. he might want it he said, and he really would be obliging him by accepting it. he--uncle ramsay-- knew what the world was, and so on and so forth, and the letter ended by requesting archie to say nothing about it to his parents at present. "dear old boy," said archie half aloud, and tears of gratitude sprang to his eyes. "how thoughtful and kind! well, it'll be a loan, and i'll pray every night that god may spare him till i get home to shake his honest brown paw, and thrust the fifty pounds back into it. no, it would be really unkind to refuse it." he went straight away--walking on feathers--to bob's hotel. he found him and harry sitting out on the balcony drinking sherbet. he took a seat beside them. "i'm in clover, boys," he cried exultingly, as he handed the cash to bob to look at. "so you are," said bob, reading the figures. "well, this is what my old mother would call a godsend. i always said your uncle ramsay was as good as they make 'em." "it looks a lot of money to me at present," said archie. "i'll have all that to begin life with; for i have still a few pounds left to pay my landlady, and to buy a blanket or two." "well, as to what you'll buy, archie," said bob cooper, "if you don't mind leaving that to us, we will manage all, cheaper and better than you could; for we're old on the job." "oh! i will with pleasure, only--" "i know all about that. you'll settle up. well, we're all going to be settlers. eh? see the joke?" "bob doesn't often say funny things," said harry; "so it must be a fine thing to be going to get married." "ay, lad, and i'm going to do it properly. worst of it is, archie, i don't know anybody to invite. oh, we must have a dinner! bother breakfasts, and hang honeymoons. no, no; a run round sydney will suit sarah better than a year o' honeymooning nonsense. then we'll all go off in the boat to brisbane. that'll be a honeymoon and a half in itself. hurrah! won't we all be so happy! i feel sure sarah's a jewel." "how long did you know her, bob, before you asked her the momentous question?" "asked her _what_!" "to marry you." "oh, only a week! la! that's long enough. i could see she was true blue, and as soft as rain. bless her heart! i say, archie, who'll we ask?" "well, i know a few good fellows--" "right. let us have them. what's their names?" out came bob's notebook, and down went a dozen names. "that'll be ample," said archie. "well," bob acquiesced with a sigh, "i suppose it must. now we're going to be spliced by special licence, sarah and i. none of your doing things by half. and harry there is going to order the cabs and carriages, and favours and music, and the parson, and everything firstchop." the idea of "ordering the parson" struck archie as somewhat incongruous; but bob had his own way of saying things, and it was evident he would have his own way in doing things too for once. "and," continued bob, "the ex-policeman's wife and i are going to buy the bonnie things to-morrow. and as for the 'bobby' himself, we'll have to send him away for the day. he is too fond of one thing, and would spoil the splore." next day sure enough bob did start off with the "bobby's" wife to buy the bonnie things. a tall, handsome fellow bob looked too; and the tailor having done his best, he was altogether a dandy. he would persist in giving his mother, as he called her, his arm on the street, and the appearance of the pair of them caused a good many people to look after them and smile. however, the "bonnie things" were bought, and it was well he had someone to look after him, else he would have spent money uselessly as well as freely. only, as bob said, "it was but one day in his life, why shouldn't he make the best of it?" he insisted on making his mother a present of a nice little gold watch. no, he _wouldn't_ let her have a silver one, and it _should_ be "set with blue-stones." he would have that one, and no other. "too expensive? no, indeed!" he cried. "make out the bill, master, and i'll knock down my cheque. hurrah! one doesn't get married every morning, and it isn't everybody who gets a girl like sarah when he does get spliced! so there!" archie had told bob and harry of his first dinner at the hotel, and how kind and considerate in every way the waiter had been, and how he had often gone back there to have a talk. "it is there then, and nowhere else," said bob, "we'll have our wedding dinner." archie would not gainsay this; and nothing would satisfy the lucky miner but chartering a whole flat for a week. "that's the way we'll do it," he said; "and now look here, as long as the week lasts, any of your friends can drop into breakfast, dinner, or supper. we are going to do the thing proper, if we sell our best jackets to help to pay the bill. what say, old chummie?" "certainly," said harry; "and if ever i'm fool enough to get married, i'll do the same kind o' thing." a happy thought occurred to archie the day before the marriage. "how much loose cash have you, bob?" "i dunno," said bob, diving his hands into both his capacious pockets-- each were big enough to hold a rabbit--and making a wonderful rattling. "i reckon i've enough for to-morrow. it seems deep enough." "well, my friend, hand over." "what!" cried bob, "you want me to bail up?" "bail up!" "you're a downright bushranger, archie. however, i suppose i must obey." then he emptied his pockets into a pile on the table--gold, silver, copper, all in the same heap. archie counted and made a note of all, put part away in a box, locked it, gave bob back a few coins, mostly silver, and stowed the rest in his purse. "now," said archie, "be a good old boy, bob; and if you want any more money, just ask nicely, and perhaps you'll have it." there was a rattling thunder-storm that night, which died away at last far beyond the hills, and next morning broke bright, and cool, and clear. a more lovely marriage morning surely never yet was seen. and in due time the carriages rolled up to the church door, horses and men bedecked in favours, and right merry was the peal that rang forth from saint james's. sarah did not make by any means an uninteresting bride. she had not over-dressed, so that showed she possessed good taste. as for the stalwart northumbrian, big-bearded bob, he really was splendid. he was all a man, i can assure you, and bore himself as such in spite of the fact that his black broadcloth coat was rather wrinkly in places, and that his white kid gloves had burst at the sides. there was a glorious glitter of love and pride in his dark blue eyes as he towered beside sarah at the altar, and he made the responses in tones that rang through all the church. after the ceremony and vestry business bob gave a sigh of relief, and squeezed sarah's hand till she blushed. the carriage was waiting, and a pretty bit of a mob too. and before bob jumped in he said, "now, harry, for the bag." as he spoke he gave a look of triumph towards archie, as much as to say, "see how i have sold you." harry handed him a bag of silver coins. "stand by, you boys, for a scramble," shouted bob in a voice that almost brought down the church. "coo-ee!" and out flew handful after handful, here, there, and everywhere, till the sack was empty. when the carriages got clear away at last, there was a ringing cheer went up from the crowd that really did everybody's heart good to hear. of course the bridegroom stood up and waved his hat back, and when at last he subsided: "och!" he sighed, "that is the correct way to get married. i've got all their good wishes, and they're worth their weight in gold, let alone silver." the carriages all headed away for the heights of north shore, and on to the top of the bay, from whence such a glorious panorama was spread out before them as one seldom witnesses. the city itself was a sight; but there were the hills, and rocks, and woods, and the grand coast line, and last, though not least, the blue sea itself. the breakfast was _al fresco_. it really was a luncheon, and it would have done credit to the wedding of a highland laird or lord, let alone a miner and _quondam_ poacher. but australia is a queer place. bob's money at all events had been honestly come by, and everybody hailed him king of the day. he knew he was king, and simply did as he pleased. here is one example of his abounding liberality. before starting back for town that day he turned to archie, as a prince might turn: "archie, chummie," he said. "you see those boys?" "yes." "well, they all look cheeky." "very much so, bob." "and i dearly love a cheeky boy. scatter a handful of coins among them, and see that there be one or two yellow ones in the lot." "what nonsense!" cried archie; "what extravagant folly, bob!" "all right," said bob quietly. "i've no money, but--" he pulled out his splendid gold hunter. "what are you going to do?" "why, let them scramble for the watch." "no, no, bob; i'll throw the coins." "you have to," said bob, sitting down, laughing. the dinner, and the dance afterwards, were completely successful. there was no over-crowding, and no stuck-up-ness, as bob called it. everybody did what he pleased, and all were as happy and jolly as the night was long. bob did not go away on any particular honeymoon. he told sarah they would have their honeymoon out when they went to the bush. meanwhile, day after day, for a week, the miner bridegroom kept open house for archie's friends; and every morning some delightful trip was arranged, which, faithfully carried out, brought everyone hungry and happy back to dinner. there is more beauty of scenery to be seen around sydney in winter than would take volumes to describe by pen, and acres of canvas to depict; and, after all, both author and artist would have to admit that they had not done justice to their subject. now that he had really found friends--humble though they might be considered in england--life to archie, which before his accident was very grey and hopeless, became bright and clear again. he had a present, and he believed he had a future. he saw new beauties everywhere around him, even in the city; and the people themselves, who in his lonely days seemed to him so grasping, grim, and heartless, began to look pleasant in his eyes. this only proves that we have happiness within our reach if we only let it come to us, and it never will while we sit and sulk, or walk around and growl. bob, with his young wife and archie and harry, made many a pilgrimage all round the city, and up and through the sternly rugged and grand scenery among the blue mountains. nor was it all wild and stern, for valleys were visited, whose beauty far excelled anything else archie had ever seen on earth, or could have dreamt of even. sky, wood, hill, water, and wild flowers all combined to form scenes of loveliness that were entrancing at this sweet season of the year. twenty times a day at least archie was heard saying to himself, "oh, how i wish sister and rupert were here!" then there were delightful afternoons spent in rowing about the bay. i really think bob was taking the proper way to enjoy himself after all. he had made up his mind to spend a certain sum of money on seeing all that was worth seeing, and he set himself to do so in a thoroughly business way. well, if a person has got to do nothing, the best plan is to do it pleasantly. so he would hire one of the biggest, broadest-beamed boats he could find, with two men to row. they would land here and there in the course of the afternoon, and towards sunset get well out into the centre of the bay. this was the time for enjoyment. the lovely chain of houses, the woods, and mansions half hid in a cloudland of soft greens and hazy blues; the far-off hills, the red setting sun, the painted sky, and the water itself casting reflections of all above. then slowly homewards, the chains of lights springing up here, there, and everywhere as the gloaming began to deepen into night. if seeing and enjoying such scenes as these with a contented mind, a good appetite, and the certainty of an excellent dinner on their return, did not constitute genuine happiness, then i do not know from personal experience what that feeling is. but the time flew by. preparations had to be made to leave this fascinating city, and one day archie proposed that bob and he should visit winslow in his suburban villa. chapter seventeen. mr winslow in a different light. "you'll find him a rough stick," said archie. "what, rougher than me or harry?" said bob. "well, as you've put the question i'll answer you pat. i don't consider either you or harry particularly rough. if you're rough you're right, bob, and it is really wonderful what a difference mixing with the world has done for both of you; and if you knew a little more of the rudiments of english grammar, you would pass at a pinch." "thank ye," said bob. "you've got a bit of the bur-r-r of northumbria in your brogue, but i do believe people like it, and harry isn't half the cockney he used to be. but, bob, this man--i wish i could say gentleman--winslow never was, and never could be, anything but a shell-back. he puts me in mind of the warty old lobsters one sees crawling in and out among the rocks away down at the point yonder. "but, oh!" added archie, "what a little angel the daughter is! of course she is only a baby. and what a lovely name--etheldene! isn't it sweet, bob?" "i don't know about the sweetness; there is a good mouthful of it, anyhow." "off you go, bob, and dress. have you darned those holes in your gloves?" "no; bought a new pair." "just like your extravagance. be off!" bob cooper took extra pains with his dressing to-day, and when he appeared at last before his little wife sarah, she turned him round and round and round three times, partly for luck, and partly to look at him with genuine pride up and down. "my eye," she said at last, "you does look stunning! not a pin in sight, nor a string sticking out anywheres. you're going to see a young lady, i suppose; but sarah ain't jealous of her little man. she likes to see him admired." "yes," said bob, laughing; "you've hit the nail straight on the head; i am going to see a young lady. she is fourteen year old, i think. but bless your little bobbing bit o' a heart, lass, it isn't for her i'm dressed. no; i'm going with t' young squire. he may be all the same as us out here, and lets me call him archie. but what are they out here, after all? why, only a set o' whitewashed heathens. no, i must dress for the company i'm in." "and the very young lady--?" "is a miss winslow. i think t' young squire is kind o' gone on her, though she _is_ only a baby. well, good-bye, lass." "good-bye, little man." etheldene ran with smiles and outstretched arms to meet archie, but drew back when she noticed the immense bearded stranger. "it's only bob," said archie. "is your father in?" "yes, and we're all going to have tea out here under the trees." the "all" was not a very large number; only etheldene's governess and father, herself, and a girl playmate. poor etheldene's mother had died in the bush when she was little more than a baby. the rough life had hardly suited her. and this child had been such a little bushranger from her earliest days that her present appearance, her extreme beauty and gentleness, made another of those wonderful puzzles for which australia is notorious. probably etheldene knew more about the blacks, with their strange customs and manners, their curious rites and superstitions, and more about the home life of wallabies, kangaroos, dingoes, birds, insects, and every thing that grew wild, than many a professed naturalist; but she had her own names, or names given by blacks, to the trees and to the wild flowers. while etheldene, somewhat timidly it must be confessed, was leading big bob round the gardens and lawns by the hand as if he were a kind of exaggerated schoolboy, and showing him all her pets--animate and inanimate--her ferns and flowers and birds, winslow himself came upon the scene with the _morning herald_ in his hand. he was dressed--if dressing it could be called--in the same careless manner archie had last seen him. it must be confessed, however, that this semi-negligent style seemed to suit him. archie wondered if ever he had worn a necktie in his life, and how he would look in a dress suit. he lounged up with careless ease, and stuck out his great spade of a hand. archie remembered he was etheldene's father, and shook it. "well, youngster, how are you? bobbish, eh? ah, i see ethie has got in tow with a new chum. your friend? is he now? well, that's the sort of man i like. he's bound to do well in this country. you ain't a bad sort yourself, lad; but nothing to that, no more than a young turkey is to an emu. well, sit down." mr winslow flung himself on the grass. it might be rather damp, but he dared not trust his weight and bulk on a lawn-chair. "so your friend's going to the bush, and going to take you with him, eh?" archie's proud soul rebelled against this way of talking, but he said nothing. it was evident that mr winslow looked upon him as a boy. "well, i hope you'll do right both of you. what prospects have you?" archie told him how high his hopes were, and how exalted his notions. "them's your sentiments, eh? then my advice is this: pitch 'em all overboard--the whole jing-bang of them. your high-flown notions sink you english greenhorns. now, when i all but offered you a position under me--" "under your gardener," said archie, smiling. "well, it's all the same. i didn't mean to insult your father's son. i wanted to know if you had the grit and the go in you." "i think i've both, sir. father--squire broadbent--" "squire fiddlestick!" "sir!" "go on, lad, never mind me. your father--" "my father brought me up to work." "tossing hay, i suppose, raking flower-beds and such. well, you'll find all this different in australian bush-life; it is sink or swim there." "well, i'm going to swim." "bravo, boy!" "and now, sir, do you mean to tell me that brains go for nothing in this land of contrariety?" "no," cried winslow, "no, lad. goodness forbid i should give you that impression. if i had only the gift of the gab, and were a good writer, i'd send stuff to this paper," (here he struck the sheet that lay on the grass) "that would show men how i felt, and i'd be a member of the legislature in a year's time. but this is what i say, lad, _brains without legs and arms, and a healthy stomach, are no good here_, or very little. we want the two combined; but if either are to be left out, why leave out the brains. there is many an english youth of gentle birth and good education that would make wealth and honour too in this new land of ours, if he could pocket his pride, don a workman's jacket, and put his shoulder to the wheel. that's it, d'ye see?" "i think i do." "that's right. now tell me about your uncle. dear old man! we never had a cross word all the time i sailed with him." archie did tell him all, everything, and even gave him his last letter to read. by-and-by etheldene came back, still leading her exaggerated schoolboy. "sit down, mr cooper, on the grass. that's the style." "well," cried archie, laughing, "if everybody is going to squat on the grass, so shall i." even etheldene laughed at this; and when the governess came, and servants with the tea, they found a very happy family indeed. after due introductions, winslow continued talking to bob. "that's it, you see, mr cooper; and i'm right glad you've come to me for advice. what i don't know about settling in bushland isn't worth knowing, though i say it myself. there are plenty long-headed fellows that have risen to riches very quickly, but i believe, lad, the same men would have made money in their own country. they are the geniuses of finance; fellows with four eyes in their head, and that can look two ways at once. but they are the exception, and the ordinary man needn't expect such luck, because he won't get it. "now there's yourself, mr cooper, and your friend that i haven't seen; you've made a lucky dive at the fields, and you're tired of gold-digging. i don't blame you. you want to turn farmer in earnest. on a small scale you are a capitalist. well, mind, you're going to play a game, in which the very first movement may settle you for good or evil. "go to brisbane. don't believe the chaps here. go straight away up, and take time a bit, and look round. don't buy a pig in a poke. hundreds do. there's a lot of people whose interest is to sell a claims, and a shoal of greenhorns with capital who want to buy. now listen. maybe not one of these have any experience. they see speculation in each other's eyes; and if one makes a grab, the other will try to be before him, and very likely the one that lays hold is hoisted. let me put it in another way. hang a hook, with a nice piece of pork on it, overboard where there are sharks. everyone would like the pork, but everyone is shy and suspicious. suddenly a shark, with more speculation in his eye than the others, prepares for a rush, and rather than he shall have it all the rest do just the same, and the lucky one gets hoisted. it's that way with catching capitalists. so i say again, look before you leap. don't run after bargains. they may be good, but--this young fellow here has some knowledge of english farming. well, that is good in its way, very good; and he has plenty of muscle, and is willing to work, that is better. if he were all alone, i'd tell him to go away to the bush and shear sheep, build fences, and drive cattle for eighteen months, and keep his eyes wide open, and his ears too, and he'd get some insight into business. as it is, you're all going together, and you'll all have a look at things. you'll see what sort of stock the country is suited for--sheep, or cattle, or both; if it is exposed, or wet, or day, or forest, or all together. and you'll find out if it be healthy for men and stock, and not 'sour' for either; and also you'll consider what markets are open to you. for there'd be small use in rearing stock you couldn't sell. see?" "yes," said bob; "i see a lot of difficulties in the way i hadn't thought of." "go warily then, and the difficulties will vanish. i think i'll go with you to brisbane," added winslow, after a pause. "i'm getting sick already of civilised life." etheldene threw her arms round her father's neck. "well, birdie, what is it? 'fraid i go and leave you too long?" "you mustn't leave me at all, father. i'm sometimes sick of civilised life. i'm going with you wherever you go." that same evening after dinner, while etheldene was away somewhere with her new friend--showing him, i think, how to throw the boomerang-- winslow and archie sat out in the verandah looking at the stars while they sipped their coffee. winslow had been silent for a time, suddenly he spoke. "i'm going to ask you a strange question, youngster," he said. "well, sir?" said archie. "suppose i were in a difficulty, from what you have seen of me would you help me out if you could?" "you needn't ask, sir," said archie. "my uncle's friend." "well, a fifty-pound note would do it." archie had his uncle's draft still with him. he never said a word till he had handed it to winslow, and till this eccentric individual had crumpled it up, and thrust it unceremoniously, and with only a grunt of thanks, into one of his capacious pockets. "but," said archie, "i would rather you would not look upon it as a loan. in fact, i am doubting the evidence of my senses. you--with all the show of wealth i see around me--to be in temporary need of a poor, paltry fifty pounds! verily, sir, this is the land of contrarieties." winslow simply laughed. "you have a lot to learn yet," he said, "my young friend; but i admire your courage, and your generous-heartedness, though not your business habits." archie and bob paid many a visit to wistaria grove--the name of winslow's place--during the three weeks previous to the start from sydney. one day, when alone with archie, winslow thrust an envelope into his hands. "that's your fifty pounds," he said. "why, count it, lad; don't stow it away like that. it ain't business." "why," said archie, "here are three hundred pounds, not fifty pounds!" "it's all yours, lad, every penny; and if you don't put it up i'll put it in the fire." "but explain." "yes, nothing more easy. you mustn't be angry. no? well, then, i knew, from all accounts, you were a chip o' the old block, and there was no use offending your silly pride by offering to lend you money to buy a morsel of claim, so i simply borrowed yours and put it out for you." "put it out for me?" "yes, that's it; and the money is honestly increased. bless your innocence! i could double it in a week. it is making the first thousand pounds that is the difficulty in this country of contrarieties, as you call it." when archie told bob the story that evening, bob's answer was: "well, lad, i knew winslow was a good-hearted fellow the very first day i saw him. never you judge a man by his clothes, archie." "first impressions certainly _are_ deceiving," said archie; "and i'm learning something new every day of my life." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "i am going round to melbourne for a week or two, boys," said winslow one day. "which of you will come with me?" "i'll stop here," said bob, "and stick to business. you had better go, archie." "i would like to, if--if i could afford it." "now, just look here, young man, you stick that eternal english pride of yours in your pocket. i ask you to come with me as a guest, and if you refuse i'll throw you overboard. and if, during our journey, i catch you taking your pride, or your purse either, out of your pocket, i'll never speak another word to you as long as i live." "all right," said archie, laughing; "that settles it. is etheldene going too?" "yes, the child is going. she won't stay away from her old dad. she hasn't a mother, poor thing." regarding archie's visit to victoria, we must let him speak himself another time; for the scene of our story must now shift. chapter eighteen. book iii--in the wild interior. "in this new land of ours." there was something in the glorious lonesomeness of bush-life that accorded most completely with archie's notions of true happiness and independence. his life now, and the lives of all the three, would be simply what they chose to make them. to use the figurative language of the new testament, they had "taken hold of the plough," and they certainly had no intention of "looking back." archie felt (this too is figurative) as the mariner may be supposed to feel just leaving his native shore to sail away over the broad, the boundless ocean to far-off lands. his hand is on the tiller; the shore is receding; his eye is aloft, where the sails are bellying out before the wind. there is hardly a sound, save the creaking of the blocks, or rattle of the rudder chains, the joyous ripple of the water, and the screaming of the sea-birds, that seem to sing their farewells. away ahead is the blue horizon and the heaving sea, but he has faith in his good barque, and faith in his own skill and judgment, and for the time being he is a viking; he is "monarch of all he surveys." "monarch of all he surveys?" yes; these words are borrowed from the poem on robinson crusoe, you remember; that stirring story that so appeals to the heart of every genuine boy. there was something of the robinson crusoe element in archie's present mode of living, for he and his friends had to rough it in the same delightfully primitive fashion. they had to know and to practise a little of almost every trade under the sun; and while life to the boy-- he was really little more--was very real and very earnest, it felt all the time like playing at being a man. but how am i to account for the happiness--nay, even joyfulness--that appeared to be infused in the young man's very blood and soul? nay, not appeared to be only, but that actually was--a joyfulness whose effects could at times be actually felt in his very frame and muscle like a proud thrill, that made his steps and tread elastic, and caused him to gaily sing to himself as he went about at his work. may i try to explain this by a little homely experiment, which you yourself may also perform? see, here then i have a small disc of zinc, no larger than a coat button, and i have also a shilling-piece. i place the former on my tongue, and the latter between my lower lip and gum, and lo! the moment i permit the two metallic edges to touch i feel a tingling thrill, and if my eyes be shut i perceive a flash as well. it is electricity passing through the bodily medium--my tongue. the one coin becomes _en rapport_, so to speak, with the other. so in like manner was archie's soul within him _en rapport_ with all the light, the life, the love he saw around him, his body being but the wholesome, healthy, solid medium. _en rapport_ with the light. why, by day this was everywhere--in the sky during its midday blue brightness; in the clouds so gorgeously painted that lay over the hills at early morning, or over the wooded horizon near eventide. _en rapport_ with the light dancing and shimmering in the pool down yonder; playing among the wild flowers that grew everywhere in wanton luxuriance; flickering through the tree-tops, despite the trailing creepers; gleaming through the tender greens of fern fronds in cool places; sporting with the strange fantastic, but brightly-coloured orchids; turning greys to white, and browns to bronze; warming, wooing, beautifying all things--the light, the lovely light. _en rapport_ with the life. ay, there it was. where was it not? in the air, where myriads of insects dance and buzz and sing and poise hawk-like above flowers, as if inhaling their sweetness, or dart hither and thither in their zigzag course, and almost with the speed of lightning; where monster beetles go droning lazily round, as if uncertain where to alight; where moths, like painted fans, hover in the sunshine, or fold their wings and go to sleep on flower-tops. in the forests, where birds, like animated blossoms, living chips of dazzling colours, hop from boughs, climb stems, run along silvery bark on trees, hopping, jumping, tapping, talking, chattering, screaming, with bills that move and throats that heave even when their voices cannot be heard in the feathered babel. life on the ground, where thousands of busy beetles creep, or play hide-and-seek among the stems of tall grass, and where ants innumerable go in search of what they somehow never seem to find. life on the water slowly sailing round, or in and out among the reeds, in the form of bonnie velvet ducks and pretty spangled teal. life in the water, where shoals of fish dart hither and thither, or rest for a moment in shallows to bask in the sun, their bodies all a-quiver with enjoyment. life in the sky itself, high up. behold that splendid flock of wonga-wonga pigeons, with bronzen wings, that seem to shake the sunshine off them in showers of silver and gold, or, lower down, that mob of snowy-breasted cockatoos, going somewhere to do something, no doubt, and making a dreadful din about it, but quite a sight, if only from the glints of lily and rose that appear in the white of their outstretched wings and tails. life everywhere. _en rapport_ with all the love around him. yes, for it is spring here, though the autumn tints are on the trees in groves and woods at burley. deep down in the forest yonder, if you could penetrate without your clothes being torn from your back, you might listen to the soft murmur of the doves that stand by their nests in the green gloom of fig trees; you would linger long to note the love passages taking place among the cosy wee, bright, and bonnie parrakeets; you would observe the hawk flying silently, sullenly, home to his castle in the inaccessible heights of the gum trees, but you would go quickly past the forest dens of lively cockatoos. for everywhere it is spring with birds and beasts. they have dressed in their gayest; they have assumed their fondest notes and cries; they live and breathe and buzz in an atmosphere of happiness and love. well, it was spring with nature, and it was spring in archie's heart. work was a pleasure to him. that last sentence really deserves a line to itself. without the ghost of an intention to moralise, i must be permitted to say, that the youth who finds an undoubted pleasure in working is sure to get on in australia. there is that in the clear, pure, dry air of the back bush which renders inactivity an impossibility to anyone except ne'er-do-wells and born idiots. this is putting it strongly, but it is also putting it truthfully. archie felt he had done with sydney, for a time at all events, when he left. he was not sorry to shake the dust of the city from his half-wellingtons as he embarked on the _canny scotia_, bound for brisbane. if the winslows had not been among the passengers he certainly would have given vent to a sigh or two. all for the sake of sweet little etheldene? yes, for her sake. was she not going to be rupert's wife, and his own second sister? oh, he had it all nicely arranged, all cut and dry, i can assure you! here is a funny thing, but it is also a fact. the very day that the _canny scotia_ was to sail, archie took harry with him, and the two started through the city, and bore up for the shop of mr glorie. they entered. it was like entering a gloomy vault. nothing was altered. there stood the rows on rows of dusty bottles, with their dingy gilt labels; the dusty mahogany drawers; the morsel of railinged desk with its curtain of dirty red; there were the murky windows with their bottles of crusted yellows and reds; and up there the identical spider still working away at his dismal web, still living in hopes apparently of some day being able to catch a fly. the melancholy-looking new apprentice, who had doubtless paid the new premium, a long lantern-jawed lad with great eyes in hollow sockets, and a blue-grey face, stood looking at the pair of them. "where is your master, mr--?" "mr myers, sir. myers is my name." "where is mr glorie, mr myers?" "d'ye wish to see'm, sir?" "don't it seem like it?" cried harry, who for the life of him "could not help putting his oar in." "master's at the back, among--the soap." he droned out the last words in such a lugubrious tone that archie felt sorry for him. just then, thinking perhaps he scented a customer, mr glorie himself entered, all apron from the jaws to the knees. "ah! mr glorie," cried archie. "i really couldn't leave sydney without saying ta-ta, and expressing my sorrow for breaking--" "your indenture, young sir?" "no; i'm glad i broke that. i mean the oil-jar. here is a sovereign towards it, and i hope there's no bad feeling." "oh, no, not in the least, and thank you, sir, kindly!" "well, good-bye. good-bye mr myers. if ever i return from the bush i'll come back and see you." and away they went, and away went archie's feeling of gloom as soon as he got to the sunny side of the street. "i say," said harry, "that's a lively coon behind the counter. looks to me like a love-sick bandicoot, or a consumptive kangaroo. but don't you know there is such a thing as being too honest? now that old death-and-glory chap robbed you, and had it been me, and i'd called again, it would have been to kick him. but you're still the old johnnie." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ now if i were writing all this tale from imagination, instead of sketching the life and struggles of a real live laddie, i should have ascended into the realms of romance, and made a kind of hero of him thus: he should have gone straight away to the bank when he received that pounds from his uncle, and sent it back, and then gone off to the bush with twopence halfpenny in his pocket, engaged himself to a squatter as under-man, and worked his way right up to the pinnacle of fortune. but archie had not done that; and between you and me and the binnacle, not to let it go any further, i think he did an extremely sensible thing in sticking to the money. oh, but plenty of young men who do not have uncles to send them fifty-pound notes to help them over their first failures, do very well without such assistance! so let no intending emigrant be disheartened. again, as to winslow's wild way of borrowing said pounds, and changing it into pounds, that was another "fluke," and a sort of thing that might never happen again in a hundred years. pride did come in again, however, with a jump--with a gay northumbrian bound--when bob and harry seriously proposed that johnnie, as the latter still called him, should put his money in the pool, and share and share alike with them. "no, no, no," said the young squire, "don't rile me; that would be so obviously unfair to _you_, that it would be unfair to _myself_." when asked to explain this seeming paradox, he added: "because it would rob me of my feeling of independence." so the matter ended. but through the long-headed kindness and business tact of winslow, all three succeeded in getting farms that adjoined, though archie's was but a patch compared to the united great farms of his chums, that stretched to a goodly two thousand acres and more, with land beyond to take up as pasture. but then there was stock to buy, and tools, and all kinds of things, to say nothing of men's and boys' wages to be paid, and arms and ammunition to help to fill the larder. at this time the railway did not go sweeping away so far west as it does now, the colony being very much younger, and considerably rougher; and the farms lay on the edge of the darling downs. this was a great advantage, as it gave them the run of the markets without having to pay nearly as much in transit and freight as the stock was worth. they had another advantage in their selection--thanks once more to winslow--they had bush still farther to the west of them. not adjacent, to be sure, but near enough to make a shift of stock to grass lands, that could be had for an old song, as the saying is. the selection was procured under better conditions than i believe it is to be had to-day; for the rent was only about ninepence an acre, and that for twenty years, the whole payable at any time in order to obtain complete possession. [at present agricultural farms may be selected of not more than acres, and the rent is fixed by the land board, not being less than threepence per acre per annum. a licence is issued to the selector, who must, within five years, fence in the land or make permanent improvements of a value equal to the cost of the fence, and must also live on the selection. if at the end of that time he can prove that he has performed the above conditions, he will be entitled to a transferable lease for fifty years. the rent for the first ten years will be the amount as at first fixed, and the rent for every subsequent period of five years will be determined by the land board, but the greatest increase that can be made at any re-assessment is fifty per cent.] it must not be imagined that this new home of theirs was a land flowing with milk and honey, or that they had nothing earthly to do but till the ground, sow seed, and live happy ever after. indeed the work to be performed was all earthly, and the milk and honey had all to come. a deal of the very best land in australia is covered with woods and forests, and clearing has to be done. bob wished his busy little body of a wife to stay behind in brisbane till he had some kind of a decent crib, as he called it, ready to invite her to. but sarah said, "no! where you go i go. your crib shall be my crib, bob, and i shall bake the damper." this was not very poetical language, but there was a good deal of sound sense about sarah, even if there was but little poetry. well, it did seem at first a disheartening kind of wilderness they had come to, but the site for the homesteads had been previously selected, and after a night's rest in their rude tents and waggons, work was commenced. right joyfully too,-- "down with them! down with the lords of the forests." this was the song of our pioneers. men shouted and talked, and laughed and joked, saws rasped and axes rang, and all the while duty went merrily on. birds find beasts, never disturbed before in the solitude of their homes, except by wandering blacks, crowded round--only keeping a safe distance away--and wondered whatever the matter could be. the musical magpies, or laughing jackasses, said they would soon settle the business; they would frighten those new chums out of their wits, and out of the woods. so they started to do it. they laughed in such loud, discordant, daft tones that at times archie was obliged to put his fingers in his ears, and guns had to be fired to stop the row. so they were not successful. the cockatoos tried the same game; they cackled and skraighed like a million mad hens, and rustled and ruffled their plumage, and flapped their wings and flew, but all to no purpose--the work went on. the beautiful lorries, parrakeets, and budgerigars took little notice of the intruders, but went farther away, deserting half-built nests to build new ones. the bonnie little long-tailed opossum peeped down from his perch on the gums, looking exceedingly wise, and told his wife that not in all his experience had there been such goings on in the forest lands, and that something was sure to follow it; his wife might mark his words for that. the wonga-wongas grumbled dreadfully; but great hawks flew high in the air, swooping round and round against the sun, as they have a habit of doing, and now and then gave vent to a shrill cry which was more of exultation than anything else. "there will be dead bones to pick before long." that is what the hawks thought. snakes now and then got angrily up, puffed and blew a bit, but immediately decamped into the denser cover. the dingoes kept their minds to themselves until night fell, and the stars came out; the constellation called the southern cross spangled the heaven's dark blue, then the dingoes lifted up their voices and wept; and, oh, such weeping! whoso has never heard a concert of australian wild dogs can have no conception of the noise these animals are capable of. whoso has once heard it, and gone to sleep towards the end of it, will never afterwards complain of the harmless musical reunions of our london cats. but sleep is often impossible. you have got just to lie in bed and wonder what in the name of mystery they do it for. they seem to quarrel over the key-note, and lose it, and try for it, and get it again, and again go off into a chorus that would "ding doon" tantallan castle. and when you do doze off at last, as likely as not, you will dream of howling winds and hungry wolves till it is grey daylight in the morning. chapter nineteen. burley new farm. there was so much to be done before things could be got "straight" on the new station, that the days and weeks flew by at a wonderful pace. i pity the man or boy who is reduced to the expedient of killing time. why if one is only pleasantly and usefully occupied, or engaged in interesting pursuits, time kills itself, and we wonder where it has gone to. if i were to enter into a minute description of the setting-up of the stock and agricultural farm, chapter after chapter would have to be written, and still i should not have finished. i do not think it would be unprofitable reading either, nor such as one would feel inclined to skip. but as there are a deal of different ways of building and furnishing new places the plan adopted by the three friends might not be considered the best after all. besides, improvements are taking place every day even in bush-life. however, in the free-and-easy life one leads in the bush one soon learns to feel quite independent of the finer arts of the upholsterer. in that last sentence i have used the adjective "easy;" but please to observe it is adjoined to another hyphenically, and becomes one with it--"free-and-easy." there is really very little ease in the bush. nor does a man want it or care for it--he goes there to work. loafers had best keep to cities and to city life, and look for their _little_ enjoyments in parks and gardens by day, in smoke-filled billiard-rooms or glaringly-lighted music-halls by night, go to bed at midnight, and make a late breakfast on rusks and soda-water. we citizens of the woods and wilds do not envy them. we go to bed with the birds, or soon after. we go to sleep, no matter how hard our couches may be; and we do sleep too, and wake with clear heads and clean tongues, and after breakfast feel that nothing in the world will be a comfort to us but work. yes, men work in the bush; and, strange to say, though they go there young, they do not appear to grow quickly old. grey hairs may come, and nature may do a bit of etching on their brows and around their eyes with the pencil of time, but this does not make an atom of difference to their brains and hearts. these get a trifle tougher, that is all, but no older. well, of the three friends i think archie made the best bushman, though bob came next, then harry, who really had developed his powers of mind and body wonderfully, which only just proves that there is nothing after all, even for a cockney, like rubbing shoulders against a rough world. a dozen times a week at least archie mentally thanked his father for having taught him to work at home, and for the training he had received in riding to hounds, in tramping over the fields and moors with branson, in gaining practical knowledge at the barn-yards, and last, though not least, in the good, honest, useful groundwork of education received from his tutor walton. there was something else that archie never failed to feel thankful to heaven for, and that was the education his mother had given him. remember this: archie was but a rough, harum-scarum kind of a british boy at best, and religious teaching might have fallen on his soul as water falls on a duck's back, to use a homely phrase. but as a boy he had lived in an atmosphere of refinement. he constantly breathed it till he became imbued with it; and he received the influence also second-hand, or by reflection, from his brother rupert and his sister. often and often in the bush, around the log fire of an evening, did archie speak proudly of that beloved twain to his companions. his language really had, at times, a smack of real, downright innocence about it, as when he said to bob once: "mind you, bob, i never was what you might call good. i said, and do say, my prayers, and all the like of that; but roup and elsie were so high above me that, after coming in from a day's work or a day on the hill, it used to be like going into church on a week-day to enter the green parlour. i felt my own mental weakness, and i tried to put off my soul's roughness with my dirty boots in the kitchen." but archie was now an excellent superintendent of work. he knew when things were being well done, and he determined they should be. nothing riled him more than an attempt on the part of any of the men to take advantage of him. they soon came to know him; not as a tyrant, but simply as one who would have things rightly done, and who knew when they _were_ being rightly done, even if it were only so apparently simple a matter as planting a fence-post; for there is a right way and a wrong way of doing that. the men spoke of him as the young boss. harry being ignored in all matters that required field-knowledge. "we don't want nary a plumbline," said a man once, "when the young boss's around. he carries a plumbline in his eye." archie never let any man know when he was angry; but they knew afterwards, however, that he had been so from the consequences. yet with all his strictness he was kind-hearted, and very just. he had the happy gift of being able to put himself in the servant's place while judging betwixt man and master. communications were constantly kept up between the station and the railway, by means of waggons, or drays and saddle-horses. among the servants were several young blacks. these were useful in many ways, and faithful enough; but required keeping in their places. to be in any way familiar with them was to lose their respect, and they were not of much consequence after that. when completed, the homestead itself was certainly not devoid of comfort, though everything was of the homeliest construction; for no large amount of money was spent in getting it up. a scotchman would describe it as consisting of "twa butts and a ben," with a wing at the back. the capital letter l, laid down longways thus--i will give you some notion of its shape. there were two doors in front, and four windows, and a backdoor in the after wing, also having windows. the wing portion of the house contained the kitchen and general sitting-room; the right hand portion the best rooms, ladies' room included, but a door and passage communicated with these and the kitchen. this house was wholly built of sawn wood, but finished inside with lath and plaster, and harled outside, so that when roofed over with those slabs of wood, such as we see some old-english church steeples made of, called "shingles," the building was almost picturesque. all the more so because it was built on high ground, and trees were left around and near it. the kitchen and wing were _par excellence_ the bachelor apartments, of an evening at all events. every thing that was necessary in the way of furnishing found its way into the homestead of burley new farm; but nothing else, with the exception of that of the guests'-room. of this more anon. the living-house was completed first; but all the time that this was being built men were very busy on the clearings, and the sites were mapped out for the large wool-shed, with huge adjoining yards, where the sheep at shearing-time would be received and seen to. there were also the whole paraphernalia and buildings constituting the cattle and horse-yards, a killing and milking-yard; and behind these were slab huts, roofed with huge pieces of bark, rudely but most artistically fixed, for the men. these last had fire-places, and though wholly built of wood, there was no danger of fire, the chimneys being of stone. most of the yards and outhouses were separate from each other, and the whole steading was built on elevated ground, the store-hut being not far from the main or dwelling-house. i hardly know what to liken the contents of this store, or the inside of the place itself, to. not unlike perhaps the half-deck or fore-cabin of a greenland ship on the day when stores are being doled out to the men. or, to come nearer home, if ever the reader has been in a remote and rough part of our own country, say wales or scotland, where gangs of navvies have been encamped for a time, at a spot where a new line of railway is being pushed through a gully or glen. just take a peep inside. there is a short counter of the rudest description, on which stand scales and weights, measures and knives. larger scales stand on the floor, and everywhere around you are heaps of stores, of every useful kind you could possibly name or imagine, and these are best divided into four classes--eatables, wearables, luxuries, and tools. harry is at home here, and he has managed to infuse a kind of regularity into the place, and takes a sort of pride in knowing where all his wares are stored. the various departments are kept separate. yonder, for instance, stand the tea, coffee, and cocoa-nibs, and near them the sugar of two kinds, the bags of flour, the cheeses (in boxes), the salt (in casks), soda, soap, and last, but not least, the tobacco and spirits; this last in a place by itself, and well out of harm's way. then there is oil and candles--by-and-bye they will make these on the farm-- matches--and this brings us to the luxuries--mustard, pepper of various sorts, vinegar, pickles, curry, potted salmon, and meats of many kinds, and bags of rice. next there is a small store of medicines of the simplest, not to say roughest, sorts, both for man and beast, and rough bandages of flannel and cotton, with a bundle of splints. then comes clothing of all kinds--hats, shirts, jackets, boots, shoes, etc. then tools and cooking utensils; and in a private cupboard, quite away in a corner, the ammunition. it is unnecessary to add that harness and horse-shoes found a place in this store, or that a desk stood in one corner where account-books were kept, for the men did not invariably pay down on the nail. i think it said a good deal for sarah's courage that she came right away down into the bush with her "little man," and took charge of the cooking department on the station, when it was little, if any, better than simply a camp, with waggons for bedrooms, and a morsel of canvas for gentility's sake. but please to pop your head inside the kitchen, now that the dwelling-house has been up for some little time. before you reach the door you will have to do a bit of stepping, for outside nothing is tidied up as yet. heaps of chips, heaps of stones and sticks and builders' rubbish, are everywhere. even when you get inside there is a new smell--a limy odour--to greet you in the passage, but in the kitchen itself all is order and neatness. a huge dresser stands against the wall just under the window. the legs of it are a bit rough to be sure, but nobody here is likely to be hypercritical; and when the dinner-hour arrives, instead of the vegetables, meat, and odds-and-ends that now stand thereon, plates, and even knives and forks, will be neatly placed in a row, and sarah herself, her cooking apron replaced by a neater and nattier one, will take the head of the table, one of the boys will say a shy kind of grace, and the meal will go merrily on. on a shelf, slightly raised above the floor, stand rows of clean saucepans, stewpans, and a big, family-looking business of a frying-pan; and on the wall hang bright, shining dish-covers, and a couple of racks and shelves laden with delf. a good fire of logs burns on the low hearth, and there, among ashes pulled on one side for the purpose, a genuine "damper" is baking, while from a movable "sway" depends a chain and crook, on which latter hangs a pot. this contains corned beef--very well, call it _salt_ if you please. anyhow, when sarah lifts the lid to stick a fork into the boiling mess an odour escapes and pervades the kitchen quite appetising enough to make the teeth of a bushman water, if he had done anything like a morning's work. there is another pot close by the fire, and in this sweet potatoes are boiling. it is a warm spring day, and the big window is open to admit the air, else poor sarah would be feeling rather uncomfortable. what is "damper"? it is simply a huge, thick cake or loaf, made from extremely well-kneaded dough, and baked in the hot ashes of the hearth. like making good oat cakes, before a person can manufacture a "damper" properly, he must be in a measure to the manner born. there is a deal in the mixing of the dough, and much in the method of firing, and, after all, some people do not care for the article at all, most useful and handy and even edible though it be. but i daresay there are individuals to be found in the world who would turn up their noses at good oat cake. ah, well, it is really surprising what the air of the australian bush does in the way of increasing one's appetite and destroying fastidiousness. but it is near the dinner-hour, and right nimbly sarah serves it up; and she has just time to lave her face and hands, and change her apron, when in comes bob, followed by archie and harry. before he sits down bob catches hold of sarah by both hands, and looks admiringly into her face, and ends by giving her rosy cheek a kiss, which resounds through the kitchen rafters like the sound of a cattle-man's whip. "i declare, sarah lass," he says heartily, "you are getting prettier and prettier every day. now at this very moment your lips and cheeks are as red as peonies, and your eyes sparkle as brightly as a young kangaroo's; and if any man a stone heavier than myself will make bold to say that i did wrong to marry you on a week's courtship, i'll kick him over the river and across the creek. 'for what we are about to receive, the lord make us truly thankful. amen.' sit in, boys, and fire away. this beef is delightful. i like to see the red juice following the knife; and the sweet potatoes taste well, if they don't look pretty. what, sarah, too much done? not a bit o' them." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the creek that bob talked about kicking somebody across was a kind of strath or glen not very far from the steading, and lying below it, green and luxuriant at present. it wound away up and down the country for miles, and in the centre of it was a stream or river or burn, well clothed on its banks with bush, and opening out here and there into little lakes or pools. this stream was--so old bushmen said--never known to run dry. in the winter time it would at times well merit the name of river, especially when after a storm a "spate" came down, with a bore perhaps feet high, carrying along in its dreadful rush tree trunks, rocks, pieces of bank--everything, in fact, that came in its way, or attempted to withstand its giant power. "spates," however, our heroes hoped would come but seldom; for it is sad to see the ruin they make, and to notice afterwards the carcases of sheep and cattle, and even horses, that bestrew the haughs, or banks, and give food to prowling dingoes and birds of the air, especially the ubiquitous crow. the ordinary state of the water, however, is best described by the word stream or rivulet, while in droughty summers it might dwindle down to a mere burn meandering from pool to pool. the country all around was plain and forest and rolling hills. it was splendidly situated for grazing of a mixed kind. but our three friends were not to be content with this, and told off the best part of it for future agricultural purposes. even this was to be but a nucleus, and at this moment much of the land then untilled is yielding abundance of grain. not until the place was well prepared for them were cattle bought and brought home. sheep were not to be thought of for a year or two. with the cattle, when they began to arrive, winslow, who was soon to pay the new settlement a visit, sent up a few really good stockmen. and now archie was to see something of bush-life in reality. chapter twenty. runaway stock--bivouac in the bush-night scene. australian cattle have one characteristic in common with some breeds of pigeons, notably with those we call "homers." they have extremely good memories as to localities, and a habit of "making back," as it is termed, to the pastures from which they have been driven. this comes to be very awkward at times, especially if a whole herd decamps or takes "a moonlight flitting." it would be mere digression to pause to enquire what god-given instinct it is, that enables half-wild cattle to find their way back to their old homes in as straight a line as possible, even when they have been driven to a new station by circuitous routes. many other animals have this same homing power; dogs for example, and, to a greater extent, cats. swallows and sea-birds, such as the arctic gull, and the albatross, possess it in a very high degree; but it is still more wonderfully displayed in fur seals that, although dispersed to regions thousands and thousands of miles away during winter, invariably and unerringly find their road back to a tiny group of wave and wind-swept islands, four in number, called the prybilov group, in the midst of the fog-shrouded sea of behring. the whole question wants a deal of thinking out, and life is far too short to do it in. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ one morning, shortly after the arrival of the first great herd of stock, word was brought to head-quarters that the cattle had escaped by stampede, and were doubtless on their way to the distant station whence they had been bought. it was no time to ask the question, who was in fault? early action was necessary, and was provided for without a moment's hesitation. i rather think that archie was glad to have an opportunity of doing a bit of rough riding, and showing off his skill in horse management. he owned what bob termed a clipper. not a very handsome horse to look at, perhaps, but fleet enough and strong enough for anything. as sure-footed as a mule was this steed, and as regards wisdom, a perfect equine solomon. at a suggestion of bob's he had been named tell, in memory of the tell of other days. tell had been ridden by archie for many weeks, so that master and horse knew each other well. indeed archie had received a lesson or two from the animal that he was not likely to forget; for one day he had so far forgotten himself as to dig the rowel into tell's sides, when there was really no occasion to do anything of the sort. this was more than the horse could stand, and, though he was not an out-and-out buck-jumper, nevertheless, a moment after the stirrup performance, archie found himself making a voyage of discovery, towards the moon apparently. he descended as quickly almost as he had gone up, and took the ground on his shoulder and cheek, which latter was well skinned. tell had stood quietly by looking at him, and as archie patted him kindly, he forgave him on the spot, and permitted a remount. archie and bob hardly permitted themselves to swallow breakfast, so anxious were they to join the stockmen and be off. as there was no saying when they might return, they did not go unprovided for a night or two out. in front of their saddles were strapped their opossum rugs, and they carried also a tin billy each, and provisions, in the shape of tea, damper, and cooked corned beef; nothing else, save a change of socks and their arms. bob bade his wife a hurried adieu, archie waved his hand, and next minute they were over the paddocks and through the clearings and the woods, in which the trees had been ring-barked, to permit the grass to grow. and such tall grass archie had never before seen as that which grew in some parts of the open. "is it going to be a long job, think you, bob?" "i hardly know, archie. but craig is here." "oh, yes, gentleman craig, as mr winslow insists on calling him! you have seen him." "yes; i met him at brisbane. and a handsome chap he is. looks like a prince." "isn't it strange he doesn't rise from the ranks, as one might say; that he doesn't get on?" "i'll tell you what keeps him back," said bob, reining his horse up to a dead stop, that archie might hear him all the easier. "i'll tell you what keeps him back now, before you see him. i mustn't talk loud, for the very birds might go and tell the fellow, and he doesn't like to be 'minded about it. he drinks!" "but he can't get drink in the bush." "not so easily, though he has been known before now to ride thirty miles to visit a hotel." "a shanty, you mean." "well, they call 'em all hotels over here, you must remember." "and would he just take a drink and come back?" bob laughed. "heaven help him, no. it isn't one drink, nor ten, nor fifty he takes, for he makes a week or two of it." "i hope he won't take any such long rides while he is with us." "no. winslow says we are sure of him for six months, anyhow. then he'll go to town and knock his cheque down. but come on, craig and his lads will be waiting for us." at the most southerly and easterly end of the selection they met gentleman craig himself. he rode forward to meet them, lifting his broad hat, and reining up when near enough. he did this in a beautifully urbane fashion, that showed he had quite as much respect for himself as for his employers. he was indeed a handsome fellow, and his rough garibaldian costume fitted him, and set him out as if he had been some great actor. "this is an awkward business," he began, with an easy smile; "but i think we'll soon catch the runaways up." "i hope so," bob said. "oh, it was all my fault, because i'm boss of my gang, you know. i ought to have known better, but a small mob of stray beasts got among ours, and by-and-by there was a stampede. it was dirty-dark last night, and looked like a storm, so there wouldn't have been an ounce of use in following them up." he flicked his long whip half saucily, half angrily, as he spoke. "well, never mind," bob replied, "we'll have better luck next, i've no doubt." away they went now at a swinging trot, and on crossing the creek they met craig's fellows. they laid their horses harder at it now, bob and archie keeping a bit in the rear, though the latter declared that tell was pulling like a young steam-engine. "why," cried archie at last, "this beast means to pull my arms out at the shoulders. i always thought i knew how to hold the reins till now." "they have a queer way with them, those bush-ranging horses," said bob; "but i reckon you'll get up to them at last." "if i were to give tell his head, he would soon be in the van." "in the van? oh, i see, in the front!" "yes; and then i'd be lost. why these chaps appear to know every inch of the ground. to me it is simply marvellous." "well, the trees are blazed." "i've seen no blazed trees. have you?" "never a one. i say, craig." "hullo!" cried the head stockman, glancing over his shoulder. "are you steering by blazed trees?" "no," he laughed; "by tracks. cattle don't mind blazed trees much." perhaps bob felt green now, for he said no more. archie looked about him, but never a trail nor track could he decipher. yet on they rode, helter-skelter apparently, but cautiously enough for all that. tell was full of fire and fun; for, like verdant green's horse, when put at a tiny tree trunk in his way, he took a leap that would have carried him over a five-bar-gate. there was many a storm-felled tree in the way also and many a dead trunk, half buried in ferns; there were steep stone-clad hills, difficult to climb, but worse to descend, and many a little rivulet to cross; but nothing could interfere with the progress of these hardy horses. although the sun was blazing hot, no one seemed to feel it much. the landscape was very wild, and very beautiful; but archie got weary at last of its very loveliness, and was not one whit sorry when the afternoon halt was called under the pleasant shade of trees, and close by the banks of a rippling stream. the horses were glad to drink as well as the men, then they were hobbled, and allowed to browse while all hands sat down to eat. only damper and beef, washed down by a billyful of the clear water, which, strange to say, was wonderfully cool. when the sun was sinking low on the forest-clad horizon, there was a joyful but half-suppressed shout from craig and his men. part of the herd was in sight, quietly browsing up a creek. gentleman craig pointed them out to archie; but he had to gaze a considerable time before he could really distinguish anything that had the faintest resemblance to cattle. "your eye is young yet to the bush," said craig, laughing, but not in any unmannerly way. "and now," he continued, "we must go cautiously or we spoil all." the horsemen made a wide detour, and got between the bush and the mob; and the ground being favourable, here it was determined to camp for the night. the object of the stockmen was not to alarm the herd, but to prevent them from getting any farther off till morning, when the march homewards would commence. with this intent, log fires were built here and there around the herd; and once these were well alight the mob was considered pretty safe. all, however, had been done very quietly; and during the livelong night, until grey dawn broke over the hills, the fellows would have to keep those fires burning. supper was a more pleasing meal, for there was the addition of tea; after which, with their feet to the log fire--bob and craig enjoying a whiff of tobacco--they lay as much at their ease, and feeling every whit as comfortable, as if at home by the "ingleside." gentleman craig had many stories and anecdotes to relate of the wild life he had had, that both archie and bob listened to with delight. "i'll take one more walk around," said craig, "then stretch myself on my downy bed. will you come with me, mr broadbent?" "with pleasure," said archie. "mind how you step then. keep your whip in your hand, but on no account crack it. we have to use our intellect _versus_ brute force. if the brute force became alarmed and combined, then our intellect would go to the wall, there would be another stampede, and another long ride to-morrow." up and down in the starlight, or by the fitful gleams of the log fires, they could see the men moving like uneasy ghosts. craig spoke a word or two kindly and quietly as he passed, and having made his inspection, and satisfied himself that all was comparatively safe, he returned with archie to the fire. bob was already fast asleep, rolled snugly in his blanket, with his head in the hollow of his upturned saddle; and archie and craig made speed to follow his example. as for craig, he was soon in the land of nod. he was a true bushman, and could go off sound as a bell the moment he stretched himself on his "downy bed," as he called it. but archie felt the situation far too new to permit of slumber all at once. he had never lain out thus before; and the experience was so delightful to him that he felt justified in lying awake a bit, and looking at the stars. the distant dingoes began to howl, and more than once some great dark bird flew over the camp, high overhead, but on silent wings. his thoughts wandered away over the thousands and thousands of miles that intervened between him and home, and he began to wonder what they were all doing at burley; for it would be broad daylight there, and very likely his father was trudging over the moors, or through the stubbles. but dreams came and mingled with his waking thoughts at last, and were just usurping them all when he became conscious of the approach of stealthy footsteps. he lay perfectly still, though his hand sought his ready revolver; for stories of black fellows stealing on out-sleeping travellers began to crowd through his mind, and being young to the bush, he could not prevent that heart of his from throbbing uneasily and painfully against his ribs. how did they brain people, he was wondering, with a boomerang or nullah? or was it not more common to spear them? but, greatly to his relief, the figure immediately afterwards revealed itself in the person of one of the men, silently placing an armful of wood on the half-dying embers. then he silently glided away again, and next minute archie was wrapt in the elysium of forgetfulness. the dews lay all about, glittering in the first beams of the sun, when he awoke, feeling somewhat cold and considerably stiff; but warm tea and a breakfast of wondrous solidity soon put him all to rights again. two nights after this the new stock was safe in the yards; and every evening before sundown, for many a day to come, they had to be "tailed," and brought within the strong bars of the rendezvous. branding was the next business. this is no trifling matter with old cattle. with the calves indeed it is a bit troublesome at times, but the grown-up ones resent the adding of insult to injury. it is no uncommon thing for men to be severely injured during the operation. nevertheless the agility displayed by the stockmen and their excessive coolness is marvellous to behold. most of those cattle were branded with a "b.h.," which stood for bob and harry; but some were marked with the letters "a.b.," for archibald broadbent, and--i need not hide the truth--archie was a proud young man when he saw these marks. he realised now fully that he had commenced life in earnest, and was a squatter, not only in name, but in reality. the fencing work and improvements still went gaily on, the ground being divided into immense paddocks, many of which our young farmers trusted to see ere long covered with waving grain. the new herds soon got used to the country, and settled down on it, dividing themselves quietly into herds of their own making, that were found browsing together mornings and evenings in the best pastures, or gathered in mobs during the fierce heat of the middle-day. archie quickly enough acquired the craft of a cunning and bold stockman, and never seemed happier than when riding neck and neck with some runaway semi-wild bull, or riding in the midst of a mob, selecting the beast that was wanted. and at a job like the latter tell and he appeared to be only one individual betwixt the two of them, like the fabled centaur. he came to grief though once, while engaged heading a bull in as ugly a bit of country as any stockman ever rode over. it happened. next chapter, please. chapter twenty one. a wild adventure--archie's pride receives a fall. it happened--i was going to say at the end of the other page--that in a few weeks' time mr winslow paid his promised visit to burley new farm, as the three friends called it. great preparations had been made beforehand because etheldene was coming with her father, and was accompanied by a black maid. both etheldene and her maid had been accommodated with a dray, and when sarah, with her cheeks like ripe cherries, and her eyes like sloes, showed the young lady to her bedroom, etheldene was pleased to express her delight in no measured terms. she had not expected anything like this. real mattresses, with real curtains, a real sofa, and real lace round the looking-glass. "it is almost too good for bush-life," said etheldene; "but i am so pleased, mrs cooper; and everything is as clean and tidy as my own rooms in sydney. father, do come and see all this, and thank mrs cooper prettily." somewhat to archie's astonishment a horse was led round next morning for etheldene, and she appeared in a pretty dark habit, and was helped into the saddle, and gathered up the reins, and looked as calm and self-possessed as a princess could have done. it was gentleman craig who was the groom, and a gallant one he made. for the life of him archie could not help envying the man for his excessive coolness, and would have given half of his cattle--those with the bold "a.b.'s" on them--to have been only half as handsome. never mind. archie is soon mounted, and cantering away by the young lady's side, and feeling so buoyant and happy all over that he would not have exchanged places with a king on a throne. "oh, yes," said etheldene, laughing, as she replied to a question of archie's, "i know nearly everything about cattle, and sheep too! but," she added, "i'm sure you are clever among them already." archie felt the blood mount to his forehead; but he took off his broad hat and bowed for the compliment, almost as prettily as gentleman craig could have done himself. now, there is such a thing as being too clever, and it was trying to be clever that led poor archie to grief that day. the young man was both proud and pleased to have an opportunity of showing etheldene round the settlement, all the more so that there was to be a muster of the herds that day, and neighbour-squatters had come on horseback to assist. this was a kind of a love-darg which was very common in queensland a few years ago, and probably is to this day. archie pointed laughingly towards the stock whip etheldene carried. he never for a moment imagined it was in the girl's power to use or manage such an instrument. "that is a pretty toy, miss winslow," he said. "toy, do you call it, sir?" said this young diana, pouting prettily. "it is only a lady's whip, for the thong is but ten feet long. but listen." it flew from her hands as she spoke, and the sound made every animal within hearing raise head and sniff the air. "well," said archie, "i hope you won't run into any danger." "oh," she exclaimed, "danger is fun!" and she laughed right merrily, and looked as full of life and beauty as a bird in spring time. etheldene was tall and well-developed for her age, for girls in this strange land very soon grow out of their childhood. archie had called her diana in his own mind, and before the day was over she certainly had given proof that she well merited the title. new herds had arrived, and had for one purpose or another to be headed into the stock yards. this is a task of no little difficulty, and to-day being warm these cattle appeared unusually fidgety. twos and threes frequently stampeded from the mob, and went determinedly dashing back towards the creek and forest, so there was plenty of opportunities for anyone to show off his horsemanship. once during a chase like this archie was surprised to see etheldene riding neck and neck for a time with a furious bull. he trembled for her safety as he dashed onwards to her assistance. but crack, crack, crack went the brave girl's whip; she punished the runaway most unmercifully, and had succeeded in turning him ere her northumbrian cavalier rode up. a moment more and the bull was tearing back towards the herd he had left, a stockman or two following close behind. "i was frightened for you," said archie. "pray, don't be so, mr broadbent. i don't want to think myself a child, and i should not like you to think me one. mind, i've been in the bush all my life." but there was more and greater occasion to be frightened for etheldene ere the day was done. in fact, she ran so madly into danger, that the wonder is she escaped. she had a gallant, soft-mouthed horse--that was one thing to her advantage--and the girl had a gentle hand. but archie drew rein himself, and held his breath with fear, to see a maddened animal, that she was pressing hard, turn wildly round and charge back on horse and rider with all the fury imaginable. a turn of the wrist of the bridle hand, one slight jerk of the fingers, and etheldene's horse had turned on a pivot, we might almost say, and the danger was over. so on the whole, instead of archie having had a very grand opportunity for showing off his powers before this young diana, it was rather the other way. the hunt ended satisfactory to both parties; and while sarah was getting an extra good dinner ready, archie proposed a canter "to give them an appetite." "have you got an appetite, mr broadbent? i have." it was evident etheldene was not too fine a lady to deny the possession of good health. "yes," said archie; "to tell you the plain truth, i'm as hungry as a hunter. but it'll do the nags good to stretch their legs after so much wheeling and swivelling." so away they rode again, side by side, taking the blazed path towards the plains. "you are sure you can find your way back, i suppose?" said etheldene. "i think so." "it would be good fun to be lost." "would you really like to be?" "oh, we would not be altogether, you know! we would find our way to some hut and eat damper, or to some grand hotel, i suppose, in the bush, and father and craig would soon find us." "father and you have known craig long?" "yes, many, many years. poor fellow, it is quite a pity for him. father says he was very clever at college, and is a master of arts of cambridge." "well, he has taken his hogs to a nice market." "but father would do a deal for him if he could trust him. he has told father over and over again that plenty of people would trust him if he could only trust himself." "poor man! so nice-looking too! they may well call him gentleman craig." "but is it not time we were returning?" "look! look!" she cried, before archie could answer. "yonder is a bull-fight. whom does the little herd belong to?" "not to us. we are far beyond even our pastures. we have cut away from them. this is a kind of no-man's land, where we go shooting at times; and i daresay they are trespassers or wild cattle. pity they cannot be tamed." "they are of no use to anyone, i have heard father say, except to shoot. if they be introduced into a herd of stock cattle, they teach all the others mischief. but see how they fight! is it not awful?" "yes. had we not better return? i do not think your father would like you to witness such sights as that." the girl laughed lightly. "oh," she cried, "you don't half know father yet! he trusts me everywhere. he is very, very good, though not so refined as some would have him to be." the cows of this herd stood quietly by chewing their cuds, under the shade of a huge gum tree, while two red-eyed giant bulls struggled for mastery in the open. it was a curious fight, and a furious fight. at the time archie and his companion came in sight of the conflict, they had closed, and were fencing with their horns with as much skill, apparently, as any two men armed with foils could have displayed. the main points to be gained appeared to be to unlock or get out of touch of each other's horns long enough to stab in neck and shoulder, and during the time of being in touch to force back and gain ground. once during this fight the younger bull backed his opponent right to the top of a slight hill. it was a supreme effort, and evidently made in the hope that he would hurl him from a height at the other side. but in this he was disappointed; for the top was level, and the older one, regaining strength, hurled his enemy down the hill again far more quickly than he had come up. round and round, and from side to side, the battle raged, till at long last the courage and strength of one failed completely. he suffered himself to be backed, and it was evident was only waiting an opportunity to escape uncut and unscathed. this came at length, and he turned and, with a cry of rage, dashed madly away to the forest. the battle now became a chase, and the whole herd, holloaing good luck to the victor, joined in it. as there was no more to be seen, archie and etheldene turned their horses' heads homewards. they had not ridden far, however, before the vanquished bull himself hove in sight. he was alone now, though still tearing off in a panic, and moaning low and angrily to himself. it was at this moment that what archie considered a happy inspiration took possession of our impulsive hero. "let us wait till he passes," he said, "and drive him before us to camp." easily said. but how was it to be done? they drew back within the shadow of a tree, and the bull rushed past. then out pranced knight archie, cracking his stock whip. the monster paused, and wheeling round tore up the ground with his hoofs in a perfect agony of anger. "what next?" he seemed to say to himself. "it is bad enough to be beaten before the herd; but i will have my revenge now." the brute's roaring now was like the sound of a gong, hollow and ringing, but dreadful to listen to. archie met him boldly enough, intending to cut him in the face as he dashed past. in his excitement he dug his spurs into tell, and next minute he was on the ground. the bull rushed by, but speedily wheeled, and came tearing back, sure now of blood in which to dip his ugly hoofs. archie had scrambled up, and was near a tree when the infuriated beast came down on the charge. even at this moment of supreme danger archie-- he remembered this afterwards--could not help admiring the excessively business-like way the animal came at him to break him up. there was a terrible earnestness and a terrible satisfaction in his face or eyes; call it what you like, there it was. near as archie was to the tree, to reach and get round it was impossible. he made a movement to get at his revolver; but it was too late to draw and fire, so at once he threw himself flat on the ground. the bull rushed over him, and came into collision with the tree trunk. this confused him for a second or two, and archie had time to regain his feet. he looked wildly about for his horse. tell was quietly looking on; he seemed to be waiting for his young master. but archie never would have reached the horse alive had not brave etheldene's whip not been flicked with painful force across the bull's eyes. that blow saved archie, though the girl's horse was wounded on the flank. a minute after both were galloping speedily across the plain, all danger over; for the bull was still rooting around the tree, apparently thinking that his tormentors had vanished through the earth. "how best can i thank you?" archie was saying. "by saying nothing about it," was etheldene's answer. "but you have saved my life, child." "a mere bagatelle, as father says," said this saucy queensland maiden, with an arch look at her companion. but archie did not look arch as he put the next question. "which do you mean is the bagatelle, etheldene, my life, or the saving of it?" "yes, you may call me etheldene--father's friends do--but don't, please, call me child again." "i beg your pardon, etheldene." "it is granted, sir." "but now you haven't answered my question." "what was it? i'm so stupid!" "which did you mean was the bagatelle--my life, or the saving of it?" "oh, both!" "thank you." "i wish i could save gentleman craig's life," she added, looking thoughtful and earnest all in a moment. "bother gentleman craig!" thought archie; but he was not rude enough to say so. "why?" he asked. "because he once saved mine. that was when i was lost in the bush, you know. he will tell you some day--i will ask him to. he is very proud though, and does not like to talk very much about himself." archie was silent for a short time. why, he was wondering to himself, did it make him wretched--as it certainly had done--to have etheldene look upon his life and the saving of it as a mere bagatelle. why should she not? still the thought was far from pleasant. perhaps, if he had been killed outright, she would have ridden home and reported his death in the freest and easiest manner, and the accident would not have spoiled her dinner. the girl could have no feeling; and yet he had destined her, in his own mind, to be rupert's wife. she was unworthy of so great an honour. it should never happen if he could prevent it. suddenly it occurred to him to ask her what a bagatelle was. "a bagatelle?" she replied. "oh, about a thousand pounds. father always speaks of a thousand pounds as a mere bagatelle." archie laughed aloud--he could not help it; but etheldene looked merrily at him as she remarked quietly, "you wouldn't laugh if you knew what i know." "indeed! what is it?" "we are both lost!" "goodness forbid!" "you won't have grace to say to-day--there will be no dinner; that's always the worst of being lost." archie looked around him. there was not a blazed tree to be seen, and he never remembered having been in the country before in which they now rode. "we cannot be far out," he said, "and i believe we are riding straight for the creek." "so do i, and that is one reason why we are both sure to be wrong. it's great fun, isn't it?" "i don't think so. we're in an ugly fix. i really thought i was a better bushman than i am." poor archie! his pride had received quite a series of ugly falls since morning, but this was the worst come last. he felt a very crestfallen cavalier indeed. it did not tend to raise his spirits a bit to be told that if gentleman craig were here, he would find the blazed-tree line in a very short time. but things took a more cheerful aspect when out from a clump of trees rode a rough-looking stockman, mounted on a sackful of bones in the shape of an aged white horse. he stopped right in front of them. "hillo, younkers! whither away? can't be sundowners, sure-ly!" "no," said archie; "we are not sundowners. we are riding straight home to burley new farm." "'xcuse me for contradicting you flat, my boy. it strikes me ye ain't boss o' the sitivation. feel a kind o' bushed, don't ye?" archie was fain to confess it. "well, i know the tracks, and if ye stump it along o' me, ye won't have to play at babes o' the wood to-night." they did "stump it along o' him," and before very long found themselves in the farm pasture lands. they met craig coming, tearing along on his big horse, and glad he was to see them. "oh, craig," cried etheldene, "we've been having such fun, and been bushed, and everything!" "i found this 'ere young gent a-bolting with this 'ere young lady," said their guide, whom craig knew and addressed by the name of hurricane bill. "a runaway match, eh? now, who was in the fault? but i think i know. let me give you a bit of advice, sir. never trust yourself far in the bush with miss ethie. she doesn't mind a bit being lost, and i can't be always after her. well, dinner is getting cold." "did you wait for us?" said etheldene. "not quite unanimously, miss ethie. it was like this: mr cooper and mr harry waited for you, and your father waited for mr broadbent. it comes to the same thing in the end, you know." "yes," said etheldene, "and it's funny." "what did you come for, bill? your horse looks a bit jaded." "to invite you all to the hunt. findlayson's compliments, and all that genteel nonsense; and come as many as can. why, the kangaroos, drat 'em, are eating us up. what with them and the dingoes we've been having fine times, i can tell ye!" "well, it seems to me, bill, your master is always in trouble. last year it was the blacks, the year before he was visited by bushrangers, wasn't he?" "ye-es. fact is we're a bit too far north, and a little too much out west, and so everything gets at us like." "and when is the hunt?" "soon's we can gather." "i'm going for one," said etheldene. "what _you_, miss?" said hurricane bill. "you're most too young, ain't ye?" the girl did not condescend to answer him. "come, sir, we'll ride on," she said to archie. and away they flew. "depend upon it, bill, if she says she is going, go she will, and there's an end of it." "humph!" that was bill's reply. he always admitted he had "no great fancy for womenfolks." chapter twenty two. round the log fire--hurricane bill and the tiger-snake--gentleman craig's resolve. kangaroo driving or hunting is one of the wild sports of australia, though i have heard it doubted whether there was any real sport in it. it is extremely exciting, and never much more dangerous than a ride after the hounds at home in a rough country. it really does seem little short of murder, however, to surround the animals and slay them wholesale; only, be it remembered, they are extremely hard upon the herbage. it has been said that a kangaroo will eat as much as two sheep; whether this be true or not, these animals must be kept down, or they will keep the squatter down. every other species of wild animal disappears before man, but kangaroos appear to imagine that human beings were sent into the bush to make two blades of grass grow where only one grew before, and that both blades belong to them. the only people from burley new farm who went to the findlayson kangaroo drive were harry, archie, and etheldene, and craig to look after her. me. winslow stopped at home with bob, to give him advice and suggest improvements; for he well knew his daughter would be safe with gentleman craig. it was a long ride, however, and one night was to be spent in camp; but as there was nothing to do, and nothing in the shape of cattle or sheep to look after, it was rather jolly than otherwise. they found a delightful spot near a clear pool and close by the forest to make their pitch on for the night. hurricane bill was the active party on this occasion; he found wood with the help of harry, and enough of it to last till the morning. the beauty, or one of the beauties, of the climate in this part of australia is, that with the sun the thermometer sinks, and the later spring and even summer nights are very pleasant indeed. when supper was finished, and tea, that safest and best of stimulants, had been discussed, talking became general; everybody was in good spirits in the expectation of some fun on the morrow; for a longish ride through the depth of that gloomy forest would bring them to the plain and to findlayson's in time for a second breakfast. hurricane bill told many a strange story of australian life, but all in the way of conversation; for bill was a shy kind of man, and wanted a good deal of drawing-out, as the dog said about the badger. archie gave his experiences of hunting in england, and of shooting and fishing and country adventure generally in that far-off land, and he had no more earnest listener than etheldene. to her england was the land of romance. young though she was, she had read the most of walter scott's novels, and had an idea that england and scotland were still peopled as we find these countries described by the great wizard, and she did not wish to be disillusioned. the very mention of the word "castle," or "ruin," or "coat of mail," brought fancies and pictures into her mind that she would not have had blotted out on any account. over and over again, many a day and many a time, she had made archie describe to her every room in the old farm; and his turret chamber high up above the tall-spreading elm trees, where the rooks built and cawed in spring, and through which the wild winds of winter moaned and soughed when the leaves had fallen, was to etheldene a veritable room in fairyland. "oh," she said to-night, "how i should love it all! i do want to go to england, and i'll make father take me just once before i die." "before ye die, miss!" said hurricane bill. "why it is funny to hear the likes o' you, with all the world before ye, talkin' about dying." well, by-and-by london was mentioned, and then it was harry's turn. he was by no means sorry to have something to say. "shall i describe to you, miss winslow," he said, "some of the wild sights of whitechapel?" "is it a dreadfully wild place, mr brown?" "it is rather; eh, johnnie?" "i don't know much about it, harry." "well, there are slums near by there, miss, that no man with a black coat and an umbrella dare enter in daylight owing to the wild beasts. then there are peelers." "what are peelers? monkeys?" "yes, miss; they are a sort of monkeys--blue monkeys--and carry sticks same as the real african ourang-outangs do. and can't they use them too!" "are they very ugly?" "awful, and venomous too; and at night they have one eye that shines in the dark like a wild cat's, and you've got to stand clear when that eye's on you." "well," said etheldene, "i wouldn't like to be lost in a place like that. i'd rather be bushed where i am. but i think, mr brown, you are laughing at me. are there any snakes in whitechapel?" "no, thank goodness; no, miss. i can't stand snakes much." "there was a pretty tiger crept past you just as i was talking though," she said with great coolness. harry jumped and shook himself. etheldene laughed. "it is far enough away by this time," she remarked. "i saw something ripple past you, harry, like a whip-thong. i thought my eyes had made it." "you brought it along with the wood perhaps," said craig quietly. "'pon my word," cried harry, "you're a lot of job's comforters, all of you. d'ye know i won't sleep one blessed wink to-night. i'll fancy every moment there is a snake in my blanket or under the saddle." "they won't come near you, mr brown," said craig. "they keep as far away from englishmen as possible." "not always," said bill. "maybe ye wouldn't believe it, but i was bitten and well-nigh dead, and it was a tiger as done it. and if i ain't english, then there ain't an englishman 'twixt 'ere and melbourne. see that, miss?" he held up a hand in the firelight as he spoke. "why," said etheldene, "you don't mean to say the snake bit off half your little finger?" "not much i don't; but he bit me _on_ the finger, miss. i was a swagsman then, and was gathering wood, as we were to-night, when i got nipped, and my chum tightened a morsel of string round it to keep the poison away from the heart, then he laid the finger on a stone and chopped it off with his spade. fact what i'm telling you. but the poison got in the blood somehow all the same. they half carried me to irish charlie's hotel. lucky, that wasn't far off. then they stuck the whiskey into me." "did the whiskey kill the poison?" said archie. "whiskey kill the poison! why, young sir, charlie's whiskey would have killed a kangaroo! but nothing warmed me that night; my blood felt frozen. well, sleep came at last, and, oh, the dreams! 'twere worse ten thousand times than being wi' daniel in the den o' lions. next day nobody hardly knew me; i was blue and wrinkled. i had aged ten years in a single night." "i say," said harry, "suppose we change the subject." "and i say," said craig, "suppose we make the beds." he got up as he spoke, and began to busy himself in preparations for etheldene's couch. it was easily and simply arranged, but the arrangement nevertheless showed considerable forethought. he disappeared for a few minutes, and returned laden with all the necessary paraphernalia. a seven-foot pole was fastened to a tree; the other end supported by a forked stick, which he sharpened and drove into the ground. some grass was spread beneath the pole, a blanket thrown carefully over it, the upturned saddle put down for a pillow, and a tent formed by throwing over the pole a loose piece of canvas that he had taken from his saddle-bow, weighted down by some stones, and the whole was complete. "now, baby," said craig, handing etheldene a warm rug, "will you be pleased to retire?" "where is my flat candlestick?" she answered. gentleman craig pointed to the southern cross. "yonder," he said. "is it not a lovely one?" "it puts me in mind of old, old times," said etheldene with a sigh. "and you're calling me 'baby' too. do you remember, ever so long ago in the bush, when i was a baby in downright earnest, how you used to sing a lullaby to me outside my wee tent?" "if you go to bed, and don't speak any more, i may do so again." "good-night then. sound sleep to everybody. what fun!" then baby disappeared. craig sat himself down near the tent, after replenishing the fire--he was to keep the first watch, then bill would come on duty--and at once began to sing, or rather 'croon' over, an old, old song. his voice was rich and sweet, and though he sang low it could be heard distinctly enough by all, and it mingled almost mournfully with the soughing of the wind through the tall trees. "my song is rather a sorrowful ditty," he had half-whispered to archie before he began; "but it is poor miss ethie's favourite." but long before craig had finished no one around the log fire was awake but himself. he looked to his rifle and revolvers, placed them handy in case of an attack by blacks, then once more sat down, leaning his back against a tree and giving way to thought. not over pleasant thoughts were those of gentleman craig's, as might have been guessed from his frequent sighs as he gazed earnestly into the fire. what did he see in the fire? _tableaux_ of his past life? perhaps or perhaps not. at all events they could not have been very inspiriting ones. no one could have started in life with better prospects than he had done; but he carried with him wherever he went his own fearful enemy, something that would not leave him alone, but was ever, ever urging him to drink. even as a student he had been what was called "a jolly fellow," and his friendship was appreciated by scores who knew him. he loved to be considered the life and soul of a company. it was an honour dearer to him than anything else; but deeply, dearly had he paid for it. by this time he might have been honoured and respected in his own country, for he was undoubtedly clever; but he had lost himself, and lost all that made life dear--his beautiful, queenly mother. he would never see her more. she was _dead_, yet the memory of the love she bore him was still the one, the only ray of sunshine left in his soul. and he had come out here to australia determined to turn over a new leaf. alas! he had not done so. "oh, what a fool i have been!" he said in his thoughts, clenching his lists until the nails almost cut the palms. he started up now and went wandering away towards the trees. there was nothing that could hurt him there. he felt powerful enough to grapple with a dozen blacks, but none were in his thoughts; and, indeed, none were in the forest. he could talk aloud now, as he walked rapidly up and down past the weird grey trunks of the gum trees. "my foolish pride has been my curse," he said bitterly. "but should i allow it to be so? the thing lies in a nutshell i have never yet had the courage to say, 'i will not touch the hateful firewater, because i cannot control myself if i do.' if i take but one glass i arouse within me the dormant fiend, and he takes possession of my soul, and rules all my actions until sickness ends my carousal, and i am left weak as a child in soul and body. if i were not too proud to say those words to my fellow-beings, if i were not afraid of being laughed at as a _coward_! ah, that's it! it is too hard to bear! shall i face it? shall i own myself a coward in this one thing? i seem compelled to answer myself, to answer my own soul. or is it my dead mother's spirit speaking through my heart? oh, if i thought so i--i--" here the strong man broke down. he knelt beside a tree trunk and sobbed like a boy. then he prayed; and when he got up from his knees he was calm. he extended one hand towards the stars. "mother," he said, "by god's help i shall be free." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ when the morning broke pale and golden over the eastern hills, and the laughing jackasses came round to smile terribly loud and terribly chaffingly at the white men's preparation for their simple breakfast, craig moved about without a single trace of his last night's sorrow. he was busy looking after the horses when etheldene came bounding towards him with both hands extended, so frank and free and beautiful that as he took hold of them he could not help saying: "you look as fresh as a fern this morning, baby." "not so green, craig. say 'not so green.'" "no, not so green. but really to look at you brings a great big wave of joy surging all over my heart. but to descend from romance to common-sense. i hope you are hungry? i have just been seeing to your horse. where do you think i found him?" "i couldn't guess." "why in the water down yonder. lying down and wallowing." "the naughty horse! ah, here come the others! good morning all." "we have been bathing," said archie. "oh, how delicious!" "yes," said harry; "johnnie and i were bathing down under the trees, and it really was a treat to see how quickly he came to bank when i told him there was an alligator taking stock." "we scared the ducks though. pity we didn't bring our guns and bag a few." "i believe we'll have a right good breakfast at findlayson's," said craig; "so i propose we now have a mouthful of something and start." the gloom of that deep forest became irksome at last; though some of its trees were wondrous to behold in their stately straightness and immensity of size, the trunks of others were bent and crooked into such weird forms of contortion, that they positively looked uncanny. referring to these, archie remarked to craig, who was riding by his side: "are they not grotesquely beautiful?" craig laughed lightly. "their grotesqueness is apparent anyhow," he replied. "but would you believe it, in this very forest i was a week mad?" "mad!" "yes; worse than mad--delirious. oh, i did not run about, i was too feeble! but a black woman or girl found me, and built a kind of bark gunja over me, for it rained part of the time and dripped the rest. and those trees with their bent and gnarled stems walked about me, and gibbered and laughed, and pointed crooked fingers at me. i can afford to smile at it now, but it was very dreadful then; and the worst of it was i had brought it all on myself." archie was silent. "you know in what way?" added craig. "i have been told," archie said, simply and sadly. "for weeks, mr broadbent, after i was able to walk, i remained among the blacks doing nothing, just wandering aimlessly from place to place; but the woods and the trees looked no longer weird and awful to me then, for i was in my right mind. it was spring--nay, but early summer--and i could feel and drink in all the gorgeous beauty of foliage, of tree flowers and wild flowers, nodding palms and feathery ferns; but, oh! i left and went south again; i met once more the white man, and forgot all the religion of nature in which my soul had for a time been steeped. so that is all a kind of confession. i feel the better for having made it. we are all poor, weak mortals at the best; only i made a resolve last night." "you did?" "yes; and i am going to keep it. i am going to have help." "help!" "yes, from him who made those stately giants of the forest and changed their stems to silvery white. he can change all things." "amen!" said archie solemnly. chapter twenty three. at findlayson's farm--the great kangaroo hunt--a dinner and concert. gentleman craig was certainly a strange mortal; but after all he was only the type of a class of men to be found at most of our great universities. admirable crichtons in a small way, in the estimation of their friends--bold, handsome, careless, and dashing, not to say clever--they may go through the course with flying colours. but too often they strike the rocks of sin and sink, going out like the splendid meteors of a november night, or sometimes--if they continue to float-- they are sent off to australia, with the hopes of giving them one more chance. alas! they seldom get farther than the cities. it is only the very best and boldest of them that reach the bush, and there you may find them building fences or shearing sheep. if any kind of labour at all is going to make men of them, it is this. two minutes after craig had been talking to archie, the sweet, clear, ringing notes of his manly voice were awaking echoes far a-down the dark forest. parrots and parrakeets, of lovely plumage, fluttered nearer, holding low their wise, old-fashioned heads to look and listen. lyre-birds hopped out from under green fern-bushes, raising their tails and glancing at their figures in the clear pool. they listened too, and ran back to where their nests were to tell their wives men-people were passing through the forest singing; but that they, the cock lyre-birds, could sing infinitely better if they tried. on and on and on went the cavalcade, till sylvan beauty itself began to pall at last, and no one was a bit sorry when all at once the forest ended, and they were out on a plain, out in the scrub, with, away beyond, gently-rising hills, on which trees were scattered. the bleating of sheep now made them forget all about the gloom of the forest. they passed one or two rude huts, and then saw a bigger smoke in the distance, which bill told archie was findlayson's. findlayson came out to meet them. a scot every inch of him, you could tell that at a glance. a scot from the soles of his rough shoes to the rim of his hat; brown as to beard and hands, and with a good-natured face the colour of a badly-burned brick. he bade them welcome in a right hearty way, and helped "the lassie" to dismount. he had met "the lassie" before. "but," he said, "i wadna hae kent ye; you were but a bit gilpie then. losh! but ye have grown. your father's weel, i suppose? ah, it'll be a while afore anybody makes such a sudden haul at the diggin' o' gowd as he did! but come in. it's goin' to be anither warm day, i fear. "breakfast is a' ready. you'll have a thistle fu' o' whiskey first, you men folks. rin butt the hoose, my dear, and see my sister. tell her to boil the eggs, and lift the bacon and the roast ducks." he brought out the bottle as he spoke. both harry and archie tasted to please him. but craig went boldly into battle. "i'm done with it, findlayson," he said. "it has been my ruin. i'm done. i'm a weak fool." "but a wee drap wadna hurt you, man. just to put the dust out o' your wizzen." craig smiled. "it is the wee draps," he replied, "that do the mischief." "well, i winna try to force you. here comes the gude wife wi' the teapot." "bill," he continued, "as soon as you've satisfied the cravins o' nature, mount the grey colt, and ride down the creek, and tell them the new chums and i will be wi' them in half an hour." and in little over that specified time they had all joined the hunt. black folks and "orra men," as findlayson called them, were already detouring around a wide track of country to beat up the kangaroos. there were nearly a score of mounted men, but only one lady besides etheldene, a squatter's bold sister. the dogs were a sight to look at. they would have puzzled some englishmen what to make of them. partly greyhounds, but larger, sturdier, and stronger, as if they had received at one time a cross of mastiff. they looked eminently fit, however, and were with difficulty kept back. every now and then a distant shout was heard, and at such times the hounds seemed burning to be off. but soon the kangaroos themselves began to appear thick and fast. they came from one part or another in little groups, meeting and hopping about in wonder and fright. they seemed only looking for a means of escape; and at times, as a few rushing from one direction met others, they appeared to consult. many stood high up, as if on tiptoe, gazing eagerly around, with a curious mixture of bewilderment and fright displayed on their simple but gentle faces. they got small time to think now, however, for men and dogs were on them, and the flight and the murder commenced with a vengeance. there were black fellows there, who appeared to spring suddenly from the earth, spear-armed, to deal terrible destruction right and left among the innocent animals. and black women too, who seemed to revel in the bloody sight. if the whites were excited and thirsty for carnage, those aborigines were doubly so. meanwhile the men had dismounted, archie and harry among the rest, and were firing away as quickly as possible. there is one thing to be said in favour of the gunners; they took good aim, and there was little after-motion in the body of the kangaroo in which a bullet had found a billet. after all archie was neither content with the sport, nor had it come up as yet to his _beau ideal_ of adventure from all he had heard and read of it. the scene was altogether noisy, wild, and confusing. the blacks gloated in the bloodshed, and archie did not love them any the more for it. it was the first time he had seen those fellows using their spears, and he could guess from the way they handled or hurled them that they would be pretty dangerous enemies to meet face to face in the plain or scrub. "harry," he said after a time, "i'm getting tired of all this; let us go to our horses." "i'm tired too. hallo! where is the chick-a-biddy?" "you mean miss winslow, harry." "ay, johnnie." "i have not seen her for some time." they soon found her though, near a bit of scrub, where their own horses were tied. she was sitting on her saddle, looking as steady and demure as an equestrian statue. the sunshine was so finding that they did not at first notice her in the shade there until they were close upon her. "what, etheldene!" cried archie; "we hardly expected you here." "where, then?" "following the hounds." "what! into that mob? no, that is not what i came for." at that moment craig rode up. "so glad," he said, "to find you all here. mount, gentlemen. are you ready, baby?" "ready, yes, an hour ago, craig." they met horsemen and hounds not far away, and taking a bold detour over a rough and broken country, at the edge of a wood, the hounds found a "forester," or old man kangaroo. the beast had a good start if he had taken the best advantage of it; but he failed to do so. he had hesitated several times; but the run was a fine one. a wilder, rougher, more dangerous ride archie had never taken. the beast was at bay before very long, and his resistance to the death was extraordinary. they had many more rides before the day was over; and when they re-assembled in farmer findlayson's hospitable parlour, archie was fain for once to own himself not only tired, but "dead beat." the dinner was what harry called a splendid spread. old findlayson had been a gardener in his younger days in england, and his wife was a cook; and one of the results of this amalgamation was, dinners or breakfasts either, that had already made the scotchman famous. here was soup that an epicure would not have despised, fish to tempt a dying man, besides game of different kinds, pies, and last, if not least, steak of kangaroo. the soup itself was made from the tail of the kangaroo, and i know nothing more wholesome and nourishing, though some may think it a little strong. while the white folks were having dinner indoors, the black fellows were doing ample justice to theirs _al fresco_, only they had their own _cuisine_ and _menu_, of which the least said the better. "you're sure, mr craig, you winna tak' a wee drappie?" if the honest squatter put this question once in the course of the evening, he put it twenty times. "no, really," said craig at last; "i will not tak' a wee drappie. i've sworn off; i have, really. besides, your wife has made me some delightful tea." "weel, man, tak' a wee drappie in your last cup. it'll cheer ye up." "take down your fiddle, findlayson, and play a rattling strathspey or reel, that'll cheer me up more wholesomely than any amount of 'wee drappies.'" "come out o' doors then." it was cool now out there in findlayson's garden--it was a real garden too. his garden and his fiddle were findlayson's two fads; and that he was master of both, their present surroundings of fern and flower, and delicious scent of wattle-blossom, and the charming strains that floated from the corner where the squatter stood were proof enough. the fiddle in his hands talked and sang, now bold or merrily, now in sad and wailing notes that brought tears to even archie's eyes. then, at a suggestion of craig's, etheldene's sweet young voice was raised in song, and this was only the beginning of the concert. conversation filled up the gaps, so that the evening passed away all too soon. just as findlayson had concluded that plaintive and feeling air "auld robin gray," a little black girl came stealthily, silently up to etheldene, and placed a little creature like a rabbit in her lap, uttering a few words of bush-english, which seemed to archie's ear utterly devoid of sense. then the black girl ran; she went away to her own camp to tell her people that the white folks were holding a corroboree. the gift was a motherless kangaroo, that at once commenced to make itself at home by hiding its innocent head under etheldene's arm. the party soon after broke up for the night, and next day but one, early in the morning, the return journey was commenced, and finished that night; but the sun had gone down, and the moon was shining high and full over the forest, before they once more reached the clearing. chapter twenty four. a new arrival. winslow made months of a stay in the bush, and his services were of great value to the young squatters. the improvements he suggested were many and various, and he was careful to see them carried out. dams were made, and huge reservoirs were dug; for, as winslow said, their trials were all before them, and a droughty season might mean financial ruin to them. "nevertheless," he added one day, addressing bob, "i feel sure of you; and to prove this i don't mind knocking down a cheque or two to the tune of a thou or three or five if you want them. "i'll take bank interest," he added, "not a penny more." bob thanked him, and consulted the others that evening. true, archie's aristocratic pride popped up every now and then, but it was kept well under by the others. "besides, don't you see, johnnie," said harry, "this isn't a gift. winslow is a business man, and he knows well what he is about." "and," added bob, "the fencing isn't finished yet. we have all those workmen's mouths to fill, and the sooner the work is done the better." "then the sheep are to come in a year or so, and it all runs away with money, johnnie. our fortunes are to be made. there is money on the ground to be gathered up, and all that winslow proposes is holding the candle to us till we fill our pockets." "it is very kind of him," said archie, "but--" "well," said bob, "i know where your 'buts' will end if you are not careful. you will give offence to mr winslow, and he'll just turn on his heel and never see us again." "do you think so?" "think so? yes, archie, i'm sure of it. a better-hearted man doesn't live, rough and all as he is; and he has set his mind to doing the right thing for us all for your sake, lad, and so i say, think twice before you throw cold water over that big, warm heart of his." "well," said archie, "when you put it in that light, i can see matters clearly. i wouldn't offend my good old uncle ramsay's friend for all the world. i'm sorry i ever appeared bluff with him. so you can let him do as he pleases." and so winslow did to a great extent. nor do i blame bob and harry for accepting his friendly assistance. better far to be beholden to a private individual, who is both earnest and sincere, than to a money-lending company, who will charge double interest, and make you feel that your soul is not your own. better still, i grant you, to wait and work and plod; but this life is almost too short for much waiting, and after all, one half of the world hangs on to the skirts of the other half, and that other half is all the more evenly balanced in consequence. i would not, however, have my young readers misunderstand me. what i maintain is this, that although a poor man cannot leave this country in the expectation that anybody or any company will be found to advance the needful to set him up in the business of a squatter, still, when he has worked hard for a time, beginning at the lowermost ring of the ladder, and saved enough to get a selection, and a few cattle and sheep, then, if he needs assistance to heave ahead a bit, he will--if everything is right and square--have no difficulty in finding it. so things went cheerily on at burley new farm. and at last winslow and etheldene took their departure, promising to come again. "so far, lads," said winslow, as he mounted his horse, "there hasn't been a hitch nowheres. but mind keep two hands at the wheel." mr winslow's grammar was not of the best, and his sentences generally had a smack of the briny about them, which, however, did not detract from their graphicness. "tip us your flippers, boys," he added, "and let us be off. but i'm just as happy as if i were a father to the lot of you." gentleman craig shook hands with mr winslow. he had already helped etheldene into her saddle. archie was standing by her, the bridle of his own nag tell thrown carelessly over his arm; for good-byes were being said quite a mile from the farm. "i'll count the days, etheldene, till you come again," said archie. "the place will not seem the same without you." craig stood respectfully aside till archie had bade her adieu, then, with his broad hat down by his side, he advanced. he took her hand and kissed it. "good-bye, baby," he said. there were tears in etheldene's eyes as she rode away. big winslow took off his hat, waved it over his head, and gave voice to a splendid specimen of a british cheer, which, i daresay, relieved his feelings as much as it startled the lories. the "boys" were not slow in returning that cheer. then away rode the winslows, and presently the grey-stemmed gum trees swallowed them up. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ two whole years passed by. so quickly, too, because they had not been idle years. quite the reverse of that, for every day brought its own duties with it, and there was always something new to be thought about or done. one event had taken place which, in bob's eyes, eclipsed all the others--a little baby squatter saw the light of day. but i should not have used the word eclipsed. little "putty-face," as harry most irreverently called her, did not eclipse anything; on the contrary, everything grew brighter on her arrival, and she was hailed queen of the station. the news spread abroad like wildfire, and people came from far and near to look at the wee thing, just as if a baby had never been born in the bush before. findlayson dug the child with his forefinger in the cheek, and nodded and "a-goo-ed" to it, and it smiled back, and slobbered and grinned and jumped. findlayson then declared it to be the wisest "wee vision o' a thing the warld ever saw." sarah was delighted, so was the nurse--a young sonsy scotch lass brought to the station on purpose to attend to baby. "but," said findlayson, "what about bapteezin' the blessed wee vision." "oh," said bob, "i've thought of that! craig and i are going to brisbane with stock, and we'll import a parson." it so happened that a young missionary was on his way to spread the glad tidings among the blacks, and it did not need much coaxing on bob's part to get him to make a detour, and spend a week at burley new farm. so this was the imported parson. but being in brisbane, bob thought he must import something else, which showed what a mindful father he was. he had a look round, and a glance in at all the shop windows in queen street, finally he entered an emporium that took his fancy. "ahem!" said bob. "i want a few toys." "yes, sir. about what age, sir?" "the newest and best you have." "i didn't refer to the age of the toys," said the urbane shopkeeper, with the ghost of a smile in his eye. "i should have said, toys suitable for what age?" "for every age," replied bob boldly. the shopkeeper then took the liberty of remarking that his visitor must surely be blessed with a quiverful. "i've only the one little girl," said bob. "she fills the book as yet. but, you see, we're far away in the bush, and baby will grow out of gum-rings and rattles, won't she, into dolls and dung-carts? d'ye see? d'ye understand?" "perfectly." it ended in bob importing not only the parson in a dray, but a box of toys as big as a sea-chest, and only bob himself could have told you all that was in it. that box would have stocked a toyshop itself and harry and archie had the grandest of fun unpacking it, and both laughed till they had to elevate their arms in the air to get the stitches out of their sides. the amusing part of it was that innocent bob had bought such a lot of each species. a brown paper parcel, for example, was marked " gross: gum-rings." "that was a job lot," said bob, explaining. "i got them at a reduction, as the fellow said. besides, if she has one in each hand, and another in her mouth, it will keep her out of mischief for a month or two to begin with." there was no mistake about it, baby was set up; for a time, at all events. not only did visitors--rough and smooth, but mostly rough--come from afar, but letters of congratulation also. winslow said in a letter that etheldene was dying to come and see "the vision," and so was he, though not quite so bad. "only," he added, "as soon eth is finished we'll both run up. eth is going to melbourne to be finished, and i think a year will do the job." "whatever does he mean," said stalwart bob, "by finishing eth, and doing the job?" "why, you great big brush turkey," said sarah, "he means finishing her edication, in coorse!" "oh, i see now!" said bob. "to be sure; quite right. i say, sarah, we'll have to send 'the vision' to a slap-up lady's school one of these days, won't us?" "bob," replied sarah severely, "tell that lazy black chap, jumper, to dig some potatoes." "i'm off, sarah! i'm off!" both harry and archie had by this time become perfect in all a squatter's art. both had grown hard and hardy, and i am not sure that harry was not now quite as bold a rider as archie himself, albeit he was a cockney born, albeit he had had to rub himself after that first ride of his on scallowa, the "eider duck." well, then, both he and archie were perfectly _au fait_ at cattle work in all its branches, and only those who have lived _on_ and had some interest _in_ farming have an idea what a vast amount of practical work breeding cattle includes. one has really to be jack-of-all-trades, and a veterinary surgeon into the bargain. moreover, if he be master, and not merely foreman, there are books to be kept; so he must be a good accountant, and a good caterer, and always have his weather eye lifting, and keeping a long lookout for probable changes in the markets. but things had prospered well at burley new station. one chief reason of this was that the seasons had been good, and that there was every prospect that the colony of queensland was to be one of the most respected and favourite in the little island. for most of his information on the management of sheep, archie and his companions were indebted to the head stockman, gentleman craig. he had indeed been a godsend, and proved himself a blessing to the station. it is but fair to add that he had sacredly and sternly kept the vow he had registered that night. he did not deny that it had been difficult for him to do so; in fact he often referred to his own weakness when talking to archie, whose education made him a great favourite and the constant companion of craig. "but you don't feel any the worse for having completely changed your habits, do you?" said archie one day. craig's reply was a remarkable one, and one that should be borne in mind by those teetotallers who look upon inebriety as simply a species of moral aberration, and utterly ignore the physiology of the disease. "to tell you the truth, mr broadbent, i am both better and worse. i am better physically; i am in harder, more robust, muscular health; i'm as strong in the arms as a kicking kangaroo. i eat well, i sleep fairly well, and am fit in every way. but i feel as if i had passed through the vale of the shadow of death, and it had left some of its darkness on and in my soul. i feel as if the cure had mentally taken a deal out of me; and when i meet, at brisbane or other towns, men who offer me drink i feel mean and downcast, because i have to refuse it, and because i dared not even take it as food and medicine. no one can give up habits of life that have become second nature without mental injury, if not bodily. and i'm more and more convinced every month that intemperance is a disease of periodicity, just like gout and rheumatism." "you have cravings at certain times, then?" "yes; but that isn't the worst. the worst is that periodically in my dreams i have gone back to my old ways, and think i am living once again in the fool's paradise of the inebriate; singing wild songs, drinking recklessly, talking recklessly, and looking upon life as but a brief unreality, and upon time as a thing only to be drowned in the wine-cup. yes, but when i awake from these pleasantly-dreadful dreams, i thank god fervidly i have been but dreaming." archie sighed, and no more was said on the subject. letters came from home about once a month, but they came to archie only. yet, though bob had never a friend to write to him from northumbria, nor harry one in whitechapel, the advent of a packet from home gave genuine joy to all hands. archie's letters from home were read first by archie himself, away out under the shade of a tree as likely as not. then they were read to his chums, including sarah and diana. diana was the baby. but they were not finished with even then. no; for they were hauled out and perused night after night for maybe a week, and then periodically for perhaps another fortnight. there was something new to talk about found in them each time; something suggesting pleasant conversation. archie was often even amused at "his dear old dad's" remarks and advice. he gave as many hints, and planned as many improvements, as though he had been a settler all his life, and knew everything there was any need to know about the soil and the climate. he believed--i.e., the old squire believed--that if he were only out among them, he would show even the natives [white men born in the bush] a thing or two. yes, it was amusing; and after filling about ten or twelve closely-written pages on suggested improvements, he was sure to finish up somewhat as follows in the postscript: "but after all, archie, my dear boy, you must be very careful in all you do. never go like a bull at a gate, lad. don't forget that i--even i-- was not altogether successful at burley old farm." "bless that postscript," archie would say; "mother comes in there." "does she now?" sarah would remark, looking interested. "ay, that she does. you see father just writes all he likes first-- blows off steam as it were; and mother reads it, and quietly dictates a postscript." then there were elsie's letters and rupert's, to say nothing of a note from old kate and a crumpled little enclosure from branson. well, in addition to letters, there was always a bundle of papers, every inch of which was read--even the advertisements, and every paragraph of which brought back to archie and bob memories of the dear old land they were never likely to forget. chapter twenty five. the stream of life flows quietly on. one day a grand gift arrived from england, being nothing less than a couple of splendid scotch collies and a pair of skye terriers. they had borne the journey wonderfully well, and set about taking stock, and settling themselves in their new home, at once. archie's pet kangaroo was an object of great curiosity to the skyes at first. on the very second day of their arrival bobie and roup, as they were called, marched up to the kangaroo, and thus addressed him: "we have both come to the conclusion that you are something that shouldn't be." "indeed!" said the kangaroo. "yes; so we're going to let the sawdust out of you." "take that then to begin with!" said mr kangaroo; and one of the dogs was kicked clean and clear over a fern bush. they drew off after that with their tails well down. they thought they had made a mistake somehow. a rabbit that could kick like a young colt was best left to his own devices. the collies never attempted to attack the kangaroo; but when they saw the droll creature hopping solemnly after archie, one looked at the other, and both seemed to laugh inwardly. the collies were placed under the charge of craig to be broken to use, for both were young, and the skyes became the vermin-killers. they worked in couple, and kept down the rats far more effectually than ever the cats had done. they used to put dingoes to the rout whenever or wherever they saw them; and as sometimes both these game little animals would return of a morning severely bitten about the face and ears, it was evident enough they had gone in for sharp service during the night. one curious thing about the skyes was, that they killed snakes, and always came dragging home with the loathsome things. this was very clever and very plucky; nevertheless, a tame laughing jackass that harry had in a huge cage was to them a pet aversion. perhaps the bird knew that; for as soon as he saw them he used to give vent to a series of wild, defiant "ha-ha-ha's" and "hee-hee-hee's" that would have laid a ghost. the improvements on that portion of burley new farm more immediately adjoining the steading had gone merrily on, and in a year or two, after fencing and clearing the land, a rough style of agriculture was commenced. the ploughs were not very first-class, and the horses were oxen--if i may make an irish bull. they did the work slowly but well. they had a notion that every now and then they ought to be allowed to go to sleep for five minutes. however, they were easily roused, and just went on again in a dreamy kind of way. the land did not require much coaxing to send up crops of splendid wheat. it was a new-born joy to bob and archie to ride along their paddocks, and see the wind waving over the growing grain, making the whole field look like an inland sea. "what would your father say to a sight like that?" said bob one morning while the two were on their rounds. "he would start subsoiling ploughs and improve it." "i don't know about the improvement, archie, but i've no doubt he would try. but new land needs little improving." "maybe no; but mind you, bob, father is precious clever, though i don't hold with all his ways. he'd have steam-ploughs here, and steam-harrows too. he'd cut down the grain to the roots by steam-machines, or he'd have steam-strippers." "but you don't think we should go any faster?" "bob, i must confess i like to take big jumps myself. i take after my father in some things, but after my scottish ancestors in others. for instance, i like to know what lies at the other side of the hedge before i put my horse at it." the first crops of wheat that were taken off the lands of burley new farm were gathered without much straw. it seemed a waste to burn the latter; but the distance from the railway, and still more from a market-town, made its destruction a necessity. nor was it altogether destruction either; for the ashes served as a fertiliser for future crops. as things got more settled down, and years flew by, the system of working the whole station was greatly improved. bob and harry had become quite the home-farmers and agriculturists, while the cattle partially, and the sheep almost wholly, became the care of archie, with gentleman craig as his first officer. craig certainly had a long head on his broad shoulders. he did not hesitate from the first to give his opinions as to the management of the station. one thing he assured the three friends of: namely, that the sheep must be sent farther north and west if they were to do well. "they want higher and dryer ground," he said; "but you may try them here." i think at this time neither bob nor archie knew there was anything more deadly to be dreaded than foot-rot, which the constant attention of the shepherds, and a due allowance of blue-stone, served out from harry's stores, kept well under. they gained other and sadder experience before very long, however. at first all went as merrily as marriage bells. the first sheep-shearing was a never-to-be-forgotten event in the life of our bushmen. the season was october--a spring month in australia--and the fleeces were in fine form, albeit some were rather full of grass seed. they were mostly open, however, and everyone augured a good clip. sarah was very busy indoors superintending everything; for there was extra cooking to be done now. wee diana, who had developed into quite a bush child, though a pretty one, toddled about here, there, and everywhere; the only wonder is--as an irishman might say--that she did not get killed three or four times a day. diana had long since abjured gum-rings and rattles, and taken to hoops and whips. one of the collie dogs, and the pet kangaroo, were her constant companions. as previously stated, both collies had been sent to craig to be trained; but as bounce had a difference of opinion with one of the shepherds, he concluded he would make a change by the way of bettering himself, so he had taken french leave and come home to the steading. he would have been sent off again, sure enough, if he had not--collie-like--enlisted sarah herself on his behalf. this he had done by lying down beside little diana on the kitchen floor. the two kissed each other and fell asleep. bounce's position was assured after that. findlayson, who did not mean to commence operations among his own fleeces for another month, paid a visit to burley, and brought with him a few spare hands. harry had plenty to do both out of doors and in his stores; for many men were now about the place, and they must all eat and smoke. "as sure as a gun," said findlayson the first morning, "that joukie-daidles o' yours 'ill get killed." he said this just after about three hundred sheep had rushed the child, and run over her. it was the fault of the kangaroo on one hand, and the collie, bounce, on the other. findlayson had picked her off the ground, out of a cloud of dust, very dirty, but smiling. "what is to be done with her?" said bob, scratching his head. "fauld her," said findlayson. "what does that mean?" findlayson showed him what "faulding" meant. he speedily put up a little enclosure on an eminence, from which diana could see all without the possibility of escaping. so every day she, with her dog and the pet kangaroo, to say nothing of a barrow-load of toys, including a huge noah's ark, found herself happy and out of harm's way. diana could be seen at times leaning over the hurdle, and waving a hand exultingly in the air, and it was presumed she was loudly cheering the men's performance; but as to hearing anything, that seemed utterly out of the question, with the baa-ing and maa-ing of the sheep. when the work was in full blast it certainly was a strange sight, and quite colonial. archie had been at sheep-shearings before at home among the cheviot hills, but nothing to compare to this. there was, first and foremost, the sheep to be brought up in batches or flocks from the distant stations, men and dogs also having plenty to do to keep them together, then the enclosing them near the washing-ground. the dam in which the washing took place was luckily well filled, for rain had fallen not long before. sheep-washing is hard work, as anyone will testify who has tried his hand at it for even half a day. sheep are sometimes exceedingly stupid, more particularly, i think, about a time like this. the whole business is objected to, and they appear imbued with the idea that you mean to drown them, and put every obstacle in your way a stubborn nature can invent. the sheep, after being well scrubbed, were allowed a day to get dry and soft and nice. then came the clipping. gentleman craig was stationed at a platform to count the fleeces and see them ready for pressing, and archie's work was cut out in seeing that the fellows at the clipping did their duty properly. it was a busy, steaming time, on the whole, for everybody, but merry enough nevertheless. there was "lashins" of eating and drinking. findlayson himself took charge of the grog, which was mostly rum, only he had a small store of mountain dew for his own special consumption. harry was quite the whitechapel tradesman all over, though you could not have told whether the grocer or butcher most predominated in his appearance. the clipping went on with marvellous speed, a rivalry existing between the hands apparently; but as they were paid by the number of fleeces, there was evident desire on the part of several to sacrifice perfection to rapidity. when it was all over there was still a deal to be done in clearing up and getting the whole station resettled, one part of the resettling, and the chief too, being the re-establishing of the sheep on their pasturage after marking them. the wool was pressed into bales, and loaded on huge bullock-waggons, which are in appearance something between an ordinary country wood-cart and a brewer's dray. the road to the distant station was indeed a rough one, and at the slow rate travelled by the bullock teams the journey would occupy days. craig himself was going with the last lot of these, and archie had started early and ridden on all alone to see to business in brisbane. he had only been twice at the town in the course of three years, so it is no wonder that now he was impressed with the notion that the well-dressed city folks must stare at him, to see if he had any hay-seed in his hair. winslow was coming round by boat, and etheldene as well; she had been at home for some time on a holiday. why was it, i wonder, that archie paid a visit to several outfitters' shops in brisbane, and made so many purchases? he really was well enough dressed when he entered the town; at all events, he had looked a smart young farmer all over. but when he left his bedroom on the morning of winslow's arrival, he had considerably more of the english squire than the australian squatter about his _tout ensemble_. but he really looked a handsome, happy, careless young fellow, and that bit of a sprouting moustache showed off his good looks to perfection. he could not help feeling it sometimes as he sat reading a paper in the hotel hall, and waiting for his friends, and was fool enough to wonder if etheldene would think him improved in appearance. but archie was neither "masher" nor dandy at heart. he was simply a young man, and i would not value any young man who did not take pains with his personal appearance, even at the risk of being thought proud. archie had not long to wait for winslow. he burst in like a fresh sea-breeze--hale, hearty, and bonnie. he was also a trifle better dressed than usual. but who was that young lady close by his left hand? that couldn't be--yes, it was etheldene, and next moment archie was grasping a hand of each. etheldene's beauty had matured; she had been but a girl, a child, when archie had met her before. now she was a bewitching young lady, modest and lovely, but, on the whole, so self-possessed that if our hero had harboured any desire to appear before her at his very best, and keep up the good impression by every means in his power, he had the good sense to give it up and remain his own natural honest self. but he could not help saying to himself, "what a wife she will make for rupert! and how elsie will love and adore her! and i--yes, i will be content to remain the big bachelor brother." there was such a deal to ask of each other, such a deal to do and to say, that days flew by before they knew where they were, as winslow expressed it. on the fifth day gentleman craig arrived to give an account of his stewardship. etheldene almost bounded towards him. but she looked a little shy at his stare of astonishment as he took her gloved hand. "baby," he exclaimed, "i would hardly have known you! how you have improved!" then the conversation became general. when accounts were squared, it was discovered that, by the spring wool, and last year's crops and bullocks, the young squatters had done wonderfully well, and were really on a fair way to wealth. "now, archie broadbent," said winslow that night, "i am going to put you on to a good thing or two. you are a gentleman, and have a gentleman's education. you have brains, and can do a bit of speculation; and it is just here where brains come in." winslow then unfolded his proposals, which were of such an inviting kind that archie at once saw his way to benefit by them. he thanked winslow over and over again for all he had done for him, and merely stipulated that in this case he should be allowed to share his plans with bob and harry. to this, of course, winslow made no objection. "as to thanking me for having given ye a tip or two," said winslow, "don't flatter yourself it is for your sake. it is all to the memory of the days i spent as steward at sea with your good old uncle. did you send him back his fifty pounds?" "i did, and interest with it." "that is right. that is proper pride." archie and the winslows spent a whole fortnight in brisbane, and they went away promising that ere long they would once more visit the station. the touch of etheldene's soft hand lingered long in archie's. the last look from her bonnie eyes haunted him even in his dreams, as well as in his waking thoughts. the former he could not command, so they played him all kinds of pranks. but over his thoughts he still had sway; and whenever he found himself thinking much about etheldene's beauty, or winning ways, or soft, sweet voice, he always ended up by saying to himself, "what a love of a little wife she will make for rupert!" one day, while archie was taking a farewell walk along queen street, glancing in here and there at the windows, and now and then entering to buy something pretty for sarah, something red--dazzling--for her black servant-maid, and toys for di, he received a slap on the back that made him think for a moment a kangaroo had kicked him. "what!" he cried, "captain vesey?" "ay, lad, didn't i say we would meet again?" "well, wonders will never cease! where have you been? and what have you been doing?" "why i've gone in for trade a bit. i've been among the south sea islands, shipping blacks for the interior here; and, to tell you the truth, my boy, i am pretty well sick of the job from all i've seen. it is more like buying slaves, and that is the honest truth." "and i suppose you are going to give it up?" the captain laughed--a laugh that archie did not quite like. "yes," he said, "i'll give it up after--another turn or two. but come and have something cooling, the weather is quite summery already. what a great man you have grown! when i saw you first you were just a--" "a hobbledehoy?" "something like that--very lime-juicy, but very ardent and sanguine. i say, you didn't find the streets of sydney paved with gold, eh?" "not quite," replied archie, laughing as he thought of all his misery and struggles in the capital of new south wales. "but," he added, "though i did not find the streets paved with gold, i found the genuine ore on a housetop, or near it, in a girl called sarah." "what, archie broadbent, you don't mean to say you're married?" "no; but bob is." "what bob? here, waiter, bring us drinks--the best and coolest you have in the house. now, lad, you've got to begin at the beginning of your story, and run right through to the end. spin it off like a man. i'll put my legs on a chair, smoke, and listen." so archie did as he was told, and very much interested was captain vesey. "and now, captain, you must promise to run down, and see us all in the bush. we're a jolly nice family party, i can assure you." "i promise, my boy, right heartily. i hope to be back in brisbane in six months. expect to see me then." they dined together, and spent the evening talking of old times, and planning all that they would do when they met. next day they parted. the end of this spring was remarkable for floods. never before had our heroes seen such storms of rain, often accompanied with thunder and lightning. archie happened to be out in the forest when it first came on. it had been a hot, still, sulphurous morning, which caused even the pet kangaroo to lie panting on his side. then a wind came puffing and roaring through the trees in uncertain gusts, shaking the hanging curtains of climbing plants, rustling and rasping among the sidelong leaved giant gums, tearing down tree ferns and lovely orchids, and scattering the scented bloom of the wattle in every direction. with the wind came the clouds, and a darkness that could be felt. then down died the fitful breeze, and loud and long roared and rattled the thunder, while the blinding lightning seemed everywhere. it rushed down the darkness in rivers like blood, it glanced and glimmered on the pools of water, and zigzagged through the trees. from the awful hurtling of the thunder one would have thought every trunk and stem were being rent and riven in pieces. tell--the horse--seemed uneasy, so archie made for home. the rain had come on long before he reached the creek, but the stream was still fordable. but see! he is but half-way across when, in the interval between the thunder peals, he can hear a steady rumbling roar away up the creek and gulley, but coming closer and closer every moment. on, on, on, good tell! splash through that stream quicker than ever you went before, or far down the country to-morrow morning two swollen corpses will be seen floating on the floods! bewildered by the dashing rain, and the mist that rose on every side, archie and his trusty steed had but reached high ground when down came the bore. a terrible sight, though but dimly seen. fully five feet high, it seemed to carry everything before it. alas! for flocks and herds. archie could see white bodies and black, tumbling and trundling along in the rolling "spate." the floods continued for days. and when they abated then losses could be reckoned. though dead cattle and sheep now lay in dozens about the flat lands near the creek, only a small percentage of them belonged to burley. higher up findlayson had suffered, and many wild cattle helped to swell the death bill. but it was bad enough. however, our young squatters were not the men to sit down to cry over spilt milk. the damage was repaired, and the broken dams were made new again. and these last were sadly wanted before the summer went past. for it was unusually hot, the sun rising in a cloudless sky, blazing down all day steadily, and setting without even a ray being intercepted by a cloud. bush fires were not now infrequent. while travelling in a distant part of the selection, far to the west, in company with craig, whom he had come to visit, they were witnesses to a fire of this sort that had caught a distant forest. neither pen nor pencil could do justice to such a scene. luckily it was separated from the burley estate by a deep ravine. one of the strangest sights in connection with it was the wild stampede of the panic-stricken kangaroos and bush horses. to work in the fields was now to work indeed. bob's complexion and archie's were "improved" to a kind of brick-red hue, and even harry got wondrously tanned. there was certainly a great saving in clothes that year, for excepting light, broad-brimmed hats, and shirts and trousers, nothing else was worn by the men. but the gardens were cool in the evening, in spite of the midday glare of the sun, and it was delightful to sit out in the open for an hour or two and think and talk of the old country; while the rich perfume of flowers hung warm in the air, and the holy stars shimmered and blinked in the dark blue of the sky. chapter twenty six. "i'll write a letter home." the summer wore away, autumn came, the harvest was made good, and in spite of the drought it turned out well; for the paddocks chosen for agricultural produce seldom lacked moisture, lying as they did on the low lands near the creek, and on rich ground reclaimed from the scrub. our bushmen were congratulating themselves on the success of their farming; for the banking account of all three was building itself, so to speak, slowly, but surely. archie was now quite as wealthy as either of his companions; for his speculations, instigated by his friend winslow, had turned out well; so his stock had increased tenfold, and he had taken more pasture to the westward and north, near where bob's and harry's sheep now were; for craig's advice had been acted on. none too soon though; for early in the winter an old shepherd arrived in haste at the homesteading to report an outbreak of inflammatory catarrh among the flocks still left on the lower pastures. the events that quickly followed put archie in mind of the "dark days" at burley old farm, when fat beasts were dying in twos and threes day after day. sheep affected with this strange ailment lived but a day or two, and the only thing to do was to kill them on the very first symptoms of the ailment appearing. they were then just worth the price of their hides and tallow. considering the amount of extra work entailed, and the number of extra hands to be hired, and the bustle and stir and anxiety caused by the outbreak, it is doubtful if it would not have been better to bury them as they fell, skin and all. this was one of the calamities which winslow had pointed out to archie as likely to occur. but it was stamped out at last. the sheep that remained were sent away to far-off pastures; being kept quite separate, however, from the other flocks. so the cloud passed away, and the squatters could breathe freely again, and hope for a good lambing season, when winter passed away, and spring time came once more. "bob," said archie one evening, as they all sat round the hearth before retiring to bed, "that fire looks awfully cosy, doesn't it? and all the house is clean and quiet--oh, so quiet and delightful that i really wonder anyone could live in a city or anywhere near the roar and din of railway trains! then our farm is thriving far beyond anything we could have dared to expect. we are positively getting rich quickly, if, indeed, we are not rich already. and whether it be winter or summer, the weather is fine, glorious sometimes. indeed, it is like a foretaste of heaven, bob, in my humble opinion, to get up early and wander out of doors." "well," said bob, "small reason to be ashamed to say that, my boy." "hold on, bob, i'm coming to the part i'm ashamed of; just you smoke your pipe and keep quiet. well, so much in love am i with the new country that i'm beginning to forget the old. of course i'll always-- always be a true englishman, and i'd go back to-morrow to lay down my life for the dear old land if it was in danger. but it isn't, it doesn't want us, it doesn't need us; it is full to overflowing, and i daresay they can do without any of us. but, bob, there is my dear old father, mother, elsie, and rupert. now, if it were only possible to have them here. but i know my father is wedded to burley, and his life's dream is to show his neighbours a thing or two. i know too that if he starts machinery again he will be irretrievably lost." archie paused, and the kangaroo looked up into his face as much as to say, "go on, i'm all attention." "well, bob, if i make a pile here and go home, i'll just get as fond of burley as i was when a boy, and i may lose my pile too. it seems selfish to speak so, but there is no necessity for it. so i mean to try to get father to emigrate. do you think such a thing is possible, bob?" "it's the same with men as with trees, archie. you must loosen the ground about them, root by root must be carefully taken up if you want to transplant them, and you must take so much of the old earth with them that they hardly know they are being moved. sarah, bring the coffee. as for my own part, archie, i am going back; but it is only just to see the old cottage, the dear old woods, and--and my mother's grave." "yes," said archie, thoughtfully. "well, root by root you said, didn't you?" "ay, root by root." "then i'm going to begin. rupert and elsie will be the first roots. roup isn't over strong yet. this country will make a man of him. bob and you, harry, can go to bed as soon as you like. i'm going out to think and walk about a bit. stick another log or two on the fire, and as soon as you have all turned in i'll write a letter home. i'll begin the uprooting, though it does seem cruel to snap old ties." "well," said harry, "thank goodness, i've got no ties to snap. and i think with you, archie, that the old country isn't a patch on the new. just think o' the london fogs. you mind them, sarah." "i does, 'arry." "and the snow." "and the slush, 'arry." "and the drizzle." "and the kitchen beetles, boy. it would take a fat little lot to make me go back out o' the sunshine. here's the coffee." "keep mine hot, sarah." away went archie out into the night, out under the stars, out in the falling dew, and his kangaroo went jumping and hopping after him. the sky was very bright and clear to-night, though fleece-shaped, snow-white clouds lay low on the horizon, and the moon was rising through the distant woods, giving the appearance of some gigantic fire as its beams glared red among the topmost branches. there was the distant howling or yelling of dingoes, and the low, half-frightened bleat of sheep, and there was the rippling murmur of the stream not far off, but all else was still. it was two hours before archie found his way back. the kangaroo saw him to the door, then went off to curl up in the shed till the hot beams of the morning sun should lure him forth to breakfast. and all alone sat archie, by the kitchen table, writing a letter home by the light of candles made on the steading. it was very still now in the house--only the ticking of the clock, the occasional whirr of some insect flying against the window, anxious to come into the light and warmth and scratching of the young man's pen. surely the dog knew that archie was writing home, for presently he got slowly up from his corner and came and leant his head on his master's knee, in that wise and kindly way collies have of showing their thoughts and feelings. archie must leave off writing for a moment to smooth and pet the honest "bawsent" head. now it would be very easy for us to peep over archie's shoulder and read what he was writing, but that would be rude; anything rather than rudeness and impoliteness. rather, for instance, let us take a voyage across the wide, terribly wide ocean, to pay a visit to burley old farm, and wait till the letter comes. "i wonder," said elsie with a gentle sigh, and a long look at the fire, "when we may expect to hear from archie again. dear me, what a long, long time it is since he went away! let me see, rupert, it is going on for six years, isn't it?" "yes. archie must be quite a man by now." "he's all right," said the squire. "that he is, i know," said uncle ramsay. "he's in god's good hands," said the mother, but her glasses were so moist she had to take them off to wipe them; "he is in god's good hands, and all we can do now is to pray for him." two little taps at the green-parlour door and enter the maid, not looking much older, and not less smart, than when last we saw her. "if you please, sir, there's a gentleman in the study as would like to see you." "oh," she added, with a little start, "here he comes!" and there he came certainly. "god bless all here!" he cried heartily. "what," exclaimed the squire, jumping up and holding out his hand, "my dear old friend venturesome vesey!" "yes, yankee charlie, and right glad i am to see you." "my wife and children, vesey. though you and i have often met in town since my marriage, you've never seen them before. my brother, whom you know." vesey was not long in making himself one of the family circle, and he gave his promise to stay at burley old farm for a week at least. rupert and elsie took to him at once. how could they help it? a sailor and gentleman, and a man of the world to boot. besides, coming directly from archie. "i just popped into the house the very morning after he had written the letter i now hand to you," said captain vesey. "he had an idea it would be safer for me to bring it. well, here it is; and i'm going straight away out to the garden to smoke a pipe under the moon while you read it. friend as i am of archie's, you must have the letter all to yourselves;" and away went vesey. "send for old kate and branson," cried the squire, and they accordingly marched in all expectancy. then the father unfolded the letter with as much reverence almost as if it had been _foxe's book of martyrs_. every eye was fixed upon him as he slowly read it. even bounder, the great newfoundland, knew something unusual was up, and sat by elsie all the time. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ archie's letter home. "my dearest mother,--it is to you i write first, because i know that a proposal i have to make will 'take you aback,' as my friend winslow would say. i may as well tell you what it is at once, because, if i don't, your beloved impatience will cause you to skip all the other parts of the letter till you come to it. now then, my own old mummy, wipe your spectacles all ready, catch hold of the arm of your chair firmly, and tell elsie to 'stand by'--another expression of winslow's--the smelling-salts bottle. are you all ready? heave oh! then. i'm going to ask you to let rupert and elsie come out to me here. "have you fainted, mummy? not a bit of it; you're my own brave mother! and don't you see that this will be only the beginning of the end? and a bright, happy end, mother, i'm looking forward to its being. it will be the reunion of us all once more; and if we do not live quite under one roof, as in the dear old days at burley old farm, we will live in happy juxtaposition. "'what!' you cry, 'deprive me of my children?' it is for your children's good, mummy. take rupert first. he is not strong now, but he is young. if he comes at once to this glorious land of ours, on which i am quite enthusiastic, he will get as hardy as a new hollander in six months' time. wouldn't you like to see him with roses on his face, mother, and a brow as brown as a postage stamp? send him out. would you like him to have a frame of iron, with muscles as tough as a mainstay? send him out. would you like him to be as full of health as an egg is full of meat? and so happy that he would have to get up at nights to sing? then send him here. "take poor me next. you've no notion how homesick i am; i'm dying to see some of you. i am making money fast, and i love my dear, free, jolly life; but for all that, there are times that i would give up everything i possess--health, and hopes of wealth--for sake of one glance at your dear faces, and one run round burley old farm with father." this part of archie's letter told home. there were tears in mrs broadbent's motherly eyes; and old kate was heard to murmur, "dear, bonnie laddie!" and put her apron to her face. "then," the letter continued, "there is elsie. it would do her good to come too, because--bless the lassie!--she takes her happiness at second-hand; and knowing that she was a comfort to us boys, and made everything cheery and nice, would cause her to be as jolly as the summer's day is long or a gum tree high. then, mother, we three should work together with only one intent--that of getting you and father both out, and old kate and branson too. "as for you, dad, i know you will do what is right; and see how good it would be for us all to let roup and elsie come. then you must remember that when we got things a bit straighter, we would expect you and mother to follow. you, dear dad, would have full scope here for your inventive genius, and improvements that are thrown away in england could be turned to profit out here. "we would not go like a bull at a gate at anything, father; but what we do want here is machinery, easily worked, for cutting up and dealing with wood; for cutting up ground, and for destroying tree stumps; and last, but not least, we want wells, and a complete system of irrigation for some lands, that shall make us independent to a great extent of the sparsely-failing rains of some seasons. of course you could tell us something about sheep disease and cattle plague, and i'm not sure you couldn't help us to turn the wild horses to account, with which some parts of the interior swarm." squire broadbent paused here to exclaim, as he slapped his thigh with his open palm: "by saint andrews, brother, archie is a chip of the old block! he's a true broadbent, i can tell you. he appreciates the brains of his father too. heads are what are wanted out there; genius to set the mill a-going. as for this country--pah! it's played out. yes, my children, you shall go, and your father will follow." "my dear elsie and rupert," the letter went on, "how i should love to have you both out here. i have not asked you before, because i wanted to have everything in a thriving condition first; but now that everything is so, it wants but you two to help me on, and in a year or two--hurrah! for dad and the mum! "yes, elsie, your house is all prepared. i said nothing about this before. i've been, like the duck-bill, working silently out of sight--out of your sight i mean. but there it is, the finest house in all the district, a perfect mansion; walls as thick as burley old tower--that's for coolness in summer. lined inside with cedar--that's for cosiness in winter. big hall in it, and all the rooms just _facsimile_ of our own house at home, or as near to them as the climate will admit. "but mind you, elsie, i'm not going to have you banished to the bush wilds altogether. no, lassie, no; we will have a mansion--a real mansion--in sydney or brisbane as well, and the house at burley new farm will be our country residence. "i know i'll have your answer by another mail, and it will put new life into us all to know you are coming. then i will start right away to furnish our house. our walls shall be polished, pictures shall be hung, and mirrors everywhere; the floors shall glitter like beetles' wings, and couches and skins be all about. i'm rather lame at house description, but you, elsie, shall finish the furnishing, and put in the nicknacks yourself. "i'm writing here in the stillness of night, with our doggie's head upon my knee. all have gone to bed--black and white--in the house and round the station. but i've just come in from a long walk in the moonlight. i went out to be alone and think about you; and what a glorious night, rupert! we have no such nights in england. though it is winter, it is warm and balmy. it is a delight to walk at night either in summer or winter. oh, i do wish i could describe to you my garden as it is in spring and early summer! that is, you know, _our_ garden that is going to be. i had the garden laid out and planted long before the house was put up, and now my chief delight is to keep it up. you know, as i told you before, i went to melbourne with the winslows. well, we went round everywhere, and saw everything; we sailed on the lovely river, and i was struck with the wonderful beauty of the gardens, and determined ours should be something like it. and when the orange blossom is out, and the fragrant verbenas, and a thousand other half-wild flowers, with ferns, ferns, ferns everywhere, and a fountain playing in the shadiest nook--this was an idea of harry's--you would think you were in fairyland or dreamland, or 'through the looking-glass,' or somewhere; anyhow, you would be entranced. "but to-night, when i walked there, the house--our house you know-- looked desolate and dreary, and my heart gave a big superstitious thud when i heard what i thought was a footstep on the verandah, but it was only a frog as big as your hat. "that verandah cost me and harry many a ramble into the scrub and forest, but now it is something worth seeing, with its wealth of climbing flowering plants, its hanging ferns, and its clustering marvellous orchids. "yes, the house looks lonely; looks haunted almost; only, of course, ghosts never come near a new house. but, dear elsie, how lovely it will look when we are living in it! when light streams out from the open casement windows! when warmth and music are there! oh, come soon, come _soon_! you see i'm still impulsive. "you, elsie, love pets. i daresay bounder will come with you. poor scallowa! i was sorry to hear of his sad death. but we can have all kinds of pets here. we have many. to begin with, there is little diana, she is queen of the station, and likely to be; she is everybody's favourite. then there are the collies, and the kangaroo. he is quite a darling fellow, and goes everywhere with me. "our laughing jackass is improving every day. he looks excessively wise when you talk to him, and if touched up with the end of a brush of turkey's feathers, which we keep for the purpose, he goes off into such fits of mad hilarious, mocking, ringing laughter that somebody has got to pick him up, cage and all, and make all haste out of the house with him. "we have also a pet bear; that is harry's. but don't jump. it is no bigger than a cat, and far tamer. it is a most wonderful little rascal to climb ever you saw. koala we call him, which is his native name, and he is never tired of exploring the roof and rafters; but when he wants to go to sleep, he will tie himself round sarah's waist, with his back downwards, and go off as sound as a top. "we have lots of cats and a cockatoo, who is an exceedingly mischievous one, and who spends most of his life in the garden. he can talk, and dance, and sing as well. and he is a caution to snakes, i can tell you. i don't want to frighten you though. we never see the 'tiger' snake, or hardly ever, and i think the rest are harmless. i know the swagsmen, and the sundowners too, often kill the carpet snake, and roast and eat it when they have no other sort of fresh meat. i have tasted it, and i can tell you, rupert, it is better than roasted rabbit. "i'm going to have a flying squirrel. the first time i saw these creatures was at night among the trees, and they startled me--great shadowy things sailing like black kites from bough to bough. "kangaroos are cautions. we spend many and many a good day hunting them. if we did not kill them they would eat us up, or eat the sheep's fodder up, and that would be all the same. "gentleman craig has strange views about most things; he believes in darwin, and a deal that isn't darwin; but he says kangaroos first got or acquired their monster hindlegs, and their sturdy tails, from sitting up looking over the high grass, and cropping the leaves of bushes. he says that australia is two millions of years old at the very least. "i must say i like craig very much. he is so noble and handsome. what a splendid soldier he would have made! but with all his grandeur of looks--i cannot call it anything else--there is an air of pensiveness and melancholy about him that is never absent. even when he smiles it is a sad smile. ah! rupert, his story is a very strange one; but he is young yet, only twenty-six, and he is now doing well. he lives by himself, with just one shepherd under him, on the very confines of civilisation. i often fear the blacks will bail up his hut some day, and mumkill him, and we should all be sorry. craig is saving money, and i believe will be a squatter himself one of these days. etheldene is very fond of him. sometimes i am downright jealous and nasty about it, because i would like you, rupert, to have etheldene for a wife. and she knows all about the black fellows, and can speak their language. well, you see, rupert, you could go and preach to and convert them; for they are not half so bad as they are painted. the white men often use them most cruelly, and think no more of shooting them than i should of killing an old man kangaroo. "when i began this letter, dearest elsie and old roup, i meant to tell you such a lot i find i shall have no chance of doing--all about the grand trees, the wild and beautiful scenery, the birds and beasts and insects, but i should have to write for a week to do it. so pray forgive my rambling letter, and come and see it all for yourself. "come you must, else--let me see now what i shall threaten. oh, i have it; i won't ever return! but if you do come, then in a few years we'll all go back together, and bring out dad and the dear mummy. "i can't see to write any more. no, the lights are just as bright as when i commenced; but when i think of dad and the mum, my eyes _will_ get filled with moisture. so there! "god bless you all, _all_, from the mum and dad all the way down to kate, branson, and bounder. "archie broadbent, c.o.b. "p.s.--do you know what c.o.b. means? it means chip of the old block. hurrah!" chapter twenty seven. rumours of war. as soon as squire broadbent read his son's letter he carefully folded it up, and with a smile on his face handed it to rupert. and by-and-bye, when captain vesey returned, and settled into the family circle with the rest, and had told them all he could remember about archie and burley new farm in australia, the brother and sister, followed by bounder, slipped quietly out and told old kate they were going to the tower. would she come? that she would. and so for hours they all sat up there before the fire talking of archie, and all he had done and had been, and laying plans and dreaming dreams, and building castles in the air, just in the same way that young folks always have done in this world, and will, i daresay, continue to do till the end of time. but that letter bore fruit, as we shall see. things went on much as usual in the bush. winter passed away, spring came round and lambing season, and the shepherds were busy once more. gentleman craig made several visits to the home farm, and always brought good news. it was a glorious time in every way; a more prosperous spring among the sheep no one could wish to have. on his last visit to the house craig stayed a day or two, and archie went back with him, accompanied by a man on horseback, with medicines and some extra stores--clothing and groceries, etc, i mean, for in those days live stock was sometimes called stores. they made findlayson's the first night, though it was late. they found that the honest scot had been so busy all day he had scarcely sat down to a meal. archie and craig were "in clipping-time" therefore, for there was roast duck on the table, and delightful potatoes all steaming hot, and, as usual, the black bottle of mountain dew, a "wee drappie" of which he tried in vain to get either craig or archie to swallow. "oh, by-the-bye, men," said findlayson, in the course of the evening-- that is, about twelve o'clock--"i hear bad news up the hills way." "indeed," said craig. "ay, lad. you better ha'e your gun loaded. the blacks, they say, are out in force. they've been killing sheep and bullocks too, and picking the best." "well, i don't blame them either. mind, we white men began the trouble; but, nevertheless, i'll defend my flock." little more was said on the subject. but next morning another and an uglier rumour came. a black fellow or two had been shot, and the tribe had sworn vengeance and held a corroboree. "there's a cloud rising," said findlayson. "i hope it winna brak o'er the district." "i hope not, findlayson. anyhow, i know the black fellows well. i'm not sure i won't ride over after i get back and try to get to the bottom of the difference." the out-station, under the immediate charge of gentleman craig, was fully thirty miles more to the north and west than findlayson's, and on capital sheep-pasture land, being not very far from the hills--a branch ridge that broke off from the main range, and lay almost due east and west. many a splendidly-wooded glen and gully was here; but at the time of our story these were still inhabited by blacks innumerable. savage, fierce, and vindictive they were in all conscience, but surely not so brave as we sometimes hear them spoken of, else could they have swept the country for miles of the intruding white man. in days gone by they had indeed committed some appallingly-shocking massacres; but of late years they had seemed contented to either retire before the whites or to become their servants, and receive at their hands that moral death--temptation to drink--which has worked such woe among savages in every quarter of the inhabitable globe. as archie and his companion came upon the plain where--near the top of the creek on a bit of tableland--craig's "castle," as he called it, was situated, the owner looked anxiously towards it. at first they could see no signs of life; but as they rode farther on, and nearer, the shepherd himself came out to meet them, roup, the collie, bounding joyfully on in front, and barking in the exuberance of his glee. "all right and safe, shepherd?" "all right and safe, sir," the man returned; "but the blacks have been here to-day." "then i'll go there to-morrow." "i don't think that's a good plan." "oh! isn't it? well, i'll chance it. will you come, mr broadbent?" "i will with pleasure." "anything for dinner, george?" "yes, sir. i expected you; and i've got a grilled pheasant, and fish besides." "ah, capital! but what made you expect me to-day?" "the dog roup, sir. he was constantly going to the door to look out, so i could have sworn you would come." the evening passed away quietly enough. dwelling in this remote region, and liable at any time to be attacked, gentleman craig had thought it right to almost make a fort of his little slab hut. he had two black fellows who worked for him, and with their assistance a rampart of stones, earth, and wood was thrown up, although these men had often assured him that "he," craig, "was 'corton budgery,' and that there was no fear of the black fellows 'mumkill' him." "i'm not so very sure about it," thought craig; "and it is best to be on the safe side." they retired to-night early, having seen to the sheep and set a black to watch, for the dingoes were very destructive. both craig and archie slept in the same room, and they hardly undressed, merely taking off their coats, and lying down on the rough bed of sacking, with collie near the door to do sentry. they had not long turned in when the dog began to growl low. "down charge, roup," said craig. instead of obeying, the dog sprang to the door, barking fiercely. both archie and craig were out of bed in a moment, and handling their revolvers. craig managed to quieten roup, and then listened attentively. the wind was rising and moaning round the chimney, but above this sound they could hear a long-prolonged "coo--oo--ee!" "that's a white man's voice," said craig; "we're safe." the door and fort was at once opened, and a minute after five squatters entered. "sorry we came so late," they said; "but we've been and done it, and it took some time." "what have you done?" said craig. "fired the woods all along the gullies among the hills." "is that fair to the blacks?" "curse them!" exclaimed the spokesman. "why do they not keep back? the law grumbles if we shoot the dogs, unless in what they please to call self-defence, which means after they have speared our beasts and shepherds, and are standing outside our doors with a nullah ready to brain us." craig and archie went to the door and looked towards the hills. what a scene was there! the fire seemed to have taken possession of the whole of the highlands from east to west, and was entwining wood and forest, glen and ravine, in its snake-like embrace. the hills themselves were cradled in flames and lurid smoke. the stems of the giant gum trees alone seemed to defy the blaze, and though their summits looked like steeples on fire, the trunks stood like pillars of black marble against the golden gleam behind them. the noise was deafening, and the smoke rolled away to leeward, laden with sparks thick as the snowflakes in a winter's fall. it was an appalling sight, the description of which is beyond the power of any pen. "well, men," said craig when he re-entered the hut, "i don't quite see the force of what you have done. it is like a declaration of war, and, depend upon it, the black fellows will accept the challenge." "it'll make the grass grow," said one of the men with a laugh. "yes," said another; "and that grass will grow over a black man's grave or two ere long, if i don't much mistake." "it wouldn't be worth while burying the fiends," said a third. "we'll leave them to the rooks." "well," said craig, "there's meat and damper there, men. stir up the fire, warm your tea, and be happy as long as you can. we're off to bed." gentleman craig was as good as his word next day. he rode away in search of the tribe, and after a long ride found them encamped on a tableland. as it turned out they knew him, and he rode quietly into their midst. they were all armed with spear, and nullah, and boomerang. they were tattooed, nearly naked, and hideous enough in their horrid war-paint. craig showed no signs of fear. indeed he felt none. he told the chief, however, that he had not approved of the action of the white men, his brothers, and had come, if possible, to make peace. why should they fight? there was room enough in the forest and scrub for all. if they--the blacks--would leave the cattle and flocks of the squatters alone, he--craig--could assure them things would go on as happily as before. "and if not?" they asked. "if not, for one black man there was in the country, there were a thousand white. they would come upon them in troops, even like the locusts; they would hunt them as they hunted the dingoes; they would kill them as dingoes were killed, and before long all the black fellows would be in the land of forgetfulness. what would it profit them then that they had speared a few white fellows?" craig stayed for hours arguing with these wild men, and left at last after having actually made peace with honour. the cloud had rolled away, for a time at all events. in the course of a few days archie and his man left on his return journey. findlayson made up his mind to go on with him to burley new farm; for this scot was very fond of an occasional trip eastwards, and what he called a "twa-handed crack" with bob or harry. everybody was glad to see him; for, truth to tell, no one had ever seen findlayson without a smile on his old-fashioned face, and so he was well liked. bob came galloping out to meet them, and with him, greatly to archie's astonishment, was what he at first took for a black bear. the black bear was bounder. archie dismounted and threw his arms round the great honest dog's neck, and almost burst into tears of joy. for just half a minute bounder was taken aback; then memory came rushing over him; he gave a jump, and landed archie on his back, and covered his face and hair with his canine kisses. but this was not enough. bounder must blow off steam. he must get rid of the exuberance of his delight before it killed him. so with a half-hysterical but happy bark he went off at a tangent, and commenced sweeping round and round in a circle so quickly that he appeared but a black shape. this wild caper he kept up till nearly exhausted, then returned once more to be embraced. "so they've come." it was all that archie could say. yes, they had come. elsie had come, rupert had come, branson and bounder had come. and oh, what a joyful meeting that was! only those who have been separated for many long years from all they love and hold dear, and have met just thus, as archie now met his sister and brother, can have any appreciation of the amount of joy that filled their hearts. the very first overflowing of this joy being expended, of course the next thing for both archie and the newcomers to say was, "how you've changed!" yes, they had all changed. none more so than elsie. she always gave promise of beauty; but now that archie held her at arms' length, to look at and criticise, he could not help exclaiming right truthfully: "_why_, elsie, you're almost as beautiful as etheldene!" "oh, what a compliment!" cried rupert. "i wouldn't have it, elsie. that '_almost_' spoils it." "just you wait till you see etheldene, young man," said archie, nodding his head. "you'll fall in love at once. i only hope she won't marry gentleman craig. and how is mother and father?" then questions came in streams. to write one half that was spoken that night would take me weeks. they all sat out in the verandah of the old house; for the night was sultry and warm, and it was very late indeed before anyone ever thought of retiring. findlayson had been unusually quiet during the whole of the evening. to be sure, it would not have been quite right for him to have put in his oar too much, but, to tell the truth, something had happened which appeared to account for his silence. findlayson had fallen in love-- love at first sight. oh, there are such things! i had a touch of the complaint myself once, so my judgment is critical. of course, it is needless to say that elsie was the bright particular star, that had in one brief moment revolutionised the existence and life of the ordinarily placid and very matter-of-fact findlayson. so he sat to-night in his corner and hardly spoke, but, i daresay, like paddy's parrot, he made up for it in thinking; and he looked all he could also, without seeming positively rude. well, a whole fortnight was spent by archie in showing his brother and sister round the station, and initiating them into some of the mysteries and contrarieties of life in the australian bush. after this the three started off for brisbane and sydney, to complete the purchase of furniture for archie's house. archie proved himself exceedingly clever at this sort of thing, considering that he was only a male person. but in proof of what i state, let me tell you, that before leaving home he had even taken the measure of the rooms, and of the windows and doors. and when he got to sydney he showed his taste in the decorative art by choosing "fixings" of an altogether oriental and semi-aesthetic design. at sydney elsie and rupert were introduced to the winslows, and, as soon as he conveniently could, archie took his brother's opinion about etheldene. very much to his astonishment, rupert told him that etheldene was more sisterly than anything else, and he dare say she was rather a nice girl--"as far as girls go." archie laughed outright at rupert's coolness, but somehow or other he felt relieved. first impressions go a far way in a matter of this kind, and it was pretty evident there was little chance of rupert's falling in love with etheldene, for some time at least. yet this was the plan of campaign archie had cut out: rupert and etheldene should be very much struck with each other from the very first; the young lady should frequently visit at burley new farm, and, for the good of his health, rupert should go often to sydney. things would progress thus, off and on, for a few years, then the marriage would follow, rupert being by this time settled perhaps, and in a fair way of doing well. i am afraid archie had reckoned without his host, or even his hostess. he was not long in coming to this conclusion either; and about the same time he made another discovery, very much to his own surprise; namely, that he himself was in love with etheldene, and that he had probably been so for some considerable length of time, without knowing it. he determined in his own mind therefore that he would steel his heart towards miss winslow, and forget her. before elsie and rupert came to settle down finally at the farm, they enjoyed, in company with mr winslow and his daughter, many charming trips to what i might call the show-places of australia. sydney, and all its indescribably-beautiful surroundings, they visited first. then they went to melbourne, and were much struck with all the wealth and grandeur they saw around them, although they could not help thinking the actual state of the streets was somewhat of a reproach to the town. they sailed on the yarra-yarra; they went inland and saw, only to marvel at, the grandeur of the scenery, the ferny forests, the glens and hills, the waterfalls and tumbling streams and lovely lakes. and all the time rupert could not get rid of the impression that it was a beautiful dream, from which he would presently awake and find himself at burley old farm. chapter twenty eight. the massacre at findlayson's farm. by the time elsie and rupert had returned from their wanderings winter was once more coming on; but already both the sister and brother had got a complexion. the house was quite furnished now, guest room and all. it was indeed a mansion, though i would not like to say how much money it had cost archie to make it so. however, he had determined, as he said himself to bob, to do the thing properly while he was about it. and there is no doubt he succeeded well. his garden too was all he had depicted it in his letter home. that archie had succeeded to his heart's content in breaking ties with the old country was pretty evident, from a letter received by him from his father about mid-winter. "he had noticed for quite a long time," the squire wrote, "and was getting more and more convinced, that this england was, agriculturally speaking, on its last legs. even american inventions, and american skill and enterprise, had failed to do much for the lands of burley. he had tried everything, but the ground failed to respond. burley was a good place for an old retired man who loved to potter around after the partridges; but for one like himself, still in the prime of his life, it had lost its charms. even archie's mother, he told him, did not see the advisability of throwing good money after bad, and uncle ramsay was of the same way of thinking. so he had made up his mind to let the place and come straight away out. he would allow archie to look out for land for him, and by-and-bye he would come and take possession. australia would henceforth reap the benefit of his genius and example; for he meant to show australians a thing or two." when archie read that letter, he came in with a rush to read it to bob, harry, and sarah. "i think your father is right," said bob. "i tell you, bob, my boy, it isn't father so much as mother. the dear old mummy speaks and breathes through every line and word of this epistle. now i'm off to astonish elsie and roup. come along, bounder." meanwhile findlayson became a regular visitor at the farm. "_why_," archie said to him one evening, as he met him about the outer boundary of the farm, "why, findlayson, my boy, you're getting to be a regular 'sundowner.' well, miss winslow has come, and craig is with us, and as i want to show branson a bit of real australian sport, you had better stop with us a fortnight." "i'll be delighted. i wish i'd brought my fiddle." "we'll send for it if you can't live without it." "not very weel. but i've something to tell you." "well, say on; but you needn't dismount." "yes, i'll speak better down here." findlayson sat up on top of the fence, and at once opened fire by telling archie he had fallen in love with elsie, and had determined to make her his wife. archie certainly was taken aback. "why, findlayson," he said, "you're old enough to be her father." "a' the better, man. and look here, i've been squatting for fifteen years, ever since there was a sheep in the plains almost. i have a nice little nest egg at the bank, and if your sister doesna care to live in the bush we'll tak' a hoose in sydney. for, o man, man, elsie is the bonniest lassie the world e'er saw. she beats the gowan [mountain daisy]." archie laughed. "i must refer you to the lady herself," he said. "of course, man, of course-- "'he either fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small, who dares not put it to the test to win or lose it all.'" so away went findlayson to put his fate to the test. what _he_ said or what _she_ said does not really concern us; but five minutes after his interview archie met the honest scot, and wondrously crestfallen he looked. "she winna hae me," he cried, "but _nil desperandum_, that'll be my motto till the happy day." the next fortnight was in a great measure given up to pleasure and sport. both branson and bounder received their baptism of fire, though the great newfoundland was wondrously exercised in his mind as to what a kangaroo was, and what it was not. as to the dingoes, he arrived at a conclusion very speedily. they could beat him at a race, however; but when bounder one time got two of them together, he proved to everybody's satisfaction that there was life in the old dog yet. gentleman craig never appeared to such excellent advantage anywhere as in ladies' society. he really led the conversation at the dinner-table, though not appearing to do so, but rather the reverse, while in the drawing-room he was the moving spirit. he also managed to make findlayson happy after a way. the scotchman had told craig all his troubles, but craig brought him his fiddle, on which he was a really excellent performer. "rouse out, mr findlayson, and join the ladies at the piano." "but, man," the squatter replied, "my heart's no in it; my heart is broken. i can play slow music, but when it comes to quick, it goes hard against the grain." nevertheless, findlayson took his stand beside the piano, and the ice thus being broken, he played every night, though it must be confessed, for truth's sake, he never refused a "cogie" when the bottle came round his way. towards ten o'clock findlayson used, therefore, to become somewhat sentimental. the gentleman sat up for a wee half hour after the ladies retired, and sometimes findlayson would seize his fiddle. "gentlemen," he would say, "here is how i feel." then he would play a lament or a wail with such feeling that even his listeners would be affected, while sometimes the tears would be quivering on the performer's eyelashes. at the end of the fortnight findlayson went to brisbane. he had some mysterious business to transact, the nature of which he refused to tell even archie. but it was rumoured that a week or two later on, drays laden with furniture were seen to pass along the tracks on their way to findlayson's farm. poor fellow, he was evidently badly hit. he was very much in love indeed, and, like a drowning man, he clutched at straws. the refurnishing of his house was one of these straws. findlayson was going to give "a week's fun," as he phrased it. he was determined, after having seen archie's new house, that his own should rival and even outshine it in splendour. and he really was insane enough to believe that if elsie only once saw the charming house he owned, with the wild and beautiful scenery all around it, she would alter her mind, and look more favourably on his suit. in giving way to vain imaginings of this kind, findlayson was really ignoring, or forgetting at all events, the sentiments of his own favourite poet, burns, as impressed in the following touching lines: "it ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, that bought contentment, peace, or pleasure; the bands and bliss o' mutual love, o that's the chiefest warld's treasure!" his sister was very straightforward, and at once put her brother down as a wee bit daft. perhaps he really was; only the old saying is a true one: "those that are in love are like no one else." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ it was the last month of winter, when early one morning a gay party from burley new farm set out to visit findlayson, and spend a week or two in order to "'liven him up," as harry expressed it. bob was not particularly fond of going much from home--besides, winslow and he were planning some extensions--so he stopped on the station. but harry went, and, as before, when going to the kangaroo hunt, gentleman craig was in the cavalcade, and of course rupert and elsie. it would have been no very difficult matter to have done the journey in a single day, only archie was desirous of letting his brother and sister have a taste of camping out in the bush. they chose the same route as before, and encamped at night in the self-same place. the evening too was spent in much the same way, even to singing and story-telling, and craig's lullaby to baby, when she and elsie had gone to their tent. morning dawned at last on forest and plain, and both harry and the brothers were early astir. it would have been impossible to remain asleep much after daybreak, owing to the noise of the birds, including the occasional ear-splitting clatter of the laughing jackasses. besides, towards morning it had been exceedingly cold. the first thing that greeted their eyes was a thorough old-fashioned hoar frost, the like of which archie had not seen for many a year. everything gleamed, white almost as coral. the grass itself was a sight to see, and the leaves on the trees were edged with lace. but up mounted the sun, and all was speedily changed. leaves grew brightly green again, and the hoar frost was turned into glancing, gleaming, rainbow-coloured drops of dew. the young men ran merrily away to the pool in the creek, and most effectually scared the ducks. the breakfast to-day was a different sort of a meal to the morsel of stiff damper and corned junk that had been partaken of at last bivouac. elsie made the tea, and etheldene and she presided. the meat pies and patties were excellent, and everyone was in the highest possible spirits, and joyously merry. alas! and alas! this was a breakfast no one who sat down to, and who lives, is ever likely to forget. have you ever, reader, been startled on a bright sunshiny summer's day by a thunder peal? and have you seen the clouds rapidly bank up after this and obscure the sky, darkness brooding over the windless landscape, lighted up every moment by the blinding lightning's flash, and gloom and danger brooding all round, where but a short half hour ago the birds carolled in sunlight? then will you be able, in some measure, to understand the terribleness of the situation in which an hour or two after breakfast the party found themselves, and the awful suddenness of the shock that for a time quite paralysed every member of it. they had left the dismal depths of the forest, and were out on the open pasture land, and nearing findlayson's house, when craig and archie, riding on in front, came upon the well-known bobtailed collie, who was the almost constant companion of the squatter. the dog was alive, but dying. there was a terrible spear-gash in his neck. craig dismounted and knelt beside him. the poor brute knew him, wagged his inch-long tail, licked the hand that caressed him, and almost immediately expired. craig immediately rode back to the others. "do not be alarmed, ladies," he said. "but i fear the worst. there is no smoke in findlayson's chimney. the black fellows have killed his dog." though both girls grew pale, there were no other signs of fear manifested by them. if young australia could be brave, so could old england. the men consulted hurriedly, and it was agreed that while branson and harry waited with the ladies, archie and craig should ride on towards the house. not a sign of life; no, not one. signs enough of death though, signs enough of an awful struggle. it was all very plain and simple, though all very, very sad and dreadful. here in the courtyard lay several dead natives, festering and sweltering in the noonday sun. here were the boomerangs and spears that had fallen from their hands as they dropped never to rise again. here was the door battered and splintered and beaten in with tomahawks, and just inside, in the passage, lay the bodies of hurricane bill and poor findlayson, hacked about almost beyond recognition. in the rooms all was confusion, every place had been ransacked. the furniture, all new and elegant, smashed and riven; the very piano that the honest scot had bought for sake of elsie had been dissected, and its keys carried away for ornaments. in an inner room, half-dressed, were findlayson's sister and her little scotch maid, their arms broken, as if they had held them up to beseech for mercy from the monsters who had attacked them. their arms were broken, and their skulls beaten in, their white night-dresses drenched in blood. there was blood, blood everywhere--in curdled streams, in great liver-like gouts, and in dark pools on the floor. in the kitchen were many more bodies of white men (the shepherds), and of the fiends in human form with whom they had struggled for their lives. it was an awful and sickening sight. no need for craig or archie to tell the news when they returned to the others. their very silence and sadness told the terrible tale. nothing could be done at present, however, in the way of punishing the murderers, who by this time must be far away in their mountain fastnesses. they must ride back, and at once too, in order to warn the people at burley and round about of their great danger. so the return journey was commenced at once. on riding through the forest they had to observe the greatest caution. craig was an old bushman, and knew the ways of the blacks well. he trotted on in front. and whenever in any thicket, where an ambush might possibly be lurking, he saw no sign of bird or beast, he dismounted and, revolver in hand, examined the place before he permitted the others to come on. they got through the forest and out of the gloom at last, and some hours afterwards dismounted a long way down the creek to water the horses and let them browse. as for themselves, no one thought of eating. there was that feeling of weight at every heart one experiences when first awakening from some dreadful nightmare. they talked about the massacre, as they sat under the shadow of a gum tree, almost in whispers; and at the slightest unusual noise the men grasped their revolvers and listened. they were just about to resume their journey when the distant sound of galloping horses fell on their ears. their own nags neighed. all sprang to their feet, and next moment some eight or nine men rode into the clearing. most of them were known to craig, so he advanced to meet them. "ah! i see you know the worst," said the leader. "yes," said craig, "we know." "we've been to your place. it is all right there with one exception." "one exception?" "yes; it's only the kid--mr cooper's little daughter, you know." "is she dead?" cried archie aghast. "no, sir; that is, it isn't likely. mr cooper's black girl left last night, and took the child." "good heavens! our little diana! poor bob! he will go raving mad!" "he is mad, sir, or all but, already; but we've left some fellows to defend the station, and taken to the trail as you see." "craig," said archie, "we must go too." "well," said the first speaker, "the coast is all clear betwixt here and burley. two must return there with the ladies. i advise you to make your choice, and lose no time." it was finally arranged that branson and one of the newcomers should form the escort; and so archie, harry, and craig bade the girls a hurried adieu, and speedily rode away after the men. chapter twenty nine. on the war trail. twelve men all told to march against a tribe consisting probably of over a hundred and fifty warriors, armed for the fight, and intoxicated with their recent success! it was a rash, an almost mad, venture; but they did not for one moment dream of drawing back. they would trust to their own superior skill to beat the enemy; trust to that fortune that so often favours the brave; trusting--many of them i hope--to that merciful providence who protects the weak, and who, in our greatest hour of need, does not refuse to listen to our pleadings. they had ridden some little way in silence, when suddenly archie drew rein. "halt, men!" he cried. "halt for a moment and deliberate. who is to be the commander of this little force?" "yourself," said gentleman craig, lifting his hat. "you are boss of burley farm, and mr cooper's dearest friend." "hear, hear!" cried several of the others. "perhaps it is best," said archie, after a moment's thoughtful pause, "that i should take the leadership under the circumstances. but, craig, i choose you as my second in command, and one whose counsel i will respect and be guided by." "thank you," said craig; "and to begin with, i move we go straight back to findlayson's farm. we are not too well armed, nor too well provisioned." the proposal was at once adopted, and towards sundown they had once more reached the outlying pastures. they were dismounting to enter, when the half-naked figure of a black suddenly appeared from behind the storehouse. a gun or two was levelled at him at once. "stay," cried craig. "do not fire. that is jacoby, the black stockman, and one of poor mr findlayson's chief men. ha, jacoby, advance my lad, and tell us all you know." jacoby's answer was couched in such unintelligible jargon--a mixture of bush-english and broad scotch--that i will not try the reader's patience by giving it verbatim. he was terribly excited, and looked heartbroken with grief. he had but recently come home, having passed "plenty black fellows" on the road. they had attempted to kill him, but here he was. "could he track them?" "yes, easily. they had gone away _there_." he pointed north and east as he spoke. "this is strange," said craig. "men, if what jacoby tells us be correct, instead of retreating to their homes in the wilderness, the blacks are doubling round; and if so, it must be their intention to commit more of their diabolical deeds, so there is no time to be lost." it was determined first to bury their dear friends; and very soon a grave was dug--a huge rough hole, that was all--and in it the murdered whites were laid side by side. rupert repeated the burial-service, or as much of it as he could remember; then the rude grave was filled, and as the earth fell over the chest of poor old-fashioned findlayson, and archie thought of all his droll and innocent ways, tears trickled over his face that he made no attempt to hide. the men hauled the gates of a paddock off its hinges, and piled wood upon that, so that the wandering dingoes, with their friends the rooks, should be baulked in their attempts to gorge upon the dead. the blacks had evidently commenced to ransack the stores; but for some reason or another had gone and left them mostly untouched. here were gunpowder and cartridges in abundance, and many dainty, easily-carried foods, such as tinned meats and fish, that the unhappy owner had evidently laid in for his friends. so enough of everything was packed away in the men's pockets or bags, and they were soon ready once more for the road. the horses must rest, however; for these formed the mainstay of the little expedition. the men too could not keep on all night without a pause; so archie and craig consulted, and it was agreed to bivouac for a few hours, then resume the journey when the moon should rise. meanwhile the sun went down behind the dark and distant wooded hills, that in their strange shapes almost resembled the horizon seen at sea when the waves are high and stormy. between the place where archie and his brother stood and the light, all was rugged plain and forest land, but soon the whole assumed a shade of almost blackness, and the nearest trees stood up weird and spectre-like against the sky's strange hue. towards the horizon to-night there was a deep saffron or orange fading above into a kind of pure grey or opal hue, with over it all a light blush of red, and hurrying away to the south, impelled by some air-current not felt below, was a mighty host of little cloudlets of every colour, from darkest purple to golden-red and crimson. there was now and then the bleating of sheep--sheep without a shepherd-- and a slight tinkle-tinkle, as of a bell. it was in reality the voice of a strange bird, often to be found in the neighbourhood of creeks and pools. hardly any other sound at present fell on the ear. by-and-bye the hurrying clouds got paler, and the orange left the horizon, and stars began to twinkle in the east. "come out here a little way with me," said rupert, taking archie by the hand. when they had gone some little distance, quite out of hearing of the camp, rupert spoke: "do you mind kneeling down here," he said, "to pray, archie?" "you good old rupert, no," was the reply. perhaps no more simple, earnest, or heart-felt prayer was ever breathed under such circumstances, or in such a place. and not only was rupert earnest, but he was confident. he spoke to the great father as to a friend whom he had long, long known, and one whom he could trust to do all for the best. he prayed for protection, he prayed for help for the speedy restoration of the stolen child, and he even prayed for the tribe they soon hoped to meet in conflict--prayed that the god who moves in so mysterious a way to perform his wonders would bless the present affliction to the white man, and even to the misguided black. oh, what a beautiful religion is ours--the religion of love--the religion taught by the lips of the mild and gentle jesus! when they rose from their knees they once more looked skywards at the stars, for they were brightly shining now; then hand-in-hand, as they had come, the brothers returned to the camp. no log fire was lit to-night. the men just lay down to sleep rolled in their blankets, with their arms close by their saddle pillows, two being told off to walk sentry in case of a sudden surprise. even the horses were put in an enclosure, lest they might roam too far away. about twelve o'clock archie awoke from an uneasy dreamful slumber, and looked about him. his attention was speedily attracted to what seemed a huge fire blazing luridly behind the hills, and lighting up the haze above with its gleams. was the forest on fire again? no; it was only moonrise over the woods. he awakened craig, and soon the little camp was all astir, and ready for the road. jacoby was to act as guide. no indian from the wild west of america could be a better tracker. but even before he started he told craig the task would be an easy one, for the black fellows had drunk plenty, and had taken plenty rum with them. they would not go far, he thought, and there was a probability that they would meet some of the band returning. even in the moonlight jacoby followed the trail easily and rapidly. it took them first straight for the forest that had been burned recently--a thoughtless deed on the part of the whites, that probably led to all this sad trouble. there was evidence here that the blacks had gone into camp on the very night of the massacre, and had held a corroboree, which could only have been a day or two ago. there were the remains of the camp fires and the trampled ground and broken branches, with no attempt at concealment. there was a chance that even now they might not be far away, and that the little band might come up with them ere they had started for the day. but if they ventured to hope so, they were doomed to disappointment. morning broke at last lazily over the woods, and with but a brief interval they followed up the trail, and so on and on all that day, till far into the afternoon, when for a brief moment only jacoby found himself puzzled, having fallen in with another trail leading south and west from the main track. he soon, however, discovered that the new trail must be that of some band who had joined the findlayson farm raiders. it became painfully evident soon after that this was the correct solution, for, going backwards some little way, archie found a child's shoe--one of a crimson pair that bob had bought in brisbane for his little diana. "god help her, poor darling!" said archie reverently, as he placed the little shoe in his breast pocket. when he returned he held it up for a moment before the men, and the scowl of anger that crossed their faces, and the firmer clutch they took of their weapons, showed it would indeed be bad for the blacks when they met these rough pioneers face to face. at sunset supper was partaken of, and camp once more formed, though no fire was lit, cold though it might be before morning. the men were tired, and were sound asleep almost as soon as they lay down; but craig, with the brothers, climbed the ridge of the hill to look about them soon after it grew dark. the camp rested at the entrance of a wild gully, a view of which could be had, darkling away towards the east, from the hill on which the three friends now found themselves. presently rupert spoke. "archie," he said, "in this land of contrarieties does the moon sometimes rise in the south?" "not quite," replied archie. "look, then. what is that reflection over yonder?" craig and archie both caught sight of it at the same time. "by saint george and merry england!" craig cried exultingly, "that is the camp of the blacks. now to find diana's other shoe, and the dear child herself wearing it. now for revenge!" "nay," said rupert, "call it _justice_, craig." "what you will; but let us hurry down." they stayed but for a moment more to take their bearings. the fire gleams pointed to a spot to the south-east, on high ground, and right above the gully, and they had a background of trees, not the sky. it was evident then that the enemy was encamped in a little clearing on a forest tableland; and if they meant to save the child's life--if indeed she was not already dead--the greatest caution would be necessary. they speedily descended, and a consultation being held, it was resolved to commence operations as soon as the moon should rise; but meanwhile to creep in the darkness as near to the camp as possible. but first jacoby was sent out to reconnoitre. no cat, no flying squirrel could glide more noiselessly through an australian forest than this faithful fellow. still he seemed an unconsciously long time gone. just as craig and archie were getting seriously uneasy the tinkle, tinkle of the bell-bird was heard. this was the signal agreed upon, and presently after, jacoby himself came silently into their midst. "the child?" was archie's first question. "baal mumhill piccaninny, belong a you. pidney you." "the child is safe," said craig, after asking a few more questions of this scotch myell black. "safe? and they are holding a corroboree and drinking. there is little time to lose. they may sacrifice the infant at any time." craig struck a light as he spoke, and every man examined his arms. "the moon will rise in an hour. let us go on. silent as death, men! do not overturn a stone or break a twig, or the poor baby's life will be sacrificed in a moment." they now advanced slowly and cautiously, guided by jacoby, and at length lay down almost within pistol-shot of the place where the horrid corroboree was going on. considering the noise--the shrieking, the clashing of arms, the rude chanting of songs, and awful din, of the dancers and actors in this ugly drama--to maintain silence might have seemed unnecessary; but these blacks have ears like wolves, and, in a lull of even half a second, would be sharp to hear the faintest unusual noise. craig and archie, however, crept on till they came within sight of the ceremonies. at another time it might have been interesting to watch the hideous grotesqueness of that awful war-dance, but other thoughts were in their minds at present--they were looking everywhere for diana. presently the wild, naked, dancing blacks surged backwards, and, asleep in the arms of a horrid gin, they discovered bob's darling child. it was well bob himself was not here or all would quickly have been lost. all was nearly lost as it was; for suddenly archie inadvertently snapped a twig. in a moment there was silence, except for the barking of a dog. craig raised his voice, and gave vent to a scream so wild and unearthly that even archie was startled. at once all was confusion among the blacks. whether they had taken it for the yell of bunyip or not may never be known, but they prepared to fly. the gin carrying diana threw down the frightened child. a black raised his arm to brain the little toddler. he fell dead instead. craig's aim had been a steady one. almost immediately after a volley or two completed the rout, and the blacks fled yelling into the forest. diana was saved! this was better than revenge; for not a hair of her bonnie wee head had been injured, so to speak, and she still wore the one little red-morocco shoe. there was not a man there who did not catch that child up in his arms and kiss her, some giving vent to their feelings in wild words of thankfulness to god in heaven, while the tears came dripping over their hardy, sun-browned cheeks. chapter thirty. chest to chest with savages--how it all ended. no one thought of sleeping again that night. they went back for their horses, and, as the moon had now risen, commenced the journey in a bee line, as far as that was possible, towards burley new farm. they travelled on all night, still under the guidance of jacoby, who needed no blazed trees to show in which direction to go. but when morning came rest became imperative, for the men were beginning to nod in their saddles, and the horses too seemed to be falling asleep on their feet, for several had stumbled and thrown their half-senseless riders. so camp was now formed and breakfast discussed, and almost immediately all save a sentry went off into sound and dreamless slumber, diana lying close to craig, whom she was very fond of, with her head on his great shoulder and her fingers firmly entwined in his beard. it was hard upon the one poor fellow who had to act as sentry. do what he might he could scarcely keep awake, and he was far too tired to continue walking about. he went and leant his body against a tree, and in this position, what with the heat of the day, and the drowsy hum of insects, with the monotonous song of the grasshopper, again and again he felt himself merging into the land of dreams. then he would start and shake himself, and take a turn or two in the sunshine, then go back to the tree and nod as before. the day wore on, the sun got higher and higher, and about noon, just when the sentry was thinking or rather dreaming of waking the sleepers, there was a wild shout from a neighbouring thicket, a spear flew past him and stuck in the tree. next moment there was a terrible _melee_--a hand-to-hand fight with savages that lasted for long minutes, but finally resulted in victory for the squatters. but, alas! it was a dearly-bought victory. three out of the twelve were dead, and three more, including gentleman craig, grievously wounded. the rest followed up the blacks for some little way, and more than one of them bit the dust. then they returned to help their fellows. craig's was a spear wound through the side, none the less dangerous in that hardly a drop of blood was lost externally. they drew the killed in under a tree, and having bound up the wounds of the others, and partly carrying them or helping them along, they resumed the march. all that day they dragged themselves along, and it was far into the early hours of morning ere they reached the boundaries of burley new farm. the moon was shining, though not very brightly, light fleecy clouds were driving rapidly across the sky, so they could see the lights in both the old house and in the lower windows of archie's own dwelling. they fired guns and coo-ee-ed, and presently bob and winslow rushed out to bid them welcome. diana went bounding away to meet him. "oh, daddy, daddy!" she exclaimed, "what a time we've been having! but mind, daddy, it wasn't all fun." bob could not speak for the life of him. he just staggered in with the child in his arms and handed her over to sarah; but i leave the reader to imagine the state of sarah's feelings now. poor craig was borne in and put to bed in archie's guest room, and there he lay for weeks. bob himself had gone to brisbane to import a surgeon, regardless of expense; but it was probably more owing to the tender nursing of elsie than anything else that craig was able at length to crawl out and breathe the balmy, flower-scented air in the verandah. one afternoon, many weeks after this, craig was lying on a bank, under the shade of a tree, in a beautiful part of the forest, all in whitest bloom, and elsie was seated near him. there had been silence for some time, and the girl was quietly reading. "i wonder," said craig at last; "if my life is really worth the care that you and all the good people here have lavished on me?" "how can you speak thus?" said elsie, letting her book drop in her lap, and looking into his face with those clear, blue eyes of hers. "if you only knew all my sad, sinful story, you would not wonder that i speak thus." "tell me your story: may i not hear it?" "it is so long and, pardon me, so melancholy." "never mind, i will listen attentively." then craig commenced. he told her all the strange history of his early demon-haunted life, about his recklessness, about his struggles and his final victory over self. he told her he verily did believe that his mother's spirit was near him that night in the forest when he made the vow which providence in his mercy had enabled him to keep. yes, it was a long story. the sun had gone down ere he had finished, a crescent moon had appeared in the southern sky, and stars had come out. there was sweetness and beauty everywhere. there was calm in craig's soul now. for he had told elsie something besides. he had told her that he had loved her from the first moment he had seen her, and he had asked her in simple language to become his wife--to be his guardian angel. that same evening, when archie came out into the garden, he found elsie still sitting by craig's couch, but her hand was clasped in his. then archie knew all, and a great, big sigh of relief escaped him, for until this very moment he had been of opinion that craig loved etheldene. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ in course of a few months squire broadbent was as good as his word. he came out to the new land to give the australians the benefit of his genius in the farming way; to teach young australia a thing or two it had not known before; so at least _he_ thought. with him came mrs broadbent, and even uncle ramsay, and the day of their arrival at brisbane was surely a red-letter day in the annals of that thriving and prosperous place. strange to say, however, none of the squatters from the bush, none of the speculating men, nor anybody else apparently, were very much inclined to be lectured about their own country, and the right and wrong way of doing things, by a squire from the old country, who had never been here before. some of them were even rude enough to laugh in his face, but the squire was not offended a bit. he was on far too good terms with himself for that, and too sure that he was in the right in all he said. he told some of these bush farmers that if _they_ did not choose to learn a wrinkle or two from him _he_ was not the loser, with much more to the same purpose, all of which had about the same effect on his hearers that rain has on a duck's back. to use a rather hackneyed phrase, squire broadbent had the courage of his convictions. he settled quietly down at burley new farm, and commenced to study bush-life in all its bearings. it soon began to dawn upon him that australia was getting to be a great country, that she had a great future before her, and that he--squire broadbent--would be connected with it. he was in no great hurry to invest, though eventually he would. it would be better to wait and watch. there was room enough and to spare for all at archie's house, and that all included honest uncle ramsay of course. he and winslow resumed acquaintance, and in the blunt, straightforward ways of the man even squire broadbent found a deal to admire and even to marvel at. "he is a clever man," said the squire to his brother; "a clever man and a far-seeing. he gets a wonderful grasp of financial matters in a moment. depend upon it, brother, he is the right metal, and it is upon solid stones like him that the future greatness of a nation should be founded." uncle ramsay said he himself did not know much about it. he knew more about ships, and was quite content to settle down at brisbane, and keep a morsel of a -tonner. that was his ambition. what a delight it was for archie to have them all round his breakfast-table in the green parlour at burley new form, or seated out in the verandah all so homelike and happy. his dear old mummy too, with her innocent womanly ways, delighted with all she saw, yet half afraid of almost everything--half afraid the monster gum trees would fall upon her when out in the forest; half afraid to put her feet firmly to the ground when walking, but gathering up her skirts gingerly, and thinking every withered branch was a snake; half afraid the howling dingoes would come down in force at night, as wild wolves do on russian wastes, and kill and eat everybody; half afraid of the most ordinary good-natured-looking black fellow; half afraid of even the pet kangaroo when he hopped round and held up his chin to have his old-fashioned neck stroked; half afraid--but happy, so happy nevertheless, because she had all she loved around her. gentleman craig was most deferential and attentive to mrs broadbent, and she could not help admiring him--indeed, no one could--and quite approved of elsie's choice; though, mother-like, she thought the girl far too young to marry yet, as the song says. however, they were not to be married yet quite. there was a year to elapse, and a busy one it was. first and foremost, craig took the unfortunate findlayson's farm. but the old steading was allowed to go to decay, and some one told me the other day that there is now a genuine ghost, said to be seen on moonlight nights, wandering round the ruined pile. anyhow, its associations were of far too terrible a character for craig to think of building near it. he chose the site for his house and outbuildings near the creek and the spot where they had bivouacked before the murder was discovered. it was near here too that craig had made his firm resolve to be a free man-- made it and kept it. the spot was charmingly beautiful too; and as his district included a large portion of the forest, he commenced clearing that, but in so scientific and tasteful a manner that it looked, when finished, like a noble park. during this year squire broadbent also became a squatter. from squire to squatter may sound to some like a come-down in life; but really broadbent did not think so. he managed to buy out a station immediately adjoining archie's, and when he had got fairly established thereon he told his brother ramsay that fifteen years had tumbled off his shoulders all in a lump--fifteen years of care and trouble, fifteen years of struggle to keep his head above water, and live up to his squiredom. "i'm more contented now by far and away," he told his wife, "than i was in the busy, boastful days before the fire at burley old farm; so, you see, it doesn't take much in this world to make a man happy." rupert did not turn squatter, but missionary. it was a great treat for him to have etheldene to ride with him away out into the bush whenever he heard a tribe had settled down anywhere for a time. etheldene knew all their ways, and between the two of them they no doubt did much good. it is owing to such earnest men as rupert that so great a change has come over the black population, and that so many of them, even as i write, sit humbly at the feet of jesus, clothed and in their right mind. to quote the words of a recent writer: "the war-paints and weapons for fights are seen no more, the awful heathen corroborees have ceased, the females are treated with kindness, and the lamentable cries, accompanied by bodily injuries, when death occurred, have given place to christian sorrow and quiet tears for their departed friends." it came to pass one day that etheldene and archie, towards the end of the year, found themselves riding alone, through scrub and over plain, just as they were that day they were lost. the conversation turned round to rupert's mission. "what a dear, good, young man your brother is, archie!" said the girl. "do you really love him?" "as a brother, yes." "etheldene, have him for a brother, will you?" the rich blood mounted to her cheeks and brow. she cast one half-shy, half-joyful look at archie, and simply murmured, "yes." it was all over in a moment then. etheldene struck her horse lightly across the crest with the handle of her stock whip, and next minute both horses were galloping as if for dear life. when archie told rupert how things had turned out, he only smiled in his quiet manner. "it is a queer way of wooing," he said; "but then you were always a queer fellow, archie, and etheldene is a regular bush baby, as craig calls her. oh, i knew long ago she loved you!" at the year's end then both elsie and etheldene were married, and married, too, at the same church in sydney from which bob led sarah, his blushing bride. it might not have been quite so wild and daft a wedding, but it was a very happy one nevertheless. no one was more free in blessing the wedded couples than old kate. yes, old as she was, she had determined not to be left alone in england. we know how bob spent his honeymoon. how were the new young folks to spend theirs? oh, it was all arranged beforehand! and on the very morning of the double marriage they embarked--harry and bob going with them for a holiday--on board captain vesey's pretty yacht, and sailed away for england. etheldene's dream of romance was about to become a reality; she was not only to visit the land of chivalry, but with archie her husband and hero by her side. the yacht hung off and on the shore all day, as if reluctant to leave the land; but towards evening a breeze sprang up from the west, the sails filled, and away she went, dancing and curtseying over the water like a thing of life. the sunset was bewitchingly beautiful; the green of the land was changed to a purple haze, that softened and beautified its every outline; the cloudless sky was clear and deep; that is, it gave you the idea you could see so far into and through it. there was a flush of saffron along the horizon; above it was of an opal tint, with here and there a tender shade of crimson--only a suspicion of this colour, no more; and apparently close at hand, in the east, were long-drawn cloudlets of richest red and gold. etheldene looked up in her husband's face. "shall we have such a sky as that to greet our arrival on english shores?" she said. archie drew her closer to his side. "i'm not quite sure about the sky," he replied, shaking his head and smiling, "but we'll have a hearty english welcome." and so they had. scanned images of public domain material from the google print archive. transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). [illustration: book cover] the carved lions. [illustration: our consultation took a good while.--p. .--_frontispiece._] the carved lions by mrs. molesworth illustrated by l. leslie brooke [illustration] london macmillan & co copyright, , by macmillan and co. contents. page chapter i. old days chapter ii. a happy evening chapter iii. coming events chapter iv. all settled chapter v. an unpromising beginning chapter vi. a new world chapter vii. gathering clouds chapter viii. "nobody--_nobody_" chapter ix. out in the rain chapter x. taking refuge chapter xi. kind friends chapter xii. good news illustrations. our consultation took a good while _frontispiece_ "good-bye!" _to face page_ "little girls must not contradict, and must not be rude" "my poor little girl, what _is_ the matter?" i crept downstairs, past one schoolroom with its closed door the brother lions rose into the air myra came forward gently, her sweet face looking rather grave chapter i. old days. it is already a long time since i was a little girl. sometimes, when i look out upon the world and see how many changes have come about, how different many things are from what i can remember them, i could believe that a still longer time had passed since my childhood than is really the case. sometimes, on the contrary, the remembrance of things that then happened comes over me so very vividly, so very _real_-ly, that i can scarcely believe myself to be as old as i am. i can remember things in my little girlhood more clearly than many in later years. this makes me hope that the story of some part of it may interest children of to-day, for i know i have not forgotten the feelings i had as a child. and after all, i believe that in a great many ways children are very like each other in their hearts and minds, even though their lives may seem very different and very far apart. the first years of my childhood were very happy, though there were some things in my life which many children would not like at all. my parents were not rich, and the place where we lived was not pretty or pleasant. it was a rather large town in an ugly part of the country, where great tall chimneys giving out black smoke, and streams--once clear sparkling brooks, no doubt--whose water was nearly as black as the smoke, made it often difficult to believe in bright blue sky or green grass, or any of the sweet pure country scenes that children love, though perhaps children that have them do not love them as much as those who have not got them do. i think that was the way with me. the country was almost the same as fairyland to me--the peeps i had of it now and then were a delight i could not find words to express. but what matters most to children is not _where_ their home is, but _what_ it is. and our home was a very sweet and loving one, though it was only a rather small and dull house in a dull street. our father and mother did everything they possibly could to make us happy, and the trial of living at great mexington must have been far worse for them than for us. for they had both been accustomed to rich homes when they were young, and father had never expected that he would have to work so hard or in the sort of way he had to do, after he lost nearly all his money. when i say "us," i mean my brother haddie and i. haddie--whose real name was haddon--was two years older than i, and we two were the whole family. my name--_was_ i was going to say, for now there are so few people to call me by my christian name that it seems hardly mine--my name is geraldine. somehow i never had a "short" for it, though it is a long name, and haddie was always haddie, and "haddon" scarcely needs shortening. i think it was because he nearly always called me sister or "sis." haddie was between ten and eleven years old and i was nine when the great change that i am going to tell you about came over our lives. but i must go back a little farther than that, otherwise you would not understand all about us, nor the meaning of the odd title i have chosen for my story. i had no governess and i did not go to school. my mother taught me herself, partly, i think, to save expense, and partly because she did not like the idea of sending me to even a day-school at great mexington. for though many of the families there were very rich, and had large houses and carriages and horses and beautiful gardens, they were not always very refined. there were good and kind and unselfish people there as there are everywhere, but there were some who thought more of being rich than of anything else--the sort of people that are called "purse proud." and as children very often take after their parents, my father and mother did not like the idea of my having such children as my companions--children who would look down upon me for being poor, and perhaps treat me unkindly on that account. "when geraldine is older she must go to school," my father used to say, "unless by that time our ship comes in and we can afford a governess. but when she is older it will not matter so much, as she will have learnt to value things at their just worth." i did not then understand what he meant, but i have never forgotten the words. i was a very simple child. it never entered my head that there was anything to be ashamed of in living in a small house and having only two servants. i thought it would be _nice_ to have more money, so that mamma would not need to be so busy and could have more pretty dresses, and above all that we could then live in the country, but i never minded being poor in any sore or ashamed way. and i often envied haddie, who did go to school. i thought it would be nice to have lots of other little girls to play with. i remember once saying so to mamma, but she shook her head. "i don't think you would like it as much as you fancy you would," she said. "not at present at least. when you are a few years older i hope to send you for some classes to miss ledbury's school, and by that time you will enjoy the good teaching. but except for the lessons, i am quite sure it is better and happier for you to be at home, even though you find it rather lonely sometimes." and in his way haddie said much the same. school was all very well for boys, he told me. if a fellow tried to bully you, you could bully him back. but girls weren't like that--they couldn't fight it out. and when i said to him i didn't want to fight, he still shook his head, and repeated that i wouldn't like school at all--some of his friends' sisters were at school and they hated it. still, though i did not often speak of it, the wish to go to school, and the belief that i should find school-life very happy and interesting, remained in my mind. i often made up fancies about it, and pictured myself doing lessons with other little girls and reading the same story-books and playing duets together. i could not believe that i should not like it. the truth was, i suppose, that i was longing for companions of my own age. it was since haddie went to school that i had felt lonely. i was a great deal with mamma, but of course there were hours in the day when she was taken up with other things and could not attend to me. i used to long then for the holidays to come so that i should have haddie again to play with. my happiest days were wednesdays and saturdays, for then he did not go to school in the afternoon. and mamma very often planned some little treat for us on those days, such as staying up to have late tea with her and papa when he came in from his office, or reading aloud some new story-book, or going a walk with her in the afternoon and buying whatever we liked for our own tea at the confectioner's. very simple treats--but then we were very simple children, as i have said already. our house, though in a street quite filled with houses, was some little way from the centre of the town, where the best shops were--some years before, our street had, i suppose, been considered quite in the country. we were very fond of going to the shops with mamma. we thought them very grand and beautiful, though they were not nearly as pretty as shops are nowadays, for they were much smaller and darker, so that the things could not be spread out in the attractive way they are now, nor were the things themselves nearly as varied and tempting. there was one shop which interested us very much. it belonged to the principal furniture-maker of mexington. it scarcely looked like a shop, but was more like a rather gloomy private house very full of heavy dark cabinets and tables and wardrobes and chairs, mostly of mahogany, and all extremely good and well made. yes, furniture, though ugly, really was very good in those days--i have one or two relics of my old home still, in the shape of a leather-covered arm-chair and a beautifully-made chest of drawers. for mamma's godmother had helped to furnish our house when we came to mexington, and she was the sort of old lady who when she _did_ give a present gave it really good of its kind. she had had furniture herself made by cranston--that was the cabinet-maker's name--for her home was in the country only about three hours' journey from mexington--and it had been first-rate, so she ordered what she gave mamma from him also. but it was not because the furniture was so good that we liked going to cranston's. it was for quite another reason. a little way in from the front entrance to the shop, where there were glass doors to swing open, stood a pair of huge lions carved in very dark, almost black, wood. they were nearly, if not quite, as large as life, and the first time i saw them, when i was only four or five, i was really frightened of them. they guarded the entrance to the inner part of the shop, which was dark and gloomy and mysterious-looking, and i remember clutching fast hold of mamma's hand as we passed them, not feeling at all sure that they would not suddenly spring forward and catch us. but when mamma saw that i was frightened, she stopped and made me feel the lions and stroke them to show me that they were only wooden and could not possibly hurt me. and after that i grew very fond of them, and was always asking her to take me to the "lion shop." haddie liked them too--his great wish was to climb on one of their backs and play at going a ride. i don't think i thought of that. what i liked was to stroke their heavy manes and fancy to myself what i would do if, all of a sudden, one of them "came alive," as i called it, and turned his head round and looked at me. and as i grew older, almost without knowing it, i made up all sorts of fairy fancies about the lions--i sometimes thought they were enchanted princes, sometimes that they were real lions who were only carved wood in the day-time, and at night walked about wherever they liked. so, for one reason or another, both haddie and i were always very pleased when mamma had to look in at cranston's. this happened oftener than might have been expected, considering that our house was small, and that my father and mother were not rich enough often to buy new furniture. for mamma's godmother seemed to be always ordering something or other at the cabinet-maker's, and as she knew mamma was very sensible and careful, she used to write to her to explain to cranston about the things she wanted, or to look at them before he sent them home, to see that they were all right. and cranston was always very polite indeed to mamma. he himself was a stout, red-faced, little, elderly man, with gray whiskers, which he brushed up in a fierce kind of way that made him look like a rather angry cat, though he really was a very gentle and kind old man. i thought him much nicer than his partner, whose name was berridge, a tall, thin man, who talked very fast, and made a great show of scolding any of the clerks or workmen who happened to be about. mr. cranston was very proud of the lions. they had belonged to his grandfather and then to his father, who had both been in the same sort of business as he was, and he told mamma they had been carved in "the east." i didn't know what he meant by the east, and i don't now know what country he was alluding to--india or china or japan. and i am not sure that he knew himself. but "the east" sounded far away and mysterious--it might do for fairyland or brownieland, and i was quite satisfied. no doubt, wherever they came from, the lions were very beautifully carved. now i will go on to tell about the changes that came into our lives, closing the doors of these first happy childish years, when there scarcely seemed to be ever a cloud on our sky. one day, when i was a month or two past nine years old, mamma said to me just as i was finishing my practising--i used to practise half an hour every other day, and have a music lesson from mamma the between days--that she was going out to do some shopping that afternoon, and that, if i liked, i might go with her. "i hope it will not rain," she added, "though it does look rather threatening. but perhaps it will hold off till evening." "and i can take my umbrella in case it rains," i said. i was very proud of my umbrella. it had been one of my last birthday presents. "yes, mamma, i should like to come very much. will haddie come too?" for it was wednesday--one of his half-holidays. "to tell the truth," said mamma, "i forgot to ask him this morning if he would like to come, but he will be home soon--it is nearly luncheon time. i daresay he will like to come, especially as i have to go to cranston's." she smiled a little as she said this. our love for the carved lions amused her. "oh yes, i am sure he will like to come," i said. "and may we buy something for tea at miss fryer's on our way home?" mamma smiled again. "that will be two treats instead of one," she said, "but i daresay i can afford two or three pence." miss fryer was our own pet confectioner, or pastry-cook, as we used to say more frequently then. she was a quakeress, and her shop was very near our house, so near that mamma let me go there alone with haddie. miss fryer was very grave and quiet, but we were not at all afraid of her, for we knew that she was really very kind. she was always dressed in pale gray or fawn colour, with a white muslin shawl crossed over her shoulders, and a white net cap beautifully quilled and fitting tightly round her face, so that only a very little of her soft gray hair showed. she always spoke to us as "thou" and "thee," and she was very particular to give us exactly what we asked for, and also to take the exact money in payment. but now and then, after the business part had been all correctly settled, she would choose out a nice bun or sponge-cake, or two or three biscuits, and would say "i give thee this as a present." and she did not like us to say, "thank you, miss fryer," but "thank you, friend susan." i daresay she would have liked us to say, "thank _thee_," but neither haddie nor i had courage for that! i ran upstairs in high spirits, and five minutes after when haddie came in from school he was nearly as pleased as i to hear our plans. "if only it does not rain," said mamma at luncheon. luncheon was, of course, our dinner, and it was often mamma's dinner really too. our father was sometimes so late of getting home that he liked better to have tea than a regular dinner. but mamma always called it luncheon because it seemed natural to her. "i don't mind if it does rain," said haddie, "because of my new mackintosh." haddie was very proud of his mackintosh, which father had got him for going to and from school in rainy weather. mackintoshes were then a new invention, and very expensive compared with what they are now. but haddie was rather given to catching cold, and at great mexington it did rain very often--much oftener than anywhere else, i am quite sure. "and geraldine doesn't mind because of her new umbrella," said mamma. "so we are proof against the weather, whatever happens." it may seem strange that i can remember so much of a time now so very long ago. but i really do--of that day and of those that followed it especially, because, as i have already said, they were almost the close of the first part of our childish life. that afternoon was such a happy one. we set off with mamma, one on each side of her, hanging on her arms, haddie trying to keep step with her, and i skipping along on my tiptoes. when we got to the more crowded streets we had to separate--that is to say, haddie had to let go of mamma's arm, so that he could fall behind when we met more than one person. for the pavements at mexington were in some parts narrow and old-fashioned. mamma had several messages to do, and at some of the shops haddie and i waited outside because we did not think they were very interesting. but at some we were only too ready to go in. one i remember very well. it was a large grocer's. we thought it a most beautiful shop, though nowadays it would be considered quite dull and gloomy, compared with the brilliant places of the kind you see filled with biscuits and dried fruits and all kinds of groceries tied up with ribbons, or displayed in boxes of every colour of the rainbow. i must say i think the groceries themselves were quite as good as they are now, and in some cases better, but that may be partly my fancy, as i daresay i have a partiality for old-fashioned things. mamma did not buy all our groceries at this grand shop, for it was considered dear. but certain things, such as tea--which cost five shillings a pound then--she always ordered there. and the grocer, like cranston, was a very polite man. i think he understood that though she was not rich, and never bought a great deal, mamma was different in herself from the grandly-dressed mexington ladies who drove up to his shop in their carriages, with a long list of all the things they wanted. and when mamma had finished giving her order, he used always to offer haddie and me a gingerbread biscuit of a very particular and delicious kind. they were large round biscuits, of a nice bright brown colour, and underneath they had thin white wafer, which we called "eating paper." they were crisp without being hard. i never see gingerbreads like them now. "this is a lucky day, mamma," i said, when we came out of the grocer's. "mr. simeon never forgets to give us gingerbreads when he is there himself." "no," said mamma, "he is a very kind man. perhaps he has got haddies and geraldines of his own, and knows what they like." "and now are we going to cranston's?" asked my brother. mamma looked at the paper in her hand. she was very careful and methodical in all her ways, and always wrote down what she had to do before she came out. "yes," she said, "i think i have done everything else. but i shall be some little time at cranston's. mrs. selwood has asked me to settle ever so many things with him--she is going abroad for the winter, and wants him to do a good deal of work at fernley while she is away." chapter ii. a happy evening. haddie and i were not at all sorry to hear that mamma's call at cranston's was not to be a hurried one. "we don't mind if you are ever so long," i said; "do we, haddie?" "no, of course we don't," haddie agreed. "i should like to spend a whole day in those big show-rooms of his. couldn't we have jolly games of hide-and-seek, sis? and then riding the lions! i wish you were rich enough to buy one of the lions, mamma, and have it for an ornament in the hall, or in the drawing-room." "we should need to build a hall or a drawing-room to hold it," said mamma, laughing. "i'm afraid your lion would turn into a white elephant, haddie, if it became ours." i remember wondering what she meant. how could a lion turn into an elephant? but i was rather a slow child in some ways. very often i thought a thing over a long time in my mind if i did not understand it before asking any one to explain it. and so before i said anything it went out of my head, for here we were at cranston's door. there was only a young shopman to be seen, but when mamma told him she particularly wanted to see mr. cranston himself, he asked us to step in and take a seat while he went to fetch him. we passed between the lions. it seemed quite a long time since we had seen them, and i thought they looked at us very kindly. i was just nudging haddie to whisper this to him when mamma stopped to say to us that we might stay in the outer room if we liked; she knew it was our favourite place, and in a few minutes we heard her talking to old mr. cranston, who had come to her in the inner show-room through another door. haddie's head was full of climbing up onto one of the lions to go a ride. but luckily he could not find anything to climb up with, which was a very good thing, as he would have been pretty sure to topple over, and mr. cranston would not have been at all pleased if he had scratched the lion. to keep him quiet i began talking to him about my fancies. i made him look close into the lions' faces--it was getting late in the afternoon, and we had noticed before we came in that the sun was setting stormily. a ray of bright orange-coloured light found its way in through one of the high-up windows which were at the back of the show-room, and fell right across the mane of one of the lions and almost into the eyes of the other. the effect on the dark, almost black, wood of which they were made was very curious. "look, haddie," i said suddenly, catching his arm, "doesn't it really look as if they were smiling at us--the one with the light on its face especially? i really do think there's something funny about them--i wonder if they are enchanted." haddie did not laugh at me. i think in his heart he was fond of fancies too, though he might not have liked the boys at school to know it. he sat staring at our queer friends nearly as earnestly as i did myself. and as the ray of light slowly faded, he turned to me. "yes," he said, "their faces do seem to change. but i think they always look kind." "they do to _us_," i said confidently, "but sometimes they are quite fierce. i don't think they looked at us the way they do now the first time they saw us. and one day one of the men in the shop shoved something against one of them and his face frowned--i'm sure it did." "i wonder if he'd frown if i got up on his back," said haddie. "oh, do leave off about climbing on their backs," i said. "it wouldn't be at all comfortable--they're so broad, you couldn't sit cross-legs, and they'd be as slippery as anything. it's much nicer to make up stories about them coming alive in the night, or turning into black princes and saying magic words to make the doors open like in the arabian nights." "well, tell me stories of all they do then," said haddie condescendingly. "i will if you'll let me think for a minute," i said. "i wish aunty etta was here--she does know such lovely stories." "i like yours quite as well," said haddie encouragingly, "i don't remember aunty etta's; it's such a long time since i saw her. you saw her last year, you know, but i didn't." "she told me one about a china parrot, a most beautiful green and gold parrot, that was really a fairy," i said. "i think i could turn it into a lion story, if i thought about it." "no," said haddie, "you can tell the parrot one another time. i'd rather hear one of your own stories, new, about the lions. i know you've got some in your head. begin, do--i'll help you if you can't get on." but my story that afternoon was not to be heard. just as i was beginning with, "well, then, there was once an old witch who lived in a very lonely hut in the middle of a great forest," there came voices behind us, and in another moment we heard mamma saying, "haddie, my boy, geraldine, i am quite ready." i was not very sorry. i liked to have more time to make up my stories, and haddie sometimes hurried me so. it was aunty etta, i think, who had first put it into my head to make them. she was _so_ clever about it herself, both in making stories and in remembering those she had read, and she _had_ read a lot. but she was away in india at the time i am now writing about; her going so far off was a great sorrow to mamma. haddie and i started up at once. we had to be very obedient, what father called "quickly obedient," and though he was so kind he was very strict too. "my children are great admirers of your lions, mr. cranston," mamma said; and the old man smiled. "they are not singular in their taste, madam," he said. "i own that i am very proud of them myself, and when my poor daughter was a child there was nothing pleased her so much as when her mother or i lifted her on to one of them, and made believe she was going a ride." haddie looked triumphant. "there now you see, sis," he whispered, nudging me. but i did not answer him, for i was listening to what mamma was saying. "oh, by the bye, mr. cranston," she went on, "i was forgetting to ask how your little grandchild is. have you seen her lately?" old cranston's face brightened. "she is very well, madam, i thank you," he replied. "and i am pleased to say that she is coming to stay with us shortly. we hope to keep her through the winter. her stepmother is very kind, but with little children of her own, it is not always easy for her to give as much attention as she would like to myra, and she and mr. raby have responded cordially to our invitation." "i am very glad to hear it--very glad indeed," said mamma. "i know what a pleasure it will be to you and mrs. cranston. let me see--how old is the little girl now--seven, eight?" "_nine_, madam, getting on for ten indeed," said mr. cranston with pride. "dear me," said mamma, "how time passes! i remember seeing her when she was a baby--before we came to live here, of course, once when i was staying at fernley, just after----" mamma stopped and hesitated. "just after her poor mother died--yes, madam," said the old man quietly. and then we left, mr. cranston respectfully holding the door open. it was growing quite dark; the street-lamps were lighted and their gleam was reflected on the pavement, for it had been raining and was still quite wet underfoot. mamma looked round her. "you had better put on your mackintosh, haddie," she said. "it may rain again. no, geraldine dear, there is no use opening your umbrella till it does rain." my feelings were divided between pride in my umbrella and some reluctance to have it wet! i took hold of mamma's arm again, while haddie walked at her other side. it was not a very cheerful prospect before us--the gloomy dirty streets of mexington were now muddy and sloppy as well--though on the whole i don't know but that they looked rather more cheerful by gaslight than in the day. it was chilly too, for the season was now very late autumn, if not winter. but little did we care--i don't think there could have been found anywhere two happier children than my brother and i that dull rainy evening as we trotted along beside our mother. there was the feeling of _her_ to take care of us, of our cheerful home waiting for us, with a bright fire and the tea-table all spread. if i had not been a little tired--for we had walked a good way--in my heart i was just as ready to skip along on the tips of my toes as when we first came out. "we may stop at miss fryer's, mayn't we, mamma?" said haddie. "well, yes, i suppose i promised you something for tea," mamma replied. "how much may we spend?" he asked. "sixpence--do say sixpence, and then we can get enough for you to have tea with us too." "haddie," i said reproachfully, "as if we wouldn't give mamma something however little we had!" "we'd offer it her of course, but you know she wouldn't take it," he replied. "so it's much better to have really enough for all." his way of speaking made mamma laugh again. "then i suppose it must be sixpence," she said, "and here we are at miss fryer's. shall we walk on, my little girl, i think you must be tired, and let haddie invest in cakes and run after us?" "oh no, please mamma, dear," i said, "i like so to choose too." half the pleasure of the sixpence would have been gone if haddie and i had not spent it together. "then i will go on," said mamma, "and you two can come after me together." she took out her purse and gave my brother the promised money, and then with a smile on her dear face--i can see her now as she stood in the light of the street-lamp just at the old quakeress's door--she nodded to us and turned to go. i remember exactly what we bought, partly, perhaps, because it was our usual choice. we used to think it over a good deal first and each would suggest something different, but in the end we nearly always came back to the old plan for the outlay of our sixpence, namely, half-penny crumpets for threepence--that meant _seven_, not six; it was the received custom to give seven for threepence--and half-penny bath buns for the other threepence--seven of them too, of course. and _bath_ buns, not plain ones. you cannot get these now--not at least in any place where i have lived of late years. and i am not sure but that even at mexington they were a _spécialité_ of dear old miss fryer's. they were so good; indeed, everything she sold was thoroughly good of its kind. she was so honest, using the best materials for all she made. that evening she stood with her usual gentle gravity while we discussed what we should have, and when after discarding sponge-cakes and finger-biscuits, which we had thought of "for a change," and partly because finger-biscuits weighed light and made a good show, we came round at last to the seven crumpets and seven buns, she listened as seriously and put them up in their little paper bags with as much interest as though the ceremony had never been gone through before. and then just as we were turning to leave, she lifted up a glass shade and drew out two cheese-cakes, which she proceeded to put into another paper bag. haddie and i looked at each other. this was a lovely present. what a tea we should have! "i think thee will find these good," she said with a smile, "and i hope thy dear mother will not think them too rich for thee and thy brother." she put them into my hand, and of course we thanked her heartily. i have often wondered why she never said, "thou wilt," but always "thee will," for she was not an uneducated woman by any means. laden with our treasures haddie and i hurried home. there was mamma watching for us with the door open. how sweet it was to have her always to welcome us! "tea is quite ready, dears," she said. "run upstairs quickly, geraldine, and take off your things, they must be rather damp. i am going to have my real tea with you, for i have just had a note from your father to say he won't be in till late and i am not to wait for him." mamma sighed a little as she spoke. i felt sorry for her disappointment, but, selfishly speaking, we sometimes rather enjoyed the evenings father was late, for then mamma gave us her whole attention, as she was not able to do when he was at home. and though we were very fond of our father, we were--i especially, i think--much more afraid of him than of our mother. and that was such a happy evening! i have never forgotten it. mamma was so good and thoughtful for us, she did not let us find out in the least that she was feeling anxious on account of something father had said in his note to her. she was just perfectly sweet. we were very proud of our spoils from miss fryer's. we wanted mamma to have one cheesecake and haddie and i to divide the other between us. but mamma would not agree to that. she would only take a half, so that we had three-quarters each. "wasn't it kind of miss fryer, mamma?" i said. "very kind," said mamma. "i think she is really fond of children though she is so grave. she has not forgotten what it was to be a child herself." somehow her words brought back to my mind what old mr. cranston had said about his little grand-daughter. "i suppose children _are_ all rather like each other," i said. "like about haddie, and that little girl riding on the lions." haddie was not very pleased at my speaking of it; he was beginning to be afraid of seeming babyish. "that was _quite_ different," he said. "she was a baby and had to be held on. it was the fun of climbing up _i_ cared for." "she wasn't a baby," i said. "she's nine years old, he said she was--didn't he, mamma?" "you are mixing two things together," said mamma. "mr. cranston was speaking first of his daughter long ago when she was a child, and then he was speaking of _her_ daughter, little myra raby, who is now nine years old." "why did he say my 'poor' daughter?" i asked. "did you not hear the allusion to her death? mrs. raby died soon after little myra was born. mr. raby married again--he is a clergyman not very far from fernley----" "a clergyman," exclaimed haddie. he was more worldly-wise than i, thanks to being at school. "a clergyman, and he married a shopkeeper's daughter." "there are very different kinds of shopkeepers, haddie," said mamma. "mr. cranston is very rich, and his daughter was very well educated and very nice. still, no doubt mr. raby was in a higher position than she, and both mr. cranston and his wife are very right-minded people, and never pretend to be more than they are. that is why i was so glad to hear that little myra is coming to stay with them. i was afraid the second mrs. raby might have looked down upon them perhaps." haddie said no more about it. and though i listened to what mamma said, i don't think i quite took in the sense of it till a good while afterwards. it has often been like that with me in life. i have a curiously "retentive" memory, as it is called. words and speeches remain in my mind like unread letters, till some day, quite unexpectedly, something reminds me of them, and i take them out, as it were, and find what they really meant. but just now my only interest in little myra raby's history was a present one. "mamma," i said suddenly, "if she is a nice little girl like what her mamma was, mightn't i have her to come and see me and play with me? i have never had any little girl to play with, and it is so dull sometimes--the days that haddie is late at school and when you are busy. do say i may have her--i'm sure old mr. cranston would let her come, and then i might go and play with her sometimes perhaps. do you think she will play among the furniture--where the lions are?" mamma shook her head. "no, dear," she answered. "i am quite sure her grandmother would not like that. for you see anybody might come into the shop or show-rooms, and it would not seem nice for a little girl to be playing there--not nice for a carefully brought-up little girl, i mean." "then i don't think i should care to go to her house," i said, "but i would like her to come here. please let her, mamma dear." but mamma only said, "we shall see." after tea she told us stories--some of them we had heard often before, but we never tired of hearing them again--about when she and aunty etta were little girls. they were lovely stories--real ones of course. mamma was not as clever as aunty etta about making up fairy ones. we were quite sorry when it was time to go to bed. after i had been asleep for a little that night i woke up again--i had not been very sound asleep. just then i saw a light, and mamma came into the room with a candle. "i'm not asleep, dear mamma," i said. "do kiss me again." "that is what i have come for," she answered. and she came up to the bedside and kissed me, oh so sweetly--more than once. she seemed as if she did not want to let go of me. "dear mamma," i whispered sleepily, "i _am_ so happy--i'm always happy, but to-night i feel so _extra_ happy, somehow." "darling," said mamma. and she kissed me again. chapter iii. coming events. the shadow of coming changes began to fall over us very soon after that. indeed, the very next morning at breakfast i noticed that mamma looked pale and almost as if she had been crying, and father was, so to say, "extra" kind to her and to me. he talked and laughed more than usual, partly perhaps to prevent our noticing how silent dear mamma was, but mostly i think because that is the way men do when they are really anxious or troubled. i don't fancy haddie thought there was anything wrong--he was in a hurry to get off to school. after breakfast mamma told me to go and practise for half an hour, and if she did not come to me then, i had better go on doing some of my lessons alone. she would look them over afterwards. and as i was going out of the room she called me back and kissed me again--almost as she had done the night before. that gave me courage to say something. for children were not, in my childish days, on such free and easy terms with their elders as they are now. and kind and gentle as mamma was, we knew very distinctly the sort of things she would think forward or presuming on our part. "mamma," i said, still hesitating a little. "well, dear," she replied. she was buttoning, or pretending to button, the band of the little brown holland apron i wore, so that i could not see her face, but something in the tone of her voice told me that my instinct was not mistaken. "mamma," i repeated, "may i say something? i have a feeling that--that you are--that there is something the matter." mamma did not answer at once. then she said very gently, but quite kindly, "geraldine, my dear, you know that i tell you as much as i think it right to tell any one as young as you--i tell you more, of our plans and private matters and such things, than most mothers tell their little daughters. this has come about partly through your being so much alone with me. but when i _don't_ tell you anything, even though you may suspect there is something to tell, you should trust me that there is good reason for my not doing so." "yes," i said, but i could not stifle a little sigh. "would you just tell me one thing, mamma," i went on; "it isn't anything that you're really unhappy about, is it?" again mamma hesitated. "dear child," she said, "try to put it out of your mind. i can only say this much to you, i am _anxious_ more than troubled. there is nothing the matter that should really be called a trouble. but your father and i have a question of great importance to decide just now, and we are very--i may say really _terribly_--anxious to decide for the best. that is all i can tell you. kiss me, my darling, and try to be your own bright little self. that will be a comfort and help to me." i kissed her and i promised i would try to do as she wished. but it was with rather a heavy heart that i went to my practising. what _could_ it be? i did try not to think of it, but it would keep coming back into my mind. and i was only a child. i had no experience of trouble or anxiety. after a time my spirits began to rise again--there was a sort of excitement in the wondering what this great matter could be. i am afraid i did not succeed in putting it out of my mind as mamma wished me to do. but the days went on without anything particular happening. i did not speak of what mamma had said to me to my brother. i knew she did not wish me to do so. and by degrees other things began to make me forget about it a little. it was just at that time, i remember, that some friend--an aunt on father's side, i think--sent me a present of _the wide, wide world_, and while i was reading it i seemed actually to live in the story. it was curious that i should have got it just then. if mamma had read it herself i am not sure that she would have given it to me. but after all, perhaps it served the purpose of preparing me a _little_--a very little--for what was before me in my own life. it was nearly three weeks after the time i have described rather minutely that the blow fell, that haddie and i were told the whole. i think, however, i will not go on telling _how_ we were told, for i am afraid of making my story too long. and of course, however good my memory is, i cannot pretend that the conversations i relate took place _exactly_ as i give them. i think i give the _spirit_ of them correctly, but now that i have come to the telling of distinct facts, perhaps it will be better simply to narrate them. you will remember my saying that my father had lost money very unexpectedly, and that this was what had obliged him to come to live at mexington and work so hard. he had got the post he held there--it was in a bank--greatly through the influence of mrs. selwood, mamma's godmother, who lived in the country at some hours' distance from the town, and whose name was well known there, as she owned a great many houses and other property in the immediate neighbourhood. father was very glad to get this post, and very grateful to mrs. selwood. she took great interest in us all--that is to say, she was interested in haddie and me because we were mamma's children, though she did not care for or understand children as a rule. but she was a faithful friend, and anxious to help father still more. just about the time i have got to in my story, the manager of a bank in south america, in some way connected with the one at great mexington, became ill, and was told by the doctors that he must return to england and have a complete rest for two years. mrs. selwood had money connection with this bank too, and got to hear of what had happened. knowing that father could speak both french and spanish well, for he had been in the diplomatic service as a younger man, she at once applied for the appointment for him, and after some little delay she was told that he should have the offer of it for the two years. two years are not a very long time, even though the pay was high, but the great advantage of the offer was that the heads of the bank at mexington promised, if all went well for that time, that some permanent post should be given to father in england on his return. this was what made him more anxious to accept the proposal than even the high pay. for mrs. selwood found out that he would not be able to save much of his salary, as he would have a large house to keep up, and would be expected to receive many visitors. on this account the post was never given to an unmarried man. "if he accepts it," mrs. selwood wrote to mamma, "you, my dear blanche, must go with him, and some arrangement would have to be made about the children for the time. i would advise your sending them to school." _now_ i think my readers will not be at a loss to understand why our dear mother had looked so troubled, even though on one side this event promised to be for our good in the end. father was allowed two or three weeks in which to make up his mind. the heads of the mexington bank liked and respected him very much, and they quite saw that there were two sides to the question of his accepting the offer. the climate of the place was not very good--at least it was injurious to english people if they stayed there for long--and it was perfectly certain that it would be madness to take growing children like haddie and me there. _this_ was the dark spot in it all to mamma, and indeed to father too. they were not afraid for themselves. they were both strong and still young, but they could not for a moment entertain the idea of taking _us_. and the thought of separation was terrible. you see, being a small family, and living in a place like great mexington, where my parents had not many congenial friends, and being poor were obliged to live carefully, _home_ was everything to us all. we four were the whole world to each other, and knew no happiness apart. i do not mean to say that i felt or saw all this at once, but looking back upon it from the outside, as it were, i see all that made it a peculiarly hard case, especially--at the beginning, that is to say--for mamma. it seems strange that i did _not_ take it all in--all the misery of it, i mean--at first, nor indeed for some time, not till i had actual experience of it. even haddie realised it more in anticipation than i did. he was two years older, and though he had never been at a boarding-school, still he knew something of school life. there were boarders at his school, and he had often seen and heard how, till they got accustomed to it at any rate, they suffered from home-sickness, and counted the days to the holidays. and for us there were not to be any holidays! no certain prospect of them at best, though mrs. selwood said something vaguely about perhaps having us at fernley for a visit in the summer. but it was very vague. and we had no near relations on mamma's side except aunty etta, who was in india, and on father's no one who could possibly have us regularly for our holidays. all this mamma grasped at once, and her grief was sometimes so extreme that, but for mrs. selwood, i doubt if father would have had the resolution to accept. but mrs. selwood was what is called "very sensible," perhaps just a little hard, and certainly not _sensitive_. and she put things before our parents in such a way that mamma felt it her duty to urge father to accept the offer, and father felt it _his_ duty to put feelings aside and do so. they went to stay at fernley from a saturday to a monday to talk it well over, and it was when they came back on the monday that we were told. before then i think we had both come to have a strong feeling that something was going to happen. i, of course, had some reason for this in what mamma had said to me, though i had forgotten about it a good deal, till this visit to fernley brought back the idea of something unusual. for it was _very_ seldom that we were left by ourselves. we did not mind it much. after all, it was only two nights and one _whole_ day, and that a sunday, when my brother was at home, so we stood at the door cheerfully enough, looking at our father and mother driving off in the clumsy, dingy old four-wheeler--though that is a modern word--which was the best kind of cab known at mexington. but when they were fairly off haddie turned to me, and i saw that he was very grave. i was rather surprised. "why, haddie," i said, "do you mind so much? they'll be back on monday." "no, of course i don't mind _that_," he said. "but i wonder why mamma looks so--so awfully trying-not-to-cry, you know." "oh," i said, "i don't think she's quite well. and she hates leaving us." "no," said my brother, "there's something more." and when he said that, i remembered the feeling i had had myself. i felt rather cross with haddie; i wanted to forget it quite. "you needn't try to frighten me like that," i said. "i meant to be quite happy while they were away--to please mamma, you know, by telling her so when she comes back." then haddie, who really was a very good-natured, kind boy, looked sorry. "i didn't mean to frighten you," he said; "perhaps it was my fancy. i don't want to be unhappy while they're away, i'm sure. i'm only too glad that to-day's saturday and to-morrow sunday." and he did his very best to amuse me. we went out a walk that afternoon with the housemaid--quite a long walk, though it was winter. we went as far out of the town as we could get, to where there were fields, which in spring and summer still looked green, and through the remains of a little wood, pleasant even in the dullest season. it was our favourite walk, and the only pretty one near the town. there was a brook at the edge of the wood, which still did its best to sing merrily, and to forget how dingy and grimy its clear waters became a mile or two farther on; there were still a few treasures in the shape of ivy sprays and autumn-tinted leaves to gather and take home with us to deck our nursery. i remember the look of it all so well. it was the favourite walk of many besides ourselves, especially on a saturday, when the hard-worked mexington folk were once free to ramble about--boys and girls not much older than ourselves among them, for in those days children were allowed to work in factories much younger than they do now. we did not mind meeting some of our townsfellows. on the contrary, we felt a good deal of interest in them and liked to hear their queer way of talking, though we could scarcely understand anything they said. and we were very much interested indeed in some of the stories lydia, who belonged to this part of the country, told us of her own life, in a village a few miles away, where there were two or three great factories, at which all the people about worked--men, women, and children too, so that sometimes, except for babies and very old people, the houses seemed quite deserted. "and long ago before that," said lydia, "when mother was a little lass, it was such a pretty village--cottages all over with creepers and honeysuckle--not ugly rows of houses as like each other as peas. the people worked at home on their own hand-looms then." lydia had a sense of the beautiful! on our way home, of course, we called at miss fryer's--this time we had a whole shilling to spend, for there was sunday's tea to think of as well as to-day's. we had never had so much at a time, and our consultation took a good while. we decided at last on seven crumpets and seven bath buns as usual, and in addition to these, three large currant tea-cakes, which our friend susan told us would be all the better for toasting if not too fresh. and the remaining threepence we invested in a slice of sweet sandwich, which she told us would be perfectly good if kept in a tin tightly closed. the old quakeress for once, i have always suspected, departed on this occasion from her rule of exact payment for all purchases, for it certainly seemed a very large slice of sweet sandwich for threepence. we were rather tired with our walk that evening and went to bed early. nothing more was said by haddie about his misgivings. i think he hoped i had forgotten what had passed, but i had not. it had all come back again, the strange feeling of change and trouble in the air which had made me question mamma that morning two or three weeks ago. but i did not as yet really believe it. i had never known what sorrow and trouble actually are. it is not many children who reach even the age i was then with so sunny and peaceful an experience of life. that anything could happen to us--to _me_--like what happened to "ellen" in _the wide, wide world_, i simply could not believe; even though if any one had talked to me about it and said that troubles must come and _do_ come to all, and to some much more than to others, and that they might be coming to us, i should have agreed at once and said yes, of course i knew that was true. the next day, sunday, was very rainy. it made us feel dull, i think, though we did not really mind a wet sunday as much as another day, for we never went a walk on sunday. it was not thought right, and as we had no garden the day would have been a very dreary one to us, except for mamma. she managed to make it pleasant. we went to church in the morning, and in the evening too sometimes. i think all children like going to church in the evening; there is something grown-up about it. and the rest of the day mamma managed to find interesting things for us to do. she generally had some book which she kept for reading aloud on sunday--dr. adams's _allegories_, "the dark river" and others, were great favourites, and so were bishop wilberforce's _agathos_. some of them frightened me a little, but it was rather a pleasant sort of fright, there was something grand and solemn about it. then we sang hymns sometimes, and we always had a very nice tea, and mamma, and father too now and then, told us stories about when they were children and what they did on sundays. it was much stricter for them than for us, though even for us many things were forbidden on sundays which are now thought not only harmless but right. still, i never look back to the quiet sundays in the dingy mexington street with anything but a feeling of peace and gentle pleasure. chapter iv. all settled. that sunday--that last sunday i somehow feel inclined to call it--stands out in my memory quite differently from its fellows. both haddie and i felt dull and depressed, partly owing no doubt to the weather, but still more, i think, from that vague fear of something being wrong which we were both suffering from, though we would not speak of it to each other. it cleared up a little in the evening, and though it was cold and chilly we went to church. mamma had said to us we might if we liked, and lydia was going. when we came in, cook sent us a little supper which we were very glad of; it cheered us up. "aren't you thankful they're coming home to-morrow?" i said to haddie. "i've never minded their being away so much before." they had been away two or three times that we could remember, though never for longer than a day or two. "yes," said haddie, "i'm very glad." but that was all he said. they did come back the next day, pretty early in the morning, as father had to be at the bank. he went straight there from the railway station, and mamma drove home with the luggage. she was very particular when she went to stay with her godmother to take nice dresses, for mrs. selwood would not have been pleased to see her looking shabby, and it would not have made her any more sympathising or anxious to help, but rather the other way. long afterwards--at least some years afterwards, when i was old enough to understand--i remember mrs. selwood saying to me that it was mamma's courage and good management which made everybody respect her. i was watching at the dining-room window, which looked out to the street, when the cab drove up. after the heavy rain the day before, it was for once a fine day, with some sunshine. and sunshine was rare at great mexington, especially in late november. mamma was looking out to catch the first glimpse of me--of course she knew that my brother would be at school. there was a sort of sunshine on her face, at least i thought so at first, for she was smiling. but when i looked more closely there was something in the smile which gave me a queer feeling, startling me almost more than if i had seen that she was crying. i think for my age i had a good deal of self-control of a certain kind. i waited till she had come in and kissed me and sent away the cab and we were alone. then i shut the door and drew her to father's special arm-chair beside the fire. "mamma, dear," i half said, half whispered, "what is it?" mamma gave a sort of gasp or choke before she answered. then she said, "why, dear, why should you think--oh, i don't know what i am saying," and she tried to laugh. but i wouldn't let her. "it's something in your face, mamma," i persisted. she was silent for a moment. "we had meant to tell you and haddie this evening," she said, "father and i together; but perhaps it is better. yes, my geraldine, there is something. till now it was not quite certain, though it has been hanging over us for some weeks, ever since----" "since that day i asked you--the morning after father came home so late and you had been crying?" "yes, since then," said mamma. she put her arm round me, and then she told me all that i have told already, or at least as much of it as she thought i could understand. she told it quietly, but she did not try not to cry--the tears just came trickling down her face, and she wiped them away now and then. i think the letting them come made her able to speak more calmly. and i listened. i was very sorry for her, very _very_ sorry. but you may think it strange--i have often looked back upon it with wonder myself, though i now feel as if i understood the causes of it better--when i tell you that i was _not_ fearfully upset or distressed myself. i did not feel inclined to cry, _except_ out of pity for mamma. and i listened with the most intense interest, and even curiosity. i was all wound up by excitement, for this was the first great event i had ever known, the first change in my quiet child-life. and my excitement grew even greater when mamma came to the subject of what was decided about us children. "haddie of course must go to school," she said; "to a larger and better school--mrs. selwood speaks of rugby, if it can be managed. he will be happy there, every one says. but about you, my geraldine." "oh, mamma," i interrupted, "do let me go to school too. i have always wanted to go, you know, and except for being away from you, i would far rather be a boarder. it's really being at school then. i know they rather look down upon day-scholars--haddie says so." mamma looked at me gravely. perhaps she was just a little disappointed, even though on the other hand she may have felt relieved too, at my taking the idea of this separation, which to her over-rode _everything_, which made the next two years a black cloud to her, so very philosophically. but she sighed. i fancy a suspicion of the truth came to her almost at once and added to her anxiety--the truth that i did not the least realise what was before me. "we _are_ thinking of sending you to school, my child," she said quietly, "and of course it must be as a boarder. mrs. selwood advises miss ledbury's school here. she has known the old lady long and has a very high opinion of her, and it is not very far from fernley in case miss ledbury wished to consult mrs. selwood about you in any way, or in case you were ill." "i am very glad," i said. "i should like to go to miss ledbury's." my fancy had been tickled by seeing the girls at her school walking out two and two in orthodox fashion. i thought it must be delightful to march along in a row like that, and to have a partner of your own size to talk to as much as you liked. mamma said no more just then. i think she felt at a loss what to say. she was afraid of making me unnecessarily unhappy, and on the other hand she dreaded my finding the reality all the worse when i came to contrast it with my rose-coloured visions. she consulted father, and he decided that it was best to leave me to myself and my own thoughts. "she is a very young child still," he said to mamma. (all this of course i was told afterwards.) "it is quite possible that she will _not_ suffer from the separation as we have feared. it may be much easier for her than if she had been two or three years older." haddie had no illusions. from the very first he took it all in, and that very bitterly. but he was, as i have said, a very good boy, and a boy with a great deal of resolution and firmness. he said nothing to discourage me. mamma told him how surprised she was at my way of taking it, and he agreed with father that perhaps i would not be really unhappy. and i do think that my chief unhappiness during the next few weeks came from the sight of dear mamma's pale, worn face, which she could not hide, try as she might to be bright and cheerful. there was of course a great deal of bustle and preparation, and all children enjoy that, i fancy. even haddie was interested about his school outfit. he was to go to a preparatory school at rugby till he could get into the big school. and as far as school went, he told me he was sure he would like it very well, it was only the--but there he stopped. "the what?" i asked. "oh, the being all separated," he said gruffly. "but you'd have had to go away to a big school some day," i reminded him. "you didn't want always to go to a day-school." "no," he allowed, "but it's the holidays." the holidays! i had not thought about that part of it. "oh, i daresay something nice will be settled for the holidays," i said lightly. in one way haddie was very lucky. mrs. selwood had undertaken the whole charge of his education for the two years our parents were to be away. and after that "we shall see," she said. she had great ideas about the necessity of giving a boy the very best schooling possible, but she had not at all the same opinion about _girls'_ education. she was a clever woman in some ways, but very old-fashioned. her own upbringing had been at a time when _very_ little learning was considered needful or even advisable for our sex. and as she had good practical capacities, and had managed her own affairs sensibly, she always held herself up both in her own mind and to others as a specimen of an _un_learned lady who had got on far better than if she had had all the "'ologies," as she called them, at her fingers' ends. this, i think, was one reason why she approved of miss ledbury's school, which, as you will hear, was certainly not conducted in accordance with the modern ideas which even then were beginning to make wise parents ask themselves if it was right to spend ten times as much on their sons' education as on their daughters'. "teach a girl to write a good hand, to read aloud so that you can understand what she says, to make a shirt and make a pudding and to add up the butcher's book correctly, and she'll do," mrs. selwood used to say. "and what about accomplishments?" some one might ask. "she should be able to play a tune on the piano, and to sing a nice english song or two if she has a voice, and maybe to paint a wreath of flowers if her taste lies that way. that sort of thing would do no harm if she doesn't waste time over it," the old lady would allow, with great liberality, thinking over her own youthful acquirements no doubt. i daresay there was a foundation of solid sense in the first part of her advice. i don't see but that girls nowadays might profit by some of it. and in many cases they _do_. it is quite in accordance with modern thought to be able to make a good many "puddings," though home-made shirts are not called for. but as far as the "accomplishments" go, i should prefer none to such a smattering of them as our old friend considered more than enough. so far less thought on mrs. selwood's part was bestowed on geraldine--that is myself, of course--than on haddon, as regarded the school question. and mamma _had_ to be guided by mrs. selwood's advice to a great extent just then. she had so much to do and so little time to do it in, that it would have been impossible for her to go hunting about for a school for me more in accordance with her own ideas. and she knew that personally miss ledbury was well worthy of all respect. she went to see her once or twice to talk about me, and make the best arrangements possible. the first of these visits left a pleasanter impression on her mind than the second. for the first time she saw miss ledbury alone, and found her gentle and sympathising, and full of conscientious interest in her pupils, so that it seemed childish to take objection to some of the rules mentioned by the school-mistress which in her heart mamma did not approve of. one of these was that all the pupils' letters were to be read by one of the teachers, and as to this miss ledbury said she could make no exception. then, again, no story-books were permitted, except such as were read aloud on the sewing afternoons. but if i spent my holidays there, as was only too probable, this rule should be relaxed. the plan for sundays, too, struck my mother disagreeably. "my poor geraldine," she said to father, when she was telling him all about it, "i don't know how she will stand such a dreary day." father suggested that i should be allowed to write my weekly letter to them on sunday, and mamma said she would see if that could be. and then father begged her not to look at the dark side of things. "after all," he said, "geraldine is very young, and will accommodate herself better than you think to her new circumstances. she will enjoy companions of her own age too. and we know that miss ledbury is a good and kind woman--the disadvantages seem trifling, though i should not like to think the child was to be there for longer than these two years." mamma gave in to this. indeed, there seemed nothing else to do. but the second time she went to see miss ledbury, the school-mistress introduced her niece--her "right hand," as she called her--a woman of about forty, named miss aspinall, who, though only supposed to be second in command, was really the principal authority in the establishment, much more than poor old miss ledbury, whose health was failing, realised herself. mamma did not take to miss aspinall. but it was now far too late to make any change, and she tried to persuade herself that she was nervously fanciful. and here, perhaps, i had better say distinctly, that miss aspinall was not a bad or cruel woman. she was, on the contrary, truly conscientious and perfectly sincere. but she was wanting in all finer feelings and instincts. she had had a hard and unloving childhood, and had almost lost the power of caring much for any one. she loved her aunt after a fashion, but she thought her weak. she was just, or wished to be so, and with some of the older pupils she got on fairly well. but she did not understand children, and took small interest in the younger scholars, beyond seeing that they kept the rules and were not complained of by the under teachers who took charge of them. and as the younger pupils were very seldom boarders it did not very much matter, as they had their own homes and mothers to make them happy once school hours were over. mamma did not know that there were scarcely any boarders as young as i, for when she first asked about the other pupils, miss ledbury, thinking principally of lessons, said, "oh yes," there was a nice little class just about my age, where i should feel quite at home. a few days before _the_ day--the day of separation for us all--mamma took me to see miss ledbury. she thought i would feel rather less strange if i had been there once, and had seen the lady who was to be my school-mistress. i knew the house--green bank, it was called--by sight. it was a little farther out of the town than ours, and had a melancholy bit of garden in front, and a sort of playground at the back. it was not a large house--indeed, it was not really large enough for the number of people living in it--twenty to thirty boarders, and a number of day-scholars, who of course helped to fill the schoolrooms and to make them hot and airless, four resident teachers, and four or five servants. but in those days people did not think nearly as much as now about ventilation and lots of fresh air, and perfectly pure water, and all such things, which we now know to be quite as important to our health as food and clothes. mamma rang the bell. everything about green bank was neat and orderly, prim, if not grim. so was the maid-servant who opened the door, and in answer to mamma's inquiry for miss ledbury, showed us into the drawing-room, a square moderate-sized-room, at the right hand of the passage. i can remember the look of that room even now, perfectly. it was painfully neat, not exactly ugly, for most of the furniture was of the spindle-legged quaint kind, to which everybody now gives the general name of "queen anne." there were a few books set out on the round table, there was a cottage piano at one side, there were some faint water-colours on the wall, and a rather nice clock on the white marble mantelpiece, the effect of which was spoilt by a pair of huge "lustres," as they were called, at each side of it. the carpet was very ugly, large and sprawly in pattern, and so was the hearth-rug. they were the newest things in the room, and greatly admired by miss ledbury and her niece, who were full of the bad taste of the day in furniture, and would gladly have turned out all the delicate spidery-looking tables and chairs to make way for heavy and cumbersome sofas and ottomans, but for the question of expense, and perhaps for the sake of old association on the elder lady's part. there was no fire, though it was november, and mamma shivered a little as she sat down, possibly, however not altogether from cold. it was between twelve and one in the morning--that was the hour at which miss ledbury asked parents to call. afterwards, when i got to know the rules of the house, i found that the drawing-room fire was never lighted except on wednesday and saturday afternoons, or on some very special occasion. i stood beside mamma. somehow i did not feel inclined to sit down. i was full of a strange kind of excitement, half pleasant, half frightening. i think the second half prevailed as the moments went on. mamma did not speak, but i felt her hand clasping my shoulder. then at last the door opened. chapter v. an unpromising beginning. my first sight of miss ledbury was a sort of agreeable disappointment. she was not the least like what i had imagined, though till i did see her i do not think i knew that i had imagined anything! she had been much less in my thoughts than her pupils; it was the idea of companions, the charm of being one of a party of other girls, with a place of my own among them, that my fancy had been full of. i don't think i cared very much what the teachers were like. what i did see was a very small, fragile-looking old lady, with quite white hair, a black or purple--i am not sure which, anyway it was dark--silk dress, and a soft fawn-coloured cashmere shawl. she had a white lace cap, tied with ribbons under her chin, and black lace mittens. looking back now, i cannot picture her in any other dress. i cannot remember ever seeing her with a bonnet on, and yet she must have worn one, as she went to church regularly. her face was small and still pretty, and the eyes were naturally sweet, sometimes they had a twinkle of humour in them, sometimes they looked almost hard. the truth was that she was a gentle, kind-hearted person by nature, but a narrow life and education had stunted her power of sympathy, and she thought it wrong to give way to feeling. she was conscious of what she believed to be weakness in herself, and was always trying to be firm and determined. and since her niece had come to live with her, this put-on sternness had increased. yet i was never really afraid of miss ledbury, though i never--well, perhaps that is rather too strong--almost never, i should say, felt at ease with her. i was, i suppose, a very shy child, but till now the circumstances of my life had not brought this out. this first time of seeing my future school-mistress i liked her very much. there was indeed something very attractive about her--something almost "fairy-godmother-like" which took my fancy. we did not stay long. miss ledbury was not without tact, and she saw that the mention of the approaching parting, the settling the day and hour at which i was to come to green bank to _stay_, were very, very trying to mamma. and i almost think her misunderstanding of me began from that first interview. in her heart i fancy she was shocked at my coolness, for she did not know, or if she ever had known, she had forgotten, much about children--their queer contradictory ways of taking things, how completely they are sometimes the victims of their imagination, how little they realise anything they have had no experience of. all that the old lady did not understand in me, she put down to my being spoilt and selfish. she even, i believe, thought me forward. still, she spoke kindly--said she hoped i should soon feel at home at green bank, and try to get on well with my lessons, so that when my dear mamma returned she would be astonished at the progress i had made. i did not quite understand what she said--the word "progress" puzzled me. i wondered if it had anything to do with the pilgrim's progress, and i was half inclined to ask if it had, and to tell her that i had read the history of christian and his family quite through, two or three times. but mamma had already got up to go, so i only said "yes" rather vaguely, and miss ledbury kissed me somewhat coldly. as soon as we found ourselves outside in the street again, mamma made some little remark. she wanted to find out what kind of impression had been left on me, though she would not have considered it right to ask me straight out what i thought of the lady who was going to be my superior--in a sense to fill a parent's place to me. and i remember replying that i thought miss ledbury must be very, very old--nearly a hundred, i should think. "oh dear no, not nearly as old as that," mamma said quickly. "you must not say anything like that, geraldine. it would offend her. she cannot be more than sixty." i opened my eyes. i thought it would be very nice to be a hundred. but before i had time to say more, my attention was distracted. for just at that moment, turning a corner, we almost ran into the procession i was so eager to join--miss ledbury's girls, returning two and two from their morning constitutional. i felt my cheeks grow red with excitement. i stared at them, and some of them, i think, looked at me. mamma looked at them too, but instead of getting red, her face grew pale. they passed so quickly, that i was only able to glance at two or three of the twenty or thirty faces. i looked at the smallest of the train with the most interest, though one older face at the very end caught my attention almost without my knowing it. when they had passed i turned to mamma. "did you see that little girl with the rosy cheeks, mamma? the one with a red feather in her hat. _doesn't_ she look nice?" "she looked a good-humoured little person," said mamma. in her heart she thought the rosy-faced child rather common-looking and far too showily dressed, but that was not unusual among the rich mexington people, and she would not have said anything like that to me. "i did notice one _very_ sweet face," she went on, "i mean the young lady at the end--one of the governesses no doubt." i had, as i said, noticed her too, and mamma's words impressed it upon me. mamma seemed quite cheered by this passing glimpse, and she went on speaking. "she must be one of the younger teachers, i should think. i hope you may be in her class. you must tell me if you are when you write to me, and tell me her name." i promised i would. the next two or three days i have no clear remembrance of at all. they seemed all bustle and confusion--though through everything i recollect mamma's pale drawn face, and the set look of haddie's mouth. he was so determined not to break down. of father we saw very little--he was terribly busy. but when he was at home, he seemed to be always whistling, or humming a tune, or making jokes. "how pleased father seems to be about going so far away," i said once to haddie. but he did not answer. he--haddie--was to go a part of the way in the same train as father and mamma. they were to start on the thursday, and i was taken to green bank on wednesday morning. father took me--and lydia. i was such a little girl that mamma thought lydia should go with me to unpack and arrange my things, and she never thought that any one could object to this. for she had never been at school herself, and did not know much about school ways. i think the first beginning of my troubles and disappointments was about lydia. father and i were shown into the drawing-room. but when the door opened this time, it was not to admit gentle old miss ledbury. instead of her in came a tall, thin woman, dressed in gray--she had black hair done rather tightly, and a black lace bow on the top of her head. father was standing looking out of the window, and i beside him holding his hand. i was not crying. i had had one sudden convulsive fit of sobs early that morning when mamma came for a moment into my room, and for the first time it _really_ came over me that i was leaving her. but she almost prayed me to try not to cry, and the feeling that i was helping her, joined to the excitement i was in, made it not so very difficult to keep quiet. i do not even think my eyes were red. father turned at the sound of the door opening. "miss ledbury," he began. "not miss ledbury. i am miss aspinall, her _niece_," said the lady; she was not pleased at the mistake. "oh, i beg your pardon," said poor father. "i understood----" "miss ledbury is not very well this morning," said miss aspinall. "she deputed me to express her regrets." "oh certainly," said father. "this is my little daughter--you have seen her before, i suppose?" "no," said the lady, holding out her hand. "how do you do, my dear?" i did not speak. i stared up at her, i felt so confused and strange. i scarcely heard what father went on to say--some simple messages from mamma about my writing to them, and so on, and the dates of the mails, the exact address, etc., etc., to all of which miss aspinall listened with a slight bend of her head or a stiff "indeed," or "just so." this was not encouraging. i am afraid even father's buoyant spirits went down: i think he had had some idea that if he came himself he would be able to make friends with my school-mistress and be able to ensure her special friendliness. but it was clear that nothing of this kind was to be done with the niece. so he said at last, "well, i think that is all. good-bye, my little woman, then. good-bye, my darling. she will be a good girl, i am sure, miss aspinall; she has been a dear good child at home." his voice was on the point of breaking, but the governess stood there stonily. his praise of me was not the way to win her favour. i do believe she would have liked me better if he had said i had been so naughty and troublesome at home that he trusted the discipline of school would do me good. and when i glanced up at miss aspinall's face, something seemed to choke down the sob which was beginning again to rise in my throat. [illustration: "good-bye!"] "good-bye, my own little girl," said father. one more kiss and he was gone. my luggage was in the hall--which was really a passage scarcely deserving the more important name--and beside it stood lydia. miss aspinall looked at her coldly. "who----" she began, when i interrupted her. "it's lydia," i said. "she's come to unpack my things. mamma sent her." "come to unpack your things," repeated the governess. "there must be some mistake--that is quite unnecessary. there is no occasion for you to wait," she said to poor lydia, with a slight gesture towards the door. lydia grew very red. "miss geraldine won't know about them all, i'm afraid," she began. "she has not been used to taking the charge of her things yet." "then the sooner she learns the better," said miss aspinall, and lydia dared not persist. she turned to me, looking ready to burst out crying again, though, as she had been doing little else for three days, one might have thought her tears were exhausted. "good-bye, dear miss geraldine," she said, half holding out her arms. i flew into them. i was beginning to feel very strange. "good-bye, dear lydia," i said. "you will write to me, miss geraldine?" "of course i will; i know your address," i said. lydia was going to her own home to work with a dressmaker sister in hopes of coming back to us at the end of the two years. "miss le marchant" (i think i have never said that our family name was le marchant), said a cold voice, "i really cannot wait any longer; you must come upstairs at once to take off your things." lydia glanced at me. "i beg pardon," she said; and then she too was gone. long afterwards the poor girl told me that her heart was nearly bursting when she left me, but she had the good sense to say nothing to add to mamma's distress, as she knew that my living at green bank was all settled about. she could only hope the other governesses might be kinder than the one she had seen. miss aspinall walked upstairs, telling me to follow her. it was not a very large house, but it was a high one and the stairs were steep. it seemed to me that i had climbed up a long way when at last she opened a door half-way down a dark passage. "this is your room," she said, as she went in. i followed her eagerly. i don't quite know what i expected. i had not been told if i was to have a room to myself or not. but at first i think i was rather startled to see three beds in a room not much larger than my own one at home--three beds and two wash-hand stands, a large and a small, two chests of drawers, a large and a small also, which were evidently considered to be toilet-tables as well, as each had a looking-glass, and three chairs. my eyes wandered round. it was all quite neat, though dull. for the one window looked on to the side-wall of the next-door house, and much light could not have got in at the best of times, added to which, the day was a very gray one. but the impression it made upon me was more that of a tidy and clean servants' room than of one for ladies, even though only little girls. i stood still and silent. "this is your bed," said miss aspinall next, touching a small white counterpaned iron bedstead in one corner--i was glad it was in a corner. "the miss smiths are your companions. they share the large chest of drawers, and your things will go into the smaller one." "there won't be nearly room enough," i said quickly. i had yet to learn the habit of not saying out whatever came into my head. "nonsense, child," said the governess. "there must be room enough for you if there is room enough for much older and----" she stopped. "at your age many clothes are not requisite. i think, on the whole, it will be better for you not to unpack or arrange your own things. one of the governesses shall do so, and all that you do not actually require must stay in your trunk and be put in the box-room." i did not pay very much attention to what she said. i don't think i clearly understood it, for, as i have said, in some ways i was rather a slow child. and my thoughts were running more on the miss smiths and the rest of my future companions than on my wardrobe. if i had taken in that it was not only my clothes that were in question, but that my little household gods, my special pet possessions, were not to be left in my own keeping, i would have minded much more. "now take off your things at once," said miss aspinall. "you must keep on your boots till your shoes are got out, but take care not to stump along the passages. do your hands want washing? no, you have your gloves on. as soon as you are ready, go down two flights of stairs till you come to the passage under this on the next floor. the door at the end is the second class schoolroom, where you will be shown your place." then she went away, leaving me to my own reflections. not a word of sympathy or encouragement, not a pat on my shoulder as she passed me, nor a kindly glance out of her hard eyes. but at the time i scarcely noticed this. my mind was still full of not unpleasant excitement, though i was beginning to feel tired and certainly very confused and bewildered. i sat down for a moment on the edge of my little bed when miss aspinall left me, without hastening to take off my coat and bonnet. we wore bonnets mostly in those days, though hats were beginning to come into fashion for young girls. "i wish there were only two beds, not three," i said to myself. "and i would like the little girl with the rosy face to sleep in my room. i wonder if she's miss smith perhaps. i wonder if there's several little girls as little as me. i'd like to know all their names, so as to write and tell them to mamma and haddie." the inclination to cry had left me--fortunately in some ways, though perhaps if i had made my _début_ in the schoolroom looking very woe-begone and tearful i should have made a better impression. my future companions would have felt sorry for me. as it was, when i had taken off my things i made my way downstairs as i had been directed, and opening the schoolroom door--i remember wondering to myself what second class schoolroom could mean: would it have long seats all round, something like a second-class railway carriage?--walked in coolly enough. the room felt airless and close, though it was a cold day. and at the first glance it seemed to me perfectly full of people--girls--women indeed in my eyes many of them were, they were so much bigger and older than i--in every direction, more than i could count. and the hum of voices was very confusing, the _hums_ i should say, for there were two or three different sets of reading aloud, or lessons repeating, going on at once. i stood just inside the door. two or three heads were turned in my direction at the sound i made in opening it, but quickly bent over their books again, and for some moments no one paid any attention to me. then suddenly a governess happened to catch sight of me. it was the same sweet-faced girl whom mamma had noticed at the end of the long file in the street. she looked at me once, then seemed at a loss, then she looked at me again, and at last said something to the girl beside her, and getting up from her seat went to the end of the room, and spoke to a small elderly woman in a brown stuff dress, who was evidently another governess. this person--i suppose i should say lady--turned round and stared at me. then she said something to the younger governess, nothing very pleasant, i fancy, for the sweet-looking one--i had better call her by her name, which was miss fenmore--went back to her place with a heightened colour. you may ask how i can remember all these little particulars so exactly. perhaps i do not quite do so, but still, all that happened just then made a very strong impression on me, and i have thought it over so much and so often, especially since i have had children of my own, that it is difficult to tell quite precisely how much is real memory, how much the after knowledge of how things must have been, to influence myself and others as they did. and later, too, i talked them over with those who were older than i at the time, and could understand more. so there i stood, a very perplexed little person, though still more perplexed than distressed or disappointed, by the door. now and then some head was turned to look at me with a sort of stealthy curiosity, but there was no kindness in any of the glances, and the young governess kept her eyes turned away. i was not a pretty child. my hair was straight and not noticeable in any way, and it was tightly plaited, as was the fashion, _unless_ a child's hair was thick enough to make pretty ringlets. my face was rather thin and pale, and there was nothing of dimpling childish loveliness about me. i was rather near-sighted too, and i daresay that often gave me a worried, perhaps a fretful expression. after all, i did not have to wait very long. the elderly governess finished the page she was reading aloud--she may have been dictating to her pupils, i cannot say--and came towards me. "did miss aspinall send you here?" she said abruptly. i looked up at her. she seemed to me no better than our cook, and not half so good-natured. "yes," i said. "yes," she repeated, as if she was very shocked. "yes _who_, if you please? yes, miss ----?" "yes, miss," i said in a matter-of-fact way. "what manners! fie!" said miss ----; afterwards i found her name was broom. "i think indeed it was quite time for you to come to school. if you cannot say my name, you can at least say ma'am." i stared up at her. i think my trick of staring must have been rather provoking, and perhaps even must have seemed rude, though it arose entirely from my not understanding. "i don't know your name, miss--ma'am," i said. i spoke clearly. i was not frightened. and a titter went round the forms. miss broom was angry at being put in the wrong. "miss aspinall sent you to my class, _miss broom's_ class," she said. "no, ma'am--miss broom--she didn't." the governess thought i meant to be impertinent--impertinent, poor me! and with no very gentle hand, she half led, half pushed me towards her end of the room, where there was a vacant place on one of the forms. "silence, young ladies," she said, for some whispering was taking place. "go on with your copying out." and then she turned to me with a book. "let me hear how you can read," she said. chapter vi. a new world. i could read aloud well, unusually well, i think, for mamma had taken great pains with my pronunciation. she was especially anxious that both haddie and i should speak well, and not catch the great mexington accent, which was both peculiar and ugly. but the book which miss broom had put before me was hardly a fair test. i don't remember what it was--some very dry history, i think, bristling with long words, and in very small print. i did not take in the sense of what i was reading in the very least, and so, of course, i read badly, tumbling over the long words, and putting no intelligence into my tone. i think, too, my teacher was annoyed at the purity of my accent, for no one could possibly have mistaken _her_ for anything but what she was--a native of middleshire. she corrected me once or twice, then shut the book impatiently. "very bad," she said, "very bad indeed for eleven years old." "i am not eleven, miss broom," i said. "i am only nine past." [illustration: "little girls must not contradict, and must not be rude."] "little girls must not contradict, and must not be rude," was the reply. what had i said that could be called rude? i tried to think, thereby bringing on myself a reprimand for inattention, which did not have the effect of brightening my wits, i fear. i think i was put through a sort of examination as to all my acquirements. i know i came out of it very badly, for miss broom pronounced me so backward that there was no class, not even the youngest, in the school, which i was really fit for. there was nothing for it, however, but to put me into this lowest class, and she said i must do extra work in play hours to make up to my companions. even my french, which i now _know_ must have been good, was found fault with by miss broom, who said my accent was extraordinary. and certainly, if hers was parisian, mine must have been worse than that of stratford-le-bow! still, i was not unhappy. i thought it must be always like that at school, and i said to myself i really would work hard to make up to the others, who were so much, much cleverer than i. and i sat contentedly enough in my place, doing my best to learn a page of english grammar by heart, from time to time peeping round the table, till, to my great satisfaction and delight, i caught sight of the rosy-cheeked damsel at the farther end of the table. i was so pleased that i wonder i did not jump up from my place and run round to speak to her, forgetful that though i had thought so much of her, she had probably never noticed me at all the only other time of our meeting, or rather passing each other. but i felt miss broom's eye upon me, and sat still. i acquitted myself pretty fairly of my page of grammar, leading to the dry remark from the governess that it was plain i "could learn if i chose." as this was the first thing i had been given to learn, the implied reproach was not exactly called for. but none of miss broom's speeches were remarkable for being appropriate. they depended much more on the mood she happened to be in herself than upon anything else. i can clearly remember most of that day. i have a vision of a long dining-table, long at least it seemed to me, and a plateful of roast mutton and potatoes which i could not manage to finish, followed by rice pudding with which i succeeded better, though i was not the least hungry. miss aspinall was at one end of the table, miss broom at the other, and miss fenmore, who seemed always to be jumping up to ring the bell or hand the governesses something or other that had been forgotten by the servant, sat somewhere in the middle. no one spoke unless spoken to by one of the teachers. miss aspinall shot out little remarks from time to time about the weather, and replied graciously enough to one or two of the older girls who ventured to ask if miss ledbury's cold, or headache, was better. then came the grace, followed by a shoving back of forms, and a march in order of age, or place in class rather, to the door, and thence down the passage to what was called the big schoolroom--a room on the ground floor, placed where by rights the kitchen should have been, i fancy. it was the only large room in the house, and i think it must have been built out beyond the original walls on purpose. and then--there re-echo on my ears even now the sudden bursting out of noise, the loosening of a score and a half of tongues, girls' tongues too, forcibly restrained since the morning. for this was the recreation hour, and on a wet day, to make up for not going a walk, the "young ladies" were allowed from two to three to chatter as much as they liked--in english instead of in the fearful and wonderful jargon yclept "french." i stood in a corner by myself, staring, no doubt. i felt profoundly interested. this was a _little_ more like what i had pictured to myself, though i had not imagined it would be quite so noisy and bewildering. but some of the girls seemed very merry, and their laughter and chatter fascinated me--if only i were one of them, able to laugh and chatter too! should i ever be admitted to share their fun? the elder girls did not interest me. they seemed to me quite grown-up. yet it was from their ranks that came the first token of interest in me--of notice that i was there at all. "what's your name?" said a tall thin girl with fair curls, which one could see she was very proud of. she was considered a beauty in the school. she was silly, but very good-natured. she spoke with a sort of lisp, and very slowly, so her question did not strike me as rude. nor was it meant to be so. it was a mixture of curiosity and amiability. "my name," i repeated, rather stupidly. i was startled by being spoken to. "yes, your name. didn't miss lardner say what's your name? dear me--don't stand gaping there like a monkey on a barrel-organ," said another girl. by this time a little group had gathered round me. the girls composing it all laughed, and though it does not sound very witty--to begin with, i never heard of a monkey "gaping"--i have often thought since that there was some excuse for the laughter. i was small and thin, and i had a trick of screwing up my eyes which made them look smaller than they really were. and my frock was crimson merino with several rows of black velvet above the hem of the skirt. i was not offended. but i did not laugh. the girl who had spoken last was something of a tomboy, and looked upon also as a wit. her name was josephine mellor, and her intimate friends called her joe. she had very fuzzy red hair, and rather good brown eyes. "i say," she went on again, "what _is_ your name? and are you going to stay to dinner every day, or only when it rains, like lizzie burt?" who was lizzie burt? that question nearly set my ideas adrift again. but the consciousness of my superior position fortunately kept me to the point. "i am going to be at dinner always," i said proudly. "i am a boarder." the girls drew a little nearer, with evidently increased interest. "a boarder," repeated josephine. "then harriet smith'll have to give up being baby. you're ever so much younger than her, i'm sure." "what are you saying about me?" said harriet, who had caught the sound of her own name, as one often does. "only that that pretty snub nose of yours is going to be put out of joint," said miss mellor mischievously. harriet came rushing forward. she was my rosy-cheeked girl! her face was redder than usual. i felt very vexed with miss mellor, even though i did not quite understand her. "what are you saying?" the child called out. "i'm not going to have any of your teasing, joe." "it's not teasing--it's truth," said the elder girl. "you're not the baby any more. _she_," and she pointed to me, "she's younger than you." "how old are you?" said harriet roughly. "nine past," i said. "nine and a half." "hurrah! hurrah!" shouted harriet. "i'm only nine and a month. i'm still the baby, miss joe." she was half a head at least taller than i, and broad in proportion. "what a mite you are, to be sure," said miss mellor, "nine and a half and no bigger than that." i felt myself getting red. i think one or two of the girls must have had perception enough to feel a little sorry for me, for one of them--i fancy it was miss lardner--said in a good-natured patronising way, "you haven't told us your name yet, after all." "it's geraldine," i said. "that's my first name, and i'm always called it." "geraldine what?" said the red-haired girl. "geraldine theresa le marchant--that's all my names." "my goodness," said miss mellor, "how grand we are! great mexington's growing quite aristocratic. i didn't know monkeys had such fine names." some of the girls laughed, some, i think, thought her as silly as she was. "where do you come from?" was the next question. "come from?" i repeated. "i don't know." at this they all did laugh, and i suppose it was only natural. suddenly harriet smith made a sort of dash at me. "oh, i say," she exclaimed. "i know. she's going to sleep in our room. i saw them putting sheets on the bed in the corner, but jane wouldn't tell me who they were for. emma," she called out loudly to a girl of fourteen or fifteen, "emma, i say, she's going to sleep in our room i'm sure." emma smith was taller and thinner and paler than her sister, but still they were rather like. perhaps it was for that very reason that they got on so badly--they might have been better friends if they had been more unlike. as it was, they quarrelled constantly, and i must say it was generally harriet's fault. she was very spoilt, but she had something hearty and merry about her, and so had emma. they were the daughters of a rich great mexington manufacturer, and they had no mother. they were favourites in the school, partly i suspect because they had lots of pocket money, and used to invite their companions to parties in the holidays. but they were not mean or insincere, though rough and noisy--more like boys than girls. emma came bouncing forward. "i say," she began to me, "if it's true you're to sleep in our room i hope you understand you must do what i tell you. i'm the eldest. you're not to back up harriet to disobey me." "no," i said. "i don't want to do anything like that." "well, then," said harriet, "you'll be emma's friend, not mine." my face fell, and i suppose harriet saw it. she came closer to me and looked at me well, as if expecting me to answer. but for the first time since i had been in my new surroundings i felt more than bewildered--i felt frightened and lonely, terribly lonely. "oh, mamma," i thought to myself, "i wish i could see you to tell you about it. it isn't a bit like what i thought it would be." but i said nothing aloud. i think now that if i had burst out crying it would have been better for me, but i had very little power of expressing myself, and haddie had instilled into me a great horror of being a cry-baby at school. in their rough way, however, several of the girls were kind-hearted, the two smiths perhaps as much so as any. harriet came close up to me. "i'm only in fun," she said; "of course we'll be friends. i'll tell you how we'll do," and she put her fat little arm round me in a protecting way which i much appreciated. "come over here," she went on in a lower voice, "where none of the big ones can hear what we say," and she drew me, nothing loth, to the opposite corner of the room. as we passed through the group of older girls standing about, one or two fragments of their talk reached my ears. "yes--i'm sure it's the same. he's a bank clerk, i think. i've heard papa speak of them. they're awfully poor--come-down-in-the-world sort of people." "oh, then, i expect when she's old enough she'll be a governess--perhaps she'll be a sort of teacher here to begin with." then followed some remark about looking far ahead, and a laugh at the idea of "the monkey" ever developing into a governess. but after my usual fashion it was not till i thought it over afterwards that i understood that it was i and my father they had been discussing. in the meantime i was enjoying a confidential talk with harriet smith--that is to say, i was listening to all she said to me; she did not seem to expect me to say much in reply. i felt flattered by her condescension, but i did not in my heart feel much interest in her communications. they were mostly about emma--how she tried to bully her, harriet, because she herself was five years older, and how the younger girl did not intend to stand it much longer. emma was as bad as a boy. "as bad as a boy," i repeated. "i don't know what you mean." "that's because you've not got a brother, i suppose," said harriet. "our brother's a perfect nuisance. he's so spoilt--papa lets him do just as he likes. emma and i hate the holidays because of him being at home. but it's the worst for me, you see. emma hates fred bullying her, so she might know i hate her bullying me." this was all very astonishing to me. "i have a brother," i said after a moment or two's reflection. "then you know what it is. why didn't you say so?" asked harriet. "because i don't know what it is. haddie never teases me. i love being with him." "my goodness! then you're not like most," said harriet elegantly, opening her eyes. she asked me some questions after this--as to where we lived, how many servants we had, and so on. some i answered--some i could not, as i was by no means as worldly-wise as this precocious young person. she gave me a great deal of information about school--she hated the governesses, except the old lady, and she didn't care about her much. miss broom was her special dislike. but she liked school very well, she'd been there a year now, and before that she had a daily governess at home, and it was very dull indeed. what had i done till now--had i had a governess? "oh no," i said. "i had mamma." "was she good to you," asked my new friend, "or was she very strict?" i stared at harriet. mamma was strict, but she was very, very good to me. i said so. "then why are you a boarder?" she asked. "_we_'ve not got a mamma, but even if we had i'm sure she wouldn't teach us herself. i suppose your mamma isn't rich enough to pay for a governess for you." "i don't know," i said simply. i had never thought in this way of mamma's teaching me, but i was not at all offended. "i don't think any governess would be as nice as mamma." "then why have you come to school?" inquired harriet. "because"--"because father and mamma have to go away," i was going to say, when suddenly the full meaning of the words seemed to rush over me. a strange giddy feeling made me shut my eyes and i caught hold of harriet's arm. "what's the matter?" she said wonderingly, as i opened my eyes and looked at her again. "i'd rather not talk about mamma just now," i said. "i'll tell you afterwards." "up in our room," said harriet, "oh yes, that'll be jolly. we've got all sorts of dodges." but before she had time to explain more, or i to ask her why "dodges"--i knew the meaning of the word from haddie--were required, a bell rang loudly. instantly the hubbub ceased, and there began a sort of silent scramble--the elder girls collecting books and papers and hurrying to their places; the younger ones rushing upstairs to the other schoolroom, i following. in a few minutes we were all seated round the long tables. it was a sewing afternoon, and to my great delight i saw that miss fenmore, the pretty governess whom i had taken such a fancy to, though i had not yet spoken to her, was now in miss broom's place. mamma had provided me with both plain work and a little simple fancy work, but as my things were not yet unpacked, i had neither with me, and i sat feeling awkward and ashamed, seeing all the others busily preparing for business. "have you no work, my dear?" said miss fenmore gently. it was the first kind speech i had had from a governess. "it isn't unpacked," i said, feeling my cheeks grow red, i did not know why. miss fenmore hesitated for a moment. then she took out a stocking--or rather the beginning of one on knitting-needles. "can you knit?" she asked. "i can knit plain--plain and purl--just straight on," i said. "but i've never done it round like that." "never mind, you will learn easily, as you know how to knit. come and sit beside me, so that i can watch you." she made the girls sit a little more closely, making a place for me beside her, and i would have been quite happy had i not seen a cross expression on several faces, and heard murmurs of "favouring," "spoilt pet," and so on. miss fenmore, if _she_ heard, took no notice. and in a few moments all was in order. we read aloud in turns--the book was supposed to be a story-book, but it seemed to me very dull, though the fault may have lain in the uninteresting way the girls read, and the constant change of voices, as no one read more than two pages at a time. i left off trying to listen and gave my whole attention to my knitting, encouraged by miss fenmore's whispered "very nice--a little looser," or "won't it be nice to knit socks for your father or brother, if you have a brother?" i nodded with a smile. i was burning to tell her everything. already i felt that i loved her dearly--her voice was as sweet as her face. yet there were tones in the former and lines in the latter telling of much sorrow and suffering, young as she was. i was far too much of a child to understand this. i only felt vaguely that there was something about her which reminded me of mamma as she had looked these last few weeks. and my heart was won. chapter vii. gathering clouds. after that first day at green bank, the remembrance of things in detail is not so clear to me. to begin with, the life was very monotonous. except for the different lessons, one day passed much like another, the principal variety being the coming of sunday and the two weekly half-holidays--wednesday and saturday. but to me the half-holidays brought no pleasure. i think i disliked them more than lesson days, and most certainly i disliked sundays most of all. looking back now, i think my whole nature and character must have gone through some curious changes in these first weeks at school. i grew older very rapidly. there first came by degrees the great _disappointment_ of it all--for though i am anxious not to exaggerate anything, it was a bewildering "disillusionment" to me. nobody and nothing were what i had imagined they would be. straight out of my sheltered home, where every thought and tone and word were full of love, i was tossed into this world of school, where, though no doubt there were kind hearts and nice natures as there are everywhere, the whole feeling was different. even the good-nature was rough and unrefined--the tones of voice, the ways of moving about, the readiness to squabble, though very likely it was more a kind of bluster than anything worse, all startled and astounded me, as i gradually awoke from my dream of the delights of being at school surrounded by companions. and there was really a prejudice against me, both among teachers and pupils. a story had got about that my family was very, very poor, that father had had to go abroad on this account, and that my schooling was to be paid for out of charity. so even my gentleness, my soft way of speaking, the surprise i was too innocent to conceal at much that i saw, were all put down to my "giving myself airs." and i daresay the very efforts i made to please those about me and to gain their affection did more harm than good. because i clung more or less to harriet smith, my room-mate, and the nearest to me in age, i was called a little sneak, trying to get all i could "out of her," as she was such a rich little girl. i overheard these remarks once or twice, but it was not for some time that i in the least knew what they meant, and so i daresay the coarse-minded girls who made them thought all the worse of me because i did not resent them and just went quietly on my own way. what i did want from harriet was sympathy; and when she was in the humour to pay attention to me, she did give me as much as it was in her to give. i shall never forget the real kindness she and emma too showed me that first night at green bank, when a great blow fell on me after we went upstairs to go to bed. some one had unpacked my things. my night-dress was lying on the bed, my brushes and sponges were in their places, and when i opened the very small chest of drawers i saw familiar things neatly arranged in them. but there seemed so few--and in the bottom drawer only one frock, and that my oldest one, not the pretty new one mamma had got me for sundays or any special occasion. "where can all my other things be?" i said to harriet, who was greatly interested in my possessions. "what more have you?" she said, peering over my shoulder. i named several. "and all my other things," i went on, "not clothes, i don't mean, but my workbox and my new writing-desk, and the picture of father and mamma and haddie"--it was before the days of "carte-de-visite" or "cabinet" photographs; this picture was what was called a "daguerreotype" on glass, and had been taken on purpose for me at some expense--"and my china dog and the rabbits, and my scraps of silk, and all my puzzles, and, and----" i stopped short, out of breath with bewilderment. "can they be all together for me to unpack myself?" i said. emma, the most experienced of the three, shook her head. "i'm afraid," she was beginning, when the door opened, and miss broom's face appeared. "young ladies," she said, "i cannot have this. no talking after the last bell has rung. my dear miss smith, you are not usually so forgetful. if it is _you_, miss marchant, it is a very bad beginning, disobedience the very first evening." "she didn't know," said both the girls. "it isn't her fault." "and if she had known," harriet went on, "she couldn't have helped it. miss broom, somebody's took such lots of her things. tell her, gerry." under her protection i repeated the list of missing articles, but before i had got to the end the governess interrupted me. "you are a most impertinent child," she said, "to say such a thing. there are no thieves at green bank--what a mind you must have! your things are safely packed away. such as you really need you shall have from time to time as i or miss aspinall think fit. the frock you have on must be kept as your best one, and you must wear the brown check every day. you have far too many clothes--absurd extravagance--no wonder----" but here she had the sense to stop short. i did not care so much about my clothes. "it's the other things i mind," i began, but miss broom, who was already at the door, again interrupted. "nonsense," she said. "we cannot have the rooms littered with rubbish. miss aspinall left it to me. you may have your biblical dissected maps on sundays, and perhaps some of the other puzzles during the christmas holidays, but young ladies do not come to school to amuse themselves, but to work hard at their lessons." i dared not say anything more. there may have been some reason in putting away a certain number of my treasures, for dear mamma, in her wish to do all she possibly could for my happiness, had very probably sent more things with me than was advisable. but i was not a silly spoilt child; i had always been taught to be reasonable, and i would have given in quite cheerfully if miss broom had put it before me in any kindly way. i was not left quite without defence, however. "i don't see but what you might let her have some things out," said emma. "harry and i have. look at the mantelpiece--the china figures and the swiss châlets are our ornaments, and there's quite room for some more." but miss broom was by this time at the door, which shut after her sharply without her saying another word. "horrid old cat," said both the smiths. i said nothing, for if i had i knew i should have burst into tears. but after i was ready for bed and had said my prayers, i could not help the one bitter complaint. "i wouldn't mind anything else if only she'd let me have papa and mamma's picture," i said. "_of course_ you should have that," said emma. "i'm sure miss ledbury would let you have it. i think even miss aspinall would. don't be unhappy, gerry, i'll see if i can't do something for you to-morrow." and with this consolation i fell asleep. nor did emma forget her promise. the next day i found my daguerreotype installed on the mantelpiece, where it stayed all the time i was at school. my happiest days were those of our french lessons, for then miss fenmore was the teacher. she spoke french very well, and she was most kind and patient. yet for some reason or other she was not much liked in the school. there was a prejudice against her as there was against me: partly, because she did not belong to that part of the country, she was said to "give herself airs"; partly, i think, because she was quiet and rather reserved; partly, i am afraid, because some of the elder girls were jealous of her extreme loveliness. she was as kind to me as she dared to be, but i had no lessons from her except french, and she has since told me that she did not venture to show me anything like partiality, as it would only have made my life still harder and lonelier. the remembrances which stand out the most clearly in my mind will give a fair idea of my time at green bank. the next great trouble i had came on my first sunday there. it had been settled that i was to write to mamma once a week--by every mail, that is to say. the usual day for writing home was wednesday, the half-holiday, but as the south american mail left england that very day, mamma had arranged with miss ledbury that i should be allowed to add a little on sundays to my letter, as otherwise my news would be a whole week late before it left. so on the first sunday afternoon i got out my writing things with great satisfaction, and when miss broom asked me what i was going to do, i was pleased to be able to reply that miss ledbury had given leave for a sunday letter. miss broom said something to miss aspinall, but though they both looked very disapproving, they said no more. i wrote a long letter. this time, of course, it had to be a complete one, as i had only come to green bank on the thursday. i poured out my heart to mamma, but yet, looking back now and recalling, as i know i can, pretty correctly, all i said, i do not think it was exaggerated or wrong. i tried to write cheerfully, for childish as i was in many ways, i did understand that it would make mamma miserable to think i was unhappy. i was just closing the envelope when miss broom entered the room. "what are you doing?" she said. "dear, dear, you don't mean to say you have been all this afternoon writing that letter? what a waste of time! no, no, you must not do that. miss ledbury will seal it." "it doesn't need sealing," i replied. "it is a gumming-down envelope." but she had come close to me, and drew it out of my hand. "no letters leave this house without being first read by miss ledbury or miss aspinall," she said. "why do you stare so? it is the rule at every school," and so in those days i suppose it was. "if you have written nothing you should not, you have no reason to dread its being seen." "yes, i have," i replied indignantly. even the three or four days i had been at school had made me months older. "i have," i repeated. "nobody would say to strangers all they'd say to their own mamma." i felt my face growing very red; i pulled the letter out of the envelope and began to tear it across. but miss broom's strong hands caught hold of mine. "you are a very naughty girl," she said, "a very naughty girl indeed. i saw at once how spoilt and self-willed you were, but i never could have believed you would dare to give way to such violent temper." she dragged the letter out of my fingers--indeed, i was too proud to struggle with her--and left the room. i sat there in a sort of stupefied indifference. that day had been the worst i had had. there was not the interest of lessons, nor the daily bustle which had always something enlivening about it. it was so dull, and oh, so different from home! the home-sickness which i was too ignorant to give a name to began to come over me with strides; but for my letter to mamma i felt as if i could not have lived through that afternoon. for even the smiths were away. they were what was called "weekly boarders," going home every saturday at noon and staying till monday morning. the indifference did not last long. gradually both it and the indignation broke down. i laid my head on the table before me and burst into convulsive crying. i do not think i cried loudly. i only remember the terrible sort of shaking that went through me--i had never felt anything like it in my life--and i remember trying to choke down my sobs for fear of miss broom hearing me and coming back. [illustration: "my poor little girl, what _is_ the matter?"] some one opened the door and looked in. i tried to be perfectly quiet. but the some one, whoever it was, had seen and perhaps heard me, for she came forward, and in another moment i felt an arm steal gently round me, while a kind voice said softly, very softly, "my poor little girl, what _is_ the matter?" and looking up, i saw that the new-comer was miss fenmore. "oh," i said through my tears, "it's my letter, and she's taken it away--that horrid, _horrid_ miss broom." and i told her the whole story. miss fenmore was very wise as well as kind. i have often wondered how she had learnt so much self-control in her short life, for though she then seemed quite "old" to me, i now know she cannot have been more than eighteen or nineteen. but she had had a sad life--that of an orphan since childhood. i suppose sorrow had done the work of years in her case--work that is indeed often not done at all! for she had a character which was good soil for all discipline. she was naturally so sweet and joyous--she seemed born with rose-coloured spectacles. "dear child," she said, "try not to take this so much to heart. i daresay your letter will be sent just as it is. miss broom is sure to apply to miss aspinall, perhaps to miss ledbury. and miss ledbury is really kind, and she must have had great experience in such things." but the last words were spoken with more hesitation. miss fenmore knew that the class of children composing miss ledbury's school had not had a home like mine. suddenly she started up--steps were coming along the passage. "i must not talk to you any more just now," she said, "i came to fetch a book." after all, the steps did not come to the schoolroom. so after sitting there a little longer, somewhat comforted by the young governess's words, i went up to my own room, where i bathed my eyes and smoothed my hair, mindful of haddie's warning--not to get the name of a cry-baby! late that evening, after tea, i was sent for to miss ledbury in the drawing-room. it was a very rainy night, so only a few of the elder girls had gone to church. miss ledbury herself suffered sadly from asthma, and could never go out in bad weather. this was the first time i had seen her to speak to since i came. i was still too unhappy to feel very frightened, and i was not naturally shy, though i seemed so, owing to my difficulty in expressing myself. and there was something about the old lady's manner, gentle though she was, which added to my constraint. i have no doubt she found me very dull and stupid, and it must have been disappointing, for she did mean to be kind. she spoke to me about my letter which she had read, according to her rule, to which she said she could make no exceptions. i did not clearly understand what she meant, so i just replied "no, ma'am," and "yes, ma'am." she said the letter should be sent as it was, but she gave me advice for the future which in some ways was very good. could i not content myself with writing about my own affairs--my lessons, the books i was reading, and so on? what was the use of telling mamma that i did not like miss aspinall, and that i could not bear miss broom? would it please mamma, or would it make school-life any happier for me to take up such prejudices? these ladies were my teachers and i must respect them. how could i tell at the end of three days if i should like them or not? i felt i _could_ tell, but i did not dare to say so. all i longed for was to get away. so when the old lady went on putting words into my mouth, as it were, about being wiser for the future, and not touchy and fanciful, and so on, i agreed with her and said "no, ma'am" and "yes, ma'am" a few more times, meekly enough. then she kissed me, and again i felt that she meant to be kind and that it was wrong of me to disappoint her, but somehow i could not help it. and i went upstairs to bed feeling more lonely than ever, now that i quite understood that my letters to mamma must never be anything more than i might write to a stranger--a mere mockery, in short. there was but one person i felt that i could confide in. that was miss fenmore. but the days went on and she seemed to take less instead of more notice of me. i did not understand that her position, poor girl, was much more difficult than mine. if she had seemed to pet me or make much of me it would only have made miss broom still more severe to me, and angry with her. for, as was scarcely to be wondered at, miss broom was very indignant indeed at the way i had spoken of her in my letter to mamma. and miss fenmore was entirely at that time dependent upon her position at green bank. she had no home, and if she brought displeasure upon herself at miss ledbury's her future would look very dark indeed. yet she was far from selfish. her caution was quite as much for my sake as for her own. chapter viii. "nobody--_nobody_." the history of that first week might stand for the history of several months at green bank. that is why i have related it as clearly as possible. in one sense i suppose people would say my life grew easier to me, that is to say i got more accustomed to it, but with the "growing accustomed," increased the loss of hope and spring, so i doubt if time did bring any real improvement. i became very dull and silent. i seemed to be losing the power of complaining, or even of wishing for sympathy. i took some interest in my lessons, and almost the only pleasure i had was when i got praise for them. but that did not often happen, not as often as it should have done, i really believe. for the prejudice against me on the part of the upper teachers did not wear off. and i can see now that i must have been a disagreeable child. nor did i win more liking among my companions. they gradually came to treat me with a sort of indifferent contempt. "it's only that stupid child," i would hear said when i came into the room. the christmas holidays came and went, without much improving matters. i spent them at school with one or two other pupils, much older than i. miss broom went away, and we were under miss aspinall's charge, for miss ledbury had caught a bad cold and her niece would not leave her. i preferred miss aspinall to miss broom certainly, but i had half hoped that miss fenmore would have stayed. she too went away, however, having got a "holiday engagement," which she was very glad of she told me when she bade me good-bye. i did not understand what she meant, beyond hearing that she was glad to go, so i said nothing about being sorry. "she doesn't care for me," i thought. i saw nothing of haddie, though he wrote that he was very happy spending the holidays at the house of one of his schoolfellows, and i was glad of this, even while feeling so utterly deserted myself. it was very, very dull, but i felt as if i did not mind. even mamma's letters once a fortnight gave me only a kind of tantalising pleasure, for i knew i dared not _really_ answer them. the only thing i felt glad of was that she did not know how lonely and unhappy i was, and that she never would do so till the day--the day which i could scarcely believe would ever, _ever_ come--when i should see her again, and feel her arms round me, and know that all the misery and loneliness were over! some new pupils came after the christmas holidays, and one or two of the elder girls did not return. but the new boarders were older than i and took no notice of me, so their coming made no difference. one event, however, did interest me--that was the appearance at certain classes two or three times a week of a very sweet-looking little girl about my own age. she was pretty and very nicely dressed, though by no means showily, and her tone of voice and way of speaking were different from those of most of my companions. i wished she had come altogether, and then i might have made friends with her. "only," i said to myself unselfishly, "she would most likely be as unhappy as i am, so i shouldn't wish for it." one of the classes she came to was the french one--the class which, as i have said, miss fenmore taught. and miss fenmore seemed to know her, for she called her by her christian name--"myra." the first time i heard it i felt quite puzzled. i knew i had heard it before, though i could not remember where or when, except that it was not very long ago. and when i heard her last name, "raby"--"miss raby" one of the other teachers called her--and put the two together--"myra raby"--i felt more and more certain i had heard them spoken of before, though i was equally certain i had never seen the little girl herself. i might have asked miss fenmore about her, but it did not enter into my head to do so: that was one of my odd childish ways. and it was partly, too, that i was growing more and more reserved and silent. even to harriet smith i did not talk half as much as at first, and she used to tell me i was growing sulky. i took great interest in watching for myra's appearance. i daresay if i could make a picture of her now she would seem a quaint old-fashioned little figure to you, but to me she seemed perfectly lovely. she had pretty brown hair, falling in ringlets round her delicate little face; her eyes were gray, very soft and gentle, and she had a dear little rosebud of a mouth. she was generally dressed in pale gray merino or cashmere, with white lace frilled round the neck and short sleeves--all little girls wore short sleeves then, even in winter; and once when i caught a glimpse of her getting into a carriage which was waiting for her at the door, i was lost in admiration of her dark green cloth pelisse trimmed with chinchilla fur. "she must be somebody very rich and grand," i thought. but i had no opportunity of getting to know more of her, than a nice little smile or a word or two of thanks if i passed her a book at the class or happened to sit next her. for she always left immediately after the lesson was over. up to easter she came regularly. then we had three weeks' holidays, and as before, miss fenmore went away. she was pleased to go, but when she said good-bye to me i thought she looked sad, and she called me "my poor little girl." "why do you say that?" i asked her. she smiled and answered that she did not quite know; she thought i looked dull, and she wished i were going too. "are you less unhappy than when you first came to school?" she said, looking at me rather earnestly. it was very seldom she had an opportunity of speaking to me alone. "no," i replied, "i'm much unhappier when i think about it. but i'm getting not to think, so i don't care." she looked still graver at this. i fancy she saw that what i said was true. i was growing dulled and stupefied, as it were, for want of any one to sympathise with me or draw me out, though i did not know quite how to put this in words. as i have said before, i was not a child with much power of expression. miss fenmore kissed me, but she sighed as she did so. "i wish----" she began, but then she stopped. "when i come back after easter," she said more cheerfully, "i hope i may somehow manage to see more of you, dear geraldine." "thank you," i answered. i daresay my voice did not sound as if i did thank her or as if i cared, though in my heart i was pleased, and often thought of what she had said during the holidays, which i found even duller than the christmas ones had been. they came to an end at last, however, but among the returning governesses and pupils there was no miss fenmore. nor did myra raby come again to the classes she used to attend. i wondered to myself why it was so, but for some time i knew nothing about miss fenmore, and in the queer silent way which was becoming my habit i did not ask. at last one day a new governess made her appearance, and then i overheard some of the girls saying she was to take miss fenmore's place. a sort of choke came into my throat, and for the first time i realised that i _had_ been looking forward to the pretty young governess's return. i do not remember anything special happening for some time after that. i suppose easter must have been early that year, for when the events occurred which i am now going to relate, it was still cold and wintry weather--very rainy at least, and mexington was always terribly gloomy in rainy weather. it seems a long stretch to look back upon--those weeks of the greatest loneliness i had yet known--but in reality i do not think it could have been more than three or four. i continued to work steadily--even hard--at my lessons. i knew that it would please mamma, and i had a vague feeling that somehow my getting on fast might shorten the time of our separation, though i could not have said why. i was really interested in some of my lessons, and anxious to do well even in those i did not like. but i was not quick or clever, and often, very often, my hesitation in expressing myself made me seem far less intelligent than i actually was. still i generally got good marks, especially for _written_ tasks, for the teachers, though hard and strict, were not unprincipled. they did not like me, but they were fair on the whole, i think. unluckily, however, about this time i got a bad cold. i was not seriously ill, but it hung about me for some time and made me feel very dull and stupid. i think, too, it must have made me a little deaf, though i did not know it at the time. i began to get on less well at lessons, very often making mistakes and replying at random, for which i was scolded as if i did it out of carelessness. and though i tried more and more to prepare my lessons perfectly, things grew worse and worse. at last one day they came to a point. i forget what the lesson was, and it does not matter, but every time a question came to me i answered wrongly. once or twice i did not hear, and when i said so, miss broom, whose class it was, was angry, and said i was talking nonsense. it ended in my bursting into tears, which i had never done before in public since i had been at green bank. miss broom was very annoyed. she said a great deal to me which between my tears and my deafness i did not hear, and at last she must have ordered me to go up to my room, for her tone grew more and more angry. "do you mean to defy me?" she said, so loud that i heard her plainly. i stared, and i do not know what would have happened if harriet smith, who was near me, had not started up in her good-natured way. "she doesn't hear; she's crying so," she said. "gerry, dear, miss broom says you're to go up to your room." i was nothing loth. i got up from my seat and made my way more by feeling than seeing--so blinded was i by crying--to the door, and upstairs. arrived there, i flung myself on to the end of my bed. it was cold, and outside it was raining, raining--it seems to me now that it never left off raining at mexington that spring; the sky, if i had looked out of the window, was one dull gray sheet. but i seemed to care for nothing--just at first the comfort of being able to cry with no one to look at me was all i wanted. so i lay there sobbing, though not loudly. after some little time had passed the downstairs bell rang--it was afternoon, and the bell meant, i knew, preparation for tea. so i was not very surprised when the door opened and emma and harriet came in--they were both kind, harriet especially, though her kindness was chiefly shown by loud abuse of miss broom. "you'd better take care, harry," said her sister at last, "or you'll be getting into disgrace yourself, which certainly won't do gerry any good. do be quick and make yourself tidy, the tea-bell will be ringing in a moment. hadn't you better wash your face and brush your hair, gerry--you do look such a figure." "i can't go down unless miss broom says i may," i replied, "and i don't want any tea," though in my heart i knew i was feeling hungry. much crying often makes children hungry; they are not like grown-up people. "oh, nonsense," said emma. "you'd feel ever so much better if you had some tea. what _i_ think you're so silly for is _minding_--why need you care what that old broom says? she daren't beat you or starve you, and once you're at home again you can snap your fingers at school and governesses and----" here harriet said something to her sister in a low voice which i did not hear. it made emma stop. "oh, well, i can't help it," she said, or something of that kind. "it doesn't do any good to cry like that, whatever troubles you have," she went on. i got up slowly and tried to wash away some of the traces of my tears by plunging my face in cold water. then harriet helped me to smooth my hair and make myself look neat. emma's words had had the effect of making me resolve to cry no more if i could help it. and a moment or two later i was glad i had followed her advice, for one of the elder girls came to our room with a message to say that i was to go down to tea, and after tea i was to stay behind in the dining-room as miss aspinall wished to speak to me. "very well," i said. but the moment the other girl had gone both emma and harriet began again. "that horrid old broom," said harriet, "just fancy her complaining to miss aspinall." and "promise me, gerry," said emma, "not to mind what she says, and whatever you do, don't cry. there's nothing vexes old broom so much as seeing we don't care--mean old cat." i could scarcely help laughing, my spirits had got up a little--that is to say, i felt more angry than sad now. i felt as if i really did _not_ much care what was said to me. and i drank my tea and ate my slices of thick bread and butter with a good appetite, though i saw miss broom watching me from her end of the table; and when i had finished i felt, as emma had said i should, "ever so much better"--that is to say, no longer in the least inclined to cry. nor did i feel nervous or frightened when miss aspinall--all the others having gone--seated herself in front of me and began her talk. it began quite differently from what i had expected. she was a good woman, and not nearly so bad-tempered as miss broom, though hard and cold, and i am sure she meant to do me good. she talked about how changed i had been of late, my lessons so much less well done, and how careless and inattentive i seemed. there was some truth in it. i knew my lessons had not been so well done, but i also knew i had not been careless or inattentive. "and worst of all," continued the governess, "you have got into such a habit of making excuses that it really amounts to telling untruths. several times, miss broom tells me, you have done a wrong lesson or not done one at all, and you have maintained to her that you had not been told what you _had_ been told--there was something about your french poetry yesterday, which you _must_ have known you were to learn. miss broom says you positively denied it." i was getting very angry now--i had wanted to say i was sorry about my lessons, but now that i was accused of not speaking the truth i felt nothing but anger. "i never tell stories," i said very loudly; "and if miss broom says i do, i'll write to mamma and tell her. i _won't_ stay here if you say such things to me." miss aspinall was quite startled; she had never seen me in a passion before, for i was usually considered in the school as sulky rather than violent-tempered. for a moment or two she stared, too astonished to speak. then, "go back to your room," she said. "i am sorry to say i must lay this before miss ledbury." i got up from my seat--miss aspinall had not kept me standing--and went upstairs again to my room, where i stayed for the rest of the evening, my supper--a cup of milk and a piece of dry bread--being brought me by a servant, and with it a message that i was to undress and go to bed, which i was not sorry to do. i lay there, not asleep, and still burning with indignation, when harriet came up to bed. she had not been told not to speak to me, very likely the teachers thought i would be asleep, and she was very curious to know what had passed. i told her all. she was very sympathising, but at the same time she thought it a pity i had lost my temper with miss aspinall. "i don't know how you'll get on now," she said, "with both her and miss broom so against you. you should just not have minded--like emma said." "not mind her saying i told stories!" i burst out. harriet did not seem to think there was anything specially annoying in that. "well," i went on, "_i_ mind it, whether you do or not. and i'm _going_ to mind it. i shall write to mamma and tell her i can't stay here any more, and i'm sure when she hears it she'll do _something_. she won't let me stay here. or--or--perhaps father will fix to come home again and not stay as long as two years there." "i don't think he'll do that," said harriet mysteriously. "what do you mean? what do you know about it?" i asked, for something in her voice struck me. "oh, nothing--i shouldn't have said it--it was only something i heard," she replied, looking rather confused. "something you heard," i repeated, starting up in bed and catching hold of her. "then you _must_ tell me. do you mean there's been letters or news about father and mamma that i don't know about?" "no, no," said harriet. "of course not." "then what do you mean? you shall tell me--if you don't," i went on, more and more excitedly, "i'll--" i hesitated--"i'll tell you what i'll do, i'll go straight downstairs, just as i am, in my nightgown, to miss ledbury herself, and tell her what you've said. i don't care if she beats me, i don't care what she does, but i _will_ know." harriet tried to pull herself away. "what a horrid temper you're getting, gerry," she said complainingly. "just when i hurried up to bed as quick as i could to talk to you. it's nothing, i tell you--only something i heard at home, and emma said i wasn't ever to tell it you." i clutched her more firmly. "you shall tell me, or i'll do what i said." harriet looked really frightened. "you'll not tell emma, then? you promise?" i nodded. "i promise." "well, then, it was only one day--papa was talking about somebody going to south america, and i said that was where your papa and mamma had gone, and papa asked your name, and then he said he had seen your papa at the bank, and it was a pity he hadn't been content to stay there. it was such a bad climate where he'd gone--lots of people got ill and died there, unless they were rich enough to live out of the town, and he didn't suppose any one who'd only been a clerk in the bank here would be that. and emma said, couldn't your papa and mamma come back if they got ill, and he said if they waited till then it would be rather too late. there's some fever people get there, that comes all of a sudden. and besides that, your papa must have promised he'd stay two years--they always do." as she went on, my heart fell lower and lower--for a moment or two i could not speak. all sorts of dreadful fears and imaginings began to fill my mind; perhaps my parents had already got that terrible illness harriet spoke of, perhaps one or both of them had already died. i could have screamed aloud. i felt i could not bear it--i must write to mamma a letter that nobody should read. i must see somebody who would tell me the truth--haddie, perhaps, knew more than i did. if i could go to him! but i had no money and no idea of the way, and miss aspinall would never, _never_ let me even write to ask him. besides, i was in disgrace, very likely they would not believe me if i told them why i was so miserable; they had already said i told stories, and then i must not get harriet into trouble. what _should_ i do? if only miss fenmore had still been there, i felt she would have been sorry for me, but there was nobody--_nobody_. i turned my face away from my little companion, and buried it in the pillow. harriet grew frightened. "what are you doing, gerry?" she said. "why don't you speak? are you going to sleep or are you crying? very likely your papa and mamma won't get that illness. i wish i hadn't told you." "never mind," i said. "i'm going to sleep." "and you won't tell emma?" harriet repeated. "of course not--don't you believe my word? do you too think that i tell stories?" i tried to get rid of my misery by letting myself grow angry. "you're very cross," said harriet; but all the same i think she understood me better than she could express, for she kissed me and said, "do go to sleep--don't be so unhappy." chapter ix. out in the rain. it would be an exaggeration to say that i did not sleep that night. children often sleep very heavily when they are specially unhappy, and i was unhappy enough, even before harriet's telling me what she had heard. but though i did sleep, i shall never forget that night. my dreams were so miserable, and when i awoke--very early in the morning--i could scarcely separate them from real things. it was actually not so bad when i was quite awake, for then i set myself thoroughly to think it all over. i could not bear it--i could not go on without knowing if it was true about father and mamma. i could not bear my life at school, if the looking forward to being with them again, before _very_ long, was to be taken from me. i must write a letter to mamma that no one would see; but first--yes, first i must know how much was true. whom could i ask? haddie? perhaps he knew no more than i did, and it was just as difficult to write to him as to mamma. then suddenly another thought struck me--mrs. selwood, old mrs. selwood, if i could but see her. perhaps if i wrote to her she would come to see me; mamma always said she was very kind, though i know she did not care much for children, especially little girls. still i thought i would try, though it would be difficult, for i should not like miss ledbury to know i had written to mrs. selwood secretly. she would be so angry, and i did not want to make miss ledbury angry. she was much nicer than the others. once or twice the idea came to me of going straight to her and telling her how miserable i was, but that would bring in harriet, and oh, how furious the other governesses would be! no, i would try to write to mrs. selwood--only, i did not know her address. i only knew the name of her house--fernley--that would not be enough, at least i feared not. i would try to find out; perhaps harriet could ask some one when she went home. my spirits rose a little with all this planning. i am afraid that the life i led was beginning to make me unchildlike and concealed in my ways. i enjoyed the feeling of having a secret and, so to say, outwitting my teachers, particularly miss broom. so, though i was looking pale and my eyes were still very swollen, i think harriet was surprised, and certainly very glad, to find that i was not very miserable or upset. a message was sent up to say i was to go down to breakfast with the others. and after prayers and breakfast were over i went into the schoolroom as usual. that morning did not pass badly; it happened to be a day for lessons i got on well with--written ones principally, and reading aloud. so i got into no fresh disgrace. it was a very rainy day, there was no question of going out, and i was sent to practise at twelve o'clock till the dressing-bell rang for the early dinner. that was to keep me away from the other girls. as soon as dinner was over miss broom came to me with a french poetry book in her hand. "this is the poem you should have learnt yesterday," she said, "though you denied having been told so. miss aspinall desires you to take it upstairs to your room and learn it, as you can do perfectly, if you choose, by three o'clock. then you are to come downstairs to the drawing-room, where you will find her." "very well," i said, as i took the book, "i will learn it." they were going to let me off rather easily, i thought, and possibly, just _possibly_, if miss ledbury was in the drawing-room too and seemed kind, i might ask her to give me leave to write to mrs. selwood just to say how very much i would like to see her, and then if i _did_ see her i could tell her what harriet had said, without risking getting harriet into trouble. so i set to work at my french poetry with good will, and long before three o'clock i had learnt it perfectly. there was a clock on the landing half-way down the staircase which struck the quarters and half-hours. i heard the quarter to three strike and then i read the poem right through six times, and after that, closing the book, i said it aloud to myself without one mistake, and then just as the clock began "_burr_-ing" before striking the hour i made my way quietly down to the drawing-room. i tapped at the door. "come in," said miss aspinall. she was standing beside miss ledbury, who was sitting in an arm-chair near the fire. she looked very pale, her face nearly as white as her hair, and it made me feel sorry, so that i stared at her and forgot to curtsey as we always were expected to do on entering a room where any of the governesses were. "do you not see miss ledbury?" said miss aspinall sharply. i felt my cheeks get red, and i turned back towards the door to make my curtsey. "i--i forgot," i said, and before miss aspinall had time to speak again, the old lady held out her hand. "you must try to be more thoughtful," she said, but her voice was gentle. "now give me your book," she went on, "i want to hear your french verses myself." i handed her the book, which was open at the place. i felt very glad i had learnt the poetry so well, as i wished to please miss ledbury. "begin, my dear," she said. i did so, repeating the six or eight verses without any mistake or hesitation. miss ledbury seemed pleased and relieved. "very well said--now, my dear child, that shows that you can learn well when you try." "of course she can," said miss aspinall. "but more important than learning your lessons well," continued miss ledbury, "is to be perfectly truthful and honest. what has distressed me, geraldine, has been to hear that when--as may happen to any child--you have forgotten a lesson, or learnt it imperfectly, instead of at once owning your fault, you have tried to screen yourself behind insincere excuses. that was the case about these very verses, was it not, miss aspinall?" (miss ledbury always called her niece "miss aspinall" before any of us.) "it was," replied miss aspinall. "miss broom will tell you all the particulars," and as she spoke miss broom came in. miss ledbury turned to her. "i wish you to state exactly what you have had to complain of in geraldine le marchant," she said. and miss broom, with a far from amiable expression, repeated the whole--my carelessness and ill-prepared lessons for some time past, the frequent excuses i made, saying that she had not told me what she certainly _had_ told me, my forgetting my french poetry altogether, and persisting in denying that it had been given out. i did not hear clearly all she said, but she raised her voice at the end, and i caught her last words. i felt again a sort of fury at her, and i gave up all idea of confiding in miss ledbury, or of trying to please any one. miss ledbury seemed nervous. "geraldine has said her french poetry perfectly," she said. "i think she has taken pains to learn it well." "it is some time since she has said any lesson perfectly to _me_, i am sorry to say," snapped miss broom. miss ledbury handed her the book. "you can judge for yourself," she said. "repeat the verses to miss broom, geraldine." then a strange thing happened. i really wanted to say the poetry well, partly out of pride, partly because again something in miss ledbury's manner made me feel gentler, but as i opened my mouth to begin, the words entirely left my memory. i looked up--possibly a little help, a syllable just to start me, would have set me right, but instead of that i saw miss broom's half-mocking, half-angry face, and miss aspinall's cold hard eyes. miss ledbury i did not look at. in reality i think both she and miss aspinall were afraid of miss broom. i do not think miss aspinall was as hard as she seemed. i drew a long breath--no, it was no use. i could not recall one word. "i've forgotten it," i said. miss aspinall gave an exclamation--miss ledbury looked at me with reproach. both believed that i was not speaking the truth, and that i had determined not to say the verses to miss broom. "impossible," said miss aspinall. "geraldine," said miss ledbury sadly but sternly, "do not make me distrust you." i grew stony. now i did not care. even miss ledbury doubted my word. i almost think if the verses had come back to me then, i would not have said them. i stood there, dull and stupid and obstinate, though a perfect fire was raging inside me. "geraldine," said miss ledbury again, still more sadly and sternly. i was only a child, and i was almost exhausted by all i had gone through. even my pride gave way. i forgot all that emma and harriet had said about not crying, and, half turning away from the three before me, i burst into a loud fit of tears and sobbing. miss ledbury glanced at her niece. i think the old lady had hard work to keep herself from some impulsive kind action, but i suppose she would have thought it wrong. but miss aspinall came towards me, and placed her arm on my shoulders. "geraldine," she said, and her voice was not unkind, "i beg you to try to master this naughty obstinate spirit. say the verses again, and all may be well." "no, no," i cried. "i can't, i can't. it is true that i've forgotten them, and if i could say them i wouldn't now, because you all think me a story-teller." she turned away, really grieved and shocked. "take her upstairs to her room again," said miss ledbury. "geraldine, your tears are only those of anger and temper." i did not care now. i suffered myself to be led back to my room, and i left off crying almost as suddenly as i had begun, and when miss aspinall shut the door, and left me there without speaking to me again, i sat down on the foot of my bed as if i did not care at all, for again there came over me that strange stolid feeling that nothing mattered, that nothing would ever make me cry again. it did not last long, however. i got up in a few minutes and looked out of the window. it was the dullest afternoon i had ever seen, raining, raining steadily, the sky all gloomy no-colour, duller even than gray. it might have been any season, late autumn, mid-winter; there was not a leaf, or the tiniest beginning of one, on the black branches of the two or three trees in what was called "the garden"--for my window looked to the back of the house--not the very least feeling of spring, even though we were some way on in april. i gave a little shiver, and then a sudden thought struck me. it would be a very good time for getting out without any one seeing me--no one would fancy it possible that i would venture out in the rain, and all my schoolfellows and the governesses were still at lessons. what was the use of waiting here? they might keep me shut up in my room for--for ever, perhaps--and i should never know about father and mamma, or get mrs. selwood's address or be allowed to write to her, or--or any one. i would go. it took but a few minutes to put on my things. as i have said, there was a queer mixture of childishness and "old-fashionedness," as it is called, about me. i dressed myself as sensibly as if i had been a grown-up person, choosing my thickest boots and warm jacket, and arming myself with my waterproof cape and umbrella. i also put my purse in my pocket--it contained a few shillings. then i opened the door and listened, going out a little way into the passage to do so. all was quite quiet--not even a piano was to be heard, only the clock on the landing sounded to me much louder than usual. if i had waited long, it would have made me nervous. i should have begun to fancy it was talking to me like dick whittington's bells, though, i am sure, it would not have said anything half so cheering! [illustration: i crept downstairs, past one schoolroom with its closed door.] but i did not wait to hear. i crept downstairs, past one schoolroom with its closed door, and a muffled sound of voices as i drew quite close to it, then on again, past the downstairs class-room, and along the hall to the front door. for that was what i had made up my mind was the best, bold as it seemed. i would go right out by the front door. i knew it opened easily, for we went out that way on sundays to church, and once or twice i had opened it. and nobody would ever dream of my passing out that way. it was all managed quite easily, and almost before i had time to take in what i had done, i found myself out in the road some little distance from green bank, for as soon as the gate closed behind me i had set off running from a half-nervous fear that some one might be coming in pursuit of me. i ran on a little farther, in the same direction, that of the town, for miss ledbury's house was in the outskirts--then, out of breath, i stood still to think what i should do. i had really not made any distinct plan. the only idea clearly in my mind was to get mrs. selwood's address, so that i could write to her. but as i stood there, another thought struck me. i would go home--to the house in the dull street which had never seemed dull to me! for there, i suddenly remembered, i might find one of our own servants. i recollected lydia's telling me that cook was probably going to "engage" with the people who had taken the house. and cook would be sure to know mrs. selwood's address, and--_perhaps_--cook would be able to tell me something about father and mamma. she was a kind woman--i would not mind telling her how dreadfully frightened i was about them since harriet smith had repeated what she had heard. i knew the way to our house, at least i thought i did, though afterwards i found i had taken two or three wrong turnings, which had made my journey longer. it was scarcely raining by this time, but the streets were dreadfully wet and muddy, and the sky still dark and gloomy. at last i found myself at the well-known corner of our street--how often i had run round it with haddie, when we had been allowed to go on some little errand by ourselves! i had not passed this way since mamma went, and the feeling that came over me was very strange. i went along till i came to our house, number ; then, in a sort of dream, i mounted the two or three steps to the door, and rang the bell. how well i knew its sound! it seemed impossible to believe that lydia would not open to me, and that if i hurried upstairs i should not find mamma sitting in her usual place in the drawing-room! but of course it was not so. a strange face met me as the door drew back, and for a moment or two i felt too confused to speak, though i saw the servant was looking at me in surprise. "is--can i see cook?" i got out at last. "cook," the maid repeated. "i'm sure i can't say. can't you give me your message--miss?" adding the last word after a little hesitation. "i'd rather see her, please. i want to ask her for mrs. selwood's address. mrs. selwood's a friend of mamma's, and i'm sure cook would know. we used to live here, and lydia said cook was going to stay." the servant's face cleared, but her reply was not encouraging. "oh," she said, "i see. but it's no use your seeing our cook, miss. she's a stranger. the other one--sarah wells was her name----" "yes, yes," i exclaimed, "that's her." "she's gone--weeks ago. her father was ill, and she had to go home. i'm sorry, miss"--she was a good-natured girl--"but it can't be helped. and i think you'd better go home quick. it's coming on to rain again, and it'll soon be dark, and you're such a little young lady to be out alone." "thank you," i said, and i turned away, my heart swelling with disappointment. i walked on quickly for a little way, for i felt sure the servant was looking after me. then i stopped short and asked myself again "what should i do?" the girl had advised me to go "home"--"home" to green bank, to be shut up in my room again, and be treated as a story-teller, and never have a chance of writing to mrs. selwood or any one! no, that i would not do. the very thought of it made me hasten my steps as if to put a greater distance between myself and miss ledbury's house. and i walked on some way without knowing where i was going except that it was in an opposite direction from school. it must have been nearly six o'clock by this time, and the gloomy day made it already dusk. the shops were lighting up, and the glare of the gas on the wet pavement made me look about me. i was in one of the larger streets now, a very long one, that led right out from the centre of the town to the outskirts. i was full of a strange kind of excitement; i did not mind the rain, and indeed it was not very heavy; i did not feel lonely or frightened, and my brain seemed unusually active and awake. "i know what i'll do," i said to myself; "i'll go to the big grocer's where they give haddie and me those nice gingerbreads, and i'll ask _them_ for mrs. selwood's address. i remember mamma said mrs. selwood always bought things there. and--and--i won't write to her. i'll go to the railway and see if i've money enough to get a ticket, and i'll go to mrs. selwood and tell her how i can't bear it any longer. i've got four shillings, and if that isn't enough i daresay the railway people wouldn't mind if i promised i'd send it them." i marched on, feeling once more very determined and valiant. i thought i knew the way to the big grocer's quite well, but when i turned down a street which looked like the one where it was, i began to feel a little confused. there were so many shops, and the lights in the windows dazzled me, and worst of all, i could not remember the name of the grocer's. it was something like simpson, but not simpson. i went on, turning again more than once, always in hopes of seeing it before me, but always disappointed. and i was beginning to feel very tired; i must, i suppose, have been really tired all the time, but my excitement had kept me up. at last i found myself in a much darker street than the others. for there were few shops in it, and most of the houses were offices of some kind. it was a wide street and rather hilly. as i stood at the top i saw it sloping down before me; the light of the tall lamps glimmered brokenly in the puddles, for it was raining again more heavily now. suddenly, as if in a dream, some words came back to me, so clearly that i could almost have believed some one was speaking. it was mamma's voice. "you had better put on your mackintosh, haddie," i seemed to hear her say, and then i remembered it all--it came before me like a picture--that rainy evening not many months ago when mamma and haddie and i had walked home so happily, we two tugging at her arms, one on each side, heedless of the rain or the darkness, or anything except that we were all together. i stood still. never, i think, was a child's heart more nearly breaking. chapter x. taking refuge. for a minute or two i seemed to feel nothing; then there came over me a sort of shiver, partly of cold, for it _was_ very cold, partly of misery. i roused myself, however. with the remembrance of that other evening had come to me also the knowledge of where i was. only a few yards down the sloping street on the left-hand side came a wide stretch of pavement, and there, in a kind of angle, stood a double door, open on both sides, leading into a small outer hall, from which again another door, glazed at the top, was the entrance to cranston's show-rooms. i remembered it all perfectly. just beyond the inner entrance stood the two carved lions that haddie and i admired so much. i wished i could see them again, and--yes--a flash of joy went through me at the thought--i could get mrs. selwood's address quite as well from old mr. cranston as from the big grocer! as soon as the idea struck me i hurried on, seeming to gain fresh strength and energy. it was almost dark, but a gas-lamp was burning dimly above the lintel, and inside, on the glass of the inner door, were the large gilt letters "cranston and co." i ran up the two or three broad shallow steps and pushed open the door, which was a swing one. it was nearly time for closing, but that i did not know. there was no one to be seen inside, not, at least, in the first room, and the door made no noise. but there stood the dear lions--i could not see them very clearly, for the place was not brightly lighted, but i crept up to them, and stroked softly the one nearest me. they seemed like real friends. i had not courage to go into the other show-room, and all was so perfectly still that i could scarcely think any one was there. i thought i would wait a few minutes in hopes of some one coming out, of whom i could inquire if i could see mr. cranston. and i was now beginning to feel so tired--so very tired, and so cold. in here, though i did not see any fire, it felt ever so much warmer than outside. there was no chair or stool, but i found a seat for myself on the stand of the farther-in lion--each of them had a heavy wooden stand. it seemed very comfortable, and i soon found that by moving on a little i could get a nice rest for my head against the lion's body. a strange pleasant sense of protection and comfort came over me. "how glad i am i came in here," i said to myself. "i don't mind if i have to wait a good while. it is so cosy and warm." i no longer made any plans. i knew i wanted to ask for mrs. selwood's address, but that was all i thought of. what i should do when i had got it i did not know; where i should go for the night, for it was now quite dark, i did not trouble about in the least. i think i must have been very much in the condition i have heard described, of travellers lost in the snow--the overpowering wish to stay where i was and rest, was all i was conscious of. i did not think of going to sleep. i did not know i was sleepy. and for some time i knew nothing. the first thing that caught my attention was a very low murmur--so low that it might have been merely a breath of air playing in the keyhole; i seemed to have been hearing it for some time before it took shape, as it were, and grew into a softly-whispering voice, gradually gathering into words. "poor little girl; so she has come at last. well, as you say, brother, we have been expecting her for a good while, have we not?" "yes, indeed, but speak softly. it would be a pity to awake her. and what we have to do can be done just as well while she sleeps." "i don't agree with you," said the first speaker. "i should much prefer her being awake. she would enjoy the ride, and she is an intelligent child and would profit by our conversation." "as you like," replied number two. "i must be off to fetch the boy. she will perhaps be awake by the time i return." and then--just as i was on the point of starting up and telling them i _was_ awake--came a sound of stamping and rustling, and a sort of whirr and a breath of cold air, which told me the swing door had been opened. and when i sat straight up and looked about me, lo and behold, there was only one lion to be seen--the stand of his brother was empty! "i--please i _am_ awake," i said rather timidly. "it was me you were talking about, wasn't it?" "_i_--'it was _i_'--the verb to be takes the same case after it as before it," was the reply, much to my surprise and rather to my disgust. who would have thought that the carved lions bothered about grammar! "it was i, then," i repeated meekly. i did not want to give any offence to my new friend. "please--i heard you saying something--something about going a ride. and where has the--the other mr. lion gone? i heard about--a boy." "you heard correctly," my lion replied, and i knew somehow that he was smiling, or whatever lions do that matches smiling. "my brother has gone to fetch _your_ brother--we planned it all some time ago--we shall meet on the sea-shore and travel together. but we should be starting. can you climb up on to my back?" "oh yes," i said quite calmly, as if there was nothing the least out of the common in all this, "i'm sure i can." "catch hold of my mane," said the lion; "don't mind tugging, it won't hurt," and--not to my surprise, for nothing surprised me--i felt my hands full of soft silky hair, as the lion shook down his long wavy mane to help my ascent. nothing was easier. in another moment i was cosily settled on his back, which felt deliciously comfortable, and the mane seemed to tuck itself round me like a fleecy rug. "shut your eyes," said my conductor or steed, i don't know which to call him; "go to sleep if you like. i'll wake you when we meet the others." "thank you," i said, feeling too content and comfortable to disagree with anything he said. then came a feeling of being raised up, a breath of colder air, which seemed to grow warm again almost immediately, and i knew nothing more till i heard the words, "here they are." i opened my eyes and looked about me. it was night--overhead in the deep blue sky innumerable stars were sparkling, and down below at our feet i heard the lap-lap of rippling waves. a dark, half-shadowy figure stood at my right hand, and as i saw it more clearly i distinguished the form of the other lion, with--yes, there was some one sitting on his back. "haddie," i exclaimed. "yes, yes, geraldine, it's me," my brother's own dear voice replied. "we're going right over the sea--did you know?--isn't it splendid? we're going to see father and mamma. hold out your hand so that you can feel mine." [illustration: the brother lions rose into the air.] i did so, and my fingers clasped his, and at that moment the brother lions rose into the air, and down below, even fainter and fainter, came the murmur of the sea, while up above, the twinkling stars looked down on what surely was one of the strangest sights they had ever seen in all their long, long experience! then again i seemed to know nothing, though somehow, all through, i felt the clasp of haddie's hand and knew we were close together. a beautiful light streaming down upon us, of which i was conscious even through my closed eyelids, was the next thing i remember. it seemed warm as well as bright, and i felt as if basking in it. "wake up, geraldine," said haddie's voice. i opened my eyes. but now i have come to a part of my story which i have never been able, and never shall be able, to put into fitting words. the scene before me was too beautiful, too magically exquisite for me even to succeed in giving the faintest idea of it. still i must try, though knowing that i cannot but fail. can you picture to yourselves the loveliest day of all the perfect summer days you have ever known--no, more than that, a day like summer and spring in one--the richness of colour, the balmy fragrance of the prime of the year joined to the freshness, the indescribable hopefulness and expectation which is the charm of the spring? the beauty and delight seemed made up of everything lovely mingled together--sights, sounds, scents, feelings. there was the murmur of running streams, the singing of birds, the most delicious scent from the flowers growing in profusion and of every shade of colour. haddie and i looked at each other--we still held each other by the hand, but now, somehow, we were standing together on the grass, though i could not remember having got down from my perch on the lion's back. "where are the lions, haddie?" i said. haddie seemed to understand everything better than i did. "they're all right," he replied, "resting a little. you see we've come a long way, geraldine, and so quick." "and where are we?" i asked. "what is this place, haddie? is it fairyland or--or--heaven?" haddie smiled. "it's not either," he said. "you'll find out the name yourself. but come, we must be quick, for we can't stay very long. hold my hand tight and then we can run faster." i seemed to know that something more beautiful than anything we had seen yet was coming. i did not ask haddie any more questions, even though i had a feeling that he knew more than i did. he seemed quite at home in this wonderful place, quite able to guide me. and his face was shining with happiness. we ran a good way, and very fast. but i did not feel at all tired or breathless. my feet seemed to have wings, and all the time the garden around us grew lovelier and lovelier. if haddie had not been holding my hand so fast i should scarcely have been able to resist stopping to gather some of the lovely flowers everywhere in such profusion, or to stand still to listen to the dear little birds singing so exquisitely overhead. "it must be fairyland," i repeated to myself more than once, in spite of what haddie had said. but suddenly all thought of fairyland or flowers, birds and garden, went out of my head, as haddie stopped in his running. "geraldine," he half whispered, "look there." "there" was a little arbour a few yards from where we stood, and there, seated on a rustic bench, her dear face all sunshine, was mamma! she started up as soon as she saw us and hastened forward, her arms outstretched. "my darlings, my darlings," she said, as haddie and i threw ourselves upon her. she did look so pretty; she was all in white, and she had a rose--one of the lovely roses i had been admiring as we ran--fastened to the front of her dress. "mamma, mamma," i exclaimed, as i hugged her, "oh, mamma, i am so happy to be with you. is this your garden, mamma, and may we stay with you always now? wasn't it good of the lions to bring us? i have been so unhappy, mamma--somebody said you would get ill far away. but nobody could get ill here. oh, mamma, you will let us stay always." she did not speak, but looking at haddie i saw a change in his face. "geraldine," he said, "i told you we couldn't stay long. the lions would be scolded if we did, and you know you must say your french poetry." and then there came over me the most agonising feeling of disappointment and misery. all the pent-up wretchedness of the last weeks at school woke up and overwhelmed me like waves of dark water. it is as impossible for me to put this into words as it was for me to describe my exquisite happiness, for no words ever succeed in expressing the intense and extraordinary sensations of some dreams. and of course, as you will have found out by this time, the strange adventures i have been relating were those of a dream, though i still, after all the years that have passed since then, remember them so vividly. it was the fatal words "french poetry" that seemed to awake me--to bring back my terrible unhappiness, exaggerated by the fact of my dreaming. "french poetry," i gasped, "oh, haddie, how can you remind me of it?" haddie suddenly turned away, and i saw the face of one of the lions looking over his shoulder, with, strange to say, a white frilled cap surrounding it. "you must try to drink this, my dear," said the lion, if the lion it was, for as i stared at him the brown face changed into a rather ruddy one--a round good-humoured face, with pleasant eyes and smile, reminding me of mamma's old nurse who had once come to see us. i stared still more, and sat up a little, for, wonderful to relate, i was no longer in the lovely garden, no longer even in the show-room leaning against the lion: i was in bed in a strange room which i had never seen before. and leaning over me was the owner of the frilled cap, holding a glass in her hand. "try to drink this, my dearie," she said again, and then i knew it was not the lion but this stranger who had already spoken to me. i felt very tired, and i sank back again upon the pillow. what did it all mean? where was i? where had i been? i asked myself this in a vague sleepy sort of way, but i was too tired to say it aloud, and before i could make up my mind to try i fell asleep again. the room seemed lighter the next time i opened my eyes. it was in fact nearly the middle of the day, and a fine day--as clear as it ever was in great mexington. i felt much better and less tired now, almost quite well, except for a slight pain in my throat which told me i must have caught cold, as my colds generally began in my throat. "i wonder if it was with riding so far in the night," i first said to myself, with a confused remembrance of my wonderful dream. "i didn't feel at all cold on the lion's back, and in the garden it was lovelily warm." then, as my waking senses quite returned, i started. it had been only a dream--oh dear, oh dear! but still, _something_ had happened--i was certainly not in my little bed in the corner of the room i shared with emma and harriet smith at green bank. when had my dream begun, or was i still dreaming? i raised myself a little, very softly, for now i began to remember the good-humoured face in the frilled cap, and i thought to myself that unless its owner were a dream too, perhaps she was still in the room, and i wanted to look about me first on my own account. what there was to see was very pleasant and very real. i felt quite sure i was not dreaming now, wherever i was. it was a large old-fashioned room, with red curtains at the two windows and handsome dark wood furniture. there was a fire burning cheerfully in the grate and the windows looked very clean, even though there was a prospect of chimney-tops to be seen out of the one nearest to me, which told me i was still in a town. and then i began to distinguish sounds outside, though here in this room it was so still. there were lots of wheels passing, some going quickly, some lumbering along with heavy slowness--it was much noisier than at miss ledbury's or at my own old home. here i seemed to be in the very heart of a town. i began to recall the events of the day before more clearly. yes, up to the time i remembered leaning against the carved lion in mr. cranston's show-room all had been real, i felt certain. i recollected with a little shiver the scene in the drawing-room at green bank, and how they had all refused to believe i was speaking the truth when i declared that the french poetry had entirely gone out of my head. and then there was the making up my mind that i could bear school no longer, and the secretly leaving the house, and at last losing my way in the streets. i had meant to go to mrs. selwood's, or at least to get her address and write to her--but where was i now?--what should i do? my head grew dizzy again with trying to think, and a faint miserable feeling came over me and i burst into tears. i did not cry loudly. but there was some one watching in the room who would have heard even a fainter sound than that of my sobs--some one sitting behind my bed-curtains whom i had not seen, who came forward now and leant over me, saying, in words and voice which seemed curiously familiar to me, "geraldine, my poor little girl." chapter xi. kind friends. it was miss fenmore. i knew her again at once. and she called me "my poor little girl"--the very words she had used when she said good-bye to me and looked so sorry before she went away for the easter holidays, never to come back, though she did not then know it, to green bank. "you remember me, dear?" she said, in the sweet tones i had loved to hear. "don't speak if you feel too ill or if it tires you. but don't feel frightened or unhappy, though you are in a strange place--everything will be right." i felt soothed almost at once, but my curiosity grew greater. "when did you come?" i said. "you weren't here when i woke before. it was--somebody with a cap--first i thought it was one of the lions." the sound of my own voice surprised me, it was so feeble and husky, and though my throat did not hurt me much i felt that it was thick and swollen. miss fenmore thought i was still only half awake or light-headed, but she was too sensible to show that she thought so. "one of the lions?" she said, smiling. "you mean the carved lions that myra is so fond of. no--that was a very funny fancy of yours--a lion with a cap on! it was old hannah that you saw, the old nurse. she has been watching beside you all night. when you awoke before, i was out. i went out very early." she spoke in a very matter-of-fact way, but rather slowly, as if she wanted to be sure of my understanding what she said. and as my mind cleared and i followed her words i grew more and more anxious to know all there was to hear. "i don't understand," i said, "and it hurts me to speak. is this your house, miss fenmore, and how do you know about the lions? and who brought me in here, and why didn't i know when i was put in this bed?" miss fenmore looked at me rather anxiously when i said it hurt me to speak. but she seemed pleased, too, at my asking the questions so distinctly. "don't speak, dear," she said quietly, "and i will explain it all. the doctor said you were not to speak if it hurt you." "the doctor," i repeated. another puzzle! "yes," said miss fenmore, "the doctor who lives in this street--dr. fallis. he knows you quite well, and you know him, don't you? just nod your head a little, instead of speaking." but the doctor's name brought back too many thoughts for me to be content with only nodding my head. "dr. fallis," i said. "oh, i would so like to see him. he could tell me----" but i stopped. "mrs. selwood's address" i was going to say, as all the memories of the day before began to rush over me. "why didn't i know when he came?" "you were asleep, dear, but he is coming again," said miss fenmore quietly. "he was afraid you had got a sore throat by the way you breathed. you must have caught cold in the evening down in the show-room by the lions, before they found you." and then she went on to explain it all to me. i was in mr. cranston's house!--up above the big show-rooms, where he and old mrs. cranston lived. they had found me fast asleep, leaning against one of the lions--the old porter and the boy who went round late in the evening to see that all was right for the night, though when the rooms were shut up earlier no one had noticed me. i was so fast asleep, so utterly exhausted, that i had not awakened when the old man carried me up to the kitchen, just as the servants were about going to bed, to ask what in the world was to be done with me; nor even later, when, on miss fenmore's recognising me, they had undressed and settled me for the night in the comfortable old-fashioned "best bedroom," had i opened my eyes or spoken. old hannah watched beside me all night, and quite early in the morning dr. fallis, who fortunately was the cranstons' doctor too, had been sent for. "he said we were to let you have your sleep out," said miss fenmore, "though by your breathing he was afraid you had caught cold. how is your throat now, dear?" "it doesn't hurt very much," i said, "only it feels very shut up." "i expect you will have to stay in bed all to-day," she replied. "dr. fallis will be coming soon and then we shall know." "but--but," i began; then as the thought of it all came over me still more distinctly i hid my face in the pillow and burst into tears. "must i go back to school?" i said. "oh, miss fenmore, they will be so angry--i came away without leave, because--because i couldn't bear it, and they said i told what wasn't true--that was almost the worst of all. fancy if they wrote and told mamma that i told lies." "she would not believe it," said miss fenmore quietly; "and besides, i don't think miss ledbury would do such a thing, and she always writes to the parents herself, i know. and she is kind and good, geraldine." "p'raps she means to be," i said among my tears, "but it's miss aspinall and--and--miss broom. i think i hate her, miss fenmore. oh, i shouldn't say that--i never used to hate anybody. i'm getting all wrong and naughty, i know," and i burst into fresh sobs. poor miss fenmore looked much distressed. no doubt she had been told to keep me quiet and not let me excite myself. "geraldine, dear," she said, "do try to be calm. if you could tell me all about it quietly, the speaking would do you less harm than crying so. try, dear. you need not speak loud." i swallowed down my tears and began the story of my troubles. once started i could not have helped telling her all, even if it had hurt my throat much more than it did. and she knew a good deal already. she was a girl of great natural quickness and full of sympathy. she seemed to understand what i had been going through far better than i could put it in words, and when at last, tired out, i left off speaking, she said all she could to comfort me. there was no need for me to trouble about going back to green bank just now. dr. fallis had said i must stay where i was for the present, and when i saw him i might tell him anything i liked. "he will understand," she said, "and he will explain to miss ledbury. i have seen miss ledbury this morning already, and----" "was she dreadfully angry?" i interrupted. "no, dear," miss fenmore replied. "she had been terribly frightened about you, and miss aspinall and some of the servants had been rushing about everywhere. but miss ledbury is very good, as i keep telling you, geraldine. she is very sorry to hear how unhappy you have been, and if she had known how anxious you were about your father and mother she would have tried to comfort you. i wish you had told her." "i wanted to tell her, but miss broom was there, and they thought i told stories," i repeated. "well, never mind about that now. you shall ask dr. fallis, and i am sure he will tell you you need not be so unhappy." it was not till long afterwards that i knew how very distressed poor old miss ledbury had been, and how she had blamed herself for not having tried harder to gain my confidence. nor did i fully understand at the time how very sensibly miss fenmore had behaved when mr. and mrs. cranston sent her off to green bank to tell of my having, without intending it, taken refuge with them; she had explained things so that miss ledbury, and indeed miss aspinall, felt far more sorry for me than angry with me. just as miss fenmore mentioned his name there came a tap at the door, and in another moment i saw the kind well-known face of our old doctor looking in. "well, well," he began, looking at me with a rather odd smile, "and how is the little runaway? my dear child, why did you not come to me, instead of wandering all about great mexington streets in the dark and the rain? not that you could have found anywhere better for yourself than this kind house, but you might have been all night downstairs in the cold! tell me, what made you run away like that--no, don't tell me just yet. it is all right now, but i think you have talked enough. has she had anything to eat?" and he turned to miss fenmore. then he looked at my throat and listened to my breathing, and tapped me and felt my pulse and looked at my tongue before i could speak at all. "she must stay in bed all to-day," he said at last. "i will see her again this evening," and he went on to give miss fenmore a few directions about me, i fidgeting all the time to ask him about father and mamma, though feeling too shy to do so. "geraldine is very anxious to tell you one of the chief causes of her coming away from green bank as she did," said miss fenmore. and then she spoke of the gossip that had reached me through harriet smith about the terribly unhealthy climate my parents were in. dr. fallis listened attentively. "i wanted to write to mrs. selwood, and i thought mr. cranston would tell me her address," i said, though i almost started when i heard how hoarse and husky my voice sounded. "can you tell it me? i do so want to write to her." "mrs. selwood is abroad, my dear, and not returning till next month," said dr. fallis; but when he saw how my face fell, he added quickly, "but i think i can tell you perhaps better than she about your parents. i know the place--mr. le marchant consulted me about it before he decided on going, as he knew i had been there myself in my young days. unhealthy? no, not if people take proper care. your father and mother live in the best part--on high ground out of the town--there is never any fever there. and i had a most cheerful letter from your father quite lately. put all these fears out of your head, my poor child. please god you will have papa and mamma safe home again before long. but they must not find such a poor little white shrimp of a daughter when they come. you must get strong and well and do all that this kind young lady tells you to do. good-bye--good-bye," and he hurried off. i was crying again by this time, but quietly now, and my tears were not altogether because i was weak and ill. they were in great measure tears of relief--i was so thankful to hear what he said about father and mamma. "miss fenmore," i whispered, "i wonder why they didn't take me with them, if it's a nice place. and then there wouldn't have been all these dreadful things." "it is quite a different matter to take a child to a hot climate," she said. "grown-up people can stand much that would be very bad for girls and boys. when i was little my father was in india, and my sister and i had to be brought up by an aunt in england." "did you mind?" i said eagerly. "and did your papa soon come home? and where was your mamma?" miss fenmore smiled, but there was something a little sad in her smile. "i was very happy with my aunt," she said; "she was like a mother to me. for my mother died when i was a little baby. yes, my father has been home several times, but he is in india again now, and he won't be able to come back for good till he is quite old. so you have much happier things to look forward to, you see, geraldine." that was true. i felt very sorry for miss fenmore as i lay thinking over what she had been telling me. then another idea struck me. "is mrs. cranston your aunt?" i said. "is that why you are living here?" miss fenmore looked up quickly. "no," she replied; "i thought somehow that you understood. i am here because i am myra raby's governess--myra raby, who used to come for some lessons to green bank." "oh!" i exclaimed. this explained several things. "oh yes," i went on, "i remember her, and i know she's mr. cranston's grand-daughter--he was speaking of her to mamma one day. i should like to see her, miss fenmore. may i?" miss fenmore was just going to reply when again there came a tap at the door, and in answer to her "come in" it opened and two figures appeared. i could see them from where i lay, and i shall never forget the pretty picture they made. myra i knew by sight, and as i think i have said before, she was an unusually lovely child. and with her was a quite old lady, a small old lady--myra was nearly as tall as she--with a face that even i (though children seldom notice beauty in elderly people) saw was quite charming. this was mrs. cranston. i felt quite surprised. mr. cranston was a rather stout old man, with spectacles and a big nose. i had not thought him at all "pretty," and somehow i had fancied mrs. cranston must be something like him, and i gave a sigh of pleasure as the old lady came up to the side of the bed with a gentle smile on her face. "dr. fallis gave us leave to come in to see you, my dear," she said. "myra has been longing to do so all the morning." "i've been wanting to see her too," i said, half shyly. "and--please--it's very kind of you to let me stay here in this nice room. i didn't mean to fall asleep downstairs. i only wanted to speak to mr. cranston." "i'm sure mr. cranston would be very pleased to tell you anything he can that you want to know, my dear. but i think you mustn't trouble just now about anything except getting quite well," said the old lady. "myra has been wanting to come to see you all the morning, but we were afraid of tiring you." [illustration: myra came forward gently, her sweet face looking rather grave.] myra came forward gently, her sweet face looking rather grave. i put out my hand, and she smiled. "may she stay with me a little?" i asked mrs. cranston. "of course she may--that's what she came for," said the grandmother heartily. "but i don't think you should talk much. missie's voice sounds as if it hurt her to speak," she went on, turning to miss fenmore. "it doesn't hurt me much," i said. "i daresay i shall be quite well to-morrow. i am so glad i'm here--i wouldn't have liked to be ill at school," and i gave a little shudder. "i'm quite happy now that dr. fallis says it's not true about father and mamma getting ill at that place, and i don't want to ask mr. cranston anything now, thank you. it was about mrs. selwood, but i don't mind now." i had been sitting up a little--now i laid my head down on the pillows again with a little sigh, half of weariness, half of relief. mrs. cranston looked at me rather anxiously. "are you very tired, my dear?" she said. "perhaps it would be better for myra not to stay just now." "oh, please let her stay," i said; "i like to see her." so myra sat down beside my bed and took hold of my hand, and though we did not speak to each other, i liked the feeling of her being there. mrs. cranston left the room then, and miss fenmore followed her. i think the old lady had made her a little sign to do so, though i did not see it. afterwards i found out that mrs. cranston had thought me looking very ill, worse than she had expected, and she wanted to hear from miss fenmore if it was natural to me to look so pale. i myself, though feeling tired and disinclined to talk, was really happier than i had been for a very long time. there was a delightful sensation of being safe and at home, even though the kind people who had taken me in, like a poor little stray bird, were strangers. the very look of the old-fashioned room and the comfortable great big four-post bed made me hug myself when i thought how different it all was from the bare cold room at green bank, where there had never once been a fire all the weeks i was there. it reminded me of something--what was it? oh yes, in a minute or two i remembered. it was the room i had once slept in with mamma at grandmamma's house in london, several years before, when i was quite a little girl. for dear grandmamma had died soon after we came to live at great mexington. but there was the same comfortable old-fashioned feeling: red curtains to the window and the bed, and a big fire and the shiny dark mahogany furniture. oh yes, how well i remembered it, and how enormous the bed seemed, and how mamma tucked me in at night and left the door a little open in case i should feel lonely before she came to bed. it all came back to me so that i forgot where i was for the moment, till i felt a little tug given to the hand that myra was still holding, and heard her voice say very softly, "are you going to sleep, geraldine?" this brought me back to the present. "oh no," i said, "i'm not sleepy. i was only thinking," and i told her what had come into my mind. she listened with great interest. "how unhappy you must have been when your mamma went away," she said. "i can't remember my own mamma, but mother"--she meant her stepmother--"is so kind, and granny is so sweet. i've never been lonely." "you can't fancy what it's like," i said. "it wasn't only mamma's going away; i know haddie--that's my brother--loves her as much as i do, but he's not very unhappy, because he likes his school. oh, myra, what _shall_ i do when i have to go back to school? i'd rather be ill always. do you think i'll have to go back to-morrow?" myra looked most sympathising and concerned. "i don't think you'll be quite well to-morrow," was the best comfort she could give me. "when i have bad colds and sore throats they always last longer than one day." "i'd like to talk a great lot to keep my throat from getting quite well," i said, "but i suppose that would be very naughty." "yes," said myra with conviction, "i'm sure it would be. you really mustn't talk, geraldine; granny said so. mayn't i read aloud to you? i've brought a book with me--it's an old story-book of mamma's that she had when she was a little girl. granny keeps them here all together. this one is called _ornaments discovered_." "thank you," i said. "yes, i should like it very much." and in her gentle little voice myra read the quaint old story aloud to me. it was old-fashioned even then, for the book had belonged to her mother, if not in the first place to her grandmother. how very old-world it would seem to the children of to-day--i wonder if any of you know it? for i am growing quite an old woman myself, and the little history of my childhood that i am telling you will, before long, be half a century in age, though its events seem as clear and distinct to me as if they had only happened quite recently! i came across the little red gilt-leaved book not long ago in the house of one of myra's daughters, and with the sight of it a whole flood of memories rushed over me. it was not a very exciting story, but i found it very interesting, and now and then my little friend stopped to talk about it, which i found very interesting too. i was quite sorry when miss fenmore, who had come back to the room and was sitting quietly sewing, told myra that she thought she had read enough, and that it must be near dinner-time. "i will come again after dinner," said myra, and then i whispered something to her. she nodded; she quite understood me. what i said was this: "i wish you would go downstairs and tell the carved lions that they made me very happy last night, and i _am_ so glad they brought me back here to you, instead of taking me to green bank." "where did they take you to in the night?" said myra with great interest, though not at all as if she thought i was talking nonsense. "i'll tell you all about it afterwards," i said. "it was beautiful. but it would take a long time to tell, and i'm rather tired." "you are looking tired, dear," said miss fenmore, who heard my last words, as she gave me a cupful of beef-tea. "try to go to sleep for a little, and then myra can come to sit with you again." i did go to sleep, but myra was not allowed to see me again that day, nor the next--nor for several days after, except for a very few minutes at a time. for i did not improve as the kind people about me had hoped i would, and dr. fallis looked graver when he came that evening than he had done in the morning. miss fenmore was afraid she had let me talk too much, but after all i do not think anything would have made any great difference. i had really been falling out of health for months past, and i should probably have got ill in some other way if i had not caught cold in my wanderings. i do not very clearly remember those days of serious illness. i knew whenever i was awake that i was being tenderly cared for, and in the half-dozing, half-dreaming state in which many hours must have been passed, i fancied more than once that mamma was beside me, which made me very happy. and though never actually delirious, i had very strange though not unpleasant dreams, especially about the carved lions; none of them, however, so clear and real as the one i related at full in the last chapter. on the whole, that illness left more peaceful and sweet memories than memories of pain. through it all i had the delightful feeling of being cared for and protected, and somehow it all seemed to have to do with the pair of lions downstairs in mr. cranston's show-room! chapter xii. good news. i don't suppose there was anything really infectious about my illness, though nowadays whenever there is any sort of sore throat people are very much on their guard. perhaps they were not so cautious long ago. however that may have been, myra was not banished from my room for very long. i rather think, indeed, that she used to creep in and sit like a little mouse behind the curtains before i was well enough to notice her. but everything for a time seemed dreamy to me. the first event i can quite clearly recall was my being allowed to sit up for an hour or two, or, more correctly speaking, to _lie_ up, for i was lifted on to the sofa and tucked in almost as if i were still in bed. that was a very happy afternoon. it was happy for several reasons, for that morning had brought me the first letter i had had from dear mamma since she had heard of my bold step in running away from school! lying still and silent for so many hours as i had done, things had grown to look differently to me. i began to see where and how i had been wrong, and to think that if i had been more open about my troubles, more courageous--that is to say, if i had gone to miss ledbury and told her everything that was on my mind--i need not have been so terribly unhappy or caused trouble and distress to others. a little of this mamma pointed out to me in her letter, which was, however, so very kind and loving, so full of sorrow that i had been so unhappy, that i felt more grateful than i knew how to express. afterwards, when we talked it all over, years afterwards even, for we often talked of that time after i was grown up and married, and had children of my own, mamma said to me that she _could_ not blame me though she knew i had not done right, for she felt so broken-hearted at the thought of what i had suffered. it had been a mistake, no doubt, to send me to green bank, but mistakes are often overruled for good. i am glad to have had the experience of it, as i think it made me more sympathising with others. and it made me determine never to send any child of mine, or any child i had the care of, to a school where there was so little feeling of _home_, so little affection and gentleness--above all, that dreadful old-world rule of letters being read, and the want of trust and confidence in the pupils, which showed in so many ways. a few days after i received mamma's letter i was allowed to write to her. it was slow and tiring work, for i was only able to write a few lines at a time, and that in pencil. but it was delightful to be free to say just what i wanted to say, without the terrible feeling of miss aspinall, or worse still miss broom, judging and criticising every line. i thanked mamma with my whole heart for not being angry with me, and to show her how truly i meant what i said, i promised her that when i was well again and able to go back to school i would try my very, very best to get on more happily. but i gave a deep sigh as i wrote this, and myra, who was sitting beside me, looked up anxiously, and asked what was the matter. "oh, myra," i said, "it is just that i can't bear to think of going back to school. i'd rather never get well if only i could stay here till mamma comes home." "dear little geraldine," said myra--she often called me "little" though she was _scarcely_ any taller than i--"dear little geraldine, you mustn't say that. i don't think it's right. and, you know, when you are quite well again things won't seem so bad to you. i remember once when i was ill--i was quite a little girl then,"--myra spoke as if she was now a very big girl indeed!--"i think it was when i had had the measles, the least thing vexed me dreadfully. i cried because somebody had given me a present of a set of wooden tea-things in a box, and the tea ran out of the cups when i filled them! fancy crying for that!" "i know," i said, "i've felt like that too. but this is a _real_ trouble, myra--a real, very bad, dreadful trouble, though i've promised mamma to try to be good. do you think, myra, that when i'm back at school your grandmamma will sometimes ask me to come to see you?" "i'm sure----" my little friend began eagerly. but she was interrupted. for curiously enough, just at that moment mrs. cranston opened the door and came in. she came to see me every day, and though at first i was just a tiny bit afraid of her--she seemed to me such a very old lady--i soon got to love her dearly, and to talk to her quite as readily as to kind miss fenmore. "what is my little girl sure about?" she said. "and how is my other little girl to-day? not too tired," and she glanced at my letter. "you have not been writing too much, dearie, i hope?" "no, thank you," i replied, "i'm not tired." "she's only rather unhappy, granny," said myra. "i think that's a very big 'only,'" said mrs. cranston. "can't you tell me, my dear, what you are unhappy about?" i glanced at myra, as if asking her to speak for me. she understood. "granny," she said, "poor little geraldine is unhappy to think of going away and going back to school." mrs. cranston looked at me very kindly. "poor dear," she said, "you have not had much pleasure with us, as you have been ill all the time." "i don't mind," i said. "i was telling myra, only she thought it was naughty, that i'd rather be ill always if i was with kind people, than--than--be at school where nobody cares for me." "well, well, my dear, the troubles we dread are often those that don't come to pass. try to keep up your spirits and get quite well and strong, so that you may be able to enjoy yourself a little before both you and myra leave us." "oh, is myra going away?" i said. "i thought she was going to live here always," and somehow i felt as if i did not mind _quite_ so much to think of going away myself in that case. "oh no," said the old lady, "myra has her own home where she must spend part of her time, though grandfather and i hope to have her here a good deal too. it is easy to manage now miss fenmore is with her always." in my heart i thought myra a most fortunate child--_two_ homes were really hers; and i--i had none. this thought made me sigh again. i don't know if myra guessed what i was thinking of, but she came close up to me and put her arms round my neck and kissed me. "geraldine," she whispered, by way of giving me something pleasant to think of, perhaps, "as soon as you are able to walk about a little i want you to come downstairs with me to see the lions." "yes," i said in the same tone, "but you did give them my message, myra?" "of course i did, and they sent you back their love, and they are very glad you're better, and they want you very much indeed to come to see them." myra and i understood each other quite well about the lions, you see. i went on getting well steadily after that, and not many days later i went downstairs with myra to the big show-room to see the lions. it gave me such a curious feeling to remember the last time i had been there, that rainy evening when i crept in, as nearly broken-hearted and in despair as a little girl could be. and as i stroked the lions and looked up in their dark mysterious faces, i could not get rid of the idea that they knew all about it, that somehow or other they had helped and protected me, and when i tried to express this to myra she seemed to think the same. after this there were not many days on which we did not come downstairs to visit our strange play-fellows, and not a few interesting games or "actings," as myra called them, did we invent, in which the lions took their part. we were only allowed to be in the show-rooms at certain hours of the day, when there were not likely to be any customers there. dear old mrs. cranston was as particular as she possibly could be not to let me do anything or be seen in any way which mamma could possibly have disliked. and before long i began to join a little in myra's lessons with miss fenmore--lessons which our teacher's kind and "understanding" ways made delightful. so that life was really very happy for me at this time, except of course for the longing for mamma and father and haddie, which still came over me in fits, as it were, every now and then, and except--a still bigger "except"--for the dreaded thought of the return to school which must be coming nearer day by day. myra and i never spoke of it. i tried to forget about it, and she seemed to enter into my feeling without saying anything. i had had a letter from mamma in answer to the one i wrote to her just after my illness. in it she said she was pleased with all i said, and my promise to try to get on better at green bank, but "in the meantime," she wrote, "what we want you to do is to get _quite_ strong and well, so put all troubling thoughts out of your head and be happy with your kind friends." that letter had come a month ago, and the last mail had only brought me a tiny little note enclosed in a letter from mamma to mrs. cranston, with the promise of a longer one "next time." and "next time" was about due, for the mail came every fortnight, one afternoon when myra and i were sitting together in our favourite nook in the show-room. "i have a fancy, myra," i said, "that something is going to happen. my lion has been so queer to-day--i see a look on his face as if he knew something." for we had each chosen one lion as more particularly our own. "i think they always look rather like that," said myra dreamily. "but i suppose something must happen soon. i shall be going home next week." "next week," i repeated. "oh, myra!" i could not speak for a moment. then i remembered how i had made up my mind to be brave. "do you mind going home?" i asked. "i mean, are you sorry to go?" "i'm always sorry to leave grandpapa and grandmamma," she said, "and the lions, and this funny old house. but i'm very happy at home, and i shall like it still better with miss fenmore. no, i wouldn't be unhappy--i'd be very glad to think of seeing father and mother and my little brothers again--i wouldn't be unhappy, except for--you know, geraldine--for leaving you," and my little friend's voice shook. "dear myra," i said. "but you mustn't mind about me. i'm going to try----" but here i had to stop to choke down something in my throat. "after all," i went on, after a moment or two, "more than a quarter of the time that father and mamma have to be away is gone. and perhaps in the summer holidays i shall see haddie." "i wish----" myra was beginning, but a voice interrupted her. it was miss fenmore's. "i have brought you down a letter that has just come by the second post, geraldine, dear," she said; "a letter from south america." "oh, thank you," i said, eagerly seizing it. miss fenmore strolled to the other side of the room, and myra followed her, to leave me alone to read my letter. it was a pretty long one, but i read it quickly, so quickly that when i had finished it, i felt breathless--and then i turned over the pages and glanced at it again. i felt as if i could not believe what i read. it was too good, too beautifully good to be true. "myra," i gasped, and myra ran back to me, looking quite startled. i think i must have grown very pale. "no, no," i went on, "it's nothing wrong. read it, or ask miss fenmore--she reads writing quicker. oh, myra, isn't it beautiful?" they soon read it, and then we all three kissed and hugged each other, and myra began dancing about as if she had gone out of her mind. "geraldine, geraldine, i can't believe it," she kept saying, and miss fenmore's pretty eyes were full of tears. i wonder if any of my readers can guess what this delightful news was? it was not that mamma was coming home--no, that could not be yet. but next best to that it certainly was. it was to tell me this--that _till_ dear father and she returned, my home was to be with myra, and i was to be miss fenmore's pupil too. wherever myra was, there i was to be--principally at her father's vicarage in the country, but some part of the year with her kind grandparents at great mexington. it was all settled and arranged--of course i did not trouble my head about the money part of it, though afterwards mamma told me that both mr. and mrs. raby and the cranstons had been most exceedingly kind, making out that the advantage of a companion for their little girl would be so great that all the thanking should be on their side, though, of course, they respected father too much not to let him pay a proper share of all the expense. and it really cost less than my life at green bank, though father was now a good deal richer, and would not have minded paying a good deal more to ensure my happiness. there is never so much story to tell when people are happy, and things go rightly; and the next year or two of my life, except of course for the separation from my dear parents, were _very_ happy. even though father's appointment in south america kept him and mamma out there for nearly three years instead of two, i was able to bear the disappointment in a very different way, with such kind and sympathising friends at hand to cheer me, so that there is nothing bitter or sad to look back to in that part of my childhood. haddie spent the summer holidays with me, either at crowley vicarage, or sometimes at the sea-side, where miss fenmore took care of us three. once or twice he and i paid a visit to mrs. selwood, which we enjoyed pretty well, as we were together, though otherwise it was rather dull. and oh, how happy it was when father and mamma at last came home--no words can describe it. it was not _quite_ unmixed pleasure--nothing ever is, the wise folk say--for there was the separation from myra and her family. but after all, that turned out less than we feared. miss fenmore married soon after, and as father had now a good post in london, and we lived there, it was settled that myra should be with us, and join in my lessons for a good part of the year, while i very often went back to crowley with her for the summer holidays. and never without staying a few days at great mexington, to see mr. and mrs. cranston and the lions! * * * * * many years have passed since i went there for the last time. myra's grandparents have long been dead--my own dear father and mother are dead too, for i am growing quite old. my grandchildren are older now than i was when i ran away from the school at green bank. but once, while mamma was still alive and well, she and i together strolled through the streets of the grim town, which had for a time been our home, and lived over the old days again in fancy. i remember how tightly i clasped her hand when we passed the corner where once was the old quakeress's shop--all changed now--and walked down the street, still not very different from what it had been, where we used to live. there was no use in going to mr. cranston's show-rooms--they had long been done away with. but the lions are still to be seen. they stand in the hall of myra's pretty house in the country, where she and haddon, her husband, have lived for many years, ever since my brother left the army and they came home for good from india. i spend a part of every year with them, for i am alone now. they want me to live with them altogether, but i cling to a little home of my own. our grandchildren know the lions well, and stroke their smooth sides, and gaze up into their dark faces just as myra and i used to do. so i promised them that sometime i would write out the simple story that i have now brought to a close. the end. a new uniform edition of mrs. molesworth's stories for children with illustrations by walter crane and leslie brooke. * * * * * in ten volumes. mo. cloth. one dollar a volume. * * * * * tell me a story, and herr baby. "carrots," and a christmas child. grandmother dear, and two little waifs. the cuckoo clock, and the tapestry room. christmas-tree land, and a christmas posy. the children of the castle, and four winds farm. little miss peggy, and nurse heatherdale's story, "us," and the rectory children. rosy, and the girls and i. mary. sheila's mystery. carved lions. * * * * * the set, twelve volumes, in box, $ . . * * * * * "it seems to me not at all easier to draw a lifelike child than to draw a lifelike man or woman: shakespeare and webster were the only two men of their age who could do it with perfect delicacy and success; at least, if there was another who could, i must crave pardon of his happy memory for my forgetfulness or ignorance of his name. our own age is more fortunate, on this single score at least, having a larger and far nobler proportion of female writers; among whom, since the death of george eliot, there is none left whose touch is so exquisite and masterly, whose love is so thoroughly according to knowledge, whose bright and sweet invention is so fruitful, so truthful, or so delightful as mrs. molesworth's. any chapter of _the cuckoo clock_ or the enchanting _adventures of herr baby_ is worth a shoal of the very best novels dealing with the characters and fortunes of mere adults."--mrs. a. c. swinburne, in _the nineteenth century_. mrs. molesworth's stories for children. * * * * * "there is hardly a better author to put into the hands of children than mrs. molesworth. i cannot easily speak too highly of her work. it is a curious art she has, not wholly english in its spirit, but a cross of the old english with the italian. indeed, i should say mrs. molesworth had also been a close student of the german and russian, and had some way, catching and holding the spirit of all, created a method and tone quite her own.... her characters are admirable and real."--_st. louis globe democrat._ "mrs. molesworth has a rare gift for composing stories for children. with a light, yet forcible touch, she paints sweet and artless, yet natural and strong, characters."--_congregationalist._ "mrs. molesworth always has in her books those charming touches of nature that are sure to charm small people. her stories are so likely to have been true that men 'grown up' do not disdain them."--_home journal._ "no english writer of childish stories has a better reputation than mrs. molesworth, and none with whose stories we are familiar deserves it better. she has a motherly knowledge of the child nature, a clear sense of character, the power of inventing simple incidents that interest, and the ease which comes of continuous practice."--_mail and express._ "christmas would hardly be christmas without one of mrs. molesworth's stories. no one has quite the same power of throwing a charm and an interest about the most commonplace every-day doings as she has, and no one has ever blended fairyland and reality with the same skill."--_educational times._ "mrs. molesworth is justly a great favorite with children; her stories for them are always charmingly interesting and healthful in tone."--_boston home journal._ "mrs. molesworth's books are cheery, wholesome, and particularly well adapted to refined life. it is safe to add that mrs. molesworth is the best english prose writer for children.... a new volume from mrs. molesworth is always a treat."--_the beacon._ "no holiday season would be complete for a host of young readers without a volume from the hand of mrs. molesworth.... it is one of the peculiarities of mrs. molesworth's stories that older readers can no more escape their charm than younger ones."--_christian union._ "mrs. molesworth ranks with george macdonald and mrs. ewing as a writer of children's stories that possess real literary merit."--_milwaukee sentinel._ * * * * * the set, eleven volumes, in box, $ . . * * * * * tell me a story, and herr baby. "so delightful that we are inclined to join in the petition, and we hope she may soon tell us more stories."--_athenæum._ * * * * * "carrots"; just a little boy. "one of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_examiner._ * * * * * a christmas child; a sketch of a boy's life. "a very sweet and tenderly drawn sketch, with life and reality manifest throughout."--_pall mall gazette._ "this is a capital story, well illustrated. mrs. molesworth is one of those sunny, genial writers who has genius for writing acceptably for the young. she has the happy faculty of blending enough real with romance to make her stories very practical for good without robbing them of any of their exciting interest."--_chicago inter-ocean._ "mrs. molesworth's _a christmas child_ is a story of a boy-life. the book is a small one, but none the less attractive. it is one of the best of this year's juveniles."--_chicago tribune._ "mrs. molesworth is one of the few writers of tales for children whose sentiment though of the sweetest kind is never sickly; whose religious feeling is never concealed yet never obtruded; whose books are always good but never 'goody.' little ted with his soft heart, clever head, and brave spirit is no morbid presentment of the angelic child 'too good to live,' and who is certainly a nuisance on earth, but a charming creature, if not a portrait, whom it is a privilege to meet even in fiction."--_the academy._ * * * * * the cuckoo clock. "a beautiful little story.... it will be read with delight by every child into whose hands it is placed."--_pall mall gazette._ * * * * * grandmother dear. "the author's concern is with the development of character, and seldom does one meet with the wisdom, tact, and good breeding which pervades this little book."--_nation._ * * * * * two little waifs. "mrs. molesworth's delightful story of _two little waifs_ will charm all the small people who find it in their stockings. it relates the adventures of two lovable english children lost in paris, and is just wonderful enough to pleasantly wring the youthful heart."--_new york tribune._ "it is, in its way, indeed, a little classic, of which the real beauty and pathos can hardly be appreciated by young people.... it is not too much to say of the story that it is perfect of its kind."--_critic and good literature._ "mrs. molesworth is such a bright, cheery writer, that her stories are always acceptable to all who are not confirmed cynics, and her record of the adventures of the little waifs is as entertaining and enjoyable as we might expect."--_boston courier._ "_two little waifs_ by mrs. molesworth is a pretty little fancy, relating the adventures of a pair of lost children, in a style full of simple charm. it is among the very daintiest of juvenile books that the season has yet called forth; and its pathos and humor are equally delightful. the refined tone and the tender sympathy with the feelings and sentiments of childhood, lend it a special and an abiding charm."--_boston saturday evening gazette._ "this is a charming little juvenile story from the pen of mrs. molesworth, detailing the various adventures of a couple of motherless children in searching for their father, whom they had missed in paris where they had gone to meet him."--_montreal star._ "mrs. molesworth is a popular name, not only with a host of english, but with a considerable army of young american readers, who have been charmed by her delicate fancy and won by the interest of her style. _two little waifs_, illustrated by walter crane, is a delightful story, which comes, as all children's stories ought to do, to a delightful end."--_christian union._ * * * * * the tapestry room. "mrs. molesworth is the queen of children's fairyland. she knows how to make use of the vague, fresh, wondering instincts of childhood, and to invest familiar things with fairy glamour."--_athenæum._ "the story told is a charming one of what may be called the neo-fairy sort.... there has been nothing better of its kind done anywhere for children, whether we consider its capacity to awake interest or its wholesomeness."--_evening post._ "among the books for young people we have seen nothing more unique than _the tapestry room_. like all of mrs. molesworth's stories it will please young readers by the very attractive and charming style in which it is written."--_presbyterian journal._ "mrs. molesworth will be remembered as a writer of very pleasing stories for children. a new book from her pen will be sure of a welcome from all the young people. the new story bears the name of _the tapestry room_ and is a child's romance.... the child who comes into possession of the story will count himself fortunate. it is a bright, wholesome story, in which the interest is maintained to the end. the author has the faculty of adapting herself to the tastes and ideas of her readers in an unusual way."--_new haven paladium._ * * * * * christmas-tree land. "it is conceived after a happy fancy, as it relates the supposititious journey of a party of little ones through that part of fairyland where christmas-trees are supposed to most abound. there is just enough of the old-fashioned fancy about fairies mingled with the 'modern improvements' to incite and stimulate the youthful imagination to healthful action. the pictures by walter crane are, of course, not only well executed in themselves, but in charming consonance with the spirit of the tale."--_troy times._ "_christmas-tree land_, by mrs. molesworth, is a book to make younger readers open their eyes wide with delight. a little boy and a little girl domiciled in a great white castle, wander on their holidays through the surrounding fir-forests, and meet with the most delightful pleasures. there is a fascinating, mysterious character in their adventures and enough of the fairy-like and wonderful to puzzle and enchant all the little ones."--_boston home journal._ * * * * * a christmas posy. "this is a collection of eight of those inimitable stories for children which none could write better than mrs. molesworth. her books are prime favorites with children of all ages and they are as good and wholesome as they are interesting and popular. this makes a very handsome book, and its illustrations are excellent."--_christian at work._ "_a christmas posy_ is one of those charming stories for girls which mrs molesworth excels in writing."--_philadelphia press._ "here is a group of bright, wholesome stories, such as are dear to children, and nicely tuned to the harmonies of christmas-tide. mr. crane has found good situations for his spirited sketches."--_churchman._ "_a christmas posy_, by mrs. molesworth, is lovely and fragrant. mrs. molesworth succeeds by right to the place occupied with so much honor by the late mrs. ewing, as a writer of charming stories for children. the present volume is a cluster of delightful short stories. mr. crane's illustrations are in harmony with the text."--_christian intelligencer._ * * * * * the children of the castle. "_the children of the castle_, by mrs. molesworth, is another of those delightful juvenile stories of which this author has written so many. it is a fascinating little book, with a charming plot, a sweet, pure atmosphere, and teaches a wholesome moral in the most winning manner."--_b. s. e. gazette._ "mrs. molesworth has given a charming story for children.... it is a wholesome book, one which the little ones will read with interest."--_living church._ "_the children of the castle_ are delightful creations, actual little girls, living in an actual castle, but often led by their fancies into a shadowy fairyland. there is a charming refinement of style and spirit about the story from beginning to end; an imaginative child will find endless pleasure in it, and the lesson of gentleness and unselfishness so artistically managed that it does not seem like a lesson, but only a part of the story."--_milwaukee sentinel._ "mrs. molesworth's stories for children are always ingenious, entertaining, and thoroughly wholesome. her resources are apparently inexhaustible, and each new book from her pen seems to surpass its predecessors in attractiveness. in _the children of the castle_ the best elements of a good story for children are very happily combined."--_the week._ * * * * * four winds farm. "mrs. molesworth's books are always delightful, but of all none is more charming than the volume with which she greets the holidays this season. _four winds farm_ is one of the most delicate and pleasing books for a child that has seen the light this many a day. it is full of fancy and of that instinctive sympathy with childhood which makes this author's books so attractive and so individual."--_boston courier._ "like all the books she has written this one is very charming, and is worth more in the hands of a child than a score of other stories of a more sensational character."--_christian at work._ "still more delicately fanciful is mrs. molesworth's lovely little tale of the _four winds farm_. it is neither a dream nor a fairy story, but concerns the fortune of a real little boy, named gratian; yet the dream and the fairy tale seem to enter into his life, and make part of it. the farm-house in which the child lives is set exactly at the meeting-place of the four winds, and they, from the moment of his birth, have acted as his self-elected godmothers.... all the winds love the boy, and, held in the balance of their influence, he grows up as a boy should, simply and truly, with a tender heart and firm mind. the idea of this little book is essentially poetical."--_literary world._ "this book is for the children. we grudge it to them. there are few children in this generation good enough for such a gift. mrs. molesworth is the only woman now who can write such a book.... the delicate welding of the farm life about the child and the spiritual life within him, and the realization of the four immortals into a delightful sort of half-femininity shows a finer literary quality than anything we have seen for a long time. the light that never was on sea or land is in this little red and gold volume."--_philadelphia press._ * * * * * nurse heatherdale's story. "_nurse heatherdale's story_ is all about a small boy, who was good enough, yet was always getting into some trouble through complications in which he was not to blame. the same sort of things happens to men and women. he is an orphan, though he is cared for in a way by relations, who are not so very rich, yet are looked on as well fixed. after many youthful trials and disappointments he falls into a big stroke of good luck, which lifts him and goes to make others happy. those who want a child's book will find nothing to harm and something to interest in this simple story."--_commercial advertiser._ * * * * * "us." "mrs. molesworth's _us, an old-fashioned story_, is very charming. a dear little six-year-old 'bruvver' and sister constitute the 'us,' whose adventures with gypsies form the theme of the story. mrs. molesworth's style is graceful, and she pictures the little ones with brightness and tenderness."--_evening post._ "a pretty and wholesome story."--_literary world._ "_us, an old-fashioned story_, is a sweet and quaint story of two little children who lived long ago, in an old-fashioned way, with their grandparents. the story is delightfully told."--_philadelphia news._ "_us_ is one of mrs. molesworth's charming little stories for young children. the narrative ... is full of interest for its real grace and delicacy, and the exquisiteness and purity of the english in which it is written."--_boston advertiser._ "mrs. molesworth's last story, _us_, will please the readers of that lady's works by its pleasant domestic atmosphere and healthful moral tone. the narrative moves forward with sufficient interest to hold the reader's attention; and there are useful lessons for young people to be drawn from it."--_independent._ "mrs. molesworth's story ... is very simple, refined, bright, and full of the real flavor of childhood."--_literary world._ * * * * * the rectory children. "it is a book written for children in just the way that is best adapted to please them."--_morning post._ "in _the rectory children_ mrs. molesworth has written one of those delightful volumes which we always look for at christmas time."--_athenæum._ "a delightful christmas book for children; a racy, charming home story, full of good impulses and bright suggestions."--_boston traveller._ "quiet, sunny, interesting, and thoroughly winning and wholesome."--_boston journal._ "there is no writer of children's books more worthy of their admiration and love than mrs. molesworth. her bright and sweet invention is so truthful, her characters so faithfully drawn, and the teaching of her stories so tender and noble, that while they please and charm they insensibly distil into the youthful mind the most valuable lessons. in _the rectory children_ we have a fresh, bright story, that will be sure to please all her young admirers."--_christian at work._ "_the rectory children_, by mrs. molesworth, is a very pretty story of english life. mrs. molesworth is one of the most popular and charming of english story-writers for children. her child characters are true to life, always natural and attractive, and her stories are wholesome and interesting."--_indianapolis journal._ * * * * * rosy. "_rosy_, like all the rest of her stories, is bright and pure and utterly free from cant,--a book that children will read with pleasure and lasting profit."--_boston traveller._ "there is no one who has a genius better adapted for entertaining children than mrs. molesworth, and her latest story, _rosy_, is one of her best. it is illustrated with eight woodcuts from designs by walter crane."--_philadelphia press._ "an english story for children of the every-day life of a bright little girl, which will please those who like 'natural' books."--_new york world._ "mrs. molesworth's clever _rosy_, a story showing in a charming way how one little girl's jealousy and bad temper were conquered; one of the best, most suggestive and improving of the christmas juveniles."--_new york tribune._ "_rosy_ is an exceedingly graceful and interesting story by mrs. molesworth, one of the best and most popular writers of juvenile fiction. this little story is full of tenderness, is fragrant in sentiment, and points with great delicacy and genuine feeling a charming moral."--_boston gazette._ * * * * * the girls and i. "perhaps the most striking feature of this pleasant story is the natural manner in which it is written. it is just like the conversation of a bright boy--consistently like it from beginning to end. it is a boy who is the hero of the tale, and he tells the adventures of himself and those nearest him. he is, by the way, in many respects an example for most young persons. it is a story characterized by sweetness and purity--a desirable one to put into the hands of youthful readers."--_gettysburg monthly._ "jack himself tells the story of _the girls and i_, assisted of course by mrs. molesworth, whose name will recall to the juveniles pleasant memories of interesting reading, full of just the things that children want to know, and of that which will excite their ready sympathies. jack, while telling the story of the girls, takes the readers into his own confidence, and we like the little fellow rather better than the girls. the interest is maintained by the story of a lost jewel, the ultimate finding of which, in the most unexpected place, closes the story in a very pleasant manner. jack, otherwise mrs. molesworth, tells the tale in a lively style, and the book will attract attention."--_the globe._ "a delightful and purposeful story which no one can read without being benefited."--_new york observer._ * * * * * mary. "mrs. molesworth's reputation as a writer of story-books is so well established that any new book of hers scarce needs a word of introduction."--_home journal._ * * * * * macmillan & co., fifth avenue, new york. macmillan & co.'s _catalogue_ of books for the young. * * * * * _messrs. macmillan & co. are the agents in the united states for the publications of the oxford and cambridge university presses, and for messrs. george bell & sons, london. complete catalogues of all books sold by them will be sent, free by mail, to any address on application._ * * * * * =adventure series, the.= large mo. fully illustrated. $ . each volume. =adventures of a younger son.= by john edward trelawny. with an introduction by edward garnett. =madagascar; or, robert drury's journal= during fifteen years' captivity on that island, and a further description of madagascar by the abbé alexis rochon. edited, with an introduction and notes, by captain s. pasfield oliver, f.s.a., author of "madagascar." =memoirs of the extraordinary military career of john shipp=, late lieutenant in his majesty's th regiment. written by himself. with an introduction by major h. m. chichester. =the adventures of thomas pellow=, of penryn, mariner, twenty-three years in captivity among the moors. written by himself; and edited, with an introduction and notes, by dr. robert brown. illustrated from contemporaneous prints. =the buccaneers and marooners of america.= being an account of the famous adventures and daring deeds of certain notorious freebooters of the spanish main. edited and illustrated by howard pyle. =the log of a jack tar; or, the life of james choyce, master mariner.= now first published, with o'brien's captivity in france. edited by commander v. lovett cameron, r.n., c.b., d.c.l. with introduction and notes. =the story of the filibusters.= by james jeffrey roche. to which is added "the life of colonel david crockett." with illustrations. "mr. roche has faithfully compared and sifted the statements of those who took part in the various expeditions, and he has also made effectual use of periodicals and official documents. the result is what may safely be regarded as the first complete and authentic account of the deeds of the modern vikings, who continue to be wonderfully romantic figures even after the gaudy trappings of myth, prejudice, and fiction have been stripped away."--_boston beacon._ =the voyages and adventures of ferdinand mendez pinto, the portuguese.= done into english by henry cogan, with an introduction by arminius vambÃ�ry. "it is decidedly reading of the most attractive kind, brimful of adventure piquantly related, and of rare interest in its recital of the experienced of the author, who 'five times suffered shipwreck, was sixteen times sold, and thirteen times made a slave.'"--_boston saturday evening gazette._ =a master mariner.= being the life and adventures of captain robert william eastwick. edited by herbert compton. with illustrations. =hard life in the colonies, and other adventures by sea and land.= now first printed. compiled from private letters by c. caslyon jenkyns. with illustrations. large mo. $ . . =Ã�sop's fables.= illustrated. cents. =andersen= (hans christian). =fairy tales and sketches.= translated by c. c. peachy, h. ward, a. plesner, etc. with numerous illustrations by otto speckter and others. seventh thousand. handsomely bound. mo. $ . . "the translation most happily hits the delicate quaintness of andersen--most happily transposes into simple english words the tender precision of the famous story-teller; in a keen examination of the book we scarcely recall a single phrase or turn that obviously could have been bettered."--_daily telegraph._ =tales for children.= with full-page illustrations by wehnert, and small engravings on wood by w. thomas. thirteenth thousand. handsomely bound. mo. $ . . this volume contains several tales that are in no other edition published in this country, and with the preceding volume it forms the most complete english edition. =ariosto. paladin and saracen.= stories from ariosto. by w. c. hollway-calthrop. with illustrations. $ . . =atkinson. the last of the giant killers.= by the rev. j. c. atkinson, author of "a moorland parish." _shortly._ =awdry (f.). the story of a fellow soldier.= a life of bishop patteson for the young. mo. $ . . =baker. wild beasts and their ways.= reminiscences in asia, africa, and america. by sir samuel w. baker, f.r.s., etc., author of "albert nyanza," etc. with numerous illustrations. large mo. cloth extra. gilt. $ . . "a book which is destined not only to serve as a chart and compass for every hunter of big game, but which is likewise a valuable study of natural history, placed before the public in a practical and interesting form."--_new york tribune._ =beesly= (mrs.). =stories from the history of rome.= mo. cents. "of all the stories we remember from history none have struck us as so genuinely good--with the right ring--as those of mrs. beesly."--_educational times._ =bertz= (e.). =the french prisoners:= a story for boys. $ . . "written throughout in a wise and gentle spirit, and omits no opportunity to deprecate war as a barbaric survival, wholly unnecessary in a civilized age."--_independent._ "the story is an extremely interesting one, full of incident, told in a quiet, healthful way, and with a great deal of pleasantly interfused information about german and french boys."--_christian union._ =bunce= (j. t.). =fairy tales: their origin and meaning.= mo. cents. =carpenter. truth in tale.= addresses chiefly to children. by w. boyd carpenter, d.d., bishop of ripon. $ . . "these ingenious and interesting tales by bishop carpenter are full of poetic beauty and of religious truth.... we would like to see a copy in every sunday-school library."--_sunday school banner._ =carroll.= works by lewis carroll. =alice's adventures in wonderland.= with illustrations by tenniel. mo. $ . . a german translation. mo. $ . . a french translation. mo. $ . . an italian translation. mo. $ . . "an excellent piece of nonsense."--_times._ "that most delightful of children's stories."--_saturday review._ "elegant and delicious nonsense."--_guardian._ =through the looking-glass and what alice found there.= illustrations by tenniel. mo. $ . . "will fairly rank with the tale of her previous experience."--_daily telegraph._ "many of mr. tenniel's designs are masterpieces of wise absurdity."--_athenæum._ "whether as regarding author or illustrator, this book is a jewel rarely to be found nowadays."--_echo._ =alice's adventures in wonderland and through the looking glass.= in vol. with tenniel's illustrations. mo. $ . . =rhyme? and reason?= with illustrations by arthur b. frost, and nine by henry holiday. mo. $ . . this book is a reprint, with additions, of the comic portions of "phantasmagoria, and other poems," and of the "hunting of the snark." =a tangled tale.= reprinted from the "monthly packet." with illustrations. mo. $ . . =alice's adventures under ground.= being a fac-simile of the original ms. book afterward developed into "alice's adventures in wonderland." with illustrations. mo. $ . . =the hunting of the snark: an agony in eight fits.= by lewis carroll. with nine illustrations by henry holiday. new edition. mo. $ . . =sylvie and bruno.= with illustrations by harry furniss. mo. $ . . "alice was a delightful little girl, but hardly more pleasing than are the hero and heroine of this latest book from a writer in whose nonsense there is far more sense than in the serious works of many contemporary authors."--_morning post._ "mr. furniss's illustrations, which are numerous, are at once graceful and full of humor. we pay him a high compliment when we say he proves himself a worthy successor to mr. tenniel in illustrating mr. lewis carroll's books."--_st. james gazette._ =the nursery "alice."= containing coloured enlargements from tenniel's illustrations to "alice's adventures in wonderland," with text adapted to nursery readers, by lewis carroll. to. $ . . "let the little people rejoice! the most charming book in the world has appeared for them. 'the nursery alice,' with its wealth of colored illustrations from tenniel's pictures, is certainly the most artistic juvenile that has been seen for many and many a day."--_boston budget._ =church.= works by the rev. a. j. church. =the story of the iliad.= with coloured illustrations. mo. $ . . =the story of the odyssey.= with coloured illustrations. mo. $ . . =stories from the bible.= with illustrations after julius schnorr. mo. $ . . "of all the books of this kind, this is the best we have seen."--_examiner._ "the book will be of infinite value to the student or teacher of the scriptures, and the stories are well arranged for interesting reading for children."--_boston traveller._ =stories from bible.= illustrated. second series. _shortly._ =the greek gulliver.= stories from lucian. with illustrations by c. o. murray. new edition. mo. paper. cents. "a curious example of ancient humor."--_chicago standard._ =the burning of rome.= a story of the times of nero. with illustrations. mo. $ . . =clifford= (mrs. w. k.). =anyhow stories, moral and otherwise.= with illustrations. $ . . =craik.= works by mrs. craik, author of "john halifax, gentleman." =sermons out of church.= new edition. mo. $ . . =children's poetry.= globe vo. $ . . =the little lame prince and his travelling cloak.= a parable for young and old. with illustrations. mo. $ . . =little sunshine's holiday.= globe vo. $ . . =adventures of a brownie.= with illustrations. mo. $ . . =alice learmont.= a fairy tale. with illustrations. mo. $ . . =our year: a child's book.= illustrated. mo. $ . . =the fairy book.= the best popular fairy stories. selected and rendered anew. _golden treasury series._ mo. $ . . =defoe. the adventures of robinson crusoe.= edited from the original edition by henry kingsley. _globe edition._ $ . . _golden treasury series._ mo. $ . . =de morgan. the necklace of princess florimonde, and other stories.= by mary de morgan. illustrated by walter crane. new and cheaper edition, cloth extra. $ . . "the stories display considerable originality, and mr. walter crane's characteristic illustrations combine with miss de morgan's pretty fancies in forming a charming gift-book."--_graphic._ "a real gem."--_punch._ =english men of action series.= mo. cloth, limp, cents; cloth, uncut edges, cents. "an admirable set of brief biographies.... the volumes are small, attractive, and inexpensive."--_dial._ "the 'english men of action' promises to be a notable series of short biographies. the subjects are well chosen, and the authors almost as well."--_epoch._ =gordon.= by col. sir w. butler. =henry the fifth.= by the rev. a. j. church. =livingstone.= by thomas hughes. =lord lawrence.= by sir r. temple. =wellington.= by george hooper. =dampier.= by w. clark russell. =monk.= by julian corbett. =strafford.= by h. d. traill. =warren hastings.= by sir alfred lyall, k.c.b. =peterborough.= by william stebbing. =captain cook.= by walter besant. =havelock.= by archibald forbes. =clive.= by col. sir charles wilson. =drake.= by julian corbett. =warwick, the king maker.= by c. w. oman. =napier.= by col. sir william butler. =rodney.= by d. g. hannay. =montrose.= by mowbray morris. _shortly._ =ewing= (j. h.). =we and the world.= a story for boys. by the late juliana horatio ewing. with seven illustrations by w. l. jones, and a pictorial design on the cover. th edition. mo. $ . . cheap illustrated edition. to. in paper boards, cents. "a very good book it is, full of adventure graphically told. the style is just what it should be; simple but not bold, full of pleasant humor, and with some pretty touches of feeling. like all mrs. ewing's tales, it is sound, sensible, and wholesome."--_times._ =a flat iron for a farthing;= or, some passages in the life of an only son. with illustrations by h. allingham, and pictorial design on the cover. th edition. mo. $ . . cheap illustrated edition. to. in paper boards, cents. "let every parent and guardian who wishes to be amused, and at the same time to please a child, purchase 'a flat iron for a farthing; or, some passages in the life of an only son,' by j. h. ewing. we will answer for the delight with which they will read it themselves, and we do not doubt that the young and fortunate recipients will also like it. the story is quaint, original, and altogether delightful."--_athenæum._ =mrs. overtheway's remembrances.= illustrated with nine fine full-page engravings by pasquier, and frontispiece by wolf, and pictorial design on the cover. th edition. mo. $ . . cheap illustrated edition. to. in paper boards, cents. "it is not often nowadays the privilege of a critic to grow enthusiastic over a new work; and the rarity of the occasion that calls forth the delight is apt to lead one into the sin of hyperbole. and yet we think we shall not be accused of extravagance when we say that, without exception, 'mrs. overtheway's remembrances' is the most delightful work avowedly written for children that we have ever read."--_leader._ =six to sixteen.= a story for girls. with illustrations by mrs. allingham. th edition. mo. $ . . cheap illustrated edition. to. in paper boards, cents. "it is scarcely necessary to say that mrs. ewing's book is one of the best of the year."--_saturday review._ =a great emergency.= (a very ill-tempered family; our field; madame liberality.) with four illustrations. d edition. mo. $ . . cheap illustrated edition. to. in paper boards, cents. "never has mrs. ewing published a more charming volume of stories, and that is saying a very great deal. from the first to the last the book overflows with the strange knowledge of child-nature which so rarely survives childhood; and, moreover, with inexhaustible quiet humor, which is never anything but innocent and well-bred, never priggish, and never clumsy."--_academy._ =jan of the windmill.= a story of the plains. with illustrations by mrs. allingham and design on the cover. th edition. mo. $ . . cheap illustrated edition. to. in paper boards, cents. "the life and its surroundings, the incidents of jan's childhood, are described with mrs. ewing's accustomed skill; the village schoolmaster, the miller's wife, and the other children, are extremely well done." =melchior's dream.= (the blackbird's nest; friedrich's ballad; a bit of green; monsieur the viscount's friend; the yew lane ghosts; a bad habit; a happy family.) with eight illustrations by gordon browne. th edition. mo. $ . . cheap illustrated edition. to. in paper wrapper, cents. "'melchior's dream' is an exquisite little story, charming by original humor, buoyant spirits, and tender pathos."--_athenæum._ =lob-lie-by-the-fire; or, the luck of lingborough, and other tales.= with three illustrations by george cruikshank. th edition. mo. $ . . "mrs. ewing has written as good a story as her 'brownies,' and that is saying a great deal. 'lob-lie-by-the-fire' has humor and pathos, and teaches what is right without making children think they are reading a sermon."--_saturday review._ =the brownies.= (the land of lost toys; three christmas trees; an idyl of the wood; christmas crackers; amelia and the dwarfs; timothy's shoes; benjy in beastland.) illustrated by george cruikshank. th edition. mo. $ . . cheap illustrated edition. fcap. to. in paper wrapper, cents. "if a child once begins 'the brownies,' it will get so deeply interested in it that when bedtime comes it will altogether forget the moral, and will weary its parents with importunities for just a few minutes more to see how everything ends."--_saturday review._ =freiligrath-kroeker. alice,= and other fairy plays for children, including a dramatised version (under sanction) of lewis carroll's "alice in wonderland," and three other plays. by mrs. freiligrath-kroeker, with eight original full-page plates. cloth, extra gilt. gilt edges. d edition. mo. $ . . "they have stood a practical ordeal, and stood it triumphantly."--_times._ =gaskoin= (mrs. h.). =children's treasury of bible stories.= edited by the rev. g. f. maclear, d.d. mo. each, cents. part i. old testament. ii. new testament. iii. three apostles: st. james, st. paul, st. john. =gatty= (mrs.). =parables from nature.= with illustrations by burne-jones, holman hunt, tenniel, wolf, and others. two series. each, cents. =golden treasury series.= uniformly printed in mo, with vignette titles by j. e. millais, sir noel paton, t. woolner, w. holman hunt, arthur hughes, etc. engraved on steel. mo. cloth. each, $ . . also bound in half morocco, $ . . half calf, $ . . padded calf, $ . . or beautifully bound in full morocco, padded, solid gilt edges, in boxes, $ . . =the children's garland from the best poets.= selected and arranged by coventry patmore, with a vignette by t. woolner. "mr. patmore deserves our gratitude for having searched through the wide field of english poetry for these flowers which youth and age can equally enjoy, and woven them into 'the children's garland.'"--_london review._ =the pilgrim's progress, from this world to that which is to come.= by john bunyan, with a vignette by w. holman hunt. "a beautiful and scholarly reprint."--_spectator._ =the fairy book.= the best popular fairy tales. selected and rendered anew by the author of "john halifax, gentleman," with a vignette by sir noel paton. "miss mulock has the true instinct into the secret of a perfect fairy tale ... delightful selection in a delightful external form."--_spectator._ =the adventures of robinson crusoe.= edited by j. w. clark, m.a., with a vignette by sir j. e. millais. "this cheap and pretty copy, rigidly exact to the original, will be a prize to many book buyers."--_examiner._ =the sunday book of poetry for the young.= selected and arranged by c. f. alexander. =a book of golden deeds= of all times and all countries. gathered and narrated anew. by the author of "the heir of redclyffe." =children's treasury of english song.= edited by f. t. palgrave. =tom brown's school days.= by an old boy. =lamb's tales from shakespeare.= edited by the rev. a. ainger. =goldsmith. the vicar of wakefield.= by oliver goldsmith. with illustrations by hugh thomson, and a preface by austin dobson. uniform with the randolph caldecott edition of washington irving's "bracebridge hall" and "old christmas." mo. cloth extra. $ . . "mr. thomson hits the exact line of humor which lies in goldsmith's creations. his work is refined, much of it graceful and dignified, but the humor of the situation never escapes him. the work is english line work, very beautiful, delicate, and effective, with a very perceptible touch of old-time quality, life, and costume in it. the volume itself is such as lovers of good books delight to hold in their hands."--_independent._ "a more bewitching bit of book work has not reached us for many a day."--_new york tribune._ =greenwood. the moon maiden, and other stories.= by jessy e. greenwood. mo. $ . . "a collection of brightly written and distinctly original stories in which fairy lore and moral allegory are deftly and pleasantly mingled."--_christian union._ =grimm's fairy tales.= the household stories. translated by lucy crane, and done into pictures by walter crane. mo. $ . . =hallward= (r. f.). =flowers of paradise.= music--verse--design--illustration. printed in colors by edmund evans. royal to. $ . . "to our mind one of the prettiest--if not the prettiest--of this year's picture books. the pages are very blake-like in effect, the drawings harmoniously blending with the music and words, and some of the larger pictures are quite beautiful in thought and feeling as well as in coloring. we ought soon to hear of mr. hallward again; he shows much promise."--_pall mall gazette._ =hughes.= works by thomas hughes. =tom brown's school days.= new illustrated edition. mo. cloth. gilt. $ . pocket edition, cents. english edition, $ . . "the most famous boy's book in the language."--_daily news._ _golden treasury edition._ mo. $ . . cheap edition. with illustrations by arthur hughes and s. p. hall. vo. paper. cents. =tom brown at oxford.= new illustrated edition. mo. cloth. gilt. $ . . english edition. mo. $ . . "in no other work that we can call to mind are the finer qualities of the english gentleman more happily portrayed."--_daily news._ "a book of great power and truth."--_national review._ =hullah= (m. a.). =hannah tarne.= a story for girls. with illustrations. mo. $ . . =keary.= works by a. and e. keary. =the heroes of asgard.= tales from scandinavian mythology. illustrated. mo. $ . . =the magic valley; or, patient antoine.= with illustrations. mo. $ . . =kingsley.= works by charles kingsley. =madam how and lady why: first lessons in earth lore for children.= $ . . english edition, $ . . =the heroes; or, greek fairy tales for my children.= with illustrations. $ . . english edition. mo. $ . . "this lovely version of three of the most famous folk stories of the old greeks."--_mail and express._ "ought to be in the hands of every child in the country."--_christian union._ =the water-babies: a fairy tale for a land baby.= illustrated. mo. $ . . english edition. mo. $ . . "they have included the admirable series of illustrations by mr. linley sambourne, which have hitherto only been procurable in the somewhat expensive christmas edition of . it is pleasing to think that sir richard owen and mr. huxley both survive to occupy the same position in the world of science, which the author assigned to them more than a quarter of a century ago. the artist's portrait of the two professors on page is a masterpiece."--_academy._ "they are simply inimitable, and will delight boys and girls of mature age, as well as their juniors. no happier combination of author and artist than this volume presents could be found to furnish healthy amusement to the young folks. the book is an artistic one in every sense."--_toronto mail._ =glaucus; or, the wonders of the seashore.= with coloured illustrations. $ . . =lamb. tales from shakespeare.= edited, with preface, by the rev. a. ainger, m.a. _golden treasury series._ mo. $ . . =macmillan. the gate beautiful.= bible teachings for the young. by the rev. hugh macmillan, author of "bible teachings from nature." _shortly._ =madame tabby's establishment.= by kari. illustrated. $ . . =marryat's= (captain) =books for boys.= uniformly bound in blue cloth. vols. large. mo. $ . each. =masterman ready; or, the wreck of the pacific.= with engravings on wood. $ . . =poor jack.= with illustrations. d edition. $ . . =the mission; or, scenes in africa.= with illustrations by john gilbert. $ . . =the settlers in canada.= with illustrations by gilbert and dalziel. $ . . =the privateersman.= adventures by sea and land in civil and savage life, one hundred years ago. with eight engravings. $ . . =the pirate, and the three cutters.= illustrated with eight engravings. with a memoir of the author. $ . . =peter simple.= with eight full-page illustrations. $ . . =midshipman easy.= with eight illustrations. $ . . =marshall. winifrede's journal.= by mrs. emma marshall, author of "life's aftermath," "mrs. willoughby's octave," etc. with illustrations. mo. _shortly._ =molesworth.= works by mrs. molesworth (ennis graham). with illustrations by walter crane. mo. uniformly bound. $ . each volume. =herr baby.= =grandmother dear.= =tell me a story.= =the cuckoo clock.= =the tapestry room. a child's romance.= =a christmas child: a sketch of a boy-life.= =rosy.= =two little waifs.= =christmas-tree land.= ="carrots," just a little boy.= ="us:" an old-fashioned story.= =four winds farm.= =little miss peggy. only a nursery story.= =a christmas posy.= =the rectory children.= =the children of the castle.= =nurse heatherdale's story.= with illustrations by l. leslie brooke. $ . . "there is no more acceptable writer for children than mrs. molesworth."--_literary world._ "no english writer of stories for children has a better reputation than mrs. molesworth, and none whose stories we are familiar with deserves it better."--_new york mail and express._ "mistress of the art of writing for children."--_spectator._ =noel. wandering willie.= by lady augusta noel. globe vo. $ . . =oliphant. agnes hopetown's school and holidays.= by mrs. oliphant. with illustrations. mo. $ . . =patmore= (c.). =the children's garland from the best poets.= selected. _golden treasury series._ mo. $ . . =procter= (a. a.). =legends and lyrics.= by adelaide anne procter. original edition. first series. with introduction by charles dickens. th thousand. second series. th thousand. vols. cents each. also an edition. to. series. cents each. =legends and lyrics.= new edition in one vol. with new portrait etched by c. o. murray, from a painting by e. gaggiotti richards. th thousand. large mo. cloth, gilt edges, $ . . =runaway (the).= by the author of "mrs. jerningham's journal." $ . . =ruth and her friends.= a story for girls. with illustrations. $ . . =st. johnson. charlie asgarde.= a tale of adventure. by alfred st. johnson. with illustrations. $ . . "will not prevent boys from reading it with keen interest. the incidents of savage life are described from the author's personal experience, and the book is so well written that we may reasonably hope for something of much higher quality from mr. johnson's pen."--_academy._ "whoever likes robinson crusoe--and who does not like it?--is pretty sure to like 'charlie asgarde.'"--_n. y. mail and express._ "the story is spirited and interesting, full of exciting incidents and situations."--_boston saturday evening gazette._ =spenser. tales chosen from the fairie queene.= by sophia h. maclehose. $ . . =stephenson.= works by mrs. j. stephenson. =nine years old.= with illustrations. mo. $ . . =pansie's flour bin.= illustrated. $ . . =when i was a little girl.= illustrated. mo. $ . . =when papa comes home.= the story of tip, tap, toe. illustrated. $ . . =stewart. the tale of troy.= done into english by aubrey stewart. mo. $ . . "we are much pleased with 'the tale of troy,' by aubrey stewart.... the homeric legend is given in strong, simple, melodious english, which sometimes leaves one in doubt as to the distinction between poetry and prose.... while the story delights them, it will ennoble and strengthen their minds, and the form in which it is rendered will teach them that love, which, for an american, should lie deep in his heart,--the love of good english."--_independent._ the lady of the forest. a story for girls. by l. t. meade author of "the little princess of tower hill," "a sweet girl graduate," "the palace beautiful," "polly," "a world of girls," etc., etc. "tyde what may betyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." illustrated edition. a. l. burt company, publishers, new york. contents chapter i.--fair little maids. chapter ii.--making terms. chapter iii.--preparing for the heir chapter iv.--a spartan boy. chapter v.--in the forest. chapter vi.--the tower bedroom. chapter vii.--"betyde what may." chapter viii.--the sacred cupboard. chapter ix.--a trysting-place. chapter x.--proofs. chapter xi.--the lady who came with a gift. chapter xii.--lost in the new forest. chapter xiii.--one more secret. chapter xiv.--the australians. chapter xv.--was he acting? chapter xvi.--lost. chapter xvii.--looking for the tankard. chapter xviii.--the marmadukes. chapter xix.--a tender heart. chapter xx.--punished. chapter xxi.--what the heir ought to be. chapter xxii.--right is right. chapter xxiii.--forest life. chapter xxiv.--a great alarm. chapter xxv.--a dream with a meaning. chapter xxvi.--love versus gold. chapter xxvii.--two mothers. chapter xxviii.--the lady who came with a gift. the lady of the forest. "tyde what may betyde lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." chapter i.--fair little maids. "and then," said rachel, throwing up her hands and raising her eyebrows--"and then, when they got into the heart of the forest itself, just where the shade was greenest and the trees thickest, they saw the lady coming to meet them. she, too, was all in green, and she came on and on, and----" "hush, rachel!" exclaimed kitty; "here comes aunt grizel." the girls, aged respectively twelve and nine, were seated, one on a rustic stile, the other on the grass at her feet; a background of splendid forest trees threw their slight and childish figures into strong relief. rachel's hat was tossed on the ground and kitty's parasol lay unopened by her side. the sun was sending slanting rays through the trees, and some of these rays fell on kitty's bright hair and lit up rachel's dark little gypsy face. "aunt grizel is coming," said kitty, and immediately she put on a proper and demure expression. rachel, drawn up short in the midst of a very exciting narrative, looked slightly defiant and began to whistle in a boyish manner. aunt griselda was seen approaching down a long straight avenue overshadowed by forest trees of beech and oak; she held her parasol well up, and her face was further protected from any passing gleams of sunlight by a large poke-bonnet. she was a slender old lady, with a graceful and dignified appearance. aunt griselda would have compelled respect from any one, and as she approached the two girls they both started to their feet and ran to meet her. "your music-master has been waiting for you for half an hour, rachel. kitty, i am going into the forest; you can come with me if you choose." rachel did not attempt to offer any excuse for being late; with an expressive glance at kitty she walked off soberly to the house, and the younger girl, picking up her hat, followed aunt griselda, sighing slightly as she did so. kitty was an affectionate child, the kind of child who likes everybody, and she would have tolerated aunt griselda--who was not particularly affectionate nor particularly sympathetic--if she had not disturbed her just at the moment when she was listening with breathless interest to a wonderful romance. kitty adored fairy tales, and rachel had a great gift in that direction. she was very fond of prefacing her stories with some such words as the following: "understand now, kitty, that this fairy story is absolutely true; the fairy was seen by our great-great-grandmother;" or "our great-uncle jonas declares that he saw that brownie himself as he was going through the forest in the dusk;" then kitty's pretty blue eyes would open wide and she would lose herself in an enchanted world. it was very trying to be brought back to the ordinary everyday earth by aunt griselda, and on the present occasion the little girl felt unusually annoyed. miss griselda lovel, or "aunt grizel" as her nieces called her, was a taciturn old lady, and by no means remarked kitty's silence. there were many little paths through the forest, and the two soon found themselves in comparative night. miss lovel walked quickly, and kitty almost panted as she kept up with her. her head was so full of rachel's fairy tale that at last some unexpected words burst from her lips. they were passing under a splendid forest tree, when kitty suddenly clutched aunt grizel's thin hand. "aunt grizel--is it--is it about here that the lady lives?" "what lady, child?" asked miss lovel. "oh, you know--the lady of the forest." aunt grizel dropped kitty's hand and laughed. "what a foolish little girl you are, kitty! who has been putting such nonsense into your head? see, my dear, i will wait for you here; run down this straight path to the eyres' cottage, and bring mrs. eyre back with you--i want to speak to her. i have had a letter, my dear, and your little cousin philip lovel is coming to avonsyde to-morrow." * * * * * avonsyde was one of the oldest places in the country; it was not particularly large, nor were its owners remarkable for wealth, or prowess, or deeds of daring, neither were the men of the house specially clever. it was indeed darkly hinted at that the largest portion of brains was as a rule bestowed upon the female side of the house. but on the score of antiquity no country seat could at all approach avonsyde. it was a delightful old place, homelike and bright; there were one or two acres of flower-garden not too tidily kept, and abounding in all kinds of old-fashioned and sweet-smelling flowers; the house had a broad frontage, its windows were small, and it possessed all the charming irregularities of a family dwelling-place which has been added to piece by piece. at one end was a tower, gray and hoary with the weight of centuries; at the further end were modern wings with large reception-rooms, and even some attempts at modern luxury and modern ornamentation. there were two avenues to the place: one the celebrated straight avenue, which must have been cut at some long-ago period directly out of the neighboring forest, for the trees which arched it over were giant forest oaks and beeches. this avenue was the pride of the place, and shown as a matter of course to all visitors. the other avenue, and the one most in use, was winding and straggling; it led straight up to the old-fashioned stone porch which guarded the entrance, and enshrined in the most protective and cozy manner the principal doors to the house. avonsyde had belonged to the lovels for eight hundred years. they were not a rich family and they had undergone many misfortunes; the property now belonged to the younger branch; for a couple of hundred years ago a very irate and fiery squire lovel had disinherited his eldest son and had bestowed all his fair lands and the old place upon a younger son. from that moment matters had not gone well with the family; the younger son who inherited the property which should have been his brother's made an unfortunate marriage, had sickly children, many of whom died, and not being himself either too strong-minded or in any sense overwise, had sustained severe money losses, and for the first time within the memory of man some of the avonsyde lands had to be sold. from the date of the disinheritance of the elder branch the family never regained either their wealth or prestige; generation after generation the lovels dwindled in strength and became less and less able to cope with their sturdier neighbors. the last squire of avonsyde had one sickly son and two daughters; the son married, but died before his father, leaving no son to inherit the old place. this son had also, in the family's estimation, married beneath him, and during the squire's lifetime his daughters were afraid even to mention the names of two bonny little lasses who were pining away their babyhood and early youth in poky london lodgings, and who would have been all the better for the fresh breezes which blew so genially round avonsyde. after the death of his son squire lovel became very morose and disagreeable. he pretended not to grieve for his son, but he also lost all interest in life. one by one the old pleasures in which he used to delight were given up, his health gave way rapidly, and at last the end drew near. there came a day when squire lovel felt so ill that he sent first of all for the family doctor and then for the family solicitor. he occupied the doctor's attention for about ten minutes, but he was closeted with the lawyer for two or three hours. at the end of that time he sent for his daughters and made some strong statements to them. "grizel," he said, addressing the elder miss lovel, "dr. maddon has just informed me that i am not long for this world." "dr. maddon is fond of exaggerating matters," said miss grizel in a voice which she meant to be soothing; "neither katharine nor i think you very ill, father, and--and----" the squire raised his eyebrows impatiently. "we won't discuss the question of whether maddon is a wise man or a silly one, griselda," he said. "i know myself that i am ill. i am not only ill, i am weak, and arguing with regard to a foregone conclusion is wearisome. i have much to talk to you and katharine about, so will you sit down quietly and listen to me?" miss griselda was a cold-mannered and perhaps cold-natured woman. miss katharine, on the contrary, was extremely tender-hearted; she looked appealingly at her old father's withered face; but she had always been submissive, and she now followed her elder sister's lead and sat down quietly on the nearest chair. "we will certainly not worry you with needless words, father," said miss griselda gently. "you have doubtless many directions to give us about the property; your instructions shall of course be carried out to the best of my ability. katharine, too, although she is not the strongest-minded of mortals, will no doubt, from a sense of filial affection, also respect your wishes." "i am glad the new poultry-yard is complete," here half-sobbed miss katharine, "and that valuable new breed of birds arrived yesterday; and i--i----" "try to stop talking, both of you," suddenly exclaimed the squire. "i am dying, and avonsyde is without an heir. griselda, will you oblige me by going down to the library and bringing up out of the book-case marked d that old diary of my great-grandfather's, in which are entered the particulars of the quarrel?" miss katharine looked in an awe-struck and startled way at her sister. miss griselda rose at once and, with a bunch of keys in her hand, went downstairs. the moment she had left the room miss katharine got up timidly and, with a certain pathos, stooped down and kissed the old man's swollen hand. the little action was done so simply and naturally that the fierce old face relaxed, and for an instant the wrinkled hand touched miss katharine's gray head. "yes, kitty, i know you love me; but i hate the feminine weakness of tears. ah, kitty, you were a fair enough looking maid once, but time has faded and changed you; you are younger than grizel, but you have worn far worse." miss katharine did not say a word, but hastily resumed her seat; and when miss lovel returned with the vellum-bound diary, she had not an idea that her younger sister had ever moved. sitting down by her father, she opened the musty old volume and read aloud certain passages which, written in fierce heat at the time, disclosed a painful family scene. angry words, bitter recriminations, the sense of injustice on one side, the thirst for revenge on the other, were faithfully portrayed by the dead-and-gone chronicler. the squire's lips moved in unspoken accompaniment to the words which his daughter read aloud, and miss katharine bent eagerly forward in order not to lose a syllable. "i am dying, and there is no male heir to avonsyde," said the squire at last. "griselda and katharine, i wish to state here distinctly that my great-great-grandfather made a mistake when he turned the boy rupert from the old place. valentine should have refused to inherit; it is doubtless because of valentine's weakness and his father's spirit of revenge that i die to-day without male issue to inherit avonsyde." "heaping recriminations on the dead won't help matters now," said miss griselda in a sententious voice. as she spoke she closed the diary, clasped it and locked it, and miss katharine, starting to her feet, said: "there are the children in london, your grandchildren, father, and our nearest of kin." the squire favored his younger daughter with a withering look, and even miss griselda started at what were very bold words. "those children," said the squire--"girls, both of them, sickly, weakly, with valentine's miserable pink-and-white delicacy and their low born mother's vulgarity; i said i would never see them, and i surely do not wish to hear about them now. griselda, there is now one plain and manifest duty before you--i lay it as my dying charge on you and katharine. i leave the search which you are to institute as your mission in life. while you both live avonsyde is yours, but you must search the world over if necessary for rupert lovel's descendants; and when you discover them you are to elect a bonny stalwart boy of the house as your heir. no matter whether he is eldest or youngest, whether he is in a high position or a low position in the social scale, provided he is a lineal descendant of the rupert lovel who was disinherited in , and provided also he is strong and upright and well-featured, with muscle and backbone and manliness in him, you are to appoint him your heir, and you are to bequeath to him the old house, and the old lands, and all the money you can save by simple and abstemious living. i have written it down in my will, and you are tied firmly, both of you, and cannot depart from my instructions; but i wished to talk over matters with you, for katharine there is slow to take in a thing, and you, grizel, are prejudiced and rancorous in your temper, and i wish you both clearly to understand that the law binds you to search for my heir, and this, if you want to inherit a shilling from me during your lifetime, you must do. remember, however, and bear ever strongly in mind, that if, when you find the family, the elder son is weakly and the younger son is strong, it is to the sturdy boy that the property is to go; and hark you yet again, griselda and katharine, that the property is not to go to the father if he is alive, but to the young boy, and the boy is to be educated to take up his rightful position. a strong lad, a manly and stalwart lad, mind you; for avonsyde has almost ceased to exist, owing to sickly and effeminate heirs, since the time when my great-great-grandfather quarreled with his son, rupert lovel, and gave the old place to that weakly stripling valentine. i am a descendant of valentine myself, but, 'pon my word, i rue the day." "your directions shall be obeyed to the letter," said miss griselda; but miss katharine interrupted her. "and we--we have only a life-interest in the property, father?" she inquired in a quavering voice. the old squire looked up into his younger daughter's face and laughed. "why, what more would you want, kitty? no longer young nor fair and with no thought of marrying--what is money to you after your death?" "i was thinking of the orphan children in london," continued miss katharine, with increasing firmness of manner and increasing trembling of voice. "they are very poor, and--and--they are valentine's children, and--and--you have never seen them, father." "and never mean to," snapped the squire. "griselda, i believe i have now given implicit directions. katharine, don't be silly. i don't mean to see those children and i won't be worried about them." at this moment the door behind the squire, which was very thick and made of solid oak, worn nearly black with age, was opened softly, and a clear voice exclaimed: "why, what a funny room! do come in, kitty. oh, what a beautiful room, and what a funny, queer old man!" miss griselda and miss katharine both turned round abruptly. miss griselda made a step toward the door to shut it against some unexpected and unwelcome intruder. the old man muttered: "that is a child's voice--one of the village urchins, no doubt." but before miss griselda could reach the door--in short, before any of the little party assembled in the dying squire's bedroom could do anything but utter disjointed exclamations, a child, holding a younger child by the hand, marched boldly and with the air of one perfectly at home into the chamber. "what a very nice room, and what funny ladies, and oh! what a queer, cross old man! don't be frightened, kitty, we'll walk right through. there's a door at the other end--maybe we'll find grandfather in the room beyond the door at that end." the squire's lower jaw quite dropped as the radiant little creatures came in and filled the room with an unlooked-for light and beauty. they were dressed picturesquely, and no one for an instant could mistake them for the village children. the eldest child might have been seven; she was tall and broad, with large limbs, a head crowned with a great wealth of tangly, fuzzy, nut-brown hair, eyes deeply set, very dark in color, a richly tinted dark little face, and an expression of animation which showed in the dancing eyes, in the dancing limbs, in the smiling, dimpled, confident mouth; her proud little head was well thrown back; her attitude was totally devoid of fear. the younger child was fair with a pink-and-white complexion, a quantity of golden, sunny hair, and eyes as blue as the sky; she could not have been more than four years old, and was round-limbed and dimpled like a baby. "who are you, my dears?" said miss katharine when she could speak. miss katharine was quite trembling, and she could not help smiling at the lovely little pair. squire lovel and miss grizel were still frowning, but miss katharine's voice was very gentle. "who are you, my dear little children?" she repeated, gaining courage and letting an affectionate inflection steal into her voice. "i'm kitty," said the younger child, putting her finger to her lip and looking askance at the elder girl, "and she--she's rachel." "you had better let me tell it, kitty," interrupted rachel. "please, we are going through the house--we want to see everything. kitty doesn't want to as badly as me, but she always does what i tell her. we are going straight on into the next room, for we want to find grandfather. i'm rachel lovel and this is kitty lovel. our papa used to live here when he was a little boy, and we want to find grandfather, please. oh, what a cross old man that is sitting in the chair!" while rachel was making her innocent and confident speech, miss katharine's face turned deadly pale; she was afraid even to glance at her father and sister. the poor lady felt nearly paralyzed, and was dimly wondering how she could get such audacious intruders out of the room. rachel having finished her speech remained silent for a quarter of a minute; then taking kitty's hand she said: "come along, kit, we may find grandfather in the other room. we'll go through the door at that end, and perhaps we'll come to grandfather at last." kitty heaved a little sigh of relief, and the two were preparing to scamper past the deep embrasure of the mullioned window, when a stern voice startled the little adventurers, and arresting them in their flight, caused them to wheel swiftly round. "come here," said squire lovel. he had never spoken more sternly; but the mites had not a bit of fear. they marched up to him boldly, and kitty laid her dimpled baby finger, with a look of inquiry, on his swollen old hand: "what a funny fat hand!" "what did you say you called yourself?" said the squire, lifting rachel's chin and peering into her dark face. "griselda and katharine, i'll thank you not to stand staring and gaping. what did you call yourself? what name did you say belonged to you, child? i'm hard of hearing; tell me again." "i'm rachel valentine lovel," repeated the child in a confident tone. "i was called after my mamma and after father--father's in heaven, and it makes my mother cry to say valentine, so i'm rachel; and this is kitty--her real name is katharine--katharine lovel. we have come in a dog-cart, and mother is downstairs, and we want to see all the house, and particularly the tower, and we want to see grandfather, and we want a bunch of grapes each." all the time rachel was speaking the squire kept regarding her more and more fiercely. when she said "my mother is downstairs," he even gave her a little push away. rachel was not at all appalled; she knit her own black brows and tried to imitate him. "i never saw such a cross old man; did you, kitty? please, old man, let us go now. we want to find grandfather." "perhaps it's a pain him got," said kitty, stroking the swollen hand tenderly. "mother says when i's got a pain i can't help looking cross." the fierce old eyes turned slowly from one lovely little speaker to the other; then the squire raised his head and spoke abruptly. "griselda and katharine, come here. have the goodness to tell me who this child resembles," pointing as he spoke to rachel. "look at her well, study her attentively, and don't both answer at once." there was not the slightest fear of miss katharine interrupting miss griselda on this occasion. she only favored dark-eyed little rachel with a passing glance; but her eyes, full of tears, rested long on the fair little baby face of kitty. "this child in all particulars resembles the portrait of our great-uncle rupert," said miss griselda, nodding at rachel as she did so. "the same eyes, the same lift of the eyebrows, and the same mouth." "and this one," continued the squire, turning his head and pointing to kitty--"this one, griselda? katharine, you need not speak." "this one," continued miss griselda, "has the weakness and effeminate beauty of my dead brother valentine." "kitty isn't weak," interrupted rachel; "she's as strong as possible. she only had croup once, and she never takes cold, and she only was ill for a little because she was very hungry. please, old man, stop staring so hard and let us go now. we want to find our grandfather." but instead of letting rachel go squire lovel stretched out his hand and drew her close to him. "sturdy limbs, dark face, breadth of figure," he muttered, "and you are my grandchild--the image of rupert; yes, the image of rupert lovel. i wish to god, child, you were a boy!" "your grandchild!" repeated rachel. "are you my grandfather? kitty, kitty, is this our grandfather?" "him's pain is better," said kitty. "i see a little laugh 'ginning to come round his mouth. him's not cross. let us kiss our grandfader, rachel." up went two rosy, dimpled pairs of lips to the withered old cheeks, and two lovely little pairs of arms were twined round squire lovel's neck. "we have found our grandfather," said rachel. "now let's go downstairs at once and bring mother up to see him." "no, no, stop that!" said the squire, suddenly disentangling himself from the pretty embrace. "griselda and katharine, this scene is too much for me. i should not be agitated--those children should not intrude on me. take care of them--take particular care of the one who is like rupert. take her away now; take them both away; and, hark you, do not let the mother near me. i'll have nothing to say to the mother; she is nothing to me. take the children out of the room and come back to me presently, both of you." chapter ii.--making terms. the moment the two little girls found themselves outside their grandfather's door they wrenched their little hands away from miss griselda's and miss katharine's, and with a gay laugh like two wild, untamed birds flew down the wide oak staircase and across the hall to a room where a woman, dressed very soberly, waited for them. she was sitting on the edge of a hard cane-bottomed chair, her veil was down, and her whole attitude was one of tense and nervous watchfulness. the children ran to her with little cries of rapture, climbed together on her knee, pulled up her veil, and nearly smothered her pale dark face with kisses. "mother, mother, mother, he was so cross!" "he had pain, mother, and him's eyes was wrinkled up so." "but, mother, we gave him a kiss, and he said i was strong and kitty was weak. we have not seen the tower yet, and we haven't got our grapes, and there are two old ladies, and we don't like them much, and we ran away from them--and--oh, here they are!" the children clung tightly to their mother, who struggled to her feet, pushed them aside with a gesture almost of despair, and came up at once to the two miss lovels. "i know this visit is unwarranted; i know it is considered an intrusion. the children's father was born here, but there is no welcome for them; nevertheless i have brought them. they are beautiful children--look at them. no fairer daughters of your house ever were born than these two. look at rachel; look at kitty. is it right they should be brought up with no comforts in a poor london lodging? rachel, kiss your aunts. kitty, little one, kiss your aunts and love them." rachel skipped up gayly to the two stiff old ladies, but kitty began at last to be influenced by the frowns which met her on all sides; she pouted, turned her baby face away, and buried it in her mother's lap. "look at them--are they not beautiful?" continued the mother. "is it fair that they should be cooped up in a london lodging when their father belonged to this place? i ask you both--you who are my husband's sisters; you who were children when he was a child, who used to play with him and kiss him, and learn your lessons out of the same book, and to sleep in the same nursery--is it fair?" "it is not fair," said miss katharine suddenly. she seemed carried quite out of herself; her eyes shone, and the pink of a long-gone beauty returned with a transient gleam to her faded cheek. "it is not fair," she repeated. "no, griselda, i am not afraid of you. i will say what is in my mind. valentine's face speaks to me again out of the baby face of that dear little child. what was rupert lovel to us that we should place a likeness to him before a likeness to our own dead brother? i say it is unfair that valentine's children should have neither part nor lot in his old home. i, for one, am willing to welcome them to avonsyde." miss griselda had always a most placid face; she now said in her calmest tones: "there is no need to excite yourself, katharine. i too think the children have a claim on us. an arrangement can easily be made about the children--their mother is the difficulty." the face of the plainly dressed young woman could scarcely grow any paler. she gave a quick, very quick glance at handsome little rachel, who stood with her head thrown back and her eyes eagerly watching each movement of the excited group around her; then the mother's hand touched kitty's golden head with a very faint caressing touch, and then she spoke: "i have come to make terms. i knew i should be considered an obstacle, but that is a mistake. i will be none. i am willing--i am willing to obliterate myself. i would talk to you and make terms, but i would make them alone--i mean i would rather not make them in the presence of the children." "i will take the children," said miss katharine eagerly; "they want to see the house; i will take them round. they want grapes; i will take them to the vineries." "oh, yes, we want grapes," said rachel in an excited voice; "we want lots of grapes--don't we, kitty?" "yes; lots," answered kitty, turning her flushed little face once more to view. she had been hiding it for the last few minutes against her mother's black dress. "that is my father's bell," said miss griselda suddenly. "i must hurry to him. i will see you presently, mrs. lovel; and, katharine, you too must be present at our interview. i must ask mrs. martin to take the children round the place." miss griselda opened the thick oak door of the squire's bedroom and went in. her face was changed in expression and her usual self-possession had to a certain extent deserted her. "what an age you have been away, grizel," said the old man testily. "you might have known that i'd want you. did i not tell you to take the children out of the room and to come back to me presently? did you not hear me when i said, 'come back to me presently?' oh, i see how things are!" continued the irate old man, with a burst of fury. "i am weak and ill now and my commands are nothing--my wishes are not of the slightest consequence. i know how it will be when i'm gone. you and katharine promise faithfully to obey me now, but you'll forget your promises when i'm gone. even you, griselda, who have always had the character of being strong-minded, will think nothing of your given word when i'm in my grave." "you're tired, father," said miss griselda, "and the unexpected intrusion of the children has excited you. let me pour you out a dose of your restorative medicine. here, drink this; now you will feel better." the old squire's hand shook so much that he could not hold the glass which miss griselda tendered to him; but she held it herself to his lips, and when he had drained off its contents he grew a shade calmer. "one of those children is very like rupert lovel," he murmured. "a strong girl, with a bold, fine face. you never would have supposed that that weak stripling valentine would have had a child of that build, would you, grizel?" "no, father. but the little girl has a likeness to her mother, and it is about the mother i have now come to speak to you. oh, come now, you must try and listen to me. you must not get over-excited, and you must not begin to talk absolute rubbish about my disobeying your wishes; for you have positively got to settle something about valentine's children." "i said i'd have nothing to say to them." "very likely; but you said so before you saw them. having seen them, it is absolutely impossible for you to turn valentine's orphan children from the doors. their mother cannot support them, and she has brought them to us and we must not turn them away. i may as well tell you plainly that i will never consent to the children being sent away from avonsyde. i won't wait to disobey you until you are dead in that matter. i shall do so at once, and quite openly, for i could never have another easy night on my pillow if i thought valentine's children were starving." "who wants them to starve?" grumbled the squire. but miss griselda's firm words had an effect, and he lowered his chin on his chest and looked gloomily straight before him. "the mother has come here to make terms," said miss griselda. "now what shall they be?" "at least she shall not sleep under my roof! a low girl--no match for valentine! if i said it once i repeat it fifty times. i will never look on that woman's face, grizel!" "i don't want you to, father. i agree with you that she had better go. now let me tell you, in as few words as i can, what i intend to propose to katharine and to mrs. lovel, with your sanction, presently. the children must stay at avonsyde. if the heir is never found, well and good; they are provided for. if, on the other hand, the heir turns up, they are, according to the present conditions of your will, absolutely penniless. now i don't choose this. valentine's children must be provided for under any emergency, and you must make a fresh codicil to your will." "i will not!" "father, you must. valentine was your own son; these children are your rightful and legitimate heirs. i am heart and soul with you in your wish to find the lawful descendant of rupert lovel--i promise to devote my life to this search; but valentine's children must not go penniless. you must make a codicil to your will providing comfortably for them in case the lawful heir turns up." "how can i? the doctor says i have not many hours to live." "long enough for that, no doubt. we cannot, unfortunately, send for mr. baring from london, but i will send a man on horseback to southampton, and mr. terry, the barings' country partner, will be here in two or three hours." "i tell you i have only a few hours to live," repeated the squire, sinking his head lower on his chest and looking daggers at his daughter. "long enough for that," she repeated. she rose from her seat and went across the room to ring the bell. when the servant entered the room she gave some very clear and emphatic directions, and then desiring the nurse who waited on her father to be summoned, she left the room. her interview had scarcely been a peaceable one, and as she went downstairs her usually calm expression was considerably disturbed. "i can make terms with the mother now," she murmured. "but i am not going even to tell my father what they are." and she went downstairs. floating in through the open window came the sound of gay, childish mirth, and looking out she saw the little strangers dancing and laughing and chatting merrily to old mrs. martin, the housekeeper, as she took them round the grounds. then miss griselda went downstairs, and she and miss katharine had their interview with the grave, quiet young mother, who had come, as she said, to make terms. no one heard what they said to her nor what she said to them; no one knew what arrangements were arrived at between the three; no one guessed either then or long years afterward what the terms were. when the somewhat protracted interview had come to an end, the young mother left miss griselda's study with her veil drawn tightly over her face. if her eyes were red and her lips trembled, no one noticed those signs of grief through her thick crape veil. miss griselda offered her food, and miss katharine wanted to take her hand and wring it with a kindly pressure; but she shook her head at the one and drew back proudly from the other's proffered hand-shake. the dog-cart was waiting at a side entrance, and she got into it and drove away. nor did she once look back as she drove down the long straight avenue under the shade of the old forest trees. that night squire lovel said a word or two to his daughters. "so you have kept the children?" "we have kept the children," repeated miss griselda tersely. "it is nothing to me. i have made that codicil to my will. you have had your way in that." "you have done justice, father--you will die happier," replied miss griselda. "have you made arrangements with the mother?" questioned the squire. "the mother will not trouble us; we have arranged with her," answered the elder miss lovel. "we have made arrangements with her," echoed miss katharine, and here she bent her head and gave vent to a little choking sob. the squire was very restless all night, and several times the words "kitty" and "valentine" escaped his lips. the end was near and the poor old brain was wandering. toward morning he was left alone for a few moments with miss katharine. "father," she said suddenly, kneeling by his bedside, clasping his hand, and looking at him imploringly, "father, you would bid us be kind to valentine's children?" "valentine's children?" repeated the old man. "ay, ay, kitty. my head wanders. are they valentine's children or rupert's children?--the rupert who should have inherited avonsyde. somebody's children were here to-day, but i cannot remember whether they belonged to valentine or rupert." "father, they belong to valentine--to your son valentine. you are dying. may i bring them to you, and will you bless them before you go?" the old squire looked up at his daughter with dim and fading eyes. she did not wait to listen for any assent from his lips, but flying from the room, returned presently with two rosy, cherub-like creatures. "kiss your grandfather, kitty; his pain is bad. kiss him tenderly, dear little child." kitty pursed up her full red lips and gave the required salute solemnly. "now, rachel, kiss your grandfather; he is very ill." rachel too raised herself on tiptoe, and bending forward touched the old man's lips lightly with her own. "rupert's child," he murmured; "ay, ay, just like rupert." shortly afterward he died. chapter iii.--preparing for the heir "i wonder, rachel," said kitty, "i wonder when the heir will be found." rachel had curled herself up in a luxurious arm-chair, was devouring a new story-book, and was in consequence displeased with kitty for her question. "let me read, kitty. in half an hour i have to go to my drill, and then practicing, and then learning those tiresome lessons. i don't care if an heir is never found; do let me read!" "there's another one coming to-morrow," continued kitty in a by no means abashed voice; "his name is philip and his mother is coming with him. i heard aunt grizel telling mrs. eyre all about it, and, rachel--oh, rachel, do listen! they are to sleep in the bedroom directly under aunt katharine's and aunt grizel's room in the tower." this last piece of information was sufficiently interesting to rachel to make her fling down her book with an impetuous gesture. "what a tiresome kitty you are. i never can read when you come into the room. i was in a most exciting part, but never mind. my half-hour of quiet will be gone in no time. i had better keep the book until i can steal away into the forest and read it in peace." "but isn't it exciting," pursued kitty, "to think that they are going to sleep in the tower bedroom?" "and his name is philip!" repeated rachel, "philip is the name of this one--the last was guy, and the one before was ferdinand, and the one before that was augustus. i want an heir to come of the name of zerubbabel. i like zerubbabel, and it's uncommon. what a pity this one's name is philip!" "oh, he's not the real heir," said little kitty, shaking her head solemnly; "he's only another make-believe; but it's rather exciting his mother coming too and the tower room being prepared. rachel, aren't you almost certain that when the real, true heir comes his name will be rupert? why, of course it must be rupert--mustn't it, rachel?" "i don't know and i don't care," answered rachel, tumbling out of her luxurious chair and shaking back her dark, untidy locks. "how old is philip, kitty? poor philip, i wish him joy of the place! he'll find it dull enough, and he'll find aunt grizel very tiresome and aunt katharine very sweet, but very stupid, and he'll wish he wasn't the heir a thousand times in the twenty-four hours. how old is he, kitty-cat? just tell me quickly, for i must go." "he's eight years old," replied kitty in a very interested tone; "that's another thing that's exciting--his being so near to my age. aunt grizel says that he'll be a sort of a companion for me. i do hope he'll be a nice little boy." "i don't care anything at all about him," said rachel; "he may be the heir or he may not. i'm not in the least interested. i don't see anything exciting in the fact of a stupid little boy coming to avonsyde with his mother; it's a slow place and he'll have a slow life, and there's nothing to interest me about it." "oh, rachel, i never could guess that you found avonsyde slow. if you do, why do you laugh so merrily and why do you look so gay?" "i never said that i found avonsyde dull," answered rachel, turning round with a quick, flashing movement. "no place is slow or dull to me. but i'm not going to stay here; i'm going to school, and then afterward i'm going right round the world looking for mother. oh, that's my drill-sergeant's bell! what a worry he is! good-by, kitty-cat." rachel skipped out of the room, banging the door after her, and kitty climbed into her chair, and leaning back in it shut her pretty blue eyes. it was five years now since the children had come to avonsyde, and kitty had absolutely forgotten the dismal day of their arrival. she knew that she had a mother, for rachel reminded her of the fact; but she could recall no outline of her face. rachel not only spoke of her mother, but remembered her. vivid memories of a grave, sweet, sad face came to her at intervals, and when these memories visited the child longings came also. why had her mother gone away? why were kitty and she practically motherless? who were the wicked people who had divided this mother and these children? when these thoughts came rachel's dark little face would work with strong emotion; and if aunt griselda or aunt katharine happened to be near, she would feel tempted to answer them defiantly and to favor them with flashing, angry glances. "i miss my mother!" she would sob sometimes at night. "i wish--oh, how i wish i could give her a long, big, great kiss! well, never mind: when i am old enough i'll go all round the world looking for her, for i know she is not dead." these storms of grief did not come often, and on the whole the children had spent five very happy years at avonsyde. aunt grizel and aunt katharine had each in her own way been good to them--aunt grizel erring on the side of over-severity, aunt katharine on the side of over-indulgence. but the children had no fear in their natures, and were so bright and frank and charming that even aunt katharine's petting could not do them any harm. they were well taught and well cared for, and were universal favorites wherever they went--the extreme side of kitty being prone to over-tenderness; the extreme side of rachel to over-brusqueness and almost fierceness. miss griselda and miss katharine said very little about their affection for the children--very little either to the children themselves or to one another. they were reserved women and thought it undignified to speak of their feelings. neither rachel nor kitty was at all proud of being lovels of avonsyde; but miss griselda thought her position above that of a countess, and miss katharine supported her great honors with a meek little air of becoming pride. the old ladies' great object in life was to find the missing heir, and miss griselda had even once picked up sufficient courage to go to america, accompanied by the family lawyer and his wife, in search of him; but though many little boys came to avonsyde and many fathers and mothers sent in all kinds of extraordinary claims, the heir who could claim direct descent from rupert lovel, the strong and sturdy boy who was to bring back a fresh epoch of health and life and vigor to the old family tree, and not yet arrived. now, however, shortly after rachel's twelfth birthday and in the middle of a glorious summer, little philip lovel was expected. his mother was to bring him and he was to sleep in the tower room, which, as kitty said, was most exciting. miss griselda and miss katharine too were excited; and miss griselda said with an unusual burst of confidence to her younger sister: "if the boy turns out to be a true descendant of rupert's, and if he is blessed with good physical health, i shall feel a great load off my mind." miss katharine smiled in reply. "god grant the little boy may be the heir," she said; "but, griselda, i don't like the tone of the mother's letters." chapter iv.--a spartan boy. "philip?" "yes, mother." "you quite understand that you have got to be a very good little boy?" "oh, yes, mother, i understand." "it's a big, grand place--it's what is described as an ancient place, and dates back hundreds and hundreds of years, and you, you--why, what is the matter, philip?" "is it antediluvian?" asked philip, jumping up from his seat opposite his mother in the railway carriage. "oh, i do hope and trust it's antediluvian!" "how you do puzzle me with your queer words, philip. antediluvian!--that means before the flood. oh, no, avonsyde wasn't in existence before the flood; but still it is very old, and the ladies who live there are extremely grand people. you haven't been accustomed to living in a great ancient house, and you haven't been accustomed to the manner of such grand ancient ladies as the misses griselda and katharine lovel, and i do trust--i do hope you will behave properly." "hullo! there's a spider up in that window," interrupted the boy. "i must try to catch him. there! he has run into his hole. oh, mother, mother, look! there's a windmill! see, it's going round so fast! and, i say, isn't that a jolly river? i want to fish and to shoot when i get to the grand place. i don't care what else i do if only i have plenty of fishing and shooting." philip lovel's mother knit her brows. she was a tall, fashionably dressed woman, with a pale face, a somewhat peevish expression, and a habit of drawing her eyebrows together until they nearly met. "philip, you must attend to me," she said, drawing the little boy down to stand quietly by her side. "i have got you a whole trunkful of nice gentlemanly clothes, and i have spent a heap of money over you, and you must--yes, you must please the old ladies. why, phil, if this scheme fails we shall starve." "oh, don't, mother, don't!" said little phil, looking full up into his mother's face, and revealing as he did so two sensitive and beautiful brown eyes, the only redeeming features in a very plain little countenance. "don't cry, mother! i'll be a good boy, of course. now, may i go back and see if that spider has come out of his hole?" "no, philip, never mind the spider. i have you all to myself, and we shall be at avonsyde in less than an hour. i want to impress it upon you, so that you may keep it well in your memory what you are to do. now, are you listening to me, phil?" "i am trying to," answered philip. "i do hope, mother, you won't tell me too many things, for i never can remember anything for more than a minute at a time." philip smiled and looked up saucily, but mrs. lovel was far too much absorbed in what she was about to say to return his smiling glance. "philip, i trained you badly," she began. "you were let run wild; you were let do pretty much as you liked; you weren't at all particularly obedient. now, i don't at all want the miss lovels to find that out. you are never to tell how you helped betty with the cakes, and you are never to tell about polishing your own boots, and you are not to let out for a moment how you and i did our own gardening. if you speak of betty you must call her your nurse; and if you speak of jim, who was such a troublesome boy, you can mention him as the gardener, and not say that he was only twelve years old." "what a lot of lies i'm to tell," said philip, opening his eyes wider and wider. "go on, mother--what else am i to do?" mrs. lovel gave the little speaker a shake. "philip, what an exasperating child you are! of course you are not to be so wicked as to attempt to tell lies. oh, what a bad boy you are even to think of such a thing! i only want you to be a nice, gentlemanly little boy and not to speak of vulgar things, and of course it is very vulgar to allude to a maid-of-all-work like betty and to cleaning one's own boots; but as to lies--what do you mean, sir? oh, there, the train is slackening speed. we'll soon be at the station, and the carriage was to meet us. remember, philip, always be on your best behavior at avonsyde! don't speak unless you are spoken to, and always be on the lookout to please the old ladies. there are two little girls, i believe; but they are not of the slightest consequence. dear, dear, i feel quite trembling! i hope--i trust all will go well! philip, dear, you have not felt that pain in your side all day, have you?" "no, mother; i have not felt it for days. i am much better really." "i don't want you to speak of it, love. i am most anxious that the ladies should consider you a strong boy. the doctors say you are almost certain to get over the pain; and when the miss lovels appoint you their heir it will be time enough to mention it. if the pain comes on very badly you will keep it to yourself--won't you, phil? you won't groan or scream or anything of that sort; and you can always run up to my room and i can give you the drops. oh, phil, phil, if this scheme fails we shall simply starve!" philip, with his queer, old-fashioned face, looked full at his mother. "i'll be a spartan boy and bear the pain," he said. "i don't care a bit about being rich or having a big place; but i don't want you to starve, mother. oh, i say, there's that jolly little spider again!" when the london express halted at last at the small country station, philip was gazing in ecstasy at a marvelous complication of web and dust, at one or two entrapped flies, and at a very malicious but clever spider. his mother was shaking out her draperies, composing her features, and wondering--wondering hard how a very bold scheme would prosper. "jump down, phil. here we are!" she called to her boy. the child, an active, lithe little fellow, obeyed her. not a trace of anxiety could be discerned on his small face. in truth, he had forgotten avonsyde in the far more absorbing interest of the spider. * * * * * "i am glad to welcome you, mrs. lovel!" said miss griselda as she came forward to greet the new-comers. she was standing in the old hall, and the light from a western window of rich old stained glass fell in slanting hues on a very eager and interested group. behind miss griselda stood her shadow, miss katharine, and rachel's bold dark face and kitty's sunny one could be seen still further in the background. rachel pretended not to be the least interested in the arrival of the strangers, nevertheless her bright eyes looked singularly alert. kitty did not attempt to hide the very keen interest she took in the little boy who was so nearly her own age, and who was to be so greatly honored as to sleep in the tower room. miss griselda and miss katharine wore their richest black silks and some of their most valuable lace; for surely this was the real heir, and they intended to give him a befitting reception. the old housekeeper and one or two other servants might have been seen peeping in the distance; they were incredulous, but curious. mrs. lovel took in the whole scene at a glance; the aspect of affairs pleased her and her versatile spirits rose. she took philip's little hand in hers and led him up to miss griselda. "this," she said in a gentle and humble voice--"this is my little boy." "philip lovel," responded miss griselda, "look up at me, child--full in the face. ah! you have got the lovel eyes. how do you do, my dear? welcome to avonsyde!" "welcome to avonsyde!" repeated miss katharine, looking anxiously from the fashionably dressed mother to the precocious boy. "are you very tired, my dear? you look so pale." phil glanced from one old lady's face to the other. his mother felt herself shaking. she saw at once that he had forgotten their conversation in the train, and wondered what very malapropos remark he would make. phil had a habit of going off into little dreams and brown-studies. he looked inquiringly at miss katharine; then he gazed searchingly at miss griselda; then he shook himself and said abruptly: "i beg your pardon--what did you ask me?" "oh, phil, how rude!" interrupted mrs. lovel. "the ladies asked you if you were tired, love. tell them at once that you are not in the least so. pale children are so often considered delicate," continued mrs. lovel anxiously, "whereas they are quite acknowledged by many physicians to be stronger than the rosy ones. say you are not tired, phil, and thank miss katharine for taking an interest in your health." phil smiled. "i'm not tired," he said. "i had a pleasant journey. there was a spider in the carriage, and i saw a windmill. and oh! please, am i to call you auntie, or what?" "aunt katharine," interposed the lady. "aunt katharine, do you fish? and may i fish?" here kitty burst into a delighted chuckle of amusement, and going frankly up to phil took his hand. "i can fish," she said; "of course aunt katharine can't fish, but i can. i've got a rod, a nice little rod; and if you are not tired you may as well come and see it." "then i'm going out with my book," said rachel. "i'm going into the forest. perhaps i'll meet the lady there. good-by, kitty-cat; good-by, little boy." rachel disappeared through one door, kitty and phil through another, and mrs. lovel and the two old ladies of avonsyde were left to make acquaintance with one another. "come into the drawing-room," said miss griselda; "your little boy and the children will get on best alone. he is a muscular-looking little fellow, although singularly pale. where did you say he was born--in mexico?" "in mexico," replied mrs. lovel, repressing a sigh. "the true mexican lads are about the strongest in the world; but he of course is really of english parentage, although his father and his grandfather never saw england. yes, phil was born in mexico, but shortly afterward we moved into the american states, and before my husband died we had emigrated to australia. phil is a strong boy and has had the advantage of travel and constant change--that is why he is so wiry. the hot country in which he was born accounts for his pallor, but he is remarkably strong." mrs. lovel's words came out quickly and with the nervousness of one who was not very sure of a carefully prepared lesson. suspicious people would have doubted this anxious-looking woman on the spot, but neither miss griselda nor miss katharine was at all of a suspicious turn of mind. miss griselda said: "you have traveled over a great part of the habitable globe and we have remained--i and my sister and our immediate ancestors before us--in the privacy and shelter of avonsyde. to come here will be a great change for you and your boy." "a great rest--a great delight!" replied mrs. lovel, clasping her hands ecstatically. "oh, dear miss lovel, you don't know what it is to weary for a home as i have wearied." her words were genuine and tears stood in her pale blue eyes. miss griselda considered tears and raptures rather undignified; but miss katharine, who was very sympathetic, looked at the widow with new interest. "it is wonderfully interesting to feel that your little boy belongs to us," she said. "he seems a nice little fellow, very naïve and fresh. won't you sit in this comfortable chair? you can get such a nice view of the forest from here. and do you take cream and sugar in your tea?" "a very little cream and no sugar," replied mrs. lovel as she leaned back luxuriously in the proffered chair. "what a lovely view! and what a quaint, beautiful room. i remember my husband telling me that avonsyde belonged to his family for nearly eight hundred years, and that the house was almost as old as the property. is this room really eight hundred years old? it looks wonderfully quaint." "you happen to be in the most modern part of the house, mrs. lovel," replied miss griselda icily. "this drawing-room and all this wing were added by my grandfather, and this special room was first opened for the reception of company when my mother came here as a bride. the exact date of this room is a little over half a century. you shall see the older part of the house presently; this part is very painfully modern." mrs. lovel bowed and sipped her tea as comfortably as she could under the impression of being snubbed. "i have never been in a very old house before," she said. "you know in mexico, in the states, in australia, the houses must be modern." "may i ask if you have brought your pedigree?" inquired miss griselda. "yes, katharine, you need not look at me in such a surprised manner. we neither of us have an idea of troubling mrs. lovel to show it to us now--not indeed until she has rested; but it is absolutely necessary to trace philip's descent from rupert lovel at as early a date as possible. that being correctly ascertained and found to be indisputable, we must have him examined by some eminent physician; and if the medical man pronounces him to be an extremely strong boy our quest is ended, and you and i, katharine, can rest in peace. mrs. lovel, you look very tired. would you like to retire to your room? katharine, will you ring the bell, dear? we will ask newbolt to accompany mrs. lovel to her room and to attend on her. newbolt is our maid, mrs lovel, and quite a denizen of the forest; she can tell you all the local traditions." "thank you," said mrs. lovel. "yes, i shall be glad to lie down for a little. i do hope philip is not tiring himself--not that he is likely to; he is so strong. thank you, miss lovel, i will lie down for a little. yes, of course i brought the pedigree--and--and--a very quaint house; even the new part looks old to me!" mrs. lovel tripped out of the room, and the two old ladies looked at one another. "what do you think of her, katharine?" inquired miss griselda. "you are dying to speak, so let me hear your sentiments at once!" "i don't quite like her," said miss katharine. "she seems very tired and very nervous, and perhaps it is unfair and unkind to say anything about her until she is rested. i can't honestly say, however, that my first impression is favorable, and she may be much nicer when she is not so tired and not so nervous. i don't like her much at present, but i may afterward. what are your opinions, griselda?" "katharine," said miss griselda, "you are the most prosaic and long-winded person i know. you don't suppose for an instant that i am going to say what i think of mrs. lovel to-day. after all, it is the boy in whom we are interested. time alone can show whether these two are not another couple of impostors. now, i wonder where that child rachel has taken herself!" chapter v.--in the forest. kitty and philip ran off together hand in hand. they were about the same height, but kitty's fair, healthy, flushed face showed in strong contrast to phil's pallor, and her round and sturdy limbs gave promise of coming health and beauty; whereas phil's slight form only suggested possible illness, and to a watchful eye would have betokened a short life. but the boy was wiry and just now he was strongly excited. it was delightful to be in the real country and more than delightful to go out with kitty. "you are my cousin, aren't you?" said the little maid, favoring him with a full, direct glance. "i suppose so," he answered. "yes, i suppose so. i don't quite know." kitty stamped her foot. "don't say that!" she replied. "i hate people who are not quite sure about things. i want to have a real boy cousin to play with. two or three make-believes came here, but they went away again. of course we all found them out at once, and they went away. i do trust you are not another make-believe, philip. you're very pale and very thin, but i do hope what's of you is real." "oh, yes; what's of me is real enough," said phil, with a little sigh. "where are you going to take me, kitty? into the forest? i want to see the forest. i wonder will it be as fine as the forest where ru----i mean where a cousin of mine and i used to play?" "oh, have you another cousin besides me? how exciting!" "yes; but i don't want to talk about him. are we going into the forest?" "if you like. you see those trees over there? all that is forest; and then there is a bit of wild moorland, and then more trees; and there is a pine wood, with such a sweet smell. it's all quite close, and i see it every day. it isn't very exciting when you see it every day. your eyes need not shine like that. you had much better take things quietly, especially as you are such a very thin boy. aunt katharine says thin people should never get excited. she says it wears them out. well, if you must come into the forest i suppose you must; but would you not like something to eat first? i know what we are to have for tea. shall i tell you?" "yes," said phil; "tell me when we have got under the trees; tell me when i am looking up through the branches for the birds and the squirrels. you have not such gay birds as ours, for i watched yours when i was coming in the train from southampton; but oh! don't they sing!" "you are a very queer boy," said kitty. "birds and squirrels and forest trees, when you might be hearing about delicious frosted cake and jam rolly-polies. well, take my hand and let's run into the forest; let's get it over, if we must get it over. i'll take you down to the avon to fish to-morrow. i like fishing--don't you?" "yes," said phil. "i like nearly everything. do you fish with flies or bait?" "oh, with horrid bait! that is the worst of it; but i generally get robert--one of our grooms--to bait my lines." the children were now under the shade of the trees, and kitty, after running about until she was tired, climbed into one of the branches of a wide-spreading beech tree and rocked herself in a very contented manner backward and forward. phil was certainly a very queer little boy, but she was quite convinced he must be her real true cousin, that he was not a make-believe, that he would stay on at avonsyde as the heir, and that she would always have a companion of her own age to play with. "he will get tired of the forest by and by," she said to herself, "and then he will like best to play with me, and we can fish all day together. how jolly that will be! what a good thing it is that he is so nearly my own age, and that he is not older; for if he were he would go every where with rachel and be her friend. i should not like that at all," concluded the little girl, with a very selfish though natural sigh of satisfaction. presently phil--having wandered about to his heart's content, having ascertained the color of several birds which sang over his head, having treasured up the peculiar quality of their different notes, and having ascertained beyond all doubt that the english forest was quite the quaintest and most lovely place in the world--came back and climbed into the tree by kitty's side. "i'd like him to see it awfully," he said. "who, phil?" "i can't tell you--that's my secret. kitty, you'll never find that i shall get accustomed to the forest--i mean so accustomed that i shan't want to come here. oh, never, never! a place like this must always have something new to show you. kitty, can you imitate all the birds' notes yet?" "i can't imitate one of them," said kitty, with an impatient frown coming between her eyebrows. "but i know what i want to be doing, and i only wish you had the same want." "perhaps i have. what is it?" "oh, no, you haven't. you're just like the goody-goody, awfully learned boys of the story-book. i do wish you wouldn't go into raptures about stupid trees and birds and things!" phil's little pale face flushed. "rupert--i mean--i mean my dearest friend--a boy you know nothing about, kitty--never spoke about its being goody-goody to love things of this sort, and he is manly if you like. i can't help loving them. but what is your want, kitty?" "oh, to have my mouth crammed full of jam rolly-poly! i am so hungry!" "so am i too. let's run back to the house." when philip and kitty had gone off together for their first exploring expedition, when the two little strangers to one another had clasped hands and gone out through the open hall-door and down the shady lawns together, rachel had followed them for a few paces. she stood still shading her eyes with one hand as she gazed after their retreating figures; then whistling to an english terrier of the name of jupiter, she ran round to the stables and encountered one of the grooms. "robert, put the side-saddle on surefoot and come with me into the forest. it is a lovely evening, and i am going for a long ride." robert, a very young and rather sheepish groom, looked appealingly at the bright and pretty speaker. "my mother is ill, miss rachel, and peter do say as i may go home and see her. couldn't you ride another evening, missy?" "no, i'm going to ride to-night. i wish to and i'm going; but you need not come with me; it is quite unnecessary. i should like nothing so well as having a long ride on surefoot all alone." "but the ladies do say, miss rachel, as you are not to ride in the forest by yourself. oh, if you will go, missy, why, i must just put off seeing my poor mother until to-morrow." rachel stamped her foot impatiently. "nonsense, robert!" she said. "i am going to ride alone. i will explain matters to my aunts, so you need not be at all afraid. put the side-saddle on surefoot at once!" robert's conscience was easily appeased. he ran off and quickly returned with the rough little forest pony, and rachel, mounting, cantered off. she was an excellent rider and had not a scrap of fear in her nature. she entered the forest by the long straight avenue; and surefoot, delighted to feel his feet on the smooth, velvety sward, trotted along gayly. "now i am free!" said the girl. "how delightful it is to ride all by myself. i will go a long, long way this beautiful evening." it was a perfect summer's evening, and rachel was riding through scenery of exquisite beauty. birds sang blithely to her as she flew lightly over the ground; squirrels looked down at her from among the branches of the forest oaks; many wild flowers smiled up at her, and all nature seemed to sympathize with her gay youth and beauty. she was a romantic, impulsive child, and lived more or less in a world of her own imaginings. the forest was the happiest home in the world to rachel; avonsyde was well enough, but no place was like the forest itself. she had a strong impression that it was still peopled by fairies. she devoured all the legends that mrs. newbolt, her aunt's maid, and john eyre, one of the agisters of the forest, could impart to her. both these good people had a lurking belief in ghosts and fairies. eyre swore that he had many and many a time seen the treacherous little jack-o'-lanterns. he told horrible stories of strangers who were lured into bogs by these deceitful little sprites. but mrs. newbolt had a far more wonderful and exciting tale to tell than this; for she spoke of a lady who, all in green, flitted through the forest--a lady with a form of almost spiritual etherealness, and with such a lovely face that those who were fortunate enough to see her ever after retained on their own countenances a faint reflection of her rare beauty. rachel had heard of this forest lady almost from the first moment of her residence at avonsyde. she built many brilliant castles in the air about her, and she and kitty most earnestly desired to see her. of course they had never yet done so, but their belief in her was not a whit diminished, and they never went into the forest without having a dim kind of hope that they might behold the lady. newbolt said that she appeared to very few, but she admitted that on one or two occasions of great and special moment she had revealed herself to some fair dames of the house of lovel. she never appeared to two people together, and in consequence rachel always longed to go into the forest alone. she felt excited to-night, and she said to herself more than once, "i wonder if i shall see her. she comes on great occasions; surely this must be a great occasion if the long-looked-for heir has come to avonsyde. i do wonder if that little boy is the heir!" rachel rode on, quite forgetful of time; the rapid motion and the lovely evening raised her always versatile spirits. her cheeks glowed; her dark eyes shone; she tossed back her rebellious curly locks and laughed aloud once or twice out of pure happiness. she intended to go a long way, to penetrate further into the shades of the wonderful forest than she had ever done yet; but even she was unconscious how very far she was riding. it is easy to lose one's way in the new forest, and rachel, accustomed as she was to all that part which immediately surrounded avonsyde, presently found herself in a new country. she had left rufus' stone far behind and was now riding down a gentle descent, when something induced the adventurous little lady to consult her watch. the hour pointed to six o'clock. it would be light for a long time yet, for it was quite the middle of summer, and rachel reflected that as tea-time was past, and as she would certainly be well scolded when she returned, she might as well stay out a little longer. "'in for a penny, in for a pound!'" she said. "the aunties will be so angry with me, but i don't care; i mean to enjoy myself to-night. oh, what a tempting green bank, and what a carpet of bluebells just there to the right! i must get some. surefoot shall have a rest and a nibble at some of the grass, and i'll pick the flowers and sit on the bank for a little time." surefoot was very well pleased with this arrangement. he instantly, with unerring instinct, selected the juiciest and most succulent herbage which the place afforded, and was happy after his fashion. rachel picked bluebells until she had her hands full; then seating herself, she began to arrange them. she had found a small clearing in the forest, and her seat was on the twisted and gnarled roots of a giant oak tree. her feet were resting on a thick carpet of moss; immediately before her lay broken and undulating ground, clothed with the greenest grass, with the most perfect fronds of moss, and bestrewn with tiny silvery stems and bits of branches from the neighboring trees. a little further off was a great foreground of bracken, which completely clothed a very gentle ascent, and then the whole horizon was bounded by a semicircle of magnificent birch, oak, and beech. some cows were feeding in the distance--they wore bells, which tinkled merrily; the doves cooed and the birds sang; the softest of zephyrs played among the trees; the evening sun flickered slant-wise through the branches and lay in brightness on the greensward; and rachel, who was intensely sensitive to nature, clasped her hands in ecstasy. "oh, it is good of god to make such a beautiful world!" she said, speaking aloud in her enthusiasm; but just then something riveted rachel's attention. she sprang to her feet, forgot her bluebells, which fell in a shower around her, and in this fresh interest became utterly oblivious to the loveliness of the scene. a lady in a plain dark dress was walking slowly, very slowly, between the trees. she was coming toward rachel, but evidently had not seen her, for her eyes were fixed on the pages of an open book, and as she read her lips moved, as though she were learning something to repeat aloud. this part of the forest was so remote and solitary for it was miles away from any gentleman's seat, that rachel for a moment was startled. "who can she be?" was her first exclamation; her second was a delighted-- "oh, perhaps she is the lady of the forest!" then she exclaimed with vexation: "no, no, she cannot be. the lady always wears green and is almost transparent, and her face is so lovely. this lady is in dark clothes and she is reading and murmuring words to herself. she looks exactly as if she were learning a stupid lesson to say aloud. oh, i am disappointed! i had such a hope she might be the lady of the forest. i wonder where she can live; there's no house near this. oh, dear! oh, dear! she is coming this way; she will pass me. shall i speak to her? i almost think i will. she seems to have a nice face, although she is not very young and she is not very beautiful." the lady walked slowly on, her eyes still bent on her book, and so it happened that she never saw the radiant figure of pretty little rachel until she was opposite to her. her quiet, darkly fringed gray eyes were lifted then and surveyed the child first with astonishment; then with curiosity; then with very palpable agitation, wonder, and distress. rachel came a step nearer and was about to open her lips, when the lady abruptly closed her book, as abruptly turned on her heel, and walked rapidly, very rapidly, in the opposite direction away from the child. "oh, stop!" cried rachel. "i want to speak to you. who are you? it's very interesting meeting you here in the very midst of the forest! please don't walk away so fast! do tell me who you are! there, you are almost running, and i can't keep up with you! what a rude forest lady you are! well, i never knew any one so rude before!" the lady had indeed quickened her steps, and before rachel could reach her she had disappeared through a small green-covered porch into a tiny house, so clothed with innumerable creepers that at a distance it could scarcely be distinguished from the forest itself. rachel stood panting and indignant outside the door. she had forgotten surefoot; she had forgotten everything in the world but this rude lady who would not speak to her. rachel was a very passionate child, and in her first indignation she felt inclined to pull the bell and insist upon seeing and conversing with the strange, silent lady. before she could carry this idea into execution the door was opened and a neatly dressed elderly servant came out. "well, little miss, and what is your pleasure?" she said. "i want to see the lady," said rachel; "she is a very rude lady. i asked her some civil questions and she would not answer." the old servant laid her hand on rachel's arm and drew her a few steps away from the bowerlike house. "what is your name, little miss?" she said. "my name? rachel lovel, of course. don't you know? everybody knows me in the forest. i'm rachel lovel of avonsyde, and my pony's name is surefoot, and i have a sister called kitty." "well, missy," continued the old woman, "i have no reason at all to misdoubt your tale, but the forest is a big place, and even the grandest little ladies are not known when they stray too far from home. i have no doubt, missy, that you are miss lovel, and i have no doubt also that you have a kind heart, although you have a hasty tongue. now, you know, it was very rude of you to run after my lady when she didn't want to speak to you. my lady was much upset by your following her, and you have done great mischief by just being such a curious little body." "mischief, have i?" said rachel; then she laughed. "but that is quite impossible," she added, "for i never even touched the rude lady." "you may do mischief, miss lovel, by many means, and curiosity is one of the most spiteful of the vices. it's my opinion that more mischief can be laid to curiosity's door than to any other door. from eve down it was curiosity did the sin. now, missy, my lady is lonely and unhappy, and she don't want no one to know--no one in all the wide world--that she lives in this little wild forest house; and if you tell, if you ever tell that you have seen her, or that you know where she lives, why, you will break the heart of the sweetest and gentlest lady that ever lived." "i don't want to break any one's heart," said rachel, turning pale. "what very queer things you say. i don't want to break any one's heart. i think i'll go home now." "not until you have promised me first, miss lovel--not until you have promised me true and faithful." "oh, i'll only tell kitty and my aunties. i never care to talk to strangers about things. there's a new little boy come to avonsyde--a new little boy and his mother. of course i won't say anything to either of them, but i never keep secrets from kitty--never!" "very well, miss; then my lady will have to go away. she is very tired and not strong, and she has just settled down in this little house, where she wants to rest and to be near--to be in the forest; and if you tell those aunts of yours and your little sister--if you tell anybody in all the wide world--she will have to go away again. we must pack up to night and we will be off in the morning. we'll have to wander once more, and she'll be sad and ill and lonely; but of course you won't care." "what a cruel old woman you are!" said rachel. "of course i don't want anybody to be sad and lonely. i don't want to injure the forest lady, although i cannot make out why she should have to live so secret here. is she a wicked lady and has she committed a crime?" "wicked?" said the old woman, her eyes flashing. "ah, missy, that such words should drop from your lips, and about her! are the angels in heaven wicked? oh, my dear, good, brave lady! no, missy. she has to keep her secret, but it is because of a cruel sin and injustice done to her, not because of any wrong done by her. well, good-night, miss. i'll say no more. we must be off, we two, in the morning." "no, don't go!" called out rachel. "of course i won't tell. if she's such a dear, good lady, i'll respect her and love her and keep her secret; only i should like to see her and to know her name." "all in good time, my dear little missy. thank god, you will be faithful to this good and wronged lady." "yes, i'll be very faithful," said rachel. "not even to kitty will i breathe one word. and now i must really go home." "god bless you, dear little miss--eh, but you're a bonny child. and is the one you call kitty as fair to look at?" "as fair to look at?" laughed rachel. "why, i'm as brown as a nut and kitty is dazzling. kitty is pink and white, and if you only saw her hair! it's like threads of gold." "and the little gentleman, dear?--you spoke of a little gentleman as well. is he your brother, love?" "my brother?" laughed rachel. "i have no one but kitty. i have a mother living somewhere--she's lost, my mother is, and i'm going all round the world to look for her when i'm old enough; but i have no brother--i wish i had. philip lovel is a little new, strange boy who is going to be heir of avonsyde. he came to-day with his mother. i don't much like his mother. now good-night, old woman. i'll keep the good lady's secret most faithfully." rachel blew a kiss to the anxious-looking old servant, then ran gayly back to where she had left surefoot. in the excitement of the last half-hour she had quite forgotten her withered bluebells. mounting her pony, she galloped as fast as she could in the direction of avonsyde. it was very late when she got back, but, strange to say, the old aunts were so much interested in mrs. lovel and in mrs. lovel's boy that they forgot to scold her or to remark her absence. she longed intensely to tell kitty all about the thrilling and romantic adventure she had just gone through, but she was a loyal child, and having once passed her word, nothing would induce her to break it. kitty, too, was taken up with philip lovel, and rachel, finding she was not wanted, ran up to her bedroom and lost herself in the charms of a fairy tale. chapter vi.--the tower bedroom. avonsyde was a very old property. the fair lands had been bestowed by william rufus on a certain rupert lovel who was fortunate enough to earn the gratitude of this most tyrannical and capricious of monarchs. rupert lovel had laid the first stone of the present house and had lived there until his death. he was succeeded by many wild and lawless descendants. as time went on they added to the old house, and gained, whether wrongly or rightly no one could say, more of the forest lands as their own. avonsyde was a large property in the olden days, and the old squires ruled those under them by what was considered at that period the only safe and wholesome rule--that of terror. they were a proud, self-confident, headstrong race, very sure of one thing--that whatever happened avonsyde would never cease to be theirs. an old prophecy was handed down from father to son to this effect. it had been put into a couplet by a rhymer as great in his way as thomas of border celebrity: "tyde what may betyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." these words were taken as the motto of the house, and could be deciphered in very quaint lettering just over the arch which supported a certain portion of the tower. the tower was almost if not quite seven hundred years old, and was another source of great pride and interest to the family. miss griselda and miss katharine could not have done little philip lovel a greater honor than when they arranged the tower bedroom for his reception. in their opinion, and in the opinion of every retainer of the family, they indeed showed respect to the child and the child's claim when they got this gloomy apartment into order for him and his mother; but when mrs. lovel, a timid and nervous woman, saw the room, she scarcely appreciated the honor conferred upon her and hers. avonsyde was a house which represented many periods; each addition was a little more comfortable than its predecessor. for instance, the new wing, with the beautiful drawing-rooms and spacious library, was all that was luxurious; the cozy bedrooms where rachel and kitty slept, with their thick walls and mullioned windows and deep old-fashioned cupboards, were both cheerful and convenient; but in the days when the tower was built ladies did without many things which are now considered essential, and mrs. lovel had to confess to herself that she did not like her room. in the first place, the tower rooms were completely isolated from the rest of the house; they were entered by a door at one side of the broad hall; this door was of oak of immense thickness, and when it was shut no sound from the tower could possibly penetrate to the rest of the house. at the other side of the oak door was a winding stone staircase, very much worn and hollowed out by the steps of many generations. the stairs wound up and up in the fashion of a corkscrew; they had no rail and were very steep, and the person who ascended, if at all timid, was very glad to lay hold of a slack rope which was loosely run through iron rings at intervals in the wall. after a great many of these steps had been climbed a very narrow stone landing was discovered; three or four steps had then to be gone down, and mrs. lovel found herself in an octagon-shaped room with a very low ceiling and very narrow windows. the furniture was not only old-fashioned, but shabby; the room was small; the bed was that monstrosity, a four-poster; the curtains of velvet were black and rusty with age and wear. in short, the one and only cheerful object which poor mrs. lovel found in the apartment was the little white bed in one corner which had been prepared for philip's reception. "dear, dear, what remarkably steep stairs; and what a small--i mean not a very large room! are all the bedrooms of avonsyde as small as this?" she continued, interrogating newbolt, who, starched and prim, but with a comely fresh face, stood beside her. "this is the tower bedroom, mem," answered the servant in a thin voice. "the heir has always slept in this room, and the ladies has the two over. that has always been the fashion at avonsyde--the heir has this room and the reigning ladies sleep overhead. this room is seven hundred years old, mem." mrs. lovel shivered. "very antiquated and interesting," she began, "but isn't it just a little cold and just a little gloomy? i thought the other part of the house so much more cheerful." newbolt raised her eyebrows and gazed at mrs. lovel as if she were talking the rankest heresy. "for them as don't value the antique there's rooms spacious and cheerful and abundantly furnished with modern vanities in the new part of the house," she replied. "miss rachel and miss kitty, for instance; their bedroom isn't built more than three hundred years--a big room enough and with a lot of sunlight, but terrible modern, and not to be made no 'count of at avonsyde; and then there are two new bedrooms over the drawing-rooms, where we put strangers. very large they are and quite flooded with sunlight; but of course for antiquity there are no rooms to be compared with this one and the two where the ladies sleep. i am sorry the room don't take your fancy, mem. i suppose, not being of the blood of the family, you can't appreciate it. shall i speak to the ladies on the subject?" "oh! by no means, my good creature," replied poor mrs. lovel in alarm. "the room of course is most interesting and wonderfully antiquated. i've never seen such a room. and do your ladies really sleep higher up than this? they must have wonderfully strong hearts to be able to mount any more of those steep--i mean curious stairs." newbolt did not deign to make any comment with regard to the sound condition of miss griselda's and miss katharine's physical hearts. she favored the new-comer with a not-too-appreciative glance, and having arranged matters as comfortably as she could for her in the dismal chamber, left her to the peace and the solitude of a most solitary room. the poor lady quite trembled when she found herself alone; the knowledge that the room was so old filled her with a kind of mysterious awe. after her experiences in the new world, she even considered the drawing-rooms at avonsyde by no means to be despised on the score of youth. those juvenile bedrooms of two hundred or three hundred years' standing where rachel and kitty reposed were, in mrs. level's opinion, hoary and weighted with age; but as to this tower-room, surely such an apartment should only be visited at noon on a sunny day and in the company of a large party! "i'm glad the old ladies do sleep overhead," she said to herself. "what truly awful attics theirs must be! i never saw such a terribly depressing room as this. i'm certain it is haunted; i'm convinced there must be a ghost here. if philip were not sleeping here i should certainly die. oh, dear! what a risk i am running for the sake of philip. much of this life would kill me! i find, too, that i am not very good at keeping in my feelings, and i'll have to act--act all the time i am here, and pretend i'm just in raptures with everything, when i am not. that dreadful newbolt saw through me about this room. oh, dear! i am a bad actor. well, at any rate i am a good mother to philip; it's a splendid chance for philip. but if he speaks about that pain in his side we are lost! poor phil! these steep stairs are extremely bad for him." there was plenty of daylight at present, and mrs. lovel could move about her ancient chamber without any undue fear of being overtaken by the terrors of the night. she took off her traveling bonnet and mantle, arranged her hair afresh before a mirror which caused her to squint and distorted every feature, and finally, being quite certain that she could never lie down and rest alone on that bed, was about to descend the stone stairs and to return to the more cheerful part of the house, when gay, quick footsteps, accompanied by childish laughter, were heard ascending, and philip, accompanied by kitty, bounded without any ceremony into the apartment. "oh, mother, things are so delightful here," began the little boy, "and kitty fishes nearly as well as rupert. and kitty has got a pony and i'm to have one; aunt grizel says so--one of the forest ponies, mother. do you know that the forest is full of ponies? and they are so rough and jolly. and there are squirrels in the forest--hundreds of squirrels--and all kinds of birds, and beetles and spiders, and ants and lizards! mother, the forest is such a lovely place! is this our bedroom, mother? what a jolly room! i say, wouldn't rupert like it just?" "if you're quick, phil," began kitty--"if you're very quick washing your hands and brushing your hair, we can go back through the armory--that's the next oldest part to the tower. i steal into the armory sometimes in the dusk, for i do so hope some of the chain-armor will rattle. do you believe in ghosts, phil? i do and so does rachel." "no, i'm not such a silly," replied phil. "mother, dear, how white you are! don't you like our jolly, jolly bedroom? oh! i do, and wouldn't rupert love to be here?" mrs. lovel's face had grown whiter and whiter. "phil," she said, "i must speak to you alone. kitty, your little cousin will meet you downstairs presently. oh, phil, my dear," continued the poor lady when kitty had succeeded in banging herself noisily and unwillingly out of the room--"phil, why, why will you spoil everything?" "spoil everything, mother?" "yes; you have spoken of rupert--you have spoken twice of rupert. oh, we had better go away again at once!" "dear rupert!" said little phil, with a sigh; "darling, brave rupert! mother, how i wish he was here!" "you will spoil everything," repeated the poor lady, wringing her hands in despair. "you know what rupert is--so strong and manly and beautiful as a picture; and you know what the will says--that the strong one, whether he be eldest or youngest, shall be heir. oh, phil, if those old ladies know about rupert we are lost!" phil had a most comical little face; a plain face decidedly--pale, with freckles, and a slightly upturned nose. to those who knew it well it had many charms. it was without doubt an expressive and speaking face; in the course of a few minutes it could look sad to pathos, or so brimful of mirth that to glance at it was to feel gay. the sad look now filled the beautiful brown eyes; the little mouth drooped; the boy went up and laid his head on his mother's shoulder. "do you know," he said, "i must say it, even though it hurts you. i want rupert to have everything. i love rupert very dearly, and i think it would be splendid for him to come here, and to own a lot of the wild ponies, and to fish in that funny little river which kitty calls the avon. rupert would let me live with him perhaps, and maybe he'd give me a pony, and i could find squirrels and spiders and ants in the forest--oh! and caterpillars; i expect there are splendid specimens of caterpillars here. mother, when my heart is full of rupert how can i help speaking about him?" mrs. lovel pressed her hand to her brow in a bewildered manner. "we must go away then, philip," she said. "as you love rupert so well, better even than your mother, we must go away. it was a pity you did not tell me something of this before now, for i have broken into my last--yes, my very last £ to come here. we have not enough money to take us back to australia and to rupert; still, we must go away, for the old ladies will look upon us as impostors, and i could not bear that for anything in the world." "it is not only rupert," continued phil; "it's gabrielle and peggy; and--and--mother, i can't help being fond of them; but, mother, i love you best!" "do you really, phil? better than that boy? i never could see anything in him. do you love me better than rupert, phil?" "yes, of course; you are my mother, and when father died he said i was always to love you and to do what you wanted. if you want avonsyde, i suppose you must have it some day when the old ladies die. i'll do my best not to talk about rupert, and i'll try to seem very strong, and i'll never, never tell about the pain in my side. give me a kiss, mother. you shan't starve nor be unhappy. oh! what an age we have been chattering here, and kitty is waiting for me, and i do so want to see the armory! i wonder if there are ghosts there? it sounds silly to believe in them; but kitty does, and she's a dear little girl, nearly as nice as gabrielle. good-by, mother; i'm off. i'll try to remember." chapter vii.--"betyde what may." in a handsomely furnished dining-room in a spacious and modern-looking house about three miles outside the city of melbourne, three children--two girls and a boy--were standing impatiently by a wide-open window. "gabrielle," said the boy, "have you any idea when the mails from england are due?" the boy was the taller of the three, splendidly made, with square shoulders, great breadth of chest, and head so set on the same shoulders that it gave to its young owner an almost regal appearance. the bright and bold dark eyes were full of fire; the expressive lines round the finely cut lips were both kindly and noble. "gabrielle, is that carlo riding past on jo-jo? if it is, perhaps he is bringing our letter-bag. father has gone to melbourne to-day; but he said if there were english letters he would send them out by carlo." "you are so impatient about england and english things, rupert," said little peggy, raising a face framed in by soft flaxen hair to her big brother. "oh, yes, i'll run to meet carlo, for of course you want me to, and i'll come back again if there's any news; and if there is not, why, i'll stay and play with my ravens, elijah and james grasper. elijah is beginning to speak so well and james grasper is improving. if carlo has no letters you need not expect me back, either of you." the little maid stepped quickly out of the open window, and ran fleet as the wind across a beautifully kept lawn and in the direction where a horse's quick steps were heard approaching. gabrielle was nearly as tall as her brother, with a stately bearing and a grave face. "if father does decide on taking you to europe, rupert, i wish to say now that i am quite willing to stay here with peggy. i don't want to go to school at melbourne. i would rather stay on here and housekeep, and keep things nice the way our mother would have liked. if peggy and i go away, belmont will have to be shut up and a great many of the servants dismissed, and that would be silly. i am thirteen now, and i think i am wise for my age. you will speak to father, won't you, rupert, and ask him to allow me to be mistress here while you are away." "if we are away," corrected rupert. "ah! here comes peggy, and the letter-bag, and doubtless a letter. what a good child you are, peggy white!" peggy dashed the letter-bag with some force through the open window. rupert caught it lightly in one hand, and detaching a small key from his watch-chain opened it. it only contained one letter, and this was directed to himself: "mr. rupert lovel, "belmont, "near melbourne, "victoria, "australia." "a letter from england!" said rupert. "and oh! gabrielle, what do you think? it is--yes, it is from our little cousin philip!" "let me see," said gabrielle, peeping over her brother's shoulder. "poor, dear little phil! read aloud what he says, rupert. i have often thought of him lately." rupert smiled, sat down on the broad window-ledge, and his sister, kneeling behind him, laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder. a little letter, written with considerable pains and difficulty, with rather shaky and blotted little fingers, and quite uncorrected, just, in short, as nature had prompted it to a small, eager, and affectionate mind, was then read aloud: "dear cousin rupert: you must please forgive the spelling and the bad writing, and the blots (oh! i made a big one now, but i have sopped it up). this letter is quite secret, so it won't be corrected, for mother doesn't know that i am writing. mother and i are in england, but she says i am not to tell you where we are. it isn't that mother isn't fond of you, but she has a reason, which is a great secret, for your not knowing where we are. the reason has something to do with me. it's something that i'm to have that i don't want and that i'd much rather you had. it's a beautiful thing, with spiders, and rivers, and caterpillars, and wild ponies, and ghosts, and rattling armor, and a tower of winding stairs. oh! i mustn't tell you any more, for perhaps you'd guess. you are never to have it, although i'd like you to. we are not very far from the sea, and we're going there to-morrow, and it is there i'll post this letter. now, i am quite determined that you and gabrielle and peggy shall know that i think of you always. mother and me, we are in a beautiful, grand place now--very grand--and most enormous old; and i have two little girls to play with, and i have got a pony, and a white pup, and i am taught by a tutor, and drilled by a drill-sergeant, and i fish and play cricket with kitty, only i can't play cricket much, because of my side; but, rupert, i want to say here, and i want you and peggy and gabrielle always and always to remember, that i'd rather be living with mother in our little cottage near belmont, with only betty as servant and with only jim to clean the boots and do the garden, for then i should be near you; and i love you, rupert, and gabrielle, and peggy, better than any one in the world except my mother. please tell peggy that i don't think much of the english spiders, but some of the caterpillars are nice; and please tell gabrielle that the english flowers smell very sweet, but they are not so bright or so big as ours, and the birds sing, oh! so beautiful, but they haven't got such gay dresses. good-by, rupert. do you shoot much? and do you ever think of me? and are you good to my little dog cato? "phil lovel. "p. s.--please, i'd like to hear from you, and as mother says you are not on no account to know where we are, will you write me a letter to the post-office at the town where this is posted? you will see the name of the town on the envelope, and please direct your letter: 'master phil lovel, 'post-office. 'to be called for.' "be sure you put 'to be called for' in big letters. "good-by again. love to everybody. phil." gabrielle and rupert read this very characteristic little epistle without comment. when they had finished it, rupert slipped it back into its envelope and gave it to his sister. "we must both write to the poor little chap," he said. "the postmark on the envelope is southampton. i suppose southampton, england, will find him." then he added after a pause: "i wonder what queer thing aunt bella is thinking about now?" "she always was the silliest person in the world," said gabrielle in a tone of strong contempt. "if she were my mother i shouldn't love her. i wonder how phil loves her. poor little phil! he always was a dear little fellow--not a bit like aunt bella, thank goodness!" rupert laughed. "why, gabrielle," he said, "you can have no observation; phil is the image of his mother. there is nothing at all belonging to his father about phil except his eyes." "and his nature," proceeded gabrielle, "and his dear, brave little soul. i am sure if trial came to him phil could be a hero. what matter that he has got aunt bella's uninteresting features? he has nothing more of her in him. oh, she always was a silly, mysterious person! just think of her not allowing phil to tell us where he is!" "my father says that there is method in aunt bella's silliness," continued rupert. "don't you remember how suddenly she sold her little house at the back of our garden, gabrielle, and how betty found her burning an english newspaper; and how queer and nervous and flurried she became all of a sudden; and then how she asked father to give her that £ he had of hers in the bank; and how she hurried off without saying good-by to one of us? we have not heard a word about her from that day until now, when phil's little letter has come." "she never even bid mother good-by," continued gabrielle in a pained voice. "mother always stood up for aunt bella. she never allowed us to laugh at her or to grumble at her funny, tiresome ways." "did mother allow us to laugh at any one?" continued rupert. "there was nothing at all remarkable in our mother being kind to poor aunt bella, for she was good to every one." "but there was something strange in aunt bella not bidding our mother good-by," pursued gabrielle, "for i think she was a little fond of mother, and mother was so weak and ill at the time. i saw tears in aunt bella's eyes once after mother had been talking to her. yes, her going away was certainly very queer; but i have no time to talk any more about it now. i must go to my work. rupert, shall we ride this afternoon? this is just the most perfect weather for riding before the great summer heat commences." "yes, we'll be in summer before we know where we are," said rupert; "it is the th of november to-day. i will ride with you at three o'clock, gabrielle--that is, if father is not back." the brother and sister left the room to pursue their different vocations, and a short time afterward an old servant, with a closely frilled cap tied with a ribbon under her chin, came into the room. she was the identical betty who had been mrs. lovel's maid-of-all-work, and who had now transferred her services to the young people at belmont. betty was old, wrinkled, and of irish birth, and sincerely attached to all the lovels. she came into the room under the pretext of looking for some needlework which gabrielle had mislaid, but her real object was to peer into the now open post-bag, and then to look suspiciously round the room. "i smell it in the air," she said, sniffing as she spoke. "as sure as i'm betty o'flanigan there's news of master phil in the air! was there a letter? oh, glory! to think as there might be a letter from my own little master, and me not to know. miss gabrielle's mighty close, and no mistake. well, i'll go and ask her bold outright if she has bad news of the darlint." betty could not find gabrielle's lost embroidery, and perceiving that the post-bag was absolutely empty, she pottered out of the room again and upstairs to where her young lady was making up some accounts in a pretty little boudoir which had belonged to her mother. "och, and never a bit of it can i see, miss gabrielle," said the old woman as she advanced into the room; and then she began sniffing the air again. "what are you making that funny noise for, betty?" said miss lovel, raising her eyes from a long column of figures. "i smell it in the air," said betty, sniffing in an oracular manner. "i dreamed of him three times last night, and that means tidings; and now i smell it in the air." "oh! you dreamed of little phil," said gabrielle in a kind tone. "yes, we have just had a letter. sit down there and i'll read it to you." betty squatted down instantly on the nearest hassock, and with her hands under her apron and her mouth wide open prepared herself not to lose a word. gabrielle read the letter from end to end, the old woman now and then interrupting her with such exclamations as "oh, glory! may the saints presarve him! well, listen to the likes of that!" at last gabrielle's voice ceased; then betty hobbled to her feet, and suddenly seizing the childish letter, not a word of which she could read, pressed it to her lips. "ah! miss gabrielle," she said, "that mother of his meant mischief. she meant mischief to you and yours, miss, and the sweet child has neither part nor lot in the matter. if i was you, miss gabrielle, i'd ferret out where mrs. lovel is hiding master phil. what business had she to get into such a way about a bit of an english newspaper, and to hurry off with the child all in a twinkling like, and to be that flustered and nervous? and oh! miss gabrielle, the fuss about her clothes; and 'did she look genteel in this?' and 'did she look quite the lady in that?' and then the way she went off, bidding good-by to no one but me. oh! she's after no good; mark my words for it." "but she can do us no harm, betty," said gabrielle. "neither my father nor rupert is likely to be injured by a weak kind of woman like aunt bella. i am sorry for little phil; but i think you are silly to talk as you do of aunt bella. now you may take the letter away with you and kiss it and love it as much as you like. here comes father; he is back earlier than usual from melbourne, and i must speak to him." mr. lovel, a tall, fine-looking man, with a strong likeness to both his son and daughter, now came hastily into the room. "i have indeed come back in a hurry, gabrielle," he said. "that advertisement has appeared in the papers again. i have had a long talk with our business friend, mr. davis, and the upshot of it is that rupert and i sail for europe on saturday. this is tuesday; so you will have your hands pretty full in making preparations for such a sudden move, my dear daughter." "is it the advertisement that appeared six months ago, father?" said gabrielle in an excited voice. "mother pointed it out to you then and you would take no notice of it." "these things are often put into newspapers simply as a kind of hoax, child," said the father, "and it all seemed so unlikely. however, although i appeared to take no notice, i was not unmindful of rupert's interests. i went to consult with davis, and davis promised to make inquiries in england. he came to me this morning with the result of his investigations and with this advertisement in the melbourne times. here it is; it is three months old, unfortunately. it appeared three months after the first advertisement, but davis did not trouble me with it until he had got news from england. the news came this morning. it is of a satisfactory character and to the effect that the last valentine lovel, of avonsyde, in the new forest, hampshire, died without leaving any male issue, and the present owners of the property are two unmarried ladies, neither of whom is young. now, gabrielle, you are a wise lass for your thirteen years, and as i have not your mother to consult with, i am willing to rely a little bit on your judgment. you read this, my daughter, and tell me what you make of it." as mr. lovel spoke he unfolded a sheet of the melbourne times, and pointing to a small paragraph in one of the advertisement columns which was strongly underscored with a blue pencil, he handed it to gabrielle. "read it aloud," he said. "they are strange words, but i should like to hear them again." gabrielle, in her clear and bright voice, read as follows: "lovel.--if any of the lineal descendants of rupert lovel, of avonsyde, new forest, hampshire, who left his home on the th august, , are now alive and will communicate with messrs. baring & baring, chancery lane, london, they will hear of something to their advantage. only heirs male in direct succession need apply." gabrielle paused. "read on," said her father. "the second part of the advertisement, or rather a second advertisement which immediately follows the first, is of more interest." gabrielle continued: "i, griselda lovel, and i, katharine lovel, of avonsyde, new forest, of the county of hampshire, england, do, according to our late father's will, earnestly seek an heir of the issue of one rupert lovel, who left avonsyde on the th august, , in consequence of a quarrel between himself and his father, the then owner of avonsyde. by reason of this quarrel rupert lovel was disinherited, and the property has continued until now in the younger branch. according to our late father's will, we, griselda and katharine lovel, wish to reëstablish the elder branch of the family, and offer to make a direct descendant of the said rupert lovel our heir, provided the said descendant be under fifteen years of age and of sound physical health. we refuse to receive letters or to see any claimant personally, but request to have all communications made to us through our solicitors, messrs. baring & baring, of chancery lane, london, e. c. "'tyde what may betyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde." gabrielle's cheeks flushed brightly as she read. "oh, father!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes to the face of the tall man who stood near her, "do you really believe a little bit in it at last? don't you remember how i used to pray of you to tell me traditions of the old english home when i was a little child, and how often you have repeated that old rhyme to me, and don't you know how mother used to treasure the tankard with the family crest and 'tyde what may' in those queer, quaint english characters on it? mother was quite excited when the first advertisement appeared, but you said we were not to talk or to think of it. rupert is the rightful heir--is he not, father? oh, how proud i shall be to think that the old place is to belong to him!" "i believe he is the rightful heir, gabrielle," said her father in a grave voice. "he is undoubtedly a lineal descendant of the rupert lovel who left avonsyde in , and he also fulfills the conditions of the old ladies' advertisement, for he is under fifteen and splendidly strong; but it is also a fact that i cannot find some very important letters which absolutely prove rupert's claim. i could swear that i left them in the old secretary in your mother's room, but they have vanished. davis, on the other hand, believes that i have given them to him, and will have a strict search instituted for them. the loss of the papers makes a flaw in my boy's claim; but i shall not delay to go to england on that account. davis will mail them to me as soon as ever they are recovered; and in the mean time, gabrielle, i will ask you to pack up the old tankard and give it to me to take to england. there is no doubt whatever that that tankard is the identical one which my forefather took with him when almost empty-handed he left avonsyde." "i will fetch it at once," said gabrielle. "mother kept it in the cupboard at the back of her bed. she always kept the tankard and our baptismal mugs and the diamonds you gave her when first you were married in that cupboard. i will fetch the tankard and have it cleaned, and i will pack it for you myself." gabrielle ran out of the room, returning in a few moments with a slightly battered old drinking-cup, much tarnished and of antique pattern. "here it is!" she exclaimed, "and betty shall clean it. is that you, betty? will you take this cup and polish it for me at once yourself? i have great news to give you when you come back." betty took the cup and turned it round and round with a dubious air. "it isn't worth much," she said; "but i'll clean it anyhow." "be careful of it, betty," called out gabrielle. "whatever you may think of it, you tiresome old woman, it is of great value to us, and particularly to your favorite, rupert." muttering to herself, betty hobbled downstairs, and gabrielle and her father continued their conversation. in about half an hour the old woman returned and presented the cup, burnished now to great brilliancy, to her young mistress. "i said it wasn't worth much," she repeated. "i misdoubt me if it's silver at all." gabrielle turned it round in her hand; then she uttered a dismayed exclamation. "father, do look! the crest is gone; the crest and the old motto, 'betyde what may,' have absolutely vanished. it is the same cup; yes, certainly it is the same, but where is the crest? and where is the motto?" mr. lovel took the old tankard into his hand and examined it narrowly. "it is not the same," he said then. "the shape is almost identical, but this is not my forefather's tankard. i believe betty is right, and this is not even silver; here is no crown mark. no letters, gabrielle, and no tankard! well, never mind; these are but trifles. rupert and i sail all the same for england and the old property on saturday." chapter viii.--the sacred cupboard. mr. lovel told gabrielle that the loss of the tankard and the letters were but trifles. his daughter, however, by no means believed him; she noticed the anxious look in his eyes and the little frown which came between his brows. "father's always like that when he's put out," she said. "father's a man who never yet lost his temper. he's much too big and too great and too grand to stoop to anything small of that kind, but, all the same, i know he's put out. he's a wonderful man for sticking out for the rights of things, and if he thinks rupert ought to inherit that old property in england he won't leave a stone unturned to get it for him. he would not fret; he would not think twice about it if it was not rupert's right; but as it is i know he is put out, and i know the loss of the tankard is not just a trifle. who could put a false tankard in the place of the real one? who could have done it? i know what i'll do. i'll go up to mother's room again and have a good look round." mrs. lovel was not a year dead, and gabrielle never entered the room which had known her loved presence and from which she had been carried away to her long rest without a feeling of pain. she was in many respects a matter-of-fact girl--not nearly as sensitive as rupert, who with all his strength had the tenderest heart; nor as little peggy, who kept away from mother's room and never spoke of her without tears filling her eyes. to enter mother's room seemed impossible to both rupert and peggy, but gabrielle found a certain sad pleasure in going there; and when she had shut the door now she looked around her with a little sigh. "i'll make it homelike, as if mother were here," she said to herself. "i'll make it homelike, and then sit by the open window and try and believe that mother is really asleep on that sofa, where she has lain for so many, many hours." her eyes brightened as this idea came to her, and she hastened to put it into execution. she drew up the window-blinds and opened the pretty bay-window, and let the soft delicious air of spring fill the apartment; then she took the white covers off the chairs and sofa, pulled the sofa forward into its accustomed position, and placed a couple of books on the little table which always stood by its side. these few touches transformed the large room; it lost its look of gloom and was once more bright and homelike. a wistaria in full bloom peeped in at the open window; the distant sounds of farm life were audible, and gabrielle heard peggy's little voice talking in endearing tones to the cross old ravens, elijah and grasper. she knelt by the open window and, pressing her cheeks on her hands, looked out. "oh, if only mother were on the sofa!" that was the cry which arose, almost to pain, in her lonely heart. "peggy and rupert and i have no mother, and now father and rupert are going to england and i shall have to do everything for peggy. peggy will lean on me; she always does--dear little peg! but i shall have no one." the thought of rupert's so speedily leaving her recalled the tankard to gabrielle's memory. she got up and unlocked the cupboard, which was situated at the back of her mother's bed. the cupboard was half-full of heterogeneous matter--some treasures, some rubbish; numbers of old photographs; numbers of childish and discarded books. some of the shelves were devoted to broken toys, to headless dolls, to playthings worthless in themselves, but treasured for memory's sake by the mother. tears filled gabrielle's eyes, but she dashed them away and was about to institute a systematic search, when rupert opened the door and came in. his ruddy, brightly colored, healthy face was pale; he did not see gabrielle, who was partly hidden by the large bedstead. he entered the room with soft, reverent footsteps, and walked across it as though afraid to make a sound. gabrielle started when she saw him; she knew that neither rupert nor peggy ever came to the room. what did this visit mean? why was that cloud on rupert's brow? from where she stood she could see without being seen, and for a moment or two she hesitated to make a sound or to let her brother know she was near him. he walked straight across the room to the open window, looked out as gabrielle had looked out, then turning to the sofa, laid one muscular brown hand with a reverent gesture on the pillow which his mother's head had pressed. the little home touches which gabrielle had given to the room were unnoticed by rupert, for he had never seen it in its shrouded and dismantled state. all his memories centered round that sofa with the flowering chintz cover; the little table; the small chair, which was usually occupied by a boy or girl as they looked into the face they loved and listened to the gentle words from the dearest of all lips. rupert made no moan as gabrielle had done, but he drew the little chair forward, and laying his head face downward on the pillow, gave vent to an inward supplication. the boy was strong physically and mentally, and the spiritual life which his mother had fostered had already become part of his being. he spoke it in no words, but he lived it in his upright young life. to do honor to his mother's memory, to reverence and love his mother's god, was his motto. gabrielle felt uncomfortable standing behind the bedstead. she coughed, made a slight movement, and rupert looked up, with wet eyelashes. "gabrielle!" he said, with a start of extreme surprise. "yes, rupert, i was in the room. i saw you come in. i was astonished, for i know you don't come here. i was so sorry to be in the way, and just at first i made no sound." "you are not a bit in the way," said rupert, standing up and smiling at her. "i came now because there are going to be immense changes, and--somehow i could not help myself. i--i--wanted mother to know." "yes," said gabrielle, going and standing by his side. "do you think she does know, rupert? do you think god tells her?" "i feel that she does," said rupert. "but i can't talk about mother, gabrielle; it is no use. what were you doing behind that bedstead?" he added in a lighter tone. "i was looking for the tankard." "what, the old avonsyde tankard? but of course it is there. it was always kept in what we used to call the sacred cupboard." "yes; but it is gone," said gabrielle. "it was there and it has vanished; and what is more wonderful, rupert, another tankard has been put in its place--a tankard something like it in shape, but not made of silver and without the old motto." "nonsense!" said rupert almost sharply. "we will both go and look in the cupboard, gabrielle. the real tankard may be pushed far back out of sight." "no; it is too large for that," said gabrielle. "but you shall come and see with your own eyes." she led the way, and the two began to explore the contents of the cupboard, the boy touching the sacred relics with almost more reverent fingers than the girl. the tankard, the real tankard, was certainly nowhere to be found. "father is put out about it," said gabrielle. "i know it by his eyes and by that firm way he compresses his lips together. he won't get into a passion--you know he never does--but he is greatly put out. he says the tankard forms important evidence, and that its being lost is very disastrous to your prospects." "my prospects?" said rupert. "then father is not quite sure about my being the lawful heir?" "oh, rupert, of course he is sure! but he must have evidence; he must prove your descent. rupert, dear, are you not delighted? are you not excited about all this?" "no, gabrielle. i shall never love avonsyde as i love belmont. it was here my mother lived and died." tears came into gabrielle's eyes. she was touched by rupert's rare allusion to his mother, but she also felt a sense of annoyance at what she termed his want of enthusiasm. "if i were the heir----" she began. "yes, gabrielle--if you were the heir?" "i should be--oh, i cannot explain it all! but how my heart would beat; how i should rejoice!" "i am glad too," said rupert; "but i am not excited. i shall like to see europe, however; and i will promise to write you long letters and tell you everything." chapter ix.--a trysting-place. rachel had a very restless fit on. she was a child full of impulses, with spirits wildly high one day and proportionately depressed the next; but the restlessness of her present condition did not resemble the capricious and ever-changing moods which usually visited her. the uneasy spirit which prevented her taking kindly to her lessons, which took the charm from her play-hours and the pleasure even from kitty's society, had lasted now for months; it had its date from a certain lovely summer's evening. had aunt griselda and aunt katharine known more about what their little niece did on that occasion, they might have attributed her altered mood to an over-long ride and to some physical weakness. but rachel was wonderfully strong; her cheeks bloomed; her dark eyes sparkled; and the old ladies were interested just now in some one whom they considered far more important than rachel. so the little girl neglected her lessons without getting into any very serious scrapes, and more than once rode alone into the forest on surefoot without being reprimanded. rachel would steal away from kitty and from little phil, and would imperiously order robert to saddle her pony and to ride with her just a very little way into the forest; but then the groom was not only allowed, but requested to turn off in another direction, and rachel would gallop as fast as possible past rufus' stone, and on as far as that lovely glade where she had sat and gathered bluebells in the summer. she always dismounted from surefoot here, and standing with her back to an old oak tree, waited with intense expectancy. she never went further than the oak tree; she never went down a narrow path which led to a certain cottage clothed completely in green; but she waited, with her hands clasped and her eyes fixed eagerly on the distant vista of forest trees. sometimes her eyes would sparkle, and she would clap her hands joyfully and run to meet a prim-looking old woman who came forward through the shades to meet her. sometimes she returned home without seeing anybody, and on these occasions she was apt to be morose--snappish to kitty, rude to mrs. lovel and phil, and, in short, disagreeable to every one, except perhaps her gentle aunt katharine. the old ladies would vaguely wonder what ailed the child, and miss griselda would hope she was not going to be famous for the lovel temper; but as their minds were very full of other things they did not really investigate matters. one frosty day about the middle of november, when phil and his mother had been quite four months at avonsyde, rachel started off earlier than usual for one of her long rides. the forest was full of a wonderful mystical sort of beauty at all times and seasons, and now, with the hoar-frost sparkling on the grass, with the sun shining brightly, and with many of the autumn tints still lingering on the trees, it seemed almost as delightful a place to rachel as when clothed in its full summer glory. the little brown-coated winter birds chirped cozily among the branches of the trees, and hundreds of squirrels in a wealth of winter furs bounded from bough to bough. rachel as usual dismissed her faithful attendant, robert, and galloping to her accustomed trysting-place, waited eagerly for what might befall. on this particular day she was not doomed to disappointment. the old servant was soon seen approaching. rachel ran to her, clasped her hands round her arm, and raising her lips to her face, kissed her affectionately. "ah, you are a good nancy to-day!" she exclaimed. "i was here on saturday and here on wednesday, and you never came. it was very unkind of you. i got so tired of standing by the oak tree and waiting. well, nancy, is the lady quite well to-day?" "middling, dearie; middling she ever is and will be until she claims her own again." "oh, you mysterious old woman! you are trying to make me desperately curious, but i don't believe there is anything in your talk. you worry me to keep a tremendous secret, and there's nothing in it, after all. oh, of course i'm keeping your secret; you needn't pretend to be so frightened. and when am i to see the lady of the forest, nancy?" "now, my dear, haven't i told you until i'm tired? you're to see her come your thirteenth birthday, love. the day you are thirteen you'll see her, and not an hour sooner." rachel stamped her foot angrily. "i shan't have a birthday till the beginning of may!" she said. "it's a shame; it's a perfect, perfect shame!" old nancy pushed back a rebellious curl from the child's bright head. "don't you fret, my pretty," she said tenderly. "the lady wants to see you a deal--a sight more than you want to see her. the lady has passed through many troubles, and not the least is the waiting to see your pretty face." rachel began eagerly to unbutton her habit, and taking from a little pocket just inside its lining a tiny bag, she pulled out a small ring and thrust it into nancy's hand. "there," she said, "that's the most precious thing i have, and i give it to her. it's all gold, and isn't that a beautiful pearl? i used to wear it on my finger when i wanted to be very grand, but i'd rather she had it. perhaps she won't feel so lonely when she wears it, for she will remember that it was given to her by a little girl who is so sorry for her, and who loves her--yes, isn't it queer?--although we have never met. you know, nancy," continued rachel, "i can quite sympathize with lonely people, for to a certain extent i know what it means. i miss my mother so very much. when i'm grown up, nancy, i'm going all round the wide world looking for her." "bless you, darling!" said old nancy. "yes, i'll give the ring and your pretty message. and now, love, tell me, how is the little gentleman getting on? have the old ladies made him their heir yet?" "not quite yet, nancy; but they like him--we all like him. he is a dear little boy, and aunt griselda and aunt katharine make such a fuss about him. do you know that a week ago i saw aunt griselda actually put her arms about his neck and kiss him! she kissed him three or four times. wasn't it wonderful? for she's such a cold person. i think people can't help being fond of little phil, though he's not exactly pretty. i heard aunt griselda and aunt katharine say that when they do really feel certain that he is the right heir they are going to have a great, tremendous party, and they will present him to every one as the heir of avonsyde, and then immediately afterward he is to be sent to a preparatory school for eton. oh, won't kitty cry when he goes away!" "do you make out that the ladies will soon come to a decision, miss rachel?" inquired the old servant in a dubious tone. "it's a wonderful important matter--choosing an heir. are they likely to settle it all in a hurry?" rachel laughed. "i don't know," she said. "phil has been with us for four months now; they haven't been in such a hurry. i do hope it will be soon, for i want the party. now, good-by, nancy; i'll come to see you before long again. be sure you give my ring to the lady of the forest." "one moment, missy," said old nancy, stretching out her hand and drawing the young girl back to her side. "one moment, miss rachel lovel; i'm fain to see that little boy. could you manage to bring him this way, missy? could you manage it without nobody finding out? is he the kind of little fellow who wouldn't tell if you asked him earnest, most earnest, not? i'd like to see him and the lady; but no matter, miss rachel, i misdoubt me that you could manage a clever thing like that." "oh, couldn't i?" said rachel, her eyes sparkling. "why, i'd like it of all things! i can easily coax phil to come here, for he's perfectly wild about squirrels and animals of all kinds, and i never saw such a lot of squirrels as there are in the oaks round here. phil has got a pony too, and he shall come for a ride with me, and robert of course can come to take care of us. oh, i'll manage it; but i didn't know you were such a curious woman, nancy." the sun was already showing signs of taking its departure, and rachel did not dare to prolong her interview another moment. chapter x.--proofs. mrs. lovel was becoming reconciled to her tower chamber. ghostly as it appeared, no ghosts had visited her there; on the contrary, she had slept soundly; and as the days wore on and she found the quiet, simple life at avonsyde soothing to her perturbed nerves and restoring vigor to her somewhat feeble frame, she came to the conclusion that the tower was a particularly healthy place to sleep in, and that some of the superabundant vigor which characterized miss griselda must be owing to the splendid air which night after night she inhaled in her lofty chamber. as soon as ever this idea took possession of mrs. lovel's mind, she would not have changed her ancient tower bedroom for the most modern and luxurious which avonsyde could offer. a thought--a pleasing thought--came ever and anon to the poor lady as she watched her boy's peaceful face when he lay asleep on his little white bed. "suppose the healthy air of the tower makes philip strong?" philip had been for some months at avonsyde, and no one yet had found out that he possessed any special delicacy. at first the pallor of his little face had been commented on; but people soon got accustomed to this, and the boy was so merry, so good-humored, so brave, that those who watched him would have found it difficult to associate any special weakness with such lithe and agile movements, with so gay a spirit, with so merry and ringing a laugh. miss griselda had begun by declaring, both in her sister's presence and also in that of philip's mother, that no decisive step could be taken until a doctor had thoroughly examined the boy; but of late she had ceased to speak of any doctor, and had nodded her head in an approving manner when phil had sung out to her from the tops of the tallest trees, or had galloped panting and laughing to her side on his rough forest pony. miss katharine said many times to her sister: "surely we need make no delay. there seems no doubt that the boy can absolutely trace his succession from rupert lovel. why should we waste money, griselda, in inserting that advertisement any more in the newspapers when we have found our heir?" miss lovel, however, was not to be unduly hurried in so momentous a matter. "we cannot be too careful, katharine. yes, we will insert the advertisement once or twice again. it was only yesterday i heard from mr. baring that some fresh claimants are writing to him through their lawyers. there is no hurry whatever, and we cannot be too careful." perhaps miss katharine took it rather too much as a matter of course that phil could trace his descent, without flaw, from the rupert lovel who had quarreled with his father long ago. she was so accustomed to hearing mrs. lovel say, "i have got all the proofs; i can trace the descent without a single break for you at any time," that she began to believe she had gone through the genealogical tree, and had seen with her own eyes that the child was the lineal descendant of the elder branch of her house. miss griselda was far sharper than her sister. miss griselda knew perfectly that phil's descent was not yet proved, but, unlike most old ladies in her position, she disliked genealogy. she said openly that it puzzled her, and on one occasion when mrs. lovel, in her half-timid, half-fretful voice, said, "shall i bring you the proofs of phil's descent now? are you at leisure to look into the matter to-day?" miss griselda replied somewhat sharply: "i hate genealogical trees. katharine can understand them, but i can't. i don't suppose, mrs. lovel, you would be so utterly devoid of all sense as to bring the boy here and to establish yourself in our house without having incontestable proofs that he is what you represent him to be. i take it for granted that phil is a direct descendant of rupert lovel, but i shall certainly not make him our heir until more competent eyes than mine examine your proofs. at present i am more interested in watching phil's health, for if he was fifty times descended from our ancestor and was weakly he should not inherit avonsyde. when i have quite made up my mind that your boy is strong i will ask mr. baring, our business man, to come to avonsyde and go into the proofs; then, all being satisfactory, the boy shall be announced as our heir, and we will of course undertake his maintenance and education from that moment." mrs. lovel breathed a slight sigh of relief. "having proclaimed phil as your heir, nothing would induce you to revoke your decision afterward?" she asked nervously. "certainly not. what a strange speech to make! the boy being strong, being the right age, and being an undoubted descendant of our house, what more could we want? rest assured, mrs. lovel, that when your boy is proclaimed heir of avonsyde, were fifty other claimants to come forward we should not even listen to their plea." a faint pink, born of intense gratification, colored mrs. level's pale cheeks. "i should like to be bold enough to ask you another question," she said. miss griselda smiled in a freezing manner. "ask me what you please," she answered. "you must forgive my saying that i have already observed how singularly restless and uncomfortable you are. i think i can guess what is the matter. you are intensely curious about us and our money. oh, no, i am not at all offended. pray ask what you want to know." mrs. lovel, though a timid, was a rather obtuse person, and she was not crushed by miss griselda's withering sarcasm. clearing her throat and pausing slightly before bringing out her words, she continued: "i have wondered--i could not help wondering--what you would do with your property if no heir turned up." this speech, which was as audacious as it was unexpected, caused miss lovel to raise her finely marked eyebrows with some scorn. "your question is indiscreet," she said; "but, as it happens, i do not mind answering it. did no true heir appear for avonsyde during our lifetime the place would be inherited by our nieces, rachel and kitty lovel; but they would only have a life-interest in the property, and would be solemnly bound over to continue our search for the missing heir." "rachel and kitty will, then, be disappointed when phil is announced as your representative," said mrs. lovel, rising with sudden alacrity to her feet. "thank you so much for your valuable information, miss lovel. you may be quite certain that i shall regard what you have been good enough to confide to me as absolutely confidential." "i have told you nothing that everybody doesn't know," answered miss griselda. "i never reveal secrets, and least of all to those who are not related to us. talk to any one you please about what i have said to you. as to my brother's children, i am thankful to say they have not yet attained an age when the absence or the presence of money is of the slightest moment to them. one word more, mrs. lovel, before we change our conversation. i have noticed without your telling me that you are extremely poor." mrs. lovel interrupted with a great sigh. "oh!" she said, throwing up her hands and speaking with marked emphasis, "i have known the sore pangs of poverty--of course, it has been genteel poverty. i could never forget phil's birth nor what i owed to my poor dear husband's position, and of course i made a great effort to descend to nothing menial; but, yes, i have been poor." "you need not excite yourself about the past. when phil's identity is established and his position assured, it is the intention of my sister and myself to settle upon you for your life an income of £ a year. pray don't thank me; we do it for our own sakes, as of course phil's mother has a certain position to keep up. we should recommend you to settle somewhere near your boy. what did you say? no, no; that cannot be. when everything is settled we must request you to remove to your own home." for mrs. lovel had interrupted with the almost incoherent words: "am i not to live at avonsyde always?" chapter xi.--the lady who came with a gift. rachel did not forget her promise to old nancy. she had never taken so much pains to cultivate phil's acquaintance as kitty had done. she had certainly joined in the almost universal chorus that he was a nice and lovable little boy, but she had not greatly troubled her head about his pursuits or his pleasures. she was too much taken up with the wonderful secret which she possessed with regard to the real existence of the lady of the forest. but now that the said lady seemed to wish to see phil, and now that she, rachel, had almost bound herself to bring phil to the trysting-place in the forest, she began to regard him with new interest. kitty and phil had long ere this established a world of their own--a world peopled by caterpillars of enormous size, by the most sagacious spiders that were ever known to exist, by beetles of rare brilliancy, by birds, by squirrels--in short, by the numerous creature-life of the great forest; and last, but not least, by the fairies and gnomes which were supposed to haunt its dells. kitty could tell many stories of forest adventures, of the wonderful and terrible bogs on which the luckless traveler alighted unawares, and from which, unless instant help arrived, he could never hope to extricate himself. she spoke about the malicious little jack-o'-lanterns which were supposed to allure the unwary into these destructive places, and phil, with a most vivid imagination of his own, loved to lie at her feet and embellish her tales with numerous inventions. the two children were scarcely ever apart, and doubtless one reason why rachel thought so much of her secret was because kitty was no longer her undivided companion. now, however, she must seek out kitty and phil, and enter into their pursuits and take a share in their interests if she hoped to induce phil to accompany her into the forest. accordingly one day, with a book in her hand, she sauntered out into a very sunny part of the grounds. phil, basking in the rays of the most brilliant sunshine, had thrown himself at the foot of an old sun-dial; kitty had climbed into the boughs of a small bare tree which stood near, and as usual the two were chatting eagerly. rachel, with her head full of the lady of the forest, came up, to hear kitty and phil discussing this very personage. "she's all in green," said kitty. "her dress is greener than the trees and her face is most beautiful, and her hair is gold and----" "no," interrupted rachel; "she's in gray; and her hair is not gold--it is dark." then she colored high and bit her lips with vexation, for she felt that in her eagerness she had given a clew to her dear real lady's identity. kitty raised her eyebrows in great surprise. "why, rachel," she said, "it was you who told me she was in green. how very queer and disagreeable of you to make her so ugly and uninteresting. people who wear gray are most uninteresting. you forget, rachel, our lady is in green--greener than the grass. i do wish you would tell phil all about her; you can describe her so much better than i can." "she has a face which is almost too lovely," continued rachel, taking up the cue on the instant and speaking with great animation. "she lives in the deepest shades of the forest, and she appears never, never, except to those who belong to the forest. those families who have belonged to the new forest for hundreds of years have seen her, but outsiders never do. when she does appear she comes with a gift in her hand. do you know what it is?" "no," said phil, raising himself on his elbow and looking with great intentness at rachel. "i know what i would wish her to give me--that is, if she ever came to see me; but of course i cannot possibly say what gifts she brings." "those who have seen her," said rachel, "catch just a shadow of the reflection of her lovely face, and they never lose it--never! some ladies of our house saw her, and their portraits are in our portrait-gallery, and they are much more beautiful than any of the other lovels. she does not give beauty of feature--it is of expression; and such a brightness shines from her. yes, her gift is the gift of beauty; and i do wish, and so does kitty, that we could see her." phil smiled a little scornfully. "is that all she gives?" he said. "that wouldn't be much to me. i mean if i saw her i know what i'd ask. i'd say, 'i am a boy, and beauty isn't of much use to a boy; so please give me instead--money!'" "oh, phil!" exclaimed both the little girls. "she wouldn't come to you," said kitty in a mournful tone. "she wouldn't look at any one so avaricious." "besides, phil," continued rachel, "when avonsyde is yours you'll be a rich man; and i don't think," she added, "that you are quite right when you say that beauty is of no use to a boy; for if you have the kind of beauty the lady gives, it is like a great power, and you can move people and turn them as you will; and of course you can use it for good, phil." "all right," said phil, "but i'd rather have money; for if i had money i'd give it to mother, and then i needn't be heir of avonsyde, and--and--oh, i mustn't say! kitty, i do wish we could go to southampton again soon. i want to go there on most particular business. do you think aunt grizel will take us before christmas?" "is it about the letter?" asked kitty. "but you couldn't have had an answer yet, phil. there is no use in your going to southampton before an answer can have arrived." "i suppose not," said phil in a gloomy voice. "it's a long, long time to wait, though." "what are you waiting for?" asked rachel. phil raised very mournful eyes to her face. "you have a look of him," he said. "oh, how i hate being heir of avonsyde! i wouldn't be it for all the world but for mother. kitty, shall we go into the forest and look for beetles?" "i'll come with you," said rachel. "you two are always together and i'm out in the cold, and i don't mean to be in the cold any longer. i may come with you both, may i not?" kitty smiled radiantly, phil linked his little brown hand inside rachel's arm, and the three set off. no little girl could make herself more fascinating than rachel when she pleased. she developed on the instant a most astonishing knowledge of beetles and spiders; she drew on her imagination for her facts, and deceived kitty, but not phil. phil was a born little naturalist, and in consequence he only favored his elder cousin with a shrewd and comical look, and did not trouble himself even to negative her daring assertions. seeing that she made no way in this direction, rachel started a theme about which she possessed abundant knowledge. the new forest had been more or less her nursery; she knew its haunts well; she knew where to look for the earliest primroses, the first violets, and also the very latest autumn flowers; she knew where the holly berries were reddest, where the robins had their nests, and where the squirrels were most abundant; and phil, recognizing the tone of true knowledge, listened first with respect, then with interest, then with enthusiasm. oh, yes, they must go to that dell; they must visit that sunny bank. before rachel and her sister and cousin came home that day they had planned an excursion which surely must give the mysterious lady of the forest that peep at phil which she so earnestly desired. rachel was sorry to be obliged to include kitty in the party, for kitty had not been asked to pass in review by old nancy. phil was the one whom nancy and the lady wished to see just once with their own eyes: phil, who was to be heir of avonsyde and who didn't like it. rachel went to bed quite jubilant, for she would have done anything to please the unknown lady who had won her capricious little heart. she did not guess that anything would occur to spoil her plans, and in consequence slept very peacefully. phil had been much excited by rachel's words. he was a very imaginative child, and though he did not believe in ghosts, yet he was certainly impressed by what both the little girls had told him of the lady of the forest. he quite believed in this lady, and did not care to inquire too closely whether she was fairy or mortal. she appeared at rare intervals to the sons and daughters of the house of lovel, and when she did she came with a gift. phil did not altogether believe that this lovely, graceful, and gracious lady would be so obdurate as only to bestow an unvalued gift of beauty. he thought that if he were lucky enough to see her he might so intercede with her that she would give him a bag of gold instead. he need keep no secrets from her, for if she was a fairy she must know them already; and he might tell her all about his difficulties, and how his small heart was torn with great love for rupert and great love for his mother. he might tell the lady of the forest how very little he cared for avonsyde, except as a possible future home for his gay and brave cousin rupert, and he might ask her to give him the bag of precious gold to satisfy his mother and keep her from starving. phil was dreadfully oppressed with all the secrets he had to keep. happy as he was at avonsyde, there were so many, many things he must not talk about. he must never mention rupert, nor gabrielle, nor peggy; he must never breathe the name of belmont nor say a word about his old nurse betty. all the delightful times he had spent with his australian cousins must be as though they had never been. he must not tell about the delicious hours he and betty had spent together in the little cottage behind the garden when his mother had been away in melbourne. he must not speak about the excursions that rupert had taken with him. a veil, a close veil, must be spread over all the past, and the worst of it was that he knew the reason why. his mother wanted him to get what rupert would have been so much more fitted for. well! well! he loved his mother and he could not break her heart, so he kept all these little longings and desires to himself, and only half let out his secrets a dozen times a day. on one point, however, he was firm and stanch as a little spartan: he never breathed a sigh nor uttered a groan which could be construed into even the semblance of physical pain. when he felt quite exhausted, so tired that it was an effort to move, he would spring up again at kitty's least word and, with the drops on his little brow, climb to the top of that straight, tall tree once more and hide his face at last in the friendly sheltering leaves until he got back his panting breath. the splendid air of avonsyde undoubtedly strengthened him, but the strain of always appearing bright and well was sometimes almost too much, and he wondered how long he could go on pretending to be quite the strongest little boy in the world. he fancied now how nice it would be to tell the kind lady of the forest how weak he really was; how his heart often beat almost to suffocation; what cruel pain came suddenly to stab and torture him. oh! he could show her plainly that money was the gift for him, and that rupert, who was so valiant, so strong, so splendid, was the only right heir to the old place. phil greatly enjoyed his tower bedroom. not a particle of the nervousness which made his mother uneasy assailed him. the only thing he did regret was that he could not sleep quite at the very top of the tower, in those attic rooms inhabited by miss griselda and miss katharine. when some of those bad attacks of pain and breathlessness assailed him, he liked, notwithstanding the exertion, to creep up and up those winding stone stairs, for he knew that when he got to the top and had attained his refuge he could really rest; he might throw off all the spartan and be a little human boy who could moan and sigh and even shed a few secret tears for the gallant rupert whom he loved. phil had got into a habit of not even telling his mother of those queer attacks of weakness and breathlessness which came over him. nothing annoyed and distressed her so much as to hear of them, and little phil was by degrees beginning to feel a sort of protective love toward the rather weak woman: their positions were being unconsciously reversed. mrs. lovel seldom came to the tower bedroom in the day-time. under the pretext that the stairs wearied her, she had begged to be allowed to have a dressing-room in a more modern part of the house, so phil could be quite alone and undisturbed when he chose to visit his room. one of miss griselda's excellent rules for children was that they must retire early to bed. phil, in australia, had sat up far later than was good for him, but now at avonsyde he and kitty were always expected to have entered the land of dreams not later than eight o'clock in the evening. mrs. lovel seldom came upstairs before midnight, and in consequence phil spent several hours alone every night in his quaint bedroom. he was often not at all sleepy, and on these occasions he would open one of the tiny deep-set windows, and look out into the night and listen to the hootings of some owls which had long ago made a home for themselves in a portion of the old tower. on other occasions he would amuse himself with one of kitty's story-books, or again he would arrange some very precious little collections of wild birds' eggs and other forest treasures. on this particular night, after rachel's and kitty's conversation, he was more than usually wakeful. he got into bed, for aunt griselda told him to be sure to undress and go to sleep as quickly as possible; but finding sleep very far away from his wakeful eyes he got up, and, after the fashion of a restless little boy, began to perambulate the room and to try to discover anything of interest to divert his attention. a very old horse-hair trunk of his mother's stood in one corner of the room; it had never been unpacked, for it was only supposed to contain books and some household treasures not immediately required by mrs. lovel. phil had once or twice coaxed his mother to unpack the old trunk, for among the books was his pet "robinson crusoe." there was also an old box of paints which rupert had given him, and a queer, old-fashioned cup, made of horn, which rupert and he always took with them when they went for a day's excursion into any of the neighboring forests. phil saw now, to his great delight, that the key was in the lock of the old trunk, and it occurred to him that he could pass an agreeable hour rummaging among its contents for his beloved "robinson crusoe" and his old horn cup. he accordingly set a candlestick on the floor, and opening the trunk knelt down by it and began to forage. he worked hard, and the exertion tired him and brought on an attack of breathlessness; but he was much interested in the sight of many old home treasures and had no idea how time was flying. he could not find either his "robinson crusoe" or his horn cup, but he came across another treasure wrapped up in an old piece of flannel which gave him intense delight. this was no other than a silver tankard of quaint device and very old-world pattern, with a coat of arms and the words "tyde what may" inscribed on one side. phil knew the tankard well, and raising it to his lips he kissed it tenderly. "why, this belongs to uncle rupert and to belmont!" he exclaimed. "the very same dear old tankard which gabrielle is so proud of. i've seen it dozens of times. well, i never thought uncle rupert would have given this dear old tankard to mother. how kind of him! i wonder mother never spoke of it. oh, dear, what stories gabrielle has told me about it! she used to call it a magical tankard and said it had a history. mother must have quite forgotten she had it in the old trunk. how delighted rachel and kitty will be when i show it to them to-morrow." phil was so excited over his discovery that he became instantly careless as to finding either his "robinson crusoe" or his horn cup, and pushing the rest of contents of the trunk back into their place and turning the lock, he crept into bed, carrying the beloved tankard with him. when his mother came upstairs presently she found the boy fast asleep, and little guessed what treasure he clasped in his arms. it is true that little phil had entered the land of dreams; it is also true that in that enchanted land he went through experiences so delightful, through adventures so thrilling, that when in the dull gray november morning he awoke to listen to his mother's monotonous breathing, he simply could do nothing but step out of bed and determine to follow his dreams if necessary to the end of the world. the light had scarcely come. he would dress himself hastily and, taking the enchanted tankard with him, go into the forest all alone, in the hopes of meeting the beautiful lady who came with a gift. chapter xii.--lost in the new forest. mrs. lovel slept very soundly, and phil did not disturb her when he opened the ponderous oak door of his bedroom, and clasping the tankard tightly in both hands went downstairs and out. it was very, very early, for phil had mistaken the shining of the moon for the first light of day. not a soul was up at avonsyde, but the little boy easily found a means of exit, and in a few moments was running quickly down the straight avenue which led into the forest. he was intensely happy and excited, for the fragrance of his delightful dreams was still surrounding him, and he felt confident that if he only ran far enough he must find that wonderful lady whose dress was greener than the trees and whose face was so radiantly beautiful. the morning was damp and gloomy, for the moon set very soon after phil started on his walk, and the sun had no idea of getting up for another couple of hours. the forest, which looked so pleasant and cheery by day, was now all that was dark and dismal; so of course the first thing that happened to poor little phil was completely to lose his way. he possessed a very high spirit, and such small disadvantages as stumbling in the dark and tearing himself with unseen briers, and altogether becoming a sadly chilled and damp little boy, could not quench the ardent hope which impelled him to go forward. he pushed on bravely, having a kind of confidence that the further he got from avonsyde the more likely he was to meet the lady. presently the darkness gave place to a gray, dim light, and then, in an incredibly short space of time, the little boy found himself surrounded by a delicious golden atmosphere. the sun climbed up into the heavens; the mist vanished; daylight and sunlight had come. phil took off his cap, and leaning against a tree laughed with pleasure. it wanted three weeks to christmas; but what a lovely morning, and how the sun glittered and sparkled on the frosty ground! some shy robin-redbreasts hopped about and twittered gleefully; the squirrels were intensely busy cracking their breakfast-nuts; and phil, raising his eyes to watch them, discovered that he was hungry. his hunger he could not gratify, but the thirst which also assailed him could be easily assuaged, for a brook babbled noisily not many feet away. phil ran to it, and dipping his tankard into the water took a long draught. he had not an idea where he was, but with the sun shining and the birds singing no part of the forest could be lonely, and he tripped on in gay spirits, hoping to see the lady with the green dress coming to meet him through the trees. he had listened to many stories about the forest lady from kitty. she appeared very, very seldom to any one, but when she did come she chose a solitary place and moment, for it was one of her unbroken rules never to reveal herself to two people together. phil, remembering this peculiarity of the beautiful lady, took care to avoid the high-road and to plunge deeper and deeper into the most shady recesses and the most infrequented paths. as he walked on, whether from exhaustion or from hunger, or from an under-current of strong excitement, he became really a little feverish; his heart beat a great deal too fast, and his imagination was roused to an abnormal extent. he knew that he had lost his way, but as the hours went on he became more and more convinced that he would find the lady, and of course when he saw her and looked in her face his troubles would be ended. he would pour out all his cares and all his longings into the ears of this wonderful being. she would soothe him; she would pity him; and, above all things, she would give him that golden store which would make his mother contented and happy. "perhaps she will carry me home too," thought little phil, "for though i am always making believe to be well, i am not really a strong boy, and i am very tired now." the hours went on, the daylight grew brighter, and then came an unexpected change. the sunny morning was treacherous, after all; dark clouds approached from the north; they covered the smiling and sunny sky, and then a cold rain which was half-sleet began to fall mercilessly. phil had of course not dreamed of providing himself with a great-coat, and though at first the trees supplied him with a certain amount of shelter, their branches, which were mostly bare, were soon drenched, and the little boy was wet through. he had climbed to the top of a rising knoll, and looking down through the driving rain he heard a stream brawling loudly about forty feet below. he fancied that if he got on lower ground he might find shelter, so he ran as quickly as he could in the direction of the hurrying water. oh, horror! what had happened to him? what was this? the ground shook under his little footsteps. when he tried to step either backward or forward he sank. phil caught his breath, laughed a little because he did not want to cry, and said aloud: "kitty is quite right; there are bogs in the forest, and i'm in one." he was a very brave child, and even his present desperate situation did not utterly daunt him. "now i'm in real danger," he said aloud. "in some ways it's rather nice to be in real danger. rupert and i used often to talk about it and wonder what we'd do, and rupert always said: 'phil, be sure when the time comes that you don't lose your presence of mind.' well, the time has come now, and i must try to be very cool. when i stay perfectly still i find that i don't sink--at least very little. oh, how tired i am! i wish some one would come. i wish the rain would stop. i know i'll fall presently, for i'm so fearfully tired. i wish the lady would come--i do wish she would! if she knew that i was in danger she might hurry to me--that is, if she's as kind and beautiful as kitty tells me she is. oh, dear! oh, dear! i know i shall fall soon. well, if i do i'm certain to sink into the bog, and--rupert will have avonsyde. oh, poor mother! how she will wonder where i've got to! now, i really don't want to sink in a bog even for rupert's sake, so i must keep my presence of mind and try to be as cheerful as possible. suppose i sing a little--that's much better than crying and will make as much noise in case any one is passing by." so phil raised a sweet and true little voice and tried to rival the robins. but a poor little half-starving boy stuck fast in a bog is so far a remarkable spectacle that the robins themselves, coming out after the shower to dry their feathers, looked at him in great wonder. he was a brave little boy and he sang sweetly, and they liked the music he made very well; but what was he doing there? perching themselves on the boughs of some low trees which grew near the brook, they glanced shyly at him out of their bright eyes, and then quite unknowingly performed a little mission for his rescue. they flew to meet a lady whom they knew well and from whose hand they often pecked crumbs, and they induced this lady to turn aside from her accustomed path and to follow them, as they hopped and flew in front of her; for the lady was suddenly reminded by the robins of some little birds at home for which she meant to gather a particular weed which grew near the bog. the rain was over, the sun was again shining brightly, when little phil, tired, sick unto death, raised his eyes and saw, with the sunlight behind her, a lady, graceful and gracious in appearance, coming down the path. he did not notice whether her dress was gray or green; he only knew that to him she looked radiant and lovely. "oh, you have been a long time coming, but please save me now!" he sobbed, and then he did tumble into the bog, for he suddenly fainted away. chapter xiii.--one more secret. when phil opened his eyes he was quite sure for several moments that all his best dreams were realized. he was in a very tiny parlor (he loved small rooms, for they reminded him of the cottage at the back of the garden); he was lying full length on an old-fashioned and deliciously soft sofa, and a lady with a tender and beautiful face was bending over him; the firelight flickered in a cozy little grate and the sunlight poured in through a latticed window. the whole room was a picture of comfort, and phil drew a deep sigh of happiness. "have you given mother the bag of gold? and are we back in the cottage at the back of the garden?" he murmured. "drink this, dear," said the quiet, grave voice, and then a cup of delicious hot milk was held to his little blue lips, and after he had taken several sips of the milk he was able to sit up and look round him. "you are the lady of the forest, aren't you? but where's your green dress?" "i am a lady who lives in the forest, my dear child. i am so glad i came down to that dreadful bog and rescued you. what is your name, my dear little boy?" "my name? i am phil lovel. do you know, it is so sad, but i am going to have avonsyde. i am the heir. i don't want it at all. it was principally about avonsyde i came out this morning to find you. yes, i had a great escape in the bog, but i felt almost sure that you would come to save me. it was very good of you. i am not a strong boy, and i don't suppose i could have stood up in that dreadful cold, damp bog much longer. although i'm not bad at bearing pain, yet the ache in my legs was getting quite terrible. well, it's all right now, and i'm so glad i've found you. are you very rich, lady of the forest? and may i tell you everything?" had phil not been absorbed in his own little remarks he might have noticed a curious change coming over the lady's face. for one brief instant her eyes seemed to blaze, her brows contracted as if with pain, and the band with which she held the restorative to phil's lips trembled. whatever emotion overcame her its effect was brief. when the boy, wondering at her silence, raised his eyes to look at her, it was only a sweet and quiet glance which met his. "i have heard of little philip lovel," she said. "i am glad to see you. i am glad i saved you from a terrible fate. if no one had come to your rescue you must eventually have sunk in that dreadful bog." "but i was quite sure you would come," answered phil. "do you know, i went out this morning expecting to meet you. betty and i have spoken of you so very, very often. we have made up lovely stories about you; but you have always been in green and your face dazzled. now you are not in green. you are in a dark, plain dress--as plain a dress as mother used to wear when we lived in the house behind the garden; and though you are beautiful--yes, i really think you are beautiful--you don't dazzle. well, i am glad i have met you. did you know that a little boy was wandering all over the forest looking for you to-day? and did you come out on purpose to meet him and to save him? oh, i trust, i do trust you have got the gift with you!" "i don't quite understand you, my dear little boy," said the lady. "no, i did not come to meet you. i simply took a walk between the showers. you are talking too much and too fast; you must be quiet now, and i will put this warm rug over you and you can try to sleep. when you are quite rested and warm, nancy, my servant, will take you back to avonsyde." phil was really feeling very tired; his limbs ached; his throat was dry and parched; he was only too glad to lie still on that soft sofa in that tiny room and not pretend to be anything but a sadly exhausted little boy. he even closed his eyes at the lady's bidding, but he soon opened them again, for he liked to watch her as she sat by the fire. no, she was scarcely dazzling, but phil could quite believe that she might be considered beautiful. her eyes were dark and gray; her hair was also dark, very soft, and very abundant; her mouth had an expression about it which phil seemed partly to know, which puzzled him, for he felt so sure that he had seen just such resolute and well cut lips in some one else. "it's rachel!" he said suddenly under his breath. "how very, very queer that rachel should have a look of the lady of the forest!" he half-roused himself to watch the face, which began more and more to remind him of rachel's. but as he looked there came a curious change over the lady's expressive face. the firm lips trembled; a look of agonized yearning and longing filled the pathetic gray eyes, and a few words said aloud with unspeakable sadness reached the little boy. "so kitty speaks of me--little, little kitty speaks of me." the lady covered her face with her hands, and phil, listening very attentively, thought he heard her sob. after this he really closed his eyes and went to sleep. when he awoke the winter's light had disappeared, the curtains were drawn across the little window, and a reading-lamp with a rose-colored shade made the center of the table look pretty. there was a cozy meal spread for two on the board, and when phil opened his eyes and came back to the world of reality, the lady was bending over the fire and making some crisp toast. "you have had a nice long sleep," she said in a cheerful voice. "now will you come to the table and have some tea? here is a fresh egg for you, which brownie, my dear speckled hen, laid while you were asleep. you feel much better, don't you? now you must make a very good tea, and when you have finished nancy will take you as far as rufus' stone, where i have asked a man with a chaise to meet her; he will drive you back to avonsyde in less than an hour." phil felt quite satisfied with these arrangements. he also discovered that he was very hungry; so he tumbled off the sofa, and with his light-brown hair very much tossed and his eyes shining, took his place at the tea-table. there he began to chatter, and did not at all know that the lady was leading him on to tell her as much as possible about rachel and kitty and about his life at avonsyde. he answered all her questions eagerly, for he had by no means got over his impression that she was really the lady whom he had come to seek. "i don't want avonsyde, you know," he said suddenly, speaking with great earnestness. "oh, please, if you are the lady of the forest and can give those who seek you a gift, let my gift be a bag of gold! i will take it back to mother in the chaise to-night, and then--and then--poor mother! my mother is very poor, lady, but when i give her your gold she will be rich, and then we can both go away from avonsyde." for a moment or two the lady with the sad gray eyes looked with wonder and perplexity at little phil--some alarm even was depicted on her face, but it suddenly cleared and lightened. she rose from her chair, and going up to the child stooped and kissed him. "you don't want avonsyde. then i am your friend, little phil lovel. here are three kisses--one for you, one for rachel, one for kitty. give my kisses as from yourself to the little girls. but i am not what you think me, phil. i am no supernatural lady who can give gifts or can dazzle with unusual beauty. i am just a plain woman who lives here most of the year and earns her bread with hard and daily labor. i cannot give money, for i have not got it. i can be your friend, however. not a powerful friend--certainly not; but no true friendship is to be lightly thrown away. why, my little man, how disappointed you look! are you really going to cry?" "oh, no, i won't cry!" said phil, but with a very suspicious break in his voice; "but i am so tired of all the secrets and of pretending to be strong and all that. if you are not the lady and have not got the bag of gold, mother and i will have to stay on at avonsyde, for mother is very poor and she would starve if we went away. you don't know what a dreadful weight it is on one's mind always to be keeping secrets." "i am very sorry, phil. as it happens i do know what a secret means. i am very sorry for you, more particularly as i am just going to add to your secrets. i want you to promise not to tell any one at avonsyde about my little house in the forest nor about me. i think you will keep my secret when i tell you that if it is known it will do me very grave injury." "i would not injure you," said phil, raising his sweet eyes to her face. "i do hate secrets and i find them dreadfully hard to keep, but one more won't greatly matter, only i do wish you were the real lady of the forest." when nancy came back to the little cottage after disposing of phil comfortably in the chaise and giving the driver a great many emphatic directions about him, she went straight into her lady's presence. she was a privileged old servant, and she did not dream of knocking at the door of the little sitting-room; no, she opened it boldly and came in, many words crowding to her lips. "this will upset her fine," she muttered under her breath. "oh, dear! oh, dear! i'll have to do a lot of talking to-night. i'm not one to say she gives way often, but when she do, why, she do, and that's the long and short of it." nancy opened the door noisily and entered the room with a world of purpose depicted on her honest, homely face. "now, ma'am," she began, "i have seen him off as snug and safe as possible, and the driver promises to deliver him sure as sure into his mother's arms within the hour. a pretty sort of a mother she must be to let a bit of a babe like that wander about since before the dawn and never find him yet. now, ma'am, you're not settling down to that needlework at this hour? oh, and you do look pale! why, mrs. lovel, what's the use of overdoing it?" the lady so addressed raised her sad eyes to the kindly pair looking down at her and said gently: "i am determined to be at least as brave as that brave little boy. he would not cry, although he longed to. i must either work or cry, so i choose to work. nancy, how many yards of the lace are now finished?" "ten, i should think," answered nancy, whose countenance expressed strong relief at the turn the conversation had taken. "i should say there was ten yards done, ma'am, but i will go upstairs and count them over if you like." "i wish you would. if there are ten yards upstairs there are nearly two here; that makes just the dozen. and you think it is quite the best lace i have made yet, nancy?" "oh, ma'am, beautiful is no word; and how your poor eyes stand the fine work passes my belief. but now, now, where's the hurry for to-night? why, your hands do shake terrible. let me make you a cup of cocoa and light a fire in your bedroom, and you go to bed nice and early, mrs. lovel." mrs. lovel threw down her work with a certain gesture of impatience. "i should lie awake all night," said mrs. lovel. "do you know, nancy, that the little boy spoke of kitty? he said my baby kitty often mentioned the lady of the forest--that he and she both did. at first i thought that he meant me and that kitty really spoke of her mother; but now i believe he was alluding to some imaginary forest lady." "the green forest lady," interposed nancy. "i don't say, ma'am, that she's altogether a fancy, though. there's them--yes, there's them whose words may be relied on who are said to have spoke with her." "well, no matter. i am finishing this lace to-night, nancy, because i mean to go to london to-morrow." "you, ma'am? oh, oh, and it ain't three months since you were there!" "yes, i must go. i want to see my husband's lawyers. nancy, this suspense is killing me!" "oh, my poor, dear, patient lady! but it ain't so many months now to wait. miss rachel's birthday comes in may." "nancy, the mother-hunger is driving me wild. if i could only see them both and kiss them once i should be satisfied." "you shall kiss them hundreds of times when may comes," answered the old servant. "and they are well and bonny and miss rachel loves you; and the little one, why, of course her heart will go out to you when you hold her in your arms again." "six years!" repeated the poor lady, clasping her hands, letting the lovely lace fall to the ground, and gazing into the glowing fire in the grate. "six years for a mother to starve! oh, nancy, how could good women be so cruel? i believe miss grizel and miss katharine are good. how could they be so cruel?" "old maids!" said nancy, with a little snort. "do you suppose, ma'am, that those old ladies know anything of the mother feel? well, mrs. lovel, the children are two bonny little lassies, and you have given up much for them. you did it for their good, ma'am--that they should have full and plenty and be provided for. you did it all out of real self-denial, ma'am." "i made up my mind the day kitty fainted for want of food," answered mrs. lovel. "i made up my mind and i never flinched; but oh! nancy, think of its being in vain! for, after all, that little boy is the true heir. he is a dear little fellow, and although i ought to hate him i can't. he is the true heir; and if so, you know, nancy, that my little girls come back to me. how have i really bettered them by giving them six years of luxury when, after all, they must return to my small life?" "and to the best of mothers," answered nancy. "and to two or three hundred pounds put by careful; and they hearty and bonny and miss rachel's education half-complete. no, ma'am, they are not worse off, but a deal better off for what you have done for them--that's if the worst comes. but how can you say that that little boy will have avonsyde? why, he hasn't no strength in him--not a bit. thin is no word for him, and he's as light as a feather, and so white! why, i carried him in my arms as far as the stone, and i didn't feel as if i had nothing in them. why, ma'am, all the country round knows that the ladies at avonsyde are looking out for a strong heir; they go direct against the will if they give the old place to a sickly one. no, ma'am, master phil lovel ain't the heir for avonsyde. and is it likely, ma'am, that the ladies would be putting advertisements in all the papers, foreign and otherwise, for the last five years and a half, and sending over special messengers to the other side of the globe, and never yet a strong, hearty, real heir turn up? why, of course, mrs. lovel, he ain't to be found, and that's why he don't come." mrs. lovel smiled faintly. "well, nancy," she said, "i must at least go to town to-morrow, and as that is the case i will take your advice and go up to my room now. no, i could not eat anything. good-night, dear nancy." when mrs. lovel left the little sitting-room nancy stayed behind to give it a good "redding-up" as she expressed it. with regard to sitting-rooms, and indeed all rooms arranged for human habitation, nancy was a strict disciplinarian; rigid order was her motto. chairs placed demurely in rows; a table placed exactly in the middle of the room; books arranged at symmetrical intervals round it; each ornament corresponding exactly to its fellow; blinds drawn to a certain level--these were her ideas of a nice cheerful apartment. could she have had her own choice with regard to carpets, she would have had them with a good dash of orange in them; her curtains should always be made of moreen and be of a bright cardinal tone. a tidy and a cheerful room was her delight; she shuddered at the tendencies, so-called artistic, of the present day. putting the little sitting-room in order now, her feet knocked against something which gave forth a metallic sound; stooping, she picked up from the floor phil's tankard. she examined it curiously and brought it to the light. the quaint motto inscribed on one of its sides--"tyde what may"--was well known to her as the motto of the house of lovel. "i know nothing about this old cup," she said to herself; "it may or may not be of value; but it looks old--uncommon old; and it has the family coat of arms and them outlandish, meaningless words on it. of course it was little master phil brought it in to-day and forgot all about it. well, well, it may mean something or it may not; but my name ain't nancy white if i don't set it by for the present and bide my time about returning it. ah, my dear, dear lady, it won't be nancy's fault if your bonny little girls don't get their own out of avonsyde!" chapter xiv.--the australians. messrs. baring & baring, the lawyers who transacted all the business matters for the misses lovel, were much worried about christmas-time with clients. the elder mr. baring was engaged with a gentleman who had come from the country to see him on special and urgent business, and in consequence his son, a bright-looking, intelligent man of thirty, was obliged to ask two gentlemen to wait in his anteroom or to call again, while he himself interviewed a sorrowful-looking lady who required immediate attention. the gentlemen decided to wait the younger mr. baring's leisure, and in consequence he was able to attend to his lady client without impatience. "the business which brings you to me just before christmas, mrs. lovel, must be of the utmost importance," he began. mrs. lovel raised her veil and a look of intense pain filled her eyes. "it is of importance to me," she said, "for it means--yes, i greatly fear it means that my six years of bitter sacrifice have come to nothing and the heir is found." mr. baring raised his eyebrows; he did not trouble to inquire to whom she had alluded. after a brief pause he said quietly: "there is no reason whatever for you to despair. at this present moment my father and i are absolutely aware of two claimants for the avonsyde heirship--only one can inherit the place and both may prove unsuitable. you know that the ladies will not bequeath their property to any one who cannot prove direct descent from the elder branch; also the heir must be strong and vigorous. up to the present neither my father nor i have seen any conclusive proof of direct succession. we are quite aware that a little boy of the name of lovel is at present on a visit at avonsyde, but we also know that the misses lovel will take no definite steps in the matter without our sanction. i would not fret beforehand, mrs. lovel. it seems tame and old-fashioned advice, but i should recommend you for your own sake to hope for the best." "i will do so," said mrs. lovel, rising to her feet. "i will do so, even though i can no longer buoy myself up with false dreams. i feel absolutely convinced that before rachel's birthday an heir will be found for the old place. let it be so--i shall not struggle. it may be best for my children to come back to me; it will certainly be best for me to have them with me again. i won't take up any more of your time this morning, mr. baring." "well, come again to-morrow morning. i have got some more work for you and of quite a profitable kind. by the way, the new claimants--they have just come from australia and i am to see them in a moment--are in a desperate taking about an old tankard which seems to have been a family heirloom and would go far to prove their descent. the tankard is lost; also a packet of valuable letters. you see, my dear madam, their claim, as it stands at present, is anything but complete." mrs. lovel said a few more words to mr. baring, and then promising to call on the morrow, left him. to effect her exit from the house she had to pass through the room where the australians were waiting. her interview had excited her; her pale face was slightly flushed; her veil was up. perhaps the slight color on those usually pale cheeks had brought back some of the old and long-forgotten girlish bloom. the winter's day was sunshiny, and as she walked through the waiting-room the intense light throwing her features into strong relief, so strongly and so vividly did that slight and rather worn figure stand out that a man who had been sitting quietly by started forward with an exclamation: "surely i am addressing rachel cunningdale?" the lady raised her eyes to the great, strong, bearded face. "you are rupert lovel," she answered quietly. "i am, and this is my boy. here, rupert, lad, this lady was once your mother's greatest friend. why, rachel, it is twenty years since we met. you were scarcely grown up and such a bright bit of a girl, and now----" "and now," answered mrs. lovel, "i have been a wife and a mother. i am now a widow and, i may say it, childless; and, rupert, the strangest part of all, my name too is lovel." "what a queer coincidence. well, i am delighted to meet you. where are you staying? my boy and i have just come over from australia, and your friend, my dear wife, she is gone, rachel. it was an awful blow; we won't speak of it. i should like to see more of you. where shall we meet?" mrs. lovel gave the address of the very humble lodgings which she occupied when in london. "the boy and i will look you up, then, this evening. i fear our time now belongs to the lawyer. good-by--good-by. i am delighted to have met you." mr. baring prided himself on being an astute reader of character, but even he was somewhat amazed when these fresh claimants for the avonsyde property occupied quite half an hour of his valuable time by asking him numerous and sundry questions with regard to that pale and somewhat insignificant client of his, mrs. lovel. mr. baring was a cautious man, and he let out as little as he could; but the lovels, both father and son, were furnished with at least a few clews to a very painful story. so excited and interested was rupert lovel, senior, that he even forgot the important business that had brought him all the way from australia, and the lawyer had himself gently to divert his client's thoughts into the necessary channel. finally the father and son left the barings' office a good deal perturbed and excited and with no very definite information to guide them. "look here, rupert, lad," said the elder lovel. "it's about the saddest thing in all the world, that poor soul depriving herself of her children and then hoping against hope that the heir won't turn up. why, of course, lad, you are the heir; not a doubt of that. poor rachel! and she was your mother's friend." "but we won't set up our claim until we are certain about everything--will we, father?" asked young lovel. "did you not hear mr. baring say that many false heirs had laid claim to avonsyde? the old ladies want some one who can prove his descent, and we have not got all the papers--have we, father?" "no. it is an extraordinary thing about those letters being lost, and also the old tankard. but they are safe to turn up. who could have stolen them? perhaps gabrielle has already written with news of their safety. we might have a cab now to the general post-office. i have no doubt a budget of letters awaits me there. why, rupert, what are you looking so melancholy about? the tankard and the letters may even now be found. what's the matter, lad? it doesn't do for a hearty young chap like you to wear such a dismal face. i tell you your claim is as good as established." "but i don't know that i want it to be established," said young rupert lovel. "it is not nice to think of breaking that lady's heart. i don't know what gabrielle would say to doing anything so cruel to our mother's friend." "tut, lad, what a lot of rubbish you talk! if you are the heir you are, and you can't shirk your responsibility, even if you don't quite like it. well, we'll have a long talk with rachel and get to the bottom of everything to-night." * * * * * "and now, rachel, you must just confide in me and make me your friend. oh, nonsense! were you not my wife's friend? and don't i remember you a bit of a bonny lass, as young, quite as young as rupert here? i have got two young daughters of my own, and don't you suppose i feel for a woman who is the mother of girls? you tell me your whole story, rachel. how is it that you, who have married a lovel of avonsyde, should be practically shut away from the house and unrecognized by the family? when i met you last in melbourne you looked free enough from cares, and your father was fairly well off. you were just starting for europe--don't you remember? now tell me your history from that day forward." "with the exception of my old servant, nancy, i have not given my confidence to any human being for years," answered mrs. lovel. then she paused. "yes, i will trust you, rupert, and my story can be told in a few words; but first satisfy me about one thing. when i was at mr. baring's to-day he told me that a fresh claimant had appeared on the scene for the avonsyde property. is your boy the claimant?" "he is, rachel. we will go into that presently." mrs. lovel sighed. "it is so hard not to welcome you," she said, "but you destroy my hopes. however, listen to my tale. i will just tell it to you as briefly as possible. shortly after we came to england my father died. he was not well off, as we supposed; he died heavily in debt and i was penniless. i was not sufficiently highly educated to earn my bread as a teacher--as a teacher i should have starved; but i had a taste for millinery and i got employment in a milliner's shop in a good part of london. i stayed in that shop for about a year. at the end of that time i married valentine lovel. we had very little money, but we were perfectly happy; and even though valentine's people refused to acknowledge me, their indifference during my dear husband's lifetime did not take an iota from my happiness. two babies were born, both little girls. i know valentine longed for a son, and often said that the birth of a boy would most probably lead to a reconciliation with his father. no son, however, arrived, and my dear husband died of consumption when my eldest little girl was five years old. i won't dwell on his death, nor on one or two agonized letters which he wrote to his hard old father. he died without one token of reconciliation coming to cheer him from avonsyde; and when i laid him in the grave i can only say that i think my heart had grown hard against all the world. "i had the children to live for, and it is literally true that i had no time to sit down and cry for valentine's loss. the little girls had a faithful nurse; her name was nancy white; she is with me still. she took care of my dear, beautiful babies while i earned money to put bread in all our mouths. i had literally not a penny in the world except what i could earn, for the allowance valentine had always received from his father was discontinued at his death. i went back to the shop where i had worked as a milliner before my marriage; there happened to be a vacancy, and they were good enough to take me back. of course we were fearfully poor and lived in wretched lodgings; but however much nancy and i denied ourselves, the children wanted for nothing. they were lovely children--uncommon. any one could see that they had come of a proud old race. the eldest girl was called after her father and me; she was not like valentine in appearance, neither did she resemble me. i am dark, but rachel's eyes were of the deepest, darkest brown; her hair was black as night and her complexion a deep, glowing rosy brown. she was a splendid creature; so large, so noble-looking--not like either of us; but with a look--yes, rupert, with a look of that boy of yours. kitty resembled her father and was a delicate, lovely, ethereal little creature; she was as fair as rachel was dark, but she was not strong, and i often feared she inherited some of valentine's delicacy. "for two years i worked for the children and supported them. for a year and a half all went fairly well. but then i caught cold; for a time i was ill--too ill to work--and my situation at the milliner's shop was quickly filled up. i had a watch and a few valuable rings and trinkets which valentine had given me. i sold them one by one and we lived on the little money they fetched. but the children were only half-fed, and one wretched day of a hot and stifling july kitty fainted away quietly in my arms. that decided me. i made up my mind on the spot. i had a diamond ring, the most valuable of all my jewels, and the one i cared for most, for valentine had given it me on our engagement. i took it out and sold it. i was fortunate; i got £ for it. i hurried off at once and bought material, and made up with nancy's help lovely and picturesque dresses for both the children. i believe i had a correct eye for color, and i dressed rachel in rich dark plush with lace, but kitty was all in white. when the clothes were complete i put them on, and nancy kissed the pets and fetched a cab for me, and we drove away to waterloo. i had so little money left that i could only afford third-class tickets, but i took them to lyndhurst road, and when we arrived there drove straight to avonsyde. the children were as excited and pleased as possible. they knew nothing of any coming parting, and were only anxious to see their grandfather and the house which their father had so often spoken to them about. they were children who had never been scolded; no harsh words had ever been addressed to them, consequently they knew nothing of fear. when they got into the lovely old place they were wild with delight. 'kitty,' said rachel, 'let us go and find our grandfather.' before i could restrain them they were off; but indeed i had no wish to hinder them, for i felt sure they would plead their own cause best. we had arrived at a critical moment, for that was the last day of the old squire's life. i saw his daughters--my sisters-in-law. we had a private interview and made terms with one another. these were the terms: the ladies of avonsyde would take my darlings and care for them and educate them, and be, as they expressed it, 'mothers' to them, on condition that i gave them up. i said i would not give them up absolutely. i told the ladies quite plainly why i brought them at all. i said it was out of no love or respect for the cruel grandfather who had disowned them; it was out of no love or respect for the sisters, who did not care what became of their brother's children: it was simply and entirely out of my great mother-love for the children themselves. i would rather part with them than see them starve or suffer. 'but,' i added, 'there are limits even to my self-denial. i will not give them up forever. name the term of years, but there must be a limit to the parting.' "then miss katharine, who seemed kinder-hearted than her sister, gave me one or two compassionate glances, and even said, 'poor thing!' once or twice under her breath. "i did not take the slightest notice of her. i repeated again, more distinctly: 'the parting must have a limit; name a term of years.' then the ladies decided that on rachel's thirteenth birthday--she was just seven then--i should come back to avonsyde, and if i so wished and my little girls so wished i should have one or both of them back again. the ladies told me at the same time of their father's will. they said that a most vigorous search was going to be commenced at once for an heir of the elder branch. at the same time they both stated their conviction that no such heir would be forthcoming, for they said that no trace or tidings had been heard of rupert lovel from the day, nearly two hundred years ago, when he left avonsyde. their conviction was that rupert had died without descendants. in that case, both the ladies said, the little girls must inherit the property; and miss griselda said further that she would try to make arrangements with her father to so alter his will that if no heir had been found on rachel's thirteenth birthday, valentine's children should have a life-interest in avonsyde. if, on the other hand, the heir was found before that date, they would also be provided for, although she did not mention how. "these arrangements satisfied me. they were the best terms i could make, and i went away without bidding either of my children good-by. i could bear a great deal, but that parting i could not have endured. i went back to london and to nancy, and in a week's time i heard from miss lovel. she told me that her father was dead, but that the necessary codicil had been added to the will, and that if no heir appeared before rachel's thirteenth birthday my children would have a life-interest in the place, and they themselves would be bound over to go on with the search. miss lovel further added that in any case the children should be educated and cared for in the best possible manner. "those were the entire contents of her letter. she sent me no message from my darlings, and from that hour to this i have never heard from her. from that hour, too, my terrible, terrible heart-hunger began. no one knows what i suffered, what i suffer for want of the children. were the sacrifice to be made again, i don't think i could go through it, and yet god only knows. for two or three years i made a very scanty livelihood; then i was fortunate enough to invent a certain showy-looking lace. i could make my own patterns and do it very quickly by hand. to my great surprise it took, and from that hour i have had more orders than i can execute. my wants are very few and i have even saved money: i have over £ put away. my dream of dreams is to have my children back with me--that is my selfish dream. of course it will be best for them to be rich and to have the old place, but in any case i will not consent to so absolute a separation as now exists between us. a year ago a gentleman and his wife who had been kind to me, although they knew nothing of my story, asked me if i would like to take charge of a little cottage of theirs in the new forest. it is a tiny place, apparently lost in underwood and bracken, which they themselves occupy for a fortnight or so in the course of the year. the temptation was too great. i accepted the offer, and since then i have lived, so to speak, on the threshold of the children's home. one day i saw rachel. well, i must not dwell on that. i did not speak to her. i fled from her, although she is my first-born child. it is now december. may will come by and by, and then the greatness of my trouble will be over." mrs. lovel paused. the australians, father and son, had listened with breathless interest to her words. "i don't want to take the property from your children," said young rupert, with passion. "after what you have said and suffered, i hate to be heir of avonsyde." "i forgot to mention," continued mrs. lovel, "that a little boy is now at avonsyde of the name of philip who is supposed to be the real heir. he is a little pale-faced boy with beautiful eyes and a very winning manner, and it is reported that the old ladies have both lost their hearts to him. i cannot say that i think he looks strong, but he is a dear little boy." "that must be our phil," said young rupert, speaking with great interest. "of course, father that explains his queer letter to me. poor dear little phil!" "just like his mother," growled the elder lovel. "a mischievous, interfering, muddle-headed woman, sure to put her foot in a thing and safe to make mischief. forgive me, rachel, but i feel strongly about this. has the boy got a mother with him?" "yes." "you are right then, rupert. it is your cousin phil. poor little chap! he has no voice in the matter, i am sure. what a meddlesome woman that mother of his is! well, rachel, my boy and i will say good-night now. these revelations have pained and bewildered me. i must sleep over all this news. don't leave london until you hear from me. i think you may trust me, and--god bless you!" chapter xv.--was he acting? "i can't help it, kitty; you really must not ask me. i'm a very much puzzled boy. i'm--i'm--kitty, did you ever have to pull yourself up short just when you wanted to say something most interesting? i'm always pulling myself up short, and i'm dreadfully, dreadfully tired of it." "it must be something like giving a sudden jerk to one of our ponies," said kitty. "i know--it must be a horrid feeling. does it set your teeth on edge, phil, and do you quite tremble with impatience?" "yes," said phil, throwing himself full length on the floor of the old armory, where he and kitty had ensconced themselves on a pouring wet day early in the month of february. "yes, kitty, if feeling very unpleasant all over means setting your teeth on edge, i do know it. i'm a little boy with lots of secrets, and i never can tell them, not to you nor to anybody at avonsyde--no, not to anybody. i'll get accustomed to it in time, but i don't like it, for naturally i'm the kind of boy who can't keep a secret.' "what a horrid man you'll grow up!" said kitty, eying her cousin with marked disapproval. "you'll be so reserved and cross-grained and disagreeable. you'll have been pulled up short so often that you'll look jerky. oh, dear me, phil, i wouldn't be you for a great deal!" "i wouldn't be myself if i could help it," said phil, with a sigh which he tried hard to smother. "oh, i say, kitty-cat, will you coax aunt grizel to take us into southampton soon? i am quite certain my letter must be waiting for me. you don't know, kitty, you can't possibly guess what a letter from his dearest friend means to a rather lonely kind of boy like me." "you had better ask aunt grizel yourself," answered kitty, with a little pout and a little frown. "she's so fond of you, phil, that she'll do it. she'll take you to southampton if you coax her and if you put on that funny kind of sad look in your eyes. it's the kind of look our spaniel puts on, and i never can say 'no' to him when he has it. i don't know how you do it, phil, nor why you do it; but you have a very sorry look in your eyes when you like. is it because you're always and always missing your dearest friend?" "it's partly that," answered phil. "oh, you don't know what he's like, kitty! he's most splendid. he has got such a grand figure, and he walks in such a manly way, and his eyes are as dark and wonderful-looking as rachel's, and--and--oh, kitty, was i telling you anything? please forget that i said anything at all; please don't remember on any account whatever that i have got a dearest friend!" "i think you are perfectly horrid!" said kitty, stamping her foot. "just the minute we begin talking about anything interesting you give one of those jerks, just as if you had a cruel rider on your back. i can't think what it all means. if you have a dearest friend, there's no harm in it; and if you had a betty to take care of you, there's no harm in that; and if you lived in a cottage in a plantation, that isn't a sin; and if you did go into the forest to meet the lady, and you didn't meet her, although you were nearly swallowed up by a bog, why--why--what's the matter, phil? how white you are!" "nothing," said phil, suddenly pressing his face down on the cushion against which he was lying--"nothing--kit--i--" he uttered one or two groans. "fetch me a little water, please!" the child's face had suddenly become livid. he clinched his hands and pressed them against his temples, and buried that poor little drawn, piteous face further and deeper into the soft cushion. at last the paroxysm of pain passed; he panted, raised himself slowly, and struggled to his feet. "kitty!" but kitty was gone. terrified, the little girl ran through the hall. the first person she met was mrs. lovel, who, dressed gracefully in a soft black silk, trimmed with lace, was walking languidly in the direction of the great drawing-room. "you had better come!" said kitty, rushing up to her and seizing her hand. "phil is very dreadfully ill. i think phil will die. he's in the armory. come at once!" without waiting for the lady's answer, little kitty turned on her heel and flew back the way she had come. phil had scarcely time to struggle to his feet, scarcely time to notice her absence, before she was back again at his side. putting her arms around his neck, she covered his face with passionate kisses. "phil, phil, i was so frightened about you! are you better? do say you are better. oh, i love you so much, and i won't be jealous, even if you have got a dearest friend!" phil could stand, but the sudden attack he had passed through was so sharp that words could scarcely come to his lips. kitty's embrace almost overpowered him, but he was so innately unselfish that he would not struggle to free himself, fearing to pain her. his mother's step was heard approaching. he made a great effort to stand upright and formed his little lips into a voiceless whistle. "why, phil, you have been overtiring yourself," said mrs. lovel. "oh, kitty, how you have exaggerated! phil does not look at all bad. i suppose you were both romping, and never ceased until you lost your breath; or you were having one of your pretense games, and phil thought he would frighten you by making out he was ill. ah, phil, phil, what an actor you are! now, my dear boy, i want you to come up to your bedroom with me. i want to consult you about one or two matters. fancy, kitty, a mother consulting her little boy! ought not phil to be proud? but he is really such a strong, brave little man that i cannot help leaning on him. it was really unkind of you to pretend that time, phil, and to give little kitty such a fright." phil's beautiful brown eyes were raised to his mother's face; then they glanced at kitty; then a smile--a very sorry smile kitty considered it--filled them, and giving his little thin hand to his mother, he walked out of the armory by her side. kitty lingered for a moment in the room which her companion had deserted; then she dashed away across the brightly lit hall, through several cozy and cheery apartments, until she came to a room brilliant with firelight and lamplight, where rachel lay at her ease in a deep arm-chair with a fairy story open on her knee. "phil is the best actor in all the world, rachel!" she exclaimed. "he turned as white as a sheet just now. he turned gray, and he groaned most awfully, and he wouldn't speak, and i thought he was dying, and i flew for some one, and i found mrs. lovel, and she came back to phil, and she laughed, and said there was nothing the matter, and that phil was only acting. isn't it wonderful, rachel, that phil can turn pale when he likes, and groan in such a terrible way? oh, it made me shiver to see him! i do hope he won't act being ill again." "he didn't act," said rachel in a contemptuous voice; "that's what his mother said. i wouldn't have her for a mother for a great deal. i'd rather have no mother. poor little phil didn't act. don't talk nonsense, kitty." "then if he didn't act he must be very ill," said kitty. then, her blue eyes filling with tears, she added: "i do love him so! i love him even though he has a dearest friend." rachel stretched out her hand and drew kitty into a corner of her own luxurious chair. she had not seen phil, and kitty's account of him scarcely made her uneasy. "even if he was a little ill, he's all right now," she said. "stay with me, kitty-cat; i scarcely ever see you. i think phil is quite your dearest friend." "quite," answered kitty solemnly. "i love him better than any one, except you, rachel; only i do wish--yes, i do--that he had not so many secrets." "he never told you what happened to him that day in the forest, did he, kitty?" "oh, no; he pulled himself up short. he was often going to, but he always pulled himself up. what a dreadfully jerky man he'll grow up, rachel." "he never quite told you?" continued rachel. "well, i don't want him to tell me, for i know." "rachel!" "yes, i know all about it. i'm going to see him presently, and i'll tell him that i know his secret. now, kitty, you need not stare at me, for i'm never going to breathe it to any one except to phil himself. there, kit, the dressing-gong has sounded; we must go and get ready for supper." meanwhile mrs. lovel, taking phil's hand, had led him out of the armory and to the foot of the winding stone stairs. once there she paused. the look of placid indifference left her face; she dropped the smiling mask she had worn in kitty's presence, and stooping down lifted the boy into her arms and carried him tenderly up the winding stairs, never pausing nor faltering nor groaning under his weight. when they reached the tower bedroom she laid him on his little bed, and going to a cupboard in the wall unlocked it and took from thence a small bottle; she poured a few drops from the bottle into a spoon and put the restorative between the boy's blue lips. he swallowed it eagerly, smiled, shook himself, and sat up in bed. "thank you, mother. i am much better now," he said affectionately. mrs. lovel locked the door, stirred the fire in the old-fashioned grate into a cheerful blaze, lit two or three candles, drew the heavy curtains across the windows, and then dragging a deep arm-chair opposite the glowing hearth, she lifted phil again into her arms, and sitting down in the comfortable seat, rocked him passionately to her breast. "my boy, my boy, was it very bad, very awful?" "yes, mother; but it's all right now." "did kitty hear you groan, phil?" "yes, mother; but not the loudest groans, for i buried my head in the cushion. i'm all right now, mother. i can go down again in a minute or two." "no, phil, you shan't go down to-night. i'll manage it with the old ladies; and phil, darling, darling, we have almost won; you won't have to pretend anything much longer. on the th of may, on rachel's birthday, you are to be proclaimed the heir. this is the middle of february; you have only a little more than two months to keep it all up, phil." "oh, yes, mother, it's very difficult, and the pain in my side gets worse, and i don't want it, and i'd rather rupert had it; but never mind, mammy, you shan't starve." he stroked his mother's cheek with his little hand, and she rocked him in her arms in an ecstasy of love and fear and longing. at that moment she loved the boy better than the gold. she would have given up all dreams of ease and comfort for herself if she could have secured real health for that most precious little life. "mother," said phil, "i do want to go to southampton so badly." "what for, dearest?" "because i'm expecting a letter, mother, from rupert. no, no, don't frown! i can't bear to see you frown. i didn't tell him anything, but i wrote to him, and i asked him to send his answer to the post-office at southampton, and it must be waiting there now; yes, it must, and i do want to fetch it so dreadfully. can you manage that i shall go, mother?" "i'll go for it myself, dear; i'll go to-morrow. there--doesn't mother love her boy? yes, i'll go for the letter to southampton to-morrow. there's the supper-gong, phil. i must go down, but you shan't. i'll bring you up something nice to eat presently." "oh, no, please; i couldn't eat. just let me lie on my bed quite still without talking. mother, my darling mother, how can i thank you for promising to fetch rupert's letter?" mrs. lovel laid phil back on his bed, covered him up warmly, and softly unlocking the door went downstairs. she had got a shock, a greater shock than she cared to own; but when she entered the long, low, old-fashioned dining-hall where miss griselda and miss katharine and the two little girls awaited her, her face was smiling and careless as usual. the poor, weak-minded, and bewildered woman had resumed her mask, and no one knew with what an aching heart she sat down to her luxurious meal. "is phil still pretending to be very, very dreadfully ill?" called out kitty across the table. miss griselda started at kitty's words, looked anxiously at mrs. lovel and at a vacant chair, and spoke. "is your boy not well? is he not coming to supper?" she inquired. "phil strained himself a little," answered mrs. lovel, "and he had quite a sharp pain in his side--only muscular, i assure you, dear miss griselda; nothing to make one the least bit uneasy, but i thought it better to keep him upstairs. he is going to bed early and won't come down again to-night. may i take him up a little supper presently?" "poor boy! he must be ravenously hungry," said miss griselda in a careless tone. "strained his side? dear, dear! children are always hurting themselves. i wanted him to go with me early to-morrow to collect mosses. i intend to drive the light cart myself into the forest, and i meant to take phil and kitty with me. phil is so clever at finding them." "oh, he's very strong. he'll be quite ready to go with you, miss griselda," answered the little boy's mother; but she bent her head as she spoke, and no one saw how pale her face was. the meal proceeded somewhat drearily. kitty was out of spirits at the loss of her favorite companion; rachel's little face looked scarcely childish, so intensely watchful was its expression; mrs. lovel wore her smiling mask; and the two old ladies alone were perfectly tranquil and indifferent. "may i take phil up some supper?" suddenly asked rachel. mrs. lovel suppressed a quick sigh, sat down again in her seat, for she was just rising to go back to phil, and almost ran her nails into her hands under the table in her efforts to keep down all symptoms of impatience. "thank you, dear," said miss griselda gratefully. "if you go up to phil his mother need not trouble herself about him until bedtime. we will adjourn to the drawing-room, if you please, mrs. lovel. i am anxious to have another lesson in that new kind of crochet. katharine, will you give rachel some supper to take up to phil?--plenty of supper, please, dear; he's a hearty boy and ought to have abundance to eat." miss katharine smiled, cut a generous slice of cold roast beef, and piled two mince-pies and a cheese-cake on another plate. when she had added to these a large glass of cold milk and some bread-and-butter, she gave the tray to rachel, and bidding her be careful not to spill her load, took kitty's hand and went with her into the drawing-room. rachel carried her tray carefully as far as the foot of the winding stairs; then looking eagerly up and down and to right and left, she suddenly wheeled round and marched off through many underground and badly lit passages, until she found herself in the neighborhood of the great old-fashioned kitchen. here she was met not by the cook, but by mrs. newbolt, the lady's-maid. "oh, newbolt, you'll do what i want. phil is ill, and his mother doesn't want any one to know about it. take all this horrid mess away and give me some strong, strong, beautiful beef tea and a nice little piece of toast. i'll wait here, and you won't be long, will you, dear newbolt?" newbolt loved phil and detested his mother. with a sudden snort she caught up rachel's tray, and returned presently with a tempting little meal suited to an invalid. "if the child is ill i'll come up with you to see him, miss rachel," she said. phil was lying on his back; his eyes were shut; his face looked very pinched and blue. true, however, to the little spartan that he was, when he heard rachel's step he started up and smiled and welcomed her in a small but very cheery voice. "thank you for coming to see me," he said, "but i didn't want any supper; i told mother so. oh, what is that--white soup? i do like white soup. and oysters? yes, i can eat two or three oysters. how very kind you are, rachel. i begin to feel quite hungry, that supper looks so nice." rachel carried the tempting little tray herself, but behind her came newbolt, whom phil now perceived for the first time. "have you come up to see me, newbolt?" he said. "but i am not at all ill. i happened to get tired, and mother said i must rest here." "the best place for a tired little boy to rest is in his bed, not on it," said newbolt. "if you please. master phil, i am going to put you into bed, and then miss rachel shall feed you with this nice supper. oh, yes, sir, we know you're not the least bit ill--oh, no, not the least bit in the world; but we are going to treat you as if you were, all the same." phil smiled and looked up at newbolt as if he would read her innermost thoughts. he was only too glad to accept her kind services, and quite sighed with relief when she laid him comfortably on his pillows. newbolt wrapped a little red dressing-jacket over his shoulders, and then poking the fire vigorously and seeing that the queer old tower room looked as cheerful as possible, she left the two children together. rachel and phil made very merry over his supper, and phil almost forgot that he had been feeling one of the most forsaken and miserable little boys in the world half an hour ago. rachel had developed quite a nice little amount of tact, and she by no means worried phil with questions as to whether his illness was real or feigned. but when he really smiled, and the color came back to his cheeks, and his laugh sounded strong and merry once more, she could not help saying abruptly: "phil, i have been wanting to see you by yourself for some time. i cannot tell kitty, for kitty is not to know; but, phil, what happened to you that day in the forest is no secret to me." phil opened his eyes very wide. "what do you mean, rachel?" he asked. "no, rachel, you cannot guess it, for i never, never even whispered about that secret." rachel's face had turned quite pale and her voice was trembling. "shall i whisper it back to you now?" she said. "shall i tell you where you went? you did not meet the myth lady--i begin really to be almost sure she is only a myth lady--but you did meet a lady. she was in gray and she had the saddest face in the world; and oh, phil, she took you home--she took you home!" "why, rachel," said little phil again, "you look just as if you were going to cry. how is it you found all this out? and why does it make you so sorrowful?" "oh, i want her," said rachel, trembling and half-sobbing. "i want her so badly. i long for her more than anything. i saw her once and i have not been quite happy since. she never took me inside her house. phil, i am jealous of you. phil, i want to hear all about her." "i'm so glad you know," said phil in cheerful tones. "i was told not to tell. i was told to keep it another secret; but if you found it out, or rather if you always knew about it, why, of course you and i can talk together about her. you don't know how nice it will be to me to be able to talk to you about one of my secrets. my dearest friend secret, and the betty secret, and the little house at the back of the garden secret i must never, never speak of; and the secret about my being a very, very strong boy--that i mustn't talk about; but you and i can chatter about the lady of the forest, rachel. oh, what a comfort it is!" "it will be a great comfort to me too," answered rachel. "let's begin at once. tell me every single thing about her. what did she wear? how did she speak? had she my ring on her finger?" phil smiled and launched forth into a long and minute narrative. not a single detail would sharp little rachel allow him to omit. whenever his memory was in danger of flagging she prodded it with vehemence, until at last even her most rapacious longing was satisfied. when phil had quite exhausted all his narrative she breathed a deep sigh and said again: "i envy you, phil. you have been inside her house and she has kissed you." "she was a very nice and kind lady," concluded phil, "and she was very good to me; but all the same, rachel, i would rather see that other lady--the lady in green with the lovely face who comes with a gift." "perhaps she's only a myth," said rachel. "please, rachel, don't say so. i want the bag of gold so badly." rachel stared and laughed. "i never thought you were greedy, phil," she said. "i cannot think, what a little boy like you can want with a bag of gold." "that's my secret," said phil, half-closing his eyes and again turning very pale. "a great many people would be happier if i had that bag of gold. rachel," he added, "i do trust i may one day see the lady. i went to look for her that day in the forest; i went miles and miles to find her, but i didn't, and i was nearly drowned in a bog." "it is not a bit necessary to go into the forest to see her," answered rachel; "she might come to you here, in this very room. you know this is the very oldest part of the house. this part of avonsyde is quite steeped in romance, and i dare say the lady has been here once or twice--that is, of course, if she isn't a myth. there is an old diary of one of our ancestors in the library, and i have coaxed aunt griselda now and then to let me read in it. one day i read an account of the lady; it was then i found out about her green dress and her lovely face. the diary said she was 'passing fair,' and those who looked on her were beautiful ever afterward. she showed herself but seldom, but would come now and then for a brief half-minute of time to the fairest and the best and to those who were to die young." "rachel," said little phil, "just before you came up that time i was lying with my eyes shut, and i was thinking of the beautiful lady, and i almost thought i saw her. i should be happy if she came to me." chapter xvi.--lost. phil's mother was in every sense a weak woman. she was not strong enough to be either very good or very bad; she had a certain amount of daring, but she had not sufficient courage to dare with success. she had a good deal of the stubbornness which sometimes accompanies weak characters, and when she deliberately set her heart on any given thing, she could be even cruel in her endeavors to bring this thing to pass. her husband and the elder rupert lovel, of belmont, near melbourne, were brothers. both strong and brave men, they had married differently. rupert's wife had in all particulars been a helpmeet to him; she had brought up his children to be brave and strong and honorable. she suffered much, for she was a confirmed invalid for many years before her death; but her spirit was so strong, so sweet, so noble, that not only her husband and children, but outsiders--all, in fact, who knew her--leaned on her, asked eagerly for her counsel, and were invariably the better when they followed her advice. philip lovel's wife was not a helpmeet to him; she was weak, exacting, jealous, and extravagant. she was the kind of woman whom a strong man out of his very pity would be good to, would pet and humor even more than was good for her. philip was killed suddenly in a railway accident, and his widow was left very desolate and very poor. her boy was then five years old--a precocious little creature, who from the moment of his father's death took upon himself the no light office of being his mother's comforter. he had a curious way even from the very first of putting himself aside and considering her. without being told, he would stop his noisy games at her approach and sit for an hour at a time with his little hand clasped in hers, while he leaned his soft cheek against her gown and was happy in the knowledge that he afforded her consolation. to see him thus one would have supposed him almost deficient in manly attributes; but this was not so. his gentleness and consideration came of his strength; the child was as strong in mental fiber as the mother was weak. in the company of his brave cousin rupert no merrier or gayer little fellow could have been found. his courage and powers of endurance were simply marvelous. poor little phil! that courageous spirit of his was to be tested in no easy school. soon after his sixth birthday those mysterious attacks of pain came on which the doctor in melbourne, without assigning any special cause for their occurrence, briefly spoke of as dangerous. phil was eight years old when his mother's great temptation came to her. she saw an english newspaper which contained the advertisement for the avonsyde heir. her husband had often spoken to her about the old family place in the home country. she had loved to listen to his tales, handed down to him orally from his ancestors. she had sighed, and groaned too, over his narratives, and had said openly that to be mistress of such an old ancestral home was her ideal of paradise. philip, a busy and active man, spent no time over vain regrets; practically he and his elder brother, rupert, forgot the existence of the english home. rupert had made a comfortable fortune for himself in the land of his adoption, and philip too would have been rich some day if he had lived. mrs. lovel, a discontented widow, saw the tempting advertisement, and quickly and desperately she made her plans. her little son was undoubtedly a lineal descendant of the disinherited rupert lovel, but also, and alas! he was not strong. in body at least he was a fragile and most delicate boy. mrs. lovel knew that if the ladies of avonsyde once saw the beautiful and brave young rupert, phil's chance would be nowhere. she trusted that rupert lovel the elder would not see the advertisement. she sold her little cottage, realized all the money she could, and without telling any one of her plans, started with her boy for england. before she left she did one thing more: she made a secret visit to belmont, and under the pretext of wishing to see her sister-in-law, sat with her while she slept, and during that sleep managed to abstract from the cupboard behind her bed the old silver tankard and a packet of valuable letters. these letters gave the necessary evidence as to the genuineness of the boy's descent and the tankard spoke for itself. mrs. lovel started for england, and during her long voyage she taught phil his lesson. he was to forget the past and he was to do his very utmost to appear a strong boy. she arrived at avonsyde, was kindly welcomed, and day after day, month after month, her hopes grew great and her fears little. phil played his part to perfection--so his mother said--not recognizing the fact that it was something in the boy himself, something quite beyond and apart from his physical strength, which threw a sweet glamour over those who were with him, causing them to forget the plainness of his face and see only the wonderful beauty of the soul which looked through the lovely eyes, causing them to cease to notice how fragile was the little frame which yet was so lithe and active, causing them never to observe how tired those small feet grew, and yet how willingly they ran in grateful and affectionate service for each and all. cold-hearted, cold-natured miss griselda was touched and softened as she had never been before by any mortal. she scarcely cared to have the boy out of her sight; she petted him much; she loved him well. mrs. lovel hoped and longed. if once rachel's birthday could be passed, all would be well. when the ladies appointed phil as their heir, he was their heir forever. surely nothing would occur to interfere with her darling projects during the short period which must elapse between the present time and that eventful day two months hence. as mrs. lovel grew more hopeful her manner lost much of its nervous affectation. in no society could she appear as a well-educated and well-read woman, but on the surface she was extremely good-natured, and in one particular she won on the old ladies of avonsyde. she was practiced in all the small arts of fancy needlework. she could knit; she could crochet; she could tat; she could embroider conventional flowers in crewels. the misses lovel detested crewel-work, but miss katharine was very fond of knitting and miss griselda affected to tolerate crochet. each night, as the three ladies sat in the smaller of the large drawing-rooms, the crochet and the knitting came into play; and when mrs. lovel ventured to instruct in new stitches and new patterns, she found favor in the eyes of the two old ladies. on the night of phil's illness the poor woman sat down with an inward groan to give miss griselda her usual evening lesson. no one knew how her heart beat; no one knew how her pulse throbbed nor how wild were the fresh fears which were awakened within her. suppose, after all, phil could not keep up that semblance of strength to the end! suppose an attack similar to the one he had gone through to-day should come on in miss griselda's presence. then, indeed, all would be lost. and suppose--suppose that other thing happened: suppose rupert lovel with his brave young son should arrive at avonsyde before the th of may. mrs. lovel could have torn her hair when phil so quietly told her that he had written to young rupert, and that even now a reply might be waiting for him at southampton. she knew well that rupert's father would remember how near avonsyde was to southampton. if the boy happened to show phil's letter to his father, all would be lost. mrs. lovel felt that she could not rest until she went to southampton and secured the reply which might be waiting for phil at the post-office. these anxious thoughts made her distraite; and bravely as she wore her mask, one or two sighs did escape from her anxious breast. "how silent you are!" suddenly exclaimed miss griselda in a snappish tone. "i have asked you the same question three times! am i to crochet twelve or thirteen stitches of chain? oh, you need not trouble to answer; i am putting away my work now. the pattern is not working out at all properly. perhaps you are anxious about phil. if so, pray do not let me detain you. it is a great mistake to coddle children, but i suppose a mother's foolishness must be excused." "you quite mistake. i am not the least anxious," answered poor mrs. lovel, who was in reality on thorns. "i am so very sorry that i did not hear your question, dear miss griselda. the fact is, i have been wondering if i might ask a little favor. i should like to go to southampton to-morrow morning. can you spare the carriage to send me to the railway station?" miss griselda stared. "can i spare the carriage?" she repeated haughtily. "i was not aware that you were a prisoner at avonsyde, mrs. lovel. of course you can go in or out as you please. pray send your own orders to the stables." mrs. lovel was profuse in her thanks, miss griselda as cross and ungracious as possible. the fact was the old lady was longing to pay phil a visit in his room, and would have done so had she not feared his mother accompanying her. the poor unhappy mother would have given worlds to be with her boy, but dreaded miss griselda's comments. the next day, early, mrs. lovel went to southampton, executed a few commissions in order to give color to her expedition, fetched phil's letter from the post-office, and returned home, burning with impatience to read its contents. she would not have scrupled to open the envelope had not phil implored of her, just when she was starting on her journey, to let him have this pleasure himself. phil was much as usual the next morning, and he and aunt grizel and kitty had gone off on an expedition into the forest to look for mosses. when mrs. lovel got back the little party had not returned. she had still to control her impatience, and after taking a hurried lunch went up to her tower bedroom. she laid the letter with the australian postmark on the writing-table and paced in a fever of anxiety up and down the small room. suddenly it occurred to her to beguile the slow moments with some occupation. why should she not open that trunk which contained old reminiscences and one or two articles of value? why should she not open it and put its contents in order, and take out the precious tankard and clean it? this task would give her occupation and cause the weary moments to pass quickly. she stooped down and was startled to find that the key was in the lock. how very, very stupid of her to have left it there! when had she been guilty of so dangerous a piece of negligence? with trembling fingers she raised the lid of the trunk and began to search for the tankard. of course she could not find it. suddenly she heard footsteps approaching and half-rose in an expectant attitude. her little son came quickly in. "oh, mother, have you brought my letter?" "yes; it is on the table. phil, there was a silver tankard in this trunk, and i can't find it." phil had flown to his letter and was opening it eagerly. "phil, do you hear me? i can't find the silver tankard." he went up at once to his mother. "i beg your pardon, mother. i am so dying to see what rupert says! a silver tankard? oh, yes; that old one they always had at belmont; the one gabrielle was so proud of. i did not know they had given it to you. oh, mother, i am sorry. do you know, i never thought of it until this minute." "thought of what? speak, child; don't keep me on thorns!" "i found it, mother, and i took it out with me that day when i was nearly drowned in the bog. i had it with me that day." "well, boy, well! where is it now?" "i don't know. i don't remember a single thing about it. i think i had it with me in the bog. i'm almost sure i had, but i can't quite recollect. perhaps i dropped it in the bog. mother, what is the matter?" "nothing, child. i could shake you, but i won't. this is terrible news. there! read your letter." "mother darling, let us read it together. mother, i didn't know it was wrong. kiss me, mammy, and don't look so white. oh! i am almost too happy. mother, rupert says when i am reading this he will be in england!" "then we are lost!" said mrs. lovel, pushing the slight little figure away from her. "no, no, i scarcely love you at this moment. don't attempt to kiss me. we are utterly lost!" chapter xvii.--looking for the tankard. when mrs. lovel spoke to phil with such passion and bitterness, and when, abruptly leaving the tower bedroom and slamming the door violently after her, the little boy found himself alone, he was conscious of a curious half-stunned feeling. his mother had said that she scarcely loved him. all his small life he had done everything for his mother; he had subdued himself for her sake; he had crushed down his love and his hope and his longing just to help her. what did he care for wealth, or for a grand place, or for anything in all the wide world, in comparison with the sweetness of rupert's smile, in comparison with the old happy days in belmont and of the old life, when he might be a boy with aches and pains if he liked, when he need not pretend to be possessed of the robust health which he never felt, when he need carry no wearisome secrets about with him? his mother had said, "i scarcely love you, phil," and she had gone away angry; she had gone away with defiance in her look and manner, and yet with despair in her heart. phil had guessed that she was despairing, for he knew her well, and this knowledge soon made his brief anger take the form of pity. "poor mother! poor darling mother!" he murmured. "i did not know she would mind my taking out the old belmont tankard. i am awfully sorry. i suppose it was quite careless of me. i did not know that mother cared for the tankard; but i suppose gabrielle must have given it to her, and i suppose she must love gabrielle a little. that is nice of her; that is very nice. i wish i could get the tankard back for her. i wonder where i did leave it. i do wish very much that i could find it again." phil now turned and walked to the window and looked out. it was a delicious spring day, and the soft air fanned his cheeks and brought some faint color to them. "i know what i'll do," he said to himself. "i'll go once again into the forest--i'm not likely to get lost a second time--and i'll look for the tankard. of course i may find it, and then mother will be happy again. oh, dear, to think rupert is in england! how happy his letter would have made me but for mother, and--hullo! is that you, kitty?" "yes; come down," called out kitty from the lawn in front of the house. "i've been watching you with aunt griselda's spy-glasses for the last couple of minutes, and you do look solemn." "i'm coming," phil called back. he thrust his beloved letter into one of his pockets, and a moment later joined his two cousins on the lawn. "you have been a time," said kitty, "and we have got some wonderful and quite exciting news to tell you--haven't we, rachel?" "you find it exciting, kitty," said rachel in an almost nonchalant voice, "but i dare say phil will agree with me that it's almost a bore." "what is it?" said phil. "oh, only this--the marmadukes are coming to-morrow to stay for ten days." "the marmadukes! who are they?" asked phil. "oh, some children from london. they are our relations--at least, so aunt griselda says; and she thinks it will be nice for us to know them. anyhow, they're coming--two boys and two girls, and a father and a mother, and a lady's-maid, and a pug dog, and a parrot. aunt grizel is so angry about the pug and the parrot; she wanted to write and tell them all that they couldn't come, and then aunt katharine cried and there was a fuss. it seems they're more aunt katharine's friends than aunt grizel's. anyhow, they're coming, and the pug and the parrot are to stay in newbolt's room all the time; so don't you ask to see them, phil, or you'll get into hot water. the best of it is that while they're here we are all to have holidays, and we can go a great deal into the forest and have picnics if the weather keeps fine. and in the evening aunt grizel says she will have the armory lighted, and we children may play there and have charades and tableaux and anything we fancy. oh, i call it great, splendid fun!" said kitty, ending with a caper. rachel's very dark eyes had brightened when kitty spoke about the tableaux and the charades. "it all depends on what kind of children the marmadukes are," she said; and then she took phil's hand and walked across the lawn with him. she had a fellow-feeling for phil just at present, for he and she shared a secret; and she noticed as he stood by kitty's side that his laugh was a little forced and that there were very dark lines under his eyes. "you're tired--aren't you, phil?" she said. "i?" asked the little boy, looking up with almost alarm in his face. "oh, please don't say that, rachel." "why shouldn't i say it? any one to look at you could see you are tired, and i'm sure i don't wonder, after being so ill last night. go in and lie down if you like, phil, and i'll pretend to aunt grizel that you are half a mile away in the forest climbing trees and doing all kinds of impossible things." "i do want to go into the forest," said phil, "but i won't go to-day, rachel. you were very kind to me last night. i love you for being so kind." "oh, it wasn't exactly kindness," said rachel. "i came to you because i was curious, you know." "yes; but you were kind, all the same. do you think, rachel, we shall often go into the forest and go a long, long way when the marmadukes are here?" "yes, i suppose so. it depends upon the weather, of course, and what kind of children they are. they may be such puny little londoners that they may not be able to walk a dozen steps. why do you want to know, phil? you look quite excited." "we have a secret between us--haven't we, rachel?" it was rachel's turn now to color and look eager. "yes," she said; "oh, yes." "some day," whispered phil--"some day, when the marmadukes are here, we might go near the lady's house--might we not?" rachel caught the boy's arm with a strong convulsive grasp. "if we might!" she said. "if we only dared! and you and i, phil, might steal away from the others, and go close to the lady's house, and watch until she came out. and we might see her--oh! we might see her, even if we did not dare to speak." "i want to go," said phil--"i want to go to that house again, although it is not because i want to see the lady. it is a secret; all my life is made up of secrets. but i will go if--if i have a chance. and if you see me stealing away by myself you will help me--won't you, rachel?" "trust me," said rachel, with enthusiasm. "oh, what a dear boy you are, phil! i can scarcely believe when i talk to you that you are only eight years old; you seem more like my own age. to be only eight is very young, you know." "i have had a grave sort of life," said phil, with a hastily suppressed sigh, "and i suppose having a great many secrets to keep does make a boy seem old." chapter xviii.--the marmadukes. the marmadukes were not at all a puny family; on the contrary, they were all rather above the ordinary size. mr. marmaduke was extremely broad and red and stout; mrs. marmaduke was an angular and bony-framed woman, with aquiline features and a figure which towered above all the other ladies present; the lady's-maid took after her mistress in stature and became newbolt's detestation on the spot; the pug dog was so large that he could scarcely be considered thoroughbred; and the parrot was a full-grown bird and the shrillest of its species. the four young marmadukes took after their parents and were extremely well developed. the eldest girl was thirteen; her name was clementina; she had a very fat face and a large appetite. the boys, named dick and will, were sturdy specimens; and abigail, or abby, the youngest of the group, was considerably spoiled and put on many airs, which made her insufferable to kitty and phil. the marmadukes arrived in a body, and without any efforts on their own parts or the smallest desire that way on the part of the old ladies they took avonsyde by storm. they seemed to fill the whole house and to pervade the grounds, and to make their presence felt wherever they turned. they entertained themselves and suggested what places they should go to see, and announced the hours at which they would like best to dine and what times they would wish the avonsyde carriage to be in attendance. miss griselda was petrified at what she was pleased to term the manners of the great babylon. miss katharine received several snubs at the style of friends she kept, and only the fact that they were distantly connected with the lovels, and that their visit must terminate within ten days, prevented miss griselda from being positively rude to such unwelcome inmates. "phil," said rachel on the second morning after the arrival of this obnoxious household, "if clementina thinks she is going to get the upper hand of me any more she is finely mistaken. what do i care for her kensington gardens and that pony she rides in the row! i don't suppose she knows how to ride--not really; for i asked her yesterday if she could ride barebacked, and she stared at me, and turned up her lip, and said in such a mincing voice, 'we don't do that kind of thing in london.' phil, i hate her; i really do! i don't know how i'm to endure her for the next week. she walks about with me and is so condescending to me; and i can't endure it--no, i can't! oh, i wish i could do something to humble her!" "poor rachel!" said phil in his sweet, pitying voice, and a tender, beautiful light which is born of sympathy filled his eyes. "i know clementina is not your sort, rachel," he said, "and i only wish she would talk to me and leave you alone." rachel laughed and leaned her hand affectionately on phil's shoulder. "i don't wish that," she said. "i don't want to ease myself by adding to your burdens; you have quite enough with dick and will. you must hate them just as much as i hate clementina." "oh, i don't hate them at all," said phil. "they are not my sort; they are not the style of boys i like best, but i get on all right with them; and as to hating, i never hated any one in all my life." "well, i have," said rachel. "and the one i hate most now in all the world is clementina marmaduke! oh, here they are, all coming to meet us; and doesn't poor kitty look bored to death?" phil glanced wistfully from one sister to another, and then he ran up to clementina and began to chat to her in a very eager and animated voice. he was evidently suggesting something which pleased her, for she smiled and nodded her head several times. phil said, "i'll bring them to you in a moment or two," and ran off. "what have you asked phil to do?" asked rachel angrily. "he's not a strong boy--at least, not very strong, and he mustn't be sent racing about." "oh, then, if he's not strong he won't ever get avonsyde," returned clementina. "how disappointed his mother will be. i thought phil was very strong." "you know nothing about it," said rachel, getting redder and more angry. "you have no right to talk about our private affairs; they are nothing to you." "i only know what my mamma tells me," said clementina, "and i don't choose to be lectured by you, miss rachel." here will and dick came eagerly forward, squared their shoulders, and said: "go it, girls! give it to her back, rachel. she's never happy except when she's quarreling." a torrent of angry words was bubbling up to rachel's lips, but here phil came panting up, holding a great spray of lovely scarlet berries in his hand. "here!" he said, presenting it to clementina. "that is the very last, and i had to climb a good tall tree to get it. let me twine it round your hat the way gabrielle used to wear it. here, just one twist--doesn't it look jolly?" the effect on clementina's dark brown beaver hat was magical, and the effect on her temper was even more soothing--she smiled and became good-tempered at once. rachel's angry words were never spoken, and sunshine being restored the children began to discuss their plans for the day. miss griselda had given a certain amount of freedom to all the young folk, and under supervision--that is, in the company of robert, the groom--they might visit any part of the forest not too far away. when the eager question was asked now, "what shall we do with ourselves?" phil replied instantly, "let's go into the forest. let's visit rufus' stone." rachel's eyes danced at this, and she looked eagerly and expectantly at her little cousin. "you have none of you seen the stone," proceeded phil. "there are splendid trees for climbing round there, and on a fine day like this it will be jolly. we can take our lunch out, and i'll show you lots of nests, will." "i'll go on one condition," said rachel--"that we ride. let's have our ponies. it is too horrid to be cooped up in a wagonette." "oh, we'd all much rather ride!" exclaimed the marmaduke children. "bob can drive the pony-cart to the stone," proceeded rachel, "and meet us there with our luncheon things. that will do quite well, for as there are such a lot of us we won't want a groom to ride as well. we know every inch of the road from here to the stone--don't we, phil?" "yes," answered phil softly. "well, that's splendid," said clementina, who felt that her berries were very becoming and who imagined that rachel was looking at them enviously. "but have you got horses enough to mount us all?" "we've got ponies," said rachel. "rough forest ponies; jolly creatures! you shall have brownie, as you're such a good rider; he's nice and spirited--isn't he, phil?" "yes," replied phil. "but i think clementina would have a jollier time with surefoot; he goes so easily. i think he's the dearest pony in the world." "but he's your own pony, phil. you surely are not going to give up your own pony?" phil laughed. "i'm not going to give him up," he said; "only i think i'd like to ride brownie this morning." rachel scarcely knew why she felt ashamed at these words; she certainly had no intention of offering her horse to clementina. "what queer ways phil has," she thought to herself. and then she saw a softened look in clementina's eyes and her heart gave a sharp little prick. half an hour later the riding party set out, and for a time all went smoothly. rachel was trying to curb her impatience; clementina amused herself by being condescending to philip; and dick, will, kitty, and abby rode amicably together. but the party was ill-assorted, and peace was not likely long to reign. surefoot was an extremely nice pony, and clementina rode well in front, and after a time began to give herself airs, and to arrange her fresh and very becoming habit, as if she were riding in the row. surefoot was gentle, but he was also fresh; and when clementina touched him once or twice with her riding-whip, he shook himself indignantly and even broke into a canter against her will. "you must not touch surefoot with a whip," sang out rachel. "he does not need it and it is an insult to him." clementina laughed scornfully. "all horses need the whip now and then," she said; "it freshens them up and acts as a stimulant. you don't suppose, rachel, that i don't know? i rather think there are very few girls who know more about riding than i do. why, i have had lessons from captain delacourt since i can remember." "is captain delacourt your riding-master?" asked rachel in an exasperating voice. "if so, he can't be at all a good one; for a really good riding-master would never counsel any girl to use the whip to a willing horse." "did your riding-master give you that piece of information?" inquired clementina in a voice which she considered full of withering sarcasm. "i should like to know his name, in order that i might avoid him." rachel laughed. "my riding-master was robert," she said, "and as he is my aunt's servant, you cannot get lessons from him even if you wish to. you need not sneer at him, clementina, for there never was a better rider than robert, and he has taught me nearly everything he knows himself. there isn't any horse i couldn't sit, and it would take a very clever horse indeed to throw me." clementina smiled most provokingly, and raising her whip gave gentle little surefoot a couple of sharp strokes. the little horse quivered indignantly, and rachel glanced at phil, who was riding behind on brownie. "oh, phil," she called out, "clementina is so unkind to your horse. it is well for you, clementina, that you are on surefoot's back. he is so sweet-tempered he won't resent even cruelty very much; but if you dared to whip my horse, ruby, you would have good reason to repent of your rashness." rachel was riding on a red-coated pony, a half-tamed creature with promises of great beauty and power by and by, but at present somewhat rough and with a wild, untamed gleam in his eyes. clementina glanced all over ruby, but did not deign another remark. she was forming a plan in her mind. by hook or by crook she would ride ruby home and show to the astonished rachel what captain delacourt's pupil was capable of. the children presently reached their destination, where bob and the light cart of refreshments awaited them. the day was very balmy and springlike, and the most fastidious could not but be pleased and the most ill-tempered could not fail for a time, at least, to show the sunny side of life. the children made merry. rachel and clementina forgot their disputes in the delights of preparing salads and cutting up pies; phil, the marmaduke boys, and abby went off on a foraging expedition; and kitty swung herself into the low-growing branch of a great oak tree, and lazily closing her eyes sang softly to herself. the picnic dinner turned out a grand success; and then clementina, who was fond of music and who had discovered that kitty had a particularly sweet voice, called her to her and said that they might try and get up some glees, which would sound delightfully romantic in the middle of the forest. the children sat round in a circle, clementina now quite in her element and feeling herself absolute mistress of the occasion. suddenly phil got up and strolled away. no one noticed him but rachel, who sat on thorns for a few minutes; then, when the singing was at its height, she slipped round the oak tree, flew down the glade, and reached the little boy as he was entering a thick wood which lay to the right. "phil! phil! you are going to see her?" "oh, don't, rachel--don't follow me now! if we are both missed they will come to look for us, and then the lady's house will be discovered and she will have to go away. she said if her house was discovered she would have to go away, and oh, rachel, if you love her--and you say you love her--that would be treating her cruelly!" "the children won't miss us," said rachel, whose breath came fast and whose cheeks were brightly colored. "the children are all singing as loudly as they can and they are perfectly happy, and robert is eating his dinner. i won't go in, phil; no, of course i won't go in, for i promised, and i would not break my word, to her of all people. but if i might stay at a little distance, and if i might just peep round a tree and see her, for she may come to talk to you, phil. oh, phil, don't prevent me! i will not show myself, but i might see without being seen." rachel was trembling, and yet there was a bold, almost defiant look on her face; she looked so like rupert that phil's whole heart was drawn to her. "you must do what you wish, of course," he said. "do you see that giant oak tree at the top of the glade? you can stand there and you can peep your head well round. see, let's come to it. see, rachel, you have a splendid view of the cottage from here. now i will go and try if i can get any tidings of gabrielle's tankard. good-by, rachel. remember your promise not to come any nearer." phil ran lightly away, and rachel saw him go into the little rose-covered porch of the cottage. he raised the tiny knocker, and in a moment or two nancy white answered his summons. "is the lady--the lady of the forest in, nancy?" asked the little boy. "the lady! bless my heart, if this ain't master phil lovel! well, my dear little gentleman, and what may you want?" "i want the lady. can i see her? perhaps she would come out to walk with me for a little, for i want to talk to her on a most important thing." "bless you, my dear, the lady ain't at home, and if she were she don't go taking walks at anybody's bidding. she's particular and retiring in her ways, the lady is, and when she's at home she keeps at home." "i'm sorry she's not at home to-day," said phil, leaning against the porch and getting back his breath slowly. "it's a great disappointment, for i find it very difficult to come so far, and what i wanted to say was really important. good-by, nancy. give my love to the lady when you see her." "don't go yet, master philip. you're looking very white. i hope you're quite strong, sir." "yes, i'm a strong boy," said phil in a slow voice. "you wouldn't like to come in and rest for a bit, little master? maybe i could do what you want as well as my missus." "maybe you could," said phil, his eyes brightening. "i never thought of that. no, i won't come in, thank you, nancy. nancy, do you remember the day i was nearly lost in the bog?" "of course i do, my dear little man; and a sorry pickle you was when my missus brought you home!" "had i anything in my hand when i was brought into the house, nancy? please think hard. had i anything rather important in my hand?" "you had a bit of a brier clutched tight in one hand. i remember that, my dear." "oh, but what i mean was something quite different--what i mean was a large silver drinking-mug. i cannot remember anything about it since i got lost in the bog, and i am afraid it must have gone right down into the bog. but i thought it just possible that i might have brought it here. you did not see it, did you, nancy?" "well, my dear, is it likely? whatever else we may be in this house, we ain't thieves." phil looked distressed. "i did not mean that," he said--"i did not mean that. i just thought i might have left it and that i would come and ask. mother is in great trouble about the mug; it means a great lot to mother, and it was very careless of me to bring it into the forest. i am sorry you did not see it, nancy." "and so am i, master lovel, if it's a-worrying of you, dear. but there, the grandest silver can that ever was made ain't worth fretting about. i expect it must have slipped into the bog, dear." "good-by, nancy," said phil in a sorrowful, polite little voice, and he went slowly back to where rachel watched behind the oak tree. chapter xix.--a tender heart. phil's heart was very low within him. during the last few days, ever since that terrible interview with his mother, he had built his hopes high. he had been almost sure that the tankard was waiting for him in the lady's house in the forest, that he should find it there when he went to make inquiries, and then that he might bring it back to his mother and so remove the shadow from her brow. "i never knew that mother could miss a thing gabrielle had given her so very, very much," thought the little boy. "but there's no doubt at all she does miss it and that she's fretting. poor, dear mother! she's not unkind to me. oh, no, she's never that except when she's greatly vexed; but, all the same, i know she's fretting; for those lines round her mouth have come out again, and even when she laughs and tries to be merry downstairs i see them. there's no doubt at all that she's fretting and is anxious. poor mother! how i wish i could find the green lady of the forest and that she would give me the bag of gold which would satisfy mother's heart." phil walked very slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. he was now startled to hear a voice addressing him, and looking up with a quick movement, he saw the lady who lived in the pretty little cottage coming to meet him. he was not particularly elated at sight of her; he had nothing in particular to say to her; for as nancy had assured him that the tankard was not at the cottage, it was quite useless making further inquiries about it. "what are you doing here, philip?" asked the lady in a kind voice. she knew him at once, and coming up to him, took his hand and looked kindly into his face. "you are a long way from home. have you lost yourself in this dear, beautiful forest a second time, little man?" then phil remembered that if this lady of the forest meant nothing in particular to him she meant a great deal to rachel. he could not forget how rachel's eyes had shone, how rachel's face had looked when she spoke about her. the color flew into his own pale little face, and he spoke with enthusiasm. "i am glad i have met you," he said, "even though i don't know your name. will you come for a walk with me now through the forest? will you hold my hand and look at me while you speak? will you walk with me, and will you turn your face to the right, always to the right, as you go?" "you are a queer little boy," said the lady, and she laughed, almost merrily. "but i have just taken a very long walk and am tired. you also look tired, philip, and your face is much too white. suppose we alter the programme and yet keep together for a little. suppose you come into the cottage with me and have some tea, and nancy makes some of her delicious griddle-cakes." "that would be lovely. i should like it beyond anything; but may rachel come in too?" "rachel!" said the lady of the forest. she put her hand suddenly to her heart and stepped back a pace or two. "yes, my cousin, rachel lovel; she is standing up yonder, at the other side of the great oak tree. she wants to see you, and she is standing there, hoping, hoping. rachel's heart is very hungry to see you. when she speaks of you her eyes look starved. i don't understand it, but i know rachel loves you better than any one else in the world." "impossible!" said the lady; "and yet--and yet--but i must not speak to her, child, nor she to me. it--oh! you agitate me. i am tired. i have had a long walk. i must not speak to little rachel lovel." "she knows that," said phil in a sorrowful voice; for the lady's whiteness and agitation and distress filled him with the keenest sympathy. "rachel knows that you and she may not speak, but let her look at you. do! she will be so good; she will not break her word to you for the world." "i must not look on her face, child. there are limits--yes, there are limits, and beyond them i have not strength to venture. i have a secret, child; i have a holy of holies, and you are daring to open it wide. oh! you have brought me agony, and i am very tired!" "i know what secrets are," said little phil. "oh! they are dreadful; they give great pain. i am sorry you are in such trouble, lady of the forest, and that i have caused it. i am sorry, too, that you cannot take a very little walk with me, for it would give rachel such pleasure." "it would give rachel pleasure?" repeated the lady. and now the color came back to her cheeks and the light to her eyes. "that makes all the difference. i will walk with you, phil, and you shall take my hand and i will turn my face to the right. see: can rachel see my face now?" "yes," said phil; "she will peep from behind the oak tree. how glad, how delighted she will be!" the lady and phil walked slowly together, hand in hand, for nearly half an hour; during all that time the lady did not utter a single word. when the walk came to an end she stooped to kiss phil, and then, moved by an impulse which she could not restrain, she kissed her own hand fervently and waved it in the direction of the oak tree. a little childish hand fluttered in the breeze in return, and then the lady returned to the cottage and shut the door after her. * * * * * phil ran panting up to the oak tree and took rachel's hand. "i did what i could for you, rachel," he said. "you saw her--did you not? she kept her face turned to the right, and you must have seen her quite plainly." rachel's cheeks were blazing like two peonies; the pupils of her eyes were dilated; her lips quivered. "i saw her!" she exclaimed. "i looked at her, and my heart is hungrier than ever!" here she threw herself full length on the ground and burst into passionate sobs. "don't, rachel!" said phil. "you puzzle me. oh, you make my heart ache! oh, this pain!" he turned away from rachel, and leaning against the oak tree writhed in bodily agony. in a moment rachel had sprung to her feet; her tears had stopped; and raising phil's hat she wiped some drops from his white brow. "i ran a little too fast," he panted, after a moment or two. "i am a strong boy, but i can't run very fast; it gives me a stitch; it catches my breath. oh, yes, thank you, rachel; i am better now. i am a strong boy, but i can't run very fast." "you are not a bit a strong boy!" said rachel, wiping away her own tears vigorously. "i have discovered that secret too of yours, phil. you are always pretending to be strong, but it is only pretense." phil looked at his cousin in alarm. "if you guess my secrets you won't tell them?" he said. "of course i won't tell. what do you take me for? now you must not walk for a little, and the children are quite happy without us. is not this a nice soft bank? i will sit by your side and you shall tell me what the lady said to you and you to her." "no," said phil, with sudden energy. "i cannot tell you what she said." "you cannot tell me?" "no. i took the lady by surprise and she let out some of her secrets--not all, but some. it would not be fair to tell them to any one else. i asked her to walk with me, and she knew that you were watching. now, rachel, i am quite well again, as well as ever. shall we go back to the other children?" rachel rose slowly to her feet. "i hate secrets," she said, "and the very air seems full of them sometimes. you have lots of secrets, and my aunts have secrets, and the lady of the forest has a secret, and there is a secret about my mother, for i know she is not dead and yet i never see her. these secrets are enough to starve my heart. phil, how soon would a girl like me be supposed to be grown up?" "oh, rachel, how can i tell?" "i shall be thirteen in may and i am tall. when i am fifteen--that is, in two years' time--i shall begin to go round the world looking for my mother. i don't intend to wait any longer. when i am fifteen i shall begin to go." "in australia girls are nearly grown up at that age," said phil, who was thinking of gabrielle. "now, rachel, let us go back to the others." the others were getting impatient. they had played hide-and-seek, and hunted for squirrels, and climbed trees, and quarreled and made it up again, until all their resources had come to an end; and when rachel and phil made their appearance they found that robert had packed up the remains of the picnic, and that clementina and abby had already mounted their ponies, preparatory to riding home. robert was leading up the other ponies as the two missing children appeared. rachel's mind was still a good deal preoccupied, and it was not until she was preparing to mount her own pony that she discovered that clementina had secured ruby and was now seated comfortably on his back. "oh, clementina, it is not safe for you to ride ruby," she called out at once. "he's only just broken in and he's full of spirit." "thank you," replied clementina. "i prefer riding horses with spirit. i would not have another ride on that slow little creature, surefoot, for the world." "but indeed that is not the reason," said rachel, who felt herself, she scarcely knew why, both softened and subdued. "it is that ruby is not safe. i am the first girl who has ever been on his back. he knows me and will do what i tell him, but i am sure it is dangerous for you to ride him. is it not dangerous, robert, for miss marmaduke to ride ruby?" called out rachel to the groom. robert came up and surveyed the spirited little horse and the young rider critically. "if miss marmaduke don't whip him, and if she humors him a good bit and don't set him off in a canter, why, then no harm may be done," he said. "ruby's fresh, miss, and have a good deal of wild blood in him, and i only broke him in for miss rachel a fortnight back." clementina's color had risen very high during this discussion. "i presume," she said in an insolent tone, "that a pupil of captain delacourt's can ride any horse that a pupil of one of the grooms at avonsyde can manage! i'm sorry you're so disobliging as to grudge me your horse, rachel. i'll just ride on in front now, and you all can follow me when you are ready." she turned ruby's head as she spoke and rode away under the forest trees. "if she gives ruby a taste of the whip she'll repent of all her proud airs," muttered robert. "now, young ladies, you had better mount and get under way. i suppose, miss rachel, that that 'ere young lady knows the right road home?" "hadn't i better get on brownie and ride after her?" asked phil. "no, sir; no. ruby couldn't bear horses' hoofs a-galloping after him. it would set him off mad like, and there wouldn't be a hope for miss marmaduke. no; the only thing now is to trust that the young lady won't touch ruby with the whip and that she knows the way home." the other children mounted without any more discussion, and the ride home was undertaken with a certain sense of depression. no sign of clementina could be seen, and when they reached the stables at avonsyde neither she nor ruby had put in an appearance. chapter xx.--punished. clementina was a spoiled child, and in consequence was as disagreeable and as full of herself as such children are apt to be. she was neither beautiful nor clever; she had no outward gifts to counterbalance her imperious airs and selfish ways; consequently she was only popular with her parents and with herself. the marmadukes were very rich people, and although clementina had no real friends, she had many toadies--girls who praised her for the accomplishments she did not possess, for the beauty which had been denied her, and for the talents and cleverness which she knew nothing whatever about. clementina both believed in and appreciated flattery. flattery made her feel comfortable; it soothed her vanity and fed her self-esteem. it was not at all difficult to persuade her that she was clever, beautiful, and accomplished. but of all her acquirements there was none of which she was so very proud as of her riding. she was no coward, and she rode fairly well for a town girl. she had always the advantage of the best horses, the most stylish habits, and the most carefully equipped groom to follow her. on horseback her so-called friends told her she looked superb; therefore on horseback she greatly liked to be. rachel's words that morning and rachel's unconcealed contempt had stung clementina's vanity to the quick. she was quite determined to show this little nobody, this awkward country girl, what proper riding meant; and she galloped off on ruby with her heart beating high with pride, anger, and a sense of exultation; she would canter lightly away in the direction of the avonsyde stables, and be ready to meet rachel haughty and triumphant when she returned wearily home on that dull little pony, surefoot. surefoot, however, was not a dull pony. he was extremely gentle and docile and affectionate, and although he hated the rider he had on his back that morning, and resented to the bottom of his honest little heart the indignity of being whipped by her, still one sound from rachel's voice was sufficient to restrain him and to keep him from punishing the young lady who chose to ride him in the manner she deserved. clementina had ridden surefoot and he had instantly broken into a canter, but at the sound of rachel's voice he had moderated his speed clementina quite believed that surefoot had obeyed her firm hand; and now, as she galloped away on ruby, she laughed at the fears expressed for her safety by rachel and robert, the groom. "they're jealous," she said to herself; "they're both of them jealous, and they don't want me to have the only decent horse of the party. oh, yes, ruby, my fine fellow, you shall have a touch of the whip presently. i'm not afraid of you." she felt for her little silver-mounted riding-whip as she spoke and lightly flicked ruby's ears with it. back went the ears of the half-trained little horse at once, lightning glances seemed to flash from his red-brown eyes, and in a moment he had taken to his heels and was away. his movement almost resembled flying, and for a little time clementina persuaded herself that she enjoyed it. this was riding indeed! this was a gallop worth having! what splendid use she could make of it with her school-friends by and by. these were her first sensations, but they were quickly followed by others less pleasurable. ruby seemed to be going faster and faster; his legs went straight before him; he rushed past obstacles; he disdained to take the slightest notice of clementina's feeble little attempts to pull him in. she lost her breath, and with it in a great measure her self-control. were they going in the right direction? no; she was quite sure they were not; she had never seen that wide expanse of common; she had never noticed that steep descent; she had never observed that gurgling, rushing avalanche of water; and--oh, good god! ruby was rushing to it. she screamed and attempted violently to pull him in; he shook his head angrily and flew forward faster than before; for ruby was not of the gentle nature of surefoot, and he could not forgive even the very slight indignity which clementina had offered him. the wretched girl began to scream loudly. "i shall be killed! i shall be killed! oh! will no one save me?" she screamed. her cries seemed to madden ruby. he drew up short, put his head between his legs, and with an easy movement flung clementina off his back on to the ground. the next moment he himself was out of sight. clementina found herself sitting in the middle of a bog--a bog not deep enough to drown her, but quite wet enough, quite uncomfortable enough, to soak through her riding-habit and to render her thoroughly wretched. at first, when ruby had dislodged her from his back, her sensations were those of relief; then she was quite certain every bone in her body was broken; then she was equally convinced that the slow and awful death of sinking in a bog awaited her. she was miles from home; there was not a soul in sight; and yet, try as she would, she could not raise herself even to a standing position, for the treacherous ground gave way whenever she attempted to move. her fall had shaken her considerably, and for a time she sat motionless, trying to recover her breath and wondering if arms and legs were all smashed. "oh, what a wicked girl rachel is!" she said at last. "what right had she to go out on a wild horse like that? she must have done it for a trick; she must have done it on purpose; she meant me to ride ruby coming home, and so she tantalized me and tried to rouse my spirit. margaret and jessie dawson say that i am just full of spirit, and i never can brook that sneering way, particularly from a mere child like rachel. well, well, she's punished now, for i shall probably die of this. if all my bones aren't broken, and i firmly believe they are, and if i don't sink in this horrid bog--which i expect i shall--i'm safe to have rheumatic fever and to die of it, and then what will rachel do? she'll never know an easy moment again as long as she lives. she'll be sorry for the tricks she played me when she thinks of me lying in my early grave. oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall i do? what shall i do?" poor clementina threw up her hands, by so doing fastening herself more firmly in the odious bog, and burst into a loud wailing cry. she was cold and wet now, the excitement of her wild race was over, and as the moments flew on, lengthening themselves into half-hours and hours, she became thoroughly frightened. oh, how awful if the night should overtake her while she sat there! and yet what more likely? for not a soul had passed the place since her accident. as her anger cooled and her fright increased, several prickings of that dull conscience of hers smote the unhappy girl. after all, was rachel to blame for what had happened? had she not begged and even implored of her not to ride ruby? had not robert spoken freely of what would happen if she did so? oh, if only she had listened to their voices! if only she had not been so self-confident! she pictured them all safe and sound now at home at avonsyde. she imagined them sitting in the pleasant armory chatting over the day's adventures and most likely forgetting all about her. abby and the boys, if occupied over any exciting game, would be certain to forget her; little kitty, to whom she had always been specially cross, would most likely rejoice in her absence; rachel, if she had time to give her a thought, would be sure to be possessed with a sense of triumph; and phil--ah! well, somehow or other phil was different from other boys and girls. phil had a look in his eyes, phil had a way about him which clementina recognized as belonging to the rare and beautiful spirit of unselfishness. phil's small, thin, white face was ever and always alive and glowing with sympathy; his eyes would darken and expand at the mere mention of anybody's trouble, and again that little sensitive face would sparkle and glow with delight over anybody's joy. clementina, sitting now in the middle of the bog, the most lonely and wretched girl alive, could not help feeling comforted as she thought of phil; it was more than probable that if all the others forgot her phil might remember. while clementina was waiting in a state of absolute despair matters were not so hopeless for her as she supposed. the children when they reached avonsyde gave an instant alarm, and steps were at once taken to search for the missing girl. but it is one thing to be lost in the forest and another thing to be found. ruby had taken clementina in the opposite direction from avonsyde, and when she was submerged in the bog she was many miles away. robert, shaking his head and muttering that a willful girl must come to grief, and that it would be well if they ever saw miss marmaduke alive again, went off to saddle a fresh horse to go in search of her. other people also started on the same errand; and phil, whose pale little face was all aglow with excitement, rushed into the stables, and securing a horse, mounted it and rode away after the others. the boy was a splendid rider, having been accustomed to mounting all kinds of steeds from his babyhood; but he was tired now, and neither miss griselda nor his mother would have allowed him to go had they known anything about it. but the elder members of the family were all away, and the children and servants were only acting on their own responsibility. phil soon caught up robert, and the two trotted together side by side. "i'm quite certain i saw ruby turning to the left after he went down that steep bank," said phil. "then if he did he made for the bog and the waterfall as likely as not," said robert. "oh, robert, you don't suppose clementina has been drowned in one of the bogs?" exclaimed phil in an accent of terror. "you don't, you can't suppose that?" the man favored the boy with a queer glance. "if miss marmaduke was like you, master lovel, or like miss rachel or miss kitty, why, i'd say there weren't a hope of her; but being what she is--well, maybe she'll be given a little more time to mend her manners in." phil's face assumed a puzzled expression. he said nothing further, and the two rode hard and fast. in this manner they did at last find poor clementina, who, much subdued and softened, received them with almost rapture. "there's nothing like affliction for bringing characters of that sort low," muttered robert as he helped the young lady on his own horse. "and now, where's that little beauty ruby, i wonder? dashed hisself to pieces as likely as not agin' some of them rocks up there. oh, yes, and there'll be no 'count made at all of one of the prettiest little horses i ever broke in." robert had to run by clementina's side, who was really considerably shaken and who gave way to violent hysterics soon after they started. "somehow, phil, i thought you would remember," she said at last, turning to her little companion and speaking in a broken voice. "why, of course we all remembered," said phil. "we were all more sorry about you than i can say; and as to rachel, she has been crying like anything. it seems a pity, clementina, it really does, you know----" and then he stopped. "what seems a pity, phil?" "that you should be so obstinate. you know you were; and you were rude, too, for you should not have taken rachel's horse. it seems to me a great pity that people should try to pretend--everybody's always trying to pretend; and what is the use of it? now, if you had not tried to pretend that you could ride as well or better than rachel, you wouldn't have got into this trouble and we wouldn't have been so terribly sorry. where was the use of it, clementina?" added phil, gazing hard at the abashed and astonished young lady; "for nobody could expect you to ride as well as rachel, who is a country girl and has been on horseback such a lot, you know." phil delivered his lecture in the most innocent way, and clementina received it with much humility, wondering all the time why she was not furiously angry; for surely this was the strangest way to speak to a girl who had been for three seasons under captain delacourt. she made no reply to phil's harangue and rode on for some time without speaking. suddenly a little sigh from the boy, who kept so bravely at her side, reached her ears. she turned and looked at him. it was quite a new sensation for clementina to observe any face critically except her own; but she did notice now the weariness round the lips and the way the slight little figure drooped forward. "you're tired, phil," she said. "you have tired yourself out to find me." "i am tired," he replied. "we rode very fast, and my side aches, but it will be better by and by." "you can scarcely sit on your horse," said clementina in a tone of real feeling. "could not your groom--robert, i think, you call him--mount the horse and put you in front of him? he could put his arm round you and you would be nicely rested." "that's a good thought, miss," said robert, with sudden heartiness. "and, to be sure, master philip do look but poorly. it's wonderful what affliction does for them sort of characters," he muttered under his breath as he complied with this suggestion. when the little party got near home, phil, who had been lying against robert and looking more dead than alive, roused himself and whispered something to the groom. robert nodded in reply and immediately after lifted the boy to the ground. "i'm going to rest. please, clementina, don't say i am tired," he said; and then he disappeared down a little glade and was soon out of sight. "where is he going?" asked clementina of robert. "to a little nest as he has made for hisself, miss, just where the trees grow thickest up there. he and me, we made it together, and it's always dry and warm, and nobody knows of it but our two selves. he often and often goes there when he can't bear up no longer. i beg your pardon, miss, but i expect i have no right to tell. you won't mention what i have said to any of the family, miss?" "no," said clementina; "but i feel very sorry for phil, and i cannot understand why there should be any mystery made about his getting tired like other people." "well, miss, you ask his lady mother. perhaps she can tell you, for certain sure no one else can." clementina went into the house, where she was received with much excitement and very considerable rejoicing. she presented a very sorry plight, her habit being absolutely coated with mud, her hair in disorder, and even her face bruised and discolored. but it is certain that rachel had never admired her so much as when she came up to her and, coloring crimson, tried to take her hand. "phil said i was rude to you, rachel, and i am sorry," she muttered. "oh, never mind," answered rachel, whose own little face was quite swollen with crying. "i was so dreadfully, dreadfully unhappy, for i was afraid ruby had killed you, clementina." clementina was now hurried away to her own room, where she had a hot bath and was put to bed, and where her mother fussed over her and grumbled bitterly at having ever been so silly as to come to such an outlandish part of the country as avonsyde. "i might have lost you, my precious," she said to her daughter. "it was nothing short of madness my trusting you to those wild young lovels." "oh, mother, they aren't a bit to blame, and i think they are rather nice, particularly phil." "yes, the boy seems a harmless, delicate little creature. i wonder if the old ladies will really make him their heir." "i hope they will, mother, for he is really very nice." in the course of the evening, as clementina was lying on her pillows, thinking of a great many things and wondering if phil was yet rested enough to leave his nest in the forest, there came a tap at her door, and to her surprise phil's mother entered. in some ways mrs. lovel bore a slight resemblance to clementina; for she also was vain and self-conscious and she also was vastly taken up with self. under these circumstances it was extremely natural that the girl and the woman should feel a strong antipathy the one to the other, and clementina felt annoyed and the softened expression left her face as mrs. lovel took a chair by her bedside. "how are you now, my dear--better, i hope?" "thank you, i am quite well," answered clementina. "you had a wonderful escape. ruby is not half broken in. no one attempts to ride him except rachel." clementina felt the old sullen feeling surging up in her heart. "such a horse should not be taken on a riding-party," she said shortly. "i have had lessons from captain delacourt. i can manage almost any horse." "you can doubtless manage quiet horses," said mrs. lovel. "well, you have had a wonderful escape and ought to be thankful." "how is phil? questioned clementina after a pause. "phil? he is quite well, of course. he is in the armory with the other children." "he was not well when i saw him last. he looked deadly tired." "that was his color, my dear. he is a remarkably strong boy." clementina gave a bitter little laugh. "you must be very blind," she said, "or perhaps you don't wish to see. it was not just because he was pale that he could not keep his seat on horseback this afternoon. he looked almost as if he would die. you must be a very blind mother--very blind." mrs. level's own face had turned white. she was about to make a hasty rejoinder, when the door was again opened and miss griselda and miss katharine came in. "not a word, my dear! i will explain to you another time--another time," she whispered to the girl. and then she stole out of the room. chapter xxi.--what the heir ought to be. a few days after these exciting events the marmadukes went away. unless a sense of relief, they left no particular impression behind them. the grown-up people had not made themselves interesting to the old ladies; the lady's-maid and the parrot alike had disturbed newbolt's equanimity; and the children of avonsyde had certainly not learned to love the marmaduke children. clementina had been humbled and improved by her accident, but even an improved clementina could not help snubbing rachel every hour of the day, and rachel did not care to be snubbed. on the day they left phil did remark, looking wistfully round him: "it seems rather lonely without the marmadukes." but no one else echoed the sentiment, and in a day or two these people, who were so important in their own eyes, were almost forgotten at avonsyde. on one person, however, this visit had made a permanent impression: that person was poor mrs. lovel. she was made terribly uneasy by clementina's words. if clementina, an ignorant and decidedly selfish girl, could notice that phil was not strong, could assure her, in that positive, unpleasant way she had, that phil was very far from strong, surely miss griselda, who noticed him so closely and watched all he did and said with such solicitude, could not fail to observe this fact also. poor mrs. lovel trembled and feared and wondered, now that the tankard was lost and now that phil's delicacy was becoming day by day more apparent, if there was any hope of that great passionate desire of hers being fulfilled. just at present, as far as miss griselda was concerned, she had no real cause for alarm. miss griselda had quite made up her mind, and where she led miss katharine was sure to follow. miss griselda was certain that phil was the heir. slowly the conviction grew upon her that this little white-faced, fragile boy was indeed the lineal descendant of rupert lovel. she had looked so often at his face that she even imagined she saw a likeness to the dark-eyed, dark-browed, stern-looking man whose portrait hung in the picture-gallery. this disinherited rupert had become more or less of a hero in miss griselda's eyes. from her earliest years she had taken his part; from her earliest years she had despised that sickly younger line from which she herself had sprung. like most women, miss griselda invested her long-dead hero with many imaginary charms. he was brave and great in soul. he was as strong in mind as he was in physique. when she began to see a likeness between phil's face and the face of her old-time hero, and when she began also to discover that the little boy was generous and brave, that he was one of those plucky little creatures who shrink from neither pain nor hardship, had phil's mother but known it, his cause was won. miss griselda began to love the boy. it was beginning to be delightful to her to feel that after she was dead and gone little phil would have the old house and the lands, that he should reign as a worthy squire of avonsyde. already she began to drill the little boy with regard to his future duties, and often when he and she took walks together she spoke to him about what he was to do. "all this portion of the forest belongs to us, phil," she said to him one day. "my father often talked of having a roadway made through it, but he never did so, nor will katharine and i. we leave that as part of your work." "would the poor people like it?" asked phil, raising his eyes with their queer expression to her face. "that's the principal thing to think about, isn't it--if the poor people would like it?" miss griselda frowned. "i don't agree with you," she said. "the first and principal thing to consider is what is best for the lord of avonsyde. a private road just through these lands would be a great acquisition, and therefore for that reason you will have to undertake the work by and by." phil's eyes still looked grave and anxious. "do you think, then--are you quite sure that i am really the heir, aunt griselda?" he said. miss griselda smiled and patted his cheek. "well, my boy, you ought to know best," she said. "your mother assures me that you are." "oh, yes--poor mother!" answered phil. "aunt griselda," he continued suddenly, "if you were picturing an heir to yourself, you wouldn't think of a boy like me, would you?" "i don't know, phil. i do picture you in that position very often. your aunt katharine and i have had a weary search, but at last you have come, and i may say that, on the whole, i am satisfied. my dear boy, we have been employed for six years over this search, and sometimes i will own that i have almost despaired. katharine never did; but then she is romantic and believes in the old rhyme." "what old rhyme?" asked phil. "have you not heard it? it is part and parcel of our house and runs in different couplets, but the meaning is always the same: "'come what may come, tyde what may tyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde.'" "is that really true?" asked phil, his eyes shining. "i like the words very much. they sound like a kind of speech that the beautiful green lady of the forest would have made; but, aunt griselda, i must say it--i am sorry." "what about, dear?" "that you are satisfied with me as an heir." "my dear little phil, what a queer speech to make. why should not i be satisfied with a nice, good little boy like you?" "oh, yes, you might like me for myself," said phil; "but as the heir--that is quite a different thing. i'd never picture myself as an heir--never!" "what do you mean, phil?" "i know what i mean, aunt griselda, but it's a secret, and i mustn't say. i have a lovely picture in my mind of what the heir ought to be. perhaps there is no harm in telling you what my picture is like. oh, if you only could see him!" "see whom, philip?" "my picture. he is tall and strong and very broad, and he has a look of rachel, and his cheeks are brown, and his hair is black, and his arms are full of muscle, and his shoulders are perfectly square, and he holds himself up so erect, just as if he was drilled. he is strong beyond anybody else i know, and yet he is kind; he wouldn't hurt even a fly. oh, if you only knew him. he's my picture of an heir!" phil's face flushed and his lovely eyes shone. aunt griselda stooped down and kissed him. "you are a queer boy," she said. "you have described your ancestor, rupert lovel, to the life. well, child, may you too have the brave and kindly soul. phil, after the summer, when all is decided, you are to go to a preparatory school for eton and then to eton itself. all the men of our house have been educated there. afterward i suppose you must go to oxford. your responsibilities will be great, little man, and you must be educated to take them up properly." "mother will be pleased with all this," said phil; "only i do wish--yes, i can't help saying it--that my picture was the heir. oh, aunt grizel, do, do look at that lovely spider!" "i believe the boy is more interested in those wretched spiders and caterpillars than he is in all the position and wealth which lies before him," thought miss griselda. late on that same day she said to miss katharine: "phil this morning drew a perfect picture, both mental and physical, of our ancestor, katharine." "oh," said miss katharine; "i suppose he was studying the portrait. griselda, i see plainly that you mean to give the boy the place." "provided his mother can prove his descent," answered miss griselda in a gentle, satisfied tone. "but of that," she added, "i have not, of course, the smallest doubt." "does it occur to you, griselda, to remember that on the th of may rachel's and kitty's mother comes here to claim her children?" "if she is alive," said miss griselda. "i have my doubts on that head. we have not had a line from her all these years." "you told her she was not to write." "yes, but is it likely a woman of that class would keep her word?" "griselda, you will be shocked with me for saying so, but the young woman who came here on the day our father died was a lady." "katharine! she served in a shop." "no matter, she was a lady; her word to her would be sacred. i don't believe she is dead. i am sure she will come here on the th of may." chapter xxii.--right is right. when rupert lovel and his boy left the gloomy lodgings where rachel's and kitty's mother was spending a few days, they went home in absolute silence. the minds of both were so absorbed that they did not care to speak. young rupert was a precocious lad, old and manly beyond his years. little phil scarcely exaggerated when he drew glowing pictures of this fine lad. the boy was naturally brave, naturally strong, and all the circumstances of his bringing-up had fostered these qualities. his had been no easy, bread-and-butter existence. he had scarcely known poverty, for his father had been well off almost from his birth; but he had often come in contact with danger, and latterly sorrow had met him. he loved his mother passionately; even now he could scarcely speak of her without a perceptible faltering in his voice, without a dimness softening the light of his bright eagle eyes. rupert at fifteen was in all respects some years older than an english boy of the same age. it would have struck any parent or guardian as rather ridiculous to send this active, clever, well-informed lad to school. the fact was, he had been to nature's school to some purpose, and had learned deeply from this most wonderful of all teachers. when rupert and his father reached the hotel in jermyn street where they were staying, the boy looked the man full in the face and broke the silence with these words: "now, father, is it worth it?" "is it worth what, my son?" "you know, father. after hearing that lady talk i don't want avonsyde." the elder lovel frowned. he was silent for a moment; then he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. "look me in the face, lad, and answer me a question." "yes, father." "do you trust me?" "why, of course. can you doubt it?" "then go to bed and to sleep, and believe that nothing shall be done which in the slightest degree shall tarnish your honor. go to bed, boy, and sleep peacefully, but just put one thought under your pillow. right is right and wrong is wrong. it sometimes so happens, rupert, that it is not the right and best thing to be simply magnanimous." rupert smiled. "i am quite certain you will decide as my mother would have liked best, sir," he said, and then he took his candle and left the room. the greater part of the night the elder lovel sat up. early the next morning he paid the family lawyers a visit. "i have made up my mind, mr. baring," he said to the younger of these gentlemen. "for the next few months i shall remain in england, but i shall not bring my son forward as an heir to the avonsyde property until i can claim for him unbroken and direct descent. as i told you yesterday, there are two unexpected obstacles in my way. i have sustained a loss--i don't know how. an old tankard and a parcel of valuable letters cannot be found. i am not leaving a stone unturned to recover them. when i can lay my hand on the tankard and when, even more important, i can produce the letters, i can show you by an unbroken chain of evidence that my boy is the eldest son of the eldest son in direct descent. i make no claim until i make all claim, mr. baring." "i have to-day had a letter from the old ladies at avonsyde," answered mr. baring. "they seem pleased with the boy who is at present claiming the property. from the tone of miss griselda's letter, i should judge that if your boy does not put in his appearance the child who is at present at avonsyde will be publicly recognized as the heir. even a public recognition does not really interfere with your son if you can prove his title; but undoubtedly it will be best for all parties that you should make your claim before the other child is put into a false position." "when do you anticipate that the old ladies will absolutely decide?" "they name a date--the th of may." "i think i can promise one thing: after the th of may neither rupert nor i will interfere. we make claim before or on that date, not afterward. the fact is, we know something of the child who is now at avonsyde." mr. lovel, after enjoining absolute secrecy on the lawyers, went his way, and that evening had a long interview with mrs. lovel. "i fear," he said in conclusion, "that in no case would your girls come into the place, except indeed under certain conditions." "what are they?" asked mrs. lovel. "that we find neither tankard nor letters and in consequence do not make our claim, and that little philip lovel dies." "is he so ill as that?" "he is physically unsound. the best doctors in melbourne have examined him and do not believe he will live to manhood. his mother comes of an unhealthy family, and the boy takes after her physically--not mentally, thank god!" "poor little phil! he has a wonderfully sweet face." "he has the bravest nature i ever met. my boy and girls would almost die for phil. the fact is, all this is most complicated and difficult, and much of the mischief would have been avoided if only that wretched sister-in-law of mine had been above-board." "yes," answered mrs. lovel; "but even her stealing a march on you does not give you back the tankard nor the letter." "true; and i don't suppose even she could have stolen them. well, rachel, we must all hope for the best." * * * * * "if there is a thing that worries me," said nancy white to herself--"if there is a thing that keeps coming and coming into my dreams and getting that fantastic and that queer in shape--one time being big enough to hold quarts and quarts of water, and another time so small that you'd think it would melt before your very eyes--it's this wretched silver can. it's in my mind all day long and it's in my dreams all night long. there! i wonder if the bit of a thing is bright enough now." as nancy spoke to herself she rubbed and polished and turned round and round and tenderly dusted the lost tankard of the house of lovel until it really shone like a mirror. "it takes a deal of trouble, and i'm sure it isn't worth it," she said to herself. "i just kept it more out of a bit of mischief than anything else in the beginning; but it just seems to me now as if i hated it, and yet i couldn't part with it. i believe it's a bit of a haunted thing, or it wouldn't come into my dreams after this fashion." nancy kept the tankard up in her bedroom. after giving it a last fond rub and looking at it queerly with an expression half of admiration, half of fear, she locked it up in a little cupboard in the wall and tripped downstairs to attend to her mistress' comforts. mrs. lovel kept no secrets from her old servant, and nancy knew about her mistress' adventures in london and her unexpected meeting with the friend of her early days, rupert lovel. still, nancy had a shrewd suspicion that not quite all was told her; she had a kind of idea that there was something in the background. "it comes over me," she said to herself--"it comes over me that unless i, nancy white, am as sharp as sharp and as cunning as cunning, my missus and my young ladies will be done. what is it that the missus is keeping in the back of her head to make her look that dreamy, and that wistful, and that despairing, and yet that hopeful? my word, if i haven't seen her smile as if she was almost glad once or twice. poor dear! maybe she knows as that little delicate chap can't be the heir; and as to the others--the old gentleman and the fine young lad from the other side of the earth--why, if they have a claim to make, why don't they make it? and if they don't make it, then, say i, it's because they can't. well, now, anything is better than suspense, and i'll question my missus on that very point straight away." accordingly, when nancy had arranged the tea-tray in the most tempting position and stirred the fire into the cheeriest blaze, she knelt down before it and began to make some crisp and delicious toast. nancy knew that mrs. lovel had a weakness for the toast she made, and she also knew that such an employment was very favorable to confidential conversation. "well, ma'am," she said suddenly, having coughed once or twice and gone through one or two other little maneuvers to attract attention--"well, ma'am, i wants to have my mind eased on a certain point. is it, ma'am, or is it not the case that the old gentleman from australia means to do you a mischief?" "what do you mean, nancy?" exclaimed mrs. lovel, laying down the lace which she was embroidering and gazing at her old servant in some astonishment. "the old gentleman from australia? why, rupert lovel cannot be more than forty. he is a man in his prime, splendidly strong; and as to his doing me a mischief, i believe, you silly old woman, that he is one of my best friends." "the proof of the pudding is in the eating," snorted nancy. "you'll excuse me, ma'am, but i'd like to prove that by his actions. he means that young son of his to get possession of avonsyde--don't he, ma'am?" "his son is the real heir, nancy. dear nancy, i wish to say something. i must not be covetous for my little girls. if the real and lawful heir turns up i have not a word to say. nay, more, i think if i can be glad on this subject i am glad that he should turn out to be the son of my early and oldest friend." "oh, yes, ma'am, i'm not a bit surprised about you. bother that toast, how it will burn! it's just like you, ma'am, to give up everything for six blessed years, and to have your heart well-nigh broke and your poor eyes dimmed with crying, and then in the end, when the cup that you have been so longing for is almost to your lips, to give up everything again and to be glad into the bargain. that's just like you, ma'am; but, you'll excuse me, it ain't like nancy white, and if you can be glad in the prospect of seeing your children beggared, i can't; so there!" "dear nancy," said mrs. lovel, laying her hand on the old servant's shoulder, "how am i to help myself? both might and right are against me. had i not better submit to the inevitable with a good grace?" "that bonny little miss rachel," continued nancy, "don't i see her now, with her eyes flashing as she looked up at me and that fine, imperious way she had, and 'tell the lady to wear my ring, nancy,' says she,'and tell her that i love her,' says she." "little darling," whispered the mother, and raising her hand she pressed a tiny ring which she wore to her lips. "miss rachel isn't meant for poverty," continued nancy, "and what's more, i'm very sure miss kitty isn't either; so, ma'am, i'd like to be sure whether they are to have it or not; and a question i'd dearly like to have answered is this: if the middle-aged man, mr. rupert lovel, and his son have a claim to avonsyde, why don't they make it? anything is better than suspense, say i. why don't we know the worst and have done with it?" "why, nancy, i thought i had told you everything. mr. lovel won't make a claim until he can make a perfect claim. the fact is, some of his credentials are lost." "the toast is done, ma'am. may i make bold to ask what you mean by that? you had better eat your toast while it is hot and crisp, mrs. lovel. the good gentleman from australia hasn't to go to the old ladies with a character in his hand, like a servant looking for a situation?" "no, no. nancy; but he has to bring letters and other tokens to prove his son's descent, to prove that his son is a true lovel of avonsyde of the elder branch, and unfortunately mr. lovel has lost some valuable letters and an old silver tankard which has been for hundreds of years in the family, and which was taken from avonsyde by the rupert lovel who quarreled with his relations." mrs. level's head was bent over her lace, and she never noticed how red nancy's face grew at this moment, nor how she almost dropped the steaming kettle with which she was about to replenish the tea-pot. "oh, my word!" she exclaimed hastily. "it seems as if toast and kettle and all was turned spiteful to-night. there's that boiling water flowed over on my hand. never mind, ma'am--it ain't nothing. what was it you were saying was lost, ma'am?" "letters, nancy, and a tankard." "oh, letters and a tankard. and what may a tankard be like?" "this was an old-fashioned silver can, with the lovel coat of arms and the motto of their house, 'tyde what may,' graved on one side. why, nancy, you look quite pale." "it's the burn, ma'am, that smarts a little. and so the silver can is lost? dear, dear, what a misfortune; and the fine young gentleman can't get the place noway without it. is that so or not, ma'am?" "well, nancy, the tankard seems to be considered a very important piece of evidence, and mr. lovel is not inclined to claim the property for his son without it. however, he is having careful search made in australia, and will probably hear tidings of it any day." "that's as providence wills, ma'am. it's my belief that if the middle-aged gentleman was to search australia from tail to head he wouldn't get no tidings of that bit of a silver mug. dear, dear, how this burn on my hand do smart!" "you had better put some vaseline on it, nancy. you look quite upset. i fear it is worse than you say. let me look at it." "no, no, ma'am; it will go off presently. dear, what a taking the gentleman must be in for the silver mug. well, ma'am, more unlikely things have happened than that your bonny little ladies should come in for avonsyde. did i happen to mention to you, ma'am, that i saw master phil lovel yesterday?" "no, nancy. where and how?" "he was with one of the old ladies, ma'am, in the forest. he was talking to her and laughing and he never noticed me, and you may be sure i kept well in the background. eh, but he's a dear little fellow; but if ever there was a bit of a face on which the shadow rested, it's his." "nancy, nancy, is he indeed so ill? poor, dear little boy!" "no, ma'am, i don't say he's so particular ill. he walked strong enough and he looked up into the old lady's face as bright as you please; but he had the look--i have seen it before, and i never could be mistaken about that look on any face. not long for this world was written all over him. too good for this world was the way his eyes shone and his lips smiled. dear heart, ma'am, don't cry. such as them is the blessed ones; they go away to a deal finer place and a grander home than any avonsyde." "true," said mrs. lovel. "i don't cry for that, but i think the child suffers. he spoke very sorrowfully to me." "well, ma'am, we must all go through it, one way or another. my old mother used to say to me long ago, 'nancy, 'tis contrasts as do it. i'm so tired out with grinding, grinding, and toiling, toiling, that just to rest and do nothing seems to me as if it would be perfect heaven.' and the little fellow will be the more glad some day because he has had a bit of suffering. dear, dear, ma'am, i can't get out of my head the loss of that tankard." "so it seems, nancy; the fact seems to have taken complete possession of you. were it not absolutely impossible, i could even have said that my poor honest old nancy was the thief! there, nancy, don't look so startled. of course i was only joking." "of course, ma'am; but you'll just excuse me if i go and bind up my burned hand." chapter xxiii.--forest life. the spring came early that year. a rather severe winter gave place to charming and genial weather. in april it was hot, and the trees made haste to clothe themselves with their most delicate and fairy green, the flowers peeped out joyfully, the birds sang from morning till night, and the forest became paradise. rachel, kitty, and phil almost lived there. miss griselda and miss katharine had become lenient in the matter of lessons. miss griselda was wise enough to believe in nature's lessons and to think fine fresh air the best tonic in all the world for both mind and body. phil was in his element in the forest. he was always finding new beetles and fresh varieties of chrysalides, which he and kitty carefully treasured; and as to the roots and the flowers and the mosses which these children collected, even good-natured newbolt at last gave vent to strong expressions of disapproval, and asked if the whole of the house was to be turned topsy-turvy with their messes. phil could do what he liked in his old tower bedroom; his mother never interfered with him there. this quaint old room was liberty hall to phil. here he could groan if he wanted to, or sigh if he wanted to, or talk his secrets to the silent, faithful walls if he wanted to; and here he brought his spiders and his beetles and his mosses, and kept them in odd bottles and under broken glasses, and messed away to his heart's content without any one saying him nay. downstairs mrs. lovel was a most careful and correct mother--never petting and never spoiling, always on her guard, always watchful and prim. miss griselda was wont to say that with all her follies she had never come across a more sagacious and sensible mother than mrs. lovel. as a mother she approved of her absolutely; but then miss griselda never saw behind the scenes; she never saw what went on in the tower bedroom, where mrs. lovel would take the boy in her arms, and strain him to her heart with passionate kisses, and pet him and make much of him, and consult him, and, above all things, faithfully promise him that after the th of may the burden which was crushing his young life should be removed, and he might be his own natural and unrestrained self again. mrs. lovel had got a dreadful fright when she first read young rupert's letter; but when day after day and week after week passed and no tidings of rupert or his father reached avonsyde, she began to hope that even though they were in england, they had come over on business in no way connected with the old family home; in short, even though they were in england, they had not seen those advertisements which had almost turned her head. the weeks passed quickly, and she began to breathe freely and to be almost happy once more. the loss of the tankard was certainly disquieting, but she felt sure that with the aid of the stolen letters she could substantiate her boy's claim, and she also reflected that if the tankard was lost to her it was also lost to her brother-in-law, rupert lovel. so life went quite smoothly at avonsyde, and day after day the weather became more balmy and springlike, and day after day miss griselda's face wore a softer and gentler expression; for the little heir-apparent was altogether after her own heart, and she was contented, as all women are when they find a worthy object to love. miss katharine too was smiling and happy in these early spring days. she had never forgotten the face of the mother who had left her two children in her charge nearly six years ago. that young and agonized face had haunted her dreams; some words which those poor trembling lips had uttered had recurred to her over and over. "it breaks my heart to part with the children," the mother had said, "but if in no other way i can provide for their future, i sacrifice myself willingly. i am willing to obliterate myself for their sakes." miss katharine had felt, when these words were wrung from a brave and troubled heart, that pride was indeed demanding a cruel thing; but for miss griselda she would have said: "come here with your children. you are valentine's wife, and for his sake we will be good to you as well as them." miss katharine had longed to say these words, but fear of her elder sister had kept her silent, and ever since her heart had reproached her. now she felt cheerful, for she knew that on rachel's birthday the mother of the children would return, and she knew also that when she came she would not go away again. rachel's charming little face had lost a good deal of its watchful and unrestful expression during the last few weeks. she had seen nancy white more than once, and nancy had so strongly impressed on her the fact that on the th of may the lady of the forest would reveal herself, and all the mystery of her secret and her seclusion be explained, that the little girl grew hopeful and bright and fixed her longing eyes on that birthday which was to mean so much to so many. kitty too looked forward to the th of may as to a delightful general holiday; in short, every one was excited about it, except the child to whom it meant the most of all. little phil alone was unconcerned about the great day--little phil alone lived happily in the present, and, if anything, rather put the future out of sight. to him the thought of the inheritance which on that day was to be forced upon him was felt to be a heavy burden; but, then, those little shoulders were already over-weighted, and god knew and little phil also knew that they could not bear any added burden. of late little phil had been very glad to feel that god knew about his secrets and his cares, and in his own very simple, childish little way he used lately to ask him not to add to them; and now that he was sure god knew everything, he ceased to trouble his head very much about all that was to happen on rachel's birthday. thus every one at avonsyde, with the exception of little phil, was happy in the future, but he alone was perfectly happy in the present. his collection of all kinds of natural curiosities grew and multiplied, and he spent more and more time in the lovely forest. the delicious spring air did him good, and his mother once more hoped and almost believed that health and strength lay before him. one day, quite toward the end of april, kitty, his constant companion, had grown tired and refused to stay out any longer. the day was quite hot, and the little boy wandered on alone under the shade of the trees. as usual when quite by himself, he chose the least-frequented paths, and as usual the vague hope came over him that he might see the lovely green lady of the forest. no such exquisite vision was permitted to him, but instead he came suddenly upon nancy white, who was walking in the forest and picking up small dry branches and sticks, which she placed in a large basket hung over her arm. when she saw phil she started and almost dropped her basket. "well i never!" she exclaimed. "you has gone and given me a start, little master." "how do you do, nancy?" said phil, going up to her, speaking in a polite voice, and holding out his hand. "how is the lady of the forest? please tell her that, i have kept her secret most carefully, that no one knows it but rachel, and she knew it long ago. i hope the lady is very well, nancy." "yes, my dear, she is well and hopeful. the days are going on, master philip lovel, and each day as it passes brings a little more hope. i am sure you are little gentleman enough to keep the lady's secret." "everybody speaks about the days passing and hope growing," said phil. "i--i--nancy, did you ever see the green lady about here? she could bring me hope. how i wish i could see her!" "now, don't be fanciful, my dear little gentleman," answered nancy. "them thoughts about fairies and such-like are very bad for growing children. you shouldn't allow your head to wander on such nonsense. little boys and girls should attend to their spelling lessons, and eat plenty, and go to bed early, and then they have no time for fretting after fairies and such. it isn't canny to hear you talk as you do of the green lady, master phil." "isn't it?" said phil. "i am sorry. i do wish to see her. i want a gift from her. good-by, nancy. give my love to the lady." "i will so, dear; and tell me, are you feeling any way more perky--like yourself?" "i'm very well, except when i'm very bad," answered phil. "just now i'm as well as possible, but in the evenings i sometimes get tired, and then it rather hurts me to mount up so many stairs to my tower bedroom; but oh! i would not sleep in any other room for the world. i love my tower room." "well, you'll be a very happy little boy soon," said nancy--"a very happy, rich little boy; for if folks say true everything has to be given to you on the th of may." "a lot of money and lands, you mean," said phil. "oh, yes; but they aren't everything--oh, dear, no! i know what i want, and i am not likely to have it. good-by, nancy; good-by." phil ran off, and nancy pursued her walk stolidly and soberly. "the look grows," she said to herself--"the look grows and deepens. poor little lad! he is right enough when he says that gold and lands won't satisfy him. well, now, i'm doing him no harm by keeping back the silver tankard. it's only his good-for-nothing mother as will be put out, and that middle-aged man in london and that other boy. what do i care for that other boy, or for any one in all the world but my missus and her dear little ladies? there, there, that tankard is worse than a nightmare to me. i hate it, and i'd give all the world never to have seen it; but there, now that i've got it i'll keep it." chapter xxiv.--a great alarm. "katharine," said miss griselda to her younger sister, "do you happen to remember the address of those lodgings in london where we wrote years ago to rachel's and kitty's mother? the th of may will be this day week, and although i dislike the woman, and of course cannot possibly agree with you as to her being in any sense of the word a lady, yet still when griselda lovel passes her word she does pass it, and i think it is right, however painful, to give the young woman the invitation for the th of may." "we wrote one letter nearly six years ago to no. abbey street, marshall road, s.w., london," answered miss katharine in a sharp voice for her. "one letter to a mother about her own children; but that was the address, griselda." "no. abbey street," repeated miss griselda. "i shall send the young woman an invitation to-day. of course it won't reach her, for she is dead long ago; but it is only right to send it. katharine, you don't look well this morning. is anything the matter?" "nothing more than usual," answered miss katharine. "one letter in six years to valentine's wife. oh, no, i was not likely to forget the address." "allow me to congratulate you on your excellent memory, my dear. oh, here comes phil's mother. i have much to talk over with her." miss katharine left the room; her head was throbbing and tears rose unbidden to her eyes. when she reached the great hall she sat down on an oak bench and burst into tears. "how cruel of griselda to speak like that of valentine's wife," she said under her breath. "if valentine's wife is indeed dead i shall never know another happy moment. oh, rachel and kitty, my dears, i did not see you coming in." "yes, and here is phil too," said kitty, dragging him forward. "why are you crying, aunt katharine? do dry your tears and look at our lovely flowers." "i am thinking about your mother, children," said miss katharine suddenly. "does it ever occur to you two thoughtless, happy girls that you have got a mother somewhere in existence--that she loves you and misses you?" "i don't know my mother," said kitty. "i can't remember her, but rachel can." "yes," said rachel abruptly. "i'm going all round the world to look for her by and by. don't let's talk of her; i can't bear it." the child's face had grown pale; a look of absolute suffering filled her dark and glowing eyes. miss katharine was so much astonished at this little peep into rachel's deep heart that she absolutely dried her own tears. sometimes she felt comforted at the thought of rachel suffering. if even one child did not quite forget her mother, surely this fact would bring pleasure to the mother by and by. meanwhile miss griselda was holding a solemn and somewhat alarming conversation with poor mrs. lovel. in the first place, she took the good lady into the library--a dark, musty-smelling room, which gave this vivacious and volatile person, as she expressed it, "the horrors" on the spot. miss griselda having secured her victim and having seated her on one of the worm-eaten, high-backed chairs, opened the book-case marked d and took from it the vellum-bound diary which six years ago she had carried to the old squire's bedroom. from the musty pages of the diary miss griselda read aloud the story of the great quarrel; she read in an intensely solemn voice, with great emphasis and even passion. miss griselda knew this part of the history of her house so well that she scarcely needed to look at the words of the old chronicler. "it may seem a strange thing to you, mrs. lovel," she said when she had finished her story--"a strange and incomprehensible thing that your white-faced and delicate-looking little boy should in any way resemble the hero of this quarrel." "phil is not delicate," feebly interposed mrs. lovel. "i said delicate-looking. pray attend to me. the rupert who quarreled with his father--i will confess to you that my sympathies are with rupert--was in the right. he was heroic--a man of honor; he was brave and stalwart and noble. your boy reminds me of him--not in physique, no, no! but his spirit looks out of your boy's eyes. i wish to make him the heir of our house." "oh, miss griselda, how can a poor, anxious mother thank you enough?" "don't thank me at all. i do it in no sense of the word for you. the boy pleases me; he has won on my affections; i--love him." miss griselda paused. perhaps never before in the whole course of her life had she openly admitted that she loved any one. after a period which seemed interminable to poor mrs. lovel she resumed: "my regard for the boy is, however, really of small consequence; he can only inherit under the conditions of my father's will. these conditions are that he must claim direct descent from the rupert lovel who was treated so unjustly two hundred years ago, and that he has, as far as it is possible for a boy to have, perfect physical health." mrs. lovel grew white to her very lips. "phil is perfectly strong," she repeated. miss griselda stared at her fixedly. "i have judged of that for myself," she said coldly. "i have studied many books on the laws of health and many physiological treatises, and have trusted to my own observation rather than to any doctor's casual opinion. the boy is pale and slight, but i believe him to be strong, for i have tested him in many ways. without you knowing it i have made him go through many athletic exercises, and he has often run races in my presence. i believe him to be sound. we will let that pass. the other and even more important matter is that he should now prove his descent. you have shown me some of your proofs, and they certainly seem to me incontestable, but i have not gone really carefully into the matter. my lawyer, mr. baring, will come down here on the afternoon of the th and carefully go over with you all your letters and credentials. on the th i have incited many friends to come to avonsyde, and on that occasion katharine and i will present philip to our many acquaintances as our heir. we will make the occasion as festive as possible, and would ask you to see that philip is suitably and becomingly dressed. you know more of the fashions of the world than we do, so we will leave the matter of device in your hands, of course bearing all the expense ourselves. by the way, you have observed in the history i have just read how the old silver tankard is mentioned. in that terrible scene where rupert finally parts with his father, he takes up the tankard and declares that 'tyde what may' he will yet return vindicated and honored to the old family home. that was a prophecy," continued miss griselda, rising with excitement to her feet; "for you have brought the boy and also the very tankard which rupert took away with him. i look upon your possession of the tankard, as the strongest proof of all of the justice of your claim. by the way, you have never yet shown it to me. do you mind fetching it now?" muttering something almost unintelligible, mrs. lovel rose and left the library. she crossed the great hall, opened the oak door which led to the tower staircase, and mounting the winding and worn stairs, presently reached her bedroom. the little casement windows were opened, and the sweet air of spring was filling the quaint chamber. mrs. lovel shut and locked the door; then she went to one of the narrow and slit-like windows and looked out. a wide panorama of lovely landscape lay before her; miles of forest lands undulated away to the very horizon; the air was full of the sweet songs of many birds; the atmosphere was perfumed with all the delicious odors of budding flowers and opening leaves. in its way nothing could have been more perfect; and it was for phil--all for phil! all the beauty and the glory and the loveliness, all the wealth and the comfort and the good position, were for phil, her only little son. mrs. lovel clasped her hands, and bitter tears came to her eyes. the cup was almost to the boy's lips. was it possible that anything could dash it away now? the tankard--she was sent to fetch the silver tankard--the tankard which phil himself had lost! what could she do? how could she possibly frame an excuse? she dared not tell miss griselda that her boy had lost it. she felt so timid, so insecure, that she dared not confess what an ordinary woman in ordinary circumstances would have done. she dreaded the gaze of miss griselda's cold, unbelieving gray eyes; she dreaded the short sarcastic speech she would be sure to make. no, no, she dared not confess; she must dissemble; she must prevaricate; on no account must she tell the truth. she knew that miss griselda was waiting for her in the library; she also knew that the good lady was not remarkable for patience; she must do something, and at once. in despair she rang the bell, and when newbolt replied to it she found mrs. lovel lying on her bed with her face partly hidden. "please tell miss lovel that i am ill, newbolt," she said. "i have been taken with a very nasty headache and trembling and faintness. ask her if she will excuse my going downstairs just for the present." newbolt departed with her message, and mrs. lovel knew that she had a few hours' grace. she again locked the door and, rising from her bed, paced up and down the chamber. she was far too restless to remain quiet. was it possible that the loss of the tankard might be, after all, her undoing? oh, no! the dearly loved possession was now so close; the auspicious day was so near; the certainty was at her door. no, no! the letters were proof of philip's claim; she need not be so terribly frightened. although she reasoned in this way, she felt by no means reassured, and it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps if she went into the forest she might find the tankard herself. it might be lying even now forgotten, unnoticed under some bush beside the treacherous bog which had almost swallowed up her boy. what a happy thought! oh, yes, she herself would go to look for it. mrs. lovel did not know the forest as phil and rachel and kitty did. the forest by itself had no charms whatever for her. she disliked its solitude; she saw no beauty in its scenery; no sweetness came to her soul from the song of its happy birds or the brilliance of its wild flowers. no, no--the city and life and movement and gayety for mrs. lovel; she was a poor artificial creature, and nature was not likely to whisper her secrets into her ears. when phil came up by and by his mother questioned him minutely as to the part of the forest into which he had wandered. of course he could not tell her much; but she got a kind of idea, and feeble as her knowledge was she resolved to act on it. early the next morning she rose from an almost sleepless bed, and carefully dressing so as not to awaken her sleeping boy, she stole downstairs and, as phil had done some months before, let herself out by a side entrance into the grounds. it was winter when phil had gone on his little expedition--a winter's morning, with its attendant cold and damp and gloom; but now the spring sun was already getting up, the dew sparkled on the grass, and the birds were having a perfect chorus of rejoicing. even mrs. lovel, unimpressionable as she was to all nature's delights, was influenced by the crisp and buoyant air and the sense of rejoicing which the birds and flowers had in common. she stepped quits briskly into the forest and said to herself: "my spirits are rising; that terrible depression i underwent yesterday is leaving me. i take this as a good omen and believe that i may find the tankard." phil had given her certain directions, and for some time she walked on bravely, expecting each moment to come to the spot where the boy had assured her the beaten track ended and she must plunge into the recesses of the primeval forest itself. of course she lost her way, and after wandering along for some hours, seated herself in an exhausted state at the foot of a tree, and there, without in the least intending to do so, fell asleep. mrs. lovel was unaccustomed to any physical exercise, and her long walk, joined to her sleepless night, made her now so overpoweringly drowsy that she not only slept, but slept heavily. in her sleep she knew nothing at all of the advance the day was making. the sun's rays darting through the thick foliage of the giant oak tree under which she slumbered did not in the least disturb her, and when some robins made their breakfast close by and twittered and talked to one another she never heard them. some rabbits and some squirrels peeped at her quite saucily, but they never even ruffled her placid repose. her head rested against the tree, her bonnet was slightly pushed back, and her hands lay folded over each other in her lap. presently there was a sound of footsteps, and a woman came up and bent over the sleeping lady in the forest. the woman was dressed in a short petticoat, strong boots, a striped jersey jacket, and a shawl thrown over her head; she carried a basket on her arm and she was engaged in her favorite occupation of picking sticks. "dearie me! now, whoever is this?" said nancy white as she bent over phil's mother. "dearie, dearie, a poor white-looking thing; no bone or muscle or go about her, i warrant. and who has she a look of? i know some one like her--and yet--no, it can't be--no. is it possible that she features pretty little master phil?" nancy spoke half-aloud, and came yet nearer and bent very low indeed over the sleeper. "she do feature master phil and she has got the dress of a fine lady. oh, no doubt she's his poor, weak bit of a mother! bless the boy! no wonder he's ailing if she has the mothering of him." nancy's words were all muttered half-aloud, and under ordinary occasions such sounds would undoubtedly have awakened mrs. lovel; now they only caused her to move restlessly and to murmur some return words in her sleep. "phil, if we cannot find that tankard we are undone." then after a pause: "it is a long way to the bog. i wonder if phil has left the tankard on the borders of the bog." on hearing these sentences, which were uttered with great distinctness and in accents almost bordering on despair, nancy suddenly threw her basket to the ground; then she clasped her two hands over her head and, stepping back a pace or two, began to execute a hornpipe, to the intense astonishment of some on-lookers in the shape of birds and squirrels. "ah, my lady fair!" she exclaimed, "what you have let out now makes assurance doubly sure. and so you think you'll find the precious tankard in the bog! now, now, what shall i do? how can i prevent your going any further on such a fool's quest? ah, my pretty little ladies, my pretty miss rachel and miss kitty, i believe i did you a good turn when i hid that tankard away." nancy indulged in a few more expressions of self-congratulation then, a sudden idea coming to her, she fumbled in her pocket for a bit of paper, and scribbling something on it laid it on the sleeping lady's lap. when mrs. lovel awoke, somewhere close on midday, she took up the little piece of paper and read its contents with startled eyes: "come what may come, tyde what may tyde, lovel shall dwell at avonsyde. "false heirs never yet have thriven; tankards to the right are given." the last two lines, which nancy had composed in a perfect frenzy of excitement and rapture at what she considered a sudden development of the poetic fancy, caused poor mrs. lovel's cheeks to blanch and her eyes to grow dim with a sudden overpowering sense of fear. she rose to her feet and pursued her way home, trembling in every limb. chapter xxv.--a dream with a meaning. phil had a dream which had a great effect on him. there were several reasons for this. in the first place, it wanted but two days to the great th of may; in the second place, he was feeling really ill, so was making greater efforts than usual to conceal all trace of languor or weariness; in the third place, rachel came to him about half an hour before he went upstairs to bed and burst out crying, and told him she knew something was going to happen. rachel was not a child who was particularly given to tears, but when she did cry she cried stormily. she showed a good deal of excitement of a passionate and over-wrought little heart to phil now, and when he questioned her and asked her why she was so excited about her birthday, she murmured first something about the lady of the forest and then about her mother, and then, afraid of her own words, she ran away before phil could question her further. phil's own mother, too, seemed to be in a most disturbed and unnatural state. she was always conning a piece of paper and then putting it out of sight, and her eyes had red rims round them, and when phil questioned her she owned that she had been crying, and felt, as she expressed it, "low." all these things combined caused phil to lay his head on his white pillow with a weary sigh and to go off into the land of dreams by no means a perfectly happy little boy. once there, however, he was happy enough. in the first place, he was out of his bed and out of the old house, where so many people just now looked anxious and troubled; and, in the second place, he was in a beautiful new forest, his feet treading on velvet grass, his eyes gazing at all those lovely sights in which his little soul delighted. he was in the forest and he was well, quite well; the tiredness and the aching had vanished, the weakness had disappeared; he felt as though wings had been put to his feet, as though no young eagle could feel a keener and grander sense of strength than did he. he was in the forest, and coming to meet him under the shadows of the great trees was a lady--the lady he had searched for so long and hitherto searched for in vain. she came quite naturally and gently up to him, took his little hand, looked into his eyes, and stooping down she touched his fore head with her lips. "brave little boy!" she said. "so you have come." "yes," answered phil, "and you have come. i have waited for you so long. have you brought the gift?" "beauty of face and of heart. yes, i bring them both," answered the lady. "they are yours; take them." "my mother," whispered phil. "your mother shall be cared for, but you and she will soon part. you have done all you could for her--all, even to life itself. you cannot do more. come with me." "where?" asked phil. "are you not tired of the world? come with me to fairyland. take my hand--come! there you will find perpetual youth and beauty and strength and goodness--come!" then phil felt within himself the wildest, the most intense longing to go. he looked in the lady's face, and he thought he must fly into her arms; he must lay his head on her breast and ask her to soothe all his life troubles away. "i know you," he said suddenly. "some people call you by another name, but i know who you are. you give little tired boys like me great rest; and i want beyond words to go with you, but there is my mother." "your mother will be cared for. come. i can give you something better than avonsyde." "oh, i don't want avonsyde! i am not the rightful heir." "the rightful heir is coming," interrupted the lady of the forest. "look for him on the th of may, and look for me too there. farewell!" she vanished, and phil awoke, to find his mother sitting by his bedside, her face bent over him, her eyes wide open with terror. "oh, my darling, how you have looked! are you--are you very ill?" "no, mammy dear," answered the little boy, sitting up in the bed and kissing her in his tenderest fashion. "i have had a dream and i know what is coming, but i don't feel very ill." mrs. lovel burst into floods of weeping. "phil," she said when she could speak through her sobs, "it is so near now--only one other day. can you not keep up just for one more day?" "yes, mother; oh, yes, mother dear. i have had a dream. hold my hand, mother, and i will try and go to sleep again. i have had a dream. everything is quite plain now. hold my hand, mammy dear. i love you; you know that." he lay back again on his pillows and, exhausted, fell asleep. mrs. lovel held the little thin hand and looked into the white face, and never went to bed that night. ever since her sleep in the forest she had been perturbed and anxious; that mysterious bit of paper had troubled her more than she cared to own. she was too weak-natured a woman not to be more or less influenced by superstition, and she could not help wondering what mysterious being had come to her and, reading her heart's secret, had told her to bid good-by to hope. but all her fears and apprehensions had been nothing, had been child's play, compared to the terror which awoke in her heart when she saw the look on her boy's face as she bent over him that night. she knew that he bad never taken kindly to her scheme; she knew that personally he cared nothing at all for all the honors and greatness she would thrust upon him. he was doing it for her sake; he was trying hard to become a rich man some day for her sake; he was giving up rupert whom he loved and the simple life which contented him for her. oh, yes, because, as he so simply said, he loved her. but she laid too heavy a burden on the young shoulders; the long strain of patient endurance had been too much, and the gallant little life was going out. on the instant, quick, quick as thought, there overmastered this weak and selfish woman a great, strong tide of passionate mother's love. what was avonsyde to her compared to the life of her boy? welcome any poverty if the boy might be saved! she fell on her knees and wept and wrung her hands and prayed long and piteously. when in the early, early dawn phil awoke, his mother spoke to him. "philip dear, you would like to see rupert again?" "so much, mother." "avonsyde is yours, but you would like to give it to him?" "if i might, mother--if i might!" "leave it to me, my son. say nothing--leave it to me, my darling." chapter xxvi.--love versus gold. "katharine!" "yes." "i have received the most extraordinary letter." "what about, grizel?" "what about? had you not better ask me first who from? oh, no, you need not turn so pale. it is not from that paragon of your life, rachel's and kitty's mother." "grizel, i do think you might speak more tenderly of one who has done you no harm and who has suffered much." "well, well, let that pass. you want to know who my present correspondent is. she is no less a person than the mother of our heir." "phil's mother! why should she write? she is in the house. surely she can use her tongue." "she is not in the house and is therefore obliged to have recourse to correspondence. listen to her words." miss griselda drew out of her pocket an envelope which contained a sheet of thick note-paper. the envelope was crested; so was the paper. the place from which it was written was avonsyde; the date was early that morning. a few words in a rather feeble and uncertain hand filled the page. "dear miss lovel: i hope you and miss katharine will excuse me. i have made up my mind to see your lawyer, mr. baring, in town. i know you intended him to come here this afternoon, but if i catch the early train i shall reach his office in time to prevent him. i believe i can explain all about proofs and credentials better in town than here. i shall come back in time to-morrow. don't let phil be agitated. yours humbly and regretfully, "bella lovel." "what does she mean by putting such an extra ordinary ending to her letter?" continued miss grizel as she folded up the sheet of paper and returned it to its envelope. "'yours humbly and regretfully!' what does she mean, katharine?" "it sounds like a woman who had a weight on her conscience," said miss katharine. "i wonder if phil really is the heir! you know, grizel, she never showed you the tankard. she made a great talk about it, but you never really saw it. don't you remember?" "nonsense!" snapped miss grizel. "is it likely she would even know about the tankard if she had not got it? she was ill that day. newbolt said she looked quite dreadful, and i did not worry her again, as i knew mr. baring was coming down to-day to go thoroughly into the whole question. she certainly has done an extraordinary thing in writing that letter and going up to london in that stolen sort of fashion; but as to phil not being the heir, i think the fact of his true title to the property is pretty clearly established by this time. katharine, i read you this letter in order to get a suggestion from you. i might have known beforehand that you had none to make. i might have known that you would only raise some of your silly doubts and make things generally uncomfortable. well, i am displeased with mrs. lovel; but there, i never liked her. i shall certainly telegraph to mr. baring and ask him to come down here this evening, all the same." miss griselda and miss katharine had held their brief little colloquy in the old library. they now went into the hall, where family prayers were generally held, and soon afterward miss griselda sent off her telegram. she received an answer in the course of a couple of hours: "have not seen mrs. lovel. will come down as arranged." but half an hour before the dog-cart was to be sent to the railway station to meet the lawyer another little yellow envelope was thrust into miss lovel's hands. it was dated from the lawyer's chambers and ran as follows: "most unexpectedly detained. cannot come to-night. expect me with mrs. lovel to-morrow." this telegram made miss griselda very angry. "what possible information can detain mr. baring when i summon him here?" she said to her younger sister. she was doomed, however, to be made yet more indignant. a third telegram arrived at avonsyde early in the evening; it also was from mr. baring: "disquieting news. put off your guests. expect me early to-morrow." miss griselda's face grew quite pale. she threw the thin sheet of paper indignantly on the floor. "mr. baring strangely forgets himself," she said. "put off our guests! certainly not!" "but, griselda," said miss katharine, "our good friend speaks of disquieting news. it may be--it may be something about the little girls' mother. oh, i always did fear that something had happened to her." "katharine, you are perfectly silly about that woman. but whatever mr. baring's news, our guests are invited and they shall come. katharine, i look on to-morrow as the most important day of my life. on that day, when i show our chosen and rightful heir to the world--for our expected guests form the world to us, katharine--on that day i fulfill the conditions of my dear father's will. do you suppose that any little trivial disturbance which may have taken place in london can alter plans so important as mine?" "i don't think mr. baring would have telegraphed if the disturbance was trivial," murmured miss katharine. but she did not venture to add any more and soon went sadly out of the room. meanwhile mrs. lovel was having a terribly exciting day. impelled by a motive stronger than the love of gold, she had slipped away from phil's bedside in the early morning, and, fear lending her wings, had gone downstairs, written her note to miss griselda, and then on foot had made her way to the nearest railway station at lyndhurst road. there she took the first train to london. she had a carriage to herself, and she was so restless that she paced up and down its narrow length. it seemed to her that the train would never reach its destination; the minutes were lengthened into hours; the hours seemed days. when, when would she get to waterloo? when would she see mr. baring? beside her in the railway carriage, beside her in the cab, beside her as she mounted the stairs to the lawyer's office was pale-faced fear. could she do anything to keep the boy? could any--any act of hers cause the avenger to stay his hand--cause the angel of death to withdraw and leave his prey untouched? in the night, as she had watched by his bedside, she had seen only too plainly what was coming. avonsyde might be given to phil, but little phil himself was going away. the angels wanted him elsewhere, and they would not mind any amount of mother's weeping, of mother's groans; they would take the boy from her arms. then it occurred to her poor, weak soul for the first time that perhaps if she appealed to god he would listen, and if she repented, not only in word, but in deed, he would stay his avenging hand. hence her hurried flight; hence her anguished longing. she had not a moment to lose, for the sands of her little boy's life were running out. she was early in town, and was shown into mr. baring's presence very soon after his arrival at his office. unlike most of the heirs-presumptive to the avonsyde property, phil had not been subjected to the scrutiny of this keen-eyed lawyer. from the very first miss griselda had been more or less under a spell as regards little phil. his mother in writing to her from australia had mentioned one or two facts which seemed to the good lady almost conclusive, and she had invited her and the boy direct to avonsyde without, as in all other cases, interviewing them through her lawyer. mr. baring therefore had not an idea who his tall, pale, agitated-looking visitor could be. "sit down," he said politely. "can i assist you in any way? perhaps, if all the same to you, you would not object to going very briefly into matters to-day; to-morrow--no, not to-morrow--thursday i can carefully attend to your case. i happen to be called into the country this afternoon and am therefore in a special hurry. if your case can wait, oblige me by mentioning the particulars briefly and making an appointment for thursday." "my case cannot wait," replied mrs. lovel in a hard, strained voice. "my case cannot wait an hour, and you need not go into the country. i have come to prevent your doing so." "but, madam----" "i am mrs. lovel." "another mrs. lovel? another heir forthcoming? god help those poor old ladies!" "i am the mother of the boy who to-morrow is to be publicly announced as the future proprietor of avonsyde." "you! then you have come from avonsyde?" "i have. i have come to tell you a terrible and disastrous story." "my dear madam, pray don't agitate yourself; pray take things quietly. would you like to sit in this easy-chair?" "no, thank you. what are easy-chairs to me? i want to tell my story." "so you shall--so you shall. i trust your boy is not ill?" "he is very ill; he is--good god! i fear he is dying. i have come to you as the last faint chance of saving him." "my dear mrs. lovel, you make a mistake. i am a lawyer, not a physician. 'pon my word, i'm truly sorry for you, and also for miss griselda. her heart is quite set on that boy." "listen! i have sinned. i was tempted; i sinned. he is not the heir." "my good lady, you can scarcely know what you are saying. you would hardly come to me with this story at the eleventh hour. miss lovel tells me you have proofs of undoubted succession. i was going to avonsyde this afternoon to look into them, but only as a form--merely as a form." "you can look into them now; they are correct enough. there were two brothers who were lineally descended from that rupert lovel who quarreled with his father two hundred years ago. the brothers' names were rupert and philip. philip died and left a son; rupert lives and has a son. rupert is the elder of the brothers and his son is the true heir, because--because----" here mrs. lovel rose to her feet. "because he has got what was denied to my only boy--glorious health and glorious strength. he therefore perfectly fulfills the conditions of the late squire lovel's will." "but--but i don't understand," said the lawyer. "i have seen--yes, of course i have seen--but pray tell me everything. how did you manage to bring proofs of your boy's title to the old ladies?" "why should i not know the history of my husband's house? i saw the old ladies' advertisement in a melbourne paper. i knew to what it alluded and i stole a march on rupert and his heir. it did not seem to me such a dreadful thing to do; for rupert and his boy were rich and phil and i were very poor. i stole away to england with my little boy, and took with me a bundle of letters and a silver tankard which belonged to my brother-in-law, but which were, i knew, equally valuable in proving little philip's descent. all would have gone well but for one thing--my little boy was not strong. he was brave--no boy ever was braver--and he kept in all tokens of terrible suffering for my sake. he won upon the old ladies; everybody loved him. all my plans seemed to succeed, and to-morrow he is to be appointed heir. to-morrow! what use is it? god has stretched out his hand and is taking the boy away. he is angry. he is doing it in anger and to punish me. i am sorry; i am terrified; my heart is broken. perhaps if i show god that i repent he will withdraw his anger and spare my only boy. i have come to you. there is not a moment to lose. here are the lost letters. find the rightful heir." mr. baring was disturbed and agitated. he got up and locked the door; he paced up and down his room several times; then he came up to the woman who was now crouching by the table, her face hidden in her hands. "are you aware," he said softly, for he feared the effect of his words--"are you aware that rupert lovel and his boy are now in london?" mrs. lovel raised her head. "i guessed it. thank god! then i am in time." "your news is indeed of the most vital importance. i must telegraph to avonsyde. i cannot go there this afternoon. the whole case must be thoroughly investigated, and at once. i require your aid for this. will you return with me to avonsyde to-morrow?" "yes, yes." "it will be a painful exposure for you. do you realize it?" "i realize nothing. i want to hold phil to my heart; that is the only desire i now possess." "poor soul! you have acted--i won't say how; it is not for me to preach. i will telegraph to miss griselda and then go with you to find rupert lovel and his boy." chapter xxvii.--two mothers. "here is a letter for you, ma'am." nancy was standing by her mistress, who, in a traveling cloak and bonnet, had just come home. "for me, nancy?" said the lady of the forest in a tired voice. "who can want to write to me? and yet, and yet--give it to me, nancy." "it has the london postmark, ma'am. dear heart, how your hands do shake!" "it is evening, nancy, and to-morrow will be the th of may. can you wonder that my hands shake? only one brief summer's night, and my day of bliss arrives!" "read your letter, ma'am; here it is." mrs. lovel received the envelope with its many postmarks, for it had traveled about and performed quite a little pilgrimage since it left avonsyde some days ago. something in the handwriting caused her to change color; not that it was in the ordinary sense familiar, but in a very extraordinary manner it was known and sacred. "the ladies of avonsyde have been true to the letter of their promise!" she exclaimed. "this, nancy," opening her letter and glancing hastily through it, "is the invitation i was promised six years ago for rachel's thirteenth birthday. it has been sent to the old, old address. the ladies have not forgotten; they have kept to the letter of their engagement. nancy dear, let me weep. nancy, to-morrow i can make my own terms. oh, i could cry just because of the lifting of the pain!" "don't, my dear lady," said nancy. "or--yes, do, if it eases you. the dear little lassies will be all right to-morrow--won't they, mrs. lovel?" "i shall see them again, nancy, if you mean that." "yes, of course; but they'll be heiresses and everything--won't they?" "of course not. what do you mean?" "i thought master phil had no chance now that the tankard is really lost and can never be found." "what do you know about the tankard?" "nothing. how could i? what less likely? oh! look, ma'am; there's a carriage driving through the forest, right over the green grass, as sure as i'm here. now it's stopping, and four people are getting out--a lady and three gentlemen; and they are coming here--right over to the cottage as straight as an arrow from a bow. oh, mercy me! what do this mean?" "only some tourists, i expect. nancy, don't excite yourself." "no, ma'am, begging your pardon, they ain't tourists. here they're all stepping into the porch. what do it mean? and we has nothing at all in the house for supper!" a loud peal was now heard from the little bell. nancy, flushed and agitated, went to open the door, and a moment later mr. baring, mrs. lovel, and rupert lovel and his son found themselves in the presence of the lady of the forest. nancy, recognizing mrs. lovel and concluding that she had discovered all about the theft of the tankard, went and hid herself in her own bedroom, from where she did not descend, even though she several times fancied she heard her mistress ring for her. this, however, was not the case; for a story was being told in that tiny parlor which caused the very remembrance of nancy to fade from all the listeners' brains. mrs. lovel, little philip's mother, was the spokeswoman. she told her whole story from beginning to end, very much as she had told it twice already that day. very much the same words were used, only now as she proceeded and as her eyes grew dim with the agony that rent her heart, she was suddenly conscious of a strange and unlooked-for sympathy. the other mother went up to her side and, taking her hand, led her to a seat beside herself. "do not stand," she whispered; "you can tell what you have to say better sitting." and still she kept her hand within her own and held it firmly. by degrees the poor, shaken, and tempest-tossed woman began to return this firm and sympathizing pressure; and when her words died away in a whisper, she turned suddenly and looked full into the face of the mysterious lady of the forest. "i have committed a crime," she said, "but now that i have confessed all, will god spare the boy's life?" the other mrs. lovel looked at her then with her eyes full of tears, and bending forward she suddenly kissed her. "poor mother!" she said. "i know something of your suffering." "will the boy live? will god be good to me?" "whether he lives or dies god will be good to you. try to rest on that." * * * * * that same evening miss katharine tried to soothe away some of the restlessness and anxiety which oppressed her by playing on the organ in the hall. miss katharine could make very wonderful music; this was her one great gift. she had been taught well, and when her fingers touched either piano or organ people were apt to forget that at other times she was nothing but a weak-looking, uninteresting middle-aged lady. seated at the organ, miss katharine's eyes would shine with a strange, new radiance. there was a power, a sympathy in her touch; her notes were seldom loud or martial, but they appealed straight to the innermost hearts of those who listened. miss katharine did not very often play. music with her meant something almost as sacred as a sacrament; she could not bring her melodies into the common everyday life; but when her soul burned within her, when she sought to express a dumb pain or longing, she went to the old organ for comfort. on this evening, as the twilight fell, she sat down at the organ and began to play some soft, pitiful strains. the notes seemed to cry, as if they were in pain. one by one the children stole into the hall and came up close to her. phil came closest; he leaned against her side and listened, his sweet brown eyes reflecting her pain. "don't!" he said suddenly. "comfort us; things aren't like that." miss katharine turned round and looked at the little pale-faced boy, from him to rachel--whose eyes were gleaming--to kitty, who was half-crying. "things aren't like that," repeated phil. "play something true." "things are like this," answered miss katharine; "things are very, very wrong." "they aren't," retorted phil. "any one to hear you would think god wasn't good." miss katharine paused; her fingers trembled; they scarcely touched the keys. "play joyfully," continued phil; "play as if you believed in him." "oh, phil, i do!" said the poor lady. "yes, yes, i will play as if i believed." tears filled her eyes. she struck the organ with powerful chords, and the whole little party burst out in the grand old chant, "abide with me." "now let us sing 'o paradise,'" said phil when it was ended. the children had sweet voices. miss katharine played her gentlest; miss griselda slipped unseen into the hall and sat down near phil. the children sang on, hymn after hymn, phil always choosing. at last miss katharine rose and closed the organ. "my heart is at rest," she said gently, and she stooped down and kissed phil. then she went out of the hall, rachel and kitty following her. phil alone had noticed miss griselda; he went up to her now and nestled down cozily by her side. he had a very confiding way and not a scrap of fear of any one. most people were afraid of miss griselda. phil's total want of fear in her presence made one of his greatest charms for her. "wasn't the music nice?" he said now. "didn't you like those hymns? hasn't rachel a beautiful voice?" "rachel will sing well," answered miss griselda. "she must have the best masters. philip, to-morrow is nearly come." "the th of may? yes, so it has." "it is a great day for you, my little boy." "yes, i suppose it is. aunt griselda, when do you think my mother will be home?" "i don't know, philip--i don't know where she has gone." "i think i do. i think she's gone to get you a great surprise." "she should not have gone away to-day, when there was so much to be done." "you won't say that when you know. aunt grizel, you'll always be good to mother--won't you?" "why, of course, dear; she is your mother." "but even if she wasn't my mother--i mean even if i wasn't there, you'd be good to her. i wish you'd promise me." "of course, phil--of course; but as you are going to be very much there, there's no use in thinking of impossible things." phil sighed. "aunt griselda," he said gently, "do you think i make a very suitable heir?" "yes, dear--very suitable." "i'm glad you love me; i'm very, very glad. tell me about the rupert lovel who went away two hundred years ago. he wasn't really like me?" "in spirit he was, i don't doubt." "yes; but he wasn't like me in appearance. i'm small and thin and pale, and he--aunt griselda, wouldn't your heart beat and wouldn't you be glad if an heir just like the old rupert lovel came home? if he had just the same figure, and just the same grand flashing eyes, and just the same splendid strength, wouldn't you be glad? wouldn't it be a joyful surprise to you?" "no, phil, for my heart is set on a certain little pale-faced boy. now don't let us talk about nonsensical things. come, you must have your supper and go to bed; you will have plenty of excitement to-morrow and must rest well." "one moment, please. aunt grizel, tell me--tell me, did you ever see the lady of the forest?" "phil, my dear child, what do you mean?" "the beautiful lady who wears a green dress, greener than the leaves, and has a lovely face, and brings a gift in her hand. did you ever see her?" "philip, i can't stay any longer in this dark hall. of course i never saw her. there is a legend about her--a foolish, silly legend; but you don't suppose i am so foolish as to believe it?" "i don't know; perhaps it isn't foolish. i wanted to see her, and i did at last." "you saw her!" "in a dream. it was a real dream--i mean it was the kind of dream that comes true. i saw her, and since then everything has been quite clear to me. aunt griselda, she isn't only the lady of the forest; she has another name; she comes to every one some day." "phil, you are talking very queerly. come away." that evening, late, mrs. lovel came quietly back. she did not ask for supper; she did not see the old ladies; she went up at once to her tower bedroom, where phil was quietly sleeping. bending down over the boy, she kissed him tenderly, but so gently that he did not even stir. "farewell all riches; farewell all worldly success; farewell even honor! welcome disgrace and poverty and the reproach of all who know me if only i can keep you, little phil!" poor mother! she did not know, she could not guess, that for some natures, such as phil's, there is no long tarrying in a world so checkered as ours. chapter xxviii.--the lady who came with a gift. a glorious day, warm, balmy, with the gentlest breezes blowing and the bluest, tenderest sky overhead. the forest trees were still wearing their brightest and most emerald green, the hawthorn was in full blossom, the horse-chestnuts were in a perfect glory of pink-and-white flower; the day, in short, and the day's adornments were perfect. it was still too early in the year for a garden-party, but amusements were provided for the younger guests in the grounds, and the whole appearance of avonsyde was festive without and within. the old ladies, in their richest velvet and choicest lace, moved gracefully about, giving finishing touches to everything. all the nervousness and unrest which had characterized miss katharine the night before had disappeared. to-day she looked her gentlest and sweetest--perhaps also her brightest. miss griselda was really very happy, and she looked it. happiness is a marvelous beautifier, and miss griselda too looked almost handsome. her dark eyes glowed with some of the fire which she fancied must have animated those of her favorite ancestors. her soft pearl-gray dress suited her well. rachel and kitty were in white and looked radiant. the marked characteristics of their early childhood were as apparent as ever: rachel was all glowing tropical color and beauty; kitty was one of old england's daintiest and fairest little daughters. the guests began to arrive, and presently mrs. lovel, accompanied by phil, came down and took her place in the great hall. it was here that miss griselda meant to make her little speech. standing at the upper end of the hall, she meant to present phil as her chosen heir to all her assembled guests. how strange, how very strange that mr. baring had not yet arrived! when mrs. lovel entered the hall miss griselda crossed it at once to speak to her. "i have given canning directions to let you know the very moment mr. baring comes," she said. "you and he can transact your business in the library in a few moments. mr. baring is sure to come down by the next train; and if all your proofs are ready, it will not take him very long to look through your papers." "everything is ready," replied mrs. lovel in a low, hushed voice. "that is right. pardon me, how very inappropriate of you to put on a black velvet dress to-day." mrs. lovel turned very white. "it--it--is my favorite dress," she half-stammered. "i look best in black velvet." "what folly! who thinks about their looks at such a moment? black here and to-day looks nearly as inappropriate as at a wedding. i am not superstitious, but the servants will notice. can you not change it?" "i--i have nothing else ready." "most inconsiderate. kitty dear, run and fetch mrs. lovel a bunch of those crimson roses from the conservatory. have at least that much color, mrs. lovel, for your boy's sake." miss griselda turned indignantly away, and mrs. lovel crossed over to that part of the hall where phil was standing. "mammy darling, how white you look!" "miss griselda wants me to wear crimson roses in my dress, phil." "oh, do, mother; they will look so nice. here comes kitty with a great bunch." "give me one," said mrs. lovel; "here, this one." her fingers shook; she could scarcely take the flower. "phil, will you put it into my dress? i won't wear more than one; you shall place it there. child, child, the thorn has pricked me--every rose has a thorn." "mother," whispered phil, "you are quite sure of the surprise coming?" "yes, darling. hush, dear. stay close to me." the time wore on. the guests were merry; the old place rang with unwonted life and mirth and laughter. it was many years since avonsyde had been so gay. the weather was so lovely that even the older portion of the visitors decided to spend the time out of doors. they stood about in groups and talked and laughed and chatted. tennis went on vigorously. rachel and kitty, like bright fairies, were flitting here, there, and everywhere. phil was strangely quiet and silent, standing always close to his mother. the chaise which had been sent to the railway station to meet mr. baring returned empty. this fact was communicated by canning to his mistress, and as the time wore on miss griselda's face certainly looked less happy. the guests streamed in to lunch, which was served in the great dining-hall in the old part of the house. then several boys and girls would investigate the tower and would roam through the armory and the old picture-gallery. "that man--that rupert lovel is phil's ancestor," the boys and girls remarked. "he is not a bit like phil." "no; the present heir is an awfully weakly looking chap," the boys said. "why, he doesn't look as if he had strength enough even to go in for a game of cricket." "oh, but he's so interesting," the girls said, "and hasn't he lovely eyes!" then the guests wandered out again to the grounds and commented and wondered as to when the crucial moment would arrive, and when miss griselda, taking phil's hand, would present him to them all as the long-sought-for heir. "it is really a most romantic story," one lady said. "that little boy represents the elder branch of the family; the property goes back to the elder branch with him." "how sad his mother seems!" remarked another; "and the boy himself looks dreadfully ill." "miss griselda says he is one of the most wiry and athletic little fellows she ever came across," said a third lady. and then a fourth remarked in a somewhat fretful tone: "i wish that good miss lovel would present him to us and get it over. one gets perfectly tired of waiting for one doesn't know what." just then there was a disturbance and a little hush. some fresh visitors had arrived--some visitors who came on foot and approached through the forest. miss griselda, feeling she could wait no longer for mr. baring's arrival, had just taken phil's hand and was leading him forward to greet her many guests, when the words she was about to say were arrested by the sudden appearance of these strangers on the scene. mr. baring was one of them; but nobody noticed, and in their intense excitement nobody recognized, the sleek little lawyer. a lady, dressed quietly, with a gentle, calm, and gracious bearing, came first. at sight of her rachel uttered a cry; she was the lady of the forest. rachel flew to her and, unrestrained by even the semblance of conventionality, took her hand and pressed it rapturously to her lips. "at last!" half-sobbed rachel--"at last i see you, and you don't turn away! oh, how i have loved you! how i have loved you!" "and i you, my darling--my beloved." "kitty, come here," called out rachel. "kitty, kitty, this is the lady of the forest!" "and your mother, my own children. come to my heart." but nobody, not even miss katharine, noticed this reunion of mother and children; for miss griselda's carefully prepared speech had met with a startling interruption. the mother had stopped with her children, but two other unbidden guests had come forward. one of them was a boy--a boy with so noble a step, so gallant, so gay, so courtly a mien that all the visitors turned to gaze in unspoken admiration. whose likeness did he bear? why did miss griselda turn so deadly pale? why did she drop phil's hand and take a step forward? the dark eyes, the eagle glance, the very features, the very form of that old hero of her life, the long-dead-and-gone rupert lovel, now stood before her in very deed. "aunt grizel," whispered little phil, "isn't he splendid? isn't he indeed the rightful heir? just what he should be, so strong and so good! aunt grizel, isn't it a great surprise? mother, mother, speak, tell her everything!" then little phil ran up to rupert and took his hand and led him up to miss grizel. "he always, always was the true heir," he said, "and i wasn't. oh, mother, speak!" then there was a buzz of voices, a knot of people gathered quickly round miss griselda, and phil, holding rupert's hand fast, looked again at his mother. the visitors whispered eagerly to one another, and all eyes were turned, not on the splendid young heir, but on the boy who held his arm and looked in his face; for a radiance seemed to shine on that slight boy's pale brow which we see once or twice on the faces of those who are soon to become angels. the look arrested and startled many, and they gazed longer and with a deeper admiration at the false heir than at the true. for a couple of moments mrs. lovel had felt herself turning into stone; but with phil's last appealing gaze she shook off her lethargy, and moving forward took her place by miss griselda's side, and facing the anxiously expecting guests said: "i do it for phil, in the hope--oh, my god!--in the vain hope of saving phil. i arranged with mr. baring that i would tell the story. i wish to humiliate myself as much as possible and to show god that i am sorry. i do it for phil, hoping to save him." then she began her tale, wailing it out as if her heart were broken; and the interested guests pressed closer and closer, and then, unperceived by any one, little phil slipped away. "i will go into the forest," he said to himself. "i can't bear this. oh, mother! oh, poor, poor mother! i will go into the forest. everything will be all right now, and i feel always happy and at rest in the forest." "phil," said a voice, and looking round he saw that his cousin rupert had followed him. "phil, you look ghastly. do you think i care for any property when you look like that?" "oh, i'll be better soon, rupert. i'm so glad you've come in time!" "where are you going now, little chap?" "into the forest. i must. don't prevent me." "no. i will go with you." "but you are wanted; you are the real heir." "time enough for that. i can only think of you now. phil, you do look ill!" "i'll be better soon. let us sit down at the foot of this tree, rupert. rupert, you promise to be good to mother?" "of course. your mother did wrong, but she is very brave now. you don't know how she spoke to my father and me yesterday. my father never liked her half as much as he does now. he says he is going to take aunt bella back with him--you and aunt bella, both of you--and you are always to live at belmont, and gabrielle and peggy will make a lot of you." "i'm so glad; but i'm not going, rupert. rupert, do ask gabrielle to be very good to mother." "of course. how breathless you are! don't talk--rest against me." "rupert, i must. tell me about yesterday. are all the links complete? is it quite, quite certain that you are the heir?" "yes, quite--even the tankard has been found. mrs. lovel--the lady of the forest, you remember--her servant picked it up and gave it to us last night." "did she?" answered phil. "i thought i had lost it in the bog. it fretted mother. i am glad it is found." "and do you know that the lady is rachel's and kitty's mother?" "oh, how nice! how glad rachel will be, and kitty too! isn't god very good, rupert?" "yes," answered rupert in a strong, manly young voice. "rupert, you'll be sure to love aunt grizel, won't you?" "yes, yes. i wish you wouldn't talk so much, little chap; you look awfully ill. do let me carry you home." "no; let me rest here on your shoulder. rupert, there is another lady of the forest. rachel's and kitty's mother is not the only one. i saw her in a dream. she is coming to me to-day; she said so, rupert." "yes." "i have suffered--awfully; but god has been very good--and i shan't suffer any more--i'm so happy." "dear little chap!" for about ten minutes the boys were silent--rupert afraid to move, his little cousin rapt in ecstatic contemplation. suddenly phil roused himself and spoke with strength and energy. "the lady is coming," he said--"there, through the trees! i see her! don't you? don't you? she is coming; she will rest me. oh, how beautiful she is! look, rupert, look!" but rupert could see nothing, nothing at all, although phil stretched out his arms and a radiant smile covered his worn little face. suddenly the arms fell; the eager words ceased; only the smile remained. rupert spoke, but obtained no answer. a little face, beautiful beyond all description now--a little face with a glory over it--lay against his breast, but phil himself had gone away. that is the story. sad? perhaps so--not sad for phil. the end. [illustration: _frontispiece--dear little couple abroad_ "polly drew her stockings and shoes on." _see p. _] how "a dear little couple" went abroad by mary d. brine author of "the doings of a dear little couple" with seventeen illustrations philadelphia henry altemus company dedication. to my little friends who have known and loved our "dear little couple" (polly and teddy) i herewith dedicate this story, which tells of _more_ of the doings of the little couple, and am lovingly the friend of all my little readers, mary d. brine. copyright, . by henry altemus. how "a dear little couple" went abroad. chapter i. polly thinks over her "surprise." [illustration] polly opened her blue eyes one lovely morning in may, and found the "sun fairies"--as she called them--dancing all about her wee bed-chamber, and telling her in their own bright way that it was high time little girls were up and dressing for breakfast. at first she was sure she had been having a beautiful dream, for what else could make her feel so happy and "sort of all-overish," as if something very nice and unusual had come upon her? she was sure she had dreamed that a splendid surprise had happened, and it was something about going away, too! polly lay still in her little white nest of a bed, and thought over her dream, and lo! on a sudden, as she grew more and more awake, the real cause of her new and glad sensations came into her curly head, and she bounced, like a little rubber ball, right out of bed, and danced a wee lively jig on the floor. why, of course it wasn't a dream! no, indeed! it was as real--oh! as real as polly darling herself, and no wonder she had felt so "all-overish" and so "glad all inside of her"! she sat down on the soft carpet and drew her stockings and shoes on, but it was slow work, because polly was thinking, and she had a great deal to think about, you see. [illustration] first--oh! how it all came back to her now!--first she remembered that last night after supper papa had taken her on his knee and whispered in her ear: "pollybus, how would you like to go with mamma and papa across the sea for a little trip?" and while she was squeezing him almost to pieces by way of answer, mamma had come along, and had shaken her finger at papa, as she said: "oh, naughty papa! the idea of telling polly that _just when she's going to bed_! she won't sleep a wink for thinking of it." and polly remembered jumping down from papa's knee, and going to mamma's side, saying very earnestly: "oh, yes, i will! i truly will, mamma! i'll shut my eyes and think 'bout little lambs jumping over a fence, 'cause cook says that's the best way to get sleepy, and it's worked be-yewtifully on _her_ lots of times! oh, true and true, black and blue, i'll go right to sleep! and oh, i'm so happy!" and pretty soon after that the bed-time for little girls had come, and polly had been kissed and petted a little, as was usual after she had snuggled down in bed, and had a little while alone with her dear mamma, and then she had tried very hard to keep her promise, and "go right to sleep." but oh, dear, it had been such hard work to keep those blue eyes shut! no matter how much she thought of the lambs jumping, one after the other, over the imaginary fence, it did not make her the least bit sleepy, and the lambs all seemed to scamper off to europe as soon as they had jumped the fence, and of course polly's thoughts had to go flying after them. so, you see, it had really been a long while before the little tired lids had closed over those dear soft blue eyes, and sleep had really come. but when it did come you may be sure it was a very sound, sweet sleep, and so when polly awakened in the morning it could hardly be wondered at that she thought she had been having a beautiful dream. she knew now that it was no dream, but a most delightful reality, and oh, how happy she was! [illustration] she came to the end of her long "think" at last, and turned her attention to her dressing, and just then mamma came in to put the finishing touches to the process, and polly's tongue wagged so fast all the while that it really seemed as though it were hung in the middle, like a little sweet-toned bell, and able to swing both ways. however, mamma patiently answered all the rapid questions, and explained that papa, having to go abroad on business, had decided that it would do mamma and polly good to go also, and be the best thing to keep _him_ from being lonely, of course. and she told polly something else that had not been told the night before, but kept for an added "surprise" this morning, and that was that teddy's mamma and papa had given permission for _teddy_ to go with polly to europe, as a great and wonderful treat for both little folks. but teddy didn't know it yet, because both mammas thought polly would enjoy telling him herself and giving him a delightful surprise. "so you may run over right after breakfast," added mamma, "and tell him the good news." this additional beautiful "surprise" was more than polly could bear in an ordinary way, so she just simply _cried_ for joy (you've heard of people doing that?), and in the midst of her tears she began to laugh, and then she cried a little more, and it seemed a long time before the little happy polly settled down and was able to eat her breakfast. chapter ii. teddy's surprise. perhaps before i go any farther i ought to explain to those of my little friends who have not chanced to read the first book about "the doings of a dear little couple" that polly and teddy were next-door neighbors in the pretty village which was their home, and that they had been, during all their acquaintance with each other, most loving and devoted little chums. they were each seven years old at the time of my last writing, but at the time of this story had become eight-year-olders, and teddy insisted that because their birthdays came together they were "real truly twinses." now i will return to my story. when polly finished her breakfast and was excused from the table, she scampered off as fast as she could down the garden till she came to the little gap in the fence of which my first book told you, you remember, and called: "teddy! ted-dee! oh! teddy terry!" as loud as she could all the while she was running. now, it happened that teddy terry was eating _his_ breakfast at that time, and he was just putting a piece of potato into his rosy mouth when he heard polly's eager voice. he swallowed that piece of potato so fast that it nearly choked him, and when he had finally gotten it out of the way, he said: "please 'scuse me, mamma, papa!" and, slipping from his chair, was off in a jiffy to meet his little chum, polly. "oh, teddy, come up in our tree!" cried polly, as teddy's curly brown head pushed through the low gap in the dividing hedge fence. "come quick, quick, quick! i've got the goodest news in the world to tell you 'bout!" she danced about on her little toes while speaking, and, teddy's plump body having speedily followed his head, he left the fence, and with his little companion ran for the old apple-tree which--as you remember i told you in the first book--was the "consultation office" of our dear little couple whenever they had any especially private conversation with each other. so up into the stout branches of the old tree they clambered, and settled comfortably down in a safe fork of limbs amid a thicket of green leaves, and then, after teddy had followed his usual loving habit of kissing polly on her soft little cheek, and receiving the same sweet greeting from her, she proceeded to tell her secret. "i'd ask you to _guess_ it first," she said, "but oh, teddy terry, you never could in the world! it's this: you 'n' i are going to europe with my papa 'n' mamma! there! what do you think of _that_, teddy terry? oh, isn't it the very bestest news we could have? aren't you s'prised most to pieces?" teddy's brown eyes opened so wide that it is a wonder they did not stretch out of shape. surprised? well, indeed he was, and when polly had told him more about the matter he gave the loudest _whoop-la_! he could, and then a funny thing happened--he slid off that tree and disappeared in the wood-shed near by, and--i don't know surely--but i think it likely he went in there to hide the tears that came to his eyes, the tears of joy which polly had had, you know, only teddy didn't want her to see him turn "cry-baby," and so he had run quickly away. but polly soon found him there, and together they went to see his mother, and then he learned more fully all about the pleasure in store for him, and that mamma and papa had consented to let him go because _they_ had been called unexpectedly away a long distance to see a sick relative, and it made them glad to know that their little son would be safe and happy with polly and her mother and father during that time. afterwards, when teddy and polly were again together, they talked the coming trip over as children do, and were greatly excited and delighted. "i promised mamma solermy, oh, jus' as solermy as could be, that i'd be the goodest behaving boy your mamma ever saw!" said teddy, when he and polly, tired of jumping about and shouting "whoop!" at last sat down on the grass to talk it over, "and--and--she said she wasn't 'fraid to trus' me at all." "course not," responded polly; "you're the best that ever could be to keep promises, and if you forget 'bout 'em, it's jus' 'cause you couldn't truly help it." the more they talked over the wonderful new surprise, the more excited the dear little couple were growing, and the number of times teddy put soft kisses on his polly's cheek (one of his sweet little ways of expressing his joy, at any time, over pleasures they were to share together) i cannot tell, but you may be sure he did not limit his kisses in the least, dear loving little chum as he was! [illustration] chapter iii. "starting day." as the days went by, the children grew very restless, wishing the "starting day" would come. ted's mamma had packed his little trunk, and marked it "t. t.," and finally, when only one more day remained of the "between days," as the children called them, mr. and mrs. terry had bidden their little son good-bye and started off on their own journey. so teddy was all the more glad when the "great day" came at last. "hurrah, hurrah, polly! this is our starting day! polly, why don't you halloo?" "i'm _going_ to halloo," replied polly: "listen!" and her voice rang out in a clear shout which reached even down to the gate. "once more," cried teddy, and this time his voice joined hers, and mamma, coming to the hall door, looked out to see what was going on. [illustration: "teddy's mamma had packed his little trunk."] "it's 'cause we're so glad, mamma dearie," replied polly to the question asked, "and it's our starting day, you know." she was perched upon the piazza rail nearest the piazza of teddy's house, and teddy was to have breakfast with her presently. just now he was having his jacket well brushed by bridget, as he stood on his own piazza, and he was so impatient to get over to polly that he could hardly stand still long enough for the brushing. "goin' inter the dirty wudshed just to see 'bout that tricircle," said bridget, grumbling as she brushed, "an' s'ilin' this bran' new suit yer ma bought for yer trav'lin'! i told yer i'd put it safe away!" "well, i wanted to see if you hadn't only _thought_ you'd put it safe," explained teddy, who had considered it a very manly thing to investigate his affairs himself, and had consequently gotten his new clothes into disgrace. "there now, yer clane and swate as a rose, an' it's ould bridgie who'll be missin' the trouble of yersel', an' for sure'll be wantin' some more of that same!" said the good woman, giving him a parting hug and pat before he was off to join polly. at half-past nine the carriage was to come for them and their trunks, and they would catch the ten a. m. train for new york, and say good-bye to their pretty village home for a long time. it was truly a very exciting morning, and polly's mood for rhyming was so strong that she finally accomplished this wonderful couplet, which teddy admired as much as she did herself. it ran this way:-- "oh, teddy terry! we're going away! for this--this--this is our _starting_ day!" so ted caught the rhyme, and joined in the singing of it, and if it was sung once, it certainly was sung twenty times, till at last papa put his head out of the window and asked "if they would mind giving him and the neighbors something _new_?" breakfast over, the little couple sat down on the sofa in the hall and watched the clock, and at last the little hammer inside lifted itself and struck against the bell waiting beside it, and lo and behold! there came the carriage, driving up the road, and through the big gate, and up to the door. then the trunks were put on the rack behind (while teddy watched closely to see that the man did not forget to go and get the "t. t." little trunk). [illustration] bridget and ann were on hand to say the last good-byes, mamma gave a few last directions, and entered the carriage, papa poked the small couple in, topsy-turvy style, got in himself, called out good-bye to the servants, who were wiping their eyes with the corners of their aprons, and--the long-anticipated "start" had taken place. polly was radiant. she hugged papa, squeezed mamma, threw her arms around teddy, and kissed him over and over (getting as many kisses from him as she gave, you may be sure), and finally settled down with a long sigh of deep, pure content, and said "she was so happy she felt crowded inside of her, right up to her throat!" and teddy, not willing to feel different from polly, said: "so do i!" i won't be able to tell you very much of the short journey to the city of new york, for i've neither time nor space for it. but you know polly and teddy were just like you, my dear little girls and boys, and they enjoyed the few hours of train ride past fields and villages, hills and meadows, and all the various kinds of landscape views, they watched from the windows of their car, just as much as you have enjoyed such little trips; and, moreover, they were just as restless and fidgety--when feeling that they wanted to have a good run about, and couldn't "because they were shut up in a railroad car so long!"--as all little folks (who are real _live_ little folks) are apt to get under such circumstances. but the cars sped on and on, and after a while they rushed pell-mell into a long dark tunnel, which polly at once recognized as the "beginning of the end" of their journey to new york city. "now, jus' as soon as we get into the light again, and under a big high roof, and the cars stop, that will be new york! oh, teddy terry, aren't you glad we're almost there?" in his excitement teddy forgot where he was, and, jumping to his feet, he shouted: "whoop!" as loudly as if he had been standing in his own garden at home. then, with an immediate sense of his mistake, the little boy dropped again into his seat, and covered his mouth with both hands, while his little crimson face was a pitiful sight to see. "oh, i forgot!" said he. "i truly did forget; but i did feel so full of halloo, i--i--it came right out 'fore i guessed it would!" he looked very penitent, but whispered to polly: "don't you wish you could halloo, polly darling? i should think you would!" "teddy terry, i'm just _bursting_ to halloo as loud as i can, but i s'pose we'll have to keep on wanting to and never doing it while we're european travelers. it'll be hard holding in, teddy; but we've truly got to, else mamma and papa'll be 'shamed of our queerness again, don't you see?" teddy saw, and made up his mind to crowd his "hallooing feelings" as deeply down inside of him as possible in future; and just then the train gave a jerk, and began to move again very slowly, and at last new york was reached. chapter iv. on the voyage. it was a very fine morning when our party of four went on board the steamship (which we will call the _funda_, though that isn't the real name) bound for the sunny italian town of naples. the water sparkled in the sunshine, and the harbor was gay with the many kinds of ships and vessels in port. the dock was crowded with people going away and the friends who had come down to see them off, as is always the case. teddy and polly clung to mamma's hands, while papa attended to the baggage, and at last they were safely on the steamer's deck, watching the crowd below and the handkerchiefs constantly waved from dock to deck and from deck to dock. of course there was a great crowd of people on the ship also who were not going away, but were taking a look at the steamer's handsome saloons and state-rooms, and chatting with their departing friends or relatives until the warning cry: "all ashore!" would be heard. as teddy and polly presently went with mamma down the grand staircase from the deck to the dining-saloon, and along the corridor to the two state-rooms reserved for their use, they noticed with great delight the quantities of beautiful flowers arranged on the dining-tables awaiting the passengers to whom they had been sent by friends as a "_bon voyage_" and "send-off." (you know, perhaps, without my telling, that "_bon voyage_" means "good voyage"--"pleasant journey" in other words.) there were a quantity of letters also waiting to be claimed, and presently mamma found several for herself, and oh! joy for teddy! one little letter addressed to him. how surprised he was! and how polly rejoiced with him! "why, how did mamma get it here all right on this ship, auntie?" he asked, as mrs. darling opened it to read it to him. "oh, she knew just when the ship was to sail from here, and sent it along in the good old mail-bag, and so here it is, all full of surprise for her boy, and full of love and kisses." then she read it to him, sitting--they three--in a quiet corner of the saloon, and teddy's brown eyes filled with loving tears, and just a little bit of homesick longing for a sight of his dearly loved mother's face. but the letter made him very happy, and after "auntie" had finished reading he laid his soft little lips and then his cheek against it for a minute and handed it to her again for safe keeping. then they went to the state-rooms--polly was to share with mamma, and teddy and mr. darling were to have the room connecting--and mamma put everything in order for the voyage, and then they went back to the deck to watch the preparations for casting off from the dock. the trunks were rapidly being lowered into the hold, and teddy screamed with pleasure and excitement when he chanced to see his little trunk borne along on the shoulders of a big sailor who handled it as though it were only a feather. the letters "t. t." stood out proudly enough on the end of the trunk, as though they felt the great importance of belonging to a boy who was being a "european traveler" for the first time in his life. "and see, teddy, see!" cried polly, pointing eagerly to a man following next. "there's mamma's trunk! i see the big red 'd' on the top. but papa's isn't there! oh, teddy terry, do you s'pose they're forgetting 'bout papa's trunk? don't you think i ought to find papa and tell him 'bout it?" "hi! man!" began teddy, in his zeal for the trunk's safety, but mamma caught his little arm as he was waving it about frantically to attract the sailor's attention, and stopped further proceedings on the spot, explaining that nothing would be forgotten, and that they surely would find the trunk all safe and sound on arrival at naples. just then papa came along, and they moved to the rail of the deck to watch the people obey the warning shout of "all on shore!" while the hoarse whistle of the steamer's "blow-pipe" and the hurried orders given by the ship's officers made a sort of confusion which was intensely interesting to our dear and wonder-struck little couple. impulsive teddy, after his usual fashion when overcome with delight or deep feeling of any kind, threw his arm about polly's neck and repeatedly kissed her fair little cheek, nor cared how many strangers were looking on. indeed, i don't believe he even gave them a thought, as he was entirely absorbed in his joy, and his _polly_; and as for polly herself, she was so used to being kissed and loved by her little comrade that the presence of strangers did not trouble her at all, and she calmly kissed teddy back again, greatly to the amusement of her father and mother, as also of some people standing near, who asked mrs. darling if the children were twins. mamma laughingly explained about them, and told of their devotion to each other, and how teddy happened to be with them on the trip. [illustration] "well," said one of the group, "_i_ certainly think they are the dearest little couple i ever met." and mamma smiled when she heard the usual title again given to her young charges. so you will readily believe me when i tell you that it wasn't long before teddy and polly were prime favorites on board with all with whom they came in contact. [illustration] but we must return to our little ones, who, you know, were watching the dock and the preparations for the start. they didn't know anybody on the dock, but wished all the same to do as much handkerchief-waving as anybody else, so they went at it heart and soul; and, though the breezes didn't play tricks on any of the "grown-ups," yet they certainly did with polly and teddy, for presently there were two small handkerchiefs floating in the air, and far beyond the reach of the surprised little owners, whose eyes were following their property hopelessly enough. but the little couple didn't care. "let's play they're little white birds," laughed polly, secretly wishing they had some more to float off. you see, they were too happy to mind any sort of mishap not serious. the little handkerchiefs floated farther on, and finally landed around the corner of the dock. while the children were pulling mamma's gown to call her attention to it, and tell her about the mishap, there came a last shout of "good-bye! good-bye!" from those on deck and on shore, and the gang planks were hauled in, and with a slow, very gentle movement, as the mooring-ropes were cast off and pulled on board, the big steamship moved away from the pier, and the distance gradually widened between her stern and the watchers on the dock, who were still waving hats, handkerchiefs, and canes with handkerchiefs fastened to their heads, so that the farewell signals might reach as high and as far as possible. chapter v. on the voyage. the morning slipped away rapidly, and by the time the bugle blew its summons for luncheon the little couple had explored the steamer, under papa's guidance, pretty thoroughly. you know children like to explore, and go scampering about to see all that can be seen, in a new place and amid strange surroundings, and polly and teddy made no exception to the rule, you may be sure. they had looked wonderingly down from the first-cabin deck upon the steerage deck, and had taken note of the funny and the too often sad scenes to be found in the steerage of a ship. it was all very interesting and very wonderful to see the emigrants of different nationalities all gathered on the deck: some stretched out in the sun, some eating out of dishes which polly and teddy thought looked "very dirty and horrid"; some resting their tired heads on their hands, supporting their elbows on their knees; crowds of little bits of children, babies, and untidy-looking men and women, mingling with others who were far more respectable in appearance, but too poor to be able to pay more than the low steerage fare. our children took everything in with their bright, attentive eyes, and felt very sorry for those poor passengers below their own clean, comfortable deck. they had made friends with several of the sailors, and the "_little_ sailor" (the captain's boy), and had been stopped by so many of the passengers who wanted to have a chat with the dear little couple that they felt quite well acquainted with everybody. they had--after the easy fashion of all little people--scraped acquaintance with the few other children on board, and had finally gotten tired of racing about, and were really quite as hungry as little bears when luncheon was ready. the luncheon in the beautiful flower-decked dining-saloon was, i will add, another most interesting event for them; and though they felt a little shy at first, and afraid of the attentive stewards, and of so many strangers at a time all about them, yet i can assure you they behaved like a little prince and princess, and nobody even guessed how shy they were (though everybody near them did notice, i will say just here, what cultivated little _table manners_ "that dear little couple" possessed). well, it was some time since luncheon was done with, and while papa and mamma were lolling back in their steamer chairs reading, teddy and polly were standing close by, looking over the rail. the wind had arisen greatly during the afternoon, and big rolling waves were chasing each other over the water, making "soap-suds" white and foamy as bridget and ann at home used to make on washing-days. teddy wore a little velvet traveling-cap, black, of course, to match his velvet knickerbockers and the little jacket he wore over his white frilled shirt with its broad white collar. just now the wind had blown his cap almost off his head (fortunately it couldn't blow it out to sea, for wise mamma had secured it with a cord to a buttonhole in his jacket), and it was tilted a little on one side of his brown, soft curls, and was giving his pretty face a very roguish expression. polly was wearing a dainty grey dress and little jacket, and a grey "tam o' shanter" cap upon her sunny head. the wind had a fine time blowing her long wavy hair about her shoulders, but her cap was as safely secured as ted's, so they didn't mind the pranks of the wind, which seemed to blow harder every minute. although teddy's face looked, as i have said, quite roguish, and although polly was chattering away, seemingly as merrily as possible, yet neither of them _felt_ very roguish or merry, and pretty soon teddy said, in a sort of subdued tone: "i--i don't really think decks are nice as gardens, do you, polly?" [illustration: "polly and teddy made friends with the captain's little boy."] "why, teddy terry!" was the surprised reply, "you said your own self, jus' a teenty time ago, that you liked decks lots better'n our gardens!" "well, gar--gardens don't make you feel so--so sort of queer right here!" said ted, laying his chubby hand on his chest. "don't you feel something funny inside?" "well, i don't feel _real_ good, teddy, but--let's--oh, let's--i must go and ask mamma what makes me feel so queer." and suddenly turning from the rail, the little girl, who had never before had such strange sensations, staggered over to her mother's side, and with pale face begged to go and lie down. teddy followed her, equally white and fearful, and mamma and papa at once led them down the stairs to the state-rooms. "poor little tots!" said papa; "you're only having your first experience of sea-sickness! it won't last long." teddy and polly didn't care how long or how short things might last, if only they could _just that minute_ feel better. but the "funny feeling" relieved itself in the usual way very soon, and our little couple were put into their berths and comforted and petted until they fell asleep, and as they slept poor papa and mamma had their little turn at the same kind of discomfort, and, when they were relieved, followed the children's example and took a long nap. they didn't care for dinner that night, either of the party, and in fact very few of the passengers went to the dining-saloon, for the steamer was having such a wild frolic and dance on the waves that things were hardly comfortable on deck or in the saloons, and the stewardesses and stewards were very busy all night, and for all the next day, because the gale lasted so long and made so much seasickness on board that nobody felt very happy, you see. [illustration] chapter vi. naples is close at hand. the discomforts of the voyage, however, were very few; and after the strong winds died away, and the sky got rid of the wind clouds, and brought forth its merry sunshine again, the passengers crowded the decks, and took their ease in their comfortable steamer chairs, reading, writing, or just being lazy awhile, and the children played the game of "shuffle-board," and "tag," and "hide-and-seek," and such games as little people when they get together whether on land or shipboard, enjoy with all their might and main. polly and teddy laughed as loud and as often as the rest of the children, and bumped with the "grown-ups" during "tag" quite as frequently, but they always said: "excuse me!" when they did so, and if it was a lady they ran against teddy's cap was off in an instant while he made his little polite apology. i regret to say the other little ones were apt to forget that small act of politeness; they were so fearful of being "tagged," perhaps they hadn't time for apologies for unintentional rudeness. but after awhile, in some way, they caught the trick from polly and teddy, and surely that was a good thing, wasn't it? (i only mention this to show you that even little people--no matter how little they are--can influence each other for good or bad, and it is so much better to choose the "good," you know). and now i come to the day--or rather the early morning of the day--when the good ship steamed into the beautiful bay of naples with her colors flying, her band playing, and a crowd of excited and early risers amongst the passengers at the deck railings. amongst them, of course, were our little couple and mamma and papa, and the children were wild with delight over the novelty of the scenes before them: the swarms of small native boats, which hung around under the steamship's sides, at her bow, and under her stern; the natives themselves, calling out in their whining tones for "_monie, monie!_" (money); the little italian lads who were constantly diving for the pennies some of the laughing passengers were tossing into the water. you would not believe they could possibly have found those pennies (they were not "_pennies_" as _we_ call our coppers, but small coin of not even the value of one of our pennies, and which were called "_centesimi_") in the water; but then you must know the water in the bay of naples is very blue--oh! a beautiful blue--and very transparent, and those small imps of divers would dart head-first down below the surface, and catch the coin in their teeth, and come up laughing, ready for more. our children had, during the voyage, seen porpoises jumping out of the water, and had seen the signalling of the few passing ships, and had thought those sights great fun. think, then, how "all-overish with gladness" they felt here in naples harbor, watching these foreign scenes, and so happy with the novelty of their position that they fairly longed to open their rosy mouths and _whoop_ after their usual fashion at home. they looked ahead of them and saw the pretty city of naples gleaming in the shine of the early rising sun, with its terraced gardens rising one above the other in masses of green foliage, through which the gaily-colored roofs of houses and other buildings could be seen. it made a charming and picturesque sight for everybody; and even those who had seen it all many times before, perhaps, felt the same thrill of delight as our dear little couple were feeling as they beheld it all for the very first time. "it makes me feel so full in here!" said polly, to her mother, while her blue eyes shone like stars. [illustration] "me, too!" echoed master teddy, placing his hand as polly did, on his heart, and drawing a long breath. but we must hurry on with our story. (don't blame _me_, children, for hurrying, and leaving out much you would like to know, but blame the _publishers_, for it is all their fault, i'll tell you privately.) when, at last, our party found themselves on the dock, and were waiting for papa to finish attending to the baggage, polly saw something which made her cry out: "oh! look!" it was a little bower all decorated with large yellow lemons, larger than any lemons the children had ever seen before. the bower was coming straight towards them, and they couldn't see what made it move. from the top of the little arch (the _inside_ of the arch, which was just like a tiny summer-house) more big lemons were hanging, and also some little glasses, which were hanging by handles. as the queer thing came nearer, the children discovered that the small bower was built upon a little hand-cart, and that a brown-faced italian lad, no older than teddy, was drawing it between shafts, as though he had been a little pony. he was so nearly hidden by vines and lemon boughs that it was no wonder he had not at first been seen by teddy and polly, whose bright eyes were seeing so much. nestling amongst vines on the bottom of the cart was a bright tin pail, and that was full of lemonade, which looked very clean and nice because it had just been freshly made. the little lemonade vendor came close to our party, and began a low, bird-like beautiful whistle. it sounded like a flute at first, then like a bird, then like a sweet eolian harp, and even mamma was delighted to hear it. after he had finished, his black eyes twinkled, and he said in broken english which italian children readily pick up: "buy limonade! ze signorina buy limonade? vera chip" (cheap), "on'y fiva centa glass!" he filled a glass and handed it to polly--"_ze little mees!_" "we're very fond of lemonade, auntie darling," said teddy, casting wistful eyes upon the cool drink. "well, you shall have some then," laughed mamma, and teddy and polly took their first refreshment on italian shores. the little beppo grinned at them, pulled a ragged cap from a mass of black, close curling hair, and, dropping his _centesimi_ (with which mrs. darling had provided herself before leaving the steamer, at the purser's office) into his pocket, he began a merry whistle again and moved off in search of more custom. chapter vii. the drive to the hotel. as the hotel to which the darlings wished to go was located on one of the city heights, commanding a fine view of the bay and famous old mount vesuvius (about which our little couple had been told by papa), the drive there from the dock was of course long enough to let them see a great many funny sights on the way, and you may be sure they were greatly impressed by them all. they saw men and women in queer costumes of gay colors--the women without hats or bonnets--going about the streets, and sunning themselves in the doorways, combing their children's heads or their own untidy locks; they saw them hanging out their washing on the backs of chairs right out in the street; they saw a _woman and a cow_ together pulling a big wagon; they saw a wee bit of a _donkey_ harnessed with an _ox_, and both tugging at a cart as placidly as though they weren't a funny pair; they saw a cow, a horse, and a donkey, all three harnessed before a vegetable-cart, on which sat a driver "not even as old as teddy," the children were sure, though he may have been older than he looked, as so many of the poorer class of children in naples are stunted in growth; they saw a wee little bony donkey pulling a wagon which carried six big men and women in it, and they didn't think it was a bit cruel to put so heavy a burden on such a little beast. but our dear little tender-hearted couple thought it so cruel that they could not even look at it after the first glance. they saw lots of little children in the street going about with great beautiful bunches of flowers--red, red roses and italian violets in their dirty little hands, running after carriages, and holding their fragrant wares up to the ladies and gentlemen who were driving about to see the city. polly wondered why the people didn't want to keep the flowers, but kept shaking their heads _no_ all the time. she knew _she_ would keep them and say: "thank you," very politely if any little girl or boy offered her any. and presently a small boy ran up to the carriage and held up his roses. now, it chanced that mamma and papa were very busy at that moment searching for certain information in their guide-books, and so they did not notice the little flower-boy, nor hear miss polly's delighted thanks as she took the flowers in her eager hands. the carriage was going very slowly, and the expectant little italian trotted alongside waiting for the coin which in her dear innocent heart polly had no idea was wanted, for she was whispering to teddy: "i think these napelers are very kind and polite to us, don't you?" and she gravely proceed to divide her gift with her "chum." "_una lira! una lira!_" whined the impatient lad outside, and at that mamma looked up and discovered polly's funny mistake. how she laughed, and papa too! how red polly's cheeks grew! redder than her roses, which she thought had been a polite gift to her. "what does he mean?" teddy asked, "saying all the time '_ooner-leerer_'?" "he means that he wants _one lira_ (which means twenty cents of our money) for his roses," replied mamma, "and i will let you give him the money, dear," passing it to teddy, who felt very much like a grown-up man as he leaned over and dropped the price of polly's beautiful roses in the outstretched and very dirty little hand of the italian. "i don't think napelers are so polite and kind as i did," said polly somewhat crossly, for, you see, she felt so astonished and so ashamed of her mistake that it did make her a little cross with herself and the circumstances. [illustration: "a small boy ran up to the carriage, and held up his roses."] however, when teddy sweetly and with great gallantry pinned one of his share of the roses to polly's jacket, she smiled her crossness out of sight, and everything was cheerful again. as they drove along the children saw many other curious things, and stored them away in their memories to talk over together and tell to their little friends at home. finally they arrived at the hotel, and were shown to their rooms, which overlooked the bay. old vesuvius, which had been through a state of fierce eruption (you all know about volcanos, of course, and must have heard about mount vesuvius, so that you will know what a volcanic eruption means, and i need not explain it here) some time before this, was now settling down into quite a calm state again, but that night after the sky had grown dark our little couple noticed the dull red glow on the crater's head, and saw little thin streaks of fire down upon the side of the mountain nearest the bay; and papa told them all about the famous old mountain and its bad habits, and promised to take them to the ruins of the once beautiful and ancient city of pompeii (i shouldn't wonder if my little readers had studied about it in their geographies), and tell them of the way old vesuvius went to work, long, _long, long_ ago to destroy the city and its inhabitants by throwing lava and hot ashes down upon it, on a day when everybody was happy, and careless, and little dreaming what was coming to them all. after looking out upon the shining waters of the bay, and seeing the pretty reflection of the stars in them by-and-by, and listening to the twinkling music of mandolins and the tuneful voices of the italian street-singers awhile, our little teddy and polly went sleepily to bed, and never even had a dream, their slumber was so sound. chapter viii. an excursion. many a nice walk about the streets of naples did our dear happy little couple take with mamma and papa, and into many a shop did they go, completely fascinated with the pretty goods displayed there. they longed to buy up everything they saw, and, if they had been allowed a larger portion of coin than papa good-naturedly gave them each day, i don't know how many wonderful things they would have purchased. they enjoyed the street scenes, too, as they walked along. the long-eared donkeys, which carried on either side of their short round backs such enormous and heavily loaded paniers that sometimes all you could see of the little animals were their slender legs, their long wagging ears, and their tails. but they didn't seem to mind their burdens at all, and plodded along thinking their own donkey thoughts, and no doubt wondering what teddy and polly were laughing at them for! and then there were the little shops where fruits were sold, and over the doorways of which were hanging great branches full of oranges and lemons, just as the boughs were broken from the trees (as we in our country, you know, like to break a bough hanging full of cherries from our cherry-trees). it was wonderful to polly and teddy to see such a sight, and to see, as they had seen at their meals in the hotel, those large oval lemons and the golden round oranges served to the hotel guests on the stems, with the clustering leaves adorning them. (you don't see such things as those in new york, do you?) well, and then there were the beautiful gardens, rising one above the other in a bewildering mass of foliage of orange, lemon, and olive trees rich in fruit. those gardens belonged to the wealthy class of neapolitans, and their pretty dwelling-houses stood amongst the gardens on their terraces, overlooking the city like sentinels on the hills. there were queer streets--_side_ streets they were--which consisted only of a series of stone steps running straight up hill, like steps dug out of a steep cliff-side; and along the sides of those "step-streets," as teddy called them, were little bits of houses and shops scooped out of the walls of the terraces and made comfortable, after a fashion, for those who lived in them, and who kept their tiny stores. polly and teddy looked up at them as they passed, and noticed that the stone steps--from top to bottom--were swarming with children, men, and women, and nearly all of them, even the wee little people, carried baskets and various burdens as easily on their _heads_ as in their hands; and the strange part was that some of those bundles, which were poised so safely on the heads, would have made a fair load for a horse, so large were they. another funny thing the little couple were greatly interested in was the sight of those peculiar decorations each horse, donkey, and cow, and even the oxen were wearing when in harness. it consisted of a long feather, as though from a rooster's tail, which was stuck securely over the animal's forehead, and waved and waggled to and fro as the animal walked along. when there was no feather to be seen, there was always a _tuft of hair_ or a _tuft of fur_ fastened in place either between the animal's ears or on the harness, and it was considered a very wrong thing if either of those peculiar decorations was forgotten when harnessing. why? well, because, unfortunately, the lower classes of italians have many foolish superstitions, and that is one of them, for they fancy that "_ill luck_" is kept off and the "_evil eye_" of misfortune turned aside by the use of the feathers, the hair, or the fur in the manner i have described. polly and teddy agreed that it was a very silly idea, and i'm afraid they didn't have much respect for the drivers of the animals they saw decorated in that absurd style. one day papa and mamma took the children to the island of capri. they had seen the island from their windows rising out of the bay in the distance, and the guide-book told them that it would be a fine excursion on a fair day. so they started off one lovely morning in the little excursion boat that takes passengers to and fro between naples and the island of capri and other points of interest in the bay. [illustration] i cannot take time to give all the particulars of the _boat_ trip and its delights, but must tell you about the famous "_blue grotto_," which they reached before arriving at capri. the "blue grotto" is a cave in the rocks of one of the cliffs, and when the water is smooth a row-boat can be paddled through the low opening which makes the mouth of the cave; but in rough weather no boat can make the passage, as the opening is so very small. the rock on one side of the cave does not go to the bottom, but is only sunken a little way below the water. so the sunlight strikes down under the rock, as well as under the entrance hole, and is reflected upwards again through the water in the cave, which causes a wonderful silvery light, and a beautiful pale blue tint to the water and the roof of the cave. visitors to capri always stop at the "blue grotto" on the way, and when the big boat--the excursion boat--stops at that part of the cliff there are a crowd of men in little row-boats, waiting to take passengers who wish to go into the cave and show them the wonders of it, for a small coin each passenger. so of course our little couple must see it, and so must mamma. papa, who had seen it all once before (when he and mamma had taken a trip alone, before _polly_ could remember), did not go, for the boatman would only carry three passengers on the trip. you may imagine how they enjoyed it, and when they saw a boatman from another boat jump over into the water and splash about to show his passengers how like a silver blue water-sprite he could look the children gave one of their delighted whoops right there, and then nearly fell out of their own boat with fright at the loud strange echo the cave gave back at their shout. well, after the passengers returned from the cave, the steamboat went on its way, and in due time the landing at capri was made, and the passengers were told that they would have two hours of time in which to see everything of interest on the beautiful island, before the boat should start on to _sorrento_ (which is another charming resort not far from capri). such a crowd of donkey boys and donkey girls as were on the dock when the steamboat stopped! they were all yelling at one time, trying to coax passengers to use their donkeys or their cabs, and pay them so much per hour. [illustration: "the blue grotto of capri."] now, you see, capri is a funny sort of island, for it is "taller than it is broad," as people say. it rises right out of the bay in a lot of terraced cliffs, and as far up as you can see it is just a mass of green gardens and woods. at the base of the island are the village streets, and odd little houses, and shops and hotels, and at one of the hotels our party of four ate a good dinner, before taking a carriage up the mountain road to anacapri, a funny little bit of a village right at the very top of the island. when the dinner was finished mamma and papa took the back seat in the open little "victoria" (as the carriage was called, though it was very small and crampy in its proportions), and the little couple, gay as larks, and wide-eyed with wonder, sat close together on the small footstool of a seat in front of the "grown-ups," and with a crack of the whip (which the horse didn't even jump at, because he is so used to it, and best of all, because the "crack" is only in the air and not against his bony sides) they all started off for "anacapri." i could tell you of a great many things they saw on the way, and of the natives they passed, who bobbed and curtsied to the travelers, and showed their white teeth, and held up their little brown babies, hoping for the gift of a coin or two. and i would like to describe the magnificent sight of the olive-gardens, and of the trees hanging full of lemons and oranges, and of the beautiful flowering vines which grew by the roadside, and the shade trees, and particularly of the _grand_ sight which greeted their eyes with every turn of the winding road which brought the bay of naples (stretching itself far and wide and dotted all over with odd little ships and boats) into view. but i must skip all those things, and get you at last with the dear little couple to the mite of a village mentioned as "anacapri." from there our friends looked right down upon the bay and over at naples, and if they had been little birds they would have spread their wings and taken a good fly into the blue sunny space before them--at least, that is what teddy whispered in polly's ear he would _like_ to do. chapter ix. what they saw at anacapri, and how they went on to sorrento and pompeii. [illustration] when the carriage stopped in the midst of the small houses at anacapri, instantly a swarm of little boys and girls surrounded it. while the horse was resting, the small natives stared at our friends, and gazed especially hard and long upon polly and teddy, who felt quite shy and uncomfortable over the matter. they finally decided to give a few stares back again, and little bashful polly ventured to smile, though she didn't have anything in particular to smile about. teddy, seeing polly smile, thought _he_ ought to, and in a few moments every little italian face was on the broad grin also. mamma and papa had been talking with the driver, who could speak a little broken english, but they were ready to notice the pretty brown faces of the children who stood beside the carriage, and now decided that anacapri could boast of the good looks of its "small fry" with good reason. there was only one ugly-featured little boy in the crowd, and he was very ugly indeed, and not only that, but his hair was red, and his eyes _very blue_, and he was so fair of skin that his face was covered with freckles. he spoke italian, however, like a native, and papa wondered what sort of little red-haired native he might be. so he spoke to him in english, to see if the boy would comprehend. to his surprise he answered with a merry smile, and then, another surprise, a little fellow beside him spoke up also in english, and explained that, though _he_ was dark in complexion, and italian all over, yet he was _brother_ to the red-haired boy, who was _scotch_; and that jim's father was a scotchman, and when he died his mother married an italian whom she met in england, and when _he_ died she was left poor, and through some friends in anacapri had come there to live only seven months before. he told all this in good, though of course childish and broken english, for he was only nine years old. then jim, the little scotchman, put in his word, and when asked how they happened--in only a few months--to speak italian like natives, when they had lived in other countries all their lives before, he replied, tossing his head proudly: "oh, _that_ ain't anythin'. _we got it off the boys_ here!" of course all this was deeply interesting to polly and teddy, and they took a great fancy to the little brothers. but presently a boy who had not spoken before, not knowing english, put his hand inside his shirt and pulled out a little brown bird. holding it by both wee feet, he held it up, while its poor little heart was beating and its tiny wings fluttering with fear. "_monie!_" he said, and it was the only english word he cared to know--"monie!" and he pointed to the bird and then to the sky. the little couple looked wonderingly at him, and the scotch boy explained that if polly gave the boy a coin he would let the poor birdie fly away in safety. if he didn't get the coin, then he would take it home and his family would cook it for supper. that made our little couple indignant, and vexed also the mamma and kind-hearted papa. so he paid over a coin, and up, up, up into the sunny space above flew little birdie, and the children--_our_ children--shouted with pleasure to see the poor captive free. but--what do you think came next? why, that cruel boy put his hand inside his shirt again, and out came another bird, and with it the same request for "monie." of course, he was frowned upon, and not another coin was given him, for papa found he had a "bunch of birds" hidden there to earn their freedom by coin-giving, at every chance offered, and as those same birds, after being freed, would be caught again in time, the outlook was discouraging, wasn't it? and now, the horse being rested, the party turned about to go back to the steamboat landing below, and to the small scotchie and his italian brother only did mr. darling give a farewell gift of coin, as they drove away and finally left the little village behind them. when they reached sorrento a little while after, it was late in the afternoon, and papa said they must spend the night there and go on by carriage to see the ruins of pompeii the next day. it was a delightful experience to our little european travelers when they saw that the steamboat did not go close up beside the landing dock, as at capri, but that the passengers were to be taken off in small boats and rowed ashore. they could hardly wait their turn for it, but finally the blissful moment arrived, and the children were seated in the stern of the little boat, gliding over the blue waters. oh! you have no idea how very blue and clear the water there really is. it is like beautiful azure blue ribbon, satin ribbon, and you feel as if you'd like to carry home bottles of it. but as it is the sunshine and the condition of the depths of water and bottom of the bay all combined which produce that _color_ there--you would not be able to bottle it, would you? well, when the landing was reached, the children had to lift their eyes to a height on top of a steep cliff wall before they could see the hotel in which the night was to be spent. "i never in the world, teddy terry, can climb up there!" said puzzled little polly. but ted thought it would be real fun to climb it, and was quite disappointed when papa pointed to a narrow railroad which ran up, up, up the cliff through a tunnel beginning not far from where they had left the boat. "it is called a '_funicular_,' or, as the italians call it, a '_funicolare_,'" explained papa, "and the little car we are to enter presently is drawn up to the top of the cliff by a cable, a strong wire rope, very thick and quite able to do its work safely, so you needn't look so frightened, little goosey," to polly, for her eyes were full of anxious wonderment, and she took tight hold of her father's hand. "i'm not a bit frightened," declared teddy, but i really think he was a tiny bit afraid, for he grasped the tail of papa's coat pretty closely as they followed mamma into the little car, which seemed to be standing almost on end, and looked as though at any moment it might roll backwards down the incline. however, they arrived in good condition at the top before long, and were able to rest themselves and by-and-by eat a good dinner in the fine hotel, which was located in the midst of a wonderful garden right there on top of the cliff. next morning they visited the little shops where beautiful olive-wood articles were sold, and papa bought a fine ruler for ted, and a dainty little clothes-brush (both of carved olive-wood) for polly. then it was time to drive to pompeii, and after a long, rather dusty drive down the mountain road, they found themselves amongst the ruins of that ancient city at last. of course such little folks as polly and teddy couldn't take quite as much interest in the old city as grown-up visitors were taking, but they were quick to observe everything especially interesting: the ruts in the paved streets worn deeply by the wheels of the chariots used in those days (something like the chariots you have seen, no doubt, when barnum's big circus comes along, and all little folks go to see it, of course); the big flat stepping-stones in the streets, which were placed there so that people could have a clean, dry, and raised crossing from one side to the other (very nice for rainy, muddy weather, wasn't it?); the bake ovens where loaves of bread were baking at the very moment the flood of hot cinders and lava came thickly down upon the city and destroyed it so suddenly and so soon; the old drinking-fountains still bearing the worn impressions and dents made by the hands which used to rest upon the fountain basins so long ago. papa explained that according to history the city was seven hundred years old when destroyed, and it lay over a thousand years under twenty feet of ashes. you see, the ashes cooled, and the lava hardened, and there was no sign of any city there till all those many years had passed, and then by accident, history tells us, it was discovered that there was a city away down under all that earth (grass had grown over it in all that long time, and it looked like meadows). then people set to work digging, and lo and behold! uncovered so much of it that everybody flocked to see it. so that is how polly and teddy at last got there, and people are still digging away, clearing more and more of the big city from the earth over it. papa made it all very interesting to our little couple (and when they got home what did teddy do but bury away down deep in his garden, in the deepest hole he could dig with his little spade, a whole toy village of polly's, and cover it up, and pound the earth and grass over it again, and by-and-by play he was "discovering pompeii" and set to work to excavate the little city again). chapter x. back to naples, and "homeward bound." well, after they had seen pompeii, and looked at the curiosities in the little museum of the office and station building near by, our little couple felt very tired, and begged papa to take them home. polly's little golden head ached, and teddy's stocking had gotten into a wrinkle on his heel, and it hurt him to walk, and they both agreed that they didn't care one bit if "_vesulivus_" did cover old "pompawy" all over with ashes and dirt. they wanted to go home and rest polly's head and teddy's lame heel, and so papa and mamma confessed to being pretty tired also, and soon they were in the train, speeding rapidly towards naples, having had two days of "round trip excursion," and a "jolly good time," as the children expressed it. i would like to tell you about all the little couple did and all they saw while there for four happy weeks, but i must leave it all to your lively imagination, dear little readers, and whatever beautiful times you imagine for the children you may be sure they had. [illustration: "i have almost kept my promise to my mamma and tried to be a good boy."] papa was obliged to return to his business at home after a month of good times abroad, and so the day came when the trunks were packed again, and the clock was being watched, and the hotel "bus" being listened for, etc., and our little couple again in haste to go on board the steamship, for, much as they had enjoyed themselves, they confided secretly to each other the grand truth that--"after all, they liked their own gardens and playtimes at home lots better'n european things, and that bridgie and ann made things taste nicer to eat than the queer cooks in naples; and 'sides all that, they hadn't seen any tree at all that was half so nice as their own apple-tree where they could sit in amongst the leaves together, and--and--they guessed 'merican things were nicer for little boys and girls, _any_ way!" teddy had put into a snug corner of his small trunk a few little gifts for "dear own mamma and papa," and a nice present for his bridget and polly's ann. and polly had carefully stowed away in mamma's trunk also some pretty gifts for "auntie terry and uncle terry," and a present each for her ann and teddy's bridgie; and the things they planned to do and the good times they planned to have when once more at their own pretty cottage homes, where the _old apple-tree_ and the much-loved _gap in the fence_ near it were waiting for them i can't begin to tell you. we see them now--as they stand together with teddy's loving arm about polly, and her soft cheek pressed close to his--at the railing in the stern of the ocean liner, taking a farewell look at sunny naples and italian shores, and waving handkerchiefs to the men, women, and children in the small row-boats which were skipping about in the bay in the wake of the steamship, while shrill italian voices were shouting: "_addio! addio!_" "we've had the beautifullest time that ever could be, and we've liked being european travelers ever so much, haven't we, teddy terry?" remarked polly at last, as the children followed mr. darling to their steamer chairs; "and i must say," she added quite proudly, "that i think we've been such good children that some day maybe papa'll take us to some other places. won't that be fun?" teddy thought it would, but he could not be so conscientiously sure of having been as "good" as polly fancied, for he had a distinct remembrance of certain occasions (of which i haven't had the heart to tell my little readers) when mamma darling had had to scold pretty severely, and he had been more humiliated about it than polly, on account of his promise to his own mamma. thinking it all over now, as he sat in his chair beside mrs. darling on deck, he suddenly drew her head down to him and earnestly whispered: "say, auntie, i have almost kept my promise to my mamma and tried to be a good boy, haven't i? you see, i wouldn't like her to say i broke my word after she'd been and trusted me, you know, auntie!" mrs. darling put a tender kiss on the soft little tanned forehead, and whispered back: "i'm going to tell mamma terry that her boy was the best-behaved little traveler i ever saw, so cheer up, teddy boy!" it was a very happy little laddie who settled back in that big steamer chair and slipped his hand into polly's after "auntie" had made her whispered speech. and now we must say good-bye to them, as the steamship speeds on towards america's shores, and i hope this story of _more_ of the doings of our dear little couple will have given as much pleasure as your first account of them. the world is full of "dear little couples," isn't it? * * * * * transcriber's notes: page , "city" changed to "city" (york city) page , repeated line of text was deleted. original read: blew its summons for luncheon the little couple had explored the steamer, under papa's guidance, pretty thoroughly. you know the steamer, under papa's guidance, pretty thoroughly. you know children like to explore, and go scampering about to see all that can child _vs._ parent the macmillan company new york · boston · chicago · dallas atlanta · san francisco macmillan & co., limited london · bombay · calcutta melbourne the macmillan co. of canada, ltd. toronto child versus parent _some chapters on the irrepressible conflict in the home_ by stephen s. wise rabbi of the free synagogue author of "the ethics of ibn gabirol," "how to face life," "free synagogue pulpit," etc. new york the macmillan company _all rights reserved_ printed in the united states of america. copyright, , by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published march, . brown brothers, linotypers new york to the memory of my mother, sabine de fischer wise contents chapter page i. facing the problem ii. back of all conflicts iii. some parental responsibilities unmet iv. the art of parental giving v. the obligation of being vi. wars that are not wars vii. conflicts irrepressible viii. conflicting standards ix. the democratic regime in the home x. reverence thy son and thy daughter xi. the obsession of possession xii. parents and vice-parents xiii. what of the jewish home? xiv. the jewish home today xv. the sovereign graces of the home chapter i facing the problem one way of averting what i have called the irrepressible conflict is to insist that, in view of the fundamental change of attitude toward the whole problem, the family is doomed. even if the family were doomed, some time would elapse before its doom would utterly have overtaken the home. in truth, the family is not doomed quite yet, though certain views with respect to the family are,--and long ought to have been,--extinct. canon barnett[a] was nearer the truth when he declared: "family life, it may be said, is not 'going out' any more than nationalities are going out; both are 'going on' to a higher level." to urge that the problem of parental-filial contact need not longer be considered, seeing that the family is on the verge of dissolution, is almost as simple as the proposal of the seven-year-old colored boy in the children's court, in answer to the kindly inquiry of the judge: "you have heard what your parents have to say about you. now, what can you say for yourself?" "mistah judge, i'se only got dis here to say: i'd be all right if i jes had another set of parents." for the problem persists and is bound to persist as long as the relationships of the family-home obtain. the social changes which have so markedly affected marriage have no more elided marriage than the vast changes which have come over the home portend its dissolution. it is as true as it ever was that the private home is the public hope. a nation is what its homes are. with these it rises and falls, and it can rise no higher than the level of its home-life. marriage, said goethe, is the origin and summit of civilization; and saleeby[b] offers the wise amendment: "it would be more accurate to say 'the family' rather than marriage." assuming that the family which is the cellular unit of civilization will, however modified, survive modern conditions, the question to be considered is what burdens can the home be made to assume which properly rest upon it, if it is to remain worth while as well as be saved? nothing can be more important than to seek to bring to the home some of the responsibilities with which other agencies such as school and church are today unfitly burdened. false is the charge that school and church fail to co-operate with the home. truer is the suggestion that church and school have vainly undertaken to do that which the home must largely do. the teacher in church and school may supplement the effort of the parent but cannot and may not be asked to perform the work of parents. the school is overburdened to distraction, the church tinkers at tasks which in the nature of things must fall to parents or be left undone. and the school is attempting to become an agency for the universal relief of the home, which cannot be freed of its particular responsibilities even by the best-intentioned school or church. another quite obvious thesis is that conflicts arise between parents and children not during the time of the latter's infancy or early childhood but in the days of adolescence and early adulthood. the real differences--rather than the easily quelled near-rebellions of childhood--come to pass when child and parent meet on terms and conditions which seem to indicate physical and intellectual equality or its approach. i do not say that the processes of parental guidance are to be postponed until the stage of bodily and mental equivalence has been reached but that the conflicts are not begun until what is or is imagined to be the maturity of the child raises the whole problem of self-determination. the latter is a problem not of infants and juveniles but of the mature and maturing. it may be worth while briefly to indicate the various stages or phases of the relationship of parents and children. in the earliest period, parents are for the most part youngish and children are helpless. this period usually resolves itself into nothing more than a riot of coddling. in the next stage, parents begin to approach such maturity as they are to attain, while children are half-grown reaching ten or twelve years. this is the term of unlessened filial dependence, though punctuated by an ever-increasing number of "don't." in the third stage parents at last attain such maturity as is to be their own,--years and maturity not being interchangeable terms,--for, despite mounting years some parents remain infantile in mind and vision and conduct. children now touch the outermost fringe or border of maturity in this time of adolescence, and the stage of friction, whether due to refractory children or to undeflectible parents, begins. coddling has ended, or ought to have ended, though it may persist in slightly disguised and sometimes wholly nauseous forms. dependence for the most part is ended, save of course for that economic dependence which does not greatly alter the problem. the conflict now arises between what might roughly be styled the parental demand of dutifulness and the equally vague and amorphous filial demand for justice--justice to the demands of a new self-affirmation, of a crescent self-reliance. and after the storm and fire of clashing, happily there supervenes a still, small period of peace and conciliation unless in the meantime parents have passed, or the conflict have been followed by the disaster of cureless misunderstanding. it may be well, though futile, to remind some children that it is not really the purpose of their parents to thwart their will and to stunt their lives and that the love of parents does not at filial adolescence, despite some freudian intimations, necessarily transform itself into bitter and implacable hostility. to such as survive, parents aging or aged and children maturing or mature, this ofttimes becomes the period most beauteous of all when children at last have ceased to make demands and are bent chiefly upon crowning the aging brows of parents with the wreath of loving-tenderness. one further reservation it becomes needful to make. i must need limits myself more or less to parental-filial relations as these develop in homes in which it becomes possible for parents consciously to influence the lives of their children, not such in which the whole problem of life revolves around bread-winning. i do not consider the latter type of home a free home. it is verily one of the severest indictments of the social order that in our land as in all lands bread-winning is almost the sole calling of the vast majority of its homes. i do not maintain that all problems are resolved when this problem is ended, but the fixation respectively of parental and filial responsibilities hardly becomes possible under social-industrial conditions which deny leisure and freedom from grinding material concern to its occupants. the miracle of high nurture of childhood is enacted in countless homes of poverty and stress, but the miracle may not be exacted. it was hard to resist a bitter smile during the days of war, when the millions were bidden to battle for their homes. under the stress of war-conditions, some degree of sufficiency, rarely of plenty, fell to the lot of the homes of toil and poverty--the customary juxtaposition is not without interest. but now that the war is ended, the last concern of the masters of industry is to maintain the better and juster order of the war days, and the primary purpose seems to be to penalize "the over-rewarded and greedy toilers" of the war-days, selfishly bent upon extorting all the standards of decent living out of industry. cutting short this disgression, the direst poverty seems unable to avert the wonder of parents somehow rearing their children to all the graces of noble and selfless living. but, i repeat, this is a largesse to society on the part of its disinherited, whose high revenge takes the form of giving their best to the highest. we may, however, make certain demands upon the privileged who reward themselves with leisure and all its pleasing tokens and symbols. for these at least have the external materials of home-building. need i make clear that the homes of too much are as gravely imperilled as the homes of too little? many homes survive the lack of things. many more languish and perish because of the superabundance to stifling of things, things, things. the very rich are ever in peril of losing what once were their homes, a tragedy almost deeper than that of the many poor who have no home to lose. the law takes cognizance in most one-sided fashion of the fact that a home may endure without moral foundations but that it cannot exist without material bases. despite attempts on the part of the state or states to avert the breaking up of a home solely because of the poverty of the widowed mother, it still is true that many homes are broken up on the ground of poverty and on no other ground. saddest of all, mothers take it for granted that such break-up is unavoidable. only two reasons justify the state's withdrawal of a child from its parental roof,--incurable physical and mental disability in a child, whose parents are unable to give it adequate care, or moral disability on the part of parents. if the latter ground be valid, material circumstances ought no more to hold parent and child together than the absence of them ought to drive parent and child apart. a child resident on fifth avenue in new york may be in greater moral peril than a little waif of five points. societies for the prevention of cruelty to children ought to intervene as readily when moral leprosy notoriously pervades the home of the rich as the state intervenes when children's health is neglected or their moral well-being endangered in a home of poverty. i have sometimes thought that an orphan asylum ought to be erected for the benefit of the worse than orphaned children of some notoriously corrupt, even when not multi-divorced, heads of society. such a protectory for the unorphaned, though not fatherless and motherless, might serve a more useful purpose than do such orphanages as, having captured a child, yield it up reluctantly even to the care of a normal home. chapter ii back of all conflicts it may seem to be going rather far back, to be dealing with the problem _ab ovo et ab initio_, to hold as i do that much of the clashing that takes place between the two generations in the home is the outcome of an instinctive protest against the unfitness of the elders to have become parents. it is far more important to speak to parents of their duty to the unborn than to dwell on filial piety touching parents living or dead. children have the right to ask of parents that they be well-born. such children as are cursed and doomed to be born may not only curse the day that they were born but them that are answerable for the emergence from darkness to darkness. even if we did not insist upon dealing with fundamentals, children would, and they will, question the right of unfit parents to have begotten them. a new science has arisen to command parents not only "to honor thy son and thy daughter" but so to honor life in all its sanctity and divineness as to leave a child unborn,--if they be unfit for the office of parenthood. honor thy father and thy mother living or dead is good; but not less good is it to honor thy son and daughter, born and unborn. some day the state,--you and i,--will step in and enforce this command and will visit its severest condemnation and even penalty upon parents, not because a child has been born to them illegitimately in a legal or technical sense, but because in a very real and terrible sense they have been guilty of mothering and fathering a child into life which is not wholly viable--that is unendowered with complete opportunity for normal living. some day we shall surround marriage and child-bearing with every manner of safeguard and ultimately the major findings of eugenics will be embodied into law and statute. the duty of parents to a child born to them is high, but highest of all at times may be the duty of leaving children unborn. race suicide is bad, but an unguided and unlimited philoprogenitiveness may be worse. about a decade ago, it was considered radical on the part of certain representatives of the church to announce that they would not perform a marriage ceremony for a man and woman, unless these could prove themselves to be physically untainted. later the states acted upon this suggestion and forbade certain persons entering into the marriage relation. some day we shall pass from what i venture to call negative and physical malgenics to positive and spiritual eugenics. the one is necessary to insure the birth of healthy and normal human animals: the latter will be adopted in the hope of making possible the birth and life of normal souls. the normal, wholesome, untainted body must go before, but it can only go before. for it is not an end to itself but means to an end, and that end the furtherance of the well-being of the immortal soul. but in reality the eugenic responsibility of parents is a negative one and, being met, the second and major responsibility remains to be met. the former involves a decision; the latter the conduct of a lifetime. once upon a time and not so long ago, it might have been said that parents are not responsible for the heredity of which they are the transmitters. today, with certain limitations, we charge parents with the responsibility of heredity which they bestow or inflict as well as with the further and continuous responsibility of environment. whatever may be held with respect to the duty of parents as "hereditarians," there can be no doubt that it is the obligation of parents consciously to determine, as far as may be, the content of the home environment. i would go so far, and quite unjestingly, as to maintain that the least some parents can do for their children is through environmental influence to neutralize the heredity which they have inflicted upon them. unhappily, it may be, we cannot choose our grandparents, but we can in some measure choose our grandchildren. but environmental influence is more than a mouth-filling phrase. parenthood and the begetting of children are not quite interchangeable terms. the continuity of parental functioning is suggested by the hebrew origin of the term, child, which is etymologically connected with builder, parents being not the architects of a moment but the builders of a lifetime. this means that we are consciously to determine the apparently indeterminable atmosphere of our children's life and home. that this involves care of the bodily side of child-being goes without saying, but, as we have in another chapter pointed out, this stress seems to be needless. the primary and serious responsibility of parents is bound up with the education of a child. and the first truth to be enunciated is that parents can no more leave to schools the intellectual than to priest and church the moral training of a child. i remember to have asked a father in a mid-western city to which it had been brought home that its schools were gravely inadequate--why he, a man of large affairs, did not set out to remedy the conditions. his answer was, "i do my duty to the schools when i pay my school taxes." this was not only wretched citizenship but worse parenthood and still worse economics. it does much to explain the failure of the american school which is over-tasked by the community and pronounced a bankrupt, because it cannot accept every responsibility which the parental attitude dumps upon it. however much the school can do and does, it cannot and should not relieve the home of duties which parents have no right under any circumstances to shirk. a wise teacher in a distant city once wrote to me, having reference to the peace problem: "i personally see no hope for peace until something spiritual is substituted for the worship of the golden calf. and as a teacher i must say, if i speak honestly, that there is an increasing aversion to solitude and work both on the part of parents and pupils, due to false viewpoints of values and as to how the genuine can be acquired." two of the, perhaps the two, most important influences in the life of the child are dealt with in haphazard fashion. parents later wonder where children have picked up their strange ideals and their surprising standards. not a few of the roots of later conflict can be traced back to the earlier years, when children find themselves in schools wholly without parental co-operation and flung at amusements bound to have a disorganizing effect upon their lives. while parents must accept the co-operation of the school, the latter cannot be a substitute for the home nor the teacher a substitute for the parent. the school cannot operate in the place of the home, though it may co-operate with it. the school cannot do the work of a mother, not even the work of a father. the same is true of parents in relation to college and university. again i am thinking not of the youth who works and wins his way to and through college but of that type of family in which a college education for the children is as truly its use and habit as golf-playing by the father after fifty. the college-habit, i have said, is a bit of form when it is not a penalty visited upon a youth, who, after an indifferent or worse record at a preparatory school, must be forced into and through college. all of the consequences of college-education except a degree many somehow manage to avert. college education should be offered to youth as opportunity or reward, or parents will come to be shocked by the futility of it and the almost uniformly evil sequelae thereof. and parents have the right as upon them lies the duty to insist that their sons shall not loaf and rowdyize through four years at college and, when they do acquiesce in the ways and manner and outlays of the college-loafer and the college-rounder, they must not expect a bit of parchment to convert him into an alert, ambitious, industrious youth. if they do, as they are almost certain to do, the conflict will begin. chapter iii some parental responsibilities unmet i have sometimes thought that a glimpse of the want of deep and genuine concern touching the education of children is to be gotten in the rise of summer camps in great numbers during recent years. i do not deny the place or value of a camp for children and youth. i have come into first-hand contact with some admirable camps for boys and girls and, as i looked at some visiting parents, could not avoid the regret that the separation between parent and child was to be of a brief summer's duration. two months in the year of absence from the home can hardly suffice to neutralize the effect of ten months of parental presence and contact. i quite understand that the ideal arrangement in some homes would be to send the child to camp during the summer months and to send the parents out of the home, anywhere, during the rest of the year, an arrangement that is not quite feasible in all cases. my query is--granted the value of the camp, how many parents have thought the problem through for themselves, a query suggested not by the inferior character of some camps, but by the celerity with which the camp-craze has swept over the country. in many camps children are sure to profit irrespective of the character of the home whence they are sent, but surely there are some camps a stay in which can but little benefit children. now why do camps so speedily multiply, and why are children being sent to them in droves? the real reason is other than the oft-cited difficulty of placing children decently in other than summer hotels. the instant vogue of summer camps met a parental need, the need of doing something with and for children with whom, released from school, parents did not know how to live, finding in the camp an easy way out of a harassing difficulty. why do parents so live that in order to have a simple, wholesome life for their children, it is necessary to send them off to the woods in so-called camps the charm of which lies in their maximum difference from hotels and in their parentlessness? the unreasoned haste with which children flocked in multitudes to the camps is a testimony to the failure of parents to live in normal, intimate contact with their children, and a prophecy, i have no doubt, of the conflict certain to develop out of the stimulated difference in tastes between child and parents. i, too, believe that children, especially city-reared children with all their sophistications and urbanities, should be brought nearer to the simplicities of nature during the vacation period. but why not by the side and in the company when possible of parents? the truth is that, apart from the merits and even excellence of some camps, parents are so little accustomed to living with their children that when the summer months force the child into constant contact with parents, the latter grow embarrassed by the necessity for such contact, and the camp is chosen as a convenient way out of a serious domestic problem. my complaint is not against camps but against the multiplication of them necessitated by the helplessness of parents who face the need of sharing the life of their children. and some of these parents are the very ones who will later wonder that "our children have grown away from us." i am often consulted by parents who express their grief at that strange bent in their children, which moves a son or daughter to seek out low types of amusement and the companionship bound up therewith. i quiz the complaining parents and learn that no attempt was ever made parentally to cultivate cleaner tastes, that the child was incessantly exposed to all the vulgarities and indecencies of the virtually uncensored motion picture theatre. recreation is become a really serious problem in our time, immeasurably more important than it was in the youth of the now middle-aged, such as the writer, when a punch and judy show and a most mild and quite immobile picture or stereopticon were considered the outstanding entertainments of the year. how many parents take their children's amusement seriously, as they take their own, and are concerned that these shall be, as they can be made, free from all that is vulgar and unclean? if the well-to-do, who might have other recreations, are given to the motion picture, is it to be wondered at that in the poorer quarters of new york, if a child be too small to be tortured by being kept at the side of its parents throughout a motion picture performance, it may be checked in its go-cart as one would check an umbrella. there is an electric indicator on the side of the screen which flashes the check-number to inform parents when their child is in real or fancied distress. a writer in the _outlook_, may , , deals with the vulgarizing of american children and particularly the vulgarizing and corrupting power of the movies. he commented editorially, as i have done elsewhere, on the extraordinary absence of parental care for the minds of children in curious contradiction to the supersedulous care of the body: "many influences are at work to vulgarize american children, and little is done by many parents to protect the mental health of their children. neither time nor money is spared to preserve them in vigor and strength, to protect them from contamination. meanwhile, those minds are the prey of a great many influences, which, if not actually evil, are vulgarizing. what is going on is not so much the corruption of young people in america as their vulgarization." parents are not less vulgarized, but the awakening and shock come when children are grown and are found to show the effects of what was innocent amusement, of what proves to have been deeply corrupting and degrading to the spirit. but it is not enough for parents to censor the theatres frequented by their children and when they can to debar them from attendance at disgustingly "sexy" plays. it is their business as far as they can to cultivate in their children the love of the best in letters and in the arts. it is not enough to call a halt to the pleasure-madness of our children; it is needful that their recreations be guided into wholesome and creative channels. happily books and pictures and, though less so, music, are accessible to all, and it remains true that we needs must love the highest when we see or hear it. intellectual companionship is a primal necessity in the home contacts. partially because of the craze for visible and audible entertainment, we have lost the habit of reading. why trouble to plough for ten or twelve hours through a volume when one may look upon its contents picturized within the duration of an evening's performance at the theatre and in addition the "evil of solitariness" be avoided? there is a real advantage in the old-time habit of reading aloud in the home. it is one conducive to community of interest and a heightened tone of home-contacts. it is far better to make dinner or library conversation revolve around worth-while books than worthless persons. it may not be easy for some parents to acquire or achieve this home habit of reading aloud but it is of the highest importance that children be enabled to respect their parents as thinking and cultivated persons if these they can become. one cannot help regretting that reading aloud is becoming a lost art. one hardly knows how badly reading aloud can be done and how wretchedly it is for the most part taught until one asks one's children to read aloud. the choice and the art of reading can best be stimulated and guided within the intimacy of the home. it may, as i have said, be difficult for parents, especially fathers, to accustom themselves to the practice of reading aloud. it may seem sternly and cruelly taskful to read to and with one's children when it is so much pleasanter to exercise one's mind at bridge whist with contemporaries or to yield to the pleasurable anodyne of the "movies." and yet i do not know of a truer service that parents can render children than to foster a taste for worth-while books, for the best that has been said and sung, if one may so paraphrase, so that these may know and love the great things in prose and poetry alike. it is never too late to begin the habit of reading any more than adults ever find it too late to learn to dance or to play bridge. alice freeman palmer has put it[c]: "you will want your daughter to feel that you were a student, too, when she becomes one, and that the learning is never done as long as we are in god's wonderful world." what a difference it will make when all mothers have such relations with their children beside the life of love. when i say that it is for you to live with your children, i do not mean that you are to go to the theatre with them daily or thrice weekly, for that is merely sharing pastimes with them. i say live with them, not merely join them in their amusements. not only is reading good and needful but the right kind of reading. i sometimes wonder as i look upon cultivated persons handing their adolescent children sheaves of magazines, cheap, vulgar, nasty. we cannot expect that our children can for years feed upon the trivial and ephemeral and then give themselves to things big and worth-while. in one of his stimulating volumes,[d] frederic harrison suggests that men who are most observant as to the friends they make or the conversation they share are carelessness itself as to the books to which they entrust themselves and the printed language with which they saturate their minds. are not parents often carelessness itself with respect to the books to which even very young children are suffered to entrust themselves? a book's not a book! some books are vacant, some are deadening, some are pestilential. wisely to help children to the right choice of books, remembering that reading is to be of widest range and that in reading there are innumerable aptitudes, is to render one of the most important of services to a child. the editor of a woman's magazine recently pointed out that in one year nine thousand eight hundred and forty-six girls wrote to her about beauty problems, and seventeen hundred and seventy-six asked advice with respect to other problems, "the throbbing, vital questions that beset the social and business life of the modern girl." out of what kind of homes have come these young women, whose quest is of complexion-wafers? the figures of the magazine editor are above all things a _testimonium paupertatis_, intellectual and spiritual, to multitudes of american homes. what kind of mothers will these young women make? do they dream of rearing fine sons and noble daughters, or will they be satisfied to become child-bearers at best rather than builders of men and women? but there is something more, and it is more closely related to our particular problem. it is from the empty, poor, however rich, homes that bitter protest and heartbreaking revolt will emerge. for some children are bound in the end to despise the cramping intellectual and moral poverty of their childhood homes,--whence conflict takes its rise. chapter iv the art of parental giving parents must be made to see that the really irrepressible conflicts are not begun when children are fourteen, sixteen and eighteen but rather four, six, eight; in other words, are ascribable to causes long anterior to the occasions which disclose their unavoidableness. thus parents may find themselves in collision with maturing children over the utterly sordid and gleamless character of their lives, or, what is not less grave in its consequences, their "visionary and impractical ways, so different from our well-tried _modus vivendi_." it is quite safe to predict the rise of conflict of one character or another when parents are unmindful of the higher responsibilities of their vocation, the responsibility of making clear to children the reality of moral and spiritual values. the supreme parental responsibility is to give or to help children to achieve for themselves those standards by which alone men truly live, to give to children the impulse that shall reveal not what they may live by but what they ought to live for. the one potent way to avoid future conflict is so to make for, not point to, a goal that children shall not become mere money-grubbers or perpetuators of ancient prejudices or maintainers of false values or lawless upholders of the law. parents would do well to have in mind that the most just and terrible of reproaches are often left unspoken. i am thinking of a youth who had inherited a very large fortune. happening to point out to him to what uses his means might be put, this youth replied: "my parents never ceased to tell me what not to do, but they never told me what it is that i ought to do. there are no _oughts_ in my life which i have gotten from my father. i have learned what i ought not to do and i suppose that i know that." this was the young heir's revolt and, if his word be true, wholly just revolt against the spirit of those parents who seem to imagine it to be enough if they teach their children such fundamentals as the perils of violating statutory law, the inexpediency of coming into conflict with those ordinances which it is the part of convention never to violate. in one word, it is not enough to forbid and interdict. obedience to _don'ts_, however multitudinous, is not even the beginning of morality though it lead to a certain degree of personal security. forbidding one's children to steal may keep them out of jail, but that is hardly the highest end of life. more must be given them, such affirmations of faith and life as make for high ideals, for true standards, for real values. i have heard parents, lamenting over a child's misconduct, offer the following in self-exculpation: "i never did or said anything that was wrong in the presence of my children," it being forgotten that children may be present unseen, that they may overhear the unuttered. but, one is tempted to ask, did you by any chance or of design say or do aught in the presence of your child that was affirmatively and persuasively right? i can never forget a scene i witnessed many years ago. shortly after the passing of his father, a son entered the death chamber, shook his fist in the face of his dead father and exclaimed with tearless and yet heartbreaking grief: "you are responsible for the ruin of my life." later i learned that the father was a mere accumulator of money who had believed every paternal duty to have been fulfilled because he gave and planned to bequeath possessions to his children. multitudes of parents there are who during their lifetime should be made conscious of the lives they are suffering to go to wreck, theirs the major responsibility. happily for some parents, most children who survey the ruin of their lives fail to fix the responsibility where it properly belongs,--in parental neglect of the obligation to bring to children moral stimulus and spiritual guidance. but the important thing for parents is not to guard their speech lest children overhear them but to guard their souls that children be free to see all. if emerson was right with respect to a man's character uttering itself in every word he speaks, this is truest of all within the microcosm of the home, wherein children are relentlessly attentive to parental speech and silence alike, pitiless assessors of omission as well as commission. what parents are, not what they would have themselves imagined to be by children, shines through every word and act, however scrupulous be parental vigilance over speech and conduct. it may be very important for parents to be watchful of their tongues as they are rather frequently urged to be. but it is rather more imperative to be watchful over their lives. we are tempted to forget that parental duties are positive as well as negative, that it is not enough for parents not to hurt a child, not to do injury to his moral and spiritual well-being. for of all beings parents must, paraphrasing the word of the german poet, be aggressively and resistlessly good, pervasively beneficent, throughout their contact with a child. it is a problem whether it be more necessary to counsel children to honor parents or to bid parents be deserving as far as they may be of the honor of children. years ago a great teacher of the nation pleaded as men commonly plead for reverence and honor on the part of children toward parents. but in truth we have no right to plead for reverence filial unless to that plea there be added solemn entreaty to the elders to make it possible for the young to do them reverence and honor. when we, the elders of this day, bemoan the want of unity between our children and ourselves, let us not be so sure of our children's unworthiness but rather ask ourselves whether we are worthy of that which our parents enjoyed at our hands, the reverence and honor which must needs underlie unity in the home. honor, in a word, must lie in the daily living of parents ere they may await it at the hands of children. the father, who is nothing more than a cash register or coupon-scissors, is undeserving of honor from children, however many and goodly be his gifts to them. and the mother, whose life is given to the trivialities and inanities of every season's mandate, merits not her children's reverence despite all biblical injunction. children cannot be expected to do more than outward and perfunctory obeisance to fathers who care solely for the things of this world, success however achieved, money however gained and used, power whatever its roots and purposes, nor do honor to mothers whose passion is for the lesser and the least things of life. i remember to have estranged a dear friend by urging in the pulpit that, unless parents strive as earnestly to merit honor as children should seek to yield it, they will not have it nor yet have been deserving of it. let us for a moment get a nearer glimpse of how the matter works out from day to day. how can a mother whose life is spent in pursuit of the worthless expect reverence, though the time may come when she will yearn for it and rue her failure to have won it? the disease of incessant card-playing has laid low multitudes of wives and mothers, that card-gambling which has been described by former president eliot as an extraordinarily unintelligent form of pleasurable excitement. there was a time when, in the speech of the apocryphal teacher of wisdom men strove for the prizes that were undefiled. but the prizes of the card table are not only defiled but defiling. they fill the lives of women not a few with mentally hurtful and morally enervating excitement. the substitution of the delirium of the gaming table for the durable satisfactions of life that come from worth-while intellectual pursuits is ever a disaster. what manner of children are to be reared by a generation of bridge-experts, of women half-crazed with the pleasures of the card-table, to whom no prize of life is as precious as the temptation of bridge-whist. i recently heard the recital of a bit of conversation between parent and child: "mother, is card playing terribly important?" "why do you ask?" "well, i went to see my aunt and she was playing cards with three friends, and, when grandmother came into the room, no one rose to meet her. so i thought that the game must be awfully important and the prizes very fine or they would have arisen when grandma entered, wouldn't they?" even if there were no fear of later conflict, it would still be the duty of parents to give themselves to children, that is to have something to give, to make something of themselves that their gift be worth while. and for the giving of self there can be no substitute though one may reinforce oneself in many ways. parents cannot give themselves to children vicariously. a young woman, mother of a little one which i had expected to find with her, calmly answered my inquiry touching the child, "a child's place is with its nurse." one begins to understand the tale of the little girl who declared that when she was grown she wished to be a nurse so that she might be with her children. there may be and are times when a child's place is with its nurse if the household be burdened with one, but to lay it down as a general rule that a child's place is always apart from its mother and by the side of its nurse is to disclose the manner of maternal neglect in the homes of many well-circumstanced folk. i have said before that lincoln is to be congratulated rather than commiserated with upon the fact that he had little schooling and no nurses, seeing that in the place of schools, teachers, nurses, governesses, he had a mother and the immediacy of her unvicarious care. unless parental-filial contact be direct rather than intermediate, parents cannot help a child to be as well as to have and to do, to live as well as to earn a livelihood. parents can give a child little or nothing until they learn that a child is more than a body or intellect, a body to be fed and clothed, a mind to be furnished and trained. when parents come to remember that a child is, not has, a soul to be developed, they will cease to stuff their children's bodies and cram their minds while starving their souls. how often, alas, do parents pamper their children in their lower nature while pauperizing their higher nature, because of their failure to see that not alone were they co-authors of a child-body but that they are to be the continuing re-makers of a child's mind and spirit. are there quite enough parents like the father of a friend into whose young hands at leave-taking from home his father placed a bible and a copy of the poems of burns with the parting word,--love and cling to both, but if you must give up the bible cling to burns. but verily we can give nothing more to our children than clothes and food and money until we remember to make something of ourselves. it is not easy for the stream of domestic influence to rise higher than the parental level. time and again i have heard a father exclaim: "i am going to leave my boy so well off that he won't have to shoulder the burdens which all but crushed me." less often have i seen a father so rear his son that he revealed his inmost purpose to be the fostering of his son's nobleness. are there as many parents who would have their children finely serviceable as highly successful? chapter v the obligation of being but the primary duty of parents is to learn and to teach that happiness is not the supreme end of life and to dare to live it. we are so bent upon giving to our children that we forget to ask aught of them. we seem to be unmindful of what the wisest teacher of our generation has called the danger of luxury in the lives of our children. those parents who in largest measure have learned to do without seem to think that they must overwhelm their children with things. how many parents are equal to the wisdom of the heroic belgian mother who would not permit her children to leave belgium in the hour of its deepest stress and suffering, saying: "yes, we intended to take our children to england for safety but when we remembered that in the future they might hold important positions in our country and perhaps be influential in future leadership, we did not want them to come to this work ignorant of what our people have undergone and suffered during this terrible war. they would not have known because they would have spent all the period of the war in pleasant living in england. when we thought of this, we felt with sinking hearts that we owed it to them and their country to keep them here, though we knew and know now that there is great danger." did not this belgian mother serve her children infinitely better than do those parents who imagine that they must deny their children nothing save the possibility of discomfort and want? edward everett hale tells a story which clearly shows what emerson thought best for a young man and wherein he conceived the responsibility of parents to lie. i congratulated him as i congratulated myself on the success of our young friend, and he said: "yes, i did not know he was so fine a fellow. and now, if something will fall out amiss, if he should be unpopular with his class, or if he should fail in business, or if some other misfortune can befall him, all will be well." he himself put it, "good is a good doctor, but bad is sometimes a better." with one further evil effect, perhaps the worst, of the habitude of ceaseless parental giving, i have dealt elsewhere. it fosters more than all else the parental sense of possession. have i not given my children everything?--asks a hyper-wasteful father or a super-bounteous mother. yes, it might be answered, you have given them _everything_ and that is all you have given them. giving a child things without number is no guarantee of peace or beauty in the parental-filial relation. giving, giving, eternal giving is bound to narcotize into sodden self-satisfaction, or at last to rouse to protest an awakening soul. if, mr. successful or madam prosperous, you think that you are satisfying your children because you are giving them an abundance of things, you may be destined some day to suffer a sorry awakening. remember that too many things kill a home more surely than too few. children may ask and ought to ask more of parents than things, and, far from being satisfied with things, they ought to demand of parents that these minimize things and magnify that of life which is unconditioned by things. to magnify the home is not to furnish it richly but to give it noble content. over-stressing the physical side of the life of children and under-emphasizing the spiritual side of their life leads inevitably to certain results. some years ago, i knew a family in which both parents died within a brief period. there was some perfunctory grief, though in each case the funeral was one of the new-fashioned kind, marked alike by tearlessness and the use of motorcars. the interesting thing, as i looked upon these comfortable, unworried, immobile children, was that probably it had been the dream of the parents for a lifetime to make their children comfortable and happy. well, the parents had wonderfully succeeded, had so succeeded in the matter of making their children comfortable that not even the death of parents in swift succession could shake them out of their deep-rooted comfortableness even for a moment. within a few weeks of the passing of the mother, i met the son and heir--heir rather than son--at an amateur baseball game in which he was one of the vociferous and gleesome participants, with a cigar perched in his mouth at that angle which is, i believe, considered good form at a baseball game. as i surveyed that sorry specimen of filial impiety, apparently without reverence for his parents or respect for himself, i was moved to ask myself where lies the fault, whose the ultimate responsibility? true enough, the children of those parents were rather empty-headed and superficial beings, but it was the parents who were primarily at fault. the mother was a blameless rather than a good woman, and the father was an unseeing, soulless money-grubber with but one aim in life--namely, to multiply his children's rather than his own comforts, and to enable them to indulge in every manner of luxury. these gave their children things and only things, and still there was something touching in the devotion of the parents, however poor and mistaken its objects. but there was something repulsive in the indifference of the children to the parents who had lived for naught else than their well-being, however mistakenly conceived. parents who give their children only things must face the fact that they make themselves quite dispensable, seeing that they are not things. for things and the wherewithal to secure them are alone indispensable according to the parental standards. the ultimate responsibility? any possibility of change involves the re-education of parents. parents must learn long before parenthood what are the values in life for which it is worth while to toil and to contend. the root of the matter goes very deep in conformity to the hint of oliver wendell holmes with respect to the time at which a child's education is to be begun. some years past, i came upon a ludicrous illustration of the maximum care devoted to the physical nature and the minimum devoted to the moral and spiritual nurture of child-life. i heard a very well-circumstanced mother declare: "i never permit my child to have a crumb of food handed it by its governess which has not previously been tasted by me." quite innocently i asked: "where is the little gentleman?" the answer was: "napoleon--i call him that because his name was caesar--is at the 'movies' this afternoon." upon further inquiry, i learned that the mother did not know the name and nature of the play upon which her son was looking, and that in order to keep him out of mischief he was sent every afternoon to the motion picture theatres. here was the good mother tasting every mouthful fed to the heir-apparent lest harm befall him, and, yet, he was spending an hour or more daily in attendance at a motion-picture theatre where poison rather than food might be and probably was fed to the child's mind. but no hesitation and no fear were felt on that score. underlying the one concern and the other unconcern is a crude materialism which assumes that the avenue of access to a child's well-being is feeding but that the mind, howsoever fed and impoisoned, even of a little child, could somehow be trusted to take care of itself. there are certain things which we deny to our children partly because we have them not, and yet again because we are not often conscious of the need of them in the life of the child. i place first spiritual-mindedness; second, the sense of humility, and third, the art of service. these three graces must come again into the life of our children from the life of their parents and they can hardly come in any other way. if they come not, it will be an unutterable loss from every point of view, remembering the word of a distinguished university president, "the end of the home is the enlargement and enrichment of personality, the performance of the duty owed to general society in making contributions for its betterment." i address myself particularly to jewish parents when i say to them that it is a terrible blunder to ignore the spiritual responsibility which rests upon them. a christian child is almost invariably touched by the circumambient spiritual culture but the jewish child is in the midst of a non-jewish culture and almost untouched by spiritual influences. the home gives little, the jewish religious school gives no more than a fragmentary education in the things of jewish history instead of exercising a characteristic spiritual influence. and, as for the synagogue, it is the part of kindness or of guilt to be silent touching its hardly sufficing influence in american israel in the creation of a distinctive spiritual atmosphere or the enhancement of definite spiritual values. with respect to the spirit of humility, i happened not long ago to confer with two young men, one of whom is about to enter into the ministry. when asked quite conventionally what it was that had moved him to think of himself as especially fitted for the ministry, his answer was: "i feel that i am a born leader of men." on the other hand, i asked a young graduate of an american university who was about to leave for europe what was his life's purpose, and he answered: "to serve in the foreign mission field." is it not true that the youth who felt that he was a born leader and sought a field in which he could exercise the qualities of leadership lacked spirituality, was wholly without humility, evidently did not have the faintest understanding of the possibilities of service, and the other revealed the possession of spiritual-mindedness, of humility and finally the spirit of service. there is no more serious indictment to be framed against the family than that it does little and often nothing to foster the social spirit. the home is not often enough a school of applied social ethics, and the home that is not is likely to witness such conflict as arises out of revolt against the smugly self-centered and unsocialized home on the part of those sons and daughters who have caught a gleam of the social life. if we had or could share with our children the spirit of service, would not great numbers of young people throughout the land rise up, eager for service to israel in the midst of its terrible needs at home and abroad? few were the well-circumstanced youth in the course of the war, who gave themselves to service through agencies classed as non-military, and fewer still such as volunteered for service as relief workers in east-european lands at the close of the war--again among the well-to-do. this is very largely a matter of upbringing, of the ideals implanted by parents and teachers. what is your son's ideal of living? is it to serve or to be served? do you try hard enough to get out of your son's head the notion that being served by butler and valet and chauffeur is the greatest thing in the world? the greatest thing in the world is not being served but serving, to be least served and most serviceable. as tolstoy put it, i believe shortly before his death, woman's bearing and nursing and raising children will be useful to humanity only when she raises up children not merely to seek pleasure but to be truly the servants of mankind. the ultimate question underlying every other is, what are you giving to the souls of your children? and the answer is,--what you are. "in my dealing with my child, my latin and greek, my accomplishments and my money, stead me nothing. they are all lost on him: but as much soul as i have avails. if i am merely willful, he gives me a roland for an oliver, sets his will against mine, one for one, and leaves me, if i please, the degradation of beating him by my superiority of strength. but if i renounce my will and act for the soul, setting that up as umpire between us two, out of his young eyes looks the same soul; he reveres and loves with me."[e] thus pleads emerson in the name of the child's potential oversoul. not long ago, i made an attempt to interest a young woman of a well-known family in social service. she shuddered as if some verminous thing had been held up to her gaze. "not for me that kind of thing." you must teach your children the methods and the practice of selfless service. if you do not, well, your children may rise up against you or fall to your own level, or, worst of all, awaken and discover what you are. chapter vi wars that are not wars every difference between parent and child is somehow assumed to be rooted in and ascribable to the inherent perversities of the parental-filial relation. when scrutinized, these will often be found to be wholly unrelated thereto. ever are parents and children ready to take it for granted that their clashing arises out of the relation between them when in truth, viewed dispassionately and from the vantage-ground of remoteness, parent and child are not pitted against each other at all. they are persons whose conflict has not the remotest bearing upon the relation that obtains between them. would not much heartache be avoided, if parents and children clearly understood that the grounds of difference between themselves, however serious and far-reaching these sometimes become, are not related to or connected with the special relation that holds them together? thus the irritations of propinquity may not be less irritating when seen to arise out of the fact of physical contact rather than from the circumstance of intellectual antagonism or moral repulsion, but it is well to know that such irritations are not the skirmishes of life-long domestic war. i say "irritations of propinquity," for, excepting among the angels, the status of propinquity cannot be permanently maintained without at least semi-occasional irritation. professor r. b. perry,[f] dealing with domestic superstitions, declares, in reference to scolding: "the family circle provides perpetual, inescapable, intimate and unseasonable human contacts.... individuals of the same species are brought together in every permutation and combination of conflicting interests and incompatible moods.... the intimacy and close propinquity of the domestic drama exaggerates all its values, both positive and negative." not only does the unavoidable persistence of physical contacts account, however unprofoundly, for occasional differences in the home, but another and parallel circumstance ought never to be lost sight of. there are two samenesses in the home, the sameness of blood and the sameness of contacts. putting it differently, the oneness of environment for all the tenants of a home continues and sometimes intensifies the strain in either sense of blood-oneness. this may sound playful to those who have never bethought themselves touching the enormous difficulties that arise in the home insofar as some parents, having inflicted a certain heredity upon their offspring, are free to burden these filial victims with an environment escape from which might alone enable them to neutralize or palliate the evil of their heritage. i have in an earlier passage asked the query whether filial revolt is not the unconscious protest of children against the authors or transmitters of hereditary defect or taint. let me name two types or kinds of what are held to be conflicts between parents and children, which are not conflicts in any real sense of the term; first, intellectual differences and, second, the inevitable but impersonal antagonism of the two viewpoints or attitudes which front each other in the persons of parent and child. as for purely intellectual differences, it is well to have in mind the world's current and suggestive use of the term "difference of opinion"--carlyle saying of his talk with sterling: "except in opinion not disagreeing"--as if that in itself were quite naturally the precursor of strife and conflict. if difference of opinion oft deepen into conflict, is it not because in the home as in the world without we have not mastered the high art of patiently hearing another opinion? graham wallas[g] would urge: "a code of manners which combined tolerance and teachability in receiving the ideas of others, with frankness and, if necessary courageous persistence in introducing one's own ideas.... whether we desire that our educational system should be based on and should itself create a general idea of our nation as consisting of identical human beings or of indifferent human beings" is the problem with which wallas[h] faces us. in the world without men may flee from one another but the walls of the home are more narrow. and within the home-walls, for reasons to be set forth, the merest differences of opinion, however honestly conceived and earnestly held, may be viewed as pride of ancient opinion on the one hand and forwardness of youthful heresy on the other. parents are no more to be regarded as intolerably tyrannical because of persistence in definite opinions than children are to be viewed as totally depraved or curelessly dogmatic because of unrelinquishing adherence to certain viewpoints. i am naturally thinking of normal parents, if normal they be, who would rather be right than prevail, not of such parents as imagine that they must never yield even an opinion, nor yet of children surly and snarling who do not know the difference between vulgar self-insistence and high self-reverence. for the father a special problem arises out of the truth that the mother presides over the home as far as children are concerned and as long as they remain children, and he steps in to "rule" ordinarily after having failed through non-contacts to have established a relationship with children. this is the more regrettable because often it becomes almost the most important business of a father, through studied or feigned neglect, to neutralize the over-zealous attention of a mother, such attention as makes straight for over-conventionalization. to regard differences of opinion as no more than differences of opinion will always be impossible to parents and children alike until these have learned how to lift these things to and keep them on an impersonal level. and of one further truth, previously hinted at, parents and children must become mindful,--that what, viewed superficially and personally, is their clashing, is nothing more than the wisdoms of the past meeting with the hopes of the future--past and future embodied in declining parent and nascent child. because of their fuller years and the circumstance of protective parenthood, parents are conservators, maintainers, perpetuators. because of their uninstructed years and freedom from responsibility, children often become radical, uprooters and destroyers at the imperious behest of the future. these impersonal clashings of past and future can be kept on an impersonal basis, provided parents can bring themselves to see that things are not right merely because they have been and that things are not wrong solely because they have not been before. perhaps at this point, though parents have experience to guide them and children only hopes to lead them, it is for parents to exercise the larger patience with hope's recruits, even though these find light and beauty alone in the rose tints of the future's dawn. felix adler has wisely said: "a main cause is the presumption in favor of the latest as the best, the newest as the truest.... the passion for the recent reacts on the respect or the want of respect that is shown to the older generation.... now if one group of persons pulls in one direction and another group pulls in exactly the opposite direction, there is strain; and if the younger generation pulls with all its might in the direction of changing things, and if the older generation leans back as far as it can and stands for keeping things as they are, then there is bound to be a tremendous tension." it may be true, as has lately been suggested by the same wise teacher, that the children of our time are in protest against parents, because these are the authors and agents of the sadly blundering world by them inherited. is it not also true and by children to be had in mind that parents are fearful of the ruthless urge and, as it seems, relentless drive of the generation to be, which become articulate in the impatiences of youth? dealing with the difference that arises out of the fact of parents facing pastward and children futureward, professor perry declares[i]: "the domestic adult is in a sort of backwash. he is looking toward the past, while the children are thinking the thoughts and speaking the language of tomorrow. they are in closer touch with reality, and cannot fail, however indulgent, to feel that their parents are antiquated.... the children's end of the family is its budding, forward-looking end: the adult's end is, at best, its root. there is a profound law of life by which buds and roots grow in opposite direction." it were well for parents and in children to remember that past and future meet in the contacts of their common present, and that these conflict-provoking contacts are due neither to parental waywardness nor to filial wilfulness. these are not unlike the seething waters of hell gate, the tidal waters of river and sound, meeting and clashing, and out of their meeting growing the eddies and whirlpools which have suggested the name hell gate bears. through these whirling waters there runs a channel of safety, the security of the passerby depending upon the unresting vigilance of the navigator. the whirl of the waters is not less wild because the meeting is the meeting of two related bodies, two arms of the self-same sea. chapter vii conflicts irrepressible if it be true, as true it is, that many of the so-called wars are not wars at all, there are on the other hand conflicts arising between parents and children which cannot be averted, conflicts the consequences of which must be frankly faced. to one of such conflicts we have already alluded,--that which grows out of impatience with what emerson calls "otherness." but this, while not grave in origin, may and ofttimes does develop into decisive and divisive difference. "difference of opinion" need not mar the peace of the parental-filial relation, unless parents or children or both are bent upon achieving sameness, even identity of opinion and judgment. it is here that parents and children require to be shown that sameness is not oneness, that, as has often been urged, uniformity is a shoddy substitute for unity, and that it is the cheapest of personal chauvinisms to insist upon undeviating likeness of opinion among the members of one's household. for, when this end is reached, intellectual impoverishment and sterility, bad enough in themselves in the absence of mental stimulus and enrichment, are sure to breed dissension. an explicable but none the less inexcusable passion on the part of parents or children for sameness--a passion bred of intolerance and unwillingness to suffer one's judgment to be searched--is fatally provocative of conflict and clashing. let parents seek to bring their judgments to children but any attempt at intellectual coercion is a species of enslavement. it may be good to persuade another of the validity of one's judgments, but such persuasion on the part of parents should be most reluctant lest children feel compelled to adopt untested parental opinion, and the docility of filial agreement finally result in intellectual dishonesty or aridity. than this nothing could be more ungenerous, utilizing the intimacies of the home and the parental vantage-ground in the interest of enforcement of one's own viewpoints. if i had a son, who, every time he opened his mouth, should say, "father, you are right," "quite so, pater," "daddy, i am with you," i should be tempted to despise him. i would have my son stand on his feet, not mine, nor any chance teacher's or boy comrade's, or favorite author's, but his own, and see with his own eyes and hear with his own ears, nerving me with occasional dissent rather than unnerving me with ceaseless assent. children are equally unjustified in attempting to compel parental adoption of filial views, but for many reasons it is much easier for parents to withstand filial coercion than the reverse, and up to this time the latter coercion has been rather rarer than the former. "the idea of the unity of two lives for the sake of achieving through their unsunderable union the unity of the children's lives with their own," citing the fine word of felix adler, is a very different thing, however, from lowering the high standards of voluntary unity to the level of compulsory uniformity. another cause of clashing may be briefly dealt with, for it is not really clashing that it evokes. they alone can clash who are near to one another, and i am thinking of an unbridgeable remoteness that widens ever more once it obtains between parents and children. not clash but chasm, when parents and children find not so much that their ideals are so pitted against one another as to occlude the hope of harmonious adjustment, as that in the absence of ideals on one side or the other there has come about an unbridgeable gap. nothing quite so tragic in the home as the two emptinesses or aridities side by side, with all the poor, mean, morally sordid consequences that are bound to ensue! and the tragedy of inward separation or alienation is heightened rather than lessened by the circumstance that the bond of physical contact persists for the most part unchanged. really serious clashing often grows out of the question of callings and the filial choice thereof. it is quite comprehensible that parents should find it difficult not to intervene when children, without giving proper and adequate thought, are about to choose a calling unfitting in itself or one to which they are unadapted. but here we deal with a variant of the insistence that parental experience shall avert filial mischance or hurt. and here i must again insist that children have just the same right to make mistakes that we have exercised. they may not make quite as many as we made. it does not seem possible that they could. but, in any event, they have the right to make for that wisdom which comes of living amid toil and weariness and agony and all the never wholly hopeless blundering of life. upon parents may lie the duty to offer guidance, but compulsion is always unavailing and when availing leaves embitterment behind. it is woeful to watch a child mar its life but forcible intervention rarely serves to avert the calamity. one is tempted to counsel parents to consider thrice before they urge a particular calling upon a child. i have seen some young and promising lives wrecked by parental insistence that one or another calling be adopted. that a father is in a calling or occupation is a quite insufficient reason for a son being constrained to make it his own. a man or woman in the last analysis has the right of choice in the matter of calling, and parents have no more right to choose a calling than to choose a wife or husband for a son or daughter. a most fertile cause of conflict is at hand in the normal determination of parents to transmit the faith of the fathers to the children. the conflict is often embittered after the fashion of religious controversy, when parents are inflexibly loyal to their faith, passionately keen to share their precious heritage with the children, while children grow increasingly resolved to think their own and not their fathers' thoughts after god. it is easier to commend than to practice the art of patience with the heretical child, and yet our age is mastering that art,--the cynic would aver because of wide-spread indifference. surely there can be no sorrier coercion than that which insists upon filial acquiescence in the religious dogmas held by parents, not less sorry because the parents may be merely renewing the coercive traditions of their own youth. it is a hurt alike to children and to truth, to say nothing of the institutions of religion, to command faith the essence and beauty of which lies in its voluntariness. but if parents are not free to coerce the minds of their children touching articles of faith, it is for children to remember what was said of emerson,--that "he was an iconoclast without a hammer, removing our idols so gently it seemed like an act of worship." the dissenter need not be a vandal and the filial dissenter ought to be farthest from the vandal in manner touching the religious beliefs of parents. i would not carry the reverent manner to the point of outward conformity, but it may go far without doing hurt to the soul of a child, provided the spiritual reservations are kept clear. chapter viii conflicting standards the conflict of today is oftenest one between parental orthodoxy and filial liberalism or heresy. my own experience has led to the conviction that the clashing does not ordinarily arise between two varying faiths but rather between faith on the one hand and unfaith or unconcern with faith on the other. as for the jewish home, the problem is complicated by reason of the truth, somehow ignored by jew and non-jew, that the religious conversion of a jew usually leads to racial desertion as far as such a thing can be save in intent. in the jewish home, racial loyalty and religious assent are so inextricably interwoven,--with ethical integrity in many cases in the balance,--that it is not to be wondered at that conflict oft obtains when the loyalty of the elders is met by the dissidence of the younger and such dissidence is usually the first step on the way that leads to a break with the jewish past. and the battle, generally speaking, is not waged by parents on behalf of the child's soul nor yet in the interest of imperilled israel, but in the dread of the hurt that is sure to be visited upon the guilt of disloyalty to a heritage cherished and safeguarded through centuries of glorious scorn of consequences. i should be grieved if a child were to say to me: "i cannot repeat the ancient shema yisrael, the watchword of the jew: i find it necessary to reject the foundations of the jewish faith." my heart, i say, would be sad, but i would not dream of attempting to coerce the mind of a child. i would look with horror and with heartbreak upon the act of a child, who under one pretext or another took itself out of the jewish bond and away from jewish life. if, i repeat, a child of mine were to say "i can have nothing to do with israel," i would sorrow over that child as lost because i should know that its repudiation of the household of israel was rooted in selfishness colored by self-protective baseness. but, let me again make clear, if a child should say "i cannot truly affirm god or his unity," i could not decently object, however harassed and unhappy i might feel. i could not tolerate the vileness of racial cowardice and desertion in a child, but i would have no right to break with it because of religious dissent. one of the conflicts irrepressible arises when there comes to be a deep gulf fixed between the standards of parents and children, so deep as to make harmonious living impossible. though it seem by way of excuse for children, it must be admitted that parental guidance is ofttimes woefully lacking, when suddenly falls some edict or interdict arbitrarily and unexpectedly imposed for which there has been no preparation whatsoever. it may be torturing for parents to face the facts, but they have no right to refuse to reap what they have sown, to accept the wholly unavoidable consequences of the training of their children. parents who ask nothing of children for the first twenty years may not suddenly turn about and ask everything. you cannot until your child is twenty give all and after twenty forgive nothing. parents may not be idiotically doting for twenty years and then suddenly become austerely exacting. i have seen parents, who accept a young son's indolence, luxuriousness and dissipation of mind and body as quite the correct thing for youth, later yield to regret over the mental enervation and moral flabbiness of these sons. a mother came to me not very long ago in tears over her son who had married a poor wanton creature. what i could no more than vaguely hint to the mother was that she had in some part prepared her son for the moral catastrophe by attiring herself after the manner of a woman of the streets. the household that exposes a son to the necessity of living daily by the side of poor imitations of the street-woman will find his ideals of womanhood sadly undermined in the end. the mother who does not offer a son a glimpse of something of dignity and fineness in her own life, alike in matter and manner, may expect little of her son. standards at best must be cultivated and illustrated through the years of permeable childhood and cannot be improvised and insisted upon whenever in parental judgment it may become necessary. there is little to choose between the tragedy of parental rejection of children's standards and filial abhorrence of the standards of parents. and both types of tragedy occur from time to time. sometimes conflict is well, not conflict in the sense of ceaseless clashing but as frank and undisguised acceptance of the fact of irreconcilably discrepant standards. better some wars than some peace! there are times when parents and children should conflict with one another, when approval is invited or tolerance expected of the intolerable and abhorrent, whether in the case of an unworthy daughter or a viciously dissolute son. i make the proviso that such conflict, decisive and final, can be as far as parents are concerned without the abandonment of love for the erring daughter or wayward son. severer, if anything, the conflict becomes when it is children who are bidden to endure and embrace what they conceive to be the lower standards of parents. the clashing may not be less serious because inward and voiceless rather than outward and vocal. if parents feel free to reprove children, it behooves them to have in mind that children are and of right ought to be free to disapprove of parents, though the conventions seem to forbid children to utter such disapproval. outward assent may cover up the most violent disapproval, and parenthood should hardly be offered up in mitigation or extenuation any more than the status of orphanhood should shield the parricide or matricide. and it cannot be made too clear, children have the right to reject for themselves the lower standards of parents. before me has come from time to time the question whether it is the business of a daughter to yield obedience to a mother who would inflict low and degrading standards upon her child. or the question is put thus: what would you say to a son, who refuses to enter into and have part in the business of his father which he believes to be unethical, though the father and the rest of the world view it as wholly normal and legitimate? i may not find it in me to urge a child not to obey a parent, neither would i bid a son or daughter waive the scruples of conscience in order to please a parent. times and occasions there are, i believe, when a child is justified in saying to parents in the terms of finest gentleness and courtesy--the filial _fortiter in re_ must above all else be _suaviter in modo_--it is not you whom i disobey, because i must obey a law higher than that which parents can impose upon me. i must obey the highest moral law of my own being. but this decision is always a grave one and must be arrived at in the spirit of earnestness and humility, never in the mood of defiance. whether or not this entail the necessity of physical separation is less important than that it be clearly understood that there is a higher law even than parental mandate or filial whim, that parents and child alike do well to understand. parents dare not fail to act upon the truth that, if intellectual coercion be bad, the unuttered and unexercised compulsions toward a lower moral standard are infinitely worse. a child may not forget that, when parental dictate is repudiated in favor of a higher law, it must in truth be a higher law which exacts obedience. and even peace must be sacrificed when the higher law summons. chapter ix the democratic regime in the home the parental-filial relation is almost the only institution of society that has not consciously come under the sway of the democratic regime or rather influences. within a century, the world has passed from the imperial to the monarchical and from the monarchical to the democratic order--save in two rather important fields of life, industry and the home. in these two realms the transformation to the democratic modus remains to be effected,--i mean of course the conscious, however reluctant, acceptance thereof. true it is that many children and fewer parents have made and will continue to make it for themselves, but the process is one which the concerted thought and co-operative action of parents and children can far better bring to consummation. the difficulty of the transformation is increased almost indefinitely by the microscopic character of the family unit. it is not easy to keep the open processes of the state up to the standards of democracy,--how much more difficult the covert content of the inaccessible home! in all that parents do with respect to the home, assuming their acceptance of the democratic order and its requirements, they may not forget that the home, like every educational agency of our time, must "train the man and the citizen." milton's insistence is not less binding today than it was when first uttered nearly three centuries ago. a man cannot be half slave and half free. he cannot be fettered by an autocratic regime within the home and at the same time be a free and effective partner in the working out of the processes of democracy. democracy and discipline are never contradictory and the discipline of democracy can alone be self-discipline. professor patten in his volume, "product and climax,"[j] hints at a real difficulty: "we want our children to retain the plasticity of youth, and yet we believe in a disciplinary education and love to put them at difficult tasks, having no end but rigidity of action and a narrower viewpoint. at the same breath we ask for heroes and demand more democracy." what is really involved when the matter is reduced to its simplest terms, is seen to be a new conception of the home. for many centuries, it has been a world or realm wherein parents filled a number of roles or parts,--chief among these regents on thrones, dispensers of bounty, teachers of the infant mind. any survey of the home today that surveys more than surface things must take into account one other figure,--or set of figures,--the figure of a child. and the child not as the subject of the parental regent, however wise, nor yet as the unquestioning pupil of the parental tutor, however infallible! the home can no longer remain, amid the crescent sway of the democratic ideal, a kingdom with one or two or even more thrones, nor yet a debating society. shall we say parliament, seeing that in parliament and congress it is reputed to be the habit of men to plead for truth rather than for victory? the home must become a school wherein parents and children alike sit as eager learners and humble teachers, a school for parents in the latter days in the arts of renunciation and for children in the fine arts of outward courtesy and inward chivalry. in such a classroom the child will learn to think non-filially for itself, though it will not cease to feel filially. under such auspices, the child will be neither a manageable nor an unmanageable thing but a person bent upon self-direction and self-determination through the arts of self-discipline. in the interest of that self-discipline which parental example can do most to foster, let it be remembered by parents that no rule is as effective with children as self-mastery, that the only convincing and irrefutable authority is inner authoritativeness. spencer has laid down the ideal for the home: "to produce a self-governing being; not to produce a being to be governed by others." if parents are so unwise as to postpone and deny the right of children to live their lives until after their parents are dead, it may be that these will die too late for their own comfort. parents who rely upon parental authority, whatever that may mean, in dealing with children ought to be quietly chloroformed or peacefully deposited in the museum of natural history by the side of the almost equally antique diplodoccus. the teacherless classroom, the school which is without direction and without dogma _ex cathedra_, is a peculiarly fitting metaphor to invoke. it may serve to remind children that the newly achieved equivalence of the home is not to result in parental subjection or subordination, that the inviolable rights of personality are not exactly a filial monopoly,--crescent filial tyranny being little less intolerable than obsolescent parental despotism--that the passing of the years does not make it exactly easier to abandon or to forswear personality. it were little gain to substitute king log of filial rule for king stork of parental command. filial domination, in other words, is not less odious because of its novelty. in a recent number of _the outlook_, e. m. place, writing on "democracy in the home," puts it well: "there are two kinds of despotism in the home that are alike and equally intolerable: one is parental and the other is filial." bernard shaw[k] is quite unparadoxical and almost commonplace in his fear that there is a possibility of home life oppressing its inmates. the peril is not of revolt against the oppressions of home life by its inmates but of unrevolting submission which were far worse on their part. from such oppressions there is but one escape, the deliberate introduction of a democratic regime. "it is admitted that a democracy develops and trains the individual while an autocracy dwarfs and represses the possibilities within. the parent who is autocratic, who says do this and do that because i say so without appealing to the reason and judgment of the child, can never create the real home, the one in which good citizens are made. the democratic home where the individual welfare and the general welfare are given due consideration, where conduct is the result of the appeal to reason, is as much the right of the child as a voice in his own government is the right of an adult." and one thing more! some marriages are intolerable and the only way of peace, not of cowardice or of evasion, is the way out. without at this time entering into the question whether the multiplicity of divorces is imperilling the social order, i make bold to say that it ought not be considered an enormity on the part of children nor an indictment of parents, if parents and adult children conclude to live apart, unharassed and untortured by the conditions of propinquity. fewer children would enter into obviously fatal marriages if marriage were not regarded as the only decent and respectable way out of the home for a daughter. who does not know of young people marrying in order to escape from the home? i do not mean to imply that all young people who desire to escape from the home are the victims of domestic repression and parental tyranny, but i have often deemed it lamentable that, for some young people as i have known them, marriage offered the only excuse or pretext for taking oneself out of the home. such self-exile from home by the avenue of marriage often leads to tragedy graver than any from which it was sought to take refuge. but a democratic regime in the home must include the possibility of honorable and peaceable withdrawal therefrom. it should be said by way of parenthesis that marriage is not always a secure refuge from the undemocratically ordered home. for parental intervention in the life of married children is not unimaginable. under my observation there came some months ago the story of parents, who quite forcibly withdrew the person of their daughter and her infant child from her and her husband's home because the latter was unwilling or unable to expend a grotesquely large sum for its maintenance. this is merely an exaggerated example of the insistence on the part of parents on the unlessened exercise of that power of control over children, which is the very negation of democracy. chapter x reverence thy son and thy daughter reverence thy son and thy daughter lest thy days seem too long in the land which the lord thy god giveth thee. one of the elements making for conflict between parent and child is the desire of parents who ask for love, taking respect for granted, and the insistence of children, taking love for granted, that parental respect be yielded them. there are many causes that make mutual respect in any real sense difficult between parent and child, parents asking love for themselves as parents, children seeking respect for themselves as persons. after dealing for two decades or nearly that with a child in the terms of love, parents do not find it easy to treat a child with the reverence that is offered to one deemed a complete, rational, unchildlike person. an eminent theologian once declared that it was easy enough to love one's neighbors but hard to like them. so might many parents in truth say that it is easy, yea, inevitable, to love their children but very difficult to yield them the reverence of which upon reflection they are found to be deserving. and it happens that parents can and do give their children all but the one thing which they insist upon having from parents, namely, a decent respect. such respect is in truth impossible as long as parents always think of themselves as parents and of children as children. the temptation presses to urge parents sometimes to forget that they are parents, and to suggest to children sometimes to remember that they are children--in any event, semi-occasionally to recall that to parents children are ever and quite explicably children. parents cannot begin too soon to treat children with respect. one of the most disrespectful as well as stupid things that can be done in relation to a child is to treat it like a monkey trained for exhibition purposes in order to "entertain" some resident aunt or visiting uncle. the worst way to prepare a child for self-respect is to exhibit him to ostensibly admiring relatives as if he or she were a rare specimen in a zoölogical garden. too many of us are hagenbacks to our children, not so much for the sake of otherwise unoccupied relatives or especially doting grandparents as for the sake of flattering our own cheap and imbecile pride. the relation of mutual respect cannot obtain between parent and child as long as the instinct of parental proprietorship is dominant, as long as there is a failure to recognize that a child's individuality must be reckoned with. but there must be the underlying assumption that a child's judgment may be entitled to respect, in other words, is not inherently contemptible. once assumed that a child may cease to be a child and become a person able to think, decide, choose, act for itself, there is no insuperable difficulty in determining when a child's judgment is entitled to respect, provided of course by way of preliminary that parents are ready to put away the pet superstition of parental infallibility and impeccability. nothing so calculated to win a child's reverence as parental admission of fallibility generally and of some error of thought and speech in particular! one rarely hears or learns of a child who feels that parents fail to love it but one comes upon children not a few, normal beings rather than those afflicted with the persecution complex, who deeply lament the fact that parents do not treat them with the reverence owing from normal, wholesome beings to one another. it is this that more than anything else makes some children impatient of the very name, children, the term with its ceaseless implication of relative existence becoming odious to them. no one will maintain that it is easy to achieve relations of reciprocal reverence between parent and child, viewing the fact that family intimacies while tending to foster affection do not make for the strengthening of respect. for respect is most frequently evoked by the unknown and unfamiliar even as the familiar and the known, because it is known, touches the springs of affection. parental reverence may not be unachievable, but it involves the acceptance of a child as a self-existent being, intellectually, morally, spiritually. one of the results of the liberating processes of our age is the deeping consciousness of children that they have the unchallengeable right to live their own lives, under freedom to develop their own personalities. revolting against the superimposition of parental personality, the more deadening because childhood is imitative, they have begun to hearken to emerson's counsel to insist upon themselves. too often they carry their fidelity to this monition to the illegitimate length of insistence upon idiosyncracy rather than of emphasis upon personality. to cherish and defend every fleeting opinion as sacred and unamendable dogma is not insistence upon self but wilful pride of opinion. and yet even such self-insistence is better than such self-surrender as dwarfs children and by so much belittles parents. it may seem superfluous to second the claim of children to self-determination, but in truth parents have so long and so crushingly overwhelmed their once-defenceless children with the _force majeure_ of their own personality that even a parent may welcome the long-deferred revolt making for self-determination. the child has rightfully resolved not to be a perfect replica,--usually a duplicate of manifold imperfections,--but to be itself with all its own imperfections on its head. this is the answer to the question whether children ought ever suffer their minds to be coerced. intellectual compulsion and spiritual coercion are always inexcusable, though in the interest of that much-abused term, the higher morality, children may resort to the accommodation of conformity without sacrifice of the substance of individuality and its basic self-respect. and when i venture to hint at the concession of outward conformity without of course doing violence to the scruples of conscience, the concession that will bid children to tread the pathway of conformity in externals, i call to mind and to witness a quarter-century's experience in the ministry. in the course of it, it has fallen to my lot to be consulted by numerous children. in only one case has a child said to me, i regret my obedience to my parents' will. but times without number have children said to me, how i rejoice, though sometimes it seemed hard, that i followed the counsel of my mother, that i yielded to my father's will. but one may not bid parents reverence their children and respect their sense of freedom without intimating to children, howsoever reluctantly, that even parents have some inalienable rights, and that children ought to accord some freedom to parents, even though these be likely to abuse it. parents, too, must be regarded as free agents. filial usurpation of parental freedom is not wholly unprecedented in these days of reappraisal of most values. parents and children alike will be helped to reverence one another as free agents when they learn that infringement upon the freedom of another is for the most part such an obtrusion of self into the life of another as grows out of the contentlessness of one's own life. no man or woman whose life is full and worth-while has enough of spare time and strength to find it possible to meddle in busy-bodying fashion with the life of others. nagging, no matter by whom, is just domestic busy-bodying, growing out of the failure to respect the personality of another and out of the vacuity of one's own life. nagging, however ceaseless, is not correction. conflict must not be confounded with scolding any more than love and petting are the same thing. scolding, nagging, ceaseless fault-finding, these are not conflicts nor even the symptoms thereof. these are usually nothing more than signs of inner conflict and unrest finding petty and unavailing, because external, outlets. no home irrespective of circumstance can be free from conflict in which there is a failure to understand that every member of the household is a self-regarding and inviolate personality and that the physical contacts of the family life are no excuse for the ceaseless invasion of personality. i have not said economically, though it is not always easy for parents to remember that economic dependence in no wise involves intellectual, moral, spiritual dependence. the difficulty, as has already been pointed out, is greatly enhanced by reason of the fact that parents and children are too apt to label and classify and pigeon-hole one another, parents assumed to be visionless maintainers and conservators of the status quo and children regarded as vandal disturbers of the best possible of worlds. to confound voluntary reverence with the obligations of gratitude is indeed the woefullest of blunders. i have sometimes thought that the parental-filial relationship is not infrequently strained because it rests upon bounty or indebtedness, acknowledged or unacknowledged. there is a strain which ofttimes proves too hard to be borne between benefactor and beneficiary. this strain may be eased if parents will but avoid thinking of themselves as benefactors and children will but remember that the fact of adolescence or post-adolescence does not cancel all the relationships and conditions of earlier life. i cannot conceive of deeper unwisdom than to rest one's case with children in the matter of unyielded obedience or ungranted reverence or aught else upon the basis of gratitude. it is as futile as it is vicious to dream of exacting gratitude, seeing that gratitude is not a debt to be paid, least of all a toll to be levied. is there really much to choose between the parent plaintively appealing for filial gratitude and the termagant wife insistently clamoring for love. if parents bent upon having gratitude and appreciation would but remember that during the years in which parents do most for their children the latter are blissfully unconscious, it would help them over the rough places of seeming inappreciation and ingratitude. the first ten years of a child's life are those of most constant and tender service on the part of parents, the period of deepest anxieties and uttermost sacrifices. and yet the fact of infancy and early childhood precludes the possibility of remembrance, understanding, appreciation. the conscious relation of parent and child does not really begin much before the tenth year. a wise teacher of the northwest once said: "children are either too young or too old to be physically punished." something of the same kind might be said with respect to appeals for gratitude. either these are unnecessary or else they are unavailing. in any event, the relation between parent and child must never be brought down to the level of one of bestowal and acceptance of bounty and the obligations thereby entailed. the highest magnanimity is needed on the part of parents, so deep and uncancellable is the debt of children,--by parents to be obliterated from memory, by children to be translated into the things of life. chapter xi the obsession of possession the undemocratic character of the home reveals itself in a way that is familiar enough,--the way of parental possession. nothing could be more difficult for parents to abandon than the sense of ownership, tenderly conceived and graciously fostered. and yet, hard as the lesson may be, it must be learned by parents that the spirit of proprietorship cannot coexist with the democratic temper in the home. i sometimes regret that children are not born full-grown, that they do not subsequently develop or devolve into babies, so that the earliest aspect of a child, diminutive, helpless, should not, as it does, evoke the sense of absolute and exclusive ownership. if children would only at six months or a year begin to argue, vigorously to combat their parents' views, the ordinary transition from bland acquiescence to over-facile dissent would be somewhat less harsh and startling. the thing, which perhaps does most to intensify the shock and pain incidental to divergence of opinion, is that the first eight or ten years of childhood give no intimation or little more than intimation of the possibility of conflict in later years. the unresisting acquiescence of children in never-ending bestowal of parental bounty offers no hint of the possibility of future strife. the legal plea of surprise might almost be offered up by parents, who find, as one of them has expressed it, that, when children are young, they "stay put," can be found whenever sought. later they neither stay nor are put, but move tangentially and, it would seem by preference, into orbits of their own,--and not always heavenly orbits. some parents never wean themselves nor even seek to do so from the sense of proprietorship, which is sure to be rudely disturbed unless parents are wise to yield it up. no grown, reasoning, self-respecting person wishes to be or to be dealt with as a being in fief to another. ofttimes it proves exceedingly hard for fond parents to relinquish the sense of ownership, for the latter is deeply satisfying and even flattering to the owner. in very truth, parents must come to understand that children are not born to them as possessions. the parental part does not confer ownership rights. children should not be regarded and cherished as a life-long possession nor even for a time. they are entrusted by the processes of birth and the decree of fate to parents, to be cared for during the days of dependence, to be nurtured and developed till maturity, the latter to mark the ending of the period of conscious parental responsibility. as long as children have not reached adolescence and the consciousness thereof, they may endure nor even note the mood of parental possession. but once complete self-consciousness dawns, the sense of ownership becomes intolerable to any child that is more than a domestic automaton, and, if persisted in, makes any wholesomeness of relation between parent and child unthinkable. many years ago, a sage friend tendered me some unforgettable counsel. i had, perhaps unwisely, commiserated with him upon the fact that his lovely children, sons and daughters alike, were leaving the parental roof and beginning their lives anew in different and remote parts of the land. his answer rang prompt and decisive: "children were not given to us to keep. they are placed with us for a time in trusteeship and now that they are old enough to leave us and to stand upon their own feet, it is well for them to make their own homes and become the builders of their own lives." this sage and his like-minded wife had achieved the art of dispossessing themselves of their children, or rather they had never suffered themselves to tread the pathway of possession. to a rational adult the sense of possession by another is irksome, save in the case of youthful lovers whose irrationality may for a time take the form of pleasure in the fact of possession by another. but when sanity enters into the joy of the love-relation, then the sense of ecstasy in being possessed vanishes and with its passing comes a renewal of self-possession which alone is complete sanity. self-possession brooks no invasion or possession of personality by another. the matter of possession becomes gravely disturbing because the parental tendency in the direction of proprietorship becomes keenest at a time when children are least disposed to be possessed in any way. as children near adulthood, they desire to be autonomous persons rather than things or possessions. then the conflict comes, and, though not consciously, is fought for and against possession. briefly, adolescence brings with it an insistence upon the end of the relative and the beginning of absolute, that is unrelated, existence. somehow and for the most part unhappily, the child's insistence upon absolute self-possession and self-existence comes at a time,--it may be evocative rather than synchronous--when parents most desire or feel the need to be parents. this craving for a maximum of parenthood, not in the interest of filial possession, is evoked by the normal, adolescent child, as it begins to find its main interests and absorptions outside of the home, with the consequent loosening of what seemed to be irrefragably close and intimate ties. and the parental sense of proprietary supervision is not lessened by the circumstance that the child now faces those problems the rightful solution of which means so much to its future. thus does the conflict arise. children, though they know it not or know it only in part, face the great tests and challenges of life, rejoicing that these are to be their experiences, their problems, their tests. parents view these self-same challenges and are deeply concerned lest these prove too much for children and leave them broken and blighted upon life's way. it is really fairer to say that what is viewed as the parental instinct of possession is really nothing more than the eagerness of parents somehow to bestow upon children the unearned fruits of experience. it is the primary and inalienable right of children to blunder, to falter upon the altar-steps, and blundering is a teacher wiser though costlier than parents. reckoning and rueing the price they have paid for the lessons of experience, parents, whose good-will is greater than their wisdom, insist upon the right to transmit to children through teaching these lessons of experience. but they fail to realize that certain things are unteachable and intransmissible. confounding the classroom with the school of life, it is assumed that certain truths are orally teachable. children, building better than they know, insist that the wisdom of experience cannot be orally communicated, that it is not to be acquired through parental bestowal or teaching or insistence, but solely through personal effort, and, though at first they know it not, through hardship and suffering. wisdom cannot be imparted to children by parents under an anaesthesia that averts pain and suffering. hard is it for parents to accept the truth pointed out by coleridge that experience is only a lamp in a vessel's stern, which throws a light on the waters we have passed through, none on those which lie before us. the conflict then is between children who insist upon the privilege of acquiring the wisdom of life through personal experience which includes blundering and suffering, and parents whose sense of possession strengthens their native resolution to bring to loved children all the benefits and gains of life's experiences without permitting children to pay the price which life exacts. and parents, in the unreasoning passion to ward off hurt and wound from the heads of children, forget that if the wisdom of experience were transmissible we should have moral stagnation and spiritual immobility in the midst of life. but if parents may not expect to be able to transmit the body of their life-experience to children, neither should children assume that the multiplication table is an untested hypothesis because accepted by parents, or that elementary truths are wholly dubious because parental assent has been given thereto. if parents must learn that children cannot be expected to regard every thesis as valid solely because held by parents, children need hardly take it for granted, though it may of course be found to be true, that the parental viewpoint is uniformly erring and invalid. if parents, who are tempted to yield to the instinct of proprietorship rather, as we have seen, than of domination, would but understand, as was lately suggested in a psychological analysis of barrie's "mary rose," that there are women who mother the members of their circles so persistently that they impose a certain childishness on them, the mother's influence often producing incompetence and timidity! to such parents, however, as will not admit the fact of possession, it remains to be pointed out that parents do not live forever and are usually survived by their children. the "owned" child is not unlikely with the years to become and to remain a poor, miserable dependent intellectually and spiritually, once its parents are gone. view another case, the marriage of the "owned" child, even when it does not accept any marriage that offers as a mode of release from parental bondage. i have had frequent occasion to note that the "owned" child, freed from parental suppression, is often revenged upon parental tyranny by an era of luxurious despotism, or, what is worse, renews the reign of ownership and dependence by becoming the "owned" wife or undisowned husband, a sorry, beggarly serf, whose lifelong dependence in the worst sense is largely the sequel to parental proprietorship or overlordship. the parental tyranny that is well-meant and gentle yields place in marriage to a tyranny that is most untender and may even be brutal, its victim, male or female, habituated by parental usage to the art of unrevolting submission, or, when not thus habituated, goaded to a vindictive and compensatory sense of mastery. to urge parents to relinquish the sense of possession, to prepare them for the day when they shall find it inevitable to "give up," is to do them a real service. let them prepare with something of fortitude for the day that comes to many parents, which is to establish and confirm the fact of parental dispensableness. the fortitude may have to be spartan in character. it is our fate, and parents, who are practised in the art of long-suffering endurance, must learn to bear this last test of strength with undimmable courage and even to rejoice therein. chapter xii parents and vice-parents there is a further problem over and beyond all those heretofore set forth,--the problem, which might be described under the term, the complication of relatives, the problem, shall we call it, of help or hindrance from family members, who, asked or unasked and usually unasked, undertake to act as vice-parents prior to the resignation or decease of parents. the relationship is not ordinarily one of reciprocity, for, however great be the help or hurt that can be done to a child by an intervening kinsman or kinswoman, the relation of the child to him or her does not as a rule root very deep in the life of the younger person. one thing parents may ask, though usually they do not: one thing children ought to ask, though usually they would not; namely, that when relatives touch the life of parent and child,--as they not infrequently do,--they shall exert their influence on behalf of understanding between parent and child. i have seen much done to wreck the home by those who forget that the parental-filial relation is a sanctuary not lightly to be trespassed upon even by those who physically dwell in close proximity thereto. one of the commonest forms of pernicious intervention is the attempt to mitigate parental severity, to soften parental asperity, on the part of nice, soft, respectable kinsmen and kinswomen, who regard a child under twenty years or even under twenty-five in some cases as a little lap-dog to be caressed and fondled, but in no wise to be dealt with as a human to whom much may be given and from whom more must be asked. parents' standards may seem, and even be, exigent, but the attempt to modify their rigor may not be made by those lacking in fundamental reverence for a child, and in conscious hope for its wise, noble, self-reliant maturity. the kind uncle and the indulgent aunt have no right under heaven to wreak their unreasoning tenderness upon niece or nephew in such fashion as to make any and every standard seem cruelly exigent to the child. parents are not uniformly, though oft approximately, infallible, and family members have the right and duty to take counsel with, which always means to give counsel, to parents but not in the presence of children. i have seen children moved to distrust of parental mandate and judgment even when these were wise and just by reason of the malsuggestion oozing forth from relatives, the zeal of whose intervention is normally in inverse proportion to the measure of their wisdom. childish rebellion against parental guidance, however enlightened, oft dates from the time of some avuncular remonstrance against or antique impatience with parents "who do not understand the dear child." but there is another and a better way, and kinsfolk can frequently find it within the range of their power to supplement parental teaching in ways that shall be profitable alike to child and parent. the nearest, the most constant impact upon the child is that of the mother, and less often of the father. the mountain summit to which greatness ascends in the sight of multitudes is often nothing more than some height, reached in loneliness and out of the sight of the world by a brave, mother-soul, wrestling through unseen and unaided struggle for that, which shall later be disclosed to the world as the immortal achievement of a child and so acclaimed by the plaudits of the world. one remembers, for example, that the mother of william lloyd garrison wrote of her colored nurse during her illness: "a slave in the sight of man, but a freeborn soul in the sight of god." thus is she revealed as the mother of the abolition struggle. professor brumbaugh,[l] who ceased for a time to be a good teacher in order to be an indifferent governor of his commonwealth, tells the story of pestalozzi taken by his grandfather to the homes of the poor, the child saying: "when i am a man, i mean to take the side of the poor." "he lived like a beggar that he might teach beggars to live like men." truly one must find the mother behind or rather before the man. the mother of emerson is thus described by his son[m]: "to a woman of her stamp, provision for her sons meant far more than mere food, raiment and shelter. their souls first, their minds next, their bodies last; this was the order in which their claims presented themselves to the brave mother's mind. lastly in those days the body had to look after itself very much; more reverently they put it, the lord will provide." after his first week of harvard life, mrs. emerson wrote to her son[n]: "what most excites my solicitude is your moral improvement and your progress in virtue. let your whole life reflect honor on the name you bear." curious from the viewpoint of modern practice that nothing was said about the weekly or fortnightly hamper of goodies or the cushions shortly to follow,--to say nothing of the ceaselessly entreated remittance! the influence of a father upon his son comes to light as one reads dr. emerson's life of his father: "in view of the son's shrinking from all attempts to wall in the living truth with forms, his father's early wish and hope, while still in harvard, of moving to washington and there founding a church without written expression of faith or covenant, is worthy of note." one comes to see that a man is what he is because of the love he bears his mother, as one reads of commodore perkins[o] that on the eve of the battle of mobile bay he wrote to her: "i know that i shall not disgrace myself no matter how hot the fighting may be, for i shall think of you all the time." thomas wentworth higginson[p] tells that his own strongest impulse in the direction of anti-slavery reform came from his mother. being once driven from place to place by an intelligent negro driver, my mother said to him that she thought him very well situated after all; on which he turned and looked at her, simply saying: "ah, missus, free breath is good." respecting his arrest later in connection with john brown and harper's ferry, higginson writes[q]: "fortunately it did not disturb my courageous mother, who wrote: 'i assure you it does not trouble me, though i dare say that some of my friends are commiserating me for having a son riotously and routously engaged.'" again and again, we look back and find that the great deed or noble utterance of some historic figure is merely the echo of an earlier word or deed of a forbear. we have seen it in the influences that shaped or in any event steered garrison, mazzini, pestalozzi. former president tucker[r] of dartmouth college declares that the memorable speech of the defender of the constitution is to be explained not by his own greatness. his father had made it before him.... this speech was in his blood. the fact is that the great address of the defender of the constitution was made by his father fifty years earlier when colonel webster moved new hampshire to enter the union." the grandfather of theodore parker was the minister of concord at the time of the concord fight and on the sunday previous he had preached on the text: "resistance to tyrants is obedience to god." that a kinsman or kinswoman may equal, even surpass, a parent in influence wide and deep upon a child might be variously illustrated. no more familiar illustration obtains than that of mary moody, aunt of emerson, of whom his son writes: "she gave high counsel. it was the privilege of certain boys to have this immeasurably high standard indicated in their childhood, a blessing which nothing else in education could supply. lift up your aims, always do what you are afraid to do, scorn trifles,--such were the maxims she gave her nephews and which they made their own.... be generous and great and you will confer benefits on society, not receive them, through life. emerson himself said of his aunt[s]: her power over the mind of her young friends was almost despotic, describing her influence upon himself as great as that of greece or rome. it may in truth often be a sister who brings strength and heartening to a man. ernest renan writes to his sister henriette[t]: "but that ideal does not exist in our workaday world, i fear. life is a struggle, life is hard and painful, yet let us not lose courage. if the road be steep, we have within us a great strength; we shall surmount our stumbling-block. it is enough if we possess our conscience in rectitude, if our aim be noble, our will firm and constant. let happen what may, on that foundation we can build up our lives." again he wrote to her: "my lonely, tired heart finds infinite sweetness in resting upon yours. i sometimes think that i could be quite happy in a simple, common life, which i should ennoble from within. then i think of you and look higher." the tender inquisitress was not satisfied, declares the biographer of renan,[u] until all was pure, exact, discreet and true. she said to her brother: be thou perfect. most of all she sought to cultivate in him the habit of veracity, a habit the seminary had not inculcated it appears. so great was the influence of henriette that for years afterward not only did her brother act as she would bid him act, but, far rarer triumph of her love, he thought as she would have bid him think, in all seriousness, in all tenderness, with a remote and noble elevation, checking as they rose those impulses toward irony, frivolity, scepticism, which she had not loved. chapter xiii what of the jewish home? before answering the question, what of the jewish home, before discussing the problem to what extent does the irrepressible conflict take place therein, it is needful to place the jewish home in its proper setting. in truth, the historical glory of the jewish home, let jews remember and non-jews learn, is the most beautiful and honorable chapter in jewish history. nothing can dim the brightness of its one-time splendor. if nothing else of israel were to survive, the memory of the home would honor and glorify israel for all time. truly there is nothing in world history quite comparable thereto. somehow the world without has been touched to awe at the beauty and radiance of the home in israel. it has felt that the reverent love within the jewish home was more than love and reverence, that these were touched by that beauty of holiness which gave to them their exalted quality. the jewish home blended two ideals, patriarchal and matriarchal. it was never patriarchate alone, nor yet solely matriarchate. it was a home governed by a joint sovereignty. it rested no more truly upon tender love for the mother than upon real reverence for the father. in a sense, it might be thought that herein the jewish home was not unique, for plato had said: "after the gods and demi-gods, parents ought to have the most honor." and aristotle had added: "it is proper to give them honor such as is given to the gods." but the god whom israel honored stood infinitely higher than the gods whom the greeks honored before parents. canon driver points out in the cambridge bible that duty to parents stands next to duties toward god: the penalty for cursing them is death even as the penalty for blaspheming god. ibn ezra held that, if israel keep this commandment,--honor thy father and thy mother,--it will not be exiled from the promised land. exiled it was from the promised land, but obedience to the fifth commandment did much to make the life of israel despite exile one of the beauty of promise fulfilled. the grace and glory of the jewish home were twofold. the selflessness of parents evoked such filial tenderness and self-forgetfulness as to bring about the perfect understanding of togetherness. the reverence of the jewish child for parents continued even beyond death. the passing of the visible presence of a parent little lessened and often greatened the revering love of the jewish child. this accounts for the pathos and romance associated with the "kaddish" chant of the hebrew liturgy, forerunner of the mass, and perhaps in the mind of jesus when he bade, do this in remembrance of me. this glorification of the author of death as well as life, is not to be viewed as a symbol of ancestor-worship but rather as a sign of the tenderest of human pieties. what the child was in the jewish home it became because of what its parents were toward it. to say that the jewish mother has been unsurpassed in the history of men because she dreamed that a child by her borne might become a messiah of its people does not quite touch the roots of the unbelievable tenderness and beauty of maternal dedication in the jewish home. neither is the relation of the jewish father and child wholly to be explained by the fact of his involuntary aloofness from the world and his dependence upon the home for whatsoever of peace and joy this world could give him. it is not too much to say that the messianic ideal of the jewish mother and the fact of the jew's exclusion from the world without may have tended to deepen and to hallow parental love, but the mystery abides not less wondrous in some ways than the mystery of israel's survival. certain perils, it might be imagined, were the inevitable accompaniment of or sequel to this wonderful love and reverence within the jewish home,--the peril of repression of the inner life of the child chiefly and also of the parent. but students of jewish history would hardly aver that the intellectual and spiritual nature of the child was really stifled or stunted by reason of the illimitable filial reverence. and if at times there was intellectual self-repression and spiritual self-surrender, who can measure the inmost and invisible gains which accrued to and rewarded the child? it is a happy thought of renan[v] that all the joys of israel are in reality an enlargement of the family life; their feast is a repast in common, the natural eucharist to which the poor is admitted, a thanksgiving for life as it is with its limits, which do not prevent it from being present under the eye of jahweh who dispenses good and evil. the fifth commandment bade more than obedience on the part of children to parents; by indirection it enjoined parents and children alike to magnify the home, to make it the centre and core of israel's life, so that it became the very salvation of israel when no other salvation was at hand. the very name that is given to israel, the house of israel, seems to have been prophetic of what the family life of israel was destined to be. the house of israel and the life of the jewish home became interchangeable terms. that the jewish home safeguarded and perpetuated israel through ages of darkness and tears and tragedy is true beyond peradventure. whether this home-life in all its dignity and grandeur was the result of the ghetto is rather doubtful. the ghetto, which was the environment of the exile in its narrowest terms, gave to israel an unique opportunity for the development of what might be called its genius for home-life. but if opportunity and genius conjoined to create the result, this genius was inspired and fortified from generation to generation by willing, even eager, obedience to the fifth commandment of the decalogue. one might search far and wide without finding a finer illustration of the character of the jewish parental-filial relation than the immemorial service in the jewish home, commonly known as the seder or service of the passover eve. that seder with its family symposium has been the glory of israel throughout the ages. ofttimes its serene joy and august peace have been marred by brutal attack and onslaught, but even this, the invasion by the world's hosts, has but served to lend a new dignity and pathos to its beauty. precious and historic memories revolve about this family-scene, the children turning to the parents for counsel and teaching and parents turning to their children and giving these of their best by bringing god and the recognition of his wonderful leading to the life of the child. that seder of the passover eve in the jewish home reminds one of the biblical parable,--for parable it is though the chronicler know it not,--that even in slave-ridden egypt the angel of death could not touch the jewish home. it was exempt from the ravages of death, because within it was something of immortal quality, something immune to the challenge of destruction. the jew who knows something of the history of his people, over and beyond the list of boarding-schools so christian as to shut out jewish children, knows that this was prefigured by the prophet when he announced in the unforgettable word of the hebrew bible: and he shall turn the heart of the parents to the children and the heart of the children to the parents. that is exactly what the jewish home did, turning the hearts of parent and child to each other, knitting them together in one indissoluble tie, so that the home become as naught else the very soul of israel. chapter xiv the jewish home to-day so much for the traditions of the jewish home! what of it in this day and generation? the fact cannot be denied that the jewish home is seriously threatened in our time. i do not go so far as a commentator on jewish affairs, who declared as long as a decade ago: "the jewish home, as we have known and loved it for ages, has ceased to be. it is no longer a jewish home but the home of jews. all the grace and beauty of jewish ceremonial and custom have died out of it. the young generation goes out into the world, unaffected by the influences that held past generations loyal, and so judaism and the community go alike to waste." and, yet, that the indictment is not wholly unjustifiable came to me when i learned of a jewish mother who insisted upon a young married daughter averting the birth of a child, because its coming would interfere with and abbreviate a long-planned summer vacation in european lands. the home which trifles with life's dignities and sanctities in this fashion is become a mockery of the one-time majestic jewish home. it will be noted that the reference is not to the vast majority of jewish homes in west european lands and in our lands, for these are the homes of the poor. and the homes of the poor present a problem, which in the absence of economic-industrial adjustment no ethical aspiration will solve. as for the largest number of jewish homes in america, in them dwell victims of the mass migration movement which has within two generations transplanted huge numbers from continent to continent. who will decide which raises the more serious problem, the involuntary migration of the hapless many or the voluntary imitation of the world by an unhappy few? there has really been more than a migration, for innumerable hosts have suddenly been compelled not only to wander from one continent to another but to leave one world behind them and to enter into a wholly new world. the move is not merely from russia or roumania, galicia or the levant to america; it is a plunge into a new world-life with all that such sudden sea-change involves. this transplantation to strange climes and an alien life results in many cases in the tragedy of utter misunderstanding and alienation between parent and children, a tragedy remaining for some zangwill to portray. but it is not only the homes of the poor and the oppressed jews the texture of which has greatly altered within a generation. for within the homes of the well-to-do in israel a graver and a sadder peril has come to threaten as a result of the repudiation, though it be implicit, of parental responsibility at its highest and of filial duty at its finest, which repudiation in truth is sequent upon the abandonment of the ancient and long unwearied idealism of the jew. if the homes of the poor are endangered from without, the home of the rich is in peril from within. prosperity and its abandonment of the highest have undermined the home to a degree beyond the possibility of the effect of adversity. if it behoove children not to be over-insistent upon their parents accepting their ways and becoming exactly like them, it is trebly necessary for children to understand that foreignism in parents does not justify them in compelling parents to assimilate the externals of the new world and its new life. under these circumstances, parents have a peculiar right to be themselves, to insist upon the essentials of their own _modus vivendi_, to cherish and maintain the things by which they lived in a past arbitrarily cut off. it ought to be said that the jewish home has been more menaced by the life of the world into which israel has in some part entered than by any other circumstance. the truth is that the jew's home is become a part of the world and in its new orientation (or occidentalization) has lost its other-wordly touch or nimbus. thus israel never really found it necessary to stress filial obedience. the latter has always been one of the things taken for granted. save for its obviously necessary inclusion in the decalogue, the jew has always dealt with filial obedience as it dealt with the theory of divine existence or the fact of israel's persecution taking all alike for granted. if the conflict in the home is a little sharper within than without jewish life, this is in some degree the defect of its quality. the large part played by the home in the life of the jew makes the transition to the new order seem harsh and bitter. the jewish parent of yore lived his life within the walls of the home, and the jewish mother particularly passed her days within the limits of a home. it is not easy for the jewish mother to surrender that sense of possession which grows out of undivided preoccupation with child or children, that sense of possession fostered as much by a child's sense of dutifulness as by parental concern. the jewish mother, whom the middle-aged have known and loved, found her deepest and most engrossing interest in the days and deeds of her children. it may be and it is necessary for the jewish mother to relinquish her long-time sense of ownership, but let it not be imagined to be easy. and it is the harder because with, perhaps before, its relinquishment comes a sense of deep loss and hurt to the child. nor would the necessity of yielding up the sense of possession in itself be so serious, if there did not coincide with it an ofttimes exaggerated sense of independence in the jewish child. we may be witnessing an almost conscious break with the centuried tradition of filial self-subordination, or it may be that the revolt of the jewish child seems more serious than it is because of the filial habit of obedience in the life of the jewish home. whatever be the explanation of the new filial role in the jewish home, it is a sorry thing that israel in its assimilative passion should be ready to surrender the home and its historic content, should be so unsure of itself and so sure of the world without as to be willing to give up its best and most precious for the sake of uniformity with the world. and there are jews who forget that the world reverences and honors the jewish home even as it reveres the bible of the jew! a wise friend has written: "whenever and wherever i have been asked by non-jews what i consider the greatest and most permanent contribution of the jew to civilization, i have always answered: the jewish home. ancient greece knew of no real home as we understand it. israel did." but it is not enough to laud the jewish home of old. if jews are to rest satisfied with praises of the jewish home that was instead of seeking to beautify and ennoble the jewish home that is, then, remembering the word of juvenal, virtue is the sole and only nobility, may it truly be said of the jew in the language of the rabbis: "as the dust differs from the gold, so our generation differs from the generations of the fathers." and yet there is no jewish question here, though there be a jewish aspect of the wider problem we are considering. jewish parents have in the past for reasons given or hinted at been almost chinese in their adoration of a child. and when the day of parenthood dawns, these may be as unwisely adoring and hopelessly indulgent touching their children as were their parents. it may be that in the past jewish parents have given more to their children than have non-jewish. let less be given parentally and more be asked,--jewish parent and jewish child need this counsel most. chapter xv the sovereign graces of the home the home lies somewhere between the outer and the inner life of man and its life touches and is touched by both. it is one of the highways through which one passes from the inner to the outer life, the place, to change the figure, where the inner life is touched by the outer world and by it tested and searched and challenged. the place of the home in relation to the inner life is shown forth by the truth that nothing which the world can give balances the hurts and wounds one may suffer within the home. yet such is the magic and mystery of the home that it can heal every wound, which the world without inflicts. it is in the home that the peace of the inner life most clearly reveals itself, that one's soul finds itself most nearly invulnerable to the wounds of the world without. shakespeare is true to the facts, if facts they may be called, in his tremendous picture of the storm on the heath, which in its terror is less terrible than the storm in the home-life of the banished and broken lear. the relations of the home constitute a test which nearly every one of us must meet and unhappiest is he who is outside of their range. no school, no testing-place like that of the home! and it is well to bear in mind that no man greatly succeeds in life, who fails in his own home, not merely because the rewards of the world cannot compensate for the failure of home-life, but because no successes without save from utterly tragic failure him who has failed within the home! home may be heavenly in its harmonies or hellish in its discords. to maintain that the difference is the result of love or lovelessness in the home does not tell the whole story. whether home is to be heaven or hell, wracked by discord or attuned to harmony, depends upon them that make it, all of them, yea, upon the all of all that make a home. one alone may mar a home, any one of its members, husband or wife, parent or child, brother or sister, though all together are needed to minister to its perfection. and how are the harmonies to be achieved and the discords to be avoided? and the answer is,--through courtesy, consideration, comradeship,--all in turn, alike in the major and minor issues of life, going back to self-rule not self-will. courtesy and consideration together constitute the chivalry of the home, courtesy its outer token, consideration its inner prompting. the chivalry of the home is a reminder, occasionally required by both parents and children, that courtesy is not a grace if reserved for and bestowed solely upon strangers. the man or child, who is a churl at home and limits his courtesy extra-murally, is not only a pitiable boor but a contemptible hypocrite. and consideration is something more than courtesy, for the latter springs from it as both are rooted in the sympathy which is the _origo et fons_ of comradeship. consideration like an angel comes, moving the family members to think with and for others, not of themselves as pitilessly misunderstood but as capable of understanding others because possessed of the will to understand. but there can be neither outward courtesy nor inmost consideration, least of all comradeship, unless there be the grace of avoidance of those temptations to selfishness, which more than all else blight the home by leading to conflict irrepressible and irreconcilable. unselfishness in its higher or lower sense is the _conditio sine qua non_ of the parental-filial relation, even as selfishness is deadly not only to those who are guilty of it but to those who needlessly endure it. for selfishness it is which more than all else converts the home into a prison, even a dungeon. parents have the right to ask of children that they shall avoid the besetting sin of childhood, namely, selfishness, though usually the guilt of filial selfishness rests upon the head of parents who long suffer children to indulge in selfishness for the sake of parental indulgence. fostering filial selfishness is ofttimes little more than a cheap and easy way of holding oneself up for self-approval and to filial commendation. nothing is more important than to teach children, especially the children of the privileged, the art of unselfishness unless it be for the parents of privileged children to practice it. the fact that many, many families in our days are of the one or two-children variety gives to the child a tremendous impact in the direction of self-centredness,--toward what i have elsewhere called an egocentric or "meocentric" world. if, however, as happens too commonly, children are treated by selfishly and idiotically indulgent parents during the years of childhood and adolescence as if every one of them were the center of the universe, it will little avail to cry out against the child's selfishness just because he or she has reached twenty. other-centredness will not be substituted for self-centredness at twenty, however much parents may be dismayed, if during the first twenty years the perhaps native selfishness of the child have been ministered to in every imaginable way. in order to deepen the spirit of filial unselfishness it is needful to give or rather to help children to have and to hold an aim bigger than themselves. given unselfishness, the freedom from self-seeking and self-ministration and the presence of the will to minister and to forbear, that unselfishness which is the exclusive grace neither of parent nor of child, then comradeship, the hand-in-hand quest of life, become possible. then and only then may parent and child become comrades, not fellow-boarders and roomers and hoarders, but fellow-travelers and sojourners alike along life's way. without comradeship, whatever else there be, there can be no such thing as home. comradeship shuts out the sense of possession, prevents the invasion of personality, averts alike parental tyranny and filial autocracy. but comradeship is not to be achieved through the word of parents and children,--go to, let us be comrades. for comradeship is that which grows out of the cumulative and united experience of parent and child, if these have so lived and so labored together that unconsciously and inevitably there come to pass the fellowship of life's pilgrimage in real togetherness, comrades with souls "utterly true forever and aye." no compulsion to sympathy and understanding and forbearance where the spirit of comradeship dwells! and such comradeship is unaffected by outward circumstance or by diversities of viewpoint or of educational opportunity or of worldly possession. perhaps comradeship ought to be stressed for a moment, viewing a tendency not quite uncommon to shelve parents, however politely, on the part of children once they imagine themselves to have become mature beings. parental euthenasia can be practised or attempted in many and subtle ways. sir william osler's forty years as a limit,--of course the attribution is essentially fallacious,--fit into the notion of those children who are for an easy and if possible painless superannuation of lagging parents. needless to insist, comradeship means infinitely more than physical proximity. if children but knew how at last when they are grown and maturing, parents sometimes hunger for the companionship of son and daughter, these might be ready to give up some of their comrades whether first-rate or third-rate to satisfy the hunger of the parental heart for companionship with the child. true, it is, that parents must fit themselves throughout life for such comradeship, keeping their hearts young and their minds unclosed. but frequently the failure is due to the sheer selfishness of children, that selfishness which considers not nor forbears, which lightly misunderstands and unadvisedly rejects the parent as comrade on the way, though the parent-heart hunger and ache. children should not require exhortation to the end that they remember parents are not feeders, clothiers, stewards, landlords, boarding-house keepers, and that in exceptional cases these continue to have the right to live after passing the methuselah frontier of fifty or sixty. one is polite in exchange of courteous word even with one's hotel clerk. occasionally one confides in the mistress of a boarding-house. if children but knew the pain some parents feel in that attitude of children which reduces them in their own sight to the level of utterly negligible rooming-house keepers for strangers, they could not demean themselves as they do. this complaint has been voiced to me a number of times within recent years, alike by people of cultivation and by simple, untutored folk. in the former case, the filial silences are generally due to disagreements and misunderstanding. there is such a thing as the acceptance of hospitality on the part of children which compels certain reciprocal courtesies. when children for any reason are unable or unwilling to yield the elementary courtesies of the home, it is for them in all decency to decide whether they are justified in accepting its hospitality. and comradeship must welcome not regret, nurture not stifle, the fine impatiences of youth, the eager, oft unconsidered, superb, at best resistless, idealisms of youth. parents are not to mistake this finely impatient idealism for unreasoning impetuosity. they are to remember that, howsoever inconveniently and troublingly, youth represents the ungainsayable imperiousness of the future. parental scoffing and cynicism are more chilling to the heart of youth than the world's derision. the world's scornful darts fall hurtless upon the shield of him, armed by parental hand for life's battle with the weapons of idealism. and in comradeship it is not enough for parents not to mock nor to be scornful of children's so-called impracticable ideals. where these are not, parents must commend them by their own works rather than command them by their words. comradeship always means the taking of counsel and not the giving of commands. but there can be no taking of counsel with youth at twenty if the parental habit have been one of command prior to that time. twenty years of absolutism cannot suddenly be replaced by the democratic way of holding counsel. parents must be willing to forfeit all save honor in pressing upon youth the categorical and undeniable summons of the ideal. parents must sometimes, ofttimes, be immovably firm, so firm as to be ready to lose the love of children rather than to sacrifice their self-respect. men and women are not worthy of the dignity and glory of parenthood who lack the courage to brave the frown of a child, the strength to front a child's displeasure. remembering that parents usually love their children not wisely but too well and that children love their parents wisely but not too well, let the gentleness of parents be lifted up and hallowed by firmness and the firmness of children be hallowed and glorified by gentleness. if anything the case is still harder for the uneducated or slightly educated parents of children, who have been enabled to tread the highway of education. it seems indecent on the part of these to treat parents in contemptuous fashion, sitting at table with them but never exchanging a word of converse. even when children have virtually attained the heights of omniscience, it is well for them to remember that earth's greatest are not too proud to hold converse with the lowliest, and that one's education is measured not by the number of languages one speaks but by the fineness of spirit that shines through one's speech, however ungrammatical and one's acts however unveneered. comradeship is not to be bought by parents, neither can it be bribed by children. it must not mean the forfeiture of standards. the comradeship that it not suffered to hold the target ever higher is not comradeship but compromise. the comradeship that dare not press higher standards is not comradeship. the comradeship that fears to urge the ennobling ideal is not comradeship but concession. i have before me as i write a letter or a fragment of a letter written by a young sergeant of the french army to his parents ere he fared forth in early august, , to lorraine,--a youth of promise on the eve of fulfilment. these are his words, unread until after his death in the following month, which he gloriously met, fighting to the end against the overwhelming numbers to which he refused to surrender. "be sustained by the contemplation of the beautiful which you cannot fail to love, and which brings you to the eternal principle to which our soul returns.... it is not they who pass for whom we must mourn. i desire but one thing, that i may have a death worthy of the life of my admirable and truly loved father." no conflict here but perfect concord, the concord of a perfect comradeship. the father a distinguished servant of his country in war and peace, the mother a seeker after god and the highest, had been as his comrades, going just a little before and teaching him how to live and toil and hope. he dared all and fell with peace in his heart and faith in his unconquered soul that all was well, that the comradeship of earth would merge at last in the comradeship eternal. the prophet was right: "and he shall turn the hearts of the fathers to the children and the hearts of the children to the fathers." for the messiah is born when the hearts of parents and children are turned to each other in reverence and selflessness. for then it is that the home is brought nearer to the presence of god and that clashing and conflict end--when, in the word of a noble teacher of our generation, it is remembered that "the child is itself a gift, first to parents out of the infinite, then by them to the eternal." footnotes [a] toward social reform, p. . [b] parenthood and race culture, p. . [c] life of alice freeman palmer, p. . [d] choice of books, p. . [e] emerson, "the oversoul." [f] atlantic monthly, august, , p. . [g] our social heritage, p. . [h] _idem_, p. . [i] _idem_, p. . [j] p. . [k] getting married, preface, pp. - . [l] the making of a teacher, p. . [m] emerson in concord (e. w. emerson) p. . [n] emerson in concord, p. . [o] tucker, public-mindedness, p. . [p] cheerful yesterdays, p. . [q] cheerful yesterdays, p. . [r] public-mindedness, p. . [s] higginson, contemporaries, p. . [t] darmesteter, life of renan, p. . [u] _idem_, p. . [v] history of israel, vol. ii, p. . [transcriber's note: * the footnotes have been moved to the end of the book. * pg corrected spelling of words "needs limit" to "need limits" located in the phrase "i must needs limit myself". * pg corrected spelling of word "harrassing" to "harassing" located in the phrase "out of a harrassing difficulty". * pg corrected spelling of word "relalation" to "relation" located in the phrase "parental-filial relalation". * pg corrected spelling of word "harrassed" to "harassed" located in the phrase "however harrassed and unhappy". * pg corrected spelling of word "unharrassed" to "unharassed" located in the phrase "to live apart, unharrassed". * pg corrected spelling of word "excedingly" to "exceedingly" located in the phrase "it proves excedingly hard". * pg corrected spelling of word "irreconciliable" to "irreconcilable" located in the phrase "conflict irrepressible and irreconciliable".] (this file was produced from images generously made available by the internet archive.) cattle ranch to college. [illustration: a xxx bunch. (_page ._)] cattle-ranch to college the true tale of a boy's adventures in the far west by russell doubleday "a gunner aboard the yankee" new york doubleday & mcclure co mdcccxcix copyright, , by doubleday & mcclure co to my mother, kindly critic, counsellor, and friend, this book is affectionately dedicated. preface. this is a true tale of a boy's life in the west twenty-five years ago. it is an account of his amusements, his trials, his work, his play. the incidents described actually happened and are described substantially as "the boy" related them to the writer. the "wild and woolly" west is fast vanishing, and a great deal of the adventurous life is going with it. buffalo hunts are things of the past; encounters with indians that were experienced in the time of john worth's boyhood are now happily very rare; railroads have penetrated the cattle country, and vast herds of cattle are no longer driven long distances to the shipping point, so that the consequent danger, hardship, and excitement are largely done away with. in places the great prairies have been fenced, in others grain grows where heretofore only buffalo, cattle, and horses ranged, and much of the free, wild life of the cowboy, the ranchman, and the miner is gone for all time. it is hoped that this book will be of interest, not because of its novelty but of its truthfulness. the author feels that the story of a boy who has passed through the stern training of a frontier life to an honorable place in an eastern university will be acceptable to boys young and old. contents. chapter page i. an indian attack ii. the young brave's daring iii. a narrow escape iv. hitting the trail v. in a mining camp vi. a snowshoe race vii. a buffalo hunt viii. a close finish ix. a "bad man's" end x. battle royal xi. a trying journey xii. a change of scene xiii. herding horses and panning gold xiv. a migration xv. "range-riding" xvi. a broncho buster xvii. a cow-puncher in earnest xviii. a midnight stampede xix. an awakening xx. a transformation xxi. twelve hundred miles awheel to college list of illustrations. a xxx bunch _frontispiece_ facing page mounting a bucking broncho glancing over saw an indian village custer's command the tail of the cook's wagon was let down the stock of the rifle rested closely against his cheek ben went over to where the game lay roping an unbroken horse "crow hat's facing this way" the indian camp the biggest game the country afforded a squaw ... just saw some buffalo a shepherd ... alone with his flock a difficult task if there are many lambs in the flock mr. worth had built for himself a new house the sheep ranch house he ... bucks, pitches, kicks curran, brady's night wrangler the men broke up into little groups a rope corral was drawn about the saddle band each man took his rope and flung it over the horse he wanted a little box of a cabin it was the snubbing post holds him fast jerry takes in the slack john knots the rope loosely round his neck roped thrown whose is it? a question of ownership dragged it up to the fire ... while the iron was applied herds were pouring in from every direction the drive ... fording a stream the sun river ranch house * * * * * marginal illustrations by janet mac donald. the drawings of beaver, etc., on pages , , and , by ernest seton thompson are reproduced through the courtesy of _recreation_. cattle ranch to college. chapter i. an indian attack. a solitary horseman rode into the little frontier town of bismarck, shortly after dark one evening, about twenty-five years ago. horse and rider passed up the single unpaved street; in the darkness no one noticed the fagged condition of the animal, nor the excitement of the rider, betokened by the continued urging of his weary pony. the town was unusually full of the nomadic people who made up its population, cow-punchers, saloon keepers, gamblers, freighters, and outlaws. the evening quiet was constantly broken by the sounds of revelry, and the report of a pistol occasionally punctuated the general noise as some hilarious cowboy playfully shot at the lights. in the dim ray cast across the street through the small windows of the saloons and dance halls, no one saw the horseman ride up the street to "black jack's," one of the most conspicuous saloons; here he stiffly dismounted and tied his pony to the pole where stood a row of other horses. after glancing around to see that all was secure, he entered. he was hailed with a chorus of shouted greetings and questions. "hello, harry! what's the matter?" "why, there's harry hodson! what drove you down the trail to-night?" "are you dry, old man? come and drive a nail with me." these and many more questions poured in on him so thick and fast that no chance, for some time, was given him to speak. as the crowd drew around the newcomer, who was a sober, steady cattleman from twenty-five miles up the river, they noticed that there was something out of the ordinary in his manner. even the fact of his appearance at that place and hour was unusual. "no, boys," he said, in answer to the many invitations to drink. "i think we'll all need clear heads before daylight." "why, what's the trouble?" chorused the crowd. "the fact is," continued hodson, hurriedly, "i _cached_ my cattle and then came down to tell you that a big bunch of indians crossed the river above my place this afternoon, and they looked as if they were on the war path." all were attentive now, and even the most reckless of these wild men, living continually in the midst of dangers, wore grave faces. "i didn't stop to investigate. i wasn't taking any chances, you see," he went on. "so i ran my cattle over onto woody island and then started down the trail, giving the word to the fellows along the road. hostiles have been pretty thick across the river lately, and i've had to watch out." by this time all hands were thoroughly interested. as hodson went on with his tale, the men drew nearer to him, their faces showing how keenly they realized what his news might mean to all. questions followed thick and fast. "how many were there? where did they cross?" asked one. "how many horses? did they have any squaws with them?" without giving hodson a chance to answer, they all began to talk in an excited babel of voices, advancing opinions and theories as to what had taken place. one big fellow, in a red flannel shirt, asserted that they must have crossed the river at elbow island; another contradicted this statement and said that the stream was too wide at this point and that they crossed in "bull boats," as the rude craft made of buffalo or cow hides stretched over strong light frames of willow were called. hodson stood apart while this discussion was going on, with the bored air of one who was fully acquainted with the facts and could end the unnecessary talk in a moment if he was allowed an opportunity. "big bill" smith, one of the older men, took in the situation. "dry up," said he; "let harry talk, will you? he's the only one who knows anything." "well," said harry, as the crowd once more turned to him, "there isn't much talking to do, but there's plenty of hustling ahead for us. about two hundred indians crossed the river up at sioux ford. they were travelling pretty light, and i guess they are looking for beef or anything else they can lay their hands on; probably they think they can scare us off with a few shots and then run the stock off. they had a lot of horses--not enough to go around--but a lot. we've got to get ready for them on the jump, for if they're coming they'll be here before daylight, and the stock and wagons will have to be got in right away." "somebody go for jim mackenzie," said big bill. as one of the men started for the door to carry out this order, a tall, commanding figure, grizzled and somewhat bent, but more from hardship than from age, entered the room. he was recognized at once as the sheriff: the central figure when trouble was brewing, but a retiring, inconspicuous citizen when all was peaceful. when action was required he was in his element. a man to depend on in time of trouble, one to command in an emergency. it was very noticeable that these rough cattlemen, accustomed to depend upon themselves, who when off duty acknowledged no law except their own wishes, instinctively looked for a leader when confronted with this common danger. no one thought for an instant of questioning his orders, but obeyed with military precision. for the time, his word was law. "harry," said the sheriff, turning to the bringer of these bad tidings, after the above facts had been told him, "you put your saddle on my bay and take a couple of men with you back on the trail. bring back jim white and his outfit of wagons and stock; he's camped down on hay creek. there are some smaller outfits on the black hills road; better help them get in. you'll want to hustle," he added, as hodson and his two helpers went out. "smith," continued the sheriff, issuing orders as fast as a pony could trot, "take a couple of men and get in the circle bar [symbol: large circle with bar under it] stock, there's only a night-herder with them. the rest of you who have wagons and stock out, bring them in yourselves. all you loose men," he added, as he noticed that several men still lingered in the hot, close, smoke-filled room, "get your guns, saddle up, and come to my shack." the sheriff had been in the place but five minutes, but now fat sam whitney, a frequenter of the place, black jack, the saloon keeper, and a couple of soldiers from the fort across the river, were all that remained with him. the men outside could be heard saddling up, struggling with their refractory horses, and calling out to each other; from time to time the rapidly diminishing sound of galloping hoofs came to the ears of the silent men who for the moment remained motionless. the sheriff was planning his defence against the expected indian attack, and the men who were with him, without a word, waited for the announcement of his next move. it was jim mackenzie, and they put themselves in his hands with blind confidence. bismarck was a frontier town in the full sense of the word. a collection of rude houses, more or less strongly built of logs and dried mud, straggled along the single street. placed at the intersection of the expected railroad and the missouri river, a town of considerable size was mapped and many streets with high-sounding names were projected. but only main street was actually laid out. the houses, which their inhabitants called shacks, were built on the north side of the street facing the south, in obedience to the natural law of cold climates, so bismarck boasted really of but half a street, and that a short one. fort abraham lincoln, situated directly across the river, was supposed to afford protection to the settlers from the indian marauders, but the hardy, self-reliant frontiersmen were generally able to take care of themselves. not many of the inhabitants stayed the year round. the few who did remain through all seasons--the saloon keepers, horseshoers, stable keepers, and the three families--dwelt in the more pretentious houses. the other residences were mere temporary shelters, which their owners would not have considered worth fitting up had they been able to do so. around the outskirts of the town were always a number of freight outfits, and this night was no exception to the general rule. the cumbrous wagons were drawn in a circle, harnesses lying in a seemingly hopeless tangle on the wagon tongues, and the tents were pitched against their sides or canvas lean-to's were rigged up. a number of greasy men lounged around the campfires, some sleeping, some re-braiding whips, some mending harness or chopping out new brake blocks. the work stock were grazing at a little distance where the grass was good, guarded by an armed herder. to these freighters' camps came the sheriff himself to warn them of the impending danger. immediately all was activity. the work stock were brought, and, in a trice, harnessed to the heavy wagons. the mules were urged forward with shouts and cracking of whips, and soon the whole outfit was on its way to form a cordon around the town, or, at least, on the side that was most likely to be attacked. mackenzie rode with the wagon-train for a short distance, then branched off after giving some final orders, or rather suggestions, for any emergency that might arise. "so long," he said. "so long," said the driver of the leading team. (whether a man was leaving for a trip across the street or across the continent, the parting words were, invariably, "so long.") mackenzie went on his way, skirting the town, keeping his eyes and ears wide open. there was nothing within hearing to indicate that the settlement was in danger of attack from the dreaded indian. the teamsters could still be heard shouting to their mules, and an occasional creaking squeak from the wagons broke the stillness. the sheriff listened in vain for more ominous sounds. "the reds are still pretty far off, or they are keeping mighty dark," he said to himself, as he put spurs to his horse and galloped towards one of the better-looking houses that stood on a little rise some distance from the main street settlement. messengers had been sent in every direction, to warn sleeping citizens, and all had been arranged for except this household, one of the three families of the town. mackenzie rode up to the door and, without dismounting, knocked. in an instant there was a sound of bustling, for the westerner sleeps with one eye open, and is ready at a moment's notice for anything that may occur. "who's there?" shouted a voice. "mackenzie," answered the sheriff. almost at the same moment the door opened, and a man stepped out. "hello, worth!" said the sheriff. "you'd better bring the wife and children further down. harry hodson just came down the trail and reports a big bunch of indians a few miles up, and----" but worth did not wait to hear any more. "john," worth shouted back into his shack; "you and ben help your mother pack up the bedding and take care of the baby. we've got to be lively. you know what to do. you see, mac," he said, turning to the horseman, "i thought i might as well get things started while you were telling me about these hostiles." "all right," said the sheriff. "good scheme. you might as well saddle up and come along with me so you can find a place beforehand for the wife and kids." in a few minutes both men were on their way to the centre of the town: mackenzie, to send out his pickets and guards, and to arrange the placing of stock and wagons; worth, to find a temporary shelter for his family. the boys, john and ben, were left behind to look after the home, pack up the goods, catch and saddle the horses. it was a seemingly big task for boys of ten and twelve, but from the time these boys were able to walk they--in common with other boys of the frontier--had to look out largely for themselves. they were strong, sturdy little chaps. john, the elder, was his father's right-hand man, and when mr. worth was away on one of his frequent freighting trips, john was often called upon to take care of the family in emergencies much like the present one. in this frontier town, the reports of bands of hostile indians coming to raid and kill were not uncommon. the single man, active, mounted, armed with weapons as familiar to him as his right hand, had no fear of not being able to outwit or escape the enemy, wily as the redskins were. in fact, the indians themselves were well aware of the ability of the plainsmen to cope with them when unhampered by women and children, so they practically never began hostilities until they could get their white enemies at a disadvantage. the few families were, therefore, their especial point of attack. it was their helplessness that tempted the onslaught and aroused the savage instincts of these marauders. when the head of the family, the bread winner, was away, the dread of these fearful, relentless attacks on his helpless ones abode with him always. the mother and children, left at home, lived always under the shadow of the same fear. john and his brother, therefore, fully understood the danger and the need for speedy and careful preparation. they had often, at the warning of the hostiles' approach, helped their mother make a fort of the solid log house by piling up the scanty furniture and bedding against the doors and windows, leaving only loopholes for their rifles; and though the present situation was one that would make ordinary boys useless through fear, john and ben, on the contrary, were too busy to worry; they knew exactly what was to be done, and in their sturdy, independent way went to work to do it. "say, ben," said john, as they went toward the corral (the circular inclosure in which the saddle horses were kept), "i'll bet it's just those indians we saw across the river, day before yesterday, while we were hunting gannons' horses. there was a lot of squaws in that bunch, do you remember?" "that's right," assented ben; "and i'll bet that some of gannons' horses were in that lot of indian ponies. if it was ten dollars reward instead of five, it might have been worth while to run the risk of trying to find out; but five dollars is too little to go fooling around a strange indian's camp for." the talk was ended by their arrival at the corral and the subsequent busy time catching and bridling of the horses. the ponies were then led to the door, where they were saddled. as they were cinching them up--as the tightening of the girths is called--mr. worth returned. in a few minutes the whole family were on their way to the sebells', one of the other bismarck families who lived on main street. in town they found all activity. horsemen were galloping to and fro, cattle, horses, and mules dashed in and out, wagons driven at full speed crossed and recrossed the dusty street. as soon as they were installed at their new-found shelter and their household goods disposed of, john went with his father to get in the extra stock of horses and mules, for, next to his family, these are the freighter's chief care. they found their stock together, as was expected, for animals, particularly horses, that come from the same place, always stay together. this instinct made it much easier for the herder to gather his own, when there were many animals belonging to different outfits on a common grazing ground. the worth stock was promptly driven inside the now almost complete circle of wagons, and there tied. a group of men were busy piling up boxes, barrels, and bales, taken from the freighters' wagons, into the semblance of breastworks. as john and his father approached, the sheriff came forward and joined them. "family all right, worth?" he asked, kindly. "i sent up a couple of men to help you and they reported that your shack was deserted and the place locked up for keeps. you didn't waste any time." "that was good of you, mac," said mr. worth, holding out his hand. "how you're able to think of so many things at once, beats me. yes, we got out in pretty quick shape; you see my boys, johnny here and ben, are first-rate hands to depend on in an emergency. they did pretty near the whole thing to-night. by the way, the boys were hunting horses up the river day before yesterday, and saw quite a large bunch of indians in the brush below harry hodson's." [illustration: mounting a bucking broncho.] "why didn't you say something about this before?" interrupted the sheriff, turning to john. "ben and i have seen plenty of indians," said john, eagerly. "there were a lot of squaws in this bunch, so i didn't believe they were a war party. we didn't think anything more about them until this scare came up to-night." "well, you have got a good head on you, young man. i don't know but you are right, and this may be a false alarm. still hodson generally knows what he's talking about." the sheriff was speaking more to himself than to his hearers. "i'm glad we've got a lot of first-rate scrappers with us; i guess the reds would think twice if they knew what they were running up against." all was now comparatively quiet. the work and strain of preparation was succeeded by a time of waiting, a period of suspense that was, perhaps, harder to bear than the first shock of the unpleasant news. john and his father returned to their temporary home to calm the mother's fears. mrs. worth had the family rifle ready, and ben had polished and oiled every cartridge in the belt, so that they would slip in without jamming. mr. worth shouldered the gun and went out, leaving the boys with their mother. though all was now quiet and his mother and brother were asleep, john could not close his eyes. he understood, as his younger brother could not, the danger that menaced the household and the town. death, swift, by knife or bullet, or slow through torture, was sure to come if that band of indians got inside the inclosure. he had heard gruesome tales describing the treatment that the savages meted out to their prisoners and the horror of it would not leave him. at last he could stand it no longer. quickly he rose from the heap of bedding and stole to the door. he was fully dressed, and his little six-shooter still slung on his left hip where he had buckled it when the sheriff first knocked at the home shack. all was still outside, except for the occasional stamping of a pony or the distant wail of a coyote. pickets were posted just over the rise to the north of the town, from which direction the attack was expected. they were to give warning of the approach of the indians by a rifle shot. suddenly there was borne on the breeze to the waiting men the sound of galloping horses. louder it grew, then fainter; then again still louder. so the sound wavered, but ever came nearer. the watchers sprang to their feet, rifles ready, eyes gleaming. "steady, boys," said the calm voice of mackenzie. "wait a bit." still the thumping of many hoofs approached nearer. what had become of the pickets? had they been all killed with the enemy's noiseless arrows? or had they been lured away beyond hearing and shot? daylight was breaking; the enemy could now be seen, that was one comfort. and as they stood, ears alert, eyes strained, their nerves keyed up to the tensest pitch, awaiting the onslaught, that ominous noise of hoof-beats came ever nearer, nearer, nearer. suddenly a horse's head appeared above the brow of the hill, then another and another until quite a score or more were in plain view. they dashed down the incline toward the corral of wagons. but they were all riderless! presently two riders appeared. they shouted a greeting as they came down the hill and explained that they were of the n bar n outfit (that is to say, their brand bore these marks:) [symbol: n over n with line between]. a space was hastily cleared between the wagons to allow these newcomers' horses to enter the inclosure; but it was too late; the bunch parted, turning to right and left. the two herders also separated in pursuit, each following a bunch. immediate danger over, the waiting men relaxed their extra vigilance, and all hands watched the efforts of the two herders in their vain attempts to head off their charges. the sheriff was just saying, "i wish some of you fellows would help round up that bunch; we want to get them all in before the hostiles show up," when a third horseman appeared, riding like the wind. "say, that chap has got a fresh horse," said "casino," one of the freighters. the new arrival, after a headlong dash, regardless of ditches, brush, and badger holes, succeeded in rounding up the frightened horses, and with the help of the herder, drove them into camp. a similar performance soon brought in the other bunch. as the new rider trotted in through the gap, some one shouted: "what'll you take for that horse? he's a regular whirlwind." "yes," said one of the herders, "he's a dandy, isn't he? my stock would have got away if johnny worth hadn't come out on baldy." "so it's johnny worth, eh!" said bill smith. "good work, kid." "oh!" said johnny, "they're only worn-out, winded plugs; they were easy for baldy. he was saddled and all ready," the boy added in explanation. "well done, johnny," said the sheriff, who had once before that night praised the boy's pluck. then, turning to the group about him, "some of you boys had better get breakfast," said he; "there's no telling when that war party may turn up, and you must eat now when you have the chance." chapter ii. the young brave's daring. while the men were eating (a sufficient number being left to keep watch and guard) in one of the dance halls, which was hastily impressed for the purpose, the herders of the n bar n outfit were questioned as to their knowledge of the indians. they reported that the redskins were in force and were coming rapidly in the direction of the town. that while they were guarding their stock, they were startled by the sudden appearance of an indian near them, who yelled and waved his blanket, and finally succeeded in stampeding the animals. they started off at a gallop after the horses, and this solitary brave forthwith disappeared. the stock stampeded but the herders stayed with them, riding full speed over all sorts of rough country. the indians appeared at intervals in pursuit of them, and added to the confusion and danger by keeping up a running fire. the herders said they were about to give up the attempt to keep their charges out of the savages' hands when they came in sight of the town. "even then," said one of the men, called singing jim, "we couldn't have corralled the beasts if that youngster hadn't chased out to help us on a fresh horse, and a fast one at that." "we'll have troubles yet," said the other herder, calamity jake he was called, because of his ability to see small black clouds of evil a great distance off. "plenty of trouble, too, in the shape of indians on the warpath. they were not far behind us when we reached these diggin's." "what became of your wagons?" said harry hodson, a mouthful of beans interfering somewhat with his speech. "oh, i guess they're done for. probably makin' light for the indians to do a war dance by," remarked singing jim, cheerfully. "i reckon not," said mackenzie, who had appeared in time to hear the last; "they'll not show their location by making a big blaze like--" "i heard a shot fired from over the hill," shouted johnny, who stuck his head in at the door that moment. "maybe it's one of the pickets." the men jumped up and made a rush for the door. the herder, singing jim, who was the last man out, exclaimed as he disappeared, "well, if that kid ain't ubikkertous, as the states' papers say!" several shots were now heard and then the pickets topped the rise and made a break down the slope to the town. the enemy was close, but still invisible behind the ridge. the men lay crouched behind their barricade, silent, alert, ready for what might come. the three pickets made their way back to the breastworks and reported that the advance guard had shown itself coming down a _coulie_ half a mile away, and the main body, probably fifty strong, was straggling after when the pickets last looked back. a long night of vigil and hurried preparation had told on these watchers and they were anxious to begin the work and end the suspense. the short ten minutes which elapsed seemed ten hours. then two indians rode to the top of the ridge and looked down upon the preparations for their reception. they were a long rifle shot distant and the defenders had no ammunition to spare. moreover, if unprovoked, the redskins might go without firing a shot. to tell the truth, however, especially when they saw the unlikelihood of making a successful assault, most of the little garrison were in the mood to feel disappointed if the attack ended so harmlessly. "if those fellows are hard up for a fight," said big bill smith, "maybe they'll tackle us; but i never saw an indian yet that would ride a quarter of a mile in the open under fire even when he wanted something to eat,"--and bill knew indians. "they won't leave without tryin' us," said casino. "you'll see if i ain't right." a moment later two painted and befeathered savages appeared to the left, and rode full tilt along the hillside in direct view of the camp, yelling and waving their blankets in derision: a tantalizing sight to the waiting men. "keep steady, there," called mackenzie, sternly, as several rifles were raised. "there's no use shooting now; they're only trying to draw our fire and find out how strong we are. there'll be more presently. wait for them." a few minutes later half a dozen braves repeated the ruse. the flying figures, almost naked, being poor targets, the fire of the little garrison was still reserved. a dozen then made the run, one following the other, at regular intervals. more and more of the painted, yelling, gesticulating savages followed, dashing along the slope in single file and disappearing over the ridge to the right, until what was a short line became a procession. presently they began to creep down the hill, each rider advancing beyond the one preceding him, all yelling epithets of contempt as they came ever nearer the silent garrison. this was the regular mode of indian attack; it afforded them an opportunity to fire and yet gave their enemy a very poor chance to do any damage. a desultory firing began; each indian letting go his reins, fired his rifle as best he could as he rushed past. the shooting was naturally bad, for there was no chance to take careful aim. if the savages planned, however, to draw the fire of the besieged and so determine their strength, the scheme failed, for not a shot was fired from the camp, though the provocation was great. the rushing line came closer and closer. the colors of the war paint and fluttering feathers could now be plainly seen. it was within easy range, but still the fire was withheld. each indian had worked himself into the frenzy which is so necessary a part of a brave's courage. as the distance was lessened, the savages' aim became better, and several bullets struck the wagons and the barricade. the situation began to be interesting; any shot might now reach its human target, and the temptation to return the fire was almost irresistible. but the sheriff only said, "not yet." the bullets were striking freely and the yelling enemy were within easy revolver range. at last mackenzie, who showed signs of suppressed eagerness, said, just loud enough to be heard: "boys, don't shoot when your man is opposite; wait till he has passed, then aim at his back and shoot straight. you can't hit him otherwise. ready now. fire!" this was not a military company, but a band of frontiersmen, which a common danger united under the leadership of one man. the volley which followed, therefore, was not one of precision, for every man took his time and pulled the trigger when he was ready. the indians, anticipating a return fire, rode by at full speed, their bodies hugging their horses closely. they made difficult targets, so the first few shots did nothing more than kill and disable a horse or two; but soon the fire became more rapid and accurate. a big buck was seen to fall out of his saddle, another was thrown violently from a wounded horse, several were hit in arms and legs. the yelling diminished and the line moved further up the slope, scattering as it went. as the file, now rather scattered, turned the ridge at the right, firing as it moved, a young buck, in full war regalia and mounted on a beautiful bay pony, bounded into view. he dashed out of the circle of indians, and rode boldly down toward the white men, yelling defiance. he was a young chief endeavoring to earn the approval of his tribe and the consequent advancement and influence, according to the custom of the sioux. down the hill he came with a rush right into the thick of the fire, and yet, though the bullets whistled on all sides of him, he was unharmed. nearer and nearer he drew, until he reached a point within two hundred yards of the white man's guns. then he stopped, turned his pony half-way round and flourished his revolver derisively, yelling imprecations at the garrison the while. he then fired a shot which came so close to john, that he was sure he could feel the wind of it--the sound was unmistakable. after this reckless feat, the young chief trotted slowly back to his own people, but kept his face always towards his enemies. the daring of the deed took both sides by surprise, and for a time hardly a shot was fired by white man or red. it was a tribute to the young brave's courage and bravado. it would not do, however, to let him escape unharmed. other warriors might be inspired to emulate the rash act, and if they took it into their heads to rush the stockade there would certainly be much loss of life. the indians now began firing again, covering as well as possible their comrade's retreat. those behind the barricade also woke up. "shoot that fellow, boys," cried big bill. "he mustn't get away unhurt. we've got to discourage that sort of thing." every man aimed at the fleeing indian, but still he rode with his face towards his foe, gesturing defiance. the feathers in his war-bonnet fluttered in the wind, and the quirt hung on his upraised right wrist swayed with the motion of his pony. of a sudden a single rifle spoke from the white man's intrenchments, and, in an instant, the young chief was changed from a superb living bronze statue to a lump. he fell, clawing at his saddle and yelling shrilly. his well-trained war pony slowed down and circled back to where his master lay. all this occupied much less time than it takes to tell it. during this distraction, half a dozen indians, who had been unhorsed, rose from their brush coverts and ran for their lives to gain the more substantial refuge which the ridge afforded. four escaped, but two were dropped in their tracks before they could reach the shelter. though bullets had dropped all around the white men, none had been hit. "had enough?" said the sheriff. "found the camp stronger than you thought, eh?" such seemed to be the case, for, after a long parley, which was held discreetly out of range, the band disappeared, leaving their dead on the prairie. an attempt had been made to rescue the fallen, but the risk was too great, and it was given up. the indians had been gone some time before the little garrison crept carefully from under cover, for the sioux were notoriously tricky and their apparent departure might simply be a ruse to put their enemies off their guard. finally, however, the sheriff turned to his men. "casino," said he, "you, singing jim, and calamity jake follow their trail and see what becomes of them. if they start to come back you hump yourselves and let us know. you'd better go along, hodson, and look after your stock." the men appointed saddled up and started out without delay. the good wishes of those remaining went with them. it was a perilous undertaking, for there was no telling where the war party might be or what they might do. after the scouts had left, guards were set to keep watch and prevent a surprise, though it was thought that there was little danger of an attack by daylight. the sheriff and the rest of the men began to count noses, not only of men but of stock, for it might be that in the excitement some one or some animal had been hit unknown to the others. in fact, it would be a marvel if one bullet had not reached its mark, since, at times, they had dropped around like hail. all were found intact, but several of the wagons had been pretty badly riddled. a barrel of molasses which rested in one of the wagons was punctured by a -calibre bullet, and the sticky stuff leaked down on and in a trunk marked "charles r. green, boston." "belongs to a tenderfoot who got stalled with the rest of his outfit near the railroad," casino had explained, when some one remarked on the strange object. certainly the "tenderfoot" was having rather a novel introduction to the hardships of frontier life. as charley green said afterwards, "he was stuck on himself for fair." mr. worth and john now thought of the family at the sebells', and at the first lull they made their way back between wagons, around and through bunches of cattle, mules, and horses to the house. it was hard to tell which was most glad to see the other, but a stranger coming in would not have realized that this was the return of a father and son after several hours' exposure to all the perils of indian warfare. there were no tears of joy, no outward demonstration of happiness. the frontiersman had learned, perhaps from the indian, perhaps from stern nature herself, to keep his feelings to himself. even john and ben were not demonstrative. "i suppose you did 'em up?" said the latter to his more fortunate brother. "how many were there in the party?" john dropped to the floor, for the experience of the night before was, at least, trying. "sure we did," he answered. "they didn't come till daylight and so were in plain sight, while we were under cover, see? same bunch we saw the other day, i guess. phew! i'm tired." he had hardly got the words out of his mouth before he was sound asleep, and, not long after, his father was also in the land where none but phantom enemies are seen. the indians evidently had enough, for they disappeared, taking with them, however, some of the n bar n stock. the two herders accepted the situation, each in his own fashion. "i told you so," groaned calamity jake. "these pesky indians ought to be wiped off the face of the earth." singing jim, however, merely grinned, and said as he ran his fingers through his hair: "well, i'm glad this thatch is not decorating some sioux tepee. i think it looks better on me than it would on a lodge pole." after this, things went on in much the same old way in the little frontier town, for the indians did not venture another attack. in spite of its small size, bismarck was a busy place and was the distributing point for a large unsettled territory. freighters came in from points on the distant railroad with provisions for the cattlemen, trappers, and miners, and the constantly changing population of the town. their wagons were in long trains, one hitched to the other, the whole drawn by many teams of mules and driven by one man, who rode the near mule next the first wagon, controlling his team by a single "jerk line," which ran to the front near animal. this mule, who was picked for his intelligence, knew that one pull on the line meant turn left, and two short jerks indicated that a right turn was wanted; moreover, he knew just how wide a sweep to make to clear an obstruction. when the trapper came to town to bring in his pelts for shipment east, and to get a supply of pork, beans, and coffee---his standbys in the matter of diet---and when the cowboy raced in with a couple of pack ponies to get supplies for his outfit, the rare opportunity was always taken advantage of to enjoy what pleasures the town afforded. the gamblers and saloon keepers did a thriving business, though a perilous one, for, on the slightest provocation, the frontiersman was ever ready with his shooting irons. it was only a few weeks after the indian attack described before the parching heat of summer began to give way before the dreaded wintry breath of the north. john and ben, when they went out to guard their father's stock, gave up their daily swimming in the river and took up horse racing instead; and many a race was hotly contested. the boy, however, who rode baldy, the big bay, always won. mr. worth, as has been noted before, was a freighter; he was also a miner, opening up mines of coal in the deep-cut river banks, the coal so obtained being sold to the government for the fort garrisons. [illustration: glancing over saw an indian village. (_page ._)] on these coal-prospecting trips he usually went alone, carrying on his back the bare necessaries of life: a blanket, perhaps a string of bacon, a bag of beans, and a little coffee, besides the never-absent rifle and revolver. late in the fall, mr. worth set out on a prospecting trip. the garrisons of fort lincoln and other outposts situated up the river were clamoring for more fuel, and no time must be lost if they were to be supplied before the heavy snows set in. john went with his father a half day's journey, helping to carry his equipment. they started out afoot, and the mother, holding the baby in her arms, watched them. "so long," called back mr. worth, as he started out. "so long," returned his wife. at dark, john returned and, in his self-sufficient way, began to prepare for the night. he and ben each saddled a horse, of which there were several tied to a pole, and set out to round up the "saddle band" (as the ponies which were reserved for riding were called), and the work stock of mules and pack horses. they were not far off, nibbling the tufted buffalo grass, and soon were turned toward the corral, the boys riding on either side, ready to head off any animal that showed a disposition to separate or lead the "bunch" astray. the stock safely disposed of, john and ben went back to the shack, but were promptly sent out again for wood and water. "let's get a lot of wood," said ben, "for it's colder than blazes. hope the governor will find a good place to turn in to-night." "oh, he's all right," replied john, between grunts, for the load of wood he was carrying was both heavy and bulky. an hour or so later, the windows and door were barred, the embers of the fire scattered, and all hands turned in for the night. the beds were really bunks built into the wall, and were not exactly luxurious, spring mattresses being quite unknown; but the boys found them comfortable, and in a minute or two were rolled in their blankets like great cocoons and fast asleep. * * * * * mr. worth was not expected back for several weeks, for his journey was to be a long one and subject to many delays on account of bad weather and, worse, indians. it was about a week after he had left that charley green came up to where the boys sat on the door-step braiding whips or quirts. "hullo, kids," he said, "mr. mackenzie wants--what are you doing?" his curiosity made him forget his errand. "braidin' a rope to hang a couple of horse thieves," said john, facetiously. "what did you think we were doing, branding calves?" even the kids made fun of the "tenderfoot," who was really a good fellow, just out from an eastern college, but densely ignorant as far as western ways went. he saw he was being laughed at, and so hastened to come back to his errand. "mr. mackenzie wants some old clothes, blankets, and other warm things for a man who turned up just now, half-dressed. he's almost frozen. white man, too," he added. in a few minutes john and tenderfoot green reached the sheriff's shack, bearing clothes and blankets. the crowd that stood before the door parted and allowed them to pass. in the far corner of the room, leaning over the fire, sat a man who turned his head as john and green came in. "why, it's my father!" cried john. chapter iii. a narrow escape. the boy rushed forward and asked what had happened. the small, rough living-room in the sheriff's shack was soon crowded with men who pressed forward eager to hear the story. when mr. worth was rested somewhat and thoroughly warmed through, he began: "after leaving home, i travelled for two days and nothing happened. there were plenty of indian signs about, marks of moccasined feet and prints of unshod horses' hoofs." "where were you bound?" asked some one. "up the river near fort stevenson. got a coal mine up there, you know," the narrator answered. "well, i kept a pretty sharp lookout for hostiles--and all the indians are hostile around fort stevenson--but up to the time i'm going to tell you about i didn't see any. i followed the old trails made by the buffalo and deer across the prairie, and did my best to cover up my own tracks--wore moccasins till the cacti cut 'em too much, then shifted to boots. of course boots made a much clearer print and would give me away sure if they were seen." "why?" whispered tenderfoot green to casino. "because, you chump," retorted casino, "the indians never wear boots, so they know right away when they see marks of heel and sole that a white man has been that way. see?" worth continued, without noticing this whispered colloquy: "i was getting nearer and nearer the river every minute, and i knew that when i got there my chances of getting through all right would be better, for the brush and banks would afford the cover that the prairie lacked." his hearers nodded their heads understandingly, and even tenderfoot green seemed to take in the situation. "the wind was getting pretty keen, and i was afraid it would snow; if it did, i knew my trail would be as plain as a column of smoke in a clear sky, so i hustled for the river at a good pace. in spite of my hurry, though, i managed to keep a sharp lookout for indians. as i topped every rise i took a good survey of everything in view, and it was well i did, for about dusk i reached the crest of a low hill, and on glancing over saw an indian village. it lay directly in my path, not far from the river. it was still too light to attempt to go round it, so i lay down behind some sage brush and watched what was going on. the village, which contained about fifty tepees, was placed within easy distance of the river and was well supplied with cottonwood." "used the cottonwood for fuel, i suppose?" broke in green. "yes, and the green bark to feed the horses on in heavy snowy weather," volunteered mackenzie. "excuse me, mr. worth," apologized tenderfoot, "i didn't mean to interrupt." "that's all right," said worth. "a lot of squaws were busy doing men's work, as is the way of the poor things, scraping hides that were staked on the ground, mending buffalo-skin tepees, pounding berries, carrying wood and water. some were busy with easier jobs, such as making deerskin clothes and ornamenting moccasins with beads. i could see only a few bucks; the others were probably off on a hunt. there was danger in that, for if they found my trail on their way back to camp they would of course follow it, and then--well, i should be lucky to come out of it alive." the listening men began to show signs of impatience. all this was an old story to them; they wanted to hear the end of the tale, and how he came to be in such a plight. "well, to make a long story short," said worth, beginning to realize that he was telling much that was obvious to most of his hearers, "while i lay there, planning and idly watching the indian camp, the hunting party was actually returning. suddenly i felt the weight of a man on my back. i struggled and fought, and finally threw him off. jumping to my feet, i faced two savages who had come in advance of the main party and had stolen on me unawares. both now rushed at me, but i dodged one and tripped the other. before i could finish the man i had thrown, the first was at me again. loaded as i was by my pack, i was soon fagged. my gun had been taken by the redskin when he fell on me. why he didn't use it on me i cannot understand--perhaps i didn't give him time. now both of them jumped for me, and try as i might i could not dodge or disable them. i had already begun to fear that the game was up, when i saw a whole bunch of indians, the rest of the hunting party, coming along the trail. "there wasn't any use fighting a mob like that, so i stopped struggling, let my captors hold me, and waited for whatever might come. "the redskins crowded around me, and i thought that my time had come. "'stev'son, you come in,' says one brave. 'hoss, pony, you got 'em?' calls out another big scowling savage. i shook my head. "then i caught sight of a face i knew--old chief looking glass. (i warmed him up with coffee once when he was near frozen to death. indians will do most anything for a cup of coffee.) he pushed forward through the crowd and shook hands with me. i could see he was trying to get his men to separate and leave us, but it wasn't any sort of use; they pressed around, and it was very evident that they wanted my pack. looking glass finally started alone towards the camp, calling to his braves to come along, but this plan didn't work at all; for the minute he got out of sight over the brow of the hill the thieving gang began to strip me. there was no use resisting; they were too many for me. before i knew where i was i was stark naked, except for a few rags. even my boots were yanked off. we were almost in the village by this time, for i had been pulled and pushed over the crest and down the slope of the hill. my tormentors then left me and began to divide my outfit, so i crawled off, shivering and sore, anxious to get out of sight as soon as possible." "wasn't it cold?" said tenderfoot green. "rather," said mr. worth, a grim smile showing on his weather-beaten face. "a man does not go tramping across the bare prairie in weather like this dressed in a few rags, bare-footed, and feel as if he was in a hot spring. it was fully as cold as it is now, and this is a pretty sharp day." he shivered at the mere remembrance, while his listeners gave a general laugh at the simplicity of the question. "where did you get your blanket and moccasins?" asked green, anxious to divert the crowd's attention. he pointed at the articles that worth seemed to be guarding with unnecessary care. "these here blanket and moccasins saved my life," continued the latter. "as i was pushing along i heard a woman's voice calling. i turned and saw a squaw running after me with a blanket and a pair of moccasins in her hands. 'looking glass blanket and moccasins,' she said, as she handed them to me. then she turned timidly and ran back to the camp. "it was almost dark now, and growing colder every minute. i put on the moccasins, wrapped the blanket around me, though it smelled strong of indian, and set out at a dog-trot in the direction of a wagon trail. if i could reach that i might be lucky enough to strike a white man's camp or a freighter's outfit, and then i should be all right. "i travelled all that night, keeping in the right direction by a sort of instinct that my knowledge of the lay of the land gave me. it was a pretty tough journey though, i can tell you. i had to fight hard to keep off the sleepy feeling that comes before freezing, and for hour after hour i dragged myself along numb and aching with the cold, but hoping against all reason and probability that i might run across some of the boys before it was too late. toward daybreak i must have got kinder lonely, for i lost track of things, and only came to myself in the freighters' camp that i had run into half asleep." he paused here, and john saw that his eyes were half closed and his head nodding. the ordeal had told on even his sturdy health. in a thick, sleepy voice he added: "ask jim white; he knows the rest--he brought me in." jim white could add little to the story. worth came into his camp, he explained, more dead than alive and "clean out of his head." he and his partner had cared for him and brought him to town as fast as the teams could go. john's father was taken over to his own shack, where his wife greeted him like one come back from the dead. under her good nursing he recovered from his terrible experience in a marvellously short time and became again his own sturdy self. the frontiersman must of necessity be possessed of an iron constitution, for he must be able to endure hardships of all kinds--intense heat and piercing cold, hunger and thirst, fatigue and pain, that would either kill an ordinary man outright or cripple him for life. it was with inward dread that the little family watched its head start off again, after a few weeks' stay in town. outwardly, however, cheerfulness, almost indifference, was manifested. this time he went with a party which was going in the same direction; the danger was, consequently, not so great. then, too, the cold weather kept the indians pretty close to their own camps, and as the locations of these were generally known, they could be easily avoided. * * * * * the boys' hearts were gladdened by the news that, perhaps, the home shack would be abandoned in the spring, when their father returned. if so, the whole family would "hit the trail" to the north and west. up to this time the worth boys had been town dwellers, though in these days bismarck could hardly be dignified even by the name of village. john and ben, in common with the few other boys, had enjoyed the comparatively tame pleasures afforded by the town and the surrounding prairie. all large game had been driven west, and only prairie dogs, gophers, coyotes, and occasionally wolves remained; these and the birds the boys used to shoot at day after day with their ever-ready revolvers. the sport in the river was not all that could be wished for either, for the water was muddy and the bottom was full of quicksands. and if summer lacked diversions, winter was a still more uninteresting season, in that the pleasures were fewer and the discomforts greater. it was therefore with great glee that john and ben looked forward to this pilgrimage. a hilly country was to be visited, where game of all sorts abounded, where clear streams were plenty, and where new sports of all kinds were in prospect. marvellous tales of trapping beaver, and hunting antelope, bear, and even buffalo, were brought in by hunters, so the boys were wild to enjoy these new pleasures. the government was trying to confine the indians to the reservations that had been set apart for them, but the redskins had been accustomed to roam over the country at will, to follow the game wherever it went, to make war upon each other whenever they felt like it or needed horses; so they resented any attempt to interfere with their entire freedom, and turned fiercely on their white foes wherever they found them, singly or in camps and settlements. the government, in order to better protect its citizens, erected at intervals outposts garrisoned by troops. there being no railroads across the continent at this time, goods of all kinds had to be carried in wagons from the nearest railroad station to the fort or point of distribution. the supply of fuel, too, was a matter of great importance. it was in the main a treeless country and wood was scarce. the early prospectors and pioneers had noticed the outcroppings of coal from the deep-cut river banks, but little advantage was taken of this store of fuel till the forts were established and the little steamboats began to ply up and down the missouri loaded deep with skins and buffalo hides. mr. worth was one of the first to see the value of these coal veins, and he was a leader in developing the mineral resources of the section. he opened and worked mines as near the different outposts as possible and at convenient points for the supply of coal to the river boats. the eastern railroads were stretching their long steel arms westward, and they also needed to be supplied with food for their furnaces. mr. worth had contracted with these coal consumers to open mines which, when in good running order, were to be turned over to them to work. in order to do this it was necessary to travel from place to place, starting the work at intervals along the proposed line so as to be ready when the "steel trail" actually reached them. it was this contract that made it necessary for them to give up the home shack at bismarck and to journey into hostile country. mr. worth could not return to the settlement to his family; the family must therefore come to him in the wilds. much of the long winter was spent by the boys in talking over the good times they were going to have when they reached the new country. at times a trapper would come in to get a stock of supplies, and john and ben listened eagerly to every word he said about his experiences. these tales were old stories to most of the men of the little town, who paid no attention to such commonplace matters, but charley green, like the boys, was seeking information, and he drank in every word as eagerly as they. much of green's ignorance had disappeared, though "tenderfoot" was still his nickname, and by that he would be called as long as he lived there. he had changed outwardly as well. the eastern pallor had given place to a good, healthy, bronzed tint, his eye was clear and his hand steady; he had lost weight but had gained in endurance. his gay, expensive outfit of clothes had been succeeded by the more sober and serviceable apparel of the plains: wide, heavy felt hat, flannel shirt, rough trousers with protecting leather overalls or chaps, and high boots. he had learned enough about western ways to avoid making many blunders, and took a joke at his expense good naturedly when he did occasionally betray himself. it was not considered polite in bismarck to inquire anything about a man's past--that was his own business. it was not necessary for a man to give his pedigree and family name in order to be received into the society of his fellows. it was not his past that concerned them, but his present. "lariat bill" was quite as good for all practical purposes as his real name, perhaps better, for it was descriptive and identified him at once. in accordance with this unwritten law, no one asked what charley green's idea was in leaving the civilization and culture of boston for the wild, free, albeit rough, life of the plains; but rumor had it that he came there with the intention of going into ranching. if so, he was wise beyond his generation, for unlike most of his fellows he looked before he leaped. tenderfoot and the two boys had struck up quite a friendship. it was quite natural, therefore, knowing as he did the worths' plans, for him to say one day, towards the end of the winter: "do you suppose, john, that your dad would take me along on his mining expedition?" "i dunno," said john, "you'll have to ask the governor when he comes back. i guess he would." "you see," continued tenderfoot, "i'm about as tired of this place as you are, and i want to see a little of the country. i guess i could earn my salt as a mule-wrangler anyway." so it was decided that the young easterner was to go with the worths if the head of the house consented. the dreary winter was beginning to give way to the soft south winds. the snow was fast disappearing and buffalo grass was showing brightly green here and there. the boys had an unusually bad attack of spring fever, for the long-looked-for time of the pilgrimage was drawing near. their father might be expected any day, and then--their delight and anticipation could not be put into words. mr. worth at length came in, loaded down with his pack, his arms, and his heavy winter furs. keen and bitter disappointment was in store for the impatient boys. they were told that it would not be safe to move away from the town, for the whole country was full of hostile, well-armed, well-fed sioux. the black hills of southwestern dakota had been found to contain gold in paying quantities. this region was considered almost sacred by the indians and jealously guarded. it was now aggressively penetrated by the bold miners, and this naturally created much bad feeling between them and the original owners. in order to allay this feeling the government made a treaty with the indians by which it was agreed that the encroaching miners should be driven out. the disregarding of this treaty or its ineffective enforcement roused the sioux to open warfare. the tribes were collecting under the leadership of sitting bull and rain-in-the-face. several small skirmishes had been fought and numbers of men on both sides had been killed. small outfits, too, had been wiped out completely by the savage red foe. it would have been suicidal, therefore, for the worth family to venture within the enemy's country, as had been previously planned. indeed, while there was probably little danger of an attack at this time on bismarck, the centre of hostilities being many hundred miles to the westward, great precautions were taken even there every night to guard against surprise, and the people, especially the children, never went far afield. the spring passed and another summer's scorching heat began. occasionally accounts came in of battles fought and victories won, sometimes by one side, sometimes by the other. it was a time of uncertainty; business enterprise was at a standstill, and, since there was little to do in the frontier town, diversion of any kind was hailed with delight. so the fourth of july celebration that was to be held at black jack's dance hall was looked forward to with great expectations by old and young. [illustration: custer's command. (_page ._)] independence day at length arrived, and was greeted at the first showing of light in the east by a volley of revolver shots. the celebration was kept up with enthusiasm all day. tenderfoot made a patriotic speech that took the crowd by storm--he was no tenderfoot in that line, for his college debating society experience served him in good stead. at sundown the guests began to arrive at black jack's, and before an hour had passed the ball was in full swing. it could hardly be called a fashionable assemblage: the men, of whom there were three or four to every woman, were dressed much as usual, spurs and all, except that in compliance with the request placarded prominently, their "guns" were laid aside. a single fiddler served for an orchestra, and also acted as master of ceremonies, calling out the figures of the dances. the violin was squeaking merrily and the feet of the dancers thumped the rough boards vigorously, while the lamp lights silhouetted the uncouth figures as they passed between them and the open window. john and ben, who were watching from the outer darkness, were suddenly startled by hearing the long, deep whistle of the little steamboat. "what's that?" exclaimed ben. "sounds like the _will o' the wisp_, but she hasn't been along the river for a long time." "let's go and see," said john. "must be something doing to bring her down at this time." the two boys mounted their horses, which stood already saddled, and galloped down to the landing. in a few minutes the boat steamed up out of the darkness, slowed down and made fast to a cottonwood stump. hardly had it come to a stop when a man made a running leap to the platform and dashed toward the boys, who were the only persons at the place. "where's all the people?" he cried excitedly. "let me take that horse a minute, sonny." "up at black jack's," said john, sliding off baldy's back without delay, for it was evident that the newcomer brought important news. the stranger mounted and set off at a hard gallop for main street. reaching the brightly lighted place, he jumped off and stumbled through the doorway into the centre of the room. the fiddler stopped in the middle of a bar, the dancers, who were in the full swing of "all hands around," stood still in wonder, and every eye was fixed upon the intruder. he looked like the bearer of bad news. his clothes showed that he had travelled far and fast, and his manner evidenced anything but peace of mind. for an instant all was still. then black jack broke the silence: "speak out, man! what's up?" "i've been travelling two days and nights to bring the news," he panted. "custer----" he paused for breath. "well, hurry up, will you!" exclaimed mackenzie, shaking his arm. "custer and his party have been wiped out by the indians on the little big horn!" chapter iv. "hitting the trail." the custer massacre threw the whole country into a spasm of fear. the killing of three hundred trained fighters and a general, all renowned for their daring and knowledge of indian warfare, must give the enemy a confidence that would be hard to overcome. every one wondered where the next blow would be struck and who would be the next victim. all enterprises were checked, all peaceful journeys postponed. not till the autumn of the following year was it deemed safe for the worth family to carry out their plan of "pulling up stakes" and leaving bismarck. during the year which had elapsed john and ben had grown in mind and body. they were sturdy, strong boys, and were a great help to their father. perfectly able to take care of the stock, they could ride like centaurs and shoot with their "guns" (as the westerner calls his revolver) with astonishing accuracy. they used to practice at tomato cans fifty yards away and soon became so expert that for nearly every shot a neat round hole appeared in the tin. if you think this easy, try it. one can will probably last you a long while. long before, charley green had made a formal request to be included in the migrating party and had been accepted. he was really quite a valuable man now, for he had been tried in a number of ticklish places and had shown a solid strength and coolness in the face of danger. one bright autumn day the pilgrimage began. several men were to accompany the family to a mine that had already been located fifty miles away. here the winter was to be spent, and then, if all went well, another mine might be opened further westward. the final preparations for moving were soon complete. the household goods were packed into the great lumbering prairie wagons, canvas-topped and wide of beam; the little log-built shack was left intact, its rough, heavy door swinging open. the frontiersman's household outfit was very simple. the bedding consisted of blankets; cooking utensils of iron and tin, dining-table furniture of the same materials, a few chairs, a table or two, and the baby's crib completed the list. the worth family had the largest library in town. it contained their great, brass-bound bible, "pilgrim's progress," the catechism (and how the boys dreaded it!), "robinson crusoe," "scott's poems," and the "arabian nights." these precious books were of course taken along, for though the boys' father read little and lacked even the rudiments of education, he had the pride of ownership. it can be seen at once that this simple collection of necessaries would not take long to pack and load. charley green remarked that "the whole outfit wouldn't be considered security enough for a week's board in boston." "that's true," answered mr. worth, as he lifted the sewing machine (the only one for miles and miles around) tenderly into the wagon. "but our household stuff is considered very fine, and people come from long distances to use this sewing machine." "the first of may can't have any terrors for you," persisted the ex-collegian. mr. worth frowned a little, for although charley's fun was good-natured, he had a keen dislike to being ridiculed, and had always been accustomed to considering his equipment as something rather grand--as indeed it was, compared with his less fortunate neighbors. after a final glance around to see that nothing had been left, the head of the family put his wife and baby into the first wagon, but before climbing in himself he called out to john and ben to go back to the corral, saddle two of the horses, and drive the remaining ones after the wagon train. the two boys were soon busy catching and saddling the horses. as john was "cinching" up baldy, he heard the snap of his father's long black-snake whip and the creak of the heavy wheels. then for the first time he realized that the only home he had ever known was to be left permanently. the old place suddenly became very dear to him, and the thought of leaving it was hard to bear; in fact, he had to bury his face in baldy's rough, unkempt side to hide the tears that would come despite his efforts. ben, on the contrary, was very cheerful and whistled between the sentences of talk he flung at his brother. the two years' difference in their ages showed very plainly in this matter. "here, get a move on you, john," he shouted, "my horse's all ready." the older boy bestirred himself, and in the rush and hurry that followed he soon forgot his momentary regret. when they caught up with the wagons they found the procession headed toward the centre of the settlement and almost in its outskirts. the town had grown considerably both in population and area since we first saw it, and ordinarily the departure of a freighter's outfit would excite but little remark. the exodus of the worths, however--one of the few families, and one of the very first settlers--was quite an event. many of their friends were on hand to wish them good speed. the boys felt like "lords of creation" indeed. were they not bound on a journey of unknown duration, liable to have all sorts of delightful adventures? they held their heads up and pitied their boy friends who were to be left behind--and it must be confessed that the stay-at-homes pitied themselves. the wagon train made its way slowly down to the river, where the sheriff bade them good-by. "i'm sorry to have you go," he said, nodding to mr. and mrs. worth. "and those kids of yours," he added, "i wish you could leave them behind; it will be pretty tough on them, and besides, i'm fond of the little beggars. however," he went on, as the boys' father shook his head, "i suppose you know what you're doing. well, good luck. so long." "so long," replied the travellers in chorus. the whole outfit was ferried over the river, passed through the little village of mandan clustered around the fort, and then struck out across the open prairie. it made quite a procession, the light wagon in front, drawn by two horses and driven by worth, then a long string of mule teams hitched to the first of a train of prairie schooners, whose white canvas-hooped tops shone in the sun. the cooking utensils in the vehicles and hung under them banged and clattered, the wheels creaked, the teamsters' long whips, which took two hands to wield, cracked and snapped. at the head of the party rode charley green, with his long-eared charges, busy at his self-imposed task of "mule-wrangling." he was new to the business, and it seemed as if the beasts he was herding were aware of this. for a while all would go smoothly, the animals closely bunched, heads down, ears drooped forward, the picture of innocence and dejection; then suddenly a lanky brute would start out from one side as if propelled from a gun, and no sooner had charley dug the spurs into his pony in his efforts to head it off than another mule would start off on the other side. then the whole bunch would scatter, radiating from a common centre like the spokes of a wheel. john, ben, and one of the men (called tongue-tied ted, because of his few words) took a hand in the game at last, and together they rounded up the stock into a compact bunch again. all this was very amusing for the old hands, but charley did not seem to enjoy it. "mule-wrangling is no snap," he grumbled. "why, it's easier to stop a whole rush line than to take care of that gang of long-eared, rail-backed, dirt-colored, knock-kneed horse imitators." he had to tackle the job alone, however, for only by experience could he learn, and experience is a hard and thorough teacher. the boys trotted alongside, now riding far ahead, now making their ponies show off near the wagons. excursions were made from time to time to shoot at prairie dogs, rabbits, and coyotes. but even this grew monotonous after a while, and they began to cast about in their minds for amusement. "let's go to the river where it makes a bend over there and take a swim," said ben, at last. it was no sooner said than done. they were left to look out for themselves much of the time, so they went off without saying a word to any one. soon the caravan was lost to view, and after a few minutes' more riding even the shouts of the men and the barking of the dogs could not be heard. the boys had that delightful feeling of entire freedom and half fear which comes to the inexperienced thrown upon their own resources. the prairie was perfectly still and the heat was scorching, for the sun was still high. it was a little awesome, and for a minute john and ben wished they were back with their friends. the thought of a cool dip was very enticing, however, and they would both have been ashamed to turn back now, so they cantered along, keeping up each other's courage by shouting and laughing. reaching the river, they scrambled down the steep slope, leaving their horses to graze on the level, and in a jiffy were enjoying a swim in the "big muddy." the bottom was free from quicksands, so the brothers enjoyed themselves to their hearts' content. they swam, ducked, and dug in the mud, as full of glee as could be. for an hour or more they revelled in their sport; then john dropped the handful of dirt he was about to throw and looked around, half scared. "hallo," he said, "it's getting dark. we'd better get a move on." they slid into their clothes as only boys can, and in a few seconds had regained the top of the bank. the sun, a fiery red ball, was low down in the western sky and almost ready to drop out of sight altogether. "why!" exclaimed ben. "where are the horses?" they looked hurriedly around and then scanned the rolling prairie and sage bushes in every direction. but the horses were not to be seen. nor was the wagon train in sight. not a living thing was visible on the horizon; not a sound could be heard anywhere. on every side there were only monotonous clumps of sage, and the sun was getting lower and lower every moment. they rushed to a knoll and searched again. all around stretched the prairie--bare, still, hopeless. then they looked at each other for the first time. ben began to whimper. "come, brace up," said john, taking the elder brother's part. "i know the trail; we'll catch up to them in no time." his tone was cheerful, but he appeared more at ease than he really was. it was not a pleasant situation for even a full-grown man, one well versed in the signs of the plains, its landmarks, and deceptions. [illustration: the tail of the cook's wagon was let down. (_page ._)] the boys were in an unfamiliar section of the country, without food or means of transportation, at nightfall. their lessons of self-reliance stood them in good stead now, and they started off bravely, striking away from the river in the direction of the wagon trail. after walking a half hour they came across the distinct deep rut of wagons. this was a great encouragement; it was like a friendly grasp of the hand, for they felt that they were now in touch with men and living things, though neither was within sight or sound. only the palest kind of twilight now remained, but the trail could be seen quite distinctly and both boys took heart. "i'd give my gun for a piece of jerked buffalo meat," said ben. "well, i wouldn't mind munching a bean myself," replied his brother. "but say, won't that feed taste good when we get to the camp? just think of that big fire with the men lying around it, and the wagons drawn in a circle outside all." "oh, stop," broke in ben, peevishly. "i'm hungry enough and tired enough already, and your talk makes me ten times worse." hour after hour they tramped along, their courage ebbing with every step. expecting when they reached the crest of each little rise to see the bustling camp at the foot of the slope, each time they again took up the weary march with a heavier load of disappointment and uneasiness. thirst, as well as hunger, now began to attack them. it was dry weather, and the dust rose into their faces as they walked, tickling throat and nose, and causing the greatest discomfort. from time to time they lingered to rest, but when they stopped the darkness frightened them, and the awful stillness, broken only by the wailing howl of a coyote and the low moan of the rising wind, drove them on relentlessly. at last ben declared that he couldn't go any further, but as soon as they stopped his courage failed him and he burst into tears. john comforted him as well as he could, but he was himself at his wits' ends. "come along, old man," he urged after a while, "let's have one more try at it." again they started off wearily and slowly, john with an arm about his younger brother. they had walked only a few minutes when ben felt his brother's arm clasp him tighter and heard him give a hoarse shout. he strained his eyes ahead. there in the darkness was an indistinct moving mass. they redoubled their efforts, and presently discovered that it was a wagon drawn by a single team that seemed hardly able to stand and moved forward at a snail's pace. "did you see anything of a freight outfit along the trail to-night?" said john huskily to the driver. the man half raised himself from his lounging position. "freight outfit?" said he, sleepily. "no." then he woke up a little more as ben broke into tears again. perceiving their woebegone appearance, he sat erect, and for the first time took in the situation. "why, what are you kids doin' here this time of night? where's your horses? where's your people?" john told the story in a few words, while ben, quite overcome, leaned his head against his brother's arm and went fast asleep standing up. "and haven't you had anything to eat since noon?" queried the driver in wonder. "no, nor nothing to drink," answered john, his voice shaking a little in spite of himself at the remembrance. "well, i'm sorry, but i'm afraid i can't help you much. i haven't got a bit of grub myself. thought i would only be out a little while, and expected to reach the rest of my outfit by dinner time, so i didn't bring any feed myself. one of my nags gave out, so i couldn't catch the teams. i guess i can give you a little lift, anyhow. but see here!" he ejaculated, "i guess you're on the wrong trail, ain't you? your folks must have took the other branch way back yonder; they wouldn't be likely to come over this side." brave john collapsed at this. he and ben had been travelling all this weary time in the wrong direction! "never you mind, sonny," said the man, kindly. "we'll find some way out of it," he went on after a minute's silence; "those trails join again after a piece. perhaps you may meet your outfit there. this branch follows a bend in the river, while the other cuts across country and meets it. see?" "yes, sir," said john, dejectedly. "come, help me get this team of mine started; you'll be sure to find your outfit camped near the fork; there's good water there and they'll wait for you." encouraged once more by his words, john lifted ben bodily and laid him in the wagon. then, after a good deal of urging with voice and whip, he got the worn-out team in motion. for half an hour they moved along without a word being spoken; their new friend relapsed into his huddled-up position, ben lay asleep in the bottom of the wagon, and john communed with himself. he wondered what his mother thought of their absence, and he felt the responsibility of an elder brother. he knew that the horses would turn up riderless, and that his father would send back over the trail that had been covered by the train, but would not find them. the thought of their anxiety made him doubly impatient at the slow progress made. he longed for baldy to gallop on and set their minds at rest. still, they moved along at a pace little faster than a walk. each step of the weary beasts seemed as if it must be the last. at length john, who was the only person awake, noticed that the off horse began to sway as he stumbled along. he roused the man at his side and told him he thought the animal was about done for. but the words of warning were hardly out of his mouth when the poor beast dropped like a lump, made a few fruitless attempts to regain his feet, and then lay quiet. here was a pretty mess for all hands! the man, with one fagged horse and one almost as bad, ten miles from camp, with no food or water, on a trail over which hardly any one passed. the boys, footsore from the long tramp, with a gnawing hunger and parching thirst and nothing to satisfy either, their destination they knew not how far off, and no means of reaching it other than afoot. there was but one thing to do: set out once more and trust to providence that the camp would be found at the junction of the two trails and that their strength would hold out long enough to accomplish the journey. john promised to send some one back with horses and food, if the stranger did not turn up within a reasonable time, and the youngsters then resumed their weary march, john almost carrying his brother. the moon had come out and showed the boys the deeply marked road. they had but to follow the track, so it became simply a question of endurance and pluck. the simple, hardy life they had always led, and the constant exposure to heat and cold had toughened their little bodies and had given them a reserve fund of strength which now responded to the call upon their utmost powers. strained as every faculty was, they plodded on doggedly, hour after hour. just after midnight they topped a little rise, and involuntarily cried out in unison. there ahead of them was a blaze that gave them new life. they had reached the junction of the two trails, and the camp. the wagons were drawn in a circle just as they had pictured to themselves, the camp fire was burning brightly in a shallow pit (to prevent its spread to the surrounding prairie) and some of the men, wrapped in their blankets, were lying like long, bumpy bundles on the ground, while a bunch of mules were feeding at a little distance, guarded by the "night wrangler." in the centre of the enclosure, where the ruddy light of the campfire brought out their anxious faces in strong relief, stood the boys' father and mother. john and ben ran forward as fast as their tired legs could carry them. they shouted--as loud as their dry, dust-coated throats would allow. it made them gulp simultaneously to see how the expression of the two faces changed; the woman's growing wholly tender and joyful, the man's altered to that of relief rather than joy. john knew from past experience that while the mother would be glad to comfort and caress, the father would not permit any such soft treatment. they would be lucky if they got off with a sharp rebuke. mrs. worth rushed to meet them, but her husband restrained her. "you boys go over to the cook-wagon and get something to eat, then turn in. we've got to get off soon after daybreak. i'll see what you have to say for yourselves to-morrow." the cold supper john and ben indulged in that night would probably not interest the ordinary pet dog of your acquaintance. it consisted of cold, greasy pork and beans, poor cold coffee without milk, and soggy bread, but they thought it was food fit for the gods. hunger satisfied and thirst quenched, they were glad enough to curl under a wagon, a blanket their only covering and a saddle for a pillow. before getting to sleep they heard the teamster who had befriended them come into camp; his team had revived enough to painfully cover the remaining distance to the worths' outfit. they had hardly dozed off, it seemed to them, when they heard the cook's shrill call, "grub p-i-i-i-le," and knew that breakfast was ready and all hands must be astir. after the blankets had been made into a neat roll and put away in a wagon, breakfast was despatched promptly, for cook, even on the frontier, is an autocratic person, not to be kept waiting. the meal was much like the supper of the previous night, except that the food was hot. the boys then went down to the creek and soaked off the dust that had gathered during their long tramp. in an incredibly short time the train had broken camp and was on the move again. the cook's few dishes and pots were given a hasty rinse in the creek and packed, the mules and horses driven in, and the fresh ones harnessed and saddled. the "day wrangler" took the place of the "night wrangler," who promptly lay down in one of the wagons and went to sleep. the procession fairly moving, john and his brother were called up to explain their absence of the afternoon and night before. this john did with fear and trembling, for he feared his father's wrath. he got off, however, with a severe reprimand and positive orders not to go out of sight of the wagons at any time, and the boys went off congratulating themselves on their lucky escape. all that day the caravan travelled steadily, stopping only at noon for dinner and for water. towards evening they came near their destination, reaching a clear creek bordered with green. up from the stream rose a hill, and half way up was a strange-looking house, part of which seemed to be buried in the side of the slope. the boys were somewhat surprised when they were told that this was to be their home for the winter. "look, john," exclaimed ben, "we're going to live in a hole in the ground." chapter v. in a mining camp. "more like a tunnel with a porch to it, i should say," said john, as they approached the "dug-out." indeed, the worths' new home was an unprepossessing abode even after the familiar furniture was in position, the bunks made ready for use, and a fire built in the fireplace. as its name showed, it was merely a hole or tunnel in the slope of the hill, with a small log house built out from it. but though it was not luxurious, it was warm in winter and cool in summer, the earth protecting it from extremes of both heat and cold. the bare ground packed hard served for a floor, and the fireplace was set far back in the underground portion of the room, its smoke outlet being a chimney of sod projecting through the roof. into this new and strange dwelling the household goods were carried, a fire was built, and in a short while the place began to assume the appearance of a home. while this was being done, the men looked up their own habitations, and found that other dug-outs, not so large or well finished, but fairly comfortable, were all ready for occupancy. the mine had been opened already, and the workmen had previously constructed these huts, half caves, half houses, for themselves and for the "boss's" family. it was all a new experience for the boys, and they investigated everything with great interest. the idea of living in a hole in the ground struck them for quite a while as very funny, and they made jokes without end about it to each other. the wagons had been placed in the wide creek "bottom"--the space cut out of the bank by the current, which had since retreated to its present narrower channel. this "bottom," for years and years the stream's bed, was well supplied with rich alluvial soil, and was in consequence luxuriantly covered with fresh grass and vegetation of all kinds. "i tell you, jack," called ben, when the boys scrambled down the steep path to the creek, "this is something like. why, i can see bottom--and i declare, if i didn't see a fish sneak out of that rooty place there." he hopped on one foot and then on the other in his excitement, and then, somehow--neither he nor john could ever explain it--he suddenly found himself splashing in the clear stream. john caught hold of his heels and dragged him out face down. his head had scraped the soft bottom and his nose had made a beautiful furrow in the mud. "what were you trying to do?" inquired john, as soon as he could get his breath. "catch the fish in your mouth?" when ben turned, spitting mud and digging it out of his nostrils, john almost exploded with laughter. "maybe you think it's funny," spurted the younger boy, "but wait till you come to make a mud scow of yourself; then you won't laugh quite so much." john struggled to suppress his mirth, and after a while succeeded--as long as his brother's mud-be-plastered visage was not in sight. [illustration: instantaneous sketches of the positions in slipping and diving.] face washed and good humor restored, the boys wandered further down the stream on a trip of discovery. new delights opened at every turn. a mile or so below the camp a beaver dam was found, and as they drew near, one of those clever, industrious little beasts shot down the slide they had constructed, with a _kerflop_ into the pool. here was sport indeed. the boys wondered how many of the curious animals the brown, mud-plastered, dome-shaped houses contained. the doors to these houses were under water, and only the second story was above its level. "i tell you what," said john, "we'll have to catch some of those beggars. their skins are worth money." and so they vowed to remember the spot and capture some of the inhabitants of this semi-submarine village. a little further along they came to a clearly marked path, the edge of which (the centre was beaten hard) was indented with small hoof prints of deer and antelope. they saw, too, the cushioned print of the great prairie wolf. evidently this was the haunt of game of all kinds. on the way back the boys had little leisure to examine the paradise they had discovered, for the sun was sinking fast and they had wandered further than they realized. an inviting pool was noted, however, that would serve for a swimming hole, and ben unhesitatingly dubbed this "plumb bully." john prevented him from plunging into it right away only by main force and the reference to his ducking, but he could not keep him from taking off his moccasins and wading in whenever an opportunity occurred. as they neared the camp the last rays of the sun glinted down on them. the preparations for the evening meal were in full swing: the clatter of tin dishes mingled with the clatter of tongues, and the smoke pouring from the sod chimneys bore a most savory odor that made the boys realize they were hungry. "i wish we had a rifle," john was saying. "we could have got one of those ducks we saw down the creek for supper." "well, i'm going to have one, and a repeater, too," returned ben. "i'll have one if i----" "look out!" yelled his brother, interrupting him. at the same moment he jumped to his side and pulled him violently back. ben almost fell, but his brother held him up and dragged him still further. "look!" he said, breathless with excitement. ben's eyes followed the direction of his pointing finger. there in the trail on which they had been walking, on the exact spot where he had been about to plant his bare foot, lay a big diamond-backed rattler, asleep in the last rays of the setting sun. "phew! that was a close call," exclaimed john. "you want to keep a sharp lookout when you go barefoot. i can't watch out for you all the time." the younger boy, pretty badly scared, put on his moccasins without delay and kept his eyes on the trail after that. the rest of the way was covered in almost absolute silence, for the escape had been a narrow one, and both were sobered by it. the plain, wholesome supper over, the boys were glad enough to turn in, and though the bunks were anything but soft and the surroundings unfamiliar, the exertions of the day before and the hardships of the night preceding it put them to sleep in short order. it was not long before the whole camp was wrapped in slumber. the stock had been allowed to run free, it being well known that they would not stray far from the good feed that the creek bottom afforded. all was silent without and only the heavy breathing of the sleepers disturbed the quiet within. "spuds," the dog, from time to time growled and barked inwardly as he dreamed of a fierce chase after a gopher or jack rabbit. at last even he subsided. this absolute quiet was presently disturbed by a howl,--long, wailing, and dreadful,--that sounded through the low roof as if the thing that caused it must be in the room itself. ben jumped up so suddenly that he struck his head on his brother's bunk above him. "what's that?" he cried, shaking with fear at a sound he could not explain. john, his head stuck out of the berth above, was frightened himself, and could not explain the noise. again the fearful wail came, this time not so distinct, but quite as awe-inspiring. the boys drew a long breath of relief when their father got up, took the rifle from the two pegs that supported it, and went to the door. his evident calmness reassured them. as he reached the door and fumbled with the latch, john and ben heard a soft but rapid patter of feet and then his muttered exclamation: "plague take those pesky wolves, howling at a man's door in the dead of night." so the boys made acquaintance with the great, gray prairie wolf at close quarters the first night of their stay afar from civilization. in a few days the men were in full swing at the work for which they had come to this point. the boys were too young to take part in the mining operations, but even they had their chores to perform at certain times of the day, after which they were at liberty to do much as they pleased, within certain well-known limits. their first duty on being wakened between four and five was to round up the stock and drive it in. this was not such easy work as it sounds. the journey in search of the animals was long, and was made on an empty stomach in the cold, raw morning air. even when they were found, it was difficult to get them moving towards the camp. the animals seemed at times to be endowed with diabolical perversity, and would resist all efforts to start them running in the right direction. the mules and horses once corraled, the boys had an appetite for breakfast that a dyspeptic would give a fortune to acquire. after that hearty meal the brothers supplied the camp with wood and water and did what odd jobs were required about the home. this completed their work for the time. after these duties were performed one morning, john and ben bethought them of the beaver village, and their spirits rose in anticipation of the sport. a full trapper's outfit had been brought to the camp. they got this out and made up a pack containing several steel traps (having strong jaws armed with sharp teeth and set off by pressure of the animal's foot on the trigger plate), an axe, some fishing line and tackle in case a good pool was encountered, the always present revolvers and ammunition, and a small store of food. though it was their first experience in trapping beaver, the boys were well versed in the theory of the business; they had never let an opportunity go by to learn all they could about such sport. so they started with a fair knowledge at least of the habits and ways of the beaver whom they were to outwit. their journey down to the dam led them along the creek, and they noted several inviting pools where bullheads and trout were likely to lurk, planning to come back and try to catch a string after they had set their traps. reaching the dam, they set to work. john being the elder, at once took command of the expedition. "you chop down some brush," he ordered, "while i go over and punch a few holes in the dam. these little beggars know a thing or two and won't run into an uncovered trap." "what do you want to cut down brush for?" questioned ben, as he shouldered the axe and prepared to obey. "why, you see, when i break the dam the water will rush out and show up the entrance to the houses; then after we go away the beaver will get to work to build it up again, and will go for the brush you have chopped down and get caught in the traps we will set in it. see?" ben's eyes danced at the prospect, and he raced off to do his part. the boys were soon out of sight of each other, and john busied himself on the top of the dam with a strong stick, poking holes ruthlessly through it. he found it firmer than he had expected, and it took all his strength and skill to tear it open. he pushed his stick in vertically, in order to get a good purchase, and, encountering an unexpected obstacle, put his whole weight into the thrust. all of a sudden the obstruction gave away, the stick sank down till his hands struck the ground, he lost his balance and fell headlong into the deep part of the stream. the water was well over his head, and after a few minutes' struggling, he began to realize that he was in a nasty situation. the dam was composed mostly of slippery mud, which gave him no hold, and burdened by his soaked clothing, he could not swim to the bank. the water was icy cold, and he felt almost numb at once. he called to ben, but could not make him hear. then he sank beneath the surface. again he went down, but he kept his presence of mind and struggled with might and main to gain a foothold on the slimy slope. in spite of his efforts to keep on top, he sank a third time, but this time barely below the level of his eyes. his work on the dam had accomplished its purpose and the water was rushing out through a leak, so that the depth was decreasing every minute. he realized that if he could keep up a little longer he would be all right. again he sank, too tired to do more, but this time was able to keep his mouth above water by standing on tiptoe and stretching his neck to its fullest extent. before long the water had receded so much that he could wade ashore, though at times his feet slipped into holes that let him down until he was entirely under water. reaching the bank, he dragged himself up and lay down flat, for the time quite exhausted. he was more breathless than hurt, however, and in a short time was able to get up and crawl over to a sunny spot. ben came up presently and was inclined to joke with his brother on his mishap; but after john had told his story he took it more seriously. the boys noted with satisfaction that the water was now so low that the submerged entrances to the beaver houses were visible. they therefore hastened to place their traps in the brush that ben had cut. they then moved up the creek to the fishing hole they had noted, to await developments and at the same time try their luck at fishing. ben took the line while john stripped off his water-soaked clothes, hung them up to dry, and then lay down in a warm sunny spot. it was late in the fall, and the wind proved too searching for comfort in this condition, so a fire was built, by which he dried and warmed himself. the fish were hungry and bit early and often, with the result that the pile of bullheads and trout on the bank was soon a goodly sight to behold. a few of them john cleaned and hung over the fire with a forked stick. the meal which followed was enjoyed to the full, and by the time it was finished john's wet clothes were fairly dry. ben was for looking after the traps right away, but his brother's more experienced counsel prevailed, and they agreed to visit them at the earliest opportunity the following morning. the first minute after the next morning's work was finished they hurried to the scene of john's accident. after considerable searching (for they had neglected to chain the traps fast to a log) they found one. in it was a beaver's foot, well provided with claws for digging, and gnawed off clean above the joint. the brave little beast had cut off his own leg to save his life. [illustration: beaver chip.] "well, i'm jiggered," said ben. "if that don't beat all. don't you wish you had come back when i wanted you to?" "no; the beaver didn't show up till after dark, probably. besides, there are three other traps, and there must be something in 'em or they would be where we left 'em." they searched and searched and called each other names because of their carelessness in not making the traps fast. finally they bethought them of the possibility of the little animals' dragging the cruel steel jaws with them to their houses, which, instinct would teach them, were their only safe refuges. sure enough, there were two of them dead, drowned at their own door; the third was alive and full of energy. timid usually, the beaver when caught or brought to bay will fight courageously. ben stooped to drag the trap and its captive out, but drew back so suddenly that his head struck john, who was also leaning over, a scientific blow on the nose. that maltreated and indignant organ began to bleed freely, and it did not console john to any great degree to learn that the little beast had turned on ben and that he had come within an ace of having a finger bitten off by its long yellow teeth. he was so alarmed at this savage pugnacity that, without paying any attention to the rap he had given john, he still retreated, keeping his eyes on the hole. this was needless, however, for the animal was hopelessly entangled. a shot from john's revolver soon put the little creature out of its misery and enabled them to drag it out without danger. they returned to camp, triumphantly bearing three splendid beavers. but john held his hand over his swelling nose and fast blackening eyes: he could afford to accept with equanimity all taunting references to his injured member, such as, "your nose is out of joint," and "what a black look you have," for he had turned the tables on ted, who had laughed at him, calling out: "sonny, you think you're going on a beaver hunt, but you're really going on a wild goose chase." many more trips did the two boys make to this and other beaver villages, and the pile of salted skins grew to quite respectable proportions by the time the ice began to form on the creek. with winter came many added pleasures and some extra work and discomfort. paths to the mine and to water had to be dug in the early morning through the snow that had drifted during the night, and this work was added to the boys' regular tasks. the drawing of water had now become more difficult, for a hole had to be cut in the ice every time. gathering wood, too, was not easy, since it was necessary to burrow for it through the white blanket of snow. [illustration: the rifle rested closely against his cheek. (_page ._)] [illustration: ben went over to where the game lay. (_page ._)] one of the men of the camp was a swede called "yumping yim," because of his racial inability to pronounce the letter "j." he showed the boys how to make snowshoes or skees, long strips of wood curved up at the front, the bottom slightly concave to give a purchase on the crust and prevent them from slipping sideways, the top convex and rising slightly from toe and heel to the centre where the foot rested. the boys soon became proficient in the use of these and sometimes travelled considerable distances on them. exhilarating trips they were, over the crusted snow, when swift, breathless slides were taken down the hills, and skimming jumps from one level to another. it was on one of these trips that john and ben saw for the first time a herd of buffalo, their great, brown, closely-packed bodies looking like an undulating sea of fresh earth against the whiteness of the snow. with them were large numbers of antelope, these weaker animals profiting by the ability of the powerful buffalo to break into the drifts and uncover the scanty herbage. the boys skimmed back to camp, and soon all the men formed themselves into a hunting party. luck was with them. the whole party crept softly up, using every bit of cover that could be found. then there was a whispered consultation, rifles were levelled, mr. worth kicked a lump of snow as a signal, and five guns barked out together. john and ben dashed forward in wild excitement to find three antelopes lying dead. without stopping, the hunters pressed on after the flying animals, and by nightfall a row of antelope hung high up against the log portion of the dug-out. since the boys had no rifles of their own and the family winchester was in use, they had to be content with long shots with revolvers. during the excitement following one of the volleys, ben, who had lingered behind, saw what he thought was a wounded animal. he quickly raised his pistol and fired. as he did so, the figure rose and stood upright. it was charley green! his winter clothing, like that of the boys, was made of deerskin, his cap of the pelt of the musk-rat--even his hands and feet were covered with deerskin soled with buffalo hide. the deception had been complete, all too complete, charley thought, when he heard what a narrow escape he had had. ben shivered when he realized what might have happened, and registered a mental vow to let any future deer get away rather than run the risk of its being deer only in hide and man beneath. the boys had learned to cut out and make their own winter deer-hide clothing, caps, shirts, mittens, and "packs," or boots, soled with buffalo hide, hair side in; so they always had plenty to do when indoors. most of the days were spent on their skees. they learned many new things and many ways of getting along under their new conditions. for instance, a snow house had been dug in a big drift which extended out over the ice-covered creek, and a fire was built inside which speedily melted a hole through to the water. it was so much warmer under the blanket of snow that this did not freeze over. through it the boys drew the supply of water and caught many a fine string of fish. the long winter evenings were spent around the big fireplace, where the men made or patched clothes, told stories, played cards, and smoked. the camp was cut off from the world by the miles and miles of deep white snow which overspread the land in every direction. there was no danger from indians, for even they could not move under difficulties so insurmountable. wolves nightly came down from the hills and left their footprints on the snow about the house, and especially under the row of frozen deer which swung from a high support--the winter supply of meat killed after freezing weather set in. both night and day the coyotes howled and answered each other from the high points round about, with their wuh, wuh, wuh-aou-u-u-u-u-wuh-wuh. on moonlight nights the scene from the front door was entrancing. the wide, white valley stretched up and down as far as the eye could see, and the reaching white ridges of snow and utter silence suggested illimitable distance. when the wind blew, the fine snow slid along the encrusted surface, making a noise like hissing water on a pebbly beach, while the finer particles, rising in the air, created lunar rainbows of surpassing beauty. here indeed was loneliness, loveliness, and solemn immensity. [illustration: snap shots.] chapter vi. a snowshoe race. "i tell you what," said ben, one day when the boys were off on their skees, "if we only had a sled, what fun we'd have down these hills!" "well, what's the matter with making one?" answered john, the ever-ready. "it would be great; this crust is smooth as glass; we'd just fly." at once they turned in their tracks and sped for home to carry out their plan. "i'll beat you in," said ben. "i'll bet you won't." they started off evenly at the top of a slope. a few long, half-stepping, half-sliding strokes gave them impetus enough to slide. both crouched now in order to lessen the wind resistance and to avoid the chance of losing their balance. they were very evenly matched; for while john was the stronger, his brother was light and not so apt to break through the crust. down they rushed with ever-increasing speed, the particles of snow rising like spray before them. the swishing, crunching noise grew into a hum as they sped faster and faster. at first ben forged ahead--he had got a better start--then john's weight began to tell and he gained inch by inch. ben crouched down still lower, making his body in a compact little ball, but in spite of all he could do his brother gained on him. now he was even, now a little ahead, and now only his back could be seen by the younger. the end of his scarf was standing out behind him like a painted stick. the distance gradually increased until perhaps twenty yards of glistening snow lay between them. ben was watching intently for any slight grade of which he might take advantage. all at once he noticed that john had disappeared. almost at the same moment he too began to drop. the racers had been watching each other so closely that neither had noticed that they were approaching the edge of a great drift. john had sailed over first and landed right side up some eight feet below, but so solidly that he broke through the crust and stopped short, falling forward on his face. the instant of warning that ben had, had put him on his guard: he landed lightly and sped on, hardly checked. "you will beat me, eh!" he shouted derisively to his discomfited brother, as he shot past. john scrambled up and started again, but the incline was now very short, and by the time he reached the level ben was far in advance and going well. it was a long, stern chase. however, the older boy's strength and weight were great advantages now, and within half a mile the two were on even terms again. for a time they raced side by side, arms swinging in unison, legs going like piston rods. their feet were kept absolutely straight, and so the long skates ran exactly parallel, for if either foot should be turned in or out ever so lightly, one skate would cross the other and the skater would be tangled up so quickly that he would not know what was the matter. the brothers were now sliding along side by side, each straining every nerve to pass the other; breath came in short puffs and showed on the frosty air like the exhaust steam of a locomotive; perspiration began to appear, and the effort they were putting forth was evidenced in the strained look on their faces. faster and faster they went, skimming along the level like a pair of swallows. they were going too fast to be careful of their steps, and ben turned his right foot a little in. instantly the skates crossed in front, tripped him, and down he went head foremost into the snow. his left skee slipped off, flew towards john, caught between his legs, and threw him over backwards. for a moment there was the utmost confusion. the boys were stretched out, heads almost buried in the snow, feet kicking wildly, and the long skees beating the air like flails. finally these were kicked off, and the crestfallen racers managed to get right side up. after much floundering they got their skees on again and continued their journey, this time at a more deliberate pace. they disputed all the way home as to which was the faster, and finally agreed that the momentous question could only be settled satisfactorily by another match. when they reached camp, a couple of boards, a saw, a hatchet, and some nails were secured. they sawed and chopped out the sides, nailed on a couple of cross pieces for the seat and a diagonal strip to brace the whole thing. this much was easy, but both were at a loss to find anything for runners until ben remembered that strips of flat steel had been used on some of the canned meat boxes. these were stripped off, hammered flat, and nailed at each end to the sides of what really began to look like a conventional sled; the seat board was fastened on and holes were bored for the leading rope. the boys looked at their handiwork with no little pride and pronounced it as fine a cutter as the eastern variety. to be sure it was not beautiful to look at, and did not bear any highly nourished name like "flyaway" or "p. d. q.," but it did not lack decoration altogether, for on one side was branded "use higgins' soap," while the other commemorated "ruby brand tomatoes." in spite of its roughness and clumsiness it was possessed of good speed and strength enough to withstand all the ill-usage the boys gave it. when the snow was soft they used broad runners made of barrel staves, which they made fast to each side, and thus turned their sled into a toboggan. if john and ben wanted anything; they had to make it or earn enough to buy it--money was not so plentiful that it could be spent on toys and mere amusements, and so they frequently had to devise ways of getting the things they longed for. john had made up his mind that he must have a saddle, bridle, spurs, and quirt (a short, flexible, braided whip) of his own; and when he found that none of these things would be given him, he determined to earn enough money to buy them. ben, too, had set his heart on owning a repeating rifle (a style of arm that was rather rare in those days) and so the brothers agreed to work together at trapping, mining, or turning a penny in any way that offered. the sum total was to be divided in the spring, when each would buy the long-desired articles. as spring drew near, mr. worth decided to move along and open another mine to the westward, the first one being now in good working order. again the family packed up their household goods, abandoned the dug-out that had sheltered them during the long winter months, and started off on a pilgrimage. the spring was well advanced and the verdure of the prairie was in its prime. wild flowers were plentiful and the air was filled with the melody of the song birds, that of the meadow lark being sweetest and most sustained. robins, thrushes, plover, and curlews--all did their share to make spring beautiful. many prairie-dog villages were passed. the queer little beasts sat on the mounds of earth beside the holes that served for homes, their curiosity drawing them out. the travellers took snap shots at them, but they were as quick as lightning and never stayed above ground long enough to allow of careful aim. john's industry had made him the proud possessor of a new saddle, whose creaking was music in his ears, and even old baldy seemed to be pleased with his finery, for he pranced around like a two-year-old and arched his neck in a way that seemed to say, "i'm about the finest thing a-top of this earth." ben had achieved his aim also, and was the owner of a brand-new repeating spencer rifle, the result of the sale of the winter's catch. as the train went further westward the trail grew more and more indistinct, and it became the duty of the boys to go ahead and trace it out. later, when even the barely discernible wheel tracks had disappeared, it was necessary for them to pick out the best route and also to find the camp sites. this duty was a delightful one, for new country was continually opening before them, and adventures of all kinds might offer at any moment. "ain't those antelopes over there by that little hill?" said john one day, pointing to one side. "that's right," answered ben. "what's the matter with chasing them?" he spoke with the authority of the hunter. possessing the rifle, no opportunity to exploit it was ever allowed to slip; nor, if the truth be told, was john slow in calling attention to his saddle, spurs, and fringed leather chaps. "all right," said john. "we've never been on an antelope hunt alone." the boys went off at right angles from the direction they had been taking and rode down a shallow ravine or coulie in order to keep out of sight of the game. they rode slowly along till they reached the end of the depression; here they dismounted and each tied the forelegs of his horse with the rope he carried on his saddle-horn: they were not going to travel afoot again if they could help it. it was now necessary to cross the open prairie in plain view of the animals they sought. advantage was taken of a well-known characteristic of antelopes--their curiosity. john pulled the handkerchief from his neck and began to wave it slowly to and fro over his head as he walked. ben followed in his brother's tracks, making himself as inconspicuous as possible and fingering the lock of his repeater to be sure that it was in good working order. the boys drew nearer and nearer, and the flagging was kept up persistently; but it did not seem to have any effect, for the animals were all looking the other way. still they drew nearer; their eyes were fixed on their quarry, the rifle held ready, every nerve tense, each heart beating furiously with excitement. [illustration: roping an unbroken horse.] then it was seen that the antelopes were attracted by the white tops of the wagons, which were moving slowly along over the plain. the wagon train was "flagging" them. now if the hunters could get within range before the spell of curiosity had been satisfied, all would be well. the boys moved cautiously along till they came to a sunken "buffalo wallow," a muddy place frequented by the bison for the sake of the moisture. this afforded the shelter that was needed. attracted by the flapping canvas wagon-tops, the unsuspecting animals drew slowly near the hiding place. "oh! if they would only come just a little closer," said ben under his breath, "i'd have them sure." once they stopped and sniffed the air, but just as ben was about to chance a long-distance shot, they moved on again. "now, ben!" said john, excitedly. for an instant the stock of the rifle rested closely against the boy's cheek--then the shot rang out. almost simultaneously the biggest of the herd leaped into the air, then fell flat to the ground. the others stood still, bewildered. "good! now for another one," whispered john. again the rifle was raised and again its deadly crack sounded forth. another antelope bounded up, ran frantically a few yards, and dropped. at this the rest of the herd made off like the wind, and in a few minutes were mere specks on the horizon. "well, i must say," said ben, exultingly, "i thought once that i would rather have your saddle and outfit, but now--" he slapped the stock of his rifle affectionately--"i wouldn't swap if you gave me baldy to boot." "baldy to boot, eh? why, i wouldn't swap that horse for a whole stack of rifles." and john moved off in indignation to get the horses, while ben went over to the spot where the game lay. the carcasses were packed on ben's horse, both boys mounting baldy. they were welcomed heartily at the camp, for fresh meat was at a premium, and any change of diet was an event of prime importance. "that gun of yours must be chained lightning," said ted. "i didn't suppose you could hit the side of a hill at fifty yards." many days of travelling followed over country that had apparently never been covered by a wagon before. during this long journey the boys came to know the men of the party very well. they were apt to be sharply divided into good and bad, for in those rough times people showed their real characters without reserve. charley green still continued with the company, and he was the boys' greatest friend; but tom malloy, who joined the expedition just before it started out for the new camp, soon got into john's good graces. he was a man of varied talents: a gambler and saloon keeper when times were good; a miner, cow-puncher, or hunter when his money ran out. rough, quick-tempered, and as ready with his fists as with his "gun," he was nevertheless possessed of a great heart and a loyalty to his friends that nothing could shake. like many of his race he loved a fight and delighted to have a lively "argument" with a man. john's boldness and aggressiveness pleased him greatly, and he looked the boy over, enumerating his good points over to himself: his broad chest, sturdy legs and arms, his clear eyes and fearless look all showed to malloy's experienced eye that he would make a first-rate boxer. "i'll show that youngster how to put up his hands sure," he said to himself. it was a tiresome journey, long and monotonous, but enlivened now and then by a hunt or an excursion. the train was to go by way of the hart river road, and it seemed to the younger members of the expedition as if it would never be reached. but find it at last they did, a few wagon ruts not very clear nor strongly marked. the boys' task was now much easier, for the way was marked plainly before them and it was comparatively smooth travelling. many wide excursions were made on either side of the trail, and many hunting expeditions were indulged in. ben became a very good shot, and the constant supply of fresh meat gave evidence of his skill. after many days' journey the "bad lands" were reached. that desolate country, scarred and pitted, was void of vegetation except on the bottoms and near the infrequent water courses. here the wagon road disappeared altogether, and the pioneers found it necessary in many cases practically to build one, to level some places and make inclines down steep banks at others. often all the teams had to be hitched to one wagon in order to drag it up a sharp ascent or through a miry place. in many spots the ground was very treacherous, especially at the edge of a cut. the soil was loose, pliable stuff, liable to give way under the weight of a horse. badger and gopher holes added to the danger by undermining the banks in unexpected places. one morning john was sent out on baldy (his constant companion and faithful friend) to pick out, if possible, an easier way. boy and horse started out on a smart trot, each having full confidence in the other--as was necessary, for almost as much depended on the sagacity of the steed in the matter of picking a way on dangerous ground as in the intelligence of the rider. it was a task of considerable responsibility that was put on john's shoulders; the route was difficult enough to puzzle a professional civil engineer. baldy was left to find his own way while his rider looked ahead to choose a road that could be travelled by the wagons. from time to time it became necessary to go down the almost perpendicular side of a coulie, when the horse would hunch his hind-legs, keeping his forelegs stiff and stretched out to their fullest extent. then he would fairly slide down on his tail. john had found a place that he thought suitable for the night's camp, had traced out a way by which it might be reached, and had turned his pony back towards the wagons. he thought to himself, as they slid down one bank and scrambled up the other, that it would be a bad place to be thrown. the surface was pitted with half-concealed badger holes, and in the bottoms were many spots where a horse might easily be mired. baldy, however, knew his business and carried his rider over awkward places safely. john was congratulating himself on the successful conclusion of his errand when he came to the bank of what was in the early spring a roaring torrent, but which now lacked even a trickle of water. to the edge of this cut baldy approached cautiously. john, anxious to get back to the wagons and report, urged him on. with a shake of his head that seemed to say: "well, you are the boss, so here goes; but i don't like the looks of it," the pony went forward, gathering his hind legs under him to make his usual slide--when the ground beneath him gave way. horse and rider went rolling down the slope, but as john felt himself falling he loosened his foot from the stirrup and leaped off, just in time. boy and steed arrived at the bottom about the same time, but separately. john's mouth, eyes, nose, and ears were full of dirt and dried grass; in fact, he always declared that he ate his proverbial peck of dirt then, all at once; but he soon discovered that, barring a few bruises and a badly hurt pride, he was all right. as soon as he got the dust out of his eyes and realized that the earth had not risen, out of special spite against him, he looked for his horse, and was much relieved to find that his four-footed partner had received nothing more than a bad shaking up. baldy's attitude, however, was anything but dignified. his feet were waving in air, his head was buried in the loose soil, his body was so covered with mother earth that he seemed like some strange freak of nature. as the boy got up, the horse looked at him, he thought, reproachfully and seemed to say: "i told you so." [illustration: "crow hat's facing this way." (_page ._)] [illustration: the indian camp. (_page ._)] "yes, old chap," replied john aloud, "you do know a thing or two, and i'll trust you more next time." john never told of his mistake and tumble, but explained the dusty appearance of himself and horse by reference to the well-known characteristic of the "bad lands," its stifling alkali dust. chapter vii. a buffalo hunt. many weeks were spent in the migration, and it became exceedingly monotonous and tiresome before their destination was at last sighted. when, one beautiful afternoon, mr. worth pointed ahead to a rolling knoll covered with trees and announced that there was their future home, john and ben set up a wild cheer and dashed ahead to examine the spot. camp was pitched on the banks of the yellowstone, and dug-outs were made--the cave part first and then the outer portion of substantial logs. two large cabins were constructed for the family's dwelling and kitchen, and several more for the men, of whom there were many, this being an important mine. no time was lost in settling, and in an incredibly short while the household belongings were in place, the provisions stowed away safely, and the regular camp routine begun. it was necessary to get a considerable portion of the tunnel driven before frost came. the opening was made horizontally into the side of the hill and continued in a straight line until the vein of coal was struck, when the tunnel had to follow it in whatever direction it went. the boys were to be initiated into real miner's work at this camp. they were well grown, strong lads, fully able to do their share. during the preliminary digging of the drift they did little beyond their regular chores, except to drive the teams that carted away the earth from the mouth of the cave. the important duty of supplying the camp with fresh meat was also entrusted to them, and it was not long before every haunt of furred and feathered thing that lived within a radius of miles around was known to them. within a few weeks after the establishment of the camp all preliminary work had been completed and the mine was ready for business. to facilitate the delivery of coal to daylight, a rough railroad had been built; its tracks were of wood, its rolling stock one small, four-wheeled box car, its motive power, jerry the mule. of this underground railway john was installed as president, board of directors, general manager, inspector general, passenger and freight agent, chief engineer, and superintendent of motive power. one day he was engaged in his many brain-taxing duties, the most trying of which was keeping the motive power "moting." the flaring lamp in his hat showed but little of the mule's tough hide, but that little the superintendent belabored lustily. the little car rumbled and bumped along the rough wooden rails on its way to one of the rooms where the coal was being dug. john whistled cheerily to himself and occasionally interrupted the melody to shout into the mule's wagging ears: "git up, jerry!" soon a point of yellow light appeared far off in the darkness, and as the lumbering car went on it grew in size and strength until its nature could be made out distinctly. "hello, ben," shouted the young driver to his brother, whose cap-light had showed so clearly up the tunnel. "you'd better oil the hinges of that door; they squeak like a hungry rat." the mule had stopped before a great door which blocked the way; it was so placed as to change the ventilating current of air, and it was ben's duty to open and close it after each loaded or empty car. he sat in a little recess of the wall and pulled the door open and shut with the aid of a rope. "it's mighty lonesome here," said he. "seems as if i couldn't stand it sometimes, so i brought along the 'arabian nights' to-day. been reading about aladdin; he was underground, too, but all he had to do was to rub a lamp and he just wallowed in pearls, diamonds, and things, while i sit here all day for half a dollar, and do nothing but open and shut this door for you and your old mule." "yes, i know all about him," answered john, as he drove through the doorway. "'tisn't true, any way," shouted ben after him. "couldn't be. aladdin was a chinaman, and no chink ever made even a dollar a day." "guess you're right, but don't get lonesome," the voice came echoing back through the darkness, mingled with the rumble of the car and the sharp slap of the stick on poor jerry's flank. for a month or more john continued to drive the mule and ben tended the door. it was late one afternoon, and the younger boy was feeling very tired of living away from the sun and the bright fresh air; the darkness and dankness oppressed him not a little, so he was glad to hear john's strong voice singing: "down in the coal mine, underneath the ground, digging dusky diamonds all the year around." "i'd sing too if i was getting a dollar 'stead of a half, and had a chance to see daylight once in a while," grumbled ben as his brother stopped to talk a bit. "hold on a while and don't get excited," counselled the elder. "i'm going to be promoted, and what's the matter with you moving up too?" "why? how?" inquired the discontented one eagerly. "i'm going to be a regular miner; going to work with bill cooper, best miner out, father says." "then i'll drive jerry and gather in the dollar," cried ben. "but who'll tend door?" for a minute the boy's face showed his disappointment; then he smiled again as the thought came of a way out of the difficulty. a friendly indian camp was located across the river, and the boys, white and red, often came together for all sorts of sports. "why not get 'coyote-on-a-hill' to work the door while i run the car?" said ben exultingly. "he'd be scared to death at first, but i'll tell him about the fifty cents a day and that will brace his nerve." and so it turned out. the indian boy took ben's place, while john turned over jerry to his brother and cast in his fortunes with bill cooper. "coyote-on-a-hill" was pretty badly scared the first day, but ben gave him a word of encouragement whenever he went by, and never failed to remind him of the money he was making, so he stuck it out like a man, and presently got quite used to the dreary darkness. both of the worth boys expressed themselves as pleased with the change; what jerry thought of it he never remarked. john found his new work anything but easy. bill cooper was a fearless miner and a hard worker, and his assistant had all he could do to keep up with the task set for him. it was necessary first to cut under the mass of coal that was to be dislodged; to do this john had to lie on his side and so swing his pick in a cramped position. to make the vertical cut was not much easier, for he found it hard to work squeezed in between the walls of coal as the crevice deepened. the bottom and side cuts made, he bored holes (round holes with a flat drill, the knack of which he acquired only after long practice and a choice collection of smashed fingers) and then tamped in the paper cartridge of powder. when the fuse was in place, all that was needed to complete the work was a light from his lamp. the former was plain, straightforward hard work, the latter sport. the fuse lay like a snake just sliding into its hole, the place was quiet as death and as dark as a tomb, except where the flickering glare of the young miner's lamp shone; his face was covered with coal dust, through which his eyes peered with unnatural prominence. he would take the lamp from his cap, stoop down and touch the bare flame to the end of the snake fuse; it would immediately begin to sputter sparks, and as john drew back for safety he could watch it eat its way towards the black wall and the powder within it. the red sparks drew nearer and nearer the hole, then, after a spiteful little shower, disappeared. it seemed a long time to the miner waiting behind his protecting shield before the rending, shaking report sounded, followed by the glare of the explosion and the rattle of the falling coal. then ben soon turned up with jerry, and both boys shovelled the loose coal of varying-sized lumps into the car. bill cooper, though insisting that john must do his share, generally took the hardest and most dangerous places himself; so it came about one day that the boy worked at the vertical cut while his partner cut under, propping up the mass of coal (with wooden logs cut for the purpose) as he went in deeper. the work was hard, and neither man nor boy spent any breath in talking. the dull ring of the pick was the only sound. deeper and deeper grew the crevice; soon only john's foot was visible and cooper had disappeared entirely under the overhanging ledge of coal; only the faint glowing of the light and the sound of the tools betrayed the workmen. it was dirty, tiring, dangerous work. at any moment that great mass of mineral might fall if the supports were not properly placed or the king-brace happened to be lodged in a soft spot. "come out if you want to save your skin, bill," cried john suddenly. "i hear it popping and working all around, and it's beginning to move." "in a minute. wait till i dig out this far corner." his voice seemed to come from the bowels of the earth and had such an uncanny sound that john shivered. "hurry! never mind the corner--it's going to fall. come out, quick!" john's voice had such a note of fear and entreaty in it that the man below was impressed. "all right," he said, "i'll come right along." the boy stopped working and listened. there was a peculiar sliding sound that filled the air all about him, and from time to time a stone dropped to the floor with an echoing rattle. "come out." with an appalling roar the great mass of coal came down. john was badly squeezed, his light was extinguished, and all the breath was knocked out of him, but he managed to work himself free and make his way to the room. his only thought was of bill, under that heap of coal somewhere, and of the need of help. he rushed along blindly through the solid darkness, his hands outstretched before him, shouting as he went, "help, quick!" some men who were working in the entry answered him. "what's up?" they asked. "help! bill lies under a whole lot of coal." they hurried to the coal face, and john showed them where he thought the imprisoned man lay, buried under tons of coal; the men, seizing picks, wedges, and sledges, began working frantically to rescue their comrade. for half an hour they toiled as they never toiled before. then there was a cry of horror. the body was found. the poor fellow's arms were raised in the very act of swinging his pick, and he evidently had had an instant and well-nigh painless death. "well, boys, i hope mine comes as easy as his," said old mike mcguire, who had witnessed many a similar scene. they took up the body gently and tenderly laid it in the car, the mule was unhitched, and the miners pushed it slowly to the open air, the whole force following. on sunday bill's sorrowing comrades buried him. mr. worth read a few verses from the camp's only bible, offered a short prayer, and the simple ceremony was over. of bill cooper, like many of the men of that time, little was known, and if any one should question as to his origin he would probably be answered with, "came from the east, i guess." he had made many friends, but none felt his tragic death more than his young partner. after this the work became irksome. john did not get along so well with his new partner, and often when he stopped to rest the sight came before his eyes of his dead friend as he lay under the black shroud of coal. nevertheless, he toiled away faithfully, and seemed in a fair way of becoming an expert coal miner. it was now well towards midwinter, and the boys began to long after some skating on the clear ice which had for some time covered the river completely. alec was a handy blacksmith, and at their entreaties he set to work and fashioned them two pairs of rough but very serviceable skates. since skating on the ice was something the boys had never learned, they had to get yumping yim, the swede, to teach them how to use these new acquisitions. though they were rude affairs, the boys, whose muscles were developed by snowshoeing, soon managed to make good headway on the river. in a sharp spin down the glassy surface after the day's work was over they could forget that their backs ached and their arms were heavy as lead. the brisk wind and change of exercise was like a tonic to them, and though the air-holes in the ice made night skating rather dangerous, it only added zest to their enjoyment. as the boys skimmed past the indian camp, which was a large one, they sometimes found a whole delegation of young savages out to watch their progress. the indians had never seen skates before, and their wonder and interest were great. this camp, in turn, greatly interested the white boys; as they lay in bed they could hear the _bum-bum-bum-bum_ of the medicine man's tom-tom come booming monotonously over the river. this sound continued so everlastingly every night that the boys' curiosity was aroused and they determined to see what the medicine man did besides making such a row. after dark one night, they stole out and over to the red men's lodges, traced the booming noise, and finally, after great care and much dodging--for the indian will not tolerate any spying on or interference with what he considers sacred--they reached the tepee from which the sound came; then they crept round to the opening flap and john cautiously thrust his head in, but quickly withdrew it. "what's the matter?" whispered ben. "old crow hat's facing this way. i was afraid he'd see us," john answered. "let's look under this side." suiting the action to the word, the boys lifted the side of the tent-like lodge and gazed at the old medicine man. he was seated before the fire, his tom-tom between his knees, his head bowed low, and his long hair hanging over his face (an uncommon condition, for the red men generally keep their hair most neatly parted). crow hat swayed to and fro in time with the slow beating of his drum, and as he swung he chanted, "_eeyuh! eeyuh! eeyuh!_" raising and lowering his voice as the tom-tom was beaten loudly or softly. long the boys watched him, fascinated by the weird sound. suddenly he began to thump his drum furiously and his voice rose from a low half-grunt to a shriek. the "_eeyuh! eeyuh!_" was now like the wail of a fierce wind. this was too much for the boys' strained nerves. they backed away hurriedly and made for home, and it was some time before the sound of that last frenzied cry died out of their ears. bill cooper's end had a great effect on john, and he was glad of the first opportunity to get out of the black hole and into the open air. indeed, both boys welcomed the work of cutting and hauling props for the mine, which fell to them soon after their night visit to the indians. the elder was busily working unloading props at the mine entrance one day when ben came down to him excitedly: "say, john," he cried, "a squaw just came down from the big flat and she says she saw some buffalo over beyond the camp. the indians over the creek are saddling up to go for them. can't we go?" "i don't know," said john, excited in turn. "you'll have to ask father. go on up and see him while i finish this job." the youngster went off on the run, and in a moment returned. one look at his face was sufficient to show john that he had the desired permission. the mules were unhitched and turned out for the day. baldy and ben's horse were quickly saddled, rifles, belts, and cartridges were slung on, and in a twinkling the two young hunters were off after the biggest game the country afforded. [illustration: the biggest game the country afforded. (_page ._)] [illustration: a squaw . . . just saw some buffalo. (_page ._)] when they got to the camp they found that most of the bucks had already started, but old "wolf voice," a minor chief with whom the boys had made friends, still remained. "there's wolf voice; he'll let us go with him," said john. "hello, can we go with you?" he shouted to the old man. "you got good horse? me go quick," grunted the brave. "i guess we'll keep up," and baldy danced as if to show his mettle. in a few minutes they were on their way up the slope to the plateau which surrounded the camping place. baldy kept up easily with the indian's pony and wolf voice turned after they had covered a mile at a round pace. "heap good horse," said he. "yes," replied john. "he can beat anything around here in a half-mile run. want to try now?" the temptation was great, for the pony the chief rode was his best, but the thought of the chase restrained him. "plenty ride soon," he said. the level reached, the boys found that the great shaggy beasts were already surrounded, so they took a place in the circle and waited impatiently for a chance at the game. with a yell the indians rode towards the dazed animals, who now separated and began to run frantically in all directions. the party of hunters, of whom there were about twenty-five, also split up into little groups, and each party chased a buffalo. one of the animals came towards the boys. "get out of his way," yelled john to his brother, "and let him pass between us. then fire as he goes." the great lumbering beast came nearer and nearer, and as they watched, ready to spring away in case he should charge them, they noticed that he was being followed far off by an indian. "now shoot," shouted john, as the quarry rushed by. both rifles rang out, but the buffalo passed on without showing a sign of being hit. immediately ben's horse bolted with him, but baldy stood his ground till his rider urged him after the fleeing game. john held his rifle ready to make a safe shot when opportunity offered. the horse was now gaining rapidly, but hearing the thump of hoofs behind him and then an indian yelling, he turned his head and saw that big hawk, a young brave, was shouting something. he could not hear what it was, however, and paid no attention. the race continued, and john's whole thought was to get in a good shot. _zip_! it was the unmistakable sound of a bullet, and as the boy turned to see from whence it came, _zip_! another bullet went humming by: the indian was firing from behind, and the shots were coming unpleasantly close. john drew baldy to one side just in time to get out of the pathway of another leaden pellet. this last shot caught the buffalo in the leg, and he lunged forward on his massive head. big hawk then rode up and riddled him with bullets. john was angry clear through. "the coward," he muttered. "might have hit me--'twasn't his fault he didn't either. anybody could do up a buffalo from behind. 'fraid i'd get him, i guess. see that?" he added as ben came up. ben was indignant too, and both boys went up to where the young buck was skinning the scarcely dead beast, determined to have their share. the indian protested against sharing the game, but wolf voice happened to come up at this moment, and, with the authority of a chief, soon settled the dispute by giving the boys a fine hind quarter. this they lashed securely with a lariat on ben's horse. then both rode off triumphantly on baldy. chapter viii. a close finish. "boys, you'll have to go and hunt those spare mules to-morrow; they haven't been seen for a week." thus mr. worth greeted the boys as they came shuffling in after a long day of mingled work and play one evening not long after the buffalo hunt. the following morning the youngsters mounted their horses, after completing their early chores, and started out. "where shall we go?" asked ben. "let's look among the indians' ponies; those mules are always following their cayuses around." the plan was no sooner made than executed. they trotted along the edge of the river for several miles, the crisp morning air acting like a tonic on horse and rider. baldy was too old and dignified to be foolish, but his springy stride, wide-awake look, and quick response to each word of urging betokened his good condition and enjoyment. ben's horse, a little bunchy cow pony with an occasional wicked streak in him, danced about as if he were worked by electricity and the current was being turned on and off. the ford reached, the ponies waded in till the boys had to cross their legs in front of the saddles to keep from getting wet. on the other side they found a bunch of a couple of hundred horses, and as they drew near the herders came charging down on them. they feared horse thieves, but john explained matters, and after a long sign-language talk learned that there were six of the long-eared runaways tied at the camp. they had been put there for safe keeping, since they had been killing colts and were in danger of being roughly used by the horses in consequence. a grown "pony," though generally smaller, will drive out a mule in short order, and these plucky little animals are never afraid to tackle their vicious antagonists. the boys went back on the opposite side of the river from which they had come until the camp was reached. they found the indian village all agog with excitement, and for a time could not get any of the braves to answer their inquiries about the missing mules. a horse race was to be held, and the usually stoical bucks could for the time being think of nothing else. the whereabouts of the missing animals was learned before long, however, and an indian went with them to see that they really belonged to the worth outfit. on their way they had to pass straight through the village of several hundred tepees, and many were the greetings of "how!" that were shouted to them. on the outskirts of the camp many braves were standing around, making bets, grooming their horses, and comparing notes. little redskins darted everywhere in and out between their elders' legs and shouted shrilly to each other. the boys found it hard to go on to attend to their errand, and though neither said anything for a while, they looked appealingly at each other. "if we find the mules belong to us," said john, finally, in answer to ben's questioning look, "we'll take 'em part way back, tie 'em, and then come here and see the races." so they went on reluctantly, leaving the gesticulating, grunting crowd behind them. the captive animals were, as they hoped, the ones they had been seeking, and if the guide had any doubts of their ownership the big w branded on the shoulder of each beast soon dispelled them. "lucky there's a fort near by," said john. "we'd never have seen those critters again if there hadn't been." the mules were driven back to a point convenient of access on the trip back to the mine and tied securely. then both boys rushed over to the course as fast as their ponies could go. nothing had changed; the men still talked excitedly, and on either side of the level space where the horses were to run lay little heaps of personal belongings that had been bet on this or that horse--saddles, blankets, gay bead-embroidered moccasins, and belts, rifles, and cartridges. as the boys drew near, old wolf voice started toward them with greater speed than befitted a chief of his dignity and years. "you got white-faced horse?" he shouted as he came near. "you run race? me bet you now, me beat you." the grave old buck was almost childish at the prospect of racing a running horse. before answering, john looked over the horses that were to compete, and then consulted with his brother. "what do you think?" said he. "wolf voice is crazy for a race, and i think baldy can beat anything here." "but we haven't any money," said ben. "me bet you pony, you bet um pony," said the indian, coming up at this instant and speaking as if in answer to ben's remark. john would not put up baldy as a stake for anything in the world, but he took off his saddle. "i'll bet saddle against your ponies," he said, pointing to two horses a boy was leading forward. the old brave demanded more, so john added bridle and silver-mounted bit to the pile; still he was not satisfied, but john refused to give anything more. wolf voice haggled and demanded larger stakes on the boy's part and finally pointed to his spurs; these were unbuckled and thrown on the ground, and at last the bargain was completed. at this juncture big hawk joined the group. he was eager to bet against baldy, but all john's possessions were already pledged. it was a trying situation for the boy, for he wanted to get even with him, and he felt sure that his horse would win. a happy thought struck him. "say, ben," he called out. "lend me your saddle to put up against big hawk's pony. i haven't got anything left." the younger boy was also eager to pay back the young brave for his work at the buffalo hunt, so he complied with this request unhesitatingly. the wagers arranged, john looked to his horse. baldy was now without saddle or bridle, but his owner speedily made a _hackamore_ or halter out of a piece of rope and climbed on his back; he had decided to ride bare-back. a number of braves were clearing the course for the racers, who had already lined up at the starting point, but old wolf voice rushed down and asked them to wait a minute for the new entry. in the meantime john was trotting up and down, warming up his mount. in a few minutes baldy was in his place with the others. the horses all knew what was to be done, but baldy did not become excited and tire himself as did some of the others. they all lined up a hundred feet from the starting place. the course, which was merely a level, grassy place, stretched out invitingly before them; the indian spectators formed the boundaries on either side, their usually impassive, dark-red faces working with excitement. at a word from the starter the horses went forward at a trot, then changed to a lope, and were breaking into a run when, a few yards from the scratch, the boy riding wolf voice's bay shot out of the line and ahead. of course they had to be called back, and the boy was sharply reprimanded for spoiling the start. then again the horses started and came down to the scratch steadily. at the starter's yell of approval, they sprang ahead with a dash. after the jolting scramble of the start, john began to plan his race. he pulled his horse out of the bunch and ran on the outside. baldy and he were about the middle of the string as the fast ones led away. the little bay, which was the old chief's pride, led, running beautifully; at his heels was a big gray, fully holding his own. the distance of half a mile was more than half covered and both bay and gray were ahead of baldy, who was third and well in advance of the bunch. the crowd was yelling wildly, each man shouting encouragement to his favorite in a way that would make an eastern baseball "rooter" turn pale with envy. john lay down closer upon his horse's neck and chirped gently in his ear. there was a perfect understanding between them, and the old steed stretched out his neck a little more, laid his ears hard against the side of his head, and set out to overhaul the leaders, now running nose and nose. baldy's long stride told, and he gained steadily, but the race was not yet over. if he could get abreast of the two leaders john knew that he could win out on a twenty-foot spurt if need be--he had done it before. it was but fifty yards from the finish. the two indian ponies were tiring, but they kept up the pace gamely. the crowd was yelling insanely, uttering threats, encouragements, entreaties in the indian dialect, which neither john nor baldy understood; but just at the critical moment a clear, shrill voice rose above the din: "now, baldy, hit it up! get a move on, john!" horse and rider braced. john set his lips tighter: they were gaining, gaining perceptibly each second. the two leaders were whipping their ponies spasmodically, but john and baldy kept their heads. now baldy's nose was on a line with the gray's hind quarter, now even with his shoulder, and now all three horses were running as if harnessed in one team. and still he gained. john was becoming excited and raised his quirt. "come, baldy, do it!" he cried, and at the same moment brought down the lash on him. the game old horse responded magnificently. a few great jumps and they gained three-quarters of a length. another instant and they dashed past the finish line. baldy had won! john slipped from his back and patted his nose affectionately. "good work, old chap. i knew you could leave that lot of cayuses behind." "hurrah for you, john!" cried ben as the victors drew near. "baldy, you're a trump, sure enough." the boys were soon the centre of a circle of red faces, excited, threatening, joyful, or merely interested, according to their bets. all were anxious to race again, but john refused. realizing that he and ben would be expected home, he broke through the ring, put his saddle and bridle on one of the horses he had won from wolf voice, mounted, and started off, leading the other two and baldy. ben managed as best he could with the mules, and so they returned to the mine, the richer by three ponies, several trinkets, moccasins, etc. it was not till a good deal later in life that the boys learned how much better worth while it is to race merely for the sake of the sport itself, and what a surprising amount of trouble a man can bring on himself and other people by forming a habit of betting. at present they unthinkingly followed the examples of the rough men around them. in the year and a half that was spent at this mine on the yellowstone many opportunities were offered for baldy to show his speed, but the redskins had learned caution and were never again so reckless as on this memorable occasion. the friendly feeling between the red and the white boys grew as time went on, and many excursions were taken in company. the indians told john and ben things about birds and beasts of which they never dreamed, and showed them games that were a constant delight. they made a kind of combination spear and skate from the curved rib of a buffalo to the end of which were fastened three feathers; the highly polished convex surface offered little resistance to the ice, so the whole could be thrown a long distance on the glassy surface. the worth boys grew to be very expert throwers of this queer bone skate, and many were the exciting matches they participated in. our boys in turn taught their coppery friends some civilized games. trials of strength and skill were frequent, and in most of them the honors were about even. while the red boys could give points on the art of wrestling, and never lost an opportunity to show their superiority, the worth youngsters got even by initiating them in the "noble art of self-defence." john put in practice the points given him by tom malloy, much to the discomfiture of the indian boys and the corresponding satisfaction of his teacher and the men of the mining camp. the new sport did not become popular, however, in the redskins' camp; john was too successful--his opponent was invariably worsted. and so the days passed, with more work and less play, perhaps, than most boys are accustomed to. many pleasant evenings, after the day's work was done, were spent by the men telling yarns. john and ben slipped out often, joined the group, and listened eagerly to the tales that were told. it was on one of these nights that charley green told a tale that entirely eclipsed munchausen; a tale that would never have occurred to a westerner. "you know big hawk?" he began, looking at the men around him and then out of the corner of his eye at john. "well, big hawk has seen the boys, and especially john, box, and made up his mind that he could do something in that line himself--at least that is my idea of his method of reasoning." he interrupted himself to explain: "he challenged john something in this fashion, 'you heap big fighter,' he said, 'me show you.'" the men in the circle began to grin; they were beginning to take in the joke. john and his brother gazed in amazement; all this was new to them. "though he is a pretty big chap," green continued, "the kid didn't seem to be scared; he knew how to put up his hands and the big red duffer was entirely ignorant of fistic tactics. anyhow the boy called the bluff by responding, 'well, i don't know, i reckon i can do you up.' ben was sent for the gloves, those primitive, deerskin-stuffed-with-grass affairs. a space was cleared on the dry grassy river bottom, and the spectators marked the boundaries. the spectators were mostly red," added green. "produce a spectator," shouted a listener. "proof, proof, we want proof of this." "never mind him," exclaimed another; "go on, charley." "i'm not making affidavits. i'm simply telling a story," charley explained. "big hawk, knowing it to be a kind of battle, had arrayed himself in full war regalia, which consisted chiefly of a big, feathered bonnet and a decorative effect in yellow, red, and green paint." the group of interested listeners chuckled, but offered no remarks or objections. john and ben appeared to be dazed. "tom malloy was the referee, and i acted as john's second. wolf voice did the same service for big hawk. "when the two stepped into the ring," green continued, "the tall, paint-decorated, feather-tufted indian and the short, pink-skinned boy, a smile appeared on the usually grave-faced red men. i said to myself, is this a punch and judy show or a scene from the inferno come to the surface? 'time!' sang out tom malloy, watch in hand." green stopped to take breath, then continued: "the two stepped to the centre, and the red man decided to settle matters at once. a strong right-arm jab followed. john dodged, and the force of the blow nearly jerked the indian off his feet, and at the same time pulled the war bonnet over his eyes. the boy took advantage of this and thumped big hawk on the chest. the indian cleared his eyes and came at him like a wounded buffalo, head down, hands going like flails; avoiding them, john hit out for the nose and landed square on his beak. the buck tripped and fell on his back and the blood began to flow freely from the bruised member, mingling with the yellow and green paint, forming a very weird design. it was enough, big hawk was satisfied and hastened to get off the gloves and bathe his nose at the river's edge." from time to time during the recital of this tale green glanced at the boys to see the effect of his absurd story. that they were greatly amused was evident. cries of "come off!" "what are you giving us?" and the like followed the conclusion, and charley green subsided, congratulating himself on his vivid imagination. the feeling between the two camps, or rather the younger members of them, was not always friendly, and the boys were glad when their father came back after opening a new mine, told them that he had bought a sheep ranch, and asked them if they wanted to go to work on it. the brothers accepted eagerly, for they were possessed with the restless spirit of the westerner and were anxious for new scenes and new experiences. much had transpired during the long stay at the yellowstone mine. the railroad, with its busy construction gang and its noisy, short-breathed engine, had reached and passed the little camp and had left behind its steel trail. the tracks were not used for regular traffic as yet, but the little dinky engine went by frequently, dragging flat cars loaded with rails, ties, and other construction material. the boys became great friends of the engineer, and he allowed them to ride with him in the cab of the locomotive occasionally. [illustration: war-dance postures.] it was with real regret, therefore, that one morning, as the iron horse stood near the mine, hissing and grunting in impatience to be off, the boys climbed up the step and into the cab to bid their friend mr. jackson good-by. "what! going to pull up stakes?" he inquired. "i've got three boys about your size back in the east at school, where you ought to be," he added. "well," john replied, "mother has talked about school, but father says he's going to teach us to work first." "father's great on work," interposed ben. in answer to mr. jackson's inquiry, john said that they were to start in a day or two and would go alone, driving a buckboard; and that though they did not know the road the horses had been over it, so with that aid and the description given they would be able to find the way. "well, so long, boys," said the kindly engineer, after they had shaken hands and thanked him for the many engine rides, "i shall miss you." "same here; so long!" called ben and john in chorus. the little engine began to cough, the steam puffed and hissed, and in a few minutes it was out of sight around the turn. [illustration: a shepherd ... alone with his flocks. (_page ._)] a day or two later the boys climbed into the buckboard, and, after bidding a matter-of-fact farewell to all, started off: on a journey to a place neither of them had been to before, over a road that was entirely unfamiliar to both. with their father's last instructions ringing in their ears, they set out at a good pace. the hundred-and-fifty-mile drive lasted five long wearisome days. day after day they travelled, sitting still on the bouncing, rattling buckboard. the white-topped wagons that came into view occasionally were hailed with relief, for they somewhat broke the monotony of the journey; a word or two with these drivers and a question as to the location of the best grass, wood, and water--camp necessaries--was all that passed, but even that was a comfort after the desolation and loneliness through which they had been passing. on the fourth day the big horn river came into view and was crossed in safety. the appearance of the country changed, and the boys for the first time saw real mountains. living, as they had been, on the flat prairies, their surprise was as great as their interest and delight at these massive hills uprearing themselves against the sky. the day following they drove up to the door of the ranch house and were received cordially by abe miller, the foreman in charge. in obedience to their father's command they delivered a letter of instructions, and while abe was painfully studying this out, his hardened forefinger pointing to each word as he went along, the boys had ample time to observe him as well as their new surroundings. they saw that he was short and rather fat and blessed with the face that is apt to go with that build: it was decidedly cheerful, for the corners of his mouth turned up; even now there was a half smile on his lips, though his brow bore a perplexed frown from his literary struggle. the ranch buildings, which consisted of half a dozen rough sheds and as many more corrals, beside the ranch house or log shack, lay in a valley. on one side rose a high range of mountains, wooded to the summit; on the other, a long, rolling, grass-covered plain. "i don't see any sheep," said john, after scanning; the country in every direction. abe looked up, but held his stubby forefinger pressed firmly on the last word he was deciphering, as if to make sure of its safety. "oh, they're twenty-five miles down the creek now," he answered. "we only keep them here in the winter. we'll go there to-morrow; it's too late now." by the time the ranchman had finished the letter the sun was nearing the mountain crest and the boys' appetites assured them it was time to eat. in the shack a low fire was burning, which blazed cheerfully when john added an armful of dry twigs and brush. while the boy was mending the fire, abe went to one corner of the cabin and from a tall pole which stood there let down part of a sheep's quarter. "why do you keep it up there?" asked ben, who now noticed it for the first time. "no flies up there," explained abe. "meat keeps in this climate till it dries up if the flies don't get at it." the boys went out and sat on the door-step to wait till the meal was cooked, for though they were more tired than they realized, they had the greatest curiosity to see everything connected with this new home. after sitting silent a while, their heads resting on the door-jamb, their eyes on the crest of the mountain where the sun shone with its last departing glory, john turned toward his brother. "those mountains are great. we didn't have--say, mr. miller, what's this?" he asked excitedly, interrupting himself and pointing, first to some bullet-holes in the logs and then at a blood stain on the block below. chapter ix. a "bad man's" end. "that's where mexican jack was killed," answered abe, coming in the doorway, frying pan in hand. "he was shot just where you sit. i'll tell you about it after supper." john moved away from the spot. before long the ranchman called them in, and they enjoyed a supper the like of which had not fallen to their lot since they left the mine. the compliment the boys paid abe's cooking did much to win his heart. though they were anxiously waiting to hear the story of the bullet holes and the spot of blood, abe continued to talk about gravies, the advantages of a very hot pan in cooking, and other culinary topics that would have interested john at another time, for he rather prided himself on his ability as cook, but which now seemed more than trivial. the boys lent a hand, and soon the tins were washed and the heavy deal table cleared. the fire replenished, and abe's pipe fairly started, all three drew their stools up to the blaze. "well, how about mexican jack?" ventured ben at last, unable to restrain his curiosity longer. "oh, yes, i was going to tell you about that, wasn't i? well, he was a hard case," continued the speaker. "half mexican, half white man--and all bad, he was. i made his acquaintance about ten years ago at boisé city, and the first thing i heard of him was that he'd just killed a gambler--gambler was a hard case, so nobody cared much--and jack skipped. shortly after that he went to denver and bullied the town. oh, he was a regular 'bad man.' you know what a 'bad man' is, don't you?" "sure," said john. "tough customer who knows he's tough and takes pride in it. they're always mighty quick with their guns, and dead shots. one of 'em shot a man in the arm, near our shack back in bismarck, and mother tied it up. it was queer; the bullet went right through and it looked like a rose where it came out." "well," continued abe, "jack was a 'bad man,' and he didn't care who knew it. he had a shooting scrape in denver and had to jump the town in pretty lively style. the sheriff's posse got after him, but he killed two of 'em and got off. after that every sheriff in the country was looking for him, so he turned outlaw and road agent near virginia city, and held up ben halliday's stages till the vigilance committee hung some of his partners and got too hot on his trail. not a thing more did i hear of him till he turned up about two years ago with this bunch of sheep of your father's. he had turned herder and driven 'em all the way in from utah." miller stopped to relight his pipe, for he had forgotten to keep it going in the interest of his tale. the boys were impatient at the least delay; the ruddy firelight lit up their faces and showed their eager interest. "your father had bought this ranch and put me in charge just a little while before mexican jack came along; i spotted him at once and he spotted me, but i didn't let on, for i knew he was all-fired quick with his gun and i wasn't looking for trouble. of course he never went to town: it wasn't healthy for him there; and if he wanted anything he had to wait till somebody who was going in would get it for him. even with such care, though, he knew it wasn't safe for him to stay in one place very long, so one day in spring he told me he was going to quit and move on. don't you boys ever turn 'bad men,'" said abe, with a laugh; "it don't pay. brave as that poor chap was, he was fairly afraid of his shadow when he got to thinking of sheriffs' posses. one man isn't much good against the law, even out here. well," he went on, "i went to town to get another man--it's thirty miles, so i stayed over night. charley boyd, who runs a liquor joint there, told me a young feller, an englishman, he thought, had been in there several times asking about sheep. charley said there might be some business in it, so i dropped in later. "boyd went up to a young chap who was sitting watching a faro game. 'here's your man, mr. simmons,' said he. the stranger wanted to know all about the different bunches of sheep near there, so i told him and talked a good deal about one thing or another having to do with them. i remember i told him i was looking for a herder to take the place of a mexican that was going to quit. soon after that he left. i could not quite make him out, but it was plain enough he wasn't buying." "what's all this got to do with mexican jack?" inquired ben, who didn't see the drift of the narrative. "if you wait a minute, i'll tell you." abe was vexed at the thoughtless interruption, and ben subsided, realizing that he had been rather foolish. "in the morning i packed my stuff on the led horse, mounted my own cayuse, and started out. i had just topped the rise near the shack when a bullet went by with a hum, and then another and another, so i chased back for cover to the other side. i dismounted, crawled up to the top, and looked over. there at the door sat mexican jack, six-shooter in hand. i couldn't understand why in the world he should shoot at me, so i rode over to look up billy, the other herder, and find out what was up. he hadn't been to the shack since morning and knew nothing about it, so he left the sheep and we went down the coulie, which runs just below here, you know, till we got behind that clump of brush--perhaps you saw it. we peeked through pretty cautious, i can tell you. the mexican was still there, but his body was all hunched up; he seemed drunk or asleep, for his six-shooter lay on the ground by his side. "we covered him with our guns, for he was chained lightning with his shooting irons, and then yelled at him. he didn't answer or move an inch. we jumped out then, still keeping him covered, and walked slowly up, ready to riddle him if he should make a move with that deadly pistol hand of his. once he quivered a bit and his right hand stirred toward his gun. i almost plunked him then, i was so nervous, but there was no other sign of wakefulness or life. we decided he must have gotten hold of some liquor somewhere, but when we got within about fifty feet of him billy noticed a pool of blood at his side. then we rushed forward--guns still ready, however--and just as we reached the steps he lurched forward and fell full on his face--dead! "a couple of bullets had gone clean through him. we found out when we turned his body over to the authorities in town that simmons, the young englishman i had met, had come over to america a year before expressly to kill mexican jack, who had shot his brother in some quarrel. i had supplied the missing link of information, and he had gone early in the morning to our shack, where he had shot the mexican twice. jack evidently thought i had given him away purposely and tried to settle me." "my! what a fiend," said john. "but what became of simmons?" "oh, he went back to town and gave himself up, was tried, and acquitted; for no jury out here would convict such a man for shooting a bad lot like mexican jack." "i should think you'd be glad to get rid of him," exclaimed both boys in chorus. "weren't you afraid to have him round so long?" "oh, no; he wouldn't trouble me, i guess, as long as i let him alone; he was a blamed good herder, and it was worth while to keep on the right side of him. now, you boys want to tumble in, for we'll be going out right early in the morning to the range." the twenty-five-mile trip next day to the range where the sheep were grazing was made without incident, but the country was all new to the boys and they plied their guide with questions. they learned that abe miller was to stay with them on the range and teach them their duties, another man taking charge at the ranch house during his absence. it was expected that mr. and mrs. worth would move to the new mine (about fifteen miles from the ranch house) in a couple of months. their education as herders completed, the boys would be given sole charge of a large bunch of several thousand sheep. a kind of shed, open in front and built of round, chinked logs, entirely lacking in comforts of every kind, was to be their home. polly, dick, and pete, the three sheep dogs, and the great flock of woolly animals would then be their only companions. abe initiated them at once into the routine of their new occupation and introduced them to "polly" and her two sons, dick and pete, the ever-vigilant, intelligent dogs who were to be their capable assistants. [illustration: many lambs in the flock. (_page ._)] it was hardly the work that an enterprising, wide-awake, active person, young or old, would choose. untiring vigilance was the one thing necessary. watchfulness never ceasing, day and night, rain and shine, was the chief occupation of the sheep herder. polly, the dog, was a much better herder than her young masters at first, and dick and pete were not far behind. they moved the "bunch" to fresh feeding grounds at the command, and fully understood the wig-wag code of the plains. when driving at a distance from camp polly would trot to a hill top and watch for the boys' signal: if john waved horizontally she would drive them farther, dick and pete assisting; when the bunch had been driven far enough john's hat would be flapped up and down, and the dogs, with almost human intelligence, would at once stop their charges. the attacks of coyotes, wolves, and, more rarely, mountain lions were the greatest danger to the sheep that the young shepherds had to guard against. some of these four-footed enemies were almost always prowling about, looking hungrily for a chance at a stray sheep or lamb. a coyote or wolf among an unprotected flock will destroy a surprising number of sheep in a few minutes, seemingly for the pure love of killing, so there was good reason for the sharpest kind of lookout. after the novelty of the life wore off, the boys began to wish themselves back at the mine. for weeks at a time they did not see another human being. each day was like every other day; in the morning the rope corral enclosing the flock was let down, and the sheep were driven by the dogs to a place where the feed was good; then the boys mounted their horses and followed to the grazing ground. during the two mid hours of the day the animals rested, lying down quietly, and the brothers would take advantage of this time to get in as much sport as the spot afforded. rifles were always slung on the saddle, and the slinking coyotes gave plenty of opportunity to show good marksmanship. occasionally the curiously marked antelope appeared, looking, as charley green once said, "as if some one had started to paint the whole lot tan but had got tired of the job and left patches of white at odd places"; then the young hunters would set out, and in the excitement of a hunt forget for a time the monotony of the life. seldom was it safe for both to go at once; only at noon, when the sheep were lying down in open, level country, could the dogs be left wholly in charge. towards evening the bunch must be corraled for the night--a difficult task if there are many lambs in the flock. the boys found, often to their disgust, that a lamb can run like a deer when it gets thoroughly frightened. it was shortly after abe had left them that, in accordance with his teaching, they began to "round up" the flock preparatory to stretching the rope corral. ben was on one side with polly and dick, john on the other with pete; all was going well, and john and pete, neither very experienced in the business in hand, began to feel the pride that goeth before a fall. suddenly the sheep fifty yards from where john stood began to scatter. pete was sent forthwith to force them back, and while he was busy there a lamb, long and clumsy of leg, apparently not strong enough to stand alone, started out on a voyage of discovery not ten yards from the boy. it would not do to let it stray far, for a coyote would make short work of it, so john sped off in pursuit. as he drew near the little woolly thing it increased its speed, running as you would imagine a rickety table would run, but it kept going faster and faster. john, who unfortunately was on foot, found to his mortification that he could not overtake it. it looked as if he would have to give up the chase. at last, however, he tried gradually turning to one side and heading it back to the bunch; even then it might have got away if polly, taking in the situation, had not flown to the rescue. john came back panting, hot, and tired, only to find ben sitting calmly in his saddle with a broad grin on his countenance. even the dogs seemed to be laughing, their open mouths and lolling tongues giving their faces a look of keen enjoyment over his discomfiture. even after the flock was safely corralled it required almost as much watching as if in the open. the boys usually took turns, each watching half the night. a fire was built on one side of the enclosure, and the watcher lay on the other. the sheep, probably the most helpless animals one could find, lay right up against each other, their closely packed bodies looking at night like a patch of snow. as the young herder fought with himself to keep awake, the howl of a coyote often broke the stillness; then he must start up, gun in hand, and make a round of the flock. from time to time he replenished the fire and made a careful scrutiny of the country round in search of the lurking enemies of his charges. till he woke his brother about midnight there was hardly a minute's rest. then ben took up the vigil, while john slept till daylight; and so began another weary day exactly like the preceding one. while in summer sheep are docile and amiable, though never so interesting as are cattle, horses, or mules, in winter they become stupid, intractable, and aggravating to the herder. it was in the winter that the boys' greatest hardships were encountered, for they found it necessary more than once literally to carry some of the flock through snow drifts to the ranch. they would not be driven or led, but when a trail had been made, and a number carried and forced along it, the remainder would pluck up courage to follow through the bank of snow. the boys spent all one summer and winter with the sheep. from time to time mr. worth, who had moved his entire outfit over to the new mine, came out to the range to inspect the animals; and towards the end of the year the boys each time besought their father to let them go back with him. for the first time they realized the meaning of an expression they had often heard: "as crazy as a sheep herder." the shepherd's life in the far west is as uninteresting, ambitionless, and lonely an existence as falls to the lot of man. for long periods of time a shepherd is so entirely alone with his flock and his dogs that the experience not infrequently costs him his reason. it was a terribly lonely life for youngsters such as they; though each was company for the other, they both longed to hear the home sounds and see the familiar faces. mr. worth, however, would not consent to their return till the year was up. he felt that the discipline was good for them, and besides he was never willing to have them let go of anything without finishing it. the new mine was the most important and largest that had been opened. it was situated on the line of the railroad that had just been constructed, and was of a more permanent character than the preceding ones. many of the miners brought their wives and families with them, so that they formed quite a settlement. occasionally the miners' sons would ride out to visit the worth boys, who were delighted to see them, though there was little in common between them. the miners were easterners, as a rule, and knew nothing of horsemanship, hunting, or plains-craft; but they were boys and were gladly received as such. they regaled john and ben with accounts of the happenings at the mine, but while they listened eagerly, this only added to their impatience to return and made them more discontented with their present life. when the snow began to melt and the grass to grow green again, the brothers occupied most of their time in thinking what they would do when they got back to civilization, for the time of their release was drawing near. "i'd go crazy if i had to stay here with these woolly idiots another year," said john one day. "yes," returned ben, "it's about as tame as anything could be. but what are we going to do when we get back? you can bet your bottom dollar father won't let us sit round and enjoy the view." "i suppose we'll have to get to work at something." john stroked polly's head reflectively as he spoke, and the good dog, undemonstrative always, showed her pleasure only by the slow wagging of her bushy tail. "but what?" it was ben who spoke. "i'll be switched if i want to go to coal mining, and i guess you don't care about it either." "that's right," replied john, laconically. "i've had enough of mining to last me a lifetime." he shivered a little at the remembrance of his experience. for a time both were silent; each was trying to think of something he might turn his hand to that would suit his father and at the same time please himself. it was not an altogether cheerful prospect that lay before them. they would soon change the solitude for their bustling, busy home. it was home, and that was good to think of. yet it was a home where a boy's love of fun and his healthy animal spirits were not considered: his capacity for work was what counted. a home where uncongenial, hard labor awaited them unless they could think of some other occupation that would satisfy their stern, just, absolutely honest but unyielding father. "well?" said ben at last. "well!" returned john in much the same tone, "there is one thing we might do--perhaps." "well?" said ben again, eagerly. "you remember when young watson was over here the other night," john began. "he said that a mail route was to be run from ragged edge camp to the railroad, through the pass in the mountain----" "yes, and he had the job. that shuts us out, doesn't it?" "wait a minute!" exclaimed john, impatiently. "he's a tenderfoot, and he'll never in the world be able to make that trip on time, in winter--he'll never be able to make it at all. you'll see that after he has been late a few times we'll have a chance. then i intend to apply for the job. see?" john was the more aggressive, the stronger of the two, both in mind and body. the younger brother had learned to lean on his more independent spirit, so it was john who always had the deciding voice when there was a doubtful plan. ben's yielding disposition enabled him to get along more comfortably with every one, and especially with the supreme authority in the household. the worth boys soon learned from their occasional visitors that they would be expected to show their prowess as boxers and wrestlers on their arrival in camp, so they determined to practise up. every day at noon, when the sheep lay down, the two went at each other, good humoredly but with seriousness, advising one another when a mistake was made. every blow, every trick, that tom malloy had taught john they tried till they knew it perfectly. every feint, every fall, that the indians practised they perfected, till by the time their term with the sheep was up their bodies were as supple and their muscles as strong as constant exercise and clean, healthy living in the open air could make them. at last the new men arrived, the boys turned over the sheep to them, and promptly saddled up for their ride across the mountains. they were glad to get away from the ranch, but when they reviewed the passed long months and realized that they had not flinched, they experienced that peculiar pleasure that comes from carrying through a hard job. chapter x. battle royal. mr. worth had built for himself a plank house with shingled roof--the first real house the boys had entered since they left bismarck. their father was away when they arrived, to be gone for some weeks, so the boys had a chance to have some of the fun they had longed for. they expected to have great sport with the miners' sons, but were keenly disappointed to find that their tastes were utterly different. the latter were as a rule eastern boys, and were versed in civilized amusements: baseball, marbles, tops, and all the games of skill and strength dear to the town dwellers. of all these our boys knew nothing; their amusements were akin to their work--to ride well and shoot straight was a matter of business as well as pleasure for them. and so the worth boys and those of the camp stood aloof from one another, and john and ben were soon almost as unhappy as they had been on the sheep range. they still hoped to have an opportunity to show their skill as wrestlers and fighters in the emphatic way that was the custom in that day and place, but for a long time the camp boys gave them no provocation. as time went on, however, the mining boys grew overbearing and insulting and never lost an opportunity to taunt and aggravate the young westerners. "i'm going to lick that jake adams within an inch of his life," said john, wrathfully, one day to his brother. "he's the worst one of the lot." "all right," said ben. "i'm with you." pretty soon an opportunity came, and john challenged jake to fight. he accepted at once. a ring was formed on the outskirts of the camp by the boys and some of the men who guaranteed fair play. the contest that followed was short, sharp, and decisive. john kept his head and made every blow tell, while jake in his anger forgot all he knew and defended himself so poorly that his opponent soon satisfied him he was the better man. after this such contests, generally not quite so earnest, were frequent. from most of them john came out victorious, and for a time the others ceased to taunt the worth boys. but the feeling was far from being as friendly as it ought to have been between the two factions. even the settlement of the arguments in so thorough a manner failed to clear the air entirely. [illustration: mr. worth had built for himself a new house. (_page ._)] [illustration: the sheep ranch house. (_page ._)] the miners admired pluck and skill, and john had many friends among them. his father, too, did not disapprove, for he also admired one who could give and take hard knocks. his approval was never outspoken, however; on the contrary he made john's bruises the subject of his chaffing. to john--who, in spite of his apparent indifference, was very sensitive and craved sympathy--this was almost unbearable. as john predicted, young watson failed to get the mails in on time. john at once offered to undertake the job, and after some questioning the authorities decided he was capable of accomplishing it. here was something he could do that would test his intelligence, his strength, and his courage. it was work and amusement at the same time, and he accepted it gladly. ragged edge had sprung up in a gulch fourteen miles from the coal camp. it was a new camp of the mushroom variety, called suddenly into being by the discovery of some gold-bearing gravel in the creek there. deep snows on the range nearly cut off communication with the outer world for three months in the year. by following the high, wind-swept ridge, the mountain could be crossed by a venturesome horseman till winter came on and the snows grew too deep, when snowshoes must be resorted to. even late in the summer snowshoes were necessary to travel over the soft masses of the snow which always crowned the summit. when john presented himself as a candidate for mail rider, burns, the boss at ragged edge, looked at him in good-natured amusement. "well, kid, if you think you can do it, go ahead and try. but it means work and p'raps danger." john told of his snowshoeing experiences in dakota modestly but straightforwardly, and satisfied him by his resolute mien that he had the pluck to do it if any one could. the boy spent several days in going over the ground, noting the best line to follow and making sure of his landmarks before the snows should cover up everything. he found at the top of the pass an old, abandoned cabin and marked its location in his mind in case of future necessity. this bit of precaution served him well before the winter was over. "you had better get a good strong horse," said mr. worth, as john was mounting baldy--for the trips had already begun. "baldy's too old. you'll need a good young horse." john said nothing for a minute, but patted his steed as if to express his confidence in him. "oh, no, sir. baldy knows me and i know baldy, and i think i can get along better with him than i could with any other horse," he said, rather anxiously, for he was afraid that his companion would be denied him. "besides," he continued, "baldy can smell a trail through two feet of snow, and isn't he in good condition? you can't see a rib." "all right," returned his father. "he's yours, and the job's yours. go ahead and work it out the way you think best." so boy and horse encountered the perils of the mountain pass together, friends always, but now sole companions. while there was no sign of snow in the valleys, it was falling steadily in the mountains. john did not carry out his first plan of tethering baldy at the snow line on the mine side of the mountains and covering the rest of the distance on snowshoes. he found that by following the bare ridges he could go the whole distance on horseback. his route was changed almost every day, for the wind formed drifts in different places and blocked the old way ten feet deep over night. in certain places cuts in the ridge would become filled with snow, and through this horse and rider had to flounder till a hard trail had been packed. it was in such spots that baldy's cleverness manifested itself; he rarely missed the narrow, packed path, though it might be buried two feet or more. an incautious step to one side was sure to cause both horse and rider to disappear in the soft mass. "well, i must say you have done pretty well so far," said burns one day, as john dismounted and handed him the packet of mail. "yes; haven't missed a trip," he answered rather proudly. "don't know if i'd have made such a good record if i hadn't the best snow horse going though. been snowshoeing it two weeks ago if it wasn't for baldy." he stopped to stroke the animal's nose affectionately. "i vowed this should be his last trip, it's getting harder and harder; but he's such good company i hate to give him up." next morning, as burns handed out the return mail, he warned the boy that bad weather was coming, and suggested that he leave the horse behind, for he would be more of a hindrance than a help. "those black clouds mean that we're in for a big storm," he said, "and i tell you that you and your horse had better stay here. i can't boss you, kid, but i advise you not to fool with that storm--it's coming sure and you don't know what it means up here." in spite of this john decided to go on baldy, for he wished to leave him safe at his father's camp. the hard travelling had begun to tell on the sturdy little horse; his body was not so round as formerly, nor his step so springy, but he carried his young rider well for all that and was as knowing and careful as ever. john tucked the package of precious letters in his saddle-bag, and after calling out a good-by to burns he set out. he had barely reached high ground when snow began to fall heavily and with it came a blustering, roaring wind that buffeted the travellers roundly. the horse slackened his speed, and, by signs that john knew well, advised retreat. the boy urged him forward, however, saying aloud--for he always felt as if baldy could understand everything he told him--"no, old man, if we go back now you'll have to winter in the ragged edge gulch and you'll die sure. we can make it all right." the good beast seemed to acquiesce in his master's judgment, for he went along without further hesitation. the trail now was covered almost knee deep, and the blinding mist and whirling flakes blotted out nearly all landmarks. they pushed forward, at one moment right in the teeth of the blast, at the next turning a sharp corner and running before it, heads down, eyes almost closed, the rider depending on the keen senses of his steed to find the way. at length baldy stopped, and john felt, with a thrill of real alarm, that he had lost the trail. to go forward seemed impossible, to go back almost as bad. to and fro they went, in vain efforts to find the way. baldy still floundered along, his hoofs covered with gunny sacks to prevent their sharp edges from cutting through the crust; but his sides began to heave and his legs to shake under him, for the exertion of breaking through the drifts from one wind-swept ridge to another was most exhausting. john could stand it no longer; he slipped off his back and caught his head in both arms: "why did i bring you out here?" he said, in bitter self-reproach. it was evident that if he did not find shelter soon his old friend would freeze to death. there was one chance for himself: he was light and might be able to make his way over the snow to ragged edge camp, perhaps; but what would then become of his faithful friend? could he leave him to such a fate after he had so spent himself for his master's sake? baldy stood knee deep in the cruel, treacherous, white snow, his head down, quick, spasmodic puffs coming from his nostrils, his body steaming, and his flanks all in a tremble. there was only one chance for the lives of both. john remembered the abandoned hut at the top of the pass--if they could possibly reach that, they might be able to weather the storm together. he determined to try. fastening baldy's bridle rein to his fore leg, so that he could not follow, and giving him an affectionate pat on the nose, he started off, his teeth set determinedly. a few yards away the driving snow shut baldy off from his sight entirely, but a gentle whinny reached him and brought a lump into his throat. "that's all right, old boy," he called aloud; "i'm not going to leave you. i'll be back." he turned in the direction he thought the cabin should be and fought his way on. the wind seemed like a howling fiend; it tore at his clothing, blew the particles of snow into his eyes, and raised such a veil of mist and frost that he could not see ten yards ahead of him. on the high, bare ridges the blast nearly took him off his feet and in the hollows the snow banks engulfed him. still he struggled on, straining his eyes forward into the gray chaos that confronted him, determined to find the shelter. a vision of baldy standing dejectedly alone, his rough brown coat turned white by the sleet, his faithful old eyes half closed, drove the boy on irresistibly, for, next to his brother, he loved his horse better than anything else in the world. he ploughed through drift after drift, following one ridge, for only by keeping one such landmark in sight was it possible to go in any given direction. would that haven of rest ever come into view? even his stout heart began to despair; he was weary, his body bathed in sweat, yet his face, feet, and hands numb with cold; the elements seemed to conspire against him. he was only a boy, and it seemed hard that he should give up his life. he stood still and looked drearily down the hillside. nothing, nothing but the deadly snow. he began to wonder if it was worth while to fight against such odds any longer. and then in this abjectness he suddenly gave a cry of delight. for the wind rent the snow apart for an instant and he caught a glimpse through the driving flakes of a dead tree and near it a peculiarly shaped, great gray rock. they seemed positively human, like old friends, for the shelter he sought stood just to the left of them. he began at once to look for a place where baldy might be led down in safety. this was impossible where he stood--it was far too steep and rocky. a detour made with infinite pains and exertion brought him to the cabin by a path that he thought the sure-footed beast might follow. how john found his way to the half-frozen beast and then slowly got him back to the cabin he never knew. only his indomitable pluck and his training pulled him through. but at last the terrible journey was safely accomplished, and boy and steed stood before the low door. john took off the saddle, and the intelligent animal, bending his knees a little, squeezed through. the boy followed, throwing the saddle blanket over the horse's shivering flanks and wondering if they were safe, even now. at best it was a poor shelter; the wind blew the sharp, powdery snow through the chinks in the logs and kept the temperature almost as low within as without, but at least there was a roof and a wind break. after a short rest, john scrambled up the slope to the dead tree and broke off some branches. the wood was still dry, except on the very outside, and made good kindling. soon a fire was blazing, and boy and beast absorbed the heat gratefully. only those who have suffered great and deadly cold can realize the delight of sitting before a blaze once more. the very sight of the flames puts life into the veins and makes a mere nightmare of what was just now a grim and awful reality. thoroughly warmed, and with new courage and strength, john went outside again and began to stop up the chinks with snow and to scrape banks of it up against the walls. the heat from within melted the inner surface, which afterwards froze and prevented the wind from blowing it away. all day john was kept busy gathering wood and patching the walls. by nightfall a good supply of fuel had been collected and the little cabin was by comparison comfortable. there was little sleep for the boy that night, however. the fury of the storm did not abate; the wind howled round their little refuge, shaking it so it seemed as if it would be impossible for it to withstand the blast. all night long he listened to the roaring of the wind, taking "cat naps" during the short lulls that came at intervals. the fire required constant replenishment, and baldy, unaccustomed to confinement in such a small space, was so restless that continual watchfulness was necessary to keep from under his feet, though the good horse would never have harmed his young master except by accident. both boy and beast began also to suffer greatly from hunger. at dawn the gale subsided somewhat, and john realized that he must get food at once if his life and that of his horse were to be saved. breaking through the snow bank which had piled up against the rude door, he made his way to a creek half a mile down the mountain and cut with his knife an armful of poplar saplings and carried them back to the hut. baldy tore off the bark from these and munched it contentedly; another armful was added to the store, and then john bade his equine friend good-by and started off to find food and shelter for himself. the six miles that separated the lonely cabin from the mining camp were the longest and most trying that john had ever travelled, he thought. great drifts barred his way, the wind, still strong, blew in his face and seemed bent on his destruction, his empty stomach weakened him, and lack of sleep undermined his resolution. from dawn till noon day he battled with the snow, and when at last he reached his father's house he was hardly able to answer the questions which his overjoyed family put to him. a man was sent back to look after baldy. he found that good horse chewing poplar bark as calmly as if he was in his own stable, though the cabin was so small and the horse so large in comparison that it appeared to be resting on his back, like the howdah on an elephant. for several days baldy was kept in the cabin and fed on hay, which had to be carried to him on foot; then, after considerable trouble, for a trail had to be stamped down much of the way, he was led back in triumph to the camp, where john, rather weak in the knees, greeted him joyfully. for a week ragged edge camp did not receive any mail. late one afternoon john appeared on snowshoes, bearing the precious packet. he had to repeat his story many times, and burns had the satisfaction of qualifying his admiration of the boy's pluck with an emphatic "i told you so." john continued to carry the mail between ragged edge camp and the railroad every three or four days: at first on foot, then, as the snow melted, on his faithful baldy once more. though his work took him away from camp much of the time, john was continually running foul of the boys who belonged to the other faction, and ben was the object of their unceasing abuse. a crowd of these fellows would stop their games and yell at them those taunts which are so exasperating to a boy: "there go those western jays." [illustration: he ... bucks, pitches, kicks. (_page ._)] "look at the kids that don't know the difference between a baseball and a lump of mud." it was true that our boys were not up on the national game or any other game played simply for amusement; their sports were merely another form of some kind of work. then the camp boys began to taunt john on his fighting abilities, their object being to get him to stand up against some one who would be sure to beat him. this was one of john's weak points; he was immensely proud of his prowess as a fighter; so when one of the boys said in his presence: "worth said to-day that he could lick casey," he did not correct the falsehood there and then, but put on an air of superiority that had the effect desired. casey, though not a big fellow, was out of his 'teens, and had the reputation of being a "scrapper from 'way back," as the boys said. he also heard the young mischief-maker's statement. "jab him, casey; he's only a bluffer," said several of his companions. he could not ignore the challenge which was plainly indicated, and, according to boy customs, not to be avoided. few boys know how much bravery it takes to dare an unjust imputation of cowardice. john and casey were soon talking hotly--not that they had anything against each other, but they were being egged on and neither could withstand the pressure. the result was a fight, the consequences of which had great influence, on one of the principals at least. casey was really a grown man, and john had never fought in earnest with one old enough to wear a mustache, but his blood was up now and he would not back down. the two retired behind a large stable and a crowd of men and boys formed a ring. "keep him at arm's length," whispered ben, as he took off his brother's coat and _cinched_ up his belt firmly round his waist. "don't let him hug you and you'll lick him, sure." ben spoke confidently, but he was in reality consumed with anxiety. john said nothing, but the look of reckless determination on his face spoke volumes. the two antagonists now stood face to face, but neither had yet struck a blow. "how do you want to fight?" casey asked. "you fight your way and i'll fight my way," john answered; and at the word struck out. the crowd yelled "foul," but neither took any notice. the blow was not a hard one, but it served its purpose, for it stopped the talk and began open hostilities. casey came at john, his arms jerking back and forth, but hitting nothing. john drew his lead and then, as his guard was lowered, threw in his own left with staggering effect. this angered casey greatly, and he rushed his opponent in a vain effort to get in a deciding blow at once; but his rushes were avoided nimbly, and as his defence was careless many blows were rained on his head and body. evidently the boy knew more about boxing than he did, casey thought, and as the method of fighting was left undecided he determined to change his tactics. in a rough-and-tumble fight he knew his age and strength would tell. to close in and grapple with john was his purpose now. so far the battle was in the boy's favor, and a number of the wavering ones came over to his side. "he's getting low now, worth. swing on him," said one of them; and john, acting on the advice, quickly landed a stiff one on the jaw. casey fell, but john stood to one side and waited till he got up. he was angry clear through. again and again he rushed, but was beaten off each time. he aimed a savage blow, which john almost succeeded in dodging. it landed lightly, but gave casey the opportunity he sought and they clinched, the miner hugging with all his might. "oh, john!" muttered ben. "good work," yelled the crowd, who had suddenly deserted to casey's side. it was the greatest squeeze that john had ever had. the blood rushed to his head, his breathing became more and more difficult, but still he struggled, twisted, and strained, and at last both fell and the man's terrible grip was loosened. he did not let go, however, and in a couple of seconds both were on their feet and struggling with might and main to gain the mastery. again they went down, this time john underneath and on his back. the crowd paused an instant before pulling casey off, but during that pause he made good use of his time, raining blow after blow on john's upturned face. john was licked. most of the spectators followed the victor, but some remained behind, not to sympathize and condole, but to jeer at john's defeat and laugh at his discomfiture. it was gall and bitterness to the boy, and he was glad to get away out of earshot. ben helped him put on his clothes and led him down to the creek to bathe his bruised face. "what's the matter with your hand?" ben said suddenly, as he noticed the blood trickling over the knuckles of his brother's right hand. "he chewed it," john answered. "what! bit you!" ben exclaimed. "my arm was around his neck and he grabbed my thumb in his mouth. he wouldn't have got me so easy but for that." for a time neither boy said a word. how a man could do such "dirty work" as ben said, was more than he could understand.[a] [footnote a: john worth bears the marks of casey's teeth on his thumb to this day.] on the way back to the house several fellows stopped to call at john as he went by, for the news had spread. he realized that it would take a long time to live down this disgrace. his heart was sore; it seemed as if this was the culmination of all his hardships; he felt as if his life had been all work and no play, that his efforts to do his duty had not been appreciated, that though other boys might enjoy themselves much of the time (and he had seen them in this very camp) he must work, work, work; he felt, in short, very much abused and at swords' points with everybody--his brother excepted. one more blow of bad luck, he thought, would "cap the climax" and would result in he knew not what desperation. before the boys had reached the house the news of his defeat had been made known there, and mr. worth, thinking that john had become more or less a bully, determined that the lesson he had received should be a lasting one. "hello, john!" he said jovially, as the two boys came slowly in, "you met your match to-day, i hear. whipped you well, didn't he?" john hung his head and tried to hide the tears that would rush out over his swollen cheeks. "hold up here, let me see your face," said the father roughly. "well, he did give it to you: eyes blacked, face scratched, mouth swollen--you're a sight. you'll be more careful next time, i guess," he added. john turned on his heel and left the room. "ben," he said, on meeting his brother outside, "i'm going away." "going away?" ben repeated in wonder. "where are you going?" "i don't know; i don't care. i'm not going to show my face in camp again; even father at home laughs and jeers at me. i'm going to leave to-night." chapter xi. a trying journey. "i'm glad i'm going, ben, but i'm sorry to leave you; you'll go back and tell them i've gone--and be good to baldy, won't you? i'll write to you when i get to helena." it was long past midnight, and ben was starting his brother on his journey to the great city that neither had seen. it was his present objective point; how far beyond he would go he did not dream. "how much money have you?" inquired ben anxiously. "nearly ten dollars, with your three. that'll keep me going till i get a job." "but say, john, wait a few days and we can sell a horse or a saddle." ben hung on to his brother's arm and tried to pull him back; his small, freckled face was full of entreaty and trouble. "regan will buy the three-year-old after pay day. you'd better wait." "oh, i've thought of all that," said john. "i could ride the colt off, for that matter, but i'm not going to take away a thing--except enough money to last till i get work." "don't forget to write, john, will you? they'll blame me at home for not telling about this, so don't make it too hard for me." ben's voice was not very steady, and the note of appeal in it affected john greatly. "tell me if work is plenty, for i'm going myself before long--i'll be so lonesome." they shook hands without a word, each turning his face away, ashamed of the tears that would come despite their efforts to suppress them. "good-by." "good-by." ben turned down the trail toward home and john continued on in the opposite direction. day was just breaking; the stars still shone above, while the sun's mellow light brightened the east. neither boy had any eyes for the beauties of the sunrise; it was hard for them to part and neither could think of anything else. they had been not only brothers but "pardners." never before had they been separated. rocked in the same shoe-box cradle, playing with the same rude toys, sharing the same pleasures and the same fears, braving the same dangers, and dividing bread or blanket when need be, they had grown up so closely that they did not realize the bond till it was about to be broken. brothers still they would be, but "pardners" never again. when out of sight, each, unknown to the other, dropped to the earth and cried bitterly. ben's share of grief was the heavier. no change of scene for him; no excitement of anticipated adventure; no new sights, experiences, or friends; the world was not spread out before him to enter at will and to roam over; none of the delights of freedom were to fall to his lot. only duty, weary, commonplace, devoid of companionship and boyish sympathy. he went sorrowfully home. john, his cry over, felt better. the sun was now coming out in his full strength, the birds poured forth melody, the cool morning was refreshing. in spite of the parting wrench he could not help feeling exhilarated, and the thought that, no matter what might happen, he was free, made him almost joyous. he sprang up, dashed the tears from his eyes, and started along the trail, shouting aloud: "i don't care." he repeated it again and again, trying to convince himself that he really didn't care. it was too late to turn back now, even if he wanted to; he knew his father's character, and he did not fear pursuit. he wished now that he had walked manfully up to him and told him. "but he laughed at me," he said aloud, arguing with himself. "i do _not_ care," this between his teeth; and then he marched on, his head held high, defiantly. it was fifteen miles to the railroad, john knew; but how much further to helena he had no idea--he had not thought of it before. the trail he was following led him across the range down to the main road on savage creek. the mountain walk was fine, the air cool and bracing, the sounds of bird and insect grateful. before long he reached the creek and drank deeply of its clear waters, washing his bruised face and hands. this he did gingerly, for his wounds were still fresh and his bitten thumb, which no one at home had seen, pained him exceedingly. the danger from a wound by the human tooth is very great, but john realized nothing but the pain. the slices of bread and meat which ben had wrapped in an old newspaper for him were eaten with relish. though he was somewhat tired, and his body still stiff from the hard usage of the day before, he could not bear to sit still and think. at intervals the tears welled up in spite of his efforts to keep them back. "i won't think," he said, and repeated his assertion, "i don't care," to keep his courage up. a piece of bread still in his hand, munching as he walked, he struck off down the trail at a strong pace, resolved to reach the railroad and get to helena quick. after several miles of sharp walking along the savage creek road, he heard the heavy _chug-chug_ and rattle of freight wagons ahead of him. he soon overtook them and hailed the driver. "hello, kid; where'd you come from?" called that worthy cheerily, from his perch on the near wheel mule, his leg thrown carelessly over the horn of the saddle, the picture of contentment. "up the road a way," answered john evasively. "how far is it to the railroad?" "what d'ye want of the railroad?" asked the "mule skinner" sharply, bringing his foot down and sitting erect. john knew that these freighters did not look with favor on the railroads or with any one or thing connected with them, for they declared bitterly that the railroads robbed them of their business. "it's only a couple of miles to the railroad," the man continued. "but it's eighteen miles to a station. a railroad's no good without a station; climb in this and take a ride." john climbed up as the wagon moved slowly along. he was tired, and the cheerful "mule skinner" was a desirable companion, for the time at least. the man lifted his leg again and turned in his saddle, the better to talk to his passenger. "i was comin' down the road last month," he began, "and the pesky train half a mile away scared my mules nigh out of their wits. mules don't like trains; don't blame them neither. it's thrown the critters out of work and is forcin' me clear out o' business--how there, you mag!" he interrupted himself to shout, as the dainty-footed mule swerved to avoid a mud-hole. "notice that mule?" queried the teamster. john nodded an assent. "she's one of the finest near leaders in the country; watch her gee." a long jerk line ran from the driver's saddle to the bit of the near leader of the eight-mule team. he pulled the line gently and the leader swung promptly to the right. he pulled steadily and the intelligent animal swung back into the road. "see that? only a touch and she's awake. that mule's a dandy; been offered two hundred for her--she's little, too." john only nodded, but the teamster, glad enough to have a listener, rattled on about his grievances, the all-absorbing railroads and the men who ran them and spoiled his business. the wagon did not travel fast enough for the impatient passenger, so before long he scrambled down again. "must you go?" inquired the teamster. "well, you leave the wagon road at the third bridge ahead, and if you cut across to your left you'll come to the railroad." the boy thanked him and started off on a brisk walk down the road. "but it's eighteen miles to a station, and a railroad's no good without a station," shouted the mule skinner, determined to have one more rap at the iron trail. "so long," yelled the boy in return, and continued at a brisk pace, in his effort to drown gloomy feelings by rapid motion. at the third bridge he left the road, struck across to the left, and came upon the railroad. it was a disappointment, though he found all that could be expected when a "station is eighteen miles away." the shining rails stretched away, before and behind him, till they ran together in the distance. the journey was a weary one, the track rough with boulders, the ties hard and unyielding to his heel, and just too near together to allow of an easy stride. momentarily the heat of the sun increased, and the track seemed to reflect it back more intensely. there was no shade and the heavens were brazen. he stopped at every brook to drink and bathe his blistering feet and cool his aching hand. though he had eaten nothing since early morning he did not feel hunger, except in its weakening effect. on and on he trudged, hour after hour, until swinging his legs became mechanical and he ceased to feel even weariness. at length a cooling rain began to fall, wetting him thoroughly and arousing him to faint gratitude for the relief it brought. just before nightfall an object loomed up far down the track; it was the station at last! the boy struggled on, limping, his mouth open and dry, his bitten hand swollen to twice its usual size; and now reaching a water tank near the platform, he dropped down by it, cruelly tired. after a short rest, he raised his head and looked around. not another building was in sight but the station, and not a morsel of food had he eaten since early morning. "i'll tackle the station people for something to eat," he said to himself, and, suiting the action to the word, presented himself at the door. a woman was there, but in the dusk she took him for a tramp, slamming the door in his face when he asked for food. his only hope now was to catch a train and reach some settlement. the station agent dashed his last hope by saying that the last train for the night had gone; but noticing the boy's forlorn appearance he spoke to him kindly, so john plucked up courage to say: "where can i buy something to eat?" the man responded by bringing him food, and, while the boy was gratefully eating, told him that he would be glad to let him rest on the waiting-room floor during the night, but since the rules of the road did not permit of this the best shelter he could offer was a vacant building across the track. john accepted the suggestion gladly, for he was tired in every fibre. "good night; that supper was bully, thank you," he said to the agent. "looks like rain," said the other, following to the door. "hello, there's a fire in that house already; must be some other fellows there for the night. you'll have company, but look out that they don't rob you. good night." as john approached the outhouse he saw through the half-open door a blazing fire and a half dozen tough-looking men seated around it, warming themselves and drying their tattered clothes. a hesitating knock on the door frame received a chorus of "come ins." the old door swung back on its leather hinges with a jolt and john entered. the ruddy firelight gleamed on the face of a slovenly fellow who sat beyond the fire. it was a well-fed face, rounded, and not ill-looking in contour, but grimy and littered with little tufts of whisker; a gray flannel shirt, red neckerchief and greasy-collared tan canvas coat clothed the upper part of his body, and john cast his eye about on four other specimens of the same type, seated on ties about the blaze. "where from, kid?" asked one, as all turned to observe the newcomer. all they saw was a weary, hesitating boy. "come up to the fire," they said cordially, and moved to make room for him. "which way you goin'?" "i'm going west," he answered, his glance taking in the whole crowd. "we're goin' west too. did you come in on that last freight?" asked one. john shook his head. "no? well, we all got put off here a little while ago; the con and other brakies got onto us and fired us. we wanted a sleep anyhow--been ridin' two days straight." (john wondered for a time what "con" and "brakies" meant, but finally concluded that the words might be translated into conductor and brakeman.) "i walked in," said the boy innocently. a look of pity showed plainly on each hobo's face as he echoed "walked?" that any one would walk, with a railroad near, was beyond the comprehension of these tramps, for tramps they were--the regulation kind. "you're green on the road, kid," said one, whose name was jimmy, as john soon learned. "you'll soon get sick of counting ties," he continued, gazing curiously at the boy, as did they all. "why, kid, i've travelled this country from side to side and from top to bottom in the last fifteen years and i've yet to walk a step--except off one side to get feed," he added in explanation. "but i hadn't money to ride," said john, innocently. "money? ho! ho! why i haven't seen the color of coin this summer. what d'ye want of money? beat 'em; we'll show you." he spoke with a sort of professional pride, and the expression was reflected on the faces of the other men. john's bruised countenance had been noticed, but as he had evidently been whipped in some fistic argument it was etiquette not to question too openly, but to approach the matter indirectly. by degrees they learned that he had had trouble and left home. "i left home just at his age, boys," said big larry, an american-born irishman. "that so?" said one encouragingly. "yep, 'twas like this. back in the east--" and larry launched forth on a recital of the circumstances which led him to "take to the road" and follow it ever since. two others had similar experiences. jimmy, however, frankly admitted that he took to it from choice. "when i was twenty-one," he began, "i was engaged to be married, and expected to settle down and be a family man." this statement seemed to amuse the hoboes, for they laughed uproariously. "my mother--she's a widow," jimmy continued unmoved, "gave me five hundred dollars to set me up in the butcher business in our town in ohio. well, things went on fine till pretty near the happy day, when i began to see that the girl was getting offish and i told her so. she got hot and said something about another chap that i didn't like, and i quit her--quit her cold." a grunt of approval went round the circle. "it cut me up some and i got to drinkin' a little, and soon i was drinkin' harder. the five hundred my mother gave me and the five hundred i had already saved up went in no time, for before long i was drinkin' like a fish all round the town. my mother wanted me to swear off, and said she'd give me another start, but i knew it wasn't no use and told her so and pulled out of the town on a freight train. been at it ever since." "pretty tough on your mother," said larry. "you must 'a' had about a thousand, jimmy," ventured a less thoughtful one. "yes, it was pretty tough on the old lady, but i was no good for that place, and she'd spent enough money on me. had about a thousand, an' it's more than i've had since all put together, an' more than i'll ever see again," the tramp added, musingly. "i'll never leave the road now; i like it. a man doesn't have to worry about anything, he's better without money an' he gets enough to eat, always seein' new places, learnin' about the country, and findin' new friends." most of this speech was made for john's benefit, and he listened with interest. "now, boys, not one of us had seen the other forty-eight hours ago, and yet here we are round our fire talkin' sociable, spinnin' yarns and hearin' 'em told; and i'll bet we're happier than any six millionaires in new york city." "yes, we are," they said emphatically, in chorus. john thought much and said nothing. "people s'pose we don't have to work," said shorty, another of the group, "but i'd like to see them dudes work from chicago to 'frisco on a freight train. why, them fellers don't know a brake beam from a drawhead, to say nothin' of ridin' rods, breakin' seals on box cars, foolin' brakies, and a hundred other of the little fine points of our trade." "an' then," chimed in another, "if we don't work much, we don't get much, so what's anybody else got to kick about, s'long's we're satisfied?" everybody agreed, and the group dropped into a cheerful silence. john had listened, it must be confessed, rather admiringly; the freedom and apparent ease of the life fascinated him, and he had half a mind to become a hobo. he did not realize the degradation that went with it, the dishonest acts that were necessary to secure food without money, the hardship it entailed, and the constant uncertainty of it all. [illustration: curran, brady's night wrangler. (_page ._)] the thing that bothered him was the food supply, and he finally ventured the question: "where will you get your breakfast in the morning?" "breakfast? well, we may not get it till dinner time, but we'll get it. there are a few houses at a gravel pit half a mile ahead, where we got supper last night, but they're hard to work and we'll have to get to helena before we chew," explained larry cheerfully. "but you're all right with that hand of yours," broke in jimmy. "you can work the sore-hand racket all right; just show that to a motherly-looking woman and she'll fill you up quick." "i worked the sore-hand dodge myself for a beautiful hand-out last night down at the gravel pit," said shorty. john began to realize that it was a pretty precarious and mean way of living, to depend on people's generosity for sustenance. as the evening passed the talk subsided, and when the suggestion to sleep was given there was not a dissenting voice--from john least of all. all lay down in a row, their feet toward the fire. the coats had been taken off and spread over the row so that each made a covering of two thicknesses. toward morning the boy was awakened by a hand that fumbled about his pocket--the one which contained his money. fortunately he had taken the precaution before going to sleep to put his own hand in and grasp the money. his hand was being slowly withdrawn when he quickly turned over, and then, fearing to sleep again, he rose and sat down by the wall, his head against the rough boards. at daybreak a freight train came rumbling into the station and stopped. in an instant the tramps were up, and, separating, ran for the train. john was left alone, wondering what to do, but only for a minute, for jimmy came running back, and with a hurried "i'll help you," rushed him over to a pile of ties. when the trainmen had gone into the station, jimmy took the boy over to a car and pointing under it said: "never rode a brake beam? well, i'll show you. see that brake beam?" he pointed out the bar that held the brake shoes and crossed from wheel to wheel under the car. "and those rods running lengthwise from it? well, you sit on the bar and hold on to the rods. see, like this," and he slipped under the car and sat down on the wooden bar, his legs dangling and his hands grasping the rods. "i see," said john, and in a second had taken jimmy's place. "good, here's my board; i'll get along with my coat wrapped round if i need to," and he handed a board a foot long and eight inches wide, having a slot cut in one end. this john fitted over the rod, and it gave him a safer and more comfortable seat. "here they come; keep dark." jimmy disappeared, and the conductor's lantern came swinging down toward the engine; his feet crunched the gravel as he passed, and john's heart was in his mouth. "pull out at once," was the order, and the engine backed viciously for its start, nearly jerking john from his perch. "say, kid, i forgot to tell you"--it was jim alongside again--"look out and don't get pinched in the air-brake rods; they're bad. when the train's stopping, keep low and you'll be all right. i'm on the next car behind." the train was now gathering headway, and john wondered how jimmy would reach the wheel trucks between the now fast revolving wheels. a peculiar sensation came over the boy--half fear, half exhilaration. the whirring wheels clacked and thumped the rail joints, the ties flew underneath dizzily, the dust rose like a fog, and the wind of the train rattled the small stones of the roadbed together; the heavy car swayed above him dangerously near, and john, half choked and wholly terrified, wondered if he would come out of this irresistible whirlwind of a thing alive. all he could do was to grip the rods at his head and hang on. chapter xii. a change of scene. for a time john could do nothing but hang on like grim death. he was half unconscious; the noise was so great, the dust so thick, and the motion so altogether terrifying that he was nearly stupefied. after a while, however, he noticed that the dreadful racket did not increase, that the clicking of the wheels over the rail joints had become regular, and that all the sounds had a sort of humming rhythm. his nerves quieted down somewhat, and he realized that he was still alive. his grasp on the braking rods overhead relaxed slightly, and he began to look around him--as much as the dust would allow. the train was moving at good speed. the ties below seemed first to rush at the boy threateningly, and then in a twinkling disappeared behind; the telegraph poles along the track had the same menacing attitude and seemed bent on his destruction; objects further off went by more leisurely. it looked as if the whole earth, and everything on it, was trying to run away from the standing train. john soon found that it made him dizzy to watch the earth slip away from under him, so he turned his eyes to his surroundings. the wheels moved so swiftly that they would have seemed to be standing still were it not for the side motion, alternately checked by the flanges; a spot of mud on the rapidly turning axle looked like a white ring. though this mode of travelling was dangerous, dirty, and unpleasant in many ways, john decided, in the recollection of his fatigue the day before, it was at least better than walking. in half an hour the wheels thudded heavily over a switch joint, the speed of the train slackened, and the cylinder of the air brake under the centre of the car groaned a warning. john remembered his instructions and bent low to avoid the big iron lever. he watched it swing slowly toward him--nearer, nearer; the rod attached to it tightened until its vibrations sung in his ear. the train slowed up and then stopped with a jolt. "phew! that was close," he murmured to himself. he did not dare to get out of his cramped position for fear he would be run over. his eyes, nose, and mouth were filled with dust, his back ached from his stooping posture, and the smell of grease and foul air escaping from the released brake was overpowering. "come out, kid, it's all right." it was jimmy who spoke. john crawled out, glad of a change. a short stop was made at the station, during which the boy and the tramp lay in hiding in a ditch. the engine tooted, and they rushed up the embankment, but before either man or boy could reach his perch the train had begun to move. john managed by following jimmy's directions to scramble under and on to his brake-beam seat, but by the time he was safely stowed away the car was going at a good speed. the boy feared greatly for his friend's safety. jimmy, however, seemed entirely unconcerned; he ran alongside and caught one of the side rods that run under every freight car and look like the truss of a bridge; putting his foot on the end of the brake beam, he swung himself under and was soon sitting in state opposite john, but half a car's length from him. this was in reality a very difficult feat, though it seems simple. if, in jumping from the ground to the bar, his foot should slip, it might easily get caught in the revolving wheels, or it would be easy for him to lose his hold when swinging under--sure death would follow in either case. john only breathed comfortably when he saw his companion seated in comparative safety on the other braking gear. before helena was reached several such stops were made and john learned to swing himself under to his perilous perch, when the car was in motion, with comparative ease. it was a long and most tiresome trip for the boy. although he got accustomed to this mode of travelling before long, the dirt and smells, the constrained position, and the necessity for caution and concealment were all very disagreeable to him. he was overjoyed when he heard one brakeman call to another: "well, dick, you'll see your old woman in three hours now." the train came to a halt before entering the railroad yards of helena, and jimmy (who seemed to consider it his duty to look after john) was alongside in a minute. "we'll leave here, kid," he said. "there's p'lecemen in helena, so i hear, and they nab a man climbing from under a car." a collection of wooden houses huddled round the station and "yard" was all they saw at first, and john at least was disappointed, for he had heard much of the magnificence of the place. he learned soon that this was but the extreme suburb and that the town itself was some two miles away. jimmy was for separating there and then, each to forage for food on his own hook, but john, mindful of his many kindnesses, insisted that they should share the meal which he procured. the supply of ham and eggs and steak that they put away testified not so much to the excellence of the fare as to the keenness of their appetites. this important business finished, they inquired about the town itself and learned that it was reached by a trolley car. here was a brand-new experience right away. john had heard of electric cars, but had never seen one, and he thought it a wonderful machine; but even more wonderful was the fact that for a ride of two miles a fare of only five cents was charged. he wished that he had a hundred eyes and almost as many ears, so that he might take in all the strange sights that greeted him at every turn. jimmy, with transcontinental experience, explained many things in language interlarded with strange hobo slang. when the yellow trolley car finally reached the town, the boy opened his eyes in wonder--here was the real city. the companions walked along the busy street, which to john's amazement was paved with stone blocks, the sidewalks being covered with bricks and flags. as he saw the crowds of people he thought there must be some sort of a celebration going on. in front of a saloon a number of men were gathered, and among them jimmy recognized some friends. john, however, was not content to stand and listen to long discussions as to the best routes to travel, the most likely places where "hand-outs" might be had, and all the rest of the talk that tramps indulge in; so he started off on his own hook on a tour of discovery. "don't get lost, kid," jimmy shouted, as the boy went off. all his life he had been accustomed to almost unlimited space, to nearly perfect quiet, except the noise of the elements, the voices of wild things and of the few human beings. all at once he was thrown into the midst of a bustling western city, packed solid with business buildings and dwellings, the surface of the earth shod with iron and stone, the very sky stained with smoke, and the air filled with the roar of traffic, the whistle of locomotives, the clang of the electric-car bells, and the shouts of street hucksters. he was almost stupefied with wonder. then natural boyish curiosity took possession of him, and he began to notice things separately and in detail. he walked along with eyes, ears, and mouth wide open; his head turning constantly as some strange object caught his gaze. the frequent big "saloon" sign did not surprise him, nor did the "licensed gambling house" placard cause him to wonder; he knew them of yore, they were all a matter of course to a western boy. but when he came to a building six or seven stories high he stopped short in the human tide, like a spile in a rushing stream, and stood with mouth agape in amazement. the plate-glass windows and the gay display behind them, the brilliant signs and elaborate decorations delighted him. he was walking along slowly, when he caught sight of the most wonderful "outfit" he had ever seen, and stood still in his tracks to take it in. it was a closed carriage with a fine big pair of horses whose trappings were decorated in bright silver. his fresh young eyes took these details in at once, but what caused him to stare was the big man on the box. perfectly motionless, a stony stare on his smoothly shaven face, john wondered if he was made of wood. his whip, held at just the proper angle in heavy tan gloves, white trousers painfully tight, high top boots, and green coat shining with brass buttons, the whole get-up topped by a big, shining silk hat. for several minutes he watched him, but not a sign of life did he betray. then a woman, richly dressed, came out of a nearby store and entered the carriage, saying as she did so, "drive home, james." the dummy made a motion with his hand toward his hat, flicked the whip over the horses' flanks, and the carriage moved off. john's awesome gaze gave way to a laugh: "why, he isn't an english lord," he said to himself, "he's only a teamster," and he laughed again. a boy with a package stopped to look at him. "whatcher laughin' at?" said he. "didn't you see that outfit?" said the other, between chuckles. "mean the kerrige?" john nodded. "that's fleischman's rig. never seen one before?" "i've seen 'em in pictures, but i never thought they were true," and john laughed again. "i suppose people _do_ go down to dinner at six o'clock as i've read they do," he said at last, a puzzle that had long baffled him clearing away. "sure. whatjer think they did, go up to dinner?" returned the other boy scornfully. "why, i didn't see how they could go down 'less they ate in a cellar," said john in explanation. "who ever heard of people eating dinner at night, anyway?" from this talk and the big white felt hat that he wore, the boy with the parcel gathered that the other was a stranger to the town and town ways. he felt quite superior and determined to make the most of it. "come on down the street with me," he said, and john followed, elbowing his way among the people as he saw the other boy do. they went along together, charley braton (john soon learned his name) pointing out the principal buildings, grandiloquently. charley, who was an errand boy in a dry-goods store, reached his destination and invited his new-found friend to come up, so both stepped into the hallway and then through an iron doorway into a sort of cage, where several other people were already standing. john wondered what it was all about, and was just framing a question when a man slammed the gate and grasped a wire rope that ran through floor and ceiling of the cage. of a sudden the floor began to rise, not smoothly, but with a jerk that drove the boy's heels into the floor. john's breath caught and he clutched charley's arm. "seven," called out the latter, and the car stopped with a jar. "elevator?" inquired john. "yep. 'fraid?" questioned the other with a grin. "nah. little bit surprised though; never rode on one before." "lots of people get scared, though," said charley, and began a long account of how an old ranchman and indian fighter lost his nerve completely during his first elevator ride, and finally pulled his pistol on the elevator man to make him "stop the thing." charley's errand done, they entered the elevator again, which descended so suddenly that john felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. both stairs and elevators were new to our country boy, and he concluded that he did not care for either, but he was far too proud to show any trepidation before his new acquaintance. the boys separated, charley returning to the store and john to the group of tramps at the saloon. it was not an attractive circle round the beer keg that the boy joined, and even he realized that they were more dirty and shiftless than any men he had known. but one at least of them had been kind to him, and he was grateful. "well, kid, wha'd'ye see?" shouted jimmy as he drew near. john told the story with gusto of all the wonders he had seen, and especially his view of the "carriage teamster." "that's nothin'," said one man. "you see them on every corner in n'york." immediately there arose an animated discussion as to the possessions of this or that millionaire, and there was not one of the tramps who did not know some one in the household of a plutocrat. the talk grew apace, and each narrator put forth all his available knowledge of the traits and habits of millionaires. all referred familiarly to individuals of seven-figure fame as "tom" or "joe" or "george." john and jimmy meanwhile withdrew unnoticed, and the latter evidently had some definite destination in view, for he started off at a brisk pace along the street, commanding the boy to come on. john did so without question, and soon they reached an office building, which jimmy entered. they finally stopped before a door bearing the sign "doctor hamilton," and at this the tramp knocked. a boy opened the door and ushered in the two rough-looking specimens. "doctor in?" asked jimmy, hat in hand. the doctor, a mild old gentleman, approached, and john's protector spoke up: "doctor, beg yer pardin for comin' in, but this here kid has a pretty bad hand," and he held up the boy's swollen member. "there ain't nobody to look after it and it needs a good washin' at least." "let me see it," and the doctor unwound the dirty rags, handling the wounded hand ever so tenderly. it was treatment to which the boy was entirely unaccustomed, and he did not know just what to make of it. jimmy warned the physician that neither had any money, but nevertheless he proceeded to attend to the sore hand, washing it first, then dressing it and bandaging the whole in clean white linen. john was ordered to come next day. and so, with a kindly smile on his benevolent face, he bade them good day. the grateful patient tried hard to thank the doctor and harder to thank jimmy, but he did not succeed very well with either. "now, kid, you've got to sleep in a bed till that hand heals up," said the latter, when john tried to voice his gratitude. "i've got a stable full of hay that i'm goin' to sleep in; but you hunt up a lodgin' house and save your money all you can." john followed the advice at once and found a place where he could sleep in a bed for twenty-five cents a night. a week passed, jimmy had taken to the road again, and the boy was left alone for the first time in a great town. he had been lonely before, but it was as nothing compared to the feeling that now possessed him. to be surrounded with people, all of whom were strangers, seemed to him more depressing than to be absolutely alone with rugged nature. by this time john's hand had nearly healed, but his money had about given out, and he was looking for work. it wasn't hard for a man in those booming days to find work, but the boy was in the awkward stage of growth when he was too small for a man's work and too big for a boy's--though he had a full-grown appetite and clothes to pay for. he hunted diligently for a job; day after day he tramped the streets in search of one; he looked into thousands of faces for one he knew. he asked continually for work, and at last, after a particularly trying day, heard of a restaurant where a dish-washer was wanted. he went there at once, but was told that the boss would not be there till evening; later he called again and was told that it was still too early. the restaurant was set back of a saloon, which also bore the legend, "licensed gambling house." instead of going away to return again, john determined to wait. he loitered around the bar-room, sick at heart. it was not a pleasant place to wait in; it had no attractions for the boy, accustomed as he was to open-air life. several tables were scattered about, and at these sat the gamblers, their faces stony and expressionless, perfectly calm, no matter how luck turned--the result of long and severe discipline. it seemed as if "the boss" would never come, and john was about to give up when he chanced to look at a table in a far corner and saw, he thought, a familiar face. he was all alertness in an instant, and went over to make sure. yes, it was tom malloy, john's instructor in "the noble art of self-defence." how glad he was to see him! yet he must not interrupt, for tom was playing cards for a considerable stake. he must wait and watch his chance to speak. tom won steadily, and soon the boy became so absorbed in the game that he forgot all about the dish-washing; a friend was involved, so he "took sides" at once. one by one malloy's opponents dropped out, remarking that it was "malloy's night," till he alone remained at the table. raking the chips into his hat he went over to the bar to turn them into the money they represented; john followed, and when the currency was being counted out he approached: "hello, tom," he said. "why, hello, kid," answered the man carelessly. "don't you know me?" said john, rather hurt at this reception. "i'm john worth; you worked for my father down in dakota." "the deuce you say! you little john worth? not so little, either," said tom in a breath. "where'd yer come from? what you doin' round a gamblin' house? it's no place for you." john remembered his mission and explained. "job? well, i'm just the man to get you one," said tom cordially. he went back to the restaurant door and called a waiter to him. "tell albert i want to see him," he ordered. albert, the restaurant keeper, soon appeared. "i hear you want a man," malloy began. "here's a boy who's as good as any man and an old friend of mine; if you've got a good job, give it to him." malloy was a leading character among the gamblers of the town; he won freely and spent freely, and was therefore to be propitiated. albert graciously admitted that he had a job and that john might have it; he even went so far as to say that "sure he would make a place for a friend of mr. malloy's." so it was arranged that the boy was to begin work the next day. the two passed out together, and tom noticed the condition of the boy's clothes; they were dusty, torn in many places, and generally disreputable-looking. "those all the clothes you have?" john nodded. "well, i'll see if i can't get you fixed up to-morrow." true to his word, john's friend in need took him to a clothing store and saw to it that he was supplied with a complete outfit. john was togged out as he had never been before in all his life; he looked at himself in the glass, feeling awkward and clumsy and wishing his face wasn't so big and red under the small derby hat. he couldn't get used to that hat, so he slyly rolled up his big, old felt one and tucked it under his arm when they left the store. before malloy parted from him he made him promise that he would call on him if he had any trouble or did not get along well with albert. john began work at once. he yanked off his new coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and started in washing dishes as if his life depended on it. it was a way he had when anything had to be accomplished. for several months the boy stuck to his job, working steadily and well. the town, or at least the meaner part of it, became very familiar to him. schools, churches, concerts, and society events abounded, but they might have been in another planet so far as john was concerned. the saloon, the "licensed gambling house," the cheap theatre, and the back streets were his haunts. the rough teamsters, miners, and gamblers were his associates. tom malloy was his hero; the man's generosity and kindly spirit won the boy's heart, but the former kept a strict watch over him for all that, and it is doubtful if john could have got into very bad habits if he had desired. the boy soon learned to know all the celebrities of the under-world in which he lived: peter aston, or poker pete, "handy with his gun"; charley, or snoozer, johnson, also known as "gain," who played a "close, hard game"; tom malloy, with the widespread reputation of being a man "hard to lick." [illustration: the men broke up into little groups. (_page ._)] the class john associated with was a restless lot, seldom staying long in one place, and soon the same spirit infected him. he longed for the open air and open country; the interminable walls of the city oppressed him. it was with great interest therefore that he listened to a chance acquaintance who told of a new job on railroad construction he had secured. john asked several questions and learned that many men were needed, and that there might be a chance for him. "where's the contractor?" he asked suddenly, his mind made up. "i'm goin' to ask him for a job." "i met him half an hour ago at the 'bucket of blood,'" answered his new friend. "i'll go along with you; perhaps we'll find him there." they soon reached the saloon with the sanguinary name, and luckily found the contractor. john stated his errand and stood while the man looked him over. "perhaps you might work in the cook house," he said at length. "you're too light to drive a scraper." "yes, i could do that, but i don't want to. i want out-of-door work. have you got a horse-wrangler yet?" as luck would have it, the job john wanted was not given out, and, after telling of his experience, he was appointed night horse-wrangler. to get a saddle and riding outfit was the next thing necessary, and this tom malloy lent him from the store of such things he had won at cards. john found that to part from the man who had befriended him in his need was the only really trying thing in connection with leaving helena. squalid as were most of his associations with the place, he was really sorry to go away from tom malloy. the thought of being once more in the saddle, however, delighted him, and it was with a preponderance of joy rather than sorrow, therefore, that he clambered early one morning into the rough wagon that was to convey his party to the scene of operations and saw the city disappear in the distance. soon he would be astride of a horse, out in the open. no walls to encompass him, no roofs to shut out the sky--what a glorious and inspiring thought it was! chapter xiii. herding horses and panning gold. "seems to me," said john to his new partner, frank bridges, "that this is a pretty tough gang. half of 'em drunk, and the rest of 'em ready to take your head off if you speak to 'em." "oh, well," answered the other, "some of them got out of money quicker than others and so got out of liquor quicker. it's kinder hard to go back to work in the wilds after loafing round the town a good while. you'll find that they're not such a bad lot when they're sober and get to workin'." the two were sitting on one of the scrapers that trundled behind the wagons--a vehicle which, though not exactly comfortable, was exclusive--they had it entirely to themselves. all day long they had travelled thus, except at dinner time, when a short halt was made. john said he would almost as lief ride a brake beam as a "break-back," for so he had christened this jolting equipage. long after dark they saw the white tents of the camp loom up, and in a minute after their arrival it was the scene of bustling activity. orders were bawled, greetings were shouted, the teamsters yelled and swore at their horses. but above the din rose the voice of old murphy, the contractor: "here, boys, rustle round and get these horses out of the harness. worth, saddle up and take these horses to the other bunch and watch 'em all till morning." then, turning to his foreman: "ricks, get this fellow a saddle horse." "the others are tied up yet, mr. murphy," the man ventured. "what! not out yet?" roared the boss. a regular tirade followed, and john realized that he must do his work well to escape a tongue-lashing. he was rather staggered at the order to saddle up and get out at ten o'clock at night, with a lot of strange horses, in a country he did not know. "say, frank," he said to his friend, who was busy unloading the rolled-up "beds" or bedding, "this is no joke; i don't want to lose a lot of horses and maybe kill myself in the bargain--it's going it blind with a vengeance." "you'd better make a stab at it, anyhow," he was advised. "the old man's raging, and you might lose your job if you showed the white feather." "you ready yet, worth?" it was murphy's voice, and john jumped at the sound of it. "give me a hand, frank, will you. bring the blasted old cayuse over here while i get the saddle ready. i'll do it or bust," and john suited the action to the word. in a few minutes the boy was in the saddle and following the already straggling bunch of horses. "keep your eye open for prospect holes," shouted frank. "you want to watch those horses like thunder, worth," called out murphy, who seemed to be everywhere at once. "they're strangers to each other, and they'll split up and scatter to the four winds if you don't watch 'em. some's from oregon and some's from utah, and if they get separated it'll cost mor'n they're worth to get 'em back again. you've got fifty-six head--keep counting 'em." the "old man" apparently did not want him to get beyond the sound of his voice, but kept following and shouting instructions. perhaps he realized that he was giving the boy a trying, and possibly dangerous, task. "all right," shouted john cheerfully, but at heart he was not so confident. it was long after ten and quite dark; the horses in front were mere shadows and could only be distinctly made out by the tramp of their hoofs. to count them exactly was almost impossible, for it was hard to tell where one horse began and another ended. the old beast john was riding, however, knew his business, and it was well he did, for it was necessary to trust almost entirely to his acuteness and keen sense of smell. horses and herder splashed across the creek and pushed their way through the brush and up the hill opposite. the boy realized that his work was cut out for him, and he determined he would see the thing through. the hills and gulches round about were new to him. there might be precipices, quicksand bottoms, bogs, and, worst of all, the night-rider's menace, old prospect holes. these were short, narrow, and often deep ditches dug by miners in their search for the precious metal. besides all this, he was on a horse he had never thrown a leg over before and of whose disposition and capabilities he knew nothing. "if i only had baldy!" he thought as the cayuse he was riding plunged into the brush after the retreating bunch. immediately his trouble began. the old horses, old companions, jealous of the newcomers, tried to elude them, and the latter were none too anxious for their company. john could only gallop forward and back and all around, restraining this scattering tendency as best he could, and depending on his mount's sagacity to avoid holes and obstructions. a merry dance his charges led him--merry in the lively sense only--up and down, in and out, over what kind of country he could only guess. all he could see of his troublesome charges was a shadowy back now and then, or a high-thrown head silhouetted against a lighter patch of sky or a bank of sand. he judged himself to be two miles from camp before the animals seemed to think of stopping to feed. even then they were determined to separate, and it taxed john's vigilance to the utmost to keep them together. his horse began to tire, it was many hours before daylight, and something had to be done--at once. an old gray mare carried a bell on her neck and john noticed that the rest of the bunch followed her blindly. if he could catch and tie her up the others might be more inclined to stay in one spot. how to do this was the question. she was too wily to be caught by hand, and if in throwing the rope the loop missed, she would scatter the entire herd in a minute. for a while he gave up the plan, but it grew more and more difficult for his weary horse to keep up the continued darting to and fro. at last he decided to make the trial--it was the last resort and the cast must be successful. he made ready his lariat, holding a coil in his left hand and the wide loop in his right, and waited an instant for a good opportunity. the gray mare stood out more distinctly than the other horses and made a better mark, but at best it would be a difficult throw. for several seconds john sat still in his saddle, the noose circling slowly round his head, his arm still, only the supple wrist bending. the old mare was watching him. the rope now began to whistle as its speed increased. suddenly the belled mare snorted and started off on a run; john shut his teeth hard, threw at what looked like a neck, took a couple of turns round the horn of the saddle with the slack rope, then waited. almost at once the line tightened. a gentle pressure was put on the bridle rein, and the pony's weight checked the mare in her flight. the throw was a good one, and the mare was caught. the shock was great, and john's pony was green at this sort of business and the tightening cinches made him jump in lively fashion. the mare too had not learned that it is useless to "run against a rope," and for a while kept john and his mount busy; but the increasing tightness of the slip noose round her neck soon quieted her and enabled the boy to tie her up short to a tree. the remedy proved to be effective; soon all the horses were feeding quietly round the tied leader. john congratulated himself on his success and prepared to take a much-needed rest, but was interrupted by the sound of another bell far up the gulch. evidently there were other horses feeding near, and it was essential to keep them separated; so he trotted to a point between the herd and the place from which the ringing came. again he dismounted from his sweating pony and sat down to rest, when, chancing to glance over his shoulder, he saw a small fire blazing a quarter of a mile away. "no rest for the weary," he grunted resignedly, mounted once more and started out to investigate. as he rode slowly nearer he made out a man sitting cross-legged by the fire, his face in strong relief, his back almost lost in shadow. behind stood a saddled horse, barely showing in the gloom. john rode up, slapping his chaps with his quirt to let the stranger know that he was a horseman also and giving fair warning of his approach. otherwise he might be taken for a horse thief and shot on sight. [illustration: a rope corral was drawn about the saddle band. (_page ._)] the stranger rose quickly and retreated into the shadow. john did not like this. "hullo, pardner!" he called, drawing nearer. "hullo, stranger," replied the other. "are you lost?" "no. i'm murphy's night herder. pretty dark night, isn't it?" the man returned to the circle of firelight, his suspicions allayed, thus evidencing his own honesty. john dismounted and came up to him, glad to have some one to talk and listen to. "you night-herdin' too? i heard a bell ringing up the gulch and i guessed there was another bunch of horses up there." "yep. i've got brady's horses up there," and he nodded in the direction of a dimly visible lot. john described the difficulties he had experienced and asked if there were many prospect holes about. "yes, lots of 'em," answered the brady man. "an' they're deep too. i was ridin' along with my bunch last spring, spurrin' my horse to get ahead of the critters, when he went plump into a blamed hole--and he's there yet. i only got away by the skin of my teeth." "i guess i'm in great luck to get through this safe," said john. "i was never on this range till after dark to-night." "horses all there?" inquired the other, nodding towards john's charges. "sure. but i guess i'd better count 'em." "my horses are like a lot of sheep. i'll go along with you." the two rounded the animals together again and counted them as well as the darkness would allow. they agreed that they numbered fifty-six and john breathed easier. and so the first night passed, the two herders chatting pleasantly till dawn, when they parted, agreeing to meet some other night. a little before daybreak john rounded up his bunch and began driving them in the direction of the camp. when daylight came he counted them again and to his satisfaction found them all there. in spite of the tiresome trip of the day before, the hard riding of the preceding evening, and the long night's vigil, he felt as gay as the lark that soared overhead pouring out a song entirely out of proportion in volume to its size. he hummed blithely an indian war chant, made over for the occasion, and breathed in the early morning fragrance with a feeling of exhilaration that made him forget for the time that he had gone to work the night before supperless and had not put his teeth into anything edible since. the sight of the cook preparing breakfast speedily reminded him that he had an "aching void," which seemed to extend to his very heels. the boss's query, "got 'em all, worth?" was answered, with pardonable pride, in the affirmative. for john felt that he had done good work. the breakfast was soon over, and what a breakfast! baked beans, bacon, bread, and coffee, a feast fit for the gods, john thought, as he rolled into the bed that frank had previously showed him. he was sound asleep in a minute and entirely unconscious of the bustle and noise about him. murphy was giving orders in stentorian tones that could be heard half a mile away; the unwilling horses were being harnessed to the big scoop-like scrapers and to the wagons containing tools; the men were divided into gangs, the new arrivals, cross, surly, and suffering from aching heads, starting with irritating slowness. soon all hands were hard at work, "moving hills to fill up hollows," making a level trail for the iron horse. at this point there was much digging and scraping to be done, a deep cut and a long "fill" on the other side. at noon the men trooped back to dinner--silent until their hunger was satisfied, then noisy and boisterous--but john slept peacefully through it all. about four o'clock he woke up and gazed about him wonderingly. he was lying in a tent, through the open flap of which the sunlight streamed. a dip in the stream that ran close by refreshed him greatly and dispelled the sleepy, heavy feeling that had possessed him. the creek was clear and cool, and john lingered on its banks half clothed, digging in the sand and mud with his bare feet and hands. as he was dabbling in the moist earth, he came across some sand that had black streaks in it. his curiosity was aroused, for he had not seen the like before, and he gathered some in his hat, intending to ask what it was. the cook was busy washing beans for supper, so john sat down on a log near by and watched him idly. his thoughts wandered back to the coal camp, and he wondered about ben and baldy; he longed for both, and for the moment was tempted to go home and see them; then he realized that he had chosen the path he was now travelling for himself and felt that he must follow it out to the end. he thought of the journey to helena, of jimmy the hobo, and of the life he had just left. his brown study was interrupted with a jolt. "what's that you've got in your hat?" it was the cook, speaking rather excitedly. "oh, that? that's some sand and gravel i picked out down the creek; brought it up to ask what it is." "well, it looks to me like gold." this impressively. "but it's black," objected john. "yes, the black is magnetic iron and often holds gold--maybe there's enough to pay. do you know how to work the pan?" cook was evidently interested. the boy professed his ignorance, and the other volunteered to show him. the pan, a flat, round, shallow tin affair, was taken down to the spot indicated by john and the lesson began. a little gravel, which included some of the black sand, was scooped up. then the pan was taken to the creek, dipped under, and the water was allowed to run out slowly. this was repeated over and over, and each time a little sand and gravel was washed over the edge. at last only the black sand, being heavier, remained. this the cook showed triumphantly. "only a little black sand! where's the gold?" inquired john. "it's in the sand, and has to be separated from it by quicksilver, which absorbs the gold; then you can throw away the sand," explained cook, who had put away the residue carefully in a bottle and was dipping up more gravel. "but how do you take the gold out of the quicksilver?" the boy was determined to get to the bottom of this thing. "why, you can put it in the sun and let it evaporate, leaving the gold, or you can send it to town to be separated and run the risk of losing both quicksilver and some of your gold." john tried panning, but he found it needed a much more practised hand than his; he spilled out water, gravel, and all, or else he didn't accomplish anything. cook's teaching was careful, however, and before long his pupil was able to gather enough sand, after sleeping and before beginning his night's work, to realize fifty or sixty cents' worth of gold when separated. immediately after supper john had to saddle his horse and drive the work stock out to feed. this task was becoming more and more easy as the horses learned to know each other. he met curran, brady's wrangler, regularly now, and the companionship helped to while away the long night hours very pleasantly. curran was of medium height, stoop-shouldered, and rather bow-legged from long contact with a horse's rounded body. he was awkward and stiff when afoot, an appearance accentuated by the suit of canvas and leather that he wore. in the saddle he was another being, graceful, supple, strong--seemingly a part of the beast he rode. his skin was tanned and seamed by long years of exposure to the sun. he might be the very hero himself of a song he sang to john one night. bow-legged ike. bow-legged ike on horseback was sent from some place, straight down to this broad continent. his father could ride and his mother could, too, they straddled the whole way from kalamazoo. born on the plains, when he first sniffed the air he cried for to mount on the spavined gray mare. and when he got big and could hang to the horn 'twas the happiest day since the time he was born. he'd stop his horse loping with one good, strong yank, he'd rake him on shoulder and rake him on flank. he was only sixteen when he broke "outlaw nell," the horse that had sent nigh a score men to--well! he climbed to the saddle and there sat still, while she bucked him all day with no sign of a spill. five years later on a cayuse struck the trail whose record made even old "punchers" turn pale. he was really a terror; could dance on his ear, and sling a man farther than that stump--to here! a man heard of ike; grinned and bet his whole pile his sorrel would shake him before one could smile. so the crowd they came round and they staked all they had, while ike, sorter innocent, said: "is he _bad_?" and durin' their laugh--for the sorrel, you see, had eat up two ropes and was tryin' for me-- ike patted his neck--"nice pony," says he, and was into the saddle as quick as a flea. that sorrel he jumped and he twisted and bucked, and the man laughed, expectin' that ike would be chucked. but soon the cayuse was fair swimmin' in sweat while ike, looking bored, rolled a neat cigarette. and then from range to range he hunted a cayuse that could even _in-ter-est_ him, but it wasn't any use. so he got quite melancholic, wondering why such an earth, where the horses "had no sperrits," should have given himself birth. chapter xiv. a migration. all that summer john tended the work stock, keeping them together on good feeding ground during the short night and driving them into camp soon after daylight. much of this work was very pleasant; the two herders, curran and john, met regularly and many were the long talks and interchanges of experiences they enjoyed. the rainless summer nights were cool enough to be refreshing and yet warm enough to make the time spent in the open air delightful. but when rain came all this was changed. the horses became nervous and restless and required constant watchfulness and continual riding, regardless of treacherous foothold and hidden, water-filled prospect holes. the long, yellow "slicker" or oilskin coat, being cut deep in the back and hanging over the rider's legs to his spurred heels, served but poorly to keep out the driving rain, and by morning he was fairly soaked. arriving in camp with his dripping charges, he would dismount stiffly, and after a half-cold breakfast crawl into a damp bed under an oozing tent. john, however, learned to take things as they came, good or ill, gathering valuable experience from right and left. curran was a horseman of long standing, and gave the fast-maturing boy a great many points that served him in good stead later in life. he taught him how to detect any uneasiness in the stock that might grow into fright and start a stampede; how to check this by voice and by constant active presence; and, above all, by force of example he showed that only through quick thought and unhesitating exposure of himself to danger could harm to his charges be averted. by nature courageous, almost to recklessness, john learned these lessons unconsciously. and so the summer passed--herding horses at night, sleeping and panning gold by day. by the latter operation he was able to add, on an average, fifty cents a day to his hardly princely income of seven dollars a week. as the warm season drew to a close, the night wrangler's work became more of a hardship and less a pleasure; only by dint of constant exercise and a roaring fire was the life made endurable. the night's work over, horse and rider would come in stiff with cold and not infrequently wet as well. "well, kid, the outfit breaks camp this week," said cook to john one cold, wet morning in november as he slid off his patient beast. "here's your coffee; keep it out of the wet." "can't break any too soon for me," said john, sipping the steaming beverage and clinging tightly to the tin cup with both hands for the sake of the warmth it contained. "must be pretty tough this time o' year," said cook sympathetically. "more coffee?" "you bet," answered the other. "i couldn't stand it if i wasn't all-fired tough. i'll have to be tough if i go range-ridin' this winter." curran put this thought into his head, where it had been growing until it became a resolve. "so you're goin' range-ridin', eh, kid?" john nodded and asked the cook where he was going. "well, i'll tell yer," he said, stopping to wipe his hands on the flour bag that served for an apron, "i'm goin' straight back east where my folks live; soon's i get back to town i'm goin' to buy a railroad ticket east and go right off." "good enough," said john confidently, but rather sceptical at heart, for he knew of many men whose good resolutions melted under the direful influence of the first glass of whiskey that went down their throats. "well, i'm off to bed," he concluded, making for the bed that frank had vacated but a little while before. he knew he needed all the rest he could get. the following morning, as he came near the collection of tents with the horses, he heard murphy shouting: "rustle round now, boys; get the cook outfit loaded, the tents down, and your beds rolled up--quick. we'll be in town by noon." the work was taken up with such a will that john barely got his share of coffee, bacon, beans, and bread before the cook's stores were stowed away ready for travelling. it was a very different crowd that now set out for the town, and yet it was the same lot of men. nine months' heavy, open-air work had dispelled weakness and brought strength, had replaced bad temper with cheerfulness, and had, moreover, filled pockets with uncle sam's good coin. frank and john, his chum, again sat on the scraper that trailed behind a wagon, not now for fear of contact with ill-tempered, almost desperate men, but for the sake of comparative quiet and to escape the practical jokes that none in the wagon could avoid. "well," said frank, "would you rather wrestle dishes in helena or wrangle horses in the open?" "i'd rather wrangle than wrestle," said john, taking the cue with a laugh, "weather or no; and i'd like to go out again soon." on reaching town the men parted company, each to seek the pleasure that most attracted him. john at once hunted up tom malloy, who was still prosperous and evidently glad to see him. "well, kid, how did you get along?" he said, in his old, familiar, kindly way. the boy first paid him for the saddle he had borrowed, to which he had become accustomed and attached, and then told in detail of his experiences. "do you want to get back to pot-wrestling?" asked molloy at length. "no; not on your life!" and john told him of his liking for work in the open and his distaste for town life. "right you are, kid," said tom encouragingly, "the town's no place for you, or for me, either," he added rather sadly. "i'll be done up some day"--a prophecy which proved but too true. john and frank took lodgings together, and for a time did nothing but travel round the town, noting the changes that had been made since they had been away and taking in such cheap amusement as the place offered. it was on one of these jaunts round the streets that john met his friend the cook, blear-eyed, slouchy, and dirty, the bold mustache he was usually so proud of drooping dismally. "why, cook, i thought you were in the east by this time," said the ex-wrangler, remembering the solemn resolution confided to him a few days before. "no, i just stopped for one drink and that settled it," confessed the other. "haven't a quarter to buy a dinner with now." john took him to a restaurant and fed him. this was the first of a series of encounters with ex-campmates. the first feeling was one of wonder and disgust that the demon of drink could make such short work of a man; and then came the fear that the constant drafts upon him would use up his small savings. "frank," he said one day, "i've got to get out of this or i'll be stone broke; do you know of any fellow that will take me on a range?" "why, what's the matter?" "oh," said john, "this gang takes me for the treasurer of an inebriates' home, i guess, and will soon scoop every cent i've got." "that's it, eh?" returned bridges. "well, i'll go down the missouri with you. i'm pretty well acquainted a hundred and fifty miles or so below, and i know where i can go range-ridin' for a big cattleman any time." "if you think you can work me in, i'll go," exclaimed the younger. "i'll buy that sorrel cayuse from murphy. i can get him for fifteen, i guess, and we'll go to-morrow-that is, if you can work me in." this last was spoken rather dubiously, but frank assured him that he would fix it somehow, and the compact was sealed. the balance of the day was spent in getting their outfit ready. frank was already provided with horse, saddle, and bridle, and the other appurtenances of the rider: chaps, spurs, oilskin slicker, and blankets. some of these john possessed also, but he still lacked a horse; a few simple necessaries in the shape of a frying-pan, tin cups, coffee, flour, sugar, and the inevitable beans must be supplied for both. the dicker for john's sorrel was made in short order, and by nightfall all the outfit was complete. at daylight the following morning they were busy making up the packs, and a hard job they found it, for nothing seemed to fit, and apparently there was enough stuff to load a whole train. it was made up at last into two packs and lashed securely behind the saddles; they mounted and rode out of the fast-awakening town. one of the two at least was leaving it for a long time, to return under very different circumstances. nothing of this sort entered their minds, however, and they went out as unconsciously as if off for a half-day's trip. frank knew the country pretty thoroughly, having been over it once or twice before, so it was plain sailing most of the time. day after day they travelled along at a dog trot--a gait that the western horse can keep up all day and one which a rider brought up to it finds perfectly comfortable, but which would shake the teeth out of an easterner. the trail was clearly marked, easily followed, and much of the way wide enough to allow the horsemen to ride side by side. though the two had been partners for several months they had seen but little of each other; during the day at the railroad camp frank worked while john slept, and during the night the reverse was the case. this was the first chance either had of really knowing the other, and both were well pleased. there was plenty of time and opportunity to talk, and they soon found that they had plenty of acquaintances in common. "ever been to miles city?" john said one day as they were trotting steadily along. the leather of the saddles creaked and the cooking utensils made a regular accompaniment to the thudding hoof-beats. [illustration: each man took his rope and flung it over the horse he wanted. (_page ._)] "sure. two years ago this spring." "that was about the time dick bradford and charley lang shot each other, wasn't it?" john was referring to a "killing" that was famous the country round. "yes, and i was right there in brown's place at the time." "tell me about it, frank. some say bradford was to blame and some say that lang deserved it. i knew charley lang a little and thought him a nice fellow." "well," said frank, "it isn't a long story; it all happened the same day, the quarrel and the killing. for some reason there was bad blood between them; both had been drinking, and a little dispute was enough to make them ready to pull their guns on each other." "charley was pretty quick with his gun," interpolated john, full of interest. "so was dick; but their friends took their shootin' irons away from 'em, and finally persuaded them to shake hands, and for a time there was no further trouble, but all the old hands feared that the business would not end there. both men came to brown's place before supper. maybe you know the joint--a good many things have happened there, and brown himself could tell enough stories to fill a dozen dime novels." john nodded. "it wasn't very pleasant there then; the two were plainly looking for each other's gore, and we all wished we could put a couple of hundred miles between them. well, anyway, dick saw charley and called him an ugly name and then invited him to take a drink. he might have refused; that would have been bad enough, but he did worse, accepted, and took the glass in his left hand--which, as everybody knows, is a deadly insult, to accept a man's hospitality with your left hand, leaving your right free to pull your gun." "but i should think it might just happen so," suggested john. "so it might, but charley made his meaning clear by the look he gave dick. nothing occurred then--neither had a gun--but after supper they managed to get a six-shooter apiece and soon turned up at brown's again. when i came in charley was sitting on the end of the bar, talking to the 'barkeep,' his hat on the back of his head, his legs swinging, the spurs on his heels jingling when they touched--the most unconcerned man going. dick was leaning against the wall the other side of the room. he was mad clean through. a couple of fellers were with him, but they couldn't stop him from jerking out his gun. he fired, but charley had had his eye on him and reached for his six-shooter. the same instant the ball hit him in the chest. he slid off the bar, but as he fell he fired twice, and both shots went through dick's heart. dick died right off and charley lived only a few minutes--he died in my arms." "what a way to die!" was the only comment john made. "those were the very last words charley spoke," said frank, more to himself than to his listener. "i guess miles city was the toughest place going then," said the boy. "why, i was driving through the town with my father one day (that was when we were opening a big coal mine down the yellowstone) and we went under a half-finished railroad bridge and there, hanging from the ties, were the bodies of three men. lynched. ugh!" john shuddered at the remembrance of it. "was that the case where there was some talk of the men being killed first and hung afterwards?" inquired frank. "yes. there had been a row in brown's place, and these three had been put in jail, but during the night they were taken out and in the morning were found as we saw them. the regular vigilance committee had not done it, and the doctor said death first, hanged afterwards." both of these characteristic stories were common talk whenever a crowd got together, but neither frank nor john had heard the facts told by an eye-witness before. it must not be thought all the conversation of these two was of this blood-and-thunder variety. frank had lived in the east, and marvellous were the tales he told about the buildings, the people, and their doings. the two were so interested in each other, and what each had seen, that the time passed very quickly, and so john was surprised when frank said late one afternoon: "see that blue range of hills about thirty miles ahead?" john looked and nodded an assent. "well, baker's ranch is right at the foot of them, and sun river runs through it. that's where we're goin'." the following morning they rode towards the ranch house, past the minor buildings, the barns and sheds, past the hay stack, now bulging with its winter store, past the inevitable horse corral, just then containing several horses which were circling round trying to avoid a cow-puncher's "rope." as they reached the ranch house proper--a low, single-storied house built of logs and roofed with split logs covered with turf--a chunky, white-haired man in overalls stepped out of the door. "hello, mr. baker," said frank. "you see you can't lose me." "well, frank, it's you, is it? i'm terrible glad to see you. how are you?" mr. baker's greeting was cordial. "who's your friend? what's his name?" he added, noticing john for the first time. he was introduced, and the warm grasp of the hand that john got from the old ranchman won him at once. "mrs. baker will bubble over when she sees you, frank. tie your horses and come in." a long hitching rail ran along the front of the shack, and to this frank and john made their horses fast. mrs. baker's greeting was even more cordial than her husband's, and the youngster looked on at the display of affection rather wistfully. nor was he ignored in the general greetings. "you're just the fellow i want to see, frank," said the cheerful, kindly, buxom, albeit gray-haired ranchman's wife. "mr. b.'s getting kinder old to be chasing round the ranch looking after cattle and the range-riders, and i want you to see to all that so i can keep mr. baker at home. will you do it?" she looked from her husband to frank and back again. "i'm looking for a job, and so's my friend worth here. if you'll take us both i'll be glad to stay," and frank began to enlarge on john's virtues, and told how they had shared the same bed. he characterized him as a "plumb good feller." "of course he can get to work," said the couple together. "got a saddle?" asked the old man. "yes, i've got a good outfit," answered the boy. "well, you can go range-ridin'." the ranchman spoke in a tone that was not to be gainsaid--it amounted to a command. john understood vaguely that range-riding was something like horse-wrangling, only the job he was now about to undertake would last during the day and night too. the following day the boy was sent forth to his new work. it was cold, and the gray november sky had a look of snow in it; the air, too, felt snowy. in the ranch house all was warm and comfortable: a great fire of cottonwood logs was blazing in the open fireplace, a few pictures and examples of needle-work--the evidences of a woman's hand--were interspersed with mannish things: rifles in rough wooden racks, antlers of deer and prong-horns, bridles decorated with silver hung here and there on nails, and a long wooden peg, driven into the whitewashed logs, supported a richly carved saddle, mr. baker's own. from this cheer and comfort john went into exile, to last several months--the cold, bitter, winter months of the northwest. with the instructions of mr. baker and the warnings of frank ringing in his ears, he started off for the shack he was to share with an old, experienced cow-puncher throughout the winter. the eight miles were soon covered, and he drew up before the little log shack which was to be his winter home. a little box of a cabin it was, perhaps twelve by fifteen feet, built solidly of logs and backed up against a low bank for the shelter it afforded. he dismounted and entered; a single small window lightened the gloom somewhat and enabled him to see the familiar rough bunks on either side, one for each occupant; a rough deal table supported on one side by the wall and on the other by two legs; a frying-pan, a coffee pot, and a few tin cups--none over-clean--hung near the fireplace; these completed the decorations and furniture of the range-riders' shack. it was one of several placed at varying distances from the home ranch. after tying his horse and bringing in the few belongings he possessed, he sat down on the empty bunk and waited for barney madden, his mate, whom he had never seen. he wondered what kind of a fellow he was. chapter xv. "range-riding." "hello, kid! who you lookin' for?" the voice was deep and full and had a cheerful, confident ring in it. john looked up quickly and saw standing in the narrow doorway a man whom he rightly guessed to be barney madden. he was a man over thirty, of medium height, rather slight, wiry build, showing good, hard condition; his face, decorated with a brown mustache, was a good one--determination, courage, and an abundant sense of humor could be seen there. he had deep-set, blue-gray eyes, which could be both stern and merry. "i'm looking for you, i guess," the youngster answered, after a moment's pause, "if you're barney madden. my name's worth, john worth, and mr. baker sent me out here to help you range-ridin'." "sure, i'm barney madden. i'm plumb glad to see yer; you look like a good, husky kid, and will help me a lot, i hope. put your horse in the dug-out yonder, then come back and help me get supper," and he pointed to a little, cave-like house built to shelter the horses of the range-riders in winter. soon the sorrel was contentedly munching hay in the warm stables with three or four other horses. returning to the shack, john found barney on his knees blowing the fire vigorously. "well, kid, you'd better go down to the creek for some water." barney spoke in a disjointed fashion, between puffs. "can you cook?" the youngster said he could a little. "well, suppose you try on this supper. i ain't no cook, never was; don't like it. if you'll take care of the eatin' outfit i'll be satisfied all right." the supper over, madden expressed his complete satisfaction, and so john was installed chief cook and head (also foot) of the commissary department. the following morning his work as a cow-puncher began. at mining, sheep-ranching, and horse and mule herding he had served a full apprenticeship, and he now became a full-fledged cowboy. each of his previous occupations had helped to fit him for the present undertaking. almost from his babyhood he could ride, and about the same time he learned to "throw the rope," as the act of casting the lariat is called, and by constant practice had grown more and more proficient. the duties of the range-rider, as he soon learned, were to cover a certain territory (which in this case was that section which lay between saffron and buffalo creeks) to see that the different bunches of cattle did not get into trouble, or, in case they did get into difficulties, to rescue them. each morning the two rose with the sun, and after a very simple toilet--to put on a hat and a pair of spurs sufficed sometimes--a breakfast of bacon, bread, and coffee was dispatched. saddling their mounts was the next thing in order, and each day the horse that had been idle the day before was selected. this operation is easier to describe than to accomplish, for, as a rule, the cow pony has a strong dislike for the clinging saddle, and especially for the hind cinch--it interferes with his free breathing and grips him at a tender spot. when the horse has been led out and the fifty-pound (or more) saddle is thrown over his back, the fun begins; he prances around as if on hot iron, and a keen eye and quick foot are needed to keep out of reach of hoofs or teeth; at length, during an unguarded second, the flapping cinch is captured and brought under his belly in the twinkling of an eye; the strap on the other side is rove through the ring, and with a quick pull tightened; but the pony, who has been expecting this, takes a deep breath, and at the same time humps his back. if the rider is inexperienced and secures the strap when the pony is thus puffed up he will come to grief when he tries to mount, the saddle promptly slipping round as soon as he puts his weight on the stirrup, and the knowing horse empties his lungs and straightens his back. john was up to all such tricks, and when "roany" (the sorrel's companion and the spare horse allotted to the young rider) blew himself up, he simply put his foot up against the pony's side and gave a tremendous and sudden heave. it is a rather inconsiderate and humiliating method--for the horse. roany grunted protestingly; immediately his girth was reduced several inches and john made the cinch fast. the horses saddled, the two riders went in opposite directions, visiting the well-known haunt of each bunch of cattle in the section of country committed to their care. in pleasant weather, when the feed was good and water plenty, this was by no means an irksome duty. the horse is fresh and full of life; the rider, exhilarated by the bracing air and swift motion, shouts aloud from pure joy at being alive. the day's circuit completed, he comes back to the shack, somewhat tired, but the possessor of an appetite that would make a dyspeptic toiler in a city office still paler with envy. [illustration: a little box of a cabin it was. (_page ._)] but john began range-riding during the hardest season of the year, when keen, searching winds had to be faced, blizzards encountered, and work of the hardest, most depressing kind had to be done. "by gum! this beats all," said barney one morning, some months after john joined him. he got out of his bunk, and, walking over to the single window, looked out. "snowin' yet. here this thing's been goin' on fer ten days steady; grass all covered up, cattle near done, and horses worn out--and it's snowin' yet! seem's if providence was down on us," and barney proceeded with his morning toilet, pulling on his boots and grumbling under his breath. john had something of the same idea in his mind; he began to think all this terrible weather was punishment meted out to him for running away from home. for two weeks the two riders had been in the saddle fourteen hours a day, and the strain was beginning to tell on both men and beasts. this was the terrible winter of - , when many cattlemen were almost ruined. "come, kid; get a move on," said barney rather wearily. "it's tough, but it's got to be done." they tramped out into the blinding flurry of flakes and routed out their unwilling horses. there was no frisking, and no tricks to avoid saddling; the poor beasts stood resignedly and allowed their masters to put them into their bonds without a protest. "so long," shouted john. "s'long," returned the other. and so they separated. john followed the frozen saffron creek. it was lined with brush which afforded some shelter for the half-starved cattle that were collected in compact bunches at different points for the sake of warmth. six hundred head of cattle were thus scattered along the two creeks. each of these john visited, and with shouts and blows urged them from the cover where otherwise they would stay--dazed, stupid, gradually growing weaker till they died in their tracks. once in the open, they moved more briskly, butting and crowding each other till their blood got circulating again, and they took some interest in searching for the scanty grass revealed by their trampling hoofs. this morning, after riding a half mile or so from the shack, john came upon a bunch of stock. he shouted at them and slapped those nearest with his hat; soon all were moving towards the open. all went well till a big snow bank was encountered; this the shivering cattle, weakened by hunger, refused to tackle, so john drove his horse into the white bank, and by floundering through two or three times a trail was made. still the stock refused to go through; but at last, with much urging and pushing by roany, breast to rump, three were forced to the other side and the others reluctantly followed. one old cow still remained, weak, wavering, her last calf sapping her vitality; back went john and roany; the rope was uncoiled and the noose dropped over her horns. a couple of turns having been taken round the saddle horn, roany scratched and tugged, the old cow struggled a bit, and in a jiffy the brave little horse "snaked" her through. a little further on the same thing was done with another bunch. from time to time, as he rode along, john saw queer mounds partly or wholly covered with snow: they were the cattle that had succumbed. many more then living he knew would give up, try as he might and did to protect them. further on he noted a fresh victim, and as he drew near two gray, slinking forms left it. "hold on, roany; we'll have to get a shot at those," and suiting the action to the word he pulled his steed up and drew his six-shooter. the wolves were moving off slowly, licking their bloody chops and snarling at the interruption of their feast, their heads turned back toward the boy, their teeth showing, their yellow eyes gleaming. _crack_ went john's pistol, and one fell over kicking. the other bolted for cover. _crack_, _crack_, the shots rang out, and he too dropped. in a minute both wolves were skinned by making a cut along each leg and down the belly, and then with a strong pull yanking the pelt off. the legs were tied together and both skins hung over the branch of a nearby tree, the location being carefully noted. then the boy rode on his melancholy task. as the daylight began to wane, the effect of the hard day's work was felt by both horse and rider, and john looked forward to the time, but a couple of hours off now, when he would return to the warm shack and satisfy his already ravenous hunger. they were still many miles from shelter, and he knew that travelling must be difficult, if not dangerous. "come, roany, old boy, brace up!" he called cheerily to his fagged mount, giving him a friendly pat on the neck at the same time. "we've got to get home." and he touched him lightly with his quirt. the good horse responded bravely and floundered through the deep snow, emerging on a bare, wind-swept spot where he could make much better time. the pace was so good that john could almost feel in imagination the warm glow of the fire and smell the fragrance of frying bacon. as they went on their way they reached a steep little hill, the sides of which were covered deep with snow; down this they plunged with ever-increasing speed. suddenly roany stopped, stopped so short, indeed, that john was thrown over his head into a bank of snow. as soon as might be he picked himself up, dug the snow out of his eyes, ears, and mouth, and looked to see what the trouble was. roany was struggling violently. john soon found that he had stepped into a deep badger hole, the sides and top of which, frozen hard, were unyielding, and held the poor beast's leg like a vise, twisting and breaking the joint badly. the boy saw at once that roany would have to be killed; that there was no help for him. it would be a mercy to put him out of his misery, for he could feel him quivering, and his eyes bulged out with pain. it was a hazardous position for himself, but for the moment he forgot it in his distress for his horse. "roany, old boy, i've got to kill you," he said, feeling that he must justify his act--really one of mercy. "you'll freeze to death if i don't." he drew his six-shooter from the holster, put the muzzle against the horse's forehead, then, turning his face away, pulled the trigger. a few convulsive struggles and roany's sufferings were over. john loosened the cinch, and with considerable difficulty pulled the saddle from under and hung it to a nearby poplar; the bridle was treated likewise; then he stood up and looked around him, wondering what he should do next. it was no time for sentiment, so he gave his whole thought to the best way of reaching the shack. he was already tired and hungry; the wind was blowing the still falling snow so that it was blinding, and there were seven miles of rough country to cover before shelter could be reached. john set his teeth, and, after giving a final glance at his faithful horse, he set out. this time, fortunately, he had but himself to think of and look out for, and if he could cover the distance before freezing all would be well. he struck off to the right, and, after floundering through drifts, sliding down steep places, and fighting the biting blast in the open, he came to the creek that ran past the shack: he had but to follow it. hour after hour he toiled along, his body bathed with sweat, his hands, feet, and face icy cold. the snow blown in his eyes blinded him, hidden obstructions tripped him, and hunger took away his strength. late that night he stumbled through the door of the shack into the warmth and light. barney was wide awake and watching. "by god! i'm glad you're in," he said, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him forward; then, as the lamp-light shone on him clearly, he turned him round and pushed him out again. "your face is white: it's frozen. get snow on it, quick." john thought he had had enough snow on him that day--face and all--to last him the rest of his life, but he submitted to the rough rubbing that barney gave him without a word, and soon the chalky look gave way to the glow of red blood circulating freely. he was thoroughly exhausted, but the food and fire prepared by his partner revived him somewhat, and he turned into his rough, hard bunk and slept like a hibernating bear. when the sun came out bright and warm and the snow began to melt, the havoc wrought by the storm became manifest. only the strongest cattle remained alive, and of these most were males. the survivors were weak and their bones almost punctured their worn-looking skins. in the more sheltered spots lay many once sturdy cows and heifers that later became a heap of whitened bones. though the thaw revealed all these horrors, it also uncovered the herbage, and little by little the remaining animals began to gain strength and weight. now the range-riders were kept busy pulling the foolish ones out of big holes. each day the various bunches of cattle were visited, and with discouraging frequency some of them would be found mired helplessly, weakened by their long fast and rendered crazy by fright; their struggles to get out of the sticky mud only sunk them more deeply. it now became the cowboy's duty to throw his rope over the mired beast's horns, make the other end fast to the saddle horn, then to urge the sturdy little cow-pony forward with whip and spur. the pony tugs, the cow struggles, and soon she is standing on _terra firma_, exhausted, indeed, but safe. this is hard work for the pony and its rider, to say nothing of the cause of all the trouble--which is looked upon merely as so much beef to be saved. with steady spring weather came the opportunity to visit the home ranch, and john was glad enough to take advantage of it. it was a long time since he had seen frank, and, of course, there was much to talk of. it was sunday, in the forenoon, and work, for the time being, was slack. eight or ten cow-punchers were at the ranch and were amusing themselves with a little buckskin-colored horse. his viciousness had earned him the title of "outlaw"--that is, he was considered unbreakable. he was in the corral, small of stature, and, to the uninitiated, innocent enough in appearance; but for all that he had just bucked off greaser tony, as good a rider as one could find in a long day's journey. the cow-punchers sat on the fence and egged each other on to tackle the unconquerable little beast; such an exhibition was great sport to the looker-on, but of doubtful pleasure to the participant. "try him, billy iron-legs," said one. "you can stick him." "try him yourself," responded iron-legs. "you're lookin' for fun, and that breakfast you put away needs a little shakin' up." "how'd the earth look from the bird's-eye view you got of it, tony?" said frank to greaser tony, who was off in a corner counting his bruises and swearing softly. "here, shorty, you ride him; you're always lookin' for somethin' lively." shorty's inclination to kick about his mount was well known; he had a way of calling whatever horse was set apart for him to ride "old cow" or "kitten." the proposition to put him on the "outlaw" and tie him there was hailed with delight, but he dropped from his place on the fence and vanished before any one could lay hands on him. at this juncture frank came to where john sat, and pointing to one of the men said, "that's the horse-range boss. i advise you to ride that little buckskin yourself; 'twon't do you any harm and they'll think a lot of you." any of these men could ride the horse, but it is never pleasant to ride a bucking broncho, and it is sometimes dangerous. john accepted his friend's advice, and when frank shouted, "here's a chap that'll ride the cayuse," he jumped over the fence into the corral and went up to the outlaw. he was already saddled and a hackamore was twisted round his nose. john thought he knew horses pretty well, for his long intimacy with baldy gave him the inside track of equine character. the little buckskin's unbroken spirit and courage pleased him and he felt friendly. the little fellow had been abused; his sides were cut and barred by quirting, his head and nose were skinned by rough ropes in still rougher hands. all men were his enemies, and at john's approach he struck out with his fore feet, but the boy avoided them and caught the hackamore close up to the head. he put his left foot in the stirrup. the horse's eye was upon him, but though the pony was quick he was quicker, and was in the saddle and had caught the right stirrup before the first jump was finished. round one in favor of the boy, and the on-lookers said "good!" then began some of the "tallest" stiff-legged bucking ever seen in that corral. head between his legs, back humped, squealing shrilly, the little horse shot up in the air and came down stiff-legged with a jar that made the ground tremble. every trick known to the cunning breed was tried--jumping sideways, twisting in the air, plunging, rearing front and back--all in vain. john stuck like a leech till the "outlaw" tired himself out. he lasted for fifteen minutes with scarcely a pause. then with head drooping, nostrils turned out till the red showed, literally drenched with sweat, he stood quiet, his body exhausted but his spirit unconquered. john dismounted and pulled off the saddle, patted the little horse's neck, and turned him loose. it was a pretty exhibition of horsemanship, and the spectators appreciated it. it was done fairly, there was no "pulling leather" (holding on) or "hobbling stirrups" (tying them underneath the horse--a great assistance). a number of the punchers expressed their approbation. "good work, kid." "that's all right, pardner," said they. the boss said nothing, but a week or two later john got orders to come down to the ranch and bring his bed. chapter xvi. a broncho buster. the sun river ranch was a large one, and many cowboys were employed to look after the stock; practically all the work was done on horseback, the cow-puncher or the ranchman never deigning to go afoot--indeed it would not have been possible to cover the necessary ground by any other means. a great many horses therefore were needed, each cowboy requiring three or four, especially at those times of the year when they are ridden very hard and have to be changed frequently. the care and raising of the horse herd were consequently very important parts of the cattle-ranch business. the cow-ponies were bred on the ranch and allowed to run free (it being a well-known fact that they would not stray very far) until the colts were old enough to break to the saddle, when they were taken in hand by certain of the men who showed particular skill in that direction. john did not appreciate the full significance of the order to return to the home ranch till frank, who seemed to be a walking information bureau, enlightened him. "if you want to go on the horse range harris will take you," he was informed. "it's cleaner work than chasing cows, and there's more money in it. want to go?" "you bet," was john's short and emphatic answer. his encounter with the little buckskin broncho was exciting and he wanted more; then, too, cattle are tame, stupid creatures compared with horses. "here's your man," said frank to harris, the head of the horse outfit, introducing john. "he says he's ready now." "good! you'll find matt and jerry in the corral now. go over and pitch in. there's twenty-five head that i want ridable by the time round-up begins; that's only a week, and you'll have to work 'em hard." and so john became a broncho buster. he reached the rough circular enclosure made of split rails laid one over the other alternately and strongly braced to stand the strain that would surely be brought to bear. inside the corral were about twenty-five horses that had not seen a man half a dozen times in their lives; they were now trying to get as far away as possible from the two men, matt and jerry, and ran frantically around close to the fence that walled them in. they were as wild as deer and about as swift. _swish_! hissed the rope. as john climbed the fence it settled over the neck of a big bay. in a second the boy was inside and hanging on with the other two men to the end of the rope. the bay plunged and tugged, almost frantic with fright and rage, but the three kept their grip and gradually pulled him by jerks away from the bunch and towards the centre. nearer and nearer he is worked towards the "snubbing post," a stout log stuck upright in the ground; a couple of turns round this holds him fast. jerry takes in the slack as he plunges and jumps until he faces the post only a few yards off; then he stops, plants his feet, and sets back on the rope; the tightening noose shuts off his wind, and he wheezes and struggles for a few moments, totters, and falls breathless. matt springs to his head and sits down on it, the rope is relaxed, and the poor beast is allowed to breathe again. matt still holding him down, though he struggles with might and main, john knots the rope loosely round his neck and shoulders, runs it back under the hind fetlock, draws it tight, pulling the leg up close to the body, and makes it fast. at a word from jerry, matt jumps to one side and the bay struggles to his feet--helpless, as he has but three legs to stand on. john rubs his neck soothingly, keeping a sharp watch the while for nipping teeth; he believes even a horse has some feelings. matt then takes the noose from the neck, and, forcing it into his mouth, leads the end back of the ears, makes a half-hitch round the nose, then passes the end through the noose again--lo! a rough sort of bridle or "hackamore." taking the loose end, matt begins to pull the animal's head from side to side until he understands that he must follow. the first lesson is, never run against a rope; it prevents comfortable breathing. saddling comes next. a saddle blanket is thrown over the horse and rubbed gently up and down his back to acquaint him with the feel of it, then comes the saddle; the trappings frighten him and he struggles, trips, and falls. the operation is repeated, until finally the cinches are drawn and buckled securely. the big bay snorts and trembles in every fibre, terrified at his bonds, the first he has encountered in his wild, free life--he cannot understand it. [illustration: the snubbing post holds him fast.] [illustration: jerry takes in the slack.] [illustration: john knots the rope loosely round his neck. (_page ._)] matt and jerry have ridden two wild horses apiece that morning, so john volunteers to tackle the bay. the horse is still thrashing round at a great rate, but his foot is still tied up and he can do little. john reaches up and knots his handkerchief round the poor beast's eyes, then releases the foot, mounts quickly into the saddle, and leaning forward removes the blindfold. the frightened animal stands still, cowering like a whipped cur or a chicken that sees a hawk circling: above her: he seems to be waiting for the strange, dreadful creature on his back to strike him some fearful blow or sink its claws into his flesh--dreading he knows not what. he bounds forward a few steps--still the burden sticks, and he stops and looks round at it. his fear fades and the courage and energy of his race return; he determines to get rid of this thing that clings so tightly. he leaps forward, runs a few yards full tilt, then stops short, fore legs stiff, hind legs crouching; it's a very sudden jerk, but john hangs on with his knees, leaning far back in the saddle. again the horse tries the manoeuvre; no use; he rears on his hind legs and then on his fore legs; he jumps sideways, bucks, pitches, kicks, without a moment's rest for fifteen minutes. there is no pause, no chance to get a better hold, to take breath; it is a continuous violent paroxysm of motion. at the end of it the bay is well-nigh exhausted and all in a tremble, while john, though pretty well jarred, is calm and master of the situation. the horse at length submits to the superior will, and, magnificent still but now under control, does his best to carry out his master's wishes. by the time the bay was well in hand and john was ready to take the saddle off and let him go free for the rest of the day, matt and jerry had roped another horse and the same tactics were pursued with it. so the work was carried through till dark, each man taking his turn riding horses that had never been bestrode by a living creature before. there was a kind of wild, exhilarating excitement about it, but it was terribly wearing, and the jar and strain were enough to use up a dozen men unaccustomed to the work. the following day all the horses were ridden again, with less difficulty this time, though they were lively enough to suit any one. some took a week's training, some a month's, some were never wholly subdued. to this latter class belonged the little buckskin "outlaw," with which john had had such a lively time and who made his reputation as a broncho buster. the boy and the horse had much to do with each other for a number of years. their close acquaintanceship came about thus: the little buckskin was roped regularly every morning, choked down, and after a great deal of struggling, saddled; then some one of the cow-punchers would ride him until he was thoroughly exhausted. this was continued so long that the little horse became but a bag of bones, chafed and bruised, a wreck, but unbroken in spirit. in spite of everything he continued a fighter with each ounce of strength that was in him--a "dead game horse." "he's an outlaw if ever there was one," said harris one day. "if we can't give him away we'll have to shoot him, for he's making every other horse wild, though he's near ridden to death." "let me have him," said john, who happened to be standing near and overheard the remark. "he's a dead game little beast and i like him. i think i can work him." "take him and welcome, kid," said harris, with an air of relief. "the wilder he is the tougher. tame him and you'll have a star." and so john came into possession of the little buckskin, whom he named appropriately "lightning" or "lite." jerry said, when the question of giving him a proper name was under consideration, "i've known several horses named lightning, but i've never seen a hoss as would fit the name like him." the boy's heart had not so gone out to a horse since baldy's time, and though the two ponies were very different in appearance and disposition, in after years john found it hard to tell which he most cared for. before beginning the training he let up on the terrible strain, the constant struggle, to which "lite" had been subjected and allowed him to recuperate; he took care of him himself, and later, when he grew stronger, allowed no one else to ride him. gradually the horse learned to know his master and understood that that master would not ill-treat him; and so there grew up a sort of sympathy between them. "pitch" he always did when john first mounted him, but he soon settled down to steady business, and a mighty capable beast he proved to be. though john found the wages of a broncho buster good, the work was very hard, it being the most violent sort of gymnastics all day long. when night came he was glad enough to sit down and rest; he would, in fact, not have been sorry to turn in right after supper, but the talk and stories the men told were too good to be lost. it was near round-up season and the riders were being gathered, preparatory to starting off on that great yearly summing-up expedition. there were men from all over the united states and mexico, college-bred men and men of the soil. no man knew the other's history, nor would any one ask questions. there was hardly one but had strange experiences, some of which they told. then there were songs, many of which were familiar to all and therefore popular. frank bridges soon became a favorite with everyone; his good nature and jolly fellowship won him many friends. moreover, he had a good voice and was constantly called upon to exhibit his ability. it was on a restful evening, after supper was over and the last rays of the sun were sinking; the men were lounging about in the most comfortable positions they could find; the talk had died down to a monosyllable now and then. matt, the broncho buster, broke the silence: "frank, give us the 'grass of uncle sam'; you're the only feller that can remember words and tune both." and frank, obliging as always, without any excuses or palavering, sang the following in a good strong baritone: [music: now, peo--ple of the east-ern towns, it's lit--tle that you know a--bout the west--ern prair-ies: where the beef you eat does grow; where the hors-es they run wild with the mountain-sheep and ram; and the cow-boy sleeps con-tent-ed on the grass of un-cle sam.] the grass of uncle sam. now, people of the eastern towns, it's little that you know about the western prairies: where the beef you eat does grow; where the horses they run wild with the mountain-sheep and ram; and the cow-boy sleeps contented on the grass of uncle sam. we go out onto the round-up to brand the sucking calf. the stranger gets the bucking horse (you bet then we all laugh). he flings his arms towards the sky, his legs get in a jam; he turns a flying somersault on the grass of uncle sam. the angry bull takes after us with blood in both his eyes; we run, but when his back is turned he gets a big surprise. our ropes jerk out his legs behind and he goes down _kerslam_! we drag the fighting out of him on the grass of uncle sam. the horse-thief comes along at night to steal our ponies true we're always looking out for him, and sometimes get him, too. we ask him if he's ready and when he says "i am," the bottoms of his feet they itch for the grass of uncle sam. and when the round-up's over to town we go for fun. the dollars we have hoarded up are blown in, every one. then broke, we hit the trail for camp but we don't care a ---- wages are good when the grass is good, the grass of uncle sam. [illustration: bunch grass.] by the time the singer was half-way through most of the impromptu audience were singing the familiar air too. their voices were none too sweet or soft, for the icy blasts of winter and the dust-laden breezes of summer did not tend to improve them; but it was with a right good will that they applauded frank when he finished. the song over, the talk began again, quietly, with long pauses, while this man puffed his pipe or that rolled a cigarette. the light had entirely gone out of the sky now, and only the dim glow of the shack lamp through the open door showed one man to the other. "well, kid, think you can tame the buckskin?" drawled jerry lazily. "sure--after a fashion. 'lite' 'll never be an easy thing; he's got too much life in him, but we have got to know each other pretty well now and we'll get along all right." "you get that little horse so's you can ride him and you'll have the best pony goin'." matt spoke with conviction. the talk grew more and more disjointed, and finally stopped altogether. then one by one the men stalked without a word into the cabin, and in a few minutes all hands were drinking in the sleep as only thoroughly tired, healthy men can. chapter xvii. a cow-puncher in earnest. the round-up was now at hand--that great account of "stock taking," literally, the closing of the year's books as it were, on the cattle range. at its conclusion the ranchman would know whether the previous winter's storms and cold had allowed him any increase or not. the cattle roam at will over great tracts of country bounded only by watercourses and the wire fences along the railways; the herds of one ranchman mingle with those of another, and only during the round-up are they separated and the calves marked with their respective owners' brands. the date of the round-up is fixed beforehand and all the details arranged, so that when the day arrives every man is ready to take the field. as several owners have cattle on the range, each sends his quota of cowboys to do the riding, and all work together under a general head or round-up boss. the sun river ranch had perhaps the largest number of cattle out, and its outfit consisted of twenty-five men, with two cook wagons and several other vehicles to carry beds and various necessaries. the morning of may th, the day set for the rendezvous of the round-up, was as near perfect as one could wish. with the first streak of light in the east all hands were routed out, and after a hasty breakfast, everyone at once set about making the last preparations to take the field. some helped the cooks load up their wagons and pack the utensils; some were busy piling the beds into their places, and the rest were occupied with their own riding outfits or looking after the large saddle band. it was a gay crowd; you would have thought it was a gang of boys off for a swim instead of a party of men bound on a very serious undertaking, accompanied, as it was sure to be, with a good deal of danger and no end of hard work and privation. john was in the thick of it, looking after the horses he had helped to break. of these there were a goodly number, for from six to eight were required for each man. he noted with pride that "lite's" bruises had entirely healed and that his bones were almost wholly hidden by the firm flesh and muscle he had gained under his new master's watchful care. the boy was to be one of the gang that represented the sun river ranch, and he looked forward to the round-up as an opportunity to show what was in him. at last the procession was ready to move, and amid a chorus of "so longs" to those left behind, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses, the rattle and bang of wagons and cooking utensils, the snapping of whips, and the beating of hoofs, it started. little time was wasted in making the journey to the camping place, for all were anxious to get to work. at this time, men gathered together from widely separated points, acquaintanceship was renewed and gossip exchanged. the following morning found them at the appointed camping ground in convenient proximity to a stream, and at about the centre of the territory which it was proposed to sweep clean of cattle. already the triangle bar ([symbol: triangle over bar]) and the m t outfits had arrived; their cook wagons were unpacked and their fires built. it was not long before the sun river boys, called the three x outfit, from their brand (xxx), were likewise settled. the settling in order was not a very elaborate proceeding; there were no carpets to be laid--"the grass of uncle sam" served that purpose admirably--the bric-à-brac consisting of saddles, bridles, and some harness, which was slung carelessly on the ground; and the furniture, if the rolled-up blanket beds could be called such (and there was no other), were left in the wagons till wanted. a hole a foot or so deep and a few feet in diameter was dug in the ground to hold the fire and at the same time prevent it from spreading to the surrounding prairie--a thing to be dreaded. the tail of the cook's wagon was let down, thus forming a sort of table and disclosing a cupboard arrangement. an awning was spread over the whole and it was ready for business. as soon as these arrangements were completed the men broke up into little groups, renewing old friendships and exchanging the bits of news that one or the other had learned. john hung round the cook's wagon, making friends with that important individual. he was no poor hand with the frying-pan himself, and the appreciation of the cook's efforts soon won over this personage. "well, billy," john was saying, "you'll be kept pretty busy this trip, i guess." "yes, it'll be no easy thing," he answered. "it's a big round-up, and it's so terrible dry for this time of year and so dusty that the boys'll be weary and lookin' for trouble--and it'll all come back on me." "oh, i guess not," said john consolingly, as he walked about, kicking the tufted buffalo grass and swishing his quirt about aimlessly. "i tell you what, billy, it wouldn't take much to start a fire in this"--he slapped the grass with his lash. "with a wind like this we'd have a blaze in a minute that would be harder to stop than----look out!" john rushed over to the shallow firepit, shouting warnings as he ran, and began stamping down the thin edge of fire that was eating its way into the bone-dry grass. while the two were talking, a gust of wind had blown a brand out of the pit and into the tinder-like hay. john kept stamping frantically, and in an instant billy had joined him and was also vigorously engaged in crushing out the dreaded flames. they both shouted lustily, and soon a number of the punchers, seeing the thin smoke and realizing the danger, came over to help. fire is perhaps the thing of all others that the plainsman dreads; a prairie blaze once fairly started and sweeping over an expanse of territory is almost impossible to stop, and there is nothing to do but run before it; man and beast, tame and wild, flee from it. only charred and blackened ashes lie behind the swiftly advancing thin line of flame. all this came into the minds of the men as they tramped out the red tongues of flame that lapped ever further along and around. there was no time to plough round (even if such an aid as a plough could be had) and so check the fire by turning under what it fed upon. soon it was seen that it would take more than the trampling of men's feet to put it out, and a line was started down the creek with buckets. then blankets and gunny sacks were wet and beaten against the flames. the smoke choked and blinded, and the heat was almost unbearable, but the men kept the blankets going until the spiteful red tongues drew back defeated, and died. it was a hard fight for a couple of hours, and when it was over those who took part were hardly recognizable--faces blackened and eyes reddened by smoke, hair, beards, and mustaches singed. john, who had drawn his smoke-begrimed fingers over his cheeks and forehead, was a sight; frank saw him thus and said he looked like a cross between a tiger and an ourang outang. [illustration: roped.] [illustration: thrown.] [illustration: whose is it? a question of ownership.] for a day or two after all the outfits came into camp the time was spent in organizing the round-up and planning the campaign. the ranchmen or foremen, as the case might be, were extremely busy during this time, but for once the punchers were at liberty to do as they pleased. all sorts of cowboy sports were indulged in; horse-racing (where "lite," like baldy, generally came out ahead, under john's understanding jockeyship), rope-throwing, and feats of horsemanship. what to an easterner would appear impossibilities were commonplace acts of good riding for a cow-puncher. picking up a hat from the ground while riding at full speed was a feat of good but not at all extraordinary riding. the men were full of life and energy--skylarking was going on continually. it was no place for the seeker of peace and quietness; the air was filled with cowboy yells and shouts of laughter. the unwary one, afoot or on horseback, was likely to hear a sudden swish and in a second find himself hugging mother earth and acting as if he was trying to pull a peg with his teeth, the result of some rope throwing in his rear. as evening draws near the word is passed that "real work will begin to-morrow," and all hands quiet down, realizing that they will need all the strength that rest can give them. soon after supper the men pull out their bed rolls, spread them, and, using their saddles as head rests, turn in. the sun river round-up is in camp. the moon beams placidly down and shows in high relief the white-topped wagons and tents huddled together. beds are scattered here and there upon the ground, and from each comes the sound of tired men's breathing. half a dozen saddled and picketed horses crop the grass near by, and a small bunch of cattle, guarded by a single rider, who lolls sleepily in his saddle, lie a little further off, their heavy bodies appearing strange and shapeless in the half light. a coyote from a little distance barks and howls, but even its voice is drowsy. the only animated sound comes from a bell on a horse tinkling as he feeds. at four o'clock a little red spark appears near the xxx outfit and the cook can be dimly discerned moving round his wagon. soon the smoke begins to pour from his fire, and then the cooks of other outfits also show signs of life. tin pans and kettles are heard to rattle, and breakfast is under way. at a quarter to five the cooks begin the _reveille_ of the plains; dishpans in hand they move about among the sleeping men beating an awakening call neither musical nor poetic, but most effective. between the strokes comes the long-drawn cry, "grub p-i-l-e! grub p-i-l-e!" apparently it is no easier to rouse up from the rough couch, knobbed as it is with the inequalities of the surface of the ground beneath, than it is to rise from "flowery beds of ease." "cow-punching ain't what it's cracked up to be," said jerry grumblingly to john as they lay near a xxx wagon. "i'm goin' to quit after this round-up and drive a horsecar." "it is kinder tough," returned the younger. "i haven't got used to 'lite's' prancin's yet and i'm stiff." it's the privilege of every working man on land and sea to grumble at the early getting-up time, and the cow-puncher takes all possible advantage of this immemorial right. they obeyed the summons, nevertheless, and by the time the night-wrangler came up with the saddle band jerry and john were on hand with the rest of the punchers, having rolled up and stowed their beds in the wagon. a rope corral was drawn about them which sufficed to keep them together, the cow-pony having learned the lesson thoroughly not to run against a rope, even if it is flimsily supported. each man took his lariat and flung it over the horse he wanted to ride that day. as the noose tightened round the neck of each horse it stood stock still till its owner came up to it. led a little apart, the fifty-pound saddle was flung over, and in spite of more or less struggling the cinches were drawn tight and the heavy bridle buckled on. the rush for the mess wagon which followed resembled a run on a bank, and for a few minutes the clatter of tin dishes and steel knives and forks drowned all other sounds. a tin cup of strong, black coffee, a slice or two of bacon, potatoes swimming in gravy, and a generous chunk of bread comprised the bill of fare. with plates and cups filled, john and jerry go off a little way to a wagon, and sitting cross-legged with backs against the wheels, proceed to put away with all possible dispatch the food allotted to them. in a few minutes breakfast is over, when each man brings his dishes and throws them on the pile which cook is already busily engaged in washing. similar proceedings have been going on at all the different outfits at the same time, and soon all hands converge towards the round-up boss's camp. john and jerry joined the gathering crowd near the "captain's" wagon and waited for orders. after a few minutes kline, captain of the round-up, appeared, a stocky man with a gray beard, slouch hat, and greasy, round-up clothes, chaps, flannel shirt, and big spurs. the crowd quieted down instantly. "barrett, take six men and go to the head of bar creek and rake the brush like a fine-tooth comb," began kline. barrett swung into the saddle, and picking out six men rode off with them. "haggerty, take six men and clean up crooked creek; moore, three men and go up indian gulch," and so the orders went. each group started on the instant, and trotting off, disappeared in a cloud of dust. soon all the punchers had gone; only the cooks, the horse-wranglers, and a few drivers were left. jerry and john had been sent up a small creek to drive in all the cattle they found in that section. the head of the creek reached (it was about fifteen miles off), jerry, who was riding some distance from john, signalled to him to turn back and make a detour so as to get around the animals ahead. at the sight of the riders the wild cattle began to gather into bunches and stare; this tendency to come together made it much easier to drive them. by the time they had driven two miles a considerable number had gathered, which increased as it moved onward as a snowball gathers bulk when it is pushed along. when jerry and john reached the main valley they were driving perhaps a couple of hundred head before them. herds were pouring in from every direction, and soon the whole valley was filled with a vast mass of variously tinted animals, their horns tossing like a sea of tall grass. over all hung a great cloud of dust that obscured the sun and made it impossible to distinguish a rider the other side of the herd. "this is fierce," ejaculated john as he tried to peer through the brown-gray cloud at another rider. "a cow-puncher can't live without dust," returned jerry, whose face was covered with a gray mask, through which his eyes shone in strong contrast. "my teeth is worn down and my lungs coated with it, but i don't mind it no more. look out for that cow there!" an old cow, made angry and brave at once by an apparent menace to her calf, was charging down on john full tilt--tail up, head down, eyes rolling--vengeance in every motion; for a minute it looked as if he would be run down: the charging beast was going at such speed that she would be hard to avoid; but when she was within five feet of the boy's horse he gave a quick pull on the rein, a sharp jab with his spurs, and the clever little cow-pony wheeled sharply round and out of range, the old cow lumbering harmlessly by, her own weight and impetus preventing her from turning. "you want to keep your eye out for those old cows with calves," admonished jerry, "they're looking for trouble." all hands were now busy keeping the great herd together, single animals were constantly breaking out and had to be driven back; sometimes several would start at once, when there would be some pretty sharp riding for a while. it was about midday, the sun was blazing down from above, the dust rose in clouds from below, lining mouths and nostrils of the riders. since six o'clock they had been in the saddle constantly, and all felt, as jerry expressed it, "plumb empty and bone dry." the herd presently quieted down somewhat and allowed the men to eat in relays, some watching while others fed. it was the briefest kind of a meal, but it sufficed, and in a half hour every man was ready, mounted on a fresh horse, for the real work of the day--"cutting out." john and jerry approached the tumultuous herd, a swirling restless sea of backs and horns. the din was tremendous; every cow lowed to her calf and every calf to its mother; the tread of thousands of hoofs even on the soft earth caused a heavy, rumbling sound that filled the air, and above all was the sharp rattle of one horn against another, of a thousand horns against each other. into this seething mass of living wild creatures armed with sharp horns, and the tread of whose hoofs was death, must go the cowboy and his intrepid pony. to drive out the cows and their accompanying calves, so that the brand of the mother might be put on the offspring, was the cow-puncher's duty. jerry and john were as usual near together, and jerry as usual grumbling. he declared that this cow-punching was a dog's life and that he would surely quit it after this round-up. john, as was his custom of late, was discoursing on the merits of "lite." "i'll show you what a good cutting-out horse he is to-day," the youngster was saying. "you just watch him." jerry suddenly rode off to head off a steer that had broken out of the bunch and so stopped the boy's talk. when he came back john was about to dismount to aid a weak calf to rise. "look out!" was all jerry had time to shout, as an old cow with horns like spears came charging down on the stooping boy. it was not her calf, but she thought it was. john's horse had become startled and ran back so fast that he could not reach the saddle horn to mount. the infuriated cow was within twenty feet of him, the cattle hedged him in on every side so he could not run, and he reached round for his six-shooter as a last resort. he was about to pull the trigger when jerry's rope came flying through the air, settled round the animal's hind legs, and down she came in a heap just in time. "you'll take my word next time when i tell you not to dismount in a bunch of cattle." john said nothing, but he realized that it was a pretty close shave. soon the cutting-out process began, to accomplish which the rider enters the main bunch, selects a cow with a calf bearing the brand of his outfit, and drives them out to a place apart, where other riders keep them separated from the main bunch and from the similar collections of other brands. to select his own brand from dozens of others requires a quick and sure eye on the part of the rider, and to follow that particular cow through all the turnings and twistings she is sure to take, requires great cleverness and perseverance on the part of the horse. it was "lite's" first experience as a cutting-out horse, but john had full confidence in his ability in this as in every other branch of cow-pony education. "you just watch him"--this to jerry, who had expressed some doubts. john and lightning rushed into the sea of cattle. whether by the gentle pressure of the knees or remarkable knowledge jerry knew not, but he saw the little horse single out an animal and start it out, following directly at its heels. it turned to the left sharply; lightning deftly threw his fore legs over its back and stood in its path; it turned to the right--horse and rider were there also. through the herd they went full speed, twisting, turning, passing through lanes of cattle so narrow that john's legs rubbed their rough bodies on either side; but always they were close at the heels of the xxx cow, and finally they drove her out where jerry was guarding several others of the same outfit. "how's that?" said john breathlessly. it was hard work for horse and rider, particularly for the former. "that's all right," jerry answered, more enthusiastically than was his wont. "he's got the making of a good cow-horse in him." chapter xviii. a midnight stampede. on a wide flat the round-up outfit commenced working the big bunch. as the cutters-out dart here and there, whirling, dodging, and following, the small individual bunches slowly increase in size, while the main bunch correspondingly dwindles. john and his lightning work away with other riders until only the nucleus of the herd remains, and in five minutes this too has vanished. each outfit pauses to rest a few minutes before the counting and branding begin; in the meantime jerry is coaxing the fire in which the branding irons are heating. "what'll you give for the buckskin now?" said john with pardonable pride, as he drove in the last animal bearing the xxx brand. "he'll do; but i want to see you rope with him before i take back all i've said," answered jerry, "he cuts out pretty well, but you get a calf on your string and the string under his tail and he'll dizzy you," and jerry began to poke the fire, chuckling the while. "oh, you're jokin'; i can ride him now without stirrups. i tell you he's a broke horse." "the iron is hot now," broke in jerry, as he rolled up his sleeves. "let's see what your horse can do. bring in your calves." it was john's duty, with two other men, to rope the calves belonging to his ranch by the hind legs and yank them along the smooth grass to the branding fire, where jerry applied the hot iron. he started lightning on a run to rope the first calf, eager to prove his horse's ability. one sleek little fellow stood on the edge of the xxx bunch, gazing in wonder at the horse and his rider. doubtless the calf thought this a strange creature, able to separate into two parts and reunite without the slightest inconvenience. john went straight for it and broke off its cogitations suddenly by whirling his rope and throwing it under the little fellow. the calf started and jumped into the loop, and john quickly drew the rope tight, pulling its hind legs from under it and throwing the little animal heavily. lightning was checked and the calf rolled over and began to struggle and bleat piteously. a green horse is nearly always frightened the first time he pulls on a rope: he does not understand it, and lightning was no exception to the rule. the rope touched his shifty hind legs and he kicked out with all his might; it rubbed harder as the calf struggled, and the horse began to whirl and plunge viciously in his efforts to get rid of the line that scraped his sensitive sides. [illustration: dragged it up to the fire.] [illustration: ... while the iron was applied. (_page ._)] fortunately the little creature got loose at this juncture and escaped. true to prediction, the rope got, under "lite's" tail and now the fun commenced in earnest. he bucked as he had never bucked before, and all but stood on his head. the other outfits stopped work for the moment to see the sport. lightning fairly foamed in his rage and fear; he bucked continuously, and every time he struck the ground he gave a hoarse squeal--shrill and wicked. john's strength was sorely tried; but after his boasting it would never do to be "piled up," so he set his teeth and vowed he would stick, no matter what happened. the fury of the effort made it a short one, but it seemed to john plenty long enough, for during the five minutes the saddle was like unto a hurricane deck in a raging sea. but through it all john came out triumphant. in the words of a bystander: "the little horse bellered and bucked and the kid never pulled leather" (did not hold on to the horn of his saddle). which was high praise from a cow-puncher to a cow-puncher. "what'll you take for him?" called jerry, as john dismounted to untangle the rope from "lite's" heels. "money can't buy him," was the reply. john was bruised and stiff, but his pride was not broken and his faith in his horse was undiminished, though it must be confessed it had received a severe shock. "he'll bring that calf in or i'll kill him tryin'," he said sturdily, and he mounted "lite" again and went back. he found the same calf, roped it, and "lite," after a few futile plunges, dragged it up to the fire, where he stood with heaving, sweat-covered sides while the iron was applied. the hard lesson had been taught and learned for all time. "he's got the making of a good cow-horse," admitted jerry. "but, oh lord! such a making!" the way john worked the little horse that day would have seemed cruel to a novice, but he intended that he should never forget the experience of the morning, and he never did. the last calf was branded at dusk, and by the time this necessary torture was completed poor "lite" was about done up. the bunch was allowed its freedom for another year and the cattle began at once to wander off, the old cows licking the disfigured sides of their offspring, the calves shaking and writhing with pain, failing utterly to understand why they should be tortured thus. the wound soon heals, however, and though the soreness disappears the scar remains always. the day's work was over; the coolness of evening succeeded the heat of the day; the men stopped work and rode slowly into camp by star-light. john and jerry unsaddled their tired horses and turned them over to the care of the night herder. "i'm dead tired, stiff, and sore to-night," said john, as he and his companion hustled for cups and plates in the dish box. "it's a dog's life," returned jerry, taking the cue. "if i'm ever caught on a round-up again i hope they'll tie me on a broncho and turn him loose." he grumbled on as he sipped his steaming coffee. the two ate heartily and then strolled over to the main campfire, where perhaps fifty men lay sprawling upon the ground smoking, talking, and resting. "hullo, there's the three x kid!" some one shouted. "how's the legs, kid?" "how d'ye like astronomy?" said another. and so the bantering went round, but john took it good-naturedly and even responded in kind. soon a song was started, but the men were too tired to listen, and the singer stopped for lack of encouragement. about two hours after the day's work had ended all hands were rolled up in their beds and asleep, jerry ending this first day on the round-up as he began it--grumbling. "cow-punching is a job for a chinaman," said he, dropping off to sleep. it was the most scathing condemnation his imagination could frame. this was but the first of a succession of days much alike, some easier, some harder, some full of incident and narrow escapes, others less exciting. the long dry spell had given way to a series of rainy days that were harder to bear than heat and dust. the wind-driven rain had a penetrating quality that nothing could withstand. the rider, after being in the rain all day, came into camp to find his bed saturated. the trying weather affected tempers, not only of the men but of their charges, the cattle, as well; they were nervous and restless, and this was especially true when electricity was in the air. as jerry had said, it was "regular stampede weather." john had seen small bunches of stock break and run, and had followed them over ticklish country, but a big stampede had not yet been numbered among his experiences. he had often sat listening to some old veteran of the range tell of the horrors of a midnight stampede, when the great herds became an irresistible torrent of animal life driven on by unreasoning terror. he knew that some time he would become an actor in such a scene and dreaded it in anticipation. the sky was threatening when the riders were sent out one day to make the "big circle," as the gathering of cattle was called, a week or so after the organization of the round-up. by the time the bunch was collected it was raining heavily, and at intervals hailstones pelted man and beast viciously. the bunch was large that day, and as the storm continued the ground became too slippery and the cattle too crazy to attempt to work them. nothing could be done but hold them together until things dried up a bit. the nervousness of the cattle was such that this required the activity of all hands. john and jerry were out in all this stress of weather, and, strange as it may seem, the older cowboy was almost happy: he had a really new and good chance for grumbling. "even a coyote can hunt his hole and keep dry, but a cow-puncher has to sit up straight and take his medicine," said jerry, almost triumphant in his feeling of just resentment. "the worse the weather the more he has to brave it," he continued. "if i'm ever caught on a round-up----" "that's the tenth time you've said that to-day," said john, laughing in spite of his own discomfort. jerry made a queer picture. his long, yellow oilskin slicker reached to his heels and was just running with water; the felt hat that almost entirely obscured his woebegone features dripped water down his neck. he looked as forlorn as an equestrian statue decorated with cheap bunting and paper flowers and thoroughly water-soaked. everybody was out of humor and no opportunity was lost to register a "kick." "say, you three x men," said the foreman, "scatter out there; d'yer take this for a conversation party?" "the horses is stupid and the cattle is worst. if i don't miss my guess there'll be trouble to-night. if ever i get caught in a----" jerry's voice died away in a mere growl as he rode off to his post. left alone, john turned his eyes to the sea of backs swirling up and down and around like an eddy in a troubled sea. even now the half-crazed animals threatened to break through the frail line of men and scatter to the four winds. and still the driving rain continued. a night in the saddle was inevitable--a dreary enough prospect. as evening drew near, flashes of lightning and peals of thunder added to the terror of the almost unmanageable cattle. "look at 'em steam," said john to himself, as he noted the vapor that rose from the acres of broad backs. "that's bad," said jerry, as he came within earshot on his beat. "steam brings down the lightning, men are high on horseback; steel saddles, metal spurs, six-shooters, and buckles make a man liable to catch it," and he disappeared in the mist, droning out as he went a verse of "the grass of uncle sam" to quiet the cattle. it seemed futile to attempt to soothe the creatures by the sound of the human voice--they were in a tumult, and the slightest thing would set them off. for an instant there was a lull, and not only jerry's but the voices of other riders could be distinctly heard singing and calling quietly to the cattle. suddenly there came a fearful flash directly overhead and streams of liquid fire seemed to flow in every direction. this was followed immediately by a tremendous clap of thunder. the effect was instantaneous. each animal seemed to be possessed of a demon and rushed headlong in whichever direction its head happened to be pointed. in an instant the orderly herd was changed to a panic-stricken rout, and the riders were swept irresistibly with it. the lightning flash was blinding, and the darkness which ensued was intense; through this men and beast rushed pell-mell without a pause, recklessly. john, with the other riders, was in the very midst of the mad, surging creatures, their eyes rolling in a perfect frenzy of fear, their very breaths in his face, their horns rattling together close beside and in front of him. it was every man for himself, but even in the midst of this frightful chaos the cow-puncher's sole thought was for his stock. john looked for a bunch to follow--to follow to death if need be, but if possible stop it. that was the plan in john's mind, but it seemed utterly impossible of fulfilment. there was no bunch; each animal for once went off on its own hook and the confusion was fearful. "i'll follow one then," said john to himself. then to his horse: "stand up now, old 'lite.' if you fall you're a goner." one big steer alongside ran strongly, and john let "lite" know that it in particular was to be followed. he couldn't be seen in the darkness, but "lite" could smell him and kept at his flank. away they went through mud and sage brush, over badger holes and boggy places. what lay in their path was a mystery, but "lite" stuck to his leader like a leech. there was no time to reckon chances, if such a thing were possible. as vapor forms into raindrops, the running cattle began to draw together into groups which enlarged momentarily. john was now following one of these groups, but in the pitchy darkness he could not tell how many it numbered. as pursued and pursuers rushed on, the smooth, rolling prairie was left behind, and rough, broken country was encountered. up steep-sided gullies they struggled and down slippery hillsides they scrambled after the terror-stricken cattle. "now's our chance," said john, speaking, as was his wont under strong excitement, to his horse and patting his neck in encouragement for the supreme effort that was to come. he spurred to the front and began to turn the leaders around. he struck them on the nose with his quirt, slapped them with his hat, and yelled at them. slowly one leader, then another, turned; others immediately behind followed, until the leader caught up with the tail of the bunch and round they went in a circle. "they're milling beautifully now, 'lite,'" said john to his horse again. "we'll keep 'em at it till they're too tired for funny business." the circle gradually slowed to a trot, then a walk, then stopped altogether. the cattle were utterly exhausted, heads down, sides heaving and steaming. john leaned over in his saddle and patted his little horse affectionately. his feeling was one of fondness mixed with gratitude for the pony whose wiry limbs, sure feet, good bottom and intelligence had carried him safely through a difficult and dangerous duty. he thought of what had passed, and marvelled that he was alive. to make such a journey amid the tossing horns and thundering feet of the cattle, over treacherous ground, in total darkness, seemed an impossible feat, and yet here were horse and rider covered with mud, saturated with water, almost unbearably weary, it is true, but without a scratch. john began to realize the danger, now it had passed, and appreciated the fact that to his game little horse was his safety due. "lite" received the caressing pat on his nose and the words of praise his master gave him with commendable modesty. the cattle were willing now to stand and rest; they all were trembling with fear and exhaustion and seemed in no condition to continue their flight. "lite," too, was pretty well done up, so john dismounted and unsaddled him; then, after putting one blanket over him, he wrapped himself in the other and lay down in the mud to sleep. it was cold and sopping wet, but john's inward satisfaction made outward discomfort trivial. the hours were long before daylight--longer, the boy thought, than he ever knew them to be before. he was glad enough when the sun came and he was able to size up his capture. they numbered fifty head, and proud enough he was. "lite" was feeding near; at john's call he came up and, without his usual capers, allowed himself to be saddled. the two started the bunch toward camp--weary, hungry, sleepy, wet, and cold, but triumphant. "my first stampede and back with fifty head," said john to his horse. "not bad work, and i couldn't have done it but for you." the storm had spent itself during the night and morning broke gloriously fine. john and lightning kept the cattle going as fast as their strength would allow, which was all too slow for the boy, who was anxious to show his work to jerry--his chum, his friend and counsellor, jerry the grumbler, the good-hearted. he knew that he would appreciate it, though he might joke. as the bunch appeared on a little rise a short distance from camp, a horseman galloped out to meet them and to help drive them into camp. "hullo, kid!" said the man, when he got within earshot. "you've done pretty well; biggest bunch that's come in yet." "oh, i've had a great old time," john began jubilantly, feeling as if he had not seen a human being for a month and must talk. "see that big spotted steer there, leadin'? well, i follered that feller eight miles in the dark last night an' he set me a red-hot pace, you bet--but the buckskin here," patting lite's mud-spattered shoulder, "followed him close all the way." "well, you look it; got enough mud on yer to weigh down a team of iron horses." "how many cattle back?" asked john. "only 'bout half the bunch." "that's too bad," sympathized the boy. "that's not the worst." the man stopped, and john noticed for the first time a peculiar expression on his face. "what's the matter?" said he. "one of your men----" he hesitated. "well?" "one of your men," he repeated, "went down last night." "it wasn't jerry?" cried john anxiously, having a premonition suddenly of something dreadful. "say it wasn't jerry!" "yes, it was jerry." the man spoke the words slowly and solemnly. "horse's leg went into a badger hole and the cattle trampled him." chapter xix. an awakening. it was a terrible shock to the boy, and for a few moments he seemed dazed as if by a physical blow. he had come into camp weary of body but light and gay of heart, full of triumph, sure of a half-chaffing word of commendation from his friend and comrade. but that friend had met a horrible death. john's heart sank like lead, and for the time the light went out of the sky for him. there was no joy, no sunshine, no future--jerry was dead! "where is he?" john asked of the man who brought him the sad news. "in camp," was the answer. john was in haste to go to his friend, yet he dreaded it with all his soul. he forgot his triumph, his pride in his horse, his weariness, in the one thought that filled his mind--"jerry is dead!" "so jerry, great, strong, experienced jerry, on his big bay went down, and i, neither strong nor wise, am safe and well," john soliloquized. in a minute or two they entered camp, and john's first question was "where?" the cook nodded toward a bed outspread in the shade of a wagon. mr. baker, the ranchman, was there, and as john reached the place he pulled back the canvas covering. the boy never forgot the sight that met his view. jerry it was, certainly, but almost unrecognizable. john sat down by him, overcome by his first great grief. death he had seen many times, horrible deaths some of them, but none had come so close as this. cook, perceiving his plight, brought him a cup of steaming hot coffee, well knowing that it would put heart into him. "mr. baker," said john at length, "he's got to be buried some place where the coyotes can't get at him." "but it's sixty miles to the ranch," objected the ranchman. "that's nothing. let me have a team and a wagon and i'll get him there." after some demur, which john finally overcame, mr. baker allowed him to take a big wagon and a four-horse team. the body was laid in reverently, the horses harnessed and hitched up. just as john was about to take up the reins mr. baker came forward. "i guess i'll go with you, worth," he said. "round-up's most finished and i can do more good at home." he climbed into the seat of the big covered wagon as he spoke; and after tying lightning alongside the wheel horse, john took up the lines. the punchers stood round, hats off, their weather-beaten faces grave and full of concern. all of them realized that this might have been _their_ fate. their rough hearts, accustomed as they were to all the chances of the dangerous life, were full of grief for the loss of their companion, "who was and is not." "so long!" they said--a farewell to living and dead. the whip cracked, the leaders jumped, and in a few minutes the white top of the wagon sank out of sight behind a rise. the sixty-mile funeral journey had begun. for some time employer and employee sat silent side by side. john's hands were busy with the four fresh horses he was guiding, and his mind with the real sorrow that filled it. he had never known mr. baker well; that familiar relation, unknown in the east, between employer and employed was prevented by john's absence on the range, but the boy was grateful for the kindness mr. baker had shown him. "how long have you known jerry, worth?" the ranchman asked at length, touched by the boy's grief, and his interest aroused. "since i've worked for you only," was the answer. "some people you never take to and some you know and like right off; jerry was that kind. he always stood by me in quarrels, and many's the time he's stood a double watch 'cause he knew i was tired and he didn't want to wake me up. yes, he stood by me through thick and thin." "he was a good hand, too," interpolated mr. baker. "he'd have divided his last dollar with me," continued john, more to himself than to his hearer. "i'd have done the same with him." all this time they were travelling at full speed. the four horses yanked the heavy wagon along steadily over gullies and ridges, through valleys, and over hilltops. a couple of hours passed in this way, during which john slowed the horses down over the rocky places and urged them forward where it was smooth. "what are you going to do with your money, worth?" said mr. baker, hoping to dispel some of the sadness that hung over the boy. "you've not spent much this year, have you?" "'bout three hundred dollars, i guess. jerry and i thought of starting in with a little bunch of cows on our own hook, but----" the glance that john gave over his shoulder into the wagon finished the sentence. "did you ever think of going to school?" asked the ranchman, intent on his effort to divert the boy's thoughts. "no, i saw a dude feller one time that had been to school all his life"--john spoke contemptuously--"and i'd rather punch cows all my days than be like him." "why? he might have been a poor specimen. my son would have been a lawyer if he had lived, and i would a great deal rather have him one than a cow-puncher." john shook his head, unconvinced. a vision came to him of streets walled in on each side by buildings so that every thoroughfare was a cañon and every room a prison. the joy of wild freedom, fraught though it was with danger and hard work, tingled in his veins. [illustration: herds were pouring in from every direction. (_page ._)] "you know if you stay on the range," continued mr. baker, "it's only a question of time when you'll be stiffened and broken down, or else, what may be better, you'll be caught as jerry was. if you keep on punching cows all your life nothing will be left behind showing that you've been in the world but a pine plank set in the ground." for a time john's thoughts were as busy as his hands. a new idea had been presented to him--his future. what would he do with it? he loved the wild, free life he was now leading, and up to this time he had never thought of working for something higher and more lasting. mr. baker had stirred a part of him that had long lain dormant--ambition. his plans heretofore had seldom carried him further than a few days or weeks, his sole care was to do his duty and keep his job; but now he had a new care--his future. the horses jogged along steadily over the rough country, their driver getting every bit of speed out of them that would allow them to last the journey through. most of the time lightning went alongside the wheel horse contentedly. with particular perversity, however, as the team was passing through a narrow place, where there was barely enough room to pass, lightning began a spirited altercation with his side partner. he shied off from him, pushed him, and bit at him till he in turn retaliated. for a time john had his hands full, but "lite," in his efforts to kick holes in the unoffending side of the wheel horse, got tangled in the harness, and so stopped the whole business. his master extricated him with difficulty, and "lite," instead of getting the punishment he so richly deserved, was petted instead, whereupon he became very good indeed and rubbed his nose affectionately against john's sleeve, as much as to say: "i'm sorry. i'll never do it again." "it seems to me," said mr. baker, after they had got started again, "that a fellow that could tame such a wicked brute as that horse was a few months ago could master anything, books or anything else." "oh, i've read some books," said john eagerly, "and i thought i knew something till that dude feller told all about the things he knew. but that chap couldn't ride a sway-backed cow," and john smiled, sad as he was, at the thought. "you struck a poor sample," the ranchman responded. "he saw you could beat him physically, so he tried to get even with you mentally." for a time they rode along in silence, the boy busy with his own thoughts, which mr. baker was wise enough not to interrupt. at length smith creek, the half-way mark of their journey, was reached, and they stopped for water, rest, and food. the horses were unharnessed and allowed to feed a while. thirty miles had been covered in less than five hours--thirty miles of diversified country, hill and plain, rock and mud. the road was not worthy of the name, it was merely a wheel track more or less distinct. john was restless, the short hour of relief allowed the faithful beasts seemed long to him, and he was more at ease when they were spinning along the trail again. he had been living on his nerve all the morning and the strain was beginning to tell. soon mr. baker began to talk again. he was interested in the young companion by his side, this boy so filled with determination, so energetic and forceful and yet so abounding in loyalty and affection, as his grief over jerry's death and his fondness for his horse testified; this boy who read books and yet had such a whole-souled contempt of affected learning as evidenced by his ill-concealed disdain of the eastern "dude." "you've never been east," began the ranchman, "or to school?" "no. i was born in bismarck, north dakota," was the answer. "it must be queer," he added after a pause, and a smile lit up his tired face. "there's lots of women there, they say, and the men get their hair cut every month; the people have to always dress for dinner, the paper novels say, and everybody goes to school." mr. baker smiled at this description of the life and manners of the east, and kept plying the boy with questions, put kindly, until he had learned pretty much all there was to know about him. it was long since john had had so much interest shown him, and it warmed his heart; it was specially grateful at this time, when he felt that he had lost a tried and true friend. the ranchman advised him to work out the year and save his money, and at the end of that time doff his cowboy clothes and manners, array himself in a "boiled shirt," enter some good-sized town, and go to school and church. john was rather dubious about this; "muscle work," as he called it, work requiring a quick eye, a strong will, and the ability to endure, he knew he could do, but about brain work and book learning he was not so confident. the idea of wearing a "boiled shirt" made him smile. "those stiff-bellied things the dudes wear," said he derisively. "me wear one of those things!" and he laughed aloud at the thought. nevertheless the serious idea took deep root, and while he did not make any promises he had a half-formed resolve to follow the old ranchman's advice. all this time the horses jogged along more and more wearily, and requiring more and more urging from the youngster on the driver's seat. the last ten miles seemed endless; it was all john could do to keep the team going, and even tireless lightning running alongside moved unsteadily with fatigue. they were glad enough when the ranch buildings appeared dimly in the fast-deepening gloom. the sixty-mile drive was ended at last. when the wagon entered the ranch yard john almost fell into the arms of one of the men who had come to find out the cause of this unusually late arrival. it was mr. baker who told what the wagon contained and the story of jerry's death. john dragged himself to a hastily improvised bed, and, dropping down on it, was asleep in a twinkling; the first rest for thirty-six long fatiguing hours. late the next day he was awakened to attend jerry's funeral. it was a very simple ceremony, but the evident sincerity of the mourners' grief made it impressive. he was laid away on a grassy knoll where several other good men and true had been buried by their comrades. a rude rail fence enclosed the spot--the long resting place of men who had died in the performance of their duty. for a time things went sadly at the ranch, for john (he did not rejoin the round-up) missed his cow-puncher friend, his good-natured grumbling, his ever-ready helping hand. but gradually the boy's faculty of making firm, loyal friends helped to fill the gap that jerry's death had made, though no one could ever take his place. mr. baker's talk about school and a future took deep root, and as the boy turned the idea over in his mind it developed into a resolve to try it anyway. life had a new meaning now for john, and he found it absorbingly interesting. the work he had to do was a means to an end, and the commonplace, every-day drudgery became simply a cog in the machinery, and therefore not only bearable but interesting. the boy's success as a breaker of horses kept him much of the time at that work. since he had broken lightning all other horses seemed tame to him in comparison. it was part of his work not only to break the horses to the saddle but to care for them generally, brand the colts, and train them for cow-pony work, as well as to guard them by day and night. on these long day rides over the rolling prairie and bleak, fantastically shaped and colored "bad lands" he would take a piece of a book in his pocket, and when an opportunity occurred read it. he read many books this way, tearing out and taking a few pages in his pocket each day. mr. baker was fond of reading, and understood the value of education; he had some books, and the less valuable ones he gave to his protégé; these and the few john had been able to pick up from outfits he met and during the infrequent visits to a town formed his text books. as he thought and read and studied he became more and more convinced that cowboy life was not for him: to know more about the things he had read a few scraps about, to gain a place in the world, to learn something and achieve something was now his firm resolve. the summer, fall, and early winter went by quickly for the boy. each season had its own peculiar duties and dangers--the round-up and branding, the driving of the steers to the railroad for the eastern market (a serious undertaking, involving as it might the loss of valuable cattle through injury and drowning when fording streams), the cutting of hay for the weaker cattle and horses, and occasional hunting trips for fresh meat. and so the year wore round. on new year's day john's time was up--the time which he had set to start out to seek his fortune. he had saved more than a year's earnings, so the small capitalist saddled lightning, bade his friends good-by, and set forth, not without some misgivings, on a new quest: to get knowledge, see the world, and, if it might be, grasp his share of its honors. chapter xx. a transformation. the love of adventure that possesses the soul of most boys was not a characteristic of john worth. an adventurous life he had always led and thought nothing of it; it was too commonplace to be remarkable to him. this starting forth in search of knowledge, this seeking of the "dude" and his ways in his own haunts, was an entirely different matter; it was almost terrifying, and he was half inclined to turn back. to mix with men who wore white "boiled" shirts habitually, who dressed and went down to dinner, and who did all sorts of things strange to the frontier, seemed to john a trying ordeal, and he dreaded it. he had no definite plan, for he could not quite realize what lay before him. a cowboy merely he would not be; he now felt that there was a larger place that he could fill, and he knew that this could be reached only through education. a sound body and brain, enough money to last till spring, a good horse to carry him, and a strong resolve to get somewhere were his possessions. for ten days he and lightning wandered around from one settlement to another, from town to town; he was enjoying his freedom to the utmost, so much so in fact that none of the towns he passed through suited him. finally he woke up to the fact that he was avoiding a decision, and he pulled himself up with a round turn. "here, john worth," he said to himself, "you're afraid to begin; any of those towns would have done." he was in the open when he came to himself, riding along on a good horse, dressed in a complete outfit of cowboy finery, fringed chaps, good, broad-brimmed felt hat, heavy, well-fitting riding gloves, and silver spurs, the envy of every man he met. for the second time a storm helped to decide his destiny, for as he rode along the sky became overcast and soon the snow began to fall heavily. "come, 'lite,' let's get out of this," he said to his only companion; and heading the pony toward the place where he knew ---- was located, he urged him forward. just before dark he reached ----, and after finding a stable put up at a neat little hotel near by. even if he had wished to go on to some other place he could not now, for the storm developed into a regular blizzard, which prevented man or beast from venturing outside the town limits. john soon turned to the hotel keeper, a loquacious individual who believed in his town and could sound its praises as well as any real-estate boomer. "schools?" in answer to one of john's inquiries. "schools? why, we've got one of the best schools in montana; higher'n a high school! schools and churches--we're great on schools and churches." he took his cue from john's questions; he could discourse just as eloquently about the shady part of the town, its slums, its dives, and dance halls; there was nothing in that town that should not be there and everything that was desirable--at least that was the impression this worthy strove to convey. "schools and churches," said john to himself. "that's what mr. baker said i must hitch up to." for several days the blizzard continued, so long in fact that john grew restless and longed for something to do. he had about decided that he did not like this town and thought he would move on as soon as the weather permitted. one day the landlord was declaiming earnestly on the merits of the town and its institutions. "now, there's the academy," said he. "now that academy is----" "what's an academy?" interrupted john. "oh, that's a place where they teach you things." "what kind of things?" persisted john. "reading and arithmetic and geography and--here's gray, he'll tell you all about it, he goes there. henry, come here a minute," he shouted. a young man in overalls, well sprinkled with ashes, and carrying a fire shovel appeared. the landlord introduced them and told gray that john was looking for information about the academy. then he went off, leaving them together. "well," said gray, a slight, dark-haired, bright-eyed, thoughtful fellow, after some preliminary talk, "you begin with arithmetic; then comes algebra, then geometry and trigonometry in mathematics; the languages are latin, greek, french, and german." the mere recital of these things was enough to scare john, who had scarcely heard the names before. when gray went on to enlarge on the fine course of study the academy afforded, as a loyal student should, his hearer was appalled by the amount of learning necessary even to enter a school, and feared the ranch after all was the place for him. [illustration: the drive ... fording a stream. (_page ._)] "some of the fellows are good workers," gray went on, "but some do nothing but talk to the girls." "girls!" thought john. "so girls go to school with the boys here." this boy, who had hardly seen a girl, was terrified at the idea of being brought into such close association with them--he was quite sure now the ranch was the place for him. that night he made up his mind to go back to mr. baker and ask for his old job, but the next morning was no better than the preceding ones. for lack of something better to do, after much persuasion on gray's part, he went with him to the academy. the things he saw there were as strange to him as they would be to an esquimau. an old-fashioned school of one hundred and fifty students seated at rows of desks, the boys on one side of the room, the girls on the other. the principal sat at one end, surrounded by blackboards. gray found a seat for john at the back of the room, out of the range of curious eyes, and he sat there and watched and listened--wonderingly. the classes went up and recited one by one or demonstrated mathematical problems on the blackboards. john heard with amazement youngsters answer questions which he could not comprehend at all, and yet he noticed that their faces were care-free and happy, as if they had never known what trouble was. the faces he knew, young and old, bore distinctly the traces of care and hardship. he was intensely interested and enjoyed the whole session keenly. when noon came, gray approached, as he thought, to return to the hotel with, him, but to his surprise he was marched up to the principal's desk and introduced to professor marston. john was awe-stricken, but the principal knew boys thoroughly, and soon put him at his ease. "will you come with us?" asked mr. marston after a while. "i wanted to, but i guess not now." somehow john's resolve seemed rather foolish in the presence of this kindly faced man with the high forehead. "why? what is the trouble?" "oh, i changed my mind." "what's your reason?" persisted the professor. "you don't look like a fellow who changes his mind with every wind." his manner was so kindly, his interest so evident, that john let go his reserve and told of his ambitions and hopes and then of the futility, as he thought, of a fellow at his age beginning at the very lowest rung of the ladder when boys much younger than he were so far advanced. this applied not only to actual schooling but to all the little things wherein he saw he was different from these town-dwelling youngsters. mr. marston was interested. he invited john to call and see him after school. "i think we shall be able to talk our way out of this difficulty," he said, as the boy bade him good-by. at the appointed hour john appeared, eager to be convinced but altogether dubious. professor marston received him cordially, and, taking him into his private office, talked to him "like a dutch uncle," as john assured gray afterwards. he spoke to him out of his own wide experience, told him of men who had worked themselves up to a high place from small beginnings by determination and hard work. he showed john that he believed he could do the same, and finally brought back the confidence in himself which for a time had been banished. "how did you come out?" called gray as john burst into the hotel, his face beaming, his eyes alight--confidence in every gesture. "bully!" exclaimed he. "i'm going to start right in." "that's the way to talk," said his friend, delighted at his good spirits. "professor marston is going to help me, and i'm to get some one to night-herd me; between the two i'm going to round up all those things and put my brand on 'em. i mean," he hastened to explain, as he realized that gray might not be up on all the cow-punchers' phrases, "i hope to put away in my mind some of the things that go to make up book-learning." whereupon gray volunteered to act as his night-herder, as john called his tutor. the offer was gladly accepted, and the two went out to get the school books which mr. marston had recommended. john's first day was, as he expected, an ordeal. he was sensitive, and it tried his soul to stand up with the primary class--he almost a full-grown man. he heard the remarks spoken in an undertone that passed from lip to lip when he stepped forward with the youngsters, and he would have been glad to be able to get his hands on the whisperers and bang their heads together; but he only shut his firm jaws together a little tighter, clinched his hands, and drew his breath hard. he did not even know the multiplication table, but under gray's coaching he picked it up very rapidly. mr. marston made everything as easy for him as possible, and under the considerate aid of these two he made great strides in his mental training. his application and capacity for work was tremendous, and the amount he got through quite astonished his teachers. the jeers of his schoolmates, however, not always suppressed, drove him more and more to himself. gray, professor marston, and "lite" were his only companions. "lite" was now living in clover; never in his short life had he imagined such ease, so much provender, and so little work; he was therefore fat and exceedingly lively, so that when john was astride of him his master was able to show his schoolmates his absolute superiority in one thing at least. as he advanced in his studies and demonstrated his ability as a horseman and a boxer (he soon had an opportunity to show that he knew how to "put up his hands") the respect of his schoolmates increased--at least that of the boys did--but it was only the kindly glances from one girl's big soft eyes that saved the whole of girl-kind from complete repudiation on his part. john's first visit to a church was an event that he did not soon forget. it was at professor marston's invitation. he came early, and as he told gray afterward: "the millionaire took me clear up front. my clothes were stiff and my shoes squeaked, and i know everyone in the place was looking my way." the music was strange to him; the only thing familiar was "old hundred," and even that "had frills on it," he asserted. the form of service was new and the good clothes of both men and women oppressed him. the sermon, however, he could and did appreciate. a sermon was the only part of a religious service he had ever listened to. from time to time hardy missionaries visited the cow-camps and sheep-ranches, and he had often been one of the congregation that, rough though they were, and little as they appreciated what they heard, listened respectfully to the good man's sermon. john had often on such occasions, after the preacher had finished and gone away, mounted on the wagon tongue and repreached the sermon, using his own words but the same ideas. he was therefore able to appreciate and enjoy this sermon preached in what seemed to him a most elaborate house of worship. this was his first attendance at a "fancy church," and it was the last open one for a long time. in the evening he was wont to steal in, in time to hear the sermon, he excusing himself thus: "i can't do it all at once; i'll have to learn their ways first." the dinner at professor marston's which followed his first church-going was a red-letter occasion of another kind. john's earnestness and sincerity always made friends for him, and he speedily won the heart of mrs. marston. she took great interest in the boy and gave him many hints as to the ways of civilized life, so tactfully that he could feel only gratitude. he left her home full of content; he had discovered a new phase of life--to him a heretofore closed book--the "home beautiful." john worth was a good student, a hard, conscientious worker, and with the aid of his friend gray and his instructor he made more and more rapid progress. as spring advanced, he began to hear talk about "vacation"--a word the meaning of which was strange to him. when he found out what it was he wondered what new wrinkle would be "sprung" on him next. but it was a serious thing to him; he could not afford to stay in town and do nothing--he wanted to keep on with his work. professor marston called him into his office just before school closed, and after learning of his difficulty suggested that he get a job during the summer and come back to school in the fall, when he would give him work that would pay his necessary expenses while he kept on with studies. john's heart was filled with gratitude, but his benefactor would not listen to his thanks, and bade him good-by and good luck. the boy went away thinking he was indeed in luck. the only trouble was to secure a job for the summer. this problem was speedily solved by gray, who proposed that they should try to join a party of tourists that were to visit yellowstone park, and act as guides and guards. to their great joy they were able to accomplish this, and soon after the commencement festivities they rode out with the tourist outfit. john always had pleasure in remembering one of the number, a fearless, undaunted rider who won his admiration then, and still more later, when he became colonel roosevelt of the "rough riders." john in his old cowboy dress and mounted on lightning was happy enough; as for the horse, he fairly bubbled over with joy and gladness. he showed it in his usual unconventional fashion by trying to throw john "into the middle of next week," but his master understood him well and took all his pranks good-naturedly, sitting in the saddle as if it was an every-day occurrence and not worth bothering about. the boy's leech-like riding attracted the attention of his employers at once and especially one--a young easterner named sherman, who was a college man. the summer's experience was a very pleasant one; compared to the work and hardship that john had formerly endured this was child's play. on the long summer evenings young sherman would often join john while he was keeping his vigil over the saddle stock, and they would have long talks, john telling of his experiences with indians, cattle, and horses, while sherman in turn told of college life, its advantages and pleasures, and the hard work connected with it. shortly before the time set for the return of the party, sherman, who had learned to respect and like john greatly, said: "suppose you study hard next fall and spring and prepare for college. if you can bone up enough to pass the examinations i think i can get you a scholarship." the proposition took john's breath away, but he was not the kind of a boy to be "stumped," and when they separated he assured sherman that he'd do "some tall trying." the party of tourists among whom john was soon broke up. sherman went east after exacting a promise from john to "carry out that deal." john returned to ---- and to the academy, his path now marked out clearly before him and a prize worth striving for at the end. chapter xxi. twelve hundred miles awheel to college. the academy reopened with some new pupils and many old ones. john shook hands with his few friends, glad to get back, and, with firm determination to carry out the purpose that now possessed him, started to work. professor marston kept his word about the winter job, and john was duly installed as janitor of the building, with opportunity to make extra pay by sawing wood and doing errands. he was fully occupied, as may well be imagined, and poor lightning, though sure of good care, missed the companionship that both he and his master delighted in. john foresaw that he would not be able to keep the horse, and he finally decided what to do with him. he would give him his freedom. one day the boy took him out on the prairie some distance from the town. "lite, old boy," he began, rubbing his nose and patting him, "we've had good and bad times together, and we've been good friends, but we've got to separate now." he took off the saddle and bridle: "take care of yourself, old boy." the horse looked at him a moment inquiringly; then curvetted around a minute in high glee; but as he saw his much-loved master leaving him he turned and followed, refusing to be cast off. "go back, lite," john commanded, waving his hat to scare him. "go back!" but the little horse refused to leave him, and followed him back to town, where he was taken in and petted again. john was touched to the heart by this loyalty and affection. next day a stableman took him out among the range horses and dismissed him. this time he stayed, and john never saw or heard of him afterward. that was a wrench. lightning gone, john allowed himself no pleasures, but instead took every bit of work that came his way, whether it yielded money or knowledge. he joined the debating society and made it a duty to do his best when called upon. toward spring, as wood sawing became scarce, he took to delivering morning papers to the more distant parts of town; and in order to do this more quickly he hired an old bicycle, learned to ride it, and made his rounds just after daybreak on that. so he was able to get back to the school house and study a while before opening up. "i don't see how you do it all, worth," said professor marston. "well, i couldn't, i guess, if i didn't have a big stake to work for. if i keep my present school work up and study this summer i'll get into college this fall," and john told him of the offer sherman had made him. "i hope your friend won't forget," the professor suggested, fearing that his pupil was building high hopes on an insecure foundation. "he won't forget; he's not that kind." "i hope not; but how are you going to get there? it's a long way." john looked up quickly: he had not thought of that before. it was a serious question. "i don't know; but i'll get there somehow." he spoke confidently but he was much perplexed, for he was without money, his clothes were threadbare, and it was a necessity to study all summer, with no chance to earn money. it was certainly a question that could not be answered offhand. he studied over this matter for days and no solution presented itself. borrow he might, but this he would not do without giving security, and of security he had none. he left it for a while, hoping to be able to think of a way out of the difficulty later. before he realized it commencement had arrived, and with it the open meeting of the debating society at the opera house. to his astonishment he found that he was appointed one of the two orators of the occasion. in vain he protested that he was busy, that he was unfitted; he had to accept. "orator--opera house--me!" he fairly gasped with astonishment. he was rather worried about it, but gray, whom he consulted that night, reassured him. "don't worry, anyhow," he advised. "take a subject you're interested in, write out what you think about it, boil it down so you can repeat it in twenty minutes, then memorize it." john also consulted beeman, the other orator, who said he was going to speak about the chinese question. "against them," he said, in answer to the other's sharply put query. "that's the only way to please a crowd--take the popular side." "well, i'm going to take the side i want, and i'll tell 'em what i think about it, too," said john vehemently, his spirit thoroughly roused. "go ahead," said beeman, visions floating before him of an opportunity to hurl his thunders at a definite champion (and an inexperienced one) of an unpopular cause. [illustration: the sun river ranch house. (_page ._)] john set to work on his speech with his usual eagerness and energy. his heart was in it, and the prospect of a contest of wit or muscle always stirred him. he wrote, rewrote, cut down, filled in and polished until gray, his friend and critic, pronounced it "good stuff." in the meantime, he not only kept at work at his studies, his duties as janitor and paper boy, but he was at work at something else that he thought might prove most important. at a half-mile race track, a little distance out, a very early rising citizen, if he happened to be in that vicinity at daybreak, would have wondered greatly to see a half-clad figure on an old bicycle go flying round and round the track. if, overcome by curiosity, he had waited a while, he would have seen the same figure, neatly clothed, appear from under the grand stand carrying a bundle of papers under his arm. then if he watched he would see him mount an old bicycle and ride off. but this performance took place so very early that no one witnessed it. at last the day of the debating society's open meeting came--the day on which john was to make his first public appearance. his speech was complete, memorized, and ready for delivery. he spouted it for the last time to gray, who put the stamp of his approval on it and advised him to forget it all till the time came to speak. the opera house was crowded when john and gray reached it, for the town's people took great interest in its institutions, and of these the academy was one of the most important. john looked out from the wings on the sea of upturned faces, appalled. beeman came first. he went out before the audience, cool, self-possessed, graceful, and delivered his oration smoothly, forcibly, and well. he chose the popular side, and the audience rewarded him with generous applause. then john heard the chairman announce, "oration by john worth." he walked out from the dimness of the flies into the full glare of the brightly lighted stage, bewildered, and, without any preliminaries, began: "in the history of every country, however just, however good or great, there are certain pages besmirched by the record of black deeds of wrong." so his carefully written, carefully memorized speech began. as he stood before his audience he saw nothing but the pages of his manuscript: he felt that he must keep his mind on them or he would be lost. he followed down the first page, mentally turned it over, and began the second. beeman had touched a point on the second page, and treated it in a ridiculous way, he thought. his concentration was broken, and he began to fear for the first time that his memory would fail. a dozen lines down the second page he faltered, stopped, and stood riveted, miserable. the few moments' pause seemed endless. he tried to think of the next line, next page, anything; in vain, it was all a blank. the pile of manuscript, a minute ago so clearly before his mind's eye, had vanished, and he stood staring at the crowd before him. some one behind tried to prompt him; it brought him to life. beeman's fallacies had incensed him; he'd tell them so, and in no uncertain way. with a whole-arm gesture he mentally cast away his carefully prepared speech. "it's wrong! all wrong!" he said intensely, and with conviction in his tones. his own voice electrified him. his first few sentences were mere bursts of indignation, his tongue went on of its own volition, it could scarcely give utterance to his stirred feelings. as he went on, his emotions grew more quiet but none the less earnest. constant yodelling to cattle for years had given him a voice which carried to the farthest corner of the building. he had carefully studied his subject, and now that he had regained his nerve he spoke his mind with enthusiasm and vigor. his arguments were well chosen and his language terse and to the point. stimulated by excitement, new ideas came, and he uttered them with a confidence that afterward amazed even himself. parts of his own prepared oration came back to him and he spoke it as if it was impromptu, with force and freedom. the time had come to stop, and without a pause he launched out on his original peroration with the ease, confidence, and fire of a veteran orator. the closing sentence rang out clear and strong: "men and women of america, let us wipe out the blot from this page of our country's history and make her in truth the land of the free and the home of the brave." his speech over, john stumbled, rather than walked, off the stage to the street. the reaction was great. he did not hear the applause, the cheering; he did not know that he had aroused the enthusiasm of people naturally prejudiced against his side of the question. john went straight to his room and to bed, but not to sleep--his nervous tension would not allow that. the thing uppermost in his mind, the thing that worried him, was that he had forgotten his speech--the speech he had so carefully prepared and learned by heart. the papers had to be delivered in the morning, however, and a certain self-imposed engagement at the racetrack kept, so he was up betimes. after these two duties were finished, he rode down the street to discover if possible the depths of ignominy to which he had been brought by forgetting his speech. the idea that he had disgraced himself still clung to him. two fellows appeared right away, and before john could voice his greeting they called out: "say, worth, you just ate beeman up last night. are you sure you wrote it yourself?" "he doesn't know that i forgot it," thought john, who hesitated a minute before he answered aloud: "of course, it was all my own." "well, it was a rattling good speech, anyhow." john thanked him, and then the talk drifted to the games to be held next day, and to the bicycle race especially, where the winner would receive a brand new up-to-date bicycle as a prize. "that's going to be a hot old race," said searles, one of the two students. "every pedal kicker in town is after that new wheel." "yes, that's a prize worth riding for," and john had a look in his eyes that searles did not understand till later. several times that day persons of various degrees of importance--among them mr. haynes, the financial and political corner-stone of the community--stopped john, called him by name, and chatted pleasantly with him. mr. haynes said that he was a credit to the school and the town. so john's self-respect began to come back. his good fortune was dawning, now that he was making preparations to leave it all. field day came clear and beautiful, and the crowd came en masse to see the sports. a series of well-advertised events were to be run, the climax of which was the one-mile bicycle race. the prize wheel had stood labelled in the donor's window for a week, and every wheelman and boy in the neighborhood had gazed at and coveted it. the early events were well contested, and worked the spectators up to a fever heat of interest. by the time the bicycle race was announced the crowd was wildly enthusiastic. discussions as to the probable winner were rife. "there's none of them that'll beat tucker," said one. "he'll have a walk-over." "he won't walk over bolton," declared another. and so it went, till the contestants appeared on the track. tucker and bolton were the favorites. as the men lined up at the stake some one remarked: "why, there's worth, with the old bike, too. he's the fellow that made the speech. i thought he had more sense than to go out with that old rattle-trap." "they're off!" the shout went up as the starter's pistol cracked. tucker jumped to the front, and everybody cheered him; but bolton was near, and as the riders passed the stand for the first time it was seen that he was close behind. following bolton's rear wheel closely was a strange rider on an old wheel, whom the crowd did not recognize at first. "by george! it's worth," said a student, surprised. the men swept by, closely bunched, their wheels rattling, their legs going like pistons, and the bodies of some swaying as they exerted themselves to the utmost to keep up. "bolton's going past. he's leading!" and the speaker jumped up and down in his excitement. but john clung to the leader's rear wheel and went with him. faster and faster they raced, past tucker, opening a big gap between the bunch. bolton was riding for glory, but john was riding for something besides glory: his success meant position, standing, a great opportunity, a future. a hundred feet from the finishing tape he bent his head and made a tremendous effort. early morning training stood him in good stead now, for he began to gain on bolton, and inch by inch to pass him. the old machine groaned alarmingly, but it stood up to its work in spite of its protests. twenty feet from the finish john seemed to leap forward, and crossed the tape just ahead of the laboring bolton. the crowd was rather disappointed to see its favorites beaten, but applauded the winner generously as he went up to the judge's stand to receive his shining prize. gray was the first man to wring his hand; his was an honest, unfeigned, glad congratulation. "say, gray," said john, "you ride her home. i want a farewell ride on this old wheel. i pull out to-morrow." "what!" ejaculated gray in astonishment. "yes, that's what i wanted that wheel for. i straddle it to-morrow and go east. i haven't said anything about the plan, for i wasn't sure the wheel would be mine." "did you expect to win?" gray asked. "i've trained a month. that's what gave me the wind to finish so strong. you see my plans need transportation east. i had to win--i'm going to ride that wheel to college." that evening john bade the marstons good-by. they tried to dissuade him from going; they pictured the career that was open to him in the town where he had made friends and had gained a reputation, but his mind was made up, and though he was touched by their kindness, go he must. "i don't like to have you leave," said the professor. "you'll be thrown into circumstances unlike any you have ever met before. but i know that you can adapt yourself to new conditions, and for that reason it may be best for you while your mind is growing. you will never forget the west, but i feel sure you will not leave the east, once you are settled there. good-by, my boy, and god bless you." john never forgot the kind parting words nor professor marston's always considerate treatment. the two friends, worth and gray, talked long and earnestly that night and it was late when they retired, but at daybreak they were stirring. john ate a deliberate breakfast, strapped a few necessaries to his wheel, bade his friend a sincere farewell, and rode off. he pedalled on in the crisp morning air till he reached a high point, where he dismounted and took a long look at the town where he had struggled so hard, but which was the scene of his triumph as well as his trials. his satisfaction was mixed with regret, for he left behind good, true friends and a known esteem, for--he knew not what. the town lay in the hazy valley below, morning smoke-wreaths now curling from many chimneys, the gray shingle roofs embedded in dark-green foliage; it was a scene of contentment and rest. he contrasted this with other scenes, active, restless, hazardous ones; the cattle range, the sheep camp, and the mine. the thought of his home was not so clear as the later scenes, though he had visited it during his stay at school. he had found ben an almost grown-up, vigorous, business-like ranchman, glad to see his brother, but interested in his own affairs; not the same old boyish ben of old. it was with real regret that he turned and left the town that had in a way been a cradle and a home to him. he mounted his wheel and sped down the slope--eastward. day after day the traveller pushed on, following the windings of the roads now where formerly he would have ridden his horse as the crow flies. seventy miles a day. eighty miles a day. population increased; roads were better, ninety miles a day. his training for racing stood him in good stead. one hundred miles a day; his face always turned eastward. rains came; the roads became rivers of mud. he was driven to the drier railroad track and jolted along over the ties. sixty miles a day. the end not yet in sight, money exhausted, prospects not very cheerful; but with resolution undaunted he pushed along. a brickyard afforded temporary work. five dollars earned, he "hit the trail" again. midday was fiercely hot; he took advantage of the cool mornings, and by twilight pedalled continuously. wide swamps intervened. insects, stingingly vicious, beset him. the sand along the river banks was heart-breaking to a wheelman and the mountains formed almost unsurmountable barriers. people he met misdirected or were ignorant, and he often went far out of his way. but the goal was sighted at last. the day he reached sherman's town he made one hundred and twenty miles and rode up the main street a sorry specimen--tired, dirty, tanned leather color by sun, wind, and rain. his plans were fully made. the wheel was pawned at once, and two hours later john worth emerged from a little hotel, bathed, shaved, and neatly clothed. the address of his friend written for him was made nearly illegible by friction, sweat, and dirt. but by the aid of a friendly policeman he was able to find sherman's house. he rang the bell, was admitted promptly by a neat maid, and ushered into a sumptuously furnished parlor, the like of which he had never seen before. the chair that he at last dared to use was soft and luxurious, and the journey had wearied him so that he was just about dropping off to sleep when sherman entered. "how do you do, sir?" sherman's greeting was rather formal. "what can i do for you?" at the sound of his voice john started to his feet with a jump. "don't you know me, sherman?" he said. "you--you can't be john worth? why, bless my heart, is it really you?" cried sherman. in an instant the one idea that had sustained him through the trying hours and apparently endless miles of his journey came to john's mind. "yes," he said, the light of triumph in his eyes. "i'm john worth. and i've come to college." generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) mrs. leslie's books for little children. the little frankie series. books written or edited by a. r. baker, and sold by all booksellers. question books on the topics of christ's sermon on the mount. vol. i. for children. " ii. for youth. " iii. for adults. lectures on these topics, _in press_. mrs. leslie's sabbath school books. tim, the scissors grinder. sequel to "tim, the scissors grinder." prairie flower. the bound boy. the bound girl. virginia. the two homes; or, earning and spending. the organ-grinder, _in press_. question books. the catechism tested by the bible. vol. i. for children. " ii. for adults. the dermott family; or, stories illustrating the catechism. vol. i. doctrines respecting god and mankind. " ii. doctrines of grace. " iii. commandments of the first table. " iv. commandments of the second table. " v. conditions of eternal life. mrs. leslie's home life. vol. i. cora and the doctor. " ii. courtesies of wedded life. " iii. the household angel. mrs. leslie's juvenile series. vol. i. the motherless children. " ii. play and study. " iii. howard and his teacher. " iv. trying to be useful. " v. jack, the chimney sweeper. " vi. the young housekeeper. " vii. little agnes. the robin redbreast series. the robins' nest. little robins in the nest. little robins learning to fly. little robins in trouble. little robins' friends. little robins' love one to another. the little frankie series. little frankie and his mother. little frankie at his plays. little frankie and his cousin. little frankie and his father. little frankie on a journey. little frankie at school. [illustration: frankie's birth-day present.] little frankie on a journey. by mrs. madeline leslie, author of "the home life series;" "mrs. leslie's juvenile series," etc. boston: crosby and nichols. washington street. entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by a. r. baker, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. electrotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. little frankie on a journey. chapter i. frankie's birthday. "frankie," said mamma one evening, just as he was going to bed, "to-morrow you will be six years old; how should you like to have a party of your young friends?" "i should like it very much indeed," replied the boy, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. "you have been trying to improve lately, my dear, and have almost conquered your hasty temper. your father and i have been so much pleased with your conduct that we wish to reward you; so if you would like to have a party, i shall invite as many of your young friends as you please." "o, what a kind mamma!" exclaimed frankie, clasping his arms around his mother's neck. "i mean to try to be just as good as i can." the little boy then knelt by his low bed, and said his evening prayer. perhaps you would like to hear it. "o god! thou art very good. thou hast given me a kind father and mother, and food to eat, clothes to wear, and many other favors. wilt thou forgive all my sins, and make me a good boy, so that when i die, i can go to heaven to live with thee, for my dear saviour's sake. amen." this little prayer frankie had learned when he was four years old, and he had repeated it every night since that time. beside this he said the pretty verse beginning "now i lay me down to sleep," and then added a short prayer of his own, asking god to bless papa and mamma, willie, nelly, and margie; to keep the house from being burned while they were asleep; and to make the heathen good, for jesus christ's sake. when frankie was nearly five years old, a large house in the neighborhood had been burned to the ground. he was aroused from his sleep by the loud ringing of the bells, and the cry of fire, and sat for a long time gazing from his mother's window at the bright, red flame. ever since that time he had always prayed god to keep the house from being burned while they were asleep. in the morning, frankie said the lord's prayer, and this pretty little hymn, which perhaps you will like to learn:-- "fled away are the shadows of night; the morning is smiling and clear; the sun has arisen all bright, and the birds fly aloft in the air. "the sweet robins sing on the tree, the little lambs skip on the hill, and loud hum the bees as they work, their houses with honey to fill. "'tis time for the children to wake: come, little ones, open your eyes; and your thanks and your praises return to the being who governs the skies. "he has guarded you, all the long night, from sickness, and danger, and pain, and brought you, in safety and peace, to a beautiful morning again. "whatever your parents command, be ready and willing to do; for that, my dear child, is the way to be happy, and prosperous too. "but if (as is sometimes the case) you should happen to do a thing wrong, just own it, and let not a lie, in any case, come from your tongue. "for the child who is gentle and kind, and obliges as far as he can, may be sure to be loved while a boy, and respected when grown to a man." the next morning, when frankie went down to breakfast, willie sprang out from behind the door, and gave him six loud kisses. then he took from his pocket a beautiful new humming top, and said, "here is your birthday present." frankie had hardly time to say, "o, how pretty! i thank you very much," when nelly came in smiling, and looking very happy, with something hidden behind her. "let me give you some birthday kisses," she said, reaching forward and putting up her pretty red lips--one, two, three, four, five, six. "now guess what i've got for you;" and she began to laugh merrily. frankie looked very grave, because he was trying to guess. he would have said a new hoop, only he thought if it was that, he should see it sticking out from behind her dress. "you can't tell, i know," shouted nelly. "will you give up?" "yes," said frankie. "there!" exclaimed the little girl, with a quick motion bringing from behind her a large tin tip cart, with two red oxen waiting to draw it along. "isn't it pretty? i bought it with my own spending money, and i've been saving it for your birthday ever so long." "o, i do thank you!" exclaimed the delighted boy; and he kissed his cousin more than six times, and then began to roll the cart on the floor. "come to breakfast now," said mamma; "and then you shall play with your new toys." after the children had been to prayers with their parents, they ran up to the play room. sally was turning the mattress in her mistress's room; but as soon as she heard their voices, she presented little frankie a small handkerchief with two pretty pictures printed upon it. one was of two little girls taking a walk, and meeting a poor, lame beggar man; the other of a good boy standing at the door; calling his sister to take a ride. perhaps, some time, i will repeat to you the pretty hymns which were printed underneath; but now it is time for me to close this chapter. chapter ii. frankie's party. perhaps you will wonder whether papa and mamma gave frankie a present. yes, they did; but he did not see it until the evening when his little friends came to his party. jane, too, and even little margie, remembered it was his birthday, and had a present ready for him. jane, with the consent of her mistress, had made a large frosted cake for his company; and margie gave him a beautiful white kitten, with not one black hair on it. as it was a holiday, there were no lessons to be learned. mamma took a walk to the store; and she allowed nelly and frankie to go with her and carry the basket in which she intended to bring back the nuts for the party. but first she showed them a small basket full of notes which she had written, inviting the little boys and girls to come and pass the evening with frankie, and help him to keep his birthday. willie and margie were to carry them, as there was no school. ponto was very lively that morning. he seemed to understand that his young master was unusually happy; and he kept jumping up on him, wagging his tail, and trying to lick his hands and face. willie had taught him to carry a basket in his teeth; and as soon as they started on their walk he began to whine, and put his nose into the basket until they gave it to him. then he trotted along quite contentedly after them. it was a very hot day, and after dinner mamma tried to persuade the little folks to lie down and get a nap, so as to be bright and fresh for the evening. nelly at last lay down on the lounge in her aunt's bed room; and then frankie brought his pillow, and lay on the floor by her. they were so happy, they wanted to talk about the party. mamma was lying on the lounge, too. she was very tired after her long walk in the morning, and wanted to go to sleep. but the children's tongues ran so fast, that she could not. she laughed, at last, at the very idea of sleeping there, and took her pillow into nelly's room, where it was dark and cool; and presently had forgotten all her fatigue. about seven o'clock the little folks began to arrive. in august, you know, the days are very long, so that it was still light, and as the sun was down, it was the pleasantest part of the day. mr. and mrs. gray sat on the large iron chairs belonging to the portico, and shook hands with the little girls and boys coming up the avenue; then joining the company on the lawn, where willie and two of the larger girls were planning some games for them. after they had enjoyed themselves in this way for an hour, mrs. gray called margie from the lawn, and told her to invite the children to come in. then she introduced them into the parlor, where on the table they saw a large pile of cards, nearly half a yard in length, with beautiful pictures on them, representing animals and birds; some of them as large as life. these, which came in a long box, with a brass handle on the top, were frankie's birthday present from papa and mamma. at first the little fellow was so surprised, that he could not speak a word; but then he ran, first to his mother and then to his father, put his arms around their necks, and thanked them over and over again. his father went to the table and distributed the cards round among the excited, happy group, and for half an hour there was one continued shout of delight in examining them. "o, see this great elephant!" said one little boy; "he is winding his nose around that baby, and is going to kill him." "no, indeed!" said mamma, "that baby is the child of his keeper, the man who takes care of him, and feeds him. see, the soldiers are coming up, and the good elephant is afraid they will hurt his little charge; so he takes it very gently in his trunk, or proboscis, and puts it over behind him into a safer place." "i like that elephant," said frankie; "but i shouldn't think the baby's mamma would leave him to take care of it. i should think she herself would keep it in her arms." "what is this lion doing?" asked a pretty, blue-eyed girl, named rosa. "see, it is holding out its paw." "it is learning to shake hands, i should think," said willie, laughing aloud. "there is a very pretty story connected with that," said his father. "there was once a slave who ran away from his master, and hid in a cave. after he had been there a short time he heard a noise, and looking around he saw he was in a lion's den. his heart began to beat faster than ever, for he thought, 'i have run away only to be killed by this lion.' he fixed his eyes upon the beast, expecting every minute that he would jump upon him and tear him to pieces. "presently the great lion came slowly up to him, and held out his paw, as you see in the picture. the slave then saw that there was a large thorn sticking in his foot. he pitied the poor creature, though he expected every minute to be killed by him. he took the paw gently in his hands, got firm hold of the thorn, and pulled it out. "the lion was very much obliged to him, though he could not say so in words. he lay down at the slave's feet, to show him that he would not injure him. "a few days after, some men were hunting in the forest; and they caught the great lion, and carried him away with them; and they also caught the poor slave, and took him back to his master, who was the king. the king was very angry with him for running away, and ordered that he should be thrown into a den with a hungry lion, who would eat him up. "this was a dreadfully cruel punishment; but as the king had ordered it, a great many people gathered together to see it inflicted. the den was opened, and a great, fierce lion came bounding in, leaping and roaring for his food. presently another door was opened, and the poor slave was seen crouching back against the wall to escape from his terrible enemy. "as soon as the lion saw him, he gave one tremendous roar, and sprang several yards toward the slave. "then all the people gave a great shout, for they thought that, almost before they could look again, the slave would be dead. but to their great surprise, the fierce, hungry lion, that had had no food for two days, was on his knees before the slave, who had his arms around the animal's neck, embracing him as if he were his dearest friend. "the king was so astonished at this sight, that he cried out, 'pardon! pardon!' so they took the slave from the den, and threw in another criminal, who was instantly torn to pieces." i have spent so much time telling you about these beautiful pictures, that i can only say the children were invited into the dining hall, where they were feasted on nuts, cake, fruit, and lemonade; and went home, after thanking mrs. gray for inviting them to so pleasant a party. frankie, when he kissed his mamma good night, said, "i wish i could have a birthday every week, i like them so much." chapter iii. frankie's journey. a few weeks after this birthday, frankie went a journey with papa, and mamma, and willie, and nelly. nelly's father and mother had been home two or three months; but they found their little girl improving so fast under her aunt's care and teaching, that they did not like to take her away. nelly was very well contented to remain with her kind friends; and when she found frankie alone in a room by himself, crying because he thought her mother had come to carry her home, she promised she would live with him always. mr. gray hired a carriage and a span of handsome horses, and one fine morning in september they started off; papa and willie on the front seat, and mamma with frankie and nelly on the back. sometimes, though, they wanted to change, and the two little ones rode in front with papa, while willie took their place behind. then once in a while, when they were tired, papa would stop the horses, and let them all get out and walk up a long hill; and o, how fast the little feet would fly, trying to see who would reach the top first! it made this good papa and mamma happy to see their children enjoy themselves so well. they travelled on for several days; and one night they came to a small town, where mr. gray said he would put up. they drove to the tavern, and soon were shown to a room up stairs. while they were waiting for supper, frankie asked, "what is the name of this town, papa?" "it is canaan, my dear," replied his father. the little boy now gazed around with great interest; went to the window and looked out, and presently said, "it don't seem very pleasant, papa; but i suppose the israelites were glad to get here." frankie thought this canaan was the pleasant land which god promised to his chosen people. if you don't know about it, ask your mamma to tell you how the israelites wandered in the wilderness for forty years, eating manna for bread, and quails for meat, all the time longing to reach canaan, where there was an abundance of milk and honey, and you will know why frankie thought they would be glad to get there. papa and mamma laughed heartily when he said this, and papa told him that canaan was a great way off from this place. it was the name of a whole country, while this was only a small town. when frankie heard this, he walked away from the window, and sat quietly by mamma until they were called to tea. the next morning the road led through a large forest of pine trees. the wind was blowing quite a breeze, and frankie was glad to get under his mother's shawl on the back seat of the carriage. he lay so still that she thought he was asleep; but at last he asked, "are these mulberry trees, mamma?" "no, dear, they are pine." "well, mamma," said the little fellow, "they sound like mulberry trees." "where did you ever hear any, my dear?" asked his mother. "why, you know," said he, "that you read me in the bible about 'the sound of the going in the tops of the mulberry trees,' and i think it was just like this." before they started from home, mrs. gray had partly promised her sister-in-law that she would stop there with nelly and frankie on their return, and make a visit; but on the last day of their journey, it was quite cold and rainy. mr. nelson, her brother, lived in a town several miles out of their way; and so she concluded to go directly home, and start again when it was pleasant. after riding ten or twelve miles, frankie and his little cousin became very tired. the rain prevented their getting out of the carriage for a run, neither could they sit on the front seat and watch the horses. "i wish i had a watch," said frankie; "i don't like to trouble you, mamma, to take yours out so often; but i do want to know what time it is." "i mean to ask father to buy me a watch," said nelly, "just as soon as i go home." "how much farther have we to go, papa?" asked frankie. the rain was pattering so fast on the top of the carriage, that he did not hear at first; but when willie repeated his brother's question, papa said, "we have ten miles to go before dinner; and then twenty-two afterwards. how many does that make?" frankie thought for a minute, and then answered, "thirty-two, papa." "if you're so tired," said willie, "why don't you play school? i'll be the first class." "so will i," said papa, laughing. "o, that will be splendid!" said nelly, clapping her hands. "will you be the teacher, mamma?" asked frankie, quite forgetting his fatigue. "no, dear, willie may turn his back to the horses, and be the teacher first. you can take turns." "why didn't i think of this way before?" said willie; "it's real nice. the rain came pouring right in my face. now i can put this shawl up, and keep it all off." "you crowd my knees dreadfully," said frankie. "don't be impatient, dear," said his mother. "we must all try to be accommodating when we are out in the rain. your brother has been sitting very patiently with the rain beating in his face, and you will be glad, i'm sure, to have him with us behind." "i can't move my feet at all," said frankie, in an impatient tone. "move a little this way, then; i am sure we can make room for all. perhaps," she said softly, "there is somebody in your corner who ought to be driven out." the little boy turned quickly round before he thought that his mother meant satan; and this made them all laugh. frankie was still rather fretful, but willie began blowing with all his might. willie and nelly both looked so merry that he put away his naughty feelings, began to laugh, and soon found plenty of room on the seat. [illustration] chapter iv. playing school. "now i'll give you a word to spell," said willie; "i bet none of you can spell it right." "don't say _bet_, my dear," said his mother. "it is not a good word to use. beside, you are a teacher now, you know." "the boys at school all say _bet_, mother," answered willie. "i don't see any hurt in it." "but do they really bet?" asked his father. "o, no, indeed, sir! it is only a habit they have of saying so." "it is a low expression," said his mother. "i wish you wouldn't use it." "well, i won't, mother, when i can think of it. but i'll give you the word. it is constantinople." "it is a long word," said mamma. "but i will try it;" and the lady's eyes twinkled as she began, "c-o-n, con; s-t-a-n, constan!" "stop! please stop, mother!" shouted willie, laughing heartily. "you know it; let me try father?" "no, try me," said nelly; "try me once!" "well, i will. spell con." "c-o-n, con," repeated nelly slowly, looking steadily in her cousin's face. "that is right; stan." "s-t-a-n," said nelly. "yes; now spell ti," added willie. "t-i, ti." "no," said the boy, shaking his head solemnly. "t-y," again tried the little girl. "no," said willie still more seriously. "t-i-e," shouted frankie. "no," again repeated willie. "n-o, no," said his father. nelly and her cousin looked astonished. "o father! that wasn't fair," cried willie. "they wouldn't have spelt it at all." "when i went to school," said his father, laughing, "any body in the class had a right to spell the word if the others missed it." when the travellers stopped for dinner, it rained so hard, that mr. gray said he didn't know as they would be able to go on. they were in a small, poorly-furnished tavern; and it did not look as if they would have a very good time if they staid. "we are quite comfortable behind," said the lady; "but it must be very bad for you." "the boot comes up so high that it keeps the rain out, except from my face," said mr. gray. "perhaps i can manage in some way to carry an umbrella." "that would be too hard," replied the lady. "if you think it best, i am willing to stay." after waiting at the tavern about two hours for the horses to rest, mr. gray told the children to make haste and put on their clothes, as the carriage was coming to the door. they did not know, until then, whether they were to go or stay. "do you think it best to go?" asked the lady. "it is raining so hard, i am afraid you will be very wet." "o, look at the carriage, papa!" shouted frankie, as it drove past the window. "i found a nice leather curtain in the box," said the gentleman, "which will shield me entirely." "what a pity you did not find it this morning!" said willie. when they were seated in the carriage, they rode for nearly a mile before there was much said by the children. the new curtain proved a good screen from the rain, so that mr. gray was able to enjoy the ride as well as the rest of the party. frankie had been watching the drops as they fell from the lower edge of the curtain upon the leather boot; at last he said, "it seems as if we were in the ark." "why?" asked his mother, with a smile. "because--because it seems as if we were out in the rain, with waters all around us; but we are safe in here, and nothing can harm us." "what shall we do now?" asked willie. "play school again? i call it real good fun." "let us sing," said nelly. "so we will; so we will!" and they began the sweet hymn commencing,-- "jesus, thou heavenly stranger, who dwelt in mortal clay! thy cradle was a manger, thy softest bed was hay." "o, mamma!" cried frankie, when they had finished the tune, "can i read the pretty verses on my handkerchief?" "yes, dear, i should like to hear them," said mamma. this was sally's birthday present, which he had kept nicely folded in his coat pocket. i have already described to you the picture, which was of a little boy calling his sister to take a ride. frankie could read now quite well, though he was obliged to pronounce the words slowly, once in a while stopping to spell one to himself. he began,-- "the coach is ready, sister; run, and put your gloves and bonnet on; it is about a week ago our parents promised us, you know, if we were good, that we, to-day, should have the coach and ride away. our cousins, too, are all at home; how glad they'll be to see us come! and they, such lovely girls and boys, will have so many pretty toys! and we shall have the sweetest ride, through trees along the river side! come, sister; come, make no delay! 'tis time for us to start away. what ails you, mary? ar'n't you well? what makes you cry so? sister, tell!" "harry, i can't; don't ask me why; and yet i must--_i've told a lie_! and here shut up i'm doomed to stay, and mourn and weep the livelong day. i shall not dare my face to show, nor join the children's plays, you know; they'll see my tears, and then inquire what i have done--and call me _liar_. and, harry, i'm afraid that you and harriet will hate me too. but what is worst of all, mamma don't speak to me, nor does papa; not once upon me have they smiled, since i was such a wicked child. o, it will break my heart, i'm sure! i never told a lie before, and never, _never_ will again, if i their pardon can obtain. go--it is time that you were gone, and leave me here to cry alone." nelly sighed two or three times while her little cousin was reading; and when he had finished, she said, "i'm glad i don't tell lies now. i didn't use to know how wicked it was." mrs. gray bent down and kissed her little niece, and then said, "i am sure, my dear, god will forgive the past, if you ask him, for the sake of his dear son." "i wonder whether her mother let her go to ride," said frankie, fixing his eyes on the picture. "i should think she would, when the little girl was so sorry." as no one replied to his remark, he said, presently, "here is another pretty piece; may i read this too, mamma?" "perhaps nelly would like to read," said the lady. "o, yes, aunty," said the little girl; "may i, frankie?" he passed her the handkerchief, though he did not do it very cheerfully. "thank you," said nelly. "you can look over with me, if you want to." then she began to read the verses that were underneath the picture of the little girls and the poor beggar:-- "look, sister, see how rich i be! six cents mamma has given me, because it is a holiday; and now i'm going off to play. but let me think: what shall i buy? a cake--or else some pretty toy! i've wanted long a jumping jack. well, that i'll buy, and not a cake. but stop, dear sister; who is this? a poor old man!--how lame he is! how lean he looks, and ragged too!-- give him some dinner, sister, do. now he will have to go away, and beg his dinner every day. i wish i had a dollar now; six cents will buy some dinner, though; and as he travels on the road, some biscuits would taste very good; and he shall have them--so i'll play without a jumping jack to-day." chapter v. nelly's present. when mrs. gray reached home, she found a letter there for her from her brother. she read it through, looking very much pleased; and then she told nelly that her father and mother sent their love to her, and hoped she would come home very soon. it was now more than a year since she came to live with her aunt; and she was delighted with the idea of the visit. "but i shall come right back again with you, shan't i?" and she gazed earnestly in her aunt's face. "we will see about that," said the lady, "when we get there." and then she added, "i couldn't spare you at all, my little girl. i hope to have you with me for a good many years yet." nelly was so much pleased at this, that she jumped up and kissed her aunt, and exclaimed, "i love you dearly, dearly!" two days later, when they were a little rested from their journey, the same carriage and horses came to the door, and they drove away toward nelly's old home. it was only twelve miles, and the horses trotted over the road very quickly, so that in less than two hours they came in sight of the pleasant orchards and gardens surrounding mr. nelson's house. then mrs. gray, after a smiling glance at her husband, said, "nelly, your mamma has a pretty present for you at home." "what is it, aunty? i can't think of any thing that i want." "it is the best present you ever had, my dear," said the lady, smiling. "o, i guess it's a watch," cried frankie, in an animated tone. "no, it's a little brother," said aunty; "a darling baby brother." nelly opened wide her bright blue eyes, and then gave a scream of joy. it was well they were just riding up the avenue to the house, or they might not have been able to keep the excited child in the carriage. "where's my baby? where's my brother?" she called out, running up the steps and into the front door. fortunately her father was in the library. he came quickly to the door to welcome nelly and his friends. she could scarcely stop to give him a kiss, before she said, "i want to see my baby, papa--where is it?" "run very softly up in the nursery," said the gentleman, laughing at her impatience. "you will find it there with maria." nelly darted up the stairs, and was presently kneeling on the floor by the cradle which held the tiny form of the baby. when her aunt gently followed her into the room, she saw her, with flushed cheeks and wondering eyes, still gazing at the sleeping babe. presently she turned away with an air of disappointment. "it isn't as large as my great dolly," she said. maria, who had charge of the infant, now returned from the next room, and began to welcome nelly home again. she courtesied to mrs. gray, though the lady could see that she had never forgiven her for not allowing her to remain with the little girl. "how is mrs. nelson?" asked mrs. gray. "very poorly as yet, ma'am. she is in the next room." "why, mamma, are you sick?" inquired nelly, running into the chamber, and climbing on the side of the bed. "take care, nelly," cried her aunt. "don't jar the bed so; your mamma has been very ill." "i'm sorry," said the little girl, affectionately, and she kissed her mother's pale hand. "may i show frankie my baby now?" she asked, turning to her aunt. "if you will go very softly, dear. remember, noise will make your mamma worse." then mrs. gray went into the next room, and took off her bonnet and shawl. after this, she returned to the nursery, where the baby was still sleeping. nelly and her cousin were just going out, each walking on tip-toe, so as not to hurt mamma. "i never saw a child so much changed," said the old lady who took care of mrs. nelson. "i was here two years ago to nurse her mother; and she was the torment of the house." "she is very easily managed, now," answered mrs. gray. "she obeys my slightest look." "we've a little mite of a fellow in there," said the good nurse; "he only weighed three pounds and a quarter with his clothes on. i never thought he would live till this time." "is he quiet?" asked the aunt. "he has turns of screaming dreadfully," answered the nurse. "that is what has kept his mother so ill." at this moment they heard mr. gray and mr. nelson coming up the stairs, and the nurse opened the door and beckoned them into the nursery, as the sick lady was trying to get some sleep while the baby was quiet. maria had been sitting in the room with her work; but now she arose and said, "baby will be likely to sleep a spell now, and i'll go down to the kitchen and do my ironing." "i will take care of him till you return," said mrs. gray. her husband and willie were to ride home in the afternoon, and so her brother had invited them up to see his little son. he seemed very anxious about the baby, and asked his sister whether she thought it would live. before she answered, the lady bent gently over the cradle, and put her ear down to its chest. it was in such a deep sleep that it almost seemed as if it were already dead. "i cannot tell," she said, seriously, "until i have seen it when awake." after dinner, before her husband returned home, she called him into the parlor, and told him she was afraid maria gave the baby something to make it sleep so heavily, and she was determined to stay and watch her, and try to save the dear child. chapter vi. the wicked nurse. for two days mrs. gray scarcely left the nursery for a moment. the poor little babe would lie and sleep for hours together, and when he was awake he would scream and throw his head back as if he was going into a fit. the lady would take him from maria, and hold him on her breast, and carry him about the room trying to soothe him, until at last he would fall asleep again. all this time she had never been able to see that maria gave him any thing but his food. this was cream and boiling water, made pretty sweet with loaf sugar, and she fed him with a spoon. one day the lady came in just as she was going to feed him, and asked to taste of it. maria held up the cup without speaking. "it is very nice," said the lady. "i can't see why it distresses him so." she then turned to leave the room, but as she did so, she saw a strange kind of smile come over maria's face; and it brought all the old suspicions to her mind. when she reached the entry, she came suddenly back again, and saw maria pouring some dark-colored drops from a small vial into the cup. then she took the spoon and began to feed the baby again, laying the vial close behind her on the chair. mrs. gray sprang forward before maria knew she was in the room, caught it, and held it up to the light. the word laudanum was printed on the label. for one moment, her heart beat so fast that she could not speak; then she snatched the poor baby from maria's arms, threw a large cradle blanket around him, and ran down stairs to the library, where her brother was writing. "here, edward," she exclaimed,--"here is the food maria feeds your little son upon;" and she held out the bottle toward him. "i have suspected her all along; but to-day i saw her pouring some into the cup." "where is the wretch?" asked the poor father, his cheeks growing very white. "how dared she do this?" when they returned to the nursery, maria had run away to the chamber in the attic, where she kept her trunk; but she had forgotten to take care of the cup into which she had poured the laudanum. while they were tasting and examining it, the doctor came in, and said that he wondered, with such feeding, that the baby had not died long before. "we have all been to blame," said the doctor; "and if it had not been for your sister, mr. nelson, i think the child could not have lived many days." mrs. gray pressed the poor suffering baby to her heart, and resolved that she would watch over it until a good, faithful nurse could be provided. she then rang the bell for some fresh cream and water, while her brother went to the attic to send maria from the house. he found her busy packing her trunks, for she had sense enough to know that she would not be allowed to stay longer. he told her she must leave immediately, and that her trunks should be sent after her. he took out his pocket book, and paid her the week's wages that were her due, saying he would not have such a wicked creature in the house another minute. maria cried, and begged on her knees to be allowed to take her trunks with her, until her master began to think she had some things in them which did not belong to her. he stepped back into the entry, and told nelly, who was in the lower hall, to tell the cook to come up to him. this was a good woman, who had lived with him ever since he was married. when she came, he told her to examine maria's trunks, and see whether there was any silver in them, or other articles belonging to the house. maria cried, and wrung her hands, and said it was cruel to treat her so; but her master stood by the door, his countenance growing every moment more stern, while the cook drew out from the bottom of the trunk three small jars of jelly, four silver teaspoons, one silver fork, a gold thimble, and three richly-worked collars, all of which the gentleman recognized as belonging to his wife. in spite of the tears and groans of the wicked woman, mr. nelson sent for an officer to arrest her, for he felt sure, if she would steal and lie, and more than all, if she would give a child that which she knew would destroy its life, she ought to be punished for her crimes. mrs. gray did not return home for nearly two weeks, and then she left the little baby, who had been named eddy, in the care of a good woman, who gave him nourishing milk from her own breast. the little fellow now began to thrive and grow, though the doctor said he would be a long time in recovering from maria's cruel treatment. mr. nelson was so much delighted with the improvement in his little girl, that he consented to her returning with her aunty, though it was a great trial to have her remain from home. nelly and frankie had taken almost the whole care of themselves during the three weeks of their stay, improving the pleasant autumn weather by running all over the garden and grounds. back of the house, there was a beautiful grove of chestnut trees, from two of which was suspended a swing. here the children passed many happy hours. sometimes they sat under the delightful shade with their books in their hands, reading aloud by turns as they did when at home. sometimes they would sing their pretty songs, or repeat favorite verses. then, when they were tired of these quiet amusements, they would skip through the walks with arms interlaced, or jump the rope, or play at hide and seek. at the lower end of the garden, the smooth gravelled walks were lined with high lattices upon which were trained peach trees, in the shape of fans. these afforded fine places to hide, which were eagerly improved by the children. mrs. gray often found herself joining the merry shout which echoed through the garden when either nelly or her cousin was successful in the search. "o, how i wish ponto were here!" exclaimed frankie one day, sinking on the grass and panting for breath. "he would have found you out long before i did. that was a real funny place to hide. i kept hearing you call, 'coop, coop,' but never thought of looking in there." "yes, indeed!" cried nelly, laughing and shaking back her curls. "at first i was afraid i couldn't creep in, the bushes grew so close to the ground. i could peep through the leaves and see you looking every where. when you were near, i kept as still as i could; but when you ran away to look in another place i'd call 'coop' again. o, it's splendid fun!" "well, master frankie," said nelly's papa on the morning when they were leaving for home, "i am much obliged to you for taking such good care of my little girl. your mamma has promised to leave you and nelly here while she goes a journey in the autumn." "we have had a real good visit, uncle," replied frankie, his eye sparkling with joy, "and i shall be very glad to come again." "now," said nelly, as they drove away from the door, "we are ready to begin school again." transcriber's note: spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained as they appear in the original publication except as follows: page gently in his trunk, or probosis _changed to_ gently in his trunk, or proboscis conditionally human by walter m. miller, jr. illustrated by david stone [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction february . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] they were such cute synthetic creatures, it was impossible not to love them. of course, that was precisely why they were dangerous! there was no use hanging around after breakfast. his wife was in a hurt mood, and he could neither endure the hurt nor remove it. he put on his coat in the kitchen and stood for a moment with his hat in his hands. his wife was still at the table, absently fingering the handle of her cup and staring fixedly out the window at the kennels behind the house. he moved quietly up behind her and touched her silk-clad shoulder. the shoulder shivered away from him, and her dark hair swung shiningly as she shuddered. he drew his hand back and his bewildered face went slack and miserable. "honeymoon's over, huh?" she said nothing, but shrugged faintly. "you knew i worked for the f.b.a.," he said. "you knew i'd have charge of a district pound. you knew it before we got married." "i didn't know you killed them," she said venomously. "i won't have to kill many. besides, they're only animals." "_intelligent_ animals!" "intelligent as a human imbecile, maybe." "a small child is an imbecile. would you kill a small child?" "you're taking intelligence as the only criterion of humanity," he protested hopelessly, knowing that a logical defense was useless against sentimentality. "baby--" "don't call me baby! call _them_ baby!" norris backed a few steps toward the door. against his better judgment, he spoke again. "anne honey, look! think of the _good_ things about the job. sure, everything has its ugly angles. but think--we get this house rent-free; i've got my own district with no bosses around; i make my own hours; you'll meet lots of people that stop in at the pound. it's a _fine_ job, honey!" she sipped her coffee and appeared to be listening, so he went on. "and what can i do? you know how the federation handles employment. they looked over my aptitude tests and sent me to bio-administration. if i don't want to follow my aptitudes, the only choice is common labor. that's the _law_." "i suppose you have an aptitude for killing babies?" she said sweetly. norris withered. his voice went desperate. "they assigned me to it because i _liked_ babies. and because i have a b.s. in biology and an aptitude for dealing with people. can't you understand? destroying unclaimed units is the smallest part of it. honey, before the evolvotron, before anthropos went into the mutant-animal business, people used to elect dogcatchers. think of it that way--i'm just a dogcatcher." her cool green eyes turned slowly to meet his gaze. her face was delicately cut from cold marble. she was a small woman, slender and fragile, but her quiet contempt made her loom. he backed closer to the door. "well, i've got to get on the job." he put on his hat and picked at a splinter on the door. he frowned studiously at the splinter. "i--i'll see you tonight." he ripped the splinter loose when it became obvious that she didn't want to be kissed. he grunted a nervous good-by and stumbled down the hall and out of the house. the honeymoon was over, all right. he climbed in the kennel-truck and drove east toward the highway. the suburban street wound among the pastel plasticoid cottages that were set approximately two to an acre on the lightly wooded land. with its population legally fixed at three hundred million, most of the country had become one big suburb, dotted with community centers and lined with narrow belts of industrial development. norris wished there were someplace where he could be completely alone. as he approached an intersection, he saw a small animal sitting on the curb, wrapped in its own bushy tail. its oversized head was bald on top, but the rest of its body was covered with blue-gray fur. its tiny pink tongue was licking daintily at small forepaws with prehensile thumbs. it was a cat-q- . it glanced curiously at the truck as norris pulled to a halt. he smiled at it from the window and called, "what's your name, kitten?" the cat-q- stared at him impassively for a moment, let out a stuttering high-pitched wail, then: "kiyi rorry." "whose child are you, rorry?" he asked. "where do you live?" the cat-q- took its time about answering. there were no houses near the intersection, and norris feared that the animal might be lost. it blinked at him, sleepily bored, and resumed its paw-washing. he repeated the questions. "mama kiyi," said the cat-q- disgustedly. "that's right, mama's kitty. but where is mama? do you suppose she ran away?" the cat-q- looked startled. it stuttered for a moment, and its fur crept slowly erect. it glanced around hurriedly, then shot off down the street at a fast scamper. he followed it in the truck until it darted onto a porch and began wailing through the screen, "mama no run ray! mama no run ray!" norris grinned and drove on. a class-c couple, allowed no children of their own, could get quite attached to a cat-q- . the felines were emotionally safer than the quasi-human chimp-k series called "neutroids." when a pet neutroid died, a family was broken with grief; but most couples could endure the death of a cat-q or a dog-f. class-c couples were allowed two lesser units or one neutroid. his grin faded as he wondered which anne would choose. the norrises were class-c--defective heredity. * * * * * he found himself in sherman iii community center--eight blocks of commercial buildings, serving the surrounding suburbs. he stopped at the message office to pick up his mail. there was a memo from chief franklin. he tore it open nervously and read it in the truck. it was something he had been expecting for several days. attention all district inspectors: subject: deviant neutroid. you will immediately begin a systematic and thorough survey of all animals whose serial numbers fall in the bermuda-k- series for birth dates during july . this is in connection with the delmont negligency case. seize all animals in this category, impound, and run proper sections of normalcy tests. watch for mental and glandular deviation. delmont has confessed to passing only one non-standard unit, but there may be others. he disclaims memory of deviant's serial number. this could be a ruse to bring a stop to investigations when one animal is found. be thorough. if allowed to reach age-set or adulthood, such a deviant could be dangerous to its owner or to others. hold all seized k- s who show the slightest abnormality in the normalcy tests. forward to central lab. return standard units to their owners. accomplish entire survey project within seven days. c. franklin norris frowned at the last sentence. his district covered about two hundred square miles. its replacement-quota of new neutroids was around three hundred animals a month. he tried to estimate how many of july's influx had been k- s from bermuda factory. forty, at least. could he do it in a week? and there were only eleven empty neutroid cages in his kennel. the other forty-nine were occupied by the previous inspector's "unclaimed" inventory--awaiting destruction. he wadded the memo in his pocket, then nosed the truck onto the highway and headed toward wylo city and the district wholesale offices of anthropos, inc. they should be able to give him a list of all july's bermuda k- serial numbers that had entered his territory, together with the retailers to whom the animals had been sold. a week's deadline for finding and testing forty neutroids would put him in a tight squeeze. he was halfway to wylo city when the radiophone buzzed on his dashboard. he pulled into the slow lane and answered quickly, hoping for anne's voice. a polite professional purr came instead. "inspector norris? this is doctor georges. we haven't met, but i imagine we will. are you extremely busy at the moment?" norris hesitated. "extremely," he said. "well, this won't take long. one of my patients--a mrs. sarah glubbes--called a while ago and said her baby was sick. i must be getting absent-minded, because i forgot she was class c until i got there." he hesitated. "the baby turned out to be a neutroid. it's dying. eighteenth order virus." "so?" "well, she's--uh--rather a _peculiar_ woman, inspector. keeps telling me how much trouble she had in childbirth, and how she can't ever have another one. it's pathetic. she _believes_ it's her own. do you understand?" "i think so," norris replied slowly. "but what do you want me to do? can't you send the neutroid to a vet?" "she insists it's going to a hospital. worst part is that she's heard of the disease. knows it can be cured with the proper treatment--in humans. of course, no hospital would play along with her fantasy and take a neutroid, especially since she couldn't pay for its treatment." "i still don't see--" "i thought perhaps you could help me fake a substitution. it's a k- series, five-year-old, three-year set. do you have one in the pound that's not claimed?" norris thought for a moment. "i think i have _one_. you're welcome to it, doctor, but you can't fake a serial number. she'll know it. and even though they look exactly alike, the new one won't recognize her. it'll be spooky." there was a long pause, followed by a sigh. "i'll try it anyway. can i come get the animal now?" "i'm on the highway--" "please, norris! this is urgent. that woman will lose her mind completely if--" "all right, i'll call my wife and tell her to open the pound for you. pick out the k- and sign for it. and listen--" "yes?" "don't let me catch you falsifying a serial number." doctor georges laughed faintly. "i won't, norris. thanks a million." he hung up quickly. norris immediately regretted his consent. it bordered on being illegal. but he saw it as a quick way to get rid of an animal that might later have to be killed. he called anne. her voice was dull. she seemed depressed, but not angry. when he finished talking, she said, "all right, terry," and hung up. * * * * * by noon, he had finished checking the shipping lists at the wholesale house in wylo city. only thirty-five of july's bermuda-k- s had entered his territory, and they were about equally divided among five pet shops, three of which were in wylo city. after lunch, he called each of the retail dealers, read them the serial numbers, and asked them to check the sales records for names and addresses of individual buyers. by three o'clock, he had the entire list filled out, and the task began to look easier. all that remained was to pick up the thirty-five animals. and _that_, he thought, was like trying to take a year-old baby away from its doting mother. he sighed and drove to the wylo suburbs to begin his rounds. anne met him at the door when he came home at six. he stood on the porch for a moment, smiling at her weakly. the smile was not returned. "doctor georges came," she told him. "he signed for the--" she stopped to stare at him. "darling, your face! what happened?" gingerly he touch the livid welts down the side of his cheek. "just scratched a little," he muttered. he pushed past her and went to the phone in the hall. he sat eying it distastefully for a moment, not liking what he had to do. anne came to stand beside him and examine the scratches. finally he lifted the phone and dialed the wylo exchange. a grating mechanical voice answered, "locator center. your party, please." "sheriff yates," norris grunted. the robot operator, which had on tape the working habits of each wylo city citizen, began calling numbers. it found the off-duty sheriff on its third try, in a wylo pool hall. "i'm getting so i hate that infernal gadget," yates grumbled. "i think it's got me psyched. what do you want, norris?" "cooperation. i'm mailing you three letters charging three wylo citizens with resisting a federal official--namely _me_--and charging one of them with assault. i tried to pick up their neutroids for a pound inspection--" yates bellowed lusty laughter into the phone. "it's not funny. i've got to get those neutroids. it's in connection with the delmont case." yates stopped laughing. "oh. well, i'll take care of it." "it's a rush-order, sheriff. can you get the warrants tonight and pick up the animals in the morning?" "easy on those warrants, boy. judge charleman can't be disturbed just any time. i can get the newts to you by noon, i guess, provided we don't have to get a helicopter posse to chase down the mothers." "that'll be all right. and listen, yates--fix it so the charges will be dropped if they cooperate. don't shake those warrants around unless they just won't listen to reason. but get those neutroids." "okay, boy. gotcha." norris gave him the names and addresses of the three unwilling mothers. as soon as he hung up, anne touched his shoulders and said, "sit still." she began smoothing a chilly ointment over his burning cheek. "hard day?" she asked. "not too hard. those were just three out of fifteen. i got the other twelve. they're in the truck." "that's good," she said. "you've got only twelve empty cages." he neglected to tell her that he had stopped at twelve for just this reason. "guess i better get them unloaded," he said, standing up. "can i help you?" he stared at her for a moment, saying nothing. she smiled a little and looked aside. "terry, i'm sorry--about this morning. i--i know you've got a job that has to be--" her lip quivered slightly. norris grinned, caught her shoulders, and pulled her close. "honeymoon's on again, huh?" she whispered against his neck. "come on," he grunted. "let's unload some neutroids, before i forget all about work." * * * * * they went out to the kennels together. the cages were inside a sprawling concrete barn, which was divided into three large rooms--one for the fragile neuter humanoid creatures, and another for the lesser mutants, such as cat-qs, dog-fs, dwarf bears, and foot-high lambs that never matured into sheep. the third room contained a small gas chamber with a conveyor belt leading from it to a crematory-incinerator. norris kept the third locked lest his wife see its furnishings. the doll-like neutroids began their mindless chatter as soon as their keepers entered the building. dozens of blazing blond heads began dancing about their cages. their bodies thwacked against the wire mesh as they leaped about their compartments with monkey grace. their human appearance was broken by only two distinct features: short beaverlike tails decorated with fluffy curls of fur, and an erect thatch of scalp-hair that grew up into a bright candleflame. otherwise, they appeared completely human, with baby-pink skin, quick little smiles, and cherubic faces. they were sexually neuter and never grew beyond a predetermined age-set which varied for each series. age-sets were available from one to ten years human equivalent. once a neutroid reached its age-set, it remained at the set's child-development level until death. "they must be getting to know you pretty well," anne said, glancing around at the cages. norris was wearing a slight frown as he inspected the room. "they've never gotten this excited before." he walked along a row of cages, then stopped by a k- to stare. "_apple cores!_" he turned to face his wife. "how did apples get in there?" she reddened. "i felt sorry for them, eating that goo from the mechanical feeder. i drove down to sherman iii and bought six dozen cooking apples." "that was a mistake." she frowned irritably. "we can afford it." "that's not the point. there's a reason for the mechanical feeders." he paused, wondering how he could tell her the truth. he blundered on: "they get to love whoever feeds them." "i can't see--" "how would you feel about disposing of something that loved you?" anne folded her arms and stared at him. "planning to dispose of any soon?" she asked acidly. "honeymoon's off again, eh?" she turned away. "i'm sorry, terry. i'll try not to mention it again." he began unloading the truck, pulling the frightened and squirming doll-things forth one at a time with a snare-pole. they were one-man pets, always frightened of strangers. "what's the delmont case, terry?" anne asked while he worked. "huh?" "i heard you mention it on the phone. anything to do with why you got your face scratched?" he nodded sourly. "indirectly, yes. it's a long story." "tell me." "well, delmont was a green-horn evolvotron operator at the bermuda plant. his job was taking the unfertilized chimpanzee ova out of the egg-multiplier, mounting them in his machine, and bombarding the gene structure with sub-atomic particles. it's tricky business. he flashes a huge enlargement of the ovum on the electron microscope screen--large enough so he can see the individual protein molecules. he has an artificial gene pattern to compare it with. it's like shooting sub-atomic billiards. he's got to fire alpha-particles into the gene structure and displace certain links by just the right amount. and he's got to be quick about it before the ovum dies from an overdose of radiation from the enlarger. a good operator can get one success out of seven tries. "well, delmont worked a week and spoiled over a hundred ova without a single success. they threatened to fire him. i guess he got hysterical. anyway, he reported one success the next day. it was faked. the ovum had a couple of flaws--something wrong in the central nervous system's determinants, and in the glandular makeup. not a standard neutroid ovum. he passed it on to the incubators to get a credit, knowing it wouldn't be caught until after birth." "it wasn't caught at all?" anne asked. "funny thing, he was afraid it wouldn't be. he got to worrying about it, thought maybe a mental-deviant would pass, and that it might be dangerous. so he went back to its incubator and cut off the hormone flow into its compartment." "why that?" "so it _would_ develop sexuality. a neutroid would be born a female if they didn't give it suppressive doses of male hormone prenatally. that keeps ovaries from developing and it comes out neuter. but delmont figured a female would be caught and stopped before the final inspection. they'd dispose of her without even bothering to examine for the other defects. and he could blame the sexuality on an equipment malfunction. he thought it was pretty smart. trouble was they didn't catch the female. she went on through; they all _look_ female." "how did they find out about it now?" "he got caught last month, trying it again. and he confessed to doing it once before. no telling how many times he _really_ did it." norris held up the final kicking, squealing, tassel-haired doll from the back of the kennel-truck. he grinned at his wife. "this little fellow, for instance. it might be a potential she. it might also be a potential murderer. _all_ these kiddos are from the machines in the section where delmont worked." anne snorted and caught the baby-creature in her arms. it struggled and tried to bite, but subsided a little when she disentangled it from the snare. "kkr-r-reee," it cooed nervously. "kkr-r-reee!" "you tell him you're no murderer," anne purred to it. norris watched disapprovingly while she fondled it. one thing he had learned: to steer clear of emotional attachments. it was eight months old and looked like a child of two years--a year short of its age-set. and it was designed to be as affectionate as a human child. "put it in the cage, anne," he said quietly. she looked up and shook her head. "it belongs to somebody else. if it fixes a libido attachment on you, you're actually robbing its owner. they can't love many people at once." she snorted, but installed the thing in its cage. "anne--" norris hesitated, hating to approach the subject. "do you--want one--for yourself? i can sign an unclaimed one over to you to keep in the house. it won't cost us anything." slowly she shook her head, and her pale eyes went moody and luminous. "i'm going to have one of my own," she said. he stood in the back of the truck, staring down at her. "do you realize what--" "i know what i'm saying. we're class-c on account of heart-trouble in both our families. well, i don't care, terry. i'm not going to waste a heart over one of these pathetic little artificial animals. we're going to have a baby." "you know what they'd do to us?" "if they catch us, yes--compulsory divorce, sterilization. but they won't catch us. i'll have it at home, terry. not even a doctor. we'll hide it." "i won't let you do such a thing." she faced him angrily. "oh, this whole rotten _world_!" she choked. suddenly she turned and fled out of the building. she was sobbing. * * * * * norris climbed slowly down from the truck and wandered on into the house. she was not in the kitchen nor the living room. the bedroom door was locked. he shrugged and went to sit on the sofa. the television set was on, and a newscast was coming from a local station. "... we were unable to get shots of the body," the announcer was saying. "but here is a view of the georges residence. i'll switch you to our mobile unit in sherman ii, james duncan reporting." norris frowned with bewilderment as the scene shifted to a two-story plasticoid house among the elm trees. it was after dark, but the mobile unit's powerful floodlights made daylight of the house and its yard and the police 'copters sitting in a side lot. an ambulance was parked in the street. a new voice came on the audio. "this is james duncan, ladies and gentlemen, speaking to you from our mobile unit in front of the late doctor hiram georges' residence just west of sherman ii. we are waiting for the stretcher to be brought out, and police chief erskine miler is standing here beside me to give us a word about the case. doctor georges' death has shocked the community deeply. most of you local listeners have known him for many years--some of you have depended upon his services as a family physician. he was a man well known, well loved. but now let's listen to chief miler." norris sat breathing quickly. there could scarcely be two doctor georges in the community, but only this morning.... a growling drawl came from the audio. "this's chief miler speaking, folks. i just want to say that if any of you know the whereabouts of a mrs. sarah glubbes, call me immediately. she's wanted for questioning." "thank you, chief. this is james duncan again. i'll review the facts for you briefly again, ladies and gentlemen. at seven o'clock, less than an hour ago, a woman--allegedly mrs. glubbes--burst into doctor georges' dining room while the family was at dinner. she was brandishing a pistol and screaming, 'you stole my baby! you gave me the wrong baby! where's my baby?' "when the doctor assured her that there was no other baby, she fired, shattering his salad plate. glancing off it, the bullet pierced his heart. the woman fled. a peculiar feature of the case is that mrs. glubbes, the alleged intruder, _has no baby_. just a minute--just a minute--here comes the stretcher now." norris turned the set off and went to call the police. he told them what he knew and promised to make himself available for questioning if it became necessary. when he turned from the phone, anne was standing in the bedroom doorway. she might have been crying a little, but she concealed it well. "what was all that?" she asked. "woman killed a man. i happened to know the motive." "what was it?" "neutroid trouble." "you meet up with a lot of unpleasantness in this business, don't you?" "lot of unpleasant emotions tangled up in it," he admitted. "i know. well, supper's been keeping hot for two hours. shall we eat?" * * * * * they went to bed at midnight, but it was after one when he became certain that his wife was asleep. he lay in darkness for a time, listening to her even breathing. then he cautiously eased himself out of bed and tiptoed quietly through the door, carrying his shoes and trousers. he put them on in the kitchen and stole silently out to the kennels. a half moon hung low in a misty sky, and the wind was chilly out of the north. he went into the neutroid room and flicked a switch. a few sleepy chatters greeted the light. one at a time, he awoke twenty-three of the older doll-things and carried them to a large glass-walled compartment. these were the long-time residents; they knew him well, and they came with him willingly--like children after the piper of hamlin. when he had gotten them in the glass chamber, he sealed the door and turned on the gas. the conveyor would automatically carry them on to the incinerator. now he had enough cages for the bermuda-k- s. he hurriedly quit the kennels and went to sit on the back steps. his eyes were burning, but the thought of tears made him sicker. it was like an assassin crying while he stabbed his victim. it was more honest just to retch. when he tiptoed back inside, he got as far as the hall. then he saw anne's small figure framed in the bedroom window, silhouetted against the moonlit yard. she had slipped into her negligee and was sitting on the narrow windowstool, staring silently out at the dull red tongue of exhaust gases from the crematory's chimney. norris backed away. he went to the parlor and lay down on the couch. after a while he heard her come into the room. she paused in the center of the rug, a fragile mist in the darkness. he turned his face away and waited for the rasping accusation. but soon she came to sit on the edge of the sofa. she said nothing. her hand crept out and touched his cheek lightly. he felt her cool finger-tips trace a soft line up his temple. "it's all right, terry," she whispered. he kept his face averted. her fingers traced a last stroke. then she padded quietly back to the bedroom. he lay awake until dawn, knowing that it would never be all right, neither the creating nor the killing, until he--and the whole world--completely lost sanity. and then everything would be all right, only it still wouldn't make sense. * * * * * anne was asleep when he left the house. the night mist had gathered into clouds that made a gloomy morning of it. he drove on out in the kennel-truck, meaning to get the rest of the bermuda-k- s so that he could begin his testing. still he felt the night's guilt, like a sticky dew that refused to depart with morning. why should he have to kill the things? the answer was obvious. society manufactured them because killing them was permissible. human babies could not be disposed of when the market became glutted. the neutroids offered solace to childless women, kept them satisfied with a restricted birth rate. and why a restricted birth rate? because by keeping the population at five billions, the federation could insure a decent living standard for everybody. where there was giving, norris thought glumly, there was also taking away. man had always deluded himself by thinking that he "created," but he created nothing. he thought that he had created--with his medical science and his end to wars--a longer life for the individual. but he found that he had only taken the lives of the unborn and added them to the years of the aged. man now had a life expectancy of eighty, except that he had damn little chance of being born to enjoy it. a neutroid filled the cradle in his stead. a neutroid that never ate as much, or grew up to be unemployed. a neutroid could be killed if things got tough, but could still satisfy a woman's craving to mother something small. norris gave up thinking about it. eventually he would have to adjust to it. he was already adjusted to a world that loved the artificial mutants as children. he had been brought up in it. emotion came in conflict with the grim necessities of his job. somehow he would have to love them in the parlor and kill them in the kennel. it was only a matter of adjustment. * * * * * at noon, he brought back another dozen k- s and installed them in his cages. there had been two highly reluctant mothers, but he skipped them and left the seizure to the local authorities. yates had already brought in the three from yesterday. "no more scratches?" anne asked him while they ate lunch. they did not speak of the night's mass-disposal. norris smiled mechanically. "i learned my lesson yesterday. if they bare their fangs, i get out without another word. funny thing though--i've got a feeling one mother pulled a fast one." "what happened?" "well, i told her what i wanted and why. she didn't like it, but she let me in. i started out with her newt, but she wanted a receipt. so i gave her one; took the serial number off my checklist. she looked at it and said, 'why, that's not chichi's number!' i looked at the newt's foot, and sure enough it wasn't. i had to leave it. it was a k- , but not even from bermuda." "i thought they were all registered," anne said. "they are. i told her she had the wrong neutroid, but she got mad. went and got the sales receipt. it checked with her newt, and it was from o'reilley's pet shop--right place, wrong number. i just don't get it." "nothing to worry about, is it terry?" he looked at her peculiarly. "ever think what might happen if someone started a black market in neutroids?" they finished the meal in silence. after lunch he went out again to gather up the rest of the group. by four o'clock, he had gotten all that were to be had without the threat of a warrant. the screams and pleas and tears of the owners left him gloomily despising himself. if delmont's falsification had been widespread, he might have to turn several of the thirty-five over to central lab for dissection and ultimate destruction. that would bring the murderous wrath of their owners down upon him. he began to understand why bio-inspectors were frequently shifted from one territory to another. on the way home, he stopped in sherman ii to check on the missing number. it was the largest of the sherman communities, covering fifty blocks of commercial buildings. he parked in the outskirts and took a sidewalk escalator toward o'reilley's address. it was on a dingy sidestreet, reminiscent of past centuries, a street of small bars and bowling alleys and cigar stores. there was even a shop with three gold balls above the entrance, but the place was now an antique store. a light mist was falling when he stepped off the escalator and stood in front of the pet shop. a sign hung out over the sidewalk, announcing: j. "doggy" o'reilley pets for sale dumb blondes and goldfish mutants for the childless buy a bundle of joy norris frowned at the sign and wandered inside. the place was warm and gloomy. he wrinkled his nose at the strong musk of animal odors. o'reilley's was not a shining example of cleanliness. somewhere a puppy was yapping, and a parrot croaked the lyrics of _a chimp to call my own_, which norris recognized as the theme song of a popular soap-opera about a lady evolvotron operator. he paused briefly by a tank of silk-draped goldfish. the shop had a customer. an elderly lady was haggling with a wizened manager over the price of a half grown second-hand dog-f. she was shaking her last dog's death certificate under his nose and demanding a guarantee of the dog's alleged f- intelligence. the old man offered to swear on a bible, but he demurred when it came to swearing on a ledger. the dog was saying, "don' sell me, dada. don' sell me." norris smiled sardonically to himself. the non-human pets were smarter than the neutroids. a k- could speak a dozen words, and a k- never got farther than "mamma," "pappa," and "cookie." anthropos was afraid to make the quasi-humans too intelligent, lest sentimentalists proclaim them really human. he wandered on toward the back of the building, pausing briefly by the cash register to inspect o'reilley's license, which hung in a dusty frame on the wall behind the counter. "james fallon o'reilley ... authorized dealer in mutant animals ... all non-predatory mammals including chimpanzee-k series ... license expires june , ." it seemed in order, although the expiration date was approaching. he started toward a bank of neutroid cages along the opposite wall, but o'reilley was mincing across the floor to meet him. the customer had gone. the little manager wore an elfin professional smile, and his bald head bobbled in a welcoming nod. "good day, sir, good day! may i show you a dwarf kangaroo, or a--" he stopped and adjusted his spectacles. he blinked and peered as norris flashed his badge. his smile waned. "i'm agent norris, mr. o'reilley. called you yesterday for that rundown on k- sales." o'reilley looked suddenly nervous. "oh, yes. find 'em all?" norris shook his head. "no. that's why i stopped by. there's some mistake on--" he glanced at his list--"on k- -ljz- . let's check it again." o'reilley seemed to cringe. "no mistake. i gave you the buyer's name." "she has a different number." "can i help it if she traded with somebody?" "she didn't. she bought it here. i saw the receipt." "then she traded with one of my other customers!" snapped the old man. "two of your customers have the same name--adelia schultz? not likely. let's see your duplicate receipt book." o'reilley's wrinkled face set itself into a stubborn mask. "doubt if it's still around." norris frowned. "look, pop, i've had a rough day. i _could_ start naming some things around here that need fixing--sanitary violations and such. not to mention that sign--'dumb blondes.' they outlawed that one when they executed that shyster doctor for shooting k- s full of growth hormones, trying to raise himself a harem to sell. besides, you're required to keep sales records until they've been micro-filmed. there hasn't been a microfilming since july." the wrinkled face twitched with frustrated anger. o'reilley shuffled to the counter while norris followed. he got a fat binder from under the register and started toward a wooden stairway. "where you going?" norris called. "get my old glasses," the manager grumbled. "can't see through these new things." "leave the book here and _i'll_ check it," norris offered. but o'reilley was already limping quickly up the stairs. he seemed not to hear. he shut the door behind him, and norris heard the lock click. the bio-agent waited. again the thought of a black market troubled him. unauthorized neutroids could mean lots of trouble. * * * * * five minutes passed before the old man came down the stairs. he said nothing as he placed the book on the counter. norris noticed that his hands were trembling as he shuffled through the pages. "let _me_ look," said the bio-agent. o'reilley stepped reluctantly aside. norris had memorized the owner's receipt number, and he found the duplicate quickly. he stared at it silently. "mrs. adele schultz ... chimpanzee-k- -ljz- ." it was the number of the animal he wanted, but it wasn't the number on mrs. schultz's neutroid nor on her original copy of the receipt. he held the book up to his eye and aimed across the page at the light. o'reilley's breathing became audible. norris put the book down, folded two thicknesses of handkerchief over the blade of his pocketknife, and ran it down the seam between the pages. he took the sheet he wanted, folded it, and stowed it in his vest pocket. o'reilley was stuttering angrily. norris turned to face him coldly. "nice erasure job, for a carbon copy." the old man prepared himself for exploding. norris quietly put on his hat. "see you in court, o'reilley." "_wait!_" norris turned. "okay, i'm waiting." the old man sagged into a deflated bag of wrinkles. "let's sit down first," he said weakly. norris followed him up the stairs and into a dingy parlor. the tiny apartment smelled of boiled cabbage and sweat. an orange-haired neutroid lay asleep on a small rug in a corner. norris knelt beside it and read the tattooed figures on the sole of its left foot--k- -ljz- . somehow he was not surprised. when he stood up, the old man was sagged in an ancient armchair, his head propped on a hand that covered his eyes. "lots of good explanations, i guess?" norris asked quietly. "not good ones." "let's hear them, anyway." o'reilley sighed and straightened. he blinked at the inspector and spoke in a monotone. "my missus died five years back. we were class-b--allowed one child of our own--if we could have one. we couldn't. but since we were class-b, we couldn't own a neutroid either. sorta got around it by running a pet shop. mary--she always cried when we sold a neut. i sorta felt bad about it myself. but we never did swipe one. last year this bermuda shipment come in. i sold most of 'em pretty quick, but peony here--she was kinda puny. seemed like nobody wanted her. kept her around so long, i got attached to her. 'fraid somebody'd buy her. so i faked the receipt and moved her up here." "that all?" the old man nodded. "ever done this before?" he shook his head. norris let a long silence pass while he struggled with himself. at last he said, "your license could be revoked, you know." "i know." norris ground his fist thoughtfully in his palm and stared at the sleeping doll-thing. "i'll take your books home with me tonight," he said. "i want to make a complete check for similar changes. any objections?" "none. it's the only trick i've pulled, so help me." "if that's true, i won't report you. we'll just attach a correction to that page, and you'll put the newt back in stock." he hesitated. "providing it's not a deviant. i'll have to take it in for examination." a choking sound came from the armchair. norris stared curiously at the old man. moisture was creeping in the wrinkles around his eyes. "something the matter?" o'reilley nodded. "she's a deviant." "how do you know?" the dealer pulled himself erect and hobbled to the sleeping neutroid. he knelt beside it and stroked a small bare shoulder gently. "peony," he breathed. "peony, girl--wake up." its fluffy tail twitched for a moment. then it sat up, rubbing its eyes and yawning. it _looked_ normal, like a two-year-old girl with soft brown eyes. it pouted at o'reilley for awakening it. it saw norris and ignored him, apparently too sleepy to be frightened. "how's my peony-girl?" the dealer purred. it licked its lips. "wanna g'ass o' water, daddy," it said drowsily. norris caught his breath. no k- should be able to make a speech that long, even when it reached the developmental limit. he glanced at o'reilley. the old man nodded slowly, then went to the kitchen for a glass of water. she drank greedily and eyed her foster-parent. "daddy crying." o'reilley glowered at her and blew his nose solemnly. "don't be silly, child. now get your coat on and go with mister norris. he's taking you for a ride in his truck. won't that be fine?" "i don't want to. i wanna stay here." "_peeony!_ on with you!" she brought her coat and stared at norris with childish contempt. "can daddy go, too?" "be on your way!" growled o'reilley. "i got things to do." "we're coming back?" "of course you're coming back! _git_ now--or shall i get my spanking switch?" peony strolled out the door ahead of norris. "oh, inspector, would you be punching the night latch for me as you leave the shop? i think i'll be closing for the day." norris paused at the head of the stairs, looking back at the old man. but o'reilley closed himself inside and the lock clicked. the agent sighed and glanced down at the small being beside him. "want me to carry you, peony?" she sniffed disdainfully. she hopped upon the banister and slid down ahead of him. her motor-responses were typically neutroid--something like a monkey, something like a squirrel. but there was no question about it; she was one of delmont's deviants. he wondered what they would do with her in central lab. he could remember no instance of an intelligent mutant getting into the market. somehow he could not consign her to a cage in the back of the truck. he drove home while she sat beside him on the front seat. she watched the scenery and remained aloof, occasionally looking around to ask, "can we go back now?" norris could not bring himself to answer. * * * * * when he got home, he led her into the house and stopped in the hall to call chief franklin. the operator said, "his office doesn't answer, sir. shall i give you the robot locator?" norris hesitated. his wife came into the hall. she stooped to grin at peony, and peony said, "do you live here, too?" anne gasped and sat on the floor to stare. norris said, "cancel the call. it'll wait till tomorrow." he dropped the phone quickly. "what series is it?" anne asked excitedly. "i never saw one that could talk." "_it_ is a _she_," he said. "and she's a series unto herself. some of delmont's work." peony was looking from one to the other of them with a baffled face. "can we go back now?" norris shook his head. "you're going to spend the night with us, peony," he said softly. "your daddy wants you to." his wife was watching him thoughtfully. norris looked aside and plucked nervously at a corner of the telephone book. suddenly she caught peony's hand and led her toward the kitchen. "come on, baby, let's go find a cookie or something." norris started out the front door, but in a moment anne was back. she caught at his collar and tugged. "not so fast!" he turned to frown. her face accused him at a six-inch range. "just what do you think you're going to do with that child?" he was silent for a long time. "you know what i'm _supposed_ to do." her unchanging stare told him that she wouldn't accept any evasions. "i heard you trying to get your boss on the phone." "i canceled it, didn't i?" "until tomorrow." he worked his hands nervously. "i don't know, honey--i just don't know." "they'd kill her at central lab, wouldn't they?" "well, they'd need her as evidence in delmont's trial." "they'd kill her, wouldn't they?" "when it was over--it's hard to say. the law says deviants must be destroyed, but--" "well?" he paused miserably. "we've got a few days to think about it, honey. i don't have to make my report for a week." he sidled out the door. looking back, he saw the hard determination in her eyes as she watched him. he knew somehow that he was going to lose either his job or his wife. maybe both. he shuffled moodily out to the kennels to care for his charges. * * * * * a great silence filled the house during the evening. supper was a gloomy meal. only peony spoke; she sat propped on two cushions at the table, using her silver with remarkable skill. norris wondered about her intelligence. her chronological age was ten months; her physical age was about two years; but her mental age seemed to compare favorably with at least a three year old. once he reached across the table to touch her forehead. she eyed him curiously for a moment and continued eating. her temperature was warmer than human, but not too warm for the normally high neutroid metabolism--somewhere around °. the rapid rate of maturation made i.q. determination impossible. "you've got a good appetite, peony," anne remarked. "i like daddy's cooking better," she said with innocent bluntness. "when can i go home?" anne looked at norris and waited for an answer. he managed a smile at the flame-haired cherub. "tell you what we'll do. i'll call your daddy on the phone and let you say hello. would you like that?" she giggled, then nodded. "uh-huh! when can we do it?" "later." anne tapped her fork thoughtfully against the edge of her plate. "i think we better have a nice long talk tonight, terry," she said. "is there anything to talk about?" he pushed the plate away. "i'm not hungry." * * * * * he left the table and went to sit in darkness by the parlor window, while his wife did the dishes and peony played with a handful of walnuts on the kitchen floor. he watched the scattered lights of the suburbs and tried to think of nothing. the lights were peaceful, glimmering through the trees. once there had been no lights, only the flickering campfires of hunters shivering in the forest, when the world was young and sparsely planted with the seed of man. now the world was infected with his lights, and with the sound of his engines and the roar of his rockets. he had inherited the earth and had filled it--too full. there was no escape. his rockets had touched two of the planets, but even the new worlds offered no sanctuary for the unborn. man could have babies--if allowed--faster than he could build ships to haul them away. he could only choose between a higher death rate and a lower birth rate. and unborn children were not eligible to vote when man made his choice. his choice had robbed his wife of a biological need, and so he made a disposable baby with which to pacify her. he gave it a tail and only half a mind, so that it could not be confused with his own occasional children. but peony had only the tail. still she was not born of the seed of man. strange seed, out of the jungle, warped toward the human pole, but still not human. * * * * * norris heard a car approaching in the street. its headlights swung along the curb, and it slowed to a halt in front of the house. a tall, slender man in a dark suit climbed out and stood for a moment, staring toward the house. he was only a shadow in the faint street light. norris could not place him. suddenly the man snapped on a flashlight and played it over the porch. norris caught his breath and darted toward the kitchen. anne stared at him questioningly, while peony peered up from her play. he stooped beside her. "listen, child!" he said quickly. "do you know what a neutroid is?" she nodded slowly. "they play in cages. they don't talk." "can you pretend you're a neutroid?" "i can play neutroid. i play neutroid with daddy sometimes, when people come to see him. he gives me candy when i play it. when can i go home?" "not now. there's a man coming to see us. can you play neutroid for me? we'll give you lots of candy. just don't talk. pretend you're asleep." "now?" "now." he heard the door chimes ringing. "who is it?" anne asked. "i don't know. he may have the wrong house. take peony in the bedroom. i'll answer it." his wife caught the child-thing up in her arms and hurried away. the chimes sounded again. norris stalked down the hall and switched on the porch-light. the visitor was an elderly man, erect in his black suit and radiating dignity. as he smiled and nodded, norris noticed his collar. a clergyman. must have the wrong place, norris thought. "are you inspector norris?" the agent nodded, not daring to talk. "i'm father paulson. i'm calling on behalf of a james o'reilley. i think you know him. may i come in?" grudgingly, norris swung open the door. "if you can stand the smell of paganism, come on in." the priest chuckled politely. norris led him to the parlor and turned on the light. he waved toward a chair. "what's this all about? does o'reilley want something?" paulson smiled at the inspector's brusque tone and settled himself in the chair. "o'reilley is a sick man," he said. the inspector frowned. "he didn't look it to me." "sick of heart, inspector. he came to me for advice. i couldn't give him any. he told me the story--about this peony. i came to have a look at her, if i may." norris said nothing for a moment. o'reilley had better keep his mouth shut, he thought, especially around clergymen. most of them took a dim view of the whole mutant business. "i didn't think you'd associate with o'reilley," he said. "i thought you people excommunicated everybody that owns a neutroid. o'reilley owns a whole shopful." "that's true. but who knows? he might get rid of his shop. may i see this neutroid?" "why?" "o'reilley said it could talk. is that true or is o'reilley suffering delusions? that's what i came to find out." "neutroids don't talk." the priest stared at him for a time, then nodded slowly, as if approving something. "you can rest assured," he said quietly, "that i'll say nothing of this visit, that i'll speak to no one about this creature." norris looked up to see his wife watching them from the doorway. "get peony," he said. "it's true then?" paulson asked. "i'll let you see for yourself." anne brought the small child-thing into the room and set her on the floor. peony saw the visitor, chattered with fright, and bounded upon the back of the sofa to sit and scold. she was playing her game well, norris thought. the priest watched her with quiet interest. "hello, little one." peony babbled gibberish. paulson kept his eyes on her every movement. suddenly he said, "i just saw your daddy, peony. he wanted me to talk to you." her babbling ceased. the spell of the game was ended. her eyes went sober. then she looked at norris and pouted. "i don't want any candy. i wanna go home." norris let out a deep breath. "i didn't say she couldn't talk," he pointed out sullenly. "i didn't say you did," said paulson. "you invited me to see for myself." anne confronted the clergyman. "what do you want?" she demanded. "the child's death? did you come to assure yourself that she'd be turned over to the lab? i know your kind! you'd do anything to get rid of neutroids!" "i came only to assure myself that o'reilley's sane," paulson told her. "i don't believe you," she snapped. he stared at her in wounded surprise; then he chuckled. "people used to trust the cloth. ah, well. listen, my child, you have us wrong. we say it's evil to create the creatures. we say _also_ that it's evil to destroy them after they're made. not murder, exactly, but--mockery of life, perhaps. it's the entire institution that's evil. do you understand? as for this small creature of o'reilley's--well, i hardly know what to make of her, but i certainly wouldn't wish her--uh--d-e-a-d." peony was listening solemnly to the conversation. somehow norris sensed a disinterested friend, if not an ally, in the priest. he looked at his wife. her eyes were still suspicious. "tell me, father," norris asked, "if you were in my position, what would you do?" paulson fumbled with a button of his coat and stared at the floor while he pondered. "i wouldn't be in your position, young man. but if i were, i think i'd withhold her from my superiors. i'd also quit my job and go away." it wasn't what norris wanted to hear. but his wife's expression suddenly changed; she looked at the priest with a new interest. "and give peony back to o'reilley," she added. "i shouldn't be giving you advice," he said unhappily. "i'm duty-bound to ask o'reilley to give up his business and have nothing further to do with neutroids." "but peony's _human_," anne argued. "she's _different_." "i fail to agree." "what!" anne confronted him again. "what makes _you_ human?" "a soul, my child." anne put her hands on her hips and leaned forward to glare down at him like something unwholesome. "can you put a voltmeter between your ears and measure it?" the priest looked helplessly at norris. "_no!_" she said. "and you can't do it to peony either!" "perhaps i had better go," paulson said to his host. norris sighed. "maybe you better, padre. you found out what you wanted to know." anne stalked angrily out of the room, her dark hair swishing like a battle-pennant with each step. when the priest was gone, norris picked up the child and held her in his lap. she was shivering with fright, as if she understood what had been said. love them in the parlor, he thought, and kill them in the kennels. "can i go home? doesn't daddy want me any more?" "sure he does, baby. you just be good and everything'll be all right." * * * * * norris felt a bad taste in his mouth as he laid her sleeping body on the sofa half an hour later. everything was all wrong and it promised to remain that way. he couldn't give her back to o'reilley, because she would be caught again when the auditor came to microfilm the records. and he certainly couldn't keep her himself--not with other bio-agents wandering in and out every few days. she could not be concealed in a world where there were no longer any sparsely populated regions. there was nothing to do but obey the law and turn her over to franklin's lab. he closed his eyes and shuddered. if he did that, he could do anything--stomach anything--adapt to any vicious demands society made of him. if he sent the child away to die, he would know that he had attained an "objective" outlook. and what more could he want from life than adaptation and objectivity? well--his wife, for one thing. he left the child on the sofa, turned out the light, and wandered into the bedroom. anne was in bed, reading. she did not look up when she said, "terry, if you let that baby be destroyed, i'll...." "don't say it," he cut in. "any time you feel like leaving, you just leave. but don't threaten me with it." she watched him silently for a moment. then she handed him the newspaper she had been reading. it was folded around an advertisement. biologists wanted by anthropos incorporated for evolvotron operators incubator tenders nursery supervisors laboratory personnel _in_ new atlanta plant _call or write: personnel mgr._ anthropos inc. _atlanta, ga._ _note: secure work department release from present job before applying._ he looked at anne curiously. "so?" she shrugged. "so there's a job, if you want to quit this one." "what's this got to do with peony, if anything?" "we could take her with us." "not a chance," he said. "do you suppose a talking neutroid would be any safer there?" she demanded angrily, "why should they want to destroy her?" norris sat on the edge of the bed and thought about it. "no particular _individual_ wants to, honey. it's the law." "but _why_?" "generally, because deviants are unknown quantities. they can be dangerous." "that child--_dangerous_?" "dangerous to a concept, a vague belief that man is something special, a closed tribe. and in a practical sense, she's dangerous because she's not a neuter. the federation insists that all mutants be neuter and infertile, so it can control the mutant population. if mutants started reproducing, that could be a real threat in a world whose economy is so delicately balanced." "well, you're not going to let them have her, do you hear me?" "i hear you," he grumbled. * * * * * on the following day, he went down to police headquarters to sign a statement concerning the motive in doctor georges' murder. as a result, mrs. glubbes was put away in the psycho-ward. "it's funny, norris," said chief miler, "what people'll do over a neutroid. like mrs. glubbes thinking that newt was her own. i sure don't envy you your job. it's a wonder you don't get your head blown off. you must have an iron stomach." norris signed the paper and looked up briefly. "sure, chief. just a matter of adaptation." "guess so." miler patted his paunch and yawned. "how you coming on this delmont business? picked up any deviants yet?" norris laid down the pen abruptly. "no! of course not! what made you think i had?" miler stopped in the middle of his yawn and stared at norris curiously. "touchy, aren't you?" he asked thoughtfully. "when i get that kind of answer from a prisoner, i right away start thinking--" "save it for your interrogation room," norris growled. he stalked quickly out of the office while chief miler tapped his pencil absently and stared after him. he was angry with himself for his indecision. he had to make a choice and make it soon. he was climbing in his car when a voice called after him from the building. he looked back to see chief miler trotting down the steps, his pudgy face glistening in the morning sun. "hey, norris! your missus is on the phone. says it's urgent." norris went back grudgingly. a premonition of trouble gripped him. "phone's right there," the chief said, pointing with a stubby thumb. the receiver lay on the desk, and he could hear it saying, "hello--hello--" before he picked it up. "anne? what's the matter?" her voice was low and strained, trying to be cheerful. "nothing's the matter, darling. we have a visitor. come right home, will you? chief franklin's here." it knocked the breath out of him. he felt himself going white. he glanced at chief miler, calmly sitting nearby. "can you tell me about it now?" he asked her. "not very well. please hurry home. he wants to talk to you about the k- s." "have the two of them met?" "yes, they have." she paused, as if listening to him speak, then said, "oh, _that_! the game, honey--remember the _game_?" "good," he grunted. "i'll be right there." he hung up and started out. "troubles?" the chief called after him. "just a sick newt," he said, "if it's any of your business." * * * * * chief franklin's helicopter was parked in the empty lot next door when norris drove up in front of the house. the official heard the truck and came out on the porch to watch his agent walk up the path. his lanky, emaciated body was loosely draped in gray tweeds, and his thin hawk face was a dark and solemn mask. he was a middle-aged man, his skin seamed with wrinkles, but his hair was still abnormally black. he greeted norris with a slow, almost sarcastic nod. "i see you don't read your mail. if you'd looked at it, you'd have known i was coming. i wrote you yesterday." "sorry, chief, i didn't have a chance to stop by the message office this morning." franklin grunted. "then you don't know why i'm here?" "no, sir." "let's sit out on the porch," franklin said, and perched his bony frame on the railing. "we've got to get busy on these bermuda-k- s, norris. how many have you got?" "thirty-four, i think." "i counted thirty-five." "maybe you're right. i--i'm not sure." "found any deviants yet?" "uh--i haven't run any tests yet, sir." franklin's voice went sharp. "do you need a test to know when a neutroid is talking a blue streak?" "what do you mean?" "just this. we've found at least a dozen of delmont's units that have mental ages that correspond to their physical age. what's more, they're functioning females, and they have normal pituitaries. know what that means?" "they won't take an age-set then," norris said. "they'll grow to adulthood." "and have children." norris frowned. "how can they have children? there aren't any males." "no? guess what we found in one of delmont's incubators." "not a--" "yeah. and it's probably not the first. this business about padding his quota is baloney! hell, man, he was going to start his own black market! he finally admitted it, after twenty-hours' questioning without a letup. he was going to raise them, norris. he was stealing them right out of the incubators before an inspector ever saw them. the k- s--the numbered ones--are just the ones he couldn't get back. lord knows how many males he's got hidden away someplace!" "what're you going to do?" "_do!_ what do you _think_ we'll do? smash the whole scheme, that's what! find the deviants and kill them. we've got enough now for lab work." norris felt sick. he looked away. "i suppose you'll want me to handle the destruction, then." franklin gave him a suspicious glance. "yes, but why do you ask? you _have_ found one, haven't you?" "yes, sir," he admitted. a moan came from the doorway. norris looked up to see his wife's white face staring at him in horror, just before she turned and fled into the house. franklin's bony head lifted. "i see," he said. "we have a fixation on our deviant. very well, norris, i'll take care of it myself. where is it?" "in the house, sir. my wife's bedroom." "get it." * * * * * norris went glumly in the house. the bedroom door was locked. "honey," he called softly. there was no answer. he knocked gently. a key turned in the lock, and his wife stood facing him. her eyes were weeping ice. "stay back!" she said. he could see peony behind her, sitting in the center of the floor and looking mystified. then he saw his own service revolver in her trembling hand. "look, honey--it's _me_." she shook her head. "no, it's not you. it's a man that wants to kill a little girl. stay back." "you'd shoot, wouldn't you?" he asked softly. "try to come in and find out," she invited. "let me have peony." she laughed, her eyes bright with hate. "i wonder where terry went. i guess he died. or adapted. i guess i'm a widow now. stay back, mister, or i'll kill you." norris smiled. "okay, i'll stay back. but the gun isn't loaded." she tried to slam the door; he caught it with his foot. she struck at him with the pistol, but he dragged it out of her hand. he pushed her aside and held her against the wall while she clawed at his arm. "stop it!" he said. "nothing will happen to peony, i promise you!" he glanced back at the child-thing, who had begun to cry. anne subsided a little, staring at him angrily. "there's no other way out, honey. just trust me. she'll be all right." breathing quickly, anne stood aside and watched him. "okay, terry. but if you're lying--tell me, is it murder to kill a man to protect a child?" norris lifted peony in his arms. her wailing ceased, but her tail switched nervously. "in whose law book?" he asked his wife. "i was wondering the same thing." norris started toward the door. "by the way--find my instruments while i'm outside, will you?" "the dissecting instruments?" she gasped. "if you intend--" "let's call them surgical instruments, shall we? and get them sterilized." he went on outside, carrying the child. franklin was waiting for him in the kennel doorway. "was that mrs. norris i heard screaming?" norris nodded. "let's get this over with. i don't stomach it so well." he let his eyes rest unhappily on the top of peony's head. franklin grinned at her and took a bit of candy out of his pocket. she refused it and snuggled closer to norris. "when can i go home?" she piped. "i want daddy." franklin straightened, watching her with amusement. "you're going home in a few minutes, little newt. just a few minutes." they went into the kennels together, and franklin headed straight for the third room. he seemed to be enjoying the situation. norris hating him silently, stopped at a workbench and pulled on a pair of gloves. then he called after franklin. "chief, since you're in there, check the outlet pressure while i turn on the main line, will you?" franklin nodded assent. he stood outside the gas-chamber, watching the dials on the door. norris could see his back while he twisted the main-line valve. "pressure's up!" franklin called. "okay. leave the hatch ajar so it won't lock, and crack the intake valves. read it again." "got a mask for me?" norris laughed. "if you're scared, there's one on the shelf. but just open the hatch, take a reading, and close it. there's no danger." franklin frowned at him and cracked the intakes. norris quietly closed the main valve again. "drops to zero!" franklin called. "leave it open, then. smell anything?" "no. i'm turning it off, norris." he twisted the intakes. simultaneously, norris opened the main line. "pressure's up again!" norris dropped his wrench and walked back to the chamber, leaving peony perched on the workbench. "trouble with the intakes," he said gruffly. "it's happened before. mind getting your hands dirty with me, chief?" franklin frowned irritably. "let's hurry this up, norris. i've got five territories to visit." "okay, but we'd better put on our masks." he climbed a metal ladder to the top of the chamber, leaned over to inspect the intakes. on his way down, he shouldered a light-bulb over the door, shattering it. franklin cursed and stepped back, brushing glass fragments from his head and shoulders. "good thing the light was off," he snapped. norris handed him the gas-mask and put on his own. "the main switch is off," he said. he opened the intakes again. this time the dials fell to normal open-line pressure. "well, look--it's okay," he called through the mask. "you sure it was zero before?" "of course i'm sure!" came the muffled reply. "leave it on for a minute. we'll see. i'll go get the newt. don't let the door close, sir. it'll start the automatics and we can't get it open for half an hour." "i know, norris. hurry up." norris left him standing just outside the chamber, propping the door open with his foot. a faint wind was coming through the opening. it should reach an explosive mixture quickly with the hatch ajar. he stepped into the next room, waited a moment, and jerked the switch. the roar was deafening as the exposed tungsten filament flared and detonated the escaping anesthetic vapor. norris went to cut off the main line. peony was crying plaintively. he moved to the door and glanced at the smouldering remains of franklin. * * * * * feeling no emotion whatever, norris left the kennels, carrying the sobbing child under one arm. his wife stared at him without understanding. "here, hold peony while i call the police," he said. "_police?_ what's happened?" he dialed quickly. "chief miler? this is norris. get over here quick. my gas chamber exploded--killed chief agent franklin. man, it's awful! hurry." he hung up and went back to the kennels. he selected a normal bermuda-k- and coldly killed it with a wrench. "you'll serve for a deviant," he said, and left it lying in the middle of the floor. then he went back to the house, mixed a sleeping capsule in a glass of water, and forced peony to drink it. "so she'll be out when the cops come," he explained to anne. she stamped her foot. "will you tell me what's happened?" "you heard me on the phone. franklin accidentally died. that's all you have to know." he carried peony out and locked her in a cage. she was too sleepy to protest, and she was dozing when the police came. chief miler strode about the three rooms like a man looking for a burglar at midnight. he nudged the body of the neutroid with his foot. "what's this, norris?" "the deviant we were about to destroy. i finished her with a wrench." "i thought you said there weren't any deviants." "as far as the public's concerned, there aren't. i couldn't see that it was any of your business. it still isn't." "i see. it may become my business, though. how'd the blast happen?" norris told him the story up to the point of the detonation. "the light over the door was loose. kept flickering on and off. franklin reached up to tighten it. must have been a little gas in the socket. soon as he touched it--wham!" "why was the door open with the gas on?" "i told you--we were checking the intakes. if you close the door, it starts the automatics. then you can't get it open till the cycle's finished." "where were you?" "i'd gone to cut off the gas again." "okay, stay in the house until we're finished out here." * * * * * when norris went back in the house, his wife's white face turned slowly toward him. she sat stiffly by the living room window, looking sick. her voice was quietly frightened. "terry, i'm sorry about everything." "skip it." "what did you do?" he grinned sourly. "i adapted to an era. did you find the instruments?" she nodded. "what are they for?" "to cut off a tail and skin a tattooed foot. go to the store and buy some brown hair-dye and a pair of boy's trousers, age two. peony's going to get a crew-cut. from now on, she's mike." "we're class-c, terry! we can't pass her off as our own." "we're class-a, honey. i'm going to forge a heredity certificate." anne put her face in her hands and rocked slowly to and fro. "don't feel bad, baby. it was franklin or a little girl. and from now on, it's society or the norrises." "what'll we do?" "go to atlanta and work for anthropos. i'll take up where delmont left off." "_terry!_" "peony will need a husband. they may find all of delmont's males. i'll _make_ her one. then we'll see if a pair of chimp-ks can do better than their makers." wearily, he stretched out on the sofa. "what about that priest? suppose he tells about peony. suppose he guesses about franklin and tells the police?" "the police," he said, "would then smell a motive. they'd figure it out and i'd be finished. we'll wait and see. let's don't talk; i'm tired. we'll just wait for miler to come in." she began rubbing his temples gently, and he smiled. "so we wait," she said. "shall i read to you, terry?" "that would be pleasant," he murmured, closing his eyes. she slipped away, but returned quickly. he heard the rustle of dry pages and smelled musty leather. then her voice came, speaking old words softly. and he thought of the small child-thing lying peacefully in her cage while angry men stalked about her. a small life with a mind; she came into the world as quietly as a thief, a burglar in the crowded house of man. "_i will send my fear before thee, and i will destroy the peoples before whom thou shalt come, sending hornets to drive out the hevite and the canaanite and the hethite before thou enterest the land. little by little i will drive them out before thee, till thou be increased, and dost possess the land. then shalt thou be to me a new people, and i to thee a god...._" and on the quiet afternoon in may, while he waited for the police to finish puzzling in the kennels, it seemed to terrell norris that an end to scheming and pushing and arrogance was not too far ahead. it should be a pretty good world then. he hoped man could fit into it somehow. [transcriber's note: bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.] our little canadian cousin the little cousin series (trade mark) each volume illustrated with six or more full-page plates in tint. cloth, mo, with decorative cover, per volume, cents list of titles by mary hazelton wade (unless otherwise indicated) =our little african cousin= =our little alaskan cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little arabian cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little armenian cousin= by constance f. curlewis =our little australian cousin= =our little brazilian cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little brown cousin= =our little canadian cousin= by elizabeth r. macdonald =our little chinese cousin= by isaac taylor headland =our little cuban cousin= =our little dutch cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little egyptian cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little english cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little eskimo cousin= =our little french cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little german cousin= =our little greek cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little hawaiian cousin= =our little hindu cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little indian cousin= =our little irish cousin= =our little italian cousin= =our little japanese cousin= =our little jewish cousin= =our little korean cousin= by h. lee m. pike =our little mexican cousin= by edward c. butler =our little norwegian cousin= =our little panama cousin= by h. lee m. pike =our little philippine cousin= =our little porto rican cousin= =our little russian cousin= =our little scotch cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little siamese cousin= =our little spanish cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little swedish cousin= by claire m. coburn =our little swiss cousin= =our little turkish cousin= l. c. page & company new england building, boston, mass. [illustration: "two children sat on the grass under the lilacs" (_see page _)] our little canadian cousin by elizabeth roberts macdonald _illustrated by_ l. j. bridgman [illustration] boston l. c. page & company _publishers_ _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) _all rights reserved_ published july, fifth impression, june, preface in "our little canadian cousin," my intention has been to tell, in a general way, although with a defined local setting, the story of canadian home life. to canadians, _home life_ means not merely sitting at a huge fireplace, or brewing and baking in a wide country kitchen, or dancing of an evening, or teaching, or sewing; but it means the great outdoor life--sleighing, skating, snow-shoeing, hunting, canoeing, and, above all, "camping out"--the joys that belong to a vast, uncrowded country, where there is "room to play." this wide and beautiful canadian dominion possesses, of course, a great variety of climate and of scenery. to treat at all adequately of those things, or of the country's picturesque and romantic history, would require far more scope than is afforded by this one small story. list of illustrations page "two children sat on the grass under the lilacs" (_see page _) _frontispiece_ fredericton in the government house grounds "the tree-clad shores wore a fairy glamour" "a great bonfire was built" "nothing, dora thought, could be more beautiful than those woods in winter" our little canadian cousin chapter i. it was the very first day of the loveliest month in the year. i suppose every month has its defenders, or, at least, its apologists, but june--june in canada--has surely no need of either. and this particular morning was of the best and brightest. the garden at the back of mr. merrithew's house was sweet with the scent of newly blossomed lilacs, and the freshness of young grass. the light green of the elms was as yet undimmed by the dust of summer, and the air was like the elixir of life. two children sat on the grass under the lilacs, making dandelion chains and talking happily. jack, a little fair-haired boy of six, was noted for his queer speeches and quaint ideas. his sister marjorie was just twice his age, but they were closest chums, and delighted in building all sorts of air-castles together. this afternoon, when she had finished a chain of marvellous length, she leant back against the lilac-trees and said, with a sigh of happiness: "now, jack, let's make plans!" "all right," jack answered, solemnly. "let's plan about going to quebec next winter." "oh, jackie! don't let's plan about winter on the first day of june! there's all the lovely, lovely summer to talk about,--and i know two fine things that are going to happen." "all right!" said jackie again. it was his favourite expression. "i know one of them; daddy told me this morning. it's about cousin dora coming to stay with us." "yes--isn't it good? she's coming for a whole year, while uncle and aunt go out to british columbia,--to make him well, you know." "i wish she was a little boy," said jackie, thoughtfully. "but if she's like you, she'll be all right, margie. what's the other nice thing you know?" "oh, you must try to guess, dear! come up in the summer-house; it's so cosy there, and i'll give you three guesses. it's something that will happen in july or august, and we are _all_ in it, father and mother and you and cousin dora, and a few other people." they strolled up to the vine-covered summer-house, and settled down on its broad seat, while jack cudgelled his brains for an idea as to a possible good time. "is it a picnic?" he asked at last. marjorie laughed. "oh, ever so much better than that," she cried. "try again." "is it--is it--a visit to the seaside?" "no; even better than that." "is it a pony to take us all driving?" "no, no. that's your last guess. shall i tell you?" "ah, yes, please do!" "well,--mother says, if we do well at school till the holidays, and everything turns out right, she and father--will--take us camping!" "camping? camping out? really in tents? oh, good, good!" and jackie, the solemn, was moved to the extent of executing a little dance of glee on the garden path. "camping out" is a favourite way of spending the summer holiday-time among canadians. many, being luxurious in their tastes, build tiny houses and call them camps, but the true and only genuine "camping" is done under canvas, and its devotees care not for other kinds. as our little new brunswickers were talking of all its possible joys, a sweet voice called them from the door of the big brick house. "marjorie! jack! do you want to come for a walk with mother?" there was no hesitation in answering this invitation. the children rushed pell-mell down the garden path, endangering the swaying buds of the long-stemmed lilies on either side. mrs. merrithew stood waiting for them, a tall, plump lady in gray, with quantities of beautiful brown hair. she carried a small basket and trowel, at sight of which the children clapped their hands. "are we going to the woods, mother?" marjorie cried, and "may i take my cart and my spade?" asked jackie. "yes, dearies," mrs. merrithew answered. "we have three hours before tea-time, and saturday wouldn't be much of a holiday without the woods. put on your big hats, and jack can bring his cart and spade, and marjorie can carry the cookies." "oh, please let me haul the cookies in my cart," said jack. "gentlemen shouldn't let ladies carry things, father says,--but margie, you _may_ carry the spade if you want something in your hands very much!" "all right, boy," laughed marjorie. "i certainly do like something in my hands, and a spade will look much more ladylike than a cooky-bag!" the big brick house from which mrs. merrithew and the children set out on their walk stood on one of the back streets of a little new brunswick city,--a very small but beautiful city, built on a wooded point that juts out into the bright waters of the st. john river. of this river the little canadian cousins are justly proud, for, from its source in the wilds of quebec to its outlet on the bay of fundy, it is indeed "a thing of beauty and a joy for ever." our little party soon left the streets, went through a wide green space covered with venerable maples, crossed a tiny stream and a railway track, and entered the woods that almost covered the low hill behind the town. though it was really but one hill, the various roads that subdivided it gave it various names, some derived from the settlements they led to, and some from buildings on the way. it was through the woods of "college hill" that marjorie and jack and their mother wandered. being all good walkers, they were soon back of the fine old college, which stands looking gravely out over the tree-embowered town to the broad blue river. when the delicious green and amber shadows of the woods were reached, little jack at once began to search for fairies. marjorie contented herself with looking for wild flowers, and mrs. merrithew sought for ferns young enough to transplant to her garden. "i am afraid i have left it rather late," she said at last. "they are all rather too well-grown to stand moving. but i will try a few of the smallest. what luck have my chicks had? any fairies, jackie?" jackie lifted a flushed face from its inspection of a tiny hole in the trunk of a fir-tree. "no fairies _yet_, mother; but i think one lives in here, only she won't come out while i am watching." mrs. merrithew smiled sympathetically. she heartily agreed with the writer (though she could not remember who it was) who said: "i always expect to find something wonderful, unheard-of, in a wood." "in olden days," she said, "people believed that there were beautiful wood-spirits, called dryads, who had their homes in trees. they were larger than most fairies, and yet they were a kind of fairy." "please tell more about them, mother," said marjorie, coming up with her hands full of yellow, speckled adder's-tongue. "i know very little more, i am sorry to say," their mother answered, laughing. "like jackie with _his_ fairies, i have always hoped to see one, but never have as yet." "are they good things?" jackie asked, "or would they frighten little boys?" "oh, my dear, they were always said to be kind and beautiful, and rather timid, more apt to be frightened themselves than to frighten any one else. but remember, dears, mother did not say there _were_ such things, but only that people used to think so." "please tell us a story about one, mother," jack pleaded. but mrs. merrithew shook her head. "we will keep the story for some other time," she said. "let us have a cooky now, and a little rest, before we go home." this proposal was readily agreed to. they chose a comfortable spot where a little group of white birches gave them backs on which to lean, opened the precious bag, and were soon well occupied with its crisp and toothsome contents. mrs. merrithew, knowing well that little folk are generally troubled with a wonderful thirst, had also brought a cup and a bottle of lemonade. how doubly delicious things tasted in the clear, spicy air of the woods! by the time jack had disposed of his sixth cooky he felt ready for conversation. "mother," he said, "i wish you would tell us all about dora." "all about dora, dearie? that would take a long time, i expect. but it would _not_ take long to tell you all that i know about her. i have only seen her twice, and on one of those occasions she was a baby a month old, and the next time only two years,--and as she is now, i do not know her at all." "but--oh, you know, mother--tell us about her father and mother, and her home, and everything like that. it makes her more interesting," urged marjorie. mrs. merrithew saw that she was to be beguiled into a story in any case, so she smiled and resigned herself to her fate. "well, my dears, i know a great many things about dora's father, for he is my only brother, and we were together almost constantly until we were both grown up. then your uncle archie, who had studied electrical engineering, went up to montreal, and there secured a good position. he had only been there a short time when he met a very charming young lady" ("_this_ sounds quite like a book-story," marjorie here interposed) "by whom he was greatly attracted. she was partly french, her mother having been a lady of old french family. but her father was an english officer, of the strongest english feelings, so this charming young lady (whose name was denise allingham) combined the characteristics--at least all the best characteristics--of both races. do you know what that means, jackie?" jack nodded, thoughtfully. "i think so, mother. i think it means that she--that young lady--had all the nicenesses of the french and all the goodnesses of the english." "that is just it, my dear, and a very delicate distinction, too," cried his mother, clapping her hands in approval, while jackie beamed with delight. "well, to continue: miss denise allingham, when your uncle archie met her, was an orphan, and not well off. she was teaching in an english family, and not, i think, very happy in her work. she and your uncle had only known each other about a year when they were married." "and lived happily ever after?" marjorie asked. mrs. merrithew considered a moment, then: "yes, i am sure i can say so," she answered. "they have had some business troubles, and a good deal of sickness, but still they have been happy through it all. and they have one dear little daughter, whom they love devotedly, and who is named 'dora denise,' after her mother and--who else?" "you, mother, you," both children exclaimed. "the chief trouble this happy trio has had," mrs. merrithew continued, "has been the delicate health of your uncle. for the last four years he has not been strong. twice they have all three gone away for his health, and now the doctors have ordered him to try the delightful climate of british columbia, and to spend at least a year there if it agrees with him. he needs all his wife's attention this time, and that, my dears, is why little dora denise carman is coming to spend a year with her new brunswick relations. "and now, chicks, look at that slanting, golden light through the trees. that means tea-time, and homeward-bound!" chapter ii. it was a tired and homesick little girl that mr. merrithew helped out of the coach and led up the steps of his house, about a fortnight after our story opens. the journey from montreal had been long and lonely, the parting from her parents hard, and the thought of meeting the unknown relatives had weighed upon her mind and helped to make her unusually subdued. but when the door of the big brick house (which had been named by the neighbours when it was the only brick house on the street, and the largest one in town) opened, and her aunt's motherly arms closed around her, while marjorie's rosy, laughing face and jackie's fair, cherubic one beamed on her in greeting, her spirits began to revive. the greeting was so warm and kind, and the joy at her coming so genuine, that her fatigue seemed turned, as by magic, to a pleasant restfulness, and her homesickness was lost in this bright home atmosphere. mrs. merrithew took the little newcomer to her room, had her trunks settled conveniently, and then left her to prepare for the late tea which was waiting for them all. when dora was ready, she sat down in the little armchair that stood near a table piled with books, and looked about her contentedly. there was an air of solid comfort and cosiness about this house that rested her. this room--which her aunt had told her was just opposite marjorie's--was all furnished in the softest shades of brown and blue, her favourite colours. the carpet was brown, with a very small spray of blue here and there; the wallpaper was lighter, almost creamy, brown, with a dainty harebell pattern, and the curtains had a rich brown background with various persian stripes, in which blue and cream and gold predominated. the bed, to her great delight, had a top-piece, and a canopy of blue-flowered chintz, and the little dressing-table was draped to match it. just over the side of the bed was a book-shelf, quite empty, waiting for her favourite books. while she sat and looked about in admiration, the door was pushed gently open, and a plump maltese kitten came in, gazed at her doubtfully a moment, and then climbed on her lap. then marjorie's bright face appeared at the door, and, "may i come in?" she asked. "oh, please do," dora cried. "kitty has made friends with me already, and i think that must be a good omen." marjorie laughed, as she patted the little bunch of blue-gray fur in dora's lap. "_jackie_ has made friends with you already," she said, "and i think that is a better omen still. he told mother he thought you were 'the beautifulest girl he ever saw.'" dora's eyes opened wide with astonishment. "it is the first time i ever was called beautiful," she said, "let alone 'beautifulest.' what a dear boy jack must be." then they both laughed, and marjorie, obeying one of her sudden impulses, threw her arms around dora's neck and gave her a cousinly hug. "you and i will be friends, too," she said. "i knew it as soon as i looked at you." dora's dark brown eyes looked gravely into marjorie's blue ones. she seemed to be taking the proposition very seriously. "i have always wished for a real friend, or a twin sister," she said, thoughtfully. "the twin sister is an impossibility, and i have never before seen a girl that i wanted for a great, _great_ friend. but you,--ah, yes! you are like my father, and besides, we are cousins, and that makes us understand each other. let us be friends." she held out her hand with a little gesture which reminded marjorie that this pale, dark-haired cousin was the descendant of many french _grandes dames_. she clasped the slender hand with her own plump fingers, and shook it heartily. so, in girlish romance and sudden resolution, the little maids sealed a compact which was never broken, and began a friendship which lasted and grew in beauty and strength all through their lives. at the breakfast-table the next morning there was a merry discussion as to what should be done first to amuse dora. jackie, who had invited her to sit beside him and beamed at her approvingly over his porridge and cream, suggested a walk to his favourite candy-store and the purchase of some sticks of "pure chocolate." marjorie proposed a picnic at old government house. this was approved of, but postponed for a day or two to allow for preparations and invitations. mr. merrithew said "let us go shooting bears," but even jackie did not second this astounding proposition. as usual, it was "mother" who offered the most feasible plan. "suppose, this morning," she said, "you just help dora unpack, and make her thoroughly at home in the house and garden; then this afternoon perhaps your father will take you for a walk, and show dora the house where mrs. ewing lived, and any other interesting places. that would do for to-day, wouldn't it? then, day after to-morrow we could have the picnic; and for the next week i have a magnificent idea, but i want to talk it over with your father," and she nodded and smiled at that gentleman in a way which made him almost as curious as the children. "that's the way with mother," marjorie said to dora after breakfast. "she never ends things up. there is always another lovely plan just ahead, no matter how many you know about already." and mr. merrithew, who overheard the remark, thought that perhaps this was part of the secret of his wife's unfailing youthfulness both in looks and spirits. the walk that afternoon was one which dora always remembered. mr. merrithew had, as jackie said, "the splendidest way of splaining things," and found something of interest to relate about almost every street of the little city. they went through the beautiful cathedral, and he told them how it had been built through the earnest efforts of the well-known and venerated bishop medley, who was afterward metropolitan of canada. then they wandered down the street along the river, and saw the double house where mrs. ewing (whose stories are loved as much in the united states and in canada as they are in england) lived for a time, and where she wrote. [illustration: fredericton] she had called this house "rika dom," which means "river house," and had written in many of her letters of the beautiful river on which it looked, and the gnarled old willows on the bank just in front of her windows. these willows she had often sketched, and dora carried away a spray of the pale gray-green leaves, in memory of her favourite story-writer. it was one of dora's ambitions, kept secret hitherto, but now confided to marjorie, to write stories "something like mrs. ewing's." they saw, too, the picturesque cottage in which a certain quaint old lady had attained to the ripe age of a hundred and six years,--a record of which fredericton was justly proud. this venerable dame had been addicted to the unlimited eating of apples, and her motto--she was not a grammatical old lady!--had been (according to tradition), "apples never hurts nobody." they spent some time in the legislative library, where was enshrined a treasure in the shape of a magnificent copy of audubon's books of birds. then in the departmental buildings, near by, there was a small but well-arranged museum of stuffed birds and beasts, all canadian, and most of them from new brunswick. there were other things, too, to see, and many anecdotes to hear, so that it was a somewhat tired, though happy and hungry party which trudged home just in time for tea. and such a tea, suited to hearty outdoor appetites born of the good canadian air! there were fresh eggs, made into a white and golden omelette by mrs. merrithew's own hands; for even debby, who had cooked for the family all their lives, owned that an omelette like mrs. merrithew's she could not manage,--"no, _sir_, not if i was to cook day and night." there was golden honey in the comb; there was johnny-cake, hot and yellow and melting in your mouth; strawberry jam that tasted almost as good as the fresh fruit itself; ginger-cake, dark and rich and spicy; milk that was almost cream for the children, and steaming fragrant coffee for their elders. "it is rather nice to get _good and hungry_," jackie gravely observed,--"that is, if you have plenty in the house to eat. i think life would be very dull without meals." these philosophical remarks rather astonished dora, who was not yet accustomed to the contrast between jack's sage reflections and his tender years. just now they seemed especially funny, because he was almost falling asleep while he talked. when mrs. merrithew saw him nodding, she rang, and the nurse--who, like debby, was a family institution--came in and carried him off in her stalwart arms, to his little white bed. when his mother stole up a little later to give him a final good-night kiss, she heard susan singing and paused at the door to listen. "now the day is over" was ended, and then a drowsy voice murmured: "now, susan, my very favourite song!" and then susan sang, in her soft, crooning voice "the maple-leaf, the maple-leaf, the maple-leaf for ever!" chapter iii. the day of the picnic was hot, very hot, for june, but that did not discourage the younger picnickers at all. "it will be pretty warm on the river," mr. merrithew remarked, tentatively, as they sat at dinner. the dining-room windows were open, and the soft air, sweet with the scent of lilacs, blew the white curtains into the room with lazy puffs. "it will be so lovely when we get to government house, though," marjorie cried. "there is always a breeze up there, father, and there are plenty of trees, and three summer-houses, and that big veranda. oh, i think it will be perfect." "yes, daddy, i do, too! i think it will be _gorlious_!" said jackie. when, after much hurrying about, telephoning to tardy members of the party, and good-natured discussion as to the arrangement of the canoe-loads, they were at last afloat on the blue, shining river, they all agreed with jack. dora was charmed with the slender milicete canoes. she had seen chiefly canvas and wooden ones. her father, indeed, had owned a bark canoe, but it was of much heavier and broader build than these slim beauties, that glided through the water like fairy craft, impelled this way or that by the slightest turn of the steersman's wrist. [illustration: in the government house grounds] they landed just back of government house, the grounds of which sloped down to the water. the house is a long, stone building, with a broad veranda at the back, and in front nearly covered with virginia creeper. at the time of the picnic it was empty, and in charge of a caretaker, who lived in a small cottage on the grounds. when a suitable spot had been chosen for tea, and the baskets piled close by, mrs. merrithew proposed an excursion through the house, and mr. merrithew went with jackie to procure the key. when he returned, they all trooped merrily up the front steps, and soon were dispersed through the great echoing halls and lofty rooms. most of the grown people of the party had danced here at many a stately ball, for in those days government house had been kept up in the good old-fashioned way. marjorie and jack delighted in hearing their mother tell of her "coming out" at one of these balls, and how she had been so proud of her first train that she had danced without holding it up, which must have been trying for her partners. dora was greatly interested in seeing the room where king edward, then the slim young prince of wales, had slept, on the occasion of his visit to fredericton. when the furniture of government house was auctioned, a few years before our story opens, the pieces from this room, which should have been kept together as of historic interest, were scattered about among various private purchasers. mrs. merrithew described them to dora, who wished she could have seen the great bed, so wide that it was almost square, with its canopy and drapings of rich crimson, and its gilt "prince of wales feathers," and heavy gold cords and tassels. when they came out of the dim, cool house into the warm air, the elders looked apprehensively at the heavy black clouds which had gathered in the west. "that looks ominous," one of the gentlemen said. "there will certainly be thunder before night." thunder! that was marjorie's horror! her round, rosy face grew pale, and she clung tightly to her mother's arm. the men and matrons held a hurried consultation, and decided that the storm was probably not very near, and that it would be safe to wait for tea if they hurried things a little. it would be a terrible disappointment to the children (all, at least, but marjorie!) to be hurried away without "the picnic part of the picnic." so they all bustled about, and in a short time the cloth was spread, and well covered with good things. the fire behaved well, as if knowing the need of haste, and the coffee was soon made, and as delicious as picnic coffee, by some apparent miracle, generally is. by the time the repast was over, the clouds had drawn closer, the air was more sultry, and even the most optimistic admitted that it was high time to start for home. the canoes were quickly loaded, the best canoe-men took the paddles, and soon they were darting swiftly down-river, running a race with the clouds. in spite of their best speed, however, the storm broke before they reached their journey's end. the thunder growled and muttered, a few bright flashes lit up the sultry sky, and just as they landed a tremendous peal caused the most courageous to look grave, while poor marjorie could scarcely breathe from terror. then the rain came, and the pretty muslin dresses and flower-trimmed hats looked very dejected before their wearers were safely housed! still, no one was the worse for that little wetting, marjorie recovered from her fright as soon as she could nestle down in a dark room with her head in her mother's lap, and they all agreed with jackie that it _had_ been "a gorlious time." before the children went to bed mrs. merrithew told them about the plan which she had mentioned two days before, and to which mr. merrithew had heartily consented. he was to take a whole holiday, on thursday of the following week, and drive them all up to the indian village, about thirteen miles above town, to see the corpus christi celebrations. corpus christi, a well-known festival in the roman catholic church, is one which has been chosen by the indians for special celebration. as it comes in june, and that is such a pleasant time for little excursions, many drive to the indian village from fredericton and from the surrounding country, to see the milicetes in their holiday mood. the day being fresh and lovely, with no clouds but tiny white ones in the sky, mr. and mrs. merrithew and the three children set off early on thursday morning. they had a roomy two-seated carriage, and two big brisk, white horses, plenty of wraps and umbrellas in case history should repeat itself with another storm, and an ample basket of dainties. the road, winding along the river-bank most of the the way, was excellent, and the scenery dora thought prettier than any she had seen. the river was smooth as a mirror, reflecting every tree and bush on its banks. little islands, green and tree-crested, were scattered all along its shining length. it was almost time for the service when they reached the picturesque little village which went climbing bravely up its hill to the chapel and priest's house near the top. the horses were taken charge of by a sedate young half-breed, evidently proud of his office as the "priest's man," and our party at once filed into the chapel. a plain enough little structure in itself, to-day it was beautiful with green boughs, ferns, and flowers. the congregation consisted chiefly of indians and half-breeds, with a scattering of interested visitors. most of the natives were clad in gorgeous finery, some of the older ones having really handsome beaded suits and beautifully worked moccasins, while others were grotesque in their queer combination of the clothes of civilization and savagery. the priest, a tall, good-looking man with piercing eyes, sang high mass, and then the procession formed. first came an altar-boy carrying a cross, then six boys with lighted tapers, and two walking backward scattering boughs. these were followed by the priest bearing the host and sheltered by a canopy which four altar-boys carried. these boys were all indians, and the mild well-featured milicete faces had lost their stolidity, and were lit up with an expression of half-mystic adoration. after them came the congregation, bare-headed, and singing as they walked. marjorie and dora clasped hands as they followed, their eyes shining with excitement. they went down the road and entered a schoolhouse not far from the church, where the host was placed in a little tabernacle of green boughs while the service was continued. then the procession re-formed and went back to the church. after they had disbanded, the indians scattered to their houses to prepare for the various other events of the day. mr. and mrs. merrithew and the children were carried off by the priest (whom mr. merrithew knew well) to have dinner with him in his house near the chapel. the children stood a little in awe of him at first, but he was so companionable and kind that they were soon quite at their ease. his mother, who kept house for him, was evidently very proud of her son, and did her best to entertain his visitors worthily. the house was rather bare, but clean as wax and the perfection of neatness, while the repast, spread on the whitest of linen, was excellent, and not without some rather unusual dainties,--such as candied fruits of many colours for the children, and guava jelly brought out especially in mrs. merrithew's honour. after dinner the good father offered to show them through the village, and they set out together on a tour of inspection. all the full-grown indians, the priest told them, were holding a pow-wow in the schoolhouse, for the purpose of electing a chief. "there is no need of my being there this afternoon," he said, in answer to mr. merrithew's inquiry; "but this evening, when they have their feast and their games,--ah, then i will keep my eye on them!" evidently this priest held very parental relations toward his people. the visitors noticed that some boys playing baseball on the green eagerly referred their disputes to him and accepted his word as final. he took them into several of the little wooden houses, all of which, probably in honour of the day, were in splendid order. in one they found twin papooses, brown as autumn beech-leaves, sleeping side by side in a basket of their mother's making. in another a wrinkled old squaw had most dainty moccasins to sell, the milicete slipper-moccasins, with velvet toe-pieces beautifully beaded. mr. merrithew bought a pair for each of his party (himself excepted), letting them choose their own. mrs. merrithew promptly selected a pair with yellow velvet on the toes; dora's choice had crimson, and marjorie's blue, while jackie's tiny pair was adorned with the same colour as his mother's. "you see, mother dear," he said quite seriously, "yours are a _little_ larger, so we won't be mixing them up!" then, being in a gift-making mood, mr. merrithew bought them each a quaint and pretty basket, besides a big substantial scrap-basket for his own study, and handkerchief-cases, gorgeous in pink and green, for susan and debby. the small baskets all had broad bands of the fragrant "sweet hay" which grows on many islands of the st. john, but which very few white people can find. dora was much interested in the milicete women, with their soft voices and kind, quiet faces. she tried to learn some of their words, and won their hearts by singing two or three songs in french, a language which they all understood, though they spoke it in a peculiar patois of their own. the bright summer afternoon went all too quickly. mrs. merrithew was anxious to reach home before too late an hour, so at five o'clock, after tea and cakes, they "reembarked" for the return trip. the horses were fresh, the roads good, the children just pleasantly tired. as they drove on and on through magic sunset light and fragrant summer dusk, dora thought drowsily that this was a day she would always remember, even if she lived to be as old as the dame who ate the innumerable apples. "i will have such lovely things to write to father and mother about," she murmured, in sleepy tones,--and those were the last words she said till the carriage stopped at the door of "the big brick house," and she and jackie were tenderly lifted out and half led, half carried up the steps. then she opened her eyes very wide and looked about her in wonder. "why, i believe i _nearly_ went to sleep for a moment," she said. and even jackie woke up enough to laugh at that! chapter iv. the day before they left for camp, dora received a letter from her mother, telling something of their surroundings and of the beauties of the western land. as the others were keenly interested, she read them many extracts, which even jackie enjoyed. "we are now," her mother wrote, after describing the journey by the great canadian pacific railway, and speaking encouragingly of the invalid's condition, "comfortably settled in victoria--which, as of course you know, dear, is the capital city of british columbia. it is a truly beautiful spot, and the climate is delightful. there are great varieties of climate, we hear, in this maritime province of the west; victoria is supposed to enjoy a very mild and even one, with roses and geraniums blooming outdoors in december, and the cold weather confined almost entirely to parts of january and february. there is another delightful part of the country which we may visit later; it is in one of the valleys which cut across the coast range of mountains. these deep valleys are entirely shut off from the north winds, and freely admit the warm breezes from the coast, while the rays of the sun are concentrated on their steep sides, helping to make, at times, almost tropical weather. we may spend part of next winter there, as it is even drier than victoria, and that is very important for your father. some of our new acquaintances have recommended the southern part of alberta, where the winter is shortened and made almost balmy by the wonderful chinook winds--so named from the chinook indians, who used to occupy that part of the country from which they blow. these west winds, coming from the mountains across the plains, are warm and particularly drying. when they melt the light and infrequent snowfalls of the winter, they also dry the ground almost immediately, so that even the hollows and ravines are free from dampness. your father is greatly interested in these 'warm chinooks,' and we are almost sure to try their effect later. another pleasure to which we look forward, when he grows a little stronger, is a trip by boat along the coast. the fiords of british columbia are said to resemble those of norway, and the whole coast, with its wooded shores, snowy mountain-peaks, and flashing cataracts, is marvellously beautiful." dora went to sleep that night with her mother's letter under her pillow, and dreamt that they were camping out on the shore of a british columbian fiord, when a warm wind came and blew all the tents into little boats, in which they went sailing away to some wonderful country, where no one would ever be sick, and where no winds blew but balmy west ones. she had nearly reached the land, when a soft touch woke her, and she found marjorie's happy face bending over her. "hurry up, dear! hurrah for camp! we want to start by ten at the latest, and it is seven now, and such a perfect day. mother says we can take kitty with us; won't that be fun?" and marjorie was off without waiting for an answer. dora heard her singing, laughing, chatting, as she flashed here and there, helping and hindering in about equal proportions. the whole house was filled with the pleasant bustle of preparation. mr. merrithew was as much of a boy, in the matter of high spirits, as the youngest of the party. mrs. merrithew, blithe and serene, had everything perfectly planned, and engineered the carrying out of the plans with quiet skill. it was she who remembered where everything was, thought of everything that ought to be taken, and saw that every one of the party was properly clad. the party, by the way, was quite a large one, consisting of another whole family (the greys) besides the merrithews, will graham, a young collegian who was a friend of mr. merrithew's, and miss covert, a rather delicate and very quiet little school-teacher whom mrs. merrithew had taken under her wing from sheer kindness, but who proved a charming addition to the party. the greys were six in number: doctor grey, a grave professor; mrs. grey, a tiny, vivacious brunette, who had been mrs. merrithew's "chum" since their schoolgirl days; carl and hugh, twin boys of fourteen; and two girls, edith, just jackie's age, and alice, so much older than the rest that she was "almost grown-up," and marjorie and dora looked upon her with admiring awe. doctor grey, both mammas, susan (who was to do the cooking, as debby did not dare venture on anything so wild as sleeping out-of-doors), jackie, little edith grey, and all the provisions, tents, and bedding, were to go by stage, while mr. merrithew, will graham, and the twins were to divide the charge of three canoes and the four girls. at ten o'clock the big lumbering stage rattled up to the door, and the canoeists saw the others properly packed and waved them a cheerful adieu. then they gathered up paddles, wraps, and lunch-baskets, and hastened gaily off to the boat-house on the river-bank. here the work of embarking was quickly accomplished, and the four slender birches shot out into the stream, turned, and swept upward, propelled against the current by vigorous arms. "please sing, daddy," marjorie begged, and mr. merrithew promptly began an old favourite, but could get no further than the first verse. "in the days when we went gypsying, a long time ago, the lads and lasses in their best were dressed from top to toe--" so far he sang, and then declared that both memory and breath had given out, and that the ladies, who had no work to do, must forthwith provide the music. after a little hesitation and some coaxing from marjorie, dora sang, in a clear, sweet treble, the well-known and much-loved "en roulant ma boule" ("rolling my ball"). then some one started "tenting on the old camp ground," and all, even the paddlers, joined in, the little school-teacher providing a rich alto that took them all by surprise. [illustration: "the tree-clad shores wore a fairy glamour"] the river was deep-blue, reflecting the little clouds that floated in the azure overhead. near the town the river was very broad; as they forged upward, it gradually narrowed, and was thickly studded with islands. they passed government house, left the ruined hermitage behind, and then began to feel that they were at last out of civilization, and nearing the goal of summer quiet that they sought. it was slow work, this paddling against the current, but the time went in a sort of enchanted way; the tree-clad shores wore a fairy glamour, and the islands, where masses of grape-vine and clematis were tangled over the bushes, might have been each the home of an enchanted princess, a dryad, or any of the many "fair forms of old romance." when about five miles had been covered, they heard the rush of water hurrying over shallows and nagging at the rocks. this was what the children delighted to call "the rapids," but old canoemen simply dubbed it "a stretch of swift water." but by whichever name it went, it called for strong and skilful paddling, and mr. merrithew proposed that, before they undertook it, they should land and fortify themselves with lunch. this suggestion met with great favour; the canoes were swiftly beached, and soon a merry little picnic party sat under a clump of gray shore-willows, while sandwiches, tarts, and cakes of many kinds, vanished as if by magic. success to the camp was drunk in lemonade--_not_ ice-cold--and speeches were made that proved the good spirits, if not the oratorical gifts, of the group. they rested here for an hour, for one of the camp mottoes was, "time was made for slaves," and they knew that the ones who had gone on by stage were resting comfortably in a farmhouse, just opposite their destination, till the canoeing party should come to ferry them over. the farmhouse was owned by old friends with whom mrs. merrithew and mrs. grey would be glad to spend a little time, and for jack and edith the whole place would be full of wonders. when it came to actually facing the rapids, dora's heart failed her; her cheeks paled, and her eyes grew very large and dark; but she held on tight to both sides of the canoe, fixed her eyes on marjorie's back, and said not a word. she tried hard not to see the swirling water and the scowling rocks, but no effort could shut out the confused seething noises that made her feel as if nothing in the world was stable or solid. when at last the rush was over, the sounds grew softer, and the triumphant canoemen drew their good craft in to shore, and paused to rest their tired muscles, dora gave a deep sigh of relief. marjorie turned a beaming face to see what ever was the matter. "_frightened_, dear?" she said. "i forgot that you have not had much canoeing. it's too bad." but dora laughed, and the colour came back to her face. "i ought not to mind," she said, "for i have shot the lachine rapids. but i think being in a large boat gives one a feeling of safety. i know i wasn't half so afraid then as i was to-day. it seemed to me there was nothing between me and the dreadful confusion." "shooting the lachine rapids is a great experience," mr. merrithew said. "i must confess i would not like to try those in a canoe, as champlain did! but now, boys, let us set off briskly, or we won't get things comfortable before night." and they did hurry, but for all their speed it was nearly dusk by the time the five white tents were pitched on saunder's island. this was a fairly large island, ringed by a sandy beach from which the ground rose steeply to a green bank on which elms, white birches, and maples stood, with a tangle of raspberry-bushes, and flowering shrubs among them. inside the belt of trees was a broad sweep of rich meadow-land, with here and there a row of feathery elms or a cluster of choke-cherry-trees. toward the upper end of the island stood an old stone house, empty and almost a ruin; not far from this house were two barns, kept in good repair for the storing of the sweet island hay. the tents were pitched about a hundred yards from the house, just inside the tall bordering trees, so that part of the day they would be in the shade. these trees, too, would make ideal places for slinging the numerous hammocks which mrs. merrithew and mrs. grey had brought. dora and marjorie greatly enjoyed watching the speed with which the tent-poles--two stout uprights and a horizontal ridge-pole--were got into position, and the skill with which the white canvas was spread over them and stretched and pegged down and made into a cosy shelter. there was a tiny "a tent" tucked away in the shadiest spot for the provisions, and a large tent in a central position which mr. grey named "rainy-day house," and which was to be used as dining-room and parlour in case of severe rains; then the other three were called respectively, "the chaperons' tent," "the boys' tent," and "the girls' tent." the chaperons' abode was inhabited by mrs. merrithew, mrs. grey, susan, jackie, edith, and the kitten; "the boys' tent" was well filled by mr. merrithew and doctor grey (who insisted on being boys for the occasion), will graham, and the twins; and "the girls' tent" sheltered miss katherine covert, alice grey, marjorie, and dora. the beds were of hay, liberally provided by the friendly farmer,--the owner, by the way, of island, house, and barns. under each bed was spread either a rubber sheet or a piece of table oilcloth, then over the hay a thick gray blanket was laid. there was another thick blanket to wrap around each person, and still another to put over him, or her, as the case might be. in the chaperons' tent only were they more luxurious; there, two large mattresses took the place of the hay, and made a delightfully comfortable couch for three grown-ups and two children. while the tents and beds were being attended to, susan, with a little help from mrs. merrithew, had succeeded in getting tea without waiting for any sort of a fireplace to be constructed. she was rather anxious about the reception of this first meal, as it had been cooked under difficulties. but when she saw the speed with which her fried beans disappeared, and found mrs. grey taking a third cup of tea, her spirits rose, and she decided that campers were thoroughly satisfactory people for whom to cook! after tea was over, and all the dishes were washed, one of the old campers proposed the usual big bonfire, whereby to sit and sing, but every one was too sleepy, and it was unanimously resolved that just this once the delightful evening of song and story must be omitted. hearty "good-nights" were exchanged, and soon each tent for a brief while shone, like that in the "princess," "lamp-lit from the inner,"--to be more absolutely accurate, lantern-lit; but what is a trifle of one word, that it should be allowed to spoil a quotation? then gently, sweetly, silence settled down over the little encampment; silence, save for the soft murmur of the river in its sleep, and sometimes the drowsy chirping of a bird among the branches. chapter v. jack was the first to wake in the delicious stillness of the morning. when his mother opened her eyes a little later, she found him sitting up beside her with a look of delight and wonder on his face. "the river talks in its sleep," he said, leaning over her with shining eyes. "what does it say, jackie-boy?" mrs. merrithew asked. "i don't know the words,--yet," he answered, "but i will some day." "yes, i believe you will, dear," his mother said, with a smile and a sigh, for she firmly believed that her boy, with his vivid imagination and quick apprehension, had the life of a poet before him. just then a shout from the boys' tent proclaimed that the twins were awake; then mr. merrithew's cheery voice was heard, and soon the camp was alive with greetings and laughter. under mr. merrithew's direction (and with his active assistance), a cooking-place was soon made, and a bright fire inviting to preparations for breakfast. the device for cooking consisted of two strong upright sticks with forked tops, and a heavy horizontal pole resting upon them. on this pole two pothooks were fastened, from which hung the pot and kettle, and the fire was kindled under it. then a little circle of flat stones was made for the frying-pan, the pot and kettle were filled with fresh water, and susan's outfit was complete. pending the erection of a "camp wash-stand," and the choice of a safe and suitable bathing-place, faces and hands were washed in the river amid much laughter, and with careful balancing on stones in the shallows. the toilets were barely completed when three toots on the horn announced that breakfast was ready. a long table and benches were among the furniture which doctor grey and mr. merrithew had planned to make; until their construction, they were glad to group themselves, picnic-fashion, around a table-cloth on the ground. the way that breakfast was disposed of showed that the true camp appetites had begun already to assert themselves. porridge and molasses, beans, bacon and eggs, and great piles of brown bread and butter, vanished like smoke. jackie astonished the party (and alarmed his mother) by quietly disposing of a cup of strong coffee, passed to him by mistake, and handing it back to be refilled with the comment that it was "much more satisfyinger than milk." after breakfast they all set to work with enthusiasm to make camp more comfortable. susan washed dishes and arranged the provision tent with housewifely zeal; mrs. merrithew and mrs. grey brought the blankets out, and spread them on the grass to air, drove shingle-nails far up on the tent-poles to hold watches, pin-cushions, and innumerable small but necessary articles, and superintended the stretching of a rope from one pole to another, about a foot from the ridge-pole. this last arrangement proved most useful, all the garments not in use being hung over it, so that the chaperons' tent, at least, was kept in good order. the gentlemen busied themselves in building the promised table and seats. mr. andrews had told them to make use of anything they wanted on his island, so the twins had hunted about till they discovered a pile of boards near one of the barns. these served admirably for the necessary furniture, and after that was finished several cosy seats were made, by degrees, in favourite nooks along the bank. the morning passed with almost incredible swiftness, and even the youngest (and hungriest) of the campers could scarcely believe their ears when the horn blew for dinner. in the afternoon some, bearing cushions and shawls, chose shady spots for a read and a doze; some set off in the canoes for a lazy paddle; and others organized themselves into an exploring party to visit the deserted house. marjorie and dora, miss covert, and will graham formed the latter group. the stone house was a curious structure, with an air of solidity about it even in its neglected and failing condition. it had been built many years before by an englishman, who did not know the river's possibilities in the way of spring freshets. when he found that he had built his house too near the shore, and that april brought water, ice, and debris of many sorts knocking at his doors and battering in his windows, he promptly, if ruefully, abandoned it to time and the elements. it might, long ago, have been so arranged and protected as to make it a very pleasant summer residence, but, instead, it was now used only for a week or two in haying-time, when the haymakers slept and ate in its basement,--for this quaint little house had a basement, with a kitchen, dining-room, and storeroom. our visitors, having gained entrance to the hall by a very ruinous flight of steps and a battered door, descended to the basement first, admired the fireplace in the kitchen, and looked rather askance at the deep pile of straw in the dining-room, where the haymakers had slept. there was a rough table in one corner of the room, and on it some tin cups and plates and a piece of very dry bread. the haying on the island was about half-done; there was a short intermission in the work now, but it was to begin again very soon. they found nothing else of especial interest in the basement, so went to the hall above. here were two good-sized rooms, one on each side of the hall. each had a fine, deep fireplace, and in one were two old-fashioned wooden armchairs and a long table. the windows--two in each room--were narrow and high, and had small panes and deep window-seats. "oh, what fun it would be to play keeping-house here, dora!" marjorie cried. "wouldn't it!" dora answered. "let us, marjorie! let us pretend it is ours, and choose our rooms, and furnish it!" "that will be fine," marjorie answered, fervently, and soon the little girls were deep in a most delightful air-castle. "let us play, too," said will, persuasively, and katherine answered without hesitation: "yes, let us! i feel just like a child here, and could play with a doll if i had one!" "well,--let me see; we will begin by deciding about the rooms," said will. "let us have this for the study,--shall we?--and put the books all along this wall opposite the windows!" and so these two "children of a larger growth" played house with almost as much zest as marjorie and dora,--and greatly to the amusement and delight of the latter couple when they caught a word or two of their murmured conversation. up-stairs were four rather small rooms with sloping ceilings, and in the middle of the house, just over the front door, a dear little room without the slope, and with a dormer-window. "this shall be our boudoir," dora said, as they entered, and then stopped and exclaimed in surprise, for against one wall stood a piano! almost the ghost of a piano, or the skeleton, rather,--at the very best, a piano in the last stage of decrepitude, but still a piano. its rosewood frame had been whittled, chopped, and generally ill-treated, and more than half its yellow keys were gone, but oh, wonder of wonders, some of those remaining gave a thin, unearthly sound when struck! it seemed almost like something alive that had been deserted, and the little group gathered around it with sympathetic exclamations. while they were talking and wondering about it, lively voices proclaimed the approach of the twins. "we won't say anything about our housekeeping play," said dora, hastily, turning to mr. graham, and marjorie loyally added, "except to mother." "all right, if you like," the student agreed, and miss covert quickly added her assent. the twins admired the stone house, the fireplaces, and the piano, but with rather an abstracted manner. soon the cause of their absent-mindedness transpired. mr. merrithew had met some indians that afternoon, when they were out paddling, and had bought a salmon from them. this had led to a conversation about salmon-spearing, and the indians had promised to come the following night, and show them how it was done. they could take one person in each canoe, and mr. merrithew had said that carl and hugh should be the ones. of course they were greatly excited over this prospect, and chattered about it all the way back to the tents. [illustration: "a great bonfire was built"] that evening, when dusk had settled down, a great bonfire was built, and they all sat around it on rugs and shawls, in genuine camp-fashion. first, some of the favourite games were played,--proverbs, "coffee-pot," characters, and then rigmarole, most fascinating of all. rigmarole, be it known, is a tale told "from mouth to mouth," one beginning it and telling till his invention begins to flag or he thinks his time is up, then stopping suddenly and handing it on to his next neighbour. the result is generally a very funny, and sometimes quite exciting, medley. to-night mr. merrithew began the story, and his contribution (wherein figured a dragon, an enchanted princess, and a deaf-and-dumb knight) was so absorbing that there was a general protest when he stopped. but the romancer was quite relentless, and his next neighbour had to continue as best he could. even jackie contributed some startling incidents to the narrative, and when at last mrs. grey ended it with the time-honoured (and just at present, most unfortunately, out-of-fashion!) assurance that they all, even the dragon, "lived happy ever after," there was a burst of laughter and applause. then some one began to sing, and one after another the dear old songs rose through the balmy night. sometimes there were solos, but every now and then a chorus in which all could join. dora sang every french song she knew,--"a la claire fontaine" ("at the clear fountain"), "malbrouck," and "entre paris et saint-denis" ("between paris and st. denis") proving the favourites. mrs. grey, who declared she had not sung for years, ventured on "the canadian boat-song" and "her bright smile haunts me still." at last, when voices began to grow drowsy and the fire burned low, they sang, "the maple-leaf for ever" and "our own canadian home," then rose and joined in the camp-hymn,--"for ever with the lord," with its: "and nightly pitch our moving tents a day's march nearer home." the next day seemed to fly, to every one, at least, but carl and hugh. their hearts were so set on the salmon-spearing that for them the time went slowly enough till night brought the four indians with their torches and spears. doctor grey and mr. merrithew walked along the shore to see what they could of the proceedings, but the rest--and even will--were content to sit around the fire as before. carl sat in the middle of one canoe, and hugh in the other, both greatly excited and both trying to think themselves quite cool. only the steersmen paddled,--the bowmen kneeling erect and watchful, with their spears in readiness. (the salmon-spear is a long ash shaft, with two wooden prongs and a metal barb between them. the spearing of salmon, by the way, is restricted by law to the indians, and any white man who undertakes it is liable to a fine.) sticking up in the bow of each canoe was a torch, made of a roll of birch-bark fastened in the end of a split stick. the red-gold flare of these torches threw a crimson reflection on the dark water, and shone on the yellow sides of the birches, and the intent, dusky faces of the fishermen watching for their prey. slowly, silently, they paddled up the stream, till at last the silvery sides of a magnificent fish gleamed in the red light. then, like a flash, a spear struck down, there was a brief struggle, and the captive lay gasping in the foremost canoe. it was too much for hugh. he had enjoyed with all his boyish heart the beauty and the weirdness of the scene, but the beautiful great fish, with the spear-wound in his back,--well, that was different. he was not sorry that the indians met with no more luck, and was very silent when the others questioned them, on their return, as to the joys of salmon-spearing. when he confided to carl his hatred of the "sport," the latter shook his head doubtfully. "but you will help eat that salmon to-morrow," he said. "well,--perhaps," hugh answered, "but, all the same, it's no fun to see things killed, and i'm not going to if i can help it!" the fortnight of camp life passed like a dream, and it is hard to tell who was most sorry when the day of departure came. dora, who had written a regular diary-letter to her father and mother, and begun one of the stories that were to be like mrs. ewing's, said that never in all her life had she had such a beautiful time. katherine covert, with life-long friends to "remember camp by," and all sorts of happy possibilities in her once gray life, bore the same testimony with more, if more quiet, fervour. mr. merrithew said that he was ten years younger, and jackie opined that, in that case, they must have been living on an enchanted island,--but added, that he was very glad _he_ had not been made ten years younger, like daddy! brown and plump and strong of arm, the campers brought back with them hearty appetites, delightful recollections, and inexhaustible material for dream and plan and castles in the air. many pleasant things were waiting to be done on their return; first and foremost, miss covert had come to live at the big brick house, to teach the children when holiday time should be over, and to be a help generally to mrs. merrithew. also, according to mrs. merrithew's plans, to have a little real home life and happiness,--for katherine had been an orphan since her childhood, and for five years had taught school steadily, although it was work that she did not greatly like, and that kept her in a state of perpetual nervous strain. teaching a few well-bred and considerate children, whom she already loved, would be quite different, and almost entirely a pleasure. chapter vi. in the delightful autumn days that followed, the children, accompanied sometimes by mrs. merrithew, sometimes by katherine, spent much of their time in the woods, and taking long strolls on the country roads. in october the woods were a blaze of colour,--clear gold, scarlet, crimson, coppery brown, and amber. the children brought home great bunches of the brilliant leaves, and some they pressed and varnished, while others katherine dipped in melted wax. they found that the latter way was the best for keeping the colours, but it was rather troublesome to do. they pressed many ferns, also, and, when the frosts became keener, collected numbers of white ferns, delicately lovely. most of these treasures, with baskets full of velvety moss and yards of fairy-like wild vines, were stowed away in a cool storeroom to be used later in the christmas decorations. when the last of october drew near, mrs. merrithew made up her mind to give a little hallow-eve party. she let the children name the friends they wished her to ask, and added a few of her own; then they all busied themselves in preparations, and in making lists of hallow-eve games and tricks. at last came the eventful evening, and with it about thirty merry people, old and young, but chiefly young. all of the greys were there, of course; also mr. will graham, who was taking his last year at college, and who spent most of his spare time at mr. merrithew's. so the whole camping-party met again, and the camp-days, dear and fleeting, came back in vivid pictures to their minds. in the big brick house was a large room known as "the inner kitchen," but used as a kitchen only in the winter. this room mrs. merrithew had given up to the entertainment of the hallow-eve party. it was lighted--chiefly, that is, for a few ordinary lamps helped out the illumination--by lanterns made of hollowed pumpkins. ears of corn hung around the mantel, and a pyramid of rosy apples was piled high upon it. there was a great old-fashioned fireplace here, and a merry fire sparkled behind the gleaming brass andirons. every trick that their hostess's brain could conjure up was tried. those who cared to, bobbed for apples in a tub of water, and some were lucky enough to find five-cent pieces in their russets and pippins. an apple was hung on a string from the middle of a doorway, then set swinging, and two contestants tried which could get the first bite,--and this first bite, gentle reader, is not so easy as you might imagine! a pretty little ring was laid on a mound of flour, and whoever could lift it out between their lips, without breaking down the mound, was to win the ring. this necessitated a great many remouldings of the flour,--but finally the prize was captured by miss covert. a little later, dora noticed it hanging on mr. graham's watch-guard. some of the braver spirits took turns in walking backward down the garden steps, and to the end of the middle path, a looking-glass in one hand and a lamp in the other. what each one saw in the looking-glass, or whether, indeed, they saw anything, was, in most cases, kept a secret, or confided only to the very especial chum! then there were fortunes told by means of cabbages,--a vegetable not usually surrounded with romantic associations. marjorie was the first to try this mode of divination. well-blindfolded, she ventured alone into the garden, and came back soon with a long, lean, straggly cabbage with a great deal of earth attached to its roots. this foretold that her husband would be tall and thin, and very rich! there were many other quaint methods of fortune-telling, most of them derived from scottish sources. after these had been tried, amid much merriment, they played some of the old-fashioned games dear to children everywhere,--blind-man's buff, hunt-the-feather, post-towns, and other favourites. by and by, when the fun began to flag, and one or two little mouths were seen to yawn, a long table was brought in and soon spread with a hearty (but judiciously chosen) hallow-eve supper. when the days began to grow short and bleak, and the evenings long and cosey, the children were thrown more and more upon indoor occupations for their entertainment. it was on one of these bleak days, when a few white flakes were falling in a half-hearted way, and the sky was gray and gloomy, that jackie had a brilliant idea. four of them--katherine, marjorie, dora, and jackie himself--were sitting by the fire in mrs. merrithew's "den," the very cosiest room in the house. mr. merrithew had a den, too, but he called his a study. somehow it looked too much like an office to suit the children very well. most of the volumes on his shelves, too, were clumsy law-books; all the books that any one wanted to read, except the children's own, were in "mother's den." then, one could come to mother's room at any hour of the day or night, while sometimes no one, excepting mrs. merrithew, was admitted to the study. on this particular day katherine was reading "rob roy," and jack building a castle of blocks, while dora dreamed in the window-seat, watching the scanty flakes, and marjorie, on the hearth-rug, tried to teach reluctant kitty grey to beg. now jack had accompanied his mother on the previous sunday to the anniversary service of the sons of england, a well-known patriotic society. he had been greatly impressed by the procession, the hymns, and the sermon, and on coming home had asked his father many questions as to the "why and wherefore" of the society. it was this episode which suggested the bright idea to his active little brain. "aunt kathie," he said,--for miss covert was now a fully accepted adopted aunt,--"why couldn't _we_ form a patriarchal society?" "a _what_, dear?" said kathie, in rather startled tones, laying "rob roy" on the table, for she liked to give her whole mind to jackie's propositions and queries. "a patri--oh, you know what; like the sons of england, you know!" "oh, yes! _patriotic_, dearie; a patriotic society. you know a patriot is one who loves his country. what sort of a patriotic society would you like to have, jack?" "oh, pure canadian, of course! let me see,--we couldn't be the sons of canada, because we are not all sons." "not _quite_ all," murmured dora, with drowsy sarcasm, from the window. "why not children of canada?" suggested kathie. "no, aunt kathie, that would never do at all, for mother and daddy and you must be in it, and you _couldn't_ be called children,--though, of course, you're not so _very_ old," he added, as if fearing he had hurt her feelings. "well," said marjorie, thoughtfully, "how would the maple-leaves, or the beavers, do?" but jackie scorned this suggestion. "_those_ are names that baseball clubs have," he said. "no; i believe 'the sons and daughters of canada' would be the best of all, because everybody is either a son _or_ a daughter, even twins!" this statement, and the name, were accepted with acclamation, and the quartette, entering thoroughly into the spirit of jackie's plan, helped him zealously to put it into execution. they insisted that he should be president, and requested him to choose the other officers. so he made his father and mother the honourable patrons, dora and marjorie vice-presidents, and kathie secretary-treasurer. this office, i may mention, she nobly filled, and also the informal one of general adviser, suggester, and planner. it was she who proposed the twins, alice and edith, as members, and the president gave his consent, though he considered edith rather too young! "for my part," he said, "i should like mr. will graham, if none of you would mind!" no one seemed to mind, so mr. graham's name was added to the list, which katherine was making out beautifully, with gothic capitals in red ink, on her very best paper. her next proposal was a regular course of study in canadian history and literature, and this was enthusiastically received. when mr. and mrs. merrithew came home at tea-time, they found a well-organized "sons and daughters of canada" club, and miss covert already engaged in composing an article on "the beginnings of canadian history,"--with jackie in her mind as an important member of her future audience, and therefore an earnest effort to make it simple in language and clear in construction. all through the winter the club flourished, and indeed for a much longer time. the members met every week, and the history and literature proved so absorbing that the s. a. d. o. c. night came to be looked forward to as eagerly by the older as by the younger sons and daughters. kathie had the gift of making scenes and people of long-past days live before one, and cartier and champlain, la salle and de maisonneuve, and many another hero became the companions of our patriotic students, both waking and in their dreams. the works of canadian poets and novelists began to fill their book-shelves, and pictures of these celebrities to adorn their walls. they had regular weekly meetings, at which there were readings and recitations, and always one short historical sketch. even jack learnt his "piece" each time, and said it with a severe gravity which seemed to defy any one to smile at a mispronunciation! mrs. merrithew designed their badges,--maple-leaf pins in coloured enamel, with a little gilt beaver on each leaf,--and mr. merrithew had them made in montreal. but perhaps the proudest achievement of the club was alice grey's "sons and daughters of canada march," which was played at the opening and closing of every meeting. so much pleasure and profit, many happy evenings, and an ever deeper love for their country, were some of the results of jackie's bright idea. chapter vii. now there came, warming the frosty heart of december, that delightful atmosphere of mystery and expectation which forms one pleasure of the great yule-tide festival. the big brick house seemed particularly full of this happy spirit of the season. there were many mysterious shopping excursions, and much whispering in corners,--a thing not usual in this united family. jackie showed a sudden and severe self-denial in the matter of sticks of pure chocolate, and was soon, therefore, able to proudly flourish a purse containing, he told his mother, "a dollar all but eighty-five cents," saved toward buying his presents for the family. he also spent much time at a little table in his own room, cutting out pictures and pasting them into a scrap-book for a little lame boy of his acquaintance. mrs. merrithew and kathie had each, besides innumerable other matters, a water-colour painting on hand. each picture, strange to say, was of a house. mrs. merrithew's, the big brick house itself, with its trees and vines, was clearly intended for daddy; but for whom, the children wondered, was aunt kathie's? it was a spirited little view of the old stone house on saunder's island; not so pretty a subject as mrs. merrithew's, but set in such a delicate atmosphere of early morning light that even the sombre gray of the stone seemed etherialized and made poetic. while marjorie and dora wondered for whom it was meant, jackie promptly inquired,--but she, his dear aunt kathie, who had never refused to answer question of his before, only laughed and shook her head, and said that every one had secrets at christmas-time. marjorie and dora did not, as was their wont, spend all of their time together, for each was making a present for the other. marjorie was working hard over a portfolio, which she knew was one of the things dora wanted. she had carefully constructed and joined the stiff cardboard covers, and plentifully provided them with blotting-paper, and now she was embroidering the linen cover with autumnal maple-leaves in dora's favourite colour, a rich, vivid red. as for dora, though she had no love for needlework, she was laboriously making a cushion of soft, old-blue felt for marjorie's cosey-corner, working it with a griffin pattern in golden-brown silks. marjorie had a particular fancy for griffins,--partly, perhaps, because a griffin was the chief feature of the family crest. as the long-looked-for day drew nearer, there was other work to do, almost the pleasantest christmas work of all, dora thought,--the making wreaths out of fir and hemlock and fragrant spruce. they worked two or three hours of each day at the decorations for the beautiful little parish church which they all attended, and which, being very small, was much easier than the cathedral or the other large churches to transform into a sweet-smelling tabernacle of green. then they trimmed the big brick house almost from attic to cellar. the drawing-rooms were hung with heavy wreaths, with bunches of red cranberries here and there, making a beautiful contrast to the green. in the other rooms there were boughs over every picture, and autumn leaves, ferns, and dried grasses here and there. mr. merrithew was sure to buy some holly and mistletoe at the florist's on christmas eve, so places of honour were reserved for these two plants, which have become so closely entwined with all our thoughts of christmas and its festivities. the holly would adorn the old oil-painting of mrs. merrithew's great-aunt, lady loveday gostwycke, which hung over the mantelpiece in the front drawing-room. as for the pearly white berries of the mistletoe, they were to hang from the chandelier in the hall, where people might be expected forgetfully to pass beneath them. jackie, who was very useful in breaking twigs for the wreath-making, begged a few fine wreaths as a reward, and carried them off to decorate little lame philip's room. these lengths of aromatic greenery gave the greatest pleasure to the invalid, and scarcely less to his mother, who spent the greater part of her time in that one room. besides all these pleasant doings, there were great things going on in the kitchen. such baking and steaming and frying as debby revelled in! such spicy and savoury odours as pervaded the house when the kitchen door was opened! marjorie and dora liked to help, whenever debby would let them, with these proceedings. it was great fun to shred citron and turn the raisin-stoner, and help chop the mince-meat, in the big kitchen, with its shining tins, and general air of comfort. jackie liked to take a share in the cooking, too, and as he was deborah's pet, he generally got the wherewithal to make a tiny cake or pudding of his own. when it came to the making of the big plum pudding, all the family by turns had to stir it, according to a time-honoured institution. then mr. merrithew would make his expected contribution to its ingredients,--five shining five-cent pieces, to be stirred through the mixture and left to form an element of special interest to the children at the christmas dinner. besides this big pudding, there were always three or four smaller ones (without any silver plums, but very rich and good), for distribution among some of mrs. merrithew's protégés. on christmas day all the old customs were faithfully observed. it was the rule that whoever woke first in the morning should call the others, and on this occasion it was jackie who, as the great clock in the hall struck six, came running from room to room in his moccasin slippers and little blue dressing-gown, shouting "merry christmas, merry christmas," at the top of his voice. every one tumbled out of bed, as in duty bound, and soon a wrappered and slippered group, all exchanging christmas wishes, met in mrs. merrithew's den. here a fire glowed in the grate, and here, too, mysterious and delightful, hung a long row of very fat white pillow-cases! these were hung by long cords from hooks on the curtain-pole. each pillow-case bore a paper with the name of its owner written on it in large letters, and they were arranged in order of age, from jackie up to mr. merrithew. this had been the invariable method of giving the christmas presents in this particular family for as long as any of them could remember. armchairs and sofas were drawn near the fire, and the party grouped themselves comfortably; then mr. merrithew lifted down jackie's pillow-case and laid it beside him, as he sat with his mother in the largest of the chairs. every one looked on with intensest interest while, with shining eyes, and cheeks red with excitement, he opened his parcels, and exclaimed over their contents. truly a fortunate little boy was jack! there were books--the very books he wanted,--games, a top, the dearest little snow-shoes, a great box of blocks,--evidently santa claus knew what a tireless architect this small boy was,--a bugle, drum, and sword, a dainty cup and saucer, a picture for his room, and, too large for the pillow-case, but carefully propped beneath it, a fine sled, all painted in blue and gold and crimson, beautiful to behold! when jackie had looked at every one of his presents, it was marjorie's turn, and she was just as fortunate as her brother. so it went on up the scale, till they had all enjoyed their gifts to the very last of mr. merrithew's, and every box of candy had been sampled. and still aunt kathie's picture of the little stone house had not appeared! when at last, a merry party, they went down to breakfast, deborah and susan came forward with christmas greetings, and thanks for the well-filled pillow-cases which they had found beside their beds. the dining-room in its festal array looked even cheerier than was its wont. by every plate there lay a spray of holly, to be worn during the rest of the day. the breakfast-set was a wonderful one of blue and gold, an heirloom, which was only used on very special occasions. in the centre of the table stood a large pot of white and purple hyacinths in full bloom, the fourth or fifth of mr. merrithew's presents that morning to his wife. at eleven o'clock there was the beautiful christmas service, which all the family attended, with the exception of jackie. he was considered too young to be kept still for so long a time; so he stayed at home with susan, trying all the new toys and having samples read aloud from each new book. kitty grey, decorated with a blue ribbon and a tiny gilt bell, also kept him company, and seemed to take great pleasure in knocking his block castles down with her soft silvery paws. when the churchgoers returned there was lunch; then, for the children, a long, cosey afternoon with their presents. mrs. merrithew and katherine early disappeared into the regions of the kitchen and dining-room, for the six o'clock dinner was to have several guests, and there was much to be arranged and overseen. but by half-past five the whole family was assembled in the big drawing-room, and neither mrs. merrithew nor kathie looked as if they had ever seen the inside of a kitchen. mrs. merrithew wore her loveliest gown, a shimmering silver-gray silk with lace sleeves and fichu, and lilies-of-the-valley at her neck and in her abundant hair. as for katherine, in her fawn-coloured dress with trimmings of yellow beads, and deep yellow roses, jackie said she looked like a fairy lady,--and on the subject of fairies he was an authority. the little girls were in pure white, with sashes of their favourite colours, and the gold and coral necklaces which had been among their gifts; while jackie, in his red velvet suit and broad lace collar, looked not unlike the picture of leonard in "the story of a short life." presently the guests began to arrive. first came miss bell, a second cousin of mr. merrithew's, and the nearest relative he had in fredericton. she was very tall, very thin, quite on the shady side of fifty, and a little deaf. nevertheless, she was decidedly handsome, with her white hair, bright, dark eyes, and beautifully arched brows. she was a great favourite with the children, and always carried some little surprise for them in her pocket. a little later came a widowed aunt of mrs. merrithew's, fair, fat, and frivolous; and a bachelor uncle, who came next in the esteem of the children to cousin sophia bell. two young normal school students, sisters, who were not able to go home for the holidays, soon swelled the party, and last, but not least, came mr. will graham, looking very handsome in his evening clothes. when they went out to dinner jackie escorted cousin sophia, and marjorie overheard him saying, in urgent tones: "i _wish_ that you and uncle bob would come and live with us,--but i _don't_ want aunt fairley; she is too funny all the time!" the christmas dinner was much like other christmas dinners, except that debby's cooking was unsurpassable. after every one had tasted everything, and three of the five-cent pieces had come to light, the chairs were pushed back a little, and while nuts and raisins were being discussed, they had also catches, rounds, and choruses. each person with any pretence to a voice was expected to give one solo at least. jackie, who had a very sweet little voice, sang "god save the king," with great fervour. but the favourite of the evening was the beautiful "under the holly bough," with the words of which they were all familiar. presently, jackie, who had been promised that he should choose his own bedtime that night, was found to be fast asleep with his head on his green-leaf dessert plate, and a bunch of raisins clasped tightly in one hand. he was tenderly carried away, undressed, and tucked into bed, without once opening an eye. as kathie turned to leave him, she picked up one of his best-beloved new books,--"off to fairyland," in blue and gold covers, with daintily coloured pictures,--and laid it beside him for a pleasant waking sight the next morning. down-stairs she found the rest of the party gathered around the fire, telling stories of auld lang syne. as almost every one had been up early that morning, no very lively games seemed to appeal to them; but the children thought no game could be so interesting as these sprightly anecdotes and rose-leaf-scented romances that were being recalled and recounted to-night. "do you remember--" cousin sophia would say; then would follow some entrancing memories, to which mr. and mrs. merrithew, uncle bob, and mrs. fairley would contribute a running comment of "yes, yes! she was a lovely girl!" "he never held up his head after she died!" and so on. then mrs. fairley would hum an old-time waltz, and branch off into reminiscences of balls,--and of one in particular at government house, where she had lost her satin slipper, and the governor's son had brought it to her, and called her cinderella. she put out a satin-shod foot as she talked, and marjorie thought that, though it certainly was tiny, it was not at all a pretty shape, and began to understand why her mother made her wear her boots so loose. about ten, susan brought tea and plum-cake, and when this had been disposed of, they all, according to another time-honoured custom, gathered around the piano, and sang the grand old words that unnumbered thousands of voices had sung that day: "oh, come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant; oh, come ye, oh, come ye to bethlehem! come and behold him born the king of angels; oh, come let us adore him, christ the lord!" [illustration: "nothing, dora thought, could be more beautiful than those woods in winter"] chapter viii. snow-shoeing is one of the national sports of canada, in which most canadians, big and little, are proficient. marjorie and her cousin were no exception to the rule, and jackie proved a very apt pupil. he soon learned to avoid striking one snow-shoe against the other, and fell quickly into that long, easy swing, which makes the snowy miles go by so quickly. sometimes the three children tramped on the broad, frozen river, but that was a cold place when there was any wind, so they generally chose the hill-roads or the woods. nothing, dora thought, could be more beautiful than those woods in winter, with the white drifts around the grayish tree-trunks, the firs and hemlocks rising like green islands out of a snowy sea, and the wonderful tracery of brown boughs against the pale blue of the sky. once, mr. and mrs. merrithew went with them for a moonlight tramp, and that was something never to be forgotten. it was just after a heavy snowfall, and the evergreens were weighed down with a white covering that sparkled and glittered as with innumerable jewels. another favourite amusement was coasting,--not tobogganing, but good, old-fashioned coasting, generally on college hill, but sometimes down the steep bank of the river. coasting parties were frequent, and it was a pretty sight to see the hill dotted with blanket-coated and toqued or tam-o'-shantered figures, and pleasant to hear the merry voices and laughter as the sleds skimmed swiftly down the road. the winters in eastern canada, though cold, are wonderfully bright and clear, and the air is so free from dampness that one does not realize how cold it sometimes becomes, unless one consults the thermometer. canadians, as a rule, spend a great deal of time in the open air in winter as well as summer, and are as hardy a race as can be found anywhere, but when they _are_ indoors they like their houses good and warm,--no half-measures, no chilly passages and draughty bedrooms for them! mr. merrithew did not keep horses, but occasionally he would hire a big three-seated sleigh and take the family for a delightful spin. they would all be warmly wrapped in woollens and furs, and snuggled in buffalo-robes; the bells would jingle merrily, the snow would "skreak" under the horses' feet, and the white world slip by them like a dream. one day, about the middle of february, mrs. merrithew announced, at breakfast, that it was high time for the drive to hemlock point, which mr. merrithew had been promising them all winter. as the latter quite agreed with this idea, they decided to go on the following morning, spend a long day with the friends they always visited there, and return by moonlight. hemlock point was somewhere between ten and twenty miles up-river,--it does not always do to be too exact,--and their friends lived in a quaint old farmhouse, on high ground, well back from the river-bank. that evening, when they sat in the den after lessons were done, marjorie told dora about the good folk who lived there,--an old bachelor farmer, the most kind-hearted and generous of men, but as bashful as a boy; his two unmarried sisters, who managed his house and thought they managed him, but really spoilt him to his heart's content; and an orphan niece, who had lived with them for several years, and who was the only modern element in their lives. she graphically described the old loom, the big and little spinning-wheels, and the egg-shell china, till dora was as anxious as jackie for to-morrow to come. the three-seated sleigh and the prancing horses were at the door of the big brick house by eight the next morning, for the drive would be long and the load heavy, and it was well to be early on the way. the girls and jackie wore their blanket-suits,--dora's and jackie's crimson and marjorie's bright blue,--and mrs. merrithew herself, snugly wrapped in furs, brought a grand supply of extra cloaks and shawls. she was always prepared for any emergency. mr. merrithew said that he never knew her fail to produce pins, rope, a knife, and hammer and nails, if they were needed. but the hammer and nails she repudiated, and said it was twine, not rope, she carried! the sky was a little overcast when they started, but the prospect of a snow-storm did not daunt them in the least. the bells, of which there were a great many on the harness, kept up a musical, silvery accompaniment to the conversation, as the horses swung at a good speed along the level. when the hills began to rise, the pace slackened, and the passengers had a better chance to enjoy the beauties spread on both sides of the road. "but oh, you ought to see it in summer!" marjorie said, when dora praised the varied and lovely landscapes. "there are so many things yet for you to see all around here. you will have to stay two or three years more at least!" but dora laughed at this. "what about all the things there are for you to see in montreal?" she said. "what about the ice palace, and--" "please tell about the ice palace, dora," jack interrupted. "that must be a gorlious sight!" so dora tried to give her cousins some idea of the great palace of glittering ice, and the hundreds of snow-shoers, in bright costumes and carrying torches, gathered together to storm this fairylike fortress. "it must be fine," said marjorie, when the story was done, "but i'd rather storm hemlock point, and get fried chicken and buttermilk as the spoils of war." marjorie, being a tremendous home-girl, generally tried to change the subject if dora made any allusions to a possible visit of marjorie alone to montreal. she could not bear the thought of parting with dora, but to part with mother and daddy and jack would be three times worse! the last part of the road was decidedly hilly, and the horses took such advantage of mr. merrithew's consideration for their feelings, that jackie, lulled by the slow motion and the sound of the bells, fell asleep against his mother's shoulder, and knew no more till he woke on a couch in miss grier's sitting-room. the oldest miss grier--whom every one called miss prudence--was bustling about, helping marjorie and dora off with their things, and giving advice to miss alma, who was hastening to start a fire in the great old-fashioned franklin. miss dean, the niece, was taking off mrs. merrithew's overboots, in spite of her polite protests. jackie's eyes were open for some moments before any one noticed him; then he startled them by saying, in perfectly wide-awake tones: "i think, miss lois dean, you are the very littlest lady in the world!" miss dean, who certainly could not well be smaller and be called grown-up at all, and whose small head was almost weighted down by its mass of light hair, looked at her favourite with twinkling eyes. "never mind, jackie, the best goods are often done up in small parcels; and i'm big enough to hold you on my lap while i tell you stories, which is the main thing, isn't it?" "yes, indeed," jack cried, jumping up to hug her, which resulted in the pretty hair getting loosened from its fastenings and tumbling in wild confusion around the "littlest lady," where she sat on the floor. "now you are a fairy godmother! now you are a fairy godmother!" exclaimed jackie, dancing around her. "then i will put a charm upon you at once," lois said. "no more dancing, no more noise, no more _anything_, until we get the wraps all off and put away; then you and i will go and--fry chicken--and sausages--for dinner!" the last part of the sentence was whispered in jack's ear, and caused him to smile contentedly, and to submit without a murmur to the process of unwrapping. after dinner,--which did great credit to lois and her assistant,--they gathered around the franklin in the sitting-room, with plates of "sops-of-wine" and golden pippins within easy reach, and mr. grier and mr. merrithew talked farming and politics, while miss prudence recounted any episodes of interest that had taken place at or near hemlock point during the past year. mrs. merrithew, who had spent her summers here as a girl, knew every one for miles around, and loved to hear the annals of the neighbourhood, told in miss prudence's picturesque way, with an occasional pithy comment from miss alma. dora sat, taking in with eager eyes the view of hill and intervale, island and ice-bound river; then turning back to the cosey interior, with its home-made carpet, bright curtains, and large bookcase with glass doors. after a little while lois, who saw that the children were growing weary of sitting still, proposed a stroll through the house, to which they gladly consented. katherine asked if she might go with them, and they left "the enchanted circle around the fire," and crossed the hall to the "best parlour,"--which miss prudence always wished to throw open in mrs. merrithew's honour, and which the latter always refused to sit in, because, as she frankly said, it gave her the shivers. this was not on account of any ill-taste in the furnishing, but because it was always kept dark and shut up, and mrs. merrithew said it could not be made cheery all of a sudden. the children, however, loved the long room, and the mysterious feeling it gave them when they first went in, and had to grope their way to the windows, draw back the curtains, and put up the yellow venetian blinds, letting the clear, wintry light into this shadowy domain. this light brought out the rich, dark colours of the carpet, and showed the treasures of chairs and tables that would have made a collector's mouth water. there was a round table of polished mahogany in the centre of the room, a tiny butternut sewing-table in one corner, and against the wall, on opposite sides of the room, two rosewood tables, with quaint carved legs, and feet of shining brass. on the tables lay many curious shells, big lumps of coral, and rare, many-coloured seaweeds,--for there had been a sailor-uncle in the family,--annuals and beauty-books in gorgeous bindings, albums through which the children looked with never-failing delight, work-boxes and portfolios inlaid with mother-of-pearl; almost all the treasures of the family, in fact, laid away here in state, like jean ingelow's dead year, "shut in a sacred gloom." when this room had been inspected and admired, they lowered the blinds, drew the curtains, and left it again to its solitude. the rest of the house was much less awe-inspiring, but it was all delightful. the loom, now seldom or never used, stood in one corner of the kitchen. not far away was the big spinning-wheel. miss dean tried to teach them to spin, and when they found it was not so easy as it looked, gave them a specimen of how it should be done that seemed almost magical. there is, indeed, something that suggests magic about spinning,--the rhythmically stepping figure, the whirling brown wheel, the rolls of wool, changed by a perfectly measured twirl and pull into lengths of snow-white yarn, and the soothing, drowsy hum, the most restful sound that labour can produce. then there was the up-stairs to visit. the chief thing of interest there was the tiny flax-wheel which stood in the upper hall, and which certainly looked, as jack said, as if _it_ ought to belong to a fairy godmother. in the attic, great bunches of herbs hung drying from the rafters, and the air was sweet with the scent of them. there were sage, summer-savoury, sweet marjoram, sweet basil, mint, and many more, with names as fragrant as their leaves. on the floor, near one of the chimneys, was spread a good supply of butternuts, and strings of dried apples stretched from wall to wall at the coolest end of the one big room. "if i lived in this house," dora said, "i would come up here often and write,--try to write, i mean!" "i come up here often and read," miss dean said, with a quick glance of comprehension at the little girl's eager face. "i love it! and sometimes, when i feel another way and it's not too cold, i put up one blind in the best parlour, and sit in there." "i wish you were coming down to sit in mother's den, and read--and talk--and everything!" said marjorie, and the others echoed the wish. "so i am, some time or other," lois answered. "mrs. merrithew has asked me, and now it's just a question of how soon aunt prudence can spare me. that may be next week,--or it may be next winter!" "it may be for years and it may be for ever," dora quoted, laughing, and jackie added, "and then--when you do come--we will make you a son and daughter of canada right away!" the search for the egg-shell china took them back to the sitting-room, where lois begged miss prudence to exhibit this most fragile of her belongings. with natural pride, that lady unlocked a china-closet, and brought out specimens of the beautiful delicate ware which their grandmother had brought over with her from ireland, and of which, in all these years, only three articles had been broken. it certainly was exquisite stuff, delicately thin, of a rich cream-colour, and with gilt lines and tiny wreaths of pink and crimson roses. "i thought we would have them out for tea," miss alma suggested, but mrs. merrithew, with three children, all rather hasty in their movements, to look after, begged her not to think of such a thing. "your white and gold china is pretty enough for any one;" she said, "and, my dear prudence, if you are determined to give us tea after that big dinner, we will have to ask for it soon, or we will be spending most of the night on the road." "dear, dear!" said miss prudence, putting back her treasures tenderly, "it does seem as if you'd been here about half an hour, and i do hate to have you go! but i know how you feel about being out late with the children, and you won't stay all night. come along, alma, let's hustle up some tea, and let lois talk to mrs. merrithew awhile." and "hustle" they certainly did, spreading a board that groaned with the good old-fashioned dainties, for the cooking of which miss prudence was noted throughout the country. then the horses were brought to the door, tossing their heads in haste to be off, wraps were snugly adjusted, good-byes said many times, and they were off. "i believe grier has given these horses nothing but oats all day," mr. merrithew muttered, as the pretty beasts strained and tugged in their anxiety to run down-hill; but when it came to the up-hill stretches, they soon sobered down, and were content with a reasonable pace. warm and cosey, nestled against his mother, jackie soon slept as before; but the others, with rather a reckless disregard of their throats, sang song after song, in spite of the frosty air, and dashed up to the door of the big brick house, at last, to the sound of: "'twas from aunt dinah's quilting party i was seeing nellie home." chapter ix. to invalids, or to the really destitute, canadian winters, clear and bright though they are, may seem unduly long; but for our little canadian cousins, warmly clad, warmly housed, and revelling in the season's healthful sports, the months went by as if on wings. with march, though the winds were strong, the sun began to show his power, and by the middle of the month the sap was running, and the maple-sugar-making had begun. jackie persuaded his father to take him out one morning to the woods, and to help him tap a number of trees. when they went back later and collected the tin cups which they had left under the holes in the trees, they found altogether about a pint of sap. this they took carefully home, and jack persuaded every one to taste it, then boiled the remainder until it thickened a little,--a very little, it is true,--and the family manfully ate it with their muffins for tea, though mrs. merrithew declared that she believed they had tapped any tree they came across, instead of keeping to sugar-maples. toward the end of the month mrs. grey got up a driving-party to one of the sugar-camps, and though it was chiefly for grown people, mrs. merrithew allowed dora and marjorie to go. the drive was long, and rather tiring, as the roads were beginning to get "slumpy," and here and there would come a place where the runners scraped bare ground. but when they reached the camp they were given a hearty welcome, allowed to picnic in the camp-house, and treated to unlimited maple-syrup, sugar, and candy. the process of sugar-making has lost much of its picturesqueness, since the more convenient modern methods have come into use. mrs. grey remembered vividly when there were no camp-houses, with their big furnaces and evaporating pans, and no little metal "spiles" to conduct the sap from the trees to the tins beneath. in those days the spiles, about a foot in length, were made of cedar, leading to wooden troughs,--which, she maintained, gave the juice an added and delicious flavour. but this their host of the sugar-camp would not admit, though he agreed with her that the process of boiling must have been much more interesting to watch when it was done in big cauldrons hung over bonfires in the snowy woods. when the visitors left camp, each one carried a little bark dish (called a "cosseau") of maple-candy, presented by the owner of the camp, and most of them had bought quantities of the delicious fresh sugar. april brought soft breezes, warmer sunshine and melting snow. it seemed to dora that people thought of scarcely anything but the condition of the ice, and the quantity of snow in the woods. then they began to say that there would be a freshet, and debby, who was apt to forebode the worst, announced that the bridges would go this time, sure! mr. merrithew only laughed when marjorie asked him about it, and said that this prophecy had been made every year since the bridges were built, and that there was no more danger this year than any other. but mrs. merrithew, though she could not be said to worry, still quietly decided what things she would carry with her in case of a flight to the hills! the freshet which was talked about so much was, in spite of mr. merrithew's laughter, a remote possibility; certainly not a probability. in his own and mrs. merrithew's youth, it had been so imminent that people actually _had_ gone to the hills. a tremendous jam had been formed a few miles above town; but a few days of hot sun had opened the river farther down, and the danger had passed. since the two bridges, however, had been built, some people thought that there was a chance of the ice jamming above the upper bridge. usually the worst jams were between the islands, not far above town. each day some fresh word was brought in as to the river's condition. "the river st. john is like a sick person, isn't it?" dora said one afternoon. "the first thing every one says in the morning is, 'i wonder how the river is to-day.'" the words were scarcely out of her mouth when mr. merrithew came in hastily, calling out: "come, people, if you want to see the ice go out. the jam by vine island is broken. come quick. it's piling up finely!" in a very few minutes the whole family answered to his summons, and they set out in great excitement to watch their dear river shake off its fetters. they made their way quickly to the wooden bridge, and found a good share of the population of fredericton there assembled. it was truly a sight well worth going to see. below the bridge the dark water was running swiftly, bearing blocks of ice, bits of board, and logs,--indeed, a fine medley of things. but _above_ the bridge! jackie clapped his hands with delight, as he watched the ice, pushed by the masses behind it, throw itself against the mighty stone piers, and break and fall back, while the bridge quivered afresh at each onslaught. it was truly grand to see, and they stayed watching it for more than an hour; stayed till jackie began to shiver, and mrs. merrithew hurried them home. by the next morning the river was rapidly clearing, so that some reckless spirits ventured to cross in boats and canoes, dodging the ice-cakes with skill worthy to be employed in a better cause. in a day or two more the deep whistle of the river-boat was heard; a sound that brings summer near, though not a leaf be on the trees. but it was not until the ice had entirely ceased running, and the river had begun to go down, that really warm weather could begin, for, until then, there was always a chill air from the water. but after that,--ah, then spring came in earnest, with balmy airs and singing birds, pussy-willows, silver gray, beside the brooks, and little waterfalls laughing down the hills. then came the greening fields, the trees throwing deeper shadows, and the mayflowers, pink and pearly and perfect, hiding under their own leaves in damp woodland hollows! the children made many excursions to gather these fragrant blooms, and kept quantities of them in the den until the season was over. it would be hard, mrs. merrithew thought, to find anything more lovely, and to show how thoroughly she appreciated their attention, she made for each child a little mayflower picture in water-colours. in marjorie's the flowers were in a large blue bowl, on a table covered with an old-blue cloth; for jackie she painted them in a dainty shallow basket, just as he had brought them from the woods; and for dora there was a shadowy green bit of the woodland itself, and a few of the braver blossoms just showing among leaves and moss. chapter x. once more the lilacs were in blossom in the garden of the big brick house. the blackbirds called and chuckled in the lofty branches of the elms, and robins hopped about the lawns, seemingly with the express purpose of tantalizing kitty grey. on the lawn, where the hammocks hung, a happy group was gathered. mr. and mrs. merrithew were there, marjorie and dora, katherine and jack, and two others who evidently formed the centre of attraction. of these, one was a tall, thin man, with a frame that must once have been athletic, and a pathetic stoop in the broad shoulders. he sat in a deep armchair, with dora contentedly nestled on his knee. in a hammock near him sat a lady, with a dark, lovely face, beautifully arched brows, and soft eyes, so like dora's that a stranger might have guessed their relationship. mr. carman, though still an invalid, was wonderfully better, and both he and his wife were full of praises of the great, beautiful west, its scenery, its climate, and its possibilities. "i have come to the conclusion," mr. carman said, after an enthusiastic description of a sunset in the rocky mountains, "that it is no wonder we canadians are proud of our country." "then you and aunt denise shall be 'sons and daughters,'" cried jackie, "and you can read a paper about the west at our very next meeting. that _will_ be fine!" and uncle archie and aunt denise were accepted then and there as members of the s. a. d. o. c. the travellers had only arrived the day before, so there was still much to ask and tell; but dora and her parents had already had a long talk as to plans and prospects, and the little girl was radiant with delight over the arrangements that were decided upon. marjorie, who could not help being a little cast down at the prospect of a separation from her cousin, wondered that dora did not seem to mind at all. but when, by and by, they strolled off together to the grape-arbour for a talk, she understood the reason of this cheerfulness. "i want to tell you all about our plans," dora began, as soon as they were seated in their favourite nook. "you see, mother says that dear father, though he is certainly better, won't be able to work for a long, long time. next winter they will probably go to barbadoes, where some friends of mother's are living; and if they do, i am to stay with you _all winter_ again,--if you will have me, marjorie! your mother says _she_ will!" "_have_ you!" marjorie exclaimed. "oh, but i am glad! i don't know what i will do without you all summer, but it is fine to know that at least we will have the winter together." then dora burst into a peal of laughter, and clapped her hands over the news that she had to tell. "oh, i've got the best to tell you yet," she said. "father and mother have quite decided to stay _here_, in fredericton, all summer! they want to rent a furnished house, just as close to this one as they possibly can; and then we will be together almost every minute, just as we are now. _won't_ it be lovely?" marjorie sat quiet for a minute, and thought it over with shining eyes. then she gave dora a regular "bear-hug," and cried: "i feel just like jackie does when he dances a war-dance! i was going to say that it was too good to be true, but mother says she doesn't like that saying, for there is nothing too good to come true sometime, if it isn't already. come and tell jack and aunt kathie, quick! they will be almost as glad as i am!" so these little canadian cousins went hand in hand down the garden-path, full of happy thoughts of the long bright summer days that spread before them. the end. the little cousin series the most delightful and interesting accounts possible of child life in other lands, filled with quaint sayings, doings, and adventures. each one vol., mo, decorative cover, cloth, with six or more full-page illustrations in color. price per volume $ . _by mary hazelton wade (unless otherwise indicated)_ =our little african cousin our little alaskan cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little arabian cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little armenian cousin= =our little brown cousin our little canadian cousin= by elizabeth r. macdonald =our little chinese cousin= by isaac taylor headland =our little cuban cousin our little dutch cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little english cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little eskimo cousin= =our little french cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little german cousin= =our little hawaiian cousin= =our little hindu cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little indian cousin= =our little irish cousin= =our little italian cousin= =our little japanese cousin= =our little jewish cousin= =our little korean cousin= by h. lee m. pike =our little mexican cousin= by edward c. butler =our little norwegian cousin= =our little panama cousin= by h. lee m. pike =our little philippine cousin= =our little porto rican cousin= =our little russian cousin= =our little scotch cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little siamese cousin= =our little spanish cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little swedish cousin= by claire m. coburn =our little swiss cousin= =our little turkish cousin= the goldenrod library the goldenrod library contains stories which appeal alike both to children and to their parents and guardians. each volume is well illustrated from drawings by competent artists, which, together with their handsomely decorated uniform binding, showing the goldenrod, usually considered the emblem of america, is a feature of their manufacture. each one volume, small mo, illustrated $ . list of titles =aunt nabby's children.= by frances hodges white. =child's dream of a star, the.= by charles dickens. =flight of rosy dawn, the.= by pauline bradford mackie. =findelkind.= by ouida. =fairy of the rhone, the.= by a. comyns carr. =gatty and i.= by frances e. crompton. =helena's wonderworld.= by frances hodges white. =jerry's reward.= by evelyn snead barnett. =la belle nivernaise.= by alphonse daudet. =little king davie.= by nellie hellis. =little peterkin vandike.= by charles stuart pratt. =little professor, the.= by ida horton cash. =peggy's trial.= by mary knight potter. =prince yellowtop.= by kate whiting patch. =provence rose, a.= by ouida. =seventh daughter, a.= by grace wickham curran. =sleeping beauty, the.= by martha baker dunn. =small, small child, a.= by e. livingston prescott. =susanne.= by frances j. delano. =water people, the.= by charles lee sleight. =young archer, the.= by charles e. brimblecom. cosy corner series it is the intention of the publishers that this series shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows. the numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. each vol., mo, cloth $ . _by annie fellows johnston_ =the little colonel.= (trade mark.) the scene of this story is laid in kentucky. its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the little colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. =the giant scissors.= this is the story of joyce and of her adventures in france. joyce is a great friend of the little colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "house party" and the "holidays." =two little knights of kentucky.= who were the little colonel's neighbors. in this volume the little colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. she is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights." =mildred's inheritance.= a delightful little story of a lonely english girl who comes to america and is befriended by a sympathetic american family who are attracted by her beautiful speaking voice. by means of this one gift she is enabled to help a school-girl who has temporarily lost the use of her eyes, and thus finally her life becomes a busy, happy one. =cicely and other stories for girls.= the readers of mrs. johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people. =aunt 'liza's hero and other stories.= a collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys and most girls. =big brother.= a story of two boys. the devotion and care of steven, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale. =ole mammy's torment.= "ole mammy's torment" has been fitly called "a classic of southern life." it relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =the story of dago.= in this story mrs. johnston relates the story of dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. =the quilt that jack built.= a pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the course of his life many years after it was accomplished. =flip's islands of providence.= a story of a boy's life battle, his early defeat, and his final triumph, well worth the reading. _by edith robinson_ =a little puritan's first christmas.= a story of colonial times in boston, telling how christmas was invented by betty sewall, a typical child of the puritans, aided by her brother sam. =a little daughter of liberty.= the author introduces this story as follows: "one ride is memorable in the early history of the american revolution, the well-known ride of paul revere. equally deserving of commendation is another ride,--the ride of anthony severn,--which was no less historic in its action or memorable in its consequences." =a loyal little maid.= a delightful and interesting story of revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, betsey schuyler, renders important services to george washington. =a little puritan rebel.= this is an historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant sir harry vane was governor of massachusetts. =a little puritan pioneer.= the scene of this story is laid in the puritan settlement at charlestown. =a little puritan bound girl.= a story of boston in puritan days, which is of great interest to youthful readers. =a little puritan cavalier.= the story of a "little puritan cavalier" who tried with all his boyish enthusiasm to emulate the spirit and ideals of the dead crusaders. =a puritan knight errant.= the story tells of a young lad in colonial times who endeavored to carry out the high ideals of the knights of olden days. _by ouida (louise de la ramée)_ =a dog of flanders:= a christmas story. too well and favorably known to require description. =the nurnberg stove.= this beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price. _by frances margaret fox_ =the little giant's neighbours.= a charming nature story of a "little giant" whose neighbours were the creatures of the field and garden. =farmer brown and the birds.= a little story which teaches children that the birds are man's best friends. =betty of old mackinaw.= a charming story of child-life, appealing especially to the little readers who like stories of "real people." =brother billy.= the story of betty's brother, and some further adventures of betty herself. =mother nature's little ones.= curious little sketches describing the early lifetime, or "childhood," of the little creatures out-of-doors. =how christmas came to the mulvaneys.= a bright, lifelike little story of a family of poor children, with an unlimited capacity for fun and mischief. the wonderful never-to-be forgotten christmas that came to them is the climax of a series of exciting incidents. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors repaired. [transcriber's note: bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.] our little german cousin the little cousin series (trade mark) each volume illustrated with six or more full-page plates in tint. cloth, mo, with decorative cover, per volume, cents list of titles by mary hazelton wade (unless otherwise indicated) =our little african cousin= =our little alaskan cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little arabian cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little armenian cousin= =our little brazilian cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little brown cousin= =our little canadian cousin= by elizabeth r. macdonald =our little chinese cousin= by isaac taylor headland =our little cuban cousin= =our little dutch cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little english cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little eskimo cousin= =our little french cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little german cousin= =our little hawaiian cousin= =our little hindu cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little indian cousin= =our little irish cousin= =our little italian cousin= =our little japanese cousin= =our little jewish cousin= =our little korean cousin= by h. lee m. pike =our little mexican cousin= by edward c. butler =our little norwegian cousin= =our little panama cousin= by h. lee m. pike =our little philippine cousin= =our little porto rican cousin= =our little russian cousin= =our little scotch cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little siamese cousin= =our little spanish cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little swedish cousin= by claire m. coburn =our little swiss cousin= (_in preparation_) =our little australian cousin= l. c. page & company new england building, boston, mass. [illustration: bertha.] our little german cousin by mary hazelton wade _illustrated, by_ l. j. bridgman [illustration] boston l. c. page & company _publishers_ _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) _all rights reserved_ the little cousin series (_trade mark_) published june, fifth impression, october, colonial press electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u. s. a. preface when the word germany comes to our minds, we think at once of ruined castles, fairies, music, and soldiers. why is it? first, as to the castles. here and there along the banks of the river rhine, as well as elsewhere throughout the country, the traveller is constantly finding himself near some massive stone ruin. it seems ever ready to tell stories of long ago,--of brave knights who defended its walls, of beautiful princesses saved from harm, of sturdy boys and sweet-faced girls who once played in its gardens. for germany is the home of an ancient and brave people, who have often been called upon to face powerful enemies. next, as to the fairies. it seems as though the dark forests of germany, the quiet valleys, and the banks of the beautiful rivers, were the natural homes of the fairy-folk, the gnomes and the elves, the water-sprites and the sylphs. our german cousins listen with wonder and delight to the legends of fearful giants and enchanted castles, and many of the stories they know so well have been translated into other languages for their cousins of distant lands, who are as fond of them as the blue-eyed children of germany. as to the music, it seems as though every boy and girl in the whole country drew in the spirit of song with the air they breathe. they sing with a love of what they are singing, they play as though the tune were a part of their very selves. some of the finest musicians have been germans, and their gifts to the world have been bountiful. as for soldiers, we know that every man in germany must stand ready to defend his country. he must serve his time in drilling and training for war. he is a necessary part of that fatherland he loves so dearly. our fair-haired german cousins are busy workers and hard students. they must learn quite early in life that they have duties as well as pleasures, and the duties cannot be set aside or forgotten. but they love games and holidays as dearly as the children of our own land. contents chapter page i. christmas ii. toy-making iii. the wicked bishop iv. the coffee-party v. the beautiful castle vi. the great frederick vii. the brave princess viii. what the waves bring ix. the magic sword list of illustrations page bertha _frontispiece_ bertha's father and mother the rats' tower courtyard of heidelberg castle statue of frederick the great bertha's home our little german cousin chapter i. christmas "don't look! there, now it's done!" cried bertha. it was two nights before christmas. bertha was in the big living-room with her mother and older sister. each sat as close as possible to the candle-light, and was busily working on something in her lap. but, strange to say, they did not face each other. they were sitting back to back. "what an unsociable way to work," we think. "is that the way germans spend the evenings together?" no, indeed. but christmas was near at hand, and the air was brimful of secrets. bertha would not let her mother discover what she was working for her, for all the world. and the little girl's mother was preparing surprises for each of the children. all together, the greatest fun of the year was getting ready for christmas. "mother, you will make some of those lovely cakes this year, won't you?" asked bertha's sister gretchen. "certainly, my child. it would not be christmas without them. early to-morrow morning, you and bertha must shell and chop the nuts. i will use the freshest eggs and will beat the dough as long as my arms will let me." "did you always know how to make those cakes, mamma?" asked bertha. "my good mother taught me when i was about your age, my dear. you may watch me to-morrow, and perhaps you will learn how to make them. it is never too early to begin to learn to cook." "when the city girls get through school, they go away from home and study housekeeping don't they?" asked gretchen. "yes, and many girls who don't live in cities. but i hardly think you will ever be sent away. we are busy people here in our little village, and you will have to be contented with learning what your mother can teach you. "i shall be satisfied with that, i know. but listen! i can hear father and hans coming." "then put up your work, children, and set the supper-table." the girls jumped up and hurriedly put the presents away. it did not take long to set the supper-table, for the meals in this little home were very simple, and supper was the simplest of all. a large plate of black bread and a pitcher of sour milk were brought by the mother, and the family gathered around the table. the bread wasn't really black, of course. it was dark brown and very coarse. it was made of rye meal. bertha and gretchen had never seen any white bread in their lives, for they had never yet been far away from their own little village. neither had their brother hans. they were happy, healthy children. they all had blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and fair hair, like their father and mother. "you don't know what i've got for you, hans," said bertha, laughing and showing a sweet little dimple in her chin. hans bent down and kissed her. he never could resist that dimple, and bertha was his favourite sister. "i don't know what it is, but i do know that it must be something nice," said her brother. when the supper-table had been cleared, the mother and girls took out their sewing again, while hans worked at some wood-carving. the father took an old violin from its case and began to play some of the beautiful airs of germany. when he came to the "watch on the rhine," the mother's work dropped from her hands as she and the children joined in the song that stirs every german heart. "oh, dear! it seems as though christmas eve never would come," sighed bertha, as she settled herself for sleep beside her sister. it was quite a cold night, but they were cosy and warm. why shouldn't they be? they were covered with a down feather bed. their mother had the same kind of cover on her own bed, and so had hans. but christmas eve did come at last, although it seemed so far off to bertha the night before. hans and his father brought in the bough of a yew-tree, and it was set up in the living-room. the decorating came next. tiny candles were fastened on all the twigs. sweetmeats and nuts were hung from the branches. "how beautiful! how beautiful!" exclaimed the children when it was all trimmed, and they walked around it with admiring eyes. none of the presents were placed on the tree, for that is not the fashion in germany. each little gift had been tied up in paper and marked with the name of the one for whom it was intended. when everything was ready, there was a moment of quiet while the candles were being lighted. then bertha's father began to give out the presents, and there was a great deal of laughing and joking as the bundles were opened. there was a new red skirt for bertha. her mother had made it, for she knew the child was fond of pretty dresses. besides this, she had a pair of warm woollen mittens which gretchen had knit for her. hans had made and carved a doll's cradle for each of the girls. everybody was happy and contented. they sang songs and cracked nuts and ate the christmas cakes to their hearts' content. "i think i like the ones shaped like gnomes the best," said hans. "they have such comical little faces. do you know, every time i go out in the forest, it seems as though i might meet a party of gnomes hunting for gold." "i like the animal cakes best," said bertha. "the deer are such graceful creatures, and i like to bite off the horns and legs, one at a time." "a long time ago," said their father, "they used to celebrate christmas a little different from the way we now do. the presents were all carried to a man in the village who dressed himself in a white robe, and a big wig made of flax. he covered his face with a mask, and then went from house to house. the grown people received him with great honours. he called for the children and gave them the presents their parents had brought to him. "but these presents were all given according to the way the children had behaved during the year. if they had been good and tried hard, they had the gifts they deserved. but if they had been naughty and disobedient, it was not a happy time for them." "i don't believe the children were very fond of him," cried hans. "they must have been too much afraid of him." "that is true," said his father. "but now, let us play some games. christmas comes but once a year, and you have all been good children." the room soon rang with the shouts of hans and his sisters. they played "blind man's buff" and other games. their father took part in all of them as though he were a boy again. the good mother looked on with pleasant smiles. bedtime came only too soon. but just before the children said good night, the father took hans one side and talked seriously yet lovingly with him. he told the boy of the faults he must still fight against. he spoke also of the improvement he had made during the year. at the same time the mother gave words of kind advice to her little daughters. she told them to keep up good courage; to be busy and patient in the year to come. "my dear little girls," she whispered, as she kissed them, "i love to see you happy in your play. but the good lord who cares for us has given us all some work to do in this world. be faithful in doing yours." chapter ii. toy-making "wake up, bertha. come, gretchen. you will have to hurry, for it is quite late," called their mother. it was one morning about a week after christmas. [illustration: bertha's father and mother.] "oh dear, i am so sleepy, and my bed is nice and warm," thought bertha. but she jumped up and rubbed her eyes and began to dress, without waiting to be called a second time. her mother was kind and loving, but she had taught her children to obey without a question. both little girls had long, thick hair. it must be combed and brushed and braided with great care. each one helped the other. they were soon dressed, and ran down-stairs. as soon as the breakfast was over and the room made tidy, every one in the family sat down to work. bertha's father was a toy-maker. he had made wooden images of santa claus all his life. his wife and children helped him. when bertha was only five years old, she began to carve the legs of these santa claus dolls. it was a queer sight to see the little girl's chubby fingers at their work. now that she was nine years old, she still carved legs for santa claus in her spare moments. gretchen always made arms, while hans worked on a still different part of the bodies. the father and mother carved the heads and finished the little images that afterward gave such delight to children in other lands. bertha lives in the black forest. that name makes you think at once of a dark and gloomy place. the woods on the hills are dark, to be sure, but the valleys nestling between are bright and cheerful when the sun shines down and pours its light upon them. bertha's village is in just such a valley. the church stands on the slope above the little homes. it seems to say, "look upward, my children, to the blue heavens, and do not fear, even when the mists fill the valley and the storm is raging over your heads." all the people in the village seem happy and contented. they work hard, and their pay is small, but there are no beggars among them. toys are made in almost every house. every one in a family works on the same kind of toy, just as it is in bertha's home. the people think: "it would be foolish to spend one's time in learning new things. the longer a person works at making one kind of toy, the faster he can make them, and he can earn more money." one of bertha's neighbours makes nothing but noah's arks. another makes toy tables, and still another dolls' chairs. bertha often visits a little friend who helps her father make cuckoo-clocks. did you ever see one of these curious clocks? as each hour comes around, a little bird comes outside the case. then it flaps its wings and sings "cuckoo" in a soft, sweet voice as many times as there are strokes to the hour. it is great fun to watch for the little bird and hear its soft notes. perhaps you wonder what makes the bird come out at just the right time. it is done by certain machinery inside the clock. but, however it is, old people as well as children seem to enjoy the cuckoo-clocks of germany. "some day, when you are older, you shall go to the fair at easter time," bertha's father has promised her. "is that at leipsic, where our santa claus images go?" asked his little daughter. "yes, my dear, and toys from many other parts of our country. there you will see music-boxes and dolls' pianos and carts and trumpets and engines and ships. these all come from the mining-towns. "but i know what my little bertha would care for most. she would best like to see the beautiful wax dolls that come from sonneberg." "yes, indeed," cried bertha. "the dear, lovely dollies with yellow hair like mine. i would love every one of them. i wish i could go to sonneberg just to see the dolls." "i wonder what makes the wax stick on," said gretchen, who came into the room while her father and bertha were talking. "after the heads have been moulded into shape, they are dipped into pans of boiling wax," her father told her. "the cheap dolls are dipped only once, but the expensive ones have several baths before they are finished. the more wax that is put on, the handsomer the dolls are. "then comes the painting. one girl does nothing but paint the lips. another one does the cheeks. still another, the eyebrows. even then miss dolly looks like a bald-headed baby till her wig is fastened in its place." "i like the yellow hair best," said bertha. "but it isn't real, is it, papa?" "i suppose you mean to ask, 'did it ever grow on people's heads?' my dear. no. it is the wool of a kind of goat. but the black hair is real hair. most dolls, however, wear light wigs. people usually prefer them." "do little girls in sonneberg help make the dolls, just as bertha and i help you on the santa claus images?" asked gretchen. "certainly. they fill the bodies with sawdust, and do other easy things. but they go to school, too, just as you and bertha do. lessons must not be slighted." "if i had to help make dolls, just as i do these images," said gretchen to her sister as their father went out and left the children together, "i don't believe i'd care for the handsomest one in the whole toy fair. i'd be sick of the very sight of them." "look at the time, bertha. see, we must stop our work and start for school," exclaimed gretchen. it was only seven o'clock in the morning, but school would begin in half an hour. these little german girls had to study longer and harder than their american cousins. they spent at least an hour a day more in their schoolrooms. as they trudged along the road, they passed a little stream which came trickling down the hillside. "i wonder if there is any story about that brook," said bertha. "there's a story about almost everything in our dear old country, i'm sure." "you have heard father tell about the stream flowing down the side of the kandel, haven't you?" asked gretchen. "yes, i think so. but i don't remember it very well. what is the story, gretchen?" "you know the kandel is one of the highest peaks in the black forest. you've seen it, bertha." "yes, of course, but tell the story, gretchen." "well, then, once upon a time there was a poor little boy who had no father or mother. he had to tend cattle on the side of the kandel. at that time there was a deep lake at the summit of the mountain. but the lake had no outlet. "the people who lived in the valley below often said, 'dear me! how glad we should be if we could only have plenty of fresh water. but no stream flows near us. if we could only bring some of the water down from the lake!' "they were afraid, however, to make a channel out of the lake. the water might rush down with such force as to destroy their village. they feared to disturb it. "now, it came to pass that the evil one had it in his heart to destroy these people. he thought he could do it very easily if the rocky wall on the side of the lake could be broken down. there was only one way in which this could be done. an innocent boy must be found and got to do it. "it was a long time before such an one could be found. but at last the evil one came across an orphan boy who tended cattle on the mountainside. the poor little fellow was on his way home. he was feeling very sad, for he was thinking of his ragged clothes and his scant food. "'ah ha!' cried the evil one to himself, 'here is the very boy.' "he changed himself at once so he had the form and dress of a hunter, and stepped up to the lad with a pleasant smile. "'poor little fellow! what is the matter? and what can i do for you?' he said, in his most winning manner. "the boy thought he had found a friend, and told his story. "'do not grieve any longer. there is plenty of gold and silver in these very mountains. i will show you how to become rich,' said the evil one. 'meet me here early to-morrow morning and bring a good strong team with you. i will help you get the gold.' "the boy went home with a glad heart. you may be sure he did not oversleep the next morning. before it was light, he had harnessed four oxen belonging to his master, and started for the summit of the mountain. "the hunter, who was waiting for him, had already fastened a metal ring around the wall that held in the waters of the lake. "'fasten the oxen to that ring,' commanded the hunter, 'and the rock will split open.' "somehow or other, the boy did not feel pleased at what he was told to do. yet he obeyed, and started the oxen. but as he did so, he cried, 'do this in the name of god!' "at that very instant the sky grew black as night, the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed. and not only this, for at the same time the mountain shook and rumbled as though a mighty force were tearing it apart." "what became of the poor boy?" asked bertha. "he fell senseless to the ground, while the oxen in their fright rushed headlong down the mountainside. but you needn't get excited, bertha, no harm was done. the boy was saved as well as the village, because he had pulled in the name of god. "the rock did not split entirely. it broke apart just enough to let out a tiny stream of water, which began to flow down the mountainside. "when the boy came to his senses, the sky was clear and beautiful once more. the sun was shining brightly, and the hunter was nowhere to be seen. but the stream of water was running down the mountainside. "a few minutes afterward, the boy's master came hurrying up the slope. he was frightened by the dreadful sounds he had heard. but when he saw the waterfall, he was filled with delight. "'every one in the village will rejoice,' he exclaimed, 'for now we shall never want for water.' "then the little boy took courage and told the story of his meeting the hunter and what he had done. "'it is well you did it in the name of the lord,' cried his master. 'if you had not, our village would have been destroyed, and every one of us would have been drowned.'" "see! the children are going into the schoolhouse, gretchen. we must not be late. let's run," said bertha. the two little girls stopped talking, and hurried so fast that they entered the schoolhouse and were sitting in their seats in good order before the schoolmaster struck his bell. chapter iii. the wicked bishop "the rhine is the loveliest river in the world. i know it must be," said bertha. "of course it is," answered her brother. "i've seen it, and i ought to know. and father thinks so, too. he says it is not only beautiful, but it is also bound into the whole history of our country. think of the battles that have been fought on its shores, and the great generals who have crossed it!" "yes, and the castles, hans! think of the legends father and mother have told us about the beautiful princesses who have lived in the castles, and the brave knights who have fought for them! i shall be perfectly happy if i can ever sail down the rhine and see the noted places on its shores." "the schoolmaster has taught you all about the war with france, hasn't he, bertha?" "of course. and it really seemed at one time as if france would make us germans agree to have the rhine divide the two countries. just as if we would be willing to let the french own one shore of our beautiful river. i should say not!" bertha's cheeks grew rosier than usual at the thought of such a thing. she talked faster than german children usually do, for they are rather slow in their speech. "we do not own all of the river, little sister, as it is. the baby rhine sleeps in an icy cradle in the mountains of switzerland. then it makes its way through our country, but before it reaches the sea it flows through the low lands of holland." "i know all that, hans. but we own the best of the rhine, anyway. i am perfectly satisfied." "i wish i knew all the legends about the river. there are enough of them to fill many books. did you ever hear about the rats' tower opposite the town of bingen, bertha?" "what a funny name for a tower! no. is there a story about it, hans?" "yes, one of the boys was telling it to me yesterday while we were getting wood in the forest. it is a good story, although my friend said he wasn't sure it is true." "what is the story?" "it is about a very wicked bishop who was a miser. it happened one time that the harvests were poor and grain was scarce. the cruel bishop bought all the grain he could get and locked it up. he intended to sell it for a high price, and in this way to become very rich. "as the days went by, the food became scarcer and scarcer. the people began to sicken and die of hunger. they had but one thought: they must get something to eat for their children and themselves. "they knew of the stores of grain held by the bishop. they went to him and begged for some of it, but he paid no attention to their prayers. then they demanded that he open the doors of the storehouse and let them have the grain. it was of no use. "at last, they gathered together, and said: "'we will break down the door if you do not give it to us.' "'come to-morrow,' answered the bishop. 'bring your friends with you. you shall have all the grain you desire.' "the morrow came. crowds gathered in front of the granary. the bishop unlocked the door, saying: "'go inside and help yourselves freely.' "the people rushed in. then what do you think the cruel bishop did? he ordered his servants to lock the door and set the place on fire! "the air was soon filled with the screams of the burning people. but the bishop only laughed and danced. he said to his servants: "'do you hear the rats squeaking inside the granary?' "the next day came. there were only ashes in place of the great storehouse. there seemed to be no life about the town, for the people were all dead. "suddenly there was a great scurrying, as a tremendous swarm of rats came rushing out of the ashes. on they came, more and more of them. they filled the streets, and even made their way into the palace. "the wicked bishop was filled with fear. he fled from the place and hurried away over the fields. but the swarm of rats came rushing after him. he came to bingen, where he hoped to be safe within its walls. somehow or other, the rats made their way inside. [illustration: the rats' tower.] "there was now only one hope of safety. the bishop fled to a tower standing in the middle of the rhine. but it was of no use! the rats swam the river and made their way up the sides of the tower. their sharp teeth gnawed holes through the doors and windows. they entered in and came to the room where the bishop was hiding." "wicked fellow! they killed and ate him as he deserved, didn't they?" asked bertha. "there wasn't much left of him in a few minutes. but the tower still stands, and you can see it if you ever go to bingen, although it is a crumbling old pile now." "rats' tower is a good name for it. but i would rather hear about enchanted princesses and brave knights than wicked old bishops. tell me another story, hans." "oh, i can't. listen! i hear some one coming. who can it be?" hans jumped up and ran to the door, just in time to meet his uncle fritz, who lived in strasburg. the children loved him dearly. he was a young man about twenty-one years old. he came home to this little village in the black forest only about once a year. he had so much to tell and was so kind and cheerful, every one was glad to see him. "uncle fritz! uncle fritz! we are so glad you've come," exclaimed bertha, putting her arms around his neck. "and we are going to have something that you like for dinner." "i can guess what it is. sauerkraut and boiled pork. there is no other sauerkraut in germany as good as that your mother makes, i do believe. i'm hungry enough to eat the whole dishful and not leave any for you children. now what do you say to my coming? don't you wish i had stayed in strasburg?" "oh, no, no, uncle fritz. we would rather see you than anybody else," cried hans. "and here comes mother. she will be just as glad as we are." that evening, after hans had shown his uncle around the village, and he had called on his old friends, he settled himself in the chimney-corner with the children about him. "talk to us about strasburg, uncle fritz," begged gretchen. "please tell us about the storks," said bertha. "are there great numbers of the birds in the city, and do they build their nests on the chimneys?" "yes, you can see plenty of storks flying overhead if you will come back with me," said uncle fritz, laughingly. "they seem to know the people love them. if a stork makes his home about any one's house, it is a sign of good fortune to the people who live there. "'it will surely come,' they say to themselves, 'and the storks will bring it.' do you wonder the people like the birds so much?" "i read a story about a mother stork," said bertha, thoughtfully. "she had a family of baby birds. they were not big enough to leave their nest, when a fire broke out in the chimney where it was built. poor mother bird! she could have saved herself. but she would not leave her babies. so she stayed with them and they were all burned to death together." "i know the story. that happened right in strasburg," said her uncle. "please tell us about the beautiful cathedral with its tall tower," said hans. "sometime, uncle, i am going to strasburg, if i have to walk there, and then i shall want to spend a whole day in front of the wonderful clock." "you'd better have a lunch with you, hans, and then you will not get hungry. but really, my dear little nephew, i hope the time will soon come when you can pay me a long visit. as for the clock, you will have to stay in front of it all night as well as all day, if you are to see all it can show you." "i know about cuckoo-clocks, of course," said gretchen, "but the little bird is the only figure that comes out on those. there are ever so many different figures on the strasburg clock, aren't there, uncle fritz?" "a great, great many. angels strike the hours. a different god or goddess appears for each day in the week. then, at noon and at midnight, jesus and his twelve apostles come out through a door and march about on a platform. "you can imagine what the size of the clock must be when i tell you that the figures are as large as people. when the procession of the apostles appears, a gilded cock on the top of the tower flaps its wings and crows. "i cannot begin to tell you all about it. it is as good as a play, and, as i told hans, he would have to stay many hours near it to see all the sights." "i should think a strong man would be needed to wind it up," said his nephew. "the best part of it is that it does not need to be wound every day," replied uncle fritz. "they say it will run for years without being touched. of course, travellers are coming to strasburg all the time. they wish to see the clock, but they also come to see the cathedral itself. it is a very grand building, and, as you know, the spire is the tallest one in all europe. "then there is so much beautiful carving! and there are such fine statues. oh, children, you must certainly come to strasburg before long and see the cathedral of which all germany is so proud." "strasburg was for a time the home of our greatest poet," said bertha. "i want to go there to see where he lived." the child was very fond of poetry, even though she was a little country girl. her father had a book containing some of goethe's ballads, and she loved to lie under the trees in the pleasant summer-time and repeat some of these poems. "they are just like music," she would say to herself. "a marble slab has been set up in the old fish market to mark the spot where goethe lived," said uncle fritz. "they say he loved the grand cathedral of the city, and it helped him to become a great writer when he was a young student there. i suppose its beauty awakened his own beautiful thoughts." the children became quiet as they thought of their country and the men who had made her so strong and great,--the poets, and the musicians, and the brave soldiers who had defended her from her enemies. uncle fritz was the first one to speak. "i will tell you a story of strasburg," he said. "it is about something that happened there a long time ago. you know, the city isn't on the rhine itself, but it is on a little stream flowing into the greater river. "well, once upon a time the people of zurich, in switzerland, asked the people of strasburg to join with them in a bond of friendship. each should help the other in times of danger. the people of strasburg did not think much of the idea. they said among themselves: 'what good can the little town of zurich do us? and, besides, it is too far away.' so they sent back word that they did not care to make such a bond. they were scarcely polite in their message, either. "when they heard the reply, the men of zurich were quite angry. they were almost ready to fight. but the youngest one of their councillors said: "'we will force them to eat their own words. indeed, they shall be made to give us a different answer. and it will come soon, too, if you will only leave the matter with me.' "'do as you please,' said the other councillors. they went back to their own houses, while the young man hurried home, rushed out into the kitchen and picked out the largest kettle there. "'wife, cook as much oatmeal as this pot will hold,' he commanded. "the woman wondered what in the world her husband could be thinking of. but she lost no time in guessing. she ordered her servants to make a big fire, while she herself stirred and cooked the great kettleful of oatmeal. "in the meanwhile, her husband hurried down to the pier, and got his swiftest boat ready for a trip down the river. then he gathered the best rowers in the town. "'come with me,' he said to two of them, when everything had been made ready for a trip. they hastened home with him, as he commanded. "'is the oatmeal ready?' he cried, rushing breathless into the kitchen. "his wife had just finished her work. the men lifted the kettle from the fire and ran with it to the waiting boat. it was placed in the stern and the oarsmen sprang to their places. "'pull, men! pull with all the strength you have, and we will go to strasburg in time to show those stupid people that, if it should be necessary, we live near enough to them to give them a hot supper.' "how the men worked! they rowed as they had never rowed before. "they passed one village after another. still they moved onward without stopping, till they found themselves at the pier of strasburg. "the councillor jumped out of the boat, telling two of his men to follow with the great pot of oatmeal. he led the way to the council-house, where he burst in with his strange present. "'i bring you a warm answer to your cold words,' he told the surprised councillors. he spoke truly, for the pot was still steaming. how amused they all were! "'what a clever fellow he is,' they said among themselves. 'surely we will agree to make the bond with zurich, if it holds many men like him.' "the bond was quickly signed and then, with laughter and good-will, the councillors gathered around the kettle with spoons and ate every bit of the oatmeal. "'it is excellent,' they all cried. and indeed it was still hot enough to burn the mouths of those who were not careful." "good! good!" cried the children, and they laughed heartily, even though it was a joke against their own people. their father and mother had also listened to the story and enjoyed it as much as the children. "another story, please, dear uncle fritz," they begged. but their father pointed to the clock. "too late, too late, my dears," he said. "if you sit up any longer, your mother will have to call you more than once in the morning. so, away to your beds, every one of you." chapter iv. the coffee-party "how would you like to be a wood-cutter, hans?" "i think it would be great sport. i like to hear the thud of the axe as it comes down on the trunk. then it is always an exciting time as the tree begins to bend and fall to the ground. somehow, it seems like a person. i can't help pitying it, either." hans had come over to the next village on an errand for his father. a big sawmill had been built on the side of the stream, and all the men in the place were kept busy cutting down trees in the black forest, or working in the sawmill. after the logs had been cut the right length, they were bound into rafts, and floated down the little stream to the rhine. "the rafts themselves seem alive," said hans to his friend. "you men know just how to bind the logs together with those willow bands, so they twist and turn about like living creatures as they move down the stream." "i have travelled on a raft all the way from here to cologne," answered the wood-cutter. "the one who steers must be skilful, for he needs to be very careful. you know the rafts grow larger all the time, don't you, hans?" "oh, yes. as the river becomes wider, the smaller ones are bound together. but is it true that the men sometimes take their families along with them?" "certainly. they set up tents, or little huts, on the rafts, so their wives and children can have a comfortable place to eat and sleep. then, too, if it rains, they can be sheltered from the storm." "i'd like to go with you sometime. you pass close to strasburg, and i could stop and visit uncle fritz. wouldn't it be fun!" "hans! hans!" called a girl's voice just then. "i don't see her, but i know that's bertha. she came over to the village with me this afternoon. one of her friends has a coffee-party and she invited us to it. so, good-bye." "good-bye, my lad. come and see me again. perhaps i can manage sometime to take you with me on a trip down the river." "thank you ever so much." hans hurried away, and was soon entering the house of a little friend who was celebrating her birthday with a coffee-party. there were several other children there. they were all dressed in their best clothes and looked very neat and nice. the boys wore long trousers and straight jackets. they looked like little old men. the girls had bright-coloured skirts and their white waists were fresh and stiff. their shoes were coarse and heavy, and made a good deal of noise as the children played the different games. but they were all so plump and rosy, it was good to look at them. "they are a pretty sight," said one of the neighbours, as she poured out the coffee. "they deserve to have a good time," said another woman with a kind, motherly face. "they will soon grow up, and then they will have to work hard to get a living." the coffee and cakes were a great treat to these village children. they did not get such a feast every day in the year. their mothers made cakes only for festivals and holidays, and coffee was seldom seen on their tables oftener than once a week. in the great cities and fine castles, where the rich people of germany had their homes, they could eat sweet dainties and drink coffee as often as they liked. but in the villages of the black forest, it was quite different. "good night, good night," said hans and bertha, as they left their friends and trudged off on a path through the woods. it was the shortest way home, and they knew their mother must be looking for them by this time. it was just sunset, but the children could not see the beautiful colours of the evening sky, after they had gone a short distance into the thick woods. "do you suppose there are any bears around?" whispered bertha. the trees looked very black. it seemed to the little girl as though she kept seeing the shadow of some big animal hiding behind them. "no, indeed," answered hans, quite scornfully. "too many people go along this path for bears to be willing to stay around here. you would have to go farther up into the forest to find them. but look quickly, bertha. do you see that rabbit jumping along? isn't he a big fellow?" "see! hans, he has noticed us. there he goes as fast as his legs can carry him." by this time, the children had reached the top of a hill. the trees grew very thick and close. on one side a torrent came rushing down over the rocks and stones. it seemed to say: "i cannot stop for any one. but come with me, come with me, and i will take you to the beautiful rhine. i will show you the way to pretty bridges, and great stone castles, and rare old cities. oh, this is a wonderful world, and you children of the black forest have a great deal to see yet." "i love to listen to running water," said bertha. "it always has a story to tell us." "do you see that light over there, away off in the distance?" asked hans. "it comes from a charcoal-pit. i can hear the voices of the men at their work." "i shouldn't like to stay out in the dark woods all the time and make charcoal," answered his sister. "i should get lonesome and long for the sunlight." "it isn't very easy work, either," said hans. "after the trees have been cut down, the pits have to be made with the greatest care, and the wood must be burned just so slowly to change it into charcoal. i once spent a day in the forest with some charcoal-burners. they told such good stories that night came before i had thought of it." "i can see the village ahead of us," said bertha, joyfully. a few minutes afterward, the children were running up the stone steps of their own home. "we had such a good time," hans told his mother, while bertha went to gretchen and gave her some cakes she had brought her from the coffee-party. "i'm so sorry you couldn't go," she told her sister. "perhaps i can next time," answered gretchen. "but, of course, we could not all leave mother when she had so much work to do. so i just kept busy and tried to forget all about it." "you dear, good gretchen! i'm going to try to be as patient and helpful as you are," said bertha, kissing her sister. chapter v. the beautiful castle "father's coming, father's coming," cried bertha, as she ran down the steps and out into the street. her father had been away for two days, and hans had gone with him. they had been to heidelberg. bertha and gretchen had never yet visited that city, although it was not more than twenty miles away. "oh, dear, i don't know where to begin," hans told the girls that evening. "of course, i liked to watch the students better than anything else. the town seems full of them. they all study in the university, of course, but they are on the streets a good deal. they seem to have a fine time of it. every one carries a small cane with a button on the end of it. they wear their little caps down over their foreheads on one side." "what colour do they have for their caps, hans?" asked gretchen. "all colours, i believe. some are red, some blue, some yellow, some green. oh, i can't tell you how many different kinds there are. but they were bright and pretty, and made the streets look as though it must be a festival day." "i have heard that the students fight a good many duels. is that so, hans?" "if you should see them, you would certainly think so. many of the fellows are real handsome, but their faces are scarred more often than not. "'the more scars i can show, the braver people will think i am.' that is what the students seem to think. they get up duels with each other on the smallest excuse. when they fight, they always try to strike the face. father says their duelling is good practice. it really helps to make them brave. if i were a student, i should want to fight duels, too." bertha shuddered. duelling was quite the fashion in german universities, but the little girl was very tender-hearted. she could not bear to think of her brother having his face cut up by the sword of any one in the world. "what do you think, girls?" hans went on. "father had to go to the part of the town nearest the castle. he said he should be busy for several hours, and i could do what i liked. so i climbed up the hill to the castle, and wandered all around it. i saw a number of english and american people there. i suppose they had come to heidelberg on purpose to see those buildings. "'isn't it beautiful!' i heard them exclaim again and again. and i saw a boy about my own age writing things about it in a note-book. he told his mother he was going to say it was the most beautiful ruin in germany. he was an american boy, but he spoke our language. i suppose he was just learning it, for he made ever so many mistakes. i could hardly tell what he was trying to say." "what did his mother answer?" asked bertha. "she nodded her head, and then pointed out some of the finest carvings and statues. but she and her son moved away from me before long, and then i found myself near some children of our country. they must have been rich, for they were dressed quite grandly. their governess was with them. she told them to notice how many different kinds of buildings there were, some of them richly carved, and some quite plain. 'you will find here palaces, towers, and fortresses, all together,' she said. 'for, in the old days, it was not only a grand home, but it was also a strong fortress.'" [illustration: courtyard of heidelberg castle.] "you know father told us it was not built all at once," said gretchen. "different parts were added during four hundred years." "yes, and he said it had been stormed by the enemy, and burned and plundered," added bertha. "it has been in the hands of those horrid frenchmen several different times. did you see the blown-up tower, hans?" "of course i did. half of it, you know, fell into the moat during one of the sieges, but linden-trees have grown about it, and it makes a shady nook in which to rest one's self." "you did not go inside of the castle, did you, hans?" asked gretchen. "no. it looked so big and gloomy, i stayed outside in the pretty gardens. i climbed over some of the moss-grown stairs, though, and i kept discovering something i hadn't seen before. here and there were old fountains and marble statues, all gray with age." "they say that under the castle are great, dark dungeons," said bertha, shivering at the thought. "what would a castle be without dungeons?" replied her brother. "of course there are dungeons. and there are also hidden, underground passages through which the people inside could escape in times of war and siege." "oh, hans! did you see the heidelberg tun?" asked gretchen. now, the heidelberg tun is the largest wine-cask in the whole world. people say that it holds forty-nine thousand gallons. just think of it! but it has not been filled for more than a hundred years. "no, i didn't see it," replied hans. "it is down in the cellar, and i didn't want to go there without father. i heard some of the visitors telling about the marks of the frenchmen's hatchets on its sides. one of the times they captured the castle, they tried to break open the tun. they thought it was full of wine. but they did not succeed in hacking through its tough sides." "good! good!" cried his sisters. they had little love for france and her people. that evening, after hans had finished telling the girls about his visit, their father told them the legend of count frederick, a brave and daring man who once lived in heidelberg castle. count frederick was so brave and successful that he was called "frederick the victorious." once upon a time he was attacked by the knights and bishops of the rhine, who had banded together against him. when he found what great numbers of soldiers were attacking his castle, count frederick was not frightened in the least. he armed his men with sharp daggers, and marched boldly out against his foes. they attacked the horses first of all. the daggers made short work, and the knights were soon brought to the ground. their armour was so heavy that it was an easy matter then to make them prisoners and take them into the castle. but frederick treated them most kindly. he ordered a great banquet to be prepared, and invited his prisoners to gather around the board, where all sorts of good things were served. one thing only was lacking. there was no bread. the guests thought it was because the servants had forgotten it, and one of them dared to ask for a piece. count frederick at once turned toward his steward and ordered the bread to be brought. now his master had privately talked with the steward and had told him what words to use at this time. "i am very sorry," said the steward, "but there is no bread." "you must bake some at once," ordered his master. "but we have no flour," was the answer. "you must grind some, then," was the command. "we cannot do so, for we have no grain." "then see that some is threshed immediately." "that is impossible, for the harvests have been burned down," replied the steward. "you can at least sow grain, that we may have new harvests as soon as possible." "we cannot even do that, for our enemies have burned down all the buildings where the grain was stored for seed-time." frederick now turned to his visitors, and told them they must eat their meat without bread. but that was not all. he told them they must give him enough money to build new houses and barns to take the places of those they had destroyed, and also to buy new seed for grain. "it is wrong," he said, sternly, "to carry on war against those who are helpless, and to take away their seeds and tools from the poor peasants." it was a sensible speech. it made the knights ashamed of the way they had been carrying on war in the country, and they left the castle wiser and better men. all this happened long, long ago, before germany could be called one country, for the different parts of the land were ruled over by different people and in different ways. this same count frederick, their father told them, had great love for the poor. when he was still quite young, he made a vow. he said, "i will never marry a woman of noble family." not long after this, he fell in love with a princess. but he could not ask her to marry him on account of the vow he had made. he was so unhappy that he went into the army. he did not wish to live, and hoped he would soon meet death. but the fair princess loved frederick as deeply as he loved her, and as soon as she learned of the vow he had made, she made up her mind what to do. she put on the dress of a poor singing-girl, and left her grand home. she followed frederick from place to place. they met face to face one beautiful evening. then it was that the princess told her lover she had given up her rank and title for his sake. how joyful she made him as he listened to her story! you may be sure they were soon married, and the young couple went to live in heidelberg castle, where they were as happy and as merry as the day is long. chapter vi. the great frederick "i declare, hans, i should think you would get tired of playing war," said bertha. she was sitting under the trees rocking her doll. she was playing it was a baby. hans had just come home after an afternoon of sport with his boy friends. but all they had done, bertha declared, was to play war and soldiers. she had watched them from her own yard. "tired of it! what a silly idea, bertha. it won't be many years before i shall be a real soldier. just picture me then! i shall have a uniform, and march to music. i don't know where i may go, either. who knows to what part of the world the emperor will send his soldiers at that time?" "i know where you would like to go in our own country," said bertha. "to berlin, of course. what a grand city it must be! father has been there. our schoolmaster was there while he served his time as a soldier. at this very moment, it almost seems as though i could hear the jingling of the officers' swords as they move along the streets. the regiments are drilled every day, and i don't know how often the soldiers have sham battles." hans jumped up from his seat under the tree and began to march up and down as though he were a soldier already. "attention, battalion! forward, march!" bertha called after him. but she was laughing as she spoke. she could not help it, hans looked so serious. at the same time she couldn't help envying her brother a little, and wishing she were a boy, too. it must be so grand to be a soldier and be ready to fight for the emperor who ruled over her country. [illustration: statue of frederick the great.] "the schoolmaster told us boys yesterday about the grand palace at berlin. the emperor lives in it when he is in the city," said hans, wheeling around suddenly and stopping in front of bertha. "i think you must have caught my thoughts," said the little girl, "for the emperor was in my mind when you began to speak." "well, never mind that. do you wish to hear about the palace?" "of course i do, hans." "the schoolmaster says it has six hundred rooms. just think of it! and one of them, called the white room, is furnished so grandly that , , marks were spent on it. you can't imagine it, bertha, of course. i can't, either." a german mark is worth about twenty-four cents of american money, so the furnishing of the room hans spoke of must have cost about $ , . it was a large sum, and it is no wonder the boy said he could hardly imagine so much money. "there are hundreds of halls in the palace," hans went on. "some of their walls are painted and others are hung with elegant silk draperies. the floors are polished so they shine like mirrors. then the pictures and the armour, bertha! it almost seemed as though i were there while the schoolmaster was describing them." "i never expect to see such lovely things," said his sober little sister. "but perhaps i shall go to berlin some day, hans. then i can see the statue of frederick the great, at any rate." "it stands opposite the palace," said her brother, "and cost more than any other bronze statue in the world." "how did you learn that, hans?" "the schoolmaster told us so. he said, too, that it ought to stir the blood of every true german to look at it. there the great frederick sits on horseback, wearing the robe in which he was crowned, and looking out from under his cocked hat with his bright, sharp eyes. that statue alone is enough to make the soldiers who march past it ready to give their lives for their country." "he lived when the different kingdoms were separated from each other, and there was no one ruler over all of them. i know that," said bertha. "yes, he was the king of prussia. and he fought the seven years' war with france and came out victorious. hardly any one thought he could succeed, for there was so much against him. but he was brave and determined. those two things were worth everything else." "that wasn't the only war he won, either, hans." "no, but it must have been the greatest. did you know, bertha, that he was unhappy when he was young? his father was so strict that he tried to run away from germany with two of his friends. the king found out what they meant to do. one of the friends was put to death, and the other managed to escape." "what did his father do to frederick?" bertha's eyes were full of pity for a prince who was so unhappy as to wish to run away. "the king ordered his son to be put to death. but i suppose he was angry at the time, for he changed his mind before the sentence was carried out, and forgave him." "i wonder how kings and emperors live," said bertha, slowly. it seemed as though everything must be different with them from what it was with other people. "i'll tell you about frederick, if you wish to listen." "of course i do, hans." "in the first place, he didn't care anything about fine clothes, even if he was a king and was born in the grand palace at berlin. his coat was often very shabby. "in the next place, he slept only about four hours out of the whole twenty-four for a good many years. he got up at three o'clock on summer mornings, and in the winter-time he was always dressed by five, at the very latest. "while his hair-dresser was at work, he opened his most important letters. after that, he attended to other business affairs of the country. these things were done before eating or drinking. but when they had been attended to, the king went into his writing-room and drank a number of glasses of cold water. as he wrote, he sipped coffee and ate a little fruit from time to time. "he loved music very dearly, and sometimes rested from his work and played on his flute. "dinner was the only regular meal of the day. it was served at twelve o'clock, and lasted three or four hours. there was a bill of fare, and the names of the cooks were given as well as the dishes they prepared." "did the king ever let them know whether he was pleased or not with their cooking?" asked bertha. "yes. he marked the dishes he liked best with a cross. he enjoyed his dinner, and generally had a number of friends to eat with him. there was much joking, and there were many clever speeches. "when the meal was over, the king played on his flute a short time, and then attended to more business." "did he work till bedtime, hans?" "oh, no. in the evening there was a concert or lecture, or something like that. but, all the same, the king was a hardworking man, even in times of peace." "he loved his people dearly, father once told me," said bertha. "he said he understood his subjects and they understood him." "yes, and that reminds me of a story the schoolmaster told. king frederick was once riding through the street when he saw a crowd of people gathered together. he said to his groom, 'go and see what is the matter.' the man came back and told the king that the people were all looking at a caricature of frederick himself. a caricature, you know, is a comical portrait. "perhaps you think the king was angry when he heard this. not at all. he said, 'go and hang the picture lower down, so they will not have to stretch their necks to see it.' "the crowd heard the words. 'hurrah for the king!' they cried. at the same time, they began to tear the picture into pieces." "frederick the great could appreciate a joke," said bertha. "i should think the people must have loved him." "he had some fine buildings put up in his lifetime," hans went on. "a new palace was built in berlin, besides another one the king called 'sans souci.' those are french words meaning, 'without a care.' he called the place by that name because he said he was free-hearted and untroubled while he stayed there. "i've told you these things because you are a girl. but i'll tell you what i like to think of best of all. it's the stories of the wars in which he fought and in which he showed such wonderful courage. so, hurrah for frederick the great, king of prussia!" hans made a salute as though he stood in the presence of the great king. then he started for the wood-pile, where he was soon sawing logs with as much energy as if he were fighting against the enemies of his country. chapter vii. the brave princess "listen, children! that must be the song of a nightingale. how sweet it is!" it was a lovely sunday afternoon. every one in the family had been to church in the morning, and come home to a good dinner of bean soup and potato salad. then the father had said: "let us take a long walk over the fields and through the woods. the world is beautiful to-day. we can enjoy it best by leaving the house behind us." some of the neighbours joined the merry party. the men smoked their pipes, while the women chatted together and the children frolicked about them and picked wild flowers. how many sweet smells there were in the fields! how gaily the birds sang! the air seemed full of peace and joy. they all wandered on till they came to a cascade flowing down over some high rocks. trees grew close to the waterfall, and bent over it as though to hide it from curious eyes. it was a pretty spot. "let us sit down at the foot of this cascade," said bertha's father. "it is a pleasant place to rest." every one liked the plan. bertha nestled close to her father's side. "tell us a story. please do," she said. "ask neighbour abel. he knows many a legend of just such places as this. he has lived in the hartz mountains, and they are filled with fairy stories." the rest of the party heard what was said. "neighbour abel! a story, a story," they cried. of course the kind-hearted german could not refuse such a general request. besides, he liked to tell stories. taking his long pipe out of his mouth, he laid it down on the ground beside him. then he cleared his throat and began to speak. "look above you, friends. do you see that mark on the rocky platform overhead? i noticed it as soon as i got here. it made me think of a wild spot in the hartz mountains where there is just such a mark. the people call it 'the horse's hoof-print.' i will tell you how they explain its coming there. "once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. her name was brunhilda, and she lived in bohemia. she lived a gay and happy life, like most young princesses, till one day a handsome prince arrived at her father's palace. he was the son of the king of the hartz country. "of course, you can all guess what happened. the prince fell in love with the princess, and she returned his love. the day was set for the wedding, and the young prince went home to prepare for the great event. "but he had been gone only a short time when a powerful giant arrived at brunhilda's home. he came from the far north. his name was bodo. "he asked for the princess in marriage, but her heart had already been given away. she did not care for the giant, even though he gave her the most elegant presents,--a beautiful white horse, jewels set in gold, and chains of amber. "'i dare not refuse the giant,' said brunhilda's father. 'he is very powerful, and we must not make him angry. you must marry him, my daughter, in three days.' "the poor maiden wept bitterly. it seemed as though her heart would break. but she was a clever girl, and she soon dried her tears and began to think of some plan by which she might yet be free. she began to smile upon the giant and treat him with great kindness. "'i should like to try the beautiful horse you brought me,' she said to him. he was much pleased. the horse was brought to the door. the princess mounted him and rode for a time up and down in front of the palace. "the very next day was that set apart for the wedding. the castle was filled with guests who feasted and made merry. the giant entered into everything with a will. he laughed till the floors and walls shook. little did he think what was taking place. for the princess slipped out of the castle when no one was watching, hurried into the stable, and leaped upon the back of her swift white horse. "'lower the drawbridge instantly,' she called to the guard. she passed over it, and away she flew like the wind. "you were too late, too late, o giant, when you discovered that brunhilda was missing. "he flew out of the castle, and on the back of his own fiery black horse he dashed after the runaway princess. "on they went! on, on, without stopping. over the plains, up and down the hillsides, through the villages. the sun set and darkness fell upon the world, but there was never a moment's rest for the maiden on the white horse or the giant lover on his black steed. "sometimes in the darkness sparks were struck off from the horses' hoofs as they passed over rough and rocky places. these sparks always showed the princess ahead and slowly increasing the distance between herself and her pursuer. "when the morning light first appeared, the maiden could see the summit of the brocken ahead of her. it was the home of her lover. her heart leaped within her. if she could only reach it she would be safe. "but alas! her horse suddenly stood still. he would not move. he had reached the edge of a precipice. there it lay, separating the princess from love and safety. "the brave girl had not a moment to lose. the giant was fast drawing near. she wheeled her horse around; then, striking his sides a sharp blow with her whip, she urged him to leap across the precipice. "the spring must be strong and sure. it was a matter of life and death. the chasm was deep. if the horse should fail to strike the other side securely, it meant a horrible end to beast and rider. "but he did not fail. the feet of the brave steed came firmly down upon the rocky platform. so heavily did they fall that the imprint of a hoof was left upon the rock. "the princess was now safe. it would be an easy matter for her to reach her lover's side. "as for the giant, he tried to follow brunhilda across the chasm. but he was too heavy and his horse failed to reach the mark. the two sank together to the bottom of the precipice." every one thanked the story-teller, and begged him to tell more of the hartz mountains, where he had spent his boyhood days. the children were delighted when he spoke of the gnomes, in whom he believed when he was a child. "every time i went out in the dark woods," he said, "i was on the lookout for these funny little fairies of the underground world. i wanted to see them, but at the same time i was afraid i should meet them. "i remember one time that my mother sent me on an errand through the woods at twilight. i was in the thickest part of the woods, when i heard a sound that sent a shiver down my back. "'it is a witch, or some other dreadful being,' i said to myself. 'nothing else could make a sound like that.' my teeth chattered. my legs shook so, i could hardly move. somehow or other, i managed to keep on. it seemed as though hours passed before i saw the lights of the village. yet i suppose it was not more than fifteen minutes. "when i was once more safe inside my own home, i told my father and mother about my fright. "'it was no witch, my child,' said my father. 'the sound you describe was probably the cry of a wildcat. i thank heaven that you are safe. a wildcat is not a very pleasant creature to meet in a lonely place.' "after that, i was never sent away from the village after dark. "my boy friends and i often came across badgers and deer, and sometimes foxes made their way into the village in search of poultry, but i never came nearer to meeting a wildcat than the time of which i have just told you." "what work did you do out of school hours?" asked hans. the boy was thinking of the toys he had to carve. "my mother raised canary-birds, and i used to help her a great deal. nearly every woman in the village was busy at the same work. what concerts we did have in those days! mother tended every young bird she raised with the greatest care. would it become a good singer and bring a fair price? we waited anxiously for the first notes, and then watched to see how the voices gained in strength and sweetness. "it was a pleasant life, and i was very happy among the birds in our little village. would you like to hear a song i used to sing at that time? it is all about the birds and bees and flowers." "do sing it for us," cried every one. herr abel had a good voice and they listened with pleasure to his song. this is the first stanza: "i have been on the mountain that the song-birds love best. they were sitting, were flitting, they were building their nest. they were sitting, were flitting, they were building their nest." [illustration: bertha's home.] after he had finished, he told about the mines in which some of his friends worked. it was a hard life, with no bright sunlight to cheer the men in those deep, dark caverns underground. "of course you all know that the deepest mine in the world is in the hartz mountains." his friends nodded their heads, while hans whispered to bertha, "i should like to go down in that mine just for the sake of saying i have been as far into the earth as any living person." "the sun is setting, and there is a chill in the air," said bertha's father. "let us go home." chapter viii. what the waves bring bertha's mother had just come in from a hard morning's work in the fields. she had been helping her husband weed the garden. she spent a great deal of time outdoors in the summer-time, as many german peasant women do. they do a large share of the work in ploughing the grain-fields and harvesting the crops. they are much stronger than their american cousins. "supper is all ready and waiting for you," said bertha. the little girl had prepared a dish of sweet fruit soup which her mother had taught her to make. "it is very good," said her father when he had tasted it. "my little bertha is getting to be quite a housekeeper." "indeed, it is very good," said her mother. "you learned your lesson well, my child." bertha was quite abashed by so much praise. she looked down upon her plate and did not lift her eyes again till gretchen began to tell of a new amber bracelet which had just been given to one of the neighbours. "it is beautiful," said gretchen, quite excitedly. "the beads are such a clear, lovely yellow. they look so pretty on frau braun's neck, i don't wonder she is greatly pleased with her present." "who sent it to her?" asked her mother. "her brother in cologne. he is doing well at his trade, and so he bought this necklace at a fair and sent it to his sister as a remembrance. he wrote her a letter all about the sights in cologne, and asked frau braun to come and visit him and his wife. "he promised her in the letter that if she would come, he would take her to see the grand cologne cathedral. he said thousands of strangers visit it every year, because every one knows it is one of the most beautiful buildings in all europe. "then he said she should also see the church of saint ursula, where the bones of the eleven thousand maidens can still be seen in their glass cases." "do you know the story of st. ursula, gretchen?" asked her father. "yes, indeed, sir. ursula was the daughter of an english king. she was about to be married, but she said that before the wedding she would go to rome on a pilgrimage. "eleven thousand young girls went with the princess. on her way home she was married, but when the wedding party had got as far as cologne, they were attacked by the savage huns. every one was killed,--ursula, her husband, and the eleven thousand maidens. the church was afterward built in her memory. ursula was made a saint by the pope, and the bones of the young girls were preserved in glass cases in the church." "did frau braun tell of anything else her brother wrote?" asked her mother. "he spoke of the bridge of boats across the river, and said she would enjoy watching it open and shut to let the steamers and big rafts pass through. and he told of the cologne water that is sold in so many of the shops. it is hard to tell which makes the town most famous, the great cathedral or the cologne water." "father, how was the bridge of boats made?" asked bertha. "the boats were moored in a line across the river. planks were then laid across the tops and fastened upon them. vessels cannot pass under a bridge of this kind, so it has to be opened from time to time. they say it is always interesting to see this done." "yes, frau braun said she would rather see the bridge of boats than anything else in the city. she has already begun to plan how she can save up enough money to make the trip." "i will go over there to-morrow to see he new necklace," said bertha. "but what is amber, father?" "if you should go to the northern part of germany, bertha, you would see great numbers of men, women, and children, busy on the shores of the ocean. the work is greatest in the rough days of autumn, when a strong wind is blowing from the northeast. "then the men dress themselves as though they were going out into a storm. they arm themselves with nets and plunge into the waves, which are bringing treasure to the shore. it is the beautiful amber we admire so much. "the women and children are waiting on the sands, and as the men bring in their nets, the contents are given into their hands. they separate the precious lumps of amber from the weeds to which they are clinging." their father stopped to fill his pipe, and the children thought he had come to the end of the story. "but you haven't told us yet what amber is," said bertha. "be patient, my little one, and you shall hear," replied her father, patting her head. "as yet, i have not half told the story. but i will answer your question at once. "a long time ago, longer than you can imagine, bertha, forests were growing along the shores of the baltic sea. there was a great deal of gum in the trees of these forests. it oozed out of the trees in the same manner as gum from the spruce-tree and resin from the pine. "storms arose, and beds of sand and clay drifted over the forests. they were buried away for thousands of years, it may be. but the motion of the sea washes up pieces of the gum, which is of light weight. "the gum has become changed while buried in the earth such a long, long time. wise men use the word 'fossilized' when they speak of what has happened to it. the now beautiful, changed gum is called amber. "there are different ways of getting it. i told you how it comes drifting in on the waves when the winds are high and the water is rough. but on the pleasant summer days, when the sea is smooth and calm, the men go out a little way from the shore in boats. they float about, looking earnestly over the sides of the boats to the bottom of the sea. "all at once, they see something. down go their long hooks through the water. a moment afterward, they begin to tow a tangle of stones and seaweed to the shore. as soon as they land, they begin to sort out the great mass. perhaps they will rejoice in finding large pieces of amber in the collection. "there is still another way of getting amber. i know hans will be most interested in what i am going to say now. it has more of danger in it, and boys like to hear anything in the way of adventure." hans looked up and smiled. his father knew him well. he was a daring lad. he was always longing for the time when he should grow up and be a soldier, and possibly take part in some war. "children," their father went on, "you have all heard of divers and of their dangerous work under the sea. gretchen was telling me the other day about her geography lesson, and of the pearl-divers along the shores of india. i did not tell her then that some men spend their lives diving for amber on the shores of our own country. "they wear rubber suits and helmets and air-chests of sheet iron." "how can they see where they are going?" asked bertha. "there are glass openings in their helmets, and they can look through these. they go out in boats. the crew generally consists of six men. two of them are divers, and four men have charge of the air-pumps. these pumps force fresh air down through tubes fastened to the helmet of each diver. besides these men there is an overseer who has charge of everything. "sometimes the divers stay for hours on the bed of the sea, and work away at the amber tangles." "but suppose anything happens to the air-tubes and the men fail to get as much air as they need?" said hans. "is there any way of letting those in the boat know they are in trouble? and, besides that, how do the others know when it is time to raise the divers with their precious loads?" "there is a safety-rope reaching from the boat to the men. when they pull this rope it is a sign that they wish to be drawn up. but i have told you as much about amber now as you will be able to remember." "are you very tired, father dear?" said bertha, in her most coaxing tone. "why should i be tired? what do you wish to ask me? come, speak out plainly, little one." "you tell such lovely fairy-tales, papa, i was just wishing for one. see! the moon is just rising above the tree-tops. it is the very time for stories of the wonderful beings." her father smiled. "it shall be as you wish, bertha. it is hard to refuse you when you look at me that way. come, children, let us sit in the doorway. goodwife, put down your work and join us while i tell the story of siegfried, the old hero of germany." chapter ix. the magic sword far away in the long ago there lived a mighty king with his goodwife and his brave son, siegfried. their home was at xanten, where the river rhine flows lazily along. the young prince was carefully taught. but when his education was nearly finished, his father said: "siegfried, there is a mighty smith named mimer. it will be well for you to learn all you can of him in regard to the making of arms." so siegfried went to work at the trade of a smith. it was not long before he excelled his teacher. this pleased mimer, who spent many spare hours with his pupil, telling him stories of the olden times. after awhile, he took siegfried into his confidence. he said: "there is a powerful knight in burgundy who has challenged every smith of my country to make a weapon strong enough to pierce his coat of mail. "i long to try," mimer went on, "but i am now old and have not strength enough to use the heavy hammer." at these words siegfried jumped up in great excitement. "i will make the sword, dear master," he cried. "be of good cheer. it shall be strong enough to cut the knight's armour in two." early the next morning, siegfried began his work. for seven days and seven nights the constant ringing of his hammer could be heard. at the end of that time siegfried came to his master with a sword of the finest steel in his right hand. mimer looked it all over. he then held it in a stream of running water in which he had thrown a fine thread. the water carried the thread against the edge of the sword, where it was cut in two. "it is without a fault," cried mimer with delight. "i can do better than that," answered siegfried, and he took the sword and broke it into pieces. again he set to work. for seven more days and seven more nights he was busy at his forge. at the end of that time he brought a polished sword to his master. mimer looked it over with the greatest care and made ready to test it. he threw the fleeces of twelve sheep into the stream. the current carried them on its bosom to siegfried's sword. instantly, each piece was divided as it met the blade. mimer shouted aloud in his joy. "balmung" (for that was the name siegfried gave the sword) "is the finest weapon man ever made," he cried. siegfried was now prepared to meet the proud knight of burgundy. the very first thrust of the sword, balmung, did the work. the head and shoulders of the giant were severed from the rest of the body. they rolled down the hillside and fell into the rhine, where they can be seen even now, when the water is clear. at least, so runs the story. the trunk remained on the hilltop and was turned to stone. soon after this mimer found that siegfried longed to see the world and make himself famous. so he bound the sword balmung to the young prince's side, and told him to seek a certain person, who would give him a fine war-horse. siegfried went to this man, from whom he obtained a matchless steed. in fact it had descended from the great god odin's magic horse. siegfried, you can see, must have lived in a time when men believed in gods and other wonderful beings. he was now all ready for his adventures, but before starting out, mimer told him of a great treasure of gold guarded by a fearful serpent. this treasure was spread out over a plain called the glittering heath. no man had yet been able to take it, because of its terrible guardian. siegfried was not in the least frightened by the stories he heard of the monster. he started out on his dangerous errand with a heart full of courage. at last, he drew near the plain. he could see it on the other side of the rhine, from the hilltop where he was standing. with no one to help him, not even taking his magic horse with him, he hurried down the hillside and sprang into a boat on the shore. an old man had charge of the boat, and as he rowed siegfried across, he gave him good advice. this old man, as it happened, was the god odin, who loved siegfried and wished to see him succeed. "dig a deep trench along the path the serpent has worn on his way to the river when in search of water," said the old boatman. "hide yourself in the trench, and, as the serpent passes along, you must thrust your sword deep into his body." it was good advice. siegfried did as odin directed him. he went to work on the trench at once. it was soon finished, and then the young prince, sword in hand, was lying in watch for the dread monster. he did not have long to wait. he soon heard the sound of rolling stones. then came a loud hiss, and immediately afterward he felt the serpent's fiery breath on his cheek. and now the serpent rolled over into the ditch, and siegfried was covered by the folds of his huge body. he did not fear or falter. he thrust balmung, his wonderful sword, deep into the monster's body. the blood poured forth in such torrents that the ditch began to fill fast. it was a time of great danger for siegfried. he would have been drowned if the serpent in his death-agony had not rolled over on one side and given him a chance to free himself. in a moment more he was standing, safe and sound, by the side of the ditch. his bath in the serpent's blood had given him a great blessing. hereafter it would be impossible for any one to wound him except in one tiny place on his shoulder. a leaf had fallen on this spot, and the blood had not touched it. "what did siegfried do with the golden treasure?" asked hans, when his father had reached this point in the story. "he had not sought it for himself, but for mimer's sake. all he cared for was the power of killing the serpent." as soon as this was done, mimer drew near and showed himself ungrateful and untrue. he was so afraid siegfried would claim some of the treasure that he secretly drew balmung from out the serpent's body, and made ready to thrust it into siegfried. but at that very moment his foot slipped in the monster's blood, and he fell upon the sword and was instantly killed. siegfried was filled with horror when he saw what had happened. he sprang upon his horse's back and fled as fast as possible from the dreadful scene. "what happened to siegfried after that? did he have any more adventures?" asked bertha. "yes, indeed. there were enough to fill a book. but there is one in particular you girls would like to hear. it is about a beautiful princess whom he freed from a spell which had been cast upon her." "what was her name, papa?" asked gretchen. "brunhild, the queen of isenland. she had been stung by the thorn of sleep." odin, the great god, had said, "brunhild shall not awake till some hero is brave enough to fight his way through the flames which shall constantly surround the palace. he must then go to the side of the sleeping maiden and break the charm by a kiss upon her forehead." when siegfried, in his wanderings, heard the story of brunhild, he said, "i will make my way through the flames and will myself rescue the fair princess." he leaped upon the back of his magic steed, and together they fought their way through the fire that surrounded the palace of the sleeping beauty. he reached the gates in safety. there was no sign of life about the place. every one was wrapped in a deep sleep. siegfried made his way to the room of the enchanted princess. ah! there she lay, still and beautiful, with no knowledge of what was going on around her. the young knight knelt by her side. leaning over her, he pressed a kiss upon her forehead. she moved slightly; then, opening her blue eyes, she smiled sweetly upon her deliverer. at the same moment every one else in the palace woke up and went on with whatever had been interrupted when sleep overcame them. siegfried remained for six months with the fair brunhild and her court. every day was given up to music and feasting, games and songs. time passed like a beautiful dream. no one knows how long the young knight might have enjoyed this happy life if odin had not sent two birds, thought and memory, to remind him there were other things for him yet to do. he did not stop to bid brunhild farewell, but leaped upon his horse's back and rode away in search of new adventures. "dear me, children," exclaimed their father, looking at the clock, "it is long past the time you should be in your soft, warm beds." "papa, do you know what day to-morrow is?" whispered bertha, as she kissed him good night. "my darling child's birthday. it is ten years to-morrow since your eyes first looked upon the sunlight. they have been ten happy years to us all, though our lives are full of work. what do you say to that, my little one?" "very happy, papa dear. you and mother are so kind! i ought to be good as well as happy." "she is a faithful child," said her mother, after bertha had left the room. "that is why i have a little surprise ready for to-morrow. i have baked a large birthday cake and shall ask her little friends to share it with her. "her aunt has finished the new dress i bought for her, and i have made two white aprons, besides. she will be a happy child when she sees her presents." the mother closed her eyes and made a silent prayer to the all-father that bertha's life should be as joyful as her tenth birthday gave promise of being. the end. the little cousin series the most delightful and interesting accounts possible of child life in other lands, filled with quaint sayings, doings, and adventures. each one vol., mo, decorative cover, cloth, with six or more full-page illustrations in color. price per volume . _by mary hazelton wade (unless otherwise indicated)_ =our little african cousin= =our little alaskan cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little arabian cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little armenian cousin= =our little brown cousin= =our little canadian cousin= by elizabeth r. macdonald =our little chinese cousin= by isaac taylor headland =our little cuban cousin= =our little dutch cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little english cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little eskimo cousin= =our little french cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little german cousin= =our little hawaiian cousin= =our little hindu cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little indian cousin= =our little irish cousin= =our little italian cousin= =our little japanese cousin= =our little jewish cousin= =our little korean cousin= by h. lee m. pike =our little mexican cousin= by edward c. butler =our little norwegian cousin= =our little panama cousin= by h. lee m. pike =our little philippine cousin= =our little porto rican cousin= =our little russian cousin= =our little scotch cousin= by blanche mcmanus =our little siamese cousin= =our little spanish cousin= by mary f. nixon-roulet =our little swedish cousin= by claire m. coburn =our little swiss cousin= =our little turkish cousin= the goldenrod library the goldenrod library contains stories which appeal alike both to children and to their parents and guardians. each volume is well illustrated from drawings by competent artists, which, together with their handsomely decorated uniform binding, showing the goldenrod, usually considered the emblem of america, is a feature of their manufacture. each one volume, small mo, illustrated . list of titles =aunt nabby's children.= by frances hodges white. =child's dream of a star, the.= by charles dickens. =flight of rosy dawn, the.= by pauline bradford mackie. =findelkind.= by ouida. =fairy of the rhone, the.= by a. comyns carr. =gatty and i.= by frances e. crompton. =helena's wonderworld.= by frances hodges white. =jerry's reward.= by evelyn snead barnett. =la belle nivernaise.= by alphonse daudet. =little king davie.= by nellie hellis. =little peterkin vandike.= by charles stuart pratt. =little professor, the.= by ida horton cash. =peggy's trial.= by mary knight potter. =prince yellowtop.= by kate whiting patch. =provence rose, a.= by ouida. =seventh daughter, a.= by grace wickham curran. =sleeping beauty, the.= by martha baker dunn. =small, small child, a.= by e. livingston prescott. =susanne.= by frances j. delano. =water people, the.= by charles lee sleight. =young archer, the.= by charles e. brimblecom. cosy corner series it is the intention of the publishers that this series shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows. the numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. each vol., mo, cloth . _by annie fellows johnston_ =the little colonel.= (trade mark.) the scene of this story is laid in kentucky. its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the little colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. =the giant scissors.= this is the story of joyce and of her adventures in france. joyce is a great friend of the little colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "house party" and the "holidays." =two little knights of kentucky.= who were the little colonel's neighbors. in this volume the little colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. she is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights." =mildred's inheritance.= a delightful little story of a lonely english girl who comes to america and is befriended by a sympathetic american family who are attracted by her beautiful speaking voice. by means of this one gift she is enabled to help a school-girl who has temporarily lost the use of her eyes, and thus finally her life becomes a busy, happy one. =cicely and other stories for girls.= the readers of mrs. johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people. =aunt 'liza's hero and other stories.= a collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys and most girls. =big brother.= a story of two boys. the devotion and care of steven, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale. =ole mammy's torment.= "ole mammy's torment" has been fitly called "a classic of southern life." it relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =the story of dago.= in this story mrs. johnston relates the story of dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. =the quilt that jack built.= a pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the course of his life many years after it was accomplished. =flip's islands of providence.= a story of a boy's life battle, his early defeat, and his final triumph, well worth the reading. _by edith robinson_ =a little puritan's first christmas.= a story of colonial times in boston, telling how christmas was invented by betty sewall, a typical child of the puritans, aided by her brother sam. =a little daughter of liberty.= the author introduces this story as follows: "one ride is memorable in the early history of the american revolution, the well-known ride of paul revere. equally deserving of commendation is another ride,--the ride of anthony severn,--which was no less historic in its action or memorable in its consequences." =a loyal little maid.= a delightful and interesting story of revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, betsey schuyler, renders important services to george washington. =a little puritan rebel.= this is an historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant sir harry vane was governor of massachusetts. =a little puritan pioneer.= the scene of this story is laid in the puritan settlement at charlestown. =a little puritan bound girl.= a story of boston in puritan days, which is of great interest to youthful readers. =a little puritan cavalier.= the story of a "little puritan cavalier" who tried with all his boyish enthusiasm to emulate the spirit and ideals of the dead crusaders. =a puritan knight errant.= the story tells of a young lad in colonial times who endeavored to carry out the high ideals of the knights of olden days. _by ouida (louise de la ramée)_ =a dog of flanders:= a christmas story. too well and favorably known to require description. =the nurnberg stove.= this beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price. _by frances margaret fox_ =the little giant's neighbours.= a charming nature story of a "little giant" whose neighbours were the creatures of the field and garden. =farmer brown and the birds.= a little story which teaches children that the birds are man's best friends. =betty of old mackinaw.= a charming story of child-life, appealing especially to the little readers who like stories of "real people." =brother billy.= the story of betty's brother, and some further adventures of betty herself. =mother nature's little ones.= curious little sketches describing the early lifetime, or "childhood," of the little creatures out-of-doors. =how christmas came to the mulvaneys.= a bright, lifelike little story of a family of poor children, with an unlimited capacity for fun and mischief. the wonderful never-to-be forgotten christmas that came to them is the climax of a series of exciting incidents. _by miss mulock_ =the little lame prince.= a delightful story of a little boy who has many adventures by means of the magic gifts of his fairy godmother. =adventures of a brownie.= the story of a household elf who torments the cook and gardener, but is a constant joy and delight to the children who love and trust him. =his little mother.= miss mulock's short stories for children are a constant source of delight to them, and "his little mother," in this new and attractive dress, will be welcomed by hosts of youthful readers. =little sunshine's holiday.= an attractive story of a summer outing. "little sunshine" is another of those beautiful child-characters for which miss mulock is so justly famous. _by marshall saunders_ =for his country.= a sweet and graceful story of a little boy who loved his country; written with that charm which has endeared miss saunders to hosts of readers. =nita, the story of an irish setter.= in this touching little book, miss saunders shows how dear to her heart are all of god's dumb creatures. =alpatok, the story of an eskimo dog.= alpatok, an eskimo dog from the far north, was stolen from his master and left to starve in a strange city, but was befriended and cared for, until he was able to return to his owner. miss saunders's story is based on truth, and the pictures in the book of "alpatok" are based on a photograph of the real eskimo dog who had such a strange experience. _by will allen dromgoole_ =the farrier's dog and his fellow.= this story, written by the gifted young southern woman, will appeal to all that is best in the natures of the many admirers of her graceful and piquant style. =the fortunes of the fellow.= those who read and enjoyed the pathos and charm of "the farrier's dog and his fellow" will welcome the further account of the adventures of baydaw and the fellow at the home of the kindly smith. =the best of friends.= this continues the experiences of the farrier's dog and his fellow, written in miss dromgoole's well-known charming style. =down in dixie.= a fascinating story for boys and girls, of a family of alabama children who move to florida and grow up in the south. _by marian w. wildman_ =loyalty island.= an account of the adventures of four children and their pet dog on an island, and how they cleared their brother from the suspicion of dishonesty. =theodore and theodora.= this is a story of the exploits and mishaps of two mischievous twins, and continues the adventures of the interesting group of children in "loyalty island." _by charles g. d. roberts_ =the cruise of the yacht dido.= the story of two boys who turned their yacht into a fishing boat to earn money to pay for a college course, and of their adventures while exploring in search of hidden treasure. =the young acadian.= the story of a young lad of acadia who rescued a little english girl from the hands of savages. =the lord of the air.= the story of the eagle =the king of the mamozekel.= the story of the moose =the watchers of the camp-fire.= the story of the panther =the haunter of the pine gloom.= the story of the lynx =the return to the trails.= the story of the bear =the little people of the sycamore.= the story of the raccoon _by other authors_ =the great scoop.= _by molly elliot seawell_ a capital tale of newspaper life in a big city, and of a bright, enterprising, likable youngster employed thereon. =john whopper.= the late bishop clark's popular story of the boy who fell through the earth and came out in china, with a new introduction by bishop potter. =the dole twins.= _by kate upson clark_ the adventures of two little people who tried to earn money to buy crutches for a lame aunt. an excellent description of child-life about , which will greatly interest and amuse the children of to-day, whose life is widely different. =larry hudson's ambition.= _by james otis_, author of "toby tyler," etc. larry hudson is a typical american boy, whose hard work and enterprise gain him his ambition,--an education and a start in the world. =the little christmas shoe.= _by jane p. scott woodruff_ a touching story of yule-tide. =wee dorothy.= _by laura updegraff_ a story of two orphan children, the tender devotion of the eldest, a boy, for his sister being its theme and setting. with a bit of sadness at the beginning, the story is otherwise bright and sunny, and altogether wholesome in every way. =the king of the golden river:= a legend of stiria. _by john ruskin_ written fifty years or more ago, and not originally intended for publication, this little fairy-tale soon became known and made a place for itself. =a child's garden of verses.= _by r. l. stevenson_ mr. stevenson's little volume is too well known to need description. it will be heartily welcomed in this new and attractive edition. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors repaired. our little cuban cousin the little cousin series by mary hazelton wade _ten volumes, illustrated_ [illustration] _previously issued_ =our little japanese cousin= =our little brown cousin= =our little indian cousin= =our little russian cousin= _now ready_ =our little cuban cousin= =our little hawaiian cousin= =our little eskimo cousin= =our little philippine cousin= =our little porto rican cousin= =our little african cousin= each volume illustrated with six full-page plates in tints, from drawings by l. j. bridgman cloth, mo, with decorative cover, per volume, cents net. (postage, cents additional) [illustration] l. c. page & company, new england building, boston [illustration: maria] our little cuban cousin by mary hazelton wade _illustrated by_ l. j. bridgman [illustration] boston l. c. page & company _mdccccii_ _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) _all rights reserved_ published, june, colonial press electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u. s. a. preface largest of all the fair west indian islands which lie in our open doorway is cuba. the great south doorway to the united states and all north america, you know, is the gulf of mexico. but recently, as we all remember, we have had war and bloodshed at this doorway. the spanish government, in trying to subdue its rebellious province of cuba, brought great hardship and suffering upon the cuban people, our neighbours, and our government at last decided that such things must not be at our very doorway. so to-day cuba is free, and the great trouble of war is over and past for her. yet, though war no longer troubles the cuban people, they have many new hardships and difficulties to contend with, and need the friendly help of their more fortunate neighbours scarcely less than before. now, in order that we may be able to help our friends and neighbours, the cubans, we must know them better, and surely we shall all feel a stronger interest than ever before in their welfare. so we shall be glad to meet and know our little cuban neighbour, maria. we shall ask to have what maria says translated for us, for most of us do not understand the spanish language, which maria speaks. we must remember, too, to pronounce her name as if it were spelled mahreeah, for that is the way she and her family pronounce it. our cuban cousins, you know, like our cousins in porto rico, are descended from the dark-eyed, dark-haired spanish people. their forefathers came over seas from spain to cuba, as the english colonists came across the ocean to our country, which is now the united states. yet we must remember that the spanish people and the english people are near akin in the great human family. they both belong to the white race; and so we shall call our black-eyed little neighbour our near cousin. welcome, then, to our little cuban cousin! contents chapter page i. danger ii. the picnic iii. legends iv. next-door neighbours v. sugar vi. the quarters vii. home again viii. startling news ix. first years in the new world x. the merrimac xi. victory xii. havana list of illustrations page maria _frontispiece_ "'i counted three different forts of the enemy'" "they sat back in the low, broad seat" "the machines made a steady, grinding sound" "'it is like a big lizard'" "the american flag was waving and peace ruled in the land" our little cuban cousin chapter i. danger. "maria! maria! maria!" was the low call from some unknown direction. it sounded like a whisper, yet it must have travelled from a distance. low as it was, the little girl dozing in the hammock in the lemon grove was awake in an instant. she sprang out and stood with hands shading her eyes, looking for the owner of the voice. she well knew what it meant. ramon was the only one who had agreed to call in this way. it was a sign of danger! it meant, "the enemy are coming. look out and get ready." shouldn't you think our little cuban cousin would have trembled and cried, or at least run for protection to her mother? maria was only nine years old. she was a perfect fairy of a child, with tiny hands and feet and soft black eyes. but she was used to war by this time. she never knew when she went to sleep at night but that her home would be burnt down by the cruel spaniards before the end of another day. ramon got up before sunrise this morning. he had been away from home for several hours. he had gone out in the country "to look around," as he said. from his own front door the burning roofs of the houses of old friends not a mile distant could be seen the night before. the spanish troops must be near. who could say but that the boy's own home would suffer next? he was tall and active, and he longed very much to help his people. they had suffered much from their spanish rulers and now they were working hard for freedom. but ramon's father had been ill for a long time. he was growing weaker every day. the boy's mother looked very sad at times. her eyes filled with tears when she said: "my dear boy, you must not leave us now. your duty lies at home. you must be your father's right hand and protect your little sisters and myself." the diaz children lived in a cosy little home in the country. it was only a few miles from havana. their father had a small sugar plantation. he had been able to raise enough sugar to buy everything the family needed until lately. but now times were very hard. it was not easy to sell the sugar; besides this, the good man and his family were in constant danger. what had they done? you ask. nothing. they did not love their spanish rulers, to be sure, and they believed their countrymen were fighting justly to free their beautiful island home. they would help these countrymen, or insurgents, as they were called, if they had a chance. but maria's father had never, himself, fought against the spaniards. he was a quiet, kindly gentleman, and he had no love for war. what did the spaniards care for that? they might say to themselves: "this man has a pleasant home. he raises sugar. he may give food and shelter to those daring cuban soldiers. then they can keep up their strength and be able to keep up the fight against us all the longer." so far maria's home had been spared. although many other houses near her had been burned, hers stood safe and unharmed yet. but "to-morrow is another day," the child often repeated to herself, after the manner of her people. that meant, "although i am safe now, no one knows what will come next." then maria would sigh for a moment and look sad. but she was naturally merry and gay, and the next moment would be dancing about and humming a lively tune. what news was her brave brother bringing this morning? as soon as he came in sight, maria ran to meet him. the sun was very hot and the little girl's head was bare, but she did not think of these things. the spaniards! the spaniards! made the only picture she could see. as soon as she was within easy call, ramon told her that a company of the enemy was only two miles away. he had been very close to them. he had even heard them talking together while he hid in the bushes. "just think, maria," he exclaimed, "they were laughing at the easy time they would have in breaking our spirit. they said that before long they would starve us into giving up. i rather think they won't. do you know, maria, i believe god will send us help if we are only patient. the americans live so near us, i don't see how they can help taking our part, when they know the way we are treated. but come, we must hurry and tell father the news. he will know what we ought to do to get ready for a visit to-day." the children hurried to the house, and soon every one was in a state of the greatest excitement. when señor diaz was told of the approach of the spaniards, he said, in his gentle voice, "we would best have a picnic." the children looked greatly astonished at the idea of a picnic at such a time, but their father went on to explain. he had often thought of the coming of the spanish troops. he had made a plan in case he should hear of their approach. the house should be locked up; all the family should go down to the shore of a small lake a quarter of a mile back in the woods. the path that led to this lake was so hidden that a stranger would not know it was there. ramon could lead the oxen; the father thought that he was strong enough to guide the horse to the picnic-ground. if the spaniards found no one about the house, and no animals worth capturing, they might possibly pass by without doing any harm. señora diaz and old black paulina got a hasty luncheon ready. maria said she must certainly take her sewing materials, for she was going to embroider some insurgent emblems. her little sister, isabella, carried her pet kitten in her arms, and cried because the parrot must be left behind. "he'll be so lonesome," she said; "and i just know he'll call 'isabella' all day long." the dear little girl cried hard, but everybody's hands were so full that mr. poll was left in the house. a big linen cloth was stretched over the cage. if kept in the dark, he would probably be still, and not attract the attention of the soldiers, if they stopped and looked in. the black man servant, miguel, stayed behind to shut up the chickens in barrels, but would follow the rest of the party in a few moments. the path led in and out through the beautiful southern woods. there were cocoanut-palms and ebony and mahogany trees, while underneath were creeping vines and bushes, making a close thicket of underbrush. there was no talking. the family crept along as quietly as possible, lest they should be heard and followed. for by this time the enemy must be very near. chapter ii. the picnic. in a few minutes the lake was in sight. it was a very pretty sheet of water. a tiny boat rocked to and fro close to the shore, for ramon and maria often came here to row about the quiet lake. ramon soon had two hammocks swinging between the trees for his father and mother. the lunch was spread out on the ground, as it was already past the time for the noonday meal. "what did they have to eat?" you ask. there were some delicate white rolls, that paulina knew how to make so nicely. there was guava jelly to eat on the rolls; fresh lemons and newly made sugar from which to make a refreshing drink. besides these, there was plenty of cold fried chicken. could any children have a nicer picnic lunch than this, even if a long time had been spent in getting ready for it? the guava jelly looked just as clear and beautiful as that which is brought to america, and sold here at such a high price. did you ever see it in the stores of boston or new york, and think how nice it must taste? perhaps your mother has bought it for you when you were getting well after a long illness, and wished to tempt your appetite by some new dainty. maria has several guava-trees near her home. paulina makes so much jelly from the ripe fruit that perhaps the little girl does not realise how nice it is. after the lunch, señor diaz stretched himself in one of the hammocks for a quiet rest. he was very tired after his walk through the woods. he was also troubled over the sad state of things in his country, and was worried that he was not strong enough to take a more active part against the enemy. his wife lay down in the other hammock for a noonday nap, after which she promised to help maria in her sewing. paulina gathered the remains of the lunch and put things in order, while the three children rowed around the lake. "won't you hear me read out of my primer, maria?" said isabella. "ramon, dear, give your oars a rest, and float for a little while. you can listen, too, and i know you'll like my lesson to-day." the little girl was just learning to read, and she had a book printed by the insurgents. no one had to urge her to study, for even her own little primer was made up of stories about the war. she had tucked her loved book in the loose waist of her dress when she left the house. no one had noticed it before. [illustration: "'i counted three different forts of the enemy'"] "why, yes, my darling sister, certainly i will listen, and help you with the big words, too," answered maria, while ramon drew in his oars, and lay back in the boat with a pleasant smile. of course the words were all spanish, because that was the only language the children had ever learned. isabella read: "my papa is in the army of the cubans. he fights to make us free. do you hear the cannon roar? our men will bring victory. long live cuba!" when isabella came to the word "victory," maria had to help her. it was such a big word for the six-year-old child to pronounce. she looked at it again and again, repeating it slowly to herself. then she said: "i'll never fail on that word again, maria, no matter where it is. how i would like to see it in great big letters on a silk banner! i'd wave it all day long." this was a good deal for such a little girl to say, but then, you know, she was living in the midst of war. "good for you," said her brother; "we'll all live yet to see the words of your primer come true. long live free cuba! i say. but come, let's go on shore, and play war. you and maria can be the spaniards, and i'll be the insurgent army. you just see how i will make short work of taking you prisoners." the children landed under a big cotton-tree. they made a fort out of dead branches which they gathered. this fort was to belong to the spanish troops. the two girls placed themselves behind it, and stood ready to defend themselves. it was not many minutes before ramon took them by surprise, and dragged them to the boat, which stood for the cuban headquarters. "do you know," said the boy, when they stopped to rest a few minutes from their sport, "i counted three different forts of the enemy during my tramp this morning. the cowardly spaniards don't dare to march very far away from those forts. they really don't give our men a chance to have a good fair battle. they think by having plenty of forts they can keep our soldiers from getting into the cities. then they will scare the rest of us who live in the country from feeding them. in that way we will be starved into giving in. we'll see, that's all." by this time maria could see that her mother had waked up and left the hammock. "she will be ready to help me with my work now," said maria. "don't you want to come and watch me embroider, isabella?" the two girls were soon sitting beside their mother, while ramon went with miguel on a hunt for birds. the insurgent emblems which maria was so eager to make were to be given to the cuban soldiers. they were to wear beneath their coats. suppose that an insurgent should stop at any place, and ask for food and rest; how would the people know that he was true to his country, and not a friend of the spaniards? he could show his little piece of flannel with the watchword of the cubans embroidered upon it. that was the only thing needed. the people would be safe now in giving him help. maria did her work very nicely. she made a scalloped edge with red silk all around the white cloth. a crimson heart on a green cross must then be made, with underneath these words: "be of good cheer. the heart of jesus is with me." two hours went by before ramon came back. miguel and he were bringing a large net full of birds. of course, they had done no shooting. that would not have been wise when spanish soldiers might be near to hear the noise. no, they had searched through the woods till they found some sour orange trees. the fruit was ripe now and there were sure to be numbers of parrots around. they could be caught in the net that miguel had brought from the house that morning. they had to creep along very quietly so as to take the birds by surprise. they had great success, it seemed; but what would the family do with a dozen dead parrots? eat them, to be sure. paulina would make a fine stew for dinner that very night. that is, of course, if they were fortunate enough to find the house still standing when they reached home. the flesh of this bird is tough, and one wonders that ramon and maria are so fond of parrot stew. in cuba there are many nicer birds for eating. but each one has his own tastes. no two people are alike, we have found out long ago. "i discovered something in the woods that i want to show you girls," said ramon. "it's only a little ways off. won't you come, too, mamma? it's the dearest little nest i ever saw in my life. it must belong to a humming-bird." ramon's mother and the children followed him till the boy stopped in front of a low bush. hidden away under the leaves was the tiny nest. it was no bigger than a large thimble. it was made of cotton, bound together with two or three horse-hairs. "i'm sure i couldn't have sewed it as well as that," said maria. "see how the threads are woven in and out. it's wonderful what birds can do. but look at the eggs, mamma dear. see! there are two of them. they aren't any bigger than peas." just then the children heard a fluttering of tiny wings. it was mrs. humming-bird who had come home. she was troubled at the sight of the strangers. "did you ever before see such a small bird?" whispered isabella. "she looks like a butterfly, and a small one, too. aren't her colours beautiful?" "we would best let her go back to her nest, now, my dears," said señora diaz. "you can watch, ramon, and find out when the baby birds hatch. we shall all like to see them, i'm sure." they left the bush and turned back toward the lake. ramon stopped again, however, when they came to a small lace-wood tree. "you know you asked me to get you some of the wood to trim your doll's dress, isabella. here is a good chance to get it. i'll follow you in a few minutes." ramon took out his knife, and soon the young tree was cut away from the roots. it would take some time to strip off the bark. it must be done carefully and peeled off in one piece, so as to leave the pith of the tree quite smooth and whole. several strips of delicate lace could be obtained from this pith. now isabella would be able to dress her doll in great elegance. she could ruffle the lace on the waist and flounces of the doll's skirt and make it look as beautiful as though it cost a good deal of money. isabella herself has a dress trimmed with the lace, but paulina needs to be very careful when she irons it. it was growing dark when ramon arrived at the shore with his tree. "we will go back now," said señor diaz, "and see if the soldiers have left us our home." all were soon making their way back to the house, which they found unharmed. nothing had been touched by the enemy. perhaps they had not thought it worth while to stop. at any rate, there was great joy in the diaz family that evening as they sat on the balcony, sipping cups of hot sweetened water. the times were so hard they could not buy coffee, and _guaraba_, as they called it, was the next best thing. maria is very fond of it. the children were so tired from the day's excitement that by eight o'clock they were quite ready to go to dreamland. isabella started first. she went up to her father and, placing her tiny hands across her breast, looked up into his eyes with a sweet, solemn look. he knew at once what it meant. she was asking an evening blessing before leaving him for the night. every one in the room stopped talking; all bowed their heads while the kind father said: "may god bless my darling child, and all others of this household." maria and ramon followed isabella's example, and soon the children were sound asleep. isabella dreamed that she taught her loved parrot to say "liberty," and was delighted at her success. chapter iii. legends. the next morning it rained quite hard, so the children had to stay in the house. "what shall we do with ourselves?" said maria. "oh, i know. we'll ask father to tell us stories." "what shall it be to-day?" he asked. "do you want a tale of old spain, or shall it be the life of columbus; or maybe you would like a fairy story?" "a fairy story! a fairy story!" all cried together. "very well, then, this shall be a tale that our people heard in europe a thousand years ago. "it was long before columbus dreamed of his wonderful voyages across the atlantic. it was before people had even thought of the idea of the roundness of the earth. they had such queer fancies in those days. few men dared to sail far into the west. they believed that if they did so they would come into a place of perfect darkness. "still they had one legend of a land across the atlantic that was very beautiful. many of our greatest men believed in it. it was called the island of youth, and people who reached it could live for ever, and never grow old." "what made them think there was such a place?" asked maria, with wide-open eyes. "they had heard that long ago there was a very brave young man. he had a wonderful horse as white as the foam of the ocean. strange to say, this horse could carry him through the water more safely than the stoutest boat. as he was looking for adventure, he started off on the back of his fairy steed to cross the ocean. "after he had travelled for some distance, he stopped to kill a giant who had enchanted a princess. when the giant was dead, and the beautiful maiden was free once more, he travelled on till he came to a land where the trees were loaded with birds. the air was filled with their sweet music. "he stayed in this land for a hundred years. he was merry and gay all the time. he was never ill, and never tired." "but wasn't he lonesome?" asked ramon. "i should think he would wish for other company besides the birds." "oh, there were many other people there, of course, and as our traveller was fond of shooting, he had great sport hunting the deer. "but at last something happened to make him think of his old home and friends. it was a rusty spear that came floating to the shore one day. it must have travelled across the ocean. the young man grew sad with longing for the scenes of his early days. he mounted his white steed once more, plunged into the ocean, and at last reached his own home. "but think, children. it was a hundred years since he had seen it. his old friends were all dead. the people seemed like dwarfs. i suppose he must have grown in size and strength while away on the island of youth. at any rate, his own home was not what he expected to find it. he had no wish to live longer. he lay down and died. the island of youth had not been such a great blessing to him, after all. "another story used to be told in spain of the island of seven cities. it was a legend of our own cuba, for all we know. people said that a thousand years before columbus crossed the atlantic, an archbishop was driven away from spain. why was it? he was untrue to his king. he sailed far from his country with a goodly company of men and women. "after a long voyage they reached a land which they called antilla. there were people already living here. they were kind and gentle. "the archbishop divided the land into seven parts. he built churches and other fine buildings. he got the natives to help him. all lived together in peace and happiness. "but look, children, the rain has stopped falling, and the sun is shining. you can go outdoors now, and amuse yourselves. before you leave, however, let me ask you a question in geography. "cuba is shaped like what animal? think how long and narrow it is, and of the ridge of mountains running through the centre of the island. i will give you until to-morrow to guess the answer. "and, by the way, did you ever think that our home is really the top of a row of mountains reaching up from the floor of the ocean? ah, what wonders would be seen in the valleys below us, if we could journey under the water, and explore it for ourselves!" just as the good man stopped speaking, miguel knocked at the door. two ragged little girls were standing at his side. they were strangers. where had they come from during the hard rain of the morning? it seemed that miguel had been tramping through the woods after game. he did not care for the rain. he was a good-natured servant, and was always ready to make pleasant surprises for the family. when he was about four miles from home, he came upon an unexpected camp. there were about thirty people in it. there, on the mountainside, they had made rough huts to live in. there were not only men and women, but little children, also. they had been here for two or three weeks. what a sad story they had to tell! it was the old story. they wished to be peaceful; they did not join the army of the cubans. still, they might possibly help them in some little way. but they did not go to the great city. they fled to the woods on the mountainside. they kept themselves from starving by gathering berries and wild fruit. their children were sent out every morning to the country homes which were not too far off to beg for food and help. "poor little children!" exclaimed maria, when miguel had finished his story. "we will help you all we can, won't we, papa?" and the child's eyes were full of tears, as she said: "we may be homeless like them, yet." isabella ran to call her mother and ask her help. clothing was collected, and all the food the family could spare was put into baskets. it was far too large a load for the little girls to carry, so ramon and miguel went with them. "what a good servant miguel is!" said señor diaz to his wife, after they were gone. "so many of the blacks are lazy, and only think of their own comfort. but miguel is always good-natured and ready to help." chapter iv. next-door neighbours. it was a beautiful sunday morning. the birds were singing gaily outside. maria opened her eyes. perhaps she would have slept longer if she had not been wakened by a sound in the next room. it was ramon who was calling. "say, maria, what shall we do to-day while father and mother are gone to church? let's go over to the plantation. you know we've been invited ever so many times, and it is such fun watching the men at work." "all right," said maria, "but there's no hurry. we will wait till after the folks have gone before we start." just beyond the home of the diaz children was an immense sugar plantation. it covered at least a square mile of land. the rich planter who owned it employed more than a hundred black men. it was cutting season now, and the work was carried on day and night, both sundays and week-days. sunday afternoon, however, was a half-holiday, even in the busiest time, and the black people then gave themselves up to merrymaking, no matter how tired they were. [illustration: "they sat back in the low, broad seat"] by nine o'clock señor diaz and his wife had left home in the oddest-looking carriage you ever heard of. it was a _volante_. there is nothing like it anywhere else in the world. it looked somewhat like an old-fashioned chaise. it had immense wheels, and the shafts were at least sixteen feet long. we think at once, how clumsily one must move along in such a carriage. but it is not so. it is the best thing possible for travelling over the rough roads of cuba. it swings along from side to side so easily that a person is not bumped or jostled as he would be in any other kind of carriage. but one does not see many new volantes in cuba now. they are going out of fashion. señor diaz was very proud of this carriage when it was new. it was trimmed with bands of silver. it had beautiful silk cushions. even now, the good man and his wife looked quite elegant as they sat back in the low, broad seat. isabella sat between them. miguel rode on the horse's back as driver. he wore a scarlet jacket trimmed with gold braid. he had on high boots with spurs at his heels. he felt very proud. it made very little difference to him that his coat was badly torn and the braid was tarnished. these were war-times and one could not expect new clothes. "if the people at the great house invite you to stay till evening, you may do so," said señor diaz to his two older children just as he was driving away. "i know you will be gentlemanly, ramon; and maria dear, my little daughter will certainly be quiet and ladylike." away swung the volante down the road, while ramon and maria put on their wide straw hats and started across the fields for the rich sugar planter's home. they looked very pretty as they moved along under the shade-trees. both were barefooted; maria wore a simple white dress, and ramon a linen shirt and trousers. they reached their neighbour's grounds in a few minutes. they soon found themselves in front of a large, low house with beautiful gardens and shade-trees around it. but of what was the house made? it was of the same material as maria's home, yet we see nothing like it in our own country. it was neither brick, nor wood, nor stone. maria would say to us: "why, this is 'adobe,' and it keeps out the sun's hot rays nicely. don't you know what adobe is? it is a mixture of clay and sand dried by the sun. some people call it unburnt brick. it was nearly white when the house was new, but now you see it is quite yellow." there was no glass in the window-cases. in such a warm land as cuba glass would keep out the air too much, and the people inside would suffer from the heat. but there were iron bars across the casements; there were also shutters to protect the house from the sun and rain. the children went in at the door, opened by a black servant. she looked kind and pleasant, and showed two rows of white teeth as she smiled at the young visitors. a gorgeous yellow bandanna was wound around her head. "come right in, little dears. massa and missus will be glad to see you; little miss lucia has been wishing for company to-day." she led ramon and maria into a large sitting-room with two rows of rocking-chairs opposite each other. they stretched nearly from one end of the room to the other. there was scarcely any other furniture. a minute afterward, lucia opened the door. she was about maria's age and very pretty. but she was dressed like a grown-up young lady. she carried in her hand a dainty little fan, which she moved gracefully as she talked. "oh, i am so glad to see you," she cried. "but let us go out into the garden; it is much pleasanter there; don't you think so? i want to show you my sensitive plant. did you ever have one?" maria and ramon had heard their father speak of this plant, but they had never happened to see one themselves. they followed lucia out on the balcony. a morning-glory vine was trailing up the trelliswork. it was bright with its delicate blossoms, pink and blue and purple. close beside it was the sensitive plant. "it came up of itself," said lucia. "that is, you know, it was not planted by any one. you see its leaves are wide open now. it is keeping the morning-glory blossoms company. perhaps they are talking together. who knows? but when night comes it will close up in the same way as the petals of its next-door neighbour." "now, ramon, just touch the leaves gently." "why, it acts as if afraid of me, doesn't it?" said the boy. "see how it shrinks away, even before i take hold of it. i declare, it knows more than some animals." "would you like to ride around the plantation? we have three ponies; so each one of us can have one," said their little hostess. her visitors were delighted at the idea. while a servant was sent for the ponies the children sat down under a royal palm-tree. it stood at least sixty feet high. its trunk was perfectly straight. far up at the top was the wide-spreading plume of leaves. there were no branches at the sides. "i just love this tree," said lucia. "it seems so strong as well as beautiful. isn't it queer that the trunk of such a big tree should be hollow?" "i think it queerer still that the roots should be so small and fine," answered ramon. "did you ever eat what is found at the top of the royal palm? everybody says it is delicious." "yes, we had it boiled once for a dinner-party," said lucia. "it was delicious, but you know it kills the tree to take it off; so father says it is almost wicked to get it. i think he is right." chapter v. sugar. by this time the ponies had been brought up, and the young riders started off. how high the sugar-canes stood! the children could not see over the tops, even from their ponies' backs. the long, narrow leaves hung down much like our own indian corn. far up on each plant was a feathery white plume. the stalks were now a golden yellow colour. this was mother nature's sign that the cane was full of sap. at maria's home the cane had been already cut and made into sugar. but there were only two or three fields. here, on lucia's plantation, there were hundreds of acres. the men had been working for weeks already, and it was not yet half cut. "oh, look, ramon!" said maria, "see that dear little black baby asleep between the canes. she can't be more than two years old. the other children must have gone away and forgotten her." ramon jumped down, and, picking up the little tot, lifted her up in front of him on the pony's back. she had been waked up so suddenly that she began to cry. but when the others smiled at her she rolled her big eyes around, and soon began to laugh. she was going to have a ride with white children, and that was a grand event in her life. a turn in the rough road showed an ox-cart ahead. how small the cuban oxen are! but they are such gentle, patient creatures, a child could drive them. how they pushed ahead with their heavy load! when they were young a hole had been bored through the centre of their nostrils, and an iron ring was passed through. when the oxen were harnessed a rope was fastened on each side of this ring. the black driver held the ends of the rope, and guided the oxen. he had no whip, for it was not needed. "let's follow him up to the top of the hill," said lucia. "he must carry his load to the boiler-house that way, and i do like to watch the oxen go down a steep place. there, see! the man will not even get off; he's perfectly safe." as the heavily loaded wagon passed over the brow of the hill, the oxen squatted down like dogs, and seemed to slide rather than walk, till they reached the foot. "bravo!" shouted ramon. "i'd trust such creatures anywhere. they ought to be rewarded with a good supper to-night. and now that they have reached level ground see how well they trot along. these dear little ponies cannot do much better." the children still followed the ox-cart, and soon reached the sugar-mill. immense machines were crushing the canes, and the sap was flowing into great tanks from which it was afterward taken to be boiled. "what does the molasses come from?" you may ask. all cuban children would tell you at once that it is the drippings from the newly made sugar. lucia's father does not sell his molasses, as do many other planters. he thinks it is not worth while. you cannot guess what use he makes of it. his work-people spread it on the ground to make it richer for the next year's crop. his wife does not think of having it used in cooking, either, as american women do, and so lucia has never tasted gingerbread in her life. perhaps you feel sorry for her. never mind. she enjoys sucking the juice from the fresh sugar-cane as well as the black children on her father's plantation; she has as much of this as she wishes, so she never misses the molasses cookies and cakes you like so much. "lucia, how is it your father keeps on having the cane cut?" asked ramon, as the children stood watching the sap boiling down to sugar. "you know, don't you, a new law has been passed ordering the work stopped? it is all because the spaniards are afraid that the poor insurgents will get food and help from the sugar planters." "yes, i know," answered lucia. "i heard father talking about it. he said he had paid the government a large sum of money to let him keep on. so he's all right. but perhaps i ought not to have said this, for it is his own business, and i should not repeat what i hear." the children entered the sugar-mill, and stood watching the workers. every one was so busy that no notice was taken of the young visitors. here were great troughs full of the canes which were being crushed by heavy rollers; the juice was flowing fast into the tanks below. and there were the caldrons full of the boiling syrup; by their sides stood men with long, heavy skimmers stirring the juice, and taking off the scum which rose to the surface. [illustration: "the machines made a steady, grinding sound"] there were large, shallow pans close by, where the sugar was placed to cool. the air was full of the sweet smell of the sugar; the engines were clanking noisily; the machines made a steady, grinding sound, and, above all, the cries of the negroes could be heard, as they called to each other at their work. a few minutes was long enough for the children to stay in this busy, steaming place. then they went out again into the bright, clear air. after giving the black baby into the charge of one of the negro girls who was standing near by, our little cousins mounted their ponies, and rode slowly back to the house. they passed field after field where men were cutting down the tall sugar-canes. how rapidly they moved along, leaving the ground quite clear, as they passed over it! was it such hard work? they certainly bent over very much as they lifted the heavy, clumsy tools in their hands. these tools looked somewhat like long cheese-knives, only they were much thicker and heavier. ramon would say, "why, those are machetes. i wish i could use one now in defending my country. many a brave insurgent has nothing else to fight with excepting the machete he brought from his little farm. no guns can be obtained, for the spaniards hold the cities, and will not allow any weapons to get to the cubans. but those machetes will do great good yet." as the boy watched the men working, he was thinking how differently he would like to use the machete, but he did not say anything of this kind to lucia. he was just a little afraid that her father was not as anxious for cuba to be free as he and his own parents were. when the children reached the house, lucia's parents insisted that ramon and maria should spend the day, and a delicious luncheon was now waiting for them. "this afternoon," said the planter, "you may go over to the quarters and see the fun. you know it is a half-holiday, and there will be great good times among the blacks." chapter vi. the quarters. after a little rest in the garden, the children started out once more. this time they chose to walk, taking lucia's big dog with them for company. even before they started, they could hear the sound of drums and shouting and laughter coming from the quarters. they did not have far to go before they came upon a crowd of black children. the boys were having a game of ball. it was so confused it would be hard to describe it. it certainly could not be called baseball, nor anything like it. and here were the cabins, built close together. cocoanut and mango trees shaded the little huts. near each one was a small garden where the people raised the vegetables they liked best. okra was sure to be seen here, for what old mammy could be satisfied with her sunday dinner unless she had some of this delicious plant in at least one of the dishes? here also was the chicota, much like our summer squash, and corn, on which the pigs must be fattened. as for fruits, there were custard-apple and sour-sop trees, the maumee, looking much like a melon; besides many other things which grow so easily in the warm lands. chickens were running about in every direction, while there seemed as many pens with pigs grunting inside as there were cabins. how happy the people all seemed! that is, all but a baby here and there who had been forgotten by his mother and was crying to keep himself company as he sprawled about on the ground. and how grand the women thought themselves in the bright red and yellow bandannas wound around their heads! you may be sure that all of the jewelry the people owned was worn that day. maria could not help smiling at one young girl who had immense rings in her ears, three chains of glass beads around her neck, heavy brass rings on her fingers, and broad bracelets that clinked together on her arms. she strutted around as proudly as the peacocks near by. they are handsome birds, but very vain and silly, like this poor black girl who seemed to admire herself so greatly. she tossed her head from side to side as she got ready to lead the dance. the drummer bent to his work with all his heart; one pair of dancers after another took their places, and moved in perfect time with faster and faster steps. the crowd of bystanders watched them in admiration. under the shade of a mango-tree two black children were playing a game of dominoes. "what a nice set it is," said ramon to his sister. "i am going to ask them if they bought it. it must have cost quite a big sum for them to spend." the older of the two players heard ramon's words. he looked up with a proud smile that made his mouth stretch from ear to ear as he said: "i made them all myself, little master. i got the wood from an ebony-tree." "but of what did you make the white points set into the dominoes?" asked ramon. "they look like ivory." "i cut them out of alligator's teeth, little master. now didn't i do well?" this was said with another broad grin and a big roll of his eyes that made lucia and maria laugh in spite of themselves. "well, i should say so," answered ramon. "you deserve a medal. but can you read and write? a boy as smart as you ought to go to school." "no, little master. but that doesn't trouble me any. i don't need any learning," was the answer. and no doubt the little fellow had no idea but that he was as well off as any one need be. he could play in the sunshine all day long and he had plenty of good food. wasn't his mother a fine cook, though! he was right in thinking so, too, for she could make the nicest "messes" out of the herbs and vegetables growing in the little garden behind the cabin. there were melons and plantains in abundance; salt fish or jerked beef to eat every day, and a long sleep at night on a straw bed in the cabin. oh, life was a lovely thing! and what should the little black boy know of the cruel war and the cuban children who had been driven away from their homes? to be sure, he had heard sad stories in his life, but they were about the old times when his people were brought to cuba as slaves. he had listened to his father's tales of slavery, although he himself had been free ever since he was a little child. the boy's grandfather was born far away in africa where the sun was always hot. he had lived a wild, happy life in his little village under the palm-trees by the side of a broad river. as he grew up he hunted the panther and the elephant, and made scarecrows to frighten away the monkeys from the corn-fields. he was very happy. but one day a band of white men took the village by surprise. they took many other prisoners besides himself. the poor blacks were put in chains and driven on board boats in which the white men had come to the place. down the river they sailed, never more to see their little thatched homes and have gay feasts under the palms. at last they came to the great ocean, where a large vessel was waiting for them. as they were packed away in the hold of the vessel, no notice was taken of their cries except a lash of the whip, now and then, across their bare backs. then came the long voyage, and the dreadful seasickness in the crowded hold of the vessel. many died before the shores of cuba came in sight. but when those who still lived were able once more to stand on dry land they were too weak and sick to care where they should go next. in a few days, however, they found themselves working under masters on the sugar plantations, and making new homes and friends among those who were slaves like themselves. the little domino player told manuel that his grandfather worked so faithfully that after awhile he was given a part of each day for his own use. in this way he earned money enough to buy his own freedom as well as his wife's. but he had children growing up who were still slaves. he wished them to be free also. then came an order from the spanish rulers that all the slaves should be gradually given their liberty. but this was not till many years after their black brothers in america had been set free by that great man, president lincoln. chapter vii. home again. after ramon and maria got home that night they told paulina about their visit to the quarters, and their talk with the little domino player. paulina knew him well, and said he was a very bright and good boy. "some of those little negroes are too lazy," she declared, "but pedro is always busy. i wish he could go to school, for he will make a smart man." she went on to tell more of the old days. there was one story of which she was very fond. it was of a cargo of slaves who were being brought to cuba. they outwitted their masters. this was the way they did it. after the ship had been sailing for many days, it began to leak badly. the water poured in so fast that all hands were kept busy pumping it out. it seemed, after a while, to rush in faster than the men could get it out. the ship's carpenter went around the vessel, and hunted in every part, but could not find a single leak. "it is the work of the evil one," cried the captain. the slaves wrung their hands, and wailed, while the crew worked at the pumps till they were quite worn out. when it seemed as though the ship must soon sink, an island came in sight. the spaniards quickly lowered provisions and water into the small boats, and rowed away, leaving the slaves to die, as they supposed. but they had no sooner got well out of reach than the ship began to rise out of the water. the black people could be seen dancing about on the deck in delight. the sails were set to the wind, and away sped the vessel. how was it possible? this was the whole story. the prisoners had gotten hold of some knives, with which they cut through the outer planking of the vessel. of course, it began to leak sadly. but when the carpenter searched for these leaks the slaves had cleverly filled the holes with plugs packed with oakum, and he could not find them. in this way the whole cargo of negroes succeeded in getting out of the clutches of the spaniards. old paulina chuckled as she told the story and thought of the cleverness of her people. chapter viii. startling news. it was a pleasant evening in february. the children felt gay and happy, for their father was getting so much stronger. why, this very day he had walked with them a mile in an excursion to a cave. miguel had told them such wonderful things about it, they begged their father to take them there. although they lived so near, they had never happened to visit it before. when they reached the spot, they were obliged to crouch down in order to enter the cave. the opening was merely a small hole between the rocks. but, as they crept down under the ground, the passage grew wider, and led into a large room. "do you suppose robinson crusoe's cave was anything like this?" maria asked her brother. but the answer was, "i don't think so; you know it was not beautiful. and see here, maria, look at those shining pendants hanging from the roof. they are as clear as diamonds. oh, look down beside your feet; there are more of those lovely things; they are reaching up to meet those coming from above." "what makes them, papa?" señor diaz then explained to the children that there must be a great deal of lime in the rocks overhead, and that, when the water slowly filtered through the roof of the cave, it brought with it the lime which formed in these wonderful crystals. "people pay great sums of money for precious stones," said their father, "but what could be more beautiful than these shining pyramids! the pendants hanging from the roof are called stalactites. those reaching up from the floor of the cave are stalagmites. do you suppose you can remember such hard words, my dear little isabella? but come, children, i have something else to show you here." he led the children to a little pond, in which they could dimly see, by the light of the torch, fish sporting about in the water. "those fishes are happy as can be, yet they are perfectly blind. i made some experiments years ago that led me to discover it. you see how dark it is. the creatures living here would have no use for eyesight, so they gradually became blind. we can only keep the organs of our body in good condition by using them." it was no wonder the children enjoyed the day with their father, as he always had so much of interest to tell them. this evening, as they sat on the balcony, maria was talking about the fish that lived in darkness, when ramon suddenly exclaimed: "look! look! the garden is fairly alive with lights. the cucujos are giving us a display of fireworks. let's catch them, and have some fun. except in the rainy season, it is not often that we see so many." he ran into the house for a candle, and the three children were soon chasing the cucujos along the walks. the light of the candle attracted the insects, then it was an easy matter to catch hundreds of them in a fine thread net. we should call them fireflies, but they are much larger and more brilliant than any insect we have ever seen. as they floated along above the flowers, maria said they always made her think of fairies with their torch-bearers. the light was soft and cloud-like, yet it was bright enough to show the colours of the flowers, although the night was quite dark. "why not make a belt of them for your waists, as well as necklaces and bracelets?" ramon asked his sisters. "then you can go in and show yourselves to mother. you can tell her you are all ready for a party." "all right," answered the girls. "but you must help us, ramon." how could the children do such things without hurting the beautiful little creatures, we wonder. but they knew a way, as they had done them before. each cucujo has a tiny hook near its head, which can be fastened in a person's clothing without harming it in the least. grown-up ladies in havana often adorn themselves in this way when going to a party. they look very brilliant, i assure you. it was not many minutes before maria and isabella were fairly ablaze with lights. then they danced into the house to be admired by their parents. "now let's take them off and put them in those wicker cages you made last summer, ramon," said isabella. "i'm sure the poor little things are tired of hanging from our clothes. they must wish to fly around once more. they will not mind being shut up in the cages for a day or two, if we give them plenty of sugar to eat." "all right, but i wouldn't keep them shut up long enough to make pets of them," said her brother. "i cannot help believing they would rather be free." as he said these words, there was a step on the garden walk, and a moment later a strange man stood in front of the children. "is your father at home?" he asked. "i have a message for him." ramon hurried into the house. señor diaz came out and spoke with the stranger in low tones. when he went back into the sitting-room he carried in his hand a piece of paper that looked perfectly blank. the stranger had disappeared again into the darkness. "what did the children's good father do with that paper?" you ask. he went quickly to his desk and put it under lock and key. nothing could be done with it till the morning sun should light up the eastern sky. "then what?" you curiously ask again. if we could have watched señor diaz, we should have seen him go to his desk once more, take out the precious paper, and go over it with a hair pencil dipped in a bottle of colorless liquid. after that, we should have seen maria running with the paper to the window, where the sun's rays would dry it quickly. lo and behold! writing began to appear which threw the whole family into a great state of excitement. these were the words: "the u. s. warship _maine_ has been blown up. the americans are roused. they believe without doubt that the spaniards are the doers of the terrible deed. victory shall be ours at last, for the united states will now surely take our part against spain." there was no signature to the letter. that very night maria's household were wakened by a brilliant light pouring into their windows. it came from the burning plantation where lucia had her home. when morning dawned there was no trace of a building left on the whole place. no person was injured, however, but lucia and her parents went to friends in havana. the rich planter had become a poor man in a single night. who had set the fire? it was probably the insurgents, who had discovered that the planter was a friend of the spaniards and was secretly working against the freedom of cuba. chapter ix. first years in the new world. "papa dear," said maria, one evening not long after this, "why did our people ever leave spain and come here to make a home for themselves? of course, they had heard what a beautiful island it is, but was that the only reason?" "they had indeed heard this, my child, but they also believed they could become rich by raising sugar-cane or tobacco. great fortunes were made in the old days on the plantations here. my own grandfather was a very wealthy man. "but you know the story of cuba since then. the heavy taxes and the cruel laws of spain caused my relatives, as well as thousands of other families, to lose their fortunes. we have tried to free ourselves many times but have not succeeded yet." "well, don't be sad, papa dear; the good time is coming quickly now, you know. we have not had as hard a time as the poor savages columbus found here, anyway. how i do pity them!" said maria, with her eyes full of tears. "yes, they had a sad time of it indeed," her father went on. "they thought at first the white men were angels and the boats they sailed in were beautiful birds that had brought the visitors straight from heaven. but they soon changed their minds. "columbus was greatly excited when he looked upon the plants and trees so different from any he had ever seen. he said: 'i will call this place the "pearl of the antilles,"' and so it has been called to this day. he also wrote of it, 'it is as much more grand and beautiful than any other land as the day is brighter than the night.' "i suppose you know, maria, that columbus visited cuba four times, and yet he never discovered that it was an island." "i wish you would tell me more about the savages he found here," maria said. "of course, i know there is not a trace of them left in the land. their hard work in the mines and the cruel treatment of the spaniards soon killed them off. oh, it is a wicked, wicked shame!" "their skins were bronze in colour, like the indians of north america; but they did not know where their own people came from. once they were asked this question by one of the white strangers. they only answered by pointing their hands upward. it was as much as to say, 'from heaven!' "the women had long and beautiful hair, but the men had no beards whatever. they painted their bodies with the red earth so common on the island, and adorned their heads with the feathers of brilliant birds. "they lived mostly in the open air, and slept in hammocks under the trees. they made their hammocks out of the wild cotton you have seen growing in the fields. the women spun and wove this into the only cloth they ever used. "they had no gardens. they had no need to plough and plant, for nature gave them all they needed. there were many fruits growing wild then, as now. they picked the delicious mangoes, bananas, and custard-apples which were so plentiful. they gathered the yams and maize which also grew wild all over the island. what more could they wish?" "i should think they would have liked a little meat once in awhile," said maria, who had been very much interested in everything her father said. [illustration: "'it is like a big lizard'"] "certainly," he replied, "these savages liked hunting, and often brought home game to be roasted. they were very fond of the meat of the iguana. you have often seen this reptile, maria." "oh, i know," she replied; "ramon shot one only the other day. it is like a big lizard." "yes, that is true. the indians also hunted the voiceless dog, as we sometimes call the creature even now. i hardly know why the spaniards gave it such a name. it is more like a rabbit than any other animal. there were great numbers on the island in the old times." "you said the indians slept mostly in hammocks," said maria. "didn't they have any houses?" "oh, yes, but they stayed in them very little, except during the rains. they built them of wood and palm leaves. they were clustered together in villages. sometimes there were two or three hundred houses in one settlement, while several families used one house in common." "how did they defend themselves?" maria asked, as her father stopped speaking. "they had lances pointed with sea shells, and wooden swords," he replied. "these were more for show than for use, for you know they were a sober, peaceful people. such weapons would have been of little use if they had tried to fight with the spaniards. the easiest thing would have been for them to leave the island and seek a new home. but they were not wise enough for that, although they had large canoes in which they might have travelled to some distance. they dug them out of the trunks of trees. some of them were large enough to hold fifty men. their oars were well shaped, but they used them only as paddles. they had no row-locks. "they were a happy people, although quiet and serious in most of their ways. they used to dance and sing at their merry-makings, and their music was quite sweet." "papa dear, if you are not too tired, won't you tell me again about the great spaniard who was entertained by the indians? it was before they learned to fear the white strangers, and they still believed they were friends." "let me see, little daughter. oh, yes, now i know whom you mean. i told you that story long ago. i am surprised you should remember it. "it was bartholomew columbus, who was sent to act as governor during the admiral's absence. he passed from one place to another on the island to collect tribute from the chiefs. these chiefs had already learned how eager the spaniards were for gold; so they gave it to the governor freely and cheerfully. that is, of course, those who had it. but if they could not give this they presented the white man with quantities of the wild cotton. "there was one chief who prepared a grand entertainment in honour of his visitors. a procession of women came out to meet them, each one bearing a branch of the palm-tree. this was a sign of submission. after the women, came a train of young girls with their long hair hanging over their graceful shoulders. "a great feast was spread in the chief's palace and the visitors were entertained with music and dancing. when night came, a cotton hammock was given to each to sleep in. "for four days the feasting and games and dancing were kept up. then the visitors were loaded with presents and their dark-coloured hosts kept them company for quite a distance as they journeyed onward to the next stopping-place. "could any people do more to show themselves friendly than these poor, gentle savages? ah! how sadly they were repaid for their trust in the white men! "but come, we have thought enough about the past. let us return to the present and the great things that are daily happening around us." chapter x. the merrimac. every day now was full of excitement for the diaz family. letters were often brought to the house by some secret messenger. each time they told of some new and surprising event. the insurgents were braver than ever before. they dared more because they knew of the good friends coming to help them. yes, the united states was getting troops ready to meet the spaniards on cuban soil. and our great war-ships were gathering also. they, too, were coming to help cuba. the great battle-ship _oregon_ was speeding through two oceans that she, also, might take part. the eyes of the whole world were watching her voyage, and millions of people were praying for her safety. how we love the _oregon_ to-day and the brave captain and sailors who brought her safely through her long journey! one little american boy, only nine years old, felt so sorry for the suffering children of cuba that he wrote these words: "war, war, war on spain, who blew up our beautiful, beautiful _maine_. think of the poor little cuban dears, think of their hardships, their sorrows, their tears, who die every day for the want of some food; wouldn't you be in a fighting mood? then hurrah! for the soldiers who nobly do fight in the cause of the weak and for nature's great right." this is not very good poetry, but it shows the deep feeling of our children for their little cuban cousins. maria, in her pretty little home under the palm-trees, was spared, yet, as she and we knew, there were thousands of children no older than herself who suffered and died before cuba was free. our little cousin was delighted when she knew that the american fleet was actually close to the shores of her land. but the spanish war-vessels were here too. they were lying in the harbour of santiago. it was at the other end of the island, but news passed from one to another very quickly among the insurgents. ramon drew pictures of the two fleets as he imagined they looked. he made new pictures every day. how he longed to see them with his own eyes! i really fear that he would have run away from home and joined the army at this exciting time, if he had not loved his parents so dearly. why did the spanish fleet stay in the harbour of santiago? why did they not go out and meet the american war-ships? were they afraid? it certainly seemed so. they believed they were in a very safe place. there was only a narrow entrance to the harbour. it was defended at each side of this opening, for on the left were new batteries which had lately been set up, and on the right was the grand old morro castle which had stood there for hundreds of years. in the olden times it had defended cuba against her enemies more than once. "morro" means hill, and the fortress at santiago was well named, for it is built on a rocky promontory several hundred feet high, at the junction of the open sea and the san juan river. mines were sunk in the narrow entrance to the harbour so that, if the american ships should dare to enter, they would explode these mines and be destroyed like the _maine_. it was no wonder the spanish admiral thought they were safe in staying where they were. then it happened that a young american thought of a plan by which the spaniards might be caught in a trap. his name was lieutenant hobson. it was a very daring plan, but he was a wonderfully brave man. he said to admiral sampson, who commanded the american fleet: "let me take the _merrimac_. it is a coaling vessel and very heavy. it has six hundred tons of coal on board. we can place torpedoes in different parts of the ship. a few men can help me sail her into the channel. when the narrowest part is reached we will fire off the torpedoes and escape from her before she sinks. that is, we will do so if we can. but the _merrimac_ will be across the narrow channel and the spanish ships cannot get out. our own ships will then be free to attack another part of the island. the spanish seamen will have to remain where they are till they are glad to surrender." admiral sampson had thought of many plans, but he liked this one of lieutenant hobson's best of all. but who should be chosen to go with the brave man on this dangerous errand? chosen! why, there were hundreds who asked to share his danger, and only six could go with him. you would have thought it was some great festival they longed to take part in, if you could have seen how disappointed the men were, who had begged to go and were refused. but no, it was a fight with death. to begin with, the _merrimac_ must pass the batteries and morro castle. she and those on board might easily be destroyed before she reached the place where the work was to be done. and then, when her own torpedoes should be fired off, how could hobson and his men expect to escape from the sinking ship? but they were risking their lives in the cause of those who needed their help. you and i know now that they were brought safely through all the dangers which surrounded them. the _merrimac_ passed the guns of the morro unharmed, for the spaniards were poor marksmen. she reached the narrow channel where hobson meant to do his great work. but a shot from the batteries knocked away her rudder, so they could not steer her across the narrow channel. then a great mine exploded under her and tore a big hole in her side. she began to sink. hobson and his men lay flat upon the deck. shells and bullets came whizzing about them. they dared not rise, even though the ship was breaking apart as the shells crashed through her sides. at length the _merrimac_ had sunk so low that the water was up to her deck. a raft floated close to the men. it was one they had brought with them to help in escaping. they caught hold of the edges and kept their heads above water. just then a spanish launch drew near. the men on board were about to fire when hobson cried out and asked if an officer were in the boat, as he wished to surrender. admiral cervera, the commander of the spanish fleet, had himself sent the boat. he ordered the firing to cease and accepted hobson and his men as prisoners of war. when the news of hobson's brave deed reached maria, she could think of nothing else for days afterward. she would picture him in his cell at morro castle, looking out to sea where the american fleet were still cruising. "how proud of him they must all be!" she cried to ramon. "they can't be any prouder of him than we are to have such friends as he," the boy replied. "why, he will be looked upon now as one of the greatest heroes the world ever knew. i shall always be proud of morro castle because of his having been confined there. "you know, we went all over the place when we were little, maria. i believe he is kept prisoner in that part of the castle which is built over the water cave. you know we heard that he can look far out on the sea from his windows. "think of the dungeons underneath, where people were locked up years ago. we peeked into one of them that day we visited the fortress and i remember how dark and damp they were. i do hope hobson is treated well and won't have to stay at morro very long." chapter xi. victory. it was only a few mornings after the news of hobson's brave venture. the children were out in the garden, where ramon had discovered a chameleon on a grass plot. it was a sunny day, so perhaps that was the reason the chameleon's skin was such a bright green. "you know how gray they look on dull days," said ramon. "perhaps if i should put him on the branch of that tree, now, he would change to a brownish tint, to look as much as possible like it. he's a stupid little thing, though. if he does change colour, i don't believe he knows it himself. mother nature takes care of him, you know, and makes him change as a kind of protection. he has no way of defending himself, but if he is of the same colour as the substance around him, it is hard for his enemies to find him. "oh, dear! it makes me laugh when i think of a battle i once saw between two chameleons. they stood facing each other. their small eyes glared as they slowly opened and shut their jaws like pairs of scissors. they moved about once a minute. i did not have time to see which won the battle; it took too long a time for them to do anything." as the children stood watching the lizard they heard the sound of hoofs down the road. then there was a cloud of dust as a horseman came riding rapidly along. he turned in at the driveway. "what news? what news?" cried ramon, who rushed to meet him. it was an old friend of the family who had given secret help to the cuban soldiers throughout their struggle for freedom. "of course, you knew the american troops had landed, didn't you? well, run in and ask your father to come out. i can only stop a moment and i have much to tell him." the gentleman had hardly stopped speaking before señor diaz appeared on the veranda. he was told about the position of the americans not far from santiago. they had met general garcia, the brave leader of the insurgents. the cuban and american armies were now working together. battles had already been fought with the common enemy. but that which interested the children most was the story of the rough riders and their daring charges at el caney and san juan hill. many of these rough riders were men who had led a wild life on the plains in america. some of them had no book-learning; they were not what one usually calls "gentlemen;" but they were great horsemen and brave soldiers. they feared nothing in the world. they were commanded by colonel wood, and had been recruited by lieutenant-colonel roosevelt, who had been out on the plains among them when a young man. he admired their spirit and was glad to be their commander now. he knew their ways. he led them up the san juan heights when the enemy was protected by forts and shooting right and left at the americans. but the rough riders charged onward with great courage and gained the summit. they took possession of the blockhouse at the top, and killed most of the spaniards and drove the rest away. it was a glorious fight and a glorious victory. "a few more deeds like that, and war and trouble will be ended for us," said the gentleman as he rode away to carry the good news to others. "hurrah for lawton and roosevelt!" shouted ramon as he danced about the garden. "santiago will soon be out of the hands of the spaniards, and they will be clearing out of cuba altogether. it seems as though i could not rest without shaking hands with our american friends." the dear boy did not have long to wait, for the very next day came the news that the spanish fleet had been destroyed. it had tried to escape out of the harbour, but had been discovered by the watchful yankees. in a few hours all of spain's war-ships had been sunk or driven ashore. what was now left for cuba's tyrants? the battle-ships of the great republic were ranged along her shores unharmed and strong as ever. the spanish troops were shut up in the city without hope of escape. surrender was the only thing possible to ward off great loss of life on both sides. the spanish commander made a formal surrender to general shafter, and spain's empire in the west indies came to an end almost on the very spot where it had begun four hundred years before. and now the mines were taken out of the harbour and our battle-ships could enter in safety. as our vessels glided inside one after another they made a wonderful picture. the harbour seemed alive with boats, and it looked like a floating city. still grander was the sight on land when thousands gathered around the governor's beautiful palace at havana to see the stars and stripes of america unfurled. as the flag spread its folds to the breeze, the band struck up the air we love so well. it was the "star spangled banner." boom! boom! went the cannon, and thousands of american and cuban hearts were filled with joy. "victory! victory!" shouted ramon, when the good news reached him that night. and "victory!" cried little isabella, who added with all her childish might, "long live cuba." even the parrot echoed the words of the children. he seemed to feel that something very great must have happened, for his voice was shriller than usual. in fact, the family could have no peace in the house, even if there were peace all over cuba, till master poll's cage had been covered with a thick, dark cloth, and he was made to believe that night had suddenly fallen upon his home. chapter xii. havana. "children, would you like to go to havana and visit our good friend señor alvarez for a week? he has invited us all to come and talk over the good fortune that has come to our land. you can have a good time seeing the sights." of course the children were delighted at their father's words; so it came to pass that maria found herself, a day or two afterward, in a beautiful home in the very heart of the great city. it was a grand house to her childish eyes. it was all of stone, covered with a yellowish stucco. it was at least a hundred years old, she was told. it was built around the four sides of an open square, and had no piazzas on the outside like her own home. but the court inside was very beautiful. a fountain played here all day long, and there were blossoming plants standing in pots on the marble floor. the family spent much of their time on the verandas in this court. it was far pleasanter than inside the house, where the windows were so heavily barred that they made one not used to the custom feel almost as if he were in a prison. the doors of the house were bullet-proof to make it safe against attack. there was but one entrance to the house, and that led directly into the court. here the family carriage always stood unless it was in use. the gentleman who lived here had one son, a little older than ramon. he showed the children all around the city. as they went from place to place, he told them how hard his father had worked to raise money for the cuban soldiers. his mother sold all her jewels, that she might help, too. but they had to do this secretly, of course. if the spaniards had discovered it, they might have lost their lives. this boy's name was blanco. he was a fine, manly fellow, and was looking forward now to coming to america. "i shall go to harvard college," he told maria. "i wish to be a minister, but i'm afraid if i do become one, i shall not feel like praying for the spaniards." the boy's heart was still bitter, but perhaps he will feel more kindly when he grows older. one day he took his young friends out to morro castle. havana has a hill fortress of that name, as well as santiago. although hobson and his men had never been imprisoned in this one, yet the diaz children were glad to see it. it stood on a rocky point reaching into the sea. the great guns were still pointing out between the masses of yellow stone. but they were silent. the american flag was waving and peace ruled in the land, although soldiers were on guard here and all through the city. [illustration: "the american flag was waving and peace ruled in the land"] at the far end of the fortress was a tall lighthouse. it stood like a sentinel to stand watch against possible danger. once upon a time a wall reached from the great fort in both directions around the city of havana. but now there was scarcely a trace of it left. "how narrow and dirty the streets are," said maria as they left the morro. "i must say i would rather live in the country, if i could choose for myself." "it doesn't matter so much about the width of the streets," said blanco, "or the poor sidewalks, either. because, you know, we almost always ride. the working people are the ones who walk. but i do not like the dirt. that is all the fault of the spaniards. they taxed us enough, but they kept the money for themselves. "last summer i was very sick with yellow fever. mother thought i would not get well. she said she believed we had so much of this dreadful disease because the city is allowed to be so unclean. "but look quickly at that punch and judy show! let's stop and watch it. there is a man playing the harp to make it more entertaining." the children leaned out of the carriage to see the show. isabella had never seen punch and judy before, and she was greatly delighted. in a few minutes they moved on, but soon stopped again, for here stood a man turning a hand-organ with a monkey beside him dressed in a most ridiculous little suit of clothes. the monkey was dancing to the music. suddenly he gave a spring and landed in the carriage right in maria's lap. off came the monkey's cap into his little hands, and with the most solemn look it was held up to each of the children in turn. "take that, you poor little beggar," said ramon as he put a silver coin into the cap. down jumped the monkey and off he scampered to his master. there were many odd sights for the little country cousins. among them were chinese peddlers showing the pretty ornaments which had been brought across the ocean. once the children passed a cow that was being led home after her morning's work. she had gone with her master from house to house, stopping long enough at each place for her to give as much milk as the people wished. the cow was followed by a man leading a long train of mules. they were laden with empty baskets. they, too, were going home, as they had left their loads at the markets in the city. the sun was quite hot and the party hurried home to rest during the noon hours, for, of course, every one took a nap at this time of the day. they might not all lie down; perhaps some of those who had stores in the busy part of the city would not leave their places of business; they might only lean back and doze in their chairs; but they would certainly keep quiet and close their eyes, if nothing more. it made one think of the story of the "sleeping beauty" to see havana at twelve o'clock, noon, in the summer season. as for maria, the dainty maiden quite enjoyed her rest at the great city house. she could lie very comfortably in a hammock while a little negro girl kept off the flies and mosquitoes with a big fan. she needed the nap in the city more than at home because she was awakened so early by the bells. perhaps the children enjoyed sunday more than any other day during their stay in the city, for it was then that they visited the cathedral containing the tomb of columbus. there were many churches and grand buildings in havana, but none could interest the children like this. it was not very far from the house, but they all went in the carriage, carrying with them the mats to kneel on during the service. it was a grand old stone building, overgrown with moss. there were many bells in the two high towers. they were pealing loudly as the party drove up. "just think how old it is," whispered maria to her brother as they entered the building. "blanco says that some of the bells were brought from spain more than two hundred years ago. do look at the beautiful marble pillars, isabella. isn't it a grand place?" it was not yet time for the service to begin, so blanco led the children to the tomb of columbus, where his ashes had rested for so many years. it was at the right of the high altar. all that could be seen was a marble tablet about seven feet square. above it stood a bust of the great discoverer. "they say that spain has asked the right to have the ashes, and america is going to let her take them. but we shall still have the tomb and the grand old cathedral where they have rested so long," said blanco. "now come and admire the altar." it stood on pillars of porphyry and was fairly covered with candlesticks, images, and gaudy decorations. somehow they did not go well with the simple beauty of the rest of the church. but the children admired it, for they were ready to admire everything. when the service was over, they drove out by the governor-general's palace. it was his no longer, however. the american general who had charge of the city lived here now. no doubt he enjoyed the beautiful gardens and ponds. he was very active in improving the city. yes, the work had already begun, and in a few months maria would no longer be able to complain of the dirt in havana. she could say again, but with a different thought in her busy little mind, "to-morrow is another day." yes, although it is but a short time since maria's visit to havana, even now everything is changed in the diaz family. the good father no longer worries; he is fast getting to be a strong, healthy man. he has a fine position under the new government, and maria lives in a new home just outside the city of havana. she is rapidly learning to speak english, while one of her dearest friends is a little american girl who has lately made her home in cuba. the end. the little cousin series by mary hazelton wade first series these are the most interesting and delightful accounts possible of child-life in other lands, filled with quaint sayings, doings, and adventures. the "little japanese cousin," with her toys in her wide sleeve and her tiny bag of paper handkerchiefs; the "little brown cousin," in whose home the leaves of the breadfruit-tree serve for plates and the halves of the cocoanut shells for cups; the "little indian cousin," who lives the free life of the forest, and the "little russian cousin," who dwells by the wintry neva, are truly fascinating characters to the little cousins who will read about them. four volumes, as follows: =our little japanese cousin= =our little brown cousin= =our little indian cousin= =our little russian cousin= each vol., mo, cloth decorative, with full-page illustrations in tints, by l. j. bridgman. price, per volume $ . _net_ (postage extra) price, per set, vols., _boxed_ . _net_ (postage extra) "juveniles will get a whole world of pleasure and instruction out of mary hazelton wade's little cousin series.... pleasing narratives give pictures of the little folk in the far-away lands in their duties and pleasures, showing their odd ways of playing, studying, their queer homes, clothes, and playthings.... the style of the stories is all that can be desired for entertainment, the author describing things in a very real and delightful fashion."--_detroit news-tribune._ the little cousin series by mary hazelton wade second series the great success and prompt appreciation which this charming little series met last season has led to its continuation this year with a new set of child characters from other lands, each as original and delightful as the little foreign cousins with whom the little cousins at home became acquainted in last season's series. six volumes, as follows: =our little cuban cousin= =our little hawaiian cousin= =our little eskimo cousin= =our little philippine cousin= =our little porto rican cousin= =our little african cousin= each vol., mo, cloth decorative, with full-page illustrations in tints by l. j. bridgman. price, per volume $ . _net_ (postage extra) price, per set, vols., boxed . _net_ (postage extra) "boys and girls, reading the tales of these little cousins in different parts of the world, will gain considerable knowledge of geography and the queer customs that are followed among strange people."--_chicago evening post._ "not only are the books interesting, but they are entertainingly instructive as well, and when entertainment can sugar-coat instruction, the book is one usually well worth placing in the hands of those to whom the knowledge will be useful."--_utica observer._ "to many youthful minds this little series of books may open up the possibilities of a foreign world to which they had been total strangers. and interest in this wider sphere, the beyond and awayness, may bear rich fruit in the future."--_n. y. commercial advertiser._ cosy corner series it is the intention of the publishers that this series shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows,--stories that shall be most particularly adapted for reading aloud in the family circle. the numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. each, vol., mo, cloth $ . _by annie fellows johnston_ =the little colonel.= the scene of this story is laid in kentucky. its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the little colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. this old colonel proves to be the grandfather of the child. =the giant scissors.= this is the story of joyce and of her adventures in france,--the wonderful house with the gate of the giant scissors, jules, her little playmate, sister denisa, the cruel brossard, and her dear aunt kate. joyce is a great friend of the little colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "house party" and the "holidays." =two little knights of kentucky=, who were the little colonel's neighbors. in this volume the little colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. she is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights," malcolm and keith, little southern aristocrats, whose chivalrous natures lead them through a series of interesting adventures. =cicely and other stories for girls.= the readers of mrs. johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people, written in the author's sympathetic and entertaining manner. =big brother.= a story of two boys. the devotion and care of steven, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale, the pathos and beauty of which has appealed to so many thousands. =ole mammy's torment.= "ole mammy's torment" has been fitly called "a classic of southern life." it relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =the story of dago.= in this story mrs. johnston relates the story of dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. _by edith robinson_ =a little puritan's first christmas:= a story of colonial times in boston. a story of colonial times in boston, telling how christmas was invented by betty sewall, a typical child of the puritans, aided by her "unregenerate" brother, sam. =a little daughter of liberty.= the author's motive for this story is well indicated by a quotation from her introduction, as follows: "one ride is memorable in the early history of the american revolution, the well-known ride of paul revere. equally deserving of commendation is another ride,--untold in verse or story, its records preserved only in family papers or shadowy legend, the ride of anthony severn was no less historic in its action or memorable in its consequences." =a loyal little maid.= a delightful and interesting story of revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, betsey schuyler, renders important services to george washington and alexander hamilton, and in the end becomes the wife of the latter. =a little puritan rebel.= like miss robinson's successful story of "a loyal little maid," this is another historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant sir harry vane was governor of massachusetts. =a little puritan pioneer.= the scene of this story is laid in the puritan settlement at charlestown. the little girl heroine adds another to the list of favorites so well known to the young people in "a little puritan rebel," etc. _by ouida (louise de la ramée)_ =a dog of flanders:= a christmas story. too well and favorably known to require description. =the nürnberg stove.= this beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price. =a provence rose.= a story perfect in sweetness and in grace. =findelkind.= a charming story about a little swiss herdsman. _by miss mulock_ =the little lame prince.= a delightful story of a little boy who has many adventures by means of the magic gifts of his fairy godmother. =adventures of a brownie.= the story of a household elf who torments the cook and gardener, but is a constant joy and delight to the children who love and trust him. =his little mother.= miss mulock's short stories for children are a constant source of delight to them, and "his little mother," in this new and attractive dress, will be welcomed by hosts of youthful readers. =little sunshine's holiday.= an attractive story of a summer outing. "little sunshine" is another of those beautiful child-characters for which miss mulock is so justly famous. _by juliana horatia ewing_ =jackanapes.= a new edition, with new illustrations, of this exquisite and touching story, dear alike to young and old. =story of a short life.= this beautiful and pathetic story will never grow old. it is a part of the world's literature, and will never die. =a great emergency.= how a family of children prepared for a great emergency, and how they acted when the emergency came. =the trinity flower.= in this little volume are collected three of mrs. ewing's best short stories for the young people. =madam liberality.= from her cradle up madam liberality found her chief delight in giving. _by frances margaret fox_ =the little giant's neighbors.= a charming nature story of a "little giant" whose neighbors were the creatures of the field and garden. =farmer brown and the birds.= a little story which teaches children that the birds are man's best friends. miss fox has an intimate knowledge of bird life and has written a little book which should take rank with "black beauty" and "beautiful joe." =betty of old mackinaw.= a charming story of child-life, appealing especially to the little readers who like stories of "real people." _by will allen dromgoole_ =the farrier's dog and his fellow.= this story, written by the gifted young southern woman, will appeal to all that is best in the natures of the many admirers of her graceful and piquant style. =the fortunes of the fellow.= those who read and enjoyed the pathos and charm of "the farrier's dog and his fellow" will welcome the further account of the "adventures of baydaw and the fellow" at the home of the kindly smith among the green hills of tennessee. _by frances hodges white_ =helena's wonderworld.= a delightful tale of the adventures of a little girl in the mysterious regions beneath the sea. =aunt nabby's children.= this pretty little story, touched with the simple humor of country life, tells of two children, who, adopted by aunt nabby, have also won their way into the affections of the village squire. _by charles lee sleight_ =the prince of the pin elves.= a fascinating story of the underground adventures of a sturdy, reliant american boy among the elves and gnomes. =the water people.= a companion volume and in a way a sequel to "the prince of the pin elves," relating the adventures of "harry" among the "water people." while it has the same characters as the previous book, the story is complete in itself. _by other authors_ =the story of rosy dawn.= by pauline bradford mackie. the christmas of little wong jan, or "rosy dawn," a young celestial of san francisco, is the theme of this pleasant little story. =susanne.= by frances j. delano. this little story will recall in sweetness and appealing charm the work of kate douglas wiggin and laura e. richards. =millicent in dreamland.= by edna s. brainerd. the quaintness and fantastic character of millicent's adventures in dreamland have much of the fascination of "alice in wonderland," and all small readers of "alice" will enjoy making millicent's acquaintance. =jerry's adventures.= by evelyn snead barnett. this is an interesting and wholesome little story of the change that came over the thoughtless imps on jefferson square when they learned to know the stout-hearted jerry and his faithful peggy. =a bad penny.= by john t. wheelwright. no boy should omit reading this vivid story of the new england of . =gatty and i.= by frances e. crompton. the small hero and heroine of this little story are twins, "strictly brought up." it is a sweet and wholesome little story. =the fairy of the rhône.= by a. comyns carr. here is a fairy story indeed, one of old-fashioned pure delight. it is most gracefully told, and accompanied by charming illustrations. =a small small child.= by e. livingston prescott. "a small small child" is a moving little tale of sweet influence, more powerful than threats or punishments, upon a rowdy of the barracks. =peggy's trial.= by mary knight potter. peggy is an impulsive little woman of ten, whose rebellion from a mistaken notion of loyalty, and her subsequent reconciliation to the dreaded "new mother," are most interestingly told. =for his country.= by marshall saunders, author of "beautiful joe," etc. a sweet and graceful story of a little boy who loved his country; written with that charm which has endeared miss saunders to hosts of readers. =la belle nivernaise.= the story of an old boat and her crew. by alphonse daudet. all who have read it will be glad to welcome an old favorite, and new readers will be happy to have it brought to their friendly attention. =wee dorothy.= by laura updegraff. a story of two orphan children, the tender devotion of the eldest, a boy, for his sister being its theme and setting. with a bit of sadness at the beginning, the story is otherwise bright and sunny, and altogether wholesome in every way. =rab and his friends.= by dr. john brown. doctor brown's little masterpiece is too well known to need description. the dog rab is loved by all. =the adventures of beatrice and jessie.= by richard mansfield. the story of two little girls who were suddenly transplanted into the "realms of unreality," where they met with many curious and amusing adventures. =a child's garden of verses.= by r. l. stevenson. mr. stevenson's little volume is too well known to need description. it will be heartily welcomed in this new and attractive edition. =little king davie.= by nellie hellis. the story of a little crossing-sweeper, that will make many boys thankful they are not in the same position. davie's accident, hospital experiences, conversion, and subsequent life, are of thrilling interest. =the sleeping beauty.= a modern version. by martha b. dunn. this charming story of a little fishermaid of maine, intellectually "asleep" until she meets the "fairy prince," reminds us of "ouida" at her best. =the young archer.= by charles e. brimblecom. a strong and wholesome story of a boy who accompanied columbus on his voyage to the new world. his loyalty and services through vicissitudes and dangers endeared him to the great discoverer, and the account of his exploits will be interesting to all boys. =the making of zimri bunker:= a tale of nantucket. by w. j. long, ph. d. this is a charming story of nantucket folk by a young clergyman who is already well known through his contributions to the _youth's companion_, _st. nicholas_, and other well-known magazines. the story deals with a sturdy american fisher lad, during the war of . =the king of the golden river:= a legend of stiria. by john ruskin. written fifty years or more ago, and not originally intended for publication, this little fairy tale soon became known and made a place for itself. =little peterkin vandike.= by charles stuart pratt. the author's dedication furnishes a key to this charming story: "i dedicate this book, made for the amusement (and perchance instruction) of the boys who may read it, to the memory of one boy, who would have enjoyed as much as peterkin the plays of the poetry party, but who has now marched, as they will march one day, out of the ranks of boyhood into the ranks of young manhood." =will o' the mill.= by robert louis stevenson. an allegorical story by this inimitable and versatile writer. its rare poetic quality, its graceful and delicate fancy, its strange power and fascination, justify its separate publication. books for young people =the little colonel's house party.= by annie fellows johnston. illustrated by louis meynell. one vol., library mo, cloth, decorative cover $ . =the little colonel's holidays.= by annie fellows johnston. illustrated by l. j. bridgman. one vol., large mo, cloth, decorative cover $ . =the little colonel's hero.= by annie fellows johnston. one vol., large mo, cloth decorative, fully illustrated $ . _net_ (postage extra) in these three stories mrs. johnston once more introduces us to the "little colonel," the dainty maiden who has already figured as the heroine of two previous stories, "the little colonel" and "two little knights of kentucky," and who has won her way into the hearts of old and young alike. she is more winsome and lovable than ever. since the time of "little women," no juvenile heroine has been better beloved of her child readers than mrs. johnston's "little colonel." =a puritan knight errant.= by edith robinson, author of "a little puritan pioneer," "a little puritan's first christmas," "a little puritan rebel," etc. library mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $ . _net_ (postage extra). the charm of style and historical value of miss robinson's previous stories of child life in puritan days have brought them wide popularity. her latest and most important book appeals to a large juvenile public. the "knight errant" of this story is a little don quixote, whose trials and their ultimate outcome will prove deeply interesting to their reader. =ye lyttle salem maide:= a story of witchcraft. by pauline bradford mackie. _new illustrated edition._ one volume, large mo, cloth, gilt top $ . a tale of the days of the reign of superstition in new england, and of a brave "lyttle maide," of salem town, whose faith and hope and unyielding adherence to her word of honor form the basis of a most attractive story. a very convincing picture is drawn of puritan life during the latter part of the seventeenth century. =in kings' houses:= a tale of the days of queen anne. by julia c. r. dorr, author of "a cathedral pilgrimage," etc. _new illustrated edition._ one volume, large mo, cloth, gilt top $ . the story deals with one of the most romantic episodes in english history. queen anne, the last of the reigning stuarts, is described with a strong yet sympathetic touch, and the young duke of gloster, the "little lady," and the hero of the tale, robin sandys, are delightful characterizations. =gulliver's bird book.= being the newly discovered strange adventures of lemuel gulliver, now for the first time described and illustrated. by l. j. bridgman, author of "mother goose and her wild beast show," etc. with upwards of illustrations in color, large quarto, cloth $ . this is a most amusing and original book, illustrated with startlingly odd and clever drawings. if we may accept the account given in the preface, that renowned explorer, lemuel gulliver, left behind him certain memoirs which have remained unknown to the public up to the present day. having now been brought to light and given to the world, these records establish beyond a doubt their author's claim to be regarded as the discoverer of the bouncing ballazoon and a host of other creatures unknown to darwin and huxley. ='tilda jane=. by marshall saunders, author of "beautiful joe," etc. one vol., mo, fully illustrated, cloth, decorative cover $ . "no more amusing and attractive child's story has appeared for a long time than this quaint and curious recital of the adventures of that pitiful and charming little runaway. "it is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and charm the reader, and i did not put it down until i had finished it--honest! and i am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif. "i cannot think of any better book for children than this. i commend it unreservedly."--_cyrus townsend brady._ =miss gray's girls;= or, summer days in the scottish highlands. by jeannette a. grant. with about sixty illustrations in half-tone and pen and ink sketches of scottish scenery. one vol., large mo, cloth, decorative cover $ . a delightfully told story of a summer trip through scotland, somewhat out of the beaten track. a teacher, starting at glasgow, takes a lively party of girls, her pupils, through the trossachs to oban, through the caledonian canal to inverness, and as far north as brora, missing no part of the matchless scenery and no place of historic interest. returning through perth, stirling, edinburgh, melrose, and abbotsford, the enjoyment of the party and the interest of the reader never lag. =chums.= by maria louise pool. illustrated by l. j. bridgman. one vol., large mo, cloth, decorative cover $ . "chums" is a girls' book, about girls and for girls. it relates the adventures, in school and during vacation, of two friends. it is full of mingled fun and pathos, and carries the reader along swiftly to the climax, which is reached all too soon. =little bermuda.= by maria louise pool. illustrated by louis meynell. one vol., large mo, cloth, decorative cover $ . young people will follow eagerly the adventures of "little bermuda" from her home in the tropics to a fashionable american boarding-school. the resulting conflict between the two elements in her nature, the one inherited from her new england ancestry, and the other developed by her west indian surroundings, gave miss pool unusual opportunity for creating an original and fascinating heroine. =black beauty:= the autobiography of a horse. by anna sewell. _new illustrated edition._ with twenty-five full-page drawings by winifred austin. one vol., large mo, cloth decorative, gilt top $ . there have been many editions of this classic, but we confidently offer this one as the most appropriate and handsome yet produced. the illustrations are of special value and beauty. mr. austin is a lover of horses, and has delighted in tracing with his pen the beauty and grace of the noble animal. =feats on the fiord:= a tale of norwegian life. by harriet martineau. with about sixty original illustrations and a colored frontispiece. one vol., large mo, cloth decorative $ . this admirable book deserves to be brought to the attention of parents in search of wholesome reading for their children to-day. it is something more than a juvenile book, being really one of the most instructive books about norway and norwegian life and manners ever written. =timothy dole.= by juniata salsbury. with twenty-five illustrations. one vol., large mo, cloth decorative $ . the youthful hero starts from home, loses his way, meets with startling adventures, finds friends, kind and many, grows to be a manly man, and is able to devote himself to bettering the condition of the poor in the mining region of pennsylvania. =three children of galilee:= a life of christ for the young. by john gordon. beautifully illustrated with more than one hundred illustrations. one vol., library mo, cloth, decorative cover $ . there has long been a need for a life of christ for the young, for parents have recognized that their boys and girls want something more than a bible story, a dry statement of facts, and that, in order to hold the attention of the youthful readers, a book on this subject should have life and movement as well as scrupulous accuracy and religious sentiment. =three little crackers.= from down in dixie. by will allen dromgoole, author of "the farrier's dog," etc., with fifty text and full-page illustrations, by e. b. barry. one vol., library mo, cloth, decorative cover $ . a fascinating story for boys and girls, of a family of alabama children who move to florida and grow up in the south. =prince harold, a fairy story.= by l. f. brown. with full-page illustrations by vitry. one vol., large mo, cloth, decorative cover $ . a delightful fairy tale for children, dealing with the life of a young prince, who, aided by the moon spirit, discovers, after many adventures, a beautiful girl whom he makes his princess. =the fairy folk of blue hill:= a story of folk-lore. by lily f. wesselhoeft, author of "sparrow the tramp," etc., with fifty-five illustrations from original drawings by alfred c. eastman. one vol., library mo, cloth, decorative cover $ . a new volume by mrs. wesselhoeft, well known as one of our best writers for the young, and who has made a host of friends among the young people. =larry hudson's ambition.= by james otis, author of "toby tyler," etc. illustrated by eliot keen. one vol., library mo, cloth, decorative cover $ . james otis, who has delighted the juvenile public with so many popular stories, has written the story of the rise of the bootblack larry. larry is not only capable of holding his own and coming out with flying colors in the amusing adventures wherein he befriends the family of good deacon doak; he also has the signal ability to know what he wants and to understand that hard work is necessary to win. =the adventures of a boy reporter= in the philippines. by harry steele morrison, author of "a yankee boy's success." one vol., large mo, cloth, illustrated $ . a true story of the courage and enterprise of an american lad. it is filled with healthy interest, and will tend to stimulate and encourage the proper ambition of the young reader. =the young pearl divers:= a story of australian adventure by land and by sea. by lieut. h. phelps whitmarsh, author of "the mysterious voyage of the _daphne_," etc. illustrated with twelve full-page half-tones by h. burgess. one vol., large mo, cloth decorative $ . this is a splendid story for boys, by an author who writes in vigorous and interesting language of scenes and adventures with which he is personally acquainted. =the voyage of the avenger:= in the days of the dashing drake. by henry st. john. with twenty-five full-page illustrations by paul hardy. one vol., tall mo, cloth decorative, gilt top $ . a book of adventure, the scene of which is laid in that stirring period of colonial extension when england's famous naval heroes encountered the ships of spain, both at home and in the west indies. [illustration: they reached quite a high branch in the apple tree. _page _] tales of a poultry farm by clara dillingham pierson author of "among the meadow people," "dooryard stories," etc. new york e. p. dutton and company west twenty-third street copyright e. p. dutton & co. published, september, the knickerbocker press, new york to my little sons harold and howard this book is affectionately dedicated contents page the farm is sold the new owner comes the first spring chickens are hatched the man builds a poultry house the pekin duck steals a nest the new nests and the nest-eggs the white plymouth rocks come the turkey chicks are hatched three chickens run away the three runaways become ill the young cock and the eagle the guinea-fowls come and go the geese and the baby the fowls have a joke played on them the little girls give a party illustrations page "cock-a-doodle-doo!" said the young cock returned with the baby in his arms she followed, quacking anxiously took the new-comers out, one at a time the happy turkey mother paused on her way a large dark bird swooping down they reached quite a high branch in the apple tree--_frontispiece_ "s-s-s-s-s!" repeated the gander introduction my dear little readers:--i have often wondered why there were not more stories written about chickens and their friends, and now i am glad that there have been so few, for i have greatly enjoyed writing some for you. did i ever tell you that i cared for my father's chickens when i was a little girl? that was one of my duties, and the most pleasant of all. it was not until i was older that i became acquainted with ducks, geese, and turkeys, and i always wish that i might have lived on a poultry farm like the one of which i have written, for then i could have learned much more than i did. you must not think that i understand no language but english. i learned chicken-talk when i was very young; and in the fall, when the quails wander through the stubble-fields near my home, i have many visits with them, calling back and forth "bob white! bob white!" and other agreeable things which they like to hear. my little boys can talk exactly like chickens, and sometimes they pretend that they are chickens, while i talk turkey to them. when you have a chance, you must learn these languages. they are often very useful to one. my friend, who drives in his hens by imitating the warning cry of a cock, had been a teacher in a college for several years before he studied poultry-talk, and it helped him greatly. you see, one must learn much outside of school, as well as inside, in order to be truly well educated. you should never look at poultry and say, "why, they are only hens!" or "why, they are only ducks!" quite likely when they look at you they may be thinking, "why, they are only boys!" or "why, they are only girls!" yet if you are gentle and care for them, you and they will learn to think a great deal of each other, and you will win new friends among the feathered people. your friend, clara d. pierson. stanton, michigan, _march , ._ the farm is sold "you stupid creature!" cackled the brown hen, as she scrambled out of the driveway. "don't you know any better than to come blundering along when a body is in the middle of a fine dust bath? how would you like to have me come trotting down the road, just as you were nicely sprawled out in it with your feathers full of dust? i think you would squawk too!" the brown hen drew her right foot up under her ruffled plumage and turned her head to one side, looking severely at bobs and snip as they backed the lumber wagon up to the side porch. "i say," she repeated, "that you would squawk too!" the brown hen's friends had been forced to run away when she did, but they had already found another warm place in the dust and were rolling and fluttering happily there. "come over here," they called to her. "this is just as good a place as the other. come over and wallow here." "no!" answered the brown hen, putting down her right foot and drawing up her left. "no! my bath is spoiled for to-day. there is no use in trying to take comfort when you are likely to be run over any minute." she turned her head to the other side and looked severely at bobs and snip with that eye. the brown hen prided herself on her way of looking sternly at people who displeased her. she always wished, however, that she could look at them with both eyes at once. she thought that if this were possible she could stop their nonsense more quickly. snip could not say anything just then. he was trying to be polite, and it took all his strength. he was young and wanted to have a good horse laugh. he could not help thinking how a horse would look covered with feathers and sprawling in the middle of the road. of course the brown hen had not meant it in exactly that way, but was as unlucky as most people are when they lose their tempers, and amused the very people whom she most wanted to scold. bobs was a steady old gray horse, and he was used to the brown hen. "i am sorry that we had to disturb you," he said pleasantly. "you looked very comfortable and i tried to turn out, but the farmer held the lines so tightly that i could not. the bit cut into my mouth until i could not stand it. you see he wanted to back the wagon up right here, and so he couldn't let us turn out. we'll do better next time if we can." the brown hen let both her feet down and took a few steps forward. "if you couldn't help it, of course i won't say anything more," she remarked, and walked off. "p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p!" said snip, blowing the air out between his lips. "why did you bother to tell her that? she is so fussy and cross about everything that i wouldn't tell her i was sorry. why doesn't she just find another place, as the other hens do?" "snip," said bobs, "i used to talk in that way when i was a colt, but i find that it makes things a good deal pleasanter around the place if i take a little trouble to say 'i am sorry' when i have to disturb people. you know how the farmer does at noon? he comes into the stall when i have finished my dinner, and he gives me a pat and says, 'come along, old fellow. we'd rather be lazy, but we have to work.' do you think i'd hang back then? i tell you when i want to balk. it is when the hired man leads me out with a jerk. that makes me kick." "i wonder if she will take her dust bath now?" said snip. "oh no," answered bobs. "any other hen on the farm would, but the brown hen will not. she will stalk around all day thinking what a hard time she has and talking about it, but she won't take her dust bath, not although every other fowl on the place should wallow beside her." "then i don't see what good it did for you to tell her you were sorry," said snip, who never liked to confess that he was wrong. "it did a lot of good," said bobs, steadily. "before that she was fussy and cross. now she is only fussy. besides, i really had to say something to her, and if it had not been pleasant it would have had to be unpleasant, and then there would have been two cross people instead of one. quite likely there would have been even more before the day was over, for if each of us had gone on being cross we would have made more of our friends cross, and there is no telling where it would have ended. i'd feel mean, anyhow, if i lost my temper with a hen. imagine a great big fellow like me getting cross with a little creature like her, who has only two legs, and can't get any water into her stomach without tipping her head back for each billful." snip had wanted to ask many more questions, but so much began to happen that he quite forgot about the brown hen. the farmer and the hired man had gone into the house, and now they came out, carrying a cook-stove between them. this they put into the wagon, covering it with rag carpet. the farmer's wife came to the door with rolled-up sleeves and a towel tied over her head. she looked tired but happy. in her hands she carried the legs of the stove, which she tucked into the oven. this was a great event to happen on the quiet farm. brown bess and her new calf came close to the fence which separated their pasture from the driveway, and stood looking on. the pigs and their mother pressed hard against the walls of their pen on the two sides from which anything could be seen. each of the nine pigs thought that he had the poorest place for peeping, so he wriggled and pushed and pushed and wriggled to get a better one, and it ended in none of them seeing anything, because they were not still long enough. their mother, being so much taller than they, had a crack all to herself and could see very well. "i don't understand why they want to do that," she sighed, as she lay down for another nap. "it was after the snow came that they brought the stove out here. but you can never tell what the people who live in houses and wear clothing will do next! they really seem to like to pick things up and carry them around. they are so silly." the gander came along with his wife and the other geese. he ate grass while they visited with the hens in the road. the hens told him all they knew, even what the barred plymouth rock hen had seen when she walked along the porch and peeped in at the open kitchen door. then the geese waddled back to where the gander was and told him all the hens had told them. he listened to it, asking a good many questions, and then said that it was just like geese to be so interested in other people's business. that made them feel quite ashamed, so they ate a little grass to make themselves feel better, and then stood around to watch the loading of the wagon. besides the stove, the kitchen and dining-room furniture was put in, with a few of the largest plants from the sitting-room, and when the farmer drove off he had the clock beside him on the seat, the churn between his knees, and a big bundle of some sort on his lap. it suddenly seemed very dull on the farm. one of the doves flew along above the team for a while and brought back the news that they had turned toward town. there was nothing now to be done but to wait until they returned and then ask as many questions as possible of the horses. "i believe that the family is going to move into town," said the white cock, who always expected sad things to happen. even when there was not a cloud in the sky, he was sure that it would rain the next day. that was probably because he was careless about what he ate. the shanghai cock said that he did not take half gravel enough, and any sensible fowl will tell you that he cannot be truly happy unless he eats enough gravel. "what will ever become of us," asked the hens, "if the family moves to town? it is their business to stay here and take care of us." "cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed the young cock. "let them go. i can have a good enough time in the fields finding my own food." the pullets looked at him admiringly. "but who will take care of us?" they asked. "i will," said he, holding his head very high. and that was exactly what they wanted him to say, although each of them would rather have had him say it to her alone. "there will be nobody left to set traps for the rats and the weasels," said an old hen, who had seen much of the ways of poultry-yards. "and if our chickens have the gapes, who will make horse-hair loops and pull the little worms out of their throats? i have always said that it was well to have people living in the farmhouse." "well," said the brown hen, "i hope that if they go they will take the horses with them. there is no pleasure in life when one is all the time afraid of being run over. you know what happened this morning, when i had started to take my dust bath. i spoke to the horses about it afterward, and bobs was very polite, but that didn't give me the bath which he and that silly young snip had spoiled. and i do not feel at all like myself without a bath." "take it now then," said the shanghai cock, who never bothered to be polite. "you ought to be able to get it in while the team is going to town and back." "no," said the brown hen, firmly, "it is too far past the time when i should have taken it. i was never one of those hens who can wallow from morning until night. i need my bath and i ought to have it, but when i have been kept from it so long i simply have to go without it." the other hens said nothing. in nearly every poultry-yard there is one fowl who is so fussy as to make everybody else uncomfortable. the rest become used to it after a while and do not answer back when she talks so. in the house, the farmer's wife was hurrying to and fro, showing the hired man where to put this or calling him to lift that, and every little while something else would be brought out and placed on the side porch. once a basket of wax fruit was set on a table there. the glass which usually covered it was put to one side, and the young cock who had promised to care for the pullets flew up to peck at it. he knew it was not right, but he got one hurried billful from the side of the reddest peach just as the hired man threw an old shoe at him. "how does it taste?" cried the geese, who were still hanging around to find out what they could. the young cock did not reply, but wiped his bill on the grass for a long time. he feared he would never be able to open it again. the peaches which he had eaten the fall before had not stuck his bill together in this way, and he was now more sure than ever that the people who lived in houses did not know very much. "such fruit should be thrown away," he said. "it must be eating such peaches as this which keeps the boy chewing so much of the time. i have watched him, and he carries something in his mouth which he chews and chews and chews, but never swallows. once his mother made him throw it away, and i should think she would. he waggled his jaws very much like a cow." then he strolled off toward the woods to get away from the other fowls. in the middle of the afternoon the team came back drawing the empty wagon. all the poultry came sauntering toward the barn, making excuses as they came. "too hot out in the sunshine," said the brown hen. "i really cannot stand it any longer." "the geese would come up to the barn," said the gander, "so i thought i might as well come along." "shouldn't wonder if they would throw out some corn when they get through unharnessing," said the gobbler. the ducks never kept up with the others, and they were close to the house when bobs and snip stopped there. "how very lucky!" they quacked, for they were a truthful family and not given to making excuses. "we hope you will tell us what all this means. are the farmer's people moving away?" "they are," replied bobs, who was always good about giving a direct answer to a direct question. "you know the children have been staying in town to go to school ever since last fall, and now their father has sold the farm and is moving into town to be with them." "will they take us into town?" asked the drake. "guess not," said snip. "they are to live over a store." by this time the disappointed ones who had been waiting in the barn came hurrying along toward the house, where the wagon was being filled once more. it did not take long for the ducks to tell the news, and then there was great excitement, very great indeed. brown bess heard it and licked her calf more tenderly than ever. she knew that they could not live over a store, and she wondered what would become of them both. in the pig-pen the little pigs were teasing their mother to tell who would bring them their food. it was enough to make her lose her patience to have nine children all asking questions at the same time, and each saying "why?" every time that he was given an answer. so it is not to be wondered at that she finally became cross and lay down in the corner with her back to them, pretending to be asleep. to tell the truth, she herself was somewhat worried. she had often called the farmer's family silly, but she had not minded their habit of carrying things around, when the things that they carried were pails full of delicious food and they were carrying them to the pig-pen. it was the poultry who talked the longest about the change, and perhaps this was partly because there were so many of them to talk. poultry have a very happy time on small farms like this one. it is true that they did not have a good house of their own, and they had but little attention paid to them, yet when the cold winter was once past, there was all the lovely spring, summer, and fall weather in which to be happy. they were not kept in a yard, going wherever they chose, finding plenty to eat, and having no cares, excepting that when a hen felt like it she laid an egg. she laid it wherever she chose, too, and this was usually somewhere in the barn or woodshed. sometimes hens wanted to sit, and then they came off after a while with broods of chickens. when a hen had done that, she was usually caught and put under a coop for a few days. she never liked that part of it, and the others always told her that if she would hatch out chickens she might know what to expect. the winters were bad, but then the poultry spent their whole time in trying to be comfortable and hardly ever bothered to lay eggs, so it was an easy life after all. no wonder that they talked about the change until after they went to roost. although the farmer was not a thrifty man, he had been kind enough to the creatures on the farm, and they did not want to go away or belong to any one else. the last word spoken was by a black hen. she was not black spanish or black anything-in-particular. in fact, there was only one of the hens who knew to what breed she belonged. that was the barred plymouth rock hen, and it made her very proud. the black hen had a temper, and had even been known to peck at the farmer's wife. "do you know what i will do if a new farmer tries to make me lay my eggs where he wishes?" she said. "i may have to lay the eggs there, but i will smash every one of them if i do." the new owner comes on the morning after the family left, a pale and quiet man, wearing glasses, came out in a platform wagon to look over the farm. he had been there but a short time when two great loads of furniture appeared down the road. then the man took off his coat and helped the drivers carry it all into the little farmhouse. the fowls, who happened to be near enough, noticed that the man never lifted anything which seemed to be heavy. they noticed, too, that his hands were rather small and very white. still he acted as though he expected to live on the place. with the others helping him, he put down two carpets and set up two stoves. the other men drove away, leaving the single horse and the platform wagon. the man washed his hands, put on his coat, and brought a pasteboard box out onto the side porch. he opened it carefully, took out a glass, and drew up a bucketful of water at the well. he filled his glass and carried it back to the porch. then he began to eat his dinner. all the farm people had been properly cared for that morning by the farmer from across the road, and felt sure that he would not see them wanting food, so it was not just a wish for something to eat which made every creature there come quietly to a place near the side porch. they were certain that they belonged to this man, and they wanted to find out what he was like. "i hope he isn't expecting to milk me," said brown bess. "i don't believe he could draw a drop from my udders, and he would probably set the stool down on the wrong side anyhow." bobs and snip were no longer on the farm, having gone to town, to work there with their old master, so the hog was the next to speak. "i hope he won't eat that kind of dinner every day," said she. "it looks to me as though there would be no scraps left to go into my pail." "ugh! ugh! stingy!" grunted the little pigs. "he wants it all for himself!" they did not stop to think that every time food was emptied into their trough, each of them acted as though he wanted every drop and crumb of it for himself. the gobbler strutted up and down near the porch, with his feathers on end and his wings dragging. "there is just one thing i like about the man," said he. "he does _not_ wear a red tie." "i can't tell exactly what is the matter," said the gander, "but he is certainly very different from any man i ever saw before. i think he must belong to a different breed. the things he has on his feet are much blacker and shinier than the men around here wear, and that stiff and shiny white thing around his neck is much higher. i hope he is not stupid. i cannot bear stupid people." "neither can we," murmured the geese. "we really cannot bear them." "i fear he does not know very much," said the drake, sadly, "although i must say that i like his face. he looks good and kind, not at all as though he would ever throw stones at people for the fun of seeing them waddle faster. what i do not like is the way in which he acted about getting his water. any duck knows that you can tell most about people by the way they take water. the old gourd which the farmer and his family used so long, hung right on the chain-pump, and yet this man got a glass and filled it. he did not even drink from it as soon as it was full, but filled and emptied it three times before drinking. that is not what i call good sense." "did you notice how he put on his coat before he began to eat?" asked the white cock. "i never saw our farmer do that except in very cold weather, and i have been close to the kitchen door a great many times when they sat down to the table." "it must be that he was not very hungry," said one of the hens, "or he would never have taken so much time to begin eating. besides, you can see that he was not, by the size of his mouthfuls. he did not take a single bite as big as he could, and you will never make me believe that a person is hungry when he eats in that way." this was the hen who usually got the largest piece from the food-pan and swallowed it whole to make sure of it, before any of the other fowls could overtake her and get it away. then the barred plymouth rock hen spoke. "i like him," she said. "i am sure that he belongs to a different breed, but i think it is a good one. i remember hearing somebody say, when i was a chicken, that it was well for fowls to have a change of ground once in a while, and that it would make them stronger. i believe that is why he is here. you can tell by watching him work that he is not strong, and he may be here for a change of ground. i shall certainly befriend him, whatever the rest of you do. we people of fine families should stand by each other." then she strolled over toward the man, lifting her feet in her most aristocratic way and perking her head prettily. the man smiled. he broke a piece from the slice of bread which he was eating, and sprinkled it lightly with salt from a tiny bottle. this piece he divided into two portions and held one out at arm's length toward the barred plymouth rock hen. she had never before been invited to eat from anybody's hand, and she was really afraid to do it. her skin felt creepy, as though her feathers were about to stand on end. still, she had just said that she meant to befriend the new man, and that he and she were of finer breeds than most people. here was her chance to prove her words, and she was not the sort of hen to show the white feather. she stood erect in all her plymouth rock dignity, and ate the bread in five pecks. then she stooped and wiped her bill daintily on the grass at the man's feet before strolling away again. you can imagine what excitement this made among the poultry. the gobbler, the gander, and the drake did not wish to appear too much interested, and some of the cocks acted in the same way, but the mothers and sisters of the families talked of nothing else for a long time. it is true that the barred plymouth rock hen had not been very popular on the farm, most of the hens insisting that she put on airs, but now they could not help admiring her courage and grace. two or three of them even thought she might be right in saying that it was a good thing to come from a fine family. the cocks had never thought her airy. they always told the other hens that it was just their notion, and that she was really a very clever and friendly hen. as for the man, he seemed much pleased by what had happened. he put his hat on the back of his head and smiled. "that is a good beginning," he said to himself. "to eat bread and salt together means that we will always be friends, and i would rather break bread with respectable poultry than with some men that i know." late in the afternoon, the man harnessed his horse, whom he called brownie, to the same platform wagon in which he had come, gave one parting look all around the house and yard, turned the key in the side door, and drove off toward town. "what next?" asked all the poultry. if you had ever been a hen or a duck or a turkey or a goose (for although you may have acted like a perfect goose, you probably never have been one), you would know just how worried the poultry on this particular farm were, after the new man had driven away in the platform wagon. it seemed quite certain that he had gone to town to bring out his family, and it mattered a great deal to them what his family were like. a single boy of the wrong kind could make all the fowls on the place unhappy, and the others agreed with the gobbler when he said, "there is one thing worse than a girl in a red dress, and that is a boy who throws stones." it was a very sad company which wandered around the farmyard, picking here and there, and really eating but little. the white cock would keep talking about the dreadful things which might happen, and reminded his friends that there might be two boys, or three, or four, perhaps even five in the family! the other fowls soon tried to get away from him, and then they were often so unfortunate as to meet the brown hen, who was fussing and worrying for fear the man would shut her up in a small yard. at last the shanghai cock lost his temper, as he was very apt to do, and said that there were some fowls he would like to have shut up. this displeased both the white cock and the brown hen, because the shanghai cock had looked at both of them when he spoke, using one eye for each, and they did not know what to say. they thought from the mean little cackling laugh which the others gave, that he might have wished them to shut up their bills. then they did the very best thing that they could have done, going off together to the pasture, where each could talk gloomily to the other without annoying anybody else. when brownie came jogging back to the farm, the platform wagon looked very gay. on the back seat sat a pleasant looking woman with a fat baby on her lap. beside her sat a little girl with brown hair. on the seat beside the man sat another little girl, dressed exactly like the first one and just as large as she, but with golden hair. they were all laughing and talking and pointing at different things as they drove into the yard. "it is not much like our other home," said the man, as he set the baby on his feet beside the steps, and turned to help the woman out. "that does not matter if we can be comfortable and well here," she answered with a smile. "it will be a lovely place for the children, and i believe it will make you strong again." "cock-a-doodle-doo!" said the young cock from the top rail of the fence. he did it only to show off, but the children, who had never lived on a farm, and so could not understand poultry-talk very well, felt sure that he said, "how-do-you-all-do?" and thought him exceedingly polite. the baby started after him at once, and fell flat before he had taken six steps. [illustration: "cock-a-doodle-doo!" said the young cock. _page _] the man, the woman, and the two little girls all started to pick up the baby, who was so wound up in his long cloak that he could not rise. brownie looked around in a friendly way and stood perfectly still, instead of edging off toward the barn as some horses would have done, while the baby just rolled over on his back and laughed. "gobble-gobble-gobble!" said the gobbler. "i think this family will suit us very well." the barred plymouth rock hen was too polite a fowl ever to say "i told you so," but she stood very straight and chuckled softly to herself, so the rest could know that she was pleased with what she saw, and felt more certain than ever that the man and his family were no common people. all the family went to the barn with the man while he unharnessed brownie and gave him his supper. the children had a happy time on the hay, and, before they went into the house together, the man put some corn in a pan and let them scatter it by the door for the poultry. "they have been running loose in the fields," he said, "and they may not need it all, but we will give it to them anyway, and to-morrow i will study my book of directions and see how they should be fed at this season." the children scattered the corn, the woman kneeling down with her arm around the baby, to keep him from falling over each time that he threw a few kernels. the barred plymouth rock hen was the first to come forward to pick it up, and the man told his wife how he and she had eaten bread and salt at noon. then the woman said: "come, we must go into the house! i should have been there working long ago, but i wanted to see the children make friends with the poultry." as the door of the house closed behind its new inmates, the barred plymouth rock hen could not help looking at the shanghai cock. "yes," he said, for he knew what she meant, "i like your friends very much. they seem to have some sense." then the barred plymouth rock hen was satisfied, for she was fond of the shanghai cock, and praise from him was praise indeed. the first spring chickens are hatched it was only a few days after the new family settled in the house that the man drove out from town with a queer-looking box-like thing in his light wagon. this he took out and left on the ground beside the cellarway. when he had unharnessed brownie and let him loose in the pasture, he came back and took the crate off from the box. then the poultry who were standing around saw that it was not at all an ordinary box. indeed, as soon as the man had fastened a leg to each corner, they thought it rather more like a fat table than a box. while the man was examining it, he kept turning over the pages of a small book which he took from some place inside the table. the geese thought it quite a senseless habit of the man's, this looking at books when he was at work. they had never seen the farmer do so, and they did not understand it. when geese do not understand anything, you know, they always decide that it is very silly and senseless. there are a great many things which they do not understand, so, of course, there are a great many which they think extremely silly. the little girls and their mother stood beside the man as he looked at the book and the fat new table. he said something to one of them and she went into the house. when she came out she had a small basketful of eggs. the man took some and put them into one part of the table. then he took them out again and put them into the basket. that disgusted the brown hen, who was watching it all. "i am always fair," she said, "and i am willing to say that i have been treated very well by this man, very well indeed, but it is most distressing and unpleasant to a sensible fowl like myself to have to see so much utter foolishness on a farm where i have spent my life." "then why don't you shut your eyes?" asked the shanghai cock, with his usual rudeness, and after that the brown hen could say nothing more. this was a great relief to the barred plymouth rock hen, who did not at all understand what was going on, but would have tried to defend the man if the brown hen had asked her about it. after a while the woman helped the man carry the queer-looking object into the cellar, and then the poultry strolled off to talk it all over. they heard nothing more about the fat table until the next morning. then the gander, who had been standing for a long time close to the cellarway, waddled off toward the barn with the news. "they use that table to keep eggs in," said he. "now isn't that just like the man? i saw him put in a great many eggs, and he took them all out of little cases which he brought from town this morning. i don't see why a man should bring eggs out from town, when he can get plenty in the barn by hunting for them. do you?" "he won't find any of mine in the barn," said a hen turkey. "i lay one every day, but i never put them there." when she had finished speaking, she looked around to see if the gobbler had heard her. luckily he had not. if he had, he would have tried to find and break her eggs. "that was not the only silly thing the man did," said the gander, who intended to tell every bit of news he had, in spite of interruptions. "probably not," said the white cock, who was feeling badly that morning, and so thought the world was all wrong. "no indeed," said the gander, raising his voice somewhat, so that the poultry around might know he had news of importance to tell. "no indeed! the man marked every egg with a sort of stick, which he took from his pocket. it was sharp at both ends, and sometimes he marked with one end and sometimes with the other. he put a black mark on one side of each egg and a red mark on the other." "red!" exclaimed the gobbler. "ugh!" "yes, red," said the gander. "but the worst and most stupid part of it all was when he lighted a little fire in something that he had and fastened it onto the table." "what a shame!" cried all the geese together. "it will burn up those eggs, and every fowl knows that it takes time to get a good lot of them together. he may not have thought of that. he cannot know very much, for he probably never lived on a farm before. he may think that eggs are to be found in barns exactly as stones are found in fields." all this made the barred plymouth rock hen very sad. she could not help believing what she had heard, and still she hoped they might yet find out that the man had a good reason for marking and then burning up those eggs. she was glad to think that none of hers were in the lot. she was not saving them for chickens just then, but she preferred to think of them as being eaten by the little girls or the fat baby who lived in the house. she decided to begin saving for a brood of chickens at once. she wanted to say something kind about the man, or explain what he was doing when he lighted that fire. however, she could not, so she just kept her bill tightly shut and said nothing at all. this also showed that she was a fine hen, for the best people would rather say nothing at all about others than to say unkind things. it was a long time before the friendly barred plymouth rock hen knew what was going on in the cellar. she was greatly discouraged about the man. she had tried as hard as she could to make the other poultry believe in him, and had thought she was succeeding, but now this foolishness about the fat table and the eggs seemed likely to spoil it all. she found a good place for laying, in a corner of the carriage house on some old bags, and there she put all her eggs. she had decided to raise a brood of chickens and take comfort with them, leaving the man to look out for himself as well as he could. she still believed in him, but she was discouraged. several of the other hens also stole nests and began filling them, so on the day when the man hunted very thoroughly for eggs and found these stolen nests, taking all but one egg from each, there were five exceedingly sad hens. you would think they might have been discouraged, yet they were not. a hen may become discouraged about anything else in the world, but if she wants to sit, she sticks to it. that very day was an exciting one in the cellar. when the man came down after breakfast to look at the eggs in the fat table he found them all as he had left them, with the black-marked side uppermost. he took them out to air for a few minutes, and then began putting them back with the red-marked side uppermost. as he lifted them, he often put one to his ear, or held it up to the light. he had handled the eggs over in this way twice a day for about three weeks. a few of them had small breaks in the shell, and through one of these breaks there stuck out the tiny beak of an unhatched chicken. when he found an egg that was cracked, or one in which there seemed to be a faint tap-tap-tapping, he put it apart from the others. [illustration: returned with the baby in his arms. _page _] when this was done, the man ran up the inside stairs. in a few minutes he returned with the baby in his arms and the rest of the family following. the woman had her sleeves rolled up and flour on her apron. the little girls were dressed in the plain blue denim frocks which they wore all the time, except when they went to town. then all five of them watched the cracked eggs, and saw the tiny chickens who were inside chip away the shell and get ready to come out into the great world. the woman had to leave first, for there came a hissing, bubbling sound from the kitchen above, which made her turn and run up-stairs as fast as she could. then what a time the man had! the baby in his arms kept jumping and reaching for the struggling chickens, and the two little girls could hardly keep their hands away from them. "let me help just one get out of his shell," said the brown-haired little girl. "it is _so_ hard for such small chickens." "no," said the man, and he said it very patiently, although they had already been begging like this for some time. "no, you must not touch one of them. if you were hens, you would know better than to want to do such a thing. if you should take the shell off for a chicken, he would either die or be a very weak little fellow. before long each will have a fine round doorway at the large end of his shell, through which he can slip out easily." some of the chickens worked faster than others, and some had thin shells to break, while others had quite thick ones, so when the first chicken was safely out many had not even poked their bills through. as soon as the first was safely hatched, the man took away the broken shell and closed the fat table again. then he waved his hat at the little girls and said "shoo! shoo!" until they laughed and ran out-of-doors. all that day there were tiny chickens busy in the incubator (that was what the man called the fat table), working and working and working to get out of their shells. each was curled up in a tight bunch inside, and one would almost think that he could not work in such a position. however, each had his head curled around under his left wing, and pecked with it there. then, too, as he worked, each pushed with his feet against the shell, and so turned very slowly around and around inside it. that gave him a chance, you see, to peck in a circle and so break open a round doorway. as they came out, the chickens nestled close to each other or ran around a bit and got acquainted, talking in soft little "cheep-cheep-cheeps." they were very happy chickens, for they were warm and had just about light enough for eyes that had seen no light at all until that day. it is true that they had no food, but one does not need food when first hatched, so it is not strange that they were happy. it is also true that they had no mother, yet even that did not trouble them, for they knew nothing at all about mothers. probably they thought that chickens were always hatched in incubators and kept warm by lamps. the next morning, when the barred plymouth rock hen was sitting on her one egg in the carriage house, thinking sadly of her friend, the man, that same man came slowly up to her. the little girls were following him, and when they reached the doorway they stood still with their toes on a mark which the man had made. they wanted very much to see what he was about to do, yet they minded, and stood where they had been told, although they did bend forward as far as they could without tumbling over. the man knelt in front of the sitting hen, and gently uncovered the basket he held. the hen could hardly believe her ears, for she heard the soft "cheep-cheep-cheep" of newly hatched chickens. she tried to see into the basket. "there! there!" said the man, "i have brought you some children." then he lifted one at a time and slipped it into her nest, until she had twelve beautiful downy white chickens there. "well! well! well!" clucked the hen. and she could not think of another thing to say until the man had gone off to the barn. he had taken her egg, but she did not care about that. all she wanted was those beautiful chickens. she fluffed up her feathers and spread out her wings until she covered the whole twelve, and then she was the happiest fowl on the place. the man came back to put food and water where she could reach both without leaving her nest, and even then she could think of nothing to say. after he went away, a friend came strolling through the open doorway. this hen was also sitting, but had come off the nest to stretch her legs and find food. it was a warm april day, and she felt so certain that the eggs would not chill, that she paused to chat. "such dreadful luck!" she cackled. "you must never try to make me think that this man is friendly. he has left me only one of the eggs i had laid, and now i have to start all over for a brood of chickens, or else give up. the worst of it is that i feel as though i could not lay any more for a while." "don't be discouraged," said the barred plymouth rock hen. "i had only one egg to sit on last night, and this morning i have a whole brood of chickens." "where did they come from?" asked the visiting hen, in great excitement. "that is what i don't know," replied the happy mother. "the man brought them to me just now, and put food and water beside my nest. i have asked and asked them who their mother was, and they say i am the first hen they ever saw. of course that cannot be so, for chickens are not blind at first, like kittens, but it is very strange that they cannot remember about the hen who hatched them. they say that there were many more chickens where they came from, but no hen whatever." the white cock stood in the doorway. "do you know where my chickens were hatched?" asked the barred plymouth rock hen. "do i know?" said he, pausing to loosen some mud from one of his feet (he did not understand the feelings of a mother, or he would have answered at once). "i saw the man bring a basketful of chickens over this way a while ago. he got them from the cellar. the door was open and i stood on it. of course i was not hanging around to find out what he was doing. i simply happened to be there, you understand." "yes, we understand all about it," said the hens, who knew the white cock as well as anybody. "i happened to be there," he repeated, "and i saw the man take the chickens out of the fat table. there was no hen in sight. it must be a machine for hatching chickens. i think it is dreadful if the chickens on this farm have to be hatched in a cellar, without hens. everything is going wrong since the farmer left." the barred plymouth rock hen and her caller looked at each other without speaking. they remembered hearing the white cock talk in that way before the farmer left. he was one of those fowls who are always discontented. "i am going back to my nest," said the visiting hen. "perhaps the man will bring me some chickens too." the barred plymouth rock hen sat on her nest in the carriage house, eating and drinking when she wished, and cuddling her children under her feathers. she was very happy, and thought it a beautiful world. "i would rather have had them gray," she said to herself, "but if they couldn't be gray, i prefer white. they are certainly plymouth rock chickens anyway, and the color does not matter, if they are good." she stood up carefully and took a long look at her family. "i couldn't have hatched out a better brood myself," she said. "it is a queer thing for tables to take to hatching chickens, but if that is the way it is to be done on this farm, it will save me a great deal of time and be a good thing for my legs. it is lucky that this man came here. the farmer who left would never have thought of making a table sit on eggs and hatch them." the man builds a poultry-house it would be wrong to say that all the poultry on the farm really liked the man. the white cock and the brown hen had never been known really to approve of anybody, and the shanghai cock was not given to saying pleasant things of people. however, the man certainly had more and more friends among the fowls on the place, and when the white cock and the brown hen wanted to say what they thought of his ways, they had to go off together to some far-away corner where they could not be overheard. if they did not do this, they were quite certain to be asked to talk about something else. the five hens who had had chickens given to them were his firmest friends. it is true that each of them had really been on the nest long enough to hatch out chickens of her own, yet they saw that another time they would be saved the long and weary sitting. they remembered, too, the man's thoughtfulness in putting food and water where they could reach it easily on that first day, when they disliked so much to leave their families. they had spoken of this to the gander, and had tried to make him change his mind about the fat table in the cellar. they might exactly as well have talked to a feed-cutter. "i hear what you say," he replied politely (ganders are often the most polite when they are about to do or say mean things). "i hear what you say, but you cannot expect me to change my mind about what i have seen with my own eyes. it was certainly quite wrong for him to get ready to burn those eggs, and the marking of them was almost as bad. as for this nonsense about the table hatching out chickens, that is quite absurd. you could not expect a gander to believe that. it is the sort of thing which hens believe." so the man's friends had to give up talking to the gander. even the geese were not sure that it was all right. "we would like to think so," they often remarked, "but the gander says it cannot be." now the fowls had something new to puzzle them, for the man spent one sunshiny morning in walking to and fro in the fields which had always been used for a pasture, stopping every now and then to drive a stake. sometimes he walked with long strides, and then when his little girls spoke to him he would shake his head and not answer. afterward he seemed to be measuring off the ground with a long line of some sort, letting the little girls take turns in holding one end of it for him. after all of the stakes had been driven, the man harnessed brownie to the old stone-boat and began to draw large stones from different parts of the farmyard and pasture. he even went along the road and pried out some which had always lain there, right in the way of every team that had to turn aside from the narrow track. all these were drawn over to the stakes and tumbled off on the ground there. in the afternoon the farmer from across the road brought a load of lumber, which he left beside the stone and stakes, and then the work began. the farmer, who was used to building barns and sheds, began to help the man lay stone for some sort of long, narrow building. for days after that the work went on. sometimes the two men worked together, and sometimes the farmer drove off to town for more lumber, after showing the man just what to do while he was gone. the man seemed to learn very easily, and did not have to take out or do over any of his work. that was probably because he listened so carefully when the farmer was telling him. people always make mistakes, you know, unless they listen carefully to what they are told. the poultry strolled around and discussed the new building every day. they could not imagine what it was to be. at first, when only the foundation was laid, it looked so long and narrow that the gander declared it must be for a carriage house. "don't you see?" he said. "there will be plenty of room for the platform wagon, the light lumber wagon, and the implements. when they are all in, there will be room for the man to walk along on either side of them and clean them off. it is about the most sensible thing that i have known the man to do." the farmer always left his implements out in all kinds of weather, and sometimes one of his wagons stood out in a storm too. nobody except the geese agreed with the gander, and they would have agreed with him just as quickly if he had said that the building was for barn swallows. you see the gander was always ready to tell what he thought, and as the geese never even thought of thinking for themselves, it was very easy for them simply to agree with him. brown bess looked at the long lines of stone all neatly set in cement, and said that she would not mind having one end of the building for herself and the calf. "it would be much snugger than my place in the barn," said she, "although that is all right in warm weather." brownie may have known what it was for, because he had a great deal of horse sense, but if he knew he did not tell. being the only horse on the place, and so much larger than any of the other people, he had not made friends very quickly, although everybody liked him as well as they had bobs. it was not until the barred plymouth rock hen saw that the long space was to be divided into many small rooms that she guessed it might be for the poultry themselves. even then she dared not tell anybody what she thought. "in the first place," she said to herself, "they may prefer to run all over the farm, as they always have done, laying their eggs wherever they can. if any of them feel that way, they won't like it. if they really want a good house to live in, i might better not tell them what i think, for if i should be mistaken they would be disappointed." in all of which she was exactly right. it is much better for people not to tell their guesses to others. there is time enough for the telling of news when one is quite sure of it. as the work went on, the barred plymouth rock hen noticed that at each end of the long space there was a sort of scratching-shed with an open front. the distance between these end sheds was filled by two closed pens, two more scratching-sheds, two more pens, and so on. there were doors from one room to another all the way along, big doors such as men need, and there were little doors from each pen to its scratching-shed just large enough for fowls. the barred plymouth rock hen grew more and more sure that her guess was right, and still she said nothing, although she was happy to see how warm and snug the man was making the pens. "why," she said to herself, "if he will let me live in that sort of house i will lay eggs for him in the winter." she had hardly got the words out of her bill when the other poultry came up. it was growing late, and they came for a last look at the house before going to roost. "i declare," said the gobbler, "i believe that house is for the hens!" "surely not," said the gander. "you don't mean for the _hens_, do you?" "that is what i said," replied the gobbler, standing his feathers on end and dragging his wings on the ground. "why not? the man knows that turkeys do not care much for houses, else we might have a place in it. i really wouldn't mind staying in a quiet home sometimes, but in pleasant weather my wives will go, and of course i cannot let them walk around the country alone, so that is how i have to spend my days." the turkey hens looked at each other knowingly. they wished that he would leave them and their children quite alone. he was not fond of children, and the year before the turkey mothers had had dreadful times in trying to keep theirs out of his sight. "let us go inside and see what it is like," said the little speckled hen, leading the way. not until they reached the very last pen did they see enough to make them sure that the gobbler was right. there they found the perches in place, the nest-boxes ready, and a fine feeding-trough just inside the large front window, where they could stand in the sunshine in winter and eat comfortable meals. the cocks flew up at once to try the perches. "fine!" said the shanghai cock. "fine! these perches exactly fit my feet. i am glad that he made them large enough. low, too, so that we cannot hurt ourselves in flying down." "i like this," said the white cock. "the perches are all the same height from the floor. i like a low perch, but not if other fowls are above me. now you larger fellows can't roost any higher than i do. cock-a-doodle-doo!" it is not strange that he crowed over it, because every night the fowls had been fighting for the highest roosting places, and the strongest were sure to win. "nests!" cackled the hens. "nests! how pleasant this will be! they are all in a row, so we can visit with each other while we are laying." "that is a good plan," said the brown hen, who really seemed pleased at last. "i am always thinking of things to say when i am laying, and there is hardly ever any other fowl near enough to hear. it has been very annoying." "i don't care so much about that," said a very sensible white hen. "i can stand it not to talk for a while. what i want is a warm nest where the rain cannot strike me, and where i shall have quite room enough for my tail." "that is what we want, too," said three or four others. "there have always been so many unpleasant things," said the brown hen. "i have tried many places. i find a warm one where the wind cannot blow upon me, and usually there is not enough room for my tail. no hen can lay comfortably in a nest when her tail is pushed to one side. i have tried laying under the currant bushes in warm weather, and there one has all out-of-doors for her tail, but on rainy days one has to change. i do not like changes." "you do not?" asked the shanghai cock. "i thought all fowls liked changes. if you live here in winter, you will be walking from the pen to the scratching-shed half of the time." "you know very well what i mean," said the brown hen. "i like the changes that i like, of course. any fowl does. what i do not like is the changes that i don't like." she said this in a dignified and truly hen-like manner, and then she walked off. "all i hope," said the white cock, sadly, "is that we shall not be shut up in these places during the summer. one cannot tell what may happen. one must expect the worst. when i see the wire front of the scratching-shed, i fear that we shall be kept in." "nonsense!" cried the shanghai cock. "don't be a goose. the man has begun to put a wire fence around a great yard outside, and there will be plenty of room to run there if we are to live here. i do not believe that we shall be shut in, in pleasant weather." "come," clucked the barred plymouth rock hen to her brood. "come with me to the carriage house. it is time all good little chickens were asleep." she was very happy over the pleasant things which she had heard said about the man. only a truly polite hen could have kept from saying "i told you so," all this time, but she had shut her bill tightly and kept back the words she wanted to say. you remember that the shanghai cock had always liked the barred plymouth rock hen, and now he thought she should be told how they had come to feel about her friend, the man. he was not used to saying pleasant things, but having praised the perches made it a little easier for him. you know saying one kind thing always makes it easier to say another. so he ran after her. "er-er! i don't want the farmer to come back," he said. then he thought that did not sound quite right and he tried again. "i'm not sorry he went away. i mean i'm glad that the man came. all of us are now, except the gander and the white cock, and you don't really care for them, do you?" he looked at her lovingly with his round eyes, and the wind waved his drooping tail feathers. the barred plymouth rock hen thought that she had never seen him look so handsome. "i don't care at all about them," she replied quite honestly, "and i am glad that you and the others like the man." she said "you" much more loudly than she said "the others," and the shanghai cock must have known what she meant, for he stretched his neck, opened his bill, and gave such a crow as he was never known, before or since, to give at that hour of the day. the barred plymouth rock hen went happily to her nest, and stayed awake long after her last chicken was fast asleep. even if one is grown-up and the mother of a family, even if one comes of a finer breed than one's neighbors, he cannot be truly happy without their hearty liking. this hen felt that she had it at last, and that just by doing the thing which she thought right, but which the other poultry had not liked at all at first. it is often so. the pekin duck steals a nest the ducks were not much interested in the new poultry-house. to be sure the hens talked of hardly anything else now, and several had said that they would be glad to lay in the new nest-boxes as soon as they should be lined with hay for them. so the ducks heard enough about the house, but did not really care for it at all. "it is too far from the river," said they. "we are quite contented with the old pig-pen. since the hog and her children were taken away and the man has cleaned it out, we find it an excellent place. there is room for all of us in the little shed where the hog used to live, and the man has thrown in straw and fixed good places for egg-laying. besides, there is no door, and we can go in and out as often as we choose." that was exactly like the ducks. they seemed to think that to go where they wished and when they wished was the best part of life. the best part of sleeping in the old pigpen, they thought, was being able to leave it whenever they chose. they knew perfectly well, if they stopped to think about it, that a weasel or rat could get in quite as easily as they, and it was only their luck which had kept them safe so long. the ducks were very pleasant people to know. they never worried about anything for more than a few minutes, and had charmingly happy and contented ways. there were only a few of them on the farm, and no two exactly alike in color and size. the farmer had never paid much attention to them, and the boy, who bought and kept them for pets, had tired of them so soon that they had been allowed to go wherever they pleased, until they expected always to have their own way. they took their share of the food thrown out for the poultry, and then went off to the river for the day. during the hot weather they stayed there until after all respectable hens had gone to roost. even the geese left the water long before they did. when they went to sleep, they settled down on the floor and dozed off. "it is much easier than flying up to roosts and then down again," they said. "find a place you like, and then stay there. we see no reason why people should make such a fuss about going to sleep." when the shanghai cock heard these things, he shook his head until his wattles swung. "that is all very well for the ducks," said he, "but from the way this man acts, i think there may be a change coming for them by and by. i notice that things are more different every day." the ducks soon began to see that it was different with them. ducks, you know, are always very careless about where they lay their eggs. some of these were so old that they seldom laid eggs, only the pekin duck and her big friend, the aylesbury duck, laid them quite often after the middle of winter. at first the man looked in the old pig-pen for them, but after he had looked many days and found only one, he drew a book out of his pocket and read a bit. then he called the little girls to him and talked to them. "i want you to watch each of those white ducks," said he, "and for every one of their eggs which you find i will give you a penny." each morning for some days after that, the two ducks were followed by two hopeful little girls. "i don't mind it so much now," the pekin duck said to her friends on the third day, "but at first i didn't know what to do. i would no sooner sit down to lay under a bush or in some cosy corner than a little girl would sit on the ground in front and watch me. then i would move to another place, and she would move too. i must say, however, that they are very good children. the boy who lived here often threw stones at us. these children never do. i sometimes think there may be as much difference in boys and girls as there is in ducklings." when the little girls tired of watching for eggs to be laid, the pekin duck decided to do something she had never tried before. she was the youngest of the flock, and she wanted ducklings. the older ducks tried to discourage her. "have a good time while you can," said the aylesbury duck, who was about her age, and thought ducklings a bother. "i don't want to be troubled with a lot of children." the old ducks advised her not to try it. "you think it will be very fine," said they, "but you will find that you cannot go wherever you want to, and do whatever you please with ducklings tagging along. the sitting alone is enough to tire a duck out." "oh, i think i could stand it," remarked the pekin duck, quietly. "didn't some duck stand it long enough to hatch me?" "hatch you? no indeed," laughed an old rouen duck, who could remember quite distinctly things which had happened three years before on the farm from which they had all come to this. "hatch you? a shanghai hen hatched you and half a dozen other ducklings in a box with hay in it and slats across the front. i remember quite well how cross she became when she thought it time for her chickens to chip the shell, and they did not chip. she never dreamed that she was sitting on ducks' eggs, although every duck on the place knew it and thought it a good joke. she was a stupid thing, or she would have known without being told. any bright hen knows that ducks' eggs are larger, darker, and greasier looking than her own." the pekin duck remembered very little of her life before coming to the farm, so she was glad to hear of it from the old rouen duck. "what did my mother do when her eggs didn't hatch?" said she. "do?" repeated the rouen duck. "do? why she did the only thing that any sitting fowl can do. she kept on sitting." "how long?" asked the pekin duck. "you don't suppose i can remember that, do you?" replied the rouen duck, twitching her little pointed tail from side to side. "besides, i never count things. all i know is that she said one of the cocks, who was a friend of hers, declared that the moon was quite new when she began sitting, and that she sat there until it was quite new again. he was roosting in a tree just then, and knew more about the moon because he always awakened to crow during the night. she thought it was dreadful to have to sit so long." the pekin duck saw that the rouen duck was still trying to discourage her. "i suppose it was harder for her because her legs were longer," she said. "if they were longer they would ache more, wouldn't they?" the rouen duck smiled all around her bill "your mother had her worst time later on, though," she said. "when you and your brothers and sisters were hatched, she could not understand why you were so different from all the other children she had ever raised. she said that not one of you looked like her family, and the shanghai cock was very disagreeable to her about it. he said she should be more careful whose eggs she hatched. and when you children went into the water, your mother would walk up and down the bank of the pond, clucking as hard as she could, and begging you to come ashore at once. at night, too, there was trouble, for you would never go to bed as early as she thought proper. after a while she learned to march off at a time that suited her, and let you come when you were ready." "thank you ever so much for telling me," said the pekin duck, sweetly. "it must be horrid to have the wrong kind of children. i promise you that i will not sit on hens' eggs." then she waddled away. "i want some ducklings," said she, putting her pretty webbed feet down somewhat harder than usual. "i want ducklings, and i am going to steal a nest at once." she was a duck of determination, and made a start by finding a cosy spot under some burdock plants and laying an egg before she went in swimming. she was in such haste to make a beginning that she had actually to come back later to finish her nest, which she did by adding more dried leaves and grass and lining it with down which she plucked from her breast. after that, of course, all her friends knew that it was useless to talk to her about it, for when a duck goes around at that season of the year with her breast all ragged from her plucking it, people may be very sure that she is planning to hatch a brood. it is not at all becoming, but it is a great help, for when the sitting duck is tired or hungry, she can pull the down over the eggs and leave her nest, knowing that the down will keep them warm for a long time. of course the other ducks talked about her a good deal when she was not around, and said she would be sorry she had undertaken all that work and care, and that it was exactly as well to drop one's eggs anywhere and let the man pick them up to put under some sitting hen. "yes," said the aylesbury duck, "or else give them to the fat table for hatching." then they all laughed. it seemed such a joke to them that a table should take to hatching eggs. nearly every day the pekin duck laid an egg, and she soon had enough to begin sitting. after that, she did not go up to the pig-pen at night with her friends. it was quite lonely in the clump of burdocks, and if the pekin duck had been at all timid she might have had some bad nights, for weasels, rats, and skunks were out after dark, looking for something to eat. yet they must always have found food before they reached the burdocks, for the duck was not disturbed. during the day her friends came along for a chat, and often the drake waddled up for a visit. he seemed to think her a very sensible sort of duck. he had not the gobbler's dislike of children, although he never shared the labor of hatching them, like his friend the gander. he thought one could be a good father without going quite as far as that. the days were long and the nights seemed longer to the tired pekin duck, but her courage never failed. when her legs cramped so that she could hardly step off the nest, she smiled and said to herself, "suppose i were a thousand-legged worm!" she fancied it made her feel better to think of such things, and she never remembered that thousand-legged-worms do not sit on nests and hatch out their children in that way. it is probably better that she did not. if it does one good to think of thousand-legged-worms, it is wise to think about them, even if one does make a slight mistake of this sort. when the rain came, the burdock leaves kept off most of it, and the few drops which fell between the leaves rolled off the duck's back without wetting her at all. that was because her feathers were so oily that the rain could not stay on them. ducks, you know, always have on their water-proofs, and can slip in and out of the water at any time without getting really wet. the pleasure which she missed most was seeing the changes which the man was making in the upper end of the pasture. the drake told her how great yards had been fenced in with wire netting, and how the fronts of the scratching-shed had been covered with somewhat finer netting of the same kind. "not even a weasel could get through it," he said. and then the pekin duck wished that the man would fix a place for her ducklings where weasels could not get them. she had never feared such creatures for herself, but when she thought of her children she was afraid. that is always the way, since it is much easier for a mother to be brave for herself than for her children. on a beautiful morning in the last of may, the pekin duck was repaid for all her patience and courage by having seven beautiful ducklings chip the shell. they were even more beautiful than she had thought they would be, and she could not understand why her friends seemed no more impressed. to be sure they said that they were fine ducklings and that they looked like their mother, and admired their dainty little webbed feet and their bills. they spoke of the beautiful thick down which covered them, and said that they were remarkably bright and strong for their age. and yet the pekin duck could see that they had not properly realized what wonderful creatures the ducklings were. it was when all the ducks were gathered around to look at the ducklings that one of the little girls came along with her doll. when she also saw the ducklings, she was so excited that she hugged her doll tightly to her heart and ran off to find her father. a few minutes later the pekin duck saw her precious babies lifted into a well-lined basket and carried off toward the house. she followed, quacking anxiously, and keeping as close to the man as possible. twice he lowered the basket to let her see that her children were quite safe. the man carried the basket to a place beside the new poultry-house, now all done, and quickly fixed the old down-lined nest, which the little girl had been carrying in another basket, into a fine coop. next he put the nestlings into it and let the pekin duck cover them with her wings. he stretched fine wire netting across the front of the coop, and then the pekin duck was perfectly happy. indeed it was not until the middle of the following night that she remembered she had not looked at the poultry-house at all. [illustration: she followed quacking anxiously. _page _] it was rather disappointing not to be able to take her children in swimming for two days, but when she saw how carefully the man fed them on bread and milk and other soft food, and how particular he was about having plenty of clean water for them to drink, she quite forgave him for keeping them there. the other ducks came to tell her how to care for the ducklings, to shake their sleek heads, and to tell her how unfortunate it was that she could not take the ducklings in swimming at once. "you will need to know many things," said the old rouen duck, "and i will tell you if you will come to me every time that you are perplexed." "thank you," said the pekin duck. but she never went. she thought it just as well that a duck who had never hatched out children should not be giving advice to people who had. when the ducklings were three days old, they were let out and started at once for the river. when their mother had to stop to speak to her friends on the way, they did not wait for her, but marched on ahead. all the fowls spoke admiringly of them, and the pekin duck was truly happy as she looked at her seven proper little ducklings. they were such bright children, too, waddling right down to the edge of the brook and slipping in without a single question as to how it should be done. their mother followed after and showed them how she fed from the bottom, reaching her head far down until she could fill her orange-colored bill with the soft mud from the bottom. there were many tiny creatures in the mud which were good to eat, and these she kept and swallowed, letting the mud pass out between the rough edges of her bill. if the water had been deeper, she could have showed them how she dived, staying long under water and coming up in a most unexpected place. when they came out of the water and stood on the bank, their mother stretched herself up as tall as she could and preened her feathers. the seven little ducklings stood as tall as they could and squeezed the water out of their down with their tiny bills, which seemed so much longer for them than their mother's did for her. the pekin duck was much amused to see how the other ducks flocked around her children. indeed, she laughed outright once, when she heard the old rouen duck say to the white cock, "don't you think that our ducklings are growing finely?" of course the pekin duck was ashamed of having laughed at any one so much older than she, so she stuck her head under her wing and pretended to be arranging the feathers there. when she drew it out again she was quite sober, but she was thinking "our ducklings! our ducklings! they may all call them that if it makes them happy to do so, but really they are my ducklings, for i earned them, and they love me as they love nobody else." the new nests and the nest eggs as might have been expected, the new poultry-house was no sooner finished than the fowls began to discuss who should live in the different parts. they could see no reason why they should not all run together, as they always had done. "perhaps," the black hen had said, "the man may put us all together and let the table's chickens have pens to themselves." "what?" said the barred plymouth rock hen, "put me in one pen and my chickens in another? that would never do." "you forget," said the shanghai cock very gently, "that by winter-time they will not need your care any more, and you will not wish to be with them so much." and that was true, for no matter how fond a hen may be of her tiny chickens, she is certain to care less for them when they are grown. all the fowls were quite sure that they should have the best pen and yard, because they had been the longest on the place. after they had spoken of that, they had a great time in deciding which was the best pen. part of the fowls wanted to be in the end toward the road, so that they could see all that went on there and look across to the other farm to watch their neighbors. the cocks all preferred this. they liked excitement. some of the hens wished to live in the pen next to the barn. "we are fond of the barn," they said. "we have been there so much, and have laid so many eggs there that it seems like home. we know that it is not so comfortable, but it seems like home." however, the cocks had their wish, and on the day when it was granted there was such a crowing from fence-tops as greatly puzzled the man. he could not find anything in his books and papers to explain it, although he looked and looked and looked. at last one of the little girls told him what she thought, and she was exactly right. "it sounds to me as though they were just happy," she said. you see the man had not lived long enough on a farm to understand the language of poultry very well, so he had much to learn. there are many people who think themselves quite wise and yet cannot tell what one of a tiny chicken's five calls means, and there are some men, even some fathers (and fathers need to know more than anybody else in the world, except mothers) who do not know that a cock can say at least nine different things with the same cry, "cock-a-doodle-doo!" this man was a father and had been a school-teacher, too, so he was not an ignorant man, and after his little girl said that he decided to learn poultry-talk. it took some weeks, but you shall hear by and by how well he succeeded. the man wanted to teach the hens to lay in the new nests, so that he would not have to spend much time in egg-hunting, and because he wished to be sure of finding the eggs as soon as they were laid. people should grow good as they grow old, you know, but it is not so with the eggs. the man did not want to shut the fowls in during the warm weather, for then he would have to feed them more, and that would cost too much money, yet he opened this front pen with its scratching-shed and yard, and fed them there every night. while they were feeding he closed the outer gate, so that they could not go back to roost on the trees or wherever they chose. the perches were comfortable, with room enough for all, and far enough apart so that those in the back rows did not have their bills brushed by the tails of those in front. the hens who had chickens were now kept in the second pen from this, and so were quite safe from prowling weasels and other hunters. in the front pen, you see, there were only full-grown fowls, and morning was a busy time for most of the laying hens. the gate was not opened until the sun was well up, and by that time many of the hens had laid in one of the cosy nests under the perches, nests which were so well roofed over that not even a pin-feather could have dropped into them from above. they were so very comfortable that even the hens who did not lay before leaving the pen were soon glad to come strolling back to it, instead of fluttering and scrambling to some lonely corner of the hayloft in the barn. on the first morning that the fowls were shut in there, a very queer thing happened. the first hen to go on a nest exclaimed, "why, who was here ahead of me?" nobody answered, and the hen asked again. at last the speckled hen said, "i think you are the first one to lay this morning." "the first one!" exclaimed the black hen, for it was she, as she backed out onto the floor again. "you must not expect me to believe that i am the first when there is an egg in the nest already." as she spoke she pointed in with her bill, and the others came crowding around. there lay a fine, large, and quite shiny egg. while they were still looking and wondering which hen had laid it, the brown hen discovered that there was an egg in each of the six other nests. she was so excited that for a minute she could hardly cackle. the black hen began to look angry, and stood her feathers on end and shook herself in a way that she had when she was much displeased. she was not a good-natured hen. "you think that you are very smart," she said, "but _i_ think that you are very silly. every fowl here knows that i always like to be the first on the nest in the morning, and yet seven of you must have laid in the night to get ahead of me. i don't mind having an egg in the nest. every hen likes to find at least one there. it is the mean way in which you tried to prevent my getting ahead of the rest of you." the hens insisted that they never took their feet from the perches all night long, and the speckled hen, who was a very kind little person, tried to show the black hen that it was all a mistake of some sort. "perhaps they were laid in there yesterday," said she, "only we did not notice them when we came in." the cocks kept still, although they looked very knowing. they did not want to offend any of the hens by taking sides. at last the brown hen spoke. it always seemed that she made some trouble every time she opened her bill. "i remember," said she, "that there was not an egg there when i went to roost last night. the last thing i did before flying up onto my perch was to look in all the nests and try to decide which i preferred." then there was more trouble, and in the midst of it the speckled hen hopped into one of the nests. "sorry to get ahead of you," she said politely to the black hen, "but the truth is that i feel like laying." she gave a little squawk as she brushed against the egg there. "it is light!" she cried. "it is light and slippery! none of us ever laid such an egg as that." "of course not," said one of the cocks, who now saw his way to stop the trouble. "of course none of you lay that sort of eggs. i could have told you that long ago, if you had asked me." when the fowls were all looking at each other and wondering what sort of creature it could be who had slipped in and laid the eggs there, a tiny door in the outside wall, just back of one of the nests, was opened, and the man peeped in. all he saw was a number of fowls standing around and looking as though they had been very much surprised. half of the hens stood with one foot in the air. he dropped the door, which was hinged at the top, and then the fowls looked at each other again. it was a great comfort to them at times like these to be able to look both ways at once. "the man opened those little doors while we were asleep, and put those eggs in," they said. "they are not hens' eggs at all. probably they are some that his table laid." it was only a minute before all the nests were in use, and soon the noise of puzzled and even angry clucking was replaced by the joyous cackling of hens who felt that they had done their work for the day. "of course," said the speckled hen, "those eggs cannot be so good as the ones we lay, but i do not mind the feeling of them at all. and i must say that finding them already in a strange nest makes it seem much more homelike to me. this man acts as though he really understood hens and wanted to make them happy." the white plymouth rocks come only a few days after the new poultry-house had been opened to the fowls on the place, the man came home from town with a crate in his light wagon. in the crate were a cock and ten hens. all were very beautiful white plymouth rocks, and larger than any of the fowls on the place would have supposed possible. you can imagine what a scurrying to and fro there was among those who had always lived on the place, and how many questions they asked of each other, questions which nobody was able to answer. "are they to live on this farm?" said one. "it must be so," answered another. "don't you see that the man is getting ready to open the crate?" "where do you suppose they came from?" asked a third. "why, they are almost as big as turkeys." "altogether too large, i think," said a bantam. "it makes fowls look coarse to be so overgrown." "what is that?" asked the shanghai cock, sharply. he had come up from behind without the bantam's seeing him, and she hardly knew what to answer. she lowered her head and pecked at the ground, because she did not know what to say. she dared not tell the shanghai cock, who was very tall, that she thought large fowls looked coarse. so she kept still. it would have been much better if she had held up her head and told the truth, which was that she disliked to have large fowls around, since it made her seem smaller. "i think," said the shanghai cock, "that if a fowl is good, the more there is of him the better. if he is not good, the smaller he is the better." he looked over towards the wagon as he spoke, but the bantam knew that he meant her, and then she was even more uncomfortable. she thought people were all looking at her, and she felt smaller than ever. the man backed the wagon up to the outer gate of the second poultry-yard, which was just between the one where the chickens were with their mothers and the one into which the older fowls were allowed to go. then he loosened the side of the crate very carefully and took the new-comers out, one at a time. he had to hold the side of the crate with his hand, so the only way in which he could lift the fowls out was by taking them by the legs in his other hand and putting them, head downward, into the yard. one would think that it might be quite annoying to a fowl to have to enter his new home in that fashion, with all the others watching, but the white plymouth rocks did not seem to mind it in the least. perhaps that was because they had been carried so before and were used to it. perhaps, too, it was because they felt sure that the fowls who were standing around had also been carried by the legs. perhaps it was just because they were exceedingly sensible fowls and knew that such things did not matter in the least. at all events, each hen gave herself a good shake when allowed to go free, settled her feathers quickly, and began to walk around. the cock did the same, only he crowed and crowed and crowed, as much as to say, "how fine it is to be able to stretch once more! a fellow could not get room to crow properly in that crate." [illustration: took the new-comers out, one at a time. _page _] now everybody knows that the poultry who had been long on the place should have spoken pleasantly to the white plymouth rocks at once. it would have made them much happier and would have been the kind thing to do. they did not do it, and there were different reasons for this. the shanghai cock was so used to saying disagreeable things every day to the fowls whom he knew, that now, when he really wanted very much to be agreeable, he found he did not know how. there are many people in the world who have that trouble. the bantam hen was cross, and walked away, saying to herself, "i guess they are big enough to take care of themselves." and that was a mistake, as you very well know, for nobody in this world is big enough to be perfectly happy without the kindness and friendship of others. as for the rest of the fowls, some of them didn't care about being polite; some of them didn't know what was the best thing to say and so did not say anything; and some thought it would not do to talk to them, because they were not so large and fine-looking as the white plymouth rocks. they really wanted to do the kind thing, but were afraid they did not look well enough. as though kindness were not a great deal more important than the sort of feathers one wears! the white plymouth rocks did the best that they could about it. they chatted pleasantly among themselves, saying that it was a fine day, and that it seemed good to set foot on grass once more, and that they had sadly missed having a bit of grass to eat with their grain and water while they were in the crate. it was at this time that the barred plymouth rock hen in the next yard came over to the wire netting which separated the two. she would have come sooner if it had not been for her chickens. two of them had been quarrelling over a fat bug which they found, and she stayed to settle the trouble and scold them as they deserved. now she came stepping forward in her very best manner to greet the strangers. she knew that she was not so large as they, and that her barred gray feathers were not nearly so showy as their gleaming white ones, but she also knew that somebody should welcome them to the farm, and she was ashamed that it had not been done sooner. "good-morning," said she. "i am very glad that you have come here to live." "oh, thank you," replied all the white plymouth rocks together. "we are very glad to meet you. we hope to be happy here." "have you come far?" asked the barred plymouth rock hen. "very far," said they. "unless you have taken such a journey you can have no idea how glad we are to be free again." "i have never taken any journey," said she, "except the time i came here to live, and that was when i was only a chicken. i do not remember much about it. i fluttered out of a crate that was being carried in a wagon, and ran around alone until i happened to find this place." "how sad!" exclaimed the cock. "i hope you have had no such hard time since. they seem to have a good poultry-house here, although i have not yet been inside." "it is a good one," said the barred plymouth rock hen, "but i do not sleep in it these warm nights. i stay in a coop in my yard with my children." as she spoke she looked lovingly down at the white flock around her feet. they were growing finely and already showed some small feathers on their wings. "oh!" exclaimed the hens in the other yard. "oh, what beautiful chickens! so strong! so quick! so well-behaved! how long is it since you hatched them?" "well," replied their mother, "i suppose i did not hatch them. i sat long enough on the nest and laid enough eggs, but the man who owns the farm took away my eggs and brought me these chickens. he has a sort of table down in his cellar which hatches out all the chickens on the farm. i might just as well have saved myself all those tiresome days and nights of sitting if i had known how it would be." "that is a good thing to know," said one of the new-comers. "on the farm from which we came, all the chickens are hatched in that way. we never had a mother who was alive." "not until after you were hatched i suppose," remarked the barred plymouth rock hen, who thought the other did not mean exactly what she had said. "we had no real mother then," said the white plymouth rock hen. "there were so many of us that we had to get along without. the man who owned us had a lot of things to take the place of mothers. they were made of wood and some soft stuff and he used to set them around in the yards on pleasant days. we ate the food and drank the water that were brought to us, and then we played around in the grass near the make-believe mothers. when we were tired or cold we crawled under them and cuddled down, and when we were scared we did the same way. we were very well cared for by the men, and we all grew to be strong and healthy fowls, but i sometimes wish that we could have had a live mother to snuggle under and to love." the barred plymouth rock hen was greatly surprised. "i think it is well to save the hens having to hatch out the broods," she said, "but they should be willing to care for the chickens. there is nothing quite so good as a live mother." another plymouth rock hen strolled up. "i have been in the pen and the scratching-shed," said she, "and i think them delightful." "are they at all like what you had before coming here?" asked the barred plymouth rock hen. "very much the same," was the reply. "only on the farm from which we came there were a great, great many more pens. it took four men to care for us all. most of us were white plymouth rocks. what are those fowls outside? we never saw any that looked just like them." "oh," replied the barred plymouth rock hen with a little smile, "they don't know exactly what they are. the shanghai cock is a shanghai, as any one can tell by looking at his long and feathery legs, but he and i are the only ones who belong to fine families. he is really an excellent fellow, although, of course, being a shanghai is not being a plymouth rock." "of course not," agreed all the new fowls, speaking quite together. "we understand perfectly. you mean that he is a very good shanghai." "exactly," said the barred plymouth rock hen. "the other fowls think him rather cross, but he never has been cross to me. i think he gets tired of hearing some of them quarrel and fuss, and then he speaks right out." "one has to at times," said the cock, politely, for he saw that the barred plymouth rock hen wished him to like her friends. "when you can," he added, "tell him that i would like to meet him. i suppose we shall not be allowed to go out of our own yard, but he can come up to the fence. and send the others also. we would like to meet our new neighbors." "i will," replied the barred plymouth rock hen, as she clucked to her chickens. "good-by. i see that we have fresh food coming." while her children were feeding she pretended to eat, pecking every now and then at the food, and chatting softly with them as they ate. there was always much to say about their manners at such times, and she had to use both of her eyes to make sure that they did not trample on the food. she also had to remind them often about wiping their bills on the grass when they had finished. she could not bear to see a chicken running around with mush on the sides of his bill. when they had eaten all they wished and ran away to play, she ate what was left and sat down to think. "i would like to be white," she said to herself. "i would certainly like to be white, and live in style with those fowls who have just come. it must be lovely to be so important that one is taken riding on the cars and lifted around carefully in crates." then she remembered how they had spoken of their legs aching, and how glad they were to be free on the grass once more. "i don't know that i would really care about travelling," she added, "but i would like to live in such style with a lot of fowls of my own family." she remembered what the cock had said about their having to stay in their own yard, and she added, "but i would not want to have to stay always in the same place." she thought a little while longer and laughed aloud. "i believe that i would really rather be just what i happen to be," said she. "i don't know why i never thought of that before." you can see that she was a most sensible hen. many fowls never stop to think that if they were to change places with others, they would have to stand the unpleasant as well as the pleasant part of the change. the little white chickens came crowding up to their gray mother. "tell us what made you laugh," they said. "please tell us." her small round eyes twinkled. "i was laughing," she said, "just because i am myself and not somebody else." "we don't see anything very funny about that," they exclaimed. "who else could you be?" the barred plymouth rock hen sent them off to chase a butterfly, and went to call on her nearest neighbor. "i would like to tell them," she said, "but they are too young to understand it yet." the turkey chicks are hatched spring was always an anxious time for the hen turkeys who wanted to raise broods. raising children is hard work and brings many anxieties with it. the mother is so much afraid that they will take cold, or eat too much, or not get enough to eat, or take something that is not good for children. there is also the fear that they may be careless and have some dreadful accident. and, worst of all, there is always the fear that they may be naughty and grow up the wrong sort of people. these cares all mothers have, but the turkey mothers have another care which is really very hard to stand, for the gobblers do not like their children and will try in every way to prevent the eggs from hatching. if a gobbler sees one of the hen turkeys laying an egg, he will break the egg, and if he meets a flock of tiny turkey chicks he will peck and hurt, perhaps even kill, all that he can of them. that is why the hen turkeys on the farm had always been in the habit of stealing away to lay their eggs in some secret place. one had even raised a fine brood in the middle of a nettle-patch the year before. she had slipped away from her friends and from the gobbler day after day until she had laid thirteen eggs, and then had begun sitting. she had to sit as long as the ducks do, and that is for twenty-eight days. you can imagine how tired she became, and how many times she had kept very still, hardly daring to move a feather, because she heard the gobbler near and feared he would find and break her precious eggs. now she began to feel like laying, and walked off to the nettle-patch once more. she thought that having had such good luck there before was a reason for trying it again. she had hardly laid her fine large egg there when the man came softly along and picked her up by the legs. she flapped her wings and craned her head as far upwards as she could, yet he did not loosen his hold on her. he carried her carefully, but he carried her just the same. when he reached the poultry-house, he put her in a pen by herself. then he went off to the farmhouse with her newly laid egg in his pocket. you can imagine how sad she felt. if there is one thing that a hen turkey likes better than taking long walks, it is raising turkey chicks. in spite of the weariness and the anxiety, she is very fond of it. and now this one found herself shut in and without her egg. it is true that, besides the pen, she could go into the scratching-shed and the big yard, yet even then there was the wired netting between her and the great world, and her friends were on the other side of the fence. she was just wondering if she could not fly over the fence and be free, when the man returned and cut some of the long feathers from her right wing. then she knew that she could not fly at all. the man next made a fine nest of hay in a good-sized box, placing it in the shed and putting an egg into it. the hen turkey first thought that it was her own egg, but when the man left and she could come nearer, she found that it was not. instead, it was different from any she had ever seen. she tried sitting on it. "it feels all right," she said in her gentle and plaintive voice. "if i am still here when i want to lay another, i will use this nest." in spite of her loneliness and sadness, the hen turkey managed to keep brave during the days that followed. the man gave her plenty of good corn and clean water, and she had many visits with the hens and their chickens who lived in the pen next to hers and ran about all day in their yard. of course she did not think them so interesting as turkey chicks, yet she liked to watch them and visit with them between the wires. it made her want a brood of her own even more than ever. she still laid eggs right along, and the man took each away soon after it was laid. she feared that he took them to eat, but the barred plymouth rock hen said that he might be giving them to the table to hatch, and that she should not worry. "i had just such a time myself," she added, "and it all came out right. you see if he does not bring you some fine turkey chicks soon." this always cheered the hen turkey for a time, but even if it were to be so, she thought, she would prefer to hatch her own eggs. she did not know that the man had every one of hers in a basket in a dry, warm place in the house, and was turning each over carefully every day. this he did to keep them in the best possible way until there should be a nestful for her to sit on. sometimes the gobbler and the two other hen turkeys came up to the fence to visit with her. they never stayed long, because they came of a restless and wandering family, yet it did her good to have chats with them, even if they walked back and forth part of the time as they talked. the gobbler paid very little attention to her. he told her once that the hen turkeys who were foolish enough to try to raise broods deserved to be shut up and have their wings clipped. she had better visits with her sisters when he was not there to listen. one of them told her that she had several eggs hidden under a sumach bush in a fence corner. the other said that she was trying to decide on a nesting-place; she couldn't choose between a corner of the lower meadow and the edge of the woods. both of them spoke very softly, and frequently looked over toward where the gobbler was strutting in the sunshine. they were much afraid that he would hear. when her sisters walked away, the hen turkey in the yard felt sadder than ever. she strolled back into the shed and tried to think of something pleasant to do. she had not laid an egg for two days, and she was very lonely. you can imagine how pleased and happy she was to see eleven fine turkey eggs lying in her nest. the queer egg which she had not laid was gone, and she felt certain that those there were all her own. she got on the nest at once, and found that she could exactly cover them. "how lucky!" she thought. "if there were another one it would be too many and i could not keep it warm." she did not know she had laid fifteen eggs, and that the man had taken the other four down cellar to be hatched by the incubator. she thought it just luck that there were precisely enough. she did not know the man had read in one of his books that a hen turkey can safely cover only eleven eggs. there are several things better than luck, you see. willingness to study is one and willingness to work is another. this man had both kinds of willingness, and it was well for his poultry that he had. there is not much to be told about the days that passed before the first turkey chick chipped the shell. the sun shone into the open front of the shed for twenty-eight days, and the patient hen turkey was there, sitting on her nest. the moon shone into the shed for many nights, and she was still there. the moon could not shine in for twenty-eight nights for two reasons. sometimes it set too early, and sometimes the nights were cloudy and wet, although none of the days were. when it rained the turkey was the happiest. she did not like wet weather at all. it was for this reason she was happy. every shower reminded her how wet it must be out in the nettle-patch, and made her think how cosy and happy she was in the place which the man had made ready for her. then came the joyous day on which ten little turkey chicks chipped the shell. they were very promising children, quite the finest, their mother thought, that she had ever seen. there was only one sad thing about the day, and that was not having the eleventh egg hatch. the turkey hen was too happy with her ten children to spend much time in thinking of the other which she had hoped to have, but she could not help remembering once in a while, and then she became very sad. it was not until the next morning that the ten little ones began to eat and to run around. young turkeys do not eat at all the first day, you know, but they always make up for it afterwards. when the hen turkey walked out of the shed with her family, the hens in the next yard crowded to the fence to see them. the little white plymouth rocks could not understand for a long time why the turkey chicks should be so large. "it isn't fair," they said. "those turkey chicks will be grown up long before we are!" they thought that to be grown up was the finest thing in the world. the hens were very friendly and chatted long about them, telling the fond mother how very slender their necks were and how neat their little feet looked, with the tiny webs coming half-way to the tips of their toes. "i am very glad for you," said the barred plymouth rock hen. "i was sure that it would all come out right in the end. this man takes excellent care of his poultry." after a while the gobbler came strutting past. when he saw his children, he stood his feathers on end and dragged his wings on the ground. he was exceedingly angry, and would have liked it very well if they had been on his side of the fence. "ugly little things!" he said to their mother. "they will tag around after you all the rest of the summer." "very well," she replied. "i shall like to have them." "silly--silly--silly!" said the gobbler, as he strutted off. the hen turkey's sisters came walking slowly toward her. both of them were sitting on eggs, and had left their nests for a few minutes to find food. of course they could not make a long call. "i built in the edge of the woods after all," said the one who had been so undecided. "i wanted you to know, but don't tell anybody else, or the gobbler may hear of it and find the nest." then she spoke of the ten turkey chicks and asked the other sister to notice how much they looked like their mother. after that they had to hurry back to their nests. when the hen turkey called her chicks to cuddle down for the night, she found four already in the shed, eating from the food-dish. "i thought you were all outside with me," she remarked. "why did you come in here?" "we couldn't help ourselves," said they. "some very large creature brought us here just now. we came from a darker place than this." the mother was very much puzzled. she knew that she had not hatched them, and that they could not belong to her sisters, who had begun sitting after she did. there was no way of taking them to any other place for the night, so she decided to do the kind thing and care for them herself. she was quite right in this. one is never sorry for having done the kind thing, you know, but one is very often sorry for having done the unkind thing. "crawl right under my wings," said she, "and cuddle down with these other turkey chicks. i will try to cover you all." she managed very well and the night was warm, so that although a few of the chicks were not wholly covered all the time, they got along very comfortably indeed. by the next morning the mother loved the four as much as she did her own ten. "it really doesn't matter in the least who hatched them," she said, "or even who laid the eggs. they need a mother and i can love them all. it would be a shame if i couldn't stretch my wings a little more for the sake of covering them." she never knew that they had been hatched in the incubator from the four eggs which she had laid, but which the man had thought she could not cover. you see she was really adopting her own children without knowing it. turkey mothers are hungry creatures, and do not understand that they should not eat the hard-boiled eggs which are the best food for their chicks when very small. so the man had either to shut this mother in the shed and place the food for the chicks outside, where she could not reach it, or else find some other way of keeping it from her. he thought a turkey who had sat so closely on her nest for four weeks should be allowed to stretch, so he put the food for the children in a coop and left the mother free. the little ones could run in and out whenever they wanted to eat, and the mother had plenty of corn and water outside, so they were all well cared for and happy. the gobbler said unkind things to them each time he passed, but they were too happy and sensible to mind that very much, and it did not seem long before the chicks' tail-and wing-feathers were showing through their down, and they were given porridge and milk instead of hard-boiled egg. this made them feel that they were growing up very fast indeed, and they kept stretching their tiny wings and looking around at their funny little tails to watch their feathers lengthen. on the day when they had their first porridge, their aunts and their newly hatched cousins were brought in to share their yard with them. you can imagine what happy times they all had, playing together and visiting through the wire fence with their next-door neighbors, the white plymouth rock chickens. the gobbler used to pass by and try to make them and their mothers unhappy by telling them of the pleasure they missed by being shut up. "there is fine food in the lower meadow," he said, "and the upper one is even better. there are delicious bugs to be found by the side of the road. but these are for me, and not for silly hen turkeys and their good-for-nothing chicks." one day the outer gate of the empty yard next to theirs was left open and some fine corn strewn inside, just as the gobbler came along. he strutted in to eat the corn, thinking a little of it would taste good before he started for the meadow. he stood with his back to the gate while eating, and quite often he stopped between mouthfuls to tell the hen turkeys how fine it was outside. soon he noticed the man opening the gate of their yard and letting the oldest flock pass through with their mother. he took one hurried last mouthful and turned to leave. the gate of his yard was shut, and he was too fat and old to fly over the fence. [illustration: the happy turkey mother paused on her way. _page _] the happy turkey mother paused on her way to the meadows with her flock. she was a very patient creature, and would never have dared say anything of the sort to the gobbler when he was free, but now she decided to say what she wished for once. "thank you very much for telling us about the fine food outside," said she. "we shall soon be enjoying it. we shall first try the lower meadow and then the upper one. after that we shall hunt for those delicious bugs which you say may be found by the roadside. probably we shall find plenty of dandelion, cress, and mustard leaves, with a few ants or nettles to give flavor. it is really very fine outside." three chickens run away one would think that with such a good mother as the barred plymouth rock hen, chickens should have been contented to mind her and follow wherever she went, and usually hers did. one day, however, two of the brothers coaxed their good little sister to go with them to visit the chickens at the farm across the road. the brothers had teased and teased their mother to let them go there, but she had always refused. "why?" they said. "because," answered the barred plymouth rock hen, "you have enough room and enough playmates right here at home, and i know that you are safe and well here. i do not know what might happen to you there." "oh, _why_ can't we go?" teased the brothers, who had just been given an answer to that same question, and were very rude to keep on asking it. of course the barred plymouth rock hen had had too much experience with chickens to reply again to a question which should not have been asked the second time, and might better not have been asked the first. so she just turned her back and walked off, clucking to her brood as she went. the brothers who had been teasing did not like that at all, and they put their naughty little heads together and decided to run away. "let's get little sister to go along," said older brother. "why?" asked younger brother. "she can't run as fast as we can, and she's so good that it wouldn't be much fun anyway. we wouldn't get across the road before she'd want to come back and be afraid our mother would worry about us." "that is just why i want her to go along," said older brother. "we'll get her to go, and then our mother will think that we are not any worse than she is, and perhaps she won't peck us so hard when we get back." "all right," said younger brother, fluttering his wings with impatience. "let's get her right now. i know our mother won't scold her." you see both of the brothers forgot that the reason why their mother had never scolded little sister was that little sister had never done anything wrong. she was really the best chicken in the brood, and she had such a sweet way of running to the barred plymouth rock hen during the day and cuddling close to her for a short rest, that it was not strange her mother was especially fond of her. now the two naughty brothers found little sister and began talking to her. "ever been across the road?" asked older brother, carelessly, as he snapped off a blade of grass. "no," said little sister. "mother never goes." "there are some very jolly chickens on that farm," remarked younger brother. "one of them asked us to come over a little while ago." "wouldn't it be fun!" exclaimed little sister. "let's ask mother if we can't all go." "aw, they won't want the whole brood at once," said older brother. "besides, our mother is way over in the edge of the pasture now, and there isn't any use in bothering her. i tell you what let's do. let's just go down to our side of the road and see if those other chickens are there now. then we can ask them if they don't want us to come over some other day." you see the brothers knew that it would never do to ask their sister to run away with them at first, for she would have said "no," and run off to tell the barred plymouth rock hen, and that would have spoiled all their naughty fun. the three little white plymouth rocks put down their heads and scurried along as fast as they could toward the road. older brother planned it so that the fence should hide them from their mother as they ran, but he said nothing of this to little sister, for she was not used to being naughty, and he knew that he would have to go about it very carefully to get her to run away. when they reached the road they saw the chickens on the other side, but they were well within their own farm-yard. "oh, isn't that too bad!" exclaimed little sister. "now you can't ask them what you wanted to." "we might run over and speak to them about it now," said younger brother. "mother won't care. after we have come so far to see them, it seems too bad to miss our chance. come on and we can be across before that team gets here." both the brothers put down their heads and ran as fast as they could, and little sister followed after them. when they were on the other side she began to cry and wanted to go back. "i n-n-never did such a thing in all my l-l-life," she sobbed, "and i know our mother won't like it. let's go right back." "oh, don't act like a gosling," said older brother. "you're over here now and you might as well have a good time. what if our mother does scold when we get back? she never wants us to have a bit of fun, and we're just as safe here as we were at home." little sister did not feel at all happy, still, you know how hard it is to stop being naughty when you have once begun, and she found it hard. she would gladly have returned at once if her brothers had been willing to go with her, but when she found that they were going to stay, she stayed with them. the chickens whom they were visiting were very jolly and full of fun, although they were of common families and had not been carefully brought up. they did many things which the little white plymouth rocks had never been allowed to do, and in a short time the visitors were doing just the same as they. these chickens even made fun of each other when they had accidents, and little sister heard them laughing at three or four who were acting as though they were sick and opening their bills very wide. "what is the matter with those chickens?" she asked. "oh, they have the gapes," answered one of the chickens who lived there, and then he began speaking of something else. it is very sad to have to tell such a thing, but the truth is that the three white plymouth rock chickens did not return to their home until nearly roosting-time. even little sister pecked and squabbled and acted like the rest. they walked up the tongue of a hay wagon that stood in the yard, and scrambled and fluttered until they were on the edge of the rack. "dare you to fly down into the old hen-yard," said one of the chickens who lived on the place. "we used to live in there until a few days ago, and then the farmer turned us out and shut the gate after us." "why did he do that?" asked older brother. "i don't know," was the answer. "nobody knows why farmers do things. i think he did it just to be mean. there were fine angleworms in there, and now we can't get one of them. dare you to fly down there! you can get out somehow." older brother was not brave enough to refuse, so over he flew, and younger brother came after him. the other chickens fluttered along with them and younger brother gave little sister a shove that sent her over the fence when he went. they found a great many angleworms there, and ate and ate and ate, and tried to get the largest ones away from each other; but after a while the farmer's wife saw them and came running to shoo them out with her apron. little sister was really glad when this happened, for she had found no place where she could crawl through the fence. she would have told her brothers about it if she had not feared that they would laugh at her and call her a coward. she did not know that each of them was thinking the same thing and dared not speak of it for the same reason. of course the chickens who lived on that farm all the time did not care so much. naughty chickens, like the three little run-aways, are almost sure to think about their mothers when the sun begins to set and the shadows on the grass grow long. then they begin to think about home, too, and wish that they did not have to be ashamed of themselves. when these brothers and their sister got out of the hen-yard, they started straight for home. at first they ran, and quite fast too, but as they got nearer they began to go more slowly, and once in a while one of them would stop to peck at something or other. you see they were thinking of what the barred plymouth rock hen would be likely to say to them. they thought that they would find her in the old coop where they had lived when first hatched. they ran the fields now, yet always went back there to spend the nights. they were trying so hard to find excuses for themselves that they did not notice the barred plymouth rock hen behind the stone-pile in the lane. she had got the rest of her brood settled in the coop for the night and then started out in search of the wanderers. as soon as they passed the stone-pile, she ducked her head and ran after them as fast as she could, dragging the tips of her wings on the ground and pecking at them hard and fast. you should have seen them run. they fluttered their wings wildly and never thought of making excuses. the one thing they remembered was that if they only reached the coop they could crawl in under their good brothers and sisters and be safe from their mother's bill. little sister got punished as well as her brothers, and that was perfectly right. for she need not have gone with them, even if they did ask her. it may be that her mother did not peck her quite so hard as she did the others, but it was hard enough to make her glad to reach the coop at last. the good chickens were almost asleep when these three dived in under them, and it took some time for them all to get settled again. the barred plymouth rock hen sat down beside the pile of her children and looked very hot and severe, yet she did not scold them then. the rest of the brood were sound asleep when little sister slipped out from under them to cuddle close to her mother. she could not sleep until she had confessed it all, and that shows that she was a good chicken at heart. when she told about their getting into the closed hen-yard, and how they had been driven out of it, the barred plymouth rock hen looked very much startled. "did any of your playmates over there go around with their mouths open?" said she. "oh yes," replied little sister. "a good many of them did, and the rest of us laughed at them." then she drooped her head because she felt ashamed of having been so rude. "i am afraid the punishment i gave you will be only a small part of it," said the barred plymouth rock hen; "but now you must go to sleep, and we will not talk any more of your naughtiness. you did quite right to tell me all about it." the three runaways become ill nobody can tell just how long it was after the chickens ran away, but it was certainly some little time, when older brother began to have trouble about breathing. "there seems to be something stuck in my throat," said he to his mother. "i can't breathe without opening my mouth a good deal." "there is something stuck in my throat too," said younger brother. "and in mine," added little sister. the barred plymouth rock hen looked very sad. "it is just as i expected," said she. at that moment another brother ran up. "what's the matter with these chickens?" he asked his mother. "they've been running around all morning with their mouths open, and it makes them look too silly for anything. i don't want to play with them if they can't keep their bills shut. i wish you'd tell them to stop." "they can't stop," said the barred plymouth rock hen, sadly. "they have the gapes." "what is that?" cried all the four chickens together, while three of them looked badly scared. "that is a kind of illness," answered their mother. "i have been expecting it all along." "what did you let us be sick for then?" asked older brother. "why didn't you tell us to eat more gravel or something? i don't think it is taking very good care of us to let us get sick." "now," said the barred plymouth rock hen, and she spoke very firmly, "you are not to speak again until you can speak properly. on the day you ran away you played with chickens who had the gapes, and you went with them into a closed hen-yard and ate angleworms. that is what gave you the gapes. there were tiny gapeworms in the angleworms, and you swallowed them. now the gapeworms are living in your throats and you cannot get them out. the farmer had shut the poultry out of that yard because he knew that they would become ill if they fed in there. now you are ill and i can't help you." older brother looked scared. "how did she know what we did over there?" he whispered to younger brother. "i don't know," answered younger brother, while he watched his mother to be sure that she did not overhear. "mothers always seem to find out what a chicken is doing, anyhow." little sister began to cry. "i'm afraid we are going to die," she sobbed. "i feel so very, very badly." "shall we die?" asked the sick brothers, and they were so scared that their bills chattered. their teeth would have chattered, you know, if they had had teeth, but none of their family ever do have them. "yes," answered their mother, sadly. "you will die unless something is done to get the gapeworms out of your throat. i cannot help you, for they cannot be taken out by creatures who have only wings and feet. there are times when hands would be handy. the only thing for you to do is to find the man and keep near him until he sees that you are ill and does something to cure you. i will go with you." you can imagine how sad the whole brood felt when they heard the news. the brother who had not wanted to play with them was much ashamed of himself, and kept scratching up fine worms for the sick chickens to eat. he thought that a good way of showing how sorry he felt. "i tell you what," said older brother to younger brother. "if i ever get well again, i'll mind my mother every time, even if i just hate to!" "so will i," said younger brother. "i wish we hadn't coaxed little sister to go along." by this time they had reached the place where the man was working. it seemed a long while before he noticed that three of them were sick. when he did, he put his hat on the back of his head and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. his handkerchief was white. the farmer had always carried red ones, and the gobbler was much pleased when he found that the man did not. "i wonder what is the matter with those chickens," said the man. "they must be sick in some way. i will look it up in one of my books." that was why, soon after this, the man came from the house with a small book and seated himself on the wheel-barrow to read. he would look at the page for a few minutes, then put his finger on a certain part of it and watch the sick chickens. at last he arose and put the book in his pocket. then he got a box and a piece of burlap. he also had a pan with some white powder in it. he set these down close together and threw grain to the chickens. when they came to pick it up he caught the sick ones and put them into the box. "oh! oh!" they cried. "mother! mother! the man has caught us! the man has caught us!" "keep still! keep still!" clucked the barred plymouth rock hen. "the man has to catch you before he can cure you." she spoke as though she was not in the least frightened, but the truth is that she was very badly scared. she could not stand still, and kept walking to and fro, clucking as fast as she could. she had never seen anybody use a box and powder for chickens that had the gapes. the farmer had always made loops of horse-hair and put them down the chickens' throats to catch and draw out the tiny worms. that was bad enough, and always hurt the chickens, but she had never told them beforehand that it would hurt. you can see that she was a very brave hen, for she made her children stand the hard times that would make them better, and a hen needs to be very brave for that. now the man covered the open top of the box with burlap and began to sift the white powder through it. "ow!" said older brother, coughing as though he would never stop. "ow! ow! i can't breathe! i am stifling!" "ow!" said younger brother. "ow! ow! i can't stop coughing!" "ow!" said little sister. "ow! ow! isn't this dreadful!" the three chicks staggered around in the box, coughing just as hard as they could. the dust which came down through the burlap seemed to bite and sting their throats, and very soon they were coughing so hard that they could not speak at all. the man was coughing too, but he did not stop for that. the chickens who were well could not understand what the man was doing to the sick ones, and it was a very sad time for the whole family. at last the man uncovered the box and lifted the chickens out. they could not stop coughing all at once, yet they managed to get over to where their mother was. then she spread her wings and tried to cover them, as she had done when they were first hatched. she could not do it, because they were so big; still, it comforted them to have her try, and after a while they were able to speak. "why," said older brother. "i must have coughed up some of the gapeworms! i can breathe with my mouth shut." "so can i," said younger brother. "so can i," said little sister. "then come down to the meadow for the rest of the day," said their mother. "we can find good feeding there." "we will come," answered the three, and they were hardly away from their mother's side during the rest of that day. once they got near the fence that separated the meadow from the road, and a couple of chickens from the other farm called to them to come across. "uh-uh!" they answered. "our mother doesn't want us to." they did not even ask their mother what she thought about their going, and there was no reason why they should, for they knew perfectly well that they ought not to go. when they had walked so far away that they were sure of not being overheard, they looked each other in the eye and said solemnly, "you don't catch us going where our mother thinks we should not!" the young cock and the eagle this is a sad story. it is not pleasant to tell sad stories, but if they were not told once in a while, people would never know what really happens in the world. and surely you would not wish to miss hearing of what was really the most exciting happening of all, during that first summer after the man bought the farm. you remember having heard something about the young cock. before the coming of the white plymouth rocks, there had been only three cocks on the farm. the shanghai cock was the oldest, and a very grumpy fowl, but quite sensible in spite of that. the white cock was somewhat younger than the shanghai, and was not a very strong fellow. he was always unhappy about something, and it was said that he did not eat enough gravel. if that was true, he should not have expected to be well, since his stomach would then have no way of grinding up his food and getting the strength out of it. the young cock was a strong and exceedingly conceited fellow. you probably know what conceited people are. they are the people who think themselves very clever, but who are not really so. this last one was always called the young cock, because the other two were so much older than he, although by this time he was old enough to be over such foolishness as bragging and picking quarrels with others. he had feathers of many colors in his coat, and thought that one of his great-great-great-grandfathers had been a game cock. game cocks, you know, are often very beautiful to look at, and are great fighters. he was not really sure about any of his family except his mother, who had died the year before, and was a very common-looking hen of no particular breed. however, he had thought and talked so much about game cocks that he had come really to believe in this great-great-great-grandfather. it is good to have fine grandparents, and it is good to remember them and try to be the right sort of grandchildren for their sakes, but having fine grandparents does not always make people themselves equally fine, and it is not wise to talk too much about what they have been. it is better to pay more attention to being what one should. all summer the young cock had been growing more and more annoying in his ways. he made fun of everybody whom he did not like, and sometimes even of those whom he did. he crowed and strutted and strutted and crowed. he called the barred plymouth rock hen "an old fogy," and the brown hen "an old fuss." the barred plymouth rock hen was not an old fogy, but a middle-aged and very sensible fowl, and although the brown hen was quite fussy, she was older than the young cock, and he should not have spoken of her in that way. he did not always go to roost quite as soon as the other fowls and, if he found one of them in the place which he wanted, he often pushed and shoved until he had the place and the other fowl landed on the floor. "get off of there," the young cock would say. "i want that place. move along or get off!" when he was really very young, the older fowls had hoped that he would outgrow his rude and quarrelsome ways, so they stood it much longer than they should. now he was older and there was not a single excuse to be found for him. he might better have been punished for it when young, because then he would have been well-behaved when grown up. one morning he fluttered down from his perch in a very bad temper. some of the pullets, or young hens, had been making fun of him the night before and comparing him with the white plymouth rock cock. they meant only to tease him, but it had made him cross, and he awakened even more cross after his night's sleep. he decided to show those pullets that he was not to be laughed at. he was thinking of this when he stalked out into the yard. some of the white plymouth rock chickens ran along on the other side of the wire fence, peeping prettily and wanting to talk with him. "go back to your mother," he said. "what business have you to be tagging me around like this? i don't want to talk to you. chickens should not speak until they are spoken to. run!" of course they ran. you would if you were a chicken and a cock should speak to you in that way. they ran to their mother, and it took her a long time to comfort them. next the young cock stepped directly across the path of the shanghai cock, stopping him in his morning walk. the hens who saw it done expected the shanghai cock to fight him on the spot, but they saw nothing of the sort. the shanghai cock did not think it worth while. the saucy pullets were eating in a corner of the yard and chattering over their corn. "wouldn't it be fun to see the young cock get punished by the shanghai?" one of them said. "why don't you like him?" asked another. "i do like him," answered the first. "i like him very much, but he is conceited and brags so that i wish somebody would teach him a lesson." "look!" cried another. "he is picking a quarrel with the white cock." they looked and saw him standing in front of the white cock with his head lowered, staring steadily at him. the white cock looked as though he did not care to fight, but being no coward, he would not turn his tail toward the other and run away. he simply stood where he was, and whenever the young cock lowered his head the white cock lowered his. whenever the young cock gave a little upward jerk to his head, the white cock did the same. at first he was only trying to protect himself and be ready for a blow if the young cock should begin to fight in earnest. pretty soon he began to think that he would beat him if he could. he thought it might be a good time to teach him something. after that both fought as hard as they could, staring, ducking, bobbing, fluttering, pecking, and striking with their bills and the sharp spurs that grew on their legs. it ended by the white cock staggering and running away from the blows, while the other stood proudly where he was and crowed and crowed and crowed. the young cock did not beat because he understood the movements to be made any better than the other. he beat only because he was younger and stronger. he did not look toward the pullets, feeling quite sure that they were looking toward him and admiring him. he flew onto the top rail of the pasture fence and crowed as loudly as he could. "cock-a-doodle-doo!" said he. "i have beaten him! i have beaten him!" the shanghai cock looked at him with great displeasure. "something will happen to that young fellow some day," said he, "and after that he will not crow so much." the pullets heard him say this and were scared. they did not wish anything dreadful to happen to him. one of them wanted to tell the young cock what they had overheard, but the others would not let her. it was not long after this, in fact it was before the hens had come out of the large open gate of their yard, that the young cock picked up and ate a grain of corn which the shanghai cock had already bent over to eat. the older cock did not like this, and he said so very plainly. the young cock lowered his head and looked the shanghai cock squarely in the eye. "if you don't like my way of eating," he said in his rudest tone, "you can try to punish me." "i will try it with pleasure," replied the shanghai cock, and they stared and ducked and hopped and fluttered and jumped and struck at each other with feet and bill, until the young cock had really beaten the shanghai. it should have been the other way, yet it was not, for the shanghai was growing old and fat, and could not get around so quickly as the young cock. of course the pullets were glad, but nobody else was. "there will be no getting along with him at all after this," the hens said. "if he had been well beaten for once, he might have learned manners." they paid no attention to the cocks who were beaten, for that would not be thought polite among fowls. instead, they walked about as usual, pretending that they had not noticed what was going on, and twisting their necks, lifting their feet, and dusting themselves in the most matter-of-fact way. the young cock flew onto the fence again. "cock-a-doodle-doo!" said he. "cock-a-doodle-doo! i can beat them all! i can beat them all!" he strutted back and forth there for a time, and then flew to the top of the old carriage-house. here he strutted and crowed and crowed and strutted, while the fowls in the pasture below looked at him and wondered how he dared go so high. suddenly the shanghai cock, who had been quietly trying to arrange his feathers after the fight, saw a large, dark bird swooping down from the sky and gave a queer warning cry. "er-ru-u-u-u-u!" he said. "run! run!" [illustration: a large dark bird swooping down. _page _] the white cock spoke at almost the same time. "er-ru-u-u-u-u! run! run!" then all the hens and pullets put down their heads and ran as fast as they could for the poultry-house, which was near. the shanghai cock and the white cock waited to let them pass, and then followed in after them. it is a law among fowls that the cocks must protect the hens from all danger. because these two had to wait so long for the hens and pullets to get inside, they were still where they could see quite plainly when the bird, a large eagle, swooped down to the roof of the carriage-house and caught the young cock up in his talons. the young cock had not seen him coming until he was almost there. he had been too much interested in watching the fowls on the ground below. when he saw the eagle it was too late to get away. as the eagle flew upward once more, all the fowls ran out to watch him. they could see the young cock struggling as the sharp talons of the eagle held him tightly. "poor fellow!" said the pullets. the cocks were wise enough to keep still. the hens murmured something to themselves which nobody else could understand. only the plymouth rock hen said very much about it, and that was because she had children to bring up. one of the young cock's tail-feathers floated down from the sky and fell into their yard. "leave it right there," she said. "leave it there, and every time you look at it, i want you to remember that the cock to whom it belonged might now be having a pleasant time on this farm, if he had not been quarrelsome and bragged." the guinea-fowls come and go it was only a few days after the young cock had been carried away by the eagle, that the man drove back from town with a very queer look upon his face. a small crate in the back end of the light wagon contained three odd-looking fowls. the little girls left their mud pies and ran toward the wagon. when they saw the crate, they ran into the house and called their mother to come out also. "what have you now?" said she, as she stepped onto the side porch. "guinea-fowls," answered the man. "just listen to this letter." he drew it from his pocket and read aloud: "i send you, by express, a guinea-cock and two guinea-hens. they were given to me, and i have no place for keeping them. i remember hearing that they are excellent for scaring away crows, so i send them on in the hope that they may be useful to you. if you do not wish to keep them, do what you choose with them." as he read three small and perfectly bald heads were thrust through the openings of the crate and turned and twisted until their owners had seen everything around. "i don't know anything about guinea-fowls," said the man, "but i will at least keep these long enough to find out. i have seen the crows fly down and annoy the hens several times, and it may be that these are just what we need." he took the crate down and opened it carefully. the three fowls that walked out looked almost exactly alike. all had very smooth and soft coats of black feathers covered with small round white spots. they were shaped quite like turkeys, but were much smaller, with gray-brown legs, and heads which were not feathered at all. the skin of their faces and necks was red, and they had small wattles at the corners of their mouths. bristle-like feathers stood out straight around the upper part of their necks, and below these were soft gray feathers which covered the neck and part of the chest. they walked directly toward the barnyard, where some of the farm fowls were picking up an early dinner. "ca-mac!" said they "ca-mac! ca-mac! we want some too." now the farm fowls were not especially polite, not having come of fine families or been taught good manners when they were chickens, yet they did not at all like to have newcomers speak to them in this way. they noticed it all the more, because when the white plymouth rocks came they had acted so very differently. they stepped a little to one side, giving the guinea-fowls enough room in which to scratch and pick around as they had been doing, but they did not say much to them. the gobbler was strutting back and forth among the smaller fowls. he disliked living with them as much as he had to now, but the hen turkeys would have nothing to say to him because he annoyed their chicks. they went off with their children and left him alone, and, as he wanted company of some sort, he took what he could get. he thought it might be a good plan to make friends with the guinea-fowls. "good-morning," said he. "have you come here to stay?" "we shall stay if we like it," answered the guinea-cock. "we always do what we like best." "humph!" said the shanghai cock to himself. "remarkable fowls! wonder what the man will think about that." "i hope you will like it," said the gobbler, who was so lonely that he really tried hard to be agreeable. "i understand quite how you feel about doing as you like. i always prefer to do what i prefer." "we _do_ it," remarked one of the guinea-hens, as she chased the brown hen away from the spot where she had been feeding, and swallowed a fat worm which the brown hen had just uncovered. "yes," said the other guinea-hen, "i guess we are just as good as anybody else." "is there plenty to eat here?" asked the guinea-cock. "plenty," answered the gobbler. "it is much better than it used to be. there is a new man here, and he takes better care of his fowls than the farmer did. he doesn't carry red handkerchiefs either." "i don't care what kind of handkerchiefs he carries," said the guinea-cock. "what makes you talk about such things?" "you would know what makes me speak of them if you were a gobbler," was the answer. "i cannot bear red things. i cannot even eat my corn comfortably when anything red is around. you see it is quite important. anything which spoils a fellow's fun in eating is important." "nothing would spoil my fun if i had the right sort of food," remarked the guinea-cock. then he turned to the guinea-hens. "come," he said. "we have eaten enough. let us walk around and see the place." all three started off, walking along where-ever they chose, and stopping to feed or to talk about what they saw. anybody could tell by looking at them that they were related to the turkeys, but the gobbler had not cared to remind them of that. he was looking for more company during the time when his own family left him so much alone. he knew that before very long the turkey chicks would be too large to fear him, and that when that time came, their mothers and they would be willing to walk with him. then he would have less to do with the other poultry, and might not want three bad-mannered guinea-fowl cousins tagging along after him. whenever the three met another fowl, they talked about him and said exactly what they thought, and if they passed a hen who had just found a choice bit of food, they chased her away and ate it themselves. sometimes they even chased fowls who were not in their way and who were not eating things that they wanted. it seemed as though they had simply made up their minds to do what they wanted to do, whenever and wherever they wished. they did not make much fuss about it, and if you had seen them when they were doing none of these mean things, you would have thought them very genteel. you would never have suspected that they could act as they did. the gander and the geese passed near the guinea-fowls and the guinea-fowls did not chase them. they were not foolish enough to annoy people so much larger than they. it is true that the hens were larger than they, yet the guinea-fowls could make them run every time. if they had troubled the geese, it might have ended with the guinea-fowls doing the running. and the guinea-fowls were cowards. they would never quarrel with people unless they were sure of beating. "s-s-s-s-s-s-s!" said the gander. "are we to have that sort of people on this farm? if we are, i would rather live somewhere else. i do not see why there should be any disagreeable people anyway." "there should not be," said the geese, who always agreed with everything the gander said, and who really believed as he did about this. "disagreeable people should be sent away, or eaten up, or something." both the gander and the geese thought themselves exceedingly agreeable, and so they were--when everything suited them. at other times they were often quite cross. many people act like this, and seem to think it very sweet of them not to be cross all the time. truly agreeable people, as you very well know, are those who can keep pleasant when things go wrong. "ca-mac!" said the three guinea-fowls together. "there are some of those stupid geese, who are always walking around and eating grass that is too short for anybody else. they eat grass, and grow feathers for farmers' wives to pluck off. when we have gone to the trouble of growing a fine coat of feathers, we keep them as long as we wish, and then they drop out, a few at a time. if anybody wants our feathers, he must follow around after us and pick them up." before night came, the guinea-fowls had met and annoyed nearly all the poultry on the place. they had even made dashes at the smallest chickens and frightened them dreadfully. the man had been too busy to see much of the trouble that they made, but his little girls noticed it, for they had been watching the guinea-fowls and hoping to find some of their beautiful spotted feathers lying around. when the little girls were eating their supper of bread and milk, they told their father about it. "they walk around and look too good for anything," said the brown-haired one, "but whenever they get a chance they chase the hens and the chickens." "yes," said the golden-haired little girl, "i even saw one of them scare the barred plymouth rock hen, the one who ate bread and salt with you." "that is very bad," said the man, gravely. "any fowl that troubles the barred plymouth rock hen must be punished." "what will you do to them?" asked the golden-haired little girl. "i think you will have to shut them up. you couldn't spank them, could you? not even if you wanted to ever so much." "i shall decide to-night how to punish them," said the man, "and then in the morning we will see about it." when he spoke he did not know how much time he would spend in thinking about the guinea-fowls that night. when it was time for them to go to roost, the guinea-fowls fluttered and hopped upward until they reached quite a high branch in the apple-tree by the man's chamber window. then, instead of going to sleep for the night, as one would think they would wish to do, they took short naps and awakened from time to time to visit with each other. it is true that they had seen much that was new during the day, and so had more than usual to talk about, but this was really no excuse, because they had the habit of talking much at night and would have been nearly as noisy if nothing at all had happened. the man was just going to sleep when they awakened from one of their naps and began to chat. "ca-mac! ca-mac!" said one. "i suppose those stupid fowls in the poultry-house are sound asleep, with their heads tucked under their wings. what do you think of the company here?" "good enough," said another. "i don't like any of them very much, but you can't expect geese and ducks to be guinea-fowls. we don't have to talk to them. the gobbler is trying to be agreeable, and when the hen turkeys can think of any thing besides their children we may find them good company." "it is a good thing that there are so many hens here," said the third. "the man throws out their grain and then we can scare them away and eat all we want of it. what fun it is to see hens run when they are frightened!" after this short visit they went to sleep again, and so did the man. but they went to sleep much more quickly than he did, and he was very tired and disliked being disturbed in that way. he had just fallen asleep when one of the guinea-hens awakened again. "ca-mac!" said she to the others. "ca-mac! ca-mac! i have thought of something to say. how do you like the idea of living on this place?" "we like it," answered the guinea-cock and the other guinea-hen. then they went on to tell why they liked it. they said that there were no children of the stone-throwing kind, no dog, and no cat. they had plenty of room for the long walks which they liked to take, and there were many chances to get the food which the man threw out. when they had spoken of all these things the guinea-cock said: "it is decided then that we will stay here instead of running away to another farm. this is a good enough place for any fowl. now let us take another nap." while they were thinking this, the man was thinking something quite different. in the morning while the guinea-fowls were eating grain which had been strewn in one of the yards, the man closed the gate, and, helped by the little girls, drove the three guinea-fowls into a corner and caught them. then he put them into the crate in which they had come, and took them across the road to the farmer who lived there. when this was done there were many happy people left behind on the poultry-farm. the little girls were happy, because they had found four feathers which the guinea-fowls lost in trying to get away from the man. the hens were happy, because they could now be more sure of eating the food which they found. the other poultry were glad to think that they would not have to listen to new-comers saying such dreadful things about them, and perhaps the man, when he came back, was the happiest of all. "i gave them to the farmer over there," he said, "and he will give them to a poor family far away. i have stopped keeping guinea-fowls to scare away the crows. i would rather keep crows to scare away the guinea-fowls, but i think we can get along very comfortably without either." and the poultry thought so too. the geese and the baby the little girls had gone to play with a new friend who lived down the road, and the man was working in the farthest field of the farm. the baby had been laid in the crib for his afternoon nap, and his mother went up-stairs to work at her house-cleaning. she thought that she might possibly finish two closets if the baby did not awaken and call her too soon. she felt sure that she would know when he awakened, because she left the staircase door ajar, and he usually cried a little as soon as he got his eyes open. this time, however, the baby slept only a few minutes and did not cry at all. he had grown a great deal since he came to live on the farm, and was becoming very strong and independent. when he opened his eyes he made no sound, but lay there quietly staring at the ceiling until he heard one of the cocks crowing outside. he had always wanted to catch that tallest cock and hug him--he looked so soft and warm--and now was the time to try it. when his mother was around she sometimes held his dress or one of the shoulder-straps of his little overalls and would not let him catch the cock. he would crawl out of his crib alone and go out very quietly to try it. the baby pulled himself up by the rounds of his crib, and tumbled over its railing onto his mother's bed, which stood beside it. from that he slid to the floor. it took him only two minutes more to get out of the side door and down the steps. it did not take at all long for the steps, because he fell more than half the distance. if he had not been running away, or if there had been anybody around to pity him, he would have cried, but to cry now might spoil all his fun, so he picked himself up without making a sound and started for the shanghai cock. the shanghai cock was on the ground when the baby began toddling toward him. as the baby came nearer he began to walk off. "i don't want to be caught," said he. "it is bad enough to have grown people catch me, but it would be worse to have a baby do so, for he might choke me." "here, pitty chickie!" said the baby. "baby want oo." then he tried to run, and fell down instead. the barred plymouth rock hen looked at him pityingly. "just the way my chickens used to act when trying to catch a grasshopper," said she. "it is so hard for children to learn that they cannot have everything they want." when the baby tumbled, the shanghai cock stood still, and even picked up a couple of mouthfuls of food. when the baby got up again, the shanghai cock moved on. at last the cock decided to put a stop to this sort of game, in which the baby seemed to be having all the fun, so he flew to the top of the pasture fence and crowed as loudly as he could. the baby's mother heard him as she worked busily upstairs. "how loudly that cock does crow!" said she. "i am glad that such noises do not wake the baby. he is having a fine nap to-day." then she unrolled another bundle of pieces and paid no more attention to the crowing. when the baby saw that he could not reach the cock, he thought he would try for some of the other fowls. the gobbler came in sight just then and he started after him. luckily he had no red on, or it might have been the gobbler who did the chasing. "here, pitty chickie!" said the baby. "tum, pitty chickie! tum to baby." it was the first time the gobbler had ever been been called a "pitty chickie," but that made no difference. he did not want to be petted and he did not want to be caught. baby might open and shut his tiny fat hands as many times as he pleased, beckoning to him. the gobbler would not come. "gobble-gobble-gobble!" said he. "nobody can catch me in daylight, not even with corn; and surely nobody can catch me without it." then he strutted slowly away. the baby followed, but when the gobbler pretended to lose his temper, stood all his feathers on end, spread his fine tail, dragged his wings on the ground, and puffed, the baby turned and ran away as fast as he could. brown bess was no longer in the pasture, and the gate stood open. it was through this gate that the baby ran, not stopping until he came within sight of the river along the lower edge of the pasture. the water looked so bright and beautiful that he thought he would go farther still. perhaps he could even catch some of the ducks and geese that were swimming there. he had seen his sisters wade in the edge of the river one day, while his father was mending a fence near by. he would wade, too. you see baby was only two years old, and did not understand that rivers are very dangerous places for children to visit alone, and worst of all for babies who toddle and tumble along. he did not know that if he should tumble in that beautiful shining water he might never be able to get up again, or that if he should chase one of the ducks too far out, he could not turn around and come back to the shore. these things he was not old enough to know. he did know that when he came into the pasture with his father or mother and went toward the river's edge, he was always told, "no-no!" this he remembered, but that made it seem all the more fun to go there when there was nobody by to say it. the baby stood on a little knoll near the water. "here, pitty chickie!" he said. "tum to baby, pitty chickie!" the ducks paid no attention to him, unless it were to swim farther from shore and keep their heads turned slightly toward him, watching to see what he was about. with the geese, however, it was different. geese do not like anything strange, and if they cannot understand a thing they think that there is certainly something wrong. as there is much which they do not understand, the geese are often greatly excited over very simple and harmless things, hissing loudly at those who are strangers to them. now they could not understand why the baby should stand on the river-bank and talk to them. "s-s-s-s-s!" said the gander. "there must be something wrong about this. let us get out of the water to see." he scrambled up onto the bank, with his wife and the other geese following closely behind him. he was a very stately fellow, and looked as though he could win in almost any fight. the geese were stately too, but their legs and neck did not look so strong as his, and they let him go ahead and speak first. the gander marched toward the baby and stood between him and the river. "s-s-s-s-s!" said he. "what are you doing here?" "here, pitty chickie!" said the baby. "tum to baby." "i cannot understand you," said the gander, severely. "children should speak so that they can be understood. i can always understand my own children." he was very proud of the brood of goslings which he and his wife had hatched. perhaps he was even more fond of them because he had done almost as much for them as she, sitting on the eggs part of the time and standing beside her while she was sitting on them. ganders are excellent fathers. "go way, pitty chickie!" said the baby. "baby goin' in de watty." "s-s-s-s-s!" said the gander, and this time his wife hissed also. "go back to the place where you belong. this place is for web-footed people. i have seen your feet uncovered, and you have no webs whatever between your toes. you do not belong here. go away!" the baby did not go away, for he was having a lovely time. the gander did not come any nearer to him or act as though he meant to peck him, so he just laughed and waved his hands. "why don't you go?" asked the geese. "the gander told you to go away, and you should mind the gander. we always mind him, and so should you." still the gander and the geese did not come nearer to him, and still the baby was not afraid. "s-s-s-s-s!" repeated the gander. "we do not want you to swim in our river. your body is not the right shape for swimming with geese and ducks. your neck is not long enough for feeding in the river. you could never get your mouth down to the river-bottom for food without going way under. go away! you will get wet if you go into the water. i feel quite sure that you will, for you have not nicely oiled feathers like ours. you will try to catch our children and will make us much trouble. go away!" just then the baby's mother called from the door of the house. she had come downstairs and found the baby gone. "baby!" said she. "baby! where are you?" baby did not answer, but he turned to look at her. "s-s-s-s-s!" said the gander and the geese together. "s-s-s-s-s! s-s-s-s-s!" then they walked straight for him, and the baby started home at last. his mother heard and ran toward him in time to see it all. she understood, too, that if it had not been for the gander and the geese, her baby would have gone into the river. that was why she looked so gratefully at them when she reached him and picked him up in her arms to hug and kiss. [illustration: "s-s-s-s-s!" repeated the gander. _page _] perhaps it was because she had been so frightened that she had to sit right down on a little hillock and rest. the gander and the geese stood around and wondered why she made such a fuss over the baby. "he is nothing remarkable," they said to each other. "he certainly could not swim if he had a chance, and we saw how often he fell down when he tried to run. why does she put her mouth up against his in that way? there is simply no understanding the actions of people who live in houses." there was one sort of action which they could understand very well indeed. the little girls came home just then and their mother had them bring oats from the barn to scatter on the river. then the gander, with his wife and the other geese, gladly went back to the river to feed, for there is nothing which pleases geese better than to eat oats that are floating on the water. the fowls have a joke played on them when the man first bought the farm and came to live there, he could not understand a thing that his poultry said. this made it very hard for him, and was something which he could not learn from his books and papers. you remember how the little girls understood, better than he, what the cocks meant by crowing so joyfully one day. it is often true that children who think much about such things and listen carefully come to know what fowls mean when they talk. the man was really a very clever one, much more clever than the farmer who had lived there before him, and he decided that since he was to spend much of his time among poultry, he would learn to understand what they were saying. he began to listen very carefully and to notice what they did when they made certain sounds. it is quite surprising how much people can learn by using their eyes and ears carefully, and without asking questions, too. that was why, before the summer was over, the man could tell quite correctly, whenever a fowl spoke, whether he was hungry or happy or angry or scared. not only these, but many other things he could tell by carefully listening. he could not understand a hen in exactly the way in which her chickens understand her, but he understood well enough to help him very much in his work. then he tried talking the poultry language. that was much harder, yet he kept on trying, for he was not the sort of man to give up just because the task was hard. he had been a teacher for many years, and he knew how much can be done by studying hard and sticking to it. the man was very full of fun, too, since he had grown so strong and fat on the farm. he dearly loved a joke, and was getting ready to play a very big joke on some of his poultry. anybody who has ever kept hens knows how hard it is to drive them into the poultry-house when they do not wish to go. people often run until they are quite out of breath and red in the face, trying to make even one hen go where she should. sometimes they throw stones, and this is very bad for the hens, for even if they are not hit, they are frightened, and then the eggs which they lay are not so good. sometimes, too, the people who are trying to drive hens lose their temper, and this is one of the very worst things that could happen. the poultry had not paid much attention to the man when he was learning their language. they were usually too busy talking to each other to listen to what he was saying. once the shanghai cock said what he thought of it, however: "just hear him!" he had said. "hear that man trying to crow! he does it about as well as a hen would." you know a hen tries to crow once in a while, and then the cocks all poke fun at her, because she never succeeds well. all this happened before the man had been long on the farm, and before the shanghai cock had learned to like him. the shanghai cock would have been very much surprised if anybody had then told him that he would ever be unable to tell the man's voice from that of one of his best friends. throughout the summer the fowls who had always lived on the farm were allowed to run wherever they wished during the day, and were not driven into the pen at night. there was always some corn scattered in their own yard for them just before roosting-time, and they were glad enough to stroll in and get it. when they finished eating they were sure to find the outer gate closed, and then they went inside the pen to roost. now, however, the days were growing much shorter and the nights cooler, and a skunk had begun prowling around after dark. the man decided that if he wanted to keep his poultry safe, he must have them in the pens quite early and shut all the openings through which a night-hunting animal might enter to catch them. he liked to attend to this before he ate his own supper, and the poultry did not wish to go to roost quite so early. they often talked of it as they ate their supper in the yard. "i think," said the brown hen, "that something should be done to stop the man's driving us into the pen before we are ready to go. it is very annoying." "annoying?" said the white cock, who was a great friend of hers. "i should say it is annoying! i hadn't half eaten my supper last night when i heard him saying, 'shoo! shoo!' and saw him and the little girls getting ready to drive us in." "well, you might better eat a little faster the next time," said the black hen. "i saw you fooling around when you might have been eating, and then you grumbled because you hadn't time to finish your supper." "i would rather fool around a little than to choke on a big mouthful, the way you did," replied the white cock, who did not often begin a quarrel, but was always ready to keep it up. "i was hungry all night," he added. "it is so senseless," said the brown hen. "he might just as well drive us in after we have had time enough for our supper, or even wait until we go in without driving. i have made up my mind not to go to-night until i am ready." "what if they try to drive you?" asked the white cock. "i will run this way and that, and flutter and squawk as hard as i can," replied the brown hen. the black hen laughed in her cackling way. "i will do the same," said she. "it will serve the man right for trying to send us to roost so early. i think he will find it pretty hard work." the white cock would make no promises. he wanted to see the hens run away from the man, but thought he would rather stand quietly in a corner than to flutter around. he was afraid of acting like a hen if he made too much fuss, and no cock wishes to act like a hen. the shanghai cock felt in the same way. "i am too big for running to and fro," said he, "but i will keep out of the pen and watch the fun." he had hardly spoken these words when the man and the little girls came into the yard and closed the gate behind them. the poultry kept on eating, but watched them as they ate. suddenly the brown hen picked up a small boiled potato that she had found among the other food, and ran with it in her bill to the farthest corner of the yard. the black hen ran after her and the other hens after them. the cocks remained behind and watched. the man and the little girls tried to get between the hens and the farthest side of the fence. the hens would not let them for a while, but kept running back and forth there, until the potato had fallen to pieces and been trampled on without any one having a taste. when the man and the little girls finally got behind the hens, the little girls spread out their skirts and flapped them and the man said, "shoo! shoo!" then the hens acted dreadfully frightened, and the cocks began to turn their heads quickly from side to side, quite as though they were looking for a chance to get away. they were really having a great deal of fun. whenever the man thought that he had them all ready to go into the open door of the pen, one of the hens would turn with a frightened squawk and flutter wildly past him again to the back end of the yard, and then the man would have to begin all over. several of the hens dropped loose feathers, and it was very exciting. "well," said the shanghai cock, as the man went back the fifth time for a new start, "i think that man will leave us alone after to-night." "yes," said the white cock, who was standing near him, "i think we are teaching him a lesson." he spoke quite as though he and the other cock were doing it, instead of just standing by and watching the hens. but that is often the way with cocks. after the man had tried once more and failed, he certainly acted as though he was ready to give up the task. he walked to the back end of the yard, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. the little girls stood beside him, and he picked up a feather to show them. it was a wing-feather, and he was showing them how the tiny hooks on each soft barb caught into those on the next and held it firmly. the poultry watched him for a while and then began eating once more. they thought him quite discouraged. the shanghai cock and the white cock were standing far apart when somebody called "er-ru-u-u-u-u!" which is the danger signal. as soon as he heard it, each cock thought that the other had spoken, and opened his bill and said, "er-ru-u-u-u-u!" in the same tone, even before he looked around for a hawk or an eagle. every hen in the yard ducked her head and ran for the door of the pen as fast as her legs would carry her. the cocks let the hens go ahead and crowd through the doorway as well as they could, but they followed closely behind. they were hardly inside when the door of the pen was closed after them and they heard the man fastening it on the outside. "wasn't that a shame!" said the brown hen, who always thought that something was a shame. "we didn't finish our supper after all!" "i know it," said the white cock. "it happened very badly, and all that running had made me hungry." "what was the danger?" asked the shanghai cock. "i had no time to see whether it was an eagle or a hawk coming." "what do you mean?" cried the white cock. "if i had given the alarm which took all my friends from their supper into the pen, i think i would take time to see what the danger was. can't you tell one kind of bird from another?" "i can if i see them," answered the shanghai cock, rather angrily. "i did not see this one. i looked up as soon as you gave the cry, but i saw nothing. i repeated the cry, as cocks always do, but i saw nothing." "now see here," said the white cock, as he lowered his head and looked the shanghai cock squarely in the eyes, "you stop talking in this way! you gave the first warning and you know it. i only repeated the call." "i did not," retorted the shanghai cock, as he lowered his head and ruffled his feathers. "_you_ gave the warning and _i_ repeated it." "he did not," interrupted the brown hen. "i stood right beside him, and i know he did not give the first call." "well," said the barred plymouth rock hen, "i was standing close to the shanghai cock, and _i_ know that _he_ did not give the first call." (her chickens were now so large that they did not need her, and she had begun running with her old friends.) then arose a great chatter and quarrel in the pen. part of the hens thought that the white cock gave the first warning, and part of them thought that the shanghai cock did. everybody was out of patience with somebody else, and all were scolding and finding fault until they really had to stop for breath. it was when they stopped that the speckled hen spoke for the first time. she had never been known to quarrel, and she was good-natured now. "i believe it was the white plymouth rock cock in the other yard," said she. "why didn't we think of that before?" "of course!" said all the fowls together. "it was certainly the white plymouth rock cock in the other yard." then they laughed and spoke pleasantly to each other as they began to settle themselves for the night. "we might as well go to roost now," they said, "even if it is a bit early. all that running and talking was very tiring." but it was not the white plymouth rock cock who had said "er-ru-u-u-u-u!" he and his hens had run into their pen at the same time, and had been shut in. only the man and the little girls knew who it really was, and they never told the poultry. the little girls give a party late in the fall, when the man began to talk of shutting the poultry into their own yards for the winter, there came a few mild and lovely days. the little girls had been playing out-of-doors in their jackets, but now they left them in the house and ran around bare-headed, as they had done during the summer. all the poultry were happy over the weather, and several said that, if they thought it would last long enough, they would like to raise late broods of chickens. the fowls had finished moulting, and had fine coats of new feathers to keep them warm through the winter. the young turkeys looked more and more like their mothers, for they were already nearly as large as they ever would be. the goslings and the ducklings had grown finely, and boasted that their legs and feet began to look rougher and more like those of the old geese and ducks. the chickens were all white plymouth rocks this year, and the tiny red combs which showed against the snowy feathers of their heads made them very pretty. even the hens who had cared for them since they were hatched would not have had them any other color, although at first they had wished that their chickens could look more like them. in the barn all was neat and well cared for. the man had made brownie a warm box-stall, so that he need not be tied in a cool and narrow place whenever he stood in the barn, but might turn around and take a few steps in any direction he chose. there was plenty of fine hay in the loft for him, and the place where brown bess and her calf were to stand had also been made more comfortable. there were great bins filled with grain for the poultry, and another full of fine gravel for them to eat with their meals. they had no teeth and could not chew their food, you know, so they had to swallow enough gravel, or grit, for their stomachs to use in grinding it and getting the strength out. in another place was a great pile of dust for winter dust-baths. everything was so well prepared for cold weather that it seemed almost funny to have warm days again. and just at this time the little girls had a birthday. not two birthdays, you understand, but one, for they were twins and were now exactly six years old. they were plump and rosy little girls, and very strong from living so much out-of-doors. each had a new doll for a birthday gift, and the funniest part of it was that the brown-haired little girl had a brown-haired doll and the golden-haired little girl had a golden-haired doll. that made it easy to tell which doll was which, just as the difference in hair made it easy for their parents to tell one twin from the other. when they first awakened they were given birthday kisses instead of birthday spanks, six apiece for the years they had lived, a big one on which to grow, and another big one on which to be good. after the breakfast dishes were washed and put away, their mother made two birthday cakes for the little girls and put six candles on each. with all this done for them, one would certainly expect the little girls to be perfectly happy. but, what do you think? they could not be perfectly, blissfully happy, because they were not to have a party. every year before this, as far back as they could remember, they had been allowed to have a party, and this year they could not have it, because they were living on a farm and there were no other children who could come. it is true that there were two others living quite near, but these two had the measles and could not go to parties. by the time they were over the measles, the birthday would be long past, and so the little girls were disappointed. it was when the brown-haired little girl was telling her doll about the last year's party, and the golden-haired little girl's eyes were filling with tears, that their mother had a bright idea. she would not tell them what it was, but asked them to care for the baby while she went out to talk with the man in the barn. when she came back she told them that they might have a party after all and invite the poultry to come. "i think it will be great fun," said she, "and i am sure they have never been to a birthday party in their lives." how happy the little girls were then! the man had put a very large box just in front of the poultry-yards where the white plymouth rocks were kept, so that, by crowding into the corners, the chickens on one side of the separating fence and the cock and hens on the other could come quite near to the box. inside the big box was another which was to be their table, and a couple of milking stools on which they were to sit. the baby's chair was to be brought when he came. of course it seemed a long time to wait until afternoon, when the party was to come off. if there had not been so much to do, the little girls certainly could not have been patient. it was wonderful how many things their mother could suggest. in the first place, they had to write a few invitations to pin up where the fowls could see them. then they had to go over to the edge of the woods and hunt all along the roadside to find late flowers, bits of brake, and autumn leaves, with which to trim their box and the table. after that they took pans and got grain for their guests from the bins in the barn. these they carried to the big box and placed on the table inside. it was not long afterward that the brown-haired little girl found the black hen and the white cock eating from these pans. "oh, shoo!" she cried, running as fast as she could toward them and flapping her skirts. "shoo! shoo! it isn't time for you to come, and you mustn't eat up the party yet." the other twin feared that, after being frightened away in this fashion, these two fowls would not want to come at the proper time, but she need not have worried. fowls are always glad to come to a good supper, and there is much more danger of their coming too early and staying too late than there is of their not coming at all. after that the pans of grain were carried into the house to wait until the right time. in the afternoon the twins and their dolls came out to the big box which they pretended was their house. the open side of it was toward the poultry-yards, and there was plenty of room between for the fowls who were running free to come in and get their food. the little girls had wanted to put on their sunday dresses, but their mother told them that she did not think it would be really polite to the poultry, who had to wear the very same feathers that they had on every day. so the little girls contented themselves with having their hair done up on top of their heads and bows of yellow tissue paper pinned on the knots. this made them feel very fine indeed, and as though being six years old were almost the same as being grown up. they had some beautiful red tissue paper which they wanted to use, but when they remembered how the gobbler felt about red, they decided to use the yellow instead. and that was both wise and kind. one should always try to make guests happy. the baby was not to come out until supper-time, so the little girls and their dolls played quite alone for a while. there was much to tell and to show the dolls, for it was the first time they had ever been on a farm, and everything must have seemed strange to them. "do you see that tall white plymouth rock cock over there?" said the brown-haired twin to hers. "my father says he is the most vallyoobol fowl on the farm. he cost a lot of money. i asked father if he paid as much as ten cents for him, and he said he paid a great deal more. just think of that! more than ten cents! you must be very polite to him." "i will show you our kindest hen," said the golden-haired twin to her doll. "she is coming this way now. she is the barred plymouth rock hen, and she is a peticullar friend of my father's. she didn't cost so much as some of the others, but she is very good." "and there comes the speckled hen," said the brown-haired twin. "she doesn't lay many eggs, but my father says that she is the best hen on the farm about taking care of lonely or sick chickens. she is very small, but she spreads herself out so she can cover a lot, and then she cuddles them until they are happy again, and can run around with her and eat the worms she scratches up for them." there is no telling how much more the dolls might have learned about their new neighbors, if the baby and the mother of the little girls had not come out just then. the baby was put in his chair in the big box and given a cracker to eat, while the little girls stood outside and called to their company. "come, chick, chick, chick!" they called. "come, chick, chick, chick!" from far and near the hens came running, with lowered heads and hurrying feet, to seize the food which they knew would be given them after that call. the shanghai cock and the white cock followed more slowly, as was their habit. the gander waddled gravely along from the farthest corner of the pasture in which the poultry-house stood, with his wife and the other geese following solemnly behind him. the turkeys, all together once more since the children were so large, came with rather more haste from the roadside, where they had been hunting acorns. and down by the river the ducks and their children could be seen scrambling up onto the bank and shaking themselves. all were glad enough to come to the party as soon as they were sure it was time, but whether they had understood the invitations which had been pinned around for them to read--well, who can tell about that? the man came from the barn to see the fun, and he and the woman set the two birthday cakes from her basket onto the table. after she had done that, she had to pay more attention to the baby, who kept trying to reach them with his fat little hands. the man handed a pan of corn to each of the little girls. "wait until the ducks get here," he said. "they must have their share and there is plenty of time." the brown-haired little girl felt that those who were waiting should be amused in some way, so she began to talk to them. "this is our birthday party," she said, "and we are very glad you didn't have the measles, so you could come. a party is something to eat when you are dressed up and have company. we have some corn for you because you like that best, but if you are good and polite you may have some of our cake, too." by this time the ducks were there, and each little girl began flinging handfuls of corn out to the poultry. some of it was thrown into the yards where the white plymouth rocks were kept, and the rest fell between the yards and the big box. one cannot say very much for the manners of the company, yet it is quite certain that they had a good time. when they had settled down to eating quietly, the man lighted the candles on the birthday cakes and the woman passed a plate of bread and butter sandwiches to the three happy children around the table. the dolls did not seem to be hungry, but they must have enjoyed it very much, for they smiled all the time, even when nobody was speaking to them. the man and the woman sat on a couple of old chicken-coops by the open side of the big box, and said what a fine day it was, and how good everything tasted, and what a very large party it was. the baby laughed a great deal and said "pitty! pitty!" every time a soft breeze made the candle-flames dip and waver. the most exciting time came when the candles burned low and had to be blown out by the little girls, with the baby helping. then the cakes were cut, and the man and the woman and the three children in the box all had a share. the dolls were not forgotten, but even after they had been fed there was much remaining. the barred plymouth rock hen stepped daintily up to the box and stood with her left foot lifted. "my friend, the hen, is hinting that we should pass the cake to the other guests," said the man, "and i think we should." the little girls helped to cut it into small pieces, and then the whole family, baby, and all, stood in the sunshine and threw the fragments to the eager poultry, while the dolls looked on. the barred plymouth rock hen walked inside the box and picked up the many crumbs around the table, while the other fowls fluttered and ran for the pieces outside. the black hen always picked for the largest, and the rest chased her. their manners were certainly bad, but it was the first birthday party they had ever attended, and perhaps it is not strange that they were excited and greedy. when the last crumb had been thrown out and not even the black hen could find another scrap, the man and his family turned toward the house. the sun was already low in the sky, and the air grew cooler as night drew near. it reminded the man that winter was coming. "it has been a happy summer," he said, "a busy and happy summer. i am strong again, and the work has gone well. i have a fine lot of fowls, and i am fond and proud of them. i think they deserve a party once in a while." "it was the very nicest party we ever had," said the little girls. "we ought to invite the poultry every time." the barred plymouth rock hen murmured softly as she walked along behind them. "she thinks so too," said the man. the master key [illustration: rob was surrounded by a group of natives] the master key _an electrical fairy tale_ founded upon the mysteries of electricity and the optimism of its devotees. it was written for boys, but others may read it by l. frank baum illustrations by f. y. cory _the_ bowen-merrill company publishers · indianapolis copyright the bowen-merrill company press of braunworth & co. bookbinders and printers brooklyn, n. y. to my son robert stanton baum [illustration] contents _chapter_ _page_ i rob's workshop ii the demon of electricity iii the three gifts iv testing the instruments v the cannibal island vi the buccaneers vii the demon becomes angry viii rob acquires new powers ix the second journey x how rob served a mighty king xi the man of science xii how rob saved a republic xiii rob loses his treasures xiv turk and tatar xv a battle with monsters xvi shipwrecked mariners xvii the coast of oregon xviii a narrow escape xix rob makes a resolution xx the unhappy fate of the demon [illustration] [illustration] illustrations _page_ rob was surrounded by a group of natives of hideous appearance--_frontispiece_ from his workshop ran a network of wires throughout the house--_headpiece_ a quick flash of light almost blinded rob a curious being looked upon him from a magnificent radiance--_tailpiece_ scientific men think the people of mars have been trying to signal us--_headpiece_ i am here to do your bidding, said the demon--_tailpiece_ men have not yet discovered what the birds know--_headpiece_ these three gifts may amuse you for the next week--_tailpiece_ rob's action surprised them all--_headpiece_ "he'll break his neck!" cried the astounded father the red-whiskered policeman keeled over--_tailpiece_ rob's captors caught up the end of the rope and led him away--_headpiece_ "if it's just the same to you, old chap, i won't be eaten to-day"--_tailpiece_ rob soared through the air with five buccaneers dangling from his leg--_headpiece_ it was a strange sight to see the pirates drop to the deck and lie motionless when night fell his slumber was broken and uneasy--_tailpiece_ when rob had been kissed by his mother, he gave an account of his adventures--_headpiece_ rob sat staring eagerly at the demon--_tailpiece_ the being drew from an inner pocket something resembling a box--_headpiece_ these spectacles will indicate the character of every one you meet--_tailpiece_ rob is in truth a typical american boy--_headpiece_ rob placed the indicator to a point north of east and began his journey--_tailpiece_ a crowd assembled, all shouting and pointing toward him in wonder--_headpiece_ a man rushed toward it, but the next moment he threw up his hands and fell unconscious rob reached the entrance of the palace, only to face another group of guardsmen rob only smiled in an amused way as he marched past them--_tailpiece_ a tremendous din and clatter nearly deafened him--_headpiece_ the eyes of the frenchman were actually protruding from their sockets from an elevation of fifty feet or more rob overlooked a pretty garden--_headpiece_ placing the record so that the president could see clearly, rob watched the changing expressions upon the great man's face rob experienced a decided sense of relief as he mixed with the gay populace--_tailpiece_ beneath him stretched a vast sandy plain, and speeding across this he came to a land abounding in vegetation--_headpiece_ "those fellows seem to be looking for trouble" uttering cries of terror and dismay, the three turks took to their heels rob was miserable and unhappy, and remained brooding over his cruel fate--_tailpiece_ the tatars arrived swiftly and noiselessly--_headpiece_ the turk rose slowly into the air, with rob clinging to him with desperate tenacity without more ado rob mounted into the air, leaving the turk staring after him--_tailpiece_ coming toward him was an immense bird--_headpiece_ with one last scream the creature tumbled downward to join its fellow--_tailpiece_ during the next few hours rob suffered from a severe attack of homesickness--_headpiece_ the disappointment of the sailors was something awful to witness as they slowly mounted into the sky the sailor gave a squeal of terror--_tailpiece_ rob mounted skyward, to the unbounded amazement of the fishermen, who stared after him--_headpiece_ rob hovered over the great tower of the lick observatory until he attracted the excited gaze of its inhabitants--_tailpiece_ finding himself upon the lake front, rob hunted up a vacant bench and sat down to rest--_headpiece_ as he started downward he saw the old gentleman looking at him with a half-frightened, half-curious expression--_tailpiece_ at precisely ten o'clock rob reached the front door of his own house--_headpiece_ rob boldly ascended the stairs, entered the workshop and closed and locked the door--_tailpiece_ the demon sank into a chair nerveless and limp, but still staring fearfully at the boy--_headpiece_ a flash of white light half-stunned and blinded rob. when he recovered himself the demon had disappeared--_tailpiece_ [illustration] who knows? these things are quite improbable, to be sure; but are they impossible? our big world rolls over as smoothly as it did centuries ago, without a squeak to show it needs oiling after all these years of revolution. but times change because men change, and because civilization, like john brown's soul, goes ever marching on. the impossibilities of yesterday become the accepted facts of to-day. here is a fairy tale founded upon the wonders of electricity and written for children of this generation. yet when my readers shall have become men and women my story may not seem to their children like a fairy tale at all. perhaps one, perhaps two--perhaps several of the demon's devices will be, by that time, in popular use. who knows? "_in wonder all philosophy began; in wonder it all ends; and admiration fills up the interspace. but the first wonder is the offspring of ignorance: the last is the parent of adoration._" --coleridge. [illustration] the master key _chapter one_ rob's workshop when rob became interested in electricity his clear-headed father considered the boy's fancy to be instructive as well as amusing; so he heartily encouraged his son, and rob never lacked batteries, motors or supplies of any sort that his experiments might require. he fitted up the little back room in the attic as his workshop, and from thence a net-work of wires soon ran throughout the house. not only had every outside door its electric bell, but every window was fitted with a burglar alarm; moreover no one could cross the threshold of any interior room without registering the fact in rob's workshop. the gas was lighted by an electric fob; a chime, connected with an erratic clock in the boy's room, woke the servants at all hours of the night and caused the cook to give warning; a bell rang whenever the postman dropped a letter into the box; there were bells, bells, bells everywhere, ringing at the right time, the wrong time and all the time. and there were telephones in the different rooms, too, through which rob could call up the different members of the family just when they did not wish to be disturbed. his mother and sisters soon came to vote the boy's scientific craze a nuisance; but his father was delighted with these evidences of rob's skill as an electrician, and insisted that he be allowed perfect freedom in carrying out his ideas. "electricity," said the old gentleman, sagely, "is destined to become the motive power of the world. the future advance of civilization will be along electrical lines. our boy may become a great inventor and astonish the world with his wonderful creations." "and in the meantime," said the mother, despairingly, "we shall all be electrocuted, or the house burned down by crossed wires, or we shall be blown into eternity by an explosion of chemicals!" "nonsense!" ejaculated the proud father. "rob's storage batteries are not powerful enough to electrocute one or set the house on fire. do give the boy a chance, belinda." "and his pranks are so humiliating," continued the lady. "when the minister called yesterday and rang the bell a big card appeared on the front door on which was printed the words: 'busy; call again.' fortunately helen saw him and let him in, but when i reproved robert for the act he said he was just trying the sign to see if it would work." "exactly! the boy is an inventor already. i shall have one of those cards attached to the door of my private office at once. i tell you, belinda, our son will be a great man one of these days," said mr. joslyn, walking up and down with pompous strides and almost bursting with the pride he took in his young hopeful. mrs. joslyn sighed. she knew remonstrance was useless so long as her husband encouraged the boy, and that she would be wise to bear her cross with fortitude. rob also knew his mother's protests would be of no avail; so he continued to revel in electrical processes of all sorts, using the house as an experimental station to test the powers of his productions. it was in his own room, however,--his "workshop"--that he especially delighted. for not only was it the center of all his numerous "lines" throughout the house, but he had rigged up therein a wonderful array of devices for his own amusement. a trolley-car moved around a circular track and stopped regularly at all stations; an engine and train of cars moved jerkily up and down a steep grade and through a tunnel; a windmill was busily pumping water from the dishpan into the copper skillet; a sawmill was in full operation and a host of mechanical blacksmiths, scissors-grinders, carpenters, wood-choppers and millers were connected with a motor which kept them working away at their trades in awkward but persevering fashion. the room was crossed and recrossed with wires. they crept up the walls, lined the floor, made a grille of the ceiling and would catch an unwary visitor under the chin or above the ankle just when he least expected it. yet visitors were forbidden in so crowded a room, and even his father declined to go farther than the doorway. as for rob, he thought he knew all about the wires, and what each one was for; but they puzzled even him, at times, and he was often perplexed to know how to utilize them all. one day when he had locked himself in to avoid interruption while he planned the electrical illumination of a gorgeous pasteboard palace, he really became confused over the network of wires. he had a "switch-board," to be sure, where he could make and break connections as he chose; but the wires had somehow become mixed, and he could not tell what combinations to use to throw the power on to his miniature electric lights. so he experimented in a rather haphazard fashion, connecting this and that wire blindly and by guesswork, in the hope that he would strike the right combination. then he thought the combination might be right and there was a lack of power; so he added other lines of wire to his connections, and still others, until he had employed almost every wire in the room. [illustration: a quick flash of light almost blinded rob] yet it would not work; and after pausing a moment to try to think what was wrong he went at it again, putting this and that line into connection, adding another here and another there, until suddenly, as he made a last change, a quick flash of light almost blinded him, and the switch-board crackled ominously, as if struggling to carry a powerful current. rob covered his face at the flash, but finding himself unhurt he took away his hands and with blinking eyes attempted to look at a wonderful radiance which seemed to fill the room, making it many times brighter than the brightest day. although at first completely dazzled, he peered before him until he discovered that the light was concentrated near one spot, from which all the glorious rays seemed to scintillate. he closed his eyes a moment to rest them; then re-opening them and shading them somewhat with his hands, he made out the form of a curious being standing with majesty and composure in the center of the magnificent radiance and looking down upon him! [illustration] [illustration] _chapter two_ the demon of electricity rob was a courageous boy, but a thrill of fear passed over him in spite of his bravest endeavor as he gazed upon the wondrous apparition that confronted him. for several moments he sat as if turned to stone, so motionless was he; but his eyes were nevertheless fastened upon the being and devouring every detail of his appearance. and how strange an appearance he presented! his jacket was a wavering mass of white light, edged with braid of red flames that shot little tongues in all directions. the buttons blazed in golden fire. his trousers had a bluish, incandescent color, with glowing stripes of crimson braid. his vest was gorgeous with all the colors of the rainbow blended into a flashing, resplendent mass. in feature he was most majestic, and his eyes held the soft but penetrating brilliance of electric lights. it was hard to meet the gaze of those searching eyes, but rob did it, and at once the splendid apparition bowed and said in a low, clear voice: "i am here." "i know that," answered the boy, trembling, "but _why_ are you here?" "because you have touched the master key of electricity, and i must obey the laws of nature that compel me to respond to your summons." "i--i didn't know i touched the master key," faltered the boy. "i understand that. you did it unconsciously. no one in the world has ever done it before, for nature has hitherto kept the secret safe locked within her bosom." rob took time to wonder at this statement. "then who are you?" he inquired, at length. "the demon of electricity," was the solemn answer. "good gracious!" exclaimed rob, "a demon!" "certainly. i am, in truth, the slave of the master key, and am forced to obey the commands of any one who is wise and brave enough--or, as in your own case, fortunate and fool-hardy enough--to touch it." "i--i've never guessed there was such a thing as a master key, or--or a demon of electricity, and--and i'm awfully sorry i--i called you up!" stammered the boy, abashed by the imposing appearance of his companion. the demon actually smiled at this speech,--a smile that was almost reassuring. "i am not sorry," he said, in kindlier tone, "for it is not much pleasure waiting century after century for some one to command my services. i have often thought my existence uncalled for, since you earth people are so stupid and ignorant that you seem unlikely ever to master the secret of electrical power." "oh, we have some great masters among us!" cried rob, rather nettled at this statement. "now, there's edison--" "edison!" exclaimed the demon, with a faint sneer; "what does he know?" "lots of things," declared the boy. "he's invented no end of wonderful electrical things." "you are wrong to call them wonderful," replied the demon, lightly. "he really knows little more than yourself about the laws that control electricity. his inventions are trifling things in comparison with the really wonderful results to be obtained by one who would actually know how to direct the electric powers instead of groping blindly after insignificant effects. why, i've stood for months by edison's elbow, hoping and longing for him to touch the master key; but i can see plainly he will never accomplish it." "then there's tesla," said the boy. the demon laughed. "there is tesla, to be sure," he said. "but what of him?" "why, he's discovered a powerful light," the demon gave an amused chuckle, "and he's in communication with the people in mars." "what people?" "why, the people who live there." "there are none." this quiet statement almost took rob's breath away, and caused him to stare hard at his visitor. "it's generally thought," he resumed, in an annoyed tone, "that mars has inhabitants who are far in advance of ourselves in civilization. many scientific men think the people of mars have been trying to signal us for years, only we don't understand their signals. and great novelists have written about the martians and their wonderful civilization, and--" "and they all know as much about that little planet as you do yourself," interrupted the demon, impatiently. "the trouble with you earth people is that you delight in guessing about what you can not know. now i happen to know all about mars, because i can traverse all space and have had ample leisure to investigate the different planets. mars is not peopled at all, nor is any other of the planets you recognize in the heavens. some contain low orders of beasts, to be sure, but earth alone has an intelligent, thinking, reasoning population, and your scientists and novelists would do better trying to comprehend their own planet than in groping through space to unravel the mysteries of barren and unimportant worlds." rob listened to this with surprise and disappointment; but he reflected that the demon ought to know what he was talking about, so he did not venture to contradict him. "it is really astonishing," continued the apparition, "how little you people have learned about electricity. it is an earth element that has existed since the earth itself was formed, and if you but understood its proper use humanity would be marvelously benefited in many ways." "we are, already," protested rob; "our discoveries in electricity have enabled us to live much more conveniently." "then imagine your condition were you able fully to control this great element," replied the other, gravely. "the weaknesses and privations of mankind would be converted into power and luxury." "that's true, mr.--mr.--demon," said the boy. "excuse me if i don't get your name right, but i understood you to say you are a demon." "certainly. the demon of electricity." "but electricity is a good thing, you know, and--and--" "well?" "i've always understood that demons were bad things," added rob, boldly. "not necessarily," returned his visitor. "if you will take the trouble to consult your dictionary, you will find that demons may be either good or bad, like any other class of beings. originally all demons were good, yet of late years people have come to consider all demons evil. i do not know why. should you read hesiod you will find he says: 'soon was a world of holy demons made, aerial spirits, by great jove designed to be on earth the guardians of mankind.'" "but jove was himself a myth," objected rob, who had been studying mythology. the demon shrugged his shoulders. "then take the words of mr. shakespeare, to whom you all defer," he replied. "do you not remember that he says: 'thy demon (that's thy spirit which keeps thee) is noble, courageous, high, unmatchable.'" "oh, if shakespeare says it, that's all right," answered the boy. "but it seems you're more like a genius, for you answer the summons of the master key of electricity in the same way aladdin's genius answered the rubbing of the lamp." "to be sure. a demon is also a genius; and a genius is a demon," said the being. "what matters a name? i am here to do your bidding." [illustration] [illustration] _chapter three_ the three gifts familiarity with any great thing removes our awe of it. the great general is only terrible to the enemy; the great poet is frequently scolded by his wife; the children of the great statesman clamber about his knees with perfect trust and impunity; the great actor who is called before the curtain by admiring audiences is often waylaid at the stage door by his creditors. so rob, having conversed for a time with the glorious demon of electricity, began to regard him with more composure and less awe, as his eyes grew more and more accustomed to the splendor that at first had well-nigh blinded them. when the demon announced himself ready to do the boy's bidding, he frankly replied: "i am no skilled electrician, as you very well know. my calling you here was an accident. so i don't know how to command you, nor what to ask you to do." "but i must not take advantage of your ignorance," answered the demon. "also, i am quite anxious to utilize this opportunity to show the world what a powerful element electricity really is. so permit me to inform you that, having struck the master key, you are at liberty to demand from me three gifts each week for three successive weeks. these gifts, provided they are within the scope of electricity, i will grant." rob shook his head regretfully. "if i were a great electrician i should know what to ask," he said. "but i am too ignorant to take advantage of your kind offer." "then," replied the demon, "i will myself suggest the gifts, and they will be of such a character that the earth people will learn the possibilities that lie before them and be encouraged to work more intelligently and to persevere in mastering those natural and simple laws which control electricity. for one of the greatest errors they now labor under is that electricity is complicated and hard to understand. it is really the simplest earth element, lying within easy reach of any one who stretches out his hand to grasp and control its powers." rob yawned, for he thought the demon's speeches were growing rather tiresome. perhaps the genius noticed this rudeness, for he continued: "i regret, of course, that you are a boy instead of a grown man, for it will appear singular to your friends that so thoughtless a youth should seemingly have mastered the secrets that have baffled your most learned scientists. but that can not be helped, and presently you will become, through my aid, the most powerful and wonderful personage in all the world." "thank you," said rob, meekly. "it'll be no end of fun." "fun!" echoed the demon, scornfully. "but never mind; i must use the material fate has provided for me, and make the best of it." "what will you give me first?" asked the boy, eagerly. "that requires some thought," returned the demon, and paused for several moments, while rob feasted his eyes upon the gorgeous rays of color that flashed and vibrated in every direction and surrounded the figure of his visitor with an intense glow that resembled a halo. then the demon raised his head and said: "the thing most necessary to man is food to nourish his body. he passes a considerable part of his life in the struggle to procure food, to prepare it properly, and in the act of eating. this is not right. your body can not be very valuable to you if all your time is required to feed it. i shall, therefore, present you, as my first gift, this box of tablets. within each tablet are stored certain elements of electricity which are capable of nourishing a human body for a full day. all you need do is to toss one into your mouth each day and swallow it. it will nourish you, satisfy your hunger and build up your health and strength. the ordinary food of mankind is more or less injurious; this is entirely beneficial. moreover, you may carry enough tablets in your pocket to last for months." here he presented rob the silver box of tablets, and the boy, somewhat nervously, thanked him for the gift. "the next requirement of man," continued the demon, "is defense from his enemies. i notice with sorrow that men frequently have wars and kill one another. also, even in civilized communities, man is in constant danger from highwaymen, cranks and policemen. to defend himself he uses heavy and dangerous guns, with which to destroy his enemies. this is wrong. he has no right to take away what he can not bestow; to destroy what he can not create. to kill a fellow-creature is a horrid crime, even if done in self-defense. therefore, my second gift to you is this little tube. you may carry it within your pocket. whenever an enemy threatens you, be it man or beast, simply point the tube and press this button in the handle. an electric current will instantly be directed upon your foe, rendering him wholly unconscious for the period of one hour. during that time you will have opportunity to escape. as for your enemy, after regaining consciousness he will suffer no inconvenience from the encounter beyond a slight headache." "that's fine!" said rob, as he took the tube. it was scarcely six inches long, and hollow at one end. "the busy lives of men," proceeded the demon, "require them to move about and travel in all directions. yet to assist them there are only such crude and awkward machines as electric trolleys, cable cars, steam railways and automobiles. these crawl slowly over the uneven surface of the earth and frequently get out of order. it has grieved me that men have not yet discovered what even the birds know: that the atmosphere offers them swift and easy means of traveling from one part of the earth's surface to another." "some people have tried to build air-ships," remarked rob. "so they have; great, unwieldy machines which offer so much resistance to the air that they are quite useless. a big machine is not needed to carry one through the air. there are forces in nature which may be readily used for such purpose. tell me, what holds you to the earth, and makes a stone fall to the ground?" "attraction of gravitation," said rob, promptly. "exactly. that is one force i refer to," said the demon. "the force of repulsion, which is little known, but just as powerful, is another that mankind may direct. then there are the polar electric forces, attracting objects toward the north or south poles. you have guessed something of this by the use of the compass, or electric needle. opposed to these is centrifugal electric force, drawing objects from east to west, or in the opposite direction. this force is created by the whirl of the earth upon its axis, and is easily utilized, although your scientific men have as yet paid little attention to it. "these forces, operating in all directions, absolute and immutable, are at the disposal of mankind. they will carry you through the atmosphere wherever and whenever you choose. that is, if you know how to control them. now, here is a machine i have myself perfected." the demon drew from his pocket something that resembled an open-faced watch, having a narrow, flexible band attached to it. "when you wish to travel," said he, "attach this little machine to your left wrist by means of the band. it is very light and will not be in your way. on this dial are points marked 'up' and 'down' as well as a perfect compass. when you desire to rise into the air set the indicator to the word 'up,' using a finger of your right hand to turn it. when you have risen as high as you wish, set the indicator to the point of the compass you want to follow and you will be carried by the proper electric force in that direction. to descend, set the indicator to the word 'down.' do you understand?" "perfectly!" cried rob, taking the machine from the demon with unfeigned delight. "this is really wonderful, and i'm awfully obliged to you!" "don't mention it," returned the demon, dryly. "these three gifts you may amuse yourself with for the next week. it seems hard to entrust such great scientific discoveries to the discretion of a mere boy; but they are quite harmless, so if you exercise proper care you can not get into trouble through their possession. and who knows what benefits to humanity may result? one week from to-day, at this hour, i will again appear to you, at which time you shall receive the second series of electrical gifts." "i'm not sure," said rob, "that i shall be able again to make the connections that will strike the master key." "probably not," answered the demon. "could you accomplish that, you might command my services forever. but, having once succeeded, you are entitled to the nine gifts--three each week for three weeks--so you have no need to call me to do my duty. i shall appear of my own accord." "thank you," murmured the boy. the demon bowed and spread his hands in the form of a semi-circle. an instant later there was a blinding flash, and when rob recovered from it and opened his eyes the demon of electricity had disappeared. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter four_ testing the instruments there is little doubt that had this strange experience befallen a grown man he would have been stricken with a fit of trembling or a sense of apprehension, or even fear, at the thought of having faced the terrible demon of electricity, of having struck the master key of the world's greatest natural forces, and finding himself possessed of three such wonderful and useful gifts. but a boy takes everything as a matter of course. as the tree of knowledge sprouts and expands within him, shooting out leaf after leaf of practical experience, the succession of surprises dulls his faculty of wonderment. it takes a great deal to startle a boy. rob was full of delight at his unexpected good fortune; but he did not stop to consider that there was anything remarkably queer or uncanny in the manner in which it had come to him. his chief sensation was one of pride. he would now be able to surprise those who had made fun of his electrical craze and force them to respect his marvelous powers. he decided to say nothing about the demon or the accidental striking of the master key. in exhibiting to his friends the electrical devices he had acquired it would be "no end of fun" to mark their amazement and leave them to guess how he performed his feats. so he put his treasures into his pocket, locked his workshop and went downstairs to his room to prepare for dinner. while brushing his hair he remembered it was no longer necessary for him to eat ordinary food. he was feeling quite hungry at that moment, for he had a boy's ravenous appetite; but, taking the silver box from his pocket, he swallowed a tablet and at once felt his hunger as fully satisfied as if he had partaken of a hearty meal, while at the same time he experienced an exhilarating glow throughout his body and a clearness of brain and gaiety of spirits which filled him with intense gratification. still, he entered the dining-room when the bell rang and found his father and mother and sisters already assembled there. "where have you been all day, robert?" inquired his mother. "no need to ask," said mr. joslyn, with a laugh. "fussing over electricity, i'll bet a cookie!" "i do wish," said the mother, fretfully, "that he would get over that mania. it unfits him for anything else." "precisely," returned her husband, dishing the soup; "but it fits him for a great career when he becomes a man. why shouldn't he spend his summer vacation in pursuit of useful knowledge instead of romping around like ordinary boys?" "no soup, thank you," said rob. "what!" exclaimed his father, looking at him in surprise, "it's your favorite soup." "i know," said rob, quietly, "but i don't want any." "are you ill, robert?" asked his mother. "never felt better in my life," answered rob, truthfully. yet mrs. joslyn looked worried, and when rob refused the roast, she was really shocked. "let me feel your pulse, my poor boy!" she commanded, and wondered to find it so regular. in fact, rob's action surprised them all. he sat calmly throughout the meal, eating nothing, but apparently in good health and spirits, while even his sisters regarded him with troubled countenances. "he's worked too hard, i guess," said mr. joslyn, shaking his head sadly. "oh, no; i haven't," protested rob; "but i've decided not to eat anything, hereafter. it's a bad habit, and does more harm than good." "wait till breakfast," said sister helen, with a laugh; "you'll be hungry enough by that time." however, the boy had no desire for food at breakfast time, either, as the tablet sufficed for an entire day. so he renewed the anxiety of the family by refusing to join them at the table. "if this goes on," mr. joslyn said to his son, when breakfast was finished, "i shall be obliged to send you away for your health." "i think of making a trip this morning," said rob, carelessly. "where to?" "oh, i may go to boston, or take a run over to cuba or jamaica," replied the boy. "but you can not go so far by yourself," declared his father; "and there is no one to go with you, just now. nor can i spare the money at present for so expensive a trip." "oh, it won't cost anything," replied rob, with a smile. mr. joslyn looked upon him gravely and sighed. mrs. joslyn bent over her son with tears in her eyes and said: "this electrical nonsense has affected your mind, dear. you must promise me to keep away from that horrid workshop for a time." "i won't enter it for a week," he answered. "but you needn't worry about me. i haven't been experimenting with electricity all this time for nothing, i can tell you. as for my health, i'm as well and strong as any boy need be, and there's nothing wrong with my head, either. common folks always think great men are crazy, but edison and tesla and i don't pay any attention to that. we've got our discoveries to look after. now, as i said, i'm going for a little trip in the interests of science. i maybe back to-night, or i may be gone several days. anyhow, i'll be back in a week, and you mustn't worry about me a single minute." "how are you going?" inquired his father, in the gentle, soothing tone persons use in addressing maniacs. "through the air," said rob. his father groaned. "where's your balloon?" inquired sister mabel, sarcastically. "i don't need a balloon," returned the boy. "that's a clumsy way of traveling, at best. i shall go by electric propulsion." "good gracious!" cried mr. joslyn, and the mother murmured: "my poor boy! my poor boy!" "as you are my nearest relatives," continued rob, not noticing these exclamations, "i will allow you to come into the back yard and see me start. you will then understand something of my electrical powers." they followed him at once, although with unbelieving faces, and on the way rob clasped the little machine to his left wrist, so that his coat sleeve nearly hid it. when they reached the lawn at the back of the house rob kissed them all good-by, much to his sisters' amusement, and turned the indicator of the little instrument to the word "up." immediately he began to rise into the air. "don't worry about me!" he called down to them. "good-by!" mrs. joslyn, with a scream of terror, hid her face in her hands. "he'll break his neck!" cried the astounded father, tipping back his head to look after his departing son. [illustration: "he'll break his neck!" cried the astounded father] "come back! come back!" shouted the girls to the soaring adventurer. "i will--some day!" was the far-away answer. having risen high enough to pass over the tallest tree or steeple, rob put the indicator to the east of the compass-dial and at once began moving rapidly in that direction. the sensation was delightful. he rode as gently as a feather floats, without any exertion at all on his own part; yet he moved so swiftly that he easily distanced a railway train that was speeding in the same direction. "this is great!" reflected the youth. "here i am, traveling in fine style, without a penny to pay any one! and i've enough food to last me a month in my coat pocket. this electricity is the proper stuff, after all! and the demon's a trump, and no mistake. whee-ee! how small everything looks down below there. the people are bugs, and the houses are soap-boxes, and the trees are like clumps of grass. i seem to be passing over a town. guess i'll drop down a bit, and take in the sights." he pointed the indicator to the word "down," and at once began dropping through the air. he experienced the sensation one feels while descending in an elevator. when he reached a point just above the town he put the indicator to the zero mark and remained stationary, while he examined the place. but there was nothing to interest him, particularly; so after a brief survey he once more ascended and continued his journey toward the east. at about two o'clock in the afternoon he reached the city of boston, and alighting unobserved in a quiet street he walked around for several hours enjoying the sights and wondering what people would think of him if they but knew his remarkable powers. but as he looked just like any other boy no one noticed him in any way. it was nearly evening, and rob had wandered down by the wharves to look at the shipping, when his attention was called to an ugly looking bull dog, which ran toward him and began barking ferociously. "get out!" said the boy, carelessly, and made a kick at the brute. the dog uttered a fierce growl and sprang upon him with bared teeth and flashing red eyes. instantly rob drew the electric tube from his pocket, pointed it at the dog and pressed the button. almost at the same moment the dog gave a yelp, rolled over once or twice and lay still. "i guess that'll settle him," laughed the boy; but just then he heard an angry shout, and looking around saw a policeman running toward him. "kill me dog, will ye--eh?" yelled the officer; "well, i'll just run ye in for that same, an' ye'll spend the night in the lock-up!" and on he came, with drawn club in one hand and a big revolver in the other. "you'll have to catch me first," said rob, still laughing, and to the amazement of the policeman he began rising straight into the air. "come down here! come down, or i'll shoot!" shouted the fellow, flourishing his revolver. rob was afraid he would; so, to avoid accidents, he pointed the tube at him and pressed the button. the red-whiskered policeman keeled over quite gracefully and fell across the body of the dog, while rob continued to mount upward until he was out of sight of those in the streets. "that was a narrow escape," he thought, breathing more freely. "i hated to paralyze that policeman, but he might have sent a bullet after me. anyhow, he'll be all right again in an hour, so i needn't worry." it was beginning to grow dark, and he wondered what he should do next. had he possessed any money he would have descended to the town and taken a bed at a hotel, but he had left home without a single penny. fortunately the nights were warm at this season, so he determined to travel all night, that he might reach by morning some place he had never before visited. cuba had always interested him, and he judged it ought to lie in a southeasterly direction from boston. so he set the indicator to that point and began gliding swiftly toward the southeast. he now remembered that it was twenty-four hours since he had eaten the first electrical tablet. as he rode through the air he consumed another. all hunger at once left him, while he felt the same invigorating sensations as before. after a time the moon came out, and rob amused himself gazing at the countless stars in the sky and wondering if the demon was right when he said the world was the most important of all the planets. but presently he grew sleepy, and before he realized what was happening he had fallen into a sound and peaceful slumber, while the indicator still pointed to the southeast and he continued to move rapidly through the cool night air. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter five_ the cannibal island doubtless the adventures of the day had tired rob, for he slept throughout the night as comfortably as if he had been within his own room, lying upon his own bed. when, at last, he opened his eyes and gazed sleepily about him, he found himself over a great body of water, moving along with considerable speed. "it's the ocean, of course," he said to himself. "i haven't reached cuba yet." it is to be regretted that rob's knowledge of geography was so superficial; for, as he had intended to reach cuba, he should have taken a course almost southwest from boston, instead of southeast. the sad result of his ignorance you will presently learn, for during the entire day he continued to travel over a boundless waste of ocean, without the sight of even an island to cheer him. the sun shone so hot that he regretted he had not brought an umbrella. but he wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, which protected him somewhat, and he finally discovered that by rising to a considerable distance above the ocean he avoided the reflection of the sun upon the water and also came within the current of good breeze. of course he dared not stop, for there was no place to land; so he calmly continued his journey. "it may be i've missed cuba," he thought; "but i can not change my course now, for if i did i might get lost, and never be able to find land again. if i keep on as i am i shall be sure to reach land of some sort, in time, and when i wish to return home i can set the indicator to the northwest and that will take me directly back to boston." this was good reasoning, but the rash youth had no idea he was speeding over the ocean, or that he was destined to arrive shortly at the barbarous island of brava, off the coast of africa. yet such was the case; just as the sun sank over the edge of the waves he saw, to his great relief, a large island directly in his path. he dropped to a lower position in the air, and when he judged himself to be over the center of the island he turned the indicator to zero and stopped short. the country was beautifully wooded, while pretty brooks sparkled through the rich green foliage of the trees. the island sloped upwards from the sea-coast in all directions, rising to a hill that was almost a mountain in the center. there were two open spaces, one on each side of the island, and rob saw that these spaces were occupied by queer-looking huts built from brushwood and branches of trees. this showed that the island was inhabited, but as rob had no idea what island it was he wisely determined not to meet the natives until he had discovered what they were like and whether they were disposed to be friendly. so he moved over the hill, the top of which proved to be a flat, grass-covered plateau about fifty feet in diameter. finding it could not be easily reached from below, on account of its steep sides, and contained neither men nor animals, he alighted on the hill-top and touched his feet to the earth for the first time in twenty-four hours. the ride through the air had not tired him in the least; in fact, he felt as fresh and vigorous as if he had been resting throughout the journey. as he walked upon the soft grass of the plateau he felt elated, and compared himself to the explorers of ancient days; for it was evident that civilization had not yet reached this delightful spot. there was scarcely any twilight in this tropical climate and it grew dark quickly. within a few minutes the entire island, save where he stood, became dim and indistinct. he ate his daily tablet, and after watching the red glow fade in the western sky and the gray shadows of night settle around him he stretched himself comfortably upon the grass and went to sleep. the events of the day must have deepened his slumber, for when he awoke the sun was shining almost directly over him, showing that the day was well advanced. he stood up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and decided he would like a drink of water. from where he stood he could see several little brooks following winding paths through the forest, so he settled upon one that seemed farthest from the brushwood villages, and turning his indicator in that direction soon floated through the air to a sheltered spot upon the bank. kneeling down, he enjoyed a long, refreshing drink of the clear water, but as he started to regain his feet a coil of rope was suddenly thrown about him, pinning his arms to his sides and rendering him absolutely helpless. at the same time his ears were saluted with a wild chattering in an unknown tongue, and he found himself surrounded by a group of natives of hideous appearance. they were nearly naked, and bore spears and heavy clubs as their only weapons. their hair was long, curly, and thick as bushes, and through their noses and ears were stuck the teeth of sharks and curious metal ornaments. these creatures had stolen upon rob so quietly that he had not heard a sound, but now they jabbered loudly, as if much excited. finally one fat and somewhat aged native, who seemed to be a chief, came close to rob and said, in broken english: "how get here?" "i flew," said the boy, with a grin. the chief shook his head, saying: "no boat come. how white man come?" "through the air," replied rob, who was rather flattered at being called a "man." the chief looked into the air with a puzzled expression and shook his head again. "white man lie," he said calmly. then he held further conversation with his fellows, after which he turned to rob and announced: "me see white man many times. come in big boats. white men all bad. make kill with bang-sticks. we kill white man with club. then we eat white man. dead white man good. live white man bad!" this did not please rob at all. the idea of being eaten by savages had never occurred to him as a sequel to his adventures. so he said rather anxiously to the chief: "look here, old fellow; do you want to die?" "me no die. you die," was the reply. "you'll die, too, if you eat me," said rob. "i'm full of poison." "poison? don't know poison," returned the chief, much perplexed to understand him. "well, poison will make you sick--awful sick. then you'll die. i'm full of it; eat it every day for breakfast. it don't hurt white men, you see, but it kills black men quicker than the bang-stick." the chief listened to this statement carefully, but only understood it in part. after a moment's reflection he declared: "white man lie. lie all time. me eat plenty white man. never get sick; never die." then he added, with renewed cheerfulness: "me eat you, too!" before rob could think of a further protest, his captors caught up the end of the rope and led him away through the forest. he was tightly bound, and one strand of rope ran across the machine on his wrist and pressed it into his flesh until the pain was severe. but he resolved to be brave, whatever happened, so he stumbled along after the savages without a word. after a brief journey they came to a village, where rob was thrust into a brushwood hut and thrown upon the ground, still tightly bound. "we light fire," said the chief. "then kill little white man. then eat him." with this comforting promise he went away and left rob alone to think the matter over. "this is tough," reflected the boy, with a groan. "i never expected to feed cannibals. wish i was at home with mother and dad and the girls. wish i'd never seen the demon of electricity and his wonderful inventions. i was happy enough before i struck that awful master key. and now i'll be eaten--with salt and pepper, probably. wonder if there'll be any gravy. perhaps they'll boil me, with biscuits, as mother does chickens. oh-h-h-h-h! it's just awful!" in the midst of these depressing thoughts he became aware that something was hurting his back. after rolling over he found that he had been lying upon a sharp stone that stuck out of the earth. this gave him an idea. he rolled upon the stone again and began rubbing the rope that bound him against the sharp edge. outside he could hear the crackling of fagots and the roar of a newly-kindled fire, so he knew he had no time to spare. he wriggled and pushed his body right and left, right and left, sawing away at the rope, until the strain and exertion started the perspiration from every pore. at length the rope parted, and hastily uncoiling it from his body rob stood up and rubbed his benumbed muscles and tried to regain his lost breath. he had not freed himself a moment too soon, he found, for hearing a grunt of surprise behind him he turned around and saw a native standing in the door of the hut. rob laughed, for he was not a bit afraid of the blacks now. as the native made a rush toward him the boy drew the electric tube from his pocket, pointed it at the foe, and pressed the button. the fellow sank to the earth without even a groan, and lay still. then another black entered, followed by the fat chief. when they saw rob at liberty, and their comrade lying apparently dead, the chief cried out in surprise, using some expressive words in his own language. "if it's just the same to you, old chap," said rob, coolly, "i won't be eaten to-day. you can make a pie of that fellow on the ground." "no! we eat you," cried the chief, angrily. "you cut rope, but no get away; no boat!" "i don't need a boat, thank you," said the boy; and then, as the other native sprang forward, he pointed the tube and laid him out beside his first victim. at this act the chief stood an instant in amazed uncertainty. then he turned and rushed from the hut. laughing with amusement at the waddling, fat figure, rob followed the chief and found himself standing almost in the center of the native village. a big fire was blazing merrily and the blacks were busy making preparations for a grand feast. rob was quickly surrounded by a crowd of the villagers, who chattered fiercely and made threatening motions in his direction; but as the chief cried out to them a warning in the native tongue they kept a respectful distance and contented themselves with brandishing their spears and clubs. "if any of your fellows come nearer," rob said to the fat chief, "i'll knock 'em over." "what you make do?" asked the chief, nervously. "watch sharp, and you'll see," answered rob. then he made a mocking bow to the circle and continued: "i'm pleased to have met you fellows, and proud to think you like me well enough to want to eat me; but i'm in a bit of a hurry to-day, so i can't stop to be digested." after which, as the crowd broke into a hum of surprise, he added: "good-day, black folks!" and quickly turned the indicator of his traveling machine to the word "up." slowly he rose into the air, until his heels were just above the gaping blacks; but there he stopped short. with a thrill of fear he glanced at the indicator. it was pointed properly, and he knew at once that something was wrong with the delicate mechanism that controlled it. probably the pressure of the rope across its face, when he was bound, had put it out of order. there he was, seven feet in the air, but without the power to rise an inch farther. this short flight, however, had greatly astonished the blacks, who, seeing his body suspended in mid-air, immediately hailed him as a god, and prostrated themselves upon the ground before him. the fat chief had seen something of white men in his youth, and had learned to mistrust them. so, while he remained as prostrate as the rest, he peeped at rob with one of his little black eyes and saw that the boy was ill at ease, and seemed both annoyed and frightened. so he muttered some orders to the man next him, who wriggled along the ground until he had reached a position behind rob, when he rose and pricked the suspended "god" with the point of his spear. "ouch!" yelled the boy; "stop that!" he twisted his head around, and seeing the black again make a movement with the spear, rob turned his electric tube upon him and keeled him over like a ten-pin. the natives, who had looked up at his cry of pain, again prostrated themselves, kicking their toes against the ground in a terrified tattoo at this new evidence of the god's powers. the situation was growing somewhat strained by this time, and rob did not know what the savages would decide to do next; so he thought it best to move away from them, since he was unable to rise to a greater height. he turned the indicator towards the south, where a level space appeared between the trees; but instead of taking that direction he moved towards the northeast, a proof that his machine had now become absolutely unreliable. moreover, he was slowly approaching the fire, which, although it had ceased blazing, was a mass of glowing red embers. in his excitement he turned the indicator this way and that, trying to change the direction of his flight, but the only result of his endeavor was to carry him directly over the fire, where he came to a full stop. "murder! help! fire and blazes!" he cried, as he felt the glow of the coals beneath him. "i'll be roasted, after all! here; help, fatty, help!" the fat chief sprang to his feet and came to the rescue. he reached up, caught rob by the heels, and pulled him down to the ground, away from the fire. but the next moment, as he clung to the boy's feet, they both soared into the air again, and, although now far enough from the fire to escape its heat, the savage, finding himself lifted from the earth, uttered a scream of horror and let go of rob, to fall head over heels upon the ground. the other blacks had by this time regained their feet, and now they crowded around their chief and set him upright again. rob continued to float in the air, just above their heads, and now abandoned all thoughts of escaping by means of his wrecked traveling machine. but he resolved to regain a foothold upon the earth and take his chances of escape by running rather than flying. so he turned the indicator to the word "down," and very slowly it obeyed, allowing him, to his great relief, to sink gently to the ground. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter six_ the buccaneers once more the blacks formed a circle around our adventurer, who coolly drew his tube and said to the chief: "tell your people i'm going to walk away through those trees, and if any one dares to interfere with me i'll paralyze him." the chief understood enough english to catch his meaning, and repeated the message to his men. having seen the terrible effect of the electric tube they wisely fell back and allowed the boy to pass. he marched through their lines with a fine air of dignity, although he was fearful lest some of the blacks should stick a spear into him or bump his head with a war-club. but they were awed by the wonders they had seen and were still inclined to believe him a god, so he was not molested. when he found himself outside the village he made for the high plateau in the center of the island, where he could be safe from the cannibals while he collected his thoughts. but when he reached the place he found the sides so steep he could not climb them, so he adjusted the indicator to the word "up" and found it had still enough power to support his body while he clambered up the rocks to the level, grass-covered space at the top. then, reclining upon his back, he gave himself up to thoughts of how he might escape from his unpleasant predicament. "here i am, on a cannibal island, hundreds of miles from civilization, with no way to get back," he reflected. "the family will look for me every day, and finally decide i've broken my neck. the demon will call upon me when the week is up and won't find me at home; so i'll miss the next three gifts. i don't mind that so much, for they might bring me into worse scrapes than this. but how am i to get away from this beastly island? i'll be eaten, after all, if i don't look out!" these and similar thoughts occupied him for some time, yet in spite of much planning and thinking he could find no practical means of escape. at the end of an hour he looked over the edge of the plateau and found it surrounded by a ring of the black cannibals, who had calmly seated themselves to watch his movements. "perhaps they intend to starve me into surrender," he thought; "but they won't succeed so long as my tablets hold out. and if, in time, they should starve me, i'll be too thin and tough to make good eating; so i'll get the best of them, anyhow." then he again lay down and began to examine his electrical traveling machine. he did not dare take it apart, fearing he might not be able to get it together again, for he knew nothing at all about its construction. but he discovered two little dents on the edge, one on each side, which had evidently been caused by the pressure of the rope. "if i could get those dents out," he thought, "the machine might work." he first tried to pry out the edges with his pocket knife, but the attempt resulted in failure. then, as the sides seemed a little bulged outward by the dents, he placed the machine between two flat stones and pressed them together until the little instrument was nearly round again. the dents remained, to be sure, but he hoped he had removed the pressure upon the works. there was just one way to discover how well he had succeeded, so he fastened the machine to his wrist and turned the indicator to the word "up." slowly he ascended, this time to a height of nearly twenty feet. then his progress became slower and finally ceased altogether. "that's a little better," he thought. "now let's see if it will go sidewise." he put the indicator to "north-west,"--the direction of home--and very slowly the machine obeyed and carried him away from the plateau and across the island. the natives saw him go, and springing to their feet began uttering excited shouts and throwing their spears at him. but he was already so high and so far away that they failed to reach him, and the boy continued his journey unharmed. once the branches of a tall tree caught him and nearly tipped him over; but he managed to escape others by drawing up his feet. at last he was free of the island and traveling over the ocean again. he was not at all sorry to bid good-by to the cannibal island, but he was worried about the machine, which clearly was not in good working order. the vast ocean was beneath him, and he moved no faster than an ordinary walk. "at this rate i'll get home some time next year," he grumbled. "however, i suppose i ought to be glad the machine works at all." and he really was glad. all the afternoon and all the long summer night he moved slowly over the water. it was annoying to go at "a reg'lar jog-trot," as rob called it, after his former swift flight; but there was no help for it. just as dawn was breaking he saw in the distance a small vessel, sailing in the direction he was following, yet scarcely moving for lack of wind. he soon caught up with it, but saw no one on deck, and the craft had a dingy and uncared-for appearance that was not reassuring. but after hovering over it for some time rob decided to board the ship and rest for a while. he alighted near the bow, where the deck was highest, and was about to explore the place when a man came out of the low cabin and espied him. this person had a most villainous countenance, and was dark-skinned, black-bearded and dressed in an outlandish, piratical costume. on seeing the boy he gave a loud shout and was immediately joined by four companions, each as disagreeable in appearance as the first. rob knew there would be trouble the moment he looked at this evil crew, and when they drew their daggers and pistols and began fiercely shouting in an unknown tongue, the boy sighed and took the electric tube from his coat pocket. the buccaneers did not notice the movement, but rushed upon him so quickly that he had to press the button at a lively rate. the tube made no noise at all, so it was a strange and remarkable sight to see the pirates suddenly drop to the deck and lie motionless. indeed, one was so nearly upon him when the electric current struck him that his head, in falling, bumped into rob's stomach and sent him reeling against the side of the vessel. [illustration: it was a strange sight to see the pirates drop to the deck and lie motionless] he quickly recovered himself, and seeing his enemies were rendered harmless, the boy entered the cabin and examined it curiously. it was dirty and ill-smelling enough, but the corners and spare berths were heaped with merchandise of all kinds which had been taken from those so unlucky as to have met these cruel and desperate men. after a short inspection of the place he returned to the deck and again seated himself in the bow. the crippled condition of his traveling machine was now his chief trouble, and although a good breeze had sprung up to fill the sails and the little bark was making fair headway, rob knew he could never expect to reach home unless he could discover a better mode of conveyance than this. he unstrapped the machine from his wrist to examine it better, and while holding it carelessly in his hand it slipped and fell with a bang to the deck, striking upon its round edge and rolling quickly past the cabin and out of sight. with a cry of alarm he ran after it, and after much search found it lying against the bulwark near the edge of a scupper hole, where the least jar of the ship would have sent it to the bottom of the ocean. rob hastily seized his treasure, and upon examining it found the fall had bulged the rim so that the old dents scarcely showed at all. but its original shape was more distorted than ever, and rob feared he had utterly ruined its delicate mechanism. should this prove to be true, he might now consider himself a prisoner of this piratical band, the members of which, although temporarily disabled, would soon regain consciousness. he sat in the bow, sadly thinking of his misfortunes, until he noticed that one of the men began to stir. the effect of the electric shock conveyed by the tube was beginning to wear away, and now the buccaneer sat up, rubbed his head in a bewildered fashion and looked around him. when he saw rob he gave a shout of rage and drew his knife, but one motion of the electric tube made him cringe and slip away to the cabin, where he remained out of danger. and now the other four sat up, groaning and muttering in their outlandish speech; but they had no notion of facing rob's tube a second time, so one by one they joined their leader in the cabin, leaving the boy undisturbed. by this time the ship had begun to pitch and toss in an uncomfortable fashion, and rob noticed that the breeze had increased to a gale. there being no one to look after the sails, the vessel was in grave danger of capsizing or breaking her masts. the waves were now running high, too, and rob began to be worried. presently the captain of the pirates stuck his head out of the cabin door, jabbered some unintelligible words and pointed to the sails. the boy nodded, for he understood they wanted to attend to the rigging. so the crew trooped forth, rather fearfully, and began to reef the sails and put the ship into condition to weather the storm. rob paid no further attention to them. he looked at his traveling machine rather doubtfully and wondered if he dared risk its power to carry him through the air. whether he remained in the ship or trusted to the machine, he stood a good chance of dropping into the sea at any moment. so, while he hesitated, he attached the machine to his wrist and leaned over the bulwarks to watch the progress of the storm. he might stay in the ship until it foundered, he thought, and then take his chances with the machine. he decided to wait until a climax arrived. the climax came the next moment, for while he leaned over the bulwarks the buccaneers stole up behind him and suddenly seized him in their grasp. while two of them held his arms the others searched his pockets, taking from him the electric tube and the silver box containing his tablets. these they carried to the cabin and threw upon the heap of other valuables they had stolen. they did not notice his traveling machine, however, but seeing him now unarmed they began jeering and laughing at him, while the brutal captain relieved his anger by giving the prisoner several malicious kicks. rob bore his misfortune meekly, although he was almost ready to cry with grief and disappointment. but when one of the pirates, to inflict further punishment on the boy, came towards him with a heavy strap, he resolved not to await the blow. turning the indicator to the word "up" he found, to his joy and relief, that it would yet obey the influence of the power of repulsion. seeing him rise into the air the fellow made a grab for his foot and held it firmly, while his companions ran to help him. weight seemed to make no difference in the machine; it lifted the pirate as well as rob; it lifted another who clung to the first man's leg, and another who clung to him. the other two also caught hold, hoping their united strength would pull him down, and the next minute rob was soaring through the air with the entire string of five buccaneers dangling from his left leg. at first the villains were too astounded to speak, but as they realized that they were being carried through the air and away from their ship they broke into loud shouts of dismay, and finally the one who grasped rob's leg lost his hold and the five plunged downward and splashed into the sea. finding the machine disposed to work accurately, rob left the buccaneers to swim to the ship in the best way they could, while he dropped down to the deck again and recovered from the cabin his box of tablets and the electric tube. the fellows were just scrambling on board when he again escaped, shooting into the air with considerable speed. indeed, the instrument now worked better than at any time since he had reached the cannibal island, and the boy was greatly delighted. the wind at first sent him spinning away to the south, but he continued to rise until he was above the air currents, and the storm raged far beneath him. then he set the indicator to the northwest and breathlessly waited to see if it would obey. hurrah! away he sped at a fair rate of speed, while all his anxiety changed to a feeling of sweet contentment. his success had greatly surprised him, but he concluded that the jar caused by dropping the instrument had relieved the pressure upon the works, and so helped rather than harmed the free action of the electric currents. while he moved through the air with an easy, gliding motion he watched with much interest the storm raging below. above his head the sun was peacefully shining and the contrast was strange and impressive. after an hour or so the storm abated, or else he passed away from it, for the deep blue of the ocean again greeted his eyes. he dropped downward until he was about a hundred feet above the water, when he continued his northwesterly course. but now he regretted having interfered for a moment with the action of the machine, for his progress, instead of being swift as a bird's flight, became slow and jerky, nor was he sure that the damaged machine might not break down altogether at any moment. yet so far his progress was in the right direction, and he resolved to experiment no further with the instrument, but to let it go as it would, so long as it supported him above the water. however irregular the motion might be, it was sure, if continued, to bring him to land in time, and that was all he cared about just then. when night fell his slumber was broken and uneasy, for he wakened more than once with a start of fear that the machine had broken and he was falling into the sea. sometimes he was carried along at a swift pace, and again the machine scarcely worked at all; so his anxiety was excusable. the following day was one of continued uneasiness for the boy, who began to be harrassed by doubts as to whether, after all, he was moving in the right direction. the machine had failed at one time in this respect and it might again. he had lost all confidence in its accuracy. in spite of these perplexities rob passed the second night of his uneven flight in profound slumber, being exhausted by the strain and excitement he had undergone. when he awoke at daybreak, he saw, to his profound delight, that he was approaching land. the rising sun found him passing over a big city, which he knew to be boston. he did not stop. the machine was so little to be depended upon that he dared make no halt. but he was obliged to alter the direction from northwest to west, and the result of this slight change was so great a reduction in speed that it was mid-day before he saw beneath him the familiar village in which he lived. carefully marking the location of his father's house, he came to a stop directly over it, and a few moments later he managed to land upon the exact spot in the back yard whence he had taken his first successful flight. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter seven_ the demon becomes angry when rob had been hugged and kissed by his mother and sisters, and even mr. joslyn had embraced him warmly, he gave them a brief account of his adventures. the story was received with many doubtful looks and much grave shaking of heads, as was quite natural under the circumstances. "i hope, my dear son," said his father, "that you have now passed through enough dangers to last you a lifetime, so that hereafter you will be contented to remain at home." "oh, robert!" cried his mother, with tears in her loving eyes, "you don't know how we've all worried about you for the past week!" "a week?" asked rob, with surprise. "yes; it's a week to-morrow morning since you flew into the air and disappeared." "then," said the boy, thoughtfully, "i've reached home just in time." "in time for what?" she asked. but he did not answer that question. he was thinking of the demon, and that on the afternoon of this very day he might expect the wise and splendid genius to visit him a second time. at luncheon, although he did not feel hungry, he joined the family at table and pleased his mother by eating as heartily as of old. he was surprised to find how good the food tasted, and to realize what a pleasure it is to gratify one's sense of taste. the tablets were all right for a journey, he thought, but if he always ate them he would be sure to miss a great deal of enjoyment, since there was no taste to them at all. at four o'clock he went to his workshop and unlocked the door. everything was exactly as he had left it, and he looked at his simple electrical devices with some amusement. they seemed tame beside the wonders now in his possession; yet he recollected that his numerous wires had enabled him to strike the master key, and therefore should not be despised. before long he noticed a quickening in the air, as if it were suddenly surcharged with electric fluid, and the next instant, in a dazzling flash of light, appeared the demon. "i am here!" he announced. "so am i," answered rob. "but at one time i really thought i should never see you again. i've been--" "spare me your history," said the demon, coldly. "i am aware of your adventures." "oh, you are!" said rob, amazed. "then you know--" "i know all about your foolish experiences," interrupted the demon, "for i have been with you constantly, although i remained invisible." "then you know what a jolly time i've had," returned the boy. "but why do you call them foolish experiences?" "because they were, abominably foolish!" retorted the demon, bitterly. "i entrusted to you gifts of rare scientific interest--electrical devices of such utility that their general adoption by mankind would create a new era in earth life. i hoped your use of these devices would convey such hints to electrical engineers that they would quickly comprehend their mechanism and be able to reproduce them in sufficient quantities to supply the world. and how do you treat these marvelous gifts? why, you carry them to a cannibal island, where even your crude civilization has not yet penetrated!" "i wanted to astonish the natives," said rob, grinning. the demon uttered an exclamation of anger, and stamped his foot so fiercely that thousands of electric sparks filled the air, to disappear quickly with a hissing, crinkling sound. "you might have astonished those ignorant natives as easily by showing them an ordinary electric light," he cried, mockingly. "the power of your gifts would have startled the most advanced electricians of the world. why did you waste them upon barbarians?" "really," faltered rob, who was frightened and awed by the demon's vehement anger, "i never intended to visit a cannibal island. i meant to go to cuba." "cuba! is that a center of advanced scientific thought? why did you not take your marvels to new york or chicago; or, if you wished to cross the ocean, to paris or vienna?" "i never thought of those places," acknowledged rob, meekly. "then you were foolish, as i said," declared the demon, in a calmer tone. "can you not realize that it is better to be considered great by the intelligent thinkers of the earth, than to be taken for a god by stupid cannibals?" "oh, yes, of course," said rob. "i wish now that i had gone to europe. but you're not the only one who has a kick coming," he continued. "your flimsy traveling machine was nearly the death of me." "ah, it is true," acknowledged the demon, frankly. "the case was made of too light material. when the rim was bent it pressed against the works and impeded the proper action of the currents. had you gone to a civilized country such an accident could not have happened; but to avoid possible trouble in the future i have prepared a new instrument, having a stronger case, which i will exchange for the one you now have." "that's very kind of you," said rob, eagerly handing his battered machine to the demon and receiving the new one in return. "are you sure this will work?" "it is impossible for you to injure it," answered the other. "and how about the next three gifts?" inquired the boy, anxiously. "before i grant them," replied the demon, "you must give me a promise to keep away from uncivilized places and to exhibit your acquirements only among people of intelligence." "all right," agreed the boy; "i'm not anxious to visit that island again, or any other uncivilized country." "then i will add to your possessions three gifts, each more precious and important than the three you have already received." at this announcement rob began to quiver with excitement, and sat staring eagerly at the demon, while the latter increased in stature and sparkled and glowed more brilliantly than ever. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter eight_ rob acquires new powers "i have seen the folly of sending you into the world with an offensive instrument, yet with no method of defense," resumed the demon, presently. "you have knocked over a good many people with that tube during the past week." "i know," said rob; "but i couldn't help it. it was the only way i had to protect myself." "therefore my next gift shall be this garment of protection. you must wear it underneath your clothing. it has power to accumulate and exercise electrical repellent force. perhaps you do not know what that means, so i will explain more fully. when any missile, such as a bullet, sword or lance, approaches your person, its rush through the air will arouse the repellent force of which i speak, and this force, being more powerful than the projective force, will arrest the flight of the missile and throw it back again. therefore nothing can touch your person that comes with any degree of force or swiftness, and you will be safe from all ordinary weapons. when wearing this garment you will find it unnecessary to use the electric tube except on rare occasions. never allow revenge or animosity to influence your conduct. men may threaten, but they can not injure you, so you must remember that they do not possess your mighty advantages, and that, because of your strength, you should bear with them patiently." rob examined the garment with much curiosity. it glittered like silver, yet was soft and pliable as lamb's wool. evidently the demon had prepared it especially for his use, for it was just rob's size. "now," continued the demon, more gravely, "we approach the subject of an electrical device so truly marvelous that even i am awed when i contemplate the accuracy and perfection of the natural laws which guide it and permit it to exercise its functions. mankind has as yet conceived nothing like it, for it requires full knowledge of electrical power to understand even its possibilities." the being paused, and drew from an inner pocket something resembling a flat metal box. in size it was about four inches by six, and nearly an inch in thickness. "what is it?" asked rob, wonderingly. "it is an automatic record of events," answered the demon. "i don't understand," said rob, with hesitation. "i will explain to you its use," returned the demon, "although the electrical forces which operate it and the vibratory currents which are the true records must remain unknown to you until your brain has mastered the higher knowledge of electricity. at present the practical side of this invention will be more interesting to you than a review of its scientific construction. "suppose you wish to know the principal events that are occurring in germany at the present moment. you first turn this little wheel at the side until the word 'germany' appears in the slot at the small end. then open the top cover, which is hinged, and those passing events in which you are interested will appear before your eyes." the demon, as he spoke, opened the cover, and, looking within, the boy saw, as in a mirror, a moving picture before him. a regiment of soldiers was marching through the streets of berlin, and at its head rode a body of horsemen, in the midst of which was the emperor himself. the people who thronged the sidewalks cheered and waved their hats and handkerchiefs with enthusiasm, while a band of musicians played a german air, which rob could distinctly hear. while he gazed, spell-bound, the scene changed, and he looked upon a great warship entering a harbor with flying pennants. the rails were lined with officers and men straining their eyes for the first sight of their beloved "_vaterland_" after a long foreign cruise, and a ringing cheer, as from a thousand throats, came faintly to rob's ear. again the scene changed, and within a dingy, underground room, hemmed in by walls of stone, and dimly lighted by a flickering lamp, a body of wild-eyed, desperate men were plighting an oath to murder the emperor and overthrow his government. "anarchists?" asked rob, trembling with excitement. "anarchists!" answered the demon, with a faint sneer, and he shut the cover of the record with a sudden snap. "it's wonderful!" cried the boy, with a sigh that was followed by a slight shiver. "the record is, indeed, proof within itself of the marvelous possibilities of electricity. men are now obliged to depend upon newspapers for information; but these can only relate events long after they have occurred. and newspaper statements are often unreliable and sometimes wholly false, while many events of real importance are never printed in their columns. you may guess what an improvement is this automatic record of events, which is as reliable as truth itself. nothing can be altered or falsified, for the vibratory currents convey the actual events to your vision, even as they happen." "but suppose," said rob, "that something important should happen while i'm asleep, or not looking at the box?" "i have called this a record," replied the demon, "and such it really is, although i have shown you only such events as are in process of being recorded. by pressing this spring you may open the opposite cover of the box, where all events of importance that have occurred throughout the world during the previous twenty-four hours will appear before you in succession. you may thus study them at your leisure. the various scenes constitute a register of the world's history, and may be recalled to view as often as you desire." "it's--it's like knowing everything," murmured rob, deeply impressed for perhaps the first time in his life. "it _is_ knowing everything," returned the demon; "and this mighty gift i have decided to entrust to your care. be very careful as to whom you permit to gaze upon these pictures of passing events, for knowledge may often cause great misery to the human race." "i'll be careful," promised the boy, as he took the box reverently within his own hands. "the third and last gift of the present series," resumed the demon, "is one no less curious than the record of events, although it has an entirely different value. it is a character marker." "what's that?" inquired rob. "i will explain. perhaps you know that your fellow-creatures are more or less hypocritical. that is, they try to appear good when they are not, and wise when in reality they are foolish. they tell you they are friendly when they positively hate you, and try to make you believe they are kind when their natures are cruel. this hypocrisy seems to be a human failing. one of your writers has said, with truth, that among civilized people things are seldom what they seem." "i've heard that," remarked rob. "on the other hand," continued the demon, "some people with fierce countenances are kindly by nature, and many who appear to be evil are in reality honorable and trustworthy. therefore, that you may judge all your fellow-creatures truly, and know upon whom to depend, i give you the character marker. it consists of this pair of spectacles. while you wear them every one you meet will be marked upon the forehead with a letter indicating his or her character. the good will bear the letter 'g', the evil the letter 'e'. the wise will be marked with a 'w' and the foolish with an 'f'. the kind will show a 'k' upon their foreheads and the cruel a letter 'c'. thus you may determine by a single look the true natures of all those you encounter." "and are these, also, electrical in their construction?" asked the boy, as he took the spectacles. "certainly. goodness, wisdom and kindness are natural forces, creating character. for this reason men are not always to blame for bad character, as they acquire it unconsciously. all character sends out certain electrical vibrations, which these spectacles concentrate in their lenses and exhibit to the gaze of their wearer, as i have explained." "it's a fine idea," said the boy; "who discovered it?" "it is a fact that has always existed, but is now utilized for the first time." "oh!" said rob. "with these gifts, and the ones you acquired a week ago, you are now equipped to astound the world and awaken mankind to a realization of the wonders that may be accomplished by natural forces. see that you employ these powers wisely, in the interests of science, and do not forget your promise to exhibit your electrical marvels only to those who are most capable of comprehending them." "i'll remember," said rob. "then adieu until a week from to-day, when i will meet you here at this hour and bestow upon you the last three gifts which you are entitled to receive. good-by!" "good-by!" repeated rob, and in a gorgeous flash of color the demon disappeared, leaving the boy alone in the room with his new and wonderful possessions. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter nine_ the second journey by this time you will have gained a fair idea of rob's character. he is, in truth, a typical american boy, possessing an average intelligence not yet regulated by the balance-wheel of experience. the mysteries of electricity were so attractive to his eager nature that he had devoted considerable time and some study to electrical experiment; but his study was the superficial kind that seeks to master only such details as may be required at the moment. moreover, he was full of boyish recklessness and irresponsibility and therefore difficult to impress with the dignity of science and the gravity of human existence. life, to him, was a great theater wherein he saw himself the most interesting if not the most important actor, and so enjoyed the play with unbounded enthusiasm. aside from the extraordinary accident which had forced the electrical demon into his life, rob may be considered one of those youngsters who might possibly develop into a brilliant manhood or enter upon an ordinary, humdrum existence, as fate should determine. just at present he had no thought beyond the passing hour, nor would he bother himself by attempting to look ahead or plan for the future. yet the importance of his electrical possessions and the stern injunction of the demon to use them wisely had rendered the boy more thoughtful than at any previous time during his brief life, and he became so preoccupied at the dinner table that his father and mother cast many anxious looks in his direction. of course rob was anxious to test his newly-acquired powers, and decided to lose no time in starting upon another journey. but he said nothing to any of the family about it, fearing to meet with opposition. he passed the evening in the sitting-room, in company with his father and mother and sisters, and even controlled his impatience to the extent of playing a game of carom with nell; but he grew so nervous and impatient at last that his sister gave up the game in disgust and left him to his own amusement. at one time he thought of putting on the electric spectacles and seeing what the real character of each member of his family might be; but a sudden fear took possession of him that he might regret the act forever afterward. they were his nearest and dearest friends on earth, and in his boyish heart he loved them all and believed in their goodness and sincerity. the possibility of finding a bad character mark on any of their familiar faces made him shudder, and he determined then and there never to use the spectacles to view the face of a friend or relative. had any one, at that moment, been gazing at rob through the lenses of the wonderful character marker, i am sure a big "w" would have been found upon the boy's forehead. when the family circle broke up, and all retired for the night, rob kissed his parents and sisters with real affection before going to his own room. but, on reaching his cozy little chamber, instead of preparing for bed rob clothed himself in the garment of repulsion. then he covered the glittering garment with his best summer suit of clothes, which effectually concealed it. he now looked around to see what else he should take, and thought of an umbrella, a rain-coat, a book or two to read during the journey, and several things besides; but he ended by leaving them all behind. "i can't be loaded down with so much truck," he decided; "and i'm going into civilized countries, this time, where i can get anything i need." however, to prevent a recurrence of the mistake he had previously made, he tore a map of the world and a map of europe from his geography, and, folding them up, placed them in his pocket. he also took a small compass that had once been a watch-charm, and, finally, the contents of a small iron bank that opened with a combination lock. this represented all his savings, amounting to two dollars and seventeen cents in dimes, nickles and pennies. "it isn't a fortune," he thought, as he counted it up, "but i didn't need any money the last trip, so perhaps i'll get along somehow. i don't like to tackle dad for more, for he might ask questions and try to keep me at home." by the time he had finished his preparations and stowed all his electrical belongings in his various pockets, it was nearly midnight and the house was quiet. so rob stole down stairs in his stocking feet and noiselessly opened the back door. it was a beautiful july night and, in addition to the light of the full moon, the sky was filled with the radiance of countless thousands of brilliant stars. after rob had put on his shoes he unfolded the map, which was plainly visible by the starlight, and marked the direction he must take to cross the atlantic and reach london, his first stopping place. then he consulted his compass, put the indicator of his traveling machine to the word "up," and shot swiftly into the air. when he had reached a sufficient height he placed the indicator to a point north of east and, with a steady and remarkably swift flight, began his journey. "here goes," he remarked, with a sense of exaltation, "for another week of adventure! i wonder what'll happen between now and next saturday." [illustration] [illustration] _chapter ten_ how rob served a mighty king the new traveling machine was a distinct improvement over the old one, for it carried rob with wonderful speed across the broad atlantic. he fell asleep soon after starting, and only wakened when the sun was high in the heavens. but he found himself whirling along at a good rate, with the greenish shimmer of the peaceful ocean waves spread beneath him far beyond his range of vision. being in the track of the ocean steamers it was not long before he found himself overtaking a magnificent vessel whose decks were crowded with passengers. he dropped down some distance, to enable him to see these people more plainly, and while he hovered near he could hear the excited exclamations of the passengers, who focused dozens of marine glasses upon his floating form. this inspection somewhat embarrassed him, and having no mind to be stared at he put on additional speed and soon left the steamer far behind him. about noon the sky clouded over, and rob feared a rainstorm was approaching. so he rose to a point considerably beyond the clouds, where the air was thin but remarkably pleasant to inhale and the rays of the sun were not so hot as when reflected by the surface of the water. he could see the dark clouds rolling beneath him like volumes of smoke from a factory chimney, and knew the earth was catching a severe shower of rain; yet he congratulated himself on his foresight in not being burdened with umbrella or rain-coat, since his elevated position rendered him secure from rain-clouds. but, having cut himself off from the earth, there remained nothing to see except the clear sky overhead and the tumbling clouds beneath; so he took from his pocket the automatic record of events, and watched with breathless interest the incidents occurring in different parts of the world. a big battle was being fought in the philippines, and so fiercely was it contested that rob watched its progress for hours, with rapt attention. finally a brave rally by the americans sent their foes to the cover of the woods, where they scattered in every direction, only to form again in a deep valley hidden by high hills. "if only i was there," thought rob, "i could show that captain where to find the rebels and capture them. but i guess the philippines are rather out of my way, so our soldiers will never know how near they are to a complete victory." the boy also found considerable amusement in watching the course of an insurrection in venezuela, where opposing armies of well-armed men preferred to bluster and threaten rather than come to blows. during the evening he found that an "important event" was madame bernhardt's production of a new play, and rob followed it from beginning to end with great enjoyment, although he felt a bit guilty at not having purchased a ticket. "but it's a crowded house, anyway," he reflected, "and i'm not taking up a reserved seat or keeping any one else from seeing the show. so where's the harm? yet it seems to me if these records get to be common, as the demon wishes, people will all stay at home and see the shows, and the poor actors 'll starve to death." the thought made him uneasy, and he began, for the first time, to entertain a doubt of the demon's wisdom in forcing such devices upon humanity. the clouds had now passed away and the moon sent her rays to turn the edges of the waves into glistening showers of jewels. rob closed the lid of the wonderful record of events and soon fell into a deep sleep that held him unconscious for many hours. when he awoke he gave a start of surprise, for beneath him was land. how long it was since he had left the ocean behind him he could not guess, but his first thought was to set the indicator of the traveling machine to zero and to hover over the country until he could determine where he was. this was no easy matter. he saw green fields, lakes, groves and villages; but these might exist in any country. being still at a great elevation he descended gradually until he was about twenty feet from the surface of the earth, where he paused near the edge of a small village. at once a crowd of excited people assembled, shouting to one another and pointing towards him in wonder. in order to be prepared for emergencies rob had taken the electric tube from his pocket, and now, as he examined the dress and features of the people below, the tube suddenly slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground, where one end stuck slantingly into the soft earth. a man rushed eagerly towards it, but the next moment he threw up his hands and fell upon his back, unconscious. others who ran to assist their fallen comrade quickly tumbled into a heap beside him. [illustration: a man rushed toward it, but the next moment he threw up his hands and fell unconscious] it was evident to rob that the tube had fallen in such a position that the button was being pressed continually and a current of electric fluid issued to shock whoever came near. not wishing to injure these people he dropped to the ground and drew the tube from the earth, thus releasing the pressure upon the button. but the villagers had now decided that the boy was their enemy, and no sooner had he touched the ground than a shower of stones and sticks rained about him. not one reached his body, however, for the garment of repulsion stopped their flight and returned them to rattle with more or less force against those who had thrown them--"like regular boomerangs," thought rob. to receive their own blows in this fashion seemed so like magic to the simple folk that with roars of fear and pain they ran away in all directions. "it's no use stopping here," remarked rob, regretfully, "for i've spoiled my welcome by this accident. i think these people are irish, by their looks and speech, so i must be somewhere in the emerald isle." he consulted his map and decided upon the general direction he should take to reach england, after which he again rose into the air and before long was passing over the channel towards the shores of england. either his map or compass or his calculations proved wrong, for it was high noon before, having changed his direction a half dozen times, he came to the great city of london. he saw at a glance that it would never do to drop into the crowded streets, unless he wanted to become an object of public curiosity; so he looked around for a suitable place to alight. near by was a monstrous church that sent a sharp steeple far into the air. rob examined this spire and saw a narrow opening in the masonry that led to a small room where a chime of bells hung. he crept through the opening and, finding a ladder that connected the belfry with a platform below, began to descend. there were three ladders, and then a winding flight of narrow, rickety stairs to be passed before rob finally reached a small room in the body of the church. this room proved to have two doors, one connecting with the auditorium and the other letting into a side street. both were locked, but rob pointed the electric tube at the outside door and broke the lock in an instant. then he walked into the street as composedly as if he had lived all his life in london. there were plenty of sights to see, you may be sure, and rob walked around until he was so tired that he was glad to rest upon one of the benches in a beautiful park. here, half hidden by the trees, he amused himself by looking at the record of events. "london's a great town, and no mistake," he said to himself; "but let's see what the british are doing in south africa to-day." he turned the cylinder to "south africa," and, opening the lid, at once became interested. an english column, commanded by a brave but stubborn officer, was surrounded by the boer forces and fighting desperately to avoid capture or annihilation. "this would be interesting to king edward," thought the boy. "guess i'll hunt him up and tell him about it." a few steps away stood a policeman. rob approached him and asked: "where's the king to-day?" the officer looked at him with mingled surprise and suspicion. "'is majesty is sojournin' at marlb'ro 'ouse, just now," was the reply. "per'aps you wants to make 'im a wissit," he continued, with lofty sarcasm. "that's it, exactly," said rob. "i'm an american, and thought while i was in london i'd drop in on his royal highness and say 'hello' to him." the officer chuckled, as if much amused. "hamericans is bloomin' green," he remarked, "so youse can stand for hamerican, right enough. no other wissitors is such blarsted fools. but yon's the palace, an' i s'pose 'is majesty'll give ye a 'ot reception." "thanks; i'll look him up," said the boy, and left the officer convulsed with laughter. he soon knew why. the palace was surrounded by a cordon of the king's own life guards, who admitted no one save those who presented proper credentials. "there's only one thing to do;" thought rob, "and that's to walk straight in, as i haven't any friends to give me a regular introduction." so he boldly advanced to the gate, where he found himself stopped by crossed carbines and a cry of "halt!" "excuse me," said rob; "i'm in a hurry." he pushed the carbines aside and marched on. the soldiers made thrusts at him with their weapons, and an officer jabbed at his breast with a glittering sword, but the garment of repulsion protected him from these dangers as well as from a hail of bullets that followed his advancing figure. he reached the entrance of the palace only to face another group of guardsmen and a second order to halt, and as these soldiers were over six feet tall and stood shoulder to shoulder rob saw that he could not hope to pass them without using his electric tube. [illustration: rob reached the entrance of the palace, only to face another group of guardsmen] "stand aside, you fellows!" he ordered. there was no response. he extended the tube and, as he pressed the button, described a semi-circle with the instrument. immediately the tall guardsmen toppled over like so many tenpins, and rob stepped across their bodies and penetrated to the reception room, where a brilliant assemblage awaited, in hushed and anxious groups, for opportunity to obtain audience with the king. "i hope his majesty isn't busy," said rob to a solemn-visaged official who confronted him. "i want to have a little talk with him." "i--i--ah--beg pardon!" exclaimed the astounded master of ceremonies. "what name, please?" "oh, never mind my name," replied rob, and pushing the gentleman aside he entered the audience chamber of the great king. king edward was engaged in earnest consultation with one of his ministers, and after a look of surprise in rob's direction and a grave bow he bestowed no further attention upon the intruder. but rob was not to be baffled now. "your majesty," he interrupted, "i've important news for you. a big fight is taking place in south africa and your soldiers will probably be cut into mince meat." the minister strode towards the boy angrily. "explain this intrusion!" he cried. "i have explained. the boers are having a regular killing-bee. here! take a look at it yourselves." he drew the record from his pocket, and at the movement the minister shrank back as if he suspected it was an infernal machine and might blow his head off; but the king stepped quietly to the boy's side and looked into the box when rob threw open the lid. as he comprehended the full wonder of the phenomenon he was observing edward uttered a low cry of amazement, but thereafter he silently gazed upon the fierce battle that still raged far away upon the african _veld_. before long his keen eye recognized the troops engaged and realized their imminent danger. "they'll be utterly annihilated!" he gasped. "what shall we do?" "oh, we can't do anything just now," answered rob. "but it's curious to watch how bravely the poor fellows fight for their lives." the minister, who by this time was also peering into the box, groaned aloud, and then all three forgot their surroundings in the tragedy they were beholding. hemmed in by vastly superior numbers, the english were calmly and stubbornly resisting every inch of advance and selling their lives as dearly as possible. their leader fell pierced by a hundred bullets, and the king, who had known him from boyhood, passed his hand across his eyes as if to shut out the awful sight. but the fascination of the battle forced him to look again, and the next moment he cried aloud: "look there! look there!" over the edge of a line of hills appeared the helmets of a file of english soldiers. they reached the summit, followed by rank after rank, until the hillside was alive with them. and then, with a ringing cheer that came like a faint echo to the ears of the three watchers, they broke into a run and dashed forward to the rescue of their brave comrades. the boers faltered, gave back, and the next moment fled precipitately, while the exhausted survivors of the courageous band fell sobbing into the arms of their rescuers. rob closed the lid of the record with a sudden snap that betrayed his deep feeling, and the king pretended to cough behind his handkerchief and stealthily wiped his eyes. "'twasn't so bad, after all," remarked the boy, with assumed cheerfulness; "but it looked mighty ticklish for your men at one time." king edward regarded the boy curiously, remembering his abrupt entrance and the marvelous device he had exhibited. "what do you call that?" he asked, pointing at the record with a finger that trembled slightly from excitement. "it is a new electrical invention," replied rob, replacing it in his pocket, "and so constructed that events are reproduced at the exact moment they occur." "where can i purchase one?" demanded the king, eagerly. "they're not for sale," said rob. "this one of mine is the first that ever happened." "oh!" "i really think," continued the boy, nodding sagely, "that it wouldn't be well to have these records scattered around. their use would give some folks unfair advantage over others, you know." "certainly." "i only showed you this battle because i happened to be in london at the time and thought you'd be interested." "it was very kind of you," said edward; "but how did you gain admittance?" "well, to tell the truth, i was obliged to knock over a few of your tall life-guards. they seem to think you're a good thing and need looking after, like jam in a cupboard." the king smiled. "i hope you haven't killed my guards," said he. "oh, no; they'll come around all right." "it is necessary," continued edward, "that public men be protected from intrusion, no matter how democratic they may be personally. you would probably find it as difficult to approach the president of the united states as the king of england." "oh, i'm not complaining," said rob. "it wasn't much trouble to break through." "you seem quite young to have mastered such wonderful secrets of nature," continued the king. "so i am," replied rob, modestly; "but these natural forces have really existed since the beginning of the world, and some one was sure to discover them in time." he was quoting the demon, although unconsciously. "you are an american, i suppose," said the minister, coming close to rob and staring him in the face. "guessed right the first time," answered the boy, and drawing his character marking spectacles from his pocket, he put them on and stared at the minister in turn. upon the man's forehead appeared the letter "e". "your majesty," said rob, "i have here another queer invention. will you please wear these spectacles for a few moments?" the king at once put them on. "they are called character markers," continued the boy, "because the lenses catch and concentrate the character vibrations radiating from every human individual and reflect the true character of the person upon his forehead. if a letter 'g' appears, you may be sure his disposition is good; if his forehead is marked with an 'e' his character is evil, and you must beware of treachery." the king saw the "e" plainly marked upon his minister's forehead, but he said nothing except "thank you," and returned the spectacles to rob. but the minister, who from the first had been ill at ease, now became positively angry. "do not believe him, your majesty!" he cried. "it is a trick, and meant to deceive you." "i did not accuse you," answered the king, sternly. then he added: "i wish to be alone with this young gentleman." the minister left the room with an anxious face and hanging head. "now," said rob, "let's look over the record of the past day and see if that fellow has been up to any mischief." he turned the cylinder of the record to "england," and slowly the events of the last twenty-four hours were reproduced, one after the other, upon the polished plate. before long the king uttered an exclamation. the record pictured a small room in which were seated three gentlemen engaged in earnest conversation. one of them was the accused minister. "those men," said the king in a low voice, while he pointed out the other two, "are my avowed enemies. this is proof that your wonderful spectacles indicated my minister's character with perfect truth. i am grateful to you for thus putting me upon my guard, for i have trusted the man fully." "oh, don't mention it," replied the boy, lightly; "i'm glad to have been of service to you. but it's time for me to go." "i hope you will favor me with another interview," said the king, "for i am much interested in your electrical inventions. i will instruct my guards to admit you at any time, so you will not be obliged to fight your way in." "all right. but it really doesn't matter," answered rob. "it's no trouble at all to knock 'em over." then he remembered his manners and bowed low before the king, who seemed to him "a fine fellow and not a bit stuck up." and then he walked calmly from the palace. the people in the outer room stared at him wonderingly and the officer of the guard saluted the boy respectfully. but rob only smiled in an amused way as he marched past them with his hands thrust deep into his trousers' pockets and his straw hat tipped jauntily upon the back of his head. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter eleven_ the man of science rob passed the remainder of the day wandering about london and amusing himself by watching the peculiar ways of the people. when it became so dark that there was no danger of his being observed, he rose through the air to the narrow slit in the church tower and lay upon the floor of the little room, with the bells hanging all around him, to pass the night. he was just falling asleep when a tremendous din and clatter nearly deafened him, and set the whole tower trembling. it was the midnight chime. rob clutched his ears tightly, and when the vibrations had died away descended by the ladder to a lower platform. but even here the next hourly chime made his ears ring, and he kept descending from platform to platform until the last half of a restless night was passed in the little room at the bottom of the tower. when, at daylight, the boy sat up and rubbed his eyes, he said, wearily: "churches are all right as churches; but as hotels they are rank failures. i ought to have bunked in with my friend, king edward." he climbed up the stairs and the ladders again and looked out the little window in the belfry. then he examined his map of europe. "i believe i'll take a run over to paris," he thought. "i must be home again by saturday, to meet the demon, so i'll have to make every day count." without waiting for breakfast, since he had eaten a tablet the evening before, he crept through the window and mounted into the fresh morning air until the great city with its broad waterway lay spread out beneath him. then he sped away to the southeast and, crossing the channel, passed between amiens and rouen and reached paris before ten o'clock. near the outskirts of the city appeared a high tower, upon the flat roof of which a man was engaged in adjusting a telescope. upon seeing rob, who was passing at no great distance from this tower, the man cried out: "_approchez!--venez ici!_" then he waved his hands frantically in the air, and fairly danced with excitement. so the boy laughed and dropped down to the roof where, standing beside the frenchman, whose eyes were actually protruding from their sockets, he asked, coolly: "well, what do you want?" the other was for a moment speechless. he was a tall, lean man, having a bald head but a thick, iron-gray beard, and his black eyes sparkled brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. after attentively regarding the boy for a time he said, in broken english: "but, m'sieur, how can you fly wizout ze--ze machine? i have experiment myself wiz some air-ship; but you--zere is nossing to make go!" [illustration: the eyes of the frenchman were actually protruding from their sockets] rob guessed that here was his opportunity to do the demon a favor by explaining his electrical devices to this new acquaintance, who was evidently a man of science. "here is the secret, professor," he said, and holding out his wrist displayed the traveling machine and explained, as well as he could, the forces that operated it. the frenchman, as you may suppose, was greatly astonished, and to show how perfectly the machine worked rob turned the indicator and rose a short distance above the tower, circling around it before he rejoined the professor on the roof. then he showed his food tablets, explaining how each was stored with sufficient nourishment for an entire day. the scientist positively gasped for breath, so powerful was the excitement he experienced at witnessing these marvels. "eet is wonderful--grand--magnifique!" he exclaimed. "but here is something of still greater interest," continued rob, and taking the automatic record of events from his pocket he allowed the professor to view the remarkable scenes that were being enacted throughout the civilized world. the frenchman was now trembling violently, and he implored rob to tell him where he might obtain similar electrical machines. "i can't do that," replied the boy, decidedly; "but, having seen these, you may be able to discover their construction for yourself. now that you know such things to be possible and practical, the hint should be sufficient to enable a shrewd electrician to prepare duplicates of them." the scientist glared at him with evident disappointment, and rob continued: "these are not all the wonders i can exhibit. here is another electrical device that is, perhaps, the most remarkable of any i possess." he took the character marking spectacles from his pocket and fitted them to his eyes. then he gave a whistle of surprise and turned his back upon his new friend. he had seen upon the frenchman's forehead the letters "e" and "c." "guess i've struck the wrong sort of scientist, after all!" he muttered, in a disgusted tone. his companion was quick to prove the accuracy of the character marker. seeing the boy's back turned, he seized a long iron bar that was used to operate the telescope, and struck at rob so fiercely that had he not worn the garment of protection his skull would have been crushed by the blow. as it was, the bar rebounded with a force that sent the murderous frenchman sprawling upon the roof, and rob turned around and laughed at him. "it won't work, professor," he said. "i'm proof against assassins. perhaps you had an idea that when you had killed me you could rob me of my valuable possessions; but they wouldn't be a particle of use to a scoundrel like you, i assure you! good morning." before the surprised and baffled scientist could collect himself sufficiently to reply, the boy was soaring far above his head and searching for a convenient place to alight, that he might investigate the charms of this famed city of paris. it was indeed a beautiful place, with many stately buildings lining the shady boulevards. so thronged were the streets that rob well knew he would soon be the center of a curious crowd should he alight upon them. already a few sky-gazers had noted the boy moving high in the air, above their heads, and one or two groups stood pointing their fingers at him. pausing at length above the imposing structure of the hotel anglais, rob noticed at one of the upper floors an open window, before which was a small iron balcony. alighting upon this he proceeded to enter, without hesitation, the open window. he heard a shriek and a cry of "_au voleur!_" and caught sight of a woman's figure as she dashed into an adjoining room, slamming and locking the door behind her. "i don't know as i blame her," observed rob, with a smile at the panic he had created. "i s'pose she takes me for a burglar, and thinks i've climbed up the lightning rod." he soon found the door leading into the hallway and walked down several flights of stairs until he reached the office of the hotel. "how much do you charge a day?" he inquired, addressing a fat and pompous-looking gentleman behind the desk. the man looked at him in a surprised way, for he had not heard the boy enter the room. but he said something in french to a waiter who was passing, and the latter came to rob and made a low bow. "i speak ze eengliss ver' fine," he said. "what desire have you?" "what are your rates by the day?" asked the boy. "ten francs, m'sieur." "how many dollars is that?" "dollar americaine?" "yes; united states money." "ah, _oui_! eet is ze two dollar, m'sieur." "all right; i can stay about a day before i go bankrupt. give me a room." "_certainement_, m'sieur. have you ze luggage?" "no; but i'll pay in advance," said rob, and began counting out his dimes and nickles and pennies, to the unbounded amazement of the waiter, who looked as if he had never seen such coins before. he carried the money to the fat gentleman, who examined the pieces curiously, and there was a long conference between them before it was decided to accept them in payment for a room for a day. but at this season the hotel was almost empty, and when rob protested that he had no other money the fat gentleman put the coins into his cash box with a resigned sigh and the waiter showed the boy to a little room at the very top of the building. rob washed and brushed the dust from his clothes, after which he sat down and amused himself by viewing the pictures that constantly formed upon the polished plate of the record of events. [illustration] _chapter twelve_ how rob saved a republic while following the shifting scenes of the fascinating record rob noted an occurrence that caused him to give a low whistle of astonishment and devote several moments to serious thought. "i believe it's about time i interfered with the politics of this republic," he said, at last, as he closed the lid of the metal box and restored it to his pocket. "if i don't take a hand there probably won't be a republic of france very long and, as a good american, i prefer a republic to a monarchy." then he walked down-stairs and found his english-speaking waiter. "where's president loubet?" he asked. "ze president! ah, he is wiz his mansion. to be at his residence, m'sieur." "where is his residence?" the waiter began a series of voluble and explicit directions which so confused the boy that he exclaimed: "oh, much obliged!" and walked away in disgust. gaining the street he approached a gendarme and repeated his question, with no better result than before, for the fellow waved his arms wildly in all directions and roared a volley of incomprehensible french phrases that conveyed no meaning whatever. "if ever i travel in foreign countries again," said rob, "i'll learn their lingo in advance. why doesn't the demon get up a conversation machine that will speak all languages?" by dint of much inquiry, however, and after walking several miles following ambiguous directions, he managed to reach the residence of president loubet. but there he was politely informed that the president was busily engaged in his garden, and would see no one. "that's all right," said the boy, calmly. "if he's in the garden i'll have no trouble finding him." then, to the amazement of the frenchmen, rob shot into the air fifty feet or so, from which elevation he overlooked a pretty garden in the rear of the president's mansion. the place was protected from ordinary intrusion by high walls, but rob descended within the enclosure and walked up to a man who was writing at a small table placed under the spreading branches of a large tree. "is this president loubet?" he inquired, with a bow. the gentleman looked up. "my servants were instructed to allow no one to disturb me," he said, speaking in excellent english. "it isn't their fault; i flew over the wall," returned rob. "the fact is," he added, hastily, as he noted the president's frown, "i have come to save the republic; and i haven't much time to waste over a bundle of frenchmen, either." the president seemed surprised. "your name!" he demanded, sharply. "robert billings joslyn, united states of america!" "your business, monsieur joslyn!" rob drew the record from his pocket and placed it upon the table. "this, sir," said he, "is an electrical device that records all important events. i wish to call your attention to a scene enacted in paris last evening which may have an effect upon the future history of your country." he opened the lid, placed the record so that the president could see clearly, and then watched the changing expressions upon the great man's face; first indifference, then interest, the next moment eagerness and amazement. "_mon dieu!_" he gasped; "the orleanists!" rob nodded. "yes; they've worked up a rather pretty plot, haven't they?" the president did not reply. he was anxiously watching the record and scribbling notes on a paper beside him. his face was pale and his lips tightly compressed. finally he leaned back in his chair and asked: "can you reproduce this scene again?" "certainly, sir," answered the boy; "as often as you like." "will you remain here while i send for my minister of police? it will require but a short time." "call him up, then. i'm in something of a hurry myself, but now i've mixed up with this thing i'll see it through." [illustration: rob watched the changing expressions upon the great man's face] the president touched a bell and gave an order to his servant. then he turned to rob and said, wonderingly: "you are a boy!" "that's true, mr. president," was the answer; "but an american boy, you must remember. that makes a big difference, i assure you." the president bowed gravely. "this is your invention?" he asked. "no; i'm hardly equal to that. but the inventor has made me a present of the record, and it's the only one in the world." "it is a marvel," remarked the president, thoughtfully. "more! it is a real miracle. we are living in an age of wonders, my young friend." "no one knows that better than myself, sir," replied rob. "but, tell me, can you trust your chief of police?" "i think so," said the president, slowly; "yet since your invention has shown me that many men i have considered honest are criminally implicated in this royalist plot, i hardly know whom to depend upon." "then please wear these spectacles during your interview with the minister of police," said the boy. "you must say nothing, while he is with us, about certain marks that will appear upon his forehead; but when he has gone i will explain those marks so you will understand them." the president covered his eyes with the spectacles. "why," he exclaimed, "i see upon your own brow the letters--" "stop, sir!" interrupted rob, with a blush; "i don't care to know what the letters are, if it's just the same to you." the president seemed puzzled by this speech, but fortunately the minister of police arrived just then and, under rob's guidance, the pictured record of the orleanist plot was reproduced before the startled eyes of the official. "and now," said the boy, "let us see if any of this foolishness is going on just at present." he turned to the opposite side of the record and allowed the president and his minister of police to witness the quick succession of events even as they occurred. suddenly the minister cried, "ha!" and, pointing to the figure of a man disembarking from an english boat at calais, he said, excitedly: "that, your excellency, is the duke of orleans, in disguise! i must leave you for a time, that i may issue some necessary orders to my men; but this evening i shall call to confer with you regarding the best mode of suppressing this terrible plot." when the official had departed, the president removed the spectacles from his eyes and handed them to rob. "what did you see?" asked the boy. "the letters 'g' and 'w'." "then you may trust him fully," declared rob, and explained the construction of the character marker to the interested and amazed statesman. "and now i must go," he continued, "for my stay in your city will be a short one and i want to see all i can." the president scrawled something on a sheet of paper and signed his name to it, afterward presenting it, with a courteous bow, to his visitor. "this will enable you to go wherever you please, while in paris," he said. "i regret my inability to reward you properly for the great service you have rendered my country; but you have my sincerest gratitude, and may command me in any way." "oh, that's all right," answered rob. "i thought it was my duty to warn you, and if you look sharp you'll be able to break up this conspiracy. but i don't want any reward. good day, sir." he turned the indicator of his traveling machine and immediately rose into the air, followed by a startled exclamation from the president of france. moving leisurely over the city, he selected a deserted thoroughfare to alight in, from whence he wandered unobserved into the beautiful boulevards. these were now brilliantly lighted, and crowds of pleasure seekers thronged them everywhere. rob experienced a decided sense of relief as he mixed with the gay populace and enjoyed the sights of the splendid city, for it enabled him to forget, for a time, the responsibilities thrust upon him by the possession of the demon's marvelous electrical devices. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter thirteen_ rob loses his treasures our young adventurer had intended to pass the night in the little bed at his hotel, but the atmosphere of paris proved so hot and disagreeable that he decided it would be more enjoyable to sleep while journeying through the cooler air that lay far above the earth's surface. so just as the clocks were striking the midnight hour rob mounted skyward and turned the indicator of the traveling machine to the east, intending to make the city of vienna his next stop. he had risen to a considerable distance, where the air was remarkably fresh and exhilarating, and the relief he experienced from the close and muggy streets of paris was of such a soothing nature that he presently fell fast asleep. his day in the metropolis had been a busy one, for, like all boys, he had forgotten himself in the delight of sight-seeing and had tired his muscles and exhausted his strength to an unusual degree. it was about three o'clock in the morning when rob, moving restlessly in his sleep, accidently touched with his right hand the indicator of the machine which was fastened to his left wrist, setting it a couple of points to the south of east. he was, of course, unaware of the slight alteration in his course, which was destined to prove of serious importance in the near future. for the boy's fatigue induced him to sleep far beyond daybreak, and during this period of unconsciousness he was passing over the face of european countries and approaching the lawless and dangerous dominions of the orient. when, at last, he opened his eyes, he was puzzled to determine where he was. beneath him stretched a vast, sandy plain, and speeding across this he came to a land abounding in luxuriant vegetation. the centrifugal force which propelled him was evidently, for some reason, greatly accelerated, for the scenery of the country he was crossing glided by him at so rapid a rate of speed that it nearly took his breath away. "i wonder if i've passed vienna in the night," he thought. "it ought not to have taken me more than a few hours to reach there from paris." vienna was at that moment fifteen hundred miles behind him; but rob's geography had always been his stumbling block at school, and he had not learned to gage the speed of the traveling machine; so he was completely mystified as to his whereabouts. presently a village having many queer spires and minarets whisked by him like a flash. rob became worried, and resolved to slow up at the next sign of habitation. this was a good resolution, but turkestan is so thinly settled that before the boy could plan out a course of action he had passed the barren mountain range of thian-shan as nimbly as an acrobat leaps a jumping-bar. "this won't do at all!" he exclaimed, earnestly. "the traveling machine seems to be running away with me, and i'm missing no end of sights by scooting along up here in the clouds." he turned the indicator to zero, and was relieved to find it obey with customary quickness. in a few moments he had slowed up and stopped, when he found himself suspended above another stretch of sandy plain. being too high to see the surface of the plain distinctly he dropped down a few hundred feet to a lower level, where he discovered he was surrounded by billows of sand as far as his eye could reach. "it's a desert, all right," was his comment; "perhaps old sahara herself." he started the machine again towards the east, and at a more moderate rate of speed skimmed over the surface of the desert. before long he noticed a dark spot ahead of him which proved to be a large body of fierce looking men, riding upon dromedaries and slender, spirited horses and armed with long rifles and crookedly shaped simitars. "those fellows seem to be looking for trouble," remarked the boy, as he glided over them, "and it wouldn't be exactly healthy for an enemy to get in their way. but i haven't time to stop, so i'm not likely to get mixed up in any rumpus with them." [illustration: "those fellows seem to be looking for trouble"] however, the armed caravan was scarcely out of sight before rob discovered he was approaching a rich, wooded oasis of the desert, in the midst of which was built the walled city of yarkand. not that he had ever heard of the place, or knew its name; for few europeans and only one american traveler had ever visited it. but he guessed it was a city of some importance from its size and beauty, and resolved to make a stop there. above the high walls projected many slender, white minarets, indicating that the inhabitants were either turks or some race of mohammedans; so rob decided to make investigations before trusting himself to their company. a cluster of tall trees with leafy tops stood a short distance outside the walls, and here the boy landed and sat down to rest in the refreshing shade. the city seemed as hushed and still as if it were deserted, and before him stretched the vast plain of white, heated sands. he strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the band of warriors he had passed, but they were moving slowly and had not yet appeared. the trees that sheltered rob were the only ones without the city, although many low bushes or shrubs grew scattering over the space between him and the walls. an arched gateway broke the enclosure at his left, but the gates were tightly shut. something in the stillness and the intense heat of the mid-day sun made the boy drowsy. he stretched himself upon the ground beneath the dense foliage of the biggest tree and abandoned himself to the languor that was creeping over him. "i'll wait until that army of the desert arrives," he thought, sleepily. "they either belong in this city or have come to capture it, so i can tell better what to dance when i find out what the band plays." the next moment he was sound asleep, sprawling upon his back in the shade and slumbering as peacefully as an infant. and while he lay motionless three men dropped in quick succession from the top of the city wall and hid among the low bushes, crawling noiselessly from one to another and so approaching, by degrees, the little group of trees. they were turks, and had been sent by those in authority within the city to climb the tallest tree of the group and discover if the enemy was near. for rob's conjecture had been correct, and the city of yarkand awaited, with more or less anxiety, a threatened assault from its hereditary enemies, the tatars. the three spies were not less forbidding in appearance than the horde of warriors rob had passed upon the desert. their features were coarse and swarthy, and their eyes had a most villainous glare. old fashioned pistols and double-edged daggers were stuck in their belts and their clothing, though of gorgeous colors, was soiled and neglected. with all the caution of the american savage these turks approached the tree, where, to their unbounded amazement, they saw the boy lying asleep. his dress and fairness of skin at once proclaimed him, in their shrewd eyes, a european, and their first thought was to glance around in search of his horse or dromedary. seeing nothing of the kind near they were much puzzled to account for his presence, and stood looking down at him with evident curiosity. the sun struck the polished surface of the traveling machine which was attached to rob's wrist and made the metal glitter like silver. this attracted the eyes of the tallest turk, who stooped down and stealthily unclasped the band of the machine from the boy's outstretched arm. then, after a hurried but puzzled examination of the little instrument, he slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. rob stirred uneasily in his sleep, and one of the turks drew a slight but stout rope from his breast and with gentle but deft movement passed it around the boy's wrists and drew them together behind him. the action was not swift enough to arouse the power of repulsion in the garment of protection, but it awakened rob effectually, so that he sat up and stared hard at his captors. "what are you trying to do, anyhow?" he demanded. the turks laughed and said something in their own language. they had no knowledge of english. "you're only making fools of yourselves," continued the boy, wrathfully. "it's impossible for you to injure me." the three paid no attention to his words. one of them thrust his hand into rob's pocket and drew out the electric tube. his ignorance of modern appliances was so great that he did not know enough to push the button. rob saw him looking down the hollow end of the tube and murmured: "i wish it would blow your ugly head off!" but the fellow, thinking the shining metal might be of some value to him, put the tube in his own pocket and then took from the prisoner the silver box of tablets. rob writhed and groaned at losing his possessions in this way, and while his hands were fastened behind him tried to feel for and touch the indicator of the traveling machine. when he found that the machine also had been taken, his anger gave way to fear, for he realized he was in a dangerously helpless condition. the third turk now drew the record of events from the boy's inner pocket. he knew nothing of the springs that opened the lids, so, after a curious glance at it, he secreted the box in the folds of his sash and continued the search of the captive. the character marking spectacles were next abstracted, but the turk, seeing in them nothing but spectacles, scornfully thrust them back into rob's pocket, while his comrades laughed at him. the boy was now rifled of seventeen cents in pennies, a broken pocket knife and a lead-pencil, the last article seeming to be highly prized. after they had secured all the booty they could find, the tall turk, who seemed the leader of the three, violently kicked at the prisoner with his heavy boot. his surprise was great when the garment of repulsion arrested the blow and nearly overthrew the aggressor in turn. snatching a dagger from his sash, he bounded upon the boy so fiercely that the next instant the enraged turk found himself lying upon his back three yards away, while his dagger flew through the air and landed deep in the desert sands. "keep it up!" cried rob, bitterly. "i hope you'll enjoy yourself." the other turks raised their comrade to his feet, and the three stared at one another in surprise, being unable to understand how a bound prisoner could so effectually defend himself. but at a whispered word from the leader, they drew their long pistols and fired point blank into rob's face. the volley echoed sharply from the city walls, but as the smoke drifted slowly away the turks were horrified to see their intended victim laughing at them. uttering cries of terror and dismay, the three took to their heels and bounded towards the wall, where a gate quickly opened to receive them, the populace feeling sure the tatar horde was upon them. [illustration: uttering cries of terror and dismay, the three turks took to their heels] nor was this guess so very far wrong; for as rob, sitting disconsolate upon the sand, raised his eyes, he saw across the desert a dark line that marked the approach of the invaders. nearer and nearer they came, while rob watched them and bemoaned the foolish impulse that had led him to fall asleep in an unknown land where he could so easily be overpowered and robbed of his treasures. "i always suspected these electrical inventions would be my ruin some day," he reflected, sadly; "and now i'm side-tracked and left helpless in this outlandish country, without a single hope of ever getting home again. they probably won't be able to kill me, unless they find my garment of repulsion and strip that off; but i never could cross this terrible desert on foot and, having lost my food tablets, i'd soon starve if i attempted it." fortunately, he had eaten one of the tablets just before going to sleep, so there was no danger of immediate starvation. but he was miserable and unhappy, and remained brooding over his cruel fate until a sudden shout caused him to look up. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter fourteen_ turk and tatar the tatars had arrived, swiftly and noiselessly, and a dozen of the warriors, still mounted, were surrounding him. his helpless condition aroused their curiosity, and while some of them hastily cut away his bonds and raised him to his feet, others plied him with questions in their own language. rob shook his head to indicate that he could not understand; so they led him to the chief--an immense, bearded representative of the tribe of kara-khitai, the terrible and relentless black tatars of thibet. the huge frame of this fellow was clothed in flowing robes of cloth-of-gold, braided with jewels, and he sat majestically upon the back of a jet-black camel. under ordinary circumstances the stern features and flashing black eyes of this redoubtable warrior would have struck a chill of fear to the boy's heart; but now under the influence of the crushing misfortunes he had experienced, he was able to gaze with indifference upon the terrible visage of the desert chief. the tatar seemed not to consider rob an enemy. instead, he looked upon him as an ally, since the turks had bound and robbed him. finding it impossible to converse with the chief, rob took refuge in the sign language. he turned his pockets wrong side out, showed the red welts left upon his wrists by the tight cord, and then shook his fists angrily in the direction of the town. in return the tatar nodded gravely and issued an order to his men. by this time the warriors were busily pitching tents before the walls of yarkand and making preparations for a formal siege. in obedience to the chieftain's orders, rob was given a place within one of the tents nearest the wall and supplied with a brace of brass-mounted pistols and a dagger with a sharp, zigzag edge. these were evidently to assist the boy in fighting the turks, and he was well pleased to have them. his spirits rose considerably when he found he had fallen among friends, although most of his new comrades had such evil faces that it was unnecessary to put on the character markers to judge their natures with a fair degree of accuracy. "i can't be very particular about the company i keep," he thought, "and this gang hasn't tried to murder me, as the rascally turks did. so for the present i'll stand in with the scowling chief and try to get a shot at the thieves who robbed me. if our side wins i may get a chance to recover some of my property. it's a slim chance, of course, but it's the only hope i have left." that very evening an opportunity occurred for rob to win glory in the eyes of his new friends. just before sundown the gates of the city flew open and a swarm of turks, mounted upon fleet horses and camels, issued forth and fell upon their enemies. the tatars, who did not expect the sally, were scarcely able to form an opposing rank when they found themselves engaged in a hand-to-hand conflict, fighting desperately for their lives. in such a battle, however, the turks were at a disadvantage, for the active tatars slipped beneath their horses and disabled them, bringing both the animals and their riders to the earth. at the first onslaught rob shot his pistol at a turk and wounded him so severely that he fell from his horse. instantly the boy seized the bridle and sprang upon the steed's back, and the next moment he had dashed into the thickest part of the fray. bullets and blows rained upon him from all sides, but the garment of repulsion saved him from a single scratch. when his pistols had been discharged he caught up the broken handle of a spear, and used it as a club, galloping into the ranks of the turks and belaboring them as hard as he could. the tatars cheered and followed him, and the turks were so amazed at his miraculous escape from their bullets that they became terrified, thinking he bore a charmed life and was protected by unseen powers. this terror helped turn the tide of battle, and before long the enemy was pressed back to the walls and retreated through the gates, which were hastily fastened behind them. in order to prevent a repetition of this sally the tatars at once invested the gates, so that if the turks should open them they were as likely to let their foes in as to oppose them. while the tents were being moved up rob had an opportunity to search the battlefield for the bodies of the three turks who had robbed him, but they were not among the fallen. "those fellows were too cowardly to take part in a fair fight," declared the boy; but he was much disappointed, nevertheless, as he felt very helpless without the electric tube or the traveling machine. the tatar chief now called rob to his tent and presented him with a beautiful ring set with a glowing pigeon's-blood ruby, in acknowledgment of his services. this gift made the boy feel very proud, and he said to the chief: "you're all right, old man, even if you do look like a pirate. if you can manage to capture that city, so i can get my electrical devices back, i'll consider you a trump as long as i live." the chief thought this speech was intended to express rob's gratitude, so he bowed solemnly in return. during the night that followed upon the first engagement of the turks and tatars, the boy lay awake trying to devise some plan to capture the city. the walls seemed too high and thick to be either scaled or broken by the tatars, who had no artillery whatever; and within the walls lay all the fertile part of the oasis, giving the besieged a good supply of water and provisions, while the besiegers were obliged to subsist on what water and food they had brought with them. just before dawn rob left his tent and went out to look at the great wall. the stars gave plenty of light, but the boy was worried to find that, according to eastern custom, no sentries or guards whatever had been posted and all the tatars were slumbering soundly. the city was likewise wrapped in profound silence, but just as rob was turning away he saw a head project stealthily over the edge of the wall before him, and recognized in the features one of the turks who had robbed him. finding no one awake except the boy the fellow sat upon the edge of the wall, with his feet dangling downward, and grinned wickedly at his former victim. rob watched him with almost breathless eagerness. after making many motions that conveyed no meaning whatever, the turk drew the electric tube from his pocket and pointed his finger first at the boy and then at the instrument, as if inquiring what it was used for. rob shook his head. the turk turned the tube over several times and examined it carefully, after which he also shook his head, seeming greatly puzzled. by this time the boy was fairly trembling with excitement. he longed to recover this valuable weapon, and feared that at any moment the curious turk would discover its use. he held out his hand toward the tube, and tried to say, by motions, that he would show the fellow how to use it. the man seemed to understand, but he would not let the glittering instrument out of his possession. rob was almost in despair, when he happened to notice upon his hand the ruby ring given him by the chief. drawing the jewel from his finger he made offer, by signs, that he would exchange it for the tube. the turk was much pleased with the idea, and nodded his head repeatedly, holding out his hand for the ring. rob had little confidence in the man's honor, but he was so eager to regain the tube that he decided to trust him. so he threw the ring to the top of the wall, where the turk caught it skilfully; but when rob held out his hand for the tube the scoundrel only laughed at him and began to scramble to his feet in order to beat a retreat. chance, however, foiled this disgraceful treachery, for in his hurry the turk allowed the tube to slip from his grasp, and it rolled off the wall and fell upon the sand at rob's very feet. the robber turned to watch its fall and, filled with sudden anger, the boy grabbed the weapon, pointed it at his enemy, and pressed the button. down tumbled the turk, without a cry, and lay motionless at the foot of the wall. rob's first thought was to search the pockets of his captive, and to his delight he found and recovered his box of food tablets. the record of events and the traveling machine were doubtless in the possession of the other robbers, but rob did not despair of recovering them, now that he had the tube to aid him. day was now breaking, and several of the tatars appeared and examined the body of the turk with grunts of surprise, for there was no mark upon him to show how he had been slain. supposing him to be dead, they tossed him aside and forgot all about him. rob had secured his ruby ring again, and going to the chief's tent he showed the jewel to the guard and was at once admitted. the black-bearded chieftain was still reclining upon his pillows, but rob bowed before him, and by means of signs managed to ask for a band of warriors to assist him in assaulting the town. the chieftain appeared to doubt the wisdom of the enterprise, not being able to understand how the boy could expect to succeed; but he graciously issued the required order, and by the time rob reached the city gate he found a large group of tatars gathered to support him, while the entire camp, roused to interest in the proceedings, stood looking on. rob cared little for the quarrel between the turks and tatars, and under ordinary circumstances would have refused to side with one or the other; but he knew he could not hope to recover his electrical machines unless the city was taken by the band of warriors who had befriended him, so he determined to force an entrance for them. without hesitation he walked close to the great gate and shattered its fastenings with the force of the electric current directed upon them from the tube. then, shouting to his friends the tatars for assistance, they rushed in a body upon the gate and dashed it open. the turks had expected trouble when they heard the fastenings of the huge gate splinter and fall apart, so they had assembled in force before the opening. as the tatars poured through the gateway in a compact mass they were met by a hail of bullets, spears and arrows, which did fearful execution among them. many were killed outright, while others fell wounded to be trampled upon by those who pressed on from the rear. rob maintained his position in the front rank, but escaped all injury through the possession of the garment of repulsion. but he took an active part in the fight and pressed the button of the electric tube again and again, tumbling the enemy into heaps on every side, even the horses and camels falling helplessly before the resistless current of electricity. the tatars shouted joyfully as they witnessed this marvelous feat and rushed forward to assist in the slaughter; but the boy motioned them all back. he did not wish any more bloodshed than was necessary, and knew that the heaps of unconscious turks around him would soon recover. so he stood alone and faced the enemy, calmly knocking them over as fast as they came near. two of the turks managed to creep up behind the boy, and one of them, who wielded an immense simitar with a two-edged blade as sharp as a razor, swung the weapon fiercely to cut off rob's head. but the repulsive force aroused in the garment was so terrific that it sent the weapon flying backwards with redoubled swiftness, so that it caught the second turk at the waist and cut him fairly in two. thereafter they all avoided coming near the boy, and in a surprisingly short time the turkish forces were entirely conquered, all having been reduced to unconsciousness except a few cowards who had run away and hidden in the cellars or garrets of the houses. the tatars entered the city with shouts of triumph, and the chief was so delighted that he threw his arms around rob's neck and embraced him warmly. then began the sack of yarkand, the fierce tatars plundering the bazaars and houses, stripping them of everything of value they could find. rob searched anxiously among the bodies of the unconscious turks for the two men who had robbed him, but neither could be found. he was more successful later, for in running through the streets he came upon a band of tatars leading a man with a rope around his neck, whom rob quickly recognized as one of the thieves he was hunting for. the tatars willingly allowed him to search the fellow, and in one of his pockets rob found the record of events. he had now recovered all his property, except the traveling machine, the one thing that was absolutely necessary to enable him to escape from this barbarous country. he continued his search persistently, and an hour later found the dead body of the third robber lying in the square in the center of the city. but the traveling machine was not on his person, and for the first time the boy began to give way to despair. in the distance he heard loud shouts and sound of renewed strife, warning him that the turks were recovering consciousness and engaging the tatars with great fierceness. the latter had scattered throughout the town, thinking themselves perfectly secure, so that not only were they unprepared to fight, but they became panic-stricken at seeing their foes return, as it seemed, from death to life. their usual courage forsook them, and they ran, terrified, in every direction, only to be cut down by the revengeful turkish simitars. rob was sitting upon the edge of a marble fountain in the center of the square when a crowd of victorious turks appeared and quickly surrounded him. the boy paid no attention to their gestures and the turks feared to approach him nearly, so they stood a short distance away and fired volleys at him from their rifles and pistols. rob glared at them scornfully, and seeing they could not injure him the turks desisted; but they still surrounded him, and the crowd grew thicker every moment. women now came creeping from their hiding places and mingled with the ranks of the men, and rob guessed, from their joyous chattering, that the turks had regained the city and driven out or killed the tatar warriors. he reflected, gloomily, that this did not affect his own position in any way, since he could not escape from the oasis. suddenly, on glancing at the crowd, rob saw something that arrested his attention. a young girl was fastening some article to the wrist of a burly, villainous-looking turk. the boy saw a glitter that reminded him of the traveling machine, but immediately afterward the man and the girl bent their heads over the fellow's wrist in such a way that rob could see nothing more. while the couple were apparently examining the strange device, rob started to his feet and walked toward them. the crowd fell back at his approach, but the man and the girl were so interested that they did not notice him. he was still several paces away when the girl put out her finger and touched the indicator on the dial. to rob's horror and consternation the big turk began to rise slowly into the air, while a howl of fear burst from the crowd. but the boy made a mighty spring and caught the turk by his foot, clinging to it with desperate tenacity, while they both mounted steadily upward until they were far above the city of the desert. [illustration: the turk rose slowly into the air, with rob clinging to him with desperate tenacity] the big turk screamed pitifully at first, and then actually fainted away from fright. rob was much frightened, on his part, for he knew if his hands slipped from their hold he would fall to his death. indeed, one hand was slipping already, so he made a frantic clutch and caught firmly hold of the turk's baggy trousers. then, slowly and carefully, he drew himself up and seized the leather belt that encircled the man's waist. this firm grip gave him new confidence, and he began to breathe more freely. he now clung to the body of the turk with both legs entwined, in the way he was accustomed to cling to a tree-trunk when he climbed after cherries at home. he had conquered his fear of falling, and took time to recover his wits and his strength. they had now reached such a tremendous height that the city looked like a speck on the desert beneath them. knowing he must act quickly, rob seized the dangling left arm of the unconscious turk and raised it until he could reach the dial of the traveling machine. he feared to unclasp the machine just then, for two reasons: if it slipped from his grasp they would both plunge downward to their death; and he was not sure the machine would work at all if in any other position than fastened to the left wrist. rob determined to take no chances, so he left the machine attached to the turk and turned the indicator to zero and then to "east," for he did not wish to rejoin either his enemies the turks or his equally undesirable friends the tatars. after traveling eastward a few minutes he lost sight of the city altogether; so, still clinging to the body of the turk, he again turned the indicator and began to descend. when, at last, they landed gently upon a rocky eminence of the kuen-lun mountains, the boy's strength was almost exhausted, and his limbs ached with the strain of clinging to the turk's body. his first act was to transfer the traveling machine to his own wrist and to see that his other electrical devices were safely bestowed in his pockets. then he sat upon the rock to rest until the turk recovered consciousness. presently the fellow moved uneasily, rolled over, and then sat up and stared at his surroundings. perhaps he thought he had been dreaming, for he rubbed his eyes and looked again with mingled surprise and alarm. then, seeing rob, he uttered a savage shout and drew his dagger. rob smiled and pointed the electric tube at the man, who doubtless recognized its power, for he fell back scowling and trembling. "this place seems like a good jog from civilization," remarked the boy, as coolly as if his companion could understand what he said; "but as your legs are long and strong you may be able to find your way. it's true you're liable to starve to death, but if you do it will be your own misfortune and not my fault." the turk glared at him sullenly, but did not attempt to reply. rob took out his box of tablets, ate one of them and offered another to his enemy. the fellow accepted it ungraciously enough, but seeing rob eat one he decided to follow his example, and consumed the tablet with a queer expression of distrust upon his face. "brave man!" cried rob, laughingly; "you've avoided the pangs of starvation for a time, anyhow, so i can leave you with a clear conscience." without more ado he turned the indicator of the traveling machine and mounted into the air, leaving the turk sitting upon the rocks and staring after him in comical bewilderment. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter fifteen_ a battle with monsters our young adventurer never experienced a more grateful feeling of relief and security than when he found himself once more high in the air, alone, and in undisputed possession of the electrical devices bestowed upon him by the demon. the dangers he had passed through since landing at the city of the desert and the desperate chance that alone had permitted him to regain the traveling machine made him shudder at the bare recollection and rendered him more sober and thoughtful than usual. we who stick closely to the earth's surface can scarcely realize how rob could travel through the air at such dizzy heights without any fear or concern whatsoever. but he had come to consider the air a veritable refuge. experience had given him implicit confidence in the powers of the electrical instrument whose unseen forces carried him so swiftly and surely, and while the tiny, watch-like machine was clasped to his wrist he felt himself to be absolutely safe. having slipped away from the turk and attained a fair altitude, he set the indicator at zero and paused long enough to consult his map and decide what direction it was best for him to take. the mischance that had swept him unwittingly over the countries of europe had also carried him more than half way around the world from his home. therefore the nearest way to reach america would be to continue traveling to the eastward. so much time had been consumed at the desert oasis that he felt he must now hasten if he wished to reach home by saturday afternoon; so, having quickly come to a decision, he turned the indicator and began a swift flight into the east. for several hours he traveled above the great desert of gobi, but by noon signs of a more fertile country began to appear, and, dropping to a point nearer the earth, he was able to observe closely the country of the chinese, with its crowded population and ancient but crude civilization. then he came to the great wall of china and to mighty peking, above which he hovered some time, examining it curiously. he really longed to make a stop there, but with his late experiences fresh in his mind he thought it much safer to view the wonderful city from a distance. resuming his flight he presently came to the gulf of laou tong, whose fair face was freckled with many ships of many nations, and so on to korea, which seemed to him a land fully a century behind the times. night overtook him while speeding across the sea of japan, and having a great desire to view the mikado's famous islands, he put the indicator at zero, and, coming to a full stop, composed himself to sleep until morning, that he might run no chances of being carried beyond his knowledge during the night. you might suppose it no easy task to sleep suspended in mid-air, yet the magnetic currents controlled by the traveling machine were so evenly balanced that rob was fully as comfortable as if reposing upon a bed of down. he had become somewhat accustomed to passing the night in the air and now slept remarkably well, having no fear of burglars or fire or other interruptions that dwellers in cities are subject to. one thing, however, he should have remembered: that he was in an ancient and little known part of the world and reposing above a sea famous in fable as the home of many fierce and terrible creatures; while not far away lay the land of the dragon, the simurg and other ferocious monsters. rob may have read of these things in fairy tales and books of travel, but if so they had entirely slipped his mind; so he slumbered peacefully and actually snored a little, i believe, towards morning. but even as the red sun peeped curiously over the horizon he was awakened by a most unusual disturbance--a succession of hoarse screams and a pounding of the air as from the quickly revolving blades of some huge windmill. he rubbed his eyes and looked around. coming towards him at his right hand was an immense bird, whose body seemed almost as big as that of a horse. its wide-open, curving beak was set with rows of pointed teeth, and the talons held against its breast and turned threateningly outward were more powerful and dreadful than a tiger's claws. while, fascinated and horrified, he watched the approach of this feathered monster, a scream sounded just behind him and the next instant the stroke of a mighty wing sent him whirling over and over through the air. he soon came to a stop, however, and saw that another of the monsters had come upon him from the rear and was now, with its mate, circling closely around him, while both uttered continuously their hoarse, savage cries. rob wondered why the garment of repulsion had not protected him from the blow of the bird's wing; but, as a matter of fact, it had protected him. for it was not the wing itself but the force of the eddying currents of air that had sent him whirling away from the monster. with the indicator at zero the magnetic currents and the opposing powers of attraction and repulsion were so evenly balanced that any violent atmospheric disturbance affected him in the same way that thistledown is affected by a summer breeze. he had noticed something of this before, but whenever a strong wind was blowing he was accustomed to rise to a position above the air currents. this was the first time he had slept with the indicator at zero. the huge birds at once renewed their attack, but rob had now recovered his wits sufficiently to draw the electric tube from his pocket. the first one to dart towards him received the powerful electric current direct from the tube, and fell stunned and fluttering to the surface of the sea, where it floated motionless. its mate, perhaps warned by this sudden disaster, renewed its circling flight, moving so swiftly that rob could scarcely follow it, and drawing nearer and nearer every moment to its intended victim. the boy could not turn in the air very quickly, and he feared an attack in the back, mistrusting the saving power of the garment of repulsion under such circumstances; so in desperation he pressed his finger upon the button of the tube and whirled the instrument around his head in the opposite direction to that in which the monster was circling. presently the current and the bird met, and with one last scream the creature tumbled downwards to join its fellow upon the waves, where they lay like two floating islands. their presence had left a rank, sickening stench in the surrounding atmosphere, so rob made haste to resume his journey and was soon moving rapidly eastward. he could not control a shudder at the recollection of his recent combat, and realized the horror of a meeting with such creatures by one who had no protection from their sharp beaks and talons. "it's no wonder the japs draw ugly pictures of those monsters," he thought. "people who live in these parts must pass most of their lives in a tremble." the sun was now shining brilliantly, and when the beautiful islands of japan came in sight rob found that he had recovered his wonted cheerfulness. he moved along slowly, hovering with curious interest over the quaint and picturesque villages and watching the industrious japanese patiently toiling at their tasks. just before he reached tokio he came to a military fort, and for nearly an hour watched the skilful maneuvers of a regiment of soldiers at their morning drill. they were not very big people, compared with other nations, but they seemed alert and well trained, and the boy decided it would require a brave enemy to face them on a field of battle. having at length satisfied his curiosity as to japanese life and customs rob prepared for his long flight across the pacific ocean. by consulting his map he discovered that should he maintain his course due east, as before, he would arrive at a point in america very near to san francisco, which suited his plans excellently. having found that he moved more swiftly when farthest from the earth's surface, because the air was more rarefied and offered less resistance, rob mounted upwards until the islands of japan were mere specks visible through the clear, sunny atmosphere. then he began his eastward flight, the broad surface of the pacific seeming like a blue cloud far beneath him. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter sixteen_ shipwrecked mariners ample proof of rob's careless and restless nature having been frankly placed before the reader in these pages, you will doubtless be surprised when i relate that during the next few hours our young gentleman suffered from a severe attack of homesickness, becoming as gloomy and unhappy in its duration as ever a homesick boy could be. it may have been because he was just then cut off from all his fellow-creatures and even from the world itself; it may have been because he was satiated with marvels and with the almost absolute control over the powers which the demon had conferred upon him; or it may have been because he was born and reared a hearty, healthy american boy, with a disposition to battle openly with the world and take his chances equally with his fellows, rather than be placed in such an exclusive position that no one could hope successfully to oppose him. perhaps he himself did not know what gave him this horrible attack of "the blues," but the truth is he took out his handkerchief and cried like a baby from very loneliness and misery. there was no one to see him, thank goodness! and the tears gave him considerable relief. he dried his eyes, made an honest struggle to regain his cheerfulness, and then muttered to himself: "if i stay up here, like an air-bubble in the sky, i shall certainly go crazy. i suppose there's nothing but water to look at down below, but if i could only sight a ship, or even see a fish jump, it would do me no end of good." thereupon he descended until, as the ocean's surface came nearer and nearer, he discovered a tiny island lying almost directly underneath him. it was hardly big enough to make a dot on the biggest map, but a clump of trees grew in the central portion, while around the edges were jagged rocks protecting a sandy beach and a stretch of flower-strewn upland leading to the trees. it looked very beautiful from rob's elevated position, and his spirits brightened at once. "i'll drop down and pick a bouquet," he exclaimed, and a few moments later his feet touched the firm earth of the island. but before he could gather a dozen of the brilliant flowers a glad shout reached his ears, and, looking up, he saw two men running towards him from the trees. they were dressed in sailor fashion, but their clothing was reduced to rags and scarcely clung to their brown, skinny bodies. as they advanced they waved their arms wildly in the air and cried in joyful tones: "a boat! a boat!" rob stared at them wonderingly, and had much ado to prevent the poor fellows from hugging him outright, so great was their joy at his appearance. one of them rolled upon the ground, laughing and crying by turns, while the other danced and cut capers until he became so exhausted that he sank down breathless beside his comrade. "how came you here?" then inquired the boy, in pitying tones. "we're shipwrecked american sailors from the bark 'cynthia jane,' which went down near here over a month ago," answered the smallest and thinnest of the two. "we escaped by clinging to a bit of wreckage and floated to this island, where we have nearly starved to death. indeed, we now have eaten everything on the island that was eatable, and had your boat arrived a few days later you'd have found us lying dead upon the beach!" rob listened to this sad tale with real sympathy. "but i didn't come here in a boat," said he. the men sprang to their feet with white, scared faces. "no boat!" they cried; "are you, too, shipwrecked?" "no;" he answered. "i flew here through the air." and then he explained to them the wonderful electric traveling machine. but the sailors had no interest whatever in the relation. their disappointment was something awful to witness, and one of them laid his head upon his comrade's shoulder and wept with unrestrained grief, so weak and discouraged had they become through suffering. [illustration: the disappointment of the sailors was something awful to witness] suddenly rob remembered that he could assist them, and took the box of concentrated food tablets from his pocket. "eat these," he said, offering one to each of the sailors. at first they could not understand that these small tablets would be able to allay the pangs of hunger; but when rob explained their virtues the men ate them greedily. within a few moments they were so greatly restored to strength and courage that their eyes brightened, their sunken cheeks flushed, and they were able to converse with their benefactor with calmness and intelligence. then the boy sat beside them upon the grass and told them the story of his acquaintance with the demon and of all his adventures since he had come into possession of the wonderful electric contrivances. in his present mood he felt it would be a relief to confide in some one, and so these poor, lonely men were the first to hear his story. when he related the manner in which he had clung to the turk while both ascended into the air, the elder of the two sailors listened with rapt attention, and then, after some thought, asked: "why couldn't you carry one or both of us to america?" rob took time seriously to consider this idea, while the sailors eyed him with eager interest. finally he said: "i'm afraid i couldn't support your weight long enough to reach any other land. it's a long journey, and you'd pull my arms out of joint before we'd been up an hour." their faces fell at this, but one of them said: "why couldn't we swing ourselves over your shoulders with a rope? our two bodies would balance each other and we are so thin and emaciated that we do not weigh very much." while considering this suggestion rob remembered how at one time five pirates had clung to his left leg and been carried some distance through the air. "have you a rope?" he asked. "no," was the answer; "but there are plenty of long, tough vines growing on the island that are just as strong and pliable as ropes." "then, if you are willing to run the chances," decided the boy, "i will make the attempt to save you. but i must warn you that in case i find i can not support the weight of your bodies i shall drop one or both of you into the sea." they looked grave at this prospect, but the biggest one said: "we would soon meet death from starvation if you left us here on the island; so, as there is at least a chance of our being able to escape in your company i, for one, am willing to risk being drowned. it is easier and quicker than being starved. and, as i'm the heavier, i suppose you'll drop me first." "certainly," declared rob, promptly. this announcement seemed to be an encouragement to the little sailor, but he said, nervously: "i hope you'll keep near the water, for i haven't a good head for heights--they always make me dizzy." "oh, if you don't want to go," began rob, "i can easily----" "but i do! i do! i do!" cried the little man, interrupting him. "i shall die if you leave me behind!" "well, then, get your ropes, and we'll do the best we can," said the boy. they ran to the trees, around the trunks of which were clinging many tendrils of greenish-brown vine which possessed remarkable strength. with their knives they cut a long section of this vine, the ends of which were then tied into loops large enough to permit the sailors to sit in them comfortably. the connecting piece rob padded with seaweed gathered from the shore, to prevent its cutting into his shoulders. "now, then," he said, when all was ready, "take your places." the sailors squatted in the loops, and rob swung the vine over his shoulders and turned the indicator of the traveling machine to "up." as they slowly mounted into the sky the little sailor gave a squeal of terror and clung to the boy's arm; but the other, although seemingly anxious, sat quietly in his place and made no trouble. "d--d--don't g--g--go so high!" stammered the little one, tremblingly; "suppose we should f--f--fall!" "well, s'pose we should?" answered rob, gruffly. "you couldn't drown until you struck the water, so the higher we are the longer you'll live in case of accident." this phase of the question seemed to comfort the frightened fellow somewhat; but, as he said, he had not a good head for heights, and so continued to tremble in spite of his resolve to be brave. the weight on rob's shoulders was not so great as he had feared, the traveling machine seeming to give a certain lightness and buoyancy to everything that came into contact with its wearer. as soon as he had reached a sufficient elevation to admit of good speed he turned the indicator once more to the east and began moving rapidly through the air, the shipwrecked sailors dangling at either side. "this is aw--aw--awful!" gasped the little one. "say, you shut up!" commanded the boy, angrily. "if your friend was as big a coward as you are i'd drop you both this minute. let go my arm and keep quiet, if you want to reach land alive." the fellow whimpered a little, but managed to remain silent for several minutes. then he gave a sudden twitch and grabbed rob's arm again. "s'pose--s'pose the vine should break!" he moaned, a horrified look upon his face. "i've had about enough of this," said rob, savagely. "if you haven't any sense you don't deserve to live." he turned the indicator on the dial of the machine and they began to descend rapidly. the little fellow screamed with fear, but rob paid no attention to him until the feet of the two suspended sailors were actually dipping into the waves, when he brought their progress to an abrupt halt. "wh--wh--what are you g--g--going to do?" gurgled the cowardly sailor. "i'm going to feed you to the sharks--unless you promise to keep your mouth shut," retorted the boy. "now, then; decide at once! which will it be--sharks or silence?" "i won't say a word--'pon my honor, i won't!" said the sailor, shudderingly. "all right; remember your promise and we'll have no further trouble," remarked rob, who had hard work to keep from laughing at the man's abject terror. once more he ascended and continued the journey, and for several hours they rode along swiftly and silently. rob's shoulders were beginning to ache with the continued tugging of the vine upon them, but the thought that he was saving the lives of two unfortunate fellow-creatures gave him strength and courage to persevere. night was falling when they first sighted land; a wild and seemingly uninhabited stretch of the american coast. rob made no effort to select a landing place, for he was nearly worn out with the strain and anxiety of the journey. he dropped his burden upon the brow of a high bluff overlooking the sea and, casting the vine from his shoulders, fell to the earth exhausted and half fainting. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter seventeen_ the coast of oregon when he had somewhat recovered, rob sat up and looked around him. the elder sailor was kneeling in earnest prayer, offering grateful thanks for his escape from suffering and death. the younger one lay upon the ground sobbing and still violently agitated by recollections of the frightful experiences he had undergone. although he did not show his feelings as plainly as the men, the boy was none the less gratified at having been instrumental in saving the lives of two fellow-beings. the darkness was by this time rapidly enveloping them, so rob asked his companions to gather some brushwood and light a fire, which they quickly did. the evening was cool for the time of year, and the heat from the fire was cheering and grateful; so they all lay near the glowing embers and fell fast asleep. the sound of voices aroused rob next morning, and on opening his eyes and gazing around he saw several rudely dressed men approaching. the two shipwrecked sailors were still sound asleep. rob stood up and waited for the strangers to draw near. they seemed to be fishermen, and were much surprised at finding three people asleep upon the bluff. "whar 'n thunder'd ye come from?" asked the foremost fisherman, in a surprised voice. "from the sea," replied the boy. "my friends here are shipwrecked sailors from the 'cynthia jane.'" "but how'd ye make out to climb the bluff?" inquired a second fisherman; "no one ever did it afore, as we knows on." "oh, that is a long story," replied the boy, evasively. the two sailors had awakened and now saluted the new-comers. soon they were exchanging a running fire of questions and answers. "where are we?" rob heard the little sailor ask. "coast of oregon," was the reply. "we're about seven miles from port orford by land an' about ten miles by sea." "do you live at port orford?" inquired the sailor. "that's what we do, friend; an' if your party wants to join us we'll do our best to make you comf'table, bein' as you're shipwrecked an' need help." just then a loud laugh came from another group, where the elder sailor had been trying to explain rob's method of flying through the air. "laugh all you want to," said the sailor, sullenly; "it's true--ev'ry word of it!" "mebbe you think it, friend," answered a big, good-natured fisherman; "but it's well known that shipwrecked folks go crazy sometimes, an' imagine strange things. your mind seems clear enough in other ways, so i advise you to try and forget your dreams about flyin'." rob now stepped forward and shook hands with the sailors. "i see you have found friends," he said to them, "so i will leave you and continue my journey, as i'm in something of a hurry." both sailors began to thank him profusely for their rescue, but he cut them short. "that's all right. of course i couldn't leave you on that island to starve to death, and i'm glad i was able to bring you away with me." "but you threatened to drop me into the sea," remarked the little sailor, in a grieved voice. "so i did," said rob, laughing; "but i wouldn't have done it for the world--not even to have saved my own life. good-by!" he turned the indicator and mounted skyward, to the unbounded amazement of the fishermen, who stared after him with round eyes and wide open mouths. "this sight will prove to them that the sailors are not crazy," he thought, as he turned to the south and sped away from the bluff. "i suppose those simple fishermen will never forget this wonderful occurrence, and they'll probably make reg'lar heroes of the two men who have crossed the pacific through the air." he followed the coast line, keeping but a short distance above the earth, and after an hour's swift flight reached the city of san francisco. his shoulders were sore and stiff from the heavy strain upon them of the previous day, and he wished more than once that he had some of his mother's household liniment to rub them with. yet so great was his delight at reaching once more his native land that all discomforts were speedily forgotten. much as he would have enjoyed a day in the great metropolis of the pacific slope, rob dared not delay longer than to take a general view of the place, to note its handsome edifices and to wonder at the throng of chinese inhabiting one section of the town. these things were much more plainly and quickly viewed by rob from above than by threading a way through the streets on foot; for he looked down upon the city as a bird does, and covered miles with a single glance. having satisfied his curiosity without attempting to alight, he turned to the southeast and followed the peninsula as far as palo alto, where he viewed the magnificent buildings of the university. changing his course to the east, he soon reached mount hamilton, and, being attracted by the great tower of the lick observatory, he hovered over it until he found he had attracted the excited gaze of its inhabitants, who doubtless observed him very plainly through the big telescope. but so unreal and seemingly impossible was the sight witnessed by the learned astronomers that they have never ventured to make the incident public, although long after the boy had darted away into the east they argued together concerning the marvelous and incomprehensible vision. afterward they secretly engrossed the circumstance upon their records, but resolved never to mention it in public, lest their wisdom and veracity should be assailed by the skeptical. meantime rob rose to a higher altitude, and sped swiftly across the great continent. by noon he sighted chicago, and after a brief inspection of the place from the air determined to devote at least an hour to forming the acquaintance of this most wonderful and cosmopolitan city. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter eighteen_ a narrow escape the auditorium tower, where "the weather man" sits to flash his reports throughout the country, offered an inviting place for the boy to alight. he dropped quietly upon the roof of the great building and walked down the staircase until he reached the elevators, by means of which he descended to the ground floor without exciting special attention. the eager rush and hurry of the people crowding the sidewalks impressed rob with the idea that they were all behind time and were trying hard to catch up. he found it impossible to walk along comfortably without being elbowed and pushed from side to side; so a half hour's sight-seeing under such difficulties tired him greatly. it was a beautiful afternoon, and finding himself upon the lake front, rob hunted up a vacant bench and sat down to rest. presently an elderly gentleman with a reserved and dignified appearance and dressed in black took a seat next to the boy and drew a magazine from his pocket. rob saw that he opened it to an article on "the progress of modern science," in which he seemed greatly interested. after a time the boy remembered that he was hungry, not having eaten a tablet in more than twenty-four hours. so he took out the silver box and ate one of the small, round disks it contained. "what are those?" inquired the old gentleman in a soft voice. "you are too young to be taking patent medicines." "these are not medicines, exactly," answered the boy, with a smile. "they are concentrated food tablets, stored with nourishment by means of electricity. one of them furnishes a person with food for an entire day." the old gentleman stared at rob a moment and then laid down his magazine and took the box in his hands, examining the tablets curiously. "are these patented?" he asked. "no," said rob; "they are unknown to any one but myself." "i will give you a half million dollars for the recipe to make them," said the gentleman. "i fear i must refuse your offer," returned rob, with a laugh. "i'll make it a million," said the gentleman, coolly. rob shook his head. "money can't buy the recipe," he said; "for i don't know it myself." "couldn't the tablets be chemically analyzed, and the secret discovered?" inquired the other. "i don't know; but i'm not going to give any one the chance to try," declared the boy, firmly. the old gentleman picked up his magazine without another word, and resumed his reading. for amusement rob took the record of events from his pocket and began looking at the scenes reflected from its polished plate. presently he became aware that the old gentleman was peering over his shoulder with intense interest. general funston was just then engaged in capturing the rebel chief, aguinaldo, and for a few moments both man and boy observed the occurrence with rapt attention. as the scene was replaced by one showing a secret tunnel of the russian nihilists, with the conspirators carrying dynamite to a recess underneath the palace of the czar, the gentleman uttered a long sigh and asked: "will you sell that box?" "no," answered rob, shortly, and put it back into his pocket. "i'll give you a million dollars to control the sale in chicago alone," continued the gentleman, with an eager inflection in his smooth voice. "you seem quite anxious to get rid of money," remarked rob, carelessly. "how much are you worth?" "personally?" "yes." "nothing at all, young man. i am not offering you my own money. but with such inventions as you have exhibited i could easily secure millions of capital. suppose we form a trust, and place them upon the market. we'll capitalize it for a hundred millions, and you can have a quarter of the stock--twenty-five millions. that would keep you from worrying about grocery bills." "but i wouldn't need groceries if i had the tablets," said rob, laughing. "true enough! but you could take life easily and read your newspaper in comfort, without being in any hurry to get down town to business. twenty-five millions would bring you a cozy little income, if properly invested." "i don't see why one should read newspapers when the record of events shows all that is going on in the world," objected rob. "true, true! but what do you say to the proposition?" "i must decline, with thanks. these inventions are not for sale." the gentleman sighed and resumed his magazine, in which he became much absorbed. rob put on the character marking spectacles and looked at him. the letters "e", "w" and "c" were plainly visible upon the composed, respectable looking brow of his companion. "evil, wise and cruel," reflected rob, as he restored the spectacles to his pocket. "how easily such a man could impose upon people. to look at him one would think that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth!" he decided to part company with this chance acquaintance and, rising from his seat, strolled leisurely up the walk. a moment later, on looking back, he discovered that the old gentleman had disappeared. he walked down state street to the river and back again, amused by the activity displayed in this busy section of the city. but the time he had allowed himself in chicago had now expired, so he began looking around for some high building from the roof of which he could depart unnoticed. this was not at all difficult, and selecting one of many stores he ascended by an elevator to the top floor and from there mounted an iron stairway leading to the flat roof. as he climbed this stairway he found himself followed by a pleasant looking young man, who also seemed desirous of viewing the city from the roof. annoyed at the inopportune intrusion, rob's first thought was to go back to the street and try another building; but, upon reflecting that the young man was not likely to remain long and he would soon be alone, he decided to wait. so he walked to the edge of the roof and appeared to be interested in the scenery spread out below him. "fine view from here, ain't it?" said the young man, coming up to him and placing his hand carelessly upon the boy's shoulder. "it is, indeed," replied rob, leaning over the edge to look into the street. as he spoke he felt himself gently but firmly pushed from behind and, losing his balance, he plunged headforemost from the roof and whirled through the intervening space toward the sidewalk far below. terrified though he was by the sudden disaster, the boy had still wit enough remaining to reach out his right hand and move the indicator of the machine upon his left wrist to the zero mark. immediately he paused in his fearful flight and presently came to a stop at a distance of less than fifteen feet from the flagstones which had threatened to crush out his life. as he stared downward, trying to recover his self-possession, he saw the old gentleman he had met on the lake front standing just below and looking at him with a half frightened, half curious expression in his eyes. at once rob saw through the whole plot to kill him and thus secure possession of his electrical devices. the young man upon the roof who had attempted to push him to his death was a confederate of the innocent appearing old gentleman, it seemed, and the latter had calmly awaited his fall to the pavement to seize the coveted treasures from his dead body. it was an awful idea, and rob was more frightened than he had ever been before in his life--or ever has been since. but now the shouts of a vast concourse of amazed spectators reached the boy's ears. he remembered that he was suspended in mid-air over the crowded street of a great city, while thousands of wondering eyes were fixed upon him. so he quickly set the indicator to the word "up," and mounted sky-ward until the watchers below could scarcely see him. then he fled away into the east, even yet shuddering with the horror of his recent escape from death and filled with disgust at the knowledge that there were people who held human life so lightly that they were willing to destroy it to further their own selfish ends. "and the demon wants such people as these to possess his electrical devices, which are as powerful to accomplish evil when in wrong hands as they are good!" thought the boy, resentfully. "this would be a fine world if electric tubes and records of events and traveling machines could be acquired by selfish and unprincipled persons!" so unnerved was rob by his recent experiences that he determined to make no more stops. however, he alighted at nightfall in the country, and slept upon the sweet hay in a farmer's barn. but, early the next morning, before any one else was astir, he resumed his journey, and at precisely ten o'clock of this day, which was saturday, he completed his flying trip around the world by alighting unobserved upon the well-trimmed lawn of his own home. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter nineteen_ rob makes a resolution when rob opened the front door he came face to face with nell, who gave an exclamation of joy and threw herself into his arms. "oh, rob!" she cried, "i'm so glad you've come. we have all been dreadfully worried about you, and mother--" "well, what about mother?" inquired the boy, anxiously, as she paused. "she's been very ill, rob; and the doctor said to-day that unless we heard from you soon he would not be able to save her life. the uncertainty about you is killing her." rob stood stock still, all the eager joy of his return frozen into horror at the thought that he had caused his dear mother so much suffering. "where is she, nell?" he asked, brokenly. "in her room. come; i'll take you to her." rob followed with beating heart, and soon was clasped close to his mother's breast. "oh, my boy--my dear boy!" she murmured, and then for very joy and love she was unable to say more, but held him tight and stroked his hair gently and kissed him again and again. rob said little, except to promise that he would never again leave home without her full consent and knowledge. but in his mind he contrasted the love and comfort that now surrounded him with the lonely and unnatural life he had been leading and, boy though he was in years, a mighty resolution that would have been creditable to an experienced man took firm root in his heart. he was obliged to recount all his adventures to his mother and, although he made light of the dangers he had passed through, the story drew many sighs and shudders from her. when luncheon time arrived he met his father, and mr. joslyn took occasion to reprove his son in strong language for running away from home and leaving them filled with anxiety as to his fate. however, when he saw how happy and improved in health his dear wife was at her boy's return, and when he had listened to rob's manly confession of error and expressions of repentance, he speedily forgave the culprit and treated him as genially as ever. of course the whole story had to be repeated, his sisters listening this time with open eyes and ears and admiring their adventurous brother immensely. even mr. joslyn could not help becoming profoundly interested, but he took care not to show any pride he might feel in his son's achievements. when his father returned to his office rob went to his own bed-chamber and sat for a long time by the window in deep thought. when at last he aroused himself, he found it was nearly four o'clock. "the demon will be here presently," he said, with a thrill of aversion, "and i must be in the workshop to receive him." silently he stole to the foot of the attic stairs and then paused to listen. the house seemed very quiet, but he could hear his mother's voice softly humming a cradle-song that she had sung to him when he was a baby. he had been nervous and unsettled and a little fearful until then, but perhaps the sound of his mother's voice gave him courage, for he boldly ascended the stairs and entered the workshop, closing and locking the door behind him. [illustration] [illustration] _chapter twenty_ the unhappy fate of the demon again the atmosphere quickened and pulsed with accumulating vibrations. again the boy found himself aroused to eager expectancy. there was a whirl in the air; a crackling like distant musketry; a flash of dazzling light--and the demon stood before him for the third time. "i give you greetings!" said he, in a voice not unkindly. "good afternoon, mr. demon," answered the boy, bowing gravely. "i see you have returned safely from your trip," continued the apparition, cheerfully, "although at one time i thought you would be unable to escape. indeed, unless i had knocked that tube from the rascally turk's hand as he clambered to the top of the wall, i believe you would have been at the yarkand oasis yet--either dead or alive, as chance might determine." "were you there?" asked rob. "to be sure. and i recovered the tube for you, without which you would have been helpless. but that is the only time i saw fit to interfere in any way." "i'm afraid i did not get a chance to give many hints to inventors or scientists," said rob. "true, and i have deeply regretted it," replied the demon. "but your unusual powers caused more astonishment and consternation than you, perhaps, imagined; for many saw you whom you were too busy to notice. as a result several able electricians are now thinking new thoughts along new lines, and some of them may soon give these or similar inventions to the world." "you are satisfied, then?" asked rob. "as to that," returned the demon, composedly, "i am not. but i have hopes that with the addition of the three marvelous devices i shall present you with to-day you will succeed in arousing so much popular interest in electrical inventions as to render me wholly satisfied with the result of this experiment." rob regarded the brilliant apparition with a solemn face, but made no answer. "no living person," continued the demon, "has ever before been favored with such comforting devices for the preservation and extension of human life as yourself. you seem quite unappreciative, it is true; but since our connection i have come to realize that you are but an ordinary boy, with many boyish limitations; so i do not condemn your foolish actions too harshly." "that is kind of you," said rob. "to prove my friendliness," pursued the demon, "i have brought, as the first of to-day's offerings, this electro-magnetic restorer. you see it is shaped like a thin metal band, and is to be worn upon the brow, clasping at the back of the head. its virtues surpass those of either the fabulous 'fountain of youth,' or the 'elixir of life,' so vainly sought for in past ages. for its wearer will instantly become free from any bodily disease or pain and will enjoy perfect health and vigor. in truth, so great are its powers that even the dead may be restored to life, provided the blood has not yet chilled. in presenting you with this appliance, i feel i am bestowing upon you the greatest blessing and most longed-for boon ever bequeathed to suffering humanity." here he held the slender, dull-colored metallic band toward the boy. "keep it," said rob. the demon started, and gave him an odd look. "what did you say?" he asked. "i told you to keep it," answered rob. "i don't want it." the demon staggered back as if he had been struck. "don't want it!" he gasped. "no; i've had enough of your infernal inventions!" cried the boy, with sudden anger. he unclasped the traveling machine from his wrist and laid it on the table beside the demon. "there's the thing that's responsible for most of my troubles," said he, bitterly. "what right has one person to fly through the air while all his fellow-creatures crawl over the earth's surface? and why should i be cut off from all the rest of the world because you have given me this confounded traveling machine? i didn't ask for it, and i won't keep it a moment longer. give it to some one you hate more than you do me!" the demon stared aghast and turned his glittering eyes wonderingly from rob to the traveling machine and back again, as if to be sure he had heard and seen aright. "and here are your food tablets," continued the boy, placing the box upon the table. "i've only enjoyed one square meal since you gave them to me. they're all right to preserve life, of course, and answer the purpose for which they were made; but i don't believe nature ever intended us to exist upon such things, or we wouldn't have the sense of taste, which enables us to enjoy natural food. as long as i'm a human being i'm going to eat like a human being, so i've consumed my last electrical concentrated food tablet--and don't you forget it!" the demon sank into a chair, nerveless and limp, but still staring fearfully at the boy. "and there's another of your unnatural devices," said rob, putting the automatic record of events upon the table beside the other things. "what right have you to capture vibrations that radiate from private and secret actions and discover them to others who have no business to know them? this would be a fine world if every body could peep into every one else's affairs, wouldn't it? and here is your character marker. nice thing for a decent person to own, isn't it? any one who would take advantage of such a sneaking invention as that would be worse than a thief! oh, i've used them, of course, and i ought to be spanked for having been so mean and underhanded; but i'll never be guilty of looking through them again." the demon's face was frowning and indignant. he made a motion to rise, but thought better of it and sank back in his chair. "as for the garment of protection," resumed the boy, after a pause, "i've worn it for the last time, and here it is, at your service. i'll put the electric tube with it. not that these are such very bad things in themselves, but i'll have none of your magical contrivances. i'll say this, however: if all armies were equipped with electrical tubes instead of guns and swords the world would be spared a lot of misery and unnecessary bloodshed. perhaps they will be, in time; but that time hasn't arrived yet." "you might have hastened it," said the demon, sternly, "if you had been wise enough to use your powers properly." "that's just it," answered rob. "i'm _not_ wise enough. nor is the majority of mankind wise enough to use such inventions as yours unselfishly and for the good of the world. if people were better, and every one had an equal show, it would be different." for some moments the demon sat quietly thinking. finally the frown left his face and he said, with animation: "i have other inventions, which you may use without any such qualms of conscience. the electro-magnetic restorer i offered you would be a great boon to your race, and could not possibly do harm. and, besides this, i have brought you what i call the illimitable communicator. it is a simple electric device which will enable you, wherever you may be, to converse with people in any part of the world, without the use of such crude connections as wires. in fact, you may"---- "stop!" cried rob. "it is useless for you to describe it, because i'll have nothing more to do with you or your inventions. i have given them a fair trial, and they've got me into all sorts of trouble and made all my friends miserable. if i was some high-up scientist it would be different; but i'm just a common boy, and i don't want to be anything else." "but, your duty--" began the demon. "my duty i owe to myself and to my family," interrupted rob. "i have never cultivated science, more than to fool with some simple electrical experiments, so i owe nothing to either science or the demon of electricity, so far as i can see." "but consider," remonstrated the demon, rising to his feet and speaking in a pleading voice, "consider the years that must elapse before any one else is likely to strike the master key! and, in the meanwhile, consider my helpless position, cut off from all interest in the world while i have such wonderful inventions on my hands for the benefit of mankind. if you have no love for science or for the advancement of civilization, _do_ have some consideration for your fellow-creatures, and for me!" "if my fellow-creatures would have as much trouble with your electrical inventions as i had, i am doing them a service by depriving them of your devices," said the boy. "as for yourself, i've no fault to find with you, personally. you're a very decent sort of demon, and i've no doubt you mean well; but there's something wrong about our present combination, i'm sure. it isn't natural." the demon made a gesture of despair. "why, oh why did not some intelligent person strike the master key!" he moaned. "that's it!" exclaimed rob. "i believe that's the root of the whole evil." "what is?" inquired the demon, stupidly. "the fact that an intelligent person did not strike the master key. you don't seem to understand. well, i'll explain. you're the demon of electricity, aren't you?" "i am," said the other, drawing himself up proudly. "your mission is to obey the commands of whoever is able to strike the master key of electricity." "that is true." "i once read in a book that all things are regulated by exact laws of nature. if that is so you probably owe your existence to those laws." the demon nodded. "doubtless it was intended that when mankind became intelligent enough and advanced enough to strike the master key, you and all your devices would not only be necessary and acceptable to them, but the world would be prepared for their general use. that seems reasonable, doesn't it?" "perhaps so. yes; it seems reasonable," answered the demon, thoughtfully. "accidents are always liable to happen," continued the boy. "by accident the master key was struck long before the world of science was ready for it--or for you. instead of considering it an accident and paying no attention to it you immediately appeared to me--a mere boy--and offered your services." "i was very anxious to do something," returned the demon, evasively. "you've no idea how stupid it is for me to live invisible and unknown, while all the time i have in my possession secrets of untold benefit to the world." "well, you'll have to keep cool and bide your time," said rob. "the world wasn't made in a minute, and while civilization is going on at a pretty good pace, we're not up to the demon of electricity yet." "what shall i do!" groaned the apparition, wringing his hands miserably; "oh, what shall i do!" "go home and lie down," replied rob, sympathetically. "take it easy and don't get rattled. nothing was ever created without a use, they say; so your turn will come some day, sure! i'm sorry for you, old fellow, but it's all your own fault." "you are right!" exclaimed the demon, striding up and down the room, and causing thereby such a crackling of electricity in the air that rob's hair became rigid enough to stand on end. "you are right, and i must wait--wait--wait--patiently and silently--until my bonds are loosed by intelligence rather than chance! it is a dreary fate. but i must wait--i must wait--i must wait!" "i'm glad you've come to your senses," remarked rob, drily. "so, if you've nothing more to say--" "no! i have nothing more to say. there _is_ nothing more to say. you and i are two. we should never have met!" retorted the demon, showing great excitement. "oh, i didn't seek your acquaintance," said rob. "but i've tried to treat you decently, and i've no fault to find with you except that you forgot you were a slave and tried to be a master." the demon did not reply. he was busily forcing the various electrical devices that rob had relinquished into the pockets of his fiery jacket. finally he turned with an abrupt movement. "good-by!" he cried. "when mortal eyes next behold me they will be those of one fit to command my services! as for you, your days will be passed in obscurity and your name be unknown to fame. good-by,--forever!" the room filled with a flash of white light so like a sheet of lightning that the boy went reeling backwards, half stunned and blinded by its dazzling intensity. when he recovered himself the demon of electricity had disappeared. * * * * * rob's heart was very light as he left the workshop and made his way down the attic stairs. "some people might think i was a fool to give up those electrical inventions," he reflected; "but i'm one of those persons who know when they've had enough. it strikes me the fool is the fellow who can't learn a lesson. i've learned mine, all right. it's no fun being a century ahead of the times!" [illustration] transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected. otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. [transcriber's note: bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.] our little eskimo cousin the little cousin series _illustrated_ [illustration] by mary hazelton wade =our little japanese cousin= =our little brown cousin= =our little indian cousin= =our little russian cousin= =our little african cousin= =our little cuban cousin= =our little hawaiian cousin= =our little eskimo cousin= =our little philippine cousin= =our little porto rican cousin= =our little swiss cousin= =our little norwegian cousin= =our little siamese cousin= =our little italian cousin= =our little irish cousin= =our little turkish cousin= =our little german cousin= =our little jewish cousin= by isaac taylor headland =our little chinese cousin= by elizabeth roberts macdonald =our little canadian cousin= [illustration] each volume illustrated with six full-page plates in tint, from drawings by l. j. bridgman. cloth, mo, with decorative cover, per volume, cents. [illustration] l. c. page & company new england building, boston, mass. [illustration: etu] our little eskimo cousin by mary hazelton wade _illustrated by_ l. j. bridgman [illustration] boston l. c. page & company _mdccccii_ _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) _all rights reserved_ published, june colonial press electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u. s. a. preface it is a very wonderful thing, when we stop to think of it, that no matter where we are placed in this great round world of ours, it seems just right to us. far away in the frozen north, where the lovely aurora borealis dances in the sky, where the long sunless winter night stretches halfway across the year, live a people who cannot keep themselves alive without working very hard. yet they are happy and fun-loving. they _make_ pleasures for themselves. they are patient and joyous in the midst of darkness and storm. they do not think of complaining at their hard lot, or that they do not live where nature is kinder and more generous. we call them eskimos. they belong to another race than ours,--a different branch of the great human family. they are yellow and we are white, to be sure. but we know that, no matter how far away any race of people lives, and no matter how different these people may be from us in looks and habits, they and we belong to the same great family. it includes every race and every colour, for we are the children of one father. what a pleasure it is, therefore, to travel from place to place and see more of the life of others! but suppose we cannot journey with our bodies; we need not stay at home on that account. let us use the wings of the mind, and without trouble or expense visit the hot lands and the cold, the yellow children and the red. let us know them and learn what they can teach us. contents chapter page i. baby days ii. mother and child iii. play-days iv. dog team and sledge v. kayak and harpoon vi. the seal hunt vii. feast and fun viii. hard times ix. an eskimo christmas x. summer travels list of illustrations page etu _frontispiece_ "he who hits the greatest number wins the game" "etu had become quite skilful" "whizz! sounds the harpoon as it speeds from etu's shoulder" "etu stopped moving and lay quite still" "the blocks of snow were handed to them" our little eskimo cousin chapter i. baby days. a pair of very bright black eyes peered out from the mother's hood that winter morning. the thermometer, if there had been one, would have shown the temperature to be seventy degrees below the freezing point. yet baby etu did not seem to care. he was nestled so warmly in the heavy furs, and felt so safe on his mother's broad back, that he laughed and crowed in pure delight. it was his first ride since he was born, and there was so much to look at! at least he thought so, though great sheets of snow stretched outward to the frozen ocean, and covered the land in every direction. the twinkling stars gave the only light for etu to see by, yet it was daytime. it was that part of the twenty-four hours when the baby's people did their work; and that must be called day in etu's far northern country, even though darkness covers all the land. for etu lives in the frozen zone, on the shores of northern alaska, and during the long winter of eight months the sun shows his face very little above the horizon. here and there the snow looked as if it had been raised into low mounds. near these mounds holes could be seen in the ground, and pathways dug out between them. there were no trees, no fences, no roads. where was the village, and where was the baby's home? those holes marked the entrances to the winter houses built by etu's father and his neighbours. the mounds were the coverings of the houses. great pits had been dug in the earth, and lined with driftwood which had floated on to the shore. jaws of whales made the framework of the roofs, these being covered with sods cut out of the marshy plains in summer. mother nature did the rest by protecting all with a warm close blanket of snow. at first it makes one shudder to think of living in such homes during the long arctic winter. but the eskimos are satisfied, and feel so comfortable that they remove a great part of their clothing while they are indoors. the houses are made so snug that the sharpest winds cannot enter, and they cost nothing but the labour of making them. etu's mother allowed him to stay out only a few minutes this first time. she soon turned toward home, and coming to her own doorway crawled down through a long slanting tunnel in the ground, eight or ten feet long. when she reached the end, she was obliged to stoop even lower, for now she must pass upwards through another passage. lifting a trap-door, she stepped at once into the middle of her own home. why was there such a queer entrance? because the wind must be kept out at all hazards. after all, it seemed easy and natural enough to this woman who had never known other and pleasanter hallways. how close it seemed after the fresh cold air outdoors! there was a strong odour of smoking oil. it was noisy, too, as other women and children were moving around inside, for the house was shared in common by several families who were friendly to each other, and enjoyed living together. etu's mother quickly took off her outer coat of sealskin, and, lifting her baby out of his warm nest, placed him on a platform which stretched along one side of the room. what a round, smiling dumpling he was! his face was broad and flat, while his little nose looked as though it had been punched inwards. his bright eyes were quite narrow. he wore a curious skin cap drawn tightly over the top of his head. he must keep this on night and day for a year, at least. it would make his forehead taper upward, and that is a mark of beauty among his people. as soon as he was born, the top of his head was pressed between his nurse's hands, and the cap fitted on at once so that his head might grow in the proper shape. after that operation he was taken outdoors, and rolled in the snow. i suppose that was to get him used to the cold climate of his birthplace. don't you? baby etu's skin was much whiter than his mother's,--very nearly as white, in fact, as your own little brother's. why has he changed so much since he has grown to be a big boy? listen to the strange reason. when our eskimo cousin was born, there was a small dark spot on his back. day by day it grew larger; the change came very slowly, so slowly it could scarcely be noticed. but at last the darker colour had spread over the boy's whole body, till his skin was nearly like that of his father and mother. in course of time it would grow darker still, because he did not wash himself. please don't be shocked. it is _so_ hard to get water in that frozen land. snow must first be melted, and to do this heat is required. heating requires the burning of oil, and oil is very precious. it is scarcely any wonder, therefore, that etu has not been taught to be cleanly in all ways. the smoky air of the home during the long winter months also made the boy's skin grow darker. sometimes during his babyhood his mother would wash him as a mother cat washes her kittens, but that was all he has ever known of the delights of a bath. the mother-love made that pleasant, perhaps, but we cannot envy him. it was quite surprising to an arctic explorer some years ago, when he discovered the difference soap and warm water would make in an eskimo's appearance. "why, you are almost a white man," he exclaimed, "your friends will think you have been changed into another being by some magical spell." and he laughed heartily when he thought of the only magic being soap and water. etu tumbled about on the sealskins which covered the platform, watching his mother while she trimmed the wick of the lamp. what an odd-looking lamp it was! it was made of a crescent-shaped stone hollowed out. think of the labour of making it! it must have taken days, and even weeks, before the cavity was hollowed enough to hold the oil. but etu's people are such patient workers they do not worry over the time they spend. moss was built up around the sides of the lamp; it served for the wick which spluttered away as the oil burned and warmed the room. a lump of seal fat, or blubber as it is called, hung over the lamp. as it melted slowly in the heat, it dripped down into the cavity and furnished a steady supply of oil. there were two other lamps burning in etu's home, for you must remember there was a very large family living here. and these queer lamps not only gave light and warmth to all these people, but the cooking must also be done over them. etu watched the light with blinking eyes for a few moments, and then fell fast asleep. only think of it, he was nearly naked! there was no covering on his tiny body except a short skirt of fur,--his arms and legs were quite bare, yet his loving mother did not hurry to cover him over. he must get used to cold while he was still small, so that when he grew older he could bear exposure better. chapter ii. mother and child. the mother was proud that this first baby was a boy. she liked to dream of what a great hunter he would become. in a few years he would do his part to keep the wolf from the door, in more senses than one. he would bring home the seal, the walrus, now growing so scarce, the grim white bear, and make many a feast for his people. oh, no, girls could never do such things as these! she was a happy woman, indeed. this eskimo mother had a pleasant, sunny face, even though the chin was tattooed with three long lines from the mouth downwards. she firmly believed that it would be looked upon as a sign of goodness, when she reached the next world. it might help in bringing her to heaven. the work was done by her own hands and must have been quite painful. the sinew of a reindeer furnished the thread which she blackened with soot. fastening it in her bone needle, she drew it under and through the skin till the lines were plainly marked. they would stay that way as long as she lived. she bustled about at her work without fuss or hurry. more than once the children playing in the room got in her way, but she did not scold nor even look cross. now and then a hungry-looking dog poked his head up through the doorway, only to be chased out of sight again when discovered. as she worked she joined in the laughter and talk of the women. hark! the sound of many feet could be heard, and the women and children stopped their chatter to welcome the men of the household, who had been away on a bear hunt for many hours. "what luck? what luck?" all said at once, but there was no story of brave fighting to tell this night; the long march over the icy plains had met with no reward. but there was no danger of starving at present, for great dishes of smoking seal soup stood ready for the hunters. in a few minutes all the household were squatting on the floor around the bowls. they ate the delicious supper to their hearts' content; and how they did eat! it seemed as though their stomachs must be made of elastic, for otherwise how were they able to stow away such immense quantities of the rich, fatty food? with etu's people it is either a feast or a famine all the time. they have no regular time to eat, no such thing as breakfast, dinner, and supper. if there is a good supply of food on hand, they will keep on eating hour after hour in a way to fill other people with wonder. but if there is nothing in the larder they are able to go several days without eating; yet they seem to keep well and strong. all were satisfied at last, and baby etu waked up in time to be held and petted for a while before bedtime. his mother did not have any dishes to wash, but before she could settle herself for the night she had to arrange a net over the seal-oil lamp, and spread her husband's wet clothing in it to dry. she must rouse herself during the night to watch and turn it from time to time, for that is a woman's work, she has been taught. but where were all these people going to stow themselves for sleeping? there was no sign of a bed in the whole house. that question was easily settled, for a portion of the platform was set aside for each family. they arranged their fur rugs upon it, and crept in side by side. then, taking off all their clothing, they buried themselves under the warm covers. first in order lay the father of a family, next came the mother, and close to her the youngest child was always nestled. baby etu slept, warm and safe, that night and many afterward. not once during the long winter did he cry from colic. as soon as he was able to sit up alone his mother gave him lessons in what he needed most,--strength of body, and ease in moving every muscle. she would sit on the floor or platform and stretch out her legs in front of her. then she would brace etu against her feet, and, holding his hands, would bend his arms in every possible direction. now they must be stretched upwards, now to the right, the left, behind him, and so on. this would make him agile in hunting. as soon as the baby could walk he began to have other exercises for his legs, for he must make a good runner and dancer, also. as soon as etu began to take more notice of those around him, he received many presents of toys. there were animals carved out of ivory,--tiny whales and walruses, baby seals and reindeer. he could not break them easily. they were fine things to press against his aching gums when the first teeth pushed themselves into sight. if he had been a girl he would have had an ivory doll, with a little dress of mouse skin, but, of course, a boy would not care for such a plaything. it was not to be thought of. soon the time came for his first suit of clothes, and, oh, how many days of patient work his mamma spent on those little garments! in the first place, there must be some long stockings of reindeer skin, so made that the hairy side lay next his body. after that came socks of the skin taken from eider-ducks. and outside of all he must wear stout boots of sealskin with soles of thick whale hide. he must draw these up to his hips over his two pairs of deerskin trousers, just as his father and mother themselves did. his jacket was made of reindeer skin, with a warm hood fastened to it to draw over his head while outdoors in the searching winds. it had no buttons either before or behind, but fitted quite loosely. some one asks: "how did he get into this garment, since there were no openings except for the neck and sleeves?" he slipped it down over his head, as american boys put on their jerseys. the skin had been tanned and stretched and softened so beautifully by his mother that it was quite easy to do this. the baby's jacket was shaped round exactly like his father's, while his mother's had a long pointed tail both in front and behind. besides this difference, her own jacket is always trimmed with a fringe of coloured beads bought of the traders. this fringe reaches around the neck, and also around both of the tails. it is very beautiful, her neighbours all declare. it seems quite wonderful to us that etu's boots could be perfectly water-tight, although they were home-made. this eskimo mother is such a fine seamstress with her coarse needle and thread, that a drop of water cannot enter the skin boots after her work is done. when his first suit was entirely finished, and etu was dressed, he was ready for the coldest weather. as soon as he could walk easily, he had no more need to ride in the warm hood on his mother's back. there were times before this, however, when he cried with the cold even in that snug place, and his mother had been obliged to stop in her walk, loosen her jacket, and slip the baby inside of all her clothing next to her own warm body. after that the crying would stop, and etu would coo softly as the two went on their way. how many things had to be done before the baby's suit was finished! in the first place, his papa must kill the animals which furnished the warm skins. but when that was done, _his_ work was over. it was his wife's turn now. she removed the skins from the dead reindeer and seal, and stretched them out to dry, with the hairy side toward the earth. after a few days they were ready for her to begin the hardest part of the task. they must be scraped with a sharp knife until every atom of flesh should be removed, as well as the inner tough skin. now they were flexible enough for all the clothing except the stockings, and these must be very soft indeed for the tender baby feet. a piece of the skin of a baby deer was chosen by the careful mother, who next proceeded to chew it, inch by inch. her teeth were beautifully white and sharp, but the work was done so carefully that no hole, nor even mark, could be seen in the skin when it was finished. she was ready now to cut out the various garments with her odd scissors,--but, after all, it is wrong to call the queer knife she uses by the name of scissors. she speaks of it as an "oodlo," and it is useful in so many ways, she really could not keep house without it. it is shaped much like your mother's meat-chopper. it is made of bone edged with iron, and when etu's mother cuts with it, she moves it away from her in a way which looks very awkward to us. it not only takes the place of scissors, but is the hatchet, the knife, and also scraper with which the flesh is removed from the skins. chapter iii. play-days. month after month passed by with baby etu. the little round ball grew into a sturdy boy, who delighted in rough plays outdoors, as well as many indoor games, when the storms raged too greatly for him to leave the house. his mother never refused him anything possible to get. he was never scolded or punished, so it is no wonder he grew up kind and honest and truthful. and laugh? why, you can't imagine how many things there are for eskimo children to laugh about. in that cold and dreary land one would expect to see long faces, and hear people constantly groaning and complaining; but, instead of that, these people of the far north may be said to be ever "on the grin," as travellers there have often expressed it. and etu was like the rest of his people. he was always finding some new source of fun and pleasure. when he was still a tiny baby, left to amuse himself on the platform inside the house, he would watch for the dogs to appear in the passageway, and throw his ivory toys at them. then he would laugh and shake his sides as they dodged the play-things and scampered away. sometimes one of the older children would bring him a ball of snow or ice and teach him to kick it into the air again and again, without touching it with his hands, yet keeping it in motion all the time. when he grew older and braver he allowed himself to be tossed up in the air in a blanket of walrus hide. he must keep on his feet all the time, and not tumble about in the blanket. after awhile he could go almost to the roof and back again, holding himself as straight as a little soldier. [illustration: "he who hits the greatest number wins the game"] of course he slid down-hill and had any amount of sport, but the sled was generally the seat of his own deerskin trousers. he and his playmates liked to start from the top of an icy hill, and vie with each other in reaching the foot. sometimes the little fellows would double themselves up so they looked like balls of fur, then down the hill they would roll, over and over, one after another. and when they reached the bottom and jumped upon their feet, what a shouting there would be as they shook themselves and brushed off the snow! now that etu is a big boy, he plays still another game on the snowy hillsides. his father has killed a great number of reindeer, and the boy is allowed to have all the antlers he wishes. when the boys want to play the reindeer game, as we may call it, they set up the antlers in the snow, a short distance apart from each other. then they climb the hill again, and, seating themselves on their sleds, slide down past the antlers. they must steer clear of them and reach the foot without running into a single one. at least, that is the game, and the ones who do so successfully are the winners. but what kind of a sled do you think etu uses? it is simply a cake of ice; if you stop to think a moment, you can imagine how swiftly and smoothly it travels along. there is a still different game of reindeer-hunting which requires more skill. this time etu and his playfellows arm themselves with bows and arrows. as they coast rapidly past the reindeer antlers, they shoot at them and try to leave their arrows fixed in as many as possible. of course, he who hits the greatest number wins the game. this is exciting sport indeed, and etu will go home afterward ready to eat such a quantity of frozen seal blubber as to make the eyes of any one but an eskimo open wide with wonder. eskimo, i just said; but etu does not call himself by that name. he will tell you that he is one of the innuits, as his father has taught him. the word "innuit" means "people." etu's mother has told him of an old, old legend of her race, about the creation of the world. at first human beings were made white, but they were not worthy of their maker. then others were created who were the true people, or the innuits. the word eskimo means "eater of raw fish." it was given to these natives of the far north by the travellers who came among them and observed their queer ways of living and eating. "raw meat! raw fish!" they exclaimed among themselves. "these are indeed queer people who enjoy such food in a freezing climate." so it came about that they spoke of them as eskimos, and the name has clung to etu's people ever since. the boy remembers well his first candy. he had been ill, but was getting strong once more. his good patient mother wished to bring a smile to his pale face, so while he was sleeping she prepared a surprise. she took the red feet of a bird called the dovekie, and, drawing out the bones, blew into the skin until it was puffed out as full as possible. then she poured melted reindeer fat into these bright-colored pouches, and the candy-bags were finished. etu's eyes grew suddenly bright when they opened upon the surprise prepared for him. it did not take many minutes, you may well believe, for every bit of this odd candy to disappear. you may like chocolate creams and cocoanut cakes, and think them the greatest treat in the world, but in etu's opinion there is nothing better than a big lump of seal blubber or the marrow from the inside of a deer's bones. when he had his first bow and arrow, it was a very tiny one. he learned to shoot at a target inside his winter home. his mother would hang up pieces of fat meat across the room where he sat, and he would try very hard to pierce them. if he succeeded, he could have the meat to eat, so of course he tried very hard. at other times he would sit watching for a dog to push his head up through the doorway, and let fly the arrow at him. at first this seems like a very cruel sport, but the arrow was blunted and very small; it could not do much harm, even if it struck the dog, who would bound away out of sight only to appear again in a few moments. of course, etu has played ball all his life, but his ball is of a different kind from yours. it is made of sealskin. sometimes he will try with other boys to knock it about so continually that it is kept in the air for a long, long time without falling. at other times all engage in a grand game of football, but, according to their ideas, the children must on no account touch the ball with their hands. that would be a "foul play," as you boys would say. by their rules it can only be kicked. in the long winter evenings there is still more fun. in etu's big household old and young gather around the dim, smoky lamp and tell stories. there are such wonderful adventures to relate of daring deeds on sea and land. etu listens breathless to tales of the white bear surprised in his den, of long tramps after prey, when life depended on fresh supplies, and king frost was striving to seize the weakened bodies of the hunters. then there are quaint legends and fairy tales, besides stories of wondrous beings in the unseen world around. some of these beings are good, and some bad. etu does not like to hear about these last, and tries to put them out of his mind when he is travelling alone. but the evenings are not wholly given to story-telling, for the people are fond of music. they like dancing, also, for it makes them feel jolly and gay. they pass many an hour singing monotonous songs which they think very sweet, but which we would think tiresome. sometimes when etu's mother has finished her work for the day, she gathers the children of the house around her, and shows them how to make wonderful figures with strings of deer's sinews. you all know the game of cat's cradle; well, it is something like that, only very much harder. the woman fastens the string back and forth on her son's hands, then weaves it quickly in and out; before one knows it, she has shaped it into the body of a musk ox. a few more changes are made, when, behold! it is no longer a musk ox, but has become a reindeer or a seal. it requires a great deal of skill to do this, but etu can make nearly as many figures as his mother, although she has had so many years of practice. chapter iv. dog team and sledge. when he was three years old, our little northern cousin had his first and only pets. they were two little puppies left without any mother. they looked like baby wolves with their sharp, pointed noses, erect ears, and furry backs; but they were very cunning, and amused their little master all day long. when night came they crept under the heavy covers, and lay close to etu's feet while he slept, keeping him as warm and comfortable as he could possibly desire to be. but, like all other pets, these puppies _would_ grow up, and then their work in life began as well as etu's. they must be trained to draw a sledge, for they must be able to carry their young master on long journeys over the snowy plains. etu's mother made him some reins to be fastened to the dogs' necks. she placed the ends in the hands of her little boy, who sat on the platform, holding a whip. he must learn to manage the team, he must teach the dogs to obey his voice, to move to the right or the left, as he directed; in short, to understand that he was truly their master. every new birthday two more dogs were given to etu, and it became his duty to feed and train them to be in readiness when he was old enough to hunt with his father. do not imagine for a moment that this was an easy matter. no white man has ever yet, i believe, found himself able to manage a pack of eskimo dogs. each one is fastened to the sledge by a single cord, and, as they hurry onward at the sound of their master's voice, it seems as though there were the most dreadful confusion. one dog, wiser and cleverer than the rest, is always chosen as the leader; his rein is a little longer than the others. he is always the one that listens most closely to the directions given, turning his head backward from time to time to look at his master, and make sure that he is right. then onward he dashes, the other dogs following close at his heels. [illustration: "etu had become quite skilful"] etu spent some time in deciding which dog was the best out of his own pack, but when he was quite sure of vanya's strength and brightness he gave him the greatest care and attention of all. but the whip! it was far harder to learn its use than to master all his other lessons. the handle was only six inches long, while the lash was at least sixteen feet. to throw it out and then bring it back without letting it become entangled among the legs of two or three dogs was a difficult task. but to be sure of striking only the one for whom it was intended, was a far harder thing to learn. even when etu had become quite skilful, it seemed as though every time he rode away he must come home with at least one broken bone. for as the dogs gradually gained in speed, and one or another received a stroke of the whip to remind him of his duty, he would jump wildly around. perhaps he would upset two or three others in an instant. then there would be such a yelping, and such a breaking of reins would follow, it seemed impossible for etu to straighten them out again, and harder still it must have been for him to keep his seat, and not be thrown off. but the boy loves the work, and nothing pleases him more than to be sent twenty miles to a neighbouring village on an errand for his father. in the winter season, when the dogs are not working, they are sometimes allowed to stay in the passageway leading to the house. and you already know that they try again and again to make their way inside. the burning lamp gives such pleasant warmth, and the smell of the seal or reindeer meat is so tempting that they are willing to run the chance of the blows they are almost sure to get for being so daring. they are warmly clothed, however, and can bear the most terrible weather without harm coming to them. beneath the long hair a heavy soft wool grows in the winter time, and protects their bodies from the icy cold. it is etu's duty to feed all the dogs of the household. it does not take a great amount of his time, for the poor hard-working creatures have only one meal in two days! if there is danger of a famine, and provisions are scarce, they are fed but once in three days. this is during the winter, moreover, for in summer they are expected to provide for themselves, getting fish from the shallow beds of the rivers, killing birds as they alight on the shore, catching baby seals, and getting reindeer moss or lichens from the rocks. it is fun to watch etu on feeding day. he gathers the dogs around him in a wide circle, and tosses first to one, then to another, his strip of sealskin. if a dog moves from his place or jumps out of turn to receive his food, he is only rewarded by a lash of the whip, instead of the longed-for meat. so by long experience they have learned to wait patiently. these eskimo dogs must have wonderful stomachs to digest the tough food on which they live. it is simply impossible to chew the strips of skin, so they are swallowed whole. sometimes a young dog chokes over his hard work, and coughs up his precious bit, only to have it snatched away from him by one of his neighbours. we feel like pitying these dogs of the cold lands. they are deeply devoted to their masters, yet a word of kindness is rarely spoken to them. their work is hard, and their food is scant. in winter they must draw the sledges, and in summer, as their masters travel from place to place, they are laden with heavy packs which they carry cheerfully. this reminds me that when etu played "horse" in his early days, it wasn't _horse_, after all; it was _dog_, instead, for the eskimo dog is the only horse of the far north. when etu was old enough to drive a team of a dozen dogs, he had reached his tenth birthday. his father said to him then: "now, etu, you are old enough to make your own sledge. you have often helped me, but now you are able to do the work alone." our little cousin set manfully to work at once. it was so nice to think of having a sledge for his very own, and one that he had made himself, too. it was not a very hard task, once he had gathered his materials together. the jawbones of a whale were used for the framework and runners. sealskin was fitted over this framework, and a little seat made from which etu's legs hung over in front when he was driving. "but will the bone runners travel swiftly enough over the snow?" some one asks. "not unless they are properly iced," etu would answer. every time the boy starts out on a journey, he must prepare the runners afresh by squirting water upon them from his mouth. a coating of smooth ice is formed almost instantly, which will last for a short distance. then it must be renewed. soon after etu's sledge was completed, he was sent by his father to look for seal-holes along the coast. it was a bright, clear day, and, although it was fifty degrees below zero, the boy enjoyed his ride; he had no thought of cold, as there was only a slight wind blowing. he journeyed on and on, his bright eyes watching for signs of seals beneath the snow-covered ice. he did not realise how far he was from home. he was many miles away, when a strong wind suddenly arose. how it cut his cheeks and bit his nose! he knew he must turn back at once or he might be overcome. brave boy as he was, there would keep entering his mind the thought of a neighbour who was frozen while travelling in just such weather. when his sledge arrived at his own doorway, there sat the man in his seat, straight and stiff; but the reins were tightly held in dead hands. the dogs had kept on their way unharmed, while the driver gradually lost all knowledge of them, and of this world. etu put his gloved hand to his nose again and again, to make sure it was all right; it was such an easy thing for it to freeze without his knowledge. and now his hands began to grow numb, and then his feet, although he often sprang from his sledge to run with the dogs and jump in the snow. ah, that icy wind! would it never stop? the boy's eyes became blinded, and at last he thought: "it is of no use. i don't care very much, anyway. i begin to feel so queer and stupid. what does it mean?" that was the last he knew till he awoke in his own home to find his mother bending over him; she was rubbing him with balls of snow, and looking very, very anxious. how the blood tingled through his body, as it began to move freely once more! but he was safe now, and could no longer feel the terrible wind blowing against him. it was a narrow escape for etu. it was well for him that he was within a mile of the village when he lost the power to think. the dogs kept on their way, and brought him quickly to his own home. chapter v. kayak and harpoon. when etu was only nine years old he began to go out upon the ocean, fishing and shooting with his father. of course he was allowed to go on calm days only. years of practice would be needed before he could be trusted to manage his boat in winter storms, or risk his life in seal hunting. when he was eleven years old, however, he had learned to paddle very well, and, besides, he had grown to be such a big boy that his father said: "you must have a new kayak, etu; your mother will help you make it. you have outgrown the other, and it is not safe." it was one of etu's duties to watch for all the driftwood floating in toward shore. every piece is more precious to these people of the north than we can imagine. they have no money, but if they could express the value of the bits of driftwood in dollars and cents, we would be amazed. some of us, i fear, would feel like carrying a shipload of lumber to etu's people and making a fortune very easily. when our little eskimo wished to begin the making of his boat, he went first to the family treasure house. of course you can guess what was stored there. not diamonds and pearls, nor gold and silver; but simply--driftwood. etu chose with much care the pieces from which to make a stout framework for his boat. it was important that he should take light wood that had not lost its strength by drifting about in the water too long. he cut the strips with a bone knife and bound them into shape with strong cords of seal sinew. the ends of the boat were sharply pointed. his mother's work began now. she took the skins of seals which her husband had just killed and scraped away all the scraps of blubber and flesh left on the hides. then, rolling them tightly together, she left them for some days. when they were again unrolled, it was quite easy to scrape off the hairs with a mussel shell. after this, the skins were well washed in sea water. a very important step must be taken next. the skins must be stretched. etu's first boat must be a fine one and there must be no wrinkles in the covering. the safest way was to stretch them over the framework of the boat itself. then they would be sure to fit well. an eskimo woman feels very much ashamed if any part of the boat's covering is loose or wrinkled. people will think she is a poor worker, and that would be a sad disgrace. how did etu's mother manage to make the boat water-tight? it was done through her careful sewing. she worked with her coarse bone needle, and the sinews of seal and deer were the only thread; yet when the kayak was finished, not a single drop of water could enter. it was a clever piece of work. where was etu to sit in this wonderful boat? the deck was entirely covered excepting the small hole in the centre. the boy had measured this hole with great care when he made the framework of the kayak. it was just large enough for him to squeeze through. his feet and legs must be underneath the deck, and his thighs should fill up the hole exactly. now you understand why the boy's father spoke of his outgrowing the old boat. do you also see why there was no larger hole? think for a moment of the waters through which he must ride. our rough seas would seem calm to etu. if the deck were not covered, the dashing waves would swamp his boat almost instantly. his people had found this out for themselves; so they cleverly planned a boat different from that of any other in the world. etu made a stout paddle with two blades. it is a pleasure for his mother and her friends to watch him use it. he is very skilful, and now, at twelve years of age, he can make the kayak skim over the water like the wind. how straight he always sits! he balances the boat exactly and first bends the right blade into the water, then the left, without seeming to work hard, either. and in some wonderful way, one can hardly understand how, he speeds onward. no wonder it is such a pleasure to watch him. etu is very proud of his paddle; not because he made it, but because of the time his mother spent in decorating it. it is inlaid with bits of stone and ivory set in a pretty pattern. surely, his mother is a fine worker. she has just made him a present of a new pair of gloves. they are to be worn while he is out in his boat, and reach above his elbows. they will protect his arms and keep them dry, even if the waves sweep clear over him. but they are not like common gloves, for they are embroidered in a fine pattern. she cut out bits of hide and dyed them different colours. then she sewed them together in a neat design on the arm pieces of the gloves. shouldn't you call that embroidery? while etu's boat was being made, his mother had a party. perhaps it would be better to call it a "sewing-bee." etu was sent around to the different women in the village. he told them his mother was ready to sew the covering on his boat. would they like to help her? now there is nothing eskimo women like better than to come together for a friendly chat. so the invitation was accepted, and one morning, bright and early, a party of women could be seen gathered around the sealskins. their fingers worked swiftly, but i fear their tongues moved still faster. there was a great deal of laughter, for they seemed to have many funny stories to tell. and i don't believe there was a bit of unkind gossip; at least, their faces didn't show it. it was amusing to see how much their teeth were used. they were like another hand to these eskimo women, for, as they sewed, they held the piece of skin in its place with their teeth. when the covering must be stretched over this hard place or that edge, it was the teeth again that gave the needed help. etu knows one old woman whose teeth are worn almost down to the gums. she must have worked very hard all the years of her life. she must have sewed on many boat-coverings and made many suits of clothes before this could have been done. when etu's kayak was finished, his mother invited the workers up to the house, where they were treated to a dish of seal-blood soup and a pipe of tobacco. it was a grand surprise. in the first place, the heated blood of the seal is always a dainty; and then, they seldom had the privilege of smoking tobacco. it was a great rarity, for it could only be obtained through trade with the white people. when night came, all were in great good humour as they left for their own homes. but, as they stepped outdoors, what a beautiful sight met their eyes! the northern lights were shooting across the heavens in glorious colours. have you never noticed on cold winter nights lines of light shooting upward into the sky? it is always in the north that we see them, and we wonder and exclaim as we look. your mother tells you, "it is the _aurora borealis_." it is not fully known what causes the strange light. it is thought, however, to be electricity. in etu's land the aurora is far more wonderful and beautiful than with us. the visitors were used to such sights, yet they called to the boy and his mother to come outdoors and look. "the lights are brighter than i ever saw them in my life," exclaimed one of the women. at first it seemed as though there were a great cloud of light just above the horizon, but it suddenly changed till the heavens appeared to be alive. the very air around the people quivered, as long, bright lines shot upward across the sky. they changed so quickly, it seemed as though a mighty power was directing them about, now here, now there. it made one dizzy to watch them. now there would be streamers of green and red and blue darting from the sky-line way to the very zenith. there they would meet in a purplish crown of glory. again the sky would change in its appearance, and a red light would spread over all. it was so bright that the snow in every direction was tinted a rosy colour. "what makes it, mother?" whispered etu. "is it the work of good spirits, or are evil ones trying to show us their power?" "i do not know, my child," was the answer. "we are not wise, and cannot understand these things. come, let us go back into the house. the sight makes me fearful." etu had many finishing touches to put on his boat after it was covered. a wooden hoop must be fitted around the hole in which he was to sit. several thongs of seal hide must be fastened on the deck, under which his spear and harpoon should rest while he paddled. still other straps were bound to the sides of the deck, for, unless the birds or seals could be fastened to the boat in some way after they had been killed, how could they be towed home? then etu began to work on his harpoon. his father had to help him now, for it needed skill and care to fit it exactly to the throwing-stick. the eskimos long ago found that the bow and arrow were not useful in their narrow, dangerous boats. only a one-handed weapon can be used in such a place, so they invented the harpoon and the bird dart. the harpoon is a long piece of wood pointed with bone or iron. it is fastened into a handle of wood called a throwing-stick. a cord of seal hide is attached to it at the other end. you should see our stout little etu riding the waves in his kayak, and balancing the throwing-stick on his shoulder to send the harpoon flying straight to the mark. but suppose the harpoon lodges fast in the seal's body; if the hunter still holds the other end of the cord attached to it, the creature in his fury may make such plunges as to drag the boat and all down under the water and destroy them. something else must be invented. this was the buoy or float. so it was that etu had to make a buoy to complete his hunting outfit. he took the skin of a young seal, from which his mother had scraped off all the hairs, and tied up the holes made by the head and legs. through a small tube fastened in the skin he could blow up his queerly shaped buoy to its fullest size. now the float was completed. do you understand what help it would give? if the float is attached to the other end of the line when the harpoon is thrown, the hunter can let everything go. he does not need to have any part fastened to the boat. for the float cannot sink, and will show him where to follow the game, and where to throw next; yet he is himself in no danger of being pulled after the animal. even now etu would not be safe to go hunting in rough waters. he must have a special coat prepared. this, again, was his mother's work. the skin of the seal was used after all the hair was removed. the jacket was made to fit closely over his other garments. it had a hood to be drawn tightly over his head, long sleeves, and drawing-strings around the neck and lower edge. when etu gets into his boat he must fit his jacket around the hoop of the sitting-hole, and draw the cord tightly. and now he seems a part of the boat itself. no water can enter, and although the waves may dash completely over him he will keep dry, and the boat will not sink. no boy could be happier than etu was when his outfit was complete. he ran to meet his father to tell him the joyful news. now he could be looked upon as a man, no longer a child. he would hereafter be allowed to take part in the dangers of his father's life. he was very glad. this happy, good-natured boy, who disliked to say a cross word to any one, who would not fight with other boys, was certainly no coward. for his heart was set upon war,--not war with his fellows, but war with the winds and waves, and the powerful creatures of sea and land. he was ready for battle. time would show that courage was not wanting when he came face to face with danger. chapter vi. the seal hunt. it was about this time that etu's father bored holes in his son's lips. these holes were made at each end of the mouth. ivory buttons were fitted into them, and now etu felt that he was more of a man than ever before. it was a proud moment when he looked in the bit of mirror his father had bought for ten seal hides, and gazed on his queer ornaments. he thought they were very beautiful, and then they fitted so well! the pain of having the holes bored, and the unpleasant feeling before the flesh healed, were of little matter to him. it was not worth thinking about. it was a terrible winter, and food was scarce. there was a very small supply of meat on hand in the village. the first pleasant morning after etu's fishing outfit was finished, he started off for a day's hunt on the ocean. very early in the morning he and his father went out on the rocks to look for the weather signs. yes, it would be a clear day; it would be safe to venture on the waves. the other men of the village were already out, and soon all were busy launching their boats. no breakfast was eaten; they could work better and shoot straighter if they waited to eat until they came back. each one of the party carefully arranged his harpoon, spear, and float on the deck of his boat; then, shoving it into the icy water, sprang in after it and quickly fitted himself into the small seat. the sea jacket must be drawn carefully around the hoop, for, if water should enter, the boat would soon sink. as the hunters paddled merrily along, the waves kept dashing over the decks. but the men sang and shouted gaily to each other as though it were the finest sport in the world. yet it was a lonely scene about them; we should even call it fearful. cakes of ice jostled against the boats here and there, and far out in the dim light a floating field of ice could be seen by the watchful eskimos. sometimes they hunted for the seals on such fields, for these creatures often gather in herds on the ice to bask in the sun and to sport together. but to-day they would search for them in the ocean itself. the boats skimmed onward over the waves till the land lay far behind. three hours passed before the seal ground was reached. etu paddled steadily and kept up with the men who had so much more experience than himself. as his father watched him from time to time, he thought, "my boy will be a leader for his people when i grow old and weak. i have never before seen one so young show such strength." [illustration: "whizz! sounds the harpoon as it speeds from etu's shoulder"] etu's father was held to be the best huntsman of the village, and for this very reason was looked upon as the chief. the eskimos share everything in common, but one man in a settlement is chosen as the leader. he settles the disputes and gives advice when it is needed. he directs the hunt and judges the wrong-doer. when he fails in strength it is but right that another should be chosen in his place. when the seal ground was reached at last, the men moved away from each other in different directions; the singing and shouting stopped as they rested on their paddles and watched for seals' heads to appear above the water. etu's father kept quite near him; he might be needed to help his son in case he was successful. ten minutes passed, then twenty, thirty, but the boy did not grow impatient. his bright eyes watched closely, scanning the water in all directions. at last he was rewarded, for look! there is a brown head rising into view. the seal is easily frightened, and darts out of sight when he sees the boy in the boat. but etu does not move a muscle till the seal has disappeared. then he paddles rapidly toward the spot where the creature sank out of sight and once more quietly waits, but this time with harpoon in hand. seals are able to stay under water for twenty minutes at a time. they can close their nostrils whenever they choose, and they breathe very slowly at all times. but they must come to the surface after a time for fresh air. etu knows this and watches. ah! the water moves again. the prey is to be seen and is but a short distance away. whizz! sounds the harpoon as it speeds from etu's shoulder and goes straight to the mark. quick as a flash the float is thrown from the boat, and the coil of rope fastened to it runs out as the seal drags it along. he throws himself about in agony, but cannot free himself from the cruel harpoon lodged in his side. the water is stained with blood. now the float can be seen on the surface of the waves, now it is dragged below as the seal dives out of sight; but etu does not worry. he must paddle far enough away from the seal, however, to keep out of danger. for although it is usually a timid and gentle creature, yet, when it is attacked, it grows daring and dangerous. etu knows of several hunters whose boats have been ripped open by seals; they would have been killed by their angry foes if their comrades had not come to their rescue. the boy has listened to stories of such narrow escapes ever since he was old enough to understand these things. so he is very quick and watchful. he does not notice that his father has drawn quite close, and sits, spear in hand, ready to end the seal's life if his son should fail. and now the wounded animal appears again directly in front of the boat. a good chance must not be lost, and etu, seizing his spear, drives it straight through one of the flippers. it pierces the seal's lungs, and after a few gasps the beautiful soft eyes close in death. "well done, my boy," shouted his father. "you have won the first prize of the day. you shall treat our friends." now it is a custom among these people of the cold lands that when a seal is killed the successful hunter at once cuts away a portion of blubber, and divides it among the rest of the party. etu, therefore, pulled the dead seal close to his boat, drew out the spear and harpoon, and coiled the cord attached to it. after putting these in their proper places on the deck of the kayak, he cut away the blubber, and proudly distributed the treat among the men, who by this time had drawn near. it was at least noontime, and was the first food tasted that day. every one praised the boy's skill, and then all drew off once more to their different stations. before the afternoon was over, etu's father had secured two seals, and two more were killed by others of the party. it had been a most successful hunt, although several accidents had occurred. one of the seals captured by etu's father had succeeded in tearing the float into shreds before he was finally killed. another of the hunters was overturned and almost drowned. this was because the cord attached to the harpoon had caught in a strap on the deck as it was running out. the wounded seal dragged him along as it plunged, before he had a chance to free his boat. over they went, man and boat, and only the keel of the kayak could be seen. the seal, too, was out of sight. did it see the man? was it attacking him below the surface of the water? three of the man's companions paddled rapidly toward the overturned boat. one of them reached his arm down under the water and, giving a skilful jerk to the man's arm, brought him up suddenly on even keel. another of the party cut the cord with his spear. still a third found the paddle, of which he had lost hold, and gave it into his hands. then all started off in pursuit of the seal as though nothing had happened. you must ask etu to tell you more of the wonderful doings of that first ocean hunt. he will never forget even the smallest thing which happened on that day. it was near night when the party started homeward, and three good hours of paddling were before them. at length, however, the shore came into view. nearer and nearer it looked to the tired workers. and yes! there were the women waiting and watching, ready for the good news. etu was not the first to land, for you remember he had a seal in tow, and those who are so burdened cannot travel as quickly over the water as others who have no extra weight. he travelled homeward beside his father's still more heavily laden boat; while both the man and his son pictured the mother's delight at etu's success. as the boats landed, one by one, the men jumped out, and started for home with their weapons. the women would draw up the boats into safe places. they would also dispose of the seals. the men's work was done, and nothing was left for them now except to sit around the oil lamp, eat, and tell stories of the day's adventures. this very night there would be a seal feast at etu's home, and hours would be given up to eating and making merry. chapter vii. feast and fun. it did not take long for the hunters to exchange their wet clothing for dry garments. then with their wives and children they gathered in the home of their chief. "how could the feast be prepared so quickly?" we ask in surprise. if we could have been there we should not have wondered very long. the people squatted on the floor in a circle. etu and his father stood in their midst with big knives, ready to cut up the seals lying before them. hungry as they were, they must not eat yet. something important must be done first. the eskimos have many strange beliefs. they think there is a spirit in everything,--the rock, the snow, the wind, the very air has its spirit. the seal, therefore, has its spirit, too, and must be treated respectfully. etu's father solemnly sprinkled water on the body, while every one watched him in silence. it was an offering to the animal's spirit. he next carefully cut away the skin and showed the thick layer of blubber beneath. the eyes of the company sparkled with delight. many funny faces were made as each in turn received a huge chunk of raw blubber. please don't shudder at the thought of eating it. white travellers among the eskimos tell us it is really very good, and tastes much like fresh cream. it is only after it has been kept for a long time that it begins to taste rancid and fishy. after the blubber had been divided among the company, the bodies of the two seals were opened, and the blood scooped out. it seemed truly delicious to the hungry visitors. the last course of the feast consisted of the seal's ribs, which were picked until nothing was left save the bones. how the people did eat! how they enjoyed the dainties served to them! there were many stories told by those who could stop long enough to talk. etu was asked, over and over again, to describe how he killed his first seal. and each time the movements of his face, as well as his arms and hands, seemed to express as much as the words themselves. at this strange feast, for which no cooking was needed, the women were not served first, as in our own land. it was the men who were first thought of, and who received the choicest pieces. but etu did not forget his mother, and looked out to see that she was well served. when the feast was over at last, all joined in a song. there were only a few notes, and these were repeated over and over again; but the party must have enjoyed it, or they would not have sung it so many times. at last the moon shone down upon them, and etu's mother hastened to draw the sealskin curtain. for her people dread the power of the moon, and do not willingly sit in its light. it is a wonderful being, and etu has been taught that it brings the cold weather to his people. how is this possible? why, as it dwells afar off in the sky, it whittles the tusk of a walrus. in some wonderful way the shavings are changed into the snow which falls in great sheets over the earth. by this time the party began to think of going home. they must prepare for another "sleep," they said, and the people of the house were soon left to themselves. etu does not count time as we do. he speaks of a "moon" ago, instead of a month. yesterday is the period before the last "sleep," and the years are counted by the winters. a fresh notch is cut in the wall of his winter home when the family leave it for their summer's travels. that is the only way his people have to keep account of the passing time. they do not write or read, except as they are taught by their white visitors, and etu has never seen a book in his life. the boy's father has shown him how to make good maps of the coast. they are very neat, and are measured so exactly that every island and point of land are correctly marked for many miles. they are drawn with the burnt ends of sticks on smooth pieces of driftwood, but if you ever visit etu, you can trust to them in exploring the country. on the day after the feast the other seals were divided evenly among all the people in the village. the successful hunters did not once dream of keeping them for their own families. what! have a fine dinner yourself, while others around you go hungry! it was not to be thought of. all must share alike. chapter viii. hard times. time passed by. the weather was terribly cold, even for these people. the hunters went out on the ocean whenever it was safe to venture, but the seals and walruses were very scarce. they had probably gone in search of warmer waters. at this very time their winter stores were all stolen. whenever there is an extra supply on hand, it is hidden in a deep hole underground, so that neither wild animals nor dogs can reach it. such a place for stores is called a _caché_ by our western hunters and trappers. one night etu was wakened by a great noise outside. in a moment the whole household was aroused. they heard the dogs howling and rushing around. there was certainly a fight of some kind. etu and his father were dressed in a moment, as well as two other men who shared the home. "wolves! it is a pack of wolves," cried the women. "don't go out and leave us; it is not safe." but the men only seized their spears and moved as quickly as possible down the passageway. they must go to the aid of the dogs, who had been left outdoors for the night. they also thought of their precious stores. the wolves had probably scented the place and were then attacked by the dogs. in a short time the men returned to the frightened household. they were all safe. the wolves had fled, but the harm had already been done. not a scrap of the precious stores remained. the dogs had finished what the wolves left behind them. it was the quarreling of the dogs themselves over the food that had wakened the people. it was plain, however, that the wolves had been there, because the dead body of one of them lay close by the storehouse. the dogs had been more than a match for them. there was nothing for etu and his people to eat that day. there was scarcely any oil in the lamps. the women and children tried to keep warm beneath the piles of furs; the men went out to search along the shore for seal holes. our brave little etu looked upon himself as a man now. so, leading his brightest dog by a cord, he started out in search of prey. the dog had a wonderfully keen scent. he would help in finding the hiding-place of a seal, if there were one to be found. you may not know what a queer home the mother seal makes for her baby. she chooses a place on the solid ice that is covered with a deep layer of snow. she scrapes away the snow and carries it down through a hole in the ice into the water below. when her work is done, she has a dome-shaped house. the floor is the icy shelf, from which there is a passageway to the water beneath. there is a tiny breathing-place in the snowy roof to which she turns when needing air. the baby seal is born in this strange home. he lies here and sleeps most of the time till he is old enough to take care of himself. his mother often visits him. she hopes his enemies will not find him. but the bear, the fox, and the eskimo dog, are watching for signs of just such hiding-places as these. their scent is keen and they discover the tiny breathing-holes when men and boys would pass them by. this is why etu took his dog along with him. perhaps you wonder why etu did not let vanya run free. he only wished him to find a seal hole; the boy would do the hunting himself. the dog, if left alone, might succeed in scaring away the old seal; and etu wished to get both the baby and its mother. the boy tramped for many hours. remember, he had no breakfast this morning, yet he went with a bright face and a stout heart. when night came, etu was still brave and cheerful, although he had met with no success. he went home and found the men just returning. they also had failed. they could expect no supper, nor fire to warm them, after the long day's tramp in the bitter cold, but they must not show sadness; they must keep up stout hearts for the sake of the women and children. after all, there was a surprise waiting for etu. his mother had used the last bit of oil in thawing a little snow to give the household some water to drink. and, besides this, there was a scrap of seal hide for each one to chew. tough as it was, it was received as though it were the greatest dainty in the world. after this meal, if it could be called one, etu crept into bed, and was soon sound asleep. morning came, and our little cousin started out once more in search of food. but he had no better success than the day before. when he got home at night there was good news awaiting him, although it did not bring any supper. his father had found a seal-hole, and had said to the other men, "i will not leave my place till i can bring food for my hungry people." they left him, and went back to the village to tell his waiting household. his good wife at once got a heavy fur robe, and sent it back to her patient husband. he could wrap it about his feet, as he sat watching in the cold. perhaps it would be only a short time before he would hear the mother seal blowing at the hole below. but, again, hours might pass before she would come back to nurse her baby. yet the man must watch and be ready to pierce the breathing-hole with his long spear at any moment,--it was his only chance of killing the mother. the long hours of the night passed; the morning, too, was gone, when, suddenly, the quick ears of the hunter heard the welcome sound. and now, a second blow! the seal's head must be close to the hole. like a flash, down went the waiting spear, and fastened itself through the nose of the seal. if it had turned a half-inch in its course, it would have failed in its work. there was a violent pull at the spear, as the seal darted down through the passage from her icy home to the water below. but the hunter had a long rope fastened to the spear, and he let it run out quickly. then, brushing away the snowy roof, he jumped down on the floor of the "igloo." with two or three strong pulls he brought up the struggling seal, and quickly ended her life. it was an easy matter to dispose of the frightened baby. what a prize he had gained! he did not think of his frost-bitten nose, nor of his empty stomach. he only pictured the joy of the waiting people when he should reach home. when the hard-earned supper was set before them, you cannot guess what was the greatest dainty of all. it was the milk inside the baby seal's stomach! it was sweet and delicate in its taste, and was much like the milk from a green cocoanut. there were many other hard times before that winter was over, but etu did his part bravely, and no one died of want. one day the boy hunted a seal bear-fashion, and was successful, too. he had learned many lessons from this wise creature, and he did not forget them. the polar bear, so strong and fierce, is also very cunning. if he discovers a dark spot far away on the ice, he seems to say to himself, "ah! there is a seal asleep. i will deceive him, and catch him for my dinner." so he creeps, or, rather, hitches along, with his fore feet curled beneath him. nearer and nearer he draws to his prey. and now the sleeping seal awakes. is there danger? but the bear at once stops moving, and makes a low, strange sound. it is different from his usual voice. the seal listens, and is charmed. he turns his head from side to side, and then is quite still once more. the bear creeps nearer now; once more the seal starts, but is again charmed by the strange sound. suddenly he is caught in those powerful claws, and the long, sharp teeth fasten themselves in his body. in a moment it is all over with the poor seal. [illustration: "etu stopped moving and lay quite still"] this is one of the lessons etu learned from ninoo, the bear. he followed his teacher well when one day he, too, saw a dark spot on the shore, quite a distance away. holding his spear beneath him, he crouched down on the snow, and jerked himself along. for some time the seal was not aroused. then, opening his eyes, he must have thought: "is that a brother seal over there? his coat is like mine." still he watched, for a seal is easily frightened. etu stopped moving and lay quite still. "no, there is no danger," thought the seal; and he closed his eyes again. once more etu began to move, and drew quite near before the seal stirred again. but now the creature seemed to question himself once more. "is it a friend, or is it one of my terrible enemies?" he was about to dart away when etu began to make a low, strange sound. you would have thought it was the bear himself, he was imitated so well. the seal seemed pleased, and did not stir again. before another five minutes the young hunter had killed his victim. he hurried homeward with the heavy burden flung over his broad shoulders. you can imagine how proud his mother felt when he appeared in the doorway of the house and showed his prize of the morning. chapter ix. an eskimo christmas. not long after this etu's people celebrated a festival. it was about christmas time, but the boy had never heard of our own great holiday. yet his own christmas always means very much to him. all the people of the village met together on a certain evening in etu's home. the medicine-man was there, and made a sort of prayer. he prayed that all might go well with the people during the coming year. this medicine-man is the priest as well as the doctor among the eskimos. after the prayer there was a feast. the hunters had done their best, and had managed to get a good supply of seal meat on hand. the next day after the feast, men, women, and children gathered together in a circle in the open air. a vessel of water had been placed in their midst. each one brought a piece of meat with him. no one spoke while it was being eaten, but each thought of his good spirit, and wished for good things. then each in turn took a drink of water from the vessel. as he did so he spoke, telling when and where he was born. when this ceremony was over, all threw presents to each other. they believed they would receive good things from the good spirits if they were generous at this time. soon after this festival came new year's. this, too, was a strange celebration. two men, one of them dressed as a woman, went from hut to hut blowing out the flame in each lamp. it must be lighted from a fresh fire. the people believe there is a new sun in the heavens at the beginning of each new year. they think they ought to picture this great change in their own homes. the year was a moon old, as etu would say, when one day he was out hunting for seal-holes with his father. they brought a pack of dogs along with them. these had just been loosened for a run when they darted off as though they had found a fresh scent. they rushed toward a great bank of snow on the side of a high rock. surely it was no seal-hole they had discovered. the small opening on the surface of the snow showed that it was the breathing-place of a polar bear. the mother bear eats vast quantities of food at the beginning of winter; then she seeks a sheltered spot at the foot of some rock, and begins her long rest. the snow falls in great drifts over her. this makes a warm, close house. does it seem as though she must die for want of air? there is no danger of this, for the breath from her great body thaws enough snow around her to form a small room. it also makes a sort of chimney through the snow, to the air above. the baby bear is born in this house of snow, and there he stays with his mother till old enough to hunt for himself. it was the home of a mother bear, then, that the dogs had discovered. they were wildly excited, for eskimo dogs are no cowards. they love a bear hunt hugely. they rushed upon the opening and quickly pushed away the snow. etu and his father stood on the watch for the mother bear and her cub to appear. they were as much excited as the dogs, but stood with spears in hand, perfectly still. look out now! for here they come. what a tiny little thing the baby bear is! it is like a little puppy. it would be easy to end its life, but etu knows that would not be safe. it would make the mother a hundred times more dangerous. the great creature looks now in one direction, now in another. it would not be hard for her to escape; but she will not leave her cub. so she rushes madly toward etu's father. the dogs jump around her, biting at her heels. she does not seem even to notice them. look at the long sharp teeth as she opens her mouth for a spring upon the man. one blow of her paws would knock him senseless. but he does not fear. he jumps to one side and dodges the blow. at the same time, he strikes at her throat with his long spear. the blood gushes forth and she staggers. however, she shakes herself together with a great effort and rises on her hind legs to strike again. the pack of dogs surround her and keep biting at her legs, but the man would not be able to escape if etu did not suddenly come up behind. he plunges his own spear far into her side. she gives one fearful groan and falls to the ground. no hunter will ever be troubled by her again. the poor little cub runs to its mother's side, giving piteous cries. but no one is left now to pity and love it, so its life is mercifully and quickly ended. the men and dogs are soon on their homeward way. they must get sledges and go back quickly for the bodies of the two bears. suppose that while they were gone another party of eskimos should come along, need they fear their prey would be stolen? the thought does not enter their heads, for such a thing has never been known to happen among their people. they are honest in all ways, and would not touch that which they believe to be another's. chapter x. summer travels. the long winter was over at last, and etu's people got ready to leave their underground homes. they would spend the first spring days farther up the coast, and closer still to the water's side; for there they could watch the seal-holes more easily. the household goods were packed on the sledges, and etu said good-bye to his winter home for four months. the men walked along, guiding the dogs, while the women and children rode in the sledges. they travelled nearly all day before they came to a place where they wished to settle. but the weather was even now bitterly cold. the snow still covered the earth, and the water along the shore was a mass of broken ice. [illustration: "the blocks of snow were handed to them"] where were these people to be sheltered when night came on? the question could be easily answered. they would build homes for themselves in an hour or two. the sheets of snow around them were quite solid, and the boys and men began to saw the snow into thick blocks. the walls and roofs of the houses should be built of these. two men stood in the centre of each cleared space: the blocks of snow were handed to them. these were laid on the ground, side by side, in a circle as large as they wished the house to be. the foundation was quickly made. then another row of snow blocks was laid above the first, but drawn in toward the centre a very little. then came a third row, and so on, till at last there was just space enough at the top for one block of snow to fill it in completely. the new house looked like a great snow beehive. but the two builders were shut up inside! one of the men on the outside cut a block of snow out of the wall of the house. this made a doorway through which people could go and come. it could be closed afterward, when the inmates desired, by filling it again with a snow door. the builders now took loose snow and sifted it into the cracks and crevices to make the house quite close and tight. after this, the floor must be trodden down smooth, and then the women could enter to set up housekeeping. a bed of snow was quickly made, over which the fur rugs were thrown. next, a stand of snow was shaped, and the lamp set up in its place. the oil was soon burning brightly, and snow was melted to furnish drinking-water. in half an hour more our cousin etu was eating supper as comfortably as he could wish. not long after, he was sound asleep on his snow bedstead, without a single dream of cold or trouble. after a few weeks of seal hunting, etu noticed that the birds were returning. there were great numbers of them,--wild ducks, geese, and sea-birds of many kinds. the ice began to disappear, and it was great sport to paddle his boat over to the islands near the shore, and shoot a bagful of birds for dinner. but sometimes he stayed in his boat, and, moving slowly along the shore, would throw his bird-dart at ducks as they flew by. his aim was straight and true, and he was almost sure to be successful. spring changed suddenly into summer, and now the snow house must be left, for etu and his people were ready to move again. besides, the walls of the house grew soft, and would soon melt away. where would etu travel next? you ask. he would answer: "not far from here there is a broad river where great numbers of salmon live during the warm weather. it is great sport catching the fish. now we can have so much rich food that we can all grow fat." once more the dogs were harnessed, and the spring camping-ground was left behind, as the eskimo party journeyed southward. when the river was reached, new homes must be made ready. but what material would be used now? there were no trees to furnish wood, for the forests were still hundreds of miles south of them, and snow at this time of the year was out of the question. but etu's people were well prepared, for they took their supply of skins, and quickly made tents out of them. it was still so cold that a double row of skins must be used to keep out the sharp winds. and now they were ready for the happiest part of the whole year. they need not fear hunger for a long time to come. plenty of fish in the river, plenty of birds in the air, birds' eggs, which the bright eyes of the boys and girls would discover; and, besides all these dainties, they would get stores of reindeer meat. "how could any one be any happier than i?" thought etu, and he smiled a broad smile, making a funny face to express his joy. in another country of the world as far north as etu lives, the laplander has herds of tame reindeer. they are driven as etu drives his dogs. they give sweet milk, too. etu has never heard of these people, but he has been told that there is a place in his own country where his kind american friends have brought some of these tame reindeer from lapland. great care is taken of them, so they will grow and get used to their new home. it will be a fine thing for etu's people to have these tame reindeer and be able to get fresh milk during the long winter, as well as tame animals that will supply them with food when they are in danger of starving. but etu busies himself now with setting traps for the wild reindeer which begin to appear in the country as summer opens. they have spent the winter in the forests far away, but as the heat of the sun begins to melt the snow, they travel toward the shores of the ocean. here the baby reindeer are born. they are tiny, weak little creatures at first; but they grow fast, and in a few days are able to take care of themselves, and get their own food. the reindeer have a wonderfully keen sense of smell. even when the ground is covered with a deep layer of snow, they seem able to tell where the lichens and mosses are living beneath it. no one has ever seen a reindeer make a mistake in this matter. when he begins to paw away the snow with his broad, stout hoofs, you may be sure he has discovered a good dinner for himself. the lichens are tender and white, and taste somewhat like wheat bran. it is no wonder the reindeer grows fat on this plentiful food. etu hunts the reindeer in several different ways. sometimes when he is out on the watch for them he hears a great clattering. it may be a long way off, and he cannot see a living thing, yet he knows what that sound means. it is the hoofs of the reindeer as they come pounding along. he lies down and keeps very still. he watches closely, however, to see if the reindeer are coming in his direction. if he finds this to be so, he keeps in the same position and waits till they have passed by him and are headed for the shore. then he jumps up suddenly, and chases them with fury. they get confused, and rush onward in disorder. on he follows till they reach the water's side, where they plunge madly in. they are good swimmers, but are so frightened that etu is easily able to secure at least one of them. sometimes our eskimo cousin goes a long way over the plains, and with his father's help digs a deep pit in the earth. they cover it over with brushwood. if a herd of reindeer should travel in this direction, some of them would fall into the pit and break their slender legs. it would be an easy matter then to come and get them. but there is another way that etu likes best of all. soon after he came to his summer home he hunted about over the country till he had chosen a spot where the reindeer were likely to come. here he built a sort of fort, or wall, out of stones. he could hide behind this wall, and watch for his game without their being able to see him. he spent many days of the summer in this place with one of his boy friends. they would sit there talking, or playing some quiet game, but their bows and arrows were always ready; and their eyes ever on the lookout for the reindeer who might come that way at any moment. many times, of course, they met with no success; but many times, too, they took a herd by surprise, and were able to carry home a goodly feast to their friends and relatives. reindeer meat is tender and sweet, the marrow and tongue being the parts best liked by etu's people. but the most delicious food etu ever puts into his mouth is the contents of a reindeer's stomach! we must not be shocked at this, though it does seem a queer thing to eat, doesn't it? the reason etu likes it so well is probably this: the food of the reindeer is moss; when it has entered his stomach it has a slightly acid taste, so it gives a relish the people cannot often get. besides, it belongs to the vegetable kingdom, and etu's people, we know, do not have the pleasure of eating corn, potatoes, and other delicious fruits of the earth, so commonly used by us that we hardly appreciate them. it was after one of these long days on the plains that etu came home feeling quite ill. his head ached; his eyes were bloodshot; his hands and face burned like fire. his loving mother was quite worried. she put her son to bed at once, and sent for the medicine-man. she got a present of deer skins ready to give him as soon as the great person should appear. after he had accepted the deer skins the doctor put on a horrible black mask; then he began to move about the tent, waving his arms from side to side, and repeating a charm. do you understand what he was trying to do? he thought a bad spirit had got hold of etu; he believed the hideous mask and the charm of certain words would drive it out. after awhile he went away, and etu was alone again with his own people. his fever lasted for several days, but at length it left him, and he grew well and strong once more. he believed the great medicine-man had healed him; but we think mother nature worked her own cure through rest in his own warm bed. the poor boy was tired out, and had caught a hard cold watching on the plains. as soon as he was strong his father said: "the trading season has come, for it is already two moons since we made our camp. we must journey southward to the great river. we shall see our friends from the western coast; they must have already started to meet us. let us get our furs, seal oil, and walrus tusks together to sell to them, for, no doubt, they will have many things to give us in exchange. we greatly need some copper kettles and tobacco. oh, yes, let us get ready as soon as possible." etu was delighted to hear these words. now would come the merriest time. he would have a long journey, and he dearly liked a change. but that was not all. he would see new people, and hear of new things; he would have a chance to trade, and that would be great sport in itself. besides all these things, he knew his people would spend at least ten days with their friends from the west; and there would be much dancing and singing and story-telling, both day and night. hurrah, then, for this summer journey! you may be sure etu did his best in packing and making ready. in another twenty-four hours there was no sign left of this eskimo village. the dogs, the sledges, and the people were all gone. nothing was left except a few articles used in housekeeping, and these were buried in an underground storehouse. if you wish to hear more about etu, and of his yearly visit south; if you care to hear about the big whale he helped to kill last winter, and of his adventure with a walrus, you must write and ask him about these things. and yet, after all, i fear he could not read the letter. you would better go and visit him. it is well worth the journey, for then you can see for yourself how a boy can be cheerful and happy and loving, even though he lives in the dreariest part of the whole world. the end. the little cousin series the most delightful and interesting accounts possible of child-life in other lands, filled with quaint sayings, doings, and adventures. each vol., mo, decorative cover, cloth, with six full-page illustrations in color by l. j. bridgman. price per volume $ . "juveniles will get a whole world of pleasure and instruction out of the little cousin series.... pleasing narratives give pictures of the little folk in the far-away lands in their duties and pleasures, showing their odd ways of playing, studying, their queer homes, clothes, and play-things...."--_detroit news-tribune._ _by mary hazelton wade_ =our little swiss cousin.= =our little norwegian cousin.= =our little italian cousin.= =our little siamese cousin.= =our little cuban cousin.= =our little hawaiian cousin.= =our little eskimo cousin.= =our little philippine cousin.= =our little porto rican cousin.= =our little african cousin.= =our little japanese cousin.= =our little brown cousin.= =our little indian cousin.= =our little russian cousin.= =our little german cousin.= =our little irish cousin.= =our little turkish cousin.= =our little jewish cousin.= _by isaac headland taylor_ =our little chinese cousin.= _by elizabeth roberts macdonald_ =our little canadian cousin.= animal tales by charles g. d. roberts illustrated by charles livingston bull as follows: =the lord of the air= (the eagle) =the king of the mamozekel= (the moose) =the watchers of the camp-fire= (the panther) =the haunter of the pine gloom= (the lynx) each vol., small mo, cloth decorative, per volume $ . realizing the great demand for the animal stories of professor roberts, one of the masters of nature writers, the publishers have selected four representative stories, to be issued separately, at a popular price. each story is illustrated by charles livingston bull, and is bound in a handsome decorative cover. the little colonel books (trade mark.) _by annie fellows johnston_ each, vol., large mo, cloth decorative, fully illustrated, per vol. $ . =the little colonel stories.= (trade mark.) illustrated. being three "little colonel" stories in the cosy corner series, "the little colonel," "two little knights of kentucky," and "the giant scissors," put into a single volume. =the little colonel's house party.= (trade mark.) illustrated by louis meynell. =the little colonel's holidays.= (trade mark.) illustrated by l. j. bridgman. =the little colonel's hero.= (trade mark.) illustrated by e. b. barry. =the little colonel at boarding school.= (trade mark.) illustrated by e. b. barry. =the little colonel in arizona.= (_in preparation._) (trade mark.) illustrated by l. j. bridgman. since the time of "little women," no juvenile heroine has been better beloved of her child readers than mrs. johnston's "little colonel." each succeeding book has been more popular than its predecessor. =joel: a boy of galilee.= by annie fellows johnston. illustrated by l. j. bridgman. new illustrated edition, uniform with the little colonel books, vol., large mo, cloth decorative $ . a story of the time of christ, which is one of the author's best-known books, and which has been translated into many languages, the last being italian. =flip's "islands of providence."= by annie fellows johnston. mo, cloth, with illustrations $ . in this book the author of "the little colonel" and her girl friends and companions shows that she is equally at home in telling a tale in which the leading character is a boy, and in describing his troubles and triumphs in a way that will enhance her reputation as a skilled and sympathetic writer of stories for children. =asa holmes=; or, at the cross-roads. a sketch of country life and country humor. by annie fellows johnston. with a frontispiece by ernest fosbery. large mo, cloth, gilt top $ . "'asa holmes; or, at the cross-roads' is the most delightful, most sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long while. the lovable, cheerful, touching incidents, the descriptions of persons and things are wonderfully true to nature."--_boston times._ =the great scoop.= by molly elliot seawell, author of "little jarvis," "laurie vane," etc. mo, cloth, with illustrations $ . a capital tale of newspaper life in a big city, and of a bright, enterprising, likable youngster employed therein. every boy with an ounce of true boyish blood in him will have the time of his life in reading how dick henshaw entered the newspaper business, and how he secured "the great scoop." =little lady marjorie.= by francis margaret fox, author of "farmer brown and the birds," etc. mo, cloth, illustrated $ . a charming story for children between the ages of ten and fifteen years, with both heart and nature interest. =the sandman=: his farm stories. by william j. hopkins. with fifty illustrations by ada clendenin williamson. one vol., large mo, decorative cover $ . "an amusing, original book, written for the benefit of children not more than six years old, is, 'the sandman: his farm stories.' it should be one of the most popular of the year's books for reading to small children."--_buffalo express._ "mothers and fathers and kind elder sisters who take the little ones to bed and rack their brains for stories will find this book a treasure."--_cleveland leader._ =the sandman=: more farm stories. by william j. hopkins, author of "the sandman: his farm stories." library mo, cloth decorative, fully illustrated, $ . mr. hopkins's first essay at bedtime stories has met with such approval that this second book of "sandman" tales has been issued for scores of eager children. life on the farm, and out-of-doors, will be portrayed in his inimitable manner, and many a little one will hail the bedtime season as one of delight. =a puritan knight errant.= by edith robinson, author of "a little puritan pioneer," "a little puritan's first christmas," "a little puritan rebel," etc. library mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $ . the charm of style and historical value of miss robinson's previous stories of child life in puritan days have brought them wide popularity. her latest and most important book appeals to a large juvenile public. the "knight errant" of this story is a little don quixote, whose trials and their ultimate outcome will prove deeply interesting to their reader. =beautiful joe's paradise=; or, the island of brotherly love. a sequel to "beautiful joe." by marshall saunders, author of "beautiful joe," "for his country," etc. with fifteen full-page plates and many decorations from drawings by charles livingston bull. one vol., library mo, cloth decorative $ . "will be immensely enjoyed by the boys and girls who read it."--_pittsburg gazette._ "miss saunders has put life, humor, action, and tenderness into her story. the book deserves to be a favorite."--_chicago record-herald._ "this book revives the spirit of 'beautiful joe' capitally. it is fairly riotous with fun, and as a whole is about as unusual as anything in the animal book line that has seen the light. it is a book for juveniles--old and young."--_philadelphia item._ ='tilda jane.= by marshall saunders, author of "beautiful joe," etc. one vol., mo, fully illustrated, cloth, decorative cover $ . "no more amusing and attractive child's story has appeared for a long time than this quaint and curious recital of the adventures of that pitiful and charming little runaway. "it is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and charm the reader, and i did not put it down until i had finished it--honest! and i am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif. "i cannot think of any better book for children than this. i commend it unreservedly."--_cyrus townsend brady._ =the story of the graveleys.= by marshall saunders, author of "beautiful joe's paradise," "'tilda jane," etc. library mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by e. b. barry $ . here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful new england family, of whose devotion and sturdiness it will do the reader good to hear. from the kindly, serene-souled grandmother to the buoyant madcap, berty, these graveleys are folk of fibre and blood--genuine human beings. phyllis' field friends series _by lenore e. mulets_ six vols., cloth decorative, illustrated by sophie schneider. sold separately, or as a set. per volume $ . per set $ . =insect stories.= =stories of little animals.= =flower stories.= =bird stories.= =tree stories.= =stories of little fishes.= in this series of six little nature books, it is the author's intention so to present to the child reader the facts about each particular flower, insect, bird, or animal, in story form, as to make delightful reading. classical legends, myths, poems, and songs are so introduced as to correlate fully with these lessons, to which the excellent illustrations are no little help. the woodranger tales _by g. waldo browne_ =the woodranger.= =the young gunbearer.= =the hero of the hills.= each, vol., large mo, cloth, decorative cover, illustrated, per volume $ . three vols., boxed, per set $ . "the woodranger tales," like the "pathfinder tales" of j. fenimore cooper, combine historical information relating to early pioneer days in america with interesting adventures in the backwoods. although the same characters are continued throughout the series, each book is complete in itself, and, while based strictly on historical facts, is an interesting and exciting tale of adventure. * * * * * =the rosamond tales.= by cuyler reynolds. with full-page illustrations from original photographs, and with a frontispiece from a drawing by maud humphreys. one vol., large mo, cloth decorative $ . these are just the bedtime stories that children always ask for, but do not always get. rosamond and rosalind are the hero and heroine of many happy adventures in town and on their grandfather's farm; and the happy listeners to their story will unconsciously absorb a vast amount of interesting knowledge of birds, animals, and flowers. the book will be a boon to tired mothers, and a delight to wide-awake children. =larry hudson's ambition.= by james otis, author of "toby tyler," etc. illustrated by eliot keen. one vol., library mo, cloth, decorative cover, $ . james otis, who has delighted the juvenile public with so many popular stories, has written the story of the rise of the bootblack larry. larry is not only capable of holding his own and coming out with flying colors in the amusing adventures wherein he befriends the family of good deacon doak; he also has the signal ability to know what he wants and to understand that hard work is necessary to win. =black beauty=: the autobiography of a horse. by anna sewell. _new illustrated edition._ with nineteen full-page drawings by winifred austin. one vol., large mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, $ . there have been many editions of this classic, but we confidently offer this one as the most appropriate and handsome yet produced. the illustrations are of special value and beauty. miss austin is a lover of horses, and has delighted in tracing with her pen the beauty and grace of the noble animal. "=yours with all my heart=:" the autobiography of a real dog. by esther m. baxendale. very fully illustrated with upwards of a hundred drawings by etheldred b. barry. large mo, cloth decorative $ . mrs. baxendale's charming story, though written primarily for children, will find a warm welcome from all those who love animals. it is a true story of a deeply loved pet and companion of the author's for thirteen years; and it cannot fail to inspire in the hearts of all the young people fortunate enough to hear it that affection and sympathy for domestic animals so essential in the moulding of character. it is delightfully human in its interest, and contains, besides the main theme of a rarely beautiful dog life, character sketches which show keen observation and that high order of talent requisite in writing for children, and exemplified in "black beauty" and "beautiful joe," of a place beside which, the publishers believe, "yours with all my heart" will be found worthy. =songs and rhymes for the little ones.= compiled by mary whitney morrison (jenny wallis). new edition, with an introduction by mrs. a. d. t. whitney, with eight illustrations. one vol., large mo, cloth decorative $ . no better description of this admirable book can be given than mrs. whitney's happy introduction: "one might almost as well offer june roses with the assurance of their sweetness, as to present this lovely little gathering of verse, which announces itself, like them, by its deliciousness. yet as mrs. morrison's charming volume has long been a delight to me, i am only too happy to link my name with its new and enriched form in this slight way, and simply declare that it is to me the most bewitching book of songs for little people that i have ever known." cosy corner series it is the intention of the publishers that this shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows. the numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. each, vol., mo, cloth $ . _by annie fellows johnston_ =the little colonel.= (trade mark.) the scene of this story is laid in kentucky. its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the little colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. this old colonel proves to be the grandfather of the child. =the giant scissors.= this is the story of joyce and of her adventures in france,--the wonderful house with the gate of the giant scissors, jules, her little playmate, sister denisa, the cruel brossard, and her dear aunt kate. joyce is a great friend of the little colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "house party" and the "holidays." =two little knights of kentucky,= who were the little colonel's neighbors. in this volume the little colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. she is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights." =cicely and other stories for girls.= the readers of mrs. johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people, written in the author's sympathetic and entertaining manner. =aunt 'liza's hero and other stories.= a collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys and most girls. =big brother.= a story of two boys. the devotion and care of steven, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale, the pathos and beauty of which has appealed to so many thousands. =ole mammy's torment.= "ole mammy's torment" has been fitly called "a classic of southern life." it relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =the story of dago.= in this story mrs. johnston relates the story of dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. =the quilt that jack built.= a pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the course of his life many years after it was accomplished. told in mrs. johnston's usual vein of quaint charm and genuine sincerity. _by edith robinson_ =a little puritan's first christmas.= a story of colonial times in boston, telling how christmas was invented by betty sewall, a typical child of the puritans, aided by her brother sam. =a little daughter of liberty.= the author's motive for this story is well indicated by a quotation from her introduction, as follows: "one ride is memorable in the early history of the american revolution, the well-known ride of paul revere. equally deserving of commendation is another ride,--untold in verse or story, its records preserved only in family papers or shadowy legend, the ride of anthony severn was no less historic in its action or memorable in its consequences." =a loyal little maid.= a delightful and interesting story of revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, betsey schuyler, renders important services to george washington. =a little puritan rebel.= like miss robinson's successful story of "a loyal little maid," this is another historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant sir harry vane was governor of massachusetts. =a little puritan pioneer.= the scene of this story is laid in the puritan settlement at charlestown. the little girl heroine adds another to the list of favorites so well known to the young people. =a little puritan bound girl.= a story of boston in puritan days, which is of great interest to youthful readers. _by ouida_ (_louise de la ramée_) =a dog of flanders=: a christmas story. too well and favorably known to require description. =the nürnberg stove.= this beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price. =a provence rose.= a story perfect in sweetness and in grace. =findelkind.= a charming story about a little swiss herdsman. _by miss mulock_ =the little lame prince.= a delightful story of a little boy who has many adventures by means of the magic gifts of his fairy godmother. =adventures of a brownie.= the story of a household elf who torments the cook and gardener, but is a constant joy and delight to the children who love and trust him. =his little mother.= miss mulock's short stories for children are a constant source of delight to them, and "his little mother," in this new and attractive dress, will be welcomed by hosts of youthful readers. =little sunshine's holiday.= an attractive story of a summer outing. "little sunshine" is another of those beautiful child-characters for which miss mulock is so justly famous. _by juliana horatia ewing_ =jackanapes.= a new edition, with new illustrations, of this exquisite and touching story, dear alike to young and old. =story of a short life.= this beautiful and pathetic story will never grow old. it is a part of the world's literature, and will never die. =a great emergency.= how a family of children prepared for a great emergency, and how they acted when the emergency came. =the trinity flower.= in this little volume are collected three of mrs. ewing's best short stories for the young people. =madam liberality.= from her cradle up madam liberality found her chief delight in giving. _by frances margaret fox_ =the little giant's neighbours.= a charming nature story of a "little giant" whose neighbours were the creatures of the field and garden. =farmer brown and the birds.= a little story which teaches children that the birds are man's best friends. =betty of old mackinaw.= a charming story of child-life, appealing especially to the little readers who like stories of "real people." =mother nature's little ones.= curious little sketches describing the early lifetime, or "childhood," of the little creatures out-of-doors. _by will allen dromgoole_ =the farrier's dog and his fellow.= this story, written by the gifted young southern woman, will appeal to all that is best in the natures of the many admirers of her graceful and piquant style. =the fortunes of the fellow.= those who read and enjoyed the pathos and charm of "the farrier's dog and his fellow" will welcome the further account of the "adventures of baydaw and the fellow" at the home of the kindly smith. =the best of friends.= this continues the experiences of the farrier's dog and his fellow, written in miss dromgoole's well-known charming style. _by frances hodges white_ =helena's wonderworld.= a delightful tale of the adventures of a little girl in the mysterious regions beneath the sea. =aunt nabby's children.= this pretty little story, touched with the simple humor of country life, tells of two children who were adopted by aunt nabby. _by marshall saunders_ =for his country.= a sweet and graceful story of a little boy who loved his country; written with that charm which has endeared miss saunders to hosts of readers. =nita, the story of an irish setter.= in this touching little book, miss saunders shows how dear to her heart are all of god's dumb creatures. * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors repaired. [illustration: elsie's cabin.] elsie's winter trip. by martha finley, author of "elsie dinsmore," "elsie's girlhood," "mildred keith," etc., etc. new york: dodd, mead & company, . copyright, , by dodd, mead & company. _first edition published october, ._ elsie's winter trip. chapter i. "lu, dear, can you give me an early breakfast to-morrow morning?" asked chester, as they made their preparations for retiring that first night in their new home. "i think so," she returned, giving him an affectionate look and smile. "how early would you like to have it?" "about seven, i think. i have told our coachman, jack, that i want the carriage at eight. he will drive me into town and then return, so that carriage and horses will be ready at a reasonably early hour for the other three owners--our brother and sister and yourself." "it was certainly very kind and thoughtful in you to give such an order," she said with a smile, "but we would much prefer to have your company in all our drives and visits." "and i should very much like to give it to you; but there is business that should have been attended to some time ago, and must not be longer delayed." "if it is, it shall not be your wife's fault," she replied. "the cook is still in the kitchen, and i will go and give my order for a seven-o'clock breakfast." "lu, dear," chester said, on her return, "it will not be at all necessary for you to rise in time for so early a breakfast, i can pour my own coffee and eat alone." "no, you can't have that privilege while i'm your wife;" she responded, with a saucy look and smile. "i intend to pour your coffee, and see that you have an appetizing breakfast and do justice to it." "your presence will make it doubly enjoyable, dearest," he returned, putting an arm about her, and giving her a look of loving admiration, "but you must not be robbed of needed rest and sleep." "thank you, my dear husband," she replied; "but i am accustomed to early rising and it agrees with me. oh, i think i shall greatly enjoy taking early breakfast with you. isn't it delightful to begin our married life in so lovely a home of our very own?" "it is, indeed! and we owe it to your good, kind, and most generous father." "he is that, most emphatically," responded lucilla. "the dearest, best, and kindest father in the world." seven o'clock the next morning found them cosily seated at a little round table in their pretty dining-room, enjoying a delicious breakfast of fresh fruits, broiled fowl, hot muffins and coffee. these, added to good health, cheerful spirits, and a fondness for each other's society, made them a happy couple. the meal was enlivened with cheerful chat. "i am sorry you have to hurry so," lucilla said, as she filled her husband's cup for the second time. "i really think you ought to have at least a little longer holiday." "i expect to take it piecemeal, nights and mornings, in the society of my wife," returned chester, with affectionate look and smile. "i was very glad to get this case," he added, "for if i succeed with it it will bring me in some thousands." "i shall be glad of that for your sake," said lucilla; "but don't work too hard. you know you are not very strong; therefore you need to take good care of yourself." "ah, my dear, be careful how you encourage me in self-indulgence," laughed chester. "i am too much inclined that way as it is." "are you?" she exclaimed with mirthful look and tone. "i really had not found it out, but thought you one of the foolishly industrious people who will even throw away health in order to get on rapidly with their work." "and i," laughed chester, "took you for a woman of such discernment that you must have found out before this what a lazy, incompetent fellow you have thrown yourself away upon." "no; with all my discernment i have yet to make that discovery. i did not marry the fellow yon describe--but a bright, talented, industrious young man. and i wont have him slandered." at that moment a servant came in with the announcement that the carriage was at the door. "ah! jack is quite punctual, and i am just ready," said chester, pushing back his chair, getting up and going round to his wife's side of the table. "i will now take away the slanderer of your bright, talented, industrious young man," he remarked in sportive tone; "you shall be relieved of his presence until perhaps five o'clock this afternoon." before he had finished, lucilla was standing by his side, her hand in his. "oh, dear! i wish you didn't have to go," she sighed. "we have been together all the time for weeks past and now i hardly know how i can do without you." "suppose you come along then. there is plenty of room in the carriage, and in the office, and i could find you something to read, or some work on the typewriter, if you prefer that." "any time that i am needed there i shall be ready to go," she returned with merry look and tone; "but to-day i have matters to attend to about the house, and perhaps father and mamma vi may want some little assistance from me in their preparations for to-night." "yes, i daresay. what a round of parties we are likely to have to go through as part of the penalty for venturing into the state of matrimony." "yes," laughed lucilla, "but i hope you think it pays." "most assuredly. but now good-bye, dearest, for some hours--when we shall have the pleasure of meeting to atone to us for the present pain of parting." lucilla followed him to the veranda, where they exchanged a parting caress, then watched as he entered the carriage and it drove swiftly through the grounds and out into the highway. her eyes were still following it when a pleasant, manly voice near at hand said "good morning mrs. dinsmore." she turned quickly and sprang down the steps to meet the speaker. "father, dear father!" she cried, springing into his outstretched arms, and putting hers about his neck, "oh, how glad i am to see you! how good in you to come! chester has just done eating his breakfast and gone off to his business, and i haven't quite finished my meal. wont you come in and eat with me?" "ah, that would hardly do, daughter," was the smiling reply. "you know i am expected to take that meal with wife and children at woodburn. but i will go in with you and we will have a chat while you finish your breakfast." "and you can take a cup of coffee and a little fruit, can't you, father?" "yes, thank you, daughter. that would hardly interfere with the woodburn breakfast. and shall we not take a little stroll about your grounds when we leave the breakfast-room?" "i should greatly enjoy doing so along with my dear father," she answered with a smiling look up into his face, as they took their places at the inviting-looking table. she poured his coffee, then they ate and chatted pleasantly the while about family matters and the entertainment to be given at woodburn that evening. "how are max and eva this morning?" the captain asked at length. "i don't know whether they are up yet or not," replied lucilla. "you know, papa, they had not the same occasion for early rising that chester and i had." "true enough and max is fully entitled to take his ease for the present. don't you think so?" "yes, indeed, papa. i am very glad the dear fellow is having a good holiday after all he has gone through. oh, i wish he had chosen some business that would allow him to stay at home with us!" "that would be pleasanter for us, but our country must have a navy and officers to command it." "yes, sir; and so it is well that some men fancy that kind of life and employment." "and no doubt max inherits the taste for a seafaring life from me and my forebears." "father," said lulu, "you will let me be your amanuensis again, will you not?" "thank you for your willingness to serve me in that, daughter," the captain returned pleasantly, "but you will find quite enough to do here in your own house, and both your mamma vi and your sister grace have taken up your work in that line--sometimes one and sometimes the other following my dictation upon the typewriter." "oh, i am glad that they can and will, for your sake, father, but i hope i shall be permitted to do a little of my old work for you once in a while." "that is altogether likely," he said. "but now as we have finished eating and drinking shall we not take our stroll about the grounds?" they did so, chatting pleasantly as was their wont; then returning to the veranda they found max and evelyn there. morning greetings were exchanged, then evelyn, saying that their breakfast was just ready, invited the captain to come in and share it. but he declined, giving the same reason as before to lucilla's invitation. "i am going home now to breakfast with wife and children," he said, "and i hope you older ones of my flock will join us a little later." "we will all be glad to do that, father," said max. "at least i can speak for myself and think i can for these two daughters of yours. woodburn is to me a dear old home where some of the happiest hours of my life have been spent." "and you can't love it much better than lu and i do," added evelyn. "no, he can't," assented lucilla. "lovely as is this sunnyside of ours, its chief attraction to me is its near neighborhood to woodburn--the home where i have passed such happy years under my father's loving care." the bright, dark eyes she lifted to his face as she spoke were full of daughterly love and reverence. "i am very glad you can look back upon them as happy years, daughter," he said, his eyes shining with pleasure and parental affection; "and that max is with you in that. i am glad, too, that you all appreciate this new home that i have taken so much pleasure in preparing for you." "we'd be the basest of ingrates, if we didn't, father dear!" exclaimed lucilla. "i for one, feel that you have done, and are doing far more for me than i deserve." "which is nothing new for our father," remarked max with a smile and look into his father's face that spoke volumes of filial regard, respect and devotion. "and i am fortunate indeed in having children so dutiful, affectionate and appreciative," returned the captain feelingly. he then took leave and went back to woodburn, lucilla accompanying him part of the way, then returning to sunnyside to give her orders for the day. that attended to, she joined max and eva upon the veranda. "the carriage is coming, lu," said eva; "are you ready for a drive? and have you decided where you wish to go?" "yes," was the reply, "i want to go over to woodburn for a bit of a chat with mamma vi about the preparations for this evening, in which i suppose you and max will join me; and then wouldn't you like to drive over to fairview for a call upon aunt elsie?" "yes, indeed! i think she and uncle are entitled to the first call from me, much as i want to see all the near and dear ones." "i perfectly agree with you in that, eva," said max. "they have filled the place of parents to you, and i for one," he added with a very loverlike smile, "am grateful to them for it." "as i am with still more reason," added evelyn. a few moments later found them on their way to woodburn. there was a glad welcome there followed by a few minutes' lively chat, principally in regard to the coming event of the evening--the expected gathering of invited guests, relatives, neighbours and friends to welcome the return of the newly-married couples from their bridal trip. "is there anything i can do to help with your preparations, mamma vi?" asked lucilla. "thank you, lu, but they are almost all made now, except what the servants will do," returned violet, adding laughingly. "and if they were not, it would surely hardly be the correct thing to let one of our brides be at the trouble of assisting with them." "both of them would be very glad to give their help, if it were desired or needed," said evelyn. "we feel privileged to offer assistance, because it is our father's house," she concluded with a smiling, affectionate look at the captain. "that is right, daughter," he said, both his tone and the expression of his countenance showing that he was pleased with her remark. "oh, lu, i have been making some changes in the rooms that were yours, but are mine now," said grace. "papa has provided some new pieces of furniture both there and in our little sitting-room and i want to show them to you, eva and max." she rose as she spoke, the others following her example. "are the rest of us invited, gracie?" asked violet, in an amused tone. "oh, yes, indeed!" was the gay rejoinder, "father and you, elsie and ned. company that is always acceptable to me wherever i go." "and to all of us," added lucilla. "most especially so to one who has often sighed in vain for it," said max. "have you wanted us sometimes when you were far away on the sea, brother max?" asked ned with a look of loving sympathy up into his brother's face. "yes, indeed, ned; and expect to do so again before very long." they were passing through the hall and up the stairway as they talked. "oh, the dear old rooms look lovely, lovely!" exclaimed lucilla, as they passed into the little sitting-room she had formerly shared with her sister grace, glanced around it and through the open doors into the two bedrooms. "it almost makes me homesick to be living in them again." "well, daughter, you may come back whenever you choose," her father said, with a look of mingled amusement and affection. "why, lu, i thought you loved that pretty new home papa has taken such pains to make ready for you and eva and max and chester," exclaimed elsie. "yes, so i do; but this old home has the added charm of being papa's also." "yes; but the other is so near that you can see him every day, and oftener, if you choose." "and talk to him at any moment through the telephone, if she prefers that to coming over here," said the captain. "oh, yes! how nice it is that our houses are all connected by telephone," exclaimed evelyn. "father, if i may, i think i'll go to yours and speak to aunt elsie now." "certainly, daughter," he returned, promptly leading the way. "i do so like that name from you, father dear," she said softly and smiling up into his face as they reached the instrument. "and i am glad my boy max has given me the right," he returned, bending down to kiss the ruby lips and smooth the shining hair. "shall i ring and call for you?" he asked. "if you please." it was mrs. leland who answered it. "hello, what is it?" "it is i, aunt elsie," returned evelyn. "i just called to know if you were in; because if you are, we are coming over directly to make you a call." "i think i shall be by the time you can get here," was the reply in a tone of amusement. "but please don't delay, as we were about to start for sunnyside in a few minutes." "oh, were you! then we will drive over at once and accompany you on the trip." "thank you; that will be most pleasant." eva stepped aside and lucilla took her place. "yes, aunt elsie, you will be a most welcome visitor in both divisions of sunnyside. please don't neglect mine." "i certainly do not intend to," was the cheerily-spoken response, "for your half of the dwelling is doubtless quite as well worth seeing as the other, and its occupants seem very near and dear." "thank you. good-bye now till we arrive at fairview." "we would better start for that place presently," said max. "we can view the beauties of this any day. wont you go with us, grace? there is a vacant seat in the carriage." "yes, do; we'd be glad to have you," urged both eva and lucilla, the latter adding, "you have hardly yet taken a look at our new homes with us in them." "yes, go, daughter; i think you will enjoy it," her father said in reply to a questioning glance from her beautiful blue eyes, directed to him. "thank you all three," she said. "i will go if i may have ten minutes in which to get ready." "fifteen, if necessary," replied max, in sportive tone. "even that great loss of time will be well paid for by the pleasure of your good company." "a well-turned compliment, brother mine," returned grace, as she tripped away in search of hat and wrap; for the air was cool in driving. "why shouldn't elsie go too? there is plenty of room for her; and ned can ride alongside on his pony, which i see is down yonder ready saddled and bridled," said max, putting an arm round his little sister, as she stood by his side, and looking smilingly at her, then at ned. "can't they go, father and mamma vi?" both parents gave a ready consent, the children were delighted with the invitation, and presently the party set out on their way to fairview. it was a short and pleasant drive, and they were greeted with a joyous welcome on their arrival at evelyn's old home, mr. and mrs. leland and their four children meeting them on the veranda with smiles, pleasant words and caresses for grace, eva, lucilla and elsie. then they were taken within and to the dining-room, where a delicate and appetizing lunch was awaiting them. "it is a little early for lunch," said mrs. leland, "but we knew you would be wanting to get back to sunnyside soon, in order not to miss the numerous calls about to be made you by friends and connections who are all anxious to see the pretty new home and its loved occupants." "we will be glad to see them, aunt elsie," said evelyn, "and to show our lovely homes; and i can assure you that no one can be more welcome there than you and uncle and these dear cousins of mine." "and please understand that eva has expressed my sentiments as fully as her own," added lucilla in a sprightly tone. "mine also," said max. "but don't any one of you feel that this meal is to be taken in haste," said mr. leland, hospitably, "that is very bad for digestion and we may take plenty of time, even at the risk of having some of your callers get to sunnyside ahead of us." his advice was taken and much pleasant chat indulged in while they ate. "you and uncle, of course, expect to be at woodburn to-night, aunt elsie?" said evelyn. "oh, yes; and expect to have you all here to-morrow night. there is to be quite a round of parties--as doubtless you know--to celebrate the great event of your and lu's entrance into the bonds of matrimony. there will be none saturday night, but the round will begin again monday evening by a party at ion given by mamma, edward and zoe. tuesday evening we are all to go to the oaks; then after that will be the laurel's, roselands, beechwood, pinegrove, ashlands and others." "don't forget aunt rosie's at riverside, mamma," prompted allie, her nine-year-old daughter. "no," returned her mother, "that would be quite too bad, for there is no one more ready to do honor to these dear friends of ours; especially now when they have just begun married life." "ah, aunt elsie, that sounds as though you considered it something to one's credit to have left a life of single blessedness for one in the married state," laughed lucilla. "a state which i have found so pleasant that i think no one deserves any credit for entering it," was mrs. leland's smiling rejoinder. "and i have noticed," said max, "that as a rule those who have tried it once are very ready to try it again--widows and widowers seem in more haste to marry than bachelors and maids." "'marry in haste and repent at leisure,'" quoted grace, laughingly. "father takes care that his children don't do the first, perhaps to secure them from the second." "and we all have great confidence in our father's wisdom; as well as his strong affection for us, his children," remarked max. a sentiment which the others--his wife and sisters--promptly and cordially endorsed. chapter ii. immediately on leaving the table, they all--entertainers and entertained--set out on the short drive to sunnyside, where, on arriving, they found their relatives and friends from beechwood and the oaks waiting to offer their congratulations and wish them happiness and prosperity in their married life. being all acquaintances and friends of so long standing, they were shown over the whole house by the happy owners, and cordial congratulations were freely bestowed. "in view of the comforts, conveniences and beauties of the establishment, i should like to see chester and offer my congratulations on his success in winning a lovely wife, and having so delightful a home to share with her," remarked mrs. horace dinsmore, as she was about leaving. "but i can't stay longer if i am to make due preparation for attending the party at woodburn to-night," she added. "and you wouldn't miss that for something, would you?" laughed mrs. hugh lilburn. "i am sure i wouldn't." "no; for i daresay we will have a delightful time. i know no better entertainers than the captain and vi." "nor do i," said mrs. leland; "and this being so extra an occasion they will doubtless do their best." "i think they will, and i hope no invited guest will stay away or be disappointed," said grace, with a merry look and smile. "no danger of either calamity, gracie," said mrs. dinsmore. "ah, there's our carriage at the door," and with a hasty good-bye and a cordial invitation to all present to make frequent visits at the oaks, she and her husband and daughter departed. the beechwood friends lingered a little longer, as did those from fairview and woodburn. but at length grace said she thought it time to go home for, of course, there were some matters she ought to attend to in preparation for the evening. "shall i send you in the carriage?" asked lucilla. "oh, no, thank you, sister dear; the short walk will be good for me," returned grace gaily, "for elsie, too, i think, and for ned; though he, i suppose, will prefer to ride his pony." "yes, of course i will," said ned. "he needs to be taken home, anyway." they made their adieus and passed out on the veranda. a servant brought the pony up, and ned was about to mount when the little steed remarked, "i think a young gentleman might feel ashamed to ride while his lady sisters must go afoot." "you do!" exclaimed ned, drawing back with a look of mingled surprise and chagrin. "well, they said they wanted to walk--preferred it to riding; and--and besides they couldn't both ride on your back at once." "two do ride the same horse at once sometimes," seemed to come very distinctly from the pony's lips. "who is making you talk, i wonder?" cried ned, turning to look about him. "oh, brother max, it was you, wasn't it?" as he caught sight of his brother and sisters standing near. "what was?" asked max quietly. "the person making the pony talk. i almost thought for a minute it really was the pony; though, of course, ponies can't talk. and i didn't mean to be selfish. gracie won't you ride him home? elsie and i can walk just as well as not." "yes, of course we can; it's a very short and very pleasant walk," returned elsie, with prompt cheerfulness. "so gracie dear, you ride the pony." "thank you both," said grace, "but i really prefer to walk, as i have had very little exercise to-day." "there, you silly little pony, see what a mistake you made!" cried ned gleefully, as he mounted his steed. "well, little master, didn't you make a mistake, too?" the pony seemed to ask. "oh, brother max, i know it's you, so only good fun," laughed ned. "good-bye all. i'll get home first and tell papa and mamma you are coming, gracie and elsie." with the last words, he galloped down the avenue, leaving max and his sisters standing on the veranda looking after him. "doesn't he ride well?" exclaimed grace, in a tone that spoke much sisterly pride and affection. the others gave a hearty assent, max adding, "he is a dear little, bright little chap. i am decidedly proud of my only brother." "as i am of my little one; but still more so of my older one," said lucilla. "but i must go back to my remaining guests. good-bye, my two dear sisters. i shall expect and hope to see you both over here every day." "it is very likely you will see us here at least that often," laughed grace, "and we will expect an honest return of each and every visit." "we'll get it, too," cried elsie; "lu could never stay away a whole day from papa." "it would certainly take very strong compulsion to make me do so," said lucilla. "good-bye again. i hope to see you both in my old home a few hours hence, and here some time to-morrow." with that she passed into the house while her sisters hastened away in the direction of woodburn. "it will soon be time to send the carriage for chester," said max, accompanying her, "suppose i give the order now." "yes, do," she replied, "i'd like to have him here as soon as possible; and if he should not be quite ready, jack and the carriage can be kept waiting." "certainly. i'll go and give the order, then rejoin you and our guests in the drawing-room." as max stepped out upon the veranda again two carriages came driving up the avenue--one bringing mr. and mrs. lacey from the laurels, the other mr. and mrs. croly from riverside. "oh, max, how glad i am to see you again!" exclaimed rosie, as he assisted her to alight. "it seems an age since you went away, and you have been exposed to such perils i hope i shall have a chance to hear the story of your experiences in that fight at manila. such a chance as i couldn't get at any of the late parties." "thank you, i hope we will have time and opportunity for a number of talks," he replied, releasing the hand she had put into his and turning to greet mrs. lacey, whom he addressed as aunt rose, and whose greeting was quite as cordial as her niece's had been. "you have the fairview and beechwood folks here now i see," remarked mrs. croly, glancing toward their waiting vehicles. "yes; walk in and let us have you all together," returned max. "we will make a small party in anticipation of the large one to be held at woodburn some hours hence." "yes," assented rosie, "we are all relatives and friends, and i for one can never see too much of sister elsie or cousin ronald, to speak of only one of each family." hearty greetings were exchanged, a short time spent in cheerful chat, then one set of visitors after another took their departure till at length max, evelyn and lucilla were left alone, though looking almost momentarily for chester's homecoming. "it has probably been a hard day with him. i fear he will be too weary for much enjoyment to-night," sighed lucilla. "i hope not," said max. "the meeting with so many relatives and friends will probably be restful. ah, there's the carriage now, just coming up the driveway." it brought chester, and he showed himself to be in excellent spirits, though somewhat weary with the labors of the day. he reported that all seemed to be going right with the business in hand, and he had little doubt that he should gain his hoped-for reward. his audience of three listened with keen interest to all he had to say. when he had finished eva rose saying, "i must go now and attend to housekeeping matters so that max and i may be ready in good season for our woodburn festivities." "stay, eva," said lucilla, "i have ordered an early light tea for the four of us. we wont want a very hearty meal to spoil our appetites for the refreshments to be served at woodburn." "no, certainly not; it is very kind in you to provide for us as well as for yourselves," returned evelyn; max adding, "it is, indeed, sister mine." "well, really," laughed lucilla, "it was for my own pleasure quite as much as for yours." and tears came into the eyes gazing with sisterly affection into those of max. "i want to entertain you while i can," she added, "for there is no knowing when uncle sam may be ordering you quite out of reach." "oh, don't let us talk of that!" exclaimed eva. "let us banish it from our thoughts for the present." "that is good advice," said max, his voice a trifle husky; "it's what i'm trying to do for the present; for however much a man may love the service--a little wife such as mine must be far nearer and dearer." "yes," said chester; "if you had only chosen the law, we might now be partners in my office, as well as in this house." "and i perhaps might ruin the business by my stupidity," returned max, with playful look and tone. "hark! there's the tea-bell," said lucilla. "i invite you all out to the dining-room." after a pleasant social half hour spent at the tea-table, each couple retired to their own apartments to dress for the evening entertainment at woodburn. "this is one of the occasions for the wearing of the wedding-gown, is it not?" max said inquiringly to evelyn, as they passed into her dressing-room. "yes," she said lightly. "you will not mind seeing me in it for the second time, will you?" "i shall be very glad to. it is both beautiful and becoming," he returned, with a fond look and smile. "ah, my eva, i think no one ever had a sweeter bride than mine," he added, passing his arm about her and drawing her into a close embrace. "they say love is blind and it must be that which makes me look so lovely in your eyes; for my features are by no means so good and regular as those of some others--your sisters lu and grace, for instance," returned evelyn, with a pleased little laugh. "those sisters of mine are both beautiful in my eyes, but there is something--to me--still sweeter in this dear face," he answered to that, giving her a fond caress as he spoke. "and your love is so sweet to me, i am so glad to belong to you," she returned low and feelingly, laying her head on his breast while glad tears shone in her eyes. "i have only one cause for grief left," she went on presently--"that we cannot live together all the time, as lu and chester may; yet spite of that i would not change with her or anybody else." "i hope not, darling," he said, laughingly. "nor would i any more than you. i think we were made for each other." "so do i; and when compelled to part for a season we will console ourselves by looking forward to the joy of the reunion." "so we will, dear one; and in the meantime we will have the pleasure of correspondence." "yes, indeed! a letter from my husband will be a great treasure and delight to me." "not more than will be one from my wife to me," he returned, giving her a gleeful caress. meantime, chester and his lucilla were similarly engaged. chester was very proud and fond of his bride and anxious to show her to neighbours and friends in her wedding dress; so expressed his satisfaction when he saw it laid out in readiness for the occasion. "i am glad it pleases you," said lucilla, "and i own to liking it right well myself. eva is going to wear hers, too. so it will seem something like a repetition of our wedding day." "which makes it very suitable for your father's house. it was a disappointment to him, i know, not to have his daughter and son married in his own house." "yes, i suppose so; but dear father is so unselfish that he preferred to let us have our own way, especially on eva's account." "i know it, and mean to try to copy his example in that--seeking to please others rather than myself." "as i do; i should like to resemble him in character and conduct as much as some persons tell me i do in features and expression." "yes; you are very like him in both," chester said, with an affectionate and admiring look and smile; "in character and conduct also, if your admiring husband be any judge." the sunnyside couples were the first of the guests to reach woodburn--though, in fact, they hardly considered themselves guests, or were deemed such by the family there; it was but going home to their father's house, where they had an hour of keen enjoyment before other relatives and guests began to arrive. everything went smoothly; the company was made up of congenial spirits, the entertainment was fine and evidently enjoyed, and when they bade good-night and scattered to their homes it was with the expectation of meeting again the next evening at fairview. the dinsmores of the oaks had planned to give the second entertainment, but mr. and mrs. leland claimed it as their right, because of their near relationship to evelyn, and the fact that fairview had been her home for so many years. they were now nearing the end of the week; this was thursday, the fairview party would be held on friday evening and saturday all preferred to spend quietly in their own homes or with the nearest and dearest. and that was the plan carried out. the fairview party passed off as successfully as had the woodburn one, and saturday and sunday brought a rest from festivities which was welcome to all. chapter iii. lucilla could never stay long away from her old home in her father's house; she was there every day and often two or three times a day. "father," she said, on that first saturday after taking possession of the new home, "mayn't we sunnyside folks come over here and join your bible class to-morrow evening?" "my dear child, it is just what i would have you do," he returned, with a gratified and loving smile. "don't forget that woodburn is still your home--one of your homes at least--and that you are always welcome and more than welcome to join us when you will. you are my own daughter as truly as ever you were." "and just as glad to be as ever i was," she exclaimed, with a bright, loving look and smile. "and to do your bidding at all times, father dear," she added. "provided it does not interfere with chester's," max, who happened to be present, suggested a little mischievously. "hardly any danger of that, i think," remarked his father, with a slightly amused look; "chester is a reasonable fellow, and i have no intention of interfering with his rights." "and he thinks almost as highly of my father's wisdom as i do," said lucilla. "but not more than max and i do," said evelyn, giving the captain a very filial and admiring look; "and you will take us in as members of your class, too, wont you father?" "it is just what i desire to do," was the pleased reply. "max has always been a member when at home; and you, you know, are now his better half." eva shook her head and with a merry, laughing look at max, said, "not just that, father; i should say the smaller partner in the firm." "that will do, too," smiled the captain, "since the most costly goods are apt to be done up in the smallest packages." "ah, eva, my dear, you are answered," laughed max. "what is to be the subject of to-morrow's lesson, captain?" asked mrs. elsie travilla, sitting near. "i have not decided that question yet, mother, and should be glad of a suggestion from you," he replied in a kindly, respectful tone. "i have been thinking a good deal lately of the signs of the times," she said, "and whether they do not show that we are nearing the end of this dispensation. that might perhaps be a profitable and interesting question to take up and endeavor to solve." "no doubt it would be," he replied, "and i hope you will come prepared to give us some information as to what the scriptures say on the subject, and what are the views of biblical scholars who have been giving it particular attention." "i will do what i can in that line, and hope you, captain, and others will come prepared to take part in considering the subject." "certainly a most interesting one," said violet. "and one which must lead to great searching of the scriptures as the only infallible source of information," added the captain. "yes," said grandma elsie, "they are the only authority on that subject. and how thankful we should be that we have them." sabbath afternoon proved bright and clear, and brought to woodburn quite a gathering of the relatives and friends; for all loved the bible studies they had for years taken together. mr. lilburn, as the eldest, was persuaded to take the lead. "i understand," he said, "that to-day we are to take up the question whether the second coming of our lord jesus christ may, or may not, be near. the scriptures are our sole authority, and you are all invited to bring forward anything from them which may seem to you to have a bearing on the subject." then turning to mrs. travilla, "cousin elsie," he said, "you are, probably, the one among us the most thoroughly prepared to do so; please let us hear from you." "i doubt if i am better prepared than some of the rest of you," she replied, "but i have been very much interested in the subject; particularly of late, and have searched the bible for texts bearing upon it, some of which i will read. here in the first chapter of acts we read that the disciples asked, 'lord, wilt thou at this time restore again the kingdom to israel? and he said unto them, it is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the father hath put in his own power. but ye shall receive power, after that the holy ghost is come upon you: and ye shall be witnesses unto me both in jerusalem and in all judea, and in samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the earth. and when he had spoken these things, while they beheld, he was taken up and the clouds received him out of their sight. and while they looked steadfastly toward heaven as he went up, behold, two men stood by them in white apparel; which also said, ye men of gallilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven? this same jesus which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven.' and," continued grandma elsie, "the apostle john gives us the same promise here in the first chapter of the revelation," turning to the passage as she spoke, then reading it aloud, "'behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him.'" "i have heard the idea advanced that death is the coming of christ to the dying one," remarked chester, in a tone of inquiry. "but we are told," said mrs. travilla, "that 'as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the son of man be.' that description certainly could not apply to the death hour of any christian, nor to the conversion of any sinner." "and his second coming is spoken of in the same way in a number of places in the different gospels," said evelyn. "here, in luke, we have christ's own words, 'whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall the son of man be ashamed, when he shall come in his glory, and in his father's, and of the holy angels.' and again in matthew : , 'for the son of man shall come in the glory of his father with his angels; and then he shall reward every man according to his works.'" "the disciples wanted to know when that second coming would be," remarked violet; "here in matthew : , we are told, 'and as he sat upon the mount of olives, the disciples came unto him privately, saying, "tell us when shall these things be and what shall be the sign of thy coming and of the end of the world?" and jesus answered and said unto them, "take heed that no man deceive you."' "i shall not read the whole chapter, for i know it is familiar to you all; but in the th verse he says, 'for as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the son of man be. for wheresoever the carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together. immediately after the tribulation of those days shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken: and then shall appear the sign of the son of man in heaven: and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory. and he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.'" "many persons," remarked grandma elsie, "tell us it is not worth while to consider at all the question of the time when christ will come again; quoting the text, 'but of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels in heaven, but my father only.' but again and again our saviour repeated his warning, 'watch, therefore; for ye know not what hour your lord doth come.... therefore be ye also ready; for in such an hour as ye think not the son of man cometh.'" "i do not quite understand this," said grace. "luke says, here in the st chapter, th verse--quoting the words of the master--'and when ye shall see jerusalem compassed with armies, then know that the desolation thereof is nigh. then let them which are in judea flee to the mountains; and let them which are in the midst of it depart out.' how could they depart out of the city while it was compassed with armies?" "there is a satisfactory explanation," replied her father, "in the twelfth year of nero, cestius gallus, the president of syria, came against jerusalem with a powerful army. josephus says of him: 'he might have assaulted and taken the city, and thereby put an end to the war; but without any just reason, and contrary to the expectation of all, he raised the siege and departed.' the historians, epiphanius and eusebius, tell us that immediately after the departure of the armies of cestius gallus, and while vespasian was approaching with his army, all who believed in christ left jerusalem and fled to pella and other places beyond the river jordan." "every one of them, papa?" asked ned. "yes; dr. adam clarke says 'it is very remarkable that not a single christian perished in the destruction of jerusalem, though there were many there when cestius gallus invested the city.'" "papa," asked elsie, "don't you think god put it in the heart of that cestius gallus to go away with his troops before vespasian got there; so that the christians had an opportunity to escape?" "i certainly do, daughter," was the captain's emphatic reply. "had not the earlier prophets foretold the destruction of jerusalem?" asked lucilla. "yes," said mr. lilburn; "even as early a one as moses. here in the th chapter of deuteronomy he says 'the lord shall bring a nation against thee from far, from the east of the earth, as swift as the eagle flieth; a nation whose tongue thou shalt not understand.'" "the romans?" elsie said, inquiringly. "yes; their ensign was an eagle and their language the latin, which the jews did not understand. the prophesy of moses continues. in the d verse he says, 'and he shall besiege thee in all thy gates, until thy high and fenced walls come down; wherein thou trustedst, throughout all thy land: and he shall besiege thee in all thy gates throughout thy land, which the lord thy god hath given thee. and thou shalt eat the fruit of thine own body, the flesh of thy sons and of thy daughters, which the lord thy god hath given thee, in the siege and in the straitness, wherewith thine enemies shall distress thee.'" "oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed elsie. "and did all that happen at the siege of jerusalem?" "yes; it lasted so long that famine was added to all the other sufferings of the besieged. so dreadful was it that mothers would snatch the food from their children in their distress, and many houses were found full of women and children who had died of starvation. josephus tells of human flesh being eaten; particularly of a lady of rank who killed, roasted and ate her own son. and so the prophecy of moses was fulfilled." "oh, how dreadful, how dreadful!" sighed elsie. "yes," said mr. lilburn, "it was the fulfillment of our saviour's prophecy as he beheld jerusalem and wept over it, saying, 'if thou hadst known, even thou at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes. for the days shall come upon thee, that thine enemies shall cast a trench about thee, and compass thee round, and keep thee in on every side, and shall lay thee even with the ground, and thy children within thee; and they shall not leave in thee one stone upon another; because thou knewest not the time of thy visitation.' that is told us in the th chapter of luke. in the st we read, 'and they shall fall by the edge of the sword, and shall be led away captive into all nations: and jerusalem shall be trodden down of the gentiles, until the times of the gentiles be fulfilled.'" "have those times been fulfilled yet?" asked ned. "no, not yet," replied mr. lilburn; "the turks still have possession of jerusalem, though the jews have begun to return to palestine and the turkish power grows weaker. but the time of the gentiles will not be fulfilled until the work of the gospel is finished." "and when will that be, cousin ronald?" asked ned. "i cannot say exactly," answered the old gentleman, "but the trend of events does seem to show that we are nearing that time--such a feeling of unrest all over the world, some men--comparatively a few--accumulating enormous quantities of wealth by paying their laborers a mere pittance for their work, while the cost of living goes higher and higher. this is a land of plenty, and but for the grasping selfishness of some, none need lack for abundance of the necessaries of life." "i wish nobody did lack for plenty to eat and drink, and wear," said elsie, "and i want to do all i can to help those who haven't enough." "i hope you will, daughter," the captain said, in a tone of pleased approval. "and now the important thing for us to consider is what is our duty, in view of the very possible nearness of christ's second coming." "he has told us again and again to watch and be ready," said grandma elsie; "yet we are not to be idle, but to work while it is called to-day; to occupy till he comes; to be not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the lord." chapter iv. for the next week or two, family parties for the honor and entertainment of the newly-married ones were frequent. life seemed to them bright and joyous, except when they remembered that max would probably soon be ordered away, perhaps to some distant quarter of the globe. an unwelcome anticipation not to them only, but to his father and the others at woodburn, and in a slighter degree to all the connection. but orders had not come yet, and they still hoped they might be delayed for weeks, giving opportunity for many quiet home pleasures. yet there were drawbacks to even those, in the fact that several of the near connection were ailing from colds caught during their round of festivities--grandma elsie and chester dinsmore being of those most seriously affected. chester was confined to the house for several days, under the doctor's care, and it was against medical advice that he then returned to his labors at his office. lucilla was troubled and anxious, and, as usual, went to her father for sympathy and advice. they had a chat together in the library at woodburn. "i feel for you, daughter," captain raymond said, "but keep up your courage; 'all is not lost that is in danger.' i have been thinking that a southerly trip in the yacht might prove of benefit to both grandma elsie and chester, and quite agreeable to the members of my family and other friends for whom we could find room." "oh, father, that would be delightful!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "and i hope you will persuade harold to make one of the company, for grace's sake, and so that we will not be without a physician." "yes, that is a part of my plan, and i have little doubt of its acceptance, grace's companionship being a great attraction to my young brother-in-law." "'speak of angels and you will hear the flutter of their wings,'" laughed lucilla, as at that moment harold appeared in the doorway. "am i the angel, and may i fly in?" he asked, joining in the laugh. "certainly, you are just in the nick of time to advise us in a matter of importance which we were discussing," replied the captain, inviting him by a gesture to an easy chair near at hand, then repeating to him the substance of what he had been saying to lucilla, finishing with a request for his opinion in regard to the plan. "i like it extremely," harold said. "i think nothing could be better for either mother or chester, and the sooner we make ready and start the better for both, if they will be persuaded to go; of which i have little doubt." "i am somewhat afraid chester may refuse for business reasons," sighed lucilla. "i think we can persuade him of the folly of that," said her father. "it would be far wiser and better to give up business for a time for the gaining of health, than to so wreck that by overtaxing strength of body and mind as to shorten his days or make himself an invalid for life." "it certainly would," said harold, "and i hope that among us we can convince him that duty, as well as pleasure, calls him to make one of our party." "duty to his wife as well as to himself," said lucilla, in a lively tone; "for i should neither willingly go without him or stay behind with him." "where are vi, grace and the children?" asked harold. "i have not seen or heard anything of them since i came in." "max and eva have taken them driving in our fine new carriage--father's wedding gift," replied lucilla, with a smiling glance into her father's eyes. "that is, all but ned who rides his pony alongside." "ah, and here they come now!" exclaimed harold, glancing from the window, "the carriage has just turned in at the gates." and with that the three arose and hastened out to the veranda, to greet and assist them to alight. but the moment the carriage drew up before the entrance the door was thrown open and max, then chester, sprang out and turned to hand out the ladies--grandma elsie, eva, violet, grace and her sister elsie, while at the same time ned was dismounting from his pony. warm greetings were exchanged, and as the weather was now too cool for comfortable sitting upon the veranda the captain led the way to the library--a favorite resort with them all. "your call is an agreeable surprise, mother," he said to grandma elsie, as he drew forward an easy chair for her; "harold had just been telling us that you were almost ill with a cold." "i have a rather bad one, but thought a drive through the bracing air, and in such pleasant company, might prove beneficial rather than otherwise," she answered in cheery tones, adding "and i knew harold was here and could take me home in his conveyance." "certainly, mother, and will be very glad of your good company," said harold, while at the same time violet exclaimed, "but why go at all to-night, mother? why not stay here with us?" "thank you, daughter," was the smiling reply; "that would be pleasant, but there are some things to be attended to at home." "and not being well, she would better have her doctor close at hand," remarked harold, in playful tone. "mother, we have been contriving a plan to help you and chester to get the better of your colds." "ah, what is that?" she asked, and harold, turning to the captain, said, "let mother hear it from you, brother levis, if you please." "we are thinking of taking a southward trip in the 'dolphin,' mother--visiting the bermudas, bahamas and other of the west indies and the coast of brazil." "why, that would be a lovely trip!" she exclaimed. "many thanks to you, captain, for including me among your invited guests." "many thanks to you, mother, if you consent to make one of our party," he returned, looking greatly pleased to find her so ready to approve of and share their plans. eager, excited remarks and queries now followed in rapid succession from the others present--"when was the start to be made? who besides grandma elsie and the captain were to compose the party?" "all who are here now are invited and expected to go; some others of our friends also," replied the captain, "and i hope no one will refuse." "thanks, warm thanks," said chester. "i should be delighted to go, but fear business will prevent." "as your physician, ches, i strongly advise you not to let it," said harold. "a good rest now in a warm climate may restore you to vigorous health, while if you stay at home and stick to business you are likely to either cut your life short or make yourself a confirmed invalid for the rest of it." "do you really think so, cousin doctor?" was chester's rejoinder in a troubled voice. "i do most emphatically," returned harold. "you may be very thankful, cousin, that this good opportunity offers." "i am," said chester. then turning to the captain. "thank you very much, sir, for the invitation, which i accept, if my wife will go with me." "you needn't doubt that," laughed lucilla. "there is nothing i like better than a trip on my father's yacht, with him and all my dear ones about me." "and it's just the same with all the rest of us," said grace. "and how is it with max and eva?" asked the captain. "i know of nothing more enjoyable than that--a trip on the 'dolphin' taken in the company of one's dear ones," replied evelyn with a loving look into the eyes of her young husband. "just my opinion," he said, with a smile; "the only question with me is, will uncle sam allow me a sufficiently long leave of absence." "your leave of absence has nearly expired?" his father said, inquiringly. "yes, sir; so nearly that i should hardly feel surprised to receive orders any day." "well, i hope, instead, you may get another leave, allowing you time to make one of our party." "it would be a very great pleasure to me, sir," said max. "but i have had so long a one already that i can hardly hope for another very soon." "oh, max!" exclaimed grace, "do write at once asking to have it extended; it would double our pleasure to have you along." "yes, max, do," said lucilla. "i can hardly bear the thought of going without you." evelyn, sitting close at his side, looked her entreaties, while violet said, "yes, max, do; it will double our enjoyment to have you and eva along." then chester, grandma elsie, harold and the children added their entreaties, expressing their desire for his company on the trip and ned exclaimed, "yes, brother max, do get leave to go along; we'll want you to make fun for us with your ventriloquism." "is that all you want me for, neddie boy?" laughed max. "if so, cousin ronald will answer your purpose quite as well, if not better." "but two can make more fun than one; and i want you besides, because i am really fond of you--the only brother i've got." "ah, that sounds better," said max; "but i really can't go without uncle sam's permission." "then please do ask him to give it." "yes, do, max," said grace; "i really think he might give it, considering what good service you did at manila." "it was not very much that i accomplished personally," returned max modestly, "and the two months' rest i have had is probably quite as much as i may be supposed to have earned. especially as it gave me the opportunity to secure my wife," he added, with a very affectionate look at evelyn. "i wish you might be able to go with us, max, my son," said the captain, "for leaving ventriloquism entirely out of the account, i should be very glad to have your company. but the service, of course, has the first claim on you." "so i think, sir; and as for the ventriloquism, my little brother is so hungry for, cousin ronald can supply it should you take him as one of your passengers." "and that we will, if he and his wife can be persuaded to go," returned the captain, heartily. "oh, good, papa!" cried ned, clapping his hands in glee, "then we'll have at least one ventriloquist, if we can't have two." "and, after all, the ventriloquism was really all you wanted me for, eh?" said max, assuming a tone and look of chagrin. "oh, no! no! brother max," cried ned, with a look of distress. "i didn't mean that! you know you're the only brother i have and i'm really fond of you." "as i am of you, little brother, and have been ever since you were born," said max, regarding the little fellow with an affectionate smile. "oh, max, i wish you hadn't gone into the navy," sighed lucilla. "i don't," he returned, cheerfully, "though i acknowledge that it is hard parting with home and dear ones." "that is bad, as i know by experience," said their father, "but then we have the compensating joy of the many reunions." "yes, sir; and a great joy it is," responded max. "how soon, father, do you think of starting on your southward trip?" "just as soon as all necessary arrangements can be made, which, i suppose, will not be more than a week from this, at farthest. i can have the yacht made ready in less time than that, and for the sake of our invalids it would be well to go as promptly as possible." "couldn't you make use of the telephone now, to give your invitations, my dear?" queried violet. "why, yes; that is a wise suggestion. i will do so at once," he replied, and hastily left the room, promising to return presently with the reply from beechwood to which he would call first. the invitation was accepted promptly and with evident pleasure, as the captain presently reported in the library. "now, mother, shall i give my invitation in the same way to our own friends?" he asked, turning to grandma elsie. "perhaps it would be as well to send it by harold and me," she said, "as that will delay it very little, and i can perhaps help them to perceive what a delightful trip it is likely to prove." "and then, mamma, you can give us their view by the 'phone," said violet. "i, or some one of the family will," she said. "and now, harold, we will go and attend to the matter at once." chapter v. captain raymond's invitation proved scarcely less agreeable to mr. and mrs. dinsmore than to their younger friends and relatives, and their acceptance was telephoned to woodburn before the sunnyside party had left for their homes. all heard it with satisfaction, for grandpa and grandma dinsmore were pleasant traveling companions. some lively chat followed, in regard to needed preparations for the trip, and in the midst of it a servant came in with the afternoon mail. the captain distributed it and among max's portion was a document of official appearance. evelyn noted it with a look of apprehension, and drew nearer to her young husband's side. "orders, my son?" asked the captain, when max had opened it and glanced over the contents. "yes, sir; i am to go immediately to washington, upon the expiration of my leave which will be about the time the rest of you set sail in the 'dolphin.'" the announcement seemed quite a damper upon the previous high spirits of the little company, and there were many expressions of disappointment and regret. "well," said chester, getting on his feet as he spoke, "i must go home now; there is a little matter in regard to one of my cases that must be attended to at once, since i am likely to leave the neighborhood so soon." "and if my husband goes, i must go, too," said lucilla, in a lively tone, rising and taking up the wrap she had thrown off on coming into the warm room. "it is near the dinner hour; you would better stay, all of you, and dine with us," said the captain. all thanked him, but declined, each having some special reason for wishing to go home at that particular time. "well, come in and share a meal with us whenever you will," said the captain. "i think you know, one and all, that you are heartily welcome." "yes, father, we do," said max, "and we are always glad when you care to breakfast, dine, or sup with us." "any of us but papa?" asked ned. "yes, indeed; all of you from mamma vi down," laughed max, giving the little fellow an affectionate clap on the shoulder as he passed him on his way out to the hall. "yes, ned, each one of you will always be a most welcome visitor," said chester. "indeed you will, you may be very sure of that," added lucilla and eva. "so sure are we of that, that you need not be surprised to see any of us at any time," laughed violet. "nor will we be surprised or grieved to see any or all of you at any time." "no, indeed! i want my daughters--and sons also--all to feel entirely at home always in their father's house," the captain said, with his genial smile. "thank you, father dear, and don't forget that sunnyside is one of your homes, and we are always ever so glad to open its doors to you," said lucilla, going to him and holding up her face for a kiss, which he gave with warmth of affection. "and not lu's side only, but ours as well," added evelyn, holding out her hand and looking up lovingly into his face. he took the hand, drew her closer to him and gave her a caress as affectionate as that he had just bestowed upon lucilla. the rest of the good-byes were quickly said, and both young couples were wending their homeward way. they were all in thoughtful mood, and the short walk was taken in almost unbroken silence. eva's heart was full at thought of the approaching separation from her young husband. how could she bear it? he seemed almost all the world to her, now that they had been for weeks such close companions, and life without his presence would be lonely and desolate indeed. she passed up the stairway to their bedroom, while he paused in the hall below to remove his overcoat and hat. her eyes were full of tears, as she disposed of her wraps, then crossed the room to her mirror to see that dress and hair were in perfect order. "no improvement needed, my own love, my darling," max said, coming up behind her and passing an arm about her waist. at that she turned and hid her face upon his breast. "oh, max, my husband, my dear, dear husband," she sobbed, "how can i live away from you? you are now more than all the world to me." "as you are to me, dear love. it is hard to part, but we will hope to meet again soon; and in the meantime let us write to each other every day. and as there is no war now you need not feel that your husband is in any special danger." "yes, thank god for that," she said, "and that we may know that we are both in his kind care and keeping wherever we are." "and surely you will be less lonely than you were before our marriage--father claims you as his daughter, chester and little ned are your brothers, lu and grace your sisters." "yes, oh yes; i have a great deal to be thankful for, but you are to me a greater blessing than all the world." "as you are to me, dearest," was his response, as he held her close to his heart, pressing warm kisses on cheek and brow and lip. meanwhile, on the other side of the hall, chester and lucilla were chatting about the captain's plan for a winter trip. "i think it will be just delightful, chester," she said, "since i am to have you along. i am so glad you are going, sorry as i am that ill-health makes it necessary." "yes, my dear," he returned with a smile, "i am fortunate, indeed, in having so loving a wife and so kind and able a father-in-law. i am truly sorry that i must leave some important business matters to which i should like to give attention promptly and in person, but i intend to put that care aside and enjoy our holiday as fully as possible. i heartily wish max could go with us. i think it would almost double the pleasure of the trip." "as i do," responded lucilla, with a sigh; "but it seems one can never have all one wants in this world. i doubt if it would be good for us if we could." "no, it assuredly would not. now, my dear, i am going down to the library to look at some papers connected with one of my cases, and shall probably be busy over them until the call to dinner." the next few days were busy ones with those who were to have a part in the southern trip of the "dolphin." woodburn and sunnyside were to be left in the care of christine and alma, with a sufficient number of servants under them to keep everything in order. max went with the others to the yacht, spent a half hour there, then bade good-bye, went ashore and took a train for washington. it was eva's first parting from her husband, and she shut herself into her stateroom for a cry to relieve her pent-up feelings of grief and loneliness. but presently there was a gentle little tap at the door and elsie raymond's sweet voice asked, "sister eva, dear, don't you want to come on deck with me and see them lift the anchor and start the 'dolphin' on her way?" "yes, dear little sister; thank you for coming for me," replied evelyn, opening the door. "all the rest of us were there and i thought you would like to be there, too," continued the little girl, as they passed through the saloon and on up the stairway. "yes, little sister, it was very kind in you to think of me." "but i wasn't the only one; everybody seemed to be thinking of you and looking round for you. so i asked papa if i should come for you, and he said yes." "it was very kind in both him and you, little sister elsie," eva said, with a smile. "our dear father is always kind, and i am very glad to be his daughter." "so am i," returned elsie, with a happy little laugh. "i think he's the dearest, kindest father that ever was made." they had just reached the deck at that moment, and as they stepped upon it they caught sight of harold and grace standing near, looking smilingly at them, pleased with elsie's tribute to her father, which they had accidentally overheard. "oh, uncle harold, you'll take sister eva to a good place to see everything from, wont you?" exclaimed elsie. "yes, little niece, the everything you mean," he returned, laughingly. "there is room for us all. come this way," he added, and led them to that part of the deck where the other passengers were grouped. there they were greeted with kindness and given a good place for seeing all the preparations for starting the vessel on her way to the bermudas. she was soon moving swiftly in that direction, and, a cool breeze having sprung up, her passengers left the deck for the warmer and more comfortable saloon. "elsie and ned wouldn't you like your grandma to tell you something about the islands we are going to?" asked mrs. travilla; the two little ones being, as usual, quite near her. "yes, indeed! grandma," both answered, in eager tones, seating themselves one on each side of her. "i heard papa say it wouldn't be a very long voyage we would take at the start, because the bermudas were only about six hundred miles away from our coast," said elsie. "they belong to england, don't they, grandma?" "yes; but they were named for a spaniard, bermudez, who first sighted them in ; they are also called somers's isles from sir george somers, an englishman, who was shipwrecked there in . that was what led to their colonization from virginia--two years later when it was itself only four years old. "are they big islands, grandma? and are there many of them?" asked ned. "no, there are perhaps five hundred of them, but the whole group measures only about twelve thousand acres in all. they occupy a space only about twenty miles long by six broad." "then the group isn't worth very much, i suppose." "yes, because its situation makes it a natural fortress which can hardly be overrated. they form a bond of union between two great divisions of british america; on each side of them is a highway between the gulf of mexico and the north atlantic. there are many picturesque creeks and bays, large and deep, the water so clear as to reveal, even to its lowest depths, the many varieties of fish sporting among the coral rocks, and the beautifully variegated shells." "and it has a warm climate, hasn't it, grandma?" asked elsie. "i think that is why we are going there." "yes, the climate is said to be like that of persia, with the addition of a constant sea-breeze." "i shall like that," responded the little girl with satisfaction. "but what kind of people live there, grandma?" "a good many whites and still more colored people." "slaves, grandma?" asked ned. "no; the islands belong to england, and years ago she abolished slavery in all her dominions." "what are the names of some of them, grandma? the islands, i mean." "the largest, which is fifteen miles long, is called bermuda; st. george is three and a half miles long and is the military station of the colony; it commands the entrance of the only passage for large vessels. its land-locked haven and the narrow and intricate channel leading into it are defended by strong batteries." "you have been there, haven't you, grandma?" "yes; years ago," she said, with a sigh, thinking of the loved partner of her life who had been with her then and there. "and your grandpa dinsmore and i were there at the same time," remarked grandma dinsmore, sitting near; and she went on to give a graphic account of scenes they had witnessed there, mr. dinsmore presently joining in a way to make it very interesting to the children. chapter vi. grandpa dinsmore had hardly finished relating his reminiscences of his former visits to the bermudas when a sailor-lad came down the companionway with a message from the captain--an invitation to any or all his passengers to come up on deck, as there was something he wished to show them. it was promptly and eagerly accepted by the young folks,--somewhat more slowly and sedately by the older ones. "what is it, papa? have you something to show us?" queried ned, as he gained his father's side. "something lying yonder in the sea, my son, the like of which you have never seen before," replied the captain, pointing to a large object in the water at some little distance. "ah, a whale!" exclaimed dr. travilla, who had come up on ned's other side. "to what genus does he belong, captain?" "he is a bottlenose; a migratory species, confined to the north atlantic. it ranges far northward in the summer, southward in the winter. in the early spring they may be found around iceland and greenland, western spitzbergen, in davis strait and probably about novaia zemlia." "oh, do they like to live right in among the icebergs, papa?" asked elsie. "no, they do not venture in among the ice itself, but frequent open bays along its margin, as in that way they are sheltered from the open sea." "the group gathered about the captain on the deck now comprised all his cabin passengers, not one of whom failed to be interested in the whale, or to have some remark to make or question to ask. "this one seems to be alone," remarked lucilla. "do they usually go alone, papa?" "no; they are generally found in herds of from four to ten; and many different herds may be found in sight at the same time. the old males, however, are frequently solitary; though sometimes one of them may be seen leading a herd. these whales don't seem to be afraid of ships, swimming around them and underneath the boats till their curiosity is satisfied." "i suppose they take them--the ships--for a kind of big fish," laughed ned. "why is this kind of whale called bottlenosed, papa?" asked elsie. "that name is given it because of the elevation of the upper surface of the head above the rather short beak and in front of the blow hole into a rounded abrupt prominence." "blow hole," repeated ned, wonderingly; "what's that, papa?" "the blow holes are their nostrils through which they blow out the water collected in them while they are down below the waves. they cannot breath under the water, but must come up frequently to take in a fresh supply of air. but first they must expel the air remaining in their lungs, before taking in a fresh supply. they send that air out with great force, so that it rises to a considerable height above the water, and as it is saturated with water-vapor at a high temperature, the contact with the cold outside air condenses the vapor which forms a column of steam or spray. often, however, a whale begins to blow before its nostrils are quite above the surface, and then some sea-water is forced up with the column of air." they were watching the whale while they talked; for it followed the yacht with seeming curiosity. at this moment it rolled over nearly on its side, then threw its ponderous tail high into the air, so that for an instant it was perpendicular to the water, then vanished from sight beneath the waves. "oh, dear," cried ned, "he's gone! i wish he'd stayed longer." "perhaps he will come back and give us the pleasure of seeing him spout," said the captain. "do you mean throw the water up out of its nostrils, papa?" asked ned. "oh, i'd like that!" "ah, there's the call to supper," said his father, as the summons came at that moment. "you wouldn't like to miss that?" "no, sir," returned ned, in a dubious tone. "but couldn't we let the supper wait till the whale comes up and gets done spouting?" "perhaps some of the older people may be too hungry to wait comfortably," returned his father; "and the supper might be spoiled by waiting. but cheer up, my son; the whale is not likely to come up to the surface again before we can finish our meal and come back to witness his performance." that assurance was quite a relief to ned's mind, so that he went very cheerfully to the table with the others, and there did full justice to the viands. no one hurried with the meal, but when they left the table it was to go upon deck again and watch for the reappearance of the whale. they had been there for but a moment when, to the delight of all, it came up, not too far away to be distinctly seen, and at once began spouting--or blowing; discharging the air from its lungs in preparation for taking in a fresh supply; the air was sent out with great force, making a sound that could be heard at quite a distance, while the water-vapor accompanying the air was so condensed as to form a column of spray. it made five or six respirations, then swam away and was soon lost to sight. then the company returned to the cabin as the more comfortable place, the evening air being decidedly cool. ned seated himself close to his father, and, in coaxing tones, asked for something more about whales. "are there many kinds, papa?" he queried. "yes, my son, a good many; more than you could remember. would you like me to tell you about some of the more interesting ones?" "oh, yes, indeed, papa!" was the emphatic and pleased response, and the captain began at once. "there are the whalebone or true whales, which constitute a single family. they have no teeth, but, instead, horny plates of baleen or whalebone, which strain from the water the small animals upon which the whale feeds." "oh, yes, i know about whalebones," said ned. "mamma and sisters have it in their dresses. and it comes out of the whale's mouth, does it, papa?" "yes; it is composed of many flattened, horny plates placed crosswise on either side of the palate, and separated from one another by an open space in the middle line. they are smooth on the outer side, but the inner edge of each plate is frayed out into a kind of fringe, giving a hairy appearance to the whole of the inside of the mouth when viewed from below." "whalebone or baleen is black, isn't it, papa?" asked ned. "not always; the color may vary from black to creamy white; and sometimes it is striped dark and light." "is there much of it in one whale, papa?" "yes, a great deal on each side of the jaw; there are more than three hundred of the plates, which, in a fine specimen, are about ten or twelve feet long and eleven inches wide at their base; and so much as a ton's weight has been taken from a large whale." "and is the baleen all they kill the whales for, papa?" "oh, no, my son! the oil is very valuable, and there is a great deal of it in a large whale. one has been told of which yielded eighty-five barrels of oil." "oh, my! that's a great deal," cried ned. "what a big fellow he must have been to hold so much as that." "the whale is very valuable to the people of the polar regions," continued the captain. "they eat the flesh, and drink the oil." "oh, papa! drink oil!" cried little elsie, with a shudder of disgust. "it seems very disgusting to us," he said, with a smile, "but in that very cold climate it is an absolute necessity--needful, in order to keep up the heat of the body by a bountiful supply of carbon." "whales are so big and strong it must be very dangerous to go near them, i suppose," said elsie, with an inquiring look at her father. "that is the case with some of the species," he said, "but not with all. the greenland whale, for instance, is inoffensive and timorous, and will always flee from the presence of man, unless roused by the pain of a wound or the sight of its offspring in danger. in that case, it will sometimes turn fiercely upon the boat in which the harpooners are who launched the weapon, and, with its enormous tail, strike it a blow that will shatter it and drive men, ropes and oars high into the air. that greenland whale shows great affection for both its mate and its young. when this whale is undisturbed, it usually remains at the surface of the water for ten minutes and spouts eight or nine times; then it goes down for from five to twenty minutes, then comes back to the surface to breathe again. but when harpooned, it dives to a great depth and does not come up again for half an hour. by noticing the direction of the line attached to the harpoon, the whalers judge of the spot in which it will rise and generally contrive to be so near it when it shows itself again, that they can insert another harpoon, or strike it with a lance before it can go down again." "poor thing!" sighed little elsie, "i don't know how men can have the heart to be so cruel to animals that are not dangerous." "it is because the oil, whalebone and so forth, are so valuable," said her father. "it sometimes happens that a stray whale blunders into the shallow waters of the bermudas, and not being able to find the passage through which it entered, cannot get out again; so is caught like a mouse in a trap. it is soon discovered by the people, and there is a great excitement; full of delight, they quickly launch their boats filled with men armed with guns, lances and other weapons which would be of little use in the open sea, but answer their purpose in these shoal waters. "as soon as the whale feels the sharp lance in its body it dives as it would in the open sea; but the water is so shallow that it strikes its head against the rocky bed of the sea with such force that it rises to the surface again half stunned. "the hunters then take advantage of its bewildered condition to come close and use their deadly weapons till they have killed it. the fat and ivory are divided among the hunters who took part in the killing, but the flesh is given to any one who asks for it." "is it really good to eat, papa?" asked ned. "those who are judges of whale flesh say there are three qualities of meat in every whale, the best resembling mutton, the second similar to pork, and the third resembling beef." "the whales are so big and strong; don't they ever fight back when men try to kill them, papa?" asked elsie. "yes," he replied, "sometimes a large whale will become belligerent, and is then a fearful antagonist, using its immense tail and huge jaws with fearful effect. i have heard of one driving its lower jaw entirely through the plankings of a stout whaling boat, and of another that destroyed nine boats in succession. not only boats, but even ships have been sunk by the attack of an infuriated old bull cachalot. and an american ship, the 'essex' was destroyed by the vengeful fury of a cachalot, which accidentally struck itself against the keel. probably it thought the ship was a rival whale; it retired to a short distance, then charged full at the vessel, striking it one side of the bows, and crushing beams and planks like straws. there were only a few men on board at the time, most of the crew being in the boats engaged in chasing whales; and when they returned to their ship they found her fast sinking, so that they had barely time to secure a scanty stock of provisions and water. using these provisions as economically as they could, they made for the coast of peru, but only three lived to reach there, and they were found lying senseless in their boat, which was drifting at large in the ocean." "i wonder any one is willing to go whaling when they may meet with such dreadful accidents," said evelyn. "i suppose it must be very profitable to tempt them to take such risks," remarked chester. "it is quite profitable," said the captain; "a single whale often yields whalebone and blubber to the value of thirty-five hundred or four thousand dollars." "i should think that might pay very well, particularly if they took a number." "our whale fishing is done mostly by the new englanders, isn't it, papa?" asked grace. "yes," he said, "they went into it largely at a very early date; at first on their own coasts, but they were deserted by the whales before the middle of the eighteenth century; then ships were fitted out for the northern seas. but for a number of years the american whale-fishery has been declining, because of the scarcity of whales and the substitutes for whale oil and whalebone that have been found. however, new bedford, massachusetts, is the greatest whaling port in the world. "now it is nearing your bedtime, my boy, and i think you have had enough about the whale and his habits for one lesson." "yes, papa; and i thank you very much for telling it all to me," replied ned, with a loving, grateful look up into his father's face. chapter vii. some two hours later the captain was taking his usual evening walk upon the deck, when lucilla and evelyn joined him. "we feel like taking a little stroll, father, and hope you will not object to our company," remarked evelyn, as they reached his side. "i could not, with truth, say it was unpleasant to me, daughter," he returned, with a smile, and passing a hand caressingly over her hair, as she stood close at his side. "the fact is, i am very glad of the companionship of you both." "and we are both thankful to hear you say it, i am sure," returned lucilla, in a sprightly tone, and with a bright, loving look up into his eyes. "i'd be heart-broken if i thought my father didn't love me enough to care to have me near him." "and i should be much distressed if i had reason to believe my daughter didn't care to be near me. if grace were as strong and healthy as you are, it would double the pleasure to have her with us. she has gone to her stateroom, i suppose." "yes, papa, and most of the others have retired to their rooms, too. dr. harold and chester are playing a game of chess, and so will hardly miss eva and me." "perhaps not; so we will take our promenade undisturbed by anxiety about them," laughed the captain, offering an arm to each. it was a beautiful evening; the moon was shining in a clear sky and making a silvery pathway upon the waters. "where do you suppose max is now, father?" asked evelyn, with a slight sigh. "probably in washington; though it is possible he may have received his orders and gone aboard his vessel." "and doubtless he is thinking of you, eva, as you are of him," said lucilla, speaking in low, tender tones. "no doubt of it," said their father, "for he is very fond of his sweet, young wife. as we all are, daughter dear," he added, softly patting the small, white hand resting upon his arm. "dear father," she said, with emotion, "it is so kind in you to give me the fatherly affection i have so missed and longed for in years past." "and daughterly affection from you is an adequate return," he said pleasantly. "i expect to enjoy that in all this winter's wanderings by sea and land." "wanderings which i am very glad to be allowed to share," she said; and then they talked of the various places they expected to visit while on this winter trip. at length evelyn, saying it was high time for her to join grace in the stateroom they shared together, said good-night and returned to the cabin, but lucilla delayed her departure a little longer--it was so pleasant to have her father all to herself for a bit of private chat before retiring for the night. they paced the deck silently for a few moments, then she said: "father, i have thought a good deal of that talk we had in our bible lesson some time ago, about the second coming of christ. do you think it--his coming--is very near?" "it may be, daughter. the signs of the times seem to indicate its approach. jesus said, 'of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my father only.' he has given us signs, however, by which we may know that it is near; and judging by them we may, i think, know that it is not very far off now." "then, papa, doesn't it seem as if we ought to be busied with religious duties all the time?" "i think whatever duties the lord gives us in his providence may, in some sense, be called religious duties--for me, for instance, the care of wife, children and dependents. we are to go on with household and family duties, those to the poor and needy in our neighborhood; also to take such part as we can in the work of the church at home and for foreign missions, and so forth; all this, remembering his command, 'occupy till i come,' and endeavoring to be ready to meet him with joy when he comes." "and isn't it a very important part trying to win souls to christ?" "it is, indeed, and 'he that winneth souls is wise.' leading a truly christlike life may often win them to join us in being his disciples, even though we refrain from any word of exhortation; though there are times when we should not refrain from giving that also." "as you did to me, father," she said, with a loving look up into his face. "oh, i shall try to be a winner of souls. the bible makes the way clear, again and again, in a very few words. you know it tells us jesus said to nicodemus, 'god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'" "yes; and peter said to cornelius and his kinsmen and friends, after telling them of jesus, 'to him give all the prophets witness, that through his name whosoever believeth in him shall receive remission of sins.' and paul and silas, when asked by the jailor, 'sirs, what must i do to be saved?' replied, 'believe on the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved.' salvation is god's free gift, without money and without price. one must believe in his divinity, his ability and willingness to save, taking salvation at his hands as a free, unmerited gift. but now, dear child," he added, taking her in his arms, with a fond caress, "it is time for you and that not very strong husband of yours to be seeking your nest for the night. 'the lord bless thee, and keep thee; the lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'" he added in solemn tones, laying a hand tenderly upon her head as he spoke. "thank you, dear father," she said, in tones half tremulous with emotion, "i do so love that blessing from your lips. and chester and i both think i have the best father in the world." "it is pleasant to have you think that," he returned, with a smile and another caress, "but no doubt there are many fathers in the world quite as good, kind and affectionate as yours; perhaps if my daughters were less affectionate and obedient than they are, they might find their father more stern and severe. now, good-night--and may you have peaceful sleep undisturbed by troubled dreams." chapter viii. the next morning was bright and clear, the air so much warmer than that which had been left behind on their own shores, that one and all repaired to the deck after breakfast, and preferred to remain there during the greater part of the day. mr. horace dinsmore, his wife and daughter were sitting near together, the ladies occupied with some crocheting, and mr. dinsmore with a book in hand, which he did not seem to be reading, when elsie and ned raymond, who had been gamboling about the deck, came dancing up to them with a request for "more about bermuda." "you don't want to be surprised by the pretty things you will see there, eh?" queried their grandpa. "no, sir; we want to hear about them first and see them afterward; if it isn't troubling you too much," said elsie, with a coaxing look up into his face. "well, considering that you are my great-grandchildren, i think i must search my memory for something interesting on the subject. there are many picturesque creeks and bays. there are four pretty large islands--bermuda, the largest, being fifteen miles long. the strange shapes of the islands and the number of spacious lagoons make it necessary to travel about them almost entirely in boats; which is very pleasant, as you glide along under a beautiful blue sky and through waters so clear that you can see even to their lowest depths, where the fish sport among the coral rocks, and exquisitely variegated shells abound." "oh, i shall like that!" exclaimed elsie. "are the fish handsome, too, grandpa?" "some of them are strikingly so," he replied. "one called the parrot-fish is of a green color as brilliant as that of his bird namesake. his scales are as green as the fresh grass of spring-time, and each one is bordered by a pale brown line. his tail is banded with nearly every color of the rainbow, and his fins are pink." "is he good to eat, grandpa?" asked ned. "no, his flesh is bitter and poisonous to man and probably to other fishes. so they let him well alone." "well, i suppose he's glad of that," laughed ned. "the more i hear about bermuda, grandpa, the gladder i am that we are going there." "yes; and you may well be thankful that you have so good and kind a father, and that he owns this fine yacht." "yes, sir, i am that; but i'd rather be his son than anybody else's if he didn't own anything but me." "and i'm just as pleased to be his daughter," said elsie. "and i to be his grandfather-in-law," added mr. dinsmore, with comically grave look and tone. "yes, sir; grandpa travilla would have been his--papa's--father-in-law if he had lived, wouldn't he?" "yes; and almost as old as i am. he was my dear, good friend, and i gave him my daughter to be his wife." "that was you, grandma, wasn't it?" asked ned, turning to mrs. travilla. "yes, dear," she said, with a smile and a sigh, "and if he had stayed with us until now you would have loved him as you do grandpa dinsmore." "yes, indeed, grandma," came softly and sweetly from the lips of both children. there was a moment of subdued silence, then grandpa dinsmore went on. "there are many pretty creatures to be seen in the waters about bermuda. there is a kind of fish called angels, that look very bright and pretty. they have a beautiful blue stripe along the back, and long streamers of golden yellow, and they swim very gracefully about. but they are not so good as they are pretty. they pester the other fishes by nibbling at them, and so, often, get into a quarrel, fighting with a long, sharp spine which they have on each gill-cover, making ugly wounds with it on those they are fighting. "among the outer reefs we will, perhaps, see a speckled moray. he looks like a common eel, except that his body is dark-green flecked with bright yellow spots, which makes him quite a handsome fellow. there is a fish the bermuda fishermen call the 'spanish hogfish,' and when asked why they give it that name they say, 'why, sir, you see it lazes around just like a hog, and carries the spanish colors.'" "spanish colors? what are they, grandpa?" queried ned. "the fish," said mr. dinsmore, "is brownish red from his head to the middle of his body, and from there to the end of his tail a bright yellow; and those are the colors of the spanish flag." "i'm glad we are going to bermuda," remarked elsie, with a happy little sigh, "for i'm sure there must be a great deal there worth seeing." "and your father is just the kind of man to help you to a sight of all such things," responded mr. dinsmore. "yes, sir," said elsie, "papa never seems to think it too much trouble to do anything to give us pleasure." "ah, what father would, if he had such a dear little girl and boy as mine?" queried a manly voice just behind them, while a gentle hand was laid caressingly on elsie's head. "oh, papa, i didn't know you were so near," she exclaimed, with a laugh and a blush. "wont you sit down with us? grandpa dinsmore has been telling us very interesting things about bermuda." "and papa can probably tell some that will be more interesting," remarked mr. dinsmore, as the captain took possession of elsie's seat and drew her to one upon his knee. that suited the little maid exactly; in her opinion no seat was more desirable than "papa's knee." "now, papa, we're ready to hear all you know about bermuda," said ned, with a look of eager interest. "perhaps you are more ready to hear than i to tell," the captain answered, with an amused smile. "at any rate, i want, first, to hear what you have been told, lest i should waste my time and strength in repeating it." the children eagerly repeated what had been told them, the captain added a few more facts about the beautiful things to be seen in the clear bermuda waters--the coral reefs and the plants and animals that cover them; then the call to dinner came, and all left the deck for the dining-saloon. almost the whole party were on deck again immediately upon leaving the table. the older ones were scattered here and there in couples or groups, but elsie and ned sauntered along together chatting in low tones, as if not wanting to be overheard by the older people. "yes, i am sorry," sighed elsie, in reply to something her brother had said; "christmas is such a delightful time at home, and, of course, we can't expect to have one here on the yacht." "no," said ned, brightening, "but, of course, we can give christmas gifts to each other, if--if we get to bermuda in time to buy things. i s'pose there must be stores there." "surely, i should think. i'll ask mamma or papa about it." "have you any money?" "yes; i have two dollars i've been saving up to buy christmas gifts. how much have you?" "fifty cents. it isn't much, but it will buy some little things, i guess." "yes, of course it will. but, oh, ned, christmas comes monday. to-morrow is sunday; so we couldn't do any shopping, even if we were on the land; and we may as well give it up." "yes, but we are having a very good time here on the 'dolphin,' aren't we, elsie?" "yes, indeed! and it would be really shameful for us to fret and worry over missing the usual christmas gifts and pleasures." the two had been so absorbed in the subject they were discussing that they had not noticed an approaching step, but now a hand was laid on a shoulder of each, and their father's loved voice asked, in tender tones: "what is troubling my little son and daughter? tell papa, and perhaps he may find a way out of the woods." "yes, papa; they are not very thick woods," laughed elsie. "it is only that we are sorry we can't have any christmas times this winter, or remember anybody with gifts, because we can't go to any stores to buy anything." "are you quite sure of all that, daughter?" he asked, with a smile, smoothing her hair caressingly as he spoke. "i thought i was, but perhaps my father knows better," she answered, with a pleased little laugh. "well, i think a man of my age ought to know more than a little girl of yours. don't you?" "oh, yes, indeed! and i know my father knows many, many times more than i do. is there any way for us to get gifts for all these dear folks on the yacht with us, or for any of them, papa?" "yes, i remembered christmas when we were getting ready to leave home, and provided such gifts as seemed desirable for each one of my family to give to others. i will give you each your share to-night before you go to your berths, and you can decide how you will distribute them--to whom you will give each one." "but, papa, i----" elsie paused, blushing and confused. "well, dear child, what is it?" asked her father, in gentle, affectionate tones. "i was thinking, papa, that they could hardly be our gifts when you bought them and with your own money, not ours." "but i give them to you, daughter, and you may keep or give them away, just as you like. that makes them your gift quite as truly as if they had been bought with your own pocket money. does it not?" "oh, yes, papa, so it seems to me, and i know it does since you say so," exclaimed elsie joyously; ned joining in with, "oh, that's just splendid, papa! you are the best father in the world! elsie and i both think so." "well, it is very pleasant to have my children think so, however mistaken they may be," his father said, with a smile and an affectionate pat on the little boy's shoulder. "well, my dears, suppose we go down at once and attend to these matters. it will be better now than later, i think, and not so likely to keep you from getting to sleep in good season to-night." the children gave an eager, joyful assent, and their father led them down to the stateroom occupied by violet and himself, and opening a trunk there, brought to light a quantity of pretty things--ribbons, laces, jewelry, books and pictures; also cards with the names of the intended recipients to be attached to the gifts, as the young givers might see fit. that work was undertaken at once, their father helping them in their selection and attaching the cards for them. it did not take very long, and they returned to the deck in gay spirits. "for what purpose did you two children take papa down below? or was it he who took you?" asked lucilla, laughingly. "i think it was papa who took us," said elsie, smiling up into his face as she spoke. "wasn't it, papa?" "yes," he said, "and whoever asks about it may be told it was father's secret conference." "oh," cried lucilla, "it is a secret then, is it? i don't want to pry into other people's affairs; so i withdraw my question." "perhaps papa intends to take his other children--you and me, lu--down in their turn," remarked grace, laughingly, for she was sitting near her father, and had overheard the bit of chat. "i really had not thought of doing so," said the captain, "but it is a good idea. come, now, both of you," he added, leading the way. "i suppose you two have not forgotten that to-morrow will be sunday and the next day christmas?" he said, inquiringly, as they reached the saloon. "oh, no, papa; you know you helped us, before we left home, in selecting gifts for mamma vi and the children and others," said grace. "but how are we going to keep christmas here on the yacht?" "pretty much as if we were at home on the land," he answered, with a smile. "there is a christmas tree lying down in the hold. i intend having it set up here early monday morning, and some of the early risers will perhaps trim it before the late ones are out of bed. then it can be viewed, and the gifts distributed when all are ready to take part in the work and fun. now, if you wish i will show you the gifts i have prepared for my family--not including yourselves," he interpolated, with a smile. "our guests and servants here and the crew of the vessel." the offer was gladly accepted, the gifts viewed with great interest and pleasure, the girls chatting meanwhile with affectionate and respectful familiarity with their loved father. "i like your plan, father, very much indeed," said lucilla; "and as it is easy and natural for me to wake and rise early, i should like to help with the trimming of the tree, if you are willing." "certainly, daughter, i shall be glad to have you help--and to put the gifts intended for you on afterward," he added, with a smile. "yes, sir; and perhaps your daughters may treat you in the same way," she returned demurely. "i suppose you would hardly blame them for following your example?" "i ought not to, since example is said to be better than precept. we will put these things away now, go back to our friends on deck, and try to forget gifts until christmas morning." chapter ix. as on former voyages on the "dolphin," sabbath day was kept religiously by all on board the vessel. religious services--prayer, praise and the reading of a sermon--were held on deck, for the benefit of all, after which there was a bible lesson led by mr. milburn, the subject being the birth of jesus and the visits of the wise men from the east; also the story of bethlehem's shepherds and their angel visitants followed by their visit to the infant saviour. the children went to bed early that night that--as they said--christmas might come the sooner. then the captain, his older daughters, chester, and harold, had a little chat about what should be done in the morning. the young men were urgent that their assistance should be accepted in the matter of setting up and trimming the tree; the girls also put in a petition for the privilege of helping with the work. to lucilla their father answered, "you may, as i have said, for you are naturally an early bird, so that i think it cannot hurt you." then turning to grace, "i hardly think it would do for you, daughter dear; but we will let your doctor decide it," turning inquiringly to harold. "if her doctor is to decide it, he says emphatically no," said harold, with a very loverlike look down into the sweet face of his betrothed; "she will enjoy the rest of the day much better for taking her usual morning nap." "you and papa are very kind; almost too kind," returned grace, between a smile and a sigh. "but i think you are a good doctor, so i will follow your advice and papa's wishes." "that is right, my darling," responded her father, "and i hope you will have your reward in feeling well through the day." "if she doesn't, she can discharge her doctor," said lucilla in a mirthful tone. "you seem inclined to be hard upon doctors, lu," remarked harold, gravely; "but one of these days you may be glad of the services of even such an one as i." "yes, that is quite possible; and even now i am right glad to have my husband under your care; and i'm free to say that if your patients don't improve, i don't think it will be fair to blame it--their failure--on the doctor." "thank you," he said; "should you need doctoring on this trip of ours, just call upon me and i'll do the best for you that i can." "i have no doubt you would," laughed lucilla, "but i'll do my best to keep out of your hands." "that being your intention, let me advise you to go at once to your bed," returned harold, glancing at his watch. then all said good-night and dispersed to their rooms. at early dawn the three gentlemen were again in the saloon overseeing the setting up of the christmas tree, then arranging upon it a multitude of gifts from one to another of the "dolphin's" passengers, and some token of remembrance for each one of the crew; for it was not in the kind heart of the captain ever to forget or neglect any one in his employ. the other passengers, older and younger, except lucilla, who was with them in time to help with the trimming of the tree, did not emerge from their staterooms until the sun was up, shining gloriously upon the sea, in which the waves were gently rising and falling. all were fond of gazing upon the sea, but this morning their first attention was given to the tree, which seemed to have grown up in a night in the saloon, where they were used to congregate mornings, evenings and stormy days. all gathered round it and viewed its treasures with appreciative remarks; then the captain, with chester's and harold's assistance, distributed the gifts. every one had several and seemed well pleased with them. the one that gave eva the greatest pleasure had been left for her by her young husband; it was an excellent miniature likeness of himself set in gold and diamonds. she appreciated the beautiful setting, but the correct and speaking likeness was far more to her. near the tree stood a table loaded with fruits and confections of various kinds, very tempting in appearance. ned hailed it with an expression of pleasure, but his father bade him let the sweets alone until after he had eaten his breakfast. the words had scarcely left the captain's lips when a voice was heard, apparently coming from the skylight overhead: "say, pete, d'ye see them goodies piled up on that thar table down thar? my, but they looks temptin'." "yes," seemed to come from another voice, "wouldn't i like to git in thar and help myself? it's odd and real mean how some folks has all the good things and other folks none." "course it is. but, oh, i'll tell you. they'll be goin' out to breakfast presently, then let's go down thar where the goodies is, and help, ourselves." "yes, let's." everybody in the saloon had stopped talking and seemed to be listening in surprise to the colloquy of the two stowaways--for such they apparently were--but now ned broke the silence: "why, how did they get on board? must be stowaways and have been in the hold all this time. oh, i guess they are hungry enough by this time; so no wonder they want the candies and things." "perhaps cousin ronald can tell us something about them," laughed lucilla. "acquaintances of mine, you think, lassie?" sniffed the old gentleman. "truly, you are most complimentary. but i have no more fancy for such trash than have you." "ah, well, now, cousin, i really don't imagine those remarks were made by any very bad or objectionable fellows," remarked captain raymond, in a tone of amusement. "no," said mr. dinsmore, "we certainly should not be hard on them if they are poor and hungry." "which they must be if they have been living in the hold ever since we left our native shores," laughed violet. "oh, now, i know, it was just cousin ronald, and not any real person," cried ned, dancing about in delight. "and so i'm not a real person?" said mr. lilburn, in a deeply hurt tone. "oh, cousin ronald, i didn't mean that," said ned, penitently, "only that you weren't two boys, but just pretending to be." at that everybody laughed, and mr. lilburn said: "very true; i never was two boys and am no longer even one. well, i think you and all of us may feel safe in leaving the good things on the table there when we are called to breakfast, for i am sure those fellows will not meddle with them." the summons to the table had just sounded, and now was obeyed by all with cheerful alacrity. everybody was in fine spirits, the meal an excellent one, and all partook of it with appetite, while the flow of conversation was steady, bright and mirthful. they had their morning service directly after the meal, then went upon deck and to their surprise found they were in sight of bermuda. they were glad to see it, though the voyage had been a pleasant one to all and really beneficial to the ailing ones, for whose benefit it was undertaken more particularly than for the enjoyment of the others. also it was hoped and expected that their sojourn in and about the islands would be still more helpful and delightful; and so indeed it proved. they tarried in that neighborhood several weeks, spending most of their time on the vessel, or in her small boats--many of the water-ways being too narrow and shallow to be traversed by the yacht, but going from place to place on the land in a way to see all that was interesting there. chapter x. it was a lovely moonlight evening; the "dolphin's" captain and all his family and passengers were gathered together upon the deck. it had been a day of sight-seeing and wandering from place to place about the islands, and they were weary enough to fully enjoy the rest and quiet now vouchsafed them. captain raymond broke a momentary silence by saying: "i hope, my friends, that you can all feel that you have had a pleasant sojourn in and about these islands?" "indeed we have," replied several voices. "i am glad to hear it," returned the captain, heartily; "and now the question is, shall we tarry here longer or go on our southward way to visit other places, where we will escape the rigors of winter in our more northern homes?" no one spoke for a moment; then mr. dinsmore said: "let the majority decide. i am perfectly satisfied to go on or to stay here, as you, captain, and they may wish." "and i echo my husband's sentiments and feelings," remarked mrs. rose dinsmore, pleasantly. "and you, mother?" asked the captain, turning to mrs. travilla. "i, too, am entirely willing to go or stay, as others may wish," she replied, in her own sweet voice. "and you, evelyn?" asked the captain, turning to her. "i feel that it would be delightful either to go or stay, father," she answered, with a smile and a blush. the others were quite as non-committal, but after some further chat on the subject it was decided that they would leave bermuda the next morning, and, taking a southerly course, probably make porto rico their next halting place. as usual, lucilla woke at an early hour. evidently the vessel was still stationary, and anxious to see it start she rose and made her toilet very quietly, lest she should disturb her still sleeping husband, then left the room and stole noiselessly through the saloon up to the deck, where she found her father overseeing the lifting of the anchor. "ah, good-morning, daughter," he said, with a smile, as she reached his side. "you are an early bird as usual," ending his sentence with a clasp of his arm about her waist and a kiss upon her lips. "yes, papa," she laughed, "who wouldn't be an early bird to get such a token of love from such a father as mine?" "and what father wouldn't be ready and glad to bestow it upon such a daughter as mine?" he responded, repeating his loving caress. "you have enjoyed your trip thus far, daughter, have you not?" "yes, indeed, papa. we are bound for porto rico now, are we not?" "yes, i think that will be our first stopping place; though perhaps we may not land at all, but merely sail round it, viewing it from the sea." "and perhaps you may treat cuba in the same way?" "very possibly. i shall act in regard to both as the majority of my passengers may wish." the anchor was now up, and the vessel gliding through the water. the captain and lucilla paced the deck to and fro, taking a farewell look at the receding islands and talking of the pleasure they had found in visiting them, particularly in exploring the many creeks and bays, with their clear waters so full of beautiful shells and fish, so different from those to be found in their land. "i shall always look back with pleasure upon this visit to bermuda, father," lucilla said, with a grateful smile up into his eyes. "i am very glad you have enjoyed it, daughter," he replied; "as i think every one of our party has. and i am hoping that our wanderings further to the south may prove not less interesting and enjoyable." "yes, sir, i hope so. i shall feel great interest in looking upon cuba and porto rico--particularly the first--because of what our men did and endured there in the late war with spain. how pleasant it was that the porto ricans were so ready and glad to be freed from the domination of spain and taken into our union." just then harold joined them, and with him came little ned. pleasant good-mornings were exchanged. then others of their party followed, two or three at a time, till all were on deck enjoying the sweet morning air and the view of the fast-receding islands. then came the call to breakfast, followed by the morning service of prayer and praise, and after that they returned to the deck. as usual, the children were soon beside their loved grandmother, mrs. elsie travilla. "well, dears, we have had a very good time at bermuda, haven't we?" she said, smiling lovingly upon them. "yes, ma'am," said elsie. "do you think we will have as good a time where we are going now?" "i hope so, my dear. i believe porto rico is to be the first land we touch at. would you like me to tell you something of its beauties and its history?" "yes, indeed, grandma," both children answered, in a tone of eager assent, and she began at once. "the name--porto rico--was given it by the spaniards, and means 'the gateway of wealth.' it was discovered by columbus in . it is about half as large as new jersey. through its center is a range of mountains called the luquillo. the highest peak, yunque, can be seen from a distance of sixty-eight miles. porto rico is a beautiful island. the higher parts of the hills are covered by forests; immense herds of cattle are pastured on the plains. the land is fertile and they raise cotton, corn, rice and almost every kind of tropical fruit." "are there any rivers, grandma?" asked ned. "nine small ones," she answered. "are there any towns?" "oh yes, quite a good many; large ones. ponce, the capital, has a good many thousands of inhabitants, and some fine buildings. san juan, too, is quite a large place; it stands on morro island, which forms the north side of the harbor and is separated from the mainland by a narrow creek called the channel of san antonio. at the entrance to san juan's harbors is a lighthouse on morro point. it is one hundred and seventy-one feet above the sea, and its fixed light is visible for eighteen miles over the waters." "oh," cried ned, "let's watch out for it when we are coming that near." "it will be very well for you to do so," his grandma said, with a smile; then went on with her account of porto rico. "the island has much to recommend it; the climate is salubrious, and there are no snakes or reptiles. it has valuable minerals, too--gold, copper, lead; also coal. san juan is lighted by both gas and electricity. "the spaniards were very cruel to the poor indians who inhabited porto rico when columbus discovered it. it is said that in a hundred years they had killed five hundred thousand of men, women and children." "oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed elsie. "and they killed so, _so_ many of the poor natives in peru and in mexico. i don't wonder that god has let their nation grow so poor and weak." "the porto ricans were tired of being governed by them when we began our war with spain to help the poor cubans to get free," continued grandma elsie. "our government and people did not know that, but thought porto rico should be taken from spain, as well as cuba. so as soon as santiago was taken, a strong force was sent against ponce. "the 'wasp' was the first vessel to arrive. it had been expected that they would have to shell the city, but as the 'wasp' steamed close to the shore a great crowd of citizens could be seen gathered there. they were not behaving like enemies, and the troops on the 'wasp' were at a loss to understand what it meant; therefore, the gunners stood ready to fire at an instant's warning, when ensign rowland curtin was sent ashore bearing a flag of truce, four men with him. "the citizens were cheering as if frantic with joy over their coming, and as soon as they landed overwhelmed them with gifts of tobacco, cigars, cigarettes, bananas, and other good things." "oh, wasn't that nice!" exclaimed elsie. "i think they showed their good sense in preferring to be ruled by our people rather than by the spaniards." "as soon as the people could be calm enough to listen," continued grandma elsie, "ensign curtin announced that he had come to demand the surrender of the city and port, and asked to see the civil or military authorities. "some of the civil officials were there, but they could not surrender the city, as that must be the act of the military powers. there was a telephone at hand, and the ensign ordered a message sent to colonel san martin, the commandant, telling him that if he did not come forward and surrender the city in the course of half an hour, it would be bombarded. "the garrison had been, and still were, debating among themselves what they should do, but as soon as they heard of this message they began looting the stores and shops, cramming underwear and clothing upon their backs and in their trousers, to check and hold the bullets which they were certain the americans would send after them, as they scampered off. "ensign curtin went back to his vessel, and, soon after, commander c. h. davis, of the 'dixie,' was rowed ashore. there a note was handed him from colonel san martin, asking on what terms he demanded the surrender of the city. he answered that it must be unconditional. at the request of the commandant, however, he made the terms a little different. then the padded men of the garrison waddled out of town, leaving one hundred and fifty rifles and fourteen thousand rounds of ammunition behind. "lieutenant haines, commanding the marines of the 'dixie,' landed and hoisted the stars and stripes over the custom-house at the port of ponce, the onlookers cheering most heartily. after that, lieutenant murdoch and surgeon heiskell rode to the city, three miles distant, where the people fairly went wild with joy, dancing and shouting, '_viva los americanos. viva puerto rico libre._'" "sensible folks i think they were to be so glad to get away from spain and into the united states," remarked ned, with a pleased smile. "yes, i think they were," said grandma elsie, "for it was gaining liberty--freedom from most oppressive tyranny." she had begun her talk to the two children alone, but now quite a group had gathered about them--dr. harold travilla and grace raymond, chester and lucilla dinsmore and mrs. evelyn raymond. "i am very desirous to see porto rico," said harold. "it must be a garden spot--fertile and beautiful. as we draw near it i mean to be on the lookout for el yunque." "what's that, uncle?" asked ned. "the highest point of land on the island, nearly four thousand feet high. the meaning of the name is the anvil." "porto rico being in the torrid zone, it must have a very hot climate. the weather must have been very oppressive for our troops--taking it in the height of summer," remarked grace. "yes," said grandma elsie; "but the climate is more agreeable than that of cuba or of many places farther north, because of the land breezes that prevail, coming from both north and south." "it is a beautiful and delightful island," remarked harold. "i have often thought i should, some day, pay it a visit." "are we likely to land there?" asked his mother. "i do not know, mother," he answered; "but i presume the captain will say that shall be just as his passengers wish." "yes, i am sure father will say we may all do exactly as we please," said lucilla; "go ashore, or stay quietly on the yacht while others go and return." "it cannot be now the delightful place to visit that it was before the hurricane of last august," remarked chester. "no," said grandma elsie, "and i think i, for one, do not care to land on the island until they have had more time to recover from the fearful effects of that terrible storm." "what mischief did it do, grandma?" asked ned; "were there houses destroyed and people killed?" "yes; a great many," she answered, with a sigh. "i have read that in one district it was estimated that the damage done to houses and crops would reach nine hundred thousand in gold, and that in the valley of the rio de grande over a thousand persons disappeared, and were supposed to have been drowned by the sudden rise and overflow of the river." "and you, mother, i know gave liberally to help repair the damages," said harold. "i was better able than many others who may have been quite as willing," she responded, "and i think i can do still more, if i find the need is still urgent." "yes, mother dear, you seem always ready and glad to help any one who needs it," said harold, giving her a look full of proud, loving admiration. captain raymond had drawn near the group just in time to hear harold's last remark. "quite true, harold," he said, "but who is to be the happy recipient of mother's bounty this time?" "we were talking of the losses of the unfortunate porto ricans in last august's fearful storm," replied harold. "mother, as you know, has already given help, and expresses herself as ready to do more if it is needed." "and will do it, i know," said the captain. "i hope, though, that my dear grandma wont give everything away and have nothing left for herself," said elsie raymond, with a loving look up into grandma elsie's face. "i should not like to have her do that either," the captain said, with a smile. "but the bible tells us, 'he that hath pity upon the poor, lendeth unto the lord, and that which he hath given will he pay him again.'" "a promise that none of us need be afraid to trust," said grandma elsie, with a happy look and smile. "do you think of visiting any part of the island, captain?" "that shall be as my passengers wish," he replied; "we can consider the matter and talk it over while on our way there. my present plan is to go directly to san juan. we may stay some hours or days there, those going ashore who wish, the others remaining on the vessel. we may make the circuit of the island, entirely or in part, keeping near enough to the land to get a pretty good view of its beauties." "will this be your first visit to porto rico, captain?" queried chester. "no, i paid it a flying visit some years ago; and then went up the mountains to caguas and visited the dark cave of aguas buenas." "did it pay?" asked chester. "hardly. the outside journey, though difficult, did pay, but the darkness of the cave, the multitudes of bats flying in your face, and the danger of the guides' torches going out, leaving you unable to find your way to the opening, make the expedition anything but safe or pleasant. i shall never venture in there again or advise any friend to do so." "are you going to take us to cuba, too, papa?" asked elsie. "if my passengers wish to go there." "oh, i think they will; this one does, anyhow," laughed the little girl. "don't you think it would be pleasanter to visit it after it has had time to recover from the war?" asked lucilla. "perhaps papa will bring us a second time after that?" elsie said, with a smile up into his face. "that is quite possible," he answered, returning the smile. "please, papa, tell us something about cuba now, won't you?" pleaded ned. "very willingly, if you all care to hear it," returned the captain, and a general assent being given, he went on: "i think much of it you will all understand better, if told you while looking upon the scenes where it occurred. however, since you wish it, i shall tell at least a part of the story now. "doubtless, you all know that cuba was discovered by columbus on october , . he said of it at one time: 'it is the most beautiful land that eyes ever beheld'; at another: 'its waters are filled with excellent ports, its rivers are magnificent and profound'; and yet again, 'as far as the day surpasses night in brightness and splendor, it surpasses all other countries.' "he found it beautiful not only along the shore where he first landed, but in the interior also; flowers, fruits, maize and cotton in their abundance showed the fertility of the soil. and it was inhabited by a peaceful people who gave him and his men a glad welcome, imagining them to be superior beings, and little dreaming how they were to suffer at their hands. columbus describes them as tall and straight, like the natives of north america, of tawny complexion, and gentle disposition, being easy to influence by their masters. they were a naturally indolent race, which was not strange, considering how easy it was for them to have a comfortable living with very little exertion; there were abundance of wild fruits, and corn and cotton could be raised with little exertion; abundance of fish could be easily obtained from the waters, and if they wanted meat, a little animal resembling a rat in appearance, but tasting like a rabbit, could be had for the hunting. so it would seem they lived easy, contented and peaceful lives; and why should the spaniards think they had a right to rob and enslave them." "why indeed," exclaimed lucilla. "the indians--if able to do so--would have had just as good a right to go over to spain and enslave them." "but with the spaniards might made right," said chester. "but there were only a few spaniards with columbus and a very great many natives on these islands," remarked little elsie, in a puzzled tone. "i wonder they didn't kill the spaniards as soon as they began trying to make slaves of them." "at first," said her father, "they took the spaniards to be a race of superior beings, and gladly welcomed them to their shores. it would, doubtless, have been easy for them to crush that handful of worn-out men, and no doubt they would if they could have foreseen what their conduct toward them would be; but they mistook them for friends, and treated them as such. one cazique gave them a grand reception and feasted them amid songs and their rude music. games, dancing and singing followed, then they were conducted to separate lodges and each provided with a cotton hammock, that proved a delightful couch to pass the night upon." "and the spaniards took all that kindness at the hands of those poor things and repaid them with the basest robbery and cruelty," exclaimed elsie. "yes," said her father; "they even repaid that most generous hospitality by seizing some of the youngest, strongest and most beautiful of their entertainers and carrying them to spain, where they were paraded before the vulgar gaze of the jeering crowd, then sold into slavery. "one of their venerable caziques gave to columbus, when he came the second time to the island, a basket of luscious fruit, saying to him, as he did so: 'whether you are divinities or mortal men, we know not. you have come into these countries with a force, against which, were we inclined to resist, it would be folly. we are all, therefore, at your mercy; but if you are men, subject to morality, like ourselves, you cannot be unapprised that after this life there is another, wherein a very different portion is allotted to good and bad men. if, then, you expect to die, and believe, with us, that every one is to be rewarded in a future state according to his conduct in the present, you will do no hurt to those who do none to you.'" "that old chief was certainly a very wise man for a heathen," remarked chester. "and how strange that the spaniards could treat so shamefully such innocent and friendly people," said evelyn. "yes," exclaimed lucilla, "i think we may all be thankful that there is no spanish blood in us." "which fact makes us the more to be blamed if we indulge in oppression and cruelty," said her father. "papa, did that old king live long enough to see how very cruel the spaniards were to his people?" asked elsie. "that i cannot tell," replied the captain, "but by the time another ten years had passed by, the natives of cuba had learned that the love of the spaniards for gold was too great ever to be satisfied, and that they themselves could not be safe with the spaniards there; they were so alarmed that when diego columbus sent an armed force of three hundred men to begin to colonize cuba, they resisted their landing. but they, the indians, were only naked savages with frail spears and wooden swords, while the invading foes were old-world warriors who had been trained on many a hard-fought battlefield, armed with deadly weapons, protected by plate armor, and having bloodhounds to help in their cruel attempt to rob and subjugate the rightful owners of the soil. so they succeeded in their wicked designs; hundreds of those poor indians were killed in cold blood, others spared to slavery worse than death. from being free men they became slaves to one of the most cruel and tyrannical races of the world. and they were not only abused there on their own island, but hundreds of them were taken to europe and sold for slaves in the markets of seville. that was to raise money to pay the expenses of their captors." "why," exclaimed ned, "the spaniards treated them as if they were just animals, instead of people." "papa, were they--the indians--heathen?" asked elsie. "they had no images or altars, no temples, but they believed in a future existence and in a god living above the blue-domed sky," replied the captain. "but they knew nothing of jesus and the way of salvation, and it seems the spaniards did not tell them of him or give them the bible." "no," said grandma elsie, "rome did not allow them the bible for themselves." "are there a good many wild flowers in cuba, papa?" asked elsie. "yes; a great many, and of every color and tint imaginable--flowers growing wild in the woods. the foliage of the trees is scarcely less beautiful, and their tops are alive with birds of gayly-colored plumage. i have been speaking of wild, uncultivated land. the scene is even more inviting where man has been at work transforming the wildwood into cultivated fields; he has fenced them off with stone walls, which have warm russet-brown tints and are covered here and there with vines and creepers bearing bright flowers. the walks and avenues are bordered with orange-trees in blossom and fruit at the same time, both looking lovely in their setting of deep green leaves. but you have seen such in louisiana." "yes, papa, and they are beautiful," said elsie. "there must be a great deal worth seeing in cuba, but i'll not care to land on it if you older people don't want to." "well, we will leave that question to be decided in the future," the captain said, smiling down into the bright little face. "i think i have read," said evelyn, "that columbus at first thought cuba not an island but a part of the mainland?" "yes," replied the captain, "but the natives assured him that it was an island; on his second trip, however, in , he reiterated his previous belief and called the land juana, after juan, the son of ferdinand and isabella. afterward he changed it to fernandina, in honor of ferdinand; still later to santiago, the name of the patron saint of spain, after that to ave maria. but the name cuba clung to the island and was never lost. "the indians there were a peaceable race. they called themselves ciboneyes. they had nine independent caciques, and, as i believe i have already told you, they believed in a supreme being and the immortality of the soul." "really, they seem to me to have been more christian than the spaniards who came and robbed them of their lands and their liberty," said evelyn. chapter xi. the "dolphin" and her passengers and crew reached porto rico in safety, having made the voyage without detention or mishap. the yacht lay in the harbor of san juan for nearly a week, while its passengers made various little excursions here and there to points of interest upon the island. then the yacht made its circuit, keeping near enough to the shore for a good view of the land, in which all were greatly interested--especially in those parts where there had been some fighting with the spaniards in the late war. "now, father, you are going to take us to santiago next, are you not?" asked lucilla, as they steamed away from the porto rican coast. "yes," he replied, "i am satisfied that you all take a particular interest in that place, feeling that you would like to see the scene of the naval battle and perhaps to look from a distance upon some of the places where there was fighting on land." "it will be interesting," said little elsie, "but, oh, how glad i am that the fighting is all over!" "as i am," said her father; "but if it wasn't, i should not think of taking my family and friends to the scene." "that was a big battle," said ned. "i'm glad i'm going to see the place of the fight; though i'd rather see manila and its bay, because brother max had a share in that fight. uncle harold, you came pretty near having a share in the santiago one, didn't you?" "i was near enough to be in sight of some of it," said harold; "though not so near as to some of the fighting on the land." "that must have been a very exciting time for you and your fellows," remarked mr. lilburn. "it was, indeed; there was slaughter enough on land," said harold; "and though we were pretty confident that victory would perch upon our banners in the sea fight, we could not hope it would prove so nearly bloodless for our side." "the sea fight?" "yes; that on the land was harder on our fellows, particularly because our unreasonable congressmen had failed to furnish for them the smokeless powder and mauser bullets that gave so great an advantage to the spaniards." "yes, indeed," said the captain, "that absolute freedom from smoke made it impossible to tell exactly whence came those stinging darts that struck men down, and the great penetrating power of the mauser bullet made them doubly deadly. they would cut through a palm-tree without losing anything of their force, and, in several instances, two or more men were struck down by one and the same missile." "it was very sad that that gallant young soldier, captain capron, was killed by that first volley," remarked violet. "yes," said her mother, "i remember reading the account of his death, and that he came of a family of soldiers; that his father, engaged with his battery before the spanish lines, left it for a brief time and came over to where the body of his son lay on the rank grass, and, looking for a moment on the still features, stooped and kissed the dead face, saying, 'well done, boy, well done.' that was all, and he went back to the battle." "yes, mother," said harold, in moved tones, "my heart aches yet when i think of that poor, bereaved but brave father. ah, war is a dreadful thing, even when undertaken from the good motive which influenced our people, who felt so much sympathy for the poor, abused cubans." "the americans are, as a rule, kind-hearted folk," remarked mr. lilburn, "and i doubt if there are any troops in the world superior to them in action; not even those of my own land." "no," said the captain, "they were brave fellows and good fighters, having seen service in our northwest and southwest, on the prairies, among the mountains and on the mexican frontier, so that war was no new thing to them, and they went about it calmly even in so unaccustomed a place as a tropical forest." "papa, that captain capron wasn't instantly killed by that mauser bullet, was he?" asked grace. "no; he was struck down early in the action and knew that his wound was mortal, but he called to a man near him to give him the rifle that lay by the side of a dead soldier; then, propped up against a tree, he fired at the enemy with it until his strength failed, when he fell forward to die." "what a brave fellow! it is dreadful to have such men killed," said grace, her voice trembling with emotion. "another man, private heffener, also fought leaning against a tree until he bled to death," said harold. "then there was trooper rowland, a cowboy from new mexico, who was shot through the lungs early in that fight. he said nothing about it, but kept his place on the firing-line till roosevelt noticed the blood on his shirt and sent him to the hospital. he was soon back again and seeing him colonel roosevelt said, 'i thought i sent you to the hospital.' 'yes, sir; you did,' replied rowland, 'but i didn't see that they could do much for me there, so i came back.' he stayed there until the fight ended. then he went again to the hospital. upon examining him the doctors decided that he must be sent back to the states, with which decision he was greatly disgusted. that night he got possession of his rifle and pack, slipped out of the hospital, made his way back to his command and stayed there." "perhaps," said grandma elsie, "you have not all read marshall's experiences then and there. it happens that i have just been re-reading an extract which has interested me greatly. let me read it aloud that you may all have the benefit of it. it is a description of the scene in the field hospital where badly wounded men lay crowded together awaiting their turns under the surgeon's knife. shall i read it?" there was a universal note of assent from her hearers, and she began. "there is one incident of the day which shines out in my memory above all others now, as i lie in a new york hospital, writing. it occurred at the field hospital. about a dozen of us were lying there. a continual chorus of moans rose through the tree-branches overhead. the surgeons, with hands and bared arms dripping, and clothes literally saturated, with blood, were straining every nerve to prepare the wounded for the journey down to siboney. behind me lay captain mcclintock, with his lower leg-bones literally ground to powder. he bore his pain as gallantly as he had led his men, and that is saying much. i think major brodie was also there. it was a doleful group. amputation and death stared its members in their gloomy faces. "suddenly, a voice started softly: 'my country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee i sing.' "other voices took it up: 'land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrims' pride----' "the quivering, quavering chorus, punctuated by groans and made spasmodic by pain, trembled up from that little group of wounded americans in the midst of the cuban solitude--the pluckiest, most heartfelt song that human beings ever sang. there was one voice that did not quite keep up with the others. it was so weak that i did not hear it until all the rest had finished with the line: 'let freedom ring.' "then, halting, struggling, faint, it repeated slowly: 'land--of--the--pilgrims'--pride, let freedom----' "the last word was a woeful cry. one more son had died as died the fathers." there was a moment's pause when grandma elsie had finished reading, and there were tears in the eyes of many of her hearers. it was harold who broke the silence. "that battle of guasimas was a complete victory for our forces, but dearly paid for," he said; "of the nine hundred and sixty-four men engaged, sixteen were killed and fifty-two wounded; thirty-four of the wounded and eight of the killed were rough riders." "and a scarcity of doctors seems to have caused great suffering to our wounded men," grandma elsie said, with a sigh. "yes; there were too few of us," said harold, "and, through somebody's blundering, needed supplies were also scarce. i think our men were wonderfully patient, and it is hard to forgive those whose carelessness and inefficiency caused them so much unnecessary suffering." "yes, it is," said his mother; "war is a dreadful thing. how the people of beleaguered santiago suffered during the siege, and especially when they were sent out of it that they might escape the bombardment. think of eighteen to twenty thousand having to take refuge in that little town, el caney, foul with the effluvium from unburied mules and horses, and even human victims of the battle; houses so crowded that they could not even lie down on the floors, but had to pass their nights sitting on them; and food so scarce that one small biscuit sold for two dollars, and seven dollars was refused for a chicken." "it was dreadful, dreadful indeed!" said mrs. lilburn. "yet not so bad as it would have been to let spain continue her outrageous cruelty to the poor cubans," said evelyn. "no," said lucilla, "i should be sorry, indeed, to have to render up the account that weyler and the rest of them will in the judgment day." "i think he is worse than a savage," sighed mrs. lilburn. "i should think if he had any heart or conscience he would never be able to enjoy a morsel of food for thinking of the multitude of poor creatures--men, women and children--he has starved to death." chapter xii. our friends were favored with pleasant weather on their voyage from porto rico to cuba. all were gathered upon deck when they came in sight of "the pearl (or queen) of the antillies," "the ever-faithful isle," as the spaniards were wont to call it, and they gazed upon it with keen interest; an interest that deepened as they drew near the scene of schley's victory over the spanish fleet. captain raymond and dr. harold travilla, being the only ones of their number who had visited the locality before, explained the whereabouts of each american vessel, when, on that sunday morning of july third, that cloud of smoke told the watchers on the american ships that the enemy was coming out. every one in the little company had heard the battle described; therefore, a very brief account, accompanying the pointing out of the progress of different vessels during the fight, and where each of the spanish ones came to her end, was all that was needed. while they looked and talked, the "dolphin" moved slowly along that they might get a view of every part of the scene of action on that day of naval victory in the cause of the down-trodden and oppressed cubans. that accomplished, they returned to the neighborhood of santiago, and entering the narrow channel which gives entrance to its bay, passed on into and around that, gazing on the steep hills that come down to the water's edge, on morro and the remains of earthworks and batteries. they did not care to go into the city, but steamed out into the sea again and made the circuit of the island, keeping near enough to the shore to get a pretty good view of most of the places they cared to see--traveling by day and anchoring at night. "having completed the circuit of cuba, where do we go next, captain?" asked mr. dinsmore, as the party sat on deck in the evening of the day on which they had completed their trip around the island. "if it suits the wishes of all my passengers, we will go down to jamaica, pay a little visit there, pass on in a southeasterly direction to trinidad, then perhaps to brazil," captain raymond said, in reply, then asked to hear what each one present thought of the plan. every one seemed well pleased, and it was decided that they should start the next morning for jamaica. the vessel was moving the next morning before many of her passengers were out of their berths. elsie raymond noticed it as soon as she woke, and hastened with her toilet that she might join her father on deck. she was always glad to be with him, and she wanted to see whatever they might pass on their way across the sea to jamaica. the sun was shining, but it was still early when she reached the deck, where she found both her father and eldest sister. both greeted her with smiles and caresses. "almost as early a bird as your sister lu," the captain said, patting the rosy cheek and smiling down into the bright eyes looking up so lovingly into his. "yes, papa, i want to see all i can on the way to jamaica. will we get there to-day?" "i think we will if the 'dolphin' does her work according to her usual fashion. but what do you know about jamaica, the island we are bound for?" "not so very much, papa--only--she belongs to england, doesn't she, papa?" "yes. her name means 'land of wood and water,' and she lies about ninety miles to the south of cuba." "is she a very big island, papa?" "nearly as large as our state of tennessee. crossing it from east to west is a heavily-timbered ridge called the blue mountains, and there are many streams of water which flow from them down to the shores. none of them is navigable, however, except the black river, which affords a passage for small craft for thirty miles into the interior." "shall we find a good harbor for our 'dolphin,' father?" asked lucilla. "yes, indeed! excellent harbors are everywhere to be found. the best is a deep, capacious basin in the southeast quarter of the island. it washes the most spacious and fertile of the plains between the hill country and the coast. around this inlet and within a few miles of each other are all the towns of any considerable size--spanish town, port royal, and kingston." "is it a very hot place, papa?" asked the little girl. "on the coast; but much cooler up on those mountains i spoke of. the climate is said to be very healthful, and many invalids go there from our united states." "they have earthquakes there sometimes, have they not, father?" asked lucilla. "they are not quite unheard of," he replied; "in there was one which almost overwhelmed port royal; but that being more than two hundred years ago, need not, i think, add much to our anxieties in visiting the island." "that's a long, long time," said elsie, thoughtfully, "so i hope they won't have one while we are there. is it a fertile island, papa? i hope they have plenty of good fruits." "they have fruits of both tropical and temperate climates; they have spices, vanilla and many kinds of food plants; they have sugar and coffee; they export sugar, rum, pineapples and other fruits; also cocoa, ginger, pimento and logwood and cochineal." "it does seem to be very fruitful," said elsie. "have they railroads and telegraphs, papa?" "two hundred miles of railroad and seven hundred of telegraph. there are coast batteries, a volunteer force and a british garrison; and there are churches and schools." "oh, all that seems very nice! i hope we will have as good a time there as we had at bermuda." "i hope so, daughter," he said. "ah, here come the rest of our little family and your uncle harold." affectionate good-mornings were exchanged; then the talk ran on the subject uppermost in all their minds--jamaica, and what its attractions were likely to be for them. "i have been thinking," said harold, "that some spot on the central heights may prove a pleasant and beneficial place for some weeks' sojourn for all of us, the ailing ones in particular." at that moment his mother joined them and he broached the same idea to her. "if we find a pleasant and comfortable lodging place i am willing to try it," she replied, in her usual cheery tones. at that moment came the call to breakfast; speedily responded to by all the passengers. appetites and viands were alike good and the chat was cheerful and lively. the weather was clear and warm enough to make the deck, where a gentle breeze could be felt, the most agreeable lounging-place, as well as the best, for enjoying the view of the sea and any passing vessel. as usual, the children presently found their way to their grandma elsie's side and asked for a story or some information concerning the island toward which they were journeying. "you know something about it, i suppose?" she said, inquiringly. "yes, ma'am; papa was telling me this morning about the mountains and towns, and harbors, and fruits and other things that they raise," said elsie; "but there wasn't time for him to tell everything; so won't you please tell us something of its history?" "yes, dear; grandma is always glad to give you both pleasure and information. jamaica was discovered by columbus during his second voyage, in . the spaniards took possession of it in ." "had they any right to, grandma?" asked ned. "no, no more than the indians would have had to cross the ocean to europe and take possession of their country. and the spaniards not only robbed the indians of their lands but abused them so cruelly that it is said that in fifty years the native population had entirely disappeared. in the british took the island from spain, and some years later it was ceded to england by the treaty of madrid in ." "and does england own it yet, grandma?" asked elsie. "yes; there has been some fighting on the island--trouble between the whites and the negroes--but things are going smoothly now." "so that we may hope to have a good time there, i suppose," said ned. "yes, i think we may," replied his grandma. "but haven't we had a good time in all our journeying about old ocean and her islands?" to that question both children answered with a hearty, "yes indeed, grandma." chapter xiii. the next morning found the "dolphin" lying quietly at anchor in the harbor in the inlet around which are the principal towns of the island--spanish town, port royal and kingston. all were well enough to enjoy little excursions about the island, in carriages or cars, and some weeks were spent by them in the mountains, all finding the air there very pleasant and the invalids evidently gaining in health and strength. the change had been a rest to them all, but early in march they were glad to return to the yacht and set sail for trinidad, which they had decided should be their next halting place. it was a pleasant morning and, as usual, old and young were gathered upon the deck, the two children near their grandmother. "grandma," said elsie, "i suppose you know all about trinidad, where papa is taking us now, and if it won't trouble you to do so, i'd like very much to have you tell ned and me about it." "i shall not feel it any trouble to do so, little granddaughter," was the smiling rejoinder, "and if you and ned grow weary of the subject before i am through, you have only to say so and i will stop. "trinidad is the most southerly of the west india islands and belongs to great britain. it was first discovered by columbus in and given the name of trinidad by him, because three mountain summits were first seen from the masthead. but it was not until that a permanent settlement was made there. in its chief town, san josede oruha, was burned by sir walter raleigh; but the island continued in spain's possession till , when it fell into the hands of the british and it was made theirs by treaty in ." "how large is it, grandma?" asked ned. "about fifty miles long and from thirty to thirty-five wide. it is very near to venezuela, separated from it by the gulf of paria, and the extreme points on the west coast are only the one thirteen and the other nine miles from it. the channel to the north is called the dragon's mouth; it is the deepest; the southern channel is shallow, owing to the deposits brought down by the orinoco, and the gulf, too, is growing more shallow from the same cause." "are there mountains, grandma?" asked ned. "yes; mountains not so high as those on some of the other caribbean islands; they extend along the northern coast from east to west; they have forests of stately trees and along their lower edges overhanging mangroves, dipping into the sea. there is a double-peaked mountain called tamana, and from it one can look down upon the lovely and fertile valleys and plains of the other part of the island. there are some tolerably large rivers and several good harbors." "are there towns on it, grandma?" asked ned. "yes; the chief one, called port of spain, is one of the finest towns in the west indies. it was first built of wood, and was burned down in , but has since been rebuilt of stone found in the neighborhood. the streets are long, wide, clean, well paved and shaded with trees. "san fernando is the name of another town, and there are, besides, two or three pretty villages. near one of them, called la brea, is a pitch lake composed of bituminous matter floating on fresh water." "i don't think i'd want to take a sail on it," said elsie. "trinidad is a warm place, isn't it, grandma?" "yes; the climate is hot and moist; it is said to be the hottest of the west india islands." "then i'm glad it is winter now when we are going there." "yes; i think winter is the best season for paying a visit there," said her grandma. "i suppose we are going to one of the towns," said ned. "aren't we, papa?" as his father drew near. "yes, to the capital, called port of spain. i was there some years ago. shall i tell you about it?" "oh, yes sir! please do," answered both children, and a number of the grown people drew near to listen. "it is a rather large place, having some thirty or forty thousand inhabitants. outside of the town is a large park, where there are villas belonging to people in good circumstances. they are pleasant, comfortable-looking dwellings with porches and porticoes, gardens in front or lawns with many varieties of trees--bread-fruit, oranges, mangoes, pawpaws--making a pleasant shade and bearing delightful fruits; and there is a great abundance of flowers." "all that sounds very pleasant, captain," said mr. lilburn, "but i fear there must be some unpleasant things to encounter." "mosquitoes, for instance?" queried the captain. "yes, i remember froude's description of one that he says he killed and examined through a glass. bewick, with the inspiration of genius, had drawn his exact likeness as the devil--a long black stroke for a body, a nick for a neck, horns on the head, and a beak for a mouth, spindle arms, and longer spindle legs, two pointed wings and a tail. he goes on to say that he had been warned to be on the lookout for scorpions, centipedes, jiggers, and land crabs, which would bite him if he walked slipperless over the floor in the dark. of those he met none; but the mosquito of trinidad was enough by himself, being, for malice, mockery, and venom of tooth and trumpet, without a match in the world." "dear me, papa, how can anybody live there?" exclaimed grace. "froude speaks of seeking safety in tobacco-smoke," replied her father, with a quizzical smile. "you might do that; or try the only other means of safety mentioned by him--hiding behind the lace curtains with which every bed is provided." "but we can't stay in bed all the time, papa," exclaimed elsie. "no, but most of the time when you are out of bed you keep off the mosquitoes with a fan." "and if we find them quite unendurable we can sail away from trinidad," said violet. "perhaps we are coming to the island at a better time of the year than froude did, as regards the mosquito plague," remarked grandma elsie. "ah, mother, i am afraid they are bad and troublesome all the year round in these warm regions," said harold. "but we can take refuge behind nets a great deal of the time while we are in the mosquito country, and hurry home when we tire of that," remarked violet. "ah, that is a comfortable thought," said mr. lilburn. "and we are fortunate people in having such homes as ours to return to." "yes, we can all say amen to that," said chester, and lucilla started the singing of "home, sweet home," all the others joining in with feeling. the next morning found the "dolphin" lying quietly in the harbor of the port of spain in the great shallow lake known as the gulf of paria, and soon after breakfast all went ashore to visit the city. they enjoyed walking about the wide, shaded streets, and park, gazing with great interest upon the strange and beautiful trees, shrubs and flowers; there were bread-fruit trees, pawpaws, mangoes and oranges, and large and beautiful flowers of many colors. some of our friends had read froude's account of the place and wanted to visit it. from there they went to the botanical gardens and were delighted with the variety of trees and plants entirely new to them. before entering the place, the young people were warned not to taste any of the strange fruits, and grandma elsie and the captain kept watch over them lest the warning should be forgotten or unheeded; though elsie was never known to disobey father or mother, and it was a rare thing, indeed, for ned to do so. they were much interested in all they saw, the glen full of nutmeg trees among the rest; they were from thirty to forty feet high, with leaves of brilliant green, something like the leaves of an orange, folded one over the other, and their lowest branches swept the ground. there were so many strange and beautiful trees, plants and flowers to be seen and admired that our friends spent more than an hour in those gardens. then they hired conveyances and drove about wherever they thought the most attractive scenes were to be found. they were interested in the cabins of the negroes spread along the road on either side and overhung with trees--tamarinds, bread-fruit, orange, limes, citrons, plantains and calabash trees; out of the last named they make their cups and water-jugs. there were cocoa-bushes, too, loaded with purple or yellow pods; there were yams in the garden, cows in the paddocks also; so that it was evident that abundance of good, nourishing, appetizing food was provided them with very little exertion on their part. captain raymond and his party spent some weeks in trinidad and its harbor--usually passing the night aboard the "dolphin"--traveling about the island in cars or carriages, visiting all the interesting spots, going up into the mountains and enjoying the view from thence of the lovely, fertile valleys and plains. then they sailed around the island and anchored again in the harbor of port of spain for the night and to consider and decide upon their next movement. "shall we go up the orinoco?" asked the captain, addressing the company, as all sat together on the deck. there was a moment of silence, each waiting for the others to speak, then mr. dinsmore said: "give us your views on the subject, captain. is there much to attract us there? to interest and instruct? i am really afraid that is a part of my geography in which i am rather rusty." "it is one of the great rivers of south america," said the captain. "it rises in one of the chief mountain chains of guiana. it is a crooked stream--flowing west-south-west, then south-west, then north-west, then north-north-east and after that in an eastward direction to its mouth. the head of uninterrupted navigation is seven hundred and seventy-seven miles from its mouth. above that point there are cataracts. "it has a great many branches, being joined, it is said, by four hundred and thirty-six rivers and upward of two thousand streams; so it drains an area of from two hundred and fifty thousand to six hundred and fifty thousand square miles, as variously estimated. it begins to form its delta one hundred and thirty miles from its mouth, by throwing off a branch which flows northward into the atlantic. it has several navigable mouths, and the main stream is divided by a line of islands, into two channels, each two miles wide. the river is four miles wide at bolivar, a town more than two hundred and fifty miles from the mouth of the river, which is there three hundred and ninety feet deep." "why, it's a grand, big river," said chester. "much obliged for the information, captain. i had forgotten, if i ever knew, that it was so large, and with its many tributaries drained so large a territory." "and do you wish to visit it--or a part of it?" queried the captain. "how is it with you, cousins annis and ronald?" "i am willing--indeed, should prefer--to leave the decision to other members of our party," replied mrs. lilburn, and her husband expressed the same wish to let others decide the question. "what do you say, grandma dinsmore?" asked violet. "i think you look as if you would rather not go." "and that is how i feel--thinking of the mosquitoes," returned the old lady, with a slight laugh. "they certainly are very objectionable," said the captain. "i can't say that i am at all desirous to try them myself. and i doubt if they are more scarce on the amazon than on the orinoco. one traveler there tells us, 'at night it was quite impossible to sleep for mosquitoes; they fell upon us by myriads, and without much piping came straight to our faces as thick as raindrops in a shower. the men crowded into the cabins and tried to expel them by smoke from burnt rags, but it was of little avail, though we were half suffocated by the operation.'" "that certainly does not sound very encouraging, my dear," said violet. "the amazon is a grand river, i know," said harold, "but it would not pay to visit it under so great a drawback to one's comfort; and i am very sure encountering such pests would be by no means beneficial to any one of my patients." "and this one of your patients would not be willing to encounter them, even if such were the prescription of her physician," remarked grace, in a lively tone. "nor would this older one," added grandma elsie, in playful tones. "then we will consider the orinoco as tabooed," said the captain; "and i suppose we shall have to treat the amazon in the same way, as it was at a place upon its banks that one of the writers i just quoted had his most unpleasant experience with the mosquitoes." "well, my dear, if there is a difference of opinion and choice among us--some preferring scenery even with mosquitoes, others no scenery unless it could be had without mosquitoes--suppose we divide our forces--one set land and the other remain on board and journey on up the river." "ah! and which set will you join, little wife?" he asked, with playful look and tone. "whichever one my husband belongs to," she answered. "man and wife are not to be separated." "suppose we take a vote on the question and settle it at once," said lucilla. "a good plan, i think," said harold. "yes," assented the captain. "cousins annis and ronald, please give us your wishes in regard to rivers and mosquitoes." "i admire the rivers, but not the mosquitoes, and would rather do without both than have both," laughed annis, and her husband added, "and my sentiments on the subject coincide exactly with those of my wife." then the question went round the circle, and it appeared that every one thought a sight of the great rivers and the scenery on their banks would be too dearly purchased by venturing in among the clouds of blood-thirsty mosquitoes. "i'm glad," exclaimed ned; "for i'm not a bit fond of mosquitoes; especially not of having them take their meals off me. but i'd like to see those big rivers. papa, won't you tell us something about the amazon?" "yes," said the captain; "it has two other names--maranon and orellana. it is a very large river and has a big mouth--one hundred and fifty miles wide, and the tide enters there and goes up the stream five hundred miles. "from the wide mouth of the amazon, where it empties into the ocean, its water can be distinguished from the other--that of the ocean--for fifty leagues. the amazon is so large and has so many tributaries that it drains two million, five hundred square miles of country. the amazon is the king of rivers. it rises in the western range of the andes, and is little better than a mountain torrent till it has burst through the gorges of the eastern range of the chain, where it is overhung by peaks that tower thousands of feet above its bed. but within three hundred miles from the pacific is a branch, huallagais, large enough and deep enough for steamers, and a few miles farther down the amazon is navigable for vessels drawing five feet; and it grows deeper and deeper and more and more available for large vessels as it rolls on toward the ocean. the outlet of this mighty river is a feeder of the gulf stream. it is only since that the navigation of the amazon has been open, but now regular lines of steamers ply between its mouth and yurimaguas on the huallaga." "are there not many and important exports sent down the amazon?" asked mr. dinsmore. "there are, indeed," replied the captain, "and the fauna of the waters have proved wonderful. agassiz found there, in five months, thirteen hundred species of fish, nearly a thousand of them new, and about twenty new genera. the vacca marina, the largest fish inhabiting fresh waters, and the acara, which carries its young in its mouth, when there is danger, are the denizens of the amazon." "oh," exclaimed elsie, "i'd like to see that fish with its babies in its mouth." "and i should be very sorry to have to carry my children in that way--even if the relative sizes of my mouth and children made it possible," said her mother. "brazil's a big country, isn't it, papa?" asked ned. "yes," said his father; "about as large as the united states would be without alaska." "did columbus discover it, and the spaniards settle it, papa?" he asked. "in the year a companion of columbus landed at cape augustine, near pernambuco, and from there sailed along the coast as far as the orinoco," replied the captain. "in the same year another portuguese commander, driven to the brazilian coast by adverse winds, landed, and taking possession in the name of his monarch named the country terra da vera crux. the first permanent settlement was made by the portuguese in on the island of st. vincent. many settlements were made and abandoned, because of the hostility of the natives and the lack of means, and a huguenot colony, established on the bay of rio de janeiro, in , was broken up by the portuguese in when they founded the present capital, rio de janeiro. "but it is hardly worth while to rehearse all the history of the various attempts to take possession of brazil--attempts made by dutch, portuguese and spanish. french invasion of portugal, in , caused the royal family to flee to brazil, and it became the royal seat of government until , when dom john vi. went back to portugal, leaving his eldest son, dom pedro, as prince regent. "the independence of brazil was proclaimed september , ; and on october th, he was crowned emperor as dom pedro i. he was arbitrary, and that made him so unpopular that he found it best to abdicate, which he did in in favor of his son, then only a child. that boy was crowned in , at the age of fifteen, as dom pedro ii." "gold is to be found in brazil, is it not, papa?" asked grace. "yes," he said, "that country is rich in minerals and precious stones. gold, always accompanied with silver, is found in many of the provinces, and in minas-geraes is especially abundant, and in that and two other of the provinces, diamonds are found; and the opal, amethyst, emerald, ruby, sapphire, tourmaline, topaz and other precious stones are more or less common." "petroleum also is obtained in one or two of the provinces, and there are valuable phosphate deposits on some of the islands," remarked mr. dinsmore, as the captain paused, as if he had finished what he had to say in reply to grace's question. "papa," asked ned, "are there lions and tigers and monkeys in the woods?" "there are dangerous wild beasts--the jaguar being the most common and formidable. and there are other wild, some of them dangerous, beasts--the tiger cat, red wolf, tapir, wild hog, brazilian dog, or wild fox, capybara or water hog, paca, three species of deer, armadillos, sloths, ant-eaters, oppossums, coatis, water-rats, otters and porcupines. squirrels, hares and rabbits are plentiful. there are many species of monkeys, too, and several kinds of bats--vampires among them. on the southern plains, large herds of wild horses are to be found. indeed, brazil can boast a long list of animals. one writer says that he found five hundred species of birds in the amazon valley alone, about thirty distinct species of parrots and twenty varieties of humming-birds. the largest birds are the ouira, a large eagle; the rhea, or american ostrich; and the cariama. along the coasts or in the forest are to be found frigate birds, snowy herons, toucans, ducks, wild peacocks, turkeys, geese and pigeons. among the smaller birds are the oriole, whippoorwill and the uraponga, or bell bird." "those would be pleasant enough to meet," said violet, "but there are plenty of most unpleasant creatures--snakes, for instance." "yes," assented the captain; "there are many serpents; the most venomous are the jararaca and the rattlesnake. the boa-constrictor and anaconda grow very large, and there are at least three species of cobra noted as dangerous. there are many alligators, turtles and lizards. the rivers, lakes and coast-waters literally swarm with fish. agassiz found nearly two thousand species, many of them such as are highly esteemed for food." "and they have big mosquitoes, too, you have told us, papa," said elsie. "many other bugs, too, i suppose?" "yes; big beetles, scorpions and spiders, many kinds of bees, sand-flies and musical crickets, destructive ants, the cochineal insect and the pium, a tiny insect whose bite is poisonous and sometimes dangerous." "please tell us about the woods, papa," said ned. "yes; the forests of the amazon valley are said to be the largest in the world, having fully four hundred species of trees. in marshy places and along streams reeds, grasses and water plants grow in tangled masses, and in the forests the trees crowd each other and are draped with parasitic vines. along the coasts mangroves, mangoes, cocoas, dwarf palms, and the brazil-wood are noticeable. in one of the southern provinces more than forty different kinds of trees are valuable for timber. on the amazon and its branches there are an almost innumerable variety of valuable trees; among them the itauba or stonewood, so named for its durability; the cassia, the cinnamon-tree, the banana, the lime, the myrtle, the guava, the jacaranda or rosewood, the brazilian bread-fruit, whose large seeds are used for food, and many others too numerous to mention; among them the large and lofty cotton-tree, the tall white-trunked seringa or rubber-tree, which furnishes the gum of commerce, and the three or four hundred species of palms. one of those is called the carnaubu palm; it is probably the most valuable, for every part of it is useful, from the wax of its leaves to its edible pith. another is the piassaba palm, whose bark is clothed with a loose fiber used for coarse textile fabrics and for brooms." "why, papa, that's a very useful tree," was little elsie's comment upon that bit of information. "are there fruits and flowers in those forests, papa?" she asked. "yes; those i have already mentioned, with figs, custard-apples and oranges. some european fruits--olives, grapes and water-melons of fine flavor are cultivated in brazil." "if it wasn't for the fierce wild animals and snakes, it would be a nice country to live in, i think," she said; "but taking everything into consideration i very much prefer our own country." "ah, is that so? who shall say that you won't change your mind after a few weeks spent in brazil?" returned her father, with an amused look. "you wouldn't want me to, i know, papa," she returned, with a pleasant little laugh, "for i am very sure you want your children to love their own country better than any other in the world." "yes, my child, i do," he said. then turning to his older passengers and addressing them in general, "i think," he said, "if it is agreeable to you all, we will make a little stop at pará, the maritime emporium of the amazon. i presume you would all like to see that city?" all seemed pleased with the idea, and it was presently settled that that should be their next stopping-place. they all enjoyed their life upon the yacht, but an occasional halt and visit to the shore made an agreeable variety. chapter xiv. their sail about the mouth of the amazon was very interesting to them all, and that up the pará river to the city of the same name, not less so. they found the city evidently a busy and thriving place; its harbor, formed by a curve of the river pará, here twenty miles wide, had at anchor in it a number of large vessels of various nationalities. the "dolphin" anchored among them, and after a little her passengers went ashore for a drive about the city. they found the streets paved and macadamized, the houses with white walls and red-tiled roofs. there were some large and imposing buildings--a cathedral, churches and the president's palace were the principal ones. they visited the public square and beautiful botanic garden. it was not very late in the day when they returned to their yacht, but they--especially dr. harold's patients--were weary enough to enjoy the quiet rest to be found in their ocean home. "what a busy place it is," remarked grandma elsie, as they sat together upon the deck, gazing out upon the city and its harbor. "yes," said the captain, "pará is the mart through which passes the whole commerce of the amazon and its affluents." "and that must, of course, make it a place of importance," said violet. "it was the seat of revolution in ," remarked her grandfather; "houses were destroyed, lives lost--a great many of them--and grass grew in streets which before that had been the center of business." "papa," exclaimed ned, "there's a little boat coming, and a man in it with some little animals." "ah, yes; small monkeys, i think they are," captain raymond said, taking a view over the side of the vessel. then he called to a sailor that he wanted the man allowed to come aboard with whatever he had for sale. in a few moments he was at hand carrying two little monkeys in his arms. he approached the captain and bowing low, hat in hand, addressed him in portuguese, first saying, "good-evening," then going on to tell that these were fine little monkeys--tee-tees--which he had brought for sale, and he went on to talk fluently in praise of the little creatures, which were about the size of a squirrel, of a greyish-olive as to the hair of body and limbs, a rich golden hue on the latter; on the under surface of the body a whitish grey, and the tip of the tail black. "oh, how pretty, how very pretty!" exclaimed little elsie. "papa, won't you buy me one?" "yes, daughter, if you want it," returned the captain, "for i know you will be kind to it and that it will be a safe and pretty pet for you." "and oh, papa, i'd like to have the other one, if i may!" cried ned, fairly dancing with delight at the thought of owning the pretty little creature. the captain smiled and said something to the man, speaking in portuguese, a language spoken and understood by themselves only of all on board the vessel. the man answered, saying, as the captain afterward told the others, that he was very glad to sell both to one person, because the little fellows were brothers and would be company for each other. then a tee-tee was handed to each of the children, the captain gave the man some money, which seemed to please him, and he went away, while elsie and ned rejoiced over and exhibited their pets, fed them and gave them a comfortable sleeping-place for the night. "what lovely, engaging little things they are!" said grandma elsie, as the children carried them away, "the very prettiest monkeys i ever saw." "yes," said the captain, "they are of a very pretty and engaging genus of monkeys; we all noticed the beauty of their fur, from which they are called callithrix or 'beautiful hair.' sometimes they are called squirrel monkeys, partly on account of their shape and size, and partly from their squirrel-like activity. they are light, graceful little creatures. i am hoping my children will have great pleasure with theirs. they are said to attach themselves very strongly to their possessors, and behave with a gentle intelligence that lifts them far above the greater part of the monkey race." "i think i have read that they are good-tempered," said grandma elsie. "yes; they are said to be very amiable, anger seeming to be almost unknown to them. did you not notice the almost infantile innocence in the expression of their countenances?" "yes, i did," she replied; "it was very touching, and made me feel an affection for them at once." "i have read," said evelyn, "that that is very strong when the little creatures are alarmed. that sudden tears will come into their clear hazel eyes, and that they will make a little imploring, shrinking gesture quite irresistible to kind-hearted, sympathetic people." "i was reading about the tee-tees not long ago," said mrs. lilburn; "and one thing i learned was that they had a curious habit of watching the lips of those who speak to them, just as if they could understand the words spoken, and that when they become quite familiar, they are fond of sitting on their friend's shoulder, and laying their tiny fingers on his lips; as if they thought in that way they might discover the mysteries of speech." "poor little darlings! i wish they could talk," exclaimed grace. "i daresay they would make quite as good use of the power of speech as parrots do." "possibly even better," said her father. "they seem to be more affectionate." "do they live in flocks in their own forests, papa?" grace asked. "yes," he replied, "so the traveler, mr. bates, tells us, and that when on the move they take flying leaps from tree to tree." "i am very glad you bought those, papa," she said. "i think they will be a pleasure and amusement to us all." "so do i," said lucilla, "they are so pretty and graceful that i think we will all be inclined to pet them." "so i think," said her father, "they seem to me decidedly the prettiest and most interesting species of monkey i have ever met with." "and it is really pleasant to see how delighted the children are with their new pets," said grandma elsie. "yes," the captain responded, with a pleased smile, "and i have no fear that they will ill-use them." "i am sure they will be kind to them," said violet. "they were much interested in the monkeys we saw in going about the city. i saw quite a number of various species--some pretty large, but most of them small; some at the doors or windows of houses, some in canoes on the river." "yes, i think we all noticed them," said her mother. "yes," said the captain, "i saw several of the _midas ursulus_, a small monkey which i have read is often to be found here in pará. it is, when full grown, only about nine inches long, exclusive of the tail, which is fifteen inches. it has thick black fur with a reddish brown streak down the middle of the back. it is said to be a timid little thing, but when treated kindly becomes very tame and familiar." "what do monkeys eat, papa?" asked grace. "i have been told the little fellows are generally fed on sweet fruits, such as the banana, and that they are also fond of grasshoppers and soft-bodied spiders." "they have some very large and busy ants in this country, haven't they, father?" asked evelyn. "yes," replied the captain. "bates tells of some an inch and a quarter long and stout in proportion, marching in single file through the thickets. they, however, have nothing peculiar or attractive in their habits, though they are giants among ants. but he speaks of another and far more interesting species. it is a great scourge to the brazilians, from its habit of despoiling the most valuable of their cultivated trees of their foliage. in some districts it is such a pest that agriculture is almost impossible. he goes on to say that in their first walks they were puzzled to account for mounds of earth of a different color from the surrounding soil; mounds, some of them very extensive, some forty yards in circumference, but not more than two feet high. but on making inquiries they learned that those mounds were the work of the saubas--the outworks and domes which overlie and protect the entrances to their vast subterranean galleries. on close examination, bates found the earth of which they were made to consist of very minute granules heaped together with cement so as to form many rows of little ridges and turrets. and he learned that the difference in color from the earth around was because of the undersoil having been brought up from a considerable depth to form these mounds." "i should like to see the ants at work upon them," said grace. "it is very rarely that one has the opportunity to do so," said her father. "mr. bates tells us that the entrances are generally closed galleries, opened only now and then when some particular work is going on. he says he succeeded in removing portions of the dome in smaller hillocks, and found that the minor entrances converged, at the depth of about two feet, to one broad, elaborately-worked gallery or mine, which was four or five inches in diameter." "isn't it the ant that clips and carries away leaves?" asked evelyn. "yes, bates speaks of that; says it has long been recorded in books on natural history, and that when employed on that work their procession looks like a multitude of animated leaves on the march. in some places he found an accumulation of such leaves, all circular pieces about the size of sixpence, lying on the pathway, no ants near it, and at some distance from the colony. 'such heaps,' he says, 'are always found to have been removed when the place is revisited the next day. the ants mount the trees in multitudes. each one is a working miner, places itself on the surface of a leaf, and cuts with its sharp, scissors-like jaws, and by a sharp jerk detaches the leaf piece. sometimes they let the leaf drop to the ground, where a little heap accumulates until carried away by another relay of workers; but generally each marches off with the piece he has detached. all take the same road to their colony and the path they follow becomes, in a short time, smooth and bare, looking like the impression of a cart-wheel through the herbage.'" "i am sorry the children have missed all this interesting information," said violet. "never mind, my dear," said her husband, "it can be repeated to them to-morrow. i think there is a storm gathering, and that we are likely to have to stay at home here for a day or two." "should it prove a storm of any violence we may be thankful that we are in this good, safe harbor," remarked mr. dinsmore. "and that we have abundance of good company and good reading matter," added grandma elsie. "yes," responded her father, "those are truly additional causes for thankfulness." "the little monkeys are another," laughed lucilla. "i think we will have some fun with them; and certainly the children are delighted with their new pets." "they certainly are engaging little creatures--very different from those we are accustomed to see going about our streets with organ-grinders," said grandma dinsmore. the children were on deck unusually early the next morning, their pets with them. they found their father, mother, eva and lucilla there. the usual affectionate morning greetings were exchanged; then, smiling down upon elsie and her pet, the captain said, "i think you have not yet tired of your new pet, daughter?" "no, indeed, papa," was the quick, earnest rejoinder, "i'm growing fonder of him every hour. oh, he's just the dearest little fellow!" "and so is mine," added ned. "i think i'll name him tee-tee; and as elsie's is a little smaller than this, she is going to call him tiny." "if papa approves," added elsie. "i am well satisfied," returned their father. "you have begun your day rather earlier than usual," captain raymond went on, addressing the two children, "and i am well pleased that it is so, because now you can take some exercise about the deck, which may be prevented later by a storm," and he glanced up at the sky, where black clouds were gathering. "yes, papa, we will," they answered, and set off at once upon a race round the deck, carrying their pets with them. the storm had begun when the summons to breakfast came, but the faces that gathered about the table were cheerful and bright, the talk also. all agreed that it would be no hardship to have to remain on board for some days with plenty of books and periodicals to read, the pleasant company which they were to each other, and the abundance of fruits and other dainties which the captain always provided. when they were done eating, they repaired to the saloon, held their usual morning service, then sat about singly or in groups, talking, reading, writing, or, if a lady, busied with some fancy work. the children were much taken up with their new pets, fondling them and letting them climb about their shoulders. cousin ronald watched them with interest and pleasure. elsie was standing near, her tiny on her shoulder, gazing into her eyes with a look that seemed to say, "you are so kind to me that i love you already." elsie stroked and patted him, saying, "you dear little pet! i love you already, and mean to take the very best care of you." "thanks, dear little mistress. i am glad to belong to you and mean to be always the best little tee-tee that ever was seen." the words seemed to come from the tee-tee's lips, and its pretty eyes were looking right into elsie's own. "why, you little dear!" she said, with a pleased little laugh, stroking and patting him, then glancing round at cousin ronald, "how well you talk. in english, too, though i don't believe you ever heard the language before you came aboard the 'dolphin.'" "no, we didn't, though we can speak it now as well as any other," ned's pet seemed to say, lifting its head from his shoulder and glancing around at its brother. that brought a merry laugh from its little master. "speak it as much as you please, tee-tee," he said, fondling his pet, "or talk portuguese or any other language you're acquainted with." "i'm afraid they will never be able to talk unless cousin ronald is in the company," said elsie; "or brother max," she added, as an after-thought. "yes, brother max could make them talk just as well," said ned. "oh, here come the letters and papers!" as a sailor came in carrying the mailbag. its contents gave employment to every one for a time, but, after a little, violet, having finished the perusal of her share, called the children to her and gave them an interesting account of the talk of the night before about the strange doings of south american ants. they were much interested, and asked a good many questions. when that subject was exhausted, elsie asked to be told something about rio de janeiro. "there is a maritime province of that name in the south-east part of brazil," her mother said. "i have read that in the southern part of it the scenery is very beautiful. the middle of the province is mountainous. about the city i will read you from the "new international encyclopedia," which your father keeps on board whenever we are using the yacht." she took down the book, opened and read: "'rio de janeiro, generally called rio, the capital of the brazilian empire, and the largest and most important commercial emporium of south america, stands on a magnificent harbor, seventy-five miles west of cape frio. the harbor or bay of rio de janeiro, said, and apparently with justice, to be the most beautiful, secure, and spacious bay in the world, is land-locked, being entered from the south by a passage about a mile in width. it extends inland seventeen miles, and has an extreme breadth of about twelve miles. of its numerous islands, the largest, governor's island, is six miles long. the entrance of the bay, guarded on either side by granite mountains, is deep, and is so safe that the harbor is made without the aid of pilots. on the left of the entrance rises the peak called, from its peculiar shape, sugarloaf mountain; and all round the bay the blue waters are girdled with mountains and lofty hills of every variety of picturesque and fantastic outline. the harbor is protected by a number of fortresses. the city stands on the west shore of the bay, about four miles from its mouth. seven green and mound-like hills diversify its site; and the white-walled and vermillion-roofed houses cluster in the intervening valleys, and climb the eminences in long lines. from the central portion of the city, lines of houses extend four miles in three principal directions. the old town, nearest the bay, is laid out in squares; the streets cross at right angles, are narrow, and are paved and flagged; and the houses, often built of granite, are commonly two stories high. west of it is the elegantly-built new town; and the two districts are separated by the campo de santa anna, an immense square or park, on different parts of which stand an extensive garrison, the town-hall, the national museum, the palace of the senate, the foreign office, a large opera house, etc. from a number of springs which rise on and around mount corcovado (three thousand feet high, and situated three and a half miles southwest of the city) water is conveyed to rio de janeiro by a splendid aqueduct, and supplies the fountains with which the numerous squares are furnished. great municipal improvements have, within recent years, been introduced; most of the streets are now as well paved as those of the finest european capitals; the city is abundantly lighted with gas; and commodious wharfs and quays are built along the water edge. rio de janeiro contains several excellent hospitals and infirmaries, asylums for foundlings and female orphans, and other charitable institutions, some richly endowed; about fifty chapels and churches, generally costly and imposing structures, with rich internal decorations, and several convents and nunneries. in the college of pedro ii., founded in , the various branches of a liberal education are efficiently taught by a staff of eight or nine professors; the imperial academy of medicine, with a full corps of professors, is attended by upward of three hundred students; there is also a theological seminary. the national library contains one hundred thousand volumes.' "there, my dears, i think that is all that will interest you," concluded violet, closing the book. chapter xv. the storm continued for some days, during which the "dolphin" lay quietly at anchor in the bay of pará. it was a quiet, uneventful time for her passengers, but they enjoyed themselves well in each other's society and waited patiently for a change of weather. finally it came; the sun shone, the waves had quieted down and a gentle breeze taken the place of the boisterous wind of the last few days. just as the sun rose, the anchor was lifted and, to the joy of all on board, the yacht went on her way, steaming out of the harbor and then down the coast of brazil; a long voyage, but, under the circumstances, by no means unpleasant to the "dolphin's" passengers, so fond as they were of each other's society. at length they arrived at rio de janeiro. they stayed there long enough to acquaint themselves with its beauties and all that might interest a stranger. all that accomplished, they left for the north, as it was getting near the time when even the invalids might safely return to the cooler climate of that region. it was evening; the children had retired for the night, and all the older ones were together on the deck. a silence that had lasted for some moments was broken by lucilla. "you are taking us home now, i suppose, father?" "i don't remember to have said so," replied the captain, pleasantly, "though very likely i may do so if you all wish it." then violet spoke up in her quick, lively way, "mamma, if you would give us all an invitation to visit viamede, i think it would be just delightful to go there for a week or two; and then chester could see his sisters and their children." "i should be glad to help him to do so; and very glad to have you all my guests at viamede," was the reply, in grandma elsie's own sweet tones. then came a chorus of thanks for her invitation; all seeming much pleased with the idea. "it will be quite a journey," remarked lucilla, in a tone of satisfaction. "you are not weary of life on shipboard, daughter?" her father queried, with a pleased little laugh. "no, indeed, father; i am very fond of life on the 'dolphin.' i suppose that's because of the sailor-blood in me inherited from you." "some of which i have also," said grace; "for i dearly love a voyage in the 'dolphin.'" "which some of the rest of us do without having the excuse of inherited sailor-blood," said harold. "no; that inheritance isn't at all necessary to the enjoyment of life on the 'dolphin,'" remarked chester. "indeed, it is not," said evelyn. "i am a landsman's daughter, but life on this vessel with the dear friends always to be found on it is delightful to me." "and the rest of us can give a like testimony," said mrs. lilburn, and those who had not already spoken gave a hearty assent. "up this south american coast, through the caribbean sea and the gulf of mexico--it will be quite a voyage," remarked lucilla, reflectively. "it is well, indeed, that we are all fond of life on the 'dolphin.'" "yes; you will have had a good deal of it by the time we get home," said her father. "to-morrow is sunday," remarked grandma elsie. "i am very glad we can have services on board. i often find them quite as helpful as those i attend on shore." "yes; i don't know why we shouldn't have services, though there is no licensed preacher among us," said the captain. "certainly, we may all read god's word, talk of it to others, and address to him both prayers and praises." the next morning after breakfast all assembled upon deck, united in prayer and praise, the captain read a sermon, and then mr. lilburn, by request of the others, led them in their bible lesson. "let us take parts of the th and th chapters of numbers for our lesson to-day," he said, reading the passages aloud, then asked, "can you tell me, cousin elsie, where the children of israel were encamped just at that time?" "at kadesh, in what was called the wilderness of paran. it was at a little distance to the southwest of the southern end of the dead sea." "they went and searched the land, as moses directed, and cut down and brought back with them a cluster of grapes, a very large one, it must have been, for they bare it between two upon a staff; also they brought pomegranates and figs. do you know, neddie, what eshcol means?" asked cousin ronald. "no, sir; papa hasn't taught me that yet," replied the little boy. "it means a bunch of grapes," said cousin ronald, smiling kindly on the little fellow. "grace, do you think the spies were truthful?" "they seem to have been, so far as the facts about the country they had just visited were concerned," grace answered, then read, "and they told him, and said, 'we came unto the land whither thou sentest us, and surely it floweth with milk and honey; and this is the fruit of it. nevertheless, the people be strong that dwell in the land, and the cities are walled, and very great; and, moreover, we saw the children of anak there. the amalekites dwell in the land of the south: and the hittites, and the jebusites, and the amorites, dwell in the mountains: and the canaanites dwell by the sea, and by the coast of jordan.'" "truly, a very discouraging report," said mr. lilburn; "for though they described the land as very good and desirable, they evidently considered its inhabitants too strong to be overcome." he then read, "and they brought up an evil report of the land which they had searched unto the children of israel, saying, 'the land, through which we have gone to search it, is a land that eateth up the inhabitants thereof; and all the people that we saw in it are men of a great stature. and there we saw the giants, the sons of anak, which come of the giants: and we were in our own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their sight.' and what effect had their report upon the people, cousin violet?" he asked. in reply, violet read, "and all the congregation lifted up their voice, and cried; and the people wept that night. and all the children of israel murmured against moses and against aaron: and the whole congregation said unto them, 'would god that we had died in the land of egypt! or would god we had died in this wilderness! and wherefore hath the lord brought us unto this land, to fall by the sword, that our wives and our children should be a prey? were it not better for us to return into egypt?' and they said, one to another, 'let us make a captain, and let us return into egypt.'" it seemed to be mr. dinsmore's turn, and he read, "and joshua, the son of nun; and caleb, the son of jephunneh, which were of them that searched the land, rent their clothes: and they spake unto all the company of the children of israel, saying, 'the land, which we passed through to search it, is exceeding good land. if the lord delight in us, then he will bring us into this land, and give it us; a land which floweth with milk and honey. only rebel not ye against the lord, neither fear ye the people of the land; for they are bread for us: their defense is departed from them, and the lord is with us: fear them not.'" then mrs. dinsmore read, "but all the congregation bade stone them with stones. and the glory of the lord appeared in the tabernacle of the congregation before all the children of israel. and the lord said unto moses, 'how long will this people provoke me? and how long will it be ere they believe me, for all the signs which i have showed among them? i will smite them with the pestilence, and disinherit them, and will make of thee a greater nation and mightier than they.'" "how very childish they were," remarked violet. "why should they wish they had died in the land of egypt, or in the wilderness? that would have been no better than dying where they were. and it does seem strange they could not trust in god when he had given them such wonderful deliverances." "and they said, one to another, 'let us make a captain, and let us return into egypt,'" read harold, adding, "it does seem as though they felt that moses would not do anything so wicked and foolish as going back into egypt." "and they might well feel so," said the captain. "moses was not the man to be discouraged by such difficulties after all the wonders god had shown him and them in egypt and the wilderness." "that is true," said mr. lilburn. "but let us go on to the end of the story. we have read that the lord threatened to smite them with the pestilence, and disinherit them, and make of moses a greater nation and mightier than they. chester, what did moses say in reply?" "and moses said unto the lord, 'then the egyptians shall hear it (for thou broughtest up this people in thy might from among them); and they will tell it to the inhabitants of this land; for they have heard that thou, lord, art among this people, that thou, lord, art seen face to face, and that thy cloud standeth over them, and that thou goest before them, by daytime in the pillar of cloud, and in a pillar of fire by night. now if thou shalt kill all this people as one man, then the nations which have heard the fame of thee will speak, saying, because the lord was not able to bring this people into the land which he sware unto them, therefore he hath slain them in the wilderness. and now, i beseech thee, let the power of my lord be great, according as thou hast spoken, saying, the lord is long-suffering, and of great mercy, forgiving iniquity and transgression, and by no means clearing the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation. pardon, i beseech thee, the iniquity of this people according unto the greatness of thy mercy, and as thou hast forgiven this people, from egypt even until now.'" chester paused, and mrs. dinsmore took up the story where he dropped it, reading from her bible, "and the lord said, 'i have pardoned according to thy word: but as truly as i live, all the earth shall be filled with the glory of the lord. because all those men which have seen my glory and my miracles, which i did in egypt and in the wilderness, and have tempted me now these ten times, and have not hearkened to my voice. surely they shall not see the land which i sware unto their fathers, neither shall any of them that provoked me see it: but my servant caleb, because he had another spirit with him, and hath followed me fully, him will i bring into the land whereinto he went; and his seed shall possess it. (now the amalekites and the canaanites dwelt in the valley). to-morrow, turn you, and get you into the wilderness by the red sea.'" "papa, did all those people lose their souls?" asked elsie. "i hope not," he replied. "if they repented and turned to the lord, they were forgiven and reached heaven at last. jesus says, 'come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest. take my yoke upon you and learn of me, for i am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'" chapter xvi. "are we going to stop at any of these south american countries, papa?" asked elsie the next day, standing by her father's side on the deck. "i hardly think so," he replied. "it is rather too nearly time to go home." "oh, papa, i'd like ever so much to see our other home, viamede--grandma lets me call it one of my homes--if there is time, and it isn't too far away." "well, daughter," her father said, with a smile, "i think there is time, and the place not too far away--the 'dolphin' being a good-natured yacht that never complains of her long journeys." "oh, papa, are we really going there?" cried the little girl, fairly dancing with delight. "i'll be so glad to see the keith cousins at the cottage, and those at magnolia hall, and the others at torriswood. and i'll show tiny to them, and they'll be sure to be pleased to see him," she added, hugging her pet, which, as usual, she had in her arms. "probably they will," said her father. "do you think of giving him to any one of them?" "give my little pet tiny away? why, papa! no indeed! i couldn't think of such a thing!" she cried, hugging her pet still closer. "i'm fond of him, papa, and i'm pretty sure he's fond of me; he seems to want to snuggle up close to me all the time." "yes; i think he is fond of you and won't want to leave you, except for a little while now and then to run up and down the trees and round the grounds. that will be his play; and when he gets hungry he will go back to you for something to eat." ned, with his pet in his arms, had joined them just in time to hear his father's last sentence. "are you talking about elsie's tiny, papa?" he asked. "yes, my son, and what i said will apply to your tee-tee just as well. i think if my children are good and kind to the little fellows they will not want to run away." "i have been good to him so far," said ned, patting and stroking his pet as he spoke, "and i mean to keep on. papa, where are we going now? elsie and i were talking about it a while ago, and we wondered if we were now on the way home." "would you like to be?" asked his father. "yes, papa; or to go somewhere else first; just as pleases you." "what would you say as to visiting viamede?" "oh, papa, that i'd like it ever so much!" "well, your grandma has given us all an invitation to go there, and we are very likely to accept it. it will make us a little later in getting home than i had intended, but it will be so great a pleasure that i think we will all feel paid." "yes, indeed!" cried ned, dancing up and down in delight, "i think it's just splendid that we can go there. i don't know any lovelier or more delightful place to go to; do you, papa?" "and i'm as glad as you are, ned," said elsie. "let's go and thank grandma. yonder she is in her usual seat under the awning." "yes," said their father, "you owe her thanks, and it would be well to give them at once," and they hastened to do his bidding. grandma elsie was seated with the other ladies of their party in that pleasant spot under the awning, where there were plenty of comfortable seats, and they were protected from sun and shower. the gentlemen were there, too. some were reading and some--the younger ones--chatting and laughing merrily among themselves. into this group the children came rushing, full of excitement and glee. "oh grandma," they cried, talking both at once, "we're so glad we're going to viamede, so much obliged to you for inviting us, because it's such a dear, beautiful place and seems to be one of our homes." "yes, you must consider it so, my dears; because it is mine, and i consider my dear grandchildren as mine, too," was grandma's smiling, affectionate rejoinder. "as i do, mamma," said violet, "and i am sure no children ever had a better, kinder grandmother." "no, indeed," said elsie. "and i think tiny and tee-tee will enjoy being at viamede, too, and climbing up the beautiful trees. papa says they will, but will be glad to come back to us when they get hungry; because we feed them with such things as they like to eat." "it will be a long journey before we get to viamede, won't it, mamma?" asked ned. "yes; a good many miles up this coast of south america, then through the caribbean sea and the gulf of mexico to new orleans, then through teche bayou to viamede. i think it will be a long, pleasant journey. don't you?" "yes, mamma, it is very pleasant to be on our yacht with you and papa and grandma and so many other kind friends." just then the captain joined them. "how long will it take us to get to viamede, papa?" asked ned. "about as long as it would to cross the ocean from our country to europe. and should storms compel us to seek refuge for a time in some harbor, it will, of course, take longer." "will we go back to trinidad?" "hardly, i think; though we will probably pass in sight of the island." "and we are on the coast of brazil now?" "yes; and will be for a week or more." "we are trying life in the 'dolphin' for a good while this winter," said violet. "you are not wearying of it, i hope, my dear?" asked the captain, giving her a rather anxious and troubled look. "oh, no, not at all!" she replied, giving him an affectionate smile, "this winter trip has been a real enjoyment to me thus far." "as it has to all of us, i think," said her mother; and all within hearing joined in with their expressions of pleasure in all they had experienced on the sea or on the land since sailing away from their homes in the "dolphin." "i am half afraid that you gentlemen will find your homes but dull places when you get back to them," remarked lucilla, in a tone of feigned melancholy, sighing deeply as she spoke. "well, for business reasons i shall be glad to get back to my office," said chester. "so it will not be altogether a trying thing to return, even if my home is to be but dull and wearisome." "i don't believe it will be," laughed grace. "lu is never half so hard and disagreeable as she pretends. she has always been the nicest of sisters to me, and i have an idea that she is quite as good a wife." "so have i," said chester. "i know i wouldn't swap wives with any man." "nor i husbands with any woman," laughed lucilla. "i took this man for better or for worse, but there's no worse about it." a merry laugh from little elsie turned all eyes upon her. tiny was curled up on her shoulder, his hazel eyes fixed inquiringly upon her face and one of his fingers gently laid upon her lips. "i think your tiny is wanting to learn to talk," her father said. "he seems to be trying to see how you do it." "oh, do you think he can learn, papa?" she asked, in eager tones. "i don't see why monkeys shouldn't talk as well as parrots." "i do not, either, my child; i only know that they do not." at that instant tiny lifted his head and turned his eyes upon the captain, and some words seemed to come rapidly and in rather an indignant tone from his lips. "i can talk and i will when i want to. my little mistress is very kind and good to me, and i'm growing very fond of her." everybody laughed and elsie said, "i wish it were really his talk. but i know it was cousin ronald who spoke." "ah, little cousin, how much fun you miss by knowing too much," laughed mr. lilburn. then ned's tee-tee seemed to speak. "you needn't make a fuss over my brother. i can talk quite as well as he can." "why, so you can!" exclaimed ned, stroking and patting him. "and i'm glad to have you talk just as much as you will." "thank you, little master; you're very good to me," was the reply. "now, tiny, it is your turn," said elsie to her pet. "i hope you think you are having a good time here on this yacht?" "yes, indeed i do," was the reply. "but where are we going?" "to viamede; a beautiful place in louisiana. and you shall run about over the velvety, flower-spangled lawn, and climb the trees, if you want to, and pick some oranges and bananas for yourself, and have ever such a good time." "that's nice! shall my brother tee-tee have a good time with me, too?" "yes, if you both promise not to run away and leave us." "we'd be very foolish tee-tees if we did." "so i think," laughed elsie, affectionately stroking and patting tiny. "come, tee-tee; it's your turn to talk a little," said ned, patting and stroking his pet. "am i going to that good place tiny's mistress tells about, where they have fine trees to climb and oranges and bananas and other good things to eat?" tee-tee seemed to ask. "yes," replied ned, "if you keep on being a good little fellow you shall go there and have a good time playing about and feasting on the fruits, nuts and other nice things." "then i mean to be good--as good as i know how." "cousin ronald, you do make them talk very nicely," remarked elsie, with satisfaction, adding, "but i do wish they could do it themselves." "i presume they would be glad if they could," said lucilla. "yours watches the movements of your lips, as if he wanted very much to imitate them with his." "and i believe he does," said elsie. "it makes me feel more thankful for the gift of speech than i ever did before." "then it has a good effect," said her father. "so they are useful little creatures, after all," said grace, "though i had thought them only playthings." "i think tiny is the very best plaything that ever i had," said elsie, again stroking and patting the little fellow. "cousin ronald, won't you please make him talk a little more?" "why do you want me to talk so much, little mistress?" tiny seemed to ask. "oh, because i like to hear you and you really mean what you seem to say. do you like to be with us on this nice big yacht?" "pretty well, though i'd rather be among the big trees in the woods where i was born." "i think that must be because you are not quite civilized," laughed elsie. "i'd rather be in those woods, too," tee-tee seemed to say. "let's run away to the woods, tiny, when we get a chance." "ho, ho!" cried ned, "if that's the way you talk you shan't have a chance." "now, ned, you surely wouldn't be so cruel as to keep him if he wants to go back to his native woods," said lucilla. "how would you like to be carried off to a strange place, away from papa and mamma?" "but i ain't a monkey," said ned. "and i don't believe he cares about his father and mother as i do about mine. do you care very much about them, tee-tee?" "not so very much; and i think they've been caught or killed." the words seemed to come from tee-tee's lips and ned exclaimed, triumphantly: "there; he doesn't care a bit." "but it wasn't he that answered; it was cousin ronald." "well, maybe cousin ronald knows how he feels. don't you, cousin ronald?" "ah, i must acknowledge that it is all guess-work, sonny boy," laughed the old gentleman. "well," said ned, reflectively, "i've heard there are some folks who are good at guessing, and i believe you are one of them, cousin ronald." "but i'm not a yankee, you know, and i've heard that they are the folks who are good at guessing," laughed cousin ronald. "but i don't believe they do all the guessing; i think other folks must do some of it," said ned. "quite likely," said cousin ronald; "most folks like to engage in that business once in awhile." "tee-tee," said ned, "i wish you and tiny would talk a little more." "what about little master?" seemed to come in quick response from tiny's lips. "oh, anything you please. all i want is the fun of hearing you talk," said ned. "it wouldn't be polite for us to do all the talking," he seemed to respond; and ned returned, "you needn't mind about the politeness of it. we folks all want to hear you talk, whatever you may say." "but i don't want to talk unless i have something to say," was tiny's answer. "that's right, tiny; you seem to be a sensible fellow," laughed lucilla. "papa, are monkeys mischievous?" asked elsie. "they have that reputation, and certainly some have shown themselves so; therefore, you would better not put temptation in the way of tiny or tee-tee." "and better not trust them too far," said violet. "i'd be sorry to have any of your clothes torn up while we are so far from home." "oh mamma, do you think they would do that?" cried elsie. "i don't know; but i have heard of monkeys meddling with their mistress's clothes, and perhaps tiny doesn't know how much too large even yours would be for her--no for him." "well, mamma, i'll try to keep things out of his way, and i hope he'll realize that a girl's garments are not suitable for a boy monkey," laughed elsie. "do you hear that? and will you remember?" she asked, giving him a little shake and tap which he seemed to take very unconcernedly. "and i'll try to keep my clothes out of tee-tee's way; for i shouldn't like to make trouble for you, mamma, or to wear either holey or patched clothes," said ned. "no," said his father; "so we will hope the little fellows will be honest enough to refrain from meddling with your clothes; at least till we get home." "and i think you will find these pretty little fellows honest, and not meddlesome," said mr. dinsmore. "i have read that they are most engaging little creatures, and from what i have seen of these, i think that is true; they seem to behave with gentle intelligence quite superior to that of any other monkey i ever saw; to have amiable tempers, too, and there is an innocent expression in their countenances, which is very pleasing. i do not think they have as yet had anything to frighten them here, but i have read that when alarmed, sudden tears fill their clear hazel eyes, and they make little imploring, shrinking gestures that excite the sympathy of those to whom they are appealing for protection." "yes, grandpa, i think they do look good, enough better and pleasanter than any other monkey that ever i saw," said ned. "yes," said his father, "it is certainly the most engaging specimen of the monkey family that ever i came across." "children," said violet, "the call to dinner will come in about five minutes. so put away your pets for the present and make yourselves neat for the table." chapter xvii. the "dolphin" sped on her way, and her passengers enjoyed their voyage whether the sun shone or the decks were swept by wind and rain; for the saloon was always a comfortable place of refuge in stormy weather, and by no means an unpleasant one at any time. they were all gathered on the deck one bright, breezy morning, chatting cheerily, the children amusing themselves with their tee-tee pets. "father," said lucilla, "are we not nearing the caribbean sea?" "yes; if all goes well we will be in it by this time to-morrow," was captain raymond's reply. "it is a body of water worth seeing; separated from the gulf of mexico by yucatan, and from the atlantic ocean by the great arch of the antilles, between cuba and trinidad. it forms the turning point in the vast cycle of waters known as the gulf stream that wheels round regularly from southern africa to northern europe. the caribbean sea pours its waters into the gulf of mexico on the west, which shoots forth on the east the florida stream with the computed volume of three thousand mississippis." "but, papa, where does it get so much water to pour out?" asked elsie. "i wonder it didn't get empty long ago." "ah, that is prevented by its taking in as well as pouring out. it gathers water from the atlantic ocean and the amazon and orinoco rivers." "papa, why do they call it by that name--caribbean sea?" asked ned. "it takes its name from the caribs, the people who were living there when columbus discovered the islands," said the captain. "the gulf stream is very important, isn't it, papa?" asked elsie. "the most important and best known of the great ocean currents," he replied. "it flows out of the gulf of mexico, between the coast of florida on one side and the cuba and bahama islands and shoals on the other." "the stream is very broad, isn't it, papa?" asked grace. "about fifty miles in the narrowest portion, and it has a velocity of five miles an hour; pouring along like an immense torrent." "but where does it run to, papa?" asked ned. "first in a northeasterly direction, along the american coast, the current gradually growing wider and less swift, until it reaches the island and banks of newfoundland; then it sweeps across the atlantic, and divides into two portions, one turning eastward toward the azores and coast of morocco, while the other laves the shores of the british islands and norway, also the southern borders of iceland and spitsbergen, nearly as far east as nova zembla." "but how can they tell where it goes when it mixes in with other waters, papa?" asked elsie. "its waters are of a deep indigo blue, while those of the sea are light green," replied her father. "and as it pours out of the gulf of mexico its waters are very warm and full of fish and seaweed in great masses. its waters are so warm that in mid-winter, off the cold coasts of america between cape hatteras and newfoundland, ships beaten back from their harbors by fierce northwesters until loaded down with ice and in danger of foundering, turn their prows to the east and seek relief and comfort in the gulf stream." "don't they have some difficulty in finding it, father?" asked lucilla. "a bank of fog rising like a wall, caused by the condensation of warm vapors meeting a colder atmosphere, marks the edge of the stream," replied the captain. "also the water suddenly changes from green to blue, the climate from winter to summer, and this change is so sudden that when a ship is crossing the line, a difference of thirty degrees of temperature has been marked between the bow and the stern." "papa, i know there used to be pirates in the west indies; was it there that kidd committed his crimes?" "i think not," replied her father. "in his day, piracy on the high seas prevailed to an alarming extent, especially in the indian ocean. it was said that many of the freebooters came from america, and that they found a ready market here for their stolen goods. the king of england--then king of this country, also--wished to put an end to piracy, and instructed the governors of new york and massachusetts to put down these abuses. "it was soon known in new york that the new governor was bent on suppressing piracy. then some men of influence, who knew of kidd as a successful, bold and skilful captain, who had fought against the french and performed some daring exploits, recommended him as commander of the expedition against the pirates. they said he had all the requisite qualifications--skill, courage, large and widely-extended naval experience, and thorough knowledge of the haunts of the pirates 'who prowled between the cape of good hope and the straits of malacca.' "a private company was organized, a vessel bought, called the 'adventure,' equipped with thirty guns, and kidd given command. he sailed to new york, and on his way captured a french ship off the coast of newfoundland. he sailed from the hudson river in january, , crossed the ocean and reached the coast of madagascar, then the great rendezvous of the buccaneers." "and how soon did he begin his piracy, papa?" "i can't tell you exactly, but it soon began to be reported that he was doing so, and in november, , orders were sent to all the governors of english colonies to apprehend him if he came within their jurisdiction. "in april, , he arrived in the west indies in a vessel called 'quidah merchant,' secured her in a lagoon on the island of samoa, southeast of hayti, and then, in a sloop called 'san antonio,' sailed for the north, up the coast into delaware bay, afterward to long island sound, and into oyster bay. he was soon arrested, charged with piracy, sent to england, tried, found guilty and hung." "there were other charges, were there not, captain?" asked mr. dinsmore. "yes, sir; burning houses, massacring peasantry, brutally treating prisoners, and particularly with murdering one of his men, william moore. he had called moore a dog, to which moore replied, 'yes, i am a dog, but it is you that have made me so.' at that, kidd, in a fury of rage, struck him down with a bucket, killing him instantly. it was found impossible to prove piracy against kidd, but he was found guilty of the murder of moore, and on the twenty-fourth of may, , he was hanged with nine of his accomplices." "did he own that he was guilty, papa?" asked grace. "no," replied the captain, "he protested his innocence to the last; said he had been coerced by his men, and that moore was mutinous when he struck him; and there are many who think his trial was high-handed and unfair." "then i hope he didn't deserve quite all that has been said against him," said grace. "i hope not," said her father. chapter xviii. elsie and ned were on deck with their pet tee-tees, which seemed to be in even more than usually playful mood, running round and round the deck and up and down the masts. ned chased after them, trying to catch them, but failing again and again. he grew more and more excited and less careful to avoid mishap in the struggle to capture the little runaways. elsie called after him to "let them have their fun for awhile, and then they would come back to be petted and fed," but he paid no attention to her. he called and whistled to tee-tee, who was high up on a mast. the little fellow stood still for a time, regarding his young master as if he would say, "i'll come when i please, but you can't make me come sooner." so ned read the look, and called up to him, "come down this minute, you little rascal, or i'll be apt to make you sorry you didn't." that did not seem to have any effect, and ned looked about for some one to send up after the little runaway. "have patience, master ned, he'll come down after a bit," said a sailor standing near. "ah, do you see? there he comes now," and turning quickly, ned saw his tee-tee running swiftly down the mast, then along the top of the gunwale, then down on the outside. he rushed to catch him, leaned too far over, and, with a cry of terror, felt himself falling down, down into the sea. a scream from elsie echoed his cry. the sailor who had spoken to ned a moment before, instantly tore off his coat and plunged in after the child, caught him as he rose to the surface, held him with his head out of water, and called for a boat which was already being launched by the other sailors. neither the captain nor any of his older passengers were on deck at the moment; but the cries of the children, the sailor's plunge into the water, and the hurrying of the others to launch the boat were heard in the saloon. "something is wrong!" exclaimed the captain, hurrying to the deck, closely followed by violet, whose cry was, "oh, my children! what has happened to them?" the other members of the party came hurrying after all in great excitement. "don't be alarmed, my dear," said the captain, soothingly, "whatever is wrong can doubtless be set right in a few moments." then, catching sight of his little girl as he gained the deck, and seeing that she was crying bitterly, "elsie daughter, what is it?" he asked. "oh, papa," sobbed the child, "neddie has fallen into the sea, and i'm afraid he's drowned!" before her father could answer, a sailor approached and, bowing respectfully, said: "i think it will be all right, sir, in a few minutes. master ned fell into the water, but tom jones happened to be close at hand, and sprang in right after him and caught him as he came up the first time. then he called to us to lower the boat, and you see it's in the water already, and they're starting after master ned and tom--left considerable behind now by the forward movement of the yacht." "ah, yes; i see them," returned the captain; "the boat, too. violet, my dear, neddie seems to be quite safe, and we will have him on board again in a few minutes." all on the deck watched, in almost breathless suspense, the progress of the small boat through the water, saw it reach and pick up the half-drowning man and boy, and then return to the yacht. in a few moments more ned was in his mother's arms, her tears falling on his face, as she clasped him to her bosom, kissing him over and over again with passionate fondness. "there, vi, dear, you would better give him into my care for a little," said harold. "he wants a good rubbing, dry garments, a dose of something hot and then a good nap." "there, go with uncle harold, dear," said his mother, releasing him. "and papa," said ned, looking up at his father, entreatingly. "yes, little son, papa will go with you," returned the captain, in moved tones. "oh, is my tee-tee drowned?" exclaimed the little fellow, with sudden recollection, and glancing around as he spoke. "no," said harold; "i see him now running around the deck. he's all right." and with that the two gentlemen hurried down into the cabin, taking ned with them. "well, it is a very good plan to always take a doctor along when we go sailing about the world," remarked lucilla, looking after them as they passed down the stairway. "yes; especially when you can find one as skilful, kind and agreeable as our doctor harold," said evelyn. "thank you, my dear," said mrs. travilla, regarding evelyn with a pleased smile, "he seems to me both an excellent physician and a polished gentleman; but mothers are apt to be partial judges; so i am glad to find that your opinion is much the same as mine." grace looked gratified, and violet said: "it seems to be the opinion of all on board." "mine as well as the rest," added lucilla. "chester has improved wonderfully since we set sail on the 'dolphin.'" "quite true," said chester's voice close at hand, he having just returned from a talk with the sailors who had picked up the half-drowning man and boy, "quite true; and i give credit to my doctor, cousin harold; for his advice at least, which i have endeavored to follow carefully. he's a fine, competent physician, if it is a relative who says it. violet, you need have no fear that he won't bring your boy through this thing all right." "i am not at all afraid to trust him--my dear, skilful brother and physician--and i believe he will be able to bring my little son through this trouble," said violet. "no doubt of it," returned chester; "by to-morrow morning little ned will be in usual health and spirits; none the worse for his sudden sea bath." "i can never be thankful enough to tom jones," said violet, with emotion. "he saved the life of my darling boy; for he surely would have drowned before any one else could have got to him." "yes," said chester; "i think he deserves all the praise you can give him." "and something more than praise," said violet and her mother, both speaking at once. "he is not, by any means, a rich man," added violet, "and my husband will certainly find a way to help him into better circumstances." "something in which i shall be glad to assist," added her mother. "neddie is your son, but he is my dear little grandson." "and my great-grandson," added mr. dinsmore, joining the group. "i am truly thankful that tom jones was so near when he fell, and so ready to go to the rescue." "and the engineer to slacken the speed of the vessel, the other sailors to lower and man the boat and go to the rescue," said violet. "yes; they must all be rewarded," said her mother. "it will be a pleasure to me to give them a substantial evidence of the gratitude i feel." "that is just like you, mamma," said violet, with emotion; "but i am sure his father is able, and will be more than willing to do all that is necessary." "yes, indeed!" exclaimed lucilla, "there is no more just or generous person than my father! and he is abundantly able to do all that can be desired to reward any or all who took any part in the saving of my dear little brother." "my dear girl," said grandma elsie, "no one who knows your father can have the least doubt of his generosity and kindness of heart; i am very sure that all the men we were speaking of will have abundant proof of it." "as we all are," said mr. dinsmore. "i'm sure papa will do just what is right; he always does," said little elsie. "and oh, mamma, don't you think that he and uncle harold will soon get dear neddie well of his dreadful dip in the sea?" "i do, daughter," answered violet; "and oh, here come your papa and uncle now!" for at that moment the two gentlemen stepped upon the deck and came swiftly toward them. "oh? how is he--my darling little son?" cried violet, almost breathless with excitement and anxiety. "doing as well as possible," answered her brother, in cheery tone. "he has had a good rubbing down, a hot, soothing potion, been covered up in his berth, and fallen into a sound sleep." "yes," said the captain, "i think he is doing as well as possible, and to-morrow will show himself no worse for his involuntary dip in the sea." "oh, i am so glad, so thankful!" exclaimed violet, tears of joy filling her eyes. "as i am," said his father, his voice trembling with emotion; "we have great cause for thankfulness to the giver of all good. i am very glad your mind is relieved, dearest. but i must go now and thank the men, whose prompt action saved us from a heavy loss and bitter sorrow." he had seated himself by violet's side and put his arm about her, but he rose with those last words, and went forward to where a group of sailors were talking over the episode and rejoicing that it had ended so satisfactorily. they lifted their hats and saluted the captain respectfully as he neared them. "how is the little lad, sir?" asked jones, as he neared them. "no worse for his ducking, i hope." "thank you, jones. i think he will not be any the worse by to-morrow morning," replied the captain. "he is sleeping now, which, i think, is the best thing he could do. jones, he owes his life to you, and i can never cease to be grateful to you for your prompt action in springing instantly to his rescue when he fell into the water." "oh, sir," stammered jones, looking both pleased and embarrassed, "it--it wasn't a bit more than almost any other fellow would have done in my place. and i'm mighty glad i did it, for he's one o' the likeliest little chaps ever i saw!" "he is a very dear one to his father and mother, brother and sisters, and i should like to give to each of you fellows who helped in this thing, some little token of my appreciation of your kindly efforts. i will think it over and have a talk with you again, and you may consider what return i could make that would be the most agreeable and helpful to you." "about how much do you suppose that means?" asked one man of his mates, when the captain had walked away. "perhaps five dollars apiece," chuckled one of the others, "for the captain is pretty generous; and likely jones's share will be twice as much." "nonsense! who wants to be paid for saving that cute little chap from drowning?" growled jones. "i'd have been a coward if i'd indulged in a minute's hesitation." "i s'pose so," returned one of the others, "but you risked your life to save his, so deserve a big reward, and i hope and believe you'll get it." on leaving the group of sailors, the captain went to the pilot-house and gave warm thanks there for the prompt slowing of the "dolphin's" speed the instant the alarm of ned's fall was given. "it was no more than any other man would have done in my place, captain," replied the pilot, with a smile of gratification. "no," returned captain raymond, "some men would have been less prompt and the probable consequence, the loss of my little son's life, which would have been a great loss to his mother and me," he added, with emotion. "i think you are worthy of an increase of pay, mr. clark, and you won't object to it, i suppose?" "no, sir; seeing i have a family to support, i won't refuse your kindness, and i thank you very much for the kind offer." at that moment violet drew near and stood at her husband's side. she spoke in tones trembling with emotion. "i have come to thank you, clark, for the saving of my darling boy's life; for i know that but for the slowing of the engine both jones and he might have lost their lives--sinking before help could reach them." "you are very kind to look at it in that way, mrs. raymond," returned clark, in tones that spoke his appreciation of her grateful feeling, "but it was very little that i did--cost hardly any exertion and no risk. jones is, i think, the only one deserving much, if any, credit for the rescue of the little lad." he paused a moment, then added, "but the captain here has most generously offered me an increase of pay; for which i thank him most heartily." "oh, my dear, i am very glad to hear that!" exclaimed violet, addressing her husband. with the last word, her hand was slipped into his arm, and, with a parting nod to clark, they turned and went back to the family group still gathered upon the deck under the awning. they found elsie with tiny on her shoulder and tee-tee on her lap. "i must take care of them both now for awhile till ned gets over that dreadful sea bath," she said, looking up smilingly at her parents as they drew near. "yes, daughter, that is right," replied her father, "it was no fault of little tee-tee that his young master fell into the sea." that evening violet and the captain had a quiet promenade on the deck together, in which they talked of those who had any share in the rescue of their little ned, and what reward might be appropriate for each one. "i have heard there is a mortgage on the farm which is the home of tom jones and his mother," said the captain. "i will pay that off as my gift to tom, in recognition of his bravery and kindness in risking his own life in the effort to save that of our little son." "do," said violet, joyfully; "he certainly deserves it, and probably there is nothing he would like better." "he is certainly entitled to the largest reward i give," said the captain, "though i daresay almost any of the others would have acted just as he did, if they had had the same opportunity." ned slept well under his uncle's care that night, and the next morning appeared at the breakfast table looking much as usual, and saying, in answer to loving inquiries, that he felt as if nothing had happened to him; not a bit the worse for his bath in the sea. nor was he disposed to blame tee-tee for his involuntary plunge into the water; the two were evidently as fast friends as ever. after breakfast the captain had a talk, first with jones, then with the other men, in which each learned what his reward was to be. jones was almost too much moved for speech when told of his, but expressed his gratitude more fully afterward, saying, "it is a blessed thing to have a home of one's own; especially when it can be shared with one's mother. dear me, but won't she be glad!" and the others were highly pleased with the ten dollars apiece which fell to their shares. chapter xix. the yacht had now passed from the caribbean sea into the gulf of mexico and was headed for new orleans, where they arrived safely and in due season. they did not care to visit the city--most of them having been there several times, and all wanting to spend at viamede the few days they could spare for rest and pleasure before returning to their more northern homes. so they tarried but a few hours at the crescent city, then pursued their way along the gulf, up the bay into teche bayou and beyond through lake and lakelet, past plantation and swamp, plain and forest; enjoying the scenery as of old--the beautiful velvety green lawns, shaded by their magnificent oaks and magnolias, cool shady dells carpeted with a rich growth of flowers; tall white sugar-houses and long rows of cabins for the laborers; and lordly villas peering through groves of orange trees. a pleasant surprise awaited them as they rounded at the wharf--at viamede; a great gathering of friends and relatives--not only from the immediate neighborhood, but from that of their more northern homes--edward travilla and his family, elsie leland and hers, rose croly with her little one. it was a glad surprise to violet, for her mother had not told her they had all been invited to spend the winter at viamede, and had accepted the invitation. the cousins from magnolia hall, torriswood and the cottage were all there. it seemed a joyful meeting to all; to none more so than to chester and his sisters. it was their first meeting since his marriage, and they seemed glad to call lucilla sister. "you must be our guest at torriswood, lu; you and brother chester," said maud, when greetings were over, and the new arrivals were removing their hats in one of the dressing-rooms. "thank you, maud, of course we will spend a part--probably most of our time with you," replied lucilla. "i expect to have a delightful time both there and here." "you shall there, if i can bring it about," laughed maud. "i want you also, young mrs. raymond," she added, in playful tones, turning to evelyn. "you will come, won't you?" "thank you, i think i shall," was eva's pleased reply. "you are wanted, too, gracie," continued maud. "and dr. harold is to be invited, and i hope will accept, for he is a great favorite with us ever since he saved dick's life." "i think it entirely right that he should be," returned grace, demurely, "and his presence will be no serious objection to me; in fact, as he is my physician, it might be very well to have him close at hand, in case i should be taken suddenly ill." "very true," said maud, bridling playfully, "though if he were not there, dr. percival might possibly prove an efficient substitute." there was a general laugh at that, and all hastened to join the rest of the company who were gathered upon the front veranda. elsie and ned were there with their new pets, which seemed to be attracting a good deal of attention. elsie was sitting by her mother's side, with tiny on her shoulder, and ned stood near them with tee-tee in his arms, stroking and patting him while he told how the little fellow had frightened him in his gambols about the yacht till, in trying to save him from falling into the sea, he had tumbled in himself. "very foolish in you to risk your life for me, little master," tee-tee seemed to say, as ned reached that part of his story. ned laughed, saying, "so you think, do you?" "oh, it can talk! it can talk!" cried several of the children in astonishment and delight, while their elders turned with amused, inquiring looks to cousin ronald, the known ventriloquist of the family. "yes, little master, so don't you do it ever again," seemed to come from tee-tee's lips. "no, indeed, i think i won't," laughed ned. "i can talk, too; quite as well as my brother can," seemed to come from tiny's lips. "yes, so you can, my pretty pet," laughed elsie, giving him an approving pat. "oh, oh! they can both talk!" exclaimed several of the children. "and speak good english, too, though they come from a land where it is not commonly spoken," laughed chester. "but we heard english on the yacht, and we can learn fast," was tee-tee's answering remark. "especially when you can get cousin ronald to help you," laughed ned. "there, ned, i'm afraid you've let the cat out of the bag," laughed lucilla. "i don't see either cat or bag," sniffed ned, after an inquiring look around. "your sister means that you are letting out a secret," said his father. "oh, was i? i hope not," exclaimed the little fellow, looking rather crestfallen. "how does cousin ronald help him?" asked one of the little cousins. "i don't know," said ned; "i couldn't do it." the call to the supper-table just at that moment saved cousin ronald the trouble of answering the inquiring looks directed at him. after the meal, all resorted again to the veranda, and the little tee-tees, having had their supper in the kitchen, were again a source of amusement, especially to the children. "did the folks give you plenty to eat, tee-tee?" asked ned. "all we wanted, and very nice, too," the little fellow seemed to say in reply. "and he ate like--like a hungry bear; a great deal more than i did," tiny seemed to say. "well, i'm bigger than you," was tee-tee's answering remark. "and both of you are very, very little; too little to eat much, i should think," laughed one of the children. "i've heard that they put the best goods in the smallest packages," tee-tee seemed to say; then suddenly he sprang out of ned's arms, jumped over the veranda railing, ran swiftly across the lawn and up an orange tree, tiny leaving elsie and racing after him. "oh, dear, dear! what shall we do? will they ever come back?" cried elsie, tears filling her eyes as she spoke. "i think they will, daughter," said the captain, soothingly. "do you forget that i told you they would run up the trees? you and ned have been so kind to them, petted them and fed them so well that they'll be glad, i think, to continue in your care, but now, like children, they want a little fun, such as they have been accustomed to in their forest life." that assurance comforted the young owners somewhat, and they chatted pleasantly with the other children until it was time for them to leave, but kept watching the tee-tees frisking about in that tree and others on the lawn, hoping they would weary of their fun and come back to them. but they had not done so when the guests took leave, nor when bedtime came, but the captain comforted the children again with the hope that the tee-tees would finish their frolic and return the next day; which they did, to the great joy of their young master and mistress. maud's invitation was accepted by all to whom she or dick had given it. magnolia hall and the parsonage claimed several of the others, and the rest were easily and well accommodated at viamede. all felt themselves heartily welcome, and greatly enjoyed their sojourn of some weeks in that hospitable neighborhood and among near and dear relatives. fortunately for ned, his remark about cousin ronald helping the tee-tees with their talk, did not have the bad effect that he feared, and the older friends did not explain; so there was more fun of the same kind when the children were together and the kind old gentleman with them. as the stay of grandma elsie and her party was to be short, there was a constant interchange of visits between them and the relatives resident in the neighborhood, and much to the delight of the children, the little tee-tees were on constant exhibition. sometimes they were to be seen darting here and there over the lawn, running up and down the trees or springing from one to another; but often, to the greater pleasure of the young folks, they were on the veranda, chasing each other round and round, or sitting on the shoulder of elsie or ned. then if cousin ronald happened to be present, they seemed to be in the mood for conversation. "i like this place, tiny, don't you?" tee-tee seemed to ask one day, when they had just returned from a scamper over the lawn and up and down the trees. "yes, indeed!" was the reply. "it's nicer than that vessel we came in. let's stay here." "oh, we can't. i heard the captain talking about going back, and they'll certainly want to take us along." "but don't let us go. we can hide in the woods where they can't find us." "i think not," laughed elsie; "we value you too much not to hunt you up before we go." "dear me! i'd take good care they didn't get a chance to play that game," exclaimed one of the little cousins. "i think the best plan will be to pet them so much that they won't be willing to be left behind," said elsie. "and that's what we'll do," said ned. just then there was an arrival from torriswood and that put a stop, for the time, to the chatter of the tee-tees. dr. percival and his maud, with their guests from the north, were of the party, and all remained until near bedtime that night, when they went away with the pleasant assurance that the whole connection at that time in that neighborhood would spend the following day with them in their lovely torriswood home, should nothing occur to prevent. nothing did; the day was bright and beautiful, and not one of the relatives was missing from the pleasant gathering. to the joy of elsie and ned raymond, not even the tee-tees were neglected in the invitation, and with some assistance from cousin ronald they made a good deal of fun, for at least the younger part of the company. the next day was spent by the same company at magnolia hall, and a few days later most of them gathered at the pretty parsonage, where dwelt cyril and isadore keith. cyril was a much-loved and successful pastor, an excellent preacher, whose sermons were greatly enjoyed by those of the "dolphin" party who were old enough to appreciate them. the parsonage and its grounds made a lovely home for the pastor, his wife and the children with which providence had blessed them, and the family party held there, the last of the series, was found by all quite as enjoyable as any that had preceded it. after that the old pastimes--rides, drives, boating and fishing excursions--were resumed, also the quiet home pleasures and rambles through the woods and fields; for they found they could not tear themselves away as quickly as they had intended when they planned to end their winter trip--leaving the return journey out of the calculation--with a short visit to viamede. that neighborhood, with its pleasant companionship, was too delightful to be left until the increasing heat of the advancing spring should make it less comfortable and healthful for them than their more northern homes. so there let us leave them for the present. the end. transcriber's note: obvious printer errors have been corrected. otherwise, the author's original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact. [illustration: book cover] [illustration: unexpected results of jimmy's efforts to trap pigs. [_page_ ]] the adventures of jimmy brown _written by himself_ and edited by w. l. alden illustrated [illustration] new york and london harper & brothers publishers copyright, , by _harper & brothers_. _all rights reserved._ contents page mr. martin's game mr. martin's scalp a private circus burglars mr. martin's eye playing circus mr. martin's leg our concert our baby our snow man art an awful scene screw-heads my monkey the end of my monkey the old, old story bee-hunting prompt obedience our ice-cream my pig going to be a pirate rats and mice hunting the rhinoceros down cellar our baby again studying wasps a terrible mistake our bull-fight our balloon our new walk a steam chair animals a pleasing experiment traps an accident a pillow fight sue's wedding our new dog lightning my camera freckles santa claus illustrations. page _unexpected results of jimmy's efforts to trap pigs_ frontispiece _"oh, my!"_ _the trapeze performance_ _there was the awfullest fight you ever saw_ _we built the biggest snow man i ever heard of_ _the moment they saw the baby they said the most dreadful things_ _screw-heads_ , _my monkey_ - _the end of my monkey_ - _wasn't there a circus in that dining-room!_ _sue's ice-cream party_ _sue had opened the box_ _then he fell into the hot-bed, and broke all the glass_ _they thought they were both burglars_ _he went twenty feet right up into the air_ _presently it went slowly up_ _prying the boys out_ _it had shut up like a jack-knife_ _"we've been playing we were pigs, ma"_ _he lit right on the man's head_ _he pinched just as hard as he could pinch_ _i never was so frightened in my life_ _she gave an awful shriek and fainted away_ _how that dog did pull!_ _we hurried into the room_ _i did get a beautiful picture_ _mother and sue made a dreadful fuss_ _they got harry out all safe_ the adventures of jimmy brown. mr. martin's game. what if he is a great deal older than i am! that doesn't give him any right to rumple my hair, does it? i'm willing to respect old age, of course, but i want my hair respected too. but rumpling hair isn't enough for mr. martin; he must call me "bub," and "sonny." i might stand "sonny," but i won't stand being called "bub" by any living man--not if i can help it. i've told him three or four times "my name isn't 'bub,' mr. martin. my name's jim, or jimmy," but he would just grin in an exhausperating kind of way, and keep on calling me "bub." my sister sue doesn't like him any better than i do. he comes to see her about twice a week, and i've heard her say, "goodness me there's that tiresome old bachelor again." but she treats him just as polite as she does anybody; and when he brings her candy, she says, "oh mr. martin you are _too_ good." there's a great deal of make-believe about girls, i think. now that i've mentioned candy, i will say that he might pass it around, but he never thinks of such a thing. mr. travers, who is the best of all sue's young men, always brings candy with him, and gives me a lot. then he generally gives me a quarter to go to the post-office for him, because he forgot to go, and expects something very important. it takes an hour to go to the post-office and back, but i'd do anything for such a nice man. one night--it was mr. travers's regular night--mr. martin came, and wasn't sue mad! she knew mr. travers would come in about half an hour, and she always made it a rule to keep her young men separate. she sent down word that she was busy, and would be down-stairs after a while. would mr. martin please sit down and wait. so he sat down on the front piazza and waited. i was sitting on the grass, practising mumble-te-peg a little, and by-and-by mr. martin says, "well, bub, what are you doing?" "playing a game," says i. "want to learn it?" "well, i don't care if i do," says he. so he came out and sat on the grass, and i showed him how to play. just then mr. travers arrived, and sue came down, and was awfully glad to see both her friends. "but what in the world are you doing?" she says to mr. martin. when she heard that he was learning the game, she said, "how interesting do play one game." mr. martin finally said he would. so we played a game, and i let him beat me very easy. he laughed lit to kill himself when i drew the peg, and said it was the best game he ever played. "is there any game you play any better than this, sonny?" said he, in his most irragravating style. "let's have another game," said i. "only you must promise to draw the peg fair, if i beat you." "all right," said he. "i'll draw the peg if you beat me, bub." o, he felt so sure he was a first-class player. i don't like a conceited man, no matter if he is only a boy. you can just imagine how quick i beat him. why, i went right through to "both ears" without stopping, and the first time i threw the knife over my head it stuck in the ground. i cut a beautiful peg out of hard wood--one of those sharp, slender pegs that will go through anything but a stone. i drove it in clear out of sight, and mr. martin, says he, "why, sonny, nobody couldn't possibly draw that peg." "i've drawn worse pegs than that," said i. "you've got to clear away the earth with your chin and front teeth, and then you can draw it." "that is nonsense," said mr. martin, growing red in the face. "this is a fair and square game," says i, "and you gave your word to draw the peg if i beat you." "i do hope mr. martin will play fair," said sue. "it would be too bad to cheat a little boy." so mr. martin got down and tried it, but he didn't like it one bit. "see here, jimmy," said he, "i'll give you half a dollar, and we'll consider the peg drawn." "that is bribery and corruption," said i. "mr. martin, i can't be bribed, and didn't think you'd try to hire me to let you break your promise." when he saw i wouldn't let up on him, he got down again and went to work. it was the best fun i ever knew. i just rolled on the ground and laughed till i cried. sue and mr. travers didn't roll, but they laughed till sue got up and ran into the house, where i could hear her screaming on the front-parlor sofa, and mother crying out, "my darling child where does it hurt you won't you have the doctor jane do bring the camphor." mr. martin gnawed away at the earth, and used swear-words to himself, and was perfectly raging. after a while he got the peg, and then he got up with his face about the color of a flower-pot, and put on his hat and went out of the front gate rubbing his face with his handkerchief, and never so much as saying good-night. he didn't come near the house again for two weeks. mr. travers gave me a half-dollar to go to the post-office to make up for the one i had refused, and told me that i had displayed roaming virtue, though i don't know exactly what he meant. he looked over this story, and corrected the spelling for me, only it is to be a secret that he helped me. i'd do almost anything for him, and i'm going to ask sue to marry him just to please me. mr. martin's scalp. after that game of mumble-te-peg that me and mr. martin played, he did not come to our house for two weeks. mr. travers said perhaps the earth he had to gnaw while he was drawing the peg had struck to his insides and made him sick, but i knew it couldn't be that. i've drawn pegs that were drove into every kind of earth, and it never hurt me. earth is healthy, unless it is lime; and don't you ever let anybody drive a peg into lime. if you were to swallow the least bit of lime, and then drink some water, it would burn a hole through you just as quick as anything. there was once a boy who found some lime in the closet, and thought it was sugar, and of course he didn't like the taste of it. so he drank some water to take the taste out of his mouth, and pretty soon his mother said, "i smell something burning goodness gracious the house is on fire." but the boy he gave a dreadful scream, and said, "ma, it's me!" and the smoke curled up out of his pockets and around his neck, and he burned up and died. i know this is true, because tom mcginnis went to school with him, and told me about it. mr. martin came to see susan last night for the first time since we had our game; and i wish he had never come back, for he got me into an awful scrape. this was the way it happened. i was playing indian in the yard. i had a wooden tomahawk and a wooden scalping-knife and a bownarrow. i was dressed up in father's old coat turned inside out, and had six chicken feathers in my hair. i was playing i was green thunder, the delaware chief, and was hunting for pale-faces in the yard. it was just after supper, and i was having a real nice time, when mr. travers came, and he said, "jimmy, what are you up to now?" so i told him i was green thunder, and was on the war-path. said he, "jimmy, i think i saw mr. martin on his way here. do you think you would mind scalping him?" i said i wouldn't scalp him for nothing, for that would be cruelty; but if mr. travers was sure that mr. martin was the enemy of the red man, then green thunder's heart would ache for revenge, and i would scalp him with pleasure. mr. travers said that mr. martin was a notorious enemy and oppressor of the indians, and he gave me ten cents, and said that as soon as mr. martin should come and be sitting comfortably on the piazza, i was to give the warwhoop and scalp him. well, in a few minutes mr. martin came, and he and mr. travers and susan sat on the piazza, and talked as if they were all so pleased to see each other, which was the highest-pocracy in the world. after a while mr. martin saw me, and said, "how silly boys are! that boy makes believe he's an indian, and he knows he's only a little nuisance." now this made me mad, and i thought i would give him a good scare, just to teach him not to call names if a fellow does beat him in a fair game. so i began to steal softly up the piazza steps, and to get around behind him. when i had got about six feet from him i gave a warwhoop, and jumped at him. i caught hold of his scalp-lock with one hand, and drew my wooden scalping-knife around his head with the other. i never got such a fright in my whole life. the knife was that dull that it wouldn't have cut butter; but, true as i sit here, mr. martin's whole scalp came right off in my hand. i thought i had killed him, and i dropped his scalp, and said, "for mercy's sake! i didn't go to do it, and i'm awfully sorry." but he just caught up his scalp, stuffed it in his pocket, and jammed his hat on his head, and walked off, saying to susan, "i didn't come here to be insulted by a little wretch that deserves the gallows." mr. travers and susan never said a word until he had gone, and then they laughed until the noise brought father out to ask what was the matter. when he heard what had happened, instead of laughing, he looked very angry, said that "mr. martin was a worthy man. my son, you may come up-stairs with me." if you've ever been a boy, you know what happened up-stairs, and i needn't say any more on a very painful subject. i didn't mind it so much, for i thought mr. martin would die, and then i would be hung, and put in jail; but before she went to bed susan came and whispered through the door that it was all right; that mr. martin was made that way, so he could be taken apart easy, and that i hadn't hurt him. i shall have to stay in my room all day to-day, and eat bread and water; and what i say is that if men are made with scalps that may come off any minute if a boy just touches them, it isn't fair to blame the boy. a private circus. there's going to be a circus here, and i'm going to it; that is, if father will let me. some people think it's wrong to go to a circus, but i don't. mr. travers says that the mind of man and boy requires circuses in moderation, and that the wicked boys in sunday-school books who steal their employers' money to buy circus tickets wouldn't steal it if their employers, or their fathers or uncles, would give them circus tickets once in a while. i'm sure i wouldn't want to go to a circus every night in the week. all i should want would be to go two or three evenings, and wednesday and saturday afternoons. there was once a boy who was awfully fond of going to the circus, and his employer, who was a very good man, said he'd cure him. so he said to the boy, "thomas, my son, i'm going to hire you to go to the circus every night. i'll pay you three dollars a week, and give you your board and lodging, if you'll go every night except sunday; but if you don't go, then you won't get any board and lodging or any money." and the boy said, "oh, you can just bet i'll go!" and he thought everything was lovely; but after two weeks he got so sick of the circus that he would have given anything to be let to stay away. finally he got so wretched that he deceived his good employer, and stole money from him to buy school-books with, and ran away and went to school. the older he grew the more he looked back with horror upon that awful period when he went to the circus every night. mr. travers says it finally had such an effect upon him that he worked hard all day and read books all night just to keep it out of his mind. the result was that before he knew it he became a very learned and a very rich man. of course it was very wrong for the boy to steal money to stay away from the circus with, but the story teaches us that if we go to the circus too much, we shall get tired of it, which is a very solemn thing. we had a private circus at our house last night--at least that's what father called it, and he seemed to enjoy it. it happened in this way. i went into the back parlor one evening, because i wanted to see mr. travers. he and sue always sit there. it was growing quite dark when i went in, and going towards the sofa, i happened to walk against a rocking-chair that was rocking all by itself, which, come to think of it, was an awfully curious thing, and i'm going to ask somebody about it. i didn't mind walking into the chair, for it didn't hurt me much, only i knocked it over, and it hit sue, and she said, "oh my get me something quick!" and then fainted away. mr. travers was dreadfully frightened, and said, "run, jimmy, and get the cologne, or the bay-rum, or something." so i ran up to sue's room, and felt round in the dark for her bottle of cologne that she always keeps on her bureau. i found a bottle after a minute or two, and ran down and gave it to mr. travers, and he bathed sue's face as well as he could in the dark, and she came to and said, "goodness gracious do you want to put my eyes out?" [illustration: "oh, my!"] just then the front-door bell rang, and mr. bradford (our new minister) and his wife and three daughters and his son came in. sue jumped up and ran into the front parlor to light the gas, and mr. travers came to help her. they just got it lit when the visitors came in, and father and mother came down-stairs to meet them. mr. bradford looked as if he had seen a ghost, and his wife and daughters said, "oh my!" and father said, "what on earth!" and mother just burst out laughing, and said, "susan, you and mr. travers seem to have had an accident with the ink-stand." you never saw such a sight as those poor young people were. i had made a mistake, and brought down a bottle of liquid blacking. mr. travers had put it all over sue's face, so that she was jet black, all but a little of one cheek and the end of her nose; and then he had rubbed his hands on his own face until he was like an ethiopian leopard, only he could change his spots if he used soap enough. you couldn't have any idea how angry sue was with me--just as if it was my fault, when all i did was to go up-stairs for her, and get a bottle to bring her to with; and it would have been all right if she hadn't left the blacking-bottle on her bureau; and i don't call that tidy, if she is a girl. mr. travers wasn't a bit angry; but he came up to my room and washed his face, and laughed all the time. and sue got awfully angry with him, and said she would never speak to him again after disgracing her in that heartless way. so he went home, and i could hear him laughing all the way down the street, and mr. bradford and his folks thought that he and sue had been having a minstrel show, and mother thinks they'll never come to the house again. as for father, he was almost as much amused as mr. travers, and he said it served sue right, and he wasn't going to punish the boy to please her. i'm going to try to have another circus some day, though this one was all an accident, and of course i was dreadfully sorry about it. burglars. some people are afraid of burglars. girls are awfully afraid of them. when they think there's a burglar in the house, they pull the clothes over their heads and scream "murder father jimmy there's a man in the house call the police fire!" just as if that would do any good. what you ought to do if there is a burglar is to get up and shoot him with a double-barrelled gun and then tie him and send the servant out to tell the police that if they will call after breakfast you will have something ready for them that will please them. i shouldn't be a bit frightened if i woke up and found a strange man in my room. i should just pretend that i was asleep and keep watching him and when he went to climb out of the window and got half way out i'd jump up and shut the window down on him and tie his legs. but you can't expect girls to have any courage, or to know what to do when anything happens. we had been talking about burglars one day last week just before i went to bed, and i thought i would put my bownarrow where it would be handy if a robber did come. it is a nice strong bow, and i had about thirty arrows with sharp points in the end about half an inch long, that i made out of some big black pins that susan had in her pin-cushion. my room is in the third story, just over sue's room, and the window comes right down on the floor, so that you can lie on the floor and put your head out. i couldn't go to sleep that night very well, though i ate about a quart of chestnuts after i went to bed and i've heard mother say that if you eat a little something delicate late at night it will make you go to sleep. a long while after everybody had gone to bed i heard two men talking in a low tone under the window, and i jumped up to see what was the matter. two dreadful ruffians were standing under sue's window, and talking so low that it was a wonder i could hear anything. one of them had something that looked like a tremendous big squash, with a long neck, and the other had something that looked like a short crowbar. it didn't take me long to understand what they were going to do. the man with the crowbar was intending to dig a hole in the foundation of the house and then the other man would put the big squash which was full of dynamighty in the hole and light a slow-match and run away and blow the house to pieces. so i thought the best thing would be to shoot them before they could do their dreadful work. i got my bownarrow and laid down on the floor and took a good aim at one of the burglars. i hit him in the leg, and he said, "ow! ow! i've run a thorn mornamile into my leg." then i gave the other fellow an arrow, and he said, "my goodness this place is full of thorns, there's one in my leg too." then they moved back a little and i began to shoot as fast as ever i could. i hit them every time, and they were frightened to death. the fellow with the thing like a squash dropped it on the ground and the other fellow jumped on it just as i hit him in the cheek and smashed it all to pieces. you can just believe that they did not stay in our yard very long. they started for the front gate on a run, yelling "ow! ow!" and i am sorry to say using the worst kind of swear-words. the noise woke up father and he lit the gas and i saw the two wretches in the street picking the arrows out of each other but they ran off as soon as they saw the light. father says that they were not burglars at all, but were only two idiots that had come to serenade sue; but when i asked him what serenading was he said it was far worse than burglary, so i know the men were the worst kind of robbers. i found a broken guitar in the yard the next morning, and there wasn't anything in it that would explode, but it would have been very easy for the robbers to have filled it with something that would have blown the house to atoms. i suppose they preferred to put it in a guitar so that if they met anybody nobody would suspect anything. neither mother nor sue showed any gratitude to me for saving their lives, though father did say that for once that boy had showed a little sense. when mr. travers came that evening and i told him about it he said, "jimmy! there's such a thing as being just a little too smart." i don't know what he meant, but i suppose he was a little cross, for he had hurt himself some way--he wouldn't tell me how--and had court-plaster on his cheek and on his hands and walked as if his legs were stiff. still, if a man doesn't feel well he needn't be rude. mr. martin's eye. i've made up my mind to one thing, and that is, i'll never have anything to do with mr. martin again. he ought to be ashamed of himself, going around and getting boys into scrapes, just because he's put together so miserably. sue says she believes it's mucilage, and i think she's right. if he couldn't afford to get himself made like other people, why don't he stay at home? his father and mother must have been awfully ashamed of him. why, he's liable to fall apart at any time, mr. travers says, and some of these days he'll have to be swept up off the floor and carried home in three or four baskets. there was a ghost one time who used to go around, up-stairs and down-stairs, in an old castle, carrying his head in his hand, and stopping in front of everybody he met, but never saying a word. this frightened all the people dreadfully, and they couldn't get a servant to stay in the house unless she had the policeman to sit up in the kitchen with her all night. one day a young doctor came to stay at the castle, and said he didn't believe in ghosts, and that nobody ever saw a ghost, unless they had been making beasts of themselves with mince-pie and wedding-cake. so the old lord of the castle he smiled very savage, and said, "you'll believe in ghosts before you've been in this castle twenty-four hours, and don't you forget it." well, that very night the ghost came into the young doctor's room and woke him up. the doctor looked at him, and said, "ah, i perceive: painful case of imputation of the neck. want it cured, old boy?" the ghost nodded; though how he could nod when his head was off i don't know. then the doctor got up and got a thread and needle, and sewed the ghost's head on, and pushed him gently out of the door, and told him never to show himself again. nobody ever saw that ghost again, for the doctor had sewed his head on wrong side first, and he couldn't walk without running into the furniture, and of course he felt too much ashamed to show himself. this doctor was mr. travers's own grandfather, and mr. travers knows the story is true. but i meant to tell you about the last time mr. martin came to our house. it was a week after i had scalped him; but i don't believe he would ever have come if father hadn't gone to see him, and urged him to overlook the rudeness of that unfortunate and thoughtless boy. when he did come, he was as smiling as anything; and he shook hands with me, and said, "never mind, bub, only don't do it again." by-and-by, when mr. martin and sue and mr. travers were sitting on the piazza, and i was playing with my new base-ball in the yard, mr. martin called out, "pitch it over here; give us a catch." so i tossed it over gently, and he pitched it back again, and said why didn't i throw it like a man, and not toss it like a girl. so i just sent him a swift ball--a regular daisy-cutter. i knew he couldn't catch it, but i expected he would dodge. he did try to dodge, but it hit him along-side of one eye, and knocked it out. you may think i am exaggelying, but i'm not. i saw that eye fly up against the side of the house, and then roll down the front steps to the front walk, where it stopped, and winked at me. i turned, and ran out of the gate and down the street as hard as ever i could. i made up my mind that mr. martin was spoiled forever, and that the only thing for me to do was to make straight for the spanish main and be a pirate. i had often thought i would be a pirate, but now there was no help for it; for a boy that had knocked out a gentleman's eye could never be let to live in a christian country. after a while i stopped to rest, and then i remembered that i wanted to take some provisions in a bundle, and a big knife to kill wolves. so i went back as soon as it was dark, and stole round to the back of the house, so i could get in the window and find the carving-knife and some cake. i was just getting in the window, when somebody put their arms around me, and said, "dear little soul! was he almost frightened to death?" it was sue, and i told her that i was going to be a pirate and wanted the carving-knife and some cake and she mustn't tell father and was mr. martin dead yet? so she told me that mr. martin's eye wasn't injured at all, and that he had put it in again, and gone home; and nobody would hurt me, and i needn't be a pirate if i didn't want to be. it's perfectly dreadful for a man to be made like mr. martin, and i'll never come near him again. sue says that he won't come back to the house, and if he does she'll send him away with something--i forget what it was--in his ear. father hasn't heard about the eye yet, but if he does hear about it, there will be a dreadful scene, for he bought a new rattan cane yesterday. there ought to be a law to punish men that sell rattan canes to fathers, unless they haven't any children. playing circus. the circus came through our town three weeks ago, and me and tom mcginnis went to it. we didn't go together, for i went with father, and tom helped the circus men water their horses, and they let him in for nothing. father said that circuses were dreadfully demoralizing, unless they were mixed with wild animals, and that the reason why he took me to this particular circus was that there were elephants in it, and the elephant is a scripture animal, jimmy, and it cannot help but improve your mind to see him. i agreed with father. if my mind had to be improved, i thought going to the circus would be a good way to do it. we had just an elegant time. i rode on the elephant, but it wasn't much fun for they wouldn't let me drive him. the trapeze was better than anything else, though the central african chariot races and the queen of the arena, who rode on one foot, were gorgeous. the trapeze performances were done by the patagonian brothers, and you'd think every minute they were going to break their necks. father said it was a most revolting sight and do sit down and keep still jimmy or i can't see what's going on. i think father had a pretty good time, and improved his mind a good deal, for he was just as nice as he could be, and gave me a whole pint of pea-nuts. mr. travers says that the patagonian brothers live on their trapezes, and never come down to the ground except when a performance is going to begin. they hook their legs around it at night, and sleep hanging with their heads down, just like the bats, and they take their meals and study their lessons sitting on the bar, without anything to lean against. i don't believe it; for how could they get their food brought up to them? and it's ridiculous to suppose that they have to study lessons. it grieves me very much to say so, but i am beginning to think that mr. travers doesn't always tell the truth. what did he mean by telling sue the other night that he loved cats, and that her cat was perfectly beautiful, and then when she went into the other room he slung the cat out of the window, clear over into the asparagus bed, and said get out you brute? we cannot be too careful about always telling the truth, and never doing anything wrong. tom and i talked about the circus all the next day, and we agreed we'd have a circus of our own, and travel all over the country, and make heaps of money. we said we wouldn't let any of the other boys belong to it, but we would do everything ourselves, except the elephants. so we began to practise in mr. mcginnis's barn every afternoon after school. i was the queen of the arena, and dressed up in one of sue's skirts, and won't she be mad when she finds that i cut the bottom off of it!--only i certainly meant to get her a new one with the very first money i made. i wore an old umbrella under the skirt, which made it stick out beautifully, and i know i should have looked splendid standing on mr. mcginnis's old horse, only he was so slippery that i couldn't stand on him without falling off and sticking all the umbrella ribs into me. tom and i were the madagascar brothers, and we were going to do everything that the patagonian brothers did. we practised standing on each other's head hours at a time, and i did it pretty well, only tom he slipped once when he was standing on my head, and sat down on it so hard that i don't much believe that my hair will ever grow any more. the barn floor was most too hard to practise on, so last saturday tom said we'd go into the parlor, where there was a soft carpet, and we'd put some pillows on the floor besides. all tom's folks had gone out, and there wasn't anybody in the house except the girl in the kitchen. so we went into the parlor, and put about a dozen pillows and a feather-bed on the floor. it was elegant fun turning somersaults backward from the top of the table; but i say it ought to be spelled summersets, though sue says the other way is right. we tried balancing things on our feet while we laid on our backs on the floor. tom balanced the musical box for ever so long before it fell; but i don't think it was hurt much, for nothing except two or three little wheels were smashed. and i balanced the water-pitcher, and i shouldn't have broken it if tom hadn't spoken to me at the wrong minute. [illustration: the trapeze performance.] we were getting tired, when i thought how nice it would be to do the trapeze performance on the chandeliers. there was one in the front parlor and one in the back parlor, and i meant to swing on one of them, and let go and catch the other. i swung beautifully on the front parlor chandelier, when, just as i was going to let go of it, down it came with an awful crash, and that parlor was just filled with broken glass, and the gas began to smell dreadfully. as it was about supper-time, and tom's folks were expected home, i thought i would say good-bye to tom, and not practise any more that day. so we shut the parlor doors, and i went home, wondering what would become of tom, and whether i had done altogether right in practising with him in his parlor. there was an awful smell of gas in the house that night, and when mr. mcginnis opened the parlor door he found what was the matter. he found the cat too. she was lying on the floor, just as dead as she could be. i'm going to see mr. mcginnis to-day and tell him i broke the chandelier. i suppose he will tell father, and then i shall wish that everybody had never been born; but i did break that chandelier, though i didn't mean to, and i've got to tell about it. mr. martin's leg. i had a dreadful time after that accident with mr. martin's eye. he wrote a letter to father and said that "the conduct of that atrocious young ruffian was such," and that he hoped he would never have a son like me. as soon as father said, "my son i want to see you up-stairs bring me my new rattan cane," i knew what was going to happen. i will draw some veils over the terrible scene, and will only say that for the next week i did not feel able to hold a pen unless i stood up all the time. last week i got a beautiful dog. father had gone away for a few days and i heard mother say that she wished she had a nice little dog to stay in the house and drive robbers away. the very next day a lovely dog that didn't belong to anybody came into our yard and i made a dog-house for him out of a barrel, and got some beefsteak out of the closet for him, and got a cat for him to chase, and made him comfortable. he is part bull-dog, and his ears and tail are gone and he hasn't but one eye and he's lame in one of his hind-legs and the hair has been scalded off part of him, and he's just lovely. if you saw him after a cat you'd say he was a perfect beauty. mother won't let me bring him into the house, and says she never saw such a horrid brute, but women haven't any taste about dogs anyway. his name is sitting bull, though most of the time when he isn't chasing cats he's lying down. he knows pretty near everything. some dogs know more than folks. mr. travers had a dog once that knew chinese. every time that dog heard a man speak chinese he would lie down and howl and then he would get up and bite the man. you might talk english or french or latin or german to him and he wouldn't pay any attention to it, but just say three words in chinese and he'd take a piece out of you. mr. travers says that once when he was a puppy a chinaman tried to catch him for a stew; so whenever he heard anybody speak chinese he remembered that time and went and bit the man to let him know that he didn't approve of the way chinamen treated puppies. the dog never made a mistake but once. a man came to the house who had lost his pilate and couldn't speak plain, and the dog thought he was speaking chinese and so he had his regular fit and bit the man worse than he had ever bit anybody before. sitting bull don't know chinese, but mr. travers says he's a "specialist in cats," which means that he knows the whole science of cats. the very first night i let him loose he chased a cat up the pear-tree and he sat under that tree and danced around it and howled all night. the neighbors next door threw most all their things at him but they couldn't discourage him. i had to tie him up after breakfast and let the cat get down and run away before i let him loose again, or he'd have barked all summer. the only trouble with him is that he can't see very well and keeps running against things. if he starts to run out of the gate he is just as likely to run head first into the fence, and when he chases a cat round a corner he will sometimes mistake a stick of wood, or the lawn-mower for the cat and try to shake it to death. this was the way he came to get me into trouble with mr. martin. he hadn't been at our house for so long (mr. martin i mean) that we all thought he never would come again. father sometimes said that his friend martin had been driven out of the house because my conduct was such and he expected i would separate him from all his friends. of course i was sorry that father felt bad about it, but if i was his age i would have friends that were made more substantial than mr. martin is. night before last i was out in the back yard with sitting bull looking for a stray cat that sometimes comes around the house after dark and steals the strawberries and takes the apples out of the cellar. at least i suppose it is this particular cat that steals the apples, for the cook says a cat does it and we haven't any private cat of our own. after a while i saw the cat coming along by the side of the fence, looking wicked enough to steal anything and to tell stories about it afterwards. i was sitting on the ground holding sitting bull's head in my lap and telling him that i did wish he'd take to rat-hunting like tom mcginnis's terrier, but no sooner had i seen the cat and whispered to sitting bull that she was in sight than he jumped up and went for her. he chased her along the fence into the front yard where she made a dive under the front piazza. sitting bull came round the corner of the house just flying, and i close after him. it happened that mr. martin was at that identicular moment going up the steps of the piazza, and sitting bull mistaking one of his legs for the cat jumped for it and had it in his teeth before i could say a word. when that dog once gets hold of a thing there is no use in reasoning with him, for he won't listen to anything. mr. martin howled and said, "take him off my gracious the dog's mad" and i said, "come here sir. good dog. leave him alone" but sitting bull hung on to the leg as if he was deaf and mr. martin hung on to the railing of the piazza and made twice as much noise as the dog. i didn't know whether i'd better run for the doctor or the police, but after shaking the leg for about a minute sitting bull gave it an awful pull and pulled it off just at the knee joint. when i saw the dog rushing round the yard with the leg in his mouth i ran into the house and told sue and begged her to cut a hole in the wall and hide me behind the plastering where the police couldn't find me. when she went down to help mr. martin she saw him just going out of the yard on a wheelbarrow with a man wheeling him on a broad grin. if he ever comes to this house again i'm going to run away. it turns out that his leg was made of cork and i suppose the rest of him is either cork or glass. some day he'll drop apart on our piazza then the whole blame will be put on me. our concert. there is one good thing about sue, if she is a girl: she is real charitable, and is all the time getting people to give money to missionaries and things. she collected mornahundred dollars from ever so many people last year, and sent it to a society, and her name was in all the papers as "miss susan brown," the young lady that gave a hundred dollars to a noble cause and may others go and do likewise. about a month ago she began to get up a concert for a noble object. i forget what the object was, for sue didn't make up her mind about it until a day or two before the concert; but whatever it was, it didn't get much money. sue was to sing in the concert, and mr. travers was to sing, and father was to read something, and the sunday-school was to sing, and the brass band was to play lots of things. mr. travers was real good about it, and attended to engaging the brass band, and getting the tickets printed. we've got a first-rate band. you just ought to hear it once. i'm going to join it some day, and play on the drum; that is, if they don't find out about the mistake i made with the music. when mr. travers went to see the leader of the band to settle what music was to be played at the concert he let me go with him. the man was awfully polite, and he showed mr. travers great stacks of music for him to select from. after a while he proposed to go and see a man somewheres who played in the band, and they left me to wait until they came back. i had nothing to do, so i looked at the music. the notes were all made with a pen and ink, and pretty bad they were. i should have been ashamed if i had made them. just to prove that i could have done it better than the man who did do it, i took a pen and ink and tried it. i made beautiful notes, and as a great many of the pieces of music weren't half full of notes, i just filled in the places where there weren't any notes. i don't know how long mr. travers and the leader of the band were gone, but i was so busy that i did not miss them, and when i heard them coming i sat up as quiet as possible, and never said anything about what i had done, because we never should praise ourselves or seem to be proud of our own work. now i solemnly say that i never meant to do any harm. all i meant to do was to improve the music that the man who wrote it had been too lazy to finish. why, in some of those pieces of music there were places three or four inches long without a single note, and you can't tell me that was right. but i sometimes think there is no use in trying to help people as i tried to help our brass band. people are never grateful, and they always manage to blame a boy, no matter how good he is. i shall try, however, not to give way to these feelings, but to keep on doing right no matter what happens. the next night we had the concert, or at any rate we tried to have it. the town-hall was full of people, and sue said it did seem hard that so much money as the people had paid to come to the concert should all have to go to charity when she really needed a new seal-skin coat. the performance was to begin with a song by sue, and the band was to play just like a piano while she was singing. the song was all about being so weary and longing so hard to die, and sue was singing it like anything, when all of a sudden the man with the big drum hit it a most awful bang, and nearly frightened everybody to death. people laughed out loud, and sue could hardly go on with her song. but she took a fresh start, and got along pretty well till the big drum broke out again, and the man hammered away at it till the leader went and took his drum-stick away from him. the people just howled and yelled, and sue burst out crying and went right off the stage and longed to die in real earnest. [illustration: there was the awfullest fight you ever saw.] when things got a little bit quiet, and the man who played the drum had made it up with the leader, the band began to play something on its own account. it began all right, but it didn't finish the way it was meant to finish. first one player and then another would blow a loud note in the wrong place, and the leader would hammer on his music-stand, and the people would laugh themselves 'most sick. after a while the band came to a place where the trombones seemed to get crazy, and the leader just jumped up and knocked the trombone-player down with a big horn that he snatched from another man. then somebody hit the leader with a cornet and knocked him into the big drum, and there was the awfullest fight you ever saw till somebody turned out the gas. there wasn't any more concert that night, and the people all got their money back, and now mr. travers and the leader of the band have offered a reward for "the person who maliciously altered the music"--that's what the notice says. but i wasn't malicious, and i do hope nobody will find out i did it, though i mean to tell father about it as soon as he gets over having his nose pretty near broke by trying to interfere between the trombone-player and the man with the french horn. our baby. mr. martin has gone away. he's gone to europe or hartford or some such place. anyway i hope we'll never see him again. the expressman says that part of him went in the stage and part of him was sent in a box by express, but i don't know whether it is true or not. i never could see the use of babies. we have one at our house that belongs to mother and she thinks everything of it. i can't see anything wonderful about it. all it can do is to cry and pull hair and kick. it hasn't half the sense of my dog, and it can't even chase a cat. mother and sue wouldn't have a dog in the house, but they are always going on about the baby and saying "ain't it perfectly sweet!" why, i wouldn't change sitting bull for a dozen babies, or at least i wouldn't change him if i had him. after the time he bit mr. martin's leg father said "that brute sha'n't stay here another day." i don't know what became of him, but the next morning he was gone and i have never seen him since. i have had great sorrows though people think i'm only a boy. the worst thing about a baby is that you're expected to take care of him and then you get scolded afterwards. folks say, "here, jimmy! just hold the baby a minute, that's a good boy," and then as soon as you have got it they say, "don't do that my goodness gracious the boy will kill the child hold it up straight you good-for-nothing little wretch." it is pretty hard to do your best and then be scolded for it, but that's the way boys are treated. perhaps after i'm dead folks will wish they had done differently. last saturday mother and sue went out to make calls and told me to stay home and take care of the baby. there was a base-ball match but what did they care? they didn't want to go to it and so it made no difference whether i went to it or not. they said they would be gone only a little while, and that if the baby waked up i was to play with it and keep it from crying and be sure you don't let it swallow any pins. of course i had to do it. the baby was sound asleep when they went out, so i left it just for a few minutes while i went to see if there was any pie in the pantry. if i was a woman i wouldn't be so dreadfully suspicious as to keep everything locked up. when i got back up-stairs again the baby was awake and was howling like he was full of pins; so i gave him the first thing that came handy to keep him quiet. it happened to be a bottle of french polish with a sponge in it on the end of a wire that sue uses to black her shoes, because girls are too lazy to use a regular blacking-brush. the baby stopped crying as soon as i gave him the bottle and i sat down to read. the next time i looked at him he'd got out the sponge and about half his face was jet-black. this was a nice fix, for i knew nothing could get the black off his face, and when mother came home she would say the baby was spoiled and i had done it. now i think an all black baby is ever so much more stylish than an all white baby, and when i saw the baby was part black i made up my mind that if i blacked it all over it would be worth more than it ever had been and perhaps mother would be ever so much pleased. so i hurried up and gave it a good coat of black. you should have seen how that baby shined! the polish dried just as soon as it was put on, and i had just time to get the baby dressed again when mother and sue came in. i wouldn't lower myself to repeat their unkind language. when you've been called a murdering little villain and an unnatural son it will wrinkle in your heart for ages. after what they said to me i didn't even seem to mind about father but went up-stairs with him almost as if i was going to church or something that wouldn't hurt much. the baby is beautiful and shiny, though the doctor says it will wear off in a few years. nobody shows any gratitude for all the trouble i took, and i can tell you it isn't easy to black a baby without getting it into his eyes and hair. i sometimes think that it is hardly worth while to live in this cold and unfeeling world. our snow man. i do love snow. there isn't anything except a bull-terrier that is as beautiful as snow. mr. travers says that seven hundred men once wrote a poem called "beautiful snow," and that even then, though they were all big strong men, they couldn't find words enough to tell how beautiful it was. there are some people who like snow, and some who don't. it's very curious, but that's the way it is about almost everything. there are the eskimos who live up north where there isn't anything but snow, and where there are no schools nor any errands, and they haven't anything to do but to go fishing and skating and hunting, and sliding down hill all day. well, the eskimos don't like it, for people who have been there and seen them say they are dreadfully dissatisfied. a nice set the eskimos must be! i wonder what would satisfy them. i don't suppose it's any use trying to find out, for father says there's no limit to the unreasonableness of some people. we ought always to be satisfied and contented with our condition and the things we have. i'm always contented when i have what i want, though of course nobody can expect a person to be contented when things don't satisfy him. sue is real contented, too, for she's got the greatest amount of new clothes, and she's going to be married very soon. i think it's about time she was, and most everybody else thinks so too, for i've heard them say so; and they've said so more than ever since we made the snow man. [illustration: we built the biggest snow man i ever heard of.] you see, it was the day before christmas, and there had been a beautiful snow-storm. all of us boys were sliding down hill, when somebody said, "let's make a snow man." everybody seemed to think the idea was a good one, and we made up our minds to build the biggest snow man that ever was, just for christmas. the snow was about a foot thick, and just hard enough to cut into slabs; so we got a shovel and went to work. we built the biggest snow man i ever heard of. we made him hollow, and tom mcginnis stood inside of him and helped build while the rest of us worked on the outside. just as fast as we got a slab of snow in the right place we poured water on it so that it would freeze right away. we made the outside of the man about three feet thick, and he was so tall that tom mcginnis had to keep climbing up inside of him to help build. tom came near getting into a dreadful scrape, for we forgot to leave a hole for him to get out of, and when the man was done, and frozen as hard as a rock, tom found that he was shut up as tight as if he was in prison. didn't he howl, though, and beg us to let him out! i told him that he would be very foolish not to stay in the man all night, for he would be as warm as the eskimos are in their snow huts, and there would be such fun when people couldn't find him anywhere. but tom wasn't satisfied; he began to talk some silly nonsense about wanting his supper. the idea of anybody talking about such a little thing as supper when they had such a chance to make a big stir as that. tom always was an obstinate sort of fellow, and he would insist upon coming out, so we got a hatchet and chopped a hole in the back of the man and let him out. the snow man was quite handsome, and we made him have a long beak, like a bird, so that people would be astonished when they saw him. it was that beak that made me think about the egyptian gods that had heads like hawks and other birds and animals, and must have frightened people dreadfully when they suddenly met them near graveyards or in lonesome roads. one of those egyptian gods was made of stone, and was about as high as the top of a house. he was called memnon, and every morning at sunrise he used to sing out with a loud voice, just as the steam-whistle at mr. thompson's mill blows every morning at sunrise to wake people up. the egyptians thought that memnon was something wonderful, but it has been found out, since the egyptians died, that a priest used to hide himself somewhere inside of memnon, and made all the noise. looking at the snow man and thinking about the egyptian gods, i thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to hide inside of him and say things whenever people went by. it would be a new way of celebrating christmas, too. they would be awfully astonished to hear a snow man talk. i might even make him sing a carol, and then he'd be a sort of christian memnon, and nobody would think i had anything to do with it. that evening when the moon got up--it was a beautiful moonlight night--i slipped out quietly and went up to the hill where the snow man was, and hid inside of him. i knew mr. travers and sue were out sleigh-riding, and they hadn't asked me to go, though there was lots of room, and i meant to say something to them when they drove by the snow man that would make sue wish she had been a little more considerate. presently i heard bells and looked out and saw a sleigh coming up the hill. i was sure it was mr. travers and sue; so i made ready for them. the sleigh came up the hill very slow, and when it was nearly opposite to me i said, in a solemn voice, "susan, you ought to have been married long ago." you see, i knew that would please mr. travers; and it was true, too. she gave a shriek, and said, "oh, what's that?" "we'll soon see," said a man's voice that didn't sound a bit like mr. travers's. "there's somebody round here that's spoiling for a thrashing." the man came right up to the snow man, and saw my legs through the hole, and got hold of one of them and began to pull. i didn't know it, but the boys had undermined the snow man on one side, and as soon as the man began to pull, over went the snow man and me right into the sleigh, and the woman screamed again, and the horse ran away and pitched us out, and-- but i don't want to tell the rest of it, only father said that i must be taught not to insult respectable ladies like miss susan white, who is fifty years old, by telling them it is time they were married. art. our town has been very lively this winter. first we had two circuses, and then we had the small-pox, and now we've got a course of lectures. a course of lectures is six men, and you can go to sleep while they're talking, if you want to, and you'd better do it unless they are missionaries with real idols or a magic lantern. i always go to sleep before the lectures are through, but i heard a good deal of one of them that was all about art. art is almost as useful as history or arithmetic, and we ought all to learn it, so that we can make beautiful things and elevate our minds. art is done with mud in the first place. the art man takes a large chunk of mud and squeezes it until it is like a beautiful man or woman, or wild bull, and then he takes a marble gravestone and cuts it with a chisel until it is exactly like the piece of mud. if you want a solid photograph of yourself made out of marble, the art man covers your face with mud, and when it gets hard he takes it off, and the inside of it is just like a mould, so that he can fill it full of melted marble which will be an exact photograph of you as soon as it gets cool. this is what one of the men who belong to the course of lectures told us. he said he would have shown us exactly how to do art, and would have made a beautiful portrait of a friend of his, named vee nuss, right on the stage before our eyes, only he couldn't get the right kind of mud. i believed him then, but i don't believe him now. a man who will contrive to get an innocent boy into a terrible scrape isn't above telling what isn't true. he could have got mud if he'd wanted it, for there was mornamillion tons of it in the street, and it's my belief that he couldn't have made anything beautiful if he'd had mud a foot deep on the stage. as i said, i believed everything the man said, and when the lecture was over, and father said, "i do hope jimmy you've got some benefit from the lecture this time" and sue said, "a great deal of benefit that boy will ever get unless he gets it with a good big switch don't i wish i was his father o! i'd let him know," i made up my mind that i would do some art the very next day, and show people that i could get lots of benefit if i wanted to. i have spoken about our baby a good many times. it's no good to anybody, and i call it a failure. it's a year and three months old now, and it can't talk or walk, and as for reading or writing, you might as well expect it to play base-ball. i always knew how to read and write, and there must be something the matter with this baby, or it would know more. last monday mother and sue went out to make calls, and left me to take care of the baby. they had done that before, and the baby had got me into a scrape, so i didn't want to be exposed to its temptations; but the more i begged them not to leave me, the more they would do it, and mother said, "i know you'll stay and be a good boy while we go and make those horrid calls," and sue said, "i'd better or i'd get what i wouldn't like." after they'd gone i tried to think what i could do to please them, and make everybody around me better and happier. after a while i thought that it would be just the thing to do some art and make a marble photograph of the baby, for that would show everybody that i had got some benefit from the lectures, and the photograph of the baby would delight mother and sue. i took mother's fruit-basket and filled it with mud out of the back yard. it was nice thick mud, and it would stay in any shape that you squeezed it into, so that it was just the thing to do art with. i laid the baby on its back on the bed, and covered its face all over with the mud about two inches thick. a fellow who didn't know anything about art might have killed the baby, for if you cover a baby's mouth and nose with mud it can't breathe, which is very unhealthy, but i left its nose so it could breathe, and intended to put an extra piece of mud over that part of the mould after it was dry. of course the baby howled all it could, and it would have kicked dreadfully, only i fastened its arms and legs with a shawl-strap so that it couldn't do itself any harm. [illustration: the moment they saw the baby they said the most dreadful things.] the mud wasn't half dry when mother and sue and father came in, for he met them at the front gate. they all came up-stairs, and the moment they saw the baby they said the most dreadful things to me without waiting for me to explain. i did manage to explain a little through the closet door while father was looking for his rattan cane, but it didn't do the least good. i don't want to hear any more about art or to see any more lectures. there is nothing so ungrateful as people, and if i did do what wasn't just what people wanted, they might have remembered that i meant well, and only wanted to please them and elevate their minds. an awful scene. i have the same old, old story to tell. my conduct has been such again--at any rate, that's what father says; and i've had to go up-stairs with him, and i needn't explain what that means. it seems very hard, for i'd tried to do my very best, and i'd heard sue say, "that boy hasn't misbehaved for two days good gracious i wonder what can be the matter with him." there's a fatal litty about it, i'm sure. poor father! i must give him an awful lot of trouble, and i know he's had to get two new bamboo canes this winter just because i've done so wrong, though i never meant to do it. it happened on account of coasting. we've got a magnificent hill. the road runs straight down the middle of it, and all you have to do is to keep on the road. there's a fence on one side, and if you run into it something has got to break. john kruger, who is a stupid sort of a fellow, ran into it last week head-first, and smashed three pickets, and everybody said it was a mercy he hit it with his head, or he might have broken some of his bones and hurt himself. there isn't any fence on the other side, but if you run off the road on that side you'll go down the side of a hill that's steeper than the roof of the episcopal church, and about a mile long, with a brook full of stones down at the bottom. the other night mr. travers said-- but i forgot to say that mr. martin is back again, and coming to our house worse than ever. he was there, and mr. travers and sue, all sitting in the parlor, where i was behaving, and trying to make things pleasant, when mr. travers said, "it's a bright moonlight night let's all go out and coast." sue said, "oh that would be lovely jimmy get your sled." i didn't encourage them, and i told father so, but he wouldn't admit that mr. travers or sue or mr. martin or anybody could do anything wrong. what i said was, "i don't want to go coasting. it's cold and i don't feel very well, and i think we ought all to go to bed early so we can wake up real sweet and good-tempered." but sue just said, "don't you preach jimmy if you're lazy just say so and mr. travers will take us out." then mr. martin he must put in and say, "perhaps the boy's afraid don't tease him he ought to be in bed anyhow." now i wasn't going to stand this, so i said, "come on. i wanted to go all the time, but i thought it would be best for old people to stay at home, and that's why i didn't encourage you." so i got out my double-ripper, and we all went out on the hill and started down. i sat in front to steer, and sue sat right behind me, and mr. travers sat behind her to hold her on, and mr. martin sat behind him. we went splendidly, only the dry snow flew so that i couldn't see anything, and that's why we got off the road and on to the side hill before i knew it. the hill was just one glare of ice, and the minute we struck the ice the sled started away like a hurricane. i had just time to hear mr. martin say, "boy mind what you're about or i'll get off," when she struck something--i don't know what--and everybody was pitched into the air, and began sliding on the ice without anything to help them, except me. i caught on a bare piece of rock, and stopped myself. i could see sue sitting up straight, and sliding like a streak of lightning, and crying, "jimmy father charles mr. martin o my help me." mr. travers was on his stomach, about a rod behind her, and gaining a little on her, and mr. martin was on his back, coming down head-first, and beating them both. all of a sudden he began to go to pieces. part of him would slide off one way, and then another part would try its luck by itself. i can tell you it was an awful and surreptitious sight. they all reached the bottom after a while, and when i saw they were not killed, i tried it myself, and landed all right. sue was sitting still, and mourning, and saying, "my goodness gracious i shall never be able to walk again my comb is broken and that boy isn't fit to live." mr. travers wasn't hurt very much, and he fixed himself all right with some pins i gave him, and his handkerchief; but his overcoat looked as if he'd stolen it from a scarecrow. when he had comforted sue a little (and i must say some people are perfectly sickening the way they go on), he and i collected mr. martin--all except his teeth--and helped put him together, only i got his leg on wrong side first, and then we helped him home. this was why father said that my conduct was such, and that his friend martin didn't seem to be able to come into his house without being insulted and injured by me. i never insulted him. it isn't my fault if he can't slide down a hill without coming apart. however, i've had my last suffering on account of him. the next time he comes apart where i am i shall not wait to be punished for it, but shall start straight for the north-pole, and if i discover it the british government will pay me mornamillion dollars. i'm able to sit down this morning, but my spirits are crushed, and i shall never enjoy life any more. screw-heads. i'm in an awful situation that a boy by the name of bellew got me into. he is one of the boys that writes stories and makes pictures for harper's young people, and i think people ought to know what kind of a boy he is. a little while ago he had a story in the young people about imitation screw-heads, and how he used to make them, and what fun he had pasting them on his aunt's bureau. i thought it was a very nice story, and i got some tin-foil and made a whole lot of screw-heads, and last saturday i thought i'd have some fun with them. father has a dreadfully ugly old chair in his study, that general washington brought over with him in the _mayflower_, and mr. travers says it is stiffer and uglier than any of the pilgrim fathers. but father thinks everything of that chair, and never lets anybody sit in it except the minister. i took a piece of soap, just as that bellew used to, and if his name is billy why don't he learn how to spell it that's what i'd like to know, and made what looked like a tremendous crack in the chair. then i pasted the screw-heads on the chair, and it looked exactly as if somebody had broken it and tried to mend it. [illustration] i couldn't help laughing all day when i thought how astonished father would be when he saw his chair all full of screws, and how he would laugh when he found out it was all a joke. as soon as he came home i asked him to please come into the study, and showed him the chair and said "father i cannot tell a lie i did it but i won't do it any more." [illustration] father looked as if he had seen some disgusting ghosts, and i was really frightened, so i hurried up and said, "it's all right father, it's only a joke look here they all come off," and rubbed off the screw-heads and the soap with my handkerchief, and expected to see him burst out laughing, just as bellew's aunt used to burst, but instead of laughing he said, "my son this trifling with sacred things must be stopped," with which remark he took off his slipper, and then-- but i haven't the heart to say what he did. mr. travers has made some pictures about it, and perhaps people will understand what i have suffered. i think that boy bellew ought to be punished for getting people into scrapes. i'd just like to have him come out behind our barn with me for a few minutes. that is, i would, only i never expect to take any interest in anything any more. my heart is broken and a new chocolate cigar that was in my pocket during the awful scene. i've got an elegant wasps' nest with young wasps in it that will hatch out in the spring, and i'll change it for a bull-terrier or a shot-gun or a rattlesnake in a cage that rattles good with any boy that will send me one. my monkey. there never was such luck. i've always thought that i'd rather have a monkey than be a million heir. there is nothing that could be half so splendid as a real live monkey, but of course i knew that i never could have one until i should grow up and go to sea and bring home monkeys and parrots and shawls to mother just as sailors always do. but i've actually got a monkey and if you don't believe it just look at these pictures of him that mr. travers made for me. it was mr. travers that got the monkey for me. one day there came a woman with an organ and a monkey into our yard. she was an italian, but she could speak a sort of english and she said that the "murderin' spalpeen of a monkey was just wearing the life of her out." so says mr. travers "what will you take for him?" and says she "it's five dollars i'd be after selling him for, and may good-luck go wid ye!" [illustration] what did mr. travers do but give her the money and hand the monkey to me, saying, "here, jimmy! take him and be happy." wasn't i just happy though? jocko--that's the monkey's name--is the loveliest monkey that ever lived. i hadn't had him an hour when he got out of my arms and was on the supper-table before i could get him. the table was all set and bridget was just going to ring the bell, but the monkey didn't wait for her. [illustration] to see him eating the chicken salad was just wonderful. he finished the whole dish in about two minutes, and was washing it down with the oil out of the salad-bottle when i caught him. mother was awfully good about it and only said, "poor little beast he must be half starved susan how much he reminds me of your brother." a good mother is as good a thing as a boy deserves, no matter how good he is. [illustration] [illustration] [illustration] the salad someway did not seem to agree with jocko for he was dreadfully sick that night. you should have seen how limp he was, just like a girl that has fainted away and her young man is trying to lift her up. mother doctored him. she gave him castor-oil as if he was her own son, and wrapped him up in a blanket and put a mustard plaster on his stomach and soaked the end of his tail in warm water. he was all right the next day and was real grateful. i know he was grateful because he showed it by trying to do good to others, at any rate to the cat. our cat wouldn't speak to him at first, but he coaxed her with milk, just as he had seen me do and finally caught her. it must have been dreadfully aggravoking to the cat, for instead of letting her have the milk he insisted that she was sick and must have medicine. so he took bridget's bottle of hair-oil and a big spoon and gave the cat such a dose. when i caught him and made him let the cat go there were about six table-spoonfuls of oil missing. mr. travers said it was a good thing for it would improve the cat's voice and make her yowl smoother, and that he had felt for a long time that she needed to be oiled. mother said that the monkey was cruel and it was a shame but i know that he meant to be kind. he knew the oil mother gave him had done him good, and he wanted to do the cat good. i know just how he felt, for i've been blamed many a time for trying to do good, and i can tell you it always hurt my feelings. [illustration] the monkey was in the kitchen while bridget was getting dinner yesterday and he watched her broil the steak as if he was meaning to learn to cook and help her in her work, he's that kind and thoughtful. the cat was out-doors, but two of her kittens were in the kitchen, and they were not old enough to be afraid of the monkey. when dinner was served bridget went up-stairs and by-and-by mother says "what's that dreadful smell sure's you're alive susan the baby has fallen into the fire." everybody jumped up and ran up-stairs, all but me, for i knew jocko was in the kitchen and i was afraid it was he that was burning. when i got into the kitchen there was that lovely monkey broiling one of the kittens on the gridiron just as he had seen bridget broil the steak. the kitten's fur was singeing and she was mewing, and the other kitten was sitting up on the floor licking her chops and enjoying it and jocko was on his hind-legs as solemn and busy as an owl. i snatched the gridiron away from him and took the kitten off before she was burned any except her fur, and when mother and susan came down-stairs they couldn't understand what it was that had been burning. this is all the monkey has done since i got him day before yesterday. father has been away for a week but is coming back in a few days, and won't he be delighted when he finds a monkey in the house? the end of my monkey. i haven't any monkey now, and i don't care what becomes of me. his loss was an awful blow, and i never expect to recover from it. i am a crushed boy, and when the grown folks find what their conduct has done to me, they will wish they had done differently. [illustration] it was on a tuesday that i got the monkey, and by thursday everybody began to treat him coldly. it began with my littlest sister. jocko took her doll away, and climbed up to the top of the door with it, where he sat and pulled it to pieces, and tried its clothes on, only they wouldn't fit him, while sister, who is nothing but a little girl, stood and howled as if she was being killed. this made mother begin to dislike the monkey, and she said that if his conduct was such, he couldn't stay in her house. i call this unkind, for the monkey was invited into the house, and i've been told we must bear with visitors. [illustration] a little while afterwards, while mother was talking to susan on the front piazza, she heard the sewing-machine up-stairs, and said, "well i never that cook has the impudence to be sewing on my machine without ever asking leave." so she ran up-stairs, and found that jocko was working the machine like mad. he'd taken sue's gown and father's black coat and a lot of stockings, and shoved them all under the needle, and was sewing them all together. mother boxed his ears and then she and sue sat down and worked all the morning trying to unsew the things with the scissors. they had to give it up after a while, and the things are sewed together yet, like a man and wife, which no man can put asunder. all this made my mother more cool towards the monkey than ever, and i heard her call him a nasty little beast. [illustration] the next day was sunday, and as sue was sitting in the hall waiting for mother to go to church with her, jocko gets up on her chair, and pulls the feathers out of her bonnet. he thought he was doing right, for he had seen the cook pulling the feathers off of the chickens, but sue called him dreadful names, and either she or that monkey would leave the house. [illustration] [illustration] father came home early monday, and seemed quite pleased with the monkey. he said it was an interesting study, and he told susan that he hoped that she would be contented with fewer beaux, now that there was a monkey constantly in the house. in a little while father caught jocko lathering himself with the mucilage brush, and with a kitchen knife all ready to shave himself. he just laughed at the monkey, and told me to take good care of him, and not let him hurt himself. of course i was dreadfully pleased to find that father liked jocko, and i knew it was because he was a man, and had more sense than girls. but i was only deceiving myself and leaning on a broken weed. that very evening when father went into his study after supper he found jocko on his desk. he had torn all his papers to pieces, except a splendid new map, and that he was covering with ink, and making believe that he was writing a president's message about the panama canal. father was just raging. he took jocko by the scruff of the neck, locked him in the closet, and sent him away by express the next morning to a man in the city, with orders to sell him. the expressman afterwards told mr. travers that the monkey pretty nearly killed everybody on the train, for he got hold of the signal-cord and pulled it, and the engineer thought it was the conductor, and stopped the train, and another train just behind it came within an inch of running into it and smashing it to pieces. jocko did the same thing three times before they found out what was the matter, and tied him up so that he couldn't reach the cord. oh, he was just beautiful! but i shall never see him again, and mr. travers says that it's all right, and that i'm monkey enough for one house. that's because sue has been saying things against the monkey to him; but never mind. first my dog went, and now my monkey has gone. it seems as if everything that is beautiful must disappear. very likely i shall go next, and when i am gone, let them find the dog and the monkey, and bury us together. [illustration] the old, old story. we've had a most awful time in our house. there have been ever so many robberies in town, and everybody has been almost afraid to go to bed. the robbers broke into old dr. smith's house one night. dr. smith is one of those doctors that don't give any medicine except cold water, and he heard the robbers, and came down-stairs in his nigown, with a big umbrella in his hand, and said, "if you don't leave this minute, i'll shoot you." and the robbers they said, "oh no! that umbrella isn't loaded" and they took him and tied his hands and feet, and put a mustard-plaster over his mouth, so that he couldn't yell, and then they filled the wash-tub with water, and made him sit down in it, and told him that now he'd know how it was himself, and went away and left him, and he nearly froze to death before morning. father wasn't a bit afraid of the robbers, but he said he'd fix something so that he would wake up if they got in the house. so he put a coal-scuttle full of coal about half-way up the stairs, and tied a string across the upper hall just at the head of the stairs. he said that if a robber tried to come up-stairs he would upset the coal-scuttle, and make a tremendous noise, and that if he did happen not to upset it, he would certainly fall over the string at the top of the stairs. he told us that if we heard the coal-scuttle go off in the night, sue and mother and i were to open the windows and scream, while he got up and shot the robber. the first night, after father had fixed everything nicely for the robbers, he went to bed, and then mother told him that she had forgotten to lock the back door. so father he said, "why can't women sometimes remember something," and he got up and started to go down-stairs in the dark. he forgot all about the string, and fell over it with an awful crash, and then began to fall down-stairs. when he got half-way down he met the coal-scuttle, and that went down the rest of the way with him, and you never in your life heard anything like the noise the two of them made. we opened our windows, and cried murder and fire and thieves, and some men that were going by rushed in and picked father up, and would have taken him off to jail, he was that dreadfully black, if i hadn't told them who he was. but this was not the awful time that i mentioned when i began to write, and if i don't begin to tell you about it, i sha'n't have any room left on my paper. mother gave a dinner-party last thursday. there were ten ladies and twelve gentlemen, and one of them was that dreadful mr. martin with the cork leg, and other improvements, as mr. travers calls them. mother told me not to let her see me in the dining-room, or she'd let me know; and i meant to mind, only i forgot, and went into the dining-room, just to look at the table, a few minutes before dinner. i was looking at the raw oysters, when jane--that's the girl that waits on the table--said, "run, master jimmy; here's your mother coming." now i hadn't time enough to run, so i just dived under the table, and thought i'd stay there for a minute or two, until mother went out of the room again. it wasn't only mother that came in, but the whole company, and they sat down to dinner without giving me any chance to get out. i tell you, it was a dreadful situation. i had only room enough to sit still, and nearly every time i moved i hit somebody's foot. once i tried to turn around, and while i was doing it i hit my head against the table so hard that i thought i had upset something, and was sure that people would know i was there. but fortunately everybody thought that somebody else had joggled, so i escaped for that time. it was awfully tiresome waiting for those people to get through dinner. it seemed as if they could never eat enough, and when they were not eating, they were all talking at once. it taught me a lesson against gluttony, and nobody will ever find me sitting for hours and hours at the dinner-table. finally i made up my mind that i must have some amusement, and as mr. martin's cork-leg was close by me, i thought i would have some fun with that. there was a big darning-needle in my pocket, that i kept there in case i should want to use it for anything. i happened to think that mr. martin couldn't feel anything that was done to his cork-leg, and that it would be great fun to drive the darning-needle into it, and leave the end sticking out, so that people who didn't know that his leg was cork would see it, and think that he was suffering dreadfully, only he didn't know it. so i got out the needle, and jammed it into his leg with both hands, so that it would go in good and deep. [illustration: wasn't there a circus in that dining-room!] mr. martin gave a yell that made my hair run cold, and sprang up, and nearly upset the table, and fell over his chair backward, and wasn't there a circus in that dining-room! i had made a mistake about the leg, and run the needle into his real one. i was dragged out from under the table, and-- but i needn't say what happened to me after that. it was "the old, old story," as sue says when she sings a foolish song about getting up at five o'clock in the morning--as if she'd ever been awake at that time in her whole life! bee-hunting. the more i see of this world the hollower i find everybody. i don't mean that people haven't got their insides in them, but they are so dreadfully ungrateful. no matter how kind and thoughtful any one may be, they never give him any credit for it. they will pretend to love you and call you "dear jimmy what a fine manly boy come here and kiss me," and then half an hour afterwards they'll say "where's that little wretch let me just get hold of him o! i'll let him know." deceit and ingratitude are the monster vices of the age and they are rolling over our beloved land like the flood. (i got part of that elegant language from the temperance lecturer last week, but i improved it a good deal.) there is aunt eliza. the uncle that belonged to her died two years ago, and she's awfully rich. she comes to see us sometimes with harry--that's her boy, a little fellow six years old--and you ought to see how mother and sue wait on her and how pleasant father is when she's in the room. now she always said that she loved me like her own son. she'd say to father, "how i envy you that noble boy what a comfort he must be to you," and father would say "yes he has some charming qualities" and look as if he hadn't laid onto me with his cane that very morning and told me that my conduct was such. you'll hardly believe that just because i did the very best i could and saved her precious harry from an apple grave, aunt eliza says i'm a young cain and knows i'll come to the gallows. she came to see us last friday, and on saturday i was going bee-hunting. i read all about it in a book. you take an axe and go out-doors and follow a bee, and after a while the bee takes you to a hollow tree full of honey and you cut the tree down and carry the honey home in thirty pails and sell it for ever so much. i and tom mcginnis were going and aunt eliza says "o take harry with you the dear child would enjoy it so much." of course no fellow that's twelve years old wants a little chap like that tagging after him but mother spoke up and said that i'd be delighted to take harry, and so i couldn't help myself. we stopped in the wood-shed and borrowed father's axe and then we found a bee. the bee wouldn't fly on before us in a straight line but kept lighting on everything, and once he lit on tom's hand and stung him good. however we chased the bee lively and by-and-by he started for his tree and we ran after him. we had just got to the old dead apple-tree in the pasture when we lost the bee and we all agreed that his nest must be in the tree. it's an awfully big old tree, and it's all rotted away on one side so that it stands as if it was ready to fall over any minute. nothing would satisfy harry but to climb that tree. we told him he'd better let a bigger fellow do it but he wouldn't listen to reason. so we gave him a boost and he climbed up to where the tree forked and then he stood up and began to say something when he disappeared. we thought he had fallen out of the tree and we ran round to the other side to pick him up but he wasn't there. tom said it was witches but i knew he must be somewhere so i climbed up the tree and looked. he had slipped down into the hollow of the tree and was wedged in tight. i could just reach his hair but it was so short that i couldn't get a good hold so as to pull him out. wasn't he scared though! he howled and said "o take me out i shall die," and tom wanted to run for the doctor. i told harry to be patient and i'd get him out. so i slid down the tree and told tom that the only thing to do was to cut the tree down and then open it and take harry out. it was such a rotten tree i knew it would come down easy. so we took turns chopping, and the fellow who wasn't chopping kept encouraging harry by telling him that the tree was 'most ready to fall. after working an hour the tree began to stagger and presently down she came with an awful crush and burst into a million pieces. tom and i said hurray! and then we poked round in the dust till we found harry. he was all over red dust and was almost choked, but he was awfully mad. just because some of his ribs were broke--so the doctor said--he forget all tom and i had done for him. i shouldn't have minded that much, because you don't expect much from little boys, but i did think his mother would have been grateful when we brought him home and told her what we had done. then i found what all her professions were worth. she called father and told him that i and the other miscurrent had murdered her boy. tom was so frightened at the awful name she called him that he ran home, and father told me i could come right up-stairs with him. they couldn't have treated me worse if i'd let harry stay in the tree and starve to death. i almost wish i had done it. it does seem as if the more good a boy does the more the grown folks pitch into him. the moment sue is married to mr. travers i mean to go and live with him. he never scolds, and always says that susan's brother is as dear to him as his own, though he hasn't got any. prompt obedience. i haven't been able to write anything for some time. i don't mean that there has been anything the matter with my fingers so that i couldn't hold a pen, but i haven't had the heart to write of my troubles. besides, i have been locked up for a whole week in the spare bedroom on bread and water, and just a little hash or something like that, except when sue used to smuggle in cake and pie and such things, and i haven't had any penanink. i was going to write a novel while i was locked up by pricking my finger and writing in blood with a pin on my shirt; but you can't write hardly anything that way, and i don't believe all those stories of conspirators who wrote dreadful promises to do all sorts of things in their blood. before i could write two little words my finger stopped bleeding, and i wasn't going to keep on pricking myself every few minutes; besides, it won't do to use all your blood up that way. there was once a boy who cut himself awful in the leg with a knife, and he bled to death for five or six hours, and when he got through he wasn't any thicker than a newspaper, and rattled when his friends picked him up just like the morning paper does when father turns it inside out. mr. travers told me about him, and said this was a warning against bleeding to death. of course you'll say i must have been doing something dreadfully wrong, but i don't think i have; and even if i had, i'll leave it to anybody if aunt eliza isn't enough to provoke a whole company of saints. the truth is, i got into trouble this time just through obeying promptly as soon as i was spoken to. i'd like to know if that was anything wrong. oh, i'm not a bit sulky, and i am always ready to admit i've done wrong when i really have; but this time i tried to do my very best and obey my dear mother promptly, and the consequence was that i was shut up for a week, besides other things too painful to mention. this world is a fleeting show, as our minister says, and i sometimes feel that it isn't worth the price of admission. aunt eliza is one of those women that always know everything, and know that nobody else knows anything, particularly us men. she was visiting us, and finding fault with everybody, and constantly saying that men were a nuisance in a house and why didn't mother make father mend chairs and whitewash the ceiling and what do you let that great lazy boy waste all his time for? there was a little spot in the roof where it leaked when it rained, and aunt eliza said to father, "why don't you have energy enough to get up on the roof and see where that leak is i would if i was a man thank goodness i ain't." so father said, "you'd better do it yourself, eliza." and she said, "i will this very day." so after breakfast aunt eliza asked me to show her where the scuttle was. we always kept it open for fresh air, except when it rained, and she crawled up through it and got on the roof. just then mother called me, and said it was going to rain, and i must close the scuttle. i began to tell her that aunt eliza was on the roof, but she wouldn't listen, and said, "do as i tell you this instant without any words why can't you obey promptly?" so i obeyed as prompt as i could, and shut the scuttle and fastened it, and then went down-stairs, and looked out to see the shower come up. it was a tremendous shower, and it struck us in about ten minutes; and didn't it pour! the wind blew, and it lightened and thundered every minute, and the street looked just like a river. i got tired of looking at it after a while, and sat down to read, and in about an hour, when it was beginning to rain a little easier, mother came where i was, and said, "i wonder where sister eliza is do you know, jimmy?" and i said i supposed she was on the roof, for i left her there when i fastened the scuttle just before it began to rain. nothing was done to me until after they had got two men to bring aunt eliza down and wring the water out of her, and the doctor had come, and she had been put to bed, and the house was quiet again. by that time father had come home, and when he heard what had happened-- but, there! it is over now, and let us say no more about it. aunt eliza is as well as ever, but nobody has said a word to me about prompt obedience since the thunder-shower. our ice-cream. after that trouble with aunt eliza--the time she stayed up on the roof and was rained on--i had no misfortunes for nearly a week. aunt eliza went home as soon as she was well dried, and father said that he was glad she was gone, for she talked so much all the time that he couldn't hear himself think, though i don't believe he ever did hear himself think. i tried it once. i sat down where it was real still, and thought just as regular and steady as i could; but i couldn't hear the least sound. i suppose our brains are so well oiled that they don't creak at all when we use them. however, mr. travers told me of a boy he knew when he was a boy. his name was ananias g. smith, and he would run round all day without any hat on, and his hair cut very short, and the sun kept beating on his head all day, and gradually his brains dried so that whenever he tried to think, they would rattle and creak like a wheelbarrow-wheel when it hasn't any grease on it. of course his parents felt dreadfully, for he couldn't go to school without disturbing everybody as soon as he began to think about his lessons, and he couldn't stay home and think without keeping the baby awake. as i was saying, there was pretty nearly a whole week that i kept out of trouble; but it didn't last. boys are born to fly upward like the sparks that trouble, and yesterday i was "up to mischief again," as sue said, though i never had the least idea of doing any mischief. how should an innocent boy, who might easily have been an orphan had things happened in that way, know all about cooking and chemistry and such, i should like to know. it was really sue's fault. nothing would do but she must give a party, and of course she must have ice-cream. now the ice-cream that our cake-shop man makes isn't good enough for her, so she got father to buy an ice-cream freezer, and said she would make the ice-cream herself. i was to help her, and she sent me to the store to order some salt. i asked her what she wanted of salt, and she said that you couldn't freeze ice-cream without plenty of salt, and that it was almost as necessary as ice. i went to the store and ordered the salt, and then had a game or two of ball with the boys, and didn't get home till late in the afternoon. there was sue freezing the ice-cream, and suffering dreadfully, so she said. she had to go and dress right away, and told me to keep turning the ice-cream freezer till it froze and don't run off and leave me to do everything again you good-for-nothing boy i wonder how you can do it. i turned that freezer for ever so long, but nothing would freeze; so i made up my mind that it wanted more salt. i didn't want to disturb anybody, so i quietly went into the kitchen and got the salt-cellar, and emptied it into the ice-cream. it began to freeze right away; but i tasted it, and it was awfully salt, so i got the jug of golden sirup and poured about a pint into the ice-cream, and when it was done it was a beautiful straw-color. [illustration: sue's ice-cream party.] but there was an awful scene when the party tried to eat that ice-cream. sue handed it round, and said to everybody, "this is my ice-cream, and you must be sure to like it." the first one she gave it to was dr. porter. he is dreadfully fond of ice-cream, and he smiled such a big smile, and said he was sure it was delightful, and took a whole spoonful. then he jumped up as if something had bit him, and went out of the door in two jumps, and we didn't see him again. then three more men tasted their ice-cream, and jumped up, and ran after the doctor, and two girls said, "oh my!" and held their handkerchiefs over their faces, and turned just as pale. and then everybody else put their ice-cream down on the table, and said thank you they guessed they wouldn't take any. the party was regularly spoiled, and when i tasted the ice-cream i didn't wonder. it was worse than the best kind of strong medicine. sue was in a dreadful state of mind, and when the party had gone home--all but one man, who lay under the apple-tree all night and groaned like he was dying, only we thought it was cats--she made me tell her all about the salt and the golden sirup. she wouldn't believe that i had tried to do my best, and didn't mean any harm. father took her part, and said i ought to eat some of the ice-cream, since i made it; but i said i'd rather go up-stairs with him. so i went. some of these days people will begin to understand that they are just wasting and throwing away a boy who always tries to do his best, and perhaps they'll be sorry when it is too late. my pig. i don't say that i didn't do wrong, but what i do say is that i meant to do right. but that don't make any difference. it never does. i try to do my very best, and then something happens, and i am blamed for it. when i think what a disappointing world this is, full of bamboo-canes and all sorts of switches, i feel ready to leave it. it was sue's fault in the beginning; that is, if it hadn't been for her it wouldn't have happened. one sunday she and i were sitting in the front parlor, and she was looking out of the window and watching for mr. travers; only she said she wasn't, and that she was just looking to see if it was going to rain, and solemnizing her thoughts. i had just asked her how old she was, and couldn't mr. travers have been her father if he had married mother, when she said, "dear me how tiresome that boy is do take a book and read for gracious sake." i said, "what book?" so she gets up and gives me the _observer_, and says, "there's a beautiful story about a good boy and a pig do read it and keep still if you know how and i hope it will do you some good." well, i read the story. it told all about a good boy whose name was james, and his father was poor, and so he kept a pig that cost him twenty-five cents, and when it grew up he sold it for thirty dollars, and he brought the money to his father and said, "here father! take this o how happy i am to help you when you're old and not good for much," and his father burst into tears, but i don't know what for. i wouldn't burst into tears much if anybody gave me thirty dollars; and said, "bless you my noble boy you and your sweet pig have saved me from a watery grave," or something like that. it was a real good story, and it made me feel like being likewise. so i resolved that i would get a little new pig for twenty-five cents, and keep it till it grew up, and then surprise father with twenty-nine dollars, and keep one for myself as a reward for my good conduct. only i made up my mind not to let anybody know about it till after the pig should be grown up, and then how the family would be delighted with my "thoughtful and generous act!" for that's what the paper said james's act was. the next day i went to farmer smith, and got him to give me a little pig for nothing, only i agreed to help him weed his garden all summer. it was a beautiful pig, about as big as our baby, only it was a deal prettier, and its tail was elegant. i wrapped it up in an old shawl, and watched my chance and got it up into my room, which is on the third story. then i took my trunk and emptied it, and bored some holes in it for air, and put the pig in it. i had the best fun that ever was, all that day and the next day, taking care of that dear little pig. i gave him one of my coats for a bed, and fed him on milk, and took him out of the trunk every little while for exercise. nobody goes into my room very often, except the girl to make the bed, and when she came i shut up the trunk, and she never suspected anything. i got a whole coal-scuttleful of the very best mud, and put it in the corner of the room for him to play in, and when i heard bridget coming, i meant to throw the bedquilt over it, so she wouldn't suspect anything. after i had him two days i heard mother say, "seems to me i hear very queer noises every now and then up-stairs." i knew what the matter was, but i never said anything, and i felt so happy when i thought what a good boy i was to raise a pig for my dear father. bridget went up to my room about eight o'clock one evening, just before i was going to bed, to take up my clean clothes. we were all sitting in the dining-room, when we heard her holler as if she was being murdered. we all ran out to see what was the matter, and were half-way up the stairs when the pig came down and upset the whole family, and piled them up on the top of himself at the foot of the stairs, and before we got up bridget came down and fell over us, and said she had just opened the young masther's thrunk and out jumps the ould satan himself and she must see the priest or she would be a dead woman. you wouldn't believe that, though i told them that i was raising the pig to sell it and give the money to father, they all said that they had never heard of such an abandoned and peremptory boy, and father said, "come up-stairs with me and i'll see if i can't teach you that this house isn't a pig-pen." i don't know what became of the pig, for he broke the parlor window and ran away, and nobody ever heard of him again. i'd like to see that boy james. i don't care how big he is. i'd show him that he can't go on setting good examples to innocent boys without suffering as he deserves to suffer. going to be a pirate. i don't know if you are acquainted with tom mcginnis. everybody knows his father, for he's been in congress, though he is a poor man, and sells hay and potatoes, and i heard father say that mr. mcginnis is the most remarkable man in the country. well, tom is mr. mcginnis's boy, and he's about my age, and thinks he's tremendously smart; and i used to think so too, but now i don't think quite so much of him. he and i went away to be pirates the other day, and i found out that he will never do for a pirate. you see, we had both got into difficulties. it wasn't my fault, i am sure, but it's such a painful subject that i won't describe it. i will merely say that after it was all over, i went to see tom to tell him that it was no use to put shingles under your coat, for how is that going to do your legs any good, and i tried it because tom advised me to. i found that he had just had a painful scene with his father on account of apples; and i must say it served him right, for he had no business to touch them without permission. so i said, "look here, tom, what's the use of our staying at home and being laid onto with switches and our best actions misunderstood and our noblest and holiest emotions held up to ridicule?" that's what i heard a young man say to sue one day, but it was so beautiful that i said it to tom myself. "oh, go 'way," said tom. "that's what i say," said i. "let's go away and be pirates. there's a brook that runs through deacon sammis's woods, and it stands to reason that it must run into the spanish main, where all the pirates are. let's run away, and chop down a tree, and make a canoe, and sail down the brook till we get to the spanish main, and then we can capture a schooner, and be regular pirates." "hurrah!" says tom. "we'll do it. let's run away to-night. i'll take father's hatchet, and the carving-knife, and some provisions, and meet you back of our barn at ten o'clock." "i'll be there," said i. "only, if we're going to be pirates, let's be strictly honest. don't take anything belonging to your father. i've got a hatchet, and a silver knife with my name on it, and i'll save my supper and take it with me." so that night i watched my chance, and dropped my supper into my handkerchief, and stuffed it into my pocket. when ten o'clock came, i tied up my clothes in a bundle, and took my hatchet and the silver knife and some matches, and slipped out the back door, and met tom. he had nothing with him but his supper and a backgammon board and a bag of marbles. we went straight for the woods, and after we'd selected a big tree to cut down, we ate our supper. just then the moon went under a cloud, and it grew awfully dark. we couldn't see very well how to chop the tree, and after tom had cut his fingers, we put off cutting down the tree till morning, and resolved to build a fire. we got a lot of fire-wood, but i dropped the matches, and when we found them again they were so damp that they wouldn't light. all at once the wind began to blow, and made a dreadful moaning in the woods. tom said it was bears, and that though he wanted to be a pirate, he hadn't calculated on having any bears. then he said it was cold, and so it was, but i told him that it would be warm enough when we got to the spanish main, and that pirates ought not to mind a little cold. pretty soon it began to rain, and then tom began to cry. it just poured down, and the way our teeth chattered was terrible. by-and-by tom jumped up, and said he wasn't going to be eaten up by bears and get an awful cold, and he started on a run for home. of course i wasn't going to be a pirate all alone, for there wouldn't be any fun in that, so i started after him. he must have been dreadfully frightened, for he ran as fast as he could, and as i was in a hurry, i tried to catch up with him. if he hadn't tripped over a root, and i hadn't tripped over him, i don't believe i could have caught him. when i fell on him, you ought to have heard him yell. he thought i was a bear, but any sensible pirate would have known i wasn't. tom left me at his front gate, and said he had made up his mind he wouldn't be a pirate, and that it would be a great deal more fun to be a plumber and melt lead. i went home, and as the house was locked up, i had to ring the front-door bell. father came to the door himself, and when he saw me, he said, "jimmy, what in the world does this mean?" so i told him that tom and me had started for the spanish main to be pirates, but tom had changed his mind, and that i thought i'd change mine too. father had me put to bed, and hot bottles and things put in the bed with me, and before i went to sleep, he came and said, "good-night, jimmy. we'll try and have more fun at home, so that there won't be any necessity of your being a pirate." and i said, "dear father, i'd a good deal rather stay with you, and i'll never be a pirate without your permission." this is why i say that tom mcginnis will never make a good pirate. he's too much afraid of getting wet. rats and mice. it's queer that girls are so dreadfully afraid of rats and mice. men are never afraid of them, and i shouldn't mind if there were mornamillion mice in my bedroom every night. mr. travers told sue and me a terrible story one day about a woman that was walking through a lonely field, when she suddenly saw a field-mouse right in front of her. she was a brave woman; so after she had said, "oh my! save me, somebody!" she determined to save herself if she could, for there was nobody within miles of her. there was a tree not very far off, and she had just time to climb up the tree and seat herself in the branches, when the mouse reached its foot. there that animal stayed for six days and nights, squeaking in a way that made the woman's blood run cold, and waiting for her to come down. on the seventh day, when she was nearly exhausted, a man with a gun came along, and shot the mouse, and saved her life. i don't believe this story, and i told mr. travers so; for a woman couldn't climb a tree, and even if she could, what would hinder the mouse from climbing after her? sue has a new young man, who comes every monday and wednesday night. one day he said, "jimmy, if you'll get me a lock of your sister's hair, i'll give you a nice dog." i told him he was awfully kind, but i didn't think it would be honest for me to take sue's best hair, but that i'd try to get him some of her every-day hair. and he said, "what on earth do you mean, jimmy?" and i said that sue had got some new back hair a little while ago, for i was with her when she bought it, and i knew she wouldn't like me to take any of that. so he said it was no matter, and he'd give me the dog anyway. i told sue afterwards all about it, just to show her how honest i was, and instead of telling me i was a good boy, she said, "oh you little torment g'way and never let me see you again," and threw herself down on the sofa and howled dreadfully, and mother came and said, "jimmy, if you want to kill your dear sister, you can just keep on doing as you do." such is the gratitude of grown-up folks. mr. withers--that's the new young man--brought the dog, as he said he would. he's a beautiful scotch terrier, and he said he would kill rats like anything, and was two years old, and had had the distemper; that is, mr. withers said the dog would kill rats, and of course mr. withers himself never had the distemper. of course i wanted to see the dog kill rats, so i took him to a rat-hole in the kitchen, but he barked at it so loud that no rat would think of coming out. if you want to catch rats, you mustn't begin by barking and scratching at rat-holes, but you must sit down and kind of wink with one eye and lay for them, just as cats do. i told mr. withers that the dog couldn't catch any rats, and he said he would bring me some in a box, and i could let them out, and the dog would kill every single one of them. the next evening sue sent me down to the milliner's to bring her new bonnet home, and don't you be long about it either you idle worthless boy. well, i went to the milliner's shop, but the bonnet wasn't done yet; and as i passed mr. withers's office, he said, "come here, jimmy; i've got those rats for you." he gave me a wooden box like a tea-chest, and told me there were a dozen rats in it, and i'd better have the dog kill them at once, or else they'd gnaw out before morning. when i got home, sue met me at the door, and said, "give me that bandbox this instant you've been mornanour about it." i tried to tell her that it wasn't her box; but she wouldn't listen, and just snatched it and went into the parlor, where there were three other young ladies who had come to see her, and slammed the door; but the dog slipped in with her. in about a minute i heard the most awful yells that anybody ever heard. it sounded as if all the furniture in the parlor was being smashed into kindling wood, and the dog kept barking like mad. the next minute a girl came flying out of the front window, and another girl jumped right on her before she had time to get out of the way, and they never stopped crying, "help murder let me out oh my!" [illustration: sue had opened the box.] i knew, of course, that sue had opened the box and let the rats out, and though i wanted ever so much to know if the dog had killed them all, i thought she would like it better if i went back to the milliner's and waited a few hours for the bonnet. i brought it home about nine o'clock; but sue had gone to bed, and the servant had just swept up the parlor, and piled the pieces of furniture on the piazza. father won't be home till next week, and perhaps by that time sue will get over it. i wish i did know if the dog killed all those rats, and how long it took him. hunting the rhinoceros. we ought always to be useful, and do good to everybody. i used to think that we ought always to improve our minds, and i think so some now, though i have got into dreadful difficulties all through improving my mind. but i am not going to be discouraged. i tried to be useful the other day, and do good to the heathen in distant lands, and you wouldn't believe what trouble it made. there are some people who would never do good again if they had got into the trouble that i got into; but the proverb says that if at first you don't succeed, cry, cry again; and there was lots of crying, i can tell you, over our rhinoceros, that we thought was going to do so much good. it all happened because aunt eliza was staying at our house. she had a sunday-school one afternoon, and tom mcginnis and i were the scholars, and she told us about a boy that got up a panorama about the _pilgrim's progress_ all by himself, and let people see it for ten cents apiece, and made ten dollars, and sent it to the missionaries, and they took it and educated mornahundred little heathens with it, and how nice it would be if you dear boys would go and do likewise and now we'll sing "hold the fort." well, tom and i thought about it, and we said we'd get up a menagerie, and we'd take turns playing animals, and we'd let folks see it for ten cents apiece, and make a lot of money, and do ever so much good. we got a book full of pictures of animals, and we made skins out of cloth to go all over us, so that we'd look just like animals when we had them on. we had a lion's and a tiger's and a bear's and a rhinoceros's skin, besides a whole lot of others. as fast as we got the skins made, we hung them up in a corner of the barn where nobody would see them. the way we made them was to show the pictures to mother and to aunt eliza, and they did the cutting out and the sewing, and sue she painted the stripes on the tiger, and the fancy touches on the other animals. our rhinoceros was the best animal we had. the rhinoceros is a lovely animal when he's alive. he is almost as big as an elephant, and he has a skin that is so thick that you can't shoot a bullet through it unless you hit it in a place that is a little softer than the other places. he has a horn on the end of his nose, and he can toss a tiger with it till the tiger feels sick, and says he won't play any more. the rhinoceros lives in africa, and he would toss 'most all the natives if it wasn't that they fasten an india-rubber ball on the end of his horn, so that when he tries to toss anybody, the horn doesn't hurt, and after a while the rhinoceros gets discouraged, and says, "oh, well, what's the good anyhow?" and goes away into the forest. at least this is what mr. travers says, but i don't believe it; for the rhinoceros wouldn't stand still and let the natives put an india-rubber ball on his horn, and they wouldn't want to waste india-rubber balls that way when they could play lawn-tennis with them. last saturday afternoon we had our first grand consolidated exhibition of the greatest menagerie on earth. we had two rows of chairs in the back yard, and all our folks and all tom's folks came, and we took in a dollar and sixty cents at the door, which was the back gate. i was a bear, first of all, and growled so natural that everybody said it was really frightful. then it was tom's turn to be an animal, and he was to be the raging rhinoceros of central africa. i helped dress him in the barn, and when he was dressed he looked beautiful. the rhinoceros's skin went all over him, and was tied together so that he couldn't get out of it without help. his horn was made of wood painted white, and his eyes were two agates. of course he couldn't see through them, but they looked natural, and as i was to lead him, he didn't need to see. [illustration: then he fell into the hot-bed, and broke all the glass.] i had just got him outside the barn, and had begun to say, "ladies and gentlemen, this is the raging rhinoceros," when he gave the most awful yell you ever heard, and got up on his hind-legs, and began to rush around as if he was crazy. he rushed against aunt eliza, and upset her all over the mcginnis girls, and then he banged up against the water-barrel, and upset that, and then he fell into the hot-bed, and broke all the glass. you never saw such an awful sight. the rhinoceros kept yelling all the time, only nobody could understand what he said, and pulling at his head with his fore-paws, and jumping up and down, and smashing everything in his way, and i went after him just as if i was a central african hunting a rhinoceros. i was almost frightened, and as for the folks, they ran into the house, all except aunt eliza, who had to be carried in. i kept as close behind the rhinoceros as i could, begging him to be quiet, and tell me what was the matter. after a while he lay down on the ground, and i cut the strings of his skin, so that he could get his head out and talk. he said he was 'most dead. the wasps had built a nest in one of his hind-legs as it was hanging in the barn, and they had stung him until they got tired. he said he'd never have anything more to do with the menagerie, and went home with his mother, and my mother said i must give him all the money, because he had suffered so much. but, as i said, i won't be discouraged, and will try to do good, and be useful to others the next time i see a fair chance. down cellar. we have had a dreadful time at our house, and i have done very wrong. oh, i always admit it when i've done wrong. there's nothing meaner than to pretend that you haven't done wrong when everybody knows you have. i didn't mean anything by it, though, and sue ought to have stood by me, when i did it all on her account, and just because i pitied her, if she was my own sister, and it was more her fault, i really think, than it was mine. mr. withers is sue's new young man, as i have told you already. he comes to see her every monday, wednesday, and friday evening, and mr. travers comes all the other evenings, and mr. martin is liable to come any time, and generally does--that is, if he doesn't have the rheumatism. though he hasn't but one real leg, he has twice as much rheumatism as father, with all his legs, and there is something very queer about it; and if i was he, i'd get a leg of something better than cork, and perhaps he'd have less pain in it. it all happened last tuesday night. just as it was getting dark, and sue was expecting mr. travers every minute, who should come in but mr. martin! now mr. martin is such an old acquaintance, and father thinks so much of him, that sue had to ask him in, though she didn't want him to meet mr. travers. so when she heard somebody open the front gate, she said, "oh, mr. martin i'm so thirsty and the servant has gone out, and you know just where the milk is for you went down cellar to get some the last time you were here do you think you would mind getting some for me?" mr. martin had often gone down cellar to help himself to milk, and i don't see what makes him so fond of it, so he said, "certainly with great pleasure," and started down the cellar stairs. it wasn't mr. travers, but mr. withers, who had come on the wrong night. he had not much more than got into the parlor when sue came rushing out to me, for i was swinging in the hammock on the front piazza, and said, "my goodness gracious jimmy what shall i do here's mr. withers and mr. travers will be here in a few minutes and there's mr. martin down cellar and i feel as if i should fly what shall i do?" i was real sorry for her, and thought i'd help her, for girls are not like us. they never know what to do when they are in a scrape, and they are full of absence of mind when they ought to have lots of presence of mind. so i said: "i'll fix it for you, sue. just leave it all to me. you stay here and meet mr. travers, who is just coming around the corner, and i'll manage mr. withers." sue said, "you darling little fellow there don't muss my hair;" and i went in, and said to mr. withers, in an awfully mysterious way, "mr. withers, i hear a noise in the cellar. don't tell sue, for she's dreadfully nervous. won't you go down and see what it is?" of course i knew it was mr. martin who was making the noise, though i didn't say so. "oh, it's nothing but rats, jimmy," said he, "or else the cat, or maybe it's the cook." "no, it isn't," said i. "if i was you, i'd go and see into it. sue thinks you're awfully brave." well, after a little more talk, mr. withers said he'd go, and i showed him the cellar-door, and got him started down-stairs, and then i locked the door, and went back to the hammock, and sue and mr. travers they sat in the front parlor. pretty soon i heard a heavy crash down cellar; as if something heavy had dropped, and then there was such a yelling and howling, just as if the cellar was full of murderers. mr. travers jumped up, and was starting for the cellar, when sue fainted away, and hung tight to him, and wouldn't let him go. i stayed in the hammock, and wouldn't have left it if father hadn't come down-stairs, but when i saw him going down cellar, i went after him to see what could possibly be the matter. [illustration: they thought they were both burglars.] father had a candle in one hand and a big club in another. you ought to have been there to see mr. martin and mr. withers. one of them had run against the other in the dark, and they thought they were both burglars. so they got hold of each other, and fell over the milk-pans and upset the soap-barrel, and then rolled round the cellar floor, holding on to each other, and yelling help murder thieves, and when we found them, they were both in the ash-bin, and the ashes were choking them. father would have pounded them with the club if i hadn't told him who they were. he was awfully astonished, and though he wouldn't say anything to hurt mr. martin's feelings, he didn't seem to care much for mine or mr. withers's, and when mr. travers finally came down, father told him that he was a nice young man, and that the whole house might have been murdered by burglars while he was enjoying himself in the front parlor. mr. martin went home after he got a little of the milk and soap and ashes and things off of him, but he was too angry to speak. mr. withers said he would never enter the house again, and mr. travers didn't even wait to speak to sue, he was in such a rage with mr. withers. after they were all gone, sue told father that it was all my fault, and father said he would attend to my case in the morning: only, when the morning came, he told me not to do it again, and that was all. i admit that i did do wrong, but i didn't mean it, and my only desire was to help my dear sister. you won't catch me helping her again very soon. our baby again. after this, don't say anything more to me about babies. there's nothing more spiteful and militious than a baby. our baby got me into an awful scrape once--the time i blacked it. but i don't blame it so much that time, because, after all, it was partly my fault; but now it has gone and done one of the meanest things a baby ever did, and came very near ruining me. it has been a long time since mother and sue said they would never trust me to take care of the baby again, but the other day they wanted awfully to go to a funeral. it was a funeral of one of their best friends, and there was to be lots of flowers, and they expected to see lots of people, and they said they would try me once more. they were going to be gone about two hours, and i was to take care of the baby till they came home again. of course i said i would do my best, and so i did; only when a boy does try to do his best, he is sure to get himself into trouble. how many a time and oft have i found this to be true! ah! this is indeed a hard and hollow world. the last thing sue said when she went out of the door was, "now be a good boy if you play any of your tricks i'll let you know." i wish mr. travers would marry her, and take her to china. i don't believe in sisters, anyway. they hadn't been gone ten minutes when the baby woke up and cried, and i knew it did it on purpose. now i had once read in an old magazine that if you put molasses on a baby's fingers, and give it a feather to play with, it will try to pick that feather off, and amuse itself, and keep quiet for ever so long. i resolved to try it; so i went straight down-stairs and brought up the big molasses jug out of the cellar. then i made a little hole in one of mother's pillows, and pulled out a good handful of feathers. the baby stopped crying as soon as it saw what i was at, and so led me on, just on purpose to get me into trouble. well, i put a little molasses on the baby's hands, and put the feathers in its lap, and told it to be good and play real pretty. the baby began to play with the feathers, just as the magazine said it would, so i thought i would let it enjoy itself while i went up to my room to read a little while. that baby never made a sound for ever so long, and i was thinking how pleased mother and sue would be to find out a new plan for keeping it quiet. i just let it enjoy itself till about ten minutes before the time when they were to get back from the funeral, and then i went down to mother's room to look after the "little innocent," as sue calls it. much innocence there is about that baby! i never saw such a awful spectacle. the baby had got hold of the molasses jug, which held mornagallon, and had upset it and rolled all over in it. the feathers had stuck to it so close that you couldn't hardly see its face, and its head looked just like a chicken's head. you wouldn't believe how that molasses had spread over the carpet. it seemed as if about half the room was covered with it. and there sat that wretched "little innocent" laughing to think how i'd catch it when the folks came home. now wasn't it my duty to wash that baby, and get the feathers and molasses off it? any sensible person would say that it was. i tried to wash it in the wash-basin, but the feathers kept sticking on again as fast as i got them off. so i took it to the bath-tub and turned the water on, and held the baby right under the stream. the feathers were gradually getting rinsed away, and the molasses was coming off beautifully, when something happened. the water made a good deal of noise, and i was standing with my back to the bath-room door, so that i did not hear anybody come in. the first thing i knew sue snatched the baby away, and gave me such a box over the ear. then she screamed out, "ma! come here this wicked boy is drowning the baby o you little wretch won't you catch it for this." mother came running up-stairs, and they carried the baby into mother's room to dry it. you should have heard what they said when sue slipped and sat down in the middle of the molasses, and cried out that her best dress was ruined, and mother saw what a state the carpet was in! i wouldn't repeat their language for worlds. it was personal, that's what it was, and i've been told fifty times never to make personal remarks. i should not have condescended to notice it if mother hadn't begun to cry; and of course i went and said i was awfully sorry, and that i meant it all for the best, and wouldn't have hurt the baby for anything, and begged her to forgive me and not cry any more. when father came home they told him all about it. i knew very well they would, and i just lined myself with shingles so as to be good and ready. but he only said, "my son, i have decided to try milder measures with you. i think you are punished enough when you reflect that you have made your mother cry." that was all, and i tell you i'd rather a hundred times have had him say, "my son, come up-stairs with me." and now if you don't admit that nothing could be meaner than the way that baby acted, i shall really be surprised and shocked. studying wasps. we had a lecture at our place the other day, because our people wanted to get even with the people of the next town, who had had a returned missionary with a whole lot of idols the week before. the lecture was all about wasps and beetles and such, and the lecturer had a magic lantern and a microscope, and everything that was adapted to improve and vitrify the infant mind, as our minister said when he introduced him. i believe the lecturer was a wicked, bad man, who came to our place on purpose to get me into trouble. else why did he urge the boys to study wasps, and tell us how to collect wasps' nests without getting stung? the grown-up people thought it was all right, however, and mr. travers said to me, "listen to what the gentleman says, jimmy, and improve your mind with wasps." well, i thought i would do as i was told, especially as i knew of a tremendous big wasps' nest under the eaves of our barn. i got a ladder and a lantern the very night after the lecture, and prepared to study wasps. the lecturer said that the way to do was to wait till the wasps go to bed, and then to creep up to their nest with a piece of thin paper all covered with wet mucilage, and to clap it right over the door of the nest. of course the wasps can't get out when they wake up in the morning, and you can take the nest and hang it up in your room; and after two or three days, when you open the nest and let the wasps out, and feed them with powdered sugar, they'll be so tame and grateful that they'll never think of stinging you, and you can study them all day long, and learn lots of useful lessons. now is it probable that any real good man would put a boy up to any such nonsense as this? it's my belief that the lecturer was hired by somebody to come and entice all our boys to get themselves stung. as i was saying, i got a ladder and a lantern, and a piece of paper covered with mucilage, and after dark i climbed up to the wasps' nest, and stopped up the door, and then brought the nest down in my hand. i was going to carry it up to my room, but just then mother called me; so i put the nest under the seat of our carriage, and went into the house, where i was put to bed for having taken the lantern out to the barn; and the next morning i forgot all about the nest. i forgot it because i was invited to go on a picnic with mr. travers and my sister sue and a whole lot of people, and any fellow would have forgot it if he had been in my place. mr. travers borrowed father's carriage, and he and sue were to sit on the back seat, and mr. travers's aunt, who is pretty old and cross, was to sit on the front seat with dr. jones, the new minister, and i was to sit with the driver. we all started about nine o'clock, and a big basket of provisions was crowded into the carriage between everybody's feet. we hadn't gone mornamile when mr. travers cries out: "my good gracious! sue, i've run an awful pin into my leg. why can't you girls be more careful about pins?" sue replied that she hadn't any pins where they could run into anybody, and was going to say something more, when she screamed as if she was killed, and began to jump up and down and shake herself. just then dr. jones jumped about two feet straight into the air, and said, "oh my!" and miss travers took to screaming, "fire! murder! help!" and slapping herself in a way that was quite awful. i began to think they were all going crazy, when all of a sudden i remembered the wasps' nest. somehow the wasps had got out of the nest, and were exploring all over the carriage. the driver stopped the horses to see what was the matter, and turned pale with fright when he saw dr. jones catch the basket of provisions and throw it out of the carriage, and then jump straight into it. then mr. travers and his aunt and sue all came flying out together, and were all mixed up with dr. jones and the provisions on the side of the road. they didn't stop long, however, for the wasps were looking for them; so they got up and rushed for the river, and went into it as if they were going to drown themselves--only it wasn't more than two feet deep. george--he's the driver--was beginning to ask, "is thishyer some swimmin' match that's goin' on?" when a wasp hit him on the neck, and another hit me on the cheek. we left that carriage in a hurry, and i never stopped till i got to my room and rolled myself up in the bedclothes. all the wasps followed me, so that mr. travers and sue and the rest of them were left in peace, and might have gone to the picnic, only they felt as if they must come home for arnica, and, besides, the horses had run away, though they were caught afterwards, and didn't break anything. this was all because that lecturer advised me to study wasps. i followed his directions, and it wasn't my fault that the wasps began to study mr. travers and his aunt, and sue and dr. jones, and me and george. but father, when he was told about it, said that my "conduct was such," and the only thing that saved me was that my legs were stung all over, and father said he didn't have the heart to do any more to them with a switch. a terrible mistake. i have been in the back bedroom up-stairs all the afternoon, and i am expecting father every minute. it was just after one o'clock when he told me to come up-stairs with him, and just then mr. thompson came to get him to go down town with him, and father said i'd have to excuse him for a little while and don't you go out of that room till i come back. so i excused him, and he hasn't come back yet; but i've opened one of the pillows and stuffed my clothes full of feathers, and i don't care much how soon he comes back now. it's an awful feeling to be waiting up-stairs for your father, and to know that you have done wrong, though you really didn't mean to do so much wrong as you have done. i am willing to own that nobody ought to take anybody's clothes when he's in swimming, but anyhow they began it first, and i thought just as much as could be that the clothes were theirs. the real boys that are to blame are joe wilson and amzi willetts. a week ago saturday tom mcginnis and i went in swimming down at the island. it's a beautiful place. the island is all full of bushes, and on one side the water is deep, where the big boys go in, and on the other it is shallow, where we fellows that can't swim very much where the water is more than two feet deep go in. while tom and i were swimming, joe and amzi came and stole our clothes, and put them in their boat, and carried them clear across the deep part of the river. we saw them do it, and we had an awful time to get the clothes back, and i think it was just as mean. tom and i said we'd get even with them, and i know it was wrong, because it was a revengeful feeling, but anyhow we said we'd do it; and i don't think revenge is so very bad when you don't hurt a fellow, and wouldn't hurt him for anything, and just want to play him a trick that is pretty nearly almost quite innocent. but i don't say we did right, and when i've done wrong i'm always ready to say so. well, tom and i watched, and last saturday we saw joe and amzi go down to the island, and go in swimming on the shallow side; so we waded across and sneaked down among the bushes, and after a while we saw two piles of clothes. so we picked them up and ran away with them. the boys saw us, and made a terrible noise; but we sung out that they'd know now how it felt to have your clothes carried off, and we waded back across the river, and carried the clothes up to amzi's house, and hid them in his barn, and thought that we'd got even with joe and amzi, and taught them a lesson which would do them a great deal of good, and would make them good and useful men. this was in the morning about noon, and when i had my dinner i thought i'd go and see how the boys liked swimming, and offer to bring back their clothes if they'd promise to be good friends. i never was more astonished in my life than i was to find that they were nowhere near the island. i was beginning to be afraid they'd been drowned, when i heard some men calling me, and i found squire meredith and amzi willetts's father, who is a deacon, hiding among the bushes. they told me that some villains had stolen their clothes while they were in swimming, and they'd give me fifty cents if i'd go up to their houses and get their wives to give me some clothes to bring down to them. i said i didn't want the fifty cents, but i'd go and try to find some clothes for them. i meant to go straight up to amzi's barn and to bring the clothes back, but on the way i met amzi with the clothes in a basket bringing them down to the island, and he said, "somebody's goin' to be arrested for stealing father's and squire meredith's clothes. i saw the fellows that stole 'em, and i'm going to tell." you see, tom and i had taken the wrong clothes, and squire meredith and deacon willetts, who had been in swimming on the deep side of the island, had been about two hours trying to play they were zulus, and didn't need to wear any clothes, only they found it pretty hard work. deacon willetts came straight to our house, and told father that his unhappy son--that's what he called me, and wasn't i unhappy, though--had stolen his clothes and squire meredith's; but for the sake of our family he wouldn't say very much about it, only if father thought best to spare the rods and spoil a child, he wouldn't be able to regard him as a man and a brother. so father called me and asked me if i had taken deacon willetts's clothes, and when i said yes, and was going to explain how it happened, he said that my conduct was such, and that i was bringing his gray hairs down, only i wouldn't hurt them for fifty million dollars, and i've often heard him say he hadn't a gray hair in his head. and now i'm waiting up-stairs for the awful moment to arrive. i deserve it, for they say that squire meredith and deacon willetts are mornhalf eaten up by mosquitoes, and are confined to the house with salt and water, and crying out all the time that they can't stand it. i hope the feathers will work, but if they don't, no matter. i think i shall be a missionary, and do good to the heathen. i think i hear father coming in the front gate now, so i must close. our bull-fight. i'm going to stop improving my mind. it gets me into trouble all the time. grown-up folks can improve their minds without doing any harm, for nobody ever tells them that their conduct is such, and that there isn't the least excuse in the world for them; but just as sure as a boy tries to improve his mind, especially with animals, he gets into dreadful difficulties. there was a man came to our town to lecture a while ago. he had been a great traveller, and knew all about rome and niagara falls and the north pole, and such places, and father said, "now, jimmy, here's an opportunity for you to learn something and improve your mind go and take your mother and do take an interest in something besides games." well, i went to the lecture. the man told all about the australian savages and their boomerangs. he showed us a boomerang, which is a stick with two legs, and an australian will throw it at a man, and it will go and hit him, and come back of its own accord. then he told us about the way the zulus throw their assegais--that's the right way to spell it--and spear an englishman that is mornten rods away from them. then he showed a long string with a heavy lead ball on each end, and said the south americans would throw it at a wild horse, and it would wind around the horse's legs, and tie itself into a bow-knot, and then the south americans would catch the horse. but the best of all was the account of a bull-fight which he saw in spain, with the queen sitting on a throne, and giving a crown of evergreens to the chief bull-fighter. he said that bull-fighting was awfully cruel, and that he told us about it so that we might be thankful that we are so much better than those dreadful spanish people, who will watch a bull-fight all day, and think it real fun. the next day i told mr. travers about the boomerang, and he said it was all true. once there was an australian savage in a circus, and he got angry, and he threw his boomerang at a man who was in the third story of a hotel. the boomerang went down one street and up another, and into the hotel door, and up-stairs, and knocked the man on the head, and came back the same way right into the australian savage's hand. i was so anxious to show father that i had listened to the lecture that i made a boomerang just like the one the lecturer had. when it was done, i went out into the back yard, and slung it at a cat on the roof of our house. it never touched the cat, but it went right through the dining-room window, and gave mr. travers an awful blow in the eye, besides hitting sue on the nose. it stopped right there in the dining-room, and never came back to me at all, and i don't believe a word the lecturer said about it. i don't feel courage to tell what father said about it. then i tried to catch mr. thompson's dog, that lives next door to us, with two lead balls tied on the ends of a long string. i didn't hit the dog any more than i did the cat, but i didn't do any harm except to mrs. thompson's cook, and she ought to be thankful that it was only her arm, for the doctor said that if the balls had hit her on the head they would have broken it, and the consequences might have been serious. it was a good while before i could find anything to make an assegai out of; but after hunting all over the house, i came across a lovely piece of bamboo about ten feet long, and just as light as a feather. then i got a big knife-blade that hadn't any handle to it, and that had been lying in father's tool-chest for ever so long, and fastened it on the end of the bamboo. you wouldn't believe how splendidly i could throw that assegai, only the wind would take it, and you couldn't tell when you threw it where it would bring up. i don't see how the zulus ever manage to hit an englishman; but mr. travers says that the englishmen are all so made that you can't very well miss them. and then perhaps the zulus, when they want to hit them, aim at something else. one day i was practising with the assegai at our barn-door, making believe that it was an englishman, when mr. carruthers, the butcher, drove by, and the assegai came down and went through his foot, and pinned it to the wagon. but he didn't see me, and i guess he got it out after a while, though i never saw it again. but what the lecturer taught us about bull-fights was worse than anything else. tom mcginnis's father has a terrible bull in the pasture, and tom and i agreed that we'd have a bull-fight, only, of course, we wouldn't hurt the bull. all we wanted to do was to show our parents how much we had learned about the geography and habits of the spaniards. tom mcginnis's sister jane, who is twelve years old, and thinks she knows everything, said she'd be the queen of spain, and give tom and me evergreen wreaths. i got an old red curtain out of the dining-room, and divided it with tom, so that we could wave it in the bull's face. when a bull runs after a bull-fighter, the other bull-fighter just waves his red rag, and the bull goes for him and lets the first bull-fighter escape. the lecturer said that there wasn't any danger so long as one fellow would always wave a red rag when the bull ran after the other fellow. pretty nearly all the school came down to the pasture to see our bull-fight. the queen of spain sat on the fence, because there wasn't any other throne, and the rest of the fellows and girls stood behind the fence. the bull was pretty savage; but tom and i had our red rags, and we weren't afraid of him. as soon as we went into the pasture the bull came for me, with his head down, and bellowing as if he was out of his mind. tom rushed up and waved his red rag, and the bull stopped running after me, and went after tom, just as the lecturer said he would. [illustration: he went twenty feet right up into the air.] i know i ought to have waved my red rag, so as to rescue tom, but i was so interested that i forgot all about it, and the bull caught up with tom. i should think he went twenty feet right up into the air, and as he came down he hit the queen of spain, and knocked her about six feet right against mr. mcginnis, who had come down to the pasture to stop the fight. the doctor says they'll all get well, though tom's legs are all broke, and his sister's shoulder is out of joint, and mr. mcginnis has got to get a new set of teeth. father didn't do a thing to me--that is, with anything--but he talked to me till i made up my mind that i'd never try to learn anything from a lecturer again, not even if he lectures about indians and scalping-knives. our balloon. i've made up my mind that half the trouble boys get into is the fault of the grown-up folks that are always wanting them to improve their minds. i never improved my mind yet without suffering for it. there was the time i improved it studying wasps, just as the man who lectured about wasps and elephants and other insects told me to. if it hadn't been for that man i never should have thought of studying wasps. one time our school-teacher told me that i ought to improve my mind by reading history, so i borrowed the history of _blackbeard the pirate_, and improved my mind for three or four hours every day. after a while father said, "bring that book to me, jimmy, and let's see what you're reading," and when he saw it, instead of praising me, he-- but what's the use of remembering our misfortunes? still, if i was grown up, i wouldn't get boys into difficulty by telling them to do all sorts of things. there was a professor came to our house the other day. a professor is a kind of man who wears spectacles up on the top of his head and takes snuff and doesn't talk english very plain. i believe professors come from somewhere near germany, and i wish this one had stayed in his own country. they live mostly on cabbage and such, and mr. travers says they are dreadfully fierce, and that when they are not at war with other people, they fight among themselves, and go on in the most dreadful way. this professor that came to see father didn't look a bit fierce, but mr. travers says that was just his deceitful way, and that if we had had a valuable old bone or a queer kind of shell in the house, the professor would have got up in the night, and stolen it and killed us all in our beds; but sue said it was a shame, and that the professor was a lovely old gentleman, and there wasn't the least harm in his kissing her. well, the professor was talking after dinner to father about balloons, and when he saw i was listening, he pretended to be awfully kind, and told me how to make a fire-balloon, and how he'd often made them and sent them up in the air; and then he told about a man who went up on horseback with his horse tied to a balloon; and father said, "now listen to the professor, jimmy, and improve your mind while you've got a chance." the next day tom mcginnis and i made a balloon just as the professor had told me to. it was made out of tissue-paper, and it had a sponge soaked full of alcohol, and when you set the alcohol on fire the tumefaction of the air would send the balloon mornamile high. we made it out in the barn, and thought we'd try it before we said anything to the folks about it, and then surprise them by showing them what a beautiful balloon we had, and how we'd improved our minds. just as it was all ready, sue's cat came into the barn, and i remembered the horse that had been tied to a balloon, and told tom we'd see if the balloon would take the cat up with it. [illustration: presently it went slowly up.] so we tied her with a whole lot of things so she would hang under the balloon without being hurt a bit, and then we took the balloon into the yard to try it. after the alcohol had burned a little while the balloon got full of air, and presently it went slowly up. there wasn't a bit of wind, and when it had gone up about twice as high as the house it stood still. you ought to have seen how that cat howled; but she was nothing compared with sue when she came out and saw her beloved beast. she screamed to me to bring her that cat this instant you good-for-nothing cruel little wretch won't you catch it when father comes home. now i'd like to know how i could reach a cat that was a hundred feet up in the air, but that's all the reasonableness that girls have. the balloon didn't stay up very long. it began to come slowly down, and when it struck the ground, the way that cat started on a run for the barn, and tried to get underneath it with the balloon all on fire behind her, was something frightful to see. by the time i could get to her and cut her loose, a lot of hay took fire and began to blaze, and tom ran for the fire-engine, crying out "fire!" with all his might. the firemen happened to be at the engine-house, though they're generally all over town, and nobody can find them when there is a fire. they brought the engine into our yard in about ten minutes, and just as sue and the cook and i had put the fire out. but that didn't prevent the firemen from working with heroic bravery, as our newspaper afterwards said. they knocked in our dining-room windows with axes, and poured about a thousand hogsheads of water into the room before we could make them understand that the fire was down by the barn, and had been put out before they came. this was all the professor's fault, and it has taught me a lesson. the next time anybody wants me to improve my mind i'll tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself. our new walk. for once i have done right. i always used to think that if i stuck to it, and tried to do what was right, i would hit it some day; but at last i pretty nearly gave up all hope, and was beginning to believe that no matter what i did, some of the grown-up folks would tell me that my conduct was such. but i have done a real useful thing that was just what father wanted, and he has said that he would overlook it this time. perhaps you think that this was not very encouraging to a boy; but if you had been told to come up-stairs with me my son as often as i have been, just because you had tried to do right, and hadn't exactly managed to suit people, you would be very glad to hear your father say that for once he would overlook it. did you ever play you were a ghost? i don't think much of ghosts, and wouldn't be a bit afraid if i was to see one. there was once a ghost that used to frighten people dreadfully by hanging himself to a hook in the wall. he was one of those tall white ghosts, and they are the very worst kind there is. this one used to come into the spare bedroom of the house where he lived before he was dead, and after walking round the room, and making as if he was in dreadfully low spirits, he would take a rope out of his pocket, and hang himself to a clothes-hook just opposite the bed, and the person who was in the bed would faint away with fright, and pull the bedclothes over his head, and be in the most dreadful agony until morning, when he would get up, and people would say, "why how dreadful you look your hair is all gray and you are whiternany sheet." one time a man came to stay at the house who wasn't afraid of anything, and he said, "i'll fix that ghost of yours; i'm a terror on wooden wheels when any ghosts are around, i am." so he was put to sleep in the room, and before he went to bed he loosened the hook, so that it would come down very easy, and then he sat up in bed and read till twelve o'clock. just when the clock struck, the ghost came in and walked up and down as usual, and finally got out his rope and hung himself; but as soon as he kicked away the chair he stood on when he hung himself, down came the hook, and the ghost fell all in a heap on the floor, and sprained his ankle, and got up and limped away, dreadfully ashamed, and nobody ever saw him again. father has been having the front garden walk fixed with an askfelt pavement. askfelt is something like molasses, only four times as sticky when it is new. after a while it grows real hard, only ours hasn't grown very hard yet. i watched the men put it down, and father said, "be careful and don't step on it until it gets hard or you'll stick fast in it and can't ever get out again. i'd like to see half a dozen meddlesome boys stuck in it and serve them right." as soon as i heard dear father mention what he'd like, i determined that he should have his wish, for there is nothing that is more delightful to a good boy than to please his father. that afternoon i mentioned to two or three boys that i knew were pretty bad boys that our melons were ripe, and that father was going to pick them in a day or two. the melon patch is at the back of the house, and after dark i dressed myself in one of mother's gowns, and hid in the wood-shed. about eleven o'clock i heard a noise, and looked out, and there were six boys coming in the back gate, and going for the melon patch. i waited till they were just ready to begin, and then i came out and said, in a hollow and protuberant voice, "beware!" they dropped the melons, and started to run, but they couldn't get to the back gate without passing close to me, and i knew they wouldn't try that. so they started to run round the house to the front gate, and i ran after them. when they reached the new front walk, they seemed to stop all of a sudden, and two or three of them fell down. [illustration: prying the boys out.] i didn't wait to hear what they had to say, but went quietly back, and got into the house through the kitchen-window, and went up-stairs to my room. i could hear them whispering, and now and then one or two of them would cry a little; but i thought it wouldn't be honorable to listen to them, so i went to sleep. in the morning there were five boys stuck in the askfelt, and frightened 'most to death. i got up early, and called father, and told him that there seemed to be something the matter with his new walk. when he came out and saw five boys caught in the pavement, and an extra pair of shoes that belonged to another boy who had wriggled out of them and gone away and left them, he was the most astonished man you ever saw. i told him how i had caught the boys stealing melons, and had played i was a ghost and frightened them away, and he said that if i'd help the coachman pry the boys out, he would overlook it. so he sat upon the piazza and overlooked the coachman and me while we pried the boys out, and they came out awfully hard, and the askfelt is full of pieces of trousers and things. i don't believe it will ever be a handsome walk; but whenever father looks at it he will think what a good boy i have been, which will give him more pleasure than a hundred new askfelt walks. a steam chair. i don't like mr. travers as much as i did. of course i know he's a very nice man, and he's going to be my brother when he marries sue, and he used to bring me candy sometimes, but he isn't what he used to be. one time--that was last summer--he was always dreadfully anxious to hear from the post-office, and whenever he came to see sue, and he and she and i would be sitting on the front piazza, he would say, "jimmy, i think there must be a letter for me; i'll give you ten cents if you'll go down to the post-office;" and then sue would say, "don't run, jimmy; you'll get heart disease if you do;" and i'd walk 'way down to the post-office, which is pretty near half a mile from our house. but now he doesn't seem to care anything about his letters; and he and sue sit in the back parlor, and mother says i mustn't go in and disturb them; and i don't get any more ten cents. i've learned that it won't do to fix your affections on human beings, for even the best of men won't keep on giving you ten cents forever. and it wasn't fair for mr. travers to get angry with me the other night, when it was all an accident--at least 'most all of it; and i don't think it's manly for a man to stand by and see a sister shake a fellow that isn't half her size, and especially when he never supposed that anything was going to happen to her even if it did break. when aunt eliza came to our house the last time, she brought a steam chair: that's what she called it, though there wasn't any steam about it. she brought it from europe with her, and it was the queerest sort of chair, that would all fold up, and had a kind of footstool to it, so that you put your legs out and just lie down in it. well, one day it got broken. the back of the seat fell down, and shut aunt eliza up in the chair so she couldn't get out, and didn't she just howl till somebody came and helped her! she was so angry that she said she never wanted to see that chair again, and you may have it if you want it jimmy for you are a good boy sometimes when you want to be. so i took the chair and mended it. the folks laughed at me, and said i couldn't mend it to save my life; but i got some nails and some mucilage, and mended it elegantly. then mother let me get some varnish, and i varnished the chair, and when it was done it looked so nice that sue said we'd keep it in the back parlor. now i'm never allowed to sit in the back parlor, so what good would my chair do me? but sue said, "stuff and nonsense that boy's indulged now till he can't rest." so they put my chair in the back parlor, just as if i'd been mending it on purpose for mr. travers. i didn't say anything more about it; but after it was in the back parlor i took out one or two screws that i thought were not needed to hold it together, and used them for a boat that i was making. that night mr. travers came as usual, and after he had talked to mother awhile about the weather, and he and father had agreed that it was a shame that other folks hadn't given more money to the michigan sufferers, and that they weren't quite sure that the sufferers were a worthy object, and that a good deal of harm was done by giving away money to all sorts of people, sue said, "perhaps we had better go into the back parlor; it is cooler there, and we won't disturb father, who wants to think about something." so she and mr. travers went into the back parlor, and shut the door, and talked very loud at first about a whole lot of things, and then quieted down, as they always did. i was in the front parlor, reading "robinson crusoe," and wishing i could go and do likewise--like crusoe, i mean; for i wouldn't go and sit quietly in a back parlor with a girl, like mr. travers, not if you were to pay me for it. i can't see what some fellows see in sue. i'm sure if mr. martin or mr. travers had her pull their hair once the way she pulls mine sometimes, they wouldn't trust themselves alone with her very soon. all at once we heard a dreadful crash in the back parlor, and mr. travers said good something very loud, and sue shrieked as if she had a needle run into her. father and mother and i and the cook and the chambermaid all rushed to see what was the matter. [illustration: it had shut up like a jack-knife.] the chair that i had mended, and that sue had taken away from me, had broken down while mr. travers was sitting in it, and it had shut up like a jack-knife, and caught him so he couldn't get out. it had caught sue too, who must have run to help him, or she never would have been in that fix, with mr. travers holding her by the waist, and her arm wedged in so she couldn't pull it away. father managed to get them loose, and then sue caught me and shook me till i could hear my teeth rattle, and then she ran up-stairs and locked herself up; and mr. travers never offered to help me, but only said, "i'll settle with you some day, young man," and then he went home. but father sat down on the sofa and laughed, and said to mother, "i guess sue would have done better if she'd have let the boy keep his chair." animals. i should like to be an animal. not an insect, of course, nor a snake, but a nice kind of animal, like an elephant or a dog with a good master. animals are awfully intelligent, but they haven't any souls. there was once an elephant in a circus, and one day a boy said to him, "want a lump of sugar, old fellow?" the elephant he nodded, and felt real grateful, for elephants are very fond of lump-sugar, which is what they live on in their native forests. but the boy put a cigar instead of a lump of sugar in his mouth. the sagacious animal, instead of eating up the cigar or trying to smoke it and making himself dreadfully sick, took it and carried it across the circus to a man who kept a candy and cigar stand, and made signs that he'd sell the cigar for twelve lumps of sugar. the man gave the elephant the sugar and took the cigar, and then the intelligent animal sat down on his hind-legs and laughed at the boy who had tried to play a joke on him, until the boy felt that much ashamed that he went right home and went to bed. in the days when there were fairies--only i don't believe there ever were any fairies, and mr. travers says they were rubbish--boys were frequently changed into animals. there was once a boy who did something that made a wicked fairy angry, and she changed him into a cat, and thought she had punished him dreadfully. but the boy after he was a cat used to come and get on her back fence and yowl as if he was ten or twelve cats all night long, and she couldn't get a wink of sleep, and fell into a fever, and had to take lots of castor-oil and dreadful medicines. so she sent for the boy who was a cat, you understand, and said she'd change him back again. but he said, "oh no; i'd much rather be a cat, for i'm so fond of singing on the back fence." and the end of it was that she had to give him a tremendous pile of money before he'd consent to be changed back into a boy again. boys can play being animals, and it's great fun, only the other boys who don't play they are animals get punished for it, and i say it's unjust, especially as i never meant any harm at all, and was doing my very best to amuse the children. this is the way it happened. aunt sarah came to see us the other day, and brought her three boys with her. i don't think you ever heard of aunt sarah, and i wish i never had. she's one of father's sisters, and he thinks a great deal more of her than i would if she was my sister, and i don't think it's much credit to anybody to be a sister anyway. the boys are twins, that is, two of them are, and they are all about three or four years old. well, one day just before christmas, when it was almost as warm out-doors as it is in summer, aunt sarah said, "jimmy, i want you to take the dear children out and amuse them a few hours. i know you're so fond of your dear little cousins and what a fine manly boy you are!" so i took them out, though i didn't want to waste my time with little children, for we are responsible for wasting time, and ought to use every minute to improve ourselves. the boys wanted to see the pigs that belong to mr. taylor, who lives next door, so i took them through a hole in the fence, and they looked at the pigs, and one of them said, "oh my how sweet they are and how i would like to be a little pig and never be washed and have lots of swill!" so i said, "why don't you play you are pigs, and crawl round and grunt? it's just as easy, and i'll look at you." you see, i thought i ought to amuse them, and that this would be a nice way to teach them to amuse themselves. well, they got down on all fours and ran round and grunted, until they began to get tired of it, and then wanted to know what else pigs could do, so i told them that pigs generally rolled in the mud, and the more mud a pig could get on himself the happier he would be, and that there was a mud puddle in our back yard that would make a pig cry like a child with delight. the boys went straight to that mud puddle, and they rolled in the mud until there wasn't an inch of them that wasn't covered with mud so thick that you would have to get a crowbar to pry it off. [illustration: "we've been playing we were pigs, ma."] just then aunt sarah came to the door and called them, and when she saw them she said, "good gracious what on earth have you been doing?" and tommy, that's the oldest boy, said, "we've been playing we were pigs ma and it's real fun and wasn't jimmy good to show us how?" i think they had to boil the boys in hot water before they could get the mud off, and their clothes have all got to be sent to the poor people out west whose things were all lost in the great floods. if you'll believe it, i never got the least bit of thanks for showing the boys how to amuse themselves, but aunt sarah said that i'd get something when father came home, and she wasn't mistaken. i'd rather not mention what it was that i got, but i got it mostly on the legs, and i think bamboo canes ought not to be sold to fathers any more than poison. i was going to tell why i should like to be an animal; but as it is getting late, i must close. a pleasing experiment. every time i try to improve my mind with science i resolve that i will never do it again, and then i always go and do it. science is so dreadfully tempting that you can hardly resist it. mr. travers says that if anybody once gets into the habit of being a scientific person there is little hope that he will ever reform, and he says he has known good men who became habitual astronomers, and actually took to prophesying weather, all because they yielded to the temptation to look through telescopes, and to make figures on the black-board with chalk. i was reading a lovely book the other day. it was all about balloons and parachutes. a parachute is a thing that you fall out of a balloon with. it is something like an open umbrella, only nobody ever borrows it. if you hold a parachute over your head and drop out of a balloon, it will hold you up so that you will come down to the ground so gently that you won't be hurt the least bit. i told tom mcginnis about it, and we said we would make a parachute, and jump out of the second-story window with it. it is easy enough to make one, for all you have to do is to get a big umbrella and open it wide, and hold on to the handle. last saturday afternoon tom came over to my house, and we got ready to try what the book said was "a pleasing scientific experiment." we didn't have the least doubt that the book told the truth. but tom didn't want to be the first to jump out of the window--neither did i--and we thought we'd give sue's kitten a chance to try a parachute, and see how she liked it. sue had an umbrella that was made of silk, and was just the thing to suit the kitten. i knew sue wouldn't mind lending the umbrella, and as she was out making calls, and i couldn't ask her permission, i borrowed the umbrella and the kitten, and meant to tell her all about it as soon as she came home. we tied the kitten fast to the handle of the umbrella, so as not to hurt her, and then dropped her out of the window. the wind was blowing tremendously hard, which i supposed was a good thing, for it is the air that holds up a parachute, and of course the more wind there is, the more air there is, and the better the parachute will stay up. the minute we dropped the cat and the umbrella out of the window, the wind took them and blew them clear over the back fence into deacon smedley's pasture before they struck the ground. this was all right enough, but the parachute didn't stop after it struck the ground. it started across the country about as fast as a horse could run, hitting the ground every few minutes, and then bouncing up into the air and coming down again, and the kitten kept clawing at everything, and yowling as if she was being killed. by the time tom and i could get down-stairs the umbrella was about a quarter of a mile off. we chased it till we couldn't run any longer, but we couldn't catch it, and the last we saw of the umbrella and the cat they were making splendid time towards the river, and i'm very much afraid they were both drowned. tom and i came home again, and when we got a little rested we said we would take the big umbrella and try the pleasing scientific experiment; at least i said that tom ought to try it, for we had proved that a little silk umbrella would let a kitten down to the ground without hurting her, and of course a great big umbrella would hold tom up all right. i didn't care to try it myself, because tom was visiting me, and we ought always to give up our own pleasures in order to make our visitors happy. after a while tom said he would do it, and when everything was ready he sat on the window-ledge, with his legs hanging out, and when the wind blew hard he jumped. [illustration: he lit right on the han's head.] it is my opinion, now that the thing is all over, that the umbrella wasn't large enough, and that if tom had struck the ground he would have been hurt. he went down awfully fast, but by good-luck the grocer's man was just coming out of the kitchen-door as tom came down, and he lit right on the man's head. it is wonderful how lucky some people are, for the grocer's man might have been hurt if he hadn't happened to have a bushel basket half full of eggs with him, and as he and tom both fell into the eggs, neither of them was hurt. they were just getting out from among the eggs when sue came in with some of the ribs of her umbrella that somebody had fished out of the river and given to her. there didn't seem to be any kitten left, for sue didn't know anything about it, but father and mr. mcginnis came in a few minutes afterwards, and i had to explain the whole thing to them. this is the last "pleasing scientific experiment" i shall ever try. i don't think science is at all nice, and, besides, i am awfully sorry about the kitten. traps. a boy ought always to stand up for his sister, and protect her from everybody, and do everything to make her happy, for she can only be his sister once, and he would be so awfully sorry if she died and then he remembered that his conduct towards her had sometimes been such. mr. withers doesn't come to our house any more. one night sue saw him coming up the garden-walk, and father said, "there's the other one coming, susan; isn't this travers's evening?" and then sue said, "i do wish somebody would protect me from him he is that stupid don't i wish i need never lay eyes on him again." i made up my mind that nobody should bother my sister while she had a brother to protect her. so the next time i saw mr. withers i spoke to him kindly and firmly--that's the way grown-up people speak when they say something dreadfully unpleasant--and told him what sue had said about him, and that he ought not to bother her any more. mr. withers didn't thank me and say that he knew i was trying to do him good, which was what he ought to have said, but he looked as if he wanted to hurt somebody, and walked off without saying a word to me, and i don't think he was polite about it. he has never been at our house since. when i told sue how i had protected her she was so overcome with gratitude that she couldn't speak, and just motioned me with a book to go out of her room and leave her to feel thankful about it by herself. the book very nearly hit me on the head, but it wouldn't have hurt much if it had. mr. travers was delighted about it, and told me that i had acted like a man, and that he shouldn't forget it. the next day he brought me a beautiful book all about traps. it told how to make mornahundred different kinds of traps that would catch everything, and it was one of the best books i ever saw. our next-door neighbor, mr. schofield, keeps pigs, only he don't keep them enough, for they run all around. they come into our garden and eat up everything, and father said he would give almost anything to get rid of them. now one of the traps that my book told about was just the thing to catch pigs with. it was made out of a young tree and a rope. you bend the tree down and fasten the rope to it so as to make a slippernoose, and when the pig walks into the slippernoose the tree flies up and jerks him into the air. i thought that i couldn't please father better than to make some traps and catch some pigs; so i got a rope, and got two irishmen that were fixing the front walk to bend down two trees for me and hold them while i made the traps. this was just before supper, and i expected that the pigs would come early the next morning and get caught. it was bright moonlight that evening, and mr. travers and sue said the house was so dreadfully hot that they would go and take a walk. they hadn't been out of the house but a few minutes when we heard an awful shriek from sue, and we all rushed out to see what was the matter. mr. travers had walked into a trap, and was swinging by one leg, with his head about six feet from the ground. nobody knew him at first except me, for when a person is upside down he doesn't look natural; but i knew what was the matter, and told father that it would take two men to bend down the tree and get mr. travers loose. so they told me to run and get mr. schofield to come and help, and they got the step-ladder so that sue could sit on the top of it and hold mr. travers's head. i was so excited that i forgot all about the other trap, and, besides, sue had said things to me that hurt my feelings, and that prevented me from thinking to tell mr. schofield not to get himself caught. he ran ahead of me, because he was so anxious to help, and the first thing i knew there came an awful yell from him, and up he went into the air, and hung there by both legs, which i suppose was easier than the way mr. travers hung. then everybody went at me in the most dreadful way, except sue, who was holding mr. travers's head. they said the most unkind things to me, and sent me into the house. i heard afterwards that father got mr. schofield's boy to climb up and cut mr. travers and mr. schofield loose, and they fell on the gravel, but it didn't hurt them much, only mr. schofield broke some of his teeth, and says he is going to bring a lawsuit against father. mr. travers was just as good as he could be. he only laughed the next time he saw me, and he begged them not to punish me, because it was his fault that i ever came to know about that kind of trap. mr. travers is the nicest man that ever lived, except father, and when he marries sue i shall go and live with him, though i haven't told him yet, for i want to keep it as a pleasant surprise for him. an accident. aunt eliza never comes to our house without getting me into difficulties. i don't really think she means to do it, but it gets itself done just the same. she was at our house last week, and though i meant to behave in the most exemplifying manner, i happened by accident to do something which she said ought to fill me with remorse for the rest of my days. remorse is a dreadful thing to have. some people have it so bad that they never get over it. there was once a ghost who suffered dreadfully from remorse. he was a tall white ghost, with a large cotton umbrella. he haunted a house where he used to walk up and down, carrying his umbrella and looking awfully solemn. people used to wonder what he wanted of an umbrella, but they never asked him, because they always shrieked and fainted away when they saw the ghost, and when they were brought to cried, "save me take it away take it away." one time a boy came to the house to spend christmas. he was just a terror, was this boy. he had been a district telegraph messenger boy, and he wasn't afraid of anything. the folks told him about the ghost, but he said he didn't care for any living ghost, and had just as soon see him as not. that night the boy woke up, and saw the ghost standing in his bedroom, and he said, "thishyer is nice conduct, coming into a gentleman's room without knocking. what do you want, anyway?" the ghost replied in the most respectful way that he wanted to find the owner of the umbrella. "i stole that umbrella when i was alive," he said, "and i am filled with remorse." "i should think you would be," said the boy, "for it is the worst old cotton umbrella i ever saw." "if i can only find the owner and give it back to him," continued the ghost, "i can get a little rest; but i've been looking for him for ninety years, and i can't find him." "serves you right," said the boy, "for not sending for a messenger. you're in luck to meet me. gimme the umbrella, and i'll give it back to the owner." "bless you," said the ghost, handing the umbrella to the boy; "you have saved me. now i will go away and rest," and he turned to go out of the door, when the boy said, "see here; it's fifty cents for taking an umbrella home, and i've got to be paid in advance." "but i haven't got any money," said the ghost. "can't help that," said the boy. "you give me fifty cents, or else take your umbrella back again. we don't do any work in our office for nothing." well, the end of it all was that the ghost left the umbrella with the boy, and the next night he came back with the money, though where he got it nobody will ever know. the boy kept the money, and threw the umbrella away, for he was a real bad boy, and only made believe that he was going to find the owner, and the ghost was never seen again. but i haven't told about the trouble with aunt eliza yet. the day she came to our house mother bought a lot of live crabs from a man, and put them in a pail in the kitchen. tom mcginnis was spending the day with me, and i said to him what fun it would be to have crab races, such as we used to have down at the sea-shore last summer. he said wouldn't it, though; so each of us took three crabs, and went up-stairs into the spare bedroom, where we could be sure of not being disturbed. we had a splendid time with the crabs, and i won more than half the races. all of a sudden i heard mother calling me, and tom and i just dropped the crabs into an empty work-basket, and pushed it under the sofa out of sight, and then went down-stairs. i meant to get the crabs and take them back to the kitchen again, but i forgot all about it, for aunt eliza came just after mother had called me, and everybody was busy talking to her. of course she was put into the spare room, and as she was very tired, she said she'd lie down on the sofa until dinner-time and take her hair down. [illustration: he pinched just as hard as he could pinch.] about an hour afterwards we heard the most dreadful cries from aunt eliza's room, and everybody rushed up-stairs, because they thought she must certainly be dead. mother opened the door, and we all went in. aunt eliza was standing in the middle of the floor, and jumping up and down, and crying and shrieking at the top of her voice. one crab was hanging on to one of her fingers, and he pinched just as hard as he could pinch, and there were two more hanging on to the ends of her hair. you see, the crabs had got out of the work-basket, and some of them had climbed up the sofa while aunt eliza was asleep. of course they said it was all my fault, and perhaps it was. but i'd like to know if it's a fair thing to leave crabs where they can tempt a fellow, and then to be severe with him when he forgets to put them back. however, i forgive everybody, especially aunt eliza, who really doesn't mean any harm. a pillow fight. we've been staying at the sea-shore for a week, and having a beautiful time. i love the sea-shore, only it would be a great deal nicer if there wasn't any sea; then you wouldn't have to go in bathing. i don't like to go in bathing, for you get so awfully wet, and the water chokes you. then there are ticks on the sea-shore in the grass. a tick is an insect that begins and bites you, and never stops till you're all ettup, and then you die, and the tick keeps on growing bigger all the time. there was once a boy and a tick got on him and bit him, and kept on biting for three or four days, and it ettup the boy till the tick was almost as big as the boy had been, and the boy wasn't any bigger than a marble, and he died, and his folks felt dreadfully about it. i never saw a tick, but i know that there are lots of them on the sea-shore, and that's reason enough not to like it. we stayed at a boarding-house while we were at the sea-shore. a boarding-house is a place where they give you pure country air and a few vegetables and a little meat, and i say give me a jail where they feed you if they do keep you shut up in the dark. there were a good many people in our boarding-house, and i slept up-stairs on the third story with three other boys, and there were two more boys on the second story, and that's the way all the trouble happened. there is nothing that is better fun than a pillow fight; that is, when you're home and have got your own pillows, and know they're not loaded, as mr. travers says. he was real good about it, too, and i sha'n't forget it, for 'most any man would have been awfully mad, but he just made as if he didn't care, only sue went on about it as if i was the worst boy that ever lived. you see, we four boys on the third story thought it would be fun to have a pillow fight with the two boys on the second story. we waited till everybody had gone to bed, and then we took our pillows and went out into the hall just as quiet as could be, only charley thompson he fell over a trunk in the hall and made a tremendous noise. one of the boarders opened his door and said who's there, but we didn't answer, and presently he said "i suppose it's that cat people ought to be ashamed of themselves to keep such animals," and shut his door again. after a little while charley was able to walk, though his legs were dreadfully rough where he'd scraped them against the trunk. so we crept down-stairs and went into the boys' room, and began to pound them with the pillows. they knew what was the matter, and jumped right up and got their pillows, and went at us so fierce that they drove us out into the hall. of course this made a good deal of noise, for we knocked over the wash-stand in the room, and upset a lot of lamps that were on the table in the hall, and every time i hit one of the boys he would say "ouch!" so loud that anybody that was awake could hear him. we fought all over the hall, and as we began to get excited we made so much noise that mr. travers got up and came out to make us keep quiet. it was pretty dark in the hall, and though i knew mr. travers, i thought he couldn't tell me from the other boys, and i thought i would just give him one good whack on the head, and then we'd all run up-stairs. he wouldn't know who hit him, and, besides, who ever heard of a fellow being hurt with a pillow? so i stood close up by the wall till he came near me, and then i gave him a splendid bang over the head. it sounded as if you had hit a fellow with a club, and mr. travers dropped to the floor with an awful crash, and never spoke a word. [illustration: i never was so frightened in my life.] i never was so frightened in my life, for i thought mr. travers was killed. i called murder help fire, and every body ran out of their rooms, and fell over trunks, and there was the most awful time you ever dreamed of. at last somebody got a lamp, and somebody else got some water and picked mr. travers up and carried him into his room, and then he came to and said, "where am i susan what is the matter o now i know." he was all right, only he had a big bump on one side of his head, and he said that it was all an accident, and that he wouldn't have sue scold me, and that it served him right for not remembering that boarding-house pillows are apt to be loaded. the next morning he made me bring him my pillow, and then he found out how it came to hurt him. all the chicken bones, and the gravel-stones, and the chunks of wood that were in the pillow had got down into one end of it while we were having the fight, and when i hit mr. travers they happened to strike him on his head where it was thin, and knocked him senseless. nobody can tell how glad i am that he wasn't killed, and it's a warning to me never to have pillow fights except with pillows that i know are not loaded with chicken bones and things. i forgot to say that after that night my mother and all the boys' mothers took all the pillows away from us, for they said they were too dangerous to be left where boys could get at them. sue's wedding. sue ought to have been married a long while ago. that's what everybody says who knows her. she has been engaged to mr. travers for three years, and has had to refuse lots of offers to go to the circus with other young men. i have wanted her to get married, so that i could go and live with her and mr. travers. when i think that if it hadn't been for a mistake i made she would have been married yesterday, i find it dreadfully hard to be resigned. but we ought always to be resigned to everything when we can't help it. before i go any further i must tell about my printing-press. it belonged to tom mcginnis, but he got tired of it and sold it to me real cheap. he was going to write to the young people's post-office box and offer to exchange it for a bicycle, a st. bernard dog, and twelve good books, but he finally let me have it for a dollar and a half. it prints beautifully, and i have printed cards for ever so many people, and made three dollars and seventy cents already. i thought it would be nice to be able to print circus bills in case tom and i should ever have another circus, so i sent to the city and bought some type mornaninch high, and some beautiful yellow paper. last week it was finally agreed that sue and mr. travers should be married without waiting any longer. you should have seen what a state of mind she and mother were in. they did nothing but buy new clothes, and sew, and talk about the wedding all day long. sue was determined to be married in church, and to have six bridesmaids and six bridegrooms, and flowers and music and things till you couldn't rest. the only thing that troubled her was making up her mind who to invite. mother wanted her to invite mr. and mrs. mcfadden and the seven mcfadden girls, but sue said they had insulted her, and she couldn't bear the idea of asking the mcfadden tribe. everybody agreed that old mr. wilkinson, who once came to a party at our house with one boot and one slipper, couldn't be invited; but it was decided that every one else that was on good terms with our family should have an invitation. sue counted up all the people she meant to invite, and there was nearly three hundred of them. you would hardly believe it, but she told me that i must carry around all the invitations and deliver them myself. of course i couldn't do this without neglecting my studies and losing time, which is always precious, so i thought of a plan which would save sue the trouble of directing three hundred invitations and save me from wasting time in delivering them. i got to work with my printing-press, and printed a dozen splendid big bills about the wedding. when they were printed i cut a lot of small pictures of animals and ladies riding on horses out of some old circus bills and pasted them on the wedding bills. they were perfectly gorgeous, and you could see them four or five rods off. when they were all done i made some paste in a tin pail, and went out after dark and pasted them in good places all over the village. i put one on mr. wilkinson's front-door, and one on the fence opposite the mcfaddens' house, so they would be sure to see it. [illustration: she gave an awful shriek and fainted away.] the next afternoon father came into the house looking very stern, and carrying one of the wedding bills in his hand. he handed it to sue and said, "susan, what does this mean? these bills are pasted all over the village, and there are crowds of people reading them." sue read the bill, and then she gave an awful shriek, and fainted away, and i hurried down to the post-office to see if the mail had come in. this is what was on the wedding bills, and i am sure it was spelled all right: miss susan brown announces that she will marry mr. james travers at the church next thursday at half past seven, sharp. all the friends of the family with the exception of the mcfadden tribe and old mr. wilkinson are invited. come early and bring lots of flowers. now what was there to find fault with in that? it was printed beautifully, and every word was spelled right, with the exception of the name of the church, and i didn't put that in because i wasn't quite sure how to spell it. the bill saved sue all the trouble of sending out invitations, and it said everything that anybody could want to know about the wedding. any other girl but sue would have been pleased, and would have thanked me for all my trouble, but she was as angry as if i had done something real bad. mr. travers was almost as angry as sue, and it was the first time he was ever angry with me. i am afraid now that he won't let me ever come and live with him. he hasn't said a word about my coming since the wedding bills were put up. as for the wedding, it has been put off, and sue says she will go to new york to be married, for she would perfectly die if she were to have a wedding at home after that boy's dreadful conduct. what is worse, i am to be sent away to boarding-school, and all because i made a mistake in printing the wedding bills without first asking sue how she would like to have them printed. our new dog. i've had another dog. that makes three dogs that i've had, and i haven't been allowed to keep any of them. grown-up folks don't seem to care how much a boy wants society. perhaps if they were better acquainted with dogs they'd understand boys better than they do. about a month ago there were lots of burglars in our town, and father said he believed he'd have to get a dog. mr. withers told father he'd get a dog for him, and the next day he brought the most beautiful siberian blood-hound you ever saw. the first night we had him we chained him up in the yard, and the neighbors threw things at him all night. nobody in our house got a wink of sleep, for the dog never stopped barking except just long enough to yell when something hit him. there was mornascuttleful of big lumps of coal in the yard in the morning, besides seven old boots, two chunks of wood, and a bushel of broken crockery. father said that the house was the proper place for the dog at night; so the next night we left him in the front hall. he didn't bark any all night, but he got tired of staying in the front hall, and wandered all over the house. i suppose he felt lonesome, for he came into my room, and got on to the bed, and nearly suffocated me. i woke up dreaming that i was in a melon patch, and had to eat three hundred green watermelons or be sent to jail, and it was a great comfort when i woke up and found it was only the dog. he knocked the water-pitcher over with his tail in the morning, and then thought he saw a cat under my bed, and made such an awful noise that father came up, and told me i ought to be ashamed to disturb the whole family so early in the morning. after that the dog was locked up in the kitchen at night, and father had to come down early and let him out, because the cook didn't dare to go into the kitchen. we let him run loose in the yard in the daytime, until he had an accident with mr. martin. we'd all been out to take tea and spend the evening with the wilkinsons, and when we got home about nine o'clock, there was mr. martin standing on the piazza, with the dog holding on to his cork-leg. mr. martin had come to the house to make a call at about seven o'clock, and as soon as he stepped on the piazza the dog caught him by the leg without saying a word. every once in a while the dog would let go just long enough to spit out a few pieces of cork and take a fresh hold, but mr. martin didn't dare to stir for fear he would take hold of the other leg, which of course would have hurt more than the cork one. mr. martin was a good deal tired and discouraged, and couldn't be made to understand that the dog thought he was a burglar, and tried to do his duty, as we should all try to do. the way i came to lose the dog was this: aunt eliza came to see us last week, and brought her little boy harry, who once went bee-hunting with me. harry, as i told you, is six years old, and he isn't so bad as he might be considering his age. the second day after they came, harry and i were in tom mcginnis's yard, when tom said he knew where there was a woodchuck down in the pasture, and suppose we go and hunt him. so i told harry to go home and get the dog, and bring him down to the pasture where tom said the woodchuck lived. i told him to untie the dog--for we had kept him tied up since his accident with mr. martin--and to keep tight hold of the rope, so that the dog couldn't get away from him. harry said he'd tie the rope around his waist, and then the dog couldn't possibly pull it away from him, and tom and i both said it was a good plan. [illustration: how that dog did pull!] well, we waited for that boy and the dog till six o'clock, and they never came. when i got home everybody wanted to know what had become of harry. he was gone and the dog was gone, and nobody knew where they were, and aunt eliza was crying, and said she knew that horrid dog had eaten her boy up. father and i and mr. travers had to go and hunt for harry. we hunted all over the town, and at last a man told us that he had seen a boy and a dog going on a run across deacon smith's corn-field. so we went through the corn-field and found their track, for they had broken down the corn just as if a wagon had driven through it. when we came to the fence on the other side of the field we found harry on one side of the fence and the dog on the other. harry had tied the dog's rope round his waist, and couldn't untie it again, and the dog had run away with him. when they came to the fence the dog had squeezed through a hole that was too small for harry, and wouldn't come back again. so they were both caught in a trap. how that dog did pull! harry was almost cut in two, for the dog kept pulling at the rope all the time with all his might. when we got home aunt eliza said that either she or that brute must leave, and father gave the dog away to the butcher. he was the most elegant dog i ever had, and i don't suppose i shall ever have another. lightning. mr. franklin was one of the greatest men that ever lived. he could carry a loaf of bread in each hand and eat another, all at the same time, and he could invent anything that anybody wanted, without hurting himself or cutting his fingers. his greatest invention was lightning, and he invented it with a kite. he made a kite with sticks made out of telegraph wire, and sent it up in a thunder-storm till it reached where the lightning is. the lightning ran down the string, and franklin collected it in a bottle, and sold it for ever so much money. so he got very rich after a while, and could buy the most beautiful and expensive kites that any fellow ever had. i read about mr. franklin in a book that father gave me. he said i was reading too many stories, and just you take this book and read it through carefully and i hope it will do you some good anyway it will keep you out of mischief. i thought that it would please father if i should get some lightning just as franklin did. i told tom mcginnis about it, and he said he would help if i would give him half of all i made by selling the lightning. i wouldn't do this, of course, but finally tom said he'd help me anyhow, and trust me to pay him a fair price; so we went to work. we made a tremendously big kite, and the first time there came a thunder-storm we put it up; but the paper got wet, and it came down before it got up to the lightning. so we made another, and covered it with white cloth that used to be one of mrs. mcginnis's sheets, only tom said he knew she didn't want it any more. we sent up this kite the next time there was a thunder-storm, and tied the string to the second-story window where the blinds hook on, and let the end of the string hang down into a bottle. it only thundered once or twice, but the lightning ran down the string pretty fast, and filled the bottle half full. it looked like water, only it was a little green, and when it stopped running into the bottle we took the lightning down-stairs to try it. i gave a little of it to the cat to drink, but it didn't hurt her a bit, and she just purred. at last tom said he didn't believe it would hurt anything; so he tasted some of it, but it didn't hurt him at all. the trouble was that the lightning was too weak to do any harm. the thunder-shower had been such a little one that it didn't have any strong lightning in it; so we threw away what was in the bottle, and agreed to try to get some good strong lightning whenever we could get a chance. it didn't rain for a long time after that, and i nearly forgot all about franklin and lightning, until one day i heard mr. travers read in the newspaper about a man who was found lying dead on the road with a bottle of jersey lightning, and that, of course, explains what was the matter with him my dear susan. i understood more about it than susan did, for she does not know anything about franklin being a girl, though i will admit it isn't her fault. you see, the cork must have come out of the man's bottle, and the lightning had leaked out and burned him to death. the very next day we had a tremendous thunder-shower, and i told tom that now was the time to get some lightning that would be stronger than anything they could make in new jersey. so we got the kite up, and got ourselves soaked through with water. we tied it to the window-ledge just as we did the first time, and put the end of the string in a tin pail, so that we could collect more lightning than one bottle would hold. it was so cold standing by the window in our wet clothes that we thought we'd go to my room and change them. [illustration: we hurried into the room.] all at once there was the most awful flash of lightning and the most tremendous clap of thunder that was ever heard. father and mother and sue were down-stairs, and they rushed up-stairs crying the darling boy is killed. that meant me. but i wasn't killed, neither was tom, and we hurried into the room where we were collecting lightning to see what was the matter. there we found the tin pail knocked into splinters and the lightning spilled all over the floor. it had set fire to the carpet, and burned a hole right through the floor into the kitchen, and pretty much broke up the whole kitchen stove. father cut the kite-string and let the kite go, and told me that it was as much as my life was worth to send up a kite in a thunder-storm. you see, so much lightning will come down the string that it will kill anybody that stands near it. i know this is true, because father says so, but i'd like to know how franklin managed. i forgot to say that father wasn't a bit pleased. my camera. i had a birthday last week. when i woke up in the morning i found right by the side of my bed a mahogany box, with a round hole on one side of it and a ground-glass door on the other side. i thought it was a new kind of rat-trap; and so i got out of bed and got a piece of cheese, and set the trap in the garret, which is about half full of rats. but it turned out that the box wasn't a rat-trap. mr. travers gave it to me, and when he came to dinner he explained that it was a camera for taking photographs, and that it would improve my mind tremendously if i would learn to use it. i soon found out that there isn't anything much better than a camera, except, of course, a big dog, which i can't have, because mother says a dog tracks dirt all over the house, and father says a dog is dangerous, and sue says a dog jumps all over you and tears your dresses a great good-for-nothing ugly beast. it's very hard to be kept apart from dogs; but our parents always know what is best for us, though we may not see it at the time; and i don't believe father really knows how it feels when your trousers are thin and you haven't any boots on, so it stings your legs every time. but i was going to write about the camera. you take photographs with the camera--people and things. there's a lens on one end of it, and when you point it at anything, you see a picture of it upside down on the little glass door at the back of the camera. then you put a dry plate, which is a piece of glass with chemicals on it, in the camera, and then you take it out and put it in some more chemicals, the right name of which is a developer, and then you see a picture on the dry plate, only it is right side up, and not like the one on the ground-glass door. it's the best fun in the world taking pictures; and i can't see that it improves your mind a bit--at least not enough to worry you. you have to practise a great deal before you can take a picture, and everybody who knows anything about it tells you to do something different. there are five men in our town who take photographs, and each one tells me to use a different kind of dry plate and a different kind of developer, and that all the other men may mean well, and they hope they do, but people ought not to tell a boy to use bad plates and poor developers; and don't you pay any attention to them, jimmy, but do as i tell you. i've got so now that i make beautiful pictures. i took a photograph of sue the other day, and another of old deacon brewster, and you can tell which is which just as easy as anything, if you look at them in the right way, and remember that deacon brewster, being a man, is smoking a pipe, and that, of course, a picture of sue wouldn't have a pipe in it. sue don't like to have me take pictures, but that's because she is a girl, and girls haven't the kind of minds that can understand art. mr. mcginnis--tom's father--don't like my camera either; but that's because he is near-sighted, and thought it was a gun when i pointed it at him, and he yelled, "don't shoot, for mercy's sake!" and went out of our front yard and over the fence in lessenasecond. when he found out what it was he said he never dreamed of being frightened, but had business down-town, and he didn't think boys ought to be trusted with such things, anyway. i made a great discovery last week. you know i said that when you look through the camera at anything you see it upside down on the ground glass. this doesn't look right, and unless you stand on your head when you take a photograph, which is very hard work, you can't help feeling that the picture is all wrong. i was going to take a photograph of a big engraving that belongs to father, when i thought of turning it upside down. this made it look all right on the ground glass. this is my discovery; and if men who take photographs could only get the people they photograph to stand on their heads, they would get beautiful pictures. mr. travers says that i ought to get a patent for this discovery, but so far it has only got me into trouble. saturday afternoon everybody was out of the house except me and the baby and the nurse, and she was down in the kitchen, and the baby was asleep. so i thought i would take a picture of the baby. of course it wouldn't sit still for me; so i thought of the way the indians strap their babies to a flat board, which keeps them from getting round-shouldered, and is very convenient besides. i got a nice flat piece of board and tied the baby to it, and put him on a table, and leaned him up against the wall. then i remembered my discovery, and just stood the baby on his head so as to get a good picture of him. [illustration: i did get a beautiful picture.] i did get a beautiful picture. at least i am sure it would have been if i hadn't been interrupted while i was developing it. i forgot to put the baby right side up, and in about ten minutes mother came in and found it, and then she came up into my room and interrupted me. father came home a little later and interrupted me some more. so the picture was spoiled, and so was father's new rattan. of course i deserved it for forgetting the baby; but it didn't hurt it any to stand on its head a little while, for babies haven't any brains like boys and grown-up people, and, besides, it's the solemn truth that i meant to turn the baby right side up, only i forgot it. freckles. after the time i tried to photograph the baby, my camera was taken away from me and locked up for ever so long. sue said i wasn't to be trusted with it and it would go off some day when you think it isn't loaded and hurt somebody worse than you hurt the baby you good-for-nothing little nuisance. father kept the camera locked up for about a month, and said when i see some real reformation in you james you shall have it back again. but i shall never have it back again now, and if i did, it wouldn't be of any use, for i'm never to be allowed to have any more chemicals. father is going to give the camera to the missionaries, so that they can photograph heathen and things, and all the chemicals i had have been thrown away, just because i made a mistake in using them. i don't say it didn't serve me right, but i can't help wishing that father would change his mind. i have never said much about my other sister, lizzie, because she is nothing but a girl. she is twelve years old, and of course she plays with dolls, and doesn't know enough to play base-ball or do anything really useful. she scarcely ever gets me into scrapes, though, and that's where sue might follow her example. however, it was lizzie who got me into the scrape about my chemicals, though she didn't mean to, poor girl. one night mr. travers came to tea, and everybody was talking about freckles. mr. travers said that they were real fashionable, and that all the ladies were trying to get them. i am sure i don't see why. i've mornamillion freckles, and i'd be glad to let anybody have them who would agree to take them away. sue said she thought freckles were perfectly lovely, and it's a good thing she thinks so, for she has about as many as she can use; and lizzie said she'd give anything if she only had a few nice freckles on her cheeks. mother asked what made freckles, and mr. travers said the sun made them just as it makes photographs. "jimmy will understand it," said mr. travers. "he knows how the sun makes a picture when it shines on a photograph plate, and all his freckles were made just in the same way. without the sun there wouldn't be any freckles." this sounded reasonable, but then mr. travers forgot all about chemicals. as i said, the last time i wrote, chemicals is something in a bottle like medicine, and you have to put it on a photograph plate so as to make the picture that the sun has made show itself. now if chemicals will do this with a photograph plate, it ought to do it with a girl's cheek. you take a girl and let the sun shine on her cheek, and put chemicals on her, and it ought to bring out splendid freckles. i'm very fond of lizzie, though she is a girl, because she minds her own business, and don't meddle with my things and get me into scrapes. i'd have given her all my freckles if i could, as soon as i knew she wanted them, and as soon as mr. travers said that freckles were made just like photographs, i made up my mind i would make some for her. so i told her she should have the best freckles in town if she'd come up to my room the next morning, and let me expose her to the sun and then put chemicals on her. lizzie has confidence in me, which is one of her best qualities, and shows that she is a good girl. she was so pleased when i promised to make freckles for her; and as soon as the sun got up high enough to shine into my window she came up to my room all ready to be freckled. i exposed her to the sun for six seconds. i only exposed my photograph plates three seconds, but i thought that lizzie might not be quite as sensitive, and so i exposed her longer. then i took her into the dark closet where i kept the chemicals, and poured chemicals on her cheeks. i made her hold her handkerchief on her face so that the chemicals couldn't get into her eyes and run down her neck, for she wanted freckles only on her cheeks. i watched her very carefully, but the freckles didn't come out. i put more chemicals on her, and rubbed it in with a cloth; but it was no use, the freckles wouldn't come. i don't know what the reason was. perhaps i hadn't exposed her long enough, or perhaps the chemicals was weak. anyway, not a single freckle could i make. [illustration: mother and sue made a dreadful fuss.] so after a while i gave it up, and told her it was no use, and she could go and wash her face. she cried a little because she was disappointed, but she cried more afterwards. you see, the chemicals made her cheek almost black, and she couldn't wash it off. mother and sue made a dreadful fuss about it, and sent for the doctor, who said he thought it would wear off in a year or so, and wouldn't kill the child or do her very much harm. this is the reason why they took my chemicals away, and promised to give my camera to the missionaries. all i meant was to please lizzie, and i never knew the chemicals would turn her black. but it isn't the first time i have tried to be kind and have been made to suffer for it. santa claus. the other day i was at tom mcginnis's house, and he had some company. he was a big boy, and something like a cousin of tom's. would you believe it, that fellow said there wasn't any santa claus? now that boy distinctly did tell--but i won't mention it. we should never reveal the wickedness of other people, and ought always to be thankful that we are worse than anybody else. otherwise we should be like the pharisee, and he was very bad. i knew for certain that it was a fib tom mcginnis's cousin told. but all the same, the more i thought about it the more i got worried. if there is a santa claus--and of course there is--how could he get up on the top of the house, so he could come down the chimney, unless he carried a big ladder with him; and if he did this, how could he carry presents enough to fill mornahundred stockings? and then how could he help getting the things all over soot from the chimney, and how does he manage when the chimney is all full of smoke and fire, as it always is at christmas! but then, as the preacher says, he may be supernatural--i had to look that word up in the dictionary. the story tom mcginnis's cousin told kept on worrying me, and finally i began to think how perfectly awful it would be if there was any truth in it. how the children would feel! there's going to be no end of children at our house this christmas, and aunt eliza and her two small boys are here already. i heard mother and aunt eliza talking about christmas the other day, and they agreed that all the children should sleep on cot bedsteads in the back parlor, so that they could open their stockings together, and mother said, "you know, eliza, there's a big fireplace in that room, and the children can hang their stockings around the chimney." now i know i did wrong, but it was only because i did not want the children to be disappointed. we should always do to others and so on, and i know i should have been grateful if anybody had tried to get up a santa claus for me in case of the real one being out of repair. neither do i blame mother, though if she hadn't spoken about the fireplace in the way she did, it would never have happened. but i do think that they ought to have made a little allowance for me, since i was only trying to help make the christmas business successful. it all happened yesterday. tom mcginnis had come to see me, and all the folks had gone out to ride except aunt eliza's little boy harry. we were talking about christmas, and i was telling tom how all the children were to sleep in the back parlor, and how there was a chimney there that was just the thing for santa claus. we went and looked at the chimney, and then i said to tom what fun it would be to dress up and come down the chimney and pretend to be santa claus, and how it would amuse the children, and how pleased the grown-up folks would be, for they are always wanting us to amuse them. tom agreed with me that it would be splendid fun, and said we ought to practise coming down the chimney, so that we could do it easily on christmas-eve. he said he thought i ought to do it, because it was our house; but i said no, he was a visitor, and it would be mean and selfish in me to deprive him of any pleasure. but tom wouldn't do it. he said that he wasn't feeling very well, and that he didn't like to take liberties with our chimney, and, besides, he was afraid that he was so big that he wouldn't fit the chimney. then we thought of harry, and agreed that he was just the right size. of course harry said he'd do it when we asked him, for he isn't afraid of anything, and is so proud to be allowed to play with tom and me that he would do anything we asked him to do. well, harry took off his coat and shoes, and we all went up to the roof, and tom and i boosted harry till he got on the top of the chimney and put his legs in it and slid down. he went down like a flash, for he didn't know enough to brace himself the way the chimney-sweeps do. tom and i we hurried down to the back parlor to meet him; but he had not arrived yet, though the fireplace was full of ashes and soot. we supposed he had stopped on the way to rest; but after a while we thought we heard a noise, like somebody calling, that was a great way off. we went up on the roof, thinking harry might have climbed back up the chimney, but he wasn't there. when we got on the top of the chimney we could hear him plain enough. he was crying and yelling for help, for he was stuck about half-way down the chimney, and couldn't get either up or down. we talked it over for some time, and decided that the best thing to do was to get a rope and let it down to him, and pull him out. so i got the clothes-line and let it down, but harry's arms were jammed close to his sides, so he couldn't get hold of it. tom said we ought to make a slippernoose, catch it over harry's head, and pull him out that way, but i knew that harry wasn't very strong, and i was afraid if we did that he might come apart. then i proposed that we should get a long pole and push harry down the rest of the chimney, but after hunting all over the yard we couldn't find a pole that was long enough, so we had to give that plan up. all this time harry was crying in the most discontented way, although we were doing all we could for him. that's the way with little boys. they never have any gratitude, and are always discontented. as we couldn't poke harry down, tom said let's try to poke him up. so we told harry to be patient and considerate, and we went down-stairs again, and took the longest pole we could find and pushed it up the chimney. bushels of soot came down, and flew over everything, but we couldn't reach harry with the pole. by this time we began to feel discouraged. we were awfully sorry for harry, because, if we couldn't get him out before the folks came home, tom and i would be in a dreadful scrape. then i thought that if we were to build a little fire the draught might draw harry out. tom thought it was an excellent plan. so i started a fire, but it didn't loosen harry a bit, and when we went on the roof to meet him we heard him crying louder than ever, and saying that something was on fire in the chimney and was choking him. i knew what to do, though tom didn't, and, to tell the truth, he was terribly frightened. we ran down and got two pails of water, and poured them down the chimney. that put the fire out, but you would hardly believe that harry was more unreasonable than ever, and said we were trying to drown him. there is no comfort in wearing yourself out in trying to please little boys. you can't satisfy them, no matter how much trouble you take, and for my part i am tired of trying to please harry, and shall let him amuse himself the rest of the time he is at our house. [illustration: they got harry out all safe.] we had tried every plan we could think of to get harry out of the chimney, but none of them succeeded. tom said that if we were to pour a whole lot of oil down the chimney it would make it so slippery that harry would slide right down into the back parlor, but i wouldn't do it, because i knew the oil would spoil harry's clothes, and that would make aunt eliza angry. all of a sudden i heard a carriage stop at our gate, and there were the grown folks, who had come home earlier than i had supposed they would. tom said that he thought he would go home before his own folks began to get uneasy about him, so he went out of the back gate, and left me to explain things. they had to send for some men to come and cut a hole through the wall. but they got harry out all safe; and after they found that he wasn't a bit hurt, instead of thanking me for all tom and i had done for him, they seemed to think that i deserved the worst punishment i ever had, and i got it. i shall never make another attempt to amuse children on christmas-eve. the end reject by john johnson _the officials had been napping the day donnie passed inspection.... how else could you explain such an error in his emotional conditioning?_ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, august . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] donnie clenched his small fists and tried not to cry, but two elliptical tears ran slowly down his cheeks. the sight of them made mr. ames even madder. "look at him," he stormed, turning to martha. "just look at him. every damn time i try to reason with him, he starts to snivel like an animal, instead of acting like a normal human being." mr. ames flicked his cigar ashes toward a vacuum cup on the wall and looked down at the boy. "now stop that stupid crying and tell me what this is all about." donnie sniffled a couple of times and wiped his nose on the back of one of his blue uniform sleeves. "well," mr. ames said, coldly. the boy took a deep breath and raised his head. "i want you to spend some time with me," he said. "i want you to--" he searched the elusive shadows of memory until he found the word he wanted--"i want you to _play_ with me. that's it. i want you to play with me once in a while." mr. ames blinked his eyes and stepped back. "play," he repeated. "what do you mean _play_?" donnie hesitated. "you know," he said, finally, "take me on long walks and sit down and play games and tell me stories once in a while." "but you've got all the stories you need," mr. ames said, waving his hand at the banks of audiotapes stacked neatly on the wall shelves. "and your audio-prompter can tell them better than i can." "yes," donnie said, "but that's a machine and i want--" "what's wrong with a machine," mr. ames said, his face getting red. "some of our best things come from machines. didn't they teach you that at the incubator?" "yes," the boy said, "but isn't there anything besides machines? i can't play with machines, i want to play with you!" he began to sob again. mr. ames dashed his cigar to the floor. "i give up," he said. "by the red balls of jupiter, i give up!" "now, henry," his wife said. "remember, the boy's only seven." "don't 'henry' me," mr. ames said, "and besides, what does being seven have to do with it. when i was his age, i was an honor student in physics. _he_ can't even pass algebra." donnie stared at the toes of his boots. "i've given this kid everything," mr. ames went on. "he's going to the best pre-nuclear school in the whole hemisphere. he's got his own rocket kit. why, he's even been on a study cruise to the moon! how many kids his age have been to the moon already? i bet no other kid in our project has been there. and what do i get as a reward." mr. ames didn't wait for an answer. "trouble. that's what i get, trouble. why in galaxy he can't leave me alone like a normal child is more than i can understand." he stopped for breath and lit a fresh cigar. "maybe the boy's sick," martha said timidly. mr. ames ignored her. "i've tried to be a good father to him," he said, his voice self-righteous. "i'm giving him a chance to make something out of himself. all i ask is that he be of service to the world, and make me proud of him some day. but what does he do? does he concentrate on his career, like the rest of the kids? hell, no, he wants to hang around me, always underfoot, always asking stupid questions. play!" mr. ames snorted. "it's not just play." "heh, what's that?" mr. ames jumped. "i said it's not just play," donnie repeated, bravely brushing away his tears. "you don't give me any--" he searched again for the right word--"any _companionship_. a boy needs companionship. don't you understand?" "no, i don't," mr. ames said. "and i'm sure they didn't teach you that in the incubator either. don't you realize you should be fully coordinated by now. instead, you want me to take time from my work--why it's preposterous. it's, it's--unscientific!" "but, all i want--" mr. ames held up his hand. "enough of this," he said. "i refuse to discuss it anymore. now go to your room and get ready for your study period." the boy burst out crying again and ran out of the room. mr. ames shook his head. "definite neurotic tendencies," he muttered to himself. "what dear?" his wife said. "nothing, martha," he answered. "just talking to myself." he sat down heavily on the couch and sighed. what was wrong with donnie, anyway? where did he get those archaic ideas from? surely he had been taught that the whole purpose of the incubator system was to speed up learning and growth processes so children wouldn't have to waste precious years growing up, like they did in the old days. why their new technological age simply had no time to fool around with infantile desires. there were too many things to do, too many knotty scientific problems to solve. emotions, mr. ames mumbled to himself, you never could trust your damn emotions. that night, after donnie was in bed, mr. ames went to his study and pulled out the boy's file. it explained what he was fitted for, what abilities he had inherited, and what his primary training included. mr. ames noted sadly that the boy's scientific quotient was , well above normal, and that he would stand six feet tall and weigh close to pounds when fully developed. mr. ames, who was incubator-born himself, was completely sold on the ingenious system the federation of world councils had devised. no more hit-and-miss mass reproduction, where morons were gradually out-breeding intelligent beings, but instead, selective artificial insemination through which only the best strains were permitted to reproduce. each generation, the human race got healthier and smarter. insanity and inherited diseases were a thing of the past and nature's primitive law--only the fittest shall survive--was now a glittering reality. why the federated incubators even took over the burden of educating the children for the first five years. parents no longer had to be bothered caring for helpless, bawling brats. by the time incubates were placed on the available list, they were completely self-sufficient and emotionally conditioned to fit into any family group. parents simply picked what they wanted. mr. ames, of course, had selected a future nuclear-chemist. it was a beautiful system, mr. ames told himself, and even more important, it worked. but somehow, some way, there was something radically wrong with their child. "definite neurotic symptoms," mr. ames murmured, half aloud. by jupiter, there was only one thing to do. he shut the folder firmly and spun around to the trans-audio. a green light appeared on the panel almost immediately. "your connection, please?" the automon said. "give me the local incubator." there was a pause, then a click. "federated health and service, coordinator speaking. may i help you?" "yes. this is mr. henry ames, over at the amarillo group project. i have a complaint to make." "yes?" the coordinator, a woman, was carefully polite. "it's about the child you sent us." "specimen please?" "what? oh, it's a boy, class triple a, breed, nuclear chemistry. we got him about months ago and--" "what is your number please?" "it's ... just a minute." mr. ames consulted the folder. "my number is - -oh- . and we've got a three-year guarantee," he added pointedly. "yes, sir. just a minute sir." there was a whirring sound at the other end of the circuit. after a short wait, the coordinator's voice came through again. "well, sir," she said. "you have the select model in our scientific line of seven-year-olds. according to our records, he checked out perfectly on all phases of learning and aptitude. have you tried memory teaching?" "yes, i've tried memory teaching. he learns fine." mr. ames stopped. "look, you don't seem to understand. he's okay as far as performance goes. he does everything we tell him and all that, but he's still a real pain in the--i mean, he's developing very annoying characteristics." "please go on, mr. ames." the coordinator's voice was warm and sympathetic. "how does he annoy you?" "well, for one thing, he's getting pronounced possessive tendencies. he almost seems to resent being left alone. why, just this evening he told me he wants us to _play_ with him!" "did you say _play_ with him?" "that's right," mr. ames said, triumphantly. "and he says he needs companionship, or something like that." "companionship," the coordinator repeated. "oh, dear. this is more serious than i thought. i'm afraid you definitely have a reject, mr. ames. if he shows these tendencies at this early age, then the situation will be intolerable later on." "it's intolerable right now," henry insisted. "anyway, i thought you people were supposed to clear up all this emotional unbalance in the primary psych indoctrination." "we usually do," the coordinator agreed, "but every once in a while, one slips through inspection with faulty communal-perception. the one you've got is obviously a throw-back." the coordinator coughed apologetically. "it's really not the boy's fault, of course, but i'm afraid we'll have to reclaim him." "the sooner the better," mr. ames said. "this mess is upsetting my work at the lab. when can i get a replacement?" "we'll send a new model over when we pick up the reject. will tomorrow morning be convenient?" "sure. fine. just make sure this one is normal. you better check our physio records too. i hear the people down the circle got one that didn't look like them at all." "don't worry," the coordinator assured him. "you'll get a boy you can be proud of this time. will there be anything more now?" "no, no, i guess not." an uneasy feeling slipped into mr. ames's consciousness. "i just wondered," he said, suddenly. "what will happen to don--i mean, the reject you sent us. will he be--uh--destroyed?" the coordinator laughed. "heavens, no, mr. ames," she said, lightly. "he'll be sent to the biological reservation and allowed to live out his life span with other rejects. he'll be much happier there. we're not savages, you know." "that's right," mr. ames said, his tone matching her brightness. "we're not savages. well, we'll be expecting the new one tomorrow, and thanks for all your trouble." "no trouble at all," the coordinator said, smoothly. "feel free to call on us any time." [illustration: ellen key from a photograph] the century of the child by ellen key g. p. putnam's sons new york and london the knickerbocker press copyright, by g. p. putnam's sons published, february, reprinted, december, the knickerbocker press, new york publishers' note the present translation is from the german version of frances maro, which was revised by the author herself. contents chapter page i. the right of the child to choose his parents ii. the unborn race and woman's work iii. education iv. homelessness v. soul murder in the schools vi. the school of the future vii. religious instruction viii. child labour and the crimes of children the century of the child chapter i the right of the child to choose his parents filled with sad memories or eager hopes, people waited for the turn of the century, and as the clock struck twelve, felt innumerable undefined forebodings. they felt that the new century would certainly give them only one thing, peace. they felt that those who are labouring to-day would witness no new development in that process of change to which they had consciously or unconsciously contributed their quota. the events at the turn of the century caused the new century to be represented as a small naked child, descending upon the earth, but drawing himself back in terror at the sight of a world bristling with weapons, a world in which for the opening century there was not an inch of free ground to set one's foot upon. many people thought over the significance of this picture; they thought how in economic and in actual warfare all the lower passions of man were still aroused; how despite all the tremendous development of civilisation in the century just passed, man had not yet succeeded in giving to the struggle for existence nobler forms. certainly to the question why this still is so, very different answers were given. some contented themselves with declaring, after consideration, that things must remain just as they are, since human nature remains the same; that hunger, the propagation of the race, the desire for gold and power, will always control the course of the world. others again were convinced that if the teaching which has tried in vain for nineteen hundred years to transform the course of the world could one day become a living reality in the souls of men, swords would be turned into pruning hooks. my conviction is just the opposite. it is that nothing will be different in the mass except in so far as human nature itself is transformed, and that this transformation will take place, not when the whole of humanity becomes christian, but when the whole of humanity awakens to the consciousness of the "holiness of generation." this consciousness will make the central work of society the new race, its origin, its management, and its education; about these all morals, all laws, all social arrangements will be grouped. this will form the point of view from which all other questions will be judged, all other regulations made. up to now we have only heard in academic speeches and in pedagogical essays that the training of youth is the highest function of a nation. in reality, in the family, in the school, and in the state, quite other standards are put in the foreground. the new view of the "holiness of generation" will not be held by mankind until it has seriously abandoned the christian point of view and taken the view, born thousands of years ago, whose victory has been first foreshadowed in the century just completed. the thought of development not only throws light on the course of the world that lies behind us, continued through millions of years, with its final and highest point in man; it throws light, too, on the way we have to travel over; it shows us that we physically and psychically are ever in the process of becoming. while earlier days regarded man as a fixed phenomenon, in his physical and psychical relations, with qualities that might be perfected but could not be transformed, it is now known that he can re-create himself. instead of a fallen man, we see an incompleted man, out of whom, by infinite modifications in an infinite space of time, a new being can come into existence. almost every day brings new information about hitherto unsuspected possibilities; tells us of power extended physically or psychically. we hear of a closer reciprocal action between the external and internal world; of the mastery over disease, of the prolongation of life and youth; of increased insight into the laws of physical and psychical origins. people even speak of giving incurable blind men a new kind of capacity of sight, of being able to call back to life the dead; all this and much else which it must be allowed still belongs simply to the region of hypothesis, to what psychical and physical investigators reckon among possibilities. but there are enough great results analysed already to show that the transformations made by man before he became a human being are far from being the last word of his genesis. he who declares to-day that human nature always remains the same, that is, remains just as it did in those petty thousands of years in which our race became conscious of itself, shows in making this statement that he stands on the same level of reflection as an ichthyosaurus of the jura period, that apparently had not even an intimation of man as a possibility of the future. but he who knows that man has become what he now is under constant transformations, recognises the possibility of so influencing his future development that a higher type of man will be produced. the human will is found to be a decisive factor in the production of the higher types in the world of animal and plant life. with what concerns our own race, the improvement of the type of man, the ennobling of the human race, the accidental still prevails in both exalted and lower forms. but civilisation should make man conscious of an end and responsible in all these spheres where up to the present he has acted only by impulse, without responsibility. in no respect has culture remained more backward than in those things which are decisive for the formation of a new and higher race of mankind. it will take the thorough influence of the scientific view of humanity to restore the full naïve conviction, belonging to the ancient world, of the significance of the body. in the later period of antiquity, in socrates and plato, the soul began to look down upon the body. the renaissance tried to reconcile the two but the effort was unfortunately not serious enough. boldness it did not lack, but its effort was not successful in carrying out a task which goethe himself said must be approached both with boldness and with serious purpose. only now that we know how soul and body together build up or undermine one another, people are beginning to demand again a second higher innocence in relation to the holiness and the rights of the body. a danish writer has shown how the mosaic seventh commandment sinks back into nothing, as soon as one sees that marriage is only an accidental social form for the living together of two people, while the ethically decisive factor is the way they live together. in morality there is taking place a general displacement from objective laws of direction and compulsion to the subjective basis from which actions proceed. ethics become an ethic of character, a matter dealing with the constitution of the temperament. we demand, we forgive, or we judge according to the inner constitution of the individual; we do not readily call an action immoral which only in an external point of view does not harmonise with the law or is opposed to the law. in each particular case we decide according to the inner circumstances of the individual. applying this point of view to marriage, we find in the first place that this form offers no guarantee that the proper disposition towards the relation of the two sexes is present. this can exist as well outside of as within marriage. many noble and earnest human beings prefer for their relation the freer form as the more moral one. but as the result of this, the significance of the seventh commandment is altered, that states explicitly that every relationship of sex outside of marriage is immoral. people have commenced already to experiment with unions outside of marriage. people are looking for new forms for the common life between man and woman. the whole problem is being made the subject of debate. in this respect humanity occupies a field of discovery. people are seeing more and more what a complicated subject the whole relation of sex is, how full it is of dangers to the happiness of man. new observations are being constantly made both in regard to the significance of this relation for individuals and for posterity. to bring light gradually into this chaos is supremely important for humanity, and literature should therefore have the greatest possible freedom in this sphere,--just the opposite to the tendencies of the present day that would limit this freedom. while i fully agree with what has been said i should like to state that the greatest obstacle to the free discussion of this theme is still the christian way of looking at the origin and nature of man. his only possible escape from the results of the fall is made to consist in his belief in christ; for with this point of view, there came into western europe, by means of christianity, the opinion that everything concerning the continuation of the race was impure; to be suppressed if possible, and if this could not be done, that it must at least be veiled in silence and obscurity. for christianity, eternal life, not life in the world, is ever the significant factor. the dualism of existence it tries in the first place to remove by asceticism, not by attempting to ennoble the life of human impulses. this standpoint still continues to be popular in our days, as is shown in its victories through legislation directed against the nude in art and in literature. the christian way of looking at the relation of the sexes as something ignoble, alone capable of being made holy by indissoluble marriage, has had great direct influence on man's development during a certain period of time. it has caused progress in self-mastery, which has elevated the life of the soul. modesty, domesticity, sincerity, have been promoted by it; these along with innumerable other influences have developed the impulse to love. if these emotions disappeared from love, it would not be human, but only animal. but allowing that the individual love between every new pair of human beings always requires seclusion and reserve; allowing too that personal modesty always remains an achievement wrought by mankind, differentiating man from the animal world, it is still true that this kind of spirituality, which passes over in silence and shame all the serious questions connected with this subject, or treats them as occasions for ambiguities calling forth joking and blushes, must be rooted out. each one from earliest childhood should on every question asked about this subject receive honest answers, suitable for the especial stage of his development. one should be in this way completely enlightened about one's own nature as man or woman, and so acquire a deep feeling of responsibility in relation to one's future duty as man or woman. one should be trained in habits of earnest thought and earnest speaking on this subject. in this way alone can there come into existence a higher type of sex with a higher type of morality. but at the time when bjoernsen in _thomas rendelen_ brought up the question of training youth to purity through intelligence of nature's laws, i objected to his book on the ground that like the purity sermons of christianity his efforts were rather directed to the mastery of natural impulses than towards their ennoblement. i showed that bjoernsen certainly brought up two new points of view, that of bodily health, and that of the ennobling of sex. he did not, as christianity does, stress the spiritual and personal side of the question. these new points of view of his were significant, because they united the just egoism of the individual with the combining altruism produced by the feeling of solidarity. the great purpose of bjoernsen's book was to transform inherited characteristics as they are related to man's attitude towards morality. so he proposed to create a sound and happy new generation, in which the sufferings of present day sexual discord should be brought to an end. for this purpose he wished the collaboration of the schools. they were to communicate the knowledge of human beings as members of sex, and to instruct their scholars how, as human beings, they should protect themselves and their posterity. i objected at that time to this plan, showing that the school was not the place to lay the foundation for such knowledge. it should be slowly and carefully communicated by the mother herself; the school should only give a theoretical basis. more defective still, i found the question of chastity handled essentially and solely as a question of bodily purity, as a negative not a positive ideal. i maintain that only erotic idealism could awaken enthusiasm for chastity. the basis for such idealism must be found in stories, history, and belles-lettres. information derived from physiology is, in this respect, very inadequate, unless the imagination and the feeling are moved in the same direction. neither imagination nor feeling can be helped by natural science and bodily exercises alone, and just as little by christian religious instruction. no, we must on the basis of natural science attain, in a newer and nobler form, the whole antique love for bodily strength and beauty, the whole antique reverence for the divine character of the continuation of the race, combined with the whole modern consciousness of the soulful happiness of ideal love. only so can the demand for real chastity save mankind from the torments which sexual divisions and degradations now bring with them. it is profoundly significant that in the world of the past, divinity was associated with woman on the ground of observations concerning the continuation of the race; while in christianity, woman became divine as the virgin mother. through heathen and christian thought, reunited and ennobled, the woman will receive a new reference for herself as a sexual being. antique and modern love, the love of the senses and the love of soul, will, united and ennobled, induce human beings, men and women alike, to adore again eros the all-powerful. to diminish the significance of love, to oppose it as a lowering sensualism, does not mean the elevation of mankind; it means, on the other hand, working for its debasement. for as lowering as sexual life would be if it were continued in man accompanied by a feeling of shame as a characteristic of animal life, it would be just the same if it were regarded as a degrading duty, reluctantly carried out for the preservation of the species. antiquity stood higher than the present day, for example when lycurgus' laws asserted that a people's strength lies in the breast of blooming womanhood. accordingly in sparta, the physical development of the woman was watched over as well as of the man, and the age of marriage was determined with reference to a healthy offspring. higher, too, stood judaism in relation to the conception of the seriousness of bearing children. this conviction expressed itself in the strictest hygienic legislation known to history. jewish, like other oriental legislation, depended, in relation to sexual morality as in relation to diet, on sharp-sighted observations of natural law and disease. the foundation to a new ethic in these questions cannot be laid, until men begin with old testament shrewdness and old testament seriousness to handle the life questions which the idealism of christianity has indeed spiritualised but at the same time debased. this new ethic will call no other common living of man and woman immoral, except that which gives occasion to a weak offspring, and produces bad conditions for the development of their offspring. the ten commandments on this subject will not be prescribed by the founders of religion, but by scientists. up to the present day, partly as a result of a perverted modesty in such things, science has only been able to offer incomplete observations on the physical and psychical conditions for the improvement of the human type in its actual genesis. ontogeny is really a new science in our century, introduced by von leeuwenhock, de graaf, and others. it was founded in , by von baer. the differences of opinion and the discovery of different theories are very far from being ended. purely scientific points of view are being combined with social, physiological, or ethical ones. it is maintained that by changing the diet of the mother the sex of the child can be determined. attempts have been made to show that about three fifths of all men of genius were first-born children. people are studying what influence the age of parents has on the child; extreme youth of parents seems unfavourable for the offspring as well as extreme age. the first child of a too youthful mother is often weak, and besides ordinarily the joys of motherhood are not desired, because she feels that physically and psychically a child is too great a burden to her, who herself is only a child. the conditions of a strong, well-nourished offspring require the postponement of the marriage age for women. in northern countries it should be established, if not by law at least by custom, at about twenty years. this is all the more necessary because then the young woman can have behind her some years of careless youthful joy, an undisturbed self-development, and will also have reached the physical development necessary for motherhood. while twenty years should be regarded as the earliest period of marriage it should actually be often postponed some years still for the well-being of the woman, the man, and the children, and married life as a whole, in which most conflicts arise because women have decided about their fate before their personality was definitely formed, before their heart was able to find its choice. the love of the man chooses and the young girl often confuses the happiness of being loved with the happiness of loving, an experience which later on is gone through in a tragic way. to the many questions which are related to heredity and natural selection, belongs one which notices the significance of nature's purpose to cause strong opposites to exert upon one another the strongest attraction. this attraction often during married life changes into antipathy; it almost results in impatience against the characteristics which originally had so deep an attraction. nature in this case seems to wish to reach its end with the greatest lack of consideration for the happiness of the individual. so often the contradictions of parents seem really to be moulded in full in the child. occasionally these contradictions are expressed as a deep discord, but in both cases there often arises an exceptional being. to attain correct results in this case, belongs to the numerous still open possibilities. differences of opinion are most apparent in the theory of heredity, where there is a struggle between darwin's view, that even acquired characteristics are inherited, and galton's and weissmann's conviction that this is not the case. in connection with this stands, also, the question of the marriage of consanguineous relations; some regard these marriages as dangerous, _per se_, for the posterity; others only as dangerous from the point of view that the same family trait is often found in both parents, and so becomes strongly impressed on the children. for example, congenital shortsightedness of both parents develops into blindness of the children, their stupidity becomes idiocy, their melancholy, insanity. the occident has gradually abolished the oriental marriage law to which moses gave validity, while other oriental legislators, for example, manes and mohammed, are still followed to a great extent. in china, too, similar prohibitions have a binding power. here and there the feeling of the significance of heredity has vaguely appeared in some occidental writers. sir thomas more, like plato, required a physical examination before entering into marriage. it was not until the nineteenth century that the question of the rights of the child in this respect began to be noticed. it was robert owen who in one way awakened the general right feeling in favour of children, by investigations begun in . they showed that children under eight years old were forced to work by blows from leather whips, to work from fifteen to sixteen hours a day, with the result that a fourth or fifth of them ended as cripples. another englishman, malthus, published in an essay on the _principle of population_, and directed the attention of society to the conditions which had caused him to write his work. he pointed to the deficiency of food supply produced by over-population and the obstacles it offered to legitimate marriages. again, these conditions, he showed, resulted partly in great mortality among children, partly in the murder of children. malthus saw the significance of selection and the danger of degeneration. with perfect calmness of conscience he met the storm he had evoked. personally a blameless and tender hearted man, malthus, as all other reformers of moral ideas, had to allow the shameless accusations of corruption and immorality to pass over his head. harriet martineau, who advocated malthus's views, had the same experience. when she wrote her novels on this subject she knew very well to what she was exposing herself; but this remarkable woman, who died unmarried and childless, was at an early period of her life filled with a feeling for the holiness of the child. when nineteen years old, at the time of the birth of a small sister, she fell on her knees and devoutly thanked god that she had been allowed to be the witness of the great wonder of the development of the human being from the beginning. the same feeling caused her in her novels to expound the duty of voluntary limitation of population. she was pained by the thought of the fate endured by children, when they were so numerous that their parents were unable to maintain and educate them. this part of the subject of the right of the child called forth in all countries books for and against it. everywhere the question is discussed. i shall briefly handle the differences of opinion about other sides of the right of the child. in francis galton's celebrated work, _hereditary genius_, almost all has been said that is required to-day from the point of view of the improvement of the race. galton, as early as the seventies, opposed darwin's view that acquired characteristics were inherited. in this respect he had a fellow-champion in the german weissmann, who on his side was opposed, among others, by the english darwinian romanes. galton invented from a greek word a name for the science of the amelioration of the race, eugenics. he showed that civilised man, so far as care for the amelioration of the race is concerned, stands on a much lower plane than savages, not to speak of sparta which did not allow the weak, the too young, and the too old to marry, and where national pride in a pure race, a strong offspring, was so great that individuals were sacrificed to the attainment of this end. galton, like darwin, spencer, a. r. wallace, and others, has brought out the fact that the law of natural selection, which in the rest of nature has secured the survival of the fittest, is not applicable to human society, where economic motives lead to unsuitable marriages, made possible by wealth. poverty hinders suitable marriages. besides the development of sympathy has come into the field as a factor which disturbs natural selection. the sympathy of love, chooses according to motives that certainly tend to the happiness of the individual, but this does not mean that they guarantee the improvement of the race. and while other writers hope for a voluntary abstinence from marriage in those cases, where an inferior offspring is to be expected, galton, on the other hand, is in favour of very strict rules, to hinder inferior specimens of humanity from transmitting their vices or diseases, their intellectual or physical weaknesses. just because galton does not believe in the inheritance of acquired characteristics, selection has the greatest significance for him. on the other side, he advocates using all means to encourage such marriages, where the family on both sides gives promise of distinguished offspring. for him, as later for nietzsche, the purpose of married life is the production of strong, able personalities. galton makes it plain that civilised man, by his sympathy with weak, inefficient individuals, has helped to continue their existence. this tendency on its own side has lessened the possibility of the efficient individuals to continue the species. wallace, too, and several others, have on different occasions declared that men in relation to this question must have harder hearts, if the human race is not to become inferior. the moral, social, and sympathetic factors, they say, which in humanity work against the law of the survival of the fittest, and have made it possible for the lower type, to continue and to multiply in excess, must give way to new points of view where certain moral and social questions are concerned. so the natural law will be supported by altruism, instead of as now being opposed by this sentiment. spencer's thoughts contain a great truth. they have been quoted in just this connection. he says: we see the germ of many things that later on are developed in a way no one now suspects. profound transformations are worked in society and its members, transformations which we could not have hoped for as immediate results, but which we could have looked for in confidence as final consequences. the effort to find natural laws which cause racial progress or deterioration is one of these germinal ideas. as to scientific investigation in this field, we can apply another maxim of the same thinker, one often overlooked by science. "the passion to discover truth must be accompanied by the passion to use it for the welfare of mankind." but science must really reach universally accepted conclusions before we can expect humanity to begin seriously its self-purification; but it is certain to come then. when we read in ethnographical and sociological works what restrictions in marriage are imposed by savage people on themselves, and religiously obeyed on the ground of superstitious prejudice, we have a right to hope that civilised men will one day bow before scientific proofs. this hope is not too optimistic. wallace pleads not for such absolute regulations as galton, in order to prevent the marriages of the less worthy and to encourage the marriages of the superior types of humanity. he perceives that the problem is tremendously complicated. one thing is, that the personal attraction of love is extremely essential from the point of view of the improvement of the race. if human beings could be bred like prize cattle, it is not likely that a superior type of humanity would be produced. in the middle ages, the human race deteriorated, galton said, because the best fled to the monasteries and the worst reproduced themselves. but if galton's strict requirements had to be carried out in every case before a marriage could be allowed, not only would marriage lose its deepest meaning, but the race also would lose its noblest inheritance. but even with a strict limitation of galton's principles and with a wise limitation of his requirements, science has already shown the truth of so many of the first, that the significance of the last, taken as a whole, must be granted. we know that in the inherited tendencies of children, often another form is taken from that which appears in their parents. of three hundred idiots, one hundred and forty-five had alcoholic parents. epilepsy, too, is often produced by the same cause. it is known that apparently sound individuals are often attacked at the same age by a disease to which their parents were subject. on the other hand, there are fortunately proofs that individuals endowed with power of will can resist certain dangerous inherited weaknesses. in the discussion on this subject, it should also be justly brought out, that it is possible for the unsound tendency of one parent to be neutralised in the case of children, by the soundness of the other. but this result, as well as the many other questions involved, as i have shown above, are far from being established. the question as to the inheritance of mental diseases has been especially examined by maudsley. in this case, too, nervous and psychic diseases of the parents often change their character in the children. he requires medical testimony before marriage, and asks that the appearance of mental diseases after marriage shall form a legitimate ground for divorce. and he hopes that a pure descent, in a new sense of the word, will be as important for the marriages of the future, as for aristocratic marriages in early times. one of maudsley's statements is so interesting that it should be mentioned here. fathers, he says, who have directed their whole energy towards attainment of wealth, have degenerate children; for this sort of nerve strain undermines the system as infallibly as alcohol or opium. if this statement be true, we would add another point of view to the many already existent, that show how hostile to life is our best social order, which aims at power and gain. it proves how necessary is that transformation of existence which will make work and production serve a new end. each man should claim to live wholly, broadly, and in a way worthy of humanity. he should be able to leave behind him a posterity provided with all capacities for a similar life. when this day dawns people will regard, as a terrible atavism, that expression on the face of a child, which an artist of the present day has preserved in a picture of a boy represented as a future millionaire. i will mention now from literary sources, some of nietzsche's work on this subject. although this author did not base his ideas of the "superman" directly on darwin's theories, yet they are, as brandes has lately shown, the great consequences of darwinism, that darwin himself did not see. in no contemporary was there a stronger conviction than in nietzsche that man as he now is, is only a bridge, only a transition between the animal and the "superman." in connection with this, nietzsche looked upon the obligations of man for the amelioration of the race as seriously as galton, but he expressed his principles with the power of poetic and prophetic expression, not with scientific proof. literature on this subject is increasing every day; different opinions press one another hard. as long as this is the case, there is every reason to observe the warning of the german sociologist kurella, who says that we must reckon with social as well as with anthropological factors if we wish to prevent the degeneration of the human species. a vital point in his position is, that it is a matter of indifference whether the darwinian theory of the transmission of acquired characteristics, or its contrary is victorious. the former is the theory of an unchangeable germ plasm transmitted by the parents to the children; so that better types can only originate through a new combination of the characteristics of father and mother, and also by natural selection in the struggle for existence. we must be careful before beginning to act in a social and political way on the basis of anthropological motives. he finally lays down with perfect justice, that the material to be gathered from the works of spencer, galton, lombroso, ferri, ribot, latourneau, havelock ellis, j. b. haycraft, colajanni, sergi, ritchie, and others, must be systematically worked over. the sociologist must be zoölogist, anthropologist, and psychologist before his plans for civilising man, and for elevating the human race could be carried out. as to intellectual characteristics it has been maintained that exceptionally gifted men have mostly inherited their characteristics from the mother. this fact has in our day, so very much increased the interest taken in the mothers of famous men. this truth is supposed to hold good for a son, but if the daughter is gifted, her talent is held to come from the father. another and certainly a better founded phenomenon seems to be this: that when in a family characteristics find their culmination in a world genius, this genius either remains childless or his children are not only ordinary, but often insignificant. it may be that nature has exhausted her power of production in these great personalities, or as is often assumed, the creative power of genius in an intellectual direction, diminishes the creative power in the physical direction. along with the question of heredity stands that of the development of races. in the beginning of the _origin of species_ darwin showed how essential pure descent is for the production of a noble race. this theory is appealed to by a modern anti-semitic writer, who represents the jew as a typical example of pure race, an idea which one of the most conspicuous representatives of judaism, disraeli, has also expressed in the following words: "race is everything; there is no other truth, and every race which carelessly allows mixed blood, perishes." yet other specialists consider some racial mixture as highly advantageous to the offspring. professor westermark has offered a good reason for the significance attached to beauty in the case of love, and therefore its importance for the race. he has shown how man has conceived physical beauty to be the full development of all of those characteristics which distinguish the human organism from the animal, and which mark sex distinctions, and, most of all, race distinctions. he thinks individuals with these characteristics are best suited for their life work. accordingly it is the result of natural selection that exactly those individuals are found most beautiful and are most desired, who first as human beings best fulfil the general demands of the human organism, as sexual beings fulfil those of their sex, and as members of the race are best suited to the conditions which surround them. in the struggle for existence, those are overcome, who are descended from human beings, whose instincts of love are directed to individuals badly adapted to that struggle; while those who are victorious are children happily so adapted. in this way, taste has developed by which, what is best adapted to environment appears as the highest beauty. this is equivalent to health, the power to resist the attacks of the external world. while every considerable deviation from the pure type in sex and race, has a lesser degree of adaptability; that is of health, and also of beauty. another writer has used the foot as an example of this principle. the small, high-arched foot with the fine ankle is always, he says, regarded as the most beautiful. but such a foot is only combined with a fine, strong, and elastic bony structure. such a foot besides has, by its great elasticity, a considerably higher power of bearing weight than the flat foot. the high-vaulted foot, in walking and jumping, increases the activity of the lungs and the heart. this again makes the walk elastic, strong, and easy, agile and stately. these traits, for the same reason as the beauty of the foot itself, are looked upon as a racial sign. this physical power and ease influence the mind, and produce self-confidence, and so increase the feeling of superiority and the joy of living, marks of distinction in human beings. whether the illustration in this special case holds good or not, it proves nothing against the truth of the theory on which it rests, and which is gradually becoming prevalent; the view i mean, according to which souls and bodies are mutually developed through adaptability to their surroundings. so it is necessary not only to investigate what conditions give the best selection, but also what external ones strengthen or weaken the characteristics found in natural selection. we must again see the importance of bodily exercise. painful experiences have taught us to prevent the consequences of overstrain, over-exertion in competitive imbecility, and mania for sport. such results have specially shown themselves to be harmful for women in respect to motherhood. sport and play, gymnastics and pedestrianism, life in nature and in the open air, a regenerated system of dancing, after the model of the swedish peasant dances, will be most excellent bases for the physical and psychical renewal of the new generation. in plans concerning this renewal, people have pointed to the influence of art; it has been shown how burne-jones created the new english type of woman. it was formed by an adaption to the quiet, distinguished style, by a process that went slowly on. this was the type regarded by him as the model one. it is maintained that we only need to see a pair of young english girls in front of one of his pictures, in order to notice how not only the faces but the expressions show a resemblance. the artist has impressed his trait on youth before it was conscious of it. before these forms they grew up, they have seen them in their picture books, they have been dressed in clothes cut in the fashion of the master's pictures. there is another reason. mothers of the present day are supposed to have passed on to their children the burne-jones type in the same way in which the charm of the greeks was influenced by the beauty of their statuary. in antiquity it was believed, even in other details, (for example, in attaining the much-longed-for blonde hair) that this end could be secured by observing the proper directions. as to the significance of external influences of this kind on mothers, there is too little material still to build up conclusions. on this point, learned men also disagree. i have only, therefore, incidentally mentioned this factor among others. all should be established before we can get a final and certain insight into the conditions of human birth. in the absence of scientific knowledge i can only refer to the literature and comprehensive investigations commenced in the preceding century, that throw light on the riddle of man's coming into the world. many of these matters are still involved in obscurity. but man's spirit is resting on the waters; gradually a new creation will be called forth from them. in connection with this, must be discussed the development of new ideas of law in these spheres. heathen society in its hardness, exposed weak or crippled children. christian society on the other hand, has gone so far in its mildness, that it prolongs the life of the child who is incurably ill, physically and psychically, even if he is misshapen and so becomes an hourly torment to himself and his surroundings. yet respect for life is still not strong enough in a social order, which keeps up among other things, the death penalty and war, that one can without danger suggest the extinction of such a life. only when death is inflicted through compassion, will the humanity of the future show itself in such a way, that the doctor under control and responsibility can painlessly extinguish such suffering. on the other hand, this christian society still maintains the distinction between legitimate children and the children of sin, a distinction which more than anything else has helped to obstruct a real ethical conception of the duties of parents. every child has the same rights in respect to both father and mother. both parents have just the same obligation to every child. until this is recognised there will be no basis for the future morality of the common life between man and woman. some day society will look upon the arrangements of the love relation as the private affair of responsible individuals. those who are lovers, those who are married will regard themselves as completely free, and will also be so regarded. binding promises in respect of emotions, demands of exclusive possession over personality, have already come to be regarded by fine feeling and fully developed human beings as a relic of erotic sentiments on a lower plane. these sentiments were the outcome of desire for mastery, vanity, cruelty, and blind passion. people are beginning to see that perfect fidelity is only to be obtained by perfect freedom; that complete exchange of individuality can only take place in perfect freedom; that complete excellence can only come into being in perfect freedom. each must cease to try to force and bend the emotions, opinions, habits, and inclinations of the other towards him- or herself. each must regard the continuance of the feeling of the other as a happiness, not as a right. each must regard the possible cessation of this feeling as a pain, not as an injustice. only in this way can there arise between the two souls such pure, full, freedom that both can move with absolute independence, and complete unity. freedom is no danger to fidelity. the kind of fidelity required by the church and by the law has certainly been a notable means of education. but the method, as it is, is opposed to the end. for it has produced the feeling of possession. this has led to loss of respect in the worship of love. the requirements based on force have awakened hostility in soul and sense; the fear of public opinion has produced all sorts of dishonesty between man and wife, between them and the world. when the bonds of compulsion fall away feeling will be strengthened. for when the external supports of fidelity are wanting, the power required for it will come from the inner life. although human beings will be exposed always to the possibility of serious mistakes about themselves and the object of their love; although time can always change human beings and their emotions; although, even in a marriage which has resulted from mutual love, conditions can arise which make nietzsche's ideal legitimate, that it is better to break up the marriage than to be broken up by it; yet on the whole freedom will encourage fidelity, which itself will always have a support through the experience of its psychological and ethical value. it is not through a series of lightly entered into and lightly dissolved connections that one is prepared for the happiness of great love. voluntary fidelity is a sign of nobility, because it assumes the will to concentrate about the centre of life's meaning; because it signifies the unity with our own proper innermost ego. this is as true of fidelity in love as of all other kinds of fidelity. only when love is the practical religion of the work-day, and the devotion of the holiday, when it is kept under the constant supervision of the soul, when it brings with it a constant growth, (why should not the fine old word "sanctification" be used) of personality, is love great. then it comes into possession of a higher right than some earlier union, because it then means really fidelity and nothing else towards our own highest ego. but where it does not have this character, it does not possess this right. it is then a petty emotion even when it is made pardonable by great passion. the children which issue from temporary unions are often as imperfect as their origin. great love is, as a young doctor once said, only that which grips so deeply, that after its loss one no longer feels as a whole, but as a half of a whole. yet nature has protected itself against annihilation by giving the possibility of love more than once. but what nature's ideal is cannot be doubted. the race which would come into existence, provided young men and women were given the possibility of uniting when the first love took possession of them,--that love which is the deepest,--this race would be sound and strong, different from what our own race is now. but when young people love now they seldom have the means for union, and when they have the means, then that which leads them to the marriage union is not the deepest feeling they have ever felt, but only an impulse, which, even if real, is still only a substitute. such a transformation of the conditions of society and of the individual view of the true worth of life will enable young men and women, between the ages of twenty and thirty, to found their own home and under simple conditions, to secure their happiness. here would be one of the most essential foundations for the origin of a new race, which would have the ancient feeling for the hearth as an altar, and would have the life of love as the service of a divinity. only through such a transformation might it be expected that the deepest misery of society, prostitution, could be restrained. only after such a transformation could we with full right require from our youth that self-mastery which is the best pre-condition of the sound development of the new generation. as things are at present, it is certain that just as there are really immoral, unmarried mothers, so there are others deeply moral, who would be mothers with a great pure love to the father of their child, but who for various reasons should not be united with them in legal marriage. and even if the contraction of marriage were simplified, such motherhood on the part of single women, should continue to exist. bjoernsen, when he gave lectures in norway on sexual morality, maintained the view that the woman who wished for motherhood, but who was not adapted in her opinion for marriage, should be fully entitled to the first, without the last being regarded as necessary, on condition that she was willing to fulfil to the child her maternal duties. this idea certainly has a future. in germany there was a well-known case in which a fully mature woman, not a mere girl, saw shortly after her marriage that the temperaments and conditions of both parties to the marriage would make it an unhappiness for both. she separated, therefore, brought her child into the world unmarried, educated it publicly and with self-sacrifice. now she has along with the peace which comes from work and the happiness of motherhood, the possibility of fulfilling her duty also as daughter, while married life would have destroyed this for all parties. this is one of the many cases out of the great collection of life, that shows how foolish is that requirement of society to press human nature, in its manifold types, into one mould, with a sphere of duty arranged in the same way for all. but the sphere of duty, an ever-widening one, is the sphere which embraces the right of the child. yet its lines will be drawn in the future bounded in quite a different way from now. it will then be looked upon as the supreme right of the child that he shall not be born in a discordant marriage. above everything, therefore, marriage must be free. this means that the two parties can freely separate after mutual agreement. in entering into marriage and in dissolving it, only certain duties towards the children are to be assumed. such legal provisions might well be superfluous even in this case; in others, they might be important. but in none are they to become an obstacle to the development of this relation to the children. on the other hand, the compulsory marriage laws of to-day, as well in relation to divorce as to the guardianship given the man, have become obstacles to the higher development of the common life of man and woman. the vigorous drawing together of the bonds of marriage will not protect children from growing up in a destroyed home. this protection will be secured by deeper earnestness in entering upon marriage, but above all by a deeper sense of responsibility to the children themselves. this will make it possible for the parents who see themselves deceived in their married happiness to keep a peaceful resignation, a high character, as they continue to live together, if they feel that this is the best solution of the conflict, for the children who are already born. but this resolution does not mean the continuance of real married life, but parenthood alone. only so can it be really useful to the children that the marriage should not be dissolved. the parents, who are profoundly and finally alienated must not bestow life on any new being. marriages lightly entered into are many; lightly entered into divorces are few, at least where there are children. it is not the prescriptions of the law, but those of blood which work as a restraining influence here even at the present day. the decisive sentence is not spoken by society but by the children. but these deep motives are just as decisive in the case of a free union as in the case of a legal one; if the father or the mother is only kept with the children by compulsion, the children have not much to lose. the important thing for unwritten duties, duties which largely can not be determined by law, is to awaken the conscience of fathers and mothers in order to create a better morality. perhaps for this, new legislation is necessary for the present. certainly antiquated legal conceptions should be done away with; they have done good duty as a past training for morality. now they stand in the way of the higher morality. the man or the woman who plays the rôle of seduction, spoiling the life of a young woman or a young man, or disturbing the peace of a happy marriage, this type of character, is being treated with ever-increasing contempt. the more one learns to distinguish the heartless play of masculine or feminine desire for conquest, the selfish soulless claims of the senses, from those of love, the more does the conception of morality become equivalent to the feeling of responsibility towards the new generation. the gratification of natural impulses, which act contrary to the real profound intention of nature, is what destroys individuals and peoples. but as has been said, these devastations cannot be successfully restrained by the extermination of man's material nature. it is a favourable symptom when a poet opposes the mastery of material nature, apart from the feeling of responsibility. but it is harmful when this sensuousness is made, as tolstoi does, equivalent to the conception of love. love must not be debased to simple sensuousness, nor must it be etherealised to a simple spiritual quality, if the human race is to be freed from the debasing mastery of impulse. this happens, as i have often shown before, and in an earlier part of this work as well, by the elevation of sensuousness to love. i mean by this that the spiritual unity of beings, the indulgence of tenderness, the sympathy of souls, the community of work, and the happiness of comradeship, will be as really decisive factors in the lofty emotions of love, and in the charm of love, as the attraction of the senses. this wealth in the elements of mutual dependence is what keeps fidelity in love both inwardly and outwardly. this soft current of the soul's depths keeps the sensuous charm fresh; while mere relation, both legal marriage and free union, very soon exhausts happiness and leaves behind ennui, if love has contained only sensuous attraction, and not that mutual feeling of dependence, which involves the union of the soul and the sense, and which unites the spirit and the sympathies. the duty and responsibility towards the children will be all the more strict as society learns to regard it as one of its principal duties to hinder all thoughtless and undeserved suffering. the morality of the future will not be found in sacrificing to the holiness of the family so-called illegitimate children, who are often by nature richly endowed, but who by the prevailing legal system receive such treatment, that they often become what they are called, and so are filled with vengeance against society and the perverse conceptions of law whose victims they are. child murder, phosphorous poisonings, "angel-making"--all these are connected with these perverse legal ideas. but all of these results are still less pernicious than those which society draws upon itself through those "disgraced" children, who go to ruin not physically but psychically. in them, there are not only frequently good powers lost, but socially destructive powers developed. when the whole of europe shuddered over the murder of the empress elizabeth, one fact above every other seemed to me terrible. the murderer confessed, "i know nothing of my parents." the time will come in which the child will be looked upon as holy, even when the parents themselves have approached the mystery of life with profane feelings; a time in which all motherhood will be looked upon as holy, if it is caused by a deep emotion of love, and if it has called forth deep feelings of duty. then the child, who has received its life from sound, loving human beings and has been afterwards brought up wisely and lovingly, will be called legitimate, even if its parents have been united in complete freedom. then will the child, who has been born in a loveless marriage, and has been burdened by the fault of its parents with bodily or mental disease, be regarded as illegitimate, even if its parents have been united in marriage by the pope at st. peter's. the shadow of contempt will not fall on the unmarried tender mother of a radiantly healthy child, but on the legitimate or illegitimate mother of a being made degenerate by the misdeeds of its forefathers. in a much discussed drama called _the lion's whelp_, there occurs the following dialogue between an older and younger man: the older man: the next century will be the century of the child, just as this century has been the woman's century. when the child gets his rights, morality will be perfected. then every man will know that he is bound to the life which he has produced with other bonds, than those imposed by society and the laws. you understand that a man cannot be released from his duty as father even if he travels around the world; a kingdom can be given and taken away, but not fatherhood. the youth: i know this. the older man: but in this all righteousness is still not fulfilled--in man's carefully preserving the life which he has called into existence. no man can early enough think over the other question, whether and when he has the right to call life into existence. this dialogue has supplied me with a title for this book. it is the point of departure of my assertion, that the first right of the child is to select its own parents. what here must be first considered is the thought constantly being brought out by darwinian writers, that the natural sciences, in which must now be numbered psychology, should be the basis of juristic science as well as of pedagogy. man must come to learn the laws of natural selection and act in the spirit of these laws. man must arrange the punishments of society in the service of development; they must be protective measures for natural selection. in the first place this must be secured by hindering the criminal type from perpetuating itself. the characteristics of this type can only be determined by specialists. but the criminal must be prevented from handing on his characteristics to his posterity. so the human race will be gradually freed from atavisms which reproduce lower and preceding stages of development. this is the first condition of that evolution by which mankind will be able to let the ape and tiger die. then comes the requirement that those with inherited physical or psychical diseases shall not transmit them to an offspring. as to this type of heredity opinions are still very much divided. great authorities are in conflict with one another on the question of tuberculosis. some contend that it is hereditary, others declare that it is only transmitted by infection. accordingly when a child is born of a tuberculous mother, and is taken away from her, there is no danger for the child. views are also divided on the subject of cancer. regarding other diseases, however, there is complete certainty. legislation has already interfered in the case of epilepsy, although the law in practice is not always applied. but in the case of syphilis, alcoholism, and many kinds of nervous complaints, diseases which afflict children most certainly, in various ways, legislation has yet done nothing. there is an old axiom that we are obliged to thank our parents for life. our parents, i know from my own experience, can themselves have been the heirs of bodily and mental health, resulting from the fact that maternal and paternal ancestors all made early, right, and happy marriages. but generally, parents must on their part, ask the children's pardon for the children's existence. it makes no difference, whether we talk with people sunken in necessity or crime, or with those suffering from nervous and other diseases, or finally with people who are spiritually maimed. in most cases we are convinced that the main cause of their condition as indicated by them, goes back to their birth, or to the time of their childish consciousness. sometimes their parents have been too young or too old, their fathers or mothers invalids. sometimes they are the offspring of intemperance. again their mother may have been overburdened by the torment of work, or by a large family of children; or they may have received their life in marriages concluded without love, or after the cessation of love. they have been unwelcome, or born under feelings of revulsion, bearing in their blood the germ of discord or disgust of life. numerous abnormal tendencies, among them misanthropy in women, can be traced back to these causes. finally they have been brought up in a home where they have suffered from the burden of bad examples, or conflicting influences. so strong has the conviction of the meaning of heredity become that young men, who have themselves borne a burden, imposed by generations of one character or another, have begun to see that it is their duty rather to abstain from marriage than to transmit their unfortunate inheritence to a new generation. i knew a woman in whose family on her father's and mother's side, mental disease was inherited. therefore, though healthy herself, she refused to marry the man she loved. i know of another who broke her engagement, because she was convinced that the man whom she loved was a drinker, and she did not want to give her children such a father. it is especially on this point that women sin in marrying from ignorance, because they do not know that epilepsy and other diseases, especially alcoholism, are often caused because the child has had a drunkard for a father. a young woman could have no more certain test for the continuance of her feelings for a man, than whether she feels exalted joy or tormenting distress, at the thought of seeing his characteristics transmitted to their child. men sin against the coming race not only by excessive drinking, but in other respects where the results are still more destructive. besides the conscience of men must begin to awaken. this will express itself partly in the requirement to abstain from marriage when they know that they have to transmit a bad inheritance, partly in other spheres of morality as in the following examples: a young man, himself a physician, thought he was healthy when he married. he discovered his mistake and found himself confronting the choice of wronging his wife or separating from her. as they were deeply in love, the only possible way was separation. he chose death which he inflicted on himself in such a way that his wife thought it was caused by accident. another man acted in the same way after he had been married several years and had three children; he found out that he was his wife's half-brother. but these incidents as the one before mentioned, where women are concerned, are notoriously only isolated examples. it will require the development of several generations before it will be the woman's instinct, an irresistibly mastering instinct, to allow no physically or psychically degenerated or perverted man to become the father of her children. the instinct of the man is far stronger in this direction, but it is dulled too by an antiquated legal conception, according to which the woman must subject herself as a duty to requirements against which her whole being revolts. in this respect a woman has only one duty, an unmistakable one, against which every transgression is a sin, namely that the new being to which she gives life, must be born in love and purity, in health and beauty, in full mutual harmony, in a complete common will, in a complete common happiness. until women see this as a duty, the earth will continue to be peopled by beings, who in a moment of their existence have been robbed of the best pre-conditions of their life's happiness and their life's efficiency. occasionally they show plainly at an early age the sign of degeneration or of discord. occasionally they seem for a long time to be healthy and powerful specimens of humanity, until in some critical moment they go to pieces through an insufficient supply of physical and psychical vitality caused by their very origin. as to marriages between healthy and active individuals, legislation can do nothing. ethics alone can exert an influence for betterment. children must be taught from their earliest years about their existence and their future duties as men and women. so mothers and fathers together can impress on the conscience of the children not any abstract conception of purity, but the concrete commandment of chastity in letters of fire. so they will keep their health, their attractiveness, their guilelessness, for the being they are to love; for the children who from this love will receive their life. the impulse to preserve the species, it is true, makes human beings low, small, or laughable; as poets like maupassant, tolstoi, and others have depicted from quite different points of view; but it only does so when the impulse appears without relation to the end given it in nature, or when this end is attained without consideration for the production of an offspring qualified to live. the kind of love which disturbs life is that which diminishes the value of an individual as a creator of life. this type of love really degrades human beings, is immoral from the standpoint of the modern view, which wills life to be, but above all, wills the progress of life to ever higher forms. young people must therefore learn to reverence their future duties. these they altogether miss, if they squander their spiritual and bodily obligations, in unions formed and dissolved thoughtlessly, without any intention of fidelity, without the worth of responsibility. but they must also know that it is a still greater transgression of their duty if the life of a child is called forth with cold hearts and cold temper, whether this happens in a marriage based on worldly motives or one maintained on moral grounds in which the previously existing discord is transmitted to a new being. mothers made apathetic and unresponsive, by the consciousness of numerous breaches of faith, towards their youthful dreams, their ideal convictions, are often precisely those, who in their children, struggle against the pure instincts of love, its chaste and strong feelings, its higher aims. they often teach that love as a rule ends after marriage, that marriages can be made without love. this is a process of thought resembling the conclusion that a vessel can quite well go into the sea with some defect, since it is possible in any event that it will be damaged. they speak of the impurity of the senses, of the advantages of a marriage based on friendship and reason, of the calming power of duty. all of these are chilly processes of reason by which souls, filled with the warmth of life, are killed. daughters must be helped by their mothers, wisely and delicately, in order to be protected from hasty acts, in order to distinguish with open eyes, when their feelings themselves are uncertain. it must be branded upon their souls and their nerves that they will be fallen beings if they give themselves from other reasons than from reciprocated love. under these convictions alone, will there be a great transformation of present ethical standards. men think that they can do with marriage what they will; that they can enter upon it with any kind of motive; they think that they must marry from feelings of duty, to fulfil some given engagement, or to atone for some fault; that they have the right to enter upon a marriage without love because they long for home life. while these things are regarded as legitimate, men stand on the same ethical level as the person who commits murder because he has first stolen, or has stolen because he was hungry. the great crime against the holiness of generation is believing that one can treat arbitrarily, the most sensitive sphere of life, the sphere where innumerable secret influences order the destiny of a new generation. while children continue to be born in the cold atmosphere of duty, or in the stormy atmosphere of discord, while people continue to regard such marriages as moral, while people can transmit to their children all kinds of intellectual mutilation and bodily unsoundness, and their parents continue to be called honorable, so long will the world be without the slightest conception of that morality which will mould the new mankind. this morality has still more exalted precepts. to-day it seldom happens that a young girl enters marriage in ignorance, but in my generation i know cases where the ignorance of the bride resulted in insanity. in another case this ignorance led to thoughts of suicide; in a third, the child was regarded with coldness by its mother; in the fourth, the child had abnormal psychic qualities. still it is not sufficient for the ideal beauty of marriage and the harmony of the child that the woman knows in general what is before her. a young man said once to me that most marriages are spoilt at the very beginning, because the man brings with him the point of view and the habits of those degraded women, from whom he has received his initiation into love; frequently he annihilates forever the tenderest element in his relation to his wife. he damages the most beautiful factor in their mutual feelings. man must learn to have reverence and patience, and i know men who have shown these characteristics really because they saw that their wives gave, as is not unfrequently the case, their souls and their hearts before their senses were awakened. only the constant close association taught them to desire a completed marriage. a child should receive life only through this common impulse. many children are born, as it is, in legalised prostitution, in legalised rape. yet there is wanting in the consciences of many women and men, the slightest shadow of religious reverence, of æsthetic feeling before the greatest mystery of existence. and yet we continue in the name of morality to veil for youth the nakedness of nature and we neglect to inspire their feeling of devotion towards their own being as the shrine in which the mystery of life must some day be fulfilled. in this mystery there are still hidden fields only penetrated by the intuition. here and there a profound poet has surmised the innumerable affinities or repulsions which under changing spiritual and material dispositions with altering opinions, condition the life of love in modern human beings, the mystic influences which sometimes forever, sometimes partially, can change the deepest feeling. all these mystic influences, the tender woof of all these fine threads, will then be a part of the living fabric of the child. these secret processes explain the great differences between children of the same parents,--children who externally are born and brought up in quite similar conditions. in all these promptings of instinct, in all these categorical imperatives of the nerves and the blood, human beings must be at the same time obedient listeners and strict masters. on this depends the future happiness of love, and with it a happier future race. the people of to-day live under inherited morals and newly acquired transgressions of morality. both must be conquered before soul and sense in love can become inseparable, or in other words, before this unity is recognised as the only possible moral basis of the relation between man and woman. talented men, as well as one-sided advocates of women's rights, think that the development will take quite a different course, after the low impulse which is at the basis of love has been laid bare and scientifically analysed. they say that the superior person will satisfy the impulse shamelessly and animally, without any emotional decoration; or he will isolate himself from its influence and devote to more noble purposes that vital power, that emotional capacity, which is now consumed by love. nothing impossible is to be found in this point of view. i have shown more than once that woman by her maternal functions, uses up so much physical and psychical energy, that in the sphere of intellectual production she must remain of less significance. what i at an earlier period assumed intuitively, has been substantiated since then by a specialist. a finnish doctor has shown how the vital power of lower organisms, is concentrated in sexual production. but the higher man goes, so much more power is made free. this power which is not consumed in the production of new generations, can serve intellectual production. each of the two different productive expressions of human vital action must to a certain extent limit the development of the power of the other, and restrict its capacity of work. the same writer contends that this is the natural cause of the more limited fertility of civilised man, and will be, according to the pessimists named above, the decisive factor in the prophesied downfall of love. according to my conception of the word, it is love on the contrary, which will win the victory by the relative weakening of impulse, and by scientific analysis of the same. men will no longer mistake impulse for love. of course this impulse is always present in love, but in the same way in which the sculpture of the cave man is present in the work of michael angelo. man will then, with all the powers of his being, be able to love, when love, according to the happy expression of thoreau, is not a glow, but a light. then he will see for the first time, what wealth life can have through love, when love becomes a happiness worthy of man because it becomes an æsthetic creation, a religious worship; when the completed unity of those who love is expressed in a new being,--a being that will some day be really grateful for the life it has received. where the amelioration of the human race is concerned, the transformation of customs and feelings is always the essential thing. influence of legislation in comparison with it is ever slight. but as has been said before, legislation has its role to play. especially where there are diseases which can certainly be transmitted, society must interfere to restrict marriage. in germany and america a good proposal has been made, for the period of transition in this direction. it is suggested that the law shall require as an obligatory condition for marriage, a certificate of a medical witness with complete data as to the health of both parties. those who contract marriage will continue to have their freedom of choice but at least they would not enter ignorantly upon marriage as they do now, and expose themselves and their children to disastrous consequences. it appears to me to be at least as important for society to have a medical certificate as to capacity for marriage, as it is for military service. in the one case, we deal with giving life, in the other with taking it away. and although the latter has certainly been, up till now, regarded as a more serious occasion than the former, still an awakening social conscience should demand progress in this direction. it is conceivable that from this beginning new customs will develop; further legislation may be dispensed with; human beings will agree to sacrifice the most dangerous of all liberties, giving life to a defective offspring, while prohibition of marriage now would not hinder parenthood. for the great mass might continue, outside of marriage, to rob children of the possibilities of health and happiness, by burdening them with inherited diseases or bad tendencies. nietzsche, who knew little of love because he knew nothing of woman, and who therefore on this subject says little worthy of attention, has still spoken more profoundly on the subject of parenthood than any contemporary writer. he saw what impurity, what poverty are concealed under the name of marriage. he saw how meretricious, how ignorant education is. in his writings are to be found prophetical and poetical words describing the end aimed at in parenthood, and showing what true parenthood should be. i will that thy victory and thy emancipation shall yearn for a child. living memorials shalt thou build for thy victory, and for thy emancipation. thou must build upward to a height beyond thyself. but first i would have thee thyself built with a square foundation, body and soul. see that through thee the race progresses, not continues only. let a true marriage help thee to this end. a more exalted being must thou create, a being gifted with initiative like a wheel that turns itself. a creative principle shouldst thou create. marriage: i call marriage the will shared by two, to create the one,--the one that is in itself more than its creators. reverence for one another, i call marriage; such reverence as is meet for those whose wills are united in this one act of will. chapter ii the unborn race and woman's work there are few factors in the life of the present in which the dualism between theory and practice is greater and more unconscious than in questions concerning woman. the protagonists of the feminist movement are in many cases sturdily christian. they protest with vigour against the idea that they could have any share in the sort of emancipation of personality that includes freedom for all the powers and activities of the personality. individualism, and the assertion of self are for them degrading words with a sinful significance. that the emancipation of women is practically the greatest egoistic movement of the nineteenth century, and the most intense affirmation of the right of the self that history has yet seen, they have no suspicion. freedom for the powers and the personality of woman have never appeared to them except as an ideal struggle for justice, as a noble victory to be won. in its deepest meaning this is as true of every other effort at self-affirmation, the end of which is the recognition of the right of human personality to the full development of capacities in a sphere of freedom, where responsibility belongs to the self alone. but just as every other such affirmation of the individual self, of a class, of a race, easily falls into an unjustifiable egoism, so with the emancipation of woman. this great, deep, serious movement for woman's emancipation has in the course of time received a new name, the "woman question." the change in terminology signifies a change in the attitude of thought. from a real emancipation movement, that is, a movement to free the restricted powers of woman and her restricted personality, the movement has become a question, a social institution with officers, a church system with dogmas. certainly we still hear in books and speeches that the woman question is being discussed and urged, in its relation to the happiness and development of the whole of humanity. but in reality the woman question, since it became a fact, a cause with an end of its own, since its champions have lost more and more their appreciation of its connection with other great questions of the day, is tending to increase the civil rights and the fields of woman's labour. in both cases people really have the women of the upper classes in view. this has been the end, and it is thoroughly justified and justifiable. but, in striving for this end, those who are aiming at it have come more and more into opposition to the first and highest of all rights, the rights of the individual woman to think her own thoughts, to go her own ways, even when these thoughts and these ways follow other courses than those of the advocates of woman's rights. while this group is, on one hand, very far from conceding to the individual woman the freedom which belongs to her, it is, on the other hand, blind to the results of the self-assertion of the whole female sex. in taking up work more and more external in character, they are blind to the profound and revolutionary effects of this movement, on the conditions of labour in the present day, on the existence of man and the family, on society as a whole. doing away with an unjust paragraph in a law which concerns woman, turning a hundred women into a field of work where only ten were occupied before, giving one woman work where formerly not one was employed,--these are the mile-stones in the line of progress of the woman's rights movement. it is a line pursued without consideration of feminine capacities, nature, and environment. the exclamation of a woman's rights champion when another woman had become a butcher, "go thou and do likewise," and an american young lady working as an executioner, are, in this connection, characteristic phenomena. the emancipation of woman has practically ceased to be the freedom which enlarges soul and heart. it is conducted quite officially, like a business, and dogmatically, too, without feeling for the pulsating manifoldness of life, and has become an egoistic self-concentrated campaign. on this account i, and many others of my generation, with many more of the younger generation, stand outside of the movement, although we actively wished, and still wish, for the freedom of woman. the champions of woman's rights, like the champions of other movements for rights, illustrate the truth of the old swedish saying, that "what we are pursuing is really only a runaway horse attached to our waggon." how blindly the fanatics of woman's rights have rushed by the other needs of the time can be best measured by considering their attitude towards the greatest question of the day--i mean the social question. the old advocates of woman's rights maintain that the adult woman must have the same right as the adult man to "protect" herself, and they ask why the woman is hindered from working because she is married, or because she has children. protective legislation drives woman from the factories and workshops; and this legislation is very far, they tell us, from meriting the support of women. women, on the contrary, they say, should demand the same protective legislation for women as for men. they ask for technical instruction and an extended field of work for women. this whole argument is quite logical from the point of view that limitation of woman's labour is opposed to one of the foremost principles of our time,--the self-determination of the individual. this implies the right of the adult woman, as well as the adult man, to choose her own work. privileges on the ground of sex only hinder the woman from being put on an equality with man before the law. but all these arguments are based on the sophistical notion which perverts the whole feminist movement. the idea is to free woman from the limitations of nature. it involves, too, the other sophistical notion with which capitalistic society meets every demand of protective legislation for men, women, or children. such legislation is said to be an interference with the individual's right of choice. every human being who is socially alive is aware that this right to control one's life is the emptiest phrase to describe reality in a society built up on a capitalistic basis. it is doubly empty where woman is concerned. i have never heard a woman desire that woman should fulfil military duties as an equivalent for having civil rights like man. but this would be the consequence of the argument that woman should have no privileges on the ground of her sex. the greatest privilege that can be thought of in modern society is to be spared the discomforts and loss of time that come from military training, to be exempt from the dangers and the terrors of war. that women are not absolutely incapable of service in warfare, women have shown on many occasions, especially in the boer war. so when the advocates of women's rights hesitate before this extreme consequence of their principle, and introduce the functions of motherhood as a cogent ground for the privilege of being freed from military service in time of war (even if women at some time should receive the same civil rights now enjoyed by man), they are in the highest degree illogical. other women with more logic declare that on another battle-field, a still more destructive one, that of the factory system, the same maternal functions require certain privileges for woman, and these same functions must result in subjecting her to certain limitations of her individual right to control her life. that is, she cannot pass beyond the limits drawn by nature, without interfering with the rights of another, the potential child. it lies in the individual sphere of woman's choice as of man's choice not to choose marriage, or to desire it without parenthood; and for exemption from the latter, real altruistic as well as real egoistic reasons can be urged. it lies in the individual choice of the woman, as well as of the man, to isolate herself from what may be regarded as an obstacle to her individual development, or to her freedom of movement. she can do without love or motherhood, if the one or both of these are regarded from this point of view. woman has the full right to allow herself to be turned into a third sex, the sex of the working bees, or the sexless ant, provided she finds in this her highest happiness. a good while ago i was ingenuous enough to maintain that motherhood was the central factor of existence for most women. in the discussion of this question i considered several facts: woman's work imposed by necessity, woman's ambition stimulated by the freedom of her power, woman's intellectual life modified by many other influences of contemporary thought,--all these have forced the maternal instinct into the background for the time being. here was a danger which, it seemed, was not too late to expose. there are women in whom the feeling of love is really and absolutely stunted; there are others who do not find in modern man the soulful and profound harmony in love that they quite rightly demand; there are others, more numerous, who wish for love but do not wish for motherhood. they absolutely fear it. the famous german authoress gabrielle reuter has spoken of this fear, this alarm of motherhood continually vigilant, active, placing woman in an attitude of self-defence,--a fear which to-day has taken possession of so many strenuous and creative women. the alarm, the aversion, becomes so strong, so dominant in them that one might almost believe it a dark perverse instinct, which, like all unnatural instincts, has been conceived and born through cruel necessities, and through these necessities has become overmastering. it is as if a secret voice in the depths of their nature was telling these women that, by paying their tribute to their sex, they would lose that power, brilliancy, and sharpness of intellect by which they have elevated themselves above their sex; and perhaps certain kinds of women are right in having this fear. i am convinced, just as the german writer is, that every actual phenomenon of disease and of health alike is a necessary result from given causes; and i am more convinced than the advocates of women's rights ever were, that it is in the sphere of human freedom to choose one's own type of development, happiness, or ruin. i am not inclined to say anything further to the women who do not desire motherhood. it would be very disastrous if these women, who have never been moved by tenderness when they felt a soft childish hand in their own, who have never longed to surrender themselves entirely to another being, were to become mothers. their children would be more unfortunate than they themselves. many women like these are to be found to-day, and if things remain as they are, they are bound to increase in numbers. in some of them, however, the maternal instinct is not dead, but only dormant. modern women with their capacity for psychic analysis, with their physical and psychical refinement, are often repelled by the crudeness, the ignorance, or the importunities of man's nature. the whole factor of love in the being of these women is shrivelled up as a bud that has never blossomed, and in enthusiasm for a duty, or for a woman friend, they find an expression for that sacrifice whose real aim they deny or overlook, a something which ends often by avenging itself in a tragic way. i am simply insisting that every woman, who has not yet ceased to desire motherhood, has duties as a girl, and still more as a woman, to the unborn generation from which she cannot free herself without absolute selfishness. this selfishness is often disguised under a great impulse, an impulse which, like that of the preservation of the species, masters existence. i mean the impulse of self-protection. but it is just this that should make the "obligatory" egoism of the modern working woman appear so terrible to those who are busied with the emancipation of woman. to talk of the freedom of woman, of her individual right to control her actions, when she works like a beast of burden to reach a minimum of existence, to keep from dying of starvation, to talk of the freedom of women where conditions are such that the free choice of work, for man as well as for woman, is an empty phrase--to put it mildly, it is senseless. i will throw some light on the results of freedom by the following illustration: when women in england worked in white lead factories, seventy-seven women were examined in one factory. it appeared in the time covered by the investigation that there were among this number ninety miscarriages, twenty-seven cases of still-born children; beside, forty young children died of convulsions produced by the poisoning of their mothers. the effects of this occupation were most harmful in the case of women from eighteen to twenty-three years of age. lameness, blindness, and other infirmities resulted from this kind of work. an english doctor has shown from exact investigations conducted during a number of years, that the enormous mortality among young children in factory districts arises chiefly because the child is deprived of a mother's care a few weeks after birth. a child needs its mother's milk at least six months, and the mother's milk cannot be substituted by artificial means, least of all when the substitutes are used with carelessness. in certain textile factory districts, in nottingham, for example, where lace is produced, and where people have complained of the law limiting women's work, out of each thousand children, two hundred die annually. mortality in factory districts is four to five times greater than in country districts; and yet the death of children is, relatively speaking, a lesser evil. more unfortunate still is it that those who survive always suffer partial weakness from the lack of a mother's care at a tender age. in silesia, where children and quite young girls are employed in the glass industry, the work has so distorted their bodily structure that when they bear children, their sufferings are intense. such unique material do they offer for the study of obstetrics, that doctors make pilgrimages to silesia to learn from their cases. before women have reached maturity, when they can, according to the advocates of women's rights, protect themselves, they are ruined physically. if it is said that the facts mentioned above belong to the question of the protection of children, not to that of the protection of women, the answer lies close at hand. the physical and moral interest of children and of women are so mutually related, that they cannot be separated. crippled women have children who are stunted at the time of their birth. the burden of toil they take up with weakened power of resistance and they transmit this weakness to their offspring. cause and effect are so intimately associated here, that they cannot be accurately apportioned between the work of women and the work of children. even the advocates of women's rights must, allow that the limit of their claims to right is to be found where the right of another begins. they cannot suppose that the individual right of the woman to control her life should go so far that a woman could take a piece of a neighbour's property to lay out a garden, or use for an industrial scheme a part of the water power belonging to some one else. can they not see that woman's individual freedom is limited by the rights of another, by the rights of the potential child? the potential child has its own proper rights, its own vital power. this property, the woman has not the right to encroach upon in advance. a woman, who from one motive or another, great or small, permanently keeps outside of the marriage relation, has complete right to ruin herself by work, provided she does not, as a result of so doing, become a burden to others through incapacity. but the woman who looks forward to motherhood as a possibility for herself, or the woman who is expecting to become a mother, should not, through an unlimited amount of voluntary work or of work forced upon her contrary to her will, sacrifice the capacities for life and work of an unborn generation, in such a way that she will bring into the world weak, invalid, or physically incapable children, who will later on be neglected. it does not occur to the dogmatic advocates of women's rights that their talk about the individual freedom of the woman to control her career, their contention that no limitation need restrict woman's power of deciding her own vocation, because they are married or are mothers, mean the most crying injury, not only to children, but to women themselves. for the demand of equality, where nature has made inequality, brings about the injury of the weaker factor. equality is not justice. often it is just the opposite, the most absolute injustice. the strongest reasoning will not convince those advocates of women's rights who discuss woman's labour from the old-fashioned level of individualism, unaffected by the social feeling of solidarity, which is the solution offered by our age. but fortunately protective legislation does not depend on the women who advocate the rights of women. the workingmen's movement, aided by women and men of all classes who are active in it, will carry through this legislation. the movement for the normal working day is steadily gaining ground. experience has shown that, because of the greater intensity of the work done, just as much can be accomplished in a shorter as in a longer time. the first concern has been the work of children and of younger adults. the effect of factory life on the health of women themselves, as well as on their children, has excited general attention. in england first, then in other european countries, it has become recognised as necessary that a normal period of work should be laid down for women as well. the programme was and continues to be threefold:--a maximum working time for women's work; limitation, or, better still, the cessation of night work on the part of women; the prevention, too, of the work of women in mines and in certain other industries dangerous to health; finally the protection of women who are about to become mothers. in most european countries there is now a maximum working time fixed at eight to eleven hours. night work, work in mines, and extra work, is either forbidden or considerably limited, and a rest period of three to eight weeks is established for women at childbirth. from all points of view, an eight-hour working day should be the highest limit for woman's work. there are more reasons for it in her case than for man's work. the eight-hour day means not only for the woman as for the man the possibility of enjoying her life in permanent health; it secures time for improving recreation. for the married woman it is an indispensable requirement. without it her home cannot be kept in order and comfort, her children cannot be physically cared for; without it she is not able to co-operate in their education. the normal working day is, therefore, more necessary for the woman than for the man, because on her, rather than on him, comes the burden of household work. the dangers of night work, as of work in mines, are from the standpoint of health and morality so plain, that no further reason need be urged to defend protective legislation in this case. but not only the theoretical principles of women's rights are urged against this legislation. socialists as well as the advocates of women's rights are responsible for different objections of a more solid character. it is urged that legislation will increase the number of unemployed women who, in order to live, will be forced into prostitution, but it is forgotten that the same result comes from low wages in many occupations, and that these low wages are caused by an over-supply of working women. it is said, also, that if protective legislation hinders or prevents women from working, they will not be able to care for their children and the children will be employed in the factory in their stead. the way out of the last difficulty is absolutely plain: the complete prohibition of all work by children under fifteen years of age. it is urged also that if women are hindered by legislation from fulfilling the demands of their occupation, the result will be, not that they are protected in their occupation, but that the occupation is protected against them. the remedy in this case is certainly difficult, but not impossible to find. let only the tenth part of the energy now used in agitation for the free right of women to labour be employed in preparing women for such labour as they are suited to undertake. but even when this cannot be done protective legislation carries with it its own corrective. it is always urged that the occupation will be destroyed by protective legislation. then new methods and new machines will be invented to replace cheap labour power. those who are protected often themselves complain that they suffer economically under protective legislation, but a long experience will show them how, through the reciprocal effects of all factors in production, the temporary failures will be balanced. a potent remedy for this effect of protective legislation may be looked for in the assertion, found in the programmes of all labour parties, of the right of the unemployed to have work, and a fixed minimum wage. these demands along with that for a normal working day, in which is included rest at night and rest on sunday, and other measures for the protection of workingmen against accident and old age, are the chief methods by which the labour question, both for men and women, will be solved. until these aims are realised ruskin's judgment on modern industrialism which kills the real humanity in man holds good both for men and for women. we make, he says, everything except real men; we bleach cotton; we harden and improve steel; we refine sugar; we make porcelain and print books; but to refine a single living soul, to reform it, to improve it never enters into our reckoning of profit. the women of the working classes must continue to endure the suffering, to bear the dangers, to subject themselves to the forces which solidarity in this great struggle implies. only under these conditions can men as well as women elevate themselves, partly by their own combination, partly by the extension of the principle, more and more coming to be recognised, that society, through its legislation, can determine the conditions under which its members work. so will be produced conditions of life and of work worthy of mankind,--a healthier, stronger, and more beautiful race. in this ever continuing progress every part is related to every other part. unorganised, ordinary and therefore badly paid work, done by woman, diminishes the wages of man and his opportunity of work. work in a factory unfits the woman for the conduct of the household, for her duties as a mother. in the turmoil, heat, and rush of the factory her nerves are destroyed and with them her finer emotions. the woman loses not only the right hand, but also the right heart for family life. badly conditioned women make marriage more difficult for the man; through celibacy, his mortality is increased. low wages, or times of lack of employment, cause bad dwellings, bad clothes, and bad nourishment. the tortured or ill-conditioned woman is not able to prepare anything good with the small amount of money which the man may earn. from all of this come intemperance and disease. through these causes, combined with those already noted, the population of factory districts degenerates, in republican switzerland, not less than in absolutistic russia. it is true that such limitations of work in many cases are felt, as well by the single woman as by the family. the restriction of child labour may bring immediate discomfort. but all this is a passing evil. it can be corrected, as soon as it is clearly seen in what direction the advance along all the line is being made. this kind of progress moves in zigzag fashion. what decides whether temporary limitation of freedom makes for progress or not is whether one finds, in turning from the individual, or small groups, to the great whole, that the last is gaining, that in the future, freedom and happiness for all will be increased by this temporary limitation of freedom. in other relations of life it is a just law that he who goes into a game must abide by its rules. but this rule cannot be applied to that very cruel game which we call life. we do not go into it of our own will. children have the right not to be obliged to suffer for the mistakes and errors of their parents. how this suffering can be best avoided in case of an inharmonious marriage must be decided by the different individuals, as a question belonging to them alone. as i have already shown, change of custom in relation to the time, age, and motives for marriage is the surest protection for the children, a protection that will gradually be extended. under a serious conviction of woman's duty as a member of her sex, it will be regarded as a crime for a young wife voluntarily to ill-treat her person, either by excessive study, or excessive attention to sports, by tight-lacing, or consumption of sweets, by smoking or the use of stimulants, by sitting up at night, excessive work, or by all the thousand other ways by which these attractive simpletons sin against nature, until nature finally loses all patience with them. it must be demanded of the laws of society that they hinder involuntary crimes of unprotected women against their feminine nature. this is the great work of woman's emancipation; everything else compared with it is non-essential. through their failure to see this the present representatives of women's rights are working against progress, though they themselves apply the word reactionary to all who assert that the only way by which the woman question as a whole can be solved is through the social revolution. in this revolution protective legislation is an important factor. according to my method of thinking, and that of many others, not woman but the mother is the most precious possession of the nation, so precious that society advances its own highest well-being when it protects the functions of the mother. these functions are not limited to birth nor to the nourishment of the child; but they go on during the whole time of its training. i believe that in the new society where all women and men alike will be compelled to work (not children, not invalids, and not the aged) people will regard the maternal function as so important for the whole social order, that every mother under fixed conditions, subject to certain control, during a certain period, and for a certain number of children, will obtain from society an allowance for education. she will receive this during the time in which her children require all her care, while she herself is freed from work outside the home. naturally this does not exclude the case of mothers who from one or another reason cannot devote themselves to the care and training of their children; they can by their own productive work secure a substitute. but for the majority of women, the proposal made above would undoubtedly be the real solution of many problems which now seem insoluble. i do not believe that social development will maintain the old ideal of the father as the one who takes care of the family. i hope, rather, that the new conception of having every individual look after himself will gain more ground. the father will then be, in the real sense of the word, the educator, when the care for the maintenance of the family does not press him down to the ground. a woman will then, as mother of the family, not be in dependence on the man,--a position she feels as humiliating, if as a girl she earned her own living. people are bound to return to this new form of matriarchy, when they begin to consider care of the new generation, as the great business the mother takes over for society. during its progress society must guarantee her existence. in many cases, the answer of the married woman who works outside the home would be as follows: that her happiness would consist in quietly looking after her children, and in being able to keep house, but that she must have an income that would make her independent of her husband. a swedish evening paper, the special organ of the feminist movement, two years ago started an investigation on the productive work of married women. the answers, contrary to the expectations of the paper, were nearly unanimous in showing what dangers for children, and what interference with household comfort, were caused by the woman working outside the home. an impartial investigation of the causes of the increasing brutality of the young would show certainly that the rapid increase in crime in several countries among the young is caused partly by their prematurely taking up productive work, and partly by early lack of home life, the result of the mother working outside the home. if the world is agreed that children must still continue to be born and that a home furnishes generally the best means for training them during the first years of their life, the present consequences of woman's work done outside the home must cause pessimism; such work must be stopped. after we have thought over the matter, it is plain that nothing is now more needed than such plans of social order, such programmes of education, as will give the mother back to her children and to her home. everything that philanthropy now does to heal the injurious and disintegrating effects of the capitalistic industrial system is on the whole wasted power. children's crèches, kindergartens, providing meals for children, hospitals, vacation homes, cannot with all their noble efforts replace a hundredth part of the life energy, taken directly or indirectly from the new generation by women working outside the home. there are some people who expect the problem of domestic life to be solved by collective institutions which will take care of the children, and give them meals. just as brewing, baking, slaughtering, making candles and clothes, have more and more ceased to be done in the home, much of the work which now absorbs the greatest part of household activity, cooking, washing, mending and cleaning clothes, will, i firmly believe, finally be done by collective effort, by the help of electricity and machines. but i hope the tendency of man towards individualisation will overcome the tendency towards impersonal, uniform application of power _en masse_, in everything by which the innermost relations of life and private habits are deeply affected. a strong family life will, i hope, be regarded as the basis for true happiness and for the development of personality. when women are free from the barbarous relics of present methods of housekeeping,--the market basket, the kitchen utensils, the scrubbing brush gone from every house, electricity everywhere spreading warmth and life,--they will still be forced to do a certain amount of work. this cannot be avoided even by the help of the most perfect apparatus and by co-operative methods, provided the house is not to be replaced by the barrack. and since the custom of keeping servants will soon cease because, probably, there will be no servants to keep, all women will be forced to do housework, or find the remedy already discovered in america where bureaus supply domestic help for a fixed time for a fixed price. in london, too, there is at present a guild for general houseworkers who are trained for occupation and work under regularly established conditions. in the country, not only wives but daughters will be needed for agricultural labour, when there are no more hired labourers to be had. this will be a natural corrective against that pressure towards outside fields of labour, that has taken the daughters in multitudes away from home, and has crowded and overflowed the cities with them. finally if we weigh the economic loss occasioned by the fact that women after five or ten years' preparation have to give up work or study as a result of marriage, it is easy to see that the modern work of women has had results which must soon lead to earnest thought, in balancing up the accounts for or against the system. from the point of view of the woman herself, from the children's point of view, from the man's point of view, and finally, from the productive point of view, it has become pretty plain that society must either change the conditions of woman's labour or see a progressive disintegration in home life. society must either transform the conditions of life and work, or it will witness the degeneration of the sexes. all philanthropy--no age has seen more of it than our own--is only a savoury fumigation burning at the mouth of a sewer. this incense offering makes the air more endurable for passers-by, but it does not hinder the infection in the sewer from spreading. selfishness, the instinct of self-preservation, will perhaps end by forcing the leaders of society to direct their actions from the social point of view. then the woman question will become a question of humanity; then will its champions perhaps come to see that there can be no enduring good for the woman, if she works under conditions injurious to men and to children. it will be seen that the old axiom can be justly applied to the demands made in the name of woman's individuality; supreme right becomes supreme injustice. justice is not to be reached by having the woman work under conditions which ruin both her and the whole generation physically. in other respects she must be able to use her free choice, and be educated enough to make good use of it. justice consists in protecting innumerable women, who are not able as yet to protect themselves, against the abuses of which capital is guilty in employing their labour power. it is an instructive feature in the history of class conflict, and of the movement for women's progress, that as women began by driving men out of certain fields of labour, so now unmarried women try to force married women from the labour market. in america, where everything goes at full speed, an association has been founded among unmarried women with this intention. these and similar phenomena belong to the system of free competition, the creation of the "leading thought of our time, the right of the individual to determine his own vocation." perhaps when the war of women against women becomes the rule, the women's rights women will see that the problem of woman's work is more complicated than they imagine. they have continued to look at it till now only from the point of view of a woman's right to take care of herself. perhaps they will then understand that individualism, apart from the feeling of solidarity, leads to social conflict, class against class, sex against sex, unmarried against married, young against old. so it will be seen that only in the transformation of the whole of society can woman attain her full rights without impairing, through her advance, the rights of others. the sooner the women's rights party understands this, the better. instead of fighting protective legislation, they should advocate it; instead of regarding unions and strikes with disfavour, they should help labouring women to organise unions, and support strikes where strikes are justified. our century, which has opened up to women new fields of labour, has made life very hard for her by forcing her in the competitive struggle. as wives, as married or unmarried mothers, as divorced women, as widows, women often not only have the burden of their own support to bear, but they have frequently the rôle of guardian of a family, working for an invalid or intemperate husband; for children, or sisters, or aged parents. these women, whether they belong to those who labour with the brain or with the hand, are worn out, partly by earning their own living, partly by household tasks. while the man goes from home to his work, refreshed by rest, the woman often goes already tired out, and she comes back to the house perhaps to work at night. it is as clear as day that by so doing she loses her bodily health and mental equanimity, both needed by her children. it is astonishing how many working women despite all this have enough energy for intellectual effort in reading and thinking. they soon see, women like these, that an occupation is not emancipation. the best that can be said is that it is only a means to emancipation. those who work with their hands are not the worst off in this respect. bookkeepers, telephone and telegraph operators, post-office employees, shop girls, waiters in public establishments, and servants in private houses, who must often serve the public standing, and who are often deprived of rest at night and on sunday, are practically labour's worst slaves. who can wonder if the possible income obtained by an immoral life is reckoned by the employer, when he secures for his establishment, at low wages, the services of attractive young girls? small wonder it is that such employees, worried to death in shops, telephone bureaus, post and telegraph offices, should often be driven to hysteria, insanity, and suicide. the advocates of women's rights are not blind to all these incongruities. they ask equal salaries for men and women, and claim, often with justice, and often without, that women's work is too inadequately compensated. but they do not see that they have contributed to the evil by constantly urging women to work in all possible occupations, and that a low rate of wages and an overcrowding of all fields of labour is the result. it is far more necessary to pay attention to these things than to open up new fields of labour to women, if their vital energy is not to be dried up, if they are not to lose their youthful freshness and attractiveness prematurely, and their possibilities for development and happiness as human beings, wives, and mothers. a loss of freedom accomplished gradually, this is, on the whole, the sad result of the so-called emancipation of women in our century, if the subject is looked at broadly, apart from the few thousand women of the upper classes in good paying positions. for several decades, i have felt strongly against the importance given by the advocates of women's rights to the work of women outside of the home, for the reasons i have given above. i have applied to such work the objection formulated by feuerbach in these words: "mediocrity always weighs correctly, only its weight is false." wherever we look, in europe or america, we find new and injurious results from the new conditions, from the free activity of women's work through the development of industry on a large scale, through the transformation of home work, and the growing conviction on the part of women that "celibacy is the aristocracy of the future," to quote the words of a distinguished supporter of woman's rights. yet it would be foolish to wish a change in these unhappy results through a reaction that would again rob the woman of her essential freedom in relation to her choice of work, and the control of her life. the line of progress is tending towards a new society, where all will be compelled to work and all will find work; where all will work moderately under healthy conditions for an adequate wage. then neither the unmarried nor the married woman will lose her strength by exhausting work done to earn a living, or impair the powers she needs for motherhood. if she becomes a mother, in most cases she will really rejoice at the possibility offered to her by society of working for society, as a mother and an educator. we are yet very far from such a society, but every social regulation should, as we have said, be tested as to whether it brings us nearer this ideal or leads us farther away from it. the question should be asked whether the direction of thought is encouraged or restricted, that will in the end transform everything, the conviction i mean that economic production is here in the world for the sake of men, not, as now, men for the sake of production; that work is to be done for the sake of freedom, not, as now, freedom created for the sake of work. when i tried in my book called _the misuse of the power of woman_ to urge women to test the consequences of this process, my thesis was as follows: in our programme of civilisation, we must start out with the conviction that motherhood is something essential to the nature of woman and the way in which she carries out this profession is of value for society. on this basis we must alter the conditions which more and more are robbing woman of the happiness of motherhood and are robbing children of the care of a mother. or, we must begin with the assumption that motherhood is not essential: then everything must continue to go on as it is going on now, and work directed towards external spheres with its satisfaction in the joy of creation, of ambition, of gain, of enjoyment, of independence, will be more and more the end towards which women will arrange their plan of life. for this end they will modify their fundamental habits and remould their feelings. the naïve belief that every woman, who has the liberty to do so, is following her own nature, shows a complete ignorance of psychology and history. some ideal considered worth striving for, the prevailing view of a period, will obtain supremacy over nature. this is shown best in the stunted feeling of motherhood peculiar to the eighteenth century, by the plain results of mediæval asceticism. by a new ideal innumerable women are now driven from a life directed inwards to a life directed outwards. i am in favour of real freedom for woman; that is, i wish her to follow her own nature, whether she be an exceptional or an ordinary woman. but the opinion held by the feminine advocates of woman's emancipation, in regard to the nature and the aims of the everyday woman, does violence to the real nature of most women. it is one of the most remarkable manifestations of the times that, while women preach about the rights of woman and her will to work and to act unrestrained by family ties, men like ibsen, for example, in _when we dead people awake_, show that the real fall of man in life is transgression of the law of love, meaning that man through this transgression not only diminishes his personality, but lessens his creative capacity. it would appear as though men were approaching the conception of love once held by women, while women were beginning to regard love as a petty episode in life compared with what are really its true concerns, an episode which gives life the colour of a sensual, sentimental, psychological, or sportsmanlike adventure, an episode which she treats as a game which she can get into, and just as easily get out of. from this new position in which extremes meet, suffering, previously undreamed of, must arise. such results coming to the emancipated woman will i hope reveal to her the eternal laws of her own being, laws from which she cannot be freed without destroying herself. i would not put the slightest hindrance, however, in the way of a single isolated woman pursuing her own path freely, if it leads her even to the most unusual forms of labour and attempts to make a living. but for the sake of women themselves, for the sake of children, for the sake of society, i wish men as well as women to think earnestly over the present position of things. they will see that in the near future, one of two things must be chosen. either there must be such a transformation of the way in which modern society thinks and works that the majority of women will be restored to motherhood, or the disintegration of the home and the substitution of general institutions will inevitably result. there is no alternative. undoubtedly it required the whole egoistic self-assertion of woman, all her efforts towards individuality, her temporary separation from home and from family, her independent efforts to make a living to convince man and society of the following truths: that woman is not solely a sexual being, not solely dependent on man, the home and the family, no matter in what form these may exist. only in this way could woman fulfil her destiny as wife and mother with really free choice. only in this way could she secure the right of being regarded as man's intellectual equal in the field of the home and the family, the recognition that in her way she was just as complete a being as he. but it is clear that this fragment of feminine egoism must have a further consequence. with the rights of sex the feeling of solidarity must be awakened. the woman must see that her emancipated and developed human personality will lead to this solidarity by the realisation of her especial vocation as woman. women in parliament and in journalism, their representation in the local and general government, in peace congress and in workingmen's meetings, science and literature, all this will produce small results until women realise that the transformation of society begins with the unborn child, with the conditions for its coming into existence, its physical and psychical training. it must be the general conviction that the new instincts, the new feelings, the new thoughts, the new ideas, which mothers and fathers pass on into the flesh and blood of their children, will transform existence. when, after many successive generations, the new spiritual kingdom of this world has arisen, there will come into being these greater ideas through which life may be renewed. until that time secular misdeeds, political injustice, economic struggles,--all these socially destructive abuses will go on from generation to generation. mankind remains the same though its acts may take different shapes. thinkers will always find new ideas, scholars new methods and systems, artists new æsthetic creations, but on the whole everything must remain the same. only when woman heeds the message which life proclaims to her, that, through her, salvation must come--will the face of the earth be renewed. oratorical talk of the high task of mothers and of the great profession of education are empty phrases, until we see that the possibility of humanity and civilisation winning some day the victory over savagery depends on the physiological and psychological transformation of man's nature. this transformation requires an entirely new conception of the vocation of mother, a tremendous effort of will, continuous inspiration. those who believe they can fulfil their duties as mothers and at the same time can accomplish other valuable work have never made the experiment of education. the long continued habit of alternately caressing and striking one's children is not education. it needs tremendous power to do one's duty to a single child. this by no means signifies giving up to the child every hour of one's time, but it does mean that our soul is to be filled by the child, just as the man of science is possessed by his investigations and the artist by his work. the child should be in one's thoughts when one is sitting at home or walking along the road, when one is lying down or when one is standing up. this devotion, much more than the hours immediately given to one's children, is the absorbing thing; the occupation which makes an earnest mother always go to any external activity with divided soul and dissipated energy. therefore the mother, if she gives her children the share they need, can devote to social activities only her occasional attention. and for the same reason she should be entirely free from working to earn her living during the most critical years of the children's training. neither in the upper nor in the lower classes, have i ever heard of any mother forced to do work of this kind or one engaged in artistic productions through the stimulus of her talents, who was able to satisfy her children in the period when they were growing up. adele gerhard and helen simon under the title of _motherhood and intellectual work_ published a very interesting investigation in which i found my own observations substantiated. the book showed that a mother who wished to train her children and at the same time engage in an occupation, or take part in some public activity, could give to neither her whole personality. the result is a mediocre education for the children and for herself; mediocre work done with a divided soul. this is allowed to be true by all of those really conscientious mothers who have maintained a high aim in their work and in the bringing up of their children. they are dilettantes in both directions; what they do is half done owing to the effort to unite two separate fields of work. from the point of view of women's rights, it is said, in reply to these opinions of mine, that motherhood can be made infinitely easier by a natural method of life, that work can be very well combined with it. it is said that children soon grow out of needing the protection of their mother, that the mothers can then devote themselves entirely to their work. they contend besides that motherhood is no unconditional obligation; that people are fully justified in making different individual arrangements; one woman wishes to become a mother, another not. the one gets married with the hope of becoming a mother; the other with the resolution of avoiding maternity. the third does not marry at all. attempts to generalise on this matter in which individual freedom has every right to be recognised, they consider reactionary. full freedom for the woman, married or unmarried, to choose her work and to continue it; full freedom to choose motherhood or to do without it, this they say is the way to free woman, this is the line of progress. here woman is subject to that economic law which has made it necessary for her to work for her own living. just as woman's household work has been superseded by factory work, so too, they say, will the maternal obligations of woman be fulfilled collectively, and the difficulties on which the so-called reactionary members of the women's rights movement base their arguments, will in the future only arise in exceptional cases. as regards these arguments, i have already shown that i recognise fully the right of the feminine individual to go her own way, to choose her own fortune or misfortune. i have always spoken of women collectively and of society collectively. from this general, not from the individual standpoint, i am trying to convince women that vengeance is being exacted on the individual, on the race, when woman gradually destroys the deepest vital source of her physical and psychical being, the power of motherhood. but present-day woman is not adapted to motherhood; she will only be fitted for it when she has trained herself for motherhood and man is trained for fatherhood. then man and woman can begin together to bring up the new generation out of which some day society will be formed. in it, the completed man--the superman--will be bathed in that sunshine whose distant rays but colour the horizon of to-day. chapter iii education goethe showed long ago in his _werther_ a clear understanding of the significance of individualistic and psychological training, an appreciation which will mark the century of the child. in this work he shows how the future power of will lies hidden in the characteristics of the child, and how along with every fault of the child an uncorrupted germ capable of producing good is enclosed. "always," he says, "i repeat the golden words of the teacher of mankind, 'if ye do not become as one of these,' and now, good friend, those who are our equals, whom we should look upon as our models, we treat as subjects; they should have no will of their own; do we have none? where is our prerogative? does it consist in the fact that we are older and more experienced? good god of heaven! thou seest old and young children, nothing else. and in whom thou hast more joy, thy son announced ages ago. but people believe in him and do not hear him--that, too, is an old trouble, and they model their children after themselves." the same criticism might be applied to our present educators, who constantly have on their tongues such words as evolution, individuality, and natural tendencies, but do not heed the new commandments in which they say they believe. they continue to educate as if they believed still in the natural depravity of man, in original sin, which may be bridled, tamed, suppressed, but not changed. the new belief is really equivalent to goethe's thoughts given above, _i.e._, that almost every fault is but a hard shell enclosing the germ of virtue. even men of modern times still follow in education the old rule of medicine, that evil must be driven out by evil, instead of the new method, the system of allowing nature quietly and slowly to help itself, taking care only that the surrounding conditions help the work of nature. this is education. neither harsh nor tender parents suspect the truth expressed by carlyle when he said that the marks of a noble and original temperament are wild, strong emotions, that must be controlled by a discipline as hard as steel. people either strive to root out passions altogether, or they abstain from teaching the child to get them under control. to suppress the real personality of the child, and to supplant it with another personality continues to be a pedagogical crime common to those who announce loudly that education should only develop the real individual nature of the child. they are still not convinced that egoism on the part of the child is justified. just as little are they convinced of the possibility that evil can be changed into good. education must be based on the certainty that faults cannot be atoned for, or blotted out, but must always have their consequences. at the same time, there is the other certainty, that through progressive evolution, by slow adaptation to the conditions of environment they may be transformed. only when this stage is reached will education begin to be a science and art. we will then give up all belief in the miraculous effects of sudden interference; we shall act in the psychological sphere in accordance with the principle of the indestructibility of matter. we shall never believe that a characteristic of the soul can be destroyed. there are but two possibilities. either it can be brought into subjection or it can be raised up to a higher plane. madame de staël's words show much insight when she says that only the people who can play with children are able to educate them. for success in training children the first condition is to become as a child oneself, but this means no assumed childishness, no condescending baby-talk that the child immediately sees through and deeply abhors. what it does mean is to be as entirely and simply taken up with the child as the child himself is absorbed by his life. it means to treat the child as really one's equal, that is, to show him the same consideration, the same kind confidence one shows to an adult. it means not to influence the child to be what we ourselves desire him to become but to be influenced by the impression of what the child himself is; not to treat the child with deception, or by the exercise of force, but with the seriousness and sincerity proper to his own character. somewhere rousseau says that all education has failed in that nature does not fashion parents as educators nor children for the sake of education. what would happen if we finally succeeded in following the directions of nature, and recognised that the great secret of education lies hidden in the maxim, "do not educate"? not leaving the child in peace is the greatest evil of present-day methods of training children. education is determined to create a beautiful world externally and internally in which the child can grow. to let him move about freely in this world until he comes into contact with the permanent boundaries of another's right will be the end of the education of the future. only then will adults really obtain a deep insight into the souls of children, now an almost inaccessible kingdom. for it is a natural instinct of self-preservation which causes the child to bar the educator from his innermost nature. there is the person who asks rude questions; for example, what is the child thinking about? a question which almost invariably is answered with a black or a white lie. the child must protect himself from an educator who would master his thoughts and inclinations, or rudely handle them, who without consideration betrays or makes ridiculous his most sacred feelings, who exposes faults or praises characteristics before strangers, or even uses an open-hearted, confidential confession as an occasion for reproof at another time. the statement that no human being learns to understand another, or at least to be patient with another, is true above all of the intimate relation of child and parent in which, understanding, the deepest characteristic of love, is almost always absent. parents do not see that during the whole life the need of peace is never greater than in the years of childhood, an inner peace under all external unrest. the child has to enter into relations with his own infinite world, to conquer it, to make it the object of his dreams. but what does he experience? obstacles, interference, corrections, the whole livelong day. the child is always required to leave something alone, or to do something different, to find something different, or want something different from what he does, or finds, or wants. he is always shunted off in another direction from that towards which his own character is leading him. all of this is caused by our tenderness, vigilance, and zeal, in directing, advising, and helping the small specimen of humanity to become a complete example in a model series. i have heard a three-year-old child characterised as "trying" because he wanted to go into the woods, whereas the nursemaid wished to drag him into the city. another child of six years was disciplined because she had been naughty to a playmate and had called her a little pig,--a natural appellation for one who was always dirty. these are typical examples of how the sound instincts of the child are dulled. it was a spontaneous utterance of the childish heart when a small boy, after an account of the heaven of good children, asked his mother whether she did not believe that, after he had been good a whole week in heaven, he might be allowed to go to hell on saturday evening to play with the bad little boys there. the child felt in its innermost consciousness that he had a right to be naughty, a fundamental right which is accorded to adults; and not only to be naughty, but to be naughty in peace, to be left to the dangers and joys of naughtiness. to call forth from this "unvirtue" the complimentary virtue is to overcome evil with good. otherwise we overcome natural strength by weak means and obtain artificial virtues which will not stand the tests which life imposes. it seems simple enough when we say that we must overcome evil with good, but practically no process is more involved, or more tedious, than to find actual means to accomplish this end. it is much easier to say what one shall not do than what one must do to change self-will into strength of character, slyness into prudence, the desire to please into amiability, restlessness into personal initiative. it can only be brought about by recognising that evil, in so far as it is not atavistic or perverse, is as natural and indispensable as the good, and that it becomes a permanent evil only through its one-sided supremacy. the educator wants the child to be finished at once, and perfect. he forces upon the child an unnatural degree of self-mastery, a devotion to duty, a sense of honour, habits that adults get out of with astonishing rapidity. where the faults of children are concerned, at home and in school, we strain at gnats, while children daily are obliged to swallow the camels of grown people. the art of natural education consists in ignoring the faults of children nine times out of ten, in avoiding immediate interference, which is usually a mistake, and devoting one's whole vigilance to the control of the environment in which the child is growing up, to watching the education which is allowed to go on by itself. but educators who, day in and day out, are consciously transforming the environment and themselves are still a rare product. most people live on the capital and interest of an education, which perhaps once made them model children, but has deprived them of the desire for educating themselves. only by keeping oneself in constant process of growth, under the constant influence of the best things in one's own age, does one become a companion half-way good enough for one's children. to bring up a child means carrying one's soul in one's hand, setting one's feet on a narrow path; it means never placing ourselves in danger of meeting the cold look on the part of the child that tells us without words that he finds us insufficient and unreliable. it means the humble realisation of the truth that the ways of injuring the child are infinite, while the ways of being useful to him are few. how seldom does the educator remember that the child, even at four or five years of age, is making experiments with adults, seeing through them, with marvellous shrewdness making his own valuations and reacting sensitively to each impression. the slightest mistrust, the smallest unkindness, the least act of injustice or contemptuous ridicule, leave wounds that last for life in the finely strung soul of the child. while on the other side unexpected friendliness, kind advances, just indignation, make quite as deep an impression on those senses which people term as soft as wax but treat as if they were made of cowhide. relatively most excellent was the old education which consisted solely in keeping oneself whole, pure, and honourable. for it did not at least depreciate personality, although it did not form it. it would be well if but a hundredth part of the pains now taken by parents were given to interference with the life of the child and the rest of the ninety and nine employed in leading, without interference, in acting as an unforeseen, an invisible providence through which the child obtains experience, from which he may draw his own conclusions. the present practice is to impress one's own discoveries, opinions, and principles on the child by constantly directing his actions. the last thing to be realised by the educator is that he really has before him an entirely new soul, a real self whose first and chief right is to think over the things with which he comes in contact. by a new soul he understands only a new generation of an old humanity to be treated with a fresh dose of the old remedy. we teach the new souls not to steal, not to lie, to save their clothes, to learn their lessons, to economise their money, to obey commands, not to contradict older people, say their prayers, to fight occasionally in order to be strong. but who teaches the new souls to choose for themselves the path they must tread? who thinks that the desire for this path of their own can be so profound that a hard or even mild pressure towards uniformity can make the whole of childhood a torment. the child comes into life with the inheritance of the preceding members of the race; and this inheritance is modified by adaptation to the environment. but the child shows also individual variations from the type of the species, and if his own character is not to disappear during the process of adaptation, all self-determined development of energy must be aided in every way and only indirectly influenced by the teacher, who should understand how to combine and emphasise the results of this development. interference on the part of the educator, whether by force or persuasion, weakens this development if it does not destroy it altogether. the habits of the household, and the child's habits in it must be absolutely fixed if they are to be of any value. amiel truly says that habits are principles which have become instincts, and have passed over into flesh and blood. to change habits, he continues, means to attack life in its very essence, for life is only a web of habits. why does everything remain essentially the same from generation to generation? why do highly civilised christian people continue to plunder one another and call it exchange, to murder one another _en masse_, and call it nationalism, to oppress one another and call it statesmanship? because in every new generation the impulses supposed to have been rooted out by discipline in the child, break forth again, when the struggle for existence--of the individual in society, of the society in the life of the state--begins. these passions are not transformed by the prevalent education of the day, but only repressed. practically this is the reason why not a single savage passion has been overcome in humanity. perhaps man-eating may be mentioned as an exception. but what is told of european ship companies or siberian prisoners shows that even this impulse, under conditions favourable to it, may be revived, although in the majority of people a deep physical antipathy to man-eating is innate. conscious incest, despite similar deviations, must also be physically contrary to the majority, and in a number of women, modesty--the unity between body and soul in relation to love--is an incontestable provision of nature. so too a minority would find it physically impossible to murder or steal. with this list i have exhausted everything which mankind, since its conscious history began, has really so intimately acquired that the achievement is passed on in its flesh and blood. only this kind of conquest can really stand up against temptation in every form. a deep physiological truth is hidden in the use of language when one speaks of unchained passions; the passions, under the prevailing system of education, are really only beasts of prey imprisoned in cages. while fine words are spoken about individual development, children are treated as if their personality had no purpose of its own, as if they were made only for the pleasure, pride, and comfort of their parents; and as these aims are best advanced when children become like every one else, people usually begin by attempting to make them respectable and useful members of society. but the only correct starting point, so far as a child's education in becoming a social human being is concerned, is to treat him as such, while strengthening his natural disposition to become an individual human being. the new educator will, by regularly ordered experience, teach the child by degrees his place in the great orderly system of existence; teach him his responsibility towards his environment. but in other respects, none of the individual characteristics of the child expressive of his life will be suppressed, so long as they do not injure the child himself, or others. the right balance must be kept between spencer's definition of life as an adaptation to surrounding conditions, and nietzsche's definition of it as the will to secure power. in adaptation, imitation certainly plays a great rôle, but individual exercise of power is just as important. through adaptation life attains a fixed form; through exercise of power, new factors. thoughtful people, as i have already stated, talk a good deal about personality. but they are, nevertheless, filled with doubts when their children are not just like all other children; when they cannot show in their offspring all the ready-made virtues required by society. and so they drill their children, repressing in childhood the natural instincts which will have freedom when they are grown. people still hardly realise how new human beings are formed; therefore the old types constantly repeat themselves in the same circle,--the fine young men, the sweet girls, the respectable officials, and so on. and new types with higher ideals,--travellers on unknown paths, thinkers of yet unthought thoughts, people capable of the crime of inaugurating new ways,--such types rarely come into existence among those who are well brought up. nature herself, it is true, repeats the main types constantly. but she also constantly makes small deviations. in this way different species, even of the human race, have come into existence. but man himself does not yet see the significance of this natural law in his own higher development. he wants the feelings, thoughts, and judgments already stamped with approval to be reproduced by each new generation. so we get no new individuals, but only more or less prudent, stupid, amiable, or bad-tempered examples of the genus man. the still living instincts of the ape, double, in the case of man, the effect of heredity. conservatism is for the present stronger in mankind than the effort to produce new types. but this last characteristic is the most valuable. the educator should do anything but advise the child to do what everybody does. he should rather rejoice when he sees in the child tendencies to deviation. using other people's opinion as a standard results in subordinating one's self to their will. so we become a part of the great mass, led by the superman through the strength of his will, a will which could not have mastered strong personalities. it has been justly remarked that individual peoples, like the english, have attained the greatest political and social freedom, because the personal feeling of independence is far in excess of freedom in a legal form. accordingly legal freedom has been constantly growing. for the progress of the whole of the species, as well as of society, it is essential that education shall awake the feeling of independence; it should invigorate and favour the disposition to deviate from the type in those cases where the rights of others are not affected, or where deviation is not simply the result of the desire to draw attention to oneself. the child should be given the chance to declare conscientiously his independence of a customary usage, of an ordinary feeling, for this is the foundation of the education of an individual, as well as the basis of a collective conscience, which is the only kind of conscience men now have. what does having an individual conscience mean? it means submitting voluntarily to an external law, attested and found good by my own conscience. it means unconditionally heeding the unwritten law, which i lay upon myself, and following this inner law even when i must stand alone against the whole world. it is a frequent phenomenon, we can almost call it a regular one, that it is original natures, particularly talented beings, who are badly treated at home and in school. no one considers the sources of conduct in a child who shows fear or makes a noise, or who is absorbed in himself, or who has an impetuous nature. mothers and teachers show in this their pitiable incapacity for the most elementary part in the art of education, that is, to be able to see with their own eyes, not with pedagogical doctrines in their head. i naturally expect in the supporters of society, with their conventional morality, no appreciation of the significance of the child's putting into exercise his own powers. just as little is this to be expected of those christian believers who think that human nature must be brought to repentance and humility, and that the sinful body, the unclean beast, must be tamed with the rod,--a theory which the bible is brought to support. i am only addressing people who can think new thoughts and consequently should cease using old methods of education. this class may reply that the new ideas in education cannot be carried out. but the obstacle is simply that their new thoughts have not made them into new men; the old man in them has neither repose, nor time, nor patience, to form his own soul, and that of the child, according to the new thoughts. those who have "tried spencer and failed," because spencer's method demands intelligence and patience, contend that the child must be taught to obey, that truth lies in the old rule, "as the twig is bent the tree is inclined." _bent_ is the appropriate word, bent according to the old ideal which extinguishes personality, teaches humility and obedience. but the new ideal is that man, to stand straight and upright, must not be bent at all, only supported, and so prevented from being deformed by weakness. one often finds, in the modern system of training, the crude desire for mastery still alive and breaking out when the child is obstinate. "you won't!" say father and mother; "i will teach you whether you have a will. i will soon drive self-will out of you." but nothing can be driven out of the child; on the other hand, much can be scourged into it which should be kept far away. only during the first few years of life is a kind of drill necessary, as a pre-condition to a higher training. the child is then in such a high degree controlled by sensation, that a slight physical pain or pleasure is often the only language he fully understands. consequently for some children discipline is an indispensable means of enforcing the practice of certain habits. for other children, the stricter methods are entirely unnecessary even at this early age, and as soon as the child can remember a blow, he is too old to receive one. the child must certainly learn obedience, and, besides, this obedience must be absolute. if such obedience has become habitual from the tenderest age, a look, a word, an intonation is enough to keep the child straight. the dissatisfaction of those who are bringing him up can only be made effective when it falls as a shadow in the usual sunny atmosphere of home. and if people refrain from laying the foundations of obedience while the child is small, and his naughtiness is entertaining, spencer's method undoubtedly will be found unsuitable after the child is older and his caprice disagreeable. with a very small child, one should not argue, but act consistently and immediately. the effort of training should be directed at an early period to arrange the experiences in a consistent whole of impressions according to rousseau and spencer's recommendation. so certain habits will become impressed in the flesh and blood of the child. constant crying on the part of small children must be corrected when it has become clear that the crying is not caused by illness or some other discomfort,--discomforts against which crying is the child's only weapon. crying is now ordinarily corrected by blows. but this does not master the will of the child, and only produces in his soul the idea that older people strike small children, when small children cry. this is not an ethical idea. but when the crying child is immediately isolated, and it is explained to him at the same time that whoever annoys others must not be with them; if this isolation is the absolute result, and cannot be avoided, in the child's mind a basis is laid for the experience that one must be alone when one makes oneself unpleasant or disagreeable. in both cases the child is silenced by interfering with his comfort; but one type of discomfort is the exercise of force on his will; the other produces slowly the self-mastery of the will, and accomplishes this by a good motive. one method encourages a base emotion, fear. the other corrects the will in a way that combines it with one of the most important experiences of life. the one punishment keeps the child on the level of the animal. the other impresses upon him the great principle of human social life, that when our pleasure causes displeasure to others, other people hinder us from following our pleasures; or withdraw themselves from the exercise of our self-will. it is necessary that small children should accustom themselves to good behaviour at table, etc. if every time an act of naughtiness is repeated, the child is immediately taken away, he will soon learn that whoever is disagreeable to others must remain alone. thus a right application is made of a right principle. small children, too, must learn not to touch what belongs to other people. if every time anything is touched without permission, children lose their freedom of action one way or another, they soon learn that a condition of their free action is not to injure others. it is quite true, as a young mother remarked, that empty japanese rooms are ideal places in which to bring up children. our modern crowded rooms are, so far as children are concerned, to be condemned. during the year in which the real education of the child is proceeding by touching, tasting, biting, feeling, and so on, every moment he is hearing the cry, "let it alone." for the temperament of the child as well as for the development of his powers, the best thing is a large, light nursery, adorned with handsome lithographs, wood-cuts, and so on, provided with some simple furniture, where he may enjoy the fullest freedom of movement. but if the child is there with his parents and is disobedient, a momentary reprimand is the best means to teach him to reverence the greater world in which the will of others prevails, the world in which the child certainly can make a place for himself but must also learn that every place occupied by him has its limits. if it is a case of a danger, which it is desirable that the child should really dread, we must allow the thing itself to have an alarming influence. when a mother strikes a child because he touches the light, the result is that he does this again when the mother is away. but let him burn himself with the light, then he is certain to leave it alone. in riper years when a boy misuses a knife, a toy, or something similar, the loss of the object for the time being must be the punishment. most boys would prefer corporal punishment to the loss of their favourite possession. but only the loss of it will be a real education through experience of one of the inevitable rules of life, an experience which cannot be too strongly impressed. we hear parents who have begun with spencer and then have taken to corporal punishment declare that when children are too small to repair the clothing which they have torn there must be some other kind of punishment. but at that age they should not be punished at all for such things. they should have such simple and strong clothes that they can play freely in them. later on, when they can be really careful, the natural punishment would be to have the child remain at home if he is careless, has spotted his clothes, or torn them. he must be shown that he must help to put his clothes in good condition again, or that he will be compelled to buy what he has destroyed carelessly with money earned by himself. if the child is not careful, he must stay at home, when ordinarily allowed to go out, or eat alone if he is too late for meals. it may be said that there are simple means by which all the important habits of social life may become a second nature. but it is not possible in all cases to apply spencer's method. the natural consequences occasionally endanger the health of the child, or sometimes are too slow in their action. if it seems necessary to interfere directly, such action must be consistent, quick, and immutable. how is it that the child learns very soon that fire burns? because fire does so always. but the mother who at one time strikes, at another threatens, at another bribes the child, first forbids and then immediately after permits some action; who does not carry out her threat, does not compel obedience, but constantly gabbles and scolds; who sometimes acts in one way and just as often in another, has not learned the effective educational methods of the fire. the old-fashioned strict training that in its crude way gave to the character a fixed type rested on its consistent qualities. it was consistently strict, not as at present a lax hesitation between all kinds of pedagogical methods and psychological opinions, in which the child is thrown about here and there like a ball, in the hands of grown people; at one time pushed forward, then laughed at, then pushed aside, only to be brought back again, kissed till it is disgusted, first ordered about, and then coaxed. a grown man would become insane if joking titans treated him for a single day as a child is treated for a year. a child should not be ordered about, but should be just as courteously addressed as a grown person in order that he may learn courtesy. a child should never be pushed into notice, never compelled to endure caresses, never overwhelmed with kisses, which ordinarily torment him and are often the cause of sexual hyperæsthesia. the child's demonstrations of affection should be reciprocated when they are sincere, but one's own demonstrations should be reserved for special occasions. this is one of the many excellent maxims of training that are disregarded. nor should the child be forced to express regret in begging pardon and the like. this is excellent training for hypocrisy. a small child once had been rude to his elder brother and was placed upon a chair to repent his fault. when the mother after a time asked if he was sorry, he answered, "yes," with emphasis, but as the mother saw a mutinous sparkle in his eyes she felt impelled to ask, "sorry for what?" and the youngster broke out, "sorry that i did not call him a liar besides." the mother was wise enough on this occasion, and ever after, to give up insisting on repentance. spontaneous penitence is full of significance; it is a deeply felt desire for pardon. but an artificial emotion is always and everywhere worthless. are you not sorry? does it make no difference to you that your mother is ill, your brother dead, your father away from home? such expressions are often used as an appeal to the emotions of children. but children have a right to have feelings, or not have them, and to have them as undisturbed as grown people. the same holds good of their sympathies and antipathies. the sensitive feelings of children are constantly injured by lack of consideration on the part of grown people, their easily stimulated aversions are constantly being brought out. but the sufferings of children through the crudeness of their elders belong to an unwritten chapter of child psychology. just as there are few better methods of training than to ask children, when they have behaved unjustly to others, to consider whether it would be pleasant for them to be treated in that way, so there is no better corrective for the trainer of children than the habit of asking oneself, in question small and great,--would i consent to be treated as i have just treated my child? if it were only remembered that the child generally suffers double as much as the adult, parents would perhaps learn physical and psychical tenderness without which a child's life is a constant torment. as to presents, the same principle holds good as with emotions and marks of tenderness. only by example can generous instincts be provoked. above all the child should not be allowed to have things which he immediately gives away. gifts to a child should always imply a personal requital for work or sacrifice. in order to secure for children the pleasure of giving and the opportunity of obtaining small pleasures and enjoyments, as well as of replacing property of their own or of others which they may have destroyed, they should at an early age be accustomed to perform seriously certain household duties for which they receive some small remuneration. but small occasional services, whether volunteered or asked for by others, should never be rewarded. only readiness to serve, without payment, develops the joy of generosity. when the child wants to give away something, people should not make a pretence of receiving it. this produces the false conception in his mind that the pleasure of being generous can be had for nothing. at every step the child should be allowed to meet the real experiences of life; the thorns should never be plucked from his roses. this is what is least understood in present-day training. thus we see reasonable methods constantly failing. people find themselves forced to "afflictive" methods which stand in no relation with the realities of life. i mean, above all, what are still called means of education, instead of means of torture,--blows. many people of to-day defend blows, maintaining that they are milder means of punishment than the natural consequences of an act; that blows have the strongest effect on the memory, which effect becomes permanent through association of ideas. but what kinds of association? is it not with physical pain and shame? gradually, step by step, this method of training and discipline has been superseded in all its forms. the movement to abolish torture, imprisonment, and corporal punishment failed for a long time owing to the conviction that they were indispensable as methods of discipline. but the child, people answer, is still an animal, he must be brought up as an animal. those who talk in this way know nothing of children nor of animals. even animals can be trained without striking them, but they can only be trained by men who have become men themselves. others come forward with the doctrine that terror and pain have been the best means of educating mankind, so the child must pursue the same road as humanity. this is an utter absurdity. we should also, on this theory, teach our children, as a natural introduction to religion, to practise fetish worship. if the child is to reproduce all the lower development stages of the race, he would be practically depressed beneath the level which he has reached physiologically and psychologically through the common inheritance of the race. if we have abandoned torture and painful punishments for adults, while they are retained for children, it is because we have not yet seen that their soul life so far as a greater and more subtle capacity for suffering is concerned has made the same progress as that of adult mankind. the numerous cases of child suicide in the last decade were often the result of fear of corporal punishment; or have taken place after its administration. both soul and body are equally affected by this practice. where this is not the result, blows have even more dangerous consequences. they tend to dull still further the feeling of shame, to increase the brutality or cowardice of the person punished. i once heard a child pointed out in a school as being so unruly that it was generally agreed he would be benefited by a flogging. then it was discovered that his father's flogging at home had made him what he was. if statistics were prepared of ruined sons, those who had been flogged would certainly be more numerous than those who had been pampered. society has gradually given up employing retributive punishments because people have seen that they neither awaken the feeling of guilt, nor act as a deterrent, but on the contrary retribution applied by equal to equal brutalises the ideas of right, hardens the temper, and stimulates the victim to exercise the same violence towards others that has been endured by himself. but other rules are applied to the psychological processes of the child. when a child strikes his small sister the mother strikes him and believes that he will see and understand the difference between the blows he gets and those he gives; that he will see that the one is a just punishment and the other vicious conduct. but the child is a sharp logician and feels that the action is just the same, although the mother gives it a different name. corporal punishment was long ago admirably described by comenius, who compared an educator using this method with a musician striking a badly tuned instrument with his fist, instead of using his ears and his hands to put it into tune. these brutal attacks work on the active sensitive feelings, lacerating and confusing them. they have no educative power on all the innumerable fine processes in the life of the child's soul, on their obscurely related combinations. in order to give real training, the first thing after the second or third year is to abandon the very thought of a blow among the possibilities of education. it is best if parents, as soon as the child is born, agree never to strike him, for if they once begin with this convenient and easy method, they continue to use corporal discipline even contrary to their first intention, because they have failed while using such punishment to develop the child's intelligence. if people do not see this it is no more use to speak to them of education than it would be to talk to a cannibal about the world's peace. but as these savages in educational matters are often civilised human beings in other respects, i should like to request them to think over the development of marriage from the time when man wooed with a club and when woman was regarded as the soulless property of man, only to be kept in order by blows, a view which continued to be held until modern times. through a thousand daily secret influences, our feelings and ideas have been so transformed that these crude conceptions have disappeared, to the great advantage of society and the individual. but it may be hard to awaken a pedagogical savage to the conviction that, in quite the same way, a thousand new secret and mighty influences will change our crude methods of education, when parents once come to see that parenthood must go through the same transformation as marriage, before it attains to a noble and complete development. only when men realise that whipping a child belongs to the same low stage of civilisation as beating a woman, or a servant, or as the corporal punishment of soldiers and criminals, will the first real preparation begin of the material from which perhaps later an educator may be formed. corporal punishment was natural in rough times. the body is tangible; what affects it has an immediate and perceptible result. the heat of passion is cooled by the blows it administers; in a certain stage of development blows are the natural expression of moral indignation, the direct method by which the moral will impresses itself on beings of lower capacities. but it has since been discovered that the soul may be impressed by spiritual means, and that blows are just as demoralising for the one who gives them as for the one who receives them. the educator, too, is apt to forget that the child in many cases has as few moral conceptions as the animal or the savage. to punish for this--is only a cruelty, and to punish by brutal methods is a piece of stupidity. it works against the possibility of elevating the child beyond the level of the beast or the savage. the educator to whose mind flogging never presents itself, even as an occasional resource, will naturally direct his whole thought to finding psychological methods of education. administering corporal punishment demoralises and stupefies the educator, for it increases his thoughtlessness, not his patience, his brutality, not his intelligence. a small boy friend of mine when four years old received his first punishment of this kind; happily it was his only one. as his nurse reminded him in the evening to say his prayers he broke out, '"yes, to-night i really have something to tell god," and prayed with deep earnestness, "dear god, tear mamma's arms out so that she cannot beat me any more." nothing would more effectively further the development of education than for all flogging pedagogues to meet this fate. they would then learn to educate with the head instead of with the hand. and as to public educators, the teachers, their position could be no better raised than by legally forbidding a blow to be administered in any school under penalty of final loss of position. that people who are in other respects intelligent and sensitive continue to defend flogging, is due to the fact that most educators have only a very elementary conception of their work. they should constantly keep before them the feelings and impressions of their own childhood in dealing with children. the most frequent as well as the most dangerous of the numerous mistakes made in handling children is that people do not remember how they felt themselves at a similar age, that they do not regard and comprehend the feelings of the child from their own past point of view. the adult laughs or smiles in remembering the punishments and other things which caused him in his childhood anxious days or nights, which produced the silent torture of the child's heart, infinite despondency, burning indignation, lonely fears, outraged sense of justice, the terrible creations of his imagination, his absurd shame, his unsatisfied thirst for joy, freedom, and tenderness. lacking these beneficent memories, adults constantly repeat the crime of destroying the childhood of the new generation,--the only time in life in which the guardian of education can really be a kindly providence. so strongly do i feel that the unnecessary sufferings of children are unnatural as well as ignoble that i experience physical disgust in touching the hand of a human being that i know has struck a child; and i cannot close my eyes after i have heard a child in the street threatened with corporal punishment. blows call forth the virtues of slaves, not those of freemen. as early as walther von der vogelweide, it was known that the honourable man respects a word more than a blow. the exercise of physical force delivers the weak and unprotected into the hands of the strong. a child never believes in his heart, though he may be brought to acknowledge verbally, that the blows were due to love, that they were administered because they were necessary. the child is too keen not to know that such a "must" does not exist, and that love can express itself in a better way. lack of self-discipline, of intelligence, of patience, of personal effort--these are the corner-stones on which corporal punishment rests. i do not now refer to the system of flogging employed by miserable people year in and year out at home, or, particularly in schools, that of beating children outrageously, or to the limits of brutality. i do not mean even the less brutal blows administered by undisciplined teachers and parents, who avenge themselves in excesses of passion or fatigue or disgust,--blows which are simply the active expression of a tension of nerves, a detestable evidence of the want of self-discipline and self-culture. still less do i refer to the cruelties committed by monsters, sexual perverts, whose brutal tendencies are stimulated by their disciplinary power and who use it to force their victims to silence, as certain criminal trials have shown. i am only speaking of conscientious, amiable parents and teachers who, with pain to themselves, fulfil what they regard as their duty to the child. these are accustomed to adduce the good effects of corporal discipline as a proof that it cannot be dispensed with. the child by being whipped is, they say, not only made good but freed from his evil character, and shows by his whole being that this quick and summary method of punishment has done more than talks, and patience, and the slowly working penalties of experience. examples are adduced to prove that only this kind of punishment breaks down obstinacy, cures the habit of lying and the like. those who adopt this system do not perceive that they have only succeeded, through this momentarily effective means, in repressing the external expression of an evil will. they have not succeeded in transforming the will itself. it requires constant vigilance, daily self-discipline, to create an ever higher capacity for the discovery of intelligent methods. the fault that is repressed is certain to appear on every occasion when the child dares to show it. the educator who finds in corporal punishment a short way to get rid of trouble, leads the child a long way round, if we have the only real development in view, namely that which gradually strengthens the child's capacity for self-control. i have never heard a child over three years old threatened with corporal punishment without noticing that this wonderfully moral method had an equally bad influence on parents and children. the same can be said of milder kinds of folly, coaxing children by external rewards. i have seen some children coaxed to take baths and others compelled by threats. but in neither case was their courage, or self-control, or strength of will increased. only when one is able to make the bath itself attractive is that energy of will developed that gains a victory over the feeling of fear or discomfort and produces a real ethical impression, viz., that virtue is its own reward. wherever a child is deterred from a bad habit or fault by corporal punishment, a real ethical result is not reached. the child has only learnt to fear an unpleasant consequence, which lacks real connection with the thing itself, a consequence it well knows could have been absent. such fear is as far removed as heaven from the conviction that the good is better than the bad. the child soon becomes convinced that the disagreeable accompaniment is no necessary result of the action, that by greater cleverness the punishment might have been avoided. thus the physical punishment increases deception not morality. in the history of humanity the effect of the teaching about hell and fear of hell illustrates the sort of morality produced in children's souls by corporal punishment, that inferno of childhood. only with the greatest trouble, slowly and unconsciously, is the conviction of the superiority of the good established. the good comes to be seen as more productive of happiness to the individual himself and his environment. so the child learns to love the good. by teaching the child that punishment is a consequence drawn upon oneself he learns to avoid the cause of punishment. despite all the new talk of individuality the greatest mistake in training children is still that of treating the "child" as an abstract conception, as an inorganic or personal material to be formed and transformed by the hands of those who are educating him. he is beaten, and it is thought that the whole effect of the blow stops at the moment when the child is prevented from being bad. he has, it is thought, a powerful reminder against future bad behaviour. people do not suspect that this violent interference in the physical and psychical life of the child may have lifelong effects. as far back as forty years ago, a writer showed that corporal punishment had the most powerful somatic stimulative effects. the flagellation of the middle ages is known to have had such results; and if i could publish what i have heard from adults as to the effect of corporal punishment on them, or what i have observed in children, this alone would be decisive in doing away with such punishment in its crudest form. it very deeply influences the personal modesty of the child. this should be preserved above everything as the main factor in the development of the feeling of purity. the father who punishes his daughter in this way deserves to see her some day a "fallen woman." he injures her instinctive feeling of the sanctity of her body, an instinct which even in the case of a small child can be passionately profound. only when every infringement of sanctity (forcible caressing is as bad as a blow) evokes an energetic, instinctive repulsion, is the nature of the child proud and pure. children who strike back when they are punished have the most promising characters of all. numerous are the cases in which bodily punishment can occasion irremediable damage, not suspected by the person who administers it, though he may triumphantly declare how the punishment in the specific case has helped. most adults feel free to tell how a whipping has injured them in one way or another, but when they take up the training of their own children they depend on the effect of such chastisement. what burning bitterness and desire for vengeance, what canine fawning flattery, does not corporal punishment call forth. it makes the lazy lazier, the obstinate more obstinate, the hard, harder. it strengthens those two emotions, the root of almost all evil in the world, hatred and fear. and as long as blows are made synonymous with education, both of these emotions will keep their mastery over men. one of the most frequent occasions for recourse to this punishment is obstinacy, but what is called obstinacy is only fear or incapacity. the child repeats a false answer, is threatened with blows, and again repeats it just because he is afraid not to say the right thing. he is struck and then answers rightly. this is a triumph of education; refractoriness is overcome. but what has happened? increased fear has led to a strong effort of thought, to a momentary increase of self-control. the next day the child will very likely repeat the fault. where there is real obstinacy on the part of children, i know of cases when corporal punishment has filled them with the lust to kill, either themselves or the person who strikes them. on the other hand i know of others, where a mother has brought an obstinate child to repentance and self-mastery by holding him quietly and calmly on her knees. how many untrue confessions have been forced by fear of blows; how much daring passion for action, spirit of adventure, play of fancy, and stimulus to discovery has been repressed by this same fear. even where blows do not cause lying, they always hinder absolute straightforwardness and the downright personal courage to show oneself as one is. as long as the word "blow" is used at all in a home, no perfect honour will be found in children. so long as the home and the school use this method of education, brutality will be developed in the child himself at the cost of humanity. the child uses on animals, on his young brothers and sisters, on his comrades, the methods applied to himself. he puts in practice the same argument, that "badness" must be cured with blows. only children accustomed to be treated mildly, learn to see that influence can be gained without using force. to see this is one of man's privileges, sacrificed by man through descending to the methods of the brute. only by the child seeing his teacher always and everywhere abstaining from the use of actual force, will he come himself to despise force on all those occasions which do not involve the defence of a weaker person against physical superiority. the foundation of the desire for war is to be sought for less in the war games than in the teachers' rod. to defend corporal discipline, children's own statements are brought in evidence, they are reported as saying they knew they deserved such discipline in order to be made good. there is no lower example of hypocrisy in human nature than this. it is true the child may be sincere in other cases in saying that he feels that through punishment he has atoned for a fault which was weighing upon his conscience. but this is really the foundation of a false system of ethics, the kind which still continues to be preached as christian, namely; that a fault may be atoned for by sufferings which are not directly connected with the fault. the basis of the new morality is just the opposite as i have already shown. it teaches that no fault can be atoned for, that no one can escape the results of his actions in any way. untruthfulness belongs to the faults which the teacher thinks he must most frequently punish with blows. but there is no case in which this method is more dangerous. when the much-needed guide-book for parents is published, the well-known story of george washington and the hatchet must appear in it, accompanied by the remark which a clever ten-year-old child added to the anecdote: "it is no trouble telling the truth when one has such a kind father." i formerly divided untruthfulness into unwilling, shameless, and imaginative lies. a short time ago i ran across a much better division of lying; first "cold" lies, that is, fully conscious untruthfulness which must be punished, and "hot" lies; the expression of an excited temperament or of a vigorous fancy. i agree with the author of this distinction that the last should not be punished but corrected, though not with a pedantic rule of thumb measure, based on how much it exceeds or falls short of truth. it is to be cured by ridicule, a dangerous method of education in general, but useful when one observes that this type of untruthfulness threatens to develop into real untrustworthiness. in dealing with these faults we are very strict towards children, so strict that no lawyer, no politician, no journalist, no poet, could exercise his profession if the same standard were applied to them as to children. the white lie is, as a french scientist has shown, partly caused by pure morbidness, partly through some defect in the conception. it is due to an empty space, a dead point in memory, or in consciousness, that produces a defective idea or gives one no idea at all of what has happened. in the affairs of everyday life the adults are often mistaken as to their intentions or acts. they may have forgotten about their actions, and it requires a strong effort of memory to call them back into their minds; or they suggest to themselves that they have done, or not done, something. in all of these cases, if they were forced to give a distinct answer, they would lie. in every case of this kind, where a child is concerned, the lie is assumed to be a conscious one, and when on being submitted to a strict cross-examination, he hesitates, becomes confused, and blushes, it is looked upon as a proof that he knows he has been telling an untruth, although as a rule there has been no instance of untruthfulness, except the finally extorted confession from the child that he has lied. yet in all these complicated psychological problems, corporal punishment is treated as a solution. the child who never hears lying at home, who does not see exaggerated weight placed on small, merely external things, who is not made cowardly by fear, who hears conscious lies always spoken of with contempt, will get out of the habit of untruthfulness simply by psychological means. first he will find that untruthfulness causes astonishment, and a repetition of it, scorn and lack of confidence. but these methods should not be applied to untruthfulness caused by distress or by richness of imagination; or to such cases as originate from the obscure mental ideas noted above, ideas whose connection with one another the child cannot make clear to himself. the cold untruth on the other hand, must be punished; first by going over it with the child, then letting him experience its effect in lack of confidence, which will only be restored when the child shows decided improvement in this regard. it is of the greatest importance to show children full and unlimited confidence, even though one quietly maintains an attitude of alert watchfulness; for continuous and undeserved mistrust is just as demoralising as blind and easy confidence. no one who has been beaten for lying learns by it to love truth. the accuracy of this principle is illustrated by adults who despise corporal punishment in their childhood yet continue to tell untruths by word and deed. fear may keep the child from technical untruth, but fear also produces untrustworthiness. those who have been beaten in childhood for lying have often suffered a serious injury immeasurably greater than the direct lie. the truest men i ever knew lie voluntarily and involuntarily; while others who might never be caught in a lie are thoroughly false. this corruption of personality begins frequently at the tenderest age under the influence of early training. children are given untrue motives, half-true information; are threatened, admonished. the child's will, thought, and feeling are oppressed; against this treatment dishonesty is the readiest method of defence. in this way educators who make truth their highest aim, make children untruthful. i watched a child who was severely punished for denying something he had unconsciously done, and noted how under the influence of this senseless punishment he developed extreme dissimulation. truthfulness requires above everything unbroken determination; and many nervous little liars need nourishing food and life in the open air, not blows. a great artist, one of the few who live wholly according to the modern principles of life, said to me on one occasion: "my son does not know what a lie is, nor what a blow is. his step-brother, on the other hand, lied when he came into our house; but lying did not work in the atmosphere of calm and freedom. after a year the habit disappeared by itself, only because it always met with deep astonishment." this makes me, in passing, note one of the other many mistakes of education, viz., the infinite trouble taken in trying to do away with a fault which disappears by itself. people take infinite pains to teach small children to speak distinctly who, if left to themselves, would learn it by themselves, provided they were always spoken to distinctly. this same principle holds good of numerous other things, in children's attitude and behaviour, that can be left simply to a good example and to time. one's influence should be used in impressing upon the child habits for which a foundation must be laid at the very beginning of his life. there is another still more unfortunate mistake, the mistake of correcting and judging by an external effect produced by the act, by the scandal it occasions in the environment. children are struck for using oaths and improper words the meaning of which they do not understand; or if they do understand, the result of strictness is only that they go on keeping silence in matters in which sincerity towards those who are bringing them up is of the highest importance. the very thing the child is allowed to do uncorrected at home, is not seldom corrected if it happens away from home. so the child gets a false idea that it is not the thing that deserves punishment, but its publicity. when a mother is ashamed of the bad behaviour of her son she is apt to strike him--instead of striking her own breast! when an adventurous feat fails he is beaten, but he is praised when successful. these practices produce demoralisation. once in a wood i saw two parents laughing while the ice held on which their son was sliding; when it broke suddenly they threatened to whip him. it required strong self-control in order not to say to this pair that it was not the son who deserved punishment but themselves. on occasions like these, parents avenge their own fright on their children. i saw a child become a coward because an anxious mother struck him every time he fell down, while the natural result inflicted on the child would have been more than sufficient to increase his carefulness. when misfortune is caused by disobedience, natural alarm is, as a rule, enough to prevent a repetition of it. if it is not sufficient blows have no restraining effect; they only embitter. the boy finds that adults have forgotten their own period of childhood; he withdraws himself secretly from this abuse of power, provided strict treatment does not succeed in totally depressing the level of the child's will and obstructing his energies. this is certainly a danger, but the most serious effect of corporal punishment is that it has established an unethical morality as its result. until the human being has learnt to see that effort, striving, development of power, are their own reward, life remains an unbeautiful affair. the debasing effects of vanity and ambition, the small and great cruelties produced by injustice, are all due to the idea that failure or success sets the value to deeds and actions. a complete revolution in this crude theory of value must come about before the earth can become the scene of a happy but considerate development of power on the part of free and fine human beings. every contest decided by examinations and prizes is ultimately an immoral method of training. it awakens only evil passions, envy and the impression of injustice on the one side, arrogance on the other. after i had during the course of twenty years fought these school examinations, i read with thorough agreement a short time ago, ruskin's views on the subject. he believed that all competition was a false basis of stimulus, and every distribution of prizes a false means. he thought that the real sign of talent in a boy, auspicious for his future career, was his desire to work for work's sake. he declared that the real aim of instruction should be to show him his own proper and special gifts, to strengthen them in him, not to spur him on to an empty competition with those who were plainly his superiors in capacity. moreover it ought not to be forgotten that success and failure involve of themselves their own punishment and their own reward, the one bitter, the other sweet enough to secure in a natural way increased strength, care, prudence, and endurance. it is completely unnecessary for the educator to use, besides these, some special punishments or special rewards, and so pervert the conceptions of the child that failure seems to him to be a wrong, success on the other hand as the right. no matter where one turns one's gaze, it is notorious that the externally encouraging or awe-inspiring means of education, are an obstacle to what are the chief human characteristics, courage in oneself and goodness to others. a people whose education is carried on by gentle means only (i mean the people of japan), have shown that manliness is not in danger where children are not hardened by corporal punishment. these gentle means are just as effective in calling forth self-mastery and consideration. these virtues are so imprinted on children, at the tenderest age, that one learns first in japan what attraction considerate kindliness bestows upon life. in a country where blows are never seen, the first rule of social intercourse is not to cause discomfort to others. it is told that when a foreigner in japan took up a stone to throw it at a dog, the dog did not run. no one had ever thrown a stone at him. tenderness towards animals is the complement in that country of tenderness in human relationship, a tenderness whose result is observed, among other effects, in a relatively small number of crimes against life and security. war, hunting for pleasure, corporal discipline, are nothing more than different expressions of the tiger nature still alive in man. when the rod is thrown away, and when, as some one has said, children are no longer boxed on their ears but are given magnifying glasses and photographic cameras to increase their capacity for life and for loving it, instead of learning to destroy it, real education in humanity will begin. for the benefit of those who are not convinced that corporal punishment can be dispensed with in a manly education, by so remote and so distant an example as japan, i should like to mention a fact closer to us. our germanic forefathers did not have this method of education. it was introduced with christianity. corporal discipline was turned into a religious duty, and as late as the seventeenth century there were intelligent men who flogged their children once a week as a part of spiritual guardianship. i once asked our great poet, victor rydberg, and he said that he had found no proof that corporal punishment was usual among the germans in heathen times. i asked him whether he did not believe that the fact of its absence had encouraged the energetic individualism and manliness in the northern peoples. he thought so, and agreed with me. finally, i might note from our own time, that there are many families and schools, our girls' schools for example, and also boys' schools in some countries, where corporal punishment is never used. i know a family with twelve children whose activity and capacity are not damaged by bringing them under the rule of duty alone. corporal punishment is never used in this home; a determined but mild mother has taught the children to obey voluntarily, and has known how to train their wills to self-control. by "voluntary obedience," i do not mean that the child is bound to ask endless questions for reasons, and to dispute them before he obeys. a good teacher never gives a command without there being some good reason, but whether the child is convinced or not, he must always obey, and if he asks "why" the answer is very simple; every one, adults as well as children, must obey the right and must submit to what cannot be avoided. the great necessity in life must be imprinted in childhood. this can be done without harsh means by training the child, even previous to his birth, by cultivating one's self-control, and after his birth by never giving in to a child's caprices. the rule is, in a few cases, to work in opposition to the action of the child, but in other cases work constructively; i mean provide the child with material to construct his own personality and then let him do this work of construction. this is, in brief, the art of education. the worst of all educational methods are threats. the only effective admonitions are short and infrequent ones. the greatest skill in the educator is to be silent for the moment and then so reprove the fault, indirectly, that the child is brought to correct himself or make himself the object of blame. this can be done by the instructor telling something that causes the child to compare his own conduct with the hateful or admirable types of behaviour about which he hears information. or the educator may give an opinion which the child must take to himself although it is not applied directly to him. on many occasions a forceful display of indignation on the part of the elder person is an excellent punishment, if the indignation is reserved for the right moment. i know children to whom nothing was more frightful than their father's scorn; this was dreaded. children who are deluged with directions and religious devotions, who receive an ounce of morality in every cup of joy, are most certain to be those who will revolt against all this. nearly every thinking person feels that the deepest educational influences in his life have been indirect; some good advice not given to him directly; a noble deed told without any direct reference. but when people come themselves to train others they forget all their own personal experience. the strongest constructive factor in the education of a human being is the settled, quiet order of home, its peace, and its duty. openheartedness, industry, straightforwardness at home develop goodness, desire to work, and simplicity in the child. examples of artistic work and books in the home, its customary life on ordinary days and holidays, its occupations and its pleasures, should give to the emotions and imagination of the child, periods of movement and repose, a sure contour and a rich colour. the pure, warm, clear atmosphere in which father, mother, and children live together in freedom and confidence; where none are kept isolated from the interests of the others; but each possesses full freedom for his own personal interest; where none trenches on the rights of others; where all are willing to help one another when necessary,--in this atmosphere egoism, as well as altruism, can attain their richest development, and individuality find its just freedom. as the evolution of man's soul advances to undreamed-of possibilities of refinement, of capacity, of profundity; as the spiritual life of the generation becomes more manifold in its combinations and in its distinctions; the more time one has for observing the wonderful and deep secrets of existence, behind the visible, tangible, world of sense, the more will each new generation of children show a more refined and a more consistent mental life. it is impossible to attain this result under the torture of the crude methods in our present home and school training. we need new homes, new schools, new marriages, new social relations, for those new souls who are to feel, love, and suffer, in ways infinitely numerous that we now can not even name. thus they will come to understand life; they will have aspirations and hopes; they will believe; they will pray. the conceptions of religion, love, and art, all these must be revolutionised so radically, that one now can only surmise what new forms will be created in future generations. this transformation can be helped by the training of the present, by casting aside the withered foliage which now covers the budding possibilities of life. the house must once more become a home for the souls of children, not for their bodies alone. for such homes to be formed, that in their turn will mould children, the children must be given back to the home. instead of the study preparation at home for the school taking up, as it now does, the best part of a child's life, the school must get the smaller part, the home the larger part. the home will have the responsibility of so using the free time as well on ordinary days as on holidays, that the children will really become a part of the home both in their work and in their pleasures. the children will be taken from the school, the street, the factory, and restored to the home. the mother will be given back from work outside, or from social life to the children. thus natural training in the spirit of rousseau and spencer will be realised; a training for life, by life at home. such was the training of old scandanavia; the direct share of the child in the work of the adult, in real labours and dangers, gave to the life of our scandanavian forefathers (with whom the boy began to be a man at twelve years of age), unity, character, and strength. things specially made for children, the anxious watching over all their undertakings, support given to all their steps, courses of work and pleasure specially prepared for children,--these are the fundamental defects of our present day education. an eighteen-year-old girl said to me a short time ago, that she and other girls of the same age were so tired of the system of vigilance, protection, amusement, and pampering at school and at home, that they were determined to bring up their own children in hunger, corporal discipline, and drudgery. one can understand this unfortunate reaction against an artificial environment; the environment in which children and young people of the present grow up; an existence that evokes a passionate desire for the realities of life, for individual action at one's own risk and responsibility, instead of being, as is now the case, at home and in the school, the object of another's care. what is required, above all, for the children of the present day, is to be assigned again real home occupations, tasks they must do conscientiously, habits of work arranged for week days and holidays without oversight, in every case where the child can help himself. instead of the modern school child having a mother and servants about him to get him ready for school and to help him to remember things, he should have time every day before school to arrange his room and brush his clothes, and there should be no effort to make him remember what is connected with the school. the home and the school should combine together systematically to let the child suffer for the results of his own negligence. just the reverse of this system rules to-day. mothers learn their children's lessons, invent plays for them, read their story books to them, arrange their rooms after them, pick up what they have let fall, put in order the things they have left in confusion, and in this and in other ways, by protective pampering and attention, their desire for work, their endurance, the gifts of invention and imagination, qualities proper to the child, become weak and passive. the home now is only a preparation for school. in it, young people growing up, are accustomed to receive services, without performing any on their part. they are trained to be always receptive instead of giving something in return. then people are surprised at a youthful generation, selfish and unrestrained, pressing forward shamelessly on all occasions before their elders, crudely unresponsive in respect of those attentions, which in earlier generations were a beautiful custom among the young. to restore this custom, all the means usually adopted now to protect the child from physical and psychical dangers and inconveniences, will have to be removed. throw the thermometer out of the window and begin with a sensible course of toughening; teach the child to know and to bear natural pain. corporal punishment must be done away with not because it is painful but because it is profoundly immoral and hopelessly unsuitable. repress the egoistic demands of the child when he interferes with the work or rest of others; never let him either by caresses or by nagging usurp the rights of grown people; take care that the servants do not work against what the parents are trying to insist on in this and in other matters. we must begin in doing for the child in certain ways a thousand times more and in others a hundred thousand times less. a beginning must be made in the tenderest age to establish the child's feeling for nature. let him live year in and year out in the same country home; this is one of the most significant and profound factors in training. it can be held to even where it is now neglected. the same thing holds good of making a choice library, commencing with the first years of life; so that the child will have, at different periods of his life, suitable books for each age; not as is now often the case, get quite spoilt by the constant change of summer excursions, by worthless children's books, and costly toys. they should never have any but the simplest books; the so-called classical ones. they should be amply provided with means of preparing their own playthings. the worst feature of our system are the playthings which imitate the luxury of grown people. by such objects the covetous impulse of the child for acquisition is increased, his own capacity for discovery and imagination limited, or rather, it would be limited if children with the sound instinct of preservation, did not happily smash the perfect playthings, which give them no creative opportunity, and themselves make new playthings from fir cones, acorns, thorns, and fragments of pottery, and all other sorts of rubbish which can be transformed into objects of great price by the power of the imagination. to play with children in the right way is also a great art. it should never be done if children do not themselves know what they are going to do; it should always be a special treat for them as well as their elders. but the adults must always on such occasions, leave behind every kind of educational idea and go completely into the child's world of thought and imagination. no attempt should be made to teach them at these times anything else but the old satisfactory games. the experiences derived from these games about the nature of the children, who are stimulated in one direction or another by the game, must be kept for later use. games in this way increase confidence between children and adults. they learn to know their elders better. but to allow children to turn all the rooms into places to play in, and to demand constantly that their elders shall interest themselves in them, is one of the most dangerous species of pampering common to the present day. the children become accustomed to selfishness and mental dependence. besides this constant educational effort brings with it the dulling of the child's personality. if children were free in their own world, the nursery, but out of it had to submit to the strict limits imposed by the habits, wills, work, and repose of parents, their requirements and their wishes, they would develop into a stronger and more considerate race than the youth of the present day. it is not so much talking about being considerate, but the necessity of considering others, of really helping oneself and others, that has an educational value. in earlier days, children were quiet as mice in the presence of elder persons. instead of, as they do now, breaking into a guest's conversation, they learned to listen. if the conversation of adults is varied, this can be called one of the best educational methods for children. the ordinary life of children, under the old system, was lived in the nursery where they received their most important training from an old faithful servant and from one another. from their parents they received corporal punishment, sometimes a caress. in comparison with this system, the present way of parents and children living together would be absolute progress, if parents could but abstain from explaining, advising, improving, influencing every thought and every expression. but all spiritual, mental, and bodily protective rules make the child now indirectly selfish, because everything centres about him and therefore he is kept in a constant state of irritation. the six-year-old can disturb the conversation of the adult, but the twelve-year-old is sent to bed about eight o'clock, even when he, with wide open eyes, longs for a conversation that might be to him an inspiring stimulus for life. certainly some simple habits so far as conduct and order, nourishment and sleep, air and water, clothing and bodily movement, are concerned, can be made the foundations for the child's conceptions of morality. he cannot be made to learn soon enough that bodily health and beauty must be regarded as high ethical characteristics, and that what is injurious to health and beauty must be regarded as a hateful act. in this sphere, children must be kept entirely independent of custom by allowing the exception to every rule to have its valid place. the present anxious solicitude that children should eat when the clock strikes, that they get certain food at fixed meals, that they be clothed according to the degree of temperature, that they go to bed when the clock strikes, that they be protected from every drop of unboiled water and every extra piece of candy, this makes them nervous, irritable slaves of habit. a reasonable toughening process against the inequalities, discomforts, and chances of life, constitutes one of the most important bases of joy of living and of strength of temper. in this case too, the behaviour of the person who gives the training, is the best means of teaching children to smile at small _contretemps_, things which would throw a cloud over the sun, if one got into the habit of treating them as if they were of great importance. if the child sees the parent doing readily an unpleasant duty, which he honestly recognises as unpleasant; if he sees a parent endure trouble or an unexpected difficulty easily, he will be in honour bound to do the like. just as children without many words learn to practice good deeds when they see good deeds practised about them; learn to enjoy the beauty of nature and art when they see that adults enjoy them, so by living more beautifully, more nobly, more moderately, we speak best to children. they are just as receptive to impressions of this kind as they are careless of those made by force. since this is my _alpha_ and _omega_ in the art of education, i repeat now what i said at the beginning of this book and half way through it. try to leave the child in peace; interfere directly as seldom as possible; keep away all crude and impure impressions; but give all your care and energy to see that personality, life itself, reality in its simplicity and in its nakedness, shall all be means of training the child. make demands on the powers of children and on their capacity for self-control, proportionate to the special stage of their development, neither greater nor lesser demands than on adults. but respect the joys of the child, his tastes, work, and time, just as you would those of an adult. education will thus become an infinitely simple and infinitely harder art, than the education of the present day, with its artificialised existence, its double entry morality, one morality for the child, and one for the adult, often strict for the child and lax for the adult and _vice versa_. by treating the child every moment as one does an adult human being we free education from that brutal arbitrariness, from those over-indulgent protective rules, which have transformed him. whether parents act as if children existed for their benefit alone, or whether the parents give up their whole lives to their children, the result is alike deplorable. as a rule both classes know equally little of the feelings and needs of their children. the one class are happy when the children are like themselves, and their highest ambition is to produce in their children a successful copy of their own thoughts, opinions, and ideals. really it ought to pain them very much to see themselves so exactly copied. what life expected from them and required from them was just the opposite--a richer combination, a better creation, a new type, not a reproduction of that which is already exhausted. the other class strive to model their children not according to themselves but according to their ideal of goodness. they show their love by their willingness to extinguish their own personalities for their children's sake. this they do by letting the children feel that everything which concerns them stands in the foreground. this should be so, but only indirectly. the concerns of the whole scheme of life, the ordering of the home, its habits, intercourse, purposes, care for the needs of children, and their sound development, must stand in the foreground. but at present, in most cases, children of tender years, as well as those who are older, are sacrificed to the chaotic condition of the home. they learn self-will without possessing real freedom; they live under a discipline which is spasmodic in its application. when one daughter after another leaves home in order to make herself independent they are often driven to do it by want of freedom, or by the lack of character in family life. in both directions the girl sees herself forced to become something different, to hold different opinions, to think different thoughts, to act contrary to the dictates of her own being. a mother happy in the friendship of her own daughter, said not long ago that she desired to erect an asylum for tormented daughters. such an asylum would be as necessary as a protection against pampering parents as against those who are overbearing. both alike, torture their children though in different ways, by not understanding the child's right to have his own point of view, his own ideal of happiness, his own proper tastes and occupation. they do not see that children exist as little for their parent's sake as parents do for their children's sake. family life would have an intelligent character if each one lived fully and entirely his own life and allowed the others to do the same. none should tyrannise over, nor should suffer tyranny from, the other. parents who give their home this character can justly demand that children shall accommodate themselves to the habits of the household as long as they live in it. children on their part can ask that their own life of thought and feeling shall be left in peace at home, or that they be treated with the same consideration that would be given to a stranger. when the parents do not meet these conditions they themselves are the greater sufferers. it is very easy to keep one's son from expressing his raw views, very easy to tear a daughter away from her book and to bring her to a tea-party by giving her unnecessary occupations; very easy by a scornful word to repress some powerful emotion. a thousand similar things occur every day in good families through the whole world. but whenever we hear of young people speaking of their intellectual homelessness and sadness, we begin to understand why father and mother remain behind in homes from which the daughters have hastened to depart; why children take their cares, joys, and thoughts to strangers; why, in a word, the old and the young generation are as mutually dependent as the roots and flowers of plants, so often separate with mutual repulsion. this is as true of highly cultivated fathers and mothers as of simple bourgeois or peasant parents. perhaps, indeed, it may be truer of the first class; the latter torment their children in a naïve way, while the former are infinitely wise and methodical in their stupidity. rarely is a mother of the upper class one of those artists of home life who through the blitheness, the goodness, and joyousness of her character, makes the rhythm of everyday life a dance, and holidays into festivals. such artists are often simple women who have passed no examinations, founded no clubs, and written no books. the highly cultivated mothers and the socially useful mothers on the other hand are not seldom those who call forth criticism from their sons. it seems almost an invariable rule that mothers should make mistakes when they wish to act for the welfare of their sons. "how infinitely valuable," say their children, "would i have found a mother who could have kept quiet, who would have been patient with me, who would have given me rest, keeping the outer world at a distance from me, with kindly soothing hands. oh, would that i had had a mother on whose breast i could have laid my head, to be quiet and dream." a distinguished woman writer is surprised that all of her well-thought-out plans for her children fail--those children in whom she saw the material for her passion for governing, the clay that she desired to mould. the writer just cited says very justly that maternal unselfishness alone can perform the task of protecting a young being with wisdom and kindliness, by allowing him to grow according to his own laws. the unselfish mother, she says, will joyfully give the best of her life energy, powers of soul and spirit to a growing being and then open all doors to him, leaving him in the broad world to follow his own paths, and ask for nothing, neither thanks, nor praise, nor remembrance. but to most mothers may be applied the bitter exclamation of a son in the book just mentioned, "even a mother must know how she tortures another; if she has not this capacity by nature, why in the world should i recognise her as my mother at all." certain mothers spend the whole day in keeping their children's nervous system in a state of irritation. they make work hard and play joyless, whenever they take a part in it. at the present time, too, the school gets control of the child, the home loses all the means by which formerly it moulded the child's soul life and ennobled family life. the school, not father and mother, teaches children to play, the school gives them manual training, the school teaches them to sing, to look at pictures, to read aloud, to wander about out of doors; schools, clubs, sport and other pleasures accustom youth in the cities more and more to outside life, and a daily recreation that kills the true feeling for holiday. young people, often, have no other impression of home than that it is a place where they meet society which bores them. parents surrender their children to schools in those years in which they should influence their minds. when the school gives them back they do not know how to make a fresh start with the children, for they themselves have ceased to be young. but getting old is no necessity; it is only a bad habit. it is very interesting to observe a face that is getting old. what time makes out of a face shows better than anything else what the man has made out of time. most men in the early period of middle age are neither intellectually fat nor lean, they are hardened or dried up. naturally young people look upon them with unsympathetic eyes, for they feel that there is such a thing as eternal youth, which a soul can win as a prize for its whole work of inner development. but they look in vain for this second eternal youth in their elders, filled with worldly nothingnesses and things of temporary importance. with a sigh they exclude the "old people" from their future plans and they go out in the world in order to choose their spiritual parents. this is tragic but just, for if there is a field on which man must sow a hundred-fold in order to harvest tenfold it is the souls of children. when i began at five years of age to make a rag doll, that by its weight and size really gave the illusion of reality and bestowed much joy on its young mother, i began to think about the education of my future children. then as now my educational ideal was that the children should be happy, that they should not fear. fear is the misfortune of childhood, and the sufferings of the child come from the half-realised opposition between his unlimited possibilities of happiness and the way in which these possibilities are actually handled. it may be said that life, at every stage, is cruel in its treatment of our possibilities of happiness. but the difference between the sufferings of the adult from existence, and the sufferings of the child caused by adults, is tremendous. the child is unwilling to resign himself to the sufferings imposed upon him by adults and the more impatient the child is against unnecessary suffering, the better; for so much the more certainly will he some day be driven to find means to transform for himself and for others the hard necessities of life. a poet, rydberg, in our country who had the deepest intuition into child's nature, and therefore had the deepest reverence for it, wrote as follows: "where we behold children we suspect there are princes, but as to the kings, where are they?" not only life's tragic elements diminish and dam up its vital energies. equally destructive is a parent's want of reverence for the sources of life which meet them in a new being. fathers and mothers must bow their heads in the dust before the exalted nature of the child. until they see that the word "child" is only another expression for the conception of majesty; until they feel that it is the future which in the form of a child sleeps in their arms, and history which plays at their feet, they will not understand that they have as little power or right to prescribe laws for this new being as they possess the power or might to lay down paths for the stars. the mother should feel the same reverence for the unknown worlds in the wide-open eyes of her child, that she has for the worlds which like white blossoms are sprinkled over the blue orb of heaven; the father should see in his child the king's son whom he must serve humbly with his own best powers, and then the child will come to his own; not to the right of asking others to become the plaything of his caprices but to the right of living his full strong personal child's life along with a father and a mother who themselves live a personal life, a life from whose sources and powers the child can take the elements he needs for his own individual growth. parents should never expect their own highest ideals to become the ideals of their child. the free-thinking sons of pious parents and the christian children of freethinkers have become almost proverbial. but parents can live nobly and in entire accordance to their own ideals which is the same thing as making children idealists. this can often lead to a quite different system of thought from that pursued by the parent. as to ideals, the elders should here as elsewhere, offer with timidity their advice and their experience. yes they should try to let the young people search for it as if they were seeking fruit hidden under the shadow of leaves. if their counsel is rejected, they must show neither surprise nor lack of self-control. the query of a humourist, why he should do anything for posterity since posterity had done nothing for him, set me to thinking in my early youth in the most serious way. i felt that posterity had done much for its forefathers. it had given them an infinite horizon for the future beyond the bounds of their daily effort. we must in the child see the new fate of the human race; we must carefully treat the fine threads in the child's soul because these are the threads that one day will form the woof of world events. we must realise that every pebble by which one breaks into the glassy depths of the child's soul will extend its influence through centuries and centuries in ever widening circles. through our fathers, without our will and without choice, we are given a destiny which controls the deepest foundation of our own being. through our posterity, which we ourselves create, we can in a certain measure, as free beings, determine the future destiny of the human race. by a realisation of all this in an entirely new way, by seeing the whole process in the light of the religion of development, the twentieth century will be the century of the child. this will come about in two ways. adults will first come to an understanding of the child's character and then the simplicity of the child's character will be kept by adults. so the old social order will be able to renew itself. psychological pedagogy has an exalted ancestry. i will not go back to those artists in education called socrates and jesus, but i commence with the modern world. in the hours of its sunrise, in which we, who look back, think we see a futile renaissance, then as now the spring flowers came up amid the decaying foliage. at this period there came a demand for the remodelling of education through the great figure of modern times, montaigne, that skeptic who had so deep a reverence for realities. in his _essays_, in his _letters to the countess of gurson_, are found all of the elements for the education of the future. about the great german and swiss specialists in pedagogy and psychology, comenius, basedow, pestalozzi, salzmann, froebel, herbart, i do not need to speak. i will only mention that the greatest men of germany, lessing, herder, goethe, kant and others, took the side of natural training. in regard to england it is well known that john locke in his _thoughts on education_, was a worthy predecessor of herbert spencer, whose book on education in its intellectual, moral, and physical relations, was the most noteworthy book on education in the last century. it has been noted that spencer in educational theory is indebted to rousseau; and that in many cases, he has only said what the great german authorities, whom he certainly did not know, said before him. but this does not diminish spencer's merit in the least. absolutely new thoughts are very rare. truths which were once new must be constantly renewed by being pronounced again from the depth of the ardent personal conviction of a new human being. that rational thoughts on the subject of pedagogy as on other subjects, are constantly expressed and re-expressed, shows among other things that reasonable, or practically untried education has certain principles which are as axiomatic as those of mathematics. every reasonable thinking man must as certainly discover anew these pedagogical principles, as he must discover anew the relation between the angles of a triangle. spencer's book it is true has not laid again the foundation of education. it can rather be called the crown of the edifice founded by montaigne, locke, rousseau, and the great german specialists in pedagogy. what is an absolutely novel factor in our times is the study of the psychology of the child, and the system of education that has developed from it. in england, through the scientist darwin, this new study of the psychology of the child was inaugurated. in germany, preyer contributed to its extension. he has done so partly by a comprehensive study of children's language, partly by collecting recollections of childhood on the part of the adult. finally he experimented directly on the child, investigating his physical and psychical fatigue and endurance, acuteness of sensation, power, speed, and exactness in carrying out physical and mental tasks. he has studied his capacity of attention in emotions and in ideas at different periods of life. he has studied the speech of children, association of ideas in children, etc. during the study of the psychology of the child, scholars began to substitute for this term the expression "genetic psychology." for it was found that the bio-genetic principle was valid for the development both of the psychic and the physical life. this principle means that the history of the species is repeated in the history of the individual; a truth substantiated in other spheres; in philology for example. the psychology of the child is of the same significance for general psychology as embryology is for anatomy. on the other hand, the description of savage peoples, of peoples in a natural condition, such as we find in spencer's _descriptive sociology_ or weitz's _anthropology_ is extremely instructive for a right conception of the psychology of the child. it is in this kind of psychological investigation that the greatest progress has been made in this century. in the great publication, _zeitschrift für psychologie_, etc., there began in a special department for the psychology of children and the psychology of education. in , there were as many as one hundred and six essays devoted to this subject, and they are constantly increasing. in the chief civilised countries this investigation has many distinguished pioneers, such as prof. wundt, prof. t. h. ribot, and others. in germany this subject has its most important organ in the journal mentioned above. it numbers among its collaborators some of the most distinguished german physiologists and psychologists. as related to the same subject must be mentioned wundt's _philosophischen studien_, and partly the _vierteljahrschrift für wissenschaftlichie philosophie_. in france, there was founded in , the _année psychologique_, edited by binet and beaunis, and also the _bibliotheque de pedagogie et de psychologie_, edited by binet. in england there are the journals, _mind_ and _brain_. special laboratories for experimental psychology with psychological apparatus and methods of research are found in many places. in germany the first to be founded was that of wundt in the year at leipzig. france has a laboratory for experimental psychology at paris, in the sorbonne, whose director is binet; italy, one in rome. in america experimental psychology is zealously pursued. as early as , there were in that country twenty-seven laboratories for experimental psychology and four journals. there should also be mentioned the societies for child psychology. recently one has been founded in germany; others before this time have been at work in england and america. a whole series of investigations carried out in kraepelin's laboratory in heidelberg are of the greatest value for determining what the brain can do in the way of work and impressions. an english specialist has maintained that the future, thanks to the modern school system, will be able to get along without originally creative men, because the receptive activities of modern man will absorb the co-operative powers of the brain to the disadvantage of the productive powers. and even if this were not a universally valid statement but only expressed a physiological certainty, people will some day perhaps cease filing down man's brain by that sandpapering process called a school curriculum. a champion of the transformation of pedagogy into a psycho-physiological science is to be found in sweden in the person of prof. hjalmar oehrwal who has discussed in his essays native and foreign discoveries in the field of psychology. one of his conclusions is that the so-called technical exercises, gymnastics, manual training, sloyd, and the like, are not, as they are erroneously called, a relaxation from mental overstrain by change in work, but simply a new form of brain fatigue. all work, he finds, done under conditions of fatigue is uneconomic whether one regards the quantity produced or its value as an exercise. rest should be nothing more than rest,--freedom to do only what one wants to, or to do nothing at all. as to fear, he proves, following binet's investigation in this subject, how corporal discipline, threats, and ridicule lead to cowardice; how all of these methods are to be rejected because they are depressing and tend to a diminution of energy. he shows, moreover, how fear can be overcome progressively, by strengthening the nervous system and in that way strengthening the character. this result comes about partly when all unnecessary terrorising is avoided, partly when children are accustomed to bear calmly and quietly the inevitable unpleasantnesses of danger. prof. axel key's investigations on school children have won international recognition. in sweden they have supplied the most significant material up to the present time for determining the influence of studies on physical development and the results of intellectual overstrain. it is to be hoped that when through empirical investigation we begin to get acquainted with the real nature of children, the school and the home will be freed from absurd notions about the character and needs of the child, those absurd notions which now cause painful cases of physical and psychical maltreatment, still called by conscientious and thinking human beings in schools and in homes, education. chapter iv homelessness from time to time the present age is criticised, as if its corruption contrasted with the moral strictness of earlier periods. such charges are as crude and as groundless as is most of the same kind of criticism that is common to every generation of man's history. they have been repeated ever since man began to strive consciously for other ends than the momentary gratification of his undisciplined impulses. one need only to consult the men of the present generation and the still living representatives of the past generation, to be assured that bad conduct at school is not characteristic of our time. let any one read the account of life at universities in earlier periods when the younger students were of the same age as schoolboys in high schools and it will soon be plain that the cause of the evil is not modern literature nor modern belief. the really direct causes of this difficulty must be looked for in human emotions. this side of the question i do not intend to discuss here. it can only be solved by an expert in psychology and physiology; by one who, along with this capacity, is a pedagogical genius. there might not be sufficient material for such a task, even if an individual could be found able to put together the original elements in the systems of socrates, rousseau, spencer, and give them life. under no other condition could a real contribution be made adequate to meet the requirements of the present day in the field of education. my intention is only to make some remarks on the secondary cause of the evil, for not sufficient attention has been devoted to this side of the problem. the cause i have in view is the increasing homelessness of all branches of society. living with one's parents as children do who go to school in the city is not the same as living at home. family life in the working classes is unsettled by the mother working out of the house. in the upper classes the same result is produced by the constantly increasing pressure of social pleasures and obligations. formerly it was only the husband and father whom outside interests took from the home. now the home is deserted by the wife and mother also, not alone for social gatherings but for clubs for self-improvement, meetings, lectures, committees; one evening after another, just at the time which she should be devoting herself to her children who have been occupied in the morning at school. the ever-growing social life, the incessant extension of club and out-of-door life, result in the mother sending her children as early as possible to school, even when there is nothing but the conditions above mentioned to prevent her from giving the children their first instruction herself. as a rule the present generation of mothers who have had school training could do this quite well, in the case of children who do not need the social stimulus of the school. indeed before the school time begins, and in the hours out of school, children are as a rule taken by a maid servant to walk or to skate and so on. children of the upper classes in most cases receive just as much, perhaps more, of their education from the nursery maid or from the school than from the mother. the father need not be mentioned at all, for as a rule he is an only occasional and unessential factor in the education of the child. many will say by way of objection, that at no time has so much been done for the education of children as at present; that parents were never so watchful over the physical and psychical needs of the children; that at no time has the intercourse between children and parents been so free; at no time have schools been so actively at work. this is true but much of this tends to increase the homelessness of which i am speaking. the more the schools develop the more they are burdened with all the instruction for children, the more hours of the day they require for their demands. the school is expected to give instruction even in such simple matters as making children acquainted with their national literature, and handwork, which mothers could do perfectly well, certainly as well as our grandmothers. the greater the attention given at school to such essentially good things as gymnastics, handwork, and games, the more children are withdrawn from home. and even when at home, they are hindered by lessons and written exercises from being with their father and mother, on those exceptional occasions when the parents are at home. if we take into consideration the way in which the modern school system uses up the children's time, and present social and club life take up the time of parents, we come to the conclusion i began with, that domestic life is more and more on the decline. the reforms that must be demanded from the schools in order to restore the children to the home cannot be discussed now, since it is my intention to deal here only with those matters which must be reformed by the family itself, if reforms at school are to really benefit the young. reforms of this kind have been made in schools but mothers complain that children have too little work at home or too few hours at school; that they, the mothers, absolutely do not know how they can keep the children occupied in so much free time. what may justly be considered the great progress in the family life of the present day, the confidential intercourse between parents and children, has not taken an entirely right direction. the result has been that children have been permitted to behave like grown people, sharing the habits and pleasures of their parents, or that the parents have ceased to live their own life. in neither of these two ways can a deep and sound relation between children and parents be produced. we see on the one side a minority of conscientious mothers and fathers, who in a real sense live only for the children. they mould their whole life for the life of the children; and the children get the idea that they are the central point of existence. on the other side, we see children who take part in all the life and over-refinements of the home. they demand like adults the amusements and elegancies of life; they even give balls and suppers at home or in hotels for their school companions. in these social functions, the vanity and stupidity of adults are conscientiously imitated. then we require from these boys and girls, when they reach a time of life in which the passions awake, a self-control, a capacity of self-denial, a stoicism towards temptations to which they have never been trained, and which they have never seen their parents exercise. most homes of the upper classes have not the means to keep up the life that is lived in them. by the money of creditors, or by an exorbitant profit made at the cost of working people, or by careless consumption of the very necessary savings to be laid by for hard times, or against the death of the family provider, a luxurious style of living is maintained. but even when in rare cases there is real ability to live in this way, parents would not do it, if the best interests of the children were taken into account. elders may speak of industry as much as they like; if the father's and mother's work for children has no reality about it, the parents would do best to be silent. the same must be said of warnings and arbitrary prohibitions to children concerning the satisfaction of their desire for enjoyment, if the parents themselves do not influence the children by their own example. on the other hand there are just as disturbing consequences when industrious parents conceal their self-denial from their children, when they deprive themselves in the effort to spare their children the knowledge that their parents are not in a position to clothe them as well as their companions or to give them the same pleasures. least of all is home life successful in helping children through the difficulties of their earlier years, when discipline has killed confidence between them and their parents, when they become insincere from want of courage and careless from want of freedom; when parents present themselves to the children as exceptional beings, asking for blind reverence and absolute subjection. from such homes in old days fine men and women could proceed, but now extremely seldom. young people recognise in our days no such requirements; confidential intercourse with parents has robbed them of this nimbus of infallibility. homes which send out men and women with the strongest morality, with the freshest stimulus to work, are those where children and parents are companions in labour, where they stand on the same level, where, like a good elder sister or an elder brother, parents regard the younger members of the household as their equals; where parents by being children with the children, being youthful with young people, help those who are growing up, without the exercise of force, to develop into human beings, always treating them as human beings. in a home like this nothing is especially arranged for children; they are regarded not as belonging to one kind of being while parents represent another, but parents gain the respect of their children by being true and natural; they live and conduct themselves in such a way that the children gain an insight into their work, their efforts, and as far as possible into their joys and pains, their mistakes and failures. such parents without artificial condescension or previous consideration gain the sympathy of children and unconsciously educate them in a free exchange of thought and opinions. here children do not receive everything as a gift; according to the measure of their power they must share in the work of the home; they learn to take account of their parents, of servants, and one another. they have duties and rights that are just as firmly fixed as those of their parents; and they are respected themselves just as they are taught to respect others. they come into daily contact with realities, they can do useful tasks, not simply pretend that they are doing them; they can arrange their own amusements, their own small money accounts, their own punishments even, by their parents never hindering them from suffering the natural consequences of their own acts. in such a home a command is never given unless accompanied at the same time with a reason for it, just as soon as a reason can be understood. so the feeling of responsibility is impressed upon the children from the tenderest age. the children are as seldom as possible told not to do things, but such commands when given are absolute because they always rest on good reasons, not on a whim. mother and father are watchful, but they do not act as spies on their children. partial freedom teaches children to make use of complete freedom. a system of negative commands and oversight produces insincerity and weakness. an old illiterate housekeeper who earned a living by taking school children to board was one of the best educators i have ever seen. her method was loving young people and believing in them--a confidence that they as a rule sought to deserve. moreover a good home is always cheerful, its affection real, not sentimental. no time is wasted in it in preaching about petty details or prosing. mother and sisters do not look shocked when the small boy tells a funny story or uses strong language. a joke is not regarded as evidence of moral corruption, nor keen views as an indication of depravity. liveliness, want of prudishness, which can be combined, so far as the feminine part of the household is concerned, with purity of mind and simple nobility, are characteristics for which there can be no substitutes. in such a household concord prevails, the young and old work, read, and talk together, together take common diversions; sometimes the young people, sometimes their elders, take the lead. the house is open for the friends of the children; they are free to enjoy themselves as completely as possible but in all naturalness without allowing their amusements to change the habits of the home. it is told of the childhood of a great finnish poet, runeberg, that his mother when she invited the young guests of her son to dance as long as they could, added, "when you are thirsty, the water cooler is there, and by it hangs the cup"; and more delightful dances, the old lady who told the story never remembered to have seen. this old-fashioned distinction, the courage to show oneself as one is, is absent from modern homes, and lack of courage has resulted in lack of happiness. the simple hospitable homely pleasures that have now been superseded by children's parties, lesson drudgery, and by parents living outside of the home must come back again if what is bad now is not to become worse. evil is not to be expelled by evil; it is to be overcome by good. if the home is not to be again sunny, quiet, simple, and lively, mothers may go out as much as they like to discuss education and morality in the evening. there will be no real change. mothers must seriously perceive that no social activity has greater significance than education, and that in this nothing can replace their own appropriate influence in a home. they must make up their minds to real reform, such reforms as those introduced by a lady in stockholm; burdened though she was with social engagements and public obligations, she refused to accept any invitation except on one day of the week, in order to spend her evenings quietly with her children. how long will the majority of mothers sacrifice children to the eternal ennui and vacuity of our modern social and club life? there is no intention here to recommend that social life and public activities shall be deprived of the influence of experienced and thinking mothers. but i only wish to point to the cases of overstrain now caused by the stress of excessive sociability and outside activity. this kind of over-exertion, more especially, injures the home through the mother. in our day as in all other periods, be our opinions in other respects what they may, pagan, christian, jewish, or free thinking, a good home is only created by those parents who have a religious reverence for the holiness of the home. chapter v soul murder in the schools any one who would attempt the task of felling a virgin forest with a penknife would probably feel the same paralysis of despair that the reformer feels when confronted with existing school systems. the latter finds an impassable thicket of folly, prejudice, and mistakes, where each point is open to attack, but where each attack fails because of the inadequate means at the reformer's command. the modern school has succeeded in doing something which, according to the law of physics, is impossible: the annihilation of once existent matter. the desire for knowledge, the capacity for acting by oneself, the gift of observation, all qualities children bring with them to school, have, as a rule, at the close of the school period disappeared. they have not been transformed into actual knowledge or interests. this is the result of children spending almost the whole of their life from the sixth to the eighteenth year at the school desk, hour by hour, month by month, term by term; taking doses of knowledge, first in teaspoonfuls, then in dessert-spoonfuls, and finally in tablespoonfuls, absorbing mixtures which the teacher often has compounded from fourth- or fifth-hand recipes. after the school, there often comes a further period of study in which the only distinction in method is, that the mixture is administered by the ladleful. when young people have escaped from this régime, their mental appetite and mental digestion are so destroyed that they for ever lack capacity for taking real nourishment. some, indeed, save themselves from all these unrealities by getting in contact with realities; they throw their books in the corner and devote themselves to some sphere of practical life. in both cases the student years are practically squandered. those who go further acquire knowledge ordinarily at the cost of their personality, at the price of such qualities as assimilation, reflection, observation, and imagination. if any one succeeds in escaping these results, it happens generally with a loss of thoroughness in knowledge. a lower grade of intelligence, a lower capacity for work, or a lower degree of assimilation, than that bestowed upon the scholar by nature, is ordinarily the result of ten or twelve school years. there is much common-sense in the french humourist's remark. "you say that you have never gone to school and yet you are such an idiot." the cases in which school studies are not injurious, but partially useful, are those where no regular school period has been passed through. in place of this there was a long period of rest, or times of private instruction, or absolutely no instruction at all, simply study by oneself. nearly every eminent woman in the last fifty years has had such self-instruction, or was an irregularly instructed girl. knowledge so acquired, therefore, has many serious gaps, but it has much more freshness and breadth. one can study with far greater scope and apply what one studies. yet it is still true to-day that, however vehemently families complain about schools, they do not see that their demands in general education must change, before a reasonable school system, a school system in all respects different from the prevailing one, can come into existence. the private schools, few in number, that differ to a certain extent from the ordinary system are swallows that are very far from making a summer. rather they have met the fate of birds who have come too early on the scene. as long as schools represent an idea, stand for an abstract conception, like the family and the state, so long will they, just as the family and the state, oppress the individuals who belong to them. the school no more than the family and the state represents a higher idea or something greater than just the number of individuals out of which it is formed. it, like the family and the state, has no other duty, right, or purpose than to give to each separate individual as much development and happiness as possible. to recognise these principles is to introduce reason into the school question. the school should be nothing but the mental dining-room in which parents and teachers prepare intellectual bills-of-fare suitable for every child. the school must have the right to determine what it can place on its bill-of-fare, but the parents have the right to choose, from the mental nourishment supplied by it, the food adapted to their children. the phantom of general culture must be driven from school curricula and parents' brains; the training of the individual must be a reality substituted in its place; otherwise reform plans will be drawn up in vain. but just as certain simple chemical elements are contained in all nourishment, there are certain simple elements of knowledge that make up the foundation of all higher forms of learning. reading and writing one's own language, the elements of numbers, geography, natural science, and history, must be required by the schools, as the obligatory basis for advanced independent study. the elementary school beginning with the age of nine to ten years, i regard as the real general school. the system of instruction must assume that the children have breadth, repose, comprehensiveness, and capacity for individual action. all these qualities are destroyed by the present "hare and hound" system and by its endless abstractions. such are the results of course readings, multiplicity of subjects, and formalism, all defects that have passed from the boys' schools into the girls' schools, from the elementary schools into the people's schools. they too are burdened by all these faults, which, though deplored by most people, can only be cured by radical reform. the instruction must be arranged in groups, certain subjects placed among the earlier stages of study while others are put aside for a later period. and in this connection it is not sufficient to consider the psychological development of the child. certain subjects must be assigned to certain times of the year. the courses in these schools must come to an end at about the age of fifteen or sixteen. from them our young people can pass either into practical life, or go on to schools of continuation and application. it would be desirable to adopt the plan recommended by grundtvig, that one or more vacation years should follow, before studies are taken up again. girls, especially, would then come back to their studies with strengthened bodily powers and an increased desire for knowledge. it is now a common experience that the desire to learn, even in the case of talented young people, becomes quiescent, if they go on continuously with their studies, as they often do, from the sixth to the twentieth year and longer. to mark out the courses of such a school would offer tremendous difficulties. but these difficulties will not be found insuperable, after people have agreed that the souls of children require more consideration than a school programme. among objections coming from parents, may be heard the following: that while the state refuses to take initiative in school reform, no one would dare to embark on a road which makes the future of their children so uncertain. in the meantime children must be allowed to learn what all others learn. when the state has taken the first step, the parents would be willing they say to follow with remarkable eagerness. what, i ask, has been always the right way to carry out reforms? there must be first an active revolt against existing evils. this particular revolt is yet not sufficiently supported, especially on the part of parents. the children themselves have begun to feel the need of protest, and, if not earlier, i hope that when the present generation of school children become fathers, mothers, and teachers, a reform will come about. no one can expect a system to be changed, until those who disapprove of it show that they are in earnest, show that they are taking upon themselves the sacrifices necessary to protect themselves from the unhappy results of the system. families complain of the excessive aggregation of subjects, and yet they constantly burden the school with new subjects, even when these subjects are things the family can undertake itself. while families complain of overstrain, but make no use of the elective system in schools, where it has been introduced, while parents are willing to risk nothing to realise their principles, we cannot wonder that the state does not embark on reforms of any kind. there is an old pedagogical maxim, "man learns for life not for school." while, for a great part of their time, the sexes are separated from one another, boys studying by themselves and the girls by themselves, the training for their future life is a bad one--a life in which the common work and co-operation between man and woman is, according to nature's ordinance, the normal thing. so long as the general school is a school for a special class, and not for everybody, it is no general school in the high sense of the word, and besides no school in which people learn for life. i have therefore always warmly held that the school should be no boys', no girls' school, no elementary and no people's school, but should be a real general or public school as in america, where both sexes, the children of all grades of society, will learn that mutual confidence, respect, understanding, by which their efficient co-operation in the family and state may be made possible. the common school, so arranged, is perhaps the most important means to solve definitely the problem of morality, the woman question, the marriage question, the labour question, in less one-sided and more human ways. from this point of view the establishment of the common school is much more than a pedagogical question; it is the vital question of our social order. men and women, upper and lower classes, are walking on different sides of a wall. they can stretch their hands over it; the important thing to be done is to break the wall down. the school, as described above, is the first breach in this wall. a school like this would be like leaven. the many never reform the few; it is the few who gradually introduce reforms for the many. because the few have strong enough dissatisfaction with present defects, courage great enough to show their disgust, a belief in the new truths real enough, they are ready to prepare the ground for the future. such a school must be guided by the same principle which has humanised morality and law in other spheres. it must consider individual peculiarities. personal freedom will thus have as few hindrances as possible to obstruct it. the rights of others must not be approached too close. the limits, where the rights of others can be affected, must be maintained, even enlarged. this humanising process will be introduced into the schools, when scholars are no longer regarded as classes, but each individual for himself. the schools will then commence to fulfil one of the many conditions necessary to give young people real nourishment and so develop them and make them happy. such a school life will make its first aim to discover in early years uncommon talent, to direct such talent to special studies. secondly, for those who lack definite talent, a plan of study will be arranged, in which their individuality too can be developed, and their intellectual tension increased. this condition is, if possible, more important than the first, for unusual talents are accompanied by greater power of self-conservation. ordinary or lesser talented people, _i.e._, the larger majority, are rather confused by a plurality of studies and are much easier impaired, as personalities, by the uniformity of the prevailing system. the rights of unusually gifted people, and those of other classes too, can be considered when, as mentioned above, the school curriculum is so arranged, that certain subjects are studied during part of the school year, another class of subjects during another part. moreover, certain subjects are to be studied at different times, not finished once for all. the instruction must be so arranged that real independent study, under the direction of the teacher, will be the ordinary method. the presentation of the subject by the teacher will be the exception, a treat for holidays, not for every day. the instruction too must take the scholar to the real thing, as far as possible, not direct him to report about the thing. such a school must break up absolutely the whole system of lecturing, arranged in concentric circles. in certain cases, it must return to the methods of the old-fashioned school, which concentrated its attention on humanistic study. but dead languages should not be the subjects around which its studies should centre. early specialisation must be allowed, where there are distinct individual tendencies for such work; concentration on certain subjects at certain points of time; independent work during the whole period of school; contact with reality in the whole school curriculum;--these must be the four corner-stones of the new school. but the time is far distant still, when government schools will begin to build on this basis. what follows is meant, therefore, to apply, not to the great revolutions of school systems indicated above, but deals with improvements to take place at present. learning lessons should be assigned to school hours as in france. children should have an entirely free day in the week; study at home should be confined to the reading of literary works, tales of travel, and the like, which teachers can recommend in combination with the studies pursued at school. tasks done at home are inconvenient; they do not increase the independence of the scholar; they are prepared as a rule with excessively free and often unwise help from the parents. at school such work would be done as a rule without help; besides, it is individual and quickly finished. in the school, time can be taken for study selected at the scholar's free choice. it can be arranged for in the following way. take a class of about twelve scholars; in larger classes no reasonable or personal method of instruction is possible. there may be three scholars with distinct tastes, one for history, one for languages, one for mathematics. there may be two without any distinct talent for mathematics or languages. the other seven may have ordinary capacities. the first three must, during the whole term, apply themselves specially in certain hours, set aside for independent study, each in his chosen subject. the first will read some historical work on the periods taken up in the history class; the second will devote this time to mathematics; the third will read the books in foreign languages, mentioned in the language course. the other seven with ordinary gifts can devote this time to ordinary reading and handwork. in this way all will get some portion of history, mathematics, and languages, but those who are specially interested will have the opportunity of going deeper into the subject. if one of the three gifted scholars shows a great inclination for and a ready comprehension of all three subjects, he should study by himself at home, provided the more thorough study of one subject does not impair work on the other. the two who have special difficulty in mathematics or languages could either substitute one subject wholly for the other, or in those periods remain away from school, or, finally, the hours used by gifted scholars for individual study beyond the requirements of the common course could be devoted by these to work, under the teacher's supervision, in the course common to the whole class. to carry out this plan, there is need of such concentration of subjects as i have mentioned; there should be never more than one or at most two main subjects--history, geography, natural science--studied at once. moreover no more than one language should be studied at the same time; practice in those already learnt is to be acquired by literary readings, written résumés, and conversation. another kind of concentration is necessary. not every subject should be split up into subdivisions but history should be made to include literary history, church history, etc. in geography at the early stage, a part of natural science should be included, and the history of art combined with both. another not less important method implied in concentration is in all general courses to direct one's attention to the main questions, and to sacrifice the mass of details. detailed work should not have been incorporated, as indispensable for general culture (from generation to generation), during the constant growth of the contents of knowledge. in regard to instruction, methods now popular should be forced out of the field. the two obligatory features, the careful hearing of lessons by the teacher, and the equally careful preparation of the next lesson, must be changed for other methods according to the age of the scholar, the special character of the subject, and of the scholar himself; or according to the particular stage of the subject. at one time the teacher should give an attractive, comprehensive account of a period, a character, a land, a natural phenomenon. another time it will be enough to give a simple, introductory reference to the reading of one or more works on the subject, best of all an original authority. sometimes he should require an oral account of what he has said, or what has been read; sometimes this should be done in writing. when the lesson is filled with many facts the scholar should write them down in the hour; another time he should summarise them from memory. an assigned amount too can be gone through along with the teacher's explanation; on another occasion, the assignment need not be gone over at all, but the scholars could show their capacity to understand it and comprehend it without assistance. occasionally the task might be done in a short time from one day to another, sometimes it might take a longer period. but this work would, as has been said, take place ordinarily in the school. purely literary readings and books of a similar type must be assigned for work at home, to be done during a considerable length of time. for we all know that the reading which has made a deep impression on us was only what was read freely; reading for which we ourselves could set the time, place, and inclination. and since, in this case, the important thing is the impression, not the knowledge, freedom is more important than in other subjects. individual initiative can be furthered by having the teacher, as is done in france, explain in passing all words and subjects in a poem difficult to understand. the teacher too should now and then, by reading poetry aloud, stimulate the desire of the scholar to learn more of the same poet. a poem has the greatest effect when it is presented unexpectedly. when a history lesson is ended there should be read aloud a passage from an historical poem. scholars do not forget either the poem, or the episode handled in it, even if they forget everything else. but test questions, used in the period of literature-study, go in at one ear and out at the other. a teacher who wishes to use this concentrated system in detail, that rests on the intelligent co-operation of the scholar, will naturally find that the method is to be derived from the personality of the teacher himself. i think the teacher of history should not take up the prehistoric period, but should give the scholar some good popular work on it and let him go to a museum; he should then require a written essay, to be illustrated by the scholar with drawings of characteristic types of archæological specimens. in the same way, he could give a comparative view of the same period among other people. then, if there were a scholar especially anxious to learn, he could put in his hands a work about the primitive condition of man. every teacher, man or woman, can easily think out, for the subjects they teach, analogous methods. the teacher of geography who is talking about siberia can give some good general description of it to all the scholars for their private study. those particularly interested would be recommended to read a narrative of travels in siberia, dostojewsky's _out of the dead house_, and so on. if the teacher of history were taking up napoleon, he could read in the french hour a work like vigny's _servitude et grandeur militaire_. for the dutch war of independence, motley's history, goethe's _egmont_, and schiller's _don carlos_ could be read. a whole book could be written on plans like these, with indications how the different fields of knowledge could supplement one another, how history, geography, literature, and art could be intertwined just as on the other side geography and natural science. similarly it would show how different teachers could be of use to one another in communicating to their scholars a fuller knowledge. i should like to propose an hypothesis for discussion and examination that i have formulated, after a wide experience in story-telling, both as a listener and as a narrator. if i might put together in a statement, without intending to prove it, the result of my experience in the subject named, i should say that the mental food which is most attractive for the child, also gives the most nourishment. this is the fact that the physiology of our day has proved in the case of the organic existence of the child. pedagogy is beginning, consciously or unconsciously, to apply it to the mental sphere, yet without daring to hold that nature is so simple, that need and inclination can be so nearly related. naturally, it cannot be maintained that what is most attractive for children's stories should constitute their whole training, as physiology maintains that what tastes most agreeable to the child, for example sugar, should form his sole nourishment. what every story-teller finds as specially attractive to children, is the epic smoothness, the clear comprehensiveness of the tale, its consistent objectivity. every narrative which will win the attention of the child, whether it be from scandinavian, classical, or biblical history, must have these characteristics of the tale. there are hardly any story-tellers who so completely absorb children as old nurses. they never forget any picturesque trait in the tale, they always give the same broad, full narrative. they tell their stories without explanations and without applications, with the real direct feeling of the child for grasping the subject. everything which disturbs the smooth flow of the narrative, above all, when the narrator puts himself outside of it by indulging in a joke, strikes the child as a profound incongruity. children are always more or less artistic in their nature, in the sense that they desire to receive an impression in its purity, not as a means to something else. they wish through the story to go through a real experience; at the same time they will say "no," if they are asked whether they would prefer to hear a real history to a story. this apparent contradiction can be explained in this way: the tale presents reality, as reality is conceived of by the naïve fancy of early ages, and is in just the form in which the imagination of the child can receive it. in telling stories, we find, besides, that what attracts children is the narrative of actions; in this roundabout way they get hold of emotions and sentiments. the development of the child--this is a truth which has to be worked out before it can really be taken in--answers in miniature to the development of mankind as a whole. and it follows from this that children combine idealism and realism, as epic national poetry does. great, good, heroic, supernatural traits affect them most; but only in a concrete shape sensibly perceived, with the richness of the power which comes from life, without any adaptation to our present conceptions. we can test this by telling a real folk-lore tale, and anderson's version of it. with a few exceptions children are unanimous in calling the first type the most beautiful. besides what is attractive for lively children, with sound appetites, is quantity, but in no way multiplicity. first of all they ask whether the story is long after they have begun to hope that it is beautiful. they are glad to hear the same story innumerable times; they have an unconscious need for thorough assimilation, just as soon as what is given to them harmonises with their stage of development. this is true of all subjects. i know children who detest the "choice stories" from the bible, with which their morning prayers are commenced, but who read the new testament as a story-book. in this respect, all small children are like great ones, the artists. the imagination of children requires full, entire, deep impressions, as material for their energies that are incessantly creating and reconstructing. and if their sound feeling has not been disturbed by a dualism foreign to them it brings them with remarkably sure instinct to choose the sound, pure, and beautiful, and to reject the unsound, hateful, and crude. finally, we find in story-telling that children much prefer continuity of impressions though they are said to express preference for change. we never hear children say, "now tell a funny story, the one before was too gloomy." but if we commence telling gloomy stories they want one after another of the same type. if we had begun telling amusing stories, they never tire of laughing. the changeableness of children in playing, reading, and working is not so general a characteristic of childish nature as is believed. it is true only of children whose readings and games are not adapted to their nature and inclinations. changeableness is, in a certain way, nature's self-defence against what is unconsciously injurious. as to comic narratives, it is found in story-telling that the child has the most keen sense for the humour of a situation. on the other hand they have hardly a trace of feeling for the humour that rests on deep intellectual contrasts, least of all for humour of the ironical type. if a narrative out of their own world is really to make impression on them, it must be like a tale, full of life, with action and surprises, broad and naïve in its style, without any noticeable aim. all the children's books which children through their life recollect and by which they are impressed, are those that at least in one way or another fulfil these conditions. the rest give other impressions, but even so they become no more harmless than arsenic wall-paper covered by fresh undyed layers. as to the humour of children, it can be easily tested. we can tell them the most comic psychological children's stories; ninety-nine out of a hundred they will declare to be terribly stupid, while a simple history presenting a funny situation doubles them up with laughter. children do not feel drawn to abstract things; this is an old truth, whose correctness is established best by story-telling. all virtues and qualities, no matter how well concealed they may be, are very quickly pronounced stupid by children. for fables, children have seldom any taste, least of all for essays. the introduction of a fox or a bear into the story or in a real adventure makes the story-teller the dearest friend of children. but the most lively and childish essay on the bear or the fox leaves them cold, unless it is made real by some personal experience in the country or by a visit to a zoölogical garden. this truth is so recognised and proved from so many points of view, that i will simply say here that experience in story-telling gives additional evidence of it. children show, in listening to stories, a finely developed sensitiveness to all attempts to descend to, or to adopt, the standpoint of the child, to everything that is artificial in the narrative. in intercourse with children, especially with those who represent progressive methods, can be seen how the reaction against the old lesson and hidebound methods has produced an artificial naïveté, a richness of illustrations, and a liveliness that children soon feel as something specially prepared for them, something not quite real. this way of partially giving to children their own imaginative power puts them to sleep, even when it succeeds at first in giving them a good entertainment in their lessons. for the illustrations and comparisons, as well as the consequences which another has thought out for them, obstruct the initiative of the child; besides they are all soon forgotten. it is the same with playthings; those they make themselves give inexhaustible pleasure, while those that are ready made only confer joy once or twice. they are shown and then broken in pieces in order to extract the clockwork, for this is the only possible way for the child to do something with it himself. instruction is beginning to resemble children's playthings and children's books; it is too complete, too richly illustrated. it hinders individual free voyages of discovery of the imagination. even good illustrations are often injurious; but we do not intend to speak at length on this subject. as a matter of fact children often feel themselves deceived by illustrations. the reserve in a story is also a property that attracts the child. its pictures are indicated with a few definite but repeated details. the imagination is allowed to fill the picture with colours. the uniformity, the rhythm, and the symmetry, all qualities belonging to the folk-lore tale, are for the child extremely absorbing. they enjoy such repetitions as "the first, second, and third year" and so on, quite like the refrain in rhyme and poetry. but all these observations lead to a final result. the present reading-book system is neither the most attractive for children, nor does it best supply them with what they want. instead of epic smoothness and unity, reading-books bring a confused mixture of all kinds, nursery rhymes, religious teaching, poetry, natural history, and history. occasionally there comes a tale or a real poem, standing apart distinctly from its neighbours, in tone and in comprehensiveness. instead of clear impressions, children get through the reading-book a disturbing jumble; instead of objectivity, they get instructive children's stories; instead of poetry, edifying versification; instead of action, reflection; instead of much of one thing, a little of everything; instead of continuity of impressions, constant change; instead of concrete impressions of life, essays; instead of naïve tales, things written down to their level. i ask what is the result of this reading-book system on the development of the child from six to sixteen years old? what, in general, is the result on the development of character when one flits from impression to impression, nipping in flight at different things, letting one picture after another slip away, making no halt anywhere? as to the effect on adults, immediate answers can be given. these answers are so unfavourable that they do not need to be repeated. but, should a principle which applies to the adult be less suitable for the child? it really applies much more to the child. adults generally have some work, some occupation, some one centre around which they can arrange manifold events, change may often be advantageous for them; but the whole school day of the child is change; the way the child absorbs knowledge is by the teaspoonful. is not this condition enough to urge us to work with all our might against the system of diffusion wherever it is unnecessary? in reading-books diffusion is not necessary; in foreign languages, as in his own tongue, the interest of the child is much more stimulated by a book than by a reader; his vocabulary is increased. but even if this were not the case, what the child gains through reading-books, in quick readiness in the mother tongue or in foreign languages, does not compensate for the loss their use signifies in development in the way already mentioned. the schools deal improperly with the mental powers of youth, through their lack of specialising, of concentration, in their depreciation of initiative, in their being out of touch with reality. high schools and colleges are absolutely destructive to personality. here, where only oral examinations should take place from time to time, where all studies should tend to be individual, the hunger of the scholar for reality is hardly satisfied in any direction. nothing is done to help his longing to see for himself, to read, to judge, to get impressions at first-hand, not from second-hand reports. certainly here, too, the direction of the teacher is necessary. he can economise superfluous work by clarifying generalisations; he can criticise a one-sided account in order to complete the picture fully himself. often the teacher must excite interest by a vigorous account from his own point of view; by a fine psychological study, he can illustrate a complex historical picture. he will help the scholar to find laws, governing the phenomena which he has come to know by his own experiments, or he can suggest comparisons which lead to such experiments. here, also, oral and written exercise must have great weight. but the end of all instruction in college, as in the school, should not consist in examinations and diplomas; these must be obliterated from the face of the earth. the aim should be that the scholars themselves, at first hand, should acquire their knowledge, should get their impressions, should form their opinions, should work their way through to intellectual tastes, not as they now do, taking no trouble themselves, but being supposed to acquire these gifts through interesting lectures given by the teacher on five different subjects, heard every morning while the students are dozing, and soon forgotten. facts slip away from every one's memory, quickest from the memory of those who have learned according to the dose and teaspoonful system. but education happily is not simply the knowledge of facts, it is, as an admirable paradox has put it, what is left over after we have forgotten all we have learnt. the richer one is in such permanent acquisitions, the greater the profit of study. the more subjective pictures we have; the more numerous our vibrating emotions and associations of ideas are; the more we are filled with suggestively active impressions;--so much the more development we have, won by study for our personality. the fact that our students acquire so little, even if they have passed through every school with excellent marks, is a serious injustice they feel during their whole life. the beautifully systematised, ticketed, checkerboard knowledge given by examinations soon disappears. the person who has kept his desire for knowledge and his capacity for work by his free choice and by his independent labor can easily fill out the gaps left by this method of study in the knowledge he has acquired. only the person who by knowledge has obtained a view of the great connected system of existence, the connection between nature and man's life, between the present and the past, between peoples and ideas, cannot lose his education. only the person who, through the mental nourishment he has received, sees more clearly, feels more ardently, has absorbed completely the wealth of life, has been really educated. this education can be gained in the most irregular way, perhaps around the hearth or in the field, on the seashore or in the wood; it can be acquired from old tattered books or from nature itself. it can be terribly incomplete, very one-sided, but how real, personal, and rich it appears to those who for the period of fifteen years in school have ground out the wheat on strange fields, like oxen with muzzled mouths! our age cries for personality; but it will ask in vain, until we let our children live and learn as personalities, until we allow them to have their own will, think their own thoughts, work out their own knowledge, form their own judgments; or, to put the matter briefly, until we cease to suppress the raw material of personality in schools, vainly hoping later on in life to revive it again. chapter vi the school of the future i should like to set down here briefly my dreams of a future school, in which the personality may receive a free and complete self-development. i purposely say "dreams," because i do not want any one to believe that i am pretending in the following outline to give a reformed programme for the present time. my first dream is that the kindergarten and the primary school will be everywhere replaced by instruction at home. undoubtedly a great influence has proceeded from that whole movement which has resulted, among other things, in the pestalozzi-froebel kindergartens, and in institutions modelled after them. better teachers have been produced by it; but what i regard as a great misfortune, is the increasing inclination to look upon the crèche, the kindergarten, and the school as the ideal scheme of education. every discussion dealing with the possibilities of women working in public life exalts the advantage of freeing the mother from the care of children, emancipating children from the improper care of their mothers, and giving women possibilities of work outside of the home. mrs. perkins stetson proposes as a compromise, that every mother, pedagogically qualified, shall take care of a group of children along with her own. but what her own children will receive under such conditions is sufficiently shown in the case of those poor children who grow up in educational institutions presided over by their parents; and also by the experience of the poor parents who are not able under these conditions to look after their own children. the crèche and the kindergarten were and continue to be a blessing undoubtedly for those innumerable mothers who work outside of their homes and are badly prepared for their duties. some type of kindergarten will perhaps be necessary under particular circumstances as a partial substitute for the home, as, for example, when a child has no companions to play with, or when the mother herself is disinclined or not able to educate the child. this incapacity is ordinarily the result of an extremely nervous temperament, caused by weak will or depression. mary wollstonecraft's remarks, made more than a hundred years ago, still call for our approval. "if children are not physically murdered by their ignorant mothers, they are ruined psychically by the inability of the mother to bring them up. mothers, in those first six years that determine the whole development of the child's character, turn them over to the hands of servants, whose authority is often undermined by the way in which they are treated. then children are passed on to school to control the bad behaviour which the vigilance of the mother could have prevented, and which she controls with means that become the basis for all kinds of vices." but because such cases are still frequent and because there will always be mothers incapable of bringing their children up, it would be a premature assumption to believe that the majority of women cannot be trained to become parents, if the development of the woman has this end in view. one of the tasks of the future is the creation of a generation of trained mothers, who among other things will emancipate children from the kindergarten system. children are handled in crowds from two and three years up, they are made to appear before the public in crowds, made to work on the one plan, made to do the same petty, idiotic, and useless tasks. in this way, we believe at the present time that we are forming men, while actually we are only training units. any one who remembers how, as a child, he played on the beach or in the wood, in a big nursery or in an old-fashioned attic, or has seen other children playing in these surroundings, will know how such unrestrained play deepens the soul, increases the capacity for invention, and stimulates the imagination a hundredfold more than children's games and occupations devised by the arrangement, and promoted by the interference, of elder persons. adults are accustomed to amuse children in crowds, a custom which comes from intellectual vulgarity, instead of leaving them alone to amuse themselves. besides this system encourages children to produce what they do not need, and leads them to imagine that they are working by so doing. children should be taught to despise all the numerous unnecessary things which put life on a false level and make it artificial. they should be taught to try to simplify it, to aim for its supreme values; this should be the end of education. the kindergarten system is, on the contrary, one of the most effective means to produce the weak dilletante and the self-satisfied average man. if there is any further need for the kindergarten in the near or distant future, let it be a place where children may have the same freedom as cats or dogs, to play by themselves, and for themselves, to think out something of their own, where they can be provided with means to carry out their own plans, where they have companions to play with them. a sensible woman may be near at hand to look on or to supervise, but only to interfere when the children are likely to hurt themselves. let her draw something for them occasionally, tell them a story, or teach them an amusing game, but otherwise let her be apparently quite passive and yet untiringly active in the observation of the traits of character and of disposition which play of this free type reveals. in like manner the mother should observe the play of children, their treatment of their companions at play, their inclinations, and collect as much material as she can but interfere as little directly as possible. the mother finally by this constant, many-sided, strenuous, yet passive kind of observation gets a knowledge of the child that is partially exact. one being never learns to know another being entirely, not even when that being has received its life from the other, not even when that life is daily renewed by the other being, in order to reach the full happiness of spiritual motherhood. it has been well said that as people regard the birth of a child as the sign of physical maturity, the education of a child is regarded as a sign of psychical maturity. but through lack in psychological insight, most parents remain their whole life immature. they can have the best principles, the most zealous fidelity to duty, combined with absolute blindness to the nature of children, the real causes of their actions, and the different combinations of different characteristics. take some examples of the worst blunders of this type; the small child is often called vain who studies, full of interest, his own identity in the glass; the child who, from fear or confusion at a hard or incomprehensible question, does not answer or obey is called stubborn; the child that cannot explain his actions in those small things which adults every day entirely forget is looked upon as lying; and even before the child has a conception of the right of property, when he pilfers, he is called thievish. the child who says that he knows that he is naughty, and wants to be naughty, is called obdurate and impertinent, while this statement is really a self-confession and shows a character to which one may appeal with the best results. the child, sunk in thought, who forgets the small things of daily life, people call thoughtless. even when a child is really selfish and is really lying or lazy, these characteristics are treated as if they were something individual, while actually they are caused often by some serious fault which must be dealt with. these characteristics can proceed from a good quality which may be destroyed, if the fault is not treated suitably. but even parents who now observe their children with more psychological insight than was used in earlier times are not able to study them, if their children go to school and kindergarten at an early age. this want of insight produces mistakes which often cause deep antagonisms between children and their parents, the sort of thing which now embitters so many households. only fathers and mothers who reverence the individuality of their children, and combine with this feeling a careful observation of them through their whole life, are able to avoid this typical fault of our own time. people expect to gather grapes from thistles, instead of being satisfied with haws. parents must see that they cannot create where there is no material to be created. but they must be capable of developing the characteristics which they discover in the nature of their children. this work they must undertake with optimism and resignation, for it represents the teaching of real psychological study. this will stop those efforts, painful alike for children and parents, that are applied in directions which offer no reward to effort. but the study of the psychology of the child, begun at its birth, continued in its play, its work, its rest, means a daily comparative study, and requires the undivided attention of one person. it can only be done by a person who has charge of but a few children; in a crowd it is impossible. it is all the more impossible because children in a crowd resemble one another more or less; and this makes observation more difficult. the kindergarten is only a factory. children learn in it to model, instead of making mud pies according to their own taste. this process is typical of what these small atoms of humanity go through themselves. from the first floor of the factory the objects that have been turned out there are sent to the next floor above, the school; and from this they then go out put up in packages. the aim of school training is to carry out, with all its might, production by quantities that expresses the demands of our time in all spheres. the invention of individual school methods may reduce the influence of "canned education." as long as there are large cities, poor children in them must be able to obtain the possibilities of country children. their playthings must be made out of the world which surrounds them. the obligations of their own home must supply them with work. this is altogether different from the play work of the kindergarten that has no connection with the seriousness of reality. a wise mother or teacher will adopt from the kindergarten system just so much as will enable her to teach children to observe nature and their surroundings; will take from it what enables her to make them combine their activity with some useful end; their amusement with some kind of knowledge. the froebel dictum, "let us live for the children," must be changed into a more significant phrase, "let us allow the children to live." this, among other things, means "let them be emancipated from the burden of learning by heart," from the forms of system, from the pressure of the crowd, in those years while the quiet, secret work of the soul is as vital for them as the growing of the seed in the earth. the kindergarten system is opposed to this; it is forcing up the seed to life on a plate, where it looks very pretty, but only for the time being. the school with its _esprit de corps_ opens the way public lack of conscience. modern society manages thus to reproduce the crimes of every past period; manages too, to reproduce them through men who are conscientious in their own private life. for those without consciences, who lead criminal movements, would never be able to put the masses of people in motion, unless they were just masses and nothing more; unless they were made to follow collective laws of honour, collective patriotic feelings, collective conceptions of duty. the child learns to be obedient to his school, to be loyal to his comrades, just as later on in life he learns these qualities as they are presented in his university, his student society, and his profession. all of this he learns sooner than to reverence his conscience, his feeling of right, his individual impulse. he learns to wink at, pardon, and disguise the sins committed by his own circle of companions, his own club, and his own country. this is the way the world produces its "dreyfus affairs," its transvaal wars. if the aim is to create men and not masses, we should follow the educational programme of the great statesman stein--"to develop all those impulses on which the value and strength of mankind depend." this is only possible when the child is taught, at the earliest age, the freedom and danger of his own choice, the right and responsibility of his own will, the conditions and duties of being put to the test himself. all of these elements of character are unconsciously opposed by the kindergarten; the home alone can develop them. the highest result of education is to bring the individual into contact with his own conscience. this does not mean that the individual cannot experience by degrees the happiness and the necessity of being a factor in the service of the whole, first in his home, then among his companions and in his country, and finally in the world. the difference is this: in the first case the man is a living cell, co-operating and building up living forms; in the other he is a piece of cut stone used in artificial construction. both for the development of individuality, as well as for the cultivation of the emotions, the home is to be preferred to the kindergarten and to the school. in the limited small circle of the home the emotional element can be deepened and tenderness can be developed, by the acts called for in the realities of domestic life. the kindergarten first, and then the school, free children from their natural individual obligations and put in their place demands that can only be fulfilled _en masse_. the child enters into a number of superficial relations. this situation tends to make his emotions superficial; here is the great danger of beginning school life at a tender age. on the other hand a one-sided home life brings with it the danger of concentrating the emotions to an excess. education at home in the years when the emotions become harmonious and receive their decisive training is just as important for the child as is later on a pleasant sociable life with others of the same age, after the twelfth year is passed. all intellectual cultivation done according to the most excellent method, all social feelings, are worthless unless they have as their basis an individual development of the emotions. somewhere in our body we must have a heart, to act as a real balance against our head. only the man who has learnt to love a few, deep enough to die for them, is able to live profitably for the many. i should like to see not only the kindergarten but the preparatory school transferred to the home. there things can be considered that are never taken into account in a general school. the child need not have the nourishment he does not want, and which he does not need, at the time he now generally receives it. in the home school, one child can put off reading to a later age, another can be taught reading early. the desire for action in one child can be satisfied; the book-hunger of the other encouraged. bodily development, the desire to make a real acquaintance with external nature can be considered in home work, play, and out-of-door activities. then we can begin to teach when the child himself asks for teaching; that is, when he wishes to hear or do something in which knowledge alone can assist him. the child can twice as easily learn at ten years, under these conditions, what he now learns at eight; at eight what he now learns at six, if he comes to his study with developed powers of observation and an eager desire for action. schools can never attain a full insight into the peculiar character of personality, into the ways in which knowledge must be placed before different individuals, into the right time for taking a subject or giving it up. the home school must be considered the ideal method where the child studies with a small group of well-selected companions. individuality can be considered, plans of study and courses can be neglected. through such neglect only, is a real living instruction possible. the advantages the modern school has over the home are hardly worth discussing. the order of the school, its method, system, and discipline, so much praised by its advocates as advantages, are, from my point of view, nothing but disadvantages. habits of fulfilling duties, or work, orderly and punctual activity, that belong to a sound education, can be attained in the home school through far less artificial means. of course it is urged as another advantage of the school that the school child becomes a member of a small community where he learns social duties. but the home is the natural community where the child, in full seriousness, learns the real social duties of readiness to help, and readiness to act, while the present-day school artificially replaces that domestic social education, of which the child is now robbed by studies at school and preparation at home. the real value of school life among companions can be had from the home school without its ordinary dangers. these dangers are not only evil influences, but, more than anything else, that collective process of reaching a standard of stupidity, due to the pressure of public opinion that comes from association in masses. the fear of common opinion, of being laughed at, is created in the receptive years of childhood, so open to such influences. the slightest deviation in dress, or taste, is criticised unsparingly. if an investigation were conducted on the sufferings of children through the tyranny of their fellows, a tyranny which sometimes takes harsher, sometimes milder forms, it would upset the prejudice that the usefulness of the school in this respect cannot be replaced. besides there is the levelling pressure of a uniform discipline, which stunts personality from above, while life with school companions restricts it on all sides. every criticism on this formal pedantry is met with the answer, "in a school it is absolutely impossible to permit children to do what can be done in the household; only fancy if all children in the school were to sharpen their lead pencils or erase words in their exercises." there is no need to insist further on this point. hundreds of petty rules must exist, we are told, for the sake of discipline. and even if the rules could be reduced to a fourth of their present cubic contents, even the best schools would still feel the pressure of uniformity. the more this pressure is resisted by individuals, so much the better. education in the first years must aim to strengthen individuality. the whole of biographical literature supplies an almost uniform proof of the importance of not commencing too early the levelling social education of the school. early attendance at school is one of the reasons why we so frequently meet, as dumas says, so many clever children, and so many stupid adults. almost all great men and women, who have thought and created for themselves, have received either no education in school at all, or have gone to school at a rather later period, with longer or shorter interruptions, or have been trained in different schools. in most cases it was an accident, some living point of view, a book read in secret, a personal choice of subject that gave these exceptional beings their training. in this respect goethe's education was ideal, considered apart from some pedantry due to his father's influence. at his mother's work-table he learnt to know the bible; french he learnt from a theatrical company; english from a language master, in company with his father; italian, because he heard his sister being taught the language; mathematics from a friend in the household, a study which goethe applied immediately, first in cardboard diagrams, later in architectural drawings. his essays he prepared in the form of a correspondence in different languages between different relatives, scattered in various parts of the world. geography he eagerly studied in books of travel in order to be able to give his narrative local colour. he knocked about with his father, learnt to observe different kinds of handwork, and also to try himself small experiments of his own skill. but some one may say, all men are not geniuses, and accordingly the majority without distinct talent need the school. is it possible that the connection between originality and irregular attendance at school is merely accidental? how often does the school sin in its watering down of originality! as for unoriginal people, the argument urged here is an application of the biblical axiom, that from him who has nothing even the little will be taken away. i mean the individual who has no distinct personality will be forced in the school to give up the little that he can call his own. the old-fashioned school where a few subjects were learnt by heart, where the teachers were often badly prepared, where the students could go to sleep or pretend to learn, where the courses were simple and attention concentrated on latin, seems barbarous to us. but it had less danger for the personality than the present-day school with its thorough preparation, its interest in readings, its perfected methods, its capital instructors who take every little stone out of the student's road, and prepare as much delightful intellectual nourishment as possible, sometimes even in a cooked-up form. this "good school" with its over-insistence on versatility is responsible for the nervousness of our day. its general intellectual apathy has caused the negativeness of our times. the quietest, most obedient child is thought the best pupil, that is, the most impersonal individual is the model. so we see how the school confuses its conception of values. the more the soul and body are passive, are willing to be controlled and receptive, so much the better are the results from the school standpoint. mischievous children, obstinate characters, one-sided and original natures, are always martyrs at school because of their desire for action, their spirit of opposition, their so-called "stupidity." only the easy-going, amiable, commonly endowed natures can keep some of their own individual tendencies, slip through the school, and at the same time get good certificates of industry, moral character, order, and progress. in the first-class modern school, the mobile structure of personality is forced into shape--or rather it is knocked about by wind and waves, like a pebble on the seashore. it is struck by one wave after another, day by day, term by term; on they come--forty-five minutes for religious instruction, the same period for history, then french, then sloyd, then natural history; the next day new subjects in new, small doses. in the afternoon, there is preparation at home, and writing exercises, previously arranged and marked out, then corrected with care, and the prepared readings made the basis of questioning by the most approved methods, the mother having at home first gone over them with the child. these powerful billows stupefy the brain, and take the edge off the souls of both teacher and scholar. even the most active teachers move along fettered by requirements and prejudices, unconditional necessities and methodical principles. only occasionally is a soul saved from this fate by total skepticism. some exalt this pettifogging professionalism to a plan of salvation, others are untiringly busy in changing details, in discussing minor improvements. every real thoroughgoing reform affecting the principle, not the methods alone, goes to pieces, because it conflicts with the system supported by the state. it fails, through the obedient acceptance of the system on the part of parents, through the incapacity of teachers to look at the whole results of the system, through their disinclination to all radical methods of improvement. the school, like the home and society, in general should aim to fight more vigorously and more successfully the influences belittling life, and should further its development towards ever higher forms. this end is opposed by the modern schools. it is a gross mistake to hold up their excellent material and their number as proofs of popular culture. how the people are educated in the schools, how the material is used, what subjects are pursued in them are the momentous questions. goethe's saying that "fortune is the development of our capacities" is as applicable to children as to adults. what these capacities are can be determined soon in the case of the talented child; his future can be secured by obtaining for him the possibility of such a development. but there are common capacities, proper to every normal human being, and from their development, fortune too can be the outcome. among such capacities is memory, which modern man has nearly destroyed. "we throw ashes," says max muller, "every day on the glowing coals of memory while men of past ages could retain in their minds the treasures of our present literature." to these capacities belong, among others, power of thought, not in the sense of philosophic thinking, but in the simpler use of the word, gifts of observation, ability to draw conclusions and to exercise judgment. of the common universal human faculties the emotions suffer most at the hand of the modern school. one of the fundamentally wrong pedagogical assumptions, is that mathematics and grammar develop the understanding. this is only true after a higher stage is reached in these courses. but there is no one who seriously maintains that, so far as nature or man is concerned, he has used directly or indirectly, in a single observation, conclusion, or exercise of judgment, the theses, hypotheses, statements, problems, the rules and exceptions, of mathematics and grammar, with which his childish brain was burdened. i have heard from mathematicians and philologians the same heresy that i am proclaiming, that mathematics and grammar, when they are not pursued as sciences, must be reduced to a minimum. provided a person has mathematical talent, the study of mathematics is naturally agreeable, through the development of a capacity in a certain direction. if one has the gift for languages, the same is true of linguistic study. but without such special talent, these subjects have no educational value, because the powers of observation, drawing conclusions, exercising judgment, are just as undeveloped as they were before the mathematical problem was solved or the grammatical rules learned. life--the life of nature and of man--this alone is the preparation for life. what the world of nature and the world of man offers in the way of living forms, objects of beauty, types of work, processes of development, can, by natural history, geography, history, art, and literature, give real value to memory; can teach the understanding to observe, to judge and distinguish; can train the feeling to become intense, and through its intensity combine the varying material in that unity which alone is education. in brief, real things are what the home and school should offer children in broad, rich, and warm streams. but the streams should not be taken off in canals and dammed up by methods, systems, divisions of courses, and examinations. i never read a pedagogical discussion without the fine words "self-activity, individual development, freedom of choice," suggesting to me the music which accompanies the sacrificial feasts of cannibals. the moment these words are used, limitations and reservations are introduced by their advocates. their proposed application is ludicrously insignificant, in contrast with the great principle in the name of which they urge these changes. and so the pupil continues to be sacrificed to educational ideals, pedagogical systems, and examination requirements, that they refuse to abandon. the everlasting sin of the school against children is to be always talking about the child. the sloyd system (manual dexterity, handwork, artistic production) has certain good results on children. accordingly the sloyd must be introduced into the school, and all must be made to share the advantages of this training; but there are children for whom the sloyd is as inappropriate and as useless a requirement as learning latin. the child who wants to devote himself to his books should be no more forced to take up the sloyd, than the child who is happy with his planing table should be dragged to literature. all talk about "harmonious training" must be given the place where it belongs--in the pedagogical culinary science. certainly harmonious development is the finest result of man's training, but it is only to be attained by his own choice. it implies a harmony between the real capacities of the individual, not a harmony worked up from a pedagogical formula. the results from the school kneading trough with its mince-meat processes are something quite different. isolated reforms in the modern school have no significance; they will continue to have none, until we prepare for the great revolution, which will smash to pieces the whole present system and will leave not one stone of it upon another. undoubtedly a "deluge" of pedagogy must come, in which the ark need only contain montaigne, rousseau, spencer, and the modern literature of the psychology of the child. when the ark comes to dry land man need not build schools but only plant vineyards where teachers will be employed to bring the ripe grapes to the children, who now get only a taste of the juice of culture in a thin watery mixture. the school has only one great end, to make itself unnecessary, to allow life and fortune, which is another way of saying self-activity, to take the place of system and method. from the kindergarten period on the child is now, as has been said, a material moulded, sometimes by hostile, sometimes by friendly hands. the mildest, the apparently freest methods produce uniformity by insisting on the same work, the same impression, the same regulations, day by day, year by year. besides in the school, classes are never arranged according to the child's temperament and tendency, but according to his age and knowledge. so he is condemned in deadly tediousness to waste an infinite amount of time while he is waiting for others. the very earliest period of instruction should use the power the child has for observation and work. these capacities should be made the means of his education, the standard for using his own observation. if the power of observation is vigorous, no general rules are to be drawn, but only particular ones. one child must read, play, or do handwork in a different degree to another. one can at an early age, the other only at a later period, take advantage of the education to be obtained from going to museums or from travel (the best of all travel is tramping). the indispensable elements will be reduced to their lowest measure; for what any one man needs to be able to do, in order to find himself at home in life, is not considerable. the minimum is to read well, to spell properly, to write with both hands, to copy simple objects, so that one learns picture writing just as alphabet writing. this skill is quite different from artistic gifts. besides there must be instruction in looking at things geometrically, the four simple rules of arithmetic and decimal fractions, as much geography as will help one to use a map and a time-table, as much knowledge of nature as will give one a fundamental conception of the simplest requirements of hygiene; and finally, the english language, in order to put one in touch with the increasing intercourse in the great world. through these requirements the child will be endowed with what he needs, in order to find himself at home in the world of books and of life. let there be added to these the ability to darn a stocking, sew on a button, and thread a needle. only the indispensable should be the obligatory foundation of further culture, which is only the trimming on a simple garment. the trimming receives its entire value because the individual has prepared it himself; it must not be made by a machine according to a model prepared in a factory. what is mentioned here supplies the same basis for all, but children should be able to throw themselves into the pastoral life of the old testament, into the life of the greek and scandinavian gods and heroes, into the life of popular legends and national history; but this should be done only through the books which they get for their amusement. at the present time all of these things are made pure subjects of study! assume, then, that this foundation is laid. the school of the future, which will be a school for all, will advance general education, but the plan it follows will be adapted to every individual. in the school of my dreams there will be no report books, no rewards, no examinations; at graduation time examinations will be arranged for but they will be oral. in them detailed knowledge will not be considered; education as a whole will determine the decision of the examiners, who will personally accompany the children in the open air in order to become quietly acquainted with what they know of mankind, of past and present history. and the education which will make the training aim at this end will be diametrically opposed to that given by the teacher of the present day. the teacher will be required to make his own observations, he will guide the scholar in the choice of books, and show him how to work. but he will not give first his own observation, judgment, and knowledge in the form of lectures, preparations, and experiments. occasionally he will without giving notice ask for an oral or written account of work, and so ascertain how thoroughly the scholar has gone into the subject. at another time, when he knows that the scholar is prepared for it, he will give a general treatment, a comprehensive review of the subject, a stimulating and stirring impression, as a reward for independent work. finally, when the scholar wishes it, he will examine him formally, but his real work will be to teach the scholar to make his own observations, to solve his own problems, to find his own aids to study in books, dictionaries, maps, etc., to fight his way through his own difficulties to victory and so reach the only moral reward for his trouble with broadened insight and increased strength. the scholar who sits down and listens to, or looks at, the demonstration or experiment of the teacher does not learn to observe, nor does he whose exercise book is corrected with painful accuracy learn to write; nor does the one who pedantically carries out the system of models in the sloyd system learn to make articles fit for every-day use. the student must make his investigations himself, he must find the mistakes himself when their presence is indicated to him, he must himself think out the objects brought before him. above all, the separate errors must not be corrected except when they are so constant and serious that they waste time. but the scholar himself must try to find out the correct and complete method of work and of expression. this is what training, what education is. text-books will be attractive and virile, the "reader" will disappear, the complete books in the original (the text may be revised if it is filled with confusing details) will be placed in the hands of children. the school library will be the largest, most beautiful, and important room; lending books in the schools will be an essential part of the curriculum. the future school of my dreams will be surrounded by large gardens, where, as in already-existing schools in some places, the feeling for beauty will be directly encouraged. the individual scholars will arrange the flowers in the school and at home. they will take them home in order to adorn the window garden, and every schoolroom in winter will have a garden of this kind. this will be the natural method of making the simplest of all esthetic enjoyments a universal need. but taste must not be developed by instruction in the art of arranging flowers; this is to be attained only by pointing out those that have been arranged in the most beautiful way. in this as in all other things, self-help is essential. natural dexterity will be attained by book-binding, turning, and other kinds of handwork, also by gardening and play. such training has far greater educational value than the systematic types. the purposelessness and the uniformity of these are the terror of youth. gymnastics should only be used on days when the weather makes bodily exercise in the open air impossible; they can certainly be made more living by being connected with physiology and hygiene, just as mathematics can be made real by being combined with handwork and drawing. but nothing can equal the value of movement in the open air. besides its garden, the future school will have its hall. outside it will have a playground for dancing and really free play--i mean the kind of play where children, after they have learnt the game, are left to themselves. games constantly accompanied by a teacher make play a parody. the development of beauty will become the aim of physical instruction as it once was with the greeks, not simply physical strength. through different kinds of hand and garden work, the child will be spared from a number of requirements in mathematics and physics, because he will in many things make discoveries himself. in the methods of school drudgery the child learns that a seed grows by warmth and moisture. in real training, the child himself sows the seed and sees what happens to it; this system is followed i believe in many schools, but only as proofs of a given abstract statement. the mistake of the modern school is really just here; it illustrates its course of instruction by, as it were, over-charging the child's attention, instead of giving him time and opportunity to originate for himself. in the future school-building, there will be no class-rooms at all, but different halls with ample material provided for different subjects, and, by the side of them, rooms for work where each scholar will have a place assigned to him for private study. common examinations will only take place when several scholars are ready and willing, anxious to be examined on the same subject; and each student can ask for the examination independent of the rest. in every room, on the outside of the building, architecture and decoration will form a beautiful whole; and the artistic objects, detached from the building, for the adornment of the school will be partly originals, partly casts and copies of famous originals. the sense for art will not be awakened by direct artistic instruction, either in the school or when visiting museums. classes can perhaps get such knowledge when taken around museums; but love for art can only be gained when the scholar is surrounded by art; when he can absorb it in peace and freedom. let this quiet progress be anticipated by instruction--i don't mean the admiring criticism of the teacher himself, which he in passing expresses without explanation or questioning--and the inevitable result is troubling the water of a living well. interference here, as in all other cases, destroys the individual pleasure of discovery. constantly being taken about really impairs the capacity for seeing for oneself. in art, in literature, and in religion, all instruction is a mistake until the young mind has chosen some part of it as an object to be known. knowledge destroys, feeling creates, life. but the roots of feeling are easily injured. as to visits to museums under the direction of a teacher, they are only of use when the scholar has previously made, on his own account, his own discoveries. to these he should be stimulated by the teacher. when occupied in the study of greek history, he will be asked for a description of greek sculpture that is to be found in such and such a museum. when lectures are given on the dutch war of independence, dutch pictures will be described. only after the scholar has used his own eyes, and formed his own judgments, will a synthesis of his experiences under external guidance be of use. the same holds good of natural-history, historical, and ethnographical museums. taking children around in herds produces very slight results unless they have been put in the way of noticing things by themselves. among the books of the school, the best literature in the original and in good accessible translations should be found. works should be at hand capable of giving aid to those who have artistic interests. there is no greater fault in modern education than the care spent in selecting books for different ages. this is essentially an individual matter, and can only be decided by the choice of the child himself. a general crusade against all children's books, and freedom for the young to read great literature, is essential to the sound development of the modern child. what is too old for him may be set aside according to the taste of the child himself. suppose at the age of ten years, the child is absorbed in _faust_ (i know such cases); the child then gets at this age an impression for life that does not prevent him receiving from the same poem another impression at twenty years, or again another at thirty or forty years. the so-called dangers in standard literature are, for the child, almost nil. incidents that excite adults, his calm feelings pass over entirely. and even if children reach the emotional period of youth, only rarely does the plain downright expression of a great mind about natural things stain the imagination, falsify reality, and spoil taste. it is the modern romance, women's novels, just as much as french novels, that do this. children cannot in these days, even if parents are unreasonable enough to wish it, be kept in ignorance. crude or stolen impurity gets a greater power over a mind that has not absorbed respect for the absolute seriousness of natural processes. this reverence is sure to come from education, and through the impressions of standard literature and first-class art. veiling this subject is apt to lead astray and to vulgarise. to those who can be harmed in this way the bible is as suggestive as any of the crudities of modern literature. in the temperament which quietly accepts natural things as a matter of course, is laid the foundation of real purity, and only through real purity can life, like art and literature, become great and sound. in the works of great minds, one meets an infinite world in which the erotic element is only one factor. this gives them great repose. moreover imagination must have nourishment outside of itself; otherwise it will live upon its own product. its nourishment should be what is most readable. the child's mind should be first fed on legends and then on great literature. this should be all the more insisted on because great literature often remains unread, when modern literature in its varied types begins later on to be absorbing. to be able to use one's eyes in the worlds of nature, man, and art, to be able to read good things--these are the two great ends to which home and school education should direct their course. if the child has these capacities, he can learn almost everything else himself. i may remark in passing, that a sound development of the imagination has not only an æsthetic but an ethical significance. it is really the foundation for active sympathy all round. numerous cruelties are committed now by people who have not sufficient imagination to see how their acts affect others. in my dreamed-of school, founded along these lines, there is perfect freedom in selecting subjects. the school offers the subjects, but it forces no one to take them. english, german, french, natural science, mathematics, history, and geography are taught. the mother tongue is practiced fluently in speaking, reading, and writing. but in this case grammar is superfluous both for general education and for using a language; it belongs to scientific study, not to general culture. grammar should be applied in the case of foreign languages, only so far as it is absolutely necessary to appreciate the literature. this is the sole aim general culture has in view. those who wish to speak the languages fluently, and write them correctly, must attain facility by continual study. those who have mastered the literature very easily learn the rest. those who are familiar with the literature of a foreign language, write it, even with the mistakes they make, better than the person who has put together a perfectly correct composition according to grammatical rules. after the child, in his language study, has made enough progress to understand a fairly easy book, he ought to work through one book after another, with the help of a dictionary and explain in his own language extempore what he reads. in this way is laid the foundation of a knowledge of literature, not the ready-made opinions of the histories of literature. both in their own and in foreign literatures, the young must be lead to reality, not, as now, to its copy; to the sea, not to the water pipe. while the teacher is directing the study of language, he should try at the same time to help the scholar to a definite choice of books, and his choice should if possible be brought into relation with other subjects. so he will recommend literature connected with historical, scientific, or geographical study. afterwards he will give a general analysis, and will read a passage aloud, or will encourage the scholar to read some favorite poem. but all poetry mongering--such as hacking a poem to pieces by divisions into strophies and sections--is to be forbidden. since childhood is the best time for securing the familiar use of languages, after parents and teachers agree which scholars shall take up languages, children so selected will study english and french, each for two years successively, then let them have two years of german, or reverse this arrangement. in this way a language will always be studied with other subjects, never three languages together. it is really only possible to take in a language, as a possession to be kept through the future, and never lost, by giving to it alone two years of really thorough study. scholars who want to continue their drawing or learn any kind of handwork, can combine it with the study of the main subjects. chorus singing should be practised every day for the whole year, indoors and in the open air. it should be treated as a means of expressing the feelings, not as an introduction for developing musical capacities, though for that matter singing can give a lead to the discovery of musical talent. as to the four principal subjects, history, geography, natural science, and mathematics, they should not be studied at the same time. the shallow multiplicity of the present system is a burden to all; it works like the "water torture" on talented individuals. it wears out their desire to learn, their initiative, their individuality, their joy of living. those under this torture never get a breathing spell, are never able to do thorough work, and so become superficial. in my ideal school, mathematics will be learnt in winter, as it is suitable for the cold and clear winter air. in spring and in autumn, nature, out of doors, in nature itself, will be studied, not each department of nature as a special subject. an insight into geology, botany, and the animal world will be attained in their close natural union. the scholar will learn separate objects through the actual observation of life. in the text-book of life they will gain in its broad outlines a combined sketch of what they have acquired through intellectual processes. on rainy days they will construct for themselves in writing and in drawing a general sketch of what they have seen. general culture does not mean knowing the number of stamens or the number of articulations of a hundred flowers or skeletons. what educates and acts on the feelings and imagination, on thought and character, too, for that matter, is observing and combining natural phenomena; the ability to follow the laws of life and development in the natural world about us. the last member in the scheme of development is man. so the study of man from the standpoint of physiology and hygiene, should come last; consideration for the psychology of the child, urges too, that the foundation for the knowledge of organic nature, physics, and chemistry, should complete the educational structure. as in natural sciences we are beginning to give up false methods, and make the student return to the same subject, with a broader point of view, in the same way the child should at certain periods devote his attention to history and geography, and then leave them entirely alone. the endless circle, the drudgery, the repetitions, all looking to examinations as the end, will with the examinations be abolished. it is a matter of experience that the small details of all subjects slip from the memory two months after examinations. most educated men have no recollection of the detailed knowledge they acquired in school, while the general impressions of that period still influence soul, heart, character, and will. this experience will be used, not as is done now, simply recognised as a common one. in my school the scholar interested in history will apply himself to it in the winter months; will read works about it, while others are devoting themselves to mathematics or geography. in spring these two classes of students can share in the excursions without active participation in the studies, while those who are inclined to natural science will draw, make collections, and use the microscope. one group can by studying geography bring themselves into contact with the life of nature and the life of man. so they will be led next year to study history in winter and to take part in science study during the spring and autumn. all these different combinations are to be thought out by parents, teachers, and scholars; they can only be indicated here. the final principle is that only two subjects can be studied at the same time. after the scholar has acquired from these all the education he can absorb at this stage, these subjects will be dismissed and taken up again by those who wish to specialise in one direction or the other. instead of the separation of subjects that divides interest and strength in our present schools, in the new ones the chief aim will be concentration. in history, the space devoted to work will be limited to the amount demanded by present-day culture. history will then be the only subject suitable for general intellectual training,--the history of man's development. it will bring out the great principles of ethnography and sociology, of political economy, the lives of great men, the history of the church, art, and literature. in scientific study and in teaching mathematics, the men prominent in science and in discovery will find a place. geography brings up points of view related to almost every study, and experience already acquired gives good reason for making this subject the centre of all instruction. what are the results of the present-day school? exhausted brain power, weak nerves, limited originality, paralysed initiative, dulled power of observing surrounding facts, idealism blunted under the feverish zeal of getting a position in the class--a wild chase in which parents and children regard the loss of a year as a great misfortune. after the examinations have been passed and the year gone by, the best students realise the need of beginning their studies in a living way at almost every point. the majority of students are unable to read even a paper with any real profit, and those who are given a book in a foreign language to which they have devoted innumerable hours, very seldom understand it completely, unless the language instruction of the school has been supplemented at home. the incapacity to observe for one's self, to get at the bottom of what is observed and reflect upon it, is constantly more remarkable, as a result of the preparation system at school, even when this is aided by the mothers hearing lessons at home. the late professor key said that it was his experience, as teacher in a medical institution, that scholars in school were incapable of seeing, thinking, or working. i have heard the same observation made in stockholm lately in a government office, that the young men were incapable of taking up practical duties in which they should have shown the knowledge they were supposed to have after the fine examination they had passed. the system then does not serve even secondary ends; to all the higher aims of human existence it is directly opposed. in the course of a hundred years or so, experience of this sort will cause the downfall of the system. then, perhaps, these dreamed-of schools will arise. in them, the youth will learn first of all to observe and to love life, and their own powers will be consciously cultivated as the highest values in life. by mixing children of all classes together, the upper class, provided it still exists, will get that "colouring of earnest character which it now lacks," as almquist said long ago; the lower classes will get the polish, that general cultivation they now lack. through these schools, where common training is given to all, the natural circulation between all classes will be furthered. the aristocrat's son and the workingman's son will change places, if nature has made the first adapted for the position of the second, and _vice versa_. through these schools the country child will always be able to grow up in the country, and need not be sent for educational purposes into the city, provided there are still great cities. finally boys and girls will enjoy in them all the advantages of co-education, without the particular capacities of each being forced into the uniformity of a common examination system. after the children all over the country have been educated to about fifteen years of age, in such real common schools, some working more with the brain, others with their hands, the application schools will begin--schools for classical studies, for exact, for social or æsthetic sciences; for handicrafts and handwork; for different professions and state positions; schools with different principles and methods, schools which can produce manifold differing forms of training and individuality. education then, instead of being as now, the creator of servile souls, the devotees of formalism, or of characters who hate all forms in a spirit of revolt, will bring fresh personal powers to intellectual and material culture alike, to the sciences and the inventive faculties, to artistic talent and to the whole art of life. it will awaken and encourage capacity to find out new scientific methods, to think youthful thoughts, to make clever discoveries. educated human beings will apply to the whole sphere of culture their experience in their own experiments, their own activity, their own efforts; for all of which the school and the home will have already laid the foundation. in the school, the painful restlessness of the present "to get somewhere" will disappear entirely. in the calm, profound atmosphere of my school, the young generation will be trained to believe that the most important thing for man is not to do something, but to be something. it may be harsh to say that common natures are reckoned by what they do, noble natures by what they are; yet it is a deep truth, forgotten in this century of activity, in this age of woman. but it is bound to be remembered in the century of contemplation, in the century of the child. these principles will be applied, too, perhaps, in the field of practical work. machines and electricity accomplish work that can give no creative enjoyment; handwork will be again a portion of man's happiness; we shall live through a second renaissance, the renewal of the personal joy which the man of earlier times experienced when the artistic moulding, when the rich, coloured tapestry, the beautiful piece of carving came from his own hand. the present school system leads to the fabrication of unnecessary articles by the dozen. it does not lead to a true love and appreciation of professional work, that love and appreciation from which, in the great period of art, artistic production organically arose. the present system, in all fields of study, limits the natural capacity of the child in the concentration, the combination, and development of its powers. when it produces its best results, it turns children at the close of their school years into pocket encyclopedias, representing humanity's progress and knowledge. only when such results as these cease to be called a harmonious development, will it be conceded that the school can and should have no other meaning than to give the child a preparation for continuing, through his whole life, the work of training and education. only then will the school become a place where individuals get learning to last a lifetime, not as now, even when the best face is put upon it--where they are impoverished for life. through the victory of these convictions alone will each individual get his rights at school; both the person who does not want to study, as well as the one who does. consideration will be given to the individual who has to have books as means of training and to the other case where the activity of the eye and hand is required as a means to the same end. it will be a place for the person with practical talent and for the theorist, for the realist as well as for the idealist. both classes can freely do what they can do best; the members of each class will often feel tempted to test their powers by doing what the other class is able to do. one-sidedness will be corrected naturally, not, as it is now, mercilessly flattened out through the steam-roller methods of the "harmonious ideal of training." to supply workers in these future schools, new normal schools must be provided. patented pedagogy will give place to a type of teaching which considers the individual. only the person who naturally or by training can play with children, live with children, learn from children, is fond of children, will be placed in the school to develop there for himself his individual methods. positions will be given only after a year's trial. when this period is passed the teachers will not be tested by the examiner alone, one who has followed the instruction given by them during the year, but the children themselves will also be heard from on this question. of course, no absolute value can be assigned to the judgment of children, but nevertheless it has a really great importance. the instinct of the child chooses with astonishing accuracy what is first-class. but what, in the case of the child, has this character? this question has been answered by goethe, "the greatest fortune of the earth's children is personality alone." at the present time objectivity in instruction is exalted, but every great educator has achieved success by being entirely subjective. the teacher should be a lover of truth. therefore he should never force a resisting object to serve his own views. as a result of this attitude, the more subjective he is, the better. the fuller and richer he communicates to the children the essence and power of his own view of life and his own character, so much the more will he forward their real development, provided, however, that he does not force upon them his opinions with the claim of infallibility. in this as in all other matters, the young should be allowed to exercise free choice. the teachers of both sexes in my school will have short hours of work, a long time to rest, and a large salary; that is, they will have the possibility of a continuous development. the limit of their service will be twenty years. after this period, they will become members of a school jury composed of parents and teachers, or they will assist in final examinations, as censors. these will be conducted as indicated above, in such a way that each censor shall pass a summer either at home or abroad, in company with young people, not more than five in number. by living with them the censor will be able to measure their capacity for absorbing an education; he can direct them in the choice of a profession. by a "socratic" communication of practical wisdom, he will supply a substitute for the confirmation instruction which will no longer be given. the psychological value of this instruction is not to be actually found in what one learns from it, but in the direction of the mind to the serious questions and pursuits of life, in the awakening of ethical self-development, which is the factor of supreme importance in passing from childhood to youth. in this way the young will be initiated into the art of life. i mean by this the art of making one's own personality, one's own existence, an object of artistic interest and pursuit. the initiation will be conducted by a wise man, or by a woman who has kept her youthfulness, so that she understands the joys and pains of the young, their play and their seriousness, their dreams and aspirations, their faults and their dangers--leaders who can give indirect suggestions how young people should play their own melodies in the orchestra of life. my school will not come into existence while governments make their greatest sacrifices for militarism. only when this tendency is overcome, a point in development will be reached, where one can see that the dearest school programme is also the cheapest. people will realise that strong manly brains and heart have the greatest social value. i have already said that this is no reform plan for the present that i am outlining here, only a dream for the future. but in our wonderful existence dreams are becoming at last actual realities.[ ] [footnote : since i wrote the above, there have been founded in england, france, also in norway, reformed schools, working more or less in the direction i have outlined.] chapter vii religious instruction at the present moment the most demoralising factor in education is christian religious instruction. what i mean by this is principally catechism, scripture history, theology, and church history. even earnest christians have said, regarding the ordinary instruction in these subjects, that nothing shows better how deeply religion is rooted in man's nature than the fact that "religious education" is not able to destroy religion. but beside this, i believe that even a more living, a more actual instruction in christianity injures the child. children should bring themselves by themselves to live in the patriarchal world of the old testament; indeed, in the world of the new testament as well. this can be done best in the form of children's bibles. these works will be treasured by children; they will find in them infinite material for nourishing the imagination and the emotions. but this can only be done by allowing children to read the bible undisturbed, without the need of pedagogical or dogmatic explanation. at home this book, like other children's books, should be only talked about and explained when the child requests it. it should never be treated as a school book or appear on the school desk. if the child gets impressions in this way from the bible, freed from all other authority, apart from the subjective one of the impressions themselves, the myths of the bible will no more contradict the rest of his instruction, than the scandinavian story of creation or the greek legends of the gods. but the most dangerous of all educational mistakes in influencing humanity, is due to the fact, that children are now taught the old testament account of the world as absolute truth, although it wholly contradicts their physical and historical instruction. besides children learn to regard the morality of the new testament as absolutely binding, while its commands are everywhere seen to be transgressed by the child, the moment he takes his first step into life. our whole industrial and capitalistic society rests on a contradiction of the christian command to love one's neighbour as one's self. the capitalistic axiom is that every man is nearest neighbour to himself. the eyes of children are here and in similar cases, clear-sighted in their simplicity. at a tender age they are able to observe whether their surroundings are in living accord with christian teaching. from a four-year-old child, with whom i was talking about jesus' commandment to love one another, i received the reply, "if jesus really said so, papa is no christian." before long the child gets into conflict with his instructors and with the commands of christianity. a small child in a swedish city took the word of jesus about charity to heart. not only his playthings, but his clothes he gave to the poor; his parents cured, by corporal punishment, this practical type of christianity. a teacher who was impressing on a small girl in a finnish city the commandment to love one's enemies, received as an answer that this was impossible, for no one in finland could love bobrikoff. i know the sophism used in both cases to overcome the invulnerable logic of the child; but i also know how these sophisms make hypocrisy so natural among christians, that it is now unconscious. it would take a new kirkegaard to shake up our consciences. everywhere rousseau's words hold true, "the child gets high principles to direct him, but he is forced by his surroundings to act according to petty principles, every time he wishes to put the high ones into practice." he goes on to say people have innumerable "ifs" and "buts," by which the child has to learn that great principles are only words, that the reality of life is something quite different. the dangerous thing is not that the ideal of christianity is high; it comes from the fact that every ideal in its essence is unattainable. the nearer we get to it the more lofty it is. this is the characteristic of every ideal. but the demoralising feature in christianity as an ideal is, that it is presented as absolute, while man as a social being is obliged to transgress it every day. besides he is taught in his religious instruction, that as a fallen being he cannot in any case attain the ideal, although the only possibility of his living righteously in temporal things, and happily in the world to come, depends on his capacity for realising it. in this net of unsolvable contradictions, generation after generation has seen its ideal of belief obscured. gradually each new generation has learned not to take its new ideal seriously. as to the cowardly or braggart concessions to the idiocies of fashion, and the follies by which people are ruined in order to live according to their position, among other psychological grounds for man's lack of steadiness must be placed, as its ultimate cause, the following: the child, along with religion, has breathed in the conviction that opinions are one thing, actions another. this experience goes through the whole of life, even in the case of those who have lost the conviction that the christian religion is absolute. the free-thinker is married, has his children baptised, and allows them to be confirmed, without considering whether he is forced to it by his own wish, or the wish of doing like other people. the republican sings the royal hymn, sends loyal salutations by telegraph, accepts decorations,--but i must break off, otherwise i should have to enumerate all the small acts of insincerity to one's self, of which the daily life of most people consists, and which are defended under the name of non-essentials; i could never get to the end. this is not the way the christian martyrs thought who might have freed themselves from death by casting a few grains of incense on the emperor's altar. two grains of incense,--what an unimportant matter, thinks the modern man, and with quiet conscience he daily sacrifices to many gods in whom he does not believe. how illogical protestantism is too, and yet for so long it possessed a spiritually educative power, while its dualism was unsuspected, while one with full sincerity gave to holiday and work day its due share. but now that a new protestantism is come to life within the fold of protestantism, this method of speaking in two voices is deeply demoralising. piece by piece has been torn down that system of teaching which the catholic church built up, so wonderfully adapted to the psychological needs of the majority of people. it formed its fundamental creeds, just as they still remain, on the deepest experiences of mankind. but protestantism is ever looking back from the results of its own handiwork. in home, in the school, in the high school, during military service, in office work, everywhere passive dependence is insisted on under the name of discipline, discretion, faithfulness to duty. and like all the fine words, by which the living souls of men are turned into the slaves of discipline, these terms exalt _esprit de corps_, and pass over really serious faults. discipline means subordinating one's self to every crude force. only when all protestants really become actual protestants, and refuse to receive the greatest good of life, their religion, through authority, will they begin even in social and political questions to attain an independent opinion of their own. as teachers and leaders, they will secure for school children, and for students, for officers and for officials, the freedom in word and deed that is the right of the citizen and the man. men and women, who in their private life are strictly honourable, have learnt, in general questions, to put their thoughts, their acts, under the command of a leader, and above all they have learnt to do this in the name of religious belief. the courage to construct one's own opinion in everything that makes the essential worth of life, but chiefly in one's religious belief, the power to express it, the will of making some sacrifice for it, all these give man a new share of civilisation and culture. as long as education and social life do not consciously forward this kind of courage, power, and will, the world will remain as it is, a parade ground of stupidity, crudeness, force, and selfishness, no matter whether radicals or conservatives, the democratic or aristocratic elements, have the upper hand. the most demoralising of all principles of belief was the discouraging teaching that human nature was fallen and incapable of reaching holiness by its own effort--the teaching that one could only come through grace and forgiveness of sins into a proper relation with temporal and eternal things. for those below the ordinary level, this position of grace produced spiritual stagnation, not to speak of the business people, who daily allowed the blood of jesus to wipe out their day's debit in the score of morality. only those who were naturally superior increased in holiness on being convinced that they were children of god in christ. mankind, on the whole, showed the deep demoralisation of a double morality. this dualism commenced as soon as the first christians ceased to expect the return of jesus,--an expectation which brought their life into real unity with his teaching. but this double morality has for nineteen hundred years retained man's soul and the social order in practical heathenism. although some pure and great spirits really received aid from christianity in their longings for infinity, and although in the middle ages many strong hearts tried seriously to realise its teaching, yet the majority of mankind lived and lives still in wavering irresolution. this is the result of having no place to anchor to while the citizens of antiquity had an ethic, which could be translated into reality and could turn them into sincere, steadfast personalities. since nineteen hundred years have proved that there is no possibility, in a humanly constructed society, of living according to the teaching of jesus, as a practical, infallible rule of holiness, man can escape this immoral duplicity only in one way: the way already travelled over by many separate individuals, who with prometheus cry out, "hast thou not, thyself, completed all, o holy glowing heart!" in other words, these individuals have become convinced that christianity is the product of humanity. just as little as any other product of humanity does it exhaust absolute and eternal truth. when men cease to teach their children belief in an eternal providence, without whose will no sparrow falls from the roof, they will be able, instead of this, to imprint on the minds of children the new religious conception of the divinity of a world, proceeding according to law. the new morality will be built on this new religious idea. it will be filled with reverence for the absolute conjunction of cause and effect--a connection which no grace can remove. man's actions will really be directed by this certainty. he will not rock himself to sleep in any sort of hope, based on providence or a reconciliation, able to defer surely fixed effects. this new morality, strengthened by the realities of life, admits of logical consequences. no single command of this teaching needs to remain an empty phrase. in its system, too, there will be a place to apply all the eternal profound words uttered by jesus or by other great human souls. these words will ever furnish further material for application, which is the same as saying material for self-application. yet the application will be worked out in complete freedom. each word will be used as furnishing the material just suited to that style which men wish to apply to the architecture of their personality. yet neither the words nor the examples of one or the other teacher will be taught as absolutely binding. the soul of the child will not be stained by tears of repentance for sins nor by the fear of hell. it will not be stained by a realism without ideas and without ideals, by the contemptuous mistrust, which the mouldering effects of fine words leave behind, like cold damp spots. the weak, as well as the strong, will progress in the happy and responsible belief in their own personality, as their only source of help. the pulse of their purpose will be strong and warm with red blood. they will not be forced to humility; they will not accept even equality with all others, or with any other one. on the contrary they will be strengthened in their right, to give their own individual stamp to their joys, their sufferings, and their works. they will be warned to do their best because it is their own; to seek their highest good, by drawing their own boundaries at the place where the rights of others begin. while the home and the school make compromises between two opposed views of life, people obtain from neither of them any real good for the education of children. i have already shown how in one and the same school religious instruction and a certain amount of knowledge and love for nature as well as history can be communicated. in one and the same school the course of natural development and history can be taught in connection with instruction in religious history. in this instruction judaism and christianity will receive the first place. so the reverence and love children were wont to acquire for the personality and morality of jesus, previously obtained in the bible, can be increased. guided by sincere and serious purposes one can select either plan. but, during religious instruction, to make moses and christ the absolute teachers of truth, and in the hours devoted to natural history, to expound darwinism, cause more than anything else that want of logic, that moral laxity and flaccidity that can effect nothing and want nothing. everything i have learnt, since these words were written, has strengthened a hundred fold my previous convictions that the most essential thing is not, what kind of view of life we have--this may be important enough too--but that we have enough capacity of faith to appropriate for ourselves some view of life, enough force to bring it to reality in life. but nothing works more depressingly on the ethical energy of growing generations than the dualistic view of life, received at the present time at school. the school too must exercise its choice; there must be no compromise between two schemes of education and two views of life, if the strength of will and the power of faith in young people is not to be broken. the question of a compromise is in this case not a question of application; it is a most important question of principle in education. since i set down these words, many points of view have been brought out in this connection. one which made a sensation when it was published, in , was professor dodel's book, _moses or darwin?_ the author showed how deeply darwinism was implanted in science and in civilisation; how popular education was restricted, because it was kept remote from the scientific views of the present day and forced into the circle of ecclesiastical ideas. religious instruction is simply a crime against the psychological law of development. for children are taught by a theological system to think about abstract conceptions, while they are in no condition to do it. the worst is, he said, that in high schools the theory of development is now taught as scientific truth, while in the common schools, built and maintained by the same government, the myth of the mosaic story of creation continues to be taught, in the sharpest contrast with what science and living nature teach the child. this is an immoral and dishonest state of affairs that must be brought to an end. it is my deepest conviction that man, without religion in the emotional element of his nature, can pursue no ideal ends, cannot see beyond his own personal interest, cannot realise great purposes, cannot be ready to sacrifice himself. religious enthusiasm broadens our soul, binds us to the acts we hold as ideals. but because christianity weighs upon the soul and can no longer be the connecting link of all factors in our conduct, earnest men are abandoning it more and more, influenced by purely religious reasons. such men should not have their children brought up as christians, under the excuse that the child requires christianity. here, as in other cases, in which adults are not agreed about what the child needs, we should try to get, not from adults but from children themselves, some information about their real needs. in this way we can learn that the child himself begins at a very early period to be concerned with the eternal riddles of mankind, to be troubled with the questions of whence and whither. at the same time one discovers that the sincere and honest childish nature is opposed to the christian explanation of the world, until the child's sincerity is dulled and he either takes without question what is taught, or in his own soul denies what his lips must repeat, or finally allows his heart to be possessed by the only nourishment offered to his religious needs. my own recollections of childhood caused me to make observations of the religious ideas of children at an early period. i have now before me comprehensive accounts of this investigation, going back twenty-five years. i recollect my own fierce hate against god, when i, at the age of six years, heard of the death of jesus being caused by god's demand for an atonement, and at ten years i recall my denial of god's providence, when a young workman died far away from his wife and his five children, to whom his existence was so necessary. my brooding about the existence of god took on this occasion the form of a challenge. i wrote in the sand, "god is dead." in doing so i thought, if there is a god, he will kill me now with a thunderbolt. but since the sun continued to shine, the question was answered for the time being; but it soon turned up again. i had no other religious instruction than reading the bible on sunday, preaching on sunday, and reading from the catechism, which, by the way, was never explained. yet the new testament belonged to my play books; i learnt in it to love jesus as profoundly as other great personalities of whom i read. but during the confirmation period, i received explanations of the bible; in them every point, every name in the gospel was explained, every sentence made the basis of hair-splitting distinctions, to show the fulfilment of prophecies and the edifying hidden meaning of every word, that formerly seemed so simple. the dogma of the trinity for example was shown to be contained in the second verse of genesis. this was a terribly sad discovery for me, that the living book of my childish heart and my childish imagination could be so stone dead. that religious indifference is a frequent result of religious instruction, that spiritual maladies come from the desire to convert the souls of children, numerous proofs can be given. i have heard children of six years speak with holy horror of their four-year-old brother who dug with a spade on sunday. on the other hand i have heard a six-year-old child who was dragged in one day to three church services ask after reflection whether it was not more tolerable to go to hell immediately. the judaic christian conception of a creative and sustaining providence, which gives the fullest perfection to all things, is so absolutely opposed to all that experience and evolution teaches us about existence, that one cannot even conceive of the possibility of holding both ideas theoretically at the same time. much less can one practically unite them by the paste of compromise. the child with sharp-sighted simplicity does not allow himself to be deceived. if we do not wish to speak the truth then let us not speak to children about life at all--life in its unity and diversity, its manifold creative acts, its process of continuous creation, its eternal divine subjection to law. but this means that it is impossible to save the christian god for children, after the child begins to think about this god, in whom he is taught blind confidence. nor can the child be prepared in this way for the new conception of god with its religious, its uniting and elevating power, i mean for the conception of a god whose revealed book is the starry heavens, and whose prophetic sight is in the unfathomable sea, and in the deeps of man's heart, the god who is in life and is life. nothing shows better how imperfect is the real belief of modern thinkers, than the fact that they always teach their children a system which they do not wish to live by spiritually themselves, but which they hold as indispensable for the moral and social future of the child. when we pass from the conception of providence to the conception of sin, we find in children the same natural logic. a small girl, an only child, asked: "how could god allow his only child to be killed? you could not have done it to me!" and a small boy said, "it is a very good thing for us that the jews crucified christ, so that nothing happened to us." these are both poles of an emotional and a practical way of looking at the atonement. within them all similar circumferences are drawn. to a more comic and naïve sphere of ideas belongs the proposal of a small girl to call the virgin mary god's wife. also there is the story of a boy who spoke in school of our lord and the two other lords, meaning the trinity. from the classes in bible history and catechism, there are innumerable examples of children reading the words incorrectly, and misunderstanding the ideas they stand for. a boy, warned to keep the lamps burning, answered contentedly, "we have petroleum gratis." another, asked whether he would like to be born again, said, "no, i might be turned into a girl." these are typical examples. there is an anecdote of a child, who, on being consoled with the statement that god was in the dark near her, asked her mother to put god out and light the lamp. another child, seeing the pictures of the christian martyrs in the arena, cried out sympathetically, "look at that poor tiger; he hasn't got a christian." these are a few out of a mass of examples, typical of the explanation given by children to the religious ideas they receive, notions forcing them into a world of ideas which they either accept in a material sense, or by which they are absolutely nonplussed. the childish circle of ideas is revealed by anecdotes of this kind, or by the comment of a small girl who asked when she heard that she had been born about eleven o'clock at night, "how could i have remained out so late?" these examples show that such conceptions as original sin, the fall of man, regeneration and salvation, are first necessarily meaningless words, and afterwards terribly difficult words. in my whole life fear of hell never absorbed my attention for five minutes, but i know children and grown people who are martyrs to this terror. i know children too who, when belief in hell was presented to them in school as absolutely necessary, bewailed that their mother had said she did not believe in hell, and therefore thought she must be very wicked. we are certainly a long way off from those times when, to use the picturesque expression of an historian of civilisation, "the fear of the devil constantly darkened the life of men, as the shadow of the sails of a windmill darkens the windows of the miller"; far from the times, too, when divine persons constantly revealed themselves to the believer, and when miracles belonged just as really to the daily habits of thought as to-day they are disregarded even by the believer. but so long as belief in the devil, providence and miracles is upheld in religious instruction, it will be impossible for the sunshine of the civilised view, which is the scientific as opposed to the superstitious view, to penetrate the darkness where the bacilli of cruelty and insanity are nurtured. the ideas children form of heaven are generally fine examples of childish realism. a child thought his brother could not be in heaven, because he would have to climb a ladder, and so would be disobedient, for he had been forbidden to climb one. a girl asked, when she heard that her grandmother was in heaven, whether god was sitting there and holding her from falling out. these are a few of the many proofs of the child's sense of reality, that leads to mistaken answers here, as in so many other instances. if it is said by way of protest that the childish imagination needs myths and symbolism, the answer is an easy one. we cannot and should not rob the child of the play of imagination, but play should not be taken in earnest. it is not to be wondered at that children construct for themselves realistic ideas about spiritual things. this practice is no more to be opposed, than any of the other expressions of the life of the child's soul. but when these false ideas are presented as the highest truth of life, they must disturb the sacred simplicity of the child. i know children in whom the origin of unbelief is to be traced to the words of jesus, that everything asked for by the believing heart will be received. a small child, locked up in a dark room, prayed that god might show people how badly he was being treated, by causing a lamp of precious stones to be lit in the dark. another asked to have a sick mother saved; another prayed by the side of a dead companion that she might rise again. for all these three, the experience of having their most believing, most fervent prayer unanswered, was the great turning point in their spiritual life. i can authenticate from my own experience and the experiences of others the ethical revolt which the cases of injustice in the old testament--for example god's preference of jacob over esau--occasion in a healthy child. the explanations offered in this case and in others like it fill the child with silent contempt. when the child ends in finding that adults themselves do not believe the religion they teach, the childish instinct for belief and for reverence, that capacity which is the real ground for all religious feeling, is injured for life. i will say nothing of the heroes and heroines of the pious literature written for children, with their stories of conversion and holiness. parents are able to protect their children from them. i speak here only of that way of looking at the world, which is forced on children with or against the will of their parents. this degrades their conceptions of god, of jesus, of nature. these conceptions, the child if left to himself can develop simply or powerfully. it is this way of looking at the world that causes unnecessary suffering and dangerous prejudices. the inclination of the child to deep religious feeling, sound faith, and ardent zeal for holiness will be strengthened by an ability to draw the standards of life as freely from the bible as from the world's literature. the same result will be produced by books on other religions, like buddhism, from the great religious personalities who illustrate the struggle for an ideal, and from such children's books as show like efforts in a healthy form. no child has the slightest need of the catechism or theology for his religion or for his training; no other church history is needed than that connected with the general history of the world. in this last study the chief stress should be laid in teaching on the errors, in order to impress on the young the conviction, that all new truths are called by their contemporaries "errors." in other words these "errors" are the best negative material man has for discovering the truth. working over and explaining the contradictions met with by the child in such religious instruction, as i am outlining here, belongs to the preparation for a true life, in which people have to put up with innumerable contradictions. but this personal work injures neither the piety nor the soundness of the child's soul. such injuries come rather from irritating pietism or vain hypocrisy, from spiritual fanaticism, from deceits of the reason, barrenness of soul, or perverted feeling of right, all of which are the notorious results of christian training and christian instruction, given according to the usual methods of the present day. for the present as well as for the future, a child will be able to solve more easily these spiritual problems if his fine feeling for right and his quick logic have not been dulled by the dogmatic answers to those eternal problems, that place him in as much difficulty as the thinker. kant exposed long ago the most serious injuries of the kind of religious instruction which still prevails. he showed that by making the church's teaching the basis of morality, improper motives were assigned to action. a thing must be avoided, not because god has forbidden it, but because it is in and for itself wrong. man must aim at good, not because heaven or hell awaits the good or the bad, but because good has a higher value than evil. to this point of view of kant there must be added the truth, that a position is ethically weakening, when man is presented as incapable of doing good by his own power. so he is told in this as in all other cases, he must be humble and trust in god's help. confidence in our strength and the feeling of our own responsibility have a strong moral influence. the belief that man is sin-laden, without chance of change, has led him to remain where he is. if the future generation is to grow up with upright souls, the first condition of such growth is to obliterate from the existence of children and young people, by a mighty scratch of the pen, the catechism, bible history, theology and church history. we must bow down before the infinities and mysteries of our earthly existence and of the world beyond. we must distinguish between and select real ethical values; we must be convinced of the solidarity of mankind, of man's individual duty, to construct for the benefit of the whole race a rich and strong personality. we must look to great models. we must reverence the divine and the regular in the course of the world, in the processes of development of man's mind. these are the new lines of meditation, the new religious feelings of reverence and love, that will make the children of the new century strong, sound, and beautiful. these changes will destroy that idea of god that combines "god help us" with our victories, that has increased the national lust for conquest, the passion for mastery, the instinct of gain. it will be felt that mixing up god in the standards of human passions is blasphemous. people will see, that patriotism, nourished on egoism and ambition, is the most godless thing because the most inhuman of all the life-perverting sins with which man outrages the holiness of life. intellects which can now pass over the contradiction between christianity and war, which can even derive strength and consolation from them, have been depraved by the ideas forced upon mankind through thousands of years. nothing more can be expected from men of such brains, than that they should die in the wilderness, without ever obtaining a sight of the promised land. but the brains of children can be protected from the most unholy of all mental misconceptions, from the superstition that the patriotism, and the nationalism, which injures the rights of others, have something in common with ideas about god. let children be taught that national characteristics, the use of force, the right of independent action, is as essential for a people as for an individual, that it is worth every sacrifice. let them be taught that, on their appreciation of the nature of their country, of its life in the past and in the present, depends their own development. let them be taught to dream beautiful inspiring dreams of the future of their country, of their own work, as the necessary foundation of this future. they should be taught at an early age to understand the deep gulf between patriotic feeling and the egoism which is called patriotism. this is the patriotism in whose name small countries are oppressed by great countries, in whose name nineteenth-century europe has armed itself under the stimulus of revenge, in whose name the close of the century witnessed the extension of violence in north and south, in west and east. militarism and clericalism, both principles presenting authority as opposed to individual standards of right, are ever closely combined; but they are not what they are called. they are not patriotism and religion. these two words involve a sense of common citizenship, of freedom, of justice, exalted above the narrow sphere of the individual, of the interests of class, of the interests of one's own country. such are the principles which unite different groups within a land in great interests common to all, just as they unite different peoples in great vital questions common to all. but militarism and clericalism oppress freedom by the principles of authority, oppress the idea of individual development, by that of discipline, oppress the feeling of common weal by the desire for glory and war, oppress the feeling for right by the feeling for military honour. in germany under the badge of christianity and militarism, the civil rights of the citizen, his claims for social freedom, have been seriously menaced. hypnotised by these principles many members of the russian, french, and english nations, respectable as they are individually, have gloated over the deeds of unrighteousness committed by their respective governments. all this will go on; people will continue to be burdened to the ground by ever increasing military preparations. the rights of the small nations will be constantly encroached upon by the larger ones, even after the present world powers, like those that have preceded them, have broken down under the burden of their own expansion. it will continue to be so, until mothers implant in the souls of their children the feeling for humanity before the feeling for their country; until they strive to expand the sympathies of their children to embrace all living things, plants, animals, and men; until they teach them to see, that sympathy involves not only suffering with others but rejoicing with others, and that the individual increases his own emotional capacity, when he learns to feel with other individuals and with other peoples. it will go on, as it is now, until mothers implant in the souls of their children the certainty, that the patriotism which, in the name of national interests, treads under foot the rights of other people, is to be condemned. the moment children undertake to act as adults, we shall see a harmony between ideas so taught and facts. when the conception of nationalism in the child's mind is freed from injustice and arrogance; when the idea of god is freed from its debased union with a selfish patriotism, then the idea of the soldier will be ennobled. it will no longer be identified with blind obedience and limited class courage. the word will come to mean a man and a fellow-citizen with the same civilised interests, the same conception of law, the same need of freedom, the same feeling for honour, as all other fellow-citizens. the soldier will be a defender of his fatherland, whose character will have no other warlike traits, than those called forth for the protection of sacred human and civil rights. self-defense, personal or national, will be imprinted on the child as the first of duties, not as it is represented in the commands of christianity. or to speak more accurately the child has this instinctive feeling; all that need be done is not to confuse this instinct. the child understands quite well, that evil men, when not resisted, become lords over the property of others. he knows that the low and the unrighteous get the victory, and that right-thinking and high-minded people are sacrificed by unrighteous and low-thinking people. the impulse to resistance is the first germ of the social feeling for righteousness, and by this feeling will the unreflecting judgment of the child be led also in the study of history. the child never doubts that william tell was right, even when, in his instruction in religion, he has been definitely taught obedience to the powers that be, that come from god. every straight childish soul applauds andreas hofer, despite his uncompromising conflict with lawful authority. with his natural directness the child cuts off all sophisms; at least all children do who are not irrevocably stupefied by christian principles. to conclude what i have said against religious instruction, i will add a statement of a ten-year-old child, made after three years struggling with the catechism and biblical history: "i do not believe any of this, but i hope, when men are some day wise enough, each person may have his own belief, just as each one has his own face." this small philosopher in these words hit unconsciously upon the most serious spiritual injury done by religious instruction. it forces on man's mind a special view of the world, like a conventional mask on a man's face. but freedom and the rights of the soul's life can only be secured by its own reflections. the soul itself must work out that assurance of belief in which man can live and die. for generations the great spiritual dangers of mankind have been caused by looking backwards to find the ideal and the truth, by regarding both as once for all given, as absolutely limited. as soon as a child becomes conscious of himself he should feel that he is a discoverer with infinities before him. the king's son, in the realm of life, will no longer do menial service as a prodigal son in a foreign land. with the whole power of his will, he can repeat those old words, "i will arise and go to my father." when jaquino di fiori in the middle ages preached of the kingdom of the father, the son, and the holy ghost, till his hair became as silvery grey as the leaves of the olive tree, he compared these three realms with the nettle, the rose, and the lily, the light of the stars, the sunlight, and the sun. in all the ends of the world this preaching is being heard now. but that dream of a third kingdom, pure as the lily, warm as the sun, can only be realised in the temper of the child who looks for life and happiness, who brushes away joyously and frankly the clouds of man's fall and man's humiliation. without becoming as little children, men cannot enter into the third kingdom, the kingdom of the holy ghost, the kingdom of the human spirit. chapter viii child labour and the crimes of children leaving aside questions of heredity and kindred topics, and considering only the conditions under which the child is born, developed, and reared, it is terrible to contemplate the misfortunes which happen to children through lack of insight on the part of their mothers. doctors are never tired of telling what malformations tight-lacing causes. how many children in the first year of their life become blind through neglect. we only mention here some of the troubles which crude ignorance or lack of conscience on the part of the mothers inflict on themselves or on their children. there must be noticed too the uncertainty and the want of system in the care of children that come from such ignorance. a thorough improvement in all these things is not to be expected until women have secured universal suffrage, and until they, at the same age in which men serve their years of military service, are legally obliged to pass through a period of training lasting just as long, devoting themselves to the care of children, hygiene, and sick nursing. no other exceptions must be made, except those which exempt a man from military service. such duties done for one's country would come for many women just at the time in which their interest in the subject is awakened by marrying or the thought of marrying. this training would give a profounder meaning to their thoughts on this subject. but even women who never become mothers themselves would in this way learn certain general principles of psychology, hygiene, and care of the sick, that they might make use of afterwards in every station of life. further, i look for increasing limitations of the right of parents over children. such limitations i mean as those which have forbidden the exposure of children, have imposed penalties for child murder, for cruelty towards children, and the laws which have enforced obligatory attendance at school. in england there are organisations which investigate the treatment of children at home and which prevent cruelties against them. mothers who forget their duties can be reported and punished with imprisonment; neglectful fathers can be made to support their children, etc.; and where parents show themselves hopelessly incompetent children can be taken from them by law. in the different states of germany there are also laws which allow children to be taken from parents who, through misuse of that relationship, injure the child's spiritual or bodily welfare. children receive this so-called compulsory training in cases, too, where it is necessary to preserve them from moral destruction. the compulsory training may be carried out either in a suitable family or in institutions; it continues up to the eighteenth year. a notable provision is that which places the supervision over such children, in the hands of women. an increased extension of the right of society in this direction is one of its most important provisions for self-protection, and is just as legitimate a limitation of individual freedom, as the laws to prevent the extension of contagious diseases. unfortunately such regulations are often made ineffective by red tape. the parents or guardians of the neglected child must be admonished; the unruly child must be warned, and if this is not sufficient, the law provides that it must be disciplined. all of these provisos are absolutely senseless in such cases. by such warnings bad parents are not instructed in the art of training their children, nor is an incorrigible child to be led by admonitions to change its character, if he is left in the surroundings which have caused his degeneration. by corporal punishment administered in the presence of witnesses, a child already accustomed to cuffs and blows is made more hardened and shameless. a person with only a superficial knowledge of the subject, enough to understand the causes which produce such parents and such children, soon realises that he is concerned in each detail with the infinite horizon of the social question. it is clear for example that low wages, combined with the work of women and children, are the main factors in poor dwellings, insufficient food, and bad clothing. the fact that the wife works out of the house causes the neglect of the children and the home. the lodging-house system is the result of the lack of dwellings; want of comfort at home causes the husband to frequent saloons and public houses. all these factors, taken together, cause immorality and intemperance; these last again produce those physical and mental diseases to which children are often heirs at their birth. leaving out of discussion the notion that by god's help the battlefields are covered with torn, maimed beings, with whose destroyed brains innumerable thoughts and feelings are extinguished which could have enriched humanity, i know no more abnormal idea than the custom of people speaking of a guardian angel when a chance has kept two children from an accident. where is this guardian angel in the innumerable other cases of misfortune: when children remain alone because their mother must go to work and they fall out of the window or into the fire? when they lose their eyesight in dark cellars? when they are pressed to death because in miserable lodgings they have to share a bed with their parents? when the parents are drunk and the children lose their lives? where is this guardian angel when parents murder their children, from religious fanaticism or disgust of life: when the children themselves, tired of life or through fear of parental cruelty, take their own lives? where are these protective angels on the occasions when they are most wanted?--in the narrow streets of great cities, in the great industrial centres where lack of sunlight, of pure air, and of all the other primary conditions for the development of soul and body, undermines the bodily strength and efficiency of children before their birth? to see the hand of providence in an accidental case of preservation, while the same providence is released from all share in natural occurrences, from all part in the terrible phenomena of society, that fill every second of the earth's existence with terror, is a relic of superstition to be overcome if man is to be filled with a sense of obligation to conditions he must master and mould. modern man is ever becoming more and more his own providence; he has already protected himself against fire by fire engines and fire insurance; against the sea by life-saving stations; against smallpox and cholera, diphtheria and tuberculosis, he has found other means of defence. the blind belief that death is dependent on god's will man is losing by the witness of statistics which declare that duration of life increases with improved sanitary condition; which show that when disease or summer heat mows down the children of the poor in dark tenements the rich man can preserve his own children in his healthy, light dwelling. every man who has his heart in the right spot does not wait for an angel, but rushes to save a child from danger. but the superstitious belief of the majority of people in god's providence perhaps will cause the same man to regard with complete apathy conditions by which millions and millions of children are yearly sacrificed. doctors know that the destruction caused by bacteria is insignificant, as compared with pauperism as a cause of disease. mothers who have over-exerted themselves, drunken fathers, bad dwellings, like those where the poor dry out newly built houses for the rich, induced by the low rate of rents, insufficient nourishment, inherited diseases, especially syphilis, too early work,--all this shows its result in the emaciated, shrivelled, ulcerated bodies of children who occasionally are cured of their momentary disease in hospitals, but cannot be freed from the results of the conditions of life under which they were born and brought up. the efforts of doctors will be in vain while they, like the other factors in society, do not devote their whole energy to avoiding diseases, instead of healing them. what they can now do in the way of prevention is but a palliative in comparison with the incurable evil which flourishes in abundance. the situation will remain as it is so long as hygiene does not receive the same attention in society as the soul. this solicitude may take the form of religious edification, or intellectual enlightenment, but it remains nothing but a cut flower, stuck in a dust heap. it is possible, with sufficient certainty, to show from criminal statistics that degenerate children are the creation of society itself. by allowing them to be forced into "the path of virtue," by punishment, society behaves like a tyrant, who has put out a man's eyes and then beats him because he cannot by himself find his road. the categorical imperative for the social consciousness at the present moment, is an effective legislation for the protection of children and women. wherever industry is developed, the woman is taken away from the home, the child from play and school. in the period of guilds, women and children worked in the house, and in the workshop of the husband. but since the factory system has constantly restricted the household work of woman, industrial occupations on the scale of modern capitalism can satisfy its needs for cheaper work by woman's work. this like children's work has forced down in many places the pay of adult workmen. the pay with which a married man can care for his family by his work is now divided among several members of the family. as long as special work required great personal bodily strength or developed manual dexterity, it fell as a rule to the men, not to women or children. but the natural protection of women and children disappeared with the introduction of machinery. in many cases working a machine required neither strength nor dexterity. in other cases, like cotton spinning or mining, delicate fingers were more valued because they were more adaptable, tender bodies more desirable because they were smaller. in england the work of women and children first reached its highest point. the poorhouses sent crowds of children to the wool weaving industry in lancashire, children who worked in shifts at the same machine and slept in the same dirty beds. the population in the industrial districts pined away, as the result; diseases unknown before came into existence; ignorance and roughness increased. women and children from four to five years old worked fourteen to eighteen hours. the report of the investigations made on this subject caused elizabeth barrett to write her poem, "the cry of the children" that made the employers of children so indignant, but which helped to produce the ten hour bill. this bill laid down that women, children, and young persons should not work more than ten hours a day in textile factories. this law was succeeded by others of the same type. similar conditions in other lands have produced similar legislation. in saxony, belgium, alsace, and the rhine provinces the results of the system seemed to be just as frightful as in england. on the rhine, as early as the year , a prussian army officer noticed that the number of those able to bear arms had diminished as a result of the degenerating influence of woman and child labour. but notwithstanding the introduction of this legislation generally, the labour of women and children continues. it takes the most destructive forms in those occupations which lie outside of the sphere of legislation. there are places in which child labour is as shocking as it was in england in . in russia, in the bastmat weaving industry, children of three or four years have been found at work; and masses of children under ten working as much as eighteen hours a day. in germany the toy industry can show as cruel figures in connection with children's work, all the more cruel because in order to provide enjoyment for happy children the living energy of others is forced out of existence. industrial work at home is done by children four to five years old, while the age limit for child labour in factories, both in germany and in switzerland, is fourteen years. the government of denmark has proposed the same limit of age. in italy most of the crippled young children were brought up in the sulphur districts of sicily, crowded together in low galleries, burdened with heavy sacks at an age at which their tender limbs under such conditions must inevitably and incurably be contorted. as early as twelve and thirteen years old many of them are incapable of work. in the magnesium mines of spain, quantities of children six to eight years old are kept at work; through the poisonous odours they fall victims to severe diseases. other children carrying heavy pitchers on their head are employed to water dry places. the child is a cheaper means of transportation than the ass. despite protective legislation the average of height and weight in the lancashire children is and continues to be lower than anywhere else. of the two thousand children investigated in this district only one hundred and fifty-one were really sound and strong; one hundred and ninety-eight were seriously crippled; the rest more or less under the standard of good health. all work in the cotton industry done from six o'clock in the morning till five in the evening changes, so this doctor says, the hopeful ten-year-old child into the thin pallid thirteen-year-old boy. this degeneration of the population in industrial districts is becoming a serious danger for england's future. after people are convinced that all civilised nations are exposed to this same danger, industrial and street work of children will be everywhere forbidden. this will be a victory for the principle of child protection, which, in this as in other like spheres, was opposed at first on both economic and industrial grounds. among these was the uncontested right of fathers to decide on the work of their children. it is not alone the question of child labour that reveals the low standpoint taken by the civil authorities of europe, but it is proved also by the introduction of corporal punishment. corporal punishment is as humiliating for him who gives it as for him who receives it; it is ineffective besides. neither shame nor physical pain have any other effect than a hardening one, when the blow is delivered in cold blood long after the act occasioning it has been done. most of the victims are so accustomed to blows already that the physical effect is little or nothing, but they awaken feelings of detestation against a society which so avenges its own faults. if the soul of the child is sensitive, corporal punishment can produce deep spiritual torment, as was the case with lars kruse, the hero of skagen, who some years ago met his death by drowning. everybody knows his story from the fine account of him by the danish poet, drachmann. lars, in his childhood, had taken a plank, a piece of driftwood, and sold it. for this he was condemned to be punished. till late in life, what he had suffered was ever present with him. he was not ashamed of his action but of his punishment--a punishment which embittered the whole life of a really great character. the blows administered by society are inflicted on children whose poverty and neglected education are in most cases responsible for their faults. the victims, often emaciated by hunger, and trembling with shame or terror, can experience no spiritual emotion fit to be the basis of moral shame. if the statistics of the life-history of those who are so disciplined were revealed, we should find that the majority come from, and return to, a home where the mother, as a result of working out of the home, is hindered from caring for her children. they have suffered from the custom of sleeping together, the result of overcrowded dwellings, with its demoralising influence. it may be the child has commenced to make his living on the street as messenger, cigar picker, or newspaper boy, or has been engaged in such like occupations, and so in his immediate neighbourhood has seen the luxurious living of the upper classes, which he strives to imitate. hardly a week passes that the street youngster does not read about the embezzlements, fraudulent acts in the capitalistic classes, frequently committed by grey-headed men, whose childish impressions go back to the good old time, on whom the lax education of the present could not have any influence. no day passes in which he does not see how the representatives of the upper classes, old and young alike, satisfy their desires for pleasure. but from the child of the tenement and the street, people expect spartan virtue or try to thrash it into him. it is hard to say which is greater here, stupidity or savagery. while the upper classes show that they are crude, immoderate, lazy, devoted to enjoying themselves; while the majority are aiming at getting and spending money; while so many are able to eat without working, and so few can find work who look for it; while careless luxury lives side by side with careless necessity, the upper class has not the shadow of right to expect an improved lower class. the society of the present day creates and maintains a social system whose effects are notorious in the economic crimes of the upper and lower class alike. it is not surprising that great cities are full of tramps and street urchins, like a spoilt cheese full of maggots. a destroyed home life, an idiotic school system, premature work in the factory, stupefying life in the streets, these are what the great city gives to the children of the under classes. it is more astonishing that the better instincts of human nature generally are victorious in the lower class, than the fact that this result is occasionally reversed. there is another argument against child labour, to be found in its immediate effect on industry itself. working men trained in the schools are everywhere notoriously most efficient; even in russia, where popular education is still so defective, this experience has been noted. the working man able to read and to write receives without exception on that account a higher pay than the illiterate ones who can be only used for the coarsest kind of work. the present development of german industry, as compared with english, is to be ascribed among other things to the superior educational training of the german people. the intensive and intelligent work of the american working man has apparently the same cause. but when children made sleepy by work in the factory enter evening schools, or when children are taken too early from school, they lose under continuous hard work the desire and possibility of adapting themselves to a higher education; they become organic machines which feed the inorganic ones. this must cause the value of their work to decline. these organic machines are passive, they do not try to improve their condition of life, as do the higher workmen. besides living machines cannot increase the product of labour. intelligent working men who watch over their own rights and increase them are also those who learn easiest new methods of work, discover new inventions which are of advantage to their line of work, and so increase the value of their product. it is only by the growth of this class of workmen, that any country to-day can stand the pressure of foreign competition. but the chief condition of this growth is that the bodily and mental powers of the child shall be used for his own development in school games and play; at the same time his capacity for work must be trained by occupation at home and in the technical school, not by work in a factory. some years ago, a poem created a furore over the whole civilised world, from canada to the islands of polynesia. the author of this poem, edwin markham, was inspired by millet's simple and wonderful picture, _the man with the hoe_. an agricultural labourer with bowed back stands there, one hand folded on the other, supported on the handle of the hoe. millet in him has eternalised the expression so often observed in old workmen, especially in those who are worn out by day labour. the man's face is empty, says nothing, every human aspect has disappeared; we only see in his face the look of the patient beast of burden. for while moderate work ennobles the animal in man, immoderate work kills humanity in the beast. millet's picture was to the poet, who was once himself a slave to bodily labor, a revelation, the eternal artistic type of the generation of man bowed down from childhood under the yoke of labour. in one strophe after another of that finely conceived poem he pictures this being that does not sorrow, and never hopes, his destroyed soul for which plato and the pleiades, the sunrise and the rose, all the treasures of mind and nature, are nothing. the poet asks sovereigns, masters, and governors how they will restore to this thing a soul, how they will give it music and dreams. what, he asks, will become of the people who have made this being what it is now; when after a thousand years' silence god's terrible question is answered,--what has become of his soul. many such employers of labour go to church, they hear explanations of texts like these, "inasmuch as ye did it unto ... even the least of these, ... ye did it unto me. all that ye wish others should do to you, that do to them." it does not occur to them to think how jesus, the most inconsiderate of men, at the right place, would have characterised their demands to have small children employed in glass works at ten years of age. it never occurs to them to ask whether they would like to see their own children in these factories or others like them. this complete dualism between life and teaching in our present-day society will continue to exist until people realise that the opinions about life which are expressed by the lips, but are denied by deeds, should no longer be proclaimed as an absolute explanation of life and rule of life. the permanent element in christianity can only be realised through the conviction that mankind is master of christianity just as it is over all its other creations. the ardent idea of the galilean carpenter, fraternity among men, will give man no rest until man has wiped out the last trace of injustice in his social relations. but the thought will not be realised by those ideals regarded by jesus as absolute. this is the point of view which has crippled man's conscience and it applies equally to the realisation of this and all other ideals. an ideal impossible to carry out under the ordinary assumptions of human life, yet to which men have given the authority of a divine revelation, and which they conceive of as absolute, this is the main cause for the demoralisation which has gone on for nineteen hundred years. the history of humanity has really revealed to men how this absolute ideal of theirs has been betrayed. the cause of this demoralisation must cease before existence can be remodelled seriously by those who are convinced that ideals can really be binding. people will then not do as they do now, misuse the name of the father, whom jesus has taught men to proclaim with their lips, will not murder one another _en masse_ on the battlefield, to solve political and economic questions of supremacy. a society which calls itself christian will no longer tolerate capital punishment, prostitution, stock exchange gambling, and child slavery. men will not then as they do now, learn on their mother's breast to love their neighbours as themselves, and then tread in the footsteps of their fathers, trampling one another down in the struggle for bread. our reverence for god will then be found in our capacity to humanise existence by humanising the human race. the youth of our day have not always successfully passed out of the christian circles of ideals into another circle. the successful method would be to face immediately new purposes and aims that are really believed, and for which men wish to live. but many of our young generation know of no new purposes and aims in which they can believe. hence comes that spiritual apathy which has mastered a great part of the young generation. without undervaluing the influences of environment, i still believe that young people who have lost their ideals without getting new ones in their place are to be pitied. the young who are not making ideals out of their own souls will have no other time than this to find ideals. a generation of young men of this type laughed at socrates. they would have nailed jesus of nazareth to the cross, with a shrug of the shoulders; they would have become, undoubtedly, in , _emigrés_ with the bourbons. when the youth of any period remains without ideals, we pass through a _fin de siècle_ period no matter what the exact date may be. but when the young generation is inspired with the feeling of having great acts to do, a new century begins. it is always the fortunate right of young people to stimulate individualism before everything else. this is done every time a young person full of sound egoism develops his own personality completely and powerfully, throws himself keenly into the struggle for his own fortune. any one who takes his individual development seriously will find that it is hard to become an independent, noble, and exalted personality by treading underfoot other individuals. he will moreover see that it makes more demands on his personal powers to try to create new values by new means, to devote his youthful energy to new tasks, than to look back to ideas that are already exhausted. there is another truth the young man will soon find to be valid. if an individual throws himself into the struggle of life without consideration for any one else, he is all the more likely to get hurt in the struggle. the more developed, too, an individual is, the more assailable points there are about him to be wounded. great pain, as well as great happiness, is for great men a part of the fulness of life. failures of a personality are often better proofs that it is above the average than its victories. but failures, even if they frequently leave our innermost personality shattered, can be borne, when we have learnt that there is a bandage to heal our own wounds, the bandage, i mean, that we lay on the wounds of others. no real man needs to wait until life has taught him, to sympathise with others. the inspiring age of youth may experience this, as well as the strong individual feeling of power. in this sense, many remain ever young, always able to pass through inspired moments, such moments when a great action, a great truth, a great and beautiful thing, or great good fortune, absorbs our whole existence; moments when our eyes fill with tears, when our arms stretch out to embrace the world and the thoughts which it contains. such moments include the most intensive emotion of our own personality; at the same time they bring the fullest absorption in the common feeling of existence as a whole. a great life means giving continuity of action to such inspired moments. there are young people who can look back on no such moments, who arrogantly look down on the problems of their times from the height of their "superman" theories or from their superior learning; who measure them by the iron law of historical development. at all times there have been such people. there is no question in which it is more fatal for young people to isolate themselves, than that which deals with social conflicts. this age requires the young above all others to test this question from all points of view, to investigate all other ideas in connection with it. every reform plan must be investigated in connection with its influence on the problems of individualism and socialism. from youth we have a right to expect something for the future. this hope implies that youth, in approaching it, in thinking and acting for the many whose lot it is the immediate task of the future to improve, adopt as their own the words of walt whitman, "i do not ask whether my wounded brother suffers; i will myself be this wounded brother." advertisements _a selection from the catalogue of_ g. p. putnam's sons complete catalogues sent on application _clever, original, and fascinating_ the lost art of reading _mount tom edition_ new edition in two volumes i. the child and the book a manual for parents and for teachers in schools and colleges ii. the lost art of reading or, the man and the book _two volumes, crown vo. sold separately._ _each net, $ . _ by gerald stanley lee "i must express with your connivance the joy i have had, the enthusiasm i have felt, in gloating over every page of what i believe is the most brilliant book of any season since carlyle's and emerson's pens were laid aside. the title does not hint at any more than a fraction of the contents. it is a highly original critique of philistinism and gradgrindism in education, library science, science in general, and life in general. it is full of humor, rich in style, and eccentric in form and all suffused with the perfervid genius of a man who is not merely a thinker but a force. every sentence is tinglingly alive, and as if furnished with long antennæ of suggestiveness. i do not know who mr. lee is, but i know this--that if he goes on as he has been, we need no longer whine that we have no worthy successors to the old brahminical writers of new england. "i have been reading with wonder and laughter and with loud cheers. it is the word of all words that needed to be spoken just now. it makes me believe that after all we haven't a great kindergarten about us in authorship, but that there is virtue, race, sap in us yet. i can conceive that the date of the publication of this book may well be the date of the moral and intellectual renaissance for which we have long been scanning the horizon."--wm. sloane kennedy in _boston transcript_. new york--g. p. putnam's sons--london _a book for parents and teachers_ up through childhood a study of some principles of education in relation to faith and conduct by george allen hubbell, ph.d. (columbia) vice-president of berea college with introduction by dr. frank m. mcmurray teachers college, n. y. _ mo. $ . net. by mail, $ . _ the book is divided into four parts: part i., dealing with the school of life, in which are discussed ( ) life as opportunity, ( ) that aim of education which will make it possible to use this opportunity aright, and ( ) the institutions of education which, as environment, contribute to the unfolding and instruction of the child. part ii. deals with the teacher in relation to his work as a quickener, and then passes to the teacher's preparation, his relation to the bible, and last and best his relation to the child. part iii. deals with the young being in all stages of his growth from birth to adult life, first taking up the broad question of man's place in nature, and dealing with that as fundamental to all further interpretation. the other topics concern themselves with man's reaction on environment, with the development of the mental powers and the placing of these in due relation to each other, with the training of the child's faith, with the specific consideration of the boy's and girl's experiences to adult life, and with the rounded life. new york--g. p. putnam's sons--london [illustration: mr. coon insisted on gadding about. (page )] aaron in the wildwoods by joel chandler harris author of "uncle remus," etc. _illustrated by oliver herford_ [illustration] boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge copyright, by joel chandler harris and houghton, mifflin and co. all rights reserved contents. page prelude i. the little master ii. the secrets of the swamp iii. what chunky riley saw and heard iv. between midnight and dawn v. the hunt begins vi. the hunt ends vii. aaron sees the signal viii. the happenings of a night ix. the upsetting of mr. gossett x. chunky riley sees a queer sight xi. the problem that timoleon presented xii. what the patrollers saw and heard xiii. the apparition the fox hunters saw xiv. the little master says good night list of illustrations page mr. coon insisted on gadding about _frontispiece_. it was a swamp that's randall's song mr. red fox meets mr. gray fox a-straddle of the grunter's back the horses were right at his heels the goblin pain the spring of cool refreshing water brindle and aaron in the swamp rambler's fight with the moccasin he stood as still as a statue it was the white-haired master they tore him all to flinders the excited horse plunged along he edged away as far as he could aaron and little crotchet behind a tree stood george gossett the black stallion it was fine for mr. fox the phantom horseman aaron and timoleon big sal holds the little master the death of the little master aaron in the wildwoods. prelude. i. once upon a time there lived on a large plantation in middle georgia a boy who was known as little crotchet. it was a very queer name, to be sure, but it seemed to fit the lad to a t. when he was a wee bit of a chap he fell seriously ill, and when, many weeks afterwards, the doctors said the worst was over, it was found that he had lost the use of his legs, and that he would never be able to run about and play as other children do. when he was told about this he laughed, and said he had known all along that he would never be able to run about on his feet again; but he had plans of his own, and he told his father that he wanted a pair of crutches made. "but you can't use them, my son," said his father. "anyhow, i can try," insisted the lad. the doctors were told of his desire, and these wise men put their heads together. "it is a crotchet," they declared, "but it will be no harm for him to try." "it is a little crotchet," said his mother, "and he shall have the crutches." thus it came about that the lad got both his name and his crutches, for his father insisted on calling him little crotchet after that, and he also insisted on sending all the way to philadelphia for the crutches. they seemed to be a long time in coming, for in those days they had to be brought to charleston in a sailing vessel, and then sent by way of augusta in a stage-coach; but when they came they were very welcome, for little crotchet had been inquiring for them every day in the week, and sunday too. and yet when they came, strange to say, he seemed to have lost his interest in them. his mother brought them in joyously, but there was not even a glad smile on the lad's face. he looked at them gravely, weighed them in his hands, laid them across the foot of the bed, and then turned his head on his pillow, as if he wanted to go to sleep. his mother was surprised, and not a little hurt, as mothers will be when they do not understand their children; but she respected his wishes, darkened the room, kissed her boy, and closed the door gently. when everything was still, little crotchet sat up in bed, seized his crutches, and proceeded to try them. he did this every day for a week, and at the end of that time surprised everybody in the house, and on the place as well, by marching out on his crutches, and going from room to room without so much as touching his feet to the floor. it seemed to be a most wonderful feat to perform, and so it was; but providence, in depriving the lad of the use of his legs, had correspondingly strengthened the muscles of his chest and arms, so that within a month he could use his crutches almost as nimbly and quite as safely as other boys use their feet. he could go upstairs and downstairs and walk about the place with as much ease, apparently, as those not afflicted, and it was not strange that the negroes regarded the performance with wonder akin to awe, declaring among themselves that their young master was upheld and supported by "de sperits." and indeed it was a queer sight to see the frail lad going boldly about on crutches, his feet not touching the ground. the sight seemed to make the pet name of little crotchet more appropriate than ever. so his name stuck to him, even after he got his gray pony, and became a familiar figure in town and in country, as he went galloping about, his crutches strapped to the saddle, and dangling as gayly as the sword of some fine general. thus it came to pass that no one was surprised when little crotchet went cantering along, his gray pony snorting fiercely, and seeming never to tire. early or late, whenever the neighbors heard the short, sharp snort of the gray pony and the rattling of the crutches, they would turn to one another and say, "little crotchet!" and that would be explanation enough. there seemed to be some sort of understanding between him and his gray pony. anybody could ride the gray pony in the pasture or in the grove around the house, but when it came to going out by the big gate, that was another matter. he could neither be led nor driven beyond that boundary by any one except little crotchet. it was the same when it came to crossing water. the gray pony would not cross over the smallest running brook for any one but little crotchet; but with the lad on his back he would plunge into the deepest stream, and, if need be, swim across it. all this deepened and confirmed in the minds of the negroes the idea that little crotchet was upheld and protected by "de sperits." they had heard him talking to the gray pony, and they had heard the gray pony whinny in reply. they had seen the gray pony with their little master on his back go gladly out at the big gate and rush with a snort through the plantation creek,--a bold and at times a dangerous stream. seeing these things, and knowing the temper of the pony, they had no trouble in coming to the conclusion that something supernatural was behind it all. ii. thus it happened that little crotchet and his gray pony were pretty well known through all the country-side, for it seemed that he was never tired of riding, and that the pony was never tired of going. what was the rider's errand? nobody knew. why should he go skimming along the red road at day dawn? and why should he come whirling back at dusk,--a red cloud of dust rising beneath the gray pony's feet? nobody could tell. this was almost as much of a puzzle to some of the whites as it was to the negroes; but this mystery, if it could be called such, was soon eclipsed by a phenomenon that worried some of the wisest dwellers in that region. this phenomenon, apparently very simple, began to manifest itself in early fall, and continued all through that season and during the winter and on through the spring, until warm weather set in. it was in the shape of a thin column of blue smoke that could be seen on any clear morning or late afternoon rising from the centre of spivey's canebrake. this place was called a canebrake because a thick, almost impenetrable, growth of canes fringed the edge of a mile-wide basin lying between the bluffs of the oconee river and the uplands beyond. instead of being a canebrake it was a vast swamp, the site of cool but apparently stagnant ponds and of treacherous quagmires, in which cows, and even horses, had been known to disappear and perish. the cowitch grew there, and the yellow plumes of the poison-oak vine glittered like small torches. there, too, the thunder-wood tree exuded its poisonous milk, and long serpent-like vines wound themselves around and through the trees, and helped to shut out the sunlight. it was a swamp, and a very dismal one. the night birds gathered there to sleep during the day, and all sorts of creatures that shunned the sunlight or hated man found a refuge there. if the negroes had made paths through its recesses to enable them to avoid the patrol, nobody knew it but themselves. why, then, should a thin but steady stream of blue smoke be constantly rising upwards from the centre of spivey's canebrake? it was a mystery to those who first discovered it, and it soon grew to be a neighborhood mystery. during the summer the smoke could not be seen, but in the fall and winter its small thin volume went curling upward continually. little crotchet often watched it from the brow of turner's hill, the highest part of the uplands. early in the morning or late in the afternoon the vapor would rise from the oconee; but the vapor was white and heavy, and was blown about by the wind, while the smoke in the swamp was blue and thin, and rose straight in the air above the tops of the trees in spite of the wayward winds. once when little crotchet was sitting on his pony watching the blue smoke rise from the swamp he saw two of the neighbor farmers coming along the highway. they stopped and shook hands with the lad, and then turned to watch the thin stream of blue smoke. the morning was clear and still, and the smoke rose straight in the air, until it seemed to mingle with the upper blue. the two farmers were father and son,--jonathan gadsby and his son ben. they were both very well acquainted with little crotchet,--as, indeed, everybody in the county was,--and he was so bright and queer that they stood somewhat in awe of him. "i reckin if i had a pony that wasn't afeard of nothin' i'd go right straight and find out where that fire is, and what it is," remarked ben gadsby. this stirred his father's ire apparently. "why, benjamin! why, what on the face of the earth do you mean? ride into that swamp! why, you must have lost what little sense you had when you was born! i remember, jest as well as if it was day before yesterday, when uncle jimmy cosby's red steer got in that swamp, and we couldn't git him out. git him out, did i say? we couldn't even git nigh him. we could hear him beller, but we never got where we could see ha'r nor hide of him. if i was thirty year younger i'd take my foot in my hand and wade in there and see where the smoke comes from." [illustration: it was a swamp] little crotchet laughed. "if i had two good legs," said he, "i'd soon see what the trouble is." this awoke ben gadsby's ambition. "i believe i'll go in there and see where the fire is." "fire!" exclaimed old mr. gadsby, with some irritation. "who said anything about fire? what living and moving creetur could build a fire in that thicket? i'd like mighty well to lay my eyes on him." "well," said ben gadsby, "where you see smoke there's obliged to be fire. i've heard you say that yourself." "me?" exclaimed mr. jonathan gadsby, with a show of alarm in the midst of his indignation. "did i say that? well, it was when i wasn't so much as thinking that my two eyes were my own. what about foxfire? suppose that some quagmire or other in that there swamp has gone and got up a ruction on its own hook? smoke without fire? why, i've seed it many a time. and maybe that smoke comes from an eruption in the ground. what then? who's going to know where the fire is?" little crotchet laughed, but ben gadsby put on a very bold front. "well," said he, "i can find bee-trees, and i'll find where that fire is." "well, sir," remarked mr. jonathan gadsby, looking at his son with an air of pride, "find out where the smoke comes from, and we'll not expect you to see the fire." "i wish i could go with you," said little crotchet. "i don't need any company," replied ben gadsby. "i've done made up my mind, and i a-going to show the folks around here that where there's so much smoke there's obliged to be some fire." the young man, knowing that he had some warm work before him, pulled off his coat, and tied the sleeves over his shoulder, sash fashion. then he waved his hand to his father and to little crotchet, and went rapidly down the hill. he had undertaken the adventure in a spirit of bravado. he knew that a number of the neighbors had tried to solve the mystery of the smoke in the swamp and had failed. he thought, too, that he would fail; and yet he was urged on by the belief that if he should happen to succeed, all the boys and all the girls in the neighborhood would regard him as a wonderful young man. he had the same ambition that animated the knight of old, but on a smaller scale. iii. now it chanced that little crotchet himself was on his way to the smoke in the swamp. he had been watching it, and wondering whether he should go to it by the path he knew, or whether he should go by the road that aaron, the runaway, had told him of. ben gadsby interfered with his plans somewhat; for quite by accident, young gadsby as he went down the hill struck into the path that little crotchet knew. there was a chance to gallop along the brow of the hill, turn to the left, plunge through a shallow lagoon, and strike into the path ahead of gadsby, and this chance little crotchet took. he waved his hand to mr. jonathan gadsby, gave the gray pony the rein, and went galloping through the underbrush, his crutches rattling, and the rings of the bridle-bit jingling. to mr. jonathan gadsby it seemed that the lad was riding recklessly, and he groaned and shook his head as he turned and went on his way. but little crotchet rode on. turning sharply to the left as soon as he got out of sight, he went plunging through the lagoon, and was soon going along the blind path a quarter of a mile ahead of ben gadsby. this is why young gadsby was so much disturbed that he lost his way. he was bold enough when he started out, but by the time he had descended the hill and struck into what he thought was a cattle-path his courage began to fail him. the tall canes seemed to bend above him in a threatening manner. the silence oppressed him. everything was so still that the echo of his own movements as he brushed along the narrow path seemed to develop into ominous whispers, as if all the goblins he had ever heard of had congregated in front of him to bar his way. the silence, with its strange echoes, was bad enough, but when he heard the snorting of little crotchet's gray pony as it plunged through the lagoon, the rattle of the crutches and the jingling of the bridle-bit, he fell into a panic. what great beast could it be that went helter-skelter through this dark and silent swamp, swimming through the water and tearing through the quagmires? and yet, when ben gadsby would have turned back, the rank undergrowth and the trailing vines had quite obscured the track. the fear that impelled him to retrace his steps was equally powerful in impelling him to go forward. and this seemed the easiest plan. he felt that it would be just as safe to go on, having once made the venture, as to turn back. he had a presentiment that he would never find his way out anyhow, and the panic he was in nerved him to the point of desperation. so on he went, not always trying to follow the path, but plunging forward aimlessly. in half an hour he was calmer, and pretty soon he found the ground firm under his feet. his instincts as a bee-hunter came back to him. he had started in from the east side, and he paused to take his bearings. but it was hard to see the sun, and in the recesses of the swamp the mosses grew on all sides of the trees. and yet there was a difference, which ben gadsby did not fail to discover and take account of. they grew thicker and larger on the north side, and remembering this, he went forward with more confidence. he found that the middle of the swamp was comparatively dry. huge poplar-trees stood ranged about, the largest he had ever seen. in the midst of a group of trees he found one that was hollow, and in this hollow he found the smouldering embers of a fire. but for the strange silence that surrounded him he would have given a whoop of triumph; but he restrained himself. bee-hunter that he was, he took his coat from his shoulders and tied it around a small slim sapling standing near the big poplar where he had found the fire. it was his way when he found a bee-tree. it was a sort of guide. in returning he would take the general direction, and then hunt about until he found his coat; and it was much easier to find a tree tagged with a coat than it was to find one not similarly marked. thus, instead of whooping triumphantly, ben gadsby simply tied his coat about the nearest sapling, nodding his head significantly as he did so. he had unearthed the secret and unraveled the mystery, and now he would go and call in such of the neighbors as were near at hand and show them what a simple thing the great mystery was. he knew that he had found the hiding-place of aaron, the runaway. so he fixed his "landmark," and started out of the swamp with a lighter heart than he had when he came in. to make sure of his latitude and longitude, he turned in his tracks when he had gone a little distance and looked for the tree on which he had tied his coat. but it was not to be seen. he re-traced his steps, trying to find his coat. looking about him cautiously, he saw the garment after a while, but it was in an entirely different direction from what he supposed it would be. it was tied to a sapling, and the sapling was near a big poplar. to satisfy himself, he returned to make a closer examination. sure enough, there was the coat, but the poplar close by was not a hollow poplar, nor was it as large as the tree in which ben gadsby had found the smouldering embers of a fire. he sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and scratched his head, and discussed the matter in his mind the best he could. finally he concluded that it would be a very easy matter, after he found his coat again, to find the hollow poplar. so he started home again. but he had not gone far when he turned around to take another view of his coat. it had disappeared. ben gadsby looked carefully around, and then a feeling of terror crept over his whole body--a feeling that nearly paralyzed his limbs. he tried to overcome this feeling, and did so to a certain degree. he plucked up sufficient courage to return and try to find his coat; but the task was indeed bewildering. he thought he had never seen so many large poplars with small slim saplings standing near them, and then he began to wander around almost aimlessly. iv. suddenly he heard a scream that almost paralyzed him--a scream that was followed by the sound of a struggle going on in the thick undergrowth close at hand. he could see the muddy water splash above the bushes, and he could hear fierce growlings and gruntings. before he could make up his mind what to do, a gigantic mulatto, with torn clothes and staring eyes, rushed out of the swamp and came rushing by, closely pursued by a big white boar with open mouth and fierce cries. the white boar was right at the mulatto's heels, and his yellow tusks gleamed viciously as he ran with open mouth. pursuer and pursued disappeared in the bushes with a splash and a crash, and then all was as still as before. in fact, the silence seemed profounder for this uncanny and appalling disturbance. it was so unnatural that half a minute after it happened ben gadsby was not certain whether it had occurred at all. he was a pretty bold youth, having been used to the woods and fields all his life, but he had now beheld a spectacle so out of the ordinary, and of so startling a character, that he made haste to get out of the swamp as fast as his legs, weakened by fear, would carry him. more than once, as he made his way out of the swamp, he paused to listen; and it seemed that each time he paused an owl, or some other bird of noiseless wing, made a sudden swoop at his head. beyond the exclamation he made when this happened the silence was unbroken. this experience was unusual enough to hasten his steps, even if he had had no other motive for haste. when nearly out of the swamp, he came upon a large poplar, by the side of which a small slim sapling was growing. tied around this sapling was his coat, which he thought he had left in the middle of the swamp. the sight almost took his breath away. he examined the coat carefully, and found that the sleeves were tied around the tree just as he had tied them. he felt in the pockets. everything was just as he had left it. he examined the poplar; it was hollow, and in the hollow was a pile of ashes. "well!" exclaimed ben gadsby. "i'm the biggest fool that ever walked the earth. if i ain't been asleep and dreamed all this, i'm crazy; and if i've been asleep, i'm a fool." his experience had been so queer and so confusing that he promised himself he'd never tell it where any of the older people could hear it, for he knew that they would not only treat his tale with scorn and contempt, but would make him the butt of ridicule among the younger folks. "i know exactly what they'd say," he remarked to himself. "they'd declare that a skeer'd hog run across my path, and that i was skeer'der than the hog." so ben gadsby took his coat from the sapling, and went trudging along his way toward the big road. when he reached that point he turned and looked toward the swamp. much to his surprise, the stream of blue smoke was still flowing upward. he rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was the smoke. his surprise was still greater when he saw little crotchet and the gray pony come ambling up the hill in the path he had just come over. "what did you find?" asked little crotchet, as he reined in the gray pony. "nothing--nothing at all," replied ben gadsby, determined not to commit himself. "nothing?" cried little crotchet. "well, you ought to have been with me! why, i saw sights! the birds flew in my face, and when i got in the middle of the swamp a big white hog came rushing out, and if this gray pony hadn't been the nimblest of his kind, you'd never have seen me any more." "is that so?" asked ben gadsby, in a dazed way. "well, i declare! 'twas all quiet with me. i just went in and come out again, and that's all there is to it." "i wish i'd been with you," said little crotchet, with a curious laugh. "good-by!" with that he wheeled the gray pony and rode off home. ben gadsby watched little crotchet out of sight, and then, with a gesture of despair, surprise, or indignation, flung his coat on the ground, crying, "well, by jing!" v. that night there was so much laughter in the top story of the abercrombie house that the colonel himself came to the foot of the stairs and called out to know what the matter was. "it's nobody but me," replied little crotchet. "i was just laughing." colonel abercrombie paused, as if waiting for some further explanation, but hearing none, said, "good-night, my son, and god bless you!" "good-night, father dear," exclaimed the lad, flinging a kiss at the shadow his father's candle flung on the wall. then he turned again into his own room, where aaron the arab (son of ben ali) sat leaning against the wall, as silent and as impassive as a block of tawny marble. little crotchet lay back in his bed, and the two were silent for a time. finally aaron said:-- "the white grunter carried his play too far. he nipped a piece from my leg." "i never saw anything like it," remarked little crotchet. "i thought the white pig was angry. you did that to frighten ben gadsby." "yes, little master," responded aaron, "and i'm thinking the young man will never hunt for the smoke in the swamp any more." little crotchet laughed again, as he remembered how ben gadsby looked as aaron and the white pig went careening across the dry place in the swamp. there was a silence again, and then aaron said he must be going. "and when are you going home to your master?" little crotchet asked. "never!" replied aaron the runaway, with emphasis. "never! he is no master of mine. he is a bad man." then he undressed little crotchet, tucked the cover about him,--for the nights were growing chill,--whispered good-night, and slipped from the window, letting down the sash gently as he went out. if any one had been watching, he would have seen the tall arab steal along the roof until he came to the limb of an oak that touched the eaves. along this he went nimbly, glided down the trunk to the ground, and disappeared in the darkness. i. the little master. if you imagine that the book called "the story of aaron (so-named), the son of ben ali" tells all the adventures of the arab while he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, you are very much mistaken. if you will go back to that book you will see that timoleon the black stallion, grunter the white pig, gristle the gray pony, and rambler the track dog, told only what they were asked to tell. and they were not anxious to tell even that. they would much rather have been left alone. what they did tell they told without any flourishes whatever, for they wanted to get through and be done with it. story-telling was not in their line, and they knew it very well; so they said what they had to say and that was the end of it so far as they were concerned: setting a worthy example to men and women, and to children, too. it is natural, therefore, that a man such as aaron was, full of courage and valuable to the man who had bought him from the speculator, should have many adventures that the animals knew nothing of, or, if they knew, had no occasion to relate. in the book you will find that buster john and sweetest susan asked only about such things as they heard of incidentally. but some of the most interesting things were never mentioned by aaron at all; consequently the children never asked about them. little crotchet, it will be remembered, who knew more about the matter than anybody except aaron, was dead, and so there was nobody to give the children any hint or cue as to the questions they were to ask. you will say they had aaron close at hand. that is true, but aaron was busy, and besides that he was not fond of talking, especially about himself. and yet, the most of the adventures aaron had in the wildwoods were no secret. they were well known to the people in the neighborhood, and for miles around. in fact, they were made the subject of a great deal of talk in little crotchet's day, and many men (and women too) who were old enough to be wise shook their heads over some of the events and declared that they had never heard of anything more mysterious. and it so happened that this idea of mystery deepened and grew until it made a very romantic figure of aaron, and was a great help to him, not only when he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, but afterwards when he "settled down," as the saying is, and turned his attention to looking after affairs on the abercrombie plantation. all this happened before buster john and sweetest susan were born, while their mother was a girl in her teens. when little crotchet was alive things on the abercrombie plantation were very different from what they were before or afterward. it is true the lad was a cripple and had to go on crutches, except when he was riding gristle, the gray pony. but he was very active and nimble, and very restless, too, for he was here, there, and everywhere. more than that, he was always in a good humor, always cheerful, and most of the time laughing at his own thoughts or at something he had heard. for it was well understood on that plantation, and, indeed, wherever little crotchet was familiarly known, that, as he was something of an invalid, and such a little bit of a fellow to boot, nothing unpleasant was to come to his ears. if he found out about trouble anywhere he was to find it out for himself, and without help from anybody else. but although little crotchet was small and crippled, he had a very wise head on his shoulders. one of the first things he found out was that everybody was in a conspiracy to prevent unpleasant things from coming to his ears, and the idea that he was to be humbugged in this way made him laugh, it was so funny. he said to himself that if he could have troubles while everybody was trying to help him along and make life pleasant for him, surely other people who had nobody to look out for them must have much larger troubles. and he found it to be true, although he never said much about it. the truth is that while people thought they were humbugging little crotchet, he was humbugging everybody except a few who knew what a shrewd little chap he was. these few had found out that little crotchet knew a great deal more about the troubles that visit the unfortunate in this world than anybody knew about his troubles--and he had many. it was very peculiar. he would go galloping about the plantation on the gray pony, and no matter where he stopped there was always a negro ready to let down the bars or the fence. how could this be? why, it was the simplest matter in the world. it made no difference where the field hands were working, nor what they were doing, they were always watching for their little master, as they called him. they were sure to know when he was coming--sure to see him; and no matter how high the fence was, down it would come whenever the gray pony was brought to a standstill. it was a sight to see the hoe hands or the plow hands when their little master went riding among them. it was hats off and "howdy, honey," with all, and that was something the white-haired master never saw unless he was riding with little crotchet, which sometimes happened. once the white-haired master said to little crotchet, "they all love you because you are good, my son." but little crotchet was quick to reply:-- "oh, no, father; it isn't that. it's because i am fond of them!" now, wasn't he wise for his age? he had stumbled upon the great secret that makes all the happiness there is in this world. the negroes loved him because he was fond of them. he used to sit on the gray pony and watch the hands hoeing and plowing; and although they did their best when he was around, he never failed to find out the tired ones and send them on little errands that would rest them. to one it was "get me a keen switch." to another, "see if you can find me any flowers." one of the worst negroes on the plantation was big sal, a mulatto woman. she had a tongue and a temper that nothing could conquer. once little crotchet, sitting on the gray pony, saw her hoeing away with a rag tied around her forehead under her head handkerchief. so he called her out of the gang, and she came with no very good grace, and only then because some of the other negroes shamed her into it. no doubt little crotchet heard her disputing with them, but he paid no attention to it. when big sal came up, he simply said:-- "help me off the horse. i have a headache sometimes, and i feel it coming on now. i want you to sit here and rub my head for me if you are not too tired." "what wid?" cried big sal. "my han's too dirty." "you get the headache out, and i'll get the dirt off," said little crotchet, laughing. big sal laughed too, cleaned her hands the best she could, and rubbed the youngster's head for him, while the gray pony nibbled the crabgrass growing near. but presently, when little crotchet opened his eyes, he found that big sal was crying. she was making no fuss about it, but as she sat with the child's head in her lap the tears were streaming down her face like water. "what are you crying about?" little crotchet asked. "god a'mighty knows, honey. i'm des a-cryin', an' ef de angels fum heav'm wuz ter come down an' ax me, i couldn't tell um no mo' dan dat." this was true enough. the lonely heart had been touched without knowing why. but little crotchet knew. "i reckon it's because you had the headache," he said. "i speck so," answered big sal. "it looked like my head'd bust when you hollered at me, but de pain all done gone now." "i'm glad," replied little crotchet. "i hope my head will quit aching presently. sometimes it aches all night long." "well, suh!" exclaimed big sal. it was all she could say. finally, when she had lifted little crotchet to his saddle (which was easy enough to do, he was so small and frail) and returned, uncle turin, foreman of the hoe hands, remarked:-- "you'll be feelin' mighty biggity now, i speck." "who? me?" cried big sal. "god knows, i feel so little an' mean i could t'ar my ha'r out by de han'ful." uncle turin, simple and kindly old soul, never knew then nor later what big sal meant, but ever afterwards, whenever the woman had one of her tantrums, she went straight to her little master, and if she sometimes came away from him crying it was not his fault. if she was crying it was because she was comforted, and it all seemed so simple and natural to her that she never failed to express a deep desire to tear her hair out if anybody asked her where she had been or where she was going. it was not such an easy matter to reach the plow hands. the fields were wide and the furrows were long on that plantation, and some of the mules were nimbler than the others, and some of the hands were quicker. so that it rarely happened that they all came down the furrows abreast. but what difference did that make? let them come one by one, or two by two, or twenty abreast, it was all the same when the little master was in sight. it was hats off and "howdy," with "gee, beck!" and "haw, rhody!" and "whar you been, little marster, dat we ain't seed you sence day 'fo' yistiddy?" and so until they had all saluted the child on the gray pony. and why did susy's sam hang back and want to turn his mule around before he had finished the furrow? it was easy to see. susy's sam, though he was the most expert plowman in the gang, had only one good hand, the other being a mere stump, and he disliked to be singled out from the rest on that account. but it was useless for him to hang back. little crotchet always called for susy's sam. sometimes sam would say that his mule was frisky and wouldn't stand. but the word would come, "well, drive the mule out in the bushes," and then susy's sam would have a long resting spell that did him good, and there would be nobody to complain. and so it was with the rest. whoever was sick or tired was sure to catch the little master's eye. how did he know? well, don't ask too many questions about that. you might ask how the gray pony knew the poison vines and grasses. it was a case of just knowing, without knowing where the knowledge came from. but it was not only the plow hands and the hoe hands that little crotchet knew about. at the close of summer there were the cotton pickers and the reapers to be looked after. in fact, this was little crotchet's busiest time, for many of the negro children were set to picking cotton, and the lad felt called on to look after these more carefully than he looked after the grown hands. many a time he had half a dozen holding the gray pony at once. this made the older negroes shake their heads, and say that the little master was spoiling the children, but you may be sure that they thought none the less of him on that account. [illustration: that's randall's song] and then there were the reapers, the men who cut the oats and the wheat, and the binders that followed after. at the head of the reapers was randall, tall, black, and powerful. it was fun to see the blade of his cradle flashing in the sun, and hear it swing with a swish through the golden grain. he led the reapers always by many yards, but when he was making the pace too hot for them he had a way of stopping to sharpen his scythe and starting up a song which spread from mouth to mouth until it could be heard for miles. aaron, hiding in the wildwoods, could hear it, and at such times he would turn to one of his companions--the white pig, or rambler, or that gay joker, the fox squirrel--and say: "that's randall's song. he sees the little master coming." the white pig would grunt, and rambler would say he'd rather hear a horn; but the red squirrel would chatter like mad and declare that he lost one of his ears by sitting on a limb of the live oak and singing when he saw a man coming. but the reapers knew nothing about the experience of the fox squirrel, and so they went on singing whenever randall gave the word. and little crotchet was glad to hear them, for he used to sit on the gray pony and listen, sometimes feeling happy, and at other times feeling lonely indeed. it may have been the quaint melody that gave him a lonely feeling, or it may have been his sympathy for those who suffer the pains of disease or the pangs of trouble. the negroes used to watch him as they sang and worked, and say in the pauses of their song:-- "little marster mighty funny!" that was the word,--"funny,"--and yet it had a deeper meaning for the negroes than the white people ever gave it. funny!--when the lad leaned his pale cheek on the frail hand, and allowed his thoughts (were they thoughts or fleeting aspirations or momentary longings?) to follow the swift, sweet echoes of the song. for the echoes had a thousand nimble feet, and with these they fled away, away,--away beyond the river and its bordering hills; for the echoes had twangling wings, like those of a turtle-dove, and on these they lifted themselves heavenward, and floated above the world, and above the toil and trouble and sorrow and pain that dwell therein. funny!--when the voice of some singer, sweeter and more powerful than the rest, rose suddenly from the pauses of the song, and gave words, as it seemed, to all the suffering that the little master had ever known. aye! so funny that at such times little crotchet would suddenly wave his hand to the singing reapers, and turn the gray pony's head toward the river. was he following the rolling echoes? he could never hope to overtake them. once when this happened uncle fountain stopped singing to say:-- "i wish i wuz a runaway nigger!" "no, you don't!" exclaimed randall. "yes, i does," uncle fountain insisted. "how come?" "kaze den i'd have little marster runnin' atter me ev'y chance he got." "go 'way, nigger man! you'd have jim simmons's nigger dogs atter you, an' den what'd you do?" "dat ar aaron had um atter 'im, an' what'd he do?" "de lord, he knows,--i don't! but don't you git de consate in yo' min' dat you kin do what aaron done done, kaze you'll fool yo'se'f, sho!" "what aaron done done?" fountain was persistent. "he done fool dem ar nigger dogs; dat what he done done." "den how come i can't fool dem ar dogs?" "how come? well, you des try um one time, mo' speshully dat ar col'-nose dog, which he name soun'." "well, i ain't bleege ter try it when de white folks treat me right," remarked uncle fountain, after thinking the matter over. "dat what make i say what i does," asserted randall. "when you know 'zactly what you got, an' when you got mighty nigh what you want, dat's de time ter lay low an' say nothin'. hit's some trouble ter git de corn off'n de cob, but spozen dey want no corn on de cob, what den?" "honey, ain't it de trufe?" exclaimed uncle fountain. thus the negroes talked. they knew a great deal more about aaron than the white people did, but even the negroes didn't know as much as the little master, and for a very good reason. they had no time to find out things, except at night, and at night--well, you may believe it or not, just as you please, but at night the door of the swamp was closed and locked--locked hard and fast. the owls, the night hawks, the whippoorwills, and the chuck-will's widows could fly over. yes, and the willis whistlers could creep through or crawl under when they returned home from their wild serenades. but everything else--even that red joker, the fox squirrel--must have a key. aaron had one, and the white grunter, and rambler, and all the four-footed creatures that walk on horn sandals or in velvet slippers each had a key. the little master might have had one for the asking, but always when night came he was glad to lie on his sofa and read, or, better still, go to bed and sleep, so that he never had the need of a key to open the door of the swamp after it was closed and locked at night. ii. the secrets of the swamp. however hard and fast the door of the swamp may be locked at night, however tightly it may be shut, it opens quickly enough to whomsoever carries the key. there is no creaking of its vast and heavy hinges; there is not the faintest flutter of a leaf, nor the softest whisper of a blade of grass. that is the bargain the bearer of the key must make:-- _that which sleeps, disturb not its slumber. that which moves, let it swiftly pass._ else the swamp will never reveal itself. the sound of one alien footfall is enough. it is the signal for each secret to hide itself, and for all the mysteries to vanish into mystery. the swamp calls them all in, covers them as with a mantle, and puts on its every-day disguise,--the disguise that the eyes of few mortals have ever penetrated. but those who stand by the bargain that all key-bearers must make--whether they go on two legs or on four, whether they fly or crawl or creep or swim--find the swamp more friendly. there is no disguise anywhere. the secrets come swarming forth from all possible or impossible places; and the mysteries, led by their torch-bearer jack-o'-the-lantern, glide through the tall canes and move about among the tall trees. the unfathomable blackness of night never sets foot here. it is an alien and is shut out. and this is one of the mysteries. if, when the door of the swamp is opened to a key-bearer the black night seems to have crept in, wait a moment,--have patience. it is a delusion. underneath this leafy covering, in the midst of this dense growth of vines and saw-grass and reeds and canes, there is always a wonderful hint of dawn--a shadowy, shimmering hint, elusive and indescribable, but yet sufficient to give dim shape to that which is near at hand. not far away the frightened squeak of some small bird breaks sharply on the ear of the swamp. this is no alien note, and jack-o'-the-lantern dances up and down, and all the mysteries whisper in concert:-- "we wish you well, mr. fox. don't choke yourself with the feathers. good-night, mr. fox, good-night!" two minute globules of incandescent light come into sight and disappear, and the mysteries whisper:-- "too late, mr. mink, too late! better luck next time. good-night!" a rippling sound is heard in the lagoon as the leander of the swamp slips into the water. jack-o'-the-lantern flits to the level shore of the pool, and the mysteries come sweeping after, sighing:-- "farewell, mr. muskrat! good luck and good-night!" surely there is an alien sound on the knoll yonder,--snapping, growling, and fighting. have stray dogs crept under the door? oh, no! the swamp smiles, and all the mysteries go trooping thither to see the fun. it is a wonderful frolic! mr. red fox has met mr. gray fox face to face. something tells mr. red fox "here's your father's enemy." something whispers to mr. gray, "here's your mother's murderer." and so they fall to, screaming and gnawing and panting and snarling. mr. gray fox is the strongest, but his heart is the weakest. without warning he turns tail and flies, with mr. red fox after him, and with all the mysteries keeping them company. they run until they are past the boundary line,--the place where the trumpet flower tried to marry the black-jack tree,--and then, of course, the swamp has no further concern with them. and the mysteries and their torch-bearers come trooping home. [illustration: mr. red fox meets mr. gray fox] it is fun when mr. red fox and mr. gray fox meet on the knoll, but the swamp will never have such a frolic as it had one night when a strange bird came flying in over the door. it is known that the birds that sleep while the swamp is awake have been taught to hide their heads under their wings. it is not intended that they should see what is going on. even the buzzard, that sleeps in the loblolly pine, and the wild turkey, that sleeps in the live oak, conform to this custom. they are only on the edge of the swamp, but they feel that it would be rude not to put their heads under their wings while the swamp is awake. but this strange bird--of a family of night birds not hitherto known to that region--was amazed when he beheld the spectacle. "oho!" he cried; "what queer country is this, where all the birds are headless? if i'm to live here in peace, i must do as the brethren do." so he went off in search of advice. as he went along he saw the bull-frog near the lagoon. "queerer still," exclaimed the stranger. "here is a bird that has no head, and he can sing." this satisfied him, and he went farther until he saw mr. wildcat trying to catch little mr. flying-squirrel. "good-evening, sir," said the stranger. "i see that the birds in this country have no heads." mr. wildcat smiled and bowed and licked his mouth. "i presume, sir, that i ought to get rid of my head if i am to stay here, and i have nowhere else to go. how am i to do it?" "easy enough," responded mr. wildcat, smiling and bowing and licking his mouth. "birds that are so unfortunate as to have heads frequently come to me for relief. may i examine your neck to see what can be done?" the strange bird fully intended to say, "why, certainly, sir!" he had the words all made up, but his head was off before he could speak. being a large bird, he fluttered and shook his wings and jumped about a good deal. as the noise was not alien, the swamp and all its mysteries came forth to investigate, and oh, what a frolic there was when mr. wildcat related the facts! the torch-bearers danced up and down with glee, and the mysteries waltzed to the quick piping of the willis-whistlers. although the swamp was not a day older when aaron, the son of ben ali, became a key-bearer, the frolic over the headless bird was far back of aaron's time. older! the swamp was even younger, for it was not a swamp until old age had overtaken it--until centuries had made it fresh and green and strong. the indians had camped round about, had tried to run its mysteries down, and had failed. then came a band of wandering spaniards, with ragged clothes, and tarnished helmets, and rusty shields, and neighing horses--the first the swamp had ever seen. the spaniards floundered in at one side--where the trumpet vine tried to marry the black-jack tree--and floundered out on the other side more bedraggled than ever. this was a great victory for the swamp, and about that time it came to know and understand itself. for centuries it had been "organizing," and when it pulled de soto's company of spaniards in at one side and flung them out at the other, considerably the worse for wear, it felt that the "organization" was complete. and so it was and had been for years and years, and so it remained thereafter--a quiet place when the sun was above the trees, but wonderfully alert and alive when night had fallen. the swamp that aaron knew was the same that the indians and spaniards had known. the loblolly pine had grown, and the big poplars on the knoll had expanded a trifle with the passing centuries, but otherwise the swamp was the same. and yet how different! the indians had not found it friendly, and the spaniards regarded it as an enemy; but to aaron it gave shelter, and sometimes food, and its mysteries were his companions. jack-o'-the-lantern showed him the hidden paths when the mists of night fell darker than usual. he became as much a part of the swamp as the mysteries were, entering into its life, and becoming native to all its moods and conditions. and his presence there seemed to give the swamp new responsibilities. its thousand eyes were always watching for his enemies, and its thousand tongues were always ready to whisper the news of the coming of an alien. the turkey buzzard, soaring thousands of feet above the top of the great pine, the blue falcon, suspended in the air a mile away, the crow, flapping lazily across the fields, stood sentinel during the day, and the swamp understood the messages they sent. at night the willis-whistlers were on guard, and their lines extended for miles in all directions, and the swamp itself was awake, and needed no warning message. sometimes at night the sound of randall's trumpet fell on the ear of the swamp, or the voice of uncle fountain was heard lifted up in song, as he went over the hills to his fish-baskets in the river; and these were restful and pleasing sounds. sometimes the trailing cry of hounds was heard. if in the day, rambler, the track dog, would listen until he knew whether the cry came from jim simmons's "nigger dogs," from the gossett hounds, or from some other pack. if at night, the swamp cared little about it, for it was used to these things after the sun went down. mr. coon insisted on gadding about, and it served him right, the swamp insisted, when the hounds picked up his drag--as the huntsmen say--and brought him home with a whirl. he was safe when he got there, for let the hounds bay at the door of his house as long as they might, no hunter with torch and axe would venture into the swamp. they had tried it--oh, many times. _but the door was locked, and the key was safely kid in a hollow tree._ if it was merely cousin coon who lived up the river, well and good. it would teach the incurable vagrant a lesson, and the swamp enjoyed the fun. the willis-whistlers stopped to listen, the mysteries hid behind the trees, and jack-o'-the-lantern extinguished his torch as the hounds came nearer with their quavering cries. was it mr. coon or cousin coon? why, cousin coon, of course. how did the swamp know? it was the simplest thing in the world. wasn't there a splash and a splutter as he ran into the quagmire? wasn't there a snap and a snarl when the partridge-pea vine caught his foot? did he know the paths? didn't he double and turn and go back the way he came, to be caught and killed on dry land? would mr. coon of the swamp ever be caught on dry land? don't you believe it! if cut off from home, he would run to the nearest pond and plunge in. once there, was there a hound that would venture to take a bath with him? the swamp laughed at the thought of such a thing. aaron smiled, the white pig grunted, and rambler grinned. cousin coon is no more, but mr. coon is safe at home and the swamp knows it. _good luck to all who know the way, by crooked path and clinging vine! for them night's messengers shall stay, for them the laggard moon shall shine._ but it was not always that aliens and strangers were unwelcome. occasionally in the still hours between midnight and dawn the swamp would open its doors to gossett's riley. he had no key and he had never come to know and feel that the swamp was something more than a mixture of mud and water, trees, canes, vines, and all manner of flying, creeping, and crawling things. to him the swamp was merely a place and not a thing, but this was ignorance, and the swamp forgave it for various reasons, forgave it and pitied him as he deserved to be pitied. and yet he had qualities out of the common, and for these the swamp admired him. he was little more than a dwarf, being "bow-legged and chuckle-headed," as susy's sam used to say, and was called chunky riley, but he was very much of a man for all that. at a log-rolling there was not a negro for miles around who could pull him down with the handstick. aaron could do it, but aaron was not a negro, but an arab, and that is different. chunky riley was even stronger in limb and body than aaron, but aaron used his head, as well as body and limb--and that also is different. riley was not swift of foot, but he could run far, as gossett's hounds well knew. more than that, he could go on all-fours almost as fast as he could run on two legs, and that was something difficult to do. the swamp found chunky riley out in a very curious way. the first time he came to bring a message to aaron he waited for no introduction whatever. the willis-whistlers warned him, but he paid no attention to their warning; the mysteries whispered to him, but his ears were closed. he searched for no path, and was blind to all the signals. he blundered into the swamp and floundered toward the knoll as the spaniards did. he floundered out of the quagmire near where the white pig lay. he had the scent and all the signs of an alien, and the white grunter rushed at him with open mouth. the swamp was now angry from centre to circumference, and poor chunky riley's ending would have been swift and sudden but for the fact that he bore some undeveloped kinship to the elements that surrounded him. [illustration: a-straddle of the grunter's back] as the white pig rushed forward with open mouth, chunky riley caught a vague glimpse of him in the darkness, gave one wild yell, leaped into the air, and came down a-straddle of the grunter's back. this was more than the white pig had bargained for. he answered riley's yell with a loud squeal, and went tearing through the swamp to the place where aaron dwelt. the big owl hooted, rambler howled, and jack-o'-the-lantern threw down his torch and fled. the swamp that had been angry was amazed and frightened. what demon was this that had seized the white grunter and was carrying him off? what could the rest hope for if so fierce a creature as the white pig could be disposed of in this fashion? even aaron was alarmed at the uproar, for chunky riley continued to yell, and the white pig kept up its squealing. it was well that the grunter, when he came to aaron's place, ran close enough to a tree to rub chunky riley off his back, otherwise there is no telling what would have happened. it was well, too, that chunky riley called loudly for aaron when he fell, otherwise he would have been made mincemeat of; for as soon as the white pig was relieved of his strange burden, his anger rose fiercer than ever, and he came charging at chunky riley, who was lying prone on the ground, too frightened to do anything more than try to run to a tree on all-fours. aaron spoke sharply to the white pig. "shall i use a club on you, white grunter? shall i make bacon of you? you heard him call my name." the white pig paused. his small eyes glittered in the dark, and chunky riley heard his tusks grate ominously. he knew the creature was foaming with rage. "ooft! your name, son of ben ali?" said the white pig in language that chunky riley thought was merely a series of angry grunts and snorts. "ooft! i heard him call for aaron, and how long has it been since i heard you say to the red chatterer in the hickory-tree that there were a thousand aarons, but only one son of ben ali? ooft-gooft! am i a horse to be ridden? humph! no man could ride me--it is what you call a thing. umph! let it ride you and then talk about clubs. ooft!" "is dat aaron?" chunky riley ventured to inquire. "ef 't is, i wish you'd be good enough ter run dat ar creetur 'way fum here, kaze i ain't got no knack fer bein' chaw'd up an' spit out, an' trompled on, an' teetotally ruint right 'fo' my own face." "what's your name?" inquired aaron. "you ought ter know me, but i dunner whedder you does er not. i'm name riley--dey calls me chunky riley fer short." aaron was silent for a moment, as if trying to remember the name. presently he laughed and said: "why, yes; i know you pretty well. come, we'll kindle a fire." "no suh--not me! not less'n you'll run dat ar wil' hog off. he mo' servigrous dan a pant'er. ef i hadn't er straddled 'im des now he'd 'a' e't me bodaciously up an' dey wouldn't 'a' been nothin' lef' but de buttons on my cloze, an' nobody in de roun' worl' would 'a' know'd dey wuz buttons." aaron laughed while speaking to the white pig: "get to bed, grunter. it is the lifter--the man that is as strong in the back as a horse." "gooft-ooft! let him ride you out as he rode me in--ooft! he's no man! gooft! no bed for me. when a horse is ridden, he must eat, as i've heard you say, son of ben ali. gooft-ooft!" the white pig, still grinding his tusks together, turned and trotted off into the darkness, and presently aaron and chunky riley heard him crashing through the canes and reeds. then aaron kindled his fire. "why did you come?" inquired the son of ben ali when the two had made themselves comfortable. "des ter fetch word dat marster wuz layin' off ter git atter you wid simmons's nigger-dogs 'fo' long." "all the way through the dark for that? when did you come to like me so well?" "oh, 't ain't 'zackly dat," replied chunky riley frankly. "i hear um talkin' 'bout it when marster an' dat ar mr. simmons wuz walkin' out in de hoss lot. i wuz in de corn crib, an' dey didn't know it, an' i des sot dar an' lis'n at um. an' den dis mornin' i seed dat ar little marse abercrombie, an' he say, 'go tell aaron quick ez you kin.'" "the child with the crutches?" queried aaron. "de ve'y same," replied chunky riley. he paused awhile and then added: "i'd walk many a long mile fer dat white chil', day er night, rain er shine." he gazed in the flickering fire a long time, waiting for aaron to make some comment. hearing none, he finally turned his eyes on his companion. aaron was looking skyward, where one small star could be seen twinkling through the ascending smoke from the fire, and his lips were moving, though they framed no words that chunky riley could hear. something in the attitude of the son of ben ali disturbed the negro. "well, i done what i come ter do," he said, making a pretense of stretching himself and yawning, "an' i speck i'd better be gwine." the son of ben ali still kept his eye fixed on the twinkling star. "what pesters me," chunky riley went on, "is de idee dat dat ar wil' hog went 'zackly de way i got ter go. i don't want ter hatter ride 'im no mo' less'n i got a saddle an' bridle." "come!" exclaimed aaron suddenly, "i'll go with you. i want to see the little master." "de dogs'll fin' yo' track sho, ef dey start out to-morrer," suggested chunky riley. the only response the son of ben ali made to this suggestion was to say: "take the end of my cane in your hand and follow it. we'll take a short cut." chunky riley had queer thoughts as he followed his tall conductor, being led as if he were a blind man; but he said nothing. presently (it seemed but a few minutes to chunky riley) they stood on the top of a hill. "look yonder!" said aaron. away to the left a red light glimmered faintly. "what dat?" asked the superstitious negro. "the light in the little master's window." "how came it so red, den?" inquired chunky riley. "red curtain," replied aaron curtly. "well, de lord he'p us! is we dat close?" cried chunky riley. "your way is there," said the son of ben ali; "this is mine." the negro stood watching aaron until his tall form was lost in the darkness. iii. what chunky riley saw and heard left alone, chunky riley stood still and tried to trace in his mind the route he and aaron had followed in coming from the swamp. but he could make no mental map--and he knew every "nigh-cut" and by-path for miles around--that would fit in with the time it had taken them to reach the spot where he now stood. he looked back toward the swamp, but the night covered it, and he could see nothing. then he looked around him, to see if he knew his present whereabouts. oh, yes, that was easy; every foot of ground was familiar. the hill on which he had stood had been given over to scrub pines. the hill itself sloped away to the turner old fields. but still he was puzzled, and still he scratched his head, for he knew that the swamp was a good four miles away--nearly five--and it seemed to him that he and aaron had been only a few minutes in making the journey. so he scratched his head and wondered to himself whether aaron was really a "conjur' man." it was perhaps very lucky for chunky riley that he stopped when he did. if he had kept on he would have run into the arms of three men who were going along the plantation path that led from gossett's negro quarters to the abercrombie place. the delay that chunky riley made prevented him from meeting them, but it did not prevent him from hearing the murmur of their voices as he struck into the path. they were too far off for chunky riley to know whether they were white or black, but just as he turned into the path to go to gossett's the scent of a cigar floated to his nostrils. he paused and scratched his head again. he knew by the scent of the cigar that the voices he heard belonged to white men: but who were they? if they were the "patterollers" they'd catch aaron beyond all question; it would be impossible for him to escape. so thought chunky riley, and so thinking, he turned and followed the path towards the abercrombie place. he moved rapidly but cautiously. the scent of the cigar grew stronger, the sound of men's voices fell more distinctly on his ear. chunky riley left the path and skirted through the low pines until he came to the fence that inclosed the spring lot. he knew that if he was heard, the men would think he was a calf, or, mayhap, a mule; for the hill on which aaron had left him was now a part of a great pasture, in which the calves and dry cattle and (between seasons) the mules were allowed to roam at will. coming to the fence, chunky riley would have crossed it, but the voices were louder now, and he caught a glimpse of the red sparks of lighted cigars. creeping closer and closer, but ever ready to drop on the ground and run away on all-fours, chunky riley was soon able to hear what the men were saying. he knew the voices of his master and young master, mr. gossett--old grizzle, as he was called--and george, and he rightly judged that the strange voice mingling with theirs belonged to mr. jim simmons, who, with a trained pack of hounds,--"nigger dogs" they were called,--held himself at the service of owners of runaway negroes. mr. simmons's average fee was $ --that is to say when he was "called in time." but in special cases his charge was $ . when chunky riley arrived within earshot of the group, mr. gossett was just concluding a protest that he had made against the charge of $ , which he had reluctantly agreed to pay for the capture of aaron. "you stayed at my house to-day, you'll stay there to-night, and maybe you'll come back to dinner to-morrow. there's the feeding of you and your dogs. you don't take any account of that at all." mr. gossett's voice was sharp and emphatic. his stinginess was notorious in that region, and gave rise to the saying that gossett loved a dollar better than he did his wife. but he was no more ashamed of his stinginess than he was of the shabbiness of his hat. "but, colonel," remonstrated mr. jim simmons, "didn't you send for me? didn't you say, 'glad to see you, simmons; walk right in and make yourself at home'? you did, fer a fact." he spoke with a drawl that irritated the snappy and emphatic mr. gossett. "why, certainly, simmons; certainly i did. i mentioned the matter to show you that your charges are out of all reason in this case. all you have to do is to come here with your dogs in the morning, skirt around the place, pick up his trail, and there you are." "but, colonel!" insisted mr. jim simmons with his careless, irritating drawl, "ain't it a plum' fact that this nigger's been in the woods a month or sech a matter? ain't it a plum' fact that you've tracked him and trailed him with your own dogs?--and good dogs they are, and i'll tell anybody so. now what do you pay me fer? fer catching the nigger? no, sirree! the nigger's as good as caught now--when it comes to that. you pay me fer knowing how to catch him--that's what you pay me fer. you send fer the doctor. he comes and fumbles around a little, and you have to pay the bill whether he kills or cures. you don't pay him fer killing or curing; you pay him fer knowing how to fumble around. it's some different with me. if i don't catch your nigger, you button up your pocket. if i do catch him you pay me $ down, not fer catching him, but fer knowing how to fumble around and catch him." the logic of this argument, which was altogether lost on chunky riley, silenced mr. gossett, but did not convince him. there was a long pause, as if all three of the men were wrestling with peculiar thoughts. finally mr. gossett spoke:-- "it ain't so much the nigger i'm after, but i want to show abercrombie that i can't be outdone. he's laughing in his sleeve because i can't keep the nigger at home, and i'll be blamed"--here his voice sank to a confidential tone--"i'll be blamed if i don't believe that, between him and that son of his, they are harboring the nigger. yes, sir, harboring is the word." mr. jim simmons threw down his lighted cigar with such energy as to cause the sparks to fly in all directions. a cigar was an unfamiliar luxury to mr. simmons, and he had had enough of it. "addison abercrombie harboring a nigger!" exclaimed mr. simmons. "why, colonel, if every man, woman, and child in the united states was to tell me that i wouldn't believe it. addison abercrombie! why, colonel, though you're his next-door neighbor, as you may say, you don't know him half as well as i do. you ought to get acquainted with that man." "humph! i know him well enough, i reckon," responded mr. gossett. "i went to school with him. folks get to know one another at school. he was always stuck up, trying to hold his head higher than anybody else because his daddy had money and a big plantation. i made my prop'ty myself; i earned every dollar; and i know how it came." "but, colonel!" mr. jim simmons insisted, "addison abercrombie would hold his head high if he never seen a dollar, and he'd have the right to do it. him harbor niggers? shucks, colonel! you might as well tell me that the moon ain't nothing but a tater pudding." "what do you see in the man?" mr. gossett asked with some irritation in the tones of his voice. there was a pause, as though mr. simmons was engaged in getting his thoughts together. finally he said:-- "well, colonel, i don't reckon i can make it plain to you, because when i come to talk about it i can't grab the identical idee that would fit what i've got in my mind. but i'll tell you what's the honest truth, in my opinion--and i'm not by myself, by a long shot--addison abercrombie is as fine a man as ever trod shoe leather. that's what." "humph!" grunted mr. gossett. "yes, sirree!" persisted mr. simmons, warming up a little. "it makes no difference where you see him, nor when you see him, nor how you see him, you can up and say: 'the lord has made many men of many minds, and many men of many kinds, but not sence adam has he made a better man than addison abercrombie.' that's the way i look at it, colonel. i may be wrong, but if i am i'll never find it out in this world." plainly, mr. gossett was not prepared to hear such a tribute as this paid to addison abercrombie, and he winced under it. he hemmed and hawed, as the saying is, and changed his position on the fence. he was thoroughly disgusted. now there was no disagreement between mr. gossett and mr. abercrombie,--no quarrel, that is to say,--but gossett knew that abercrombie regarded him with a feeling akin to contempt. he treasured in his mind a remark that abercrombie had made about him the day he bought aaron from the negro speculator. he never forgot nor forgave it, for it was an insinuation that mr. gossett, in spite of his money and his thrifty ways, was not much of a gentleman. on this particular subject mr. gossett was somewhat sensitive, as men are who have doubts in their own minds as to their standing. mr. gossett had an idea that money and "prop'ty," as he called it, made a gentleman; but it was a very vague idea, and queer doubts sometimes pestered him. it was these doubts that made him "touchy" on this subject. "what has this great man ever done for you, simmons?" mr. gossett asked, with a contemptuous snort. "not anything, colonel, on the top of the green globe. i went to him once to borrow some money, and he wanted to lend it to me without taking my note and without charging me any interest. i says to him, says i, 'you'll have to excuse me.'" "that was right; you did perfectly right, simmons. the man was trying to insult you." "but, colonel, he didn't go about it that way. don't you reckon you could tell when anybody was trying to insult you? that was the time i come to you." "i charged you interest, didn't i, simmons?" "you did, colonel, fer a fact." "i'm this kind of a man, simmons," remarked mr. gossett, with a touch of sincere pride and gratification in his voice. "when i do business with a man i do business. when i do him a favor it must be outside of business. it's mixing the two things up that keeps so many people poor." "what two things, colonel?" gravely inquired simmons. "why the doing of business and--er--the doing of favors." "oh, i see," said mr. simmons, as if a great light had been turned on the matter. then he laughed and continued: "yes, colonel, i borrowed the money from you and just about that time the fever taken me down, and if it hadn't 'a' been fer addison abercrombie the note i give you would have swallowed my house and land." "is that so?" inquired mr. gossett. "ask my wife," replied mr. simmons. "one day while i was out of my head with the fever, addison abercrombie, he rid by and saw my wife setting on the front steps, jest a-boohooing,--you know how wimmen will do, colonel; if they ain't a-jawing they're a-cryin'. so addison abercrombie, he ups and asks her what's the matter, and jennie, she tells him. he got right off his hoss and come in, and set by my bed the better part of the morning. and all that time there i was a-running on about notes and a-firing off my troubles in the air. so the upshot of the business was that addison abercrombie left the money there to pay the note and left word for me to pay him back when i got good and ready; and jennie hadn't hardly dried her eyes before here come a nigger on horseback with a basket on his arm, and in the basket was four bottles of wine. wine! why, colonel, it was worse 'n wine. jennie says that if arry one of the bottles had 'a' had a load of buckshot in it, the roof would 'a' been blow'd off when the stopper flew out. and, colonel! if ever you feel like taking a right smart of exercise, jest pass my house some day and stick your head over the palings and tell jennie that addison abercrombie's got a streak of meanness in him." "have you ever paid abercrombie?" mr. gossett inquired. his voice was harsh and businesslike. "i was laying off to catch this nigger of yours and pay him some on account," replied mr. simmons. "why, it has been three years since you paid me," suggested mr. gossett. "two years or sech a matter," remarked mr. simmons complacently. "then that's the reason you think abercrombie ain't harboring my nigger?" inquired mr. gossett scornfully. "but, colonel," drawled mr. simmons, "what under the sun ever got the idee in your head that addison abercrombie _is_ harboring your nigger?" "it's as simple as a-b ab," mr. gossett replied with energy. "he tried to buy the nigger off the block and couldn't, and now he thinks i'll sell if the nigger'll stay in the woods long enough. that's the reason he's harboring the nigger. and more than that: don't i know from my own niggers that the yaller rapscallion comes here every chance he gets? he comes, but he don't go in the nigger quarters. now, where does he go?" "yes, where?" said mr. gossett's son george, who up to that moment had taken no part in the conversation. "three times this month i've dealt out an extra rasher of bacon to two of our hands, and they tell the same tale." "it looks quare," mr. simmons admitted, "but as sure as you're born addison abercrombie ain't the man to harbor a runaway nigger. if he's ever had a nigger in the woods, it's more'n i know, and when that's the case you may set it down fer a fact that he don't believe in runaway niggers." this was a lame argument, but it was the best that mr. simmons could muster at the moment. "no," remarked mr. gossett sarcastically, "his niggers don't take to the woods because they do as they blamed please at home. it sets my teeth on edge to see the way things are run on this plantation. why, i could take the stuff that's flung away here and get rich on it in five years. it's a scandal." "i believe you!" assented his son george dutifully. chunky riley heard this conversation by snatches, but he caught the drift of it. what he remembered of it was that some of his fellow servants were ready to tell all they knew for an extra "rasher" of meat, and that the hunt for aaron would begin the next morning,--and it was now getting along toward dawn. he wanted to warn aaron again. he wanted especially to tell aaron that three men were sitting on the fence waiting for him. but this was impossible. the hour was approaching when chunky riley must be in his cabin on the gossett plantation ready to go to work with the rest of the hands. he had slept soundly the first half of the night, and he would be as fresh in the field when the sun rose as those who had slept the night through. as he turned away from the fence a dog in the path leading from the spring to the stile suddenly began to bay. the men tried to drive him away, and one of them threw a stick at him, but the dog refused to be intimidated. he bayed them more fiercely, but finally retreated toward the spring, stopping occasionally to bark at the men on the fence. "if i'm not mistaken," remarked mr. gossett, "that's my dog rambler. i know his voice, and he's been missing ever since that nigger went to the woods. i wonder if he's taken up over here? george, i wish you'd make it convenient to come over here as soon as you can, and find out whether rambler is here. now, there's a dog, simmons, that's away ahead of anything you've got in the shape of a nigger dog,--nose as cold as ice, and as much sense as the common run of folks." "he ain't doing you much good," responded mr. simmons. "that's a fact," said mr. gossett. "till i heard that dog barking i thought rambler had been killed by that nigger." chunky riley struck into the plantation path leading to gossett's, at the point where the three men had tied their horses. they had ridden as far as they thought prudent, considering the errand they were on, and then they dismounted and made their horses fast to the overhanging limbs of a clump of oaks, which, for some reason or other, had been left standing in the field. one of the horses whinnied when chunky riley came near, and the negro paused. aaron would have known that the horse said, "please take me home, and be quick about it; i'm hungry;" but chunky riley could only guess. and as he guessed a thought struck him--a thought that made him scratch his head and chuckle. he turned in his tracks, went back along the path a little way, and listened. then he returned, and the horse whinnied again. the creature was growing impatient. once more chunky riley indulged in a hearty laugh, slapping himself softly on the leg. then he went to the horses one by one, pulled down the swinging limbs to which their bridle reins were fastened, and untied them. this done, he proceeded to make himself "mighty skace," as he expressed it. he started toward home at a rapid trot, without pausing to listen. but even without listening, he could hear the horses coming after him, mr. simmons's horse with the others. the faster he trotted the faster the horses trotted; and when chunky riley began to run the horses broke into a gallop, and came clattering along the path after him, their stirrups flying wildly about and making a clamor that chunky riley had not bargained for. the faster he ran the faster the horses galloped, until at last it seemed to him that the creatures were trying to run him down. this idea took possession of his mind, and at once his fears magnified the situation. he imagined the horses were right at his heels. he could feel the hot breath of one of them on the back of his neck. fortunately for chunky riley there was a fence at the point where the path developed into a lane. over this he climbed and fell exhausted, fully expecting the horses to climb over or break through and trample him under their feet. but his expectations were not realized; the horses galloped along the lane, and presently he could hear them clattering along the big road toward gossett's. chunky riley was exhausted as well as terror-stricken. the perspiration rolled from his face, and he could hear his heart beat. he lay in the soft grass in the fence corner until he had recovered somewhat from his exertions and his fright. finally he rose, looked back along the way he had come, then toward the big road, and shook his head. [illustration: the horses were right at his heels] "is anybody ever see de beat er dat?" he exclaimed. whereupon he went through the woods instead of going by the road, and was soon in his cabin frying his ration of bacon. iv. between midnight and dawn. when aaron parted from chunky riley on the hill after they had come from the swamp, he went along the path to the spring, stooped on his hands and knees and took a long draught of the cool water. then he went to the rear of the negro quarters, crossed the orchard fence, and passed thence to the flower garden in front of the great house. at one corner of the house a large oak reared its head above the second story. some of its limbs when swayed by the wind swept the dormer window that jutted out from little crotchet's room. behind the red curtain of this dormer window a light shone, although it was now past midnight. it shone there at night whenever little crotchet was restless and sleepless and wanted to see aaron. and this was often, for the youngster, with all his activity, rarely knew what it was to be free from pain. but for his journeys hither and yonder on the gray pony he would have been very unhappy indeed. all day long he could make some excuse for putting his aches aside; he could even forget them. but at night when everything was quiet, pain would rap at the door and insist on coming in and getting in bed with him. little crotchet had many quaint thoughts and queer imaginings, and one of these was that pain was a sure-enough something or other that could come in at the door and go out when it chose--a little goblin dressed in red flannel, with a green hat running to a sharp peak at the top, and a yellow tassel dangling from the peak--a red flannel goblin always smelling of camphor and spirits of turpentine. sometimes--and those were rare nights--the red goblin remained away, and then little crotchet could sleep and dream the most beautiful dreams. but usually, as soon as night had fallen on the plantation and there was no longer any noise in the house, the little red goblin, with his peaked green hat, would open the door gently and peep in to see whether the lad was asleep--and he knew at a glance whether little crotchet was sleeping or only feigning sleep. sometimes the youngster would shut his eyes ever so tight, and lie as still as a mouse, hoping that the red goblin would go away. but the trick never succeeded. the red goblin was too smart for that. if there was a blaze in the fireplace he would wink at it very solemnly; if not, he'd wink at the candle. and he never was in any hurry. he'd sit squat on the floor for many long moments. sometimes he'd run and jump in the bed with little crotchet and then jump out again. sometimes he'd pretend he was going to jump in the bed, when suddenly another notion would strike him, and he'd turn and run out at the door, and not come back again for days. but this was unusual. night in and night out, the year round, the red goblin rarely failed to show himself in little crotchet's room, and crawl under the cover with the lad. there was but one person in all that region whom the red goblin was afraid of, and that was aaron. but he was an obstinate goblin. frequently he'd stay after aaron came, and try his best to fight it out with the son of ben ali; but in the end he would have to go. there were times, however, when aaron could not respond to little crotchet's signal of distress,--the light in the dormer window,--and at such times the red goblin would have everything his own way. he would stay till all the world was awake, and then sneak off to his hiding-place, leaving little crotchet weak and exhausted. [illustration: the goblin pain] thus it happened that, while chunky riley was taking an unexpected ride on the white pig, and afterward while the three men were sitting on the pasture fence beyond the spring, the red goblin was giving little crotchet a good deal of trouble. no matter which way he turned in bed, the red goblin was there. he was there when aaron came into the flower garden. he was there when aaron stood at the foot of the great oak at the corner of the house. he was there when aaron put forth his hand, felt for and found one of the iron spikes that had been driven into the body of the oak. the red goblin was in bed with little crotchet and tugging at his back and legs when aaron pulled himself upward by means of the iron spike; when he found another iron spike; when, standing on and holding to these spikes, he walked up the trunk of the tree as if it were a ladder; and when he went into little crotchet's room by way of the dormer window. the real name of the red goblin with the green hat was pain, as we know, and he was very busy with little crotchet this night; and though the lad had fallen into a doze, he was moving restlessly about when aaron entered the room. the son of ben ali stepped to the low bed, and knelt by it, placing his hand that the night winds had cooled on little crotchet's brow, touching it with firm but gentle strokes. the lad awoke with a start, saw that aaron was near, and then closed his eyes again. "it's a long way for you to come," he said. "there's a lot of things for you in the basket there." "if twice as long, it would be short for me," replied aaron. then, still stroking little crotchet's brow with one hand, and gently rubbing his body with the other, the son of ben ali told of chunky riley's ride on the white pig. with his eyes closed, the lad could see the whole performance, and he laughed with so much heartiness that aaron laughed in sympathy. this was such a rare event that little crotchet opened his eyes to see it, but soon closed them again, for now he felt that the red goblin was preparing to go. "i sent chunky riley," said little crotchet, after a while. "they're after you to-morrow--jim simmons and his hounds. and he has his catch-dog with him. i saw the dog to-day. he's named pluto. he's big and black, and bob-tailed, and his ears have been cropped. oh, i'm afraid they'll get you this time, aaron. why not stay here with me to-morrow, and the next day?" "here?" there was a note of surprise in aaron's voice. "yes. what's to hinder you? i can keep everybody out of the room, except"-- "except somebody," said aaron, smiling. "no, no! the white-haired master is a good man. good to all. he'd shake his head and say, 'runaway hiding in my house! that's bad, bad!' no, little master, they'll not get aaron. you sleep. to-morrow night i'll come. my clothes will be ripped and snagged. have me a big needle and some coarse thread. i'll mend 'em here and while i'm mending i may tell a tale. i don't know. maybe. you sleep." aaron was no mesmerist, but somehow, the red goblin being gone, little crotchet was soon in the land of dreams. aaron remained by the bed to make sure the sleep was sound, then he rose, tucked the cover about the lad's shoulders (for the morning air was cool), blew out the candle, went out on the roof, closing the window sash after him, and in a moment was standing in the flower garden. there he found rambler, the track dog, awaiting him, and together they passed out into the lot and went by the spring, where aaron stooped and took another draught of the cool, refreshing water. all this time the three men had been sitting on the pasture fence at the point where it intersected the path leading from the spring, and they were sitting there still. as aaron started along this path, after leaving the spring, rambler trotted on before, and his keen nose soon detected the presence of strangers. with a whine that was more than half a whistle, rambler gave aaron the signal to stop, and then went toward the fence. the situation became clear to him at once, and it was then that chunky riley and the three men had heard him bark. they called it barking, but it was a message to aaron saying:-- "lookout! lookout! son of ben ali, look sharp! i see three--grizzlies two, and another." [illustration: the spring of cool refreshing water] there was nothing alarming in the situation. in fact, aaron might have gone within hailing distance of the three men without discovery, for the spring lot was well wooded. if mr. addison abercrombie had any peculiarity it was his fondness for trees. he could find something to admire in the crookedest scrub oak and in the scraggiest elm. he not only allowed the trees in the spring lot to stand, but planted others. where aaron stood a clump of black-jacks, covering a quarter of an acre, had sprung up some years before. they were now well-grown saplings and stood as close together, according to the saying of the negroes, as hairs on a hog's back. through these aaron slowly edged his way, moving very carefully, until he reached a point close enough to the three men to see and hear what was going on. standing in the black shadow of these saplings he made an important discovery. chunky riley, it will be remembered, suspected that the two gossetts and mr. simmons were intent on capturing aaron; but this was far from their purpose. they had no such idea. while aaron stood listening, watching, he saw a tall shadow steal along the path. he heard the swish of a dress and knew it was a woman. the shadow stole along the path until it came to the three men on the fence and then it stopped. "well?" said mr. gossett sharply. "what did you see? where did the nigger go? don't stand there like you are deaf and dumb. talk out!" "i seed him come fum de spring, marster, an' go up by de nigger cabins. but atter dat i ain't lay eyes on 'im." "did he go into the cabins?" "i lis'n at eve'y one, marster, an' i ain't hear no talkin' in but one." "was he in that one?" "ef he wuz, marster, he wa'n't sayin' nothin'. big sal was talkin' wid randall, suh." "what were they talking about?" "all de words i hear um say wuz 'bout der little marster--how good he is an' how he all de time thinkin' mo' 'bout yuther folks dan he do 'bout his own se'f." "humph!" snorted mr. gossett. mr. simmons moved about uneasily. "whyn't you go in an' see whether aaron was in there?" asked george gossett. "bekaze, marse george, dey'd 'a' know'd right pine-blank what i come fer. 'sides dat, big sal is a mighty bad nigger 'oman when she git mad." "you're as big as she is," suggested mr. gossett. "yes, suh; but i ain't got de ambition what big sal got," replied the woman humbly. "i'll tell you, simmons, that runaway nigger is the imp of satan," remarked mr. gossett. "but, colonel, if he's that, what do you want him caught for?" inquired mr. simmons humorously. "why, so much the more need for catching him. i want to get my hands on him. if i don't convert him, why, then you may go about among your friends and say that gossett is a poor missionary. you may say that and welcome." "i believe you!" echoed george. "you may go home now," said mr. gossett to the woman. "thanky, marster." she paused a moment to wipe her face with her apron, and then climbed over the fence and went toward the gossett plantation. aaron slipped away from the neighborhood of the three men, crossed the fence near where chunky riley had been standing, went swiftly through the pasture for half a mile, struck into the plantation path some distance ahead of the woman, and then came back along the path to meet her. when he saw her coming he stopped, turned his back to her and stood motionless in the path. the woman was talking to herself as she came up; but when she saw aaron she hesitated, advanced a step, and then stood still, breathing hard. all her superstitious fears were aroused. "who is you? who is dat? name er de lord! can't you talk? don't be foolin' wid me! man, who is you?" "one!" replied aaron. the sound of a human voice reassured her somewhat, but her knees shook so she could hardly stand. "what yo' name?" she asked again. "too long a name to tell you." "what you doin'?" "watching a child--looking hard at it." "wuz you, sho nuff?" she came a step nearer. "how come any chil' out dis time er night?" "a black child," aaron went on. "its dress was afire. it went up and down the path here. it went across the hill. crying and calling--calling and crying, 'aaron! aaron! mammy's hunting for you! aaron! aaron! mammy's telling on you.'" "my lord fum heaven!" moaned the woman; "dat wuz my chil'--de one what got burnt up kaze i wuz off in de fiel'." she threw her apron over her head, fell on her knees, and moaned and shuddered. "well, i'm aaron. you hunted for me in the nigger cabins; you slipped to the fence yonder; you told three men you couldn't find me." "o lord! i wuz bleege ter do it. it wuz dat er take ter de woods, an' dey ain't no place fer me in de woods. what'd i do out dar by myse'f at night? i know'd dey couldn't ketch you. oh, dat wuz my chil'!" "stand up!" aaron commanded. "what you gwine ter do?" the woman asked, slowly rising to her feet, and holding herself ready to dodge an expected blow--for, as she herself said, she was not at all "ambitious." "your breakfast is ready, and i've been waiting here to give it to you. hold your apron." the woman did as she was told, and aaron took from the basket which little crotchet had given him four biscuits and as many slices of ham. "i'll take um, an' thanky, too," said the woman; "but hongry as i is, i don't b'lieve i kin eat a mou'ful un um atter what i done. i'm too mean to live!" "get home! get home and forget it," aaron replied. "oh, i can't go thoo dem woods atter what you tol' me!" cried the woman. "i'll go with you," said aaron. "come!" "you!" the woman lifted her voice until it sounded shrill on the moist air of the morning. "you gwine dar to gossett's? don't you know dey er gwine ter hunt you in de mornin'? don't you know dey got de dogs dar? don't you know some er de niggers'll see you--an' maybe de overseer? don't you know you can't git away fum dem dogs fer ter save yo' life?" "come!" said aaron sharply. "it's late." "min', now! ef dey ketch you, 't ain't me dat done it," the woman insisted. "come!--i must be getting along," was aaron's reply. he went forward along the path, and though he seemed to be walking easily, the woman had as much as she could do to keep near him. though his body swayed slightly from side to side, he seemed to be gliding along rather than walking. ahead of him, sometimes near, sometimes far, and frequently out of sight, a dark shadow moved and flitted. it was rambler going in a canter. a hare jumped from behind a tussock and went skipping away. it was a tempting challenge. but rambler hardly glanced at him. "good-by, mr. rabbit! i'll see you another day!" thus aaron, the woman, and rambler went to gossett's. "man, ain't you tired?" the woman asked when they came in sight of the negro quarters. "me? i'll go twenty miles before sun-up," replied aaron. "i'll never tell on you no mo'," said the woman; "not ef dey kills me." she turned to go to her cabin, when aaron touched her on the shoulder. "wait!" he whispered. "if it brings more meat for your young ones, tell! fetch the men here; show 'em where i stood,--if it brings you more meat for your babies." "sho nuff?" asked the woman, amazed. aaron nodded his head. "what kind er folks is you?" she cried. "you ain't no nigger. dey ain't no nigger on top er de groun' dat'd stan' up dar an' talk dat away. will dey ketch you ef i tell?" the woman was thinking about the meat. aaron lifted his right hand in the air, turned, and disappeared in the darkness, which was now changing to the gray of dawn. the woman remained where she was standing for some moments as if considering some serious problem. then she shook her head. "i'd git de meat--but dey mout ketch 'im, an' den what'd i look like?" this remark seemed to please her, for she repeated it more than once before moving out of her tracks. when she did move, she went to her cabin, kindled a fire, cooked something for her children,--she had three,--placed a biscuit and a piece of ham for each, and, although she had not slept a wink, prepared to go to the field. it was almost time, too, for she heard the hog feeder in the horse lot talking angrily to the mules, as he parceled out their corn and forage. presently she heard him calling the hogs to get a bite of corn,--the fattening hogs that were running about in the horse lot. soon, too, she heard the sharp voice of mr. gossett, her master, calling to the hog feeder. and you may be sure the man went as fast as his legs could carry him. get out of the way, dogs, chickens, wheelbarrows, woodpile, everything, and let the negro run to his master! had he seen the horses? oh, yes, marster, that he had! they were standing at the lot gate, and they whickered and whinnied so that he was obliged to go and see what the trouble was. and there were the horses, mr. simmons's among the rest. yes, marster, and the hog feeder was just on the point of alarming the neighborhood, thinking something serious had happened, when the thought came to his mind that the horses had grown tired of waiting and had broken loose from their fastenings. oh, yes, marster, they would do that way sometimes, because horses have a heap of sense, especially marster's horses. when one broke loose the others wanted to follow him, and then they broke loose too. and they were fed,--eating right now, and all fixed up. saddle 'em by sun-up? yes, marster, and before that if you want 'em, for they've already had a right smart snack of corn and good clean fodder. as for aaron, he had far to go. he had no fear of mr. gossett's hounds, but he knew that he would have some difficulty in getting away from those that mr. simmons had trained. if he could outmanoeuvre them, that would be the best plan. if not,--well, he would make a stand in the swamp. but there was the crop-eared, bob-tailed cur--the catch dog--that was the trouble. aaron knew, too, that mr. simmons was a professional negro hunter, and that he naturally took some degree of pride in it. being a professional, with a keen desire to be regarded as an expert, it was to be supposed that mr. simmons had made a study of the tactics of fugitive negroes. as a matter of fact, mr. simmons was a very shrewd man; he was also, in spite of his calling, a very kind-hearted man. in his soul he despised mr. gossett, whose negroes were constantly in the woods, and loved and admired addison abercrombie, whose negroes never ran away, and who, if every slave on his plantation were a fugitive, would never call on mr. simmons to catch them. aaron was far afield when, as the sun rose, mr. gossett's hog feeder called the house girl and asked her to tell mr. gossett that the horses were saddled and ready at the front gate. then mr. simmons's dogs, which had been shut up in the carriage house, were turned out and fed. the hounds were given half-cooked corn meal, but the catch dog, pluto, must needs have a piece of raw meat, which he swallowed at one gulp. this done, mr. simmons blew one short, sharp note on his horn, and the hunt for aaron began. v. the hunt begins. when aaron left the negro woman at gossett's he went rapidly through the woods until he came to the old fields that had once been cultivated, but were now neglected for newer and better soil. these deserted fields had been dismally naked of vegetation for years, and where they undulated into hills the storms had cut deep red gashes. but these wounds were now gradually healing. a few years before a company of travelers had camped out one night at curtwright's factory, not many miles away, and where they fed their horses a grass new to that region--new, in fact, to this country--made its appearance. it grew and spread for miles around and covered the red hills with the most beautiful mantle that the southern summers had ever seen. it refused to wither and parch under the hot sun, but flourished instead. it had crept from curtwright's factory, and had already begun to carpet the discarded lands through which aaron was now passing, and the turf felt as soft as velvet under his feet. the touch of it seemed to inspire his movements, for he began to trot; and he trotted until, at the end of half an hour, he struck into the plantation road leading to the oconee. aaron was making for the river. having received fair warning, and guessing something of the character of mr. simmons, he had made up his mind that the best plan would be to get away from the dogs if possible. he hoped to find one of the ward negroes at the river landing, and in this he was not disappointed. old uncle andy, who was almost on the retired list, on account of his age and faithfulness, although he was still strong and vigorous, was just preparing to visit his set-hooks which were down the river. he was about to shove the boat into deep water and jump in when aaron called him. "ah-yi," he answered in a tone almost gay, for he had a good master, and he had no troubles except the few that old age had brought on him. "up or down?" inquired aaron. "down, honey; down. all de time down. den i'll lef' um down dar an' let rowan ward" (this was his master whom he talked about so familiarly) "sen' one er his triflin' no 'count nigners atter um wid de waggin'." "i want to go up," said aaron. "i ain't henderin' you," replied old uncle andy. "whar yo' huffs? walk. i ain't gwine pull you in dis boat. no. i won't pull rowan ward yit, en he know it. i won't pull nobody up stream in his boat less'n it's sally ward" (his mistress), "en she'd do ez much fer me. what yo' name, honey?" "aaron, i'm called." "ah-yi!" exclaimed old uncle andy, under his breath. "dey are atter you. oh, yes! en what's mo' dey'll git you. en mo' dan dat, dey oughter git you! dem gossetts is rank pizen, en der niggers is pizen. a nigger what ain't got no better sense dan ter b'long ter po' white trash ain't got no business ter git good treatment. look at me! dey ain't nobody dast ter lay de weight er der han' on me. ef dey do, dey got ter whip sally ward en rowan ward. you ain't bad ez dem yuther gossett niggers, kaze you been in de woods en you er dar yit. kensecontly you got one chance, en it's de onliest chance. cross dis river en go up dar ter de house, en wake up sally ward en tell 'er dat ole andy say she mus' buy you. ef she hum en haw, des put yo' foot down en tell her dat ole andy say she des got ter buy you. she'll do it! she'll know better'n not ter do it. ah-h-h-h!" aaron would have laughed at this display of self-importance, but he knew that to laugh would be to defeat the object he had in view. so his reply was very serious. "she's good!" cried old uncle andy. "dey's er heap er good wimmen, but dey ain't no 'oman like sally ward,--i don't keer ef she is got a temper. ef folks is made out'n dus' dey wuz des nuff er de kin' she wuz made out'n fer ter make her. dey wuz de greates' plenty fer ter make her, but dey wan't a pinch lef' over. how come you got ter go up de river?" "wait a little while, and simmons's dog'll tell you," replied aaron. "jim simmons? i wish i had rowan ward here ter do my cussin'!" exclaimed old uncle andy, striking the edge of the bateau viciously. "kin you handle dish yer paddle? git in dis boat, den! jim simmons! much he look like ketchin' anybody. git in dis boat, i tell you! en take dis paddle en he'p me pull ef you want to go up de river." aaron lost no time in getting in the bateau. instead of sitting down he remained standing, and braced himself by placing one foot in advance of the other. in this position he leaned first on one side and then on the other as he swept the long, wide oar through the water. a few strokes carried him into the middle of the oconee and nearly across. then, out of the current and in the still water, aaron headed the boat up stream. it was a long, heavy, unwieldy affair, built for carrying the field hands and the fruits of the harvest across the river, for the ward plantation lay on both sides of the oconee. the bateau was unwieldy, but propelled by aaron's strong arms it moved swiftly and steadily up the stream. old uncle andy had intended to help row the boat, but when he saw how easily aaron managed it he made himself comfortable by holding his oar across his lap and talking. "i done year tell er you," he said. "some folks say you er nigger, en some say you ain't no nigger. i'm wid dem what say you ain't no nigger, kaze you don't do like a nigger, en dey ain't no nigger in de roun' worl' what kin stan' up in dis boat an' shove it 'long like you doin'. dey all weak-kneed en wobbly when dey git on de water. i wish sally ward could see you now. she'd buy you terreckly. don't you want ter b'long ter sally ward?" "no,--abercrombie," replied aaron. "yo' sho fly high," remarked old uncle andy. "dey er good folks, dem abercrombies. ef dey's anybody anywheres 'roun' dat's mos' ez good ez sally ward en rowan ward it's de abercrombies. i'll say dat much an' not begrudge it. speshally dat ar cripple boy. dey tells me dat dat chil' don't never git tired er doin' good. en dat's a mighty bad sign; it's de wust kinder sign. you watch. de lord done put his han' on dat chil', en he gwine take 'im back up dar whar he b'longs at. when folks git good like dey say dat chil' is, dey are done ripe." to this aaron made no reply. he had had the same or similar thoughts for some time. he simply gave the waters of the river a stronger backward sweep with the oar. the shadows were still heavy on the water, and the overhanging trees helped to make them heavier, but the reflection of dawn caught and became entangled in the ripples made by the boat, and far away in the east the red signal lights of the morning gave forth a dull glow. the fact that aaron made no comment on his remarks had no effect on uncle andy. he continued to talk incessantly, and when he paused for a moment it was to take breath and not to hear what his companion had to say. "jim simmons. huh. i wish sally ward could git de chance fer ter lay de law down ter dat man." (uncle andy had his wish later in the day). "she'd tell 'im de news. she'd make 'im 'shamed er hisse'f--gwine trollopin' roun' de country huntin' niggers en dem what ain't niggers, en all b'longin' ter gossett. how come dey ain't no niggers but de gossett niggers in de woods? tell me dat. you may go all 'roun' here for forty mile, en holler at eve'y plantation gate en ax 'em how many niggers dey got in de woods, en dey'll tell you na'er one. dey'll tell you ids twel you holler at de gossett gate an' dar dey'll holler back: forty-'leven in de woods an' spectin' mo' ter foller. now, how come dat? when you stoop in de road fer ter git a drink er water you kin allers tell when dey's sump'n dead up de creek." still aaron swept the water back with his oar, and still the bateau went up stream. one mile--two miles--two miles and a half. at last aaron headed the boat toward the shore. "what you gwine ter lan' on the same side wid jim simmons fer?" uncle andy inquired indignantly. "ain't you got no sense? don't you know he'll ketch you ef you do dat? you reckon he gwine ter foller you ter de landin' en den turn right 'roun' in his tracks en go back?" "i'll hide in the big swamp," replied aaron. "hide!" exclaimed uncle andy. "don't you know dey done foun' out whar you stays at? a'er one er dem gossett niggers'll swap der soul's salvation fer a bellyful er vittles. ef dey wuz ter ketch you des dry so, i'd be sorry fer you, but ef you gwine ter run right in de trap, you'll hatter fin' some un else fer ter cry atter you. you put me in min' er de rabbit. man come 'long wid his dogs, en jump de rabbit out er his warm bed, en he done gone. dogs take atter him, but dey ain't nowhar. he done out er sight. den dey trail 'im en trail 'im, but dat ain't do no good. rabbit done gone. de man, he let de dogs trail. he take his stan' right at de place whar rabbit jump fum. he prime he gun, en wink he eye. de dogs trail, en trail, en trail, en it seem like dey gwine out er hearin'. man stan' right still en wink de t'er eye. en, bless gracious! 'fo' you know it, _bang_ go de gun en down drap de rabbit. stidder gwine on 'bout his business, he done come back en de man bag 'im. dat 'zackly de way you gwine do--but go on, go on! de speckled pullet hollered shoo ter hawk, but what good did dat do?" by this time the bateau had floated under a tree that leaned from the river bank over the water. aaron laid his oar in the boat and steadied it by holding to a limb. then he turned to uncle andy. "maybe some day i can help you. so long!" he lifted himself into the tree. as he did so a dog ran down the bank whining. "wait!" cried uncle andy. "wait, en look out! i hear a dog in de bushes dar. ef it's a simmons dog drap back in de boat en i'll take you right straight to sally ward." "it's my dog," said aaron. "he's been waiting for me." it was rambler. "desso! i wish you mighty well, honey." with that uncle andy backed the boat out into the river, headed it down stream, and aided the current by an occasional stroke of his oar, which he knew well how to use. standing on the hill above the river, aaron saw that the red signal lights in the east had been put out, and it was now broad day. in the top of a pine a quarter of a mile away a faint shimmer of sunlight glowed a moment and then disappeared. again it appeared and this time to stay. he stood listening, and it seemed to him that he could hear in the far-off distance the faint musical cry of hounds. perhaps he was mistaken; perhaps it was a fox-hunting pack, or, perhaps-- he turned and moved rapidly to the swamp, which he found wide awake and ready to receive him. so vigorous was the swamp, and so jealous of its possessions, that it rarely permitted the summer sun to shine upon its secrets. if a stray beam came through, very well, but the swamp never had a fair glimpse of the sun except in winter, when the glare was shorn of its heat, all the shadows pointing to the north, where the cold winds come from. at midday, in the season when the swamp was ready for business, the shade was dense--dense enough to give the effect of twilight. at sunrise dawn had hardly made its way to the places where the mysteries wandered back and forth, led by jack-o'-the-lantern. but the willis-whistlers knew when dawn came in the outer world, and they hid their shrill pipes in the canes and disappeared; but the mysteries still had an hour to frolic--an hour in which they might dispense with the services of jack-o'-the-lantern. so aaron found them there--all his old friends and a new one, the old brindle steer to whom he sometimes gave a handful of salt. the brindle steer was supposed to be superannuated, but he was not. he had the hollow horn, as the negroes called it, and this had made him thin and weak for a time, but he was now in fair trim, the swamp proving to be a well-conducted hospital, stocked with an abundance of pleasant medicine. he was not of the swamp, but he had been taken in out of charity, and he was the more welcome on that account. moreover, he had introduced himself to the white pig in a sugarcane patch, and they got on famously together--one making luscious cuds of the green blades and the other smacking his mouth over the sweets to be found in the stalks. aaron was glad to see the brindle steer, and brindle was so glad to see aaron that he must needs hoist his tail in the air and lower his horns, which were remarkably long and sharp, and pretend that he was on the point of charging, pawing the ground and making a noise with his mouth that was something between a bleat and a bellow. it was such a queer sound that aaron laughed, seeing which brindle shook his head and capered around the son of ben ali as if trying to find some vulnerable point in his body that would offer small resistance to the long horns. "you are well, brindle," said aaron. "no, son of ben ali, not well--only a great deal better," replied brindle. "that is something, brindle; be glad, as i am," remarked aaron. "you may have work to do to-day--with your horns." brindle drew a long breath that sounded like a tremendous sigh. "it is well you say with my horns, son of ben ali. no cart for me. when the time comes for the cart i shall have--what do you call it?" "the hollow horn," suggested aaron. "yes, two hollow horns, son of ben ali. no cart for me. though there is nothing the matter with my horns, the people shall believe that both are hollow. when i was sick, son of ben ali, something was the matter with all nine of my stomachs." "nine! you have but three, brindle," said aaron. "only three, son of ben ali? well, when i was sick i thought there were nine of them. what am i to do to-day?" "go not too far, brindle. when you hear hounds running through the fields from the river come to the big poplar. there you will find me and the white grunter." "i'm here, son of ben ali, and here i stay. all night i have fed on the sprouts of the young cane, and once i waded too far in the quagmire. i'm tired. i'll lie here and chew my cud. but no yoke, son of ben ali, and no cart." whereupon old brindle made himself comfortable by lying down and chewing his cud between short pauses. [illustration: brindle and aaron] * * * * * meanwhile mr. jim simmons, accompanied only by george gossett (the father had turned back in disgust soon after the chase began), was galloping across the country in a somewhat puzzled frame of mind. when mr. simmons had given one short blast on his horn to warn his dogs that a hunt was on the programme, the three men rode along the plantation path toward the abercrombie place. "now, colonel," remarked mr. simmons as they started out, "i want you to keep your eyes on that red dog. it'll be worth your while." "is that sound?" george gossett asked. "well, sometimes i call him sound on account of his voice, and sometimes i call him sandy on account of his color, but just you watch his motions." pride was in the tone of mr. simmons's voice. the dog was trotting in the path ahead of the horse. suddenly he put his nose to the ground and seemed to be so delighted at what he found there that his tail began to wag. he lifted his head, and ran along the path for fifty yards or more. then he put his nose to the ground again, and kept it there as he cantered along the narrow trail. then he began to trot, and finally, with something of a snort, turned and ran back the way he had come. he had not given voice to so much as a whimper. "don't he open on track?" asked george gossett. "he'll cry loud enough and long enough when he gets down to business," mr. simmons explained. "just you keep your eyes on him." "fiddlesticks. he's tracking us," exclaimed mr. gossett contemptuously. "but, colonel, if he is, i'm willing to take him out and kill him, and, as he stands, i would take no man's hundred dollars for him. i'll see what he's up to." suiting the action to the word, mr. simmons turned his horse's head and galloped after sound, who was now moving rapidly, followed by all the expectant dogs. nothing was left for the two gossetts to do but to follow mr. simmons, though the elder plainly showed his indignation, not only by his actions, but by the use of a few words that are either too choice or too emphatic to be found in a school dictionary. sound ran to the point where aaron and the woman had stopped. he followed the woman's scent to her cabin; but this not proving satisfactory, he turned and came back to where the two had stood. there he picked up aaron's scent, ran around in a small circle, and then, with a loud, wailing cry, as if he had been hit with a cudgel, he was off, the rest of the dogs joining in, their cries making a musical chorus that fell on the ear with a lusty, pleasant twang as it echoed through the woods. "wait," said mr. gossett, as mr. simmons made a movement to follow the dogs. "this is a fool's errand you are starting on. the nigger we're after wouldn't come in a mile of this place. it's one of the spivey niggers the dogs are tracking. or one of the ward niggers. i'm too old to go galloping about the country just to see the dogs run. george, you can go if you want to, but i'd advise you to go in the house and go to bed. that's what i'll do. simmons, if you catch the right nigger, well and good. if i thought the dogs were on his track, i'd ride behind them the balance of the week. but it's out of reason. we know where the nigger goes, and the dogs haven't been there." "i'll risk all that, colonel. if we don't come up with the nigger, why, it costs nobody nothing," remarked mr. simmons. "i'll go along and see the fun, pap," said george. "well, be back by dinner time. i want you to do something for me." mr. gossett called a negro and had his horse taken, while george and mr. simmons galloped after the hounds, which were now going out of the woods into the old, worn-out fields beyond. as mr. simmons put it, they were "running pretty smooth." they were not going as swiftly as the modern hounds go, but they were going rapidly enough to give the horses as much work as they wanted to do. the hounds were really after aaron. mr. simmons suspected it, but he didn't know it. he was simply taking the chances. but his hopes fell as the dogs struck into the plantation road leading to the river. "if they were after the runaway, what on earth did he mean by going in this direction?" mr. simmons asked himself. he knew the dogs were following the scent of a negro, and he knew the negro had been to the abercrombie place, but more than this he did not know. then it occurred to him that a runaway with some sense and judgment might be expected to go to the river, steal a bateau, and float down stream to avoid the hounds. he had heard of such tricks in his day and time, and his hopes began to rise. but they fell again, for he suddenly remembered that the negro who left the scent which the hounds were following could not possibly have known that he was to be hunted with dogs, consequently he would not be going to the river to steal a boat. but wait! another thought struck mr. simmons. didn't the colonel send one of his nigger women to the quarters on the abercrombie plantation? he surely did. didn't the woman say she had seen the runaway? of course she did. weren't the chances ten to one that when she saw him she told him that simmons would be after him in the morning? exactly so! the result of this rapid summing up of the situation was so satisfactory to mr. simmons that he slapped the pommel of his saddle and cried:-- "by jing, i've got him!" "got who?" inquired george gossett, who was riding close up. "wait and see!" replied mr. simmons. "oh, i'll wait," said young gossett, "and so will you." vi. the hunt ends. it will be seen that mr. jim simmons, in his crude way, was a very shrewd reasoner. he didn't "guess;" he "reckoned," and it cannot be denied that he came very near the truth. you will remember that when we children play hide-the-switch the one that hides it guides those who are hunting for it by making certain remarks. when they are near where the switch is hid, the hider says, "you burn; you are afire," but when they get further away from the hiding-place the word is, "you are cold; you are freezing." in hunting for aaron, mr. jim simmons was burning, for he had come very close to solving the problem that the fugitive had set for him. mr. simmons was so sure he was right in his reasoning that he cheered his dogs on lustily and touched up his horse. george gossett did the same, and dogs, horses, and men went careering along the plantation road to the river landing. the sun was now above the treetops, and the chill air of the morning was beginning to surrender to its influence. the course of the river was marked out in mid-air by a thin line of white mist that hung wavering above the stream. the dogs ran crying to the landing, and there they stopped. one of the younger hounds was for wading across; but sound, the leader, knew better than that. he ran down the river bank a hundred yards and then circled back across the field until he reached a point some distance above the landing. then he returned, his keen nose always to the ground. at the landing he looked across the river and whined eagerly. mr. simmons seemed to be very lucky that morning, for just as he and george gossett galloped to the landing a boatload of field hands started across from the other side, old uncle andy coming with it to row it back. on the other side, too, mr. simmons saw a lady standing,--a trim figure dressed in black,--and near her a negro boy was holding a horse that she had evidently ridden to the landing. this was the lady to whom uncle andy sometimes referred as sally ward, and for whom he had a sincere affection. the river was not wide at the landing, and the boatload of field hands, propelled by four muscular arms, was not long in crossing. as the negroes jumped ashore sound went among them and examined each one with his nose, but he returned to the landing and looked across and whined. they saluted mr. simmons and george gossett politely, and then went on their way, whistling, singing, and cracking jokes, and laughing loudly. "was a bateau missing from this side this morning?" mr. simmons asked uncle andy. "suh?" uncle andy put his hand to his ear, affecting to be very anxious to hear what mr. simmons had said. the question was repeated, whereat uncle andy laughed loudly. "you sho is a witch fer guessin', suh! how come you ter know 'bout de missin' boat?" mr. simmons smiled under this flattery. "i thought maybe a boat would be missing from this side this morning," he said. "dey sho wuz, suh; but i dunner how de name er goodness you come ter know 'bout it, kaze i wuz on de bank cross dar 'fo' 't wuz light, en i ain't see you on dis side. yes, suh! de boat wuz gone. dey foun' it 'bout a mile down de river, en on account er de shoals down dar, dey had ter take it out'n de water en fetch it back yer in de waggin. yes, suh! dish yer de very boat." "where's the ford?" mr. simmons inquired. "i used to know, but i've forgotten." "right below yer, suh!" replied uncle andy. "you'll see de paff whar de stock cross at. b'ar down stream, suh, twel you halfway cross, den b'ar up. ef you do dat you won't git yo' stirrup wet." the ford was easily found, but the crossing was not at all comfortable. in fact, uncle andy had maliciously given mr. simmons the wrong directions. the two men rode into the water, bore down the stream, and their horses were soon floundering in deep water. they soon touched bottom again, and in a few moments they were safe on the opposite bank,--safe, but dripping wet and in no very good humor. mr. simmons's dogs, obedient to his call, followed his horse into the water and swam across. sound clambered out, shook himself, and ran back to the landing where the lady was waiting for the boat to return. it had been mr. simmons's intention to proceed at once down the river to the point where the boat had been found, and where he was sure the dogs would pick up the scent of the runaway; but he found that the way was impossible for horses. he must needs go to the landing and inquire the way. uncle andy had just made the middle seat in the bateau more comfortable for his mistress by placing his coat, neatly folded, on the hard plank, and mrs. ward was preparing to accept the old negro's invitation to "git aboard, mistiss," when mr. simmons and george gossett rode up. both raised their hats as the lady glanced toward them. they were hardly in a condition to present themselves, mr. simmons explained, and then he inquired, with as much politeness as he could command, how to reach the place where the missing boat had been found. "the missing boat? why, i never heard of it till now. was one of the bateaux missing this morning?" the lady asked uncle andy. "yessum. when de fishin' good en de niggers put out der set-hooks, dey ain't many mornin's in de week dat one er de yuther er deze boats ain't missin'!" "i never heard of it before." "no, mistiss; de boys 'low you wouldn't keer nohow. dey runs um over de shoals, en dar dey leaves um." "but both bateaux are here." "yessum. we fetches um back 'roun' by de road in de waggin." "who carried the bateau over the shoals this morning?" "me, ma'am. nobody ain't know nuttin' 'bout it but de two elliks, en when dat ar gemmun dar ax me des now if dey wa'n't a boat missin' fum 'roun' yer dis mornin' hit sorter flung me back on myse'f. i 'low 'yes, suh,' but he sho flung me back on myse'f." uncle andy began to chuckle so heartily that his mistress asked him what he was laughing at, though she well knew. "i hit myse'f on de funny bone, mistiss, en when dat's de case i bleege ter laugh." at this the lady laughed, and it was a genial, merry, and musical laugh. mr. simmons smiled, but so grimly that it had the appearance of a threat. "and so this is mr. simmons, the famous negro hunter?" said mrs. ward. "well, mr. simmons, i'm glad to see you. i've long had something to say to you. whenever you are sent for to catch one of my negroes i want you to come straight to the house on the hill yonder and set your dogs on me. when one of my negroes goes to the woods, you may know it's my fault." "trufe, too!" remarked uncle andy, under his breath, but loud enough for all to hear. "that may be so, ma'am," replied mr. simmons; "but among a passel of niggers you'll find some bad ones. what little pleasure i get out of this business is in seeing and hearing my dogs run. somebody's got to catch the runaways, and it might as well be me as anybody." "why, certainly, mr. simmons. you have become celebrated. your name is trumpeted about in all the counties round. you are better known than a great many of our rising young politicians." the lady's manner was very gracious, but there was a gleam of humor in her eye. mr. simmons didn't know whether she was laughing at him or paying him a compliment; but he thought it would be safe to change the subject. "may i ask the old man there a few questions?" he inquired. "why, certainly," mrs. ward responded. "cross-examine him to your heart's content. but be careful about it, mr. simmons. he's old and feeble, and his mind is not as good as it used to be. i heard him telling the house girl last night that he was losing his senses." "de lawsy massy, mistiss! you know i wuz des projickin' wid dat gal. dey ain't any na'er nigger in de country got any mo' sense dan what i got. you know dat yo'se'f." "was anybody with you in the bateau when you went down the river this morning?" "yes, suh, dey wuz," replied uncle andy solemnly. "who was it?" "well, suh"-- "don't get excited, now, andrew," his mistress interrupted. "tell mr. simmons the truth. you know your weakness." if uncle andy's skin had been white or even brown, mr. simmons would have seen him blushing violently. he knew his mistress was making fun of him, but he was not less embarrassed on that account. he looked at mrs. ward and laughed. "speak right out," said the lady. "who was with you in the bateau?" "little essek, ma'm,--my gran-chil'. i'm bleedge ter have some un long fer ter hol' de boat steady when i go ter look at my set-hooks. little essek wuz de fust one i see, en i holler'd at 'im." "did anybody cross from the other side this morning?" asked mr. simmons. "not dat i knows un, less'n it wuz criddle's jerry. he's got a wife at de abercrombie place. he fotch marse criddle's buggy to be worked on at our blacksmif shop, en he rid de mule home dis mornin'. little essek had 'er down yer 'bout daylight waitin' fer jerry, kaze he say he got ter be home soon ef not befo'." uncle andy had an imagination. jerry had brought the buggy and had ridden the mule home. he also had a wife at the abercrombie place, but his master had given him no "pass" to visit her, thinking it might delay his return. for that reason jerry did not cross the river the night before. "and here we've been chasing criddle's jerry all the morning," remarked george gossett to mr. simmons. "pap was right." "but what was the nigger doing at your place?" mr. simmons was still arguing the matter in his mind. "don't ask me," replied george gossett. "dey ain't no 'countin' fer a nigger, suh," remarked uncle andy affably. "dey ain't no 'countin' fer 'em when dey ol' ez i is, much less when dey young en soople like criddle's jerry." under the circumstances there was nothing for mr. simmons and young gossett to do but to turn short about and recross the river. it was fortunate for them that a negro boy was waiting to take mrs. ward's horse across the river. they followed him into the ford, and made the crossing without difficulty. then the two men held a council of war. uncle andy had another name for it. "i wish you'd look at um jugglin'," he said to his mistress, as he helped her from the bateau. george gossett was wet, tired, and disgusted, and he would not hear to mr. simmons's proposition to "beat about the bushes" in the hope that the dogs would strike aaron's trail. "we started wrong," he said. "let's go home, and when we try for the nigger again, let's start right." "well, tell your father i'll be back the day after to-morrow if i don't catch his nigger. i'm obliged to go home now and change my duds if i don't strike a trail. it's a true saying that there's more mud than water in the oconee. i'll take a short cut. i'll go up the river a mile or such a matter and ride across to dawson's old mill road. that will take me home by dinner time." as it happened, mr. simmons didn't take dinner at home that day, nor did he return to gossett's at the time he appointed. he called his dogs and turned his horse's head up stream. he followed the course of the river for a mile or more, and then bore away from it. while he was riding along, lost in his reflections, he suddenly heard sound giving tongue far ahead. that sagacious dog had unexpectedly hit on aaron's trail, and he lost no time in announcing the fact as loudly as he could. mr. simmons was very much surprised. "if that blamed dog is fooling me this time i'll feel like killing him," he remarked to himself. the rest of the dogs joined in, and they were all soon footing it merrily in the direction of the big swamp. the blue falcon, circling high in the air, suddenly closed her wings and dropped into the leafy bosom of the swamp. this was the first messenger. that red joker, the fox squirrel, had heard the wailing cry of the hounds, and scampered down the big pine. halfway down he made a flying leap into the live oak, and then from tree to tree he went running, scrambling, jumping. but let him go never so fast, the blue falcon was before him, and let the blue falcon swoop never so swiftly, the message was before her. for the white grunter had ears. ooft! he had heard the same wailing sound when the hounds were after him before he was old enough to know what his tusks were for. and rambler had ears. in fact, the swamp itself had ears, and for a few moments it held its breath (as the saying is) and listened. listened intently,--and then quietly, cautiously, and serenely began to dispose of its forces. near the big poplar aaron had a pile of stones. they had been selected to fit his hand; they were not too large nor too small; they were not too light nor too heavy. this pile of stones was aaron's ammunition, and he took his stand by it. the white pig rose slowly from his bed of mud, where he had been wallowing, and shook himself. then he scratched himself by rubbing his side against a beech-tree. the brindle steer slowly dragged himself through the canes and tall grass, and came to aaron's tree, where he paused with such a loud sigh that rambler jumped away. "it is the track dogs," he said. "yes; i'm sorry," replied aaron. "when the big black dog comes stand aside and leave him to me." "gooft! not if it's the one that chewed my ear," remarked the white pig. "i came this morning by the thunder-wood tree," said aaron. "hide in the grass near there, and when they pass come charging after them." the dogs came nearer and nearer, and the swamp could hear mr. simmons cheering them on. as for mr. simmons, he was sure of one thing--the dogs were trailing either a wildcat or a runaway. he had never trained them not to follow the scent of a wildcat, and he now regretted it; for his keen ear, alive to differences that would not attract the attention of those who had never made a study of the temperament of dogs, detected a more savage note in their cry than he was accustomed to hear. nor did his ear deceive him. sound was following the scent of aaron, but his companions were trailing rambler, who had accompanied aaron, and this fact gave a fiercer twang to their cry. when aaron was going from gossett's to the river landing, rambler was not trotting at his heels, but scenting ahead, sometimes far to the right and at other times far to the left. but in going from the river to the swamp it was otherwise. rambler had to hold his head high to prevent aaron's heel from striking him on the under jaw. his scent lay with that of the son of ben ali. for that reason mr. simmons was puzzled by the peculiar cry of the dogs. he had trained them not to follow the scent of hares, coons, and foxes, and if they were not trailing a runaway he knew, or thought he knew, that they must be chasing a wildcat. pluto, the crop-eared catch dog, galloped by his master's horse. he was a fierce-looking brute, but mr. simmons knew that he would be no match for a wildcat. [illustration: in the swamp] when the dogs entered the swamp mr. simmons tried to follow, but he soon found his way barred by the undergrowth, by the trailing vines, the bending trees, the rank canes. he must needs leave his horse or lead it when he entered the swamp. he chose to do neither, but sat in his saddle and waited, pluto waiting with him, ready to go in when the word was given. when the hounds entered the swamp they were in full cry. they struggled through the vines, the briers, and the canes, and splashed through the spreading arms of the lagoon. suddenly they ceased to cry. then mr. simmons heard a strange snarling and snapping, an ominous crashing, fierce snorting, and then howls and screams of pain from his hounds. "a cat, by jing!" he exclaimed aloud. intent on saving his hounds if possible, he gave pluto the word, and that savage brute plunged into the swamp with gleaming red jaws and eager eyes. mr. simmons never really knew what happened to his hounds, but the swamp knew. when they splashed past the white pig that fierce guardian of the swamp sprang from his lair and rushed after them. they tried hard to escape, but the hindmost was caught. the white pig ran by his side for the space of three full seconds, then, lowering his head, he raised it again with a toss sidewise, and the hound was done for--ripped from flank to backbone as neatly as a butcher could have done it. another was caught on the horn of the red steer and flung sheer into the lagoon. sound, the leader, fell into rambler's jaws, and some old scores were settled there and then. pluto came charging blindly in. he saw the white pig and made for him, experience telling him that a hog will run when a dog is after it; but experience did him small service here. the white pig charged to meet him, seeing which pluto swerved to one side, but he was not nimble enough. with a downward swoop and an upward sweep of his snout the white pig caught pluto under the shoulder with his tusk and gave him a taste of warfare in the swamp. another dog would have left the field, but pluto had a temper. he turned and rushed at the white pig, and the swamp prepared to witness a battle royal. but just then there was a whizzing, zooning sound in the air, a thud, and pluto tumbled over and fell in a heap. aaron had ended the cur's career as suddenly as if he had been blown to pieces by a cannon. there was one stone missing from the store of ammunition at the foot of the big poplar. meanwhile, rambler was worrying sound, and the white pig, seeing no other enemy in sight, went running to the scene of that fray. his onslaught was so furious that rambler thought it good manners to get out of grunter's way. so he loosed his hold on sound, and jumped aside. sound was still able to do some jumping on his own account, and he turned tail and ran, just as the white pig was about to trample him under foot. but he was not quick enough to escape with a whole skin. the tusk of the white pig touched him on the hind leg, and where it touched it tore. mr. simmons had five dogs when he came to the swamp. sound came out to him after the morning's adventure, but had to be carried home across the saddle bow. two days later another of the dogs went limping home. three dogs were left in the swamp. mr. simmons blew his horn, and called for some time, and then he slowly went his way. he had a great tale to tell when he got home. his dogs had jumped a wildcat at the river, chased him to the swamp, and there they found a den of wildcats. there was a great fight, but three of the dogs were killed, and the cats were so fierce that it was as much as mr. simmons could do to escape with his life. indeed, according to his tale, the biggest cat followed him to the edge of the swamp. and he told this moving tale so often that he really believed it, and felt that he was a sort of hero. as for the swamp, it had a rare frolic that night. all the mysteries came forth and danced, and the willis-whistlers piped as they had never piped before, and old mr. bullfrog joined in with his fine bass voice. and the next morning mr. buzzard, who roosted in the loblolly pine, called his sanitary committee together, and soon there was nothing left of pluto and his companions to pester the swamp. vii. aaron sees the signal. the swamp had a fine frolic on the night of the day that it routed mr. simmons's dogs, but aaron was not there to see it. he knew that, for some days at least, he would be free from active pursuit. the only danger he would have to encounter would come from the patrollers,--the negroes called them "patterollers,"--who visited the various plantations at uncertain intervals. if he began to go about with too much confidence it was entirely possible he would run into the arms of the patrollers, and he would have small opportunity to escape. therefore, while he knew that he would not be hunted by dogs for some time to come, he also knew he must be constantly on the alert to guard against surprises. the most active member of the patrol was george gossett himself; and after he and his companions had visited mr. fullalove's distillery, which they never failed to do when they went patrolling, they were not in a condition to be entirely responsible for their actions. they had nothing to restrain them on such occasions except the knowledge that some of the owners of the negroes would jump at an excuse to hold them to personal account. and this was not a pleasant result to contemplate, especially after a night's spree. for these reasons aaron was much more anxious to elude george gossett and the patrollers than he was to escape from mr. jim simmons's hounds. he knew he must avoid the negro cabins, which were traps for the unwary when the patrollers were around, and he knew he must keep off the public road--the "big road," as it was called--and not venture too often on the frequently traveled plantation paths. young gossett and his companions had a way of dismounting from their horses out of sight and hearing of the negro quarters on the plantations that lay on their "beat." leaving the animals in charge of one man, they would cautiously post themselves at the various fence crossings and paths frequented by the negroes, and in this way capture all who were going to the negro quarters or coming away. if a negro had a "pass" or a permit from his master, well and good. if he had none--well, it would be a sorry night's frolic for him. but aaron had one great advantage over all the slaves who went to and fro between the plantations after nightfall. he had rambler to warn him; and yet, after an experience that he had on one occasion, he felt that he must be more cautious than ever. it happened not many weeks before he was hunted by mr. simmons's hounds. in trying to kill a moccasin, rambler had the misfortune to be bitten by the serpent. the wound was on his jowl, and in spite of all that aaron could do the poor dog's head and neck swelled fearfully. when night came the son of ben ali made rambler as comfortable as possible, bruising herbs and barks and binding them to the wound, and making him a soft bed. on that particular night aaron felt that he ought to visit the little master, and yet he was doubtful about it. he finally concluded to wait until late, and then go to the hill where, a few weeks later, he parted from chunky riley. if a light was shining behind the little master's curtain he would go and drive the red goblin, pain, from the room. he went to the hill, and the light was shining. the little red goblin was up to his old tricks. as he went along aaron fell to thinking about the little master, and wondering why the child should be constantly given over to suffering. he forgot all about himself in trying to solve this problem, forgot to be cautious, forgot that he was a fugitive, and went blindly along the path to the fence above the spring lot. there, without warning, he found himself face to face with george gossett. the rest of the patrollers were posted about at various points. perhaps george gossett was as much surprised as aaron. at any rate, he said nothing. he took a half-consumed cigar from his lips, and flipped the ashes from it. no doubt he intended to say something, yet he was in no hurry. his pistol was in his coat pocket, his hand grasped the handle, and his finger was on the trigger. he felt that he was prepared for any emergency--and so he was, except for the particular emergency that aaron then and there invented. [illustration: rambler's fight with the moccasin] the son of ben ali took off his hat, to show how polite he was in the dark, advanced a step, and then suddenly plunged at young gossett headforemost. struck fairly in the pit of the stomach by this battering ram, the young man, who was not too sober to begin with, went down like a log, and aaron ran away like a deer. the worst of it was that when george gossett recovered consciousness and was able to call his nearest companion to his assistance, that individual simply laughed at the amazing story. "why, it don't stand to reason," he said. "there ain't a living nigger that'd dast to do sech a thing, and the dead ones couldn't." "didn't you hear him when he butted me?" inquired young gossett feebly. "i heard you when you fell off the fence," replied the other. "i allowed that you had jumped down to let the blood git in your feet." "i tell you," insisted the young man, "he come up so close i could 'a' put my hand on him. he took off his hat as polite as you please, and the next thing i know'd i didn't know nothing." "shucks!" exclaimed his companion as loudly as he dared to talk; "you jest about set up on the fence there and went to sleep, and fell off. i told you about them low-wines at the still; i told you when you was a-swilling 'em, same as a fattening hog, that if you didn't look out you'd have to be toted home. and here you are!" young gossett had to go home, and as he was the leading spirit the rest had to go with him. he managed to sit his horse after a fashion, but it was as much as he could do. once in the big road, his companions made many rough jokes at his expense, and they advised him never to tell such another tale as that if he didn't want the public at large to "hoot at him." the adventure taught aaron a new lesson in caution; and even now, after mr. simmons's famous pack of "nigger-dogs" had been all but destroyed, he felt that it was necessary to be more cautious than ever, even when rambler accompanied him. he had no idea that mr. simmons thought his dogs had been attacked by wildcats. in fact, he thought that mr. simmons had full knowledge of his movements, and he was prepared any day to see mr. gossett gather his neighbors together, especially the young men, surround the swamp armed with shotguns, and try in that way to capture him. but when night fell on the day of his experience with mr. simmons's dogs, he resolved to visit little crotchet. he was tired; he had traveled many miles, and had had little sleep, but sleep could be called at any time, and would come at the call. only at night could he visit the little master. in the daytime he could stretch himself on a bed of fragrant pine-needles, with odorous heart-leaves for his pillow, and take his ease. so now, after all the turmoil and confusion he had experienced in field and wood, he went to the hill from which he could see the light in little crotchet's window. usually it was late before aaron would venture to climb to the window, but there was one signal that made it urgent for him to go. when the light was suddenly extinguished and as suddenly relit, it was a signal that aaron must come as soon as he could. this was little crotchet's invention and he thought a great deal of it. and it must be admitted that it was very simple and complete. sitting on the hill, aaron saw the light shining through the red curtain. then it disappeared and the window remained dark for a minute. then the light suddenly shone out again. the arab glanced at the two stars that revolve around the north star, and judged it was not more than nine o'clock. what could the little master want at this early hour? no need to ask that question; little crotchet had a great deal of business on hand. in the first place, while mr. simmons's hounds were hunting aaron, timoleon, the black stallion, had escaped from his stable, and he created a great uproar on the place. when the negro who usually fed and groomed him went into the lot to catch the horse, he found that the catcher is sometimes caught. for timoleon, made furious by his freedom from the confinement of the halter and the four walls of the stable, seized the man by the shoulder and came near inflicting a fatal injury. nothing saved the unfortunate negro but the fact that randall, who chanced to be walking about the lot, made a pretense of attacking the horse with a wagon whip. timoleon dropped the negro and made a furious rush at randall; but randall was in reach of the fence, and so made his escape, while the wounded negro took advantage of the opportunity to stagger, stumble, and crawl to a place of safety. this done, he lay as one dead. he was carried to his cabin, and a messenger was sent, hot-foot, for the doctor, who lived in the neighborhood not far away. little crotchet witnessed a part of the scene, and, oh! he was angry. it was outrageous, wicked, horrible, that a horse should be so cruel. he sat on the gray pony and shook his fist impotently at the black stallion. "oh, if i had you where i could put the lash on you, i'd make you pay for this, you mean, cruel creature!" singular to say, timoleon whinnied when he heard the little master's voice, and came galloping to the fence where the gray pony stood, and put his head over the top rail. "blest ef i don't b'lieve he know you, honey," said randall. this somewhat mollified little crotchet, but he was still angry. "why are you so mean and cruel! oh, i'll make somebody lash you well for this!" the black stallion whinnied again in the friendliest way. "is anybody ever see de beat er dat!" exclaimed randall. nothing could be done, and so the black stallion roamed about the lot at will, and that night when the mules came in from the field they had to be fed and housed under the ginhouse shelter. the white-haired master was away from home on business, but the whole plantation knew that he prized timoleon above all the other horses on the place, and so neither turin nor randall would take harsh measures to recapture the horse. they were careful enough, however, to have the high fence strengthened where they found it weak. this was one of the reasons why little crotchet wanted to see aaron. but there was also another reason. the lad wanted to introduce the runaway to a new friend of his, mr. richard hudspeth, his tutor, who had been employed to come all the way from massachusetts to take charge of the lad's education, which was already fair for his age. in fact, what little crotchet knew about books was astonishing when it is remembered that he never went to school. he had been taught to read and write and cipher by his mother, and this opened the door of his father's library, which was as large as it was well selected. mr. hudspeth had been recommended by an old friend who had served two years in congress with mr. abercrombie, and there was no trouble in coming to an agreement, for mr. hudspeth had reasons of his own for desiring to visit the south. he belonged to the anti-slavery society, and was an aggressive abolitionist. he was a fair-skinned young man, with a silk-like yellow beard, active in his movements, and had a voice singularly sweet and well modulated. he talked with great nicety of expression, and had a certain daintiness of manner which, in so far as it suggested femininity, was calculated to give the casual observer a wrong idea of mr. hudspeth's disposition and temperament. he had been installed as little crotchet's tutor for more than a week. the lad did not like him at first. his preciseness seemed to smack too much of method and discipline,--the terror of childhood and youth. and there was a queer inflection to his sentences, and his pronunciation had a strange and an unfamiliar twang. but these things soon became familiar to the lad, as mr. hudspeth, little by little, won his attention and commanded his interest. the teacher (for he was emphatically a teacher in the best sense, and not a tutor in any sense) saw at the beginning that the dull routine of the text-books would be disastrous here, both to health and spirits. and so he fell back on his own experience, and became himself the mouthpiece of all good books he had ever read, and of all great thoughts that had ever planted themselves in his mind. and he entered with real enthusiasm into all little crotchet's thoughts, and drew him out until the soul of the lad would have been no more clearly defined had every detail been painted on canvas and hung on the wall before the teacher's eyes. it was this teacher that little crotchet wanted aaron to see, a fact which, taken by itself, was sufficient evidence that the lad had grown fond of mr. hudspeth. little crotchet was very cunning about it, too. he invited the teacher to come to his room after tea, and when mr. hudspeth came the lad, lying upon his bed, put the question plumply:-- "do you want to see my runaway?" "your runaway? i don't understand you." "don't you know what a runaway is? why, of course you do. a runaway negro." "ah! a fugitive slave. yes; i have seen a few." "but you've never seen my runaway at all. he isn't a negro. he's an arab. i'll let you see him if you promise never to tell. it's a great secret. i'm so small, and--and so crippled, you know, nobody would ever think i had a runaway?" "never fear me. do you keep him in a box and permit only your best friends to peep at him occasionally?" "oh, no," said little crotchet, laughing at the idea. "he's a sure-enough runaway. he's been advertised in the newspapers. and they had the funniest picture of him you ever saw. they made him look like all the rest of the runaways that have their pictures in the milledgeville papers,--a little bit of a man, bare-headed and stooped over, carrying a cane on his shoulder with a bundle hanging on the end of it. sister cut it out for me. i'll show it to you to-morrow." mr. hudspeth was very much interested in the runaway, and said he would be glad to see him. "well, you must do as i tell you. if i could jump up and jump about i wouldn't ask you, you know. take the candle in your hand, go out on the stair landing, close the door after you, and stand there until you hear me call." mr. hudspeth couldn't understand what all this meant, but he concluded to humor the joke. so he did as he was bid. he carried the candle from the room, closed the door, and stood on the landing until he heard little crotchet calling. when he reëntered the room he held the candle above his head and looked about him. he evidently expected to see the runaway. "this is equal to joining a secret society," he said. "where is your runaway? has he escaped?" "i just wanted to make the window dark a moment and then bright again. that is my signal. if he sees it, he'll come. don't you think it's cunning?" "i shall certainly think so if the runaway comes," replied mr. hudspeth somewhat doubtfully. "he has never failed yet," said little crotchet. "if he fails now, it will be because jim simmons's hounds have caught him, or else he is too tired to come out on the hill and watch for the signal." "were the bloodhounds after him?" inquired mr. hudspeth, with a frown. "bloodhounds!" exclaimed little crotchet. "i never saw a bloodhound, and i never heard of one around here. if my runaway is caught, the dog that did it could be put in the pocket of that big overcoat you had strapped on your trunk." the lad paused and held up his finger. his ear had caught the sound of aaron's feet on the shingles. there was a faint grating sound, as the window sash was softly raised and lowered, and then the son of ben ali stepped from behind the curtain. he stood still as a statue when his eye fell on the stranger, and his attitude was one of simple dignity when he turned to the little master. he saw the lad laughing and he smiled in sympathy. "he's one of us," said little crotchet, "and i wanted him to see you. he's my teacher. mr. hudspeth, this is aaron." mr. hudspeth grasped aaron's hand and shook it warmly, and they talked for some time, the son of ben ali sitting on the side of little crotchet's bed, holding the lad's hand in one of his. aaron told of his day's experiences, and his description of the affair in the swamp was so vivid and realistic that mr. hudspeth exclaimed:-- "if that were put in print, the world would declare it to be pure fiction." "fiction," said little crotchet to aaron, with an air of great solemnity, "fiction is a story put in a book. a story is sometimes called a fib, but when it is printed it is called fiction." mr. hudspeth laughed and so did aaron, but aaron's laugh had a good deal of pride in it. "he's crippled here," remarked aaron, touching little crotchet's legs, "but not here,"--touching the boy's head. "but all this is not what i called you for," said little crotchet after a while. "timoleon tore his stable door down to-day and came near killing one of the hands. he is out now. father will be angry when he comes home and hears about it. can't you put him in his stable?" "me? i can lead the grandson of abdallah all around the plantation by a yarn string," aaron declared. [illustration: he stood as still as a statue] "well, if you had been here to-day you'd have found out different. you don't know that horse," little crotchet insisted. "he is certainly as vicious a creature as i ever saw," remarked the teacher, who had been an amazed witness of the horse's performances. "i'll show you," aaron declared. "oh, no!" protested little crotchet. "don't try any tricks on that horse. he's too mean and cruel. if you can get him in his stable, and fasten him in, i'll be glad. but don't go near him; he'll bite your head off." aaron laughed and then he seemed to be considering something. "i wish"--he paused and looked at little crotchet. "you wish what?" asked the lad. "i wish you might go with me. but it is dark. the moon is a day moon. i could tote you to the fence." "and then what?" asked little crotchet. "you could see a tame horse--the grandson of abdallah." "i'll go to the fence if you'll carry me," said little crotchet. "the air is not cold--no wind is blowing." "shall i go too?" asked mr. hudspeth. "i'd be glad," said aaron. so, although the night was not cold, aaron took a shawl from the bed and wrapped it about little crotchet, lifted the lad in his arms, and went softly down the stairway, mr. hudspeth following. the night was not so dark after all. once away from the light, various familiar objects began to materialize. the oaks ceased to be huge shadows. there was a thin, milk-white haze in the sky that seemed to shed a reflection of light on the earth below. a negro passed along the beaten way leading to the cabins, whistling a tune. it was randall. he heard the others and paused. "it's your turn to tote," said aaron. "who?" exclaimed randall. "the little master," replied aaron. randall laughed. who talked of turns where the little master was concerned? when it came to carrying that kind of burden, randall was the man to do it, and it was "don't le' me hurt you, honey. ef i squeeze too tight, des say de word;" and then, "whar we gwine, honey? a'on gwine in dar en put dat ar hoss up? well, 'fo' he go in dar less all shake han's wid 'im, kaze when we nex' lay eyes on 'im he won't hear us, not ef we stoop down and holler good-by in his year." but following aaron, they went toward the lot where the black stallion had shown his savage temper during the day. viii. the happenings of a night. when aaron and those who were with him reached the lot fence, which had been made high and strong to keep old jule, the jumping mule, within bounds, not a sound was heard on the other side. "you er takin' yo' life in yo' han', mon," said randall in a warning tone, as aaron placed one foot on the third rail and vaulted over. the warning would have come too late in any event, for by the time the words were off randall's tongue aaron was over the fence. those who were left behind waited in breathless suspense for some sound--some movement--from timoleon, or some word from the arab, to guide them. but for a little while (and it seemed to be a long, long while to little crotchet) nothing could be heard. then suddenly there fell on their strained ears the noise that is made by a rushing horse, followed by a sharp exclamation from aaron. "what a pity if he is hurt!" exclaimed the teacher. before anything else could be said, there came a whinnying sound from timoleon, such as horses make when they greet those they are fond of, or when they are hungry and see some one bringing their food. but timoleon's whinnying was more prolonged, and in the midst of it they could hear aaron talking. "ef horses could talk," remarked randall, "i'd up 'n' say dey wuz ca'n on a big confab in dar." little crotchet said nothing. he had often heard aaron say that he knew the language of animals, but the matter had never been pressed on the lad's attention as it was years afterwards on the attention of buster john and sweetest susan. finally aaron came to the fence, closely followed by the black stallion. "man, what you think?" said the son of ben ali to randall; "no water, no corn, no fodder since night before last." "de lord 'a' mercy!" exclaimed randall. "is anybody ever hear de beat er dat? no wonder he kotch dat ar nigger an' bit 'im! when de rascal git well i'm gwine ter ax marster ter le' me take 'im out an' gi' 'im a paddlin'--an' i'll do it right, mon." mr. hudspeth made a mental note of this speech, and resolved to find out if randall meant what he said, or was merely joking. "man, give me the little master," said aaron from the top of the fence, "and run and fetch two buckets of water from the spring." "dey's water in de lot dar," randall explained. "it is dirty," replied aaron. "the grandson of abdallah would die before he would drink it." he leaned down and took little crotchet in his arms. the muzzle of timoleon was so near that the lad could feel the hot breath from his nostrils. involuntarily the little master shuddered and shrank closer to aaron. "he'll not hurt you," said aaron. he made a queer sound with his lips, and the horse whinnied. "now you may put your hand on him--so." the arab took the little master's hand and placed it gently on the smooth, sensitive muzzle of the horse. the lad could feel the nervous working of timoleon's strong upper lip. then he stroked the horse's head and rubbed the velvety ears, and in less time than it takes to write it down he felt very much at home with the black stallion, and had no fear of him then or afterwards. randall soon returned with cool, fresh water from the spring. the black stallion drank all that was brought and wanted more, but aaron said no. he had placed the little master on randall's shoulder, and timoleon, when he finished drinking, was taken to his stable and fed, and the broken door propped in such a manner that it could not be forced open from the inside. this done, aaron returned to the others, relieved randall of little crotchet, though the frail body was not much of a burden, and the three started back to the big house. "you are still anxious to punish the poor man who was hurt by the horse?" asked the teacher, as randall bade them good-night. "i is dat, suh. i'm des ez sho ter raise welks on his hide ez de sun is ter shine--leas'ways ef breff stay in his body. ef i'd 'a' been dat ar hoss an' he'd done me dat away, i'd 'a' trompled de gizzard out 'n 'im. ef dey's anything dat i do 'spise, suh, it's a low-down, triflin', good-fer-nothin' nigger." mr. hudspeth knew enough about human nature to be able to catch the tone of downright sincerity in the negro's voice, and the fact not only amazed him at the time, but worried him no little when he recalled it afterward; for his memory seized upon it and made it more important than it really was. and he saw and noted other things on that plantation that puzzled him no little, and destroyed in his own mind the efficiency of some of his strongest anti-slavery arguments; but it did not, for it could not, reach the essence of the matter as he had conceived it, that human slavery, let it be national or sectional, or paternal and patriarchal, was an infliction on the master as well as an injustice to the negro. so far so good. but mr. hudspeth could not see then what he saw and acknowledged when american slavery was happily a thing of the past, namely: that in the beginning, the slaves who were brought here were redeemed from a slavery in their own country worse than the bondage of death; that though they came here as savages, they were brought in close and stimulating contact with christian civilization, and so lifted up that in two centuries they were able to bear the promotion to citizenship which awaited them; and that, although this end was reached in the midst of confusion and doubt, tumult and bloodshed, it was given to human intelligence to perceive in slavery, as well as in the freedom of the slaves, the hand of an all-wise providence, and to behold in their bondage here the scheme of a vast university in which they were prepared to enjoy the full benefits of all the blessings which have been conferred on them, and which, though they seem to have been long delayed, have come to them earlier than to any other branch of the human race. the teacher who played his little part in the adventures of aaron played a large part in national affairs at a later day. he saw slavery pass away, and he lived long enough after that event to put on record this declaration: "looking back on the history of the human race, let us hasten to acknowledge, while the acknowledgment may be worth making, that two hundred and odd years of slavery, as it existed in the american republic, is a small price to pay for participation in the inestimable blessings and benefits of american freedom and american citizenship." and as he spoke, the great audience he was addressing seemed to fade before his eyes, and he found himself wandering again on the old plantation with little crotchet, or walking under the starlit skies talking to aaron. and he heard again the genial voice of the gentleman whose guest he was, and lived again through the pleasures and perils of that wonderful year on the abercrombie place. but all this was twenty-five years in the future, and mr. hudspeth had not even a dream of what that future was to bring forth. indeed, as he followed aaron and little crotchet from the horse lot to the house he was less interested in what the years might hold for him than he was in one incident that occurred while aaron was preparing to take the black stallion back to his stall. he was puzzled and wanted information. how did aaron know that the horse had gone without water and food? he observed that neither little crotchet nor randall questioned the statement when it was made, but treated it as a declaration beyond dispute. and yet the runaway had been in the woods, and a part of the time was pursued by hounds. he had no means of knowing whether or not the black stallion had been attended to. the matter weighed on the teacher's mind to such an extent that when he and his companions were safe in little crotchet's room he put a question to aaron. "by what means did you know that the horse had been left without food and water?" aaron glanced at little crotchet and smiled. "well, sir, to tell you would be not to tell you. you wouldn't believe me." "oh, you go too far,--indeed you do. why should i doubt your word?" "it don't fit in with things you know." "try me." "the grandson of abdallah told me," replied aaron simply. the teacher looked from aaron to little crotchet. "you must be joking," he remarked. "oh, no, he isn't," protested little crotchet. "i know he can talk with the animals. he has promised to teach me, but i always forget it when i go to the swamp; there are so many other things to think about." "would you teach me?" mr. hudspeth asked. his face was solemn, and yet there was doubt in the tone of his voice. aaron shook his head. "too old," he explained. "too old, and know too much." "it's another case of having a child's faith," suggested the teacher. "most, but not quite," answered aaron. "it is like this: the why must be very big, or you must be touched." the teacher pondered over this reply for some moments, and then said: "there must be some real reason why i should desire to learn the language of animals. is that it?" "most, but not quite," aaron responded. "you must have the sure-enough feeling." "i see. but what is it to be touched? what does that mean?" "you must be touched by the people who live next door to the world." the teacher shook his head slowly and stroked his beard thoughtfully. he tried to treat the whole matter with due solemnity, so as to keep his footing, and he succeeded. "where is this country that is next door to the world?" he asked, turning to little crotchet. "under the spring," the lad replied promptly. "have you ever visited that country?" the teacher asked. his tone was serious enough now. "no," replied little crotchet, with a wistful sigh. "i'm crippled, you know, and walk only on my crutches. it is far to go, and i can't take my pony. but aaron has told me about it, and i have seen little mr. thimblefinger--once--and he told me about mrs. meadows and the rest and brought me a message from old mr. rabbit. they all live in the country next door to the world." for several minutes the teacher sat and gazed into the pale flame of the candle. the wax or tallow had run down on one side, and formed a figure in the semblance of a wee man hanging to the brass mouth of the candlestick with both hands. glazing thus, queer thoughts came to the teacher's mind. he tugged at his beard to see whether he was awake or dreaming. could it be that by some noiseless shifting of the scenery he was even now in the country next door to the world? he rose suddenly, shook hands with aaron, and, swayed by some sudden impulse, stooped and pressed his lips to the pale brow of the patient lad. then he went to his room, threw open the window, and sat for an hour, wondering what influence his strange experiences would have on his life. and his reflections were not amiss, for years afterwards his experiences of this night were responsible for his intimacy with the greatest american of our time,--abraham lincoln. it was in the early part of the war that mr. hudspeth, one of a group of congressmen in consultation with the president, let fall some chance remarks about the country next door to the world. mr. lincoln had been telling a humorous story, and was on the point of telling another, when mr. hudspeth's chance remark struck his ear. "whereabouts is that country?" he asked. "not far from georgia," replied mr. hudspeth. "who lives there?" "little crotchet, aaron the arab, little mr. thimblefinger, mrs. meadows, and old mr. rabbit." mr. hudspeth counted them off on his fingers in a humorous manner. mr. lincoln, who had been laughing before, suddenly grew serious--melancholy, indeed. he talked with the congressmen awhile longer, but they knew by his manner that they were dismissed. as they were leaving, the president remarked:-- "wait till your hurry's over, hudspeth; i want to talk to you." and sitting before the fire in his private office, mr. lincoln recalled mr. hudspeth's chance remark, and questioned him with great particularity about aaron and little crotchet and all the rest. "of course you believed in the country next door to the world?" mr. lincoln suggested. "to tell you the truth, mr. president, i felt queerly that night. it seemed as real to me as anything i ever heard of and never saw." "get the feeling back, hudspeth; get it back. i can believe everything you told me about it." and after that, when mr. hudspeth called on the president, and found him in a mood between extreme mirth and downright melancholy, he would say: "i was with aaron last night," or "i'm just from the country next door to the world," or "i hope sherman won't get lost in the country that is next door to the world." but all this was in the future, and, as we all know, mr. hudspeth, sitting at his window and gazing at the stars that hung sparkling over the abercrombie place, could not read the future. if it was too late for him to learn the language of the animals, how could he hope to interpret the prophecies of the constellations? aaron sat with little crotchet until there was no danger that the red goblin, pain, would put in an appearance, and then he slipped through the window, and was soon at the foot of the oak, where rambler was taking a nap. he gave the dog some of the food that little crotchet had put by for him, ate heartily himself, and then went toward the swamp. on the hill he turned and looked back in the direction of little crotchet's window. as he paused he heard a voice cry "hello!" aaron was not startled, for the sound came from a distance, and fell but faintly on his ears. he listened and heard it again:-- [illustration: it was the white-haired master] "hello! hello!" it seemed to come from the road, half a mile away, and aaron knew that there was no house in that direction for a traveler or a passer-by to hail. there was something in the tone that suggested distress. without waiting to listen again, the arab started for the road in a rapid trot. he thought he heard it again as he ran, and this caused him to run the faster. he climbed the fence that marked the line of the road, and sat there a moment; but all was silence, save the soft clamor of insects and frogs that is a feature of the first half of the night. aaron had now come to a point from which he could reach the swamp more conveniently by following the road for half a mile, though he would have another hill to climb. as he jumped from the fence into the road the cry came to his ears again, and this time with startling distinctness: "hello! hello! oh, isn't there some one to hear me?" it was so plainly the call of some one in distress that aaron shouted an answer of encouragement, and ran as fast as he could in the direction from which the sound came. the situation was so new to rambler that, instead of making ahead to investigate and report, he stuck to aaron, whining uneasily. as the son of ben ali ran he saw dimly outlined at the foot of the hill a short distance beyond him a huge something that refused to take a recognizable shape until he stood beside it, and even then it was startling enough. it was the gray mare, timoleon's sister, lying at full length by the side of the road, and underneath her the son of ben ali knew he would find the white-haired master. but it was not as bad as it might have been. "hurt much, master?" said aaron, leaning over mr. abercrombie and touching him on the shoulder. "not seriously," replied the white-haired master. "but the leg that is under the mare is numb." the gray mare, after falling, had done nothing more than whinny. if she had struggled to rise, the white-haired master's leg would have needed a doctor: and if she had risen to her feet and started home the doctor would have been unnecessary, for the imprisoned foot was caught in the stirrup. well for mr. abercrombie that aaron knew the gray mare, and that the gray mare knew aaron. she whinnied when the runaway spoke to her. she raised her head and gathered her forefeet under her, and then suddenly, at a word from aaron, lifted her weight from the leg, while the foot was taken from the stirrup. again the word was given and the gray mare rose easily to her feet and shook herself. "can you walk, master?" aaron asked. "i think so--certainly." yet it was not an easy thing to do. though the limb was not broken, owing to the fact that the ground was damp and soft where the gray mare fell, yet it had been imprisoned for some time, and it was both numb and bruised. the numbness was in evidence now, as the white-haired master rose to his feet and tried to walk; the bruises would speak for themselves to-morrow. "what is your name?" mr. abercrombie asked. "i am called aaron, master." "i thought so, and i'm glad of it. some day i'll thank you; but now--pins and needles!" the blood was beginning to circulate in the numb leg, and this was not by any means a pleasant experience. aaron shortened it somewhat by rubbing the limb vigorously. "are you still in the woods, aaron?" "yes, master." "well, i'm sorry. i wish you belonged to me." "i'm wishing harder than you, master." "what a pity--what a pity!" "don't get too sorry, master." "no; it would do no good." "and don't blame the gray mare for stumbling, master. the saddle too high on her shoulders, the belly-band too tight, and her shoes nailed on in the dark." aaron helped mr. abercrombie to mount. "good-night, master!" "good-night, aaron!" the arab watched the gray mare and her rider until the darkness hid them from view. and no wonder! he was the only man, living or dead, that the son of ben ali had ever called "master." why? aaron tried to make the matter clear to his own mind, and while he was doing his best to unravel the problem he heard buggy wheels rattle on the hilltop. the horse must have shied at something just then, for a harsh voice cried out, followed by the sound of a whip falling cruelly on the creature's back. the wheels rattled louder as the creature leaped frantically from under the whip. the harsh voice cried "whoa!" three times, twice in anger, and the third time in mortal fear. and then aaron knew that he had another adventure on his hands. ix. the upsetting of mr. gossett. if aaron had known it was mr. gossett's voice he heard and mr. gossett's hand that brought the buggy whip down on the poor horse's back with such cruel energy, the probability is that he would have taken to his heels; and yet it is impossible to say with certainty. the son of ben ali was such a curious compound that his actions depended entirely on the mood he chanced to be in. he was full of courage, and yet was terribly afraid at times. he was dignified and proud, and yet no stranger to humility. his whole nature resented the idea of serving as a slave, yet he would have asked nothing better than to be little crotchet's slave: and he was glad to call mr. abercrombie master. so that, after all, it may be that he would have stood his ground, knowing that the voice and hand were mr. gossett's when his ears told him, as they now did, that the horse, made furious by the cruel stroke of the whip, was running away, coming down the hill at breakneck speed. mr. gossett had been on a fruitless errand. when his son george reached home that morning and told him that mr. jim simmons's dogs had followed the trail to the river and there lost it, mr. gossett remarked that he was glad he did not go on a fool's errand, and he made various statements about mr. simmons and his dogs that were not at all polite. later in the day, however (though the hour was still early), when mr. gossett was making the customary round of his plantation, he fell in with a negro who had been hunting for some stray sheep. the negro, after giving an account of his movements, made this further remark:-- "i sholy 'spected you'd be over yander wid mr. jim simmons, marster. his dogs done struck a track leadin' inter de swamp, an' dey sho went a callyhootin'." "when was that?" mr. gossett inquired. "not mo' dan two hours ago, ef dat," responded the negro. "i lis'n at um, i did, an' dey went right spang tor'ds de swamp. i know'd de dogs, kaze i done hear um soon' dis mornin'." giving the negro some instructions that would keep him busy the rest of the day if he carried them out, mr. gossett turned his horse's head in the direction of the swamp, and rode slowly thither. the blue falcon soared high in the air and paid no attention to mr. gossett. for various reasons that the swamp knew about the turkey buzzard was not in sight. the swamp itself was full of the reposeful silence that daylight usually brought to it. mr. gossett rode about and listened; but if all the dogs in the world had suddenly disappeared, the region round about could not have been freer of their barking and baying than it was at that moment. all that mr. gossett could do was to turn about and ride back home. but he was very much puzzled. if mr. simmons had trailed a runaway into the swamp and caught him, or if he had made two failures in one morning, mr. gossett would like very much to know it. in point of fact, he was such a practical business man that he felt it was mr. simmons's duty to make some sort of report to him. in matters of this kind mr. gossett was very precise. but after dinner he felt in a more jocular mood. he informed his son george that he thought he would go over and worry mr. simmons a little over his failure to catch aaron, and he had his horse put to the buggy, and rode six or seven miles to mr. simmons's home, smiling grimly as he went along. mr. simmons was at home, but was not feeling very well, as his wife informed mr. gossett. mrs. simmons herself was in no very amiable mood, as mr. gossett very soon observed. but she asked him in politely enough, and said she'd go and tell jimmy that company had come. she went to the garden gate not very far from the house and called out to her husband in a shrill voice:-- "jimmy! oh, jimmy! that old buzzard of a gossett is in the house. come see what he wants. and do put on your coat before you come in the house. and wash your hands. they're dirtier than sin. and hit that shock of yours one lick with the comb and brush. come right on now. if i have to sit in there and talk to the old rascal long i'll have a fit. ain't you coming? i'll run back before he ransacks the whole house." mr. simmons came sauntering in after a while, and his wife made that the excuse for disappearing, though she went no further than the other side of the door, where she listened with all her ears, being filled with a consuming curiosity to know what business brought mr. gossett to that house. she had not long to wait, for the visitor plunged into the subject at once. "you may know i was anxious about you, simmons, or i wouldn't be here." ("the old hypocrite!" remarked mrs. simmons, on the other side of the door.) "you didn't come by when your hunt ended, and i allowed maybe that you had caught the nigger and either killed or crippled him, and--ahem!--felt a sort of backwardness in telling me about it. so i thought i would come over and see you, if only to say that whether you caught the nigger or killed him, he's responsible for it and not you." "no, colonel, i'm not in the practice of killing niggers nor crippling 'em. i've caught a many of 'em, but i've never hurt one yet. but, colonel! if you'd 'a' gone through with what i've been through this day, you'd 'a' done exactly what i done. you'd 'a' went right straight home without stopping to ask questions or to answer 'em--much less tell tales." thereupon mr. simmons told the story of his adventure in the swamp, varnishing up the facts as he thought he knew them, and adding some details calculated to make the episode much more interesting from his point of view. it will be remembered that mr. simmons was in total ignorance of what really happened in the swamp. he had conceived the theory that his dogs had hit upon the trail of a wildcat going from the river to its den in the swamp, and that, when the dogs had followed it there, they had been attacked, not by one wildcat, but by the whole "caboodle" of wildcats, to use mr. simmons's expression. having conceived this theory, mr. simmons not only stuck to it, but added various incidents that did credit to his imagination. for instance, he made this statement in reply to a question from mr. gossett:-- "what did i think when i heard all the racket and saw sound come out mangled? well, i'll tell you, colonel, i didn't know what to think. i never heard such a terrible racket in all my born days. i says to myself, 'i'll just ride in and see what the trouble is, and if there ain't but one wildcat, why, i'll soon put an end to him.' so i spurred my hoss up, and started in; but before we went anyways, hardly, the hoss give a snort and tried to whirl around and run out. "it made me mad at the time," mr. simmons went on, his inventive faculty rising to the emergency, "but, colonel, it's a mighty good thing that hoss had more sense than i did, because if he hadn't i'd 'a' never been setting here telling you about it. i tried to make the hoss stand, but he wouldn't, and, just then, what should i see but two great big wildcats trying to sneak up on me? and all the time, colonel, the racket in the swamp was getting louder and louder. pluto was in there somewheres, and i know'd he was attending to his business, so i just give the hoss the reins and he went like he was shot out of a gun. "i pulled him in, and turned him around, and then i saw pluto trying to come out. now, colonel, you may know if it was too hot for him it was lots too warm for me. pluto tried to come, and he was a-fighting like fury; but it was no go. the two cats that had been sneaking up on me lit on him, and right then and there they tore him all to flinders! colonel, they didn't leave a piece of that dog's hide big enough to make a woman's glove if it had been tanned. and as if that wouldn't do 'em, they made another sally and come at me, tush and claw. and i just clapped spurs to the hoss and cleaned up from there. do you blame me, colonel?" [illustration: they tore him all to flinders] "as i understand it, simmons," remarked mr. gossett, after pulling his beard and reflecting a while, "you didn't catch the nigger." ("the nasty old buzzard!" remarked mrs. simmons, on the other side of the door. "if i was jimmy i'd hit him with a cheer.") "do you think you'd 'a' caught him, colonel, taking into account all the circumstances and things?" inquired mr. simmons, with his irritating drawl. "i didn't say i was going to catch him, did i?" replied mr. gossett. "i didn't say he couldn't get away from my dogs, did i?" "supposing you had," suggested mr. simmons, "would you 'a' done it? i ain't never heard of you walking in amongst a drove of wildcats to catch a nigger." "and so you didn't catch him; and your fine dogs are finer now than they ever were?" mr. gossett remarked. ("my goodness! if jimmy don't hit him, i'll go in and do it myself," said mrs. simmons, on the other side of the door.) "well, colonel, it's just like i tell you." mr. simmons would have said something else, but just then the door opened and mrs. simmons walked in, fire in her eye. "you've saved your $ , hain't you?" she said to mr. gossett. "why--er--yes'm--but"-- "no buts about it," she snapped. "if you ain't changed mightily, you think a heap more of $ in your pocket than you do of a nigger in the bushes. jimmy don't owe you nothin', does he?" "well--er--no'm." mr. gossett had been taken completely by surprise. "no, he don't, and if he did i'd quit him right now--this very minute," mrs. simmons declared, gesticulating ominously with her forefinger. "and what jimmy wants to go trolloping about the country trying to catch the niggers you drive to the woods is more'n i can tell to save my life. why, if he was to catch your runaway niggers they wouldn't stay at home no longer than the minute you took the ropes off 'em." mr. simmons cleared his throat, as if to say something, but his wife anticipated him. "oh, hush up, jimmy!" she cried. "you know i'm telling nothing but the truth. there ain't a living soul in this country that don't know a gossett nigger as far as they can see him." "what are the ear-marks, ma'am?" inquired mr. gossett, trying hard to be jocular. in a moment he was heartily sorry he had asked the question. "ear-marks? ear-marks? hide-marks, you better say. why, they've been abused and half fed till they are ashamed to look folks in the face, and i don't blame 'em. they go sneaking and shambling along and look meaner than sin. and 't ain't their own meanness that shows in 'em. no! not by a long sight. i'll say that much for the poor creeturs." there was something of a pause here, and mr. gossett promptly took advantage of it. he rose, bowed to mrs. simmons, who turned her back on him, and started for the door, saying:-- "well, simmons, i just called to see what luck you'd had this morning. my time's up. i must be going." mr. simmons followed him to the door and out to the gate. before mr. gossett got in his buggy he turned and looked toward the house, remarking to mr. simmons in a confidential tone:-- "i say, simmons! she's a scorcher, ain't she?" "a right warm one, colonel, if i do say it myself," replied mr. simmons, with a touch of pride. "but, colonel, before you get clean away, let's have a kind of understanding about this matter." "about what matter?" mr. gossett stood with one foot on his buggy step, ready to get in. "about this talk of jenny's," said mr. simmons, nodding his head toward the house. "i'll go this far--i'll say that i'm mighty sorry it wasn't somebody else that done the talkin', and in somebody else's house. but sence it was jenny, it can't be holp. if what she said makes you feel tired--sort of weary like--when you begin to think about it, jest bear in mind, colonel, that i hold myself both personally and individually responsible for everything jenny has said to-day, and everything she may say hereafter." mr. gossett lowered his eyebrows and looked through them at mr. simmons. "why, of course, simmons," he said a little stiffly, "we all have to stand by the women folks. i understand that. but blamed if i'd like to be in your shoes." "well, colonel, they fit me like a glove." mr. gossett seated himself in his buggy and drove away. mrs. simmons was standing in the door, her arms akimbo, when her husband returned to the house. "jimmy, you didn't go and apologize to that old buzzard for what i said, did you?" mr. simmons laughed heartily at the idea, and when he repeated what he had said to mr. gossett his wife jumped at him, and kissed him, and then ran into the next room and cried a little. it's the one way that all women have of "cooling down," as mr. simmons would have expressed it. but it need not be supposed that mr. gossett was in a good humor. he felt that mrs. simmons, in speaking as she did, was merely the mouthpiece of public opinion, and the idea galled him. he called on a neighbor, on his way back home, to discuss a business matter; and he was in such a bad humor, so entirely out of sorts, as he described it, that the neighbor hastened to get a jug of dram out of the cupboard, and, soothed and stimulated by the contents of the jug, mr. gossett thawed out. by degrees his good humor, such as it was, returned, and by degrees he took more of the dram than was good for him. so that when he started home, which was not until after sundown, his toddies had begun to tell on him. his eyes informed him that his horse had two heads, and he realized that he was not in a condition to present himself at home, where his son george could see him. the example would be too much for george, who had already on various occasions shown a fondness for the bottle. what, then, was to be done? a very brilliant idea struck mr. gossett. he would not drive straight home; that would never do in the world. he'd go up the road that led to town until he came to wesley chapel, and there he'd take the other road that led by the aikin plantation. this was a drive of about ten miles, and by that time the effects of the dram would be worn off. mr. gossett carried out this programme faithfully, and that was why the buggy was coming over the hill as aaron was going along the road on his way to the swamp. contrary to mr. gossett's expectations the dram did not exhaust itself. he still felt its influences, but he was no longer good-humored. instead, he was nervous and irritable. he began to brood over the unexpected tongue-lashing that mrs. simmons had given him, and succeeded in working himself into a very ugly frame of mind. when his horse came to the top of the hill, something the animal saw--a stray pig, or maybe a cow lying in the fence corner--caused it to swerve to one side. this was entirely too much for mr. gossett's unstrung nerves. he seized the whip and brought it down upon the animal's back with all his might. maddened by the sudden and undeserved blow, the horse made a terrific lunge forward, causing mr. gossett to drop the reins and nearly throwing him from the buggy. finding itself free, the excited horse plunged along the road. the grade of the hill was so heavy that the animal could not run at top speed, but made long jumps, flirting the buggy about as though it had been made of cork. the swinging and lurching of the buggy added to the animal's excitement, and the climax of its terror was reached when aaron loomed up in the dark before it. the horse made one wild swerve to the side of the road, but failed to elude aaron. the sudden swerve, however, threw mr. gossett out. he fell on the soft earth, and lay there limp, stunned, and frightened. aaron, holding to the horse, ran by its side a little way, and soon had the animal under control. he soothed it a moment, talked to it until it whinnied, fastened the lines to a fence corner, and then went back to see about the man who had fallen from the buggy, little dreaming that it was his owner, mr. gossett. but just as he leaned over the man, rambler told him the news; the keen nose of the dog had discovered it, though he stood some distance away. this caused aaron to straighten himself again, and as he did so he saw something gleam in the starlight. it was mr. gossett's pistol, which had fallen from his pocket as he fell. aaron picked up the weapon, handling it very gingerly, for he was unused to firearms, and placed it under the buggy seat. then he returned with an easier mind and gave his attention to mr. gossett. [illustration: the excited horse plunged along] "hurt much?" he asked curtly, shaking the prostrate man by the shoulder. "more scared than hurt, i reckon," replied mr. gossett. "what was that dog barking at just now?" "he ain't used to seeing white folks in the dirt," aaron explained. "who are you?" mr. gossett inquired. "one," answered aaron. "well, if i'd seen you a half hour ago i'd 'a' sworn you were two." mr. gossett made this joke at his own expense, but aaron did not understand it, and therefore could not appreciate it. so he said nothing. "put your hand under my shoulder here, and help me to sit up. i want to see if any bones are broken." aided by aaron mr. gossett assumed a sitting posture. while he was feeling of himself, searching for wounds and broken bones, he heard his horse snort. this reminded him (for he was still somewhat dazed) that he had started out with a horse and buggy. "that's your horse, i reckon. mine's at home by this time with two buggy shafts swinging to him. lord! what a fool a man can be!" "that's your horse," said aaron. "mine? who stopped him?" "me," aaron answered. "you? why, as near as i can remember, he was coming down this hill like the dogs were after him. who are you, anyhow?" "one." "well, you are worth a dozen common men. give me your hand." mr. gossett slowly raised himself to his feet, shook first one leg and then the other, and appeared to be much relieved to find that his body and all of its members were intact. he walked about a little, and then went close to aaron and peered in his face. "blamed if i don't believe you are my runaway nigger!" mr. gossett exclaimed. "i smell whiskey," said aaron. "confound the stuff! i never will get rid of it." mr. gossett put his hands in his pocket and walked around again. "your name is aaron," he suggested. receiving no reply, he said: "if your name is aaron you belong to me; if you belong to me get in the buggy and let's go home. you've been in the woods long enough." "too long," replied aaron. "that's a fact," mr. gossett assented. "come on and go home with me. if you're afeard of me you can put that idea out of your mind. i swear you shan't be hit a lick. you are the only nigger i ever had any respect for, and i'll be blamed if i know how i came to have any for you after the way you've treated me. but if you'll promise not to run off any more i'll treat you right. you're a good hand and a good man." mr. gossett paused and felt in his pockets, evidently searching for something. "have you seen a pistol lying loose anywhere around here?" he asked. "it's all safe," replied aaron. "you've got it. very well. i was just going to pull it out and hand it to you. come on; it's getting late." seeing that aaron made no movement, mr. gossett tried another scheme. "well, if you won't go home," he said, "and i think i can promise that you'll be sorry if you don't, get in the buggy and drive part of the way for me. i'm afraid of that horse after his caper to-night." "well, i'll do that," remarked aaron. he helped mr. gossett into the buggy, untied the lines, took his seat by his owner, and the two were soon on their way home. x. chunky riley sees a queer sight. there is no doubt that mr. gossett was sincere in what he said to aaron. there is no doubt that he fully intended to carry out the promises he had made in the hope of inducing the runaway to return home with him. nor can it be doubted that he had some sort of respect for a slave who, although a fugitive with a reward offered for his capture, was willing to go to the rescue of his owner at a very critical moment. mr. gossett was indeed a harsh, hard, calculating man, whose whole mind was bent on accumulating "prop'ty," as he called it, to the end that he might be looked up to as addison abercrombie and other planters were. but after all, he was a human being, and he admired strength, courage, audacity, and the suggestion of craftiness that he thought he discovered in aaron. moreover, he was not without a lurking fear of the runaway, for, at bottom, mr. gossett's was essentially a weak nature. this weakness constantly displayed itself in his hectoring, blustering, overbearing manner toward those over whom he had any authority. it was natural, therefore, that mr. gossett should have a secret dread of aaron, as well as a lively desire to conciliate him up to a certain point. more than this, mr. gossett had been impressed by the neighborhood talk about the queer runaway. as long as such talk was confined to the negroes he paid no attention to it; but when such a sage as mr. jonathan gadsby, a man of large experience and likewise a justice of the peace, was ready to agree to some of the most marvelous tales told about the agencies that aaron was able to call to his aid, the superstitious fears of mr. gossett began to give him an uneasy feeling. the first proposition that mr. gadsby laid down was that aaron was "not by no means a nigger, as anybody with eyes in their head could see." that fact was first to be considered. admit it, and everything else that was said would follow as a matter of course. mr. gadsby's argument, judicially delivered to whomsoever wanted to hear it, was this: it was plain to be seen that the runaway was no more like a nigger than a donkey is like a race-horse. now, if he wasn't a nigger what was he trying to play nigger for? what was he up to? why couldn't the track dogs catch him? when some one said mr. simmons's dogs hadn't tried, mr. gadsby would answer that when mr. simmons's dogs did try they'd make a worse muddle of it than ever. why? because the runaway had on him the marks of the men that called the elements to help them. mr. gadsby knew it, because he had seen their pictures in the books, and the runaway looked just like them. mr. gadsby's memory was exact. the pictures he had seen were in a book called the "arabian nights." mr. gossett thought of what mr. gadsby had said, as he sat with aaron in the buggy, and cold chills began to creep up his spine. he edged away as far as he could, but aaron paid no attention to his movement. once the horse turned its head sidewise and whinnied. aaron made some sort of reply that was unintelligible to mr. gossett. the horse stopped still, aaron jumped from the buggy, went to the animal's head, and presently came back with a part of the harness in his hand, which he threw on the bottom of the buggy. "what's that?" mr. gossett asked. "bridle. bit hurt horse's mouth." he then coolly pulled the reins in and placed them with the bridle. "why, confound it, don't you know this horse is as wild as a buck? are you fixing to have me killed? what are you doing now?" aaron had taken the whip from its thimble, laid the lash gently on the horse's back, and held it there. in response to his chirrup the horse whinnied gratefully and shook its head playfully. when mr. gossett saw that the horse was going easily and that it seemed to be completely under aaron's control, he remembered again what mr. gadsby had said about people who were able to call the elements to their aid, and it caused a big lump to rise in his throat. what was this going on right before his eyes? a runaway sitting by his side and driving a fractious and easily frightened horse without bit or bridle? and then another thought crossed mr. gossett's mind--a thought so direful that it caused a cold sweat to stand on his forehead. was it the runaway's intention to jump suddenly from the buggy and strike the horse with the whip? but aaron showed no such purpose or desire. once he leaned forward, peering into the darkness, and said something to the horse. [illustration: he edged away as far as he could] "what is it?" mr. gossett asked nervously. "some buggies coming along," replied aaron. "can you pass them here?" "if they give your wheels one inch to spare," replied aaron. "tell 'em to bear to the right." "hello, there!" cried mr. gossett. "hello, yourself!" answered a voice. "that you, terrell?" "yes, ain't that gossett?" "the same. bear to the right. where've you been?" "been to the lodge at harmony." the attic of the schoolhouse at harmony was used as a masonic lodge. "who's behind you?" mr. gossett inquired. "denham, aiken, griffin, and gatewood." there were, in fact, four buggies, mr. griffin being on horseback, and they were all close together. mr. gossett had but to seize aaron, yell for help, and his neighbors would soon have the runaway tied hard and fast with the reins in the bottom of the buggy. that is, if aaron couldn't call the elements to his aid--but suppose he could? what then? these thoughts passed through mr. gossett's mind, and he was strongly tempted to try the experiment; but he refrained. he said good-night, but mr. aiken hailed him. "you know that new school teacher at abercrombie's?" "i haven't seen him," said mr. gossett. "well, he's there. keep an eye on him. he's a rank abolitionist." "is that so?" exclaimed mr. gossett in a tone of amazement. "so i've heard. he'll bear watching." "well, well, well!" mr. gossett ejaculated. "what's that?" aaron asked in a low tone, as they passed the last of the four buggies. "what's what?" "abolitioner." "oh, that's one of these blamed new-fangled parties. you wouldn't know if i were to tell you." in a little while they began to draw near mr. gossett's home, and he renewed his efforts to prevail on aaron to go to the cabin that had been assigned to him, and to remain as one of the hands. finally as they came within hailing distance of the house, mr. gossett said:-- "if you've made up your mind to stay, you may take the horse and put it up. if you won't stay, don't let the other niggers see you. stop the horse if you can." aaron pressed the whip on the horse's flank, and instantly the buggy came to a standstill. the runaway jumped from the buggy, placed the whip in its thimble, and stood a moment as if reflecting. then he raised his right arm in the air--a gesture that mr. gossett could not see, however--and said good-night. "wait!" exclaimed mr. gossett. "where's my pistol?" "inside the buggy seat," replied aaron, and disappeared in the darkness. mr. gossett called a negro to take the horse, and it seemed as if one sprang from the ground to answer the call, with "yes, marster!" on the end of his tongue. it was chunky riley. "how long have you been standing here?" asked mr. gossett suspiciously. "no time, marster. des come a-runnin' when i hear de buggy wheels scrunchin' on de gravel. i hear you talkin' to de hoss whiles i comin' froo de big gate down yander by de barn." "you're a mighty swift runner, then," remarked mr. gossett doubtfully. "yasser, i'm a right peart nigger. i'm short, but soon." thereupon chunky riley pretended to laugh. then he made a discovery, and became very serious. "marster, dey ain't no sign er no bridle on dish yer hoss. an' whar de lines? is anybody ever see de beat er dat? marster, how in de name er goodness kin you drive dish yer hoss widout bridle er lines?" "it's easy enough when you know how," replied mr. gossett complacently. he was flattered and soothed by the idea that chunky riley would believe him to be a greater man than ever. "give the horse a good feed," commanded mr. gossett. "he has traveled far to-night, and he and i have seen some queer sights." "well, suh!" exclaimed chunky riley, with well-affected amazement. he caught the horse by the forelock and led it carefully through the gate into the lot, thence to the buggy-shelter, where he proceeded to take off the harness. he shook his head and muttered to himself all the while, for he was wrestling with the most mysterious problem that had ever been presented to his mind. he had seen aaron in the buggy with his master; he had heard his master begging aaron not to stay in the woods; he had seen and heard these things with his own eyes and ears, and they were too mysterious for his simple mind to explain. didn't aaron belong to chunky riley's master? wasn't he a runaway? didn't his master try to catch him? didn't he have the simmons nigger-dogs after him that very day? well, then, why didn't his master keep aaron while he had him in the buggy? why did he sit still and allow the runaway to go back to the woods? this was much more mysterious to chunky riley than anything he had ever heard of. he could make neither head nor tail of it. he knew that aaron had some mysterious influence over the animals, both wild and tame. that could be accounted for on grounds that were entirely plausible and satisfactory to the suggestions of chunky riley's superstition. but did aaron have the same power over his own master? it certainly seemed so, for he rode in the buggy with him, and went off into the woods again right before mr. gossett's eyes. but wait a minute! if aaron really had any influence over his own master, why didn't he stay at home instead of going into the woods? this was a problem too complicated for chunky riley to work out. but it worried him so that he whispered it among the other negroes on the place, and so it spread through all that region. a fortnight afterwards it was nothing uncommon for negroes to come at night from plantations miles away so that they might hear from chunky riley's own lips what he had seen. the tale that chunky riley told was beyond belief, but it was all the more impressive on that account. and it was very fortunate for aaron, too, in one respect. after the story that chunky riley told became bruited about, there was not a negro to be found who could be bribed or frightened into spying on aaron's movements, or who could be induced to say that he had seen him. it was observed, too, by all the negroes, as well as by many of the white people, that mr. gossett seemed to lose interest in his fugitive slave. he made no more efforts to capture aaron, and, when twitted about it by some of his near neighbors, his invariable remark was, "oh, the nigger'll come home soon enough when cold weather sets in. a nigger can stand everything except cold weather." yet mr. gossett's neighbors all knew that nothing was easier than for a runaway to make a fire in the woods and keep himself fairly comfortable. they wondered, therefore, why the well-known energy of mr. gossett in capturing his runaway negroes--and he had a remarkable experience in the matter of runaways--should suddenly cool down with respect to aaron. but it must not be supposed that this made any real difference. on the contrary, as soon as george gossett found that his father was willing to allow matters to take their course as far as aaron was concerned, he took upon himself the task of capturing the fugitive, and in this business he was able to enlist the interest of the young men of the neighborhood, who, without asking anybody's advice, constituted themselves the patrol. george gossett's explanation to his companions, in engaging their assistance, was, "pap is getting old, and he ain't got time to be setting up late at night and galloping about all day trying to catch a runaway nigger." these young fellows were quite willing to pledge themselves to george gossett's plans. they had arrived at the age when the vigor of youth seeks an outlet, and it was merely in the nature of a frolic for them to ride half the night patrolling, and sit out the other half watching for aaron. but there was one peculiarity about the vigils that were kept on account of aaron. they were carried on, for the most part, within tasting distance of the stillhouse run by mr. fullalove, which was on a small watercourse not far from the abercrombie place. mr. fullalove was employed simply to superintend the distilling of peach and apple brandy and corn whiskey; and although it was his duty to taste of the low wines as they trickled from the spout of the "worm," he could truthfully boast, as he frequently did, that not a drop of liquor had gone down his throat for "forty year." being a temperance man, and feeling himself responsible for the "stuff" at the still, he was inclined to resent the freedom with which the young men conducted themselves. sometimes they paid for what they drank, but more often they didn't, and at such times mr. fullalove would limp about attending to his business (he had what he called a "game leg") with tight-shut lips, refusing to respond to the most civil question. but usually the young men were very good company, and, occasionally, when mr. fullalove was suffering from pains in his "game leg," they would keep up his fires for him. and that was no light task, for the still was of large capacity. take it all in all, however, one night with another, mr. fullalove was perfectly willing to dispense with both the services and the presence of the roystering young men. but one night when they came the old man had something interesting to tell them. "you fellers ought to 'a' been here awhile ago," he said. "i reckon you'd 'a' seed somethin' that'd 'a' made you open your eyes. i was settin' in my cheer over thar, some'rs betwixt a nod an' a dream, when it seems like i heard a dog a-whinin' in the bushes. then i heard a stick crack, an' when i opened my eyes who should i see but the biggest, strappin'est buck nigger that ever trod shoe leather. i say 'nigger,'" mr. fullalove explained, "bekaze i dunner what else to say, but ef that man's a nigger i'm mighty much mistaken. he's dark enough for to be a nigger, but he ain't got the right color, an' he ain't got the right countenance, an' he ain't got the right kind of ha'r, an' he ain't got the right king of twang to his tongue." mr. fullalove paused a moment to see what effect this would have on the young men. then he went on:-- "i heard a dog whinin' out thar in the bushes, but i didn't pay no attention to it. then i stoops down for to git a splinter for to light my pipe, an' when i look up thar was this big, tall--well, you can call him 'nigger' ef you want to. i come mighty nigh jumpin' out'n my skin. i drapt splinter, pipe, hat, an' eve'ything else you can think of, an' ef the man hadn't 'a' retched down an' picked 'em up i dunno as i'd 'a' found 'em by now. i ain't had sech a turn,--well, not sence that night when the 'worm' got chugged up an' the cap of the still blow'd off. "'hello,' says i, 'when did you git in? you might 'a' knocked at the door,' says i. i tried for to make out i wern't skeer'd, but 't wa'n't no go. the man--nigger or ha'nt, whichsomever it might 'a' been--know'd e'en about as well as i did that he'd skeered me. says he, 'will you please, sir, give me as much as a spoonful of low-wines for to rub on my legs?' says he. 'i've been on my feet so long that my limbs are sore,' says he. "'why, tooby shore i will,' says i, 'ef you'll make affydavy that you'll not creep up on me an' skeer me out'n two years' growth,' says i. you may not believe me," mr. fullalove continued solemnly, "but that man stood up thar an' never cracked a smile. i got one of them half-pint ticklers an' let the low-wines run in it hot from the worm. he taken it an' set right on that log thar an' poured it in his han' an' rubbed it on his legs. now, ef that'd 'a' been one of you boys, you'd 'a' swaller'd the low-wines an' rubbed your legs wi' the bottle." george gossett knew that the man mr. fullalove had seen was no other than aaron, the runaway. "which way did he go, uncle jake?" george inquired. "make inquirements of the wind, child! the wind knows lot more about it than me. the man bowed, raised his right han' in the a'r, taken a couple of steps, an'--_fwiff_--he was gone! whether he floated or flew, i'll never tell you, but he done uther one er t' other, maybe both." "i'd give a twenty-dollar bill if i could have been here!" exclaimed george gossett. "on what bank, gossett?" asked one of his companions. "on a sandbank," remarked mr. fullalove sarcastically. "and i'll give a five-dollar bill to know which way he went," said young gossett, paying no attention to gibe or sarcasm. "plank down your money!" exclaimed mr. fullalove. the young man pulled a bill from his pocket, unrolled it, and held it in his hand. "he went the way the wind blow'd! gi' me the money," said mr. fullalove solemnly. whereat the young men laughed loudly, but not louder than mr. fullalove. "some of your low-wines must have slipped down your goozle," remarked george gossett somewhat resentfully. later, when the young men were patrolling the plantations in a vain search for aaron, their leader remarked:-- "the nigger that old fullalove saw was pap's runaway." "but," said one, "the old man says he wasn't a nigger." "shucks! fallalove's so old he couldn't tell a mulatto from a white man at night. you needn't tell me; that nigger hangs around the abercrombie place, and if we'll hang around there we'll catch him." so they agreed then and there to lay siege, at it were, to the abercrombie place every night, until they succeeded either in capturing aaron or in finding out something definite about his movements. this siege was to go on in all sorts of weather and under all sorts of conditions. xi. the problem that timoleon presented. when mr. abercrombie heard of the capers of the black stallion, he determined to place the horse in quarters that were more secure. but where? there was but one building on the place that could be regarded as perfectly secure--the crib in the five-acre lot. this crib was built of logs hewn square and mortised together at the ends. it had been built to hold corn and other grain, and logs were used instead of planks because the nearest sawmill was some distance away, and the logs were cheaper and handier. moreover, as they were hewn from the hearts of the pines they would last longer than sawn lumber. this building was therefore selected as the black stallion's stable, and it was made ready. a trough was fitted up and the edges trimmed with hoop iron to prevent the horse from gnawing it to pieces. the floor was taken away and a new door made, a thick, heavy affair. to guard against all accidents a hole, which could be opened or closed from the outside, was cut through the logs over the trough, so that when the black stallion was in one of his tantrums he could be fed and watered without risk to life or limb. when everything was ready, the question arose, how was the horse to be removed to his new quarters? mr. abercrombie considered the matter an entire afternoon, and then decided to postpone it until the next day. he said something about it at supper, and this caused mrs. abercrombie to remark that she hoped he would get rid of such a savage creature. she said she should never feel safe while the horse remained on the place. but mr. abercrombie laughed at this excess of fear, and so did little crotchet, who made bold to say that if his father would permit him, he would have timoleon put in his stable that very night, and it would be done so quietly that nobody on the place would know how or when it happened. mr. abercrombie regarded his son with tender and smiling eyes. "and what wonderful person will do this for you, my boy?" "a friend of mine," replied little crotchet seriously. "well, you have so many friends that i'll never guess the name," remarked his father. "oh, but this is one of the most particular, particularest of my friends," the lad explained. "i suppose you know he is getting up a great reputation among the servants," said mrs. abercrombie to her husband, half in jest and half in earnest. "i know they are all very fond of him, my dear." "of course they are--how can they help themselves?" the lad's mother cried. "but this is 'a most particular, particularest' reputation." she quizzically quoted little crotchet's phrase, and he laughed when he heard it fall from her lips. "it is something quite wonderful. since the time that he issued orders for no one to bother him after nine o'clock at night, the servants say that he talks with 'ha'nts.' they say he has become so familiar with bogies and such things that he can be heard talking with them at all hours of the night." "your mother has been counting the candles on you, my boy" remarked mr. abercrombie jokingly. "why, father! how can you put such an idea in the child's mind?" protested mrs. abercrombie. "he's only teasing you, mama," said little crotchet. "i heard him talking to a bogie the other night," remarked mr. hudspeth, the teacher. "oh, i don't think you're a bogie," cried little crotchet. "you would have been one, though, if you had kept me in those awful books." the teacher had mischievously thrown out this hint about aaron to see what effect it would have. he was amazed at the lad's self-possession, and at the deft manner in which he had turned the hint aside. "oh, have you been admitted to the sanctum?" inquired the lad's mother, laughing. "i paused at the door to say good-night and remained until i learned a lesson i never shall forget," said mr. hudspeth. "ah, you're finding our boy out, eh?" exclaimed mr. abercrombie with a show of pride. "he possesses already the highest culture the mind of man is capable of," mr. hudspeth declared. his tone was so solemn and his manner so earnest that little crotchet blushed. "he is cultured in the humanities. that is apart from scholarship," the teacher explained, "but without it all knowledge is cold and dark and unfruitful." "i know he is very humane," suggested mr. abercrombie. "oh, it is more than that," said mr. hudspeth; "far more than that. all sensitive people are tender-hearted. one may read a book and yet not catch the message it conveys. but this lad"--he paused and suddenly changed the subject. "he said he could have timoleon carried to the new stable, and you are inclined to be doubtful. but he can do more than that: he can have the horse removed without bridle or halter." "then you know our boy better than we do!" mrs. abercrombie's tone was almost reproachful. "i found him out quite by accident," replied mr. hudspeth. little crotchet in his quaint way called attention to the fact that he was blushing again. "you've made me blush twice," he said, "and i can't stay after that." at a sign, jemimy, the house girl, who was waiting on the table--the same jemimy who afterward had a daughter named drusilla--turned the lad's chair about. he balanced himself on his crutches, and without touching his feet to the floor walked across the room to the hall, and so up the stairway. on the landing he paused. "shall i have timoleon put in the new stable to-night?" he asked. "by all means, my boy--if you can," answered mr. abercrombie. "if you succeed i'll give you a handsome present." little crotchet always paused on the stair landing to say something, but never to say good-night. after a while his mother would go up and sit with him a few minutes, by way of kissing him good-night, and, later, his father would make the same little journey for the same purpose. on this particular night, those whom little crotchet had left at the table remained conversing longer than usual. mr. hudspeth had something more to say about humanity-culture; and although he employed "the concord dialect," as mr. abercrombie called it, his discourse was both interesting and stimulating. in the midst of it jemimy dropped a plate and broke it. the crash of the piece of china put a temporary end to the conversation, and the silence that ensued had its humorous side. jemimy's eyes, big as saucers and as white, were turned toward a door that led to the sitting-room. the door softly opened, and a portly negro woman, with a bunch of keys hanging at her waist, came into the dining-room. this was mammy lucy, the housekeeper. she never once glanced toward her master and mistress. "white er blue?" she inquired in a low voice. "blue," replied jemimy. "dat counts fer two," mammy lucy remarked. "you've done broke five. one mo', en you'll go whar you b'long. i done say mo' dan once you ain't got no business in dis house. de fiel' 's whar you b'long at." jemimy couldn't help that. she couldn't help anything. she knew how the little master would have the black stallion moved from one stable to the other. she knew, and she never would tell. they might send her to the field, they might drown her or strangle her, they might cut off her ears or gouge her eyes out, they might send her to town to the calaboose, they might do anything they pleased, but she never would tell. not while her name was jemimy, and she'd be named that until after she was put under the ground and covered up; and even then she wouldn't tell. later when mr. abercrombie went upstairs to say good-night to little crotchet, the lad asked if he might have timoleon trained. he had heard his father talking of getting a trainer from mobile, and so he made the suggestion that, instead of going to that expense, it might be well to have the horse trained by his "friend," as he called aaron. mr. abercrombie guessed who little crotchet's friend was, but, to please the lad, feigned ignorance. he told his son that the training of such a horse as timoleon was a very delicate piece of business, and should be undertaken by no one but an expert. now, if little crotchet's "friend" was an expert, which was not likely, well and good; if not, he might ruin a good horse. still, if little crotchet was sure that everything would be all right, why, there would be no objection. at any rate, the horse was now old enough to be broken to the saddle, and little crotchet's "friend" could do that if no more. so it was settled, and the lad was very happy. he made his signal for aaron early and often, but, somehow, the son of ben ali was long in coming that night. the reason was plain enough when he did come, but little crotchet was very impatient. the moon was shining, and as george gossett and his companions had refused to raise the siege a single night since mr. fullalove had seen the runaway at the stillhouse, aaron found it difficult to respond promptly when the little master signaled him to come. it is not an easy matter to pass a picket line of patrollers when the moon is shining as it shines in georgia at the beginning of autumn, and as it shone on the abercrombie place the night that little crotchet was so anxious to see aaron. rambler was very busy that night trying to find a place where aaron might pass the patrollers without attracting attention, but he had to give it up for a time. at last, however, three of them, george gossett among the number, concluded to pay another visit to mr. fullalove, and this left the way clear. aaron was prompt to take advantage of it. going half bent, he kept in the shadow of the fence, slipped through the small jungle of black-jacks, ran swiftly across an open space to the negro cabins, flitted to the garden fence, and in the shadow of that fled to the front yard, and so up the friendly oak. oh, but little crotchet was impatient! he was almost ready to frown when aaron made his appearance; but when the runaway told him of the big moon and the patrollers, he grew uneasy; and after telling aaron about the black stallion, how the horse must be removed to the new stable, and how he must be broken to saddle and bridle, little crotchet declared that he was sorry he had signaled to aaron. "they'll catch you to-night, sure," he said. but aaron shook his head. "no, little master, not to-night. not while i'm with the grandson of abdallah." "oh, i see!" laughed little crotchet; "you'll stay in his stable. good! i'll bring you your breakfast in the morning." aaron smiled, shaking his head and looking at the basket of victuals that little crotchet always had ready for him when he came. "no, little master! this will do. i'll not take the basket to-night. i'll put the victuals in my wallet." this was a bag suspended from his shoulder by a strap, being made after the manner of the satchels in which the children used to carry their books to school. aaron had another idea in his head, but he gave no hint of it to little crotchet, for he didn't know how it would succeed. so he sat by the lad's bedside and drove away the red goblin, pain, and waited until george gossett and his companions had time to make another visit to the stillhouse. then he took the big key of the new stable from the mantel, slipped it on his belt,--a leathern thong that he always wore around his body,--placed in his wallet the substantial lunch that the little master had saved for him, and prepared to take his leave. this time he did not snuff out the light, but placed the candlestick on the hearth. when aaron went out at the window, little crotchet was sound asleep, and seemed to be smiling. the son of ben ali was smiling too, and continued to smile even as he descended the oak. [illustration: aaron and little crotchet] rambler was waiting for him, and, instead of being asleep, was wide awake and very much disturbed. one of the patrollers, no less a person than george gossett,--young grizzly, as rambler named him,--had been to the spring for water. this was what disturbed the dog, and it was somewhat disturbing to aaron; for the high wines or low wines, or whatever it was that was dealt out to them at the stillhouse, might make young gossett and his companions bold enough to search the premises, even though mr. abercrombie had warned them that he could take care of his own place and wanted none of their interference in any way, shape, or form. if aaron could get to the stable, where the black stallion had his temporary quarters, all would be well. he could then proceed to carry out the idea he had in his mind, which was a very bold one, so bold that it might be said to depend on accident for its success. the moon was shining brightly, even brilliantly, as aaron stood at the corner of the great house and looked toward the horse lot. he could easily reach the negro quarters, he could even reach the black-jack thicket beyond, but he would be farther from the lot than ever, and still have an acre of moonlight to wade through. what he did was both bold and simple, and its very boldness made it successful. he stepped back to the garden gate, threw it wide open, and slammed it to again. the noise was loud enough to be heard all over the place. george gossett heard it and was sure the noise was made by mr. abercrombie. aaron walked from the house straight toward the horse lot, whistling loudly and melodiously some catchy air he had heard the negroes sing. rambler was whistling too, but the sound came through his nose, and it was not a tune, but a complaint and a warning. aaron paid no heed to the warning and cared nothing for the complaint. he went through the moonlight, whistling, and there was a swagger about his gait such as the negroes assume when they are feeling particularly happy. behind a tree, not twenty-five yards away, george gossett stood. rambler caught his scent in the air and announced the fact by a low growl. but this announcement only made aaron whistle the louder. there was no need for him to whistle, if he had but known it; for when young gossett heard the garden gate slammed to and saw what seemed to be a negro come away from the house whistling, he at once decided that some one of the hands had been receiving his orders from mr. abercrombie. thus deciding, george gossett paid no further attention to aaron, but kept himself more closely concealed behind the tree that sheltered him. he looked at aaron, and that more than once; but though the moonlight was brilliant, it was only moonlight after all. aaron disappeared in the deep shadows that fell about the horse lot, and george gossett forgot in a few minutes that any one had waded through the pond of moonlight that lay shimmering between the garden gate and the lot where timoleon held sway. indeed, there was nothing about the incident to attract attention. as he stood leaning against the tree, young gossett could see the negroes constantly passing to and fro about their cabins. there was no lack of movement. some of the negroes carried torches of "fat" pine in spite of the fact that the moon was shining, and so made themselves more conspicuous. but this peculiarity was so familiar to the young man's experience that it never occurred to him to remark it. he could even hear parts of their conversation, for they made not the slightest effort to suppress their voices or subdue their laughter, which was loud and long and frequent. it was especially vociferous when turin came to the door of one of the cabins and cried to uncle fountain, who had just gone out:-- "nigger man! you better not try to slip off to spivey's dis night." "how come, i like ter know?" said uncle fountain. "patterollers on de hill yander," replied turin. "how you know?" uncle fountain asked. "i done seed um." "what dey doin' out dar?" "ketchin' grasshoppers, i speck!" from every cabin came a roar of laughter, and the whole plantation seemed to enjoy the joke. the calves in the ginhouse lot bleated, the dogs barked, the geese cackled, and the guinea hens shrieked "potrack! run here! go back!" as loud as they could, and a peafowl, roosting on the pinnacle of the roof of the great house, joined in with a wailing cry that could be heard for miles. [illustration: behind a tree stood george gossett] the lack of respect shown by the abercrombie negroes for the patrollers irritated george gossett, but it was a relief to him to know that if the negroes on his "pap's" place were to make any reference to the patrollers they would bow their heads and speak in subdued whispers. from one of the cabins came the sound of "patting" and dancing, and the noise made by the feet of the dancer was so responsive to that made by the hands of the man who was patting that only an expert ear could distinguish the difference. the dance was followed by a friendly tussle, and a negro suddenly ran out at the door, pursued by another. the pursuer halted, however, and cried out:-- "ef you fool wid me, nigger, i'll make marster sen' you in de lot dar an' move dat ar' wil' hoss to his new stable." "marster was made 'fo' you wuz de maker," answered the pursued, who had now stopped running. "ding 'em!" said young gossett in a low tone to himself, "they're always and eternally frolicking on this place. no wonder they ain't able to do no more work in the daytime!" fretting inwardly, the young man changed his position, and continued to watch for the runaway. how long he stood there young gossett could not say. whether the spirits he had swallowed at the stillhouse benumbed his faculties so that he fell into a doze, he did not know. he could only remember that he was aroused from apparent unconsciousness by a tremendous clamor that seemed to come from the hill where he had left the most of his companions. it was a noise of rushing and running, squealing horses, and the exclamations of frightened men. young gossett did not pause to interpret the clamor that came to his ears, but ran back toward the hill as hard as he could go. xii. what the patrollers saw and heard. the scheme which aaron had conceived, and which he proposed to carry out without delay, was bold, and yet very simple,--simple, that is to say, from his point of view. it came into his mind while he was in little crotchet's room, and fashioned itself as he went whistling to the horse lot in full view of george gossett. he swung himself over the fence, and made directly for timoleon's stable. the black stallion heard some one fumbling about the door, and breathed hard through his nostrils, making a low, fluttering sound, as high-spirited horses do when they are suspicious or angry. it was a fair warning to any and all who might dare to open the door and enter that stable. "so!" said aaron; "that is the welcome you give to all who may come to make you comfortable." at the sound of that voice, timoleon snorted cheerfully and whinnied, saying: "change places with me, son of ben ali, and then see who will warn all comers. why, the ox has better treatment, and the plow mule is pampered. what am i that my food should be thrown at me through the cracks? the man that fed me comes no more." "he is where your teeth and your temper put him, grandson of abdallah. but there is to be a change. this night you go to your new house, where everything is fresh and clean and comfortable. and you are to learn to hold a bit in your mouth and a man on your back, as abdallah before you did." "that is nothing, son of ben ali. then i can gallop, and smell the fresh air from the fields. what man am i to carry, son of ben ali?" "let the white-haired master settle that, grandson of abdallah. this night, before you go to your new house, you are to have a run with me." timoleon snorted with delight. he was ready, and more than ready. he was stiff and sore from standing in the stable. "but before we start, grandson of abdallah, this must be said: no noise before i give the word; none of the loud screaming that men call whickering. you know my hand. you are to have a frolic, and a fine one, but before you begin it, wait for the word. now, then, we will go." with his hand on the horse's withers, aaron guided timoleon to the gate. they went through the lot in which the black stallion's new stable stood, out at the gate through which buster john and sweetest susan rode years afterward, and into the lane that led to the public road. but instead of going toward the road, they followed the lane back into the plantation, until they came to what was called "the double gates." going through these, they found themselves in the pasture that sloped gradually upward to the hill from which aaron was in the habit of watching the light in little crotchet's window. the hoofs of the black stallion hardly made a sound on the soft turf. guided by aaron, he ascended the hill until they were on a level with and not far from the fence on which mr. gossett, his son george, and jim simmons had carried on their controversy about addison abercrombie. here aaron brought timoleon to a halt, while rambler went forward to see what discovery he could make. he soon found where the horses of the patrollers were stationed. there were five. three had evidently been trained to "stand without tying," as the saying is, while one of the patrollers was sitting against a tree, holding the other two. all this rambler knew, for he went so near that the patroller saw him, and hurled a pine burr at him. it was a harmless enough missile, but it had not left rambler in a good humor. then it was that aaron spoke to the horse, and gave him the word. "grandson of abdallah, the horses and the man are yonder. give them a taste of your playfulness. show them what a frolic is, but cover your teeth with your lips,--no blood to-night. spare the horses. they have gone hungry for hours, but they must obey the bit. spare the man, too, but if you can strip him of his coat as he flees, well and good. you will see other men come running. they will be filled with fear. give them also a taste of your playfulness. let them see the grandson of abdallah when he is frolicsome. but mind! no blood to-night,--no broken bones!" the situation promised to be so exciting that timoleon snorted loudly and fiercely, whereupon one of the horses held by the patroller answered with a questioning neigh, which was cut short by a cruel jerk of the bridle rein by the man who held it. the man was dozing under the influence of mr. fullalove's low-wines, and the sudden neighing of the horse startled and irritated him. but in the twinkling of an eye terror took the place of irritation, for the black stallion, pretending to himself that the neigh was a challenge, screamed fiercely in reply and went charging upon the group with open mouth and eyes that glowed in the dark. the horses knew well what that scream meant. those that were not held by the patroller ran away panic-stricken, snorting, and whickering. the two that were held by the patroller cared nothing for bits now, but broke away from the man, after dragging him several yards (for he had the reins wrapped about his wrist) and joined the others. they dragged the man right in the black stallion's path, and there left him straggling to his hands and knees, with his right arm so severely wrenched that he could hardly use it. but, fortunately for the patroller, timoleon's eyes were keen, and he saw the man in time to leap over him, screaming wildly as he did so. the man fell over on his side at that instant. glancing upward he saw the huge hulk of the horse flying over him, and his reason nearly left him. was it really a horse, or was it that arch-fiend beelzebub that he had read about in the books, and whose name he had heard thundered from the pulpit at the camp meeting? "beelzebub is abroad in the land to-day!" the preacher had cried. was it indeed true? the black stallion drove the crazed horses before him hither and yonder, but always turning them back to the point where they had been standing. the stampede was presently joined by three or four mules that had been turned in the pasture. the patrollers, who had been watching and guarding the approaches to the abercrombie place, came running to see what the trouble was. george gossett, being farther away from the pasture than the rest, was the last to reach the scene, but he arrived soon enough to see the black stallion seize one of his companions by the coat-tails and literally strip him of the garment. [illustration: the black stallion] the terror-stricken horses, when they found an opportunity, ran toward the double gates where they had entered the pasture. aaron, expecting this, had opened the gates, and the five horses, crowding on one another's heels, went through like a whirlwind, having left the mules far behind. aaron closed the gates again, and went running to where he heard the black stallion still plunging about. by this time the mules were huddled together in a far corner of the field; but timoleon had paid no attention to them. he could have caught and killed them over and over again. he was now in pursuit of the patrollers. george gossett, running toward the fence, tripped and fell, and narrowly escaped the black stallion's hoofs. he was not far from the fence when he fell, and he rolled and scrambled and crawled fast enough to elude timoleon, who turned and ran at him again. in one way and another all the patrollers escaped with their lives, and, once the fence was between them and the snorting demon, they made haste to visit mr. fullalove's stillhouse, and relate to him the story of their marvelous adventure, consoling themselves, meanwhile, with copious draughts of the warm low-wines. "i believe the thing had wings," said one of the patrollers, "and if i didn't see smoke coming out of his mouth when he ran at me, i'm mighty much mistaken. i never shall believe it wasn't beelzebub." this was the man who had been set upon so suddenly while watching the horses and dozing. some of the others were inclined to agree with this view of the case; but george gossett was sure it was a horse. "i was right at him," he said, "when he pulled off monk's coat, and it was a horse, even to the mane and tail. i was looking at him when he turned and made for me. then i tripped and fell, and just did get to the fence in time to save my neck." "you hear that, don't you, mr. fullalove?" remarked the man who had been holding the horses. "it pulled monk's coat off, and then gossett just had time to get to the fence to save his neck! why, it's as natchul as pig-tracks. every hoss you meet tries to pull your coat off, and you have to run for a fence if you want to save your neck. that's gossett's idee. if that thing was a hoss, i don't want to see no more hosses. i'll tell you that." "well," said mr. fullalove, "there are times and occasions-more espeshually occasions, as you may say--when a hoss mought take a notion for to cut up some such rippit as that. you take that black hoss of colonel abercrombie's--not a fortnight ago he got out of his pen and ketched a nigger and like to 'a' killed him." "maybe it's that same hoss in the field yonder," suggested george gossett. "no," replied mr. fullalove. "that hoss is penned up so he can't git out of his stable--much less the lot--if so be some un ain't took and gone and turned him out and led him to the field. and if that had 'a' been done you could 'a' heard him squealin' every foot of the way." "if anybody wants to call the old boy a hoss," said the man who had been first attacked, "they are more than welcome." "boys," remarked mr. fullalove, "if any of you have got the idee that the old boy was after you, you'd better stay as fur from this stillhouse as you can, and try to act as if you had souls for to save. what have you done with your hosses?" "we couldn't tote 'em, and so we had to leave 'em," gossett answered, making a poor effort to laugh. "what i hate about it is that i took a fool notion and rode pap's horse to-night. he'll be hot as pepper." "ain't you going for to make some sorter effort to git your hosses out of the field?" inquired mr. fullalove. "he can have my hoss and welcome," said the man who insisted on the beelzebub theory. "i wouldn't go in that field, not for forty horses," another patroller protested. "i might go there for forty horses," said george gossett, "but i'll not go back for one, even though it's pap's." "well, it's mighty quiet and serene up there now," suggested mr. fullalove, listening with his hand to his ear. "he's caught 'em and now he's skinning 'em," said the man who believed beelzebub was abroad that night. the patrollers stayed at the stillhouse until the low-wines gave them courage, and then they went home with george gossett. they were bold enough to go by the double gates, to see if they had been opened, but the gates were closed tight. they listened a few moments, but not a sound could be heard, save the loud, wailing cry of the peafowl that rested on the abercrombie house. as they went along the road they found and caught four of the horses. the horse that george gossett had ridden was safe at home. the young men agreed on one thing, namely: that they would give the abercrombie place the go-by for some time to come; while the man that thought he had seen beelzebub said that he was sick of the whole business and would have no more of it, being more firmly convinced than ever that the scenes they had witnessed were supernatural. even george gossett declared that he intended to advise "pap" to sell the runaway, "if he could find anybody fool enough to buy him." it must not be forgotten that though gossett and his companions were the only ones that witnessed the terrifying spectacle presented by the black stallion as he ran screaming about the pasture, they were not the only ones that heard the uproar that accompanied it. the negroes heard it, and every ear was bent to listen. randall had his hand raised over his head and held it there, as he paused to catch the drift and meaning of the fuss. big sal was reaching in a corner for her frying-pan. she paused, half bent, her arm reaching out, while she listened. turin was singing, but the song was suddenly cut short. mr. abercrombie heard it, but his thoughts were far afield, and so he paid little attention to it. the geese, the guinea hens, and the peafowl heard it and joined heartily in with a loud and lusty chorus. mammy lucy heard it and came noiselessly to the library door and looked in inquiringly. "what is the noise about, lucy?" inquired mr. abercrombie. "dat what i wanter know, marster. it soun' ter me like dat ar hoss done got loose agin." then the white-haired master, remembering that he had consented for little crotchet's "friend" to remove the black stallion to his new quarters, regretted that he had been so heedless. it was all his own fault, he thought, as he rose hastily and went out into the moonlight bare-headed. he called randall and turin, and both came running. "go out to the pasture there, and see what the trouble is." "yasser, yasser!" they cried, and both went rapidly toward the field. they ran until they got out of sight of their master, and then they paused to listen. they started again, but not so swiftly as before. "i know mighty well dat marster don't want us ter run up dar where we might git hurted," said turin. "dat he don't!" exclaimed randall. consoled by this view of the case, which was indeed the correct one, they moved slower and slower as they came close to the pasture fence. there they stopped and listened, and while they listened the uproar came to a sudden end--to such a sudden end that randall remarked under his breath that it was like putting out a candle. for a few brief seconds not a sound fell on the ears of the two negroes. then they heard a faint noise of some one running through the bushes in the direction of the stillhouse. "ef i could git de notion in my head dat marster don't keer whedder we gits hurted er no," suggested turin, "i'd mount dis fence an' go in dar an' see who been kilt an' who done got away." "i speck we better not go," remarked randall, "kaze ef we wuz ter rush in dar an' git mangled, marster'd sholy feel mighty bad, an' fer one, i don't want ter be de 'casion er makin' 'im feel bad." by this time mr. abercrombie had become impatient, and concluded to find out the cause of the uproar for himself. randall and turin heard him coming, and they could see that he was accompanied by some of the negroes. the two cautiously climbed the fence and went over into the field, moving slowly and holding themselves in readiness for instant flight. a cow bug, flying blindly, struck turin on the head. he jumped as if he had heard the report of a gun, and cried out in a tone of alarm:-- "who flung dat rock? you better watch out. marster comin', an' he got his hoss pistol 'long wid 'im." "'twa'n't nothing but a bug," said randall. "it de fust bug what ever raised a knot on my head," turin declared. "what was the trouble, randall?" inquired mr. abercrombie from the fence. his cool, decisive voice restored the courage of the negroes at once. "we des tryin' fer ter fin' out, suh. whatsomever de racket wuz, it stop, suh, time we got here--an' it seem like we kin hear sump'n er somebody runnin' to'rds de branch over yander," replied randall heartily. "some of the mules were in the pasture to-day. see if they are safe." "yasser!" responded randall, but his tone was not so hearty. nevertheless, he and turin cautiously followed the line of the fence until they found the mules in the corner in which they had taken refuge. and the mules showed they were very glad to see the negroes, following them back to the point where the path crossed the fence. "de mules all safe an' soun', suh," explained randall when they came to where the master was. "dey er safe an' soun', but dey er swyeatin' mightily, suh." "what do you suppose the trouble was?" inquired mr. abercrombie. turin and randall had not the least idea, but susy's sam declared that he heard "dat ar hoss a-squealin'!" "what horse?" inquired mr. abercrombie. "dat ar sir moleon hoss, suh," replied susy's sam. "that's what lucy said," remarked mr. abercrombie. "marster, ef dat ar hoss had er been in dar, me an' turin wouldn't er stayed in dar long, an' dese yer mules wouldn't er been stan'in' in de fence corner up yander." but mr. abercrombie shook his head. he remembered that he had given little crotchet permission to have the horse removed to his new quarters. "some of you boys see if he is in his stable," he said. they all went running, and before mr. abercrombie could get there, though he walked fast, he met them all coming back. "he ain't dar, marster!" they exclaimed in chorus. "see if he is in his new stable," said mr. abercrombie. again they all went running, mr. abercrombie following more leisurely, but somewhat disturbed, nevertheless. and again they came running to meet him, crying out, "yasser! yasser! he in dar, marster; he sho is. he in dar an' eatin' away same like he been dar dis long time." "see if the key is in the lock," said mr. abercrombie to randall. randall ran back to the stable and presently called out:-- "dey ain't no key in de lock, marster." mr. abercrombie paused as if to consider the matter, and during that pause he and randall and turin and susy's sam heard a voice saying: "look on the little master's mantelpiece!" the voice sounded faint and far away, but every word was clear and distinct. "where did the voice come from?" asked mr. abercrombie. the negroes shook their heads. they didn't know. it might have come from the air above, or the earth beneath, or from any point of the compass. "ask where the key is," said mr. abercrombie to turin. his curiosity was aroused. turin cried out: "heyo, dar! whar you say de key is?" but no reply came, not even so much as a whisper. the negroes looked at one another, and shook their heads. when mr. abercrombie went back to the house he put on his slippers and crept to little crotchet's room. shading the candle he carried, the father saw that his son was fast asleep. and on the mantel was the key of the stable. xiii. the apparition the fox hunters saw. as the fall came on, the young men (and some of the older ones, too) began to indulge in the sport of fox hunting. they used no guns, but pursued reynard with horse and hound in the english fashion. the foxes in that region were mostly gray, but the red ones had begun to come in, and as they came the grays began to pack up their belongings (as the saying is) and seek homes elsewhere. the turner old fields, not far from the abercrombie place, and still closer to the swamp, were famous for their foxes--first for the grays and afterward for the reds. there seemed to be some attraction for them in these old fields. the scrub pines, growing thickly together, and not higher than a man's waist, and the brier patches scattered about, afforded a fine covert for mr. fox, gray or red, being shady and cool in summer time, and sheltered from the cold winter winds. and if it was fine for mr. fox, it was finer for the birds; for here mrs. partridge could lead her brood in safety out of sight of man, and here the sparrows and smaller birds were safe from the blue falcon, she of the keen eye and swift wing. and mr. fox was as cunning as his nose was sharp. he knew that the bird that made its home in the turner old fields must roost low; and what could be more convenient for mr. fox than that--especially at the dead hours of night when he went creeping around as noiselessly as a shadow, pretending that he wanted to whisper a secret in their ears? indeed, that was the main reason why mr. fox lived in the turner old fields, or went there at night, for he was no tree climber. and so it came to pass that when those who were fond of fox hunting wanted to indulge in that sport, they rose before dawn and went straight to the turner old fields. now, when george gossett and his patrolling companions ceased for a time to go frolicking about the country at night, on the plea that they were looking after the safety of the plantations, they concluded that it would be good for their health and spirits to go fox hunting occasionally. each had two or three hounds to brag on, so that when all the dogs were brought together they made a pack of more than respectable size. [illustration: it was fine for mr. fox] one sunday, when the fall was fairly advanced, the air being crisp and bracing and the mornings frosty, these young men met at a church and arranged to inaugurate the fox hunting season the next morning. they were to go home, get their dogs, and meet at gossett's, his plantation lying nearest to the turner old fields. this programme was duly carried out. the young men stayed all night with george gossett, ate breakfast before daybreak, and started for the turner old fields. as they set out, a question arose whether they should go through the abercrombie place--the nearest way--or whether they should go around by the road. the darkness of night was still over wood and field, but there was a suggestion of gray in the east. if the hunting party had been composed only of those who had been in the habit of patrolling with george gossett, prompt choice would have been made of the public road; but young gossett had invited an acquaintance from another settlement to join them--a gentleman who had reached the years of maturity, but who was vigorous enough to enjoy a cross-country ride to hounds. this gentleman had been told of the strange experience of the patrollers in mr. abercrombie's pasture lot. some of the details had been suppressed. for one thing, the young men had not confessed to him how badly they had been frightened. they simply told him enough to arouse his curiosity. when, therefore, the choice of routes lay between the public road and the short cut through the abercrombie pasture, the gentleman was eager to go by way of the pasture where his young friends had beheld the wonderful vision that had already been described. when they displayed some hesitation in the matter, he rallied them smartly on their lack of nerve, and in this way shamed them into going the nearest way. george gossett, who had no lack of mere physical courage, consented to lead the way if the others would "keep close behind him." but none of them except the gentleman who was moved by curiosity, and who attributed the mystery of the affair to frequent visits to mr. fullalove's still house, had any stomach for the journey through the pasture, for not even george gossett desired to invite a repetition of the paralyzing scenes through which they had passed on that memorable night. as they came to the double gates, the young man who had insisted that timoleon was beelzebub concluded to leave an avenue by which to escape if the necessity arose. so he rode forward, dismounted, and opened the gates. then he made a great pretense of shutting them, but allowed them to remain open instead. this operation left him somewhat behind his companions, as he intended it should, for he had made up his mind to wheel his horse and run for it if he heard any commotion ahead of him. in that event the delay he purposely made would leave him nearest the gates. seeing that the young man did not come up as quickly as he should have done, george gossett, in whom the spirit of mischief had no long periods of repose, suggested that they touch up their horses and give their companion a scare. this suggestion was promptly acted on. the commotion his companions made caused the young man to pause a moment before putting spur to his horses to rejoin them. this delay placed several hundred yards between him and the party with gossett. he realized this as he rode after them, but was consoled by the fact that, in the event of any trouble, he had a better opportunity to escape than they did. but he had hardly gone fifty yards from the double gates before he heard some sort of noise in that direction. he half turned in his saddle and looked behind him. the vague gray of the morning had become so inextricably mixed and mingled with the darkness of the night that such light as there was seemed to blur the vision rather than aid it. but when the young man turned in his saddle he saw enough to convince him that he was likely to have company in his ride after his companions. he hesitated a moment before urging his horse into a more rapid gait. he wanted to see what it might be that was now so vaguely outlined. he strained his eyes, but could see nothing but a black and shapeless mass, which seemed to be following him. he could see that it was moving rapidly, whatever it was, but the gray light was so dim, and gave such shadowy shape even to objects close at hand, that he found it impossible either to gratify his curiosity or satisfy his fears. so he settled himself firmly in the saddle, clapped spurs to his horse, and rode headlong after his companions. he looked around occasionally, but the black mass was always nearer. the faster his horse went, the faster came the thing. [illustration: the phantom horseman] each time he looked back his alarm rose higher, for the thing was closer whenever he looked. at last his alarm grew to such proportions that he ceased to look back, but addressed himself entirely to the work of urging his horse to higher speed. presently he heard quick, fierce snorts on his right, and his eye caught sight of the thing. its course was parallel with his own, and it was not more than twenty yards away. he saw enough for his alarm to rise to the height of terror. he saw something that had the head and feet of a black horse, but the body was wanting. no! there was a body, and a rider, but the rider wore a long, pale gray robe, and he was headless! if this was the black demon that the young man had seen in this pasture on a former occasion, he was now more terrible than ever, for he was guided by a headless rider! the young man would have checked his horse, but the effort was in vain. the horse had eyes. he also had seen the thing, and had swerved away from it, but he was too frightened to pay any attention to bit or rein. the black thing was going faster than the frightened horse, and it soon drew away, the pale gray robe of the rider fluttering about like a fierce signal of warning. the young man's horse was soon under control, and in a few minutes he came up with his companions. he found them huddled together like so many sheep, this manoeuvre having been instinctively made by the horses. the dogs, too, were acting queerly. the men appeared to be somewhat surprised to see their companion come galloping up to them. after riding away from the young man who had taken it upon himself to leave the double gates open, the huntsmen had concluded to wait for him when they came to the bars that opened on the public road. but the gallop of their horses had subsided into a walk when they were still some distance from that point. they were conversing about the merits of their favorite dogs when suddenly they heard from behind them the sound of a galloping horse. they saw, as the young man had seen, a dark, moving mass gradually assume the shape of a black horse, with a headless rider wearing a long, pale gray robe. the apparition was somewhat farther from them when it passed than it had been from their companion, whom, in a spirit of mischief, they had deserted; but the black thing threatened to come closer, for when it had gone beyond them it changed its course, described a half circle, and vanished from sight on the side of the pasture opposite to that on which it had first appeared. "what do you think now?" said george gossett, speaking in a low tone to the gentleman who had been inclined to grow merry when the former experience of the patrollers was mentioned. "what do i think? why, i think it's right queer if the chap we left at the double gates isn't trying to get even with us by riding around like a wild indian and waving his saddle blanket," replied the doubting gentleman. "why, man, he's riding a gray horse!" one of the others explained. this put another face on the matter, and the gentleman made no further remark. in fact, before anything else could be said, the young man in question came galloping up. "did you fellows see it?" he inquired. but he had no need to inquire. their attitude and the uneasy movements of their horses showed unmistakably that they had seen it. "which way did it go?" was the next question. there was no need to make reply. the direction in which the huntsmen glanced every second showed unmistakably which way it went. "let's get out of here," said the young man in the next breath. and there was no need to make even this simple proposition, for by common consent, and as by one impulse, horses and men started for the bars at a rapid trot. when the bars were taken down they were not left down. each one was put carefully back in its proper place, for though this was but a slight barrier to interpose between themselves and the terrible black thing, yet it was something. once in the road they felt more at ease--not because they were safer there, but because it seemed that the night had suddenly trailed its dark mantle westward. "did you notice," said the young man who was first to see the apparition, "that the thing that was riding the thing had no head?" "it certainly had that appearance," replied the doubtful gentleman, "but"-- "no 'buts' nor 'ifs' about it," insisted the young man. "it came so close to me that i could 'a' put my hand on it, and i noticed particular that the thing on the back of the thing didn't have no sign of head, no more than my big toe has got a head." the exaggeration of the young man was unblushing. if the thing had come within ten yards of him he would have fallen from his horse in a fit. "and what was you doing all that time?" george gossett inquired. his tone implied a grave doubt. "trying to get away from that part of the country," replied the other frankly. "it was the same hoss that got after us that night," the young man continued. "i knowed it by the blaze in his eyes and the red on the inside of his nose. why, it looked to me like you could 'a' lit a cigar by holding it close to his eyes." "i know how skeery you are," said george gossett disdainfully, "and i don't believe you took time to notice all these things." "skeer'd!" exclaimed the other; "why, that ain't no name for it--no name at all. but it was my mind that was skeered and not my eyes. you can't help seeing what's right at you, can you?" this frankness took the edge off any criticism that george gossett might have made, seeing which the young man gave loose reins to his invention, which was happy enough in this instance to fit the suggestions that fear had made a place for in the minds of his companions. but it was all the simplest thing in the world. the apparition the fox hunters saw was aaron and the black stallion. the son of ben ali had decided that the interval between the first faint glimpse of dawn and daylight was the most convenient time to give timoleon his exercise, and to fit him in some sort for the vigorous work he was expected to do some day on the race track. aaron had hit upon that particular morning to begin the training of the black stallion, and had selected the pasture as the training-ground. it was purely a coincidence that he rode in at the double gates behind the fox hunters, but it was such a queer one that little crotchet laughed until the tears came into his eyes when he heard about it. aaron's version of the incident was so entirely different from that of the fox hunters that those who heard both would be unable to recognize in them an account of the same affair from different points of view. as aaron saw it and knew it, the incident was as simple as it could be. as he was riding the horse along the lane leading to the double gates (having left rambler behind at the stable), timoleon gave a snort and lifted his head higher than usual. "son of ben ali," he said, "i smell strange men and strange horses. their scent is hot on the air. some of them are the men that went tumbling about the pasture the night you bade me play with them." "not at this hour, grandson of abdallah," replied aaron. "i am not smelling the hour, son of ben ali, but the men. if we find them, shall i use my teeth?" "we'll not see the men, grandson of abdallah. this is not their hour." "but if we find them, son of ben ali?" persisted the black stallion. "save your teeth for your corn, grandson of abdallah," was the response. as they entered the double gates, which aaron was surprised to find open, timoleon gave a series of fierce snorts, which was the same as saying, "what did i tell you, son of ben ali? look yonder! there is one; the others are galloping farther on." "i am wrong and you are right, grandson of abdallah." as much for the horse's comfort as his own, aaron had folded a large blanket he found hanging in the stable, and was using it in place of a saddle. he lifted himself back toward timoleon's croup, seized the blanket with his left hand, and, holding it by one corner, shook out the folds. he had no intention whatever of frightening any one, his sole idea being to use the blanket to screen himself from observation. he would have turned back, but in the event of pursuit he would be compelled to lead his pursuers into the abercrombie place, or along the public road, and either course would have been embarrassing. if he was to be pursued at all, he preferred to take the risk of capture in the wide pasture. as a last resort he could slip from timoleon's back and give the horse the word to use both teeth and heels. [illustration: aaron and timoleon] and this was why the fox hunters saw the apparition of a black horse and a headless rider. "shall i ride him down, son of ben ali?" snorted the black stallion. "bear to the right, bear to the right, grandson of abdallah," was the reply. and so the apparition flitted past the young man who had left the double-gates open, and past his companions who were waiting for him near the bars that opened on the big road; flitted past them and disappeared. finding that there was no effort made to pursue him, aaron checked the black stallion and listened. he heard the men let down the bars and put them up again, and by that sign he knew they were not patrollers. later on in the day, the doubting gentleman, returning from the fox hunt, called by the abercrombie place and stopped long enough to tell the white-haired master of the queer sight he saw in the pasture at dawn. "the boys were badly scared," he explained to mr. abercrombie, "and i tell you it gave me a strange feeling--a feeling that i can best describe by saying that if the earth had opened at my feet and a red flame shot up, it wouldn't have added one whit to my amazement. that's the honest truth." mr. abercrombie could give him no satisfaction, though he might have made a shrewd guess, and little crotchet, who could have solved the mystery, had to make an excuse to get out of the way, so that he might have a hearty laugh. and aaron, when he came to see the little master that night, knew for the first time that he had scared the fox hunters nearly out of their wits. xiv. the little master says good-night. after george gossett's two experiences in the pasture, he came to the conclusion that it would not be profitable to do any more patrolling on the abercrombie place, but this did not add to his good humor. he had his father's surly temper, and, with it, a vindictive spirit that was entirely lacking in the elder gossett. moreover, age had not moderated nor impaired his energies, as it had his father's. the fact that he had failed to capture aaron struck him as a personal affront. he was stung by it. he felt that he and his father had been wronged by some one, he couldn't say who, but not by the runaway, for what was a "nigger," anyhow? after a while the idea was borne in upon him that somehow he and his family had been "insulted" by the abercrombies. he arrived at this conclusion by a very circuitous route. the abercrombies were harboring a yankee in their house; and if they had the stomach to do that, why wasn't it just as easy for them to harbor "pap's" runaway nigger, especially when they were so keen to buy him? another thing that stung him, though he never mentioned it, was the sudden and unexplainable attitude of his father toward aaron. young gossett had observed that his father appeared to lose interest in the runaway after mr. jim simmons failed to catch him, but the fact was not impressed upon the young man's mind until the day he told the elder gossett about the queer sight he saw in abercrombie's pasture. "were you hunting the runaway?" his father asked, with some impatience. "why, no, pap. we weren't doing a thing in the world, but crossing the pasture on our way to the turner old fields." "very well, then. do as i do; let him alone. if you don't you'll get hurt. i know what i'm talking about." this fairly took george's breath away. "why, pap!" he cried; "ain't he your nigger? didn't you buy him and pay your money down for him? don't you want him out of the woods? and who's going to hurt me, pap?" "you mind what i tell you," snapped the elder gossett. "i'm older than you, and when i know a thing i know it. let the runaway alone." "if i'm going to be hurt," responded george doggedly, "i'd like to know who'll do it." it would have been better for both if mr. gossett had told his son of his experience with aaron. as it was, george was in danger of losing the little respect he had for his father. when he was warned that he would be hurt if he kept on trying to capture aaron, he suspected at once that the warning related to mr. abercrombie. who else would dare to hurt him, or even threaten to hurt him? certainly not the runaway. who, then, but abercrombie? the suggestion was enough. it made george gossett so furious that he never thought to reflect that he himself had invented it. once invented, however, every circumstance seemed to fit it. his father had suddenly lost interest in the runaway, though he had paid out money for him, and had hardly received a week's work in return. why? because mr. abercrombie had overawed his father in a crowd, just as he did the day aaron was sold from the block. the young man had not forgotten that episode, and his resentment was rekindled and grew hotter than ever, for it was now reinforced by inward shame and disgust at the way his father had allowed himself to be overcome--and that, too, in regard to his own property. the first result of george gossett's resentment was his nearly successful effort to make the teacher, richard hudspeth, the victim of the violent and natural prejudice that existed at that time against abolitionists; an event that has been related in "the story of aaron." the rescue of the teacher by mr. abercrombie, and the fact that george gossett was knocked flat by the black stallion, caused his resentment to rise to a white heat. he brooded over the matter until, at last, a desire to injure mr. abercrombie became an uncontrollable mania, and it went so far that one night, inflamed by whiskey, he set fire to the dwelling-house of the man he believed to be his father's enemy. then it was that aaron rescued little crotchet and free polly, and fell fainting to the ground. and then it was that mr. gossett seized the first plausible opportunity that had presented itself to sell aaron to mr. abercrombie. it is true, he drove a sharp bargain, suspecting that the runaway had seriously injured himself; but he would have sold aaron in any event, being anxious to get rid of him. george gossett disappeared that night and was seen no more in that region. years afterward, a homesick georgian returning from texas brought word that george gossett had made a name for himself in that state, being known as a tough and a terror. it's an ill wind that blows no good to any one. george gossett little knew, when he applied the torch to the abercrombie dwelling, that the light of it would call aaron from the wildwoods and show him the way to a home where he was to live, happy in the love of little crotchet and of children as yet unborn, and happy in the respect and confidence of those whose interest he served. perhaps if george gossett could have looked into the future, the blaze that produced these results would never have been kindled, and in that event the story of aaron in the wildwoods could have been spun out at greater length, but the conclusion would not have been different. richard hudspeth remained long enough to see aaron duly installed in his new home, for the abercrombie mansion was at once rebuilt on a larger scale than ever, and to see him serve as the major-domo of the establishment. but the departure of the teacher was not delayed for many months after his experience with the reckless and irresponsible young men who had placed themselves under the leadership of george gossett. duties more pressing and more important than those he had assumed in georgia called him to his northern home, where a larger career awaited him--a career that made him famous. he became the most intimate adviser of abraham lincoln, and that great man found in him what, at the outset, he found in few new england men, the deepest sympathy and highest appreciation. it was characteristic of richard hudspeth that the treatment he received at the hands of george gossett and his night riders bred no resentment against the southern people, and the trait of character that shut the door of his mind against all petty prejudices and rancorous judgments was precisely the trait that attracted first the notice and finally the friendship of mr. lincoln. aaron was as much of a mystery to the negroes on the abercrombie place when he came to move about among them as he was when he roamed in the wildwoods. he was as much of a mystery to them years afterwards, when buster john and sweetest susan came upon the scene, as he was when he first made his appearance on the place, but by that time the mystery he presented was a familiar one. the negroes had not solved it, but they were used to it. at first it seemed that they would never cease to wonder. they watched his every movement, and always with increasing awe and respect. he went about among them freely, but not familiarly. he was not of them, and they knew it. he was kind and considerate, especially where the women and children were concerned, but always reserved, always dignified, always serious. yet he never lost his temper, never frowned, and was never known to utter an angry word or make a gesture of irritation. he had the remarkable gift of patience, that seemed to be so highly developed in some animals. it was uncle fountain who drew the parallel between the patience displayed by aaron and that of the animals, and added this, after turning the matter over in his mind: "mo' speshually de creeturs what kin see in de dark." on rare occasions aaron would go into one of the cabins where the negroes were enjoying themselves, and there would be a mighty hustling around in that cabin until he had the most comfortable chair, or stool, or bench, or tub turned bottom-side up. at such times he would say, "sing!" and then, after some display of shyness, randall or turin would strike into a quaint plantation melody, and carry it along; and as their voices died away the powerful and thrilling tenor of susy's sam, and jemimy's quavering soprano would take up the refrain, all the singers joining in at the close. no matter what melody was sung, or what words were employed, the instinct and emotions of the negroes gave to their performance the form and essence of true balladry,--the burden, the refrain, the culmination, and the farewell; or, as the writers of pretty verse now call it, the envoi. often on such occasions aaron would enter the negro cabin bearing the little master in his arms. and then the negroes were better pleased, for the little master somehow seemed to stand between them and the awesome being they knew as aaron. at such times the arms of big sal ached to hold little crotchet, the lad seemed to be so pale and frail. once she made bold to say to aaron:-- "i kin hol' 'im some ef you tired." "i won't be tired of that till i'm dead," responded aaron. "i know mighty well how dat is," responded big sal humbly. "i des wanted ter hol' 'im. i _has_ helt him." "she wants to hold you," said aaron to the little master. and the reply was, "well, why not?" whereupon big sal took the lad in her arms, and when the rest began to sing she swayed her strong body back and forth, and joined in the song with a voice so low and soft and sweet that it seemed to be the undertone of melody itself; and the effect of it was so soothing that when the song was ended the little master was fast asleep and smiling, and big sal leaned over him with such a yearning at her heart that only a word or a look would have been necessary to set her to weeping. neither then nor ever afterwards did she know the reason why or seek to discover it. enough for her that it was so. something in her attitude told the rest of the negroes that the little master was asleep, and so when they sang another song they pitched their voices low,--so low that the melody seemed to come drifting through the air and in at the door from far away. when it was ended nothing would do but each negro must come forward on tiptoe and take a look at the little master, who was still asleep and smiling. when aaron rose to go big sal was somewhat embarrassed. she didn't want the little master awakened, and yet she didn't know how he could be transferred to aaron's arms without arousing him. but the son of ben ali solved that problem. he nodded to big sal and motioned toward the door, and she, carrying the little master in her strong arms, went out into the dark. aaron paused at the threshold, raised his right hand above his head, and followed big sal. this gesture he always made by way of salutation and farewell on the threshold of every door he entered or went out of, whether the room was full of people or empty. whether it was the door of his master's house or of timoleon's stable, he paused and raised his right hand. [illustration: big sal holds the little master] the negroes noted it, and, simple as it was, it served to deepen the mystery in which aaron seemed to be enveloped; and among themselves they shook their heads and whispered that he must be a "cunjur" man. but aaron was not troubled by whisperings that never reached his ears, nor by the strange imaginings of the negroes. he had other things to think of--one thing in particular that seemed to him to be most serious. he could see that little crotchet was gradually growing weaker and weaker. it was some time before he discovered this. we know that the trunks of trees slowly expand, but we do not see the process going on. little crotchet seemed to be growing weaker day by day, and yet the process was so gradual that only the most careful observation could detect it. the burning of the house was something of a shock to him. he was not frightened by that event, and never for a moment lost his self-possession; but the spectacle of the fierce red flames mounting high in the air, their red tongues darting out and lapping about in space, and then, having found nothing to feed on, curling back and devouring the house, roaring and growling, and snapping and hissing,--this spectacle was so unexpected and so impossible in that place that the energy little crotchet lost in trying to fit the awful affair to his experience never came back to him. he never lost the feeling of numbness that came over him as he saw the house disappear in smoke and flame. but it was weeks--months--after that before aaron made his discovery, a discovery that could only be confirmed by the keenest and most patient watchfulness. for little crotchet was never more cheerful. and he was restless, too; always eager to be going. but aaron soon saw that if the lad went galloping about on the gray pony as often as before, he did not go so far. nor did he use his crutches so freely,--the crutches on which he had displayed such marvelous nimbleness. and so from day to day aaron saw that the little master was slowly failing. the lad found the nights longer, and aaron had great trouble to drive away the red goblin, pain. thus the days slipped by, and the weeks ran into months, and the months counted up a year lacking a fortnight. this fortnight found the little master in bed both day and night, still happy and cheerful, but weak and pale. always at night aaron was sitting by the bed, and sometimes the lad would send for big sal. he was so cheerful that he deceived everybody except the doctor and aaron as to his condition. but one day the doctor came and sat by the little master's bedside longer than usual. the lad was cheerful as ever, but the doctor knew. as he was going away he gave some information to the father and mother that caused them to turn pale. the mother, indeed, would have rushed weeping to her son. was it for this,--for this,--her darling child had been born? the doctor stayed her. it was indeed for this her darling child had been born. would she hasten it? why not let the mystery come to him as a friend and comforter,--as the friend of friends,--as a messenger from our dear lord, the prince of peace and joy? and so the poor mother dried her eyes as best she could and took her place by the little master's bedside. the lad was cheerful and his eyes were as bright as a bird's. doctors do not know everything, the mother thought, and, taking heart of hope, smiled as little crotchet prattled away. nothing would do but he must have a look at the toys that used to amuse him when he was a little bit of a boy; and in getting out the old toys the mother found a shoe he had worn when he first began to walk,--a little shoe out at the toe and worn at the heel. this interested the lad more than all the toys. he held it in his hand and measured it with his thumb. and was it truly true that he had ever worn a shoe as small as that? the shoe reminded him of something else he had been thinking of. he had dreamed that when he got well he would need his crutches no more, and he wondered how it would feel to walk with his feet on the ground. and there was the old popgun, too, still smelling of chinaberries. if aaron only but knew it, that popgun had been a wonderful gun. yes, siree! the bird that didn't want to get hurt when that popgun was in working order had to run mighty fast or fly mighty high. but, heigh-ho! he was too old and too large for popguns now, and when he got well, which would be pretty soon, he would have a sure-enough gun, and then he would get a powder flask and a shot bag and mount the gray pony and shoot--well, let's see what he would shoot: not the gray squirrels, they were too pretty; not the shy partridges, they might have nests or young ones somewhere; not the rabbits--they were too funny with their pop eyes and big ears. well, he could shoot at a mark, and that's just what he would do. and when night fell, the little master wanted to hear the negroes sing. and he wanted mother and father and sister to hear them too--not the loud songs, but the soft and sweet ones. but the negroes wouldn't feel like singing at all if everybody was in the room with them, and mother and father and sister could sit in the next room and pretend they were not listening. and so it was arranged. when the negroes arrived and were ushered into the room by mammy lucy, they were so embarrassed and felt so much out of place they hardly knew what to do, or say, or how to begin. aaron was carrying the little master in his arms, walking up and down, up and down, and his long strides and supple knees gave a swinging motion to his body that was infinitely soothing and restful to the little master. swinging back and forth, up and down, the son of ben ali paid no attention to the negroes, and they stood confused for a moment, but only for a moment. suddenly there came streaming into the room the strain of a heart-breaking melody, rising and falling, falling and rising, as the leaves of a weeping willow are blown by the wind; drifting away and floating back, as the foam of the wave is swayed by the sea. little crotchet lay still in aaron's arms for ever so long. was he listening? who knows? he was almost within hearing of the songs of the angels. suddenly he raised his head in the pause of the song-- "tell them all good-night. tell mother"-- aaron stopped his swinging walk and placed the little master on the bed and stood beside it, his right hand raised above his head. it might have been a benediction, it might have been a prayer. the negroes interpreted it as a signal of dismissal. one by one they went softly to the bedside and gazed on the little master. he might have been asleep, for he was smiling. each negro looked inquiringly at aaron, and to each he nodded, his right hand still lifted above his head. [illustration: the death of the little master] big sal had waited till the last, and she was the only one that said a word. "he look des like he did when he drapt asleep in deze arms," she cried, sobbing as though her heart would break, "an' i thank my god fer dat much! but oh, man, what a pity! what a pity!" and she went out of the house into the yard, and through the yard into the lot, and through the lot to the negro cabins, crying, "_oh, what a pity! what a pity!_" not for the little master, for he was smiling at the glorious vision of peace and rest that he saw when he said good-night. not pity for the lad, but for those he had left behind him, for all who loved him; for all who had depended on his thoughtfulness; for all the weary and sorrowful ones. _oh, what a pity!_ over and over again, _what a pity!_ and the wind flowing softly about the world took up the poor negro's wailing cry and sent it over the hill and beyond, and the outlying messengers of the swamp took it up--_what a pity!_ and the willis-whistlers piped low, and the mysteries, swaying and slipping through the canes and tall grass, heard the whispered echo and sighed, _oh, what a pity!_ * * * * * transcriber's notes italic text is denoted by _underscores_. a number of words in this book had both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants; for those words the variant more frequently used was retained. this book also contains dialect and vernacular conversation. obvious punctuation errors were fixed. other printing errors, which were not detected during the revision of the printing process of the original book, have been corrected. it was unclear if in the expression "simple as a-b ab", in page , the second "ab" should be hyphenated. it was decided to keep the text unchanged. more bed-time stories. by louise chandler moulton, author of "bed-time stories," and "some women's hearts." _with illustrations by addie ledyard._ [illustration: logo] boston: roberts brothers. . [illustration: missy.--page .] entered according to act of congress, in the year , by louise chandler moulton, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. _cambridge: press of john wilson & son._ _to my daughter florence._ [after a twelvemonth.] _"more bed-time stories," sweetest heart,_ _and all to you belong:_ _all that i have and am, my dear,_ _i give you with my song._ _all that i have and am, my dear,_ _is not too much to pay_ _as tribute to the fair, young queen_ _who rules my heart to-day;_ _as tribute to the dear, blue eyes,_ _and to the golden hair,_ _and sweet, new grace of maidenhood_ _that wraps you everywhere,--_ _the shy surprise of maidenhood,_ _that still turns back to hear_ _the tales i tell at shut of day:--_ _so these are yours, my dear._ _l. c. m._ _october, ._ contents. page against wind and tide blue sky and white clouds the cousin from boston missy the head boy of eagleheight school agatha's lonely days thin ice my lost sister: a confession what came to olive haygarth uncle jack nobody's child my little gentleman ruthy's country job golding's christmas my comforter more bed-time stories. against wind and tide. jack ramsdale was a bad boy. he had been a bad boy so long that secretly he was rather tired of it; but he really did not know how to help himself. it was his reputation, and it is a curious thing how naturally we all live up to our reputations; that is to say, we do the things which are expected of us. there is a deal of homely sense in the old proverb, "give a dog a bad name and hang him." give a boy a bad name, and he is reasonably sure to deserve one. not but that jack ramsdale had fairly earned his bad name. his mother had died before he was old enough to remember her, so he had never known what a home was. once, when his father was unusually good-natured, he had asked him some questions about his mother. "she was one of god's saints, if ever there was one," the man answered, half reluctantly. "everybody wondered that she took up with me, but maybe it was because she saw i needed her more than anybody else did. she might have made a different man of me if she'd lived; at least, i've always thought so. i never drank so much when she was alive but what i kept a comfortable home over her head. but when she was gone, it didn't appear to me there was any thing left to live for. i lacked comfort sorely, and i don't say but what i've sought for it in by-paths,--by and forbidden paths, as she used to say." "i wish i could ha' seen her," said jack. "she was a dreadful motherly creetur, and was always hangin' over you. cold nights i've known her get up half-a-dozen times, often, to see if the clothes was all up over your shoulders; and sometimes i've seen her stand there looking down at you in the biting cold till i thought she'd freeze; but i didn't dare to say any thing, for her lips were movin', and i knew she was prayin' for you. she was a prayin' woman, your mother was. i used to think her prayers would save both of us." "i can't make out how she looked," jack persisted. he was so anxious to hear something about this dead mother who had loved him so. ever since she died, he had been knocked round from pillar to post, as they say, with his father. sam ramsdale was good help, as all the farmers knew, when he was sober; but he was not reliable, and then he had the disadvantage of always being incumbered with the boy, whom he took with him everywhere,--an unkempt, undisciplined little fellow whom no one liked. now, as his father talked, it seemed to him so strange a thing to think that some one used to stand beside his bed in cold winter nights and pray for him, that he could hardly believe it; and he said again, out of his desolate longing,-- "i wish i could ha' seen how she looked." "i don't suppose folks would ha' said she was much to look at." his father spoke, in a musing sort of way. "she was a little pale slip of a woman, with soft yellow hair droopin' about her white face, and eyes as blue as them blue flowers you picked up along the road. but there, i can't talk about her, and i ain't a goin' to, what's more; and don't you ever ask me again!" from that time jack never dared to ask any more questions about his mother, but all through his troublesome, turbulent boyhood he remembered the meagre outlines of the story which had been told him. no matter how bad he had been through the day, the nights were few when he failed to think how once a pale slip of a woman, with soft yellow hair around her white face, and eyes blue as the blue gentians, had bent above his slumbers and said prayers for him. when he was ten years old his father died in the poor-house. drink had enfeebled his constitution; a sudden cold did the rest. there were a few weeks of terrible suffering, and then the end came. jack was with him to the last. there was nowhere else for him to be, and the father liked to have him in his sight. one day, just before the end, when they were all alone, the man called the boy to his bedside. "i can't tell you to follow my example, jack; that's the shame of it. i've got to hold myself up as a warnin', and not as an example. just you steer as clear o' my ways as you can; but remember that your mother was a prayin' woman. i s'pose nobody'd believe it, jack; but since i've been lyin' here i've kinder felt nearer to her than i ever did before since she died. seems as if i could a'most hear her prayin' for me; and i think, by times, that the god she lived so close to won't say no. it's the 'leventh hour, jack, the 'leventh hour, i know that as well as anybody; but she used to sing a hymn about while the lamp holds out to burn. when i get there i shall get rid of this awful thirst for drink. it's been an _awful_ thirst; no hunger that i know of can match it; but i shall get rid of that when this old body goes to pieces. and what does a saviour mean, if it ain't that he'll save us from our sins if we ask him?" as he said these last words he seemed sinking into a sort of stupor, but he started out of it to say once more,-- "never follow my example, jack, boy. remember your mother was a prayin' woman." those were the last connected words any one ever heard him speak. after that the night came on,--the double night of darkness and of death. once or twice the woman who acted as nurse, bending over him, heard him mutter, "the 'leventh hour, jack!" and afterwards she wondered whether it was a presentiment, for it was just at eleven o'clock that he died. jack had been sent to bed a little before, and when he got up in the morning, he knew that he was all alone in the world. after the funeral deacon small took him home. he wouldn't be of much use for two or three years to come, the deacon said. maybe he could drive up the cows, and ride the horse to plough, and scare the crows away from the corn, but he couldn't earn his salt for a number o' years to come. however, somebody must take him, and he guessed _he_ would. it would be a good spell before the "creetur" would come of age, and the last part of the time he might be smart enough to pay off old scores. but surely jack ramsdale must have eaten more salt than ever boy of ten ate before if he did not work enough for it, for it was jack here, and jack there, all day long. jack did everybody's errands; jack drew mrs. small's baby-grandchild in its little covered wagon; jack scoured the knives; jack brought the wood; jack picked berries; jack weeded flower-beds. from being an idle little chap, in everybody's way, as he had been in his father's time, he was pressed right into hard service, for more hours in the day than any man worked about the place. now work is good for boys, but all work and no play--worse yet, all work and no love--is not good for any one. jack grew bitter; and where he dared to be cruel, he was cruel; where he dared to be insolent, he was insolent. not toward deacon small, however, were these qualities displayed. the deacon was a hard master, and the boy feared, and hated, and obeyed him. but as the years went on, five of them, he grew to be generally considered a bad boy. at fifteen he was strong of his age, a man, almost, in size. his schooling had been confined to the short winter terms, and he had always been the terror of every successive schoolmaster. when he was fifteen, a new teacher came,--a handsome, graceful young man, just out of college. he was slight rather than stout, well-dressed, well-mannered, fit, you would have said, for a lady's drawing-room, rather than the country schoolhouse in winter, with its big boys, tough customers, many of them, and jack ramsdale the toughest customer of all. after mr. garrison had passed his examination, one of the committee, impressed by what he thought a certain-fine-gentleman air in the young man, warned him of the rough times in store for him, and especially of the rough strength and insubordination of jack ramsdale. ralph garrison smiled a calm smile, but uttered no boasts. he had been a week in the school before he had any especial trouble. jack was taking his measure. the truth was, the boy had a certain amount of taste, and garrison's gentlemanliness impressed him more than he would have cared to own. it is possible that he might have gone on, quietly and obediently, but that now his bad name began to weigh him down. the boys who had looked up to him as a leader in evil grew impatient of his quiet submission to rules. "got your match, jack?" said one. "goin' to own beat without giving it a try?" said another. and jack began to think that the evil laurels he had won, as the bravo and bully of the school, would fall withered from his brow if he didn't make some effort to fasten them. so one morning, midway between recess and the close of school, he took out an apple and began paring it with a jack-knife and eating it. for a moment mr. garrison looked at him; then he remarked, with ominous quietness, in a tone lower and more gentle than usual,-- "jack, this is not the place or time for eating." "my place and time to eat are when i am hungry," jack answered, with cool insolence, cutting off a mouthful, and carrying it deliberately to his mouth. "you will put up that apple instantly, if you please." still the teacher spoke very gently, and turned a little pale. the persuasive words and the slight paleness misled jack. he thought his victory was to be so easily won, there would not even be any glory in it. he smiled and ate, quite at his ease. "you will come here whether you please or not," was the next sentence from the teacher's desk. jack cut off another mouthful and sat still. then, he never knew how it was, but suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, he felt himself pulled from his seat out into the middle of the floor while knife and apple flew from his hand. he kicked, he struggled, he tried to strike; but an iron grasp held his wrists. the strong muscles of the stroke-oar at harvard did good service. the handsome face was pale, but the lips were set like steel, and the cool eyes never wavered as they fixed and held those of the young bully. then suddenly he whipped from his pocket a ball of strong fish-line and bound the struggling wrists tightly, and, pushing a chair toward his captive, said, coolly,-- "i want nothing more of you till after school. you can sit or stand, as you please. now i will hear the first class in arithmetic." there was a strange hush in the school, and every scholar knew who was master. when all the rest had gone, the teacher turned to jack ramsdale. "i took you a little by surprise," he said. "perhaps you are not yet satisfied that i am stronger than you." "yes, i'm satisfied," jack answered. "i ain't so mean but what i'm willing to own beat when it's done fair and square." mr. garrison, meanwhile, was untying his wrists. as he unwound the last coil, he said,-- "the forces of law and order are what rule the world. i think if you fight against them, you'll always be likely to find yourself on the losing side." a great bitter wave of defiance swelled up in jack's heart; not against mr. garrison as an individual, but against such as he,--handsome, graceful, cultured; against his own hard lot; against a prosperous world; against, it almost seemed, god, himself. "what do _you_ know about it?" he said sullenly. "you never had to fight. it was all on your side. god did it. he made you handsome and strong, and had you go to school and college, and grow up a gentleman. and he made me"--how the face darkened here--"what you see. he took my mother, who did love me and pray for me, away from me when i wasn't more than three years old. he gave me to a father who drank hard and taught me nothing good. and then he took even him from me, and handed me over to deacon small; and i tell you, teacher, you don't know what a tough time is till you've summered and wintered with deacon small. i've got a bad name, and who wonders? and i feel like living up to it. i hadn't any thing against you, specially; but if i'd given in peaceably to all your rules, the boys would have said i had grown chicken-hearted, and a little name for pluck is all the name i have got." mr. garrison looked at him a few moments, steadily. then he said,-- "it does seem as if fate had been hard on you. but do you know what i think god has been doing for you, in giving you all these hard knocks; for things don't _happen_; god never lets go the reins." the boy looked the question he did not speak, and mr. garrison went on. "i think he has been making you strong, just as rowing against wind and tide made my wrists strong, until now you could fight all your enemies if you would. "the thing we are put here for," he continued, "is to do our best; and if we are doing that, in god's sight, there is nothing that can prevail against us; not fate, or foes, or poverty, or any other creature. there is nothing in all the universe that is strong enough to stand against a soul that is bound to go up and not down. you may go home, now." it was one of mr. garrison's merits that he knew when to stop. jack ramsdale went home with that last sentence ringing in his ears,-- "there is nothing in all the universe that is strong enough to stand against a soul that is bound to go up and not down." the words went with him all the rest of the day. they lay down with him at night, and he looked out of his window and fixed his eyes on a bright, far-off star, and thought of them. what if he should turn all the strength that was in him to going up and not down? if he did right, who could make him afraid? if he served willingly, he need fear no master. it was very late, and the star, obedient to the law which rules the worlds, had marched far on, out of his sight, before he went to sleep. he had made a resolve. in the strength of that resolve he awoke to the new day. "i will not go down," he said to himself; "i will go up and on!" he was not all at once transformed from sinner to saint. such sudden changes do not belong to this slow world. but the purpose and aim of his life was changed. never again did he lose sight of the shining heights he meant to climb. if the mother in the heavenly home could look down on the world below, she knew that not in vain had she been "a praying woman." to mr. garrison the boy's devotion was something wonderful,--humble, loyal, faithful, and never ceasing. from being the teacher's terror, jack had become the teacher's friend. blue sky and white clouds. "say yes, and you'll be such a dear papa." papa bent down and kissed his girl, before he asked, half reproachfully,-- "and how if i say 'no'? shan't i be dear, then?" kathie blushed, and then laughed. "why, of course you'll be dear, any way; but may be it's partly because you are so good, and hate so to say no to your own little daughter, that i love you so much." "to my little daughter as tall as her mother? do you know, small person, that i've often thought it might be better for that same little daughter if i said no to her oftener? i couldn't love you more, but i'm afraid i might love you more wisely. a hundred and twenty-five dollars for a new party dress! bring your own mature judgment to bear on it, and tell me if it appears quite sage, even to you." kathie thought so hard for a moment that she fairly scowled with earnestness; then she answered,-- "yes, on the whole, i think it will be eminently judicious. you see, i shall be going out a good deal now, and i can do so many different things with a handsome silk, and if i got a tarleton, or any of those cheap, thin goods, it would be used up at once." papa smiled. "well, if you are quite sure you're right, i'll bring the check home this noon, and you and mamma can begin your search for this wonderful yellow gown." "yellow!" kathie clapped her hands to her ears. "what did i ever do to make you think i would wear a horrid yellow gown?" "oh, was it red you said you wanted?" "worse and worse. you talk like a hottentot. my gown is to be blue, soft, and lustrous, like a summer sky, and i am to look in it,--well, you shall see on christmas eve." then, with half a dozen good-by kisses, the father of this only child--happy, easy-going, and too indulgent--took himself off down town, and kathie danced away to the sewing-room to find her mother and inform her of her success. kathie mason, at sixteen, was a girl bright, and sweet, and bonny enough to tempt any parent to a little over-indulgence. she had soft, sunny, yellow hair; and lovely, dark brown eyes; with a look in them that kept saying, "oh, be good to me!"; a delicate, flower-like face; and a mouth red as fair rosamond's, which has long been dust now, but which poets and painters raved about centuries ago. she had a graceful little figure, and a clear, fresh young voice; and she had a heart, too, which was in the right place, though she herself was almost a stranger to it. she loved beauty dearly, whether in books, or nature, or human faces, or blue silk gowns, and it was just as natural to her to be a picture, whatever way she looked or moved, as it was to be kathie. as she danced along she was humming a verse of a gay little french _chanson_, where some lover said his love was like a rose; and you thought it might have been written about herself, only kathie had no thorns. as she drew near the sewing-room she stopped, for her mother and the dress-maker were talking busily. miss atkinson was a pathetic little woman, with eyes which looked as if the color had been washed out of them by many tears, a thin, frail body, and a voice not complaining, but simply plaintive. somehow kathie hated to break in upon the slow pathos of those tones with her blue silk ecstasy, so she stood leaning against the door for a few moments and waited. "you see," the little woman was saying, "it was a great pull-back, my being sick two months in the summer, and then my brother being so much worse. but it will all come right, somehow. if i can manage to get alice clothed up so she can go to school, i shall be thankful; for she's a bright child, and it's too bad to have her wasting her time. but then, food and fire must come first, and if people are sick they are sick, and two hands can't do any more than they can." there was nothing to oppose to this mild fatalism; so kathie's mother only said, very sympathizingly, that it was hard, and that it seemed as if, with her sister and her sister's child to support, miss atkinson had all she could do before, without undertaking any new responsibilities for the ailing brother and his family. "oh! but there's no one else to do it if i don't, you see," quoth the little dress-maker, almost cheerfully--as cheerfully, that is, as her voice could be made to speak; but kathie noticed that a moment after she pressed her hand on her side and drew a sharp, hard breath. "does your side pain you, miss atkinson?" she asked, kindly. "not much more than usual. it's rather bad, most days. i went to work too soon after i was sick, the doctor said. but he didn't tell me how the rest were going to live if i laid by any longer; and, dear me, i'm thankful enough to be able to work at all." kathie thought she should be ashamed to have this poor little woman, who had two people besides herself to provide for, entirely, and no knowing how many more, in part, work on her blue silk superfluity. clearly _that_ must be made by some other dress-maker; and she could not even speak to her mother about it now; so she just asked for some work, and sat down with it, thinking more seriously than, perhaps, she had ever thought in her gay, butterfly life before. "how old is your little niece, alice?" she asked, after a while. "ten, and she is as far along in her studies now as a good many girls of twelve. i did mean to have sent her straight through, normal school and all, and let her prepare to be a teacher; but it doesn't look much like it, now william's taken so poorly. i expect i shall have to pretty much clothe his three children besides alice." "can't your sister, little alice's mother, help you at all?" "well, yes, she does help. she does all she's able to, and more; for, you see, she's feeble, too. she keeps house for us, and cooks, and washes and makes our things after i fit them, and keeps us mended; but there's nothing she can do to bring in any thing. but there, i beg your pardon ten times over, apiece. it's against my principles to go out sewing, and harrow up folks' minds with my troubles; only, you see, i'm a little nervous and unsettled to-day on account of alice's crying pretty hard this morning because she hadn't any thing to wear to school." papa mason took kathie aside when he came home to dinner, and with a little fun, and teasing, and pretence of mystery, produced the check. there it was, one hundred and twenty-five dollars, all right, and three weeks between now and christmas eve to get her blue silk gown made. while she ate her roast beef she began to think again. one question kept asking itself over in her mind,--why should some people have blue silk gowns, and others have no gowns at all? i rather think we have all asked ourselves this same thing, in one form of words or another. since the great father made and loves us all, why should one be queen victoria and another little alice staying at home from school for want of a few yards of woollen and a pair of boots? political economists have ciphered it all out, beautifully; but kathie did not know that, and so the vexing question puzzled her. what if it was done just to give us a chance to help each other? she asked herself, at last, and the text of a sermon she heard once came into her mind,--"bear ye one another's burdens." if all fared just alike there would be no chance for helpfulness, or charity, or self-denial; so may be clothes would be put on people's backs at the expense of better things in their hearts. it must be that god knew best. oh! if one couldn't think that, the world might as well fall to pieces at once. "will you have pudding, dear? i have asked you three times," said mrs. mason's voice, with a little extra energy in it; and kathie looked up out of her dream with a certain vagueness in her eyes, and answered,-- "a hundred and twenty-five," whereat they all laughed. "i can't give you a hundred and twenty-five puddings; but, if you'll please make a beginning with this one, no doubt the rest will come before the year is over." whereupon kathie roused herself from her speculations, ate her pudding, and sent her plate for more, with a good, healthy, girlish appetite. that afternoon she sewed quite diligently, and talked little; but her eyes were bright, and her face all the time eager with some thought. after tea was over, and miss atkinson had gone, and papa had stepped out to see a business friend, kathie sat down, as was one of her habits, on a low stool beside her mother, and laid her head in her lap. mrs. mason knew that all the afternoon's thinking would come out before the child got up again; so she just smoothed the fluffy, yellow hair with her hand and waited. "don't you think, mamma, that miss atkinson must be a good deal better christian than the rest of us, she's such a patient burden-bearer? she never seemed to think for one moment that it was hard she should have to work so, or that she couldn't have what she wanted herself. all that troubled her was because she couldn't do what she had planned for alice." then, when mrs. mason had made some slight answer, there was silence again for a time; and then kathie cried impulsively,-- "mamma, what a perfect good-for-nothing i am. i never carried a burden for any one in my life. i have just been a dead weight on some one else's hands." "not a _dead_ weight, by any means," and mrs. mason laughed, "and really, papa and i have found it rather a pleasure than otherwise to carry you." the loving girl kissed the hand that had been stroking her hair, but she was quite too much in earnest to laugh. "well, mamma, you know it doesn't say,--'bear ye one another's burdens, all of you but kathie, and she needn't.' i think this rule without any exceptions means me, just as much as it does any one; and i shan't feel quite right in my own mind till i begin to follow it. i want to bear part of alice." kathie was talking very fast by this time, and her cheeks were very pink, and her brown eyes very bright. "you see i've thought it all out, this afternoon. if miss atkinson will feed her and house her, i do think i might undertake to clothe her until she is through school and ready to teach; and don't you think i'd feel better when i came to die to have done some little thing for somebody? you see it would come very easy. my dresses, and cloaks, and hats would all make over for her. there wouldn't be much to buy outright, except boots, and stockings, and under clothes, generally." "and wouldn't you find all that rather a heavy drain on your pocket-money? i don't ask to discourage you, childie; only i want you to consider it all thoroughly, for if you should once undertake this thing and lead miss atkinson and alice to depend on it, there could be no drawing back then." "yes, i have thought about it all. didn't you see me working it out in my head this afternoon, like a sum in arithmetic? i think half the money papa gives me for lunches, and presents, and the other things pocket-money goes for, would be just as good for me as the whole; and i am sure with half of it i could keep alice along nicely after i once got her started; and its just about this start i want to speak to you now. papa gave me a hundred and twenty-five dollars to-day to buy me a blue silk gown for aunt jane's christmas-eve party. now fifty dollars will get me a lovely white muslin, and a blue sash, and all the fresh little fixings i should need; and that would leave seventy-five dollars, with which i could buy flannels, and boots, and water-proof, and a good, warm, strong outfit altogether, for alice to commence with. now do you think papa would be willing? i don't want to ask him, for he doesn't understand silks and muslins, or what alice needs; but would you answer for him? just think, mamma, what burdens poor miss atkinson has to bear." mrs. mason started to say,--"it is all for her own relations,"--but stopped, for the command didn't read, "relations, bear _ye_ one another's burdens." had she any right to interfere between kathie and this first work of charity the child had ever been inspired to undertake? would not this object of interest outside herself, apart from blue silk gowns, and flounces, and furbelows, do something for her girl that was likely to be left undone otherwise? what a very cold loving-one-another we were most of us doing in this world, after all? so she bent over and kissed the eager, lovely, upturned face that waited for her words, and said fondly,-- "yes, i will answer for papa, my darling. i approve your plan heartily, but i will not offer help. this shall be all your own good work." the next morning miss atkinson was told of the new plan. her faded eyes opened twice as widely as usual. she was not sure she heard aright. "do you mean to say miss kathie, that you undertake, with your mamma's full consent, to clothe alice until she is through school?" "that is precisely what i bind myself to do," kathie answered, gravely copying the solemnity of the little dress-maker. "then all i have to say is, bless you, and bless the lord. you never can tell what good you're doing." and then the poor little woman began to cry, just for pure joy; and she sobbed till mamma mason felt her eyes growing misty, and kathie ran away out of the room. be sure that miss atkinson made up kathie's muslin lovingly. it would not be her fault if it were not prettier than any silk. and truly, when christmas eve came and kathie was dressed for aunt jane's party, there could hardly have been a more radiant vision than this white-robed shape with the sunny, soft hair, the gleaming brown eyes, and the wild-rose cheeks, where the color came and went. her father looked her over with all his heart in his eyes, and a tenderness which quivered in his voice, though he tried to speak jestingly. "so there wasn't blue sky enough for any thing but your sash, and you had to take white clouds for the rest." "_just_ that. don't you like the clouds?" he bent and kissed her. "yes, i like the clouds; and i think the sunshine struck through them for somebody." the cousin from boston. we had been friends ever since i could remember, nelly and i. we were just about the same age. our parents were neighbors, in the quiet country town where we both lived. i was an only child; and nelly was an only daughter, with two strong brothers who idolized her. we were always together. we went to the same school, and sat on the same bench, and used the same desk. we learned the same lessons. i had almost said we thought the same thoughts. we certainly loved the same pleasures. we used to go together, in early spring, to hunt the dainty may-flowers from under the sheltering dead leaves, and to find the shy little blue-eyed violets. we went hand in hand into the still summer woods, and gathered the delicate maiden-hair, and the soft mosses, and all the summer wealth of bud and blossom. gay little birds sang to us. the deep blue sky bent over us, and the happy little brooks murmured and frolicked at our feet. in autumn we went nutting and apple gathering. in the winter we slid, and coasted, and snowballed. for every season, there was some special pleasure,--and always nelly and i were together,--always sufficient to each other, for company. we never dreamed that any thing could come between us, or that we could ever learn to live without each other. we were thirteen when nelly's cousin from boston--lill simmonds, her name was--came to see her. it was vacation then, and i had not seen nelly for two days, because it had been raining hard. so i did not know of the expected guest, until one morning nelly's brother tom came over, and told me that his aunt simmonds, from boston, was expected that noon, and with her his cousin lill. "she'll be a nice playmate for you and nelly," he said. "she's only a year older than you two, and she used to have plenty of fun in her. nelly wants you to come over this afternoon, sure." that was the beginning of my feeling hard toward nelly. i was unreasonable, i know, but i thought she might have come to tell me the news, herself. i felt a sort of bitter, shut-out feeling all the forenoon, and after dinner i was half minded not to go over,--to let her have her boston cousin all to herself. my mother heard some of my speeches, but she was wise enough not to interfere. when she saw, at last, that curiosity and inclination had gotten the better of pique and jealousy, she basted a fresh ruffle in the neck of my afternoon dress, and tied a pretty blue ribbon in my hair, and i looked as neat and suitable for the occasion as possible. at least i thought so, until i got to nelly's. she did not watch for my coming, and run to the gate to meet me, as usual. of course it was perfectly natural that she should be entertaining her cousin, but i missed the accustomed greeting; and when she heard my voice at the door, and came out of the parlor to speak to me, i know that if my face reflected my heart, it must have worn a most sullen and unamiable expression. "i'm so glad you've come, sophie," she said cheerfully. "lill is in the parlor. i want you to like her. but you can't help it, i know, she's so lovely; such a beauty." "perhaps i shan't see with your eyes," i answered, with what i imagined to be most cutting coldness and dignity. "oh yes! i guess you will," she laughed. "we have thought alike about most things, all our lives." i followed her into the parlor, and i saw lill. if you are a country girl who read, and have ever been suddenly confronted with a city young lady in the height of fashion, to whom you were expected to make yourself agreeable, you can, perhaps, understand what i felt; particularly if by nature you are not only sensitive, but somewhat vain, as i am sorry to confess i was. i had been used to think myself as well-dressed, and as well-looking as any of my young neighbors; i was neither as well-dressed nor as well-looking as lill simmonds. nelly was right. she was a beauty. she was a little taller than nelly or i,--a slender, graceful creature, with a high-bred air. it was years before they had begun to crimp little girls' hair, but i think lill's must have been crimped. it was a perfect golden cloud about her face and shoulders, and all full of little shining waves and ripples. then what eyes she had--star bright and deep blue and with lashes so long that when they drooped they cast a shadow on the pale pink of her cheeks. her features were all delicate and pure; her hands white, with one or two glittering rings upon them; and her clothes! my own gowns had not seemed to me ill-made before; but now i thought nelly and i both looked as if we had come out of the ark. it was the first of september, and her dress had just been made for fall,--a rich, glossy, blue poplin, with soft lace at throat and wrists, and a pin and some tiny ear jewels of exquisitely cut pink coral. "yes," i thought to myself bitterly, "no wonder nelly was dazzled. _she_ may like to be the contrast, to help miss fine-airs show off; but i object to that character, and i shall keep pretty clear of this house while miss lill is in it." i spoke to her politely enough, i suppose; and she answered me, it might have been either shyly or haughtily: i chose in my then mood to think the latter. decidedly the afternoon was not a success. nelly did her best to make it pleasant; but she and i couldn't go poking about into all sorts of odd places, as we did when we were alone, and we did not know what the boston cousin would like to do; so we put on our company manners and _talked_, and for an illustration of utter dulness and dreariness commend me to a "talk" between three girls in their early teens, who have nothing of the social ease which comes of experience and culture, and where two of them have nothing in common with the other, as regards daily pursuits and habits of life. lill talked a little about burnham's--it was before loring's day--but we had read no novelists but scott and dickens, and we couldn't discuss with her whether it wasn't too bad that gerald married isabel and did not marry margaret. we might have brightened a little over the supper, but then mrs. simmonds, who had been sitting upstairs with nelly's mother, was present,--a stately dame, in rustling silk and gleaming jewels, who overawed me completely. i was glad to go home; but the little root of bitterness i had carried in my heart had grown, until, for the time, it choked out every thing sweet and good. while the boston cousin stayed, i saw little of nelly. i am telling the truth, and i must confess it was my fault. i know now that nelly was unchanged; but, of course, she was very much occupied. whenever i saw her she was so full of lill's praises that i foolishly thought i was nothing to her any more, and lill was every thing. if i had chosen to verify her words, instead of chafe at them, i, too, might have enjoyed lill's grace and beauty, and learned from her a great many things worth knowing. but i took my own course, and if the cup i drank was bitter, it was of my own brewing. at last, one afternoon, nelly came over by herself to see me. i was most ungracious in my welcome. "i don't see how you could tear yourself away from your city company," i said, with that small, hateful sarcasm, which is so often a girl's weapon. "they say self-denial is blest: i hope yours will be." perhaps nelly guessed that my hatefulness had its root in pain; or it may have been that her own heart was too full of something else for her to notice my mood. "lill is going to-morrow," she said, gently. "indeed!" i answered; "i don't know how the town will support the loss of so much beauty and grace. i suppose i shall see more of you then; but i must not be selfish enough to rejoice in the general misfortune." nelly's gentle eyes filled with tears at last. "sophie," she said, "how can you be so unkind, you whom i have loved all my life? i am going, too, with lill, and that is what i came to tell you. ever since she has been here, aunt simmonds has been trying to persuade mother to let me go back for a year's schooling with lill, but it was not decided until last night. mother thought, at first, that i must wait to have my winter things made; but aunt simmonds said she could get them better in boston, and the same woman would make them for me who makes lill's." "indeed! how well dressed you will be!" i said bitterly. "how you will respect yourself!" "sophie, i don't _know_ you," nelly burst out, indignantly. "the hardest of all was to leave you, for we've been together all our lives; but you are making it easy. good-by." she put her arms round me, even then, and kissed me, and i responded coldly. oh how could i, when i loved her so? i watched her out of sight, and then i sank down upon the grass, and laid my head upon a little bench where we had often sat together, and sobbed and cried till i could scarcely see. i was half tempted to go over to nelly's, and ask her to forgive me; but my wicked pride and jealousy wouldn't let me. lill would be there, i thought, and she wouldn't want me while she had lill. so i stayed away. the next morning they all went off. when i heard the car-whistle at the little railroad station a mile and a half away, i began to cry again. then, if it had not been too late, i would have gone and implored my friend to forgive me, and not shut me out of her heart. but the day for repentance was over. the slow months went on. i missed nelly at school, at home, everywhere. i longed for her with an incurable longing. it was to me almost as if she were dead. people wrote many less letters in those days than they do now, and neither nelly nor i had learned to express any thing of our real selves on paper. we exchanged three or four letters, but they amounted to little more than the statement that we were well, and the list of our studies. one look into nelly's eyes would have been worth a thousand such. there were other pleasant girls in town, but i took none of them into nelly's vacant place: how could i? who of them would remember all my past life, as she did,--she who had shared with me so many perfect days of june, so many long, bright summers and melancholy autumns, and winters white with snow? i was, as i have shown you, jealous and hateful and cruel, but never for a moment fickle. at last nelly came again. it was a day in the late june, and she found me just where she had left me, under the old horse-chestnut tree in the great old-fashioned garden. i knew it must be almost time for her coming, but i had not asked any one about it. somehow i couldn't. i very seldom even spoke her name in those days. so she stole upon me unawares, and the first i knew her arms were round me,--her warm, tender lips against my own,--and her sweet, unchanged voice cried,-- "o sophie, this is good, this is coming home, indeed!" i cried like a very child. nell didn't quite understand that; but then she had not had, like me, a hard place in her heart, which needed happy tears to melt it away. i think, in spite of the tears, i was more glad of the meeting even than she. after a little while she said,-- "come, i want you to go home with me now, and see lill." will you believe that even then the old, bitter jealousy began to gnaw again at my heart? she had been with lill almost a year; could she not be content to give me a single hour without her? perhaps she saw my thought in my face; for she added, in such a sad, pitiful tone, "poor lill!" "poor lill," indeed! with her beautiful golden hair, and her eyes like stars, and her lovely gowns, and her city airs, "poor lill!" "i should never think of calling miss simmonds poor," i said, with the old hardness back in my voice. "you will when you see her, now," nelly answered gently. "she had a hard fall on the icy pavement, last winter, and she hurt her hip, and it's been growing worse and worse. she can hardly walk at all, now, and she has suffered awfully. but she has been, oh so patient!" and how i had dared to envy that girl! i was shocked and silenced. i walked along by nelly's side very quietly. when we got there she took me up into her room, and there i saw lill simmonds. i should hardly have known her. the golden glory of hair floated about her still. the eyes were star-bright yet, but the cheeks which the long lashes shaded were pink no longer, and they were so thin and hollow that it was pitiful to see them. she wore a wrapper of some soft blue stuff, and on her lap lay her frail, transparent hands. she started up to meet us with a smile which for a moment gave back some of the old brightness to her face, but which faded almost instantly. i sat down beside the lounging-chair where she was lying, but i could not talk to her. the sight of her wasted loveliness was all too sad. after a little while she said to nelly,-- "won't you, you are always so good to me, go and fetch me a glass of the cool water from the spring at the foot of the garden?" nelly went instantly, and then lill turned to me and put her hand on my arm. "i asked her to go, sophie," she said, "because i wanted to speak to you. i wanted to say something to you which it would hurt her to hear. i used to be very jealous of you, sophie. i wanted nelly to love me best, but she never did. she had loved you so long that i could see you were always first in her heart. and now i am glad. i shall never be well again, and when i am gone i would not like nelly to be so unhappy as she would be if she had loved me first and best. she will miss me, and she will be very sorry for me; but she will have you, and you can comfort her. i am ashamed now of that old jealousy. i think it made me not nice to you last summer." lill jealous of me! i was dumb with sheer amazement. and i, how much bitterness and injustice i had to confess! but before i could put it into words nelly had come back, and a look from lill kept me silent. that night, when i went away, i put my arms round my darling and kissed her with my whole heart, as i had not done for a year. she never knew how much went into that kiss, of sorrow and shame and self-reproach. what months those were which followed! i was constantly with nelly and her cousin. mrs. simmonds was there, but lill spent most of her day-time hours with us girls; to spare her mother, probably, who was with her every night, and also because she loved us both. sometimes, on fine days, she would walk a little under the trees; and i have knelt unseen, in a passion of loving humility, and kissed the grass over which she had dragged after her her helpless foot. growing near to death, she grew in grace. as nelly said, one day,-- "her wings are growing. she will fly away with them soon." and so she did. through the summer she lingered, suffering much at times, but always patient and gentle and uncomplaining. and when the dead leaves of autumn went fluttering down the wind, she died with the dead summer, and upborne on the wings of some messenger of god her soul went home. even her mother hardly dared mourn for her,--her life had been so pure and so peaceful,--her death was so tranquil and so happy. i had ceased, long before, to be jealous of her. no one could love her too much. she was my saint; and her memory has hallowed many a thought during the long, world-weary years since. i need but to close my eyes to see a pale, patient face, with its glory of golden hair and its eyes bright as stars; and often, on some soft wind, i seem to hear her voice, speaking again the last words i ever heard her speak,-- "love each other always, my darlings, and remember i loved you both." we have obeyed her faithfully, nelly and i. through the long years since, no coldness or estrangement has ever come between us. my first and last jealousy was buried in lill's grave; and nelly and i have proved, to our own satisfaction at least, that a friendship between two girls may be strong as it is sweet, faithful as it is fond,--the inalienable riches of a whole life. missy. miss hurlburt had wandered farther into the woods than was her habit, beguiled by the wonderful loveliness overhead, underfoot, all about her. it was an afternoon in early october, but warm as june. the leaves were of a thousand brilliant hues; for one or two nights of keen frost, a week before, had seemed to set them on fire. there were boughs as scarlet as the burning bush before which moses wondered and worshipped. there were others of deep orange; and others, still, of variegated leaves, where the green lingered and was mixed with scarlet and brown and yellow, till some of them looked like patterns in a kaleidoscope. underfoot was the delicate, fresh woodland moss. sometimes pine needles made the path soft; and sometimes, leaves, which had died earlier than their mates, rustled under miss hurlburt's tread. above, high over the flaming tree boughs, was the deep, lustrous, blue sky, with all its heavenly secrets. the air was full of that wonderful, radiant haze of autumn which makes the distance vague with beauty. and the temperature, as i said, was of june; so warm that miss hurlburt had taken off her hat, and let the scarlet mantle fall from her shoulders. she herself, had a painter been there to study the scene, would have been no unworthy wood nymph. her figure was full, but not too full for grace. health and strength were in every line of it. her fine, abundant hair, like that of which lowell wrote, "outwardly brown, but inwardly golden," was brushed back from her low, broad forehead, and coiled in a great heavy knot, from which a stray curl or two had escaped, at the back of her proud little head. she had great brown eyes, full of thought and feeling; cheeks, in which the rich, warm color glowed; bright, full, half-parted lips. she carried herself with grace, regal though unstudied. she never consciously remembered that she was eleanor hurlburt,--whose father owned the two great factories in the valley, and all the lands far and near, even these royal woods through which she walked,--but, unconsciously to herself, the fact gave firmness and elasticity to her step, and self-possession to her air. she very seldom wandered alone so far away from home. the factory hands were a necessary part of the great wealth which surrounded miss hurlburt's life with ease and luxury; but some of them might not be altogether pleasant to meet in lonely places,--so she usually was driven out in the elegant victoria, with the spanking bays which were her father's pride, by the decorous family coachman; or drove herself in her jaunty little pony phaeton, with her own man, all bands and buttons, seated in the rumble behind. but to-day it happened that she was walking. i said "it happened," because we speak in that way before we think; though nothing is farther from my belief than that any thing ever _happens_ in this world which god has made, and in which he never loses sight of the smallest or poorest thing. at any rate, miss hurlburt was walking, and she wandered on, until at last she heard a tender little voice singing a tender little song. it was so fine and clear, it might almost have been the carol of a bird, only birds have not yet learned the english language, and _this_ voice sang: "your brother has a falcon, your sister has a flower; but what is left for manikin, born within an hour? "i'll nurse you on my knee, my knee, my own little son; i'll rock you, rock you in my arms, my least little one." such a quaint little song, such a quaint little voice! miss hurlburt wondered for a moment who it could possibly be. then she remembered hearing that, while she was away in the summer, an elderly english woman and a little girl had been allowed to take possession of the cabin in the woods which her father owned. it was a little house with two rooms, which had been built, long ago, as a lodge for hunters; but which had for several years stood vacant, being too far from the factories to be a convenient residence for any of the hands. miss hurlburt went on a few steps farther, and saw the singer. it was a pretty picture. a little creature, who looked about five or six years old, sat in the door-way tending a battered doll. she was almost as brown as a gypsy, this small waif, but there was a singular grace about her. her black hair hung in thick, short curls. she had great, bright, black eyes; lips as red as strawberries; and teeth as white as pearls. miss hurlburt moved on softly, so as not to disturb her; and the waif took up her doll, and talked to it wisely and soberly, after the manner of some mothers. "now, pinky, me love, i have singed you a song. now you must be good for a whole week of hours, or i shan't sing to you, never no more. i mean any more, pinky. be very careful how you speak, always; no good children ever go wrong in their talking." by this time miss hurlburt had almost reached her side. "does your child give you much trouble?" she said, in a tone friendly and inviting confidence. the mite shook her head, with all its black curls. "pinky, me love? no; she only gives me trouble when she is bad. she is good most always, unless it rains." "is she bad then?" with an air of anxious interest. "certain she is: who wouldn't be? she has to stay in the house then; and she doesn't like it. would you? how can persons be good when they don't have what they want?" by this time a nice, motherly-looking old english woman had heard the talk, and came forward to the door. "missy," she said, "always thinks pinky is bad when she is bad herself; and missy is most always cross when it rains." "what is your name?" miss hurlburt asked, bending to smooth the black curls. "berenice ashford," the child answered, in a slow, painstaking manner, as if the words had been taught her with care; "but they don't call me that,--they call me 'missy.'" "is she your grandchild?" was the next question, addressed to the elderly woman, who had set a chair near the door and asked the young lady to sit down. "no, that she isn't, and i would like much to find out whose child she is. to be sure, i should miss her more than a little, if i had to part with her: but, all the same, i should like to find her kindred. she belongs to gentle-folks, and i can't do for her what ought to be done." a few more questions drew out the whole story. the woman, mrs. smith, had a son in america, who was doing well at his trade of dyeing; and he had sent for her to come out to him. he had sent money enough for her expenses, and she had taken passage in the second cabin of a steamer. among her fellow-passengers were missy and her mother,--the latter a beautiful young lady, mrs. smith said, but very pale and sad. she had complained sometimes of a keen and terrible pain in her heart; but she had made little conversation with any one. when they were five days out, she had been found in the morning dead in her berth, with missy sound asleep beside her. there was no possible clew to her history. in her trunk, full of her own clothes and missy's, was no scrap of handwriting, no address. the one or two books which were there, bore on their fly-leaves only the inscription "e. forsyth." she had taken passage as mrs. forsyth, but the captain knew nothing more about her. mrs. smith had somehow taken possession of missy. she had played with the child and amused her a good deal, before her mother died; and now the little creature clung to her as her only friend. there was something over a hundred dollars in the mother's trunk, but as yet mrs. smith said she had not used it. when she reached new york, instead of being met by her son, an old neighbor came for her to the steamer, brought her the news of his death, and gave her the money--nearly a thousand dollars in all--which he had been saving to make the new home they were to have together comfortable. it was an awful blow, and she clung to missy, then, for it seemed as if the child was all she had left in the world. the captain said that he would advertise for the little one's friends; but, meantime, he was evidently very glad to be relieved of the responsibility of her. "how happened you to come here?" miss hurlburt asked. "i had always lived in the country, miss, and i didn't want to stay any longer than i could help in new york; and my son had been meaning to bring me here. it seemed a little comfort, to come where i should have come with him. he had engaged with mr. hurlburt--the one who owns the big factories--to come here and see to the dyeing; and mr. hurlburt was so good as to give me this little house rent-free, for a while. by and by i want to get something to do. if i could be housekeeper somewhere where i could keep missy, or head-nurse, or something of that sort, it would suit me,--but there's no hurry." "mr. hurlburt is my father," the young lady said, when she had heard the story through. "we must see what can be done. missy, should you like to live with me?" the child considered. then she addressed her doll, inquiringly. "pinky, me love, should _you_ like to live with the lady? i guess she's good. would you go, if your mother went?" then she pretended to listen. "'no, i thank you,' pinky says; 'she couldn't go without grandma smith.'" "of course pinky couldn't," miss hurlburt said, laughing. "well, then, i'll come again to see you, and bring pinky's new gown." that evening, at dinner, miss hurlburt was radiant. she knew her father liked to see her well dressed, and she made a handsome toilet. she coaxed him into his very best humor by all the arts only daughters of widowed fathers are wont to use; and then, when he was seated comfortably before the open fire, which tempered the chill of the october evening, she unfolded her plan and her wishes. the beginning and the end were that she wanted missy,--she must have missy,--and the middle was that she couldn't be so cruel as to take from mrs. smith her one comfort, so she wanted mrs. smith. she represented herself as fearfully overworked, in keeping the establishment in order. now how nice it would be if mrs. smith could take all the troublesome details of that off her hands; could see that the house was clean, and the washing well done, and the buttons on. she had needed just such a person a long time, but she hadn't known where to find her; and now here she was, really made to order, as it seemed. of course she had her way. the world called jonathan hurlburt a stern man, but it was not often he could say "no" to his motherless daughter. the very next day miss hurlburt went with her proposition to the little cabin in the wood; and, before a week was over, missy and grandma smith were duly installed as members of the hurlburt household. as for the business part of the experiment, mrs. smith proved worth her weight in gold, as they say. before three months were over, mr. hurlburt discovered that she saved him five times her wages in money, and added immeasurably to the household comfort,--indeed, he concluded that she was, as eleanor had said, really made to order. as for missy, with her quaint ways, her odd, old-fashioned speeches, and the little songs she sang, she was speedily the delight of the household. she lost no whit of her affection for grandma smith, but it was miss hurlburt who was her idol. "pinky, me love," she used often to say to her faithful doll friend, "did you ever see any miss so nice as our miss hurlburt? you had better not say you did, pinky, me love; because then it would be me very sorrowful duty to whip you for telling lies." miss hurlburt's delight in her little waif was unbounded. she dressed her up, like a child in a story-book. when she drove in her victoria, missy always sat beside her, gorgeous in velvet suit and soft ermine furs; and at home missy was never far away. before spring, another strange event took place. i will not say happened, for no chapter of accidents would ever have read so strangely. a young english manufacturer came over to america. mr. hurlburt had had, by letter, various dealings with the firm which he represented; and, on hearing of his arrival in new york, wrote, begging a visit of some length from him. the young man, whose object in his american journey was partly business and partly pleasure, saw an opportunity to combine both in this visit, and accepted the invitation. he amused himself more or less with missy, as did every one who came to the house; but he had been a member of the household for several days before it occurred to him that she was not miss hurlburt's young sister. under this impression he remarked one night,-- "how curiously slight is the resemblance between yourself and your little sister, miss hurlburt!" "oh! missy is not my sister," was the smiling answer. "she is treasure-trove, mr. goring." and a little later, when missy had danced away in search of pinky, she told him the whole story. he listened with intense interest. "and do you know her name?" he asked, at last. "she says it is berenice ashford. you would laugh to hear the slow, painstaking way in which she pronounces it." mr. goring had turned pale as she spoke. "excuse me, miss hurlburt, but i truly believe your missy is my niece. my half-brother married against the wishes of his family, and i was the only one of them who ever made the acquaintance of his poor, pretty young wife. even when he died, last year, the rest would not have any thing to do with her. she had a brother in america, and she wanted to come here, so i took passage for her in the "asia." she insisted on coming in the second cabin, because it was quieter, she said; but i think it was to save expense, as well. tom had left her nothing; and, after the rest of the family had rejected her, i could see that it hurt her pride cruelly to let me help her. she should be all right, she said, when she reached her brother. she was to write me when she got there, but i have never heard a word. i confess that the hope to hear of her was one motive for my coming to this country." "but she was mrs. forsyth," miss hurlburt said, in a curiously bewildered state of mind. "certainly: forsyth was my brother's name. berenice ashford is the child's christian name. it was the name of tom's mother and mine." "but i wonder you did not know missy at once." "of course to find her here was the very last thing i could have expected. then i had not seen her for two or three years. i had communicated with my sister-in-law chiefly by letter; and it was my man of business, and not myself, who put her on board the steamer." "but her brother? why has he never looked for his sister nor her child?" goring smiled. "you are bent on making me prove my title to missy, as one does to stolen goods. i think mrs. forsyth must have gone on without writing to him in what steamer she was coming, and he probably did not know my address. nor do i think he had ever shown any especial interest in his sister. it was only her indomitable pride which made her so determined to go to him, when the family of her husband rejected her. now, i think, i have proved property, and i'm ready to pay the cost of advertising." just then missy's voice was heard in the hall, addressing a solemn exhortation to "pinky, me love," on the duty of never being greedy at table. miss hurlburt called her in. "missy," she said, "what was your papa's name?" "i never knew; did you ever know, pinky, me love? mamma called him tom." "and did you ever hear mamma speak of uncle richard?" mr. goring broke in, eagerly. "you do remember, pinky, me love. it is wicked to look as if you didn't. she said we couldn't go to america and find uncle john, if uncle richard had not given us the money. _i_ remember that, but i had 'most forgotten; so if you forgot, too, i shall not whip you, pinky, me love." "i am your uncle richard," the englishman said with entire calmness of manner and gesture, but with tears in his voice and his eyes. perhaps he expected the child to come at once to his arms; but she stood there, the same composed, self-poised little mite as ever. "_your_ great-uncle, pinky, me love," she announced,--manifesting an unexpectedly clear knowledge of degrees of kinship. "i think maybe we shall like him." "and you will go with me back to england?" he asked, eagerly; for the little creature's likeness to his dead brother stirred his heart. "does _she_ say i must?" missy asked, shyly, looking at miss hurlburt. "i will never say you must, missy." "then, please, uncle richard, i am afraid going in a ship wouldn't agree with pinky; and we'd rather stay here, unless our miss hurlburt will go too." "soh, soh!" and mr. goring smiled a quizzical smile, "i see i have a heart to storm." whose heart he did not say. but he lingered some time in america, coming back at frequent intervals to visit missy, as he said. the result was that when he returned to england little missy had become ready to go with him, even at the risk of exposing "pinky me love," to the perils of the sea; and miss hurlburt, thinking she needed something other than masculine oversight, concluded to go with her and take care of her, having first changed her own name to mrs. goring. and they all said what a fortunate thing it was that mrs. smith was there to keep house. the head boy of eagleheight school. the boys in eagleheight school made up their minds before the first fortnight of max grenoble's stay among them was over that he had no spirit. the truth was, they didn't exactly understand him. they began when he first came to exercise upon him their usual arts of torture,--the initiation ceremonies for all new boys,--and found him practically a non-resistant. they could not, indeed, be quite sure that they even succeeded in vexing him: he was so imperturbable. at last hal somers, goaded to a degree of exasperation by the quiet calmness of the new boy, struck him, with the outcry,-- "there, boys, see how this suits the quaker." it was a sound, ringing blow; but max only laughed a laugh which had a good deal of scorn in it, and said,-- "that's very little to take." then regarding hal curiously, "i looked for a tougher blow than that. to see you, somers, one would think you had a good deal of strength in your arms; but a bad cause is always weak." hal would have liked then to "pitch into him" with whatever of strength he had; but i think he was afraid. so he only turned on his heel, muttered something about a fellow not worth fighting with, and walked away. from that time those who did not vote max grenoble a coward pronounced him a mystery. he did not look at all as if he were wanting in spirit. he was a great strong saxon of a fellow, with the head of a young greek, covered with thick, short golden curls. i wish i could photograph him for you: he was such an embodiment of fresh, vigorous life, with his clear, fearless blue eyes, his short, smiling upper lip, his well-cut features. he was just the fellow to be popular, if only he had not been misunderstood in the first place, and especially if he had not happened to incur hal somers's enmity. hal had been there two years, and was a positive force in the school. he had a large capacity in several other directions besides mischief. he had been the best scholar at eagleheight before max came to dispute his laurels with him; a favorite, therefore, with the teachers, who always passed over his escapades, which were not few, as lightly as they could. in fact he was a sort of ringleader of the faster boys, and he found time, in spite of his never failing in class, to plan out and head the execution of most of the jollifications which were the terror of the quiet villagers around eagleheight. he seldom had any of his offences positively brought home and proven, it is true, and the faculty of the institution liked him too well to condemn him on suspicion, or even to try very hard to strengthen suspicion into certainty. they, the aforesaid faculty, were not at all too ready to give max grenoble his due when he first came. he was not, like hal, of their own training. he had come to them from a rival school, and they were secretly ill pleased to find in him a dangerous competitor with their best scholar. but before six months were over they were obliged to recognize his claims, and had even come to heartily like him. and, indeed, he was a fellow, as edmund sparkler would have said, with no nonsense about him, and likely to make his own way anywhere. whenever he had the opportunity to show his skill he was found to excel in all athletic sports; but this was not often, for the boys rather shunned him, and if there were enough for an undertaking without him he was usually left out of it. he had one friend, however,--a poor little weakling of a fellow, named molyneux bell, who had been friendless before max came. hal somers and his roystering set had always shoved poor little "miss molly," as they called young bell, to the wall; and it opened paradise to him when great, strong, bright, cheery max grenoble took him under his protecting wing. he gave as much as he received too; for max had a strongly affectionate nature, and would have found himself desolate enough without some one to be fond of. only "miss molly" knew the secret of his friend's non-resistance. one day max had carried him in his arms across a stream they came to in one of their walks, and set him gently down on the other side. molyneux looked up gratefully. "what great strong arms you have, max! why, you carry me as gently as a cradle. i believe you could whip hal somers himself, just as easy as nothing. honest, now, don't you think you could? o, i _wish_ you would! the boys wouldn't dare then to call us 'miss molly and her sister.'" max laughed heartily. "i shouldn't be much afraid to try it," he said. "the truth is, i have been awfully tempted to pitch in, sometimes. but last year i made up my mind that the bible meant what it said when it forbade us to return evil for evil and railing for railing. it comes tough on human nature, though, boy human nature at any rate; but there'd be no merit if there was no struggle, and we're put here to fight with the old man in us, as my father calls it." "but if you'd tell 'em _why_ you never knock a fellow down when he sauces you." max's face crimsoned like a girl's. "don't you understand that a fellow _couldn't_ tell such things? at least, i couldn't. i should feel like the pharisee in the bible." at the end of the school year there was to be a competitive examination. the credits for conduct and for recitations were to be taken into account, and the boy who stood highest on the books, and passed the best examination also, was to be the head boy of the school for the next year. from the first the field was abandoned to two competitors,--hal somers and max grenoble. all hal's emulation was aroused. he _would_ succeed. he even forsook his old ways, and for weeks together engaged in nothing that was contraband. he had really fine abilities. he learned some things more readily than max himself, and he felt that all his prestige depended on his securing this leadership. max took the matter more coolly, but still he worked with all diligence. and so, till within ten days of the examination, they were neck and neck. just then there came a dark night,--a warm, tempting june night,--when the moon was old, and only the stars shone, like very far-away lamps indeed, through the dusk. a friend of hal somers was night monitor, and doubtless the temptation afforded by such apparent security was too much for mischief-loving hal. it chanced that max grenoble had received permission from one of the tutors to go to the neighboring village of an errand, and this fact was known only to his own room-mate, molyneux bell. about half-past nine he was returning, and for greater speed crossed a lot belonging to the president of the institution, which saved him an extra quarter of a mile of road. half way across the lot he met hal somers with three other boys behind him, face to face. hal carried a small lantern, and a great pair of shears such as are used to shear sheep. the light from the lantern struck upon the shears with a glitter which led max to notice them. in the hands of one of hal's followers he saw the long, silvery tail of a white horse, and another carried a bunch of hair of a similar hue, evidently the mane of the same animal. "hal somers!" he spoke in his first moment of surprise, without consideration; but there came no answer. the lantern was blown out in a moment, and the boys made the best of their way toward eagleheight. as max walked on more slowly he heard a pitiful neigh, and following the sound, he found president king's pet horse, utterly denuded of mane and tail. it was a joke carried a little too far even for hal somers's effrontery, he thought to himself. if there was any thing outside of his school that president king loved and prided himself on more than another, it was snowflake. he gave her something of the fond care a family man bestows upon his children. every afternoon she was the companion of his solitude, to whom he talked, with a sort of grave humor of his own, as he took his constitutional upon her back. he would not be likely to have much toleration for the young rascals who had shorn her of all her glory. max went on, reported himself to professor vane, from whom he had obtained his leave of absence, and went to bed without hinting what he had seen, even to his room-mate. the next morning when the school went to chapel, there was a sense of thunder in the air. president king had seen his favorite, as those who were guilty did not need to be told, after one look at his lowering face. he conducted the devotions with more than his usual solemnity, and then detained the school a little longer. he uttered a few withering sentences, setting forth what had been done, and commenting satirically upon the invention, the gentlemanliness, the good sense of young men whose brains could originate nothing more brilliant or entertaining than the disfigurement of an unlucky quadruped, and an annoyance and insult to a teacher who had at least this claim upon their respect, that their parents had put them under his charge. then he gave them the opportunity to confess their folly, assuring them that confession was good for the soul, and adding that he should take it as a favor if any one who knew any thing of the affair, whether personally concerned in it or not, would give him all the information in his power. it was not the practice at eagleheight to ask any individual boy whether or not he had been guilty. it was one of president king's notions that to ask such a question of any one who had not manliness enough to confess his fault voluntarily was only leading him into temptation, offering safety as a premium for lying. as the fellows filed out of chapel, hal somers said to his chum,-- "it's all up with me about the leadership. of course grenoble will tell, especially now the prex makes a merit of it." "fool if he wouldn't," was the reply, "after the way we fellows have all treated him, too." all day hal was in hourly expectation of being sent for to an interview solemn and awful in the president's room. but the hours went on and no summons came. about four o'clock he saw max grenoble go into the dreaded chamber of audience. now, he thought, all would come out. of course max had gone to tell all he knew. would he be suspended, or expelled, he wondered, or would the prex be satisfied with giving him black marks enough to put the leadership altogether beyond his reach? then a plan came to him. the president's room was on the lower floor, and over one of its windows grew a grape vine large enough to conceal him from observation. he would go there and listen. that it was a very mean thing to do he knew as well as any body, but temptation was too strong for him, and giving one look to make sure that he was not observed he hid himself away under the open window. the first words he heard were in the voice of the president: "as soon as vane told me you were out last evening, it occurred to me that you would know who was at the bottom of the affair, and it seems you do." "yes, sir," firmly and quietly. "then there can be no possible doubt that it is your duty to tell." "it cannot be my duty, sir, to be a sneak. this secret came into my hands by accident. if i had been monitor for the evening, it would, of course, be my duty to make it known. not having been in any such capacity, _i_ think were i to turn telltale i should be no gentleman." "it's a new order of things when fifty must come to fifteen to be told what it is to be a gentleman," the president said, hotly. "perhaps you don't know, sir, that if you persist in your resolution you lose all hope of the leadership? you will be considered an accessory in the crime, and you will lose as many credit marks as would be taken from the ringleader were he detected." "i can afford to lose those better than my own self-respect," max said, stoutly, and then added, "i think _you_ would have done the same, president king, when you were at my age." hal waited to hear no more, but edged cautiously from his place of concealment. he thought he was not above profiting by max's generosity. he tried to think max was a fool, but there was an inner voice in his heart which whispered that there was something sublime in such folly, and, try as he might, this inner voice would not altogether be silenced. the days went on swiftly. max kept his scholarship up to the highest standard, but the twenty credit marks taken from his list put all hope of his attaining the leadership out of the question. it was the very night before the examination when president king answered a tap on his door with his well known, resonant "come in." his visitor was hal somers. the next morning, after prayers, the president said, very quietly,-- "young gentlemen, before the examination commences i have to detain you long enough to perform a simple act of justice. i acquit max grenoble of all complicity in the misdemeanor committed on the night of the th of june; the entire burden of the same having been assumed by henry somers, in behalf of himself, william graves, george saunders, and john morse. and as this confession was voluntary, i shall visit upon the offenders no severer penalty than the loss of all their credit marks for the last quarter." poor little molyneux bell forgot time and place, and threw his handkerchief into the air with one glad shout:-- "i knew max would come out right at last; i knew he would." so max went back the next year to eagleheight, as the head boy; and under his leadership a new state of affairs was brought about. he led them not only in class, and in athletic exercises, but in all true manliness. they had found out at length that he had plenty of "pluck and grit," even though he might not emulate sayers or heenan. one of his warmest friends was hal somers, in whose character enough nobility was latent to recognize at last the sterling worth even of his rival. agatha's lonely days. they had buried agatha's mother,--put her away under a sheltering tree, beloved of bird and breeze, which waved its boughs between her and the bending, changeful summer sky. agatha thought no other spot in the world could be so pleasant or so dear; and she longed, from the depths of her little, ten-years-old heart, to stay there with bird, and breeze, and tree, and the buried mother, who must hear her voice, she thought, even though she could never reply to it again in all the years. her father, pale with sorrow himself, had never come near enough to his child to be her comforter now. he talked little to any one of either his joys or his sorrows. agatha loved him, partly because she had always been taught to love and have faith in him; and, partly, too, because she knew well, with that childish and intuitive perception which discovers every thing, how dear he was to her mother; but she did not feel near to him, and she could not possibly have told him how she longed to stay there beside that grave. she made no protest when he took her hand to lead her away, though it seemed to her that she left her heart behind her, and that the lump in her breast was a cold stone to which warmth would never come back any more. she went home, and some one took off her little black hat, and put on an apron over her mourning gown, and then she was left in peace to sit at the window, and look out toward the spot where they had laid her mother, and wonder what was to become of _her_. they called her to supper, but she was not hungry,--she thought she never should be again,--and there was no mother to beguile her with dainty morsels. when they found she did not want to come they let her alone, and still she sat there and wondered. at last the twilight fell, and in the dusk her father came to her. he loved her very dearly; and especially now, that her mother was gone, and only she was left to him, he felt for her an unspeakable tenderness; literally unspeakable, for he did not know how to utter one word of it to his child. he longed to comfort her,--to tell her how dear she was to him,--but he could not. he sat down beside her, and looked at her little pale face, outlined against the western window, with such a depth of pity that it seemed to make his voice quieter and colder than ever when he spoke, because it required such an effort to speak at all. "to-morrow, agatha, i shall take you to your aunt irene. every girl needs a woman's care, and she will watch over you as faithfully as if you were her own." agatha never dreamed of objecting. she tried to think that she might as well be in one place as another, for she shouldn't live long anywhere without her mother. but she dreaded aunt irene's watching, as she dreaded few things in the world. she had made visits now and then at the quiet old homestead of which this aunt was mistress, and it seemed to her, on such occasions, that aunt irene did nothing but watch her from the time she entered the house; and in those days it had taken all the sunshine of her mother's joyous nature to gild the visits into some substitute for the pleasures other children took in their vacations. now, to go without her mother--all alone--and be "watched over" by her aunt! she began to know that she had a heart, after all, by its frightened fluttering. aunt irene was her father's sister, with all the raymond peculiarities of pride, and reserve, and silence, which made him half a stranger to his own child, intensified in her by her life of seclusion and of absolute authority over herself and her possessions. her experiences had been narrow, and her aims had been narrow also. mr. raymond saw this, his one sister, always at her best; and, through long knowledge of her, he understood her really trustworthy and excellent qualities. he felt that he was doing for agatha the best which fate now permitted him to do, in confiding her to this guidance, so sure to be wise, as he believed, even if not loving. the long car-ride next day was almost a silent one. agatha would have rejected with hot juvenile scorn, the idea that the presence or absence of any material comforts could affect her grief; and yet she would have felt a little less desolate, i think, if the heat had not been so intense, the dust so choking, and the seat so hard and straight. when she had made the journey in other years with her mother, how much shorter the way had seemed. the fresh linen frocks she used to wear were so much easier and cooler than the stifling black gown she had on to-day; and somehow her mother knew just when to open the windows and when to shut them, and if the seat was straight and hard, there was always mamma's lap or shoulder to lean against; and she forgot to be weary when mamma beguiled the time by poem or story. but her father rode silently, looking into vacancy for a face he would never see again; and after he had once bought agatha's ticket, and seated her beside him, it did not occur to him to do any thing to relieve the monotony of the long, dusty ride. it was dusk when the stage from the railway station set them down at aunt irene's door. agatha walked up the path timidly. it was a long, straight path, and either side of it grew thoroughly well-disciplined flowers; a rosebush on one side, just opposite to a rosebush on the other,--agatha wondered if either of them would have dared to bear one rose more than the other did,--a peony on one side and its mate opposite; so of a syringa bush, a flowering almond, and a root of lilies. between the well-marshalled ranks of flowers, which somehow made the child think of soldiers on guard, she followed her father up to the door, where aunt irene waited, grim chatelaine. mr. raymond shook hands with his sister, and then said gravely,-- "irene, i have brought you my poor, motherless little girl," and aunt irene put out her firm, strong, unyielding hand and took the child's into it, then bent and--not kissed her, kisses belonged to the dead days--but laid her lips on her cheek, and so agatha went in. every thing was good and substantial in aunt irene's house. you found there no frail stands which a careless touch might throw over, no brittle ornaments, no egg-shell china. the carpets were dark and rich and sombre. the tables and chairs were all of solid wood, and stood high and square. the sofas were heavy and firm, and the whole air of the place was grave and respectable, as aunt irene's surroundings should have been. i am not sure that any light, modern, fancy articles, suggestive of elegant idleness, had they been placed in her rooms, would not themselves have perceived their unsuitableness, and trundled off on their own castors. the supper which awaited the travellers followed the prevailing fashion of the house. the biscuits were three times as large as the biscuits on other tea-tables. there were no frisky rolls, no light-minded whips or wafers. but there were good old-fashioned preserve, serious-looking cake, and substantial slices of cold meat. aunt irene herself, sitting behind the tea-urn--solid silver, of course--comported with all the rest. she was a solid woman, with no superfluous flesh, and yet with a well-fed, well-to-do aspect, which was unmistakable. her head was high and narrow, her features good, her strong hair had disdained to turn gray, and her eyes were keen if cold. her lips, which had never cooed over babies, or soothed the sorrows of little children, or talked nonsense to any listener, were thin, as to such seldom-used lips seemed natural. they shut tightly over all her secrets. agatha's head began to ache furiously, and she could not eat. the room swam round and round till she felt as if she were the centre of a rolling ball, and her chair rocked, she thought, and she was slipping off it, when her father saw her white, strange face and wavering figure, and sprang up just in time to catch her in his arms. "she is sick, irene," he said. "where is her room? let me carry her there." while he went upstairs with her she revived, and lifted her tired head from his shoulder to look into his eyes. "i wish you were not going away, papa," she ventured to say. "i can't stay on in the old places, where i have lived with your mother, without her," was the answer which came, and which was like giving her a key wherewith to unlock her father's heart, and so made the two nearer to each other than they had ever been before. "some time will you come back, and let me live with you?" she whispered, wondering at her own rashness. "if you are good, dear, and learn to be womanly and helpful, and to take care of yourself, i will come back for you, or you shall come to me, and we will be together always." no one knew with what passionate yet timid hope agatha's little heart beat as she lay there alone on her strange, high bed. womanly and helpful,--that was what he had said, and she would be just that. she would do all aunt irene said, and never mind how much she was watched, since watching might help to make her nearer right, and get her ready all the sooner to go to her father and be his comfort. the very next day he left her. the death of his wife had seemed to sweep away all his old landmarks. he had been, hitherto, a quiet unadventurous man contented with his narrow routine of daily duty, which always brought him back to the tenderness of her welcoming smile. now that smile was frozen for ever on her cold lips, and a strange restlessness possessed him. he had meant to stay a few days with agatha in her new home, but he felt as if the inaction would drive him mad, so he hurried away; and a week afterward aunt irene showed agatha his name in the passenger list of a european steamer. it was june then, and the gay summer went on working its daily miracles round agatha's quiet home. bright birds sang to her, and gay flowers bloomed for her picking; and nature ran riot in a wood a quarter of a mile away, where the flowers asked no leave of aunt irene to blow, or the birds to sing. the child used to go there when her daily tasks were done, but she carried with her so sad a heart that nothing seemed to cheer her. she wondered what all the growing things were so glad about, in the summer weather, and, remembering an old phrase she had heard, she concluded it was because nature was their mother, and nature never died. "oh, mother nature, i wish you were a relative of mine!" she used to cry, sometimes, with unconscious quaintness; but before the summer was over, leaning her head so much on the mosses, a sense of kinship began to thrill in her pulses, and before she knew it the pain in her heart was eased a little, and she began to think of her mother, not as buried up and hidden away from her, but as near to her and waiting for her. meantime she never forgot her father's words,--"womanly and helpful,"--they were the keynote of her life. aunt irene wondered at her. she had thought her a mischievous little elf in the old days, but there was no mischief in her now. she herself respected no more religiously the rules of the household than did this little quiet child. as for trouble, why the creature gave none,--she was learning to do every thing for herself. at last even aunt irene grew half frightened at this still patience, which she felt must be unnatural to childhood. she began to wish that she could hear agatha laugh or shout,--that sometimes the child would tear her gowns, when she had on her oldest ones, at least,--that she would show some self-will, some little trace of her descent from apple-eating adam of the old time. she wrote to her brother how good and quiet his little girl was; but her heart misgave her. she did not know what more she could do to make her small inmate comfortable, but she had a vague sense that agatha was living an unchildlike life, and was less happy than in the old days when the little girl and her mother came there together. mother nature has her own methods of exacting compensation, and for agatha's overstrained and unnatural life pay-day came in the autumn. it had grown too cold to lie with her ear on the mosses, listening to the earth's pulse-beats, and the child sat quietly within doors, until one day she turned very pale and rolled off her stiff, straight chair to the carpet, and aunt irene picked her up, a lighter weight now than in the spring-time, and carried her to her room. dr. greene was sent for at once, and he looked at his little patient very gravely, and then whispered "typhoid" to her aunt. aunt irene wrote a hurried line to agatha's father, and then took up her post at the bedside, which for five weeks she scarcely left. she had a heart, only long ago she had concluded it was an inconvenience and locked it up; but now it broke loose from its confinement and half frightened her by its throbbings. her brother was very dear to her. she had loved him all his life, after the deep, silent, undemonstrative fashion of those who love but few; and now if this fresh grief was to come upon him how could she bear to see him suffer? but she did not allow these thoughts to interfere with her usefulness at agatha's bedside. day and night she watched over the child, who never once knew her, but who constantly mistook her for her mother, and clung to her passionately in the delirium of her fever. "o mother!" she would say, "i thought i never, never should see you again. no one was cross to me, mamma darling; but no one loved me since you went away. i've been trying to grow womanly and helpful, so papa would be glad to have me with him by and by; but now you've come and you'll love me whether i'm good or not." then again she seemed roaming through the woods. "hark," she would say, "hear how the birds sing, and see the gay flowers swing in the wind! their mother doesn't die, and they have no aunts. o birdies! you don't know how cold aunt irene's lips are." and aunt irene, listening, bent over the bed with tears blinding her eyes. had her life been all a failure? she asked herself. she had tried to do her duty: was it all nothing, because she hadn't loved? oh! if agatha would but get well she would find some way to make her happy. before the crisis of the child's fever came, her father had arrived. the letter found him in paris, and he had set out in twenty-four hours upon his homeward journey. "is she alive?" he asked, when his sister met him at the door, and started back, shocked by his haggard face. "yes, she lives, and the doctor says her fever must turn soon. come and see her." the little flushed face had never been so beautiful in its brightest days of health and joy, as now, with the clustering rings of hair framing in scarlet cheeks and large, strangely brilliant eyes. the father's heart almost broke as he stood there, unable to make her recognize his presence. while he watched, she said what she had said so often during the hours of that wasting sickness,-- "i have tried to be womanly and helpful. i think papa will want me after awhile. i hope so for aunt irene's lips are cold." how keenly he reproached himself then for having left her, only god knew. he was a silent man, as i have said, and silently he shared aunt irene's vigil without even thinking of rest after his journey. the next night dr. greene waited also by that bedside for the crisis he foresaw. at last the child slept. "when she wakes we shall know what to expect," he said, and went away into the next room for a little rest. but the father and the aunt never moved. it was midnight, and every thing was strangely, unnaturally still, as it always seems to watchers in the middle of the night, when they heard agatha call out of the hush and the stillness, with a sudden, glad cry of recognition,-- "o mamma! mamma!" "is she dying?" mr. raymond's look asked, for his lips refused to speak, and his sister's face made answer, "not yet." the hours, the long, slow hours went on. the night grew darker and deeper. then above the hills there stretched a faint line of dawn-light which deepened at length to rose, and then was shot through by a golden arrow from the rising sun. and then, as the dawning glory touched the little white, still face upon the pillows, the eyes opened, and a voice--agatha's own natural voice, but oh, so faint and low!--said, softly but gladly,-- "i have seen mamma. i wanted to go with her, but she said papa and aunt irene both needed me, and i was to stay here and grow well and happy. and so i shall." "and so, please god, you shall," dr. greene said, cheerily, having come in from the next room; and the father sank upon his knees by the bedside, with some murmured words, which only the father in heaven understood, upon his lips; and aunt irene hurried off, she said, to get something for the child to take, but she stopped a long time upon the way. "i knew you were here, papa," and agatha reached out her thin little fingers to touch the bowed head beside her. "i knew, because mamma told me." strangely enough, all her timidity had vanished. mamma had said that papa and aunt irene needed her, and that was enough. soon her aunt came in, and she looked up, gratefully. "you have been so good to me, aunt irene," she said, "so good that i thought it was mamma who was tending me, but i know now it was you, and i think you must love me, because you have kept me alive." and so my story of agatha's lonely days ends; for after this she never was lonely any more. her father and aunt had learned that little hearts need something more than to be clothed and fed; and agatha had learned, by their care for her, their love for her, and never doubted again that she had her own place in their hearts. but had she seen her own mamma? you ask. ah, who knows the mysteries of the border land between life and death? some of you will believe that she but dreamed a dream; and others, perchance, will think the father, who has so often sent his angels to comfort his earthly children, sent to her the home-faced angel whom her heart loved. i cannot tell. i only know that agatha believed always that a beloved voice not of this world had spoken to her. thin ice. the little village of westbrook seemed to have been standing still, while all the rest of the world had gone on. the people lived very much as their fathers and grandfathers had lived before them. they were all farmers except the doctor and the minister. the doctor was a very skilful man; but he had been reared on a westbrook farm, and when he went out into the world to get his medical education he had brought back with him, to quiet westbrook, only the knowledge he sought, and none of the airs and graces of town life. the minister, too, was westbrook born and bred, and his wife had scarcely ever been outside the town in all her days, so that there was no one in the simple community to set extravagant fashions, or turn foolish heads by gayety or splendor. [illustration: thin ice.--page .] it was, therefore, as much of an event as if queen victoria herself were to come and spend the winter in boston, when it became generally known that a rich widow lady and her son were to come, the last of september, and very probably stay on through the winter under dr. simms's roof. a famous city physician, with whom dr. simms had studied once, had recommended him and westbrook to mrs. rosenburgh, when it became necessary for her to take her puny boy into some still, country retreat. they came during the last golden days of september, and all westbrook was alive with interest about them. the lady looked delicate, but she was as pretty as she was pale, and her boy was curiously like her,--as pale, as pretty, almost as feminine. there was plenty of opportunity to see them, for the city doctor had given orders that the young gentleman should keep out of doors all the time; so, mornings, he and his mother were always to be seen in their low, luxurious carriage, drawn by high-stepping bay horses, and driven by a faithful, careful, middle-aged man, with iron-gray hair and an impenetrable face. sometimes, in the afternoons, they would all be out again, but oftener mrs. rosenburgh remained at home, and her son drove, for himself, a pair of pretty black ponies, while the impenetrable, iron-gray man sat behind, ready to seize the reins in case of accident. at first the boy's face seemed often drawn by pain, or white with weariness, and he would look round him listlessly, as he drove, with eyes that saw nothing, or at least failed to find any object of interest. but the clear autumn air proved invigorating, and when the glorious, prismatic days of late october came he looked as if, indeed, he had been re-created. and now one could see that he began to take a natural, human interest in what went on around him. he would drive up his little pony carriage to the wall, and look over it to watch the apple-pickers and the harvesters. no one spoke to him, and he spoke to no one. the lads of his own age, who watched his ponies with boyish envy, never dreamed that the owner of these fairy coursers could be as shy as one of themselves, and, indeed, as much more shy as delicate weakness naturally is than rosy strength. they thought his silence was pride, and felt a half-defiant hatred of him accordingly. yet many and many a day he went home to his mother, and sitting beside her with his head upon her knee, cried out, in very bitterness,-- "oh if i only could be like one of those healthy boys! how gladly i'd give up pease-blossom and mustard-seed, to be able to run about as they do! shall i never, never be strong, mamma?" and she would comfort him with the happy truth that every day he was growing stronger, and that she expected him to be her great, brave boy, by and by, who would take care of her all the days of her life. meantime, other boys, in other homes, talked to other mothers. for the very first time the evil spirit of envy had crept into quiet westbrook. why should ralph rosenburgh have every thing he wanted, and they nothing? what clothes he wore,--and a watch, a real gold watch they had seen him take out of his pocket,--and those ponies; for wherever they began they always ended with those ponies. and, as not all the mothers in westbrook were wise, any more than elsewhere in the world, while the wise ones would say that strong boy-legs were worth more than horses' legs, the weak ones would foster the evil spirit, and answer,-- "he ain't a bit better than you are, with all his watches and ponies. pride will have a fall some day, see if it don't, and he may be glad enough to stand in your shoes yet, before he dies." jack smalley was the son of one of these injudicious mothers, and so his envy grew, unchecked; till he nourished a vigorous hatred for ralph rosenburgh in his heart, without ever having exchanged a single word with him. it was a hatred, however, of which its object never could have dreamed. he had been so accustomed to be petted and pitied, and he was so very sorry for himself, that he could not be a wide-awake, vigorous, ball-playing, leaping, running boy, it would never have occurred to him that any one else could fail to see his condition in the same light. so he went steadily on the even tenor of his way, gaining something day by day and week by week, and hoping--how earnestly no one knew--for the happy time when pease-blossom and mustard-seed might stand idle in their stalls, and he go about on his own feet with the rest. the cold weather came on early that year. before the middle of december westbrook pond was frozen over, and then began the winter's fun. every afternoon ralph rosenburgh drove his ponies down to the very edge of the pond, and sat there for awhile, a patient looker-on at the frolics he could not share. with christmas, however, there came to him from the fond, maternal santa claus, a chair constructed on purpose for pushing over the ice, and then he became a daily partaker in the festivities upon the pond. the chair was modelled after a certain kind of invalid, garden chair, which is arranged to be either propelled by some one else from behind, or by the occupant turning a kind of crank at the sides. ralph soon learned to manage it for himself, and finding himself strong enough to do so, he used to make the iron-gray man stay with the ponies, while he himself moved round among the skaters. and, now that he seemed really one of themselves, the young people, all except jack smalley, began to feel a kindly interest in him. jack alone went on hating him more and more, finding daily fresh causes of offence in this boy who wore velvet and fur in place of his own coarse gray cloth, and woollen, hand-knit comforter. what was he, this puny wretch, without pluck enough to stand on his own legs, that he should wear the garments of a young prince? you see that master smalley had the primitive idea of young princes, and supposed them clad in everlasting velvet and ermine. but there were no princes in america, thank heaven, and nobody in westbrook wanted fools round who tried to look like king's sons. very innocent of trying to look like any one was poor ralph, if the truth had been known,--this mother's darling of a boy, who took no more thought of his attire than a weed, but whom mrs. rosenburgh wrapped assiduously in all that was softest and warmest, as she had, all his life, surrounded him with warmth and softness. after a while there came a january afternoon, over which a gray, moist sky brooded. already the ice had shown some symptoms of breaking up, and everybody was out, making the most of it while it lasted. among the rest ralph rosenburgh came down to the pond,--left pease-blossom and mustard seed in the iron-gray man's charge, as usual, and began to propel himself over the ice, with arms whose increasing vigor was a daily and happy astonishment to himself. at last he wandered away a little from most of the skaters. he felt himself and his chair rather in their way, they were wheeling and zigzagging so swiftly, and he moved along the pond quite rapidly toward the eastern end. it chanced that no one noticed his course except jack smalley, and jack knew that he was going directly toward a place where the ice had been recently cut, and where it was thin and treacherous now. slowly jack followed him. "i'd like to see him and that fine chair of his get a good ducking," jack muttered. "it would serve him right. i guess all them prince's feathers and fineries would look a little more like common folks', after they'd been soused." i do not think another and darker possibility crossed jack's mind. hating ralph rosenburgh though he did, i do not think one wish for his death had ever entered his heart. he himself had been in the water, time and again, and got no other harm from it than perhaps a hard cold. he did not realize what a different thing it would be for this delicate invalid, seated in his heavy chair. and so ralph propelled himself along toward destruction, and jack, with an evil sneer on his face, skated slowly after him. suddenly a third figure shot from the group of skaters,--the fastest skater of them all, and the one boy in the world whom jack smalley loved,--his own cousin, nelson smalley. he, too, had turned his eyes and seen in what fatal direction the chair with the delicate, golden-haired invalid in it was tending. he did not speak a word: he had but one thought,--to reach ralph rosenburgh in time to save him. he skated on, with the swiftness of light. and jack smalley saw him coming, nearing him, passing him, on toward the thin ice. now, indeed, he shrieked at the top of his voice,-- "nell, nell, come back. the ice out there is thin. come back--come back. don't you hear?" "i hear," floated backward on the wind from the flying figure; "i hear, but don't you see rosenburgh? i must save him." then jack himself skated after, making what speed he might. but he seemed to himself slow as a snail; and already rosenburgh was very near the treacherous ice, and nelson was almost up with him, flying like the wind. he heard nelson's voice: "stop, rosenburgh, stop. the ice beyond you is just a crust. stop, you will be drowned." and then he heard a plash, and looked. it was nelson, who had gone on, and gone under, unable to arrest, in time, his own headlong speed. and then, while he himself was shrieking madly for help, he saw rosenburgh, prince's feathers and all, just throw himself out of his chair, and down into the cold, seething water where nelson smalley had gone under. the ice grew thin suddenly, just where the saw had cut it squarely away, so the chair stood still upon the solid ice, and by that rosenburgh held with one hand, while with the other he grasped the long hair of nelson smalley, who was rising for the first time. excitement was giving him unnatural strength, but for how long could he hold on? now, at last, the skaters had perceived the real state of the case, and such a wail as one might hear afterwards through his dreams for ever, went up to the bending sky. hurry, all who can. run, iron-gray man, as you never ran before, or how shall you drive home to that boy's waiting mother? how was it done? how is it ever done? who can ever tell in such a crisis? i do not know how long they were in reaching the thin ice, for at such times moments seem hours, and seconds are bits of eternity. but rosenburgh held on, and the iron-gray man threw himself flat upon the cracking ice, with the boys holding fast to him, and drew them both out, and then rosenburgh turned limp and white on his hands, and whether he was dead or not he could not tell. there were enough others to care for smalley, and already the older ones had begun trying to restore him, and some of the younger were running in various directions for wiser aid. so the iron-gray man just lifted his own young master in his arms, and got him straight into the pony wagon, and drove pease-blossom and mustard-seed home as they had never been driven before. at the gate he met dr. simms coming out, and told his story in a few words. it was almost an hour before the blue eyes opened again, and the mother felt sure that her boy was still hers to have and to hold, to love and to cherish. indeed, it was many days before she felt altogether safe and sure about him. she was constantly expecting some after consequences from his exposure,--some fever, or cough, or terrible nervous prostration. but, strangely enough, he seemed to be none the worse; and one day, after a careful examination of him, dr. simms said to her,-- "i venture to tell you, now, what i have thought all along. this has been the very best thing for him that could possibly have happened. the severe shock was exactly what he needed, though certainly it was what i should not have dared to take the responsibility of subjecting him to. he is going to be the better and stronger for it." "and the brave, splendid fellow who was risking his own life to save him?" "is all right too. duckings are good for boys, not a doubt of it. trust me, this cold bath will go far to make a man of yours." and the doctor was right. the languid pulses which that awful peril had quickened never throbbed so languidly again. it was ralph rosenburgh's awakening to a new life. somehow the shyness in him passed away with the weakness, and he became a general favorite. the boys no longer envied him his ponies, when one or other of them was always asked to share his drives; and their cure was completed when he grew strong enough to take part in all their sports, when pease-blossom and mustard-seed were left to "eat their heads off" in their stall, and ralph rosenburgh and his chosen and dearest friend, nelson smalley, scaled rocks and climbed hills with the best of them. this strong friendship would have cost jack smalley some envious pangs, perhaps, if the awful terror of that january afternoon had not made him afraid of the evil in his own soul. my lost sister: a confession. i have a confession to make. when i went home from my grandmother's,--being set down at the home-door by the stage-driver, in whose care i had been placed,--and found my little sister in my mother's arms, a quick growing hate of her struck its black roots in my heart. i know that this seems unnatural. in most houses the baby is the very light and joy of them,--the little idol to whom, from the least to the greatest, the whole family do willing homage. but remember that i had grown to be ten years old, with no rival near the throne, accustomed to be the first object with my father and mother, petted, indulged, as much "the baby" as if i had worn white long clothes. it was not strange that it should come hard to be deposed from my throne of babyhood in one moment. when i went into the house, nurse sikes met me with a smile which struck me like a blow. "somebody's got her nose broke, i guess," she said, with a tantalizing laugh. before this, no one had spoken to me about the new-comer, and there, i think, was where the wrong began; but the woman's meaning flashed into my mind in a moment, and i tossed my head scornfully, without speaking. nurse sikes was probably not an ill-natured woman,--she could not have been, since no face was so welcome as hers in the sick rooms of all the neighborhood,--but she was a very injudicious one. i suppose my idle, vain contempt and indignation amused her, and so she went on provoking me. "ho, ho, miss fine airs! doesn't want to see her baby sister, don't she? well, to tell the truth, i don't think you'll be much missed. papa and mamma are pretty well wrapped up in miss baby. _she's_ a novelty, you know, and i guess she'll be taken care of, even if you don't trouble yourself." i would not for worlds have let her see the passion of grief and rage which shook me. i went out of her sight, and fled, not to my own room, which opened from my mother's, but to a remote spare chamber, and there i bore my pain alone. to cry would have infinitely relieved me, but my evil pride restrained me from that. they should not see my eyes red, and know how i felt; i would die first, i said, bitterly, to myself, i, who had cried out every sorrow of my life, hitherto, on my mother's tender bosom. after a while i heard them calling me,-- "annie! annie! annie! why, the child came in half an hour ago. where is she?" then i knew i must go down. so i looked at myself in the glass, and saw a face which, indeed, no tears stained, but which was disfigured by pride and passion; and thinking to myself,--'no one will notice how _i_ look, now,' i went to my mother's room. "come here, my darling," her gentle voice said, "come and look at baby." baby! could she not say a fond word to me, after i had been away from home two weeks, without bringing in baby! i moved reluctantly toward her. "baby is twelve days old," she went on, wistfully, seeing my sullen mien. "i wouldn't let any one tell you, for i thought it would be such a surprise." "a surprise, indeed!" i echoed her word with a scorn in my voice, which must have pained that gentle heart sorely. "isn't she sweet?" and, still trying to win my love for her new treasure, mamma uncovered the little, dimpled, rosy face, and held it toward me. "i suppose so; i don't think i care for babies," i said, ungraciously. "but you do care for mamma, and you haven't so much as kissed _me_ yet, my darling." perhaps if, even then, she could have put her arms around me, and held me fast against her loving heart, as she used to when i was grieved or naughty, it might have driven away the evil spirit, and made me her own child again; but she could not, for there, in her lap, was baby. so i took her kiss passively, returned it coldly, and then went away. it seems so incredible to my grown-up self, looking back upon it, that i could have gone on hating my baby sister more and more, that i can scarcely expect you to believe it; and i think i would hardly write out this, my confession, did i not hope it might lead some other, tempted as i was, to examine her heart in time, and root out from it the evil weed of jealousy, which bears always such bitter fruit. from the first, little lilias, or lily, as they all called her, was a singularly lovely child. as a baby, she cried very little, and never in anger. nothing but real pain ever made the red lips quiver, or filled the violet eyes with tears. she never could see any face more grave than usual without trying, in her baby fashion, to brighten it. i can remember, oh, how distinctly, times when my father would come home, worn and tired, and she would, quite untold, go through her little _rôle_ of accomplishments till she won a smile from him, clapping her fairy hands, nodding her gleaming, golden head, showing her two small teeth,--all the little winning wiles she had. she was a very frail, delicate child, always, and she did not walk nearly as early as other children. but she talked very soon indeed. she was scarcely ten months old, when she learned to call us all by our names; and, strangely enough, mine was the first name she spoke. "nan! nan! nan!" she would call me, half the day, like a little silver-voiced parrot. she was very fond of me, in a certain way. i never tended her unless i was obliged, and my mother, noticing with deep grief my spirit toward my little sister, waited for the evil feeling to wear itself out, and seldom called on me to amuse the child, or to give up for her sake any whim or fancy of my own. lily was not used, therefore, to have me hold or play with her. perhaps she thought i _could_ not, but it seemed to afford her infinite satisfaction just to have me in her sight. it may be she felt, in some vague way, that i was nearer babyhood than the rest, and so more of her kind. at any rate, she always seemed perfectly happy and content when she could watch me, at any of my pursuits; and when i left the room, the little silvery voice would call after me,-- "nan! nan! nan!" she was a full year and a half old before she began to walk, and then she was so small and delicate that she looked as you might fancy a baby out of fairy land would look, flitting round on her tiniest of feet, her yellow hair glinting goldenly in every chance sunbeam, and her wistful eyes blue as a blue flower. how could i help loving her? ay, how could i? i fancy i must have loved her a little, even then, only i had grown so in the habit of regarding her as an interloper, a rival, an alien, who was taking from me all which had formerly been mine, that i never owned, even in the silence of my own heart, to any softening toward her. father and mother were good to me beyond my deserts, and beyond my poor words to describe. i have known, since, with what infinite love and grief they sorrowed over me, while waiting for this evil growth in my heart to be uprooted, as they felt sure it would be, some time. they had the wisdom to know that reproof would be vain, and simply to love me and be silent. but if they loved _me_, and were to me most patient and kind, they were devoted to little lily, as was natural. she was so frail and so fair, so needed their constant watchfulness, that it is not strange she had it. one day, when she was two years old and i was twelve, i sat in a corner of the sitting-room, putting a dissected map together, while a lady was calling upon my mother. she looked earnestly and long at lily; but that was not uncommon; the child's dainty beauty was a pleasant thing to watch. at last, after she had risen to go, she said, as if she couldn't help saying it,-- "take good care of that little one, mrs. allen. she looks to me like one of the children the angels love." i saw the quick dew suffuse my mother's eyes, as she made some answer which i failed to hear, and then went to the door with her guest. am i to tell all the sad and bitter truth? i understood, as well as they did, that they thought our lily so frail we should have hard work to make her flourish in the cold soil of the earth; and for one moment a feeling of evil triumph swelled my heart. when she was gone, i should be _all_ to my father and mother, as i used to be before she came. they would love me, when they had no one else to love. i felt a guilty flush mounting to my cheeks, and i swept my map into its box hastily, and got up to leave the room. as i went out of the door lily's voice followed me, sweetly shrill,--"nan! nan! nan!" and, for the very first time in my life, a conviction smote me that there would be a sense of loss when that voice could never follow me again, with its soft calling, through all the years. the next summer was a strange, warm, oppressive summer,--the summer of ' . with its july heats our lily began to droop. such care as she had, such nursing, such love! but she had been always like a blossom from heaven, sprung up by mistake in the rough soil of this world, and she needed for her healing the wind which blows for ever through the leaves of the tree of life. she soon grew so weak that she could not run about any more, but would lie all day, except when, for a change, my mother held her in her arms, in a little rose-curtained crib, out from which the blue, wistful eyes followed all our movements, with a sweet, loving, lingering look, which i cannot describe. on me, in especial, that long gaze used to rest; and never could i leave the room without that sweet, small voice calling after me plaintively. there came a day, at last, when the doctor sat half an hour by lily's side, watching her with grave, silent face, and then went into another room alone with my mother. he came out first, and went away, and when she followed him, her eyes were very red. i knew afterwards, what i suspected the moment i saw her face, that he had been telling her that she must make up her mind to part with her little darling. my heart was not quite stone, after all, for it grew strangely soft and strangely afraid then. she was going home to god, this little lily of heaven; and would she tell him that i had hated, all through, the baby sister he had given me? i went away by myself and prayed. i had said my prayers night and morning, all my life, but this was quite another thing, this cry of the child's heart becoming conscious of its guilt and woe, to the pitying father. at last, i went to my mother. lily was asleep, and mamma sat by her side, pale as death, but with face that made no complaint. i knelt down beside her. "o mother!" i cried, "i have been so wicked,--and now i cannot undo it! oh, if i could! oh, if i could only die,--i who am not fit to live,--and let you keep lily!" she bent over me, and drew me into her arms, against her bosom. "if you are not fit to live, my darling, you are not fit to die," she said gently. "i can better part with lily, for she is pure yet as when god gave her to me. i have seen your sin and your suffering, and i have known your repentance would come." "oh, it has, it has! mother, how can i bear it? _will_ she go home to god, and tell him i have hated her?" "do you think she could tell _him_ any thing which he does not know? but lily has never found out what hate means. she has always loved you, and she does not know but that all the world loves her. the pain which your sin has caused has not rested on lily,--thank god for that." "but i might have made her happier,--i might have been good to her,--and now, perhaps i shall never have any little sister any more in all the world." just then the child awoke, and put out her frail little hands, with a low, sweet call i was destined to listen for in vain through all the empty, after years. i ran to her, and took her in my arms. she saw the tears upon my face, and touched them with her mites of fingers. "naughty nan," she said, in fond reproach, "naughty nan, to cry,--make lily cry too." and then i wiped away my tears, and tried to be cheerful; but, oh, how heavy my heart was! and, mourn as i would, i could not bring back the dead months and days wherein i might have loved my little sister, and had hated her instead. what else? nothing, but that, with the fading summer flowers, she, too, faded and died. in her case was wrought no miracle of healing. "we all do fade as the leaf;" but she had never been a strong, green leaf, tossed by summer winds, freshened by summer rains, gay in summer sunshine. just a pale, sweet day-lily, that lived her little life, and died with the sunset. and the first words she ever spoke, were the last words, also. she opened her tender eyes after a long silence, during which she had scarcely seemed to breathe, and they rested on me. "nan! nan! nan!" she cried, as if it were a call to follow her into the strange, new life, the strange, new world, whither, a moment after, she was gone. if there has been any good in my life since then, if i have striven at all to be tender and gentle and unselfish, let me offer such struggles as a tribute to her memory, as one lays flowers upon an altar or a grave. whither she has gone, i pray god to guide my feet also, in his own good time and way; and i shall know that i have reached the place whither my longings tend, when i hear, soft falling through the eternal air, her low, sweet call,-- "nan! nan! nan! welcome, nan!" what came to olive haygarth. a christmas story. it was the afternoon of the th of december, a dull, gray afternoon, with a sky frowning over it which was all one cloud, but from which neither rain nor snow fell. a certain insinuating breath of cold was in the air, more penetrating than the crisp, keen wind of the sharpest january day. olive haygarth shivered as she walked along the bleakest side of harrison avenue, down town. she was making her way to dock square, to carry home to a clothing store some vests which she and her mother had just completed. after a while she turned and walked across into washington street, for an impulse came over her to see all the bright christmas things in the shop windows, and the gay, glad people, getting ready to keep holiday. she had meant, when she set out on her walk, to avoid them, for she knew that her mood was bitter enough already. she had left no brightness behind her at home. there were but two of them, herself and her mother, and they were poor people, with only their needles between them and want. they had never known actual suffering, however, for mrs. haygarth had worked in a tailor's shop in her youth, and had taught olive so much of the intricacies of the business as sufficed to make her a good workwoman. accordingly they did their sewing so well as to command constant employment and fair prices. but after all it was ceaseless drudging, just to keep body and soul together. what was the use of it all? not enjoyment enough in any one day to pay for living,--why not as well lie down and die at once? she walked on sullenly, thinking of these things. an elegant carriage stopped just in front of her, and a girl no older than herself got out, trailing her rich silk across the sidewalk, and went into a fashionable jeweller's. olive stopped, and looking in at the window, ostensibly at the vases and bronzes, watched the girl with her dainty, high-bred air. she noted every separate item of her loveliness,--the delicate coloring, the hair so tastefully arranged, the pure, regular features. then she looked at the lustrous silk, the soft furs, the bonnet, which was a pink and white miracle of blonde and rosebuds. how much of the beauty was the girl's very self, and how much did she owe to this splendid setting? olive had seen cheeks and lips as bright and hair as shining when she tied on her own unbecoming dark straw bonnet before her own dingy looking-glass. she went on with renewed bitterness, asking herself, over and over again, why? why? why? did not the bible say that god was no respecter of persons? but why did he make some, like that girl in there, to feed on the roses and lie in the lilies of life,--to wear silks, and furs, and jewels, and laces, and then make _her_ to work buttonholes in butler & co.'s vests? was there any god at all? or, if there was, did he not make some people and forget them altogether, while he was heaping good things on others whom he liked better? she could not understand it. and then to be told to _love_ god after all; and that he pitied her as a father pitied his children! why! that girl in the silk dress could love god, easily,--that command must have been meant for her. going on she caught a glimpse of an illumination in the window of a print shop. "peace on earth and good-will toward men" was the legend set forth by the brilliantly colored letters. what a mockery those words seemed to be! there had never been peace or good-will in their house, even in the old days when they were tolerably prosperous, before her father went away. she walked very slowly now, for she was thinking of that old time. she had loved her father more than she had ever loved any one else. to her he had always been kind; he had never found fault with her, and had smoothed all the rough places out of her life. her mother had been neat and smart and _capable_, as the new england phrase is. higher praise than this mrs. haygarth did not covet. but like many capable women, she had acquired a habit of small faultfinding, a perpetual dropping, which would have worn even a stone, and george haygarth was no stone. the woman loved her husband, doubtless, in some fashion of her own, but to save her life she could not have kept from "nagging" him. she fretted if he brought mud upon his shoes over her clean floor, if he spent money on any pleasure for himself, any extra indulgence for olive; above all, if he ever took a fancy to keep holiday. just five years ago things had come to a climax. olive was thirteen years old then, and he had brought her home for christmas some ornaments,--a pin and earrings, not very expensive, but in mrs. haygarth's eyes useless and unnecessary. she assailed him bitterly, and for a marvel he heard her out in dumb silence. when she was all through, he only said,-- "i think i can spare the eight dollars they cost me, since i am not likely to give the girl any thing again for some time. it will be too far to send christmas gifts from colorado." mrs. haygarth's temper was up, and she answered him with an evil sneer,-- "colorado, indeed! colorado is peopled with wide-awake men. it's no place for you out there." he made no reply, only got up and went out; and, going by olive, he stooped and kissed her. how well she remembered that kiss! through the week afterward he went to his work as usual, but he spent scarcely any time at home, and when there made little talk. all his wife's accustomed flings and innuendoes fell on his ears apparently unheeded. the night before new year's he was busy a long time in his own room. when he came out he handed mrs. haygarth a folded paper. "there," he said, "is the receipt for the next year's house rent, and before that time is out i shall send you the money, if i am prospered, to pay for another year. i have taken from the savings-bank enough to carry me to colorado and keep me a little while after i get there; and the bank book, with the rest of the five hundred dollars, i have transferred to you. if i have any luck you shall never want,--you and olive. you'll be better off without me. i think i've always been an aggravation to you, martha,--only an aggravation." he went back again into his room, and came out with a valise packed full. "i think i'll go away now," he said. "the train starts in an hour, and there is no need of my troubling you any longer." then he had taken olive into his arms, and she had felt some sudden kisses on her cheek, some hot tears on her face; but he had said nothing to her, only the one sentence, gasped out like a groan,-- "father's little one! father's little one!" olive shivered and then grew hot again, as she remembered it; and remembered how wistfully he had looked afterwards at his wife, reading no encouragement in her sharp, contemptuous face. "i guess you'll see colorado about as much as i shall," said martha haygarth, sneeringly. "your courage may last fifty miles." he did not answer. he just shut the door behind him and went out into the night,--and she had never seen him since, never heard his voice since that last cry,--"father's little one!" she felt the thick-coming tears blinding her eyes, but she brushed them resolutely away, and looked up at the old south clock just before her. almost five. the sun had set nearly half an hour ago, and the night was falling fast. how long a time she had spent in walking the short distance since she came into washington street! how late home she should be! she quickened her steps almost to a run, went to the clothing store, where she had to wait a little while for her work to be looked over and paid for, and heard the clocks strike six just as she reached the corner of essex street, on her homeward way. the dense, hurrying crowd jostled and pressed her, and she turned the corner. she would find more room on the avenue, she thought. she had not noticed that two young men were following her closely. they would have been gentlemen if they had obeyed the laws of god and man. as it was, there was about them the look which nothing expresses so well as the word "fast." their very features had become coarse and lowered in tone by the lives they led; and yet they were the descendants of men whose names were honored in the state, and made glorious by traditions of true christian knighthood. on the other side of the way, alike unnoticed by olive and her pursuers, a man walked on steadily, never losing sight of them for a moment. at last, as she came into a quiet portion of the street, the two young men drew near her. they were simply what i have said, "fast." they perhaps meant no real harm, and thought it would be good fun to frighten her. "'where are you going, my pretty maid?'" said one, the bolder and handsomer of the two. "'my face is my fortune, sir, she said,'" responded the other, in a voice which the wine he had taken for dinner made a little thick and unsteady. "you ought not to be out alone," the first began again. "you are quite too young and too pretty." "that she is," a loud, stern voice answered, "when there are such vile hounds as you ready to insult an unprotected girl." surely it was a voice olive knew, only stronger and more resolute than she had ever heard it before. she turned suddenly, and the gas light struck full on her flushed, frightened, pretty face, which the drooping hair shaded. the man, who had crossed the street to come to her rescue, looked at her a moment, and then, as if involuntarily, came to his lips the old, fond words, the last she had ever heard him speak,-- "father's little one!" he opened his arms, and she, poor tired girl crept into their shelter. the two young men stood by waiting, enough of the nobility of the old blood in them to keep them from running away, though their nerves tingled with shame. george haygarth spoke to them with quiet, manly dignity. "when i saw you following this girl i had no idea she was _my_ girl, whom i had not seen for five years. it was enough for me that she was a woman. to my thinking it's a poor manhood that insults women instead of protecting them. i meant to look out for her, and, be she who she might, you should not have harmed her." "we never meant her any real harm," the elder of the two said humbly; "but we have learned our lesson, and i think we shall neither of us forget it. young lady, we beg your pardon." then they lifted their hats and went away; and george haygarth drew his daughter's hand through his arm and walked on, telling his story as he walked. he had been unsuccessful at first. for more than eighteen months he had scarcely been able to keep himself alive. fever had wasted him, plans had failed him, hope had deserted him. the very first money he could possibly spare he had sent home, with a long loving letter to the absent, over whom his heart yearned. but money and letter had both come back to him after a while, from the dead-letter office. "yes," olive said, "we were too poor to keep on there after the year for which you paid was out, and we have moved two or three times since then. the postman did not know where to find us, and after the first year we gave up asking for letters at the office." her father's hand clasped hers tighter, in sympathy, and then he told the rest of his story. he had never been very prosperous, never seen any such golden chances as the mining legends picture, but he had come home better off than he ever should have been if he had stayed in the east. for a whole week he had been in boston searching for them everywhere, and no knowing how much longer he might have had to wait but for this accident. "don't say accident, father," olive answered, softly. "it was god's way of bringing us together. i begin to see now what it means when the bible says, 'he is touched by our infirmities, and pities our necessities.' and yet, only this afternoon i was losing all my faith, and thinking that if he cared for all the rest of the world. he had forgotten me. here we are,--the next house is home." "your mother--how will she receive me, olive?" olive's heart seemed to stand still. her mother had been so bitter through all these years; had said such cruel things about this man, whom she accused of deserting his family and leaving them to starve, of caring only for himself. she did not speak,--she did not know what to say. "you must go in and break it to her," george haygarth said, as they climbed the stairs of the humble tenement house, the third story of which the mother and daughter occupied. "i will stay outside and wait. it won't be coming home at all if martha doesn't bid me welcome." olive went in, trembling. "here is the money, mother." mrs. haygarth reached out her hand for it and looked at it. "yes, it's all right; but i thought you were never coming home. what kept you?" "i looked into the windows a good deal as i went down, and then i had to wait at the store, and i've been thinking, mother. it will be five years next week since father went away. what if we could see him again?" she paused, expecting to hear some of the old bitter words about her father; but, instead, her mother's voice fell softly upon her ear. "_i've_ been thinking too, olive, and i believe he is dead. i don't think i used to be patient enough with him, and perhaps i wore his love out. but he _did_ care for _you_, and seems to me nothing short of death could have kept him away so long." "but if you _could_ see him, mother?" olive persisted, with trembling voice. some new thought pierced martha haygarth's brain. a strange thrill shook her. she looked an instant into olive's eyes. then, without a word, she sprang to the door and threw it open. olive heard a low, passionate cry. "george! george! if i was cross i _did_ love you!" and olive saw a figure come out of the shadow and take her mother close in its arms. and then she hid her eyes, and said a little prayer, she never knew what. so, after all, god had not forgotten them. just when their want was sorest their help had come. and they needed all they had suffered, perhaps, to teach her mother what love was worth, and what forbearance signified. "peace on earth and good-will toward men!" from the very sky the words seemed to drop down to her, like an angelic blessing; and now to their home the reign of peace had come, and she understood what the benediction meant. [illustration: uncle jack.--page .] uncle jack. "what young bears most boys are!" said my uncle jack, watching his oldest hope pushing his sister in the swing so vigorously that she almost fell out, and then pulling one side of the rope at a time, making her fairly dizzy with swaying from side to side while she alternately screamed and entreated. "just about the same, all of them," uncle jack went on. "talk about boyish chivalry, i never found it, especially toward a boy's own kith and kin. there may be some highland marys with juvenile adorers, but nine times out of ten a boy would rather frighten a girl than kiss her. my john here's just a specimen. come here, sir," raising his voice. "do you want to hear a story about the days when i was just such another cub as yourself?" this suggestion brought john and his sister both in from the swing. when uncle jack began to "spin a yarn," as he often called it, all the family were sure to want to be present at its unravelling. "you see," he began, "my sister nelly wasn't my sister at all; but it was all the same, as far as my feeling for her went. when i was only three years old my mother's best friend died, and left nelly, a little, wailing, two-months-old baby, to my mother's care. her father had been killed before she was born, in a railroad accident, so there was no one but my mother to see to her; and she brought the little thing home and adopted her, thankfully enough, for though she had four good stout boys, of whom i was the youngest, there was never a girl in the family till nelly came. "we all loved her, as she grew older. she was a pretty little blossom as you would want to see, with her black eyes, and the crisp, black hair falling about her rosy cheeks. she had a funny little rose-bud of a mouth, too, and the daintiest little figure,--well-made all through, and no mistake about it. "i think i loved her, if any thing, better than the rest did, considering that she was nearer my age, and so we were more continually together, but, bless you, there wasn't any chivalry in it. it didn't keep me from painting her doll's face black, or hiding its shoes, or from listening when she was talking with her girl cronies, and then bursting out among them, and yelling their choicest secret to the four winds. "i would have knocked any boy down, from the time i was big enough to use my fists, who had said a saucy word to nelly; but i said plenty of them myself. i believe i liked to tease her for the sake of hearing her beg me not to; just as i've seen you tease your sister a hundred times, master john. "you would think she would have hated me: but that's one curious thing about girls and women; they don't always hate where you would naturally expect them to; and nelly cared a good deal more about me than i deserved. she seemed to be proud of me, because i was a great, strong, roystering fellow, and she never bore malice for any of the tricks i served her. "i have wondered many a time since how i could have had the heart to torment her, for she never once tried to revenge herself on me, nor can i recollect her ever being angry with me. when i got myself into disgrace with parents or teachers, it was always her gentle voice which pleaded for me, and hard enough folks found it to say no to her, whether it was the dark eyes and bright cheeks, or a little winning, coaxing way she had. "when i was fourteen and nelly was eleven we went one day to a huckleberry picnic. we had great fun all the afternoon, and stayed a good deal later than we meant to, so that it was almost dark when we started to go home. we had two miles to walk, and the first half of the distance our way lay with the rest of the company. i had got well stirred up by the general merriment, and wasn't half satisfied with the frolic ending there. "nelly, i remembered afterwards, was very quiet, and seemed tired. she was a delicate little thing, any way, and got worn out with fatigue or excitement a good deal sooner than most of her mates. finally our road turned off away from the rest, and led through a long pine wood. as we went on under the thick trees it grew darker and darker, and nelly cuddled up closer to my side. "you'd have thought that at fourteen i was old enough for chivalry, and that sort of thing, if i was ever going to be; but not a bit of it,--i was just a great, strong, rollicking boy, with some heart, to be sure, but liking fun better than any thing, and headstrong and inconsiderate to an extent which i am ashamed to remember. full still of unexhausted animal spirits, and, as i said, not half satisfied with the frolic i had had, i began, in default of other amusement, to tease nelly. "i told her a ghastly story or two, and then i would rush away from her among the thick trees, as if in pursuit of something, and come back again to her side, in a few minutes. i wanted her to scream after me, but she didn't. she was so still that i actually thought she didn't care; and after a while i grew vexed because i couldn't vex her, and make her implore me to stay with her, and confess her dependence upon me. "at last, when we were about a third of a mile from home, a path led through the woods, branching off from the main path on which we were, to the farm where my greatest crony lived. i thought of something i wanted to say to him. here was a chance, to tease nelly well,--let her see whether she was just as comfortable without me as with me. "you look at me as if you didn't believe i could have been such a brute; but i was, and what is more, i did not at all realize at the time that i was doing any harm. that nelly would have a little scare, and hurry home somewhat faster than usual, was the most i apprehended; so i said, with a sort of boyish swagger,-- "'it just occurs to me that there is something i want to say to hal somers, and we are so near home now that you won't be afraid, so i'll just branch off there. tell mother i had supper enough at the picnic, and she needn't wait for me.' "it was too dark to look at nelly, or perhaps her white face, sad and frightened as i know it must have been, would have turned me from my purpose. she did not speak one word, and i struck off at a tearing pace through the woods. "by the time i had reached hal somers's place, i began to get sobered down a little, and to feel somewhat uncomfortable about what i had done. i had to wait a few minutes before i could see him, but i did my errand briefly, and it was not more than an hour after i had left nelly before i myself was at home. i found mother in the porch, looking out anxiously. "'i'm so glad you've come, children,' she cried, when she heard my footsteps, and then, as i drew nearer, 'why, jack, where is nelly?'" "'here, i suppose,' i answered, trying to face the music boldly. 'i left her about an hour ago in the woods, where the path branches off to go to hal somers's, and she had nothing to do but to come straight home.' "'you left nelly in the woods, an hour ago!' my mother cried, in a tone which made my heart stand still, and then turn over with a great leap. and then she sprang by me like some wild creature, and called through the darkness to my father to come with his lantern, quick, quick, for nelly had been alone in the dark woods for an hour. "instantly, as it seemed to me, my father and my oldest brother were following mother along the woodland path, and i stole after them, feeling like a second cain. it was but a very few minutes before we came up to nelly, for there she was, just where i left her. she had sunk to the ground, and was half sitting there, her back leaning against a tree beside the path. the light from the lantern flashed on her face, a face white and set as death, but with the wide-open eyes glaring fearfully into the dark beyond. "it was my mother who touched her first; and felt to see whether her heart had stopped beating. "'is she dead?' my father asked huskily. "'i don't know. it seems to me i can feel the very faintest throb, but i cannot tell until we get her home. if she isn't dead, i am afraid she is worse,--frightened out of her senses, for ever.' "then father and william made preparations to carry her. i asked, timidly, if i could help. i think none of them had noticed before that i was there. "'you!' my father said, with such concentrated scorn and wrath in his voice as i cannot describe; and then mother said, more mildly, but so sadly it was worse than any anger,-- "'no, i trusted her to you once. i supposed you loved her.' "so i saw them move off, carrying her between them, and i followed after like an outcast, until it occurred to me that, at least, i could call a physician. so i flew by them like the wind, and off on the road to town. by some singular good fortune, if we ought not always to say providence and never fortune, before i had gone forty rods i met dr. greene, who was coming in our direction to visit a patient. so i had him with me on the door-stone when they brought nelly in. "i did not dare to go into the room where they carried her; but i waited outside in an agony which punished me already for my sin. at last my mother had pity on me and looked out. "'she is not dead, jack,' she said, 'but she is still insensible, and until she is restored to consciousness there is no telling what the result will be.' "then an awful terror came over me, which i cannot put into words. what if she died, or what if she never had her reason again? who in that house would ever bear to look at me? when cain had murdered his brother he had to go forth alone,--what was left for me, another cain, but to go also alone into the world? "we lived nine miles away from a seaport town from which whaling vessels were continually starting, and it came into my mind that i might ship on board one for a three years' cruise; and, by the time it was over, the folks at home might have learned to forgive me for being in the world. so off through the night i hurried. "how strangely our ways seem made ready for us, often, in the great moments, big with fate, of our lives! i found a whaler which was to sail in the early morning, a captain disappointed in one of his green hands, whose place i could have, and before i had been half an hour in the town my bargain was made, i had been fitted out with necessaries, and i went into a tavern to write a note to my mother. "a strange, incoherent note it was; but it told her where i was gone and why, and begged her, whatever came, to forgive her boy, who loved her, and who might never see her again. "never mind about the long, long days, and weeks, and months which followed,--the empty hours of solemn nights and gusty days, during which i was face to face with my own soul. "of course before a week had gone by i was sorry enough for the rash step i had taken. it seemed to me i could not live for three years and not know what had become of nelly. i would have gone barefoot to the ends of the earth to find out about her, but i could not walk the sea. i was growing so wild with grief and anxiety that i sometimes think i should have walked overboard some night, and so ended all my pain for this world, if providence had not raised me up a friend in my need--only a common sailor, and a man whose strange history i never knew, but a gentleman and a scholar, in whose locker were milton, and shakespeare, and don quixote. "i had studied pretty well at school; and was rather forward than otherwise, for a boy of fourteen; and i have sometimes thought no course of study in any school would have been so much to me as was the entire absence of frivolous and worthless literature, and the constant companionship of these great minds. besides these, i read daily in my pocket testament; and i owed a great deal also to the instructions and explanations of the friend who was, as it has always seemed to me, god's especial gift to my needs. "our voyage appeared destined, at first, to be a highly successful one; but just as we were nearly ready to return, we encountered a storm which strewed the sea with wrecks. we saw our vessel go down, but we were fortunate enough to escape in our boats; my friend and i, and two or three more, were with the second mate in his boat, and we were soon separated from the others. we made land on a fruitful island, peopled by savages who were not unfriendly; but it was many months before, at last, we got away in an east indiaman, and while we were on the island my friend had died suddenly, leaving untold the story of his life. "i will not enter into the particulars of my return home,--how from port to port and ship to ship i made my way, until, at length, after five years of absence, i sighted the well-known landmarks of the old town from whence i embarked. "how familiar it all looked to me! i knew every field through which the homeward road led, and i walked the nine miles between the town and my father's farm in the night, as i had done before. it was three o'clock of a september morning when i reached the old place, and i had nearly two hours to wait before there were any signs of life about it. for now, after all these years, i had not the courage to summon them from their rest. how i passed those waiting hours, divided betwixt hope and fear, you can guess. i lived over in them all the torturing anxieties of the last five years. was nelly dead or alive? should i ever see my mother again? what had changed, while the old house among the trees had stood so still? "at last i heard a sound. a door opened, and my mother, who of old always used to be the first to move, looked out. her hair was white, and her thin cheeks were pale; but i knew the kind eyes that looked forth to meet the morning, and should have known them despite any amount of change. i sprang forward to greet her. "'mother,' i said. she knew my voice and turned toward me trembling. "'o jack, jack! i thought you were dead long ago. o my boy, my own boy!' "and her arms were round my neck, her tender lips were kissing me; and so she drew me in, into peace, shelter, home. "'and nelly?' i asked, half afraid to call the name. "'nelly is well. oh, if you had but waited to see. she was ill for awhile, but no serious harm came to her; and, instead, it was my own boy who went away to break my heart.' "'and has come back to heal it,' i cried, growing bold and merry with my relief and joy. "by this time the rest heard us, and came to the scene,--father, brothers, and last of all, nelly; such a beautiful nelly of sweet sixteen, ten times fairer and brighter than my brightest memories of her, and all ready to forgive me, and make much of me. "_then_ was when the chivalry began. _then_ i was ready enough to fetch and carry for miss nelly of the dark eyes and the bright cheeks." "oh," said john, laughing, "then when a fellow is nineteen he can be chivalrous to his own sister?" "very likely he can," uncle jack answered, "but my experience doesn't prove it; for i began to be glad, very soon indeed, that nelly was only my adopted sister, after all. it was a good while before i got my courage up to ask her whether she would trust herself to me on the long home stretch through life. be sure that i promised her, if she would, that i'd never leave her in any dark places." "and what did she say?" "oh! i mustn't tell her secrets. go and ask her. there she comes, with her first grandchild in her arms. her cheeks are not bright now, she says, but somehow they look to me just as they used to look; and i know her eyes are as dark and deep as ever; and though i call her 'mother,' with the rest of you, when you are all round, there is never a night that i don't say to her, before she goes to sleep, 'god bless you, nelly!'" nobody's child. the summer sun was warm in the five-acre lot, and the east porch was cool and pleasant, so the owner of the lot lingered in the porch and talked awhile with his wife. he had married her only the april before, and to live with her and love her had not yet grown to be an old story. it would be her fault if it ever did grow to be one; for he was a tender, kindly man, this marcus grant, with a gentle and clinging nature, and a womanly need of loving. his wife, though she was young and pretty, with bright eyes, and bright lips, and soft, waving hair, was harder than he, and colder, and more selfish. but she had given him all the heart she had, and in these early days she cared very much indeed about pleasing him, and keeping him satisfied with her; or, rather, making him continue to admire her, for quiet satisfaction on his part would not have been enough. he had thrown himself down on the door-stone, and his head was leaning against her lap, as she sat on her low chair in the porch, and ran her fingers in and out of his thick chestnut hair, thinking to herself what a fortunate woman she was to be the wife of this manly, handsome fellow, whom so many girls wanted, and the mistress of his well-filled, comfortable house. from this east porch where they sat they could see down the long line of dusty road that led to the church and the few houses clustered round it, which passed for a village. the farmhouse stood on the top of a high hill; and up this hill they now saw a woman toiling slowly. the summer sun burned fiercely down on her, the dust rose with every step in a choking cloud about her, but still she struggled on. little events are full of interest in country solitudes, and both grant and his wife watched the wanderer with curiosity. "well, i never saw her before, that's certain," the husband said, after a long look as she drew nearer. "nor i," returned his wife. "but see, mark, she has a baby in her arms. she's trying to keep the sun off it with that shawl; and, sure as you live, she is turning in here." "why, so she is;" and grant rose to his feet. "may i sit down in the shade and rest?" asked the stranger, drawing nigh. she spoke in a clear, silvery voice, which betrayed some of her secrets, since it was the voice of a lady, and also it was the utterance of despair, for its hopeless monotone was unvarying. "certainly," and mrs. grant rose and offered her own low chair, for clearly this was no common tramp. "and might i trouble you for a glass of water?" "i'll go for some fresh," grant said, full of hospitable intent. but before he got back with the water he heard his wife calling him, and hurrying forward at the sound, he found her holding the stranger's head, on her shoulder, and the baby, who was just opening sleepy eyes, in her arms. "quick, mark, do something. i think she is dying. she must be sun-struck." and so it proved. no one ever knew how far she had toiled in that intense heat, with the baby in her arms,--no one ever knew any thing more about her, for when the sun set, which had scorched and withered her life, she, too, was gone to unknown shores. she spoke only once after she asked for the glass of water, and that was just before she died. the baby, in another room, uttered a cry, and she tried to turn her head toward the sound. "it is your baby," mrs. grant said, kindly, "but she is all right. what do you call her?" the strangest change came over the dying face: it may have been only a foreshadowing of death, but it seemed more like a mortal agony of renunciation and of despair. "nothing," she said, as evenly and with as little change of inflection as if she were already a ghost; "nothing: she is nobody's child." but in half an hour after that she was dead, and mrs. grant, who was very literal in her ideas, always thought that the stranger had not known what she said; but, she used to add, the child _was_ nobody's child, for all they should ever know about it. after the mother was buried, she began to think it was time to dispose of this child, which was nobody's. she was not without heart, and she had worked diligently to fashion small garments enough to make the little creature comfortable; but now, she thought, her duty was done, and she wondered mark said nothing about taking the baby to the alms-house. at last, one evening, she herself proposed it. her husband looked at her in mild surprise. he supposed all women loved babies by instinct, and he took it for granted that of course his wife wanted this one, only she probably thought he wouldn't like it round. "why, did you think i wouldn't let you keep it?" he asked quietly. "i think god has sent it to us, and we've really no right to turn it over to any one else, to say nothing of the pleasure it is to have the little bundle." as i said, mrs. grant was still in a state of mind not to be satisfied without her husband's admiration. she would not have fallen short of his ideal of her for any thing; she would, at least, _seem_ all that he desired her to _be_. she was quick enough to understand that he _would_ think less of her if he saw her unwilling to keep the baby, so she smiled on him with what cheerfulness she could summon, and treated the matter as settled. thus the child, which was nobody's, grew up in the grant household. she had been six months old, apparently, when she came there, and by midwinter she began to totter round on her little feet, and to say short words. but no one ever taught her to say papa or mamma, those lovely first words of childhood. what had nobody's child to do with such names? it might have seemed strange to most people that julia grant did not love this little thing, so thrown upon her mercy in its tender babyhood. but, despite theories, all women are not fond of children. every woman is, perhaps, fond, in a blind, instinctive way, of her own; but the more heavenly love which takes all children in its arms and blesses them is not by any means universal. the most powerful trait in mrs. grant's character was a silent, unobtrusive selfishness. the whole world revolved, to her thought, about _her_. rains fell, dews dropped earthward, winds blew and suns shone for julia grant. she had consented with secret reluctance to keep the child, and from that moment a root of bitterness and jealousy had sprung up in her heart. if her husband had thought much of _her_ comfort, she used to say to herself, he would not have wanted to put all this care upon her. she was quite ready, therefore, to be jealous, and to feel as if something was taken from her every time he tossed the little one in his arms, or called it a pet name; and after a while--not at once, for he was naturally the most unsuspicious of men--some instinct revealed this to him, and made him, lover of peace as he was, very chary of manifesting in his wife's presence any especial tenderness for the little stranger within his gates. but summer and winter came and went, and with their sun and shade nobody's child grew on toward girlhood. she had a great deal of beauty, of a shadowy, delicate kind. she was seldom ill, but she was a very frail-looking child. the quick, changeful color in her cheeks, the depth of feeling in her dark eyes, the tremulous curves about her mouth, all indicated an organization of extreme sensitiveness; a nature to which love would be as the very breath of life, but which was too shrinking and timid ever to put forth any claims for it, or make any advances. for ten years she was the only little one in the grant household. their affairs prospered, they grew richer every year, as if nobody's child had brought a blessing with her; but it was a constant source of bitterness to mrs. grant that they were laying up for strangers, or perhaps for this waif, whom no one else claimed, and who seemed likely to remain in their house for ever, like some noiseless, unwelcome shadow. but at last, when the child had been for ten years her unwelcome housemate, to mrs. grant herself was given a little baby girl, god's messenger of love, as i think every child must be, to every mother. never had baby a warmer welcome. the preparations made for her were worthy of a little queen, and she opened her eyes on a world of love and of summer. but perhaps no one, not even her mother, lavished upon her such a passion of devotion as the poor little waif, nobody's child, who had never in her life before had any one whom she dared to caress. perhaps her devotion to baby touched mrs. grant's heart; at any rate she saw that she could trust the little one to her without fear, and so nobody's child became a self-constituted but most faithful nurse and body-guard to this other child, whom loving hearts were so proud and glad to own. and little rose--for so they named the summer baby--clung to her young nurse with a fond tenacity, very exacting and wearing, indeed, but unutterably sweet to the shy girl whom no one else loved. she began to feel that she was of some use,--even she had her own name and place in the world; and this reminds me that i have not yet told you her name. she had been christened annette soon after she came under the grant roof, but little rose called her "nanty," and this odd title was the very first word that small person ever spoke. she was a lovely baby, one of the rosy, fat, dimpled, laughing kind, and so thoroughly healthy that she seldom cried, except when "nanty" disappeared for a moment from her sight. the touch of her baby fingers seemed to make marcus grant and his wife both young again. day by day some line of care faded out of their faces, which time had begun to harden. the mother smiled, as she had never smiled before, on her baby; and here, at last, was an object on which the father's great, loving heart could lavish itself, unblamed, and unquestioned. rose was a year and a half old, when one cold winter night her father and mother were persuaded to go to a house warming, a mile away. mrs. grant was seldom willing to leave her baby, but this gay company was to assemble at the new house of one of her best friends, and she took a fancy to be present. "'nanty' will be just as careful of rose, to do her justice, as i should," she said; "and i think it's only neighborly to go." her husband, always sociable in his nature, assented readily enough; and eight o'clock saw them well tucked in under the buffalo robes of their sleigh, and started for the scene of festivities. "nanty," for her part, was well content. rose was already asleep, her little cheek, pink as the heart of one of her namesake flowers, resting on one dimpled hand, while the other was tossed above her head, as we have all seen babies sleep. the maid-of-all-work went off early to her bed in the next chamber, and the man, who had a family of his own not far away, took his departure, and then "nanty" raked up the fire, and crept softly into bed beside little rose. it was nearly midnight when she woke, roused from her slumber by a light, a vivid, red light, brighter than day. in one moment she realized her position. the house was on fire, and the flames were already far advanced. she sprang to the door and opened it, but it was only to be met and driven back by a sheet of fire. there was no hope of escape that way. rose was her only thought. if she could save the child, she did not care for herself. she opened the chamber window. the leap seemed desperate to her timid gaze, but the snow underneath the window might break the fall. then she thought of something better. she caught the blankets from the bed, and rolled rose in them hurriedly, then dragged off the feather-bed, by an effort of uttermost strength, and forced it through the window; and then, reaching out as far as she could, she dropped rose, closely wrapped in the blankets, upon the bed, and sprang herself from another window, lest she might fall upon the child. for her there was no bed underneath, and no wrapping of soft woollens. heavily she fell to the ground, and a violent shock, followed by deadly pain, told her that she had broken her arm. she thanked god, in that breathless moment, that it was not her leg, for somehow she must move rose to a place of safety, out of reach, at least, of falling timbers. how she did it she never could have told, but in thirty seconds rose and the bed were out of the yard and across the street, and then she sank down beside her charge, utterly unconscious. mr. and mrs. grant were driving home after the festival when they caught the gleam of a wild, strange light in the direction of their own home. "the house is on fire!" mrs. grant cried, with white lips. "rose!" the father answered hoarsely, and whipped his horse into a run. a quarter of a mile away from home they met the maid. "master, mistress," she screamed after them, "the house is on fire, and i'm going for help." they did not stop for questions. had "nanty" also forsaken little rose? but they found "nanty" at her post, though at first they thought she was dead. the mother pulled away the blankets from the little bundle beside her, and baby rose rubbed her chubby hands into her sleepy eyes. "where is i?" she said, "and what for you make morning so soon?" "o mark, mark! she's all right," the mother cried, in a passion of joy. "'nanty' has saved her;" and then she bent over the little girl in her thin night-gown, and took her by the arm. "nanty, nanty!" she had seized the broken arm, and the pain roused the fainting girl. "yes'm," she said, starting up. "i'm so sorry to be good for nothing just now, when you want me so much, but i broke my arm jumping out." afterwards, when the family had found a new shelter, the whole story came out. the maid, judith, had read herself to sleep, and her candle had tipped over and set the bed on fire. the flames had aroused her to a terror which utterly swept away whatever presence of mind she might have had under other circumstances, and without one thought for rose or "nanty" she had hurried off to call the neighbors to the scene of action. one might have feared that the fright and exposure would prove fatal to one so frail and delicate as "nanty" had always been; but by the time her arm was well healed she was stronger than ever before, drawing new life, as it seemed, from the love and care lavished on her so freely; for now even mrs. grant's heart had opened and taken her in. one day marcus grant said to his wife,-- "but for 'nanty' we should have had no child at all. it seems hard that she, who saved our darling, should be nobody's child herself." "you think we ought to adopt her, and make her ours legally?" his wife answered, smiling cheerfully. "i have been thinking the same thing myself. we will do it when you please, for i believe god sent her to us, to be our own, just as much as ever he sent rose." so it came about, before another spring, that "nanty" was no longer nobody's child. father, mother, and little sister all belonged to her, and she had name and place in life, and a happy home where love smiled for ever. my little gentleman. for a year the great house rising on the summit of prospect hill had been an object of interest and observation, and a chief subject for talk to the quiet country neighborhood surrounding it. hillsdale was an old town--a still, steady-going farming place--where the young men ploughed the unwilling fields, and coaxed reluctant crops out of the hard-hearted new england soil, as fathers and grandfathers had done before them. but in all the generations since the town was settled, no one had ever thought of building on prospect hill. it had been used as pasture ground, until now, when a man from boston had bought it, and had had a road made to its top, and a house built on its very brow. this house was a wonder of architectural beauty. "with its battlements high in the hush of the air, and the turrets thereon." it was built of a kind of mixed stone; so that its variegated coloring had an air of brightness and gayety very unusual. the farmers about were exercised in mind over the amount of ox-flesh and patience required to drag stone enough for the great building up the high hill; but that did not trouble the architect, who gave his orders composedly, and went on with his business, quite unheeding comment. the house, itself, puzzled the neighbors, with its superb, arched dining-hall, its lovely, frescoed drawing-room, its wide passages, its little music-room, and its great library all lined with carven oak. then, why there should be so many chambers, unless, indeed, mr. shaftsbury had a very large family. but it was when the furniture began to come in that wonder reached its height. such plenishings had never been seen before in hillsdale. the carpet on the drawing-room must have been woven in some loom of unheard-of size; for it seemed to be all in one piece, with a medallion in the centre, a border round the edge, and all over its soft velvet--into which your feet sank as into woodland moss--the daintiest flowers that ever grew. marble statues gleamed in front of the great mirrors; and pictures of lovely landscapes, and radiant sunsets, and handsome men, and fair women, hung upon the walls. in the music-room were placed a grand piano, a harp and a guitar. the shelves which ran round the library on all sides, half way from floor to ceiling, were filled with substantially bound books; and above them were busts of great men by whom immortal words had been written. it was a dream of beauty all through,--and when it was finished, and a troop of servants, men and women, came to make all things ready, expectation reached its height. a presidential progress could hardly have excited more interest than did the arrival of a quiet, gentlemanly-looking man, dressed in gray, with iron-gray hair and beard, at the little railroad station, where a carriage had been sent down from prospect hill to meet him. this, of course, was mr. shaftsbury. he was accompanied, in spite of the many chambers, by a family of only two,--a lady much younger than himself, dressed with elegant simplicity, with a face full of all womanly sweetness, and a boy, about twelve or thirteen, apparently,--a high-bred little fellow in his appearance, but somewhat pale and delicate, and in need of the bracing air of prospect hill. they drove home in the sunset,--this little family of three,--and looked for the first time on their new abode. mr. shaftsbury had selected the location, and bought the land, somewhat more than a year before; and then had put the whole matter into the hands of a competent architect, while he took his family to europe, so that the new residence had as entirely the charm of novelty for him as for the others. for a month after that he was to be seen busily superintending matters about his place in the forenoon, while his wife and boy sauntered along, never far away from him, or driving with them in the pleasant may afternoons,--always these three only, and always together. the first of june, the summer term of the district school began. it was an intense surprise to the scholars to find, first of all in his place, young shaftsbury, from the hill. "robert shaftsbury, thirteen years old," he replied to the teacher, who asked his name and age. he studied quietly till recess, and even then lingered in his seat, with evident shyness, though he watched the others with a look of interest on his face. they stood apart, and talked of him among themselves, instead of rushing out at once to play, as was their wont. at last, after a good deal of wonderment and talk, one boy, bolder or more reckless than the rest, marched up to him. "i say, velvet jacket, how came you here?" was his salutation. "seems to me you're too much of a gentleman for our folks." a slight flush warmed young shaftsbury's pale cheeks; but he answered, with frankness as absolute as his courtesy was perfect:-- "i have been taught at home, up to now, but my father wants me to be with other boys of my own age; and he says a true gentleman belongs everywhere." the boys all heard what he said; and, in spite of their boyish rudeness, it inspired them with a certain respect. that was the beginning of the title which they gave him, among themselves, of "little gentleman,"--_only_ among themselves, at first; though afterwards, when they grew more familiar with him, they used to address him by it, more often than by his name. if there had been a philosophical observer to take note of it, it would have been curious to watch how unconsciously the boys were influenced by my little gentleman,--how their manners grew more gentle,--how they avoided coarse or unclean or profane words in his presence, as if he had been a woman. he led his classes, easily, in their studies. the teacher had never to reprove him for carelessness in his duties, or for broken rules. his father had said, "a true gentleman belongs everywhere;" and he was quietly proving it. the scholars liked him,--they could not help it, for his manner was as courteous as his nature was unselfish and kindly; and yet in their feeling for him there was a little strain of envy,--a slight disposition to blame him for the luxury and elegance to which he was born; and, because of his very courtesy, to underrate his courage and the real manliness of his character. but there was one in whose eyes he was, from first to last, a hero. jamie strong was yet more delicate than young shaftsbury. he had something the matter with one of his ankles, and could not join in the rough sports of the others. he was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. her husband and her other three children had all died of typhoid fever, and been, one after another, carried out of the little, lonesome cottage at the foot of the hill, where the sun seldom came, and now jamie was the last. he would never be strong enough to do hard work. sowing, ploughing, mowing, harvesting,--he could never manage any of these; so for his weak limbs his quick brain must make up; and widow strong had determined that he should be a scholar,--a minister, if it pleased the lord to call him to that; if not a teacher. so she quietly struggled on to keep him at school, and to earn money to provide for future years of academy and college. she sewed, she washed, she picked berries,--she did any thing by which she could add a dollar to her hoard. jamie understood and shared her ambition, and studied with might and main. he was used to harshness and rudeness from stronger boys, and he had grown shy and shrunk into himself. to him the coming of my little gentleman was as grace from heaven. here was one who never mocked at his feebleness, or his poverty,--who was always kind, always friendly, and who did many a little thing to make him happy. young shaftsbury on his part was quick to perceive the tender and loyal admiration of the other; and there grew between them the tie of an interest which had never been put into words. it had been a damp and strange summer, intensely warm, even in that hilly region. it had rained continually, but the rains, which kept the fields green and made vegetation so unusually lush and ripe, had seemed scarcely to cool at all the fervid heat of the air. wiseacres predicted much sickness. indeed, several cases of slow fever were in the town already. one day my little gentleman looked about in vain for his friend jamie, and finally asked for him anxiously, and found that the boy was ill of typhoid fever. at recess he heard the boys talking of it. "he'll never get well," one said. "his father died just that way, and his three brothers. you see it's damp, down in that hollow, and the sun hardly ever touches the house. i heard dr. simonds say it was ten to one against anybody who was sick there." when school was over robert shaftsbury hurried home. he found his mother sitting, dressed all in white, in the music-room, playing a symphony on the piano, while his father sat a little distance off, listening with half-closed eyes. he waited until the piece was over, and then he told his story and preferred his request. the doctor had said it was ten to one against any one who was sick in that little damp house in the hollow; and he wanted jamie brought up the hill to their own home. he watched the faces of his father and mother as he spoke; and it seemed to him that a refusal was hovering upon their lips, and he said, earnestly,-- "don't speak, just yet. remember that he is his mother's only son, as i am yours. if i lay sick where there was no hope for me, and some one else might, perhaps, save me by taking me in, would you think they ought to try it, or to let me die?" mr. shaftsbury looked into his wife's eyes. "robert is right," she said, with the sudden, sweet smile which always seemed to make the day brighter when it came to her lips. "if the poor boy can be helped by being brought here, we must bring him." "i will go and see," mr. shaftsbury answered, at once. "and i, too, papa," said my little gentleman. "not you, i think. i fear contagion for you." "i think there is no danger for me, living on this bright hill-top, in these great, airy rooms,--but even if there were, i am sure you would let me go if you knew how much jamie loves me." "come, then," his father said, quietly. he had been, all his son's life, preaching to him of heroism and self-sacrifice and devotion. he dared not interfere with almost his first opportunity for any real exercise of them. so the two went down the hill together. it chanced that they met dr. simonds coming away from the house, and proposed to him the question of the removal. it would not do, the doctor declared at once,--the disease had made too much progress. to remove him now would be more dangerous than to leave him where he was. "then i must go and see him," robert said, resolutely. "you know he has only his mother, and i must spend all the time i can spare from school with him." "but i will send an excellent nurse, my son. do you not see that i cannot have you expose yourself?" "send the nurse, too, please, papa; but do not keep me from going. he will not care for the nurse, and he does care very much for me. i do not believe in the danger, and i know how glad he will be to see me." mr. shaftsbury hesitated. this boy was as the apple of his eye. must he indeed begin so soon to look danger in the face, for the sake of others? but dared he withhold him, when the boy felt that honor and duty called? it ended by his walking in with him quietly. it was something to see how jamie's face brightened. he had been very dull and stupid all day, his mother said, and some of the time his mind had been wandering. but now a glad, eager light came into his eyes, and a smile curved his parched lips. he put out his hot hands. "oh! is it you, my little gentleman?" he said: "i had rather see you than any thing else in the world." "well, then, i will come every day as soon as i am through school," robert shaftsbury answered. "do you know what you have done?" his father asked, when, at last, they stood outside the house together. "yes, papa. i have promised that poor, sick, helpless little fellow all the comfort i can give him. i have promised to do by him as i should want him to do by me if i were jamie strong, and he was robert shaftsbury." mr. shaftsbury was silenced. this, indeed, was the rule of living he had taught. should he venture to interfere with its observance? so my little gentleman had his way. he took every precaution which his mother's anxiety suggested, such as going home to lunch before he went to the little cottage where the sick boy lay and longed for him. but he went regularly. and no matter how wild jamie might be, his presence would bring calmness. the dim eyes would kindle; the poor, parched lips would smile; and mrs. strong said the visit did jamie more good than his medicines. at school the boys looked upon my little gentleman with a sort of wondering reverence. they all knew of his daily visits to the fever-haunted place, which they themselves shunned, and they marvelled at his courage. this was the boy they had fancied to be lacking in manliness, because he was slight and fair,--because he was carefully dressed and tenderly nurtured! they said nothing; but in a hundred subtile ways they showed their changed estimate. the days went on, and with them jamie strong's life went toward its end. the doom of his house had come upon him; and love and prayers and watching were all, it seemed, of none avail. one night the fever reached its crisis, and the doctor, who watched him through it, knew that the end was near. jamie knew it, also. when the morning dawned he whispered faintly to his mother,-- "i shall never see another morning; but oh, if i can only live till night, and see my little gentleman!" she proposed to send for him; but that was not what the boy wished. "no," he said, feebly, "i want to see him coming in, at the old time, with some flowers in his hand, 'and make a sunshine in a shady place.' somebody said that, mother, i forget who; i forget every thing now; but that's what _he_ does; he makes a sunshine in this shady place." a dozen times that day it seemed as if the breath coming so faintly must be his last; but he clung to life with a strange, silent tenacity. at last, just a few moments before it was time for the accustomed visit, he said,-- "kiss me good-by, mother. i want to save the rest of my strength for him." she kissed him, with her bitter tears falling fast. he put up a hand so thin that you could almost see through it, and brushed the tears away. "don't cry," he said; "it hurts me. life here was hard, and up above christ says it will be all made easy." then he was silent, and presently robert came with a great bunch of white lilies in his hand. "the lilies of heaven," murmured jamie, in a low, strange tone. then into his eyes broke once more the light which never failed to respond to robert's coming, and a wan smile fluttered over his lips, as a soul might flutter before it flies away. "i am going now," he said. "i waited to say good-by, my little gentleman. do you think they are all gentlemen up there?" with this question his life went out, and voices we could not hear made answer. this was the beginning of robert shaftsbury's career. no harm came to him through his presence in the fever-tainted house,--but he had learned a lesson there. the one thing for which he has striven in life is to be a gentleman; and his interpretation of that much-abused phrase he finds in the book which tells us to do unto others as we would that they should do unto us. [illustration: ruthy's country.--page .] ruthy's country. it was such a strange, sad, old face to be on such a young, slight form, that you could not help looking at it again and again. otherwise there was nothing remarkable about her. she was just a girl sweeping a crossing, in a bustling, dirty street, on a muddy, sloppy march day. she was thinly clothed, but not more so than others of her class; and there was nothing in particular to make me notice her except this queer, expressive, melancholy, unyouthful countenance. she wore a worsted hood which left the whole face visible. you could see the forehead, broad and low, and lined with puzzled thinking; the dusky, tumbled hair; the wishful, pathetic mouth with its drooping corners; and the great, strange, olive-colored eyes, which looked as if they had asked for something they could never find for such a weary while that now they would never ask again,--eyes dark with despair, and yet with a suggestion of something else in them which set you questioning. patiently she swept on. sometimes she had to spring aside from the rapid passage of cart or carriage, sometimes she made clean the way of some dainty foot passenger, who rewarded her with a penny; but all the time the hopeless, unchildlike visage never betrayed the slightest gleam of interest. i was dabbling in art a little, just then; and i stood in the window of a picture store and watched her, thinking that her strange, impassive face ought to fit, somewhere, in the illustrations i was making for a book of ballads, but not knowing quite how to use it. all at once, as i watched, i saw a singular change pass over her. she held her broom motionless, her lips parted, a light as if at midnight the sun should rise, lighted the darkness of her eyes, her whole expression kindled with something,--interest, surprise, expectation,--i hardly knew what, but something that transformed it as by a spell. i stepped to the door then, and followed her eyes up the street. it takes ten times as long to tell this as it was in happening. it all came in an instant,--the change in her face, my going out to look for its cause, and the sight which, following her eyes, i saw,--a carriage coming swiftly down street, an elegant open barouche, in which sat a lady dressed in furs and velvet, and a wonderfully beautiful, golden-haired child. it was at the child that my little crossing-sweeper was looking, with a gaze which seemed to me to say,-- "so this, then, is childhood? _this_ is what we ought to be when we are young; and how beautiful it is!" she looked so intently that she forgot she was standing in the way, until the coachman shouted out to her, while he tried with all his strength to pull up his horses. she had looked one moment too long. somehow the pole knocked her down, and the horses stepped over or on her, which i could not see; but in another moment they were drawn up a rod farther on, the lady was getting out of her carriage, and i myself was in the heart of the crowd which gathered at once, as usual. "her arm is broken," one cried. "she has fainted," said another. "where is her home; can any one tell?" asked the lady in the furs and the velvet, standing now beside her. a ragged little newsboy stepped from the ranks and pulled at some ghost of a cap. "please, ma'am, i know," he said. "it's down here in moonstone court, with old sally." "hey for sally, in our alley," sang another little limb of evil, vexed that he had not been the one who knew the local habitation aforesaid. newsboy no. was elevated to the coachman's box, and was desired to show the way. the lady got into the carriage herself, and received the injured and swooning girl, whom there were strong arms enough to lift,--the golden-haired child looked on with the compassion of an angel in her angelic face,--newsboy no. hung on behind dexterously, making sure that his offence would pass unnoticed in the general _mêlée_, and the carriage rolled away toward moonstone court. presently the golden-haired child spoke. "what if they haven't any good place for her there, mamma?" mrs. brierly, for that was the lady's name, bent forward and addressed newsboy no. , on the box. "is the old sally you spoke of the girl's mother?" "no, ma'am. she ain't no relation to her. i've heard folks say, ruthy's father and mother died, and old sally took her in to beg for her; to be a sufferin' orphin, you know; and lately ruthy won't beg any more, and they say the old un do beat her awful." "o mamma!" it was all the pitiful, childish lips said; but the blue eyes full of tears finished the prayer. "don't be afraid, gracie," the lady answered, smiling; "she shall not go there." then she turned to newsboy no. . "here is some money for you. you can tell old sally that the girl got hurt, and has been taken to the hospital. you had better go and let her know at once." so newsboy no. got down from his unwonted elevation, pulled again at the phantom of a cap, and, looking curiously at the fresh, crisp currency in his hand, walked away. newsboy no. , correctly divining that nothing was to be gained by remaining, while, by following his comrade he might perhaps come in for a treat, let go his hold on the carriage, and went after the other. "now, james," mrs. brierly said to the coachman, "you may drive to the children's hospital, on rutland street." "we shall go right by home, shan't we, mamma?" "yes, dear." "i suppose we couldn't be a hospital, could we?" "not very conveniently, i think. it is better to help keep up a hospital outside than to turn our own house into one." "yes'm," gracie said, thoughtfully, "only this once, when we did the hurting, i didn't know but it would be nice if we did the curing." just then, before mrs. brierly answered, the swooning girl revived, and opened for an instant her curious, olive-colored eyes. there was something in their look, perhaps, which went farther than gracie's argument. at any rate, the lady said,-- "after all, james, you may as well leave us at home, and go at once for dr. cheever." in five minutes more the carriage had stopped before a substantial, prosperous-looking house, the coachman had carried the poor, suffering little waif upstairs in his arms, and mrs. brierly had summoned mrs. morris, the good, motherly woman who had been gracie's nurse, to her councils. when dr. cheever came, he found his patient in clean, pure clothes, in a fresh, lovely room, waiting for him with a piteous, silent patience which it was pathetic to see. she suffered cruelly from her hurt, a compound fracture of the wrist, but she was not used to making moans or receiving sympathy; and it would have seemed to her a sort of sacrilege to cry out with human pain in this paradise to which she had been brought. one could only guess at her suffering by her compressed lips, with the white pallor round them, and the dark rings about her eyes. dr. cheever listened to the account of the accident, while he dressed the poor hurt wrist with a gentleness which soothed the pain his touch caused. when he had done all he could, he followed mrs. brierly from the room. "this will be an affair of several weeks," he said. "would it not have been better to take the girl to one of the hospitals?" "i thought so, at first; but, as gracie said, we did the hurting, and it seemed right we should do the healing. besides, the child's face interested me strangely, and i think it will not be a bad thing for us to have a little experience of this sort." meantime ruthy lay and looked about her, as we have all fancied ourselves looking when, the death sleep over, we shall open our eyes to a new morning in some one of the father's "many mansions." to a denizen of moonstone court this peaceful spot in which ruthy found herself might well seem no unworthy heaven. the walls were tinted a soft, delicate gray, with blue borderings. on the drab carpet blue forget-me-nots blossomed. blue ribbons tied back the white muslin curtains, and all the little china articles for use or ornament were blue and gilt. only one picture was in the room, and that hung over the mantel, directly opposite the pure white bed where ruthy lay. it was a landscape by gifford,--one of those glorified pictures of his which paint nature as only a poet sees her. soft meadows sloped away into dreamy distance on one side, and, on the other, into the green enchantment of a wood a winding path beguiled you. in the centre, with her raised foot upon a stile by which she was about to cross into the peaceful meadows, a young girl stood with morning in her eyes. just as she raised her foot she had paused and turned her head to look over her shoulder, as if she heard a voice calling her, and was hesitating whether to go on her appointed way or back into the green wood's enchantment. there was a wonderful suggestion for a story in the girl's face, her attitude, her questioning eyes. but if ruthy felt this at all, it was very vaguely and unconsciously; yet the picture revealed to her a new world. somewhere, then, meadows bloomed like these meadows, and woods were green, and light flickered through tender leaves, and over all the great, glorious blue sky arched and smiled. somewhere! that must be country,--outside of the pavements and the tall, frowning houses. oh, if she _could_ go! oh, but she _would_ go! let her wrist but get well, and then! she had never had these dreams before. the vision of the country, the true country, had never dawned on her till now. and yet she must have seen pictures of it in the windows of print shops; but her eyes had not been anointed, or gifford had not painted the pictures. all through the quiet weeks in which her sore hurt was healing, she watched that painted landscape, and her longing to find it grew and grew. but she never said a word about it. indeed, she seldom spoke at all except to answer some question. mrs. brierly became strangely interested in her in spite of this silence, which piqued and disappointed gracie. the child could not understand what the mother guessed at,--the sense of isolation which tormented ruthy. she was among them, but not of them, the girl felt. she had been injured by an accident for which these people in some wise held themselves responsible, and so they were good to her, and gave her this glimpse of heaven. but they were of the chosen people, and she a gentile, an outcast at their gates. if she could but go away from every thing she had ever known, and follow that winding path into the still wood, she should be happy. who knew what she might not find there,--love, may be, and friends, and home,--perhaps, even, the father and mother who, as old sally said, were dead? who knew? one day mrs. brierly came in to sit with her. ruthy could sit up now, and she was in a low rocking-chair, still facing the picture. the lady saw the direction of her eyes, and said, gently,-- "i think you must like pictures very much, ruthy?" the olive-colored eyes gleamed, and a flickering flush came and went in the thin cheeks, but the girl answered shyly and guardedly, as her wont was. "i don't know, ma'am; i have never seen any. i like this one. it is the country; isn't it?" mrs. brierly smiled. "yes; it is the country as gifford, the man who made the picture, saw it. country means ploughed fields and potatoes to some people, and paradise to others. i think _you_ could find gifford's country, ruthy." the girl's heart gave a great, sudden bound. that was just what she meant to do; but she was silent. soon mrs. brierly asked,-- "do you remember your father and mother, ruthy? i think they must have been very different people from old sally." "yes, ma'am, i remember my mother. father died so long ago i have forgotten all about him, and mother and i grew poorer and poorer, until one day i woke up, as it seemed, from a long dream, with my hair all gone, and very weak; and the neighbors said mother and i had both had a fever, and she was dead. then sally took me and sent me out to beg, until i wouldn't beg any more; and since then i've sold matches and swept crossings, and done any thing else i could. my wrist is getting so i can use it now, and i must go to work again. i am very thankful to you, ma'am. i would have my wrist broke twenty times to come once into this house and lie in this white bed, and see that picture. but to-morrow i shall be well enough to put on my own clothes again and go to work, and i will, please, ma'am." "these are your own clothes that you have on, ruthy, your very own. and here are more changes for you in this drawer, and here in the closet are your shawl and hat. you must not go away yet, till you are much stronger; but when you do go, all these things are your own." "my very own!" it was a sort of glad cry which came from the girl's quivering lips. her eyes filled, and the flickering color came into her cheeks. mrs. brierly got up and went away. she had never heard ruthy speak so many words before, and she began to feel that she should get to the girl's heart in time, but she would not let her excite herself any more, now. and ruthy sat and looked at the picture, and thought. the next morning rose bright and clear,--a summer morning, which had slipped away from its kindred and stolen on in advance to brighten the last week in april. nurse morris went first into ruthy's room, and found the little white bed empty, and the room empty also. she called the maid who had been sweeping down the steps and washing the sidewalk, and asked if she had seen any one go out. no one, the girl said, but she had left the door unfastened while she just chatted a bit with katy, next door, and some one might have gone, and she not know it. mrs. morris went next to mrs. brierly with her tale, and mrs. briefly came in dressing-gown and slippers to look at the empty room. the hat and shawl she had put in the closet for ruthy were gone, but the changes of clothes in the drawer were untouched; and upon them lay a piece of paper on which the girl had printed laboriously, in great capital letters,-- "i am going to find the country. i did not tell, for fear i would not be let to go. god bless you, ma'am, i'm very thankful." it seemed useless to try to follow her on her unknown road. no one could guess in what direction she had gone. tender-hearted little gracie cried over her departure; mrs. brierly felt very anxious and uneasy, but they could only wait. and it was three days before any news came. it was brought, at last, by an odd messenger. a market-man stopped with his wagon before the house, and, ringing the bell, asked to see the mistress, and was shown upstairs. "did a young girl, sort of delicate lookin', leave you lately, ma'am?" "yes, on tuesday morning. can you tell me any thing of her?" "well, you see, i get up nigh about in the middle of the night to get things ready for market, and wednesday morning i found a girl lying in a dead faint on my barn floor. i called my wife, and we brought her to, and wife asked her where she came from. 'mrs. brierly's, no. tremont street,' she answered, straight enough; and then she went off again, and the next time we brought her to there was no more sense to be got out of her. she just kept saying over something about finding the country, and 'it ain't there.' "i had to come off to market, but we carried her into the house, and in the middle of the forenoon wife see the doctor goin' by, and she jest called to him. he said it was brain fever; and she don't get any better; and wife said i'd better stop at , and if there was a mrs. brierly here, why, i could let her know. we live at highville, about fifteen miles from boston; and if you ask for job smith's you'll find my house." so poor little ruthy had walked all those lonesome miles to find the country that gifford saw, and had found, instead, pain and weariness, and who knew what more? that day mrs. brierly drove out there, and took nurse morris with her; ruthy recognized neither of them, and at length mrs. brierly drove sadly away, leaving nurse morris behind to care for the sick child, as busy mrs. job smith, with all her kindliness, was unable to do. and after a while the fever wore itself out, and ruthy, a white wraith of a girl, was carried back into the chamber of peace, where the country gifford saw was hanging on the wall. but the days went by, and the spring came slowly up that way, and the young summer followed, and ruthy was still a pale, white wraith, and grew no rosier and no stronger. "do get well, ruthy," loving little gracie used to say, "and we'll take you to find the country." but ruthy would shake her head with a slow, mournful motion, and answer,-- "no use, miss gracie, it is in the picture, but it ain't anywhere else." and by and by they began to know that ruthy would never go where pleasant paths led through the wood's green enchantment, or peaceful meadows smiled in the summer sunshine. sorrow and privation and weariness had done their work too well, and the little heart, that beat so much too fast now, would stop beating soon. but ruthy was very happy. the unrest that had possessed her before she went to find the country was all over. she had tried her experiment, and found out, as she thought, that the true country was not to be reached by earthly winding ways, and she was content to watch it as gifford painted it, and dream her silent dreams, which no one knew, as she watched. one night when gracie bade her good-night and danced away, she looked after her with the old, wistful wonder in her eyes, and then looked up at mrs. brierly. "how beautiful god can make children, ma'am. i think they'll _all_ be so, in the true country." then reaching forward she took mrs. brierly's hand and touched it for the first time with her humble, grateful lips. "oh, ma'am," she said, "you are so dear and good." the next morning, when they found her lying still, she was whiter than ever. she would never speak again to tell her disappointment or her joy, but a wonderful smile, a smile of triumph, was frozen on her young, wistful mouth, and mrs. brierly, looking at her, stooped to kiss gracie's tears away, and said,-- "do not cry, my darling,--i think, at last, ruthy has found the true country." job golding's christmas. it was very strange, thought old job golding, that he couldn't be master of his own mind. he had lived a great many years, and neither remorse nor memory had ever been in the habit of disturbing him; but now it seemed to him as if the very foundations of his life were breaking up. he was through with his day's work,--he had dined comfortably,--he sat in an easy-chair, in a luxurious room whose crimson hangings shut out the still cold of the december afternoon,--for the th of december it was. he was all ready to enjoy himself. how singular that this state of things should remind him of a coming time when his life work would be all done,--even as his day's work was all done now,--when he would be ready to sit down in the afternoon and look over the balance sheet of his deeds. how curiously the old days came trooping in slow procession before him. his dead wife; he had not loved her much when she was with him, but how vivid was his memory of her now! he could see her moving round the house, noiseless as a shadow, never intruding on him, after he had once or twice answered her gruffly, but going on her own meek, still ways, with her face growing whiter every day. he began to understand, as he looked back, why her strength had failed and she had been ready, when her baby came, to float out on the tide and let it drift her into god's haven. she had had enough to eat and to drink, but he saw now that he had left her heart to starve. he seemed to see her white, still face, as he looked at it the last time before they screwed down the coffin lid, with the dumb reproach frozen on it, the eyes, that would never again plead vainly, closed for ever. he recalled how passionately the three-days-old baby cried in another room, just at that moment, moving all the people gathered at the funeral with a thrill of pity for the poor little motherless morsel. she _was_ a passionate, wilful baby, all through her babyhood, he remembered. she wanted--missed without knowing what the lack was--the love which her mother would have given her, and protested against fate with all the might of her lungs. but, as soon as she grew old enough to understand how useless it was, _she_ had grown quiet, too; just like her mother. he recalled her, all through her girlhood, a shy, still girl, always obedient and submissive, but never drawing very near him. did she have tastes, he wondered--wants, longings? she never told him. but suddenly, when she was eighteen, the old, passionate spirit that had made her cry so when she was a baby must have awakened again, he thought; for she fell in love then, and married in defiance of his wishes. he remembered her standing proudly before him, and asking,-- "father, do you know any thing against harry church?" "yes," he had answered wrathfully; "i know that he is as poor as job was when he sat among the ashes; he can't keep a wife." "any thing else, father?" looking him steadily in the eye. "no, that's enough," he had thundered; "and i'll tell you, besides, that if you marry him you must lie in the bed you will make. my doors will never open to you again, never." he met with a will as strong as his own that time. she _did_ marry harry church, and went away with him from her father's house. she had written home more than once afterwards, but he had sent the letters all back unopened. he wished, to-day, that he knew what had been in them; whether she had been suffering for any thing. he wondered why he had opposed the marriage so much. harry church had been a clerk in his store; faithful, intelligent, industrious, only--poor. in that word lay the head and front of his offending. he, job golding, was rich,--had been rich all his lifetime,--but what special thing had riches done for him? he was an old man now, and all alone. "all alone;" he kept saying that over and over, with a sort of vague self-pity. and all this time a message was on its way to him. he heard a ring at the door, but he went on with his thoughts, and did not trouble himself about it. meantime, two persons had been admitted into the hall below; a man and a little girl, eight years old, perhaps. her companion took off her hood and her warm wrappings, and the child stood there,--a dainty, delicate creature,--her golden curls drooping softly round her face, with its large blue eyes and parted scarlet lips. the housekeeper had come into the hall, and she turned pale as she saw that little face. "miss amy's child," she said to the man, nervously. "it is as much as my place is worth to let her come in here." "you are mrs. osgood, are you not?" said the little girl, looking at her. "hear the blessed lamb! who in this world told you there _was_ a mrs. osgood?" "mamma. you loved mamma, didn't you? she said you were always so kind to her." "loved your ma? well, i _did_ love her. the old house has never been the same since she went out of it." "then you'll let me go up alone and see grandpa? that is what mamma said i was to do." mrs. osgood hesitated a moment, then love and memory triumphed over fear, and she said,-- "yes, you shall. heaven forbid i should hinder you! go right upstairs and open the first door." the man who had come with her sat down in the hall to wait, and the little figure, with its gleaming, golden hair, tripped on alone. she opened the door softly, and went in. she did not speak; perhaps the stern-looking old man sitting there awed her to silence. she just stepped up to him and handed him a letter. he took it, scarcely noticing, so busy was he with his thoughts, at the hand of what strange messenger. he looked at the outside. it was his daughter's writing. ten years ago he had sent her last letter back unopened; but this one,--what influence apart from himself moved him to read it? it was not long, but it commenced with "dear father." he had never been a dear father to her, he thought. she had waited all these silent years, she told him, because she was determined never to write to him again until they were rich enough for him to know that she did not write from any need of his help. they had passed these ten years in the west, and heaven had prospered them. her husband was a rich man, now; and she wanted from her father only his love,--wanted only that death should not come between them, and either of them go to her mother's side without having been reconciled to the other. "let _her_ lips speak to you from the grave," she wrote; "her lips, which you must have loved once, and which never grew old or lost their youth's brightness,--let them plead with you to be reconciled to her child. surely, you will not turn away from the messenger i send,--your own grandchild." the messenger,--he had forgotten about her. he turned and she was standing there, like a spirit, on his hearthstone, with her white face and her gleaming golden hair. he looked at her, and saw her father's broad, full brow and thoughtful eyes, and below them the sweetness of her mother's smile. his grandchild--his! his heart throbbed chokingly. he grew hungry to clasp her,--to feel her soft arms clinging round his neck, her tender lips kissing away the furrows of his hard life from his face. but he feared to startle her. he tried to speak gently,--he, to whom gentleness was so new and strange. "come here, little girl," he said; and she went up to him fearlessly. "can you tell me how old you are, and what your name is?" "i am eight, grandpapa, and my name is amy." another amy! he felt the great sobs rising up from his heart, but he choked them back. "what have they told you about me?" he asked her anxiously. could it be possible, he wondered, that they had not taught her to hate him? "they always told me that you were far away toward where the sun rose; and if i were good they would fetch me to see you some day. and every night i say in my prayers, 'god bless papa and mamma, and god bless grandpapa.'" "why _didn't_ they fetch you; what made them let you come alone?" "mamma said she would surprise you with your big grandchild. they are waiting at the hotel, and john is down-stairs. they want you to come back with me. will you, grandpapa?" mrs. osgood looked on in wonder, as her master came downstairs and put on his overcoat,--came down holding the child's hand in his, her golden hair floating beside him. was that old job golding? he stepped into the carriage in which careful mistress amy had sent her messenger. the horses did not go fast enough. he would have been in a fever of impatience, but the child's hand in his quieted him. through it all he was wondering vaguely what it meant,--whether he were his own old self, or some one else. at last they were there, and the child led him in,--up the long hotel stairs, across hall and corridor,--until, at length, she opened a door and said cheerily,-- "mamma, here's grandpapa." his head swam. he was fain to sit down, and there were his own amy's arms about his neck. why had he never known what he lost, in losing the sweetness of her love, through all these vanished years? he held her fast now, and he heard her voice close to his ear:-- "father, are we reconciled at last?" "i don't know, daughter, until you've told me whether you've forgiven me." "there need be no talk about forgiveness," she said. "you went according to your own light. it is enough that god has brought us together again in peace. i thought that no one could resist my little amy, least of all her grandpapa." he looked up, and the child stood by, silently; the firelight glittering in her golden hair, her face shining strangely sweet. he put out his arms and drew her into them, close--where no child, not even his own, had ever nestled before. oh, how much he had missed in life! he thought. he felt her clinging hold round his neck,--her kisses dropped upon his face like the pitying dew from heaven, and he--_was_ it himself, or another soul in his place? "here, father," amy's voice had a cheerful ring to it, and her happy married life had made of her a fine, contented, matronly-appearing woman, "here are harry and the boys waiting to speak to you." he shook his son-in-law's hand heartily. old feuds, old things, were over now, and all was become new. then he looked at the boys,--six-years-old hal, three-years-old geordie,--brave, merry little fellows, of whom he should be proud some day; only they could never be to him quite like this girl in his arms,--his first-found grandchild. he sat there among them, surrounded by the peace and warmth of their household love, and felt as if a new life had come. he did not go away until long after, by the rules of any well-ordered nursery, those three pairs of bright little eyes should have been closed in sleep; but they must sit up to see the last of grandpapa. when, at length, he went, he told them that they must all come home to him on the morrow,--there must be no more staying at hotels, when his big, lonesome house was waiting for them. "to-morrow is christmas," his daughter said, half doubtfully. "all the better. if christmas was never kept in my house, it ought to be. come round to dinner,--three o'clock sharp,--and bring all the boxes with you. that will give you time to pack up, and mrs. osgood time to get your rooms ready." "boxes and boys,--won't they be too much for you, father?" "when they are i'll tell you,"--with a last touch of the old gruffness. then he went out on the street, and began looking for christmas gifts. it was new business for him, but he went into it earnestly and anxiously. it was so late, and every one seemed so busy, he thought it would never do to trust to the shopmen for sending things home. so he perambulated the streets like a bewildered santa claus,--and went home, at last, laden with books and toys and jewels and bon-bons,--with a doll that could walk, and a parrot that could talk, and no end of sweets and confections. he called mrs. osgood to help him put them away, and when they were all disposed of he said, with a curious attempt at maintaining his old sternness and dignity, which caused the good woman a secret smile,-- "mrs. osgood, i hope you will do yourself and me credit to-morrow. my daughter, mrs. church, is coming home with her husband and children, and i want the best christmas dinner you can get up, to be on the table at a quarter-past three." mrs. osgood had always loved miss amy, in the old days, and had been hoping against hope, all these years, for the reconciliation which had come now. so her heart was in her task, and the dinner was a master-piece,--a real work of genius, as she used to say, when she told the story afterwards. amy, and amy's husband, and the roystering boys, and, best of all, the little girl close at grandpapa's side, with her happy eyes shining, and her golden hair gleaming, and her quiet, womanly little ways,--what a jubilant party they were! and among them all job golding saw, or fancied that he saw, another face, over which, almost thirty years ago, he had seen the grave-sod piled,--a face sad and wistful no longer, but bright with a strange glory. no one else saw _her_, he knew, for the gay laughs were going round, but close at his side she seemed to stand; and he heard, or fancied that he heard, a whisper from her parted lips, which only his ear caught,--the christmas anthem,-- "peace on earth and good will toward men." my comforter. i got up and hung a shawl over the canary's cage to keep him quiet. he had been singing all day, till it seemed to me i could not bear it any longer. that morning the doctor had told me that my mother would never be any better. she was liable, he said, to die at any time. at the longest, it was only a question of days or weeks. and my mother was all i had in the world. my father had been dead a year. in his lifetime we had lived in a pleasant country home. he had been employed in the county bank, and we had lived most comfortably, and even with some pretensions to elegance. i had been sent to school, and learned a little french, a little music, and something of art. i had, too, a great deal of skill in fancy work, and had been used to find in that and my painting my amusements. indeed, we all had what are called elegant tastes,--tastes which suited a much larger income than ours, and we indulged them. this was unwise, perhaps. people said so, at any rate, when my father died suddenly, and left us with no property and no dependence save our home. it was to escape alike their censure and their pity, as much as because i fancied i could find more openings for employment, that i persuaded mother to join me in selling our little place, and remove to new york. she was willing enough to do this. i think that it was a relief to her to go away from all the familiar sights and sounds which kept so constantly before her the memory of the dead husband who had made her life among them so blessed. she fancied, perhaps, that when she was among unfamiliar things the first bitterness of her grief would wear away. but with her, as it proved, change of place was only change of pain. she was not made of the stuff to which forgetfulness is possible. our home and furniture brought us a little over three thousand dollars, and with this sum we went to new york. in spite of my mourning for my father i had the elasticity of youth, and i did not make this removal, enter into this wide, strange, new life, without my share of the high hopes and brilliant anticipations of youth. we went first to a hotel, and then looked up a boarding-place in a quiet, unpretentious street, suited to our means. we expected to use two or three hundred dollars before we got well established; and then i hoped to earn enough to keep us, with the help of the interest of the three thousand we should still have remaining, without encroaching upon the principal. i might have succeeded, perhaps,--for i was not long in procuring fancy work from two fashionable trimming stores,--if, when we had been there a little while, my mother's health had not begun seriously to decline. i think she made an effort to live on, after all the joy of her life was dead, for my sake; but she failed, and by and by she grew weary and gave up the struggle. of course her illness brought upon us new expenses. i would have for her the best medical advice, however she might protest against it as useless; and there were various little comforts and luxuries that i could not and would not deny myself the pleasure of procuring for her. so we were gradually going behindhand all the time. this had troubled me a little; but now that the doctor had spoken my mother's doom, the matter of dollars and cents faded into utter insignificance. there would be more than enough to take care of her to the last, and after that i could not bring myself to think. i would have shuddered at the thought of self-destruction, but i believe the prayer was in my mind, every moment in the day, that god would let me care for her till the end, and then lie down and die beside her. so i carried back the work i had from richmond's and la pierre's, and spent all my time with her,--my darling. often when i tried to talk with her, the thought how soon she would be past all hearing would rise up and choke me, and i would turn away to hide the sudden rush of tears. it was on wednesday the doctor had told me what i must expect; and up to saturday night i had kept it from her, trying my poor best to wear a cheerful face. that night i sat beside her in the twilight. she was on the lounge, bolstered up with pillows, and i on a low hassock, which brought my face on a level with hers. we had been silent a long time, since the last ray of sunset touched our western windows, and now the dusk had fallen so that we could see each other no longer. at last out of the shadows came her voice, clear and sweet,-- "beyond the sowing and the reaping, beyond the watching and the weeping, beyond the waking and the sleeping, i shall be soon." then she put out her hand and touched my wet face. "do not grieve, my darling," she said,--oh, how tenderly,--"because i am going home. the only pang i feel is for you, and it will not be long before you come." "it may be years," i said, bitterly. "i am young and strong. oh, i wish i wasn't,--if god would only take me too, and not make me stay in this great, empty world without you!" "i think, darling, he will send you a comforter." "oh, i am not so bad that i do not want his spirit. i do believe; i do try to follow the dear lord; but i want a human comforter,--something to see and feel,--tender lips, gentle fingers. the flesh is so weak." "and i meant a human comforter. i believe he will send you one in his own time and way,--when you learn, perhaps, to forget yourself in helping some one still more desolate." "as if that could be. o, mother, when you are gone there won't be in the whole wide world such a lonesome, aching heart as mine." "people always say that, dear; always think there is no sorrow like their sorrow, until god teaches them better, either by making their own burden heavier, or by showing them how to help some one else. god grant it may be this last with you, bessie." "but is there no hope, mother?" i said, with a wild longing for a little of the comfort a doubt would give. "i think none. dr. west told you so wednesday, did he not? and you have been trying to keep it from me,--as if i could not read it in your face, every time you looked at me." all reserve broke down then. i was in her arms, sobbing and crying on her bosom; i that so soon would have no mother's bosom for my refuge any more for ever. the doctor had said her life was a question of days or weeks. she lived four weeks after he told me that, and then one night she talked with me a long, long time. at last she said she was tired, and would go to sleep. then she kissed me, as she always did, and turned her gentle face toward the wall. she awoke again in another world than ours. but by the calm blessedness of the smile on the dead face i knew that her soul had departed in peace. it was a smile that made her young and fair again, as the mother i remembered away back in my childhood. oh, what a desolate funeral that was! i had no friends near enough to give them any claim to be sent for, and i wanted no one. i made all the arrangements myself, and the third day i buried my dead. i remember the minister, after the funeral rites were over, stopped a moment beside the grave to speak a few words of sympathy to me, sole mourner. but i was deaf with sorrow. i made no answer, and presently he turned away. i don't know how long i stood there. after a while my driver came up, touching his hat, respectfully, and asked,-- "would ye plaise to start soon, miss?" and mechanically i went toward the carriage, and he put me in and shut the door. so i went back to the desolate room where she had died. some one had been in during my absence and made it all bright and tidy, but i would rather have found it dark, and gloomy, and comfortless, as when i went away. the days which followed were sad and evil. my soul rose in revolt. i asked why i, of all others, should be so set apart by sorrow,--left so lonely and so desolate. for a whole week i had been thus mutinous. i had seen in my god no father, but an avenger. all the promises of love and joy were sealed from me. i passed through the very valley and shadow of death, and in its darkness the powers of evil did battle for my soul; until at last i slept, one night, and dreamed of mother, for the first time since she died. in the dream she seemed beside me, but not as of old. a spiritual beauty sat upon her face, a blessedness such as mortals never know looked from her eyes, but her voice came, low and sweet, as it used: "i think, darling, the father will send you a comforter." i woke refreshed, as i had not been before by any slumber. the voice of my dream lingered with me, and calmed me, as my mother's words used to. i began to have faith. i remembered _how_ she had thought my comforter was to come. but when and where should i find some one more desolate than myself to help? at any rate, not by sitting still to nurse my woe, an idler in the vineyard. i must go to work. i put on my deep mourning bonnet and went out. if i could get my old work from the trimming stores, i could earn enough now to take care of myself, and keep what money i had left as surety against the proverbial rainy day. i made my way first to richmond's. as i went in i noticed a little lame girl with her crutch sitting beside the door. one sees such objects of charity often enough in new york. i doubt if this one would have attracted me but for her singular beauty. she had the fairest skin i ever saw, with large, dark eyes, and hair of a pure auburn tint. it was a face full of contrasts, and yet of the most exquisite loveliness. i noticed she attracted others as well as myself, for while i stood a few moments looking at her, no one went into the store who did not drop a few pennies in the little outstretched hand. i followed the universal example as i went in, and at my gift, as at every other, a deep blush crimsoned the sensitive little face. i made my arrangements to resume my old employments, and then went out, and down the street to la pierre's. when i came back, half an hour later, the child was still sitting there; and i looked at her again, wondering anew at her delicate beauty. then a thrill of compassion warmed my heart for the poor little waif. it was a cold day in the autumn, and she was very thinly clad; sitting, poor little morsel, upon the cold stone, too lame, it seemed, to move about and warm herself, even if she wished; evidently, too, ashamed and miserable over her occupation. i went up to her and spoke to her. "what is your name?" "jennie green." "whose little girl are you?" "nobody's, ma'am." oh, perhaps i should not have understood the wail of sadness in those words if i, too, had not been nobody's girl. "have you no friends?" i asked, putting my question in a new form. "no, ma'am. mother died last spring, and i've had no friends since." "but you live somewhere?" "oh, yes; there was a woman in the next room to mother, and she took me when mother died, and every day she sends me out like this, and she takes the money i get to pay for my keeping." "do you like to live with her?" i pursued, getting strangely interested. a quick shudder of repugnance answered me before her words,-- "oh, no, no!" a sudden impulse moved me. i beckoned to a policeman who stood near by watching us. "do you know any thing of this child?" i inquired. "not much. she seems a quiet, well-disposed young one. a woman brings her here, a pretty rough customer, and leaves her here, and comes back after her toward night. i've seen her use her pretty hard, sometimes." "that woman is no relation to her," i said, "only a person in the house, that kept her when her mother died,--to make money out of her, i suppose. would it be against any law if i took her home with me, without letting any one know where she was gone, and took care of her? could that woman claim her again?" the policeman whistled, by which token proving himself yankee born, and considered a moment. then he answered, deliberately,-- "no, it ain't agin no law, as i knows of. i don't think the woman would dare to take her from you, and 'tain't likely any one would disturb you. all i'm thinking on is,--you're young, miss,--would your folks like it, and wouldn't you get tired on her?" "i have no folks," i said, with the old sadness rising up and choking me. "will you kindly call a carriage, and put her in?" i had given my direction without at all consulting the child. when he was gone for the hack i went up to her and asked her if she would go home with me, and have it for her home. "do you mean me to leave mrs. mcguire?" she cried, with wide eyes. "yes, if you want to." "and not--not come out for money any more?" "not, please god, while i have strength to work for us both." "oh, i do want to go, i do!" she cried, wild with eagerness. and then she drew her little crutch toward her, and painfully raised herself and stood there waiting. "oh, can't we go now?" she asked, in an eager whisper. "it's almost time for mrs. mcguire." just then the carriage came up to the sidewalk, and i carried my poor little foundling home. * * * * * yesterday was the anniversary of my dear mother's death, and i lived over again the old sorrow, tasted its bitterness anew. i laid my head on the pillow where she died, and sobbed out the passion of desolation which swept over me. and as i lay there crying i heard gentle footsteps, and then felt soft lips on my cheek, and heard a voice,-- "oh, can't i comfort you, miss bessie? can't i do any thing for you, now you've made my life all new and bright?" and i opened my arms, and took into them my little dark-eyed, bright-haired girl, and realized that god indeed had sent me my comforter,--a comforter found, as my mother had predicted, when i forgot myself in trying to comfort one yet more desolate. i should never have dared to act upon the impulse which led me to bring the child home, had i been less utterly alone in the world. but i have never regretted it. i found that her parents had brought her up in the fear of god, and all the rude and rough associations, which had worked their worst on her after her mother's death, had never soiled her innate purity. my care and tenderness have made of her all i hoped. dr. west's skill has almost cured her lameness, and she walks without a crutch now, and with only the slightest suggestion of a limp. she helps me at my tasks, and for her sake i have recalled my old pencil craft, and here i foresee that the pupil is soon to surpass her teacher; and some day i fancy you may see on the walls of the academy a picture by a girl artist with brown eyes and auburn hair,--the child who was my comforter. cambridge: press of john wilson and son. _messrs. roberts brothers' publications._ bed-time stories. by louise chandler moulton. with illustrations by addie ledyard. square mo. price $ . . "mrs. moulton's 'bed-time stories' are tender and loving, as the last thoughts of the day should be. they are told simply and sweetly. all of them teach unselfishness, faithfulness, and courage. 'what jess cotrell did,' and 'paying off jane,' are perhaps the best; although 'mr. turk, and what became of him,' is such a sympathetic revelation of a bit of child life, that we are half inclined to give it the first place. the stories are not for very young children, but for those old enough to think for themselves; and the influence they exert will be pure, gentle, and decidedly religious. the dedication is very graceful."--_boston daily advertiser._ "it is long years since we were a lad; but, as we have read these tales, we have dreamed ourself a boy again, have exulted with some of the young heroes and heroines of mrs. moulton's coinage, and have wept sweet tears with others, just as, we have no doubt, many a boy and girl will do who takes our advice and secures this delightful budget of stories out of their first savings. parents, who appreciate the difficulty of providing suitable reading for young people when they are at the doubtful age which burns describes as being ''twixt a man and a boy,' will find mrs. moulton one of the most graceful and thoughtful purveyors of an elevated literature, especially adapted to the wants and tastes of their bright-eyed and quick-witted sons and daughters."--_christian intelligencer._ "very delicately and prettily are these stories for children told.... children, the kindest and sharpest of critics, will willingly read them too. and not on the other side of the atlantic only, but on this, and in every land where the english language is spoken. real stories these for real children, not namby-pamby, teachy-teachy little tales, but regular stories, full of life, told in the good old-fashioned, diffuse, delightful manner."--_the london bookseller._ _in preparation._ more bed-time stories. _sold by all booksellers. mailed, postpaid, by the publishers_, roberts brothers, boston. what katy did. by susan coolidge. author of "the new year's bargain." with illustrations, by addie ledyard. one vol. square mo. cloth. price $ . . _from the lady's book._ "the new years bargain" was one of our pleasantest juvenile books for the last holidays. now we have by the same author a story of child-life so natural and so charming that the authoress has fairly earned a foremost place among her class. it takes a great deal to write a good story for children. women who think it easy, and sit down with a stock of platitudes and worn-out incidents, always fail miserably. this book tells "what katy did" in a way that will make all its readers long to hear about her again. _from the christian register._ it must have been with a smile of rare complacency that roberts brothers sent forth such a brace of volumes as susan coolidge's "what katy did" and miss alcott's "shawl-straps." not only will the children "cry for them," but the grown-up people will laugh over them until they too shall have tears in their eyes. two books so bright, wise, and every way delightful, are seldom given to the public at once by a single firm. _from the woman's journal._ since "little women" we have not seen a more charming book than this for children. it possesses the crowning merit of all story books,--that of being perfectly natural without becoming tedious. the author has the happy gift of knowing what to leave out; and describes the amusing or sorrowful incidents of child-life in the pleasantest manner, while unobtrusively instilling lessons of courtesy, patience, and kindness. illustrations by addie ledyard add to the attractions of the story. _from the buffalo courier._ none who take it up will want it to leave their hands until they reach the last page. as to the author, she is one of the few lucky mortals who know how to write for the little ones,--and that is saying a great deal. _from hearth and home._ the author of that delightful book, "the new year's bargain," has prepared another rare treat for her young friends. it is a story of child-life; and is so perfect in its delineations, so sweet and tender at times, and again so irresistibly funny, that it starts both tears and laughter. _sold everywhere. mailed, postpaid, by the publishers_, roberts brothers, boston.